The American Senator

VOLUME I

CHAPTER I

Dillsborough

I never could understand why anybody should ever have begun to live at Dillsborough, or why the population there should have been at any time recruited by new comers. That a man with a family should cling to a house in which he has once established himself is intelligible. The butcher who supplied Dillsborough, or the baker, or the ironmonger, though he might not drive what is called a roaring trade, nevertheless found himself probably able to live, and might well hesitate before he would encounter the dangers of a more energetic locality. But how it came to pass that he first got himself to Dillsborough, or his father, or his grandfather before him, has always been a mystery to me. The town has no attractions, and never had any. It does not stand on a bed of coal and has no connection with iron. It has no water peculiarly adapted for beer, or for dyeing, or for the cure of maladies. It is not surrounded by beauty of scenery strong enough to bring tourists and holiday travellers. There is no cathedral there to form, with its bishops, prebendaries, and minor canons, the nucleus of a clerical circle. It manufactures nothing specially. It has no great horse fair, or cattle fair, or even pig market of special notoriety. Every Saturday farmers and graziers and buyers of corn and sheep do congregate in a sleepy fashion about the streets, but Dillsborough has no character of its own, even as a market town. Its chief glory is its parish church, which is ancient and inconvenient, having not as yet received any of those modern improvements which have of late become common throughout England; but its parish church, though remarkable, is hardly celebrated. The town consists chiefly of one street which is over a mile long, with a square or market-place in the middle, round which a few lanes with queer old names are congregated, and a second small open space among these lanes, in which the church stands. As you pass along the street north-west, away from the railway station and from London, there is a steep hill, beginning to rise just beyond the market-place. Up to that point it is the High Street, thence it is called Bullock’s Hill. Beyond that you come to Norrington Road,—Norrington being the next town, distant from Dillsborough about twelve miles. Dillsborough, however, stands in the county of Rufford, whereas at the top of Bullock’s Hill you enter the county of Ufford, of which Norrington is the assize town. The Dillsborough people are therefore divided, some two thousand five hundred of them belonging to Rufford, and the remaining five hundred to the neighbouring county. This accident has given rise to not a few feuds, Ufford being a large county, with pottery, and ribbons, and watches going on in the farther confines; whereas Rufford is small and thoroughly agricultural. The men at the top of Bullock’s Hill are therefore disposed to think themselves better than their fellow-townsfolks, though they are small in number and not specially thriving in their circumstances.

At every interval of ten years, when the census is taken, the population of Dillsborough is always found to have fallen off in some slight degree. For a few months after the publication of the figures a slight tinge of melancholy comes upon the town. The landlord of the Bush Inn, who is really an enterprising man in his way and who has looked about in every direction for new sources of business, becomes taciturn for a while and forgets to smile upon comers; Mr. Ribbs, the butcher, tells his wife that it is out of the question that she and the children should take that long-talked-of journey to the sea-coast; and Mr. Gregory Masters, the well-known old-established attorney of Dillsborough, whispers to some confidential friend that he might as well take down his plate and shut up his house. But in a month or two all that is forgotten, and new hopes spring up even in Dillsborough; Mr. Runciman at the Bush is putting up new stables for hunting-horses, that being the special trade for which he now finds that there is an opening; Mrs. Ribbs is again allowed to suggest Mare–Slocumb; and Mr. Masters goes on as he has done for the last forty years, making the best he can of a decreasing business.

Dillsborough is built chiefly of brick, and is, in its own way, solid enough. The Bush, which in the time of the present landlord’s father was one of the best posting inns on the road, is not only substantial, but almost handsome. A broad coach way, cut through the middle of the house, leads into a spacious, well-kept, clean yard, and on each side of the coach way there are bay windows looking into the street,—the one belonging to the commercial parlour, and the other to the so-called coffee-room. But the coffee-room has in truth fallen away from its former purposes, and is now used for a farmer’s ordinary on market days, and other similar purposes. Travellers who require the use of a public sitting-room must all congregate in the commercial parlour at the Bush. So far the interior of the house has fallen from its past greatness. But the exterior is maintained with much care. The brickwork up to the eaves is well pointed, fresh, and comfortable to look at. In front of the carriage-way swings on two massive supports the old sign of the Bush, as to which it may be doubted whether even Mr. Runciman himself knows that it has swung there, or been displayed in some fashion, since it was the custom for the landlord to beat up wine to freshen it before it was given to the customers to drink. The church, too, is of brick—though the tower and chancel are of stone. The attorney’s house is of brick, which shall not be more particularly described now as many of the scenes which these pages will have to describe were acted there; and almost the entire High Street in the centre of the town was brick also.

But the most remarkable house in Dillsborough was one standing in a short thoroughfare called Hobbs Gate, leading down by the side of the Bush Inn from the market-place to Church Square, as it is called. As you pass down towards the church this house is on the right hand, and it occupies with its garden the whole space between the market-place and Church Square. But though the house enjoys the privilege of a large garden,—so large that the land being in the middle of a town would be of great value were it not that Dillsborough is in its decadence,—still it stands flush up to the street upon which the front door opens. It has an imposing flight of stone steps guarded by iron rails leading up to it, and on each side of the door there is a row of three windows, and on the two upper stories rows of seven windows. Over the door there is a covering, on which there are grotesquely-formed, carved wooden faces; and over the centre of each window, let into the brickwork, is a carved stone. There are also numerous underground windows, sunk below the earth and protected by iron railings. Altogether the house is one which cannot fail to attract attention; and in the brickwork is clearly marked the date, 1701,—not the very best period for English architecture as regards beauty, but one in which walls and roofs, ceilings and buttresses, were built more substantially than they are to-day. This was the only house in Dillsborough which had a name of its own, and it was called Hoppet Hall, the Dillsborough chronicles telling that it had been originally built for and inhabited by the Hoppet family. The only Hoppet now left in Dillsborough is old Joe Hoppet, the ostler at the Bush; and the house, as was well known, had belonged to some member of the Morton family for the last hundred years at least. The garden and ground it stands upon comprise three acres, all of which are surrounded by a high brick wall, which is supposed to be coeval with the house. The best Ribston pippins,—some people say the only real Ribston pippins,—in all Rufford are to be found here, and its Burgundy pears and walnuts are almost equally celebrated. There are rumours also that its roses beat everything in the way of roses for ten miles round. But in these days very few strangers are admitted to see the Hoppet Hall roses. The pears and apples do make their way out, and are distributed either by Mrs. Masters, the attorney’s wife, or Mr. Runciman, the innkeeper. The present occupier of the house is a certain Mr. Reginald Morton, with whom we shall also be much concerned in these pages, but whose introduction to the reader shall be postponed for awhile.

The land around Dillsborough is chiefly owned by two landlords, of whom the greatest and richest is Lord Rufford. He, however, does not live near the town, but away at the other side of the county, and is not much seen in these parts unless when the hounds bring him here, or when, with two or three friends, he will sometimes stay for a few days at the Bush Inn for the sake of shooting the coverts. He is much liked by all sporting men, but is not otherwise very popular with the people round Dillsborough. A landlord if he wishes to be popular should be seen frequently. If he lives among his farmers they will swear by him, even though he raises his rental every ten or twelve years and never puts a new roof to a barn for them. Lord Rufford is a rich man who thinks of nothing but sport in all its various shapes, from pigeon-shooting at Hurlingham to the slaughter of elephants in Africa; and though he is lenient in all his dealings, is not much thought of in the Dillsborough side of the county, except by those who go out with the hounds. At Rufford, where he generally has a full house for three months in the year and spends a vast amount of money, he is more highly considered.

The other extensive landlord is Mr. John Morton, a young man, who, in spite of his position as squire of Bragton, owner of Bragton Park, and landlord of the entire parishes of Bragton and Mallingham, the latter of which comes close up to the confines of Dillsborough,—was at the time at which our story begins, Secretary of Legation at Washington. As he had been an absentee since he came of age, soon after which time he inherited the property, he had been almost less liked in the neighbourhood than the lord. Indeed, no one in Dillsborough knew much about him, although Bragton Hall was but four miles from the town, and the Mortons had possessed the property and lived on it for the last three centuries. But there had been extravagance, as will hereafter have to be told, and there had been no continuous residence at Bragton since the death of old Reginald Morton, who had been the best known and the best loved of all the squires in Rufford, and had for many years been master of the Rufford hounds. He had lived to a very great age, and, though the great-grandfather of the present man, had not been dead above twenty years. He was the man of whom the older inhabitants of Dillsborough and the neighbourhood still thought and still spoke when they gave vent to their feelings in favour of gentlemen. And yet the old squire in his latter days had been able to do little or nothing for them,—being sometimes backward as to the payment of money he owed among them. But he had lived all his days at Bragton Park, and his figure had been familiar to all eyes in the High Street of Dillsborough and at the front entrance of the Bush. People still spoke of old Mr. Reginald Morton as though his death had been a sore loss to the neighbourhood.

And there were in the country round sundry yeomen, as they ought to be called,—gentlemen-farmers as they now like to style themselves,—men who owned some acres of land, and farmed these acres themselves. Of these we may specially mention Mr. Lawrence Twentyman, who was quite the gentleman-farmer. He possessed over three hundred acres of land, on which his father had built an excellent house. The present Mr. Twentyman, Lawrence Twentyman, Esquire, as he was called by everybody, was by no means unpopular in the neighbourhood. He not only rode well to hounds but paid twenty-five pounds annually to the hunt, which entitled him to feel quite at home in his red coat. He generally owned a racing colt or two, and attended meetings; but was supposed to know what he was about, and to have kept safely the five or six thousand pounds which his father had left him. And his farming was well done; for though he was, out-and-out, a gentleman-farmer, he knew how to get the full worth in work done for the fourteen shillings a week which he paid to his labourers,—a deficiency in which knowledge is the cause why gentlemen in general find farming so expensive an amusement. He was a handsome, good-looking man of about thirty, and would have been a happy man had he not been too ambitious in his aspirations after gentry. He had been at school for three years at Cheltenham College, which, together with his money and appearance and undoubted freehold property, should, he thought, have made his position quite secure to him; but, though he sometimes called young Hampton of Hampton Wick “Hampton,” and the son of the rector of Dillsborough “Mainwaring,” and always called the rich young brewers from Norrington “Botsey,”—partners in the well-known firm of Billbrook & Botsey; and though they in return called him “Larry” and admitted the intimacy, still he did not get into their houses. And Lord Rufford, when he came into the neighbourhood, never asked him to dine at the Bush. And—worst of all,—some of the sporting men and others in the neighbourhood, who decidedly were not gentlemen, also called him “Larry.” Mr. Runciman always did so. Twenty or twenty-five years ago Runciman had been his father’s special friend, before the house had been built and before the days at Cheltenham College. Remembering this Lawrence was too good a fellow to rebuke Runciman; but to younger men of that class he would sometimes make himself objectionable. There was another keeper of hunting stables, a younger man, named Stubbings, living at Stanton Corner, a great hunting rendezvous about four miles from Dillsborough; and not long since Twentyman had threatened to lay his whip across Stubbings’ shoulders if Stubbings ever called him “Larry” again. Stubbings, who was a little man and rode races, only laughed at Mr. Twentyman who was six feet high, and told the story round to all the hunt. Mr. Twentyman was more laughed at than perhaps he deserved. A man should not have his Christian name used by every Tom and Dick without his sanction. But the difficulty is one to which men in the position of Mr. Lawrence Twentyman are often subject.

Those whom I have named, together with Mr. Mainwaring the rector, and Mr. Surtees his curate, made up the very sparse aristocracy of Dillsborough. The Hamptons of Hampton Wick were Ufford men, and belonged, rather to Norrington than Dillsborough. The Botseys, also from Norrington, were members of the U.R.U., or Ufford and Rufford United Hunt Club; but they did not much affect Dillsborough as a town. Mr. Mainwaring, who has been mentioned, lived in another brick house behind the church, the old parsonage of St. John’s. There was also a Mrs. Mainwaring, but she was an invalid. Their family consisted of one son, who was at Brasenose at this time. He always had a horse during the Christmas vacation, and if rumour did not belie him, kept two or three up at Oxford. Mr. Surtees, the curate, lived in lodgings in the town. He was a painstaking, clever, young man, with aspirations in church matters, which were always being checked by his rector. Quieta non movere was the motto by which the rector governed his life, and he certainly was not at all the man to allow his curate to drive him into activity.

Such, at the time of our story, was the little town of Dillsborough.

CHAPTER II

The Morton Family

I can hardly describe accurately the exact position of the Masters family without first telling all that I know about the Morton family; and it is absolutely essential that the reader should know all the Masters family intimately. Mr. Masters, as I have said in the last chapter, was the attorney in Dillsborough, and the Mortons had been for centuries past the squires of Bragton.

I need not take the reader back farther than old Reginald Morton. He had come to the throne of his family as a young man, and had sat upon it for more than half a century. He had been a squire of the old times, having no inclination for London seasons, never wishing to keep up a second house, quite content with his position as quire of Bragton, but with considerable pride about him as to that position. He had always liked to have his house full, and had hated petty oeconomies. He had for many years hunted the county at his own expense, the amusement at first not having been so expensive as it afterwards became. When he began the work, it had been considered sufficient to hunt twice a week. Now the Rufford and Ufford hounds have four days, and sometimes a bye. It went much against Mr. Reginald Morton’s pride when he was first driven to take a subscription.

But the temporary distress into which the family fell was caused not so much by his own extravagance as by that of two sons, and by his indulgence in regard to them. He had three children, none of whom were very fortunate in life. The eldest, John, married the daughter of a peer, stood for Parliament, had one son, and died before he was forty, owing something over 20,000 pounds. The estate was then worth 7,000 pounds a year. Certain lands not lying either in Bragton or Mallingham were sold, and that difficulty was surmounted, not without a considerable diminution of income. In process of time the grandson, who was a second John Morton, grew up and married, and became the father of a third John Morton, the young man who afterwards became owner of the property and Secretary of Legation at Washington. But the old squire outlived his son and his grandson, and when he died had three or four great-grand-children playing about the lawns of Bragton Park. The peer’s daughter had lived, and had for many years drawn a dower from the Bragton property, and had been altogether a very heavy incumbrance.

But the great trial of the old man’s life, as also the great romance, had arisen from the career of his second son, Reginald. Of all his children, Reginald had been the dearest to him. He went to Oxford, and had there spent much money; not as young men now spend money, but still to an extent that had been grievous to the old squire. But everything was always paid for Reginald. It was necessary, of course, that he should have a profession, and he took a commission in the army. As a young man he went to Canada. This was in 1829, when all the world was at peace, and his only achievement in Canada was to marry a young woman who is reported to have been pretty and good, but who had no advantages either of fortune or birth. She was, indeed, the daughter of a bankrupt innkeeper in Montreal. Soon after this he sold out and brought his wife home to Bragton. It was at this period of the squire’s life that the romance spoken of occurred. John Morton, the brother with the aristocratic wife, was ten or twelve years older than Reginald, and at this time lived chiefly at Bragton when he was not in town. He was, perhaps, justified in regarding Bragton as almost belonging to him, knowing as he did that it must belong to him after his father’s lifetime, and to his son after him. His anger against his brother was hot, and that of his wife still hotter. He himself had squandered thousands, but then he was the heir. Reginald, who was only a younger brother, had sold his commission. And then he had done so much more than this! He had married a woman who was not a lady! John was clearly of opinion that at any rate the wife should not be admitted into Bragton House. The old squire in those days was not a happy man; he had never been very strong-minded, but now he was strong enough to declare that his house-door should not be shut against a son of his,—or a son’s wife, as long as she was honest. Hereupon the Honourable Mrs. Morton took her departure, and was never seen at Bragton again in the old squire’s time. Reginald Morton came to the house, and soon afterwards another little Reginald was born at Bragton Park. This happened as long ago as 1835, twenty years before the death of the old squire.

But there had been another child, a daughter, who had come between the two sons, still living in these days, who will become known to any reader who will have patience to follow these pages to the end. She married, not very early in life, a certain Sir William Ushant, who was employed by his country in India and elsewhere, but who found, soon after his marriage, that the service of his country required that he should generally leave his wife at Bragton. As her father had been for many years a widower, Lady Ushant became the mistress of the house.

But death was very busy with the Mortons. Almost every one died, except the squire himself and his daughter, and that honourable dowager, with her income and her pride who could certainly very well have been spared. When at last, in 1855, the old squire went, full of years, full of respect, but laden also with debts and money troubles, not only had his son John, and his grandson John, gone before him, but Reginald and his wife were both lying in Bragton Churchyard.

The elder branch of the family, John the great-grandson, and his little sisters, were at once taken away from Bragton by the honourable grandmother. John, who was then about seven years old, was of course the young squire, and was the owner of the property. The dowager, therefore, did not undertake an altogether unprofitable burden. Lady Ushant was left at the house, and with Lady Ushant, or rather immediately subject to her care, young Reginald Morton, who was then nineteen years of age, and who was about to go to Oxford. But there immediately sprang up family lawsuits, instigated by the honourable lady on behalf of her grandchildren, of which Reginald Morton was the object. The old man had left certain outlying properties to his grandson Reginald, of which Hoppet Hall was a part. For eight or ten years the lawsuit was continued, and much money was expended. Reginald was at last successful, and became the undoubted owner of Hoppet Hall; but in the meantime he went to Germany for his education, instead of to Oxford, and remained abroad even after the matter was decided,— living, no one but Lady Ushant knew where, or after what fashion.

When the old squire died the children were taken away, and Bragton was nearly deserted. The young heir was brought up with every caution, and, under the auspices of his grandmother and her family, behaved himself very unlike the old Mortons. He was educated at Eton, after leaving which he was at once examined for Foreign Office employment, and commenced his career with great eclat. He had been made to understand clearly that it would be better that he should not enter in upon his squirearchy early in life. The estate when he came of age had already had some years to recover itself, and as he went from capital to capital, he was quite content to draw from it an income which enabled him to shine with peculiar brilliance among his brethren. He had visited Bragton once since the old squire’s death, and had found the place very dull and uninviting. He had no ambition whatever to be master of the U.R.U.; but did look forward to a time when he might be Minister Plenipotentiary at some foreign court.

For many years after the old man’s death, Lady Ushant, who was then a widow, was allowed to live at Bragton. She was herself childless, and being now robbed of her great-nephews and nieces, took a little girl to live with her, named Mary Masters. It was a very desolate house in those days, but the old lady was careful as to the education of the child, and did her best to make the home happy for her. Some two or three years before the commencement of this story there arose a difference between the manager of the property and Lady Ushant, and she was made to understand, after some half-courteous manner, that Bragton house and park would do better without her. There would be no longer any cows kept, and painters must come into the house, and there were difficulties about fuel. She was not turned out exactly; but she went and established herself in lonely lodgings at Cheltenham. Then Mary Masters, who had lived for more than a dozen years at Bragton, went back to her father’s house in Dillsborough.

Any reader with an aptitude for family pedigrees will now understand that Reginald, Master of Hoppet Hall, was first cousin to the father of the Foreign Office paragon, and that he is therefore the paragon’s first cousin once removed. The relationship is not very distant, but the two men, one of whom was a dozen years older than the other, had not seen each other for more than twenty years,—at a time when one of them was a big boy, and the other a very little one; and during the greater part of that time a lawsuit had been carried on between them in a very rigorous manner. It had done much to injure both, and had created such a feeling of hostility that no intercourse of any kind now existed between them.

It does not much concern us to know how far back should be dated the beginning of the connection between the Morton family and that of Mr. Masters, the attorney; but it is certain that the first attorney of that name in Dillsborough became learned in the law through the patronage of some former Morton. The father of the present Gregory Masters, and the grandfather, had been thoroughly trusted and employed by old Reginald Morton, and the former of the two had made his will. Very much of the stewardship and management of the property had been in their hands, and they had thriven as honest men, but as men with a tolerably sharp eye to their own interests. The late Mr. Masters had died a few years before the squire, and the present attorney had seemed to succeed to these family blessings. But the whole order of things became changed. Within a few weeks of the squire’s death Mr. Masters found that he was to be entrusted no further with the affairs of the property, but that, in lieu of such care, was thrown upon him the task of defending the will which he had made against the owner of the estate. His father and grandfather had contrived between them to establish a fairly good business, independently of Bragton, which business, of course, was now his. As far as reading went, and knowledge, he was probably a better lawyer than either of them; but he lacked their enterprise and special genius, and the thing had dwindled with him. It seemed to him, perhaps not unnaturally, that he had been robbed of an inheritance. He had no title deeds, as had the owners of the property; but his ancestors before him, from generation to generation, had lived by managing the Bragton property. They had drawn the leases, and made the wills, and collected the rents, and had taught themselves to believe that a Morton could not live on his land without a Masters. Now there was a Morton who did not live on his land, but spent his rents elsewhere without the aid of any Masters, and it seemed to the old lawyer that all the good things of the world had passed away. He had married twice, his first wife having, before her marriage, been well known at Bragton Park. When she had died, and Mr. Masters had brought a second wife home, Lady Ushant took the only child of the mother, whom she had known as a girl, into her own keeping, till she also had been compelled to leave Bragton. Then Mary Masters had returned to her father and stepmother.

The Bragton Park residence is a large, old-fashioned, comfortable house, but by no means a magnificent mansion. The greater part of it was built one hundred and fifty years ago, and the rooms are small and low. In the palmy days of his reign, which is now more than half a century since, the old squire made alterations, and built new stables and kennels, and put up a conservatory; but what he did then has already become almost old-fashioned now. What he added he added in stone, but the old house was brick. He was much abused at the time for his want of taste, and heard a good deal about putting new cloth as patches on old rents; but, as the shrubs and ivy have grown up, a certain picturesqueness has come upon the place, which is greatly due to the difference of material. The place is somewhat sombre, as there is no garden close to the house. There is a lawn, at the back, with gravel walks round it; but it is only a small lawn; and then divided from the lawn by a ha-ha fence, is the park. The place, too, has that sad look which always comes to a house from the want of a tenant. Poor Lady Ushant, when she was there, could do little or nothing. A gardener was kept, but there should have been three or four gardeners. The man grew cabbages and onions, which he sold, but cared nothing for the walks or borders. Whatever it may have been in the old time, Bragton Park was certainly not a cheerful place when Lady Ushant lived there. In the squire’s time the park itself had always been occupied by deer. Even when distress came he would not allow the deer to be sold. But after his death they went very soon, and from that day to the time of which I am writing, the park has been leased to some butchers or graziers from Dillsborough.

The ground hereabouts is nearly level, but it falls away a little and becomes broken and pretty where the river Dill runs through the park, about half a mile from the house. There is a walk called the Pleasance, passing down through shrubs to the river, and then crossing the stream by a foot-bridge, and leading across the fields towards Dillsborough. This bridge is, perhaps, the prettiest spot in Bragton, or, for that matter, anywhere in the county round; but. even here there is not much of beauty to be praised. It is here, on the side of the river away from the house, that the home meet of the hounds used to be held; and still the meet at Bragton Bridge is popular in the county.

CHAPTER III

The Masters Family

At six o’clock one November morning, Mr. Masters, the attorney, was sitting at home with his family in the large parlour of his house, his office being on the other side of the passage which cut the house in two and was formally called the hall. Upstairs, over the parlour, was a drawing-room; but this chamber, which was supposed to be elegantly furnished, was very rarely used. Mr. and Mrs. Masters did not see much company, and for family purposes the elegance of the drawing-room made it unfit. It added, however, not a little to the glory of Mrs. Masters’ life. The house itself was a low brick building in the High Street, at the corner where the High Street runs into the market-place, and therefore, nearly opposite to the Bush. It had none of the elaborate grandeur of the inn nor of the simple stateliness of Hoppet Hall, but, nevertheless, it maintained the character of the town and was old, substantial, respectable, and dark.

“I think it a very spirited thing of him to do, then,” said Mrs. Masters.

“I don’t know, my dear. Perhaps it is only revenge.”

“What have you to do with that? What can it matter to a lawyer whether it’s revenge or anything else? He’s got the means, I suppose?”

“I don’t know, my dear.”

“What does Nickem say?”

“I suppose he has the means,” said Mr. Masters, who was aware that if he told his wife a fib on the matter, she would learn the truth from his senior clerk, Mr. Samuel Nickem. Among the professional gifts which Mr. Masters possessed, had not been that great gift of being able to keep his office and his family distinct from each other. His wife always knew what was going on, and was very free with her advice; generally tendering it on that side on which money was to be made, and doing so with much feminine darkness as to right or wrong. His Clerk, Nickem, who was afflicted with no such darkness, but who ridiculed the idea of scruple in an attorney, often took part against him. It was the wish of his heart to get rid of Nickem; but Nickem would have carried business with him and gone over to some enemy, or, perhaps have set up in some irregular manner on his own bottom; and his wife would have given him no peace had he done so, for she regarded Nickem as the mainstay of the house.

“What is Lord Rufford to you?” asked Mrs. Masters.

“He has always been very friendly.”

“I don’t see it at all. You have never had any of his money. I don’t know that you are a pound richer by him.”

“I have always gone with the gentry of the county.”

“Fiddlesticks! Gentry! Gentry are very well as long as you can make a living out of them. You could afford to stick up for gentry till you lost the Bragton property.” This was a subject that was always sore between Mr. Masters and his wife. The former Mrs. Masters had been a lady—the daughter of a neighbouring clergyman; and had been much considered by the family at Bragton. The present Mrs. Masters was the daughter of an ironmonger at Norrington, who had brought a thousand pounds with her, which had been very useful. No doubt Mr. Masters’ practice had been considerably affected by the lowliness of his second marriage. People who used to know the first Mrs. Masters, such as Mrs. Mainwaring, and the doctor’s wife, and old Mrs. Cooper, the wife of the vicar of Mallingham, would not call on the second Mrs. Masters. As Mrs. Masters was too high-spirited to run after people who did not want her, she took to hating gentry instead.

“We have always been on the other side,” said the old attorney, “I and my father and grandfather before me.”

“They lived on it and you can’t. If you are going to say that you won’t have any client that isn’t a gentleman, you might as well put up your shutters at once.”

“I haven’t said so. Isn’t Runciman my client?” “He always goes with the gentry. He a’most thinks he’s one of them himself.”

“And old Nobbs, the greengrocer. But it’s all nonsense. Any man is my client, or any woman, Who can come and pay me for business that is fit for me to do.”

“Why isn’t this fit to be done? If the man’s been damaged, why shouldn’t he be paid?”

“He’s had money offered him.”

“If he thinks it ain’t enough, who’s to say that it is,—unless a jury?” said Mrs. Masters, becoming quite eloquent. “And how’s a poor man to get a jury to say that, unless he comes to a lawyer? Of course, if you won’t have it, he’ll go to Bearside. Bearside won’t turn him away.” Bearside was another attorney, an interloper of about ten years’ standing, whose name was odious to Mr. Masters.

“You don’t know anything about it, my dear,” said he, aroused at last to anger.

“I know you’re letting anybody who likes take the bread out of the children’s mouths.” The children, so called, were sitting round the table and could not but take an interest in the matter. The eldest was that Mary Masters, the daughter of the former wife, whom Lady Ushant had befriended, a tall girl, with dark brown hair, so dark as almost to be black, and large, soft, thoughtful grey eyes. We shall have much to say of Mary Masters, and can hardly stop to give an adequate description of her here. The others were Dolly and Kate, two girls aged sixteen and fifteen. The two younger “children” were eating bread and butter and jam in a very healthy manner, but still had their ears wide open to the conversation that was being held. The two younger girls sympathised strongly with their mother. Mary, who had known much about the Mortons, and was old enough to understand the position which her grandfather had held in reference to the family, of course leaned in her heart to her father’s side. But she was wiser than her father, and knew that in such discussions her mother often showed a worldly wisdom which, in their present circumstances, they could hardly afford to disregard, unpalatable through it might be.

Mr. Masters disliked these discussions altogether, but he disliked them most of all in presence of his children. He looked round upon them in a deprecatory manner, making a slight motion with his hand and bringing his head down on one side, and then he gave a long sigh. If it was his intention to convey some subtle warning to his wife, some caution that she alone should understand, he was deceived. The “children” all knew what he meant quite as well as did their mother.

“Shall we go out, mamma?” asked Dolly. “Finish your teas, my dears,” said Mr. Masters, who wished to stop the discussion rather than to carry it on before a more select audience.

“You’ve got to make up your mind to-night,” said Mrs. Masters, “and you’ll be going over to the Bush at eight”

“No, I needn’t. He is to come on Monday. I told Nickem I wouldn’t see him to-night; nor, of course, to-morrow.”

“Then he’ll go to Bearside.”

“He may go to Bearside and be —! Oh, Lord! I do wish you’d let me drop the business for a few minutes when I am in here. You don’t know anything about it. How should you?”

“I know that if I didn’t speak you’d let everything slip through your fingers. There’s Mr. Twentyman. Kate, open the door.”

Kate, who was fond of Mr. Twentyman, rushed up, and opened the front door at once. In saying so much of Kate, I do not mean it to be understood that any precocious ideas of love were troubling that young lady’s bosom. Kate Masters was a jolly bouncing schoolgirl of fifteen, who was not too proud to eat toffy, and thought herself still a child. But she was very fond of Lawrence Twentyman, who had a pony that she could ride, and who was always good-natured to her. All the family liked Mr. Twentyman,—unless it might be Mary, who was the one that he specially liked himself. And Mary was not altogether averse to him, knowing him to be good-natured, manly, and straightforward. But Mr. Twentyman had proposed to her, and she had certainly not accepted him. This, however, had broken none of the family friendship. Every one in the house, unless it might be Mary herself, hoped that Mr. Twentyman might prevail at last. The man was worth six or seven hundred a year, and had a good house, and owed no one a shilling. He was handsome, and about the best-tempered fellow known. Of course they all desired that he should prevail with Mary. “I wish that I were old enough, Larry, that’s all!” Kate had said to him once, laughing. “I wouldn’t have you, if you were ever laughing.” “I wouldn’t have you, if you were ever so old,” Larry had replied; “you’d want to be out hunting every day.” That will show the sort of terms that Larry was on with his friend Kate. He called at the house every Saturday with the declared object of going over to the club that was held that evening in the parlour at the Bush, whither Mr. Masters also always went. It was understood at home that Mr. Masters should attend this club every Saturday from eight till eleven, but that he was not at any other time to give way to the fascinations of the Bush. On this occasion, and we may say on almost every Saturday night, Mr. Twentyman arrived a full hour before the appointed time. The reason of his doing so was of course well understood, and was quite approved by Mrs. Masters. She was not, at any rate as yet, a cruel stepmother; but still, if the girl could be transferred to so eligible a home as that which Mr. Twentyman could give her, it would be well for all parties.

When he took his seat he did not address himself specially to the lady of his love. I don’t know how a gentleman is to do so in the presence of her father, and mother, and sisters. Saturday after Saturday he probably thought that some occasion would arise; but, if his words could have been counted, it would have been found that he addressed fewer to her than to any one in the room.

“Larry,” said his special friend Kate, “am I to have the pony at the Bridge meet?”

“How very free you are, Miss!” said her mother.

“I don’t know about that,” said Larry. “When is there to be a meet at the Bridge? I haven’t heard.”

“But I have. Tony Tuppett told me that they would be there this day fortnight.” Tony Tuppett was the huntsman of the U.R.U.

“That’s more than Tony can know. He may have guessed it.”

“Shall I have the pony if he has guessed right?”

Then the pony was promised; and Kate, trusting in Tony Tuppett’s sagacity, was happy.

“Have you heard of all this about Dillsborough Wood?” asked Mrs. Masters. The attorney shrank at the question, and shook himself uneasily in his chair.

“Yes; I’ve heard about it,” said Larry.

“And what do you think about it? I don’t see why Lord Rufford is to ride over everybody because he’s a lord.” Mr. Twentyman scratched his head. Though a keen sportsman himself, he did not specially like Lord Rufford,—a fact which had been very well known to Mrs. Masters. But, nevertheless, this threatened action against the nobleman was distasteful to him. It was not a hunting affair, or Mr. Twentyman could not have doubted for a moment. It was a shooting difficulty, and as Mr. Twentyman had never been asked to fire a gun on the Rufford preserves, it was no great sorrow to him that there should be such a difficulty. But the thing threatened was an attack upon the country gentry and their amusements, and Mr. Twentyman was a country gentleman who followed sport. Upon the whole his sympathies were with Lord Rufford.

“The man is an utter blackguard, you know,” said Larry. “Last year he threatened to shoot the foxes in Dillsborough Wood.”

“No!” said Kate, quite horrified.

“I’m afraid he’s a bad sort of fellow all round,” said the attorney.

“I don’t see why he shouldn’t claim what he thinks due to him,” said Mrs. Masters.

“I’m told that his lordship offered him seven-and-six an acre for the whole of the two fields,” said the gentleman-farmer.

“Goarly declares,” said Mrs. Masters, “that the pheasants didn’t leave him four bushels of wheat to the acre.”

Goarly was the man who had proposed himself as a client to Mr. Masters, and who was desirous of claiming damages to the amount of forty shillings an acre for injury, done to the crops on two fields belonging to himself which lay adjacent to Dillsborough Wood, a covert belonging to Lord Rufford, about four miles from the town, in which both pheasants and foxes were preserved with great care.

“Has Goarly been to you?” asked Twentyman.

Mr. Masters nodded his head. “That’s just it,” said Mrs. Masters. “I don’t see why a man isn’t to go to law if he pleases—that is, if he can afford to pay for it. I have nothing to say against gentlemen’s sport; but I do say that they should run the same chance as others. And I say it’s a shame if they’re to band themselves together and make the county too hot to hold any one as doesn’t like to have his things ridden over, and his crops devoured, and his fences knocked to Jericho. I think there’s a deal of selfishness in sport and a deal of tyranny.”

“Oh, Mrs. Masters!” exclaimed Larry.

“Well, I do. And if a poor man,—or a man whether he’s poor or no,” added Mrs. Masters, correcting herself, as she thought of the money which this man ought to have in order that he might pay for his lawsuit,—“thinks himself injured, it’s nonsense to tell me that nobody should take up his case. It’s just as though the butcher wouldn’t sell a man a leg of mutton because Lord Rufford had a spite against him. Who’s Lord Rufford?”

“Everybody knows that I care very little for his lordship,” said’ Mr. Twentyman.

“Nor I; and I don’t see why Gregory should. If Goarly isn’t entitled to what he wants he won’t get it; that’s all. But let it be tried fairly.”

Hereupon Mr. Masters took up his hat and left the room, and Mr. Twentyman followed him, not having yet expressed any positive opinion on the delicate matter submitted to his judgment. Of course, Goarly was a brute. Had he not threatened to shoot foxes? But, then, an attorney must live by lawsuits, and it seemed to Mr. Twentyman that an attorney should not stop to inquire whether a new client is a brute or not.

CHAPTER IV

The Dillsborough Club

The club, so called at Dillsborough, was held every Saturday evening in a back parlour at the Bush, and was attended generally by seven or eight members. It was a very easy club. There was no balloting, and no other expense attending it other than that of paying for the liquor which each man chose to drink. Sometimes, about ten o’clock, there was a little supper, the cost of which was defrayed by subscription among those who partook of it. It was one rule of the club, or a habit, rather, which had grown to be a rule, that Mr. Runciman might introduce into it any one he pleased. I do not know that a similar privilege was denied to any one else; but as Mr. Runciman had a direct pecuniary advantage in promoting the club, the new-comers were generally ushered in by him. When the attorney and Twentyman entered the room Mr. Runciman was seated as usual in an arm-chair at the corner of the fire nearest to the door, with the bell at his right hand. He was a hale, good-looking man about fifty, with black hair, now turning grey at the edges, and a clean-shorn chin. He had a pronounced strong face of his own, one capable of evincing anger and determination when necessary, but equally apt for smiles or, on occasion, for genuine laughter. He was a masterful but a pleasant man, very civil to customers and to his friends generally while they took him the right way; but one who could be a Tartar if he were offended, holding an opinion that his position as landlord of an inn was one requiring masterdom. And his wife was like him in everything,—except in this, that she always submitted to him. He was a temperate man in the main; but on Saturday nights he would become jovial, and sometimes a little quarrelsome. When this occurred the club would generally break itself up and go home to bed, not in the least offended. Indeed Mr. Runciman was the tyrant of the club, though it was held at his house expressly with the view of putting money into his pocket. Opposite to his seat was another arm-chair,—not so big as Mr. Runciman’s, but still a soft and easy chair, which was always left for the attorney. For Mr. Masters was a man much respected through all Dillsborough, partly on his own account, but more perhaps for the sake of his father and grandfather. He was a round-faced, clean-shorn man, with straggling grey hair, who always wore black clothes and a white cravat. There was something in his appearance which recommended him among his neighbours, who were disposed to say he “looked the gentleman;” but a stranger might have thought his cheeks to be flabby and his mouth to be weak.

Making a circle, or the beginning of a circle, round the fire, were Nupper, the doctor,—a sporting old bachelor doctor who had the reputation of riding after the hounds in order that he might be ready for broken bones and minor accidents; next to him, in another arm-chair, facing the fire, was Ned Botsey, the younger of the two brewers from Norrington, who was in the habit during the hunting season of stopping from Saturday to Monday at the Bush, partly because the Rufford hounds hunted on Saturday and Monday and on those days seldom met in the Norrington direction, and partly because he liked the sporting conversation of the Dillsborough Club. He was a little man, very neat in his attire, who liked to be above his company, and fancied that he was so in Mr. Runciman’s parlour. Between him and the attorney’s chair was Harry Stubbings, from Stanton Corner, the man who let out hunters, and whom Twentyman had threatened to thrash. His introduction to the club had taken place lately, not without some opposition; but Runciman had set his foot upon that, saying that it was “all d— nonsense.” He had prevailed, and Twentyman had consented to meet the man; but there was no great friendship between them. Seated back on the sofa was Mr. Ribbs, the butcher, who was allowed into the society as being a specially modest man. His modesty, perhaps, did not hinder him in an affair of sheep or bullocks, nor yet in the collection of his debts; but at the club he understood his position, and rarely opened his mouth to speak. When Twentyman followed the attorney into the room there was a vacant chair between Mr. Botsey and Harry Stubbings; but he would not get into it, preferring to seat himself on the table at Botsey’s right hand.

“So Goarly was with you, Mr. Masters,” Mr. Runciman began as soon as the attorney was seated. It was clear that they had all been talking about Goarly and his law-suit, and that Goarly and the law-suit would be talked about very generally in Dillsborough.

“He was over at my place this evening,” said the attorney.

“You are not going to take his case up for him, Mr. Masters?” said young Botsey. “We expect something better from you than that.”

Now Ned Botsey was rather an impudent young man, and Mr. Masters, though he was mild enough at home, did not like impudence from the world at large. “I suppose, Mr. Botsey,” said he, “that if Goarly were to go to you for a barrel of beer you’d sell it to him?”

“I don’t know whether I should or not. I dare say my people would. But that’s a different thing.”

“I don’t see any difference at all. You’re not very particular as to your customers, and I don’t ask you any questions about them. Ring the bell, Runciman, please.” The bell was rung, and the two newcomers ordered their liquor.

It was quite right that Ned Botsey should be put down. Every one in the room felt that. But there was something in the attorney’s tone which made the assembled company feel that he had undertaken Goarly’s case; whereas, in the opinion of the company, Goarly was a scoundrel with whom Mr. Masters should have had nothing to do. The attorney had never been a sporting man himself, but he had always been, as it were, on that side.

“Goarly is a great fool for his pains,” said the doctor. “He has had a very fair offer made him, and, first or last, it’ll cost him forty pounds.”

“He has got it into his head,” said the landlord, “that he can sue Lord Rufford for his fences. Lord Rufford is not answerable for his fences.”

“It’s the loss of crop he’s going for,” said Twentyman.

“How can there be pheasants to that amount in Dillsborough Wood,” continued the landlord, “when everybody knows that foxes breed there every year? There isn’t a surer find for a fox in the whole county. Everybody knows that Lord Rufford never lets his game stand in the way of foxes.”

Lord Rufford was Mr. Runciman’s great friend and patron and best customer, and not a word against Lord Rufford was allowed in that room, though elsewhere in Dillsborough ill-natured things were sometimes said of his lordship. Then there came on that well-worn dispute among sportsmen, whether foxes and pheasants are or are not pleasant companions to each other. Every one was agreed that, if not, then the pheasants should suffer, and that any country gentleman who allowed his gamekeeper to entrench on the privileges of foxes in order that pheasants might be more abundant, was a “brute” and a “beast,” and altogether unworthy to live in England. Larry Twentyman and Ned Botsey expressed an opinion that pheasants were predominant in Dillsborough Wood, while Mr. Runciman, the doctor, and Harry Stubbings declared loudly that everything that foxes could desire was done for them in that Elysium of sport.

“We drew the wood blank last time we were there,” said Larry. “Don’t you remember, Mr. Runciman, about the end of last March?”

“Of course I remember,” said the landlord. “Just the end of the season, when two vixens had litters in the wood! You don’t suppose Bean was going to let that old butcher, Tony, find a fox in Dillsborough at that time.” Bean was his lordship’s head gamekeeper in that part of the country. “How many foxes had we found there during the season?”

“Two or three,” suggested Botsey.

“Seven!” said the energetic landlord; “seven, including cub-hunting,—and killed four! If you kill four foxes out of an eighty-acre wood, and have two litters at the end of the season, I don’t think you have much to complain of.”

“If they all did as well as Lord Rufford, you’d have more foxes than you’d know what to do with,” said the doctor.

Then this branch of the conversation was ended by a bet of a new hat between Botsey and the landlord as to the finding of a fox in Dillsborough Wood when it should next be drawn; as to which, when the speculation was completed, Harry Stubbings offered Mr. Runciman ten shillings down for his side of the bargain.

But all this did not divert the general attention from the important matter of Goarly’s attack. “Let it be how it will,” said Mr. Runciman, “a fellow like that should be put down.” He did not address himself specially to Mr. Masters, but that gentleman felt that he was being talked at.

“Certainly he ought,” said Dr. Nupper. “If he didn’t feel satisfied with what his lordship offered him, why couldn’t he ask his lordship to refer the matter to a couple of farmers who understood it?”

“It’s the spirit of the thing,” said Mr. Ribbs, from his place on the sofa. “It’s a hodious spirit.”

“That’s just it, Mr. Ribbs,” said Harry Stubbings. “It’s all meant for opposition. Whether it’s shooting or whether it’s hunting, it’s all one. Such a chap oughtn’t to be allowed to have land. I’d take it away from him by Act of Parliament. It’s such as him as is destroying the country.”

“There ain’t many of them hereabouts, thank God!” said the landlord.

“Now, Mr. Twentyman,” said Stubbings, who was anxious to make friends with the gentleman-farmer, “you know what land can do, and what land has done, as well as any man. What would you say was the real damage done to them two wheat-fields by his lordship’s game last autumn? You saw the crops as they were growing, and you know what came off the land.”

“I wouldn’t like to say.”

“But if you were on your oath, Mr. Twentyman?

“Was there more than seven-and-sixpence an acre lost?”

“No, nor five shillings,” said Runciman.

“I think Goarly ought to take his lordship’s offer—if you mean that,” said Twentyman.

Then there was a pause, during which more drink was brought in, and pipes were re-lighted. Everybody wished that Mr. Masters might be got to say that he would not take the case, but there was a delicacy about asking him. “If I remember right he was in Rufford Gaol once,” said Runciman.

“He was let out on bail and then the matter was hushed up somehow,” said the attorney.

“It was something about a woman,” continued Runciman. “I know that on that occasion he came out an awful scoundrel.”

“Don’t you remember,” asked Botsey, “how he used to walk up and down the covert-side with a gun, two years ago, swearing he would shoot the fox if he broke over his land?”

“I heard him say it, Botsey,” said Twentyman. “It wouldn’t have been the first fox he’s murdered,” said the doctor.

“Not by many,” said the landlord.

“You remember that old woman near my place?” said Stubbings. “It was he that put her up to tell all them lies about her turkeys. I ran it home to him! A blackguard like that! Nobody ought to take him up.”

“I hope you won’t, Mr. Masters;” said the doctor. The doctor was as old as the attorney, and had known him for many years. No one else could dare to ask the question.

“I don’t suppose I shall, Nupper,” said the attorney from his chair. It was the first word he had spoken since he had put down young Botsey. “It wouldn’t just suit me; but a man has to judge of those things for himself.”

Then there was a general rejoicing, and Mr. Runciman stood broiled bones, and ham and eggs, and bottled stout for the entire club; one unfortunate effect of which unwonted conviviality was that Mr. Masters did not get home till near twelve o’clock. That was sure to cause discomfort; and then he had pledged himself to decline Goarly’s business.

CHAPTER V

Reginald Morton

We will now go back to Hoppet Hall and its inhabitants. When the old squire died he left by his will Hoppet Hall and certain other houses in Dillsborough, which was all that he could leave, to his grandson Reginald Morton. Then there arose a question whether this property also was not entailed. The former Mr. Masters, and our friend of the present day, had been quite certain of the squire’s power to do what he liked with it; but others had been equally certain on the other side, and there had been a lawsuit. During that time Reginald Morton had been forced to live on a very small allowance. His aunt, Lady Ushant, had done what little she could for him, but it had been felt to be impossible that he should remain at Bragton, which was the property of the cousin who was at law with him. From the moment of his birth the Honourable Mrs. Morton, who was also his aunt by marriage, had been his bitter enemy. He was the son of an innkeeper’s daughter, and according to her theory of life, should never even have been noticed by the real Mortons. And this honourable old lady was almost equally adverse to Lady Ushant, whose husband had simply been a knight, and who had left nothing behind him. Thus Reginald Morton had been friendless since his grandfather died, and had lived in Germany, nobody quite knew how. During the entire period of this law-suit Hoppet Hall had remained untenanted.

When the property was finally declared to belong to Reginald Morton, the Hall, before it could be used, required considerable repair. But there was other property. The Bush Inn belonged to Reginald Morton, as did the house in which Mr. Masters lived, and sundry other smaller tenements in the vicinity. There was an income from these of about five hundred pounds a year. Reginald, who was then nearly thirty years of age, came over to England, and stayed for a month or two at Bragton with his aunt, to the infinite chagrin of the old dowager. The management of the town property was entrusted to Mr. Masters, and Hoppet Hall was repaired. At this period Mr. Mainwaring had just come to Dillsborough, and having a wife with some money and perhaps quite as much pretension, had found the rectory too small, and had taken the Hall on a lease for seven years. When this was arranged Reginald Morton again went to Germany, and did not return till the lease had run out. By that time Mr. Mainwaring, having spent a little money, found that the rectory would be large enough for his small family. Then the Hall was again untenanted for awhile, till, quite suddenly, Reginald Morton returned to Dillsborough, and took up his permanent residence in his own house.

It soon became known that the new-comer would not add much to the gaiety of the place. The only people whom he knew in Dillsborough were his own tenants, Mr. Runciman and Mr. Masters, and the attorney’s eldest daughter. During those months which he had spent with Lady Ushant at Bragton, Mary had been living there, then a child of twelve years old; and, as a child, had become his fast friend. With his aunt he had, continually corresponded, and partly at her instigation, and partly from feelings of his own, he had at once gone to the attorney’s house. This was now two years since, and he had found in his old playmate a beautiful young woman, in his opinion very unlike the people with whom she lived. For the first twelvemonths he saw her occasionally,—though not indeed very often. Once or twice he had drunk tea at the attorney’s house, on which occasions the drawing-room upstairs had been almost as grand as it was uncomfortable. Then the attentions of Larry Twentyman began to make themselves visible, infinitely to Reginald Morton’s disgust. Up to that time he had no idea of falling in love with the girl himself. Since he had begun to think on such subjects at all he had made up his mind that he would not marry. He was almost the more proud of his birth by his father’s side, because he had been made to hear so much of his mother’s low position. He had told himself a hundred times that under no circumstances could he marry any other than a lady of good birth. But his own fortune was small, and he knew himself well enough to be sure that he would not marry for money. He was now nearly forty years of age and had never yet been thrown into the society of any one that had attracted him. He was sure that he would not marry. And yet when he saw that Mr. Twentyman was made much of and flattered by the whole Masters family, apparently because he was regarded as an eligible husband for Mary, Reginald Morton was not only disgusted, but personally offended. Being a most unreasonable man he conceived a bitter dislike to poor Larry, who, at any rate, was truly in love, and was not looking too high in desiring to marry the portionless daughter of the attorney. But Morton thought that the man ought to be kicked and horsewhipped, or, at any rate, banished into some speechless exile for his presumption.

With Mr. Runciman he had dealings, and in some sort friendship. There were two meadows attached to Hoppet Hall, fields lying close to the town, which were very suitable for the landlord’s purposes. Mr. Mainwaring had held them in his own hands, taking them up from Mr. Runciman, who had occupied them while the house was untenanted, in a manner which induced Mr. Runciman to feel that it was useless to go to church to hear such sermons as those preached by the rector. But Morton had restored the fields, giving them rent free, on condition that he should be supplied with milk and butter. Mr. Runciman, no doubt, had the best of the bargain, as he generally had in all bargains; but he was a man who liked to be generous when generously treated. Consequently he almost overdid his neighbour with butter and cream, and occasionally sent in quarters of lamb and sweetbreads to make up the weight. I don’t know that the offerings were particularly valued; but friendship was engendered. Runciman, too, had his grounds for quarrelling with those who had taken up the management of the Bragton property after the squire’s death, and had his own antipathy to the Honourable Mrs. Morton and her grandson, the Secretary of Legation. When the law-suit was going on he had been altogether on Reginald Morton’s side. It was an affair of sides, and quite natural that Runciman and the attorney should be friendly with the new-comer at Hoppet Hall, though there were very few points of personal sympathy between them.

Reginald Morton was no sportsman, nor was he at all likely to become a member of the Dillsborough Club. It was currently reported of him in the town that he had never sat on a horse or fired off a gun. As he had been brought up as a boy by the old squire this was probably an exaggeration, but it is certain that at this period of his life he had given up any aptitudes in that direction for which his early training might have suited him. He had brought back with him to Hoppet Hall many cases of books which the ignorance of Dillsborough had magnified into an enormous library, and he was certainly a sedentary, reading man. There was already a report in the town that he was engaged in some stupendous literary work, and the men and women generally looked upon him as a disagreeable marvel of learning. Dillsborough of itself was not bookish, and would have regarded any one known to have written an article in a magazine almost as a phenomenon.

He seldom went to church, much to the sorrow of Mr. Surtees, who ventured to call at the house and remonstrate with him. He never called again. And though it was the habit of Mr. Surtees’ life to speak as little ill as possible of any one, he was not able to say any good of Mr. Morton. Mr. Mainwaring, who would never have troubled himself though his parishioner had not entered a place of worship once in a twelvemonth, did say many severe things against his former landlord. He hated people who were unsocial and averse to dining out, and who departed from the ways of living common among English country gentlemen. Mr. Mainwaring was, upon the whole, prepared to take the other side.

Reginald Morton, though he was now nearly forty, was a young looking handsome man, with fair hair, cut short, and a light beard, which was always clipped. Though his mother had been an innkeeper’s daughter in Montreal he had the Morton blue eyes and the handsome well-cut Morton nose. He was nearly six feet high, and strongly made, and was known to be a much finer man than the Secretary of Legation, who was rather small, and supposed to be not very robust.

Our lonely man was a great walker, and had investigated every lane and pathway, and almost every hedge within ten miles of Dillsborough before he had resided there two years; but his favourite rambles were all in the neighbourhood of Bragton. As there was no one living in the house,—no one but the old housekeeper who had lived there always,—he was able to wander about the place as he pleased. On the Tuesday afternoon, after the meeting of the Dillsborough Club which has been recorded, he was seated, about three o’clock, on the rail of the foot-bridge over the Dil, with a long German pipe hanging from his mouth. He was noted throughout the whole country for this pipe, or for others like it, such a one usually being in his mouth as he wandered about. The amount of tobacco which he had smoked since his return to these parts, exactly in that spot, was considerable, for there he might have been found at some period of the afternoon at least three times a week. He would sit on this rail for half an hour looking down at the sluggish waters of the little river, rolling the smoke out of his mouth at long intervals, and thinking perhaps of the great book which he was supposed to be writing. As he sat there now, he suddenly heard voices and laughter, and presently three girls came round the corner of the hedge, which, at this spot, hid the Dillsborough path,—and he saw the attorney’s three daughters.

“It’s Mr. Morton,” said Dolly in a whisper.

“He’s always walking about Bragton,” said Kate in another whisper. “Tony Tuppett says that he’s the Bragton ghost”

“Kate,” said Mary, also in a low voice, “you shouldn’t talk so much about what you hear from Tony Tuppett.”

“Bosh!” said Kate, who knew that she could not be scolded in the presence of Mr. Morton.

He came forward and shook hands with them all, and took off his hat to Mary. “You’ve walked a long way, Miss Masters,” he said.

“We don’t think it far. I like sometimes to come and look at the old place.”

“And so do I. I wonder whether you remember how often I’ve sat you on this rail and threatened to throw you into the river?”

“I remember very well that you did threaten me once, and that I almost believed that you would throw me in.”

“What had she done that was naughty, Mr. Morton?” asked Kate.

“I don’t think she ever did anything naughty in those days. I don’t know whether she has changed for the worse since.”

“Mary is never naughty now,” said Dolly. “Kate and I are naughty, and it’s very much better fun than being good.”

“The world has found out that long ago, Miss Dolly; only the world is not quite so candid in owning it as you are. Will you come and walk round the house, Miss Masters? I never go in, but I have no scruples about the paths and park.”

At the end of the bridge leading into the shrubbery there was a stile, high indeed, but made commodiously with steps, almost like a double stair case, so that ladies could pass it without trouble. Mary had given her assent to the proposed walk, and was in the act of putting out her hand to be helped over the stile, when Mr. Twentyman appeared at the other side of it.

“If here isn’t Larry!” said Kate.

Morton’s face turned as black as thunder, but he immediately went back across the bridge, leading Mary with him. The other girls, who had followed him on to the bridge, had of course to go back also.

Mary was made very unhappy by the meeting. Mr. Morton would of course think that it had been planned, whereas by Mary herself it had been altogether unexpected. Kate, when the bridge was free, rushed over it and whispered something to Larry. The meeting had indeed been planned between her and Dolly and the lover, and this special walk had been taken at the request of the two younger girls.

Morton stood stock still, as though he expected that Twentyman would pass by. Larry hurried over the bridge, feeling sure that the meeting with Morton had been accidental and thinking that he would pass on towards the house.

Larry was not at all ashamed of his purpose, nor was he inclined to give way and pass on. He came up boldly to his love, and shook hands with her with a pleasant smile. “If you are walking back to Dillsborough,” he said, “maybe you’ll let me go a little way with you?”

“I was going round the house with Mr. Morton,” she said timidly.

“Perhaps I can join you?” said he, bobbing his head at the other man.

“If you intended to walk back with Mr. Twentyman—,” began Morton.

“But I didn’t,” said the poor girl, who in truth understood more of it all than did either of the two men. “I didn’t expect him, and I didn’t expect you. It’s a pity I can’t go both ways, isn’t it?” she added, attempting to appear cheerful.

“Come back, Mary,” said Kate; “we’ve had walking enough, and shall be awfully tired before we get home.”

Mary had thought that she would like extremely to go round the house with her old friend and have a hundred incidents of her early life called to her memory. The meeting with Reginald Morton had been altogether pleasant to her. She had often felt how much she would have liked it had the chance of her life enabled her to see more frequently one whom as a child she had so intimately known. But at the moment she lacked the courage to walk boldly across the bridge, and thus to rid herself of Lawrence Twentyman. She had already perceived that Morton’s manner had rendered it impossible that her lover should follow them. “I am afraid I must go home,” she said. It was the very thing she did not want to do,—this going home with Lawrence Twentyman; and yet she herself said that she must do it,—driven to say so by a nervous dread of showing herself to be fond of the other man’s company.

“Good afternoon to you,” said Morton very gloomily, waving his hat and stalking across the bridge.

CHAPTER VI

Not in Love

Reginald Morton, as he walked across the bridge towards the house, was thoroughly disgusted with all the world. He was very angry with himself, feeling that he had altogether made a fool of himself by his manner. He had shown himself to be offended, not only by Mr. Twentyman, but by Miss Masters also, and he was well aware, as he thought of it all, that neither of them had given him any cause of offence. If she chose to make an appointment for a walk with Mr. Lawrence Twentyman and to keep it, what was that to him? His anger was altogether irrational, and he knew that it was so. What right had he to have an opinion about it if Mary Masters should choose to like the society of Mr. Twentyman? It was an affair between her and her father and mother in which he could have no interest; and yet he had not only taken offence, but was well aware that he had shown his feeling.

Nevertheless, as to the girl herself, he could not argue himself out of his anger. It was grievous to him that he should have gone out of his way to ask her to walk with him just at the moment when she was expecting this vulgar lover,—for that she had expected him he felt no doubt. Yet he had heard her disclaim any intention of walking with the man! But girls are sly, especially when their lovers are concerned. It made him sore at heart to feel that this girl should be sly, and doubly sore to think that she should have been able to love such a one as Lawrence Twentyman.

As he roamed about among the grounds this idea troubled him much. He assured himself that he was not in love with her himself, and that he had no idea of falling in love with her; but it sickened him to think that a girl who had been brought up by his aunt, who had been loved at Bragton, whom he had liked, who looked so like a lady, should put herself on a par with such a wretch as that. In all this he was most unjust to both of them. He was specially unjust to poor Larry, who was by no means a wretch. His costume was not that to which Morton had been accustomed in Germany, nor would it have passed without notice in Bond Street. But it was rational and clean. When he came to the bridge to meet his sweetheart he had on a dark-green shooting coat, a billicock hat, brown breeches, and gaiters nearly up to his knees. I don’t know that a young man in the country could wear more suitable attire. And he was a well-made man, just such a one as, in this dress, would take the eye of a country girl. There was a little bit of dash about him, just a touch of swagger, which better breeding might have prevented. But it was not enough to make him odious to an unprejudiced observer. I could fancy that an old lady from London, with an eye in her head for manly symmetry, would have liked to look at Larry, and would have thought that a girl in Mary’s position would be happy in having such a lover, providing that his character was good and his means adequate. But Reginald Morton was not an old woman, and to his eyes the smart young farmer with his billicock hat, not quite straight on his head, was an odious thing to behold. He exaggerated the swagger, and took no notice whatever of the well-made limbs. And then this man had proposed to accompany him, had wanted to join his party, had thought it possible that a flirtation might be carried on in his presence! He sincerely hated the man. But what was he to think of such a girl as Mary Masters when she could bring herself to like the attentions of such a lover?

He was very cross with himself because he knew how unreasonable was his anger. Of one thing only could he assure himself,—that he would never again willingly put himself in Mary’s company. What was Dillsborough and the ways of its inhabitants to him? Why should he so far leave the old fashions of his life as to fret himself about an attorney’s daughter in a little English town? And yet he did fret himself, walking rapidly, and smoking his pipe a great deal quicker than was his custom.

When he was about to return home he passed the front of the house, and there, standing at the open door, he saw Mrs. Hopkins, the housekeeper, who had in truth been waiting for him. He said a good-natured word to her, intending to make his way on without stopping, but she called him back. “Have you heard the news, Mr. Reginald?” she said.

“I haven’t heard any news this twelvemonth,” he replied.

“Laws, that is so like you, Mr. Reginald. The young squire is to be here next week.”

“Who is the young squire? I didn’t know there was any squire now.”

“Mr. Reginald!”

“A squire as I take it, Mrs. Hopkins, is a country gentleman who lives on his own property. Since my grandfather’s time no such gentleman has lived at Bragton.”

“That’s true, too, Mr. Reginald. Any way Mr. Morton is coming down next week.”

“I thought he was in America.”

“He has come home, for a turn like,—and is staying up in town with the old lady.” The old lady always meant the Honourable Mrs. Morton.

“And is the old lady coming down with him?”

“I fancy she is, Mr. Reginald. He didn’t say as much, but only that there would be three or four, a couple of ladies he said, and perhaps more. So I am getting the east bedroom, with the dressing-room, and the blue room for her ladyship.” People about Bragton had been accustomed to call Mrs. Morton her ladyship. “That’s where she always used to be. Would you come in and see, Mr. Reginald?”

“Certainly not, Mrs. Hopkins. If you were asking me into a house of your own, I would go in and see all the rooms and chat with you for an hour; but I don’t suppose I shall ever go into this house again unless things change very much indeed.”

“Then I’m sure I hope they will change, Mr. Reginald.” Mrs. Hopkins had known Reginald Morton as a boy growing up into manhood, had almost been present at his birth, and had renewed her friendship while he was staying with Lady Ushant; but of the present squire, as she called him, she had seen almost nothing, and what she had once remembered of him had now been obliterated by an absence of twenty years. Of course she was on Reginald’s side in the family quarrel, although she was the paid servant of the Foreign Office paragon.

“And they are to be here next week. What day next week, Mrs. Hopkins?” Mrs. Hopkins didn’t know on what day she was to expect the visitors, nor how long they intended to stay. Mr. John Morton had said in his letter that he would send his own man down two days before his arrival, and that was nearly all that he had said.

Then Morton started on his return walk to Dillsborough, again taking the path across the bridge. “Ah!” he said to himself with a shudder as he crossed the stile, thinking of his own softened feelings as he had held out his hand to help Mary Masters, and then of his revulsion of feeling when she declared her purpose of walking home with Mr. Twentyman. And he struck the rail of the bridge with his stick as though he were angry with the place altogether. And he thought to himself that he would never come there any more, that he hated the place, and that he would never cross that bridge again.

Then his mind reverted to the tidings he had heard from Mrs. Hopkins. What ought he to do when his cousin arrived? Though there had been a long lawsuit, there had been no actual declared quarrel between him and the heir. He had, indeed, never seen the heir for the last twenty years, nor had they ever interchanged letters. There had been no communication whatever between them, and therefore there could hardly be a quarrel. He disliked his cousin; nay, almost hated him; he was quite aware of that. And he was sure also that he hated that Honourable old woman worse than any one else in the world, and that he always would do so. He knew that the Honourable old woman had attempted to drive his own mother from Bragton, and of course he hated her. But that was no reason why he should not call on his cousin. He was anxious to do what was right. He was specially anxious that blame should not be attributed to him. What he would like best would be that he might call, might find nobody at home,—and that then John Morton should not return the courtesy. He did not want to go to Bragton as a guest; he did not wish to be in the wrong himself; but he was by no means equally anxious that his cousin should keep himself free from reproach.

The bridge path came out on the Dillsborough road just two miles from the town, and Morton, as he got over the last stile, saw Lawrence Twentyman coming towards him on the road. The man, no doubt, had gone all the way into Dillsborough with the girls, and was now returning home. The parish of Bragton lies to the left of the high road as you go into the town from Rufford and the direction of London, whereas Chowton Farm, the property of Mr. Twentyman, is on the right of the road, but in the large parish of St. John’s, Dillsborough. Dillsborough Wood lies at the back of Larry Twentyman’s land, and joining on to Larry’s land and also to the wood is the patch of ground owned by “that scoundrel Goarly”. Chowton Farm gate opens on to the high road, so that Larry was now on his direct way home. As soon as he saw Morton he made up his mind to speak to him. He was quite sure from what had passed between him and the girls, on the road home, that he had done something wrong. He was convinced that he had interfered in some ill-bred way, though he did not at all know how. Of Reginald Morton he was not in the least jealous. He, too, was of a jealous temperament, but it had never occurred to him to join Reginald Morton and Mary Masters together. He was very much in love with Mary, but had no idea that she was in any way above the position which she might naturally hold as daughter of the Dillsborough attorney. But of Reginald Morton’s attributes and scholarship and general standing he had a mystified appreciation which saved him from the pain of thinking that such a man could be in love with his sweetheart. As he certainly did not wish to quarrel with Morton, having always taken Reginald’s side in the family disputes, he thought that he would say a civil word in passing, and, if possible, apologise. When Morton came up he raised his hand to his head and did open his mouth, though not pronouncing any word very clearly. Morton looked at him as grim as death, just raised his hand, and then passed on with a quick step. Larry was displeased; but the other was so thoroughly a gentleman,—one of the Mortons, and a man of property in the county,—that he didn’t even yet wish to quarrel with him. “What the deuce have I done?” said he to himself as he walked on—“I didn’t tell her not to go up to the house. If I offered to walk with her what was that to him?” It must be remembered that Lawrence Twentyman was twelve years younger than Reginald Morton, and that a man of twenty-eight is apt to regard a man of forty as very much too old for falling in love. It is a mistake which it will take him fully ten years to rectify, and then he will make a similar mistake as to men of fifty. With his awe for Morton’s combined learning and age, it never occurred to him to be jealous.

Morton passed on rapidly, almost feeling that he had been a brute. But what business had the objectionable man to address him? He tried to excuse himself, but yet he felt that he had been a brute, and had so demeaned himself in reference to the daughter of the Dillsborough attorney! He would teach himself to do all he could to promote the marriage. He would give sage advice to Mary Masters as to the wisdom of establishing herself,—having not an hour since made up his mind that he would never see her again! He would congratulate the attorney and Mrs. Masters. He would conquer the absurd feeling which at present was making him wretched. He would cultivate some sort of acquaintance with the man, and make the happy pair a wedding present. But, yet, what “a beast” the man was, with that billicock hat on one side of his head, and those tight leather gaiters.

As he passed through the town towards his own house, he saw Mr. Runciman standing in front of the hotel. His road took him up Hobbs gate, by the corner of the Bush; but Runciman came a little out of the way to meet him. “You have heard the news?” said the innkeeper.

“I have heard one piece of news.”

“What’s that, sir?”

“Come,—you tell me yours first”

“The young squire is coming down to Bragton next week.”

“That’s my news too. It is not likely that there should be two matters of interest in Dillsborough on the same day.”

“I don’t know why Dillsborough should be worse off than any other place, Mr. Morton; but at any rate the squire’s coming.”

“So Mrs. Hopkins told me. Has he written to you?”

“His coachman or his groom has; or perhaps he keeps what they call an ekkery. He’s much too big a swell to write to the likes of me. Lord bless me,—when I think of it, I wonder how many dozen of orders I’ve had from Lord Rufford under his own hand. ‘Dear Runcimam, dinner at eight; ten of us; won’t wait a moment. Yours R.’ I suppose Mr. Morton would think that his lordship had let himself down by anything of that sort?”

“What does my cousin want?”

“Two pair of horses,—for a week certain, and perhaps longer, and two carriages. How am I to let anyone have two pair of horses for a week certain,—and perhaps longer? What are other customers to do? I can supply a gentleman by the month and buy horses to suit; or I can supply him by the job. But I guess Mr. Morton don’t well know how things are managed in this country. He’ll have to learn.

“What day does he come?”

“They haven’t told me that yet, Mr. Morton.”

CHAPTER VII

The Walk Home

Mary Masters, when Reginald Morton had turned his back upon her at the bridge, was angry with herself and with him, which was reasonable; and very angry also with Larry Twentyman, which was unreasonable. As she had at once acceded to Morton’s proposal that they should walk round the house together, surely he should not have deserted her so soon. It had not been her fault that the other man had come up. She had not wanted him. But she was aware that when the option had in some sort been left to herself, she had elected to walk back with Larry. She knew her own motives and her own feelings, but neither of the men would understand them. Because she preferred the company of Mr. Morton, and had at the moment feared that her sisters would have deserted her had she followed him, therefore she had declared her purpose of going back to Dillsborough, in doing which she knew that Larry and the girls would accompany her. But of course Mr, Morton would think that she had preferred the company of her recognised admirer. It was pretty well known in Dillsborough that Larry was her lover. Her stepmother had spoken of it very freely; and Larry himself was a man who did not keep his lights hidden under a bushel. “I hope I’ve not been in the way, Mary,” said Mr. Twentyman, as soon as Morton was out of hearing.

“In the way of what?”

“I didn’t think there was any harm in offering to go up to the house with you if you were going.”

“Who has said there was any harm?” The path was only broad enough for one and she was walking first. Larry was following her and the girls were behind him.

“I think that Mr. Morton is a very stuck-up fellow,” said Kate, who was the last.

“Hold your tongue, Kate,” said Mary. “You don’t know what you are talking about”

“I know as well as any one when a person is good-natured. What made him go off in that hoity-toity fashion? Nobody had said anything to him.”

“He always looks as though he were going to eat somebody,” said Dolly.

“He shan’t eat me,” said Kate.

Then there was a pause, during which they all went along quickly, Mary leading the way. Larry felt that he was wasting his opportunity; and yet hardly knew how to use it, feeling that the girl was angry with him.

“I wish you’d say, Mary, whether you think that I did anything wrong?”

“Nothing wrong to me, Mr. Twentyman.”

“Did I do anything wrong to him?”

“I don’t know how far you may be acquainted with him. He was proposing to go somewhere, and you offered to go with him.”

“I offered to go with you,” said Larry, sturdily. “I suppose I’m sufficiently acquainted with you.”

“Quite so,” said Mary.

“Why should he be so proud? I never said an uncivil word to him. He’s nothing to me. If he can do without me, I’m sure that I can do without him.”

“Very well indeed, I should think.”

“The truth is, Mary—”

“There has been quite enough said about it, Mr. Twentyman.”

“The truth is, Mary, I came on purpose to have a word with you.” Hearing this, Kate rushed on and pulled Larry by the tail of his coat.

“How did you know I was to be there?” demanded Mary sharply.

“I didn’t know. I had reason to think you perhaps might be there. The girls I knew had been asking you to come as far as the bridge. At any rate I took my chance. I’d seen him some time before, and then I saw you.”

“If I’m to be watched about in that way,” said Mary angrily, “I won’t go out at all.”

“Of course I want to see you. Why shouldn’t I? I’m all fair and above board;—ain’t I? Your father and mother know all about it. It isn’t as though I were doing anything clandestine.” He paused for a reply, but Mary walked on in silence. She knew quite well that he was warranted in seeking her, and that nothing but a very positive decision on her part could put an end to his courtship. At the present moment she was inclined to be very positive, but he had hardly as yet given her an opportunity of speaking out. “I think you know, Mary, what it is that I want.” They were now at a rough stile which enabled him to come close up to her and help her. She tripped over the stile with a light step and again walked on rapidly. The field they were in enabled him to get up to her side, and now if ever was his opportunity. It was a long straggling meadow which he knew well, with the Dill running by it all the way,—or rather two meadows with an open space where there had once been a gate. He had ridden through the gap a score of times, and knew that at the further side of the second meadow they would come upon the high road. The fields were certainly much better for his purpose than the road. “Don’t you think, Mary, you could say a kind word to me?”

“I never said anything unkind.”

“You can’t think ill of me for loving you better than all the world.”

“I don’t think ill of you at all. I think very well of you.”

“That’s kind.”

“So I do. How can I help thinking well of you, when I’ve never heard anything but good of you?”

“Then why shouldn’t you say at once that you’ll have me, and make me the happiest man in all the county?”

“Because—”

“Well!”

“I told you before, Mr. Twentyman, and that ought to have been enough. A young woman doesn’t fall in love with every man that she thinks well of. I should like you as well as all the rest of the family if you would only marry some other girl,”

“I shall never do that.”

“Yes you will;—some day.”

“Never. I’ve set my heart upon it, and I mean to stick to it. I’m not the fellow to turn about from one girl to another. What I want is the girl I love. I’ve money enough and all that kind of thing of my own.”

“I’m sure you’re disinterested, Mr. Twentyman.”

“Yes, I am. Ever since you’ve been home from Bragton it has been the same thing, and when I felt that it was so, I spoke up to your father honestly. I haven’t been beating about the bush, and I haven’t done anything that wasn’t honourable.” They were very near the last stile now. “Come, Mary, if you won’t make me a promise, say that you’ll think of it”

“I have thought of it, Mr. Twentyman, and I can’t make you any other answer. I dare say I’m very foolish.”

“I wish you were more foolish. Perhaps then you wouldn’t be so hard to please.”

“Whether I’m wise or foolish, indeed, indeed, it’s no good your going on. Now we’re on the road. Pray go back home, Mr. Twentyman.”

“It’ll be getting dark in a little time.”

“Not before we’re in Dillsborough. If it were ever so dark we could find our way home by ourselves. Come along, Dolly.”

Over the last stile he had stayed a moment to help the younger girl, and as he did so Kate whispered a word in his ear. “She’s angry because she couldn’t go up to the house with that stuck-up fellow.” It was a foolish word; but then Kate Masters had not had much experience in the world. Whether overcome by Mary’s resolute mode of speaking, or aware that the high road would not suit his purpose, he did turn back as soon as he had seen them a little way on their return towards the town. He had not gone half a mile before he met Morton, and had been half-minded to make some apology to him. But Morton had denied him the opportunity, and he had walked on to his own house,—low in spirits indeed, but still with none of that sorest of agony which comes to a lover from the feeling that his love loves some one else. Mary had been very decided with him,—more so he feared than before; but still he saw no reason why he should not succeed at last. Mrs. Masters had told him that Mary would certainly give a little trouble in winning, but would be the more worth the winner’s trouble when won. And she had certainly shown no preference for any other young man about the town. There had been a moment when he had much dreaded Mr. Surtees. Young clergymen are apt to be formidable rivals, and Mr. Surtees had certainly made some overtures of friendship to Mary Masters. But Larry had thought that he had seen that these overtures had not led to much, and then that fear had gone from him. He did believe that Mary was now angry because she had not been allowed to walk about Bragton with her old friend Mr. Morton. It had been natural that she should like to do so. It was the pride of Mary’s life that she had been befriended by the Mortons and Lady Ushant. But it did not occur to him that he ought to be jealous of Mr. Morton,—though it had occurred to Kate Masters.

There was very little said between the sisters on their way back to the town. Mary was pretty sure now that the two girls had made the appointment with Larry, but she was unwilling to question them on the subject. Immediately on their arrival at home they heard the great news. John Morton was coming to Bragton with a party of ladies and gentlemen. Mrs. Hopkins had spoken of four persons. Mrs. Masters told Mary that there were to be a dozen at least, and that four or five pairs of horses and half a dozen carriages had been ordered from Mr. Runciman. “He means to cut a dash when he does begin,” said Mrs. Masters.

“Is he going to stay, mother?”

“He wouldn’t come down in that way if it was only for a few days I suppose. But what they will do for furniture I don’t know.”

“There’s plenty of furniture, mother.”

“A thousand years old. Or for wine, or fruit, or plate.”

“The old plate was there when Lady Ushant left.”

“People do things now in a very different way from what they used. A couple of dozen silver forks made quite a show on the old squire’s table. Now they change the things so often that ten dozen is nothing. I don’t suppose there’s a bottle of wine in the cellar.”

“They can get wine from Cobbold, mother.”

“Cobbold’s wine won’t go down with them I fancy. I wonder what servants they’re bringing.”

When Mr. Masters came in from his office the news was corroborated. Mr. John Morton was certainly coming to Bragton. The attorney had still a small unsettled and disputed claim against the owner of the property, and he had now received by the day mail an answer to a letter which he had written to Mr. Morton, saying that that gentleman would see him in the course of the next fortnight.

CHAPTER VIII

The Paragon’s Party at Bragton

There was certainly a great deal of fuss made about John Morton’s return to the home of his ancestors,—made altogether by himself and those about him, and not by those who were to receive him. On the Thursday in the week following that of which we have been speaking, two carriages from the Bush met the party at the Railway Station and took them to Bragton. Mr. Runciman, after due consideration, put up with the inconsiderate nature of the order given, and supplied the coaches and horses as required,—consoling himself no doubt with the reflection that he could charge for the unreasonableness of the demand in the bill. The coachman and butler had come down two days before their master, so that things might be in order. Mrs. Hopkins learned from the butler that though the party would at first consist only of three, two other very august persons were to follow on the Saturday,—no less than Lady Augustus Trefoil and her daughter Arabella. And Mrs. Hopkins was soon led to imagine, though no positive information was given to her on the subject, that Miss Trefoil was engaged to be married to their Master. “Will he live here altogether, Mr, Tankard?” Mrs. Hopkins asked. To this question Mr. Tankard was able to give a very definite answer. He was quite sure that Mr. Morton would not live anywhere altogether. According to Mr. Tankard’s ideas, the whole foreign policy of England depended on Mr. John Morton’s presence in some capital, either in Europe, Asia, or America,—upon Mr. Morton’s presence, and of course upon his own also. Mr. Tankard thought it not improbable that they might soon be wanted at Hong Kong, or some very distant place, but in the meantime they were bound to be back at Washington very shortly. Tankard had himself been at Washington, and also before that at Lisbon, and could tell Mrs. Hopkins how utterly unimportant had been the actual ministers at those places, and how the welfare of England had depended altogether on the discretion and general omniscience of his young master,—and of himself. He, Tankard, had been the only person in Washington who had really known in what order Americans should go out to dinner one after another. Mr. Elias Gotobed, who was coming, was perhaps the most distinguished American of the day, and was Senator for Mickewa.

“Mickey war!” said poor Mrs. Hopkins,—“that’s been one of them terrible American wars we used to hear of.” Then Tankard explained to her that Mickewa was one of the Western States and Mr. Elias Gotobed was a great Republican, who had very advanced opinions of his own respecting government, liberty, and public institutions in general. With Mr. Morton and the Senator was coming the Honourable Mrs. Morton. The lady had her lady’s maid,—and Mr, Morton had his own man; so that there would be a great influx of persons.

Of course there was very much perturbation of spirit. Mrs. Hopkins, after that first letter, the contents of which she had communicated to Reginald Morton, had received various despatches and been asked various questions. Could she find a cook? Could she find two housemaids? And all these were only wanted for a time. In her distress she went to Mrs. Runciman, and did get assistance. “I suppose he thinks he’s to have the cook out of my kitchen?” Runciman had said. Somebody, however, was found who said she could cook, and two girls who professed that they knew how to make beds. And in this way an establishment was ready before the arrival of the Secretary of Legation and the great American Senator. Those other. questions of wine and plate and vegetables had, no doubt, settled themselves after some fashion.

John Morton had come over to England on leave of absence for four months, and had brought with him the Senator from Mickewa. The Senator had never been in England before, and was especially anxious to study the British Constitution and to see the ways of Britons with his own eyes. He had only been a fortnight in London before this journey down to the county had been planned. Mr. Gotobed wished to see English country life and thought that he could not on his first arrival have a better opportunity. It must be explained also that there was another motive, for this English rural sojourn. Lady Augustus Trefoil, who was an adventurous lady, had been travelling in the United States with her daughter, and had there fallen in with Mr. John Morton. Arabella Trefoil was a beauty, and a woman of fashion, and had captivated the Paragon. An engagement had been made, subject to various stipulations; the consent of Lord Augustus in the first place,—as to which John Morton who only understood foreign affairs was not aware, as he would have been had he lived in England, that Lord Augustus was nobody. Lady Augustus had spoken freely as to settlements, value of property, life insurance and such matters; and had spoken firmly, as well as freely, expressing doubt as to the expediency of such an engagement;—all of which had surprised Mr. Morton considerably, for the young lady had at first been left in his hands with almost American freedom. And now Lady Augustus and her daughter were coming down on a visit of inspection. They had been told, as had the Senator, that things would be in the rough. The house had not been properly inhabited for nearly a quarter of a century. The Senator had expressed himself quite contented. Lady Augustus had only hoped that everything would be made as comfortable as possible for her daughter. I don’t know what more could have been done at so short a notice than to order two carriages, two housemaids, and a cook.

A word or two must also be said of the old lady who made one of the party. The Honourable Mrs. Morton was now seventy, but no old lady ever showed less signs of advanced age. It is not to be understood from this that she was beautiful;—but that she was very strong. What might be the colour of her hair, or whether she had any, no man had known for many years. But she wore so perfect a front that some people were absolutely deluded. She was very much wrinkled;— but as there are wrinkles which seem to come from the decay of those muscles which should uphold the skin, so are there others which seem to denote that the owner has simply got rid of the watery weaknesses of juvenility. Mrs. Morton’s wrinkles were strong wrinkles. She was thin, but always carried herself bolt upright, and would never even lean back in her chair. She had a great idea of her duty, and hated everybody who differed from her with her whole heart. She was the daughter of a Viscount, a fact which she never forgot for a single moment, and which she thought gave her positive superiority to all women who were not the daughters of Dukes or Marquises, or of Earls. Therefore, as she did not live much in the fashionable world, she rarely met any one above herself. Her own fortune on her marriage had been small, but now she was a rich woman. Her husband had been dead nearly half a century and during the whole of that time she had been saving money. To two charities she gave annually five pounds per annum each. Duty demanded it, and the money was given. Beyond that she had never been known to spend a penny in charity. Duty, she had said more than once, required of her that she do something to repair the ravages made on the Morton property by the preposterous extravagance of the old squire in regard to the younger son, and that son’s—child. In her anger she had not hesitated on different occasions to call the present Reginald a bastard, though the expression was a wicked calumny for which there was no excuse. Without any aid of hers the Morton property had repaired itself. There had been a minority of thirteen or fourteen years, and since that time the present owner had not spent his income. But John Morton was not himself averse to money, and had always been careful to maintain good relations with his grandmother. She had now been asked down to Bragton in order that she might approve, if possible, of the proposed wife. It was not likely that she should approve absolutely of anything; but to have married without an appeal to her would have been to have sent the money flying into the hands of some of her poor paternal cousins. Arabella Trefoil was the granddaughter of a duke, and a step had so far been made in the right direction. But Mrs. Morton knew that Lord Augustus was nobody, that there would be no money, and that Lady Augustus had been the daughter of a banker, and that her fortune had been nearly squandered.

The Paragon was not in the least afraid of his American visitor, nor, as far as the comforts of his house were concerned, of his grandmother. Of the beauty, and her mother he did stand in awe;— but he had two days in which to look to things before they would come. The train reached the Dillsborough Station at half-past three, and the two carriages were there to meet them. “You will understand, Mr. Gotobed,” said the old lady, “that my grandson has nothing of his own established here as yet.” This little excuse was produced by certain patches and tears in the cushions and linings of the carriages. Mr. Gotobed smiled and bowed and declared that everything was “fixed convenient” Then the Senator followed the old lady into one carriage; Mr. Morton followed alone into the other; and they were driven away to Bragton.

When Mrs. Hopkins had taken the old lady up to her room Mr. Morton asked the Senator to walk round the grounds. Mr. Gotobed, lighting an enormous cigar of which he put half down his throat for more commodious and quick consumption, walked on to the middle of the drive, and turning back looked up at the house, “Quite a pile,” he said, observing that the offices and outhouses extended a long way to the left till they almost joined other buildings in which were the stables and coach-house.

“It’s a good-sized house;”—said the owner; “nothing very particular, as houses are built now-a-days.”

“Damp; I should say?”

“I think not. I have never lived here much myself; but I have not heard that it is considered so.”

“I guess it’s damp. Very lonely;—isn’t it?”

“We like to have our society inside, among ourselves, in the country.”

“Keep a sort of hotel-like?” suggested Mr. Gotobed. “Well, I don’t dislike hotel life, especially when there are no charges. How many servants do you want to keep up such a house as that?”

Mr. Morton explained that at present he knew very little about it himself, then led him away by the path over the bridge, and turning to the left showed him the building which had once been the kennels of the Rufford hounds, “All that for dogs!” exclaimed Mr. Gotobed.

“All for dogs,” said Morton. “Hounds, we generally call them.”

“Hounds are they? Well; I’ll remember; though ‘dogs’ seems to me more civil. How many used there to be?”

“About fifty couple, I think.”

“A hundred dogs! No wonder your country gentlemen burst up so often. Wouldn’t half-a-dozen do as well,—except for the show of the thing?”

“Half-a-dozen hounds couldn’t hunt a fox, Mr. Gotobed.”

“I guess half-a-dozen would do just as well, only for the show. What strikes me, Mr. Morton, on visiting this old country is that so much is done for show.”

“What do you say to New York, Mr. Gotobed?”

“There certainly are a couple of hundred fools in New York, who, having more money than brains, amuse themselves by imitating European follies. But you won’t find that through the country, Mr. Morton. You won’t find a hundred dogs at an American planter’s house when ten or twelve would do as well.”

“Hunting is not one of your amusements.”

“Yes it is. I’ve been a hunter myself. I’ve had nothing to eat but what I killed for a month together. That’s more than any of your hunters can say. A hundred dogs to kill one fox!”

“Not all at the same time, Mr. Gotobed.”

“And you have got none now?”

“I don’t hunt myself.”

“And does nobody hunt the foxes about here at present?” Then Morton explained that on the Saturday following the U.R.U. hounds, under the mastership of that celebrated sportsman Captain Glomax, would meet at eleven o’clock exactly at the spot on which they were then standing, and that if Mr. Gotobed would walk out after breakfast he should see the whole paraphernalia, including about half a hundred “dogs,” and perhaps a couple of hundred men on horseback. “I shall be delighted to see any institution of this great country,” said Mr. Gotobed, “however much opposed it may be to my opinion either of utility or rational recreation.” Then, having nearly eaten up one cigar, he lit another preparatory to eating it, and sauntered back to the house.

Before dinner that evening there were a few words between the Paragon and his grandmother. “I’m afraid you won’t like my American friend,” he said.

“He is all very well, John. Of course an American member of Congress can’t be an English gentleman. You, in your position, have to be civil to such people. I dare say I shall get on very well with Mr. Gotobed.”

“I must get somebody to meet him.”

“Lady Augustus and her daughter are coming.”

“They knew each other in Washington. And there will be so many ladies.”

“You could ask the Coopers from Mallingham,” suggested the lady.

“I don’t think they would dine out. He’s getting very old.”

“And I’m told the Mainwarings at Dillsborough are very nice people,” said Mrs. Morton, who knew that Mr. Mainwaring at any rate came from a good family.

“I suppose they ought to call first. I never saw them in my life. Reginald Morton, you know, is living at Hoppet Hall in Dillsborough.”

“You don’t mean to say you wish to ask him to this house?”

“I think I ought. Why should I take upon myself to quarrel with a man I have not seen since I was a child, and who certainly is my cousin?”

“I do not know that he is your cousin; nor do you.”

John Morton passed by the calumny which he had heard before, and which he knew that it was no good for him to attempt to subvert. “He was received here as one of the family, ma’am.”

“I know he was; and with what result?”

“I don’t think that I ought to turn my back upon him because my great-grandfather left property away from me to him. It would give me a bad name in the county. It would be against me when I settle down to live here. I think quarrelling is the most foolish thing a man can do,—especially with his own relations.”

“I can only say this, John;—let me know if he is coming, so that I may not be called upon to meet him. I will not eat at table with Reginald Morton.” So saying the old lady, in a stately fashion, stalked out of the room.

CHAPTER IX

The Old Kennels

On the next morning Mrs. Morton asked her grandson what he meant to do with reference to his suggested invitation to Reginald. “As you will not meet him of course I have given up the idea,” he said. The “of course” had been far from true. He had debated the matter very much with himself. He was an obstinate man, with something of independence in his spirit. He liked money, but he liked having his own way too. The old lady looked as though she might live to be a hundred,—and though she might last only for ten years longer, was it worth his while to be a slave for that time? And he was by no means sure of her money, though he should be a slave. He almost made up his mind that he would ask Reginald Morton. But then the old lady would be in her tantrums, and there would be the disagreeable necessity of making an explanation to that inquisitive gentleman Mr. Elias Gotobed.

“I couldn’t have met him, John; I couldn’t indeed. I remember so well all that occurred when your poor infatuated great-grandfather would have that woman into the house! I was forced to have my meals in my bedroom, and to get myself taken away as soon as I could get a carriage and horses. After all that I ought not to be asked to meet the child.”

“I was thinking of asking old Mr. Cooper on Monday. I know she doesn’t go out. And perhaps Mr. Mainwaring wouldn’t take it amiss. Mr. Puttock, I know, isn’t at home; but if he were, he couldn’t come.” Mr. Puttock was the rector of Bragton, a very rich living, but was unfortunately afflicted with asthma.

“Poor man. I heard of that; and he’s only been here about six years. I don’t see why Mr. Mainwaring should take it amiss at all. You can explain that you are only here a few days. I like to meet clergymen. I think that it is the duty of a country gentleman to ask them to his house. It shows a proper regard for religion. By-the-bye, John, I hope that you’ll see that they have a fire in the church on Sunday.” The Honourable Mrs. Morton always went to church, and had no doubt of her own sincerity when she reiterated her prayer that as she forgave others their trespasses, so might she be forgiven hers. As Reginald Morton had certainly never trespassed against her perhaps there was no reason why her thoughts should be carried to the necessity of forgiving him.

The Paragon wrote two very diplomatic notes, explaining his temporary residence and expressing his great desire to become acquainted with his neighbours. Neither of the two clergymen were offended, and both of them promised to eat his dinner on Monday. Mr. Mainwaring was very fond of dining out, and would have gone almost to any gentleman’s house. Mr. Cooper had been enough in the neighbourhood to have known the old squire, and wrote an affectionate note expressing his gratification at the prospect of renewing his acquaintance with the little boy whom he remembered. So the party was made up for Monday. John Morton was very nervous on the matter, fearing that Lady Augustus would think the land to be barren.

The Friday passed by without much difficulty. The Senator was driven about, and everything was inquired into. One or two farm houses were visited, and the farmers’ wives were much disturbed by the questions asked them. “I don’t think they’d get a living in the States,” was the Senator’s remark after leaving one of the homesteads in which neither the farmer nor his wife had shown much power of conversation. “Then they’re right to stay where they are,” replied Mr. Morton, who in spite of his diplomacy could not save himself from being nettled. “They seem to get a very good living here, and they pay their rent punctually.”

On the Saturday morning the hounds met at the “Old Kennels,” as the meet was always called, and here was an excellent opportunity of showing to Mr. Gotobed one of the great institutions of the country. It was close to the house and therefore could be reached without any trouble, and as it was held on Morton’s own ground, he could do more towards making his visitor understand the thing than might have been possible elsewhere. When the hounds moved the carriage would be ready to take them about the roads, and show them as much as could be seen on wheels.

Punctually at eleven John Morton and his American guest were on the bridge, and Tony Tuppett was already occupying his wonted place, seated on a strong grey mare that had done a great deal of work, but would live,—as Tony used to say,—to do a great deal more. Round him the hounds were clustered,—twenty-three couple in all,— some seated on their haunches, some standing obediently still, while a few moved about restlessly, subject to the voices and on one or two occasions to a gentle administration of thong from the attendant whips. Four or five horsemen were clustering round, most of them farmers, and were talking to Tony. Our friend Mr. Twentyman was the only man in a red coat who had yet arrived, and with him, on her brown pony, was Kate Masters, who was listening with all her ears to every word that Tony said.

“That, I guess, is the Captain you spoke of,” said the Senator pointing to Tony Tuppett.

“Oh no;—that’s the huntsman. Those three men in caps are the servants who do the work.”

“The dogs can’t be brought out without servants to mind them! They’re what you call gamekeepers.” Morton was explaining that the men were not gamekeepers when Captain Glomax himself arrived, driving a tandem. There was no road up to the spot, but on hunt mornings,—or at any rate when the meet was at the old kennels,— the park-gates were open so that vehicles could come up on the green sward.

“That’s Captain Glomax, I suppose,” said Morton. “I don’t know him, but from the way he’s talking to the huntsman you may be sure of it”

“He is the great man, is he? All these dogs belong to him?”

“Either to him or the hunt”

“And he pays for those servants?”

“Certainly.”

“He is a very rich man, I suppose.” Then Mr. Morton endeavoured to explain the position of Captain Glomax. He was not rich. He was no one in particular—except that he was Captain Glomax; and his one attribute was a knowledge of hunting. He didn’t keep the “dogs” out of his own pocket. He received 2,000 pounds a year from the gentlemen of the county, and he himself only paid anything which the hounds and horses might cost over that. “He’s a sort of upper servant then?” asked the Senator.

“Not at all. He’s the greatest man in the county on hunting days.”

“Does he live out of it?”

“I should think not.”

“It’s a deal of trouble, isn’t it?”

“Full work for an active man’s time, I should say.” A great many more questions were asked and answered, at the end of which the Senator declared that he did not quite understand it, but that as far as he saw he did not think very much of Captain Glomax.

“If he could make a living out of it I should respect him,” said the Senator;—” though it’s like knife-grinding or handling arsenic, an unwholesome sort of profession.”

“I think they look very nice,” said Morton, as one or two well-turned-out young men rode up to the place.

“They seem to me to have thought more about their breeches than anything else,” said the Senator. “But if they’re going to hunt why don’t they hunt? Have they got a fox with them?” Then there was a further explanation.

At this moment there was a murmur as of a great coming arrival, and then an open carriage with four post-horses was brought at a quick trot into the open space. There were four men dressed for hunting inside, and two others on the box. They were all smoking, and all talking. It was easy to see that they did not consider themselves the least among those who were gathered together on this occasion. The carriage was immediately surrounded by grooms and horses, and the ceremony of disencumbering themselves of great coats and aprons, of putting on spurs and fastening hat-strings was commenced. Then there were whispered communications from the grooms, and long faces under some of the hats. This horse hadn’t been fit since last Monday’s run, and that man’s hack wasn’t as it should be. A muttered curse might have been heard from one gentleman as he was told, on jumping from the box, that Harry Stubbings hadn’t sent him any second horse to ride. “I didn’t hear nothing about it till yesterday, Captain,” said Harry Stubbings, “and every foot I had fit to come out was bespoke.” The groom, however, who heard this was quite aware that Mr. Stubbings did not wish to give unlimited credit to the Captain, and he knew also that the second horse was to have carried his master the whole day, as the animal which was brought to the meet had been ridden hard on the previous Wednesday. At all this the Senator looked with curious eyes, thinking that he had never in his life seen brought together a set of more useless human beings.

“That is Lord Rufford,” said Morton, pointing to a stout, ruddy-faced, handsome man of about thirty, who was the owner of the carriage.

“Oh, a lord. Do the lords hunt, generally?”

“That’s as they like it.”

“Senators with us wouldn’t have time for that,” said the Senator.

“But you are paid to do your work.”

“Everybody from whom work is expected should be paid. Then the work will be done, or those who pay will know the reason why.”

“I must speak to Lord Rufford,” said Morton. “If you’ll come with me, I’ll introduce you.” The Senator followed willingly enough and the introduction was made while his lordship was still standing by his horse. The two men had known each other in London, and it was natural that Morton, as owner of the ground, should come out and speak to the only man who knew him. It soon was spread about that the gentleman talking to Lord Rufford was John Morton, and many who lived in the county came up to shake hands with him, To some of these the Senator was introduced and the conversation for a few minutes seemed to interrupt the business on hand. “I am sorry you should be on foot, Mr. Gotobed,” said the lord.

“And I am sorry that I cannot mount him,” said Mr. Morton.

“We can soon get over that difficulty if he will allow me to offer him a horse.”

The Senator looked as though he would almost like it, but he didn’t quite like it. “Perhaps your horse might kick me off, my lord.”

“I can’t answer for that; but he isn’t given to kicking, and there he is, if you’ll get on him.” But the Senator felt that the exhibition would suit neither his age nor position, and refused.

“We’d better be moving,” said Captain Glomax. “I suppose, Lord Rufford, we might as well trot over to Dillsborough Wood at once. I saw Bean as I came along and he seemed to wish we should draw the wood first.” Then there was a little whispering between his lordship and the Master and Tony Tuppett. His lordship thought that as Mr. Morton was there the hounds might as well be run through the Bragton spinnies. Tony made a wry face and shook his head. He knew that though the Old Kennels might be a very good place for meeting there was no chance of finding a fox at Bragton. And Captain Glomax, who, being an itinerary master, had no respect whatever for a country gentleman who didn’t preserve, also made a long face and also shook his head. But Lord Rufford, who knew the wisdom of reconciling a newcomer in the county to foxhunting, prevailed and the hounds and men were taken round a part of Bragton Park.

“What if t’ old squire ‘ve said if he’d ‘ve known there hadn’t been a fox at Bragton for more nor ten year?” This remark was made by Tuppett to Mr. Runciman who was riding by him. Mr. Runciman replied that there was a great difference in people. “You may say that, Mr. Runciman. It’s all changes. His lordship’s father couldn’t bear the sight of a hound nor a horse and saddle. Well;—I suppose I needn’t gammon any furder. We’ll just trot across to the wood at once”

“They haven’t begun yet as far as I can see,” said Mr. Gotobed standing up in the carriage.

“They haven’t found as yet,” replied Morton.

“They must go on till they find a fox? They never bring him with them?” Then there was an explanation as to bagged foxes, Morton not being very conversant with the subject he had to explain. “And if they shouldn’t find one all day?”

“Then it’ll be a blank.”

“And these hundred gentlemen will go home quite satisfied with themselves?”

“No; they’ll go home quite dissatisfied.”

“And have paid their money and given their time for nothing? Do you know it doesn’t seem to me the most heart-stirring thing in the world. Don’t they ride faster than that?” At this moment Tony with the hounds at his heels was trotting across the park at a huntsman’s usual pace from covert to covert. The Senator was certainly ungracious. Nothing that he saw produced from him a single word expressive of satisfaction.

Less than a mile brought them to the gate and road leading up to Chowton Farm. They passed close by Larry Twentyman’s door, and not a few, though it was not yet more than half-past eleven, stopped to have a glass of Larry’s beer. When the hounds were in the neighbourhood Larry’s beer was always ready. But Tony and his attendants trotted by with eyes averted, as though no thought of beer was in their minds. Nothing had been done, and a huntsman is not entitled to beer till he has found a fox. Captain Glomax followed with Lord Rufford and a host of others. There was plenty of way here for carriages, and half a dozen vehicles passed through Larry’s farmyard. Immediately behind the house was a meadow, and at the bottom of the meadow a stubble field, next to which was the ditch and bank which formed the bounds of Dillsborough Wood. Just at this side of the gate leading into the stubble-field there was already a concourse of people when Tony arrived near it with the hounds, and immediately there was a holloaing and loud screeching of directions, which was soon understood to mean that the hounds were at once to be taken away! The Captain rode on rapidly, and then sharply gave his orders. Tony was to take the hounds back to Mr. Twentyman’s farmyard as fast as he could, and shut them up in a barn. The whips were put into violent commotion. Tony was eagerly at work. Not a hound was to be allowed near the gate. And then, as the crowd of horsemen and carriages came on, the word “poison” was passed among them from mouth to mouth!

“What does all this mean?” said the Senator.

“I don’t at all know. I’m afraid there’s something wrong,” replied Morton.

“I heard that man say ‘poison’. They have taken the dogs back again.” Then the Senator and Morton got out of the carriage and made their way into the crowd. The riders who had grooms on second horses were soon on foot, and a circle was made, inside which there was some object of intense interest. In the meantime the hounds had been secured in one of Mr. Twentyman’s barns.

What was that object of interest shall be told in the next chapter.

CHAPTER X

Goarly’s Revenge

The Senator and Morton followed close on the steps of Lord Rufford and Captain Glomax and were thus able to make their way into the centre of the crowd. There, on a clean sward of grass, laid out as carefully as though he were a royal child prepared for burial, was—a dead fox. “It’s pi’son, my lord; it’s pi’son to a moral,” said Bean, who as keeper of the wood was bound to vindicate himself, and his master, and the wood. “Feel of him, how stiff he is.” A good many did feel, but Lord Rufford stood still and looked at the poor victim in silence. “It’s easy knowing how he come by it,” said Bean.

The men around gazed into each other’s faces with a sad tragic air, as though the occasion were one which at the first blush was too melancholy for many words. There was whispering here and there and one young farmer’s son gave a deep sigh, like a steam-engine beginning to work, and rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand. “There ain’t nothin’ too bad,—nothin,” said another,—leaving his audience to imagine whether he were alluding to the wretchedness of the world in general or to the punishment which was due to the perpetrator of this nefarious act. The dreadful word “vulpecide” was heard from various lips with an oath or two before it. “It makes me sick of my own land, to think it should be done so near,” said Larry Twentyman, who had just come up. Mr. Runciman declared that they must set their wits to work not only to find the criminal but to prove the crime against him, and offered to subscribe a couple of sovereigns on the spot to a common fund to be raised for the purpose. “I don’t know what is to be done with a country like this,” said Captain Glomax, who, as an itinerant, was not averse to cast a slur upon the land of his present sojourn.

“I don’t remember anything like it on my property before,” said the lord, standing up for his own estate and the county at large.

“Nor in the hunt,” said young Hampton. “Of course such a thing may happen anywhere. They had foxes poisoned in the Pytchley last year.”

“It shows a d— bad feeling somewhere,” said the Master.

“We know very well where the feeling is,” said Bean who had by this time taken up the fox, determined not to allow it to pass into any hands less careful than his own.

“It’s that scoundrel, Goarly,” said one of the Botseys. Then there was an indignant murmur heard, first of all from two or three and then running among the whole crowd. Everybody knew as well as though he had seen it that Goarly had baited meat with strychnine and put it down in the wood. “Might have pi’soned half the pack!” said Tony Tuppett, who had come up on foot from the barn where the hounds were still imprisoned, and had caught hold in an affectionate manner of a fore pad of the fox which Bean had clutched by the two hind legs. Poor Tony Tuppett almost shed tears as he looked at the dead animal, and thought what might have been the fate of the pack. “It’s him, my lord,” he said, “as we run through Littleton gorse Monday after Christmas last, and up to Impington Park where he got away from us in a hollow tree. He’s four year old,” added Tony, looking at the animal’s mouth, “and there warn’t a finer dog fox in the county.”

“Do they know all the foxes?” asked the Senator. In answer to this, Morton only shook his head, not feeling quite sure himself how far a huntsman’s acquaintance in that line might go, and being also too much impressed by the occasion for speculative conversation.

“It’s that scoundrel Goarly” had been repeated again and again; and then on a sudden Goarly himself was seen standing on the further hedge of Larry’s field with a gun in his hand. He was not at this time above two hundred yards from them, and was declared by one of the young farmers to be grinning with delight. The next field was Goarly’s, but the hedge and ditch belonged to Twentyman. Larry rushed forward as though determined to thrash the man, and two or three followed him. But Lord Rufford galloped on and stopped them. “Don’t get into a row with a fellow like that,” he said to Twentyman.

“He’s on my land, my lord,” said Larry impatiently.

“I’m on my own now, and let me see who’ll dare to touch me,” said Goarly jumping down.

“You’ve put poison down in that wood,” said Larry.

“No I didn’t; but I knows who did. It ain’t I as am afeard for my young turkeys” Now it was well known that old Mrs. Twentyman, Larry’s mother, was fond of young turkeys, and that her poultry-yard had suffered. Larry, in his determination to be a gentleman, had always laughed at his mother’s losses. But now to be accused in this way was terrible to his feelings! He made a rush as though to jump over the hedge, but Lord Rufford again intercepted him. “I didn’t think, Mr. Twentyman, that you’d care for what such a fellow as that might say.” By this time Lord Rufford was off his horse, and had taken hold of Larry.

“I’ll tell you all what it is,” screamed Goarly, standing just at the edge of his own field,—“if a hound comes out of the wood on to my land, I’ll shoot him. I don’t know nothing about p’isoning, though I dare say Mr. Twentyman does. But if a hound comes on my land, I’ll shoot him,—open, before you all” There was, however, no danger of such a threat being executed on this day, as of course no hound would be allowed to go into Dillsborough Wood.

Twentyman was reluctantly brought back into the meadow where the horses were standing, and then a consultation was held as to what they should do next. There were some who thought that the hounds should be taken home for the day. It was as though some special friend of the U.R.U. had died that morning, and that the spirits of the sportsmen were too dejected for their sport. Others, with prudent foresight, suggested that the hounds might run back from some distant covert to Dillsborough, and that there should be no hunting till the wood had been thoroughly searched. But the strangers, especially those who had hired horses, would not hear of this; and after considerable delay it was arranged that the hounds should be trotted off as quickly as possible to Impington Gorse, which was on the other side of Impington Park, and fully five miles distant. And so they started, leaving the dead fox in the hands of Bean the gamekeeper.

“Is this the sort of thing that occurs every day?” asked the Senator as he got back into the carriage.

“I should fancy not,” answered Morton. “Somebody has poisoned a fox, and I don’t think that that is very often done about here.”

“Why did he poison him?”

“To save his fowls I suppose.”

“Why shouldn’t he poison him if the fox takes his fowls? Fowls are better than foxes.”

“Not in this country,” said Morton.

“Then I’m very glad I don’t live here,” said Mr. Gotobed. “These friends of yours are dressed very nicely and look very well,—but a fox is a nasty animal. It was that man standing up on the bank;— wasn’t it?” continued the Senator, who was determined to understand it all to the very bottom, in reference to certain lectures which he intended to give on his return to the States,—and perhaps also in the old country before he left it.

“They suspect him.”

“That man with the gun! One man against two hundred! Now I respect that man;—I do with all my heart.”

“You’d better not say so here, Mr. Gotobed.”

“I know how full of prejudice you all air’,—but I do respect him. If I comprehend the matter rightly, he was on his own land when we saw him.”

“Yes;—that was his own field.”

“And they meant to ride across it whether he liked it or no?”

“Everybody rides across everybody’s land out hunting.”

“Would they ride across your park, Mr. Morton, if you didn’t let them?”

“Certainly they would,—and break down all my gates if I had them locked, and pull down my park palings to let the hounds through.”

“And you could get no compensation?”

“Practically I could get none. And certainly I should not try. The greatest enemy to hunting in the whole county would not be foolish enough to make the attempt”

“Why so?”

“He would get no satisfaction, and everybody would hate him.”

“Then I respect that man the more. What is that man’s name?” Morton hadn’t heard the name, or had forgotten it. “I shall find that man out, and have some conversation with him, Mr. Morton. I respect that man, Mr. Morton. He’s one against two hundred, and he insists upon his rights. Those men standing round and wiping their eyes, and stifled with grief because a fox had been poisoned, as though some great patriot had died among them in the service of his country, formed one of the most remarkable phenomena, Sir, that ever I beheld in any country. When I get among my own people in Mickewa and tell them that, they won’t believe me, sir.”

In the meantime the cavalcade was hurrying away to Impington Gorse, and John Morton, feeling that he had not had an opportunity as yet of showing his American friend the best side of hunting, went with them. The five miles were five long miles, and as the pace was not above seven miles an hour, nearly an hour was occupied. There was therefore plenty of opportunity for the Senator to inquire whether the gentlemen around him were as yet enjoying their sport. There was an air of triumph about him as to the misfortunes of the day, joined to a battery of continued raillery, which made it almost impossible for Morton to keep his temper. He asked whether it was not at any rate better than trotting a pair of horses backwards and forwards over the same mile of road for half the day, as is the custom in the States. But the Senator, though he did not quite approve of trotting matches, argued that there was infinitely more of skill and ingenuity in the American pastime. “Everybody is so gloomy,” said the Senator, lighting his third cigar. “I’ve been watching that young man in pink boots for the last half hour, and he hasn’t spoken a word to any one.”

“Perhaps he’s a stranger,” said Morton.

“And that’s the way you treat him!”

It was past two when the hounds were put into the gorse, and certainly no one was in a very good humour. A trot of five miles is disagreeable, and two o’clock in November is late for finding a first fox; and then poisoning is a vice that may grow into a habit! There was a general feeling that Goarly ought to be extinguished, but an idea that it might be difficult to extinguish him. The whips, nevertheless, cantered on to the corner of the covert, and Tony put in his hounds with a cheery voice. The Senator remarked that the gorse was a very little place,—for as they were on the side of an opposite hill they could see it all. Lord Rufford, who was standing by the carriage, explained to him that it was a favourite resort of foxes, and difficult to draw as being very close. “Perhaps they’ve poisoned him too,” said the Senator. It was evident from his voice that had such been the case, he would not have been among the mourners. “The blackguards are not yet thick enough in our country for that,” said Lord Rufford, meaning to be sarcastic.

Then a whimper was heard from a hound,—at first very low, and then growing into a fuller sound. “There he is,” said young Hampton. “For heaven’s sake get those fellows away from that side, Glomax.” This was uttered with so much vehemence that the Senator looked up in surprise. Then the Captain galloped round the side of the covert, and, making use of some strong language, stopped the ardour of certain gentlemen who were in a hurry to get away on what they considered good terms. Lord Rufford, Hampton, Larry Twentyman and others sat stock-still on their horses, watching the gorse. Ned Botsey urged himself a little forward down the hill, and was creeping on when Captain Glomax asked him whether he would be so— —obliging kind as to remain where he was for half a minute. Fred took the observations in good part and stopped his horse. “Does he do all that cursing and swearing for the 2,000 pounds?” asked the Senator.

The fox traversed the gorse back from side to side and from corner to corner again and again. There were two sides certainly at which he might break, but though he came out more than once he could not be got to go away.

“They’ll kill him now before he breaks,” said the elder Botsey.

“Brute!” exclaimed his brother.

“They’re hot on him now,” said Hampton. At this time the whole side of the hill was ringing with the music of the hounds.

“He was out then, but Dick turned him,” said Larry. Dick was one of the whips.

“Will you be so kind, Mr. Morton,” asked the Senator, “as to tell me whether they’re hunting yet? They’ve been at it for three hours and a half, and I should like to know when they begin to amuse themselves.”

Just as he had spoken there came from Dick a cry that he was away. Tony, who had been down at the side of the gorse, at once jumped into it, knowing the passage through. Lord Rufford, who for the last five or six minutes had sat perfectly still on his horse, started down the hill as though he had been thrown from a catapult. There was a little hand-gate through which it was expedient to pass, and in a minute a score of men were jostling for the way, among whom were the two Botseys, our friend Runciman, and Larry Twentyman, with Kate Masters on the pony close behind him. Young Hampton jumped a very nasty fence by the side of the wicket, and Lord Rufford followed him. A score of elderly men, with some young men among them too, turned back into a lane behind them, having watched long enough to see that they were to take the lane to the left, and not the lane to the right. After all there was time enough, for when the men had got through the hand-gate the hounds were hardly free of the covert, and Tony, riding up the side of the hill opposite, was still blowing his horn. But they were off at last, and the bulk of the field got away on good terms with the hounds. “Now they are hunting,” said Mr. Morton to the Senator.

“They all seemed to be very angry with each other at that narrow gate”

“They were in a hurry, I suppose.”

“Two of them jumped over the hedge. Why didn’t they all jump? How long will it be now before they catch him?”

“Very probably they may not catch him at all.”

“Not catch him after all that! Then the man was certainly right to poison that other fox in the wood. How long will they go on?”

“Half an hour perhaps.”

“And you call that hunting! Is it worth the while of all those men to expend all that energy for such a result? Upon the whole, Mr. Morton, I should say that it is one of the most incomprehensible things that I have ever seen in the course of a rather long and varied life. Shooting I can understand, for you have your birds. Fishing I can understand, as you have your fish. Here you get a fox to begin with, and are all broken-hearted. Then you come across another, after riding about all day, and the chances are you can’t catch him!”

“I suppose,” said Mr. Morton angrily, “the habits of one country are incomprehensible to the people of another. When I see Americans loafing about in the bar-room of an hotel, I am lost in amazement.”

“There is not a man you see who couldn’t give a reason for his being there. He has an object in view, though perhaps it may be no better than to rob his neighbour. But here there seems to be no possible motive.”

CHAPTER XI

From Impington Gorse

The fox ran straight from the covert through his well-known haunts to Impington Park, and as the hounds were astray there for two or three minutes there was a general idea that he too had got up into a tree,—which would have amused the Senator very much had the Senator been there. But neither had the country nor the pace been adapted to wheels, and the Senator and the Paragon were now returning along the road towards Bragton. The fox had tried his old earths at Impington High wood, and had then skulked back along the outside of the covert. Had not one of the whips seen him he would have been troubled no further on that day, a fact, which if it could have been explained to the Senator in all its bearings, would greatly have added to his delight. But Dick viewed him; and with many holloas and much blowing of horns, and prayers from Captain Glomax that gentlemen would only be so good as to hold their tongues, and a full-tongued volley of abuse from half the field against an unfortunate gentleman who rode after the escaping fox before a hound was out of the covert, they settled again to their business. It was pretty to see the quiet ease and apparent nonchalance and almost affected absence of bustle of those who knew their work,—among whom were especially to be named young Hampton, and the elder Botsey, and Lord Rufford, and, above all, a dark-visaged, long-whiskered, sombre, military man who had been in the carriage with Lord Rufford, and who had hardly spoken a word to any one the whole day. This was the celebrated Major Caneback, known to all the world as one of the dullest men and best riders across country that England had ever produced. But he was not so dull but that he knew how to make use of his accomplishment, so as always to be able to get a mount on a friend’s horses. If a man wanted to make a horse, or to try a horse, or to sell a horse, or to buy a horse, he delighted to put Major Caneback up. The Major was sympathetic and made his friend’s horses, and tried them, and sold them. Then he would take his two bottles of wine,—of course from his friend’s cellar,—and when asked about the day’s sport would be oracular in two words, “Rather slow,” “Quick spurt,” “Goodish thing,” “Regularly mulled,” and such like. Nevertheless it was a great thing to have Major Caneback with you. To the list of those who rode well and quietly must in justice be added our friend Larry Twentyman, who was in truth a good horseman. And he had three things to do which it was difficult enough to combine. He had a young horse which he would have liked to sell; he had to coach Kate Masters on his pony; and he desired to ride like Major Caneback.

From Impington Park they went in a straight line to Littleton Gorse skirting certain small woods which the fox disdained to enter. Here the pace was very good, and the country was all grass. It was the very cream of the U.R.U; and could the Senator have read the feelings of the dozen leading men in the run, he would have owned that they were for the time satisfied with their amusement. Could he have read Kate Master’s feelings he would have had to own that she was in an earthly Paradise. When the pony paused at the big brook, brought his four legs steadily down on the brink as though he were going to bathe, then with a bend of his back leaped to the other side, dropping his hind legs in and instantly recovering them, and when she saw that Larry had waited just a moment for her, watching to see what might be her fate, she was in heaven. “Wasn’t it a big one, Larry?” she asked in her triumph. “He did go in behind!” “Those cats of things always do it somehow,” Larry replied darting forward again and keeping the Major well in his eye. The brook had stopped one or two, and tidings came up that Ned Botsey had broken his horse’s back. The knowledge of the brook had sent some round by the road,—steady riding men such as Mr. Runciman and Doctor Nupper. Captain Glomax had got into it and came up afterwards wet through, with temper by no means improved. But the glory of the day had been the way in which Lord Rufford’s young bay mare, who had never seen a brook before, had flown over it with the Major on her back, taking it, as Larry afterwards described, “just in her stride, without condescending to look at it. I was just behind the Major, and saw her do it” Larry understood that a man should never talk of his own place in a run, but he didn’t quite understand that neither should he talk of having been close to another man who was supposed to have had the best of it. Lord Rufford, who didn’t talk much of these things, quite understood that he had received full value for his billet and mount in the improved character of his mare.

Then there, was a little difficulty at the boundary fence of Impington Hall Farm. The Major who didn’t know the ground, tried it at an impracticable place, and brought his mare down. But she fell at the right side, and he was quick enough in getting away from her, not to fall under her in the ditch. Tony Tuppet, who knew every foot of that double ditch and bank, and every foot in the hedge above, kept well to the left and crept through a spot where one ditch ran into the other, intersecting of the fence. Tony, like a knowing huntsman as he was, rode always for the finish and not for immediate glory. Both Lord Rufford and Hampton, who in spite of their affected nonchalance were in truth rather riding against one another, took it all in a fly, choosing a lighter spot than that which the Major had encountered. Larry had longed to follow them, or rather to take it alongside of them, but was mindful at last of Kate and hurried down the ditch to the spot which Tony had chosen and which was now crowded by horsemen. “He would have done it as well as the best of them,” said Kate, panting for breath.

“We’re all right,” said Larry. “Follow me. Don’t let them hustle you out. Now, Mat, can’t you make way for a lady half a minute?” Mat growled, quite understanding the use which was being made of Kate Masters; but he did give way and was rewarded with a gracious smile. “You are going uncommon well, Miss Kate,” said Mat, “and I won’t stop you.” “I am so much obliged to you, Mr. Ruggles,” said Kate, not scrupling for a moment to take the advantage offered her. The fox had turned a little to the left, which was in Larry’s favour, and the Major was now close to him, covered on one side with mud, but still looking as though the mud were all right. There are some men who can crush their hats, have their boots and breeches full of water, and be covered with dirt from their faces downwards, and yet look as though nothing were amiss, while, with others, the marks of a fall are always provocative either of pity or ridicule. “I hope you’re not hurt, Major Caneback,” said Larry, glad of the occasion to speak to so distinguished an individual. The Major grunted as he rode on, finding no necessity here even for his customary two words. Little accidents, such as that, were the price he paid for his day’s entertainment.

As they got within view of Littleton Gorse Hampton, Lord Rufford, and Tony had the best of it, though two or three farmers were very close to them. At this moment Tony’s mind was much disturbed, and he looked round more than once for Captain Glomax. Captain Glomax had got into the brook, and had then ridden down to the high road which ran here near to them and which, as he knew, ran within one field of the gorse. He had lost his place and had got a ducking and was a little out of humour with things in general. It had not been his purpose to go to Impington on this day, and he was still, in his mind, saying evil things of the U.R.U. respecting that poisoned fox. Perhaps he was thinking, as itinerant masters often must think, that it was very hard to have to bear so many unpleasant things for a poor 2,000 pounds a year, and meditating, as he had done for the last two seasons, a threat that unless the money were increased, he wouldn’t hunt the country more than three times a week. As Tony got near to the gorse and also near to the road he managed with infinite skill to get the hounds off the scent, and to make a fictitious cast to the left as though he thought the fox had traversed that way. Tony knew well enough that the fox was at that moment in Littleton Gorse;—but he knew also that the gorse was only six acres, that such a fox as he had before him wouldn’t stay there two minutes after the first hound was in it, and that Dillsborough Wood, which to his imagination was full of poison,— would then be only a mile and a half before him. Tony, whose fault was a tendency to mystery,—as is the fault of most huntsmen,— having accomplished his object in stopping the hounds, pretended to cast about with great diligence. He crossed the road and was down one side of a field and along another, looking anxiously for the Captain. “The fox has gone on to the gorse,” said the elder Botsey; “what a stupid old pig he is;”—meaning that Tony Tuppet was the pig.

“He was seen going on,” said Larry, who had come across a man mending a drain.

“It would be his run of course,” said Hampton, who was generally up to Tony’s wiles, but who was now as much in the dark as others. Then four or five rode up to the huntsman and told him that the fox had been seen heading for the gorse. Tony said not a word but bit his lips and scratched his head and bethought himself what fools men might be even though they did ride well to hounds. One word of explanation would have settled it all, but he would not speak that word till he whispered it to Captain Glomax.

In the meantime there was a crowd in the road waiting to see the result of Tony’s manoeuvres. And then, as is usual on such occasions, a little mild repartee went about,—what the sportsmen themselves would have called “chaff.” Ned Botsey came up, not having broken his horse’s back as had been rumoured, but having had to drag the brute out of the brook with the help of two countrymen, and the Major was asked about his fall till he was forced to open his mouth. “Double ditch; mare fell; matter of course.” And then he got himself out of the crowd, disgusted with the littleness of mankind. Lord Rufford had been riding a very big chestnut horse, and had watched the anxious struggles of Kate Masters to hold her place. Kate, though fifteen, and quite up to that age in intelligence and impudence, was small and looked almost a child. “That’s a nice pony of yours, my dear,” said the Lord. Kate, who didn’t quite like being called “my dear,” but who knew that a lord has privileges, said that it was a very good pony. “Suppose we change,” said his lordship. “Could you ride my horse?” “He’s very big,” said Kate. “You’d look like a tom-tit on a haystack,” said his lordship. “And if you got on my pony, you’d look like a haystack on a tom-tit,” said Kate. Then it was felt that Kate Masters had had the best of that little encounter. “Yes;—I got one there,” said Lord Rufford, while his friends were laughing at him.

At length Captain Glomax was seen in the road and Tony was with him at once, whispering in his ear that the hounds if allowed to go on would certainly run into Dillsborough Wood. “D— the hounds,” muttered the Captain; but he knew too well what he was about to face so terrible a danger. “They’re going home,” he said as soon as he had joined Lord Rufford and the crowd.

“Going home!” exclaimed a pink-coated young rider of a hired horse which had been going well with him; and as he said so he looked at his watch.

“Unless you particularly wish me to take the hounds to some covert twenty miles off,” answered the sarcastic Master.

“The fox certainly went on to Littleton,” said the elder Botsey.

“My dear fellow,” said the Captain, “I can tell you where the fox went quite as well as you can tell me. Do allow a man to know what he’s about some times.”

“It isn’t generally the custom here to take the hounds off a running fox,” continued Botsey, who subscribed 50 pounds, and did not like being snubbed.

“And it isn’t generally the custom to have fox-coverts poisoned,” said the Captain, assuming to himself the credit due to Tony’s sagacity. “If you wish to be Master of these hounds I haven’t the slightest objection, but while I’m responsible you must allow me to do my work according to my own judgment” Then the thing was understood and Captain Glomax was allowed to carry off the hounds and his ill-humour without another word.

But just at that moment, while the hounds and the master, and Lord Rufford and his friends, were turning back in their own direction, John Morton came up with his carriage and the Senator. “Is it all over?” asked the Senator.

“All over for to-day,” said Lord Rufford. “Did you catch the animal?”

“No, Mr. Gotobed; we couldn’t catch him. To tell the truth we didn’t try; but we had a nice little skurry for four or five miles.”

“Some of you look very wet” Captain Glomax and Ned Botsey were standing near the carriage; but the Captain as soon as he heard this, broke into a trot and followed the hounds.

“Some of us are very wet,” said Ned. “That’s part of the fun.”

“Oh;—that’s part of the fun. You found one fox dead and you didn’t kill another because you didn’t try. Well; Mr. Morton, I don’t think I shall take to fox hunting even though they should introduce it in Mickewa. “What’s become of the rest of the men?”

“Most of them are in the brook,” said Ned Botsey as he rode on towards Dillsborough.

Mr. Runciman was also there and trotted on homewards with Botsey, Larry, and Kate Masters. “I think I’ve won my bet,” said the hotel-keeper.

“I don’t see that at all. We didn’t find in Dillsborough Wood.”

“I say we did find in Dillsborough Wood. We found a fox though unfortunately the poor brute was dead.”

“The bet’s off I should say. What do you say, Larry?”

Then Runciman argued his case at great length and with much ability. It had been intended that the bet should be governed by the fact whether Dillsborough Wood did or did not contain a fox on that morning. He himself had backed the wood, and Botsey had been strong in his opinion against the wood. Which of them had been practically right? Had not the presence of the poisoned fox shown that he was right? “I think you ought to pay,” said Larry.

“All right,” said Botsey riding on, and telling himself that that was what came from making a bet with a man who was not a gentleman.

“He’s as unhappy about that hat,” said Runciman, “as though beer had gone down a penny a gallon.”

CHAPTER XII

Arabella Trefoil

On the Sunday the party from Bragton went to the parish church,— and found it very cold. The duty was done by a young curate who lived in Dillsborough, there being no house in Bragton for him. The rector himself had not been in the church for the last six months, being an invalid. At present he and his wife were away in London, but the vicarage was kept up for his use. The service was certainly not alluring. It was a very wet morning and the curate had ridden over from Dillsborough on a little pony which the rector kept for him in addition to the 100 pounds per annum paid for his services. That he should have got over his service quickly was not a matter of surprise,—nor was it wonderful that there should have been no soul-stirring matter in his discourse as he had two sermons to preach every week and to perform single-handed all the other clerical duties of a parish lying four miles distant from his lodgings. Perhaps had he expected the presence of so distinguished a critic as the Senator from Mickewa he might have done better. As it was, being nearly wet through and muddy up to his knees, he did not do the work very well. When Morton and his friends left the church and got into the carriage for their half-mile drive home across the park, Mrs. Morton was the first to speak. “John,” she said, “that church is enough to give any woman her death. I won’t go there any more.”

“They don’t understand warming a church in the country,” said John apologetically.

“Is it not a little too large for the congregation?” asked the Senator.

The church was large and straggling and ill arranged, and on this particular Sunday had been almost empty. There was in it an harmonium which Mrs. Puttock played when she was at home, but in her absence the attempt made by a few rustics to sing the hymns had not been a musical success. The whole affair had been very sad, and so the Paragon had felt it who knew,—and was remembering through the whole service, how these things are done in transatlantic cities.

“The weather kept the people away I suppose,” said Morton.

“Does that gentleman generally draw large congregations?” asked the persistent Senator.

“We don’t go in for drawing congregations here.” Under the cross-examination of his guest the Secretary of Legation almost lost his diplomatic good temper. “We have a church in every parish for those who choose to attend it”

“And very few do choose,” said the Senator. “I can’t say that they’re wrong.” There seemed at the moment to be no necessity to carry the disagreeable conversation any further as they had now reached the house. Mrs. Morton immediately went up-stairs, and the two gentlemen took themselves to the fire in the so-called library, which room was being used as more commodious than the big drawing-room. Mr. Gotobed placed himself on the rug with his back to the fire and immediately reverted to the Church. “That gentleman is paid by tithes I suppose.”

“He’s not the rector. He’s a curate.”

“Ah;—just so. He looked like a curate. Doesn’t the rector do anything?”

Then Morton, who was by this time heartily sick of explaining, explained the unfortunate state of Mr. Puttock’s health, and the conversation was carried on till gradually the Senator learned that Mr. Puttock received 800 pounds a year and a house for doing nothing, and that he paid his deputy 100 pounds a year with the use of a pony. “And how long will that be allowed to go on, Mr. Morton?” asked the Senator.

To all these inquiries Morton found himself compelled not only to answer, but to answer the truth. Any prevarication or attempt at mystification fell to the ground at once under the Senator’s tremendous powers of inquiry. It had been going on for four years, and would probably go on now till Mr. Puttock died. “A man of his age with the asthma may live for twenty years,” said the Senator who had already learned that Mr. Puttock was only fifty. Then he ascertained that Mr. Puttock had not been presented to, or selected for the living on account of any peculiar fitness;—but that he had been a fellow of Rufford at Oxford till he was forty-five, when he had thought it well to marry and take a living. “But he must have been asthmatic then?” said the Senator.

“He may have had all the ailments endured by the human race for anything I know,” said the unhappy host.

“And for anything the bishop cared as far as I can see,” said the Senator. “Well now, I guess, that couldn’t occur in our country. A minister may turn out badly with us as well as with you. But we don’t appoint a man without inquiry as to his fitness,—and if a man can’t do his duty he has to give way to some one who can. If the sick man took the small portion of the stipend and the working man the larger, would not better justice be done, and the people better served?”

“Mr. Puttock has a freehold in the parish.”

“A freehold possession of men’s souls! The fact is, Mr. Morton, that the spirit of conservatism in this country is so strong that you cannot bear to part with a shred of the barbarism of the middle ages. And when a rag is sent to the winds you shriek with agony at the disruption, and think that the wound will be mortal.” As Mr. Gotobed said this he extended his right hand and laid his left on his breast as though he were addressing the Senate from his own chair. Morton, who had offered to entertain the gentleman for ten days, sincerely wished that he were doing so.

On the Monday afternoon the Trefoils arrived. Mr. Morton, with his mother and both the carriages, went down to receive them,—with a cart also for luggage, which was fortunate, as Arabella Trefoil’s big box was very big indeed, and Lady Augustus, though she was economical in most things, had brought a comfortable amount of clothes. Each of them had her own lady’s maid, so that the two carriages were necessary. How it was that these ladies lived so luxuriously was a mystery to their friends, as for some time past they had enjoyed no particular income of their own. Lord Augustus had spent everything that came to his hand, and the family owned no house at all. Nevertheless Arabella Trefoil was to be seen at all parties magnificently dressed, and never stirred anywhere without her own maid. It would have been as grievous to her to be called on to live without food as to go without this necessary appendage. She was a big, fair girl whose copious hair was managed after such a fashion that no one could guess what was her own and what was purchased. She certainly had fine eyes, though I could never imagine how any one could look at them and think it possible that she should be in love. They were very large, beautifully blue, but never bright; and the eyebrows over them were perfect. Her cheeks were somewhat too long and the distance from her well-formed nose, to her upper lip too great. Her mouth was small and her teeth excellent. But the charm of which men spoke the most was the brilliance of her complexion. If, as the ladies said, it was all paint, she, or her maid, must have been a great artist. It never betrayed itself to be paint. But the beauty on which she prided herself was the grace of her motion. Though she was tall and big she never allowed an awkward movement to escape from her. She certainly did it very well. No young woman could walk across an archery ground with a finer step, or manage a train with more perfect ease, or sit upon her horse with a more complete look of being at home there. No doubt she was slow, but though slow she never seemed to drag. Now she was, after a certain fashion, engaged to marry John Morton and perhaps she was one of the most unhappy young persons in England.

She had long known that it was her duty to marry, and especially her duty to marry well. Between her and her mother there had been no reticence on this subject. With worldly people in general, though the worldliness is manifest enough and is taught by plain lessons from parents to their children, yet there is generally some thin veil even among themselves, some transparent tissue of lies, which, though they never quite hope to deceive each other, does produce among them something of the comfort of deceit. But between Lady Augustus and her daughter there had for many years been nothing of the kind. The daughter herself had been too honest for it. “As for caring about him, mamma,” she had once said, speaking of a suitor, “of course I don’t. He is nasty, and odious in every way. But I have got to do the best I can, and what is the use of talking about such trash as that?” Then there had been no more trash between them.

It was not John Morton whom Arabella Trefoil had called nasty and odious. She had had many lovers, and had been engaged to not a few, and perhaps she liked John Morton as well as any of them, except one. He was quiet, and looked like a gentleman, and was reputed for no vices. Nor did she quarrel with her fate in that he himself was not addicted to any pleasures. She herself did not care much for pleasure. But she did care to be a great lady,—one who would be allowed to swim out of rooms before others, one who could snub others, one who could show real diamonds when others wore paste, one who might be sure to be asked everywhere even by the people who hated her. She rather liked being hated by women and did not want any man to be in love with her,—except as far as might be sufficient for the purpose of marriage. The real diamonds and the high rank would not be hers with John Morton. She would have to be content with such rank as is accorded to Ministers at the Courts at which they are employed. The fall would be great from what she had once expected,—and therefore she was miserable. There had been a young man, of immense wealth, of great rank, whom at one time she really had fancied that she had loved; but just as she was landing her prey, the prey had been rescued from her by powerful friends, and she had been all but broken-hearted. Mr. Morton’s fortune was in her eyes small, and she was beginning to learn that he knew how to take care of his own money. Already there had been difficulties as to settlements, difficulties as to pin-money, difficulties as to residence, Lady Augustus having been very urgent. John Morton, who had really been captivated by the beauty of Arabella, was quite in earnest; but there were subjects on which he would not give way. He was anxious to put his best leg foremost so that the beauty might be satisfied and might become his own, but there was a limit beyond which he would not go. Lady Augustus had more than once said to her daughter that it would not do; and then there would be all the weary work to do again!

Nobody seeing the meeting on the platform would have imagined that Mr. Morton and Miss Trefoil were lovers,—and as for Lady Augustus it would have been thought that she was in some special degree offended with the gentleman who had come to meet her. She just gave him the tip of her fingers and then turned away to her maid and called for the porters and made herself particular and disagreeable. Arabella vouchsafed a cold smile, but then her smiles were always cold. After that she stood still and shivered. “Are you cold?” asked Morton. She shook her head and shivered again. “Perhaps you are tired?” Then she nodded her head. When her maid came to her in some trouble about the luggage, she begged that she “might not be bothered;” saying that no doubt her mother knew all about it. “Can I do anything?” asked Morton. “Nothing at all I should think,” said Miss Trefoil. In the meantime old Mrs. Morton was standing by as black as thunder—for the Trefoil ladies had hardly noticed her.

The luggage turned up all right at last,—as luggage always does, and was stowed away in the cart. Then came the carriage arrangement. Morton had intended that the two elder ladies should go together with one of the maids, and that he should put his love into the other, which having a seat behind could accommodate the second girl without disturbing them in the carriage. But Lady Augustus had made some exception to this and had begged that her daughter might be seated with herself. It was a point which Morton could not contest out there among the porters and drivers, so that at last he and his grandmother had the phaeton together with the two maids in the rumble. “I never saw such manners in all my life,” said the Honourable Mrs. Morton, almost bursting with passion.

“They are cold and tired, ma’am.”

“No lady should be too cold or too tired to conduct herself with propriety. No real lady is ever so.”

“The place is strange to them, you know.”

“I hope with all my heart that it may never be otherwise than strange to them.”

When they arrived at the house the strangers were carried into the library and tea was of course brought to them. The American Senator was there, but the greetings were very cold. Mrs. Morton took her place and offered her hospitality in the most frigid manner. There had not been the smallest spark of love’s flame shown as yet, nor did the girl as she sat sipping her tea seem to think that any such spark was wanted. Morton did get a seat beside her and managed to take away her muff and one of her shawls, but she gave them to him almost as she might have done to a servant. She smiled indeed, but she smiled as some women smile at everybody who has any intercourse with them. “I think perhaps Mrs. Morton will let us go up-stairs,” said Lady Augustus. Mrs. Morton immediately rang the bell and prepared to precede the ladies to their chambers. Let them be as insolent as they would she would do what she conceived to be her duty. Then Lady Augustus stalked out of the room and her daughter swum after her. “They don’t seem to be quite the same as they were in Washington,” said the Senator.

John Morton got up and left the room without making any reply. He was thoroughly unhappy. What was he to do for a week with such a houseful of people? And then, what was he to do for all his life if the presiding spirit of the house was to be such a one as this? She was very beautiful—certainly. So he told himself; and yet as he walked round the park he almost repented of what he had done. But after twenty minutes fast walking he was able to convince himself that all the fault on this occasion lay with the mother. Lady Augustus had been fatigued with her journey and had therefore made everybody near her miserable.

CHAPTER XIII

At Bragton

When the ladies went up-stairs the afternoon was not half over and they did not dine till past seven. As Morton returned to the house in the dusk he thought that perhaps Arabella might make some attempt to throw herself in his way. She had often done so when they were not engaged, and surely she might do so now. There was nothing to prevent her coming down to the library when she had got rid of her travelling clothes, and in this hope he looked into the room. As soon as the door was open the Senator, who was preparing his lecture in his mind, at once asked whether no one in England had an apparatus for warming rooms such as was to be found in every well-built house in the States. The Paragon hardly vouchsafed him a word of reply, but escaped up-stairs trusting that he might meet Miss Trefoil on the way. He was a bold man and even ventured to knock at her door;—but there was no reply, and, fearing the Senator, he had to betake himself to his own privacy. Miss Trefoil had migrated to her mother’s room, and there, over the fire, was holding a little domestic conversation. “I never saw such a barrack in my life,” said Lady Augustus.

“Of course, mamma, we knew that we should find the house such as it was left a hundred years ago. He told us that himself.”

“He should have put something in it to make it at any rate decent before we came in.”

“What’s the use if he’s to live always at foreign courts?”

“He intends to come home sometimes, I suppose, and, if he didn’t, you would.” Lady Augustus was not going to let her daughter marry a man who could not give her a home for at any rate a part of the year. “Of course he must furnish the place and have an immense deal done before he can marry. I think it is a piece of impudence to bring one to such a place as this.”

“That’s nonsense, mamma, because he told us all about it”

“The more I see of it all, Arabella, the more sure I am that it won’t do.”

“It must do, mamma.”

“Twelve hundred a year is all that he offers, and his lawyer says that he will make no stipulation whatever as to an allowance.”

“Really, mamma, you might leave that to me.”

“I like to have everything fixed, my dear,—and certain.”

“Nothing really ever is certain. While there is anything to get you may be sure that I shall have my share. As far as money goes I’m not a bit afraid of having the worst of it,—only there will be so very little between us.”

“That’s just it.”

“There’s no doubt about the property, mamma.”

“A nasty beggarly place!”

“And from what everybody says he’s sure to be a minister or ambassador or something of that sort.”

“I’ve no doubt he will. And where’ll he have to go to? To Brazil, or the West Indies, or some British Colony,” said her ladyship showing her ignorance of the Foreign Office service. “That might be very well. You could stay at home. Only where would you live? He wouldn’t keep a house in town for you. Is this the sort of place you’d like?”

“I don’t think it makes any difference where one is,” said Arabella disgusted.

“But I do,—a very great difference. It seems to me that he’s altogether under the control of that hideous old termagant. Arabella, I think you’d better make up your mind that it won’t do.”

“It must do,” said Arabella.

“You’re very fond of him it seems.”

“Mamma, how you do delight to torture me;—as if my life weren’t bad enough without your making it worse.”

“I tell you, my dear, what I’m bound to. tell you—as your mother. I have my duty to do whether it’s painful or not.”

“That’s nonsense, mamma. You know it is. That might have been all very well ten years ago.”

“You were almost in your cradle, my dear.”

“Psha! cradle! I’ll tell you what it is, mamma. I’ve been at it till I’m nearly broken down. I must settle somewhere;—or else die;—or else run away. I can’t stand this any longer and I won’t. Talk of work,—men’s work! What man ever has to work as I do? I wonder which was the hardest part of that work, the hairdressing and painting and companionship of the lady’s maid or the continual smiling upon unmarried men to whom she had nothing to say and for whom she did not in the least care! I can’t do it any more, and I won’t. As for Mr. Morton, I don’t care that for him. You know I don’t. I never cared much for anybody, and shall never again care at all.”

“You’ll find that will come all right after you are married.”

“Like you and papa, I suppose.”

“My dear, I had no mother to take care of me, or I shouldn’t have married your father.”

“I wish you hadn’t, because then I shouldn’t be going to marry Mr. Morton. But, as I have got so far, for heaven’s sake let it go on. If you break with him I’ll tell him everything and throw myself into his hands.” Lady Augustus sighed deeply. “I will, mamma. It was you spotted this man, and when you said that you thought it would do, I gave way. He was the last man in the world I should have thought of myself.”

“We had heard so much about Bragton!”

“And Bragton is here. The estate is not out of elbows.”

“My dear, my opinion is that we’ve made a mistake. He’s not the sort of man I took him to be. He’s as hard as a file.”

“Leave that to me, mammal”

“You are determined then?”

“I think I am. At any rate let me look about me. Don’t give him an opportunity of breaking off till I have made up my mind. I can always break off if I like it. No one in London has heard of the engagement yet. Just leave me alone for this week to see what I think about it” Then Lady Augustus threw herself back in her chair and went to sleep, or pretended to do so.

A little after half-past seven she and her daughter, dressed for dinner, went down to the library together. The other guests were assembled there, and Mrs. Morton was already plainly expressing her anger at the tardiness of her son’s guests. The Senator had got hold of Mr. Mainwaring and was asking pressing questions as to church patronage,—a subject not very agreeable to the rector of St. John’s, as his living had been bought for him with his wife’s money during the incumbency of an old gentleman of seventy-eight. Mr. Cooper, who was himself nearly that age and who was vicar of Mallingham, a parish which ran into Dillsborough and comprehended a part of its population, was listening to these queries with awe, and perhaps with some little gratification, as he had been presented to his living by the bishop after a curacy of many years. “This kind of things, I believe, can be bought and sold in the market,” said the Senator, speaking every word with absolute distinctness. But as he paused for an answer the two ladies came in and the conversation was changed. Both the clergymen were introduced to Lady Augustus and her daughter, and Mr. Mainwaring at once took refuge under the shadow of the ladies’ title.

Arabella did not sit down, so that Morton had an opportunity of standing near to his love. “I suppose you are very tired,” he said.

“Not in the least.” She smiled her sweetest as she answered him,— but yet it was not very sweet. “Of course we were tired and cross when we got out of the train. People always are; aren’t they?”

“Perhaps ladies are.”

“We were. But all that about the carriages, Mr. Morton, wasn’t my doing. Mamma had been talking to me so much that I didn’t know whether I was on my head or my heels. It was very good of you to come and meet us, and I ought to have been more gracious.” In this way she made her peace, and as she was quite in earnest,—doing a portion of the hard work of her life,—she continued to smile as sweetly as she could. Perhaps he liked it;—but any man endowed with that power of appreciation which we call sympathy, would have felt it to be as cold as though it had come from a figure on a glass window.

The dinner was announced. Mr. Morton was honoured with the hand of Lady Augustus. The Senator handed the old lady into the dining-room and Mr. Mainwaring the younger lady,—so that Arabella was sitting next to her lover. It had all been planned by Morton and acceded to by his grandmother. Mr. Gotobed throughout the dinner had the best of the conversation, though Lady Augustus had power enough to snub him on more than one occasion. “Suppose we were to allow at once,” she said, “that everything is better in the United States than anywhere else, shouldn’t we get along easier?”

“I don’t know that getting along easy is what we have particularly got in view,” said Mr. Gotobed, who was certainly in quest of information.

“But it is what I have in view, Mr. Gotobed;—so if you please we’ll take the pre-eminence of your country for granted.” Then she turned to Mr. Mainwaring on the other side. Upon this the Senator addressed himself for a while to the table at large and had soon forgotten altogether the expression of the lady’s wishes.

“I believe you have a good many churches about here,” said Lady Augustus trying to make conversation to her neighbour.

“One in every parish, I fancy,” said Mr. Mainwaring, who preferred all subjects to clerical subjects. “I suppose London is quite empty now.”

“We came direct from the Duke’s,” said Lady Augustus, “and did not even sleep in town;—but it is empty.” The Duke was the brother of Lord Augustus, and a compromise had been made with Lady Augustus, by which she and her daughter should be allowed a fortnight every year at the Duke’s place in the country, and a certain amount of entertainment in town.

“I remember the Duke at Christchurch,” said the parson. “He and I were of the same par. He was Lord Mistletoe then. Dear me, that was a long time ago. I wonder whether he remembers being upset out of a trap with me one day after dinner. I suppose we had dined in earnest. He has gone his way, and I have gone mine, and I’ve never seen him since. Pray remember me to him.” Lady Augustus said she would, and did entertain some little increased respect for the clergyman who could boast that he had been tipsy in company with her worthy brother-in-law.

Poor Mr. Cooper did not get on very well with Mrs. Morton. All his remembrances of the old squire were eulogistic and affectionate. Hers were just the reverse. He had a good word to say for Reginald Morton,—to which she would not even listen. She was willing enough to ask questions about the Mallingham tenants;—but Mr. Cooper would revert back to the old days, and so conversation was at an end.

Morton tried to make himself agreeable to his left-hand neighbour, trying also very hard to make himself believe that he was happy in his immediate position. How often in the various amusements of the world is one tempted to pause a moment and ask oneself whether one really likes it! He was conscious that he was working hard, struggling to be happy, painfully anxious to be sure that he was enjoying the luxury of being in love. But he was not at all contented. There she was, and very beautiful she looked; and he thought that he could be proud of her if she sat at the end of his table;—and he knew that she was engaged to be his wife. But he doubted whether she was in love with him; and he almost doubted sometimes whether he was very much in love with her. He asked her in so many words what he should do to amuse her. Would she like to ride with him, as if so he would endeavour to get saddle-horses. Would she like to go out hunting? Would she be taken round to see the neighbouring towns, Rufford and Norrington? “Lord Rufford lives somewhere near Rufford?” she asked. Yes; he lived at Rufford Hall, three or four miles from the town. Did Lord Rufford hunt? Morton believed that he was greatly given to hunting. Then he asked Arabella whether she knew the young lord. She had just met him, she said, and had only asked the question because of the name. “He is one of my neighbours down here,” said Morton;—“but being always away of course I see nothing of him.” After that Arabella consented to be taken out on horseback to see a meet of the hounds although she could not hunt. “We must see what we can do about horses,” he said. She however professed her readiness to go in the carriage if a saddle-horse could not be found.

The dinner party I fear was very dull. Mr. Mainwaring perhaps liked it because he was fond of dining anywhere away from home. Mr. Cooper was glad once more to see his late old friend’s old dining-room. Mr. Gotobed perhaps obtained some information. But otherwise the affair was dull. “Are we to have a week of this?” said Lady Augustus when she found herself up-stairs.

“You must, mamma, if we are to stay till we go to the Gores. Lord Rufford is here in the neighbourhood.”

“But they don’t know each other.”

“Yes they do;—slightly. I am to go to the meet someday and he’ll be there.”

“It might be dangerous.”

“Nonsense, mamma! And after all you’ve been saying about dropping Mr. Morton!”

“But there is nothing so bad as a useless flirtation.”

“Do I ever flirt? Oh, mamma, that after so many years you shouldn’t know me! Did you ever see me yet making myself happy in any way? What nonsense you talk!” Then without waiting for, or making, any apology, she walked off to her own room.

CHAPTER XIV

The Dillsborough Feud

“It’s that nasty, beastly, drunken club,” said Mrs. Masters to her unfortunate husband on the Wednesday morning. It may perhaps be remembered that the poisoned fox was found on the Saturday, and it may be imagined that Mr. Goarly had risen in importance since that day. On the Saturday Bean with a couple of men employed by Lord Rufford, had searched the wood, and found four or five red herrings poisoned with strychnine. There had been no doubt about the magnitude of the offence. On the Monday a detective policeman, dressed of course in rustic disguise but not the less known to every one in the place, was wandering about between Dillsborough and Dillsborough Wood and making futile inquiries as to the purchase of strychnine,—and also as to the purchase of red herrings. But every one knew, and such leading people as Runciman and Dr. Nupper were not slow to declare, that Dillsborough was the only place in England in which one might be sure that those articles had not been purchased. And on the Tuesday it began to be understood that Goarly had applied to Bearside, the other attorney, in reference to his claim against Lord Rufford’s pheasants. He had contemptuously refused the 7s. 6d. an acre offered him, and put his demand at 40s. As to the poisoned fox and the herrings and the strychnine Goarly declared that he didn’t care if there were twenty detectives in the place. He stated it to be his opinion that Larry Twentyman had put down the poison. It was all very well, Goarly said, for Larry to be fond of gentlemen and to ride to hounds, and make pretences;—but Larry liked his turkeys as well as anybody else, and Larry had put down the poison. In this matter Goarly overreached himself. No one in Dillsborough could be brought to believe that. Even Harry Stubbings was ready to swear that he should suspect himself as soon. But nothing was clearer than this,—that Goarly was going to make a stand against the hunt and especially against Lord Rufford. He had gone to Bearside and Bearside had taken up the matter in a serious way. Then it became known very quickly that Bearside had already received money, and it was surmised that Goarly had some one at his back. Lord Rufford had lately ejected from a house of his on the other side of the county a discontented litigious retired grocer from Rufford, who had made some money and had set himself up in a pretty little residence with a few acres of land. The man had made himself objectionable and had been dispossessed. The man’s name was Scrobby; and hence had come these sorrows. This was the story that had already made itself known in Dillsborough on the Tuesday evening. But up to that time not a tittle of evidence had come to light as to the purchase of the red herrings or the strychnine. All that was known was the fact that had not Tony Tuppett stopped the hounds before they reached the wood, there must have been a terrible mortality. “It’s that nasty, beastly, drunken club,” said Mrs. Masters to her husband. Of course it was at this time known to the lady that her husband had thrown away Goarly’s business and that it had been transferred to Bearside. It was also surmised by her, as it was by the town in general, that Goarly’s business would come to considerable dimensions;—just the sort of case as would have been sure to bring popularity if carried through, as Nickem, the senior clerk, would have carried it. And as soon as Scrobby’s name was heard by Mrs. Masters, there was no end to the money in the lady’s imagination to which this very case might not have amounted.

“The club had nothing to do with it, my dear.”

“What time did you come home on Saturday night;—or Sunday morning I mean? Do you mean to tell me you didn’t settle it there?”

“There was no nastiness, and no beastliness, and no drunkenness about it. I told you before I went that I wouldn’t take it”

“No;—you didn’t. How on earth are you to go on if you chuck the children’s bread out of their mouths in that way?”

“You won’t believe me. Do you ask Twentyman what sort of a man Goarly is.” The attorney knew that Larry was in great favour with his wife as being the favoured suitor for Mary’s hand, and had thought that this argument would be very strong.

“I don’t want Mr. Twentyman to teach me what is proper for my family,—nor yet to teach you your business. Mr. Twentyman has his own way of living. He brought home Kate the other day with hardly a rag of her sister’s habit left. She don’t go out hunting any more.”

“Very well, my dear.”

“Indeed for the matter of that I don’t see how any of them are to do anything. What’ll Lord Rufford do for you?”

“I don’t want Lord Rufford to do anything for me.” The attorney was beginning to have his spirit stirred within him.

“You don’t want anybody to do anything, and yet you will do nothing yourself, just because a set of drinking fellows in a tap-room, which you call a club—”

“It isn’t a tap-room.”

“It’s worse, because nobody can see what you’re doing. I know how it was. You hadn’t the pluck to hold to your own when Runciman told you not” There was a spice of truth in this which made it all the more bitter. “Runciman knows on which side his bread is buttered. He can make his money out of these swearing-tearing fellows. He can send in his bills, and get them paid too. And it’s all very well for Larry Twentyman to be hobbing and nobbing with the likes of them Botseys. But for a father of a family like you to be put off his business by what Mr. Runciman says is a shame.”

“I shall manage my business as I think fit,” said the attorney.

“And when we’re all in the poor-house what’ll you do then?” said Mrs. Masters,—with her handkerchief out at the spur of the moment. Whenever she roused her husband to a state of bellicose ire by her taunts she could always reduce him again by her tears. Being well aware of this he would bear the taunts as long as he could, knowing that the tears would be still worse. He was so soft-hearted that when she affected to be miserable, he could not maintain the sternness of his demeanour and leave her in her misery. “When everything has gone away from us, what are we to do? My little bit of money has disappeared ever so long.” Then she sat herself down in her chair and had a great cry. It was useless for him to remind her that hitherto she had never wanted anything for herself or her children. She was resolved that everything was going to the dogs because Goarly’s case had been refused. “And what will all those sporting men do for you?” she repeated. “I hate the very name of a gentleman;—so I do. I wish Goarly had killed all the foxes in the county. Nasty vermin! What good are the likes of them?”

Nickem, the senior clerk, was at first made almost as unhappy as Mrs. Masters by the weak decision to which his employer had come, and had in the first flush of his anger resolved to leave the office. He was sure that the case was one which would just have suited him. He would have got up the evidence as to the fertility of the land, the enormous promise of crop, and the ultimate absolute barrenness, to a marvel. He would have proved clouds of pheasants. And then Goarly’s humble position, futile industry, and general poverty might have been contrasted beautifully with Lord Rufford’s wealth, idleness, and devotion to sport. Anything above the 7s. 6d. an acre obtained against the lord would have been a triumph, and he thought that if the thing had been well managed, they might probably have got 15s. And then, in such a case, Lord Rufford could hardly have taxed the costs. It was really suicide for an attorney to throw away business so excellent as this. And now it had gone to Bearside whom Nickem remembered as a junior to himself when they were both young hobbledehoys at Norrington,—a dirty, blear-eyed, pimply-faced boy who was suspected of purloining halfpence out of coat-pockets. The thing was very trying to Nat Nickem. But suddenly, before that Wednesday was over, another idea had occurred to him, and he was almost content. He knew Goarly, and he had heard of Scrobby and Scrobby’s history in regard to the tenement at Rufford. As he could not get Goarly’s case why should he not make something of the case against Goarly? That detective was merely eking out his time and having an idle week among the public-houses. If he could set himself up as an amateur detective he thought that he might perhaps get to the bottom of it all. It is not a bad thing to be concerned on the same side with a lord when the lord is in earnest. Lord Rufford was very angry about the poison in the covert and would probably be ready to pay very handsomely for having the criminal found and punished. The criminal of course was Goarly. Nickem did not doubt that for a moment, and would not have doubted it whichever side he might have taken. Nickem did not suppose that any one for a moment really doubted Goarly’s guilt. But to his eyes such certainty amounted to nothing, if evidence of the crime were not forthcoming. He probably felt within his own bosom that the last judgment of all would depend in some way on terrestrial evidence, and was quite sure that it was by such that a man’s conscience should be affected. If Goarly had so done the deed as to be beyond the possibility of detection, Nickem could not have brought himself to regard Goarly as a sinner. As it was he had considerable respect for Goarly;—but might it not be possible to drop down upon Scrobby? Bearside with his case against the lord would be nowhere, if Goarly could be got to own that he had been suborned by Scrobby to put down the poison. Or, if in default of this, any close communication could be proved between Goarly and Scrobby,—Scrobby’s injury and spirit of revenge being patent,—then too Bearside would not have much of a case. A jury would look at that question of damages with a very different eye if Scrobby’s spirit of revenge could be proved at the trial, and also the poisoning, and also machinations between Scrobby and Goarly.

Nickem was a little red-haired man about forty, who wrote a good flourishing hand, could endure an immense amount of work, and drink a large amount of alcohol without being drunk. His nose and face were all over blotches, and he looked to be dissipated and disreputable. But, as he often boasted, no one could say that “black was the white of his eye;”—by which he meant to insinuate that he had not been detected in anything dishonest and that he was never too tipsy to do his work. He was a married man and did not keep his wife and children in absolute comfort; but they lived, and Mr. Nickem in some fashion paid his way.

There was another clerk in the office, a very much younger man, named Sundown, and Nickem could not make his proposition to Mr. Masters till Sundown had left the office. Nickem himself had only matured his plans at dinner time and was obliged to be reticent, till at six o’clock Sundown took himself off. Mr. Masters was, at the moment, locking his own desk, when Nickem winked at him to stay. Mr. Masters did stay, and Sundown did at last leave the office.

“You couldn’t let me leave home for three days?” said Nickem. “There ain’t much a doing.”

“What do you want it for?”

“That Goarly is a great blackguard, Mr. Masters.”

“Very likely. Do you know anything about him?”

Nickem scratched his head and rubbed his chin. “I think I could manage to know something.”

“In what way?”

“I don’t think I’m quite prepared to say, sir. I shouldn’t use your name of course. But they’re down upon Lord Rufford, and if you could lend me a trifle of 30s., sir, I think I could get to the bottom of it. His lordship would be awful obliged to any one who could hit it off”

Mr. Masters did give his clerk leave for three days, and did advance him the required money. And when he suggested in a whisper that perhaps the circumstance need not be mentioned to Mrs. Masters, Nickem winked again and put his fore-finger to the side of his big carbuncled nose.

That evening Larry Twentyman came in, but was not received with any great favour by Mrs. Masters. There was growing up at this moment in Dillsborough the bitterness of real warfare between the friends and enemies of sport in general, and Mrs. Masters was ranking herself thereby among the enemies. Larry was of course one of the friends. But unhappily there was a slight difference of sentiment even in Larry’s own house, and on this very morning old Mrs. Twentyman had expressed to Mrs. Masters a feeling of wrong which had gradually risen from the annual demolition of her pet broods of turkeys. She declared that for the last three years every turkey poult had gone, and that at last she was beginning to feel it. “It’s over a hundred of ’em they’ve had, and it is wearing,” said the old woman. Larry had twenty times begged her to give up the rearing turkeys, but her heart had been too high for that. “I don’t know why Lord Rufford’s foxes are to be thought of always, and nobody is to think about your poor mother’s poultry,” said Mrs. Masters, lugging the subject in neck and heels.

“Has she been talking to you, Mrs. Masters, about her turkeys?”

“Your mother may speak to me I suppose if she likes it, without offence to Lord Rufford.”

“Lord Rufford has got nothing to do with it”

“The wood belongs to him,” said Mrs. Masters.

“Foxes are much better than turkeys anyway,” said Kate Masters.

“If you don’t hold your tongue, miss, you’ll be sent to bed. The wood belongs to his lordship, and the foxes are a nuisance.”

“He keeps the foxes for the county, and where would the county be without them?” began Larry. “What is it brings money into such a place as this?”

“To Runciman’s stables and Harry Stubbings and the like of them. What money does it bring in to steady honest people?”

“Look at all the grooms,” said Larry.

“The impudentest set of young vipers about the place,” said the lady.

“Look at Grice’s business.” Grice was the saddler.

“Grice indeed! What’s Grice?”

“And the price of horses?”

“Yes;—making everything dear that ought to be cheap. I don’t see and I never shall see and I never will see any good in extravagant idleness. As for Kate she shall never go out hunting again. She has torn Mary’s habit to pieces. And shooting is worse. Why is a man to have a flock of voracious cormorants come down upon his corn fields? I’m The American Senator, all in favour of Goarly, and so, I tell you, Mr. Twentyman.” After this poor Larry went away, finding that he had no opportunity for saying a word to Mary Masters.

CHAPTER XV

A fit Companion,—for me and my Sisters

On that same Wednesday Reginald Morton had called at the attorney’s house, had asked for Miss Masters, and had found her alone. Mrs. Masters at the time had been out, picking up intelligence about the great case, and the two younger girls had been at school. Reginald, as he walked home from Bragton all alone on that occasion when Larry had returned with Mary, was quite sure that he would never willingly go into Mary’s presence again. Why should he disturb his mind about such a girl,—one who could rush into the arms of such a man as Larry Twentyman? Or, indeed, why disturb his mind about any girl? That was not the manner of life which he planned for himself. After that he shut himself up for a few days and was not much seen by any of the Dillsborough folk. But on this Wednesday he received a letter, and,—as he told himself, merely in consequence of that letter,—he called at the attorney’s house and asked for Miss Masters.

He was shown up into the beautiful drawing-room, and in a few minutes Mary came to him. “I have brought you a letter from my aunt,” he said.

“From Lady Ushant? I am so glad.”

“She was writing to me and she put this under cover. I know what it contains. She wants you to go to her at Cheltenham for a month.”

“Oh, Mr. Morton!”

“Would you like to go?”

“How should I not like to go? Lady Ushant is my dearest, dearest friend. It is so very good of her to think of me.”

“She talks of the first week in December and wants you to be there for Christmas.”

“I don’t at all know that I can go, Mr. Morton”

“Why not go?”

“I’m afraid mamma will not spare me.” There were many reasons. She could hardly go on such a visit without some renewal of her scanty wardrobe, which perhaps the family funds would not permit. And, as she knew very well, Mrs. Masters was not at all favourable to Lady Ushant. If the old lady had altogether kept Mary it might have been very well; but she had not done so and Mrs. Masters had more than once said that that kind of thing must be all over;—meaning that Mary was to drop her intimacy with high-born people that were of no real use. And then there was Mr. Twentyman and his suit. Mary had for some time felt that her step-mother intended her to understand that her only escape from home would be by becoming Mrs. Twentyman. “I don’t think it will be possible, Mr. Morton.”

“My aunt will be very sorry.”

“Oh,—how sorry shall I be! It is like having another little bit of heaven before me.”

Then he said what he certainly should not have said. “I thought, Miss Masters, that your heaven was all here.”

“What do you mean by that, Mr. Morton?” she asked blushing up to her hair. Of course she knew what he meant, and of course she was angry with him. Ever since that walk her mind had been troubled by ideas as to what he would think about her, and now he was telling her what he thought.

“I fancied that you were happy here without going to see an old woman who after all has not much amusement to offer to you.”

“I don’t want any amusement.”

“At any rate you will answer Lady Ushant?”

“Of course I shall answer her.”

“Perhaps you can let me know. She wishes me to take you to Cheltenham. I shall go for a couple of days, but I shall not stay longer. If you are going perhaps you would allow me to travel with you.”

“Of course it would be very kind; but I don’t suppose that I shall go. I am sure Lady Ushant won’t believe that I am kept away from her by any pleasure of my own here. I can explain it all to her and she will understand me.” She hardly meant to reproach him. She did not mean to assume an intimacy sufficient for reproach. But he felt that she had reproached him. “I love Lady Ushant so dearly that I would go anywhere to see her if I could.”

“Then I think it could be managed. Your father—”

“Papa does not attend much to us girls. It is mamma that manages all that. At any rate, I will write to Lady Ushant, and will ask papa to let you know”

Then it seemed as though there were nothing else for him but to go;—and yet he wanted to say some other word. If he had been cruel in throwing Mr. Twentyman in her teeth, surely he ought to apologize. “I did not mean to say anything to offend you.”

“You have not offended me at all, Mr. Morton.”

“If I did think that,—that—”

“It does not signify in the least. I only want Lady Ushant to understand that if I could possibly go to her I would rather do that than anything else in the world. Because Lady Ushant is kind to me I needn’t expect other people to be so.” Reginald Morton was of course the “other people.”

Then he paused a moment. “I did so long,” he said, “to walk round the old place with you the other day before these people came there, and I was so disappointed when you would not come with me.”

“I was coming.”

“But you went back with—that other man”

“Of course I did when you showed so plainly that you didn’t want him to join you. What was I to do? I couldn’t send him away. Mr. Twentyman is a very intimate friend of ours, and very kind to Dolly and Kate.”

“I wished so much to talk to you about the old days.”

“And I wish to go for your aunt, Mr. Morton; but we can’t all of us have what we wish. Of course I saw that you were very angry, but I couldn’t help that. Perhaps it was wrong in Mr. Twentyman to offer to walk with you.”

“I didn’t say so at all.”

“You looked it at any rate, Mr. Morton. And as Mr. Twentyman is a friend of ours—”

“You were angry with me.”

“I don’t say that. But as you were too grand for our friend of course you were too grand for us.”

“That is a very unkind way of putting it. I don’t think I am grand. A man may wish to have a little conversation with a very old friend without being interrupted, and yet not be grand. I dare say Mr. Twentyman is just as good as I am.”

“You don’t think that, Mr. Morton”

“I believe him to be a great deal better, for he earns his bread, and takes care of his mother, and as far as I know does his duty thoroughly.”

“I know the difference, Mr. Morton, and of course I know how you feel it. I don’t suppose that Mr. Twentyman is a fit companion for any of the Mortons, but for all that he may be a fit companion for me,—and my sisters.” Surely she must have said this with the express object of declaring to him that in spite of the advantages of her education she chose to put herself in the ranks of the Twentymans, Runcimans and such like. He had come there ardently wishing that she might be allowed to go to his aunt, and resolved that he would take her himself if it were possible. But now he almost thought that she had better not go. If she had made her election, she must be allowed to abide by it. If she meant to marry Mr. Twentyman what good could she get by associating with his aunt or with him? And had she not as good as told him that she meant to marry Mr. Twentyman? She had at any rate very plainly declared that she regarded Mr. Twentyman as her equal in rank. Then he took his leave without any further explanation. Even if she did go to Cheltenham he would not take her.

After that he walked straight out to Bragton. He was of course altogether unconscious what grand things his cousin John had intended to do by him, had not the Honourable old lady interfered; but he had made up his mind that duty required him to call at the house. So he walked by the path across the bridge and when he came out on the gravel road near the front door he found a gentleman smoking a cigar and looking around him. It was Mr. Gotobed who had just returned from a visit which he had made, the circumstances of which must be narrated in the next chapter. The Senator lifted his hat and remarked that it was a very fine afternoon. Reginald lifted his hat and assented. “Mr. Morton, Sir, I think is out with the ladies, taking a drive.”

“I will leave a card then.”

“The old lady is at home, sir, if you wish to see her,” continued the Senator following Reginald up to the door.

“Oh, Mr. Reginald, is that you?” said old Mrs. Hopkins taking the card. “They are all out,—except herself.” As he certainly did not wish to see “herself,” he greeted the old woman and left his card.

“You live in these parts, sir?” asked the Senator.

“In the town yonder.”

“Because Mr. Morton’s housekeeper seems to know you.”

“She knows me very well as I was brought up in this house. Good morning to you.”

“Good afternoon to you, sir. Perhaps you can tell me who lives in that country residence,—what you call a farm-house,—on the other side of the road.” Reginald said that he presumed the gentleman was alluding to Mr. Twentyman’s house.

“Ah, yes,—I dare say. That was the name I heard up there. You are not Mr. Twentyman, sir?”

“My name is Morton”

“Morton is it;—perhaps my friend’s;—ah—ah,—yes.” He didn’t like to say uncle because Reginald didn’t look old enough, and he knew he ought not to say brother, because the elder brother in England would certainly have had the property.

“I am Mr. John Morton’s cousin.”

“Oh;—Mr. Morton’s cousin. I asked whether you were the owner of that farm-house because I intruded just now by passing through the yards, and I would have apologized. Good afternoon to you, sir.” Then Reginald having thus done his duty returned home.

Mary Masters when she was alone was again very angry with herself. She knew thoroughly how perverse she had been when she declared that Larry Twentyman was a fit companion for herself, and that she had said it on purpose to punish the man who was talking to her. Not a day passed, or hardly an hour of a day, in which she did not tell herself that the education she had received and the early associations of her life had made her unfit for the marriage which her friends were urging upon her. It was the one great sorrow of her life. She even repented of the good things of her early days because they had given her a distaste for what might have otherwise been happiness and good fortune. There had been moments in which she had told herself that she ought to marry Larry Twentyman and adapt herself to the surroundings of her life. Since she had seen Reginald Morton frequently, she had been less prone to tell herself so than before; and yet to this very man she had declared her fitness for Larry’s companionship!

CHAPTER XVI

Mr. Gotobed’s Philanthropy

Mr. Gotobed, when the persecutions of Goarly were described to him at the scene of the dead fox, had expressed considerable admiration for the man’s character as portrayed by what he then heard. The man,—a poor man too and despised in the land, was standing up for his rights, all alone, against the aristocracy and plutocracy of the county. He had killed the demon whom the aristocracy and plutocracy worshipped, and had appeared there in arms ready to defend his own territory,—one against so many, and so poor a man against men so rich! The Senator had at once said that he would call upon Mr. Goarly, and the Senator was a man who always carried out his purposes. Afterwards, from John Morton, and from others who knew the country better than Morton, he learned further particulars. On the Monday and Tuesday he fathomed,—or nearly fathomed,—that matter of the 7s. 6d. an acre. He learned at any rate that the owner of the wood admitted a damage done by him to the corn and had then, himself, assessed the damage without consultation with the injured party; and he was informed also that Goarly was going to law with the lord for a fuller compensation. He liked Goarly for killing the fox, and he liked him more for going to law with Lord Rufford.

He declared openly at Bragton his sympathy with the man and his intention of expressing it. Morton was annoyed and endeavoured to persuade him to leave the man alone; but in vain. No doubt had he expressed himself decisively and told his friend that he should be annoyed by a guest from his house taking part in such a matter, the Senator would have abstained and would merely have made one more note as to English peculiarities and English ideas of justice; but Morton could not bring himself to do this. “The feeling of the country will be altogether against you,” he had said, hoping to deter the Senator. The Senator had replied that though the feeling of that little bit of the country might be against him he did not believe that such would be the case with the feeling of England generally. The ladies had all become a little afraid of Mr. Gotobed and hardly dared to express an opinion. Lady Augustus did say that she supposed that Goarly was a low vulgar fellow, which of course strengthened the Senator in his purpose.

The Senator on Wednesday would not wait for lunch but started a little before one with a crust of bread in his pocket to find his way to Goarly’s house. There was no difficulty in this as he could see the wood as soon as he had got upon the high road. He found Twentyman’s gate and followed directly the route which the hunting party had taken, till he came to the spot on which the crowd had been assembled. Close to this there was a hand-gate leading into Dillsborough wood, and standing in the gateway was a man. The Senator thought that this might not improbably be Goarly himself, and asked the question, “Might your name be Mr. Goarly, sir?”

“Me Goarly!” said the man in infinite disgust. “I ain’t nothing of the kind,—and you knows it” That the man should have been annoyed at being taken for Goarly, that man being Bean the gamekeeper who would willingly have hung Goarly if he could, and would have thought it quite proper that a law should be now passed for hanging him at once, was natural enough. But why he should have told the Senator that the Senator knew he was not Goarly it might be difficult to explain. He probably at once regarded the Senator as an enemy, as a man on the other side, and therefore as a cunning knave who would be sure to come creeping about on false pretences. Bean, who had already heard of Bearside and had heard of Scrobby in connection with this matter, looked at the Senator very hard. He knew Bearside. The man certainly was not the attorney, and from what he had heard of Scrobby be didn’t think he was Scrobby. The man was not like what in his imagination Scrobby would be. He did not know what to make of Mr. Gotobed,—who was a person of an imposing appearance, tall and thin, with a long nose and look of great acuteness, dressed in black from head to foot, but yet not looking quite like an English gentleman. He was a man to whom Bean in an ordinary way would have been civil,—civil in a cold guarded way; but how was he to be civil to anybody who addressed him as Goarly?

“I did not know it,” said the Senator. “As Goarly lives near here I thought you might be Goarly. When I saw Goarly he had a gun, and you have a gun. Can you tell me where Goarly lives?”

“Tother side of the wood,” said Bean pointing back with his thumb. “He never had a gun like this in his hand in all his born days.”

“I dare say not, my friend. I can go through the wood I guess;” for Bean had pointed exactly over the gateway.

“I guess you can’t then,” said Bean. The man who, like other gamekeepers, lived much in the company of gentlemen, was ordinarily a civil courteous fellow, who knew how to smile and make things pleasant. But at this moment he was very much put out. His covert had been found full of red herrings and strychnine, and his fox had been poisoned. He had lost his guinea on the day of the hunt, the guinea which would have been his perquisite had they found a live fox in his wood. And all this was being done by such a fellow as Goarly! And now this abandoned wretch was bringing an action against his Lordship and was leagued with such men as Scrobby and Bearside! It was a dreadful state of things! How was it likely that he should give a passage through the wood to anybody coming after Goarly? “You’re on Mr. Twentyman’s land now, as I dare say you know.”

“I don’t know anything about it”

“Well; that wood is Lord Rufford’s wood.”

“I did know as much as that, certainly.”

“And you can’t go into it.”

“How shall I find Mr. Goarly’s house?”

“If you’ll get over that there ditch you’ll be on Mister Goarly’s land and that’s all about it” Bean as he said this put a strongly ironical emphasis on the term of respect and then turned back into the wood.

The Senator made his way down the fence to the bank on which Goarly had stood with his gun, then over into Goarly’s field, and so round the back of the wood till he saw a small red brick house standing perhaps four hundred yards from the covert, just on the elbow of a lane. It was a miserable-looking place with a pigsty and a dung heap and a small horse-pond or duck-puddle all close around it. The stack of chimneys seemed to threaten to fall, and as he approached from behind he could see that the two windows opening that way were stuffed with rags. There was a little cabbage garden which now seemed to be all stalks, and a single goose waddling about the duck-puddle. The Senator went to the door, and having knocked, was investigated by a woman from behind it. Yes, this was Goarly’s house. What did the gentleman want? Goarly was at work in the field. Then she came out, the Senator having signified his friendly intentions, and summoned Goarly to the spot.

“I hope I see you well, sir,” said the Senator putting out his hand as Goarly came up dragging a dung-York behind him.

Goarly rubbed his hand on his breeches before he gave it to be shaken and declared himself to be “pretty tidy, considering.”

“I was present the other day, Mr. Goarly, when that dead fox was exposed to view.”

“Was you, sir?”

“I was given to understand that you had destroyed the brute.”

“Don’t you believe a word on it then,” said the woman interposing. “He didn’t do nothing of the kind. Who ever seed him a’ buying of red herrings and p’ison?”

“Hold your jaw,” said Goarly,—familiarly. “Let ’em prove it. I don’t know who you are, sir; but let ’em prove it”

“My name, Mr. Goarly, is Elias Gotobed. I am an American citizen, and Senator for the State of Mickewa.” Mr. and Mrs. Goarly shook their heads at every separate item of information tendered to them. “I am on a visit to this country and am at present staying at the house of my friend, Mr. John Morton.”

“He’s the gentl’man from Bragton, Dan.”

“Hold your jaw, can’t you?” said the husband. Then he touched his hat to the Senator intending to signify that the Senator might, if he pleased, continue his narrative.

“If you did kill that fox, Mr. Goarly, I think you were quite right to kill him.” Then Goarly winked at him, “I cannot imagine that even the laws of England could justify a man in perpetuating a breed of wild animals that are destructive to his neighbours’ property.”

“I could shoot ’un; not a doubt about that, Mister. I could shoot ’un; and I wull.”

“Have a care, Dan,” whispered Mrs. Goarly.

“Hold your jaw,—will ye? I could shoot ’un, Mister. I don’t rightly know about p’ison.”

“That fox we saw was poisoned I suppose,” said the Senator carelessly.

“Have a care, Dan;—have a care!” whispered the wife.

“Allow me to assure both of you,” said the Senator, “that you need fear nothing from me. I have come quite as a friend.”

“Thank ‘ee, sir,” said Goarly again touching his hat.

“It seems to me,” said the Senator, “that in this matter a great many men are leagued together against you.”

“You may say that, sir. I didn’t just catch your name, sir.”

“My name is Gotobed;—Gotobed; Elias Gotobed, Senator from the State of Mickewa to the United States Congress.” Mrs. Goarly who understood nothing of all these titles, and who had all along doubted, dropped a suspicious curtsey. Goarly, who understood a little now, took his hat altogether off. He was very much puzzled but inclined to think that if he managed matters rightly, profit might be got out of this very strange meeting. “In my country, Mr. Goarly, all men are free and equal.”

“That’s a fine thing, sir.”

“It is a fine thing, my friend, if properly understood and properly used. Coming from such a country I was shocked to see so many rich men banded together against one who I suppose is not rich.”

“Very far from it,” said the woman.

“It’s my own land, you know,” said Goarly who was proud of his position as a landowner. “No one can’t touch me on it, as long as the rates is paid. I’m as good a man here,”—and he stamped his foot on the ground,—“as his Lordship is in that there wood.”

This was the first word spoken by the Goarlys that had pleased the Senator, and this set him off again. “Just so;—and I admire a man that will stand up for his own rights. I am told that you have found his Lordship’s pheasants destructive to your corn.”

“Didn’t leave him hardly a grain last August,” said Mrs. Goarly.

“Will you hold your jaw, woman, or will you not?” said the man turning round fiercely at her. “I’m going to have the law of his Lordship, sir. What’s seven and six an acre? There’s that quantity of pheasants in that wood as’d eat up any mortal thing as ever was grooved. Seven and six!”

“Didn’t you propose arbitration?”

“I never didn’t propose nothin’. I’ve axed two pound, and my lawyer says as how I’ll get it. What I sold come off that other bit of ground down there. Wonderful crop! And this ‘d’ve been the same. His Lordship ain’t nothin’ to me, Mr. Gotobed.”

“You don’t approve of hunting, Mr. Goarly.”

“Oh, I approves if they’d pay a poor man for what harm they does him. Look at that there goose.” Mr. Gotobed did look at the goose. “There’s nine and twenty they’ve tuk from me, and only left un that.” Now Mrs. Goarly’s goose was well known in those parts. It was declared that she was more than a match for any fox in the county, but that Mrs. Goarly for the last two years had never owned any goose but this one.

“The foxes have eaten there all?” asked the Senator.

“Every mortal one.”

“And the gentlemen of the hunt have paid you nothing.”

“I had four half-crowns once,” said the woman.

“If you don’t send the heads you don’t get it,” said the man, “and then they’ll keep you waiting months and months, just for their pleasures. Who’s a going to put up with that? I ain’t.”

“And now you’re going to law?”

“I am,—like a man. His Lordship ain’t nothin’ to me. I ain’t afeard of his Lordship.”

“Will it cost you much?”

“That’s just what it will do, sir,” said the woman.

“Didn’t I tell you, hold your jaw?”

“The gentleman was going to offer to help us a little, Dan.”

“I was going to say that I am interested in the case, and that you have all my good wishes. I do not like to offer pecuniary help.”

“You’re very good, sir; very good. This bit of land is mine; not a doubt of it;—but we’re poor, sir.”

“Indeed we is,” said the woman. “What with taxes and rates, and them foxes as won’t let me rear a head of poultry and them brutes of birds as eats up the corn, I often tells him he’d better sell the bit o’ land and just set up for a public.”

“It belonged to my feyther and grandfeyther,” said Goarly.

Then the Senator’s heart was softened again and he explained at great length that he would watch the case and if he saw his way clearly, befriend it with substantial aid. He asked about the attorney and took down Bearside’s address. After that he shook hands with both of them, and then made his way back to Bragton through Mr. Twentyman’s farm.

Mr. and Mrs. Goarly were left in a state of great perturbation of mind. They could not in the least make out among themselves who the gentleman was, or whether he had come for good or evil. That he called himself Gotobed Goarly did remember, and also that he had said that he was an American. All that which had referred to senatorial honours and the State of Mickewa had been lost upon Goarly. The question of course arose whether he was not a spy sent out by Lord Rufford’s man of business, and Mrs. Goarly was clearly of opinion that such had been the nature of his employment. Had he really been a friend, she suggested, he would have left a sovereign behind him. “He didn’t get no information from me,” said Goarly.

“Only about Mr. Bearside.”

“What’s the odds of that? They all knows that. Bearside! Why should I be ashamed of Bearside? I’ll do a deal better with Bearside than I would with that old woman, Masters.”

“But he took it down in writing, Dan.”

“What the d—‘s the odds in that?”

“I don’t like it when they puts it down in writing.”

“Hold your jaw,” said Goarly as he slowly shouldered the dung-fork to take it back to his work. But as they again discussed the matter that night the opinion gained ground upon them that the Senator had been an emissary from the enemy.

CHAPTER XVII

Lord Rufford’s Invitation

On that same Wednesday afternoon when Morton returned with the ladies in the carriage he found that a mounted servant had arrived from Rufford Hall with a letter and had been instructed to wait for an answer. The man was now refreshing himself in the servants’ hall. Morton, when he had read the letter, found that it required some consideration before he could answer it. It was to the following purport. Lord Rufford had a party of ladies and gentlemen at Rufford Hall, as his sister, Lady Penwether, was staying with him. Would Mr. Morton and his guests come over to Rufford Hall on Monday and stay till Wednesday? On Tuesday there was to be a dance for the people of the neighbourhood. Then he specified, as the guests invited, Lady Augustus and her daughter and Mr. Gotobed,— omitting the honourable Mrs. Morton of whose sojourn in the county he might have been ignorant. His Lordship went on to say that he trusted the abruptness of the invitation might be excused on account of the nearness of their neighbourhood and the old friendship which had existed between their families. He had had, he said, the pleasure of being acquainted with Lady Augustus and her daughter in London and would be proud to see Mr. Gotobed at his house during his sojourn in the county. Then he added in a postscript that the hounds met at Rufford Hall on Tuesday and that he had a horse that carried a lady well if Miss Trefoil would like to ride him. He could also put up a horse for Mr. Morton.

This was all very civil, but there was something in it that was almost too civil. There came upon Morton a suspicion, which he did not even define to himself, that the invitation was due to Arabella’s charms. There were many reasons why he did not wish to accept it. His grandmother was left out and he feared that she would be angry. He did not feel inclined to take the American Senator to the lord’s house, knowing as he did that the American Senator was interfering in a ridiculous manner on behalf of Goarly. And he did not particularly wish to be present at Rufford Hall with the Trefoil ladies. Hitherto he had received very little satisfaction from their visit to Bragton,—so little that he had been more than once on the verge of asking Arabella whether she wished to be relieved from her engagement. She had never quite given him the opportunity. She had always been gracious to him in a cold, disagreeable, glassy manner,—in a manner that irked his spirit but still did not justify him in expressing anger. Lady Augustus was almost uncivil to him, and from time to time said little things which were hard to bear; but he was not going to marry Lady Augustus, and could revenge himself against her by resolving in his own breast that he would have as little as possible to do with her after his marriage., That was the condition of his mind towards them, and in that condition he did not want to take them to Lord Rufford’s house. Their visit to him would be over on Monday, and it would he thought be better for him that they should then go on their way to the Gores as they had proposed.

But he did not like to answer the letter by a refusal without saying a word to his guests on the subject. He would not object to ignore the Senator, but he was afraid that if nothing were to be said to Arabella she would hear of it hereafter and would complain of such treatment. He therefore directed that the man might be kept waiting while he consulted the lady of his choice. It was with difficulty that he found himself alone with her,—and then only by sending her maid in quest of her. He did get her at last into his own sitting-room and then, having placed her in a chair near the fire, gave her Lord Rufford’s letter to read. “What can it be,” said she looking up into his face with her great inexpressive eyes, “that has required all this solemnity?” She still looked up at him and did not even open the letter.

“I did not like to answer that without showing it to you. I don’t suppose you would care to go.”

“Go where?”

“It is from Lord Rufford,—for Monday.”

“From Lord Rufford!”

“It would break up all your plans and your mother’s, and would probably be a great bore.”

Then she did read the letter, very carefully and very slowly, weighing every word of it as she read it. Did it mean more than it said? But though she read it slowly and carefully and was long before she made him any answer, she had very quickly resolved that the invitation should be accepted. It would suit her very well to know Lady Penwether. It might possibly suit her still better to become intimate with Lord Rufford. She was delighted at the idea of riding Lord Rufford’s horse. As her eyes dwelt on the paper she, too, began to think that the invitation had been chiefly given on her account. At any rate she would go. She had understood perfectly well from the first tone of her lover’s voice that he did not wish to subject her to the allurements of Rufford Hall. She was clever enough, and could read it all. But she did not mean to throw away a chance for the sake of pleasing him. She must not at once displease him by declaring her purpose strongly, and therefore, as she slowly continued her reading, she resolved that she would throw the burden upon her mother. “Had I not better show this to mamma?” she said.

“You can if you please. You are going to the Gores on Monday.”

“We could not go earlier; but we might put it off for a couple of days if we pleased. Would it bore you?”

“I don’t mind about myself. I’m not a very great man for dances.”

“You’d sooner write a report,—wouldn’t you,—about the products of the country?”

“A great deal sooner,” said the Paragon.

“But you see we haven’t all of us got products to write about. I don’t care very much about it myself;—but if you don’t mind I’ll ask mamma.” Of course he was obliged to consent, and merely informed her as she went off with the letter that a servant was waiting for an answer.

“To go to Lord Rufford’s!” said Lady Augustus.

“From Monday till Wednesday, mamma. Of course we must go:”

“I promised poor Mrs. Gore.”

“Nonsense, mamma! The Gores can do very well without us. That was only to be a week and we can still stay out our time. Of course this has only been sent because we are here.”

“I should say so. I don’t suppose Lord Rufford would care to know Mr. Morton. Lady Penwether goes everywhere; doesn’t she?”

“Everywhere. It would suit me to a ‘t’ to get on to Lady Penwether’s books. But, mamma, of course it’s not that. If Lord Rufford should say a word it is so much easier to manage down in the country than up in London. He has 40,000 pounds a year, if he has a penny.”

“How many girls have tried the same thing with him! But I don’t mind. I’ve always said that John Morton and Bragton would not do?”

“No, mamma; you haven’t. You were the first to say they would do.”

“I only said that if there were nothing else—”

“Oh, mamma, how can you say such things! Nothing else,—as if he were the last man! You said distinctly that Bragton was 7,000 pounds a year, and that it would do very well. You may change your mind if you like; but it’s no good trying to back out of your own doings.”

“Then I have changed my mind.”

“Yes,—without thinking what I have to go through. I’m not going to throw myself at Lord Rufford’s head so as to lose my chance here;— but we’ll go and see how the land lies. Of course you’ll go, mamma.”

“If you think it is for your advantage, my dear.”

“My advantage! It’s part of the work to be done and we may as well do it. At any rate I’ll tell him to accept. We shall have this odious American with us, but that can’t be helped.”

“And the old woman?”

“Lord Rufford doesn’t say anything about her. I don’t suppose he’s such a muff but what he can leave his grandmother behind for a couple of days.” Then she went back to Morton and told him that her mother was particularly anxious to make the acquaintance of Lady Penwether and that she had decided upon going to Rufford Hall. “It will be a very nice opportunity,” said she, “for you to become acquainted with Lord Rufford.”

Then he was almost angry. “I can make plenty of such opportunities for myself, when I want them,” he said. “Of course if you and Lady Augustus like it, we will go. But let it stand on its right bottom.”

“It may stand on any bottom you please.”

“Do you mean to ride the man’s horse?”

“Certainly I do. I never refuse a good offer. Why shouldn’t I ride the man’s horse? Did you never hear before of a young lady borrowing a gentleman’s horse?”

“No lady belonging to me will ever do so, unless the gentleman be a very close friend indeed.”

“The lady in this case does not belong to you, Mr. Morton, and therefore, if you have no other objection, she will ride Lord Rufford’s horse. Perhaps you will not think it too much trouble to signify the lady’s acceptance of the mount in your letter.” Then she swam out of the room knowing that she left him in anger. After that he had to find Mr. Gotobed. The going was now decided on as far as he was concerned, and it would make very little difference whether the American went or not,—except that his letter would have been easier to him in accepting the invitation for three persons than for four. But the Senator was of course willing. It was the Senator’s object to see England, and Lord Rufford’s house would be an additional bit of England. The Senator would be delighted to have an opportunity of saying what he thought about Goarly at Lord Rufford’s table. After that, before this weary letter could be written, he was compelled to see his grandmother and explain to her that she had been omitted.

“Of course, ma’am, they did not know that you were at Bragton, as you were not in the carriage at the ‘meet.’”

“That’s nonsense, John. Did Lord Rufford suppose that you were entertaining ladies here without some one to be mistress of the house? Of course he knew that I was here. I shouldn’t have gone;— you may be sure of that. I’m not in the habit of going to the houses of people I don’t know. Indeed I think it’s an impertinence in them to ask in that way. I’m surprised that you would go on such an invitation.”

“The Trefoils knew them.”

“If Lady Penwether knew them why could not Lady Penwether ask them independently of us? I don’t believe they ever spoke to Lady Penwether in their lives. Lord Rufford and Miss Trefoil may very likely be London acquaintances. He may admire her and therefore choose to have her at his ball. I know nothing about that. As far as I am concerned he’s quite welcome to keep her.”

All this was not very pleasant to John Morton. He knew already that his grandmother and Lady Augustus hated each other, and said spiteful things not only behind each other’s backs, but openly to each other’s faces. But now he had been told by the girl who was engaged to be his wife that she did not belong to him; and by his grandmother, who stood to him in the place of his mother, that she wished that this girl belonged to some one else! He was not quite sure that he did not wish it himself. But, even were it to be so, and should there be reason for him to be gratified at the escape, still he did not relish the idea of taking the girl himself to the other man’s house. He wrote the letter, however, and dispatched it. But even the writing of it was difficult and disagreeable. When various details of hospitality have been offered by a comparative stranger a man hardly likes to accept them all. But in this case he had to do it. He would be delighted, he said, to stay at Rufford Hall from the Monday to the Wednesday;—Lady Augustus and Miss Trefoil would also be delighted; and so also would Mr. Gotobed be delighted. And Miss Trefoil would be further delighted to accept Lord Rufford’s offer of a horse for the Tuesday. As for himself, if he rode at all, a horse would come for him to the meet. Then he wrote another note to Mr. Harry Stubbings, bespeaking a mount for the occasion.

On that evening the party at Bragton was not a very pleasant one. “No doubt you are intimate with Lady Penwether, Lady Augustus,” said Mrs. Morton. Now Lady Penwether was a very fashionable woman whom to know was considered an honour.

“What makes you ask, ma’am?” said Lady Augustus.

“Only as you were taking your daughter to her brother’s house, and as he is a bachelor.”

“My dear Mrs. Morton, really you may leave me to take care of myself and of my daughter too. You have lived so much out of the world for the last thirty years that it is quite amusing.”

“There are some persons’ worlds that it is a great deal better for a lady to be out of,” said Mrs. Morton. Then Lady Augustus put up her hands, and turned round, and affected to laugh, of all which things Mr. Gotobed, who was studying English society, made notes in his own mind.

“What sort of position does that man Goarly occupy here?” the Senator asked immediately after dinner.

“No position at all,” said Morton.

“Every man created holds some position as I take it. The land is his own.”

“He has I believe about fifty acres.”

“And yet he seems to be in the lowest depth of poverty and ignorance.”

“Of course he mismanages his property and probably drinks.”

“I dare say, Mr. Morton. He is proud of his rights, and talked of his father and his grandfather, and yet I doubt whether you would find a man so squalid and so ignorant in all the States. I suppose he is injured by having a lord so near him.”

“Quite the contrary if he would be amenable.”

“You mean if he would be a creature of the lord’s. And why was that other man so uncivil to me;—the man who was the lord’s gamekeeper?”

“Because you went there as a friend of Goarly.”

“And that’s his idea of English fair play?” asked the Senator with a jeer.

“The truth is, Mr. Gotobed,” said Morton endeavouring to explain it all, “you see a part only and not the whole. That man Goarly is a rascal.”

“So everybody says.”

“And why can’t you believe everybody?”

“So everybody says on the lord’s side. But before I’m done I’ll find out what people say on the other side. I can see that he is ignorant and squalid; but that very probably is the lord’s fault. It may be that he is a rascal and that the lord is to blame for that too. But if the lord’s pheasants have eaten up Goarly’s corn, the lord ought to pay for the corn whether Goarly be a rascal or not” Then John Morton made up his mind that he would never ask another American Senator to his house.

CHAPTER XVIII

The Attorney’s Family is disturbed

On that Wednesday evening Mary Masters said nothing to any of her family as to the invitation from Lady Ushant. She very much wished to accept it. Latterly, for the last month or two, her distaste to the kind of life for which her stepmother was preparing her, had increased upon her greatly. There bad been days in which she had doubted whether it might not be expedient that she should accept Mr. Twentyman’s offer. She believed no ill of him. She thought him to be a fine manly young fellow with a good heart and high principles. She never asked herself whether he were or were not a gentleman. She had never even inquired of herself whether she herself were or were not especially a lady. But with all her efforts to like the man,—because she thought that by doing so she would relieve and please her father,—yet he was distasteful to her; and now, since that walk home with him from Bragton Bridge, he was more distasteful than ever. She did not tell herself that a short visit, say for a month, to Cheltenham, would prevent his further attentions, but she felt that there would be a temporary escape. I do not think that she dwelt much on the suggestion that Reginald Morton should be her companion on the journey, but the idea of such companionship, even for a short time, was pleasant to her. If he did this surely then he would forgive her for having left him at the bridge. She had much to think of before she could resolve how she should tell her tidings. Should she show the letter first to her stepmother or to her father? In the ordinary course of things in that house the former course would be expected. It was Mrs. Masters who managed everything affecting the family. It was she who gave permission or denied permission for every indulgence. She was generally fair to the three girls, taking special pride to herself for doing her duty by her stepdaughter;—but on this very account she was the more likely to be angry if Mary passed her by on such an occasion as this and went to her father. But should her stepmother have once refused her permission, then the matter would have been decided against her. It would be quite useless to appeal from her stepmother to her father; nor would such an appeal come within the scope of her own principles. The Mortons, and especially Lady Ushant, had been her father’s friends in old days and she thought that perhaps she might prevail in this case if she could speak to her father first. She knew well what would be the great, or rather the real objection. Her mother would not wish that she should be removed so long from Larry Twentyman. There might be difficulties about her clothes, but her father, she knew would be kind to her.

At last she made up her mind that she would ask her father. He was always at his office-desk for half an hour in the morning, before the clerks had come, and on the following day, a minute or two after he had taken his seat, she knocked at the door. He was busy reading a letter from Lord Rufford’s man of business, asking him certain questions about Goarly and almost employing him to get up the case on Lord Rufford’s behalf. There was a certain triumph to him in this. It was not by his means that tidings had reached Lord Rufford of his refusal to undertake Goarly’s case. But Runciman, who was often allowed by his lordship to say a few words to him in the hunting-field, had mentioned the circumstance. “A man like Mr. Masters is better without such a blackguard as that,” the Lord had said. Then Runciman had replied, “No doubt, my Lord; no doubt. But Dillsborough is a poor place, and business is business, my Lord.” Then Lord Rufford had remembered it, and the letter which the attorney was somewhat triumphantly reading had been the consequence.

“Is that you, Mary? What can I do for you, my love?”

“Papa, I want you to read this.” Then Mr. Masters read the letter. “I should so like to go.”

“Should you, my dear?”

“Oh yes! Lady Ushant has been so kind to me, all my life! And I do so love her!”

“What does mamma say?”

“I haven’t asked mamma.”

“Is there any reason why you shouldn’t go?”

Of that one reason,—as to Larry Twentyman,—of course she would say nothing. She must leave him to discuss that with her mother. “I should want some clothes, papa; a dress, and some boots, and a new hat, and there would be money for the journey and a few other things.” The attorney winced, but at the same time remembered that something was due to his eldest child in the way of garments and relaxation. “I never like to be an expense, papa.”

“You are very good about that, my dear. I don’t see why you shouldn’t go. It’s very kind of Lady Ushant. I’ll talk to mamma.” Then Mary went away to get the breakfast, fearing that before long there would be black looks in the house.

Mr. Masters at once went up to his wife, having given himself a minute or two to calculate that he would let Mary have twenty pounds for the occasion,—and made his proposition. “I never heard of such nonsense in my life,” said Mrs. Masters.

“Nonsense,—my dear! Why should it be nonsense?”

“Cocking her up with Lady Ushant! What good will Lady Ushant do her? She’s not going to live with ladies of quality all her life.”

“Why shouldn’t she live with ladies?”

“You know what I mean, Gregory. The Mortons have dropped you, for any use they were to you, long ago, and you may as well make up your mind to drop them. You’ll go on hankering after gentlefolks till you’ve about ruined yourself.”

When he remembered that he had that very morning received a commission from Lord Rufford he thought that this was a little too bad. But he was not now in a humour to make known to her this piece of good news. “I like to feel that she has got friends,” he said, going back to Mary’s proposed visit.

“Of course she has got friends, if she’ll only take up with them as she ought to do. Why does she go on shilly-shallying with that young man, instead of closing upon it at once? If she did that she wouldn’t want such friends as Lady Ushant. Why did the girl come to you with all this instead of asking me?”

“There would be a little money wanted.”

“Money! Yes, I dare say. It’s very easy to want money but very hard to get it. If you send clients away out of the office with a flea in their ear I don’t see how she’s to have all manner of luxuries. She ought to have come to me”

“I don’t see that at all, my dear.”

“If I’m to look after her she shall be said by me;—that’s all. I’ve done for her just as I have for my own and I’m not going to have her turn up her nose at me directly she wants anything for herself. I know what’s fit for Mary, and it ain’t fit that she should go trapesing away to Cheltenham, doing nothing in that old woman’s parlour, and losing her chances for life. Who is to suppose that Larry Twentyman will go on dangling after her in this way, month after month? The young man wants a wife, and of course he’ll get one.”

“You can’t make her marry the man if she don’t like him.”

“Like him! She ought to be made to like him. A young man well off as he is, and she without a shilling! All that comes from Ushanting.” It never occurred to Mrs. Masters that perhaps the very qualities that had made poor Larry so vehemently in love with Mary had come from her intercourse with Lady Ushant. “If I’m to have my way she won’t go a yard on the way to Cheltenham.”

“I’ve told her she may go,” said Mr. Masters, whose mind was wandering back to old days,—to his first wife, and to the time when he used to be an occasional guest in the big parlour at Bragton. He was always ready to acknowledge to himself that his present wife was a good and helpful companion to him and a careful mother to his children; but there were moments in which he would remember with soft regret a different phase of his life. Just at present he was somewhat angry, and resolving in his own mind that in this case he would have his own way.

“Then I shall tell her she mayn’t,” said Mrs. Masters with a look of dogged determination.

“I hope you will do nothing of the kind, my dear. I’ve told her that she shall have a few pounds to get what she wants, and I won’t have her disappointed.” After that Mrs. Masters bounced out of the room, and made herself very disagreeable indeed over the tea-things.

The whole household was much disturbed that day. Mrs. Masters said nothing to Mary about Lady Ushant all the morning, but said a great deal about other things. Poor Mary was asked whether she was not ashamed to treat a young man as she was treating Mr. Twentyman. Then again it was demanded of her whether she thought it right that all the house should be knocked about for her. At dinner Mrs. Masters would hardly speak to her husband but addressed herself exclusively to Dolly and Kate. Mr. Masters was not a man who could, usually, stand this kind of thing very long and was accustomed to give up in despair and then take himself off to the solace of his office-chair. But on the present occasion he went through his meal like a Spartan, and retired from the room without a sign of surrender. In the afternoon about five o’clock Mary watched her opportunity and found him again alone. It was incumbent on her to reply to Lady Ushant. Would it not be better that she should write and say how sorry she was that she could not come? “But I want you to go,” said he.

“Oh, papa;—I cannot bear to cause trouble.”

“No, my dear; no; and I’m sure I don’t like trouble myself. But in this case I think you ought to go. What day has she named?” Then Mary declared that she could not possibly go so soon as Lady Ushant had suggested, but that she could be ready by the 18th of December. “Then write and tell her so, my dear, and I will let your mother know that it is fixed.” But Mary still hesitated, desiring to know whether she had not better speak to her mother first. “I think you had better write your letter first,”—and then he absolutely made her write it in the office and give it to him to be posted. After that he promised to communicate to Reginald Morton what had been done.

The household was very much disturbed the whole of that evening. Poor Mary never remembered such a state of things, and when there had been any difference of opinion, she had hitherto never been the cause of it. Now it was all owing to her! And things were said so terrible that she hardly knew how to bear them. Her father had promised her the twenty pounds, and it was insinuated that all the comforts of the family must be stopped because of this lavish extravagance. Her father sat still and bore it, almost without a word. Both Dolly and Kate were silent and wretched. Mrs. Masters every now and then gurgled in her throat, and three or four times wiped her eyes. “I’m better out of the way altogether,” she said at last, jumping up and walking towards the door as though she were going to leave the room,—and the house, for ever.

“Mamma,” said Mary, rising from her seat, “I won’t go. I’ll write and tell Lady Ushant that I can’t do it.”

“You’re not to mind me,” said Mrs. Masters. “You’re to do what your papa tells you. Everything that I’ve been striving at is to be thrown away. I’m to be nobody, and it’s quite right that your papa should tell you so.”

“Dear mamma, don’t talk like that,” said Mary, clinging hold of her stepmother.

“Your papa sits there and won’t say a word,” said Mrs. Masters, stamping her foot.

“What’s the good of speaking when you go on like that before the children?” said Mr. Masters, getting up from his chair. “I say that it’s a proper thing that the girl should go to see the old friend who brought her up and has been always kind to her,—and she shall go.” Mrs. Masters seated herself on the nearest chair and leaning her head against the wall, began to go into hysterics. “Your letter has already gone, Mary; and I desire you will write no other without letting me know.” Then he left the room and the house,—and absolutely went over to the Bush. This latter proceeding was, however, hardly more than a bravado; for he merely took the opportunity of asking Mrs. Runciman a question at the bar, and then walked back to his own house, and shut himself up in the office.

On the next morning he called on Reginald Morton and told him that his daughter had accepted Lady Ushant’s invitation, but could not go till the 18th. “I shall be proud to take charge of her,” said Reginald. “And as for the change in the day it will suit me all the better.” So that was settled.

On the next day, Friday, Mrs. Masters did not come down to breakfast, but was waited upon up-stairs by her own daughters. This with her was a most unusual circumstance. The two maids were of opinion that such a thing had never occurred before, and that therefore Master must have been out half the night at the public-house although they had not known it. To Mary she would hardly speak a word. She appeared at dinner and called her husband Mr. Masters when she helped him to stew. All the afternoon she averred that her head was splitting, but managed to say many very bitter things about gentlemen in general, and expressed a vehement hope that that poor man Goarly would get at least a hundred pounds. It must be owned, however, that at this time she had heard nothing of Lord Rufford’s commission to her husband. In the evening Larry came in and was at once told the terrible news. “Larry,” said Kate, “Mary is going away for a month.”

“Where are you going, Mary?” asked the lover eagerly.

“To Lady Ushant’s, Mr. Twentyman.”

“For a month!”

“She has asked me for a month,” said Mary.

“It’s a regular fool’s errand,” said Mrs. Masters. “It’s not done with my consent, Mr. Twentyman. I don’t think she ought to stir from home till things are more settled.”

“They can be settled this moment as far as I am concerned,” said Larry standing up.

“There now,” said Mrs. Masters. At this time Mr. Masters was not in the room. “If you can make it straight with Mr. Twentyman I won’t say a word against your going away for a month.”

“Mamma, you shouldn’t!” exclaimed Mary.

“I hate such nonsense. Mr. Twentyman is behaving honest and genteel. What more would you have? Give him an answer like a sensible girl.”

“I have given him an answer and I cannot say anything more,” said Mary as she left the room.

CHAPTER XIX

“Who valued the Geese?”

Before the time had come for the visit to Rufford Hall Mr. Gotobed had called upon Bearside the attorney and had learned as much as Mr. Bearside chose to tell him of the facts of the case. This took place on the Saturday morning and the interview was on the whole satisfactory to the Senator. But then having a theory of his own in his head, and being fond of ventilating his own theories, he explained thoroughly to the man the story which he wished to hear before the man was called upon to tell his story. Mr. Bearside of course told it accordingly. Goarly was a very poor man, and very ignorant; was perhaps not altogether so good a member of society as he might have been; but no doubt he had a strong case against the lord. The lord, so said Mr. Bearside, had fallen into a way of paying a certain recompense in certain cases for crops damaged by game; and having in this way laid down a rule for himself did not choose to have that rule disturbed. “Just feudalism!” said the indignant Senator. “No better, nor yet no worse than that, sir,” said the attorney who did not in the least know what feudalism was. “The strong hand backed by the strong rank and the strong purse determined to have its own way!” continued the Senator. “A most determined man is his lordship,” said the attorney. Then the Senator expressed his hope that Mr. Bearside would be able to see the poor man through it, and Mr. Bearside explained to the Senator that the poor man was a very poor man indeed, who had been so unfortunate with his land that he was hardly able to provide bread for himself and his children. He went so far as to insinuate that he was taking up this matter himself solely on the score of charity, adding that as he could not of course afford to be money out of pocket for expenses of witnesses, etc, he did not quite see how he was to proceed. Then the Senator made certain promises. He was, he said, going back to London in the course of next week, but he did not mind making himself responsible to the extent of fifty dollars if the thing were carried on, bona fide, to a conclusion. Mr. Bearside declared that it would of course be bona fide, and asked the Senator for his address. Would Mr. Gotobed object to putting his name to a little docket certifying to the amount promised? Mr. Gotobed gave an address, but thought that in such a matter as that his word might be trusted. If it were not trusted then the offer might fall to the ground. Mr. Bearside was profuse in his apologies and declared that the gentleman’s word was as good as his bond.

Mr. Gotobed made no secret of his doings. Perhaps he had a feeling that he could not justify himself in so strange a proceeding without absolute candour. He saw Mr. Mainwaring in the street as he left Bearside’s office and told him all about it. “I just want, sir, to see what’ll come of it”

“You’ll lose your fifty dollars, Mr. Gotobed, and only cause a little vexation to a high-spirited young nobleman.”

“Very likely, sir. But neither the loss of my dollars, nor Lord Rufford’s slight vexation will in the least disturb my rest. I’m not a rich man, sir, but I should like to watch the way in which such a question will be tried and brought to a conclusion in this aristocratic country. I don’t quite know what your laws may be, Mr. Mainwaring.”

“Just the same as your own, Mr. Gotobed, I take it”

“We have no game laws, sir. As I was saying I don’t understand your laws, but justice is the same everywhere. If this great lord’s game has eaten up the poor man’s wheat the great lord ought to pay for it.”

“The owners of game pay for the damage they do three times over,” said the parson, who was very strongly on that side of the question. “Do you think that such men as Goarly would be better off if the gentry were never to come into the country at all?”

“Perhaps, Mr. Mainwaring, I may think that there would be no Goarlys if there were no Ruffords. That, however, is a great question which cannot be argued on this case. All we can hope here is that one poor man may have an act of justice done him though in seeking for it he has to struggle against so wealthy a magnate as Lord Rufford.”

“What I hope is that he may be found out,” replied Mr. Mainwaring with equal enthusiasm, “and then he will be in Rufford gaol before long. That’s the justice I look for. Who do you think put down the poison in Dillsborough wood?”

“How was it that the poor woman lost all her geese?” asked the Senator.

“She was paid for a great many more than she lost, Mr. Gotobed.”

“That doesn’t touch upon the injustice of the proceeding. Who assessed the loss, sir? Who valued the geese? Am I to keep a pet tiger in my garden, and give you a couple of dollars when he destroys your pet dog, and think myself justified because dogs as a rule are not worth more than two dollars each? She has a right to her own geese on her own ground.”

“And Lord Rufford, sir, as I take it,” said Runciman, who had been allowed to come up and hear the end of the conversation, “has a right to his own foxes in his own coverts.”

“Yes,—if he could keep them there, my friend. But as it is the nature of foxes to wander away and to be thieves, he has no such right.”

“Of course, sir, begging your pardon,” said Runciman, “I was speaking of England.” Runciman had heard of the Senator Gotobed, as indeed had all Dillsborough by this time.

“And I am speaking of justice all the world over,” said the Senator slapping his hand upon his thigh. “But I only want to see. It may be that England is a country in which a poor man should not attempt to hold a few acres of land.”

On that night the Dillsborough club met as usual and, as a matter of course, Goarly and the American Senator were the subjects chiefly discussed. Everybody in the room knew,—or thought that he knew,—that Goarly was a cheating fraudulent knave, and that Lord Rufford was, at any rate, in this case acting properly. They all understood the old goose, and were aware, nearly to a bushel, of the amount of wheat which the man had sold off those two fields. Runciman knew that the interest on the mortgage had been paid, and could only have been paid out of the produce; and Larry Twentyman knew that if Goarly took his 7s. 6d. an acre he would be better off than if the wood had not been there. But yet among them all they didn’t quite see how they were to confute the Senator’s logic. They could not answer it satisfactorily, even among themselves; but they felt that if Goarly could be detected in some offence, that would confute the Senator. Among themselves it was sufficient to repeat the well-known fact that Goarly was a rascal; but with reference to this aggravating, interfering, and most obnoxious American it would be necessary to prove it.

“His Lordship has put it into Masters’s hands, I’m told,” said the doctor. At this time neither the attorney nor Larry Twentyman were in the room.

“He couldn’t have done better,” said Runciman, speaking from behind a long clay pipe.

“All the same he was nibbling at Goarly,” said Ned Botsey.

“I don’t know that he was nibbling at Goarly at all, Mr. Botsey,” said the landlord. “Goarly came to him, and Goarly was refused. What more would you have?”

“It’s all one to me,” said Botsey; “only I do think that in a sporting county like this the place ought to be made too hot to hold a blackguard like that. If he comes out at me with his gun I’ll ride over him. And I wouldn’t mind riding over that American too.”

“That’s just what would suit Goarly’s book,” said the doctor.

“Exactly what Goarly would like,” said Harry Stubbings.

Then Mr. Masters and Larry entered the room. On that evening two things had occurred to the attorney. Nickem had returned, and had asked for and received an additional week’s leave of absence. He had declined to explain accurately what he was doing but gave the attorney to understand that he thought that he was on the way to the bottom of the whole thing. Then, after Nickem had left him, Mr. Masters had a letter of instructions from Lord Rufford’s steward. When he received it, and found that his paid services had been absolutely employed on behalf of his Lordship, he almost regretted the encouragement he had given to Nickem. In the first place he might want Nickem. And then he felt that in his present position he ought not to be a party to anything underhand. But Nickem was gone, and he was obliged to console himself by thinking that Nickem was at any rate employing his intellect on the right side. When he left his house with Larry Twentyman he had told his wife nothing about Lord Rufford. Up to this time he and his wife had not as yet reconciled their difference, and poor Mary was still living in misery. Larry, though he had called for the attorney, had not sat down in the parlour, and had barely spoken to Mary. “For gracious sake, Mr. Twentyman, don’t let him stay in that place there half the night,” said Mrs. Masters. “It ain’t fit for a father of a family.”

“Father never does stay half the night,” said Kate, who took more liberties in that house than any one else.

“Hold your tongue, miss. I don’t know whether it wouldn’t be better for you, Mr. Twentyman, if you were not there so often yourself.” Poor Larry felt this to be hard. He was not even engaged as yet, and as far as he could see was not on the way to be engaged. In such condition surely his possible mother-in-law could have no right to interfere with him. He condescended to make no reply, but crossed the passage and carried the attorney off with him.

“You’ve heard what that American gentleman has been about, Mr. Masters?” asked the landlord.

“I’m told he’s been with Bearside.”

“And has offered to pay his bill for him if he’ll carry on the business for Goarly. Whoever heard the like of that?”

“What sort of a man is he?” asked the doctor. “A great man in his own country everybody says,” answered Runciman. “I wish he’d stayed there. He comes over here and thinks he understands everything just as though he had lived here all his life. Did you say gin cold, Larry; and rum for you, Mr. Masters?” Then the landlord gave the orders to the girl who had answered the bell.

“But they say he’s actually going to Lord Rufford’s,” said young Botsey who would have given one of his fingers to be asked to the lord’s house.

“They are all going from Bragton,” said Runciman.

“The young squire is going to ride one of my horses,” said Harry Stubbings.

“That’ll be an easy three pounds in your pockets, Harry,” said the doctor. In answer to which Harry remarked that he took all that as it came, the heavies and lights together, and that there was not much change to be got out of three sovereigns when some gentlemen had had a horse out for the day,—particularly when a gentleman didn’t pay perhaps for twelve months.

“The whole party is going,” continued the landlord. “How he is to have the cheek to go into his Lordship’s house after what he is doing is more than I can understand.”

“What business is it of his?” said Larry angrily. “That’s what I want to know. What’d he think if we went and interfered over there? I shouldn’t be surprised if he got a little rough usage before he’s out of the county. I’m told he came across Bean when he was ferreting about the other day, and that Bean gave him quite as good as he brought.”

“I say he’s a spy,” said Ribbs the butcher from his seat on the sofa. “I hates a spy.”

Soon after that Mr. Masters left the room and Larry Twentyman followed him. There was something almost ridiculous in the way the young man would follow the attorney about on these Saturday evenings,—as though he could make love to the girl by talking to the father. But on this occasion he had something special to say. “So Mary’s going to Cheltenham, Mr. Masters.”

“Yes, she is. You don’t see any objection to that, I hope.”

“Not in the least, Mr. Masters. I wish she might go anywhere to enjoy herself. And from all I’ve heard Lady Ushant is a very good sort of lady.”

“A very good sort of lady. She won’t do Mary any harm, Twentyman.”

“I don’t suppose she will. But there’s one thing I should like to know. Why shouldn’t she tell me before she goes that she’ll have me?”

“I wish she would with all my heart.”

“And Mrs. Masters is all on my side.”

“Quite so.”

“And the girls have always been my friends.”

“I think we are all your friends, Twentyman. I’m sure Mary is. But that isn’t marrying; is it?”

“If you would speak to her, Mr. Masters.”

“What would you have me say? I couldn’t bid my girl to have one man or another. I could only tell her what I think, and that she knows already.”

“If you were to say that you wished it! She thinks so much about you:’

“I couldn’t tell her that I wished it in a manner that would drive her into it. Of course it would be a very good match. But I have only to think of her happiness and I must leave her to judge what will make her happy.”

“I should like to have it fixed some way before she starts,” said Larry in an altered tone.

“Of course you are your own master, Twentyman. And you have behaved very well”

“This is a kind of thing that a man can’t stand,” said the young farmer sulkily. “Good night, Mr. Masters” Then he walked off home to Chowton Farm meditating on his own condition and trying to make up his mind to leave the scornful girl and become a free man. But he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t even quite make up his mind that he would try to do it. There was a bitterness within as he thought of permanent fixed failure which he could not digest. There was a craving in his heart which he did not himself quite understand, but which made him think that the world would be unfit to be lived in if he were to be altogether separated from Mary Masters. He couldn’t separate himself from her. It was all very well thinking of it, talking of it, threatening it; but in truth he couldn’t do it. There might of course be an emergency in which he must do it. She might declare that she loved some one else and she might marry that other person. In that event he saw no other alternative but,— as he expressed it to himself,—“to run a mucker.” Whether the “mucker” should be run against Mary, or against the fortunate lover, or against himself, he did not at present resolve.

But he did resolve as he reached his own hall door that he would make one more passionate appeal to Mary herself before she started for Cheltenham, and that he would not make it out on a public path, or in the Masters’ family parlour before all the Masters’ family;— but that he would have her secluded, by herself, so that he might speak out all that was in him, to the best of his ability.

CHAPTER XX

There are Convenances

Before the Monday came the party to Rufford Hall had become quite a settled thing and had been very much discussed. On the Saturday the Senator had been driven to the meet, a distance of about ten miles, on purpose that he might see Lord Rufford and explain his views about Goarly. Lord Rufford had bowed and stared, and laughed, and had then told the Senator that he thought he would “find himself in the wrong box.” “That’s quite possible, my Lord. I guess, it won’t be the first time I’ve been in the wrong box, my Lord. Sometimes I do get right. But I thought I would not enter your lordship’s house as a guest without telling you what I was doing.” Then Lord Rufford assured him that this little affair about Goarly would make no difference in that respect. Mr. Gotobed again scrutinised the hounds and Tony Tuppett, laughed in his sleeve because a fox wasn’t found in the first quarter of an hour, and after that was driven back to Bragton.

The Sunday was a day of preparation for the Trefoils. Of course they didn’t go to church. Arabella indeed was never up in time for church and Lady Augustus only went when her going would be duly registered among fashionable people. Mr. Gotobed laughed when he was invited and asked whether anybody was ever known to go to church two Sundays running at Bragton. “People have been known to refuse with less acrimony,” said Morton. “I always speak my mind, sir,” replied the Senator. Poor John Morton, therefore, went to his parish church alone.

There were many things to be considered by the Trefoils. There was the question of dress. If any good was to be done by Arabella at Rufford it must be done with great despatch. There would be the dinner on Monday, the hunting on Tuesday, the ball, and then the interesting moment of departure. No girl could make better use of her time; but then, think of her difficulties! All that she did would have to be done under the very eyes of the man to whom she was engaged, and to whom she wished to remain engaged,—unless, as she said to herself, she could “pull off the other event.” A great deal must depend on appearance. As she and her mother were out on a lengthened cruise among long-suffering acquaintances, going to the De Brownes after the Gores, and the Smijthes after the De Brownes, with as many holes to run to afterwards as a four-year-old fox,— though with the same probability of finding them stopped,—of course she had her wardrobe with her. To see her night after night one would think that it was supplied with all that wealth would give. But there were deficiencies and there were make-shifts, very well known to herself and well understood by her maid. She could generally supply herself with gloves by bets, as to which she had never any scruple in taking either what she did win or did not, and in dunning any who might chance to be defaulters. On occasions too, when not afraid of the bystanders, she would venture on a hat, and though there was difficulty as to the payment, not being able to give her number as she did with gloves, so that the tradesmen could send the article, still she would manage to get the hat,—and the trimmings. It was said of her that she once offered to lay an Ulster to a sealskin jacket, but that the young man had coolly said that a sealskin jacket was beyond a joke and had asked her whether she was ready to “put down” her Ulster. These were little difficulties from which she usually knew how to extricate herself without embarrassment; but she had not expected to have to marshal her forces against such an enemy as Lord Rufford, or to sit down for the besieging of such a city this campaign. There were little things which required to be done, and the lady’s-maid certainly had not time to go to church on Sunday.

But there were other things which troubled her even more than her clothes. She did not much like Bragton, and at Bragton, in his own house, she did not very much like her proposed husband. At Washington he had been somebody. She had met him everywhere then, and had heard him much talked about. At Washington he had been a popular man and had had the reputation of being a rich man also; but here, at home, in the country he seemed to her to fall off in importance, and he certainly had not made himself pleasant. Whether any man could be pleasant to her in the retirement of a country house,—any man whom she would have no interest in running down,— she did not ask herself. An engagement to her must under any circumstances be a humdrum thing,—to be brightened only by wealth. But here she saw no signs of wealth. Nevertheless she was not prepared to shove away the plank from below her feet, till she was sure that she had a more substantial board on which to step. Her mother, who perhaps did not see in the character of Morton all the charms which she would wish to find in a son-in-law, was anxious to shake off the Bragton alliance; but Arabella, as she said so often both to herself and to her mother, was sick of the dust of the battle and conscious of fading strength. She would make this one more attempt, but must make it with great care. When last in town this young lord had whispered a word or two to her, which then had set her hoping for a couple of days; and now, when chance had brought her into his neighbourhood, he had gone out of his way,— very much out of his way,—to renew his acquaintance with her. She would be mad not to give herself the chance; but yet she could not afford to let the plank go from under her feet.

But the part she had to play was one which even she felt to be almost beyond her powers. She could perceive that Morton was beginning to be jealous,—and that his jealousy was not of that nature which strengthens a tie but which is apt to break it altogether. His jealousy, if fairly aroused, would not be appeased by a final return to himself. She had already given him occasion to declare himself off, and if thoroughly angered he would no doubt use it. Day by day, and almost hour by hour, he was becoming more sombre and hard, and she was well aware that there was reason for it. It did not suit her to walk about alone with him through the shrubberies. It did not suit her to be seen with his arm round her waist. Of course the people of Bragton would talk of the engagement, but she would prefer that they should talk of it with doubt. Even her own maid had declared to Mrs. Hopkins that she did not know whether there was or was not an engagement,—her own maid being at the time almost in her confidence. Very few of the comforts of a lover had been vouchsafed to John Morton during this sojourn at Bragton and very little had been done in accordance with his wishes. Even this visit to Rufford, as she well knew, was being made in opposition to him. She hoped that her lover would not attempt to ride to hounds on the Tuesday, so that she might be near the lord unseen by him,—and that he would leave Rufford on the Wednesday before herself and her mother. At the ball of course she could dance with Lord Rufford, and could keep her eye on her lover at the same time.

She hardly saw Morton on the Sunday afternoon, and she was again closeted on the Monday till lunch. They were to start at four and there would not be much more than time after lunch for her to put on her travelling gear, Then, as they all felt, there was a difficulty about the carriages. Who was to go with whom? Arabella, after lunch, took the bull by the horns. “I suppose,” she said as Morton followed her out into the hall, “mamma and I had better go in the phaeton.”

“I was thinking that Lady Augustus might consent to travel with Mr. Gotobed and that you and I might have the phaeton.”

“Of course it would be very pleasant,” she answered smiling.

“Then why not let it be so?”

“There are convenances.”

“How would it be if you and I were going without anybody else? Do you mean to say that in that case we might not sit in the same carriage?”

“I mean to say that in that case I should not go at all. It isn’t done in England. You have beer in the States so long that you forget all our old-fashioned ways.”

“I do think that is nonsense.” She only smiled and shook her head. “Then the Senator shall go in the phaeton, and I will go with you and your mother.”

“Yes,—and quarrel with mamma all the time as you always do. Let me have it my own way this time.”

“Upon my word I believe you are ashamed of me,” he said leaning back upon the hall table. He had shut the dining-room door and she was standing close to him.

“What nonsense!”

“You have only got to say so, Arabella, and let there be an end of it all.”

“If you wish it, Mr. Morton.”

“You know I don’t wish it. You know I am ready to marry you to-morrow.”

“You have made ever so many difficulties as far as I can understand.”

“You have unreasonable people acting for you, Arabella, and of course I don’t mean to give way to them.”

“Pray don’t talk to me about money. I know nothing about it and have taken no part in the matter. I suppose there must be settlements?”

“Of course there must”

“And I can only do what other people tell me. You at any rate have something to do with it all, and I have absolutely nothing.”

“That is no reason you shouldn’t go in the same carriage with me to Rufford.”

“Are you coming back to that, just like a big child? Do let us consider that as settled. I’m sure you’ll let mamma and me have the use of the phaeton.” Of course the little contest was ended in the manner proposed by Arabella.

“I do think,” said Arabella, when she and her mother were seated in the carriage, “that we have treated him very badly.”

“Quite as well as he deserves! What a house to bring us to; and what people! Did you ever come across such an old woman before! And she has him completely under her thumb. Are you prepared to live with that harridan?”

“You may let me alone, mamma, for all that. She won’t be in my way after I’m married, I can tell you.”

“You’ll have something to do then.”

“I ain’t a bit afraid of her.”

“And to ask us to meet such people as this American!”

“He’s going back to Washington and it suited him to have him. I don’t quarrel with him for that. I wish I were married to him and back in the States.”

“You do?”

“I do.”

“You have given it all up about Lord Rufford then?”

“No;—that’s just where it is. I haven’t given it up, and I still see trouble upon trouble before me. But I know how it will be. He doesn’t mean anything. He’s only amusing himself.”

“If he’d once say the word he couldn’t get back again. The Duke would interfere then.”

“What would he care for the Duke? The Duke is no more than anybody else nowadays. I shall just fall to the ground between two stools. I know it as well as if it were done already. And then I shall have to begin again! If it comes to that I shall do something terrible. I know I shall.” Then they turned in at Lord Rufford’s gates; and as they were driven up beneath the oaks, through the gloom, both mother and daughter thought how charming it would be to be the mistress of such a park.

CHAPTER XXI

The first Evening at Rufford Hall

The phaeton arrived the first, the driver having been especially told by Arabella that he need not delay on the road for the other carriage. She had calculated that she might make her entrance with better effect alone with her mother than in company with Morton and the Senator. It would have been worth the while of any one who had witnessed her troubles on that morning to watch the bland serenity and happy ease with which she entered the room. Her mother was fond of a prominent place but was quite contented on this occasion to play a second fiddle for her daughter. She had seen at a glance that Rufford Hall was a delightful house. Oh,—if it might become the home of her child and her grandchildren,—and possibly a retreat for herself! Arabella was certainly very handsome at this moment. Never did she look better than when got up with care for travelling, especially as seen by an evening light. Her slow motions were adapted to heavy wraps, and however she might procure her large sealskin jacket she graced it well when she had it. Lord Rufford came to the door to meet them and immediately introduced them to his sister. There were six or seven people in the room, mostly ladies, and tea was offered to the new-comers. Lady Penwether was largely made, like her brother; but was a languidly lovely woman, not altogether unlike Arabella herself in her figure and movements, but with a more expressive face, with less colour, and much more positive assurance of high breeding. Lady Penwether was said to be haughty, but it was admitted by all people that when Lady Penwether had said a thing or had done a thing, it might be taken for granted that the way in which she had done or said that thing was the right way. The only other gentleman there was Major Caneback, who had just come in from hunting with some distant pack and who had been brought into the room by Lord Rufford that he might give some account of the doings of the day. According to Caneback, they had been talking in the Brake country about nothing but Goarly and the enormities which had been perpetrated to the U.R.U. “By-the-bye, Miss Trefoil,” said Lord Rufford, “what have you done with your Senator?”

“He’s on the road, Lord Rufford, examining English institutions as he comes along. He’ll be here by midnight.”

“Imagine the man coming to me and telling me that he was a friend of Goarly’s. I rather liked him for it. There was a thorough pluck about it. They say he’s going to find all the money.”

“I thought Mr. Scrobby was to do that?” said Lady Penwether.

“Mr. Scrobby will not have the slightest objection to have that part of the work done for him. If all we hear is true Miss Trefoil’s Senator may have to defend both Scrobby and Goarly.”

“My Senator as you call him will be quite up to the occasion.”

“You knew him in America, Miss Trefoil?” asked Lady Penwether.

“Oh yes. We used to meet him and Mrs. Gotobed everywhere. But we didn’t exactly bring him over with us;—though our party down to Bragton was made up in Washington,” she added, feeling that she might in this way account in some degree for her own presence in John Morton’s house. “It was mamma and Mr. Morton arranged it all.”

“Oh my dear it was you and the Senator,” said Lady Augustus, ready for the occasion.

“Miss Trefoil,” said the lord, “let us have it all out at once. Are you taking Goarly’s part?”

“Taking Goarly’s part!” ejaculated the Major. Arabella affected to give a little start, as though frightened by the Major’s enthusiasm. “For heaven’s. sake let us know our foes,” continued Lord Rufford. “You see the effect such an announcement had upon Major Caneback. Have you made an appointment before dawn with Mr. Scrobby under the elms? Now I look at you I believe in my heart you’re a Goarlyite,—only without the Senator’s courage to tell me the truth beforehand.”

“I really am very much obliged to Goarly,” said Arabella, “because it is so nice to have something to talk about.”

“That’s just what I think, Miss Trefoil,” declared a young lady, Miss Penge, who was a friend of Lady Penwether. “The gentlemen have so much to say about hunting which nobody can understand! But now this delightful man has scattered poison all over the country there is something that comes home to our understanding. I declare myself a Goarlyite at once, Lord Rufford, and shall put myself under the Senator’s leading directly he comes.”

During all this time not a word had been said of John Morton, the master of Bragton, the man to whose party these new-comers belonged. Lady Augustus and Arabella clearly understood that John Morton was only a peg on which the invitation to them had been hung. The feeling that it was so grew upon them with every word that was spoken,—and also the conviction that he must be treated like a peg at Rufford. The sight of the hangings of the room, so different to the old-fashioned dingy curtains at Bragton, the brilliancy of the mirrors, all the decorations of the place, the very blaze from the big grate, forced upon the girl’s feelings a conviction that this was her proper sphere. Here she was, being made much of as a new-comer, and here if possible she must remain. Everything smiled on her with gilded dimples, and these were the smiles she valued. As the softness of the cushions sank into her heart, and mellow nothingnesses from well-trained voices greeted her ears, and the air of wealth and idleness floated about her cheeks, her imagination rose within her and assured her that she could secure something better than Bragton. The cautions with which she had armed herself faded away. This, this was the kind of thing for which she had been striving. As a girl of spirit was it not worth her while to make another effort even though there might be danger? Aut Caesar aut nihil. She knew nothing about Caesar; but before the tardy wheels which brought the Senator and Mr. Morton had stopped at the door she had declared to herself that she would be Lady Rufford. The fresh party was of course brought into the drawing-room and tea was offered; but Arabella hardly spoke to them, and Lady Augustus did not speak to them at all, and they were shown up to their bedrooms with very little preliminary conversation.

It was very hard to put Mr. Gotobed down;—or it might be more correctly said, as there was no effort to put him down,—that it was not often that he failed in coming to the surface. He took Lady Penwether out to dinner and was soon explaining to her that this little experiment of his in regard to Goarly was being tried simply with the view of examining the institutions of the country. “We don’t mind it from you,” said Lady Penwether, “because you are in a certain degree a foreigner.” The Senator declared himself flattered by being regarded as a foreigner only “in a certain degree.” “You see you speak our language, Mr. Gotobed, and we can’t help thinking you are half-English.”

“We are two-thirds English, my lady,” said Mr. Gotobed; “but then we think the other third is an improvement.”

“Very likely.”

“We have nothing so nice as this;” as he spoke he waved his right hand to the different corners of the room. “Such a dinner-table as I am sitting down to now couldn’t be fixed in all the United States though a man might spend three times as many dollars on it as his lordship does.”

“That is very often done, I should think.”

“But then as we have nothing so well done as a house like this, so also have we nothing so ill done as the houses of your poor people.”

“Wages are higher with you, Mr. Gotobed”

“And public spirit, and the philanthropy of the age, and the enlightenment of the people, and the institutions of the country all round. They are all higher.”

“Canvas-back ducks,” said the Major, who was sitting two or three off on the other side.

“Yes, sir, we have canvas-back ducks.”

“Make up for a great many faults,” said the Major.

“Of course, sir, when a man’s stomach rises above his intelligence he’ll have to argue accordingly,” said the Senator.

“Caneback, what are you going to ride to-morrow?” asked the lord who saw the necessity of changing the conversation, as far at least as the Major was concerned.

“Jemima;—mare of Purefoy’s; have my neck broken, they tell me.”

“It’s not improbable,” said Sir John Purefoy who was sitting at Lady Penwether’s left hand. “Nobody ever could ride her yet.”

“I was thinking of asking you to let Miss Trefoil try her,” said Lord Rufford. Arabella was sitting between Sir John Purefoy and the Major.

“Miss Trefoil is quite welcome,” said Sir John. “It isn’t a bad idea. Perhaps she may carry a lady, because she has never been tried. I know that she objects strongly to carry a man.”

“My dear,” said Lady Augustus, “you shan’t do anything of the kind.” And Lady Augustus pretended to be frightened.

“Mamma, you don’t suppose Lord Rufford wants to kill me at once.”

“You shall either ride her, Miss Trefoil, or my little horse Jack. But I warn you beforehand that as Jack is the easiest ridden horse in the country, and can scramble over anything, and never came down in his life, you won’t get any honour and glory; but on Jemima you might make a character that would stick to you till your dying day.”

“But if I ride Jemima that dying day might be to-morrow. I think I’ll take Jack, Lord Rufford, and let Major Caneback have the honour. Is Jack fast?” In this way the anger arising between the Senator and the Major was assuaged. The Senator still held his own, and, before the question was settled between Jack and Jemima, had told the company that no Englishman knew how to ride, and that the only seat fit for a man on horseback was that suited for the pacing horses of California and Mexico. Then he assured Sir John Purefoy that eighty miles a day was no great journey for a pacing horse, with a man of fourteen stone and a saddle and accoutrements weighing four more. The Major’s countenance, when the Senator declared that no Englishman could ride, was a sight worth seeing.

That evening, even in the drawing-room, the conversation was chiefly about horses and hunting, and those terrible enemies Goarly and Scrobby. Lady Penwether and Miss Penge who didn’t hunt were distantly civil to Lady Augustus of whom of course a woman so much in the world as Lady Penwether knew something. Lady Penwether had shrugged her shoulders when consulted as to these special guests and had expressed a hope that Rufford “wasn’t going to make a goose of himself.” But she was fond of her brother and as both Lady Purefoy and Miss Penge were special friends of hers, and as she had also been allowed to invite a couple of Godolphin’s girls to whom she wished to be civil, she did as she was asked. The girl, she said to Miss Penge that evening, was handsome, but penniless and a flirt. The mother she declared to be a regular old soldier. As to Lady Augustus she was right; but she had perhaps failed to read Arabella’s character correctly. Arabella Trefoil was certainly not a flirt. In all the horsey conversation Arabella joined, and her low, clear, slow voice could be heard now and then as though she were really animated with the subject. At Bragton she had never once spoken as though any matter had interested her. During this time Morton fell into conversation first with Lady Purefoy and then with the two Miss Godolphins, and afterwards for a few minutes with Lady Penwether who knew that he was a county gentleman and a respectable member of the diplomatic profession. But during the whole evening his ear was intent on the notes of Arabella’s voice; and also, during the whole evening, her eye was watching him. She would not lose her chance with Lord Rufford for want of any effort on her own part. If aught were required from her in her present task that might be offensive to Mr. Morton,—anything that was peremptorily demanded for the effort,—she would not scruple to offend the man. But if it might be done without offence, so much the better. Once he came across the room and said a word to her as she was talking to Lord Rufford and the Purefoys. “You are really in earnest about riding to-morrow.”

“Oh dear, yes. Why shouldn’t I be in earnest?”

“You are coming out yourself I hope,” said the Lord.

“I have no horses here of my own, but I have told that man Stubbings to send me something, and as I haven’t been at Bragton for the last seven years I have nothing proper to wear. I shan’t be called a Goarlyite I hope if I appear in trowsers.”

“Not unless you have a basket of red herrings on your arm,” said Lord Rufford. Then Morton retired back to the Miss Godolphins finding that he had nothing more to say to Arabella.

He was very angry,—though he hardly knew why or with whom. A girl when she is engaged is not supposed to talk to no one but her recognised lover in a mixed party of ladies and gentlemen, and she is especially absolved from such a duty when they chance to meet in the house of a comparative stranger. In such a house and among such people it was natural that the talk should be about hunting, and as the girl had accepted the loan of a horse it was natural that she should join in such conversation. She had never sat for a moment apart with Lord Rufford. It was impossible to say that she had flirted with the man,—and yet Morton felt that he was neglected, and felt also that he was only there because this pleasure-seeking young Lord had liked to have in his house the handsome girl whom he, Morton, intended to marry. He felt thoroughly ashamed of being there as it were in the train of Miss Trefoil. He was almost disposed to get up and declare that the girl was engaged to marry him. He thought that he could put an end to the engagement without breaking his heart; but if the engagement was an engagement he could not submit to treatment such as this, either from her or from others. He would see her for the last time in the country at the ball on the following evening,—as of course he would not be near her during the hunting,—and then he would make her understand that she must be altogether his or altogether cease to be his. And so resolving he went to bed, refusing to join the gentlemen in the smoking-room.

“Oh, mamma,” Arabella said to her mother that evening, “I do so wish I could break my arm tomorrow.”

“Break your arm, my dear!”

“Or my leg would be better. I wish I could have the courage to chuck myself off going over some gate. If I could be laid up here now with a broken limb I really think I could do it.”

CHAPTER XXII

Jemima

As the meet on the next morning was in the park the party at Rufford Hall was able to enjoy the luxury of an easy morning together with the pleasures of the field. There was no getting up at eight o’clock, no hurry and scurry to do twenty miles and yet be in time, no necessity for the tardy dressers to swallow their breakfasts while their more energetic companions were raving at them for compromising the chances of the day by their delay. There was a public breakfast down-stairs, at which all the hunting farmers of the country were to be seen, and some who, only pretended to be hunting farmers on such occasions. But up-stairs there was a private breakfast for the ladies and such of the gentlemen as preferred tea to champagne and cherry brandy. Lord Rufford was in and out of both rooms, making himself generally agreeable. In the public room there was a great deal said about Goarly, to all of which the Senator listened with eager ears,—for the Senator preferred the public breakfast as offering another institution to his notice. “He’ll swing on a gallows afore he’s dead,” said one energetic farmer who was sitting next to Mr. Gotobed,—a fat man with a round head, and a bullock’s neck, dressed in a black coat with breeches and top-boots. John Runce was not a riding man. He was too heavy and short-winded;—too fond of his beer and port wine; but he was a hunting man all over, one who always had a fox in the springs at the bottom of his big meadows, one to whom it was the very breath of his nostrils to shake hands with the hunting gentry and to be known as a staunch friend to the U.R.U. A man did not live in the county more respected than John Runce, or who was better able to pay his way. To his thinking an animal more injurious than Goarly to the best interests of civilisation could not have been produced by all the evil influences of the world combined. “Do you really think,” said the Senator calmly, “that a man should be hanged for killing a fox?” John Runce, who was not very ready, turned round and stared at him. “I haven’t heard of any other harm that he has done, and perhaps he had some provocation for that.” Words were wanting to Mr. Runce, but not indignation. He collected together his plate and knife and fork and his two glasses and his lump of bread, and, looking the Senator full in the face, slowly pushed back his chair and, carrying his provisions with him, toddled off to the other end of the room. When he reached a spot where place was made for him he had hardly breath left to speak. “Well,” he said, “I never—!” He sat a minute in silence shaking his head, and continued to shake his head and look round upon his neighbours as he devoured his food.

Up-stairs there was a very cosy party who came in by degrees. Lady Penwether was there soon after ten with Miss Penge and some of the gentlemen, including Morton, who was the only man seen in that room in black. Young Hampton, who vas intimate in the house, made his way up there and Sir John Purefoy joined the party. Sir John was a hunting man who lived in the county and was an old friend of the family. Lady Purefoy hunted also, and came in later. Arabella was the last,—not from laziness, but aware that in this way the effect might be the best. Lord Rufford was in the room when she entered it and of course she addressed herself to him. “Which is it to be, Lord Rufford, Jack or Jemima?”

“Which ever you like.”

“I am quite indifferent. If you’ll put me on the mare I’ll ride her,—or try.”

“Indeed you won’t,” said Lady Augustus.

“Mamma knows nothing about it, Lord Rufford. I believe I could do just as well as Major Caneback.”

“She never had a lady on her in her life,” said Sir John.

“Then it’s time for her to begin. But at any rate I must have some breakfast first” Then Lord Rufford brought her a cup of tea and Sir John gave her a cutlet, and she felt herself to be happy. She was quite content with her hat, and though her habit was not exactly a hunting habit, it fitted her well. Morton had never before seen her in a riding dress and acknowledged that it became her. He struggled to think of something special to say to her, but there was nothing. He was not at home on such an occasion. His long trowsers weighed him down, and his ordinary morning coat cowed him. He knew in his heart that she thought no thing of him as he was now. But she said a word to him,—with that usual smile of hers. “Of course, Mr. Morton, you are coming with us.”

“A little way perhaps.”

“You’ll find that any horse from Stubbings can go,” said Lord Rufford. “I wish I could say as much of all mine.”

“Jack can go, I hope, Lord Rufford.” Lord Rufford nodded his head. “And I shall expect you to give me a lead.” To this he assented, though it was perhaps more than he had intended. But on such an occasion it is almost impossible to refuse such a request.

At half-past eleven they were all out in the park, and Tony was elate as a prince having been regaled with a tumbler of champagne. But the great interest of the immediate moment were the frantic efforts made by Jemima to get rid of her rider. Once or twice Sir John asked the Major to give it up, but the Major swore that the mare was a good mare and only wanted riding. She kicked and squealed and backed and went round the park with him at a full gallop. In the park there was a rail with a ha-ha ditch, and the Major rode her at it in a gallop. She went through the timber, fell in the ditch, and then was brought up again without giving the man a fall. He at once put her back at the same fence, and she took it, almost in her stride, without touching it. “Have her like a spaniel before the day’s over,” said the Major, who thoroughly enjoyed these little encounters.

Among the laurels at the bottom of the park a fox was found, and then there was a great deal of riding about the grounds. All this was much enjoyed by the ladies who were on foot,—and by the Senator who wandered about the place alone. A gentleman’s park is not always the happiest place for finding a fox. The animal has usually many resources there and does not like to leave it. And when he does go away it is not always easy to get after him. But ladies in a carriage or on foot on such occasions have their turn of the sport. On this occasion it was nearly one before the fox allowed himself to be killed, and then he had hardly been outside the park palings. There was a good deal of sherry drank before the party got away and hunting men such as Major Caneback began to think that the day was to be thrown away. As they started off for Shugborough Springs, the little covert on John Runce’s farm which was about four miles from Rufford Hall, Sir John asked the Major to get on another animal. “You’ve had trouble enough with her for one day, and given her enough to do.” But the Major was not of that way of thinking. “Let her have the day’s work,” said the Major. “Do her good. Remember what she’s learned.” And so they trotted off to Shugborough.

While they were riding about the park Morton had kept near to Miss Trefoil. Lord Rufford, being on his own place and among his own coverts, had had cares on his hand and been unable to devote himself to the young lady. She had never for a moment looked up at her lover, or tried to escape from him. She had answered all his questions, saying, however, very little, and had bided her time. The more gracious she was to Morton now the less ground would he have for complaining of her when she should leave him by-and-by. As they were trotting along the road Lord Rufford came up and apologized. “I’m afraid I’ve been very inattentive, Miss Trefoil; but I dare say you’ve been in better hands.”

“There hasn’t been much to do;—has there?”

“Very little. I suppose a man isn’t responsible for having foxes that won’t break. Did you see the Senator? He seemed to think it was all right. Did you hear of John Runce?” Then he told the story of John Runce, which had been told to him.

“What a fine old fellow! I should forgive him his rent”

“He is much better able to pay me double. Your Senator, Mr. Morton, is a very peculiar man.”

“He is peculiar,” said Morton, “and I am sorry to say can make himself very disagreeable.”

“We might as well trot on as Shugborough is a small place, and a fox always goes away from it at once. John Runce knows how to train them better than I do. Then they made their way on through the straggling horses, and John Morton, not wishing to seem to be afraid of his rival, remained alone. “I wish Caneback had left that mare behind,” said the lord as they went. “It isn’t the country for her, and she is going very nastily with him. Are you fond of hunting, Miss Trefoil?”

“Very fond of it,” said Arabella who had been out two or three times in her life.

“I like a girl to ride to hounds,” said his lordship. “I don’t think she ever looks so well.” Then Arabella determined that come what might she would ride to hounds.

At Shugborough Springs a fox was found before half the field was up, and he broke almost as soon as he was found. “Follow me through the hand gates,” said the lord, “and from the third field out it’s fair riding. Let him have his head, and remember he hangs a moment as he comes to his fence. You won’t be left behind unless there’s something out of the way to stop us.” Arabella’s heart was in her mouth, but she was quite resolved. Where he went she would follow. As for being left behind she would not care the least for that if he were left behind with her. They got well away, having to pause a moment while the hounds came up to Tony’s horn out of the wood. Then there was plain sailing and there were very few before them. “He’s one of the old sort, my lord,” said Tony as he pressed on, speaking of the fox. “Not too near me, and you’ll go like a bird,” said his lordship. “He’s a nice little horse, isn’t he? When I’m going to be married, he’ll be the first present I shall make her.”

“He’d tempt almost any girl,” said Arabella.

It was wonderful how well she went, knowing so little about it as she did. The horse was one easily ridden, and on plain ground she knew what she was about in a saddle. At any rate she did not disgrace herself and when they had already run some three or four miles Lord Rufford had nearly the best of it and she had kept with him. “You don’t know where you are I suppose,” he said when they came to a check.

“And I don’t in the least care, if they’d only go on,” said she eagerly.

“We’re back at Rufford Park. We’ve left the road nearly a mile to our left, but there we are. Those trees are the park.”

“But must we stop there?”

“That’s as the fox may choose to behave. We shan’t stop unless he does.” Then young Hampton came up, declaring that there was the very mischief going on between Major Caneback and Jemima. According to Hampton’s account, the Major had been down three or four times, but was determined to break either the mare’s neck or her spirit. He had been considerably hurt, so Hampton said, in one shoulder, but had insisted on riding on. “That’s the worst of him,” said Lord Rufford. “He never knows when to give up.”

Then the hounds were again on the scent and were running very fast towards the park. “That’s a nasty ditch before us,” said the Lord. “Come down a little to the left. The hounds are heading that way, and there’s a gate.” Young Hampton in the meantime was going straight for the fence. “I’m not afraid,” said Arabella.

“Very well. Give him his head and he’ll do it”

Just at that moment there was a noise behind them and the Major on Jemima rushed up. She was covered with foam and he with dirt, and her sides were sliced with the spur. His hat was crushed, and he was riding almost altogether with his right hand. He came close to Arabella and she could see the rage in his face as the animal rushed on with her head almost between her knees. “He’ll have another fall there,” said Lord Rufford.

Hampton who had passed them was the first over the fence, and the other three all took it abreast. The Major was to the right, the lord to the left and the girl between them. The mare’s head was perhaps the first. She rushed at the fence, made no leap at all, and of course went headlong into the ditch. The Major still stuck to her though two or three voices implored him to get off. He afterwards declared that he had not strength to lift himself out of the saddle. The mare lay for a moment;—then blundered out, rolled over him, jumped on to her feet, and lunging out kicked her rider on the head as he was rising. Then she went away and afterwards jumped the palings into Rufford Park. That evening she was shot.

The man when kicked had fallen back close under the feet of Miss Trefoil’s horse. She screamed and half-fainting, fell also;—but fell without hurting herself. Lord Rufford of course stopped, as did also Mr. Hampton and one of the whips, with several others in the course of a minute or two. The Major was senseless,—but they who understood what they were looking at were afraid that the case was very bad. He was picked up and put on a door and within half an hour was on his bed in Rufford Hall. But he did not speak for some hours and before six o’clock that evening the doctor from Rufford had declared that he had mounted his last horse and ridden his last hunt!

“Oh Lord Rufford,” said Arabella, “I shall never recover that. I heard the horse’s feet against his head.” Lord Rufford shuddered and put his hand round her waist to support her. At that time they were standing on the ground. “Don’t mind me if you can do any good to him.” But there was nothing that Lord Rufford could do as four men were carrying the Major on a shutter. So he and Arabella returned together, and when she got off her horse she was only able to throw herself into his arms.

CHAPTER XXIII

Poor Caneback

A closer intimacy will occasionally be created by some accident, some fortuitous circumstance, than weeks of ordinary intercourse will produce. Walk down Bond Street in a hailstorm of peculiar severity and you may make a friend of the first person you meet, whereas you would be held to have committed an affront were you to speak to the same person in the same place on a fine day. You shall travel smoothly to York with a lady and she will look as though she would call the guard at once were you so much as to suggest that it were a fine day; but if you are lucky enough to break a wheel before you get to Darlington, she will have told you all her history and shared your sherry by the time you have reached that town. Arabella was very much shocked by the dreadful accident she had seen. Her nerves had suffered, though it may be doubted whether her heart had been affected much. But she was quite conscious when she reached her room that the poor Major’s misfortune, happening as it had done just beneath her horse’s feet, had been a godsend to her. For a moment the young lord’s arm had been round her waist and her head had been upon his shoulder. And again when she had slipped from her saddle she had felt his embrace. His fervour to her had been simply the uncontrolled expression of his feeling at the moment,—as one man squeezes another tightly by the hand in any crisis of sudden impulse. She knew this; but she knew also that he would probably revert to the intimacy which the sudden emotion had created. The mutual galvanic shock might be continued at the next meeting,—and so on. They had seen the tragedy together and it would not fail to be a bond of union. As she told the tragedy to her mother, she delicately laid aside her hat and whip and riding dress, and then asked whether it was not possible that they might prolong their stay at Rufford. “But the Gores, my dear! I put them off, you know, for two days only.” Then Arabella declared that she did not care a straw for the Gores. In such a matter as this what would it signify though they should quarrel with a whole generation of Gores? For some time she thought that she would not come down again that afternoon or even that evening. It might well be that the sight of the accident should have made her too ill to appear. She felt conscious that in that moment and in the subsequent half hour she had carried herself well, and that there would be an interest about her were she to own herself compelled to keep her room. Were she now to take to her bed they could not turn her out on the following day. But at last her mother’s counsel put an end to that plan. Time was too precious. “I think you might lose more than you’d gain,” said her mother.

Both Lord Rufford and his sister were very much disturbed as to what they should do on the occasion. At half-past six Lord Rufford was told that the Major had recovered his senses, but that the case was almost hopeless. Of course he saw his guest. “I’m all right,” said the Major. The Lord sat there by the bedside, holding the man’s hand for a few moments, and then got up to leave him. “No nonsense about putting off,” said the Major in a faint voice; “beastly bosh all that!”

But what was to be done? The dozen people who were in the house must of course sit down to dinner. And then all the neighbourhood for miles round were coming to a ball. It would be impossible to send messages to everybody. And there was the feeling too that the man was as yet only ill, and that his recovery was possible. A ball, with a dead man in one of the bedrooms, would be dreadful. With a dying man it was bad enough;—but then a dying man is always also a living man! Lord Rufford had already telegraphed for a first-class surgeon from London, it having been whispered to him that perhaps Old Nokes from Rufford might be mistaken. The surgeon could not be there till four o’clock in the morning by which time care would have been taken to remove the signs of the ball; but if there was reason to send for a London surgeon, then also was there reason for hope; and if there were ground for hope, then the desirability of putting off the ball was very much reduced. “He’s at the furthest end of the corridor,” the Lord said to his sister, “and won’t hear a sound of the music.”

Though the man were to die why shouldn’t the people dance? Had the Major been dying three or four miles off, at the hotel at Rufford, there would only have been a few sad looks, a few shakings of the head, and the people would have danced without any flaw in their gaiety. Had it been known at Rufford Hall that he was lying at that moment in his mortal agony at Aberdeen, an exclamation or two,— “Poor Caneback!”—“Poor Major!”—would have been the extent of the wailing, and not the pressure of a lover’s hand would have been lightened, or the note of a fiddle delayed. And nobody in that house really cared much for Caneback. He was not a man worthy of much care. He was possessed of infinite pluck, and now that he was dying could bear it well. But he had loved no one particularly, had been dear to no one in these latter days of his life, had been of very little use in the world, and had done very little more for society than any other horse-trainer! But nevertheless it is a bore when a gentleman dies in your house,—and a worse bore if he dies from an accident than if from an illness for which his own body may be supposed to be responsible. Though the gout should fly to a man’s stomach in your best bedroom, the idea never strikes you that your burgundy has done it! But here the mare had done the mischief.

Poor Caneback;—and poor Lord Rufford! The Major was quite certain that it was all over with himself. He had broken so many of his bones and had his head so often cracked that he understood his own anatomy pretty well. There he lay quiet and composed, sipping small modicums of brandy and water, and taking his outlook into such transtygian world as he had fashioned for himself in his dull imagination. If he had misgivings he showed them to no bystander. If he thought then that he might have done better with his energies than devote them to dangerous horses, he never said so. His voice was weak, but it never quailed; and the only regret he expressed was that he had not changed the bit in Jemima’s mouth. Lord Rufford’s position was made worse by an expression from Sir John Purefoy that the party ought to be put off. Sir John was in a measure responsible for what his mare had done, and was in a wretched state. “If it could possibly affect the poor fellow I would do it,” said Lord Rufford; “but it would create very great inconvenience and disappointment. I have to think of other people.” “Then I shall send my wife home,” said Sir John. And Lady Purefoy was sent home. Sir John himself of course could not leave the house while the man was alive. Before they all sat down to dinner the Major was declared to be a little stronger. That settled the question and the ball was not put off.

The ladies came down to dinner in a melancholy guise. They were not fully dressed for the evening and were of course inclined to be silent and sad. Before Lord Rufford came in Arabella managed to get herself on to the sofa next to Lady Penwether, and then to undergo some little hysterical manifestation, “Oh Lady Penwether; if you had seen it;—and heard it!”

“I am very glad that I was spared anything so horrible.”

“And the man’s face as he passed me going to the leap! It will haunt me to my dying day!” Then she shivered, and gurgled in her throat, and turning suddenly round, hid her face on the elbow of the couch.

“I’ve been afraid all the afternoon that she would be ill,” whispered Lady Augustus to Miss Penge. “She is so susceptible!”

When Lord Rufford came into the room Arabella at once got up and accosted him with a whisper. Either he took her or she took him into a distant part of the room where they conversed apart for five minutes. And he, as he told her how things were going and what was being done, bent over her and whispered also. “What good would it do, you know?” she said with affected intimacy as he spoke of his difficulty about the ball. “One would do anything if one could be of service,—but that would do nothing.” She felt completely that her presence at the accident had given her a right to have peculiar conversations and to be consulted about everything. Of course she was very sorry for Major Caneback. But as it had been ordained that Major Caneback was to have his head split in two by a kick from a horse, and that Lord Rufford was to be there to see it, how great had been the blessing which had brought her to the spot at the same time!

Everybody there saw the intimacy and most of them understood the way in which it was being used. “That girl is very clever, Rufford,” his sister whispered to him before dinner. “She is very much excited rather than clever just at present,” he answered;— upon which Lady Penwether shook her head. Miss Penge whispered to Miss Godolphin that Miss Trefoil was making the most of it; and Mr. Morton, who had come into the room while the conversation apart was going on, had certainly been of the same opinion.

She had seated herself in an arm-chair away from the others after that conversation was over, and as she sat there Morton came up to her. He had been so little intimate with the members of the party assembled and had found himself so much alone, that he had only lately heard the story about Major Caneback, and had now only heard it imperfectly. But he did see that an absolute intimacy had been effected where two days before there had only been a slight acquaintance; and he believed that this sudden rush had been in some way due to the accident of which he had been told. “You know what has happened?” he said.

“Oh, Mr. Morton; do not talk to me about it.”

“Were you not speaking of it to Lord Rufford?”

“Of course I was. We were together.”

“Did you see it?” Then she shuddered, put her handkerchief up to her eyes, and turned her face away. “And yet the ball is to go on?” he asked.

“Pray, pray, do not dwell on it,—unless you wish to force me back to my room. When I left it I felt that I was attempting to do too much.” This might have been all very well had she not been so manifestly able to talk to Lord Rufford on the same subject. If there is any young man to whom a girl should be able to speak when she is in a state of violent emotion, it is the young man to whom she is engaged. So at least thought Mr. John Morton.

Then dinner was announced, and the dinner certainly was sombre enough. A dinner before a ball in the country never is very much of a dinner. The ladies know that there is work before them, and keep themselves for the greater occasion. Lady Purefoy had gone, and Lady Penwether was not very happy in the prospects for the evening. Neither Miss Penge nor either of the two Miss Godolphins had entertained personal hopes in regard to Lord Rufford, but nevertheless they took badly the great favour shown to Arabella. Lady Augustus did not get on particularly well with any of the other ladies,—and there seemed during the dinner to be an air of unhappiness over them all. They retired as soon as it was possible, and then Arabella at once went up to her bedroom.

“Mr. Nokes says he is a little stronger, my Lord,” said the butler coming into the room. Mr. Nokes had gone home and had returned again.

“He might pull through yet,” said Mr. Hampton. Lord Rufford shook his head. Then Mr. Gotobed told a wonderful story of an American who had had his brains knocked almost out of his head and had sat in Congress afterwards. “He was the finest horseman I ever saw on a horse,” said Hampton.

“A little too much temper,” said Captain Battersby, who was a very old friend of the Major.

“I’d give a good deal that that mare had never been brought to my stables,” said Lord Rufford. “Purefoy will never get over it, and I shan’t forget it in a hurry.” Sir John at this time was up-stairs with the sufferer. Even while drinking their wine they could not keep themselves from the subject, and were convivial in a cadaverous fashion.

CHAPTER XXIV

The Ball

The people came of course, but not in such numbers as had been expected. Many of those in Rufford had heard of the accident, and having been made acquainted with Nokes’s report, stayed away. Everybody was told that supper would be on the table at twelve, and that it was generally understood that the house was to be cleared by two. Nokes seemed to think that the sufferer would live at least till the morrow, and it was ascertained to a certainty that the music could not affect him. It was agreed among the party in the house that the ladies staying there should stand up for the first dance or two, as otherwise the strangers would be discouraged and the whole thing would be a failure. This request was made by Lady Penwether because Miss Penge had said that she thought it impossible for her to dance. Poor Miss Penge, who was generally regarded as a brilliant young woman, had been a good deal eclipsed by Arabella and had seen the necessity of striking out some line for herself. Then Arabella had whispered a few words to Lord Rufford, and the lord had whispered a few words to his sister, and Lady Penwether had explained what was to be done to the ladies around. Lady Augustus nodded her head and said that it was all right. The other ladies of course agreed, and partners were selected within the house party. Lord Rufford stood up with Arabella and John Morton with Lady Penwether. Mr. Gotobed selected Miss Penge, and Hampton and Battersby the two Miss Godolphins. They all took their places with a lugubrious but business-like air, as aware that they were sacrificing themselves in the performance of a sad duty. But Morton was not allowed to dance in the same quadrille with the lady of his affections. Lady Penwether explained to him that she and her brother had better divide themselves,—for the good of the company generally,—and therefore he and Arabella were also divided.

A rumour had reached Lady Penwether of the truth in regard to their guests from Bragton. Mr. Gotobed had whispered to her that he had understood that they certainly were engaged; and, even before that, the names of the two lovers had been wafted to her ears from the other side of the Atlantic. Both John Morton and Lady Augustus were “somebodies,” and Lady Penwether generally knew what there was to be known of anybody who was anybody. But it was quite clear to her,—more so even than to poor John Morton, that the lady was conducting herself now as though she were fettered by no bonds, and it seemed to Lady Penwether also that the lady was very anxious to contract other bonds. She knew her brother well. He was always in love with somebody; but as he had hitherto failed of success where marriage was desirable, so had he avoided disaster when it was not. He was one of those men who are generally supposed to be averse to matrimony. Lady Penwether and some other relatives were anxious that he should take a wife;—but his sister was by no means anxious that he should take such a one as Arabella Trefoil. Therefore she thought that she might judiciously ask Mr. Morton a few questions. “I believe you knew the Trefoils in Washington?” she said. Morton acknowledged that he had seen much of them there. “She is very handsome certainly.”

“I think so.”

“And rides well I suppose.”

“I don’t know. I never heard much of her riding.”

“Has she been staying long at Bragton?” “Just a week.”

“Do you know Lord Augustus?” Morton said that he did not know Lord Augustus and then answered sundry other questions of the same nature in the same uncommunicative way. Though he had once or twice almost fancied that he would like to proclaim aloud that the girl was engaged to him, yet he did not like to have the fact pumped out of him. And if she were such a girl as she now appeared to be, might it not be better for him to let her go? Surely her conduct here at Rufford Hall was opportunity enough. No doubt she was handsome. No doubt he loved her,—after his fashion of loving. But to lose her now would not break his heart, whereas to lose her after he was married to her, would, he knew well, bring him to the very ground. He would ask her a question or two this very night, and then come to some resolution. With such thoughts as these crossing his mind he certainly was not going to proclaim his engagement to Lady Penwether. But Lady Penwether was a determined woman. Her smile, when she condescended to smile, was very sweet,— lighting up her whole face and flattering for the moment the person on whom it shone. It was as though a rose in emitting its perfume could confine itself to the nostrils of its one favoured friend. And now she smiled on Morton as she asked another question. “I did hear,” she said, “from one of your Foreign Office young men that you and Miss Trefoil were very intimate.”

“Who was that, Lady Penwether?”

“Of course I shall mention no name. You might call out the poor lad and shoot him, or, worse still, have him put down to the bottom of his class. But I did hear it. And then, when I find her staying with her mother at your house, of course I believe it to be true.”

“Now she is staying at your brother’s house,—which is much the same thing.”

“But I am here.”

“And my grandmother is at Bragton.”

“That puts me in mind, Mr. Morton. I am so sorry that we did not know it, so that we might have asked her.”

“She never goes out anywhere, Lady Penwether.”

“And there is nothing then in the report that I heard?”

Morton paused a moment before he answered, and during that moment collected his diplomatic resources. He was not a weak man, who could be made to tell anything by the wiles of a pretty woman. “I think,” he said, “that when people have anything of that kind which they wish to be known, they declare it.”

“I beg your pardon. I did not mean to unravel a secret.”

“There are secrets, Lady Penwether, which people do like to unravel, but which the owners of them sometimes won’t abandon.” Then there was nothing more said on the subject. Lady Penwether did not smile again, and left him to go about the room on her business as hostess, as soon as the dance was over. But she was sure that they were engaged.

In the meantime, the conversation between Lord Rufford and Arabella was very different in its tone, though on the same subject. He was certainly very much struck with her, not probably ever waiting to declare to himself that she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen in his life, but still feeling towards her an attraction which for the time was strong. A very clever girl would frighten him; a very horsey girl would disgust him; a very quiet girl would bore him; or a very noisy girl annoy him. With a shy girl he could never be at his ease, not enjoying the labour of overcoming such a barrier; and yet he liked to be able to feel that any female intimacy which he admitted was due to his own choice and not to that of the young woman. Arabella Trefoil was not very clever, but she had given all her mind to this peculiar phase of life, and, to use a common phrase, knew what she was about. She was quite alive to the fact that different men require different manners in a young woman; and as she had adapted herself to Mr. Morton at Washington, so could she at Rufford adapt herself to Lord Rufford. At the present moment the lord was in love with her as much as he was wont to be in love. “Doesn’t it seem an immense time since we came here yesterday?” she said to him. “There has been so much done”

“There has been a great misfortune.”

“I suppose that is it. Only for that how very very pleasant it would have been!”

“Yes, indeed. It was a nice run, and that little horse carried you charmingly. I wish I could see you ride him again” She shook her head as she looked up into his face. “Why do you shake your head?”

“Because I am afraid there is no possible chance of such happiness. We are going to such a dull house to-morrow! And then to so many dull houses afterwards.”

“I don’t know why you shouldn’t come back and have another day or two;—when all this sadness has gone by.”

“Don’t talk about it, Lord Rufford.”

“Why not?”

“I never like to talk about any pleasure because it always vanishes as soon as it has come;—and when it has been real pleasure it never comes back again. I don’t think I ever enjoyed anything so much as our ride this morning, till that tragedy came.”

“Poor Caneback!”

“I suppose there is no hope?” He shook his head. “And we must go on to those Gores to-morrow without knowing anything about it. I wonder whether you could send me a line.”

“Of course I can, and I will.” Then he asked her a question looking into her face. “You are not going back to Bragton?”

“Oh dear, no.”

“Was Bragton dull?”

“Awfully dull; frightfully dull.”

“You know what they say?”

“What who say, Lord Rufford? People say anything,—the more ill-natured the better they like it, I think.”

“Have you not heard what they say about you and Mr. Morton?”

“Just because mamma made a promise when in Washington to go to Bragton with that Mr. Gotobed. Don’t you find they marry you to everybody?”

“They have married me to a good many people. Perhaps they’ll marry me to you to-morrow. That would not be so bad.”

“Oh, Lord Rufford! Nobody has ever condemned you to anything so terrible as that.”

“There was no truth in it then, Miss Trefoil?”

“None at all, Lord Rufford. Only I don’t know why you should ask me.”

“Well; I don’t know. A man likes sometimes to be sure how the land lies. Mr. Morton looks so cross that I thought that perhaps the very fact of my dancing with you might be an offence.”

“Is he cross?”

“You know him better than I do. Perhaps it’s his nature. Now I must do one other dance with a native and then my work will be over.”

“That isn’t very civil, Lord Rufford.”

“If you do not know what I meant, you’re not the girl I take you to be.” Then as she walked with him back out of the ball-room into the drawing-room she assured him that she did know what he meant, and that therefore she was the girl he took her to be.

She had determined that she would not dance again and had resolved to herd with the other ladies of the house,—waiting for any opportunity that chance might give her for having a last word with Lord Rufford before they parted for the night,—when Morton came up to her and demanded rather than asked that she would stand up with him for a quadrille. “We settled it all among ourselves, you know,” she said. “We were to dance only once, just to set the people off.” He still persisted, but she still refused, alleging that she was bound by the general compact; and though he was very urgent she would not yield. “I wonder how you can ask me,” she said. “You don’t suppose that after what has occurred I can have any pleasure in dancing.” Upon this he asked her to take a turn with him through the rooms, and to that she found herself compelled to assent. Then he spoke out to her. “Arabella,” he said, “I am not quite content with what has been going on since we came to this house.”

“I am sorry for that.”

“Nor, indeed, have I been made very happy by all that has occurred since your mother and you did me the honour of coming to Bragton.”

“I must acknowledge you haven’t seemed to be very happy, Mr. Morton.”

“I don’t want to distress you;—and as far as possible I wish to avoid distressing myself. If it is your wish that our engagement should be over, I will endeavour to bear it. If it is to be continued, I expect that your manner to me should be altered”

“What am I to say?”

“Say what you feel.”

“I feel that I can’t alter my manner, as you call it.”

“You do wish the engagement to be over then?”

“I did not say so. The truth is, Mr. Morton, that there is some trouble about the lawyers.”

“Why do you always call me Mr. Morton?”

“Because I am aware how probable it is that all this may come to nothing. I can’t walk out of the house and marry you as the cook maid does the gardener. I’ve got to wait till I’m told that everything is settled; and at present I’m told that things are not settled because you won’t agree.”

“I’ll leave it to anybody to say whether I’ve been unreasonable.”

“I won’t go into that. I haven’t meddled with it, and I don’t know anything about it. But until it is all settled as a matter of course there must be some little distance between us. It’s the commonest thing in the world, I should say.”

“What is to be the end of it?”

“I do not know. If you think yourself injured you can back out of it at once. I’ve nothing more to say about it.”

“And you think I can like the way you’re going on here?”

“If you’re jealous, Mr. Morton, there’s an end of it. I tell you fairly once for all, that as long as I’m a single woman I will regulate my conduct as I please. You can do the same, and I shall not say a word to you.” Then she withdrew her arm from him, and, leaving him, walked across the room and joined her mother. He went off at once to his own room resolving that he would write to her from Bragton. He had made his propositions in regard to money which he was quite aware were as liberal as was fit. If she would now fix a day for their marriage, he would be a happy man. If she would not bring herself to do this, then he would have no alternative but to regard their engagement as at an end.

At two o’clock the guests were nearly all gone. The Major was alive, and likely to live at least for some hours, and the Rufford people generally were glad that they had not put off the ball. Some of them who were staying in the house had already gone to bed, and Lady Penwether, with Miss Penge at her side, was making her last adieux in the drawing-room. The ball-room was reached from the drawing-room, with a vestibule between them, and opening from this was a small chamber, prettily furnished but seldom used, which had no peculiar purpose of its own, but in which during the present evening many sweet words had probably been spoken. Now, at this last moment, Lord Rufford and Arabella Trefoil were there alone together. She had just got up from a sofa, and he had taken her hand in his. She did not attempt to withdraw it, but stood looking down upon the ground. Then he passed his arm round her waist and lifting her face to his held her in a close embrace from which she made no effort to free herself. As soon as she was released she hastened to the door which was all but closed, and as she opened it and passed through to the drawing-room said some ordinary word to him quite aloud in her ordinary voice. If his action had disturbed her she knew very well how to recover her equanimity.

CHAPTER XXV

The last Morning at Rufford Hall

“Well, my love?” said Lady Augustus, as soon as her daughter had joined her in her bedroom. On such occasions there was always a quarter of an hour before going to bed in which the mother and daughter discussed their affairs, while the two lady’s maids were discussing their affairs in the other room. The two maids probably did not often quarrel, but the mother and daughter usually did.

“I wish that stupid man hadn’t got himself hurt.”

“Of course, my dear; we all wish that. But I really don’t see that it has stood much in your way.

“Yes it has. After all there is nothing like dancing, and we shouldn’t all have been sent to bed at two o’clock.”

“Then it has come to nothing?”

“I didn’t say that at all, mamma. I think I have done uncommonly well. Indeed I know I have. But then if everything had not been upset, I might have done so much better.”

“What have you done?” asked Lady Augustus, timidly. She knew perfectly well that her daughter would tell her nothing, and yet she always asked these questions and was always angry when no information was given to her. Any young woman would have found it very hard to give the information needed. “When we were alone he sat for five minutes with his arm round my waist, and then he kissed me. He didn’t say much, but then I knew perfectly well that he would be on his guard not to commit himself by words. But I’ve got him to promise that he’ll write to me, and of course I’ll answer in such a way that he must write again. I know he’ll want to see me, and I think I can go very near doing it. But he’s an old stager and knows what he’s about: and of course there’ll be ever so many people to tell him I’m not the sort of girl he ought to marry. He’ll hear about Colonel de B—, and Sir C. D—, and Lord E. F—, and there are ever so many chances against me. But I’ve made up my mind to try it. It’s taking the long odds. I can hardly expect to win, but if I do pull it off I’m made for ever!” A daughter can hardly say all that to her mother. Even Arabella Trefoil could not say it to her mother,—or, at any rate, she would not. “What a question that is to ask, mamma?” she did say tossing her head.

“Well, my dear, unless you tell me something how can I help you?”

“I don’t know that I want you to help me,—at any rate not in that way.”

“In what way?”

“Oh, mamma, you are so odd.”

“Has he said anything?”

“Yes, he has. He said he liked dry champagne and that he never ate supper.”

“If you won’t tell me how things are going you may fight your own battles by yourself.”

“That’s just what I must do. Nobody else can fight my battles for me.”

“What are you going to do about Mr. Morton?”

“Nothing.”

“I saw him talking to you and looking as black as thunder.”

“He always looks as black as thunder.”

“Is that to be all off? I insist upon having an answer to that question.”

“I believe you fancy, mamma, that a lot of men can be played like a parcel of chessmen, and that as soon as a knight is knocked on the head you can take him up and put him into the box and have done with him.”

“You haven’t done with Mr. Morton then?”

“Poor Mr. Morton! I do feel he is badly used because he is so honest. I sometimes wish that I could afford to be honest too and to tell somebody the downright truth. I should like to tell him the truth and I almost think I will. ‘My dear fellow, I did for a time think I couldn’t do better, and I’m not at all sure now that I can. But then you are so very dull, and I’m not certain that I should care to be Queen of the English society at the Court of the Emperor of Morocco! But if you’ll wait for another six months, I shall be able to tell you.’ That’s what I should have to say to him.”

“Who is talking nonsense now, Arabella?”

“I am not. But I shan’t say it. And now, mamma, I’ll tell you what we must do.”

“You must tell me why also?”

“I can do nothing of the kind. He knows the Duke.” The Duke with the Trefoils always meant the Duke of Mayfair who was Arabella’s ducal uncle.

“Intimately?”

“Well enough to go there. There is to be a great shooting at Mistletoe,”—Mistletoe was the Duke’s place,—“in January. I got that from him, and he can go if he likes. He won’t go as it is: but if I tell him I’m to be there, I think he will.”

“What did you tell him?”

“Well;—I told him a tarradiddle of course. I made him understand that I could be there if I pleased, and he thinks that I mean to be there if he goes.”

“But I’m sure the Duchess won’t have me again.”

“She might let me come.”

“And what am I to do?”

“You could go to Brighton with Miss De Groat;—or what does it matter for a fortnight? You’ll get the advantage when it’s done. It’s as well to have the truth out at once, mamma,—I cannot carry on if I’m always to be stuck close to your apron-strings. There are so many people won’t have you.”

“Arabella, I do think you are the most ungrateful, hard-hearted creature that ever lived.”

“Very well; I don’t know what I have to be grateful about, and I need to be hard-hearted. Of course I am hard-hearted. The thing will be to get papa to see his brother.”

“Your papa!”

“Yes; that’s what I mean to try. The Duke of course would like me to marry Lord Rufford. Do you think that if I were at home here it wouldn’t make Mistletoe a very different sort of place for you? The Duke does like papa in a sort of way, and he’s civil enough to me when I’m there. He never did like you.”

“Everybody is so fond of you! It was what you did when young Stranorlar was there which made the Duchess almost turn us out of the house.”

“What’s the good of your saying that, mamma? If you go on like that I’ll separate myself from you and throw myself on papa.”

“Your father wouldn’t lift his little finger for you.”

“I’ll try at any rate. Will you consent to my going there without you if I can manage it?”

“What did Lord Rufford say?” Arabella here made a grimace. “You can tell me something. What are the lawyers to say to Mr. Morton’s people?”

“Whatever they like.”

“If they come to arrangements do you mean to marry him?”

“Not for the next two months certainly. I shan’t see him again now heaven knows when. He’ll write no doubt,—one of his awfully sensible letters, and I shall take my time about answering him. I can stretch it out for two months. If I’m to do any good with this man it will be all arranged before that time. If the Duke could really be made to believe that Lord Rufford was in earnest I’m sure he’d have me there. As to her, she always does what he tells her.”

“He is going to write to you?”

“I told you that before, mamma. What is the good of asking a lot of questions? You know now what my plan is, and if you won’t help me I must carry it out alone. And, remember, I don’t want to start to-morrow till after Morton and that American have gone.” Then without a kiss or wishing her mother good night she went off to her own room.

The next morning at about nine Arabella heard from her maid that the Major was still alive but senseless. The London surgeon had been there and had declared it to be possible that the patient should live, but barely possible. At ten they were all at breakfast, and the carriage from Bragton was already at the door to take back Mr. Morton and his American friend. Lady Augustus had been clever enough to arrange that she should have the phaeton to take her to the Rufford Station a little later on in the day, and had already hinted to one of the servants that perhaps a cart might be sent with the luggage. The cart was forthcoming. Lady Augustus was very clever in arranging her locomotion and seldom paid for much more than her railway tickets.

“I had meant to say a few words to you, my lord, about that man Goarly,” said the Senator, standing. before the fire in the breakfast-room, “but this sad catastrophe has stopped me.”

“There isn’t much to say about him, Mr. Gotobed.”

“Perhaps not; only I would not wish you to think that I would oppose you without some cause. If the man is in the wrong according to law let him be proved to be so. The cost to you will be nothing. To him it might be of considerable importance.”

“Just so. Won’t you sit down and have some breakfast. If Goarly ever makes himself nuisance enough it may be worth my while to buy him out at three times the value of his land. But he’ll have to be a very great nuisance before I shall do that. Dillsborough wood is not the only fox covert in the county.” After that there was no more said about it; but neither did Lord Rufford understand the Senator nor did the Senator understand Lord Rufford. John Runce had a clearer conviction on his mind than either of them. Goarly ought to be hanged, and no American should under any circumstances be allowed to put his foot upon British soil. That was Runce’s idea of the matter.

The parting between Morton and the Trefoils was very chill and uncomfortable. “Good-bye, Mr. Morton;—we had such a pleasant time at Bragton!” said Lady Augustus. “I shall write to you this afternoon,” he whispered to Arabella as he took her hand. She smiled and murmured a word of adieu, but made him no reply. Then they were gone, and as he got into the carriage he told himself that in all probability he would never see her again. It might be that he would curtail his leave of absence and get back to Washington as quickly as possible.

The Trefoils did not start for an hour after this, during which Arabella could hardly find an opportunity for a word in private. She could not quite appeal to him to walk with her in the grounds, or even to take a turn with her round the empty ballroom. She came down dressed for walking, thinking that so she might have the best chance of getting him for a quarter of an hour to herself, but he was either too wary or else the habits of his life prevented it. And in what she had to do it was so easy to go beyond the proper line! She would wish him to understand that she would like to be alone with him after what had passed between them on the previous evening, but she must be careful not to let him imagine that she was too anxious. And then whatever she did she had to do with so many eyes upon her! And when she went, as she would do now in so short a time, so many hostile tongues would attack her! He had everything to protect him; and she had nothing, absolutely nothing, to help her! It was thus that she looked at it; and yet she had courage for the battle. Almost at the last moment she did get a word with him in the hall. “How is he?”

“Oh, better, decidedly.”

“I am so glad. If I could only think that he could live! Well, my Lord, we have to say good-bye.”

“I suppose so.”

“You’ll write me a line,—about him.”

“Certainly.”

“I shall be so glad to have a line from Rufford. Maddox Hall, you know; Stafford.”

“I will remember.”

“And dear old Jack. Tell me when you write what Jack has been doing.” Then she put out her hand and he held it. “I wonder whether you will ever remember—” But she did not quite know what to bid him remember, and therefore turned away her face and wiped away a tear, and then smiled as she turned her back on him. The carriage was at the door, and the ladies flocked into the hall, and then not another word could be said.

“That’s what I call a really nice country house,” said Lady Augustus as she was driven away. Arabella sat back in the phaeton lost in thought and said nothing. “Everything so well done, and yet none of all that fuss that there is at Mistletoe.” She paused but still her daughter did not speak. “If I were beginning the world again I would not wish for a better establishment than that. Why can’t you answer me a word when I speak to you?”

“Of course it’s all very nice. What’s the good of going on in that way? What a shame it is that a man like that should have so much and that a girl like me should have nothing at all. I know twice as much as he does, and am twice as clever, and yet I’ve got to treat him as though he were a god. He’s all very well, but what would anybody think of him if he were a younger brother with 300 pounds a year.” This was a kind of philosophy which Lady Angustus hated. She threw herself back therefore in the phaeton and pretended to go to sleep.

The wheels were not out of sight of the house before the attack on the Trefoils began. “I had heard of Lady Augustus before,” said Lady Penwether, “but I didn’t think that any woman could be so disagreeable.”

“So vulgar,” said Miss Penge.

“Wasn’t she the daughter of an ironmonger?” asked the elder Miss Godolphin.

“The girl of course is handsome,” said Lady Penwether.

“But so self-sufficient,” said Miss Godolphin.

“And almost as vulgar as her mother,” said Miss Penge.

“She may be clever,” said Lady Penwether, “but I do not think I should ever like her.”

“She is one of those girls whom only gentlemen like,” said Miss Penge.

“And whom they don’t like very long,” said Lady Penwether.

“How well I understand all this,” said Lord Rufford turning to the younger Miss Godolphin. “It is all said for my benefit, and considered to be necessary because I danced with the young lady last night.”

“I hope you are not attributing such a motive to me,” said Miss Penge.

“Or to me,” said Miss Godolphin.

“I look on both of you and Eleanor as all one on the present occasion. I am considered to be falling over a precipice, and she has got hold of my coat tails. Of course you wouldn’t be Christians if you didn’t both of you seize a foot”

“Looking at it in that light I certainly wish to be understood as holding on very fast,” said Miss Penge.

CHAPTER XXVI

Give me six Months

There was a great deal of trouble and some very genuine sorrow in the attorney’s house at Dillsborough during the first week in December. Mr. Masters had declared to his wife that Mary should go to Cheltenham and a letter was written to Lady Ushant accepting the invitation. The twenty pounds too was forthcoming and the dress and the boots and the hat were bought. But while this was going on Mrs. Masters took care that there should be no comfort whatever around them and made every meal a separate curse to the unfortunate lawyer. She told him ten times a day that she had been a mother to his daughter, but declared that such a position was no longer possible to her as the girl had been taken altogether out of her hands. To Mary she hardly spoke at all and made her thoroughly wish that Lady Ushant’s kindness had been declined. “Mamma,” she said one day, “I had rather write now and tell her that I cannot come.”

“After all the money has been wasted!”

“I have only got things that I must have had very soon.”

“If you have got anything to say you had better talk to your father. I know nothing about it”

“You break my heart when you say that, mamma.”

“You think nothing about breaking mine;—or that young man’s who is behaving so well to you. What makes me mad is to see you shilly-shallying with him.”

“Mamma, I haven’t shilly-shallied.”

“That’s what I call it. Why can’t you speak him fair and tell him you’ll have him and settle yourself down properly? You’ve got some idea into your silly head that what you call a gentleman will come after you.”

“Mamma, that isn’t fair.”

“Very well, miss. As your father takes your part of course you can say what you please to me. I say it is so.” Mary knew very well what her another meant and was safe at least from any allusion to Reginald Morton. There was an idea prevalent in the house, and not without some cause, that Mr. Surtees the curate had looked with an eye of favour on Mary Masters. Mr. Surtees was certainly a gentleman, but his income was strictly limited to the sum of 120 pounds per annum which he received from Mr. Mainwaring. Now Mrs. Masters disliked clergymen, disliked gentlemen, and especially disliked poverty; and therefore was not disposed to look upon Mr. Surtees as an eligible suitor for her stepdaughter. But as the curate’s courtship had hitherto been of the coldest kind and as it had received no encouragement from the young lady, Mary was certainly justified in declaring that the allusion was not fair. “What I want to know is this;—are you prepared to marry Lawrence Twentyman?” To this question, as Mary could not give a favourable answer, she thought it best to make none at all. “There is a man as has got a house fit for any woman, and means to keep it; who can give a young woman everything that she ought to want;—and a handsome fellow too, with some life in him; one who really dotes on you,—as men don’t often do on young women now as far as I can see. I wonder what it is you would have?”

“I want nothing, mamma.”

“Yes you do. You have been reading books of poetry till you don’t know what it is you do want. You’ve got your head full of claptraps and tantrums till you haven’t a grain of sense belonging to you. I hate such ways. It’s a spurning of the gifts of Providence not to have such a man as Lawrence Twentyman when he comes in your way. Who are you, I wonder, that you shouldn’t be contented with such as him? He’ll go and take some one else and then you’ll be fit to break your heart, fretting after him, and I shan’t pity you a bit. It’ll serve you right and you’ll die an old maid, and what there will be for you to live upon God in heaven only knows. You’re breaking your father’s heart, as it is.” Then she sat down in a rocking-chair and throwing her apron over her eyes gave herself up to a deluge of hysterical tears.

This was very hard upon Mary for though she did not believe all the horrible things which her stepmother said to her she did believe some of them. She was not afraid of the fate of an old maid which was threatened, but she did think that her marriage with this man would be for the benefit of the family and a great relief to her father. And she knew too that he was respectable, and believed him to be thoroughly earnest in his love. For such love as that it is impossible that a girl should not be grateful. There was nothing to allure him, nothing to tempt him to such a marriage, but a simple appreciation of her personal merits. And in life he was at any rate her equal. She had told Reginald Morton that Larry Twentyman was a fit companion for her and for her sisters, and she owned as much to herself every day. When she acknowledged all this she was tempted to ask herself whether she ought not to accept the man, if not for her own sake at least for that of the family.

That same evening her father called her into the office after the clerks were gone and spoke to her thus. “Your mamma is very unhappy, my dear,” he said.

“I’m afraid I have made everybody unhappy by wanting to go to Cheltenham.”

“It is not only that. That is reasonable enough and you ought to go. Mamma would say nothing more about that,—if you would make up your mind to one thing.”

“What thing, papa?” Of course she knew very well what the thing was.

“It is time for you to think of settling in life, Mary. I never would put it into a girl’s head that she ought to worry herself about getting a husband unless the opportunity seemed to come in her way. Young women should be quiet and wait till they’re sought after. But here is a young man seeking you whom we all like and approve. A good house is a very good thing when it’s fairly come by.”

“Yes, papa.”

“And so is a full house. A girl shouldn’t run after money, but plenty is a great comfort in this world when it can be had without blushing for.”

“Yes, papa.”

“And so is an honest man’s love. I don’t like to see any girl wearying after some fellow to be always fal-lalling with her. A good girl will be able to be happy and contented without that. But a lone life is a poor life, and a good husband is about the best blessing that a young woman can have.” To this proposition Mary perhaps agreed in her own mind but she gave no spoken assent. “Now this young man that is wanting to marry you has got all these things, and as far as I can judge with my experience in the world, is as likely to make a good husband as any one I know.” He paused for an answer but Mary could only lean close upon his arm and be silent. “Have you anything to say about it, my dear? You see it has been going on now a long time, and of course he’ll look to have it decided.” But still she could say nothing. “Well, now;—he has been with me to-day.”

“Mr. Twentyman?”

“Yes,—Mr. Twentyman. He knows you’re going to Cheltenham and of course he has nothing to say against that. No young man such as he would be sorry that his sweetheart should be entertained by such a lady as Lady Ushant. But he says that he wants to have an answer before you go.”

“I did answer him, papa.”

“Yes,—you refused him. But he hopes that perhaps you may think better of it. He has been with me and I have told him that if he will come to-morrow you will see him. He is to be here after dinner and you had better just take him up-stairs and hear what he has to say. If you can make up your mind to like him you will please all your family. But if you can’t, I won’t quarrel with you, my dear.”

“Oh papa, you are always so good.”

“Of course I am anxious that you should have a home of your own;— but let it be how it may I will not quarrel with my child.”

All that evening, and almost all the night, and again on the following morning Mary turned it over in her mind. She was quite sure that she was not in love with Larry Twentyman; but she was by no means sure that it might not be her duty to accept him without being in love with him. Of course he must know the whole truth; but she could tell him the truth and then leave it for him to decide. What right had she to stand in the way of her friends, or to be a burden to them when such a mode of life was offered to her? She had nothing of her own, and regarded herself as being a dead weight on the family. And she was conscious in a certain degree of isolation in the household,—as being her father’s only child by the first marriage. She would hardly know how to look her father in the face and tell him that she had again refused the man. But yet there was something awful to her in the idea of giving herself to a man without loving him,—in becoming a man’s wife when she would fain remain away from him! Would it be possible that she should live with him while her feelings were of such a nature? And then she blushed as she lay in the dark, with her cheek on her pillow, when she found herself forced to inquire within her own heart whether she did not love some one else. She would not own it, and yet she blushed, and yet she thought of it. If there might be such a man it was not the young clergyman to whom her mother had alluded.

Through all that morning she was very quiet, very pale, and in truth very unhappy. Her father said no further word to her, and her stepmother had been implored to be equally reticent. “I shan’t speak another word,” said Mrs. Masters; “her fortune is in her own hands and if she don’t choose to take it I’ve done with her. One man may lead a horse to water but a hundred can’t make him drink. It’s just the same with an obstinate pig-headed young woman.”

At three o’clock Mr. Twentyman came and was at once desired to go up to Mary who was waiting for him in the drawing-room. Mrs. Masters smiled and was gracious as she spoke to him, having for the moment wreathed herself in good humour so that he might go to his wooing in better spirit. He had learned his lesson by heart as nearly as he was able and began to recite it as soon as he had closed the door. “So you’re going to Cheltenham on Thursday?” he said.

“Yes, Mr. Twentyman.”

“I hope you’ll enjoy your visit there. I remember Lady Ushant myself very well. I don’t suppose she will remember me, but you can give her my compliments.”

“I certainly will do that.”

“And now, Mary, what have you got to say to me?” He looked for a moment as though he expected she would say what she had to say at once,—without further question from him; but he knew that it could not be so and he had prepared his lesson further than that. “I think you must believe that I really do love you with all my heart.”

“I know that you are very good to me, Mr. Twentyman.”

“I don’t say anything about being good; but I’m true:—that I am. I’d take you for my wife tomorrow if you hadn’t a friend in the world, just for downright love. I’ve got you so in my heart, Mary, that I couldn’t get rid of you if I tried ever so. You must know that it’s true.”

“I do know that it’s true.”

“Well! Don’t you think that a fellow like that deserves something from a girl?”

“Indeed I do.”

“Well!”

“He deserves a great deal too much for any girl to deceive him. You wouldn’t like a young woman to marry you without loving you. I think you deserve a great deal too well of me for that.”

He paused a moment before he replied. “I don’t know about that,” he said at last. “I believe I should be glad to take you just anyhow. I don’t think you can hate me.”

“Certainly not. I like you as well, Mr. Twentyman, as one friend can like another,—without loving.”

“I’ll be content with that, Mary, and chance it for the rest. I’ll be that kind to you that I’ll make you love me before twelve months are over. You come and try. You shall be mistress of everything. Mother isn’t one that will want to be in the way.”

“It isn’t that, Larry,” she said.

She hadn’t called him Larry for a long time and the sound of his own name from her lips gave him infinite hope. “Come and try. Say you’ll try. If ever a man did his best to please a woman I’ll do it to please you.” Then he attempted to take her in his arms but she glided away from him round the table. “I won’t ask you not to go to Cheltenham, or anything of that. You shall have your own time. By George you shall have everything your own way.” Still she did not answer him but stood looking down upon the table. “Come; say a word to a fellow.”

Then at last she spoke—“Give me six months to think of it.”

“Six months! If you’d say six weeks.”

“It is such a serious thing to do.”

“It is serious, of course. I’m serious, I know. I shouldn’t hunt above half as often as I do now; and as for the club,—I don’t suppose I should go near the place once a month. Say six weeks, and then, if you’ll let me have one kiss, I’ll not trouble you till you’re back from Cheltenham.”

Mary at once perceived that he had taken her doubt almost as a complete surrender, and had again to become obdurate. At last she promised to give him a final answer in two months, but declared as she said so that she was afraid she could not bring herself to do as he desired. She declined altogether to comply with that other request which he made, and then left him in the room declaring that at present she could say nothing further. As she did so she felt sure that she would not be able to accept him in two months’ time whatever she might bring herself to do when the vast abyss of six months should have passed by.

Larry made his way down into the parlour with hopes considerably raised. There he found Mrs. Masters and when he told her what had passed she assured him that the thing was as good as settled. Everybody knew, she said, that when a girl doubted she meant to yield. And what were two months? The time would have nearly gone by the end of her visit to Cheltenham. It was now early in December, and they might be married and settled at home before the end of April. Mrs. Masters, to give him courage, took out a bottle of currant wine and drank his health, and told him that in three months’ time she would give him a kiss and call him her son. And she believed what she said. This, she thought, was merely Mary’s way of letting herself down without a sudden fall.

Then the attorney came in and also congratulated him. When the attorney was told that Mary had taken two months for her decision he also felt that the matter was almost as good as settled. This at any rate was clear to him,—that the existing misery of his household would for the present cease, and that Mary would be allowed to go upon her visit without further opposition. He at present did not think it wise to say another word to Mary about the young man; nor would Mrs. Masters condescend to do so. Mary would of course now accept her lover like any other girl, and had been such a fool,—so thought Mrs. Masters,—that she had thoroughly deserved to lose him.

CHAPTER XXVII

“Wonderful Bird!”

There were but two days between the scenes described in the last chapter and the day fixed for Mary’s departure, and during these two days Larry Twentyman’s name was not mentioned in the house. Mrs. Masters did not make herself quite pleasant to her stepdaughter, having still some grudge against her as to the twenty pounds. Nor, though she had submitted to the visit to Cheltenham, did she approve of it. It wasn’t the way, she said, to make such a girl as Mary like her life at Chowton Farm, going and sitting and doing nothing in old Lady Ushant’s drawing-room. It was cocking her up with gimcrack notions about ladies till she’d be ashamed to look at her own hands after she had done a day’s work with them. There was no doubt some truth in this. The woman understood the world and was able to measure Larry Twentyman and Lady Ushant and the rest of them. Books and pretty needlework and easy conversation would consume the time at Cheltenham, whereas at Chowton Farm there would be a dairy and a poultry yard,—under difficulties on account of the foxes,—with a prospect of baby linen and children’s shoes and stockings. It was all that question of gentlemen and ladies, and of non-gentlemen and non-ladies! They ought, Mrs. Masters thought, to be kept distinct. She had never, she said, wanted to put her finger into a pie that didn’t belong to her. She had never tried to be a grand lady. But Mary was perilously near the brink on either side, and as it was to be her lucky fate at last to sit down to a plentiful but work-a-day life at Chowton Farm she ought to have been kept away from the maundering idleness of Lady Ushant’s lodgings at Cheltenham. But Mary heard nothing of this during these two days, Mrs. Masters bestowing the load of her wisdom upon her unfortunate husband.

Reginald Morton had been twice over at Mrs. Masters’ house with reference to the proposed journey. Mrs. Masters was hardly civil to him, as he was supposed to be among the enemies;—but she had no suspicion that he himself was the enemy of enemies. Had she entertained such an idea she might have reconciled herself to it, as the man was able to support a wife, and by such a marriage she would have been at once relieved from all further charge. In her own mind she would have felt very strongly that Mary had chosen the wrong man, and thrown herself into the inferior mode of life. But her own difficulties in the matter would have been solved. There was, however, no dream of such a kind entertained by any of the family. Reginald Morton was hardly regarded as a young man, and was supposed to be gloomy, misanthropic, and bookish. Mrs. Masters was not at all averse to the companionship for the journey, and Mr. Masters was really grateful to one of the old family for being kind to his girl.

Nor must it be supposed that Mary herself had any expectations or even any hopes. With juvenile aptness to make much of the little things which had interested her, and prone to think more than was reasonable of any intercourse with a man who seemed to her to be so superior to others as Reginald Morton, she was anxious for an opportunity to set herself right with him about that scene at the bridge. She still thought that he was offended and that she had given him cause for offence. He had condescended to make her a request to which she had acceded,—and she had then not done as she had promised. She thought she was sure that this was all she had to say to him, and yet she was aware that she was unnaturally excited at the idea of spending three or four hours alone with him. The fly which was to take him to the railway station called for Mary at the attorney’s door at ten o’clock, and the attorney handed her in. “It is very good of you indeed, Mr. Morton, to take so much trouble with my girl,” said the attorney, really feeling what he said. “It is very good of you to trust her to me,” said Reginald, also sincerely. Mary was still to him the girl who had been brought up by his aunt at Bragton, and not the fit companion for Larry Twentyman.

Reginald Morton had certainly not made up his mind to ask Mary Masters to be his wife. Thinking of Mary Masters very often as he had done during the last two months, he was quite sure that he did not mean to marry at all. He did acknowledge to himself that were he to allow himself to fall in love with any one it would be with Mary Masters,—but for not doing so there were many reasons. He had lived so long alone that a married life would not suit him; as a married man he would be a poor man; he himself was averse to company, whereas most women prefer society. And then, as to this special girl, had he not reason for supposing that she preferred another man to him, and a man of such a class that the very preference showed her to be unfit to mate with him? He also cozened himself with an idea that it was well that he should have the opportunity which the journey would give him of apologising for his previous rudeness to her.

In the carriage they had the compartment to themselves with the exception of an old lady at the further end who had a parrot in a cage for which she had taken a first-class ticket. “I can’t offer you this seat,” said the old lady, “because it has been booked and paid for my bird.” As neither of the new passengers had shown the slightest wish for the seat the communication was perhaps unnecessary. Neither of the two had any idea of separating from the other for the sake of the old lady’s company.

They had before them a journey of thirty miles on one railway, then a stop of half an hour at the Hinxton junction; and then another journey of about equal length. In the first hour very little was said that might not have been said in the presence of Lady Ushant,—or even of Mrs. Masters. There might be a question whether, upon the whole, the parrot had not the best of the conversation, as the bird, which the old lady declared to be the wonder of his species, repeated the last word of nearly every sentence spoken either by our friends or by the old lady herself. “Don’t you think you’d be less liable to cold with that window closed?” the old lady said to Mary. “Cosed,—cosed,—cosed,” said the bird, and Morton was of course constrained to shut the window. “He is a wonderful bird,” said the old lady. “Wonderful bird;—wonderful bird;—wonderful bird,” said the parrot, who was quite at home with this expression. “We shall be able to get some lunch at Hinxton,” said Reginald. “Inxton,” screamed the bird—“Caw,—caw—caw.” “He’s worth a deal of money,” said the old lady. “Deal o’ money, Deal o’ money,” repeated the bird as he scrambled round the wire cage with a tremendous noise, to the great triumph of the old lady.

No doubt the close attention which the bird paid to everything that passed, and the presence of the old lady as well, did for a time interfere with their conversation. But, after awhile, the old lady was asleep, and the bird, having once or twice attempted to imitate the somnolent sounds which his mistress was making, seemed also to go to sleep himself. Then Reginald, beginning with Lady Ushant and the old Morton family generally, gradually got the conversation round to Bragton and the little bridge. He had been very stern when he had left her there, and he knew also that at that subsequent interview, when he had brought Lady Ushant’s note to her at her father’s house, he had not been cordially kind to her. Now they were thrown together for an hour or so in the closest companionship, and he wished to make her comfortable and happy. “I suppose you remember Bragton?” he said.

“Every path and almost every tree about the place.”

“So do I. I called there the other day. Family quarrels are so silly, you know.”

“Did you see Mr. Morton?”

“No;—and he hasn’t returned my visit yet. I don’t know whether he will,—and I don’t much mind whether he does or not. That old woman is there, and she is very bitter against me. I don’t care about the people, but I am sorry that I cannot see the place.”

“I ought to have walked with you that day,” she said in a very low tone. The parrot opened his eyes and looked at them as though he were striving to catch his cue.

“Of course you ought.” But as he said this he smiled and there was no offence in his voice. “I dare say you didn’t guess how much I thought of it. And then I was a bear to you. I always am a bear when I am not pleased.”

“Peas, peas, peas,” said the parrot.

“I shall be a bear to that brute of a bird before long.”

“What a very queer bird he is.”

“He is a public nuisance,—and so is the old lady who brought him here,” This was said quite in a whisper. “It is very odd, Miss Masters, but you are literally the only person in all Dillsborough in regard to whom I have any genuine feeling of old friendship.”

“You must remember a great many.”

“But I did not know any well enough. I was too young to have seen much of your father. But when I came back at that time you and I were always together.”

“Gedder, gedder, gedder,” said the parrot.

“If that bird goes on like that I’ll speak to the guard,” said Mr. Morton with affected anger. “Polly mustn’t talk,” said the old lady waking up.

“Tok, tok, tok, tok,” screamed the parrot. Then the old lady threw a shawl over him and again went to sleep.

“If I behaved badly I beg your pardon,” said Mary.

“That’s just what I wanted to say to you, Miss Masters,—only a man never can do those things as well as a lady. I did behave badly, and I do beg your pardon. Of course I ought to have asked Mr. Twentyman to come with us. I know that he is a very good fellow.”

“Indeed he is,” said Mary Masters, with all the emphasis in her power. “Deedy is, deedy is, deedy is, deedy is,” repeated the parrot in a very angry voice about a dozen times under his shawl, and while the old lady was remonstrating with her too talkative companion their tickets were taken and they ran into the Hinxton Station. “If the old lady is going on to Cheltenham we’ll travel third class before we’ll sit in the same carriage again with that bird,” said Morton laughing as he took Mary into the refreshment-room. But the old lady did not get into the same compartment as they started, and the last that was heard of the parrot at Hinxton was a quarrel between him and the guard as to certain railway privileges.

When they had got back into the railway carriage Morton was very anxious to ask whether she was in truth engaged to marry the young man as to whose good fellowship she and the parrot had spoken up so emphatically, but he hardly knew how to put the question. And were she to declare that she was engaged to him, what should he say then? Would he not be bound to congratulate her? And yet it would be impossible that any word of such congratulation should pass his lips? “You will stay a month at Cheltenham?” he said.

“Your aunt was kind enough to ask me for so long.”

“I shall go back on Saturday. If I were to stay longer I should feel myself to be in her way. And I have come to live a sort of hermit’s life. I hardly know how to sit down and eat my dinner in company, and have no idea of seeing a human being before two o’clock.”

“What do you do with yourself?”

“I rush in and out of the garden and spend my time between my books and my flowers and my tobacco pipes.”

“Do you mean to live always like that?” she asked, in perfect innocency.

“I think so. Sometimes I doubt whether it’s wise.”

“I don’t think it wise at all,” said Mary.

“Why not?”

“People should live together, I think.”

“You mean that I ought to have a wife?”

“No;—I didn’t mean that. Of course that must be just as you might come to like any one well enough. But a person need not shut himself up and be a hermit because he is not married. Lord Rufford is not married and he goes everywhere.”

“He has money and property and is a man of pleasure.”

“And your cousin, Mr. John Morton.”

“He is essentially a man of business, which I never could have been. And they say he is going to be married to that Miss Trefoil who has been staying there. Unfortunately I have never had anything that I need do in all my life, and therefore I have shut myself up as you call it. I wonder what your life will be.” Mary blushed and said nothing. “If there were anything to tell I wish I knew it”

“There is nothing to tell.”

“Nothing?”

She thought a moment before she answered him and then she said, “Nothing. What should I have to tell?” she added trying to laugh.

He remained for a few minutes silent, and then put his head out towards her as he spoke. “I was afraid that you might have to tell that you were engaged to marry Mr. Twentyman.”

“I am not”

“Oh!—I am so glad to hear it”

“I don’t know why you should be glad. If I had said I was, it would have been very uncivil if you hadn’t declared yourself glad to hear that”

“Then I must have been uncivil for I couldn’t have done it. Knowing how my aunt loves you, knowing what she thinks of you and what she would think of such a match, remembering myself what I do of you, I could not have congratulated you on your engagement to a man whom I think so much inferior to yourself in every respect. Now you know it all,—why I was angry at the bridge, why I was hardly civil to you at your father’s house; and, to tell the truth, why I have been so anxious to be alone with you for half an hour. If you think it an offence that I should take so much interest in you, I will beg your pardon for that also.”

“Oh, no!”

“I have never spoken to my aunt about it, but I do not think that she would have been contented to hear that you were to become the wife of Mr. Twentyman.”

What answer she was to make to this or whether she was to make any she had not decided when they were interrupted by the reappearance of the old lady and the bird. She was declaring to the guard at the window, that as she had paid for a first-class seat for her parrot she would get into any carriage she liked in which there were two empty seats. Her bird had been ill-treated by some scurrilous ill-conditioned travellers and she had therefore returned to the comparative kindness of her former companions. “They threatened to put him out of the window, sir,” said the old woman to Morton as she was forcing her way in. “Windersir, windersir,” said the parrot.

“I hope he’ll behave himself here, ma’am,” said Morton.

“Heremam, heremam, heremam,” said the parrot.

“Now go to bed like a good bird,” said the old lady putting her shawl over the cage,—whereupon the parrot made a more diabolical noise than ever under the curtain.

Mary felt that there was no more to be said about Mr. Twentyman and her hopes and prospects, and for the moment she was glad to be left in peace. The old lady and the parrot continued their conversation till they had all arrived in Cheltenham;—and Mary as she sat alone thinking of it afterwards might perhaps feel a soft regret that Reginald Morton had been interrupted by the talkative animal.

VOLUME II

CHAPTER I

Mounser Green

“So Peter Boyd is to go to Washington in the Paragon’s place, and Jack Slade goes to Vienna, and young Palliser is to get Slade’s berth at Lisbon.” This information was given by a handsome man, known as Mounser Green, about six feet high, wearing a velvet shooting coat,—more properly called an office coat from its present uses, who had just entered a spacious well-carpeted comfortable room in which three other gentlemen were sitting at their different tables. This was one of the rooms in the Foreign Office and looked out into St. James’s Park. Mounser Green was a distinguished clerk in that department,—and distinguished also in various ways, being one of the fashionable men about town, a great adept at private theatricals, remarkable as a billiard player at his club, and a contributor to various magazines. At this moment he had a cigar in his mouth, and when he entered the room he stood with his back to the fire ready for conversation and looking very unlike a clerk who intended to do any work. But there was a general idea that Mounser Green was invaluable to the Foreign Office. He could speak and write two or three foreign languages; he could do a spurt of work,—ten hours at a sitting when required; he was ready to go through fire and water for his chief; and was a gentleman all round. Though still nominally a young man, being perhaps thirty-five years of age—he had entered the service before competitive examination had assumed its present shape and had therefore the gifts which were required for his special position. Some critics on the Civil Service were no doubt apt to find fault with Mounser Green. When called upon at his office he was never seen to be doing anything, and he always had a cigar in his mouth. These gentlemen found out too that he never entered his office till half-past twelve, perhaps not having also learned that he was generally there till nearly seven. No doubt during the time that he remained there he read a great many newspapers, and wrote a great many private notes,—on official paper! But there may be a question whether even these employments did not help to make Mounser Green the valuable man he was.

“What a lounge for Jack Slade,” said young Hoffmann.

“I’ll tell you who it won’t be a lounge for, Green,” said Archibald Currie, the clerk who held the second authority among them. “What will Bell Trefoil think of going to Patagonia?”

“That’s all off,” said Mounser Green.

“I don’t think so,” said Charley Glossop, one of the numerous younger sons of Lord Glossop. “She was staying only the other day down at the Paragon’s place in Rufford, and they went together to my cousin Rufford’s house. His sister, that’s Lady Penwether, told me they were certainly engaged then.”

“That was before the Paragon had been named for Patagonia. To tell you a little bit of my own private mind,—which isn’t scandal,” said Mounser Green, “because it is only given as opinion,—I think it just possible that the Paragon has taken this very uncomfortable mission because it offered him some chance of escape.”

“Then he has more sense about him than I gave him credit for,” said Archibald Currie.

“Why should a man like Morton go to Patagonia?” continued Green. “He has an independent fortune and doesn’t want the money. He’d have been sure to have something comfortable in Europe very soon if he had waited, and was much better off as second at a place like Washington. I was quite surprised when he took it.”

“Patagonia isn’t bad at all,” said Currie.

“That depends on whether a man has got money of his own. When I heard about the Paragon and Bell Trefoil at Washington, I knew there had been a mistake made. He didn’t know what he was doing. I’m a poor man, but I wouldn’t take her with 5,000 pounds a year, settled on myself.” Poor Mounser Green!

“I think she’s the handsomest girl in London,” said Hoffmann, who was a young man of German parentage and perhaps of German taste.

“That may be,” continued Green; “but, heaven and earth! what a life she would lead a man like the Paragon! He’s found it out, and therefore thought it well to go to South America. She has declined already, I’m told; but he means to stick to the mission.” During all this time Mounser Green was smoking his cigar with his back to the fire, and the other clerks looked as though they had nothing to do but talk about the private affairs of ministers abroad and their friends. Of course it will be understood that since we last saw John Morton the position of Minister Plenipotentiary at Patagonia had been offered to him and that he had accepted the place in spite of Bragton and of Arabella Trefoil.

At that moment a card was handed to Mounser Green by a messenger who was desired to show the gentleman up. “It’s the Paragon himself,” said Green.

We’ll make him tell us whether he’s going out single or double,” said Archibald Currie.

“After what the Rufford people said to me I’m sure he’s going to marry her,” said young Glossop. No doubt Lady Penwether had been anxious to make it understood by every one connected with the family that if any gossip should be heard about Rufford and Arabella Trefoil there was nothing in it.

Then the Paragon was shown into the room and Mounser Green and the young men were delighted to see him. Colonial governors at their seats of government, and Ministers Plenipotentiary in their ambassadorial residences are very great persons indeed; and when met in society at home, with the stars and ribbons which are common among them now, they are, less indeed, but still something. But at the colonial and foreign offices in London, among the assistant secretaries and clerks, they are hardly more than common men. All the gingerbread is gone there. His Excellency is no more than Jones, and the Representative or Alter Ego of Royalty mildly asks little favours of the junior clerks.

“Lord Drummond only wants to know what you wish and it shall be done,” said Mounser Green. Lord Drummond was the Minister for Foreign Affairs of the day. “I hope I need hardly say that we were delighted that you accepted the offer.”

“One doesn’t like to refuse a step upward,” said Morton; “otherwise Patagonia isn’t exactly the place one would like.”

“Very good climate,” said Currie. “Ladies I have known who have gone there have enjoyed it very much.”

“A little rough I suppose?”

“They didn’t seem to say so. Young Bartletot took his wife out there, just married. He liked it. There wasn’t much society, but they didn’t care about that just at first”

“Ah;—I’m a single man,” said Morton laughing. He was too good a diplomate to be pumped in that simple way by such a one as Archibald Currie.

“You’ll like to see Lord Drummond. He is here and will be glad to shake hands with you. Come into my room,” Then Mounser Green led the way into a small inner sanctum in which it may be presumed that he really did his work. It was here at any rate that he wrote the notes on official note paper.

“They haven’t settled as yet how they’re to be off it,” said Currie in a whisper, as soon as the two men were gone, “but I’ll bet a five-pound note that Bell Trefoil doesn’t go out to Patagonia as his wife.”

“We know the Senator here well enough.” This was said in the inner room by Mounser Green to Morton, who had breakfasted with the Senator that morning and had made an appointment to meet him at the Foreign Office. The Senator wanted to secure a seat for himself at the opening of Parliament which was appointed to take place in the course of the next month, and being a member of the Committee on Foreign Affairs in the American Senate of course thought himself entitled to have things done for him by the Foreign Office clerks. “Oh yes, I’ll see him. Lord Drummond will get him a seat as a matter of course. How is he getting on with your neighbour at Dillsborough?”

“So you’ve heard of that.”

“Heard of it! who hasn’t heard of it?”—At this moment the messenger came in again and the Senator was announced. “Lord Drummond will manage about the seats in the House of Lords, Mr. Gotobed. Of course he’ll see you if you wish it; but I’ll take a note of it”

“If you’ll do that, Mr. Green, I shall be fixed up straight. And I’d a great deal sooner see you than his lordship.”

“That’s very flattering, Mr. Gotobed, but I’m sure I don’t know why.”

“Because Lord Drummond always seems to me to have more on hand than he knows how to get through, and you never seem to have anything to do.”

“That’s not quite so flattering,—and would be killing, only that I feel that your opinion is founded on error. Mens conscia recti, Mr. Gotobed.”

“Exactly. I understand English pretty well; better as far as I can see than some of those I meet around me here; but I don’t go beyond that, Mr. Green.”

“I merely meant to observe, Mr. Gotobed, that as, within my own breast, I am conscious of my zeal and diligence in Her Majesty’s service your shafts of satire pass me by without hurting me. Shall I offer you a cigar? A candle burned at both ends is soon consumed.” It was quite clear that as quickly as the Senator got through one end of his cigar by the usual process of burning, so quickly did he eat the other end. But he took that which Mounser Green offered him without any displeasure at the allusion. “I’m sorry to say that I haven’t a spittoon,” said Mounser Green, “but the whole fire-place is at your service.” The Senator could hardly have heard this, as it made no difference in his practice.

Morton at this moment was sent for by the Secretary of State, and the Senator expressed his intention of waiting for him in Mr. Green’s room. “How does the great Goarly case get on, Mr. Gotobed?” asked the clerk.

Well! I don’t know that it’s getting on very much.”

“You are not growing tired of it, Senator?”

“Not by any means. But it’s getting itself complicated, Mr. Green. I mean to see the end of it, and if I’m beat,—why I can take a beating as well as another man.”

“You begin to think you will be beat?”

“I didn’t say so, Mr. Green. It is very hard to understand all the ins and outs of a case like that in a foreign country.”

“Then I shouldn’t try it, Senator.”

“There I differ. It is my object to learn all I can.”

“At any rate I shouldn’t pay for the lesson as you are like to do. What’ll the bill be? Four hundred dollars?”

“Never mind, Mr. Green. If you’ll take the opinion of a good deal older man than yourself and one who has perhaps worked harder, you’ll understand that there’s no knowledge got so thoroughly as that for which a man pays.” Soon after this Morton came out from the great man’s room and went away in company with the Senator.

CHAPTER II

The Senator’s Letter

Soon after this Senator Gotobed went down, alone, to Dillsborough and put himself up at the Bush Inn. Although he had by no means the reputation of being a rich man, he did not seem to care much what money he spent in furthering any object he had taken in hand. He never knew how near he had been to meeting the direst inhospitality at Mr. Runciman’s house. That worthy innkeeper, knowing well the Senator’s sympathy with Goarly, Scrobby and Bearside, and being heart and soul devoted to the Rufford interest, had almost refused the Senator the accommodation he wanted. It was only when Mrs. Runciman represented to him that she could charge ten shillings a day for the use of her sitting-room, and also that Lord Rufford himself had condescended to entertain the gentleman, that Runciman gave way. Mr. Gotobed would, no doubt, have delighted in such inhospitality. He would have gone to the second-rate inn, which was very second-rate indeed, and have acquired a further insight into British manners and British prejudices. As it was, he made himself at home in the best upstairs sitting-room at the Bush, and was quite unaware of the indignity offered to him when Mr. Runciman refused to send him up the best sherry. Let us hope that this refusal was remembered by the young woman in the bar when she made out the Senator’s bill.

He stayed at Dillsborough for three or four days during which he saw Goarly once and Bearside on two or three occasions,—and moreover handed to that busy attorney three bank notes for five pounds each. Bearside was clever enough to make him believe that Goarly would certainly obtain serious damages from the lord. With Bearside he was fairly satisfied, thinking however that the man was much more illiterate and ignorant than the general run of lawyers in the United States; but with Goarly he was by no means satisfied. Goarly endeavoured to keep out of his way and could not be induced to come to him at the Bush. Three times he walked out to the house near Dillsborough Wood, on each of which occasions Mrs. Goarly pestered him for money, and told him at great length the history of her forlorn goose. Scrobby, of whom he had heard, he could not see at all; and he found that Bearside was very unwilling to say anything about Scrobby. Scrobby, and the red herrings and the strychnine and the dead fox were, according to Bearside, to be kept quite distinct from the pheasants and the wheat. Bearside declared over and over again that there was no evidence to connect his client with the demise of the fox. When asked whether he did not think that his client had compassed the death of the animal, he assured the Senator that in such matters, he never ventured to think.

“Let us go by the evidence, Mr. Gotobed,” he said.

“But I am paying my money for the sake of getting at the facts.”

“Evidence is facts, sir,” said the attorney. “Any way let us settle about the pheasants first”

The condition of the Senator’s mind may perhaps be best made known by a letter which he wrote from Dillsborough to his especial and well-trusted friend Josiah Scroome, a member of the House of Representatives from his own state of Mickewa. Since he had been in England he had written constantly to his friend, giving him the result of his British experiences.

Bush Inn, Dillsborough, Ufford County, England, December 16, 187-.

MY DEAR SIR,

Since my last I have enjoyed myself very well and I am I trust beginning to understand something of the mode of thinking of this very peculiar people. That there should be so wide a difference between us Americans and these English, from whom we were divided, so to say, but the other day, is one of the most peculiar physiological phenomena that the history of the world will have afforded. As far as I can hear a German or even a Frenchman thinks much more as an Englishman thinks than does an American. Nor does this come mainly from the greater prevalence with us of democratic institutions. I do not think that any one can perceive in half an hour’s conversation the difference between a Swiss and a German; but I fancy, and I may say I flatter. myself, that an American is as easily distinguished from an Englishman, as a sheep from a goat or a tall man from one who is short.

And yet there is a pleasure in associating with those here of the highest rank which I find it hard to describe, and which perhaps I, ought to regard as a pernicious temptation to useless luxury. There is an ease of manner with them which recalls with unfavourable reminiscences the hard self-consciousness of the better class of our citizens. There is a story of an old hero who with his companions fell among beautiful women and luscious wine, and, but that the hero had been warned in time, they would all have been turned into filthy animals by yielding to the allurements around them. The temptation here is perhaps the same. I am not a hero; and, though I too have been warned by the lessons I have learned under our happy Constitution, I feel that I might easily become one of the animals in question.

And, to give them their due, it is better than merely beautiful women and luscious wine. There is a reality about them, and a desire to live up to their principles which is very grand. Their principles are no doubt bad, utterly antagonistic to all progress, unconscious altogether of the demand for progressive equality which is made by the united voices of suffering mankind. The man who is born a lord and who sees a dozen serfs around him who have been born to be half-starved ploughmen, thinks that God arranged it all and that he is bound to maintain a state of things so comfortable to himself, as being God’s vicegerent here on earth. But they do their work as vicegerents with an easy grace, and with sweet pleasant voices and soft movements, which almost make a roan doubt whether the Almighty has not in truth intended that such injustice should be permanent. That one man should be rich and another poor is a necessity in the present imperfect state of civilisation;—but that one man should be born to be a legislator, born to have everything, born to be a tyrant,—and should think it all right, is to me miraculous. But the greatest miracle of all is that they who are not so born, who have been born to suffer the reverse side,— should also think it to be all right.

With us it is necessary that a man, to shine in society, should have done something, or should at any rate have the capacity of doing something. But here the greatest fool that you meet will shine, and will be admitted to be brilliant, simply because he has possessions. Such a one will take his part in conversation though he knows nothing, and, when inquired into, he will own that he knows nothing. To know anything is not his line in life. But he can move about, and chatter like a child of ten, and amuse himself from morning to night with various empty playthings,—and be absolutely proud of his life!

I have lately become acquainted with a certain young lord here of this class who has treated me with great kindness, although I have taken it into my head to oppose him as to a matter in which he is much interested. I ventured to inquire of him as to the pursuits of his life. He is a lord, and therefore a legislator, but he made no scruple to tell me that he never goes near the Chamber in which it is his privilege to have a seat. But his party does not lose his support. Though he never goes near the place, he can vote, and is enabled to trust his vote to some other more ambitious lord who does go there. It required the absolute evidence of personal information from those who are themselves concerned to make me believe that legislation in Great Britain could be carried on after such a fashion as this! Then he told me what he does do. All the winter he hunts and shoots, going about to other rich men’s houses when there is no longer sufficient for him to shoot left on his own estate. That lasts him from the 1st of September to the end of March, and occupies all his time. August he spends in Scotland, also shooting other animals. During the other months he fishes, and plays cricket and tennis, and attends races, and goes about to parties in London. His evenings he spends at a card table when he can get friends to play with him. It is the employment of his life to fit in his amusements so that he may not have a dull day. Wherever he goes he carries his wine with him and his valet and his grooms; and if he thinks there is anything to fear, his cook also. He very rarely opens a book. He is more ignorant than a boy of fifteen with us, and yet he manages to have something to say about everything. When his ignorance has been made as clear as the sun at noon-day, he is no whit ashamed. One would say that such a life would break the heart of any man; but upon my word, I doubt whether I ever came across a human being so self-satisfied as this young lord.

I have come down here to support the case of a poor man who is I think being trampled on by this do-nothing legislator. But I am bound to say that the lord in his kind is very much better than the poor man in his. Such a wretched, squalid, lying, cowardly creature I did not think that even England could produce. And yet the man has a property in land on which he ought to be able to live in humble comfort. I feel sure that I have leagued myself with a rascal, whereas I believe the lord, in spite of his ignorance and his idleness, to be honest. But yet the man is being hardly used, and has had the spirit, or rather perhaps has been instigated by others, to rebel. His crops have been eaten up by the lord’s pheasants, and the lord, exercising plenary power as though he were subject to no laws, will only pay what compensation he himself chooses to award. The whole country here is in arms against the rebel, thinking it monstrous that a man living in a hovel should contest such a point with the owner of half-a-dozen palaces. I have come forward to help the man for the sake of seeing how the matter will go; and I have to confess that though those under the lord have treated me as though I were a miscreant, the lord himself and his friends have been civil enough.

I say what I think wherever I go, and I do not find it taken in bad part. In that respect we might learn something even from Englishmen. When a Britisher over in the States says what he thinks about us, we are apt to be a little rough with him. I have, indeed, known towns in which he couldn’t speak out with personal safety. Here there is no danger of that kind. I am getting together the materials for a lecture on British institutions in general, in which I shall certainly speak my mind plainly, and I think I shall venture to deliver it in London before I leave for New York in the course of next spring. I will, however, write to you again before that time comes.

Believe me to be,
Dear Sir,
With much sincerity,
Yours truly,
Elias Gotobed.
The Honble. Josiah Scroome,
25, Q Street,
Minnesota Avenue,
Washington.

On the morning of the Senator’s departure from Dillsborough, Mr. Runciman met him standing under the covered way leading from the inn yard into the street. He was waiting for the omnibus which was being driven about the town, and which was to call for him and take him down to the railway station. Mr. Runciman had not as yet spoken to him since he had been at the inn, and had not even made himself personally known to his guest. “So, Sir, you are going to leave us,” said the landlord, with a smile which was intended probably as a smile of triumph.

“Yes, sir,” said the Senator. “It’s about time, I guess, that I should get back to London.”

“I dare say it is, Sir,” said the landlord. “I dare say you’ve seen enough of Mr. Goarly by this time.”

“That’s as may be. I don’t know whom I have the pleasure of speaking to.”

“My name is Runciman, Sir. I’m the landlord here.”

“I hope I see you well, Mr. Runciman. I have about come to an end of my business here.”

“I dare say you have, sir. I should say so. Perhaps I might express an opinion that you never came across a greater blackguard than Goarly either in this country or your own.”

“That’s a strong opinion, Mr. Runciman.”

“It’s the general opinion here, sir. I should have thought you’d found it out before this.”

“I don’t know that I am prepared at this moment to declare all that I have found out”

“I thought you’d have been tired of it by this time, Mr. Gotobed.”

“Tired of what?”

“Tired of the wrong side, sir.”

“I don’t know that I am on the wrong side. A man may be in the right on one point even though his life isn’t all that it ought to be.”

“That’s true, sir; but if they told you all that they know up street,”—and Runciman pointed to the part of the town in which Bearside’s office was situated,—“I should have thought you would have understood who was going to win and who was going to lose. Good day, sir; I hope you’ll have a pleasant journey. Much obliged to you for your patronage, sir;” and Runciman, still smiling unpleasantly, touched his hat as the Senator got into the omnibus.

The Senator was not very happy as to the Goarly business. He had paid some money and had half promised more, and had found out that he was in a boat with thoroughly disreputable persons. As he had said to the landlord, a man may have the right on his side in an action at law though he be a knave or a rascal; and if a lord be unjust to a poor man, the poor man should have justice done him, even though he be not quite a pattern poor man. But now he was led to believe by what the landlord had said to him that he was being kept in the dark, and that there were facts generally known that he did not know. He had learned something of English manners and English institutions by his interference, but there might be a question whether he was not paying too dearly for his whistle. And there was growing upon him a feeling that before he had done he would have to blush for his colleagues.

As the omnibus went away Dr. Nupper joined Mr. Runciman under the archway. “I’m blessed if I can understand that man,” said Runciman. “What is it he’s after?”

“Notoriety,” said the doctor, with the air of a man who has completely solved a difficult question.

“He’ll have to pay for it, and that pretty smart,” said Runciman. “I never heard of such a foolish thing in all my life. What the dickens is it to him? One can understand Bearside, and Scrobby too. When a fellow has something to get, one does understand it. But why an old fellow like that should come down from the moon to pay ever so much money for such a man as Goarly, is what I don’t understand.”

“Notoriety,” said the doctor.

“He evidently don’t know that Nickem has got round Goarly,” said the landlord.

CHAPTER III

At Cheltenham

The month at Cheltenham was passed very quietly and would have been a very happy month with Mary Masters but that there grew upon her from day to day increasing fears of what she would have to undergo when she returned to Dillsborough. At the moment when she was hesitating with Larry Twentyman, when she begged him to wait six months and then at last promised to give him an answer at the end of two, she had worked herself up to think that it might possibly be her duty to accept her lover for the sake of her family. At any rate she had at that moment thought that the question of duty ought to be further considered, and therefore she had vacillated. When the two months’ delay was accorded to her, and within that period the privilege of a long absence from Dillsborough, she put the trouble aside for a while with the common feeling that the chapter of accidents might do something for her. Before she had reached Cheltenham the chapter of accidents had done much. When Reginald Morton told her that he could not have congratulated her on such prospects, and had explained to her why in truth he had been angry at the bridge,—how he had been anxious to be alone with her that he might learn whether she were really engaged to this man,—then she had known that her answer to Larry Twentyman at the end of the two months must be a positive refusal.

But as she became aware of this a new trouble arose and harassed her very soul. When she had asked for the six months she had not at the moment been aware, she had not then felt, that a girl who asks for time is supposed to have already surrendered. But since she had made that unhappy request the conviction had grown upon her. She had read it in every word her stepmother said to her and in her father’s manner. The very winks and hints and little jokes which fell from her younger sisters told her that it was so. She could see around her the satisfaction which had come from the settlement of that difficult question,—a satisfaction which was perhaps more apparent with her father than even with the others. Then she knew what she had done, and remembered to have heard that a girl who expresses a doubt is supposed to have gone beyond doubting. While she was still at Dillsborough there was a feeling that no evil would arise from this if she could at last make up her mind to be Mrs. Twentyman; but when the settled conviction came upon her, after hearing Reginald Morton’s words, then she was much troubled.

He stayed only a couple of days at Cheltenham and during that time said very little to her. He certainly spoke no word which would give her a right to think that he himself was attached to her. He had been interested about her, as was his aunt, Lady Ushant, because she had been known and her mother had been known by the old Mortons. But there was nothing of love in all that. She had never supposed that there would be; and yet there was a vague feeling in her bosom that as he had been strong in expressing his objection to Mr. Twentyman there might have been something more to stir him than the memory of those old days at Bragton!

“To my thinking there is a sweetness about her which I have never seen equalled in any young woman.” This was said by Lady Ushant to her nephew after Mary had gone to bed on the night before he left.

“One would suppose,” he answered, “that you wanted me to ask her to be my wife.”

“I never want anything of that kind, Reg. I never make in such matters,—or mar if I can help it.”

“There is a man at Dillsborough wants to marry her.”

“I can easily believe that there should be two or three. Who is the man?”

“Do you remember old Twentyman of Chowton?”

“He was our near neighbour. Of course I remember him. I can remember well when they bought the land.”

“It is his son.”

“Surely he can hardly be worthy of her, Reg”

“And yet they say he is very worthy. I have asked about him, and he is not a bad fellow. He keeps his money and has ideas of living decently. He doesn’t drink or gamble. But he’s not a gentleman or anything like one. I should think he never opens a book. Of course it would be a degradation.”

“And what does Mary say herself?”

“I fancy she has refused him.” Then he added after a pause, “Indeed I know she has.”

“How should you know? Has she told you?” In answer to this he only nodded his head at the old lady. “There must have been close friendship, Reg, between you two when she told you that. I hope you have not made her give up one suitor by leading her to love another who does not mean to ask her.”

“I certainly have not done that,” said Reg. Men may often do much without knowing that they do anything, and such probably had been the case with Reginald Morton during the journey from Dillsborough to Cheltenham.

“What would her father wish?”

“They all want her to take the man.”

“How can she do better?”

“Would you have her marry a man who is not a gentleman, whose wife will never be visited by other ladies; in marrying whom she would go altogether down into another and a lower world?”

This was a matter on which Lady Ushant and her nephew had conversed often, and he thought he knew her to be thoroughly wedded to the privileges which she believed to be attached to her birth. With him the same feeling was almost the stronger because he was so well aware of the blot upon himself caused by the lowness of his own father’s marriage. But a man, he held, could raise a woman to his own rank, whereas a woman must accept the level of her husband.

“Bread and meat and chairs and tables are very serious things, Reg.”

“You would then recommend her to take this man, and pass altogether out of your own sphere?”

“What can I do for her? I am an old woman who will be dead probably before the first five years of her married life have passed over her. And as for recommending, I do not know enough to recommend anything. Does she like the man?”

“I am sure she would feel herself degraded by marrying him.”

“I trust she will never live to feel herself degraded. I do not believe that she could do anything that she thought would degrade her. But I think that you and I had better leave her to herself in this matter.” Further on in the same evening, or rather late in the night,—for they had then sat talking together for hours over the fire,—she made a direct statement to him. “When I die, Reg, I have but 5,000 pounds to leave behind me, and this I have divided between you and her. I shall not tell her because I might do more harm than good. But you may know.”

“That would make no difference to me,” he said.

“Very likely not, but I wish you to know it. What troubles me is that she will have to pay so much out of it for legacy duty. I might leave it all to you and you could give it her.” An honester or more religious or better woman than old Lady Ushant there was not in Cheltenham, but it never crossed her conscience that it would be wrong to cheat the revenue. It may be doubted whether any woman has ever been brought to such honesty as that.

On the next morning Morton went away without saying another word in private to Mary Masters and she was left to her quiet life with the old lady. To an ordinary visitor nothing could have been less exciting, for Lady Ushant very seldom went out and never entertained company. She was a tall thin old lady with bright eyes and grey hair and a face that was still pretty in spite of sunken eyes and sunken cheeks and wrinkled brow. There was ever present with her an air of melancholy which told a whole tale of the sadness of a long life. Her chief excitement was in her two visits to church on Sunday and in the letter which she wrote every week to her nephew at Dillsborough. Now she had her young friend with her, and that too was an excitement to her,—and the more so since she had heard the tidings of Larry Twentyman’s courtship.

She made up her mind that she would not speak on the subject to her young friend unless her young friend should speak to her. In the first three weeks nothing was said; but four or five days before Mary’s departure there came up a conversation about Dillsborough and Bragton. There had been many conversations about Dillsborough and Bragton, but in all of them the name of Lawrence Twentyman had been scrupulously avoided. Each had longed to name him, and yet each had determined not to do so. But at length it was avoided no longer. Lady Ushant had spoken of Chowton Farm and the widow. Then Mary had spoken of the place and its inhabitants. “Mr. Twentyman comes a great deal to our house now,” she said.

“Has he any reason, my dear?”

“He goes with papa once a week to the club; and he sometimes lends my sister Kate a pony. Kate is very fond of riding.”

“There is nothing else?”

“He has got to be intimate and I think mamma likes him.”

“He is a good young man then?”

“Very good,” said Mary with an emphasis.

“And Chowton belongs to him.”

“Oh yes;—it belongs to him.”

“Some young men make such ducks and drakes of their property when they get it”

“They say that he’s not like that at all. People say that he understands farming very well and that he minds everything himself.”

“What an excellent young man! There is no other reason for his coming to your house, Mary?” Then the sluice-gates were opened and the whole story was told. Sitting there late into the night Mary told it all as well as she knew how,—all of it except in regard to any spark of love which might have fallen upon her in respect of Reginald Morton. Of Reginald Morton in her story of course she did not speak; but all the rest she declared. She did not love the man. She was quite sure of that. Though she thought so well of him there was, she was quite sure, no feeling in her heart akin to love. She had promised to take time because she had thought that she might perhaps be able to bring herself to marry him without loving him,— to marry him because her father wished it, and because her going from home would be a relief to her stepmother and sisters, because it would be well for them all that she should be settled out of the way. But since that she had made up her mind,—she thought that she had quite made up her mind,—that it would be impossible.

“There is nobody else, Mary?” said Lady Ushant putting her hand on to Mary’s lap. Mary protested that there was nobody else without any consciousness that she was telling a falsehood. “And you are quite sure that you cannot do it?”

“Do you think that I ought, Lady Ushant?”

“I should be very sorry to say that, my dear. A young woman in such a matter must be governed by her feelings. Only he seems to be a deserving young man!” Mary looked askance at her friend, remembering at the moment Reginald Morton’s assurance that his aunt would have disapproved of such an engagement. “But I never would persuade a girl to marry a man she did not love. I think it would be wicked. I always thought so.”

There was nothing about degradation in all this. It was quite clear to Mary that had she been able to tell Lady Ushant that she was head over ears in love with this young man and that therefore she was going to marry him, her old friend would have found no reason to lament such an arrangement. Her old friend would have congratulated her. Lady Ushant evidently thought Larry Twentyman to be good enough as soon as she heard what Mary found herself compelled to say in the young man’s favour. Mary was almost disappointed; but reconciled herself to it very quickly, telling herself that there was yet time for her to decide in favour of her lover if she could bring herself to do so.

And she did try that night and all the next day, thinking that if she could so make up her mind she would declare her purpose to Lady Ushant before she left Cheltenham. But she could not do it, and in the struggle with herself at last she learned something of the truth. Lady Ushant saw nothing but what was right and proper in a marriage with Lawrence Twentyman, but Reginald Morton had declared it to be improper, and therefore it was out of her reach. She could not do it. She could not bring herself, after what he had said, to look him in the face and tell him that she was going to become the wife of Larry Twentyman. Then she asked herself the fatal question;—was she in love with Reginald Morton? I do not think that she answered it in the affirmative, but she became more and more sure that she could never marry Larry Twentyman.

Lady Ushant declared herself to have been more than satisfied with the visit and expressed a hope that it might be repeated in the next year. “I would ask you to come and make your home here while I have a home to offer you, only that you would be so much more buried here than at Dillsborough: And you have duties there which perhaps you ought not to leave. But come again when your papa will spare you.”

On her journey back she certainly was not very happy. There were yet three weeks wanting to the time at which she would be bound to give her answer to Larry Twentyman; but why should she keep the man waiting for three weeks when her answer was ready? Her stepmother she knew would soon force her answer from her, and her father would be anxious to know what had been the result of her meditations. The real period of her reprieve had been that of her absence at Cheltenham, and that period was now come to an, end. At each station as she passed them she remembered what Reginald Morton had been saying to her, and how their conversation had been interrupted,—and perhaps occasionally aided,—by the absurdities of the bird. How sweet it had been to be near him and to listen to his whispered voice! How great was the difference between him and that other young man, the smartness of whose apparel was now becoming peculiarly distasteful to her! Certainly it would have been better for her not to have gone to Cheltenham if it was to be her fate to become Mrs. Twentyman. She was quite sure of that now.

She came up from the Dillsborough Station alone in the Bush omnibus. She had not expected any one to meet her. Why should any one meet her? The porter put up her box and the omnibus left her at the door. But she remembered well how she had gone down with Reginald Morton, and how delightful had been every little incident of the journey. Even to walk with him up and down the platform while waiting for the train had been a privilege. She thought of it as she got out of the carriage and remembered that she had felt that the train had come too soon.

At her own door her father met her and took her into the parlour where the tea-things were spread, and where her sisters were already seated. Her stepmother soon came in and kissed her kindly. She was asked how she had enjoyed herself, and no disagreeable questions were put to her that night. No questions, at least, were asked which she felt herself bound to answer. After she was in bed Kate came to her and did say a word. “Well, Mary, do tell me. I won’t tell any one.” But Mary refused to speak a word.

CHAPTER IV

The Rufford Correspondence

It might be surmised from the description which Lord Rufford had given of his own position to his sister and his sister’s two friends, when he pictured himself as falling over the edge of the precipice while they hung on behind to save him, that he was sufficiently aware of the inexpediency of the proposed intimacy with Miss Trefoil. Any one hearing him would have said that Miss Trefoil’s chances in that direction were very poor,—that a man seeing his danger so plainly and so clearly understanding the nature of it would certainly avoid it. But what he had said was no more than Miss Trefoil knew that he would say,—or, at any rate would think. Of course she had against her not only all his friends,—but the man himself also and his own fixed intentions. Lord Rufford was not a marrying man,—which was supposed to signify that he intended to lead a life of pleasure till the necessity of providing an heir should be forced upon him, when he would take to himself a wife out of his own class in life twenty years younger than himself for whom he would not care a straw. The odds against Miss Trefoil were of course great;—but girls have won even against such odds as these. She knew her own powers, and was aware that Lord Rufford was fond of feminine beauty and feminine flutter and feminine flattery, though he was not prepared to marry. It was quite possible that she might be able to dig such a pit for him that it would be easier for him to marry her than to get out in any other way. Of course she must trust something to his own folly at first. Nor did she trust in vain. Before her week was over at Mrs. Gore’s she received from him a letter, which, with the correspondence to which it immediately led, shall be given in this chapter.

Letter No. I.

Rufford, Sunday.

My Dear Miss Trefoil,

We have had a sad house since you left us. Poor Caneback got better and then worse and then better,—and at last died yesterday afternoon. And now; there is to be the funeral! The poor dear old boy seems to have had nobody belonging to him and very little in the way of possessions. I never knew anything of him except that he was, or had been, in the Blues, and that he was about the best man in England to hounds on a bad horse. It now turns out that his father made some money in India,—a sort of Commissary purveyor,— and bought a commission for him twenty-five years ago. Everybody knew him but nobody knew anything about, him. Poor old Caneback! I wish he had managed to die anywhere else and I don’t feel at all obliged to Purefoy for sending that brute of a mare here. He said something to me about that wretched ball;—not altogether so wretched! was it? But I didn’t like what he said and told him a bit of my mind. Now we’re two for a while; and I don’t care for how long unless he comes round.

I cannot stand a funeral and I shall get away from this. I will pay the bill and Purefoy may do the rest. I’m going for Christmas to Surbiton’s near Melton with a string of horses. Surbiton is a bachelor, and as there will be no young ladies to interfere with me I shall have the more time to think of you. We shall have a little play there instead. I don’t know whether it isn’t the better of the two, as if one does get sat upon, one doesn’t feel so confoundedly sheep-faced. I have been out with the hounds two or three times since you went, as I could do no good staying with that poor fellow and there was a time when we thought he would have pulled through. I rode Jack one day, but he didn’t carry me as well as he did you. I think he’s more of a lady’s horse. If I go to Mistletoe I shall have some horses somewhere in the neighbourhood and I’ll make them take Jack, so that you may have a chance.

I never know how to sign myself to young ladies. Suppose I say that I am yours,

Anything you like best,
R.

This was a much nicer letter than Arabella had expected, as there were one or two touches in it, apart from the dead man and the horses, which she thought might lead to something,—and there was a tone in the letter which seemed to show that he was given to correspondence. She took care to answer it so that he should get her letter on his arrival at Mr. Surbiton’s house. She found out Mr. Surbiton’s address, and then gave a great deal of time to her letter.

Letter No. 2.

Murray’s Hotel, Green Street, Thursday.

My Dear Lord Rufford,

As we are passing through London on our way from one purgatory with the Gores to another purgatory with old Lady De Browne, and as mamma is asleep in her chair opposite, and as I have nothing else on earth to do, I think I might as well answer your letter. Poor old Major! I am sorry for him, because he rode so bravely. I shall never forget his face as he passed us, and again as he rose upon his knee when that horrid blow came! How very odd that he should have been like that, without any friends. What a terrible nuisance to you! I think you were quite wise to come away. I am sure I should have done so. I can’t conceive what right Sir John Purefoy can have had to say anything, for after all it was his doing. Do you remember when you talked of my riding Jemima? When I think of it I can hardly hold myself for shuddering.

It is so kind of you to think of me about Jack. I am never very fond of Mistletoe. Don’t you be mischievous now and tell the Duchess I said so. But with Jack in the neighbourhood I can stand even her Grace. I think I shall be there about the middle of January but it must depend on all those people mamma is going to. I shall have to make a great fight, for mamma thinks that ten days in the year at Mistletoe is all that duty requires. But I always stick up for my uncle, and mean in this instance to have a little of my own way. What are parental commands in opposition to Jack and all his glories? Besides mamma does not mean to go herself.

I shall leave it to you to say whether the ball was ‘altogether wretched.’ Of course there must have been infinite vexation to you, and to us who knew of it all there was a feeling of deep sorrow. But perhaps we were able, some of us, to make it a little lighter for you. At any rate I shall never forget Rufford, whether the memory be more pleasant or more painful. There are moments which one never can forget!

Don’t go and gamble away your money among a lot of men. Though I dare say you have got so much that it doesn’t signify whether you lose some of it or not. I do think it is such a shame that a man like you should have such a quantity, and that a poor girl such as I am shouldn’t have enough to pay for her hats and gloves. Why shouldn’t I send a string of horses about just when I please? I believe I could make as good a use of them as you do, and then I could lend you Jack. I would be so good-natured. You should have Jack every day you wanted him.

You must write and tell me what day you will be at Mistletoe. It is you that have tempted me and I don’t mean to be there without you,—or I suppose I ought to say, without the horse. But of course you will have understood that. No young lady ever is supposed to desire the presence of any young man. It would be very improper of course. But a young man’s Jack is quite another thing.

So far her pen had flown with her, but then there came the necessity for a conclusion which must be worded in some peculiar way, as his had been so peculiar. How far might she dare to be affectionate without putting him on his guard? Or in what way might she be saucy so as best to please him? She tried two or three, and at last she ended her letter as follows.

I have not had much experience in signing myself to young gentlemen and am therefore quite in as great a difficulty as you were; but, though I can’t swear that I am everything that you like best, I will protest that I am pretty nearly what you ought to like,—as far as young ladies go.

In the meantime I certainly am,
Yours truly,
A. T.

P.S. Mind you write—about Jack; and address to Lady Smijth— Greenacres Manor—Hastings.

There was a great deal in this letter which was not true. But then such ladies as Miss Trefoil can never afford to tell the truth.

The letter was not written from Murray’s Hotel, Lady Augustus having insisted on staying at certain lodgings in Orchard Street because her funds were low. But on previous occasions they had stayed at Murray’s. And her mamma, instead of being asleep when the letter was written, was making up her accounts. And every word about Mistletoe had been false. She had not yet secured her invitation. She was hard at work on the attempt, having induced her father absolutely to beg the favour from his brother. But at the present moment she was altogether diffident of success. Should she fail she must only tell Lord Rufford that her mother’s numerous engagements had at the last moment made her happiness impossible. That she was going to Lady Smijth’s was true, and at Lady Smijth’s house she received the following note from Lord Rufford. It was then January, and the great Mistletoe question was not as yet settled.

Letter No. 3.

December 31.

My Dear Miss Trefoil,

Here I am still at Surbiton’s and we have had such good sport that I’m half inclined to give the Duke the slip. What a pity that you can’t come here instead. Wouldn’t it be nice for you and half a dozen more without any of the Dowagers or Duennas? You might win some of the money which I lose. I have been very unlucky and, if you had won it all, there would be plenty of room for hats and gloves,—and for sending two or three Jacks about all the winter into the bargain. I never did win yet. I don’t care very much about it, but I don’t know why I should always be so uncommonly unlucky.

We had such a day yesterday,—an hour and ten minutes all in the open, and then a kill just as the poor fellow was trying to make a drain under the high road. There were only five of us up. Surbiton broke his horse’s back at a bank, and young De Canute came down on to a road and smashed his collar bone. Three or four of the hounds were so done that they couldn’t be got home. I was riding Black Harry and he won’t be out again for a fortnight. It was the best thing I’ve seen these two years. We never have it quite like that with the U.R.U.

If I don’t go to Mistletoe I’ll send Jack and a groom if you think the Duke would take them in and let you ride the horse. If so I shall stay here pretty nearly all January, unless there should be a frost. In that case I should go back to Rufford as I have a deal of shooting to do. I shall be so sorry not to see you;—but there is always a sort of sin in not sticking to hunting when it’s good. It so seldom is just what it ought to be.

I rather think that after all we shall be down on that fellow who poisoned our fox, in spite of your friend the Senator.

Yours always faithfully,
R.

There was a great deal in this letter which was quite terrible to Miss Trefoil. In the first place by the time she received it she had managed the matter with her uncle. Her father had altogether refused to mention Lord Rufford’s name, though he had heard the very plain proposition which his daughter made to him with perfect serenity. But he had said to the Duke that it would be a great convenience if Bell could be received at Mistletoe for a few days, and the Duke had got the Duchess to assent. Lady Augustus, too, had been disposed of, and two very handsome new dresses had been acquired. Her habit had been altered with reckless disregard of the coming spring and she was fully prepared for her campaign. But what would Mistletoe be to her without Lord Rufford? In spite of all that had been done she would not go there. Unless she could turn him by her entreaties she would pack up everything and start for Patagonia, with the determination to throw herself overboard on the way there if she could find the courage.

She had to think very much of her next letter. Should she write in anger or should she write in love, or should she mingle both? There was no need for care now, as there had been at first. She must reach him at once, or everything would be over. She must say something that would bring him to Mistletoe, whatever that something might be. After much thought she determined that mingled anger and love would be the best. So she mingled them as follows:

Letter No. 4.

Greenacre Manor, Monday.

Your last letter which I have just got has killed me. You must know that I have altered my plans and done it at immense trouble for the sake of meeting you at Mistletoe. It will be most unkind,—I might say worse,—if you put me off. I don’t think you can do it as a gentleman. I’m sure you would not if you knew what I have gone through with mamma and the whole set of them to arrange it. Of course I shan’t go if you don’t come. Your talk of sending the horse there is adding an insult to the injury. You must have meant to annoy me or you wouldn’t have pretended to suppose that it was the horse I wanted to see. I didn’t think I could have taken so violent a dislike to poor Jack as I did for a moment. Let me tell you that I think you are bound to go to Mistletoe though the hunting at Melton should be better than was ever known before. When the hunting is good in one place of course it is good in another. Even I am sportsman enough to know that. I suppose you have been losing a lot of money and are foolish enough to think you can win it back again.

Please, please come. It was to be the little cream of the year for me. It wasn’t Jack. There! That ought to bring you. And yet, if you come, I will worship Jack. I have not said a word to mamma about altering my plans, nor shall I while there is a hope. But to Mistletoe I will not go, unless you are to be there. Pray answer this by return of post. If we have gone your letter will of course follow us. Pray come. Yours if you do come—; what shall I say? Fill it as you please.

A. T.

Lord Rufford when he received the above very ardent epistle was quite aware that he had better not go to Mistletoe. He understood the matter nearly as well as Arabella did herself. But there was a feeling with him that up to that stage of the affair he ought to do what he was asked by a young lady, even though there might be danger. Though there was danger there would still be amusement. He therefore wrote again as follows:

Letter No. 5.

Dear Miss Trefoil,

You shan’t be disappointed whether it be Jack or any less useful animal that you wish to see. At any rate Jack,—and the other animal,—will be at Mistletoe on the 15th. I have written to the Duke by this post. I can only hope that you will be grateful. After all your abuse about my getting back my money I think you ought to be very grateful. I have got it back again, but I can assure you that has had nothing to do with it.

Yours ever,
R.

P.S. We had two miserably abortive days last week.

Arabella felt that a great deal of the compliment was taken away by the postscript; but still she was grateful and contented.

CHAPTER V

“It is a long Way”

While the correspondence given in the last chapter was going on Miss Trefoil had other troubles besides those there narrated, and other letters to answer. Soon after her departure from Rufford she received a very serious but still an affectionate epistle from John Morton in which he asked her if it was her intention to become his wife or not. The letter was very long as well as very serious and need not be given here at length. But that was the gist of it; and he went on to say that in regard to money he had made the most liberal proposition in his power, that he must decline to have any further communication with lawyers, and that he must ask her to let him know at once,—quite at once,—whether she did or did not regard herself as engaged to him. It was a manly letter and ended by a declaration that as far as he himself was concerned his feelings were not at all altered. This she received while staying at the Gores’, but, in accordance with her predetermined strategy, did not at once send any answer to it. Before she heard again from Morton she had received that pleasant first letter from Lord Rufford, and was certainly then in no frame of mind to assure Mr. Morton that she was ready to declare herself his affianced wife before all the world. Then, after ten days, he had written to her again and had written much more severely. It wanted at that time but a few days to Christmas, and she was waiting for a second letter from Lord Rufford. Let what might come of it she could not now give up the Rufford chance. As she sat thinking of it, giving the very best of her mind to it, she remembered the warmth of that embrace in the little room behind the drawing-room, and those halcyon minutes in which her head had been on his shoulder, and his arm round her waist. Not that they were made halcyon to her by any of the joys of love. In giving the girl her due it must be owned that she rarely allowed herself to indulge in simple pleasures. If Lord Rufford, with the same rank and property, had been personally disagreeable to her it would have been the same. Business to her had for many years been business, and her business had been so very hard that she had never allowed lighter things to interfere with it. She had had justice on her side when she rebuked her mother for accusing her of flirtations. But could such a man as Lord Rufford— with his hands so free,—venture to tell himself that such tokens of affection with such a girl would mean nothing? If she might contrive to meet him again of course they would be repeated; and then he should be forced to say that they did mean something. When therefore the severe letter came from Morton,—severe and pressing, telling her that she was bound to answer him at once and that were she still silent he must in regard to his own honour take that as an indication of her intention to break off the match,—she felt that she must answer it. The answer must, however, still be ambiguous. She would not if possible throw away that stool quite as yet, though her mind was intent on ascending to the throne which it might be within her power to reach. She wrote to him an ambiguous letter, but a letter which certainly was not intended to liberate him. “He ought,” she said, “to understand that a girl situated as she was could not ultimately dispose of herself till her friends had told her that she was free to do so. She herself did not pretend to have any interest in the affairs as to which her father and his lawyers were making themselves busy. They had never even condescended to tell her what it was they wanted on her behalf;— nor, for the matter of that, had he, Morton, ever told her what it was that he refused to do. Of course she could not throw herself into his arms till these things were settled.”—By that expression she had meant a metaphorical throwing of herself, and not such a flesh and blood embracing as she had permitted to the lord in the little room at Rufford. Then she suggested that he should appeal again to her father. It need hardly be said that her father knew very little about it, and that the lawyers had long since written to Lady Augustus to say that better terms as to settlement could not be had from Mr. John Morton.

Morton, when he wrote his second letter, had received the offer of the mission to Patagonia and had asked for a few days to think of it. After much consideration he had determined that, he would say nothing to Arabella of the offer. Her treatment of him gave her no right to be consulted. Should she at once write back declaring her readiness to become his wife, then he would consult her,—and would not only consult her but would be prepared to abandon the mission at the expression of her lightest wish. Indeed in that case he thought that he would himself advise that it should be abandoned. Why should he expatriate himself to such a place with such a wife as Arabella Trefoil? He received her answer and at once accepted the offer. He accepted it, though he by no means assured himself that the engagement was irrevocably annulled. But now, if she came to him, she must take her chance. She must be told that he at any rate was going to Patagonia, and that unless she could make up her mind to do so too, she must remain Arabella Trefoil for him. He would not even tell her of his appointment. He had done all that in him lay and would prepare himself for his journey as a single man. A minister going out to Patagonia would of course have some little leave of absence allowed him, and he arranged with his friend Mounser Green that he should not start till April.

But when Lord Rufford’s second letter reached Miss Trefoil down at Greenacre Manor, where she had learned by common report that Mr. Morton was to be the new minister at Patagonia,—when she believed as she then did that the lord was escaping her, that, seeing and feeling his danger, he had determined not to jump into the lion’s mouth by meeting her at Mistletoe, that her chance there was all over; then she remembered her age, her many seasons, the hard work of her toilet, those tedious long and bitter quarrels with her mother, the ever-renewed trouble of her smiles, the hopelessness of her future should she smile in vain to the last, and the countless miseries of her endless visitings; and she remembered too the 1200 pounds a year that Morton had offered to settle on her and the assurance of a home of her own though that home should be at Bragton. For an hour or two she had almost given up the hope of Rufford and had meditated some letter to her other lover which might at any rate secure him. But she had collected her courage sufficiently to make that last appeal to the lord, which had been successful. Three weeks now might settle all that and for three weeks it might still be possible so to manage her affairs that she might fall back upon Patagonia as her last resource.

About this time Morton returned to Bragton, waiting however till he was assured that the Senator had completed his visit to Dillsborough. He had been a little ashamed of the Senator in regard to the great Goarly conflict and was not desirous of relieving his solitude by the presence of the American. On this occasion he went quite alone and ordered no carriages from the Bush and no increased establishment of servants. He certainly was not happy in his mind. The mission to Patagonia was well paid, being worth with house and etceteras nearly 3000 pounds a year; and it was great and quick promotion for one so young as himself. For one neither a lord nor connected with a Cabinet Minister Patagonia was a great place at which to begin his career as Plenipotentiary on his own bottom;— but it is a long way off and has its drawbacks. He could not look to be there for less than four years; and there was hardly reason why a man in his position should expatriate himself to such a place for so long a time. He felt that he should not have gone but for his engagement to Arabella Trefoil, and that neither would he have gone had his engagement been solid and permanent. He was going in order that he might be rid of that trouble, and a man’s feelings in such circumstances cannot be satisfactory to himself. However he had said that he would go, and he knew enough of himself to be certain that having said so he would not alter his mind. But he was very melancholy and Mrs. Hopkins declared to old Mrs. Twentyman that the young squire was “hipped,”—“along of his lady love,” as she thought.

His hands had been so full of his visitors when at Bragton before, and he had been carried off so suddenly to Rufford, and then had hurried up to London in such misery, that he had hardly had time to attend to his own business. Mr. Masters had made a claim upon him since he had been in England for £127 8s. 4d in reference to certain long-gone affairs in which the attorney declared he had been badly treated by those who had administered the Morton estate. John Morton had promised to look into the matter and to see Mr. Masters. He had partially looked into it and now felt ashamed that he had not fully kept his promise. The old attorney had not had much hope of getting his money. It was doubtful to himself whether he could make good his claim against the Squire at law, and it was his settled purpose to make no such attempt although he was quite sure that the money was his due. Indeed if Mr. Morton would not do anything further in the matter, neither would he. He was almost too mild a man to be a successful lawyer, and had a dislike to asking for money. Mr. Morton had promised to see him, but Mr. Morton had probably—forgotten it. Some gentlemen seem apt to forget such promises.

Mr. Masters was somewhat surprised therefore when he was told one morning in his office that Mr. Morton from Bragton wished to see him. He thought that it must be Reginald Morton, having not heard that the Squire had returned to the country. But John Morton was shown into the office, and the old attorney immediately arose from his arm-chair. Sundown was there, and was at once sent out of the room. Sundown on such occasions was accustomed to retire to some settlement seldom visited by the public which was called the back office. Nickem was away intent on unravelling the Goarly mystery, and the attorney could ask his visitor to take a confidential seat. Mr. Morton however had very little to say. He was full of apologies and at once handed out a cheque for the sum demanded. The money was so much to the attorney that he was flurried by his own success. “Perhaps,” said Morton, “I ought in fairness to add interest”

“Not at all;—by no means. Lawyers never expect that. Really, Mr. Morton, I am very much obliged. It was so long ago that I thought that perhaps you might think—”

“I do not doubt that it’s all right”

“Yes, Mr. Morton—it is all right. It is quite right. But your coming in this way is quite a compliment. I am so proud to see the owner of Bragton once more in this house. I respect the family as I always did; and as for the money—”

“I am only sorry that it has been delayed so long. Good morning, Mr. Masters.”

The attorney’s affairs were in such a condition that an unexpected cheque for £127 8s. 4d. sufficed to exhilarate him. It was as though the money had come down to him from the very skies. As it happened Mary returned from Cheltenham on that same evening and the attorney felt that if she had brought back with her an intention to be Mrs. Twentyman he could still be a happy and contented man.

And there had been another trouble on John Morton’s mind. He had received his cousin’s card but had not returned the visit while his grandmother had been at Bragton. Now he walked on to Hoppet Hall and knocked at the door.—Yes;—Mr. Morton was at home, and then he was shown into the presence of his cousin whom he had not seen since he was a boy. “I ought to have come sooner,” said the Squire, who was hardly at his ease.

“I heard you had a house full of people at Bragton.”

“Just that,—and then I went off rather suddenly to the other side of the country; and then I had to go up to London. Now I’m going to Patagonia.”

“Patagonia! That’s a long way off.”

“We Foreign Office slaves have to be sent a long way off.”

“But we heard, John,” said Reginald, who did not feel it to be his duty to stand on any ceremony with his younger cousin, “we heard that you were going to be married to Miss Trefoil. Are you going to take a wife out to Patagonia?”

This was a question which he certainly had not expected. “I don’t know how that may be,” he said frowning.

“We were told here in Dillsborough that it was all settled. I hope I haven’t asked an improper question.”

“Of course people will talk.”

“If it’s only talk I beg pardon. Whatever concerns Bragton is interesting to me, and from the way in which I heard this I thought it was a certainty. Patagonia;—well! You don’t want an assistant private secretary I suppose? I should like to see Patagonia.”

“We are not allowed to appoint those gentlemen ourselves.”

“And I suppose I should be too old to get in at the bottom. It seems a long way off for a man who is the owner of Bragton.”

“It is a long way.”

“And what will you do with the old place?”

“There’s no one to live there. If you were married you might perhaps take it” This was of course said in joke, as old Mrs. Morton would have thought Bragton to be disgraced for ever, even by such a proposition.

“You might let it.”

“Who would take such a place for five years? I suppose old Mrs. Hopkins will remain, and that it will become more and more desolate every year. I mustn’t let the old house tumble down; that’s all.” Then the Minister Plenipotentiary to Patagonia took his departure and walked back to Bragton thinking of the publicity of his engagement. All Dillsborough had heard that he was to be married to Miss Trefoil, and this cousin of his had been so sure of the fact that he had not hesitated to ask a question about it in the first moment of their first interview. Under such circumstances it would be better for him to go to Patagonia than to remain in England.

CHAPTER VI

The Beginning of persecution

When Mary Masters got up on the morning after her arrival she knew that she would have to endure much on that day. Everybody had smiled on her the preceding evening, but the smiles were of a nature which declared themselves to be preparatory to some coming event. The people around her were gracious on the presumption that she was going to do as they wished, and would be quite prepared to withdraw their smiles should she prove to be contumacious. Mary, as she crept down in the morning, understood all this perfectly. She found her stepmother alone in the parlour and was at once attacked with the all important question. “My dear, I hope you have made up your mind about Mr. Twentyman.”

“There were to be two months, mamma.”

“That’s nonsense, Mary. Of course you must know what you mean to tell him.” Mary thought that she did know, but was not at the present moment disposed to make known her knowledge and therefore remained silent. “You should remember how much this is to your papa and me and should speak out at once. Of course you need not tell Mr. Twentyman till the end of the time unless you like it”

“I thought I was to be left alone for two months.”

“Mary, that is wicked. When your papa has so many things to think of and so much to provide for, you should be more thoughtful of him. Of course he will want to be prepared to give you what things will be necessary.” Mrs. Masters had not as yet heard of Mr. Morton’s cheque, and perhaps would not hear of it till her husband’s bank book fell into her hands. The attorney had lately found it necessary to keep such matters to himself when it was possible, as otherwise he was asked for explanations which it was not always easy for him to give. “You know,” continued Mrs. Masters, “how hard your father finds it to get money as it is wanted.”

“I don’t want anything, mamma.”

“You must want things if you are to be married in March or April.”

“But I shan’t be married in March or April. Oh, mamma, pray don’t.”

“In a week’s time or so you must tell Larry. After all that has passed of course he won’t expect to have to wait long, and you can’t ask him. Kate my dear,”—Kate had just entered the room, “go into the office and tell your father to come into breakfast in five minutes. You must know, Mary, and I insist on your telling me.”

“When I said two months,—only it was he said two months—”

“What difference does it make, my dear?”

“It was only because he asked me to put it off. I knew it could make no difference.”

“Do you mean to tell me, Mary, that you are going to refuse him after all?”

“I can’t help it,” said Mary, bursting out into tears.

“Can’t help it! Did anybody ever see such an idiot since girls were first created? Not help it, after having given him as good as a promise! You must help it. You must be made to help it”

There was an injustice in this which nearly killed poor Mary. She had been persuaded among them to put off her final decision, not because she had any doubt in her own mind, but at their request, and now she was told that in granting this delay she had “given as good as a promise!” And her stepmother also had declared that she “must be made to help it,”—or in other words be made to marry Mr. Twentyman in opposition to her own wishes! She was quite sure that no human being could have such right of compulsion over her. Her father would not attempt it, and it was, after all, to her father alone, that she was bound by duty. At the moment she could make no reply, and then her father with the two girls came in from the office.

The attorney was still a little radiant with his triumph about the cheque and was also pleased with his own discernment in the matter of Goarly. He had learned that morning from Nickem that Goarly had consented to take 7s. 6d. an acre from Lord Rufford and was prepared to act “quite the honourable part” on behalf of his lordship. Nickem had seemed to think that the triumph would not end here, but had declined to make any very definite statements. Nickem clearly fancied that he had been doing great things himself, and that he might be allowed to have a little mystery. But the attorney took great credit to himself in that he had rejected Goarly’s case, and had been employed by Lord Rufford in lieu of Goarly. When he entered the parlour he had for the moment forgotten Larry Twentyman, and was disposed to greet his girl lovingly;—but he found her dissolved in bitter tears. “Mary, my darling, what is it ails you?” he said.

“Never mind about your darling now, but come to breakfast. She is giving, herself airs,—as usual.”

But Mary never did give herself airs and her father could not endure the accusation. “She would not be crying,” he said, “unless she had something to cry for.”

“Pray don’t make a fuss about things you don’t understand,” said his wife. “Mary, are you coming to the table? If not you had better go up-stairs. I hate such ways, and I won’t have them. This comes of Ushanting! I knew what it would be. The place for girls is to stay at home and mind their work,—till they have got houses of their own to look after. That’s what I intend my girls to do. There’s nothing on earth so bad for girls as that twiddle-your-thumbs visiting about when they think they’ve nothing to do but to show what sort of ribbons and gloves they’ve got. Now, Dolly, if you’ve got any hands will you cut the bread for your father? Mary’s a deal too fine a lady to do anything but sit there and rub her eyes.” After that the breakfast was eaten in silence.

When the meal was over Mary followed her father into the office and said that she wanted to speak to him. When Sundown had disappeared she told her tale. “Papa,” she said, “I am so sorry, but I can’t do what you want about Mr. Twentyman.”

“Is it so, Mary?”

“Don’t be angry with me, papa.”

“Angry! No;—I won’t be angry. I should be very sorry to be angry with my girl. But what you tell me will make us all very unhappy;— very unhappy indeed. What will you say to Lawrence Twentyman?”

“What I said before, papa.”

“But he is quite certain now that you mean to take him. Of course we were all certain when you only wanted a few more days to think of it.” Mary felt this to be the cruellest thing of all. “When he asked me I said I wouldn’t pledge you, but I certainly had no doubt. What is the matter, Mary?”

She could understand that a girl might be asked why she wanted to marry a man, and that in such a condition she ought to be able to give a reason; but it was she thought very hard that she should be asked why she didn’t want to marry a man. “I suppose, papa,” she said after a pause, “I don’t like him in that way.”

“Your mamma will be sure to say that it is because you went to Lady Ushant’s.”

And so in part it was,—as Mary herself very well knew; though Lady Ushant herself had had nothing to do with it. “Lady Ushant,” she said, “would be very well pleased,—if she thought that I liked him well enough.”

“Did you tell Lady Ushant?”

“Yes; I told her all about it,—and how you would all be pleased. And I did try to bring myself to it. Papa,—pray, pray don’t want to send me away from you.”

“You would be so near to us all at Chowton Farm!”

“I am nearer here, papa.” Then she embraced him, and he in a manner yielded to her. He yielded to her so far as to part with her at the present moment with soft loving words.

Mrs. Masters had a long conversation with her husband on the subject that same day, and condescended even to say a few words to the two girls. She had her own theory and her own plan in the present emergency. According to her theory girls shouldn’t be indulged in any vagaries, and this rejecting of a highly valuable suitor was a most inexcusable vagary. And, if her plan were followed, a considerable amount of wholesome coercion would at once be exercised towards this refractory young woman. There was in fact more than a fortnight wanting to the expiration of Larry’s two months, and Mrs. Masters was strongly of opinion that if Mary were put into a sort of domestic “coventry” during this period, if she were debarred from friendly intercourse with the family and made to feel that such wickedness as hers, if continued, would make her an outcast, then she would come round and accept Larry Twentyman before the end of the time. But this plan could not be carried out without her husband’s co-operation. Were she to attempt it single-handed, Mary would take refuge in her father’s softness of heart and there would simply be two parties in the household. “If you would leave her to me and not speak to her, it would be all right,” Mrs. Masters said to her husband.

“Not speak to her!”

“Not cosset her and spoil her for the next week or two. Just leave her to herself and let her feel what she’s doing. Think what Chowton Farm would be, and you with your business all slipping through your fingers.”

“I don’t know that it’s slipping through my fingers at all,” said the attorney mindful of his recent successes.

“If you mean to say you don’t care about it—!”

“I do care about it very much. You know I do. You ought not to talk to me in that way.”

“Then why won’t you be said by me? Of course if you cocker her up, she’ll think she’s to have her own way like a grand lady. She don’t like him because he works for his bread,—that’s what it is; and because she’s been taught by that old woman to read poetry. I never knew that stuff do any good to anybody. I hate them fandangled lines that are all cut up short to make pretence. If she wants to read why can’t she take the cookery book and learn something useful? It just comes to this;—if you want her to marry Larry Twentyman you had better not notice her for the next fortnight. Let her go and come and say nothing to her. She’ll think about it, if she’s left to herself.”

The attorney did want his daughter to marry the man and was half convinced by his wife. He could not bring himself to be cruel and felt that his heart would bleed every hour of the day that he separated himself from his girl;—but still he thought that he might perhaps best in this way bring about a result which would be so manifestly for her advantage. It might be that the books of poetry and the modes of thought which his wife described as “Ushanting” were of a nature to pervert his girl’s mind from the material necessities of life and that a little hardship would bring her round to a more rational condition. With a very heavy heart he consented to do his part,—which was to consist mainly of silence. Any words which might be considered expedient were to come from his wife.

Three or four days went on in this way, which were days of absolute misery to Mary. She soon perceived and partly understood her father’s silence. She knew at any rate that for the present she was debarred from his confidence. Her mother did not say much, but what she did say was all founded on the theory that Ushanting and softness in general are very bad for young women. Even Dolly and Kate were hard to her,—each having some dim idea that Mary was to be coerced towards Larry Twentyman and her own good. At the end of that time, when Mary had been at home nearly a week, Larry came as usual on the Saturday evening. She, well knowing his habit, took care to be out of the way. Larry, with a pleasant face, asked after her, and expressed a hope that she had enjoyed herself at Cheltenham.

“A nasty idle place where nobody does anything as I believe,” said Mrs. Masters. Larry received a shock from the tone of the lady’s voice. He had allowed himself to think that all his troubles were now nearly over, but the words and the voice frightened him. He had told himself that he was not to speak of his love again till the two months were over, and like an honourable man he was prepared to wait the full time. He would not now have come to the attorney’s house but that he knew the attorney would wait for him before going over to the club. He had no right to draw deductions till the time should be up. But he could not help his own feelings and was aware that his heart sank within him when he was told that Cheltenham was a nasty idle place. Abuse of Cheltenham at the present moment was in fact abuse of Mary;—and the one sin which Mary could commit was persistence in her rejection of his suit. But he determined to be a man as he walked across the street with his old friend, and said not a word about his love. “They tell me that Goarly has taken his 7s. 6d., Mr. Masters.”

“Of course he has taken it, Larry. The worse luck for me. If he had gone on I might have had a bill against his Lordship as long as my arm. Now it won’t be worth looking after.”

“I’m sure you’re very glad, Mr. Masters.”

“Well; yes; I am glad. I do hate to see a fellow like that who hasn’t got a farthing of his own, propped up from behind just to annoy his betters.”

“They say that Bearside got a lot of money out of that American.”

“I suppose he got something.”

“What an idiot that man must be. Can you understand it, Mr. Masters?”

They now entered the club and Goarly and Nickem and Scrobby were of course being discussed. “Is it true, Mr. Masters, that Scrobby is to be arrested?” asked Fred Botsey at once.

“Upon my word I can’t say, Mr. Botsey; but if you tell me it is so I shan’t cry my eyes out”

“I thought you would have known”

“A gentleman may know a thing, Mr. Botsey,” said the landlord, “and not exactly choose to tell it.”

“I didn’t suppose there was any secret,” said the brewer. As Mr. Masters made no further remark it was of course conceived that he knew all about it and he was therefore treated with some increased deference. But there was on that night great triumph in the club as it was known as a fact that Goarly had withdrawn his claim, and that the American Senator had paid his money for nothing. It was moreover very generally believed that Goarly was going to turn evidence against Scrobby in reference to the poison.

CHAPTER VII

Mary’s Letter

The silent system in regard to Mary was carried on in the attorney’s house for a week, during which her sufferings were very great. From the first she made up her mind to oppose her stepmother’s cruelty by sheer obstinacy. She had been told that she must be made to marry Mr. Twentyman, and the injustice of that threat had at once made her rebel against her stepmother’s authority. She would never allow her stepmother to make her marry any one. She put herself into a state of general defiance and said as little as was said to her. But her father’s silence to her nearly broke her heart. On one or two occasions, as opportunity offered itself to her, she said little soft words to him in privacy. Then he would partly relent, would kiss her and bid her be a good girl, and would quickly hurry away from her. She could understand that he suffered as well as herself, and she perhaps got some consolation from the conviction. At last, on the following Saturday she watched her opportunity and brought to him when he was alone in his office a letter which she had written to Larry Twentyman. “Papa,” she said, “would you read that?” He took and read the letter, which was as follows:—

My Dear Mr. Twentyman,

Something was said about two months which are now very nearly over. I think I ought to save you from the trouble of coming to me again by telling you in a letter that it cannot be as you would have it. I have thought of it a great deal and have of course been anxious to do as my friends wish. And I am very grateful to you, and know how good and how kind you are. And I would do anything for you,— except this. But it never can be. I should not write like this unless I were quite certain. I hope you won’t be angry with me and think that I should have spared you the trouble of doubting so long. I know now that I ought not to have doubted at all; but I was so anxious not to seem to be obstinate that I became foolish about it when you asked me. What I say now is quite certain.

Dear Mr. Twentyman, I shall always think of you with esteem and regard, because I know how good you are; and I hope you will come to like somebody a great deal better than me who will always love you with her whole heart.

Yours very truly,
Mary Masters.

P.S. I shall show this letter to papa.

Mr. Masters read it as she stood by him,—and then read it again very slowly rubbing one hand over the other as he did so. He was thinking what he should do;—or rather what he should say. The idea of stopping the letter never occurred to him.

If she chose to refuse the man of course she must do so; and perhaps, if she did refuse him, there was no way better than this. “Must it be so, Mary?” he said at last.

“Yes, papa.”

“But why?”

“Because I do not love him as I should have to love any man that I wanted to marry. I have tried it, because you wished it, but I cannot do it”

“What will mamma say?”

“I am thinking more, papa, of you,” she said putting her arm over his shoulder. “You have always been so good to me, and so kind!” Here his heart misgave him, for he felt that during the last week he had not been kind to her. “But you would not wish me to give myself to a man and then not to care for him.”

“No, my dear.”

“I couldn’t do it. I should fall down dead first. I have thought so much about it,—for your sake; and have tried it with myself. I couldn’t do it”

“Is there anybody else, Mary?” As he asked the question he held her hand beneath his own on the desk, but he did not dare to look into her face. He had been told by his wife that there was somebody else; that the girl’s mind was running upon Mr. Surtees, because Mr. Surtees was a gentleman. He was thinking of Mr. Surtees, and certainly not of Reginald Morton.

To her the moment was very solemn and when the question was asked she felt that she could not tell her father a falsehood. She had gradually grown bold enough to assure herself that her heart was occupied with that man who had travelled with her to Cheltenham; and she felt that that feeling alone must keep her apart from any other love. And yet, as she had no hope, as she had assured herself that her love was a burden to be borne and could never become a source of enjoyment, why should her secret be wrested from her? What good would such a violation do? But she could not tell the falsehood, and therefore she held her tongue.

Gradually he looked up into her face, still keeping her hand pressed on the desk under his. It was his left hand that so guarded her, while she stood by his right shoulder. Then he gently wound his right arm round her waist and pressed her to him. “Mary,” he said, “if it is so, had you not better tell me?” But she was sure that she had better not mention that name even to him. It was impossible that she should mention it. She would have outraged to herself her own maiden modesty by doing so. “Is it,”—he asked very softly,—“is it Surtees?”

“Oh no!” she said quickly, almost escaping from the grasp of his arm in her start.

Then he was absolutely at a loss. Beyond Mr. Surtees or Larry Twentyman he did not know what possible lover Dillsborough could have afforded. And yet the very rapidity of her answer when the curate’s name had been mentioned had convinced him that there was some other person,—had increased the strength of that conviction which her silence had produced. “Have you nothing that you can tell me, Mary?”

“No, papa.” Then he gave her back the letter and she left the room without another word. Of course his sanction to the letter had now been given, and it was addressed to Chowton Farm and posted before half an hour was over. She saw him again in the afternoon of the same day and asked him to tell her stepmother what she had done. “Mamma ought to know,” she said.

“But you haven’t sent it”

“Yes, papa;—it is in the post”

Then it occurred to him that his wife would tell him that he should have prevented the sending of the letter,—that he should have destroyed it and altogether taken the matter with a high hand. “You can’t tell her yourself?” he asked.

“I would rather you did. Mamma has been so hard to me since I came home.”

He did tell his wife and she overwhelmed him by the violence of her reproaches. He could never have been in earnest, or he would not have allowed such a letter as that to pass through his hands. He must be afraid of his own child. He did not know his own duty. He had been deceiving her,—his wife,—from first to last. Then she threw herself into a torrent of tears declaring that she had been betrayed. There had been a conspiracy between them, and now everything might go to the dogs, and she would not lift up her hands again to save them. But before the evening came round she was again on the alert, and again resolved that she would not even yet give way. What was there in a letter more than in a spoken word? She would tell Larry to disregard the letter. But first she made a futile attempt to clutch the letter from the guardianship of the Post Office, and she went to the Postmaster assuring him that there had been a mistake in the family, that a wrong letter had been put into a wrong envelope, and begging that the letter addressed to Mr. Twentyman might be given back to her. The Postmaster, half vacillating in his desire to oblige a neighbour, produced the letter and Mrs. Masters put out her hand to grasp it; but the servant of the public,—who had been thoroughly grounded in his duties by one of those trusty guardians of our correspondence who inspect and survey our provincial post offices,—remembered himself at the last moment and expressing the violence of his regret, replaced the letter in the box. Mrs. Masters, in her anger and grief, condescended to say very hard things to her neighbour; but the man remembered his duty and was firm.

On that evening Larry Twentyman did not attend the Dillsborough Club, having in the course of the week notified to the attorney that he should be a defaulter. Mr. Masters himself went over earlier than usual, his own house having become very uncomfortable to him. Mrs. Masters for an hour sat expecting that Larry would come, and when the evening passed away without his appearance, she was convinced that the unusual absence was a part of the conspiracy against her.

Larry did not get his letter till the Monday morning. On the last Thursday and Saturday he had consoled himself for his doubts with the U.R.U., and was minded to do so on the Monday also. He had not gone to the club on Saturday and had moped about Chowton all the Sunday in a feverish state because of his doubts. It seemed to him that the two months would never be over. On the Monday he was out early on the farm and then came down in his boots and breeches, and had his red coat ready at the fire while he sat at breakfast. The meet was fifteen miles off and he had sent on his hunter, intending to travel thither in his dog cart. Just as he was cutting himself a slice of beef the postman came, and of course he read his letter. He read it with the carving knife in his hand, and then he stood gazing at his mother. “What is it, Larry?” she asked; “is anything wrong?”

“Wrong,—well; I don’t know,” he said. “I don’t know what you call wrong. I shan’t hunt; that’s all.” Then he threw aside the knife and pushed away his plate and marched out of the room with the open letter in his hand.

Mrs. Twentyman knew very well of his love,—as indeed did nearly all Dillsborough; but she had heard nothing of the two months and did not connect the letter with Mary Masters. Surely he must have lost a large sum of money. That was her idea till she saw him again late in the afternoon.

He never went near the hounds that day or near his business. He was not then man enough for either. But he walked about the fields, keeping out of sight of everybody. It was all over now. It must be all over when she wrote to him a letter like that. Why had she tempted him to thoughts of happiness and success by that promise of two months’ grace? He supposed that he was not good enough;—or that she thought he was not good enough. Then he remembered his acres, and his material comforts, and tried to console himself by reflecting that Mary Masters might very well do worse in the world. But there was no consolation in it. He had tried his best because he had really loved the girl. He had failed, and all the world,— all his world, would know that he had failed. There was not a man in the club,—hardly a man in the hunt,—who was not aware that he had offered to Mary Masters. During the last two months he had not been so reticent as was prudent, and had almost boasted to Fred Botsey of success. And then how was he to live at Chowton Farm without Mary Masters as his wife? As he returned home he almost made up his mind that he would not continue to live at Chowton Farm.

He came back through Dillsborough Wood; and there, prowling about, he met Goarly. “Well, Mr. Twentyman,” said the man, “I am making it all straight now with his Lordship.”

“I don’t care what you’re doing,” said Larry in his misery. “You are an infernal blackguard and that’s the best of you.”

CHAPTER VIII

Chowton Farm for Sale.

John Morton had returned to town soon after his walk into Dillsborough and had there learned from different sources that both Arabella Trefoil and Lord Rufford had gone or were going to Mistletoe. He had seen Lord Augustus who, though he could tell him nothing else about his daughter, had not been slow to inform him that she was going to the house of her noble uncle. When Morton had spoken to him very seriously about the engagement he declared that he knew nothing about it,—except that he had given his consent if the settlements were all right. Lady Augustus managed all that. Morton had then said that under those circumstances he feared he must regard the honour which he had hoped to enjoy as being beyond his reach. Lord Augustus had shrugged his shoulders and had gone back to his whist, this interview having taken place in the strangers’ room of his club. That Lord Rufford was also going to Mistletoe he heard from young Glossop at the Foreign Office. It was quite possible that Glossop had been instructed to make this known to Morton by his sister Lady Penwether. Then Morton declared that the thing was over and that he would trouble himself no more about it. But this resolution did not make him at all contented, and in his misery he went again down to his solitude at Bragton.

And now when he might fairly consider himself to be free, and when he should surely have congratulated himself on a most lucky escape from the great danger into which he had fallen, his love and admiration for the girl returned to him in a most wonderful manner. He thought of her beauty and her grace, and the manner in which she would sit at the head of his table when the time should come for him to be promoted to some great capital. To him she had fascinations which the reader, who perhaps knows her better than he ever did, will not share. He could forgive the coldness of her conduct to himself—he himself not being by nature demonstrative or impassioned,—if only she were not more kind to any rival. It was the fact that she should be visiting at the same house with Lord Rufford after what he had seen at Rufford Hall which had angered him. But now in his solitude he thought that he might have been wrong at Rufford Hall. If it were the case that the girl feared that her marriage might be prevented by the operations of lawyers and family friends, of course she would be right not to throw herself into his arms,—even metaphorically. He was a cold, just man who, when he had loved, could not easily get rid of his love, and now he would ask himself whether he was not hard upon the girl. It was natural that she should be at Mistletoe; but then why should Lord Rufford be there with her?

His prospects at Patagonia did not console him much. No doubt it was a handsome mission for a man of his age and there were sundry Patagonian questions of importance at the present moment which would give him a certain weight. Patagonia was repudiating a loan, and it was hoped that he might induce a better feeling in the Patagonian Parliament. There was the Patagonian railway for joining the Straits to the Cape the details of which he was now studying with great diligence. And then there was the vital question of boundary between Patagonia and the Argentine Republic by settling which, should he be happy enough to succeed in doing so, he would prevent the horrors of warfare. He endeavoured to fix his mind with satisfaction on these great objects as he pored over the reports and papers which had been heaped upon him since. he had accepted the mission. But there was present to him always a feeling that the men at the Foreign Office had been glad to get any respectable diplomate to go to Patagonia, and that his brethren in the profession had marvelled at his acceptance of such a mission. One never likes to be thanked over much for doing anything. It creates a feeling that one has given more than was expedient. He knew that he must now go to Patagonia, but he repented the alacrity with which he had acceded to the proposition. Whether he did marry Arabella Trefoil or whether he did not, there was no adequate reason for such a banishment. And yet he could not now escape it!

It was on a Monday morning that Larry Twentyman had found himself unable to go hunting. On the Tuesday he gave his workmen about the farm such a routing as they had not received for many a month. There had not been a dung heap or a cowshed which he had not visited, nor a fence about the place with which he had not found fault. He was at it all day, trying thus to console himself, but in vain; and when his mother in the evening said some word of her misery in regard to the turkeys he had told her that as far as he was concerned Goarly might poison every fox in the county. Then the poor woman knew that matters were going badly with her son. On the Wednesday, when the hounds met within two miles of Chowton, he again stayed at home; but in the afternoon he rode into Dillsborough and contrived to see the attorney without being seen by any of the ladies of the family. The interview did not seem to do him any good. On the Thursday morning he walked across to Bragton and with a firm voice asked to see the Squire. Morton who was deep in the boundary question put aside his papers and welcomed his neighbour.

Now it must be explained that when, in former years, his son’s debts had accumulated on old Mr. Reginald Morton, so that he had been obliged to part with some portion of his unentailed property, he had sold that which lay in the parish of St. John’s, Dillsborough. The lands in Bragton and Mallingham he could not sell; but Chowton Farm which was in St. John’s had been bought by Larry Twentyman’s grandfather. For a time there had been some bitterness of feeling; but the Twentymans had been well-to-do respectable people, most anxious to be good neighbours, and had gradually made themselves liked by the owner of Bragton. The present Squire had of course known nothing of Chowton as a part of the Morton property, and had no more desire for it than for any of Lord Rufford’s acres which were contiguous to his own. He shook hands cordially with his neighbour, as though this visit were the most natural thing in the world, and asked some questions about Goarly and the hunt.

“I believe that’ll all come square, Mr. Morton. I’m not interesting myself much about it now.” Larry was not dressed like himself. He had on a dark brown coat, and dark pantaloons and a chimney-pot hat. He was conspicuous generally for light-coloured close-fitting garments and for a billycock hat. He was very unlike his usual self on the present occasion.

“I thought you were just the man who did interest himself about those things.”

“Well; yes; once it was so, Mr. Morton. What I’ve got to say now, Mr. Morton, is this. Chowton Farm is in the market! But I wouldn’t say a word to any one about it till you had had the offer.”

“You going to sell Chowton!”

“Yes, Mr. Morton, I am.”

“From all I have heard of you I wouldn’t have believed it if anybody else had told me.”

“It’s a fact, Mr. Morton. There are three hundred and twenty acres. I put the rental at 30s. an acre. You know what you get, Mr. Morton, for the land that lies next to it. And I think twenty-eight years’ purchase isn’t more than it’s worth. Those are my ideas as to price, Mr. Morton. There isn’t a halfpenny owing on it—not in the way of mortgage.”

“I dare say it’s worth that”

“Up at auction I might get a turn more, Mr. Morton;—but those are my ideas at present”

John Morton who was a man of business went to work at once with his pencil and in two minutes had made out a total. “I don’t know that I could put my hand on 14,000 pounds even if I were minded to make the purchase.”

“That needn’t st