Princess Puck
Date: 2025-10-03T00:00:00+00:00

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Title: Princess Puck

Author: Una L. Silberrad

Release date: October 3, 2025 [eBook #76967]

Language: English

Original publication: London: Macmillan and Co., Limited, 1902

Credits: Susan E., Vicki Parnell, David E. Brown, Joyce Wilson, and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK PRINCESS PUCK ***

PRINCESS PUCK

BY
U. L. SILBERRAD

London
MACMILLAN AND CO., Limited
1902

All rights reserved

CONTENTS

CHAPTER | PAGE
I. | MISS BROWNLOW’S NIECES, | 1
II. | BILL, | 12
III. | ROBERT MORTON, | 20
IV. | HARBOROUGH OF CROWS’ FARM, | 31
V. | FOR BILL’S GOOD, | 44
VI. | THE RIGHT OF WAY, | 57
VII. | HARBOROUGH OF GURNETT, | 72
VIII. | THE COURTSHIP OF HARBOROUGH OF GURNETT, | 88
IX. | “RED IS THE ROSE,” | 107
X. | IN THE GARDEN, | 124
XI. | WILHELMINA I. AND II., | 138
XII. | NATURAL SELECTION, | 150
XIII. | CHASING A SHADOW, | 156
XIV. | THE COURTSHIP OF HARBOROUGH OF CROWS’ FARM, | 171
XV. | FAMILY HISTORY, | 187
XVI. | A GRANDFATHER, | 198
XVII. | THE RESPONSIBILITIES OF A GUARDIAN, | 208
XVIII. | THE PLUM HARVEST, | 219
XIX. | PETER HARBOROUGH: SHOT, | 231
XX. | HARBOROUGH OF BYBRIDGE, | 248
XXI. | THE ACQUISITIVE FACULTY, | 266
XXII. | POLLY SETTLES THINGS, | 279
XXIII. | PETER HARBOROUGH’S SHOE-BUCKLES, | 285
XXIV. | THE COURTSHIP OF HARBOROUGH OF BYBRIDGE, | 303
XXV. | GENERAL SERVANT, | 317
XXVI. | AN OLD WOUND, | 337
XXVII. | A CHIP OF THE OLD BLOCK, | 346
XXVIII. | THE OAK BOX GOES TO WRUGGLESBY, | 364
XXIX. | POLLY PROVES A TRUE PROPHET, | 378
XXX. | A RELISH WITH TEA, | 392
XXXI. | THE FULFILLING OF THE DREAM, | 399

CHAPTER I.
MISS BROWNLOW’S NIECES.

It was in March that Bill Alardy went to Ashelton. She was sent there “to grow up,” Polly said, and added some sceptical remarks with regard to both place and person. “Poor little Wilhelmina,” said Miss Brownlow, “she has never had a fair chance among us all; the best possible thing for her would be to go to Ashelton with Theresa.” And Miss Brownlow should have known, for she was acquainted with Ashelton, and even better acquainted with Bill, having had the doubtful pleasure of her charge and company from early childhood. Polly did not know much about Ashelton; she had only been there once to spend the day with Theresa, which was a grievance in itself, for Theresa had lived there ever since her marriage last June. That, however, was beside the point; Polly did not so much base her doubts of the efficacy of the plan on Ashelton as on Bill, and she had known her as long as Miss Brownlow, for she was the eldest, as Bill was the youngest, of the four nieces Miss Brownlow had taken into her household. Polly’s opinion and Miss Brownlow’s were not identical on the subject of Bill; but when the matter of the going to Ashelton was being discussed Polly did not consider it necessary to give undue prominence to the difference, thinking Bill might as well go even if it did her no good.

It was a Monday evening when the plan was first mentioned, and Miss Brownlow was making up her accounts at the time. She always made up her accounts on Monday evenings. In her opinion there was no other time half so satisfactory, because, as she said, there was Sunday just before, and it was so easy to remember forgotten things on a Sunday. Perhaps it was not right to think of such things then, and of course she never did so on purpose, only one cannot help things flashing across one’s mind. Occasionally the things flashed away again before she had time to secure them on Monday evening; occasionally also, the flashes were delusive and baseless; but on the other hand, sometimes they did chance to be correct, and then it was most satisfactory. This did not make any material difference to Miss Brownlow’s accounts, which never by any chance came right; they never had come right since she first began keeping them in her girlhood, more years ago than she ever mentioned.

“My father always insisted on our keeping an account of our money, and how we spent it,” she used to say to her nieces. “It is an excellent plan, my dears, for then you know where you are and how you stand.” These desirable results did not always occur in her own case, though that did not deter her nieces from following the suggestion, each according to her nature,—Theresa with neatness and some success, Bella with results not unlike her aunt’s, Polly—there were commercial instincts in Polly’s blood and her untidy books were kept with an accuracy which might have savoured of sharp practice to any one who could comprehend them. Bill, of course, was too young to be considered, and too penniless to keep a record of her non-existent income; moreover, she was only “Poor little Bill—Wilhelmina”—Miss Brownlow invariably made the correction in mind and sometimes in speech. She sighed as she thought about the girl,—she had just come to the item one shilling, a bottle of Stephens’s blue-black writing-ink. Bill had on Thursday upset the last bottle on the schoolroom-floor, in class, too, with all the little girls looking on. How they giggled! Polly said afterwards that Bill made them, but Miss Brownlow did not think so. Bill was too old to do anything so wrong; she was seventeen now, though she seemed such a child. Polly, who was perhaps not without authority on the subject, was of opinion that age had little to do with iniquity, but Miss Brownlow was not convinced. In any case she had to pay the shilling for another bottle of ink. The column of figures she was now counting up did not come to the total she expected: “Now what have I forgotten?” she said.

Bella and Theresa glanced up but did not hazard a suggestion; they knew the remark was not addressed to them, and they went on correcting French exercises in silence. These French exercises were really Bella’s work, but Theresa was helping her with them to-night. A year ago they were Theresa’s own, but when she married her sister had taken up that part of her work. Theresa was on a visit to Miss Brownlow, and finding herself back among the familiar surroundings it came quite natural to her to take up some part of the old duties; besides, she liked to help Bella.

As the two tall sisters sat close together, sharing the same dictionary and sometimes bending over the same page, Miss Brownlow thought they made a beautiful picture; possibly even a less prejudiced observer might not have entirely disagreed. Polly was certainly not a prejudiced observer, yet even she admitted the sisters’ beauty in a general way. She did not look in their direction now, for she was busy with her needlework. She sat opposite to Miss Brownlow, close to the lamp, her dressmaking scattered around her. She possessed a perfect genius for what is technically known as “doing up” her clothes; consequently some of them were always undergoing alterations and repairs, and none of them kept the same appearance for long together.

“I cannot account for sixpence,” Miss Brownlow said at last; “on what can I have spent sixpence?”

“Cabbages,” Polly said briefly.

“Cabbages! My dear Polly, one cannot buy cabbages at this time of year, nor hardly anything else either; vegetables are so dear and scarce, it is really quite dreadful.”

“Sweep,” was Polly’s only comment.

But it was not the sweep, Miss Brownlow said. “We have not had him this fortnight past,” she declared. “Don’t you remember, the last—”

“Then we ought to have had.”

“Oh, I am sure we do not need him yet, don’t you remember the last time he came—”

Polly did not remember, and she showed no interest in the reminiscence; but Theresa, who did not like to hear Miss Brownlow treated so cavalierly, encouraged her aunt to describe the last coming of the sweep and the delinquencies of the maid-servant who overslept herself on that occasion. “And I really do believe he would never have got in at all if it had not been for Bill; she heard him ringing and went down and let him in,—in her nightdress too!”

“That sixpence is for mending Bill’s boots.” This was Polly’s remark.

“What a memory you have!” Miss Brownlow exclaimed, and Polly showed signs of remembering the incident of the sweep. “Bill did go down to him,” she said, “in her nightdress and nothing else. I should like to know how long she stopped down with him!”

Polly had a habit of talking in italics; her treatment of the English language made it acquire an almost double value, her intonation giving the words an additional worth and meaning. Her last speech was an admirable example of her methods; there were many more things implied in it than were said. It was the implications which made Bella exclaim, “You are hard on the child.”

“Oh, well!” And Polly shrugged her shoulders and bent over her work again.

“Poor little Bill, poor little Wilhelmina!” Miss Brownlow sighed softly.

Polly sniffed and Theresa asked: “How much longer are you going to let her be in the school?”

“Oh, a long time,” Miss Brownlow answered readily; she had not begun to contemplate the problem of Bill’s future, nor even to admit its existence. Polly knew that and her small dark eyes showed that she knew it as she remarked: “I began to teach the little ones before I was seventeen.”

Miss Brownlow looked distressed, but Bella said cheerfully: “That was long ago; Auntie wanted help then. Now it is quite different; if Bill were ever so able to teach there would not be the slightest need for her to do it; in fact I don’t see whom she would teach.”

This speech, though perhaps hardly likely to fulfil its comforting intention, was unfortunately only too true. It was indisputable that Miss Brownlow’s school was not what it had been, that its best days lay behind it. At one time it had been almost an Establishment, the recognised school of Wrugglesby, the place to which the country clergymen and gentlemen-farmers of the surrounding districts sent their daughters. The boarders were so many then that it had been necessary to have a mademoiselle and a visiting English governess. That was some time ago, but even when Theresa first began to help with the teaching, things were more prosperous than they were now. Gradually they had changed; times had changed, boarders had fallen off one by one, new ones did not come; girls went further now,—to Brighton, to Bournemouth, even to France and Germany. Mademoiselle left, and it hardly seemed necessary to fill her place, for Theresa was a very good French scholar. The English governess married, and Bella was found equal to doing all that was left of her work. Then, rather more than a year ago, Theresa married, and though Miss Brownlow talked of finding some nice well-educated girl to fill her place, nothing came of it. Theresa used to take the elder girls, and they were so few now that Bella could quite well help Miss Brownlow with them, especially as she was rather clever; she had passed the Cambridge Local Examination and attended some history lectures. Polly, of course, still taught the little ones; she always had done so, and had always contrived to drill a certain amount of information into them. It is to be feared that she did not know very much herself; even Miss Brownlow was obliged to admit that; yet she possessed a far greater faculty for teaching than did the more accomplished Bella. As the school was chiefly composed of little girls, it really was important that they should be well taught. Sometimes Miss Brownlow felt a passing regret when she saw them struggling for their overshoes in the lobby; they were not what her old pupils had been, not of the same social position, not of the same age; most of them were “reductions” on account of sisters past, present, or to come; none of them were likely to remain any length of time, none of them were even weekly boarders. There were only two boarders besides Wilhelmina, who could hardly be counted since she belonged to the household.

Miss Wilson, the principal of the High School two stations up the line, thought of Miss Brownlow when, in her able paper on the education of girls, she had written of teachers of the past. Miss Brownlow was of the past, not highly educated, not clever, but kindly, simple, pleasant, well loved by those pupils of long ago, a gentle power for good in those past best days,—and in the present? Ah, well, the school was going; there were no boarders to be influenced one way or the other now, and the little girls who came daily did not trouble about Miss Brownlow. She was of a race of schoolmistresses fast disappearing from the earth, vanishing under the inexorable law of the survival of the fittest. She was not the fittest. Inefficient? Yes, that was it; inefficient for modern needs, modern wants; growing old, just a little past the work she once did, not at all fit for the work now to be done; never a very wise woman, thank God, not wise enough to know that she was a failure.

“Wilhelmina will teach somewhere else,” Miss Brownlow said, after she had mentally reviewed the prospect called up by Bella’s words; and mercifully the prospect she reviewed was not quite that which other people saw.

“Where?” Polly asked casually, as if the matter were of small moment.

Miss Brownlow did not know. She had not thought, and the question was embarrassing.

Bella came to the rescue. “Mrs. Caxton will want a governess if her little girls are leaving at Easter. They are leaving because they always catch colds from the other children, so she is sure to want a governess.”

“Yes, of course,” Miss Brownlow said enthusiastically; “it would be the very thing for Bill; she never has a cold.”

“H’m! What is she to teach? How not to catch cold? It is about the only thing she knows, and she does that by accident.”

“They are so young,” Miss Brownlow went on, delighted with the plan and regardless of Polly’s interruption; “they will only want elementary teaching, reading and writing and spelling.”

“Bill can’t spell, not that that matters so very much though”—Polly perhaps knew by experience that it was possible to teach a subject in which you were not very deeply learned. “It certainly would not matter to Bill, nothing would matter. If she could spell every word in the dictionary, do you suppose any one would have her for a governess?”

“I don’t know why not,—when she is a little older of course. She is such a child yet; wait till she is grown up.”

“We have been waiting,” Polly observed grimly.

“She is very young for her age; I am sure I don’t know how it is.”

“She was born without gumption,” said Polly with conviction, “and she has never been able to acquire any general knowledge.”

“She is not clever,” Miss Brownlow admitted sadly.

“Cleverness has nothing to do with it,” Polly retorted. “If you start in life lacking what Bill lacks, you must do what you can with common-sense. That will teach you a few things,—what not to say, and how to say it, and—and all that. Bill has no common-sense.”

“We have always treated her like a child;” and here Miss Brownlow sighed again.

It was then that Theresa suggested that Bill should come home with her to stay at Ashelton for a little while. Miss Brownlow was delighted with the suggestion; it was just the thing, she was sure. No doubt the girl would develop; Theresa would use her influence, and her young cousin had always been so fond of her, had always respected and admired her so much; such a visit would be the best possible thing. Theresa herself did not anticipate very great results, but she promised to do her best, and after some discussion of details regarding the proposed visit, Miss Brownlow returned to her accounts and the sisters to the exercises, interrupted only now and again by a repetition of the elder lady’s satisfaction with the plan. After the third interruption Polly yawned aggressively. When there was silence again she bit her cotton and looked thoughtfully across at Miss Brownlow, at the kindly face, the thin hair, the black stuff gown she knew so well. She did not approve of the whole effect; she thought it “snuffy,” and as such unlikely to create a favourable impression on the parents of possible scholars. She looked beyond Miss Brownlow to the wall behind,—to the pale-toned paper with faint gold lines and fainter grey flowers, to the old-fashioned water-colours in shabby gilt frames, the white marble mantelpiece with red glass candlesticks upon it, and to the rosewood chairs covered with green rep, standing one on either side of the fireplace. The room was no more attractive than Miss Brownlow’s dress, she thought; it was terribly old-fashioned in comparison with Miss Wilson’s flatted walls and artistic green cushions. Polly had a poor opinion of art-colours, but she seriously considered the advisability of draping some of the household gods with the best of the shades of yellow. She was, in her own mind, reckoning the quantity of material necessary, when Miss Brownlow again broke in on her reflections.

“Are you sure Robert won’t mind?” she asked for the fourth time.

“Quite sure,” was Theresa’s answer.

“That’s all right; I should not like to put him about at all. You are quite certain?”

Theresa was quite certain, and the subject was dismissed. Polly breathed a heavy sigh, and once more fell back on her own thoughts. These now turned from the art-materials to Robert Morton, Theresa’s husband. Polly had not a very high opinion of Robert Morton; she liked him well enough, but considered him a bad speculation. “He’ll die of apoplexy—poor Theresa—I’m sorry for that poor girl. He’ll certainly die of it, and I expect he’ll die young.” So she had once said to the indignant Bella, and she thought of the verdict again this evening as she glanced at the sisters and mentally dressed Theresa in widow’s weeds. She would make a handsome widow, though perhaps not so effective as Bella. Polly glanced meditatively at Bella; a widow’s cap would look well on that golden head. Theresa was darker and older too by nearly four years; she would be twenty-six in the summer and she looked her age; in fact, Theresa was almost too dignified. Bella was not dignified, though she was tall. They were both tall and graceful and clear-skinned; both had blue eyes, Theresa’s grave and sweet, Bella’s holy, innocent, suggesting a madonna’s eyes to the observer until he became aware of the turned-up nose between; “a flirt’s nose,” Polly called it. Theresa’s features were better, though less attractive; she had not a flirt’s nose, but also she had no tantalising dimple in her chin. Still they were both undeniably beauties, and Polly was nothing of the sort.

CHAPTER II.
BILL.

Theresa and Bella Waring were beauties when they came to Miss Brownlow’s seven years ago, well-educated, well-informed, used to the ways of society (of small professional society), and possessed of sixty pounds a year between them. Their father had been dead some years then; it was their mother’s death which sent them and their sixty pounds to Langford House. Theresa came to help with the teaching, Bella to finish her education first, and afterwards to fill her sister’s place. Of course Miss Brownlow received them gladly, loved them warmly, mothered them to the best of her ability. She would have done that for any number of nieces, and she did it heartily for these four. Polly felt angry as she thought of their numbers, and thought contemptuously of the Brownlow family and its faculty for dying. There had been five Miss Brownlows originally; one died young, three married first and then died at their earliest convenience, leaving their children as a legacy to the remaining sister who neither married nor died. She, possessed of short views, a large heart, and an inexhaustible supply of hope, welcomed them with open arms. Two of them she had to adopt entirely; the other two, Theresa and Bella, came to her better endowed, better equipped, and at a more convenient age.

And what had they done with their advantages? Polly put the case to herself with contemptuous irritation. Bella, so she summed it up, Bella at twenty-two had done nothing; Theresa at twenty-six had contrived to marry a small farmer. No doubt his family had originally been good, but one cannot live on a good family, especially if it is all but extinct; and the goodness did not prevent Robert from being a farmer in a small way, and an unsuccessful one too. He was undoubtedly a poor speculation; his tastes were expensive, his inclinations horsey, his income small, his tendencies apoplectic; he would soon, no doubt, die, and die suddenly, leaving Theresa no better off than she was a year ago. Really these two girls were stupid, as stupid as the Brownlow family. And yet their mother had been the best of the five sisters, according to all accounts; the strongest as well as the prettiest, for she had managed to live to quite a respectable age. Possibly her daughters were like her; they were sensible enough for any ordinary occasion but they were not, in Polly’s opinion, able to take advantage of adverse circumstances. “They would die off easily,” she thought, “and they haven’t an idea between them worth mentioning.”

Polly was not like the Brownlow family. She took after her father, a dubious advantage, and she flattered herself that she had ideas worth,—well, something, although perhaps they were not always quite suitable for public mention. She also had an easy conscience, and in her youth some little acquaintance with social byways. She had a tenacious hold on life, and was not likely to follow her mother’s and aunts’ example and die easily. “So has Bill,” she thought; “she is silly and she is ugly, but she won’t fade out of the world in a hurry, though I can’t see what good she will ever be in it.”

This last sentiment found something like an echo, albeit unexpressed, in the minds of two other inmates of Langford House, the two boarders Carrie and Alice. They were quiet, inoffensive girls, a year or two younger than Bill, and forced by circumstances to have more of her company than they desired. The greater part of the day the three were together, and for the night they shared one room so that the sisters’ nocturnal confidences had to be held in common with their companion. It must be admitted that Carrie and Alice did not altogether like Bill, though they felt a sort of superior pity for her which was not all unpleasant. On the evening when Miss Brownlow and her nieces were planning Bill’s future good, Carrie and Alice were giving her a little advice while going to bed. It was on the subject of hairdressing, Carrie thinking it was time Bill coiled her hair on the top of her head.

“It’s quite time,” she concluded. “Are you going to wait till you are eighteen? When are you going to do it up?”

Bill considered: “To-morrow,” she said at last.

“To-morrow?” Carrie repeated, and Alice added: “You can’t, you haven’t got any hairpins.”

“I’ll get some of Bella’s.”

“You can’t,” Carrie said again, and turning to the glass began to arrange her own hair.

“Miss Waring has gold-coloured hairpins,” Alice remarked; “you could not use them.”

“Why not?”

“Because it would look horrid to have brass hairpins sticking out of your hair.”

“Is that all?” Bill did not seem impressed.

Carrie turned away from the glass. “That is how I shall do my hair,” she said. “I shall do it up the day I leave school, the very day.”

“I like plaits better,” Alice observed; but Bill examined the head-dress thoughtfully, and then asked: “And what else will you do when you leave school,—besides your hair, I mean?”

“Besides my hair? How ridiculous you are!” Carrie did not seem displeased by the question. She condescended to answer it rather fully, and as she took off her shoes and stockings talked of the possibilities of evening parties, the certainty of afternoon calls, the charms of long dresses, and of the young men who stayed at the Rectory. Alice joined in this explanation, and in fact the sisters were soon talking to and for each other only, having almost forgotten Bill’s presence until she exclaimed suddenly: “Men! It’s all men! Why are they nicer than women?”

She was sitting on her pillow in her favourite position, her knees drawn up, her elbows resting upon them, and her chin framed in her hands; she was looking straight in front of her and only turned her eyes on the sisters when she spoke. They objected to her method of looking round without turning her head; that, in addition to the impropriety of the remark, made Carrie answer severely: “Men are not nicer than women; nobody thinks so except those who are fast.”

“Yes, they are nicer. You think so, Polly thinks so, Bella thinks so, every girl thinks so, though I don’t see why.”

“You don’t know any men”; this was said with great contempt.

“No, nor any girls either, except you two, and you are nice!” Bill had an enormous mouth and the beginning of a smile curved it as she spoke.

“Then it is more than you are,” Alice retorted with irritation, “or you would not talk about men like that.”

“Men aren’t half so amusing as women,” Bill went on, ignoring the last speech; “and women aren’t half so amusing when men are there. I can’t see where the attraction comes in with any of them—the rector, the curates, the masters at the grammar-school, Robert Morton, any of them.”

“Of course they don’t take any notice of you,” Carrie said, and Alice added: “You only think about people being amusing; you like people whom you can imitate.”

“That’s why I like you,” Bill said sweetly. “Why do you like people—men?”

“I don’t like men; you have never heard me speak of them!”

“Heard!” Bill laughed. “I have felt; I have felt you crinkle up for a boy!”

“You haven’t! How dare you say such things!”

“Why not? Where is the harm? You talk about men to each other, why not to me? You never have before, but I see no reason why you should not. Do you consider it wrong to like men? How queer it is; you all like men and you all pretend you do not. There is a deal of humbug about it.”

“Some people,” Carrie said with severity, “have a sense of decency.”

“A sense of decency? That’s what Adam and Eve had when they hid themselves; a sense of decency often seems to mean hiding something.”

“You are very wicked!” Alice said scandalised, and would have nothing more to say to Bill for some time, though after the light was out and all three were in bed the sisters continued to talk to each other about the wonderful future, the first ball Carrie would attend, and the events that would follow.

“And after that,” came the voice from Bill’s bed,—“what are you going to do after that?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Carrie answered; “marry I suppose. There is a use for your despised men; you can’t marry without them.”

“Marry—h’m!—Yes, I expect you will marry.”

“Do you really think so? I don’t know—and yet,—yes, I suppose I should rather like to; not yet of course, but by and by, to marry and to have several children.”

“Oh, you are sure to; you are like the old white hen with feathers down her legs; you would make a splendid sitter.”

“Bill!”

“Now what’s the matter? Is it the sense of decency again?”

But the sisters would not answer her question and, having told her so, went on to say that, as it was forbidden to talk after the light was out, they were not going to do it any more, especially to her. Then they went to sleep, leaving Bill to her own reflections. She, thus left, rolled over on her back and lay staring up into the darkness above her and thinking. At her age one does not always think with a definite coherent clearness; dreaming is more to the mind of seventeen. Bill dreamed, fancies and thoughts flitting to and fro in her mind.

About marriage, for instance; last year Theresa had tried the great experiment to which Carrie looked forward. Carrie would try it by and by; she would become Mrs. Somebody and grow staid and stout and placid; she would talk about “my house” and “my husband”; she would bound the universe, almost the Kingdom of Heaven by those two; she would wear a black silk dress and a heavy gold chain like Mrs. Bodling; she would get fatter and fairer and calmer; she would entirely lose sight of her feet——

Bill stretched out her own feet, and then lay still to listen. The wind crept in at the open window and stirred the curtains; the cloth on the toilet-table flapped idly, reminding her of quiet, slumberous summer afternoons, of a certain Thursday afternoon in June especially,—it was in June that Theresa had entered on the great experiment. In the first freshness of early summer she left the school and the old routine-work and the narrow, cosy, feminine life and went out to try a wider, fuller, new life. She was to have a house of her own and a servant; there had been a lot of talk about the house (here Bill built an ideal house for herself), a lot of things to be bought, a lot of new clothes for Theresa. Miss Brownlow and the girls had pinched and scraped and worked; Bill had been allowed to help a little, though her work was more strong than neat. Evening after evening Bella and Polly and Theresa had sat at work with Miss Brownlow—how they seemed to enjoy it! Theresa must have missed that when she went to her new home; Bill wondered what she did during those first evenings of the new life. Then the great day had come; Bill recalled every detail of it. There had been excitement and bustle and people and flowers, Theresa in her bridal gown, and everywhere the scent of the little white roses—the white roses which made Bill think of funerals, though she did not know why.

Then Theresa had gone away. She kissed them all and cried, and smiled and cried again, and went. Robert Morton looked rather cross during the kissing and crying, but nobody seemed to mind. They were quite sure Theresa was happy, quite sure she had attained to all that she desired; only Bill thought she must be very lonely. She had also an inward conviction, founded on nothing, that Theresa would be desperately disappointed in her venture. There was no reason for these thoughts, and Theresa had said nothing to suggest them; she seemed happy, and they all thought her so except Bill, and Bill was so childish that she could not be expected to know anything about the matter. She had only once been to Theresa’s home at Ashelton. They had all driven there one September day and enjoyed it greatly. Bill could recall every detail of the expedition, her memory was vivid and her experiences few. She had never been again to Ashelton; she had never been on a visit—

She was growing very sleepy now, and her thoughts became confused with the words of the cousins who were speaking just outside the door.

“I shall be very glad to have her.”

“You will be more glad to be rid of her; besides, she has no clothes.”

At the Day of Judgment Polly would still be considering her clothes—she would probably want to let out her garment of righteousness if—but sleep mastered Bill here.

CHAPTER III.
ROBERT MORTON.

It was September,—rich September, with warm lights and red shadows—when Bill went first to Haylands, Robert Morton’s farm. It was March when she went again; a grey afternoon, level light, and dead stillness over the bare ploughed land and the low white house. She drove from Wrugglesby with Theresa, a tedious drive along winding lanes,—not that she found it tedious, for nothing was tedious to Bill. Theresa, too, had enjoyed her homeward journey more than usual. She had talked gaily all the way until they turned in at her own gateway; then somehow her spirits flagged, and in silence they drove up the long chase which meandered across a grassy field, passed a duck-pond where grey geese waded, and so on to the little gate which shut in the overgrown garden. Bill looked quickly at the garden. It had been a flowery, weedy wilderness when she was there in September; it was bare now, so dry that the earth rose in dust at the touch of Theresa’s skirts, so bare that the leafless raspberry-canes, still though they were, seemed to shiver in their nakedness.

There was no one about; Robert, no doubt, was busy somewhere on the farm. For a moment Theresa hesitated with the reins in her hand, then a man appeared from the stables and took the pony away. Theresa led the way into the house, covertly casting an anxious glance at Bill.

“It is very cold,” she said, as she pushed open the door of her favourite room and went to the fire.

“Yes, I suppose it is,” Bill answered cheerfully. “I’m not cold though. What a jolly room! It is cubby, T.!”

“Do you like it? You saw it when you were here before,” Theresa said, feeling somehow a little warmer and very glad that Bill was with her. If it had been Polly or Bella they might have thought Robert neglectful, but as it was only Bill it did not matter.

By-and-bye Robert came in. He did not know that Bill was coming back with his wife, and when the guest was safely shut in her room he asked, “Why on earth did you bring her?”

“Do you mind?” Theresa asked in distress. “I am sorry; I did not think you would mind; she won’t trouble you much.”

“No, she won’t trouble me; still I don’t see what you wanted to have her for.”

“We thought—I thought, it might do her good.”

“Ill?” Morton asked, looking up sharply. “If she is ill, we certainly don’t want her here.”

“She is not ill. She does not get on very well at school; I mean—” Theresa felt the matter was difficult of explanation—“I mean, she is very young for her age.”

“She is very ugly,” Morton said, beginning to unlace his boots.

Theresa flushed. “She is my cousin,” she said.

“That don’t make her handsome, my dear,” he observed, without looking up.

“I don’t think her at all ugly.” Theresa’s voice showed that she was hurt. “If she were, it would not be her fault. Do you wish me to send her home at the end of the week?”

“I? No, please yourself as to that. Keep her as long as you like, as far as I am concerned.”

And he left her to take his boots to the wash-house with no idea that there were tears in her eyes. She forced them back, turning to the fire as she did so. It was certainly cold, a dreary, dreary afternoon. She was still standing by the fire, standing stiffly with something of unapproachable dignity about her, when Bill came down a few minutes later; but Bill was not troubled by the dignity, and curled herself up in the big chair on the other side of the fire evidently quite satisfied. She spent the evening helping Robert to mend whips, quite satisfied with that too; possibly she found it an improvement on learning grammar with Carrie and Alice.

Theresa was relieved to find that Bill and Robert showed so much inclination to friendliness; indeed, at the end of two days she came to the conclusion that they were better friends than ever Robert and Bella had been. It was a very good thing, she thought, as she watched Bill wandering about the cow-yard and investigating the pig-styes. Bill took the keenest interest in pigs and poultry, cows and butter; her interest extended to the dairy, the kitchen, and the store-room; she seemed anxious to do any work she could. Theresa gave her dusting and churning, and she worked with a will, though when the churning was done Theresa was rather horrified to find her young cousin scrubbing the dairy-floor.

“Bill! What are you doing?”

“Clearing up,—I upset some butter-milk.” Bill was kneeling on the bricks and she did not cease scrubbing to give the answer.

“But, my dear child, there is no necessity,—get up.”

“I like it, I like clearing up. I did the old fowls’ house just before I came in here; you should see it; it’s beautifully clean. This afternoon I am going to lime-wash it, and then I shall put in the biggest family of chickens. They have not half enough room where they are; Robert said I might move them if I liked.”

“Yes, but,—surely you need not lime-wash the house yourself; one of the men can do it. You must not do it; you will make yourself in such a state.”

“I am afraid I am rather a dirty worker.”

Theresa glanced at Bill’s present condition and saw that the statement was only too true. “You must leave off,” she said: “the soapsuds are all up your sleeves; besides, I want to speak to you.”

“All right, I can hear; you sit down on that wooden tub; I’m just done, and I can finish while you are talking.”

Theresa sat down in spite of her protestations. “I want to talk to you about the prayer-meeting,” she said. “You know, during Lent Mr. Johnson holds meetings once a week, a kind of Bible-reading. We meet at different houses and read passages from the Bible, and he explains them and gives a little address. They are really rather nice, and not too long. We meet at seven and it is all over quite early; we usually have supper about half-past eight.”

“Yes?” Bill was working industriously at the last corner.

“I meant—do you think you would care to go?” Theresa asked this somewhat doubtfully. Bella and Polly had been amused by the idea of the Ashelton prayer-meetings, and Bill, according to Polly’s account, was not likely to treat them more respectfully. However, to Theresa’s satisfaction, Bill answered with enthusiasm: “I should like it tremendously; is it to-night?”

“No, to-morrow. To-day is market-day at Wrugglesby, you know; nothing here is ever fixed on a market-day.”

“I see,” Bill said, taking up her pail of water; “then it’s to-morrow? I’ll come if you will take me,” and she went away to empty the pail.

Theresa watched her go, and then went into the house feeling that her guest was easy to entertain, and gave really very little trouble, in spite of Polly’s prognostications. Indeed she had been very glad of her company ever since her arrival, and especially so to-day as Robert had gone to market and was not likely to be back till late. The day seemed all the shorter for the girl’s presence in the house. The weather was gray and cloudy, and Theresa had a headache; she was very glad Bill was with her in the afternoon. Later on, in the evening, when her headache became bad, she was persuaded by her young cousin to go to bed and leave her to wait for Robert.

“I hardly like to go; you don’t think it will seem unkind?” Theresa offered this last protest standing by the door, her candle in her hand.

“No, of course not, I’ll explain.”

Bill somehow knew, though Theresa did not, that Robert did not view things in the same light as his wife did; so she persuaded her to go to bed and settled herself by the fire until the servant was ready to go up-stairs. After that she went round the house and fastened the doors, standing a moment in the hall curiously impressed by the silence of the place. “I have never been up alone in a sleeping house before,” she meditated as she put out the light and stretched out her hands in the darkness as if to feel to the full the sense of solitary night. At that moment she remembered that she had fastened the back door which Theresa had told her particularly to leave unlocked, as Robert always let himself in that way.

She went back and unfastened it, turned the handle to see if it were really unbolted, and stood a moment looking out. The night-breeze stirred her hair; the moist fragrance of the earth came to her; she drew her breath in deeply, slowly, turning her head from side to side, listening to the intense stillness; it seemed to her that she could almost hear things growing. Her heart began to beat faster; the blood in her veins stirred in unison with the moving sap in the hidden trees; some wild creature of the woods was waking in her, bidding her go forth into the darkness. A board creaked; it was only the timbers settling down for the night, but it recalled her to the house and to her task of waiting for its master’s return. With a last glance at the cloudy sky, she went in and shut the door.

There was another that night who found it dark, so dark that more than once he missed his way in the deep lanes which lay between Sales Green and Ashelton. More than once he anathematised the business which led him to come home from Wrugglesby market by way of the little village; the cross-roads were intricate and in bad repair, and under the darkness of the trees it was impossible to see so much as the hedgerow elms on either side. At last he heard the sound of wheels away on the left; he was clear of the lanes and out on the high road now; just as he emerged a vehicle without lights passed, or rather, nearly collided with him.

He pulled his horse up and demanded angrily: “Where the devil are you going? If you want the whole road you might at least carry lights so that one can see what you are doing!”

“Where—going ’self?” a thick voice retorted. “Damn your clumsiness! Wha’—what ’yer mean by running a man down li’ that!”

“Where are you trying to go?” The man was evidently too drunk to be argued with.

“Home;—that’sh if—if can get there. Brute pulls li’—like the devil.”

“You had better let me drive you home, Morton—it is Morton? I expect I can see better in the dark than you can.”

Morton raised no objection and the other dismounted as he spoke and climbed up beside him. “Pleashed, I’m sure,” Robert muttered. “Been to market? Oh, forgot,—saw you there myself, but you lef’ early; very cred’able, Mr. Harborough, you’ shober young man.”

He laughed in a maudlin way, and they started on a straight course in the darkness, Harborough’s horse, fastened by the bridle, trotting behind. A straight road lay before them, the ground rising clear from the shade of the trees, just showing paler against the blackness, then sloping gently downwards to deeper shadow until the turning by the village; there the road forked, now to the left, through the open gateway, up the chase, and so to the stables and home.

“Come on, ol’ chap, come in and have a—a glass of whishky,—don’t b’ unsociable.”

Harborough hesitated and thought of Mrs. Morton. He glanced up at the house; there was a light in one of the lower windows, the rest were dark—was she sitting up for her husband? He thought of the young wife with her serene, unconscious face, waiting for this, and yielding to the affectionate pressure on his arm he went in.

“There does not seem to be any one up,” he said, as he opened the door and paused on the threshold.

“Oh, yes, sure to be, sure—confound—”

As Morton stumbled, Harborough held him up, and then stood listening a moment. The house was very quiet except for the chirping of crickets in the kitchen. Guided more by instinct than by his companion he made his way to Mrs. Morton’s favourite sitting-room and opened the door, expecting yet dreading to meet the sweet face of the young wife. But she was not there; involuntarily he breathed a sigh of relief and braced himself to face her substitute. There was a substitute, someone curled up in the big chair by the fire, a slim young girl. She had been reading, and apparently had but just discovered their presence in the house, for she only looked up from her book as they entered.

“Theresa has gone to bed,” she said, rising as she spoke. She did not seem at all surprised to see them both. Harborough wondered if she understood, or if Morton returned in this condition so often that she was prepared for it. “Poor Theresa’s head was so bad that I persuaded her to go, and to let me sit up,” she added.

“That ’ch al’right, you’n I—quite happy without her,” Morton said thickly, smiling upon the girl.

“You won’t want to disturb her to-night,” she went on. “Her head is ever so bad; you will sleep in the blue room, won’t you? That will do nicely.”

“That’ll do—we won’t dish’turb her, poor—poor T.”

“Is the room ready?” Harborough asked quickly.

She shook her head, and flitted away with light noiseless feet. Morton stretched out a hand to detain her, but she passed him like a shadow and was gone.

“Make her sing when ’comes back—sing to you,—cap’tal song.”

Harborough turned away abruptly. Evidently she had not expected this sort of home-coming, or surely the room would have been ready. Probably it had not occurred before, to Mrs. Morton’s knowledge at least; if it had, she would never have left this child to face it alone; for a child she was, fifteen, sixteen perhaps, but a child certainly. A great anger rose in Harborough’s heart against the man who had brought his beastliness home here. He glanced round the room, which impressed him as daintily feminine, doubtless arranged by the bride nine months ago. Her work-basket stood on the table, a few spring flowers were on the mantelpiece; the whole place was pathetically eloquent of her presence. Harborough picked up a book which lay on the table and looked at the title—Romances and Drolls of the West of England—an old book of West Country legends and folk-lore, fairy tales of a primitive order, the book that the girl, who had just left the room, had been reading. Pleasant to call a child from her fairy-stories to meet a drunkard!

“Now come to bed.” She had returned as noiselessly as she had gone.

“Bed? Not ’f I know it!”

“Yes, come along.”

“I will see Mr. Morton to bed,” Harborough said. “Which is the room? No, tell me, don’t trouble to come.”

“Second door from the top of the stairs,” was the direction she gave, and Harborough, coercing his charge, went up-stairs. With the door safely shut on them he used more force than persuasion, feeling heartily sick of the whole business. When he came down again the girl was in her old position, reading her fairy-book as before.

“Is he in bed?” she asked.

“Yes. Are you alone here—I mean, are you going to shut the house up?”

“Yes, all that is still open. I must, you see, there is no one else. You can’t do it when you are outside, and you won’t want to stop in to do it; it is not difficult.”

“No. You are rather young to be left alone—I won’t keep you up; good-night.”

She went to the door with him, the one opening on to the yard by which he and Morton had entered a little while before. On the step he hesitated; he was standing in shadow, she in the light of the lantern she had brought that she might see to fasten the door after him.

“If I were you,” he said doubtfully, “I should not disturb Mr. Morton more than I could help. I would not pass his room unless it were necessary.”

“No.”

Nevertheless, after he had gone she stole noiselessly to the door and turned the key outside for fear the sleeper should awake and disturb Theresa in the night. But then that was quite necessary in her opinion, and no one was the wiser, for she unlocked it again between four and five in the morning.

As for Harborough, having given the caution, he felt satisfied and after repeating “good-night” went down the yard. He looked back once before she closed the door. She was still standing in the same position, the lantern in her hand, an elfin thing in its glow against the brown shadows of the passage, herself all brown and red, skin and hair and eyes, colours such as Rembrandt loved. She moved, scattering splashes of light from her lantern, then shut the door; and Harborough mounted his horse and rode a good mile home to Crows’ Farm.

CHAPTER IV.
HARBOROUGH OF CROWS’ FARM.

Nobody could make farming pay, at least no one about Wrugglesby. This was an axiom in the Ashelton district, which no one attempted to confute though each had an explanation for it, according to his political opinions and education, or want of education. But one and all believed it, though they continued to farm and to grumble, both the small men and the great. The small men were very small, little more than peasant tenants with neither the capital nor the ability to farm their small holdings with any show of justice to the starved land, living from hand to mouth, employing no labour, themselves and their families practically doing the work, and doing it indifferently. The great men were quite another class, a cross between a landed gentry and a yeoman squirearchy, socially ranking with the professional classes and for all practical purposes supplying the place of the county-families, now for the most part either impoverished or else removed to more congenial centres. The greater farm-owners undoubtedly did make some profit out of the land, or appeared to do something very like it, though possibly they might have done so more successfully had they inclined more towards the yeoman squirearchy and less towards the landed gentry in their tastes and habits.

At least such was the opinion of one who, a little more than six months previous to Bill’s advent in the Morton household, had come to settle among the yeoman-farmers and to prove to himself and to them some of the theories he held with regard to farming. His theory-in-chief was a short one, and could be summed up in one word,—work. A working farmer could make it pay; there were one or two of the old-fashioned sort of large working farmers still left, who made it pay, even though they had no social position and wanted none. Their net profits were small, it is true, but then they had not the benefit of a modern education; they were also abnormally pig-headed, and, in spite of experience, would do as their fathers had done in the palmy days of Protection. Young Gilchrist Harborough was of opinion that, were it only possible to unite the work in detail of these men with the knowledge and capital of the gentleman-class, results of surprising grandeur could be obtained.

He held this theory long ago, before ever he saw the English farmer at work; he held it still more firmly now that fate had given him an opportunity of putting it to the test. The opportunity had come unexpectedly in the shape of a legacy from a friend of his father’s, a man who had at one time stayed in the bush home where Gilchrist was reared, and who, half amused and half pleased by the young man’s earnestness, had left him Crows’ Farm and a sufficiency on which to try his theories on a small scale.

An unpretentious, whitewashed building was the farm, not unlike two cottages knocked into one. For many years it had been inhabited by a bailiff who farmed the adjoining land, the owner, frequently absent abroad, only coming down for the partridge-shooting. Ashelton was fond of this man, and genuinely sorry to hear of his death; he was the kind of man those good folks understood, and was sadly missed at the social functions which always took place in September and in which he usually joined. But the new owner, the young Australian to whom he had left the farm, was something of a puzzle to them. Of course he had a right to his theories: everyone has in these highly educated days; but it is not everyone who tries to put his theories into practice, nor who, moreover, has such uncomfortable ones. Harborough lived the life of a working farmer in his little old house; lived, so report said, almost like Robinson Crusoe, doing his own cooking and cleaning, rising early and sharing even the most menial toil with his few labourers. This was not all strictly correct, but it was near enough to the truth to satisfy Ashelton, and the parish talked and wondered, and said dubiously that the experiment might answer, questioning for a while how Mr. Harborough would be received. But in the winter the question was settled by Mrs. Dawson, who, perhaps, alone was capable of settling it finally. She, under the influence of her son Jack, decided that Mr. Harborough was as one of themselves, notwithstanding his theory and his colonial origin,—a decision which scarcely did justice to Harborough, but gave great satisfaction to everyone, even including Mr. Dane, the old rector. He, indeed, had seemed particularly to appreciate it, and had even listened to Mrs. Dawson’s judgment on the case with a faint smile flickering in his grey eyes. It is true he made Harborough’s acquaintance without waiting for Mrs. Dawson’s decision, but then, as she said, the rector, of course, knew everybody. Mr. Johnson, the curate, being only a curate, had waited for her decision.

But none of these matters troubled Harborough. He lived his life in his own way, working hard as long as he was able, smoking hard when work was done; reading sometimes, and the books had nothing to do with the theory, neither were they such as Jack Dawson would have chosen; dreaming sometimes in spite of the theory, in spite also of the pure reason with which he was still young enough to believe he governed his life. Of his neighbours he thought little; he was friendly when he came across them, but with the friendliness of the self-contained man who regards the rest of his kind as supernumeraries, necessary parts of the world-play, but as well filled by one set of actors as by another. He knew about his neighbours, of course, since he could not well live in Ashelton without doing so; but he did not care greatly about them, nor was there any reason to care; nothing to his knowledge had gone seriously wrong or seriously right in Ashelton until that night when he took Robert Morton home.

That night there had been something seriously wrong, and the more he thought about Morton, the more wrong the whole matter seemed. Drunkenness looked such a beastly thing in this quiet little village, in that peaceful home with that fair young wife. “The man’s a brute,” was his disgusted verdict, “coming home to a wife like that! Lucky it wasn’t her. By the way, I wonder who the girl was, queer little thing.”

But he did not wonder very much, for he was too sleepy that night and too busy the next day till the time when the girl revealed her identity to him. It was somewhere about noon when he saw her, as he was returning by a lane which bordered one side of the Haylands property. He had been that way once before during the morning, but was not aware that anyone had been watching him. As he came back, however, he met the girl of last night’s adventure evidently waiting for his return. The Morton’s orchard was here; an untidy orchard, with old stooping apple-trees, lichen-covered and unpruned, a thicket of nuts and pollard quinces and, beyond, a briery tangle of blackberries. As yet there was neither flower nor leaf, except for one plum-tree near the gate white as snow in its blossom.

It was in the orchard that Harborough saw the girl. She was sitting on the gate deliberately waiting for him, and when he came in sight she made the fact known.

“I want to speak to you,” she announced. “I have been waiting ever so long.”

“I’m sorry,” he answered, in some surprise; “now I have come, what can I do for you?”

“It is about Robert, Robert Morton—is he often drunk?”

If Harborough had any delusions as to her not grasping the situation last night, they were now dispelled. “I don’t know,” he said; “I have never seen him so before.”

“Do you think he often is?”

“I really cannot tell you; I am only very slightly acquainted with him.”

A little smile crept round the corners of the girl’s mouth. “I didn’t suppose you were great friends,” she said.

Harborough bit his lip. His tone had not implied it, yet he was conscious that there had been a slight feeling of annoyance at the suggestion of intimacy conveyed by her words; there was now a second feeling of annoyance that she should have discovered the first.

“I am a comparatively new comer in the place,” he said somewhat stiffly; “you would perhaps do better to ask someone who has lived here longer.”

“Umph!” As she made the oracular answer she drew her legs up to the top bar of the gate and clasped her hands round them in a position Harborough considered most unsafe. As he watched her, fascinated, wondering which way she would fall, she turned a little towards him.

“Take care!” he exclaimed.

“Theresa does not know,” she said, answering her own thoughts. “She has no idea; but she will, you know.”

Harborough thought it possible, but he only said: “I suppose her husband told her he did not wish to disturb her last night?”

“Yes.”

“Then I do not see how she is to know, if you do not tell her.”

“No, not this time; but next,—I may not be here then.”

“How do you know there will be a next time?” he asked. “You have no reason to suppose this was anything but,—but an accident which might happen to any of us.”

“You, for instance?”

Her blandly innocent eyes were turned on him. “Any man,” he answered briefly. The eyes showed neither surprise nor disgust; in fact they did not seem much convinced, and he went on. “There is no reason to say it must occur again; why do you?”

“Why do you?”

“I do not,” he answered; “I should be very sorry to give such a definite opinion on the subject.”

“Well, then,” she replied cheerfully, “that is the difference between us. I give the opinions, you only have them, but we mean the same thing.”

“I have not formed any opinion.”

“No, but you know him,—not very well, I dare say,—but you know other men. I don’t know him very well either, better than you do, of course, but not well. I came here on Tuesday, and to-day is Friday; before that I don’t think I saw him more than six times; but, all the same, I know he will get drunk again.”

“Pray, did you expect him to be drunk last night?” Harborough asked.

“No,” she answered; “I had never thought about it. Until I saw him last night I never thought about his drinking; now, of course, I know.”

“I must say you took it very coolly,” he observed, “that is, if it was a revelation to you.”

She shrugged her shoulders, till he thought she must inevitably fall off the gate; she did not, but turned to him, asking, “What would you have had me do?”

“Nothing different from what you did. I meant that you did not seem at all upset.”

“No, I don’t think I can be upset easily.” He unconsciously looked at the squirrel-like perch on the gate. “You see,” she went on, “there was a good deal to be done till you went; after that I thought.”

“Yes?” He wondered what she thought, what sort of brain she had under that thatch of copper-brown hair.

“It is about Theresa,” she went on to explain; “she does not know, and she must sooner or later; he is bound to let it out some time. He may have got drunk and hidden it in the past: he may do so in the future; but sooner or later there will come another time like last night, and she will find out.”

He drove his stick into the ground thoughtfully. “Well,” he said at last, “if this is all as inevitable as you say, if this takes place, I suppose Mrs. Morton will have to bear it, as other women have borne it before. There is nothing else for it; we can’t help her; she will just have to bear it.”

Harborough felt this was cold comfort. It was easy talking out here in the spring sunshine, easy adjusting the burden to the accompaniment of the thrushes’ love-songs; but to bear it was another matter, and the girl evidently thought so.

“You don’t know Theresa,” she said. “She just can’t bear it; I think it would kill her.”

Harborough repressed a smile. “I don’t think it would do anything of the kind,” he said, from his wider knowledge of mankind. “Mrs. Morton by this time knows, what you, too, will find out some day, that the world is peopled with men not heroes, and that you must take men, even husbands, as you find them, and not despair and die because they are not heroes of romance.”

“That’s just what Theresa has not found out,” Theresa’s cousin persisted, “at least not properly. She and Robert don’t quite understand one another, I’m afraid. It’s an awful pity for people to get married; they can’t really know one another unless they have lived together for a long time first. You see, T. has lived such a different life. It was a kind of she-life, quiet and dainty and small, and nice as nice could be,—weak tea in old china and wash the cups up carefully afterwards—that is how we lived. The pity is she married Robert; it might have answered if she had married some other man, better, perhaps, or more,—more watered down, or something; I don’t know how to say it, but you understand how it is. They just belong to different kinds of people.”

Harborough leaned against the gate-post, the one opposite to the end of the gate on which the girl sat; he was careful not to give her the least jar as he considered the connubial problem presented to him. “Of course you think Morton is to blame,” he said at last. “You would blame him far more than your sister—cousin is it?—your cousin then. He is, I suppose, a low hound, drunken and all the rest of it?”

“Well,” she answered slowly, “it isn’t so much that; he has his good points of course, though I don’t altogether like him. It isn’t exactly a case of right and wrong; it’s how the thing seems to the other person, and it’ll seem bad to T. For myself, I don’t think I should like getting drunk, but I don’t so much mind about things; I can understand how it is in a way, and besides, it is not such a sin to his nature; it isn’t nice, but it is all of a piece with himself.”

Harborough nodded. “That’s so,” he said and added: “To come home drunk is not, after all, such a dreadful thing from a man’s point of view; it is not nice, as you say, but it is not the most awful thing in the world. Life’s entire happiness does not cease because of it; it is not the end of all things.”

“No,” she said thoughtfully looking past him into some fancy picture. “No, there is always the necessity to get up and have breakfast next morning, even after a big tragedy; things don’t end.”

He laughed a little. “Naturally not, and a good thing too on the whole, though perhaps it is not dramatic. Why not induce Mrs. Morton to take your truly judicial view of the case?”

“My view? It couldn’t be done.”

“Why not? I think I understood you to say that she had lived in the same circumstances as yourself; if the view is possible to you, why not to her?”

“I don’t know, but it is not.” Bill spoke with absolute conviction. “Besides, I can’t speak about it to her; I can’t even warn her what to expect. If she had been with me when you brought him home last night, I should have been obliged to pretend I did not know what was the matter, and I should have kept up the pretence afterwards.”

“Would you?” he said, eyeing her curiously. “I suppose you would, and she would have helped you; women always try to hide the shortcomings of their loved ones. She won’t admit it when she finds him out; she will stand by him with a sort of proud deceit to the end.”

“Of course,” Bill answered simply; “he is her family now, and you must stand by your family, right or wrong.”

“I suppose that is what you call loyalty,” Harborough said with a laugh. “I was born in a land where we don’t think so much of our families, where we have not always reason to think much of them.”

“Mine isn’t much to boast of,” Bill admitted. “But that has nothing to do with it; I must stand by them all the same,—why, I should bolster up Polly. But we are no nearer the settling of Theresa; I suppose we never shall be, so there is no more to be said. Thank you for telling me all you knew.”

“All I didn’t know; that is what it amounts to.”

She moved as if she were going to get off the gate, then stopped in the act and said suddenly: “Polly said Robert would die of apoplexy,—die young. What do you think?”

“I think it is a solution of the difficulty I should not dwell on, if I were you.”

“Why not? Isn’t it likely?”

“I should say it was at least uncertain; also it is not usually considered decent to think about such things, at all events to talk about them.”

“Oh, decent!” she said, and laughed softly as she remembered Carrie’s and Alice’s lecture. Then she dropped off the gate and was immediately lost among the orchard bushes. He stood for a moment, half-expecting her to come back, though he did not know why. As she did not, he went on, smiling a little.

Gradually the smile died away. It was all very well to smile out there in the sunshine, all very well to talk under the apple-boughs, but the fact remained, the grim, stern fact. It was no concern of his, it is true, but he could not help thinking about it. Of course he knew that Morton drank, not desperately, nor enough to do any serious harm, not more than did plenty of other men, nothing more than occasionally a little too much; so serious an affair as last night’s occurrence would probably be an exception. It was not exactly a cardinal sin, it was just part of his nature, as the little brown girl had said, a kind of nature for which Harborough had a tolerant contempt when regarded as a detached specimen; as a personal acquaintance it naturally wore a different aspect. “If a man drinks, he drinks, and it is his affair. One can forgive lapses; we are none of us exactly bread-and-butter saints when we are nearing the thirties.” Harborough emphasised the words with his stick; he had almost said them aloud, not quite, but loud enough for the man, who that moment joined him, to guess part of the speech.

“Who is not a saint when he is nearing the thirties?” he asked. “Forgive me for surprising your thoughts, Mr. Harborough; you really should not think so loud, you know.”

“I will forgive you more easily than I fancy you would forgive me for thinking them.” So Harborough answered, for he had certain very definite notions as to what was and what was not acceptable to the clergy, and it was a clergyman who had accosted him, the rector of Ashelton on his way to the rectory by a field-path well known to at least one of his parishioners.

Perhaps Harborough misjudged this clergyman; at all events he promised forgiveness for all sins of thought before they were expressed. “I give absolution beforehand,” he said; “now confess the whole.”

“The whole? I am afraid I was speech-making to myself, a bad habit I have got from living so much alone; still you shall have it all. Here goes,—If a man drinks, he drinks, and it is his affair. One can forgive lapses; we are none of us bread-and-butter saints when we are nearing the thirties. But a man whom the divine wisdom has, it would seem, for its own purposes, made something of a beast, should keep his beastliness for suitable places. There is a lot done ‘somewhere east of Suez’ and in other places nearer at hand, which one does not blame a man for doing there; but when he does it in his wife’s drawing-room,—when he is such an egregious fool, such an unmitigated brute—why then he wants kicking, and he should be soundly kicked.”

Mr. Dane laughed a little, but whether at the length of the speech or the unconscious earnestness of its delivery did not appear. “Yes,” he said, “yes, brutes want kicking; I’m not sure we don’t all want kicking sometimes. Poor little wife; God help the wife, whoever she is!”

Harborough acquiesced. “And yet,” he said doubtfully, “if she understood, it would be easier, much easier; a good woman is a hard judge.”

“Ay, possibly.” The rector’s cold gray eyes seemed to summon up the memory of some good woman who had judged hardly. “They were not made to understand some things.”

“Not all women,” Harborough interposed.

“Not all; are you sure she was a good woman, this exception of yours? But perhaps we had better not start a controversy now; it is too late. I suppose the good women will judge the bad men, and love them too, to the end of the story. Bad men? No, I beg pardon, average men, neither good nor bad, just human, no bread-and-butter saints—good-bye.”

They parted at the rectory-gate. Just as it closed after Mr. Dane he turned to call after Harborough: “How about the beef and beer saints? What of them?”

“Are there any?”

“Yes, and they’re good for three-score years and ten.”

CHAPTER V.
FOR BILL’S GOOD.

Theresa was a conscientious person, and really had Bill’s welfare at heart. Miss Brownlow said she exercised a good influence over her young cousin. Theresa was rather doubtful on the subject herself, but she felt the responsibility of her aunt’s expectations, and determined to fulfil them if possible; only she did not quite know how to set about it. Bill proved so very mild; there seemed no occasion for a preventive and negative influence, and a positive one Theresa found difficult to compass. The only definite suggestion she had as yet made for Bill’s mental and moral benefit was the invitation to the prayer-meeting. That, both in its religious and social aspects, was good; the religious side, Theresa felt, must benefit her charge, though she did not stop to consider how, religion being to her much what charms were to her forebears, good and protective, though operating in methods neither understood nor questioned. The social side of the prayer-meeting was obviously beneficial, for it was in every way desirable that Bill should mix with her elders, it would help her to grow up. Altogether the prayer-meeting was a good thing, and to it, accordingly, Theresa took her cousin on Friday evening.

They drove in the dog-cart: “We can walk home,” Theresa had said; “it is not far.”

So Robert, who did not affect prayer-meetings, drove them and took the cart home again; and as Theresa disliked driving very much, this arrangement suited her better than any other. It suited Bill also, for she sat on the back seat, and was as entirely oblivious of the two in front as if she had been alone in her silent survey of the country. It was still very black and white, she found, though a day of showers and sunshine would alter the whole face of the land now. She was conscious of the coming change; there was a feeling of waiting in the air, as though the unconscious earth stood patient on the threshold of life. There were no leaves as yet among the elms, no blade in the dry, crumbling fields, no hint of green in the close-cut hedge, so black by contrast with the white road. So white the road was, so hard, stretching before them, stretching behind them; Bill looked at it and thought what a long way it could be seen in the pale strong light. Every thing could be seen, the heap of faggots, the pump by the road, the old man working in a cottage-garden,—she could even see what kind of belt he wore; she could see everything near and far,—truly a March evening was a beautiful thing. She drew in deep breaths of the thin air; it seemed like wine within her, making the young blood dance and throb in her veins. She felt, though she hardly knew it, that it was a splendid thing to be alive: “I should like to live as long as the world lasts,” she thought.

Just then they turned in at a gateway. The short drive beyond sloped down rapidly and the dog-cart entered with a jerk which nearly unseated the back passenger, who, however, was examining the garden too intently to be troubled by that. There was a large raised flower-bed in the centre of the gravel sweep, the drive dividing right and left of it. It was a circular bed planted in a geometrical pattern with Dutch bulbs; as yet the hyacinths and tulips were only green shoots, but the crocuses were in full flower and wound like a coloured ribbon across the intricate design. Bill was wondering how it was that none of the crocuses had gone blind, when the cart stopped before a square, ivy-covered house.

“T.,” she said, as she got down, “every single one of those crocuses has come up; they must be a good sort.”

“I dare say. Mr. Perry is fond of his garden, and he has plenty of money.”

Bill’s acquaintance with people possessing plenty of money was limited; indeed, she could not recall anyone she knew who was in that affluent state. She looked at the Perry’s house critically to see how “plenty of money” looked when it was translated into furniture and fittings. There were lots of white curtains, three or four at every window. “That is expensive,” she thought; “it means so much washing.” There were thick carpets on the floors, old-fashioned in design, excellent in preservation, and prodigiously ugly; the furniture in the drawing-room was rosewood, the chairs as like as peas in a pod and all neatly covered in chintz. “I shall tell Polly our things are all right,” Bill mentally determined as she sat down in a retired corner. She had been duly presented to the host and hostess, had duly made an inaudible answer to their polite remarks, and had then sunk into her corner, still safe under her cousin’s wing, as became one of her youth and shyness. No one in Mrs. Perry’s drawing-room expected anything different; indeed all would have been surprised if she had shown greater forwardness of demeanour. Her nearest neighbour, a little old lady with a cheerful countenance and a great mosaic brooch, spoke to her; but at first Bill could not catch what she said, for she lowered her voice out of deference to the more important persons present, until it was little more than a sigh in her listener’s ear. But after a word or two Bill became used to the sound and made out, as she might have guessed, that the subject of conversation was the weather.

“Dry evening,” was the first she heard, and then “a nice walk from Ashelton.”

Bill did not catch the connecting words, but she answered what she heard, although she did not know that she had come beyond the boundary of Ashelton that evening, and contented herself with saying that they had not walked.

“Driven?” suggested the old lady. “I expect Mr. Morton drove you and took the pony home again; such a good arrangement, and much safer than for Mrs. Morton to drive those spirited horses herself. I’m sure I wonder she has never had an accident; I quite thought there would be one when I saw her go by on Tuesday afternoon.”

“Did you see us then?” Bill asked, and her neighbour explained that she lived at the house at the corner where the roads divided. Then Bill knew that this must be Miss Minchin, the lady who, Theresa said, made ample use of the opportunities for observation offered by the commanding position of her house. At that moment the entrance of some fresh arrivals caused such a buzz of conversation that Miss Minchin ventured to inquire in quite a loud voice whether Bill herself could manage a horse.

“I never tried until I came here,” she answered; “I only came on Tuesday, but I have done a little since then. I drove a waggon of straw home yesterday. Tom Griggs told me he thought I should soon be able to handle most things on four legs, but I don’t suppose he knows.”

“You are learning to drive?” Miss Minchin asked, somewhat mystified. “Mr. Morton is teaching you? But, my dear, do be careful, he has such mettlesome horses; gentlemen seem all alike for that; there’s Mr. Harborough, now, he’s nearly as bad. You know Mr. Harborough?” Before Bill could answer the old lady went on: “Hush! Mr. Perry is going to speak. You must come with Mrs. Morton to see me to-morrow; I have a cat and a canary, and several things that will interest you.” The last words were spoken in a shrill whisper in Bill’s ear as the company settled themselves, and Mr. Perry, a trim little man some years retired from the grocery trade, called attention to the fact that the reading was about to begin. When he had made this announcement in a redundancy of words (for he was not averse to speech-making and had few opportunities), the proceedings commenced.

The subject for the evening was faith. Mr. Johnson was giving a course of Christian virtues during that Lent, and faith happened to be the one under consideration on the evening when Bill was present. She was very much interested, though it was not a matter in which she had erred greatly hitherto; she believed largely, had much imagination, and as yet had thought little and felt less; consequently Mr. Johnson’s flowery periods slid harmlessly off her still unconscious mind. She was interested, at first a little in the words, afterwards entirely by the man. Mr. Johnson was a fair man with a tendency towards the sandy, smooth, slightly florid, and with more than a tendency towards plumpness. He had for many years been curate at Ashelton, and, though he was now past middle life, it seemed that he was likely to remain curate at Ashelton, for it appeared that the Church dignitaries had not the same opinion of his worth as had some other people who need not be named. After all, curate at the three Asheltons was on the whole well enough. There was not too much work in the big straggling parish, and there was much sociability of a sort well suited to a man who had a nice taste in tea and pale sherry, and more fancy for being a whale among minnows than a minnow among whales. At Ashelton, though perhaps not exactly a whale, he could pass as a very tolerably sized fish among others of congenial dimensions, at all events when the rector was not there. As for the rector—well, poor man, he was eccentric, he had had trouble—Mr. Johnson said so leniently without any idea as to what the trouble was. For the eccentricity he could vouch: the rector had a cousin who was a bishop, in a genuine, important bishopric, and another, it was hinted, who was a peer. What man, not eccentric, would have remained all these years in a little country parish when he possessed these advantages? Then there was his passion for music, and also his inability to appreciate Mr. Johnson. Mr. Johnson had at last come to the conclusion that this inability did exist; yet even now he was not sure that it was not partly the expression of a not unnatural jealousy of his own social and parochial triumphs.

On that particular March evening Mr. Johnson knew that he had added one more to the long list of those triumphs. It was a small matter, of course, but, as he told his wife, trifles like that showed how easily he could have influenced a larger audience, had he been in command of one. The trifle in question was Bill Alardy, whose face showed how deeply interested she was in Mr. Johnson’s words. She had the most expressive face imaginable, and that evening it was alive with interest. She had never taken her eyes off the speaker; she listened to every word, the tell-tale face expressing the keenest enjoyment and appreciation. So marked was this that after supper, when all were leaving, Mr. Johnson came to Theresa and shook hands with her and Bill, telling the latter impressively that he was very glad to see her at the reading.

To this Bill answered with equal impressiveness, “I am very glad I came.”

Mr. Johnson smiled encouragingly. “I shall be happy if at any time I can be of help to you,” he said; “I am always pleased to help any one.”

Bill thanked him vaguely and went out with Theresa. She did not know what he meant, but it did not matter, as she did not feel conscious of wanting his help. In her opinion he could not improve upon that evening’s performance, which had been perfectly delightful; so delightful that when she went to her room she thought about him until it became too much for her, and turning to the little wooden bed and the chair which stood beside it, she addressed them, inanimate though they were. “My brothers and sisters,” she said—and her flexible voice, far more flexible even than her face, rolled out in unctuous tones—“my brothers and sisters, faith is the substance of things hoped for, the only evidence we can present to our spiritual senses, the only evidence they need. It is the be-all and end-all, the beginning and the end of all things.” She rolled the words lovingly on her tongue, swelling her face until it became almost Johnsonian in size. “Everything is faith, faith is everything.” Here she stretched out a persuasive hand to the quaint little bed. “In it we live and move and have our being; being dead, we die not if in faith, being alive, we live not without it. Whatever is, is not, whatever is not, is, was and shall be, world without end, amen.”

But Theresa did not hear this, and held to her first opinion as to the kind of spiritual good Bill derived from the prayer-meeting. Of the social good she was not so sure, until her young cousin came to her on Saturday morning and suggested that they should go and see Miss Minchin in the afternoon. “Let us go,” she said; “she promised to show me her cat and bird and other things.”

Theresa acceded to the request, feeling that last night’s meeting was not without results since it had introduced Miss Minchin, and implanted a desire to visit in Bill’s mind.

Miss Minchin’s house was set at the corner where the high road from Wrugglesby divided, the one way to go through Ashelton to the church, the other to the lanes and so to the more distant village of Sales Green. “It is a terribly public place,” Miss Gruet, Miss Minchin’s particular friend, always said with commiseration. Her own house was privacy itself, the lower windows looking solely on the laurel bushes tall and elderly, the upper as effectually screened by a great horse-chestnut tree. “It was most secluded,” Miss Gruet said, and, out of pity no doubt, she often left her seclusion to cheer her friend in the publicity which had fallen to her share. She did so on the afternoon when Theresa and Bill made their call, but did not arrive until Miss Minchin had duly shown her treasures. Bill was interested in them all,—in the cat asleep on the violet bed, only dislodged with the end of an umbrella, and the canary before the window in a green cage with a piece of grey paper neatly tacked round the lower part to keep the seeds in and the draughts out. This piece of paper was often changed, varying in colour with the Church festivals and other important events, always going into mourning on the death of royalty; at least, the cage did. Black paper Miss Minchin found difficult to obtain, as she explained to Bill.

“When the poor dear Duke of Clarence died,” she said, “I could not get a scrap. I put a piece of black cashmere round the cage, but the little fellow (it was not this canary then but another one) did not like it a bit.”

The subject of discussion here gave a short burst of song. When he ceased Miss Minchin encouraged him to continue. “Swee-e-t!” she said; “go on, my pretty, swee-e-t! He likes someone to whistle to him, but of course I can’t do that.”

“I can,” said Bill, and gave a trilling imitation of the caged singer.

“I declare,” exclaimed Miss Minchin, “it’s quite charming! I’m sure if girls had whistled like that in my young days no one would have thought it unladylike. They did think so, then, my dear, but now, to be sure, things are quite changed; everyone can do as they like, and more besides.”

It was just then that Miss Gruet came in. “I thought you must be coming here,” Miss Minchin said briskly. “I said so to Mrs. Morton just now, when I saw you coming down the road.”

“You can see everyone from your window,” Miss Gruet said with a touch of severity. “I do believe from your back bedroom you could almost see the field-path that leads to the rectory.”

“Yes,” Miss Minchin admitted, “I can if I move the toilet-glass. Of course I never do move it, unless it happens that the blind goes wrong, as it does sometimes. It is such a tiresome blind; I remember I had to see to it the day Tom Davies went to put his banns up; he thought no one saw him go sneaking to the rectory, but I did, for I was mending my blind.”

Miss Gruet professed herself properly shocked—and interested. “There is no telling what you might not see,” she said, “and Mr. Dane a bachelor too!”

Miss Minchin hastened to assure the company that she had never seen anything bad; indeed, only yesterday morning, when the troublesome blind went wrong again, she had seen quite a pleasant sight—Mr. Dane and young Mr. Harborough in earnest conversation. “So nice,” she said, “for a young man like that to be such friends with the rector.”

The others agreed with her, and talked over this item of intelligence in all its aspects. A little later, Theresa and Miss Gruet being at the time deep in a discussion of the difficulty of preventing mice from eating cheese-mats, Bill led the conversation back to Harborough.

“The Harboroughs of Gurnett,” she said; “does this Mr. Harborough belong to them?”

“No, indeed,” Miss Minchin answered, almost shocked at the idea. “The Harboroughs of Gurnett are the Harboroughs of Wood Hall, one of the oldest families of the county, just as Wood Hall is one of the finest places. At least, it used to be, but times are sadly changed from what they were. The Harboroughs are poor now and cannot afford to keep the place up; not but what it is fine still,—have you ever seen it?”

“No, but I have heard about it,” Bill said eagerly. “There is a room there, the library I think, with a fireplace so big that a quadrille could be danced on the hearth; and the great hall is so wide that a coach and four could turn in it without touching the wall on either side.”

“Yes, my dear, yes.” The old lady’s tone was sad, as of one who remembers departed greatness. “Yes; so they say; they say many things about the place. It is sad to think of the way in which it is being left, sad to think of the Harboroughs, a good old family.”

“I thought they were bad,” Bill remarked, remembering the common report of the district.

“So they were, bad and extravagant too; they nearly all were, and that is why they are so poor now.”

Bill did not express any opinion on good old families which were also bad; she only remarked meditatively, “I think I shall go to Wood Hall.”

“You can’t,” Miss Minchin said; “Mr. Harborough lives there now.”

“Yes; but parts of the grounds are open, are they not? I could see them, as much as can be seen.”

“I would not, if I were you.” Miss Minchin’s voice was a solemn warning.

“Why not?”

“Because,—it does not seem exactly right for a young girl to go into those grounds.”

“But why?”

Miss Minchin dropped her voice half a tone lower. “Mr. Harborough is a bad old man,” she said, “a very wicked old man. It does not become me to speak ill of one in his station, belonging to this county too; still facts are facts and they are terrible.”

“What has he done?”

Bill showed, or Miss Minchin thought she showed, too much interest in the subject, and, either because she would not, or else because she could not, she gave no further information. Whereupon Bill, failing to hear anything about the one Mr. Harborough turned to the other.

“Is he related to the Wood Hall people?” she asked.

“No, oh dear, no,” Miss Minchin answered. “He is an Australian, or a New Zealander, or something American and colonial; I am rather uncertain about those places, but he comes from one of them. Besides, my dear, consider, he is a farmer, nothing but a farmer,—a very good profession; I am not saying anything against it,” she added, hastily remembering Theresa’s husband; “indeed, I should be very sorry to, seeing that all the patriarchs were farmers, so to say. Still, you must admit it is not quite suitable to a member of the county-families. I know old families are not respected as they used to be, but no one would think of classing them with farmers even now.”

Bill acquiesced and then observed: “It is queer he should have the same name.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Miss Minchin said, bridling a little. “It is not such an uncommon name; besides the old families spread so. Long ago they were, no doubt, much larger than they now are; there is no telling where all the younger branches go.”

“You think he is a younger branch? Then he should be as good as the others.”

“Certainly not: for one reason he has not lived in the same place so long; he and his forebears have gone out from among the family; they have not kept up the family traditions. There are many traditions in a family like that, many, and much property too. Why, do you know the side chapel in our parish church is the property of the Harboroughs?”

Bill did not know it, neither did she see the force of it as an argument; nevertheless she was interested. “The whole chapel?” she asked.

“Yes, the little chapel and the little altar and all complete. Of course they never go there, for they are Catholics. I sometimes think perhaps if Mr. Harborough had not been a Catholic—but there! We mustn’t be uncharitable. Do you like reading? Yes? Then I should advise you to read the history of the county; you will find all about Wood Hall there and many other things you will like. I don’t think Mrs. Morton has a history, but Miss Gruet has a very nice book of Selections, which I have no doubt she will lend to you; I do believe I have it in the house now.” She had borrowed it when Harborough first came and had not yet returned it. “We can ask her to allow you to take it home with you; I’m sure she will.”

This Miss Gruet expressed herself happy to do, and Bill carried the book away with her when she left with Theresa a few minutes later.

CHAPTER VI.
THE RIGHT OF WAY.

The parish church of Ashelton was very old. It was said in Miss Gruet’s selected history of the county to be of great antiquarian interest; but antiquaries did not abound in Ashelton, and neither the inhabitants nor their friends troubled their heads much about the stone-work of the fourteenth century, or any of the other commended points of interest. At one time there had been a couple of letters in a Wrugglesby paper about a little Last Judgment window of obscure meaning; but the letters had long been forgotten, and the rector’s new organ partly hid the window now.

Bill paid particular attention to the window on the first Sunday that she went to Ashelton church; but she had just been reading about it and knew where to look for it. For the rest, that which chiefly pleased her were the grinning goblin faces which looked out from the capitals of pillars and the niches of windows,—from every place where the old builders could put them; there was even one carved at the end of Theresa’s pew. Everybody had a pew, and almost everybody went to church in Ashelton. The Morton’s pew was conveniently situated for keeping an eye on the rest of the congregation. There was only one better placed for that purpose, Miss Minchin’s; but she, as she always maintained, had not selected it herself, her dear mother having done so long before her time,—in which case, it is possible to conceive that Miss Minchin inherited her tastes, as well as her pew, from her mother. Bill, from her place of vantage, looked at everybody, and everybody, with even greater interest, looked at her. In fact so much did they look that she, though as a rule somewhat indifferent on the subject of clothes, was rather glad that Polly had furbished up her winter hat before she left Wrugglesby. She gave the hat a little pull forward as she thought of it, and looked across Mrs. Perry’s purple bonnet to the Harborough chapel. It was to the left of the chancel, a step higher than the main body of the church and in a measure cut off from it by a continuance of the slender oak screen which stood before the chancel itself. Bill looked at it thoughtfully, opining that there could never have been enough Harboroughs to fill it, unless they brought their servants with them. There was a small altar with a cross upon it, and above, an old window where fat cherubs smiled in starch-blue smoke. She wondered what its meaning was, as others had wondered before her, and came to the conclusion that it was a pity the starch clouds, if they were clouds, were not red instead of blue: “It could not possibly make the place darker than it now is,” she thought, “and it would look very much nicer.”

It is to be feared that Bill did not pay very much attention to the sermon. She looked about her over much, but she could still say with truth, when asked by Miss Gruet afterwards, that she had enjoyed the service, for she had a keen ear for music, and the music at Ashelton church was very good. She listened with rapt attention to what Miss Minchin called “the set pieces,” and joined enthusiastically in the hymns, singing loud and sweet, for though her flexible voice was perhaps better suited to the mimicry of other sounds than anything else, it still possessed a rich sweetness in its many-noted variations.

When Bella came home from visiting Theresa in the winter she confessed to Polly that she had found Sunday afternoon a little dull; that is to say the first Sunday afternoon; on the second she had gone for a walk and—Bill had not heard any more, so she did not know what prevented the second Sunday afternoon from being as dull as the first. She did not herself find the afternoon dull, as she went up to the garret to look over some books. Theresa in bringing away her girlish treasures from Miss Brownlow’s had accidentally brought a few things which were not hers.

“I have been meaning to take them back several times,” she said, “but I keep forgetting. I really hardly know what they are now; there are one or two books belonging to Polly and to you, or your father. I put them in a box in the garret when I had to turn the spare room out; you might get them down some time and put them with your things, if you will.”

Bill said she would, and chose Sunday afternoon to do it. She left Robert and Theresa reading and dozing by the fire with the port and oranges on the table beside them. “Don’t you want any dessert?” Theresa had said. But Bill did not care about port and oranges; she filled her pocket with nuts and went to the garret to eat them while she looked over the books. These she found in a lidless packing-case neatly covered over with brown paper. The one on the top was Holy Living and Dying. “That’s Auntie’s: Theresa must have got it from the top shelf in the dining-room; the books there were mostly hers; I suppose she thought they all were and took the lot.” The next was a small brown volume, Plain Truths for Plain People, in which she found Polly’s name—“That’s just the book for Polly; a plain person she certainly is, and the plain truth is a very good thing for her to start on, considering how she can trim it.” The two volumes were laid aside, and the next dive into the box brought out a book she was pleased to see but did not before know that they possessed, an old history of that part of the county. “Whose is this, I wonder?—why, it’s mine!” She had turned to the first page and seen her own name Wilhelmina Alardy.

“That’s funny,”—she was cracking her nuts with her teeth as she looked. “At least, I don’t know that it is so funny after all; I expect it was stuck up at the top with the other old things, so I never knew about it. Of course I am not that Wilhelmina; that’s Grandmother.”

Bill looked long at the book, for she had not many relics, or even tales, of her own grandmother, as she counted her father’s mother in distinction from her mother’s mother whom she shared equally with the cousins. There was not, to be sure, much of this lady to share; not one of the four cousins had even a memory of her, though of their own grandmothers the others each had something to tell. Polly had a good many tales about hers, with an ugly old portrait, too, and a heavy locket she used to wear. Bella and Theresa could remember theirs plainly; they had stayed with her when they were little girls, and still had the coral necklaces she gave them the last Christmas she was alive. But Bill had neither tales nor trinkets; her parents had both died when she was very young, and Miss Brownlow knew no traditions of the Alardys and few facts concerning them, except that Bill’s father was an only son, and that for relations the girl must depend on her; so it happened that Bill knew little about her grandmother, except that she herself was named after her. There was a little wooden box-ottoman in the spare bedroom at Langford House, which, she had been told, used to belong to this grandmother. She had looked inside it once and found nothing but papers, which did not prove very interesting; a few letters, not easy to decipher and not, so far as she had tried them, entertaining; half a dozen bills, part of an old account-book, some recipes for cough-mixture and tea-cakes, a few odd sheets of paper and manuscript music, and some legal-looking documents which were quite beyond her comprehension. The greater part of this miscellaneous collection seemed to have belonged to her mother; a few of the less intelligible were of an older date, and the music and some scraps of poetry were not dated at all. Bill had thought of carrying the poetry away, as the only thing there which interested her; but since she had gone to the box without Miss Brownlow’s permission, she decided that she had better not take anything out, and learned the lines by heart instead. Then she shut the box, and gave up any hope of boasting as intimate an acquaintance with her grandmother as the other cousins did with theirs.

That was in the winter. She had not thought any more about it until this Sunday afternoon when she unexpectedly came upon the history of the county with her grandmother’s name on the fly-leaf. She was delighted with her discovery, partly because it was her grandmother’s, but chiefly because it was the very book she wanted. Settling herself comfortably on an empty tea-chest, she proceeded to study it and the old map of the district which she found folded inside. When at last she was called down-stairs for tea she was still full of her treasure, and told Robert and Theresa about it. They listened, amused by the interest she attached to it and the attraction she found in both book and map.

“I believe the map must be a good one,” she said at last; “it is so clear, I think I could find my way anywhere by it.”

“Where do you want to find your way?” Robert asked smiling.

“Oh, to lots of places, to Gurnett for one. I think I shall walk to Gurnett to-morrow; may I, Theresa?”

“It is rather a long way, but go if you like.” Theresa perhaps thought a long walk would be better for her young cousin than spending too much time with the animals in the yard.

The next morning, accordingly, Bill, armed with her map and some sandwiches for refreshment by the way, started on her walk. The distance might be long, but she could not remember any time in her life when she had been really tired. It seemed to her that mere walking was not enough, and once fairly started in the lonely lanes and quiet fields, she broke into a run for pure lightness of heart and ecstasy of living. Soon she was out on a road again, and here she walked more soberly, looking to right and left, noting the veil of green that was spreading over the hedges, enjoying to the full the day and the walk and the solitude.

And so Gurnett was reached, almost too soon, and the sandwiches eaten behind a grassy bank, very much too soon considering it was not yet twelve. After that the map was pulled out and considered thoughtfully. It was some time before she could find on it the exact spot where she now was, but at last she did. “Here I am, here—oh, yes, these must be the cross-roads; there is Wood Hall, over there, and here comes the lane between, the second turning after the cross-roads. The little path ought to cross just where the road joins the lane; I wonder if I shall find it; it seems to go straight from Corbycroft on one side of the lane to Wood Hall on the other, or rather to the little church in Wood Hall grounds. I don’t see what it can have been made for, but it must be a real path since it is marked; if anyone says anything to me I shall show him the map.”

Having come to this satisfactory conclusion Bill folded up her map and went on. In due time she came to the junction of the road and lane, but there was no indication that a footpath existed in any direction. In fact, the country itself on the left-hand side had undergone something of a change, for whereas her map showed that there had been a sort of park, the property of the distant hall, Corbycroft, there now seemed to be nothing but pasture-fields. She climbed the steep bank, the lane here being considerably below the level of the fields, and looked round. There was nothing but pasture-land, green, curving, sloping gradually away from her. A clump of elms stood in the centre, beautiful trees, tawny with the catkins which hung from their black branches; but there was no park, only pasture-land sloping down to the farm in the distance. And the farm looked very much as if it were a farm and not a hall; perhaps it was the remains of the old hall patched up and serving as a farm-house; though, to be sure, her history had spoken of a hall, a small off-manor belonging to the Corbys, a family who seemed to have had their head-quarters and more important property away in the north of the county, in the direction of the coast. The map and history were alike old, and Bill was forced to admit that things might have changed since they were made.

But if the left side of the lane was disappointing, the right more than fulfilled expectations. The ground sloped sharply up on that side; Wood Hall evidently stood on a hill and appeared to be hidden among trees, for the slope as far as Bill could see was covered with wood. It was not a trim park but a thicket, a wild young forest growing up as it could about the stumps of veteran oaks and beeches long since sacrificed to the axe. In some places the young trees almost choked each other with their crowded growth; in others they struggled for existence with the old pollards that still held their ground. Brambles and moss and last year’s fern covered the paths and choked the water-courses; here and there a tree, too lightly rooted to withstand the winters’ storms, or too old to bear the weight of its years, had fallen and lay as it fell. All was neglected, all growing, in crowded thicket or open glade, as only nature unassisted can grow; for it was genuine woodland, where the sunshine filtered through a close-woven roof of branches and chased dancing shadows over last year’s leaves; thickets of thorn breaking into leaf, primroses hiding in the moss at their feet; beeches, tall and straight as pillars of stone, a cathedral twilight in their shade; pollard oaks still brown in sheltered places; the glossy darkness of holly, the stately grace of slim young larches lightly tasselled in earliest green; silver birches, old trees, their white bark cracked and swelled, blackened by many years; young trees, a lace-work of branches, a tangle of supple stems and bursting buds.

Bill was over the low boundary fence now. There was no evidence of a path, but there ought to have been; it was marked on her map and she was going to find it, so she began the ascent in the direction in which it should have been. Up she went, the ground soft and irregular, here the dead leaves of many years blown into hollows rustling about her feet, there the rich black earth patched with moss, emerald and gray and golden brown. An old pollard lay as it had fallen; about its head fungus had gathered, and under its side primroses grew. Higher up, where the leaves were fewer, in sheltered ledges, beneath the twisty coils of beech-roots there were more primroses, plenty of them, and everywhere anemones, fairy flowers that danced among the dead bracken. The sun, hidden by the hill, looked down through the forest aisles, threading the whole place with arrows of light so that all around there was a lattice of woven light and shadow, while, before, there lay a path golden as Jacob’s way to heaven.

Involuntarily the girl stood still, clasping her hands tight on one another, while her breath came fast. All round stretched this living woodland, thrilling with its growing, stirring life; the bare trees, brown and purple and deep blue in their shadows, yet touched with the breath of spring, faintest green, or gold, or sparkling where the sun caught their yet unopened buds. The very earth was audible, alive, as it breathed forth its moist sweetness; and the birds sang their anthem of praise for the world’s eternal, ever recurring youth.

She stood, a little brown figure in the lonely wood, her whole soul going out to the great mother Earth, her heart filled with a passionate, inarticulate gladness. “Oh, God!” she said, “how good, how good it all is!”

She said it aloud because she had not outgrown that stage of savagedom which feels, with the Druids of old, that God is in the woods. A chaffinch on a crab-tree above her head looked down and to another hid in the catkinned branches of a hornbeam cried, “Come and see, what d’ye think! What d’ye think!” And the other replied with exactly the same words, or at least it seemed so to Bill; she listened a moment, then answered them with a call so like their own that they might well have been puzzled by it if she had not at that moment begun to sing and frightened them both to the safe distance of a higher bough—

“There’s laughter for the May-time,”—

She sang and her voice was like a lark’s in its complete gladness—

“The morning of the year—the year”—
and the singing was merged into ripples of sound neither song nor laughter and yet a wild sweet blending of both.

“Well, young woman, I hope you are satisfied.”

Bill stopped abruptly and faced the speaker, an old man on the higher ground just above her. He may have approached by some path hidden in the thicket on the right, or he may have been close at hand waiting till now to declare himself; she did not know which, neither did she know what was expected of her, so she only answered truthfully, “Yes.”

“I am glad to hear it.” She looked puzzled, and he added abruptly: “You are trespassing,—do you know it?”

The light began to dawn on Bill’s mind; she had forgotten all about the map and the footpath, but now she remembered and answered eagerly: “No, no, I am not really, at least I don’t think I can be; there is a footpath somewhere about here; I can’t have got far from it.”

“There is no footpath.”

“But it is marked on my map,” and Bill began to unfold the paper in which she had for greater security wrapped her treasure.

“I can’t help your map; there is no footpath here and there never was. I think I should know considering that the place belongs to me.”

“Are you Mr. Harborough?” Bill’s face beamed with satisfaction.

“I am; the fact seems to afford you pleasure.”

“I am pleased,” Bill admitted. Having once got herself into a difficulty she never had any hesitation about going through with it, in which course she was often helped by a serene unconsciousness of her position and offences, a quality Polly reckoned high in the list of her condemned exhibitions of no “gumption.” “I am pleased. I—I had heard about you.”

“I am indeed gratified”; he spoke with a sarcastic courtesy somewhat wasted on his hearer. “Judging by your flattering anxiety to make my acquaintance, I must conclude that what you heard was to my credit.”

“It was interesting,” Bill said doubtfully.

Whereupon the old man laughed. “In that case,” he said, “I must conclude it was not to my credit.”

Without replying Bill unfolded her map. “This is the footpath,” she said, and began tracing it with her finger.

“I don’t want to see your map, child.” He was looking curiously at the small brown figure. “Look up,” he said, “I would rather see your face. Tell me where you learnt to sing and laugh and whistle to the birds all in a breath.”

“I don’t know; I suppose I was made like that,” she still persistently spread out the map. “My cousin Polly,” she explained, without glancing up, “says my father was a singer, a poor one, you know, not anything much, but perhaps I inherited it from him. Sometimes, though, Polly says he was a ventriloquist or even a clown; I don’t think she really knows.—See, here is the footpath.”

“Whose is this map?” Mr. Harborough asked; he had taken it from her and was examining it through a gold-rimmed glass.

“Mine.”

“But you did not mark that path; it was done years ago.”

“Yes, when the map was made.”

“No, certainly not; it was put in afterwards, that is easy to see. Even if I did not know that, as no such path exists, it could not have been printed then or at any other time.”

He dropped his glass and handed the map back to Bill who, after looking at it a little, began to see that he was correct.

“Then there is no path here after all,” she said in a tone of woful disappointment. “I should like to know who marked it on the map?”

“So should I, so should I very much. Where did you get the thing?”

“I found it in an old book of my grandmother’s.”

“Your grandmother?” he said impatiently. “What was your grandmother, who was she, how did she come by the book and the map, whose were they before?”

Bill could give him no information, and he held out his hand for the map again. She gave it to him and he examined it critically. “There were very few people who could have put that in,” he said thoughtfully.

“Then there is a path!” Bill exclaimed.

“No, there is not, and there never was. Come with me, just a few steps. There,—now look down, your path should pass the pond by that stream, do you see? That boggy place, that is where it is marked to go; that place has always been the same. What do you think of men who chose that way by preference,—is it likely they would do it? What should you think of them?”

“I should think they were in a great hurry, and perhaps, that it was night,” and Bill looked down into the marshy, overgrown hollow, at a loss to understand.

Her companion’s voice aroused her: “What about this grandmother of yours?” he asked abruptly.

“I don’t know anything; she has been dead a long time, but I will find out if I can.”

“Will you? Perhaps you think you will also find out about this mysterious path?”

“Yes.”

Bill was a painfully persistent person. It may have been that Mr. Harborough thought so, or it may have been that he still wished to keep her to enliven the tedium of the day, for he said coolly: “I will tell you if you like. There is no path, it is true, but the way marked on your map was taken one night by men in a hurry to reach the chapel of ease further on in these grounds.”

“They made a path for themselves!” Bill cried. “They were in a hurry and went the nearest way! What were they doing? Why did they want to go to the chapel?”

Mr. Harborough laughed at her eagerness. “My dear young lady,” he said, “I will explain if you wish, only we must really walk on. I am sorry to say I can no longer stand an indefinite time even to discuss anything so romantic as you seem to think this tale. Let us go on,—this way. Now for the romance: to begin with, do you know a certain old tradition in connection with carrying a corpse? It may linger still, though I hardly think it, but at the time I am speaking of it was not infrequently believed that the way along which a body had been carried for burial became a path for ever, became what is called a right of way. Mind, this is tradition I am telling you, not fact; it is not fact and it never was. If twenty bodies were carried through my grounds for burial no right of way would be established, but at one time some people firmly believed such a thing to be the case.”

“Then the men were carrying a body?” Bill’s face was flushed with excitement. “And the person who marked my map knew about it and believed the tradition?”

“Yes. The question is, who marked your map?”

“Did not many people know about carrying the body that way?”

“Not many, and certainly very few could have marked your map with the accuracy with which I believe it to be marked.”

“The burying was private, then?”

Bill was anxious to make the most of her romance. Her companion watched her eagerness with an amused face, and as they came suddenly on to a gravel path, he said with an air of impenetrable mystery: “Very private, I should say, at that time, very private indeed.”

CHAPTER VII.
HARBOROUGH OF GURNETT.

It was an axiom of Polly’s that if you can’t be clever, you had better be a fool. This, needless to state, was first said in reference to Bill who, Polly considered, fell into the last category and fell there comfortably. “Providence, or something else, helps fools,” was Polly’s opinion, “while it leaves moderately sensible people to shift for themselves. Things always turn out right for fools. Whatever muddle Bill blundered into, I believe she would blunder out of it again not one bit the worse.” The day that Bill went in search of the right of way at Wood Hall was possibly an illustration of this faculty; for on that occasion, though she had the ill-luck to blunder on the owner of the property, she was not ignominiously turned out of the place, threatened with prosecution and other penalties; on the contrary, she was—“Well, treated in a way in which I should not have been treated,” Polly said with an indignant sniff. Wherein she certainly spoke the truth, but then, as Bella pointed out, Bill was not Polly; though what Bill was that she should please the master of Wood Hall, neither could quite say. They did not know him.

After all, there was not much to know, only a lonely old man who had outlived friends and health and amusements. He had come to Wood Hall to die, he said, for it was well fitting that he, the last of the family in a direct line, should die in the neglected home. Certainly he had never used it much as a home; perhaps he had not cared to do so in reduced state, perhaps, more likely, he had little interest in a country life. One autumn, a long time ago, he had spent a month or two at the old hall, which was only some five miles from the house where the high sheriff for the year was living. People said that this proximity had something to do with Mr. Harborough’s visit; and certainly there was some scandal about the sheriff’s wife which had the effect of closing the doors of the neighbouring gentry upon him for a time, at least of those who still cherished certain provincial notions of morality. But that was all a very old tale, a tale almost forgotten now. Miss Minchin and her compeers might recall it, but to the younger generation Mr. Harborough and his doings were little more than a name, for since that time Wood Hall had seen but very little of him. Indeed, he affected a cynical indifference for the old house, which was possibly genuine enough, though it had not prevented his coming to pass his last lonely days there. Lonely they were, and tedious he often found them; tedious when he was ill, more tedious still when he was well. It was to this tedium, and to the fact that he was moderately well that day, that Bill owed the interest she had for him; that and, perhaps, some little charm her youth had for the old rake.

Whatever may have been the cause, certainly she did interest him, for when he led her through the wood and out on to the path he showed no inclination to let her go. The path was a weed-grown gravel sweep, dividing the wood on the one side from a shrubbery on the other. Here a man with a wheeled chair was waiting the arrival of his master.

“Oh,” Bill exclaimed as she saw the path between the trees, “I have come out at the wrong place! I had better go back.”

“And lose your way, and trespass still further on my property?”

“I will be very careful.”

“I dare say.” The old man seated himself in the chair as he spoke. “Don’t you think you have trespassed enough for one day?”

Bill did not consider that she had exactly trespassed, but she was not sure that she could make anyone else, say a magistrate, take the same view; neither was she sure what the penalty for trespass might be, so she only said: “I am very sorry; I thought the map was right, though I certainly did not see a path.”

“On the strength of the thought you went to look? Yes? Well, supposing I let you off this time—”

“I will never do it again.”

“—Let you off, I say, on a condition.”

“What condition?” Bill asked cautiously.

“That as a penance for coming here, you finish that song you began in the wood.”

“Is that all? I’ll certainly do that. It is not a real song, only a verse of poetry and I don’t sing it quite right. The last line should be ‘In winter rest is sweet,’ only I like it best the other way. Shall I sing it now?” And receiving an answer in the affirmative, she sang without more ado:

“There’s laughter for the May-time,
The morning of the year;
There’s work for all the day-time,
When summer’s noon is here;
The victor’s crown of glory
The harvest home shall greet;
But after life’s long story
There’s the devil’s bill to meet!
The devil’s bill—”

she sang till all the wood around her seemed full of laughing voices—

“The devil’s bill, the devil’s bill, the devil’s bill to meet!”

Seeing that the condition laid upon her was a light one she felt bound to fulfil it to the uttermost and to do her best, using all the tricks of voice and tone that she knew. In this laudable endeavour her success was such that even the stoical attendant with the chair, who, it might have been presumed, had outlived astonishment in his master’s service, looked at her in surprise, while Mr. Harborough himself was delighted.

“Bravo!” he exclaimed. “What a voice it is! They ought to put you on the stage, the variety-stage.”

Bill was gratified, but not unduly moved. She had a tolerably clear idea that her vocal tricks had not much real value, and, as she wanted to get home, she did not care to stay for more compliments.

“You see, I have got to get back to Ashelton,” so she concluded her explanation.

“Ashelton?” Mr. Harborough exclaimed; “you cannot get there till after three o’clock. You surely do not mean to go fasting? You must not do that. You will perhaps give me the pleasure of your company at lunch? Yes? You had better; they will have eaten up everything by the time you get home. Come, you must not say no; that song deserves something more than a wander in the wood. Little Miss Tucker sang for her supper,—no, for her lunch. I promise that you shall not be late in getting home, the carriage can take you as far as you like on your return journey.”

Bill was not troubled with many even rudimentary ideas of propriety. The sandwiches were little more than a memory, and, besides,—a reason which influenced her most of all—if she accepted the invitation she would see Wood Hall. Consequently she did accept and, walking beside the chair, accompanied Mr. Harborough to the house.

What was it like? Bill sometimes tried to describe it, but she never succeeded, and always ended by saying: “If it were mine, I would never, never give it up; I would fight for every brick of it, every timber, every stone. I would sell everything to keep it; it would break my heart to let it go after it had belonged to my people for so many generations. It is a house that is just weighed down with years; I think it must be almost awful to have all those years behind you.”

It was with a hushed sense of the awe belonging to a great house which had reached its declining days that Bill entered the wide arched doorway. She had said, as they came from the wood, how much she wanted to see the big hall of local fame, so, by Mr. Harborough’s orders, they went by the long west front of the house. It was a great pile, built of bricks which were neither purple nor red, the tint which only the centuries can mix, with rows of mullioned windows, set not too straight by the hands of Tudor builders, and pressed yet more aslant by the weight of time upon them. Above, was a roof high-gabled, many-peaked, running this way and that; below, stretching to right and left, a terraced walk led to gardens where yew hedges and pleached alleys recalled the days of hooped petticoats and powdered heads, or even of older times when the men of trunk-hose and mighty hand cast bowls on the smooth turfed green. But everywhere was decay; even the spring sunshine and the glad singing birds could not destroy the sense of death and decay,—blistered paint and lichened stone, sagging roof and darkened windows, grass on the terrace, weeds between the stones, unclipped hedges, and rose-walks a tangle of thorns; and the great, sad, grand old house looking down on it all.

To this place Bill came, out of the spring sunshine and the living air into the great hall. It was not quite so great as tradition said, but still of size enough to tempt some mad Harborough of bygone days to try to turn his coach in its width. Vast it was, with its dark walls hung with tapestry rotten past repair, its polished floor, and its fireplace where a man might well share the hearth with the logs and not then be overnear the blaze. Above the mantelpiece were the arms of the house, the house that had seen its best days; the dragons’ heads, deep cut in polished wood, grinned down malignantly on the little intruder whom the Harborough of to-day had brought from his woods. She paused a moment, awed by the sense of past greatness, by the weight of the years that lay behind, by the thought of the stately women who had passed that way before her. Then she went on, and as she went her light step gained a stateliness, her figure a dignity which well became the place and made old Harborough ask himself if the child had not some good blood in her after all.

He found himself pondering over the same question again later on, for Bill, like most born mimics, often unconsciously imitated those she was with, frequently, without being aware of it, catching her manner from theirs, sometimes shaping even her speech and accent according to those of the person to whom she spoke. Thus, as Mr. Harborough treated her with an almost exaggerated courtesy, she returned him the same, and, since she was keenly conscious of the dignity belonging to the old house, she shaped her behaviour in accordance with it. As for her host, he was half surprised, half amused, the amusement growing, however, as he led her to talk. Nobody had found her conversation amusing before; Carrie and Alice, though they sometimes laughed, more often professed a contempt for her and all her sayings, even while they half feared her many mocking voices. Certainly no one had laughed at her thoughts and replies; she could not herself always see a reason for her host’s laughter, but it was plain that he did. He was old, she thought, and therefore easily pleased, lonely and therefore not very critical; but his appreciation encouraged her, the wine (the first she had ever tasted) excited her, and she talked as she had never talked before, he leading her on till she had bewitched herself:

“I tried to amuse him a little while, poor old man,” she told Polly meekly afterwards. “I really owed him something for the good food he gave me. Still, I think I did it more because I liked it than for anything else.”

To which Polly, having but small opinion of Bill’s powers of amusing, only made reply, “I dare say.”

Mr. Harborough, however, who had lived in seclusion so long now that a small thing entertained him, vowed, far on in the afternoon, that Bill was the best of good company. In acknowledgment of which compliment Bill swept him a curtsey, with three fingers on her lips in the fashion of the china ladies on Miss Minchin’s mantelpiece. Then she said she must go home, and in so saying, it is to be feared that the imp in her got the upper hand, prompting her to the character she loved, for the tone and manner of her words suggested Mr. Johnson.

Carrie and Alice did not like Bill’s mimicry, but Mr. Harborough was otherwise, and he recognised the original almost before Bill was aware of it herself.

“I must come and hear that parson of yours,” he laughed.

“Why don’t you?” Bill suddenly became serious. “There is the Harborough chapel in Ashelton church; what is the good of having a chapel all to yourself if you never use it?”

“I do not belong to the Church of England.”

Bill remembered Miss Minchin’s words. “Oh,” she began apologetically, but then a magnificent idea occurred to her or to some spirit of mischief that possessed her. She cast a quick glance at Harborough, her eyes ablaze with light.

“What is it now?” he asked.

“Nothing; at least, you would not do it—I don’t believe you could.”

“Try me,” he answered; “lay your commands upon me and they are obeyed.”

“It is not a command; but it would be,—I should like to see what would happen.”

“In what case?”

“If you had a service in your chapel. I don’t know if you could, but I should almost think so; it is your own; you could have a Roman Catholic service there as well as we could have a Protestant one in our part, couldn’t you? I should like to see what would happen if you did!”

“I should probably be prosecuted,” Harborough said; “that is what would most likely happen.”

Bill sighed. “I never thought of that,” she said.

“Did you not?” he answered. “Neither should I if I wanted the service, or rather, wanted to see what would happen.”

“You would risk it?”

“What will you give me if I do?”

Harborough had little respect for either religion, less still for his neighbours’ feelings. As for Bill, neither thought occurred to her; the thing appealed to her as many an act, incomprehensible to a man for its folly or its wanton mischief, appeals to the superabundant energy of boyhood. It was simply a desire to see what would happen, a sporting appreciation of an explosion with no realisation of consequences painful to other people.

“What would you give me?”

“What do you want?”

He hesitated a moment, and then said: “Come and see me again, and we will talk it over.”

She agreed readily: “Yes, if Theresa will let me.”

“Theresa must let you.”

Bill thought it was probable that she would and said so, but Mr. Harborough, possibly judging from a wider experience, was not so sure and did not seem content with the arrangement.

“Why ask?” he said.

“Because I must; she won’t mind.”

“But supposing she does?”

“She won’t; I shall be able to come.”

“You think so? Then let us make this bargain: if I do as you suggest, you will come once more to talk over the terms.”

“Very well; I will come once, she is sure to let me; but when I come, supposing I don’t like your terms, supposing they don’t seem fair to me, what am I to do? Must I fulfil them?”

He told her that she need not, laughing at her caution, as a servant announced that the carriage was waiting.

So Bill took her leave and drove away in state, though she did not think it necessary to complete her journey in the Harborough carriage; in fact she dismissed it at the entrance of one of the lanes and went the rest of the way home on foot.

“Did you have a nice walk?” Theresa asked her young cousin when she met her at the door.

“Oh, yes, glorious! I have had such a good time. I went into Wood Hall, not the grounds only, but the house too. You never saw such a place; it is,—I can’t describe it.”

“Into Wood Hall!” Theresa exclaimed in astonishment.

“Yes, and I saw Mr. Harborough; he was ever so kind, not the least like what you would expect—”

And then out came the story of Bill’s adventures, a brief and rather incoherent story with some things left out and some told twice, and, naturally, no mention of the surprise in store for the people of Ashelton. That was the only thing she intentionally suppressed, but unintentionally she suppressed many details and most of the conversation, though enough was told to puzzle and disturb Theresa.

“Bill, I don’t know what to say. I am sure you ought not to have gone. I wish I had never let you go that walk.”

Theresa, completely astonished by Bill’s tale, now for the first time realised the responsibility of her charge. The charge herself had no idea of the nature of her offence. “Ought not to have gone?” she said. “Why not?”

“Because—because you ought not. I wonder you did not know; you should have known by instinct.”

Theresa’s sense of the enormity of Bill’s conduct was increasing, but with it there was also increasing a recognition of the difficulty of making it clear to the offender; certainly if she depended on Bill’s instinct she was not likely to be successful, for, as Polly had rightly said, Bill possessed little of that in connection with matters of social behaviour.

“Well, for a moment I did wonder if I ought, because, of course, I had on my old dress and the place is so splendid.”

“That is not the reason at all. You ought not to have gone,—I mean, he should not have asked you. He would not have done so if he had been a nice man; he could not have done so properly.”

“Oh, yes he did—”

“I mean, he could not have asked you with propriety. You know he cannot think you—did not ask you as an equal; besides, you must have heard about him, the sort of man he is.”

“About his being bad? Miss Minchin did say that, and certainly he did say himself that he had the devil’s bill to meet.”

Bill did not think it wise to explain, in answer to Theresa’s exclamation, that she herself had supplied the expression. She let that pass and Theresa began: “If you thought him all that—”

“But I am not sure he is bad exactly; and if he were, I don’t see what harm it would do. Besides, is he bad? Of course I shouldn’t say he was good in our sense of the word, but then there are so many senses. He gave me the idea of being like a person who had lost his taste for all except one kind of thing. You can’t blame a person for not liking strawberry jam when he can only properly taste peppers; I should think, in a way, he could only taste peppers; and I should not be surprised if he had tried them very hot.”

“Don’t talk nonsense, Bill,” Theresa said severely; and Bill, acting on the suggestion, did not talk at all, except when she explained to her cousin that she had promised to go to Wood Hall once again. This Theresa naturally forbade, absolutely refusing to permit it on any condition whatever. Bill did not press the point, nor go into too many details, for, as she said to herself, “Perhaps he won’t do it, and then I sha’n’t have to go after all.” If he did, it would be then time enough to settle with Theresa, and arrange some satisfactory compromise between breaking her own word on the one hand and her cousin’s command on the other.

But would he do it? Bill wondered about it once or twice during the week. Would he be able to get a priest to read the service for him? She had a very vague idea as to how he would set about it. He had said something about knowing a man, and had smiled when he said it, not a very nice smile, but it looked rather as if he thought the man would do as he was asked. So Bill wondered, and the week passed quietly.

Sunday came, a still, peaceful spring day. April was fairly in now, every bush and tree was waking to the fact even in the grey weather. Sunday was grey, quiet and calm, but a Sunday long remembered in Ashelton. The congregation assembled in church at the usual time, wearing the usual clothes, for it was not yet Easter. There was nothing much to look at, but from force of habit the congregation looked at each other. Bill, from her corner seat, looked across the old pews to the Harborough chapel. Was he coming? The clock began to strike eleven. No, he was not coming after all, he—was he?—she watched. The small side door of the chapel was opened from without and into the fretted twilight an old man stepped—he had come!

A great smile of satisfaction spread over Bill’s face; a pleasant sensation of excitement and expectancy took possession of her. To tell the truth, something like a thrill of excitement ran through the whole congregation, though they expected nothing, at least nothing definite. Miss Minchin said afterwards that she wondered what was going to happen when she saw him come in, but then the saying came after the event. At the time she certainly looked earnestly enough to have seen anything there was to see, though that did not amount to a great deal. Mr. Harborough, attended by his manservant, entered; the verger, who hastened forward for the purpose, disposed of the servant in a side seat and shut the master in the great front pew. The congregation stared intently; Mr. Harborough stared in return with the vacant stare of a superior being,—they had always said he was very haughty; his eye met Bill’s for a moment, and a faint smile of recognition passed over his face, but the general public did not notice it.

The clock had ceased striking, and the first notes of the organ filled the church with a soft vibrating sound. Forth from the new vestry on the right came the choir and clergy; forth from the old vestry on the left, built originally for the sole use of the Harborough chapel, came a priest with shaven face set in a mask of stolid endurance. Bill, with the wanton cruelty of youth, saw the enduring face, but, not recognising its pain, felt no compunction, no pity for the man forced by some threat he feared to a task hateful to him. She felt nothing at all except a thrilling excitement. For a moment the event was all she had expected. All around her she could feel the mute horror and astonishment of the congregation; she could see it uncontrolled on their faces, so comical, she thought, in their blank, speechless amazement at this unparalleled conduct of the lord of the manor. At the end of the aisle was the verger, motionless, dumb; in their pews, the churchwardens, alike dumb, incapable of action, watching, fascinated, the rival clergy who, owing to the situation of the altar in the Harborough chapel, were hidden from each other’s sight by the wooden screen. No one in the chancel knew of those in the chapel; no one in the chapel showed any sign of knowledge of those in the chancel; all knelt in silence. But as the last choir-boy on the right rose from his knees, he leaned a little forward and saw the priest beyond the screen. His eyes grew round with astonishment; he almost fell forward on his head in his eagerness to be quite sure; then the situation struck him as it struck Bill, and doubled him up in spasms of suppressed laughter.

“When the wicked man turneth away from his wickedness,”—Mr. Johnson began, at the same time becoming aware of an unusual rustle and movement among the hitherto spell-bound people.

The priest should, no doubt, have begun to read at the same time, but he did not. Mr. Harborough apologised to Bill afterwards for the way in which he failed in his part, for he hesitated and waited a moment. In that moment the verger, a shrewd old brickmaker, hastened up the aisle, and, without waiting for orders from the churchwardens, delivered some whispered information to Mr. Dane.

There was a breathless pause; then low but distinct came the voice of the priest,—“Introibo ad altare Dei—”

Miss Minchin started violently and looked about her in an awed fashion. She had seen all that had passed, but she hardly thought, as she said afterwards, that he would really venture to hold a service in the parish church. Mr. Dane passed quietly between the slender pillars of the side screen and approached the priest. A second whispered conversation, a glance, possibly an appealing glance, at Mr. Harborough, and Mr. Dane went on to him. Mr. Johnson, in the absence of the rector, went on with the service, but when Mr. Dane returned to his place he silenced his curate with a glance, and the priest, either more courteous or more sure of a hearing, did not attempt to begin his reading anew.

Mr. Dane turned to the congregation. “My brethren,” he said, “our neighbour, Mr. Harborough, has expressed a wish to hear the mass read in his chapel of St. Mary Magdalen. As the hour he has chosen for the reading coincides with that of our morning-service, and as both cannot be conducted simultaneously in a seemly manner, I ask you to wait with me while the reverend Father reads the mass, which may God bless both to him and his hearers.”

No one left the church; to a man they stood by their rector, though there were those among them who had strong feelings and would have much liked to enter a protest. The priest turned back to his mass-book; his hands shook a little, for the rector’s words had distressed him curiously; but Mr. Dane composed himself to listen with quiet dignity.

And deep hidden in the shadow of a high old pew was one whose grief and self-abasement knew no bounds. The event had not been what she had anticipated; things looked quite different now.

CHAPTER VIII.
THE COURTSHIP OF HARBOROUGH OF GURNETT.

There can be no doubt that few things are so well concealed as the perfectly obvious, no course of conduct so little observed as that which is open to all observation. If Bill had wished to conceal her doings on Sunday afternoon she would probably have been found out; since she was perfectly indifferent as to who knew what she did, no one discovered it. If she had been anxious for concealment she would have gone to the rectory by way of the field-path, and would inevitably have been seen by Miss Minchin and catechised by her in due season. But, since she was far too absorbed in other matters to care what any one thought, she went by the public way and no one knew it; no one, till Mr. Dane’s old housekeeper admitted her and took her to the study where Mr. Dane, but lately returned from a children’s service at Ashelton End, sat before his beloved piano.

The rector of Ashelton knew every one in his parish and, to a certain extent, all about every one; consequently he knew of Mrs. Morton’s aunt and sister and cousins in Wrugglesby. To be sure, he knew about them before Theresa was Mrs. Morton, for Miss Brownlow was an institution of such long standing that he, being also an institution of long standing, could hardly fail to know of her. Still, this knowledge did not give him much information about Bill, of whom he only knew that she was a niece of Miss Brownlow and a cousin of Mrs. Morton. At one time he had tried to find out more about her, though not from any personal interest, for he did not know her even by sight then. It was on account of her name that he had made the enquiries, having good reason to remember the name of Alardy. However, he could discover nothing to couple her with the other Alardy, nor indeed had he been very hopeful of discovering anything. It was the familiarity of the name that had tempted him; and it was this familiarity which caused him an almost painful start when she was announced on that Sunday afternoon. He did not know her, nor her business, nor could he guess what it might be.

Bill did not leave him long in doubt; her very face betrayed her; there was about her whole manner a contrition and self-abasement almost suggestive of a dog in disgrace. “I have come to tell you I did it,” she said, standing in the centre of the room; and the old rector at once perceived that he was to hear a confession, the enormity of which seemed terrible to the offender.

“Sit down,” he said kindly. “There is something you want to tell me, something which seems very bad? Let us hear what is the matter, and we will see what can be done.”

“Nothing can be done or undone.” She spoke with absolute conviction. “I want to tell you in case you should blame anyone else, and because I owe it to you,—that is the reason. The thing can’t be altered now.” And then she plunged straight into her confession. “It is about this morning’s service. It was all my fault; I got Mr. Harborough to have it.”

Mr. Dane had known the owner of Wood Hall more years than he had known Ashelton. He was considerably surprised by Bill’s confession, considerably more surprised than he had been by the affair of the morning.

“You induced Mr. Harborough to have the mass read?” he asked. “You? But why?—how?”

“I thought of it,” she answered, “and,—he did it. This is how it happened. I was in the wood, and he found me and took me to the house to amuse him a little while, and I amused him as well as I could. It was rather like the daughter of Herodias dancing before Herod, though I did not dance, he did not ask me; but I sang and talked and pleased him. It is true he did not ask me at the end what I would like, but when I thought of this he half promised to do it; and now,—he has done it.”

“Then it was your idea? He did it to please you, or rather because you asked him?”

“Yes; it was my fault; he would not have done it if it had not been for me. I suppose,” she added doubtfully, “he hardly knew what it would be.”

Mr. Dane had other opinions, but he only said: “Perhaps we had better not consider his action in the matter. I have known him long enough to be tempted to judge him as one man is sometimes tempted to judge another; but we will not do it. Let us talk about you; you persuaded him, or at least suggested the idea?”

“Yes; I suggested,—I did not persuade, I only suggested; but I had pleased him first so that he was ready to do as I wished; it was almost as good as persuading.”

Her eyes were honest, but the rector was perplexed. He could not quite understand the case; the nature of the offence and the manner of the committal were clear enough; but the nature of the offender puzzled him. “Tell me,” he said, “what made you suggest such a thing; why did you do it?”

“I thought it would be—” Bill hesitated for a word,—“not exactly fun, though still funny,—it was, too, at first”; and in spite of her genuine penitence a smile stole over her face at the recollection. “I believe I wanted to see what would happen more than anything else,” she concluded after a pause.

“Were you satisfied with what did happen?”

“No; oh, no, no! If I had thought of that I would never have suggested it; I never thought about hurting you or the poor priest. When I saw how you took it, and how he hated what he had got to do, I felt as if I should like to get up and tell Mr. Harborough to stop. But it would have been no use, I am sure,—I had done it and I could not undo it.”

“No,” he answered her very gravely, “no, you could not.”

There was a moment’s silence, and Bill for the first time in her life faced the irrevocable. At last the old man spoke again. “And it never occurred to you,” he said, “that it would be painful to other people? Tell me, did another and a higher consideration never occur to you either?”

“That it was irreverent? I did not think of it at the time; now, of course, I know it was; but I really did not mean to be, and I think God must know. That is the best of it; you need never pretend or explain to Him. He knows, but other people,—I am very, very sorry.”

Mr. Dane pressed that point no further; perhaps the offender was beginning to explain herself to him a little, and so he judged it unwise. He led her to talk of the events which preceded her suggestion; she told him all readily, the walk to Gurnett, the ramble in the wood, even her own rapture when alone there.

“And to think,” she concluded, “that I should have felt like that,—as if the whole world were holy—and then, a little later think of such a thing!”

“I know,” he said, “I know. The human mind is a very strange thing, and evil thoughts, in spite of what some people say to the contrary, are perhaps the very strangest things which ever come there.”

“Yes,”—and she drew a deep breath. “I was so glad to be alive that morning,” she went on; “I was glad about everything; I was fairly crazy with,—with life I think. I can’t explain, and I am afraid you don’t understand.”

Did he not? It was a great many years ago, but he too knew what it meant—life and the joy of living, the wanton madness of youth. He understood so well that he said little more about the act she deplored but could not undo. Instead, he tried to prepare for the future, and he prepared by asking some few questions about the past, about life at Ashelton, life at Wrugglesby with Miss Brownlow, poor dear Miss Brownlow. And again she told him readily, but her answers only deepened the wrinkles in his forehead. She thought they were for her wrong doings, but she confessed them all bravely, including her enjoyment of the prayer-meeting.

“I liked it,” she admitted, “because Mr. Johnson was so fine when he talked about faith, the evidence of the spirit, and the things which are not as they are, and all the rest of it. I suppose it is wrong? I have not imitated him very much yet; I will try not. That is the chief reason why I liked the prayer-meeting and why I went to the second one. There was another reason,—I liked driving there. It was such a splendid evening, one of those that make you feel as if you would like to live for ever.”

He ruffled his hair thoughtfully, and looked at her with a still troubled brow.

“You don’t understand?” she said, mistaking him. “I don’t mean eternal life that we—that Mr. Johnson talks about; but never to leave the world. It is so beautiful, so,—so dear! I can’t”—and there was almost a sob in her voice—“I can’t bear to think I shall have to die and lose sight of it all; that the thrushes will sing and I shall not hear them, the leaves come and go, the suns rise and set, and I never see them. It is sad to think how much I have lost already, though inside myself I always feel as if I had not really lost it, as if I had been there all the time from the beginning and seen all the changes. You know what I mean; you can learn lots about the past but nothing about the future; nothing helps you about that, and by-and-bye there will be, must be, more earth-history—it does not seem possible that I shall not know; I do not feel as if I could die!”

She looked up, appealing almost passionately for mercy on this first time that her soul had been betrayed into words. Perhaps the old rector was a lenient judge; his eyes were almost wistful as he said half to himself: “And you are never ill, and never tired.”

“I never have been.”

“And you have not nearly enough to do—” he was speaking solely to himself now—“God help you!”

It is possible Mr. Dane thought this was a case for man’s help also; at all events he did not dismiss it with some brief fatherly advice and a blessing. He talked to Bill as he had not talked before to anyone in Ashelton; he, who, as it were, kept all on the outskirts of his life, spoke of those things which were the innermost shrine of his faith, the things which, like the priests of old, he believed should be kept for the initiated. And Bill was not initiated. Possibly she did not quite understand him; but it did not matter, she would do so some day. Possibly he did not quite understand her; how should he with all the gap of years between them? Nevertheless he treated the girlish fancies delicately, almost as holy things.

In the end he set her a penance, for, though a believer in spiritual repentance, he also held that work was very good for the soul; so for her wrong-doing he set her a task, at least he said it was for that.

“What shall I do?” she asked eagerly.

“You know that long bed at the bottom of Mrs. Morton’s garden? Dig it up. First pull up all the weeds and burn them, then dig it up, dig deep, put in manure and plant potatoes. I do not think Mrs. Morton will object; I fancy she would let you do what you like in her garden.”

“Yes, oh yes, she won’t mind. I will begin to-morrow morning; is there nothing else? I shall like doing that.”

“Do that first,” he said, and she promised, not questioning his right to set her a task nor the fitness of the one he set. In fact, so satisfied did she seem with his wisdom that, just as she was leaving, she told him of the promise to go to Wood Hall again and of the difficulties attending it.

“I promised,” she said, “thinking Theresa would let me go, and now she won’t; but I must still go.”

“You should not have promised;” and he looked very grave.

“But I have; I thought Theresa would not mind.”

“She is quite right; nevertheless one must keep a promise.”

It is to be feared that here spoke the man dowered with family tradition, and not the clergyman and spiritual adviser. The sentiment, however, was one which Bill understood. “Yes,” she said, “I must go.”

“But not alone,” he answered; “she must go with you.”

This Bill did not understand; she was also very certain that Theresa would not agree, and proceeded to explain the difficulty.

“She would take you, surely she would drive with you?” Mr. Dane persisted.

But Bill shook her head. “She would say the promise was wrong and could not be kept, and she would think she was encouraging wrong by going; that is her way of looking at it.”

Mr. Dane felt he was brought face to face with a difficulty, but he only repeated firmly, “You must not go alone.” Perhaps he could think of nothing else to say.

Fortunately just then Bill thought of a possible way out of the trouble. “Do you think it would do if Polly were to drive with me?” she asked. “Polly is my eldest cousin. I should have to leave her outside the house, but I would not be many minutes gone.”

Mr. Dane did not know Polly, but he thought she would do. He strongly recommended also that she should, if possible, accompany Bill into the house. Bill was not at all sure that Polly would do this, and she was very sure indeed that she did not want her to do it; however, she could not explain all this to Mr. Dane in the time now at her disposal, so she prepared to say good-bye.

“There is one thing I should like to ask you before you go,” said Mr. Dane, looking at her thoughtfully as she stood by his chair. “It is about yourself.”

“I will tell you if I can,” she answered, “but I think I have already told you all there is to tell.” Indeed, she had told him a great deal, far more than she was aware of, but it was not quite what he meant.

“Your mother was Miss Brownlow’s sister?” he asked.

“Yes, the youngest, Kate; but I do not remember her at all; she died when I was very little.”

Mr. Dane looked at her thoughtfully. “I should doubt if you were like your mother,” he said; “you are not at all like your cousins, or Miss Brownlow either.”

“No, I am not like them; sometimes Polly says I am like my father; but she did not know him, and she only says it when she is angry. I don’t think I can be like him really, except that I am dark. He was dark, but then he was very clever and fascinating; Auntie says he bewitched my mother, so that she would marry him in spite of what they all said. I believe they did not think him good enough for her. I don’t quite know what he was; he used to come sometimes to sing at the town where she lived, but he was not a grand professional singer. Some people said he was half a gipsy; he loved wandering about.”

“Do you remember him?”

“Not clearly; he did not live long after my mother; still I remember him better than I do her. I can just remember going about with him, or at least I think I can; it is difficult to tell which is memory and which fancy, it is all so long ago. I came to Auntie when I was very small.”

“And remained there ever since?”

“Yes, remained there ever since,” and she held out her hand to him.

He took it. “Good-bye,” he said, “good-bye, little maiden. Do they call you Katie, too?”

“No; Bill,—Wilhelmina.”

“Wilhelmina!”

Perhaps the other Alardy had been called Wilhelmina; the old man’s face almost looked as if it were so, or as if some ghost had sprung to life at the name. But Bill did not see his face; for a moment he stood in the shadow of the door, then turned and went stooping into the dimness of the passage; and she went onward down the road, thinking only how she could compass to-morrow’s visit.

Polly was shrewd enough after her fashion, and if she saw Mr. Harborough would, Bill felt certain, find out more than was desirable concerning her cousin’s share in the reading of the mass. Therefore Polly must not set foot inside Wood Hall. Bill had some respect for her shrewdness, though she was depending on being able to outwit it when she said she would get her chaperonage for the intended call. “But I’ll get her,” Bill assured herself as she walked home that Sunday afternoon; and the chances were that she would, for she was a tenacious little person, and also, while much lacking in perception on some points, she had an instinctive comprehension of character which gave her a truer conception of the turns and twists of Polly’s nature than either of the other cousins possessed.

On Monday morning Bill set to work to carry out her plan. Her newly acquired mastery over the reins was the first thing pressed into her service. She would drive the old pony over to Wrugglesby, pack some clothes she wanted, and bring Polly (Bella would be giving music-lessons) home to Haylands with her for the night. At first Theresa demurred, but Robert only laughed at her fears; and finally Bill was allowed to go, with Henry, the boot-boy, in attendance in case of accidents. Bill accepted Henry’s escort to Wrugglesby, but said he would have to walk back as she intended to take Polly for a drive by herself. Theresa demurred again, but Robert was on Bill’s side; and finally, as might have been foreseen, Henry walked back alone, while Bill and Polly went for their drive.

Not, however, before Bill had encountered another obstacle, which presented itself in the attractive form of Bella. Bella wanted to make one of the party; she pointed out that there was room for her in the pony-carriage, and that Theresa was sure not to mind an extra guest for one night. Of course, in the ordinary way it would have been impossible for her to get out in the afternoon, but to-day it happened that nearly the whole school was going to a birthday party and there were only two music-lessons to give. These two lessons were Bill’s salvation: she and Polly would take their drive while Bella gave them; as soon as she had done she was to walk to Sales Cross Roads, where they would meet her with the pony-chaise at a quarter to four.

The plan met with Polly’s entire approval; she did not at all wish to waste the early part of the afternoon waiting for Bella, and she was not troubled with many unselfish scruples. When Bella inconveniently said, “I think I could be at Sales Cross before that,” Polly answered decidedly, “But we cannot.” Whereupon the good-natured Bella gave way, and, with matters at last satisfactorily arranged, the other two drove away.

Polly leaned back with great satisfaction; Bill had borrowed a cushion from Theresa for her and she appreciated it. “Really, Bill,” she said benignly, “I should never have thought you would learn to drive so well; you are quite getting on.”

“Do you think I have grown up any more?” Bill asked.

Polly looked at her thoughtfully. “I don’t think you have developed much,” she said, after consideration. Before she reached the end of her journey that day she changed her opinion and came to the conclusion that Bill had developed surprisingly, in one direction at least.

“We are going to Gurnett,” Bill announced, and Polly, to whom one place was as good as another, acquiesced.

“We can easily get from there to Sales Cross to meet Bella,” Bill went on to explain when they were nearing the village. “I want to see some one at Gurnett, or rather, just this side of it; we don’t go through the village.”

“Whom are you going to see? I will hold the reins while you go in; I don’t care about going with messages to strange farms; there are always geese and cows about.”

Bill entirely agreed with this suggestion. “Yes,” she said, “you must wait outside while I go in; I won’t be long, not more than ten minutes I expect. It is not to a farm we are going, though; it is to Wood Hall.”

“Wood Hall? Whatever does Theresa want from there?”

“Theresa does not want anything; I am going on my own business. She does not know I am going, and she would be very angry if she did.”

“Well, Bill!”

“But I have got to go all the same,” Bill continued, ignoring the exclamation.

“What about me? Pray, why should I allow it if Theresa does not? I insist on hearing all about it at once.”

Curiosity as well as indignation prompted this speech, which Bill proceeded to gratify to a certain extent. “I will tell you as much as there is time for,” she said, and there was not time for a great deal. Polly’s explosions of righteous wrath, not so judicial and certainly not so genuine as Theresa’s, helped to shorten the narrative.

“Well, Bill, I could not have believed it of you! No, I could not, even if anyone had told me! I know a good deal about you, it is true, but I should never have expected—well—” Words failed, and Polly took refuge in a superlatively expressive sniff; she had brought the language of sniffs to a rare perfection.

But Bill was not at all impressed, and when Polly asked with stern dignity, “Do you think I, any more than Theresa, will allow you to go to Wood Hall?” she answered, “You can’t help yourself.”

“Can’t help myself, indeed!”

“No, we are just there.” That was undeniably true; they were in the drive and must soon reach the house. “If you did not mean to come,” Bill went on composedly, “why did you not say so before we turned in?”

“I did not notice.”

Bill was politely doubtful. “Look here, Polly,” she said, “what is the good of pretending? It is not what things are that matters to you, it is how they look. I am sure that this is quite right; you are not; but that does not count, as you only want it to look right—”

“Bill! You are a wicked girl. How dare you say such things?”

“I dare say them, and you dare think them,” Bill retorted, vaguely aware that she must have outraged the sense of decency again. At that moment a sharp turn in the drive showed them the house just in front, the chaise swayed to one side, for the ground dipped suddenly down before it rose again for the last little ascent.

“I shall come in with you,” Polly said heroically, as she gripped the sides of the chaise with a firm, though nervous, grasp. “I shall not leave you—Bill, do be careful how you drive!—not leave you in spite of your conduct to me.”

“Yes, you will. You will wait outside, and think how it can be made to look best.”

“I shall do nothing of the kind!”

“Then I shall frighten the pony and make him run away. He won’t run far, but by the time you get back here I shall have gone inside. Good-bye for the present; I sha’n’t be long.”

Bill jumped out as she spoke, and the indignant, though discreet, Polly took the reins and patiently waited in the pony-carriage. Bill certainly had developed, and developed, among other things, a painful plainness of speech. This hurt Polly more than anything else, for she believed in observing all the decencies of life, in saying and seeming all that was suitable to the occasion, even to a certain extent persuading herself to feel it too. She always acted, for herself if there was no other audience; she could not help it, and the fact that there was not the least chance of anyone being deceived did not deter her from taking a part. More often than not people were a little deceived; they believed in her more or less, as she believed in herself. Bill did not, which was her misfortune; but she said so baldly, and that was her fault, a fault Polly found it hard to forgive just then. “Yet,” Polly thought when she sat in the chaise waiting and meditating on Bill’s development, “she is proving to be rather as I expected; she has twenty times the go of the other two, if only one could make her sensible.” From which it may be seen that Polly had a keen eye to the main chance, and even in matters of personal affront sought first a possible advantage; afterwards, if expedient, she resented the annoyance. During the ten minutes that she waited for Bill she had serious thoughts of making common cause with that offender.

Bill was as good as her word. Mindful of a limit to Polly’s patience, she came to the point as soon as possible, and asked what Mr. Harborough demanded in return for fulfilling her wish. But he, not aware of any urgent reason for haste, set the question aside and asked instead if she had been satisfied with Sunday’s comedy.

She did not think it a comedy; indeed, to tell the truth, she was not quite sure what a comedy was; certainly she had not been satisfied, but, as she hastened to explain, that was not his fault. “It was my own,” she said.

“Your own, daughter of Eve? Dissatisfied as soon as gratified? It’s the way with ’em all. Still I own this affair did not turn out as well as it might.”

“You did not expect it to be like that? Neither did I; if I had thought—”

“You would have chosen a day when the curate was in sole command? It certainly would have been better from a sporting point of view.”

For a moment the vision of what might have occurred in those circumstances flitted through Bill’s mind, but she banished it and said gravely: “It would have been funnier, I dare say, but no better; worse, I think, for I should not then have found out that it was wrong.”

Mr. Harborough laughed, seeming to find a good deal of amusement in the idea of Bill’s tardy conscientious scruples; but on account, he said, of her disappointment he asked nothing further of her, saying that they would now cry quits to the bargain. Bill was relieved, having been afraid he would lay some fresh difficulty upon her; as it was, she felt she had escaped easily, and prepared to make her adieux with a light heart, explaining at the same time that, as Polly was waiting outside, she must go at once. The idea of Polly waiting outside also seemed to amuse Mr. Harborough.

“Dear me, how they have been talking to you!” he said. “Bringing home the enormity of your conduct to you with a vengeance! They won’t leave me my unsophisticated little maiden long; good women are great teachers of the ways of this wicked world.”

Bill scarcely understood him; still, she fancied he was insinuating something against her cousin whose words really had had no weight at all in determining her action. “It was not exactly Theresa’s doing,” she said.

“Not Theresa?” He laughed. “Yet you have brought a dragon, a chaperone to watch over you. You need scarcely have taken the trouble; I should have done you no harm.”

“They would not let me come alone.”

“I wonder they let you come at all.”

“Theresa would not; Polly could not help herself.” Bill did not explain Mr. Dane’s share in the matter, and Harborough did not ask it. “When are you coming again?” was all he said.

“Never.”

“Never? Are you going to leave me all alone in my desolate old age?”

“They won’t let me come.”

The old man’s tone had been but half serious, yet as he spoke the extreme silence of the house suddenly impressed Bill, the loneliness of the great room where they two made an oasis of humanity in a desert of shadowy memories. The polished floor stretched around her, only quivering into life when she moved and sent distorted reflections of herself along the boards; the mirrors on the wall never waking till she turned for them to cast back her brown face and ruddy hair. Away at the far end of the room there were chairs and cabinets, but they were too distant to reflect her on their polished wood, too far off to have any connection with this life. They belonged to the folks who looked down from the walls. It was a wondrous house, a wondrous lonely house for an old man who did not care for memories, whose taste, vitiated by the hot peppers of his manhood, could not appreciate the pot-pourri of the centuries that were gone.

“Could you not get someone else to come,” Bill said at last, “someone belonging to you? You haven’t got anyone?”—he had shaken his head and she felt the case was a bad one till a happy idea occurred to her. “Why not pay a girl?” she said. “You could, you know; you could get one that way.”

“For what would you undertake the post?”

The question was asked with all gravity, but she was not quite sure that he was in earnest. It would be a good thing if he were, for this was work she could do, and, since she had to earn her living, it seemed much better that she should do it in this way which fitted her small abilities. She glanced quickly at him, uncertain what to answer. “Twenty-five pounds a year,” she said at last, at a venture, naming a sum which seemed to her exorbitant considering his straitened circumstances.

He smiled a little and shook his head. “Can’t be done,” he said, and she prepared to reduce her terms cautiously, but he explained the obstacles.

“It is the aunts and cousins who are in the way, my dear; if you were alone in the world we would not quarrel as to terms.”

“Oh, but I could easily explain to them.”

Bill was confident, but Mr. Harborough reminded her of her confidence with regard to Theresa’s permission to repeat her visit. She was forced to admit his superior knowledge there, and to allow of its possibility again, although it seemed foolish to carry social objections into a purely commercial transaction.

“Believe me,” he said, “there are no terms on which they would allow you to enter my service, except the cover of my name.” She did not understand. “If the salary were a marriage settlement,” he explained, “they would permit you to take it, and, under the name of Mrs. Harborough, they would raise no objection to your accepting the post of companion.”

In spite of her disappointment at finding the offer not a genuine one after all, Bill burst out laughing; laughing principally at her own stupidity in taking him seriously. Then she said: “I must go; Polly will be tired of waiting.”

“Laugh and go,” he said. “Do you laugh at Wood Hall? I could—by Heaven, it is almost worth doing!” he exclaimed with a sudden access of energy. “There are some who would not laugh then, my little brown elf.”

He laughed himself at the idea, laughed softly with a bitter spite in his eyes. Afterwards it occurred to Bill vaguely that perhaps he really had been in earnest, and that she was to have played a part in some scheme of vengeance. But she never seriously thought so, and at the time it did not appear to her as anything but a jest. As such she laughed again so that her merriment rang in the great room; and she was still smiling when a minute later she came out to Polly waiting in the chaise.

CHAPTER IX.
“RED IS THE ROSE.”

The four roads which met at Sales Cross were the four which went everywhere in the district. “You can’t go anywhere without going by Sales Cross,” said Bella, basing her opinion on the number of people who had passed while she was waiting for Bill and Polly on that April afternoon. None of these travellers were mentioned by name except Mr. Jack Dawson, who could hardly be said to have passed since he was still there when the pony-chaise came in sight. He looked, too, as if he had meant to stay some time, seeing that he had dismounted from his horse and was standing, with the bridle over his arm, so deeply absorbed in conversation that he did not notice the approaching carriage. Bella explained later that he got down to help her free herself from the long bramble she had twisted round her ankles while gathering primroses a few minutes earlier. From the conversation which ensued between the two elder cousins Bill gathered that Jack Dawson had had something to do with Bella’s second Sunday afternoon at Ashelton being less dull than the first.

But she did not listen very attentively; Polly’s eloquence had not much interest for her, especially since, during the drive from Gurnett, she had settled her own differences with her cousin, telling exactly what she pleased of the doings at Wood Hall. There had been a battle royal during that drive conducted with a good many words, and, it is to be feared, some vigour of expression on both sides. But it had its advantages, it was the first time that Bill and Polly had crossed swords as equals, and each understood the other the better for doing so; also it gave Polly a further indication that Bill was growing up,—“Though not in the way we should wish,” as she said to Bella with melancholy dignity. “No, Bella,” she went on as her listener showed no signs of distress at the news, “Bill is not a lady, and nothing will ever make her one.”

To which Bill agreed, adding: “I don’t believe I have got all the instincts and so on, and I’m sure I don’t feel things the way I ought. I suppose I have got a little bad blood somewhere.”

“Somewhere!” Polly’s sniff was impressive. “With your father—well! we need say no more.”

“Considering what you have already said,” replied Bill, “I think you need not.”

Bella wondered what had been said, but she did not hear, for soon afterwards they reached Haylands, where Theresa declared herself delighted to receive the two visitors instead of one. Later on, she heard of Bill’s other doings, and with them she was not so well pleased. She was distressed as well as angry when she was told about the visit to Wood Hall.

Polly had been much opposed to telling her anything about it. “Leave it alone,” she counselled; “it can’t be altered now. There will only be a great fuss, and how shall I look for letting you go?”

But Bill disagreed. It would not be honest, she said.

“None of it was honest,” retorted Polly; and certainly the part she took upon herself was open to question, although, no doubt, it was the one best fitting the situation. “I thought it better to let her go to-day,”—so she concluded a most able explanation of affairs to Theresa. “You see, to-day I was with her; another day she might have been alone. She was certain to go, sooner or later, with or without me,—she is so dreadfully obstinate—and so I was determined that she should go under the most favourable circumstances.”

Theresa agreed, and blamed Bill severely; but Bella remarked: “You stayed outside for her good, I suppose, Polly?”

“I stayed outside,” Polly replied with dignity, “because she would not let me come in without a scene.”

The truth of this statement was obvious and effective. Indeed Polly’s manner while at Haylands was altogether effective; more especially when, on their first arrival, they found Mrs. Dawson talking to Theresa on business connected with the Church Missionary Society. Mrs. Dawson had the cause of missions very much at heart; she attended many meetings and paid many visits in connection with it, with what exact result to the cause no one knew, but doubtless it was beneficial. The principal results of the call on Theresa was entirely unconnected with missions, being the postponement of Bill’s confession for half an hour and the social opportunity afforded Polly.

Polly made such good use of the occasion that Mrs. Dawson, a rather imposing personage, unbent to quite a rare extent. She even hoped that Miss Hains would be able to come to her tea-party next day with her cousin, Miss Alardy. Polly regretted she could not do so, since she was unfortunately obliged to return to Wrugglesby in the morning.

“And I really did regret it too,” she informed the others when they were discussing Mrs. Dawson late that evening; “I wish I had been staying on here.”

“We could not both have gone,” said Bill, for whom the invitation had already been accepted; “there’s only the one skirt, you know.”

“It is my skirt.”

“But you have lent it to Bill,” Bella said; “besides she is the youngest, and has never been to anything yet.”

Polly did not consider this a very valid argument, though, as she said, it really did not matter since she could not stay any longer at Ashelton.

It was at bedtime that this discussion took place. Bella was to sleep with Bill, and Polly had come into their room to brush her hair and edify them with her views on several subjects. The fact that she did so in Bill’s presence showed plainly that she recognised her as something like an equal.

“I will tell you all about the tea-party,” Bill said, feeling rather greedy in that the festivity had fallen to her share.

“Yes, but you will not be able to do as I should,” Polly answered regretfully. “I made an impression on Mrs. Dawson this afternoon; I should go on making one if I were to see her again, a good impression.”

Bill laughed irreverently.

“Don’t be rude, Bill.” Polly’s manner was momentarily that of an elder and teacher, but almost immediately she dropped it and returned to the terms of familiar intercourse. She at least possessed the merit of adapting herself quickly to altered circumstances and relationships.

“My dear girls,” she said, sitting down in the one easy-chair the room boasted, “one has to make good impressions, one never knows when they may be useful.”

“You have no use for Mrs. Dawson,” Bella said quickly.

“No, she does it to keep her hand in, for pure pleasure and practice, and because she can’t help it. She would try to make a good impression on us if there were no one else.”

This was Bill’s opinion, but Polly only said, “You are a silly child,” and began to put her hair into curl-papers, and at the same time giving the cousins her views on many things, notably on matrimony. On this subject she had very decided opinions which she did not at all mind expressing with a degree of frankness which shocked Bella.

“You are horrid, Polly!” she exclaimed at last.

“I have the courage of my opinions,” Polly retorted; “I say what others think.”

“They do not think such things.”

Bill, who had hitherto paid small attention to the conversation, debated this point in her mind as she sat perched on the bed in her favourite position. “I don’t believe people think much at all,” was her conclusion.

Polly told her that she knew nothing about it, but, nothing daunted, she went on to explain herself, “They don’t think; they do things because the things come along, do them by instinct, or impulse, or something; they don’t half know what will happen. I am nearly sure they don’t think about the before and after. Nobody can see the real beginnings and ends, and some people don’t seem able to see even a little bit to right and left,—I wonder why.”

Neither of the elder cousins was prepared to go into the question, Bella possibly because she herself belonged to the class who cannot look before and after, Polly, certainly because she wished to discuss more practical matters. By way of putting an end to Bill’s speculations she introduced the topic, suggested by her previous remarks, of their own future.

“Say that you, Bella,” she said, “marry money,—”

“I sha’n’t do any such thing!”

“Oh, well—” and then followed another exposition of Polly’s views which Bill lost little by not heeding. She had picked up the fairy-book which she had taken to bed with her a few nights ago, and had become too absorbed in its pages to hear what Polly said until the mention of her own name arrested her attention.

“And what is to become of Bill?” said Polly, who had by this time settled the future for the rest of them.

“There is the school she could help—”

“The school!” said Polly disdainfully. “What good would Bill be, what can she do?”

“Nothing,” the culprit answered, before Bella could speak in her defence. “It is quite true, I should be of no use. I don’t know what I could do, unless, perhaps, be a general servant; they are scarce now, and I can work like a steam-engine. I never get tired and I can get up ever so early—you should just see how I can scrub and iron, and I can cook a little too.”

“You ridiculous child!” laughed Bella. “Do you suppose we should ever let you do that?”

“She might do worse,” was Polly’s opinion.

“She could not do that,” Bella replied emphatically; “neither Theresa nor I would allow it. And Polly, you might as well say good-night now; we want to go to sleep.”

Polly took her candle, casting a grotesque shadow of herself and her curl-papers on the low ceiling. “Good-night,” she said with severity. “I am glad you can sleep; I don’t find it so easy when I look forward to what must happen.”

“Don’t look,” Bill called after her, “except at your candle; look at that, and mind you don’t spill the grease.”

None the less Bill lay awake a long time, thinking not only of the future but also of the post which might almost have been hers that day were it not for the aunts and cousins. Also she thought of Bella and her future, and from that she mentally went to Jack Dawson, who appeared a very pleasant sort of person, and to Mrs. Dawson, who did not, though in Bill’s opinion she was an entertaining one. At least she had thought so when she sat meekly silent during the lady’s call that afternoon.

On the next day she had another opportunity of studying Mrs. Dawson, for that was the day of the state tea-party which Polly had so deeply regretted missing. Polly and Bella had gone back to Wrugglesby, and Bill was left in undisputed possession of the skirt. It was not new, neither was it in the latest fashion, but Bill thought it very beautiful, as she contemplated herself in her little mirror on Tuesday evening. Of course one needed the best clothes the family could muster for such an occasion as the present; the tea-party at Grays, Mrs. Dawson’s house, was really quite an important social function besides being the first which Bill had ever attended. She was somewhat impressed and tremendously interested by everything, the solemn mahogany grandeur of the bedroom where she and Theresa took off their wraps, the spotless whiteness of the linen covers of the stair-carpets, the giant hat-stand by which Robert waited for them in the hall.

The drawing-room was large; the main part of the furniture dated from the Sixties, the wonderful blue of the upholstery being unmistakably of that era. But the sundry tides of fashion that have swept through the land since then had left a few deposits even in this conservative house: some peacock-feathers and a silk-covered palm-leaf, a present possibly in the decorative days; a small black table, a relic of æstheticism; a rococo photograph-screen of later date,—a few such things could be seen here and there. “They were given to her,” thought Bill gazing earnestly at the immovable black-silk dignity of Mrs. Dawson; “they were given by her.” This was Bill’s decision when her eye lighted on a girl standing near the hostess. The girl was tall and muscular, turned four and twenty, athletically built, and dressed in the fashion of the day, the fashion which obtains in Ealing and similar exclusive suburbs. Her face, it is true, did not express much, but then other people’s faces do not as a rule express much, and she naturally did not wish to do anything but what everyone else did. She was doubtless an expert at lawn-tennis and hockey, and an authority on the technique of golf. Probably she thought her aunt at Ashelton much behind the times, though, as she informed her friends, she liked staying with her: “It was such a deliciously unsophisticated place still.”

Bill looked at her with interest and at first with some admiration, for to her inexperienced eyes Miss Gladys Dawson was a new and fine specimen of humanity. Miss Gladys Dawson looked at Bill only with a careless curiosity, she found her a little odd, and wondered why she had never seen her at Ashelton before. She also (and here came in the insult) looked at the skirt. A light blazed up in Bill’s eyes, a light that was almost like a red flame, and there rose in her heart a great wrath and a feminine desire to pay back the offence, to criticise in some way the offender and bring ridicule on her. Bill had never felt the sentiment before, being in the main indifferent to opinions of all sorts. Miss Dawson’s glance on herself would have passed unnoticed; she cared nothing for criticism and had a very poor opinion of herself,—but the skirt was another matter, Polly’s cherished skirt which she had made with so much labour out of two old silk dresses of Miss Brownlow’s! Bill felt that the look, half amused, half supercilious, wholly, indescribably feminine in its critical survey, was an insult to the absent Polly and cried aloud for vengeance. “I wish I could do something,” she thought vindictively. “I wonder what she would mind most.”

It was now six o’clock, and there was a general move to the dining-room for tea. Mrs. Dawson had always dined at two and taken tea at six, and she always would do so as long as she was able to dine and take tea at all. She made no difference for visitors, except in the quantity of food prepared, and in that respect she certainly planned lavishly. The table that night was loaded with the dainties which have gone out of fashion with six o’clock teas. Bill noticed everything carefully, trying to remember all she could for the sake of her absent cousins. There was a wonderful table-cloth, she observed, of fine unbleached linen whereon drab dogs hunted drab stags over a greyish ground much interspersed with drab trees whose leafy branches met in the centre of the table and were hidden under the pot of a pink azalea. Arranged everywhere, almost crowding each other off, were cakes both hot and cold, so many of them that Bill could not taste them all. There were also several preserves, notably one of pineapple, very sticky, very difficult of manipulation, inspiring one (if that one were Bill) with a desire to take the pot and a spoon to the store-room and eat in comfort unobserved. “It wants practice,” Bill decided as she watched the ease with which Mr. Johnson, who might reasonably be expected to have had practice, managed the pineapple. “I expect he has been here heaps of times before,” she thought, and no doubt she was right for he seemed much at his ease. Mr. Perry, on the other hand, was never quite able to forget the grocer’s shop when he sat down with Mrs. Dawson; he talked nervously and rapidly all through the meal, forgetting his tea in his anxiety to be polite, and remembering that he wanted a third cup when everyone had finished and the tea-pot was dry. Bill felt sorry for Mrs. Dawson when she saw her pouring tepid water through the tea-pot so as to supply the late comer, sorrier still for Mr. Perry when he received his large shallow cup and made manful efforts to drink its contents while the guests waited for him.

Bill sat next to Mrs. Johnson, a placid matron, not much given to general conversation; and as she returned becoming answers to the few remarks made to her, she was voted by her neighbour to be “a nicely brought-up girl.” Gladys Dawson, of course, was different; being older, and “from London,” she was expected to talk, and she did do so; in fact she took the lion’s share of the entertainment upon herself. Mrs. Dawson was not averse to this, but, as Bill noticed, neither was Gladys. “She likes it,” thought the silent watcher; and there came into Bill’s mind, by reason of the insult offered to Polly’s skirt, a desire which is a natural instinct in most of her more developed sisters,—the desire to outshine the other woman.

“It would not be easy,” Bill thought, feeling that she did not know much about the subjects of greatest interest to the ladies present; but then, as she soon found, Miss Dawson did not either, and so wisely confined herself to entertaining the men. Bill did not feel very hopeful of her own powers in that direction, and before she could make any definite plans her thoughts were interrupted by Mr. Dane’s entrance into the drawing-room to which everyone had now returned. Mr. Dane never joined these parties till after tea, on the excuse of parish-work. After the little disturbance created by his entrance had subsided, and he had shaken hands with everybody, Bill found that he had taken the chair next to her. She knew that he wanted to hear if she had been to Wood Hall, and she was quite ready to tell him. It was easy enough to do this unnoticed in the buzz of general conversation; and accordingly she told him how she and Polly had driven to Wood Hall, how Polly had waited outside, and how Mr. Harborough had laid no fresh conditions upon her. This was all very well, but it was not so well when she went on to talk of Mr. Harborough’s loneliness, and so, incidentally, of her suggestion of a paid companion, and his offer of the post to herself. “Of course he did not mean it really,” she concluded; “it was only in fun, but for a moment I thought he meant it.”

“What made you think he did not mean it?”

“What he said afterwards;” and she related all that followed. “He meant he would have to marry me before they would let me come,” she said, laughing a little.

But Mr. Dane did not laugh. “Yes, marry him,” he said, “marry him for Wood Hall, for his name and position,—would you do that?”

“I did not have the chance; he did not ask me really; it was all fun.”

“Have you told your cousins of the fun?”

The old man was looking earnestly at her, waiting for her answer, and she hesitated before she gave it. She plainly heard Mrs. Perry saying, “I never had a sitting of eggs from the Possets turn out badly,” before she said, “No, I have not told them.” And she wondered why she had not, and why she never would, for she knew then that she never would.

“If he had meant it, would you have taken him and Wood Hall and the name, and the little you know, and the infinitely more which you do not know?”

“No,” she answered frankly. “I would like Wood Hall immensely; I would do a good deal for a place like that—I don’t believe I would be too particular what; but I could not marry him. I could not marry anyone; I could not possibly be cooped up with one person. I believe I would like more than anything else to be a gipsy and wander from place to place, mending chairs and stealing fowls.”

Mr. Dane did not reprove the lax morality of this speech; all he said was: “Then I suppose you are never going to see Mr. Harborough again?”

“No,” answered Bill, and as she did so Mr. Johnson, who had caught the name, tried to draw his rector into a discussion of Sunday’s enormities. But Mr. Dane would not be drawn; he was polite, but firm and most uncommunicative. The only opinion he would give was that he believed Mr. Harborough’s proceedings were not actionable, since he himself had given consent for the mass to be finished.

“But I am sure we could prosecute,” Mr. Johnson persisted. “I was speaking to Stevens,—Stevens of Wrugglesby you know—about it; he says it is quite possible to prosecute for brawling and creating a disturbance in church during divine service, if for nothing else.”

“No doubt he is right, but I do not think the churchwardens will wish to prosecute. The case would offer several nice points to a lawyer, for, though the mass was begun without our permission, and so was technically a disturbance, the offence was partly condoned by the permission to continue which was afterwards given. Moreover, though our church is of course a church of England as by law established, the Harborough chapel is held on a very old tenure which it would be necessary to understand clearly before any move could be made in the matter. I don’t mean to say we could not prosecute: I dare say we could; but I hardly think it is necessary. What do you think?”

Mr. Johnson almost thought it was, on account of the precedent: “Solely on account of the precedent; it might occur again.”

“I do not think it will,” Mr. Dane answered, just in time to prevent Bill declaring the same thing warmly. Then someone began to sing and they all listened, placidly or otherwise according to their natures. When the song was over, Bill, finding Mr. Johnson’s attention diverted elsewhere, turned to her neighbour for information on a subject which had puzzled her since her first visit to Wood Hall.

“You know all about this part of the country,” she said. “Perhaps you can tell me if it is true that a good many years ago a body was carried by night from Corbycroft to the little church in Wood Hall park.”

“Yes, certainly it is true; but what makes you ask? Who has told you of it?”

“Mr. Harborough, but he did not say much; is it a secret?”

“No, oh no; some of the old folks at Gurnett still tell the tale, though there are not many now who can tell much except from hearsay. It was not much talked about at the time, and is pretty well forgotten now.”

He spoke as if the subject had long lost its interest for him, but to Bill it was all fresh; she felt that her romance was becoming exciting again. “Who was it?” she asked. “Who were they going to bury?”

“Roger Corby, the old Squire he was called, though he was not squire of Gurnett. He died at Corbycroft, and he died very much in debt. His servants and—and some other people believed that his body would, according to a barbarous old practice, be arrested for debt, so they removed it by night to the church in Wood Hall park.”

“And was it arrested?”

“No, and I do not believe there was any likelihood that it would have been. Long ago bodies were sometimes arrested, legally or illegally,—I do not know which—but so late as that—it was in 1833—it was more than improbable.”

“But they must have believed it,” Bill objected; “they must have thought it would happen.”

“Yes, but the servants were ignorant, and the girl, the Squire’s granddaughter, was a child of thirteen, headstrong, daring, imaginative; she heard the servants’ chatter and believed it. The thing was practically her doing. She was fond of her grandfather, and there was no one to take charge at his death; her father was abroad and she and the old butler managed everything. She always did as she liked, and grew up as she pleased, with no one to thwart her.”

Bill wondered if Mr. Dane had known the granddaughter, or if this too was only part of the local tale; she would have liked to ask him but thought that perhaps she ought not, as the last words scarcely seemed addressed to her. She contented herself with inquiring, “Did you live here then?”

“No,” he roused himself with an effort. “No; I was not born in this part of the country and at that time I was a lad at school; a little lad I must have been, for I am younger than Harborough.”

“And he? Did he know at the time? How old was he then?”

“Yes, he knew; he must have known, for he was at home when the thing happened.”

There were more questions Bill wanted to ask, but she was not able to do so for at that moment Miss Dawson’s well-trained soprano informed the company that she was “a monkey on a stick.”

By the time she had reached the end of her song Mr. Perry had claimed the rector’s attention, and Bill was left to meditate on the half-told story until Mrs. Dawson asked her with awful politeness for a little music. Theresa had warned her that this would occur, telling her to bring her music in anticipation. Bill had obediently brought it, making up her mind to play one of her pieces if required, but now when the time came she did no such thing. She cast a quick glance at Miss Dawson, who was now talking to Gilchrist Harborough, and thinking of the covert sneer at Polly’s skirt, went to the piano in no very Christian frame of mind. “I can sing as well as you,” was the defiance she mentally hurled at the young lady as she sat down to the piano and began to play from memory, or, more correctly speaking, by ear from some half forgotten melody. It was curious music, at first compelling attention by its strangeness, afterwards holding it by a charm of its own,—a love-song of long ago, low, yet with an almost harsh refrain in it, vibrating with a passion at first suppressed, but afterwards breaking forth into a tumult of emotion likely to tingle strangely in the nerves of those who listened.

“Red is the rose thou hast bound in thy hair,
Redder thy lips, love.
Soft is thy breath, aye, the sweetest of air,
Incense to me, love;

E’en though it choketh the voice of my prayer,

(I pray not now, love.)

Stars are thine eyes,—ill stars some declare,

Beacons to me, love.

Oh, heart of my heart, I want nought but thy beauty,

Of here and hereafter, I ask only thee!

Sinner or saint, thou art God of my worship,

In time and eternity Heaven to me!”

Silently Mr. Dane rose and went out of the room, closing the door noiselessly after him. At the time Bill’s astonished audience hardly noticed it; afterwards it was said by some of the more severe that he went out to mark his disapproval of the tone and tenor of the song, which was certainly most unbecoming in a young girl. This may have been the case; it obviously was not because his Christian forbearance and courtesy were tried beyond endurance, as sometimes happened, by false notes, for to a musician the rendering of this song left little to be desired. Whatever the reason, Mr. Dane left the drawing-room, and passing through the hall went out by the open garden-door, out into the sweet spring night where the song could not reach him. His lips moved once as he went:

“If God in His anger hath shut thee from Heaven,

Then closed on us both let its golden gates be.”

And the strange thing was that these words did not occur in the first part of the song which he had heard, but in the second part which he did not hear, and of which Bill was now singing the last verses.

“Dark is the future, dark as despair,

Dark as thine eyes, love.

Cursed is our troth—for curse dost thou care?

Curse of the church, love?

Death and dishonour, e’en both we must dare,

Fearest with me, love?

Fearest to love me? Yet still thou’ll not tear

Thyself from my heart, love.

Now and henceforward, forever thou’rt there,

Nor can’st thou go, love.

Oh, soul of my soul, if damned is thy beauty,

Then damned be my spirit forever with thee!

If God in His anger hath shut thee from Heaven,

Then closed on us both let its golden gates be!

For thou, oh, beloved, art the God of my worship,

In time and eternity Heaven to me!”

And between the box-edged borders, where drooping daffodils glimmered in the moonlight, an old man stood and murmured in the ghostly, tearless upheaval of some dead passion:

“Thou, oh beloved, art the God of my worship,

In time and eternity Heaven to me!”

CHAPTER X.
IN THE GARDEN.

Doubtless the ladies of Ashelton were right in saying that the song sung by Bill Alardy at Mrs. Dawson’s tea-party was most unsuitable and highly improper. It was not only the words, though, as was pointed out, they were reprehensible, but also the terrible earnestness with which they were sung. Ashelton was justly shocked, and Theresa, although agreeably surprised by the unexpected richness of her cousin’s voice, was overcome with shame. Even Gladys Dawson, who was naturally beyond old-fashioned prejudices, looked at Bill with something more intelligent than her previous stare. Gilchrist Harborough, sitting by Miss Dawson, remembered the words spoken by Morton that Thursday night; the “little girl” certainly could “sing a capital song” of a sort.

But he did not remark on it to Miss Dawson; indeed he seemed to have forgotten all about her, and looked across to the singer, who had twisted round on the piano-stool and now sat uneasily regarding the company with a comical mixture of fear and defiance in her eyes. She was painfully conscious of their feelings, though not entirely able to understand them. She was both surprised and angry at the unexpected storm she had raised. Her eyes met Harborough’s; he at any rate was not shocked; he understood, he was even a little amused. Bill’s face began to clear, and the tantalising chameleon eyes changed. Miss Dawson addressed a remark to the young man, and receiving no reply, glanced in the direction where his interest obviously lay. Bill saw the glance and experienced a two-fold gratification; one person in the room sided with her, and another (she who had sneered at Polly’s skirt!) was annoyed thereby. Her face cleared entirely, and her eyes absolutely shone. The mischief was done.

Somehow or other, Bill did not quite know how, she found herself soon afterwards talking to Harborough, about the song and about all manner of other things. It was quite easy to talk to him, though he seemed a grave sort of young man given to taking things seriously, so seriously that it was rather strange he should approve of the song. He asked her where she had learned to sing it, and she told him she did not quite know. “I found the verses written out,” she said, “and I think I must have heard them sung when I was young. Perhaps my father sang them; I don’t know.”

“You sang as if you meant it,” he observed.

“So they should be sung.”

“But you have not felt that; you don’t know what you were talking about.”

“Oh, no,” she agreed readily, “it is all pretending; but that does not matter; one can pretend anything. Almost it feels sometimes,” she went on thoughtfully, “as if one had felt it in another first life; don’t you think so? Or perhaps it is that those who went before—the mothers and fathers and grandfathers—felt it and passed the memory on.”

Harborough shrugged his shoulders. “That is an old problem,” he said, “which does not trouble me much. I never think about my ancestry as you seem to; I find enough to do without seeking for the grip of the dead hand.”

“Some people do not have to seek for it,” Bill answered. She was thinking of the Harboroughs of Gurnett. “Have you ever been to Wood Hall?” she asked abruptly.

“No; I have ridden past it once or twice, but I have not had occasion to go in that direction often,—why?”

“You know there are Harboroughs there,—people of your name?”

“Yes, possibly distant connections; I have heard my father say that his people came originally from this part of the country. But I am not proud of the fact, if it is one; they appear to have been a pretty bad lot.”

“Yes,” Bill admitted, “and they are poor, desperately poor for the position: at least, so it is said, and certainly the place looks like it. Still they have been there for hundreds of years.”

“What the better are they for that? Nothing, I should say, seeing that each generation seems to have been worse than the previous one, till we come to the present, last and worst, bankrupt alike in means, morals and constitution, played out, worn out, done for,—and a good thing too.”

“It is the grip of the dead hand,” Bill said with conviction, and when he looked at her, doubtful as to her meaning, she explained: “They have an awful lot against them; the fathers have eaten sour grapes, and the children have not much choice left them.”

“Much income, you mean.”

“No, I don’t, though they have not very much of that either. I believe the estate is mortgaged, but so are their natures and characters; they could hardly go straight if they would. Think what it must be to have all that weight of tradition and fathers’ sins pulling against you.”

Harborough was not convinced. “Most of us have as many ancestors as have the great people of Gurnett,” he said, “yet some of us seem capable of independent action.”

“We don’t know about them; that makes a difference. We have not got them, in a way, stored up as the Harboroughs have. If you had been into Wood Hall you would know what I mean.”

“Then you think the next Harborough is bound to go and do likewise?”

“I don’t know him,” Bill said; “but I think he has a bigger chance of doing likewise than you have.”

“Yes; because if I believed I was doomed to be the same kind of blackguard as my ancestors I should blow my brains out.”

Bill looked at him gravely. “You wouldn’t really,” she said; “because you would not be as you are now if you were one of them. I wonder how nearly you are related?”

“What does it matter?”

“Nothing,—unless you could claim Wood Hall.”

“I am generations away from that,” he laughed; “and I don’t want to be any nearer.”

“You are not a Catholic? No? I wonder if the owner of Wood Hall must be?”

“Certainly not; a man’s conscience is his own.”

Bill nodded. “And his family?” she said.

“Have nothing to do with it; a man has a right to his own opinion.”

Harborough spoke warmly: he almost looked as if he defied Bill to defend the position; but she only said: “A woman is better off then; she has a right to two opinions,—her own and that of the person she is with.”

“That is scarcely the point,” Harborough said; but he did not get her back to the point, for she would have no more serious discussion; either her ability or her interest was exhausted. Harborough, whose bent of mind was habitually grave, tried in vain to bring the conversation back, and was half amused, half vexed by her evasions. He was certainly wholly vexed when Miss Dawson, from the ottoman, introduced the labour-problem as a subject likely to interest him.

Bill perceived the vexation and was amused. If she had been truly feminine she would probably have been gratified; but her nature was lacking in some of these girlish characteristics, and though she was pleased by the annoyance of Gladys, her enjoyment partook more of the pleasure of vengeance than of a womanly appreciation of pre-eminence. She was glad to have avenged the insult offered to Polly’s skirt, but she had no other feeling about it. She certainly never thought of Gilchrist; by the next morning, when she set about her penance in the garden, she had forgotten all about him.

She enjoyed the penance immensely. It was hard work in the open air and there was something to show for the labour; moreover, it appealed strongly to her, for it was a clearing up and setting straight with the prospect eventually of a productive yield. She had already made plans for the improvement of other parts of the garden when the long bed should be finished. There was plenty of room for improvement, for the garden seemed to be nobody’s business; Robert was not interested in it, and Theresa,—more because she had never been used to doing so than for any other reason—never thought of working in it.

“She does not like digging and she hates worms,” Bill said. “You would not expect T. to grub out here; besides, she has work in the house.”

This was said to Gilchrist, who apparently had not entirely forgotten her existence, whatever she may have done with regard to his. At all events, when he saw her from the footpath which crossed the field beyond the garden, he came to enquire how she was and what she was doing. She told him her intentions with regard to the plot of ground on which she was engaged, but she did not cease work to do so.

He watched her half amused. “I wonder Morton did not set one of the men to dig this for you,” he said.

“Why should he? I can do it well enough.”

“Yes,” he admitted, “but it is hard work for you.”

“Work,” she replied oracularly, “is an excellent thing. You yourself believe in the dignity of labour.”

“Who told you that?” he asked reddening slightly.

She had stooped down and was wrestling with a giant worm as yet but half above the soil. “Don’t you believe it?” she inquired. “Out you come—” this was addressed to the worm—“you’re not going to stop here, come along now!” It came, and she threw it over the iron fence to find a new home in the field. “This is the dignity of labour,” she said as she returned to her work.

There was very little dignity about the small, hatless figure on the deeply dug plot. Bill had a great faculty for putting trade-marks of her occupation on herself and clothes; labour she might represent, but dignity never.

Harborough laughed a little; it was impossible to know when the girl was in fun and when in earnest. “Mrs. Morton will have a lot of potatoes if your crop is a good one,” he observed.

“Yes, but they’ll keep,—besides, she can bring them to Wrugglesby for us if she likes. There is an awful lot of waste in this garden; one could grow heaps of things—it does seem a pity. While I am here I am going to try what can be done with it.”

“In the way of growing potatoes?”

“All manner of things. I don’t know much about it, but I’ll find out; there is a book about gardening here, and Mr. Dane has got another, a big one, I saw it in his bookshelf. I expect you know a good lot.”

She stopped work for a moment as the idea occurred to her, then went on again with it and her questions at the same time till Harborough soon found himself giving information on the subject of fruit and vegetable culture; flowers did not seem to enter into the girl’s consideration at all.

“Some grow themselves,” she said of them, “and there are heaps of wild ones to be got. I would see about flowers afterwards; the other things must come first.”

“But,” Harborough objected, “in such a garden as this it would be possible to grow many more eatables than Mrs. Morton could use; surely it would be better to devote the surplus time and room to flowers. Unless,” he added slily, “you think the other vegetables could be brought to Wrugglesby like the potatoes.”

“Well, yes,” Bill admitted, “some could, and the rest could be sold.”

“To whom? Believe me there is no profit attached to market-gardening on a small scale; your profits would not pay your freight to London.”

“I should not send them to London.” Bill was at the end of the row now, and Harborough had moved farther along the fence to keep even with her. “I should take some in the light cart to Wrugglesby and sell to people who had no gardens, and some I should take to Darvel. It is rather a long distance off, but it is quite a big town with barracks and lots of houses without gardens. People with things to sell come to our house in Wrugglesby like that; at first we did not buy much, but now we have a good deal from them—that is how it would be with me. I should sell rabbits too, I think, and fowls and eggs; Theresa does not half make them pay.”

“I fancy she would raise objections to your making them pay in that way.”

Bill was forced to admit that such a thing was probable. “Still,” she said, “if it was really right I might do it all the same if I lived here; I could easily get round Robert. But I don’t live here, so I am afraid there is an end of the matter.”

Harborough watched her curiously for a moment. “You don’t appear to suffer from any class-prejudices,” he observed.

“What are they? Do you mean I don’t mind what I do? If that is it, I don’t; why should I? Do you?”

“No.”

The question was superfluous, he thought, for did not his manner of living demonstrate his theory to Bill as to everyone else?

“You work your own farm,” she said, so she evidently knew, “and I should work my own cabbage garden. We should not make big profits, but we should make enough to live on with what we grew for ourselves, and we should enjoy ourselves at the same time.”

“You would like it.”

“Yes, very much. I do not mean I should do it if I were rich. I should find some other work then; there is sure to be some belonging to being rich; but if I were not rich, only rich enough to have a farm or a cabbage garden, I should work them like that.”

“I wonder if you know what real work is?”

The remark was more speculation than question, and seemed to emanate from a different and much older being. Bill was not piqued, for indeed she regarded him in the light of a different and older being.

“I have not done much,” she said, “but I mean to get this garden a little straight before I go back to Wrugglesby.”

“If you don’t get tired of it first.”

“I sha’n’t do that; you can come every morning if you like, to see if I am at work or not.”

This was something of a challenge. Harborough at first had not intended accepting it, yet, since on the next day circumstances caused him to come home at mid-day by the field-path, he thought he might as well see if the girl was really at work. The day was moist and close, and a warm fine rain, which fell at intervals, might have offered some excuse for remaining indoors. But she had not availed herself of the excuse; very likely, he thought, because she expected he would come, thinking which he wished he had not done so, and even for a moment meditated going away without betraying his presence. But it was too late for that; she had seen him and glanced up from her work to ask, “Are you going to market this afternoon?”

“Yes.”

“I suppose you can’t see Robert off in good time? Theresa will be waiting for him.”

“I will do what I can.”

“Thank you.” She resumed her work, and he went on his way determined to keep his promise.

And either he did keep it, or else some other circumstance brought about the desired results, for Robert came home early that night; and Bill, who was sitting with Theresa, was satisfied, trying to persuade herself that Harborough was right in saying that the one escapade was an accident not likely to be repeated.

She did not see Harborough for the next few days, and so could not thank him for his good offices. She did not altogether expect to see him; indeed, to tell the truth, she had forgotten about him in the engrossing interest of her work. But after nearly a week he passed that way again and found her still very busy, though now at a spot some little way from the railing. She did not cease work to come to him, and as he did not jump the rail to come to her, they carried on their conversation in tones suitable to the distance that separated them,—an arrangement which struck Harborough as more practical than pleasant, though he would not take the initiative in improving upon it. The conversation itself was practical, strictly horticultural, and mostly concerned with the growing of lettuces, which, though it showed a laudable attention to business on Bill’s part, was uninteresting. She was attending very much to business and not very much to Harborough; she even once went unceremoniously away to fetch some water-cans, singing as she went.

Harborough turned to go; the water-cans, it is true, were not far away, but she had gone for them without a word of apology. He was an extremely practical young man, believing in utility, in the importance of work above all things; but he did not quite appreciate seeing manners (and himself) sacrificed to some one else’s notion of work.

“‘There’s work for all the day-time,’” Bill sang, repeating to herself fragments of the song she had sung to the other Harborough, and quite unconscious of having offended this one. “The rose of this can has rather big holes in it; I believe it will wash the seeds out of the ground—‘the victor’s crown of glory,—of glory, glory’—now, then, I have filled my shoes with water. ‘But after life’s long story there’s the devil’s bill to meet.’”

“What are you singing?” Harborough stopped to ask.

“Nothing,” and Bill stood on one foot while she emptied the water out of her shoe.

“Yes, but what was it?”

Bill recited the verse to him and began to water her seed-patch.

“Why don’t you come nearer?” Harborough asked. “All the men in the yard will hear what you are saying.”

“There are none there now, they are all eating their lunch in the barn; besides what does it matter if they do? It will do no harm.”

“Oh, no; it might even do some good; it is almost a pity they should not be edified by your—hymn is it?”

Bill looked up arrested by his tone. “It isn’t a hymn,” she said, “but it is true all the same, every bit of it, the laughter and the work and the bill, only I don’t think you always have to wait till the end of life’s long story for that. After all it is only fair; you must expect to pay a good price for a good thing,—and it is good!”

“Which? The broken cucumber-frame or your own work? You are admiring both.”

“Everything,—just being alive.”

“Do you consider one is in the devil’s debt for life? It is a new idea.”

“No, not exactly that. The debt you owe is the wrong you do. You have not half lived if you have done no wrong; you miss an awful lot if you never do any wrong,—don’t you think so?”

She looked up as she spoke. Wrong so prefigured appeared wonderfully alluring, for there was an indescribable provocation in her face and figure, a fascination, nay, a temptation personified, which roused the youth in him, stirring the pulses usually so cool. Theory and reason are all very well, admirable in fact for ordinary use, but young blood will course in spite of them; the world’s spring will not always take no for answer.

Harborough went home that day vibrating with an emotion which was strange to him. Afterwards, when he was cool again, he was ashamed of it, for it did not seem exactly a good thing, and he vowed he would not go near the garden again. Yet how could he help himself? In a rash moment he had offered to mend the broken cucumber-frame for the girl, and she, serenely unconscious of his emotions, had accepted the offer. There had not been time then: Theresa wanted her in the house in five minutes; but he would come some other time. She had suggested to-morrow, or any day he liked. It did not matter when it was done, but it had to be done; he had left himself no choice.

That same evening he met Theresa in the lane, and, acting on impulse, he told her of his offer to mend the frame. On the whole, he thought it better, even if she put a false construction on his actions, than jumping the fence some morning when Bill was alone in the garden. But Theresa did not put any construction whatever on his actions; she looked upon her young cousin as more of a child than she really was, and much more of one than Harborough thought her. “She told me you offered to do it,” Theresa said; “it is very kind of you, I’m sure. She has taken a great fancy to gardening, and I am glad of it, though I cannot give her much help myself, for I know so little about it, and am so busy besides.”

Harborough assured her he was pleased to give any assistance he could, and Theresa thanked him again for sparing his valuable time, and invited him to do so to-morrow afternoon, and to have tea afterwards.

This he did, he and Bill spending an hour in the garden before tea. That afternoon Bill did not arouse any sentiments, unholy or otherwise, in his breast, neither did she sing or whistle; she devoted herself to business, and Harborough, having of late worked with farm-labourers, found it a refreshing change to work with a person who understood what was wanted and did as she was told. “She has more common-sense than most of the men I know,” was the opinion he formed that day, both when they were at work before tea, and when they were at the table later on. Her intercourse with Robert Morton impressed him very much; she had gauged the man’s character to a nicety, and Harborough could not but see that she understood him better, blamed him less, and could do infinitely more with him than could his stately young wife. He was not sure that he liked her the better for that. “An odd girl,” was his opinion, when at last he had convinced himself that she was not really conscious of the part she was playing; “she simply reflects her surroundings, but—” His ideal of womanhood was not a changing elf, a will-o’-the-wisp, a creature who could in mind enter into all things, reflect all things, good, bad, and indifferent, without judging or condemning. Woman should be above man; she should not understand evil except when he taught her; she should be merciful, of course, with the mercy of love, the pity of superiority, but not tolerant with the liberality of good fellowship; she should have nothing in common with a man like Robert Morton; she should be something fairer, better—unconsciously he looked at Theresa.

Yet Bill fascinated him. She was not fair, above, apart; she was of the earth earthy, a brownie by the hearth, not a goddess for a shrine. And yet the last thing in his waking thoughts that night was the dark glowing face watching him from the gate, the first thing that haunted his dreams was the small figure gliding into the green twilight of the nut-bushes.

CHAPTER XI.
WILHELMINA I. AND II.

Polly always declared she foresaw the end from the very beginning of the affair, and certainly at the outset of Miss Brownlow’s illness she prophesied fatal results; but then she always did foretell the worst, and Bella said she did not believe her, though she sobbed as she said it. But it seemed so impossible: Miss Brownlow only slipped down the last four or five of the cellar-stairs; Jane was getting coals at the time, and declared she saw her and could swear it was not more than five steps. She must have struck her head on the corner at the bottom, for it was so long before she recovered consciousness, and she seemed to so wander in her mind when she did recover. This was before she became very ill; after that took place Polly did not prophesy anything; the cousins only looked at one another in silence.

But before that time Theresa had come. Bella was so intensely relieved by her coming, that she did not for a moment dispute with Polly for the right of bringing her. She sat by Miss Brownlow’s side alone while Polly was away; the room was so dark, for the blinds were pulled down and the day was overcast, that she could barely see to correct the pile of exercise-books before her. As yet the school had not been broken up; but the noise of the children did not seem to disturb Miss Brownlow, hardly even to reach her as she lay in semi-stupor. Neither of the cousins felt it wise to dismiss their pupils lightly, and, notwithstanding Polly’s prophetic warnings, neither really anticipated the worst, or fully realised the serious nature of the accident.

On account of the school Polly was not able to leave Wrugglesby till after four o’clock; but, seeing the grave nature of her errand, she ordered a fly from the Red Lion in spite of Bella’s demur at the extravagance, and drove away in becoming state and solemnity. Bill was working in the garden at the time of the arrival at Haylands; when she went to the pump for water to wash her hands before tea she saw the fly standing in the yard.

“Whose is that?” she asked as she pumped water into a wooden bowl.

Sam, with the milk-pails on his way to the dairy, stood contemplating the object.

“Don’t roightly know,” he said.

Bill carried her bowl to a wooden bench outside the dairy door, brought a large piece of yellow soap from the wash-house, rolled up her sleeves and proceeded to wash; the refinements of life did not at that time greatly trouble her. The man with the pails followed her to the dairy, went in and began pouring the milk into the pans.

“Oi shouldn’t be s’proised if that b’longed to Wazzel,” he said glancing down the yard; “looks loike ’is shay, that do.”

“Wazzel of the Red Lion? Who has come from Wrugglesby?”

“Come fr’ Wrugglesby? Oh, it’s one o’ the Misses’s sisters as come, but I’m not sartin that is Wazzel’s—”

“Which one? Bella, the pretty one?”

“No, the old ’un. Wazzel—”

But Bill had gone with still wet hands to see what had brought Polly to Ashelton. She knew, directly she looked into the room, that there was something wrong, or that Polly was persuading herself there was. There was an air of momentous gravity about Polly, of depressing, dignified solemnity which pervaded the whole room and infected all present. Even the frivolous young maid, who was setting out the tea-things, looked awed and spread the best cloth out of respect for the gravity of the visitor. Robert, who was also there, seemed glum and silent, and Polly was not attempting to entertain him according to her usual manner; she was acting up to the situation and enjoying it proportionately.

“What’s the matter?” Bill asked.

Theresa turned, and Bill knew when she saw her face that there was real trouble.

“Aunt is very ill,” Polly answered, “and I have come for Theresa.”

“Ill?”

“Yes, but not dangerously,” Theresa hastily explained; “at least we hope not,—we are sure it cannot be,—she was quite well a day or two ago. She has had a tumble down-stairs which has shaken her a good deal. It is so difficult for Polly and Bella to nurse her and look after the school too, that they want me to go and help.”

“I see.” Bill was greatly relieved.

“How long has she been ill? How bad is she?”

They told her, Polly characteristically painting the case black, Theresa white. Bill was left to draw her own conclusions, based on the one fact that Polly usually served the truth in the sauce she considered most fitting, and on the other that Theresa really knew very little of the state of the case. In the end she did not know what to think; her fears were half aroused, yet she could not believe matters really were serious; nothing serious had happened within her memory, and it did not seem possible that it could now. That which needed the most consideration, however, was not so much what had happened as the more immediate question of Theresa’s leaving home. This proved difficult to arrange; she hardly knew what to do.

“The dairy needs a lot of management just now,” she said, “and Jessie really is very inexperienced; she has been with us such a little time too.”

“Do you think I could do anything?” Bill asked.

Theresa looked at her doubtfully, but Robert, who was tired of the discussion, said shortly: “Of course she could; there is not such a lot to do. You had better get your things together and go back at once; there’s no need for any more talk about it.”

It was nice of Robert to give permission so readily, even if he did not give it graciously. No doubt Polly thought so, as she cast a quick, comprehending glance at him from the corner of her small dark eyes. “Thank you,” she said; “I’m sure it is very nice of you to spare her; we are so much obliged, so very much. Now, Theresa, you can come with a light heart,—as soon as we have had tea; we may as well wait for that. We must have tea somewhere, and it takes no longer in one place than another.”

So Theresa drove away with Polly, leaving Bill for a day or two only, she said, though in her heart she thought it likely to be longer. Bill also thought it possible, and took over the charge of the house and dairy rather in anticipation of such an event. Taking over the charge was a serious matter in Bill’s opinion; Jessie also found it a serious matter, for with the cheerful and friendly Bill she found herself working as she had never worked before. Bill loved work in all its branches, and somehow those with her usually had to work too, either because they were infected by her energy, or because they could not avoid it; but for some reason they usually worked. Jessie worked now as she never did before or afterwards, until she got a house of her own and a husband to keep.

It must be admitted Bill did a great deal more than there was any necessity to do, a great deal more than Theresa did or expected to be done; the only thing which prevented her from doing yet more was a desire to go on with her gardening. It was one morning when she was hurrying over the last of the butter-making so as to get out to her plants that Mr. Dane came and hindered her awhile. He came to ask if some of the skimmed milk could be sent to Mrs. Hutton, an old woman at Ashelton End. He was going to the front door in the orthodox manner but, hearing Bill singing gaily in the dairy, he went round the end of the house and came to seek her at her work. He knew Theresa had gone to Wrugglesby; all Ashelton knew that, for Miss Minchin, from the vantage-point of her corner window, had seen the fly from the Red Lion drive past. She had kept a careful watch on the road till the same vehicle drove back, even sitting at tea with one eye on the window and the other on the tea-pot, so as to have a really good look at it on its return journey and to see Mrs. Morton and another lady inside.

On account of this sight, doubting that Mrs. Morton could have left her cousin alone at Haylands, thinking that, had she done so, the young creature might be lonely, or want a little help, Miss Minchin set off to see her the very next afternoon. Bill was in the garden at the time, fortunately out of sight of the drawing-room window, when Jessie came to tell her of the visitor.

“What does she want?” Bill asked.

“To see you, Miss. I expect she wants to find out about the Missis, if the truth were known.” Jessie knew Miss Minchin by reputation.

“Well, you could have told her that,” said Bill, loth to leave her gardening.

“But she didn’t ask me. Lor’, miss, she pretends she’s come to see you.”

“To call?” Bill asked, and Jessie nodded.

“Oh!” said Bill delighted, and ran to the pump. She made a back-door toilette and presented herself in the drawing-room quite unconscious of the quantity of loam on her short skirts. Miss Minchin found out all Bill could tell her, offered (and really meant it) any assistance she could give, and had, as she said, “a very nice little chat,” Bill playing hostess most successfully. She went away quite satisfied, told Miss Gruet all she had heard and all she surmised, and at the end of three days everyone in Ashelton and Ashelton End and Brook Ashelton, even including Mr. Dane, knew something of Mrs. Morton’s summons to Wrugglesby. Consequently, when on that sunny April morning the rector heard the vigorous young voice singing in the dairy, he knew that the lady of the house was to be found there.

Bill was singing a perfectly irreproachable hymn, occasionally, when her work became very engrossing, leaving off or perhaps humming a bar or two; but just as Mr. Dane drew near she broke out at the top of her voice so that she did not hear his approach, nor did she know that he was there until he stopped in the doorway.

“Good-morning,” he said.

“Good-morning,” she replied, giving him a large smile of welcome. “Do you want me?”

“Yes, but please don’t let me interrupt you; you look very busy.”

Bill was making butter-pats, and apparently had been churning earlier, for the butter-milk still dripped from her bare elbows. She was standing on a small inverted wash-tub, for the shelves were high and she liked to be well above her work. “I am rather busy,” she said; “come in and sit down, won’t you? That pickle-tub is quite safe; the lid won’t give way.”

The rector came in and sat down, making his request for milk at the same time.

“She shall have some,” Bill said after a moment’s thought. “I will take her some by-and-bye, if that will do; or do you want her to have it earlier?”

Mr. Dane said that would do, though on second thoughts he suggested that, if convenient, he would take the milk himself as he was going to Mrs. Hutton.

Bill mentally rearranged the milk at her disposal and said he could have it now. Had she been Theresa, she would have insisted that the boy should carry the can to the cottage; being Bill she did no such thing, for she had set the boy some weeding which would take all his time. She volunteered to carry it herself as soon as the butter should be done, and would have been pleased to do so. It never occurred to her that the carrying of a milk-can could appear to Mr. Dane in a different light from that in which it did to her; and fortunately she was right.

She went off to find a can, and it took her some few minutes to do so. As she searched, the old man heard her softly complete the interrupted verse of the hymn she had been singing, and the varied richness of her voice struck him forcibly.

“You have a very remarkable voice, my child,” he said when she came back.

Bill coloured a little with pleasure. “I believe I can imitate other sounds better than I can do anything else,” she said; and to illustrate her words she mimicked with rare perfection the liquid recurrent whistle of a thrush in the apple-tree outside the window. “Perhaps it is because I have got a correct ear,” she added, as if apologising for her own skill.

“I think you must have,” he answered, “and a good memory too. You remember what you have once heard perhaps? Yes? Tell me, then, where did you hear the song you sang at Mrs. Dawson’s?”

The old man was looking at her very keenly, almost eagerly. She gave the butter an unnecessary thump as she answered, “I don’t know,” and then added somewhat defiantly, “I never thought they would mind it.”

“Mind it? Who minded it? How did you learn it? Think,—tell me whom you have heard sing it.”

Bill saw that Mr. Dane had found no offence in the song, and being reassured she set herself to answer his question. “I cannot tell you how I came to know it,” she said; “I have never seen the music in print that I can remember. The greater part of the words I found with some letters and things which are kept in an old box at home. When I read them I seemed to recognise them, and remembered the part that was missing,—you know the way I mean, the way you grope things out of your mind. At first I thought I would take the paper away: then I thought I ought not to, so I just learned them by heart. As for the music, it seems to belong to the words—don’t you think so? I can only suppose my father used to sing the song, perhaps very often, and I have remembered it, though in that case it may not be quite right.”

“There was one mistake; you did not repeat the refrain with sufficient accuracy in the latter part of the song.”

“You have heard it before!” Bill exclaimed in astonishment. “You know it too!”

“Yes, I have heard it—many years ago, very many; that is why I wondered how you came to know it; I did not think it had been sung lately.”

He rose as he spoke, and held out his hand for the can. He looked old and weary, yet withal a very fine and courteous gentleman though standing among milk-pans talking to a little dairy-maid. Bill wondered if he had heard the song when he was young, and if it were very long ago. She gave him the milk-can saying, “I will send the same quantity to-morrow.”

“Thank you, thank you, little Mistress Bill. Bill,—it’s a name to fit you.”

She laughed. “Better than Wilhelmina,” she said. “That is ever so much too long; I was called Wilhelmina after my grandmother.”

He stopped on the threshold. For a moment he leaned against the door-post; the lined face looked gray in the shaded light, though perhaps only by reason of it, for he merely said, “Yes, yes, of course, Wilhelmina Alardy,—good-bye,” and so went away with his milk-can.

Wilhelmina Alardy! Of course she was Wilhelmina Alardy; he knew that before. And the other Wilhelmina was her grandmother; of course he had known that too, or at least he almost felt as if he had. Not that she was like, not like at all, not even in face; he could trace no resemblance to the first Wilhelmina, tall and slim and queenly, with her beautiful black hair. Bill’s hair was dark, it is true, but with a glowing, coppery darkness, brown shot with red, a colour of which a man was never sure even when he thought he saw it in her eyes. Wilhelmina’s eyes were different, dark, proud, passionate. Bill’s were not proud, nor were they passionate; but they took possession of a man’s mind; they held an indescribable charm not to be forgotten, they were,—they were other eyes, another face—

Mr. Dane turned abruptly from the painting he was contemplating; he was at home now, his visit to Mrs. Hutton having been an unusually brief one. When he reached home he locked himself in his study so that he should not be disturbed. His housekeeper thought he was busy over his sermon; but if he was, his text was an old portrait taken from a locked drawer, and his subject a beautiful woman, young and proud, to whom the painter had given a milk-white skin and curling black hair. Her gown sloped away on the shoulders in the fashion of forty years ago, and her brow curved softly in that fashion too; but the painter, in spite of a laudable desire to bring the face within the then prevailing standard of beauty, had not been able to flatter the chin out of its imperious waywardness nor the eyes out of their proud unrest.

There was no likeness to Bill in this face of the other Wilhelmina; and yet—this was but one of the looks she had worn—who should say there was not some of her sleeping undeveloped in the girl of to-day? Men know so little of the working of such things. Who could say how many of Wilhelmina’s reckless ancestors had gone to the making of Bill, had revived in Bill, gipsy Bill? Of course she was gipsy; Anthony Alardy was half a gipsy, dark-faced, lawless, part sinner, part saint, knight and churl in one; a child of nature alive with a glowing vitality, impregnated with a magnetism, a charm, a quality without a name, hard to define yet harder still to defy. To this day the man who sat with the old portrait in his hand could recall, ay, and acknowledge, the charm, even though he owed to it so much of sorrow and dishonour in the long ago. And the voice! He remembered the voice too; the musician in him could never forget it, for he would never hear such another. He might hate it,—he did hate it, all the man in him hated it—but the musician could not, and could never forget.

Red is the rose thou hast bound in thy hair.

That night there were red roses in her hair, he remembered,—how he remembered! And the song—what music, what passion of melody! It was not art, it was nature, man’s nature, woman’s nature crying out, passion which swelled up and spoke, to be answered, to be satisfied.

Mr. Dane put the portrait of his young wife away, put it away and, by degrees put away too the scenes and memories which had returned to him. Strange that after so many years the past should return thus, stranger still, since it did return, that pain should outweigh all other feelings now. Where had gone the sense of injury, the shame, the agony, the unforgiving hate? They were gone, all was only a pain now; thank God for it, and for the mercy of the years, the pity and the merciful wisdom learned of the long, patient years.

He locked the drawer and put away the key. She was dead, dead long ago. And her grandchild was here, singing the old passionate song; looking out on the world with eager, unknowing eyes; containing in herself funded possibilities handed down from a dead past, acquired from circumstance, environment, a hundred things of which a man cannot judge, on which he cannot reason. Her grandchild! A little brown creature full of untold possibilities! Her grandchild? Almost she might have been his own—for a moment he fancied he hated her for it. Might have been? Had she been she would not have been such as she now was; and after all, that was the thing which concerned him, the thing which he had, if need be, to help.

CHAPTER XII.
NATURAL SELECTION.

Bill, of course, knew nothing of what was in the rector’s mind; she only wondered once or twice about the song, and decided to sing it no more in public since the greater number of her acquaintances disapproved of it, and the one whose opinion she most valued did not like it. Harborough liked it or had seemed to like it on the night she sang it at the Dawsons’. But she was not quite sure of him, for she had begun to think there were two separate persons in Gilchrist Harborough,—one a strong, cool, somewhat old young man whose only weakness was theories, and who was the normal and usual person in possession; the other a very different person, who only looked out now and then, by accident as it were. It was to this last that the song appealed, this last who waked once or twice under her influence. She was not sure, but she rather fancied Harborough despised this second self, even denied its existence. That was a pity, in her opinion, for the second self was the thing in him which played, which laughed, and enjoyed life and despised theories. For this reason, and also for pure mischief, Bill tried occasionally to rouse this other self.

She had not many opportunities, for Harborough was very guarded, and by degrees, since she was much absorbed in her work, she forgot all about it, though she saw him often while Theresa was at Wrugglesby. It is true, if he passed when she was working in the garden he did not usually stop to say more than “good-afternoon”; indeed, had she only known it, his demeanour on those occasions suggested “lead us not into temptation” in a manner which was scarcely complimentary. However, as it happened, about this time business brought Harborough to Robert, and Robert brought him to Haylands, where of necessity he saw Bill. Even when he did not come to the house, he met her in the yard or barns or dairy, “looking diligently to the ways of her household.” There could be no doubt as to her capabilities and diligence as a housewife; Harborough never saw her now without being impressed with her ability and, indeed, with her great suitability for the post of mistress of a working-farm.

Events, or rather his opinions, culminated on the afternoon when he invited her to take shelter from the rain in Crows’ Farm. It was very heavy rain and very sudden, and she had on her best hat; in ordinary circumstances she would have declined his hospitality and paddled cheerfully home, but the hat was not ordinary; so she accepted his offer and took shelter under his roof for the hour that the rain lasted. While there she made tea for him without disturbing the method of his arrangements; she washed the cups without splashing his scrubbed table, and she did not, even when asked for her opinion, say that his way of keeping kitchen utensils was wrong. Finally she sat by the smouldering fire with folded hands saying with unmistakable sincerity that his manner of living was one after her own heart.

“You would like it?” he asked.

“Yes, better than anything except gipsying.”

“You would not like that,” he told her smiling. “At least when you came to know what it was really like, you would not.”

“You think not? Perhaps so; I don’t know much about it: have you tried?”

“Rather not,” he said; “I have tried bush-life though.”

“Is that like it?”

“No; not altogether. There are not so many fellow-gipsies in that; also there are not necessarily dirt and dishonesty.”

“But there are sometimes?” Bill asked as if she were anxious there should be.

“Occasionally you run against queer customers, men from the ends of the earth, who had very much better have stayed there, if they could not contrive to drop off altogether.”

“I should think they were worse than fellow-gipsies,” Bill observed.

“That’s a matter of opinion; besides, there is always plenty of room there, and you don’t come across them often. I think the thing which strikes me most of all here is the smallness; it is all so ‘preserved.’”

Bill was interested. “I should like to see the bush,” she said.

“It is not much to see,” he told her, but added, “station-life would suit you; I believe you would like that.”

“Tell me about it.” And he told her what he thought would interest her, she listening with eager face.

And thus they spent the time pleasantly enough until the rain ceased sufficiently for her to go home. He walked to the gate with her, and then went back to his barns and sheds revolving in his mind a theory he had not much considered before,—the theory of natural selection, which he interpreted to mean the wisdom of choosing your wife as you choose your horse, for general suitability to your purpose.

She was young, it was true, and perhaps a little wild, but she could be trained; she would also sober down of herself, and she would probably never develop her latent possibilities for mischief if she married early. She was not what one would describe as tractable, though she was accommodating, far too accommodating not to be more or less submissive to superior experience. And she was all one could desire for practical purposes.

Practical purposes! That was just it; in adopting a practical farmer’s life he found he needed a practical farmer’s wife; there was no room at his hearth for the stately lady whom fancy (not yet dead) had once painted in that position. There was something wrong with the present arrangement; a man either wanted to be something less or else to have something more than modern codes allowed. The patriarch Abraham supplied what must even then have been a long-felt want, in taking, besides the chief and lady wife, a humbler working partner.

Harborough was not a man given to acting hastily, at least the paramount person in his character was not; concerning the other person he did not know much. He thought a long time of Bill and her suitability for his purpose, entirely oblivious for the moment of her curious attractions; but he could come to no conclusion either as to whether he wanted her or whether, if he did, she wanted him. However, he need not have wearied himself with the consideration that night, for, as it chanced, he had almost a month in which to think it over before he saw her again. That very evening she went to Wrugglesby and did not come back to Ashelton for some weeks.

As she crossed the yard on her homeward way, Robert met her, his heavy face wearing a look of real concern.

“Bear up, little girl!” was his greeting, for he saw that his face had already broken the bad news. “Cheer up! It hasn’t come to the worst yet, and we’re not going to be frightened into thinking it’s coming, either;—we’re just going to drive in to Wrugglesby and see.”

“Have they sent for me?” she asked, her face whitening.

“Yes,—you’re not going to cry, are you? It mayn’t be so bad as all that. There’s a brave girl! Run in and get a wrap or something, you’ll be cold before you get there. They’ll have Beauty in the cart in a twinkling, and you shall drive her if you like.”

Bill smiled a little; he was trying to comfort her as well as he could and she was grateful for the intention. She even pretended to be pleased to drive the spirited mare hitherto forbidden to her; it might have hurt him if she had not. It might have hurt him if she had refused the sweets he kept popping in her mouth, and she ate them though each one seemed as if it would choke her.

He talked a little during the first part of the drive and she tried to answer him, but after a while he felt the wisdom of silence, and they both became quiet until just as he handed her out at Langford House he said awkwardly: “You shall never want for anything while I live, I swear you sha’n’t! Theresa and I will always have a home for you,—mind that, little girl.”

CHAPTER XIII.
CHASING A SHADOW.

Mr. James Brownlow was a busy man; a hard-working solicitor, partner in an old firm, and a good firm though scarcely a rich one. He was not rich himself; he had worked hard all his life to attain moderate comfort, and he continued to work hard, though he was now past middle-age, partly to maintain the same standard of comfort, and partly because he cherished a delusion that nothing in the firm could go on without him. But, in spite of his business and its importance, he felt bound to devote a certain amount of time to the affairs of the late Miss Isabella Brownlow. It is true she was not a very near relation, but he had been legal adviser as well as relation, and moreover, the nieces she left seemed to be in a particularly solitary condition.

“But one is married, I thought,” Mrs. Brownlow objected from the further end of the dinner-table. The train from Wrugglesby had been late, and made the dinner late too; accordingly the lamb was overcooked, and the clockwork regularity of the household disturbed. Mrs. Brownlow felt slightly annoyed; also she considered that if one of the nieces was married her husband should have taken over the affairs of the family, instead of troubling somebody else’s husband,—and, incidentally, somebody else’s excellent cook.

Mr. Brownlow probably knew these sentiments, but he was not disturbed by them that night for the importance of business was great in his eyes; moreover, he had been discreetly handled earlier in the day. “Yes,” he said, “yes, one is married, comfortably married, I should say; but a man is not bound to take over his wife’s family. He has professed himself quite ready to give a home to the youngest girl; the others will carry on the school.”

“A wise plan, I should think,” Mrs. Brownlow said, with a sigh. She was always sadly affected by the delinquencies of the present age, which she possessed great abilities for discovering. “It is liberal of him,” she went on. “I suppose he will be repaid by the girl finding out one day that she is unable to bear a dependent position and must make her own way in the world, after having had a long training for it at somebody else’s expense. Girls usually get such ideas nowadays.”

Mr. Brownlow agreed with the general sentiment, but defended this particular girl. “I don’t think she is that sort at all,” he said. “She is very young, a plain, quiet little thing; she looked docile; Miss Hains spoke of her as if she were a child.”

“There is no family?” Mrs. Brownlow asked. “I mean the married one,—Mrs. Morton, didn’t you say the name was—has no family?”

“No.”

“But if she has by-and-bye, what will become of this girl? Can they afford to keep her? Is it wise, do you think?”

“I have talked it all over with Miss Hains who really is a sensible woman. She is five and thirty, I dare say, and a sensible, clever woman.” Polly might have been considered clever in some senses of the word; that she had certain claims to ability was proved by the opinion she had produced in Mr. Brownlow’s mind. “She and I,” went on the worthy gentleman unconsciously placing the persons in their right order of importance, “she and I have decided that her cousin Wilhelmina had better return home with Mrs. Morton for the present. The school is not larger than she herself, with the assistance of Miss Waring, can manage. In the course of time they hope to increase it, when Wilhelmina can come back to help them with the younger pupils.”

Mrs. Brownlow thought this an excellent arrangement and asked for personal details of its originator.

“Miss Hains? No, she is not handsome,” her husband said in answer to her question, “but a sensible, practical woman. Really it is quite surprising how business-like she is when you come to think that she has lived so long in that little country town,—how business-like and yet how very womanly, how essentially feminine, not in the least self-assertive and opinionated.”

Such were the golden opinions Polly had won from Mr. Brownlow. Hardly so flattering was her opinion of him, which she was at that same time expressing to Bella and Bill as they sat together in the twilight.

The first shock of their grief was now over. It is true there was an aching blank left in their lives by the death of this kindly, not over-wise aunt, but the first sharpness was over, the first ache a little dulled. Bella and Theresa had lost their own mother not so many years ago, and though they had dearly loved their aunt, the loss of her was not what the earlier grief had been, nor yet what it was to Bill who could remember no mother. Bill’s loss was greatest, and greatest also to her was the shock, for this was the first time real sorrow had touched her life. She had, too, more time and opportunity to think about it, having, as the youngest, but little to do with all the plans and work consequent upon Miss Brownlow’s death. Polly, of course, was very busy: mourning alone offered a large field for her energies, for the cousins could not afford to employ even the local milliner and dressmaker.

“We must let them dress us for the funeral,” Polly had said, but added, “I hardly think we need get Bill’s hat there; I will do that myself, for we must save wherever we can. As for other clothes, we must manage somehow; one good dress apiece is all we can afford.”

And she had sighed; extensive mourning would have compensated her somewhat for a much heavier bereavement. Not but that she did mourn for Miss Brownlow; her grief was real, though perhaps not quite so deep as theirs, thought Bella and Theresa. As for Bill, when she had cried herself sick with the abandonment of childhood, she felt an hysterical inclination to laugh as she watched the perfection of Polly’s sorrow. It was real, as real as any other of Polly’s feelings; she felt it after her fashion, but principally because it was the fashion to feel it.

By the May evening when Mr. Brownlow so much commended Polly, that “sensible and practical woman” considered it time to abate the first intensity of her grief. She had been abating it by degrees, and during Mr. Brownlow’s visit had shown a demeanour of subdued sorrow blent with practical common-sense. After his departure she subdued her sorrow still more, and when the cousins sat together that evening she discussed matters with the air of one who, having paid off the funeral cortège, now opens the shutters and prepares to return to the normal condition of things. Theresa had gone home to Haylands; she had been obliged to go back there some time before, but had driven to Wrugglesby with Robert that day so as to be present during Mr. Brownlow’s visit. The school was to re-open at the beginning of the next week, the holidays on account of Miss Brownlow’s death being deducted from the midsummer vacation; an unavoidable arrangement not much to Polly’s taste.

“We are too poor to afford sorrow,” she observed; “at least comfortable sorrow.”

“As if comfort mattered at such a time!” Bella replied with scorn. She was leaning with her elbows on the sill, looking through the open window into the street.

Polly was of opinion that it did matter, but she did not explain her views at length, for she wanted to talk over Mr. Brownlow’s suggestion.

“You and I,” she said to Bella, “are to keep on this school for the rest of our lives. We must move into a smaller house to do it when the lease of this one is up. How would Chestnut Villa do? It is empty now, and I don’t expect anyone will take it before then; it is too mouldy.”

“Yes,” acquiesced Bella in a spiritless voice. She looked across the empty, darkening street to the doctor’s prim house opposite; the scent of the laburnums came to her from his garden, the sound of a wheel-barrow from a neighbour’s close by. It was all very dull and narrow and small—and the prospect offered? It is hard to be young and fair and told at two-and-twenty that to live at Chestnut Villa (too mouldy for anyone else) and teach small girls is one’s fate beyond redemption.

“We are to keep on with the school,” Polly was saying.

“I suppose so.” Bella did not look round.

“Do you?” Polly retorted. “I don’t then! For one thing, I don’t suppose the school will keep on with us.”

Bella did look round now. “It will, it must!” she exclaimed. “What else are we to do?”

“It won’t,” Polly affirmed with confidence. “Look how it has gone down even while poor Aunt, whom everyone knew, was here. If she,—and people sent their children to her out of friendship or because their cousins or someone used to come—if she could not keep it together, what are we likely to do? You can teach, but you have not passed many examinations, and you are young and not at all imposing; as for me, I have no certificates at all.”

“But, Polly, you are clever in your own way; surely you could get pupils?”

Polly did not think so, and she proceeded to make a statement of the case,—which girls were leaving, which likely to leave, and which among those living in the district were likely to come to Langford House, the last appearing to be very few. The case as set forth by her was not inspiriting.

“But,” said Bella at last, “why did you not tell Mr. Brownlow this? You seemed to think it all satisfactory when you were talking to him.”

“Mr. Brownlow!” Polly replied contemptuously. “What would be the good of telling a person like that?”

“We have no one else to advise or help us, no one at all; Robert does not know and I am sure you don’t think much of his opinion.”

Seeing Bella in real consternation, Bill shut her book. It was A Midsummer-Night’s Dream, recommended by Mr. Dane, and she had found a great delight in it during those days. “What is your plan?” she asked Polly, as she put the book away and seated herself on the table.

“I cannot say I have a plan,” Polly answered slowly, “not exactly a plan,—I may not do it; it depends on several things.”

“Several persons?” Bill suggested; “persons or a person?” Polly did not answer, and Bill followed up her suspicions: “A person who you are not sure will do what you want?”

Polly shifted uneasily; she seldom reckoned persons as obstacles to her plans, but in this case Bill was right, for she herself was the person in question, and Polly was not at all sure of the worth of her own authority over her ward—she and Theresa had been appointed guardians.

“It is all very perplexing,” she said with a sigh. “I hardly know what will be best to do for you and me. It principally concerns you and me, as poor Aunt said, for Bella has a little money of her own, and, even if she does not marry, she is never likely to want a home with Theresa living so near.”

“Neither is Bill,” Bella said. “Robert has offered it to Bill; I don’t see how you can expect him to take us both. I am very glad he has offered it to her; she wants it much more than I do.”

Polly agreed. “But,” she added, “I should not think Bill would like to quarter herself on Robert and Theresa for the rest of her life; that is what it would amount to, for she could never be a governess and come and go as you could. It was very kind of them to offer it, but I should not think Bill would take it, except, of course, just for the present. I know I should not.”

“You will mostly take all you can get,” Bill observed not without truth. Before Polly could deny the charge she asked: “On whom does your plan depend? Not on Bella; she evidently has nothing to do with it; have I?”

“Yes, Bill,” Polly said severely; “it is for your good as well as mine. You don’t deserve to be considered, but I have a sense of responsibility.”

“What can I do that is any good to you?” Bill speculated. “What is it, Polly? Something you hardly expect me to do?”

“Nothing of the sort! I should always expect you to do as I wished, especially as I am your guardian.”

An audience of two was quite sufficient for Polly, who even when alone could hardly refrain from taking a part. Bill knew the value of her efforts. “What is your plan?” she asked simply, and Polly, after a few more preliminary flourishes, set it forth. Briefly it was this: to let things remain as arranged with Mr. Brownlow until Christmas, when the lease of the house expired; then to give up the school,—sell it if there was anything to sell—Bella to obtain a situation as resident governess, making Haylands her home in the holidays; Polly and Bill to move to London or the suburbs—

“And take lodgers!” cried Bill.

“Yes, probably,” Polly said; “we should not have enough to live on without doing something, and that would be the best we could do. I have thought about boarders, but that won’t do; you want more capital for a boarding house; besides boarders are a nuisance, nor do they really pay so well as lodgers, though of course they sound much better. We need not tell people about here that we are letting lodgings; we can say we are taking a few paying guests, because we could not get a house small enough for just our two selves.”

This plan, except for the unnecessary deception, met with Bella’s entire approval. Bill, to Polly’s annoyance, did not give an opinion, but sat thinking, probably of what part she was to play and why she, rather than Bella, had been chosen for the venture. The same question occurred to Bella. “Why should not you and I do this?” she asked. “I should do just as well as Bill, and besides, we should have more capital as I could put my money into it. And then there would be no need to upset Robert’s arrangement; I am sure he really meant Bill to make Haylands her home.”

“My dear Bella”—Polly was motherly—“there are two or three reasons why it should not be you. To begin with, you are too pretty; our lodgers will probably be men, very likely young city men,—you understand? To go on with, why should not Bill be independent? If she puts her share of the money in and helps me she would be independent in a measure, and I certainly know of no other way in which she could be.”

Bella was not altogether satisfied; but Bill was, for she had solved the problem on her own account. “There is going to be no servant kept in that house!” she exclaimed.

“What nonsense!” Bella said, and Polly explained that she should have a girl. Then they talked the plan over afresh, Bill remaining aggravatingly silent. At last, Bella going into the kitchen to speak to the maid, Polly turned angrily to the table where the small figure was almost lost in the darkness. “I suppose,” she said sharply, “you are going to oppose me?”

Bill laughed softly. “Fancy you being afraid of me and my opposition,” she said half to herself.

Polly did not attempt to deny the fact. “You are the most obstinate, contrary, silly little creature in the world,” was her only answer.

Bill seemed still more amused. “Why did you let me know you were afraid?” she asked.

“What is the good of pretending?” was Polly’s only answer, and Bill quoted some past words of her cousin’s in reply. “‘Truth is a luxury poor people cannot always afford;’ I have heard you give that to somebody as an excuse for your pretending. I don’t think it a very good one myself, but I have heard you make it. I suppose you can afford to be truthful with me?”

“I am not going to pretend with you,” Polly said. “Look here, Bill, you are only a child and you are very ignorant and not at all clever,—I hope you don’t mind me saying these things, I am only telling the plain truth—you are all this, but in some respects you have much more sense than Bella and Theresa; you have more vitality, more—I don’t know what—but more backbone; you are not so much a Brownlow, not a Brownlow at all.”

“Thank you.” Bill did not seem overwhelmed with the flattery.

“What is your objection?” Polly asked after a pause: “I suppose you think you would have to work too hard.”

“No I don’t. Oh, no I don’t at all; we should share the work out fairly, Polly, very fairly.”

Just then Bella came back, and the discussion was dropped, but Polly was not altogether dissatisfied, concluding from Bill’s manner then, and later, that she would probably fall in with the plan when the time came. As for Bill there was no hesitation in her mind about accepting the proposition; there was nothing else she could do, for she could not live with Robert and Theresa permanently, unless they would let her work their garden for a profit and look upon the proceeds as payment from her. They would not let her do this, so, though she would have preferred the garden to the lodgings, she was quite willing to accept the latter, since the former was unattainable. Live with Theresa without the garden she would not, for she had discovered, or rather she had gradually come to know of certain things which led her to believe that Theresa and Robert could not afford to offer her a permanent home. “I don’t believe Theresa knows,” she said to herself, “or if she does, she does not realise how things are. I wonder if Robert does? He was always telling me separate bits; I wonder if he looks at things whole; but he must, of course he must do so.”

These thoughts occupied Bill’s mind a good deal, and another was added to them at this time, surprise at her own power over Polly. Either openly or covertly Polly’s will had been supreme at Langford House; she had always planned and decided for them all; it was a strange and wonderful thing that she should have considered Bill in this plan, feared her opposition even while she sought her help—strange yet perhaps not altogether unreasonable. Bill felt a childish amusement in the novelty of the situation, and also a sense of responsibility. But of course she had, and she knew she had, a certain compelling power over Polly, else why had she taken her to Wood Hall? Shrewd, unprincipled Polly! To be sure, Bill did not call her that: she did not think about her principles, but, true to her nature, accepted her cousin as she found her, and never judged her at all.

What with one thing and another Bill seemed to be fast growing older: when she went back to Ashelton at the end of May she felt that years instead of weeks had elapsed since she had left it. A month makes a difference to the country in the spring-time, and she noticed many changes during the drive to Haylands. The grass had grown: in some of the fields it had come up into little billows, where a patch of more fertile soil had caused some part to rise above the rest; in other fields it was all long and soft, spiked here and there with the shafts of its unopened flowers. Everywhere there were butter-cups, a golden cloth of butter-cups; everywhere hawthorn, each hedge snow-powdered with its blossom, each thorn-bush a bride in its white veil. The earth had been busy, Bill felt, very busy; the early fruit was set in the orchard, the blossom was off the apples, the oaks fully in leaf, the cow-parsley, waist-high, made every ditch a fairy-land.

It had all changed very much, and Bill felt that she had changed too; then she turned to the garden, and in a sudden rebound from the trouble of the past weeks forgot about herself and her changes. There was so much, so very much to be done, to have lost a month at this time of year was a sad thing. She worked desperately, enthusiastically, to make up for it; and at dusk she struck work and forgot all about her age and her responsibilities, wandering forth with Shakespeare’s fairies (she knew them all by heart now) into the orchard and the fields and the deep, grass-grown ditches almost as if she expected to find the fairy-folk there.

And thus it was that Gilchrist Harborough found her. During her absence at Wrugglesby he had debated his problem of natural selection more than once, and had at last decided to let matters drift. He did not phrase his decision thus; he put it that, since he was not likely to see her again for a long time, it was not worth thinking about it any more. So he did not think; indeed, he thought so little that, when he saw Bill again, he forgot the problem and never for an instant thought of her as an integral part of it, or as a practical farmer’s wife, or anything else practical. He himself on that occasion could hardly be regarded as a practical person seeking a wife in a cool and reasonable manner. There was no suggestion of a carefully thought out plan about it; it was just man and woman, and the dewy fragrance of trodden grass in the dusk of an evening when May and June meet to make it neither spring nor summer but a mid-heaven between.

He heard Bill’s curious many-noted voice as he passed down the lane where he had talked with her on the day they first spoke of Robert Morton. She had been in the orchard then, as she was now. She had discovered an echo in the orchard,—the back of some barns, the end of an old wall, something caused it; it pleased her, and she sang softly, pausing to hear the repeated sound. “Fearest to love me”—and “love me” came the echo distinctly. “Love me,” she cried again to the clear repetition, “love me—me!” answering the sound as it answered her, till the twilight seemed filled with passionate whispering melody.

Harborough stopped abruptly. If he had been wise he would have gone on, but he forgot to be wise; we are none of us always wise. The old love-song had wooed another on a summer night long ago; it held him now, it roused something in him, and he could not go. The singer ceased; she must have felt his presence, for she turned where she stood knee-deep in the coarse grasses and white-flowered weeds, and saw him leaning against the gate.

“Go on,” he said; “finish it.”

It was perhaps not a polite form of greeting after her weeks of absence and trouble, but he had forgotten that; he had forgotten everything in his desire to hear the words that he knew should follow. The natural man in him was urging him to leap the gate, to stand beside her, and to make her say those words for him.

She hesitated in silence for a moment. In the dusk she could not see his face very clearly, yet she must have known that the self in him to which she appealed was in the ascendant; she wanted to play and to make him play, yet she was half afraid. “No,” she said standing still among the grasses.

“Yes,” he answered, “yes—I will come and make you!”

Then the witchcraft of the night took possession of her, and the unnamed, irresistible impulses, thought of our simple ancestry to be born of the elfin-folk, came upon her. “Come then!” she cried.

In an instant he was over the gate, under the green twilight of the apple-trees, among the grasses where she stood. But she, now wild as a kitten at evening, had fled; from the denser shadow of the nut-bushes she called to him, yet when he reached their shade her voice came from a far corner of the orchard—“Fearest to love me—fearest”—and because she was now in the best possible position for her echo the answer came back “Fearest,” “fearest!” till it was hard to say which was the fickle varying voice and which the repeated sound.

It was like hunting a shadow, about as easy, about as wise, but—but he was young and she was younger still, and the earth redecked was young too, young with eternal youth. The fragrance of its breath was like wine to them, the scent of the falling laburnum and lilac in the garden, the smell of the hawthorn in the hedge, the trodden grass under foot, the dew that was upon the ground, the wind that whispered in the darkness of the trees. He was intoxicated with it, intoxicated with the chase; an instinct of the days when man wooed maid with swiftness of foot and strength of arm was upon him. He was—ah, well, it did not matter, there was no explanation; only when suddenly he startled her all unawares among the tall weeds, he completed the line which surprise had stayed on her lips. “Fearest,” she had called thinking him far away; and “To love me?” he finished, crushing her to silence in his arms.

For a moment she was still in his arms; it might have been her will, it might not;—then, with a sudden effort she wrenched herself free, and he was alone in the darkening orchard.

CHAPTER XIV.
THE COURTSHIP OF HARBOROUGH OF CROWS’ FARM.

Man is a triple development; call him, body, soul and spirit, or mind, matter and extension,—he is, however regarded, a trinity. A man who recognises his three natures (which fortunately all do not), and who in his wife or work gratifies two of the three, is asking much of Providence when he complains that the third is unsatisfied. Yet this was Gilchrist Harborough’s case. Mind had counselled him to seek Wilhelmina Alardy as his wife; reason pointed out her unique suitability to his requirements; common-sense told him that she was exactly and precisely the person for all practical purposes. Yet he had hesitated, perhaps because he had an intuitive, if unexpressed, idea that such excellent logic was not always the best foundation for domestic happiness. That was a month ago; but then, last night in the twilight came Matter, and, forgetting Mind’s cool selection, discovered that the girl was desirable, sought and made her captive in a somewhat savage fashion, asking no better reason than her voice, no stronger proof than her contact when his arms held her.

Yet in the morning the man was not satisfied with this double choice. To begin with, he despised himself because he had allowed Matter to get the upper hand; as a consequence he—well, no, he did not exactly despise the cause—but at least he did not altogether respect her just then. “The woman tempted me,”—it was a coward’s excuse and he would not make it. She was not to blame, at least not much; he would do her justice. And he honestly tried, though he did not altogether succeed, for he did not understand the childish folly which had prompted her to the game in the orchard. Sheer folly it had been, and nothing more; she knew nothing of his sensations and emotions, and his capture of her at the end had come like a thunderclap in its stunning suddenness and left her even now not fully aware of the true state of the case.

So Harborough in his mind did her justice so far as he could; and in his actions he determined without delay to explain his equivocal words of last night and make her a formal offer of marriage. And when he felt not altogether glad about this decision, he reminded himself how entirely reason had chosen her before impulse had dictated last night’s words. As for the ideal, the fair and stately woman, a queen with holy face and ways of gentle dignity,—there was not room at his hearth for her. She could not rise early to milk his cows; she could not toil and work and stand beside him in the dirt and drudgery of his daily round; at least his queen could not, for so she would not be queen. There is doubtless a dignity in labour, but it is not easily discernible when labour is translated into soap and water, mud and ashes, red hands and tumbled hair. He could not afford an ideal: he did not need a woman to worship, but one to live with, human, likeable, one to work with, strong, capable,—and he went to look for Bill.

But Bill was not easy to find; she should have been working in the garden at this time, but from the field-path he could not see her. He retraced his steps, and from another point sought her as unsuccessfully. He climbed a little hill and looked down upon the garden, but she was not there. Then he went back, by way of the lane, to the orchard, but she was not there either; she must have gone on some message for Theresa: he would come again in the afternoon, and find her then. But he did not find her, for then, as earlier, she saw him coming and ran away to hide. She did not exactly know why; she was afraid of what he would say, of what he had said; she did not altogether understand herself or him or anything; only she was afraid. She longed to tell someone,—Mr. Dane—her world held no one else who was likely to be of any use. She would have liked to tell him as she told him of Harborough of Gurnett, but, for some reason that she could not fathom, she was ashamed; so she only worked hard and tried not to think, and when she saw her lover coming (if lover he was) she hid herself.

But Gilchrist Harborough was not to be turned from his purpose like this, and, having sought her in vain the next day, he presented himself at the house in the evening and asked Jessie for Miss Alardy. It was raining, a fine soft rain, which rejoiced the heart and made things almost grow before the eyes. Bill would be indoors now, for the rain clouds had closed the evening in early, and in the drawing-room, where he waited, it seemed already dark.

Jessie went to find Bill. “She has just gone to the attic for a sieve,” Theresa said, and Jessie went up the attic-stairs. “Miss Bill!” she called, standing at the top and looking down the long passage from the right of which the three attics opened. The place looked ghostly in the grey twilight; there was a spot of wet on the low ceiling, the roof leaked by the chimney where the starlings had built last year, there was a great hole in the floor under the window, and there were rats in the attic. Jessie gathered her skirts about her, and, after a preliminary sh-oo! to frighten any chance creatures that might be about, came into the passage. “Miss Bill,” she called again, “you’re wanted; Mr. Harborough wants to see you.”

Now that was precisely the information for which Bill was waiting. She had heard the door-bell ring as she looked over some tools in the back attic, but she had not associated the sound with herself until Jessie began to ascend the stairs. Then she had guessed that the visitor was Gilchrist Harborough, and that he had come to see her. She fully intended to go down and see him; it was, of course, what she must do, and there certainly was no reason why she should not; yet when she heard Jessie’s voice an uncontrollable impulse to escape took possession of her. She looked round; there was no escape, no way out but the door by which Jessie would enter. The door of a big cupboard, however, stood ajar behind her; quick as thought she opened it, pulled it to after her and stood pressed against the wall within, holding the door close by its rough planking.

Jessie peeped into each of the attics in turn, and then muttering, “She ain’t here after all,” went down-stairs again; but Bill remained in the cupboard till she heard the front door shut after Harborough. It was some time, for they looked thoroughly for her before he went away. Her prison was cramped, dark, and very close, and there was a warm smell of old hops about it which afterwards she always associated with that evening and her folly. It was folly, and as such she regretted it when it was too late and would have gladly undone it if she could.

Later, when she came down-stairs, Theresa told her of Harborough’s visit and asked her where she was when they called her. She did not tell and her reply, guardedly given, left only a vague impression on her cousin’s mind. Theresa, believing she must have gone to the barn with her tools, thought no more about it until the next afternoon when Harborough presented himself again. This time he asked for Theresa, having learned from Robert that his wife and Polly were left guardians of their young cousin.

It was Sunday, and by Theresa’s invitation Bella and Polly had walked from Wrugglesby that morning to spend the day at Haylands; they had come early and would stay till the evening, when Robert was going to drive them home. Polly was dozing placidly on the dining-room sofa when Harborough came, and Bill was curled up in the orchard with a book, oblivious alike of impending events and the dampness of the grass. Harborough might almost have caught her now had he tried; but he did not, for he decided that his best plan would be to apply in the old-fashioned way to Mrs. Morton for permission to address her cousin.

Accordingly he did so, and he did it with some self-possession, for the whole thing was now very clear in his own mind and he wished to get it settled. It was, after all, to him a very simple and straightforward matter now.

But to Theresa it was very different, very overwhelming, it might almost be said, in its unexpectedness. She gazed at him blankly for a moment, too much astonished for speech. “Bill?” she said at last, “Bill? She is a child!”

“She is young,” Harborough admitted, “but she must be nearly eighteen; that is not so very young, you know.”

“She is not eighteen till the winter; we have always looked upon her as a child. You must forgive my astonishment, she seems such a child to us.”

Harborough said he could easily understand her feelings; indeed, he allowed, in some respects Bill seemed a child to him, though in others the very reverse.

“She is very capable,” Theresa said, “but I am afraid when you come to speak to her on this subject you will find her very childish,—I mean, she will be so unprepared for it, it will be difficult.”

Harborough smiled slightly. “I do not think it will be an entire surprise to her,” he said. “I do not mean that I know how she will receive me, but that I should come will not, I fancy, altogether astonish her.”

Theresa felt more and more bewildered. “I think you must be mistaken,” was all she could say; but he was persistent in his opinion, and certainly, whether he was right or wrong, there was no valid reason why he should not speak to Bill. Theresa, however, still believing in the girl’s complete ignorance, stipulated for one thing: Bill’s decision, whatever it was, should not be considered final. “For,” Theresa said, “I am very much afraid she will not really know her own mind.”

Harborough acquiesced to this, and also to the suggestion that Polly should be consulted. “She is here now,” Theresa told him; “perhaps it would be better if you were to see her, as Bill is really more her charge than mine.”

Harborough had no particular wish to consult the unknown Polly, but he could not do less than agree, so Theresa went to find her. She was still dozing on the sofa in the dining-room, and there was no one else there. Theresa roused her and told her the news briefly, wishing the while that Polly had not slept so soundly, and fearing lest she should not fully understand. But she need have had no fears; Polly grasped the situation completely. “Has he any money?” she asked.

“Yes, oh yes, some, not a great deal, of course; he has a little farm. But, Polly, Bill—”

“A farm? Oh, he is the man who lives by himself and does his own work to prove something, I remember. That will just suit Bill.”

Polly got up, went to the glass above the mantelpiece and began to arrange her front hair.

“It is impossible to think of that child marrying him, of her marrying anyone yet,” Theresa protested.

Polly did not think so. “I don’t see why she should not,” she said coolly; “you may be pretty sure she has given him encouragement, or he would not come here like this.”

“That proves nothing,” said Theresa. “He does not know in the least whether she will have him or not; he spoke to me first because she is so very young.”

“Possibly, but she knows what is coming; he as good as told you so.”

“He is mistaken; I am sure he is.”

“I’ll tell you whether I think so or not after I have seen him. I don’t much expect he is; and knowing Bill as well as I do, well—” Polly broke off and with an impressive silence conveyed more than words could.

Theresa did not altogether believe her, but she felt that she herself was far from understanding Bill. “At all events,” she said, “I told him he could speak to her. There is nothing against him as far as I know, and whatever she says now is not to be considered absolutely binding.”

“What do you mean?” Polly stopped abruptly to ask the question as she was opening the door.

“I mean,” Theresa answered, “that if she accepts him she is not to be considered engaged; she shall be free to change her mind if she likes, for I am sure she cannot really know anything about it.”

“Not to be engaged?” Polly repeated. “Is it to be kept private? No one is to be told, we are to have no hold over him?”

“I will not have her bound; it is not right,—you can’t think it right.”

Theresa was surprised at Polly’s manner, and still more surprised when she turned upon her in low-voiced wrath,—“You idiot!” she said.

“Polly!” Theresa exclaimed reddening, and then added: “I will not have it; mind, I will not have her bound!”

And then the two passed into the drawing-room. Polly was affability itself; she spoke of “dear little Wilhelmina’s” youth, and of her own surprise, but held out some hopes of success to Harborough, who did not altogether trust her, though owing to her skill he did not distrust her as much as might have been expected. Nothing was said about Theresa’s condition, except that as Harborough was leaving she repeated it, and Polly, unable to do anything else, seconded her.

“I expect he wanted to see Bill this afternoon,” Theresa said when he had gone.

“I expect he did,” Polly replied; “but I want to see her first. I mean to know what she has been doing.”

“What she intends to do,” was also part of Polly’s meaning, and she set off at once to the orchard, feeling the remainder of the afternoon was all too short for her investigations.

“Bill,” she said, sitting down beside her cousin on a cushion she had brought for the purpose, “Bill, what about Mr. Harborough?” Polly wasted no time over preliminaries. “The Mr. Harborough who lives here, I mean.”

“What about him?” Bill inquired, looking up from her book.

Polly closed the book for her. “Yes, what?” she said. “When and where have you seen him?”

“Oh in lots of places,—why? He does not belong to Wood Hall.”

“I know that. Bill,” she added suddenly, “has he been making love to you?”

Then the time had come; Bill felt it intuitively and braced herself to meet it. But for the life of her she would have found it hard to say whether he had or had not committed the offence in question. She would not permit herself to do more than ask cautiously, “Why?”

“He has!” Polly exclaimed.

“Well, I’m not sure;” and Bill so evidently meant what she said that Polly for a moment was nonplussed. “He has been here this afternoon,” she said.

“To see me?” Bill asked, and Polly felt that was something of an admission. “No,” she answered, “to see Theresa and me about you.”

“Whatever for?”

“To ask our permission—”

“To make love to me?” At first the idea struck Bill as comical, but its gravity soon came home to her.

“I suppose you think that absurd,” Polly said, “since he has already done it without our permission; and he has done it, Bill, or something very like it. It is no use denying it; something must have happened, something fairly pronounced, before a man of his stamp would come to Theresa and me as he came this afternoon. You must have given him very direct encouragement.”

Polly paused for Bill to deny the charge, but the denial did not come; the girl sat silently considering the matter, tearing a leaf to pieces as she did so.

“Well?” Polly said at last interrogatively.

“Did he tell you I had encouraged him? I mean, did he absolutely say so? I shall ask him myself if I think you are deceiving me.”

Polly thought it very likely that she would do so, and accordingly made answer: “No, of course he did not say so in so many words, but his coming to us showed it; besides he told Theresa, when she said you would be astonished, that he did not think you would be, that he had reason to believe you expected him.” Not be surprised to see him and expected him were convertible, if not synonymous, terms.

“Oh!” was Bill’s only answer.

“Did you expect him?” Polly demanded.

“I suppose I did; I don’t know.”

“You must know what you expect if you are not absolutely stupid, and you might as well be honest about it; some people would have a good deal to say about your underhand dealings.”

Bill suggested that her cousin should say all she wished on the subject, but Polly, regarding it as a waste of time, went on to observe with dignity: “I don’t want to inquire into your actions nor yet your intentions, but all I can say is that you have made an honourable man,—a good man, Bill—believe you care for him; and if you do not, if you mean nothing, you must settle the matter with him.”

“I don’t believe you!” Bill exclaimed. “I ran away from him, though I did tell him to come—I was only in fun—he hardly held—”

She broke off, feeling that she could not lay the matter bare to her cousin. Polly was disappointed at the confession ending so abruptly, but she only said: “Tell him you were only in fun. If he knew you as well as I do he might not be surprised at such a questionable proceeding; but as he loves you, I am afraid it will be rather a shock to him.”

“Loves me!—he loves me!” Bill repeated the words gently, her whole face softening. She had not thought of this before. She had such high, idyllic notions of love, hardly definite notions at all, only a feeling that it was very great and supreme and far removed from her own life.

“Of course he does,” Polly said, surprised at having touched an answering chord here, “else why should he want to marry you? You have nothing to recommend you.”

“No,” Bill admitted, “no, I have not. How strange that he should want to marry me,—how strange and wonderful!”

She sat looking across the orchard, her eyes filled with a great shining, her heart thrilled with gratitude to one who could love her. For herself, she did not know; his emotion would arouse an answering emotion in her; if he loved her she could not choose but love him, just as when he held her she could not choose but stay for just a moment. She was very humble and submissive in heart just then.

On the whole Polly was well satisfied with her talk. Bill would accept Harborough. Two things were in his favour, the girl’s joy and pride in this, the first love offered to her, her innocence of life and all it held, and also her curious, one-sided sense of honour. The first, aided by her oddly sympathetic, almost reflective, nature, would make her wish to accept the lover; the second, aided by Polly’s statement of the case, would make it impossible for her to refuse the man. So Polly was satisfied that Bill would marry Harborough; probably next summer, as Theresa would not allow it before then, and Polly herself did not wish it. She wanted to begin her lodging-venture in the winter, and, though she would take Bella into partnership when Bill was married, she would prefer to have the younger cousin at the beginning of the enterprise. She considered that Bill was now settled for life, her future assured in a most unexpected fashion. Harborough, she judged, was the sort of man she could depend upon to do his duty by his wife, and in spite of Theresa’s words, she would take care that at least a little of the arrangement was known to a few mutual friends. In this laudable intention, however, she was eventually frustrated by Bill. She had reckoned that Bill would see no reason for secrecy; being sure of herself, whatever motives ruled her decision now would rule it in a year’s time, and so she would oppose Theresa. But she did no such thing, not because she objected to publicity or saw any reason against it, but because Polly was in favour of it and Theresa against it.

“It may be wise,” she said to Polly, “if you urge it, but if Theresa does it is right; in this I would rather do what is right than wise.”

In vain Polly pointed out the wisdom, and explained that publicity was the only hold they had. Bill retorted haughtily that she wished for no hold, and went on to add that, if any rumour of her affairs should get about, she should consider Polly the culprit, and behave accordingly. And Polly, having an inward conviction that she would keep her word in some unpleasant way, was obliged to remain silent.

On that same Sunday evening, when Harborough spoke to the cousins, came Theresa to Bill’s room after she had gone to bed, and kissed her and cried over her and asked her if she really loved him. And Bill flung her arms round the young wife’s neck, almost suffocating her in the wealth of her hair, and said she did not know, feeling vaguely sorry for Theresa, and wondering if loving and being loved always brought tears.

All the next day she was quiet and subdued, and in the evening the time came. She went into the orchard, thinking it likely that he would come down the lane to her. He did come; he saw her, and jumped the gate and came to her as she stood in the soft grass, her heart beating, a shy fearing happiness in her half-awakened soul. He came to her striding over the grass in the twilight of the apple-trees; but he did not know the tumult in her breast, did not recognise the half-awakened womanhood. He was not to-night, as once before, the strong man wooing the maid, nor was he the lover come to claim a girl’s heart. He came to ask her to be his wife because he believed it right to do so, because he believed it wise, because he thought for all practical purposes she was the woman best suited to his needs. He had desired her, it is true, but to-night it was not desire, not impulse; it was a deliberate plan, the wise performance of a wise act. But it lacked fire, lacked it woefully. And she, who shyly lifted shining eyes to those of the sober lover, could not kindle it; nay, she herself was not the same as the alluring shadow of the other night. He did not love the woman; the elf-child fascinated him, the housewife pleased him, but the woman he did not recognise. The best of his nature was untouched by her; he knew that he did not in the highest sense love her, and he did not pretend that he did. But, the pity was she thought he did; they had told her so, and, after all, as to love is often translated into daily life, perhaps they were right, though in her idyllic, almost childish rendering of the word, they were entirely and hopelessly wrong.

So the question was asked and answered under the lichen-covered branches; coolly, dispassionately, yet withal gently he asked; shyly she answered, not yet aware of the lack in it all. She was so ignorant, what should she know of love’s ways? So awed, she could not criticise his words, so subdued and humble she could not doubt him. Thus she gave her word not knowing, stood awhile under the trees a little disappointed but not yet aware, and bade him good-bye with only a half-wakened doubt.

He left her, thinking perhaps she would prefer to see her cousin alone first, refusing her invitation to come to the house from a sense of delicacy. She did not know his reason, but she was vaguely glad he refused. They walked together to the gate, talking ordinarily, rationally, his manner as usual, hers as calm as it was reflective of his. There was no passion, no shyness; it would not have been embarrassing to meet Theresa, though she was glad they were not going to meet her. Glad, too, she was, consciously glad that he was going; she wanted him to go,—she hated to have him there—she was beginning to realise the lack in it all.

They parted at the orchard-gate; the first wild roses were opening, their fragrance filled the air, a spray showed faintly pink against the girl’s hair as she leaned over the gate. Something in the scent and the face, half seen in the twilight, stirred Harborough; he made an impulsive movement, but he had himself well in hand that night, and the impulse ended in nothing more than stooping to kiss her without any demonstration of emotion. So he bade her good-bye and went, she standing to watch him till he was lost in the dusk of the summer night, standing to watch him quite calmly though her breast heaved, until he was out of sight; then with a movement of passionate rage she wiped the kiss from her face and flung the handkerchief into the hedge.

“He did not make love to me a little bit!” she wailed. “‘Will you marry me?’ ‘Will you scrub the floor?’ It might as well have been one as the other. ‘Can you make butter?’ ‘Can you love me?’ Can I? I could hate you! How I shall hate you, if you don’t take care!”

There was someone talking in the garden, Theresa and Robert perhaps; she almost thought it was, and fearful of discovery crept into the deep dry ditch and lay hid among the tall stalks of the cow-parsley. In that green darkness she sobbed out her grief for the loss of her dream, the dream of loving and being loved which comes to all women at some time. It had come to her only yesterday; it had died unborn to-day,—unborn, for she did not love the man; had he loved her, or had he wooed her with the passion of the other night, her responsive nature might have replied, or at least she would have thought it did. But he had not done so, and the thing was only a dream; loving and being loved,—both must be mourned as never known, both buried together in the twilight of the white-flowered weeds. Nevertheless she was in honour bound to the man, that curious, distorted, inviolable law of honour which she had from some ancestry and could not break. The spoken word must be fulfilled, the unspoken pledge redeemed, the unconscious encouragement, of which Polly had made so much, justified. Polly had done well to trust to this other bond.

CHAPTER XV.
FAMILY HISTORY.

Mr. Wagnall was an antiquary, avowedly an antiquary. A man of means and leisure, he had ample time to devote to his subject, and so well had he devoted it that there was unknown to him little that was strange in family tradition and village history throughout the Eastern Counties, which, as his birthplace and home, were the principal scenes of his research. He never studied architecture or building to any great extent; churches, Druidical stones, and Roman remains had little charm for him; the land and those who owned it chiefly claimed his attention. He had at one time intended to follow the profession of the law, and had spent his earlier days in a solicitor’s office; it was this early training, possibly, which gave him his taste for family histories and involved land tenures. One other thing he owed to it,—and that was of more obvious value than his love of land-lore—a friend, in the person of a former fellow-student now developed into Stevens, solicitor of Wrugglesby, consulted by Mr. Johnson on the subject of the Harborough chapel and the service held therein.

Now and again Mr. Wagnall visited his friend at Wrugglesby, and it happened that this very subject of the Harborough chapel and service brought him there at the time that Gilchrist Harborough was arranging his matrimonial affairs at Ashelton. About this time Mr. Stevens, remembering that he had not seen his friend lately, wrote to invite him to the little town, at the same time mentioning such affairs of interest as had recently taken place. The Harborough service was not a recent event, but he had not written since it occurred, and, knowing his friend’s love of such things, he used it, and the chance of investigating it, as an inducement to his friend to visit Wrugglesby. Events justified his expectations; Mr. Wagnall accepted his invitation, came to Wrugglesby at the earliest possible date, and plagued his host with questions, seeking information about “this most interesting revival.”

Mr. Stevens was obliged to confess himself not very well informed on the subject, but in a happy moment Mrs. Stevens thought of inviting Mr. and Mrs. Johnson to meet the antiquary. She had no notion of satisfying his thirst for information, her idea being solely to give an entertainment. She was a lady of aspiring mind, and longed for society on other lines than those obtainable at the solemn dinners and more humble teas which were in vogue in Wrugglesby. Mr. Johnson was particularly flattered by the pointed way in which Mr. Wagnall singled him out for conversation, and the interest with which he listened to all he had to say about the Harborough chapel and service. Considering the warmth his feelings still retained on these subjects, he was a little disappointed to find his patient listener of the opinion that the family had a right to hold a service in their own chapel, according to their professed religion, even during the time of morning prayer.

“Mind, I do not say they have a legal right,” the antiquary said, “though I am of opinion it would be difficult to get a decision against them; but whatever their legal right, they have a moral right, most decidedly a moral right. I think your rector was wise in his determination to take no steps in the matter; it is not an occurrence likely to be repeated. It has not been done within anyone’s memory until this time; it has not been repeated since then, and take my word for it, sir, it never will be. It was done to revive an old right, my dear sir, that is what it was done for, to revive an old right and establish a claim; an old family does not like to let its traditions lapse entirely.”

Mr. Johnson thought this was a very probable explanation of the “outrage,” though, as he pointed out, there was no necessity for the mass to have been said during morning-service; the claim could have been established without that.

“Well, yes, yes,” Mr. Wagnall admitted; “still it would hardly have been so emphatic; no, under those circumstances, it would not have been so emphatic.”

Mr. Johnson again agreed with him. He also asked Mr. Wagnall if he would care to walk over some day and have a look at the Harborough chapel, offering to act as cicerone should he do so. Mr. Wagnall accepted the offer with pleasure, and from that they got to talking about the Harboroughs and their family history, with which Mr. Wagnall was very well acquainted, though he did not attempt to set the clergyman right even when he gave sundry strange pieces of information about them. There was, however, one piece of information given which was both new and interesting to Mr. Wagnall,—the existence of Gilchrist Harborough of Crows’ Farm.

“A member of the family he—” “may be,” Mr. Johnson was going to say, preparatory to enlarging upon his nature and pursuits, but Mr. Wagnall cut him short.

“Of course he is a member of the family,” he said; “Gilchrist is a family name, the next heir to the property is a Gilchrist. You would not get Gilchrist and Harborough in combination without some connection with the old stock.”

“Just so,” said Mr. Johnson, “just so, a member of the family, although he comes from Australia; a younger branch, I have heard it suggested, though he claims no connection with the Harboroughs of Gurnett.”

“Not a younger branch,” Mr. Wagnall’s tone was emphatic; “not a younger branch, or he could claim something more than a connection.”

Unfortunately for Mr. Johnson’s further enlightenment the conversation was interrupted here, not to be resumed again that evening, and he had to content himself with waiting to hear more until Mr. Wagnall should come to Ashelton. But Mr. Wagnall did not have to wait so long for his enlightenment, for he questioned his host at the earliest opportunity. From him he learnt little, for Mr. Stevens was not professionally connected with Harborough of Gurnett, although he had sometimes done a little legal work for the agent during the master’s long absences abroad. Owing to this he knew something of the affairs of the estate, and, like most people in the neighbourhood, he also knew the name, age, and whereabouts of the next heir, and sundry of the reports concerning Mr. Harborough besides. But of Harborough of Crows’ Farm he knew little, except that he was an Australian with a theory, that he worked his own farm, and that he himself had been favourably impressed by the young man on the occasion when he had personally come across him. “But,” he concluded, “I shouldn’t wonder if he was in at the office to-morrow as it is market-day. He is thinking of buying a bit of meadow which cuts into his land, and I should not wonder if he were to look in during the afternoon to see me about it. You might drop in and meet him if you like; but I tell you beforehand that he won’t repay investigation or appreciate it either, and he certainly won’t know anything about the affair of the mass.”

Mr. Wagnall was by no means discouraged, and determined to look in at the office on Thursday afternoon in case the lawyer’s anticipation proved correct. It did so: Harborough presented himself somewhere about four o’clock, and almost before his business was discussed, Mr. Wagnall also presented himself and was duly introduced to the younger man as one interested in antiquities in general and family histories in particular. Harborough himself had small interest in such things, but he was quite willing to sympathise with another, and obligingly gave all the information he could concerning himself and his family. Of the Harboroughs of Gurnett, their history and chapel, he knew even less than Mr. Johnson, but of himself and his own people he told all he could.

“But,” he asked, “what purpose does it serve? We are a long way from this part of the family, a younger branch who emigrated years ago.”

“If you are a younger branch in direct line, if you can prove such a thing,—and I cannot help saying I think it would be difficult—it would be—very interesting.”

“Why? Is there no younger branch? You mean to say you think we come of bastard stock?”

“No, oh dear no, not at all, not necessarily. Only the Harboroughs used to hold their estates according to an old tenure by which the property goes to the youngest instead of the eldest son, and if you really were the representative of a younger branch than those in possession—”

“I could claim?”

“Nonsense,” the lawyer here broke in, “the Harboroughs have given up that manner of succession for several generations.”

“It could be revived,” Mr. Wagnall suggested; “it would be interesting to revive it, as interesting as reviving the right to hold service in the chapel.”

“Interesting from an antiquarian point of view it might be,” Mr. Stevens observed drily; “but Mr. Harborough here would find it an expensive form of amusement. Old Mr. Harborough has been in possession at Wood Hall for over fifty years, and it would take something considerable to turn him out now. Why, bless you, my friend, if I had squatted unmolested at Wood Hall for all those years you would find it difficult to turn me out, though I had not a shadow of right to the place originally. Possession is rather more than nine points of the law if you only have it long enough; whatever the weakness of old Harborough’s original claim you would find it a tough and expensive job to make your own good now.”

Gilchrist Harborough laughed at the lawyer’s warmth. “I was not thinking of making a claim,” he said; “I would rather invest my surplus cash in other and more profitable ways than fighting for encumbered estates.”

Mr. Stevens applauded such a decision. “Quite right,” he said, “quite right, though the estate is hardly so much encumbered as people think; of late years old Harborough has lived carefully, and things are not so bad as they are made out to be. I don’t mean to say the place is free; it is not, and no doubt the next man will get into a worse state than ever, for they are all alike, an extravagant lot. But I believe a careful man with a little capital and reasonable ideas, in fact not a Harborough—beg pardon, I was not thinking of you—might do a good deal towards getting things straight.”

“You think so?” Harborough asked. “They have got to get their reasonable man first, and they don’t seem great at producing such articles. As for me, I don’t belong to them; and if I did I don’t know that I can lay claim to all your requirements, small capital and reasonable ideas as well. At any rate, I don’t think I am the man for the job; it does not seem that I am within measurable distance of the base of operations.”

He turned to Mr. Wagnall as he spoke, but the lawyer answered for him. “No, no, certainly not,” he said; but Mr. Wagnall asked: “Are you sure that your family is a younger branch? May it not be an elder, but, owing to the fact that the idea of disqualification is usually associated with the younger ones, you have in the course of time come to consider yourself as such?”

Harborough allowed this to be possible, though he hardly thought it the case. Mr. Wagnall hardly thought it likely either. “So far as I know anything about the family,” he said, “it is not very likely, the Harboroughs have not been such a prolific family that the elder and younger ones need be confused. There never have been many of them; the heads of the house, as a rule, lived hard and died young, their legitimate children have been few in number. Indeed,” the antiquary went on turning to Stevens, “when you say the old manner of succession has fallen into disuse you are hardly doing them justice, for there has not been much choice lately. The family is practically extinct when the old man dies; he has no children living; the heir is the grandson of his only sister, not a Harborough at all except that he has been given the name. He is an only son, too, the sole representative of the younger generation,—strange how these old families seem to wear themselves out.”

Gilchrist Harborough did not think it strange at all, neither did he think it to be regretted; the only thing which surprised him in the matter was the interest felt in them and the detailed record kept of their history. “It is not as if they were anything much,” he said, “or had done anything much; they are only twopenny-halfpenny country squires who have never done anything worth remembering; in fact, the only thing which can be said about them is that they have been a little more rich and a good deal less respectable than their yeoman neighbours.”

Such a view was not likely to commend itself to the antiquary, but as he was unable to make his own view any more commendable to young Harborough, he had to content himself with admitting the family under discussion to be country squires, and to have been country squires so long that they counted themselves at least the equals of the newer nobility; and moreover to have kept their own records and traditions with jealous care from the days when their manor was first granted to them, at which time, doubtless, they were far other than they now were in the days of their decadence.

“If the records are kept with such care,” Harborough observed, “it should be easy to see where I come in, if come in I do.”

“Yes,” Mr. Wagnall agreed; “I can put my finger on the only spot where at all recently we can expect to find that your people joined the common stock. I know something about the Harborough history; I was enabled through the good offices of a friend to study it at the time that I was writing my little volume on East Anglian Heirships. You have perhaps seen the book? It was noticed in several of the papers.”

Harborough had not seen it, and it is to be feared he was less interested in it than in the family history. Mr. Stevens, seeing that his friend was now well mounted on his hobby, suggested that he and his listener should go into the private room, and leave the office clear for other visitors.

He half regretted being obliged to do so, for he felt he was giving the elder man an admirable opportunity for firing the imagination and ambition of the younger. Still, as the kind-hearted lawyer reflected, the young Australian was a cool and well-balanced individual, with a not too exalted opinion of the value of landed property and old families to depreciate his idea of the prize at stake. “He won’t take fire like a young fellow from about here,” thought the lawyer, “but if he does he’ll fight and fight to the end.” And again he wished he could have prevented this unearthing of family history. But it was too late, as he found when, after the young man had gone, he asked the elder one what had passed.

“He was very interested, very interested indeed,” Mr. Wagnall said. “He seems to think it highly probable that he derives from the Gilchrist Harborough who turned Protestant and left England in 1843.”

“In 1843,” the lawyer said raising his eyebrows; “that brings it very near.”

“Very near indeed,” Mr. Wagnall replied with satisfaction; “but so he seems to think.”

“Seems to think,” Stevens repeated; “that is not worth much.”

“To think that he is legitimately derived I should have said; he is positive that he is derived, he has excellent reasons for thinking so; it is a mere question of legitimacy.”

“It often is with these respectable old families,” Stevens observed drily. “What did you want to put all these ideas in his head for? You had much better have left him alone.”

Mr. Wagnall did not think so; he considered the whole subject most interesting, and, as he pointed out, there was a good deal of information he could not have obtained without this talk with young Harborough.

“Who,” Mr. Stevens said, “naturally does not regard the matter in the same placid way in which you do, seeing that he has a personal interest in it. By Jove, though, if it is as you say, and he can prove the legitimacy, he would have a good case, a very good case indeed. But he won’t be able to prove it, sure not,—he would have an infernally good case if he could!”

From a purely legal point of view the subject had less interest for Mr. Wagnall, who had no particular desire that the right man should come to his own; and in spite of a genial nature, he felt small compunction about the trouble which might possibly arise from his investigations.

“A nice hornet’s nest you are likely to have routed out,” said Mr. Stevens, who was differently constituted, “and a nice squabble there will be! If Harborough of Crows’ Farm waits till the old man dies (and the chances are he won’t last another winter), I should say it will be a bad look-out for young Kit Harborough. Not that the place is worth such a great deal, and I dare say he would muddle it if he got it; but it is hard to lose what you have always looked upon as your own. The Australian—” the lawyer laughed a little—“he’s the man I described after all, the man with a little capital and reasonable ideas. He might pull the place round, cut down the timber, put some of the park-land under cultivation, drive the plough—”

But Mr. Wagnall cried out in dismay at such impossible barbarity. Nevertheless it was exactly what Gilchrist Harborough was thinking as he drove home by way of Gurnett, and looked thoughtfully at the woods and broad park-lands which surrounded the hall. It was exactly too what he said to Bill in the orchard on the next Sunday afternoon.

CHAPTER XVI.
A GRANDFATHER.

It was now three weeks since the day when Gilchrist Harborough came to see Theresa and Polly, three weeks since they told Bill he loved her, almost three weeks since she found out what they meant by love and buried her dream among the tall weeds in the orchard-ditch. The grass was long in the orchard now, its flowers were covered in seed, brown and yellow and purple dust blowing off at the lightest breath. The leaves on the trees were thick, so thick that when one looked up it seemed an unbroken roof of green. The year had grown older, much older, it was the first maturity of summer; the light was the warmer light of summer, the shadows the slow-moving shadows of summer; the scents, richer, fuller, were the scents of summer,—the pink briar-roses in the hedge, the wreath of honeysuckle from the tree, the hay half cut in the field beyond the lane. Spring had gone, and even if its indescribable freshness and youth were missing one could hardly ask for anything more than summer.

Bill’s was a supremely contented disposition; after her one outburst on the night when Harborough did not make love to her she accepted fate resignedly. There was, as she herself had said, always to get up and have breakfast next morning even after a tragedy, and she was herself what in domestic parlance is called “a good getter up.” So in the early morning after Harborough’s formal offer of marriage, she thought the matter out and put it on a reasonable basis.

It is true he did not love her in the superlative and ideal way she had imagined, but then neither did other people seem to love in that way. She thought over the married couples of her acquaintance, and came to the conclusion that they loved each other after a fashion. Harborough must have loved her in a fashion, too, or else why had he sought to marry her, seeing how little she had to commend her? Yes, he must have loved her, even though he did not make love to her that night. There were two of him, she knew, and she also knew that she sometimes appealed to one of the two, the one that made love, the lesser and weaker part of his nature. Under these circumstances she had reason to be glad that the other part, the cleverer, more dominant part, liked her well enough to ask her to be his wife. On the whole she did not find the situation impossible. Why should she? Her limited experience showed her no better things; her sunny philosophy led her to take the world as she found it, teaching her to judge it according to a more lenient and elastic standard than any ideal one. It is true that she did not in the present case quite extend this tolerance to Harborough; perhaps she unconsciously gauged his nature, and, measuring it by his own standards, found his love wanting.

But on the whole she was moderately content, and certainly there was no possibility of avoiding the contract; honour demanded its fulfilment, and since it was unavoidable Bill was not likely to dwell on the dark side. She was pre-eminently of that nature which, when its hopes are wrecked, makes a fire of the drift-wood to warm itself and its friends. Moreover, let it be remembered, to supreme ignorance and a sunny temperament the life marked out did not seem an unendurable one. “Besides,” so she had concluded her reflections that morning when she faced facts, “there will be the farm and the dairy and heaps to do.”

So Bill accepted matters, and she and Harborough established themselves on an easy and friendly footing in which love-making played but a small part. Theresa thought them an extraordinarily prosaic and matter-of-fact couple, but it suited Harborough well enough; he did not, as a rule, want to make love to Bill, and she did not now want him to make love to her; in fact, she would not now meet any of his overtures, and had a curiously wayward but uncompromising way of receiving his occasional tendernesses. Even in these early days he found there was a tantalising, untamed trait in her nature with which it would be hard to deal, and yet which constantly attracted while it annoyed him. He felt once or twice that he should like to come to close quarters with and understand it, even as he had come to close quarters on the night when he chased her like a shadow; but the moment for that was passed, and he could not recapture it; the shadow always eluded him now. This feeling occasionally troubled him, but not often, and in other respects he was satisfied. It was as a matter of course that he turned his steps to the orchard that Sunday afternoon, and as a matter of course he told Bill of Mr. Wagnall’s words and the extraordinary possibilities they presented.

Bill listened with absorbed attention. Wood Hall, and all that concerned it, had a great fascination for her, but she could hardly realise that his words contained a bare chance of its coming within her own reach.

“You don’t mean to say,” she said at last, “that there is any way by which you could claim?”

“I am not sure,” Harborough answered cautiously, anxious not to encourage the building of any castles in the air.

“Tell me what you mean then,” she said, and he explained the case as clearly as he could.

“My grandfather,” he said, “is the nearest we can get to the Harboroughs of Gurnett; he was called Gilchrist as I am, and was the middle one of three brothers. About the year 1843 he quarrelled with his family and left England; I think he turned Protestant.”

“He must have had convictions; I wonder if he was like you,” Bill observed under her breath with a particularly provoking look; but Harborough ignored the remark and went on with his history.

“Part of this,” he said, “I heard from Mr. Wagnall on Thursday, part I knew before. I have always been told that my grandfather left England on account of a quarrel; the story was usually told me as a warning against quarrelling, but I don’t know that it made much impression. What he did after he left England I do not know, travelled a bit I think at first, and then the next year he married in Paris. But his wife’s family, though they were living in France, were English; indeed it was from my grandmother, who knew this part of the country, that we had the tradition of our people. She does not seem to have known much about them; my father always said she was vague in her tales, and never knew anything personally of her husband’s relations. My grandfather died the same year that he married and before his son was born; my grandmother continued to live on in Paris with her own people, teaching English, I think, for she must have been poor from what my father said.”

“And he?” Bill asked.

“Lived in Paris too till he was about nineteen when, my grandmother being dead, he emigrated to Australia with a notion of gold-mining. At first he was unlucky; then he married when he was only twenty-two, and after that his luck changed, but as soon as he had made enough he cut the mining and bought a share in a sheep-run. I don’t know if he would have made anything more at the mining, but he was not very successful with the sheep; still there was always enough to live on as far back as I can remember. I am the second of his three sons; my elder brother died when he was a boy, my younger in 1882.”

“And your mother and father?”

“Yes, they died some while ago.”

“You are the only one left?”

“Yes, the only son of an only son. The family curse seems to have fallen upon us inoffensive colonists too; we are near dying out.”

Bill looked at him thoughtfully. “You are a long way from dead,” she remarked and then enquired as to the fate of the brothers of the elder Gilchrist.

“The younger,” Harborough answered, “died in 1845, so Mr. Wagnall told me, that is the year after my grandfather’s death; the elder came into the property and has it still. He is the man at Wood Hall now, a childless widower with no one nearer than a sister’s grandson to succeed him. He was two years older than my grandfather, I think, born in 1820.”

“In 1820,” Bill repeated thoughtfully; “then he was thirteen in 1833. Of course he remembered about the old Squire’s body; why he was the same age as the granddaughter who planned it!”

“Planned what? Whose granddaughter? What are you talking about?”

“Only a tale that is told in Gurnett,” Bill made answer; “I will tell you some other time; finish your family history first.”

He knew nothing as yet about her visit to Wood Hall. She would tell him of course, as she saw no reason why he should object to it; but it was a pity to interrupt his narrative, so she asked him to go on and explain the way in which all this family history bore on his connection with Wood Hall. Accordingly he told her of the custom of the succession of the youngest. “And it appears,” he concluded, “that, as the Harboroughs inherited according to this custom, the youngest son should always have succeeded to the estates.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know why,” he answered, feeling the question to be entirely beside the point. “It does not matter why; it was so, that is all. It is a tenure called Borough English by which some estates are held, and apparently the Harboroughs’ originally was so held.”

“I see,” Bill cried; “until the time of your grandfather Gilchrist it was so, and then, owing to his going away before his son was born and the other man not knowing he had a son at all, the elder brother got it.”

“Something of the sort.” Harborough was not inclined so entirely to attribute the chain of events to the ignorance of those in possession, but that did not matter to Bill.

“And you are going to claim through your grandfather?” she said.

“Yes, I expect so, in time,” Gilchrist answered. “But you are in too much of a hurry; wait a bit, and I will explain. Most likely I shall not claim in the present owner’s lifetime, that is if I ever do it at all; he is an old man in bad health, and they say he is not likely to outlast the year; I think I should wait till after his death.”

“It would be kinder,” said Bill.

But that was not Harborough’s reason, and though he did not say so, he made his real motive fairly clear. “It is a very difficult thing,” he said, “to turn out a man who has been in possession such a long time; indeed, it is just possible that if I could not prove that neither I nor my father knew that we had the right to claim for all those years, I should not be able to do it at all. If we had known it, and had for some reason left Mr. Harborough in possession, I don’t believe we could turn him out; but as we did not know I ought to be able to do it, though I don’t think I shall try unless he shows signs of living longer than now seems likely.”

“I see; then he will never know you have a claim?”

“No, not if I can prevent it. I will tell you why. He does not care much for the heir, it is said, though he wishes him to have the property for family reasons; he is altogether rather an eccentric old man”—Bill knew that—“and it is possible that if he is left to himself he will make no will. Now, I don’t want him to make a will, which would only complicate the case. If he has no right to the property he can’t bequeath it; but the existence of a will, bequeathing it to the recognised heir, would give him a show of right which he would not otherwise have. So, you see, I do not want a will made, and I do not want to give Mr. Harborough any reason for making one by hinting at my claim yet.”

“Is that fair?” Bill asked.

“Of course it is fair. What do you mean?”

“I don’t know, I am not quite sure,” she answered thoughtfully; “I shall have to think about it. But don’t let’s bother now; tell me about your case.”

“I don’t know what you mean by fairness,” Harborough said somewhat severely. “If there is anything unfair it is the way in which my people have been kept out all these years. As to my case, there is very little more to tell about it, except, of course, that I shall have to prove my legitimate descent from Gilchrist Harborough, that my grandmother was legally married to him, and all that.”

“How could she be anything else?” Bill asked wondering.

“He could have had another wife living at the same time, or he could have been married before, or something of the sort.”

This was a new but impossible difficulty to Bill. “Oh, but he wouldn’t,—at least, seeing that he was a Harborough—” She paused and then added demurely: “I thought you did not wish to belong to that played-out family, and had a poor opinion of their mortgaged property.”

“I can’t help my ancestors,” Harborough replied, “and besides, they are some way back; we have been honest working men for two generations. As for the property, it is not so much encumbered as is usually thought, so Stevens, the lawyer at Wrugglesby, says; it is his opinion that a practical man with a small capital and reasonable notions could pull the place together yet.”

“You!” Bill cried. “‘Thou art the man’!” and she made the best obeisance to him that she could without getting down from her perch on the low branch of an apple-tree.

“I don’t know about the reasonable notions,” Harborough said seriously, “and as for the small capital, what I have is not large for such a job; still, since I made the lucky speculation which emboldened me to ask you to be my wife, I suppose I can lay claim to a little capital. Something could be done with the place I am sure; I drove past the other day and made observations; there is a lot of fine timber still among all the rubbish in the wood and more in the open park-land—that’s worth something; then a good lot of that park could be cultivated profitably; it would take time, but I believe it could be done.”

“And the house,” Bill added, “is big too. If we lived there we could take boarders in the summer; if we advertised among the seaside and farm-house lodgings in the time-table, we should be sure to get some answers.”

Harborough never was quite sure whether she was in fun or in earnest; he was not sure now, but in either case he was annoyed and felt his annoyance to be justifiable. “That would be impossible,” he said severely, though had he given expression to what was in his mind he would have requested her not to be absurd. However, for politeness sake he contented himself with the milder speech, rising as he uttered it.

“Why?” Bill asked jumping down from her perch.

“Why? Because it would be out of the question. As Mrs. Harborough of Wood Hall how could you receive boarders? It may be all very well for you and Miss Hains to do it in London, though, as you know, I don’t altogether approve of the plan, but here—here it would be impossible.”

“Why impossible? You don’t explain.”

He was holding the gate open for her, and jerked it with annoyance as he answered. “To begin with, in that position—”

“Oh, but there wouldn’t be one,” Bill interrupted; “there would be no position. The stiff-necked county would hardly recognise you on the strength of your grandfather if you ploughed your park; and as for me—even if I were Madame La Princesse your wife I should still be ‘only Bill.’”

She uttered the name with the wealth of contempt and annoyance which Polly, at times of extreme irritation, could concentrate into its one syllable. Harborough felt irritated too; no man who has all his life assumed an indifference to position likes to be shown that he too has a trace of the universal respect for it.

“If you think,” he said coldly, “that I care for the county you are very much mistaken. Other people’s opinion is not of the slightest importance to me as you should know, and though I care a good deal what manner of woman my wife is, it is for myself I care, not for my neighbours.”

CHAPTER XVII.
THE RESPONSIBILITIES OF A GUARDIAN.

“It is my belief,” said Miss Minchin to Miss Gruet, when the sultry days of August had reduced the two ladies to visiting one another in the cool of the evening only, “it’s my belief that Mr. Harborough is courting Mrs. Morton’s cousin; he goes to Haylands so very regularly now.”

“Very likely,” Miss Gruet made answer, “although I should hardly have thought so poorly of him.”

“So poorly?” Miss Minchin repeated.

“Yes, so poorly, for she is little more than a child.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” Miss Minchin bridled at some recollection. “I had an offer before I was her age.”

That was true, although, since the suitor was still younger it could hardly be regarded as eligible. Miss Gruet, having no such testimony to bring forward, contented herself with saying, “Girls don’t marry so young nowadays.”

“No,” Miss Minchin was forced to admit, “no, perhaps you are right. But what takes Mr. Harborough so often to Haylands? He must go to see someone; who is it?”

Now, oddly enough, that was exactly the question Polly was propounding to herself, and seeing how entirely she considered the engagement (except for the secrecy) her own arrangement, it was strange. Fortunately about this time she had ample opportunities for studying the question, for she and Bella came to Ashelton as often as they could during the summer months. They usually walked from Wrugglesby, nearly a six miles’ tramp along dusty country roads; but as compensation they always drove home with a certain quantity of spoil stowed under the seat. Sometimes it was butter they brought back packed in a damp cloth, or eggs carefully held in Bella’s lap, or chickens showing under the back seat; sometimes it was only vegetables, or a basket of fruit, or a pigeon pie, or a basin of dripping, or some equally humble subscription to the larder. Polly despised nothing and refused nothing. When Theresa hardly liked to offer such trifles to the elder housekeeper, Bill relieved her of any difficulties by putting various small articles in the old safe which stood in the corner of the wash-house, and which came in the course of time to be kept for Polly’s sole use. “That’ll do for Polly,” she would say when Theresa debated how to use this or that; and if Theresa demurred saying, “I can’t offer her such things,” Bill assured her: “You can offer her anything you don’t mind her having; the only thing you can’t offer her is anything you don’t want her to have and only offer out of politeness. Put it in her cupboard; she’ll take it.”

And take it she always did. So, partly because this collecting of odds and ends suited her near, but effective, style of housekeeping, and partly from a sense of responsibility which prompted her to see how things went on at Haylands, Polly came often to Ashelton that summer. And what she saw there led her to ask herself the question which Miss Minchin asked: “Whom did Gilchrist Harborough come to see?” And the answer she gave herself was the one which with great truthfulness she gave in different words to Miss Minchin, “I don’t know.”

Miss Minchin asked the question, or rather, by less bald methods sought the answer, when Polly came to stay at Haylands in August. It was the middle of the month when she and Bella came; they had had to continue school during the earlier part of the month to compensate the pupils for the time lost at Miss Brownlow’s death, but by the middle they came to Ashelton to stay for a fortnight. For the first week Theresa would be there; for the second the three cousins would be left in charge as she and Robert were going away. It was a busy time for a farmer to leave, but Robert did not seem to mind; as he said that he would much rather leave now than in September, partridge-shooting possibly had more to do with his decision than farming. However that might be, he decided to go, and Polly and Bella came to Haylands with the understanding that they would look after Bill and the house during Theresa’s absence. It was a few days after their arrival that Polly met Miss Minchin in the lane. As they were going the same way they walked on together, Miss Minchin making many enquiries as to the health and general welfare of the cousins. Polly gave all suitable answers, and talked in her best style, with perhaps more regard for effect than accuracy. What she said in reference to Harborough, however, was mainly true, more true than she herself liked under the circumstances.

Of course, so she told herself, Harborough came to see Bill, and since, being a busy man with no spare time, his visits were paid at fixed hours, he usually did see Bill. It sometimes happened, though not often, that the time of his coming varied a little, and also it sometimes happened, even when he was regular, that Bill was busy or not to be found for a few minutes. On these occasions Theresa entertained him until Bill appeared, when she would have been quite willing to leave them to enjoy each other’s society undisturbed. But they did not show the least wish for such a thing. “We haven’t got anything private to say,” Bill told her once when Theresa remonstrated with her. So by degrees it came about that if the cousins were indoors Harborough joined them, and if they were out of doors he sat under the elm-tree with them, helping Bill to shell peas or string currants, or whatever peaceful occupation she might be engaged upon that evening. Theresa would willingly have taken such work from her on the evenings when Harborough came, but if she did Bill only got something else to do, and that possibly of a less suitable nature. Theresa could not understand the girl at all; she never seemed shy or eager to see her lover; she was never anxious to put on her best frock for his coming; and yet she appeared happy in the engagement. Of course Harborough himself was not demonstrative; he was always grave and serious when Theresa saw him, but no doubt, so she thought, he was different in her absence, thinking which she went away. Whereupon, the currants being done, the pair took to watering the garden with a silent industry and a strict attention to business.

Polly saw all this and more still with her shrewd little eyes, and before Theresa went away she spoke to her on the subject.

“You have noticed it too?” Theresa said, as if relieved to find it not all her own fancy. “Do you think Bill is really fond of him?”

“Yes, I do, and I think it is very hard on her that you should take so much of his attention.”

“I!” exclaimed Theresa flushing. “I! How can you say such a thing, Polly?”

Polly both could and did say such a thing, and she said it with the repetitions and variations she so well knew how to use, until Theresa, hurt and angry and mortified by turns, first denied the charge and then defended the action.

“Somebody must be civil to him,” she said at last. “Bill never wants to see him alone; she makes him work in the garden if I leave them; she won’t be nice to him or put her best dress on, or anything.”

“Bill is a little goose, and the chances are she does all that out of pride and contradiction because she is jealous of you.”

“She can’t be jealous of me, it is impossible,” Theresa said, and the next moment added, “and if she is, why does she not try to please him? When he wants her to talk seriously she won’t; she says the most ridiculous things in the gravest manner, and the gravest in the most ridiculous, till he never knows how to take her, and that’s annoying to a man, you know. And then she will persist in calling him Theo. For a long time she did not call him anything, at least not when I was there, always beginning, ‘I say,’ just as if that was his name; it was so rude, I told her about it. She said she did not like Gilchrist, there had been too many of them. I told her to settle that with him, but I’m sure I don’t know what she said, for now she calls him Theo which she says is short for theory, and I know he can’t bear it.”

To this recital of Bill’s misdeeds Polly only said: “I must have a good talk with Bill, I think she minds me more than you; only, you know, my dear Theresa, your being nice to Gilchrist will hardly compensate for Bill being nasty. I am sure you don’t mean anything but the very best, still, quite unintentionally of course, you sometimes make it a little hard for her.”

Theresa was truly grieved as Polly meant her to be, and determined to be very careful of her conversation with Harborough in the future. It must be admitted that she could not disguise from herself the fact that she really did enjoy talking to him, and he could not disguise from her woman’s wit the respectful and quite impersonal admiration he had for her.

Theresa was easy enough to deal with; Bill was the real difficulty, as Polly knew, a difficulty she did not feel at all sure of being able to tackle successfully. She thought over the subject for some time, and finally decided to leave it for the present. Theresa was going away in a day or two, and when she returned Bill herself was to leave with Polly and Bella. In these circumstances it hardly seemed necessary to open the question now, and Polly determined to study the matter for the present and speak of it while they were away together.

Theresa was only away for a week, but the three cousins left behind contrived to get a certain amount of excitement into the week. It was really Bill’s fault, Polly said, Bill and her plums. Plums were very scarce that year, not only in Ashelton but in all that part of the country. There had been every promise of a good yield in the spring, but a few late frosts had terribly damaged the crop; many trees were quite bare and many others had but little fruit; those in the Haylands orchard had escaped. The plums were decidedly the best of the trees in the orchard; they were younger and in better condition than the apples or pears, and they were, moreover, very good kinds. In the spring they had shown every promise of abundance of fruit, and when the late frosts came, damaging the neighbouring trees, they did not suffer much owing to good luck and a sheltered position. Bill was delighted by their escape, and during the summer took great interest in the health of the trees, propping up the overloaded branches and regretfully thinning the too abundant crop. By the end of August the fruit was ripe and a source of great satisfaction to her.

“I don’t see what you are going to do with them,” Polly said one morning as she looked at the trees from which Bill was filling Bella’s pudding-basin.

“We can’t eat them all,” Bella said, biting one as she spoke, “nor make jam, nor pies, nor give them away; there are far too many; they have all got ripe together. What a pity Theresa is not here; I wonder what she does with the fruit.”

“Sells it,” said Bill as she went on to look at the next tree.

“To whom?”

“I don’t know. The apples used to go away last year; I have seen some of the baskets about. These plums ought to be picked; they are quite ripe and the wasps are getting at them.”

“Yes,” Polly said judicially, “they ought to be picked to-day. I think, Bill, you had better get what we want for jam and perhaps you might get a basketful for Mrs. Dawson. Mr. Dawson was saying the other day that they had none at all. You had better gather all we can use this morning.”

“I mean to,” Bill replied, “but you have got to help. Oh, yes you have; they must be all, or at least the greater part picked to-day; you will have to help.”

“Bill,” Polly began with dignity, but Bella, disturbed about her sister’s property, interposed. “It does seem a pity not to sell them: I do think it is silly of Theresa not to have left any orders about them; can’t we write to her?”

“Not in time,” Bill answered. “I expect she left no orders because she did not think; she and Robert always call these my trees, because I take such an interest in them. Robert said I should keep anything I could make out of them; I don’t want to do that, but I mean to make something.”

“I don’t see how you are going to sell them,” Polly called from the gate as she was leaving the orchard.

“Don’t you? I have seen for several days. Don’t go, Polly, you must help to pick; it is going to be a busy day and you will have to help; you might begin at once while I find the baskets.”

“I’ll come too as soon as I have taken this to Jessie,” and Bella went away with the basin as she spoke, leaving Bill and Polly in animated conversation. When she came back to begin her share of the plum-picking she found Polly at work; Bill had coerced her into it somehow, and, what was more remarkable still, kept her at it. They all three worked steadily, finding it decidedly more tiring than they had anticipated. Not only did they gather the fruit, but they also packed it in the baskets in which it was to travel. In time the baskets gave out, and Bill proposed to borrow some from Mr. Dane. “I know he has got some,” she said; “I saw them round by his back door the last time I went for books. It won’t take me long to go and borrow them.”

“You can’t,” Polly said; “besides we have done enough; it is nearly four o’clock.”

“We sha’n’t have done enough,” Bill observed, descending her ladder, “until we have done all we can.”

“It would be a great pity to waste any,” Bella added; “there are heaps more just perfect, and this weather they won’t hang.”

“Do you intend to keep on till dark?” Polly demanded. “How absurd! Have you forgotten that Gilchrist Harborough is coming this evening?”

“All the better,—he can help,” was the only answer, and the gate closed after Bill as she went in quest of the rector’s baskets.

“It is perfect nonsense,” Polly said wrathfully; “why couldn’t she have got one of the men about the farm to do this work?”

“They are busy,” Bella answered; “I expect she does not want to take their time, more especially as Robert said she could have the profits.”

“There won’t be any; and if there are I see no reason why I should work for her profit.”

“It is not bad work. I wonder how she found out where to sell them; I expect she made Theo tell her. Do you like him, Polly? I think I do.”

“I don’t like this work,” was Polly’s only answer, “and I am not going to do any more of it at present; I shall lie down for half an hour.”

And away she went, calculating that Bill could not be less than half an hour in borrowing the baskets, and in any case she would hear her return through the open window. Bella, left to herself, went on industriously with her work until the sound of footsteps in the lane arrested her attention. She was standing on a high rung of the ladder, and peering through the plum-branches, she looked to see who might be passing, secure that she herself was unseen. In this belief she was, however, mistaken, for the passer by glancing up at that moment had the vision of a flushed face and a frame of golden hair, the curls all loosened and caught by the tiresome interwoven branches, the whole surrounded by those same branches in a way which he found almost bewildering.

“Good-afternoon, Miss Waring,” he said. “I was just on my way to Haylands about the bees,—is any one at home?”

Polly was at home, but Polly might not like to be disturbed; still of course the bees were a matter of business, so Bella looked out again, or rather, partly looked out, having in the moment’s retirement given some infinitesimal but effective touches to her tie and hair. Jack Dawson found her irresistible, but he had found her that before. Mrs. Dawson could hardly have selected a more momentous time for acquiring a hive of bees than the one she did, for her son Jack discovered that the Mortons’ bees were the best, in fact the only really good bees to be had, and even these he found needed a great deal of investigation before purchase. At least such must have been the case to judge by the number of calls of inquiry he paid and the length of time he spent looking at the hives with Bella. Mrs. Dawson is reported to have said at the end of the month that that hive cost her more than anything she ever bought, but eventually she came to a gentler way of thinking; for after all, though it undoubtedly is a criminal offence for only sons to marry, it is an offence they will commit, and Jack’s partner in guilt, or rather promised partner, won her way into Mrs. Dawson’s heart in time.

But that was all in the future; in the present, Jack, on his mother’s behalf, was industriously following up his quest for bees, and Bella, on her sister’s behalf, was helping him. It is to be presumed that these were their motives, though a casual observer might have thought their interests, though mutual, were more circumscribed on the occasion when they helped each other to gather Bill’s plums. Bella said she could not leave off till Bill came back; it would be so unkind if both she and Polly went away without a word of explanation. Jack agreed, saying that there was no hurry and he could wait any time, and while he waited he helped to make up for Polly’s desertion. Polly, meanwhile, slept peacefully, and Bill went by way of the rector’s back door into the rector’s presence.

CHAPTER XVIII.
THE PLUM HARVEST.

Bill was a privileged intruder at the rectory now, coming and going as she chose, saying and doing what she chose, with no one to hinder her.

At first the old rector had not known whether he hated or loved this grandchild of the dead past, this creature who was Wilhelmina, and Gipsy Alardy, and a score of other things half bitter and half sweet. But after a time he forgot to think of hatred or love; he never thought now of that dead past, for she was not Wilhelmina, nor Gipsy Alardy, nor anything but her untutored, half-developed self. So he buried the past again, and, accepting the present as he found it, turned to the work in hand. In that work he included Bill, and the queerest, pleasantest, most incomprehensible work he found her. So to the rectory she came for all manner of things and to the rector for all manner of information; he seldom refused her, never repulsed her, listened to her plans and fancies, never condemned nor ridiculed, lending a sympathetic ear to all things, even including those which some would have had him condemn. From her heart Bill longed to tell him of her promise to Harborough, feeling it almost a breach of confidence to shut him out of this secret; but when she asked Theresa if she might speak, Theresa said she had better not. She knew Mr. Dane was kind to her young cousin, but she did not understand the odd friendship there was between them, and, as she no doubt wisely said, should Bill tell one person, Harborough could justly claim the right to tell one on his side, and the secret would be a secret no longer; it must either remain among themselves or else be public to all the world. Bill saw no reason why it should be a secret, but as Polly advised her to say just what she thought best to Mr. Dane, she let the matter drop; she did not know Polly’s motives, but she would not in this follow her advice in opposition to Theresa’s. So Mr. Dane knew nothing about the arrangement, knowing only, as all Ashelton knew, that Gilchrist Harborough went to Haylands, but, owing to what he himself knew of Bill, he attached little importance to that.

On the day when Bill came to borrow the baskets the rector was busy, so busy that he was not disturbed by her light footstep nor aware of her presence until she was by his chair making her request.

“Baskets, Princess Puck?” he said; “of course, take what you like.”

And she had gone again before the ink in his pen was dry.

“Away already?” he said, looking up as the handle rattled when she closed the door after her.

“Yes, I’m very busy, and so are you.” She opened the door again an inch or two to say it.

“Ah, I see; you’re always busy.”

“I’m gathering plums. We have all three been doing it most of the day, and we shall keep on till dark; there are heaps to be gathered, the whole lot are ripe together. Would you like some? I’ll send some this evening.”

“Thank you, thank you, you are very kind. I dare say I shall be down your lane this evening, and if I am perhaps I can take them away with me; that will save your time and let me see you busy people at work.”

“You will come?” Bill opened the door wider to put the question joyously. “Monseigneur, you shall have the biggest and best, and as many as you can carry!”

Harborough’s visit had passed entirely out of her mind, and when it came back to her on her way home with the baskets she did not regret the rector’s promise to come. She went to the orchard with a light heart, and an ungainly appearance, having slung the two biggest hampers across her shoulders, to facilitate their transport, while she carried the smaller baskets in her hands. She went by way of the fields, and as Miss Minchin was engaged in chasing the course of the sun with her window-blinds on the other side of the house, she reached the orchard unobserved.

Jack Dawson and Bella were on the same ladder, and in the heart of the same plum-tree. They did not see Bill until she, having unburdened herself and discovered Polly’s absence, announced herself by the question, “Where is Polly?”

A ripe plum fell heavily from the branch above as Bella started at the voice. “I,—she’s gone in,—Mr. Dawson is helping me while she rests.”

“How long has she been resting?”

“Ever since you went away,—but, Bill—”

“Don’t disturb her,” entreated a masculine voice from the branches, and the masculine legs descended the ladder a little way. “I can stay and take her place; she must be awfully tired, you know.”

“She isn’t,” announced the inexorable Bill; “she’s lazy, that’s all. It is very good of you to offer to take her place, but if you really will help, you had much better take Bella’s; she has worked hard, as hard as possible.”

“If Miss Waring will allow me to help her?” Jack suggested persuasively.

“You will, won’t you, Bella?” Bill said; “and I’ll go and fetch Polly.” And she suited the action to the word.

“It is a pity to disturb Miss Hains,” Jack said and Bella agreed with him, sincerely hoping Bill would not succeed in the difficult task of uprooting the reposeful Polly.

However she was disappointed; in a very short time Polly, gracious and serene, accompanied Bill to the orchard. But the indefatigable couple were not disturbed in their industry, Polly, after polite greeting, going to work on a distant tree and taking Bill with her.

Jack Dawson helped them all the remainder of the afternoon, and Harborough found him still hard at work when he arrived in the evening. Polly, in her position of chaperone, regarded the two pairs with a judicial eye and felt dissatisfied. Jack and Bella were well enough, and their relative output of work and conversation was more calculated to satisfy her than the amateur market-gardener; it was the market-gardener herself and Gilchrist Harborough who displeased Polly.

“That young man is a splendid agricultural implement,” was her opinion as she watched him. “He might as well be Darby’s digger or somebody’s steam-plough, and Bill—well.” Here Polly sniffed aloud, but whether from contempt for Bill or sympathy with her own difficulties one could not say. At that moment her attention was arrested by Bill’s voice.

“You have come then, Monseigneur! You shall have the very best.”

Polly looked round sharply; the tone of the girl’s voice was so unlike that in which she usually spoke to Harborough, there was something of caress in it, of the frank familiarity of assured welcome and response. It was not wonderful that Polly looked to see if Theo answered to this new nickname, and when it was evident he did not, that she looked still more eagerly to see who did.

Mr. Dane, the courteous but somewhat exclusive rector of Ashelton! He was Monseigneur, it was for him Bill was opening the rickety gate, he whom she welcomed so gladly! It was surprising, Polly felt, but safe. Perhaps Harborough felt the same, for he did not seem to resent Bill’s evident satisfaction in Mr. Dane’s presence, and he did not, as Polly did, lecture Bill afterwards on the impropriety of addressing elderly gentlemen in so free and easy a fashion.

Of course Bill did not in the least mind what was said, and went to bed as indifferent to Polly’s remarks as Mr. Dane himself would have been. He went home thinking kindly of the young folks under the orchard trees, pretty Bella and her suitors, as he took both young men to be, the favoured and the unfavoured one. The favoured one,—and in judging Jack Dawson to be such the rector was right—did not retire to rest in the peaceful manner of the other plum-gatherers, having first had to endure an extremely stormy interview with his mother.

Perhaps Bella had some idea of what might be taking place, for she lay awake long that night, though Bill, with whom she shared the room, did not know it. The younger girl slept soundly and dreamlessly, not troubling at all about Jack or Harborough, nor yet about her own plans for the morrow. Those same plans necessitated getting up at a very early hour the next morning; fortunately Bella was sleeping quietly at the time, so without challenge Bill dressed and went out.

It was cold out of doors, everything drenched with dew; everything still, almost awfully still,—the dead world, the motionless air, the opaque sky, dark except where at the horizon’s rim it showed faintly grey like the ashes of yesterday. It was not really dark; Bill wondered why all things were so clear in this ghostly, shadowless twilight. “It is as if the world were dead,” she thought, “burned out and finished, resurrection and judgment over, and just me left behind forgotten.”

Then she unlocked the stable-door and, putting fancies aside, set seriously to work, first harnessing the old roan horse to the roomy light cart, and afterwards climbing in beside the hampers of plums placed there over-night. She had told Polly and Bella that she herself would take the plums away, and that she would have to start before breakfast to do it. Bella was too much disturbed about her own concerns to feel much interest, and Polly saw no reason to object, as had Theresa been at home she possibly might have done. As it was, the two remaining cousins had breakfast without Bill, though Polly was much annoyed by a note the girl had left saying she would not be back till the afternoon. All thoughts of Bill, however, were soon driven out of her head by the confidence Bella could withhold no longer.

And thus it was that Bill drove away with her plums in the grey dawn, not to Wrugglesby and the railway-station, but to Darvel, the regimental town, a far longer distance but a bigger town with richer inhabitants, military and civil. The strawberry roan was a good old horse though terribly ugly: he would trot well along the winding lanes and empty highways on the journey, and at the journey’s end stand patiently beside the curb while Bill went to the back doors to sell her plums. That was her notion of doing business; untroubled by any idea of license, and fortunately remaining untaught by painful experience, she went from house to house selling her fruit by the pound, having taken the dairy scales with her for the purpose. And a very good trade she did, for plums were scarce and hers were beyond reproach; she asked a fair price and gave good weight, dealing as an honest and humble trader should.

It was with a clear conscience and satisfied mind that she drove home, light in load and heavy in pocket. She came back by the Wrugglesby road, which was further but better going now that dry weather had loosened the roads. The afternoon was far advanced and the shadows stretched long on the cropped grass fields and matted seed-clover. In the distance the air still quivered with heat, and the red-roofed farms glowed warmly in it. Now and again came the whirl of machinery, some stack in process of erection or a reaper in a wheat-field near at hand. Bill looked around her, at the dusty hedgerows, the deep green trees, the poppies by the road, it was all very good in the drowsy afternoon; the whole world was so good, she could have sung aloud for joy.

Propriety, however, demanded that she should not, and moreover some one accosted her at that moment, a stranger asking the way to Sales Cross. She pulled up to tell him and then, as she was passing that way herself, offered him a lift. He accepted, glancing at her curiously; the voice and manner were not quite what he had expected from the general appearance of herself and her equipage. However, he seated himself beside her and began to speak of the harvest-prospects and the weather, equally popular topics of conversation just then. A small farmer or bailiff’s daughter, he thought her, concluding that latter-day education must in some way be responsible for her unusual manner.

So he talked to her on various topics, incidentally learning a little about herself, among other things that she had been to Darvel to sell fruit. In this way, Bill making no effort to learn anything of him and his business, they reached Sales Cross and there for the first time she asked him of his concerns, inquiring which way he wanted to go.

“There is a footpath leading off from the road on the left, I am told,” he said, and when she pointed it out to him he got down and bidding her good-afternoon went on his way.

“I wonder where he is going,” she thought. “He could get to part of Ashelton that way, but I don’t suppose he is going there, and he could get to several other places equally well.” Then she drove on dismissing the subject from her mind.

Now, Polly, though she had talked and thought principally about Bella that day, had found time, as the afternoon wore on, to wonder a little what mischief Bill had in hand, and to wonder a great deal more as to who would find her out. Polly’s morals were of a strictly utilitarian character, and being a great believer in the eleventh commandment Thou shalt not be found out, she was prepared to measure her wrath with Bill’s misdoings in proportion to the publicity of their nature. Therefore when, at about five o’clock in the afternoon the offender came to her on the lawn, she proceeded to catechise her in a brief and business-like way, reserving her most important question till the last.

“And whom did you meet? Who knows about this?”

“Who? Why, of course, all the people I sold plums to, and—”

“No, no, the people about here I mean, people whom we know.”

“Oh, no one.”

“No one in Ashelton or Wrugglesby? Didn’t you see anyone to speak to?”

“Yes; I gave a lift to a stranger who wanted to find the way to Sales Cross. He asked me if I had been to Wrugglesby market, and I told him that it was not market-day, and that I had been to Darvel with fruit.”

Polly was extremely angry at this indiscretion, and said so in no measured terms. She reflected, however, that, the man being a stranger, no harm had been done unless he happened to be visiting any of their acquaintances in the neighbourhood, in which case he might perhaps recognise Bill on some future occasion.

“But I don’t see what harm I have done,” Bill objected. “I dare say T. won’t like it when I tell her, she is rather particular, but you are not proud and it is no good saying you are; there is no reason why you should object any more than Theo will when I tell him.”

But Polly was not at all sure that Theo would approve of Bill’s performance, and she said so, without convincing Bill; she also reproved her sharply without showing her wherein lay the wrong. Bill, who did not at all believe in Polly, was entirely unimpressed, and Bella just then came out from the house.

“Have you told her?” she asked, and Bill noticed that she looked troubled and excited.

“No,” Polly said, “I have not; I had enough to do thinking about her behaviour.”

“Told me what?” Bill asked. “What is it?”

And because they felt the news they had to tell was of greater importance than her own comparatively obscure misdoings, they told her. Soon even Polly had forgotten about Bill in the greater news; as for Bill herself, she thought no more of anything but Bella and her happiness in Jack’s love and her fear of Jack’s mother. Bill could not quite understand the fear; if you were sure of the love, in her opinion, you could not be afraid, for nothing would matter. And the love,—she looked rather wistfully at Bella, wondering why she could not feel as this cousin did. But she said nothing of these things, forgetting them for the time being in the engrossing talk which was only closed when they all went indoors, Bill saying as they went: “But, Polly, how about your lodgings now? By next summer you will have no one to help you.”

“I shall go on alone,” Polly answered magnanimously. “I shall be able to do it, and even if I could not, I should not dream of standing in the way of either of you.”

“But you seem to want us both to get married,” Bill said.

“I do, if you marry well. I am sure that neither of you would forget all I have done for you, and I am sure you will both remember how valuable even trifles are to me.”

There was something faintly suggestive of the beggar’s whine in Polly’s tone, which made both the younger cousins laugh as they went into the house completely forgetful of Bill’s doings.

But there was one who did not forget them, who felt he had good reason to be angry with them, and that one was Gilchrist Harborough. It was to him that the stranger Bill met was going. He was a Sydney lawyer and the fortunate possessor of private means; he had been a friend of Harborough’s in the new country, and now that he was home for a holiday in the old, Harborough had thought it worth while to tell him the story of his claim to the Gurnett estates, asking his opinion rather than his help. The lawyer, however, was so much impressed with the strength of the case when he first heard the story in June, that he immediately set to work on his own account to verify one or two necessary points. Having by this week’s mail received from Australia the information he wanted, he came to tell Harborough of his success. At first he intended to write, but as he was going to stay a week or two with some friends further down the line, he broke his journey at Wrugglesby and spent a couple of hours discussing the situation with Harborough.

Unfortunately, he did not confine himself entirely to business during that couple of hours, for he casually mentioned the little fruit-seller who gave him a lift in her empty cart. “The queerest little oddity I have ever seen,” he said. “I wonder if you know who she is; let’s see if I can describe her. She was small, dark, shabby, shabbier than any cottage-girl I have yet come across in this well-favoured old country—untidy, simple, though ’cute I should say, frank as an American, brown as a berry, hair dark but reddish, face,—I don’t know, a provoking little face, and perfectly irresistible eyes.”

Harborough knew who she was though he did not say; a slighter description would have served him. There were not two such about; two brown girls who spoke good English and sold fruit by the pound in Darvel, who wore their right boots laced with string (Harborough knew that boot well) and had brown eyes with the sunshine in them; who made friends with all comers, who whistled to the birds in the hedges, who was, in fact,—Bill, his promised wife.

CHAPTER XIX.
PETER HARBOROUGH: SHOT.

Bella was not proud, neither was she exacting in any particular; but there are times when even the least proud is tried by his family. Bella was so tried on the day that she went with Polly and Bill to Bymouth.

Bymouth was the place selected by the three for the change which Polly said they needed after all their trouble. They could not afford a change, it is true; but as Polly also said: “It is no good waiting till you can afford a thing; by that time you will probably not want it.” Bella agreed with Polly; Bill’s cautious vote on the opposite side was overruled, and to Bymouth they went. Bymouth, being four miles from a railway-station, had the merit of being a cheap place; a railway-line was indeed on its way there, but had not yet got very far. Visitors who wished to go to Bymouth drove from Bybridge, or walked, sending their luggage by the carrier’s cart. The cousins walked, and as the carrier charged threepence for each package Polly said, “We must not take too much.”

Bella agreed: it was easy to agree, for they had not much to take, and they were only going for a week; but Polly’s notion of luggage and Bella’s were not identical. This was the first of Bella’s trials; the matter of provisions was another question which needed settlement. Polly said they had better take all they could with them, for Bymouth (she had never been there) was a very out-of-the-way place where everything would be difficult to get: also (she added as an afterthought) what they took with them they would have free, while what they bought there they would have to pay for. Bella did not see the necessity of provisioning themselves as if they were going to a desert-island; however, she gave way to a certain extent, and Polly put a cold fowl in her hat-box (Bella would not have it in hers), three large lettuces rolled up in Bill’s bathing-dress, and a neat packet of fat ham in slices securely wedged among the same obliging cousin’s underwear.

“You can take the tea,” Polly said, handing Bella a large paper bag.

Bella took it in so pleasant a manner that Polly was induced to try her with some plum turnovers which she was anxious not to leave behind, because she said, “they would be so nice to eat in the train.”

“You can’t eat things in the train,” Bella exclaimed scandalised, “least of all plum turnovers. Besides, do you think I am going to open my luggage in the train to get them out? Why, it will be in the van!”

“So it will,” Polly agreed; “I forgot that. Still, they will be nice to eat when we get there; we shall be hungry then, for we must dine very early to leave in time.”

But Bella was obdurate; she would not take the turnovers, which she was sure would not be wanted.

“Oh, well, please yourself,” Polly said good-humouredly, and packed them in the crown of Bill’s hat. “She will have to wear her best one,” she said; “this is much easier to pack.” And she crammed in hat and turnovers together.

Bella, not seeing what she was doing, raised no objections, but on the subject of apples she was firm. There were a certain number of windfall apples Polly wanted to bring, because, she said, fruit was always dear at the seaside; but she could not get them in among her things or Bill’s, and Bella absolutely declined to have them. Polly was annoyed, but at last gave it up, leaving the apples scattered over the dressing-table, while she turned her attention to strapping up waterproofs. Bill had begun to do this, putting in with them an extra petticoat; Polly added the subscription of a dressing-jacket, but she was called down-stairs just then and Bella took the straps from Bill and persuaded her to give up the idea of taking the additions. “You don’t want them,” she said, “and we can’t go about looking as if we were bringing home the family washing in a mackintosh.”

“Why does Bella want to look so respectable?” Bill asked Polly, when they were alone later on.

“Because,” Polly answered severely, “she is a lady.”

Bill, not at all impressed, smiled her derision, and enquired: “Why was she so cross when she found out too late that my best boots were packed?”

“Because Jack Dawson will be at the station. Just as if”—Polly was contemptuous—“he would look at your boots! It is market-day, so he is going to Wrugglesby; he is going to drive Bella—you and I and the luggage will go in the chaise with Sam.”

“I see,” Bill said, and began to make various odds and ends, refused accommodation elsewhere, into a parcel. She had no idea of annoying Bella, but she had two different pieces of brown paper, both too small, and no genius for making parcels.

Polly glanced round to see if there was anything forgotten; her eye fell on the apples. “It does seem a pity to leave them,” she sighed. Then an idea occurred to her and her face brightened. “I know what I will do,” she said.

She turned to an open drawer and stirred it over till she found a small calico bag. She had many such,—Bill called them nosebags—which she used to hold all manner of odds and ends collected from various people. The one she brought out now contained scraps of ribbon, the accumulation of many years. She emptied it, finding a home for most of its contents in a smaller bag already used to hold some fifteen pieces of pencil. Then she put the best of the apples into the empty bag and forced it some way up the centre of Bella’s neat roll of waterproofs. “It is a pity to unfasten them,” she said; “they are so nicely done up. I am sure the bag won’t fall out, and it hardly shows at all.”

That may have been, but the first thing Bella saw when she came on the platform at Wrugglesby was the bag, mouth-end foremost, sticking out of the roll which Bill held under her arm.

“Are they here?” Jack asked as he came out of the booking-office with her ticket. They were here, very much here; poor Bella almost wished they were not.

“I don’t see them,” Jack went on, looking down the crowded platform: the train stopped everywhere and was always full. “Oh yes,” he said at last, “there’s Miss Hains, but I don’t see the luggage.”

Bella could hardly see anything else, she was so painfully conscious of it—Polly’s round tin hat-box, packed to bursting, with the white string of some garment shut in the hinge; the little hair-trunk with a broken handle (the property of the late Mr. Hains), Bill’s paper parcel resting on the top; Bill herself, with her old boots very much in evidence, standing beside.

Polly caught sight of Bella and smiled pleasantly as they approached; Jack took charge of the luggage and the train came in.

“Jump in, and I’ll hand the things to you,” he said. “Are you going to have this in the carriage?” and he lifted the tin hat-box which would neither go under a seat nor in a rack.

“Yes, yes, please!” Polly cried, and took it from him.

He picked up Bill’s parcel; the two ends drooped in a dangerous manner, but he handed it to its owner without mishap, while Polly tried to force the unwieldy hat-box under a seat. It would not go, and after disturbing efforts Polly left it among the legs of the other passengers, straightening herself just in time to see Bill drop her parcel in Bella’s lap and take the roll which Jack handed to her, the bag of apples falling out with a thud as he did so.

“Hullo!” said Jack; “what have I dropped?”

Bella grew scarlet, and prayed that the bag might have fallen down on the line. No such thing,—it lay on the platform, one of the apples shaken out by the fall beside it. Jack picked it up and gave it to Bill. “Here you are, Miss Bill,” he said; “wait a moment, here’s another one,—you nearly lost your refreshment that time.”

Fortunately the train started almost immediately and so prevented Bill from explaining that the apples were Polly’s and not hers. Bella leaned back in the carriage overcome with shame, while Bill serenely restored the apple to the bag, and then tried in vain to get it back into its original hiding-place. “It won’t go,” she said at last; “we shall either have to undo the straps or carry it separately: which would you rather, Bella?”

“I don’t care; it does not matter.” Bella felt that to be asked which she preferred now was adding insult to injury.

“Let us undo the straps,” Polly said; “then we can put your parcel in too; it does not look very strong.”

Bill unfastened the straps, and finding the parcel too broad to go inside comfortably, she unfastened that too and rearranged its miscellaneous contents. Then she packed it and the apples into a waterproof; one of the apples rolled on to the floor and was pounced upon by a small fellow-traveller.

“Mustn’t, mustn’t,” the mother said; “it belongs to the ladies; give it to the ladies.”

But the ladies, as represented by Polly, were benign and made a present of the apple, afterwards entering into conversation with the mother on the subject of the age and habits of the child. Bella took no part, and Bill applied herself to the refastening of the straps. When that was done she listened to what was being said, for the talk by this time had worked round to Bymouth, which, it seemed, the mother knew well.

Now Bymouth had been Bill’s own choice; she did not know much about it, nor did the others, except that the journey there was a cheap one and that, after all, was an important piece of knowledge. The thing, however, which attracted Bill was the fact that the recognised heir to Wood Hall had been spoken of in her presence as Harborough of Bybridge. She did not exactly expect to come across him while passing through the small town on her way to Bymouth, but she had a vague idea that she might see him, and she was anxious to know what he was like. Yet another reason for her interest in the place was that her history of the county had told her that it was the home of the Corby family, they who had also owned the small manor of Corbycroft whence the old Squire’s body had been carried to the Chapel at Wood Hall. Somewhere between Bybridge and Sandover, a place somewhat higher up the coast than Bymouth, had been their ancestral home. It had been pulled down long ago, and the family had died out, probably in great poverty from the story of the old squire’s body being in danger of arrest for debt. But in their day the Corbys had been rich: all the ground on which the now fashionable watering-place of Sandover stood had been theirs; and though as agricultural land it had not been worth much, its annual rental now was more than enough to reinstate the family fortunes twice over.

Bill asked many questions of their talkative travelling-companion when she found that, besides being born at Bymouth, she had lived since her marriage at Sandover. However, she could tell little of what Bill wanted to know; she could speak of the extravagant price of lodgings at Sandover, the beauty of the pier, the number of the grocers’ shops,—her husband owned one, the very best in the town. There were tombs, she said, lots of old tombs in St. Clement’s churchyard; people often came to see them. “Old gentlemen come with spades and things,” she went on, becoming somewhat mixed in her ideas, “and poke about and read inscriptions and find no end—why, the cliffs are full of queer things, fossils as big as your hand and little tiny shells. Sandover is a very interesting place.”

“I dare say,” Polly said with vacant affability; “we must try to go there one day.”

She had not the least intention of going, but Bill, who did not say so, had, and she brought their loquacious informant back to St. Clement’s and the tombs. After some time she learned that the interesting churchyard was situated on the outskirts of Sandover, on the landward side. The particular attraction of the tombs she could not learn, her informant having only been there once: “When my Joey was nine months old, and it was a hot day too, I carried him all the way; my sister, she did offer to help me but—”

Here she addressed herself to Polly, who sympathised on the subject of heat and the weight of nine months old babies until the tombs seemed forgotten. But Bill, patient and persistent, was at last rewarded by hearing that the charm of one lay in the fact that it commemorated a man who shot himself nearly a hundred years ago.

“They say,” continued Joey’s mother, taking the core of the apple from the disappointed Joey, to the great relief of a maiden lady in a light gown, “they do say he didn’t ought to’ve been buried there at all, for they were very particular in those days about burying suicides at the cross-roads. However, some thought he hadn’t really shot himself, but that his friend, who he’d been gambling with, murdered him or something. They didn’t rightly know, so they put him in the churchyard on the chance, as the nearest cross-roads had already been took up for a farmer who cut his throat with a sickle.”

Bill, who had handled one, wondered how he did it, but contented herself with asking the name of the other suicide.

“I can’t call to my mind,” was the answer she received, “but he was one of the gentlefolks. I’ve heard my good man say he was squire, but of course it was long before his time; there’s none of the name about now; but my husband, he’s a great one for finding out things, he’s—”

And there followed a detailed account of his peculiarities and accomplishments, at the conclusion of which Bill suggested that the forgotten name might be Corby.

“That’s it!” the voluble lady exclaimed with delight. “Fancy you remembering it and me not! I have got a head! Corby, that’s it—or is it Harborough? There are both there, but I think it’s Corby; they were the great people hereabouts; my man says they used to own all the land, but they are dead and gone now, every one of them.”

“Who owns the land now?” asked Bill.

“A Mr. Briant, a rich man living in London; he comes to Bymouth for shooting, but he don’t trouble Sandover much. He’s made a good thing of it, a fine man of business he’s called, though I should call him precious close myself.”

A list of Mr. Briant’s delinquencies followed, with an account of the way in which he was bringing other seaside places into fashion, a form of speculation to which he seemed addicted. Bill did not listen very much, she was thinking of the long dead Corbys and Harboroughs. She thought of them a good deal both then and later, determining to pay their graves a visit at the first opportunity. But she did not put this determination into practice at once, for she forgot all about it during the first two days at Bymouth. The cousins arrived there on a Thursday evening; Friday and Saturday were two golden, never-to-be-forgotten days to Bill, in which she cannot be said to have thought of anyone or anything. She did precisely what she pleased, and, according to Polly, undid all the little good she had gained during the past months. “She is five years younger, and ten times worse than she ever was,” said that remorseless critic, and debated how best she could speak to the offender about Gilchrist and her behaviour to him. Bill did not trouble herself much about Gilchrist at this time; Polly told her that she ought to write to him every day as Bella did to Jack, but this she entirely declined to do, and only under great pressure could she be induced to write every other day, considering even that a great waste of time and stamps as she had nothing to say to him.

While Polly was still pondering on the subject of Gilchrist Harborough, Bill’s thoughts returned to the other and older members of the family. On Sunday she recalled her intention of visiting their graves, and went to St. Clement’s, Sandover, for the afternoon service. She walked in the heat of the day (thereby losing her dinner), reached the church in time for the Magnificat, and heard the dreariest music and the most unedifying sermon in the world. But it did not matter; she was seventeen, sound in wind and limb, body and soul, and consequently quite unconscious of herself mentally, morally and physically. The womanhood, which had timidly tried to assert itself during the early summer, had slipped away; the thoughts and cares, the hopes and fancies which had begun to grow in the past months were lulled to sleep now by the sea and the sunshine, playmates which had called her irresistibly during these last days. She was a child still though she was not conscious of it; afterwards, in looking back, she knew those three perfect days were the last of her childhood.

When the service was over she went out into the churchyard to examine the gravestones, which did not prove so numerous or so interesting as she had expected. A fair proportion of the older ones were in memory of the Corbys, who also, as she had seen during the service, had two tablets within the church inscribed to them. One she could not read; the other was to the honour and glory of a lady named Jane, wife of one Richard Corby, and evidently the pattern and model of what a wife should be; she possessed so many virtues that Bill felt, when she saw how young she had died, that, though sad, it was but natural.

“She must have been the mother of the granddaughter who managed the old Squire’s burial,” she thought as she craned her neck to see the date. “I expect Jane would have objected to that business. I wonder what became of the granddaughter; perhaps she is buried outside.”

But she was not; there were no more recent tombs to the family outside. Jane’s husband had died and been buried abroad some years after his wife, the event being announced briefly at the foot of the encomium of that lady’s virtues. The old Squire, who must have died later still, was not buried in this part of the country; the few graves in St. Clement’s churchyard which bore the Corby name were all of older date, the inscriptions of some half effaced, none in their briefness telling a story, romantic or tragic, of that forgotten past. The stone slab in memory of the suicide was hardly an exception to this rule, and the man whose brief record it bore was not a Corby at all. Peter Harborough, died at Corby Dean in this parish. March 12th, 1799. Shot. That was all; of the history of his life and the tragedy of his death there had been found nothing to say but the one word, shot. To Bill it seemed almost terrible in its uncompromising briefness. As she stood looking at the stone, a brown-winged butterfly rested for a moment on the moss-grown lettering. “Who did it?” She asked herself. “Who and why?” But there was no answer; she did not know who, nor yet why some unknown hand had left this single record of the tragedy.

She turned away at last, and unfolding the cheap little map of the district she had borrowed to help her on the way to St. Clement’s, she spread it on a flat tombstone and searched for Corby Dean. It used to be the seat of the Corby family, she knew; now that the house was pulled down the name seemed to have passed to a small farm and a handful of cottages built, apparently, on the spot where the house once stood.

“Corby Dean meant the house where Peter Harborough was shot,” Bill said with her finger on the map. “He was with the Corbys then. What happened? What were they doing?”

She clasped her hands round her knee and gave herself up to dreams. All round her was the peace of earliest September, rich in its haze of tender warmth, summer still except for the opalescence of its lights, the coolness of its lengthening shadows. But Bill did not see it; she was building in her mind a history of the past, reconstructing the life which had been, groping in her memory, feeling that there, if she could but find it, was a picture of this old tragedy; a tale, nay, more than a tale, an actual experience if she could but recall it. A robin chirped shrilly in the churchyard yew; she started at the sound and the half-awakened memory was gone from her, the ghosts crept back to their graves, the past was merged in shadows again. Here was nothing but the stillness of Sunday afternoon, the peace of the earth’s sabbaths of September. Such golden restful days had been before these men lived, and still were though they were gone.

She rose, and folding her map, went out of the churchyard shutting the gate behind her. Dead; that generation was dead, gone, forgotten, that generation—and the next? That too was lost in mist—and the next? The Corbys were ended, exhausted, but the Harboroughs? This brought her to the present day and to Harborough of Bybridge. She remembered that as yet she had heard nothing of him, and so remembering, she determined if possible to find out what manner of man he was—a determination she need hardly have troubled to make, for the next day, without effort on her own part, she knew.

Monday did not seem a propitious day for discoveries; the weather was unsettled in the morning and the afternoon was one of ceaseless rain. Polly, seeing the state of affairs, prepared to spend three pleasant hours over her wardrobe; she pulled the table to the window, brought out her Sunday hat, took off the trimming, and proceeded to rearrange it with the bows behind instead of before. Bella retired to the bedroom (they only had one between the three) to write a letter, and Bill found a delightful occupation down-stairs. Their rooms were over the village shop which was also the post-office for a wide district. The rain seemed to make very little difference to the business done there; in fact it appeared to rather increase the number of customers, those who were not obliged to come finding some excuse to spend ten minutes or so in this cheerful little centre of gossip.

Mrs. Rose, the landlady and post-mistress, was short-handed just at present, her assistant having gone home to nurse a sick mother. The girl who helped with the housework came in to lend a hand, but she was not clever, and the drawing-room lodgers had an elaborate tea at five o’clock which seemed to require much preparation in the afternoon. Thus it was without much trouble that Bill persuaded Mrs. Rose to let her help in the shop that day. The permission once given she set to work with great satisfaction, and soon found out something of the whereabouts of the articles most in demand. The stock was a very miscellaneous one, ranging from boots and twine through strange specimens of crockery and many-coloured cottons to Gregory’s Powder and treacle. Occasionally it took some little while to find the thing required, but the customers were in no hurry; indeed, most of them seemed more inclined to talk than to buy, Mrs. Rose seconding them when she was not despatching a telegram or otherwise conducting State-affairs through the medium of her post-office. Bill talked a good deal and listened even more; her parcels, it is to be feared, were not of the neatest, but her conversation was admirable and the customers seemed satisfied.

These customers were a representative lot. Some were visitors who found the afternoon tedious and came to while away the time by buying sweetmeats or papers or strange little penny dolls, according to their age and tastes; some were neighbours from near by come for a pound of marmalade and a gossip; others were from the next village, genuine customers really anxious to transact business. The landlady from the house next door came once, being in trouble because her lodgers would have curry that night, and “she without a mite of curry-powder in the house.” A man from the coastguard station came asking for a species of tobacco that Bill took ten minutes to find, during which time he gave limitless information about the prospects of the weather. One of the customers was an anxious mother who wanted to buy castor-oil, but Bill, discovering that there was none, induced her to have Gregory’s Powder instead. “It will do just as well if he is five years old,” she said putting up a small dose. “Now, my dear, what for you?” This was said to a little girl with eyes just level with the top of the high counter.

“Treacle, half cup,” was the answer, and the cup, with the coppers wrapped in paper reposing inside it, was handed up.

Bill turned to the green barrel-shaped tin canister with the label golden syrup and the spigot-tap she had been itching to turn all the afternoon. As the purchaser of Gregory’s Powder left the shop, another customer came in, a young fellow in splashed gaiters and streaming mackintosh. Bill did not notice him much, being engaged in a struggle with the tap grown stiff by reason of age and treacle. He held a paper in his hand, perhaps a telegram, but he waited patiently enough while an animated conversation went on between Mrs. Rose and an elderly lady whom she had just served. The tap moved a little, and the treacle began to run, slowly, it must be admitted, but still it ran, in the course of time doubtless the cup would be half filled. Bill glanced at the last comer; “a member of the surrounding aristocracy” she thought, noticing an indefinable something about his clothes and bearing and clear-cut profile. When he turned the accuracy of the profile was lost, but the eyes, very grave young eyes, met hers and—

Her heart began to beat very fast, though she could not in the least tell why. She ought to have lowered her eyes, but she did not; they were fixed; she could not look away, and he did not look away either. She could hear the beating of her heart plainly, almost as if some giant hand were clutching it. She was afraid, she knew not of what, afraid to look, afraid to look away, most terribly afraid of herself, ashamed, yet foolishly, triumphantly glad. Her hands grew very cold and moist, her breath came short, she lost consciousness of what was going on around her; the little dim shop vanished, the pile of boots and pans and seaside pails, the child who peered at her over the counter, the women who talked by the desk. They two were alone, he and she, alone in all the world.

“Cup’s runnin’ ower.”

Bill started like one waking from a deep sleep; the dark, greenish fluid was slowly running over the sides of the cup. She forced the tap back; her hands seemed so weak it was difficult to move it, and they trembled till she could hardly hold the cup. She gave it to the child,—one cannot put surplus treacle back into a tightly closed canister—she gave it, full as it was, and the child took it, carefully licking the edges to prevent any running to waste, and walked sedately out of the shop. Bill sat down on a little high stool behind the counter; her face was very pale and she was shaking all over. Mrs. Rose, who had disposed of her last customer, saw her. “Why Missie,” she said, “you’re tired out. I oughtn’t of kep’ you here all this blessed afternoon.”

“I am not tired, thank you,” Bill protested mechanically.

But Mrs. Rose was unconvinced. “That I’m sure you are; I never saw such a lot of folks as we had this afternoon, a gossipin’ lot too. As for that Mrs. Randal, I thought she’d never go, taking up the room like that! I’m sure that gentleman was going to send a telegram and he never did; he walked out of the shop without sayin’ a word, a loss of sixpence to the Government.”

“Who is he, do you know?” Bill’s voice sounded curiously stifled in her own ears; she looked down as she spoke, but she could feel the colour rising to her forehead.

“Who? Why, young Mr. Harborough of Bybridge.”

CHAPTER XX.
HARBOROUGH OF BYBRIDGE.

Kit Harborough paced the lane restlessly. The rain had ceased but he still wore his long mackintosh, and in one pocket the unsent telegram was crushed forgotten. For a moment he stood, then walked his five yard beat of wet road again. A church-bell sounded on the moist air,—curfew, they still tolled curfew at Bymouth; it was eight o’clock and nearly dark in the deep lane. On either hand rose high banks luxuriant with unclipped nuts and dogwood and sharp-thorned sloes, the late rain still dripping from every spray; the pleasant scent of wet ferns filled the air, the pungent flavour of the fungus on some tree-stump in the hedge mingling with the smell of the drenched grass growing tall and rank beside the road. The fragrance of the refreshed earth reached Kit but he hardly knew it, hardly heard the creak of the hidden grasshoppers in the moist darkness of the banks, hardly saw the wild flowers glimmering in the roadside grass.

He leaned against a gate and looked across the darkening land, across the stubble-field whence the corn had been carried, over the slope of the hill to the village in the hollow, a huddle of roofs in the gathering gloom, the chimneys sharp against the sky and the smoke-wreaths hanging low in the wet air. Lights were beginning to twinkle here and there, one in the house at the corner, the little shop where he had seen her.

He settled himself against the gate-post and watched. He was two-and-twenty and had never looked consciously at a woman before. Two and twenty, and now he had found, among the mouse-traps and string-balls and miscellaneous gear of a village shop, a little brown witch with the spell of a dead man’s charm in her eyes, the passion of a dead woman’s love in her blood!

A partridge rose suddenly on the further side of the stubble-field; there was a whirr of wings, and then silence again and the soft drip of the wet trees. Then he heard a swift, light footfall, and saw a little figure speeding up the lane, perhaps to reach the high ground near the gate whence to look at the surrounding country in the beauty of this tearful twilight.

Kit Harborough stepped out of the shadow by the gate to the centre of the road: the girl stopped abruptly with a little cry.

“I knew you would come,” he said.

He did not know how he knew, or if he really knew; he did not stop to consider and she did not ask him. “You!” was all she said, “You!”

“Yes,” he answered.

“Oh,” and it seemed almost as if she were distressed. “I—I wanted to speak to you; I have something I must tell you.”

“Me? I am very glad.”

He was astonished at himself, being a curiously diffident boy in some respects; so inexperienced, too, that had he stopped to think he would never have known what to say. But he did not think, he spoke on impulse, and the words came naturally enough; his only fear was lest she should escape and he should lose her in the gloom, but even that was not a real fear; he felt as if he could prevent her.

She was standing in the middle of the road now. “You are glad?” she said. “That is because you do not know.”

She looked up at him as she spoke and he, because he could not help it, or because he willed it, or for some other reason, or the want of one, looked down at her.

Ah the smell of the rain-washed earth and the wood-smoke from the cottage below the hill, the chirp of hidden grasshoppers, the drip, drip, drip from the nut-boughs near the gate! Ah youth and ignorance and the first sweet taste of love and life!

The partridge, disturbed by the girl’s coming, returned to rest chuckling softly. Kit looked round but did not move; he was not very close to her; it seemed almost as if he thought the place whereon she stood was holy ground.

“Bill!”—Polly’s voice rang shrilly—“Bill! Are you up the lane? Come in at once!” For an instant even the grasshoppers ceased, then—“Bill! Bill!” came again, but no nearer, Polly did not wish to brave the mud of the lane needlessly.

“I must go,” Bill said; “and oh,”—with sudden remorse for the lost moments—“I have not told you!”

“Tell me to-morrow.” He was surprised at his own boldness. “I am staying here, at the River House, and you—”

“We are staying at the shop—you know.” Bill grew rosy in the darkness.

“Yes, I know,” he answered very softly.

“We go away on Thursday, and I must tell you.”

“Thursday!”

“Bill!” Polly could not make up her mind whether Bill was in the lane or not.

But the culprit, who was thinking solely of the news she had to tell Kit Harborough, did not heed Polly. “I must tell you,” she said, “you must hear, it is so unfair! But when? How?—oh, it is hard!”

“Hard?”

“Bi-ill!”

“I must go!”

“Yes, but first, when shall I see you? When will you tell me?”

“To-morrow early.” Bill instinctively fixed her clandestine affairs for the time when the less energetic cousins were not awake to their responsibilities or her proceedings. “Early,—I’ll bathe before breakfast.”

“So will I; I often go for a swim first thing, and afterwards—”

“I will meet you,”—she finished for him—“about seven; I will tell you then.”

“Bill! I can hear you talking! You are in the lane!”

“Yes, Polly, and I am going back across the field so I shall be home before you.” And she was over the gate and down the field almost before Kit realised she was gone.

Polly turned round and went home; she had never ventured further than the mouth of the lane, neither was she certain that she heard Bill’s voice in conversation, but she was exceedingly annoyed with Bill for having kept her standing there so long in the damp. She was also slightly annoyed with herself for being kept. “As if it mattered what Bill did!” Only, as she was out (Bella had a romantic idea that she wanted to look at the sea by night) she thought she might as well see what Bill was doing. She had an instinctive feeling, based on her general distrust of humanity, that Bill was sure to be doing something wrong.

For the sake of her own satisfaction—Polly not possessing the disposition which “rejoiceth not in iniquity”—it is a pity she did not penetrate a little way up the lane, for she certainly would have seen Kit Harborough had she done so. He stood where he was for a full minute after Bill had left him, absolutely still in the middle of the road. It did not matter; he was already so hopelessly late for dinner at the River House that a minute either way could make no difference. If he changed very quickly there was a chance that he would be in time for the cheese; earlier than that he could not expect to appear. Dinner and such mundane matters did not occur to him till after Bill had gone, and when they did he wondered what excuse he was to give to his host. On this subject he need not have troubled himself, for his elaborate explanations were thrown away, Mr. Briant not being deceived by them for a moment.

“Petticoat,” he observed briefly in answer to all Kit had to say. He was a man of some experience, and there was something in the boy’s manner, in his very indifference to dinner, which betrayed him to his elders.

He flushed hotly; it was desecration even to think of Bill and the meeting in the lane here.

“Hullo! It seems a serious case,” some one observed, and a man at Kit’s elbow inquired: “First, isn’t it, Harborough? Lucky young dog, he’s never met a divinity before; he has got it all to come.”

Kit’s eyes flashed. “You are entirely mistaken,” he said coldly.

“All right,” his host said with great good-humour. “Did you send my telegram?”

Until that moment he had not thought of it; “I—I forgot it,” he was obliged to answer confusedly.

“What a deuce of a time she kept you!”

“She did not! She did no such thing.”

There was a roar of laughter, and Kit, realising his blunder, had the good sense to leave it and apologise for the neglect of the telegram. This being of but slight importance was forgotten by the party far more quickly than his unfortunate admission.

In the meantime Bill was also taking the consequences of her wanderings in the lane. Polly was severely reprimanding her for going out after dark, for keeping other people waiting about in the damp, and for gossiping with farm-labourers and other persons. To all of which Bill listened with the tolerant indifference with which she often treated Polly’s harangues. “Let’s have supper,” she said at last. “I have told you I went out because I felt as if—as if I should burst if I stopped in any longer. I had to go out, to get away; it was a pure accident that I met any one.”

Polly said, “Oh, I dare say,” and repeated several of her previous remarks with variations. Then they had supper, Polly still a little difficult in temper; the drawing-room lodgers had had steak and onions for tea, and she being one who dearly loved what she called “a relish with her tea,” had not yet got over the appetising odour which had not served as a relish to her own bread and jam.

Never before in her life had Bill so longed to be alone—to be absolutely by herself, if it were only for half an hour. But it was out of the question; even when they went to bed the only solitude possible was the compromise of companionship offered when the cousins were asleep. She thought once of stealing softly down to the darkened sitting-room to spend an hour there in the starlight, but the bedroom door rattled so terribly that she was certain in opening it to awaken Bella if not Polly. She was afraid of facing their curious inquiries, she who so seldom had been afraid before, who never knew when her conduct was strange or worthy to invite inquiry until the fact was plainly shown her; there was some subtle change in her.

She lay still on the outer edge of the wide low bed she shared with Polly, and tried to think. The room was very dark and quiet, yet she could not think. There was neither Kit nor Gilchrist in her mind, neither past, present, nor future; it was all a whirl, with for paramount feeling the thought of that unmade claim to the Harborough estates.

“It is not fair,” she thought. “He shall know; they shall fight fairly; I will tell, whether it makes a difference or not.” Then the picture of Wood Hall came into her mind, the stately house in the autumn of its days, the great hall, the solemn rooms, “Theo’s, all Theo’s! Theo there, Theo and the boarders!” She laughed softly, half hysterically, at the idea. “He thought I meant it,” she said.

Polly muttered indistinctly in her sleep. Wood Hall and the gardens, the tangled rose-walk and the lawns, how green the grass would be now! The wood on the slope of the hill—there would be yellow leaves here and there, and the bracken would be golden—how very beautiful it all would be! September suited the place, but October would suit it even better, the long west front in the afternoon glow, the great arched doorway, all of it. And so on and on, a hundred vague ideas, a tangle of emotions, but never Kit; she never once faced the thought of him. At last she slept and dreamed—our dreams are our own; we are not accountable for them. In the morning things looked clearer and emotions fainter. Sleep blots out some of the fancies and brings facts into a better working perspective. When in the morning Bill rose early to keep her appointment she had a distinct notion of what she was going to do. She got up and dressed quietly: for the first time in her life she was troubled because her gown was shabby; but she did not know why, for she had not consciously considered the question of Kit Harborough at all. She was going to meet him, it is true, but that was solely to warn him of the danger which threatened him. Still she was sorry her frock was shabby, and her old straw hat a little the worse for the plum turnovers and a good deal the worse for wear.

But she did not trouble herself much. By the time she had finished her bath she had forgotten about appearances; also to a certain extent she had forgotten her troubles, washed them away in the kindly sea or evaporated them in the sunny air: there was not, up to the present, anything so very much amiss in her world that still September morning. She was whistling softly when Kit found her, wringing her wet bathing-dress the while.

“Let me do that for you,” he said.

She held the dress a moment. “You had better not,” she said, “it will make your hands blue; the dye comes out like anything. The first time it got wet I was like an ancient Briton; it is not so bad now, but it still makes one a bit stripy.”

Kit protested that he did not mind the dye and took the dress while she gathered up her towels and hung them in festoons about the tent, whistling when she was on the far side.

“Is that you?” he asked.

“Yes,” she admitted, wondering if he thought it unladylike.

He did not; he seemed to think it clever. “What a mimic you are!” he said. “It was just like a chaffinch.”

“I can imitate some things,—birds.” Bill forgot her mockery of her fellow-men; she forgot all those things, for there was a curious holy feeling about her just then.

Kit had finished wringing the dress and was carrying it now as they walked slowly along the shore. “Not all birds?” he was saying; “not a lark!”

“No, not a lark, I have never tried to do that; I don’t think I could. I don’t think there is anything quite like a lark’s song; it is so completely, absolutely happy; I don’t believe anyone could imitate that.”

He agreed with her and then asked if she knew Shelley’s Ode to the Skylark. They were not approaching the business of their interview very rapidly.

Bill shook her head. “I don’t know any of his poetry,” she said, “except a piece about the moon which we had to analyse in our grammar-class last Christmas. It was beautiful poetry, though I never could find the principal sentence.”

“What a shame to give you Shelley for that!”

Bill thought it was too, and then Kit told her he believed she would like the Ode to the Skylark.

“Tell me some,” she said.

He obeyed and repeated the greater part. Business was receding even further into the distance.

His was somewhat of a studious nature, and he had, moreover, the musician’s ear for harmonious sound and the unspoiled heart to delight in beautiful thought. She was a greedy listener, her mind an empty well in its ignorance, in its insatiable desire to be filled; she, too, had the love of melody, though never till that moment had she felt the need of the universe and of her own soul to be expressed in rhythm. But now the whole world somehow became one pulsing harmony, and they two wandered along the lonely shore in that dream which comes twice to no man. The air around them was delicate and crisp, fresh yet tenderly soft, the sunlight chastened and mild, threading with sloping bars the mist on the land, gleaming bright and pale on the wet sand and the incoming tide and the great white gulls that played in the creeping waves.

Business and the purpose of their meeting receded further and further; indeed, it might almost have been forgotten entirely had it not been reached by a most circuitous route through Byron and Heine. They had been speaking of the sea’s place in poetry and concluded with the opinion that none of the poets had quite expressed their sentiments on the subject.

“They don’t seem to get at the sort of mother-feeling,” Bill said at last; “at least none of those we know do. I mean the kind of feeling of going home that you get when you come near the sea—you know what I mean? It seems sometimes as if it stretched out its arms to you and called you,—don’t you hear?”

She listened and he listened too, for of course he understood what she was trying to say for both. He had felt it as she had, and neither had said it before, and both were certain of an understanding now, wherein lay the delight and the danger.

“Once,” Bill said, “I saw four lines which were a little about the feeling I mean; do you know them?

‘Hail to thee, oh thou Ocean eterne!

Like voices of home thy waters are rushing,

Like visions of childhood saw I a glimmering

Over thy heaving billowy realm.’”

Kit said he did not know the lines and asked whose they were; but she could only tell him that she had found them quoted in a book of Mr. Dane’s. “I’ll ask him,” she said; “I dare say he will know, and he is sure to tell me. He is my great friend, you know, the rector of Ashelton.”

“Ashelton!” Kit exclaimed. “Do you know Ashelton?”

“Yes,” and then Bill remembered, and the mutual acquaintance with Ashelton and the surrounding district, which seemed so very delightful to her companion, wore quite another aspect to her. “I had almost forgotten,” she went on; “I mean, forgotten what I had come to say; but I must tell you, I will tell you about it.”

And forgetting the poets and the seductive calling of the sea she told him all,—of the Australian and his claim, of its strength, and of his decision to be silent until after old Mr. Harborough’s death; she told him exactly how it stood, and how she thought it unfair he should not know what threatened him. He listened quietly as she talked, coldly, unconsciously demonstrating to her one good gift that an old family bestows upon its children, the power to receive a blow unmoved, to hear with the silence of pride and to speak with the indifference of studied self-control. Kit Harborough had not much for which to thank his ancestors; the dead hand of the past was heavy upon him and the weight of tradition but little in his favour; nevertheless his birth and breeding helped him to receive Bill’s blow with a proud composure, almost an indifference which roused her deepest admiration, though at the same time it touched her curiously.

She talked on fast to hide her own feelings. “They seem to think,” she said, though she had said it before and the whole case was painfully clear now, “they seem to think that if Mr. Harborough is left to himself he will not make a will; I don’t know why.”

“Because he does not like me,” Kit told her.

“He wishes me to have the property simply on account of the name. I am called Harborough because of the property, and I am,—was to have had it because of the name; but he wishes it so little that since he is sure I should have it, he would not set it down.”

“But if he knew of Theo—of the other one?”

“He still would not make a will, or if he did it would not be in my favour; the other man is a Harborough and so fulfils his only condition. I have told you he dislikes me.”

“He would dislike Theo a good deal more if he knew him,” Bill said warmly; “he is going to cut down the wood if he gets the estate, and plough the land, and grow turnips in the park.”

“I don’t think you could make my uncle believe that.” Kit’s composure belied his feelings. “And if one could, if one could induce him to make a will, I don’t believe I should care to do it, and, besides, you know, it might not make much difference after all. Thank you, thank you very much for telling me,”—the composure was not nearly so marked; stoicism is not perfect at two-and-twenty; “it was very good of you to do it. I’m glad to know; it’s much easier when one knows what’s coming, but I can’t exactly take advantage of it; you didn’t really mean me to, you know.”

“But the house,” Bill pleaded, “the beautiful, beautiful house! Think of it, the long west front with the sunset on it,—the great hall with the dragons on the mantelpiece—the rooms where all your people were born and died!”

“I know.”

They were sitting on a pebbly ridge now; Kit ground his stick into the shingles and answered in a muffled voice, not looking at her. “But the thing is not settled yet,” he went on after a pause. “He will have to fight for it whether there is a will or not; he may not win, and,—and if he does, they are his people too; he is more really Harborough than I am.”

“He does not care for them,” Bill said; “he despises old families and he does not care for tradition; he would like the position but he does not really care for anything else; he would not love nor understand the place a little bit. He would save money, I dare say, perhaps make it, and in time build up a new family on the old foundation. He is just fitted to found a new family; he would do it splendidly, he has the right kind of brains and opinions; but he is not in the least fitted to carry on an old name,—he has not been bred up to it or educated for it. You don’t know him or else you would understand.”

“I understand very well indeed. But what is the use? Why do you talk about it?”

“Because,” Bill answered vehemently, “the place is what it is; because of the house and the wood—think of cutting down the wood! Because it seems so likely he will get it, and if it were mine I would never let it go. If it had belonged to my people, as it has to yours, I would do anything—I should not care what—to get it and keep it.”

The shingles rattled sharply against one another as Kit moved. “Do you think I don’t care?” he asked almost savagely. “But if it is that business of the will you mean, I can’t do it. I don’t suppose it would make a difference, and anyhow I can’t do it; you know I can’t.”

“Then I will,” Bill said. “I will see Mr. Harborough and explain. I will get him to make a will; I believe I could.”

“No,” Kit exclaimed, “no, you must not do that. It would be no better than if I did; it would be taking an unfair advantage of the other man,—promise me you will not do it.”

Bill hesitated. “I have taken an advantage of him already in telling you,” she said.

“That is different; it was only warning, preparing me for what is to come; you were not using your knowledge against the other man; you would not do that.”

Bill was not so sure; though, true to her reflective nature, she felt at the moment that perhaps he was right. “Then you will give it up,” she said at last, “you will let a man who does not understand have the house and everything?”

“Not unless I am compelled.”

“And will you be compelled? What do you think?”

“I don’t know; it sounds pretty bad as you have told it, of course. It may not be; I can’t tell.”

Bill looked hopelessly out to sea. “It is my fault,” she said, more to herself than to him, “all my fault.”

“Your fault?” he asked. “How? What have you to do with it?”

“It was through me that Theo knew of his claim, through the mass in the Harborough chapel, and it was I who got the mass to be read. Yes, you have heard about it, of course, but you did not know it was my doing; nobody does except one person, but it was, all the same. Mr. Harborough had it said to please me, or at least because I suggested it; it was my idea, and it was all through that service that Theo heard of his claim to Wood Hall. A man, an antiquary, one of those interfering people who are always digging in ancestral dust-heaps and finding things which had much better not be found, heard about the service and came to enquire into it. He came and he inquired, and poked about, and found out a lot about the chapel and the Harboroughs; then he met Theo, and talked to him, and found out all about him too. Before that nobody knew anything of Theo, and he did not know anything of the claim; he never troubled about his relationship to you other Harboroughs; but between them he and Mr. Wagnall pieced it all out, and there you are; that is how he found out he had a claim. If it had not been for that mass bringing Mr. Wagnall to Wrugglesby it would never have been discovered; it is all my fault.”

Kit did not share this opinion. “It is not your fault,” he said decidedly; “not a bit in the world; you never knew what would come of it.”

“I did it, all the same.”

“But you are not to blame; you are not responsible because the truth, if it is the truth, has been found out, and no one would blame you for it if you were. I don’t think you to blame, and I am the person most concerned, after this Theo.”

“Oh, he doesn’t think I have had anything to do with it,” Bill said, smiling a little at the idea.

“Very well then, that is settled,” Kit said more lightly; “you are not to blame; nobody thinks so, neither you, nor I, nor Theo. By the way, you seem to be very intimate with Theo,—great friends or great enemies, which is it?”

“Both,” said Bill smiling; “I am going to marry him.”

Then suddenly the smile died out of her eyes, out of her heart, out of sea and sky and world, and for the first time in her life she was afraid to think.

Kit turned and looked at her full, his well-bred, stoical face expressing nothing, only his grave eyes very grave as he said slowly: “You are going to marry him?”

She nodded, meeting his eyes for a minute; and then she looked out to sea, driving her palms deep among the small pebbles as she sat, one hand on either side, staring rigidly before her.

The gulls dipped down to the breaking waves and circled above in the pale-toned sky; sea and sky alike were as tinted silver, the whole day delicate, tender-hued, like the colours found in a pearl. A great peace, a great silence everywhere; no sound but the ripple of the waves that crept up the sand, crept till they reached the shingle where the girl sat, and broke with tiny spray almost at her feet.

“We had better move; the tide is coming up.”

The voice of the man beside her aroused her. He suddenly seemed a man to her, a boy no longer: it seemed too as though there was a great gulf between them. She rose automatically and they walked along the shore in the direction of the village. He was very kind and polite; there was an indefinable difference between his manners and those of the people she usually met, but it only made her the more conscious of the difference between herself and him. He talked as they went, easily and well, on indifferent topics, the cliffs, the shore, the places of interest about, the peculiarity of the stones on the beach. Once he picked one up, dark grey and heavy, a flint sea-urchin, he told her it was, rather an uncommon fossil, he said, as he gave it to her. She took it, and talked about it and a dozen other things, in spite of her consciousness of the gulf, as easy and as self-possessed as he. Why not? Was she not Bill, the mimic, the player’s child? She was sure just then that he had been a player, a strolling mummer, a singer ever on tour, perhaps even the circus-clown Polly called him. And she,—she was a clown too, a buffoon, a fool, for all that she wore no motley, to make old men laugh with her songs and quips, to charm young men for a moment with her hundred changes,—“all things by turn and nothing long”—nothing except the little gipsy creature that was under all and that was miles and miles away from Kit Harborough of Bybridge, from him and the women of his class. She knew those women, tall, fair, white-skinned, serenely unconscious. She was a long way from them, from everyone in the universe, farthest of all from this boy with his considerate courtesy, his polite speech, his accurate clothes. She was painfully conscious of his clothes and even more so of her own, of her work-stained hands, her too rapid movements. She was conscious of it all, but more than all of a passionate desire to run away and hide with the wild things which were her kin, to run away not from him alone but from all her world, to run right away into the woods and hide even from herself, if it could be.

But she did not run away, as she would have done some months earlier; pride held her back and crushed the wild nature down, helping her to politeness and teaching her to give her little brown hand at parting much as Kit Harborough did. So with some formality they said good-bye, and parted at the top of the cliff-path, he to the left to the River House, she to the right to the little shop where Bella was waiting breakfast and Polly finishing a belated toilet.

CHAPTER XXI.
THE ACQUISITIVE FACULTY.

Polly may have been a clever woman, as Mr. James Brownlow had said she was, but in his catalogue of her abilities he omitted to mention her one great gift, her undeniable talent for getting things. She was a true collector and picker-up of trifles; she had brought this too little appreciated art to a rare perfection, and she never went anywhere without acquiring something, never came home completely empty-handed, never declined or passed by a single article or opportunity however trivial or cumbersome. Her motto was It might be useful. “If she went to the Sahara,” Bill said, “she would bring home sand for the chickens’ run.” But besides the collectors’ art Polly possessed the true genius for getting, not begging nor demanding, but annexing calmly as by right divine, or acquiring gracefully as bestowing a favour in accepting one. “I don’t ask for things,” she used to say; “people always offer them to me. I am sure I don’t know how it is, but they do, and it looks so rude to refuse.”

So she never refused, and seldom went anywhere or met anyone without directly or indirectly turning the occasion to profit. Bymouth did not promise a very likely field for her abilities, but even here she found and seized an opportunity. It was late in the visit certainly, not till after their fellow-lodgers had gone. This took place on Tuesday, the day on which Bill told Kit Harborough of the claim.

The drawing-room family left at one o’clock, the cousins watching them go. They drove to Bybridge in a small wagonette, and it was interesting to see them getting into it, for the family was large, far too large for the wagonette.

“They will never do it,” Bella said as she watched them.

“After the way in which they packed into that bedroom,” Polly remarked severely, “I should say they could go anywhere or anyhow.”

“They had two bedrooms,” Bill said; “there was another up the yard.”

“I call it positively indecent,” was Polly’s opinion, but Bill asked: “Where is the indecency? The girls were in one and the boys in the other. Mrs. looked after the girls and Mr. after the boys; they had more space apiece than we three have, and I am sure we are all right.”

Polly explained that their own arrangement was quite different and much better, but Bill, who had now joined Bella at the window, did not pay any attention to her.

“Oh, do come and look, Polly,” she said; “they have nearly done it. They would do it easily if it were not for the luggage; they ought to have a cart for that.”

“They are far too stingy,” Polly observed contemptuously.

“The mother will nurse the baby,” Bill went on, “and the father the next-sized one, and the little girl that big bundle. They have left one box out.”

“Where will they put it?” Bella said.

“They can’t get it in front,” was Bill’s opinion; “the coachman can hardly see round the rampart of luggage as it is. They are going to try though. If they would put it inside it could be managed. There it goes! I knew it would fall off the front! If you were to put it—”

“Come in, Bill!” Polly seized Bill’s arm. “Come in at once! It is no business of yours; let people manage their own concerns. I am ashamed of you!”

But Bill was not ashamed of herself; she was far too much absorbed in the difficulties of the family to care for Polly, and when someone in the wagonette below having heard her voice called up to know what she had said, she leaned out of the window again and told them. “Put it inside; I believe you could do it then,—not that way, small end down. You don’t mind me suggesting it, do you? It would have been such a pity” (“Bill!”) “if you couldn’t all get in. That’s right; now” (“Bill! Shut that window, Bella.”) “if the two little boys sit on it and the biggest one stands on the step—that’s splendid!”

“Shut that window, Bella!”

Bella shut the window almost on to Bill’s neck, leaving her no choice but to draw her head in. The family, who did not appear to resent her interference, shouted their thanks to where she had been, while Bella, who had been as much annoyed as Polly by Bill’s behaviour, joined the elder cousin in telling the culprit so.

But Bill did not mind much. “It would have been such a pity if they had not managed it,” she said, “and I don’t believe they could any other way.”

“It was no affair of yours,” Bella said; “I don’t see why you wanted to make such an exhibition of yourself. There were people passing too, one of those shooting men from the River House had just come out of the post-office; he did stare at you, and no wonder!”

Bill said she did not care, which was true; but she did not know that the man described the incident, inclusive of her and her directions, in Kit Harborough’s hearing that evening. Kit recognised her from the description, as Gilchrist had done when his lawyer-friend Ferguson described her, and Kit, like Gilchrist, did not betray her identity. He said even less about her than did Gilchrist, though he experienced a youthful desire to knock the informant down when he announced an intention of finding out who the girl was. But the pugilistic wish was restrained, Kit reflecting that, as Bill was leaving the day after to-morrow, it was most unlikely the fellow would find out anything about her; and, after all, that he should wish to do so was, in Kit’s opinion, quite natural and only what was to be expected. It was also, in the same opinion, quite natural that Bill should assist the family in the wagonette with her advice, quite natural and quite right; indeed, so right that Kit never questioned its propriety at all, possibly because she did it; though in his defence it must be said that he troubled less about the correctness of an action than did Gilchrist, thinking not at all of “how it looked.” He had been brought up among people who, being quite sure of themselves and their public, never troubled as to how a thing might look.

Polly had not been so brought up, and, conscious that her actions would not always bear investigation, she was most anxious that appearances should, when possible, be beyond reproach. She lectured Bill proportionately, and was, as usual, listened to with indifference; but when at last Polly brought her remarks to a close with, “It was like everything else you do, most unladylike,” Bill said rather wistfully: “I suppose I am unladylike, Polly?”

“Hopelessly,” was the crushing answer.

“I should like to be better,” the voice was a shade more wistful; “I would try if I knew what to do.”

“Don’t lean out of the window to give advice to strangers,” Polly said, and Bill making no reply, she began to perceive that her young cousin was in an unusually pliant mood. Seeing this she seized the opportunity, the first that had offered, of speaking to her on her behaviour to Gilchrist. As a preliminary she heaved a deep sigh, and, after a quick glance at the girl, began with chastened mildness.

“After all,” she said, “to lean out of the window like that is only a small thing, but it is an illustration of your ways. Your ways often trouble me, Bill, do you know that? Sometimes I feel as if I shall give you up entirely, and then again sometimes I think you really are ignorant and would try to do better if you only knew how your behaviour looked.”

Bill twisted restively, Polly’s voice having taken on the melancholy semi-nasal drawl which belonged to her part of the grieved guardian. Bill did not believe in her at any time, and that afternoon the manner irritated instead of amusing. But she was sincerely convinced of her own shortcomings, and though she had no great opinion of Polly, there was no one else to whom she could go; so she said: “Tell me what I do wrong; you need not put in all that about being sorry and the rest; I know how that goes, and can fill it in for myself.”

“Thank you, Bill,” Polly said with dignity; but quickly seeing the girl’s attitude of mind and the precariousness of her own opportunity, she shortened her part and, after a brief remark on her cousin’s impoliteness and her own forbearance, got to business without further delay.

“You want to know where I think you wrong? I will tell you one or two things,”—she spoke as one who has a wide range of examples from which to choose. “There is your behaviour to Gilchrist to begin with; you do not behave at all nicely to him.”

“To Theo!” Bill exclaimed in astonishment, “to him! What do I do wrong to him?”

“You call him Theo for one thing; he objects to it and it is ridiculous; all nicknames are ridiculous.”

“All?”

“Yes, all; and abbreviations of names are almost as bad.—I don’t see why you should not be called Wilhelmina instead of Bill. It does not suit you, it is true, but I am sure he would prefer it, besides Bill is vulgar; don’t you think so yourself?”

“He can call me Wilhelmina if he likes,” Bill said in a subdued voice. “And as for Theo, that is easily altered; He can be Gilchrist if he wishes it, though I think it is quite as unsuitable as Wilhelmina for me.”

“My dear Bill,”—Polly was delighted to have made so much impression—“it is not a question of what you think but of what he wishes. You ought to consider his wishes; you ought to try to please him and consult his tastes; remember, he is proposing to give you a great deal, and as you can give him nothing in return except a little consideration, it is hardly right to withhold that as you do.”

“What do you mean?” Bill’s voice, quiet and cold, was almost like that of one who faces an unexpected shock.

Polly, really in her element now, enumerated a list of the things Bill had done wrong, or might have done right, concluding her remarks with,—“Try to be pleasant to him, talk seriously when he wants you to, be cheerful and lively when he is in the humour for it, put on your best dress and try to make yourself nice when he comes. It is your duty, you know, you owe it to him. Make the most of yourself; don’t set him to water the garden and so on, but talk to him and be pleasant.”

“Always, do you mean?”

There was something very like consternation in Bill’s tone, but Polly did not know it, and answered readily,—“Yes, of course.”

“Always?” Bill dropped her hands on the table. “I can’t do it,” she said vehemently; “it is simply no use, Polly, I can’t do it; I shall have to throw it up.”

“Throw what up? What do you mean?”

“I can’t be respectable always; it is no use trying; he would be sure to find me out after we were married, if not before. He knew the sort of person I was when he asked me to marry him; if he did not like it why did he ask me?”

“You did not call him Theo before you were engaged,” Polly said, wisely attacking the details and not the mass of Bill’s protest. “And of course,” she went on, “people usually expect their fiancées will be nice to them. The average girl does it as a matter of course because she wishes to; it is because you do not seem to know what is expected of you, and never wish to do what is right, that I have had to speak to you.”

“It is part of the contract, you think?” Bill asked.

“Certainly not; there is no contract in the matter.”

So Polly said, but Bill took her meaning otherwise, as it was intended she should, and there was a long silence. Polly, feeling the subject was closed, rose and moved about the room, while Bill sat lost in thought. At last the younger cousin spoke. “I will try to do what is right,” she said, “I will really. I’ll write to Theo—to Gilchrist this afternoon, though I did write yesterday. I’ll take the letter out on the sands with me.”

Polly was very much pleased; here was an obvious sign of repentance, and one moreover which would keep Bill from wading for shrimps, an occupation she herself strongly disapproved of. She set off for the shore that afternoon with a really happy mind; she had settled Bill’s affairs, she had arranged for a good tea when she should come in, and the drawing-room family, a great source of annoyance to her, were gone. She felt very well pleased with the world in general and herself in particular as she sat watching Bill writing her letter, a grotesquely and pathetically polite letter it was too, if only she had known it. Polly felt that the stay at Bymouth had been most successful; before she finally left she was even more convinced of this, for while at the little seaside resort she achieved a piece of business which even astonished herself. “Fancy,” she used to say with complacency afterwards, “fancy meeting my future landlord at a little place like that!”

But this she did in the person of the old gentleman who came to the drawing-room floor on Tuesday evening. He only arrived on Tuesday, and Polly left on Thursday; but she made good use of her time and struck up a great friendship with him and his wife, sympathising with their ailments, recommending a butcher, telling them in the course of time something of her own difficulties. They were interested, pleased, favourably impressed. They gave her a good deal of advice,—this she asked for but did not necessarily take; they also eventually gave her a little help,—this she did not ask for but, true to her rule, took without hesitation.

The old gentleman had some house property in London, small houses Bayswater way, “a shrewd investment,”—Polly was sure of it. The tenants had been giving a great deal of trouble lately, “disgraceful,”—Polly was sympathetic. It was a capital place for apartments, and Polly could not do better than settle in that part when she made her “plucky venture;” that was the old gentleman’s advice. One of the houses was empty now, and before Polly left on Thursday, she was warmly pressed to take it on the most advantageous terms; that was the old gentleman’s offer.

Polly thanked him in her very best manner, saying she doubly appreciated his kindness since she was so much alone in the world. Mr. Brownlow had died during the summer, and Polly said at the time that it was convenient as they were already in mourning; she said it was convenient now, since she was consequently free to conduct her affairs without his advice and criticism. She did not say this to the old gentleman, but told him, after thanking him for his offer, that she must talk it over with her cousins before finally accepting it; adding that she was nearly sure of their approval, quite sure of their obligation on her behalf and their own for his kindness,—and so forth.

Polly was vastly pleased with herself and detailed the whole affair with much satisfaction to the two younger girls as they had a hurried lunch before starting on their walk to Bybridge station. Bella was not at all congratulatory; she did not like having the family affairs discussed with strangers, neither did she like posing as part of Polly’s responsibilities.

“I am not,” she said, “and I don’t see why you should say I am. I am only your cousin and that is no responsibility, and not such a wonderfully near relationship either.”

“No,” Polly retorted, “not when you are married to a rich man like Jack Dawson and I let lodgings in town for a bare living; the relationship will not be near then, I admit,” and Polly sniffed.

“I didn’t mean that!” Bella cried; “Oh, you are unkind! I don’t look down on you and I never shall; it is with your cadging ways that I hate to be mixed up.”

“Polly is a born cadger,” Bill said resignedly, “and we are part of her stock in trade. She is like a beggar-woman singing in the street and never asking for pennies, but always getting them. I am her hired baby and you are her imitation cough; she would not get on nearly so well without us.”

“Well, at all events you reap the benefit of what I get,” Polly said.

“Oh, yes,” Bill agreed readily.

“And I don’t think, Bill, that you will ever despise me.” Polly’s tone was becoming highly moral. “It is a great comfort to me to think that when you leave me and marry you will never look down on or ignore me. It is true you will never have Bella’s temptation, but I am sure you would not do it.”

“You are unkind!” Bella repeated. But Bill’s face had suddenly hardened; she was thinking of Gilchrist and Wood Hall and the county who were going to be compelled to recognise him and his wife,—his wife who would have to reform and perhaps forget.

“No,” she said suddenly, almost passionately; “I will never forget you, Polly, never look down on you, never, no matter where I am, nor what I become. If I lived in a palace you should come and stay with me; if I married a king he should receive you and take you in to dinner, and all the silly courtiers should bow down to you because you were mine. You are an old fraud, Polly, and a cadger, and a bit of a humbug too, but I am fond of you all the same. We are not swells, you and I, but we will stand by each other, and I will never, never forget!”

“That is a very nice spirit,” Polly said impressively and very much through her nose.

“Do you think I would forget?” Bella asked rather hurt. “You seem to think I am a horrid creature.”

“No, we don’t,” Bill answered her, “of course we don’t; we know really that you never would be ashamed of your grubby relations. Don’t let us talk any more nonsense about it.”

So peace was restored, and Polly began cutting slices of the cold shoulder of mutton while the younger girls finished their lunch.

“If you married a king,” Bella said to Bill laughing, “he might object to Polly walking up to the palace with a nosebag of apples sticking out of the middle of her mackintosh.”

“Not if he had married me; he would have got used to that sort of thing.”

Bella laughed again. “It is a good thing your Theo is not very particular about appearances.”

“You don’t know very much about Theo,” Bill answered quietly.

“I know this much,” Bella replied; “he will not let you do just as you like if it happens to be something he does not like and has good reason to think wrong.”

“There may be difficulties,” Bill admitted with the glimmer of a smile, her war-smile which Polly knew to her cost.

“Bill is very easy to manage when you understand her,” that lady said as she sharpened her knife. “Gilchrist will find out how to do it in time; at least he may.”

She added the last words under her breath, neither of the others hearing her, for Bella was asking in astonishment: “You would never really oppose a man you loved, would you, Bill?”

Bill debated the question for a moment looking straight before her. “No,” she said at last, “I suppose I should not.” Then she changed the subject abruptly: “What is that meat for, Polly?”

“To take home with us. I am not going to leave all that good meat behind; there is quite enough now on the bone to look decent, and it would be a great pity to leave all this.”

Bella did not approve of this proceeding, but Polly, untroubled by her objections, packed the meat up. “There,” she said, giving the parcel a final pat, “it will come in very nicely for our supper when we get home, and I am sure there is quite a lot on the joint still.”

Bill examined it gravely. “There is enough for our cat here,” she said: “it seems a pity to leave that. Let’s take it; we haven’t time to scrape it off, but you might put the bone in your hat-box; it would go in if I broke it in half.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Bill,” Polly said with dignity, “ridiculous and mean. I don’t see anything to laugh at, Bella.”

Apparently Bella did, but Polly never minded being laughed at, and it was in a friendly fashion that the three cousins started for home. In the main the three agreed admirably; Bella seldom opposed Polly, and Bill, since she had developed an opposing individuality, had been little with them; moreover, she was of a nature with which it was not easy to quarrel. Polly, however, having a respect for her ability to give trouble on occasions, sent her back to Theresa at Ashelton two days after their return to Wrugglesby. “I have got a lot of things to settle,” she explained to Bella, “and I can do them better without her.”

CHAPTER XXII.
POLLY SETTLES THINGS.

So Bill was packed off to Ashelton, and then Polly proceeded to settle things to her own complete satisfaction. She saw the house in Bayswater and settled that; she saw the parents of the few pupils remaining to her and settled them very completely; and then she wound up her connection with Wrugglesby with but few difficulties and not a single regret.

“Well, I cannot say I ever cared for it,” she said when Bella expressed some natural sorrow at leaving the town which had been her home for nearly seven years. “I never was fitted for a pokey little place like this; I need a wider life.”

“It may be pokey,” Bella declared with tears in her eyes, “but I like it, and I am sorry to leave it, and to leave the shabby old house and the shabby old furniture.”

“We are not leaving the furniture,” Polly said quickly. “We are taking all we want with us, and only selling what is of no use to any of us. You and Theresa have each chosen what you wanted; one can’t keep all the rubbish.”

The last was added very decidedly, for there had been some discussion about the furniture. Bella had fallen in quietly enough with Polly’s judicious arrangements, but Bill, who cherished ridiculous sentiments about old and cumbersome articles of furniture, had disputed Polly’s decision article by article, winning sometimes, losing sometimes, and only desisting when it was obvious that the little house at Bayswater could hold no more. All this had taken place during the visits she and Theresa occasionally paid the cousins at Wrugglesby during the time of the settlement. It was all over now, arranged finally some days ago; Polly was only afraid of reopening the question. The three were assembled for the last time at Langford House, Robert having driven Bill to Wrugglesby that afternoon to see the last of the old place and the old associations. There was nothing at all to be done, it was really nonsense for her to come, Polly said, and was not at all surprised that Bill did not arrive till almost dark.

Robert had been delayed in starting, and when Wrugglesby was reached Bill would not be driven to the house, but got down from the dog-cart at the stables and walked, with something clinking forgotten in her pocket, down the familiar streets, saying a silent good-bye. It was a grey, gusty afternoon, the first of October. There were dead leaves in the quiet corners,—all the corners were quiet here—and the wind came now and then whirling them about her feet. It was a good wind, fresh and sweet for all its strength, and the girl felt she loved it; it was the home-wind to her, the wind of the Eastern Counties. And the greyness and the peace and the great sense of space and abundant room were home to her, the land of the Eastern Counties, not grand at all, but still and wide, and very, very dear.

She stood a moment on the outskirts of the little town looking across the well remembered country. Then she turned and walked home through the small, ill-paved streets, past the familiar shops,—those with the new fronts, those with the old many-paned windows; past the police-station, the Georgian house with the legend County Police set over the door; past the church with its ancient burying-ground where, five steps above the town, Aunt Isabel slept under the dark green grass and fluttering sycamore leaves; past genteel houses with small gardens where sunflowers lingered with hollyhocks and dahlias still unhurt by frost; past each familiar thing until at last, just as the lamps in the town were being lighted, Langford House was reached.

But the cousins who received her knew nothing of Bill’s lonely walk, nor yet of the something which clinked in her pocket. Indeed, she herself did not think of the last immediately; she did not think of it until after Bella had made the remark on her regret at leaving Wrugglesby. Bill did not speak of her regret, and as for Polly, she had none of which to speak. “As we have got to go some time,” she said, “it may as well be now as later; better in fact, for though the lease is not up till Christmas, we could not expect to get such another chance of a house as the one now offered.”

To which wisdom Bella assented; after all, leaving the house now did not concern her so very much, for in any circumstances she would have had to leave before the spring, as Jack insisted that they should be married in February. Mrs. Dawson, though she had at first objected to this arrangement, finally came to the conclusion that since it was inevitable it might as well be soon as late. Indeed after a time she came to accept it with so much meekness (other people called it pleasure) that she invited Bella to come to Greys when Polly left Wrugglesby and stay there till the winter set in. Therefore Bella, though she assented to them, cannot be said to have had a very personal interest in Polly’s plans.

As for Bill, on this particular afternoon she said nothing even with regard to the furniture, except that in reply to Polly’s emphatic remark to the effect that they could not take all the rubbish with them, she said she hoped it would get a good home and be well treated. Polly considered such sentiments foolish in the extreme and, having said so, dismissed the subject from her mind and remarked: “I flatter myself that we have done very well on the whole.”

Bella agreed, but Bill corrected. “It is not we but you who have done it. It was you who cadged the house in London on very low terms, you who first impressed Mrs. Dawson with the fact that we are a nice family,—oh yes, she likes Bella for herself now, but she began by liking you, or rather what she takes you to be. You arranged that, just as you arranged the contract for the repairs of this house at the end of the lease. You are a champion cadger, Polly, whatever else you are.”

Polly was not certain whether to be pleased or offended by this tribute. “I think you have a great deal to thank me for,” she said complacently; “I am glad you appreciate it, though I object to the word cadger.”

“What shall I say?” Bill asked, “If you don’t cadge things what do you do? Acquire them?”

“Well, yes, perhaps I do,” Polly admitted; “yes, I suppose I have the acquisitive faculty.”

“I should say you have.”

“So have you,”—Polly did not like Bill’s tone. “I am sure you have it; people give you things and you don’t refuse them.”

Bill laughed and went over to the fireplace, the something in her pocket clinking audibly as she moved.

“What is that?” asked the inquisitive Polly.

“Oh, I had forgotten.” Bill put her hand into her pocket. “It is something I brought to show you,” she said, and drew out first a piece of crumpled paper in which the articles had been wrapped and then two large old-fashioned shoe-buckles.

“What are they?” Polly made a pounce on one.

“Where did you get them?” Bella took the other from the table where Bill had put them. “What are they?”

They gleamed in the fading light as the cousins held them, gleamed and shimmered with wonderful changing splendour, flashing when the firelight touched them and found a dozen answering tongues of flame.

“Paste,” Polly said, “old paste; they must be worth a lot of money.”

“Diamonds,” Bill corrected.

“Diamonds? Nonsense! They might be worth as much as a hundred pounds apiece if they were!”

“They are diamonds,” Bill persisted, “though they can’t be worth that. They are mine.”

“Yours?” Polly almost screamed. “Diamonds—and yours? Talk about the acquisitive faculty!”

Bill flushed. “I did not acquire them,” she said rather illogically; “at least, I hated to have them, and I have promised to give them to somebody as a wedding-present, not yet, some day, when there is a wedding. I will give them back,—I don’t care what you say,—you need not think about selling them,—they are not going to be sold.”

“Don’t talk nonsense to me,” was Polly’s answer. “If they are diamonds they shall be sold, that is, if you have any right to them, which I am sure you have not. They must be paste!”

Bill took the buckle out of her hand, Bella placing the fellow on the table beside it: “Are they really diamonds?” she asked. “How did you come by them, and whose were they?”

Bill stood looking at them a moment as they flashed in the firelight. “They were Peter Harborough’s shoe-buckles,” she said.

CHAPTER XXIII.
PETER HARBOROUGH’S SHOE-BUCKLES.

Polly had no doubt done wisely in sending Bill to Ashelton while she herself was settling affairs at Wrugglesby. Not only was she thus freed from Bill’s interference, but also Bill had an opportunity for putting into practice her good resolutions regarding Gilchrist Harborough. Polly was sure she would make use of the opportunity, for Bill could always be relied on to keep her word. In the main she fulfilled Polly’s expectations; she certainly tried to do so. Theresa found her curiously subdued on her return to Ashelton, and found also that she herself was watched and sometimes imitated with an embarrassing closeness. Bill was trying to be a lady.

She obeyed to the letter Polly’s instructions concerning Gilchrist, always putting on her best dress for his coming, never calling him Theo now, never baffling him by tantalising moods and goblin mockery and playful defiance. Indeed so circumspect was her behaviour that Gilchrist not unnaturally concluded that the lecture he had given her after the affair of the plums had taken effect. Of course he was humanly gratified to find that his words had not been wasted, but it is to be feared that he found Bill in her new character of lady, as copied from Theresa, something of a disappointment; she did not always compare favourably with her model.

Bill did not know how her efforts impressed Gilchrist, neither did she greatly care, for his opinion was not her highest standard. But she was herself by no means satisfied, and one day, soon after her return to Ashelton, she took her difficulties to her friend the rector. He, by right of his office and reason of his experience, had been consulted on many points in his time, some rather peculiar ones since his acquaintance with Bill; but even she had never faced him with anything quite so unexpected as on the day when she brought him the problem of her own behaviour. She was examining the high shelves of his book-case at the time, standing on the back of an arm-chair to do so, having first weighted the seat with encyclopaedias.

“The Diary of a Lady,” she read the title of one of the books, then stood a moment looking at it thoughtfully. “Monseigneur,” she said, “you know I told you I was trying to behave better? Well, I am not getting on a bit.”

Mr. Dane was busy with his parish accounts; as a rule the girl’s presence did not disturb him at all, but now he looked up, arrested by her tone.

“What is it?” he asked, putting down his pen. “What have you been doing?”

“Nothing; I haven’t done anything wrong and I do all the right things I can find to do. Theresa thinks I am much improved, but I’m not really.” As she reached up to replace the book, the chair tilted a little. “Would you mind kneeling on the seat?” she said. “The chair tips when I reach up. Thank you.”

She jumped to the ground and drawing a chair to the writing-table faced the rector. “What is your notion of a lady?” she asked abruptly.

Mr. Dane considered a moment, before hazarding an opinion, knowing that his answer would be taken literally and perhaps translated into action. “One,” he said at length, “who considers others, who never by word or deed causes unnecessary pain, who listens sympathetically, talks pleasantly, never says a great deal even when she feels much or knows more. One who does her mental and moral washing in private, but is not afraid to do her duty in public; who respects the secrets of others, the honour of her family, and her own self more than all. One who speaks with tact, acts with discretion, and places God before fashion without needlessly advertising the fact to the annoyance of the rest of the world.”

“Thank you,” said Bill, and a long silence followed; perhaps she was learning the definition for her own benefit. At last she spoke again. “You think I could be a lady if I learned to control myself and,—and did not run away when I wanted to, and all those sorts of things?”

Mr. Dane did think so; possibly he did not regard her as so hopeless a case as did Polly. Then there was another silence during which there came the sound of wheels on the drive at the other side of the house. Neither noticed it, and Bill, thinking of Polly’s lectures on her disreputable appearance, asked a second question. “I suppose a lady always wants to look right? It matters very much how she looks, how she is dressed?”

“It matters very much for some,” the rector answered; “but others—” he was only a man after all, and though old not altogether wise—“with others,” he said, “you are so busy wondering what colour their eyes are that you never notice their gowns; so much perplexed as to what they are, Princess Puck, that you never know what they wear—”

He broke off smiling as the housekeeper opened the door: “A gentleman to see Miss Alardy,” she announced.

“Me?” Bill exclaimed.

“Yes, miss; he has been to Haylands, he says, and they told him you were here; he’s waiting in the hall now,—young Mr. Harborough.”

“Mr. Harborough?” Bill repeated rising. “Whatever can he want?”

“Not Mr. Harborough from Crows’ Farm,” the housekeeper explained; “young Mr. Harborough from Wood Hall.”

“Oh!—I’ll come and speak to him.”

Ladies controlled themselves; they said nothing even when they felt much; they respected themselves, the honour of their family, the secrets of their friends. Bill was going to be a lady, and she would not even allow herself to feel surprised.

Mr. Dane took up his pen again. Old Mr. Harborough was worse no doubt; he had been ill all the week, and that it was a mere question of days everyone knew. Probably it was a question of hours now, and for that reason they had summoned the heir. And for what reason had the heir come for Bill? If old Mr. Harborough had a fancy for seeing her again before he died Mr. Dane was not the man to gainsay him. Bill knew that, the instant he came into the hall where she stood with Kit Harborough.

“Go, by all means,” was his advice, “go at once; I will explain to Mrs. Morton.”

So Bill fetched her hat from the study where it lay on the encyclopaedias, and without another word drove away with Kit to Wood Hall. And Mr. Dane had time to finish his accounts and then explain matters to Theresa before lunch.

Theresa was very much surprised to hear of Bill’s going, but since the rector approved she was quite willing to do the same. As the afternoon wore on and Bill did not return, she began to wonder a little what the girl was doing; and when in the evening Gilchrist called and Bill was still absent, she found the situation rather awkward. Gilchrist showed such an unreasonable displeasure at her absence that Theresa wished Mr. Dane could have explained to the impatient lover the propriety and justice of Bill’s going. To tell the truth, Gilchrist was both displeased and anxious, for he did not feel at all sure what Bill might be saying with regard to the Wood Hall estate. She had told him how she had met and warned Kit Harborough at Bymouth; and though it is true that she had listened with commendable humility to his natural explosion of anger, and at the end had assured him (with the shadow of contempt in her voice) that the heir had declined to take advantage of the warning, what guarantee was there that she might not, for some reason of her own, think fit to warn the old man in time to create unnecessary complications? Gilchrist was very uneasy indeed, not at all sure what Bill would do.

But Kit had no doubts at all. He was perfectly sure she would say nothing; and, as certain of her as he was of himself, he never once during the drive to Gurnett reopened the question of the claim. He never even mentioned it when he helped her to alight at the great door, never spoke of it or referred to it as he led her across the echoing hall to the wide stairs and the rooms above.

Old Harborough was dying, but dying elegantly, almost as if with a subtle and unconscious recollection of what was due to the traditions of his family. He was powerless in body but terribly alert in mind, keenly conscious of the situation and accepting the inevitable with the cynicism he had shown to so many of the happenings of his life, neither curious nor afraid, politely indifferent, almost politely sceptical. Bill, the many-sided, the sympathetic, felt something like a touch of admiration for this survival of a passing type. He, on his part, feeble as he was, still received her with something of his former mocking courtesy, thanked her for troubling to come to him, apologised for the manner of her reception, and prayed her to be seated.

There was a nurse present when Bill entered the room, a tall, quiet woman who looked curiously at the girl. The man who had met Mr. Harborough with the chair that April day in the woods was also present; but he did not look curiously at Bill, either because he thought it bad manners, or else because he understood her claim to his master’s interest. Both of them, however, withdrew to a more distant part of the large room. Kit remained standing near the bed, but Mr. Harborough took no notice of him, only once indirectly acknowledging his presence and then in no pleasant manner; it was when he himself apologised to Bill for not handing her to a chair.

“You must take the will for the deed,” he said, “since I cannot do it; it is clear such trifling attentions will not survive the old generation.”

He did not look at Kit, nevertheless the lad coloured hotly. Bill sat down, wondering a little how the old manners would suit the new generation; but she did not say so and in a minute she dropped the thought out of her mind, turning her entire attention on Mr. Harborough. She did not find it difficult to talk to him, though Kit was a listener, even when the old man referred to her last visit and the offer then made she felt little embarrassment.

“Are you not sorry you did not take it?” he asked her. “I’d have left you Wood Hall for as long as you remained a Harborough. Pity it was not done! It might have saved the old place; an heiress isn’t always the only thing or the best thing to mend a broken family.” He seemed almost to be speaking to himself, but he addressed her directly when he asked abruptly: “Are you not sorry you did not take it? By this time to-morrow it would all have been yours.”

“I don’t want it,” she answered him vehemently. “I don’t want it; I would hate to have it!”

“Hate to have it? Why, I thought you liked it?”

“I do, so much that I would hate to have it.”

A priest had come quietly into the room, but, seeing Mr. Harborough engaged in conversation, he went to a distant window and opened a book he carried. Bill recognised him at once for the same man who had read the mass at Ashelton Church. Mr. Harborough followed her eyes but, not being aware that she recognised him, thought she was only wondering as to the reason of his presence.

“The last relic of the Catholic faith here,” he explained in his weak harsh voice. “I have to be dressed for the next world, the last of us who ever will be. Kit is not a Catholic; he is a Purist or a Deist or something sincere and modern. He troubles about his soul and his Creator like any other mental dyspeptic, and believes something on his own account. When I was young it was thought ill-bred to interfere with the concerns of the Almighty, and the minding of souls was left to those who were paid to do it. We were not tied down by a Sunday-school morality in those days, and we had the courage of our convictions.”

Bill nodded. “I know,” she said.

“How do you know?” he asked sharply.

“By you,” she answered.

“By me? What have I said to you? What do you know?”

“I can’t exactly explain,” she said doubtfully; “only the world was different then. One can’t measure you by the people of to-day, nor the people of to-day by you.”

He fixed her with eyes which were still keen. “How do you know that?” he persisted.

“I don’t know; I suppose I feel it.”

“You are a lenient judge,” he said almost softly, “about the most lenient judge I have ever had, you odd child. What an odd child! I did not know how odd the day I found you in the wood, the day you found God in the wood; you did find Him, did you not?”

“Yes,” she answered simply. “He seemed very close; but then I think the devil was too.”

“God and the devil at your right elbow and your left. A survival of Puritan days,—to find God in the woods now!”

The tone was not wholly mocking; there was a touch of wistfulness in it, and Bill hearing it answered it from the depth of her own convictions. “Everywhere it is beautiful one feels God,” she said softly, “in forest and sea and sky.” She raised her eyes and met Kit’s. He may have been guilty of a Sunday-school morality; he certainly was guilty of a belief, and he betrayed its existence then to one who shared it.

But Mr. Harborough did not know it; he was not thinking of Kit at all as he lay looking curiously at the girl. His lips moved once: “Shall see God,” he said as if to himself, then raising his voice slightly he asked: “Who is it that shall see God, Father Clement?”

The priest turned. “‘Blessed are the pure in heart for they shall see God,’” he answered drawing nearer.

“The pure in heart,” Mr. Harborough repeated, “that is it; I had forgotten. Well, little witch, you have seen something that I, for all my years and experience, have not; something that I—I suppose because of those years and experience—cannot see. But now I must ask you to go; there is a heavenly toilet to be made. Go down and get some lunch, but come back by-and-bye. Kit must take you; I apologise for him beforehand.”

Bill rose. “Kit does not need anyone’s apology,” she said hotly; then she followed the young man out of the room feeling ashamed. Kit that day was like the Kit of Bymouth, the Kit she had met in the lane; there did not seem such a gulf between them as when they parted, nor yet such terrible courtesy. They were boy and girl in the great house together, boy and girl watching together, by an odd chain of circumstances, for the coming of the great shadow. They went to the solemn old dining-room and lunched in state as Bill had once lunched with Mr. Harborough. During the meal Kit did not mention to his guest the subject which had never really been absent from his mind since she herself first put it there that morning on the sands at Bymouth. A little while back he had had some talk with a solicitor of his acquaintance, and without betraying a personal interest in the test-case he described, had learned the very serious position of the man placed as he was. But he did not speak of it to Bill then, although, in spite of the still intangible nature of it all, he felt the shadow of this man from the new country spread over the stately old house, filling its most secret corners, taking possession of its most sacred spots. And Bill, though he did not speak of it, knew the thought that was in her companion’s mind, and felt with him this haunting presence.

After lunch the doctor and nurse agreed in forbidding either Kit or his guest to see the patient before four o’clock, saying that they should be summoned then unless some unexpected change made their presence necessary earlier. There were nearly two hours before them, two hours for Kit to play host in the house which might soon pass to another. With an effort he tried to banish the thought from his mind as he asked Bill to come to the library.

“This is the room I like best,” he said when they stood in the great low room where some past Harborough had gathered a store of books. Mercifully the later comers, not thinking them of sufficient value to sell, had left them intact, even, indeed, adding a volume now and then, each man according to his taste, for there was no lack of intellect even among the wildest of them. The September sunlight slanted through the broad low windows where weedy sunflowers and uncut trails of late-blooming roses looked in on a big room, irregular in shape, full of angles, with bookshelves jutting out in unexpected places, and a silence in it which was a luxury of the brain. The light was a warm brown gloom cast back from book-lined shelves; the smell was the wonderful, indescribable smell of an old library, Russia leather, and oak shelves, and book-dust blended into one, a perfume never to be forgotten. For, as the rose on his mistress’s bosom to a lover, or the breath of the clover which filled the air when he pledged his vows, so is the smell of such a library to the man of books, and above all, to the man who has been reared to it, the man who has learned by common use and childish association to love the outside of the volumes before ever he could read them within.

Bill felt her breast heave suddenly, and a great lump came in her throat. She had never been in such a library before, never to her knowledge smelt its sweet familiar smell, yet her breast heaved and she could not speak. It was absurd, of course; it was nothing to her, the books were not her friends, and as an alien she could claim no kinship with them; yet she felt for them, felt so that she could not speak. As for Kit, he had followed her into the room and stretched out a hand to set straight a book on a lower shelf, but he did not touch it; his hand dropped and he turned abruptly to a window, and for a long minute both stood silent, not regarding one another. Then Bill mastered herself with an effort.

“What is this?” she asked, taking a book at random.

It was Sir Thomas Brown’s Vulgar Errors, an old folio edition with wonderful woodcuts. Kit looked at it for a moment, though he knew it well enough, and then recovering himself he told her. They took the book to the broad window-sill and together turned its pages, looking at the curious pictures. After that he took down another book and then another; Bill was sitting on the window-sill now, the books piled beside her, while Kit drew a great wooden chair in front. In this way he showed her a Chaucer massively bound and clamped with brass, a Pope of 1717, a Pilgrim’s Progress grotesquely illustrated,—the books he loved, wonderful old German prints, poets of a later date, and stout old sermon-writers with whose solid works he had built houses in childish days.

So the afternoon passed with strange pleasure to both, though neither quite forgot the shadow that hung over the house, nor the even deeper shadow not only of death, that brooded over the library and in some unexplained way touched every book they looked at and every passage they read. Once Kit took down a Milton, old and shabby and unopened, except by himself, for many years, and began to read a passage from Il Penseroso.

“Oft on a plat of rising ground
I hear the far-off curfew sound,
Over some well watered shore,
Swinging slow—”

He stopped abruptly; each heard the curfew as on that night, each smelt the scent of the wet grass in the lane. There was a pause when neither looked at the other; then he went on hurriedly, a little lower down the page:

“Some still removèd place will fit,
Where glowing embers through the room
Teach light to counterfeit a gloom—”

Kit shut the book sharply and gave it up. All round him lay the heaped up volumes as they used to lie on the winter afternoons when he had built towers with the works of the divines in that same glowing gloom. He glanced at the wide fireplace; Bill had glanced at it before him, because she too had thought of it, though she had never seen it when the fire burned low at twilight. So they each looked, and then each looked at the other and neither, for all their resolutions, hid the thought nor pretended to hide it. Bill’s throat began to swell again. A volume of Hooker, balanced on the window-sill, fell with a thud to the floor. Kit took a long time in picking it up, and when at last he put it in a place of safety with Marcus Aurelius on the top, he said: “He would love the books.”

It was perfectly unnecessary to explain who he was; Bill knew and thought of Gilchrist’s tastes and bookshelf before she answered: “Yes, I think he would.” She picked up the Meditations. “He has got this,” she said; “his is in English, though, bound in green cloth, and cost one and sixpence. I believe he would like his own edition better; it is cheaper and clearer.”

Kit silently took the imperial philosopher from the girl’s hand, as she got down from the window-seat and helped him to put the books back in their places. Neither spoke of Gilchrist again; and a little later someone came to fetch them to Mr. Harborough.

They went up-stairs together and quietly into the old man’s room. Bill noticed a difference directly she entered; she needed no one to tell her that she had been called to say good-bye to the eccentric old man she had so little known.

“Come here,” he said hoarsely when he saw her hesitate near the door.

She came and stood close to him, Kit standing on the other side of the bed.

“Here’s a keepsake for you,” he whispered, trying to raise his nerveless hand. “I give it you in the presence of witnesses,” he glanced at the nurse as he spoke, “so there will be no dispute afterwards. It is not an heirloom, and I can do with it as I like. Put your hand on mine, take it, here.”

Bill put her hand in his as requested and the cold powerless fingers beneath her warm touch fumbled feebly before the two glittering buckles fell into her hand.

“There,” he said triumphantly, “they are for you; that is, if you will do me the favour of accepting them.”

“For me?” she said gazing half bewildered, half fascinated by the brilliancy of the stones.

“Yes, for you,” Mr. Harborough told her. “They are yours now, the gift is witnessed,” he went on, for she hardly seemed to realise the fact. Then she stooped and kissed the hand that gave them.

“They were Peter Harborough’s shoe-buckles,” he whispered, “about the only thing he did not lose at cards; he lost everything else even including—” there was a little cough for breath—“including his life. My father left them to me; they are my own; I can do with them as I like, and I like to give them to you. They are all the diamonds we have now and,” addressing Kit with a sudden access of spite, “no wife of yours can have them now.”

Bill dropped the buckles as if they had burnt her; they fell with a clink on the counterpane and lay there, a sparkle of light. “I can’t take them,” she said. “I won’t have them; you—you don’t understand.”

Kit leaned across and, picking them up, gently gave the buckles back to her. He did not speak, but there was something in his manner she could not resist.

“That’s right,” the old man muttered as if he had not fully understood. “They are yours, little witch; he can’t take them; I have given them to you.”

Bill grasped them in silence, pressing the sharp stones into her flesh.

“Now good-bye,” Harborough said more clearly, “good-bye, or shall we say au revoir?” His breath failed him for a moment but he recovered himself and went on cynically, “I have to go through with this business, and being new to it I may bungle. In case I do not die decently I would rather not disgrace myself in the presence of a lady.”

So Bill said good-bye and went out. Kit opened the door for her, and shutting it after her, left her standing alone outside. So she stood a moment, like one in a dream, the diamonds still pressed into her flesh; then she turned and went with slow steps down the stairs, with quickening steps across the hall to the open door, and so out into the garden where the afternoon shadows were long and the tender warmth of September lay over everything. She followed the terraced path awhile, and then, her steps still quickening, crossed the lawn where the grass was emerald green and the elm leaves lay scattered here and there. She was almost running now, quite running when she came to the shrubbery, running at full speed, running blindly, wildly, faster and faster until she reached the wood and flung herself down in the waist-deep bracken and sobbed as if her heart would break.

It was much later when Kit found her, knowing perhaps where to look for her. She had told him of her first ramble in the wood; at any rate when all was over, he found her under the yellowing beeches half hidden among the ferns. She started when she heard his step beside her, and at first was minded to pretend she had not been crying and practise a belated self-control. But she did not, chiefly because he did not pretend; he made no pretence of anything, nor yet behaved in the manner expected of him and worthy of his breeding. He sat down beside her without speaking, whereupon she obstinately buried her face in the bracken and would not so much as look up though the stiff fern-stalks pricked her neck. She moved her head uneasily and he gently broke a stalk away; in doing so his hand came in contact with her hair, a little curl of which, having become loosened, had contrived to get wet with tears. The contact with it, and the recognition that it was wet with tears, were things Kit did not soon forget; but he drew his hand away and only said stupidly: “Don’t cry, please don’t cry; I didn’t know you cared about him like that.”

“He was good to me”—Bill’s voice was muffled by the ferns—“but it isn’t exactly that.”

He had not been good to Kit, yet Kit felt vaguely grieved and shocked by his death; he looked in some perplexity at the girl beside him. “What is it then?” he asked, but she did not answer, so he fell back on his first remark and entreated her not to cry any more.

“I shall,” she answered without looking up. “I have not cried half enough yet,—there are so many things.—I haven’t nearly done.”

Kit glanced rather hopelessly at the half-buried figure. “Are you going to cry for them in order?” he asked attempting to smile.

“Yes.”

Nevertheless Bill, with the sunny lights coming back to her eyes, sat up, rustling the dead leaves as she did so. “I wonder if the wood will be cut down,” she said wistfully, as she glanced up at the interwoven branches above her.

“No,” Kit told her, “for neither you nor I would allow it.”

“I?”

“Yes; if it is not mine it will be yours, or as good as yours.”

“Mine?”

“Yes; if it is Theo’s—you said you were going to marry him—it will be yours too, and I am glad.”

“Glad! I am not.”

Her voice was passionate, almost vindictive, and Kit went on quickly: “I am glad, and you ought to be too. You said once that, were you in my place, you would do anything to get Wood Hall; surely you ought not to mind if you have it.”

“I’m not in your place,” Bill said, “and I don’t want it a bit. Do anything to get it! A woman can’t do anything but be married. I don’t want Theo to have it, and I don’t want to come here.”

She buried her face in the ferns again, but now she did not cry. Kit broke the stiff fern-stalk into little pieces, and as he threw them away caught sight of the buckles shining among the ferns near the girl’s arm. Bill heard them clink as he picked them up, and sat up again, facing him now with a calm determination. “I am not going to have them,” she said quietly.

“You must; you can’t help yourself. They were given to you, and you must have them,” and he dropped them into her lap.

“I am not going to have them,” she repeated; “had he known, he would not have given them to me.”

“No, because very probably they would have come to you in any case; I don’t know how such things go, but it is likely they would have come to you. At all events they are yours beyond dispute now.”

“Mine, not my husband’s?”

“Certainly, yours absolutely.”

“Mine to do with as I like?” The sense of ownership seemed to please the girl. Kit wondered why a little, but he did not ask and her next words explained. “Then I can give them to whom I please? I shall give them to your wife on her wedding-day.”

Bill put the rejected buckles in her pocket, but Kit said quietly: “That you will never do, for I shall never marry.”

CHAPTER XXIV.
THE COURTSHIP OF HARBOROUGH OF BYBRIDGE.

Polly said it was quite unnecessary for Bill to go to old Mr. Harborough’s funeral, though the wish to do so showed a nice feeling on her part; and since she did wish it (and had a black dress) there really was no reason why she should not go, more especially as she was leaving for London the next day and would thus escape Miss Minchin’s cross-questioning. But Gilchrist had other opinions; he strongly disapproved of Bill’s going, seeing no reason for it and a great many against it. He himself had never claimed any connection with the Harboroughs during the old man’s life and did not intend to do so at his death, except through the medium of the law. He said he should consider it an impertinence on his own part to go to the funeral. Bill agreed with him as to the propriety of his staying away, but persisted in going herself. Gilchrist became really angry, and told her it was absurd to go simply because Mr. Harborough had given her the diamond shoe-buckles; people who did not know the circumstances might put another construction on her actions. Bill said she did not mind that, and also that the shoe-buckles were only part of her reason for going.

“What other reason is there?” he asked.

“I want to speak—” she began and then broke off. “Oh, I can’t tell you,” she said impatiently. “I don’t mind your knowing if only I had not the bother of explaining; as it is, I really can’t go into it. You say so much about things, ask so many questions, see so many motives, and foresee so many consequences, that I really shall be obliged to give up telling you. I don’t mind your knowing, and up till now I have told you things; but I am afraid I shall have to begin taking you in to save trouble.”

“Do you know what you are saying?” was the beginning of Gilchrist’s not unnaturally severe answer: the end was less pacific. However, there was no quarrel between them, but he was exceedingly angry with her sayings then, and even more so with her doings later on, for she went to the funeral in spite of him. It was not easy to quarrel with Bill, as she did not retaliate and did not mind; but also, as Polly knew, she could not be moved, quietly taking her own course unless you could convince her it was wrong; “and Gilchrist can’t convince her,” Polly said after the affair of the funeral. She herself advised Bill not to go when she found how strong was Gilchrist’s opposition; but it did not make the slightest difference. Bill had promised Kit she would go, and she went.

It was soon after five on the afternoon when old Mr. Harborough died that Kit found the girl in the wood; yet it was nearly nine when she reached Haylands. The intervening time was not entirely occupied in the drive home, nor yet in the conversation concerning the reason for Bill’s tears. Most of that conversation was carried on while she was half buried in the ferns; but there was another and a longer one when she faced the facts of the case in the old library. Indeed, after a while her position and Kit’s were to a certain extent reversed; it was she who comforted and planned, arraying the future in its best colours, he who at first declined to see hope anywhere, even though he faced that future with much apparent indifference.

Truly, as Bill was forced to admit, the future did not look promising. Both from what she had learned from Gilchrist—and she had made many inquiries of late—and from what Kit had heard from the solicitor and confided to her now, she could not help seeing that the case looked bad against him. Even if a will existed—and Kit seemed to think that by no means likely—it would do little more than complicate the case without giving him a title to the estates, unless he could make good his uncle’s title first. He told her all he knew about it, and she returned the compliment; but they cannot be said to have advanced matters very much or come to any resolution. Of course, Kit was going to win the lawsuit,—that was a foregone conclusion—but Bill, whose universe was always constructed with a convenient back door for use when foregone conclusions failed, strongly recommended him to consider how he would stand if the impossible were to happen. And it must be admitted that, if the catastrophe really took place, he would not stand very well, for with Wood Hall and all it entailed gone there was not a great deal left; briefly, a hundred a year inherited from his mother, a liberal education and studious tastes which together had enabled him to take a good classical degree at Oxford in the previous summer, and had further allowed him to study modern languages and literature with rather more than usual thoroughness. These, besides youth and health, were the only passably serviceable possessions he could claim. There was a taste for writing poetry and an aptitude for translating Greek verse, but neither was any use; there were several other tastes which were no use, and yet others which were positively detrimental.

“I am afraid you would find it awfully hard,” Bill said once. She felt a compassion which was almost motherly for him in his ignorance of the shifts and turns of the genteel poverty in which she had been reared.

“No harder than other people,” he answered rather curtly.

Bill knew better. A hundred a year would have been wealth to her and Polly; sixty between Bella and Theresa seemed almost a fortune; however, she did not say so, but talked of small privations instead.

“You would not be able to have a clean shirt every day,” she said, and Kit winced at the mention of such sordid trifles. “Washing costs such a lot,” the girl went on; “besides it wears things out. You would not be able to have an evening paper if you had a morning one, and you certainly would not be able to have many new books; you would have to have your boots mended over and over again, and think what tips you would give the porters. Saving in big things is not so hard; it is the little things you would hate, filing the edges,—you have to file the edges when you are making money or saving it either—it would set your teeth on edge horribly, I’m afraid.”

“Not more than it does yours,” Kit retorted.

But Bill did not agree with him. “It does not hurt me,” she said; “I’m used to it and my people have been used to it; we have been poor long enough not to mind about these things. Besides, I love work; I don’t care much what it is; I like to do things, and I don’t care what I do. I am afraid, too, I am not so very refined; things that would hurt you don’t hurt me; I don’t believe I have got very ladylike tastes.”

But Kit turned on her here: in his opinion she was the most perfect lady living, not even she herself should question it in his hearing; and for a time the conversation became personal, but eventually it returned to the original subject. Bill learned a good deal of Kit’s history that day,—of his mother, dead rather more than a year, but beloved and tenderly revered, as indeed she deserved to be seeing that he owed to her all the better part of himself,—of the quiet life at Bybridge, the red Queen Anne house, with the walled garden, the pleasant homecomings there to the widowed mother,—the student’s days at Oxford, the travels in continental cities, tales of times and sights which fired Bill’s ready imagination and set her gipsy blood aflame to be free to wander and to see and learn. In their interest in these tales both listener and narrator almost forgot the graver matters before them. But there were other things, memories of still earlier days which brought them back, the recollection of boyish days spent at Wood Hall, holidays when the parents were abroad and silently and unconsciously there grew in the young mind that love of the old place which is as an entail binding one generation to the next.

Bill listened greedily, forgetting all about home and Gilchrist who was waiting for her there. At last, however, she did remember and somewhat hastily departed, feeling that in this talk of the past they had rather neglected considerations of the future. Before she went she promised she would come to the funeral, partly to remedy the omission of that evening and partly to do honour to the old man who would not have many real mourners.

In one respect, however, Bill made something of a mistake, for she had that day without knowing it helped Kit Harborough for the future. Unconsciously she had preached to him the gospel which was so completely incorporated into her own nature that she did not even know she believed it,—the gospel of work;—the delight and satisfaction in work for its own sake irrespective of kind or place, just doing for the sake of doing, and doing now, not waiting the time and opportunity for a great work, but setting to at once on the nearest thing that offered. Not lamenting because the beautiful edifice of faith or hope has tottered and fallen, but taking, instead, stones from the ruin to build a shelter while the plans for some greater work are maturing.

Bill did not think these things; she did not even know she believed them; only she unconsciously translated them into action, and as unconsciously, by her words and by her attitude of mind, preached them to Kit.

She went to the funeral and stood respectfully on the outskirts of the group which gathered in the little churchyard in Wood Hall park. She did not attach herself to the party, feeling herself an alien, but Kit, who as recognised heir was chief mourner, saw her though he could not come to her till a good deal later in the afternoon. She had said she would wait for him among the beeches, and she did wait, for a time almost forgetting him in the exquisite perfection of the silent October wood. When at last he came they finished the conversation begun the other day, and they did not hurry over it unduly. Bill knew that Gilchrist and the cousins would be angry with her late return, but so angry that half an hour one way or the other would make no difference.

Before the interrupted conversation was resumed Kit told her a piece of news which at first seemed of great importance to her, though afterwards she was obliged to agree with him in not attaching too much value to it. It appeared that old Mr. Harborough had made a will after all, and by the terms of it Kit would, were it not for the Australian, succeed to the property exactly as he used to anticipate.

Bill clasped her hands with excitement. “Oh, I am so glad,” she said.

“So am I, although I don’t think it will make much difference to the case.”

“You don’t?”

He shook his head but repeated that he was glad, and there was a few moments’ silence before Bill said softly: “I am so glad you did not speak about the will; it has happened without your speaking; you were right and I was wrong.”

Kit did not agree with her there, thinking they had been of one mind on the subject of the will: but they did not discuss the point at length, turning instead to the consideration of Kit’s future, should the case be decided against him.

Doubtless if this really occurred his friends and relations would find or do something for him but he and Bill planned, curiously though practically, without considering the relations at all. Bill’s plans seldom depended on outside help, and usually, however absurd, had the merit of being such that they could start working at once. She was rather anxious that Kit should start at once, for, as she said, if he could earn anything the money would be no disadvantage should the case go in his favour, and a decided advantage should it go against him. The only difficulty was, to find anything he could do in his present circumstances and with his modest talents.

“You could teach,” Bill said doubtfully, having but a poor opinion of that refuge of the destitute; “with your degree you could get a mastership, but then I suppose your people would not like it; besides it would be rather awkward for other reasons. You might get some translating to do, as you know languages pretty well. I believe it is awfully hard to get, and not well paid; still it would be better than nothing, and if it is really so difficult to get, it would be just as well to see after it before the need comes; you would be ready then if it did come. You said it might take as long as two years to settle about Wood Hall? In two years you ought to be able to get a little translating, I should think.”

Kit thought so too, and they talked over ways and means, he telling her sundry youthful dreams, she listening with admiring sympathy not untouched with practical common-sense. Eventually he did make a start as she suggested, and finding, as they feared, that such work as he could do was almost impossible to obtain, he turned, till it came, to one of the youthful dreams and translated some of the lesser known dialogues of Lucian into scholarly English. And though even his inexperience could not but tell him that the work, when done, would not be a marketable commodity, the doing of it was a great satisfaction to him. Later, through the good offices of a college friend, he got a German book on botany to translate, and very uninteresting work he found it. Nevertheless, because it was the first work he had ever been paid for, he was pleased with it, and so pleased with the small sum he received for it that he invested the whole in a large crystal of rough amethyst, remembering how rapturous Bill had been in her admiration of the small crystal he had shown her in the collection of such specimens at Wood Hall. When, however, it came to the point of sending his crystal to the girl his courage failed; afraid of displeasing her he put the amethyst away, and no one knew of its existence for a long time.

But all this happened later and had no part in the conversation on that October afternoon. It must be admitted, however, that if the conversation had entirely confined itself to plans for the future, Bill would have reached home earlier than she did. Some chance reference to the shoe-buckles and the value Polly put upon them brought Peter Harborough to her mind, and with him the recollection of the gravestone at Sandover and its record of his tragic death. Who Peter Harborough was, and how he died, were questions which perplexed her on the Sunday afternoon when she saw his grave; they returned to her with redoubled interest now that his buckles had come into her possession; and she sought information of Kit.

He could tell her little more than that the man was the younger brother of old Mr. Harborough’s grandfather, and as such should have succeeded to the property if death had not intervened. “He was great friends with the Corbys; it was at Corby Dean he was shot,” Kit concluded.

“I know, but who shot him? Was it one of the Corbys, or did he do it himself?”

“No one knows, but his brother apparently was satisfied that it was all right; he asked no questions, took the property, and said nothing.”

Bill pondered the matter for a minute. “Which Corby was it?” she asked. “I mean with which one was he friendly and played cards? What relation was he to Roger Corby, the old Squire?”

“It was Roger Corby himself,” Kit told her; “Roger, the last of them.”

“Roger Corby, himself,” Bill repeated. It was curious how she seemed to stumble upon fragments of this man’s history. She tried vainly to piece out his life, but she had so little to go on. At length she said: “But he was not the last of them; he had a granddaughter who outlived him.”

“She can hardly be counted.”

“But why? I suppose she could have taken the property if there was any, even if she did marry and change her name.”

“There was nothing to take; in fact the old squire was so much in debt at his death that, although they sold all that was left of the property, it was little more than enough to pay everything off. Of course there was not much to sell then; there was little about here; Corby Dean, the house near Bybridge, was heavily mortgaged and nearly tumbling down, and most of the land near Sandover and Bybridge had already been disposed of.”

“You mean where Sandover now stands? It belongs to Mr. Briant now, doesn’t it? By the way, you must have been staying with him at Bymouth, for you were staying at the River House and that is where he lives. Polly found out; she always asks about the people who live in the big houses.”

Kit said he had been staying with Mr. Briant and added: “It was the grandfather of that man who first had the land from Roger Corby. It was not worth much then, the present owner being the one who has developed it so tremendously; still even at that time it was a good lot for a man with the old squire’s income to give to his steward.”

“His steward? Was Mr. Briant’s grandfather Roger Corby’s steward?”

“Yes; steward or bailiff or something of the sort; at least he was at one time, but he left his service and went abroad, I think soon after Peter Harborough was shot.”

Bill considered the matter a moment. “And Roger gave him the land?” she asked at length.

“Something very like it; he granted it to him absolutely, subject only to some nominal rental payable if demanded, and that practically amounts to a gift, at least to the first owner if not to his children.”

“Roger Corby must have had some reason,” Bill said with conviction.

Kit agreed with her, though he could not say for certain what it may have been. “Briant was steward at Corby Dean when Peter Harborough was shot,” he said; “that may have had something to do with it. But whether he knew something about it and threatened to speak, or whether he did not know and only threatened to make a charge which Roger Corby could not disprove because of the secrecy of the affair I could never find out. Of course it is all very long ago now, and people do not seem to take much interest in such things as a rule.”

This was said almost apologetically, as if the speaker were ashamed of his own interest; but he need not have apologised to Bill, who was herself more fascinated by these tales of the past than he was.

“It was an awful lot to give,” she said at last, “but I suppose he had no choice. I wonder why he put in the nominal rental; has it ever been demanded, do you know?”

“I should not think so; there has been no one to demand it. I expect that it was put in so that it might be possible for the Corbys eventually to recover the land at the end of the time for which it was granted. But it does not matter much now, for there are no more Corbys.”

“But the granddaughter,” Bill asked, “what became of her? Did she not marry and have children?”

“She married but had no children; I don’t think anybody knows what became of her.”

“Did she run away?” Bill thought it just possible, considering what was told of her childhood, that this last of the Corbys might have run away if her fate demanded that solution of a difficulty.

“Yes, that is it,” Kit said; “she ran away from her husband. I don’t know the name of the man she went with, but they say she was never very fond of her husband, and I should think she must have been rather difficult to deal with; my uncle knew her, and he always spoke as if she were. The man she married was younger than she, a clergyman—but you know him, I expect you know all this; at least you must have heard something of Mr. Dane’s wife?”

“Mr. Dane!” Bill exclaimed, her eyes growing wide. “Was she his wife? His wife—and he would have loved her so! Oh, Monseigneur, poor Monseigneur,” and her voice took the almost tender wail of a primitive woman who mourns her loved ones.

“Did you not know?” Kit asked, trying to remember if she had expressed pity for his troubles in that tone.

She shook her head. “I knew he had been married,” she said, “though people at Ashelton usually speak as if he had not; perhaps they don’t know. He never speaks about his wife, so I thought she must have died very long ago.”

“She did, or rather she left him long ago, forty years or more. I am surprised you did not know, though now I come to think of it, people about here hardly would; it did not happen here, and Mr. Dane did not come to Ashelton till some time afterwards. Wilhelmina Corby had not lived here since she was quite a young girl, and there was nothing to connect Mr. Dane with her in people’s minds.”

“Was her name Wilhelmina? Then I wonder he puts up with me! I am Wilhelmina; he ought to hate me. He ought to do that for several things; I asked him something yesterday I would never have asked had I known this.”

“What was it? Will you tell me?”

Bill hesitated a moment before she said: “Yes, if you like. I asked him what he did when things went utterly wrong with his life, when”—the girl’s tone had taken a passionate ring as if the occasion were not entirely impersonal—“when he felt like Job’s wife and wanted to curse God and die because things were so hopelessly, incurably wrong.”

“Why did you ask?”

The words were uttered almost before Kit knew what he said. When they were once spoken, he would sooner have bitten his tongue through than that they should have been said.

She sat silent for a long moment pulling the fern to pieces in her hands; when at last she did speak it was to repeat to him, with a curious quietness, Mr. Dane’s words to herself.

“He said,” so she told him, “on such a day as you speak of I shut a door in my mind and went away without speaking or looking back; afterwards I played cricket at the school-treat, and I think I played as well as usual.”

That was all she said; after she had spoken there was a great silence in the yellow wood, except when the beech-nuts fell pattering on the dead leaves, and the robins, the year’s grandchildren, sang shrill and sweet in the branches.

At last she spoke again, scarcely above a whisper now: “I think I am going to try to do that.”

Kit turned and faced her; there was a faint flush on his cheek, but his eyes met hers unflinchingly—“And I too,” he said; and then they walked on in silence.

CHAPTER XXV.
GENERAL SERVANT.

It is an old saying, and doubtless a good one, that two is company and three none; yet the presence of a third person who stands somewhat apart from the other two is frequently a great assistance to domestic happiness and a great preventive of domestic friction. Polly took Bill to London during the first week in October and Theresa missed her at every turn. There was no one to play bézique with Robert in the long dull evenings; Theresa hated cards, and though she tried to play from a sense of duty her skill was so small that her efforts were a failure. There was no one to talk and amuse him when he came in at odd times; Theresa was somewhat silent by nature, and she did not seem to have grasped the details of his work. She could not remember the points of his horses or the names of his dogs; it all came natural to Bill who, Theresa reflected, had less on her mind and so of course might be expected to remember better. She missed the girl herself, too, in the dairy and store-room, in the house and orchard and garden. She missed her when the late apples fell, and when the dead leaves gathered thick in the garden; she missed the all-pervading sunshine of her nature, and she missed the regular visits Gilchrist Harborough used to pay on Bill’s account.

Of course she had nothing but the most impersonal interest in Gilchrist,—no one, not even Polly had suggested otherwise, though Theresa flushed as she remembered what Polly had suggested—still it was pleasanter when he used to come. If Bill had been here he would have come to-night; it was one of his evenings. Robert had gone to a political meeting at Wrugglesby and would not be home till late, and Theresa sighed a little, to think of the weary number of hours before her. She wondered a little, over her sewing, if Gilchrist had gone too.

But Gilchrist had not gone to the political meeting; he did not even know Robert had gone, for he came to Haylands that evening to speak to him, and finding he was not at home, came in to leave a message with Theresa. She was sincerely glad to see him, and he, to judge from his manner, was sincerely glad to be there again. To tell the truth he too missed those pleasant evenings at Haylands, the refinement and indescribable femininity of the house appealing to him in a way that surprised even himself.

“One needs a woman about a place,” he reflected that evening when he went once more to the house and found that though Bill was gone, the femininity remained,—flowers, needlework, delicate womanly atmosphere, all as before, all as attractive. It must be admitted that he did not expect otherwise, for to him Bill did not suggest such things; she could arrange flowers as well as grow them, and she often sat at needlework when he saw her, sewing very strongly, very intently; yet to him there was something unfeminine in the very energy with which she did the smallest things. Theresa,—he did not think much about Theresa, except to decide that it was an advantage to be sure what a woman meant, and sometimes what she thought, advantages he did not feel he possessed with regard to Bill.

She, it is true, had been surprisingly docile of late, but her docility was flat and uninteresting, and there was besides an uneasy feeling in Gilchrist’s mind that he did not know what lay behind. He did not feel that he had grasped Bill at all. He had been exceedingly angry on the occasion of Mr. Harborough’s funeral, and there had followed an interview with Bill which should have been stormy. It was not, however; Bill was truly sorry for having annoyed him so much, confessed her sins, and promised more respect for his wishes in future. She was honestly trying to do her duty now, and to behave in the way she ought. Gilchrist did not altogether believe in her repentance, which was perhaps not unnatural; and when she confessed herself wrong, he agreed with her and accepted her self-accusations as a matter of course. It is sometimes a pity to accept another’s self-accusations so readily; just it may be, but it is not always encouraging. Fortunately it mattered less to Bill than to most people and peace was patched up between them, though things were not perhaps in the most satisfactory state when she left for London. Had the engagement not rested on something more reliable than mutual affection it would hardly have been wise of Polly to take the girl to London, for in spite of her faults, she had a species of fascination for Gilchrist when she was present, and when she was absent there was Theresa to consider.

However, about that time Gilchrist did not give much attention to either Theresa or Bill, for the opening of the Harborough lawsuit occupied most of his thoughts. It also occupied the thoughts of his neighbours, and was looked upon as a matter of tremendous local interest; Ashelton even split into factions over the question of the justice or injustice of the claim, of which, by the way, very little was generally known. Mr. Stevens was much pressed for information, or at least for his opinion as to the probable issue, but though he had no professional connection with either party he maintained a discreet silence. He once went so far as to say that a lot of good money would be wasted by two young men who could ill afford it, and that without knowing a great deal more than he now knew he should be sorry to bet on either. This discreet opinion was more moderate than those held by most of his neighbours.

Theresa knew little more than the rest of the village on the great subject of the Harborough claim, for Gilchrist had not had time to explain it to her since the case opened, and before that time he had thought it wiser to keep silence even with members of Bill’s family.

“Not that I minded you knowing,” he said to Theresa the night Robert went to the political meeting. “I had not the least objection to that, only I was afraid if Bill told you she would also tell Miss Hains, and she, you know, is perhaps not quite so discreet. I am sure she would not mean to betray a confidence, but she talks a good deal, and people who do that often say more than they intend.”

In this he scarcely did Polly justice, for though she might betray a secret it was not by accident or through foolishness. But Theresa said she understood, and led him to talk of his chances of success. He was very cautious and would not commit himself at all, but she persisted in speaking as if a favourable issue were certain.

“Fancy little Bill mistress of such a place as Wood Hall!” she said, when at last she had in her own mind brought all to a satisfactory conclusion. She was evidently delighted with the idea, but this particular side of the termination was exactly what Gilchrist did not fancy; however, he only replied to Theresa by saying with a smile: “Things have not quite reached that point yet, and I almost doubt if Bill expects them to do so; she hardly seems to quite realise what the position would be if they did.”

“I expect not. She little thought when once or twice she went to see old Mr. Harborough that she herself might one day live at Wood Hall. It will take her a long time to get used to the idea; she is such a child.”

That was not her worst complaint in Gilchrist’s eyes, but he only said, “Time will cure that.”

It was just then that there came the sound of a stumble in the passage. Theresa started from her chair. “I did not hear Robert’s horse,” she exclaimed. “I—you—I’m afraid—”

Gilchrist had heard that heavy stumble, that muttered oath before; he had reached the door as soon as she and put out his hand to open it first.

“I am afraid Robert is not well;” she faced him unflinchingly with the lie. “Will you excuse me? I must go to him—good-night;” and she passed out leaving him alone.

Bill had been right; she had found him out, and she stood between him and all the world, hiding his fall with her pitiful little pretence. And he—Gilchrist ground his teeth in impotent rage as he walked home through the darkness that night—what was he to receive such loyalty, such service!

It was perhaps fortunate for Gilchrist Harborough that he had a good deal to think of just now; the lawsuit absorbed a large proportion of his time and interests, and it was just as well that it did, for, although it prevented him from paying much attention to Bill, it also prevented him from paying much to other subjects which were better let alone. After the evening when he saw Theresa he devoted himself more assiduously than ever to the matter of the suit, and so really absorbing did he find it that, though he was in town pretty often that autumn, he was not once able to spare an hour to go to Bayswater to see Bill. However, about the beginning of December he fancied he should be able to manage it, and wrote to tell her that he hoped to come.

Bill and Polly had been well established now for some time, for they did not take long settling down, though the process had not been all that Polly had anticipated. If the truth must be known, her position now was not altogether unlike that of the old magician who, having raised a spirit to help him in his schemes, finds the obliging goblin to be of such unexpected magnitude that it proves not only embarrassing but likely to constitute itself master instead of servant. Polly’s spirit, very obliging, very hard-working and even-tempered, presented one serious drawback,—it would rule. It was useless for Polly to attempt any of the little shifts dear to her heart; Bill, who knew her, was equal to them all, and forestalled her in the pleasantest but completest way possible. Once or twice at the beginning of the partnership Polly threatened to turn her all too active partner out, but she never did it. Probably she never seriously thought of it, for Bill was very useful; there was no need to employ a girl with Bill in the house, no need to have either a boot-boy or a charwoman; no need for Polly herself to do more than a very moderate share of the work. Bill also got on well with the lodgers and with the tradespeople, and, when once they two had got to understand their relative positions, excellently well with Polly herself.

Bill had altered in several ways besides in this development of the ruling spirit. Polly found her quieter than she used to be, on the whole more a woman and less a child, though she occasionally lapsed into her old ways. She had shut a door in her mind, and was trying hard to do well the thing which came next. It was easy enough when it was housework or cooking; she did them to the best of her ability, too well, in fact, according to Polly, who was no advocate for superfluous thoroughness. But there were other things she tried to do which were not easy; she was trying under somewhat adverse circumstances to be more of a lady, more like Theresa to please Gilchrist, more like the gentlewoman of Mr. Dane’s definition to please herself.

On the whole the cousins lived happily and let their rooms with a fair amount of success. Polly’s lot was occasionally brightened by a hamper from Haylands, or shaded by the loss of a paying lodger or the all too previous departure of one who had not paid. But in the beginning of December when Gilchrist came to town things were not very prosperous; the rooms had been empty some time, the cold weather had set in early, and the fog, which preceded and sometimes accompanied the frost, was both depressing and likely to be expensive in gas. Polly economised in candle-ends, bemoaning her fate, and then indulged in buttered muffins “to cheer us up.” It was on the occasion of the muffins that Bill received Gilchrist’s letter.

“I wonder if he is going home again the same night,” Polly speculated. “He had much better stay here,—there is plenty of room. I shall ask him; it will be more correct for me to do it than for you.”

Bill did not know why it was more correct, but knowing Polly liked these small details she raised no objection, and in due time the invitation was given and accepted. Polly was much pleased, being genuinely hospitable and moreover very proud of her dingy little house; she also thought a great deal of Gilchrist since the matter of Wood Hall had come to her knowledge, and she prepared for his reception accordingly. The best bedroom was made ready, the best sitting-room set in order. Bill did most of that, but Polly, with an eye to effect, brought their work-baskets and books from the kitchen, where they were usually kept.

“We must make it look as if we sat here always,” she said, as she put a reel of cotton on the mantelpiece.

“Then we must bring the cat,” Bill replied, “for he always sits with us. But it is rather nonsense; why should not Gilchrist know we live in the kitchen? He knows that somebody must do the work, and he won’t think the worse of us for doing it.”

But Polly thought otherwise. “It was different when he was only a working farmer,” she said. “Now, since all this about Wood Hall has happened, he won’t look at it in quite the same way.”

“I don’t see any reason for pretending, when he knows that we work.”

“He knows it in a general way, but it is one thing to know it and quite another to see it being done.”

With which incontestable opinion Polly closed her remarks and carried her point, and when Gilchrist came soon after six o’clock the best sitting-room looked as snug as though it were the family’s habitual living-room. Bill had on her best frock and her best manners, and everything was as pleasant as possible. Polly was delighted; she had been a little afraid that Gilchrist, in his position of claimant to the Wood Hall estate, might wish to make a more advantageous marriage than the one in prospect. She was very much afraid that he might use the private and not very binding nature of the engagement as an excuse to repudiate it, or to induce Bill to release him. But on that December evening she was perfectly satisfied, he and Bill evidently understanding one another, and Bill was behaving beautifully; she was so gentle and submissive, she might almost have been anybody.

Polly, in spite of her low financial ebb, had prepared what she called a “tasty supper” in honour of the guest. It was not altogether unlike her millinery—an ingenious “do-up” finished off with a few new trimmings, but it was undeniably successful. She was very gratified by its success and by things in general, and it was with a cheerful countenance that she withdrew after the meal.

“I know you must have a lot to talk about,” she said, beaming upon the other two; “and as I have some letters to write, I think I will go and do them down-stairs.”

So she went, though the letters resolved themselves into the supper-things which she washed, while up-stairs Gilchrist told Bill all about Wood Hall and the progress of the case, which was not rapid, and his opinion of the rival claimant, which was not enthusiastic. Bill listened and answered as sympathetically as she could, though it is possible she would rather have been washing dishes in the kitchen. Still she did her share in the conversation admirably, and when they spoke of things other than those concerning Wood Hall she was really splendid in her efforts to be like Theresa. Nevertheless Gilchrist did not commend her improvement; perhaps he was not satisfied with it, nor with the submissive girl, who was trying so hard to please him.

Bill felt the failure when she went to bed that night. “I expect it did not ring true,” she thought; “I must try to feel like Theresa as well as behave like her. I’ll do it in time; I believe I could be anything if I tried long enough.” And so she fell asleep, resolutely trying to school herself to what she conceived to be Theresa’s attitude of mind. She woke next morning with the same thought uppermost and continued her practice of what she called “Theresaing” her mind while she cleaned the guest’s boots in the basement.

At breakfast that morning Gilchrist said he should not leave for Wrugglesby until the six o’clock train. Bill felt a pleasurable expectancy; perhaps he would suggest that they two should go for a walk somewhere; she knew where they would go, the British Museum was free to all comers and they would go there and look at all the mummies. There was so little work to do now, Polly would not mind, and it would be very nice.

Gilchrist said he had business which would occupy him during the morning. That was natural, but the afternoon—Polly supposed, with an affable smile, that he “would want her to spare Bill part of the afternoon.” But Gilchrist, looking out of the window, said it did not promise to be a very nice day, adding that he probably would not be back before four, when it would be quite dark.

“Just as if it is not possible to go out after dark and enjoy it too!” Polly observed indignantly later on in the day. The cousins were clearing up after their mid-day dinner and Polly slammed the plates into the rack in a dangerous manner as she spoke, her disgust with Gilchrist having been simmering all the morning.

But Bill hardly glanced round. “I don’t care,” she said indifferently; “I did not want to go so very much.”

“Oh, I dare say!” Polly snorted indignantly. “He ought to have taken you all the same; I don’t think it is at all nice behaviour on his part. He has not brought you a present or anything, in spite of all his fuss about Wood Hall.”

“I don’t want presents. He is no richer than he was, and he has no time to think of it, and—and—I don’t want things.”

Bill’s face was rosy and her tone hurt, but Polly went on volubly: “Look at Jack Dawson; besides a lovely engagement-ring (which you have not got through Theresa’s nonsense) he has given Bella—”

“I tell you, Polly, I don’t want presents; I won’t have you say any more about it!”

“Oh, well, of course I can quite understand you don’t like to have it mentioned, but I must say I don’t think it is at all nice of him. You haven’t cost him much, in fact nothing at all; I suppose he thought, as he could have you for the asking, he need not trouble, but it isn’t very flattering. I do think he might have taken you out—might have taken us both out—after all the trouble we have had too, that lovely supper last night, and fried bacon for breakfast this morning, and all.”

Bill laughed. “A truly commercial mind!” she said. “But perhaps Gilchrist will leave a tip for our invisible servant; if so, you could take that in payment for the supper.”

But Polly was much annoyed with the guest, more than was just, for he was really too busy to think of anything at present, and he certainly had not intended to slight or wound either of the cousins. Nevertheless he had wounded Polly’s pride; as for Bill, no one knew what she thought, for which reason, if for no other, Polly reflected that she had done very foolishly to speak as she had done. She was herself dressing to go out now because she “felt so upset that she could not stay in.” While she dressed she came to the conclusion that she had been most indiscreet, for if it were true that Gilchrist had been neglectful it was her place to pour balm on Bill’s wounds, not to point out Gilchrist’s misdemeanours. She had certainly been foolish, and accordingly, before going out, she went to the kitchen and apologised for what she had said.

“I didn’t mean anything,” she explained. “I was annoyed by that butcher sending in his bill as he did, and I was put out and cross altogether. Of course I would not say a word against Gilchrist. You know what a lot I think of him; he’s worth twenty of Jack Dawson; nobody would expect him to waste his money on silly presents.”

Bill said it was “all right,” and Polly went out leaving her young cousin cleaning the kitchen-hearth. And possibly it would have been all right but for what followed. Bill had not thought of receiving presents from Gilchrist, nor yet of going out with him; she did not expect either, and though she was disappointed about the mummies, she did not regard his actions as an index of his affections.

It was when she had almost finished the hearth that there came a ring at the front door. It was not much after three yet, and Polly had said she would be home at half-past so as to be ready by the time Gilchrist returned at four. Bill came to the conclusion that it must be the baker who rang, and since the summons sounded peremptory, she went up-stairs without waiting to take off the sacking apron she had put on for cleaning the hearth. She wore her oldest frock, which she had put on as soon as their visitor went out; it was short as well as old, and her disreputable shoes showed well below it. It was not wonderful that Gilchrist looked at her blankly for a moment when she opened the door to him and his friend Ferguson. Only for a moment he looked, and then Bill, withdrawing herself behind the door after the manner of maids-of-all-work, spoke: “Miss ’Ains is out,” she said; “but walk in, won’t yer, sir?”

Gilchrist walked in, half paused, and then went on without speaking. It was impossible to present her to Ferguson as his future wife, more especially impossible in the light of her stupidly unrecognising look; she herself made the introduction impossible by the very perfection with which she had assumed her part. So the introduction was not made, and the two men went up to the sitting-room to examine a document Gilchrist had left there, while Bill, with a clatter of ill-shod feet, went back to the kitchen.

By-and-bye the street door was closed, and soon after, the work being done, Bill went up-stairs to change her dress. She thought Gilchrist had gone out with his friend, but she was mistaken. As she passed the half-open door of the sitting-room she saw him standing before the fireplace, where, for economy’s sake, the fire had been allowed to go out after he had left that morning. Bill paused: Polly had told her to re-light the fire before half-past three. It must be done; moreover, she in her own character never hesitated about going through with any difficulty into which she might have blundered; in the character of Theresa it was impossible to know how to act, for Theresa never got into these difficulties. Consequently the character of Theresa was forgotten, and it was the original Bill who walked into the room with genuine regret for what had occurred, but not entirely without a little amusement too.

“I’ll light the fire,” she said, turning back the hearth-rug before she knelt down and beginning to arrange paper in the grate. “I am very sorry, Gilchrist,” she went on penitently as she glanced up at the young man’s gloomy face. “I never expected you back so early; I thought it was the baker.”

“Are you in the habit of going to the baker like that?”

“Oh, yes, sometimes, if I am in a hurry or he is. I thought the ring sounded like a hurry. I really am sorry, but Mr. Ferguson didn’t know me, so there’s not much harm done.”

“I think there is a great deal of harm done.” Gilchrist’s face did not relax. “Don’t trouble about the fire just now, I want to talk to you. Tell me, is it necessary for you to get in this condition?”

Bill obediently left laying the fire and answered apologetically: “I am afraid I am a dirty worker.”

“But surely it is hardly necessary to do this work. What have you been doing? What do you do?”

“I was cleaning the kitchen-stove when you rang,” Bill answered meekly, though something in the masterfulness of his tone was rousing the old Bill whom it was not easy to drive. “Perhaps,” she went on with a spark of fun in her eyes, “it was hardly necessary to do the stove, but I don’t know; it is a point open to discussion; the same with the knives which I have cleaned since; but your boots, which I did earlier in the day, really were necessary, don’t you think so?”

“Did you clean my boots?”

“I cleaned your honour’s noble boots,” and she swept him a courtesy and then looked up with a dawning smile.

But he did not smile. “You ought not to have done it,” he said.

“Why? I did not mind.”

“I mind.”

Yet his tone somehow told her that he minded because she was his future wife and the possible mistress of Wood Hall, rather than because she was herself.

“I told you I should be a general servant,” she said. “Do you remember that night we went to the Dawsons and Miss Dawson was so contemptuous?” and she set her mobile face into Miss Dawson’s supercilious stare. But Gilchrist did not seem pleased by the recollection, and the imp in Bill getting the upper hand, she went on somewhat recklessly. “Well, I am a general servant now, though not a very good one. What a queer little slavey you’ve got here, Harborough,” and her change of tone made the man start, and for a moment almost think Ferguson was back. “Who the devil is she? I believe I know her face—by Jove, she’s like the plum girl I met near your place last summer. But I don’t think Gilchrist told her name.”

“No”—his tone was cold with suppressed anger—“I did not tell your name; I was not exactly proud of my future wife.”

The smile died out of her face. “I am very sorry,” she said penitently, and the penitence was genuine, but Gilchrist was not mollified.

“You do not show it,” he said; “mimicking my friends and making fun of what you have done hardly suggests regret. I think under the circumstances it would be as well if we said no more about it. Perhaps you had better go and change your dress; talking will not make matters any better.”

She began to move towards the door humbled by his words, but half turned before she opened it. “Are matters very bad?” she asked wistfully.

“Can you think them very good? Do you think your life, or ways, or,—or anything at all fitting to the position you may have to occupy? I don’t mean to blame you, but things do not promise to be quite the same as they were, and I wish you would try to remember the difference.”

She turned fully now, and unconsciously both tone and manner had changed, becoming quiet and firm. “You mean,” she said, “that what was fitting for your wife when you were only Harborough of Crows’ Farm is not fitting now? You are quite right; I agree with you.”

“Then I wish you would act upon it.”

“I cannot, the unfitness goes too deep, for it is I myself who was fit to be your wife then but am not now.”

“Bill! What nonsense is this? I am no different from what I was: the case is not decided, may never be decided in my favour; and if it were it would make no difference. I have never suggested such a thing and I never meant it.”

“You did not say it, but I do; it is true. Listen a minute—I have tried to be ladylike, as I thought you would wish me to be, and sometimes I think I succeed a little,—this afternoon doesn’t count, it was an accident—but my ladylikeness, even if it were more successful, is not what is wanted. It is I, my real self, who am unfit to be your wife under the present circumstances.”

“I don’t know what right you have to say such a thing; I suppose you are angry because of what I said this afternoon.” If she were angry the young man could not help thinking she had a strange way of showing it, for her whole manner suggested clear-sighted calmness; the excitement was his. “I own I spoke sharply,” he went on, “and I am sorry for it, but I was annoyed.”

“You had a right to be,” she told him; “I deserved it and I am not angry at all. It is not what you said just now that makes me say this, it is the whole thing; I cannot help seeing I am not fit for you now.”

“Yes, you are; the position has not altered, and if it did you are as fit for the new as the old if you choose to be.”

But the girl shook her head. “No,” she said, “I am not. I was fit for Crows’ Farm; that life would have drawn out a good side of me, just as it drew out a side of you which wanted me. Wood Hall acts differently. Oh, I know you have not got it yet, may never have it; but the fact that you have claimed it, that you have a close acknowledged connection with the other Harboroughs has altered your position, has altered you and your ideas. No matter what happens now you cannot be only the working farmer of Crows’ Farm who wants a working wife.”

“You mean to say you believe I don’t think you good enough?”

“No, oh no; it is not that exactly; I think it is that we don’t fit now.”

“Do you want to fit?” Gilchrist eyed her sternly as he asked the question.

“I did want to,” she told him. “I tried hard to be what you would like while I thought you wanted to marry me—”

“You think I don’t want to marry you now?”

“Yes,” she answered simply, and her school companions Carrie and Alice would have told her that she had not yet acquired a sense of decency, for she certainly did not know how to mince matters. “You did want to marry me,” she said, “and I would have married you; but the new position makes you and your wants different and would make me different too. The whole thing had better end.”

“In plain terms, you won’t marry me now?”

“Yes, I will,” she said meeting his eyes bravely. “I will marry you if you can truthfully say you still wish it.”

He hesitated a moment. “Of course I do,” he answered.

But that was not what Bill meant and she said so.

“You don’t believe me?” he said rather stiffly. “You must please yourself about that, but if you wish to be free of course you can be; our engagement was on those terms; you are not bound.”

“I am bound by my own word,” she answered; “so long as you want me I am bound. But you don’t really want me. Look at me; am I suited to be your wife? Tell me—you know me now—do you wish it?”

She stood at the end of the room, the murky light of the winter dusk falling upon her, intensifying not concealing the faults in her dress, her shoes, her sacking apron. A small, odd, shabby figure she looked in that cheerless little parlour with its empty grate, small and odd, not alluring at all in the gloom. The man saw each detail, and seeing, wondered how she had ever bewitched him.

He could not but look at her, and as he looked he moved slightly. “You are talking nonsense,” he said, turning to the empty grate; “to-morrow you will think better of all this.”

He glanced at her as he ceased speaking, but it was too late. He should have met her eyes before if he wished to convince her.

“Thank you,” she said simply; “now you have told me.”

“I—told you?”

“Yes; you need not mind, you did it quite honourably. Don’t mind. See here, I will square it with Polly and Theresa; it will be better so; they will only think I have changed my mind. Theresa will be sorry and Polly angry, but they won’t say anything to you; they won’t know about you: they will think it is all me.”

“Do you mean to tell me you consider our engagement at an end and you will tell your cousins so?”

“Yes.”

“You shall do no such thing!”

“I shall tell Polly to-day; she is not in yet, but she will be soon. I shall tell her as soon as she comes.”

“Then you do it against my will.”

“Yes,”—Bill spoke doubtfully—“telling is against the grain I dare say, but the breaking off is not. It is no good, Theo; don’t let us pretend any more. I know you would have honourably gone through with it because you gave your word, and I would have honourably done the same because I gave mine and believed you wished it; and we should have both done what we could to make the best of it afterwards. But all through me getting so grubby this afternoon I have found out the truth, and you are freed from your word, and it is all over; so let us say so, and be friends.”

Five minutes later Polly found the street door ajar and entered the house mentally abusing Bill’s carelessness. She went up-stairs and seeing the sitting-room door open, she looked into the room. Neither fire nor gas was lighted; in the cold twilight she saw the small figure by the window.

“Bill,” she exclaimed, “not dressed yet! And the fire not laid, nothing done and Gilchrist will be here directly. This is nice!”

“Gilchrist is not coming; he has gone away altogether.”

“Not coming! Not coming back, do you mean? And I have bought two lovely tea-cakes and half-a-pound of fresh butter!”

CHAPTER XXVI.
AN OLD WOUND.

“Do come here for Christmas,” wrote Bella to Bill from Haylands about the middle of December. “You must come, if it is only for a week. It is nonsense for Polly to say she can’t spare you; she simply must. Theresa thinks that it will do you good. She won’t believe what Polly says about the way in which you have taken this breaking off with Gilchrist; she thinks you must be upset, and that to come here might do you good. I enclose a postal order for six shillings for the fare. Polly is sure to say you can’t afford it; Theresa and I can, and we want you to come.”

And in spite of Polly’s protestations and objections Bill went. Polly could not go; she had one lodger now and could not shut the house up. But seeing that he was only one, and one who did not require much waiting on, and seeing also that Bella and Theresa had paid Bill’s fare, there was no reason why she should not go. So Bill went to Wrugglesby, and Bella and Theresa, who had driven from Ashelton for some shopping, met her and brought her home.

Bella was glad Bill was coming, although, she reflected, if the girl was really as disturbed as Theresa imagined about her broken engagement she would be but poor company and not much relief from the dulness of Haylands. For some reason or other it had been dull there that autumn, at least on the days when Jack did not come. Theresa, who had always been quiet, was more quiet than ever now; she seemed to have aged during the past months, or else Bella, used to associating with the livelier if more unprincipled Polly, thought so. “Marriage does alter people,” thought Bella, and fell to speculating about herself and Jack. There really was very little to think about at Haylands, very little to talk about in all Ashelton. Even Miss Minchin, at the fortnightly working-parties, had nothing fresh to say, and so went untiringly over the nine days’ wonder of Gilchrist Harborough’s claim to Wood Hall.

Miss Minchin might not be tired of that, but Bella was, and by the beginning of December she had heard quite enough of that and most other subjects of Ashelton conversation. But about that time she and Theresa found a fresh subject in the letter Bill wrote to them after Gilchrist’s visit to London. She wrote by one post, and by the next Polly wrote a good two ounces of lamentation, indignation, and abuse, the last both of Theresa and her “ridiculous secrecy,” and also, in a far larger degree, of Bill and her obstinacy. Theresa was much perplexed; neither she nor Bella could understand how it had come about; there was no explanation, except that Bill had availed herself of their permission to change her mind, and that somehow seemed unlikely. Bella was inclined to blame Gilchrist, and cited several instances when his devotion had fallen short of Jack’s. Theresa, on the other hand, was for putting the change down to girlish caprice. She made a point of talking to Gilchrist on the subject, but without enlightening herself to any great extent. “Of course I could not cross-question him,” she wrote to Polly, and was naturally not aware of that lady’s wrathful exclamation,—“I know I could then!”

Although Theresa did not hear this, or any other of Polly’s remarks, she could guess their nature, and her invitation to Bill was given partly with a view of saving the girl from the ceaseless bombardment of the elder cousin’s wrath. As it happened, however, Polly was comparatively merciful in her indignation; she knew when words were a waste of breath, and understood with some precision when she could, and when she could not, move her partner. Consequently Bill was let off easily, and for that, or for some other reason, she did not seem at all unhappy when she stepped out on the platform at Wrugglesby station. The sisters, who met her, recognised the fact at once, and Bella at least was glad of it as she helped to carry Polly’s hat-box to the pony-carriage. Bill talked a good deal on the homeward way, seeming anything but depressed. Once when they were clear of the town she looked round and said softly: “How beautiful it is! How very, very beautiful it is out here!”

Bella thought the girl must be expressing her delight at leaving London and all her troubles behind her. She could see no beauty in the landscape,—bare fields spread wide beneath the winter sky; gaunt, black-limbed elms and leafless hedgerows where the twilight crept mysteriously; a pale flare of sunset breaking through the ashen clouds to make the level land luminous and show near objects with a wonderful distinctness; stacks and barns and low-roofed cottages whence the smoke in thin spirals went straightly up into the evening air.

Robert came out to meet the pony-carriage with quite a cheerful smile of welcome.

“Here, brother-in-law Laziness,” Bill said, filling his arms with Theresa’s parcels; “take some more, you can have these. I’ve got the sugar, T.”

And they went indoors, Robert’s setter slobbering over Bill,—she never had a dress that could be hurt by a dog’s caress—and sheepishly following them into the forbidden precincts of the house.

“You are jolly cold, I expect,” Robert said as he poked the fire into a blaze. “Get your boots off and warm your feet. Where are your slippers? In this thing? Is this the key tied on outside?”

Bill said it was; in her opinion to tie its key to the handle of an article was a sure way of having the key when you wanted it. Robert unfastened the box and rummaged over the contents with clumsy hands till he found the shoes; afterwards he put the things back anyhow, so that the box had to be carried up-stairs with the lid open.

How they talked that evening! Bella and Robert, even Theresa as well as Bill. Bill wanted to know everything, about the horses and dogs, the cows and pigs; what that stack had yielded when it was threshed, how the potatoes were keeping, why the long meadow was ploughed. She wanted to know all about everybody in the place, how they were and what new clothes they had; she wanted to know when Jack came last and when he was coming next, what quantity of butter Theresa was getting now, and the pattern of the lace Bella had bought for her petticoats.

Somehow or other the commonplaces of life, the veriest trivialities assumed a vivid interest with Bill; the life which had seemed rather dull in the living became full of humour and incident when told to her. Her own life in London, when she told them about it, seemed almost fascinating. Bella found herself wishing that she had insisted on joining the lodging-venture; she did not realise that the life, like the flat wintry landscape, required to be looked at through the lens of a particular kind of mind to assume the aspect it did for Bill.

One could not help being conscious of Bill’s presence in the house. By the next afternoon Theresa was beginning to be aware of the difference she made. Bill had been in the attic that morning and looked over the nuts and apples that she herself had put there; she had brought down the rotten ones and brought down also the rose-leaves, put away to dry and forgotten. She had been round the barns and stables and out into the frozen garden, round the orchard to look for broken branches and dead wood for burning, into the icy dairy to help Jessie and hear about her love-affairs.

“It’s like openin’ the winders on a summer mornin’,” Jessie said, when just before dinner Bill passed the kitchen-door with some Christmas roses she had found in a sheltered corner of the garden. She had gone to the pantry to arrange them in a glass, singing as she did so. Strangely enough she had not sung or whistled since that September morning at Bymouth when she mimicked the birds while Kit Harborough wrung out her wet bathing-dress. But she did not know this, neither did Jessie, though she heard the singing appreciatively now. Still, it was not that which caused her remark when Bill, now quiet, passed the kitchen-door.

“It do freshen the house up wonderfully to have you here again, miss; it’s for all the world like openin’ the winders on a sunny mornin’.”

But Bill scarcely understood the allusion any more than Theresa did the fact. Theresa certainly did not understand; she was glad to have the girl back again, but she felt that she was more incomprehensible than ever. Her whole attitude towards Gilchrist and the broken engagement was extraordinary to Theresa. She questioned Bill of course, and learned practically nothing, though her questions were answered freely enough. Bill was glad when the questioning was over; she was very tired of the subject and she wanted to hear about Bella’s trousseau; also she wanted to go and see Mr. Dane.

Mr. Dane knew nothing about the engagement; there was no reason now why Bill should tell him, yet that afternoon, as she knelt on his hearth-rug in the twilight, she suddenly determined to do so and to ask his opinion on her own course of action. It was after one of those pleasant, companionable silences which often fell between them that she approached the subject, entirely without introduction, as was her way. “Monseigneur,” she said abruptly, “do you think it is ever right to break a promise,—a promise to marry someone, I mean?”

“To marry someone?” Mr. Dane repeated, and though his tone was only surprised there was a gravity in his manner as if he feared trouble in the near future. “Yes,” he said after a moment’s consideration, “in some circumstances I do think it right to break such a promise.”

“What circumstances?”

“If the person giving the promise finds out afterwards that he or she does not love the one to whom it is given.”

“If one of the two finds that out?” Bill said in surprise. “You do not really think that is enough? You would not break a promise for that, you would not think it honourable; it would not be either—neither honourable nor right.”

“It would not be right for some people,” Mr. Dane admitted; “but for others—” he broke off abruptly, and after a pause turned to her with an almost terrible earnestness. “Child,” he said, “do not think I am trifling with right and wrong; indeed I am not. Yet still I say that, though it might not be honourable for some to break such a promise, for you it would not be a question of honour or dishonour but of absolute necessity.”

“I did not think so.”

“You?” he exclaimed with an excitement which astonished her; “you did not think so?”

“No,” she said, “I did not. I promised to marry Gilchrist Harborough, but I did not love him.”

“Then, in God’s name, do not marry him! You don’t know what you are doing. Do you think it worse to break your promise and dishonour your word, or to break a man’s heart and dishonour him, yourself, and God’s law, all that is most holy and most binding on earth?”

And then Bill realised what she had done, and how her words had wounded her friend. Had he not married a woman who did not love? Had he not suffered to the full the uttermost bitterness of which he spoke? As she realised how she had reopened the tragedy of his life the girl was struck dumb with remorse, too grieved for the moment to think of explaining the circumstances of her own affairs.

But Mr. Dane did not know the reason of her silence, and he went on, his face drawn and stern. “You do not know your own history nor the danger which may threaten you. I do; and knowing, I say you must not, cannot marry a man you do not truly love. It is a mockery to pray ‘lead us not into temptation’ and then to put yourself in temptation’s way. There is a passion which is stronger than you; it may sleep now but it will not always sleep, believe me, it will not always sleep. Listen now: first concerning your mother. You did not know her, neither did I, but you yourself told me she married in defiance of her parents; she loved the man and counted them well lost for him. And he,—he loved her, bewitched her, desired her,—she had no will but to go,—I know how it was done.”

“You knew my father!”

“No, I knew his father. I saw the spell at work; I know the will of those Alardys and the power of their love; I have good reason to know. Your grandmother, the first Wilhelmina, I knew her too. She was another man’s wife; she married him though she did not love him; she thought it was safe; she did not know—then came this other—”

He stopped abruptly. He was pacing the far side of the room with the restlessness almost of a young man; he stood in the shadow now, but she sat regarding him wide-eyed, something almost of horror in her face. That he should tear open these old wounds for her, his wife’s grandchild, Wilhelmina’s grandchild! Wilhelmina! Yes, she knew now, the links in the chain were joined and she knew, although she murmured,—“My grandmother, Wilhelmina Corby?”

“Yes,” he said, and then he came into the firelight and his face was very pitiful. “Child, child,” he said sadly, “there are passions of which you know nothing; pray God you never may!”

The girl’s eyes suddenly filled with tears: “Do you not hate me?” she whispered.

But he did not hate her. The blessed years which had taught him not to hate, taught him to be merciful as well as just. “No, Princess Puck,” he said, smiling gently, “I do not think I hate you.”

She crept dog-like to his side of the fire. “Shall I tell you something,” he said, reaching a hand down to touch her hair, “something which I do not count the least of my blessings this year?—God’s goodness in sending to me, whom He has denied wife or child, a little brown elf for a granddaughter.”

Bill could not speak. She only mutely pressed against his chair, and for a long time they sat silent while he softly stroked her hair and the ashes fell quietly on the hearth. At last the old man spoke again; he had been thinking of the girl’s half-made confidence and it troubled him greatly. “This promise of which you spoke,” he said,—“is it to be kept or broken?”

Bill started like one awakening. “Broken,” she said, “I have broken it”; and she told him the whole story, always, of course, excepting that which was said, or rather was not said, when she and Kit Harborough met under the beeches on a day when a dream proved to be a dream no longer. But perhaps Mr. Dane discovered a little of that for himself, for when he said good-bye to her that night he realised that his Princess Puck was a child no more.

CHAPTER XXVII.
A CHIP OF THE OLD BLOCK.

It was towards the end of January that Bella came to town to finish buying her trousseau. A trousseau is a really momentous affair, and Bella, feeling that the shops at Wrugglesby were not equal to the occasion, came to Bayswater, where Polly gave her limitless advice and all the help in her power. Polly really enjoyed Bella’s visit, and Bill, who knew Polly’s weakness, did all the housework so that the elder cousin should be free to go shopping or help with the needlework according as opportunity offered. During the time Bella was in London it seemed to Bill that they thought of, talked of, and considered very little beyond clothes, except perhaps once or twice in the evenings when Bella told them a little about Ashelton. Such conversations did not interest Polly, but as Bill liked them Bella talked to her. Once indeed Polly showed some interest, when Bella spoke of the change in Theresa and Robert.

“They both have altered a good deal,” she concluded,—“especially Robert. You saw him at Christmas, Bill; don’t you think he is changing?”

“Not changing exactly,” Bill said, “he is,—I think he is developing, growing to what you would expect. Some kinds of people are bound to grow in particular kinds of ways; they can hardly help themselves.”

“I don’t like Robert’s kind of way, then. I think he has changed a good deal, and for the worse; so would you if you had stayed at Haylands as long as I have.”

Bill did not explain that what Bella called “a change for the worse” and she “a natural growing” were one and the same thing; she did not say anything about it, though she felt a good deal, and knew that she could not help Theresa now any more than she could have helped her last spring.

Bella had gone on to speak of the change in Theresa and of the quiet of Haylands. “Hardly a soul comes there now,” she said; “Theresa keeps them all at arm’s length. I expect that is why Miss Minchin and Mrs. Johnson and the rest of them never come now. Of course Gilchrist Harborough would not come.”

Polly heaved a sigh. “I expect Bill’s breaking with Gilchrist troubled Theresa a good deal,” she said.

But Bella laughed at such an idea, and afterwards went on to speak of Gilchrist and the lawsuit. “He has so little spare time just now,” she said, “that I don’t believe he would go to see anyone except on business. Jack sees him sometimes, and that is how I get to hear about him and his case. He is rather disgusted with it just now, Jack says, abuses the lawyers, and professes a great contempt for the slowness of the law.”

Bill opened her eyes. “Why,” she said, “he has only just begun! It will be two years before it is over. What did he expect?”

“How do you know?” demanded Polly.

“I was told,” Bill answered, and Bella saved her further explanation by remarking: “That is what Mr. Stevens says; he told Jack so, and Jack told Gilchrist.”

“What did he say?” Bill inquired.

“Oh, that he did not see how they were going to make the time out, but he supposed they would do it somehow. Jack said he seemed disgusted with everything that day, and vowed he would not mind selling his chances for a good sum down.”

“Did he say that?” Bill asked quickly. “He told Jack that? But he couldn’t do it, he couldn’t sell his chances; they would be no good to anyone else.”

“He could sell them to the other side,” Bella said with the pride of recently acquired knowledge. “Jack told me that if the Harboroughs were rich they would probably by the autumn, if his claim seemed pretty good, try to compromise,—pay him to withdraw, you know. But then they are not rich; they have no spare money at all, and Jack says he does not think they could raise any. It seems rather a pity, for Jack says he believes Gilchrist would agree to a reasonable arrangement; he does not care a bit about Wood Hall now and only wants to go back to Australia.”

“We all know why that is,” Polly said with pious conviction. “Bill has only herself to thank if he does leave England like that.”

“I don’t suppose it would make any difference to Bill if he did go,” Bella retorted; “and she certainly has nothing to do with his wanting to go. Jack says he is disgusted with people in general, with the lawyers and the other claimant much more than with Bill.”

“Poor Gilchrist!” Polly said with commiseration, and continued to look in a meaning manner at Bill, who, however, was far too absorbed in the thoughts suggested to her by Bella’s words to heed her.

Long that night she lay thinking of these new ideas, her brain full of conflicting thoughts, impossible plans, crazy fancies. Money, money,—she had never felt the want of it before, never, for all her poverty, felt any desire to be rich. She had always been poor and she had never minded; she had never been tempted by girlish superfluities, had never cared for ribbons and lace and nice food. But now,—now she wanted money desperately, not a few shillings, or a few pounds as Polly, who did mind being poor, wanted it; but money in the big sense of the word, in the sense in which Polly never wanted it, in which she herself had hardly contemplated it before. Not that it mattered whether she wanted much or little, shillings or pounds or hundreds of pounds; one seemed about as attainable as the other.

It was always part of Bill’s work to get up and clean the boots and light the fires before breakfast; it was no very great effort to her, and seemed moreover to fall naturally to her share. On the morning after she had lain so long thinking over the problem of ways and means, she got up as usual, cleaned the lodgers’ boots, lighted the fires, washed her hands, and then, taking a candle from the kitchen-dresser, climbed on the back of a chair that stood against the wall. Moving an almanack hanging high above it, a hole became visible from which she drew out, wrapped in paper, Peter Harborough’s shoe-buckles. For a long time she stood looking at them. Once she rubbed them on the corner of her apron; once she held them close to the candle so that the brilliant, refracted light flashed back from the gems and scattered sparks of white fire over her face and hands. She could not tell what they were worth, perhaps a hundred pounds, perhaps two hundred,—Polly had said two; diamonds were very valuable she knew, but how valuable she could not tell. At last she wrapped the buckles up again, put them back in their hiding-place and went about her work with a thoughtful face.

She wore a thoughtful face all that day, for she was revolving a plan in her mind. In the afternoon she went to her bedroom and there opened the little oak box which used to stand in the spare room at Langford House. She had only been to it once since last winter, but now she turned over its contents carefully. She was not much the wiser for her examination; the only papers old enough to interest her conveyed little to her mind, beyond the indisputable fact that the name Corby appeared in them. However, her failure to find anything important in the little chest did not alter her plans, and in the evening, when the elder cousins were at leisure, she spoke to Polly about them. Bella and Polly had been busy with the trousseau all day, but by the evening they were able to listen to Bill when she informed them that she was going to Wrugglesby the next day.

“To Wrugglesby!” Bella exclaimed. “What on earth are you going there for?”

But this Bill was not prepared to say; she expected to be asked the question and several others, and to give much annoyance by not answering them, but it could not be avoided. She felt that she could not explain matters yet. Things fell out exactly as she anticipated; Bella was only curious, but Polly was decidedly angry; she felt that she had a right to inquire, and she exercised it,—with no good results, for when, on Bill’s refusing to assign any reasons, she forbade her going to Wrugglesby, the girl showed every intention of going in spite of her. Whereupon Polly, who by this time knew she could not always drive the stubborn Bill, became very dignified, retreating from her post of dictator behind a manner of superior and chilling indifference, after which she climbed down from her pinnacle of outraged authority and informed the offender that she should not pay her fare.

“No, of course not,” Bill said readily; “I have some money.”

And she had; for it so happened that after a battle royal with Polly one day she had succeeded in arranging for wages of a pound a month, the same as any other little servant. Polly had vowed that she should not have it, that she was a partner in the firm and not a paid servant, but Bill stood to her guns, foregoing any future profits but insisting on present wages; and as she struck work when they were not paid she contrived to get them regularly, and so to have a little money for an emergency. Remembering which Polly said ungraciously: “At any rate you can’t go until the one o’clock train.”

The one o’clock train was a very slow one, but it suited Bill admirably, and by it she went the next day.

It was nearly three when the one clerk who looked out on Wrugglesby High Street from Mr. Stevens’s office-window saw the small figure cross the road and come towards the door.

“A lady to see you, sir,—Miss Alardy.”

The clerk announced this to his employer, although he thought Miss Alardy an exceedingly young lady to consult a lawyer on her own account. Mr. Stevens thought so too; he had a hazy recollection on hearing the name that she must be one of Miss Brownlow’s nieces, but he was not sure of the relationship until he saw the girl. Then he remembered her as the youngest of the nieces, the one whom, it seemed only the other day, he used to see walking beside the governess with a dusky mane of hair hanging about her shoulders and a general appearance suggestive of a tendency to turn restive on provocation.

“Well, and what has brought you to Wrugglesby?” he said when he had asked after the other cousins. No one treated Bill in a business-like way; even the grocer at Bayswater regarded her as a man and a brother. Mr. Stevens certainly had no idea of being professionally consulted by this slip of a girl.

“I have come to see you,” she answered simply. “I want to ask you a question, a law question.”

She had her purse in her hand and looked somehow as if she were prepared to pay six-and-eightpence, cash down, for his opinion.

“I will try to answer you,” he said with as much gravity as he could contrive. “What is this question?”

“It begins in the year 1799,” she said without more ado. “In that year a man, Roger Corby,—perhaps you have heard of him? But that does not matter—in the year 1799 he gave a piece of land to another man—Briant. He gave it for ninety-nine years, but no rent was to be paid.”

“A lease, that is,” the lawyer said, “and the rental probably one peppercorn payable if demanded. Yes, proceed.”

“This year,” Bill said, “the time will be up, and I imagine Roger Corby would get his land back if he were alive?”

“Naturally.”

“But he is not alive, so I suppose his descendants would get it?”

“Yes, that is what is usually expected to take place.”

“He has only got one descendant; she comes like this,” and Bill took up some books which lay on the table. “Roger Corby’s only son died a year after him,”—she put a thin black book down,—“he is dead, you see”—pushing the book away—“and so does not count. The son’s only child, a daughter, is dead too, but she married when she was fairly young and she married twice. She ran away from her first husband and he divorced her; then she married the other man and had one son, the only child she had. Well, the son is dead too and the only person left is his daughter. Would she be able to get the land at the end of the ninety-nine years?”

“Most probably, if she has the necessary documents and can prove she is legally descended from Roger Corby.”

Bill said “Thank you,” and sat thinking a minute. The lawyer watched her curiously, feeling sure there must be something behind all this, and wondering a little what it could be.

“Mr. Briant,” Bill said at last,—“I mean the Mr. Briant who now has the land—does not think it will be claimed, at least I believe not; he probably does not know of the second marriage of Wilhelmina Corby, and the son and the granddaughter.”

“Which means,” Stevens observed, “that he will very strongly object to acknowledging their existence and will do his best to keep what he has got. Were I the granddaughter, I think I should first make quite sure that the thing in question is worth fighting for, and also I should be very clear that Wilhelmina Corby was divorced from her first husband and legally married to her second; can you tell me these things?”

Bill could tell him one of the things. “Do you know Sandover?” she asked. “Yes? A good part of Sandover now stands on the land; of course at the time it was given it was only corn fields and grass, but now it must be valuable.”

Mr. Stevens whistled, although it was supposed to be a business interview. “It is worth something, I admit. Now for Wilhelmina Corby,—how about her?”

“It would have to be found out,” Bill said, “but I believe it is all right. But tell me, what did you mean by necessary documents?”

“First and principally the counterpart of the lease. You don’t know what that is? It is an exact copy of the deed, the lease which is in possession of the man who now has the land and by right of which he has it. There is certain to have been such a deed; this man, Briant, is sure to have his lease, and unless the granddaughter can produce her counterpart she would find it well-nigh impossible to prove her case. Has she got it, do you think?”

Bill did not know, and Mr. Stevens went on to say:—“In the first instance it would probably have been among Roger Corby’s papers, and so it may have passed into his granddaughter’s keeping; if it did, the question is what became of it when she changed husbands? And if she kept it in her possession, has her granddaughter got it still, or failing that, is it possible to trace it?”

Bill considered a while; she was thinking of the little oak box and her search in it. “There is an oak box,” she said at last; “it is used as an ottoman in my bedroom, but I have heard that it belonged to my grandmother. It is full of papers, mostly letters and recipes of my mother’s, but there are a few which are older, one or two very large, tough, yellowish ones, not written in the ordinary way. I looked at them yesterday but I could not make them out, except that the name Corby occurs in them, and that at least one has the date 1799. Do you think the thing we want is there?”

“I think it is just possible.” Mr. Stevens was not altogether surprised at this dropping of the impersonal. “So you are the granddaughter of Wilhelmina Corby, are you?”

“Yes. I did not bring the box with me, but I wish I had now.”

“Perhaps there is nothing of value in it. What are these old papers like? Can you describe them to me?”

Bill did as well as she could, and though the description was not very detailed Mr. Stevens seemed satisfied. “I do not know,” he said, “if you have the counterpart, but I should say from what you tell me that you must have one or two of the old Corby documents. Don’t think that I mean they are of any pecuniary value, as the chances are all against it; the counterpart, if we could find it, might be, but the others are just so much legal lumber.”

Bill did not seem troubled by this discouraging remark, nor yet by the lawyer’s next words: “If it is not a rude question, may I ask how much of all this does your cousin’s solicitor know?”

“We have not got a solicitor,” Bill answered readily. “Mr. Brownlow made Aunt Isabel’s will, but he is dead now, and when he was alive we did not see anything of him. Polly thought him very stupid.”

“Polly? That’s Miss Hains, is it not? Has your coming to me her sanction?”

It had not, for the very good reason that Bill had not consulted her on the subject, or even informed her that any such subject existed; accordingly she told Mr. Stevens so, and explained that the affair was her own entirely.

“Am I to understand,” the puzzled man enquired, “that she knows nothing at all about this?”

“No,” Bill told him, “she doesn’t even know my grandmother was a Corby. I did not know much myself before Christmas, and when I did know, it hardly seemed worth while telling her. I did not realise then that it might be valuable; I did not realise that till the night before last.”

“The night before last? What happened then?”

“I wanted money desperately, and I thought and thought of ways of getting it.”

Mr. Stevens repressed an inclination to smile. “You have by no means got it yet in spite of your interesting story,” he said. “Let me enumerate some of the difficulties in the way. Supposing you have the counterpart of the lease and it is all correct, you have got to be sure of several things,—that none of all these people between yourself and Roger Corby were bankrupt, that they made no awkward marriage-settlements, and, if they died intestate, left no more than one child apiece to survive them.”

“These things will have to be found out,” Bill said calmly. “Marriage-settlements I don’t know anything about; children I do. There were no more than I have said, or at least none that lived to grow up; I have no relations at all on my father’s side. As for bankrupt, I believe it is all right, but I am not sure; Roger Corby died in debt, though I think it was all paid off after his death. But I know he was in debt when he died, that is why Wilhelmina, my grandmother, had his body carried away by night.”

Mr. Stevens had heard something of this story, but always believed it to be a mere local tradition. “I had no idea it really happened,” he said.

Bill assured him that she had excellent reasons for believing that it did; then she returned to the subject of more direct interest to herself. “Supposing,” she said, “that all these things of which you spoke were right, what then?”

“Then, if you can get over the difficulty of the divorce and remarriage and subsequent birth of a son, you should have a very good case and ought, if all goes well, eventually to get the money you so much need; or rather certain persons in authority would get it to hold in trust for you.”

“In trust for me?” Bill said with rather an anxious look.

“Certainly; you are not of age yet, are you? Eighteen! The law does not consider you of age till you are twenty-one. Until that time the money, if you get it, will be in the hands of guardians who will manage it entirely and only allow you the use of a moderate and reasonable proportion.”

“Polly and Theresa are called my guardians; would they have to look after the money?”

“That depends,” Mr. Stevens said. “If they are only ‘called’ your guardians, the court, if the case were decided in your favour, would appoint some one to look after you and your money, you would be a ward of the court, and the court takes very great care of its wards and looks after them in a manner not always permitted to parents nowadays. If, on the other hand, your cousins are legally appointed your guardians, they would, until you were twenty-one, have the control of your property, applying it solely for your benefit and allowing you a certain amount for your use. But, remember, they could not do as they chose with it, for they could be called upon to give a very exact account of their proceedings.”

Bill breathed a sigh of relief. “That’s all right,” she said. “Polly and Theresa, more especially Polly, are set down in Aunt Isabel’s will as my guardians; I should be able to manage if I got the money.”

“They would not allow you more than a comparatively small sum; you could not touch any great amount. I don’t fancy you would be much better off than under the court if you wanted to do anything foolish, unless of course, the folly took the form of an unwise marriage, when you certainly would have more liberty if you were not a ward of the court.”

Bill laughed softly. “I will tell you what I will do if I get the money,” she said. “I shall give Polly so much a year for the rest of her life; she deserves it and I would give her as much as I could afford; and with the rest I should do what I liked. We should arrange it somehow; Polly would do as I told her. There is time at least to try to find some way of doing it legally, but if I could not find one I don’t see that it would so very much matter, because Polly would be the person who did wrong according to the law and I should be the person who suffered wrong, and consequently the one who ought to have her up when I was old enough. As the case would really be the other way round, I should not have her up, and she could not have me up, so it would be all right.”

“Oh,” Mr. Stevens remarked drily, “that is how you think you will arrange matters, is it? It strikes me you are a worthy granddaughter of Wilhelmina the wilful. I fancy, though, you will find more obstacles than you bargain for in this little game; where, for instance, does the other cousin and guardian come in?”

“I should have to explain to Theresa that it was right. You would think it so if you knew. Theresa will always do what she thinks right, and Polly will do what she is made to do. To get your own way is mostly a matter of time.”

“This time I should not be surprised if it took you till one-and-twenty. Law is not so easy to play with as you think; and cases of this sort are not so easy to win either, neither are they settled in a hurry.”

Bill was prepared for that. “How long do you think it would take?” she asked. “A year?”

“Probably; it might be longer, or it might, if you have very good luck and few difficulties, be a little shorter.”

“Would it cost a great deal?”

“It could not be done for nothing.”

“Would a hundred pounds be any good to start with?”

“It would be excellent.”

Bill put her hand into her pocket and drew out the diamond buckles: “I don’t know what they are worth,” she said as she placed them before the astonished lawyer, “but at least a hundred pounds; more than that, I expect.”

“Where did you get them?” Mr. Stevens had taken one to the window, and glanced from it to the girl.

“Old Mr. Harborough gave them to me before he died.”

“What!” The lawyer lost all interest in the buckles and stood staring at their owner, wondering what new surprise this granddaughter of the Corbys was going to develop.

“Mr. Harborough gave them to me,” she repeated. “They are my very own; young Mr. Harborough was there at the time they were given, and he said they were my own and no one could take them away. I did mean to keep them for another purpose, but I believe it would be more right to use them for this.”

“Have you any idea what these buckles are worth?”

“More than a hundred pounds,” Bill said readily; “they will do to begin the case, won’t they?”

“It is altogether extraordinary,” the lawyer muttered, and began to wrap the buckles in paper with the resigned air of one who gives up a problem.

He offered the parcel to Bill, but she put her hands behind her back; “I want you to keep them,” she said, “and begin at once.”

It was perhaps as well that Mr. Stevens was not busy that afternoon, for he found there were several more points to be explained to his young client, among others that she herself could not bring an action or give directions for legal proceedings. This difficulty she disposed of by undertaking to arrange matters with Polly within two days. Another point the good man had to explain was that no one would undertake the case without first knowing a great deal more about it. This the indefatigable Bill met with a promise to send the oak box to him by an early train the next morning, and to set to work at once to find out any and every detail she could concerning the first Wilhelmina. When at last Mr. Stevens, again handing her the buckles, told her that her method of payment was not according to custom, she was still not nonplussed. “Shall I get them sold,” she asked, “and give you the money?”

“Certainly not; don’t attempt to sell them. And listen to me: I should not in any circumstances undertake this business for you; I will examine the contents of the box if you like, and tell you how I think you stand; but I would not undertake the case, which is completely out of my range. I am a country lawyer with quite as much country work as I can do; I am not a very young man, not a very poor one, and not at all an ambitious one. I have neither the time nor the inclination for such a piece of work as this.”

“But you could find someone who would do it?” Bill asked, not in the least impressed by the gravity of his manner.

“I suppose I could,” he said, smiling in spite of himself. “But even if I were to find someone, and there really was something for that someone to do, you must see that there are a good many things to settle before it comes to terms. When, and if, it does your cousin is the proper person to be consulted.”

But Bill did not agree with him there. She pointed out that the affair was hers and the buckles hers; still she conceded that Polly could be talked to, and, since he wished it, she would take the buckles back to town. She put them in her pocket again, to the no small uneasiness of Mr. Stevens, although, as she herself said, they were too big to drop out, and no one would expect to find anything of value in her pocket.

She was about to leave, by no means dissatisfied with the interview, when Mr. Stevens made a remark which caused her to pause. After saying that she must not make sure of her position, and that he himself could give her no hope until he had examined the contents of the oak box, he concluded: “And even if everything else proves satisfactory, it is quite possible you will come to grief over the matter of the divorce; the other side would be sure to make the most of that; it will have to be gone into very thoroughly.”

Bill stopped on the threshold. “Do you mean,” she asked, “that you will have to go into it thoroughly, or that it will have to be done in public?”

“I should not have much to do with it, but both your lawyers and those on the opposite side would have plenty; it is a point on which a good deal might turn.”

“I had not thought of that,” and Bill’s face clouded.

“You had better think of it,” the lawyer said, “for it will certainly arise. You must be sure, and the other side would insist on being sure, that there was a divorce; they would want the date of it and the date of the second marriage and the date of the birth of the child.”

“Will they want the name of the first husband?”

“Certainly.”

“Will it be published in the papers?”

“It would probably figure in the reports of the case.”

“Then I am not at all sure the case can ever come off,” Bill said, to Mr. Stevens’s great astonishment.

“Why not?” he asked.

“Because the first husband is alive, and I would not hurt him for all the world.”

Mr. Stevens regarded this as a matter of sentiment, but a sentiment he could honour, though he hardly knew how to advise. “Well,” he said at last, “you need not, and indeed cannot, do anything for a long time. I will look over your papers and tell you how I think you stand, and by that time you will have been able to decide what you wish to do.”

But this was not Bill’s manner of going to work at all. “Thank you very much,” she said, “but I think I must decide sooner than that. When does the last up-train leave for London? Eight o’clock, is it? Thank you, I will decide before that. Perhaps I had better not come to see you so late; I will write from town.”

“My dear young lady,” the lawyer said, moved by the gravity of her face and manner, “there is no need to take the matter so seriously, or to do anything in such a hurry. Send me the box, and afterwards we will talk over what can be done.”

But though Bill again thanked him, not disagreeing with him this time, he was not at all sure that he had convinced her.

“It’s a pity if she drops it,” he meditated as he watched her go down the street. “She would win if she went in, somehow—and probably do precisely what she pleased with her fortune when she got it. She is the kind that does; she would bamboozle the Court of Chancery and dance through an Act of Parliament.”

CHAPTER XXVIII.
THE OAK BOX GOES TO WRUGGLESBY.

The waiting-room of a railway-station is not usually selected as the best place in which to think seriously over a matter of perplexity. But if the waiting-room be attached to the station at a very small country town where trains are infrequent and passengers few, a worse place might be chosen; it has at least the merit of freedom from friendly advice. Moreover the fact of a person sitting there doing absolutely nothing for an hour or more creates no surprise, as it is to be presumed he is only waiting for the next train. On the January afternoon of Bill’s visit to Wrugglesby she found the waiting-room an admirable place for quiet thought. When she left Mr. Stevens’s office she went straight to the station and, sitting down with her back to the window, tried to think over the difficulties suggested by the lawyer’s words.

The difficulties resolved themselves into one and one only,—Mr. Dane. The other obstacles to the success of her undertaking might or might not prove insurmountable; at any rate Bill would face them undauntedly with a light heart and a clear conscience. But Mr. Dane was another matter; she could not wilfully, and with her eyes open, do what she felt sure would give him pain; and yet,—how could she give up this enterprise?

At this point two stout women entered the waiting-room. They were going to Darvel by the next down train in some twenty minutes’ time, and had walked in three miles from a neighbouring village; when one walks three miles the balance of a spare half-hour is not much to allow for catching a train. They were in “nice time,” they told each other, though they seemed flustered and annoyed when they found the booking-office still closed. Bill heard what they said without understanding, just as she saw them without perceiving; she sat looking straight before her though her true gaze was inwards. They glanced at her once or twice. “A natural, poor thing,” was the conclusion they came to. “They didn’t oughter let her be about alone like that,” was their final opinion as she rose from her seat and walked out of the waiting-room.

Bill left the station, turned out of the main street, and took the road to Ashelton. She had decided what to do: she would go to Mr. Dane, not to ask his permission to claim her connection with the Corby family and consequently to drag him and his past before the eyes of his neighbours, but to tell him her story and ask his advice. She loved him so well that she felt sure he would give his advice without prejudice; she was absolutely certain that he would not misunderstand or misjudge. She started on her walk with a comparatively quiet mind, not an absolutely quiet one, for she knew she must give a full confidence or none at all. She must tell all, even including that which concerned Kit Harborough, and the dream which was a dream no more.

At first Bill thought of nothing but what she had to tell, but bit by bit the solitude of the road and the exhilaration of the exercise soothed her so that she thought no more. Six miles of lonely road, a level country wide spread and bare on either hand, a silent wintry afternoon with the suggestion of twilight gathering before the village was reached,—what more could one ask to minister to a mind diseased? Nothing in Bill’s opinion, as she walked the six miles in something under an hour and a half, without a single doubt of her ability to walk them back again after dark and her pleasure in doing it.

But she did not walk those six miles back; the proprietor of the White Horse at Ashelton received a request during the evening for the little cart and old pony for Mr. Dane. And it is to be presumed he drove Bill to Wrugglesby in time for the eight o’clock train, for some sort of vehicle brought her to the station in time for that train, and a little after eight o’clock Mr. Dane rang at the private house of Stevens the lawyer.

Mrs. Stevens wanted very much to know what had brought Mr. Dane to see her husband at that time in the evening. She had a great opinion of Mr. Dane, of whom she knew little, and of his Family (with a capital F), of which she knew less. She and Mr. Johnson had conferred more than once on the subject of the relative who was a lord and the other relative who was a bishop, and the mystery why Mr. Dane himself was—if not a bishop or a lord—at least something more than a country parson. On that particular evening, after Mr. Dane had left, Mrs. Stevens naturally wished to know the reason of his visit; first she sought indirectly for information and learned nothing; then she asked boldly what had brought him there that night.

“A small pony-cart, my dear,” Mr. Stevens said amiably; “and the same vehicle has taken him away again. I hope he will reach his destination safely, for he is not as young as he was and the night is dark, though the pony, I must admit, looks a safe beast.”

Mrs. Stevens, being somewhat annoyed by this answer, condescended to no more questions and maintained a dignified silence for the rest of the evening,—a proceeding which it is to be feared did not greatly trouble Mr. Stevens, since he was so completely engrossed in his own meditations that he was not aware of it. After Mrs. Stevens had gone to bed he poked the fire into a blaze and observed to the crackling coals: “You were a fool, Wilhelmina the first, a fool! You threw away a very fine and noble gentleman for your gipsy lover.” And being a country lawyer of somewhat prosaic practice, and being also a man of genial sympathies, he once more gave himself up to meditations on the story which had been told him that night.

And Mr. Dane, having reached home in safety, also thought a little of the story which had been revived that night. But not for long; he resolutely put it away from him as he put away the diamond buckles Bill had left. She had left them on purpose and with a definite understanding. “You must keep them, Monseigneur,” she said. “I can reclaim them, if I ever have the money, and if you do not sell them before. I cannot have you undertake this great thing for me unless you will have them as a sort of guarantee; I would rather you kept them; it is better so.” So he kept them, for after he had seen how she carried them loose in her pocket and heard how she kept them in a hole in the kitchen-wall, he also thought that it was better so.

Bill went back to London without her buckles, but Polly was not aware of the fact. Indeed Polly did not hear anything much about the visit to Wrugglesby that evening, for Bill did not reach home till late, too late to tell all about it, she said, and put off the explanation till the next day, when she promised to tell Polly everything. Bella was rather disappointed by this arrangement for she would be out then,—at the dressmaker’s in the morning and at Mrs. James Brownlow’s in the afternoon. It must be admitted that, fond as Bill was of her cousin, Bella’s absence suited her well, for she wanted to have a long and somewhat difficult talk with Polly.

Bella went out early, and early also went the little oak box by rail to Wrugglesby, carefully addressed and properly insured as Mr. Stevens had impressed upon Bill it must be. Before it went she pulled off the chintz cover from the top and took one thing from the inside; not a document or deed, or even one of her mother’s recipes, only a fossil sea-urchin found on the beach at Bymouth on a sweet September morning. She hid it away among her linen; then she nailed down the lid of the box, tied a rope round it, and sent it away.

Polly did not know it had gone until later when Bill told her in the course of their talk. This talk did not prove so difficult as Bill had anticipated, for Polly was quick to grasp the possibilities of the case. It was true, Bill had acted without her consent and in a measure outraged her in her part of guardian; but Polly was not always playing that part, and she was, as the late Mr. Brownlow had said, a capital woman of business; when it came to plain facts apart from appearances, Bill’s conduct and communication wore a very different aspect. As Polly said: “You risk nothing; even if you lose you are no worse off than you were except for those diamond buckles—” (here, in spite of a previous and very eloquent statement of her opinion of Bill’s giving them up, Polly could not forbear from making a short digression and recapitulation of her sentiments)—“except for those buckles, you lose nothing since Mr. Dane is going to advance the money and take all the trouble. You are quite sure he means you only to pay if you win? You lose nothing if you fail and if you succeed—well!”

The prospect seemed almost too much for Polly, and Bill forbore to mention any of her own plans regarding the money, should she win it. Polly, of course, had something to say about the way in which she had not been consulted, though not much, for, as she admitted, Bill “had done very well”; moreover, she was somewhat mollified by the nominal share in future transactions which Bill assured her would be hers. Bill explained matters as clearly as she could to Polly’s great satisfaction and sufficient enlightenment. In a matter of this sort Polly was quick to grasp the essential points, and in a matter of any sort even quicker to accommodate herself to the part she was to play. There was one thing, however, which Polly did not understand, and which Bill would not explain,—the reason that had induced Mr. Dane to follow such an extraordinary course as he had, and not only to give his sanction to the proceedings but also to lend active and financial assistance.

“I can’t tell you,” was all Bill would say; “you would not understand. I hardly know myself and I certainly can’t explain. I can’t talk about him, he is,—he is too good.”

Polly was not satisfied, but she could get no other explanation, and when Bill left her after some rather able though unsuccessful cross-examination, she hurled after her as a parting shot: “It is a very peculiar thing, Bill, very peculiar indeed, the way in which elderly gentlemen do things for you. One gives you a pair of diamond buckles, and another is undertaking a law-case for you. It is most peculiar, not to put too fine a point upon it,—most peculiar!”

And though Polly went to the kitchen-door and raised her voice so that Bill, who had gone up-stairs, should not lose any of the remark, she still contrived to throw a vast deal of meaning into the last words and the sniff which followed them. But Bill, if she heard, did not answer, which was wise; and Polly, who was too satisfied with the results of Bill’s “peculiarity” to trouble very much about explanations, went back to her work and asked no more unanswerable questions.

Bella and Theresa had to be taken into confidence of course, but neither of them thought the matter so important as Bill and Polly did. It was interesting to know all about Bill’s people, but the substantial benefits to be reaped from it seemed uncertain and shadowy. “It was all rather improbable and unwise,” Theresa said, while Bella, being full of her own concerns, hardly understood what was being discussed; and both sisters entirely failed to realise the value of success should it ever be attained.

“They are so stupid,” Polly once said impatiently; “they don’t grasp anything out of their own groove. I’ve no patience with either of them; they are thorough Brownlows, without an ounce of vitality between them. They’re all right so long as you put them in ordinary circumstances,—a decent house with a decent servant, decent meals at regular hours, and a decent husband to come home at regular times and provide the money. But as for striking out a line for themselves, or saving a situation, or doing or even understanding anything which is out of their ordinary rut or wants a small amount of enterprise, they simply can’t do it!”

Bill laughed a little, though she could not deny the truth of at least part of the indictment. She could not deny to herself either that this same characteristic of the sisters made it easier for her to carry through, unquestioned and undisturbed, the enterprises which they could neither undertake nor understand. However, she did not remark on this to Polly, but merely said: “I think Bella and T. are both rather occupied with their own concerns just now.”

Polly would not allow this excuse to Theresa, though she admitted it might hold good for Bella, whose wedding-day was so near. Bella’s wedding occupied all their minds about this time, Polly being determined that it should be of suitable though quiet magnificence. “Of course we are still in mourning,” she said, “or at least we can reckon we are; Aunt was almost like a mother to us, besides an out of mourning wedding would cost so much. As it is, we can make a very good show indeed at a reasonable price. And I mean to do it too, Bill; we are quite as good as the Dawsons, and I’m not going to let them think we are not.” And Polly made all the preparations in her power; her chief cause of trouble being that, since Bella was to be married at Ashelton, she herself could not be at the base of operations very long beforehand.

Bella left town early in February, in the company of Jack, who had come to town on business. When Polly heard of his coming she regretted that she could not offer him the hospitality she had offered Gilchrist, but her house was too full now to allow of it. However, Jack came to see them and stopped some time, and was, as Polly said, “as pleasant as possible and quite different from Mr. Gilchrist Harborough.” Indeed, Jack, instead of disapproving of Bill’s working, insisted on helping her to clear the table, making much fun over it. He always seemed to regard Bill as a jolly little school-girl not to be taken seriously; that day he teased her about the apples she took to eat in the train on her journey to Bymouth. Bill told him they were Polly’s, but he would not believe her, and they laughed over it for some time. Later on, however, she became serious and asked him some questions about the Harborough lawsuit. Of late Jack had become somewhat intimate with Gilchrist; Bill had gathered this from Bella’s talk, and thinking that, if anyone could tell her of the present condition of the Harborough case, Jack could, she questioned him on it.

“Why, Lady of Law,” he exclaimed when he found out how much she knew of the original claim, “you seem to know a good deal about it already!”

“Yes, I heard all about that part,” she told him; and he remembered that Gilchrist had been very often to Haylands during the summer, so often that he had once thought there was some sort of an understanding between Bill and the Australian, though latterly he had begun to doubt it. “I am afraid,” he said, thinking her interest in the case was on Gilchrist’s account, “I am afraid your friend won’t get this affair settled in a hurry; there seem to be a hundred and one things to prove.”

“Yes? What? Tell me.”

He smiled at her earnestness. “Let me see,” he said, “what shall I tell you? I have heard about it no end of times, but I am not so very much the wiser and I’m sure you won’t be; still here goes. The lawyers now, I believe, are busy trying to find out whether this precious rule of the youngest son inheriting applies to sons only, or whether it can be extended to other relations when the sons give out.”

“Can’t it? I should have thought it could.”

“Ah, but you’re not a lawyer; lawyers don’t think, they prove. They say sometimes the extension is allowed and sometimes it is not, according to early arrangement or tradition or something; they have got to find out how the first Harborough had his affairs arranged. Then another question they are busy about is how much old Harborough knew of the existence of another claimant, and I don’t see how they are ever to discover that under the circumstances. Things are rather mixed altogether; for instance, your friend’s father was born in 1845, old Harborough came into the property that same year, and that year also there died his youngest brother, the one who should have had the property,—that is what I call indecently crowding events to no purpose. Then the old man’s will seems likely to prove another bone of contention,—whether he had a right to make a will, why he made it, whether he believed his position insecure and made it to strengthen it, or whether he thought it secure and made it in good faith,—oh, it is a lovely tangle I can tell you! Harborough has talked to me about it till I have completely forgotten which party wants to prove what, and have got so mixed myself that I have gone home deciding to sow estates-tail in the home-field, drain the pond and turn it into an estate in fee simple to settle on my bonny bride.”

He drew Bella’s hand into his own as he spoke, and it was easy to see from their faces that there would be no more discussion of the Harborough case for the present. But Bill could not forbear asking one last question: “I suppose it will take a long time to settle?”

“Years! You’ll have time to grow up twice over before they are done squabbling, and Bella will be a staid and sober matron by the time the decision is given.”

Bella combated this opinion, not because she doubted the length of the Harborough lawsuit but because she vowed she would never be staid and sober. A conversation natural to the circumstances ensued, and lasted until Jack and Bella left the house together.

It was of course quite out of the question for both Bill and Polly to attend Bella’s wedding, as they could not leave the house to take care of itself, so it had been arranged for Bill to stay and Polly to go. It was really important that she should be present at the function, if for no other reason than her own belief that Bella and Theresa would not be equal to the situation and the Dawson family in its strength. “They would never manage without me,” Polly said with conviction. “I shall go down a day or two beforehand,—I really must, to see after things. You can do here quite as well as I can, and no one need know you are alone; I am not afraid to trust you, as I know you can take very good care of yourself and the house.”

To this Bill agreed. “Of course I shall be all right,” she said. “You had better stay as long as Bella and Theresa want you.”

But Polly had decided not to remain after the wedding. “There will be no need for me to do that,” she said. “I shall go several days before to see that everything is arranged properly and I shall come back directly after. Or,—no, on second thoughts, I think it had better be the day after; it would perhaps be nicer if I waited till the day after, as there will be such a lot of clearing up to do.”

Bill heard this last decision with a smile, she knew that Polly’s “clearing up” would mean a substantial hamper-shaped addition to her luggage. But she said nothing, as she knew Theresa would not mind, and Polly fulfilled her plan exactly. She went to Wrugglesby three days before the wedding with the most wonderful costume that even her ingenuity had ever compassed, safely packed in a cardboard box and placed on the seat beside her.

Polly’s work, and she certainly did work during those three days, was not in vain. Bella’s wedding was in every way successful. The Dawson family was properly impressed with the desirability of the new connection; Mrs. Dawson was almost satisfied, and Miss Gladys Dawson charmingly (and unpleasantly) put in her place by the presiding genius. Polly really was in her element that day and showed to the best advantage. Mrs. Stevens was warm in her praises, and even Gilchrist Harborough, who was there more as the bridegroom’s friend than the bride’s, thought that his former opinion of Miss Hains had been unjust.

“It really was as nice a wedding as I have ever seen,” was Miss Gruet’s opinion, and in the main Ashelton agreed with her, finding in the event a delightful subject of conversation during the lengthening days.

“It is quite the event of the spring,” Miss Minchin said gaily. So it was in Ashelton, and beyond Ashelton the ladies did not take very much account.

Beyond Ashelton, at the little house at Bayswater, there was another event, and one of such interest to those concerned that even Polly for a time regarded Bella’s wedding as of secondary importance. Mr. Stevens had examined the contents of Bill’s box and found that the deed dated 1799 was indeed the counterpart of the lease granted by Roger Corby in the year that Peter Harborough was shot. Mr. Dane, acting upon this information, had been to a certain old established firm of solicitors in London and had seen the senior partner. He was not the man who, something more than forty years ago, had helped to cut the bond Wilhelmina Corby had tried to break for herself; nevertheless he soon knew all about it, for it was recorded in the annals of the firm and only needed to be looked up. Looked up it accordingly was, together with other events, dates, and certificates; and the lease and the information and everything else there was to place were placed in the hands of this lawyer who, at Mr. Dane’s request, undertook the case Mr. Stevens had refused. Altogether, what with one thing and another, things were progressing surprisingly well, and Polly and Bill had good reason to congratulate themselves.

Before the spring was over Mr. Briant of Sandover felt the consequences of the energy and inquiry Bill had provoked, for he received the most unwelcome intelligence that a descendant of the Corbys existed and claimed, in a purely legal and formal manner, a large piece of his valuable Sandover estate. He did not believe the claim genuine; and then he did not believe it could be substantiated; and in any case he was, if possible, going to contest it, for he had always believed there were no legitimate descendants of the Corbys left.

“It rains lawsuits,” he grumbled once; “before Kit Harborough is through with his trouble I am let in for one. Although,” so he added to a friend, “between you and me, I should be glad to see the boy clear of his business half as well as I shall be of Mary Ann Hains, guardian of somebody Corby’s granddaughter.”

CHAPTER XXIX.
POLLY PROVES A TRUE PROPHET.

It was in June that the accident happened, early June, but the season was warm that year and already the little white roses were in bloom. They were in bloom the year of Theresa’s marriage,—white roses for the wedding, and now, with but one other June to intervene, white roses for the burying. It was Bill who thought of this, not Theresa, although Theresa, smelling the scent of the flowers under the window, thought of her wedding-day as she sat waiting that night.

She shivered a little as she recollected; it may have been at her thoughts, it may have been with cold, for the air was chilly. It was very late; she rose, and going to the window closed it, shutting out the sweet scents of the night. Then she glanced at the clock,—how late it was!—past twelve,—Robert had never been so late before. Surely nothing could have happened to him? Nothing ever happened; he was late, that was all, and she sat down again with a set look on her face.

There was a letter in her work-basket; she had read it once, but something made her put her sewing down and take it from its envelope to read again. It was from Bella, who had gone to spend a few days with some relations of her husband’s at Kensington. How happy Bella seemed! How delighted that Jack was going to join her that day! It was such a pleasant letter, though it told little. Theresa read it and folded it, smiling as she did so; then for a moment she sat listening, thinking she heard the sound of a horse’s feet. The road was not near, but the night was so still that she could almost have heard in her present state of tension. She might be mistaken, but there was certainly a sound of some kind. Wheels,—someone driving home—then she was mistaken, for Robert was riding to-night; this must be some other wayfarer, perhaps Gilchrist Harborough come down by the mail from London. She set herself to watch again; the sound of the wheels had passed now, the vehicle may have driven out of earshot, or it may have paused by the gate where the road was dark. The last must have been the case for, after a moment, she caught the sound again; perhaps the horse started suddenly, for the noise was much plainer now. It was coming nearer—surely there was not some one driving up to the house?

She rose quickly, a nameless dread at her heart, and went into the hall. There she paused a moment listening; the noise of wheels came nearer, then ceased, and through the closed door she heard, or her over-wrought senses told her she heard, the sound of a horse breathing. A man came up the steps; she heard him as she stood there, her hand upon the door, nerving herself to meet she knew not what. He stopped, and she opened the door to find herself face to face with Gilchrist Harborough.

For a second he shrank from her, and in the starlight she saw it.

“What is it?” she asked with lips that seemed too dry to speak.

“Robert has been hurt,” he answered, avoiding her eyes. “I—I have brought him home.”

“Hurt?”

Her voice rang distinct, almost sharp, and Harborough knew the question she was asking herself, although she was too loyal to put it to him.

“Yes,” he answered, meeting her eyes now; “he has been hurt, badly hurt, I am afraid.”

“Badly? How badly?” Fear was whitening her face and quickening her perceptions. “You don’t mean—oh Robert!—Why, I can see him out there! Robert!”

She passed Harborough and would have gone down the steps but he stopped her. “That is Dr. Bolton,” he said gently; “I brought him with me. Robert is there,—but,—you can’t see him.”

She leaned against the door-post and caught her breath, searching his face with questioning eyes. “He is dead?”

He felt the words were spoken, though he hardly heard them. “Come in here,” he said gently. He led her to the room she had just left, and put her unresisting in a chair.

“Dead,” she whispered, “dead?” Her breath was coming in gasps; she shook a little, but she did not weep or faint. For some reason Gilchrist was afraid to look at her; he moved to the door. “Are you going to bring him in?” she asked in that same low, breathless voice.

“Yes.”

“Up-stairs?”

“It would be better.” That was the doctor’s voice outside; both the doors were open and he had heard what was said.

“You will want a light; there is none in the room.”

She had risen as she spoke, but the doctor, seeing her white strained face, said: “No, no, wait here; Harborough will go up first, and set a light.”

She paid no heed to him, but tried to light a little hand-lamp. Gilchrist took the matches from her trembling fingers and, lighting it for her, put it into her hand. She gave him a look of thanks and then went slowly up-stairs.

It was early the next morning when Bill received the telegram that summoned her to Ashelton. That Bill should be summoned both annoyed and surprised Polly; she objected to parting with her for one reason, and for another she considered that she herself was the right person to be sent for in an emergency. “I don’t see what good you can do,” she said.

But Bill did not argue the point; she looked at the time-table, and then went up-stairs to dress for the journey. Polly picked up the telegram and having read it again followed Bill. “‘Come at once, Mrs. Morton wants you. Harborough.’” She read the message aloud to Bill when she reached her room. “What has Gilchrist got to do with it, I should like to know?”

“Robert is ill, I expect,” Bill said. “If it were Theresa, Robert would have sent the telegram; but as neither of them did, I expect Robert is ill.”

“Robert ill!” Polly sniffed contemptuously, then with the air of a prophet who sees his evil prognostications fulfilled, she added: “It is very likely you are right; he never was much good. Still I don’t see why Gilchrist Harborough should telegraph for you; he has no connection with the matter, neither have you.”

“Jack and Bella are away. I expect Gilchrist is looking after things; he would be very good in an emergency.”

Bill got her dress out of the cupboard as she spoke, and Polly looked at the telegram again. “Robert’s not ill,” she said with sudden conviction; “he’s dead!” Bill, from the wording of the telegram, thought it just possible too; still she did not say so, and Polly went on: “I always said he would die young and die suddenly; now he has done it and probably left Theresa very badly off.”

Bill was used to seeing Polly in moral undress by this time; the elder cousin did not always think it necessary to keep up appearances with the younger now that she knew how little the girl appreciated or was deceived by them. Bill had so often been treated to Polly’s unvarnished opinion of late that she was not much surprised by her way of regarding the possible death of Theresa’s husband.

“Really I never saw anyone so unlucky as we are,” Polly was saying; “no sooner do we get Bella settled than we have Theresa thrown back on our hands. It is hard, just as we are beginning to get on a little too, and make things pay. You and I have worked things up and managed splendidly, and this is our reward! It seems to me that, manage as we may, we shall never reap any benefit from it. We can work and it seems we always may. As for those Warings, I have no patience with them!”

“So it seems, since you won’t wait to hear how Robert is before deciding not only his death, but his widow’s future as well.”

“Oh, I know he is dead,” Polly said irritably as she followed the younger girl down-stairs. And Bill felt nearly sure of it too, even before she got to Wrugglesby station and saw Sam, who had been sent to meet her. When she saw him there was room for doubt no longer.

On the homeward drive he told her all he knew about the accident. The master had gone to Wrugglesby yesterday and returned late; he was riding a skittish young horse and must have been thrown and probably killed on the spot. Mr. Harborough, who had come from London by the mail-train, drove home along the same road and found him, but it was thought he must have been lying there for several hours. Dr. Bolton had been called up and came with Mr. Harborough to Haylands; but it was quite useless, the master was beyond help when he was found; “and the missus”—so Sam concluded—“was somethin’ terrible, quite stunned, not sheddin’ so much as a tear.”

Bill could believe that; it seemed to her quite natural that Theresa should be stunned. But when she reached Haylands it seemed just as natural that Theresa, when she met her and put her arms round her, should burst into a paroxysm of weeping. Bill wept with her of course; it was her nature; but she wept for the pity of life’s tangle, while Theresa wept for the husband dead last night and the lover dead months ago, for the widowhood of name which had fallen upon her now and the widowhood of heart which had fallen long before; wept for her grief and her loss and her double grief that the loss and grief were not greater, and for all combined till thought was vague and her heart was eased.

So she wept, and no longer dreaded that the world, seeing her grief, should also see that which lay behind. She had feared lest the secret she had guarded during Robert’s life should be revealed after his death. It was for this reason she would not have Polly or Bella or anyone but Bill,—Bill whose eyes were not quick to mark anything amiss. The others might discover or think, but Bill—no one minded Bill. And then, when Bill came with her sympathy and her pliant changing nature, there suddenly seemed no secret to hide, nothing amiss which could be marked—all was melted in a gush of tears.

Thus Theresa became widow indeed, and though she sorrowed as such she was all the better for the sorrowing. Quite unconsciously she turned to the girl, whom she still persisted in regarding as a child, for comfort and help. Bill gave all the comfort she could, listened when Theresa told her how Robert went out yesterday and she had not said good-bye; wept when Theresa wept over this omission and over the hundred trifles which seemed to speak of his presence still near,—his pipe on the mantelpiece, his whip behind the door, his dog waiting wistfully in the hall. Bill listened, but she also worked, for that suited her best. Theresa was really prostrate with grief; so Bill assumed, by the quiet right of the one who can, the management of the household, and the management so assumed remained with her some time.

It was during the days which followed that Gilchrist Harborough found himself thinking that Bill, viewed in a light other than that of prospective wife, had something to recommend her. He had not seen her since the December day when she cancelled their engagement; but in the time that followed Robert’s death he saw her often, for she stayed at Ashelton till the summer was well advanced. Polly wanted her back in town, but she was obliged to allow that Theresa needed her more at Haylands. Very reluctantly she gave permission for Bill to remain; very reluctantly, with the wages Bill forfeited by absence, she hired a girl to help with the work. And Bill spent a second June at Haylands, very unlike the first, excepting only that she saw Gilchrist Harborough often, though even in seeing him there was one great and essential difference, for they met now on a new footing, a footing much nearer equality.

Jack was a good brother-in-law, but Greys was some way from Haylands, and he, being but recently married, and having besides a great deal of land to look after, found it somewhat difficult to give Theresa’s farm the supervision it required. Harborough lived much nearer, had more time and possibly more inclination, for the lawsuit did not occupy so much of his attention just now, therefore he came often to Haylands that summer, and in coming, met Bill often, but always in her working capacity; a capacity, he thought, which suited her so well that he wondered how he had ever come to think of her,—the most able collaborator man could wish,—as wife.

But Theresa’s domestic arrangement, admirable as she found it, did not suit Polly at all. To begin with she did not find the girl at all an efficient substitute for Bill, and to go on with she “wanted to know how it was all going to end.” Bill also wanted to know that, not because she found the arrangement any less pleasant than did Theresa, but because it was her custom to plan several miles in advance of the elder cousin’s range of vision. So, before Theresa had contemplated the future as a working possibility, Bill had answered Polly’s enquiries.

“I’m afraid,” so she wrote, “things are not much better than you expected; Theresa will be left very badly off. Still, I think she will most likely have a little, so there is a certain amount of choice as to what is to be done; I have not properly talked it over with her so I do not know if she has any wishes. As far as I can see we three (she and you and I) must live together; we can’t afford two houses, but together I believe we might live here or in town. If we stop here we should have to give up most of the land, only keeping enough for a certain amount of dairy work. The dairy, with pigs, poultry, and vegetable growing, I reckon would keep us in food and pretty well pay the rent—I believe this could be made to answer. We could have a boarder in the summer if you liked. Of course the other choice is for you and me to go on as before and take Theresa in; I don’t know what else can be done, unless she goes to Jack and Bella, which seems hardly fair.”

Polly read this letter and digested it thoughtfully, and her thoughts, it is to be feared, were not so much for the common good as for her own personal comfort, and that did not incline her towards going to Ashelton. She preferred town to country; she liked her present life in many respects, and she certainly did not relish the idea of making pigs and poultry pay with Bill’s assistance, not because she thought they would not pay but because she knew quite well that the assistance would be on the wrong side in such a venture. Theresa she did not consider in the matter, and fortunately for her, Theresa had no very strong wishes; she did not greatly care whether she remained at Haylands or went to London; it seemed to her that her life had been snapped and could go on as well, or as ill, in one place as another. Jack was in favour of giving up the farm, pronouncing Bill’s scheme to be a mad one. Gilchrist, who knew Bill better, was not so sure of that; but he saw that it would entail much hard work on all, on Theresa, who in his opinion was not fit for it, as well as on Bill who was. Therefore, as the general voice was with Polly, she carried the day, to her own great satisfaction, and at Michaelmas the farm was given up.

It is not to be supposed that Bill remained undisturbed at Haylands all the summer. She was merely keeping Theresa company, and when Bella’s husband spared her to do that for a time, Bill, very reluctantly, returned to town, to Polly and her domestic difficulties. It is hard, when one can do work and has half done it, that it should be taken away and given to another, who not only cannot do it but does not recognise that it exists to be done. Bill did not want her work recognised, but she did want to finish it; but since that was impossible there was no choice but to silently resign it half-finished, without a hope of its being anything but wasted by the one who came after. So she went back to town, and Bella, it is to be feared, fulfilled her anticipations; the seed plants died, the vegetables languished, the ducks laid away, and the poultry intermarried disastrously. Later on Polly went down to Haylands, for a rest, she said; and Bill did not ask her to look after any of her pet projects, thinking perhaps that it would only be useless. When Polly returned she did enquire how the fruit was that year, and was told that the trees were breaking with the weight of plums.

“Does no one pick them?” Bill asked.

“Some of them,” Polly told her; “but fruit fetches so little this year; it is not worth a man’s time to pick it, at least so Gilchrist says, and he is managing everything, you know.”

Bill was not thinking of Gilchrist’s management but of private enterprise; Polly was thinking of something quite different and it was she who spoke first. “Did it strike you, Bill,” she said, “that Gilchrist takes a great interest in Theresa and her affairs?”

“Yes, of course; he likes managing, and he does it thoroughly.”

But this was not what Polly meant at all and she said so. “What I want to know,” she concluded, “is, why did he begin it? Why does he do it?”

“Because it wanted doing, and because he can do it. Somehow or other the people who can do things always have to do them whether it is their business or not; they have a sort of right to the jobs that want doing.”

This was not Polly’s opinion. “It’s my belief,” she said, “that he has an interest in what he does.”

“An interest? He does not get the profits.”

“No,” Polly retorted impatiently, “but Theresa does; that’s his interest.”

“Do you mean he is fond of Theresa?” Bill asked in astonishment.

Polly did, and explained herself at some length, without convincing Bill who, when she had come to the conclusion that this was only one of Polly’s fancies, went back to the subject of the plums. Polly was not interested in plums, and when Bill asked if she and Theresa picked any, answered snappishly, “No, we did not; we did not choose to spend our days up ladders.”

A recollection of last year lent viciousness to this remark; Bill remembered last year too and sighed. Had she been at Ashelton early enough very likely there would have been a repetition of the plum-selling. But she was not there in time to do anything, for, though she did go down to Haylands to help Theresa to pack at the last, the fruit was practically over. It was a bad year for apples; there were hardly any in the orchard at Haylands, and Bill saw at once, when she went to look round, that there was nothing to be done with them. As for the plums, they were a real grief to her when she saw them lying rotten on the grass beside the branches which the heavy fruit had broken down.

“Gilchrist could not look after everything,” she told herself, “and Theresa would not know.”

After all, the waste of the plums did not trouble her so much as did the sight of the withered plants in the garden, and the raspberry-canes, still loaded with shrivelled fruit, dried up for want of water. But bad as the garden was, it was not the worst, for in one short tour of the stackyard she found, besides the feathers of many untimely victims of stray cats, five lots of addled eggs laid and lost in the summer months. She had her last find of eggs in a basket on the Saturday afternoon when she went to the orchard to look for fallen apples. There were not many, but she picked up what there were and took the eggs to the ditch to throw them away to make room for the apples.

It was just then that Mr. Stevens came by. He was a busy man, but he sometimes allowed himself a little holiday on Saturdays in September to shoot a friend’s partridges; he had been shooting partridges that day and very good sport he had had to judge from the beaming good-humour he was carrying back to Wrugglesby.

When he saw Bill he pulled up. “Good-afternoon,” he cried; “I didn’t know you were back. You haven’t been over to see me; don’t you want to have a talk about your affairs?”

Bill came to the gate. “There isn’t much to say about them, is there?” she asked. “I thought nothing much could be done at this time of year.”

“Well, no, not much certainly; everybody is out of town now. Still, if you’d like to have a chat, you might look in when you’re in Wrugglesby; I’m not very busy just now.”

“Thank you, I will if I have time; I am only here for a few days just to help Theresa to pack.”

“Ah, of course, she is leaving soon, poor thing. Going to live in London with you, isn’t she?”

Mr. Stevens felt very sorry for Theresa, of whose affairs he knew all that was commonly reported and a little more besides. He felt sorry for Bill, too, that afternoon; she did not seem to be so cheerfully and completely satisfied with life as usual.

“We must make the best of a bad job,” he said encouragingly, “and look for better times. Let’s hope your business will be through before Christmas,” and he shook his reins as if he were going on.

“Do you think it could be done so soon as that?” Bill asked with animation.

“I dare say; I don’t see why not, or at the latest early in the new year. Woa, my beauty!” and he pulled up again. “Mr. Briant is a rich man and can afford to fight as a poorer could not; but you’re too strong for him, and since the business of the divorce and remarriage was settled he knows it. It’s my belief—though as I’m not professionally connected with the case perhaps you will say I have no right to an opinion—it’s my belief Briant never suspected a second marriage. But owing to the rector’s help you have incontestable proofs, and the other side haven’t a case worth mentioning.”

“Then you think it will be settled soon?” Bill asked. “I am very glad; and I am glad, too, that Mr. Briant is so rich that one need not much mind taking money from him; even if I win he will still have plenty left.”

Mr. Stevens, though he was amused by her scruples, assured her that she might be quite easy on that score. “He’ll have plenty,” he said, “plenty, seeing that he has neither son nor daughter to take it after him. Bless my soul, he ought to be quite pleased to make provision for a young lady in that way!”

The lawyer laughed as he spoke and Bill laughed too. “I am afraid he won’t see it in that light,” she said.

“I’m afraid not either. No; I think if you win your case you will have to thank your good aunt’s care in keeping old bills and letters and recipes for herb-tea. That is what will have the most to do with it, since she managed to keep with them several of old Roger’s useless documents, and one valuable one. Yes, you will have to thank her for her care and Mr. Dane for his generosity. Good-bye, and a speedy success to you.”

CHAPTER XXX.
A RELISH WITH TEA.

Bella’s baby was born in January, and Theresa went to Greys’ for the event. Indeed she went there a good deal before the event, for, if the truth must be known, life in London with Bill and Polly was not entirely successful. Two women who have each had a home of their own do not always get on when they come to share one between them. Bella wrote in November inviting Theresa to come to her, and Polly urged the acceptance of the invitation with unnecessary warmth. Theresa hesitated a while as to her duty and then finally accepted it and went. “And a good thing too,” Polly said frankly.

She said this to Bill when they were at tea on the afternoon Theresa left. Polly sat at her ease with her feet on the fender and her tea-cup on the hob; she liked this position, and she liked the table drawn on to the hearth-rug so that she could sit between it and the fire. Theresa did not approve of such things; she did not exactly say so, but she looked it, and when she set the tea-things she never pulled the table up.

“It’s all very well, Bill,” Polly went on to say. “Theresa may be a very nice person,—I dare say she is, but she does not do here, and if she is going to live here she will have to alter a good deal.”

“She will settle down in time.”

Polly had her doubts about that and expressed them; she also expressed a hope that Theresa would stay with Bella while the settling process went on. “The longer she stays there the better,” she concluded. “Perhaps if she is there long enough and Gilchrist Harborough sees her often enough, he may marry her and take her to Wood Hall where she could be as elegant as she pleased without interfering with me.”

Bill laughed. “You are in rather a hurry,” she observed. “Theresa has only been a widow six months, and Gilchrist has not by any means got Wood Hall yet. You finish things off rather too quickly.”

“I wish somebody else would,” and Polly turned up her gown to preserve it from the fire.

“Don’t be too hard on T.,” Bill said rather sadly. “I don’t believe she is more particular than she used to be; she always was,—well, you used to call it ladylike.”

Polly ignored her own past attitude with regard to Theresa and only remarked: “I could be ladylike if someone else did the dirty work. I should like to be ladylike; but some people can’t have what they wish in this world; they have to work that others may.”

“Poor old Polly! I’m so sorry you have had to do the stoves lately. That place on my finger is nearly well, and I believe I shall be able to do them again to-morrow.”

“I’m not grumbling about you,” Polly said magnanimously.

“What is the use of grumbling about anything?” Bill asked. “It may let off steam, but I believe it rusts the pipes. Don’t let’s talk about Theresa; let us talk about hats.”

Millinery was a subject of perennial interest to Polly, but to-night she refused to discuss it. “I don’t know anything about hats,” she said; “how should I? I haven’t seen anything but these four walls since I don’t know when.”

“Why not go to Regent Street to-morrow afternoon?” Bill suggested. “My finger is really quite well, so I can do the work and you have not been out for ages; take an omnibus to Oxford Circus and go and look at all the shops.”

This was Polly’s favourite recreation and invariable panacea for dulness, but she still refused to be cheered. “What is the use?” she said. “I shall only see a hat I want and can’t afford.”

“You will see some new way of trimming up your old one,” Bill assured her; and though Polly persisted that she would not go, when the afternoon came she changed her mind and went.

It was during Polly’s absence that the great news came to Bill. Mr. Dane brought it; he had come to town for a few days on business, he said, probably on her business. At all events it was fortunate that his coming to town was at this time, for he was able to bring the news to Bill in person. Of course Polly received a formal intimation; Polly always received formal intimations and requests from the lawyers as did Mr. Dane; she was the guardian of the plaintiff, a person of importance, and he was a great factor in the case, more especially as the lawyers were his lawyers and the money his money. But Bill was only the “infant,” so she was not greatly troubled with intimations and consultations; and she, in the first instance, was not the person to be formally acquainted with the decision of the court. Nevertheless she was the person to whom Mr. Dane came, even before Polly had received her legal information and while that lady was out looking at the bonnet-shops in Regent Street.

It was four o’clock when Mr. Dane came. Bill had no idea of seeing him when she went to answer his knock; and the sight of him standing on the doorstep in the November dusk was so unexpected that she forgot in her delight to wonder why he had come. She led him to the kitchen, their living-room now, and gave him Polly’s shabby old arm-chair. She never thought of apologising; it was the best she had to offer and so needed no apology; moreover he was her friend and would expect none.

“Well, Princess,” he said at last,—at first it had not seemed possible to speak of his errand—“what do you think brings me here to-day?”

Bill looked at him doubtfully for a moment. “I have something to tell you,” he went on, and then her whole face became illuminated with understanding. “Oh, Monseigneur!” she said, clasping her hands with an eagerness begotten half of hope, half of fear.

“Yes, my child,” he said gently, “yes, you have won. That which Roger Corby gave as a price for wrong is paid back a hundred fold; and you, you little Bill, are an heiress in your own right.”

Bill gave a great gasp. “Thank God,” she said, “it is in time! Thank God, thank Him, very, very much!” And there followed a pause; perhaps she thanked the God who always seemed so close to her. When she spoke again it was in hushed tones. “It seems very wonderful,” she said. “And,—and I owe it to you!”

But Mr. Dane did not think she owed it all to him; perhaps he shared Mr. Stevens’s opinion and thought she was the stuff that wins under any circumstances. As for the particular circumstances of this case he set them aside, and when she persisted, her voice quivering with emotion as she recounted all he had done, he still set them aside. “It seems a great thing to do, does it?” he said at last. “Ah, you are young; things look different when you are young. I am old and I have lived much and loved much, and outlived much too perhaps, and to me,”—and he put a tender hand on the glowing hair—“to me it does not seem such a very great thing to do for the child of my past, the daughter of consolation to me.”

Then she said no more, but she kissed him with tears in her eyes. Afterwards they talked of this fortune, and what it would mean, and the debt that Bill thought she owed to the Harboroughs—to Peter Harborough, shot, to hide whose death the price which was the foundation of her fortune had been paid—to Kit Harborough, whose rival through an act of hers had learned the claim that he had made,—and to the old man, last of the Harboroughs of Gurnett, who slept in the little churchyard among the ferns where Roger Corby lay.

It was past five o’clock before Polly returned. Mr. Dane had left only a little while before, and she must have almost passed him at the end of the street, though, if she did, she failed to recognise him. She did not notice anything particularly until she reached her own house, and was surprised to see there were no lights at any of the windows. Miss Scrivens, who now occupied the drawing-room, must have fallen asleep and forgotten to ring for the lamp; and Polly decided with some satisfaction that Bill for once had followed her instructions and not taken the light until it was rung for. With a gratified feeling at this unusual display of obedience she let herself in and went up-stairs; while she was up-stairs the drawing-room bell rang sharply and Bill went to answer it. She was still attending to the lamp, or the lady, when Polly entered the kitchen and found to her surprise that the tea-tray was not set.

“What has the girl been doing?” she muttered as she went to the dresser. She was reaching up to get a jug from a high hook when there came a dancing step behind her and, before she could look round, Bill’s arms were thrown round her neck from behind and Bill’s strong hands took hers prisoner.

“Polly!” she exclaimed, possessing herself of the jug and then twisting Polly round. “Polly, dear old Polly! It has come at last! You shall have the finest hat in all Regent Street even if it’s a salad of roses with a cockatoo rampant on the top! You shall have it and we will drive all the way in a hansom cab to buy it!”

“Bill! What is the matter with the girl? Bill, put down that jug and tell me what you mean!”

“I mean,”—but Bill did not put down the jug, she filled it with milk instead—“I am going to get Miss Scrivens’s tea,” she said. “I ought to have got it before only I have been hindered this afternoon, and I’m crazy I think. But, oh, Polly! I’ve got it, got it at last; the money I mean, or at least as good as got it, it is going to be mine. I expect you will have to do things and sign things first, but the case is decided for us and it is all as good as mine already!”

“My dear Bill!” Polly was momentarily overwhelmed by the news, then she recovered herself and fetched a tin of sardines from the cupboard. “Oh, well,” she said, “if that’s the case we can afford to have a relish with our tea.”

CHAPTER XXXI.
THE FULFILLING OF THE DREAM.

In the opinion of certain members of the Chancery bar the conclusion of the Harborough case was disappointing, for from a legal point of view, there was no conclusion. In spite of all that had been said on both sides, all the facts and traditions and curious crooks that had come to light, the case was in the end as far from a legal decision as ever; it was merely withdrawn. This was the best thing possible for the litigants and certainly the wisest; still, it was to be deplored, for a decision would have been interesting. Apart from the legal aspect the conclusion could not be regretted; the buying of the claimant was undeniably wise, and at the same time almost romantic, for there was something of mystery about it. Nobody, not even the Harboroughs, knew who paid for it. Someone, whose name was not mentioned and who apparently had no personal interest in the case, found the money, which Gilchrist accepted in lieu of his chance of the Gurnett estates, and for the consideration of which he duly undertook that neither he nor his should ever raise the claim again.

Thus it happened, when the case was well on in its second year, that all ended and came to nothing, and Kit Harborough found himself very much where he used to expect he would be; but with an addition he did not expect in those days,—a certain price to pay for having defended his right to be there. Gilchrist had something to pay too, but it did not so much matter to him, for he had thought of the costs when he bargained for the price of his withdrawal. On the whole he was satisfied with the terms; they were not so high as he had tried to get, but they were all his chance was worth to him, and all, apparently, that the benevolent person unknown was willing to pay.

There was one man, in no way connected with the case, who took a keen interest in that benevolent person unknown; not so much at the time, but a little later. In the light of subsequent events Mr. Stevens chose to find that individual most interesting. “Unless I am much mistaken,” he once said, though wisely in no one’s hearing but his own, “there is stuff for a good Chancery suit in that buying off of Gilchrist Harborough. Certain persons have been juggling with the law, or I’m a Dutchman; persons, too, who should have been above suspicion. Mistress Wilhelmina has a deal to answer for, bless her wicked little heart! I wonder how it was done? I’d give something to know.” But he never did know; only, in later years, he used sometimes to doubt if there had been much juggling with the law after all; if rather a certain childless old man, who was so much richer than most people knew, had not chosen secretly to serve a girl in his life instead of benefiting her after his death. But of this fancy Mr. Stevens never spoke, for he knew, if it were true, that it was a secret hidden even from the girl herself, and he, though only a country lawyer, was a man possessed of that best wisdom, the knowledge when to keep silent.

But all this was long after; at the time when the Harboroughs’ suit was concluded no one even suspected who their benefactor might be. The Harboroughs themselves puzzled over it for some time and then, as is the nature of man, turned to the consideration of their own affairs. Those affairs were identical for both of them in one particular at least,—the question of Gilchrist’s return to Australia. It was generally understood among those whom it concerned that Gilchrist was going back to Australia; he had said he should go so soon as the case was settled, but now when it came to the point he did not seem so sure about it. Kit took a most surprising interest in his rival’s departure, and he noticed his hesitation directly the subject was introduced. There was only one occasion when the two Harboroughs spoke of the matter, the only occasion on which they met on purely social terms, the day they lunched together at Wood Hall. Kit had invited Gilchrist there as it were to shake hands after the fight, possibly feeling it his duty to do so. Gilchrist accepted the invitation, partly for similar reasons, and partly because he had never been inside Wood Hall and thought he would rather like to see the old house for which he had been fighting; coming with this motive, there is no doubt he also came prepared to observe critically and to put a market-value on all he saw.

“I think I have the best of the bargain,” he told Theresa afterwards; “the place is in bad repair and at the best of times would take a lot of keeping up. Still, I admit it has a charm of its own, a charm which cannot be bought or exchanged, and would not, I believe, stand a change of ownership. If the house were mine, I should do it up, and, I suppose, change its nature; since it is his, he will let things remain as they are; he can’t afford to do anything else, poor beggar! But he will keep the charm and a few absurd, inimitable, medieval prejudices which even an enlightened education cannot make us altogether despise.”

It is to be feared that Gilchrist was not far from the truth in his estimate of the poverty likely to reign at Wood Hall. The estate, crippled before, could ill afford the money spent in defence of its owner’s claim to it. Kit knew this, and knew that the Australian was quick to mark signs of prosperity or decay.

The two Harboroughs did not lunch in the big dining-room where Kit had sat with Bill on the day that old Mr. Harborough died, but in a smaller, more modern room where neither length of possession nor shortness of means stood out so plainly. There was little here to suggest that evil days had fallen upon the old place, excepting only the view from the windows. Gilchrist glanced out once; the pale February sunlight was wan on the crack in the stone-work of the terrace, on the unswept leaves of the autumn and the untouched borders by the wall. Unconsciously he looked towards his host and observed him curiously—the well-bred, stoical face, the grave eyes, the well-finished hands—the whole man which told so little.

“Are you going to live here?” he asked suddenly.

“Probably not.”

There was a moment’s silence. Kit was evidently not communicative on that subject, and Gilchrist looked out of the window again before giving expression to the thoughts in his mind. “Pity the old place should go to pieces!” he said at last. “I could have saved it—spoiled it, perhaps you would have said—still, saved its life after a fashion, but you—”

“I shall probably go abroad for the next twenty years; after which, if I am not an inveterate wanderer by that time, I shall come home and think about getting some bricks and mortar to mend the hole in the terrace which we can see so well from here.”

Gilchrist laughed, although he was a little annoyed; he had felt vaguely sorry for Kit and the decline of the house of Harborough. But Kit kept him well at arm’s length, and the house of Harborough was plainly not his concern, so he withdrew his sympathy from the end he had himself hastened, and the subject was pursued no further.

It was then that Kit enquired concerning the return to Australia, and learned that there was a good deal of uncertainty connected with the date of Gilchrist’s departure; indeed, it seemed almost possible that he would not leave England at all that year. Kit did not ask why; he knew that it was a woman’s will and a woman’s preparations that ruled the time of the Australian’s going. Herein he was quite right, though he was not right in thinking that woman Bill Alardy. Bill’s preparations, like her will, were never long in making; but the woman for whom Gilchrist waited was different; who is to hurry a nine months’ widow, and who make love to the wife of a man whose grave has not long been green?

But of this difficulty Kit knew nothing, and since he was very well aware that Bill’s betrothal was of a private nature, he could not make any remark upon it even had he wished. So he was still unenlightened as to the name of the woman whose pleasure Gilchrist waited when a little later the Australian took his leave.

Kit went to the door with him, stood on the step looking after him even when he was out of sight, stood there until the sound of his horse’s feet had died away in the distance. The sun was gone now; ashy clouds had crept over the sky, and all the world was still and grey with the soft, tired look of endless afternoon. Kit went down the steps and walked slowly past the west front of the house; once he glanced up at the crooked windows and the sloping, many-peaked roof, but he looked away again quickly as if the sight hurt him. He reached the end of the terrace but he did not go back; instead he wandered aimlessly across the lawn, down the rose-walk, past the box-edged beds and the yew trees once trimly clipped into quaint devices. The devices were lost now, the clipping had not been done for many years. Bill had once said that, were the trees hers, she would learn to clip them herself rather than that they should be left. So she would, too; she would clip the trees and weed the paths and save the house from its approaching decay! Gilchrist had said that day he would have saved it; how could he fail to save it with her for wife? Old Harborough himself had testified that she, and such as she, penniless though they might be, alone could save an exhausted family, a proud, poor, played-out race.

Kit had come to the outskirts of the wood now; he stopped for a moment, not from indecision as to which path to follow, but because he wished to call a halt in his mind and force himself to face the truth. Why should he pretend to look upon Bill as the saviour of his family, the prop of his house? It is true she could have been all that, but it was also true that she was something else to him; not prop nor saviour, but the only woman the world held. He had been but a boy eighteen months ago when he first looked into her eyes; he had grown to manhood in those eighteen months, but it did not matter, the look thrilled him still. He had not seen her since that October day when they pledged each other to duty, but he had not forgotten; he would never forget; there are some it is not easy to forget.

He had been following the footpath that led from the gardens to the little church, but he turned away before he reached the low boundary wall and wandered on through the waste of dead bracken till he struck the public footpath which gave upon the lane by a swing-gate. There was someone standing by the gate, someone with arms resting upon the topmost bar, and eyes fixed, not upon the path with its approaching figure, but upon the leafless tree-tops of the wood.

For half a second Kit paused, a sensation almost of fear at his heart—how could she be here in the flesh? Then, at a bound he had reached the gate; flesh or phantom, he must see her, must touch her hand once again.

“Bill!”

He had put his hand on the hands on the gate. They were warm, living hands; he held them fast and there was no effort made to draw them away. She did not start nor cry out; she did not move at all; she only looked up at him, silent yet with throbbing breast. So they stood, the gate between them, for the space of a full minute, and the world seemed to hold but them alone.

From the main road there came the sound of horse’s feet, steady, slow-going, some farm-horse on its way to the blacksmith’s in the village. The sound of hoofs recalled to Kit the last time he had heard it and recalled also the thought of the man who rode away from his house not an hour ago. He dropped the hands he held almost as if they burnt him.

“He cannot—shall not have you!” The words were hardly spoken; they seemed wrung from him against his will.

The discarded hands pulled a splinter off the gate. “He,—he doesn’t want me”—their owner seemed much interested in the splinter.

“Not want you? You—”

The gate was between them no longer.

A while later the farm-horse, having been to the blacksmith’s, was led home by way of the lane; the man who led him saw no one about the lonely spot; there was no one by the swing-gate or on the footpath going to the church, no one visible at all. In the shelter of the leafless wood, however, there were two who explained many things. There were many things which needed explanation they found,—the mystery of Bill’s freedom, for one, and Kit’s ignorance of it, for another. The first was easy to recount; the second Bill found harder to explain.

“I could not tell you,” she said at last; “of course I could not tell you. Do you know the feeling, the consciousness almost, that you can have and get whatever you make up your mind to have? That has been my feeling so long; but I was afraid to seek for this; I wanted it to be the free gift of God to me; I wanted it an unsought gift, or not at all. Do you understand what I mean?” And in case he did not, she went on to give another reason. “I have been getting so much lately,” she said, flashing a shy smile at him, “getting and willing and taking that I think I wanted someone to take me.”

And it is to be presumed that Kit understood the art of taking her, for the next explanation did not follow immediately. When it did come it had reference to Bill’s unexpected appearance at the gate that afternoon.

“There is no mystery about that,” Bill said. “I came to look at a house at Sales Green. We are thinking of moving in the spring or early summer, and we are looking out for a house with a large garden somewhere in this part—the garden is for me, the house for Polly, the part for Theresa who wants to be near Bella. However, the Sales Green house is no good at all; we shall have to look out for another.”

“Did you come from town to-day?”

“Yes; Bella met me at Wrugglesby and drove me to look at the house and then home with her to lunch. Afterwards I started to walk to the rectory, having promised to go to tea with Mr. Dane; he is going to drive me to the station this evening.”

“You do not seem to have chosen a very direct route to the rectory.”

“No,” Bill was obliged to admit; “but I thought I would like to go down the lane once more and,—and I did not know you were at home.”

Kit showed the utmost satisfaction in having been at home on this occasion, and they passed on to the next explanation which was of a different nature and was given by Kit. It had to do with his prospects and the narrow means he had to offer; the thought of them made him remember now it was too late that he had but small right to ask her to share his lot.

“Don’t you know?” Bill exclaimed eagerly almost before she had heard him out. “Haven’t you heard? I have got money now,—oh, I am so glad! I thought perhaps Mr. Briant would have told you, but I suppose he thought you had worries enough of your own.”

Perhaps this was the case; at all events, as Mr. Briant had not told the tale in full, Bill told it now, and with it the name of the unknown benefactor who had put an end to the Harborough suit. Possibly she did not tell it well, certainly Kit was astonished almost beyond comprehension.

“You?” he said and he stood to look at her. “You did it?”

“Yes,” and she stood still too, twisting a dry twig she held. She snapped the brown thing nervously. “I’m sorry, Kit,” she said humbly. She knew that it is not always easy to receive a favour. “I’m sorry, but there did not seem anyone else to settle it, and it had to be done. I know it is hard to take things from a woman but,—do you mind so very much from me?”

Kit’s throat swelled painfully. After all, he was very much a boy still; but he took the favour and the giver of the favour all in one.

Later, as they went up the forest path together, he asked her what she would have done had he not met her at the gate that day. “It is all very well,” he said, “to say that you have saved Wood Hall for yourself as well as for me, but supposing I had not met you to-day, supposing I had never learned you were free?”

“Then I should have gone to live in a house with a big garden and grown tons of cabbages.”

Kit laughed. “But tell me,” he persisted, “would you have never let me know?”

She shook her head. “I made up my mind to tell no one,” she said, “only Polly assured me that if ever I married I would have to tell my husband; for one reason because he might find out if I did not, for another because it would be wrong to hide things from him. For the first reason I do not care, I would have risked that; but for the second it is different. I am not afraid that you will misunderstand and it seems a pity to begin with secrets.”

“Yes;”—Kit had possessed himself of the small strong hand,—“a great pity since we are to have all things in common.”

And so they passed through the silent wood where the shadows lay, brown and purple and deepest blue; they followed the wet path still studded with the autumn’s funguses, crossed the deep hollows where last year’s leaves glowed in the even light, under the old trees, twisted pollards and stately beeches, and so on, up the hill. Once a startled jay flashed from the covert of a thorn-bush low down across their path; once a rabbit looked out from among the beech-roots; nothing else moved, and in the stillness of a holy world they came to the gardens and to the house.

Together they went by the western front to the great door still open as Kit had left it; together they entered the wide, dim hall. Kit turned as he stood on the threshold and looked up at the old house. “Not yours nor mine,” he said, “but ours, sweetheart.”

But the diamond buckles came to Kit Harborough’s wife after all, for they were given to her on her wedding-day by one who still called her “Princess Puck, child of the Lord’s consolation.”

The End.

GLASGOW: PRINTED AT THE UNIVERSITY PRESS BY ROBERT MACLEHOSE AND CO.

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES:

Perceived typographical errors have been corrected.

Inconsistencies in hyphenation have been standardized.

Archaic or variant spelling has been retained.

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Table of Contents

- PRINCESS PUCK

- CONTENTS

- CHAPTER I. MISS BROWNLOW’S NIECES.

- CHAPTER II. BILL.

- CHAPTER III. ROBERT MORTON.

- CHAPTER IV. HARBOROUGH OF CROWS’ FARM.

- CHAPTER V. FOR BILL’S GOOD.

- CHAPTER VI. THE RIGHT OF WAY.

- CHAPTER VII. HARBOROUGH OF GURNETT.

- CHAPTER VIII. THE COURTSHIP OF HARBOROUGH OF GURNETT.

- CHAPTER IX. “RED IS THE ROSE.”

- CHAPTER X. IN THE GARDEN.

- CHAPTER XI. WILHELMINA I. AND II.

- CHAPTER XII. NATURAL SELECTION.

- CHAPTER XIII. CHASING A SHADOW.

- CHAPTER XIV. THE COURTSHIP OF HARBOROUGH OF CROWS’ FARM.

- CHAPTER XV. FAMILY HISTORY.

- CHAPTER XVI. A GRANDFATHER.

- CHAPTER XVII. THE RESPONSIBILITIES OF A GUARDIAN.

- CHAPTER XVIII. THE PLUM HARVEST.

- CHAPTER XIX. PETER HARBOROUGH: SHOT.

- CHAPTER XX. HARBOROUGH OF BYBRIDGE.

- CHAPTER XXI. THE ACQUISITIVE FACULTY.

- CHAPTER XXII. POLLY SETTLES THINGS.

- CHAPTER XXIII. PETER HARBOROUGH’S SHOE-BUCKLES.

- CHAPTER XXIV. THE COURTSHIP OF HARBOROUGH OF BYBRIDGE.

- CHAPTER XXV. GENERAL SERVANT.

- CHAPTER XXVI. AN OLD WOUND.

- CHAPTER XXVII. A CHIP OF THE OLD BLOCK.

- CHAPTER XXVIII. THE OAK BOX GOES TO WRUGGLESBY.

- CHAPTER XXIX. POLLY PROVES A TRUE PROPHET.

- CHAPTER XXX. A RELISH WITH TEA.

- CHAPTER XXXI. THE FULFILLING OF THE DREAM.

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE