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diff --git a/old/61782-0.txt b/old/61782-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 3c99313..0000000 --- a/old/61782-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,15943 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg EBook of A Poor Gentleman, by Margaret Oliphant - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with -almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or -re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included -with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org/license - - -Title: A Poor Gentleman - -Author: Margaret Oliphant - -Release Date: April 8, 2020 [EBook #61782] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A POOR GENTLEMAN *** - - - - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at The Internet Archive) - - - - - - - - - - A POOR GENTLEMAN. - - BY MRS. OLIPHANT. - - - _FIRST HALF._ - - - NEW YORK: - GEORGE MUNRO, PUBLISHER, - 17 TO 27 VANDEWATER STREET. - - - - - A POOR GENTLEMAN. - - - - -CHAPTER I. - -THE TWO FAMILIES. - - -The house of Penton is one of the greatest in the county of which it is -an ornament. It is an old house, but not of the kind which is now so -generally appreciated and admired. It is not Elizabethan nor Jacobean, -nor of the reign of Queen Anne. The front is Grecian, or rather -Palladian, in heavy stone supplemented by plaster, with the balustrades -of a stony terrace surmounting the level frontage of the single story, -lofty, yet flat, which stretches like a screen across the higher cluster -of building which forms the body of the house. When you turn the corner -from this somewhat blank and low but imposing line you come upon the -garden-front, which is of the livelier French order of architecture, -with long windows, and many of them. The gardens are the pride of the -house. These are arranged in terraces and parterres, brilliant with -flowers, and there is even an elaborate system of water-works, a little -out of order now, and a few statues here and there, half covered with -lichens, yet not unworthy of better preservation. The rooms inside are -lofty and sumptuous, intended for great entertainments and fine company, -but the gardens are such as Watteau would have delighted in, and which -he might have made the scene of many a _fête champêtre_ and graceful -group of fine ladies and fine gentlemen in costumes more brilliant than -are now thought of. The grounds at Penton, indeed, are still filled at -times with parties of gayly dressed people, and the lawns brightened by -maidens in muslin and young men in flannels; but Watteau would have had -no sympathy with the activities of lawn-tennis. That popular game, -however, was not pursued with any enthusiasm at Penton. It was -permitted rather than encouraged. There was no youth in the house. Sir -Walter Penton was an old man, and though he had, like most old gentlemen -who figure in romance, an only daughter, she was not either young or -fair. She was a lady of somewhat stern aspect, between forty and fifty, -married, but childless. The household consisted of her father, her -husband, and herself, no more. And there were many circumstances which -combined to make it anything but a cheerful house. - -Three or four miles from Penton, but on a lower level, lay the house of -Penton Hook. It was on the banks of the river, planted on a piece of -land which was almost an island in consequence of the curve of the -stream which swept round it. The great house stood high on the brow of -the bank, an object seen many miles off, and which was the -distinguishing feature of the landscape. The smaller one--so small that -it was scarcely worthy to be called a country-place at all--lay low. -When the river was in flood, which happened almost every winter, Penton -Hook stood dismally, with all its little gardens under water, in what -seemed the middle of the stream. And though the Pentons all protested -that the water never actually came into the house, which was raised on a -little terrace, their protest was received by all their neighbors with -shaking of their heads. Everything was green and luxuriant, as may be -supposed. The house was so covered with creepers that its style was -undefinable. A little glimmer of old red brick, delightfully toned and -mellowed, looked out here and there from amid the clusters of feathery -seed-pods on the clematis, and below the branches of the _gloire de -Dijon_ in winter. In the brighter part of the year it was a mass of leaf -and flower; but during all the dark season, when the water was up, when -the skies were dark, damp and dreariness were the characteristics of -Penton Hook. The rooms looked damp, there was a moist look about the -tiles in the little hall. The paper was apt to peel off and the plaster -to fall. There were many people who declared that the house was a very -fever-trap, and everybody was of opinion that it must be unhealthy. It -ought to have been so, indeed, by very rule of sanitary science. A kind -Providence alone took care of the drainage. Mr. Penton did not know much -about it, and took care not to inquire; for had he inquired it would -probably have been necessary to do something, and he had no money to -spend on such vanities. Neither, indeed, did there seem much occasion, -for, notwithstanding what everybody said, eight young Pentons, tall and -straight, and ailing nothing, with appetites which were the despair of -their mother, grew up and flourished among the mud and damp, and set all -prognostications at defiance. - -Nothing could be more unlike than the two families who bore the same -name, and lived within sight of each other. The one all gravity and -importance and severe splendor: the other poor, irregular, noisy, full -of shifts and devices, full of tumult and young life. Mrs. Penton, Sir -Walter’s daughter (for her husband, who was nobody in particular, had -taken her name), went from time to time with the housekeeper through the -ranges of vacant rooms, all furnished with a sort of somber -magnificence, to see that they were aired and kept in order; while her -namesake at the Hook (as it was called) schemed how to fit a bed into a -new corner, as the boys and girls grew bigger, to make room for their -lengthening limbs and the decorums which advancing years demanded. It -was difficult to kill time in the one house, and almost impossible to -find one day long enough for all the work that had to be done in it, in -the other. In the one the question of ways and means was a subject -unnecessary to be discussed. The exchequer was full, there were no calls -upon it which could not be amply met at any moment, nor any occasion to -think whether or not a new expense should be incurred. Mr. Russell -Penton, perhaps, the husband of Mrs. Penton, had not always been in this -happy condition. It was possible that in his experience a less -comfortable state of affairs might have existed, or even might still, by -moments, exist; but so far as the knowledge of Sir Walter and his -daughter went, it was only mismanagement, extravagance, or want of -financial capacity which made anybody poor; they could not understand -why their relations at the Hook should be needy and embarrassed. - -“So long as one knows exactly what one’s means are,” said Mrs. Penton, -“what difficulty can there be in arranging one’s expenditure? There are -certain things which can, and certain things which can’t be done on a -certain income. All that is necessary is to arrange one’s outgoings -accordingly.” - -“You see that, my dear,” Sir Walter would reply, “for you were born -with the spirit of order; but there are some people who have no sense of -order at all.” - -The some people were the poor people at Penton Hook. These remarks were -made on a day in winter, when the family at the great house were -together in the library. It was a very comfortable room, nay, a -beautiful one. The house was warmed throughout, and in December was -genially, softly, warm as in May, no cold to be got anywhere in -corridors or staircases. The fire in the library was a wood-fire, for -beauty and pleasantness rather than for warmth. The walls were lined -with books, dim lines of carved shelves with gleams of old gilding, and -an occasional warm tone of mellowed Italian vellum here and there giving -them a delightful covering. The large window looked across the country, -commanding the whole broad plain through which the river ran. This -landscape fell away into lovely tones of distance, making you uncertain -whether it was the sea or infinitude itself at which you were gazing, in -far-away stretches of tender mist, and blueness and dimness, lightly -marked with the line of the horizon. Over the mantel-piece there was one -picture, the portrait of an ancestor of whom the Pentons were proud--a -veritable Holbein, which was as good, nay, far better, than the most -finely emblazoned family pedigree. There was no room for other pictures -because of the books which filled every corner; but a port-folio stood -open upon a stand in which there was a quantity of the finest old -engravings, chiefly historical portraits. Amid this refined and -delightful luxury it would be foolish to mention the mere furniture, -though that was carved oak, and very fine of its kind. Sir Walter -himself sat surrounded by all the morning papers, which, as Penton was -not very far from town, were delivered almost as early as in London. -Mrs. Penton had a little settlement of her own between the fire and one -of the windows, where she made up her household accounts, which she did -with the greatest regularity. Mr. Russell Penton was the only member of -the little party who seemed at all out of place. He had no special -corner which he made his own. He was a restless personage, prone to -wander from the fire to the window, to look out though there was nothing -particular to look at, nothing more than he saw every day of his life, -as his wife sometimes said to him. He ran over the papers very quickly, -very often standing before the fire, which was a favorite trick of his; -and after he had got through that morning duty he would lounge about -disturbing everybody--that is, disturbing Mrs. Penton and Sir Walter, -who were the only people subject to be affected by his vagaries. He -never had letters to write, though this is one of the first duties of -man, of the kind of man who has nothing else to do. A man who has no -letters to write should at least pretend to do so, assuming a virtue if -he has it not, in the leisure of a country house; or he should have some -study, if it were only the amount of the rainfall; or he should draw and -expound art. But none of all these things did Mr. Russell Penton do. And -he had not the art of doing nothing quietly and gracefully as some men -have. He was restless as well as idle, a combination which is more -trying to the peace of your house-mates than any other can be. - -Sir Walter was essentially well-bred, and the carpets were very thick, -and the paneling of the floors very solid; but yet there is always a -certain thrill under a restless foot, however steady the flooring is and -however thick the carpet: and Mrs. Penton could not help seeing that her -father now and then stopped in his reading and fixed his eyes and -contracted his eyebrows with a consciousness of the movement. But after -all it is difficult to find fault with one’s husband for nothing more -serious than walking from the fire to the window and from the window -back to the fire. - -Yet it was this rather detrimental and unmeaning personage who chose -suddenly, without any reason at all, to cross the current of family -feeling. “The spirit of order is a very good thing,” he said, all at -once, making his wife hold her breath, “but, in my opinion, when you -have a large family a little money is still better.” This speech was -launched into the domestic quiet like an arrow from a bow. - -“Better!” said Sir Walter, letting his newspaper drop upon his knees, -and pushing up his spectacles upon his forehead the better to see the -speaker, who was standing, shutting out the pleasant blaze of the log on -the fire in his usual careless way. - -“Gerald means,” said his wife, “that it is easier to keep things in -order when there is money. I have heard people say so before, and -perhaps it is true--to a certain extent. You know, sir, that when one -has money in hand one can buy a thing when it is cheap; one can lay in -one’s provisions beforehand. The idea is not original, but there is a -certain amount of truth in it, I dare say.” - -“No one supposed there was not truth in it,” said Sir Walter; “for that -matter there is truth in everything, the most paradoxical statement you -may choose to make; but these people are not without money, I suppose. -They have an income, whatever the amount may be. They are not destitute. -And so long as you have certain means, as you were yourself saying, -Alicia, you know what you can afford to spend, and that is what you -ought to spend by every law, and not a penny more.” - -“Nothing could be more true,” said Mrs. Penton, with a look from under -her eyelids to her husband, who was fidgeting from one leg to another, -restless as usual; “and speaking of that,” she said, with curious -appropriateness, “I have been anxious to ask you, papa, about the -tapestry chamber, of which, you know, we have always been so proud. Mrs. -Ellis and I have made a very odd discovery--the moth has got into one of -the best pieces. We have done all we could, and I think we have arrested -the mischief, but to put it right is beyond our powers.” - -“Dear me! the tapestry!” cried Sir Walter; “that’s serious indeed--the -moth! I should think you might have done something, you and all your -women, Alicia, to keep out a moth.” - -“One would think so, indeed,” she said, with a smile, “but it is not so -easy as it seems. It is an insidious little creature, which gets in -imperceptibly. One only discovers it when the mischief is done. Gerald, -who is so very clever in such matters, thinks we had better get a man -over from Paris, from the Gobelins. It would be a good deal of trouble, -but still it is the best way.” - -“I was not aware that Gerald knew anything about such matters,” said Sir -Walter. “As for the trouble, it is only writing a letter, I suppose. But -do it, do it. I can not have any thing happen to my tapestry. A man from -Paris will be a nuisance--they’re always a nuisance, those sort of -fellows--but get it done, get it done.” - -“I will write at once,” Mrs. Penton said. - -“I remember that tapestry as long as I remember anything,” said the old -gentleman, musing. “In the firelight we used to think the figures moved. -It used to be my mother’s room. How frightened I was, to be sure! One -night, I recollect, the hunters and the hounds seemed all coming down -upon us. There, was a blazing fire, and it was the dancing of the -flames, don’t you know? I was no bigger than that,” he said, putting his -hand about a foot from the ground. The recollection of his infancy -pleased the old man. He smiled, and the expression of his face softened. -There was nothing cruel or unkind in his aspect. He was a little rigid, -a little severe, very sure that he was right, as so many are; but when -he thought of his mother’s room, and himself a little child in it, his -ruddy aged countenance grew soft. Had there been another little child -there, to climb upon his knee, it would have melted altogether. But -Providence had not granted that other little child. He gave a wave of -his hand as he dismissed these gentle thoughts. “But get the man from -Paris, my dear; don’t let anything go wrong with the tapestry,” he said. - -Mr. Russell Penton went out as his wife turned to her writing-table, and -at once began her necessary letter. It was true that it was he who -recommended that a man from Paris should be procured, but he had done it -without any of that cleverness in such matters which his wife attributed -to him. He was not, perhaps, a man entirely adapted for the position in -which he found himself. He had occupied it for a long time, and yet he -had not yet reconciled himself to that constant effort on his wife’s -part to make him agreeable to her father. - -For his own part he had no desire to be disagreeable to Sir Walter or -any man; he had married with a generous affection if not any hot -romantic love for Alicia; for they were both, he thought, beyond the age -of romantic love. She had been thirty-five, very mature, very certain of -herself; while he, though a little older and a man who had, as people -say, knocked about the world for a long time, and undergone many -vicissitudes, was not at all so sure. She had picked him up out of--not -the depths, perhaps--but out of an uncomfortable, unsettled, floating -condition, between gentility and beggary; and had taken him into the -warmest delightful house, and made everything comfortable for him. He -had been very willing to make himself agreeable, to do what he could for -the people who had done so much for him, and yet so unreasonable was he -that he had never been able quite to reconcile himself to the position. -He could scarcely endure those warning glances not to go too far, not to -say this or that, or her pretenses of consulting him, of being guided by -his counsels, the little speeches, such as had been made to-day, about -Gerald being so clever--which was his wife’s way of upholding her -husband. He was not clever, and he did not wish to pretend to be so. He -was not cautious, and he could not take the credit of it. He had been -thought to be a fortune-hunter when he married, and he was supposed to -be a time-server now; and yet he was neither one thing nor the other. He -was fond of Alicia and he liked Sir Walter well enough; yet there were -moments when he would rather have swept a crossing than lived in wealth -and luxury at Penton, and when the sacrifices which he had to make, and -the advantages which he gained in return, were odious to him, things -which he could scarcely bind himself to bear. - -This was perhaps the reason why, as he went out, without anything to do -or to think of, and looking across that wide, bare, yet bright, wintery -landscape, losing itself in the wistful distance, caught the chimneys of -Penton Hook appearing among the bare trees, there occurred to his mind a -contrast and comparison which made his sensations still less agreeable. -It was nobody’s fault, certainly not his, not even Sir Walter’s, that -the Pentons at the Hook were so poor, that there were eight children of -them, that it was so difficult for the parents to make both ends meet. -Could Sir Walter have changed the decrees of Providence by any effort in -his power, it was he who should have had those eight sturdy descendants. -He would have accepted all the responsibilities gladly; he would have -secured for those young people the best of everything, an excellent -education, and all the advantages that wealth could give. But the -children had gone where poverty, not riches was; and to Sir Walter and -Alicia it was a wonder that their parents could not keep within their -income, that they could not cut their coat according to their cloth, as -it is the duty of all honest and honorable persons to do. Alicia in -particular was so very clear on this point; and then she had turned to -her table, and written her letter, and ordered the man to be sent from -Paris from the great Gobelins manufactory to mend the damages made by -the moths in the old tapestry! How strange it was! Russell Penton could -not tell what was wrong in it. Perhaps there was no conscious wrong. -They had a right to have their tapestry mended, and it was pretty, he -could not but confess, to see the old man forget himself and talk of the -time when he was a child. What was that about a treasure which rust or -moth could not corrupt? It kept haunting his ear, yet it was not -applicable to the situation. It would be a thousand pities to let the -tapestry be spoiled. And as for taking upon his shoulders the burden of -Mr. Penton’s large family, no one could expect old Sir Walter to do -that. What was wrong in it? And, on the other hand, he could not find it -in his heart to blame the poor people at the Hook who had so many cares, -so much to do with their income, so many mouths to feed. It was not -their fault, nor was it the fault of Alicia and her father. And yet the -heart of the man, who was little more than a looker-on, was sore. He -could do nothing. He could not even find any satisfaction in blaming one -or the other: for, so far as he could see, nobody was to blame. - - - - -CHAPTER II. - -PENTON. - - -The family at Penton had not always been so few in number. Twenty years -before the opening of this history there were two sons in the great -house; and Alicia, now so important, was, though always a sort of -princess royal, by no means so great a personage as now. She was the -only daughter of the house, but no more; destined apparently, like other -daughters, to pass away into a different family and identify herself -with another name. The two brothers were the representatives of the -Pentons. They were hopeful enough in their youth--healthy, vigorous, not -more foolish than young men of their age, with plenty of money and -nothing to do; and it was a surprise to everybody when, one after the -other, they took the wrong turn in that flowery way of temptation, so -smooth to begin with, so thorny at the end, which is vulgarly termed -“life.” No such fatal divergence was expected of them when Walter came -of age, and all the neighborhood was called together to rejoice. They -were both younger than their sister, who was already the mistress of the -house, and a very dignified and stately young lady, at this joyful -period. Their mother had died young, and Sir Walter was older than the -father of such a family generally is. He had, perhaps, not sufficient -sympathy with the exuberance of their spirits. Perhaps the quiet which -he loved, the gravity of his house, repelled them and led them to form -their friendships and seek their pleasures elsewhere. At all events, the -young Pentons “went wrong,” both of them, one after the other. Edward -Penton, of the Hook, a young relation of no importance whatever, was -much about the house in those days. He was the son of Sir Walter’s -cousin, who had inherited the house at Penton Hook from some old aunts, -maiden sisters of a far-back baronet, so that the relationship was not -very close. But the bonds of kindred are very elastic, and count for -much or for nothing, as inclination and opportunity dictate. Edward was -much more about the house of Penton than was at all for his good. He -fell in love with Alicia for one thing, who naturally would have nothing -to say to her poor relation; and, what was still worse, he was swept -away by Walter and Reginald in the course of their dissipated career -into many extravagances and follies. They drew him aside in their train -from all the sober studies which ought to have ended in a profession; -they taught him careless ways, and the recklessness which may be -pardonable in a rich man’s son, but is crime in the poor. It is true -that there was something in him--some gleam of higher principle or -character, or perhaps only the passive resistance of a calmer nature, -which held him back from following them to the bitter end of their -foolish career; but all the same they did him harm--harm which he never -got the better of, though it stopped short of misery and ruin. They -themselves did not stop short of anything. There are some sins like -those which made the heart of the Psalmist burn within him--sins which -seem to go unpunished, and in the midst of which the wicked appear to -flourish like a green bay-tree. And there are some which carry their own -sentence with them, and in which the vengeance does not tarry. Even in -the latter case ruin comes more slowly to the rich than to the poor. -They have more places of repentance, more time to think, more -possibility, if a better impulse comes to them, of redeeming the past; -but yet, in the end, few escape who embark their hopes and prosperity on -such a wild career. - -There were ten years in the history of the Penton household of which -the sufferings and the misery could not be told. Sir Walter and his -daughter lived on in their beautiful house and watched the headlong -career toward destruction of these two beloved boys (still called so -long after they had become men) with anxiety and anguish and despair -which is not to be told. There are few families who do not know -something of that anguish. Of all the miseries to which men and women -are liable there is none so terrible. In every other there is some -alleviation, some gleam of comfort, but in this none. The father grew -old in the progress of these terrible years, and the proud Miss Penton, -the handsome, stately young woman, who looked, the neighbors said, “as -if all the world belonged to her,” grew old too, before her time, and -changed and paled, and turned to stone. Not that her heart was turned to -stone--on the contrary, it was a fountain of tears; it was a well of -tenderness unfailing; it was the heart of a mother, concentrated upon -those objects of her love for whom she could do nothing, who were -perishing before her eyes. The Pentons were proud people, and they kept -up appearances; they entertained more or less, whatever happened. They -had parties of visitors in their house; they kept up the old-fashioned -hospitality, and all that their position exacted, and never betrayed to -the world the agonized watch they were keeping, as from a watch-tower, -upon the proceedings of the young men who would have none of their -counsel, and who returned more and more rarely, and then only when help, -or nursing, or succor of some sort was wanted, to their home. Latterly, -under the excuse of Sir Walter’s health, there was a certain withdrawal -from the world, and the father and daughter accomplished their miserable -vigil with less intrusion of a watchful neighborhood. First Reginald and -then Walter came home to die. Death is kind; he sheds a light upon the -wasted face even when it is sin that has wasted it, and wrings the heart -of the watchers with looks purified by pain, that remind them how the -sinner was once an innocent child. Through all this the father and -daughter went together, leaning upon each other, yet even to each other -saying but little. They were as one in their anguish, in their lingering -hopes, in the long vigils by these sick-beds, in the unutterable pangs -of seeing one after another die. Ten years is a long time when it is -thus told out in misery and pain. Alicia Penton was a woman of -thirty-five when she walked behind the coffin of her last brother to the -family burying-ground. She was chief mourner, as she had been chief -nurse and chief sufferer all through, for Sir Walter had broken down -altogether at the death-bed of his last boy. - -This double tragedy passed over with little revelation to the outside -world. Everybody, indeed, knew what lives the young men had lived, and -how they had died. And people pitied the father to whom it must be, they -felt, so great a disappointment that his baronetcy and his old lands -should go out of the family, and that in the direct line he should have -no heir. If only one of them had married, if there had been but a child -to carry on the family, the kind neighbors said. It was thought that Sir -Walter was far more proud than tender, and that this would be his view. -As for Miss Penton, it was believed that she must find great consolation -in the fact that her position and her importance would be so much -increased. A few years quiet (such as was inevitable in their deep -mourning) would make up for all the sacrifices Sir Walter had made for -the boys; and then Alicia would be a great heiress, notwithstanding that -a considerable portion of the estate was entailed. People thought that -when she realized this, Alicia Penton would dry her tears. - -She did not in any case make very much show of her tears. Her father and -she went on living in the great, silent house, where now there was not -even an echo to be listened for, a piece of evil news to be apprehended; -where all was silent, silent as the grave. She had been courted as much -as most women in her younger days; she had been loved, but she had -listened to no one. Her youth had glided away under the shadow of -calamity, the shadow which had stolen away all beauty and freshness from -her and made her old before her time, and, lest they should express too -much, had turned her features to stone. She had always been stately, but -she was stern now that all was over, and there was neither terror for -the future nor sound of the present to keep her tortured heart alive. - -But naturally, after awhile, these intense emotions, which no one -suspected, were calmed, and life began again. Life began even for Sir -Walter, who was nearly seventy, much more for his daughter, who was -thirty-five. They could not die, nor could they darken their windows -and shut out the sunshine forever because two poor wrecks, two dismal, -ruined lives, had come to an end. It must be such a relief, people said, -even though no doubt it was a grief in its way. And though the ending of -anxiety in such a way seems almost an additional pang, an additional -loss to obstinate love, yet after all it is a dismal relief in its blank -and stillness. And life had to be carried on. When Miss Penton, Sir -Walter’s only child and heiress, came out of her long seclusion there -were still men to be found who admired, or said they admired her, and -who were very eager to place themselves at her disposal. Among these was -Gerald Russell, a man who had once been kind to one of “the boys,” and -who was known as the most good-natured, the least exacting of men. He -was poor; he had no particular standing of his own to confuse the family -arrangements: and the two liked each other. Truly and honestly they -liked each other; he had been almost a suitor of her youth, kept back, -both of them were willing to believe, by his poverty. Gerald Russell was -not unaware that there would be sacrifices to make, that he was -accepting a position not without drawbacks, in which, indeed, there -might possibly be a good deal to bear. But he had not made much of his -life hitherto, and he made up his mind to risk it. And they married, and -he was not unhappy. This was the present position of affairs. He was not -unhappy, and she was more nearly happy than she could have been had he -not been there. Had “anything happened,” as the phrase goes, to -him--that is, had he died--the world would have become blank to Alicia. -Had she been the victim Mr. Russell Penton would have been truly -grieved, and would have mourned honestly for his wife, but the sense of -freedom might perhaps have been something of a compensation to him. Thus -they were not equal any more than two human creatures ever are equal. -She seemed to have the best of it upon the surface of affairs. She was -the head of the house. Both without and within she was the pivot upon -which everything turned, and he was by no means of equal importance; but -yet he would have been to her a greater loss than she to him, which -perhaps made the balance equal once more. - -He returned to that question about the tapestry when they set out, as -was their custom in the afternoon, to take a walk together. They went -through the wood which covered the crest of the high river-bank upon -which Penton stood, and which defended the house from the north. -Everything, it is needless to say, was beautifully kept, the woodland -paths just wild enough to preserve an aspect of nature amid the -perfection of foresting and landscape gardening on the largest scale. -Wherever there was a point of view the openings were skillfully arranged -so as to get its finest aspect, and the broad valley, or rather plain, -stretched out below with village-spires and scattered clusters of -houses, and a red-roofed town in the distance, with a light veil of -smoke hanging between it and the sky. The river flowed full and strong -in its winter volume at their feet, reflecting the gray blueness of the -heavens, the deeper colors that began to blaze about the west, and the -gray whiteness of the vapors overhead. It was when they had turned, -after a momentary pause at one of these mounts of vision, that Russell -Penton turned suddenly to his wife with a smile. - -“Did you send for the man from the Gobelins?” he said. - -“Yes. What put that into your mind now?” - -“Nothing; the chimneys at Penton Hook,” he replied. - -“And why the chimneys at Penton Hook? Your mind jumps from one subject -to the other in the strangest way. What connection can there be between -two things so unlike?” - -“Nothing,” he said, with a faint laugh; “and yet perhaps more than meets -the eye. There is no great volume of smoke rising from those chimneys. A -faint blue streak or so and that is all. It does not look like fire in -every room or a jolly blaze in the kitchen.” - -“What are you aiming at, Gerald? I think you mean mischief. No; probably -they have not fires in all the rooms; but what has that to do with us or -with the man from Paris? I don’t follow you,” she said. - -“My dear Alicia, what does it matter? My ways of thinking are jerky, you -are aware. If you had as many children as poor Mrs. Penton you would -have fires in all the rooms.” - -“Ah! if--” she said, with a sigh; then, in a tone of impatience, “Poor -Mrs. Penton, as you call her, and I--would probably not in any -circumstances act in the same way.” - -“No, because you are rich Mrs. Penton, my dear. I think you were a -little hard upon them, upon the duty of keeping within your income, and -all that. I dare say the children have blue little hands and cold noses. -If they were mine they should have fires in their rooms whatever my -income might be.” - -“They would have nothing of the sort--that is, if I were your wife, -Gerald,” said Mrs. Penton, with composure. She made a little pause, and -then added, with a momentarily quickened breath, “Perhaps under these -circumstances I might not have been so.” - -He felt the blow; it was a just one, if not perhaps very generous. And -if he had been a man of hot temper, or of very sensitive feelings, it -would have wounded him. But he was pacific and middle-aged, and knew the -absolute inutility of any quarrel. So he answered quietly, “As I can not -conceive myself with any other wife in any circumstances, that is not a -possibility we need consider.” - -Mrs. Penton’s mind went quickly, though her aspect was rigid. She had -begged his pardon before these words were half said, with a quick rising -color, which showed her shame of the suggestion she had made. - -“I was wrong to say it; yet not wrong in what I said. If you had been a -poor man, Gerald, your wife would have known how to cut her coat -according to her cloth.” - -“You mean if she had not been a rich woman. It is ill judging, they say -in Scotland, between a full man and a fasting. I have a proverb, you -see, as well as you. You were quite right, my dear, to send for that man -from the Gobelins; but I would say nothing about my poor neighbors and -the coat that is not cut according to the cloth.” - -“If you think I am wrong you should say so plainly, Gerald.” The color -still wavered a little upon her cheek. She was perhaps not so patient -even of implied blame as she thought she was. “It is perhaps wrong,” she -added, quickly, “but I should not wonder if I shared without knowing it -my father’s feeling about the heir. Oh, you need not say anything; I -know it is unreasonable. It is not Edward Penton’s fault that he is the -next in the entail. But human creatures are not always reasonable, and -they say no man likes to be haunted with the sight of his heir.” - -“Poor heir!” said Russell Penton, very softly, almost under his breath. - -“Poor heir? I should say poor possessor, poor old man, who must see his -home go into the hands of a stranger!” - -They had come to another point where their accustomed feet paused, where -the bare winter boughs, with all their naked tracery, framed in a wide -opening of sky and cloud and plain, and where once more those clustered -chimneys of Penton Hook, with their thin curls of smoke, seemed to -thrust themselves into the front of the landscape. The house lay almost -at the gazers’ feet, framed in with a cluster of trees, encircled with a -glowing sweep of the stream, which, looked like a ribbon of light full -of shimmering color, round the brown settlement of the half-seen -building and wintery branches. Mrs. Penton clasped her hands together -with a sudden quick suppressed movement of strong feeling, and turned -hastily away. - - - - -CHAPTER III. - -PENTON HOOK. - - -Soon after the day when this discussion was carried on among the woods -of Penton over their heads, the family at Penton Hook were holding a -sort of committee of ways and means in their damp domain below. The -winter afternoon was clear and bright, and the river ran in deceitful -brightness round the half-circle of the little promontory. It was not of -itself at all a disagreeable house. If it had not been that the mud and -wetness of the garden paths, where the water seemed to well up even -through the gravel, made every footstep mark the too bright blue and -brown tiles in the hall, and gave it a sloppy and disorderly look, the -entrance itself might have been pretty enough; but there had been no -attempt made to furnish or utilize it, and there were tracks of -glistening steps across it in different directions to the different -doors, all of which opened out of the hall. And the drawing-room was a -well-sized, well-shaped room, with three or four windows; a room of -which, with a little money and taste, something very pretty might have -been made. But the windows were turned to the north, and the furniture -was bare and worn; the walls and the carpets and curtains had all alike -faded into a color which can only be described as being the color of -poverty. The pattern was worn and trodden out upon the carpet; it was -blurred and dull upon the walls--everything was of a brownish, greenish, -grayish, indescribable hue. The picttures on the walls seemed to have -grown gray, too, being chiefly prints, which ran into the tone of the -whole. The table at which Mrs. Penton (poor Mrs. Penton) sat with her -work was covered with a woolen cover, the ground of which had been red -with a yellow pattern; but it (perhaps mercifully) had faded, too. And -as for the lady, she was faded like everything else. Her dress, like the -room, had sunk into the color of poverty. There was nothing about her -that was above the level of matter-of-fact dullness. She was darning -stockings, and they were also indefinite in hue. Her hair, which had -been yellow or very light brown, had lost its gloss and sheen. It was -knotted behind in a loose knot, and might have been classical and -graceful had it not suggested that this was the easiest way possible to -dispose of those abundant locks. Her head was stooped over her work; her -basket on the table was overflowing. She paused now and then, and looked -up to make her observation when it was her turn, but not even for the -sake of the family consultation could she intermit her necessary work. -Nine pairs of stockings, not to speak of her own, are a great deal for a -woman to keep in order. Her own were not much worn, for she walked very -little. She was one of those women who are indolent by nature, yet -always busy. Once seated at her work, stocking after stocking went -through her hands, and holes as big as a half-moon got deftly, swiftly, -silently filled up; but it cost her an effort to rise from her seat to -go about her domestic business. She was indolent in movement, though so -industrious; a piece of still life, though her hands were never idle. -This was the kind of woman to whom, in his maturer judgment, the man who -had once been Alicia Penton’s adorer had turned. - -He was not far from her, seated in an elbow-chair, not an easy-chair, -but an old-fashioned mahogany article with arms, upon which he reposed -his elbows. His hands were clasped in front of him, and now and then, -when he forgot himself, he twirled his thumbs. He bore a family likeness -to Sir Walter Penton, having a high nose and long face; but he was not -the same kind of man. Old Sir Walter at nearly eighty was firm and erect -still, but Edward Penton was limp. He was prone to tumble down upon -himself, so to speak, like a crumbling wall; to go sinking, telescoping -into himself like a slippery mass of sand or clay. There was an anxious -look in his countenance, contradicting the pretensions of that prominent -feature, the nose, which looked aristocratic, his family thought, and -did its best to look strong. It was the mouth that did it, some people -thought, a mouth which was manifestly weak, with all kinds of -uncompleted piteous curves about it, and dubious wavering lines. His -lower lip would move vaguely from time to time, as though he were -repeating something. He was dressed in knickerbockers and gaiters and a -rough coat, as if he had a great deal to do out-of-doors. He might have -been a gentleman farmer, or a squire with an estate to look after, or -even a gamekeeper of a superior kind; but he was nothing of all these. -He was only a man who lived in the country, and had nothing to do, and -had to walk about, as it were, for daily bread. - -On the corner of the table, not far from Mrs. Penton, sat, with his legs -swinging loosely, a younger, a quite young man; indeed, poor Wat did not -know that he was a man at all, or realize what he was coming to. He was -the eldest son. That did not seem to say very much, considering the -character of the house, and the manner of life pursued in it, but it -sounded a great deal to them, for young Walter was the heir intail male. -He was the representative of all the Pentons, the future head of the -family. He thought a great deal of his position, and so did the family. -In time Penton would be his, the stately old house, and the title would -be his which his ancestors had borne. The young man felt himself marked -out from his kind by this inheritance. He was humble enough at present, -but he had only to go on living, to wait and keep quiet, and he must be -Sir Walter Penton of Penton in the end. He felt greater confidence in -this than his father did who came before him. Mr. Penton did not look -forward to the baronetcy for his part with much enthusiasm. It did not -rouse him from his habitual depression. Perhaps because care was so -close and so constant, perhaps because he had come to an age which -expects but little from any change. He did not feel that to become Sir -Edward would do much for him, but even he felt that for Wat it was a -great thing. - -The other two people in the room were the two girls; that was all that -anybody ever said of them. They were scarcely even distinguished by name -the one from the other; you could scarcely say they were individuals at -all; they were the two girls. The children were apt to run their two -names into one, and call them indiscriminately--Ally-Anne. Whether it -was Ally or whether it was Anne who came first did not matter, it was a -generic title which belonged to both. And yet they were not like each -other. Ally had been called Alicia, after her relation at Penton, who -was also her godmother, but at Penton Hook life was too full for so many -syllables. They never got further than Alice in the most formal moments, -and Ally was the name for common wear. Anne bore her mother’s name, but -Mrs. Penton was Annie, whereas the girl preferred the one tiny syllable -which expressed her better; for Anne, though she was the youngest, had -more fiber in her than all the rest put together; but description is -vain in face of such a little person. Her sister, though the eldest, was -the shadow and she the substance, and no doubt it was one of the subtle -but unconscious discriminations of character which the most simple make -unawares, which led the little ones to call whichever individual of this -pair appeared by the joint name. - -“I shall always say, Edward, that you ought to have your share now,” -said Mrs. Penton in a soft, even voice, never lifting her eyes from her -work, but going on steadily like a purling stream; “you have more to do -with it than Mr. Russell Penton, who never can succeed to anything; you -ought to have your allowance like any other heir.” - -“I don’t know why I should have an allowance,” said Mr. Penton, with a -voice in which there was a certain languid irritation; “I have always -held my own, and I shall always hold my own. And besides, Sir Walter -does not want me to have the land; he would rather a great deal that it -went to--Russell Penton, as you call him, though he has no right to our -name.” - -“But that can’t be,” cried young Wat, “seeing that I--I mean you, -father, are the heir of entail.” - -“It might be,” said Mr. Penton, going on with his tone of subdued -annoyance, “if the law was changed; and one never knows in these -revolutionary times how soon the law might be changed. It has been -threatened to be done as long as I can remember. Primogeniture and the -law of entail have been in every agitator’s mouth; they think it would -be a boon to the working-man.” - -“How could it be a boon to the working-man? What have we got to do with -the working-man? What does it matter to him who has the property? it -could not come to him anyhow,” cried Wat, with great energy, coloring -high, and swinging his legs more than ever in the vehemence of personal -feeling. It is all very well to talk of political principles, but when -the question involves one’s self and one’s own position in the world, -the argument is very much more urgent and moving. Young Walter was -rather a revolutionary in his own way; he was of the class of generous -aristocrats who take a great interest in the working-man; but there is -reason in all things, and he did not see what this personage had to do -with his affairs. - -“Oh, I don’t know, there is no telling; they might be made to think it -would do them good somehow. It has always been a favorite thing to say. -At all events, you know,” Mr. Penton continued, with his mild disgust of -everything, “it could not do them any harm. Primogeniture has always -been a sort of thing that makes some people foam at the mouth.” - -“My dear Edward!” cried Mrs. Penton; she almost looked up from her work, -which was a great thing to say; and when this mild woman said, “My dear -Edward,” it was the same thing as when a man says “By Jove,” or “By -George.” In the gentle level of her conversation it counted as a sort of -innocent oath. “My dear Edward! how could they abolish primogeniture? -which so far as I know is just the Latin way of saying that one of your -children is born before the other. Isn’t it, Wat? Well, I always thought -so. The Radicals may get to be very powerful, but they can’t make you -have your children all in a heap at the same time.” - -“But they can make it of no importance which is born first; that is what -it means,” said Mr. Penton. “They would have the children all equal, -just the same; whether it is little Horry or Wat there who thinks -himself such a great man.” - -“Well, so they are all the same,” said the mother, a little bewildered. -“I often wonder how it is that people can make favorites, for I am sure -I could not say, for my part, which of them all I liked best. I like -them all best--Horry because he is the littlest, and Wat because he is -the biggest, and all the rest of them for some other reason, or just -for no reason at all. And so, I am sure, Edward, do you.” - -“In that way Wat would be no better than any of the rest,” said Anne. - -“I should have no call to do anything for you,” said the young man, with -an uncomfortable laugh. “It would be every one for himself. There would -be no bother about little sisters or brothers either. On the whole, it -would be rather a good bargain, don’t you think so, mother? Horry and -the others must all shift for themselves when there is no eldest son--” - -This time Mrs. Penton really did lift her soft eyes. “Don’t say such -wicked things!” she said; “it is going against Scripture. As if anything -could change you from being the eldest son! Who should look after the -children if your father and I were to die? Oh, Wat! how can you speak -so?--when it is just my comfort, knowing how uncertain life is, that the -eldest is grown up, and that there would be some one to take our place, -and take care of all these little things!” - -Mrs. Penton had no mind for politics, as will be perceived, but the -vision of the little orphans without an elder brother struck her -imagination. This picture of unnatural desolation brought the tears warm -to her eyes. She took another view of primogeniture from that which is -familiar to discussion, and it was some time before they could explain -it to her and get her calmed and soothed. Indeed, as to explaining it, -that was never accomplished; but when she fully knew that her first-born -did not cast off all responsibility in respect to little Horry she was -calm. - -“I don’t pretend to understand politics,” she said, with great truth, -“but I know nature,” which perhaps was not quite so true. - -Mr. Penton was not at all moved by this little digression, he took no -notice of the argument between the mother and the children. He was a man -who inclined to the opinion that things were badly managed in this -world, and that those who meant to do well had generally a hard fight. -He thought that on the whole the worst people had the best of it, and -that a man like himself, struggling to do as well as he could for his -children, and to live as well as he could, and do his duty generally, -was surrounded by hinderances and drawbacks which never came in the way -of less scrupulous people. Such an opinion as this often fills a man -with indignation and something like rage, but it did not have this -effect upon Mr. Penton. It gave him a general sense of discouragement, a -feeling that everything was sure to go against him; but it did not make -him angry. Instead of pointing, as the Psalmist did, with wonder and -indignation to the wicked who flourished like a green bay-tree, he was -more disposed to regard this spectacle with a melancholy smile as the -natural course of affairs. One might have known that was how it would -be, his look said. And he was rather apt perhaps to identify himself as -the righteous man who had no such good fortune to look for. He had -followed his own train of thoughts while the others talked, and now he -went on continuing the subject. “We never can tell,” he said, “one day -from another what changes may be made in the law. Sir Walter is an old -man, and it doesn’t seem as if there could be any changes in his time; -but still a craze might get up, and the thing might be done all in a -moment, which has been threatened ever since I can recollect. So I hope -none of you will fill your heads with foolish thoughts of what may -happen when Penton comes to me: for you see, for anything we know, it -may never come to me at all.” - -Having said this, he ceased twirling his thumbs, and rising up slowly -cast a glance about him as if looking for his hat. He never brought his -hat into the drawing-room, yet he always did this, just as a dog will -try to scrape a hole in a Turkey carpet; and then Mr. Penton said, as if -it was quite a new idea, “I think I’ll just take a little walk before -tea.” - -It was from an unusual quarter that the conversation was renewed. Ally, -who was so like her mother, who had the same kind of light-brown hair -shading her soft countenance, knotted low at the back of her head, the -same fragile willowy figure and submissive ways, lifted up her head -after the little pause that followed his exit, when they all -instinctively listened, and followed him, so to speak, with their -attention while he walked out of the house. Ally raised her head and -asked, in a voice in which there was a little apprehension, “I wonder if -father really thinks that; and what if it should come true!” - -“Your father would not say it,” Mrs. Penton replied, always careful to -maintain her husband’s credit, “unless he thought it, in a kind of a -way. But, for all that, perhaps it may never happen. Things take a long -time to happen,” she said, with unconscious philosophy. “We just worry -ourselves looking for changes, and no change comes after all.” - -“But such a thing might happen suddenly,” said Wat, thinking it -necessary, in his father’s absence, to take up the serious side of the -argument, “father is quite right in that. With all the extensions of the -suffrage and that sort of thing, which you don’t understand, Ally, a -change in the law that has been long talked about might happen in a -moment. It all depends upon what turn things may take.” - -“Then we may never go to Penton at all,” said Anne, jumping up and -throwing her work into her mother’s large basket. “I have always been -frightened for Penton all my life. It’s a horrid big chilly place that -never would look like home. I like the little old Hook best, and I hope -they will abolish primogeniture, or whatever you call it, and so Wat -will have to do something and we shall all stay at home.” - -“Anne! do you wish that your father should never come into his fortune,” -her mother said, in a reproachful tone, “when you know his heart is set -upon it? I am frightened myself sometimes when I think of the change of -living, and having to give dinner-parties and all that; but when I think -that Edward has never yet been in his right element, that he has never -had the position he ought to have had--ah! for that I could put up with -anything,” she said. - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - -THE YOUNG PEOPLE. - - -The young people at Penton Hook were good children on the whole. They -respected their father and their mother, and though they did not always -agree in every domestic decision, with that holy ignorance which -distinguishes childhood, they were not much less docile than the little -ones in respect to actual obedience. At seventeen and eighteen, much -more at twenty, a young soul has begun to think a little and to judge, -whether it reveals its judgment or not. Anne had her own opinions on -every subject by perversity of nature; and Wat, who was a man, and the -heir, took on many points a very independent view, and could scarcely -help thinking now and then that he knew better than his father. And even -Ally, who was the quietest, the most disposed to yield her own way of -thinking, still had a little way of her own, and felt that other ways of -doing things might be adopted with advantage. They were great friends -all three, each other’s chief companions: and among themselves they -talked very freely, seeing the mistakes that were being made about the -other children, and very conscious of much that might have been done in -their own individual cases. Wat, for example, had much to complain of in -his own upbringing. He had been sent for a year or two to Eton, and much -had been said about giving him the full advantage of what is supposed to -be the best education. But it had been found after awhile that the -infallible recurrence of the end of the half, and the bills that -accompanied it, was a serious drawback, and the annoyance given by them -so entirely outbalanced any sense of benefit received, that at sixteen -he had been taken away from school under vague understandings that there -was to be work at home to prepare him for the University. But the work -at home had never come to much. Mr. Penton had believed that it would be -a pleasant occupation for himself to rub up his Latin and Greek, and -that he would be as good a coach as the boy could have. But his Latin -and Greek wanted a great deal of rubbing up. The fashions of scholarship -had changed since his day, and perhaps he had never been so good a -scholar as he now imagined. And then it was inconceivable to Mr. Penton -that regularity of hours was necessary in anything. He thought that a -mere prejudice of school-masters. He would take Wat in the morning one -day, then in the afternoon, then miss a day or two, and resume on the -fifth or sixth after tea. What could the hours matter? It came about -thus by degrees that the readings that were to fit the young man for -matriculation failed altogether, and no more was said about the -University. Wat had no very strong impulse to work in his own person, -but when he came to be twenty and became aware that nothing further was -likely to come of it, he felt that he had been neglected, and that so -far as education was concerned he had not had justice done him. Had he -been a very intellectual young man, or very energetic, he would no -doubt have been spurred by this neglect into greater personal effort, -and done so much that his father would have been shamed or forced into -taking further steps. But Wat was not of this noble sort. He was not -fond of work; he had always seen his father idle; and it seemed to him -natural. So that he, too, fell into the way of lounging about, and doing -odd things, and taking the days as they came. They kept no horses, so he -could not hunt. He had not even a gun, nothing better than an old one, -which, now he was old enough to know better, he was ashamed to carry. So -that those two natural occupations of the rural gentleman were denied to -him. And it is not to be supposed that a boy could reach his -twentieth year without feeling that an education of this kind--a -non-education--had been a mistake. He knew that he was at a disadvantage -among his fellow-boys or fellow-men. Whether he would have felt this as -much had he been under no other disadvantages in respect to horses and -guns and pocket-money, we do not venture to say; but, taking everything -together, Wat could not but feel that he was manqué, capable of nothing, -having no place among his kind. And if he felt doubly in consequence the -importance of his heirship, and that Penton would set all right, who -could blame him? It was the only possibility in that poor little dull -horizon which at Penton Hook seemed to run into the flats of the level -country, the mud and the mist, and the rising river, and the falling -rain. - -The girls had their little grievances, too, but felt Wat’s grievance to -be so much greater than theirs that they took up his cause vehemently, -and threw all their indignation and the disapproval of their young -intelligences into the weight of his. It was impossible that they could -be as they were, young creatures full of life and active thought, -without feeling what a mistake it all was, and how far the authorities -of the family were wrong. They subjected, indeed, the decisions of the -father and mother, but especially the father, as all our children do, to -a keen and clear-sighted inspection, seeing what was amiss much more -clearly than the wisest of us are apt to do in our own case. A little -child of ten will thus follow and judge a philosopher, perhaps -unconsciously in most cases, without a word to express its condemnation. -The young Pentons were not so silent. They spoke their mind, in the -perfect confidence of family intercourse, to their mother always, -sometimes to their father too. And no doubt in pure logic, this -criticism and disapproval should have dealt a great blow at the -discipline of the house, and destroyed the principle of obedience. But -fortunately logic is the last thing that affects the natural family -life. Wat and Ally and Anne were in reality almost as obedient as were -the little ones to whom the decisions of papa and mamma were as the law -and the gospels. It had never occurred to them to raise any standard of -rebellion; they did what they were told by sweet natural bonds of habit, -by the fact that they had always done it, by the unbroken sentiment of -filial subjection. The one thing did not seem to affect the other. It -never occurred even to Wat to stop and argue the point with his father; -he did what he was told, though afterward, when he came to think of it, -he might think that his own way would have been the most wise. - -The conversation which is set down in the last chapter did not give any -insight into the family controversy that had been going on--being only, -as it were, the subsiding of the waves after that discussion had come to -an end. The subject in question was one which greatly moved and excited -all the young people. Oswald, the second boy, who came next in the -family after Anne, was the genius of the house. He was not much more -than fifteen, but he had already written many poems and other -compositions which had filled the house with wonder. The girls were sure -that in a few years Lord Tennyson himself would have to look to his -laurels, and Mr. Ruskin to stand aside; for Oswald’s gifts were -manifold, and it was indifferent to him whether he struck the strings of -poetry or the more sober chord of prose. Wat’s fraternal admiration was -equally genuine and more generous, for it is a little hard upon a big -boy to recognize his younger brother’s superiority; and it was dashed by -a certain conviction that it would be for Osy’s good to be taken down a -little. But Wat as much as the girls was agitated by the question which -had been, so to speak, before a committee of the whole house. It was a -question of more importance at Penton Hook than the fate of the ministry -or the elections, or anything that might be going on in Europe. It was -the question whether Osy should be continued where he was, at -Marlborough, or if his education should be suspended till “better -times.” Behind this lay a darker and more dreadful suggestion, of which -the family were vaguely conscious, but which did not come absolutely -under discussion, and this was whether Osy’s education should be stopped -altogether, and an “opening in life” found for him. Nothing that had -ever happened to them had moved the family so much as this question. The -“better times” which the Pentons looked forward to could be nothing -other than the death of Sir Walter and Mr. Penton’s accession to the -headship of the family; and it was in the lull of exhaustion that -followed a long discussion that Mrs. Penton made her suggestion about -the propriety of an allowance being made to her husband as the heir of -the property, which had led him into the expression of those general but -discouraging ideas about entails and primogeniture. It had not perhaps -occurred to Mr. Penton before; but now he came to think of it it seemed -just of a piece with the general course of affairs, and of everything -that had happened to him in the past, that new laws should come in at -the moment and deprive him in the future of the heirship of which he had -been so sure. - -When Mr. Penton went out for his walk after the statement he had made of -these possibilities, Wat and the girls went out too, on their usual -afternoon expedition to the post. There was not very much to be done at -Penton Hook, especially at this depressing time of the year when tennis -was impracticable and the river not to be thought of. The only amusement -possible was walking, and that is a pleasure which palls--above all when -the roads are muddy and there is nowhere in particular to go to. It was -Anne, in the force of her youthful invention, who had established the -habit of going to the post. It was an “object,” and made a walk into a -sort of duty--not the mere meaningless stroll which, without this -purpose, it would turn to; and though the correspondence of the -household was not great, Anne also managed that there should always be -something which demanded to be posted, and could not be delayed. When -there was nothing else she would herself dash off a note to one of the -many generous persons who advertise mysterious occupations by which -ladies and other unemployed persons may earn an income without a -knowledge of drawing or anything else in particular. Alas! Anne had -answered so many of these advertisements that she was no longer -sanguine of getting a satisfactory reply; but if there was no letter to -be sent off, nothing of her father’s about business, no post-card -concerning the groceries, or directions to the dress-maker, or faithful -family report from Mrs. Penton to one of her relations, such as, amid -all the occupations of her life, that dutiful woman sent regularly, Anne -could always supply the necessary letter from her own resources. It was -on a similar afternoon to that on which the Pentons at the great house -had discussed and thought of the poorer household; and a wintery sunset, -very much the same as that on which Mr. Russell Penton and his wife had -looked, shone in deep lines of crimson and gold, making of the river -which reflected it a stream of flame, when the three young people, far -too much absorbed in their own affairs to think of the colors in the sky -or the reflections in the river, or anything but Osy and his prospects, -and the state of the family finances, and the mistakes of family -government, came down the hill from the level of the Penton woods toward -their own home. The western sky, blazing with color, was on the left -hand; but even the sky toward the north and east shared in the general -illumination, and clouds all rose-tinted, concealing their heaviness in -the flush of reflection, hung upon the chill blue, and seemed to warm -the fresh wintery atmosphere before it sunk into the chill of night. The -girls and their brother kept their heads together, speaking two at once -in the eagerness of their feelings, and found no time for contemplation -of what was going on overhead. A sunset is a thing which comes every -evening, and about which there is no urgent reason for attention, as -there was upon this question about Osy, which struck at the foundations -of family credit and hope. - -“When I left Eton,” said Wat with melancholy candor--“I had not much -sense, to be sure--it seemed rather fine coming away to work at home. -Fellows thought I was going to work for something out of the common way. -I liked it--on the whole. When you are at school there is always -something jolly in the thought of coming home. And so will Osy feel like -me.” - -“But you were never clever, Wat,” said the impetuous Anne. - -This was perhaps a little hard to bear. “Clever is neither here nor -there,” said Wat with a little flush. “It does not make much difference -to your feelings; I suppose I can tell better how Osy will take it than -one of you girls.” - -“Oh no; for girls are more ambitious than boys, I mean boys that are -just ordinary like the rest. And Osy is not like you. He is full of -ambition, he wants to be something, to make a great name. I have the -most sympathy with that. Ally and you,” cried the girl with a toss of -her head like a young colt, “you are the contented ones, you are so -easily satisfied; but not Osy nor me.” - -“Contented is the best thing you can be,” said gentle Ally. “What is -there better than content? Whatever trouble people take, it is only in -the hope of getting satisfaction at the end.” - -“I wish I was contented,” said Walter, “that is all you know. What have -I got to be contented about? I have nothing to do; I have no prospects -in particular, nothing to look forward to.” - -“Oh, Watty--Penton!” - -“Penton is all very well: but how can we tell when Sir Walter may die? -No, I don’t want him to die,” cried the young man. “I wish no harm to -him nor to any man. I only say that because--Of course, so long as Sir -Walter lives Penton may be paradise, but it has nothing to say to us. -And then, as father says, the law may be changed before that happens, or -something else may come in the way. No, I don’t know what can come in -the way; for after Sir Walter, of course father is head of the family, -and I am the eldest son.” These words had a cheering effect upon the -youth in spite of himself. He turned back to look up where the corner of -the great house was visible amid the trees. The Pentons of the Hook knew -all the spots where that view was to be had. He turned round to look at -it, turning the girls with him, who were like two shadows. No prospects -in particular! when there was that before his eyes, the house of his -fathers, the house which he intended to transmit to his children! He -drew a long breath which came from the very depths of his chest, a sigh -of satisfaction yet of desire--of a feeling too deep to get into words. -“I say, what a sunset!” he cried, by way of diverting the general -attention from this subject, upon which he did not feel able to express -himself more clearly. - -They all looked for the first time at the grand operation of nature -which was going on in the western sky. The heavens were all aglow with -lines of crimson and purple, the blue spaces of the great vault above -retiring in light ineffable far beyond the masses of cloud, which took -on every tinge of color, preserving their own high purity and charms of -infinitude. The great plain below lay silent underneath like a -breathless spectator of that great, ever-recurring drama, the river -gathering up fragments of the glory and flashing back an answer here and -there in its windings wherever it was clear of the earthly obstructions -of high banks and trees. Something of the same radiance flashed in -miniature from the young eyes that with one accord turned and -looked--but for a moment and no more. They noted the sunset in a -parenthesis, by a momentary inference; what they had sought was Penton, -with all its human interests. And then they turned again and faced the -north, where lay their poor little home and the lowliness of the -present, to which neither the sunset nor any other glory lent a charm. - -“You are the eldest son,” said Anne, resuming without a pause; “that’s -all about it. That makes everything different. Suppose it is right--or -at least not wrong--for you to loaf about. But Osy hasn’t got Penton; he -has got to make himself a name. If he is stopped in his education, what -is he to do? You ought to speak to father; we all ought to make a stand. -If Osy is stopped in his education it is quite different. What is he to -do?” - -“Father would never stop his education if he could afford it. It is the -money. If we could only give up something. But what is there we can give -up? Sugar and butter count for so little,” said Ally, in soft tones of -despair. - -“I should not mind,” said Anne, “if we did not get anything new for -years.” - -“We so seldom have anything new,” her sister said, with a sigh; there -was so little to economize in this way. All the savings they could think -of would not make up half the sum that had to be paid for Osy. Their -young spirits were crushed under this thought. What could they do? The -girls, as has been said, had answered a great many of those -advertisements which offer occupation to ladies; they had tried to make -beaded lace and to paint Christmas cards. Alas! that, like the butter -and sugar, counted for so little. They might as well try to make use of -the colors of the sunset as to make up Osy’s schooling in that way: and -Wat was even more helpless than they. It was so discouraging a prospect -that no one could say a word. They walked down with their faces to the -grayness and dimness from whence night was coming, and their hopes, like -the light, seemed to be dying away. - -It was Anne, always the most quick to note everything that happened, who -broke the silence. “What is that,” she cried, “at our door? Look there, -wheeling in just under the lime-trees!” - -“A carriage! Who can it be?” - -“The Penton carriage! Don’t you see the two bays? Something must be up!” -cried Walter, a flash of keen curiosity kindling in his eyes. - -They stopped for a moment and looked at each other with a sudden thrill -of expectation. - -“No one has been to see us from Penton for years and years.” - -“The carriage would not come for nothing!” - -“It has been sent perhaps to fetch father!” - -They hurried down with one accord, full of excitement and wonder and -awe. - - - - -CHAPTER V. - -A WINTER’S WALK. - - -Mr. Penton went out to take his walk in a depressed mood. He was -familiar with all the stages of depression. He was a man who thought he -had been hardly dealt with in the course of his life. In his youth there -had been a momentary blaze of gayety and pleasure. In those days, when -he had shared the early follies of Walter and Reginald, and fallen in -love with Alicia, it had not occurred to him that the path of existence -would be a dull one. But that was all over long ago. When the other -young men had fallen into dissipation and all its attendant miseries, he -had pulled himself up. Pleasure was all very well, but he had no idea of -paying such a price for it as that. He was not a man who had ever been -brought under any strong religious impulse, but he knew the difference -between right and wrong. He pulled himself up with great resolution, and -abandoned the flowery path where all the thorns are at first hidden -under the bloom and brightness. It was no small sacrifice to descend -into the gray mediocrity of Penton Hook, and give himself up to the dull -life which was all that was possible; but he did it, which was not an -easy thing to do. It was true that he was still in those days a young -man, and might have made something better of his existence: but he had -no training of any special kind, no habit of work, no great capacity one -way or other. He settled down to his dull country life without any -feeling that he could do better, leaving all excitement behind him. It -was perhaps a more creditable thing to do than if he had been able to -plunge into another kind of excitement, to face the world and carve a -fortune out of it, which is the alternative possible to some men. And as -there had been no illusion possible when he accepted that neutral-tinted -life, so there had been no unexpected happiness involved in its results. -He had married a good woman, but not a lively one. His children had been -pleasant and amusing in their babyhood, but they had brought innumerable -cares along with them. Before their advent Penton Hook had been dull, -but it had not been without many little comforts. He had been able to -keep a couple of horses, which of itself was a considerable thing, and -to hold his place more or less among the county people. But as the young -ones grew it made a great difference. Just at the time when life ought -to have opened up for their advantage, it had to be narrowed and -straitened. He was compelled to give up his own gratifications on their -account, yet without any compensating consciousness that he was doing -the best he could for them. Indeed, there seemed no possibility of doing -the best that could be done for any one. To keep on, to do what was -indispensable, to provide food and clothing--the mere sordid necessities -of life--was all that was within his power. In the early days after his -marriage nothing had been saved; the necessity of education and -provision for the children seemed either ludicrous in presence of the -tiny creatures who wanted nothing but bread and milk and kisses, or so -far off as to be beyond calculation. But by gradual degrees this -necessity had become the most important of all. And with it, -unfortunately, had come that depreciation in the value of land which -made his little estate much less productive exactly at the time when he -wanted money most. - -One of his farms was vacant, the others were let at low rents--all was -sinking into a different level. And, on the other hand, the wants of the -family increased every day. It is not to be supposed that Mr. Penton -liked to take Osy from school. He had been indifferent about Wat for -various reasons first because he then quite believed that was really -capable of “reading” with his boy, and would rather like it than -otherwise, and then it would be a good thing for them both; and second, -because Wat was the heir, and no great education is necessary (Mr. -Penton thought with Mrs. Hardcastle in the play) to fit a man to spend a -large income. But with Osy no such argument told. Osy was heir to -nothing. He was the clever one of the family; and as for reading with -Osy, his father knew that he was not capable of any such feat, even if -he had not proved that to keep settled hours and give up a part of his -day to his son’s instruction had come to be a thing impossible to him. -He knew very well now that to take Oswald from school would be to do him -an injury. But what could the poor man do? All that the young ones said -in their warm partisanship for Osy, in their indignation at the idea of -making him suffer, had more or less affected their father. He was not -very sensitive to anything they could say, and yet it wounded him in a -dull way. It made him a little more depressed and despondent. To battle -with the waves, to be tossed upon a great billow which may swallow you -up, yet may also throw you ashore and bring you to a footing upon the -solid earth, is less terrible than just to keep your head above the -muddy tide which sucks you down and carries you on, with no prospect but -to go to the bottom at last when your powers of endurance are spent. -This last was Mr. Penton’s state. There was no excitement of a storm, no -lively stir of winds and waters--all was dull, dreary, hopeless; a -position in which he could do nothing to help himself, nothing to save -himself--in which he must just go on, keeping his head above water as he -could, now and then going down, getting his eyes and throat full of the -heavy, muddy, livid stream. Poverty is little to the active soul which -can struggle and strive and outwit it, which can still be doing; but to -those who have nothing they can do, who can only wait speechless till -they are ingulfed, how bitter is that slowly mounting, colorless, -hopeless, all-subduing tide! - -There was very little for a man to do at Penton Hook. He had tramped -about the fields of the vacant farm, trying helplessly to look after -things which he did not understand, and to make the fallow fields bear -crops by looking at them, in the morning; and he had come away from them -more depressed than ever, wondering whether, if he could get money -enough to start and work the farm anything might be made of it; then -reflecting dolefully that in all likelihood the money for such -operations, even if he could raise it, might in all probability be as -well thrown into the river for any good it would do. In the afternoon he -did not attempt any further consideration of this question, but simply -took a walk as he had been in the habit of doing for so many years. And -though in some circumstances there are few things so pleasant, yet in -others there is nothing so doleful as this operation of taking a walk. -How much helpless idleness, how many hopeless self-questions, miserable -musings, are summed up in it; what a dreamy commonplace it turns to, the -sick soul’s dull substitute for something to do or think of. It was in -its way a sort of epitome of Edward Penton’s wearisome life. He knew -every turning of the road; there was nothing unexpected to look forward -to, no novelty, no incident; when he met any one he knew, any of his -equals, they were most probably riding or driving, or returning from a -day with the hounds, splashed and tired, and full of talk about the run. -He took off his hat to the county ladies as they drove past, and -exchanged a word with the men. He had nothing to say to them nor they to -him. He was of their sphere indeed, but not in it. He knew when he had -passed that they would say “Poor Penton!” to each other, and discuss his -circumstances. He was happier when he came now and then upon a solitary -poor man breaking stones on the way, with whom he would stop and have a -talk about the weather or how the country was looking. When he could -find twopence in his pocket to give for a glass of beer he was -momentarily cheered by the encounter. It was a cheap pleasure, and -almost his only one. It gave a little relief to the dullness and -discouragement which filled all the rest of the way. - -There was, however, one incident in his walk besides the twopence to the -stone-breaker. There was no novelty in this. Every day as he came up to -the turning he knew what awaited him; but that did not take away from -perennial interest. This incident was Penton, seen in the distance: not -the terrace front, which he, like all the Pentons, thought a monument of -architectural art, but a high shoulder of red masonry, which shone -through the trees, and suggested all the rest to his accustomed eyes. -Penton was the one incident in his walk, as it was in his life. He was -poor, and the waters of misery were almost going over his head. Yet -Penton stood fast, and he was the heir. He had said this to himself for -years, and though the words might have worn out all their meaning, so -often had they been repeated, yet there was an endless excitement in -them. Twenty years before he had said them with a sense of mingled -exultation and remorse, which was when the last of “the boys” died, and -he became against all possibility the next heir. Sir Walter had been an -old man then, and it seemed probable that these recurring calamities -would end his life as well as his hopes. Edward Penton had nothing to -reproach himself with; he had never been hard upon his cousins, though -he had abandoned their evil ways, and he had been shocked and sorry when -one by one they died. But afterward he had looked forward to his -inheritance; he had believed that it could not be far off. He had come -to this turning when first he began to feel life too many for him, and -had looked at the house that was to be his and had taken comfort. But -twenty years is a long time, and waiting for dead men’s shoes is not a -pleasant occupation. He looked at Penton now always with excitement, but -without any exhilaration of hope. It did not seem so unlikely as before -that Sir Walter might live to be a hundred; that he might live to see -his younger cousin out. As he had outlived his own sons he might outlive -Edward Penton and _his_ sons after him. Nothing seemed impossible to -such an old man. And Mr. Penton did not feel that his own powers of -living, any more than any other powers in him, were much to be reckoned -upon. He stood on this particular day and gazed at the house of his -fathers with a long and wistful look. Should he ever step into it as his -own? Should he ever change his narrow state for the lordship there? This -question did not bring to him the same quickening of the breath which he -had been sensible of on so many previous occasions. He was too much -depressed to-day to be roused even by that. He turned away with a sigh, -and turned his back to that vision and his face homeward. At home all -his cares were awaiting him--as if he had not carried them with him -every step of the way. - -As he walked back toward Penton Hook his ear was caught by the chip of -the hammer, which sounded in the stillness of the wintery afternoon like -some big insect on the road. Chip, chip, and then the little roll of -falling stones. The man who made the sound was sitting on a heap of -stones by the road-side, working very tranquilly, not hurrying himself, -taking his occupation easily. He was gray-haired, with a picturesque -gray beard, and a red handkerchief knotted underneath. He paused to put -his hand to his cap when he saw Mr. Penton. The recollection of past -glasses of beer, or hopes for the future, or perhaps the social -pleasure, independent of all interested motives, of five minutes’ talk -to break the dullness of the long afternoon, made the approach of the -wayfarer pleasant. - -“Good-afternoon, sir,” he said, cheerfully. - -Old Crockford, though he was a great deal older than Mr. Penton, and -much poorer absolutely, though not comparatively, was by no means a -depressed person, but regarded everything from a cheerful point of view. - -“Good-morning, Crockford,” said Mr. Penton. “I didn’t see you when I -passed a little while ago. I thought you had not been out to-day.” - -“Bless you, squire, I’m out most days,” said Crockford; “weather like -this it’s nothin’ but pleasure. But frost and cold is disagreeable, and -rain’s worst of all. I’m all right as long as there’s a bit o’ sunshine, -and it keeps up.” - -“It looks like keeping up, or I am no judge,” said the poor squire. - -Crockford shook his head and looked up at the sky. “I don’t like the -look of them clouds,” he said. “When they rolls up like that, one on -another, I never likes the look on them. But, praise the Lord, we’s high -and dry, and can’t come to no harm.” - -“It is more than I am,” said Mr. Penton, testily. “I hate rain!” - -“And when the river’s up it’s in of the house, sir, I’ve heard say? -That’s miserable, that is. When the children were young my missis and me -we lived down by Pepper’s Wharf, and the fevers as them little ones -had, and the coughs and sneezin’s, and the rheumatics, it’s more nor -tongue can say. Your young ladies, squire, is wonderful red in the face -and straight on their pins to be living alongside of the river. It’s an -onpleasant neighbor is the river, I always do say.” - -“If you hear any fools saying that the water comes into my house you -have my permission to--stop them,” said Mr. Penton, angrily. “It’s no -such thing; the water never comes higher than the terrace. As for -fevers, we don’t know what they are. But I don’t like the damp in my -garden; that stands to reason. It spoils all the paths and washes the -gravel away.” - -“That’s very true,” said Crockford, with conviction; “it leaves ’em -slimy, whatever you do. I’ve seen a sight to-day as has set me thinking, -though I’m but a poor chap. Poor men, like others, they ’as their -feelings. I’ve seen a lady go by, squire, as may be once upon a day -years ago, you, or most of the gentlemen about--for she was a handsome -one, she was--” - -“Ah, an old beauty! ‘Even in our ashes live their wonted fires.’ And who -might this lady be?” - -“Many a one was sweet upon her,” said Crockford. “I ain’t seen her, not -to call seeing, for many a year. I don’t know about ashes, squire, -except as they’re useful for scouring. And they say that beauty is but -skin deep: but when I looks at an ’andsome lady I don’t think nothing of -all that.” - -“I didn’t know you were such an enthusiast, Crockford.” - -“I don’t always understand, squire,” said Crockford, “the words the -quality employ. Now and then they’ll have a kind of Greek or Latin that -means just a simple thing. But I sits here hours on end, and I thinks a -deal; and for a thing that pleases the eye I don’t think there’s nothing -more satisfying than an ’andsome woman. I don’t say in my own class of -life, for they ages fast, do the women; they don’t keep their appearance -like you and me, if I may make so bold. But for a lady as has gone -through a deal, and kep’ her looks, and got an air with her, that with -riding in her own carriage behind a couple of ’andsome bays--I will say, -squire, if I was to be had up before the magistrates for it--and you’re -one yourself, and ought to know--and what I say is this: that Miss -Aliciar from the great house there is just as fine a sight as a man -would wish to see.” - -“Miss Alicia!” cried poor Penton. The name was one he had not heard for -long, and it seemed to bring back a flush of his youth which for a -moment dazzled him. He burst out into a tremendous laugh after awhile. -“You old blockhead!” he said. “You’re talking of Mrs. Russell Pentonon, -my cousin, who hasn’t been called by that name these twenty years!” - -“Twenty years,” said old Crockford, “is nothin’ squire, to a man like -me. I knew her a baby, just as I knowed you. You’re both two infants to -the likes of me. Bless you, I hear the bells ring for her christening -and yours too. But she’s a fine, ’andsome woman, a-wheelin’ along in her -carriage as if all the world belonged to her. I don’t think nothin’ of a -husband that hain’t even a name of his own to bless himself with nor a -penny to spend. It’s you and her that should have made a match; that’s -what ought to have been, squire.” - -“Unfortunately, you see,” aid Mr. Penton, “I have got a wife of my own.” - -“But you hadn’t no wife nor her a husband in the old days,” said -Crockford, meditatively, pausing to emphasize his words with the chip, -chip of his hammer. “Dear a me! the mistakes that are in this life! One -like me, as sits here hours on end, with naught afore him but the clouds -flying and the wind blowing, learns a many things. There’s more mistakes -than aught else in this life. Going downright wrong makes a deal of -trouble, but mistakes makes more. For one as goes wrong there’s allays -two or three decent folks as suffers. But mistakes is just like daily -bread; they’re like the poor as is ever with us, accordin’ to the -Scripture; they just makes a muddle of everything. It’s been going -through my mind since ever I see Miss Aliciar in her chariot a-driving -away, as fine as King Solomon in all his glory. The two young gentlemen, -that was a sad sort of a thing, squire, but I don’t know as t’other is -much better, the mistakes as some folks do make.” - -“Crockford, you are growing old, and fond of talking,” said Mr. Penton, -who had heard him out with a sort of angry patience. “Because one lets -you go on and say your say, that’s not to make you a judge of your -betters. Look here, here’s twopence for a glass of beer, but mind you -keep your wisdom to yourself another day.” - -“Thank ye, squire,” said Crockford. “I speak my mind in a general way, -but I can hold my tongue as well as another when it ain’t liked. Remarks -as is unpleasant, or as pricks like, going too near a sore place--” - -“Oh, confound you!” said the squire; “who ever said there was a--” But -then he remembered that to quarrel with Crockford was not a thing to be -done. “I think, after all,” he said, “you’re right, and that those -clouds are banking up for rain. You’d better pack up your hammer, it’s -four o’clock, and it will be wet before you get home.” - -“Well, squire, if you says so, as is one of the trustees,” said -Crockford, giving an eye to the clouds, as he swung himself leisurely -off his hard and slippery seat upon the heap of stones--“I’ll take your -advice, sir, and thank ye, sir; and wishing you a pleasant walk afore -the rain comes on.” - -Mr. Penton waved his hand and continued his walk downhill toward his -home. The clouds were gathering indeed, but they were full of color and -reflection, which showed all the more gorgeous against the rolling -background of vapor which gradually obliterated the blue. He was not -afraid of the rain, though if it meant another week of wet weather such -as had already soaked the country, it would also mean much discomfort -and inconvenience in the muddy little domain of Penton Hook. But it was -not this he was thinking of. His own previous reflections, and the sharp -reminder of the past that was in old Crockford’s random talk, made a -combination not unlike that of the dark clouds and the lurid reflected -colors of the sky. Mistake? Yes; no doubt there had been a mistake--many -mistakes, one after another, mistakes which the light out of the past, -with all its dying gleams, made doubly apparent. His mind was so full of -all these thoughts that he arrived at his own gates full of them, -without thinking of the passing vision which had stirred up old -Crockford, and his own mind too, on hearing of it. But when he pushed -open the gate and caught sight of the two bays, pawing and rearing their -heads, with champ and stir of all their trappings, as if they disdained -the humble door at which they stood, Edward Penton’s middle-aged heart -gave a sudden jump in his breast. Alicia here! What could such a portent -mean? - - - - -CHAPTER VI. - -RICH MRS. PENTON AND POOR MRS. PENTON. - - -Mrs. Russell Penton had not come to the Hook for nothing. It was years -since she had visited her cousin’s house--partly because of repeated -absences--for the family at Penton were fond of escaping from the -winter, and generally spent that half of the year on the Riviera--partly -from the feeling she had expressed to her husband, which was not a very -Christian feeling, of repulsion from her father’s heir: and partly, -which was perhaps the strongest reason of all, because they were not, as -she said, “in our own sphere.” How can the wife and many children of a -poor man living in a small muddy river-side house be in the sphere of -one of the great ladies of the district? Only great qualities on one -side or another, great affection or some other powerful inducement, -would be enough to span that gulf. And no such link existed between the -two houses. But there had come to light between her father and herself -in one of those close and long consultations, to which not even her -husband was admitted, a plan which required Edward Penton’s concurrence, -and which, they concluded between them, had better be set before him by -Alicia herself. This might have been done by summoning the heir-at-law -to Penton. But Russell Penton’s veiled remonstrances, his laugh at her -inconsistency, his comparison of the importance of the moth-eaten -tapestry and poor Mrs. Penton’s inability to cut her coat according to -her cloth, had not been without effect on his wife’s mind. She was not -incapable of perceiving the point which he made; and though she -confessed to nobody, not even to herself, that her visit to Penton Hook -had a little remorseful impulse in it, yet this mingled largely with the -evident business which might have been managed in another way. Many -recollections rose in her mind also as she went along, not exposed even -to such interruptions as that of old Crockford, all by herself with her -own thoughts, remembering in spite of herself the youthful expeditions -in which the Hook was so large a feature, the boating parties that “took -the water” there, the anxious exertions of poor Edward to make his -forlorn little mansion bright. Poor Edward! She remembered so clearly -his eager looks, his desire to please, the anxious devices with which he -sought to gratify her tastes, to show how his own followed them. She had -not seen much of his older aspect, and had no distinct image in her mind -to correct that of the eager young man reading her face to see if she -approved or disapproved, and having no higher standard by which to shape -his own opinions. She saw him in that aspect: and she saw him as by a -lightning flash of terrible recollection, which was half imagination, as -he had appeared to her by the side of her last brother’s grave, the -chief mourner and the chief gainer, concealing a new-born sense of his -own importance under the conventional guise of woe. Alicia was half -conscious that she did poor Edward wrong. He was not the sort of man to -exult in his own advantage as purchased by such a terrible family -tragedy. But even now, when the passion of grief and loss was over, she -could not surmount the bitter suggestion, the knowledge that he had -certainly gained by what was ruin to her father’s house. When she drove -past the old stone breaker on the road without taking any notice of him, -without even remarking his presence, this had been the recollection with -which her soul was filled. But her heart melted as the carriage swept -along by all the well-remembered corners, and a vision of the happy -youthful party of old, the sound of the boats at the little landing, the -eager delight of the young master of the place, seemed to come back to -her ears and eyes. - -But Penton Hook did not look much like a boating party to-day. The water -was very near the level of the too green grass, the empty damp -flower-beds, the paths that gleamed with wet. A certain air of -deprecating helplessness standing feebly against that surrounding power -was in everything about. Alicia, as she was now, the active-minded -manager of much property, full of energy and resources, one of those -who, like the centurion, have but to say, “Come, and he cometh; do this, -and he doeth it,” cast her eyes, awakened out of all dreams, upon the -sweep of river and the little bit of weeping soil which seemed to lie in -its grasp appealing for mercy to the clouds and the skies. The sight -gave new life to all her scornful comments upon the incompetency of -those who, knowing what they had, could not take the dignified position -of making it do, but sunk into failure and helpless defeat. She planned -rapidly in a moment what she would do, were it but to keep the enemy at -bay. Were it hers she would scarcely have waited for the dawn of the -morning, she would have sent in her workmen, prepared her plans, learned -the best way to deal with it, long ago. She would have made herself the -mistress, not the slave, of the surrounding stream. In whatever way, at -whatever cost, she would have freed herself, she would have overcome -these blind influences of nature. It was with a little scorn, feeling -that she could have done this, feeling that she would like to do it, -that it would be a pleasure to fight and overcome that silent, senseless -force, that Mrs. Russell Penton, rich Mrs. Penton, swept in through the -weeping gardens of the Hook, and with all the commotion of a startling -arrival, her bays prancing, her wheels cutting the gravel, drew up -before the open door. - -The door was always open, whether the day was warm or cold, with an -aspect not of hospitality and liberal invitation, but rather of disorder -and a squalid freedom from rule. The hall was paved with vulgar tiles -which showed the traces of wet feet, and Mrs. Russell Penton sunk down -all at once from her indignant half-satisfied conviction that it was a -sign of the incompetency of poor Edward in his present surroundings that -he had never attempted to do anything to mend matters when brought thus -face to face with poverty. The traces of the wet feet appalled her. This -was just such an evidence of an incompetent household and careless -mistress as fitted in to her theory; but it was terrible to her -unaccustomed senses, to which a perfection of nicety and propriety was -indispensable, and any branch of absolute cleanness and purity unknown. -The maid, who hurried frightened, yet delighted, to the door, did not, -however, carry out the first impression made. She was so neat in her -black gown and white apron that the visitor was nonplussed as by an -evident contradiction. “Can you tell me if Mr. Penton is at home?” she -asked, leaning out of the carriage and putting aside the footman with a -momentary feeling that this, perhaps, might be one of poor Edward’s -daughters acting as house-maid. “No, my lady; but missis is in,” said -the handmaid with a courtesy which she had learned at school. Martha did -not know who the visitor was, but felt that in all circumstances to call -a visitor who came in such a fine carriage my lady could not wrong. - -“Missis is in!” Rich Mrs. Penton felt a momentary thrill. It was as if -she had been hearing herself spoken of in unimaginable circumstances. -She paused a little with a sense of unwillingness to go further. She had -met on various occasions the insignificant pretty young woman who was -poor Edward’s wife. She had made an effort to be kind to her when they -were first married, when the poor Pentons were still more or less in -one’s own sphere. But there had been nothing to interest her, nothing to -make up for the trouble of maintaining so uncomfortable a relationship, -and since that period she had not taken any notice of her cousin’s wife, -a woman always immured in nursing cares, having babes or nourishing -them, or deep in some one of those semi-animal (as she said) offices -which disgust a fastidious woman, who in her own person has nothing of -the kind to do. A woman without children becomes often very fastidious -on this point. Perhaps the disgust may be partly born of envy, but at -all events it exists and is strong. Mrs. Penton hesitated as to whether -she would turn back and not go in at all, or whether she would wait at -the door till Edward came in, or ask to be shown into his particular -sitting-room to wait for him: but that, she reflected, would be a -visible slight to Edward’s wife. The unexpressed unformulated dread of -what Russell might say restrained her here. He would not criticise, but -he would laugh, which was much worse. He would perhaps give vent to a -certain small whistle which she knew very well, when she acknowledged -that she had been to Penton Hook without seeing the mistress of the -house. She did not at all confess to herself that she was a coward, but -as a matter of fact rich Mrs. Penton was more afraid of that whistle -than poor Mrs. Penton was of anything, except scarlatina. Alicia -hesitated; she sat still in her carriage for the space of a minute, -while simple Martha gazed as if she had been a queen, and admired the -deep fur on the lady’s velvet mantle, and the bonnet which had come from -Paris. Then Mrs. Penton made up her mind. “Perhaps your mistress will -see me,” she said; “I should like to wait till Mr. Penton comes in.” - -“Oh, yes, my lady,” Martha said. Though she had been carefully -instructed how to answer visitors, she felt instinctively that this -visitor could not be asked her name as if she was an ordinary lady -making a call. She then opened the drawing-room very wide and said, -“Please, ma’am!” then stopped and let the great lady go in. - -Mrs. Penton, poor Mrs. Penton was sitting by the fire on a low chair. -There was not light enough to work by, and yet there was too much light -to ask for the lamp. It was a welcome moment of rest from all the labors -that were her heritage. She liked it perhaps all the better that her -husband and the older ones, who would talk or make demands upon her to -be talked to, were out and she was quite free. To be alone now and then -for a moment is sweet to a hard-worked woman who never is alone. Indeed, -she was not alone now. Two of the little ones were on the rug by her -feet. But they made no demands upon their mother, they played with each -other, keeping up a babble of little voices, within reach of her hand to -be patted on the head, within reach of her dress to cling to, should a -wild beast suddenly appear or an ogre or a naughty giant. Thus, though -they said nothing to each other, they were a mutual comfort and support, -the mother to the children and the children to the mother. And if we -could unveil the subtle chain of thinking from about that tired and -silent woman’s heart, the reader would wonder to see the lovely things -that were there. But she was scarcely aware that she was thinking, and -what she thought was not half definite enough to be put into words. A -world of gentle musings, one linked into another, none of them separable -from the rest, was about her in the firelight, in the darkness, the -quiet and not ungrateful fatigue. She was not thinking at all she would -have said. It was as though something revolved silently before her, -gleaming out here and there a recollection or realization. The warmth, -the dimness, the quiet, lulled her in the midst of all her cares. She -had thought of Osy till her head ached. How this dreadful misfortune -could be averted; how he could be kept on at Marlborough; until, in the -impossibility of finding any expedient, and the weariness of all things, -her active thoughts had dropped. They dropped as her hands dropped, as -she gave up working, and for that moment of stillness drew her chair to -the fire. There was nothing delightful to dwell upon in all that was -around and about her. But God, whom in her voiceless way she trusted -deeply, delivered the tired mother from her cares for the moment, and -fed her with angels’ food as she sat without anything to say for -herself, content by the fire. - -It was a moment before she realized what had happened when the door -opened and the visitor swept in. She was not clever or ready, and her -first consciousness that some one had come in was confused, so that she -did not know how to meet the emergency. She rose up hastily, all her -sweet thoughts dispersing; and the children, who saw a shadowy tall -figure and did not know what it was, shuffled to her side and laid hold -of her dress with a horrible conviction that the ogre who eats children -on toast had come at last. Rich Mrs. Penton sweeping in had command of -the scene better than poor Mrs. Penton had who was its principal figure. -She saw the startled movement, the slim figure rising up from before the -fire, in nervous uncertainty what to say or do, and the sudden retreat -of the little ones from their place in the foreground, lighted by the -warm glow of the fire, to the shelter of their mother’s dress. The whole -group had a timid, alarmed look which half piqued and half pleased -Alicia. She rather liked the sensation of her own imposing appearance -which struck awe, and yet was annoyed that any one should be afraid of -her. She had no doubt what to do; she went forward into the region of -the firelight and held out a hand. “You don’t remember me,” she said, -“or perhaps it is only that you don’t see me. I am Alicia Penton. May I -sit down here a little till my cousin comes in?” - -“Mrs. Russell Penton! oh, sit down, please. Will you take this chair, or -will you come nearer the fire? I am ashamed to have been so stupid, but -I have not many visitors, and I never thought--will you take this chair, -please?” - -“You never thought that I should be one? Oh, don’t think I blame you for -saying so. It is my fault; I have often felt it. I hope you will let -by-gones be by-gones now, and look upon me as a friend.” - -“Horry,” said Mrs. Penton, “run and tell Martha to bring the lamp.” She -did not make any direct reply to her visitor’s overture. “I am fond of -sitting in the firelight,” she said. “A little moment when there is -nothing to do, when all is so quiet, is pleasant. But it is awkward when -any one comes in, for we can not see each other. I hope Sir Walter is -quite well,” she added, after a momentary pause. - -It was in the rich Mrs. Penton’s heart to cry out, “Don’t ask me about -Sir Walter; you don’t hope he is well; you wish he was dead, I know you -must, you must!” These words rushed to her lips but she did not say -them. There was in this mild interior no justification for such a -speech. The absence of light threw a veil upon all the imperfections of -the place, and there was something in the gentle indifference of the -mistress of the house, the absence of all feeling in respect to her -visitor except a startled civility, which somehow humbled and silenced -the proud woman. She had been, in spite of herself, excited about this -meeting. She had come in with her heart beating, making overtures, which -she never would have made to a stranger. She did not know what she -expected; either to be received with warm and astonished gratitude, or -to be held at arm’s-length in offense. But this mild woman in the soft -confusion of the firelit gloom did neither--had not evidently been -thinking of her at all--had no feeling about her one way or another. -Mrs. Russell Penton felt like one who had fallen from a height. She -blushed unseen with a hot sensation of shame. To feel herself of so much -less consequence than she expected, was extraordinary to her, a -sensation such as she had rarely felt before. She felt even that the -pause she made before replying, which she herself felt so much, and -during which so many things went through her head, was lost upon the -other, who was preoccupied about the lamp, and anxious lest it should -smell, and concerned with a hundred other things. - -“My father is quite well,” said Alicia, with a little emphasis; “I never -saw him in better health. It is not thought necessary for him, he is so -well, to go abroad this year.” - -The maid was at the door with the lamp, and there came in with her, -exactly as Mrs. Penton feared, an odor of paraffin, that all-pervading -unescapable odor which is now so familiar everywhere. She scarcely -caught what her visitor said, so much more anxious was she about this. -And in her mind there arose the anxious question, what to do? Was it -better to say nothing about the smell, and hope that perhaps it might -not be remarked? or confess the matter and make a commotion, calling -Mrs. Penton’s attention to it by sending it away? Even if she did the -latter she could not send away the smell, which, alas! was here, anyhow, -and would keep possession. She resolved desperately, therefore, to take -no notice, to hope, perhaps, that it might not be remarked. This -presumption, though poor Mrs. Penton was so far from suspecting it, -completed the discomfiture of the great lady who had made sure that her -visit would be a great event. - -“I am very glad,” said the mistress of the house at last, vaguely; -“Edward has gone out for a walk, he will be in directly, and I am sure -it will give him great pleasure to see you. The girls are out, too; -there is not very much for them in the way of amusement at this time of -the year.” - -And then there was a pause, for neither of the ladies knew what to say. -Mrs. Russell Penton examined her hostess closely by the light of the -malodorous lamp. It was kinder to the poor lady than daylight would have -been, and to the poor room, which, with the flickering firelight rising -and falling, and the shade over the lamp, which left the walls and the -furniture in a flattering obscurity, showed none of their imperfections -to the stranger’s eyes. And all that was apparent in Mrs. Penton was -that her gown, which was of no particular color, but dark and not badly -cut, hung about her slim figure with a certain grace, and that the -curling twist of her hair, done up in that soft large knot on the back -of hegr head, suited her much better than a more elaborate _coiffure_ -would have done. Rich Mrs. Penton looked closely at her poor relation, -but her scrutiny was not returned. The thing that had now sprung into -prominence in the mind of the mistress of the house was whether Martha -would bring tea in nicely, and whether the cake would be found which was -kept for such great occasions, without an appeal to herself for the -keys. She was careful and burdened about many things; but in the very -excess of her anxieties was delivered from more serious alarms. It did -not occur to her to trouble herself with the questions which the -children had asked each other so anxiously, which Mr. Penton was -inquiring of himself with a beating heart, “What could have brought -Alicia Penton here?” - - - - -CHAPTER VII. - -THE YOUNG AND THE OLD. - - -There was, however, no lack of excitement when the rest of the family -came in. The girls dazzled with the quick transition from the darkness -outside to the light within, their eyes shining, their lips apart with -breathless curiosity and excitement, and a thrill of interest which -might have satisfied the requirements of any visitor; and after a little -interval their father, pale, and somewhat breathless, too, whose -expectation was not of anything agreeable, but rather of some new -misfortune, of which perhaps his cousin had come to tell him. Edward -Penton did not pause to think that it was very unlikely that Alicia -would thus break in upon his retirement in order to tell him of some -misfortune. The feeling was instinctive in his mind, because of long -acquaintance with defeat and failure, that every new thing must mean -further trouble. He was always ready to encounter that in his depressed -way. He came into the atmosphere which was tinged with the smell of -paraffin, the discomfort of which was habitual to him, added to the -undercurrent of irritation in his mind, and with the feeling that there -was already a crowd of people in the room, where probably no one was -necessary but himself. Alicia Penton had long, long ceased to be an -object of special interest to him; nobody now was of particular interest -to Mr. Penton in that or any sentimental way. The people who were about -him now either belonged to him, in which case they gave him a great deal -of altogether inevitable trouble; or else they did not belong to him, -and were probably more or less antagonistic--wanting things from him, -entertainment, hospitality, subscriptions, something or other which he -did not wish to give. Such were the two classes into which the human -race was divided; but if there was a debatable ground between the two, a -scrap of soil upon which a human foot could be planted. Sir Walter and -his daughter were its possible inhabitants. They belonged to him, -too--in a way; they were antagonistic, too--in a way. Both the other -halves of the world were more or less united in them. - -He came forward into the light, which, however, revealed his -knickerbockers and muddy boots more distinctly than his face. “It is a -long time,” he said, “since we have met.” - -“Yes, Edward, it is a long time; I have been saying so to your wife. The -girls have grown up since I saw them last; they were little girls then, -and now they are--grown up--” - -When emotion reaches a high strain and becomes impassioned the power of -expression is increased, and eloquence comes; but on the lower levels of -feeling, suppressed excitement and commotion of mind often find -utterance in the merest commonplace. - -“Yes, they are grown up--the boy, too,” said Mr. Penton, under the same -spell. - -She cast a glance upward to where, beyond the lamp, on his mother’s side -of the table, Wat appeared, a lengthy shadow, perhaps the most -uncongenial of all. She made a slight forward inclination of her head in -recognition of his presence, but no more. The girls she had shown a -certain pleasure in. They stood together, with that pretty look of being -but one which a pair of sisters often have, so brightly curious and -excited, scanning her with such eager eyes that it would have been -difficult not to respond to their frank interest. But Mrs. Penton could -not tolerate Wat; his very presence was an offense to her, and the -instinctive way in which he went over to his mother’s side, and stood -there in the gloom looking at the visitor over the shade of the lamp. -She would have none of him, but she turned with relief to the girls. - -“I am ashamed to ask the question,” she said, “but which of you is my -godchild? You seem about the same age.” - -It was a vexation that it should be the other one--the one who was like -her mother, not the impetuous darker girl whose eyes devoured the great -lady who was her cousin--who replied, “It is I who am Ally. There is -only a year between us. We are more together than any of the others.” - -“Ally?” said Mrs. Russell Penton, with a little scorn. “And what is your -name?” - -“I am Anne.” - -“She should be Anna,” said her mother, “which is far prettier; but she -likes what is shortest best. There are so many of them. None of them -have their full names. Some families make a great stand on that--to give -every one their full name.” - -“It is a matter of taste,” said the visitor, coldly. - -She was doubly, but most unreasonably, annoyed after her first moment of -interest to find that it was the wrong sister who was her godchild, and -that even she did not bear the name that had been given her. It seemed a -want of respect, not only to herself, but to the family, in which there -had been Alicias for countless years. - -“I hope my uncle is well?” said Mr. Penton, after another embarrassed -pause. Sir Walter was not his uncle, but it was a relic of the old days, -when he was a child of the house, that the younger cousin was permitted -to call the elder so. “I heard you were not going away this year.” - -“No; the doctors think he may stay at home, as there is every prospect -of a mild winter. Of course, if it became suddenly severe we could take -him away at a moment’s notice.” - -“Of course,” Edward Penton said. However severe the weather might become -neither he nor his could be taken away at a moment’s notice. He could -not help feeling conscious of the difference, but with a faint smile -breaking upon his depression. Alicia did not mean it, he was sure, but -it seemed curious that she should put the contrast so very clearly -before him. There was a little whispering going on between the mother -and daughters about the tea. Tea was a substantial meal at the Hook, and -the little ornamental repast at five o’clock was unusual, and made a -little flurry in the household. Mrs. Penton had to give Anne certain -instructions about a little thin bread-and-butter and the cake. She -thought that Edward, who was keeping up the conversation, screened off -these whisperings from his cousin’s notice; but as a matter of fact -Alicia was keenly alive to all that was taking place, and felt a sharper -interest in the anxiety about Martha’s appearance than in anything -Edward was saying. “You still keep the villa at Cannes?” he went on. - -“Yes; up to this time it has been a necessity for my father; but I have -not seen him so well for years.” - -“I am very glad to hear it,” Mr. Penton said, with a little emphasis. He -had to stand aside as he spoke, for Martha arrived, rather embarrassed, -with her tray, for which there was no habitual place; and the girls had -to clear the books and ornaments off a little table while she waited. He -was used to these domestic embarrassments, and it must be said for him -that he did the best he could to screen them even at the sacrifice of -himself. He drew a chair near to his cousin and sat down, thus doing -what he could to draw her keen attention from these details. “It is long -since I have seen Penton,” he said. “I hear you have made many -improvements.” - -“Nothing that you would remark--only additions to the comfort of the -house. It used to be rather cold, you will remember.” - -“I don’t think I knew what cold was in those old days,” he said, with a -slight involuntary shiver, for the door had just opened once more to -admit the cake, and a draught came in from the always open hall. - -“We have had it now warmed throughout,” said Mrs. Russell Penton, with a -slight momentary smile; “and we are thinking of fitting it up with the -electric light. My husband has a turn for playing with science. It is a -great deal of trouble at first, but very little afterward, I believe: -and very convenient, without any of the drawbacks of lamps or gas.” - -She could not but turn her head as she spoke, to the large crystal lamp -upon the table, which filled the room with something more than light. -The tea had been arranged by this time, and poor Mrs. Penton had begun -to pour it out, but not yet was her mind disengaged from the many -anxieties involved--for the tea was poor. She shook her head and made a -little silent appeal to the girls as she poured out the first almost -colorless cup. And then there was a jug of milk, but no cream. This -necessitated another whispering, and the swift dispatch of Ally to fetch -what was wanted. Mrs. Russell Penton looked on at all this, and took in -every detail as if it had been a little scene of a comedy enacted for -her amusement; but there was in the amusement an acrid touch. The smile -was sharp, like Ithuriel’s spear, and cut all those innocent little -cobwebs away. - -“I have no doubt you will make it very complete,” Edward Penton said, -with a sigh. There was an assumed proprietorship about all she said, -which was like cutting him off from the succession, that only -possibility which lay in his future. And yet they could not cut him off, -he said, to himself. - -“Is this tea for me? How very kind! but I never take it at this hour,” -said Alicia, putting up her gloved hand with a little gesture of -refusal. It smote, if not her heart, yet her conscience, a little to see -the look that passed between the mother and the girls. Had Russell seen -that scene he would assuredly have retired into a corner, and relieved -himself with a whistle, before asking for a cup and eating half the -cake, which was what he would have done regardless of consequences. -Rendered compunctious by this thought, Alicia added, hastily, “You must -bring the girls up to see the house; they ought to know it; and I hope I -may see more of them in the time to come.” - -“Their mother, I have no doubt, will be pleased,” said Edward Penton, -vaguely. - -“Indeed, you must not think of me,” his wife said; she had not taken -offense. It was not in her mild nature to suppose that any one could -mean to slight or insult her; but she was a little annoyed by the -unnecessary waste of tea. “I am a poor walker, you know, Edward; and -always occupied with the children; but I am sure the girls would like it -very much. It would be very nice for them to make acquaintance--Wat -could walk up with them if you were busy. Especially in the winter,” she -said, with a little conciliatory smile toward the great lady, “I am -always looking out for a little change for the girls.” - -“Then we shall consider that as settled,” said Alicia. She rose, in all -the splendor of her velvet and furs, and the whole family rose with her. -A thought ran through their minds--a little astonished shock--a -question, Was it possible that this was all she had come for? It was a -very inadequate conclusion to the excitement and expectation in all -their minds. Mrs. Penton alone did not feel this shock. She did not -think the result inadequate; a renewal of acquaintance, an invitation to -the girls, probably the opening to them of a door into society and the -great world. She came forward with what to her was warmth and -enthusiasm. “It is very kind of you to have called,” she said, “I am -truly grateful, for I make few calls myself, and I can’t wonder if I -fall out of people’s recollection. It is a great thing for a woman like -you to come out of your way to be kind to Edward’s little girls. I am -very grateful to you, and I will never forget it.” Poor Mrs. Penton gave -her rich namesake a warm pressure of the hand, looking at her with her -mild, large-lidded gray eyes, lit up by a smile which transformed her -face. Not a shadow of doubt, not the faintest cloud of consciousness -that Alicia’s motive had been less than angelic, was in her look or in -her thoughts. - -Rich Mrs. Penton faltered and shrunk before this look of gratitude. She -knew that, far from deserving it, there had been nothing but contempt in -her thoughts toward this simple woman who had been to her like a bit of -a comedy. She withdrew her hand as quickly as possible from that -grateful clasp. - -“You give me credit--that I don’t deserve,” she said. “I--I came to -speak to my cousin on business. It was really a--I won’t call it a -selfish motive, that brought me. But it will give me real pleasure to -see the girls.” - -To divine the hidden meaning of this little speech, which was entirely -apologetic, occupied the attention of the anxious family suddenly pushed -back into eagerness again by the intimation of her real errand. It was -not all for nothing, then! It was not a mere call of civility! Mr. -Penton, who had felt something like relief when she rose, consoled by -the thought that there could not at least be any new misfortune to -intimate to him, fell again into that state of melancholy anticipation -from which he had been roused, while the young ones bounded upward to -the height of expectation. Something was coming--something new! It did -not much matter to them what it was. They looked on with great -excitement while their father conducted his cousin across the hall to -his book-room, as it was called. They were not given to fine names at -Penton Hook. It had been called the library in former days. But it was a -little out at elbows, like the rest of the house--the damp had affected -the bindings, the gilding was tarnished, the russia leather dropping to -pieces, a smell of mustiness and decay, much contended against, yet -indestructible, was in the place. And it was no longer the library, but -only the book-room. The door of the drawing-room being left open, the -family watched with interest indescribable the two figures crossing the -hall. Mrs. Russell Penton, though she had not been there for so many -years, knew her way, which particular interested the girls greatly, and -opened a new vista to them, into the past. Mrs. Penton, for her part, -knew well enough all about Alicia, but she was not jealous. She shivered -slightly as she saw the great lady’s skirt sweep the hall. - -“Oh, Anne,” she whispered, “tell Martha to bring a cloth and wipe it. A -velvet dress! You children, with your wet feet, you are enough to break -any one’s heart. What are the mats put there for, I should like to -know?” - -“Oh, what do you think of her, mother? Did you like her? Don’t you think -she meant to be kind? Do you think we must go?” - -“Certainly you must go,” said Mrs. Penton. “What do I think of her? This -is not the first time I have seen Alicia Penton, that you should ask me -such a question. Yes, yes, you must go. You ought to know that house -better than any house in the country, and it is only right that you -should first go into society there.” - -“Do you think Cousin Alicia will ask us to parties? Do you think she -really meant--really, without thinking of anything else--to be kind to -Ally and me?” - -“Anne, I am sorry that you should take such notions. What object could -she have but kindness?” said Mrs. Penton, with mild conviction, “for -coming here? It is all very well to talk of business with your father. -Yes, no doubt she has business with your father, or she would not have -said so; but I am very sure she must have suffered from the -estrangement. I always thought she must suffer. Men do not think of -these things, but women do. I feel sure that she has talked her father -over at last, and that we are all to be friends again. Sir Walter is an -old man; he must want to make up differences. What a dreadful thing it -would be to die without making it up!” - -“Was there any real quarrel?” said Wat, coming forward with his hands in -his pockets. “She may be kind enough, mother, that fine lady of yours, -but she does not like me.” - -“How can she know whether she likes you or not? She doesn’t know you, -Wat.” - -“She hates me, all the same. I have never done anything to her that I -know of. I suppose I did wrong to be born.” - -“If it were not you it would be some one else,” said Mrs. Penton; “but, -children! oh, don’t talk in this hard way. Think how her brothers died, -and that she has no children. And the house she loves to go away from -her, and nothing to be hers! I do not think I could bear it if it was -me. Make haste, Anne, oh, make haste, and get Martha to wipe up the -hall. And, Horry, you may as well have the thin bread and butter. If I -had only known that Mrs. Russell Penton never took tea--” - -About this failure Mrs. Penton was really concerned; it was not only a -waste of the tea and of that nice bread and butter (which Horry enjoyed -exceedingly), but it was a sort of a sham, enacted solely for the -benefit of the visitor, which was objectionable in other points of view -besides that of extravagance. It gave her a sense of humiliation as if -she had been masquerading in order to deceive a stranger who was too -quick of wit to be deceived. But Mrs. Penton neither judged her -namesake, nor was suspicious of her, nor was she even very curious as -the children were, as to the subject of the interview which was going on -in the book-room. She feared nothing from it, nor did she expect -anything. She was not ready to imagine that anything could happen. Sir -Walter might die, of course, and that would make a change; but she had -Mrs. Russell Penton’s word for it that Sir Walter was better than usual; -and in the depth of her experience of that routine of common life which -kept on getting a little worse, but had never been broken by any -surprising incidents, she had little faith in things happening. She felt -even that she would not be surprised for her part if Sir Walter should -never die. He was eighty-five, and he might live to be a hundred. Though -they had not met for years she saw nothing extraordinary in the fact -that Alicia Penton had come to talk over some business matters with her -cousin. It was partly indolence of mind and partly because she had so -much that it was real to occupy her that she had no time for imaginary -cases. And so while the girls hung about the doors in excitement unable -to settle to anything, curious to see their great relation pass out -again, and to watch her getting into her carriage, and pick up any -information that might be attainable about the object of her mission, -Mrs. Penton with a word of rebuke to their curiosity, took Horry -upstairs to the nursery and thence retired to her own room to make her -modest little toilet for the evening. There was no dinner to dress for, -but the mother of the household thought it was a good thing as a rule -and example that she should put on a different gown for tea. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - -THE PROPOSAL. - - -Alicia was a little subdued when she found herself in the old library, -the room she had known so well in other circumstances. The air of decay, -the unused books which she had borrowed and read and talked over, Edward -being a little more disposed that way than her brothers, and ready to -give her advice about her reading, and receive with reverence her -comments which the others took no interest in, impressed her in spite of -herself. Her eyes turned to the corner in which there had been a -collection of the poets more accessible and readable than any that -existed at Penton, where the books were all of a ponderous kind. They -were still there, the same little volumes, which it had been so easy to -carry about, which had been brought from the Hook in Edward’s pocket, -which she had taken with her in the boat and read in the shady corners -under the trees among the water-lilies. She could see they were still -there, the binding a little tarnished, the line broken, as if several -volumes were lost or absent. Who read them now? She gave but one glance -and saw everything, then turned her back upon that corner. There was a -table in the window which had not been there formerly, a table covered -with books and papers such as she was sure Edward Penton did not amuse -himself with. It would be the boy whose name had not been mentioned, -whom she had taken no notice of, yet of whom, with a jealous, angry -consciousness she had felt the presence through all. - -“You have made few changes,” she said, involuntarily, as she turned the -chair he had placed for her half round, so as not to see the shelf with -its range of little volumes. The book-room was perhaps the most -comfortable in the house, but for that faint mustiness. The walls were -well lined with books. It had been a good collection twenty years ago, -and though there had been few additions made, it was still a good -collection, and the fading of the gilding and a little raggedness of -binding here and there did not injure the appearance of the well-covered -walls. Mr. Penton lighted the two candles on the writing-table, which -seemed to add two little inquisitive eldritch spectators, blinking their -little flames at the human actors in this drama, and watching all they -did and said. - -“No, there are no changes to speak of; I have had other things to think -of than making changes,” he said, with a little abruptness, perhaps -thinking that she was making a contrast between the unalterable -circumstances of his poverty and all that had been done in the great -house. But she had no such meaning, nor did she understand the tone of -almost reproach in which he spoke. - -“You must have had a great deal to do, with your family; but there are -cares which many people count as happiness.” - -“I am making no complaint,” he said. - -And then there was a pause. There had been struck a wrong note which -rang jarring into the air, and made it more difficult to begin again. - -“You must have been surprised,” she said, “to find me here to-day.” - -“I don’t know that I was surprised; perhaps it was more surprising, if I -may speak my mind, Alicia, that so long a time has passed without seeing -you here. I never harmed you, that I know.” - -“No,” she said, “you never harmed us; it has been a miserable mistake -altogether. For years past I have felt it to be so; but we are the -slaves of our own mistakes. I never seemed to have the courage to take -the first step to make it right.” - -She had neither meant to say this, nor in cold blood would she have -allowed it to be true; but she was carried away by the subtle influence -of the familiar place, by the sight of the books she used to borrow, and -many an indefinable recollection and influence besides. - -He gave a little short laugh. “That is the second time to-night,” he -said, “that I have heard the same thing said.” If she had but known who -the other was who had said it, the old man breaking stones, who had been -so glad of his twopence! Mr. Penton could not restrain the brief comment -of that laugh. - -“It does not matter who says it,” said Alicia, “it is true. A thing is -done in passion, in misery: and then it is hard to descend from our -pride, or to acknowledge ourselves wrong. And you will think, perhaps,” -she added, quickly, with rising color, “that it is a selfish motive that -brings me here to-day?” - -Edward Penton shook his head. “A selfish motive would mean that I could -be of use to you; and I don’t think that is very probable,” he said. - -Mrs. Russell Penton colored still more. “Edward,” she said, faltering a -little, “it is curious, when there is an object on which one has set -one’s heart, how one is led on to do things that only in the doing -appear in their true colors. I have let you think I came to renew old -friendship--to see your children, your girls.” She grew more and more -agitated as she went on, and there came out in her a hundred tones and -looks of the old Alicia, who had seemed to him to have no connection -with this mature dignified self-important woman--looks and tones which -moved him as the old books in the corner, and all the associations of -the place, had moved her. - -“It does not matter why you have come; I am glad you have come, anyhow; -and if I can do anything--” he made a pause, and laughed again, this -time at himself. “It doesn’t seem very likely, looking at you and at me; -but you know I was always your faithful servant,” he said. - -“There is only one thing I have to say for myself, Edward--I would not -allow the proposal to be made to you by any one but me.” - -“What is it?” he asked. There was a proposal then, and it was something -to benefit her! Edward Penton’s bosom swelled with perhaps the first -pleasurable sense of his own position which he had felt for years. -Penton had always been an excitement to him, but there had been little -pleasure in it. For a moment, however, now, he felt himself the old, the -young Edward Penton, who had been the faithful servant of Alicia. He -could not imagine anything which he could have it in his power to do for -her, but still less could he imagine anything which he would refuse. - -She went on with a hesitation which was very far from being natural to -her. “You know,” she said, “that when my father dies, which is an event -that can not be far distant, I shall have to give up--the only home I -have ever known.” - -His attention was fully aroused now. He looked at her across the gleam -of the inquisitive candles, with a startled look. Was she going to ask -him to give up his inheritance? He was too much surprised to speak. - -“You will think this an extraordinary beginning; but it is true. I have -never lived anywhere else. My marriage, you know, fortunately, has made -no difference. Of course I am my father’s heir in everything but what is -entailed. It has occurred to us--we have thought that perhaps--” - -“What have you thought, Alicia?” he cried, with a sudden, sharp -remonstrance in his tone; “that I was just as in former times, ready for -anything that you--What have you thought?--that I was in the same -position as of old--that there was no one to consult, no one to -consider--except my devotion to you?” - -“You mistake me altogether,” she cried. “Your devotion to me--which no -doubt is ended long ago--was never taken into consideration at all. We -thought of an entirely different motive when we talked it over, my -father and I. You will remember that I am only asking a question, -Edward. I wanted to ask only if a proposal might be made to you, that -was all.” - -“And what was the motive which you supposed likely to move me?” he said. - -He had risen up from his seat, and came and stood by the mantel-piece, -leaning on it, and looking down upon her. There was a great commotion in -his mind--a commotion of the old and of the new. He had grown soft and -tender a few minutes before, feeling himself ready to do anything for -her which a lady could ask of a man. But now, when it appeared to him -that she had gone far beyond that sphere, and was about to ask from him -the sacrifice of everything--his property, his inheritance, the fortune -of his children--a sudden hot fountain of indignation seemed to have -risen within the man. He felt as the knight did in the poem when his -lady lightly threw her glove among the lions--an impulse to give her -what she asked, to fling it in her face, doing her behest in contempt of -the unwomanly impulse which had tempted her to strain her power so far. -This was how he felt. No reasonable sentiment of self-defense, but a -burning temptation to take his heirship, his hopes, all that made the -future tolerable, and fling them with an insult in her face. - -“Edward,” she said, “I came to you in confidence that you would hear -me--that you would let me speak plainly without offense; I mean none,” -she said, with agitation. “But we have both come to a reasonable age, -and surely we may talk to each other without wounding each other--about -circumstances which everybody can see.” - -“Speak freely, Alicia. I only want to know what you wish, and what there -is in me to justify the proposal, whatever it may be, that you have come -to make.” - -“I have begun wrong,” she said, with a gesture of disappointment. “It is -difficult to find the right words. Will you be angry if I say it is no -secret that you--that we--for Heaven’s sake don’t think I mean to hurt -you--plainly, that I, with all my father can leave, will be in a better -position for keeping up Penton than you who are the heir-at-law.” - -He stood for some time with his arm on the mantel-piece making no -answer, looking down at the faint redness of a fire which had almost -burned out. - -“So that’s all,” he said at last, with the tremulous note of a sudden -laugh; and drawing a chair close up to it, began to gather together the -scraps of half-consumed wood into a blaze. All that he produced was a -very feeble momentary glimmer, which leaped up and then died out. He -threw down the poker with another short laugh. “Significant,” he said, -“symbolical! so that is all, Alicia? You are sure you want no more?” - -“You have not heard me out: you don’t understand. Edward, I know the -first effect must be painful, but every word you will listen to will -lessen that impression. I am, if you will remember, a little older than -you are.” - -“We were born, I think, in the same year.” - -“That makes a woman much older. I told you so when it meant more. And I -am a woman, more feeble of constitution than you are--not likely to live -so long.” - -“On the contrary, if you will allow me to interrupt you; women, I -believe, as a rule, are longer-lived than men.” - -She drew back with a pained and irritated look. “You make me feel like a -lawyer supporting a weak case. It was not in this way that I wanted to -talk it over with you, Edward.” - -“To talk over the sacrifice of everything I have ever looked to--my -birthright, and the prospects of my children. This is rather a large -affair to be talked over between you and me after five-o’clock tea, -Alicia, over a dying fire.” - -“Then,” she said, “it would have been better I had not meddled at all, -as my father always said. He thought it should have been made a business -proposal only, through a solicitor. But I--I, like a foolish -woman--remembering that we had once been dear friends, and feeling that -I had been guilty of neglect, and perhaps unkindness--I would not have -anything said till I had come myself, till I had made my little overture -of reconciliation, till I--” - -“If there is to be frankness on one side there should be frankness on -both. Till you had put forth the old influence, which once would have -made me do anything--give up anything--to please you.” - -“You said,” she cried, provoked and humiliated, “not five minutes since, -though I did not wish it--never thought of it--that you were my faithful -servant still!” - -“Yes,” he said; “and do you know what I should like to do now? You have -come to ask me for my inheritance as you might ask for a flower out of -my garden--if there were any! I should like to fling you your Penton -into your apron--into your face--and see you carry it off, and point at -you, like--you were always fond of poetry, and you will remember--the -fellow that jumped among the lions for a glove--only a glove: only his -life, don’t you know!” - -It was not often that Edward Penton gave way to passion, and it was -brutal, this that he said: but for the moment he had lost all control of -himself. - -She rose up hurriedly from her chair. “That was no true man!” she cried. -“Supposing that the woman was a fool too, she used him only according to -his folly to show how false he was.” She paused again, breathless, her -heart beating with excitement and indignation. “I am not asking you for -your inheritance: I came to ask you--whether an arrangement might be -proposed to you which should be for your advantage as well as mine. Let -us speak frankly, as you say. I am not a girl, to be driven away by an -insult, which comes badly--oh, very badly!--from you, Edward. If I have -wounded you, you have stung me, bitterly; so let us be quits.” She -looked at him with a smile of pain. “You have hit hardest, after all; -you ought to be pleased with that!” - -“I beg your pardon, Alicia,” he said. - -“Oh, it is not necessary. It was business, and not sentiment, that -brought me here. And this is the brutal truth, Edward--like what you -have just said to me. You are poor, and I am well off. Penton would be a -millstone round your neck; you could not keep it up. Whereas to me it is -my home--almost the thing I love best. Will you come to terms with us to -set aside the entail and let me have my home? The terms shall be almost -what you like. It can be done directly. It will be like realizing a -fortune which may not be yours for years. I ask no gift. Do you think I -am not as proud as you are? I would not ask you for a flower out of your -garden, as you say, much less your property--your inheritance! Ah, your -inheritance! which twenty years ago, when we used to be here together, -was no more likely to be yours--! If we begin to talk of these things -where shall we end, I wonder?” she added, with another pale and angry -smile. “You understand now what I mean? And I have nothing more to say.” - -“Wait a moment,” he said; “I am not sure that I do understand you now. -It is not what I thought, apparently, and I beg your pardon. I thought -it was something that would be between you and me. But if I hear right, -it is a business transaction you propose--something to be done for an -equivalent--a bargain--a sale and barter--a--” - -“Yes, that is what I mean; perhaps my father was right, and the -solicitors were the people to manage it, not you and me--” - -“To manage it--or not to manage it, as may turn out. Yes, I think that -would be the better way. These sort of people can say what they like to -each other and it never hurts, whereas you and I--Are you really going? -I hope you are very well wrapped up, for the night is cold. But for this -little squabble, which is a pity, which never ought to have been--” - -“I can not think, Edward, that it was my fault.” - -“They say that ladies always think that,” he said with a smile, -“otherwise this first visit after--how long is it?--went off fairly -well, don’t you think? At forty-five, with a wife and children, a man is -no longer ready to throw anything away; but otherwise when it comes to -business--” - -“I was very foolish not to let it be done in the formal way,” she said, -with an uneasy blush and intolerable sense of the sarcasm in his tone. -But she would not allow herself to remain under this disadvantage. -“Shall I tell my father that you will receive his proposal and give it -your consideration?” - -“My consideration? Surely; my best consideration,” he replied, with -still the same look of sarcastic coolness, “which anything Sir Walter -Penton suggests would naturally command from his--successor. I can not -use a milder word than that. My position,” he added, with gravity, “is -not one which I sought or had any hand in bringing about: therefore I -can have no responsibility for the changes that have happened in the -last twenty years.” - -“It is I who must beg your pardon now. You are quite right, of course, -and there was no fault of yours. Good-night and good-bye. I hope you -will at least think of me charitably if we should not meet again.” - -“We shall certainly, I hope, meet again,” he said, opening the door for -her. “The girls will not forget your invitation to them. They have never -seen Penton, and they take an interest, which you will not wonder at--” - -“Oh, I don’t wonder--at that or anything,” she added, in a lower tone; -and, as ill-luck would have it, Wat, standing full in the light of the -lamp which lighted the hall, tall in his youthful awkwardness, half -antagonistic, half anxious to recommend himself, stood straight before -her, so that she could not, without rudeness, refuse his attendance to -the door where the carriage lamps were shining and the bays pawing -impatiently. She gave his father a look of mingled misery and -deprecation as she went out of sight. He alone understood why it was she -could not bear the sight of his boy. But though her eyes expressed this -anguish, her mouth held another meaning. “You will hear from Mr. -Rochford in a day or two,” she said, as she drove away. - -He sent her back a smile of half-sarcastic acquiescence still; but then -Edward Penton went back to his library and shut himself in, and -disregarded all the appeals that were made to him during the next hour, -to come to tea. First the bell: then Ally tapping softly, “Tea is -ready.” Then Anne’s quicker summons, “Mother wants to know if we are to -wait for you?” Then the little applicant, whom he was least able to -resist, little Mary, drumming very low down upon the lower panels of the -door, with a little song of “Fader! fader!” To all this Mr. Penton -turned a dull ear. He had been angry--he had been cut to the quick; -that his poverty should be thus thrown back upon him--that he should be -expected to make merchandise of his inheritance, to give up for money -the house of his fathers, the only fit residence for the head of the -family! All this gave a sharp and keen pang, and roused every instinct -of pride and self-assertion. But when the thrill of solitude and reason -fell on all that band of suddenly unchained demons, and he thought of -the privations round him--the shabbiness of the house; the damp; the -poor wife, who could not now at all hold up her head among the county -people; the girls, who were little nobodies and saw nothing; Wat, whose -young life was spoiled: and Osy--Osy! about whom some determination must -be come to. To see a way out of all that and not to accept it: for -pride’s sake to shut up, not only himself, that was a small matter, but -the children, to poverty! The fire went out; the inquisitive candles -blinked and spied ineffectually, making nothing of the man who sat there -wrapped up within himself, his face buried in his hands. He was chilled -almost to ice when his wife stole in and drew him away to the fire in -the drawing-room, from which the young ones withdrew to make place for -him, with looks full of wonder and awe. And then it was, when he had -warmed himself and the ice had melted, that he drew the family council -together, and laid before them, old and young, the proposal which Alicia -Penton had come to make. - - - - -CHAPTER IX. - -FAMILY COUNSELS. - - -Mr. Penton drew his chair toward the fire, which was not a usual thing -for him to do. When he felt chilly he went to the book-room, where in -the evening there was always a log burning. In the drawing-room it was -the rule that nobody should approach the fire too closely; Mr. Penton -said it was not good for the children, it gave them bad habits, and it -scorched their cheeks and injured their eyes. The moral of which -probably was that, as there were so many of them, they could not all get -near it, and therefore all had to hold back. - -But this evening everything was out of rule. The little ones had been -sent to bed. The basket of stockings was pushed aside on the table. Mrs. -Penton indeed, unable to bear that breach of use and wont, had taken a -stocking out of it furtively and pulled it up on her arm. It was a gray -stocking, with immense healthy holes the size of half a crown. She could -not get at her needle and worsted without disturbing the family -parliament, but at least she could measure the holes and decide how best -to approach them, and from what side. Walter had placed himself on the -other side of the fire, opposite his father, feeling instinctively that -his interests must be specially in question; the girls filled up the -intervals between their mother and Wat on the one side, their father on -the other. The fire had been stirred into a blaze and danced cheerfully -upon all the young faces. The lamp with its smell of paraffin was put -aside too, as if it were being punished and put in the corner, for which -vindicative step, considering how it smelled and smoked, there was good -cause. - -“You will understand,” said Mr. Penton, “that the visit we have just -received must have had some special motive.” - -“I don’t see why you should be so sure of that, Edward,” said Mrs. -Penton, “unless she said something. It might be just civility. Why not?” - -“It was not just civility; I knew that from the first.” - -“My dear, perhaps you know your own family best: but if it had been one -of mine I should have thought it quite natural: to see the children, and -hear how we are getting on.” - -To this Mr. Penton made no reply; the idea of some one coming to see how -he and his family were “getting on” did not gratify him as perhaps it -ought to have done. - -“I think,” said Ally, softly, “that Aunt Alicia came out of kindness, -papa.” - -“To herself, I suppose,” he said, quickly; then added, “From her point -of view it might appear kindness to us too.” - -There was again a pause, and they all waited with growing curiosity to -know what it was. - -Mr. Penton sat in silence, balancing himself in his chair, knitting his -brows as he gazed into the fire. Mrs. Penton pulled the stocking further -up upon her arm and made a searching study of the holes. - -“You all know,” he said at length, “that Penton has been a long time in -our family, and that I am the heir of entail.” - -At this Walter moved a little, almost impatiently, in his chair, with a -quick start, which he restrained at once, as if he would have -interfered. And he did feel disposed to interfere--to say that it was he -who was the heir of entail. His father’s priority of course was -understood, but it seemed hardly worth while to insist upon it. -Nevertheless after the first impulse Walter restrained himself. - -“I,” said his father, rather sharply, with a certain comprehension and -resentment of the impulse, of which, however, he was not minded to take -any notice, “am the heir of entail. It is tied down upon me, and can’t, -in the nature of things, go to any one else.” - -“Unless the law were to be changed,” interrupted Anne, remembering too -well the discussion of the morning. - -He waved his hand with an expression of impatience. “We need not take -any such hazard into consideration; it is most improbable, and quite out -of the question. As things are, I am the heir of entail. That has been, -I don’t doubt, a thorn in Sir Walter’s flesh. He can’t alienate an acre, -nor, at his time of life, in honor, cut down a tree.” - -“I have always said it was hard upon him,” Mrs. Penton observed, in an -undertone. - -They all gave her a look--the look of partisans, to whom any objection -is an offense--all except Anne, who kept up an attitude of impartiality -throughout the whole. - -“I don’t know why he has put off so long if he had the mind to make such -an offer. If it had been further off perhaps I might have been more -tempted; but as it is--Alicia wants me to join with her father and break -the entail.” - -The female part of the committee did not immediately see the weight of -this statement. It took some time to make them understand: but Walter -saw it in a moment, and sprung to his feet in quick resentment. “Father, -of course you will not listen to it for a moment!” he cried. - -“To break the entail?” said the mother; “but I thought nothing could do -that, Edward.” - -“Except,” said Anne, “a change in the law.” - -“There is no question of any change in the law,” said Mr. Penton, -angrily. “How should there be a change in the law? None but demagogues -or socialists would ever think of it. The law is too strong in England. -As for empirics and revolutionaries--” He snapped his fingers with hot -contempt. The suggestion made him angry, although he had himself dwelt -upon it in the morning. Then he came back to the real matter: “Yes, -there is one way in which it can be done; that is what they want me to -do. If I joined with Sir Walter in taking certain steps the entail could -be broken: and Penton would go to Alicia, which it appears is his -desire.” - -“Father!” Walter cried. It was such an unspeakable blow to him, striking -at the very root of his personal importance, his dreams, his prospects, -everything that was his, that the young man was, what did not always -happen, the first to seize upon this terrible idea. He could not keep -his seat, but stood up tremulous, leaning upon the mantel-piece, looking -down with an angry alarm at all their faces, lighted up by the fire. It -seemed to Walter that in this slowness to understand there was something -of the indifference which those who are not themselves affected so often -show in the threatening of a calamity. Their unawakened surprised looks, -not grappling with the question, had a half-maddening effect upon him. -They did not care! it did not affect them. - -“But, Edward, why should you do that--to please Sir Walter--to -please--your cousin? Well, I should always like to keep on good terms -with my relations, and do what I could for them; but to give up what we -have been looking forward to so long--and the only thing we have to look -forward to! I am sure,” said Mrs. Penton, tears getting into her voice, -“I should be the last person to say anything against relations, or make -dispeace, but when you think that it is the only provision we have for -the children--the only--and when you remember that there’s Walter--” She -stopped, unable to go on any further, bewildered, not knowing what to -think. - -“Father does not mean that. It is not that, whatever it may mean.” - -“Of course I do not mean that. You take up all sorts of absurd ideas and -then you think I have said it. Sir Walter and Alicia are my relations, -it is true, but they don’t set up a claim on that score, neither am I -such a fool. Try and understand me reasonably, Annie. Property is -different from everything else; you don’t give up your rights to please -anybody. Here’s how it is. When the heir is willing to step in and break -the entail, of course he has compensation for it. Sir Walter is a very -old man, the property in all human probability will soon be in my hands, -therefore my compensation would be at a heavy rate. They are rich -enough,” said Mr. Penton, in a sort of smile, “they could afford that.” - -“They would give father the money,” said Anne, in a way she had before -found effectual in clearing her mother’s ideas; “and he would let them -have the land.” - -“Edward, is that what it means?” - -“Yes, strictly speaking: if you put feelings and pride and everything to -one side, and the thought of one’s family, and of all we’ve looked -forward to for years.” - -“You can’t put them to one side,” cried young Walter, sharply, in the -keen, harsh, staccato tones of bitterness and fear. “You can’t! No money -would make up for them, nothing could be put in their place. Father, you -feel that as well as I?” - -“_I_ feel that as well as you! To whom are you speaking? What are you in -the matter?--a boy that may never--that might never--whereas I’ve -thought of it all my life; it has been hanging within reach of my hand, -so to speak, for years. I’ve built everything on it. And a bit of a boy -asks me if I feel that--like him! Like him! What is he that he should -set himself as a model to me?” - -“Oh, father!” cried Ally, with her hand upon his arm. - -“Of course,” said Mrs. Penton in her quiet voice, quenching this little -eddy of passion far more effectually than if she had taken any notice of -it, “that makes a great difference. They would give you the money, and -you would let them keep the land? There is justice in that, Edward. I do -not say it is a thing to be snapped at at once, although we do want the -money so much. But still it is quite just, a thing to be calmly -considered. I wish you would tell us now exactly what your cousin wants, -and what she would give instead of it. It is like selling a property. I -am sure I for one should not mind selling _this_ property if we could -get a good price for it: and as we have no associations with Penton and -have never lived there, nor--” - -“Mother!” Could the old house have been moved by hot human breath as by -a wind of indignation, it would have shook from parapet to basement: -but Mrs. Penton on her deep foundation of sense and reason was not -shaken at all. She took no notice of the outcry. - -“No, we can have no associations with it,” she said, calmly. “I have -dined there three or four times in my life, and the children have never -been there at all. It would not matter much to us if it were to be -swallowed up in an earthquake, so long as its value remained.” - -The girls did not take their mother’s prosaic view. Each on her side, -they consoled and smoothed down the gentlemen--the young heir, hot with -the destruction of hopes that were entirely visionary, that had never -had any reality in them--and the immediate heir, to whom this one thing -was the sole touch of romance or of expectation in life. - -“Tell us about it, father,” and “Oh, Wat, be quiet; nothing’s done yet!” -was what they said. - -“Your mother takes it all very easy. She was not born a Penton,” said -the father. “Yes, I’ll tell you about it, though she’s settled it -already without any trouble, you see. It is not so simple to me. Women -can be more brutal than any one when they take it in that way. Alicia -was disposed to see it in the same light. She said she had been born -there, and never had lived anywhere else, so that her feeling to it must -be quite different from mine. Different from mine! to whom it has been -an enchantment all my life.” - -“What your cousin said was quite natural, Edward. I should have said the -same thing myself.” - -“You have just done so, my dear,” he said, with a sarcasm which went -quite wide of its mark. “Yes, I’ll tell you all about it, children. -Alicia and her father, it appears, have been thinking it over. They -think--they know, to be sure, for who can have any doubt on the -subject?--that I am poor. I am a poor man, with a number of children. A -man in my position can not do what he likes, but what he must. I need -money to bring you all up, to set you out in the world. Eight of you, -you know; that’s enough to crush any man,” he said. - -The girls looked at each other with a look which was half indignant yet -half guilty. They felt that somehow they were to blame for being there, -for crushing their father. Walter had no such sensation, but yet he -recognized the truth of the complaint. He was the eldest, a legitimate, -even a necessary party to this question; since but for his existence, in -his own opinion, his father’s heirship would have been unimportant. But -the others were, he allowed to himself, so much ballast on the other -side, complicating the question, making a difficulty where there should -be none. - -“I should have thought,” he said, indignantly, “that Sir Walter would -have seen how mean it was to take advantage--what a poor sort of thing -it was to trade upon a man’s disabilities--upon his burdens--upon what -he can not throw off, nor get rid of.” - -Mrs. Penton’s mind had been traveling meanwhile upon its own tranquil -yet anxious way. - -“Was there any offer made you, Edward? Did she say how much they -thought?--wouldn’t that be one of the first things to think of? We might -be troubling ourselves all for nothing, if they were intending to take -advantage, Walter says. But, then, how should Walter know? They would -never take him into their confidence. Was any sum mentioned? for that -would show whether they meant to take advantage. I never heard they were -that sort of people. Your cousin Alicia has the name of being proud, but -as for taking advantage--” - -“Can’t you see,” he cried, with irritation, “that you are driving me -distracted, going over and over one set of words? Walter’s a fool. Do -you suppose the Pentons are cheats? To make such an offer at all was -taking an--If we had been as well off as they are they never would have -ventured. That’s all about it. I never supposed they would try to outwit -me in a bargain.” After this little blaze of energy he sunk into his -more usual depression. “If it hadn’t been for you and the children of -course I shouldn’t have listened, not for a moment.” - -“Why should you do it for us, father? We don’t cost so much. We could go -away and be governesses, rather than be such a burden!” - -Mrs. Penton put down the hand upon which she had drawn the stocking to -give Anne a warning touch, while her father took no notice except with a -passing glance. - -“A man can do himself no justice when he’s weighted down on every side. -It has always been my luck. I wonder, for my part, now that they have -had the assurance to propose it at all, why they didn’t propose it years -and years ago.” - -“What a thing it would have been!” said Mrs. Penton; “many an anxiety it -would have saved us, Edward. Why, it would make you a rich man! We have -always looked forward so to Penton, and nobody ever supposed Sir Walter -would live till eighty-five; but I have never thought of it as such a -paradise. For, in the first place, it would want a great deal of money -to keep it up.” - -“Yes, it would take money to keep it up.” - -“Everybody says it is kept up beautifully. You never could reconcile -yourself to neglecting anything, and hearing people say how different it -was in Sir Walter’s time. Then the house is such a grand house, and it -would come to us empty or nearly empty. Oh, I’ve thought it all over so -often. Gentlemen don’t go into these matters as a woman does. Of course, -your cousin Alicia would take away all the beautiful furniture that -suits the house. Her father would leave it to her, for _that’s_ not -entailed, you know. We should go into it empty, or with only a few old -sticks: what should we do with the things we’ve got in Penton?” She -looked round with an affectionate contempt at the well-worn chairs, the -table in the middle, the old dingy curtains with no color left in them. -“The first thing we should have to do would be to furnish from top to -bottom, and where should we find the money to do that?” - -Mr. Penton did not say anything. He made a little impatient wave of his -hand, but he did not contradict or even attempt to stop her soft, slow, -gentle voice as she went on. - -“And then the gardeners! they are a kind of army in themselves. To pay -them all their wages every week, the men that are in the houses, and the -men that are outside, and the people at the lodges, and the carpenters, -and the men that roll the lawns; where should we find the money? If we -could have the rents and go on living _here_, of course I don’t say -anything against it, we should be rich. But to live at Penton we should -just be as poor as we are now--as poor but much grander--obliged to give -parties and keep horses--and dress--If I ever had ventured to tell you -my opinion, Edward, I should have told you, instead of looking forward -to Penton it has been my terror night and day. I always thought,” she -continued, after a pause, “that I should try and persuade you to let -it, until, at least, we had a little money to the good.” - -“To let Penton!” The cry burst from them all in every variation of tone, -indignant, angry, astonished. To let--Penton! Penton, which had been the -golden dream of fancy, the paradise of hope, the one thing which -consoled everybody, from Mr. Penton down to Horry, for all that went -amiss in life. - -“Well?” said the mother, lifting her mild eyes, looking at them for a -moment. “I have always thought so, but I would not say it, for what was -the use? You all worship Penton, both you and the children. But I never -was taken in by it. I have always seen that, however pleasant it might -be, and beautiful and all that--and everybody’s prejudices in its -favor--we never could keep it up.” - -She turned round, having delivered her soul, and drew her basket toward -her, in which were her needles and the worsted for her darning. She had -settled exactly how these big holes were to be attacked, how the threads -of the stocking went, and that it must be done in an oblique line to -keep the shape. Without a little consideration beforehand, neither -stockings can be mended nor anything else done. She had said her say, -and no doubt, however it was settled, she would do her best, as well for -Penton as for the stocking. And the others watched her without knowing -they were watching her. She settled to her work with a little sigh of -relief, glad to escape into a region where there could be no two -opinions, where everything was straightforward. There was something in -this which had a great effect upon the young ones, especially upon -Walter, who was the most resistant, the most deeply and cruelly -disappointed. There came upon him a great, a horrible consciousness that -in all likelihood she was right. - -Mr. Penton, as was natural, was not so much impressed. “All that,” he -said, with a little wave of his hand, “is a truism.” He paused, then -repeated it again with a sense that he had got hold of a new and -impressive word. “It is a truism,” he said. “Everybody was aware from -the beginning that to keep up Penton as it has been kept up would be -impossible. My uncle and Alicia have made a toy of Penton. It would be -really better, it would look more like the old house it is, if it were -not cleaned up like that, shaven and shorn like a cockney villa. If I -were a millionaire I should not choose to do it. So I don’t think very -much of that argument.” Walter’s spirits rose as he followed eagerly his -father’s utterance. But after a moment Mr. Penton continued, “There is -no doubt, on the other side, that living would cost a great deal more -than--more than perhaps we--have ever contemplated. There would be the -furnishing, as your mother says--I had not thought of that.” - -He made the children a sort of jury, before whom the _pro_ and the _con_ -were to be set forth. - -“It is beautifully furnished at present--every one says so, at least; -that would be a great charge to begin with. And we might have a good -deal to put up with in the confusion that would be made between the poor -family and the rich. Your mother is quite right so far as that is -concerned; what she doesn’t take into consideration is the family -feeling--the traditions, the sense that it is ours, and that nobody can -have any right to it except ourselves. Alicia, to be sure, is a Penton -too, and, as she says, she has been born there, and never has known any -other home. But still, as a matter of fact, she has entered another -family. It would be an alienation. It has always gone in the male line. -To give it up would be--would be--” - -“Father,” said Walter, “you couldn’t think of it. It would be like -tearing body and soul asunder. Give up Penton! I think I would rather -die.” - -“What has dying to do with it?” cried the father, impatiently. And then -he sat silent for a moment, staring into the fire and twiddling his -thumbs, unconscious of what he was doing. The young ones watched him -anxiously, feeling with a certain awe that their fate was being decided, -but that this question was too immense for their interference. At length -he got up slowly and pushed back his chair. “We’ll sleep upon it,” he -said. - - - - -CHAPTER X. - -AN ADVENTURE. - - -But Walter, for his part, could not sleep upon it. He followed his -father out of the room, he scarcely knew with what intention; perhaps -with a hope of further discussion, of being able to open his own mind, -of convincing the wavering mind of Mr. Penton. It seemed to him that he -could set it all forth so clearly if only the permission were given him. -But Mr. Penton gave his son no invitation to accompany him. He asked -where Walter was going, what he meant to do moving about at that hour of -the night. - -“I think I will take--a little turn, sir,” the young man said. - -“You are always taking turns!” said Mr. Penton, with irritation. “Why -can’t you do something? Why can’t you be going on with your Greek?” - -There had been nothing said about Greek for some time. What could he -mean by alluding to it now? Walter’s foreboding mind at once attached -significance to this. He thought that his father meant to suggest a -return to his abandoned studies by way of preparing for something -serious to come of them. But his dismay at the suggestion was not so -ungenerous as the looker-on might have supposed. It was not that he was -afraid of being made to work. What he was afraid of was that this was -but another sign of the abandonment of Penton--of turning aside to other -purposes and other views than those which had been in some sort the -religion of his life. - -It need scarcely be said that no such idea was in Mr. Penton’s mind. He -took up the Greek, a missile lying ready to his hand, and tossed it at -Walter as he would have flung a stone at a dog which had come in his way -in the present perturbed state of his spirits. Having done this, he -thought no more of it, but went into his book-room and shut the door -with a little emphasis, which meant that he was not to be troubled, but -which to Walter seemed to mean that he declined further argument and had -made up his mind. The boy stood for a moment groping for his hat, -following his father with his eyes, and then rushed out into the night -in a turmoil of feeling--indignation, misery, surprise. He had been -taken so entirely at unawares. Such a thought as that of being called -upon to relinquish Penton had never entered into his mind; it had never -occurred to him as a possibility. He knew well enough, whatever any one -might say, that to abolish entail was not a thing to be done in a -minute. Revolutions in law take time. It was not likely that a man of -eighty-five would live long enough to see a change like this -accomplished. He had dismissed that idea with scorn; and from what -other quarter could any attack come? Walter had felt himself -invulnerable--unassailable in his own right. No son could be more -dutiful, more affectionate, less likely to calculate upon his father’s -death; yet, oddly enough, his father had appeared to him only as a -secondary person in this matter--a man with a temporary interest; it was -he who was the heir. And--without any fault of his, in complete -independence of him, without asking his opinion any more than as one of -the children, any more than that of Ally or Anne--his birthright was -about to be given away! - -A dim evening, soft and damp, and with little light in it, had succeeded -the brilliant watery sunset. There was a moon somewhere about, but she -was visible only by intervals from among the milky clouds. A sort of -pale suffusion of light was in the atmosphere, in which all the chief -features of the landscape were visible, but more clearly the house, with -all its matted-work of creepers, the lights in the windows, the bare -branches rising overhead, with a little sighing wind in them, a wind -that moaned and murmured of rain. More rain!--rain that would fill up -higher the link of darkly shining water which all but surrounded Penton -Hook. The sky was full of it, the atmosphere was full of it; the -branches glistened with damp; the very gravel, where you had made an -indentation with your heel, filled up with the oozing water, of which -the soil was full: and the wind kept sighing with its little lugubrious -tone among the branches, saying, “More rain! more rain!” There was a -certain moral chill in the air by reason of this, but it was not cold; -it was what is called “muggy” on Thames-side. Walter was so well used to -it that he made no remark to himself on the damp, nor did he feel the -chill. He went crunching along the gravel in his boots, which made a -great many indentations, and left a general running of little stray -water-gleams behind him, to a certain bench which he had himself made -under the tall poplar close to the river bank. It had not been put there -because there was shade to be had in the season when shade was wanted, -and when it is pleasant to sit out and see the river at one’s feet. It -was put there for quite a different reason, because when you knew -exactly where to look, there was one small corner, the angle of a -chimney at Penton, visible among the trees. And there he seated himself -to think. - -The mother had been right when she said that they had worshiped Penton. -The children had all been brought up in that devotion. It was a sort of -earthly paradise, in which they took refuge from all the immediate -humiliations and vexations of their lot. To be poor, yet to belong to -the class which is rich, is not a comfortable position. Those who in his -own estimation were Walter’s equals were in every external circumstance -more separated from him than were the young farmers about; and yet the -farmers would have been put out by his presence among them, and he would -have found himself entirely out of his element. He was thus a young -solitary belonging to nobody, at home with none of his compeers, without -companions or friends of his age. The farmers, had he taken to them or -they to him, were better off than he; they had horses to ride, they -followed the hunt, they kept dogs that ran in coursing matches. Wat had -nothing except, if he pleased, a share now and then of the solid, sturdy -little pony-of-all-work, and Elfie, the shaggy little terrier. What -youth of twenty could live in the country and see Fred Milton, who had -been in his division at Eton, and little Bannister, go by in pink and -not feel it? He felt it, and so did Ally feel it when she read Eva -Milton’s name among the list of the young ladies who were presented and -who had been at the court ball. Do you suppose Ally did not wish to see -what a ball was like as well as the rest? The farmers’ daughters had -their dances too, and got beautiful white tulle dresses for them as well -as their superiors in rank. But Ally got nothing; neither the one nor -the other. They were shut out of everything, these poor young people, -and felt it, being made but of ordinary flesh and blood. - -But Penton had been amid all this the refuge of their imaginations. They -had been told indeed that even when they were in Penton they would be -poor. But poverty in such circumstances would be transformed. They would -no longer be shut out of everything, they would come within the range of -the people who were “like themselves.” Walter seated himself at the foot -of the poplar-tree, with the river running far too close to his feet, -for it was very high, sweeping round with an ominous hurry and murmur, -preparing floods to come, and the bare branches overhead rustling and -whispering in the wind--and directed his eyes to the high wooded bank, -the belt of trees, the Penton chimney corner. He could not see it with -his bodily eyes, but in his soul he saw it dominating the landscape, -and saw as in a panorama everything it involved. Sir Walter Penton of -Penton was a power in the county, he was not a mere squire like Fred -Milton’s father, or a lordling of yesterday like Bannister’s ennobled -papa. Sir Walter Penton of Penton--not the old man who lived shut up in -his library, who was taken out for a drive on fine days. Young Walter -meant no harm to the old man, but he was himself the Sir Walter Penton -whom he had seen in his dreams. What was it he had looked for? Was it -only the vulgar improvement, more money to spend, better dinners, -horses, travels, all that a young man wants? He had wanted these things, -but something more. He had wanted first of all to find himself in his -place; to be somebody, not nobody; to recover the importance which was -his right, to have all the evils of fortune made up to him. Is not that -what the young dream everywhere, whatever their circumstances may -be?--to have everything set right, to do away with all the spurns that -patient merit of the unworthy takes. Those who spurn you may not be -unworthy, and your own merit may not be patent, or even you may be -conscious that you are not meritorious at all. But still we dream, even -without such a tangible occasion for dreaming as Walter, of everything -being set right. - -And now in a moment this hope was all to be cut away. Penton was to be -made nothing--nothing to him, no more than any house about, no more than -Bannister’s fictitious abbey with its new Strawberry Hill cloister, -which was founded upon nothing but wealth, whereas there had been -Pentons of Penton since the thirteenth century, and most likely long -before. And he was the representative of them all! In his veins was -concentrated the essence of theirs: and yet he was to be cut off; he was -to stand stupid and look on, without even a right to say no, though it -was his inheritance. Walter felt the very possibility of thought taken -from him in this dreadful catastrophe. He had nothing to do with it! -that was what everybody would say. He was not one-and-twenty, but even -if he had reached that age he had nothing to do with it, though it meant -his very life. - -The tumult of these thoughts overwhelmed the poor young fellow. They -carried him away as the river carries everything away when it is in -flood, and turned him over and over and dashed him against stones and -muddy projections, and poured waves of bitterness over his head. He sat -and bit his nails, and gnawed his under lip, and thought and thought, if -there was any way to get out of it, if he could say anything, make any -protest to his father, declare his own readiness to go anywhere, do -anything, rather than suffer this sacrifice. He might go to -Australia--in Australia people make fortunes quickly. He might soon be -able to make money, to send home something for the children; or to -India, or to the gold fields somewhere where nuggets were still to be -had. These thoughts can scarcely be called disinterested, for it was how -to save what was more to him than nuggets or fortune that Walter was -thinking of; but at all events it was not for himself in the first place -that he meant to labor. It was for an ambition altogether visionary -after all--for Penton, which meant to him the something better, the -something loftier, the ideal of life. As he sat musing, the clouds -cleared away a little; there began to be a clear place in the sky; it -grew lighter, but he did not remark it--until all at once, without a -word of warning, the moon suddenly struck out, and made an outburst of -radiant reflection upon the river at his feet which called his attention -in spite of himself. He looked up instinctively, by the instinct of long -habit, and lo! everything was clear over Penton; the moon shining full, -the clouds all floating away in masses of fleecy whiteness, and a -weather-cock somewhere blazing out, as if it were made of gold and -silver, to the right. - -This sudden revelation was too much for the boy. He gave a cry of -insupportable indignation, a loud protest and utterance of despair, and -then hid his face, as if the white light had blinded him, in his hands. - -“Stay, Martha, look! there’s some one on the bank. If it’s one of the -family what shall I do? or if it’s a tramp? Look! either he’s gone to -sleep and he’ll catch his death of cold, or else he’s blinded with the -moonlight, as people say.” - -It was a pretty voice that spoke, with a little catch in it as of -mingled fright and audacity: and then followed a slight stir on the -gravel as though the speaker had started back at sight of the -unlooked-for figure under the tree. “Oh, Martha! what shall I do? I’ve -no business to be here at this time of the night.” - -“You’re doing no harm,” said Martha. “The missis will think I was -showing a friend round the grounds to look at the moon, and she’ll never -say a word. It’s Master Walter. Hush! Don’t you take no notice, and -he’ll take none. He’s often here of nights.” - -“But he’s gone to sleep, and he’ll catch his death of cold,” the -stranger said. “Oh, Martha, you that know him, go and wake him up!” - -“Hush, then, come along. It’s not cold, only a bit damp, and we’re used -to that in this house. Come along,” Martha said. - -Walter heard with an acuteness of hearing which perhaps, had it been -only Martha, would not have been his; but the other voice was not like -Martha’s--he thought it sounded like a lady’s voice. And he was pleased -by the solicitude about himself. And he was very young, and in great -need of some new interest that might call him out of himself. He rose up -suddenly, and took a long step after the two startled figures, which -flew before him as soon as he was seen to move. - -“Hi, Martha! where are you off to? Come back, I tell you. Do you think -I’ll do you any harm, that you run from me?” - -“Oh, no, sir, please, sir; it’s only me and a friend taking a turn by -the river afore she goes up to the village. It’s a friend, please, sir, -as is staying with us at ’ome.” - -“There’s no harm done,” said Walter. “You need not run because of me. -I’m going in.” The two young women had come to a pause in a spot where -the moon was shining clearly, showing in a little opening, amid all the -tracery of interlacing boughs, of which she was making a shadow pattern -everywhere, the square figure of Martha, standing firm, with another -lighter, shrinking shadow, slim and youthful, beside her. There was -something romantic to Walter’s imagination in this unknown, who had -shown so much interest in himself. “Going to the village at this hour!” -he added. “I hope she is not going by herself.” - -“Oh, it’s of no consequence, sir,” said Martha, pulling rather -imperatively her companion by the gown. - -“Is it a bad road, or are there tramps, or--anything? Oh, Martha!” the -other said, in a voice which sounded very clear, though subdued. - -“Oh, nonsense, Emmy! It’s just like any other road. It’s a bit dark and -steep to begin with. But there’s nothing to be frightened of.” - -“Oh, why did I stay so late!” said the other. “How silly of me not to -think! No lamps, nor--nor shops, nor people. I never was out on a -country road in the dark. Oh, why didn’t I think--” - -“Don’t be silly! It’s as safe as safe; there’s never no accidents here.” - -“You had better keep your friend with you all night, Martha; my mother -will not mind.” - -“Oh!--but _my_ mother, sir! she would go out of her senses wondering -what had come to me.” - -“Emmy, don’t be a silly. I tell you it’s as safe--” - -“I have nothing particular to do,” said Walter, good-humoredly. “Since -she is so frightened I will walk with her as far as the turnpike. You -can see the lights of the village from there.” - -“Oh, Mr. Walter, I couldn’t let you take that trouble. I’d rather go -with her myself. I’ll run and get Jarvis. I’ll--” - -“You need not do anything. It’s turned out a lovely night,” said Walter, -“and I shall be all the better for the walk.” - -It was all settled in a moment, before he himself knew what was being -done, with the carelessness, the suddenness which sometimes decides an -all-important event. Walter was seized just at the moment when his own -evil fortune seemed overwhelming, when fate seemed to be laying hold on -him, with a force which nothing could resist. He was seized by a kind -impulse, a good-natured wish to be of use to somebody, to escape from -himself in this most legitimate, most virtuous way, by doing something -for another. He was pleased with himself for thinking of it. A sense of -being good came into his mind, with a little surprise and even amusement -such as only an hour ago would have seemed impossible to him. It was -like what his mother or one of the girls might have done, but such -impulses did not occur readily to himself. He walked round toward the -gate by which Martha and her friend stood and whispered together. Martha -he could see did not like it; she was shocked to think of her young -master having the trouble. The trouble! that was the thing that made it -pleasant. He felt for the moment delivered from himself. - -“If I am walking too fast for you, tell me,” he said, when he found -himself upon the road with the small, timid figure keeping a respectful -distance at his side. - -“Oh, no, sir,” but with a little pant of breathlessness, she said. - -“I _am_ going too fast--how thoughtless of me! Is that better? And so -you are not used to country roads?” - -“I am only a little cockney, sir. I have never been out of London -before. It’s a bad time to come to the country in the winter: for one -forgets how short the days are, and it’s silly to be frightened. I am -silly, I suppose.” - -“Let us hope not about other things,” said Walter. “The road is very -dark, to be sure.” - -“Yes, sir,” she said, with a little shiver, drawing closer. They were -still in the hollow and the hedges were high on either side, and the -darkness was complete upon their path, though a little way above the -moon penetrated, and made the ascent as white as silver and as light -almost as day. - -“Should you like,” he said, with a little laugh of embarrassment, yet an -impulse which gave him a curious pleasure, such as he was quite -unfamiliar with, “to hold on by me?--would you like to take my arm?” - -“Oh, no, sir!” - -The suggestion seemed to fill her with alarm, and she shrunk away after -coming so close. Walter was, on the whole, relieved that she did not -take his offer, but he was pleased with himself for having made it, and -immensely interested in this little modest unknown, who was unseen as -well--this little mysterious being by his side in the dark. - -“The wood is very pretty,” he said, “although you can’t see it, and -there are no lamps.” - -“You are laughing at me, sir; but if you consider that I never was out -of the reach of the lamps before. Hampstead is the furthest I have been, -and there are lamps there even on the heath. The darkness is one of the -things that strikes me most. It is so dark you can feel it. It’s black.” -She gave another little shiver, and said, after a moment, “I do so love -the light.” - -Her tone, her words, the ease with which she spoke, filled Walter with -surprise--a surprise which he expressed without thinking, with a -frankness which perhaps he would not have displayed had his companion -not been Martha’s friend. - -“And what,” he said, “can you be doing in our village, and at old -Crockford’s? I can’t understand it. You are a--you’re not a--” - -He began to recollect himself when he came this length. To say “you’re a -lady” seemed quite simple when he began to speak; but as he went on it -did not prove so easy. If she was a lady how could he venture to make -any such remark? - -She gave a little soft laugh which was very pretty to hear. “Old -Crockford is--a sort of an uncle of mine,” she said. - -“Your uncle!” - -“Well, no--not quite my uncle, but something a little like it. When I am -humble-minded I call him so; when I am not humble-minded--” - -“What happens then?” - -“I say as little about it as I can; I think as little about it as I can. -No,” she said, with a little vehemence, “I’m not a lady, and yet I’m not -a--Martha Crockford. I am a poor little London cockney girl. You -shouldn’t be walking with me, sir; you oughtn’t to see me home, you, a -gentleman’s son. People might talk. As soon as we get into the moonlight -there, where it is so bright, I will release you and run home.” - -“Home!” said Walter, incredulous; “it is not possible. Whoever you -are--and of course I have no right to ask--I am sure you are a lady. You -are as little like the Crockfords as any one could be. No doubt you must -have some reason--” - -“Oh, yes,” she said, with a laugh, clasping her hands, “a mysterious -reason; how can you doubt it? I am a heroine, and I have got a story. I -am in hiding from Prince Charming, who wants to run away with me and -make me his queen; but I won’t have him, for I am too high-toned. I -could not have him shock his court and break the queen mother’s heart. -Every word I say makes you more certain what sort of person I am. Now -doesn’t it?” she cried, with another laugh. - -“I can’t tell what sort of a person you are,” said Walter, “for I am -sure I never talked to any one like you before.” - -“Well,” she said, with a quick breath which might have been a sigh, “I -hope that is a compliment. I have been talking to Martha all night, -dropping my h’s and making havoc with my grammar. It is nice to do the -other thing for a little and bewilder some one else. Yes; I am sure this -is a pretty road when there is light to see it. One can’t see it in the -moonlight, one can see nothing for the moon.” - -“That is true,” said Walter; “just as in summer you can’t see the grass -for flowers.” - -“I don’t exactly catch the resemblance. What is that lying under the -hedge? The shadow is so black, so black now we have got into the light. -Look, please; I feel a little frightened. What is that under the hedge?” - -“Nothing,” said Walter; “only a heap of stones. If you will look back -now we have got up here you will see the river and all the valley. The -view is very pretty from here.” - -He hoped to see her face when she should turn round, for, though the -moonlight is deceiving, it is still better than darkness. Even though -she had her back turned to the light he could now see something--the -round of what was a pretty cheek. - -“I am sure there is something there under the hedge, something that -moved.” - -“I will look to satisfy you,” said Walter; “but I know there is nothing. -Ah--” - -A quick rush, a little patter of steps flying along the white road, were -the first indications he had of what had happened. Then, before he could -recover himself, a laughing “Good-bye, good-bye, sir. Thank you; I see -the village lights,” came to him down the road. He made a few steps in -pursuit, but then stopped, for the little flying figure was already out -of sight. And then he stood looking after her _planté la_, as the French -say. Why, it was an adventure!--such a break as had never happened -before in his tranquil life. - - - - -CHAPTER XI. - -THE GIRLS’ OPINION. - - -The girls in the drawing-room not only met with no adventure, but they -did not even know that the damp atmosphere had cleared up and the moon -come out. They did not know what had become of Walter. They were as -unaware of his despair as of the sudden amusement which had come to him -to console him in the midst of it. They thought--hoped rather--that he -had gone to the book-room with Mr. Penton and was there talking it over, -and perhaps undoing the effect of what their mother had said. It did -not, indeed, seem very likely that Walter should be able to do this, but -yet they were so much on the side of Penton in their hearts that a vague -hope that it might be so, moved them in spite of themselves. Walter -against mother seemed a forlorn hope; and yet when all your wishes are -in the scale it is difficult to believe that these will not somehow help -and give force to the advocate. Ally and Anne had taken their places at -the table when the gentlemen went away. They were making little -pinafores for the children: there were always pinafores to be made for -the children. Anne, who was not fond of needle-work, evaded the duty -(which to her mother appeared one of the chief things for which women -were made) as much and as long as she could, but, being beguiled by -promises of reading aloud, did submit in the evening. The little ones -used so many pinafores! Ally was always busy at them, except when she -was helping in the more responsible work of making little frocks. This -evening there was no one to read aloud, but no one blamed Walter for -going out; no one even thought of the book, though they were at the -beginning of the third volume. Penton for the moment was a more -interesting subject than any novel. The girls had not thought so much of -it as Walter had done, but still it had been a prominent feature in -their dreams also. The idea of being Pentons of Penton could not be -indifferent; of taking their place among the aristocracy of the county; -of going everywhere, having invitations to all the parties, to tennis in -summer, to the dances, all the gayeties, of which now they only heard. -Secretly in their souls they had consoled themselves with the thought of -this when they heard of the great doings at Milton and all that was done -when little Lord Bannister came of age. Anne, indeed, had exclaimed, “If -they don’t think proper to ask us now they may let us alone afterward, -for I sha’n’t go!” But Ally, more tolerant, had taken the other side. -“They don’t know anything about us; it would be going out of their way -to ask us. If they knew we were nice, and didn’t ask us because we were -poor, that would be horrid of them; but how can they tell whether we are -nice or not?”; Anne would have none of this indulgent argument; she had -made up her mind when they came to advancement to revenge all these -wrongs of their poverty, so that it was equally hard upon her to have to -consent to do without that advancement after all. - -Thus they had plenty to talk about as they made their little pinafores. -These were made of colored print, which looked cheerful and clean (when -it was clean), and wore well, Mrs. Penton thought. Brown holland, no -doubt, is the best on the whole, and there is most wear in it, but it is -apt to look dingy when it is not quite fresh, and when it is once washed -gets such a blanched, sodden look; even red braid fails to make it -cheerful. So that Mrs. Penton preferred pink print and blue, which are -cheaper than brown holland. The table looked quite bright with those -contrasting hues upon it; and the young faces of the girls bending over -their work, though they looked more grave and anxious than usual, were -pleasant in their fresh tints. Mrs. Penton herself went on with her -darning. She had filled up all those great holes, doing them all the -more quickly because she had studied the “lie” of them, and how the -threads went, before. - -“I have never said anything about it,” said Mrs. Penton, “for what was -the use? I saw no way to be clear of Penton; but I’ve had this in my -mind for years and years. You don’t know what an expense it would be; -even the removal would cost a great deal: and though we should have a -larger income we should have no ready money--not a farthing. And then -you know your father, he would never be content to live in a small way, -as we can do here, at Penton; he would want to keep up everything as it -was in Sir Walter’s time. He would want a carriage, and horses to ride. -He might even think of going into Parliament--that was one of his ideas -once. Indeed, I see no end to the expense if we were once launched upon -Penton. We should be finer, and we should see more company, but I don’t -think we should be a bit better after awhile than if we had never come -into any fortune at all.” - -“But it would always be something to be fine, and to see more company, -and to have a carriage, and horses to ride,” said Anne. - -“At the cost of getting into debt and leaving off worse than we were -before!” said the mother, shaking her head. - -Ally let her work drop on the table and looked up with soft eyes. There -was a light unusual in them, which shone even in the smoky rays of that -inodorous lamp. “Oh,” she said, with a long-drawn breath, “mother! it’s -wicked, I know; and if it made things worse afterward--” - -“She thinks just as I do!” cried Anne--“that to have a little fun and -see the world, and everything you say, would be worth it, if it were -only for a little while!” - -“Oh, girls!” said Mrs. Penton--a mild exasperation was in her tone--“if -you only knew what I know--” - -“We can’t do that, mother, unless we had experience like you; and how -are we to get experience unless we risk something? What can we ever know -here?--the hours the post goes out, though we have so few letters, the -times they have parties at the abbey, though we’re never asked. The only -thing we can really get to know is how high the river rises when it’s in -flood, and how many days’ rain it takes to make it level with our -garden. Oh, how uncomfortable that is, and how chill and clammy! What -else can we ever know at Penton Hook?” - -“Oh, girls!” said Mrs. Penton again. - -_Si jeunesse savait!_ But this is what will never be till the end of the -world. And at the same time there was something in her maternal soul -that took their part. That they should have their pleasure like the -other girls; that they should have their balls, their triumphs like the -rest; that to dress them beautifully and admire their bright looks might -be hers, a little reflected glory and pleasure for once in her dim, -laborious life--her heart went out with a sigh to this which was so -pleasant, so sweet. But then afterward? To give it up was hard--hard -upon those who had not discounted it all as she had done, taking the -glory to pieces and deciding that there was no satisfaction in it. She -felt for her husband and the children, though for them more than for -him--but her feeling was pity for a pleasant delusion which could not -last, rather than sympathy. Penton itself was to her nothing; she -disliked it rather than otherwise as something which had been opposed to -her all her life. - -“If your father accept this offer,” she said after a time, “we need not -stay in Penton Hook. We might let it; or at least we might leave it in -the winter and go to some other place. We might go to London, or we -might even go abroad; then you would really see the world. If your -father had to give up Penton without any advantage that would be a real -misfortune. But of course they would give him a just equivalent. Our -income would be doubled and more than doubled. Oswald could stay at -Marlborough; Walter might go to Oxford. We should be better off at once -without waiting for it, and we should be free, not compelled to keep up -a large place or spend our money foolishly. You might have your fun, as -you call it. Why shouldn’t you? We would be a great deal better off than -at Penton, and directly--at once. You know what everybody says about -waiting for dead men’s shoes. Sir Walter may live for ten years yet. -When a man has lived to eighty-five he may just as well live to -ninety-five. And I am sure if we only could get a little more money to -live on, none of us wishes him to die.” - -“Oh, no,” said the girls, one after another. “If it is any pleasure to -him to live,” Anne added reflectively, after a pause. - -“Pleasure to live? It is always a pleasure to live, at least it seems -so. No one wishes to die as long as he can help it. I wonder why myself; -for when you are feeble and languid and everything is a trouble, it -seems strange to wish to go on. They do, though,” said the middle-aged -mother with a sigh. She thought of Sir Walter as they thought of her, -with a mixture of awe and impatience. They felt that their own eager -state, looking forward to life, must be so far beyond anything that was -possible to her; just as she felt her own weary yet life-full being to -be so far in the range of vitality above him. She drew the stocking off -her arm as she spoke, and smoothed it out, and matched it with its -fellow, and rolled them both up into that tidy ball which is the proper -condition of a pair of stockings when they are clean and mended, and -ready to be put on. “I think I will go up to the nursery and take a look -at the children,” she said. “Horry had a cold; I should like to see that -there is no feverishness about him now he is in bed.” - -Ally and Anne dropped their work with one accord as their mother went -away, not because her departure freed them, but because their -excitement, their doubt, their sense of the family crisis all -intensified when restraint was withdrawn, and they felt themselves free -to discuss the problem between themselves. “What do you think?” they -both said instinctively, the two questions meeting as it were in mid -career and striking against each other. “I think,” said Anne, quickly, -not pausing a moment, “that there is a great deal in what mother says.” - -“Oh, do you?” said Ally, with an answering look of disappointment; then -she added, “Of course there must be, or mother would not say it. But -would you ever be so happy anywhere as you would be in Penton? Would you -think anywhere else as good--London, or even abroad--oh, Anne, Penton!” - -And now it was that Anne showed that skeptical, not to say cynical -spirit, that superiority to tradition which had never appeared before in -any of her family. - -“After all,” she said, “what is Penton? Only a house like another. I -never heard that it was particularly convenient or even beautiful more -than quantities of other houses. It is very large--a great deal too -large for us--and without furniture, as mother says. Fancy walking into -a great empty, echoing place, without a carpet or a chair, and -pretending to be comfortable. It makes me shudder to think of, whatever -you may say.” - -Ally was chilled much more by Anne’s saying it than by the vision thus -presented to her. She began hurriedly, “But Penton--” and then stopped, -not knowing apparently what to say. - -“I begin to be dreadfully tired of Penton,” said Anne, giving herself an -air of superiority and elderly calmness. “Everybody romances so about -that big, vulgar house. Well, anything’s vulgar that pretends to be more -than it is. One would suppose it was the House Beautiful or else a royal -palace at the very least, to hear you all speak. And then poor old Sir -Walter, to grudge him his little bit of life! I feel like a vampire,” -cried Anne, “every day wishing that he may die.” - -“I am sure,” cried Ally, moved almost to tears, “I don’t wish him to -die.” - -“You wish to be at Penton, and you can’t be at Penton till he dies,” -said Anne, triumphantly. “Poor old gentleman! his nice warm rooms that -he has taken so much trouble with, and all his pretty things! And to -think that a lot of children who will pull everything to pieces should -he let in upon them, and his own daughter, who is like himself, and who -would keep everything just as he liked to see it, should be driven -away!” - -“I never thought of it in that light before,” said Ally, in a troubled -voice. - -“Nor I,” said Anne; “but it is fair to put yourself in another person’s -place and think how you would feel if--Mrs. Russell Penton must hate us, -naturally. I should if I were she. Fancy if there was some one whose -interest it was that father should die!” - -“Oh, Anne!” - -“It is just the very same only that father is not so old as Sir Walter. -Suppose there were no boys, but only you and me, and some other horrible -people were the heirs of the entail. How I should hate them! I think I -should try to kill them!” - -Anne loved an effect, and Ally’s softer spirit was the instrument upon -which she played. Ally cried “No, no, no!” with a horrified protest -against these abominable sentiments. A cloud of trouble gathered over -her face; her eyes filled with tears. She put up her hands to stop those -dreadful words as they flowed from her sister’s mouth. - -“To hate any one would be terrible. I could not do that, nor you either, -Anne.” - -“Not if they wished that father might die?” - -This awful supposition overwhelmed Ally altogether. She melted into -tears. - -“Well, then, come along out into the garden, and don’t let’s think of it -any more. I want a little air--the lamp is so nasty to-night--and I’ll -finish my pinafore to-morrow. It is very nearly done, all but the -button-holes. Do come out and see if the river is rising. That is one -good thing about Penton, it is out of reach of the floods. But look, -what a change! It is almost as clear as day, and the moon so beautiful. -If I had known I should not have stayed in-doors in the light of that -horrid lamp.” - -“We _must_ do our work some time,” said Ally, faintly, allowing herself -to be persuaded. It was rather cold, and very damp; but the moon had -come out quite clear, dispersing, or rather driving back into distance -the masses of milky clouds which had lost their angry aspect, and no -longer seemed to foretell immediate rain. Rain is disagreeable to -everybody (except occasionally to the farmers), but it is more than -disagreeable to people who live half surrounded by a river; it made -their hearts rise to see that the rain-clouds seemed dispersing and the -heavens getting clear. And then it takes so very little to lighten -hearts of seventeen and eighteen! The merest trifle will do--the touch -of the fresh air, even the little nip of the cold which stirred their -blood. As they came out Walter appeared, coming back from the gate, a -dark figure against the light. - -“Oh, Wat, where have you been? Have you been up to the village without -telling us? And I did so want a run? Why didn’t you call me?” - -“Don’t, Anne,” said Ally; “he is not in spirits for your nonsense. Poor -Wat! he can not throw it off like you.” - -“Ah,” said Walter, reflectively; but it seemed to the girls that he had -to think what it was he could not throw off. “I have not been up to the -village,” he said; “only round the dark corner. Martha was there with a -little girl who was in a terrible funk. She thought there were lions and -tigers under the hedge. I just saw her round the corner.” - -“How kind of you, Wat! A little girl! But who could she be?” - -“I don’t know a bit,” said Walter, demurely. “It was too dark to see her -face.” - -He thought his own voice sounded a little strange, but they did not -perceive it. They came to either side of him, linking each an arm in -his. - -“Come and look at Penton in the moonlight,” said Anne, she who was so -indifferent to Penton. But somehow to all of them the sting was taken -out of it, and there was no pain for them in the sight. - - - - -CHAPTER XII. - -A NEW FACTOR. - - -Mrs. Russell Penton did not let the grass grow under her feet. In two or -three days after the above events, before Mr. Penton had made up his -mind to give any answer, good or bad, another emissary appeared at the -Hook. He was a messenger less imposing but more practical than the -stately lady who had perhaps calculated a little--more than was -justified by the effect produced--upon her own old influence over her -cousin. No influence, save that of mutual interest and business-like -arrangement, was in the thoughts of the present negotiator. He drove up -to the door in a delightful dog-cart, with a fine horse and the neatest -groom, a perfectly well-appointed equipage altogether, such as it is a -pleasure to see. He was as well got-up himself as the rest of the -turn-out--a young man with a heavy mustache and an air--Anne, who at the -sound of this arrival could not be restrained from moving to the window -and looking out behind the curtains, pronounced him to be “A Guardsman, -I should think.” “A Guardsman! how should you know what a Guardsman is -like? and what could he want here?” Walter had said, contemptuously. But -he too had peeped a little, ashamed of himself for doing so. “A bagman, -you mean, coming for orders,” he cried; to which his sister retorted -with equal justice: “How do you know what a bagman is like? and what -orders could he get here?” The two young people were considerably -discomfited when the stranger, in all his smartness and freshness, with -a flower in his button-hole (in the middle of winter), was suddenly -shown in upon them by Martha with the murmur of a name which neither -caught, and which, as Anne divined, their handmaiden had mumbled on -purpose, not comprehending what it was. - -The stranger made his bow and explained that he had come to see Mr. -Penton on business; and then he displayed an amiable willingness to -enter into conversation with the younger branches of the family. “Your -roads are not all that could be desired,” he said, finding upon his -coat-sleeve an infinitesimal spot of mud. “I am afraid it must be pretty -damp here.’ - -“No, it is not damp,” said Walter, promptly. - -“Oh!” said the other; and then after a moment he hazarded the -observation that the house, though pretty, lay rather low. - -“It is not lower than we like it to be,” Walter replied. He did not show -his natural breeding. He felt somehow antagonistic to this visitor -without any reason, divining what his errand was. - -“Oh!” said the stranger again; and then he addressed himself to Anne, -and said that the weather was very mild for the season, an assertion -which the most contradictory could not have denied. Anne had been -looking at him with great curiosity all the time. She did not know how -to classify this spruce personage. She was not at all acquainted with -the _genus_ young man, and it was not without interest to her. He was -neither a Guardsman nor a bagman, whatever that latter order might be. -Who was he? She felt very desirous to inquire. Her reply was, “I am -afraid father must be out. Did he expect you to come?” thinking perhaps -in this way the stranger might be led into telling who he was. - -“I don’t know that he expected me. I came on business. There are certain -proposals, I believe; but I need not trouble you with such matters. I -hope I may be permitted to wait for Mr. Penton, if he is likely to -return soon.” - -“The best way,” said Walter, with an air of knowledge which deeply -impressed his sister, “is to write beforehand and make an appointment.” - -“That is most true,” said the other, with suppressed amusement, “but I -was told I was almost sure to find Mr. Penton at home.” - -At this moment the door flew open hastily and Ally appeared, not seeing -the stranger as she held the door. “Oh, Wat,” she cried, “father has -gone out and some one has come to see him. Mamma thinks it is some -dreadful person about Penton. She wants you to run out and meet him, and -tell him--What are you making signs to me for?” - -As she said this she came fully into the room and looked round her, and -with a sudden flush of color, which flamed over cheek and brow and chin, -perceived the visitor, who made a step forward with a smile and a bow. - -“I am the dreadful person,” he said. “I don’t know what I can say to -excuse myself. I had no bad intention, at least.” - -Ally was so much discomposed that after her blush she grew pale and -faint. She sunk into a chair with a murmur of apology. She felt that she -would like to sink through the floor; and for once in her gentle life -would have willingly taken vengeance upon the brother and sister who had -let her commit so great a breach of manners, and of whom one, Anne, -showed the greatest possible inclination to laugh. Walter, however, was -not of this mind. He took everything with a seriousness that was almost -solemnity. - -“My sister, of course, did not know you were there,” he said. And then, -with that desire to escape from an unpleasant situation which is common -to his kind, “Since you are in a hurry and your business is serious, -I’ll go and see if I can find Mr. Penton,” he said. - -And he had the heart to go, leaving the stranger with Ally and Anne! the -one overwhelmed with confusion, the other so much tempted to laugh. It -was like a boy, they both reflected indignantly to leave them so. -Between Ally, who would have liked to cry, and Anne who restrained with -difficulty the titter of her age, the young man, however, felt himself -quite at an advantage. He asked with quiet modesty whether he might send -his horse round to the stables. “I can send him up to the village, but -if you think I might take the liberty of putting him up here--” They -were so glad to be free of him, even for a moment, that they begged him -to do so, in one breath. - -“But for goodness’ sake, Ally, don’t look so miserable, there is no harm -done,” said Anne, in the moment of his absence; “it will show him how we -feel about it.” - -“What does it matter how we feel? but to be rude is dreadful; let me go -and tell mother--” - -“What, and leave me alone with him? You are as bad as Wat. You sha’n’t -stir till father comes. Fancy a strange young man, and an enemy--” - -“He need not be an enemy, he is only a lawyer,” Ally said, always ready -to see things in the most charitable light. - -“And what is a lawyer but an enemy? Did you ever hear of a lawyer coming -into the midst of a family like this but it was for harm? It was very -funny, though, when you bolted in. Wat and I were making conversation; -when you suddenly came like a thunder-bolt with your ‘dreadful person.’” - -In the absence of the injured, Ally herself did not refuse to laugh in a -small way. “He does not look dreadful at all,” she said; “he looks -rather--nice, as if he would have some feeling for us.” - -“I don’t think his feeling for us could be of much consequence. We are -not fallen so low as that, that we should need to care for an attorney’s -feeling,” said Anne. But then her attention was distracted by the fine -horse with its shining coat, the dog-cart all gleaming with care and -varnish, notwithstanding the traces of the muddy roads. “He must be well -off,” she said, “at least,” with a little sigh. - -“He is in the law,” said Ally; “that doesn’t mean the same thing as an -attorney. An attorney is the lower kind; and I’m sure it may matter a -great deal that he should have feeling. Think of poor Wat’s interest. It -is Wat that is to be considered; even mother, who is so strong on the -other side, and thinks it would be so much better for the rest of us, is -sorry for Wat.” - -“Hush! he is coming back,” Anne said. There was something strangely -familiar in the return of the visitor through the open door without any -formalities, as if he were some one staying in the house. - -“It is very fortunate that the weather is so fine,” he said, coming -back. “The situation is delightful for the summer, but you must find it -unpleasant when the floods are out.” - -“It is never unpleasant,” said Anne; “for it is our home. We like it -better than any other situation. Penton is much grander, but we like -this best.” - -“We need not make any comparison,” said Ally. “Cousin Alicia prefers -Penton because she was born there, and in the same way we--” - -“I understand,” the stranger said. But the girls were not clever enough -to divine what it was he understood, whether he took this profession of -faith in the Hook as simply genuine, or perceived the irritation and -anxiety which worked even in their less anxious souls. He began to talk -about the great entertainment that had taken place lately at Bannister. -“It was got up regardless of expense,” he said, “and it was very -effective as a show. All that plaster and pretense looks better in the -glow of Bengal lights--of course, you were--What am I thinking of? It is -not your time yet for gayeties of that kind.” - -“We were not there,” said Anne, in a very decisive tone. Disapproval, -annoyance, a little wistfulness, a little envy were in her voice. “We -don’t go anywhere,” she said. - -“Not yet, I understand,” said the stranger again. There was a soothing -tone about him generally. He seemed to make nothing of the privations -and disabilities of which they were so keenly conscious. “I have a -sister who is not out,” he went on. “I tell her she has the best of it; -for nothing is ever so delightful as the parties you don’t go to, when -you are very young.” - -They paused over this, a little dazzled by the appearance of depth in -the saying. It sounded to them very original, and this is a thing that -has so great a charm for girls. He went on pleasantly, “There are to be -some entertainments, I hear, at Penton when everything is settled. I -hope I may have the pleasure of meeting you there.” - -“At Penton! we are never at Penton,” they cried in the same breath; but -then Ally gave Anne a look, and Anne, being far the most prompt of the -two, made an immediate diversion. “There is father coming through the -garden,” she said. It was a principle in the family to maintain a strict -reserve in respect to Penton, never permitting any one to remark upon -the want of intercourse between the families. It is needless to say that -this was a very unnecessary reserve, as everybody knew what were the -relations between Sir Walter and his heir. But this is a delusion common -to many persons more experienced in the ways of the world than the poor -Pentons of the Hook. - -Mr. Penton came in making a great noise with his big boots upon the -tiles of the hall. He opened the door of the drawing-room and looked in -with a nod of recognition which was not very cordial. “Good-morning, Mr. -Rochford,” he said; “I am sorry I have kept you waiting. Perhaps you -will come with me to my room, where we shall be undisturbed.” - -The young man hesitated a little. He made the girls a bow more elaborate -than is usual with young Englishmen. - -“If I am not so fortunate as to see you again before I go--” he said, -with his eyes on Ally--and how could Ally help it? She was not in the -habit of meeting people who looked at her so. She blushed, and made an -inclination of her head, which took Anne, who gave him an abrupt little -nod, quite by surprise. “Why,” the girl cried, almost before the door -closed, “Ally, you gave him a sort of dismissal as if you had been a -queen.” - -“What nonsense!” Ally said, but she blushed once more all over, from the -edge of her collar to her hair. “I wonder,” she said, “whether Cousin -Alicia can leave us out, if she is going to give entertainments as he -says.” - -“When everything is settled--what does that mean, when everything is -settled?” cried Anne. - -“It means, I suppose,” said Walter, gloomily, “when Penton has been -given over, when we have fallen down among the lowest gentry, just kept -up a little (and that’s not much) by the baronetcy which they can not -take away. Father can’t sell that, I believe. Mrs. Russell Penton may be -a very great lady, but she can’t succeed to the baronetcy. Leave us out! -Do you mean to say that--over my body, as it were, you would go!” - -“Oh, Walter, don’t take it like that! If father settles upon doing this, -it will be because both together they have decided that it is the best.” - -“And no one asks what I think,” cried the lad, “though after all it is -I--” He stopped himself with an effort, and without another word swung -out again, leaving the door vibrating behind him. And the girls looked -at each other with faces suddenly clouded. Fifty looks to twenty so -remote an age, so little to be calculated upon. After all, it was -Walter, not Mr. Penton, who was the heir. And no one asked what he -thought! - -The door of the book-room closed upon the negotiations which were of -such importance to the family. There came a hush upon the house--even -the winterly birds in the trees without, who chirped with sober -cheerfulness on ordinary occasions, were silent to-day, as if knowing -that something very important was going on. Those who passed the door of -the book-room--and everybody passed it, the way of each individual, -whatever he or she was doing, leading them curiously enough in that -direction--heard murmurs of conversation, now in a higher, now in a -lower key, and sometimes a little stir of the chairs, which made their -hearts jump, as if the sitting were about to terminate. But these signs -were fallacious for a long time, and it was only when dinner was ready, -the early dinner, with all its odors, which it was impossible to -disguise, that the door opened at last. The three young people were all -about the hall-door, Walter hanging moodily outside, the two girls doing -all they could to distract his thoughts, when this occurred. They all -started as if a shell had fallen amongst them. By the first glimpse of -Mr. Penton’s face they were all sure they could tell what had been -decided upon. But they were not to have this satisfaction. - -“Tell your mother,” he said, keeping in the shade, where no one could -read his countenance, “to send in a tray with some luncheon for Mr. -Rochford and me.” And then the door closed, and the discussion within -and the mystery and anxiety without continued as before. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII. - -MAN AND WIFE. - - -“However it goes,” said Mr. Russell Penton, “I don’t think you can help -taking some notice of the young people. In the first place it is right, -but that I allow does not count much in social matters; and next it is -becoming and expedient, and what the world will expect of you, which is -of course much more important.” - -“Gerald,” said his wife, “what have I done to make you speak to me like -that?” - -“I don’t know that you have done anything, Alicia. It is of course your -affair rather than mine. But I think it is hard upon your cousins. It is -like that business about the birthright, you know--you have got the mess -of pottage, and they--the other thing, half sentimental, half real.” - -“I wonder at you, Gerald,” cried Mrs. Penton. “What true sentiment can -they have in the matter? They never lived here; their immediate -ancestors never lived here. False sentiment, if you like, as much of -that as you like, but nothing else; and the real advantage will be -immediate, as you know.” - -“Yes, I know. I never said it was the sentiment of acquisition; it is -the sentiment of personal importance, which perhaps is even more -telling. Apart from Penton they will feel themselves nobodies.” - -“As they are, as they have always been.” - -“Well, my dear,” said Mr. Russell Penton, with a shrug of his shoulders, -“I have always said it was your affair and not mine.” - -“You never said that you disapproved. You have heard all the -conversation that has gone on about it, and yet you have never said a -word. How was I to know that you disapproved?” - -“I don’t disapprove. It is a question between you and Sir Walter and -your relations. It would not become me to thrust in my opinion one way -or the other.” - -Tears came into Mrs. Penton’s eyes. “When you say such things, Gerald, -you make me feel as if I were no true wife to you.” - -“Yes, you are my true wife, and a very dear one,” he said, after a -momentary pause, without effusion, but with serious kindness. “But we -knew, Alicia, when we married, that the position was different from that -of most husbands and wives. I am a sort of Prince Consort, to advise and -stand by you when I can; but it is my best policy, for my own -self-respect as well as your comfort, not to interfere.” - -“The Prince Consort was not like that,” she said; “he was the -inspiration of everything. It was not in the nature of things that -anything could be done or thought of without him.” - -“I have not that self-abnegation,” he said; “there is but one like that -in a generation; besides, my dear, you are not the queen. You must defer -to another’s guidance. What is settled between Sir Walter and you is for -me sacred. I make any little observations that occur to me, but not in -the way of advice. For example, I permit myself to say that it is hard -on your cousin, because I think you don’t quite appreciate the hardship -on his side--not to prevent you carrying out your own purpose, which I -don’t doubt is good and very likely the best.” - -She shook her head doubtfully. “You are very kind and very tolerant, -Gerald, but all you say makes me see that you would not have done this -had you been in my place.” - -He paused a little before he replied. - -“It is very difficult for me to imagine myself in your place, Alicia. A -man can not realize what it would be to be a woman, I suppose. But I’ll -tell you what I should have done had I been in Sir Walter’s place, with -one dear daughter and an heir of entail--I should have moved heaven and -earth to kick him out or buy him out. There can be no doubt as to what I -should have done in that case.” - -Alicia took his hand and held it in both hers. She looked gratefully -into his face, and said, “Dear Gerald!” but yet she turned away -unsatisfied, with a haunting suspicion. Being Sir Walter, that was what -he would have done. But he thought the woman who was his wife should not -have done it. In no way had Russell Penton intimated this to be the -case. He had never said that a woman should have a different standard of -duty set up for her. But Alicia had intuitions which were keener than -her intelligence, just as she had longings for approval and sympathy -which went far beyond her power of communicating the same. He would have -liked her better if she had not grasped at Penton. Without any aid of -words this was what she divined. The blank of the doubt which was in her -made her heart sore. She wanted to carry his sympathy with her, at any -cost. She called after him as he was going away, - -“As you are so much concerned about those young people, I will ask them. -I will ask them, to please you; if you like, next week, when the Bromley -Russells are here.” - -He looked at her for a moment with something like a stare of surprise; -then his countenance relaxed; a smile came over his face. - -“Why not?” he said. - -“Why not? There can be no reason against it if you wish it.” - -This time Russell Penton laughed out. - -“No,” he said, “no reason; the other way. Let the young fellow have his -chance.” - -“What chance?” Alicia stiffened in spite of herself. His laugh offended -her, but she would not show her offense, nor inquire what he meant, in -case that offense might be increased. “I was not thinking,” she added, -“of any young fellow. I was thinking of the girls.” - -“If my wish has weight with you, let the boy come, too. The sisters will -want a chaperon, don’t you know?” - -“The sisters?” said Mrs. Penton. An inexpressible sense of dislike, of -displeasure, of repugnance came over her, as if some passing wind had -carried it. “Not that sharp girl,” she said, with a look of fastidious -dissatisfaction--something that moved the lines of her nostrils as if it -offended a sense. - -“Not the sharp girl, and not the boy,” said Russell Penton. “But then -who is left?” - -“My godchild is left, Alicia, the one I like best; or, rather, whom -I--” - -“Dislike least,” said her husband, with his laugh. “I can not see, now -that everything is likely to be settled to your satisfaction, what -possible reason there can be for disliking them at all.” - -“There is none,” she said, with an effort. “I am the victim of a state -of affairs which is over; I can not get my feelings into accordance with -the new circumstances. You can not blame me, Gerald, more than I blame -myself.” - -He said nothing at all in reply to this, but turned away as he had done -with the intention of going out, when she called him back. Once more she -recalled him, with the same dull sense of his disapproval aching at her -heart. - -“Gerald, after all, you see I do not even wait till things are settled -to ask the children. Give me a little credit for that.” - -“You said, Alicia, that it was to please me.” - -“And so it is! and so are many things--more, a great many more, than you -think.” - -He put his hands upon her shoulders and looked into her face. “You are -always very good, very kind, and ready to please me. Is it for that I am -to give you credit? or for generosity toward your young cousins? You are -not very logical, you see.” - -“Women are not supposed to be logical,” she said. - -He gave a grave smile as he took his hands away. “Women are more logical -than they acknowledge,” he said. “It is a convenient plea.” - -And this time there was no recall. He went out without any further -hinderance, not much pleased with himself, and perhaps less with her. He -was not, as she divined, satisfied at all. Rich Mrs. Penton’s husband -had as little devotion to Penton as had poor Mr. Penton’s wife. He felt -that he would have been more at his ease in any other house, and a -subtle sort of rivalry with Penton, antagonism partly irrational, and -disappointment in the thought that Sir Walter’s death, when it came, -would bring him no enfranchisement, filled his mind with an irritation -which it was not always possible to keep under. He did not want her to -do this scanty justice to her young relations, her only relations, in -order to please him. They had done no harm; why should it be an offense -to her that they had in their veins a certain number of drops of kindred -blood? Presently, however, this irritation turned into displeasure with -himself. He had been hard upon Alicia; he had asked that the young -Pentons should be invited, vaguely, without any particular meaning; and -she had said she would ask them at once, along with the heiress, the -great prize for whom so many were contending. It had jarred upon her -when he laughed, and it now occurred to him that his laugh had been -ill-timed and out of place; yet all alone as he was, when it came back -to his mind he laughed again. Why not? he had said--and why not? he -repeated with a gleam of humor lighting up thoughts which were not -particularly pleasant in themselves. He, a poor scion of the Russells, -had carried off the Penton heiress; why should not young Penton, the -poor and disinherited, have a try at the other, the Russell heiress? But -if Alicia saw the reason of his merriment, no wonder that it had jarred -upon her. It was in bad taste, he said to himself. To compare her with -the little Russell girl was a thing which even in thought was offensive. -He did not wonder that she was offended by his laugh, that it made her -stiff and cold. He sighed a little as all inclination to laugh died out -of him. It would have suited him better to have had a mate of a lighter -nature, one who would have let him laugh, who would have been less -easily jarred, less serious, less full of dignity; but this was a thing -that Russell Penton was too loyal even to say to himself. It might touch -the surface of his thoughts, but only to be banished. It was because of -this inevitable jar, this little difference, which was so little yet was -fundamental, that he sighed. - -And she sighed, too, she who did so many things to please him--more, far -more than he had any idea of. She was ready to do almost anything to -please him; almost, yet with a great reserve. Instinctively she was -aware that Penton stood between them--that the bondage of the great -house which was not his, and the burden of representing a family of -which he was only, so to speak, an accidental member, lay very heavy -upon the easy mind and cheerful, humorous nature of her husband. He was -not born to be the head of a house. What he liked was the case of a life -without responsibilities, without any representative character. A -cheerful little place with all its windows open to the sun, where he -could do what he liked, where no man could demand more of him than to be -friendly and agreeable which he could leave when he chose and come back -to as he pleased; that would have been his ideal home. She said to -herself that the wife whom he had taken to such a little house would -have been very happy, and sometimes, in the days when she still indulged -in dreams (which women do in the strangest way, long after the -legitimate age for it), she had seen that tiny place in a vision with -children about it and no cares (as if that were possible!) and Gerald’s -countenance always beaming with genial content. But the woman who was so -happy, who was at her ease, whom no troubles touched, who was Gerald’s -other self, was not Alicia. She had to sigh and turn away, feeling that -this could never be. Her life had been already settled when she married. -There was no change or escape for her; indeed, what was stranger still, -though she perceived the happier possibilities in the other lot, she -knew that it had never been possible to her. The ease would have -wearied, perhaps even disgusted her. Attending that vision of happiness -would come revelations of the slipshod, glimpses of what ease and -happiness so often come to when they grow to overluxuriance. No, the -difference was very slight, but it was fundamental. And in this, as in -so many other contradictions of life, the woman had the worst of it. -Russell Penton was tolerant by nature, and he had trained himself to -still greater tolerance. He made an observation, as he said, now and -then, but it was possible to him to stand by and look on, without -worrying himself about that which he could not change. He would say to -himself that it was no business of his; he could even refrain from -criticism except in so far as we have seen, when he made a good-natured -protest in defense of some one wronged, or avenged another’s injury by a -laugh. But Alicia, on her side, was not so easily satisfied. She wanted -him to approve; his acquiescence, his plea that it was not his affair, -his declaration that he would not interfere, were to her gall and -bitterness. She could not adopt his light ways, nor take things easily -as he did. Following her own course, acting upon her own principles, his -concurrence, his approval, were the things she longed for before all -others. When he said “You are quite right” she was happy, though even -then never without a sense that he must have added within himself, -“right from your own point of view.” The curious thing, however, and one -which she was also aware of with a strange double consciousness, was -that she never thought of adopting his point of view, or attempting even -any compromise between his and hers. She had placed herself so -completely in her own groove that she could not get out of it, and had -no wish to get out of it. But yet she wanted his approval, all the same. -She wanted it passionately, with an insistence which even her own -complete enlightenment as to the difference between them never affected. -Having her own way, even in the supreme question which now at the last -had been opened only to promise the most satisfactory solution, she yet -would have no real pleasure in it unless he approved. And his mode of -passing it over, his assent which meant no approval, took the pleasure -out of everything. What could she do to please him more than she was -doing? But she never had it, that satisfaction of the heart. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV. - -A TRANSITION PERIOD. - - -Mr. Penton’s long interview with the young solicitor had ended in -this:--and though it did not seem exactly a settlement of the question, -it had been taken for granted by both families as such--that he -consented to treat with Sir Walter Penton. The terms might take a longer -time to arrange, and there were conditions--some of a rather peculiar -character, as his opponents thought--which Mr. Penton insisted upon. But -upon the general question he was supposed to have yielded. It had taken -him a great deal of thought, and he was not happy about it. He went -about the house and his few fields with a moody countenance, avoiding -every turn or point of view which revealed Penton--those points of view -which had once been his happiness. This fact alone took a great deal of -the pleasure out of his life. It had been his relief in former days to -mount the road to that corner where the view was, or to go out and sit -on the bench under the poplar-tree; but now he turned his back upon -these favorite places. When he was low he had no longer this way of -escaping from himself. Of all points of the compass, that on which -Penton lay had become the most distasteful to him. He would have liked -to have had it blotted out from the landscape altogether: there was -nothing but pain in the sight of it, in the mere knowledge that it was -there. And winter is cruel in this particular. It spares you -nothing--not even a chimney. The weather-cock, glowing through the bare -trees, seemed to catch every ray of light and blazon it over the whole -country; the windows that faced the south were in a perpetual -scintillation. The great house would not be hidden; it made no account -of the feelings of those who were in the act of parting with it forever; -though its aspect was now a reproach and humiliation to them instead of -a pride, it seemed to force itself more and more on their eyes. Walter -felt this almost more strongly than his father, if that were possible. -He, too, went about moody, with the air of a man injured, turning his -back on the once favorite quarter where the sunset was. He said in his -haste that he never wanted to see a sunset again, and when the girls -called his attention to all the stormy gorgeous colors of the winter -afternoon, would turn his back upon them and declare that the reflection -in the river, the secondary tints in the cold gray of the east, were -enough for him. He said this with a vehemence which his father did not -display. But Walter had solaces and alleviations of which his father was -incapable; and Mr. Penton was the one who felt it most deeply after all. -In his middle-aged bosom the tide of life was not running high. He had -few pleasures; even few wishes. It no longer moved him in his habitual -self-restraint that he had no horses, no means of keeping his place -among his peers. All that had dropped away from him in the chill of -custom--in that acceptance of the inevitable which is the lowest form of -content. But there had always been Penton in which his imagination could -take refuge. Penton was still an earthly paradise into which one day or -other he should find entrance, which nobody could close from him. And -now that too was closed, and his fancy could no longer go in and dwell -there. He said very little about it, but he felt it to the bottom of his -heart. It was the sort of thing of which he might have died had the -floods been out or the atmosphere as deleterious as it sometimes was; -but happily it was not an exceptionally wet season, and the river had -not as yet been “out” that year. - -The ladies from the first had taken it better, and they continued to do -so. Mrs. Penton began to make calculations with bated breath and many a -“hush!” when either father or son were nigh--of what she would now be -able to do. She thought it would be well for them all, as soon as -matters were settled, to go away; for though the waters were not out -yet, it was scarcely to be hoped for that they should not after -Christmas, in rainy February at the latest, have their way; and a -separation from the scene of their disappointment would, she thought, be -good both for Mr. Penton and Wat. Mrs. Penton said this with a sigh, -feeling already all that was involved in a removal in the middle of -winter; but it would be good, she felt, for Horry and the rest to be out -of the damp, and it would be very good for Wat. The thing for Wat would -be to go to Oxford without delay; fortunately he was not too old, and -that would take him off thinking about Penton if anything would. As for -the father, there was no such panacea for him. What can be done to -distract or divert a man who has outlived the ordinary pleasures, and -can not have his mouth stopped or his heart occupied with any new toy? A -horse or two such as he would now be able to afford would have done a -great deal for him once; but now he had got out of the habit of riding, -and might not care to take it up again. It was easier to think of the -young ones whose life lay all before them, and who would enter the world -now under so much better conditions, though not those they had -calculated upon. Mrs. Penton made up her mind that if all was settled on -the terms proposed she would be able to give the girls “every -advantage.” They should be taken to see a great many things, they should -have clothes and surroundings that suited their condition; they might -even “see a little of the season” when the proper time came round. All -these things were pondered and decided upon in the many hours when the -feminine portion of the household sat together, which were more than had -ever been before. For Wat did not care to have his sisters constantly -with him as he once had done; they set it down to his disappointment -about Penton, and the disturbance of his temper and of his life which -had ensued--which when they accused him of it he agreed in with a sort -of satisfaction. But when Anne said, without thought, “One would think -Wat had found somebody else to go with him,” he was very angry, and grew -very red, and demanded to know who else? who was he likely to have else? -with an indignation which the provocation did not justify. - -Thus it will be seen that the circumstances of the household were much -changed. They had not been in a very flourishing condition when they -first discussed the law of entail and the possibility that it might be -attacked by a reforming parliament and their birthright taken from them; -but somehow that simple time of expectation and depression, which now -looked as if it might be years ago, had been, with all its -straitenedness, a happier time than now. A certain agitation had got -into all their veins; the girls and their mother sat mostly alone in the -evenings. There was no reading aloud. Wat was out almost always, taking -a walk, he said; or when he was not out he was in the book-room, -grinding, as he told them, at his Greek, which was quite necessary if he -was going up to Oxford in the beginning of the year. The girls would -have thought this state of affairs insupportable a little while ago, but -in the commotion of the approaching change they found so much to talk of -that they were partially reconciled to making pinafores all the evening -in the light of the paraffin lamp, though it smelled badly, and there -was no one to read to them. They had a great deal to talk about. As for -Mrs. Penton, her mouth was opened as it had never been in her life -before. She talked of balls, and theaters, and of the “things” they must -get as soon as ever matters were settled. She recounted to them her own -experiences--the dances she had gone to before her marriage, and all the -competition there had been to secure her for a partner. “They said I was -as light as a feather,” she said, with her eyes fixed upon the stocking -she was darning, and without raising her head; “and so they will say of -Ally, for Ally is just the same figure I was. But you must have some -lessons when we go to town.” She was pleased thus to talk, recalling old -recollections, to which the girls listened with astonishment; for they -had never supposed that their mother knew anything of those gayeties, -which to themselves were like the fables of golden isles unknown to men; -but they were not displeased to listen, weaving into the simple story as -it flowed the imaginations, the anticipations which filled that unknown -world upon the threshold of which they stood. It was even more absorbing -than the stories of the good and fair heroines (for Mrs. Penton was very -particular in her choice of the books which were read by them) to which -they had been in the habit of listening. But they missed Wat, to whom, -however, they allowed the narration of mother’s tales might have seemed -a little flat had he been there. Wat up to the present moment had shown -very little interest in anything of the kind; but it was a little -strange now that he should so often be “taking a turn” even when the -moon was not shining, and when the country roads were so dark. - -Mr. Rochford, the solicitor, came on several occasions during this time -of transition. He came often enough to make the children quite familiar -with that trim and shining dog-cart, and the horse which was so sleek -and shining, too. Horry had been driven round and round in it, nay, had -been allowed to drive himself, making believe, before it was put up: and -he and his smaller brother assisted at the harnessing and unharnessing -of this famous animal with the greatest enthusiasm every time he came. -Young rustic lads attending at a monarch’s levee could not have been -more interested than were these babes. And Mr. Rochford made himself -more or less agreeable in other ways to the whole family, except Wat, -who did not take to him, but kept him at a distance with an amount of -unfriendly temper which he showed to no one else. There was no idea now -of a tray carried into the book-room when this visitor came. He was -introduced to the early dinner where all the children sat in their high -chairs, and where the food was more wholesome than delicate--a meal -which was too plainly dinner to be disguised under the name of luncheon. -Mr. Rochford made himself quite at home at this family dinner. He -praised everything, and declared that he was always most hungry at this -hour, and eat so heartily that Mrs. Penton took it as a personal -compliment; for though Mrs. Penton sometimes made a little moan about -the appetites of the children, she yet was much complimented when -visitors (who were so few at the Hook) eat well and seemed to relish the -simple food. “Roast mutton may be very simple,” she said, “but there is -roast mutton and roast mutton--a big, white, fat leg half cooked is a -very different thing from what is set on our table, for I must say that -Jane, if she is not much to look at, is an excellent cook.” She liked to -see people eat; not Horry getting three helps and gorging himself; that -was a different matter altogether; but a visitor who could appreciate -how good it really was. - -And after dinner was over Mr. Rochford would ask whether he might not to -be taken round the garden to see, not the flowers, for there were none, -but the flood-marks of different years, and how high the river had come -on the last occasion when the waters were “out.” He had a great interest -in the floods--more than Mr. Penton, who got weary of his guest’s -enthusiasm, and stole back to the book-room, leaving him with the girls; -and more than Anne, who heard her mother calling her, or found she had -something to do in the poultry-yard, every time this little incident -occurred. Ally was the most civil, the most long-suffering, and it soon -became evident that there was only one who had patience to conduct Mr. -Rochford to see the flood-marks. - -“I have been used to them all my life,” the young lawyer said. “I have -an old aunt who lives as close to the river as this, and who has the -water in her garden every year. I used to be sent on visits there when I -was a child, and oh! the transports of the inundation and the old punt -in which we used to float about. To come up under the windows in that -punt was bliss.” - -“You could not do that here,” said Ally, with that pride in the Hook -which was part of the family character. “The water never comes above the -garden. I showed you the highest flood-mark was on a level with the -terrace round the house.” - -“Yes,” said the visitor, with an implicit faith which was not universal -among those who heard this tale. “What a piece of good fortune that is! -You must feel as if you were in an oasis in the midst of the desert.” - -Ally felt that the metaphor was not very appropriate, but of course she -knew what he meant. She said, “The little boys are as fond of seeing the -floods as you were when you were a boy.” - -“It would be difficult work if at any time the house was cut off--I beg -your pardon,” said Rochford, “that is nonsense, of course; but do you -know I dreamed the other night that the river was higher than ever had -been known, and was sweeping all round the Hook, and that the family -were in danger? I got out in my boat on the wildest whirling stream, and -steered as well as I could for your window. Which is your window, Miss -Penton? I knew quite well which it was in my dream, and steered for it. -That one! why then I was right, for that was where I steered.” - -“You frighten me,” said Ally, “but the water has never come near the -house.” - -“It did on this occasion. There were people at all the windows, but I -steered for yours. I heard myself calling Miss Penton, and you wouldn’t -let me save you. You kept putting the children into my arms, and I could -not refuse the children--but I shall never forget the horror with which -I woke up, finding that you always delayed and delayed and would not -come.” - -“How kind of you,” said Ally, laughing, but with a little blush, “to -take so much trouble even in your dream.” - -“Trouble!” he cried, “but yet it was great trouble, for you would not -come. I heard myself calling, trying every kind of argument, but you -always pushed some one in front of you to be saved first, and would not -come yourself. I awoke in a dreadful state of mind, crying out that it -was my fault, that it was because of me, that if it had been any one -else you would have come.” - -“How ungrateful you must have thought me,” said Ally, blushing more and -more, “but of course I should have put the children first. You may be -sure that is what I shall do if it should ever come true.” - -“I am forewarned,” he said, laughing. “I shall know how to beguile you -now that I am informed.” - -“I hope you may never have the occasion,” she said. - -“Of helping you? Do you think that is a kind wish, Miss Penton? for it -is a thing which would be more delightful than anything else that could -happen to me.” - -Ally, being a little confused by this continuance of the subject, led -him round by the edge of the river to the poplar-tree and the bench -underneath. “We used all to be very fond of this seat,” she said, -“because of the view. If Penton is going now to be nothing to us we must -take the bench away.” - -“Can it ever cease to be something to you? It is the home of your -ancestors.” - -“Oh, yes; but one’s father is more near one than one’s ancestors, and if -he is to have nothing to do with Penton--” - -“You regret Penton,” said the lawyer, fixing his eyes upon her; “then I -wish my hand had been burned off before I had anything to do with the -business.” - -“Oh, what could that matter?” cried Ally. “I am nobody; and besides,” -she added, with gravity, “I do not suppose it could have been stopped by -anything that either you or I could do.” - -This made the young man pause; but whatever was disagreeable in it was -modified by the conjunction “you and I.” Was it only civility, or had -she unconsciously fallen into the trap and associated herself with him -by some real bond of sympathy? He resumed after a pause, “Perhaps we -might not be able to cope with such grandees as your father and Mrs. -Russell Penton, but there is nothing so strong as--as an association--as -mutual help, don’t you know?” - -Ally did not know, neither did he, what he meant. She replied only, -“Oh!” in a startled tone, and hurriedly changed the subject. “Will it -take a long time to draw out all the papers, Mr. Rochford? Why should it -take so long? It seems so simple.” - -“Nothing is simple that has to do with the law. Should you like it to be -hurried on or to be delayed? Either thing could be done according as it -pleased _you_.” - -There was the slightest little emphasis upon the pronoun, so little that -Ally perceived it first, then the next moment blushed with shame at -having for a moment allowed herself to suppose that it could be meant. - -“Oh, we could not wish for either one thing or another,” she said. “I -shall be sorry when it is altered, and I shall be glad. Naturally it is -Walter that feels it most.” - -“Ah, he is the heir.” - -“He _was_ the heir, Mr. Rochford. I feel for him. He has to change all -his ways of thinking, all that he was looking forward to. But why should -we talk of this? I ought not to talk of it to any stranger. It is -because you have so much to do with it, because you--” - -“Because I am mixed up with it from the beginning,” he said, -regretfully. “How kind you are to receive me at all, when it was I whose -fate it was to introduce so painful a subject. But one never knows,” he -went on, in a lower tone, “when one drives up to a door that has never -been opened to one’s steps before, what one may find there; perhaps the -most commonplace, perhaps”--he turned his head away a little, but not -enough to make the last two words, uttered in a lowered but distinct -voice, inaudible to Ally--“perhaps one’s fate.” - -The girl heard them, wondered at them, felt herself grow pale, then red. -There is something in words that mean so much, which convey a sort of -secondary thrill of comprehension without revealing their meaning all -out. Ally, who was unprepared for the real revelation, felt that there -was something here which was not usual to be said, which concerned her -somehow, which made it impossible for her to continue the conversation -calmly. She turned away to examine some moss on the trunk of the nearest -tree. Did he mean her to hear that? Did he mean her not to hear? And -what did it mean? His fate--that must mean something, something more -than people generally said to each other while taking a turn round the -garden, whether it might be to see the roses or to examine the -flood-marks. - -At this moment the most fortunate thing occurred--a thing which ended -the interview without embarrassment, without any appearance of running -away upon Ally’s part. Mrs. Penton suddenly appeared in the porch, which -was within sight, holding a letter in one hand and beckoning with the -other. She called, not Ally, but “Alice!” which in itself was enough to -mark that something had occurred out of the common. Her voice thrilled -through the still damp air almost with impatience; its usual calm was -gone; it was full of life, and haste, and impetuosity--more like the -quick voice of Anne than that of the mother. And then little Horry came -running out, delighted to escape out-of-doors in his pinafore, without -cap or great-coat, or any wrap, his red stockings making a broken line -of color as he ran along the damp path, his curls of fair hair blowing -back from his forehead. - -“Ally! Anne!--Ally! Anne!” he cried, “mother wants you! Ally-Anne! -mother wants you!--she wants you bovth She’s got news for you bovth. -Ally-Anne! Ally-Anne!” shouted the small boy. - -“I’m coming, Horry,” cried the girl; and from the other side of the -house came the same cry from her sister. Ally entirely forgot Mr. -Rochford and his fate. She ran home, leaving him without another -thought, encountering midway Anne, who was flying from the poultry-yard, -in which she had taken refuge. What was it? At their age, and in such -simplicity as theirs, a letter suddenly arrived with news might mean -anything. What might it not mean? It might mean that the queen had sent -for them to Windsor Castle. It might mean that some very great lady -unheard of before had invited them on the score of some old unknown -friendship. It might mean that somebody had left them a fortune. The -only thing it could not mean was something unimportant. Of that only -they were assured. - -Mrs. Penton stood at the door in her excitement, with the letter in her -hands. Her tall figure was more erect, her head borne higher than usual. -When she saw the girls running from different directions she turned and -went in-doors, and presently Walter appeared in answer to another -summons, walking quickly up to the door. Young Rochford, standing under -the poplar looking at them, felt ridiculously “out of it,” as he said. -It would have pleased him to feel that he had something to do with the -family, that their consultations were not entirely closed to him. He had -been so much mixed up with it--all the details of their future means, -every bit of land which they relinquished, every penny of that which -they got as compensation, would pass through his hands. He had been -feeling of late as if he really had a great deal to do with the Pentons. -But here arose at once a matter with which he had nothing to do, upon -which he could not intrude himself, to which he was left as much a -stranger as though he did not know exactly what their income would be -next year. He went slowly into the book-room, with feelings that were -utterly unreasonable, though not without the excuse of being natural. -The book-room, that was his place, and Mr. Penton and the formal -business. But he must not even ask what was the other business which was -so much more interesting, the letter which had been sent to Mrs. Penton, -which the young ones had been called in such excitement to hear, and no -doubt to give their opinions on. He had certainly no right to have an -opinion on the subject, whatever it might be. He was only the solicitor -managing an external piece of business--and treated with great civility -and kindness--but nothing more. How could he be anything more? - - - - -CHAPTER XV. - -THE INVITATION. - - -Mrs. Penton was in a condition of excitement such as had never been seen -in her before. She could not lay down the letter. She could not speak. -She went at length and seated herself in the high chair--in the chair -which her husband occupied at any great domestic crisis, when a council -of the whole family was called. As her usual seat was a low one, and her -usual aspect anything but judicial, there was no change which could have -marked the emergency like this. It was apparent that in Mrs. Penton’s -mind a moment had arrived at which some important decision had to be -come to, and for which she herself and not her husband was the natural -president of the family council. The young ones were a little awed by -this unusual proceeding. There was not a stocking, nor a needle, nor -even a reel of cotton within reach of her. She had given herself up to -the question in hand. It might be supposed that the decision about -Penton, which she took her share in powerfully, while considering all -the time how to do that darning, was as important a matter as could come -within her ken; but in her own opinion the present issue was more -exciting. She had taken that calmly enough, though with decision; but -about this she was excited and anxious, scarcely able to restrain -herself. The girls ran in, saying, “What is it, mother?” but she only -motioned to them to sit down and wait; and it was not till Walter had -followed with the same question that Mrs. Penton cleared her throat and -spoke. - -“It is a letter I have just had,” she said--“I have not even talked it -over with your father. You were the first to be consulted, for it -concerns you.” - -And then she stopped to take breath, and slowly unfolded her letter. - -“This,” she said, “is from Mrs. Russell Penton. It is an--invitation; -for two of you: to go to Penton upon a visit--for three days.” - -There was a joint exclamation--joint in the sense that the sound came -all together, like a piece of concerted music, but each voice was -individual. “An invitation--to Penton!” cried Anne. “From Cousin -Alicia?” said Ally; and “Not if I know it!” Walter cried; from which it -will be seen that the one quite impartial, and ready to consider the -matter on its merits, was Anne alone. - -“Don’t come to any hasty decision,” said Mrs. Penton, hurriedly; “don’t -let it be settled by impulse, children, which is what you are so ready -to do.” - -“Surely,” said Walter, “when it’s a mere matter of amusement, impulse -is as good a way of deciding as another. I say ‘Not if I know it,’ and -that is all I mean to say.” - -“And, unless you say I’m to go, mother, I think like Wat,” said Ally, -with unusual courage. - -“Children, children! In the first place it’s not amusement, and your -cousin has never asked you before. She is a great deal richer, a great -deal better off than we are. Stop a little, Ally and Wat. I don’t say -that as if being rich was everything; but it is a great deal. You will -meet better society there than anywhere else. And even though your -father is going to part with Penton, you never can separate yourselves -from it. We shall be called Pentons of Penton always, even though we -never enter the house.” - -“Mother,” said Wat, “you don’t feel perhaps as I do; that is the best of -reasons why I should never enter the house. So long as I was the heir, -if they had chosen to ask me it might have been my duty; but _now_--” -cried Wat, his voice rising as if into a salvo of artillery. Unutterable -things were included in that “now.” - -“Now,” said his mother, “because we are giving up, because we are -leaving the place, so to speak, it is now much more necessary than ever -it was. Your cousins have done nothing that is wrong. They don’t mean to -injure you; they are doing a very natural and a very sensible thing. Oh, -I am not going to argue the question all over again; but unless you wish -to insult them, to show that you care nothing for them, that their -advances are disagreeable to you, and that you don’t want their -kindness--” - -“Mother,” said Walter, “not to interrupt you, that is exactly what I -want to do.” - -And Ally had her soft face set. It did not seem that the little face, -all movable and impressionable, could have taken so fixed a form, as if -it never would change again. - -“You want to insult the people, Walter, who are, to begin with, your own -flesh and blood.” - -“Cousins--and not full cousins--are scarcely so near as that,” said -Anne, with an air of impartial calm. - -“To insult anybody is bad enough, if they were strangers to you--if they -were your enemies. What can be nearer than cousins except brothers and -sisters? I say Mrs. Russell Penton is your own flesh and blood, and I -don’t think it is very nice of you, on a subject which I must know -better than you do, to contradict me. Your father calls Sir Walter -uncle. How much nearer could you be? And if you live long enough, Wat, -you will be Sir Walter after him. In one sense it is like being grandson -to the old gentleman, who lost his own sons, as you know well enough. -And is it he you would like to insult, Wat?” - -This made an obvious and profound impression. The audience were awed; -their mutinous spirit was subdued. The domestic orator pursued her -advantage without more than a pause for breath. - -“I never knew the boys: but when I saw the Pentons first everybody was -talking of it. Your father had never expected to succeed, oh, never! It -was a tragedy that opened the way for him. They had no reason to expect -that a young cousin, a distant cousin” (this admission was no doubt -contradictory of what she had just said, but it came in with her present -argument, and she did not pause upon that), “should ever come in. If -they had hated the very sight of those who were to take the place of -their own, who could wonder? I should if--oh, Wat, if it were possible -that--Osy and you”--she paused a little--“I feel as if I should hate -Horry even in such a case.” - -The impression deepened, especially as she stopped with a low cry, to -wring her hands, as if realizing that impossible catastrophe. Walter was -entirely overawed. He saw the unspeakable pathos of the situation in a -moment. Supposing Horry--_Horry_! should come in to be the heir, -something having happened to Oswald and to himself! - -“Don’t agitate yourself, mother,” he said, soothingly; “I see what you -mean.” - -“And yet you would like to insult these poor people, to refuse to see -how hard it was for them, and what they have had to bear, oh, for so -many years!” - -Having thus broken down all opposition, Mrs. Penton made a pause, but -presently resumed. - -“And then from our side, children, there’s something to be said. I wish -you to accept the invitation. I wish it because after all it’s your own -county, and you’re of an age to be seen, and you ought to be seen first -there. When all this is settled your father will be in a position to -take you into society a little. We shall be able to see our friends. If -I have never gone out, it has been for that--that I could not invite -people back again. Now I may have it in my power more or less to do -this. And I want you to be known--I want you to be seen and known. It is -of great importance where young people are seen first. I can’t take you -to court, Ally, which is the right thing, for we never were in -circumstances to do that ourselves. And the next best thing is that you -should be seen first in the house of the head of your family. Now all -that is very important, and it has got sense in it, and you must now -allow an impulse, a hasty little feeling, to get the better of what is -sensible and reasonable--you must not indeed. It would be very unkind to -me, very foolish for yourselves, very harsh and unsympathetic to the -Pentons. And you have a duty to all these. To them? oh, yes, to them -too, for they are your relations, and they are old, and though they are -prosperous now, things went very badly with them. Besides, it would be -as if you disapproved of what your father was doing and envied them -Penton: which I suppose is the last thing in the world you would have -them to see.” - -“Disapproving father is one thing,” said Wat, “but all the rest I do, -and I don’t care if they know it or not. Penton ought to be mine. You -and my father don’t think so--at least you think there are other things -more important.” - -Mrs. Penton looked at her boy from her husband’s judicial chair with a -mild dignity with which Wat was unacquainted. - -“Penton would not be yours,” she said, “if Sir Walter were dead now. -Would you like to step into what is your father’s, Wat? Would you like -to say he is only to live five years or ten years because the -inheritance is yours? Your father will probably live as long as Sir -Walter. I hope so, I am sure. He is fifty now, and that would be -thirty-five years hence. Would Penton be yours, or would you be -impatient for your father to die?” - -“Mother!” they all cried in one indignant outcry, the three together. - -“It looks as if you meant that. You don’t, I know--but it looks like it. -Sir Walter may just as well live ten years longer, and your father -thirty years after that, so that you would be sixty before you succeeded -to Penton. Is it so much worth waiting for? Is it worth while showing -yourself envious, dissatisfied with what your father is doing, unkind -to your relations, because, forty or fifty years hence, perhaps--” - -Walter got up from his chair, as a man is apt to do when the argument -becomes intolerable. “Mother,” he said, “you know very well that not one -of those intentions was in my mind. I don’t want to become bosom friends -with people who are injuring us for their own advantage; but as to -wishing my father a single hour, a single moment less--or even Sir -Walter--” the youth cried, with a break in his voice. - -“Oh,” cried Anne, with impatience, “as if mother did not know that! -Mother, the others are dreadfully unreasonable. I’ll go.” - -Mrs. Penton paused a little and cleared her throat. “I am afraid you are -just the one that is not asked. I dare say your cousin thinks that you -are not out, Anne: and no more you are, my dear.” - -“She is as much out as I am, and we have always said when we went -anywhere we should go together. Mother, if you wish it, of course I’ll -go.” - -“And equally of course I will go too,” said Walter, somewhat indignant -to be left out, “when my mother puts it like that.” - -“Well, children dear,” said Mrs. Penton, sinking at once into an easier -tone, “how could I put it otherwise? As long as you will go pleasantly -and friendly, and make no reflections. It is such a natural thing, so -right, so exactly what should be, both for them to ask and for you to -accept. Well now,” she added, briskly, coming down from her high chair, -drawing forward her own natural seat, putting out an accustomed hand for -her work-basket--“now that this is all settled there are the -preparations to think of. Walter, you must go up at once to your -father’s tailor--to his grand tailor, you know, whom he only goes to now -and then--and order yourself some new suits.” - -“Some new suits!” they all cried, with widely opened eyes. - -“Yes,” said Mrs. Penton, who never had been known to enter into any such -schemes of extravagance before. “Indeed, we may all go to town together, -for I must look after Ally’s things, and there is no time to be lost.” - -“My--things, mother!” The plural in both cases was what petrified the -young people, who had been used to get only what could not be done -without. - -“You must have a nice tweed suit for the morning, Wat, and some dress -clothes, and your father will tell you whether you should get any other -things for Oxford, for of course I am not an authority as to what young -men require. And it is so long since I have seen anything that is -fashionable,” said Mrs. Penton, “that I don’t really know even what -girls wear. Girls are really more troublesome than boys, so far as dress -is concerned. You can trust a good tailor, but as to what is exactly -suitable to a girl’s complexion and style, and the details, you -know--the shoes, and the gloves, and the fans, and all that--” - -“Mother!” cried Ally. The girl was awe-stricken: pleasure had scarcely -had time to spring up in her. She was overwhelmed with the glories which -she had never realized before. - -“Yes, my dear; there are a great many things involved in a girl’s toilet -which you would never think of; the dress is not all, nor nearly all. I -have been so long out of the world, I have not even seen what people are -wearing; but it will be easy to get a few hints. And what if we make a -day of it, and go to town all together? Anne shall come too, though Anne -is not going to Penton. I don’t often allow myself a holiday,” said Mrs. -Penton, with her hands full of pinafores, “but I think I must just do so -for once in a way.” - -The idea of this wonderful outing, which was much more comprehensible, -besides being far more agreeable, than the visit to Penton, filled them -all with pleasure. “For we know that will be fun!” said Anne. “Penton, I -wish you joy of it, you two! You will have to be on your best behavior, -and never do one thing you wish to do. I shall have the best of it--the -day in town, and the shopping, which must be amusing, and to see -everything; and then when you are setting out for Penton, and feeling -very uncomfortable, I shall stay at home, and be the eldest, and be very -much looked up to. Mother, when shall we go?” - -“And oh, mother! how, how--” - -“Is it to be paid for, do you want to know, Ally? My dear, we are going -to have four times as much income as we ever had before. Think of that! -And can you wonder I am glad? for I shall be able to do things for all -of you that I never dared think of, and, instead of only having what -you couldn’t do without--enough to keep you decent--I can now give you -what is right for you and best for you. Oh, my dears, you can’t tell -what a difference it makes! What is a place like Penton (which I never -cared for at all) in comparison to being able to get whatever you want -for your children? There is no comparison. It has not come yet, it is -true, for the papers are not ready, but still it is quite certain. And I -can venture to take you to town for a day, and we can all venture to -enjoy ourselves a little. And I’m sure I am very much obliged to Mrs. -Russell Penton for taking such a thing into her head.” - -To this even the grumblers had nothing to say; even Wat himself, who -perhaps was less impressed by the idea of two new suits from the -tailor’s than his sisters were about their new frocks. A new suit of -evening clothes can scarcely be so exciting to a boy as the thought of a -ball-dress with all its ribbons and flowers and decorations, and those -delightful adjuncts of shoes and gloves and fan all in harmony, is to a -girl. Ally’s imagination was so startled by it that she could scarcely -realize the thought in any practical way, and her enjoyment was nothing -to Anne’s, who mapped it all out in her mind, and already began to -suggest to her sister what she should have, with a perception which must -have been instinct: since Anne had not even that knowledge of an evening -party which any one of the maids who had assisted at such ceremonials -might possess, though in a humble way. Martha, for instance, in her last -place had helped to dress the young ladies when they were going out, and -had got a glimpse of Paradise in the cloak-room when her former mistress -had a ball. But alas! such possibilities had never come to Ally and -Anne. They knew nothing about the fineries in which girls indulged. -Anne, however, by intuition, whatever the philosophers may say, knew, -never having learned. Perhaps she had got a little information to guide -her out of novels, of which, in a gentle way, Mrs. Penton herself was -fond, and which had opened vistas of society to the two girls. - -“You must have a white, of course,” she said to her sister, “blues and -pinks, and that sort of thing, may go out of fashion, but white never. -Mother thinks you must have two.” - -“We are only asked for three days,” cried Ally, “and that only means -two evenings. Why should I have more than one dress for only two -evenings?” - -“Why, just for that reason, you silly!” cried Anne. - -“Do you think mother would like to send you to Penton with just what was -necessary, to make them think you had only one frock? Oh, no! If you -were staying for a fortnight of course you would not want something -different every night; but for two days--” - -“I should much rather you had the second one, Anne.” - -“I dare say! as if there was any question about me. I shall have what I -require when my time comes. Don’t you know we are going to be well off -now?” - -“Oh, Anne! it is rather poor to think of being well off only as a way of -getting new frocks.” - -“It is a great deal more than that, of course, but still it is that too. -It is nice to have new frocks when one wants them, instead of waiting -and waiting till one can have the cheapest possible thing that will do. -We have always had things that would do. Now we are to have what we -require--what we like. I wish Wat and you, Ally, would see it as mother -and I do. Perhaps it may be nice to be the chief people of one’s name, -and be able to snub all the rest, even Cousin Alicia, but--” - -“I never wished to snub any one, much less Cousin Alicia,” cried Ally, -with indignation. - -“That is really what it comes to. We wanted to be the grandest of the -family, to be able to say to Mrs. Russell Penton, ‘Stand aside, you’re -only a woman, and let Sir Edward walk in.’ And why should she be -disinherited because she’s a woman? I am going in for women, for the -woman’s side. I don’t believe father is as clever as she is. Oh, to be -sure I like father a great deal better. How could you ask such a -question? But he rather looks up to her; he is not so clever; he -couldn’t set one down as she does, only by a look out of her eyes. No, -no, no; a new frock when one wants it, and to go to town for the day, -and even to the theater, or to have a dance at home--all that is far, -far better than snubbing Cousin Alicia. But,” added Anne, with sudden -gravity, “for you that have got to go and stay there, it is rather -dreadful after all.” - - - - -CHAPTER XVI. - -THE PRIMROSE PATH. - - -Walter Penton had been the most satisfactory of sons and brothers. He -had not rebelled much even against the discipline of reading aloud. He -was only twenty, and there was nothing to do in the neighborhood of the -Hook, especially in the evening, so that circumstances had helped to -make him good. He had, to tell the truth, taken a great interest in the -novels, so much as to be tempted often to carry off the current volume -and see “how it ended” by himself, which the girls thought very mean of -him. But very rarely, except in summer, or when there was some special -attraction out-of-doors, had he declined to aid the progress of the -pinafores, in his way, by reading. But lately he had not been so good. -Perhaps it was because there was a moon, and the evenings had been -particularly bright; but he had not asked the girls to share his walks, -as formerly it had been so natural to do. Sometimes he did not come into -the drawing-room at all after tea, but would intimate that he had “work” -to do, especially now, when, if he were really going to Oxford, it was -necessary for him to rub up his Greek a little. Nobody could say that -this was not perfectly legitimate and in fact laudable; and though the -ladies were disappointed they could make no complaint, especially as in -the general quickening of the family life there was, for the moment, -many things to talk of, which made reading aloud less necessary. For -instance, on the evening of the day which they had spent in town there -was no occasion for reading. The most exciting romance could not have -been more delightful than the retrospect of that delightful day. They -all went up together by the early train. Mr. Penton himself had said -that he thought he might as well go too, and accompany Walter to the -tailor’s, as that was a place in which ladies were inadmissable; and -accordingly they parted at the railway, the mother and the girls going -one way, and the father and his boy another--both parties with a sense -of the unusual about them which made their expedition exhilarating. To -spend money when you feel (and that for the first time) that you can -afford it is of itself exhilarating, especially (perhaps) to women who -have little practice in this amusement, and to whom the sight of the -pretty things in the shops is a pleasure of a novel kind. It was a -matter of very serious business indeed to the ladies, carrying with it a -profound sense of responsibility. Two evening dresses, for a girl who -had never had anything better than the simplest muslin! and a “costume” -for morning wear of the most complete kind, with everything in keeping, -jacket and hat and gloves. The acquisition of this could scarcely be -called pleasure. It was too solemn and important, a thing the -accomplishment of which carried with it a certain sensation of awe; for -what if it should not be quite in the fashion? what if it should be too -much in the fashion? too new, too old, not having received the final -approval of those authorities which rule the world? Sometimes a thing -may be very pretty, and yet not secure that verdict; or it may be _mal -porté_, as the French say, worn first by some one whose adoption of it -is an injury. All these things have to be considered: and when the -purchasers are country people, ignorant people who do not know what is -going to be worn! So that the responsibility of the business fully -equaled its pleasantness, and it was only when the more important -decisions were made, and the attention of the buyers, at too high a -tension in respect to other articles, came down to the lighter and -easier consideration of ribbons and gloves, that the good of the -expedition began to be fully enjoyed. And then they all had luncheon -together, meeting when their respective business was executed. Mr. -Penton took them to a place which was rather a dear place, which he had -known in his youth, when all the places he had known were dear places. -It was perhaps, a little old-fashioned too, but this they were not at -all aware of. And the lunch he had ordered was expensive, as Mrs. Penton -had divined. She said as much to the girls as they drove from their shop -to the rendezvous. She said, “I know your father will order the very -dearest things.” And so he had; but they enjoyed it all the more. The -extravagance itself was a pleasure. It was such a thing as had never -happened in all their previous experience; a day in town, a day -shopping, and then a grand luncheon and a bottle of champagne. “If we -are going to be so much better off they may as well get the good of it,” -Mr. Penton replied, in answer to his wife’s half-hearted remonstrance. -For she too found a pleasure in the extravagance. Her protest was quite -formal; she too was quite disposed for it once in a way--just to let -them know, in the beginning of their mended fortune, what a little -pleasure was. - -And when they came home, bringing sugar-plums and a few toys for the -little ones, they were all a little tired with this unusual, this -extraordinary dissipation. After tea the pinafores did not make much -progress; they were too much excited to care to go on with their -reading. They wanted to talk over everything and enjoy it a second time -more at their leisure. They had shaken off the sense of responsibility, -and only felt the pleasure of the holiday, which was so rare in their -life. Mr. Penton himself was seduced into making comparison of the -London of which they had thus had a flying glimpse with the London he -had known in the old days, and into telling stories of which somehow the -point got lost in the telling, but which had been, as he said, “very -amusing at the time;” while the girls listened and laughed, not at his -stories so much as out of their own consciousness that it had all been -“fun,” even the inconveniences of the day, and the prosiness of those -inevitable tales. Mrs. Penton was the one who subsided most easily out -of the excitement. But for a little look of complacence, an evident -sense that it was she who had procured them all this pleasure, there was -less trace in her than in any of the others of the day’s outing. She -drew her work-basket to her as usual after tea. She was not to be -beguiled out of her evening’s work; but she smiled as she went on with -her darning, and listened to the father’s stories, and the saucy -commentaries of the girls, with a happy abandonment of all authority in -consideration of the unusual character of the day. The only thing that -brought a momentary shadow over the party was that Walter was not there. - -“There is no moon to-night, but Wat is off again for one of his walks. I -wonder what has made him so fond of walks, just when we want him at -home?” the girls cried. And then a little mist came over his mother’s -eyes. She said, “Hush! he is probably at his Greek;” but whether she -believed this or not nobody could say. - -Walter, it need scarcely be said, was not at his Greek. He went up the -road toward the village with long strides devouring the way, though -there was no moon nor any visible inducement. The village was as quiet -a spot as could be found in all England. The only lights it showed were -in a few cottage windows, or glimmering from behind the great -holly-bushes at the rectory; a little bit of a straggling street, with -an elbow composed of a dozen little houses, low and irregular, which -streamed away toward the dark and silent fields, with the church, the -natural center, rising half seen, a dark little tower pointing upward to -the clouds. There was scarcely any one about, or any movement save at -the public-house, where what was quite an illumination in the absence of -other lights--the red glow of the fire, and the reflection of a lamp -through a red curtain--streamed out into the road, making one warm and -animated spot in the gloom. Wat, however, did not go near that center of -rustic entertainment. He stopped at a low wall which surrounded a -cottage on the outskirts--a cottage which had once been white, and had -still a little grayness and luminousness of aspect which detached it -from the surrounding darkness. A few bristling dry branches of what was -in summer a bit of hedge surrounded the low projection of the wall. -Walter paused there, where there was nothing visible to pause for. The -night was dark. A confused blank of space, where in daylight the great -stretch of the valley lay, was before him, sending from afar a fresh -breath of wind into his face, while behind him, in the nearer distance, -shone the few cottage lights, culminating in the red glow from the -Penton Arms. What did he want at this corner with his back against the -wall? Nothing, so far as any one could see. He made no signal, gave -forth no sound, save that occasionally his feet made a stir on the -beaten path as he changed his position. They got tired, but Walter -himself was not tired. Presently came the faint sound of a door opening, -and a flitting of other feet--light, short steps that scarcely seemed to -touch the ground--and then the gate of the little garden clicked, and, -heard, not visible, something came out into the road. - -“Oh, are you here again, Mr. Walter? Why have you come again? You know I -don’t want you here.” - -“Why shouldn’t you want me? I want to come; it’s my pleasure.” - -The voice of the young man had a deeper tone, a manlier bass than its -usual youthful lightness coming through the dark, and the great space -and freedom of the night. - -“It’s a strange pleasure,” said the other voice. “I should not think it -any pleasure were I in your place. If even there was a moon! for people -that are fond of the beauties of nature that is always something. But -now it is so dark”--there seemed a sort of shiver in the voice. “The -dark is a thing I can’t abide, as they say here.” - -“For my part, I like it best. Come this way, where the view is, and you -would think you could see it--that is, you can feel it, which is almost -more. Don’t you know what I mean? The wind blows from far away; it comes -from miles of space, right out of the sky. You could feel even that the -landscape was below you from the feel of the air.” - -“That is all very pretty,” she said, and this time there was the -indication of a yawn in her tone, “but if it is only for the sake of the -landscape, one can see that when it’s day, and feeling it is a -superfluity in the dark. If that was all you came for--” - -“I did not come for that at all, as you know. I came for--it would be -just the same to me if there was no landscape at all, if it was a street -corner--” - -“Under a lamp-post! Oh, that is my ideal!” with a little clap of her -hands. “What I would give to see a lamp again, a bright, clear, big -light, like Oxford Street or the Circus! You think that is very vulgar, -I know.” - -“Nothing is vulgar if you like it. I should like lamp-posts too if they -had associations. I saw plenty of them to-day, and I wished I could have -had you there to take you for a walk past the shop windows, since you -are so fond of them.” - -“Oh, the shop windows! Don’t talk to a poor exile of her native country -that she is pining for! So you were in town; and what did you see -there?” - -“Nothing,” said Wat. - -“Nothing!--in London! You must be the very dullest, or the most -obstinate, or prejudiced--Nothing! why, everything is there!” - -“You were not there; that makes all the difference. I kept thinking all -the time where I should have found you had you been in London. You never -will tell me where you live, or how can I see you when you go back.” - -“I am not going back yet, worse luck,” she said. - -“But that is no answer. I kept looking out to-day to see if I could find -any place which looked as if you might have lived there. The only place -I saw like you was in Park Lane, and that, I suppose--” - -“Park Lane!” she cried, with a suppressed laugh; “that was like old -Crockford’s niece. I could receive all my relations then.” - -“You are not old Crockford’s niece?” - -“No, I told you--I am a heroine in trouble,” she said. Her laugh was -perhaps a little forced, but if Walter observed that at all it only -increased the interest and fascination of such a paradox as might have -startled a wiser man. “And is town very empty?” she said. “But the -streets will be gay and the shop windows bright because of -Christmas--there is always a little movement before Christmas, and -things going on. And to think that I shall see nothing--not so much as a -pantomime--buried down here!” - -“I thought most people came to the country for Christmas,” said Wat. - -“Oh, the sw--; why shouldn’t I say it right out?--the swells you mean; -but we are not swells in my place. We enjoy ourselves with all our -hearts.” - -“I am sorry you think it so dull in the country,” said poor Wat. “I wish -you liked it better. If you had been brought up here, like me--but of -course that is impossible. Perhaps when you get better used to it--” - -“I shall never be used to it; I am on the outlook, don’t you know? for -some one to take me back.” - -“Don’t say that,” said Walter, “it hurts me so. I should like to -reconcile you to this place, to make you fond of it, so that you should -prefer to stay here.” - -“With whom? with old Crockford?” she said. - -Walter was very young, and trembled with the great flood of feeling that -came over him. “Oh, if I had only a palace, a castle, anything that was -good enough for you! but I have nothing--nothing you would care for. -That is what makes it odious beyond description, what makes it more than -I can bear.” - -“What is more than you can bear?” - -“Losing Penton,” cried the young man; “I told you. If Penton were still -to be mine I know what I should say. It is not a cottage like -Crockford’s, nor a poor muddy sort of place like the Hook. It is a house -worthy even of such as you. But I am like the disinherited knight, I -have nothing till I work for it.” - -“That is a great pity,” she said; “I have seen Penton; it is a beautiful -place. It seems silly, if you have a right to it, to give it up.” - -“You think so too!” he cried; “I might have known you would have thought -so; but I am only my father’s son, and they don’t consult me. If I had -any one to stand by me I might have resisted--any one else, whose -fortune was bound up in it as well as mine.” - -“Yes: what a pity in that case that you were not married,” she said. - -“I might be still,” cried Walter, with tremulous vehemence, “if you -would have faith in me--if you would forget what I am, a nobody, and -think what, with such a hope, I might be.” - -“I!” there was a sound of mocking in the laughing voice; “what have I -got to do with it? What would those great swells at Penton think if they -knew you were saying such things to old Crockford’s niece.” - -“It is they who have nothing to do with it,” he cried. “Do you think if -you were to trust me that I should care what they--But oh, don’t, don’t -call yourself so, you know it is not true; not that it matters if you -were. You would to me, all the same, be always yourself, and that means -everything that a woman can be.” - -There was a pause before she replied, and her voice was a little -softened. “They will never know anything about me at Penton, or anywhere -else. I have come here in the dark; you have scarcely seen me in -daylight at all, for all you are so silly.” - -“Yes, a hundred times,” cried Walter. “Do you think you can go out that -I don’t see you? I live about the roads since you have been here.” - -“It is a pity,” she said, with a little sharpness, “that you have -nothing better to do,” then, resuming her lighter tone, “If you don’t -soon begin to do something a little more practical how are you ever to -be--that somebody that you were offering to me?” - -“It is true,” he said, “it is true; but don’t blame me. I am going to -Oxford next month, and then, if I do not work--” - -“To Oxford! But that’s not work, that’s only education,” she cried, with -a faint mixture of something like disappointment in her voice. - -“Education is work; it opens up everything. It gives a man a name. I -have been kept back; but, oh, now, if you will say I may look -forward--if you will say I may hope.” - -“Look forward to what?” she said; “to come up here every evening, and -invite me out to talk in the cold at the corner of old Crockford’s wall? -I do not mind, for I’ve nothing else to amuse me now: and you have -nothing else to amuse you, so far as I can see; but, presently I shall -disappear like a will-o’-the-wisp, and what will you look forward to -then?” - -“That is what I say,” he said. “I feel it every day. You will go away, -and what am I to do, where am I to find you? Every morning when I wake -it is the first thing I think of--perhaps she may be gone, and not a -trace, not an indication, left behind, not even a name.” - -“Oh, it is not so bad as that. You know my name, but I tell you always -it is a great deal better you should know no more, for what is the use? -You are going to Oxford, where you will be for years and years before -you can do anything. And at present you are the disinherited knight and -I am a will-o’-the-wisp. Very well. We play about a little and amuse -each other, and then you will ride off and I shall dance away.” - -“No, no, no; for the sake of pity, if not for love--” - -“What has a will-o’-the-wisp to do with these sort of things, or a young -man at college? At college! it is only a school-boy a little bigger. -Ride off, ride off, Sir Disinherited Knight; and as for me, it’s my part -to go dancing, dancing away.” - -And she was gone, disappearing with no sound but the little click of the -gate, the pat of those footsteps which scarcely touched the ground, -snatching from him the hand which he had tried to take, the hand which -he had never yet been allowed to hold for a moment, he stood for a time -at the corner of the wall, tantalized, tremulous, trying to persuade -himself that she was not really gone, that she would appear again, a -shadow out of the darkness. This was all he had seen of her except in -distant glimpses, although their intercourse had gone so far. He was -ready to pledge his life to her, and yet this was all he knew. Walter -thought to himself as he went slowly down the hill, all thrilling with -this interview, that never had there been a courtship before. He was -proud of it, poor boy. There was something rapturous in its -strangeness, in the fact that he did not even know her name, nothing but -Emmy, which he had heard Martha call her. Emmy did not mean much, yet it -was all he knew. He called her in his heart by names out of the -poets--Una, Rosalind, Elaine. She was as much a creature of romance as -any of them. He dreamed in those sweet dreams awake which are the -privilege of youth, of seeing her flash out upon him from unimaginable -surroundings, a princess, a peerless lady, something noble and great, -something not to be put on the level of ordinary women. What she was -doing in this cottage he scarcely asked himself--she who belonged to so -different a sphere. But it was sweet to him to think that his love was -so original, unlike that of any one else. His head was full of an -intoxication of pleasure, of pride and wonder. Nobody had ever had such -a story. Ah, if he had but Penton to take her home to! But anyhow he -could conquer fortune for the sake of this sweet unknown. - -This was how Walter spent his evenings while the others sat round the -household lamp. He had the best of it. While Ally was thinking only of -the visit to Penton, or at least of nothing else that she allowed even -to herself, Wat, only two years older, felt himself standing on the -threshold of an illimitable future, full of everything that was -wonderful and sweet. - - - - -CHAPTER XVII. - -GOING INTO THE WORLD. - - -It was very near Christmas when Walter and Ally went to Penton on the -visit which had caused so much excitement. It had been arranged that on -Christmas-eve they should return, for to spend that day away from their -family was impossible, a thing not to be done had the invitation come -from royalty itself. They went with all their new things so nicely -packed, and their hearts beating, and many warnings and recommendations -from the most careful of mothers. - -“Wat, be careful that you never, never let them see, if it was only by a -look, that you do not agree with what your father is doing. You must not -let him down among his relations. You must let them see that what he -does--Oh, Wat, you must be very particular to show a proper pride. -Don’t look as if you had any grudge; don’t let them suppose--” - -“I hope I am not quite a fool,” said the indignant youth. - -“A fool! I never thought you were a fool; but you are young, my dear -boy, and you feel strongly. And, Ally! mind you don’t show that you are -unaccustomed to the sort of service and waiting upon that is natural -there. If your cousin offers to send her maid to help you, don’t you -come out with, ‘Oh, no; I do everything for myself at home.’ I don’t -want you to say anything that is not true. But, as a matter of fact, you -don’t do everything for yourself at home. What does it matter to Mrs. -Russell Penton whether you have a maid or whether it is Anne and I that -help you? You always are helped, you know. Say, ‘Oh, I think I can -manage quite well,’ or something of that sort.” - -“But, mother, Cousin Alicia must know how we live, and that I have no -maid at home.” - -“Oh, they never think, these great ladies; they take it for granted that -everybody has every thing just as they have. Most probably she would -think it was my fault if she heard that you had no maid. And, Ally! -don’t be so shy as you usually are; don’t keep behind backs; remember -that the only thing you can do for people who wish you to stay with them -is to be as friendly as possible, and to talk, and help to amuse them.” - -“I--to amuse Cousin Alicia, mother!” - -“Well, dear, as much as you can. Amuse perhaps is not the word: but you -must not sit as if you were cut out of wood or stone. And, Wat! if there -is shooting or anything going on, just do what the other gentlemen do. I -have always heard that Mr. Russell Penton was very nice; you will be -quite right if you keep your eye upon him.” - -“One would think we were going to court, where there are all kinds of -etiquettes, to hear you speak, mother.” - -“Well, my dears, there are all sorts of etiquettes everywhere; and in -one way it is easier at court, for if you don’t understand there is -nothing wonderful in that, and every one is willing to tell you: whereas -in a grand house you are supposed to know everything by nature. I don’t -doubt at all that things will go on quite comfortably and all right. -But, Ally, dear--” - -“Mother, don’t bother her any more,” cried Anne. “She will be so -frightened she will never venture to open her lips at all, for fear she -should say something wrong. I wish it was only me.” - -“Oh, so do I,” cried Ally, from the bottom of her heart. - -“And I,” said Wat; “any one may have my share.” - -“That is just how things are--always contrary, as Martha says. I should -have rather enjoyed it. I should have liked to see everything. Cousin -Alicia might have put on her icy face as much as she liked, she would -not have frozen me. But we can’t change places now at the last moment, -and the fly will have to be paid for if it waits. Come, Ally, come! for -sooner or later you know you must go.” - -Anne and her mother stood and watched the reluctant pair as they drove -away with a mingled sense of envy and relief. The fly from the village -was not a triumphal chariot; the old gray horse had a dilapidated -aspect; the day was damp and rainy. - -“We may be afloat before you come back,” said Anne, waving her hand. - -And then they left the door and the house out of sight, and departed -into the unknown. Into the unknown! If it had been to Russia it could -not have been further away, nor could the habits and customs of a -foreign country have been more alarming to the young adventurers. They -were so much overawed that they said little to each other. Ally drew -back into the corner of the carriage, Walter looked out of the opposite -window. They were in a moment separated by half a world, though the same -rug was tucked round both their knees. The boy looked out with an -eagerness which he could scarcely conceal for something tangible, -something of which his mind was full. The girl drew back into a vague -delightful world of dreams in which there was nothing definite. Who was -it that had said to her something about driving up unthinking to a door -within which you might meet your fate. Who was it? she asked herself, -and yet she remembered very well who it was; and as she drove along -there rose before her a whole panorama of shifting, changing pictures. -She was standing again by the muddy, turbid river, and hearing, as in a -dream, the first words of wooing, the suggested devotion, the -under-current of an inference which made her the chief interest, the -center of the world: which is such a thing as may well startle any girl -into attention. And then the scenery changed, and the new world opened, -and other, vaguer figures, yet more wonderful, appeared about her, some -of them with that same look in their eyes. How did Ally know what might -be waiting for her in that home of romance, that wonderful house of -Penton, with which all the visions of her life had been connected? -Sometimes when one is not thinking one drives up to a door and finds -inside one’s fate. What does that mean--one’s fate? Young Rochford had -given her to understand that he had found his when he arrived at Penton -Hook, and the words had vaguely seized upon Ally’s imagination, filling -her with a curious thrill of sensation. His fate! She did not think of -this with compunction or regret, as one who more thoroughly recognized -what was meant might have done. It moved her rather to an excited, -half-awed sense of power in herself which she did not understand before, -than to any sympathy for him. She thought in the keen consciousness of -awakening, of herself, and not of him. It was wrong; it was a guilty -sort of selfishness: but she could not help it. His words, which had -first opened her eyes--his looks, which perhaps a little earlier had -lighted a spark of perception, had been like the sounding of the -_réveillé_--like the rising of a morning star. She was not to blame for -it; she had done nothing which could connect her with his fate, as he -called it. It was a summons to her to behold and recognize her own -position, the wonderful, mysterious position, which a woman--a -girl--seemed to be born to, which she had been thrust into without any -doing of hers. - -When the fancy is first touched, the thoughts that follow are -sweet--sweeter perhaps than anything that can succeed--in their -perfectly indefinite exhilaration and vague sense of a personal -beatitude that scarcely anything else can bring. This does not always -mean love, which is a different effect. Ally knew nothing about love; -she only felt in all her being the new and wonderful power of awakening -motion in others, of which nobody had ever told her, and which she had -never dreamed of as appertaining to herself. She had read of it as being -possessed by others--by the beautiful maidens of romance, by ladies -moving in those dazzling spheres of society which were altogether beyond -the reach and even the desires of a little country girl. But Ally knew -very well that she was not a great beauty, nor so clever and gifted as -those heroines were who in novels and romances brought all the world to -their feet. She entertained no delusions on this subject. She was not -beautiful at all, nor clever at all. She was only Ally: and yet she had -it in her power to bring that look into another’s eyes. It was more -strange, more thrilling, sweet, confusing than words could say. - -As for Walter, his imaginations were far more definite. They were very -definite indeed, distant as every anticipation was. He looked out to see -one figure, one face, which he could not look out upon calmly, with a -spectator by his side, which he longed yet feared to behold in the -daylight, in the midst of a world awake and observant, with Ally looking -on. He expected nothing but to be questioned on the subject--to be asked -what he was looking for, why he leaned out of the window, what there was -to see. When it dawned upon him that Ally meant to ask no questions, -that she had the air of taking no notice, he became suspicious and -uneasy, thinking that she must mean something by her silence, that there -was more in it than met the eye. By nature she would have asked him a -hundred questions. She would have looked, too, wondering what he could -possibly expect to see on the road or in the village that could be -interesting. Walter said to himself that some report must have reached -home of those expeditions of his to Crockford’s cottage, and that Ally -must have been told to watch, not to excite his suspicions by -questioning, to be on the alert for whatever might happen. He turned his -back to her and blocked up the window with his head and shoulders as -they drove past Crockford’s. And there, indeed, was the face he longed -to see looking out from the cottage window, staring at him maliciously, -with a smile which was not a smile of recognition, defying him, as it -seemed, to own the acquaintance. A great panic was in Walter’s heart. To -betray this secret, to make it visible to the eyes of the world--_i. -e._, to the old rector, who, as ill-luck would have it, was strolling -past at the moment, taking his afternoon walk, and of Ally watching him -from her corner--was terrible to the young man. And to expose himself to -be questioned--to be asked who she was (which he did not know), and -where he had met her, and a hundred other details; perhaps to be -solemnly warned that he must see her no more! All these reflections -flashed through Walter’s spirit. She was evidently in the mind to take -no notice of him, to own no acquaintance: and there were so many -temptations on his side to do the same, to make his eyes do all his -salutations, to avoid giving any satisfaction to the spies about. But -his instincts as a gentleman were too much for Walter. He leaned a -little further out of the window and took off his hat. How could he pass -the place where she was, and look at her and make no sign? It was -impossible! Walter took off his hat with a heroism scarcely to be -surpassed on the perilous breach. It might be ruin; it might mean -discovery, betrayal; he might be sent away, banished from his gates of -paradise; but, whatever happened, he could not be disrespectful to her. - -She did not return the salutation, but she opened the window and looked -out after the carriage, putting out into the damp air what Walter within -himself called her beautiful head. It was not, strictly speaking, a -beautiful head, but it had various elements of beauty--dark eyes full of -light; a crop of soft brown silky hair, clustering in curly short -luxuriance; a complexion pale and clear, but lightly touched with color; -and a mouth which was really a wonder of a mouth beside the ordinary -developments of that universally defective feature. She looked after him -with mockery in her eyes, which only attracted the foolish boy the more, -and made him half frantic to spring from his place in the sight of the -village and put himself at her feet. It would have cost her nothing to -give him a smile, a wave of her hand; and there was no telling what it -might cost him to have taken off his hat to her; but she was immovable. -He gazed, as long as he could see anything, out of the carriage window. -At least, if he had sacrificed himself he should get the good of it, and -look, and look, as long as eyes could see. - -“How d’ye do?--how d’ye do?’ cried the rector, waving his hand toward -the carriage. Perhaps he thought that the salutation was for him, the -old bat. Walter drew in his head again, and looked with keen suspicion -at his sister in her corner, who raised her eyes, which seemed heavy -(could she have been asleep?), with a dreamy sort of smile, totally -unlike the smile of a spy maturing her observations, and asked, - -“Who was that?” - -“Who was what?” - -“The voice,” said Ally, “in the street--‘How d’ye do?’” - -“It was the rector--who else should it be? Do you mean to say you did -not see him going along the road?” - -“No, I did not see him,” said Ally, with that dreamy, imbecile sort of -smile. She had seen nothing, noticed Nothing! And the rector had taken -it for granted that the greeting had been for himself, and thought young -Walter was very civil: and all had passed over with perfect safety, as -if it had been the most natural thing in the world. Walter fell back -into the other corner, and thus the brother and sister swung and jolted -along, each in a beatitude and agitation of his (and her) own. Perhaps -there was a subtle sort of sympathy in the silence. They did not say -anything to each other until they had turned in at the gates, and were -stumbling along the avenue at Penton under the pine-trees, all bare and -moaning. This roused them instinctively, although their dreams were more -absorbing than anything else in earth or heaven. - -“Here we are at last,” said Ally, rousing herself, but speaking under -her breath. - -“Not yet; don’t you know the avenue is nearly a mile long? And don’t be -frightened--remember what mother said.” - -“Oh, not frightened,” she cried, but caught her breath a little. “Wat, I -wish it was over, and we were going home.” - -“So do I, Ally; but we must go through with it now we are here.” - -“Oh, I suppose so. Will she be waiting at the door, do you think, or -come to meet us? or will they tell us she is out, and offer to show us -our rooms, and send us tea?” - -“As they do in novels to the poor relations? I hope they will have -better taste,” said Walter, growing red, “than to try the poor relation -dodge with us. Oh, no! Mrs. Russell Penton knows that she is still more -or less in our power.” - -“I wish the first was over,” said Ally; “it may not perhaps seem so -dreadful after that.” - -And in this not ecstatic state of mind they drew up at the door, where -the footman who came out looked with contempt at the shabby village fly. -Mrs. Russell Penton had been walking, and was coming in at that moment, -with a little chubby-faced girl by her side. Cousin Alicia and her -companion took in every feature of the shabby fly, the old horse, the -driver with his patched coat, as they came forward. It was almost more -dreadful than what Walter called “the poor relation dodge,” though Mrs. -Russell Penton was so civil as to come to the door of the fly, which was -difficult to open, to receive her visitors. Already, before even they -entered the house, their poverty had thus been put to shame. Neither of -them, indeed, made much account of the little round-faced stranger who -stood looking on, with her mouth a little open, watching their -disembarkation. Nothing could look more insignificant than this little -girl did. She might have been a little waiting-maid, an attendant, not -smart enough for a _soubrette_; even Mrs. Russell Penton took no notice, -did not introduce her, but left her standing as if she were of no -importance, while she herself conducted Ally upstairs. Walter himself, -in the confusion of the arrival, had nearly followed without thinking. -But fortunately (which was a great satisfaction to him afterward) that -habit of good-breeding which would not let him pass Crockford’s cottage -without taking off his hat, inspired him to stand back, and let the -little maid, as he thought her, pass in before him. She did this with a -little blush and shy bow, and ran through the hall out of sight, as a -little person in what was presumably her position would do; and Walter -followed his sister upstairs. He felt that there was nothing to complain -of in the matter of their reception, at least. They were not being -treated as poor relations. Whatever might happen afterward, there was a -certain soothing in that. - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII. - -PREPARATION FOR THE GUESTS. - - -The arrival of the visitors had not been unattended with excitement at -Penton itself. Little Mab Russell, the great heiress, had reached the -house only a few days before, and as her uncle’s stately wife was an -object of some alarm to her, the prospect of a companion of her own age -was doubly agreeable. Mab was the daughter of a brother of Mr. Russell -Penton’s, who had never been of much account in the family, who had gone -abroad and made a great fortune, and died, leaving this one little girl -rich enough to cause a flutter in whatever society she came into, as -good as an estate, much better than most appointments for any young man -in want of an establishment. Russell Penton had taken from the first a -whimsical sort of interest in her, which did not show itself in the way -in which interest is usually exhibited by elderly relations. To shield -her from fortune-hunters, to find some equal match in which the -advantage should not be altogether on the gentleman’s side, did not seem -to be a thing which entered into his thoughts. He spoke of her with a -faint laugh full of humor and a realization of all the circumstances -such as few men would have made apparent. With the charitable and amused -eyes of a man who had himself, being poor, married an heiress, he looked -at all the flutterers who had already appeared in Mabel’s youthful -train. He was tolerant of the young men. He laughed half abashed, half -sympathetic, at their little wiles, asking himself had he made his -intentions so transparent as that? and putting forth his little measures -of defense without any of the hard words that generally accompany such -precautions. When other people warned the little girl against the -dangers to which she was subject--and she had already receive many -warnings to this effect, even from Mrs. Russell Penton herself, who was -one of the most anxious of her advisers--Mabel had been greatly -comforted to find that her uncle Gerald only laughed. The little girl -did not quite understand the combination; for when Gerald laughed, his -wife grew more grave than ever and anxious to protect the heiress. “Why -does Uncle Gerald laugh?” she had asked one day. And Mrs. Russell Penton -had grown very red, and said something about his inclination to see a -joke in the gravest subjects, which Mabel, who was very fond of her -uncle, thought severe. And their several accounts of the expected -visitors perplexed her more and more. - -“I hope, my dear,” Mrs. Russell Penton said, “that you will find my -godchild pleasant. I can give you very little information about her, I -am ashamed to say. We have been so much out of England--and though they -are relations, they are rather out of our sphere.” - -“Poor,” said her husband, “but not the less agreeable for that.” - -“I would not go so far,” said Alicia, in her grave way. “To be poor is -of course nothing against them, but unfortunately poverty does affect -the training, and manners, and ways of thinking. I should have preferred -not to have them when you were here, but circumstances, which I could -not resist--” - -“It is kind of you, Alicia, not to say over which you had no control: -for the circumstances, I fear, were your unworthy uncle, Mab. I wanted -them; and my wife, who is very good always, and ready to please me, gave -in, which is generally more than I deserve.” - -“Why did you want them, Uncle Gerald?” Mab inquired. - -“There is a big question!” he answered, laughing; “am I to lay bare all -my motives to this little thing, and let her see the depths of my -thoughts?” - -“And why did Aunt Gerald not want them?” pursued Mab. She had no genius -or even much intelligence to speak of; but the fact of being an heiress -has a very maturing influence, and little Mab was aware of a thing or -two which has not been formulated in any philosopher. She inspected the -two people who were so much older and wiser than she with very shrewd -and wide-open eyes. - -“My motives are clear enough,” said Mrs. Russell Penton, with a look at -her husband which would have been angry if she had not had so much -respect for him, and warning if she had not known how impracticable he -was. “I felt it my duty to your family, my dear, that you should make no -unsuitable acquaintances, nor run the risk perhaps of contracting -likings, I mean friendships--I mean becoming perhaps attached to people -who would not prove to be the kind of people you ought to know, in -my--in our house.” - -This very complicated sentence, so unlike the lucidity of Mrs. Russell -Penton’s usual conversation, was entirely due to the fact that her -husband’s eyes, with a laugh in them, were upon her all the time she was -speaking. Mab’s astonished exclamation, “But your relations, Aunt -Gerald--I have always heard that your family--” - -“I can scarcely say that these young people belong to my family. They -are the children of a distant cousin. Their mother I scarcely know. They -have not been brought up as--you have been, for instance. They will not -know any of the people you know. In short--but, of course, as they will -only be here for three days, it can not make much difference. What is -it, Bowker? My father?--” - -Mrs. Russell Penton got up very reluctantly to answer Sir Walter’s -summons. She gave her husband an almost imploring look. She wanted to do -more than put the heiress on her guard against these young people. She -wanted Mab, in fact, to be set against them. The idea of any untoward -complication happening, of the Russell family having it in their power -to reproach her with inveigling their heiress into a connection with one -of her own name, was intolerable to Alicia, all the more from the -circumstances of her own marriage, which moved her husband so entirely -the other way. - -“One would think,” said little Mab, with her shrewd look, “that Aunt -Gerald did not like her relations; but you, uncle, I think you do.” - -“This is a problem which your little wits are scarcely able to solve -unassisted,” he said, “though you make very good guesses, Mab. My wife -is not fond of her relations--because they are her relations in the -first place.” - -“Uncle Gerald!” - -“Such a statement is very crude and wants a great deal of clearing up. -You never heard your aunt’s story, did you, Mab?” - -“Story?” said Mab, faltering. “I--I did not know that there was any -story--except--” - -Russell Penton began to speak. “Oh, yes, it was this.” And then he was -infected by Mab’s embarrassment. He stopped, laughed, but awkwardly, -even grew red, which, for a man of his years and experience, was -inconceivable, and said, “No, no; not in that way. The story is not -perhaps what you would call a story. It concerns not anything in the -shape of a lover, so far as I know--” - -“Oh, I beg your pardon, Uncle Gerald!” - -“There is no harm done. She was not born to inherit all her father could -leave to her, like you. There were brothers at first; and the heir of -entail who succeeds now, who takes what should have been theirs, is the -father of these two young ones. Don’t you see? There is nothing for a -good strong family repugnance like a cousin who is the heir of entail.” - -Mabel paused a little, employing her faculties upon this question, -which was new to her. Finally she delivered her judgment. - -“Perhaps--at least I think I can understand. But the children haven’t -done anything, have they? It is not their fault?” - -“It is nobody’s fault, as is the case with so many of the worst -complications of life. And this is something a little worse still than -the heir of entail. It is the heir whom you are buying out, whom you are -persuading to part with his rights. Well, perhaps they are a bad kind of -rights. I prefer not to give an opinion. To bind up a property for -generations so that it shall descend only in a certain way may be wrong; -neither you nor I are capable of clearing up such high questions, Mab. -It is good for the family, but bad for the individual, as ‘Nature, red -in tooth and claw,’ is, according to the laureate. But Mab, my little -Mab, this boy Walter is the one that is to be done out of it. Don’t you -see? It is quite fair between Alicia and his father, but the boy has no -voice, and he is done out of it. I think it is rather hard upon the -boy.” - -“There was nothing said about a boy,” said little Mab, demurely. “I only -heard of a girl.’ - -“That was because you are not supposed to take any interest in boys,” -said her uncle, with a laugh; “not such a boy either in your eyes--over -twenty, poor fellow, and no doubt having thought of the time when he -should be the heir. He will be Sir Walter Penton in his turn, if he -lives, but otherwise he is out of it. I, who never was in it, who am -only a spectator, so to speak, I feel very much for young Wat.” - -“Poor boy!” said Mab, under her breath. By effect of nature she took, as -was to be expected, her uncle’s view. Perhaps he ought not to have thus -sacrificed his wife and her cause. But he had a motive, this man devoid -of all sense of propriety--a bad, dreadful, motive such as any correcter -judgment would have condemned. He wanted to interest the heiress in a -penniless, prospectless young man. Could anything be more wicked and -dreadful? He wanted to surround young Walter Penton with a halo of -romance in Mabel’s eyes, to call forth in his favor that charm of the -unfortunate, that natural desire of the very young to compensate a -sufferer, the very sentiments which he ought to have exorcised had they -come by themselves into being. His eyes lighted up when this breath of -pity came from Mab’s lips. A humorous sense of the balance in favor of -the race of Penton which he thus meant to create, diminishing so far his -own obligations, tickled his imagination. He would have liked to have -some one to laugh with over this good joke. Perhaps even underneath the -enjoyment there was something which was not so enjoyable, a sense of the -worthlessness of wealth, and that poverty was by no means such a -drawback as people thought. But that was altogether private, unopened in -his own soul; and he had not even any one who could appreciate the joke -which was on the surface, and the pleasure he felt in raising rebellions -in little Mab’s mind, in prepossessing her in Wat’s favor, in thwarting -Alicia. He would not have thwarted her in anything else; he had the -greatest respect for his wife, and it wanted only different -circumstances, a change of position, to have made him the husband of -husbands. But to thwart her on this point was delightful to him. He had -set his heart upon it. It would be turning the tables also on his own -people, which was agreeable too. “Yes,” he said, more seriously. “Poor -boy! all the more that he will not know how little, in reality, he loses -by the bargain that is being made over his head.” - -“What do you mean, Uncle Gerald? I thought you said you were so sorry -for him--that he was losing so much.” - -“More in idea than in fact--much, everything in imagination, this -house--which he calls, no doubt, the house of his fathers.” - -Mab looked round on the stately drawing-room which was full of a hundred -beautiful things, a long room with a row of windows looking out over the -wide landscape, divided and kept in proportion by pillars supporting a -roof which, it had been the pride of a previous generation to tell, was -painted by an Italian artist in the best taste of his century. “But -isn’t it the house of his fathers?” she said. - -“I suppose so, for as much as that is worth.” - -“Oh, Uncle Gerald! although we had always very nice houses, papa never -thought there was anything equal to--” - -“Yes, I know,” he said, hurriedly, and paused a moment to remember. He -went on by and by, with a voice slightly broken. “We were all brought up -there from our childhood. Even that, Mab, is more in appearance than in -reality. A man may get very little satisfaction even out of the place -where he was born.” - -Mab regarded him closely with her shrewd eyes. They were not beautiful -eyes, they were rather small, but very blue, with a frosty keenness in -them; and they saw a great deal. “You don’t take a very bright view of -things in general,” she said. - -Upon which he laughed and told her that he was an old grumbler, and not -to be listened to. “Suppose I was to tell you that a ball every night -(or half a dozen of them) would not make you perfectly happy, and that -even your first season might bore you--” - -“Uncle Gerald, I have always heard that you were very fond of society. -Did _your_ first season bore you?” she asked. - -“Not at all, not half enough, and--I am not sure that it would now, -which is a confession to make at my age. Hush! not a word about that. I -wish you to be kind to the young Pentons, remember, that is all. The -little girl will be shy and the poor boy may be morose, I shouldn’t -wonder.” - -“But you have taken them under your protection,” the girl said, looking -at him fixedly. “What could they have better than that? as if it -mattered about me!” - -Mr. Russell Penton shook his head, but he said nothing more. He went out -of the room shortly after, when his wife came back. He was not a man to -allow for a moment that there was anything in his position he did not -like, or that his protection would not be effectual in his own, nay, in -his wife’s, or rather in his wife’s father’s house. But as he went out -with his hands in his pockets, and the remains of a philosophical shrug -keeping his shoulders rather nearer his ears than usual, he could not -help being aware that it was so. It was a curious fact enough, and he -would have been as well pleased that little Mab had not divined it; but -still it was all in the day’s work. He had known what the disadvantages -would be when he accepted the position of Prince Consort, as he said to -himself often. On the whole it was a position not without its -alleviations, but (like most others in this world) it had to be taken -with all its drawbacks, without any discussion, and still more without -any complaint. There was no one who had not something to bear, some in -one way, some in another, his own perhaps not by a long way the worst. -And then with a sort of grim amusement he began to wonder how, if his -little plan should come to anything, young Wat would adapt himself to -it. Young Wat, a foolish boy, mourning over his loss of this big house -with all its French finery, its Renaissance front, its drawing-room roof -by Sugero (this was his little joke upon the great Italian decorator’s -name), its water-works all out of order, what a thing it would be for -him should he marry the Russell heiress with all her moneybags. And -afterward how would he agree with it? Russell Penton was very loyal, but -yet he felt that were he Wat, in all the freedom of opening life, with -the whole world before him, he would neither bind a great shell like -Penton upon his shoulders nor himself to a crown matrimonial. If the boy -but knew what it was to be free! if he could realize the happiness of -going where he would and doing what he pleased! To be sure he would -probably have to work for that freedom, and he had not himself at any -period of his career been a man who understood work. It was a thing he -had no genius for. To take up the labors of a profession was more -entirely out of the traditions and capabilities of his soul than the -rôle which he had adopted. He was quite aware of this, and, knowing it, -was very willing to promote Wat’s interest in the same way which had, as -people say, made his own fortune--judging Wat to have been in all -likelihood spoiled for other kinds of advancement like himself. He had -become even eager about this, determined that Wat should have his chance -with the best, and that the Pentons should thus be even with the -Russells, each family contributing a princess royal and each a fortunate -consort; but in the midst of his benevolent scheme, of which his wife so -entirely disapproved, he reserved to himself this subject of humorous -curiosity--how Walter would take to the place, in which he was himself -so loyal and patient, but yet never without a consciousness of all there -was to bear and to do. - -Mab, who was so shrewd, with all her wits about her, questioned Alicia -closely when they were alone together. She knew already that the -visitors were not much in the good books of the mistress of the house; -but, that she was a little ashamed of the feeling and anxious to have it -understood that there was no reason for it. “I will not conceal from -you,” Mrs. Russell Penton repeated, “that I did not wish you to meet -them: not from anything wrong in them--the girl is a nice gentle little -thing, I have no doubt; and the boy--I know no harm of the boy; but I -should have preferred that you had not met them here.” - -“Why, Aunt Gerald? do tell me why?” - -But this was what Mrs. Penton could not or else would not do. She said, -“Because they are not in our sphere. They are very nice, I don’t doubt. -They are, of course, just the same race as myself, so it is not for -that; but you that have been brought up in the lap of luxury, and this -girl, who probably has had the life of a nursery-maid (for the children -are endless), how could you have anything to say to each other? There is -too great a difference. This is what I always felt.” - -“And the boy,” said Mab, in a little voice which was somewhat -hypocritical, “is not he any better? Is he quite a common boy?” - -“The boy is not worth considering,” said Mrs. Russell Penton. “He is a -hobbledehoy, neither boy nor man, don’t you know? I don’t suppose he has -had more education than his sister, and I don’t think he will amuse at -all. But they are only coming for three days, and I hope you will not -mind for that short time.” - -“Oh, I shall not mind,” said Mab, “I like seeing people of all kinds.” -And thus the conversation dropped. But it need not be said that all this -was the very best introduction possible of the two young Pentons to the -notice of the little heiress. She did not indeed resolve to make to Wat -an offer of her hand and fortune. But the thought of the heir who was an -heir no longer, and of how the mere fact of being “out of it,” while -still so profoundly concerned, must work upon the mind, and all the -traditional miseries of the poor gentleman took possession of her -imagination. And fancy took the side of the unfortunate, as a young -fancy always does. Accordingly, when the poor old broken-down fly drove -up, and the portmanteaus were taken down, and the two timid young people -stepped out of the moldy old carriage, Mab, though she saw the ludicrous -features of the scene, felt not the least desire to laugh. She looked at -them keenly, standing by, acting as audience to this little drama, and -saw Ally’s anxious look at her brother as she passed into the house, and -Walter’s keen consciousness of the footman’s scorn and Mrs. Penton’s -toleration. He did not notice herself, and evidently thought her a -person of no importance, which for the moment piqued Mab. But when he -paused to let her, a little nobody, as he thought, pass before him, all -her romantic sympathies came back to her mind. And so it came to pass -that it was not Ally who was the most excited of the young persons thus -brought together in what seemed an accidental way; nor, perhaps, could -their hearts have been seen, was it she who was the most likely to have -met her fate. - - - - -CHAPTER XIX. - -RECKONING WITHOUT THEIR HOST. - - -Mrs. Russell Penton was not without her share of the general -embarrassment. There was never any quarrel in the stately, -well-regulated house. An angry look, a hot word, were things unknown. -But still she knew very well when her husband was not in accord with -her. His smile was quite enough. Matters had gone very far indeed before -he whistled, but sometimes things did even go so far as that. This time -there was no such climax. His lips had never even formed themselves into -the shape of a whistle; and in his countenance there was no suspicion of -a sarcastic meaning. But she knew that his thoughts were not as her -thoughts. She knew even, which was a rare thing, that he was against -her, that he meant to act more or less in a contrary sense. The young -people whom she had invited against her will, whom she meant to be--not -unkind to, that was not in her nature, but to treat at least no better -than was necessary, he meant to take up and show the greatest attention -to. She was aware of this and it troubled her. How was it possible that -it should not trouble her? It was an accusation, nay, more, a verdict -delivered against herself. And she saw even that little Mab was of the -same way of thinking, that she was interested in the new-comers, that -her questions had a meaning, and that even that little thing was -critical of her attitude, and blamed her, actually blamed her, though of -course she did not venture to say anything. This made Alicia Penton -angry and sore within herself; and there was something still more -disagreeable which lent a sting to all the rest; and that was that she -was her own worse critic, and felt herself poor and small and petty, -and acting an ignoble part. - -But there was yet a deeper depth to which she never had expected to -descend. Sir Walter in his great age changed his habits for nobody. He -was never seen in the drawing-room except on rare occasions for an hour -after dinner, when he felt better than usual. He thought the library the -most cheerful as well as the warmest room in the house, and when -visitors came it was expected that they should pay their respects to him -there. Sir Walter had been a little restless on the day the young -Pentons arrived. It had not seemed to Alicia that they were important -enough to be presented to her father in a solemn interview. “There is no -reason why you should trouble about them,” she said. “You will see them -at dinner, that will be soon enough.” And the old gentleman had made no -particular reply. Therefore when they arrived, as has been related, Mrs. -Penton led them upstairs to the drawing-room and gave them tea. This -room was very light, very bright, with its long range of large windows, -of which the great breadth of the landscape below seemed to form a part, -and the pillars which divided it into a sort of nave and aisles gave -occasion for many little separate centers for conversation and the -intercourse of congenial groups in a large company. Ally and Walter -entered the room with dazzled eyes. It was to them as a dwelling of the -gods. Had this visit been paid only a few weeks before they would have -secretly taken possession, imagining how here and here each should have -their special corner. The effect it produced on Walter now, as he looked -round, too proud to show that it was new to him, too intent upon keeping -all trace of anger out of his countenance to be otherwise than -preternaturally grave, and on Ally, regarding its grandeur with an awe -that was beyond words, was very different, but in both cases it was very -profound. Ally thought with a movement of mingled regret and -thankfulness how right mother was! What could we have done, she said to -herself, in this great room? It would have been delightful indeed for -the children, who on wet days would never have wanted to go out with -such a place to play in. But then how could any one have had the heart -to give this up to the children? She could not talk to Mrs. Penton, who -maintained a little formal conversation, her mind was so full of this -thought. It was beautiful. It was a magnificent room. It was wonderful -to think that it might have belonged to _us_. But mother was right--oh, -how right mother was! What could we have done with it? How could we even -have furnished it? Ally said to herself; but she knew that Wat was -annoyed when she allowed herself to say, “What a lovely room!” - -“It is a very handsome room. I don’t think there is anything like it in -the county,” said Mrs. Russell Penton. “I ought not perhaps to say so, -for we have done a great deal to it ourselves. But I may allow that it -is very perfect. You have never seen it before?” - -“The view is fine,” said Wat, going to the window before his sister -could answer; “it is so extensive that it makes any room look small.” He -was so much out of temper and out of heart that he could not help making -an attempt to “take” this serene great lady “down.” - -She smiled in her dignified way, which made the young critic feel very -small. “We seldom hear any fault found with its size,” she said. - -And then, to the astonishment of Walter, the little person, whom he had -allowed of his grace to pass in before him, came into the room, and took -her place and addressed the great lady in the most familiar terms. “Aunt -Gerald,” she said, “we are all a kind of cousins, don’t you think? We -must be a kind of cousins, though we never saw each other before, for -you are aunt to them and you are aunt to me, so of course we are friends -by nature;” and with that she put out her hand not only to Ally, whose -face brightened all over at this cordial greeting, but to Wat, who stood -hanging over them like a cloud, not knowing what to say. - -“You are mistaken, Mab,” said Mrs. Russell Penton; “I am not aunt but -cousin to--to--” she did not know what to call them--“to my young -relations,” she said at last. - -“That comes exactly to the same thing--an old cousin is always aunt,” -said Mab, settling herself on her seat like a little pigeon. She was -very plump, pink and white, with very keen little blue eyes, not at all -unlike a doll. There was nothing imposing in her appearance. “I am Mab,” -she said, “and are you Alicia, like Aunt Gerald? Do all your brothers -and sisters call you so? It is such a long name. I have neither brothers -nor sisters.” - -“Oh, what a pity,” said gentle Ally, who had brightened as soon as this -new companion came in with all the freemasonry of youth. - -“Do you think so? but then they say it is very good in another way. I -have nobody to be fond of me though, nobody to bully me. Big brothers -bully you dreadfully, don’t they?” She cast a look at Walter, inviting -him to approach. She was not shy, and he was standing about, not knowing -what to do with himself. Walter would have been awkward in any -circumstances, having no acquaintance with strange ladies or habit of -attending them at tea. He drew a step nearer indeed, but her advances -did not put him at his ease; for had he not taken her for a lady’s-maid? -though this she did not know. - -Mrs. Russell Penton left them thus to make acquaintance, as Mab said, -but not willingly. She had to obey a summons from Sir Walter. Sir Walter -had been a great deal more restless than usual for the last day or two. -There was nothing the matter with him, he said himself, and the doctor -said he was quite well, there was not the slightest reason for any -uneasiness; but yet he was restless--constantly sending for Alicia when -she was not with him, changing his position, finding fault with his -newspapers, and that all the little paraphernalia he loved was not -sufficiently at hand. Mrs. Russell Penton was always ready when her -father wanted her. She would have let nothing, not the most exalted -visitor, stand between her and her father, and though she was by no -means desirous of leaving these young people together, yet she got up -and left them without a word. It was, however, a little too much for her -when Sir Walter exclaimed almost before she got into the room, “Where -are those children? I suppose they have come, Alicia. Why are you hiding -them away from me?” - -“The children!--what children? Father, I don’t know what you mean.” - -“What children are there to interest me _now_, except the one set?” said -Sir Walter, peevishly. “Edward’s children of course I mean.” - -“Edward’s children!” - -“Am I growing stupid, or what is the matter with you, Alicia? I don’t -generally have to repeat the same thing a dozen times over. Naturally it -is Edward’s son I want. A man can scarcely help feeling a certain -interest in the boy who is his heir.” - -“I am afraid I am very stupid, father. I thought we had settled--” - -“Yes, yes, yes,” said the old man: “it is all settled just as you liked, -I know; but all the same the boy is my heir.” - -Mrs. Russell Penton made no reply. Sir Walter was old enough to be -allowed to say what he would without contradiction; but the statement -altogether was extremely galling to her. “Settled just as you liked.” It -was not as she liked but as he liked. It was he who had moved in it, -though it was for her benefit. Though she could not deny that the desire -of her life was to possess Penton, to remain in her home, yet she was -proudly conscious that she would have taken no step in the matter, done -nothing, of her own accord. It was he who had settled it; and now he -turned upon her, and asked for the boy who was his heir! Everybody was -hard upon Alicia at this moment of fate. They all seemed to have united -against her--her husband, the little girl even whom she had wished to -defend from fortune-hunters--and now her father himself! If she had been -twenty instead of fifty she could not have felt this universal -abandonment more. But the practice of so many years was strong upon her. -She would not oppose or make any objections to what he wished, though it -was of the last repugnance to herself. - -“I should have liked,” said the old man, “to see Edward too; when one -has advanced so far as I have on the path of life, Alicia, likes and -dislikes die away--and prejudices. I may have been too subject to -prejudice. Edward never was very much to calculate upon. He had no -character; he never could hold his own; but there was very little harm -in him, as little harm as good you will perhaps say. Bring me the boy. -He will be the same as I, Sir Walter Penton, when his turn comes, and it -will not be long before his turn comes. Edward will never last to be an -old man like me. He hasn’t got it in him; he hasn’t stuff enough. The -young one will be Sir Walter--Sir Walter Penton, the old name. The -tenth, isn’t it--Walter the tenth--if we were to count as some of the -foreign houses do?’ - -“Oh, father, don’t!” cried Alicia. To think he could talk, almost jest, -about another Walter! - -He looked up at her quickly, as if out of a little gathering confusion, -seeing for the moment what she meant. - -“Eh! well, we must not always dwell on one subject--must not dwell upon -it. Let me see the boy.” - -Mrs. Russell Penton rang the bell and gave a message, out of which it -was almost impossible to keep an angry ring of impatience. “Tell the -young gentleman who is in the drawing-room, he who arrived half an hour -ago--you understand--that Sir Walter would like to see him. Show him the -way.” - -“Why don’t you speak of him by his name, Alicia? Young Mr. Penton, Mr. -Walter Penton, my successor, you know, Bowker, that is to be. Say I -seldom leave my room, and that I should be pleased to see him here. My -dear,” he went on, “the servants always act upon the cue you give them, -and they ought to be very respectful to the rising sun, you know. It is -bad policy to set them out of favor with the rising sun.” - -Alicia’s heart was too full for speech. She kept behind her father’s -chair, arranging one or two little things which required no arrangement, -keeping command over herself by a strong effort. A little more, she -felt, and she would no longer be able to do this. That even the servants -should have such a suggestion made to them, that Edward’s boy was the -heir! Had her father departed from the resolution which was, she -declared to herself passionately, his own resolution, not suggested by -her? Had he forgotten? Was this some wavering of the mind which might -invalidate all future acts of his? She felt on the edge of an outbreak -of feeling such as had rarely occurred in her reserved and dignified -life, and at the same time she felt herself turned to stone. The old man -went on talking, more than usual, more cheerfully than usual, as if -something exhilarating and pleasant was about to happen, but she paid -little attention to what he said. She stood behind, full of a new and -anxious interest, when the door opened and Wat, timid, but on his guard, -not knowing what might be wanted with him, half defiant, and yet more -impressed and awed than he liked to show, came into the room. Mrs. -Russell Penton gave him no aid. She said, “This is Edward’s son, -father.” It annoyed her to name him by his name, though there was no -doubt that he had a right to it, as good a right as any one. She could -not form her lips to say Walter Penton. But what she failed in Sir -Walter made up. He half rose from his chair, which was a thing he rarely -did, and held out both his hands. “Ah, Walter! I’m glad to see you, very -glad to see you,” he said. He took the youth’s hands in those large, -soft, aged ones of his, and drew him close and looked at him, as he -might have looked at a grandson: and there was enough resemblance -between them to justify the suggestion. “So this is Walter,” he went on, -“I’m very glad to see you, my boy. You’re the last of the old stock--no, -not the last either, for I hear there’s plenty of you, boys and girls, -Alicia”--the old man’s voice trembled a little, tears came into his -eyes, as they do so easily at his age--“Alicia, don’t you think he has a -look of--of--another Walter? About the eyes--and his mouth? He is a true -Penton. My dear, I’m very sorry if I’ve vexed you. I--I like to see it. -I could think he had lived and done well and left us a son to come after -him, my poor boy!” - -And old Sir Walter for a moment broke down, and lifted up his voice and -wept, running the little wail of irrepressible emotion into a cough to -veil it, and swinging Wat’s hand back and forward in his own. Alicia -stood as long as she could behind him, holding herself down. But when -her father’s voice broke, and he called her attention to that -resemblance, she could bear it no longer. She walked away out of the -room without a word. Had she not seen it--that resemblance? and it was -an offense to her, a bitter injury. He had neither lived nor done well, -that other Walter, the brother of her love and of her pride. He had -crushed her heart under his feet, beaten down her pride, torn her being -asunder; and now to have it pointed out to her that this insignificant -boy, who was not even to be the heir, whose birthright was being sold -over his head, that he was a true Penton and like her brother! She could -bear it no longer. Not even the recollection that this emotion might -injure her father, that he wanted care to soothe him, sufficed to make -her capable of restraining the passion which had seized possession of -her. She went away quickly, silent, saying nothing. It was more than she -could bear. - -In the corridor she met her husband, between whom and her there was, she -was conscious, a certain mist, also on account of this boy. Had all been -as usual in other ways she would have passed him by with a sense in her -heart of a certain separation and injury: but a woman must have some -one to claim support from, and after all he was her husband, bound to -stand by her, whatever questions might arise between them. She went up -to him with an instinctive feeling of having a right to his sympathy in -any case, even if he should disapprove, and put her hand within his arm -with a hasty appealing movement, quite unusual with her. No man was more -easily affected than Russell Penton by such an appeal. He put his hand -upon hers, and looked at her tenderly. “What is it, my dear?” he said. - -“Nothing, Gerald; except that I want to lean upon you for a moment -because I have more than I can bear; though you disapprove of me,” she -said. - -He held her close to him, full of pity and tenderness. “Lean, Alicia, -whether I approve or disapprove;” and he added, “I know that all this is -hard upon you.” He sympathized with her at least, if not with the tenor -of her thoughts. - -She made no further explanation, nor did he ask for it. After a moment -she said, “Gerald, do you know whether a sudden change of mind, -abandoning one way of thinking for another, is supposed to be a bad -sign--of health, I mean?” - -He paused a moment and looked at her, with an evident question as to -whether it was she who had changed her mind. But that look was enough to -show that, though she was suffering she was firm as ever, and a glance -she gave toward the closed door of the library enlightened him. “I -should not think it was a very good sign--of health,” he said. - -“It shows a weakening--it shows a relaxation of the fiber--a--that is -what I think. And so complete a change! Gerald, my father shall do -nothing he does not wish to do for me.” - -“I never supposed you would wish that, my dear. What is it? Don’t form -too hasty a judgment. Has he said that he does not want to do anything -that has been spoken of between you?” - -“No, he has spoken of nothing. He has got Edward Penton’s boy with him, -and he is quite affectionate, talking of a resemblance--” - -“Alicia, is it Penton you are thinking so much of?” - -“No, no,” she cried, leaning upon his shoulder, bursting at last into -sudden, long-repressed tears. “No, no! It is my brother, my brother! -_my_ Walter! He who should have been, who ought to have been--Gerald, it -may be wrong, but I can’t bear it, I can’t bear it. He talks of a -resemblance--” - -“Alicia, I see it too. I thought it would soften your heart.” - -“Oh!” she cried, “how little you know;” and, flinging herself from him, -with a cry of mortification and disappointment, she flew into her own -room and closed the door. - -Russell Penton stood looking after her with a troubled countenance, and -then he began to walk slowly up and down the corridor. He did not -approve, and perhaps, as she said in her passion, did not understand -this strange revulsion of all gentle sentiments. But it went to his -heart to leave her to herself in a moment of pain, even though the pain -was of her own inflicting. He did not follow or attempt to console her. -She was not a girl to be soothed and persuaded out of this outburst of -passionate feeling. He respected her individuality, her age, her power -to bear her own burdens; but because his heart was very tender, though -he did not disturb Alicia, he walked up and down, waiting till she -should return to him, outside that closed door. - - - - -CHAPTER XX. - -SIR WALTER AND HIS HEIR. - - -There was a ball at Penton that evening. - -Nothing was more unusual than a ball at Penton. The family festivities -were usually of the gravest kind. Solemn dinner-parties, duties of -society, collections of people who had to be asked, county potentates, -with whom Alicia and her husband had dined, and who had to be repaid. -Nothing under fifty, unless it might be by chance now and then a newly -married couple added in the natural progress of events to the circle of -the best people, ever appeared at that luxurious but somewhat heavy -table. Mr. Russell Penton chafed, but endured, and talked politics with -the squires, and did his best to relieve the ponderous propriety of -their wives. He was good at making the best of things; and when he could -do nothing more he put on a brave face and supported it. But now, for -once in a way, youth was paramount. The young people from Penton Hook, -who had little acquaintance with the other young people of all the -county families who were invited, had not so much as heard of what was -in store for them; and Ally reflected, when she did hear, that it was -something like an inspiration which had induced her mother to provide -her with that second evening dress, which was quite suitable for a first -ball. It was very simple, very white, fit for her age, her slim figure, -and youthful aspect. But it was not for Ally that the ball was given. “I -believe it is my ball,” Mab had told her. “It is my first visit to -Penton since I was a child, and now that I am out Aunt Alicia thinks -that something has to be done for me. Are you ‘out’? but you must be, of -course, or you would not have been asked for to-day.” - -“I don’t know whether I am out or not,” said Ally, with a blush; “but I -don’t think mother, if she knew, would have any objection. I am -eighteen. I have never been at a ball before. Perhaps I may not dance in -the right way.” - -“Oh, nonsense,” said Mab, “whatever way you dance you have only to stick -to it and say that is the right way.” - -The two girls were alone, for Walter had just been mysteriously called -out of the room. And though Ally’s thoughts followed her brother with -anxiety, wondering what could be wanted with him, yet the novelty of the -scene and the companionship of a girl of her own age so warmed her -heart, that she forgot the precautions and cares which had been so -impressed upon her, and began to talk and to act by natural impulse -without thought. - -“I should never have the courage to do that,” she said; “I have never -even seen people dancing. We had a few lessons when we were children, -and sometimes we try with Wat, just to see, if we ever had a chance, how -we could get on. Anne plays and I have a turn, or else Anne has a turn -and I play.” - -“Is Anne your only sister?” - -“Oh, no,” cried Ally, with a laugh at the impossibility of such a -suggestion; “there are two in the nursery. We are two boys and two -girls, grown up; and the little ones are just the same, two and two.” - -“How unfair things are in this world,” said Mab; “to think there should -be so many of you and only one of me!” - -“It is strange,” said Ally; “but not perhaps unfair: for when there is -only one your father and mother must seem so much nearer to you--you -must feel that they belong altogether to _you_.” - -“Perhaps. Mamma died when I was born, so I never knew her at all. Papa -is dead too. Don’t let us talk of that. I never think of things that are -disagreeable,” said Mab, “what is the use? It can’t do you any good, it -only makes you worse thinking. Tell me about to-night. Who will be here? -are they nice? are they good dancers? Tell me which is the best dancer -about, that I may ask Uncle Gerald to introduce him to me.” - -“I know nobody,” said Ally. - -“Nobody! though you have lived here all your life! Oh, you little -envious thing! You want to keep them all to yourself; you won’t tell me! -Very well. I have no doubt your brother dances well; he has the figure -for it. I shall dance with him all the night.” - -“Oh, no; that would be too much. But I hope you _will_ dance with him to -give him a little confidence. Indeed, what I say is quite true. We don’t -know anybody; we have been brought up so--quietly. We never were here -before.” - -“Oh!” Mab said. She was an inquiring young woman, and she had not -believed what she had heard. She had made very light of Mrs. Russell -Penton’s description of her relations as “not in our sphere.” As Ally -spoke, however, Mab’s eyes opened wider; she began to realize the real -position. The misfortunes of the young Pentons had gone further than she -had believed; they were poor relations in the conventional sense of the -word, people to be thrust into a corner, to be allowed to shift for -themselves. But not if they have some one to look after them, Mab said -to herself. She took up their cause with heat and fury. “You shall soon -know everybody,” she cried; “Uncle Gerald will see to that, and so shall -I.” It then occurred to her that Ally might resent this as an offer of -patronage, and she added, hastily, “Promise to introduce all your good -partners to me, and I will introduce all mine to you. Is that settled? -Oh, then between us we shall soon find out which are the best.” - -How kind she was! To be sure, Cousin Alicia was not very kind; there was -nothing effusive about her. No doubt she must mean to be agreeable, or -why should she have asked them? though her manner was not very cordial. -But as for Mab--who insisted that she was to be called Mab, and not Miss -Russell--she was more “nice” than anything that Ally could have imagined -possible. She was like a new sister, she was like one of ourselves. So -Ally declared with warmth to Wat, who knocked at the door of her room -just as she was beginning to dress for dinner, with a face full of -importance and gravity. He was quite indifferent as to Mab, but he told -her of Sir Walter with a sort of enthusiasm. “He said I must not forget -that I was his heir, and that he would like to make a man of me. What do -you think he could mean, Ally, by saying that I was his heir, after -all?” - -Ally could not tell; how was it possible that she should tell, as she -had not heard or seen the interview? And besides, she was not the clever -one to be able to divine what people meant. She threw, however, a little -light on the subject by suggesting that perhaps he meant the title. “For -you must be heir to the title, Wat,” she said; “nobody can take that -from you.” Wat’s countenance fell at this, for he did not like to think -that it was merely the baronetcy Sir Walter meant when he called him his -heir. However, there was not very much time to talk. Walter had to hurry -to his room to get ready, and Ally to finish dressing her hair and to -put on her dress, with a curious feeling of strangeness which took away -her pleasure in it. Of course, you really could see yourself better in -the long, large glass than in the little ones at the Hook, but an -admiring audience of mother and sisters are more exhilarating to dress -to than the noblest mirror. And Ally felt sad and excited--not excited -as a girl generally does before her first ball, but filled with all -manner of indefinite alarms. There was nothing to be alarmed about. -Cousin Alicia, however cold she might seem, would not suffer, after all, -her own relations to be neglected. And then there was Mab. The girl felt -the confused prospect before her of pleasure--which she was not sure -would be pleasure, or anything but a disguised pain--to grow brighter -and more natural when she thought of Mab. And that compact about the -partners. Ally wondered whether she would get any partners, or if they -would all overlook her in her corner, a little girl whom nobody knew. - -And then came dinner, an agitating but brilliant ceremonial, with a -confusing brightness of lights and flowers and ferns, and everything so -strange, and the whole disturbed by an underlying dread of doing -something wrong. Sir Walter at the head of the table, a strange image of -age and tremulous state, looked to Ally like an old sage in a picture, -or an old magician, one in whose very look there were strange powers. -She scarcely raised her eyes when she was presented to him, but -courtesied to the ground as if he had been a king, and did not feel at -all sure that the look he gave her might not work some miraculous change -in her. But Sir Walter did not take much notice of Ally, his attention -was all given to Wat, whom he desired to have near him, and at whom he -looked with that pleasure near to tears which betrays the weakness of -old age. When dinner was over the old man would not have Russell -Penton’s arm, nor would he let his servant help him. He signed to Wat, -to the astonishment of all, and shuffled into the ball-room, where half -of the county were assembled, leaning on the arm of the youth, who was -no less astonished than everybody else. Sir Walter was very tall, taller -than Wat, and he was heavy, and leaned his full weight upon the slight -boy of twenty, who required all his strength to keep steady and give the -necessary support. Mrs. Russell Penton, who was already in the ball-room -receiving her guests, grew pale like clay when she saw this group -approach. “Father, let me take you to your seat,” she said, hurriedly, -neglecting a family newly arrived too, who were waiting for her -greeting. “Nothing of the kind, Alicia. I’m well off to-night. I’ve got -Wat, you see,” the old gentleman said, and walked up the whole length of -the room, smiling and bowing, and pausing to speak to the most honored -guests. “This is young Walter,” he said, introducing the boy, “don’t you -know? My successor, you know,” with that old tremulous laugh which was -half a cough, and brought the tears to his eyes. The people who knew the -circumstances--and who did not know the circumstances?--stared and asked -each other what could have happened to bring about such a revolution. -When Sir Walter had been seated at the upper end of his room he -dismissed his young attendant with a caressing tap upon his arm. “Now -go, boy, and find your partner. You must open the ball, you know; -nothing can be done till you’ve opened the ball. Go, go, and don’t keep -everybody waiting.” Poor Wat could not tell what to do when raised to -this giddy height without any preparation, not knowing anybody, very -doubtful about his own powers as a dancer, or what was the etiquette of -such performances. Russell Penton almost thrust Mab upon him in his -pause of bewilderment. And from where she stood at the door, stately and -rigid, Alicia looked with a blank gaze upon this boy, this poor -relation, whom her eyes had avoided, whom she had included almost -perforce in her reluctant invitation to his sister, but who was thus -made the principal figure in her entertainment. She had been reluctant -to ask Ally, but the brother had been put in quite against her will. His -name, his look, the resemblance which she refused to see, but yet could -not ignore, were all intolerable to her; but her father’s sudden fancy -for the boy, his change of sentiment so inconceivable, so unexplainable, -struck chill to her heart. - -When she was released from her duties of receiving she found out the -doctor among the crowd of more important guests, and begged him to give -her his opinions. - -“How do you think my father looks?” - -“Extremely well--better than he has looked for years--as if he had taken -a new lease,” the doctor said. - -Mrs. Russell Penton shook her head. She herself was very pale; her eyes -shone with a strange, unusual luster. She said to herself that it was -superstition. Why should not an old man take a passing fancy? It would -pass with the occasion, it might mean nothing. There was no reason to -suppose that this wonderful contradiction, this apparent revolution in -his mind, was anything but a sudden impression, an effect--though so -different from that in herself--of the stirring up of old associations. -She sat down beside her father, and did her best to subdue the state of -unusual exhilaration in which he was. - -“You must not stay longer than you feel disposed,” she said, with her -hand upon his arm. - -“Oh, don’t fear for me, Alicia. I am wonderfully well; I never felt -better. Look at young Wat, with that little partner of his! Isn’t she -the little heiress? I shouldn’t wonder if he carried off the prize, the -rascal! eh, Gerald? and very convenient too in the low state of the -exchequer,” the old gentleman said; and he chuckled and laughed with the -water in his eyes, while his daughter by his side felt herself turning -to stone. It was not, she said to herself passionately, for fear of his -changing his mind. It was that a change so extraordinary looked to her -anxious eyes like one of those mental excitements which are said to go -before the end. - -It was Ally’s own fault that she got behind backs, and escaped the -attentions which Mr. Russell Penton, absorbed, he, too, in this curious -little drama, had intended to pay her. Ally, in the shade of larger -interests, fell out of that importance which ought to belong to a -_débutante_. It was a great consolation to her when young Rochford -suddenly appeared, excited and delighted, anxious to know if she had -still a dance to give him. Poor Ally had as many dances as she pleased -to give, and knew nobody in all this bewildering brilliant assembly so -well as himself. She was unspeakably relieved and comforted when he -introduced her to his sisters and his mother, who, half out of natural -kindness, and half because of the distinction of having a Miss -Penton--who was a real Penton, though a poor one, in the great house -which bore her name--under her wing, encouraged Ally to take refuge by -her side, and talked to her and soothed her out of the frightened state -of loneliness and abandonment which is perhaps more miserable to a young -creature expecting pleasure in a ball-room than anywhere else. They got -her partners among their own set, the guests who were, so to speak, -below the salt, the secondary strata in the great assembly--who indeed -were quite good enough for Ally--quite as good as any one, though -without handles to their names or any prestige in society. Mab, when she -met her new friend, stopped indeed to whisper aside, “Where have you -picked up that man?” but Mab, too, was fully occupied with her own -affairs. And Walter was altogether swept away from his sister. He made -more acquaintances in the next hour or two than he had done for all the -previous years of his life. If his head was a little turned, if he felt -that some wonderful unthought-of merit must suddenly have come out in -him, who could wonder? He met Ally now and then, or saw her dancing and -happy; and, with a half-guilty gladness, feeling that there was no -necessity for him to take her upon his shoulders, abandoned himself to -the intoxication of his own success. It was his first; it was totally -unexpected, and it was very sweet. - -The time came, however, as the time always comes, when all this -fascination and delight came to an end. Sir Walter had retired hours -before; and now the last lingering guest had departed, the last carriage -had rolled away, the lights were extinguished, the great house had -fallen into silence and slumber after the fatigue of excitement and -enjoyment. Walter did not know how late, or rather how early it was, -deep in the heart of the wintery darkness toward morning, when he was -roused from his first sleep by sudden sounds in the corridor, and voices -outside his door. A sound of other doors opening and shutting, of -confused cries and footsteps, made it evident to him that something -unusual had occurred, as he sprung up startled and uneasy. The first -thought that springs to the mind of every inexperienced adventurer in -this world, that the something which has happened must specially affect -himself, made him think of some catastrophe at home, and made him clutch -at his clothes and dress himself hurriedly, with a certainty that he was -about to be summoned. There flashed through Walter’s mind with an -extraordinary rapidity, as if flung across his consciousness from -without, the possibility that it might be his father--the thought that -in that case it would actually be he, as old Sir Walter had said, who -would be--The thought was guilty, barbarous, unnatural. It did not -originate in the young man’s own confused, half-awakened mind. What is -there outside of us that flings such horrible realizations across our -consciousness without any will of ours? He had not time to feel how -horrible it was when he recognized Mrs. Russell Penton’s voice outside -in hurried tones, sharp with some urgent necessity. “Some one must go -for Edward Penton and Rochford--Rochford and the papers. Who can we -send, who will understand? Oh, Gerald, not you, not you. Don’t let me be -alone at this moment--let all go rather than that.” - -“If it must be done, I am the only man to do it, Alicia--if his last -hours are to be disturbed for this.” - -“His last hours! they are disturbed already; he can not rest; he calls -for Rochford, Rochford! It is no doing of mine--that you should think so -of me at this moment! How am I to quiet my father? But, Gerald, don’t -leave me--don’t you leave me?” she cried. - -Walter threw his door open in the excitement of his sudden waking. The -light flooded in his eyes, dazzling him. “I’ll go,” he said, unable to -see anything except a white figure and a dark one standing together in -the flicker of the light which was blown about by the air from some open -window. Presently Alicia Penton’s face became visible to him, pale, with -a lace handkerchief tied over her head, which changed her aspect -strangely, and her eyes full of agitation and nervous unrest. She fell -back when she saw him, crying, with a sharp tone of pain, “You!” - -“I’m wide awake,” said the young man. “I thought something must have -happened at home. If there’s a horse or a dog-cart I’ll go.” - -“Sir Walter is very ill,” said Russell Penton. “I hope not dying, but -very ill. And you know what they want, to settle the matter with your -father and get that deed executed at once.” - -“I’ll go,” said Wat, half sullen in the repetition, in the sudden -perception that burst upon him once again from outside with all its -train of ready-made thoughts--that if he lingered, if he delayed, it -might be too late, and Penton would still be his--that there was no duty -laid upon him to go at all, contrary to his interests, contrary to all -his desires that--that--He gave a little stamp with his foot and -repeated, doggedly, “I said I’d go. I’m ready. To bring Rochford and the -papers, to bring my father; that’s what I’ve got to do.” - -“That is what Mrs. Penton does not venture to ask of you.” - -“Oh, boy,” cried Alicia, lifting up her hands, “go, go! It is not for -me, it is for my father. I don’t know what he means to do, but he can -not rest till it is done. He can’t die, do you know what I mean? It is -on his mind, and he can’t get free--for the love of Heaven go!” - -“This moment,” Walter said. - - - - -CHAPTER XXI. - -A NIGHT DRIVE. - - -Walter Penton found himself facing the penetrating wind of the December -morning which was in its stillness and blackness the dead of night, -before he had fully realized what was happening. A number of keen -perceptions indeed had flashed across his mind, yet it felt like nothing -so much as the continuation of a dream when, enveloped in an atmosphere -of sound, the horse’s hoofs clanging upon the frosty road, the wheels -grinding, the harness jingling, all doubled in clamor by the surrounding -stillness, he was carried along between black, half-visible hedge-rows, -under dark bare trees, swaying in the wind, through shut-up silent -villages, and the death-like slumber of the wide country, bound hard in -frost and sleep. A groom less awake than himself, shivering and excited, -but speechless, and affording him no sense of human companionship, was -by his side, driving mechanically, but at the highest speed, along a -road which to unaccustomed eyes was invisible. The scene was a very -strange one after the intoxicating dream of the evening, with all its -phantasmagoria of light and praise, and confused delight and pride. The -blackness before him was as heavy as the preliminary vision had been -dazzling; the air blew keen, cutting the very breath which rose in white -wreaths like smoke from his lips. Where was he rushing? carried along by -a movement which was not his own, an unwilling agent, acting in spite of -himself. Sir Walter’s old head, crowned with white locks, looking upon -him with so much genial approbation, Mrs. Russell Penton’s drawn and -rigid countenance, the disturbed face of her husband, the plump -simplicity of little Mab, a sort of floating rosy cherub among all these -older countenances, seemed to flit before him in the mists; the music -echoed, the lights glowed; and then came the darkness, the ring of the -hoofs and wheels, the stinging freshness of the cold air, and all dark, -motionless, silent around. He was in a vision still. The German poem in -which the lady is carried off behind the black horseman, tramp, tramp -across the land, splash, splash across the sea, seemed to ring in his -ears through his dream. He was preternaturally awake and aware of -everything, yet his eyes were in a mist of semi-consciousness, and all -the half-visible veiled sights about him seemed like the vague and -flying landscape of uneasy fever-journeys. The cold, which half -stupefied him, by some strange process only intensified these -sensations; his companion and he never exchanged a word. He was not -acquainted even with the lie of the roads, the ascents and descents, or -of what houses those were which looked through the darkness from time to -time surrounded by spectral trees. After awhile an overwhelming desire -for sleep seized him. He had visions of the bed, all white and in order, -which he had left behind; of the chair by the fire which he had been -roused out of; of his own room at home, all silent, cold, waiting for -him. If only he could make a spring out of this moving, jingling thing, -out of the stinging of the air, and get into the quiet and warmth and -sleep! - -When the groom spoke Walter woke up again, broad awake from what must -have been a doze. “Shall we go to the Hook or to Mr. Rochford’s first, -sir?” the man asked. Walter started bolt upright, and came to himself. -They were clashing through his own village, and a moment later he would -have passed without seeing the white blinds at the windows of -Crockford’s cottage which shone through the gloom. He waved his hand in -the direction of his home, thinking that to give his father the benefit -of a warning was worth the trouble before he went on. He took the reins -into his own hands, knowing the steep descent toward the house, which -was ticklish even in daylight, and this touch of practical necessity -brought him to his full senses, and for the first time dispersed the -mists. He perceived now fully what he was doing. As the horse’s steps -sunk half stumbling down the invisible abyss of the way, Walter felt, -with a tingling of his ears and a sinking of his heart, that he also was -dropping from the brilliant mount of possibility which he had been -ascending with delighted feet. It had seemed as if all the decisions of -fate might be reversed, as if he were to be the arbiter of his own -fortune, as if--And now it was his hand that was to seal his own fate. -Such thoughts and questionings, such rebellions against a duty which is -not to be escaped, may go on while one is executing that very duty -without any practical effect. Walter pushed on all the time as well as -the difficulties of the path would allow. He dashed into the little -domain at the Hook with an energy that made the still air tingle, -feeling as if he were himself inside, and starting to the shock of the -sudden awakening in the midst of the darkness. The groom, who had opened -the gate, ran on and gave peal after peal to the bell, and presently the -house, which had stood so dead and dark in the midst of the spectral -trees, awoke with a start. One or two windows were opened -simultaneously. “Who is there?” cried Mr. Penton, in a bass tone, while -a sudden wavering treble with terror in it shrieked out, “Oh, it’s Wat, -it’s Wat!” and “Something has happened to Ally!” with a cry that -penetrated the night. - -“Father,” said Wat, “nothing is the matter with either of us. Sir -Walter’s very ill. I’m going to fetch Rochford and the papers. You have -to come too, to sign. Be ready when I come back.” - -“Rochford and the papers! To sign! What do you mean: In the middle of -the night!” - -And here there came a white figure to the window, crying “Ally--are you -sure, are you sure, Wat, all’s right with Ally?” through the midst of -the question and reply. - -“I tell you, father, Sir Walter’s dying. Be ready, be at the cross-roads -if you can in half an hour. It’s three miles further, but this horse -goes like the wind. Don’t stop for anything. In half an hour. It’s true; -it’s not a dream,” he shouted, turning round to go away. - -“Wat! dying, did you say? And a ball in the house! Wat! had they got the -doctor? what was it? Wat!” - -“I can’t stay. He may be dead before we get there. In half an hour at -the cross-roads,” cried the youth, turning the horse with dangerous -abruptness: and in a minute or two all was still again. The darkness and -silence closed round, and the astonished family, terrified, startled out -of the profound quiet of their repose, blinked, dazzled at the newly lit -candles, and said to each other wildly, “Dying! perhaps before they can -get there. But Ally--Ally and Wat are all right, thank God!” And soon -there was a twinkle of lights from window to window. The servants got up -last, being less easily awakened; but Mrs. Penton had already some tea -ready for her husband, and Anne, in a little dressing-gown, was -collecting the warmest coats and wrappers which the family possessed, -before Mr. Penton himself, very grave, almost tremulous, in the sudden -emergency, could get ready. His fingers trembled over his buttons. Sir -Walter, whom he had not seen for years; the old man who had been as one -who would never die; the kind uncle of old; the causeless antagonist of -later years. It was strange beyond measure to Edward Penton to be thus -sent for with such startling and tragic suddenness in the middle of the -night. “What shall I do?” he said, wringing his hands, “if he should die -before--” “Oh, Edward, make haste; lose no time; a minute may do it,” -cried his wife in her anxiety. They almost pushed him out, Anne running -before to see that the gate was open, with a lantern to show him the -way. There was no one else to carry the lantern, and she went with him -up the steep ascent with the flicker of the light flaring unsteadily -about the dark road. She was very thinly clad, with an ulster over her -dressing-gown, and her poor little feet thrust into her boots, and -shivered as she ran, and stumbled with the lantern, which was too big -for her, her father being too much absorbed in his thoughts to perceive -what a burden it was. Anne shivered, but not altogether from cold. Her -heart was beating high, the quick pulsations vibrating to her lively -brain, and alarm, awe, the indefinite melancholy and horror of death -mingling with that keen exhilaration of quickened living which any -tremendous event brings with it to the young. It was a wonderful thing -to be happening, to be mixed up in, to realize so much more vividly than -even her father did. Her very lantern and course along this steep and -dark road in the middle of the night gave a thrilling consciousness to -Anne of having a great deal to do with it, of being really an actor in -the drama. She would not leave him till the lights of the dog-cart -showed far off, coming on swiftly, silently, through the dark, before -any sound could be heard. It was all wonderful; the portentous darkness, -without a star; the cold, the silence, the consciousness of what was -going on; the sense, which took her breath away, that perhaps after all -the lawyer, with his papers, and her father, who had to sign them, might -be too late; that even now, when she turned to make her way, trembling a -little with cold and fright and nervous excitement, Sir Walter might be -dead, and Penton be “ours!” Mother would be my lady in any case; the -servants would have to be taught to call her so. And all this might be -determined in an hour or two, perhaps before daylight! Anne shivered -more and more, and was afraid of the darkness under the hedge-rows as -she went home alone with the heavy lantern. She had a great mind to -leave it under the hedge and run all the way home, without minding the -dark; but such darkness as that was not a thing which a girl could make -up her resolution not to mind. - -Walter had gone on from the Hook with this issue plainer and plainer in -his mind--if he but delayed a little, did not press the horse, took it -more easily, he might, without reproach, without harm, be late, and so -after all preserve his birthright. He said to himself that if the papers -were but there Mrs. Russell Penton would have them signed whatever might -happen, if her father was in the act of dying she would have them -signed. There was nothing she would not do to secure her end. Had she -not secured himself, even himself, who was so much against her, whose -life was more in question than any one’s, to do her will and serve her -purpose? And when _he_ could not resist her who could? She would get her -way. She would make the old man’s melting, his sudden partiality, come -to nothing; and again Walter, whose head had been turned a little, who -had begun to feel more than ever what it would be to be the heir of -Penton, would be replaced in the original obscurity of his poor -relationship. And all this might be changed if he but delayed a little, -went softly, spared the horse! All the time, while these thoughts were -going through his mind, he was pressing on with vehemence, making the -animal fly through the darkness. He did not hesitate a moment -practically, though he said all this to himself. What he did and what he -thought seemed to run on in two parallel lines without deflection, -without any effect upon each other. It was all in his hands to do as he -pleased: no one could blame him or say anything to him if he ceased to -press on, if he let the reins drop loosely. But it never occurred to him -to do so. Then there was the possibility that Rochford might not be -ready at once, that he might not be able to find the papers over which -he had so dawdled, that he might not be ready to jump up as Walter had -done. What need was there to press him, to make the same startling -summons at his door that had been made at the Hook, to insist on an -answer? There seemed no need to take any active steps in order to upset -the family arrangement, to turn everything the other way. All that it -was necessary to do was only to let the reins fall on the horse’s neck, -to urge him forward no more. - -They arrived thus flying at the gates of the Rochfords’ house, a big -red-brick mansion just outside the town. There was a light in the -coachman’s cottage which answered the purpose of a lodge, and the -coachman himself came out, half scared, half awake, to open to the pair -of lamps that gleamed through the darkness, and the fiery horse from -whose nostrils went up what seemed puffs of smoke into the frosty air. -“At ’ome? He’ve just got home, and scarce a-bed yet,” said the man. -“Whatever can you want of master so early in the morning?” Walter had -considered it to be night up to this moment; he recognized it as morning -with a sigh of excitement. “Mr. Rochford must be called immediately,” he -said, his thoughts tugging at him all the time, saying, Why? Why can’t -you let him alone? Is it your business to force him to get up, to -produce his papers, to drive half a dozen miles in the chill of the -morning? But Walter, though he heard all this, took no notice. “Let him -know that I am waiting. Sir Walter Penton is very ill. He must come at -once,” he said. He jumped down from the cart, and began to pace rapidly -up and down to restore the circulation to his half-frozen limbs, while -the groom covered the horse with a cloth and eased the harness. There -was no time to put the animal up, to go in-doors and wait. As Walter -took his sharp walk up and down, the opposing force in his mind had a -time to itself of inaction and silence, and heaped argument upon -argument before him. What! hurry like this, drag every one that was -wanted from their rest, disturb the whole sleeping world with the clamor -of his appeal in order to undo himself! Was this his duty, anyhow that -it could be considered? Was it his duty to undo himself? More than ever, -now he had seen it, Penton had become the hope of his life, the object -of all his wishes; and was it in order to divest himself of the last -possibility of being heir of Penton, though this was what Sir Walter had -called him, that he was here? - -The chill became keener than ever; a sharp air, blighting everything it -touched, blew in his face and chilled him to the bone. It was the first -breath of the dreary dawning, the dismal rising of a dull day. A faint -stir became perceptible in the house, very faint, a light flashed at a -window, there was a far-off sound of a voice, the movement of some one -coming down-stairs. Then a voice called out, “What is it, Penton? Is it -possible I’m wanted? I can’t believe the man. What do you want with me?” -And Rochford, shivering, half dressed, with a candle in his hand, -appeared at a side door, close to which Walter was performing his -march. “You can’t have come all this way for nothing,” he cried, “but -it’s not an hour since I came home. It doesn’t seem possible. Am I -wanted certainly?” - -Now was the time. The reasonings within tore Walter as if they had got -hold of his heart-strings. Why should he be so obstinate, forcing on -what would be his own ruin? It would be all his doing, the hurry-scurry -through the night, the insistance, calling up this man, who yawned and -gazed at him with a speechless entreaty to be let off, and his father, -who probably now was waiting for him by the cross-roads in the dark, -chilled too to the heart. It would be all his own officiousness, -offering himself to go, forcing the others. These harpies were tearing -at him all the time he was saying aloud, his own voice sounding strange -and far off in his ears, “Sir Walter has been taken very ill; he wants -you at once. Mrs. Russell Penton sent me. You are to bring all the -papers, and we are to pick up my father on the way.” He said all this as -steadily as if there was not another sentiment in his mind. “What,” said -Rochford, “the papers, and your father! Come in, at least; it will take -me some time to find them. Come in, though I fear there’s no fire -anywhere.” - -“I want no fire, only make haste,” said Walter, “we may be too late.” -Too late! yes, it was possible even now to be too late, but no longer -likely. Now be still, oh, reasoning soul, keep silence, for there is no -remedy--the thing is done, and yet it was still possible that it might -not be done in time. - -Rochford was a long time getting himself and his papers together; so -long that the blackness became faintly gray, and objects grew slowly -visible, rising noiselessly out of the night. The young man went up and -down, up and down mechanically. He had jumped down to recover himself of -the numbness of his long drive, but numbness seemed to have taken -possession of him body and soul. His mind had fallen into a sort of -sullen calm. He asked himself whether he should take the trouble to -accompany them back at all. Rochford and his father were all that were -necessary. He was not wanted. He thought he would walk home, getting a -little warmth into him, following the clamor of the cart, but so far -behind that all the echoes would die out, and leave him in the silence, -making his way home. Not to Penton, where for a moment he had dreamed a -glorious dream, and heard himself called old Sir Walter’s heir, but home -to the Hook, where he had been born, where to all appearance he would -die, where he could steal to his own bed in the morning gray, and sleep -and sleep, and forget it all. But now again another revolution took -place in him; he no longer wanted to sleep, all his faculties were wide -awake, and life ablaze in him as if he never could sleep again. When -Rochford at last came out with his bag, Walter acted as if there had -never been a question in his mind, as he had acted all along; he sprung -up to his place without a word, gathered the reins out of the groom’s -hand, and took the road again, reckless, at the hottest pace. The horse -was still fresh, rested yet fretted by the delay, and easily urged to -speed. Walter did not know how to drive, he had no experience of -anything more spirited than the pony-of-all-work at home, and it was -solely by the light of nature, and a determination to get forward, that -he was guided. The groom had not ventured to say anything, but Rochford -was afraid, and remonstrated seriously. “You can’t go downhill at this -pace, you will bring the horse down, or perhaps break our necks,” he -said. “I’ll not be too late,” said Walter, “that is the only thing; we -must be there in time.” At the cross-roads Mr. Penton, shivering, was -pulled up on the cart almost without stopping, and they dashed on once -more. The landscape revealed itself little by little, rising on all -sides in gray mist, in vague ghostly clearness--the skeleton trees, the -solid mass of the houses, the long clear ribbon of the river lighting -the plain. And then Penton--Penton rising dark and square with its -irregular outline against the clouds. There were lights in many of the -windows, though every moment the light grew clearer. Dawn had come, the -darkness was fleeing away; had life gone with it? as it is said happens -so often. Walter, dashing in at the open gates, urging the horse up the -avenue, did not ask himself this question. He felt a conviction, which -was bitter at his heart, that he had completed his mission successfully, -and that they had come in time. - - - - -CHAPTER XXII. - -A DEATH-BED. - - -Sir Walter lay in his luxurious bed, where everything was arranged with -the perfection of comfort, warmth, softness, lightness, all that wealth -could procure to smooth the downward path. He was not in pain. Even the -restlessness which is worse than pain, which so often makes the last -hours of life miserable, an agony to the watchers, perhaps less so to -the sufferer, had not come to this old man. He lay quite still, with -eyes shining unnaturally bright from amid the curves and puckers of his -heavy old eyelids, with a half smile on his face, and the air of -deliverance from all care which some dying people have. He was dying not -of illness, but because suddenly the supplies of life had failed, the -golden cord had broken, its strands were dropping asunder. The wheels -were soon to stand still, but for the moment that condition of suspense -did not seem to be painful. There was fever in his eyes which threw a -certain glamour over everything about. He had asked that the candles -might be lighted, that the room should be made bright, and had called -his daughter to his side. Perhaps it was only her own anxiety which had -made her suppose that he had asked for Rochford and the papers. At all -events, if he had done so, he did so no more. He held her hand, or -rather she held his as she stood by him, and he lightly patted it with -the other of his large, soft, feeble hands. - -“You are looking beautiful to-night--as I used to see you--not as you -have been of late. Alicia, you are looking like a queen to-night.” - -“Oh, father, dear father, my beauty is all in your eyes.” - -“Perhaps, more or less,” he said; “I have fever in my eyes, and that -gives a glory. The lights are all like stars, and my child’s eyes more -than all. You were a beautiful girl, Alicia. I was very proud of you. -Nobody but your father ever knew how sweet you were. You were a little -proud outside, perhaps a little proud. And then we had so much -trouble--together, you and I--” - -She said nothing. She had not attained even now to the contemplative -calm which could look back upon that trouble mildly. It brought hard -heart-beats, convulsive throbs of pain to her bosom still. She had -silenced him often by some cry of unsoftened anguish when he had begun -so to speak. But as he lay waiting there, as it were in the vestibule of -death, saying his last words, she could silence him no more. - -“Something has occurred to-night,” he said, “that has brought it all -back. What was it, Alicia? Perhaps your ball; the dancing--we’ve not -danced here for long enough--or the music. Music is a thing that is full -of associations; it brings things back. Was there anything more? Yes, I -think there must have been something more.” - -She stood looking at him with dumb inexpressive eyes. She could not, -would not say what it was besides, not even now at the last moment, at -the supreme moment. All the opposition of her nature was in this. Love -and pride and sorrow and the bitter sense of disappointment and loss, -all joined together. She met his searching glance, though it was -pathetic in its inquiry, with blank unresponsive eyes. And after awhile -in his feebleness he gave up the inquiry. - -“We have gone through a great deal together, you and I--ah, that is -so--only sometimes I think there was a great deal of pride in it, my -dear. My two poor boys--poor boys! I might be hard on them sometimes. -There was the disappointment and the humiliation. God would be kinder to -them. He’s the real father, you know. I feel it by myself. Many and many -a time in these long years my heart has yearned over them. Oh, poor -boys, poor silly boys! had they but known, at least in this their -day--Alicia! how could you and I standing outside know what was passing -between God and them when they lay--as I am lying now?’ - -“Oh, father, father!” she cried, with an anguish in her voice. - -“It is you that are standing outside now, Alicia, alone, poor girl; and -you don’t know what’s passing between God and me. A great deal that I -never could have thought of--like friends, like friends! I feel easy -about the boys, not anxious any longer. After all, you know, they belong -to God, too, although they are foolish and weak. Very likely they are -doing better--well, now--” - -“Oh, father!” she cried, with a keen pang of pain at what she thought -the wandering of his mind. “You forget, you forget that they are dead.” - -“Dead!” he repeated, slowly. “I don’t forget; but do you know what that -means? We never understand anything till we come to it in this life. I’m -coming very close, but I don’t see--yet--except that it’s very -different--very different--not at all what we thought.” - -“Father,” she cried, in the tumult of her thoughts: “oh, tell me -something about yourself! Are you happy--do you feel--do you remember--” - -Alicia Penton had said the prayers and received the faith of Christians -all her life, and she wanted, if she could, to recall to the dying man -those formulas which seemed fit for his state, to hear him say that he -was supported in that dread passage by the consolations of the Gospel. -But her lips, unapt to speak upon such subjects, seemed closed, and she -could not find a word to say. - -“Happy!” he said, with that mild reflectiveness which seemed to have -come with the approaching end. “It is a long, long time since I’ve been -asked that question. If you mean, am I afraid? No, no; I’m not afraid. -I’m--among friends. I feel--quite pleased about it all. It will be all -right, whatever happens. I don’t seem to have anything to do with it. In -my life I have always felt that I had everything to do with it, Alicia; -and so have you, my dear; it’s your fault, too. We were always setting -God right. But it’s far better this way. I’m an old fellow--an old, old -fellow--and I wonder if this is what is called second childhood, Alicia; -for I could feel,” he said, with the touching laugh of weakness, “as if -I were being carried away--in some one’s arms.” - -His heavy eyes, that were still bright with fever, closed with a sort of -smiling peacefulness, then opened again with a little start. “But it -seemed to me just now as if there was something to do--what was there to -do?--before I give myself over. I don’t want to be disturbed, but if -there is something to do--Ah, Gerald, my good fellow, you are here, -too.” - -Russell Penton had come in to say that the men who had been sent for so -hurriedly, they whose coming was so important, a matter almost of life -and death, had arrived. He had entered the room while Sir Walter was -speaking, but the hush of peace about the bed had stopped on his lips -the words he had been about to say. He came forward and took the other -hand, which his father-in-law, scarcely able to raise it, stretched out -toward him faintly with a smile. “I hope you are better, sir,” he said, -mechanically, bending over the soft helpless hand, and under his breath -to his wife, “They are come,” he said. - -She gave him a look of helplessness and dismay, with an appeal in it. -What could be done? Could anything be said of mortal business now? Could -they come in with their papers, with their conflict of human interests -and passion, to this sanctuary of fading life? And yet again, could -Alicia Penton make up her mind to be balked, disappointed, triumphed -over in the end? - -“Better--is not the word.” Sir Walter spoke very slowly, pausing -constantly between his broken phrases, his voice very low, but still -clear. “I am well--floating away, you know--carried very softly--in some -one’s arms. You will laugh--at an old fellow. But I don’t feel quite -clear if I am an old fellow, or perhaps--a child.” Then came that -fluttering laugh of weakness, full of pathetic pleasure and weeping and -well-being. “But,” he added, with a deeper drawn, more difficult breath, -“you come in quickly. Tell me--before it’s late. There is something on -my mind--like a shadow--something to do.” - -Alicia held his hand fast; she did not move, nor look up; her eyes -blank, introspective, without any light in them, making no reply to him, -fixed on her father’s face; but her whole being quivering with a -conflict beyond describing, good and evil, the noble and the small, -contending over her, in a struggle which felt like death. - -A similar struggle, but slighter and fainter was in her husband’s mind; -but in him it was not a mortal conflict, only a question which was best. -Was it right to permit the old man to float away, as he said, without -executing a project which seemed so near to his heart? Because it was -not one which pleased Russell Penton, because he would rather that it -should fail, he felt himself the more bound to his wife that it should -not fail through him. - -“It seems almost wicked to disturb you, sir,” he said, “but I heard that -you wanted Rochford; if so, he is here.” - -Alicia caught her husband by the arm, pressing it almost fiercely with -her hand, leaning her trembling weight upon him. “But not to disturb -you, father,” she cried, with a gasp. - -“Ah!” said Sir Walter, “I remember. What was it? I don’t seem to see -anything--except those lights like stars shining; and Alicia, Alicia! -How beautiful she is looking--like a girl--to-night.” - -Her husband gave her a strange glance. She was gripping his arm as if -for salvation, clutching it, her breath coming quick; her cheeks with -two red spots of anxiety and excitement; her eyes dull, with no -expression in the intensity of their passion, fixed on her father’s -face. The white dressing-gown which she had thrown on when she was -called to him was open a little at the throat, and showed the gleam of -the diamonds which she had not had time to take off. It was not -wonderful that in the old man’s eyes, with love and fever together in -them, Alicia, in her unusual white, should seem for a moment to have -gone back to the dazzle and splendor of youth. - -Sir Walter resumed after a moment, as though this little outbreak of -tender admiration were an indulgence which he had permitted himself. “My -mind’s getting very hazy, Gerald--all quite pleasant, the right thing, -no trouble in it, but hazy. I remember, and yet I don’t remember. If I -had but the clew--Rochford?--the young one, not the father. He’s gone, -like all the rest, and now the young one--reigns in his stead. Bring -him, and perhaps I’ll remember. You could tell me, you two, but you’re -afraid to disturb me. What does it matter about disturbing me? a -moment--and then--Send for him; perhaps I’ll remember.” - -Alicia would scarcely let her husband go. She looked at him with terror -in her eyes. What was she afraid of? When he withdrew his arm from her -she dropped down suddenly on her knees by her father’s bedside with a -low shuddering cry, and hid her face, pressing her cheek upon the old -man’s hand. The excitement had risen too high. She could bear it no -longer. Complicated with all the aching and trouble of the moment, the -bursting of this last tie of nature, the dearest and longest -companionship of her life, to have that other anxiety, the miserable -question of the inheritance, the triumph or sacrifice of her pride, -which yet, even amid the solemnity of death, moved her more than any -other question oh earth--was something intolerable. It was more than she -could bear. She sunk down, partly out of incapacity to support herself, -partly that she could not, dared not, meet her father’s eyes with their -vague and wistful question. “You could tell me, you two.” He had seen -it, then, in her face, though she had made efforts so determined to -banish all sign of comprehension, all answer out of her eyes. And now, -if he insisted, how could she refuse to answer him? and if Gerald -perceived that the old man had found the necessary clew through her, -what would he think of her? That she had preferred her own -aggrandizement to her father’s peace, that she had prompted him on the -very edge of the grave to enrich herself. She could not sustain Sir -Walter’s look, nor face the emergency without at least that passive -protection of her husband’s presence, which for the moment was -withdrawn. And Alicia trembled for the moment when the strangers would -come into this sacred room; the lawyer, and Edward Penton behind him, -hesitating, not without feeling (she knew), looking sadly at the -death-bed where lay one whom in his early days he had looked up to with -familiar kindness. Nobody in the world, not even Gerald, could be so -near to him in that moment as Edward Penton. She felt this even while -she trembled at the anticipation of his coming. He was nearer than any -one living. He would bring in with him the shadows of those two helpless -ones disappeared so long out of life. She bethought her in that moment -how it had been usual to say “the three boys.” Was her mind wandering, -too? All these thoughts surged up into her brain in a wild -confusion--the old tenderness, the irritation, the bitter jealous grudge -at him who had outlived the others, the natural longing toward one who -could understand. - -Sir Walter was unaffected by any of these thoughts; he felt it all -natural--that the grief of his child should overwhelm her, that the -sense of parting and loss should be profounder on her side than on his. -After various efforts he raised his hand, which was so heavy, which -would not obey his will, and laid it tenderly upon her bowed head. -“Alicia, my dear, child, don’t let it overwhelm you. Who can tell even -how small the separation is--as long as it lasts, and it can not last -very long. You must not, you must not, my dear, be sorry for me. I tell -you--it is all pleasant--sweet. I am not--not at all--sorry for myself. -God bless you, my dear. He is so close that when I say ‘God bless you’ -it is as if, my love. He Himself was putting out His hand.” - -“Oh, father! oh, father!” she repeated, and could say no more. - -And he lay with his face turned to her, and his hand feebly smoothing, -stroking her bowed head, as if she had been a child. She was a child to -him, his young Alicia, looking so beautiful after her ball, in which he -had seen her--had he not seen her?--admired of everybody, the fairest, -the most stately, with the Penton diamonds glittering at her white -throat as they were now. He had her in his mind’s eye so distinct, as he -had seen her--was it an hour, was it a life-time ago? His breathing -began to be disturbed, becoming more difficult, and his thoughts to grow -more confused. He talked on, in broken gasps of utterance, more -difficult, always more difficult. The fog in his throat--he began to -feel it now; but always in flashes saw the lights gleaming, and Alicia -in full beauty, with her eyes like the stars, and those other stars, -less precious, yet full of luster at her throat. He took no note of -outward things, being more and more absorbed--yet with a dullness which -softened everything, even the difficulty of the breath--in his own -sensations, and in the sweep of the hurrying movement that seemed to be -carrying him away, away, into halcyon seas beyond, into repose and -smiling peace. But the woman kneeling under his hand was as much alive -to every sound and incident as he was dull to them. Nothing muffled her -keen sense, or stilled the flood of thoughts that were pouring through -her mind. She heard, her heart leaping to the sound, steps approaching -softly, on tiptoe, every noise restrained. She heard a low murmur of -voices, then the opening of the door; but she was afraid to lift her -head, to startle her father. She dared not look up to see who was there, -or how he took the entrance of the new-comers. As for Sir Walter, he was -almost beyond disturbance. His hand moved heavily from time to time over -her head; sometimes there was a faint tremble when a breath came harder, -nothing more. Would he die so? she asked herself, making no sign; was it -all sealed up forever, the source of life that had made the light or the -darkness of so many other lives. Her own wildly beating heart seemed to -stand still, to stop in the tremendous suspense. - -“Can you hear me?” said her husband’s voice, low and full of emotion. -“Rochford is here, sir; do you want him?” - -He shook his head as he spoke to the two awe-stricken men behind. - -“Eh!” Sir Walter gave a start as if half awakened. “Who did you say?--I -think--I must have been asleep. Some one who wants me? They’ll excuse -a--a sick old man. Some one--who?--Gerald--whom did you say?” - -“Rochford, sir, whom you wanted to see.” - -“Rochford! What should I want with Rochford? He’s the--lawyer--the -lawyer. We have had plenty to do with lawyers in our day. Yes--I think -there was something if I could remember. Alicia, where is Alicia?” - -She rose up quickly, all those wild sensations in her stilled by this -supreme call. “I am here, father,” she said. Her countenance was -perfectly colorless, except for two spots of red, of excitement and -misery, on her cheeks. Her lips were parched, it was with difficulty she -spoke. - -“Yes, my love; stand by me till the last. What was it? I feel stronger. -I can attend--to business. Tell me, my child, what it was.” - -She stood for a moment speechless, turning her face toward them all with -a look which was awful in its internal struggle. How was she to say it? -How not to say it? Her fate, and the fate of the others, seemed to lie -in her hands. It was not too late. His strength fluctuated from moment -to moment, yet he could do what was needed still. - -“Father,” she began, moistening her dry lips, trying to get the words -out of her parched throat. - -Sir Walter had opened his heavy eyes. He looked round with a bewildered, -half-smiling look. Suddenly he caught sight of Edward Penton, who stood -lingering, hesitating, half in sympathy, half in resistance, behind. The -dying man gave a little cry of pleasure. “Ah! I remember,” he said. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIII. - -“THE BOY.” - - -They all came round, gathering about his bed, Rochford stooping, drawing -the papers out of his bag, Edward Penton approaching closer, looking -with a revival in his bosom of all the forgotten feelings of his youth -upon the severed friend, the old protector, the fatherly patron of those -days that were no more. To be sundered for years, and then to come again -and see the object of the filial, friendly affection of the past, the -man round whom your dearest recollections center, lying, whatever chasm -may in the meantime have opened between, upon his death-bed--what heart -can resist that? Scarcely the most obdurate, the most prejudiced; and -Edward Penton was neither one nor the other. He came slowly forward and -stood by the bedside, forgetting all about the motive which brought him -thither, impatient, so far as he noticed them at all, of the presence of -the strangers. He came close, placing himself before Russell Penton, who -had no such claim to be there as he. He did not attempt to say anything, -but claimed the place, he who was the last one left of the three boys; -he whom they had hated rather than loved because he was the survivor, -yet who forgot that entirely now, and everything involved in it. He -stood by the side of Alicia as he had stood so often. He forgot that -there was any question between them. He had been brought, indeed, to -sign and settle, but all that floated from him now. Russell Penton stood -aside to let him pass, and the lawyer placed himself at the -writing-table, which had been brought nearer, within reach of the bed, -and where all the papers had been laid out. “Do you think he will be -able to understand if I read them?” Rochford said, aside, to Russell -Penton; “or shall we try for his signature at once?” Russell Penton made -no reply, except by a slight wave of his hand toward the bed. It seemed -a profanity that any one should speak or occupy the attention of the -group save he who was the center of it. Sir Walter’s eyes were open, his -interest fully awakened. He watched while the writing-table was drawn -forward and put in order. He gave one glance of recognition to Edward -Penton at his bedside, but had not time, it seemed, for greetings, his -whole mind being fixed on this thing which he had to do. - -“I had almost lost sight of it,” he said. “Now, thank God, I -remember--while I have the time. It will be--what you call a codicil. -Alicia, you always were generous; you won’t grudge it, Alicia?” - -“Father!” she cried, bewildered by this preamble; then, in the rapid -process of thought trying to believe that it was some further -compensation to Edward which was in her father’s mind. “You know,” she -said, fervently, “that I will grudge nothing that is your -pleasure--nothing; you know that!” - -“Yes, my love--I know; it is not money she would ever grudge. -Alicia--no, no; but perhaps honor--or love. Rochford, what I want is -about the boy.” - -“The boy!” Mrs. Russell Penton turned quickly a searching glance on her -father, to which his dim eyes made no response; then looked round with -one rapid demand for explanation. She seemed to ask Heaven and earth -what he meant. “Could it be this? Could this be all?” - -“The boy!” Rochford echoed, with amazement; “what boy, sir?” faltering. -“There was nothing about any boy;” and he too gave Russell Penton a -significant look, meaning that Sir Walter’s mind was wandering, and that -no settlements could be possible now. - -“Gerald, you understand, tell them.” - -Sir Walter turned his eyes instinctively to the one impartial. “The -boy--Edward’s boy. Alicia would not see how like he was; but it was very -plain to me--and a nice boy. He has the name as well, and he will have -Penton. Eh, Penton? What was there about Penton?” The old man paused a -moment, trying to raise his heavy brow, his drooping eyelids--and there -was a great silence in the room; they all looked at each other, -conscious, with something like a sense of guilt, and no one ventured to -be the first to speak. It was Alicia, perhaps, who should have done it, -but she felt as if her laboring bosom was bound by icy chains, and could -not; or the lawyer, who gazed at her mutely, demanding whether he should -say anything--what he should say. It was but a moment, breathless, -precipitate. Then, as if there had been nothing in it but the break of -his difficult breathing, Sir Walter resumed, “He will have Penton, in -the course of nature. But we’re long-lived, it may be a long time first. -Alicia,” he groped for her with the feeble hand which he could scarcely -raise, moving the heavy fingers like a blind man. “Alicia, I want, as -long as I can, to do something for the boy.” - -She had turned half away, her hands had fallen by her side, a blank of -something like despair had come over her. Not for Penton! oh, not for -Penton; but because he had glided away from her into the valley of -darkness, and his mind had gone beyond the reach, beyond the sphere of -hers. To feel that as he did so the mind of her father, so long united -to hers, as she had believed, in every thought, took another turning, -and disclosed other wishes, other sentiments, overwhelmed Alicia with a -wild surprise. Death was nothing to that. It made heaven and earth reel -to her with the greatness of the astonishment. But that too was but for -a moment. She turned round, it seemed to the spectators instantly, -though to herself after a pause which was tragical in its passion, and -answered the feeble groping of the blind hand by clasping it in both of -hers. Then she had to summon her voice from the depths, to break the -chains of ice. “Whatever,” she said, “father, whatever you wish.” - -There was something like reviving life; there was reconciliation, -reunion, in the way his dull fingers closed upon hers. Had a shadow of -doubt come over the dying mind? He breathed a long sobbing sigh, which -was half satisfaction and half the prolonged effort of dying. “To do -something,” he murmured, “for the boy.” - -Here Rochford broke in, becoming accustomed to the solemnity of the -scene, and recovering the instinct of business and a sense of the -necessity of completing what he had in hand. “But,” he said, “this is -not the business for which I was summoned. Everything is ready; there -are only the deeds to sign; there is only the signature--” - -Alicia gave him a warning look to stop him, and Russell Penton put forth -his hand with an impressive “hush!” Perhaps it was the new voice that -caught the attention of Sir Walter. He opened his eyes again, but half, -showing only a sightless whiteness under the heavy lids. “Eh?” he said, -“was some one speaking? I can’t hear any more. Alicia--what? what?--was -it--about the boy--” - -“It was--our own business, father: but not to trouble you. It shall -trouble you,” she said firmly, but with an indescribable tone that said -much, “no more, no more.” - -A faint grateful smile came upon his face, the faintest, almost -imperceptible, pressure of her hands. And then in a moment sleep came -over the aged pilgrim so near the end of his career. They all stood in -the silence of awe about the bed, watching, unable to believe that it -was only sleep and not death. The one was almost more awful than the -other would have been. That the common repose which refreshes all -living things should come in the middle of dying seemed almost an -unnatural break. Even love itself in such circumstances can not endure -delays, and would fain push the bark of the soul out into the eternal -sea. Mrs. Russell Penton sat down by the bed, holding her father’s hand -still in hers. And for some time her cousin stood beside her, silent, -absorbed, standing mechanically with his eyes fixed upon the still face -on the pillow. Edward Penton was scarcely sensible of what was passing -round him. It seemed all to be going on in a dream, in which he saw and -heard plainly enough, yet attached little meaning to anything that -occurred. He had come to conclude his bargain, touched, deeply touched -by the condition of his old relation, his former protector and friend, -but yet more occupied by the importance of the event to himself and to -his wife and children, who were nearer to him still. But when he had -entered the sick-room he had stepped into a dream--everything had -changed. His business had sunk away, as it were, into the chaos of -abortive projects. Nothing was required of him except to stand and look -on reverently while the shadows of death gathered. His heart was deeply -touched; it had seemed to him natural, only natural and fitting that he -should stand by Alicia at this solemn moment. He was the nearest of her -kin; he was the oldest of her friends; he had loved her in his time; -even now there were no two people in the world who had the same hold -upon his imagination and his memories as these two, the father and -daughter. It was his right to be here more than Russell Penton’s; nearer -than anyone else living he had a right to stand by her, to give her the -support of an affection as old and almost as natural as her own. Though -he had not seen Sir Walter for years, there was no one so nearly Sir -Walter’s son as he. What was said about the boy perplexed him, almost -made him impatient. The boy--what boy? He did not understand. He himself -was the last of the three boys, the survivor, whose surviving had seemed -a wound and injury, but which yet gave him rights which no one in the -world, no one else could ever have as he. - -The entrance of the doctor, who came in softly, and looked, with the -gravity which dying commands from all, upon the sleeper, disturbed the -group. The gentlemen withdrew to leave him free for his examination, and -for the whispered directions which were necessary, carrying away the -writing-table with all its useless arrangements. When he left the -bedside they surrounded him with questions. Was it possible that there -might be a period of revived strength? was it likely that he could -attend to business still? Important business remained to be settled. The -doctor shook his head. He gave them certain low-toned explanations which -for the moment seemed to make everything clear, but in reality left them -as little informed as ever; and, on the other hand, gave them a little -lecture upon the folly of postponing business to such a moment. “A man -of Sir Walter’s age, and in his state of health, could never be -calculated upon,” he said. “I hope the business is not vital. To leave -wills or settlements to the last is the greatest folly.” A statement of -this kind, superfluous and absolute, is at all times so much easier to -give than a little enlightment upon the immediate case. But how could -the doctor tell any more than any spectator whether the old man would -wake from that sleep to an interval of clearness and consciousness, or -whether he would dream away the few remaining moments that lay between -him and the end of his career? - -And then stillness fell upon them all, a period of utter quiet, of that -waiting for death which is intolerable to the living. Alicia sat by her -father’s bedside alone, still holding his hand, watching his sleep, -feeling nothing but the arrest of all things, the suspension of thought -itself. The three men had withdrawn to the anteroom, where they waited -for any movement or call. Rochford, who had no reason for any profounder -feeling than that of respectful sympathy, drew near the fire in the -shivering chill of the gray winter morning, and after awhile dozed and -dreamed of the ball, with all its music and lights. Russell Penton -seated himself close to the door, where he could see his wife at her -father’s bedside. Her head was turned from him, but yet it was giving -her the support of his presence to be there. Edward Penton was the only -one who could not rest. He went to the window and gazed out blankly upon -the cold misty morning light, now as full day as it was likely to be. -All was whiteness upon the wide stretch of the landscape, the river -milky and turbid under the featureless whitish vapor that covered the -sky, mist hanging about the ghostly trees, cold, damp, and penetrating, -stealing to the heart; within, the fire burned dimly, the lights had -been put out, though from the door of Sir Walter’s room still came a -stream of candle-light shining unnaturally in the gray pale suffusion of -the day. Mr. Penton wandered from the window to the fire, then stood -behind Russell Penton’s chair, and gazed into the hushed room where one -lay dying and the other watching. He thought nothing about his business -which was so strange; he had not yet awakened to the sense of those -wandering injunctions about the boy. He was troubled, sad, confused in -his soul, only conscious of the close neighborhood of death, and that -all somehow had fallen back into a kind of chaos out of which there -seemed no apparent way. - -None of them knew how long the time was. It was endless, intolerable, an -awful pause in their own living, in which everything was arrested, even -thought. For what could the thoughts do whirling vainly about a subject -on which there could be no enlightenment, beating as it were against a -blank wall all round and round? In reality it was not quite an hour when -Alicia rose from the bedside and made a sign to her husband. Sir -Walter’s voice broke again into the silence, eager, quick, startling, -“Eh! eh! What--what is it? What’s to do? What’s to do?” - -They hurried in one after another, young Rochford waking up with the air -of the last waltz still in his ear, hastening to the table, where all -the papers were still laid out. Sir Walter had struggled up upon his bed -and sat gazing out upon them, holding his daughter fast, who had hastily -drawn one of his arms over her shoulder by way of support. He looked -like an old prophet, with his heavy eyelids raised, his white locks -streaming. “What is--to do? What am I to do--before I die?--before I--” - -Rochford came forward with his deed, with the pen in his hand. “It is -only a signature,” he said. “Sir Walter, your signature--here--it is all -simple; your name, that is all.” - -No one moved to help him. He stood holding out the pen, eager as if his -own interests were involved, while the rest stood motionless, saying not -a word, gazing at this venerable dying figure in that last blaze in the -socket. Probably the old eyes, all veiled in whiteness like the mists of -the morning, no longer saw anything, though they seemed to look out with -solemn intelligence--for Sir Walter made no response; his question had -required no answer; his eyes flickered with a movement of the lids, as -though taking one other look round, then a smile came over his face. -“Alicia--will do it. Alicia--will think of--everything,” he murmured, -and relapsing as it were upon himself, sunk back, to resume the thread -of conscious life no more. - -The night was over. The gray day dim and calm, benumbed with cold, and -veiled with mists, yet full in its own occupations and labors, was in -possession of earth and sky. Thus one ends while the others go on. There -was no new beginning to those who were chiefly concerned. They stopped -for a moment, then went on again, life sweeping back with all its -requirements to the very edge of the chamber of death. When it was -evident that no interval of consciousness was now to be looked for, the -watchers went downstairs and found breakfast, of which indeed they had -great need, and talked in subdued tones at first, and on the one sole -subject which seemed possible. But presently even this bond was broken, -and Russell Penton and Rochford discussed, a little gravely, the -weather, the chances of frost, the state of the country. - -Edward Penton did not join in this talk, but he eat his breakfast -solemnly, as if it had been a serious duty, saying nothing even to Wat, -who had ventured to join the grave party. Wat was more worn out than any -of them. He had not been able to rest, and he had the additional fatigue -of the drive, not to speak of the wearing effect of the mental struggle -to which he was so entirely unaccustomed. He wanted more than anything -else to go home. Ally, upstairs in her room, crying out of excitement -and sympathy, and longing for her mother, had packed up all the pretty -things which had served so little purpose, and was waiting very eagerly -for the call to return to the Hook, which it would have been, oh! so -much better had they never left. But there had been breakfast for -everybody all the same, notwithstanding that the troop of servants were -all very anxious, wondering what was to come of it, or rather what was -to become of them, a more important question. The only evidence of this -great overturn of everybody’s habits in the house was that the room in -which the dancing had been remained untouched, which was a wonderful -departure from the order and regularity of the household. But -everything is to be excused, the housekeeper herself said, in the -confusion of a death in the family, though that was a thing for which, -considering Sir Walter’s great age, they should all have been prepared. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIV. - -THE MASTER OF PENTON. - - -Mr. Penton waited through all the dreary day. He sent the young ones -away peremptorily at the earliest opportunity, without throwing any -light to them on the state of affairs. “It would be bad taste, the worst -of taste, to have you here at such a time,” he said, but without -explaining why. “Tell your mother I will come back when I can--but not -before--” He spoke in ellipses, with phrases too full of meaning to be -put into mere words. - -“Mab is coming with us, father,” said Ally. “We couldn’t leave her here -by herself.” - -“Mab? Who is Mab?” said Mr. Penton, but he looked for no reply. His mind -was too much absorbed to consider what they said to him. There seemed so -little in their prattle that could not wait for another time. And his -mind was full of a hundred questions. By this time, as was natural, the -pathetic impression which had been made on him when he stood by his -uncle’s bedside through those solemn moments, and felt that next to -Alicia it was he, of all the world, who had the best right to be there, -had died away. Common life had come back to him--his own position, the -prospects of his family, what he was to do. He wandered about the house, -up and down, with very much the air of a man inspecting it before taking -possession, which was what he actually was. But no such consciousness -was in his mind. He was overflowing with thought as to what he was to do -in the new crisis at which he had arrived. It was a crisis which ought -to have been long foreseen, and indeed had been fully entered into in -detail many a day. But lately it had been put away from his thoughts, -and other possibilities had come in. He had thrust Penton away from him, -and allowed himself to feel the power of his wife’s arguments, and even -to act upon the possible increase of fortune which should be immediate, -and bring no responsibility with it. Gradually, and with a struggle, -his mind had been brought to that point. But now all this new condition -of affairs was gone, and everything restored to the old basis. The -change had come in a moment, so far as he was concerned. He had not -anticipated it, had not thought of it, until Sir Walter had suddenly -lifted up his dying voice and began to talk of the boy. The boy! he did -not realize even now, or scarcely ask himself, who was the boy. The -crisis was too great for secondary matters. The real thing to think of -was that the new deeds had never been signed nor completed, that no -change had been made, that Penton was his, as he had always looked -forward to it, not a new fortune unencumbered and free, but Penton with -all its burdens, with all its honors, with the old family importance, -the position of which he had so often heard, and so often said, that it -was one of the best in England. Perhaps at any time he would have been -startled and alarmed by the first consciousness of entering into this -great inheritance. It was not an advancement that could be thought of -lightly as mere getting on in the world. It was like ascending a throne. -It was entering on a post rather than on a mere possession. The master -of Penton had claims made upon him which were different, he thought, -from those of a mere country gentleman. At any time there would have -been solemnity in the prospect. But now that he had put it all away from -him, and made up his mind to the other, to mere money without any -position at all, and had calculated even on withdrawing from the smaller -claims of Penton Hook, and setting up in perfect freedom, without any -responsibilities, any land or burden of the soil, the awe with which he -felt his natural importance come back to him, and all his plans brought -to nothing, was great. It was as if Providence had refused to accept -that sacrifice which he had not indeed been willing to make, which he -had done not for his own pleasure but in deference to what seemed best -for the children, more practicable for himself. Providence had made -light of all those deliberations, of the mother’s arguments, and his own -laborious and cloudy attempts to decipher what was best. Whether it was -the best or the worst, in a moment God had changed all that, and here he -was again at the point from which he had set out--master of Penton, or -if not so already, at least in an hour or two to be. - -And he looked, to the servants at least, exactly as if he were taking -possession, inspecting his future property. He went from one room to -another with eyes that seemed to be investigating everything, though in -reality they saw nothing. He walked about the library with his hands in -his pockets, looking at all the books, then from the windows over the -park, which stretched away down to the river, and in which there was a -great deal of wood that might come down. He lingered long over the view; -was he marking in his mind the clumps which were thickest, where the -trees most wanted cutting--the easiest way to make a little money? Then -he went to the dining-room and looked in the same keen way at the plate -upon the sideboard, calculating perhaps which were heir-looms and which -were not. The butler had his eye upon the probable new master, and drew -his own conclusions. And then he went to the drawing-room, where he -remained a long time, looking at everything. The butler had a great -contempt for the poor relation who was about to come into this great -property. “I don’t know what he could find to do away with there,” that -functionary said, and suggested that perhaps the painted roof was the -thing that had occupied the speculations of the hungry heir. As it -happened, poor Edward Penton’s reflections were of the most depressed -kind. He asked himself what would _she_ do there--how could she settle -herself and her work-basket and the children among those gilded pillars? -How were they ever to furnish it? as she had said. His wife after all -was a woman of great sense. She knew how difficult it was to adapt one -way of living to another, to transpose a household from what was little -more than a cottage to what was little less than a palace. But now all -her arguments were to come to nothing, and the revolution in his own -mind to be set aside. He stood and shivered; for the heating had been -neglected on this dismal and exciting day. The heating and everything -else had been neglected, and the great room with one feeble fire burning -was cold as any deserted place could be. What would she do there with -Horry and the rest of the little ones, and her basket with the stockings -to darn? Ally had asked herself the same question, but with a sort of -awed satisfaction, feeling that this problem would never have to be -solved. But now it had come. He strayed at last from the drawing-room -through the corridor to the great room sometimes called the music-room, -for there was an organ in it, sometimes called the king’s room, since a -sacred majesty had once, as at Lady Margaret Bellendean’s castle of -Tillietudlem, broken his fast there--where the dancing had been. And -here it was that the disorganization of the household became apparent. -Shutters were still closed and curtains drawn in this room. The pale -light struggled in by every crevice, by the folds of the shutters, from -the large open chimney, which was filled with flowers. The walls were -hung with greenery, garlands of ivy and holly, and feathery bunches of -the seed-pods of the clematis. They had been beautiful last night; they -were ghastly now, looking as if they had hung there for fifty years. -There was something in the neglect, in the deserted place, in the -contrast of all that faded decoration with the stillness and desolation -of the day, that suited Edward Penton’s mood. The rest of the house -suggested life and its ordinary occupations, neither sad nor glad, but -serious and still. This was the banquet-hall deserted, which is of all -human things the most dismal and suggestive. He walked up and down -looking at the banks of flowers, half seen in this curious subdued and -broken light. Here it was that the children were dancing, timid -strangers, half afraid of it, and of all that was going on, last night: -and now to-day-- - -Solemn steps came in at the other end, slowly advancing over the waxed -and slippery floor; a solemn figure in black, more grave than ever -mourner was, holding its hands folded. “Sir,” the butler said, “my -mistress has sent me to tell you all is over, about a quarter of an hour -ago.” - -“All over! You mean, my uncle is dead?” - -“Sir Walter Penton died, sir, about ten minutes or a quarter of an hour -ago, at twenty-five minutes past three.” - -The butler took out his watch and looked at it with solemnity. “Just -twelve minutes since, sir, by the clock, sir.” - -It cost the man a great effort not to say Sir Edward. Sir Edward it had -been for twelve minutes by his watch; but the decorum and a sense that -he was himself on the other side restrained him. He paused a minute, -waiting for anything that might be said to him, then went back again, -his footsteps sounding solemnly all the way upon the uncarpeted floor. -Edward Penton sat down on one of the red chairs against the wall which -the dancers had used. A more forlorn picture could not have been made. -The day breaking in through the shutters, the drooping decorations, the -waxed floor reflecting faintly those lines of pale light, and the man -against the wall with his face hidden in his hands. He might have been a -ruined spendthrift hearing of the final catastrophe of his fortune, -hearing it with metaphorical propriety, amid the relics of feasting and -merry-making. But no one would have recognized that picture to represent -a man who had just come into his inheritance. - -He met Rochford going away as he returned to the inhabited parts of the -house. “I suppose I need not hesitate to congratulate you,” the lawyer -said. “Sir Edward, it is not as if the poor old gentleman had been a -nearer relation.” - -“I don’t know what you call near. My uncle was the nearest relation I -had of my name; nor why you should call him poor because he has just -died.” - -“I beg your pardon. I meant nothing; it is the ordinary way of talking,” -said the lawyer, somewhat abashed. - -“And a very inappropriate one, I think,” Edward Penton said. He had -relapsed into his usual manner, in which there was always a little -suppressed irritation. “I suppose there never was any possibility of -producing--” He looked at the bag which Rochford carried. - -“It is all so much waste paper,” said the young man. “I felt it was so -as soon as I saw him; even if we could have got him to sign it would -have been of no legal value; he was too far gone. It is curious,” he -added, “to be so nearly done, and yet not done. I wonder if you are -sorry or pleased?” - -Edward Penton made no reply. Rochford’s ease and familiarity had seemed -natural enough a few days ago, the conceit perhaps of a youngster, -nothing more. Now it offended him, he could not tell why. “Do you know,” -he said, “if my cousin is still there?” He made a movement of his hand -toward the room in which Sir Walter lay. - -“She has gone to her own room; they have persuaded her to lie down. Mr. -Russell Penton is about, I know, if you want to see him.” - -Edward Penton went on with another wave of his hand. It was not so much -his new position (though as a matter of fact he felt that), but the -change in all things, and the confused absorbing sentiment of all that -had happened which made his companion disagreeable to him, like a -presuming stranger. He himself was as a man in a dream. As he came -through those rooms again they too were changed. They were now his. All -that foolish idea of having nothing more to do with them was past -forever. They were now his. He walked through them with the step of the -master, thinking involuntarily how this and that must be changed. The -house had become to him a place no longer to be judged on its merits as -suitable or unsuitable for the habitation of his family, but one to be -adapted, arranged, borne with as being his own. Everything had -changed--himself and his surroundings, his future, his place in the -world, and the mind with which he approached that place. In the library, -to which he returned as the room in which he was most likely to meet -some one to whom he could talk, he found Russell Penton, and the two men -instinctively shook hands with each other as if they had not met before. - -“I hope there was no more suffering,” Edward Penton said. - -“None. He never recovered consciousness, but just slept away. No man -could have wished a calmer end. He has had a long life, and his dying -has been very peaceful. What more could a man desire?” - -Edward Penton bowed his head, and they stood together for a moment -saying nothing, paying their tribute not only to the life but to the -state of affairs that was over. They both felt it, the one as much as -the other. To Russell Penton it was, if not actual, at least possible -freedom, especially now that the Penton arrangement was over. He grieved -for his father-in-law, if not painfully, yet sincerely. He was a -venerable figure, a sustaining personality gone out of his life. He had -so much less to do and to think of, which was in its way a sorrowful -thought. But with that came the secret exhilaration of the consciousness -that now perhaps the guidance of his own life would be his own. He would -not oppose Alicia nor endeavor to coerce her; that would be the greatest -mistake, he felt; but it was likely enough that in her softened state -she would of her own accord subdue herself to this. At least, he hoped -so, and it spread before him the prospect of a new existence. After they -had stood together silent for a minute, Russell Penton spoke. - -“I think I ought to say this,” he said. “Whatever Alicia may feel, and I -fear she will be disappointed, I am myself much more pleased, Penton, -that things should be as they are.” - -“I thought that was your feeling all along.” - -“Yes, they both knew it was; but I have always abstained from saying -anything. My first desire was that she should as much as possible have -what she liked best. She has well deserved it at my hands.” - -Edward Penton said nothing on this subject. It was not one in which he -could deliver his opinion. “It is a great house,” he said, “and a great -responsibility for a man with a large family like me.” - -“You will find it perhaps easier than you think; everything is in very -perfect order. Alicia would like me to tell you, Penton, that though it -was too late to be added as a codicil, her father’s wish is sacred to -her, and that it shall be as he desired about your boy.” - -“My boy! do you mean Wat? What has he to do with it?” Edward Penton -cried, half affrighted. He who had so nearly parted with the birthright -himself, he was a little jealous of any interference now: and especially -of this, that the feelings of his son should be brought into account in -the matter. - -“You heard what Sir Walter said. Your son took his fancy very much. He -found a resemblance, which I also can see: but Alicia dislikes to hear -of it, and so will you, perhaps.” - -“A resemblance!” said Edward; and then he thought of Walter Penton, his -cousin. If Wat had not been like that unfortunate scapegrace why should -he have thought of him now? He said, with energy, “There is no -resemblance. They have dwelt so long on the memory of the boys that -everything they see seems to have got identified with them. It was not -so in their life. My boy Wat is more like--Why, you know, Russell; you -remember what a broken-down miserable--” - -“Hush!” said Russell Penton, lifting his hand. “Let their memory be -respected here. Alicia thinks with you; she sees no resemblance: but she -will give effect to her father’s wishes. Everything he desired is sacred -in her sight.” - -“I hope she will think no more of it,” said Edward Penton, growing red. -“Beg of her from me to think no more of it. I could not have--I should -not wish--in short, I should prefer nothing more to be said on the -subject. He was an old man. His memory had got confused. As I can not be -of any use here, can I have something to drive home? My wife will be -anxious, she will want to know.” - -And then there was a few minutes’ brief conversation about the funeral -and all the lugubrious business of such a moment. It was with a sense of -relief that Edward Penton quitted for the first time the house that was -his own. He looked back upon it with curiously mingled feelings. He was -glad to get away. It was an escape to turn out of the avenue into the -clear undisturbed air in which there was nothing to remind him of the -close still atmosphere, the silence, the associations of this fatal -place. But yet when he looked back his heart swelled with a sensation of -pride. It was his. He had given up thinking of it, avoided looking at -it, weaned his heart in every way from that house of his fathers. Never -man had tried more honestly than he to give it up, entirely and from the -bottom of his heart--this thing which was not to be for him. And now, -without anything that could be called his doing, lo! it had come back -into his hands. It was the doing of Providence, he thought: his heart -swelled with a sort of solemn pride. As he went silently along, the -landscape took another aspect in his sight. It was the country in which -he was to spend all the rest of his life. It was his country, in which -he was one of the chief people, a man important to many, known wherever -he passed. By degrees a strange elation got into his mind. “Drive -quickly, I am in haste to get home,” he said to the groom who drove him. -“Yes, Sir Edward,” said the man, respectfully. He had changed his very -name--everything was changed. Then as the red roof of Penton Hook -appeared below at the foot of the hill he thought of the anxious faces -looking out for him, the young ones with awe in them, thinking of the -first death that had crossed their way; his wife wistful, ready to read -in his face what had happened. But none of them knowing what had really -happened--that Penton was his after all. - - - END OF FIRST HALF. - - * * * * * - - - - - A POOR GENTLEMAN. - - BY MRS. OLIPHANT - - _SECOND HALF_ - - NEW YORK: - GEORGE MUNRO, PUBLISHER, - 17 to 27 VANDEWATER STREET. - - - - - A POOR GENTLEMAN. - - - - -CHAPTER XXV. - -AN ENCOUNTER UNFORESEEN. - - -The young people drove from Penton to the Hook very silent and overawed, -the two girls close together, and Walter opposite to them, looking very -heavy and dull, his eyes red with want of sleep and the air of one who -has been up all night in every line of him. It is curious what an air of -neglect this gives even to the clothes. He felt shabby, out of order, in -every way uncomfortable in body and dazed in mind, not feeling that he -knew anything about what had happened, nor that he cared to think of -that. He almost went to sleep with the closeness and the motion of the -carriage, and took no more notice of the presence of the stranger -opposite to him than if she had been another sister. It had annoyed him -for the first moment, to have her there, but by this time he was quite -indifferent to the fact, indifferent to everything, dazed with sleep and -agitation and the weakening influence of a struggle past. But there came -a moment as they neared home when his senses returned to him with a -bound. He was looking vaguely out of the carriage-window seeing nothing, -when suddenly, vaguely, there appeared at a distance, going up a road -which led away from the main road deep into the quiet of the fields, a -solitary figure. It was little more than a speck upon the road, a little -shadow almost like that of a child; but it woke Walter fully up in a -moment and made his heart beat. He called to the coachman to stop, to -the great astonishment of Ally, who thought that something more must -have happened in a day so full of fate, and cried out, - -“What is it, Wat, what is the matter?” with anxiety in her tone. - -“Nothing,” he said, opening the door as the horses drew up; “but I -should prefer to walk if you don’t mind; I think I shall go to sleep -altogether if I stay here.” - -“Shall I come too?” said Ally; but a glance at her companion, showed her -that this was impracticable. - -“Oh, Wat, don’t be long! Mother will want to ask you--she will want to -know--” - -“You can tell her as much as I can,” he said, taking off his hat in -honor of Mab, who looked out with much surprise at this sudden -interruption of the drive, which was so dreary and yet so full of -novelty and interest. And then the carriage went on. - -Ally looking out of the window saw with great perplexity and distress -that he turned back along the road. Was he going back to Penton? where -was he going? Mab by her side immediately interposed with a reason. - -“Men don’t like close carriages,” she said; “they always prefer walking -coming home from places. I don’t wonder; I should walk if I might.” - -“We might if we were to go together,” said Ally; “we always walk with -Walter, Anne and I. He likes it too. Let us--” But then she remembered -that Wat had given no sort of invitation. And when she looked out again -he had vanished from the road. Where had he gone? This was very -startling, not to be explained by anything that occurred to Ally. She -added quickly, “But it is very cold, and mother will be anxious.” And -the carriage rolled on without any further interruption through the -village and down the steep and stony way. - -Walter could not have restrained himself even had the occasion of his -leaving them been now apparent. He felt as if all his life were involved -in getting speech of her, in receiving her sympathy and hearing her -voice. He had never had such an opportunity before, never met her, -scarcely in daylight seen her face, and to see her pursuing the -loneliest road, where nobody ever appeared, which led nowhere in -particular, where he could have her all to himself without the -possibility of being sent away! He hurried along after her, striking -across a field and dropping over a low wall, which brought him -immediately in front of her as she strolled along. She gave a little cry -at sight of him, or rather at the suddenness of the apparition, not -distinguishing at first who it was. She was dressed in very dark stuff -with some rough fur about her throat and a thick gauze veil shrouding -the upper part of her face. The little outline was so slim and pretty -that any imperfection in costume or appearance was lost in the -daintiness of the trim form. Indeed, how should Walter have seen any -imperfection? She was not like anybody he had ever known. What was -different could not but be an added grace. - -“You didn’t expect to see me,” he said, coming up to her with his hat in -his hand. - -“How should I? I thought no one knew this path but I. It is so quiet. -And I saw no one on the road, nothing but a carriage. Ah, I know! You -jumped out of the carriage. It was hot and stifling, and there were -ladies in it who made you do propriety. I know.” - -“There was my sister,” said Walter, “but I saw you. That was my reason, -and the best one a man could have.” - -“You are only a boy,” she said, shaking her head with a smile. Only her -chin and lips were clear of that envious thick veil. The rest of her -face was as if behind a mask, but how sweet the mouth was, and the smile -that curved it! “And how could you tell it was I? Everybody wears the -same sort of thing, tweed frock, and jacket, and--” - -“There is nobody like you; it is cruel to ask me how I knew. If you -would only understand--” - -“I have heard that sort of thing before, Mr. Penton.” - -“Yes, I don’t doubt every fellow would say it, of course; but nobody -could mean it so much as I.” - -“That’s what you all say; but I don’t believe it a bit; only I suppose -it amuses you to say it, and it does, a little, amuse me. There are so -few things,” she said, with a sigh, “to amuse one here.” - -“That is what I feel,” cried the lad; “nothing--we have nothing to keep -you here. It is all so humdrum and paltry--a little country place. There -is nothing in it good enough for you.” - -She laughed with an air of keen amusement, which in his present -condition slightly jarred upon Walter. - -“It is a great deal too good for me,” she said, “old Crockford’s niece. -If anybody speaks to me I courtesy and say, ‘Yes, ma’am, it’s doing me -good, it is indeed, this fine fresh air.’” - -“I wish,” said the boy, “you would drop this, and tell me once for all -who you really are. I’m not happy to-day. We are all in great trouble. I -wish you would not laugh, but just be serious once.” - -“Oh, no, sir, I’ll not laugh if you don’t like it--nor nothing else as -you don’t like. I knows my place and how to behave to my betters. I’m -Emmy, old Crockford’s niece.” And she paused in the middle of the road -to make him a courtesy. “I’ve never said nothing else, now ’ave I, sir?” - -He looked at her with irritation beyond expression. Could not she see -that he was in no humor for jest to-day? And yet he could not but feel -that the tone of her imitation was perfect, and that as she said these -latter words it was certainly in the voice and with the manner which old -Crockford’s niece would have employed. - -“You don’t know,” he said, “how you fret me with all that. I thought -when I saw you that I’d fly to you and get comforted a little. I don’t -want to have jokes put upon me just now. All this is very amusing--it’s -so well done--and it’s so droll to think that it’s you; but I have been -through a great fight this morning,” said Walter, with that self-pity -which is so warm at his age. He felt his eyes moisten, something was in -his throat--he was so sorry for himself; and he almost thought it would -be best, after all, to hurry home to his mother, who always understood a -man, instead of lingering out here in the cold, even with the most -delightful, the most enthralling of women, who would do nothing but -laugh. He was in this mood, with his eyes cast down, his head bent, -standing still, yet with a sort of movement in his figure as if he would -have gone away again, when suddenly a shock, a thrill of sweeter -consciousness went through him--and his whole being seemed rapt in -delicious softness, comprehension, consolation. She had put her hand -suddenly on his arm with a quick, impulsive movement. - -“Poor boy!” she said. “You have been in a great fight? Tell me all about -it.” - -Her voice had changed to the tenderest, coaxing tone. - -“Ah!” he exclaimed, in sudden ecstasy, holding close to his side the -hand that had stolen within his arm--and for some time could say no -more. - -“Well?” - -“Yes, yes!” cried Walter, “I’ll tell you presently. I don’t know that I -want to tell you at all. I want you to take an interest in me.” - -“Oh, if that is all!” she said; then, after a moment, drew her arm away. -“If we should meet any one, Mr. Walter Penton, it would not look at all -pretty to see you walking arm in arm with a--girl who lives in the -village; a girl whom nobody knows, and, of course, whom everybody thinks -ill of; but I can hear you quite well without that. Come, tell me what -it is. Did you say a fright or a fight?” - -“Both,” said Walter. He made various attempts to recover the hand again, -but they were all fruitless. The mere touch, however, had somehow--how -he could not tell--made things more natural, harmonized all the -contrarieties in life, brought back a better state of affairs. The fumes -of sleep and fatigue seemed to die away from his brain: the atmosphere -grew lighter. It did not occur to him that to disclose the most private -affairs of his family to this little stranger was anything -extraordinary. He told her all about the bargain between his father and -his cousin, and how he himself had been left out, and his consent never -asked, though he was the heir; and what had happened this morning--how -he had been sent to fetch the parties to this bargain, and the papers, -and how he had been tempted to delay or not to go. - -“If I had not answered from my room when I heard them, if I had -pretended not to hear, if I had only held back, which would have been no -sin! Should I have done it? Shouldn’t I have done it?” cried Walter, -quite unaware of the absurdity of his appeal. - -The girl listened to all this with her head raised to him in an attitude -of attention, but in reality with the most divided interest and a mind -full of perplexed impatience. What did she care about his doubts--doubts -and difficulties which she could not understand--which did not concern -her? Her attention even flagged, though her looks did not. She wanted -none of this grave talk: it was only the lighter kind of intercourse -which she fully understood. - -“Then it was you,” she said, seizing the only tangible point in all this -outburst, “that I heard thundering past the cottage just before -daylight? I couldn’t think what it could be!” - -“Did you hear me? I looked up at the windows, but they were all closed -and shut up. I wish,” cried the young man, “I had known you were awake, -I should not have felt so desolate.” - -“Oh!” she cried, with a little toss of her head, “what good could that -have done you?” Then, seeing the cloud come over his face again which -had lifted for a moment, “And how has it all ended?” she asked. - -“Ended?” He looked at her with surprise. He had not even asked himself -that question, or realized that there was a question at all. “How could -it end but in one way?” - -“It is so good of you to tell me,” she resumed, “when I am only a -stranger and know nothing; but I hope they won’t succeed in cheating you -out of your money.” - -“My money? oh, there is nothing about money. Money is not the question.” - -“I know,” she said, with a pretty air of confusion--“your property I -mean; but they couldn’t really take it from you, could they? Tell me -what you will do when you come into your own. I should like to know.” - -Walter’s heart stood still for the moment. He felt as if he had suddenly -come up against a blank world. Was this all she understood or would take -notice of, of the struggle he had gone through? Had she no feeling for -his moral difficulties or sympathy; or was it perhaps that she thought -that struggle too private to be discussed, and thus rebuked him by -turning the conversation aside from that too delicate channel? In the -shock of feeling himself misunderstood he paused, bewildered, and seized -upon the idea that she understood him too clearly, and checked him with -a more exquisite perception of her own. “You think I should not speak of -it?” he said. “You think I should not blame--you think--Oh, I -understand. A delicate mind would not say a word. But I would not, -except to you. It is only to you.” - -“Now I wonder,” said the girl, “why it should be to me? for I don’t -understand anything about it. And all that you’ve been telling me about -wanting one thing and doing another, I can’t tell what you mean--except -that I hope it will end very well, and that you will get what you want -and be able to live very happy at the end. That’s how all the stories -end, don’t you know. And tell me, when you came into all that fine -property, what will you do?” - -She wanted nothing but to bring him back to the badinage which she -understood and could play her part in. All this grave talk and -discussion of what he ought or ought not to have done embarrassed her. -She did not understand it, and yet she knew by instinct that to show -how little she understood would be to lose something of her attraction; -for though she was scarcely capable of comprehending the ideal woman -whom the youth supposed he had found in her, yet she divined that it was -not herself but an imaginary being who was so sweet in Walter’s eyes. -Perhaps it was even with a dull pang and sense of her inferiority that -she discovered this; but she could not make herself other than she was. -At any risk she had to regain that lighter tone which was alone possible -to her. She put up her veil a little and looked at him with a sort of -laughing provocation in her eyes. It was a vulgar version of the “Come, -woo me,” of the most delightful of heroines. She could understand him or -any man on that ground. She knew how to reply, to elude, or to lead on; -but in other regions she was not so well prepared; she preferred to lead -the conversation back to herself and him. - -“I do not suppose,” he said, in a subdued tone, “that there will be any -property to come in to.” - -“Oh, that is nonsense,” she said, putting this denial lightly away; “of -course there will be property some time or other. And when you come into -your fortune, tell me, what shall you do?” - -Walter gave up with a sigh his hope of receiving support and -consolation; but even now he was not able to follow her lead. “I -suppose,” he said, very uncheerfully, “I shall have to go to Oxford. -That’s the only thing I shall be allowed to do.” - -“Oh, to Oxford!” she cried, with disdain. - -“I don’t know that I wish it, only it’s the right thing to do, I -suppose,” said Walter, with another sigh. “Don’t you think so?” - -“_I_ think so? No, indeed! If I were you--oh, if I were you! That’s what -I should like to be, a young gentleman with plenty of money and able to -do whatever I pleased.” - -“Oh,” he said, with a shudder, “don’t say so; you who are so much finer -a thing--so much--don’t you know--it is a sort of sacrilege to talk so.” - -At this she laughed with frank contempt. “That’s nonsense,” she said; -“but I should not go to Oxford. I’d go into the Guards. It is they that -have the best of it: almost always in London, and going everywhere. I -should not marry, not for years and years!” - -“Marry!” cried Walter, and blushed, which it did not occur to his -companion to do. - -“No, I should not marry,” said the girl; “I should have my fun, that is, -if I were a gentleman. I should make the money go; I should go in for -horses and all sorts of things. I should just go to the other extremity -and do everything the reverse of what I have to do now. That’s because I -can do so little now. Come, tell me, Mr. Penton, what should you do?” - -Walter was much discomposed by this inquiry. He was disturbed altogether -by the turn the conversation had taken. It was not at all what he had -intended. He felt baffled and put aside out of the way; but yet there -was an attraction in it, and in the arch look which was in her eyes. He -felt the challenge and it moved him, notwithstanding that in his heart -he was deeply disappointed that she had thrown back his confidences and -not allowed herself to be drawn into his thoughts. He half understood, -too, whither she wanted to lead him--into those encounters of wit in -which she had so easily the mastery, in which he was so serious, -pleading for her grace, and she so capricious, so full of mystery, -holding him at bay. But he could not all at once, after all the -experiences of the morning, begin to laugh again. - -“I am stupid to-day,” he said. “I can’t think of fortune or anything -else. I dare say I should do just the reverse of what you say.” - -“What! marry?” she said. “Oh, silly! You should not think of that for -years.” - -“I should do more than think of it,” cried Walter, “if I--if you--if -there was any chance--” The boy blushed again, half with the shy emotion -of his years, the sudden leaping of his blood toward future wonders -unknown. And then he stopped short, breathing hard. “You tempt me to say -things only to mock me,” he said. “You think it is all fun; but I am in -earnest, deep in earnest, and I mean what I--” - -He stopped suddenly, the words cut short on his lips. They had turned a -corner of the road, and close to them, so close that Walter stumbled -over the stones on which he was seated, slowly chipping away with his -hammer, was old Crockford, with ruddy old face, and white hair, and his -red comforter twisted about his neck. - -“Is that you, baggage?” said the old man, who saw the girl first as they -came round the corner. “What mischief are ye after now? I never see one -like you for mischief. Why can’t ye let the lads alone? Why, Master -Walter!” he cried, in consternation, letting the hammer fall out of his -hand. - -“Yes, Crockford. What’s the matter? Do you think I am a ghost?” said -Walter, in some confusion. It was cowardly, it was miserable, it was the -smallest thing in the world. Was he ashamed to be seen with her, she who -was (he said to himself) the most perfect creature, the sweetest and -fairest? No, it could not be that; it was only what every young man -feels when a vulgar eye spies upon his most sacred feelings. But he grew -very red, looking the old stone-breaker, the road-mender, humblest of -all functionaries, in the face as he spoke. - -“Ghost!” said old Crockford, “a deal worse than that. A ghost could do -me no harm. I don’t believe in ’em. But the likes of _hur_, that’s -another pair o’ shoes. I know’d as she’d get me into trouble the moment -I set eyes on her. Be off with you home, and let the young gentleman -alone. You’ve made him think you’re a lady, I shouldn’t wonder. And if -Mr. Penton found out he’d put me out of my cottage. Don’t give me none -of your sauce, but run home.” - -“I have done no harm,” said the girl. “Mr. Penton couldn’t put you out -of your cottage because I took a walk. And you can send me away when you -please. You know I’m not afraid of that.” - -“I know you’re always up to mischief,” said the old man, “and that if it -isn’t one it’s another. I’ve had enough of you. There’s good and there’s -bad of women just like other creatures, but for making mischief there’s -naught like them, neither beasts nor man. Be off with you home.” - -“Crockford, you forget yourself. That’s not a way to speak to a--to a -young lady,” cried Walter, wavering between boyish shame and boyish -passion. “And as for my father--” - -“A young lady; that’s all you know! Do you know who she is, Mr. Walter?” -cried the old man. - -“I am old Crockford’s niece,” said the girl, “and I know my place. I’ve -never given myself out for any more than I am; now have I, sir? Thank -you for walking up the hill with me, and talking so kind. But it’s time -I was going home. He’s quite right, is the old man; and my duty to you, -sir, and good-day; and I hope you will come into your fortune all the -same.” - -How was it that she turned, standing before him there in the road in all -her prettiness and cleverness, into Crockford’s niece, with the diction -and the air proper to her “place,” was what Walter could not tell. She -cast him a glance as she turned round which transfixed him in the midst -of his wonder and trouble, then turned and took the short cut across the -field, running, getting over the stile like a bird. Which was she, one -or the other? Walter stood and gazed stupidly after her, not knowing -what to think or say. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVI. - -THE NEW STATE OF AFFAIRS. - - -When Mr. Penton in the dog-cart was heard coming down the steep path to -the open gates there was a universal rush to door and window to receive -him. The delay in his coming had held the household in a high state of -tension, which the arrival of the carriage with Ally and the young -visitor increased. The girls could give no information except that Sir -Walter was very ill, and that Mr. Russell Penton himself had put them -into the carriage and sanctioned their coming away. Ally took her mother -anxiously aside to explain. - -“I didn’t know what to do. She is Mr. Russell Penton’s niece; she has no -father or mother. She wanted to come, and he seemed to want her to come. -Oh, I hope I haven’t done wrong! I couldn’t tell what to do.” - -“Of course, there is the spare room,” said Mrs. Penton, but she was not -delighted by the appearance of the stranger. “Tell Martha to light a -fire in the spare room. But you must amuse her yourselves, you and Anne; -your father must not be troubled with a visitor in the house.” - -“Oh, she will not be like a visitor, she will be like one of ourselves,” -said Ally. - -The father, however, observed the little fair curled head at the -drawing-room window as he drove up, and it annoyed him. A stranger among -them was like a spy at such a moment. The girls were at the window, and -Walter, newly returned, had been standing at the gate, and Mrs. Penton -was at the door. He jumped down, scarcely noticing the anxious look of -inquiry with which she met him, and stopped on the step to take a -sovereign from his waistcoat-pocket, which he handed to the groom who -had driven him. - -“Thank you, Sir Edward,” said the man, touching his hat with great -obsequiousness. - -“Sir Edward!” and a sovereign! The two things together set Mrs. Penton’s -heart beating as it scarcely ever had beat before. She did not -understand it for the moment. “Sir Edward:” and a sovereign! This -perhaps was the most impressive incident of all. - -Then he took her by the arm without a word of explanation. “Come with me -into the book-room, Anne.” He had not a word even for little Molly, who -came fluttering like a little bird across the hall and embraced his leg, -and cried, “Fader, fader!” in that little sweet twitter of a voice which -was generally music to his ears. - -“Take her away,” was all he said, with a hasty pat of her little shining -head. His face was as grave as if the profoundest trouble had come upon -him, and wore that vague air of resentment which was natural to him. -Fate or Fortune or Providence, however you like to call it, had been -doing something to Edward Penton again. As a matter of course, it was -always doing something to him--crossing his plans, setting them all -wrong, paying no attention to his feelings. There was no conscious -profanity in this thought, nor did the good man even suppose that he was -arraigning the Supreme Disposer of all events. He felt this sincerely, -with a sense of injury which was half comic, half tragic. Mrs. Penton -was used to it, and used to being upbraided for it, as if she had -somehow a secret influence, and if she pleased might have arrested the -decisions of fate. - -“Well, Edward?” she said, breathless, as he closed the book-room door. - -“Well,” he replied. The fire was low, and he took up the poker violently -in the first place and poked and raked till he made an end of it -altogether. “I think,” he said, “after being out all the morning, I -might at least find a decent fire.” - -“I’ll make it up in a moment, Edward. A little wood will make it all -right.” - -“A little wood! and you’ll have to ring the bell for it, and have half a -dozen people running and the whole house disturbed, just when I have so -much to say to you! No, better freeze than that.” He turned his back to -the fire, which, after all, was not quite without warmth, and added, -after a moment, not looking at her, contracting his brows, and with a -sort of belligerent shiver to let her see that he was cold, and that it -was her fault. “My uncle is dead.” - -“Is it all over, Edward? I fancied that it must be soon;” and then she -added, with a little timidity, “were you in time? - -“In time! I was there for hours.” He knew very well what she meant, but -it was a sort of pleasure to him to prolong the suspense. “Of course,” -he said, slowly, “he could not be expected to recover at his age. Alicia -should have known better than to have had--dances and things at his -age.” - -“Dances! I have had no time to speak to Ally. I didn’t know; oh, how -dreadful, Edward, and the old man dying!” - -“The old man wasn’t dying then,” he said, pettishly. “How were they to -suppose he was going to die? He has often been a great deal worse. He -was an old man who looked as if he might have lived forever.” - -After this his wife made no remark, but furtively--her housewifely -instincts not permitting her to see it go out before her eyes--stooped -to the coal-box standing by to put something on the fire. - -“Let it alone!” he said, angrily. “At such a moment to be poking among -the coals! Do you know what has happened? Can’t you realize it a little? -Here we have Penton on our hands--Penton! _That_ place to be furnished, -fitted out, and lived in! How are we to do it? I am in such a perplexity -I think as never man was. And instead of helping me, all your thoughts -are taken up with mending the fire!” - -Mrs. Penton sat down suddenly in the first chair. She put her hand upon -her heart, which had begun to jump. “Then you were not in time? Oh, I -thought so from the first. To go on wasting day after day, and he such -an old man!” - -And in the extreme excitement of the moment she began to cry a little, -holding her hand upon her fluttering heart: “It was what I always -feared: when there is a thing that is troublesome and difficult, that is -always the thing that happens,” she cried. - -Her husband did not make any immediate reply. He wheeled round in his -turn and took up the poker, but presently threw it down again. “It is no -use making a fuss over that now. It’s that fellow Rochford’s fault. By -the way,” he said, turning round again sharply, “mind, Annie, I won’t -have that young fellow coming here so much. It might not have mattered -before, but now it’s out of character--entirely out of character. Mind -what I say.” - -Mrs. Penton took no notice of this. She went on with a little murmur of -her own: “No, it is of no use making a fuss. We can’t undo it now. To -think it might have been settled yesterday, or any day! and now it never -can be settled whatever we may do.” - -“I don’t know what you mean by settled,” he said, hastily; “nothing can -be more settled; it is as clear as daylight: not that there could be any -doubt at any time. The thing we’ve got to think of is what we are to -do.” - -“With all the children,” said Mrs. Penton, “and that great empty house, -and no ready money or anything. Oh, Edward, how can I tell what we are -to do? It has been before me for years. And then I thought when your -cousin spoke that all was going to be right.” - -“There’s no use speaking of that now.” - -“No, I don’t suppose there’s any use. Still, when one thinks--which of -course I can’t help doing; when your cousin came I thought it was all -right. Though you never would listen to me, I knew that you would listen -to her. And now here it is again just as if that had never been!” - -It was, perhaps, not generous of Mrs. Penton to indulge in these -regrets, but it was expecting from her something more than humanity is -capable of, to suppose that she would instantly turn into a consoler, -and forget that she had ever prophesied woe. That is very well for an -ideal heroine, a sweet young wife who is of the order of the embodied -angel. But Mrs. Penton was the mother of a large family, and she had -other things to think of than merely keeping her husband in a -tranquillity which perhaps he did not desire. When there are so many -interests involved, it is not easy for a woman to behave in this angelic -way. Perhaps her husband did not expect it from her. He stood leaning -his back upon the mantel-piece with a countenance which had relapsed -into its usual half-resentful quiet. He was not angry nor surprised, nor -did he look as if he were paying much attention. It gave him a little -time to collect his own thoughts while she got her little plaint and -irrestrainable reflections over. Sympathy is in this as much as in other -more demonstrative ways. If she had got over it in a moment without any -expression of feeling, he would probably have been shocked, and felt -that nothing mattered to her; but he got calm, while she, too, had her -little grumble and complaint against fate. - -“The thing,” he said, “now, is to think what we must do. I sha’n’t hurry -the Russell Pentons; they can take their time; and in the meantime we -must look about us. The thing is there will be no rents coming in till -Lady-day, and it’s only Christmas. I never thought I should have seen it -in this light. To succeed to Penton seemed always the thing to look -forward to. It is you that have put it in this light.” - -“What other light could I put it in, Edward? Penton is very different -from this, and we have never been much at our ease here. I was always -frightened for what would happen when you began to realize--But, dear -me,” she added, “what is the use of talking? We must just make the best -of it. Nothing is quite so bad as it seems likely to be. With prudence -and taking care, perhaps, after all, we may do--” - -“Do!” he said, “to go to Penton, the great house of the family, and to -be the head of the family, and to have nothing better before one than a -hope that we shall be able to _do_--” And then there was a pause between -this careful and troubled pair; and of all things in the world, any -stranger who had seen them, would have imagined last of all that they -had succeeded to a great inheritance, and that the man at least had -attained to what had been his hope and dream for years. - -“Well,” she said at last, “I can’t do you any good, Edward, and the bell -for dinner will be ringing directly. You must have had an agitating -morning, and I dare say eat no breakfast, and you will be the better -for your dinner. I suppose we ought to draw down all the blinds.” - -“Why should you draw down the blinds? There is not too much light.” - -“I should not like,” said Mrs. Penton, “to be wanting in any mark of -respect. And after all, Sir Walter was your nearest relation, and you -are his successor, so that it is really a death in the family.” - -She walked to the window as she spoke, and began to draw down the blind. -He followed her hastily, and stopped her with an impatient hand. - -“My windows look into the garden. Who is coming into the garden to see -whether we pay respect or not? I won’t have it anywhere. On the funeral -day if you please, but no more. I won’t have it!” It did him a little -good to have an object for his irritation. She turned round upon him -with some surprise, feeling the imperative grasp of his hand upon her -arm. Perhaps that close encounter and her startled look affected him; -perhaps only the disturbed state in which he was, with all emotions -close to the surface. He put his other hand upon her further shoulder, -and held her for a moment, looking at her. “My dear,” he said, “do you -know you’re Lady Penton now?” - -She gave him another look, full of surprise and almost consternation. - -“I never thought of that,” she said. - -“No, I never supposed you did--but so it is. There has not been a Lady -Penton for thirty years. There couldn’t be a better one,” he said, with -a little emotion, kissing her on the forehead. The look, the caress, the -little solemnity of the announcement overcame her. Lady Penton! How -could she ever accustom herself to that name, or think it was she who -was meant by it? It drove other matters for the moment out of her head. -And then the bell rang for dinner--the solid family meal in the middle -of the day, which had suited all the habits of the family at Penton -Hook. Already it seemed to be out of place. She dried her eyes with a -tremulous, half-apologetic hand, and said, - -“You know, Edward, the children--must always have their dinner at this -hour.” - -“To be sure,” he replied. “I never supposed there could be any change in -that respect.” - -“And you must want some food,” she said, “and a little comfort”--then as -she went before him to the door, she paused with a little hesitation, -“you know they brought a little girl with them, a niece of Russell -Penton’s? It is a pity to have a stranger to-day, but they could not -help it.” - -“No, I don’t suppose they could help it,” said Sir Edward. Neither he -nor she knew anything more of their visitor than that she was a little -girl, Russell Penton’s niece. - -They all met round the table in the usual way, but yet in a way which -was not at all usual. The father and mother came in arm-in-arm, after -the children had gathered in the dining-room--that is to say, he had -taken her arm, placing his hand within it, and pushing her in a little -before him into the room. The little children had clambered into their -high chairs, and little Molly sat at the lower end, which was her usual -place, close to her father’s chair, flourishing a spoon in the air, and -singing her little song of “Fader, fader!” Molly was always the one that -called him to dinner when he was busy, and thus the cry of “fader!” had -become associated with dinner in her small mind. The elder ones stood -about waiting for their parents, Mab between Ally and Anne, looking -curiously on at all the manners and customs of this new country in which -she found herself--the unknown habits of a large family, who were not -rich--all of which particulars were wonderful in her eyes. Walter, as -his mother at once saw, bore a strange aspect--abstracted and -far-away--as if his mind were full of anything in the world except the -scene around him. Perhaps it was fatigue, for the poor boy had been up -all night; perhaps the crisis, which was so extraordinary, and which -contradicted everything they had been planning and thinking of. The -elder children were all grave, disturbed, a little overawed by all that -was coming to pass. And for some time there was scarcely any thing said. -The little bustle of carving, of serving the children, of keeping them -all in order, soon absorbed the mother as if it had been an ordinary -day; but at the other end of the table, neither Ally, looking at him -with anxious eyes on the one side, nor Molly on the other, got much -attention from their father, who was occupied by such different -thoughts. Mab was the only one who was free of all _arrière pensée_. She -had scarcely known Sir Walter; how could she be overwhelmed by his -death? and it made no difference to her: whereas this plunge into -novelty and the undiscovered, was more wonderful to her than anything -she had ever known. She watched the children and all their ways--the -little clamor of one, the steady perseverance of another, the watchful -way in which Horry devoured and kept the lead, observing lest any of the -brotherhood should get before him as he worked through his meal--with -delighted interest. - -“Are they always like that?” she whispered to Anne. “Do you remember all -their names? Do they all always eat as much? Oh, the little pigs, what -darlings they are!” cried Mab under her breath. - -Anne did not like to hear the children called little pigs, even though -the other word was added. - -“They don’t eat any more than other children,” she said. And Anne, too, -if she was not anxious, was at least very curious and eager to hear all -that had happened, which only father knew. And father’s brow was full of -care. They all turned it over in their minds in their different -fashions, and asked each other what could possibly have happened worse -than had been expected; for already experience had made even these young -creatures feel that something worse happening was the most likely, a -great deal more probable, than that there was something better. The -mother was the most fortunate, who divided and arranged everything, and -had to make allowances for Horry’s third help when she first put a spoon -into the pudding, a matter of severe and abstruse calculation which left -little space in the thoughts for lesser things. - -When dinner was over, the children all rushed out with that superfluity -of spirits which is naturally produced by a full meal--but also a little -quarrelsome as well, making a great noise in the hall, and requiring a -great deal of management before they could be diverted into the natural -channels in which human energy between the ages of twelve and two has to -dissipate itself in the difficult moment of the afternoon. When the -weather was good they all scampered out into the garden, where indeed -Horry and his brothers rushed now with the shouts of the well-fed and -self-satisfied. To recover these rebels on one hand, and to get the -little tumult of smaller children dancing about in all the passages -dispersed and quiet, was a piece of work which employed all the energies -of the ladies. Mab Russell looked on admiring in the midst of that -little rabble. She would have liked, above all things, to head an -insurrection and besiege the mother and sisters in their own stronghold. -She went so far as to hold out her skirts over Horry, who took refuge -behind her, seeing the face of an ally where he expected it least. They -were all anxious to get the riot over, but Mab, who knew no better, -interrupted the course of justice. Oh, how awkward it is to have a -stranger in the house when the family affairs are trembling in the -balance, and no one knows what is going to happen! This was what Ally -and Anne said to each other, almost weeping over that contrariety of -fortune, when they were compelled, instead of hearing all about it, to -go round the grounds with Mab and show how high the water had come up -last year. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVII. - -NEW PLANS. - - -Notwithstanding all the hinderances that envious fate could send, the -news so important to the family got itself circulated among them at -last, with the result that the strangest excitement, elation, and -despondency, a complication of feelings utterly unknown in their -healthful history, took possession of the Penton family. They had made -up their minds to one thing--they now found themselves and all their -projects and plans swallowed up in another. They had adapted themselves, -the young ones with the flexibility of youth, to the supposed change in -their fortunes. They had now to go back again, to forget all those -innumerable consultations, arrangements, conclusions of all kinds, and -take up their old plans where they had been abandoned. It had been -dreadful to give up Penton. It was scarcely more agreeable to take it -back again. And yet an elation, an elevation was in all their minds. -Penton was theirs, that palace of the gods. They were no longer -nobodies, they were people of importance. The girls found it beyond -measure uncomfortable, distracting, insupportable, that on this day of -all others, when they had a thousand things to say to each -other--questions to ask, suggestions to make, the most amazing -revolution to talk over, there should be a stranger always between them, -one whom, with that civility which was born with them, and in which -they had been trained, they felt themselves constrained to explain -everything to, whom they would not leave out of their conversation or -permit to feel that she was an intruder. She was an intruder all the -same. She was in the way, horribly in the way, at this eventful moment. -The family was dissolved by her presence. The father and mother retired -together to the book-room to talk there, a thing they never would have -done but for the stranger. And Walter strolled off on his side, scarcely -saying a word to his sisters, whom he could not approach or communicate -his sentiments to in consequence of Mab. It was a heavy task to the two -girls to have to entertain her, to go round and round the garden with -her, to point out the views of Penton, to explain to her what it was -about, when one or another would burst out into some irrestrainable -exclamation or remark; but the fate of womankind in general was upon -these devoted young women. They had to entertain the visitor, to occupy -themselves with the keeping up of appearances, and to put everything -that interested them most aside in their hearts. - -“We put this seat here because it is the best view of Penton. No, it -isn’t very shady in summer, it is a little exposed to the wind, but then -Penton--” - -“We used to be so much interested in every view. Is this the best, or -the one from the top of the hill?” - -“Oh, the one on the top of the hill. Oh, I wish Penton was at the bottom -of the sea!” - -“I don’t,” cried Anne. “After all it is only the confusion with having -changed our minds. It is so much better not to change one’s mind, that -lets so many new thoughts come in.” - -“And most likely the old thoughts were the best,” said Ally, softly, -with a little sigh. Then she added, “You must think us so strange: but -it is only just to-day, for we are all excited and put out.” - -“One would think you did not like coming into your fortune,” said Mab. -“Is it because of old Sir Walter? But Aunt Gerald said you scarcely knew -him.” - -“We never saw him: but it is terrible to think of being better off -because some one has died--” - -“And it is more than that. It is because we thought we were to give it -all up, and now it seems it is all ours--” - -“And we were always brought up to think so very much of it,” Ally said. -And then she added, “Shouldn’t you like to come round and see where the -children have their gardens? it is quite high and dry, it is beyond the -highest mark. No flood has ever come up here.” - -This was the supreme distinction of the terrace and that part of the -garden that lay beyond it. They were quite proud to point out its -immunity from the floods: as they passed they had a glimpse through the -windows of the book-room of Mr. and Mrs.--nay, of Sir Edward and Lady -Penton, sitting together, he with a pencil in his hand jotting down -something upon a piece of paper, she apparently reckoning up upon the -outstretched fingers of her hand. Ally and Anne looked at each other; -they would all have been deep in these calculations together if Mab had -not been there. - -Walter went upon his own way. Perhaps had the visitor been a man he -might have had the same confinement, the same embarrassment: but -probably he would have undertaken nothing of the sort. Probably he would -have thrown over his guest upon the girls. What were girls good for but -to undertake this sort of thing, and set more important persons free? -For himself he did not feel able for anything but to realize the new -position; to turn everything over in his mind, to hurry away to the -neighborhood, at least, of the one creature in the world who (he -thought) might look at it from his point of view and care what he felt. -Could he still think, after the reception she had given him that -morning, after the blank which he had found in her, the incapacity to -understand him--could he believe still that his tumultuous feelings now -and all the ferment in his mind would awaken in her that ideal sympathy -and understanding of which he had dreamed? Alas, poor Walter! he knew so -little in reality of _her_: what he knew was his own imagination of -her--a perfect thing, incapable of failure, sure to sympathize and -console. What he had learned from the failure of the morning was only -this, that it must have been his fault, who had not known how to -explain--how to make his story clear. It was not she who was to blame. -He rushed up the hill with his heart a-flame, thinking of everything. He -was now no disinherited knight, no neglected youth whose fate his elders -decided without consulting him. Oh, no; very different. He was the heir -of Penton! He had attained what he had looked for all his life. He -stood trembling upon the verge of a new existence, full of the -tumultuous projects, the unformed resolves that surge upward and boil in -the mind of a youth emancipated, whose life has come to such promotion, -whose career lies all before him. And to what creature in the world -after himself could this be of the same importance as to her who -might--oh, wonderful thought!--share it with him? He had been far from -having this thought in the morning. Then he was but a boy, without any -definite plan, with only education before him and vague beginnings, and -no certainty of anything. Now he was Walter Penton of Penton, with a -position which no man could take from him--not his father even! Nobody -could touch him in his rights. Not an acre could be alienated without -his consent; nothing could be taken away. And then there was that story -about “providing for the boy” which his father had touched on very -lightly, but which came back in the strongest sense to the mind of the -boy who was to be provided for. He felt the wildest impatience to tell -her all this. She would understand him now. She did not know what he -meant in the morning, which was, no doubt, his fault. How could she be -expected to understand the fantastic discontent that was in his mind? -But she would understand now. He had a certainty of this, which was -beyond all possibility of mistake, and though he knew that it was very -unlikely he should see her at this hour, yet the impulse of his heart -was such that nothing else was possible to him but to hurry to the spot -where she was--to be near her, to put himself in the way if perchance -she should pass by. The painful impression with which in the morning he -had seen her in a moment change herself and her aspect, and step down -from the position on which she met him to that of Crockford’s niece, -passed altogether from his mind--or rather it remained as a keen -stimulant forcing him to a solution of the mystery which intertwined the -harmony with a discord as is the wont of musicians. There could not be -any such jarring note. He must account for the jarring note; it was a -tone of enchantment the more, a charm disguised. - -These were the things he said to himself--or rather he said nothing to -himself, but such were the gleams that flew across his mind like -glimmers of light out of the sky. He went quickly up the steep hill, -breasting it as if his fortune lay at the top, and a moment’s delay -might risk it all--until he came within sight of Crockford’s cottage, -its upper windows twinkling over the rugged bit of hedge that fenced off -the little grass-plot in front. Then his pace slackened--the goal was in -sight; there was no need for haste--in short, even had she been visible, -Walter would have dallied, with that fantastic instinct of the lover -which prolongs by deferring the moment of enjoyment. And then at a -little distance he could examine the windows, he could watch for some -sign or token of her, as he could not do near at hand. He lingered, he -stood still on a pretense of looking at the hedge-rows, of examining a -piece of lichen on a tree, his eyes all the time furtively turning -toward that rude little temple of his soul. What a place to be called by -such a name! And yet the place was not so much to be found fault with. -The hedge was irregular and broken, raised a little above the path, with -a rough little bit of wall, all ferns and mosses, supporting the bank of -earth from which it grew; above it, glistening in the low red rays of -the afternoon sun, were the lattice windows of the upper story, with the -eaves of an uneven roof--old tiles covered with every kind of -growth--overshadowing them; a cottage as unlike as possible to those -dreadful dwellings of the poor which are the result of sanitary science -and economy combined; a little human habitation harmonized by age and -use with all its surroundings, and which no one need be ashamed to call -home. So Walter said to himself as he stood and looked at it in the -light of romance and the afternoon sun. It was as venerable as Penton -itself, and had many features in common with the great house. It was -more respectable and more lovely than the damp gentility of Penton Hook, -which was old-new, with plaster peeling off, and a shabby modernism in -its vulgar walls. Crockford’s cottage pretended to nothing, it was all -it meant to be. It was in its way a beautiful place, being so harmonized -by nature, so well adapted to its uses. Walter’s estimate of it -increased as the moments went on. He felt at last that to bring his -bride from such an abode was next door to bringing her from an ideal -palace of romance; perhaps better even than that, seeing that there -would be all the pleasure of setting her in the sphere which she would -adorn; for would not she adorn--it was an old-fashioned phrase, yet one -that suited the occasion--any sphere? - -He was interrupted in these thoughts by the sound of steps approaching. -All was silent, alas! in the cottage. The door was shut, for it was very -cold weather, and no one appeared at a window; there was not a movement -of life about. Walter knew that the room in which they lived (_i. e._ -the kitchen) looked to the back. The approaching passenger, therefore, -did not convey any hopes to his mind, but only annoyed him, making him -leave off that silent contemplation of the shrine of his love, which he -had elaborately concealed, by a pretended examination of the lichens on -the tree. If any one was coming, that pretense, he felt, was not enough, -and he accordingly continued his walk very slowly up the hill in order -to meet the new-comer whoever he might be. When he came in sight he was -not, as Walter had expected, a recognizable figure, but unmistakably a -stranger--a man whose dress and appearance were as unlike as possible to -anything which belonged to the village. He was a young man, rather -undersized, in a coat with a fur collar, a tall hat, a muffler of a -bright color, a large cigar, and a stick of the newest fashion. He was -indeed all of the newest fashion, fit for Bond Street, and much more -like that locality than a village street. Walter was not very learned in -Bond Street, but he laughed to himself as he made this conclusion, -feeling that Bond Street would not acknowledge such a glass of fashion. -The stranger was looking at Crockford’s cottage with a glass stuck in -his eye, and a sort of contemptuous examination, which proved that he -made a very different estimate of it from that which Walter had just -done. When he in his turn heard Walter’s step upon the road, he seemed -to wake up to the consciousness of being looked at, in a way which -aroused the contempt of the young native. He gave himself various little -pulls together, took his cigar from his mouth with an energetic puff, -put up his disengaged hand to his cravat with an involuntary movement to -arrange something, and settled his shoulders into his coat--gestures -corresponding to the little shake and shuffle with which some women -prepare themselves to be seen, however elaborate their toilet may have -been before. Then he quickened his steps a little to meet Walter, who -came toward him slowly, with a quite uncalled-for sentiment of contempt. -Why should a youth in knickerbockers, in the rough roads of his native -parish, feel himself superior to a gentleman visitor in the apparel of -the higher orders, coming (presumably) out of Bond Street? Who can -explain this mystery? No doubt it was balanced by a still stronger -feeling of the same kind on the other side. The stranger came forward -evidently with the intention of asking information. He was a -sandy-haired and rather florid young man, with a badly grown mustache -and little tufts of colorless beard. His hat was a little on one side, -and the hair upon which it was poised glistened and shone. The level sun -came in his eyes and made him blink; it threw a light which was not -flattering over all his imperfections of color and form. - -“Beg your pardon,” he said, with a slight stammer as they approached -each other, “you couldn’t tell me, could you, where one--Crockton or -Croaker, or some such name, lives about here?” - -“Croaker?” said Walter. With Crockford’s cottage before his eyes, what -could be more simple? The suggestion was too evident to be mistaken, as -was also the other suggestion, which came like a flash of lightning, and -made his eyes shine with angry fire. “I know nobody of the name,” he -said, quietly, making a rapid step forward; and then it occurred to him -that the information thus sought might be supplied easily by any -uninterested passer-by, and he paused, feeling that it was necessary to -plant himself there on the defense. “What sort of a man do you want? -What is he?” he asked. - -“Ah, no sort of a man at all--it’s--it’s a cottage, I believe. He may be -a cobbler or a plow-boy, or a--anything you please. Am I the sort of -person to know such people’s trades? It’s a--it’s a--Look here, I’ll -make it worth your while if you’ll help me. It’s a lady I want.” - -“Oh, a lady!” said Walter. He felt the blood flush to his face; but this -the inquirer, occupied with his own business, did not remark. He came -close, turning off the smoke of his cigar with his hand. - -“Look here,” he said, in a loud whisper, “I’ll make it worth your while. -It’ll be as good as a suv--, well, I may say if you’ll really find out -what I want, as good as a fiver in your pocket. Oh, I say, what’s the -matter: I don’t mean no harm.” - -“I wonder who you take me for,” cried Walter, whose sudden move forward -had thrown the other back in mingled astonishment and alarm. - -The stranger eyed him from head to foot with a puzzled look, which -finally awoke a little amusement in Walter’s angry soul. “Don’t know you -from Adam,” he said, “and I ain’t used to fellows in knickerbockers. -Swells wear them, and gamekeepers wear them. If you’re a swell I beg -your pardon, that’s all I can say.” - -This prayer it pleased Walter graciously to grant. He began to enter -into the humor of the situation. And then, to save her from some vulgar -persecutor, was not that worth a little trouble? “Never mind,” he said, -“who I am. I know all the ladies that live here. Which of them is it -that you want?” - -“Well, she don’t live here,” said the other. “Yes, to be sure, she’s -here for the moment, with one Croaker, or something like that. But she’s -not one of the ladies of the place; she’s not, perhaps, exactly what you -would call a--Yes, she is though--she’s awfully well educated. She -talks--oh, a great deal better than most of the swellest people you meet -about. I’ve met a good few in my day,” he said, with an air, caressing -his mustache. “I don’t know nobody that comes up to her, for my part.” - -He was a little beast--he was a cad--he was a vulgar little beggar: he -was not a gentleman, nor anything like it. But still he seemed to have a -certain comprehension. Walter’s heart softened to him in spite of all -provocations. “I don’t think,” he said, but more gently than he could -have thought possible, “that you will meet any one of that sort here.” - -“No? you don’t think so. But they’d keep her very close, don’t you see. -Fact is, she was sent off to keep her out of a young fellar’s way. A -young swell you know, a--a friend of mine, with a good bit of money -coming to him, and his people didn’t think her good enough. Oh, I don’t -think so--not a bit. I’m all on the true love side. But where there’s -money, don’t you know, there’s always difficulties made.” - -“I suppose so,” said Walter, with momentary gravity. And there came -before him for a moment a horrible realization--something he had never -thought of before. “But I don’t think,” he added, “that you will find -any such lady here.” He was so young and simple that it was a certain -ease to his conscience to put it in this way. He said to himself that he -was telling no lie. He was not saying that there was no such lady here, -only that he didn’t think the other would find her--which he shouldn’t, -at least so long as Walter could help it. This little equivocation gave -great comfort and ease to his mind. - -“Don’t you, though?” said the stranger, discouraged. “But I’m almost -sure this was the village, near the river, and not far from--it answers -to all the directions--if only I could find Croaker--or Crockton, or a -name like that. I’m a dreadful fellow for muddling names.” - -“I’ll tell you what,” said Walter, “it may be Endsleigh, about two miles -further on; that’s near the river, and not far from Reading, which I -suppose is what you mean--a pretty little village where people go in -summer. And, to be sure, there’s some people named Croaker there; I -remember the name--over a shop--with lodgings to let--that’s the place,” -he cried, with a little excitement. For all this was quite true, and yet -elaborately false in intention, a combination to delight any such young -deceiver. “Come along,” he cried, “I’ll show you the way. It lies -straight before you, and Croaker’s is just as you go into the village. -You can’t miss it. I’ve earned that fiver,” he said, with a laugh, “but -you’re welcome to the information--for love.” - -“For love!” cried the other; and he gave the young fellow a very -doubtful look, then threw a suspicious glance around as if he might -possibly find some reasons lying about on the road why this young -stranger should attempt to deceive him. But after all, why should a -young swell in knickerbockers desire to deceive the man of Bond Street? -There could be no reason. He took out his cigar-case, and offered a -large and solid article of that description to Walter’s acceptance, who -took it with great gravity. “I can’t thank you any way else--they’re -prime ones I can tell you,” he said, and with a flourish of his stick, -by way of farewell, took the way pointed out to him. Walter stood and -watched him with a curious mingling of satisfaction and mischief. He -threw the cigar into the ditch. It was a bad one, he had no doubt, -which, perhaps, made it less a sacrifice to throw away this reward of -guile. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVIII. - -A DECISIVE MOMENT. - - -But when this little adventure was over, it made no difference to the -longing and eagerness in the boy’s heart. Indeed, he wanted to see her -more than ever, to find out from her who this fellow was, what he had to -do with her, why he was seeking her. Could it be possible that she felt -any interest in such a creature? that she--might have married him, -perhaps. Could this be? He had spoken as if it was he who had been the -prize. She had been sent away in order not to be a danger for him. -Walter snapped the branch of a tree he had seized hold of as if it had -been a twig, as the thought passed through his mind. And then he was -seized with a half-hysterical fit of laughter. Him, that fellow! that -little beast! that cad! that--There were no words that could express his -contempt and scorn and merriment, but it was not merriment of a -comfortable kind. When his laugh was over, he went round and round the -house without seeing any one--all was closed, the doors shut, nobody at -the windows, nothing at all stirring. One or two people passed, and -looked wondering to see him wander about, up and down like a ghost; but -he neither saw her nor any trace of her. The red glitter went out of the -windows, the sun sunk lower and lower, and then went out, leaving -nothing but the winter gray which so soon settled toward night. And by -and by Walter found himself compelled by the force of circumstances to -turn his back upon the cottage, and go down the steep road again toward -home. The force of circumstances at this particular moment meant the -family tea--and the strange, tragical, foolish complication of his own -high romance and enthusiasm of love, for which he was ready to defy -anything--and the youthfulness and childishness of his position, which -made it criminal for him not to be in for tea--was one of those things -which confuse with ridicule all that is most serious in the world. He -saw with an acute pang how absurd it was; but he could not emancipate -himself. The thought of the family consternation, the question on all -sides, Where is Wat? his father’s irritation, and his mother’s wonder, -and the apologies of the girls, and the suggestions of accident, of some -catastrophe, something terrible to account for his non-appearance, were -all quite visible and apparent to him; and the grotesque incompatibility -of these bonds, with the passionate indulgence of his own will and wish -upon which his mind was fixed. He saw all these circumstances also with -a curious faculty, half of sympathy, half of repulsion, through the eyes -of the little visitor, the little intruder, the girl who had suddenly -become a member of the household, and who was there observing -everything. She would remark the unwillingness with which he appeared, -and she would remark, he felt certain, his absence both before and -after, and would ask herself where he went, a question which, so far as -Walter was aware, not even his mother had begun to ask as yet. He had an -instinctive conviction that Mab would ask it, that she would see through -him, that she would divine what was in heart. And when they all met -about the homely table once more,--the children intent upon their -bread-and-butter, the mother apportioning all the cups of tea, the -milk-and-water to some, the portions of cake,--Walter seemed to himself -to be taking part in some scene of a comedy curiously interposed between -the acts of an exciting drama. - -A cold world, out of doors, spreading all around, with the strangest -encounters in it, with understandings and misunderstandings which made -the blood run cold, and sent the heart up bounding into high passion and -excitement, into feverish resolve and wild daring, and the madness of -desperation--and in the very midst a sudden pause, the opening of a -door, and then the confused chatter of the children, the sound of the -teacups, the lamp which smelled of paraffin, the bread-and-butter,--how -laughable it was, how ridiculous, what a contrast, what a slavery, how -petty in the midst of all the passions and agitations that lay around! - -Presently, Walter, in his boyish ingenuousness, began to feel a little -proud that he, so simple as he sat there in the fumes of the household -tea, was in reality a distracted yet well-nigh triumphant lover, meaning -to put his fortune to the touch that very night, to pledge his new life -and all it might bring. They thought him nothing more than a lad to be -sent to school again, to be guided at their will, when he was a man and -on the eve of an all-important decision, about to dispose of his -existence. - -He caught Mab’s eyes as this thought swelled in his mind. They were not -penetrating or keen eyes; they were blue, very soft, smiling, -child-like, lighted up with amused observation, noticing everything. But -Walter felt them go through him as none of the other accustomed familiar -eyes did. _She_ saw there was something more than usual about him. She -would divine when he disappeared that his going away meant something. -The family took no heed of his absence--he had gone out to take a turn, -they would say; perhaps his father would grumble that he ought to be at -his books. But only that little stranger would divine that Walter’s -absence meant a great deal more--that it meant a romance, a poem, a -drama, and that it consumed his entire life. - -The dispersing of the children, the game of play permitted to Horry and -the small brothers, the going to bed of the rest, made a moment of -tumult and agitation. And in the midst of this Walter stole out -unperceived into the clear air of the night. It was clear as a crystal, -the sky shining, almost crackling with a sudden frost, the stars -twinkling out of their profound blue, with such a sharp and icy -brilliancy as occurs only now and then in the hardest winter. The air -was so clear and exhilarating that Walter did not find it cold; indeed -he was too much excited to be sensible of anything save the refreshment -and keen restorative pinch of that nipping and eager atmosphere. - -As he hurried up the hill the blood ran riot in his veins, his heart -seemed to bound and leap forward as if it had an independent life. He -found himself under the hedge of Crockford’s cottage in a few minutes, -with the feeling that he had flown or floated there, though his panting -breath told of the rush he had actually made. The moon, which had but -newly risen, was behind the cottage, and consequently all was black -under the hedge, concealing him in the profoundest darkness. - -He was glad to pause there in that covert and ante-chamber of nature to -regain command of himself, to get his breath and collect his -thoughts--to think how he was to make his presence known. She had -somehow divined that he was there on other nights, but this was a more -important occasion, and he felt that he would be justified in defying -all the restrictions put upon him, and letting even the Crockfords, the -old people of the house, know that he was there. It was true that the -idea of old Crockford daunted him a little. The old man had a way of -saying things; he had a penetrating, cynical look. But it would be -strange indeed, Walter reflected, if he who was not afraid of fate, who -was about to defy the world in arms, should be afraid of an old -stone-breaker on the roads. - -The thought passed through his mind, and brought a smile to his face as -he stood in the dark, recovering his breath. All was perfectly silent in -the night around. The village had shut itself up against the cold. There -was nobody near. The heat and passion in Walter’s being seemed to stand -like an image of self-concentrated humanity, independent of all the -influences about, indifferent, even antagonistic, throbbing with a -tremendous interest in the midst of those petty personal concerns of -which the world thought nothing, but in himself a world higher than -nature, altogether distinct from it. The little bit of shadow swallowed -him up, yet neither shadow nor light made any difference to the mind -which felt all moons and stars and the whole system of the universe -inferior to its own burning purpose and intense tumultuous thoughts. - -But while he stood there, indifferent to the whole earth about him, a -little sound of the most trivial character suddenly caught his ear, and -made every nerve tingle. It was a sound no more important than the click -of the latch of the cottage door. Had she heard him, then, though he was -not aware of having made any sound? Had she divined him with a mind so -much more sensitive than that of ordinary mankind? He stood holding his -breath, listening for her step, imagining it to himself, the little skim -along the pavement, the touch when she paused, firm yet so light. He -heard it in his thoughts, in anticipation: but in reality that was not -what he heard. Something else sounded in his ears which made his veins -swell and his heart bound, yet not with pleasure--a voice which seemed -to affront the stillness and offend the night, a voice without any -softness or grace either of tone or words--something alive and hostile -to every feeling in his heart, and which seemed to Walter’s angry fancy -to jar upon the very air. And then there followed a sound of steps; they -were coming to the gate. She was with him, accompanying him, seeing him -off. Was it possible? Walter made a step forward and clinched his fist; -he then changed his mind and drew back. - -“Anyhow, you’ll think it over,” said the voice of the man whom he had -met on the road. “It’s a good offer. It ain’t every day you’ll get as -good. A good blow-out and a good breakfast, and all that, would suit me -just as well as you. I ain’t ashamed of what I’m doing; and you’d look -stunning in a veil and all that. But what’s the good of making a fuss? -It’s fun, too, doing a thing on the sly.” - -And was it _her_ voice that replied? - -“Yes, it’s fun. I don’t mind that, not a bit. I should just like to see -it put on the stage. You and me coming in, and your mother’s look. Oh, -her look! that’s what fetches me!” - -It could _not_ be her, not her! and yet the voice was hers; and the -subdued peal of laughter had in it a tone which he had felt to thrill -the air with delight on other occasions; but not now. The man laughed -more harshly, more loudly; and then they appeared at the gate in the -moonlight. He so near them, unable to stir without betraying himself, -was invisible in the gloom. But the light caught a great white shawl in -which she had muffled herself, and made a sort of reflection in the tall -shiny hat. - -They stood for a minute there, almost within reach of his hand. - -“Don’t you stand chattering,” she said; “it’s time for your train; and I -tell you it’s a mile off, and you’ll have to run.” - -“There’s plenty of time,” said he. “I should just like to know who was -that young spark that sent me off out of my way to-day. I believe it’s -some one that’s sweet upon you too, and as you’re holding in hand--” - -“Nonsense,” she said, “I see nobody here.” - -“Oh, tell that to--them that knows no better; see nobody; only every -fellow about that’s worth looking at; as if I didn’t know your little -ways!” - -She laughed a little, not displeased; and then said, “There’s nobody -worth looking at; but let me again say, go; the old man will be out -after me. He won’t believe you’ve got a message from mother; he doesn’t -now. He doesn’t believe a word I say.” - -“No more should I if I was in his place. Oh, I know your little ways. -You’ll have to give them over when we’re married, Em. It’s a capital -joke now, don’t you know, but when we’re married--” - -“We’re not married yet,” she said, “and perhaps never will be, if you -don’t mind.” - -“Oh, I say! When we’ve just settled how it’s to be done, and all about -it! But look here, don’t you have anything to say to that young ’un in -the knickerbockers. He’s cute, whoever he is. He might have put me off -the scent altogether. I couldn’t have done it cleverer myself. Don’t let -him guess what’s going on. He’s just the one, that fellow is, to let the -old folks know, and spoil our fun.” - -“Look here,” said the girl, “I warn you, Ned, you’ll lose your train.” - -“Not I. I’ll make a run for it. Good-bye, Em!” - -Great heavens! did he dare to touch her, to approach his head with the -shiny hat still poised upon it to hers. The grotesque horror overwhelmed -Walter as he stood trembling with rage and misery. There was a little -murmuring of hushed words and laughter, and then a sudden movement: “Be -off with you,” she said, and the man rushed away through the gleams of -the moonlight, his steps echoing along the road. She stood and looked -after him, with her white shawl wrapped round her head and shoulders, -moving from one foot to the other with a light buoyant movement as if to -keep herself warm. The motion, the poise of her figure, the lingering, -all seemed to speak of pleasure. Walter stood in the dark with his teeth -set and his hand clinched, and misery fierce and cruel in his soul. It -seemed impossible to him to suffer more. He had touched the very bottom -of the deepest sea of wretchedness; the bitterness of death he thought -had gone over him, quenching his very soul and all his projects. His -love, his hopes, his wishes seemed all to have melted into one flame of -fury, fierce rage, and hate, which shook his very being. It seemed to -Walter that he could almost have murdered her where she stood within -three paces of him; and if the veil of darkness had been suddenly -withdrawn the boldest might have shuddered at the sight of that -impersonation of wrath, standing drawn back to keep himself quiet, his -hand clinched by his side, his eyes blazing as they fixed upon her, -within reach of the unconscious watcher, so light and pleased and easy, -not knowing the danger that was so near. Her head was turned away from -him watching her lover--her lover!--as he rattled along the road; and -when Walter made a sudden step forward out of the shade, she started -with a suppressed alarmed cry and wail of terror. - -“Mr. Penton! you here!” - -“Yes. I’ve been here--too long.” - -“Oh, Mr. Penton,” cried the girl, “you’ve heard what we’ve been saying! -Do you call that like a gentleman to listen to what people are saying? -You have no right to make any use of it. You did not put us on our -guard. You have no right to make any use of what you heard when we -didn’t know.” - -Walter came up to her, close to her, and put his hand upon the fleecy -whiteness of her shawl, into which it seemed to sink as into snow. - -“Will you tell me this?” he said. “You are one person to old Crockford, -another to _him_, another to me. Which is you?” - -A man who has been injured acquires an importance, a gravity, which no -other circumstances can give him; and the tone of his misery was in -Walter’s voice. He imposed upon her and subdued her in spite of herself. -She shrunk a little away from him and began to cry. - -“It is not my fault! I never asked you to notice me. I never pretended I -was any one--not your equal--not--” - -“Which is you?’ he said. Through the soft shawl he reached her arm at -last, and grasped it firmly, yet with a weakening, a softening. How -could he help it when he felt her in his power? Through her shawl, and -through the mist of rage and bitterness about him, the quick-witted -creature felt how the poor boy’s heart was touched, and began to melt at -the contact of her arm. - -“Which--is me? Oh,” she cried, “you don’t know me--you don’t know my -circumstances, or you would not ask. You don’t know what I come from, -nor how I have been surrounded all my life. It is the best that is me! -It is, whatever you may think.” - -Her arm quivered in his grasp; her slight figure seemed to vibrate so -near to him. It appeared to his confused brain that her whole being -swayed and wavered with the appeal he made to her. She lifted her face -to his, and that too was quivering in every line. She was entirely in -his power, to be shaken, to be annihilated at his will, and he had the -power over her of right as well as of strength. - -“The best--I don’t know which is the best. I came up to tell you--to ask -you--to let you decide. And I find you with a man who--is going to marry -you.” - -“He thinks so, perhaps; but a man can’t marry one without one’s own -consent.” - -“Your consent! You seemed to agree to everything he said!” cried the -young man in his rage. “A fellow like that! A cad--a--And I waiting -here--waiting to see you--oh!” He flung her arm from him, almost -throwing her off her balance. But when he saw her totter, compunction -seized the unhappy boy. “You make me a brute!” he cried; “I’ve hurt -you!” and felt as if, in the stillness of the night, and the despair of -his heart, his voice sounded like a wild beast’s cry. - -“You have hurt me--only in my heart,” she said. “Oh, but listen. I know -it all looks bad enough; but you listened to him, and you must listen to -me. You think he’s not good enough for me, Mr. Penton; but a little -while ago he was thought far too good, and I--perhaps I thought so, too. -Not--oh, not now. Wait a minute before you cry out. Who had I ever seen -that was better? I had heard of other kind of people in books, but -either I thought they didn’t live now, or at least they were far, far -out of my reach. I never knew a gentleman till--till--” - -“Her voice died away; it had been getting lower, softer, complaining, -pleading--now it seemed to die away altogether, fluttering in her -throat. - -“Till?” Waiter’s voice too was choked by emotion and excitement. The -strong current of his thoughts and wishes, so violently interrupted, -found a new channel and flooded all the obstructions away. Till--! Could -anything be more pathetic than this confusion and self-revelation? “You -did not tell him so,” he said, with a remnant of his wrath--a sort of -rag of resentment, which he caught at as it flew away. “You let him -believe it was he; you made him understand--” - -“Mr. Penton,” she cried, “listen. What am I to do? You’ve sought me out, -you’ve been far too kind; but I can’t let myself be a danger to you too. -You know it never, never would be allowed if it were known you were -coming here to me. And now that I’ve known you, how can I bear living -here and not seeing you? It was the only charm, the only pleasure--Oh, -I’m shameless to tell you, but it’s true.” - -“Emmy,” said the lad, in his infatuation, laying once more his hand on -her arm, but this time trembling himself with feeling and tenderness, -“if it’s true, how could you--how could you let that man--” - -“Mr. Penton, just hear me out. He can take me away from this, and give -me a home, and take me out of the way of harming you. Oh, don’t you see -how I am torn asunder! If I throw him over there’s no hope for me. Oh, -what am I to do? What am I to do?” - -Walter was moved beyond himself with an impulse of enthusiasm, of -devotion, which seemed to turn his feeling in a moment into something -sacred--not the indulgence of his own will, but the most generous of -inspirations. He put his arm round her, and supported her in her -trembling and weakness. - -“Emmy,” he said, his young voice ineffably soft and full of -tears--“Emmy, darling, we’ll find a better way.” - - - - -CHAPTER XXIX. - -THE FUNERAL DAY. - - -The day of Sir Walter Penton’s funeral was a great if gloomy holiday for -the whole country about. A man so old, and so little known to the -neighborhood, could not be greatly mourned. He had kept up, no doubt, -the large charities which it is the worthy privilege of a great family -to maintain for the benefit of the country, but he had never appeared in -them, and few people associated a personal kindness with the image of -the stately old man who had been seen so seldom for years past. The -people in the village and all the houses scattered along the road were -full of excitement and curiosity. The carriages which kept arriving all -the morning gradually raised the interest of the spectators toward the -great climax of the funeral procession, which it was expected would be -half a mile long, and embraced everybody of any importance in the -neighborhood, besides the long line of the tenantry. And then the -flowers--that new evidence of somber vanity and extravagant fashion. To -see these alone was enough to draw a crowd. In the heart of the winter, -just after Christmas, what masses of snowy blossoms, piled up, crushing -and spoiling each other--flowers that cost as much as would have fed a -parish! The villagers stood with open mouths of wonder. No one there in -all their experiences of life--all the weddings, christenings, summer -festivals of their recollection--had seen such a display. The -procession, headed by no black mournful hearse, such as would have -seemed natural to the lookers-on, but by a sort of triumphal car, -covered with flowers, drew forth crowds all along the way. - -The Pentons, who were now the lords of all--or rather of as little as -was practicable, for all that was unentailed naturally went without -question to Sir Walter’s daughter--had not a carriage of their own in -which to swell the procession. And though they were now naturally in the -chief place, they were perhaps the least known of all the rural -potentates, great and small, who shook hands in silence, with looks of -sympathy more or less solemn, with Mr. Russell Penton after the ceremony -was over. Sir Edward, indeed, the new baronet, had known them all in his -day; but Walter looked on with a half-defiant shyness, with scarcely an -acquaintance in the multitude. And the sensation was very strange to -both father and son when all the train had dispersed and they came back -to the great house which was henceforward theirs. Mrs. Russell Penton -had not since the moment of her father’s death made any show of her -grief. She had been entirely stricken down on that day. A frightful -combination and mingling of emotions had prostrated her. Grief for her -father; ah, yes! He had been perhaps the one individual in the world -upon whose full comprehension she had leaned; but in his dying even this -had failed her, and she felt that he comprehended her and she him no -longer, and that at the last moment his steps had strayed from hers. A -more bitter and terrible discovery could not be; and when with that came -the sense that all her hopes had failed--that the plans so nearly -brought to some practical possibility had all come to nothing--that -everything was too late--that, instead of securing her home for an -eternal possession, which was what her eager spirit desired, she had -only presented herself to the world in the aspect of a grasping woman, -endeavoring to take advantage of a poor man and seize his -inheritance--when all this became apparent to her, Alicia covered her -face and withdrew from the light of day. The loss of one who had been -the chief object in her life for so long, the father whom she had loved, -was not much more than a pretense (and she felt this too to the bottom -of her heart) for the misery that overwhelmed her; which was not grief -only, but disappointment almost more bitter than grief; disenchantment -and failure mingled with the sorrow and loss, and made them more keen -and poignant than words can tell. And she was ashamed that it should be -so--ashamed that, when all around her gave her credit for thus -profoundly mourning her father, she was mourning in him her own -disappointed hopes, her disgust, her failure, as well as the loss her -heart had sustained. This consciousness was in itself one of the -bitterest parts of her burden. Her husband came into the room with -sympathetic looks, her maid stole about on tiptoe, everything was kept -in darkness and quiet to soothe her grief. And yet her grief was but a -small part of what her proud spirit was suffering. To feel that this was -so was almost more than she could bear. - -After the first day she would indeed bear it no longer. She would permit -no more of that obsequious tenderness which is given to sorrow, but got -up and came forth to take her usual place in the house and fulfill her -ordinary duties, refusing as much as she could the praises lavished upon -her for her self-control and unselfishness and regard for others. She -“bore up” wonderfully, everybody said; but Alicia, to do her justice, -would have none of the applause which was murmured about her. “I did not -expect my father would live forever,” she said, with a tone of -impatience to her husband; “and to lie there and think everything over -again, is that to be desired? I would rather feel I had some duty still -and claims upon me.” - -“Oh, many claims,” he said; “but you must not overtask your strength.” - -She had no fear of overtasking her strength, but rather a feeling that -if she could get to work--as her maid did, as the house-maids did, to -prepare for her departure and the entry of the other family--that would -be the thing which would do her good. After the funeral she came out in -her deep mourning, out of the library, in which she had been spending -that solemn hour, to meet the chief mourners when they returned. It -would have pleased her better to have been chief mourner herself; but it -had been said on all hands that it would be “too much for her.” So she -had spent the time while the slow _cortege_ was winding along the -country road and all the gloomy formulas were being fulfilled, by -herself in the old man’s favorite room, where everything spoke of him, -reading the funeral service over and over, thinking--now they will be -there, and there; now arrived at the grave; now leaving him--beside the -boys. It was that thought that brought the tears. Beside the boys! They -had lain there for twenty years and more, but she could still shed tears -for them; for all the rest her eyes were dry. And when the carriages -came back she came out quite composed, though so pale, in all the -solemnity of her mourning, covered with crape, to the drawing-room to -receive them. She had bidden her husband to bring the new proprietor -back with him, that everything might at once be said which remained to -say. She gave her hand to Edward, who came forward to meet her, he too -in deep mourning; but her eye went beyond him to “the boy” who stood -behind, and whose slight young figure seemed to hold itself more erect, -and with an air of greater self-belief than when she saw him last. What -wonder! he was the heir. - -“I wanted to see you,” she said. “Gerald will have told you--that -everything might be put at once on the footing we wish it to be.” - -“I told you, Alicia, that your cousin would not hurry you. He is as -anxious as I am that you should have no trouble. We have talked it all -over--” - -“Why shouldn’t I have trouble?” she said. “There is no reason in the -world for sparing me my share of the roughness. I am better so. Edward, -if you should wish to get possession soon, you and your wife, you may be -sure I will put no obstacles in your way.” - -“I wish you would believe that we have no wish, no desire. We want you -to act exactly as may suit you best--to consider yourself still in your -own house.” - -“That is impossible,” she said, quickly; “mine it is not, nor ever was; -and now that he is gone who was its natural master--I know perfectly -well how considerate you will be. What I am expressing is my own -wish--not to be in your way--not to put off your settling down. You have -a large family--you will want to settle everything.” - -At this Sir Edward began to clear his throat, and it took him some time -to get out the next words. - -“Alicia,” he said, “we have been thinking a great deal about it, my wife -and I.” - -“Yes, you must naturally have thought about it. Mrs. Penton”--here the -speaker paused, grew red, hesitated a little, and then went on--“she -must wish to have everything decided about the removal, and to know what -furniture will be wanted, and a great deal besides. If you would like -to bring her to see for herself, and judge what is necessary--I hope you -understand me--my husband and I will give every facility.” - -“My dear, your cousin knows all that,” said Russell Penton, not without -impatience. - -“It was something else I wanted to say. My wife--is a woman of great -sense, Alicia.” - -Mrs. Russell Penton made a slight bow of assent. She had nothing to do -with his wife. She did not like to hear of her at all, the woman who was -now Lady Penton, and yet was a woman of no account, an insignificant -mother of a family. This description, which the person to whom it -belongs is generally somewhat proud of, is often to women without that -distinction a contemptuous way of dismissing an individual of whom -nothing else can be said. Edward Penton’s wife was no more than that. -Sense! Oh, yes, she might have sense, so far as her brood and its wants -were concerned. - -“She always thought--an opinion which, however, she did not express till -very lately, and in which I did not agree--that this house, which you -and my poor uncle kept up so splendidly--” - -Alicia gave an impatient wave of her hand. She could not see why Sir -Walter should be called poor because he was dead. - -“Yes,” said Sir Edward, “it has been splendidly kept up; nothing could -be more beautiful, or in better taste. You always had admirable taste, -Alicia; and my poor dear uncle--” - -“Don’t,” she cried; “what is it you want to say? I beg your pardon, -Edward, if I am impatient. For Heaven’s sake come to the point.” - -“I know,” he said, with a compassionate look, “grief is irritable. My -wife has always been of opinion that for us, with our large family, the -possession of Penton would be no advantage. We could not keep it up as -it has been kept up. The entailed estates by themselves are not--you -must have a little patience with me, my dear Alicia, or I never can get -out what I have to say.” - -She seated herself with a sigh of endurance. All this was intolerable to -her. She wanted nothing to be said, but simply that she should go away, -who no longer could keep possession, and that they who had the right -should come in--no struggle about it, not a word said, not a lament on -her side, and if possible not a flourish of trumpets on theirs--at -least, not anything that she should hear. It was like Edward to maunder -on, though he must have known that she could not endure it. And his wife -with her sense! But an appearance of dignity must be kept up, and she -must, she knew, hear out what he had to say. - -“Go on,” said Russell Penton, “you can understand that she is not able -for very much.” And he came and stood by the back of his wife’s chair -with his usual undemonstrative self-forgetfulness, full of sympathy for -her, though he did not approve of her--all of which things she knew. - -“It comes to this,” said Edward Penton, a little confused in his story; -“I did not agree with her at all. When we entered into the -negotiations--which have come to nothing--I did it without any heart. It -was only on the morning I spent here, you know, the morning that--it was -only then I perceived that my wife was right. We have talked it over -since, Alicia, and I have a proposal to make you. If you like to -remain--” - -She got up from her chair suddenly, clinching her hands in impatience. -“No, no, no, _no_,” she cried, almost violently, “I want to hear nothing -more about it. There is nothing, nothing more to say.” - -“If you would but hear me out, Alicia! this that I’m speaking of would -really be a favor to us. We have not the means to keep it up. We have -things to think of, of far more importance than the gardens and glass -and all that. We have our children to think of. The house is a great -deal to you--and--and it’s something to me that know it so well; but to -them--to them it doesn’t matter,” he said, with a sort of contempt for -the Pentons who were only half Pentons though they were his children. “I -would rather a great deal you kept it and lived in it, and remained as -you have been.” - -There was a curious little by-play going on in the meantime. Walter -listened to his father with consternation, moving a step nearer, looking -on eagerly as if desiring to interfere in his own person--while over the -face of Russell Penton there came a shade of anxiety, suspense, and -annoyance. He was sufficiently calm to put out his hand keeping Walter -back; but he was no longer a mere spectator of the interview. Alarm was -in his face; he had thought he had escaped, and here was the chain again -ready to drag him back. Sir Edward turned to him at the end of his -little speech with a direct appeal, “Speak to her, Russell; I make the -offer in a friendly spirit. There’s nothing behind,” he said. - -“That I am sure of, but it is for Alicia to answer. She must decide, not -me.” - -“I have decided,” said Mrs. Penton, with something like suppressed -passion. “No; if it had been mine I should have been glad, why should I -deny it? I was born here. I like it better than any other place in the -world. But there are some things more important than even the house in -which one was born. Go back to your wife, Edward, and tell her I dare -say she understands many things, but me she doesn’t understand. To owe -my house to your civility and hers, to hold it at your pleasure, no, -no--a thousand times. Perhaps you mean well--I will say I am sure you -mean well; but I couldn’t do it. Gerald, there’s been enough of this, I -should like to go away.” - -Over Russell’s face there shot a gleam of satisfaction; but he did not -let it appear in what he said. “Alicia, you must not be hasty. Your -cousin can mean nothing but kindness. Let me tell him you will think of -it. He does not want an immediate answer. You might be sorry after--” - -“Gerald! it is not a thing you have ever wished.” - -“No, I am like your cousin’s wife,” he said, with a slight laugh. “But -what has that to do with it? It is for you to judge; and you might -repent--” - -She cast a glance round the stately room, with all the beautiful -furniture so carefully chosen to enhance and embellish it. Can one help -the hideous thoughts that against one’s will come into one’s mind? Swift -as lightning there flashed before her a picture of what it would be--the -pictures gone, the rich carpets, in which the foot sunk, the hangings of -satin and velvet--and the whole furnished as an upholsterer would do it, -called in in a hurry, and kept to the lowest possible estimate; and then -the children of all ages, rampant, running over everything. She saw this -in her imagination, and with it at the same instant felt a shrinking of -horror from the desecration, and a horrible momentary exultation. Yes, -exultation! over the difference, over the contrast. It was better so; -the stateliness and splendor must sink with her reign. With the others, -her supplanters, would come in squalor, pettiness, all the unlovely -details of poverty. It gave her a sense almost of guilty pleasure that -the contrast should be so marked beyond all possibility of mistake. - -“No,” she said, with forced composure, “I shall not repent. This chapter -of life is over. It has been long, far longer than is usually permitted -to a woman. I shall not interfere with you, Edward; it is your place, -and you must take it. Good-bye; it was only to tell you that no -hinderance should be raised on my part--that as soon almost as you -please--as soon as it is possible--” - -“There was something else, Alicia, you meant to say.” - -“What else?” Her eyes followed her husband’s to where Walter stood; then -a sudden flush covered her pale face. “Yes, that is true--it is -concerning your son. Mr. Rochford will give you the papers, and my -husband will explain. My father had an idea, I can not think how it -arose; but he had an idea, and it is my business to carry it out.” - -“Then is this all?” cried Edward Penton; for his part, he was not even -curious as to what had been done for Walter. He almost resented it as -she did. “Is this all? You will not allow us to offer--you will not -listen. After all, if I am my poor uncle’s successor I am still your -cousin, Alicia. It is not my fault.” - -“It is no one’s fault,” she said. - -“And we all feel for you. Even were it a sacrifice we should be glad to -make it. My wife--” - -Mrs. Russell Penton rose hurriedly. “You are very kind,” she said. -“Good-bye, Edward; I have had a great deal to try me, and I don’t think -I can bear any more.” - -She hurried out of the room as the servant came in with a message. She -could not bear to hear the new title, and yet how could she avoid -hearing it? Sir Edward--it was in her ears all the time. And when her -husband had said in that cumbrous way, “your cousin’s wife,” there had -passed through her mind the “Lady Penton” which he would not say, which -she could not say, which seemed to choke her. Lady Penton, her mother’s -name! And it was all perfectly just and right. This was what made it so -intolerable. They had a right to the name. They had a right to the -position. And nothing could be more wretched, envious, miserable than -the exasperation in her soul. - - - - -CHAPTER XXX. - -AFTERWARD. - - -Everything was very quiet at the Hook on the funeral day; all the blinds -were drawn down, even those which could be seen only from the garden and -the river, and Mrs. Penton--nay, Lady Penton, though she did not easily -fall into the title, and, indeed, until Sir Walter was buried scarcely -felt it right to bear it--had quite a little festival of mourning all to -herself with the girls, who had no inclination to gainsay her. They knew -nothing of the vagaries of girls of the present epoch, and it never -occurred to them to go against anything she proposed or to doubt its -propriety, though if there was an absurd side to it they saw that too -later on, and made their little criticisms, no doubt, with little jokes -to each other, not to be ventilated till long, long after. There is -perhaps a natural liking in the feminine heart for all those little -exhibitions of importance which the great crises of life make natural. -To stand in the privileged position of those who are immersed in sorrow, -yet not to be immersed in sorrow; to have all the consequence which is -derived from fresh mourning and nearness to “a death;” yet to have the -heart untouched, and no real trouble in it--this is something which -pleases, which almost exhilarates in a somber way. It is so good to -think that the death is not one which touches us, that we are only -lightly moved by it, sitting in a voluntary gloom to please ourselves -and compliment the other, not in the Valley of the Shadow of Death. Lady -Penton in her way enjoyed all this, especially after her husband had -gone. She put on her mourning, and made the girls dress themselves in -the black frocks which had just come home, and then sitting down in the -midst of them she too read the funeral service. It was very soothing, -she said--all the more that she had so little real need of being -soothed. The girls were full of awe and acquiescence; the new thought -that some one had died, though it was only an old man, touched them, and -the idea of all his death would bring about increased the subduing, -half-compunctious sentiment. It was not their fault that he had died, -yet they seemed somehow involved in it--almost to blame. - -Little Mab put on a black frock also, though she had no intention of -going into mourning, and made one of the little audience to whom the -mother read the burial service. She was the spectator amid the group who -felt themselves more immediately concerned, and it was all very strange -to her--almost droll, it must be allowed. She was not wise enough to see -how far the sentiment was real, and sprung out of the confused emotions -of this critical period, and she was too sympathetic to pronounce that -it was all false, which to a little woman of the world would have been -the reasonable thing. She did not, in fact, at all understand these -innocent people, though they were so easily understood. Her education -made her look for motives in what they did; and they had no motives, but -acted on the simple instinct of nature. Her keen little blue eyes, which -were so child-like and full of laughter, scintillated with interest and -the endeavor to understand. It was all so strange to her, so novel--the -large family, the homely living, the community of feeling, everybody -moving together, which was puzzling beyond description. She had seen so -much of the world in her wealthy orphanhood, even though she was so -young, that a sphere so simple and action so single-minded, were -altogether beyond her understanding. She kept looking out for the -secret, the rift within the lute, the point at which this unanimity -would break up, but it did not appear. She had been taught a great deal -about fortune-hunting, and the necessity of taking care of herself, and -she had heard those side-whispers of society which can not escape the -ears even of children--those insinuations of evil underneath and -selfishness always rampant. She would not have been surprised had she -found that Ally and Anne had schemes of their own, or their mother some -deep-laid plan which nobody suspected. And when she found that there was -nothing of the sort--so far, at least, as her keen inspection could find -out--Mab was far more puzzled than if she had made any number of -discoveries. There was but one particular in which she felt that there -might be an opening into the unknown, and that was Walter--not, however, -in the way in which she had been prepared for delinquency. He paid no -attention to herself, neither did any of the others make the faintest -effort to put them in each other’s way. There was certainly no -fortune-hunting in the case. But Mab felt that Walter’s absences were -not for nothing. She was astonished in her premature wisdom that no one -took any note of them or seemed to mind. Perhaps there was a little -pique in her soul. She had been interested in Walter, but he had shown -no interest in her. She could not but think he would be much better -employed making himself agreeable to the heiress whom fortune had thrown -in his way than in involving himself in some clandestine love-making, -which she felt sure was the case--some entanglement probably in the -village, to which he seemed always to be going. What could be more -silly? Mab had a strong practical tendency, perhaps drawn from the -father who had made his own way so effectively. She felt vexed with -Walter for this throwing away of his chances. Looking at the subject -with perfect impartiality, she could not but feel that a young man -coming into an encumbered property--or, at least, what was just the same -as an encumbered property--to neglect the fortune which, for anything he -knew, lay ready to his hand, was a mingled weakness and absurdity of the -most obvious description. She did not enter into the question whether -she herself would be disposed to assent or not. That was her own -business, and not his. But that he should be so blind as not to try! And -in the meantime she observed them all with wonder, and looked at their -grave faces when they put themselves thus in sympathy with old Sir -Walter’s burial with a little cynical disposition to laugh, which it -took her some trouble to restrain. - -It was amusing--it might even be said ridiculous--when Lady Penton, the -little ceremonial being over and an hour or so of quiet having elapsed, -drew up all the blinds again solemnly with her own hands, going from -window to window. - -“They will have got back to Penton by this time,” she said, in a tone -perceptibly more cheerful. “You can tell Mary to take the children out -for their walk; by this time it will be all over. And the affairs of -life must go on, whatever happens,” she added, with a little sigh. - -The sigh was for the trouble over, the cheerfulness for the life to -come. They were both quite simple and true. She herself took a little -walk afterward, still with much gravity, round the garden, in which -Mab, in her character as a philosophical observer, took pains to -accompany her. - -“But you never knew Sir Walter Penton, did you?” she asked. - -“Yes, I knew him, but not well. We went there a few times when we were -newly married. After the death of the sons they rather turned against -Edward. It was a pity, but I never blamed them.” - -“Why should they have turned against him? it was not his fault.” - -“My dear,” said the gentle woman, quietly, “you are not old enough to -understand.” - -Mab looked at her with those keen little eyes, which twinkled and -sparkled with curiosity, and which to the little girl’s own apprehension -were able to look through and through all those simple people. But even -Mab was daunted by this gentle and undoubting superiority of experience. - -Lady Penton resumed quietly, speaking more to herself than to her -companion, “I hope she will not feel it now--not too much to listen. I -hope she may not prove more proud than ever.” - -She shook her head as she went slowly along, and Mab could not divine -what she was thinking. They went together to the bench under the -poplar-tree, where the weathercock which was over the Penton stables -caught the red gold of the westering sun, and blazed so that it looked -like a sun itself, stretching brazen rays over the dark and leafless -woods. - -“Do you think she could be happy living anywhere else?” Lady Penton said -at last. - -“She--who? Do you mean Aunt Gerald? Oh, yes, to be sure, when she knows -it isn’t hers. And my uncle hates it.” - -“Your uncle!” Lady Penton repeated. And then she said, after a time, “I -don’t think she could be happy in any other house.” - -But what was meant by this, or whether the new mistress of Penton was -glad that her predecessor should suffer, or if these words were said in -sympathy, was what little Mab could not understand. She had to betake -herself to an investigation of the sentiments of the others. It began a -new chapter in her investigations when at last Sir Edward and his son -appeared in their sables, both very grave and preoccupied. The father -went into the house with his wife; the son joined the youthful group -about the door. But no one could be more unwilling to communicate than -Walter proved himself. He stood like a hound held in and pulling at the -leash--like a horse straining against the curb. (“If you were to give -him his head how he would go!” Mab said to herself.) But he did not -break loose as she expected him to do. Impatient as he was, he stood -still, with now and then a glance at the western sky. The sunset was a -long time accomplishing itself. Was that what he was so impatient for? - -“I suppose there was a wonderful crowd of people, Wat?” - -“Yes, there were a great many people.” - -“Everybody--that was anybody--” - -“Everybody, whether they were anybody or not.” - -“And were there a great many flowers? and did our wreath look nice? was -it as big as the others?” - -“There were heaps of flowers; ours didn’t show one way or another. How -could you expect it among such a lot?” - -“But you were the chief mourners, Wat!” - -“Yes, we were the chief mourners. I wish you wouldn’t ask me so many -questions. Just because we were the chief mourners I saw next to -nothing.” - -“Did Cousin Alicia go?” - -“How do you suppose she could go--to have all those people staring?” - -“But did you see her?--did you see anybody? Did father say--” - -“Oh, don’t bother me,” Walter cried. “Don’t you see I have enough to -think of without that!” - -“What has he to think of, I wonder?” said Mab to herself, gazing at him -with her keen eyes. But the girls were silent, half respectful of the -mysterious unknown things which he might now have to think of, half -subdued by the presence of the looker-on, before whom they could not let -it be supposed that Wat was less than perfect. And presently, after -moving about a little, saying scarcely anything, he disappeared -in-doors. Was it to the book-room, to look over his Greek? or was it to -steal out by the other door and hurry once more to the village? It was -there Mab felt sure that he always went. To the village--meaning -doubtless to some girl there, of whose existence nobody knew. - -Sir Edward took his wife in-doors, solemnly leading her by the hand, and -when they got to the book-room he put a chair for her solemnly. Already -his old breeding--too fine for the uses of every day at the Hook--began -to come back to him. - -“I have not been successful,” he said, “It will not do.” - -“It will not do? She won’t take it from you, Edward?” - -“There is no reason why she shouldn’t take it from me; but she will not -hear of it. I have done all I could, my dear. There is nothing more -possible. We can go in when we like; they will put no obstacles in our -way.” - -“Go in when we like--and how are we to furnish Penton?” she cried. - -“And keep it up,” he said, with a groan; “there are literally acres of -glass--and to see the gardeners going away in the evening it is like a -factory. But we can not help it. I have done my best. By the bye,” he -added, in something of his old aggrieved tone, “they have behaved what I -suppose will be called very handsomely in another way. I told you my -uncle’s fancy about Walter--they have given him ten thousand pounds.” - -“What?” she said, almost with a scream. - -“Walter--he took my uncle’s fancy; didn’t I tell you? He is to have ten -thousand pounds. It’s a good sum, but nothing to them; they are very -rich; what with all the savings of the estate, and the money in the -funds, and the lands elsewhere that are out of the entail, Alicia’s very -rich. They can afford it; but all the same, it’s a nice sum.” - -“Ten thousand pounds,” she repeated to herself. She had not remarked the -rest. A sort of consternation of pleasure overwhelmed her. “It is very -good of them, Edward, oh, very good. Why, Walter will be independent. -Ten thousand pounds! Oh, dear me, what a good that would have done -us--how much we should have thought of it! Ten thousand pounds! And what -does he say?” - -“Nothing, so far as I remarked. I was not thinking of him,” said Sir -Edward, with a little impatience. He had so much to think of in respect -to the family at large and all the cares of the new life, that he was a -little annoyed to have Walter thrust into the front at such a moment. -“Of course it is a great thing for him,” he said. “It would have been a -great thing for us at this moment to have command of a sum of money. My -uncle might have thought of that. He might have thought that to change -our style of living as we shall be obliged to do, to set up an -establishment on a totally different scale, to alter everything, a -little ready money would have been a great help; whereas Walter has no -use for it, no need of it, a boy of twenty. But there is no limit to the -fantastic notions of old men with money to leave.” - -“You forget,” said his wife, “that old Sir Walter intended everything to -be different--that he never meant us to set up an establishment or live -in Penton at all.” - -“Ah, the question is, did he mean that--wasn’t it merely a plan of -Alicia’s? Oh, no, I’ve heard nothing more. But I can’t help thinking my -uncle would really have preferred having a family to continue the old -name after him, instead of letting it all run into the Russell family, -as I suppose it must have done. That reminds me, I have a message for -that little Russell girl. Russell Penton will come for her or send for -her to-morrow. He made all sorts of pretty speeches about our kindness -in taking her in.” - -“Dear me, it was not worth talking about. It was Ally’s idea. One little -thing more in our house--what does it matter? She is a nice little -thing; she gives no trouble,” said Lady Penton, to whom little Mab was -of no importance at all. - -Sir Edward dismissed the subject with a wave of his hand. It was of -still less importance to him than it was to his wife. He said, “They are -going abroad I believe very soon. Those people to whom money is no -object always fly abroad to get quit of every annoyance. When shall you -and I be able to run off, Annie, for a rest? Never, I fear.” - -“Well, Edward,” she said, quietly, “if we were able in one way we -shouldn’t be in another. We couldn’t leave the children, you know. I -shouldn’t wonder if the Russell Pentons would willingly change with -us--their money against our children. They have the worst of it after -all; so much to leave and nobody belonging to them to leave it to. So we -must not grumble.” - -This view of the case did not appear to give Sir Edward much comfort. He -seated himself at his table and drew his writing things toward him. It -was only to begin once more those inevitable calculations which had a -charm yet, did not make anything easier. - -“If you have got anything to do,” he said, “I’ll not keep you longer.” -He added, as she went toward the door, “Don’t make any fuss about -Walter. He ought to understand that this makes no difference;” and -again, turning round, calling her, “Annie, don’t forget to tell the -little Russell girl.” - -She went out into the garden, where the girls were still wandering about -in the restlessness of spent excitement. It did not occur to her to keep -back her news because of “the little Russell girl.” They all came round -her, Mab keeping behind a little, yet following the others. The day was -very mild, and Lady Penton had a shawl round her shoulders, but no -covering on her head. - -“Your father is rather disappointed,” she said. “Your cousin Alicia will -not accept what we offered. I am sorry, but we must just make up our -minds to it.” - -“Make up our minds to Penton!” cried Anne. - -“Oh, my dear, so far as that is concerned! but you know how difficult it -will be. However, there is something else that will please you very -much. You know old Sir Walter at the last took a great fancy to our Wat, -and wanted to leave him something. Well, your cousin Alicia felt she -ought to carry out her father’s wishes, and she has settled on him a -fortune--ten thousand pounds.” - -“Ten thousand pounds!” said the girls, in one breath. - -“It makes him quite independent. It is a great thing for him at his age; -I hope it will not lead him into temptation. And it is very good of your -cousin Alicia. She had no need to do it unless she pleased, for it was -only a fancy, a dying fancy, which Sir Walter, perhaps, had he got -better, might not--We must always be grateful to her, whatever else may -happen. Few people, though they might be very civil, would show kindness -to that extent.” Lady Penton paused thoughtfully. Cousin Alicia had not -been on the whole very civil, and she felt as if the thanks she was -according were not enthusiastic enough. “It is a wonderful thing,” she -added, warming herself up, “an absolute gift of ten thousand pounds. I -don’t think I ever heard of anything like it. It is a splendid gift.” - -“And Wat never said a word! I wonder, mother, if he knows.” - -“Yes, he knows. I dare say he was overwhelmed by it. He would not know -what to say. Where is he? I should like to wish him joy.” - -“I know where he is. He has gone to the village to tell _her_,” said -little Mab to herself, and she looked the other way in case Lady Penton -might have read it in her eyes. But Lady Penton, in her innocence, never -would have divined what those eyes meant. And presently she earned the -war, so to speak, into the enemy’s country by turning next to her -visitor. - -“My dear,” she said, “there is a message for you, too. Mr. Russell -Penton is to send for you, or perhaps come for you, to-morrow.” - -“To-morrow!” cried Mab, taken by surprise. While she was thus keeping -back her sheaf of imaginary arrows, here was one which caught herself as -it were in the very middle of her shield. “Oh!” she cried again, “and -must I go?” - -Now she had been no inconsiderable embarrassment to the family at this -crisis of its affairs, but the moment she uttered this little plaintive -cry all their soft hearts turned to Mab with a bound of tenderness and -gratitude, and great compunction for ever having found her in their way. -They did not know that part of her reluctance to leave them was in -consequence of the investigations which she had entered upon, and was by -no means willing to break off. - -“My dear,” said Lady Penton, “we have been so out of our ordinary while -you have been with us, that I am sure it is very, very sweet of you to -care to stay. And we should all like very much to keep you a little -longer. I hope Mr. Russell Penton may come for you himself to-morrow, -and then perhaps he will consent to let you stay.” - - - - -CHAPTER XXXI. - -A VISIT. - - -These communications were interrupted by the sound of carriage-wheels so -near that it was not possible to escape the certainty that visitors were -approaching. Lady Penton paused for a moment, discussing with herself -whether she should say “Not at home,” the day of the funeral was very -early to receive visitors; but then she reflected that they had all got -their mourning--even Martha having her black gown--and that there was -therefore no reason why she should not receive, though “they,” whoever -they were, would have shown better taste had they postponed their visit. -However, in this afternoon of excitement and _désoeuvrement_, it was -almost a relief to see somebody who was not concerned, and might -consequently impart something new--a little change into the atmosphere. -The carriage which came wheeling round past the drawing-room windows was -new and glistening, and highly effective, much more so than is usually -to be met with in the country: and out of it came two ladies, as -carefully got-up as their vehicle, wrapped in furs and plush. That peeps -were taken at them from the corner where a judicious observer could see -without being seen it is almost unnecessary to say. - -“No, I don’t know them,” said Anne, shaking her head. “It is none of the -Bannister people, nor the Miltons, nor the Durhams, nor anybody I ever -saw. They must be from the other side, or else they are Reading people, -or--” - -“We know no Reading people,” said Lady Penton, with a tone--well, -perhaps it was not pride; but certainly it was a tone which would not -have come naturally to Mrs. Penton of the Hook one short week before. - -“The footman is opening the door--he has such a delightful fur cape on! -They’re coming in. Ally, look, look! Did you ever see them before?” - -Ally had held back, not liking to show her curiosity before little Mab, -that critic and investigator whom she began instinctively to divine. But -she made a little soft movement forward now. And when she saw the ladies -stepping out of the carriage Ally gave vent to a startled cry, “Oh!” -which showed she was not so ignorant as her sister. Lady Penton turned -toward her for explanation, but it was already too late. The door was -thrown open by Martha with more demonstration than when she was only -parlor-maid to Mrs. Penton. The shadow of a title upon her head changed -even Martha. She announced “Mrs. Rochford, my lady!” in a voice such as -no one in the Hook had ever heard before. - -“Rochford?” said Lady Penton, with a wondering question in her voice, -looking at Ally, who seemed to know. It was not in her nature to be -otherwise than polite. She stepped forward and accepted the visitor’s -outstretched hand, and gave her a seat, but without any of the tremulous -shyness of former days. She had taken up the rôle of great lady with -less difficulty than could have been anticipated. Mrs. Rochford was -large and ample in her furs. She would have made three of Lady Penton; -and the muff in which one of her hands was folded was worth more than -all that the other lady had to wear. Nevertheless, Lady Penton, simple -as she sat there, felt herself so entirely Mrs. Rochford’s social -superior that this outside splendor of appearance was altogether -neutralized. Perhaps the visitor was a little confused by this, for she -made another step beyond the mistress of the house and seized upon Ally -with both her hands out and a great deal of enthusiasm. - -“Dear Miss Penton, how are you after all this agitation?” she said, in -the most sympathetic tone, and looked as if she would have kissed Ally, -who blushed crimson, and evidently did not know how to respond; and then -it was the turn of Miss Rochford, who was effusive and sympathetic too. - -“The dear child,” said Mrs. Rochford, seating herself, “looked a little -lost at Penton at the ball. She had never been out before, I am sure, -without you, Lady Penton--which makes such a difference to a sensitive -girl. I quite took it upon me to be her chaperon. And then I think she -enjoyed herself.” - -“Oh!” said Lady Penton, with a blank look; and then she added, “So much -has happened since that I have heard nothing about the ball.” - -“Yes, indeed,” said the other, in the most sympathetic tone. “Such -wonderful changes in so short a time! and just when we were all thinking -that poor dear Sir Walter might live to be a hundred.” Then she -remembered that this was not an event which the Pentons at the Hook -would naturally have found desirable. “But I always say,” added the -lady, “that it is such a comfort when an old gentleman of that age goes -out of life in tolerable comfort without suffering. Sometimes they have -so much to go through. It seems so mysterious.” - -Meanwhile, Miss Rochford, a pretty but much-curled and frizzed girl of -the period, seized upon Ally. “Oh, I’ve wanted so much to come and see -you. Mamma said we oughtn’t to, that you were much greater people now. -But you were so nice at the ball, and looked so pleased to be with us, I -felt sure you wouldn’t mind. Wasn’t it a delightful ball? But you who -were in the house must have felt all that dreadful business about old -Sir Walter dying. It was very dreadful, of course; but what a good thing -he waited till the ball was over. Had it happened only a little sooner -there would have been no ball. Is that your sister? are they both your -sisters? Oh!” This exclamation followed when Mab turned round and -revealed to the visitor the features of the heiress who had been pointed -out to everybody at the Penton ball. - -“This is my sister Anne, but she wasn’t at Penton. And this is Miss -Russell,” said Ally, who did not know much about the formulas of -introduction, and who was considerably startled by the recollection that -the Rochfords had been her protectors at Penton, which even she, simple -as she was, felt to be inappropriate now. Mab made the new-comer a very -dignified little bow. She knew everything of this kind much better than -the others did, and knew very well who the Rochfords were. - -“My son has told me so often about your charming family and how kind you -were to him; and after meeting Miss Penton, as there seemed then a sort -of double connection, I thought I might take it upon me to call.” - -“Oh, you are very kind,” Lady Penton said. - -“My son does nothing but talk of Penton Hook. He is so charmed with -everything here. And he is not easily pleased. He is a great favorite in -the county, don’t you know? He is invited everywhere. I told him at his -age it is enough to turn his head altogether. But he is very true; he is -not led away by finery. I find that he always prefers what is really -best.” - -“Yes,” said Lady Penton; “we saw Mr. Rochford several times. He used to -come about the business which unfortunately was not completed.” - -“Do you say unfortunately? He supposed you would rather be pleased.” - -“I am not at all pleased,” said Lady Penton, drawing back into the -stronghold of her dignity. “It is always a pity when family arrangements -can not be carried out.” - -“I am sure,” said Mrs. Rochford, in her most ingratiating tones, “the -county will like far better to see you there than Mrs. Russell Penton. -Not that there is anything disagreeable in Mrs. Russell Penton. She is -everything that is nice; but it is always more or less a false position, -don’t you think? and, on the other hand, a young family is always -cheerful and popular.” - -“I don’t know how that may be. We are really more a nursery-party than -anything else.” - -“Oh, don’t say so, Lady Penton! with those two charming girls.” - -The mother’s eye followed the wave of the visitor’s hand, and she could -not but feel that there was truth in this. She had not thought of Ally -and Anne from this point of view. They were not beauties, she was aware. -Still, looking at them as they were now, a thrill of that satisfaction -and complacency which is at once the most entirely unselfish and the -most egotistical of sentiments warmed her bosom. She felt, contrasting -them with the somewhat artificial neatness of the Rochford young lady, -and the bluntness of little Mab on the other hand, that they might very -well be called charming girls. She had rarely had creatures of the same -species to compare them with. - -“They are very young,” she said, “and we have had little opportunity to -do anything for them; they are not at all acquainted with the world.” - -“And that is such a charm, I always think! When my son brought Miss -Penton to us the other night she had that look of wanting her mother -which is so sweet. Mrs. Penton of course had all her guests to look to, -and the anxiety about her father. I was so happy to take your dear girl -under my motherly wing. It is broad enough,” said Mrs. Rochford, raising -a little the arm which was clothed in sealskin and beaver, or in -something else more costly than these, if there is anything more costly, -and which indeed had an air of softness and warmth which was pleasant. -She was what is called a motherly woman, large and caressing, and really -kind. She might perhaps have found the courage to keep a poor girl at “a -proper distance” had her son been in danger, but otherwise in all -probability would have been kind to Ally even had she not been Miss -Penton of Penton. And in that case would have taken no credit for it, -such as in the present she felt it expedient to insist upon. - -“You will be going nowhere in your mourning,” said Miss Rochford to -Ally, “it will be so dull for you just at this time of the year. I do so -wish you would come to us a little. We don’t give parties, not often; -but there is always something going on. Mamma is very good, she never -minds the trouble. And Charley is the very best of brothers, he is -always trying to keep us amused. Now if you would come there’s nothing -he wouldn’t do. We could give you a mount if you hunt. My sister doesn’t -ride. I should be so happy to have another girl to go out with me. Oh, -do come. And if the frost holds there will be skating. You will have to -be quiet, of course, at home for the sake of your mourning, but with us -you needn’t mind. Oh, do! It would be so delightful to have you. Charley -was very despondent about it. He thought you would be so much too grand -for us, who are only Reading people, but I said I was sure you were not -one to forget old friends.” - -“Too grand!” cried Ally, turning red. “Oh, no, no.” It was not surely -that she was too grand. Still there was something--a sentiment of -repugnance, a drawing back--which, if it was that, was the meanest -sentiment, she thought, in the world. - -“No, I am sure not,” said Miss Ethel Rochford. “I knew you were not one -to throw over old friends.” - -Were they old friends? She was very much puzzled by this question. It -seemed so ungracious to make any exception to a claim made with such -kindness and enthusiasm. But Ally did not know what answer to make when -the ladies at length had rustled away back to their carriage, still very -caressing and cordial, but somewhat disappointed, since Lady Penton, -with a firmness not at all in keeping with her character, had declined -the invitation to Ally. - -“Are you such great friends with these people?” asked Anne, before the -sealskin had quite swept out of the door; and, “Were you so much with -them at the ball?” said Lady Penton, sitting down, and turning her mild -eyes upon her daughter with great seriousness. Poor Ally felt as if she -were a culprit at the bar. - -“They were very kind,” she said, with a look of great humility at her -mother. “I never saw them except that one time; but they were very -kind.” - -“You have never told me anything about the ball, there have been so many -other things to think of. I ought to have remembered, my poor little -Ally, you would be very forlorn without me or some one; but then I -thought your cousin Alicia--Didn’t you have any dancing then? Didn’t you -enjoy yourself at all?” - -“She danced all the evening,” said Mab; “I saw her. I never could get -near her to say a word.” - -“Then what does this lady mean?” the mother said. - -Poor Ally was very nearly crying with distress and shame, though there -was nothing to be ashamed about. Oh, yes! there was cause for shame, and -she felt it. She had been very thankful for Mrs. Rochford’s notice. She -had been thankful to meet _him_, to feel herself at once transformed -from the neglected little poor relation, whom no one noticed, to the -admired and petted little heroine of the other set, who were not the -great people, and yet who looked just as well as the great people, and -danced as well, and were as well dressed, and so much more kind. And now -she felt ashamed of it all--of them and _him_, and all the people who -had made the evening so pleasant. She did not like to tell her -story--how she had been neglected, and how she had been admired, and the -comfort the Rochford set had been to her, and now that she was ashamed -of them all--for that was the conclusion which she could not disguise -from herself. Now that she was Sir Edward Penton’s daughter, now that -she herself was to be the first at Penton, she was ashamed to have known -nobody but the Rochfords, and she was ashamed of being ashamed. The -family solicitor, that was all--a sort of official person, whose duty it -was to take a little notice of her, not to let her feel herself -neglected, whom she had been so glad to cling to. And now? There was no -word of contempt that Ally did not heap upon herself. She was not sure -if girls were ever called “snobs,” but this she was sure of, that if so, -then a snob was what she was. - -“Mother, they’re both true,” she said. “It was--oh, dreadful at first! I -didn’t know any one. I knew some of them by sight, but that was all. And -nobody spoke to me. I should have liked to go through the floor or run -away, but I hadn’t the courage. And then I saw _him_--I mean Mr. -Rochford, you know, who has been so often here. And he asked me to -dance; and when he saw I had no one to go to, took me to his mother. And -they were so kind; and I enjoyed myself very much after that. But--” -said Ally, and stopped short. - -Oh, odious little traitor that she was! But she could not say what was -in her heart besides, which was--oh, horrible snobbishness, -miserableness, unworthiness!--that she never wished to see these good -Samaritans any more. - -“When I return her call I must thank her for being so kind to you,” said -Lady Penton, with a cloudy countenance. - -And this was all she said. Nor was there any further conversation on the -subject--none, at least, which Mab heard. She had her own theory on the -subject, and formed her little history at once, which was founded on -Ally’s faint little emphasis, “I saw _him_.” “Him” Mab decided to be a -lover, whom, now that the Pentons had risen in the world, the family -would no longer permit to be spoken of, but whom Ally favored in secret, -and to whom she had given her heart. It was a mistake which was very -natural--the most usual thing in the world. Mab decided that it was a -great blunder for the mother and sisters to interfere. What could they -do? except to put the other party on their guard? Our comprehensions are -limited by our experiences. To understand the state of mind in which -Ally was--the repugnance she felt toward the people whom she had liked -so much, and who had been so kind to her, and her disgust at herself for -that other disgust which she could not conquer--was what no one at -Penton Hook was the least able to do. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXII. - -WALTER: AND HIS FATE. - - -Walter had darted off to the village as Mab divined; but what was the -good? He might get himself talked of, wandering about Crockford’s -cottage; but there was no one there who would compromise herself for -him. He had to go home again for the evening meal as before, but this -time with more impatience than before, with a stronger sense that the -bondage was insupportable. Walter would have been furiously indignant -had it been said to him that the fact of having or not having money of -his own would change his deportment toward his family; but yet it was -the case, notwithstanding all he could have said. He felt himself a -different being from the docile boy who had to do what was decided for -him, to go to Oxford or wherever his father pleased. This morning, no -further back, that had been all he thought of. There was nothing else -possible--to do what was told him--what was arranged and settled, for -him--what father and mother after one of their consultations had decided -was the best. Walter would no more have thought of resisting that -decision at twenty than Horry would at nine. But a day brings so many -changes with it. He was not now what he had been when he passed the -cottage with his father on his way to Sir Walter’s funeral. Now he was -no longer dependent; he could stand by himself. It seemed absurd to him -that he should have to be punctual to an hour, that he should be bound -by all the customs of the house. Already he had felt the absurdity of -going home--home from his romance, from his drama, from love and -devotion on a heroic scale--to tea! Now he had gone a little further -even than this. He was independent, he had a fortune of his own, no need -to depend upon his father for everything as he had been doing. And he -had come to an age and to circumstances which not only justified, but -made it necessary that he should act for himself. Nevertheless, he was -not even now prepared to break the bond of the old habits. He went back -as before for the family meal, then escaping, once more hurried through -the night to the scene which was ever in his thoughts. The moon was -later of rising, the night was not so clear and frosty as on that other -evening, when he had surprised her with the other lover, the man who had -roused such fury in his breast. Since then they had met every evening, -and Walter no longer feared that vulgar rival. They had no secrets from -each other now. She had told him everything, or so he thought, about -that other; how he had persecuted her to marry him, notwithstanding the -opposition of his parents, who were very rich, and did not think her -good enough--how she had come here to be out of his reach--and how she -feared now that he had discovered her hiding-place he would give her no -peace. She had confessed frankly that before she met Walter she had not -“minded” the other. He was well off, he could give her a home; and if -she had not met Walter she might have been happy enough; but now, never. -The boy’s heart was penetrated by this sweet confession; his boyish love -sprung up all at once into a chivalrous and generous passion. He had -talked to her vaguely, splendidly, of what they could do. If, as seemed -inevitable, his studies must be accomplished, why then they must be -married at once, casting prudence to the winds, and he must find a -little nook at Oxford where they could live like babes in the wood--like -Rosamond in her bower. Yes, that was it--like Rosamond, with a flowery -labyrinth all round her cottage, from whence he should come every -morning with his books, and return when his work was over to love and -happiness. The picture had been beautiful, but vague, and she had -listened and laughed a little, now and then putting a practical question -which confused but did not daunt the young man. How were they to live. -What was enough for one, would not that be enough for two, he asked? and -he cared for nothing, no pleasure, no luxury, but her sweet company. She -let him talk, and perhaps enjoyed it; at least it amused her; it was -like a fairy tale. - -But to-night--to-night! there were other things to say. The foolish boy -caught her arm and drew it within his as soon as she appeared. “Are you -warm, are you comfortable?” he whispered. “I have so much to tell you; -everything is changed. You must not hurry in again in a moment, there is -so much to say.” - -“What is changed? If you have tired of your romancing that would be the -best thing,” she said. - -“I shall never tire of my romancing. It is all coming right; everything -is clearing up. It will be almost too easy. The course of true love this -time will be quite smooth.” - -“Ah, that’s what I like,” she cried, “but how is it to be? You don’t -mean to say that your father and mother--they would never be such -fools--” - -“Fools!” he cried, pressing her arm to his side; “they’re not fools, but -they know nothing about it; it is something--something that has happened -to me.” - -“I am glad,” she said, composedly, “that you have not told them; it -would be a wild thing to do. And I know what young men’s parents are; -they will sometimes pretend to consent to set you against it--they think -that if there is no opposition it will die away of itself.” - -“It will never die away,” he said, “opposition or no opposition; but, -Emmy, it isn’t a penniless fellow that you’re going to marry. We -sha’n’t have to live on my little bit of an allowance--I’ve got--money -of my own.” - -She gave a little suppressed scream of pleasure. - -“Money of your own!” - -“Yes; that has nothing to do with my father; that nobody can interfere -with. It comes from my old relative, old Sir Walter. He has left me ten -thousand pounds.” - -“Ten thousand pounds!” she repeated, with a quickly drawn breath, then -paused a little; “that is a very nice sum of money. I am very glad -you’ve got all that. How much will it bring in by the year?” - -He was a little checked in his enthusiasm by this inquiry; and, to tell -the truth, it was not a question he had considered or knew very well how -to answer. - -“You might get five hundred a year for it if you were very very lucky; -but I don’t think,” she said, “you will get so much as that.” - -“At all events,” he said, somewhat sobered, “it will be my own; it will -be something I can spend as I please, and with which nobody will have -any right to interfere. We could have existed perhaps on my allowance; -but it would have been hard upon my darling cooping her up in a small -cottage, with scarcely money enough to live upon--” - -He thought perhaps she would interrupt him here, and cry out, as he -himself would have done, what did that matter, so long as they were -together? But she did not do this. She was quite silent, waiting for him -to go on. - -“But now,” he continued, “it will be different. We can enjoy ourselves a -little. I don’t suppose we shall be rich even now.” - -“No,” she said, quietly, “you will not be rich.” - -He turned and looked into her face, but in the darkness he could see -nothing. And then he was used to these little prudential ways she had, -and the superior knowledge which she claimed of the world. - -“Perhaps not rich, but well off, don’t you think?” he said, with a -little timidity, “to begin upon; and then there would be Penton in the -distance. Penton is a noble place. All the time of the ball I was -thinking of you, how you would have liked it, and how much more -beautiful it would have been had you been there. We must give a ball -some time, when we come home--” - -“You mean,” she said, for he made a pause, “when you succeed; but your -father is not an old man, and that may be a long, long time.” - -“I hope so,” said Walter, fervently; “loving you makes me love everybody -else better. I hope it may be a long, long time.” - -Again she made no remark--which she might have done, perhaps saying she -hoped so too; but no doubt she thought it unnecessary to say what was so -certain and evident. - -“But,” he cried, pressing her arm again closer to his side, “I didn’t -mean anything so lugubrious, I meant when I brought you home. That will -be a triumph, darling! They will put up arches for us, and come out to -meet us. It shall be a summer evening, not cold like this. We shall have -a pair of white horses lit for a bride, though you will be a little more -than a bride by that time, Emmy?” - -“Shall I?” she said, with a tone of mockery in her laugh. - -“Why, of course,” he cried, bending over her, “since it is winter now! -You don’t suppose it is to be put off so long. Why, you say yourself you -are a will-o’-the-wisp. You would have disappeared by that time if I -left you to yourself.” - -“That’s true enough,” she said, with another soft suppressed laugh, -which made him turn and look at her again, for there seemed a meaning in -it more than met the ear. - -“Don’t laugh so,” he said, softly. “It sounds as if you would like to -wring my heart, only for the fun of it; but it would be no fun to me.” - -“Did I?” said she. “No, it is you who are making fun.” - -“It is not a thing to laugh about,” cried the boy. “It is tremendous -beautiful earnest to me. But I was talking of the coming home. My people -would never say a word when they knew it was done, Emmy, and that you -and I were one. They might object perhaps before, not knowing you. I am -not even sure of that when they knew how I cared for you. Father might; -but mother would be on my side.” - -“No,” she said, “don’t tell me that; I am sure they are not so silly, -your mother, above all.” - -“Do you call that silly? Well, I think she is silly then, dear old -mother!” cried the young man, with his voice a little unsteady. Walter -felt to the bottom of his heart what he had said to his unresponsive -companion, that in loving her he loved them all so much better. The -faculty of loving seemed to have expanded in him. He had not an unkind -feeling to any one in the world, except perhaps to that fellow--no, not -even to him, poor beggar, who was losing her. To lose her was such a -misfortune as made even that cad an object of pity to gods and men. - -“And how is all this to come about?” she said, after a pause. “It’s easy -talking about what’s to happen in summer, and coming home to Penton, and -all that sort of thing--but in the meantime there are a few things to be -done. How is it all to come about?” - -“Our marriage?” he said. - -“Well, yes, I suppose that’s the first step,” she answered. - -“That is the easiest thing in the world,” said Wat. “I shall go to town -and arrange all the preliminaries. Why, what did you tell me that fellow -wanted to do? Do you think I’m less fit to manage it than he is?” - -“Well,” she said, “for one thing, he’s older than you are; he has more -freedom than you have. He knows his way about the world. Will they let -you go to London by yourself, for one thing?” she asked, with again that -mocking sound in her voice. - -Walter caught her arm to his side with a kind of fond fury, and cried, -“Emmy!” in an indignant voice. - -“I shouldn’t if I were your people,” she continued, with a laugh; “I -should feel sure you would be up to some mischief. But, supposing you -get off from them, and get to London, what will you do then?” - -“I shall do--whatever is the right thing to do. I am not so foolish as -you think me. There is a license to be got, I know--a special license.” - -“Oh,” she cried, “but that costs money! You will want money.” - -“Of course I shall want money,” said Walter, with a certain dignity, -though his heart grew cold at the thought. - -“You have not much confidence in me, Emmy; but I am not so ignorant as -you think.” - -There was something like a tone of indignation in his voice, and she -pressed his arm with her hand. - -“I am sure you have the courage for anything,” she said. - -“Courage! Well, that is not precisely the quality that is needed.” He -thought it was his turn to laugh now. “I am not afraid.” - -“I know you are not afraid of fighting or--anything of that kind. But to -walk into an office, and face a man who is grinning at you all the time, -and ask for a marriage license--” - -“Well,” he said, “I am capable of that.” - -“And of all the questions that will be asked you? You will have to -answer a great many questions--all about me, which you don’t know, and -all about yourself.” - -“I know that, I hope. And I shall know the other, for you will tell me.” - -“And first of all--goodness!” she cried suddenly, pushing him slightly -away from her, gazing at him in the darkness; “a thing I never thought -of--are you of age?” - -“Of age?” - -He stood facing her, motionless. He had put out his hand to take hers -again, to draw it through his arm once more. But this question startled -him, and his hand dropped by his side. Each stood a dark shadow to the -other in the dark, staring into each other’s faces, seeing nothing; and -Walter’s heart gave a jump that seemed to take it out of his breast. - -“Yes, of age. Oh, you fool! oh, you pretender! oh, you boy trying to be -a man! You have known it all along, but you have not told me. You are -not of age?” - -“No,” said the poor boy, humbly. For the first moment he felt no -sensation of anger or disappointment, but only the consternation of one -who feels the very sky thundering down upon his head, the pillars of the -earth falling. “Fool!” did she call him--“pretender!” What did she mean -by fool? What did she mean by that tone of sudden indignation--almost -fury? He felt beaten down by the sudden storm. Then the instinct of -self-defense woke in him. “What have I done?” he said. “I have concealed -nothing from you. No, I am not of age--not till October. What has that -to do with it;--age can not be counted by mere years.” - -“It is, though, in Doctors’ Commons,” she said, with a mocking laugh. -“We might have saved ourselves a great deal of trouble and talking -nonsense if you had said so at once. Didn’t I tell you you were too -young to know what was wanted? Do you think they will give any kind of -license to a boy who is under age!” - -“I am not a boy,” said Walter, feeling as if she had struck him upon the -naked heart, which was throbbing so wildly. “Perhaps I might be before I -knew you, but not now, not now! And do you mean to tell me that for a -mere punctilio like that--” - -“Well, it is a punctilio,” she said, taking his arm suddenly again, her -voice dropping into its softer tone. “That is true; nobody thinks -anything of it, it is merely a matter of form. Even if you are found out -they never do anything to you.” - -“Found out in what?” - -“In saying you are twenty-one when you are not; for that is what people -have to do. It is just a punctilio, as you say. Nobody thinks anything -of it. It is only a matter of form.” - -“Why, it is perjury!” he cried, confused, not knowing what he said. - -“If you like to call it so; but nobody minds. No one is harsh to a fib -of that sort. Everything’s fair, don’t you know, in love?--or so they -say.” - -Walter’s head seemed going round and round. He could not feel the ground -under his feet. He seemed to be lifted away from his firm and solid -footing and plunged into a dark and whirling abyss. He could feel her -leaning almost heavily upon his arm--all her weight upon him, both her -hands clasping that support. That palpable touch seemed the only reality -left in earth and heaven. He seemed to himself for a long time unable to -speak; and when his voice came forth at last it was not his voice at -all--it was a hoarse outburst of sound such as he had never heard -before. Nor was it he who said the words. He heard them as if some one -else had said them, hoarse, harsh, like the cry of an animal. - -“Should you like me to do that?” the question was asked by some one, in -that horrible way, in the midst of the chilled but heavenly stillness of -the night. - -He heard the question, but he was not conscious of any answer to it; nor -did he know any more till he found himself, or rather heard himself, -stumbling down the steep road to the Hook, almost falling over the -stones in the way, making a noise which seemed to echo all about. He -knew the way well enough, and where the stony places were, and generally -ran up and down as lightly as a bird, his rapid elastic steps making the -least possible sound as he skimmed along. But this evening it was very -different. He stumbled against every obstacle in his way, and sent the -stones whirling down the road in advance of him as though he had been a -drunken man. He felt indeed as if that were what he was, intoxicated in -a way that had no pleasure in it, but only a wild and stupefied -confusion, which made a chaos all around--a noisy chaos full of the -crash of external sounds--full of voices, conversations, in none of -which he took any part, though he heard things said that seemed to come -from himself flitting across the surface of his dream. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIII. - -A DOMESTIC EXPLOSION. - - -The breakfast-table at the Hook was not a particularly quiet scene. The -children were all in high spirits in the freshness of the morning, and -the toys and Christmas presents, though not very fine or expensive, had -still novelty to recommend them. Little Molly, before she was lifted up -to her high-chair, working away conscientiously and gravely with a large -rattle, held at the length of her little arm, while her next little -brother drew over the carpet a cart fitted up with some kind of -mechanism which called itself music; and Horry flogged his big wooden -horse, and little Dick added a boom upon his drum, made a combination of -noises which might well have shut out all external sounds. This tumult, -indeed, calmed when father came in, when the ringleaders were lifted up -on their chairs, and another kind of commotion, the sound of spoons and -babble of little voices, began. What other noise could be heard through -it? Mab did not think she could have heard anything, scarcely the -approach of an army. But the ears of the family were used to it, and had -large capabilities. When Martha came in with a fresh supply of milk and -a countenance more ruddy than usual, her mistress put the question -directly which so much embarrassed the young woman. - -“Martha, was that your father’s voice I heard? Is there anything wrong -at home?” - -“No, ma’am--my lady,” said Martha, in her confusion stumbling over the -new title which she was in fact more particular about than its -possessor. - -“What does he want, then, so early in the morning? I hope your mother is -not ill?” - -“Oh, no, my lady.” Martha grew redder and redder, and lingered like a -messenger who does not know how to deliver a disagreeable commission, -turning her tray round and round in her hands. - -“It is me, no doubt, that Crockford wants. If it’s nothing very -particular he can come here.” - -“Oh, no, sir; oh, please, Sir Edward, no, it ain’t you--” - -“Then who is it, Martha? some one here it must be.” - -“Please, Sir Edward!--please, my lady--I don’t think as it’s no one here -at all; it’s only a fancy as he’s took in his head. Oh,” cried the girl, -her eyes moist with excitement, her plump cheeks crimson, “don’t listen -to him, don’t give any heed to him! it’s all just fancy what he says.” - -“Why, what’s the matter, Martha? has John Baker got into trouble? -Edward, go and see what is wrong,” said Lady Penton, placidly. She was -very kind, but after all, Molly’s bread and milk, and the egg which was -ordered for little Jack because he was delicate, were of more immediate -importance than Martha’s love-affairs. Sir Edward was perhaps even more -amiable in this respect than his wife. Old Crockford was a favorite in -his way, and had often amused a weary afternoon when the horizon at the -Hook was very limited and very dull. And now even Mab could hear, -through the chatter of the children, the sound of some one talking, loud -but indistinct, outside. At that moment, with the usual cruelty of fate, -a pause took place in the domestic murmur, and suddenly Walter’s voice -became audible, crying, - -“Hush! Don’t speak so loud.” - -The door had been left ajar by Martha, and these words, so unexpected, -so incomprehensible, fell into the simple warm interior, unconscious of -evil, like a stone into the water. - -“Go and see what it is, Edward,” Lady Penton repeated, growing a little -pale. The family to which for so long a time nothing had happened had -got to a crisis, when anything might happen, and new events were the -order of the day. - -Sir Edward, who had been going with great composure, hurried his steps a -little, and, what was more, closed the door behind him; but it can not -be said that he anticipated anything disagreeable. When he got out into -the hall, however, he was startled by the sight of Walter, who was -pushing Crockford into the book-room, and repeating in a half whisper, - -“Hush, I tell you. Be quiet. What good can it do you to let everybody -know?” - -“It’s right, Mr. Walter, as your father should know.” - -“Not if I satisfy you,” said the boy. “Come in here. They are all at -breakfast. Quick. Whatever it is, I am the person--” - -Walter’s voice broke off short, and his under-lip dropped with a shock -of sudden horror. His father’s hand, preventing the closing of it, was -laid upon the book-room door. - -“If it is anything that concerns you, Wat, it must concern me too,” Sir -Edward said. He did not even now think any more of Walter’s -possibilities of ill-doing than of Horry’s. They were still on about the -same level to the father’s eyes. He supposed it was some innocent piece -of mischief, some practical joke, or, at the worst, some piece of boyish -negligence, of which Crockford had come to complain. He followed the two -into the room with the suspicion of a smile at the corners of his mouth. -He did not quite understand of what mischief his son might have been -guilty, but there could be nothing very serious in the matter when old -Crockford was the complainant. - -“Well,” he said, “old friend, what has my boy done?” - -But the sight of Sir Edward and this smiling accost seemed to take the -power of speech from Crockford, as well as from Walter. The old man -opened his mouth and his eyes; the color faded as far as that was -possible out of the streaky and broken red of his cheeks. He began to -hook his fingers together, changing them from one twist to another as he -turned his face from the father to the son. It was evident that, -notwithstanding his half threat to Walter, the presence of Walter’s -father was as bewildering to him as to the young man. - -“Well, sir,” he said, instinctively putting up his hand to his head and -disordering the scanty white locks which were drawn over his bald -crown, “I’m one as is lookin’ ahead, so being as I’m an old man, and has -a deal of time to think; my occypation’s in the open air, and things -goes through of my head that mightn’t go through of another man’s.” - -“That is all very well,” said Sir Edward, still with his half smile. “I -have heard you say as much a great many times, Crockford, but it -generally was followed by something less abstract. What has your -occupation and your habit of thought to say to my boy?” - -Upon this Crockford scratched his head more and more. - -“I was observin’ to Mr. Walter, sir, as a young gentleman don’t think of -them things, but as how it’s a good thing to take care; for you never -knows what way trouble’s a-going to come. The storm may be in the big -black cloud as covers the whole sky, or it may be in one that’s no -bigger nor a man’s hand.” - -“Yes, yes, yes,” said Sir Edward, impatiently; “I tell you I’ve heard -you say that sort of thing a hundred times. Come to the point. What is -there between Walter and you?” - -“There’s nothing, father--nothing whatever. I haven’t seen Crockford for -ages, except on the road. He has done nothing to me nor I to him.” - -“Then you’d better be off to your breakfast, and leave him to me,” said -the father, calmly. - -His mind was as composed as his looks. He felt no alarm about his son, -but with a little amusement cast about in his mind how he was to draw -out of the old road-mender the probably very small and unimportant -thread of complaint or remonstrance that was in him. But Walter showed -no inclination to budge. He did not, it would appear, care for his -breakfast. He stood with his head cast down, but his eye upon Crockford, -not losing a single movement he made. Sir Edward began to feel a faint -misgiving, and old Crockford took his colored handkerchief out of his -breast and began to mop his forehead with it. It was a cold morning, not -the kind of season to affect a man so. What did it all mean? - -“Look here,” said Sir Edward, “this can’t go on all day. Crockford, you -have some sense on ordinary occasions. Don’t think to put me off with -clouds and storms, etc., which you know have not the least effect upon -me; but tell me straight off, what has Walter to do with it? and what -do you mean?” - -“Father,” said Walter, “it’s something about a lodger he has. There is -a--young lady living there. I’ve seen her two or three times. She has -spoken to me even, thinking, I suppose, that I was a gentleman who would -not take any advantage. But the old man doesn’t think so; he thinks I’m -likely to do something dishonorable--to be a cad, or--I don’t know what. -You know whether I’m likely to be anything of the sort. If you have any -confidence in me you will send him away--” - -“A young lady!” Sir Edward exclaimed, with amazement. - -“And that’s not just the whole of it, sir, as Mr. Walter tells you,” -said Crockford, put on his mettle. “I’m not one as calls a young -gentleman names; cad and such-like isn’t words as come nat’ral to the -likes of me. But as for being a lady, there ain’t no ladies live in -cottages like mine. I don’t go against ladies--nor lasses neither, when -they’re good uns.” - -“What does all this mean? I think you are going out of your senses, -Wat--both Crockford and you. Have you been rude to any one?--do you -think he has been rude to any one? Hold your tongue, Wat! Come, my man, -speak out. I must know what this means.” - -“It means that he is trying to make mischief--” - -“It means, sir,” said Crockford, in his slow, rural way, taking the -words out of Walter’s mouth--“I beg your pardon, Sir Edward. I don’t -know as I’m giving you the respect as is your due, though there’s -none--I’m bold to say it, be the other who he may--as feels more -respect. It means just this, Sir Edward,” he went on, advertised by an -impatient nod that he must not lose more time, “as there’s mischief -done, or will be, if you don’t look into it, between this young -gentleman--as is a gentleman born, sir, and your heir--and a -little--a--a--” (Walter’s fiery eye, and a certain threatening of his -attitude, as if he might spring upon the accuser, changed Crockford’s -phraseology, even when the words were in his mouth)--“a young person,” -he said, more quickly, “as is not his equal, and never can be; as -belongs to me, sir, and is no more a lady nor--nor my Martha, nor half -as good a girl.” - -Surprise made Sir Edward slow of understanding--surprise and an absence -of all alarm, for to his thinking Walter was a boy, and this talk of -ladies, or young persons, was unintelligible in such a connection. - -He said, “There is surely some strange mistake here. Walter’s--why, -Walter is--too young for any nonsense of this kind. You’re--why, you -must be--dreaming, Crockford! You might as well tell me that Horry--” - -Here Sir Edward’s eyes turned, quite involuntarily, unintentionally upon -Walter, standing up by the mantel-piece with his hands in his pockets, -his face burning with a dull heat, his eyes cast down, yet watching -under the eyelids every action of both his companions--a nameless air -about him that spoke of guilt. He stopped short at the sight: everything -in Walter’s aspect breathed guilt--the furtive watch he kept, the dull -red of anger and shame burning like a fire in his face; the -attitude--his hands in his pockets, clinched as if ready for a blow. The -first look made Sir Edward stop bewildered, the second carried to his -mind a strange, painful, unpleasant, discovery. Walter was no longer a -boy! He had parted company from his father, and from all his father knew -of him. This perception flashed across his mind like a sudden light. He -gasped, and could say no more. - -Crockford took advantage of the pause. “If I may make so bold, sir,” he -said, “it’s you as hasn’t taken note of the passage of time. It ain’t -wonderful. One moment your child here’s a boy at your knee, the next his -heart’s set on getting married--or wuss. That’s how it goes. I’ve had a -many children myself, and seen ’em grow up and buried most on ’em. -Martha, she’s my youngest, she’s a good lass. As for the lads, ye can’t -tell where ye are; one day it’s a peg-top and the next it’s a woman. If -I may make so bold, I’ve known you man and boy for something like forty -years; and I’m sorry for you, Sir Edward, that I am.” - -Sir Edward heard as if he heard it not, the _bourdonnement_ of this raw -rustic voice in his ears, and scarcely knew what it meant. He turned to -his son without taking any notice. “Walter,” he said, with something -keen, penetrating, unlike itself in his voice, “what is this? what is -this? I don’t seem to understand it.” He was going to be angry -presently, very angry; but in the first place it was necessary that he -should know. - -“I won’t deceive you, father,” said Walter. “From his point of view I -suppose he’s right enough--but that is not my point of view.” - -“Mr. Walter,” old Crockford said, beginning one of his speeches. The old -man in his patched coat of an indescribable color, the color of the -woods and hedgerows, with his red handkerchief in a wisp round his neck, -the lock of thin gray hair smoothed over his bald crown, his hat in his -old knotted rugged hands, all knuckles and protrusions, came into Sir -Edward’s mind, as the companion figure leaning on the mantel-piece had -done, like a picture all full of meaning; but he stopped the old man’s -slow discourse with a wave of his hand, and turned to his son, -impatiently. He had not voice enough in his bewilderment to say, “Go -on”--he said it with his hand. - -“Well, sir?” said the lad, “I don’t know what I have to say; there are -things one man doesn’t tell another, even if it’s his father. There’s -nothing in me that is dishonorable, if that is what you mean. If there -were, it is _her_ eye I should shrink from first of all.” - -Her eye! The father stood confounded, not able to believe his ears. He -made one more attempt at a question, not with words, but with a -half-stupefied look, again silencing Crockford with his hand. - -“I tell you, father,” cried Walter, with irritation, “there are things -one man doesn’t tell another, not even if--” He was pleased, poor boy, -with that phrase; but the examination, the discovery was intolerable to -him. He gave a wave of his hand toward Crockford, as if saying, -“Question him--hear him--hear the worst of me!” with a sort of -contemptuous indignation; then shot between the two other men like an -arrow, and was gone. - -“Things one man doesn’t tell to another, even if it’s his father.” One -man to another! was it laughable, was it tragical? Sir Edward, in the -confusion of his soul, could not tell. He looked at Crockford, but not -for information; was it for sympathy? though the old stone-breaker was -at one extremity of the world and he at the other. He felt himself -shaking his head in a sort of intercommunion with old Crockford, and -then stopped himself with a kind of angry dismay. - -“If you’ve anything to say on this subject, let me have it at once,” he -said. - -“I can talk more freely, sir, now as he’s gone. That young gentleman is -that fiery, and that deceived. The young uns is like that. Sir Edward; -us as is older should make allowances, though now and again a body -forgets. I’m one that makes a deal of allowances myself, being a great -thinker, Sir Edward, in my poor way. Well, sir, it’s this, sir--and glad -I am as you’re by yourself and I can speak free. She’s nobody no more -nor I am. She’s a little baggage, that’s what she is. How she come to me -was this. A brother of mine, as has been no better than what you may -call a rollin’ stone all his life, and has done a many foolish things, -what does he do at last but marry a woman as had been a play-actress, -and I don’t know what. They say as she was always respectable--I don’t -know. And she had a daughter, this little baggage as is here, as was her -daughter, not his, nor belonging to none of us. But her mother, she -bothered me to ’ave ’er, to take her out of some man’s way as wanted to -marry her, but his friends wouldn’t hear of it. And that’s how it is. -How she came across Mr. Walter is more than I can tell. That’s just how -things happens, that is. You or me, Sir Edward, begging your pardon, -sir, it’s a thing that don’t occur to the likes of us; but when a young -gentleman is young and tender-hearted, and don’t know the world--The -ways of Providence is past explaining,” Crockford said. - -Sir Edward stood with that habitual look in his face of a man injured -and aggrieved, and full of a troubled yet mild remonstrance with fate, -and listened to all this only half hearing it. He heard enough to -understand in a dull sort of way what it was which had happened to his -boy, a thing which produced upon him perhaps a heavier effect than it -need have done by reason of the vagueness in which it was wrapped, the -blurred and misty outlines of the facts making it so much more -considerable. It was not what Crockford said it was, not the mere -discovery that his son had got into a foolish “entanglement,” as so many -have done before him, with some village girl, that produced this effect -upon him. It was Walter’s words so strangely dislocating the connection -between them, cutting the ground from under his feet, changing the very -foundations of life; “things one man doesn’t tell to another”--one -man!--to another. He kept saying it over in his mind with a bewilderment -that kept growing, a confusion which he could not get right--one man, -to another. It was this he was thinking of, and not what Crockford had -said, when he went back to the dining-room, where all the children had -finished breakfast, and his wife met him with a look so full of -surprise. “What has kept you, Edward? everything is cold. Have you sent -Wat out for anything? Has anything happened?” she said. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIV. - -MATERNAL DIPLOMACY. - - -“You had better send the children off to play, and never mind if -everything is cold. It’s my own fault; it’s the fault of circumstances.” -He seated himself at table as he spoke and helped himself to some of the -cold bacon, which was not appetizing; nor had he much appetite. His face -was full of care as he swallowed his cup of tea, keeping an eye uneasily -upon the children as they were gradually coaxed and led and pushed away. -When the door closed upon the last of them there was still a moment of -silence. Sir Edward trifled with his cold bacon, he crumbled his roll, -he swallowed his tea in large abstract gulps; but said nothing, his mind -being so full, yet so confused and out of gear. And it was not till his -wife repeated her question, this time with a tone of anxiety, that he -replied, - -“What is it? It’s something that has taken me all aback, as you see. -It’s--something about a woman.” - -“Something about a woman!” she repeated with the utmost astonishment; -but had he said “something about a cabbage,” Lady Penton could not have -been less alarmed. - -“Living at old Crockford’s,” he went on. “I don’t understand the story. -The old man talked and talked, and Walter--” - -“What has Walter to do with it, Edward? He has gone out without any -breakfast. Have you sent him to see after anything? Where has he gone?” - -“Gone! is he gone? Why, he’s gone to _her_, I suppose; that’s the -amusing thing. He says ‘there’s things one man doesn’t tell to another;’ -one man!--that’s how Wat speaks to me, Annie.” He gave a laugh which was -far from joyful. “I think the boy’s gone off his head.” - -“Wat says--I don’t know what you mean, Edward.” - -“No more do I; it’s past understanding. It’s the sort of thing people -talk of, but I never thought it would come in our way. It’s an -entanglement with some girl in the village. Don’t you know what that -means?” - -“Edward!” cried the mother; and a flash of color like a flame passed -over her face. She was confounded, and unable to make any comment even -in her thoughts. - -“You can’t take it in, and I don’t wonder; neither can I, that know more -of the world than you can do. Our Wat, that has never seemed anything -but a school-boy! Why, Horry will be saying presently, ‘There are some -things that one man doesn’t tell to--’ I don’t know what the world is -coming to,” he cried, sharply. When Sir Edward himself was taken by -surprise he felt by instinct that something sudden and unexpected must -have occurred to the world. - -Lady Penton was perhaps still more taken by surprise than her husband. -But she did not make any observations against the world. The sudden -flush faded from her face as she sat opposite to him, her astonished -eyes still fixed upon him, her hands crossed in her lap. But a whole -panorama instantly revealed itself before her mind. How could she have -been so blind? Walter had been absent continually, whenever he could get -an opportunity of stealing away. The reading in the evening, and a -hundred little kindly offices which he had been in the habit of -performing for his sisters, and with them, had all dropped, as she -suddenly perceived. For weeks past he had been with them very little, -taking little interest in the small family events, abstracted and -dreamy, wrapped in a world of his own. She saw it all now as by a sudden -flash of enlightenment. “Some things a man doesn’t tell to another -man”--oh, no, not even to another woman, not to his mother! How strange, -bewildering, full of confusion, and yet somehow how natural! This was -not her husband’s point of view. To him it was monstrous, a thing that -never used to happen, an instance of the decay and degradation of the -world. Lady Penton, though the most innocent of women, did not feel -this. To her, with a curious burst of understanding, as if a new world -had opened at her feet, it seemed natural, something which she ought to -have expected, something that expanded and widened out her own world of -consciousness. Walter, then, her boy, loved somebody. It brought a -renewed, fainter flush to her cheek, and a wonderfully tender light to -her eyes. She thought of that first, before it occurred to her to think -(all being the work of a moment) who it was who had opened this new -chapter in her boy’s life, and made Walter a man, the equal of his -father. Oh, that he should have become the equal of his father, a man, -loving, drawing to himself the life of another, he who was only a boy! -This wonder, though it might have an acute touch in it, had also a -curious sweetness. For Lady Penton was not the hungering jealous mother -of one child, but the soft expansive parent of many, and never had shut -herself up in the hope of retaining them altogether for her own. - -“It is very strange,” she said, after a pause, “it takes a good time to -accustom one’s self to such an idea” (which was not the case, for she -had done it in the flash of a moment). “It would be quite nice--and -agreeable,” she added, with some timidity, “if it was a--right person; -but did you say, Edward--_what_ did you say?” - -“Nice!” he cried, with an explosion like thunder, or so it seemed to his -wife’s ears, a little nervous with all that had happened. “You can’t -have listened to what I have been saying. I told you plainly enough. A -girl that has been living at old Crockford’s, a girl out of the -village--no, worse, much worse, sent down from London, to be out of some -one’s way--” - -Lady Penton had sprung to her feet, and came toward him with her hands -clasped, as if praying for mercy. “Oh! Edward, no, no, no; don’t say all -that, Edward,” she cried. - -“What am I to say? It’s all true so far as I know. You can ask Martha -about her. Perhaps that’s the best way; trust one woman to tell you the -worst that’s to be said of another. Yes, I think on the whole that’s the -best way. Have her up and let us hear--” - -“What!” said Lady Penton, “call up Martha, and question her about a -thing that Walter’s mixed up in? let her know that we are in trouble -about our boy? make her talk about--about that sort of thing--before -_you_? I don’t know what sort of a woman you take me for, Edward. At all -events, that is not what you would ever get me to do.” - -He stared at her, only partially understanding--perhaps indeed not -understanding at all, but feeling an obstacle vaguely shape itself in -his path. “Annie,” he said, “there’s no room for sentiment here; -whatever the girl is, she’s not a person that should ever have come in -Walter’s way.” - -Upon which his mother, without any warning, began suddenly to cry, a -thing which was still more confusing to her husband; exclaiming by -intervals, “Oh! my Wat!” “Oh! my poor boy! What did you say to him? You -must have been harsh, Edward; oh, you must have been harsh; and to think -he should have rushed out without any breakfast!” Lady Penton sobbed and -cried. - -It was not very long, however, before the mistress of the house, -returning to the routine of domestic matters and with no trace of tears -about her, though there was a new and unaccustomed look of anxiety in -her eyes, found Martha in the pantry, where she was cleaning the silver, -and lingered to give her a few orders, especially in respect to the -plate. Lady Penton pointed out to her that she was using too much -plate-powder, that she was not sufficiently careful with the chasings -and the raised silver of the edges, with various other important pieces -of advice, which Martha took with some courtesies but not much -satisfaction. Lady Penton then made several remarks about the crystal -which it would be impertinent to quote; and then she smoothed matters by -asking Martha how her mother was. “I have not seen her for some time; I -suppose she doesn’t go out in this cold weather, which is good for no -one,” said Lady Penton. - -“Oh, my lady, there’s worse things than the bad weather,” cried Martha. -She was her father’s child, and apt, like him, to moralize. - -“That is very true: but the bad weather is at the bottom of a great deal -of rheumatism and bronchitis as well as many other things.” - -“Yes, my lady, but there’s things as you can’t have the doctor to, and -them’s the worst of all.” - -“I hope none of your brothers are a trouble to her, Martha; I thought -they were all doing so well?” - -“Oh, it ain’t none of the boys, my lady. It’s one as is nothing to us, -not a blood relation at all. Father was telling master--or at least he -come up a purpose to tell master, but I begged him not,” said the young -woman, rubbing with redoubled energy. “I said, ‘father, what’s the -good?’” - -“You are very right there, Martha; Sir Edward is only annoyed with -complaints from the village; he can’t do anything. It is much better in -such a case to come to me.” - -“Yes, my lady; I didn’t want them to trouble you neither. I told ’em her -ladyship had a deal to think of. You see, my lady, mother’s deaf, and -things might go on--oh, they might go on to any length afore she’d -hear.” - -“I know she is deaf, poor thing,” Lady Penton said. - -“That was why I didn’t want her to take a lodger at all, my lady. But -Emmy’s not a lodger after all. She’s a kind of relation. She’s Uncle -Sam’s wife’s daughter, and she didn’t look like one as would give -trouble. She’s just as nice spoken as any one could be, and said she was -to help mother; and so she does, and always kind. Whatever father says -she’s always been kind--and that handy, turning an old gown to look like -new, and telling you how things is worn, and all what you can see in the -shops, and as good-natured with it all--” - -“Of whom are you speaking, Martha? Emmy, did you say? who is Emmy? I -have never heard of her before.” - -“She’s the young woman, my lady; oh! she’s the one--she’s the young -person, she’s--it was her as father came to speak of, and wouldn’t hold -his tongue or listen to me.” - -“What is there to say about her? Sir Edward, I am afraid, did not -understand. He has a great many things to think of. It would have been -much better if your father had come to me. Who is she, and what has she -done?” - -Lady Penton spoke with a calm and composure that was almost too -complete; but Martha was absorbed in her own distress and suspected -nothing of this. - -“Please, my lady,” she cried, with a courtesy, “she have done nothing. -She’s dreadful taking, that’s all. When she gets talking, you could just -stop there forever. It’s a great waste of time when you’ve a deal to do, -but it ain’t no fault of hers. She makes you laugh, and she makes you -cry, and though she don’t give herself no airs, she can talk as nice as -any of the quality, as if she was every bit a lady--and the next moment -the same as mother or like me.” - -“She must be very clever,” said Lady Penton. “Is she pretty, too?” - -“I don’t know as I should have taken no notice of her looks but for -other folks a-talking of them,” said Martha, “I don’t know as I sees her -any different from other folks; but as for good nature and making things -pleasant, there ain’t none like her high nor low.” - -“And what is she doing here? and why did your father come to Sir Edward -about her?” said Lady Penton, in her magisterial calm. - -“Oh, my lady, you’ll not be pleased; I’d rather not tell you. When -father does notice a thing he’s _that_ suspicious! I’d rather not--oh, -I’d rather not!” - -“This is nonsense, Martha--you had much better tell me. What has this -girl been doing that Sir Edward ought to know?” - -Martha twisted her fingers together in overwhelming embarrassment. - -“Oh, my lady, don’t ask me! I could not bear to tell you--and you’d not -be pleased.” - -“What have I to do with it, my good girl?” said Walter’s mother, as -steadily as if she had been made of marble; and then she added, “but -after hearing so much I must know. You had better tell me. I may perhaps -be of use to her, poor thing!” - -“Oh, my lady, Sir Edward’ll tell you. Oh, what have I got to do pushing -into it! Oh, if you’re that kind, my lady, and not angry!” Here Martha -paused, and took a supreme resolution. “It’s all father’s doing, though -I say it as shouldn’t. He thinks as Mr. Walter--oh, my lady, Mr. -Walter’s like your ladyship--he’s that civil and kind!” - -“I am glad you think so, Martha. Gentlemen are very different from us; -they don’t think of things that come into every woman’s mind. I shall be -angry, indeed, if you keep me standing asking questions. What has all -this to do with my son?” - -“It’s all father’s ways of thinking. There’s nothing in it--not a thing -to talk about. It’s just this--as Mr. Walter has seen Emmy a time or two -at the cottage door. And he’s said a civil word. And Emmy is one as -likes to talk to gentlefolks, being more like them in herself than the -likes of us. And so--and so--father’s taken things into his head--as he -did, my lady,” cried Martha, with a blush and a sudden change of tone, -“about John Baker and me.” - -“About John Baker and you?” - -“Yes, my lady,” cried Martha, very red; “and there’s no more truth in it -the one nor the other. Can’t a girl say a word but it’s brought up -against her, like as it was a sin? or give a civil answer but it’s said -as she’s keeping company? It ain’t neither just nor right. It’s as -unkind as can be. It’s just miserable livin’ where there’s naught but -folks suspecting of you all round.” - -“Martha, is that how your father treated John Baker and you? I think -you’re hard upon your father. He behaved very well about that, and you -know you were yourself to blame. This that you tell me is all nonsense, -to be sure. I will speak to Mr. Walter.” She paused a little, and then -asked, “This Emmy that you tell me of--is she a nice girl?” - -“Oh, yes, my lady.” - -“Is she one that gives a civil answer, as you say, whoever talks to -her?” - -“Oh, yes, my lady.” - -“Not particularly to young men?” - -“Oh, no, my lady,” said Martha, with vehemence, her countenance flaming -red, like the afternoon sun. - -“If that is all true,” said Lady Penton, “you may be sure she shall have -a friend in me. But I hope it is all true.” - -“As sure as--oh, as sure as the catechism or the prayer-book! Oh, my -lady, as sure as I’m speaking; and I wouldn’t deceive your ladyship--no, -I wouldn’t deceive you, not for nothing in the world!” - -“Except in respect to John Baker,” said Lady Penton, with a smile; at -which Martha burst out crying over the silver that she had been -cleaning, and made her plate-powder no better than a puddle of reddish -mud. - -This led Lady Penton, to make a few more observations on the subject -with which she had begun the conversation; and then she went away. But -if Martha was left weeping her mistress did not carry a light heart out -of the pantry, where she had got so much information. The picture of the -village siren was not calculated to reassure a mother. She had thought -at first that Martha was an enemy, and ready to give the worst version -of the story; and then it had turned out that Martha herself was on the -side of the girl who had fascinated Walter. Had she fascinated Walter? -Was it possible--a girl at a cottage door--a girl who--gave a civil -answer? Lady Penton’s imagination rebelled against this description; it -rebelled still more at the comparison with John Baker, with whom Martha -herself had gone through a troublous episode. Walter Penton like John -Baker! She tried to smile, but her lips quivered a little. What was this -new thing that had fallen into the peaceful family all in a moment like -a bomb full of fire and trouble? She could not get rid of the foolish -picture--the girl at the cottage door, smiling on whosoever passed, with -her civil answer; and Walter--her Walter, her first-born, the heir of -Penton--Walter caught by that vulgar snare as he passed by! Had it been -a poor lady, the curate’s daughter, the immaculate governess of -romance--but the girl whose conversation was so captivating to Martha, -who described what things were worn, and all that you could see in the -shops--and then, with a smile at the cottage door, caught the unwary boy -to whom every girl was a thing to be respected. Martha’s little bubble -of tears in the pantry were nothing to the few salt drops that came to -her mistress’s eyes. But Lady Penton went afterward to the book-room and -told her husband that, so far as she could make out, old Crockford must -have made a mistake. “Martha gives a very good account of the girl,” she -said, “and Walter, no doubt, had only talked to her a little, meaning no -harm.” - -“He would not have answered me as he did this morning if there had been -no harm,” said Sir Edward, shaking his head. - -“You must have been harsh with him,” said his wife. “You must have -looked as if you believed Crockford, and not him.” - -“I was not harsh; am I ever harsh?” cried the injured father. - -“Edward, the boy darted out without any breakfast! How is he to go -through the day without any breakfast? Would he have done that if you -had not been harsh to him?” Lady Penton said. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXV. - -WAITING. - - -The day was a painful one to all concerned: to the father and mother, -who knew, though vaguely, all about it, and to the children who knew -only that something was wrong, and that it was Walter who was in fault, -a thing incomprehensible, which no one could understand. The girls felt -that they themselves might have gone a little astray, that they could -acknowledge as possible; but Walter! what could he have done to upset -the household, to make the father so angry, the mother so sad?--to rush -out himself upon the world without his breakfast? That little detail -affected their minds perhaps the most of all. The break of every -tradition and habit of life was thus punctuated with a sharpness that -permitted no mistake. He had gone out without any breakfast--rushing, -driving the gravel in showers from his angry feet. When the time of the -midday repast came round there was a painful expectancy in the house. He -must return to dinner, they said to themselves. But Walter did not come -back for dinner. He was not visible all day. The girls thought they saw -him in the distance when they went out disconsolately for a walk in the -afternoon, feeling it their duty to Mab. Oh, why was she there, a -stranger in the midst of their trouble! They thought they saw him at the -top of the steep hill going up from the house to the village. But though -they hurried, and Anne ran on in advance, by the time she got to the top -he was gone and not a trace of him was to be seen. Their hearts were -sadly torn between this unaccustomed and awful cloud of anxiety and the -duties they owed to their guest. And still more dreadful was it when the -Penton carriage came for Mab with a note only, telling her to do as she -pleased, to stay for a few days longer if she pleased. “Oh, may I stay?” -she asked, with a confidence in their kindness which was very -flattering, but at that moment more embarrassing than words could say. -The two girls exchanged a guilty look, while Lady Penton replied, -faltering: “My dear! it is very sweet of you to wish it. If it will not -be very dull for you--” “Oh, dull!” said Mab, “with Ally and Anne, and -all the children: and at Penton there is nobody!” A frank statement of -this sort, though it may be selfish, is flattering; indeed, the -selfishness which desires your particular society is always flattering. -None of them could say a word against it. They could not tell their -visitor that she was--oh, so sadly!--in their way, that they could not -talk at their ease before her; and that to be compelled to admit her -into this new and unlooked-for family trouble was such a thing as made -the burden miserable, scarcely to be borne. All this was in their -hearts, but they could not say it. They exchanged a look behind backs, -and Lady Penton repeated, with a faint quaver in her voice, “My dear! Of -course, we shall be only too glad to have you if you think it will not -be dull.” When Mab ran to write her note and announce her intention to -remain, the three ladies felt like conspirators standing together in a -little circle, looking at each other dolefully. “Oh, mother, why didn’t -you say they must want her at Penton, and that we did not want her -here?” “Hush, girls! Poor little thing, when she is an orphan, and so -fond of you all; though I wish it had been another time,” Lady Penton -said with a sigh. They seized her, one by each arm, almost surrounding -her, in their close embrace. “Mother, what has Wat done? Mother, what is -it about Wat?” “Oh, hush, hush, my dears!” And Lady Penton added, -disengaging herself with a smile to meet Mab, who came rushing into the -room in great spirits, “I think as long as the daylight lasts you ought -to have your walk.” It was after this that the girls thought they saw -Walter, but could not find any trace of him when they reached the top of -the hill. - -There had never been any mystery, any anxiety, save in respect to the -illnesses that break the routine of life with innocent trouble which -anybody may share, in this innocent household. To make excuses for an -absent member, and account for his absence as if it were the most -natural thing in the world--not to show that you start at every opening -of the door, to refrain heroically from that forlorn watch of the -window, that listening for every sound which anxiety teaches: to talk -and smile even when there are noises, a stir outside, a summons at the -door that seems to indicate the wanderer’s return--how were they to have -that science of trouble all in a moment? Lady Penton leaped to its very -heights at once. She sat there as if all her life she had been going -through that discipline, talking to Mab, surveying the children, -neglecting nothing, while all the while her heart was in her ears, and -she heard before any one the faintest movement outside. They were all -very silent at table, Sir Edward making no attempt to disguise the fact -that he was out of humor and had nothing to say to any one, while the -girls exchanged piteous looks and kept up an anxious telegraphic -communication. But Walter never appeared. Neither to dinner, neither in -the evening did he return--the two meals passed without him, his place -vacant, staring in their faces, as Anne said. Where was he? What could -he be doing? Into what depth of trouble and misery must a boy have -fallen who darts out of his father’s house without any breakfast, and, -so far as can be known, has nothing to eat all day? Where could he go to -have any dinner? What could have happened to him? These words express -the entire disorganization of life, the end of all things in a family -point of view, which this dreadful day meant to Walter’s sisters, and to -his mother in a less degree. Nothing else that could have been imagined -would have reached their hearts in the same way. And the last -aggravation was given by the fact that all this which they felt so -acutely to imply the deepest reproach against Walter was apparent to -little Mab, sitting there with her little smiling face as if there was -no trouble in the world. Oh, it was far better, no doubt, that she -should suspect nothing, that she should remain in her certainty, so far -as Penton Hook was concerned, that there was no trouble in the world! -But her face, all tranquil and at ease, her easy flow of talk, her -questions, her commentaries, as if life were all so simple and anybody -could understand it! The impatience which sometimes almost overcame all -the powers of self-control in Ally and in Anne, can not be described. -They almost hated Mab’s pretty blue eyes, and her comfortable, innocent, -unsuspecting smile. Had any one told them that little Mab, that little -woman of the world, was very keenly alive to everything that was going -on, and had formed her little theory, and believed herself to know quite -well what it was all about, the other girls would have rejected such an -accusation with disdain. - -It was quite late, after everything was over, the children all in bed, -all the noises of the house hushed and silent, when Walter came home. -The family were sitting together in the drawing-room, very dull, as Lady -Penton had forewarned the little guest they would be. She herself had -suggested a game of besique, which she was ready to have played had it -been necessary: but Ally and Anne could not for shame let their mother -take that rude and arduous task in hand. So this little group of girls -had gathered round the table, a pretty contrast in their extreme -freshness and youthfulness. The gravity of this, to her, terrible and -unthought-of crisis, the horror of what might be happening, threw a -shade upon Ally’s passive countenance which suited it. She was very -pale, her soft eyes cast down, a faint movement about her mouth. She -might have burst out crying over her cards at any moment in the profound -tension of her gentle spirit. Anne was different; the excitement had -gone to her head, all her faculties were sharpened; she had the look of -a gambler, keen and eager on her game, though her concentrated attention -was not on that at all. She held her head erect, her slender shoulders -thrown back, her breath came quickly through her slightly opened lips. -Mab was just as usual, with her pretty complexion and her blue eyes, -laughing, carrying on a little babble of remark. “A royal marriage! Oh, -Anne, what luck!” “Another card, please--yes, I will have another.” Her -voice was almost the only one that disturbed the silence. Lady Penton in -her usual place was a little indistinct in the shade. She had turned her -head from the group, and her usually busy hands lay clasped in her lap. -She was doing nothing but listening. Sometimes even she closed her eyes, -that nothing might be subtracted from her power of hearing. Her husband, -still further in the background, could not keep still. Sometimes he -would sit down for a moment, then rise again and pace about, or stand -before the bookshelves as if looking for a book; but he wanted no -book--he could not rest. - -And then in the midst of the silence of the scene came the sounds that -rang into all their hearts. The gate with its familiar jar across the -gravel, the click of the latch, then the step, hurried, irregular, -making the gravel fly. Lady Penton did not move, nor did Sir Edward, who -stood behind her, as if he had been suddenly frozen in the act of -walking, and could not take another step. Ally’s cards fell from her -hands and had to be gathered from the floor with a little scuffle and -confusion, in the midst of which they were all aware that the hall door -was pushed open, that the step came in and hurried across the hall -upstairs and to Walter’s room, the door of which closed with a dull echo -that ran through all the house. Their hearts stood still; and then -sudden ease diffused itself throughout the place--relief--something that -felt like happiness. He had come back! In a moment more the girls’ -voices rose into soft laughter and talk. What more was wanted? Wat had -come back. As long as he was at home, within those protecting walls, -what could go wrong? “Oh, what a fright we have had,” said Ally’s eyes, -with tears in them, to those of Anne; “but now it’s all over! He has -come back.” - -The parents looked at each other in the half light under the shade of -the lamp. When Walter’s door closed upstairs Sir Edward made a step -forward as if to follow to his son’s room, but Lady Penton put up her -hand to check him. “Don’t,” she said, under her breath. It still seemed -to her that her husband must have been harsh. “Some one must speak to -him,” said Sir Edward, in the same tone; “this can not be allowed to go -on.” “Oh, no, no; go on! oh, no, it can’t go on.” “What do you mean, -Annie?” cried her husband, leaning over her chair. “Do you think I -should take no notice after the dreadful day we have spent, and all on -his account?” “No, no,” she said, in a voice which was scarcely audible; -“no, no.” “What am I to do, then--what ought I to do? I don’t want to -risk a scene again, but to say ‘no, no’ means nothing. What do you think -I should do?” - -She caught his hand in hers as he leaned over her chair, their two heads -were close together. “Oh, Edward, you’ve always been very good to me,” -she said. - -“What nonsense, Annie! good to you! we’ve not been two, we’ve been one; -why do you speak to me so?” - -“Edward,” she whispered, leaning back her middle-aged head upon his -middle-aged shoulder. “Oh, Edward, this once let me see him. I know the -father is the first. It’s right you should be the first; but, Edward, -this once let me see him, let me speak to him. He might be softer to his -mother.” - -There was a pause, and he did not know himself, still less did she know, -whether he was to be angry or to yield. He had perhaps in his mind -something of both. He detached his hand from hers with a little -sharpness, but he said, “Go, then: you are right enough; perhaps you -will manage him better than I.” - -She went softly out of the room, while the girls sat over their cards in -the circle of the lamplight. They had not paid much attention to the -murmur of conversation behind them. They thought she had gone to see -about some supper for Walter, who had probably been fasting all day, an -idea which had also entered Ally’s mind as a right thing to do; but -mother, they knew, would prefer to do it herself. She did not, however, -in the first place, think of Walter’s supper. She went up the dim -staircase, where there was scarcely any light, not taking any candle -with her, and made her way along the dark passage to Walter’s door. He -had no light, nor was there any sound as she opened the door softly and -went in. Was it possible he was not there? The room was all dark, and -not a murmur in it, not even the sound of breathing. A dreadful chill of -terror came over Lady Penton’s heart. She said with a trembling voice, -“Walter, Walter!” with an urgent and frightened cry. - -There was a sound of some one turning on the bed, and Walter’s voice -said out of the dark in a muffled and sullen tone, “What do you want, -mother? I thought here I might have been left in peace!” - -“What!” she cried, “in peace. Is this how you speak to me? Oh, my boy, -where have you been?” - -“It can’t matter much where I’ve been. I’ve been doing no harm.” - -“No, dear. I never thought you had,” said his mother, groping her way to -the bedside and sitting down by him. She put out her hand till it -reached where his head was lying. His forehead was hot and damp, and he -put her hand away fretfully. - -“You forget,” he said, “I’m not a baby now.” - -“You are always my boy, Wat, and will be, however old you may grow. If -your father was harsh he did not mean it. Oh, why did you rush away like -that without any breakfast? Walter, tell me the truth, have you had -anything to eat? have you had some dinner? Tell me the truth.” - -There was a pause, and then he said, “I forget: is that all you think -of, mother?” - -“No, Wat, not all I think of, but I think of that too. If I bring you up -something will you eat it, Wat?” - -“For pity’s sake let me alone,” he said, pettishly, “and go away.” - -“Walter!” - -“Let me alone, mother, for to-night. I can’t say anything to-night. I -came to bed on purpose to be quiet; leave me alone for to-night.” - -“If I do, Wat, you will hear us, you will not turn your back upon us -to-morrow?” - -“Good-night, mother,” said the lad. - -He turned his head away, but she bent over him and kissed his hot cheek. -“I will tell your father he is not to say anything. And I will leave -you, since you want me. But you will take the advice of your best -friends to-morrow, Wat.” - -“Good-night, mother,” he said again, and turned his flushed and -shamefaced cheek to respond, since it was in the dark, to her kiss. - -“Wat, there is nobody in the world can love you as we do. God bless you, -my dear,” she said. - -And listening in the dark, he heard the faint sound of her soft -footsteps receding, passing away into the depths of the silent house, -leaving him not silent, not quiet, as he said, but with a wild world of -intentions and impulses whirling within him, all agitation, commotion, -revolution to his finger-ends. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVI. - -POOR WALTER! - - -When Walter, in ungovernable excitement, trouble, and impatience, rushed -out of the house in the morning, leaving old Crockford to make he knew -not what revelations to his father, he had no idea either what he was -going to do, or how long it might be before he returned home. It might -have been that he was leaving the Hook--his birthplace, the only home he -had ever known--for years. He might never see all these familiar things -again--the pale river winding round the garden, the poplar-tree, thin -and naked, in the wind, the little multitude in the dining-room making a -hum and murmur of voices as he darted past. In his imagination he saw so -clearly that breakfast-table--his mother dividing to each of the -children their proper share, Ally and Anne, and little Molly, with her -spoon, making flourishes, and calling, “Fader, fader!” He saw them all -with the distinctness of inward vision as he darted away, though his -mind was full of another image. The pang with which, even in the heat -of his flight, he realized that he was going away, lay in the background -of his heart, as that picture was in the background of his imagination; -foremost was the idea of seeing _her_ at once, of telling her that all -was over here, and that he was ready to fly to the end of the world if -she would but come with him, and that all should be as she pleased. He -had forgotten the suggestion of last night about the oath which he would -have to take as to his age. Nothing was apparent to him except that his -secret was betrayed, that all was over, that _she_ alone remained to -him, and that nothing now stood between him and her. He rushed up the -hill to the cottage, feeling that reserves and concealments were no -longer necessary, that the moment of decision was come, and that there -must be no more delay. He would not wait any longer patrolling about the -house till she should see him from a window or hear his signal. He went -up to the cottage door and knocked loudly. He must see her, and that -without a moment’s delay. - -It seemed to Walter that he stood a long time knocking at the cottage -door. He heard the sound of many goings and comings within, so that it -was not because they were absent that he was not admitted. At last the -door was opened suddenly by old Mrs. Crockford, who was deaf, and who -made no answer to his demand except by shaking her head and repeating -the quite unnecessary explanation that she was hard of hearing, backed -by many courtesies and inquiries for the family. - -“My master’s out, Mr. Walter--Crockford’s not in, sir; he’s gone to -work, as he allays does. Shall I send him, sir, to the ’ouse when he -comes in to ’is dinner?” she said, with many bobs and hopes as how her -ladyship and all the family were well. - -Whether this was all she knew, or whether the old woman was astute, and -brought her infirmity to the aid of her wits, he could not tell. - -“I want to see your niece,” he said--“your niece--your niece Emmy: I -want to see Emmy,” without eliciting any further reply than, “My -master’s out, Mr. Walter, and I’m a little ’ard of ’earing, sir.” - -He raised his voice so that _she_ must have heard him, and surely, -surely, in the condition in which things were, ought to have answered -him! But perhaps she was anxious to keep up appearances still. He said, -in his loudest voice, “I am leaving home; I must see her;” but even this -produced no response: and at last he was obliged to go away, feeling as -if all the machinery of life had come to a stand-still, and that nothing -remained for him to do. He had abandoned one existence, but the other -did not take him up. He roamed about, for he scarcely knew how long, -till the wintery sun was high in the sky, then came back, and, in the -audacity of despair--for so he felt it--knocked again, this time softly, -disguising his impatience, at the cottage door. He had acted wisely, it -appeared, for she herself opened to him this time, receding from the -door with a startled cry when she saw who it was. But this time he would -not be put off. He followed her into the little room in front, which was -a kind of parlor, adorned by the taste of Martha and her mother, cold, -with its little fire-place decked out in cut paper, and the blind drawn -down to protect it from the sun. He caught sight of a box, which seemed -to be half packed, and which she closed hastily and pushed away. - -She turned upon him when he had followed inside this room, with an angry -aspect that made poor Walter tremble. “Why do you hunt me down like -this?” she cried; “couldn’t you see I didn’t want you when you came this -morning pushing your way into the house? Though it’s a cottage, still -it’s my castle if I want to be private here!” - -“Emmy!” cried the youth, with the keenest pang of misery in his voice. - -“Why do you call out my name like that? You objected to what I told you -last night. Go away now. I don’t want to have anything to say to a man -that objects to my plans as if I didn’t know what’s right and what’s -wrong!” - -“I object to nothing,” said the boy. “You sent me away from you, you -gave me no time to think. And now my father knows everything, and I have -left home; I shall never go back any more.” - -“Left home! And how does your father know everything? And what is there -to know?” - -“Nothing!” cried Walter--“nothing, except that I am yours, heart and -soul--except that I desire nothing, think of nothing, but you. And they -had never heard of you before!” - -She closed the door and pushed a chair toward him. “How did they know -about me?--what do they know now? Was it you that told them? And what do -they think?” she cried, with a slight breathlessness that told of -excitement. - -Poor Walter was glad to sit down, he was faint and weary; that rush -out-of-doors into the frosty air without any breakfast, which had -affected the imaginations of his family so much, had told on him. He -felt that there was no strength in him, and that he was glad to rest. - -“It was old Crockford who told them,” he said. “He came in upon me this -morning like a--like a wolf: and my father of course heard, and came to -see what it was.” - -“Oh,” she said, in a tone of disappointment, not without contempt in it, -“so it was not you! I thought perhaps, being so overwhelmed by what I -said, you had gone right off and told your mother, as a good boy should. -So it was only old Crockford? and I gave you the credit! But I might -have known,” she added, with a laugh, “you had not the courage for -that!” - -“Courage! I did not think of it,” he said. “It did not seem a thing to -tell them. How was I to do it? And Crockford came--I don’t know what -for--to forbid me the house.” - -“No; but to drive me out of it!” she said, with a look which he did not -understand. “So you hadn’t the courage,” she said. “You have not much -courage, Mr. Walter Penton, to be such a fine young man. You come here -night after night, and you pretend to be fond of me. But when it comes -to the point you daren’t say to your father and mother straight out, -‘Here’s a girl I’m in love with, and I want to marry her. I’ll do it as -soon as I’m old enough, whether you like it or not; but if you were -nice, and paid a little attention to her, it would be better for us -all.’ That is what I should have said in your place. But you hadn’t the -heart, no more than you’d have had the heart to run a little risk about -your age and say you were six months older than you are. That’s like a -man! You expect a girl to run every risk, to trust herself to you and -her whole life; but to do anything that risks your own precious person, -oh, no! You have not the heart of a mouse; you have not the courage for -that!” - -She spoke with so much vehemence, her eyes flashing, the color rising in -her cheeks, that Walter could not say a word in his defense--and, -besides, what was there to say? So far was he from having the courage -to broach the subject in his own person, that when it had been begun by -Crockford he had not been able to bear it, but had rushed away. He sat -silent while she thus burst forth upon him, gazing at her as she towered -over him in her indignation. He had seldom seen her in daylight, never -so close, and never in this state of animation and passion. His heart -was wrung, but his imagination was on fire. She was a sort of -warrior-maiden--a Britomart, a Clorinda. Her eyes blazed. Her lip, which -was so full of expression, quivered with energy. To think that any one -should dare to think her beneath them!--of a lower sphere!--which was -what he supposed his own family would do when they knew; whereas she was -a kind of goddess--a creature made of fire and flame. To brave his -father, with her standing by to back him; to deceive a registrar--about -a miserable matter of age--six months more or less--what did these -matter? What did anything matter in comparison with her?--in comparison -with pleasing her, with doing what she wished to be done? He was a -little afraid of her as she stood there, setting the very atmosphere on -fire. If she ever belonged to him, became his familiar in every act of -his life, might there not arise many moments in which he should be -afraid of what she might think or say? This thought penetrated him -underneath the fervor of admiration in his soul, but it did not daunt -him or make him pause. - -He said, “It is true I did not tell my father first. It did not come -into my head. I can’t be sure now that it’s the thing to do. But when -Crockford said what he did I told him it was so. It is the first time,” -said Walter, with a little emotion, “that I ever set myself against my -father. It may come easier afterward, but it’s something to do it the -first time. Perhaps you’ve never done it, though you are braver than I.” - -She laughed loudly with a contempt that hurt him. - -“Never done it! Never done anything else, you mean! I never got on with -my mother since I was a baby; and father, I never had any--at least I -never saw him. Well! so you spoke up boldly, and said--what did you -say?” - -“Oh, don’t bother me!” he cried. “How can I tell what I said? And now -I’ve come away. I have left home, Emmy. I am ready to go with you, -dear, anywhere--if you like, to the end of the world.” - -“I’ve no wish for that,” she said, with a softer laugh. “I’m going to -London; that’s quite enough for me.” - -“Well,” cried the lad, “I’ll go with you there; and all can be -settled--everything--as you will. It can be nothing wrong that is done -for you.” - -“Oh, you’re thinking of the license again,” she said; “never mind that. -I’ve been thinking too; and you can’t have your money till you’re -twenty-one, don’t you know? Swearing will do you no good there--they -want certificates and all sorts of things. And of course you can’t go to -the end of the world, or even to London, without any money. So you must -just wait and see what happens. Perhaps something will take place before -then that will clear you altogether from me.” - -He listened to the first part of this with mingled calm and alarm. To -wait these six months, could he have seen her every day, would not have -disturbed Walter much, notwithstanding the blaze of boyish passion which -had lighted up all the world to him. The idea of a new life, an entire -revolution of all the circumstances round him, and the tremendous -seriousness of marriage, had given him a thrill of almost alarm. It was -a plunge which he was ready to take, and yet which appalled him. And -when she said that he could not have his money till he was twenty-one, a -sensation half of annoyance, yet more than half of content, came over -his soul. He could bear it well enough if only he could see her every -day: but when she added that threat about the possibility of something -happening, Walter’s heart jumped up again in his breast. - -“What can happen?” he said. “Dear, nothing shall happen. If you are -going to London I’ll go too--I must be near where you are--I’ve no home -to go back to. London will be the best; it’s like the deep sea, -everybody says. Nobody will find me there.” - -“You must not be too sure of that. Sir Edward Penton’s son could be -found anywhere. They will put your arrival in the papers, don’t you -know? ‘At Mivart’s, Mr. Walter Penton, from the family seat.’” She broke -off with a laugh. Walter, gazing at her, was entirely unaware what she -meant. The fashionable intelligence of the newspapers, though his mother -might possibly give an eye to it, was a blank to him; and when she met -his serious impassioned look, the girl herself was affected by it. It -was so completely sincere and true that her trifling nature was -impressed in spite of everything. She despised him in many ways, though -she was not without a certain liking for him. She was contemptuous of -his ignorance, of the self-abandonment which made him ready to follow -her wherever she went, even of his passion for herself. Emmy was very -philosophical, nay, a little cynical in her views. She was ready to say -and believe that there were many prettier girls than herself within -Walter’s reach, and the idea that he cared for anything but her -prettiness did not occur to this frank young woman. But the look of -absolute sincerity in the poor boy’s eyes touched her in spite of -herself. She put her hands on his shoulders with a momentary mute -caress, which meant sudden appreciation, sudden admiration, like that -with which an elder sister might have regarded the generous impulse of a -boy: then withdrew laughing from the closer approach which Walter, -blushing to his hair, and springing to his feet, ventured upon in -response. “No, no,” she cried, “run away now. You can come back later; -I’m very busy, I’ve got my packing to look after, and a hundred things -to do--there’s a dear boy, run away now.” - -“I am not a boy, at least not to you,” he cried, “not to you; you must -not send me away.” - -“But I must, and I do. How can I get my things ready with you hanging -about? Run away, run away, do; and you can come back later, after it’s -dark--not till after it’s dark. And then--and then--” she said. - -He obeyed her after awhile, moved by the vague beatitude of that -anticipation. “And then--” Nothing but the highest honor and tenderness -was in the young man’s thoughts. He did not know indeed what to do when -he should reach London with that companion, where he could take her, how -arrange matters for her perfect security and welfare until the moment -when he should be able to make her his wife. But somehow, either by her -superior knowledge, or by that unfailing force of pure and honest -purpose which Walter felt must always find the right way, this should be -done. He went away from her cheered and inspired. But when he had got -out of sight of the cottage he was not clear what to do for the long -interval that must elapse; home he could not go--where should he go? He -thought over the question with the icy blast in his face as he turned -toward the east. And then he came to a sudden resolution, not indeed -consciously inspired by Emmy, but which came from her practical impulse. -In another mood, at another stage, her suggestion about his money might -have shocked and startled him. It seemed now only a proof of her -superior wisdom and good sense, the perfection of mind which he felt to -be in her as well as the sweetness of manner and speech, the feeling, -the sentiment, all the fine qualities for which he gave her credit, and -for which he adored her, not only for the beauty in which alone she -believed. And if he was about to do this bold and splendid thing, to -carry off the woman he loved, and marry her by whatever means--and are -not all means sanctified by love?--surely, certainly, whatever else -might be necessary, he would want money. Having made up his mind on this -point, Walter buttoned his coat, and set off for Reading like an arrow -from a bow. There he managed to dine with great appetite, which would -have been a comfort to his mother had she known it, and had an interview -with Mr. Rochford, the solicitor, on the subject of the money which had -been left to him (as he preferred to think) by old Sir Walter, the -result of which was that he got with much ease a sum of fifty pounds (to -Walter a fortune in itself), with which in his pocket he walked back -with a tremendous sense of guilty elation, excitement, and trouble. He -lingered on the road until after dark, as she had said, until, as he -remembered so acutely, the hour of the evening meal at home, when the -family would be all gathering, and every one asking, Where is Wat? He -had rebelled before against the coercion of that family meal. This time -it drew him with a kind of lingering desire which he resisted, he who -before had half despised himself for obeying the habit and necessity of -it. He went to his old post under the hedge, not knowing whether Emmy -wished her departure with him to be known. For himself he did not care. -If everybody he knew were to appear, father and mother, and all the -authorities to whom he had ever been subject, he would have taken her -hand and led her away before their faces. So he said to himself as he -waited in the cold, half indignant, at that wonderful moment of his -fate, that any concealment should be necessary. The cottage was all -dark; there was not even a light in the upper window, such as was -sometimes there, to make him aware that she looked for him. Not a -glimmer of light and not a sound. The cottage seemed like a place of the -dead. It seemed to him so much more silent than usual that he took -fright after awhile, and this, in addition to his feeling that the time -for secrecy was over, emboldened him in his impatience. He went up to -the cottage door and knocked repeatedly more and more loudly after -awhile, with a sensation of alarm. Was it possible that old deaf Mrs. -Crockford was alone in the house? He had time to get into a perfect -fever of apprehension before he heard a heavy step coming from behind, -and the door was opened to him by Crockford himself, who filled up the -whole of the little passage. The old man had a candle in his hand. -“What, is it you, Mr. Walter?” he cried, astonished. “Where is she?” -said Walter. “What have you done with her? Will you tell her I am here?” -He could not speak of her familiarly by her name to this man. But -Crockford had no such delicacy; he stared Walter in the face, looking at -him across the flame of the candle, which waved and flickered in the -night air. - -“Emmy!” he said. “Why, Mr. Walter, she’s gone hours ago!” - -“Gone! Where has she gone? You’ve driven her away. Some one has been -here and driven her away!” - -“Ay, Mr. Walter! The fly at the Penton Arms as she ordered herself to -catch the two o’clock train; that’s what drove her away, and thankful we -was to be quit of her; and so should you be, my young gentleman, if you -was wise. She’s a little--” - -“Hold your tongue!” cried Walter. “Who has driven her away? Is it my -father?--is it--Some one has been here to interfere. Silence! If you -were not an old man I’d knock you down.” - -“Silence, and asking me a dozen questions? That’s consistent, that is! -There’s been nobody here--not a soul. She’s gone as she intended. She -told my old woman as soon as she heard I’d been down at the house. I -didn’t believe her, but she’s kept her word. All the better for you, Mr. -Walter, if you only could see it; all the better, sir. She’s not the -same as you think. She’s--” - -“Silence!” cried Walter again. “I don’t believe she has gone away at -all; you are making up a story; you are trying to deceive me!” - -At this old Crockford opened the door wider and bid him enter, and -Walter, with eyes which were hot and painful, as if the blood had got -into them, stared in, not knowing what he did. He had no desire to -investigate. He knew well enough that it was true. She had sent him out -of the way and then she had gone. She had not thought him worth the -trouble. She had wanted to get rid of him. This sudden blow awoke no -angry flush of pride, as it ought to have done. He felt no blame of her -in his mind; instead, he asked himself what he had done to disgust her -with him. It must be something he had done. He had disgusted her with -his folly--with his hesitation about transgressing any puritanical -habits of thought for her sake: and then by his talk about his home. He -remembered her flash of disappointment, of contempt, when he had owned -that it was not he who had told his father. Of course she had despised -him, how could he think otherwise? She was ready to trust herself to -him, and he had not been strong enough to make the least sacrifice for -her. He turned and went away from Crockford’s door without a word. - -And after that he did not know very well how he got through the weary -hours. He walked to the railway station and prowled all about with a -forlorn sort of hope that she might have missed her train. And then -quite suddenly it occurred to him, having nothing else to do, that he -might go home. He went, as has been seen, to his room in the dark, and -sent his mother away with an entreaty to be left alone. He was not -touched by his mother’s voice, or her touch or blessing. He was -impatient of them, his mind being full of other things. His mind, -indeed, was full of Emmy--full to bursting. It might be well for him -that she was gone, if he could have thought so. He half agreed to that -in his soul. But he would not think so. Had he carried her off -triumphantly his mind would have been full of a hundred tremors, but to -lose her now was more than he could bear. He lay thinking it all over, -longing for the morning, in the dark, without candle or any other -comfort, sleeping now and then, waking only to a keener consciousness. -And then he became aware by some change in the chill, for there was none -in the light, that it was morning. He got up in the dark--he had not -undressed, but had been lying on the bed with the coverlet drawn over -him in his morning clothes. It was very cold and blank, the skies all -gloom, the river showing one pale gleam and no more. He got up as -quietly as he could and stole down-stairs and opened stealthily the -house door. No one was stirring, not even the servants, though in so -full a house they were always early. The fresh morning air blew in his -face and refreshed him. He felt his fifty pounds in his pocket. He -scarcely thought of the misery he would leave behind him. Long enough, -he said to himself, he had been bound by the family, now his own life -was in question, and he must act for himself. There was a train at half -past six which he could just catch. How different it was from his night -drive so short a time ago! Then he was acting reluctantly for others, -now willingly for himself. The cold air blew in his face with a dash of -rain in it. He shut the gate quietly not to make a noise, but never -looked back. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVII. - -THE LOST SON. - - -The parents respected poor Wat’s seclusion, his misery and trouble, -though it was so hard to keep away from him; not to go and talk to him, -remonstrating or consoling; not to carry him a tray, to implore him to -eat a little. They resisted all these impulses: the last, perhaps, was -the most difficult. Lady Penton had to call to her aid all the forces of -her mind, to strengthen herself by every consideration of prudence, -before she could overcome the burning desire which came back and back, -with renewed temptation, a hundred times in the course of the evening to -take up that tray. A few sandwiches, a little claret, or some beer, -would have done him no harm; and who could tell whether he had eaten -enough to sustain his strength in the course of the day? But, what with -her own self-reminders that it was wiser to leave him to himself, what -with the half taunts, half remonstrances of her husband--“If I am not to -say a word to him, which I believe is nonsense, why should -you?”--holding herself as it were with both hands, she managed to -refrain. The first time that such a breach comes into a family--that one -member of it withdraws in darkness and silence into his own room, not -to be disturbed, not to be found fault with, not even to be -comforted--till to-morrow--how keen is the pang of the separation, how -poignant the sense of his solitude and anguish! In such circumstances it -is the culprit generally who suffers least. The grieved and perhaps -angered parents, pondering what to say to him, how to do what is best -for him, how not to say too much, afraid to make the fault appear too -grave, afraid to make too little of it, casting about in their anxious -souls what to do: the brothers and sisters looking on in the background, -questioning each other with bated breath, their imaginations all busy -with that too touching, too suggestive picture of the offender in his -room, left to himself, eating nothing, communicating with nobody--how -dreadful when it is for the first time! what a heartbreaking and -hopeless wretchedness when custom has made it common, and there is no -longer any confidence in remonstrance or appeal. It is generally some -evident breach of the proprieties or minor morals that is the cause of -such a domestic event. But this time nobody knew what Walter had done. -What had he done? it could not be anything wrong. He had quarreled with -father: to be sure that was as though the heavens had fallen: but yet it -could only be a mistake. Father no doubt had been impatient; Wat had -been affronted. They had not waited, either of them, to explain. The -girls made it clear to each other in this way. At all events, it was all -over now. No doubt poor Wat had spent a miserable day: but no one would -remind him of it by a word, by so much as a look, and it was all over, -and would be remembered no more. - -The parents got up in the morning with many a troubled thought. They -asked each other what it would be best to say. Perhaps it would be -wisest to say as little as possible: perhaps only to point out to him -that, in his position, now truly the heir of Penton, any premature -matrimonial project would be ruinous: that he was far too young; that in -any case, supposing the lady were the most eligible person in the world, -it would be necessary to wait. - -“If that is what he is thinking of,” said Sir Edward. - -“What else could he be thinking of?” cried Lady Penton. - -Or if perhaps it was only a passing folly, a foolish little flirtation, -nothing serious at all? Then perhaps a few words only, to remind him -that in his position one must not do such things, one must not lead a -silly girl to form expectations-- - -“Oh, bother the silly girl!” said Sir Edward; “what are her expectations -to us? It is Wat I am thinking of.” - -“Dear Edward,” said the mother, “he will be far, far more likely to see -the folly of it if you show him that it might have a bad effect upon -another.” - -At this Sir Edward shook his head, thinking that his wife did not here -show her usual good sense, but he made no objection in words, and -finally it was decided between them that as little as possible was to be -said, nothing at all at first, and that the poor boy was to be allowed -to have his breakfast in peace. - -But at breakfast Walter did not appear. It was thought at first that he -was late on purpose, waiting perhaps till the children had -finished--till he might have a hope of being alone; or at least, if he -had to face his father, to secure that no one else should be present -when he was called to account. By and by, however, a thrill of alarm -began to be felt; and then came a terrible disclosure which froze their -very blood--Gardener coming to his work very early in the morning had -met Mr. Walter leaving the house. He had on his big great-coat and a bag -in his hand, and he was in a great hurry, as a man might be who was bent -on catching the seven o’clock train. Walter’s room was searched at once -in case he should have left a note or anything to explain: but there was -not a scrap of explanation. He was gone, that was clear. He had taken -some linen, a change of dress in his bag; his drawers were left open, -and all the contents thrown about, as is usual when a man selects for -himself a few articles of dress to take with him. The look of these -drawers carried dismay to his mother’s heart. He was gone. Where had he -gone? So young, so little accustomed to independent action, so ignorant -of the world! Where had the boy gone? what had happened to him? Lady -Penton recollected after the event, as we so often do, that Walter had -made no response to her suggestions of what was to be said and done -to-morrow. He had answered “Good-night, mother,” and no more; that was -no answer. He had never said he would accept her advice to-morrow, that -he would discuss what had happened, or hear what his father had to say. -“Good-night, mother,” that was all he had said. And oh! she might have -known, when he eluded the subject in this way--she might have known! She -ought to have been on her guard. Sir Edward said very little; his face -grew dark with anger and indignation, and he walked off at once in the -direction of the village without saying where he meant to go. All at -once from their happiness and unsuspecting peace the family plunged into -that depth of dismay and misery which comes with the first great family -anxiety. It seemed to them all who were old enough to understand -anything about it that a great shame and horror had come into the midst -of them. Walter had left home without a word; they did not know where he -was, or why he had gone, or in whose company. Could anything be more -terrible? Just grown to man’s estate, and he had disappeared, and no one -knew where he had gone! - -The period that followed is beyond description in these pages. Out of -the clear serenity of innocent life this blameless household fell--as -into an abyss of terror and shame, of new experiences unthought of, and -new conditions. The girls, with a gasp, behind backs, scarcely daring to -look at each other, heard their mother say to Mab, who was so great an -aggravation of their trouble, that Walter had gone--to town on business; -that he had preparations to make and things to get before he went to -Oxford. Lady Penton said this in a voice which scarcely faltered, -looking the visitor, who was so sadly out of place in the midst of the -agitated company, in the face all the time. - -“Oh, to be sure,” said Mab, “they always do. Any excuse is good enough -for gentlemen, don’t you think, Lady Penton? they are always so pleased -to get to town.” - -Lady Penton looked quite gratefully at the girl. “Yes,” she said; “they -all like it.” - -“And so should I,” said little Mab, “if I were a boy.” - -It was not of any importance what little Mab said, and yet it was -astonishing how it comforted Lady Penton. She said to the girls -afterward that living so quietly as they had all done made people -disposed to make mountains out of mole-hills. “But you see that little -girl thinks it quite a common sort of thing,” she said. - -But Sir Edward’s gloomy face was not a thing that was capable of any -disguise. He was in movement the whole day long. He went all about, -taking long walks, and next day went up to London, and was absent from -morning to night. He never said anything, nor did the girls venture to -question him. There seemed to have grown a great difference between -them--a long, long interval separating him from his daughters. He had -long private conversations with his wife when he came back; indeed, she -would withdraw into the book-room when she saw him coming, as if to be -ready for him. And they would shut themselves up and talk for an hour at -a time, with a continuous low murmur of voices. - -“Oh, mother, tell us,” Ally or Anne would cry when they could find her -alone for a moment, “is there any news? has father found anything out?” -to which Lady Penton would reply, with a shake of her head, “Your father -hopes to find him very soon. Oh, don’t ask questions! I am not able to -answer you,” she would say. - -This seemed to go on for ages--for almost a life-time--so that they -began to forget how peaceful their lives had been before; and to go into -Walter’s room, which they did constantly, and look at his bed, made up -in cold order and tidiness, never disturbed. To see it all so tidy, not -even a pair of boots thrown about or a tie flung on the table, made -their hearts die within them. It was as if Walter were dead--almost -worse. It seemed more dreadful than death to think that they did not -know where he was. - -And Mab stayed on for one long endless week. Some one of them had always -to be with her, trying to amuse her; talking, or making an effort to -talk. Lady Penton was the one who succeeded best. She would let the girl -chatter to her for an hour together, and never miss saying the right -thing in the right place, or giving Mab the appropriate smile and -encouragement. How could she do it? the girls wondered and asked each -other. Did she like that little chatter? How did she bear it? Did it -make her forget? Or finally--a suggestion which they hardly dared to -make--did mother not care so very much; Was that possible? When one is -young and very young, one can not believe that the older people suffer -as one feels one’s self to suffer. It seems impossible that they can do -it. They go steadily on and order dinner every day, and point out to the -house-maid when she has not dusted as she ought. This suggestion to the -house-maid (which they called scolding Mary) was a great stumbling-block -to the girls. They did not understand how their mother could be very -miserable about Walter, and yet find fault, nay, find out at all the -dust upon the books. They themselves lived in a world suddenly turned -into something different from the world they had known, where the air -kept whispering as if it had a message to deliver, and sounds were about -the house at night as of some one coming, always coming, who never came. -They had not known what the mystery of the darkness was before, the -great profundity of night in which somewhere their brother might be -wandering homeless, in what trouble and distress who could tell? or what -aching depths of distance was in the great full staring daylight, -through which they gazed and gazed and looked for him, but never saw -him. How intolerable Mab became with her chatter; how they chafed even -at their mother’s self-command, and the steadiness with which she went -on keeping the house in order, it would be difficult to say. Their -father, though they scarcely ventured to speak to him in his -self-absorbed and resentful gloom, had more of their sympathy. He not -only suffered, but looked as if he suffered. He lost his color, he lost -his appetite, he was restless, incapable of keeping still. He could no -longer bear the noise of the children, and sickened at the sight of -food. And there was Mab all the time, to whom Lady Penton had told that -story about Walter, but who, when they felt sure, knew better, having -learned to read their faces, and to see the restrained misery, the -tension of suspense. Oh, if this spectator, this observer, with her -quick eyes, which it was so difficult to elude, would but go away! - -At last it was announced that the Russell Pentons were coming to fetch -her, an event which the household regarded with mingled relief and -alarm. Sir Edward’s face grew gloomier than ever. “They have come to spy -out the nakedness of the land,” he said; “Alicia will divine what -anxiety we are in, and she will not be sorry.” - -“Oh, hush, Edward,” said his wife; “we do not want her to be sorry. Why -should she be sorry? she knows nothing.” - -“You think so,” he cried; “but depend upon it everybody knows.” - -“Why should everybody know? Nobody shall know from me; and the girls -will betray nothing. They know nothing, poor children. If you will only -try to look a little cheerful yourself, and keep up appearances--” - -“Cheerful!” he said, with something of the same feeling as the girls -had, that she could not surely care so much. Was it possible that she -did not care? But nevertheless he tried to do something to counteract -that droop of his mouth, and make his voice a little more flexible and -natural, when the sound of the wheels on the gravel told that the -Pentons had come. Meanwhile Mab had gone, attended by the sisters, to -make her preparations for going. They had packed her things for her, an -office to which she was not accustomed, while she mourned over her -departure, and did their best not to show her that this was a feeling -they did not share. - -Mab lingered a little after the carriage arrived. She wanted to show her -sympathy, though it was not quite easy to see how that was to be done. -She remained silent for a minute or so, and then she said, “I haven’t -liked to say anything, but I’ve been very, very sorry,” giving Ally a -sudden kiss as she spoke. - -The two girls looked at each other, as was their wont, and Anne, who was -always the most prompt, asked, “Sorry for what?” - -“Do you really, really not know where he is?” said Mab, without pausing -to reply. “I think I could tell you where he is. He is in town -with--some one--” - -“Some one?” they both cried, with a sudden pang of excitement, as though -they were on the verge of a discovery; for unless she knew -something--though how could she know anything?--it seemed impossible -that she could speak so. - -“Oh, the one he went out every night to see. There must have been -somebody. When they go out every night like that it is always to -see--some one,” she said, nodding her head in the certainty of her -superior knowledge of the world. - -“Oh, how do you know? You are mistaken if you think that Walter--how can -you know about such things?” - -“Because I am little,” said Mab, “and not very old, that’s not to say -that I haven’t been a great deal about: and I’ve heard people talking. -They pretend they don’t talk before girls. I suppose they think they -don’t. They stop themselves just enough to make you want to find out, -and then they forget you are there, and say all sorts of things. That’s -where he is, you may be sure: and he will come back by and by, -especially if he wants money. You needn’t be afraid. That is what they -all do. Oh, listen; they are calling us from down-stairs! I am so sorry -I must go: I wish I could stay: I like this better than any place I ever -stayed at, and you’ve all been so kind. Write to me and tell me, will -you, all about it? I shall be anxious to know. But don’t make yourselves -miserable, for he will come back when he has spent his money, or -when--Yes, we are coming! We are coming! Ally, mind you write and tell -me. I shall want so much to know.” - -They tried to interrupt her again and again to tell her she was -mistaken; that Walter had only gone to town; that they were not anxious, -or ignorant where he was, or unhappy about him: with much more to the -same effect; but Mab’s cheerful certainty that she was right overpowered -their faltering affirmations, of which she took no notice. She kissed -them both with enthusiasm in the midst of her little harangue, and ran -on with expressions of her regret as they went down-stairs. “Oh, I wish -Lady Penton would have me for good,” Mab said; “but you don’t care for -me as I do for you.” - -Meanwhile, in the drawing-room, Lady Penton was receiving her visitors -with an eager cordiality that was scarcely consistent with her nature, -and which was meant to show not only that she was entirely at her ease, -but that her husband’s gloom, which he had tried to shake off, but not -very successfully, did not mean anything. As a matter of fact, the -Russell Pentons, knowing nothing of the circumstances of Walter’s -disappearance, were quite unaware of any effort, or any reason why an -effort should be made. They interpreted the husband’s half-resentful -looks--for that was the natural aspect of distress with Edward -Penton--and the excessive courtesy and desire to please, of his wife, as -fully accounted for by the position toward each other in which the two -families stood. Why should Edward Penton be resentful? He had got his -rights, those rights upon which he had stood so strongly when his cousin -Alicia had paid her previous visit. She was ready to put a private -interpretation of her own on everything she saw. He had resisted then -her proposals and overtures, although afterward he had been anxious to -accede to them; and now he was disappointed and vexed that the bargain -against which he had stood out at first had come to nothing, and that -she would not relieve him from the burden of the expensive house which -he had first refused to give up and then been so anxious to be quit of. -How inconsistent! How feeble! And the wife endeavoring with her little -fuss of politeness to make up, perhaps thinking that she might succeed -where her husband had failed! This was how Mrs. Russell Penton -interpreted the aspect of the poor people whose object was to conceal -their unhappiness from all eyes, and that nobody might have a word to -say against the boy who was racking their hearts. - -“I have been sorry to leave Mab so long, to give you the trouble,” Mrs. -Russell Penton said, with her stiff dignity. “Her uncle, in his -consideration for me, did not think of your inconvenience, I fear.” - -“There has been no inconvenience. We are so many that one more or less -does not matter. We have treated her without ceremony, as one of the -family--” - -“And made her very happy, evidently,” said Russell Penton. “She is very -unwilling to come away.” - -And then there was a pause. That Mab Russell, the heiress, should be -treated as one of the family by these poor Pentons was to Alicia a -reversal of every rule which she could scarcely accept without a -protest. “It must have been a glimpse of life very different from -anything she has been accustomed to,” she said at last. - -“Yes, poor little thing! with no brothers or sisters of her own.” - -“She has compensations,” said Russell Penton, with a glimmer of humor in -his eyes. But Lady Penton looked at him without any response in hers. He -was so surprised at this, and bewildered that Mab’s value should not be -known, that involuntarily, out of the commotion in his own mind, he put -a question which seemed full of meaning to the troubled listeners. “I -don’t see your son,” he said. - -The father and mother exchanged a miserable look. “It is known, then,” -their eyes said to each other: and in spite of herself the blood rushed -to Lady Penton’s face and then ebbed away again, leaving her faint and -pallid; but she made an effort at a smile. “Walter,” she said, “is not -at home. He is going to Oxford in a month or two, and he is away for a -little.” - -“Taking a holiday?” suggested Russell Penton, with a curious -consciousness, though without any understanding, of trouble in the air. - -“Oh, it is rather--business,” said the mother. Sir Edward did not change -that aspect of severe gravity which he had borne all the time. He had -too much set wretchedness in his face to change as she did. “You have -been more good to him,” she continued, glad of the excuse which -justified her trembling voice, “more good than words can say.” - -“I have no right to any credit: I only carried out my father’s wishes,” -said Mrs. Penton. How severe her tone was! how clear that she was aware -that Walter, the recipient of her kindness, had shown himself unworthy! -If anything could have made these poor people more unhappy it was -this--that their precautions seemed useless and their trouble known. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVIII. - -KEEPING UP APPEARANCES. - - -The Russell Pentons stayed a long time--at least, these anxious people -thought so, who believed their visitors to be noting the signs of their -unhappiness, and forming still stronger and stronger conclusions against -their son. The effort Lady Penton made to carry on the conversation was -one of those efforts, gigantic, unappreciated, in which women have -sometimes to make an expenditure of strength which is equal to years of -ordinary exertion. Who can tell the burden it was to talk, to smile, to -exhaust all the trivial subjects that occurred to her, to keep at a -distance all those graver topics which might bring in Walter--which -might lead to discussion of where he was or how employed? She saw, so to -speak, half a mile off those tendencies of conversation which might lead -to him, and, with a sudden leap, would get away from these to another -and another theme, which each in its turn would have to be dismissed and -avoided. “All roads lead to Rome,” says the proverb; and when there is a -certain subject which it is desirable to avoid, all the streamlets of -conversation, by some curious tendency, go to that with infallible -force. Lady Penton had to go through a series of mental gymnastics to -avoid it--to keep her visitors from any thought of Walter--to hide him, -or rather to hide the terrible blank in the house where he ought to have -been. Had he been in his usual place the conversation would never have -touched him; and, as a matter of fact, the Russell Penton’s did not -think of him any more than they did of Horry in the nursery, a stray -shout from whom could sometimes be heard, leaving no one in any doubt as -to his whereabouts. But the mother, flying from subject to subject, -talking as she had never been known to talk in her life before, and her -taciturn husband, who said not a word that he could help saying--both -felt that their misery was open and evident, that the Russell Pentons -were saying in their hearts, “Poor people!” or making reflections that -the boy’s upbringing must have been bad indeed when he had “gone wrong” -at such an early age. Lady Penton felt instinctively that this was what -must be going through Alicia’s mind. The childless woman always says -so--it is one of the commonplaces of morals. If he had been brought up -as he ought he would not have gone wrong. This and a hundred other -things went buzzing through the poor mother’s head, confusing her as she -talked and talked. “Oh,” she said to herself, “it is better that they -should think that!--better blame us--blame _me_, who have been -overindulgent, perhaps, or oversevere--overanything, so long as they do -not blame _him_!” But the father was not so disinterested; he was angry -as well as miserable. He would have had Walter bear his own guilt; he -would not allow those critics who had never had a son to say that it was -the parents’ fault. So he stood with that resentment in his face, saying -so little, only making an annoyed remark when appealed to, short, with -suppressed temper in it, while his wife smiled and ran on. How like -Edward Penton that was! his cousin thought. He had made a proposal to -her which she in her pride would not accept, and his pride could not -forgive her. Alicia felt that she understood it all--as well as the -silly attempt of the wife to smooth it all over and make peace between -them--as if the two Pentons did not understand each other better than -any outsider! as if this question between them could be smoothed away by -her! - -“You will let me come back again?” said Mab, rubbing her little cheek -like a kitten against Lady Penton’s ear. “I will never go away unless -you say that I may come back.” - -“What a threat!” said Russell Penton. “In order to get rid of you, Mab, -the promise will have to be made.” - -“Not to get rid of her: we don’t want to get rid of her. Yes, my dear, -certainly as soon--as soon as we are settled, when the house is not so -dull--” - -“It isn’t dull, no one can be dull with you. I will tell you what I want -in a whisper. I want to come and stay altogether; I want you to have me -altogether,” said Mab, in the confidence of her wealth. - -“My dear!” cried Lady Penton, faltering. In spite of her preoccupations -she was a little alarmed. She put it off with a kiss of farewell. “You -must come as often as you like,” she said. “It is sweet of you to wish -to come. We shall always be glad to see you, either here or--wherever we -may be.” - -“At Penton,” said Mab, once more rubbing her little head against the -woman to whom she clung. “Uncle Russell, oh, ask her to have me! There -is no place where I could be so happy.” - -“You must come as soon as we are settled,” said Lady Penton, in real -panic, putting the supplicant away. - -Alicia had turned during this too tender and prolonged leave-taking, -with a little indignation, to the master of the house. She had never -herself either attracted or been attracted to Mab, and she felt -resentful, annoyed, even jealous--though she cared nothing for the -little thing and her whims--of this sudden devotion. She stood by her -cousin, who was resentful and indignant too. “Edward,” she said to him, -“we needn’t quarrel, at least. I know you meant well in offering me -Penton. Don’t be displeased because I couldn’t accept it--I couldn’t, -from any one, unless it had been my right.” - -“Penton! do you think of nothing but Penton?” he cried, suddenly, with -an incomprehensible impatience of the subject--that subject which had -once seemed so important, which appeared to him so small now. - -“I speak for the sake of peace,” she said, coldly; “that need not stand -between us now. We go away in a week. The things I mean to remove will -be gone within a month. What I wish you to know is, that you may make -arrangements for your removal as soon as you please.” - -“Oh, for our removal! yes, yes,” he said, impatiently; “there is no -hurry about that: if that was all one had to think of--” - -“I am sorry that you should have other things to think of. To me it -seems very important,” Mrs. Russell Penton said. - -“Ah! you have nobody but yourself to be concerned about,” he said. But -then he met his wife’s look of warning, and added no more. - -Russell Penton lingered a little behind the rest. “Let me speak a word -to you,” he said, detaining Lady Penton; and her heart, which had begun -to beat feebly as an end approached to this excitement, leaped up again -with an energy which made her sick and faint. Could he know something -about Walter? might he have some news to tell her? Her face flushed, and -then became the color of ashes, a change of which he was wonderingly -aware, though without a notion as to why it was, “You are alarmed,” he -said, “about--” - -“No, no!” she interrupted, faintly; “not alarmed. Oh, no, you must not -think so--not frightened at all,” but with fear pale and terrible, and -suspense which was desperate, in every line of her countenance. - -Russell Penton himself grew frightened too. “There is nothing to alarm -you,” he said, “about little Mab.” - -“Oh!” the breath which had almost failed her came back. A sudden change -came over her face; she smiled, though her smile was ghastly. -“About--Mab?” she said. - -“It is alarming, the way in which she flings herself upon you; but you -must let me explain. I see that you think her just a little girl like -any other, and her proposal to come and stay with you altogether is -enough to make even the most generous pause. But that is not what she -means, Lady Penton. She is very rich; she is a little heiress.” - -The words did not seem to convey much significance to Lady Penton’s -bewildered soul. “A little heiress,” she repeated, vaguely, as if that -information threw no light upon the matter. Was she stupid? he asked -himself, or ridiculously disinterested, altogether unlike the other -women who have sons? “Very rich--really with a great fortune--but no -home. She is too young to live by herself. She has never developed the -domestic affections before. I should like very well to keep her, but it -would be a burden on Alicia. Will you think it over? She has evidently -set her heart on you, and if would do her so much good to be with people -she cared for. There would of course be a very good allowance, if you -will let me say so. Do think it over.” - -They had reached the door by this time, where Sir Edward was solemnly -putting his cousin into her carriage. Mr. Russell Penton pressed Lady -Penton’s hand with a little meaning as he said good-bye. “Walter might -have a try too,” he said, with a laugh, as he turned away. - -Walter might have--a try. A try at what? His mother’s head swam. She put -her arm through that of Anne, who stood near her, and kept smiling, -waving her hand to Mab in the carriage: but Lady Penton scarcely saw -what she was looking at. There was something moving, dazzling before her -eyes--the horses, the glitter of the panels, the faces, flickered before -her; and then came a rush of sound, the horses’ hoofs, the carriage -wheels grinding the gravel, and they were gone. Oh, how thankful she -felt when they were gone! The girls led her in, frightened by her -failing strength, and then Sir Edward came, as gloomy as ever, and -leaned over her. - -“I don’t think they knew,” he said; “I don’t think they had heard -anything.” - -Lady Penton repeated to herself several times over “Walter might have a -try,” and then she too burst forth, “No, Edward, thank God! I am sure -they did not know.” - -He shook his head, though he was so much relieved, and said, half -reluctant to confess that he was relieved, “But if it lasts much longer -they must know. How can it be kept from them, and from everybody, if it -lasts much longer?” - -The girls looked at each other, but did not speak; for they were aware, -though no one else was, that Mab _knew_; and could it be supposed that -_that_ little thing, who did not belong to them, who had no reason for -sharing their troubles, would keep it to herself and never tell? - -They had all thought it would be a relief to be rid of the little -spectator and critic, the stranger in the house, and for a time it was -so. The rest of the afternoon after she was gone the girls and their -mother spent together talking it all over. They had never been able -uninterruptedly to talk it over before, and there was a certain painful -enjoyment in going over every detail, in putting all the facts they -knew together, and comparing their views. Sir Edward had gone out to -take one of his long solemn walks, from which he always came in more -gloomy, more resentful than ever. He was going up to town once more -to-morrow. Once more! He had gone up almost every day, but never had -discovered anything, never had found the lost. And in his absence, and -freed from Mab, whom they had not been able to get rid of at any moment, -what a long, long consultation they had, talking over everything, except -what Mab had suggested. She had said it with the intention of consoling, -but the girls could not repeat it to each other, or breathe to their -mother the suggestion she had made. They were not educated to that -point. That their brother should have married foolishly, made an idol of -some girl who was not his equal, and followed her out into the unknown -world, was dreadful, but comprehensible; but that he should come back by -and by when he wanted money--oh, no, no! What they imagined was that -scene so well known to romance--the foolish young pair coming back, -stealing in, he leading her, ashamed yet proud of her, to ask his -parents’ forgiveness. The girls went over the details of this scene -again and again as soon as they had heard all that their mother had to -tell them. - -“She must be beautiful,” they said; “she may be nice--oh, she must be -nice or Wat would not love her!” - -“Oh, my dears,” cried Lady Penton, “how can we tell? It is not good -girls and nice girls who lead young men away from their duty.” - -“But, mother, if they love each other!” said Ally, blushing over all her -ingenuous, innocent countenance, with the awe and wonder of that great -thing. - -Lady Penton did not say anything more, but she shook her head, and then -it was for the first time that there came over her the poignant -suggestion of that “might have been” which she had not taken into her -mind till now. Walter might have a try; little Mab with her heiress-ship -had been thrown at his head, as people say: and what it might have been -had these two taken to each other--had a great fortune been poured into -Penton! Lady Penton had never known what a great piece of good fortune -was; she was not one who expected such things. The very advantages of -it, the desirableness, made it to her temperate soul the less likely. -It never could have come to pass, all the contrarieties of nature were -against it; but still, when she thought that they had spent so many days -under the same roof, and might have spent so many more, and how suitable -it would have been, and what a good thing for Walter, it was not -wonderful that she should sigh. But that was the course of nature, it -was the way of human affairs. It was too good ever to come true. - -After the first night, the relief of Mab’s departure was not so evident -to them. She had been a restraint, not only upon their conversations and -consultations, but on the entire abandonment of their life and thoughts -to this anxiety and distress. They had been compelled on her account to -bear the strain, to make a struggle against it. Now there was no longer -that motive. Night and day their ears were intent on every sound; there -was always a watcher at the window in the staircase, which commanded the -ascending path to the village, a sort of lookout woman ready to dash -down-stairs and give notice if by chance--ah! no, by the blessing of -God--the wanderer might be seen coming home. The watch here was furtive, -lest the servants should note, but it was continual; one or another was -always lingering about, looking out with eyes keen and sharp with -anxiety--“busy in the distance shaping things, that made the heart beat -thick.” And so the days passed on, languishing, with dark nights so -endless-long in which the anxious watchers could hear only and could not -see. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIX. - -ALLY’S PART. - - -Sir Edward Penton went to London most days, but he never found out -anything. He was not the sort of man to act as an amateur detective, and -he would not appeal to the professionals in that capacity. He was an -old-fashioned man, and it seemed to him that “to set the police after” -his son was an indignity impossible. He could not do it. He tramped -about himself, yearning, angry, very tender underneath, thinking if he -could only see Walter, meet him, which always seems so likely to country -people, in the street, that all would be well. He went to all the places -Crockford could tell him of--to Emmy’s mother, a faded old actress of -the lower class, whose faded graces, and her vivacity, and what had -been, or had been supposed to be, her fascination, made poor Sir -Edward’s heart sink into his boots. But she professed to know nothing of -her daughter’s movements, and nothing at all of any gentleman. There had -been a gentleman, she allowed, a young man connected with business--but -it had been to escape from his addresses that her child had gone to the -country: and Emmy was far too high-minded to keep company with any one -of whom her mother did not know. In his despair Sir Edward even sought -out the shop in which this gentleman in his business hours was to be -found, and had an interview with the young man whose appearance in the -village had so much alarmed and almost disgusted Walter. No information -was to be obtained from him. He declared sullenly that he knew nothing -about the girl: yes, he had known her, he didn’t deny; he had thought -more of her than she was worth. Though it was going against all his -family he had stuck to her for a long time, and would have stuck to her -as long as she had stuck to him: but he knew nothing about her now. “Is -it money, guv’nor; somebody left her a fortune?” he asked at the end of -the interview, with a laugh which disconcerted Sir Edward. This was -almost all he had been able to do, except tramping about the streets -wherever he could think his son was likely to go. The poor gentleman -increased his knowledge of London in the most wonderful way during these -miserable days. He found out all kinds of back streets and alleys, and -corners of building such as he had never remarked before, but all with a -veil over them, a mist of trouble. London in January is dark enough even -when the eyes are not clouded with suffering and anxiety; but with these -added how miserable were the chill streets, the low skies, the yellow -thickness of the atmosphere, the hopeless throngs of unknown men and -women, always blank, always unresponsive to those strained and troubled -eyes! Sometimes he thought he saw before him a slim young figure, moving -quickly, as Walter might, through the crowd, and hurried vainly after -it, pursuing at a hopeless distance, only to lose it in the -ever-changing groups. Sometimes with the corner of his eye he would -catch a glimpse of some one disappearing round a corner, plunging into a -side street, who might be his boy. Alas! it was always a might-be. No -happy chance brought them face to face. Had there been no particular -reason for it they would have met, no doubt, in the simplest way; but -this is one of the cases in which, as daily experience proves, those who -seek do not find. And when Sir Edward returned home after a day so -spent, the gloom he brought with him was like a London fog descending -bodily upon the country. Probably there had been a little deadening of -trouble in the physical exertion and gloomy expectation of these -expeditions; but he brought an embodied darkness and desolation home. - -On one of the days of his absence Ally was acting as a sort of sentinel -in the garden: that is, she was taking a walk, as they said, but with an -eye always upon the road and the gate--when her anxious mind was -distracted by a sound of approaching wheels, coming, not down the hill, -but along the river bank. It was a gray day, damp and soft, with no -wind; one of those days which are not unusual in the valley of the -Thames; not cold, save for the chill of the damp; very still; the river -winding round the Hook in a pale and glistening link; the sky about the -same color, which was no color at all, the leafless trees rising black -as if photographed upon the gray. The river was lower than usual at this -season, though it still flowed with a cruel motion round that little -promontory as if meaning to make that bit of vantage ground its own some -day. Ally was very sad and quiet, walking up and down, feeling as if -life had come altogether to a stand-still save for that one thing; -nothing else happening; nothing else seeming ever likely to happen. That -furtive little current which had seemed for a moment to rise in her own -life had died away. It seemed a long time since those days when young -Rochford had come so often to Penton Hook. Perhaps his desire to come -often had something to do with the delay which had so changed the face -of affairs. This had occurred to Ally more than once, and had given her -a secret feeling that it was perhaps her fault, but she had not felt -able to regret it. But now all that was over, and Mr. Rochford came no -longer. There was nothing for him to come about; and Ally remembered -with a sort of half pang, half shame, the reception which had been given -to his mother and sister when they called, and the curious sense of -mingled superiority and inferiority which had overwhelmed her in their -presence. They were far better acquainted with the world than she was; -they were “in society,” or, at least, had that air of it which imposes -upon simple people; but she was Miss Penton of Penton. She had felt then -a great though always half-ashamed pleasure in remembering that -elevation: but she had not the same sensations now. She felt that she -was a snob (if a girl can be called a snob). She was ungrateful, for -they had been very kind to her, and mean and petty, and everything that -is most contemptible--feeling herself, only because of Penton (in which -there was no merit) somehow exalted above them, the solicitor’s mother -and sister. Many times since she had blushed at that incident, and -sometimes at the most inappropriate moments; when she woke up in the -middle of the night a flush would go over her from head to foot, -thinking of what a poor creature, what a miserable little snob she was; -a girl-snob, far worse than any other kind; worse than anything Mr. -Thackeray had put in his book. Ally, like most people of her age, -thought she did not like Mr. Thackeray, who seemed to her to make -everybody look as if they had bad motives; but even he, so crushing as -he was to a little girl’s optimism, had not gone so far in his cynical -views as to think of a snob who was a girl. Perhaps she was wrong here, -putting limits which did not exist to the great humorist’s imagination, -but that was what she believed. And she was that girl-snob, which was a -thing too bad to be conceived by fancy. She had repented this, and she -had felt, though vaguely in the rush of other experiences, the blank -that had fallen upon that opening chapter in which there had once seemed -so much to come, but which had, to all appearance, ended all at once -without anything coming of it. This chilled her gentle soul, she could -scarcely tell why. How wretched that ball at Penton would have been to -her, what a painful blight upon her girlish fancies, if it had not been -for these kind people, if it had not been for _him_. Yes; that was the -chief point after all, though she was ashamed to admit it to herself. It -had been a pleasant break upon the monotony of life when _he_ paid these -frequent visits, when he talked in that suggestive way, making her think -of things which he did not mention, raising a soft commotion which she -did not understand in her simple being. It had been like a chill to her -to perceive that all this was over. It was all over and done with, -apparently; it had all dropped like the falling of a curtain over a -drama just begun. She had wanted to know how it would all end, what its -progress would be, the scenes that would follow: and lo, no scenes had -followed at all, the curtain had come down. How wicked and wrong, how -horrid it was to think of it at all in the midst of the great calamity -that had fallen on the family, to wish even that mother might forget -poor Wat for an hour, and go and call, and so make up for the coldness -of Mrs. Rochford’s reception! This was a thing, however, which Ally had -never suggested, which she thought it dreadful to have even thought of -in the present trouble. She defended herself to herself by saying that -she had not thought of it--it had only flashed across her mind without -any will of hers, which is a very different thing, as everybody knows. - -And was it possible while she wandered up and down, always with her -attention fixed on the gate, always looking for news, for her father’s -return, for a telegraph boy, for--oh, if that might be! for Walter -himself; was it possible that some feeling about this other matter -intruded into her mind and shared the thoughts which should have been -all devoted to her brother? Ally trembled a little, but could not but -blame herself, for she did nothing of the kind with her own will. She -only felt a little chill, a little blank, a wonder how that story, if it -had gone on, if the curtain had not fallen so abruptly, might have -ended. It would have been interesting to know; a broken-off story is -always tantalizing, distressful--the world becomes duller when it breaks -off and you never know the end. Perhaps this had floated across her mind -dimly, not interfering with the watch she was keeping, when suddenly the -wheels which had been rolling along, not disturbing her attention--for -they did not come in the direction whence news could be -expected--startled her by suddenly stopping outside the gate. Who could -it be? Her heart began to beat. She made a few steps quickly toward the -gate. It could not be her father; could it be Walter bringing back his -bride? What could it be? But here suddenly her heart gave another -bewildering spring. She felt her breath taken away altogether. The -vehicle had stopped outside; and it was young Rochford, in all the gloss -of his usual trim appearance, with the usual flower in his coat, who -came forward, quickening his steps as he saw her. He did not look quite -as he used to look. There was a little doubt about him, as though he -did not know how he was to be received--a little pride, as of a man who -would draw back at once if he were discouraged. Ally could not help -making a few steps further to meet him. She was glad to meet him--oh, -there was no doubt of that!--and not only so, but to feel the curtain -slowly drawing up again, the story beginning once more, gave everything -around a different aspect. She said, “Oh, Mr. Rochford!” with a voice -that had welcome in it as well as surprise. - -“I have come about some business,” he said; but his eyes had already -asked several questions, and seemed to derive a certain satisfaction -from the unspoken replies. He added, lowering his voice, “I have been on -the point of coming almost every day--but I felt as if perhaps--I might -not be welcome.” - -“Why?” said Ally, with an astonished look, which had no guilt in it; -for, indeed, it was not to him, but to his mother and sister, that she -had felt herself to behave like a snob. - -“I scarcely know,” he said. “I thought Sir Edward might feel perhaps -that my delay--. But I always half felt, Miss Penton, that you--would be -rather pleased with the delay: you and your brother.” - -“Yes,” she said, with a little shiver at Walter’s name; “it was wrong, -perhaps, to go against my father; but I think perhaps we were glad--a -little.” - -“That has been a consolation; and then--But I must not trouble you with -all my reasons for staying away, when most likely you never observed -that I stayed away at all.” - -Ally made no reply to this speech, which was so full of meaning. It was, -indeed, so full of evident meaning that it put her on her guard. - -“My father is in town,” she said, “if it is business; but perhaps -mother--” - -“I am too glad,” he said, “to meet you first, even for the business’ -sake.” - -Ally looked up at him with wondering eyes. What she could have to do -with business of any kind, what light he could expect her to throw on -any such subject, she could not understand. But there was something -soothing, something pleasant, in thus strolling along the path by the -flowing river with him by her side. She forgot a little the watch she -had been keeping upon the gate. She recollected that he had once told -her his dream about a flood, and coming in a boat to her window, but -that she would not take advantage of the boat herself, only kept handing -out the children to him one by one. How could he divine that she would -do that? for of course that was exactly what she would do, if such a -risk could ever happen, and if he should come to rescue her as in his -dream. - -Somehow he led her without any apparent compulsion, yet by a persistent -impulse, a little way out of sight of the house behind a tuft of -shrubbery. The big laurels stood up in their glistening greenness and -shut out the pair from the windows of the Hook. They were close to the -gray swirl of the river running still and swift almost on a level with -the bank, when he said to her suddenly with his eyes fixed on her face, -“I want to ask you something about your--brother.” - -“My brother!” cried Ally. There was a sudden wild flushing up of color -which she felt to the roots of her hair, and then a chill fell upon her, -and paleness. He was watching her closely, and though she was not aware -of it she had answered his question. “My brother,” she repeated, -faltering, “Wat? he--he is not at home.” - -“Miss Penton,” said Rochford, “do you think you could trust me?” - -“Trust you!” said Ally, her voice growing fainter: and then a great -panic came over her. “Oh! Mr. Rochford,” she cried, “if anything has -happened to Wat, tell me, tell me! It is the not knowing that is so -dreadful to bear.” - -“I hope nothing has happened to him,” he said, very gravely. “It is only -that I have had a letter from him, and I thought that perhaps your -father had better know.” - -“Come in and see mother,” said Ally, breathless. “Oh yes, yes, we had -better know, whatever it is. Mr. Rochford, oh, I hope he is not ill. I -hope nothing has happened.” - -“I can not tell; he has written to me for money.” - -“For money!” she cried, the expectation in her face suddenly dropping -into a blank of astonishment and almost disappointment. “Was that all?” -was the question written on Ally’s face. - -“You don’t think that means much? but I fear it means a great deal: he -is living in London, and he is very young. You must not think me -intrusive or meddling: it is that I am afraid of. Sir Edward might -suppose, Miss Penton--your mother might think--it is a difficult thing -for a man to do. I thought that you, perhaps, if I could see you, might -have a little confidence in me.” - -Ally did not know how it was that a sense of sweetness and consolation -should thus shed itself through her heart; it was momentary, for she had -no time to think of herself, but it made everything so much more easy to -her. She put out her hand involuntarily with a sudden sense that to have -confidence in him was the most natural thing. “Oh yes,” she said, “tell -me, I have confidence. I am sure you would do nothing but what was kind; -tell me, oh, tell me!” - -He took her hand; he had a right to do it, for she had offered it to -him. “Will you try to follow me and understand?” he said. “It is -business; it may be difficult for you, for Sir Edward will see the -importance of it.” And then he told her, Ally bending all her unused -faculties to the work of understanding, how Walter had gone to him -before he left home at all to get money, and how he had heard from him -again, twice over, asking for more. Ally listened with horror growing in -her heart, but perhaps the young man, though he was very sympathetic, -was scarcely so sorry as he looked: and perhaps to seek her out and tell -her this story was not what a man of higher delicacy would have done. -But then Rochford’s desire to be of use to Walter was largely -intermingled with his desire to recommend himself to Walter’s sister. He -would have done it anyhow out of pity for the boy and his parents, but -to secure for himself a confidential interview with Ally, and to have -this as a secret between them, and her as his embassador and elucidator -to her parents, was what he could not deny himself. He was sorry for -Walter, who was most likely spoiling his boyish life, and whom it would -be right to call back and restrain: but yet he was almost glad of the -occasion which brought him so near the girl whom he loved. She on her -part listened to him with excitement, with relief, with the horror of -ignorance, with an underlying consciousness that all must now come -right. - -“If Sir Edward will let me I will go,” Rochford said. “I shall be able -to get hold of him perhaps easier than any one who has authority.” - -“Oh, how kind you are,” said Ally. - -“Kind! I would lie down and let him walk over me to please you,” the -young man murmured, as if it were to himself. - -It was partly to escape from the embarrassment of such murmurs, though -they were sweet enough, and partly to escape from the curious process -which was turning her trouble into a semblance of happiness against her -will, and without any consent of hers, that Ally insisted at last on -carrying this information to her mother. “How could she think you -intrusive when you bring her news of Wat?” cried the girl, betraying all -the anxiety of the family without knowing it; and she hurried him in to -where Lady Penton sat in the window, looking out languidly and often -laying down her work to gaze. She, too, flushed with anxious interest to -hear of Walter’s letter. - -And when Sir Edward came home, he found the lawyer’s dog-cart still at -the door, and the young man, surrounded by the three anxious ladies, -laying down his plan to them as one who was master of the situation. “I -will go at once if you will let me; I’ll get hold of him easier than any -one who has a right to find fault,” young Rochford was saying, when, -cold and hungry and discouraged, and with a smoldering fury against all -the world in his heart, Sir Edward pushed the door open and found him -there. - - - - -CHAPTER XL. - -THE POOR BOY. - - -Walter had plunged into London as a diver plunges into the sea. He was -in search of but one thing: to find her again who had eluded him, who -had drawn him after her by the strongest chains that can draw the -imagination at his age, by all the tantalizing of vague promises, -avoiding fulfillment, of vague engagements which came to nothing, and -last of all by this sudden flight, a provocation more audacious than any -that went before. Could he ever have expected that she would go with -him, to wait all the preliminaries which (as she knew so much better -than he did) must precede any possible marriage? When he came to think -of it by the light of the morning, which alters the aspect of so many -things, he saw quite plainly that this was not a thing he could have -expected of her. She was very daring, he thought, and frank, and secure -in her own innocence, but this was not a thing which she could be -expected to do. He had been foolishly miserable, disappointed to the -bottom of his soul, when he heard that she had gone away. The night he -had spent trying to sleep, trying to get through the black hours that -made any enterprise impossible, had been terrible to him; but with the -morning there had come a better cheer. Of course, he said to himself! -How could he be so imbecile, so silly, as to think differently. Of -course she would not go with him under such circumstances; and it was -delicacy on her part that prevented her from saying so. There are times -when it is a failure of modesty even to suggest that modesty requires -certain precautions. Therefore she had not said it. Impossible for her -pure lips, for her pure mind, to put into words the idea that he and -she, like any noble knight and maiden, might not have gone together -blameless to the end of the world. But she had felt that in the present -artificial state of the world it was better not to do this, and she had -acted without saying anything, confident that he would understand. There -is no limit to the ingenuity of a lover in framing excuses for the -actions of the person beloved. Instead of being blamable, was not this -another proof of her perfection, of the sensitive delicacy of all her -thoughts, she who was so little bound by conventional laws? The mixture -of freedom and of reserve, Walter said to himself, was what he had above -all admired and adored in her. It was his own stupidity, not any fault -of hers, that had given him so wretched a night, such a sense of -desertion and abandonment. He remembered now that he had caught the -address of the box which stood half packed in the room where she had -talked to him, in Crockford’s cottage. - -He comprehended everything now. She had taken him there that he should -see it, that he should be able to follow her, without the need of saying -a word. Oh, how well he understood it all! Had they gone together every -circumstance would have been embarrassing; the mere payments to be made, -the railway tickets, the cabs, everything would have been awkward. How -well (he thought to himself) her fine sense had divined this, perceived -it when he saw nothing! That was no doubt the woman’s part, to divine -what could and could not be done--to settle it all swiftly, silently, -without any need of talk, which would have been more embarrassing still. - -These thoughts carried him as on fairy wings to the railway station on -the dark and cold morning of his flight from home. He had Rochford’s -fifty pounds in his pocket, which seemed to his inexperience a fortune, -a sum he would never get through, and which was his own, not taken from -his father, or lessening the means at home, but his, to do what he liked -with. With that in his pocket, and the delightful confidence that Emmy -had not abandoned him--that, on the contrary, she had done what was -ideally right, the very thing that if he had understood, if he had not -been dull beyond example, he would have liked her to do--Walter rushed -from his father’s house with not too much thought of the wretchedness he -was leaving behind. He would not think of that, nor did he feel himself -at all constrained to do so. Why should they be miserable? He was old -enough to know how to take care of himself. A man did get helpless, -almost effeminate, living so much at home; but, after all, he could not -be made a fuss over as if he were a lost child. They would understand at -least that he could take care of himself. And then he reflected, with a -smile about the corners of his mouth, they would soon know why it was. -If at the bottom of his heart there might be a thrill of alarm as to how -they would take it, yet on the surface he felt sure that Emmy’s beauty -and charm would overcome all objections; and then it was not as if he -were a boy dependent on his father’s bounty. That ten thousand pounds -made all the difference! He had thought at first that it was a mean -thing to suppose that it made any difference or disturbed any of the -bonds of duty: but now his mind was changed, and he perceived that a man -has his own career to think of, that nature forbids him to be always in -a state of subordination to his father--nature, and the consciousness -that he has enough of his own to live upon without troubling his father. -Yes, it made a difference, not only on the surface, but fundamentally, a -difference which was real; and then the present matter was not one of a -day. It concerned, he said to himself with tremendous gravity, the -happiness of his life. How could a little anxiety on the part of his -parents, a little quite groundless anxiety, be compared to that? Even to -be brutal, he said to himself, as he must live longer than they could, -his happiness was of the most importance, even if it should affect -permanently their peace of mind; and it was only for a time, a few -weeks, a few days. What comparison was there? Even father himself, who -was a just man, would see and acknowledge this. And as for his -mother--oh, mother would forgive! That was easily settled. She might be -unhappy for a moment, but she would rather be unhappy than condemn him -to life-long misery. That he was very sure of; if the choice were given -she would accept that which was best for him. Thus Walter completely -vindicated to himself what he was doing; and before he got to the -railway, which was a long way off, and gave time for all these -elaborations of thought, he was convinced that what he was doing was -what, on the whole, if they knew all the circumstances, they would like -him to do. - -An ordeal which he had not calculated upon met him when he reached -London. The address which he had seen on Emmy’s box was in an -out-of-the-way and poor place, though Walter, knowing nothing of town, -did not know how much out of the way it was. He left his bag at a hotel, -and then he went on in a hansom through miles and miles of squalid -streets, until at length he reached the goal of his hopes. The goal of -his hopes! Was it so? As he stood at the poor little narrow door the -ideas with which he had contemplated Crockford’s cottage came into his -mind. He had persuaded himself into thinking that Crockford’s cottage -was in its way as venerable as Penton; but this No. 37 Albert Terrace, -what was there to be said for it? He could not restrain a little -shudder, nor could he, when he was shown into the little parlor on the -ground-floor, look round him without a gasp of dismay. The only -consolation he could get out of it was that he could take Emmy away, -that this was indeed his object here, to take her away, to separate her -from everything that was squalid and miserable, to surround her with the -graces and luxuries of a very different kind of life. But even the -aspect of the house, and of the little parlor, which was full of dirty -finery and hung round with photographs and colored pictures of a woman -in various theatrical dresses, with whom he never associated the object -of his affections, was nothing to the shock which Walter sustained when -the door opened and the original of these portraits presented herself, a -large faded woman, very carelessly dressed, and with the smile which -was beaming around him from all the walls, the stereotyped smile of the -stage, upon her face. To realize, as he did by and by, that this was -_her mother_, to feel that she had a right to ask him questions, and -consider him with a judicial air, as one who had in her greasy hands, -which were so disagreeably soft, and felt as if they were pomaded, the -thread of his life, gave poor young Wat such a shock as took the words -from his lips. He stared at her without knowing what to say to her in a -dismay which could find no expression. No, Emmy was not there. Her -occupation required that she should live in another part of London. No, -she did not know that she could give him her daughter’s address--but if -he returned in the evening he might perhaps see her. - -“You are Mr. Penton? Oh, yes, she has spoken of you. She feared that -perhaps you would take this step. But, Mr. Penton, my daughter is a girl -of the highest principle. She can see you only under her mother’s roof.” - -“I wish nothing else!” cried poor Wat. “I--I am ready to do whatever she -pleases. She knows I am ready--she knows--” - -“Yes,” said the mother, nodding her terrible head, upon which was banded -and braided and plaited more hair than ever grew, and smiling her -terrible smile, and putting forth that odious hand to give a little -confidential pressure to his. “I also know a great deal, Mr. Penton. I -have heard about you--your chivalry and your magnificent position, and -your many, many qualities. But, as you know, a mother’s duty is to guard -her child. I know the snares of life better than she; I have trodden the -thorny way before her, young gentleman. I have myself experienced much -which--I would save her from,” added the woman, with the imposing -gesture of a _mère noble_, turning away her head and extending her hand -as if to hold the gay deceiver at a distance. - -He was the wolf at the gate of the sheepfold, it appeared. Alas, poor -Wat! he did not recognize himself from that point of view. Was not he -more like the poor strayed lamb, straying in ignorantly into the midst -of the slayers? He was glad to get away, to bring this alarming, -unexpected interview to an end: all the more that it had begun to be -apparent to him, in a way that made his heart sick, that in the face of -this woman, with all its traces of paint and powder, and in the little -gestures and tricks of tone and movement, there were resemblances, -frightful resemblances, suggestive of his Emmy; that it was possible she -might some day--oh, horrible thought!--be like her mother. But no, he -cried to himself! the marks which her profession had left--the lines -under her eyes, the yellow stains of the rouge, the unwholesome softness -of her pomaded hands--from all those he had come to deliver Emmy; these -artificial evils never need to be hers. She should smile upon people who -loved her, not upon the horrible public staring at her and her beauty. -As he turned away from the place he even said to himself that this poor -woman was not to blame for all those blemishes of self-decoration. It -had been her trade; she had been compelled to do it. Who had any right -to blame her? These might be as honorable scars as those which a soldier -gets in battle. Perhaps she had to do it to get bread for herself and -her child--to bring up Emmy and make her what he knew her. If that -should be so, were not the traces of what she had gone through, of what -she had had to bear, to be respected, venerated even, like any other -marks of painful toil? He made these representations hotly to himself, -but he did not find that any ingenuity of thought delivered him from -that honor and repulsion. To see the rouge and the powder on the face of -a young woman still playing her part was one thing; to mark the traces -of them on the vulgarized and faded countenance of one whose day was -over was quite another. It was unjust, but it was natural. And this was -Emmy’s mother, and Emmy was like her. Oh, that such a thing should be! - -After this came the strangest episode that could occur in a young man’s -life. He was afloat on London, on that sea of pleasure and misery, amid -all the perils and temptations that made the hearts of those who loved -him sink within them. Even little Mab, with her little stock of worldly -knowledge, who thought he would return home when he “tired,” or when his -money was done, could form no other idea of the prodigal than that he -was living in pleasure. He was amusing himself, Rochford thought, not -without a half sympathy in the break-out of the home boy. As for his -father and mother, unutterable terrors were in their minds, fears of -they knew not what--of vice and depravity, evil associates, evil -habits, the things that kill both body and soul. But Walter’s present -life was a life more tedious than all the monotony of home. It had its -bright moments, when he was with Emmy, who sometimes permitted him to -take her to the play, sometimes to walk with her through the -bright-lighted streets, sometimes even on Saturday afternoons or Sunday -to take her to the country. It was only on these days that he saw her in -daylight at all. She said, laughingly, that her occupation forbade it at -other times, but she would not tell him what that occupation was. When -they went to Richmond or Greenwich, or to a little box in one or other -of the theaters, where they could sit half hidden by the curtains, and -carry on their own little drama, which was more interesting than -anything on the stage, Walter was in a strange elysium, in which the -atmosphere was charged with painful elements, yet was more sweet than -anything else in life. He made a hundred discoveries in her, sometimes -sweet, sometimes--different. It made no alteration in his sentiment when -they happened to be discoveries that wounded--sometimes even that -shocked him. He was hurt, his sensitive nature felt the shock as if it -had been a wound; but it did not affect his love. That love even changed -a little--it became protecting, forgiving, sometimes remonstrating; he -longed that she should be his, that he might put all that right, mold -her to a more exquisite model, smooth away the points that jarred. -Already he had begun to hint this and that to her, to persuade her to -one little alteration and another. To speak more softly--she had spoken -softly enough at Crockford’s, it was only the spirit of the street that -had got into her blood--to move more gently, to know that some of the -things she said were dreadful things--things that should not come from -such lips. He had not perceived any of these things while she was at -Crockford’s; he perceived them now, but they did not affect his love, -they only penetrated that golden web with threads of shadow, with lines -of pain, and smote his heart with keen arrows of anguish and -regret--regret not that he had given his life and love to her, but only -that she was less perfect than he had thought--that, instead of looking -up to her always, and shaping his harsher being (as he had thought) upon -her sweetness, it must be his first to shape and pare these excrescences -away. - -But, besides these glimpses of a paradise which had many features of -purgatory, Walter had nothing at all to counterbalance the havoc he was -making in his existence. He did not know what to do with himself in -London. He rose late, having no occupation for the morning; he wandered -about the streets; he eat the late breakfast and dinner, which were now -all the meals he had time for, spinning out these repasts as long as -possible. It was a wonder that he never met his father, who was straying -about the streets in search of him; but Walter’s streets were not those -which his father frequented. He acquired, or rather both acquired, a -great knowledge of town in these perambulations, but not of the same -kind. And then he would go to his occupation, the only tangible thing in -his life, the meeting with Emmy. She was sadly shifty and uncertain even -in these scraps of her time, which were all she would or could give him. -She was not sure that she wanted to marry him at all. She was quite sure -that she would only be married by special license at four in the -afternoon, which was all the fashion now. But no; he was not to take -that oath and make himself unhappy about her. He should not be obliged -to swear. She would be married by bans--that was the fashion too. She -knew all about what had to be done--everything that was necessary--but -she would not tell him. She laughed and eluded him as before. Then she -said, Why should they marry? they were very well as they were. “You are -very good to me at present,” she said; “you think I must have a box -whenever we go to the theater, and a bouquet, and everything that is -nice; but after we are married, you will not be so kind.” - -When Walter protested that neither marriage nor anything else could -diminish his devotion, she shook her head, and said that they would not -be able to afford it. - -“You can’t have so much as five hundred a year,” she said; “most likely -not more than four--and what would that be in London?” - -“But we need not live in London,” he said; “my father would give us the -Hook.” - -Emmy threw up her arms with a scream. - -“Should you like to murder me?” she cried. - -It hurt the poor boy that she should have this opinion of his home--the -home in which he had been born; and he listened with deep depression to -the satirical description of it she began to make. - -“We ought to be ducks to live in the damp like that. I’ve never been -used to dabble in the water, and it would be my death--I know it would -be my death. But we might let it, you know, and that would give us a -little more money, say two hundred a year more--do you think it would -bring two hundred a year?” - -“Don’t talk of such things!” cried the young man; “it is not for you to -be troubled about that.” - -“And for whom is it, then?” she cried, “for you know no more than a -baby; and I believe you think we are to live like the birds on worms and -seeds, and anything else that turns up.” - -Walter had never left her with so heavy a heart as on this evening. He -was entirely cast down by her hesitations, her doubts, the contempt with -which she spoke of the fortune which he had thought magnificent in his -ignorance, and the home which he loved. He went back to his hotel with a -heavy heart. He had given up everything for her--all the other objects -that made life of importance. He had put himself altogether at her -disposal, and lived but for the moments of their meeting. What was he to -do if she despised him--if she cast him off? A faint sense of the -pitiful part he had to play began vaguely to awaken in his mind, not -moving him to the length of rebellion, nor even to the exercise of his -critical faculties, only to misery and a chill suspicion that, instead -of sharing the fervor of his feelings, she was weighing him in terrible -scales of judgment, estimating what he was worth--a process which made -Walter’s heart sink. For what was he worth?--unless it might happen to -be love--in repayment of that which he gave. - -And next evening when he went to the house, which he always approached -with a shiver, afraid of meeting the mother, relieved when he found his -love alone, he suddenly found himself in the presence he dreaded with a -shock of alarm and surprise: for Emmy, whose perceptions were keen -enough on this point, generally contrived to spare him the meeting which -she divined he feared. Mrs. Sam Crockford met him with her sunniest -smile. She caressed his hand with those large, soft, flaccid fingers -from which he shrunk. “She is not in, but I have a message for you, my -dear young sir,” she said. - -“Not in!” cried Walter, his heart sinking into his boots. - -“She is engaged elsewhere. May I tell you the truth, Mr. Penton? She has -confidence in her mother. I am her only protector, for her step-father, -though an honest fellow, does not count, being in another walk of life. -I am her only protector, young gentleman.” - -“But surely, surely she doesn’t want protection--from me?” - -“Pardon me, my dear Mr. Penton, that is exactly where she wants -protection--from you, that is, from her own heart, from her own -treacherous, foolish heart. What have you to offer her, that is the -question? She has had very good offers. There is one at present, hung -up, so to speak, because she does not know her own mind.” - -“Let me speak to her,” said Walter, hoarsely. “She can not intend to -desert me after all--after all!” - -“Dear boy!” cried the woman, pressing his hand once more with hers, “how -I admire such impetuosity. But you must remember my duty as a mother. -You have nothing to settle on her, Mr. Penton. Yes, I understand your -ten thousand pounds; but you are not of age. You can’t even make your -will or sign the settlements till you are of age. She has very good -offers, no one could have better. Shall I tell you,” said Emmy’s mother, -with the most ingenuous and ingratiating of smiles, “shall I tell you -what I should do if I were you? I would not allow her to sacrifice -herself. I would rather, much rather, that the sacrifice was on my -side.” - -“Sacrifice!” he cried, feeling the dreadful little room reel round him. - -“What else can you call it, Mr. Penton? You will not be twenty-one till -the autumn, I hear. October, is it? And in the meantime my chyild has to -toil. Conceive a creature of her refined and sensitive temperament, -young gentleman! a girl not adapted to face the world.” - -This confused Walter, who could not but feel that Emmy was very well -qualified to face the world, and to whom she seemed a sort of Una -triumphant over it; but he would not reply on this score. All he could -say was an impassioned offer if she would only accept--if her mother -would but accept--all that he had. What could it matter, when so soon -everything he had would be hers? - -The mother put away his offer with her large white hand, turning her -shoulder to him and half averting her head. “Money! I dare not propose -it; I dare not suggest it, though it is most generous, most noble on -your part,” she added, turning round suddenly, seizing his hand in both -of hers with a soft lingering pressure, which poor Walter could not help -feeling left something of the pomade behind. Then she subsided into a -more majestic pose. “But, dear fellow, what have you?” she said, with a -sort of caressing reflectiveness. It all seemed like a scene in a play -to Walter, notwithstanding that he himself was one of the actors. “What -have you?” she said, with a sort of tender regret. “Your agent will soon -tire of making you advances, and every advance diminishes your capital. -We are talking of marriage, my dear young gentleman, not of mere -amusement and spending your money free, as some young men will do to -please a girl they are in love with; but the object of my life has been -to bring up my girl respectable, and nothing of that sort is possible.” -She waved her hand, dismissing the idea, while Walter stood stupefied, -gazing at her. “It is a question of marriage,” she added, with -solemnity; “and what have you to offer--expectations?” Then she sunk her -voice to a sort of stage whisper. “Do you know that your father is after -you, young sir? He has been here.” - -“Here!” said the boy, in sudden alarm and dismay. - -She nodded her head slowly and solemnly. “Here. I need not say I gave -him no information: but if you rely upon him to receive and support you, -as my child has told me--Young Mr. Penton, Emmy must not be exposed to -an angry father’s wrath.” - -“My father here!” He looked round him, at the room, at the woman, at all -these dreadful accessories, with a sinking heart. He seemed to see them -all through his father’s eyes, who had never seen Emmy, and to himself -they were terrible enough, with all the charm that she exercised. - -“No!” she said, raising her arm. “I can not have her exposed to an angry -father’s wrath. Mr. Penton, this suit of yours must come to an end.” - -“I must see Emmy,” he cried, with confused misery. “I must see Emmy; -don’t, don’t, for pity’s sake, say any more. It is she who must decide.” - -“Pardon me; she takes her own way in small matters, but in this a mother -is the best judge. Mr. Penton, she must not be exposed to an angry--” - -“I must see Emmy, I must see Emmy,” cried poor Walter. He was capable of -no other thought. - - - - -CHAPTER XLI. - -A MORE CHEERFUL VIEW. - - -Sir Edward, with more than the usual irritation in his countenance, -contemplated the new member of the family council. He had come in with a -great deal to say, and the sight of Rochford was like a sudden check, -unlooked for, and most unwelcome. He had, indeed, begun to speak, -throwing himself into a chair. “I’ve got my trouble for my pains--” when -he perceived that the weariness, the contrariety, the trouble in his -face, had been betrayed to a stranger. He pulled himself up with a -sudden effort. “Ah, Rochford,” he said, with an attempt at a smiling -welcome, which was as much out of his usual habits as of his present -state of mind. - -“Edward,” said his wife, “Mr. Rochford has heard from Walter. He came to -bring us the letter; he has some information, and he knows, oh, more -than any of us--from the first.” - -“What is it he knows?” cried the father, exasperated, with a start of -energy in defense of his privacy and of his son. He looked with his -angry, troubled eyes at the intruder with an angry defiance and -contempt. Rochford the solicitor! the man of business, a man whom indeed -he could not treat as an inferior, but who had no claim to place himself -on the same level as a Penton of Penton. He had not hitherto shown any -disposition to stand on his dignity to make the difference between the -old level and the new. But that this young fellow should presume to -bring information about his son, to thrust in a new and intrusive -presence into a family matter, was more than he could bear. “I am very -glad to consult Mr. Rochford on matters within his range,” he added, -with an angry smile, “but this is a little, just a little, out of his -sphere.” - -“Edward!” cried Lady Penton, and “Father!” cried Ally; the latter with -an indignation and resentment which surprised herself. But to hear him, -so kind as he was, put down so, put aside when he wanted nothing but to -help, had become suddenly intolerable to Ally. Why should Walter, who -was behaving so unkindly, be considered so much above him, who had come -out of his way to help? An impulse almost of indignation against Walter -filled her mind, and she felt ready to silence her father himself, to -demand what he meant. She did not herself comprehend the fervor of new -feeling, the opposition, the resentment that filled her heart. - -“When Sir Edward reads this letter he will understand,” said the young -man, who kept his temper admirably. He was ready to bear a great deal -more than that, having so much at stake. And he for his part was quite -aware that for a Rochford of Reading to ally himself to the Pentons of -Penton was a great matter, and one which might naturally meet with -opposition. To have his part taken by Ally was a great matter--he could -put up with her father’s scorn for a time. - -Sir Edward read the letter, and his serious countenance grew more somber -still. “From this it appears that my son has applied to you for money? I -am sorry he has done it, but I don’t see that it tells any more. Walter -has not made a confidant of you that I can see. My dear, I don’t mean to -be disagreeable to Mr. Rochford; but he must see, any one might see, -that a family matter--a--a consultation among ourselves--a question -which has nothing to do with the public--” - -“I am your man of business, Sir Edward,” said Rochford. “My family have -known the secrets of yours long before my time. I don’t think we have -ever betrayed our trust. Your son has put some information into my -hands. I did not think I was justified in keeping it from you, and I -think, if you will let me, that I can help you. Intrusion was not what I -meant.” - -He was the least excited of that tremulous party, and he felt that the -object which was before him was well worth a struggle; but at the same -time the young man was not without a certain generosity of purpose, a -desire to help these troubled and anxious people. To Ally his attitude -was entirely one of generosity and nobleness. He had come in the midst -of the darkness to bring the first ray of light, and he was too -magnanimous to be disgusted or repulsed by the petulance of her father’s -distress. If he had a more individual motive it was that of pleasing -_her_, and that was no selfish motive, surely. That added--how could it -be otherwise?--a charm to all the rest in her dazzled eyes. - -“Mr. Rochford is very kind, Edward,” said Lady Penton. “Why should we -not take the help he offers? He is a young man, he understands their -ways, not like you and me. The young ones understand each other, just as -we understand each other. They haven’t the same way of judging. They -don’t think how their fathers and mothers suffer at home. Oh, let him -go! it isn’t as if he would talk of it and betray us. Listen to him. He -has known of this all the time, and he hasn’t betrayed us. Oh, let him -go.” - -“Go! where is he to go?” - -“To find Walter,” they all cried together. - -“It is killing you,” said Lady Penton. “Let the young man--who doesn’t -feel as we do, who doesn’t think of it as we do--let him go, Edward. It -seems so dreadful to us, but not to him. He thinks that probably there -is nothing dreadful in it at all, that it is a thing that--a thing -that--boys do: they are so thoughtless--they do it, meaning no -particular harm.” - -“There is something in that,” said Sir Edward, with relief. “I am glad -you begin to see it in that way, my dear. It is more silly than wrong--I -have thought so all along.” - -“That is what Mr. Rochford says. He is a young man himself. He thinks -the boy will never have considered--and that as soon as he thinks, as -soon as he finds out--Edward, we mustn’t be tragical about it. I see it -now as you say. Stay at home--you have so many things to think of--and -let the young man go. They understand each other between themselves,” -Lady Penton said, with a somewhat wan smile. - -And then Sir Edward began to relax a little. “Rochford is right there,” -he said. “It is perhaps a good thing to have a man’s view. You, of -course, were always unduly frightened, my dear. As for not writing, that -is so common a thing--I could have told you all that. But, naturally, -seeing you in such a state has affected me. When you are married,” he -said, turning to Rochford with a faint smile, “you will find that though -you may think it weak of her, or even silly, the color of your thoughts -will always be affected by your wife’s.” - -This speech produced a curious little momentary dramatic scene which had -nothing to do with the question in hand. Rochford’s eyes instinctively -flashed a glance at Ally, who, though hers were cast down, saw it, and -flamed into sudden crimson, the consciousness of which filled her with -shame and confusion. Her blush threw a reflection instantaneous, like -the flash of a fire, over him, and lighted up his eyes with a glow of -delight, to conceal which he too looked down, and answered, with a sort -of servile respect, “I have no doubt of it whatever, sir; and it ought -to be so.” - -“Well, perhaps theoretically it ought to be so,” Sir Edward said, who -noticed nothing, and whose observation was not at any time quick enough -to note what eyes say to eyes. Now that it was all explained and -settled, and he felt that it was by his wife’s special interposition -that Rochford had been taken into favor, there could be no doubt that it -was a comfort to have a man, with all the resources of youth and an -immediate knowledge of that world which Sir Edward was secretly aware he -had almost forgotten, to take counsel with. His spirits rose. His -trouble had been greatly intensified by that sensation of helplessness -which had grown upon him as he wandered about the London streets, sick -at heart, obstinate, hopeless, waiting upon chance, which is so poor a -support. This day he had been more hopeless than ever, feeling his -impotence with that sickening sense of being able to do nothing, to -think of nothing, which is one of the most miserable of sensations. It -was so far from true that he had taken the color of his thoughts from -his wife, or felt Walter’s absence more lightly than she had done, that -it was he who had been the pessimist all along, whose imagination and -memory had furnished a thousand stories of ruin and the destruction of -the most hopeful of young men, and to whom it was almost impossible to -communicate any hopefulness. But a partnership of any kind is of great -use in such circumstances, and above all the partnership of marriage, in -which one can always put the blame upon the other with the advantage of -being himself able to believe that the matter really stands so. Lady -Penton did not complain. She was willing enough to bear the blame. Her -own heart was much relieved by Rochford’s cheerful intimation that -Walter’s little escapade was the commonest thing in the world, and most -probably meant nothing at all. If it might but be so! If it were only -his thoughtlessness, the folly of a boy! At least if that could not be -believed it was still a good thing and most fortunate that people should -think so, and the man who suggested it endeared himself to the mother’s -heart. - -And then another and more expansive consultation began. On ordinary -occasions Sir Edward allowed himself to be questioned, giving brief -answers, sometimes breaking off impatiently, shutting himself up in a -troubled silence, from which an unsatisfactory scrap of revelation -unwillingly dropped would now and then come. Sometimes he drove them all -away from him with the morose irritation of his unsuccess. What did it -matter what he had done in town, when it all came to nothing, when it -was of no consequence, and brought no result? But to-day he spoke with a -freedom which he had never shown before. Everything was more practical, -more possible. The new agent had to be informed of all the facts upon -which perhaps his better knowledge of such matters might throw new -light. Sir Edward confessed that he had extracted from old Crockford the -address of the girl’s mother, “Though I could not allow--though I mean I -feel sure that the boy never mixed himself up with people of that sort,” -he added, with his little air of superiority; then described Mrs. Sam -Crockford to them, and her declaration that she knew nothing of the -young gentleman. In his heart of hearts Sir Edward did not believe this -any more than Rochford did, but it gave him a countenance, it supported -his new theory, the theory so adroitly suggested to him that Walter -after all was probably not much to blame. This theory was a greater -consolation than can be told to all of them. Not much to blame! Careless -only, amusing himself, a thing which most youths of his age did somehow -or other. “Of course,” Rochford said, “there are some preternatural boys -who never tear their pinafores or do anything they ought not to do.” -Thus he conveyed to their minds a suggestion that it was in fact rather -spirited and fine of Walter to claim the emancipation which was natural -to his kind. The load which was thus lifted from their gentle bosoms is -not to be described. Lady Penton indeed knew better, but yet was so -willing to be deceived, so ready to be persuaded! And Sir Edward -knew--oh, a great many variations of the theme, better and worse--but -yet was willing too to take the young man’s word for it, the young man -who belonged to Walter’s generation and knew what was in the minds of -the boys as none of the others could do. He brought comfort to all their -hearts, both to those who had experience of life and those who had none, -by his bold assumption of an easy knowledge. “I have no doubt, if truth -were told, he is dying to come home,” Rochford said, “and very tired of -all the noise and nonsense that looks so pleasant at a distance. I know -how one feels in such circumstances--bored to death, finding idleness -and the theaters and all that sort of thing the dreariest routine, and -yet ashamed to own it and come back. Oh, he only wants to see a little -finger held up to him from home, I know!” said the young fellow, with a -laugh. He did himself the greatest injustice, having been all his life -of the order of those who have the greatest repugnance to dirtying their -pinafores. But love and policy, and pity as well, inspired him, and his -laugh was the greatest comfort in the world to all those aching hearts. -He took down Mrs. Sam Crockford’s address, and all the information which -could be given to him; the very sight of his little note-book inspiring -his audience with confidence. “The thing for me to do,” he said, “is to -take him myself the money he wants. Though the address he gives is only -at a post-office I shall find him out--and perhaps take a day or two’s -amusement in his company,” he added, with a smile. - -“Oh, Mr. Rochford, that would be kindness indeed!” Lady Penton said. - -And Ally gave him a look--what did it say? Promises, pledges, a whole -world of recompense was in it. He said, with another little laugh of -confidence and self-satisfaction, not untouched with emotion, “Yes, I -think that’s the best way. I’ll get him to take me about, I only a -country fellow, and he up to all the ways of town; and it will be -strange if we don’t get to be on confidential terms; and as I feel quite -certain he is dying to come home--” - -“Most likely, most likely,” said Sir Edward. It was, as Rochford felt, -touch and go, very delicate work with Sir Edward. A word too much, a -look even, might be enough to remind Walter’s father that he was the -head of the house of Penton, and that this was only his man of -business. The young lawyer was acute enough to see that, and wise -enough to restrain the natural desire to enlarge upon what he could do, -which the intoxication of feminine belief which was round him encouraged -and called forth. He subdued himself with a self-denial which was very -worthy of credit, but which no one gave him any credit for. And by this -time the afternoon was spent, darkness coming on, and it was necessary -he should go home: he felt this to be expedient in the state of affairs, -though it was hard to go without a word from Ally, without a moment of -that more intimate consultation, all in the erring brother’s interests, -which yet drew these two so much closer together. “I will come this -way,” he said, as they all went with him to the door where the dog-cart -was standing, “to-morrow, on my way to town, to see if there are any -last directions--anything you wish to suggest, Sir Edward--anything that -may occur to you in the meantime, which I might carry out.” - -“Yes, perhaps that will be well,” Sir Edward said. - -“To go direct from you will give me so much more influence.” - -“Yes, yes,” he said impatiently. It was very delicate work with Sir -Edward. “Telegraph if I’m wanted. Of course I am ready--whatever is -wanted.” - -“And you will let us know at once, oh, at once, Mr. Rochford; you know -how anxious, though foolishly, as you all say--” - -“Not foolishly,” the young man said, pressing Lady Penton’s hand. He was -very sorry for her wistful, tremulous looks, though his heart was -bounding with satisfaction and elation in his own prospects. “Not -foolishly,” he half whispered, “but soon to be over. I think I can -promise you that--I feel sure I can promise you that.” - -“God bless you!” said Walter’s mother, “and reward you, for I can’t--oh, -if you bring me back my boy, Mr. Rochford!” - -“I will,” he cried, but still in a whisper. “I will! and you _can_ -reward me, dear Lady Penton.” He kissed her hand in his emotion, which -is a salutation very unusual in mild English households, and brought a -little thrill, a sensation of solemnity, and strangeness, and -possibilities unconceived, to her startled consciousness. Ally could not -speak at all. She was half concealed in her mother’s shadow, clinging -to her, still more full of strange sweet excitement and emotion. Her -young eyelids seemed to weigh down her eyes. She could not look at him, -but his words seemed to murmur in her ears and dwell there, returning -over and over again, “You can reward me.” Ally at least, now, if not -before, knew how. - -“You’ve got a good horse there,” said Sir Edward, mechanically stroking -the shining neck of the impatient animal, “you’ll not be long on the -road.” - -“No, she goes well; to-morrow then, sir, early.” - -“As early as you please--you’ll have a cold drive. Thank you, Rochford.” -He put out his hand to the young man with a hasty touch just as Rochford -took the reins, and then turned away and shut himself up in his -book-room, while the others stood watching the dash of the mare, the -sudden awakening of sound in the silence, the glimmer of the lamp as the -cart flew along the drive. Sir Edward retired to think it over by his -dull afternoon fire, which was not made up till after tea. The night had -fallen, but he did not immediately light his candles. He bent down over -the dull red glow to think it over. His mind was relieved, there seemed -now some possibility that this miserable anxiety might be over. But even -though his object may be gained by other means, a man does not like to -fail in his own person, and the chill of unsuccess was in his heart. -Rochford, his man of business! well, princes themselves have to seek -help from men of business. It was his trade to find out things. It was -in the way of his profession that he should succeed. But then had not -his ear caught something about a reward--a reward! what reward? except -his charges, of course. A new contrariety came into Sir Edward’s mind, -though he could not define it. He had not at all an agreeable half hour -as he sat thinking it over in that dull moment before tea, over the dull -book-room fire. - - - - -CHAPTER XLII. - -A NEW AGENT. - - -Ally was up very early next morning. She was always early. In a house -with so many little children and so few servants, if you were not up -early you were in arrears with your work the whole day. That was her -conviction always, but on many occasions, especially on dark winter -mornings, it did not carry the same practical force. This day she was -more certain of the necessity than ever. She scolded Anne for not -sharing it, but so softly that Anne fell asleep in the middle of the -little lecture. And Ally knew very well that nothing could be done, that -no one could come so very early as this was. But still her mind was in -great agitation, and it did her good to be up and about. About Walter? -She had been very unhappy about Walter, full of distress and trouble, -her heart beating at every sound, thinking of nothing else. But to-day -she was, to say the least, a little more at ease about her brother. Last -night they had all been more at their ease, so much so that Lady Penton -had begun to talk a little about the removal, and the new furniture that -would be required, and the many expenses and advantages, such as they -were, of the new establishment. The expenses were what Lady Penton was -most sensible of. For her own part, perhaps the advantages did not seem -advantages to her. She was satisfied with the Hook. What did she want -with Penton? But, at all events, she had been able to think of all this, -to change the one persistent subject which had occupied her mind. And -perhaps this was what had set Ally’s mind afloat. She was glad to be -quite alone to think it all over, notwithstanding that Martha looked at -her with no agreeable glances as she came into the dining-room before -the fire was lighted. - -“I just overslep’ myself, Miss Alice,” said Martha. “With helping to -wash up down-stairs, and helping to get the nursery straight upstairs, a -body has no time for sleep.” - -“It does not matter at all, Martha,” said Ally with fervor, “I only -thought I should like to arrange the books a little.” - -“Oh, if that’s all, miss,” Martha said, graciously accepting the excuse. - -But even Martha was a hinderance to Ally’s thoughts. She made herself -very busy collecting the picture-books with which the children made up -for the want of their usual walks on wet days, and which they were apt -to leave about the dining-room, and ranging them all in a row on the -shelf while Martha concluded her work. But as soon as she was alone -Ally’s arms dropped by her side and her activity ceased. She had put -away her thoughts in Martha’s presence, as she had done in Anne’s and in -her mother’s, keeping them all for her own enjoyment; but now that she -was alone she could take them out and look at them. After all, they were -not thoughts at all, they were recollections, anticipations, they were a -sort of soft intoxication, delirium, a state too sweet to be real, yet -which somehow was real--more real than the most commonplace and prosaic -things. To be alone, how delightful it was, even with the fire only half -alight, and reluctant to begin the work of the day, and Martha’s duster -still before her. She leaned her arms on the mantel-piece and bent her -head down upon them and shut her eyes. She could see best when she shut -her eyes. Had any one been there Ally could not thus have shut herself -up in that magical world. Her hands were rather blue with cold, if truth -must be told, but she was aware of nothing but an atmosphere of warmth -and softness, full of golden reflections and a haze of inarticulate -happiness. She had forgotten all about that momentary movement of pride, -of hesitation, which she had afterward called by such hard names, but -which at the moment had been real enough; that sensation of being Miss -Penton of Penton, in the presence of Mrs. Rochford and her daughter. -Both the sin and the repentance had faded out of Ally’s mind. She did -not ask herself anything about her suitor, whether he would satisfy her -father, whether he would be thought of importance equal to the new -claims of the family. Ally had gone beyond this stage, she remembered -none of these things. The only external matters which affected her were -the facts that for her sake he was going out into the world to bring -back her brother, and that the whole horizon round her was the brighter -for this enterprise. Naturally her thoughts gave it a far graver -character than it possessed. It seemed something like the work of a -knight-errant, an effort of self-sacrifice beautiful and terrible. He -was about to leave his home, to plunge into that seething world of -London, of which she had heard so many appalling things, for her -brother’s, nay, for her sake. She thought of him as wandering through -streets more miserable than any of the bewildering dark forests of -romance. In short, all the anguish of such a search as she had read of -in heart-rending stories occurred to Ally’s mind. And all this he was -doing for her. It gave her a pang of delightful suffering more sweet -than enjoyment, that he should be so good, so brave, and that it should -be all for her. - -Meantime young Rochford prepared, with a little trouble, it must be -said, to absent himself from his business for a few days; he thought -that certainly this time must be required for a mission that might not -be an easy one; for if he did not know, as he said, that such escapades -were the commonest thing in the world among young men, he knew very well -that to bring back a young culprit was not easily accomplished, and made -up his mind that he would want both courage and patience for his task. -As a matter of fact, he had no idea of Walter’s motive, or of the -“entanglement” which had drawn him away. He was willing enough to -believe in an entanglement, but not in one so innocent and blameless; -and he believed that the youth had plunged into the abyss with the -curiosity and passion of youth, to feel what was to be felt and to see -what was to be seen, and to make a premature dash at that tree of the -knowledge of evil which has so wonderful and bitter a charm. He was -ready to take a great deal of trouble for the deliverance of the boy, -though not without a little shake of his head at the thought of the -other young Pentons who had also taken that plunge and whom it had not -been possible to rescue. He had heard his father tell how many efforts -Sir Walter had made to save his sons, and with how little effect. Did it -perhaps run in the blood? But Rochford was fully determined to do his -best, and confident, as became a fighter in that good cause, that -whoever failed, he at least would succeed. And it was quite possible -that he might have been willing to help these poor people (as he called -them to himself) and save the unfortunate boy, if he had not loved Ally. -He was generously sorry for them all, notwithstanding his consciousness -of the enormous advantage likely to spring to himself from what he could -do for them. He would have done it, he thought--if they had asked him, -or even if it had come evidently in his way--for them; and certainly he -would have done it for Ally’s brother, whosoever that brother might have -been to recommend himself to the girl he loved. There could be no doubt -upon that subject. The complication which made it so infinitely useful -to him to make himself useful in this way, because the girl he loved was -the eldest daughter of Sir Edward Penton, and more or less out of his -sphere, was after all a secondary matter--and yet it could not be denied -that it was very important too. He said to himself that he would have -chosen Ally from the world had she been a poor curate’s daughter, a poor -governess, a nobody. But at the same time he could not but be aware that -to marry Miss Penton was a great thing for him, and worth a great deal -of trouble to bring about. Perhaps a man’s feelings in the matter of his -love are never so unalloyed as a girl’s, to whom the love itself is -everything, and with whom the circumstances tell for nothing. Or perhaps -this depends upon the circumstances themselves, since a girl too has -many calculations to make and much to take into consideration when she -is called upon to advance herself and her family by a fortunate -marriage. Rochford could not help feeling that such a connection would -be a fine thing: but it was not for the connection that Ally was dear to -him. He thought of her in his way with subdued rapture really stronger -and more passionate, though not so engrossing, as her own, as he dashed -along the river-side, his mare almost flying, his heart going faster, -beating with the hope of a meeting with Ally before he should see her -father--before he set off upon his mission. If Ally loved him she would -find the means, he thought, to give him that recompense for his -devotion; and sure enough, as he came in sight of the gate, he became -aware also of a little slim figure gathering the first snow-drops in the -shadow of the big laurel bushes that screened the little drive. He flung -the reins to his groom and leaped out of the cart, at imminent risk of -startling the other nervous, highly organized animal, who had carried -him along so swiftly; but what did he care for that or any other risk? -In a moment, shutting the gate behind him gingerly, notwithstanding his -headlong haste, that nobody might be aware of his arrival, he was by -Ally’s side. - -“You are gathering flowers, Miss Penton, already!” - -“Oh, Mr. Rochford, is it you? Yes; they are earlier here than anywhere. -They are only snow-drops, after all.” - -She looked not unlike a snow-drop herself, with a white wrapper wound -round her throat, and her head, which drooped a little--but not till -after she had recognized him with a rapid glance and an overwhelming -momentary blush which left her pale. - -“I could think there would be always flowers wherever you trod,” he -said. - -“That’s poetry,” she replied, with a little tremulous laugh, in which -there was excitement and a little nervous shivering from the cold. “It -must have been you I heard galloping along,” she added, hurriedly, “like -the wind. Are you in haste for the train?” - -“I was in haste, hoping for a word with you before I started.” - -“My father is expecting you, Mr. Rochford.” - -“Yes; I did not mean your father. Won’t you say a kind word to me before -I go?” - -“Oh, if I could only thank you as I should like! Mr. Rochford, I do with -my whole heart.” - -“It is not thanks I want,” he said. “Ally--don’t be angry with me--if I -come back--with--your brother.” - -“Oh, Mr. Rochford, we will all--I don’t know what to say--bless you!” - -“I don’t want blessing; nor is it the others I am thinking of. Ally, are -you angry?” - -He had taken in his own her cold hands, with the snow-drops in them, and -was bending over them. Ally trembled so that she let her flowers fall, -but neither of them paid any attention. He did not say he loved her, or -anything of that kind, which perhaps the girl expected; but he said, -“Ally, are you angry?” once more. - -“Oh, no,” she said, in a voice that was no more than a whisper: and then -the sound of a step upon the gravel made them start asunder. - -It was Sir Edward, who had heard the dog-cart coming along the curve by -the river, and who, restless in his anxiety, had come forth to see who -it was. Both Rochford and Ally stooped down after that little start of -separation to pick up the fallen flowers, and then once more their hands -touched, and the same whisper, so meaningless yet so full of meaning, -was exchanged--“If you are not angry, give them to me, Ally!” - -Angry? no; why should she be angry? She gave him the snow-drops out of -her hand, and while he ran up to meet her father was thankful to have -the chance of stooping to gather up the rest. It was not so much, after -all, that he had said; nothing but her name--Ally--and “Are you angry?” -At what should she be angry?--because he had called her by her name? It -had never sounded so sweetly, so soft, in her ears before. - -“Yes, I am on my way to the station. I came to see if you had any -instructions for me; if there was any--news, before I go.” - -“I don’t see how there could be any news,” said Sir Edward, who had -relapsed into something of his old irritation. “I didn’t expect any -news. If he did not write at first, do you think it likely he would -write now?” - -“He might do so any day; every day makes it more likely that he should -do so,” said Rochford, “in my opinion.” - -“Ah, you think more favorably than I do,” said the father, shaking his -head, but he was mollified by the words. He went on shaking his head. -“As long as he can get on there I don’t expect him to write. I don’t -expect him to come back. I don’t think you’ll find him ever so easily as -you suppose. But still, you can try; I have no objection that you should -try.” - -“Then there is nothing more to say beyond what we settled last night?” - -“Nothing that I can think of. His mother, of course, would have messages -to send; she would wish you to tell him that she was anxious, and feared -his falling ill, and all that; but I don’t pretend to be unhappy about -his health or--anything of that sort,” said Sir Edward, hoarsely, with a -wave of his hand. “You can tell him from me that he’d better come home -at once; we’ll be removing presently. He had best be here when we take -possession of Penton; he had best--be here--But you know very well what -to say--that is, if you find him,” he added, with a harsh little laugh, -“which you won’t find so easy as you think.” - -“I don’t suppose it will be easy,” said Rochford; “but if it can be done -I’ll do it. I’ll stay till I’ve done it. I shall not return without some -news.” - -“Ah, well; go, go. You are full of confidence, you young men. You think -you’ve but to say ‘come’ and he will come. You’ll know better when you -are as old--as old as I am. Good-bye, then, if you are going. -You’ll--look in as you come back?” - -“I shall come here direct, sir: and telegraph as soon as I have anything -to say.” - -“Good-bye, then,” said Sir Edward, stretching out his hand. He held -Rochford for a moment, shaking his hand in a tremulous way. Then he -said, “It must be inconvenient, leaving all your business, going away on -this wild-goose chase.” - -“If it were ever so inconvenient I shouldn’t mind.” - -He kept swinging the young man’s hand, with a pressure which seemed -every moment as though he would throw it away; then he murmured in his -throat, “God bless you, then!” and dropped it, and turned back toward -the house. - -Rochford was left standing once more by the side of Ally, with her hands -full of snow-drops, who had followed every word of this little colloquy -with rapt attention. The flowers she had given him were carefully -inclosed in his left hand; they were a secret between his love and him. -He did not unfold them even for her to see. “Walk with me to the gate,” -he said, in a voice which was half entreaty and half command. He held -out his arm to her, and she took it. The little authority, the air of -appropriation, was sweet to her as she thought no flattery could have -been. - -“He will be against me,” said Rochford, holding her hand close, bending -over her in the shade of the laurels. “And I don’t wonder. But if I come -back successful perhaps they will think me worthy of a reward. Ally, -darling, you thank me for going, when it is all mercenary, for my own -interest--” - -“Oh, no, no--no.” - -“It is--to win you. I am not good enough for you, I know that, but I can -not give up this dear hope. Will you stand by me if they refuse?” - -She made no reply. How could she make any reply? She held his arm tight, -and drooped her head. She had never stood against them in her life. She -was aghast at the thought. Everything in life had been plain to her till -now. But her eyes were dazzled with the sudden new light, and the -possibility of darkness coming after it. The confusion of betrothal, -refusal, delight, dismay, all coming together, bewildered her -inexperienced soul. “No, no, no,” she murmured; “oh, no; they will never -be against us.” - -“No,” he cried, in subdued tones of triumph; “not against _us_, if you -will stand by me. Ally! then it is you and I against the world!” - -And then there was the glitter and glimmer before her eyes, the -impatient mare tossing her nervous head, the wintery sun gleaming in the -harness, in the horse’s sleek coat, in the varnish of the dog-cart: and -then the sudden rush of sound, and all was gone like a dream. Like a -dream--like a sudden phantasmagoria, in which she too had been a vision -like the rest, and heard and saw and done and said things inconceivable. -To turn back after that on everything that was so familiar and calm, to -remember that she must go and put into water the snow-drops, which were -already dropping limp in the hand that he had kissed--that she must face -them all in the preoccupation of her thoughts--was almost as wonderful -to Ally as this wonderful moment that was past. “You and I against the -world.” And those other shorter words that meant so little apparently, -“Ally--you are not angry?” kept murmuring and floating about her, making -an atmosphere round her. Would the others hear her when she went in? -That fear seized upon Ally as she drew near the door, coming slowly, -slowly along the path. They would hear the words, “Ally, are you angry?” -but would they know what that meant? she said to herself in her dream as -she reached the door. No, no; they might hear them, but they would not -understand--that was her secret between her love and her. To think that -in such little words, that look so innocent, everything could be said! - -But nobody took any notice of Ally when she went in at last. They were -all occupied with their own affairs, and with the one overpowering -sentiment which made them insensible to other things. Ally went into the -midst of them with her secret in her eyes like a lamp in a sanctuary, -but they never perceived it. She put her snow-drops in water, all but -two or three which she took to her room with her, feeling them too -sacred even to be worn, even to be left for Anne to see. But where could -she put them to keep them secret? She had no secret places to keep -anything in, nor had she ever known what it was to have a secret in all -her innocent life. How, oh, how was she to keep this? - - - - -CHAPTER XLIII. - -ALLY’S SECRET. - - -As a matter of fact she did not keep it at all. - -The others were very anxious, lost in their thoughts, their minds all -quivering with anxiety and hope and fear, but still there were moments -when the tension relaxed a little. It was very highly strung at first -while the excitement of Rochford’s departure and of Sir Edward’s -encounter with him was still in the air, but by degrees this died away, -and a sense of increased serenity, of greater hope, released their souls -from that bondage. Lady Penton after a long silence began again to talk -a little about the new house. - -“I don’t know what we can do with these poor old things in Penton,” she -said; “such a beautiful house as it is, everybody says, and so many -pretty things in it: and all we have is so shabby. Ally, you are the -only one that has seen it.” - -“Yes, mother,” said Ally, waking up as from a dream. - -“What do you think, my dear? you ought to be able to tell me. I suppose -there is scarcely a room in the house so small as this?” - -“I--don’t think I paid any attention.” - -“No attention!--to a house which was to be our own house.” - -“But no one thought then it was to be our own house,” cried Anne, coming -to the rescue. “And you know Ally did not enjoy it, mother.” - -“Oh, yes,” cried Ally, suddenly waking up, feeling once more the -brightness of pleasure that had come with the sight of _him_; how he had -found her neglected and made a princess of her, a little queen! Was it -possible that she could ever have forgotten that? - -“Well, not at first,” said Anne; “you didn’t like Cousin Alicia, which I -don’t wonder at. Mab didn’t like her either. Mother, if Mab comes back -and insists on coming to live with us, what shall you do?” - -“I wish you would not be so nonsensical,” said Lady Penton, with a -little vexation, “when I was talking of the furniture. Why should -Mab--” she paused a moment, struck by a recollection, and then wound up -with a sigh and a shake of her head. “Why should not Walter have a try?” -The words came back to her mind vaguely, just clear enough to arouse a -keener consciousness of the prevailing subject which her mind had put -aside for the moment. Ah! poor Wat! poor Wat! how could his mother think -or speak of anything while his fate hung in the balance? But then she -reflected on the new agent who had been sent out into the world in -search of him, a young man who knew the ways of young men. This -reflection gave her more comfort than anything. She clung to the idea -that young men spoke a language of their own among themselves, and that -only they understood each other’s way. She resumed with another sigh. - -“I don’t suppose we have anything in our possession that is fit to be -put into the drawing-room, Ally. I remember it in old days, the very few -times I ever was there: but they say it is far more splendid now than it -was before. Do you think that chiffonier would do?” The chiffonier had -been the pride of Lady Penton’s heart. It was inlaid, and had a -plate-glass back. She looked at it fondly where it stood, not very -brilliant in fact, but making the shabby things around look a little -more shabby. She had always felt it was thrown away amid these -surroundings, and that to see it in a higher and better sphere would be -sweet and consolatory; but Lady Penton was aware that taste had changed -greatly since that article was constructed, and that perhaps the -decorations of the great drawing-room at Penton might be out of harmony -with a _meuble_ belonging to another generation, however beautiful it -might be in itself. - -“I--don’t know,” said Ally, looking at the well-known article with her -dreamy eyes; “there was nothing like it--I think: I didn’t notice--” - -“You don’t seem to have noticed anything, my dear,” her mother said. - -Oh, if Ally could but say what it was that had been most delightful to -her at Penton! But then she remembered with overpowering shame how she -had shrunk from the ladies who had been so good to her; how she had felt -the elation of her new superiority; how she had been a snob in all the -horror of the word. And she was silent, crushed by remorse and -confusion. Fortunately Lady Penton’s mind was taken up by other things. - -“I think,” she said, “the chiffonier will do. It is large, too large, -for this little room; it will fill one side of the wall very nicely. And -perhaps some of the chairs, if they are newly covered; but as for -curtains and carpets and all that, everything must be new. It is -dreadful to think of the expense. I don’t know how we are ever to meet -it. Ally, what sort of carpets are there now? Oh, no doubt beautiful -Persian rugs and that sort of thing--simple Brussels would not do. Is it -a polished floor with rugs, or is it one of those great carpets woven in -one piece, or is it--My dear, what’s the matter? There is no need to -cry.” - -“I--don’t remember--it is so stupid of me,” said Ally, with the tears in -her eyes. - -“You are nervous and upset this morning; but we must all try and take a -little courage. I have great confidence in Mr. Rochford--oh, great -confidence! He is very kind and so trustworthy. You can see that only to -look into those nice kind eyes.” - -“Oh, mother dear!” cried Ally, flinging her arms about Lady Penton’s -neck, giving her a sudden kiss. And then the girl slid away, flying -upstairs as soon as she was safely out of sight, to cry with happiness -in her own room where nobody could see. - -“There is something the matter with Ally this morning,” said her mother; -“she is not like herself.” - -“She is not at all like herself,” said Anne, with a little pursing up of -her lips, as one who should say, “I could an I would.” - -“What do you think it is, Anne? Do you know of anything?” - -“I don’t know,” said Anne, “but I guess. Mother--I think it’s Mr. -Rochford.” - -“Mr. Rochford!” Lady Penton replied; and then in a moment the whole -passed before her like a panorama. How could she have been so dull? It -had occurred to her as possible before old Sir Walter’s death, and she -had not been displeased. Now things were different; but still--“What -will your father say?” she exclaimed. “Oh, I am afraid I have been -neglecting Ally thinking of her brother. What will your father say?” - -“If that sort of thing is going to be,” said Anne, sententiously, “do -you think anything can stop it, mother? I have always heard that the -more you interfere the stronger it becomes. It has to be if it’s going -to be.” - -Lady Penton did not make any reply to this wisdom, but she was greatly -moved. First Walter and then Ally! The children become independent -actors in life, choosing their own parts for good, or, alas! perhaps for -evil. She stole upstairs after a little interval and softly opened the -door of Ally’s room, where the girl was sitting half crying, smiling, -lost in the haze of novelty and happiness: her mother looked at her for -a moment before she said anything to make her presence known. Ah, yes, -it was very clear Ally had escaped, she had gone away from the household -in which she was born, the cares and concerns of which had hitherto been -all the world to her, into another sphere, a different place, a little -universe of her own, peopled but by the two, the beginners of a new -world. Lady Penton stood unseen, contemplating the girl’s dreamy -countenance, so abstracted from all about her with a complication of new -and strange emotions. Her little girl! but now separate, having taken -the turn that made her life a thing apart from father and mother. The -child! who had in a moment become a woman, an individual with her fate -and future all her own. The interest of it, the pride of it, in some -respects the pity of it, touches every maturer soul at such a sight--but -when it is a woman looking at her own little girl! She came into the -room very softly and sat down beside Ally upon the little white bed and -put her tender arms about the young creature in her trance; and Ally, -with one low cry, “Mother!” flung herself upon the breast which had -always been her shelter. And there was an end of the secret--so far as -such a secret can be told. The mother did not want any telling, she -understood it all. But, notwithstanding her sympathy for her child, and -her agreement in Anne’s inspiration and conviction that such a thing -_has_ to be if it is going to be, she kept reflecting to herself, “What -will her father say?” all the time in her heart. - -This was destined to be a day of excitement in many ways. Just before -the family meal (which Lady Penton, with a sense of all the changes now -surging upward in their family life, had begun to speak of with a little -timidity as “the children’s dinner”) one of the Penton carriages came -to the door, and Mab burst in, all smiles and delight. “Am I in time for -dinner?” she said. “Oh, Lady Penton, you will let me come to dinner? May -I send the carriage away and tell them to come back for me? When must -they come back for me? Oh, if you only knew how I should like to stay.” -It was very difficult for these kind people to resist the fervor of this -petition. “My dear, of course we are very glad to have you,” Lady Penton -said, with a little hesitation. And Mab plunged into the midst of the -children with cries of delight on both sides. Horry possessed himself at -once of her hand, and found her a chair close to his own, and even -little Molly waved her spoon in the stranger’s honor, and changed her -little song to “Mady, Mady,” instead of the “Fader, fader!” which was -the sweetest of dinner-bells to Sir Edward’s ears. When dinner was over, -Mab got Lady Penton into a corner and poured forth her petition. “Oh, -may I come and stay! Uncle Russell is going away, and Aunt Alicia is not -at all fond of me. She would not like it if I went with them, and where -can I go? My relations are none of them so nice as you. You took me in -out of kindness when I didn’t know where to go. I have a lot of money, -Lady Penton, they say, but I am a poor little orphan girl all the same.” - -“Oh, my dear,” said Lady Penton, “nobody could be more sorry than I am; -and a lot of money does not do very much good to a little girl who is -alone. But, Mab, I have so many to think of: and we have not a lot of -money, and we have to live accordingly. Though Sir Edward has Penton -now, that does not make things better, it rather make them worse. Even -in Penton we shall live very simply, perhaps poorly. We can not give you -society and pleasures like your other friends.” - -“But I don’t want society and pleasure. Pleasure! I should like to take -care of Molly, and make her things and teach her her letters. I should; -she is the dearest little darling that ever was. I should like to run -about with the boys. Horry and I are great friends, oh, great friends, -Lady Penton. At Penton you will have hundreds of rooms; you can’t say it -is not big enough. Oh, let me come! Oh, let me come! And then my -money--” But here Mab judiciously stopped, seeing no room for any -consideration about her money. “You wouldn’t turn me from the door if I -was a beggar, a little orphan,” she cried. - -“Oh, my dear! No, indeed, I hope not; but this is very different. Mab, -though I am not much set upon money (but I am afraid I am too, for -nothing will go without it), yet a rich girl is very different from a -poor girl. You know that as well as I.” - -“The poor girl is much better off,” cried Mab, “for people are kind to -her; they take her in, they let her stay, they are always contriving to -make her feel at home; but the wretched little rich one is put to the -door. People say, ‘Oh, we are always glad to see you;’ but they are not, -Lady Penton! They think, here she comes with her money. As if I cared -about my money! Take me for Molly’s nurse or her governess. Ally will be -going and marrying--” - -“What do you know about that?” Lady Penton said, grasping her arm. - -“I! I don’t know anything about it; but of course she will, and so will -Anne; and it might happen that you would be glad to have me, just to -look after the children a little after the weddings were over, and help -you with Molly. Oh, you might, Lady Penton, it is quite possible; and -then you would find out that I am not a little good-for-nothing. I -believe I am really clever with children,” Mab cried, flinging herself -down on her knees, putting her arms about Lady Penton’s waist. “Oh, say -that I may stay.” - -When she had thus flung herself upon Lady Penton’s lap, Mab suddenly -raised her round rosy cheek to the pale one that bent over her. They -were by themselves in a corner of the drawing-room, and nobody was near. -She said in a whisper, close to the other’s ear, “I saw Mr. Penton in -town yesterday. He was looking quite well, but sad. I was--oh, very -impertinent, Lady Penton. Forgive me. I stopped the carriage, though I -am sure he did not want to speak to me. I told him that you were -not--quite well--that you were so pale--and that everybody missed him -so. Don’t be angry! I was very impertinent, Lady Penton. And he said he -was going home directly--directly, that was what he said. I said you -would be sure not to tell him in your letters that you were feeling ill, -but that you were. And so you are, Lady Penton; you are so pale. But he -is coming directly, that was what he said.” - -“Oh, my little Mab!” Lady Penton cried. She gave the little girl a -sudden kiss, then put her hands with a soft resoluteness upon Mab’s arms -and loosed their clasp. It was as if the girl had pushed open for a -moment a door which closed upon her again the next. “Yes,” she said, “my -son is coming home. He has stayed a little longer than we expected, but -you should not have tried to frighten him about his mother. I am not -ill. If he comes rushing back before his business is done, because you -have frightened him about me, what shall we do to you, you little -prophet of evil?” She stooped again and kissed the girl, giving her a -smile as well. But then she rose from her seat. “As soon as we get in to -Penton you must come and pay us a long visit,” she said. - -And this made an end of Mab’s attempt to interfere in the affairs of the -family of which she was so anxious to become a member. She went away to -the children with her head hanging, and in a somewhat disconsolate -condition. But, being seized upon by Horry, who had a great manufacture -of boats on hand, and wanted some one to make the sails for him, soon -forgot, or seemed to forget, the trouble, and became herself again. “I -am coming to live with you when you go to Penton,” she said. - -“Hurrah! Mab is coming to live with us!” shouted the little boys, and -soon this great piece of news ran over the house. - -“Mad’s tumming! Mad’s tumming!” little Molly joined in with her little -song. - -And this new proposal, which was so strange and unlikely, and which the -elder members looked upon so dubiously, was carried by acclamation by -the little crowd, so to speak, of the irresponsible populace--the -children of the house. - -The day had been an exhausting day. When the winter afternoon fell there -was throughout the house more than usual of that depressed and -despondent feeling which is natural to the hour and the season. Even -Mab’s going contributed to this sensation. The hopefulness of the -morning, when all had felt that the sending out of the new agent meant -deliverance from their anxiety, had by this time begun to sink into the -dreary waiting to which no definite period is put, and which may go on, -so far as any one knows, day after day. Sir Edward had withdrawn to the -book-room, very sick at heart and profoundly disappointed, disgusted -even not to have had a telegram, which he had expected from hour to hour -the entire day. Rochford had not found Walter, then, though he was so -confident in his superior knowledge. After all, he had sped no better -than other people. There was a certain solace in this, but yet a dreary, -dreadful disappointment. He sat over his fire, crouching over it with -his knees up to his chin, cold with the chill of nervous disquietude and -anxiety, listening, as the ladies had done so long--listening for the -click of the gate, for a step on the gravel--for anything that might -denote the coming of news, the news which he had never been able to -bring himself, but which Rochford had been so sure of sending, only, as -it seemed, to fail. - -Lady Penton was in the drawing-room. She spent this dull hour often with -her husband, but to-day she did not go to him. She could not have been -with him and keep Ally’s secret, and she was loath to give him the -additional irritation of this new fact in the midst of the trouble of -the old. She said to herself that if Rochford succeeded in his search, -if he sent news, if he brought Walter home, that then everything would -be changed; and in gratitude for such a service his suit might be -received. She did not wish to expose that suit to an angry objection -now. Poor lady! she had more motives than one for this reticence. She -would not make Ally unhappy, and she would not permit anything to be -said or done that might lessen the energy of the lover who felt his -happiness to depend on his success. It was because of her habit of -spending this hour between the lights in the book-room with her husband -that she was left alone in the partial dark, before the lamp was brought -or the curtains drawn. She had gone close to the window when it was too -dark to work at the table, but now her work had dropped on her lap, and -she was doing nothing. Doing nothing! with so much to think of, so many, -many things to take into consideration. She sat and looked out on the -darkening skies, the pale fading of the light, the dull whiteness of the -horizon, and the blackness of the trees that rose against it. The -afternoon chill was strong upon her heart; she had been disappointed -too--she too had been looking for that telegram, and her heart had sunk -lower and lower as the night came on. That Walter should be found was -what her heart prayed and longed for, and now there was another reason, -for Ally’s sake, that the lover might claim his reward. But the day was -nearly over, and, so far as could be told, the lover, with all his young -energy, was as unsuccessful as Edward himself. So far as this went, -their thoughts were identical, but Lady Penton’s, if less sad, were more -complicated, and took in a closer net-work of wishes and hopes. She sat -at the window and looked out blankly, now and then putting up her hand -to dry her eyes. She could cry quietly to herself in the dark, which is -a relief a man can not have. - -What a sad house! with heavy anxiety settling down again, and the shadow -of the night, in which even the deliverer can not work, nor telegrams -come. There was a spark of warmer life upstairs, where the girls had -lighted their candle, and where the tremendous secret which had come to -Ally was being shyly contemplated by both girls together in wonder of so -great and new a thing. And on the nursery there was plenty of -cheerfulness and din. But down-stairs all was very quiet, the father and -mother in different rooms thinking the same thoughts. Lady Penton wept -out those few tears very quietly. There was no sound to betray them. It -had grown very dark in the room and her eyes were fixed on the wan light -that lingered outside. She had no hope now for a telegram. He would not -send one so late. He must have written instead of telegraphing. He had -found nothing, that was clear. - -She had said this to herself for the hundredth time, and had added for -perhaps the fiftieth that it was time to go and dress, that it was of no -use lingering, looking for something that never came, that she had now a -double reason to be calm, to have patience, to take courage, when it -seemed to her that something, a dark speck, flitted across the pale -light outside. This set her heart beating again. Could it be the -dispatch after all? She listened, her heart jumping up into her ears. -Oh! who was it? Nothing? Was it nothing? There was no sound. Yes, a -hurried rustle, a faint stir in the hall. She rose up. Telegraph boys -make a great noise, they send the gravel flying, they beat wild drums -upon the door. Now there was nothing, or only a something fluttering -across the window, the faintest stir at the open door. - -What was it? a hand upon the handle turning it doubtfully, slowly; then -it was pushed open. Oh, no; no telegraph boy. She flew forward with her -whole heart in her outstretched hands. Some one stood in the dark, -looking in, saying nothing, only half visible, a shadow, no more. -“_Wat!_ WAT!” the mother cried. - - - - -CHAPTER XLIV. - -THE FINAL BLOW. - - -What does it matter what a mother says? especially when she is a -powdered and pomaded woman like Mrs. Sam Crockford, altogether unable to -comprehend, much less interpret, the fair and brilliant creature who is -her daughter. How strange that anything so sweet and delightful as Emmy -should come from such a woman--one from whom the heart recoiled, who was -offensive to every sense, with those white, unwholesome, greasy hands, -the powder, the scent, the masses of false hair, the still falser and -more dreadful smile. Walter said to himself as he left her with that -nausea which always overwhelmed him at the sight of her, that he would -not take what she said as having anything to do with Emmy. No; her -existence was a sort of an offense to Emmy; it might, if that were -possible, throw a cloud over her perfection, it might make a superficial -admirer pause to think, could she ever in her young beauty come to be -like that? A superficial admirer, Walter said to himself--not, of -course, a true lover such as he was, to whom the suggestion was odious -and abominable. Like that! oh, never, never! for Emmy had soul, she had -heart in her loveliness; never could the actress have resembled her, -never could she resemble the actress. He wondered if that woman could be -her mother. Such people stole children, they got hold of them in strange -ways. Emmy might have been taken in her childhood from some poor mother -of a very different kind. She might have strayed away from her home and -been found by vagrants: anything rather than believe that she was that -woman’s daughter, who, to crown all her artificialities, was mercenary -too. Or even if it might really be so, what did it matter? is there not -often no resemblance between the mother and the child, the mother -elderly, faded, meretricious, trying hard to keep up an antiquated -display of dreadful charms, seductions that filled the mind with -loathing; the daughter, oh, so different, so young and fresh, so full of -youth and sweetness and everything that is delightful, everything that -is most fascinating. When he thought of Emmy the young man’s heart, -which had been so outraged, grew soft again. If it came to a decision, -how very different would Emmy’s deliverance be. Yet Emmy had discouraged -him too, she had thought of secondary things. She had been sorry that he -should lose anything for her sake, he who was so ready to lose all. She -had even scoffed a little sweetly at his fortune, the ten thousand -pounds, which would not, she declared, be more than four hundred a year. -Four hundred a year would be plenty, Walter thought; they could live -somewhere quietly in the depths of the country enjoying each other’s -society, desiring nothing else to make them happy. Would Emmy care for -that? she who so loved London. A number of people loved London so, did -not know what to do out of it, people who were the very best, the most -highly endowed of all, poets, philosophers--it was no reproach to her -that she should be among that number. He was not one of them himself, -but then he was, he knew, a dull fellow, a rustic. Poor Walter went -about the streets all day thinking these thoughts. He knew he was not so -clever as she was; but yet they had always understood each other: not -like that dreadful woman whom nothing could make him understand. He -would not accept her decision whatever she said--he would not believe -her even--probably what she had said about his father was untrue; how -should his father have got there? No, no, it was not true, any more than -it was true that Emmy had permitted her mother to interfere. There was -some one else whom the old woman preferred, he said, miserably, to -himself, and that was the entire cause of it, not that Emmy meant to -cast him off--oh no, no! - -But it was two or three days after this before he succeeded in seeing -her. Either there was a conspiracy on her mother’s part, into which she, -guileless, fell, or else the mother had acquired an ascendency over her, -and was able to curb the natural instincts, to restrain the sweeter -impulses of her daughter. That it could be Emmy’s fault he would not -allow. He haunted the place morning and evening, and on Saturday -afternoon, which had been his moment of bliss. It was on that day that -he met her at last. He met her hurrying out, dressed as she usually was -when he was allowed to take her to the country or to make some -expedition with her. She had just stopped to call out something before -closing the door, about the hour of her return--he thought he heard her -say nine o’clock, and it was little past noon. She was going somewhere, -then, but not with him. He turned after her as she went lightly along, -with the easy skimming step which he had so often compared to every -poetic movement under heaven. It filled him with despair to see it now, -and to feel that she was going along like this, upon some other -expedition, not in his company, though she must know to what darkness of -despondence and solitude she was leaving him. “Emmy,” he cried, hurrying -after her. He thought she started a little, but only quickened her pace. -She was not, however, to escape him so--that was a vain expectation on -her part. He quickened his pace too, and came up to her, close to her, -and caught at her elbow in his eagerness and impatience. She turned -round upon him with a face very unlike that which had so often smiled -upon the foolish boy. She plucked her arm away from his touch. “Oh,” she -said, with a tone of annoyance, “you here!” - -“Where should I be, Emmy, but where you are? You were going to send for -me, to meet me--” - -She looked at him with impatience. “No,” she said, “I wasn’t going to do -anything of the kind; I have got something very different to do.” - -“I have always been ready to do whatever you wanted,” he said, “to go -where you pleased, and you know this has been my reward--this Saturday -afternoon, after waiting, waiting, day by day--” - -“Who wanted you to wait? Mr. Penton, that was your doing. You must -understand that I’m not going to be made a slave to you.” - -“A slave,” cried the poor boy, “to me!” - -“Well, what is it better? I can’t move a step but you are at my heels. -What I’ve always held by is doing what I like and going where I like. I -never could put up with bondage and propriety like some people; but you -dog my steps, you watch everything I do--” - -“Emmy!” - -“Well, is that all you have to say? Emmy! yes, that’s my name; but you -can’t crush me by saying ‘Emmy!’ to me,” she said, with a little -breathless gasp, as of one who had seized the opportunity to work -herself up into a fit of calculated impatience. She stopped here, -perhaps moved by his pale face, and ended by a little laugh of ridicule. -“Well, that’s natural enough, don’t you think?” - -“I don’t know what is natural,” he said. “I have thrown off all that. -Emmy, are you going to abandon me after all?” - -“After all!--after what? I suppose you mean after all the great things -you’ve done for me? What has it been, Mr. Penton? You’ve followed me -here, you’ve watched me that I couldn’t take a step, or speak a word. -No, I am not going with you any more. You must just make up your mind to -it, Mr. Walter Penton. I’ve got other things in hand. I’ve -other--I’ve--well, let us be vulgar,” she cried, with a wild little -laugh, “I’ve got other fish to fry.” - -The poor young fellow kept his eyes fixed upon her--eyes large with -dismay and trouble. - -“You are not going with me anymore! You can’t mean it!--you don’t mean -it, Emmy!” - -“But I do. It’s been all nonsense and romance and folly. I didn’t mind -just for amusement. But do you think I am going to let you, with next to -nothing, and expectations--expectations! what could your expectations -be?--your father may live for a century! Do you think I’m going to let -you stand in my way, and keep me from what’s better? No--and no again -and again. I mean nothing of the sort. I mean what’s best for myself. I -am not going with you any more.” - -“Not going with me!” he said, in a voice of misery: “then what is to -become of me?--what am I to do?” - -“Oh, you’ll do a hundred things,” she said, tapping him on the arm; “go -home, for one thing, and make your peace. It’s far better for you. It’s -been folly for you as well as me. Go and take care of your ten thousand -pounds. Ten thousand pounds! What do you think of as much as that a -year? Take care of it, and you’ll get a nice little income out of it, -just enough for a young man about town. And don’t be tyrannized over by -your people, and don’t let any one say a word about marrying. You’re too -young to be married. I’m your only real friend, Walter. Yes, I am. I -tell you, don’t think of marrying--why should you marry?--but just have -your fling and get a little fun while you can. That’s my last advice to -you.” - -He walked on with her mechanically, not able to speak, until she got -impatient of the silent figure stalking by her side, struck dumb with -youthful passion and misery. - -She stopped suddenly and confronted him with hasty determination. -“You’re not,” she said, “coming another step with me!” - -“Where am I to go? what am I to do: I have lived,” he cried, “only for -you!” - -“Then it’s time to stop that!” she said. “Go away--go clean away; it -will--it will damage me if you’re seen with me! Now there, that’s the -truth! I was so silly as to allow it for your sake before, now I’ve -learned better. Mr. Penton, it will be harming me if you come another -step. Now, do you understand?” - -Did he understand? He stopped, and gazed at her with his blank face. “It -will be harming you! But you belong to me, you are going to be my wife!” - -“No, no, no!” she cried; “that is all folly: I never meant it. Good-bye, -and for Heaven’s sake go away, go away!” - -She gave an alarmed glance round toward the end of the street. It seemed -to Walter that he too saw something vaguely--a tali spidery outline, a -high phaeton, or something of the sort. She broke into a little run -suddenly, waving her hand to him. “Good-bye!” she cried; “good-bye; go -away!” and left him standing stupefied with wonder, with incredulous -conviction, if such words can be put together. He felt in the depths of -his heart that she had abandoned him, but he could not believe it. No, -he could not believe it, though he knew it was true. A sort of instinct -of chivalry lingered in the poor lad’s heart, wrung and bleeding as it -was. He could not harm her, he could not spy on her, he could not -interfere with her will, whatever she might do to him. He turned his -back upon the spidery tall phaeton. If that was the thing that was to -carry her away from him he would not spy, he would not put himself in -her way. So long as she did what she liked best! He turned with his -heart bleeding, yet half stupefied with trouble, and walked away. - -Poor Walter walked and walked all the rest of the afternoon; he did not -know where he went or how, his mind was stupid with suffering. And then -came Sunday, when without her the blank was more complete than on any -other day. He had not the heart even to seek another interview. On -Sunday afternoon he went past the house, and the high phaeton stood at -the door. What more could be said? And yet another day or two passed, he -did not know how many, before Mab stopped the little brougham in which -she was driving and called to him in the street as he went mooning along -with his head down in dull and helpless despondency. - -“Mr. Penton! Mr. Penton!” The little soft voice calling him roused -Walter from the stupor of his despair. He knew nobody in town. It was a -wonder to him that any one should know him--should take the trouble to -call him. And then Mab’s little fresh face stabbed him with innocent -cheerful looks. He was not learned enough to know that these innocent -looks knew a great deal, and suspected much more harm than existed, in -their precocious society knowledge. - -Mab was bent upon doing what she could to bring him back, and she fully -realized all the difficulty; but she looked like a child delighted to -see her country acquaintance. - -“And oh, how is Lady Penton?” she cried. - -“My mother?” gasped Walter, taken altogether by surprise. - -Then Mab told him that little story about Lady Penton’s health. “She -will of course make light of it when she writes,” said the artful little -girl. “But oh, she looks so ill and so pale!” (So she does, the little -romancer said to herself in her heart; it is quite, quite true!) “Oh, -Mr. Penton, do make her see the doctor! do make her take care of -herself! You could do it better than any one--because you know the -others don’t notice the great, great change; they see her every day.” - -“I will!” cried poor Wat. “Thank you--thank you a thousand times for -telling me!” - -It gave him a reason for going home, and he did so want a reason, poor -boy! His own wretchedness did not seem cause enough; and how was he ever -to be forgiven for what he had done? But his mother! He would not wait -to think, he would not let himself consider the matter. His mother! And -what if she should die! Death had never entered that happy house. It -seemed to him the most horrible of all possibilities. He did not even -pause to go back to his hotel. Oh, how glad he was of the compulsion, -to be thus sent home, to have a reason for going! He went flying, -without taking time for thought. - -And when Lady Penton threw herself upon him, calling “Wat, WAT,” with -that great outcry, he forgot all about his wrong-doing and his need of -pardon. He caught her in his arms and cried, “Mother, are you -ill?--Mother, are you better?” as if there were no other trouble or -anxiety but this in the world. - -“Oh, Wat! oh, Wat!” she cried, unable on her side to think of anything -but that he had come back and she had him in her arms again: and for a -minute or two no more was said. Then he led her tenderly back to a chair -and placed her in it, and knelt down beside her. - -“Mother, you have been ill--” - -“No; oh, no, my dear.” And then she remembered Mab’s little alarm (dear -little Mab! if it should be her doing). “At least,” she said, “my -dearest boy, there is nothing the matter with me that the sight of you -will not cure.” - -“Oh, mother,” he cried, “that you should have to say that, that I should -have been the cause--” - -“Hush, hush,” she said, pressing him to her; “it is all over, Wat, my -own boy. You have come home.” - -She asked him no questions, she did not even say that he was forgiven: -and the youth’s heart swelled high. “I think I have been mad,” he said. - -But she only replied, kissing him, “My own boy, you have come home.” And -what more was there to be said. - -This transport all passed in the dark, with no light in the room except -the paleness of twilight in the windows, the dull glow from the fire, -which was an ease and softening to the meeting. And then with the -lighting of the cheerful lamps the knowledge spread through the -house--Wat has come home. - -“Already!” cried Ally, with a flush of radiant joy that was more than -for her brother. - -“Already,” Sir Edward said, with a frown that belied the sudden ease of -his heart. To say what that relief was is beyond the power of words. The -dark book-room, where he sat with his head in his hands and all the -world dark round him, suddenly became light. A load was lifted from his -shoulders and from his soul; his mind was freed as from chains. But -after that first blessed release and relief a sensation of humiliation, -almost of resentment, came into his mind. “Already,” he said. He had -tramped about London for days and days and found nothing. Rochford had -gone and seen and overcome the same day. - -“Edward,” said Lady Penton, who, though so still, so tremulous after the -prodigal’s return, had yet felt the other anxiety spring up as soon as -the first was laid, “I am sorry for Mr. Rochford. I fear he was making -this the foundation for a great many hopes. He expected to find Walter -and bring him home, and thus gain our favor for--something else.” - -“Well,” said Sir Edward with his frown, “it is astonishing to me how -he’s done it. It looks like collusion. I suppose it’s only a piece of -luck, a great piece of luck.” - -“He has not done it at all,” said Lady Penton, “Wat has not so much as -seen him. He has had nothing to do with it at all.” - -The cloud rolled off Sir Edward’s brow: he gave expression to the -delightful relief of his mind in a low laugh. - -“I thought,” he said, “nothing would come of it, he was so cock-sure. I -thought from the first nothing would come of it: but of course you were -all a great deal wiser than I. So he came home of himself when he was -tired? Let me see the boy.” - - - - -CHAPTER XLV. - -NO LONGER COCK-SURE. - - -Rochford came back in a sadly humbled condition of mind. He was indeed -summoned back by a telegram which told him that all was well and his -services unnecessary, and returned trailing his arms, so to speak, very -much cast down, beginning to say to himself that the Reading solicitor -was not at all likely to be considered a fit match for Sir Edward -Penton’s daughter now that all chance of special service to the family -was over. Young idiot! why, after staying away so long, couldn’t he have -stayed a little longer? Why not have helped somebody by his folly -instead of simply dropping from the skies when it suited him in his -egotism and selfishness? Rochford came back deeply humiliated, deeply -despondent. He too had tramped about London one weary and dismal day, -and with disgust had recognized that his mission was not so easy as he -had supposed. He had gone to the post-office which Walter had given as -his address, and had made what inquiries were possible, and then had -hung about hoping that Walter would come to fetch his letter, like those -sportsmen who hang about the pools where their big game go to drink. But -no one came; and in the morning had arrived that telegram--“All well: -further search unnecessary. Has returned home.” Confound him! Why, after -making everybody miserable, could he not have stayed another day? -Rochford came home very despondent, taking the blackest view of affairs. -If he had but acted with more prudence in the end of the year--if he had -but pushed on matters and got that bargain accomplished before Sir -Walter had been stricken with his last illness!--then the Pentons, -though they would still have had the baronetcy, would not have been a -great county family, and Ally, without fortune to speak of, would have -made no _mésalliance_ in marrying a man who could keep her in luxury -though he was but the family man of business. But now, though the -fortune was scarcely greater, the position was very different. The -mother was very artless, but still she knew enough to know that girls so -attractive, with the background of Penton behind them, even if they had -not a penny, were not to be thrown away on men like himself. Such was -the tenor of his thoughts as he came back. He had expected to return -with trumpets sounding and colors flying, bringing back in triumph the -wanderer, and having a certain right to his recompense. He came now -silent and shamed, an officious person who had offered more than he -could perform, who had thrust his services upon those who did not -require them. He had not even the courage to see Ally before he went in -humbled to her father. It was his duty to tell Sir Edward all that had -happened, but he had scarcely a doubt as to what must follow. He would -be sent away, he felt sure; probably he would not be allowed to speak to -her at all--he the man of business, and she the princess royal, the -eldest daughter of the house. - -But, to his relief as well as surprise, Sir Edward met him with an -unclouded countenance. He gave him a warm grasp of the hand. He said, -“Well, Rochford, all’s well that ends well. You see it was all settled -more easily than you supposed.” - -“You can’t doubt, Sir Edward, that I am most glad it should be so.” - -“Oh, yes, I’m sure you are; glad--but a little disappointed, eh?--it’s -quite natural: you were so cock-sure. That is the worst of you young -men. You think we elder ones are all ninnies; you think we don’t know -what we are about. And you are so certain that you sometimes take us in, -and we think so too. But you see you are wrong now and then,” said Sir -Edward, with high satisfaction, “and it turns out that it is we who are -in the right.” - -Rochford did not fail to remark to himself in passing, that though he -might be wrong he saw very little reason for the assertion that Sir -Edward was right. But he was too much cast down for argument. He said, -“The chief thing is that your anxiety is relieved. I am very glad of -that--though I should have liked better to have had a hand in doing it.” -And then he drew himself together as best he could. “There is another -subject, Sir Edward, that I wished to speak to you about.” - -“Yes, very likely; but you must hear first about Walter. So far as I can -make out it has been a mere escapade, and he has been mercifully saved -from committing himself, from--compromising his future. We can’t be -thankful enough for that. He comes back free as he went away, and having -learned a lesson, I hope, an important lesson. We mean to say nothing -about it, Rochford. You’ll not take any notice: I’m sure we can trust in -you.” - -“I hope so,” said the young man; and then he repeated, “Sir Edward, -there is another subject--” - -“You don’t look,” said Sir Edward, rubbing his hands with internal -satisfaction, “so cock-sure about that.” - -This was not very discouraging if he had retained sufficient presence of -mind to see it. But he was out of heart as well as out of confidence, -and everything seemed to him to be of evil augury. “No, indeed,” he -said, “I am far from being sure. I feel that what I am going to ask will -seem to you very presumptuous: and if it were not that my whole heart is -in it and all my hopes--” - -“Ah, you use such words lightly, you young men--” - -“I don’t use them lightly. If I could help it I would put off speaking -to you. I would try whether it were not possible to find some way of -recommending myself--of making you think a little better of me.” - -“If you suppose,” cried Sir Edward, benignly, “that I think less of you -because you were not successful about Walter you are quite mistaken, -Rochford. You had not time to do anything. He left town almost as soon -as you arrived in it. I never expect impossibilities, even when they are -promised,” he added, with a nod of his head. - -“It is I that am looking for impossibilities, Sir Edward. I can’t think -how I could have been so bold. I have been letting myself think that -perhaps--that if you could be got to take it into consideration--that, -that in short--” - -And Mr. Rochford, crimsoning, growing pale, changing from one foot to -another, looking all embarrassment and awkwardness, came to a dead stop -and could find nothing more to say. - -“What is it? You seem to have great difficulty in getting it out. What -have I in my power that is so important, and that you are so shy about?” - -“I am shy, that is just the word. You will think me--I don’t know what -you will think me--” - -“Get it out, man. I can’t tell till I know.” - -“Sir Edward,” said Rochford, more and more embarrassed, “your -daughter--” - -“Oh, my daughter! Is that how it is?” It is not to be supposed that a -day had elapsed after Walter’s return and the relief of mind that -followed it without some communication passing between Lady Penton and -her husband on the second of the subjects that had excited her so -deeply. - -“Sir Edward,” said the young man, “Miss Penton’s family and position are -of course superior to mine. It all depends on the way these matters are -looked upon. Some people would consider this an insuperable obstacle. -Some do not attach much importance to it. Ideas have changed so much on -this subject. My grandfather, as perhaps you are aware, married a Miss -Davenport of Doncaster. But I don’t know how you may look on that sort -of thing.” - -“I don’t exactly see the connection,” said Sir Edward; “your -grandfather’s marriage was a good while ago.” - -“Yes, when prejudices were a great deal stronger than now. Though they -exist in some places, I have the strongest reason to believe that among -the best people they are no longer held as they used to be. Eva Milton -married a Manchester man that had no education to speak of at all.” - -“Are you arguing the question on abstract principles?” said Sir Edward, -who was nursing his foot, and looking half-amused, half-bored. His -companion was too anxious to be able to judge what this look meant, and -he was sadly afraid of irritating the authority in whose hands his -happiness lay. - -“Oh, no, not at all,” he cried, anxiously: “I wanted to remind you, sir, -that it was not the first time that such things had been done. It’s no -abstract question: all that I look forward to in life depends on it. I -am not badly off, as I can prove to you if you will let me. I could keep -my wife, if I had the good fortune to--to--make sure of that--surrounded -by everything that belongs to her sphere. There should be nothing -wanting in that way. I could make settlements that would be, I think, -satisfactory.” - -“Is that how you talked to Ally?” said Sir Edward, a perception of the -humor of the situation breaking in. “How astonished she must have been!” -His mind was so unusually at ease that he was ready to smile even in the -midst of an important arrangement like this. - -“To Ally!” cried Rochford, startled by the reference, and in his -confusion unable to see how much it was in his favor. “No, sir,” he -said, eagerly, “not a word! Do you think I would fret her delicate mind -with any such suggestions? No. She is far above all that. She knows -nothing about it. I may not be worthy of her, but at least I know how to -appreciate her. She has heard nothing like this from me.” - -“But I suppose you must think that what you did say was not without -effect, and that the appreciation is not all on your side? You don’t -mind fretting my delicate mind, it appears,” said Sir Edward; and then, -in a sharper tone, “How far has this matter gone?” - -“Sir Edward,” stammered the young man: his anxiety stupefied instead of -quickening his senses; he seemed able to perceive nothing that was not -against him, “I--I--” - -“You don’t give me very much information,” repeated the father. “Can’t -you tell me how far this matter has gone?” - -Rochford was a keen man of business. He was not to be overpowered by -the most powerful judge or the most aggravating jury. He was in the -habit of stating very clearly what he wanted to say. But now he stood -before this tribunal stammering, without a word to say for himself. “Sir -Edward,” he repeated, “if I had taken time to think I should have felt -that you ought to have been consulted first. But in an unguarded -moment--my--my feelings got the better of me. I saw her unexpectedly -alone. And then,” he added with melancholy energy, “I thought, I -confess, that if I could be of use, if I could find and bring back--” - -“I see,” said Sir Edward, “that was why you undertook so much. It was -scarcely very straightforward, was it, to profess all that interest in -the brother when it was the sister you were thinking of all the time?” - -“Perhaps it might not be straightforward,” owned the unsuccessful one; -“and yet,” after a pause, “it was no pretense. I was interested, if you -will let me say so, in--all the family, Sir Edward. I should have been -too glad--to be of any use: even if there had been no--even if there had -not existed--even if--” - -“I see,” said the stern judge again: and then there was a dreadful -pause. Circumstances alter much, but not even the advanced views of the -nineteenth century can alter the position in which a young lover stands -before the father of the girl he loves--a functionary perhaps a little -discredited by the march of modern ideas, but who nevertheless has still -an enormous power in his hands, a power which the feminine heart -continues to believe in, which is certainly able to cause a great deal -of discomfort and inconvenience, if nothing else. Rochford stood -thoroughly cowed, with his eyes cast down, before this great arbiter of -fate, although after a while, as the silence continued, there began to -crop up in his mind suggestions, resolutions: how nothing should make -him resign his hopes; how only Ally herself could loose the bond between -them, how he would take courage to say to the father that however much -they respected him his decision would not be absolute, that on the -contrary it could be resisted, that the two whose happiness was -involved--that the two--the two--words which made his heart jump with a -sudden throb in the midst of this horrible uncertainty--would stand -against the world together not to be sundered. All these heroic -thoughts gathered in his mind as he stood awaiting the tremendous -parental decision, which came in a form so utterly unexpected, so -bewildering, that he could only gasp, and for a moment could not reply. -This was what Sir Edward said: - -“You know, I suppose, that my girls will have no money, Rochford?” - -“Sir!” cried the lover, with a burst of pent-up breath which seemed to -carry away with it the burden of a whole lifetime of care from his soul. - -“They will have no money. I am a poor man, and have always been so all -my life. If you have not known that before you will have to know it now -in your capacity (as you say) of the Penton man of business. To keep up -Penton will tax every resource. We shall be rather poorer, my wife -thinks, than we have been at the Hook; and as for the girls--” - -“Do you mean that that’s all?” cried the young man. “You don’t make -any--other objection? What do you think I’m made of? I don’t want any -money, Sir Edward. Money! when there is Miss Penton--Ally, if I may call -her so. How shall I ever thank you enough? I have plenty of money; it’s -not money I want, it’s--it’s--” - -Words failed him: he stood and swung Sir Edward’s hand, who looked not -without a glow of pleasurable feeling at this young fellow who beamed -with gratitude and delight. It is never unpleasant to confer so great a -favor. This had not been generally the position in which fate had placed -Edward Penton. It had been usually the other way. He had received few -blessings, even from the beggars, having so little to give; but an -emperor could not have conferred a greater gift than his daughter, a -spotless little princess of romance, a creature altogether good and fair -and sweet. He felt the water come into his eyes out of that simple sense -of munificence and liberal generosity. “I think,” he said, “you’re a -good fellow, Rochford, and that you’ll be good to little Ally. She’s too -young for anything of the kind, but her mother sees no objection. And -she ought to know best.” - - - - -CHAPTER XLVI. - -THE FATE OF THE CHIFFONIER. - - -The family of Penton Hook took possession of the great house of Penton -in the spring. It need scarcely be said that there were endless -consultations, discussions, committees of ways and means of every -imaginable kind before this great removal was accomplished. Lady -Penton’s first visit to her new home was one which was full of -solemnity. It was paid in much state, a visit of ceremony, greatly -against the wish of both of the visitors and the visited, before the -Russell Pentons withdrew from the great house. - -“We must go to bid them good-bye,” Sir Edward said. “We must not fail in -any civility.” - -“Do you call that civility? She will hate the sight of us. I should -myself in her place,” Lady Penton cried. - -But he had his way, as was to be expected. They drove to Penton in the -new carriage, which Lady Penton could not enjoy for thinking how much it -cost, behind that worthy and excellent pair of brown horses, more noted -for their profound respectability and virtue than for appearance or -speed, which Sir Edward had consented to buy with some mortification, -but which his wife approved as a pair, without much knowledge of the -points in which they were defective. He knew that Russell Penton set -them down as a pair of screws at the first glance; but Lady Penton, who -had never possessed a pair of horses before, was quite impervious to -this, and appreciated the grandeur, though never without a pang at the -cost. But the sight of the great drawing-room overwhelmed the visitor. -The first _coup d’œil_ of the beautiful, vast room, with its row of -pillars, its vast stretches of carpets, its costly furniture, so -stupefied her that the sight of Mrs. Russell Penton herself in her deep -mourning, and that look of injured majesty of which she could not, with -all her efforts, divest herself, failed to produce the effect which -otherwise it must have had. Lady Penton had fully intended to take no -notice, to banish if possible from her face all appearance of curiosity -or of the natural investigation which a first visit to the house which -was to be her own would naturally give rise to; but she could not quite -conceal the startled dismay of her first glance--a sentiment which was -more agreeable to the previous mistress of the house than any other -would have been. It was not very amiable, perhaps, on the part of Mrs. -Russell Penton, to be pleased that her successor should thus be -overwhelmed by the weight of the inheritance--but perhaps it was natural -enough. - -It was not possible that the conversation should be otherwise than -restrained and difficult. Russell Penton, as usual, threw himself into -the breach. He entered into a lively description of their plans of -travel. - -“We both of us love the sunshine,” he said; “England is the noblest of -countries, but she is far away from the center of warmth and light. -There is no saying how far we may go southward before we come back.” - -“But you were always fond of home, Alicia,” said (this being, of course, -as all his companions remarked, the very last thing that ought to have -occurred to him to say) the new proprietor of Penton. - -“Home, I suspect,” she said, in her formal way, “is more where one -chooses to make it than I have hitherto thought.” And then there was a -pause. - -“The weather will be quite delightful by this time in Italy, I suppose,” -said Lady Penton, timidly. “I have never traveled at all; we have never -had it in our power; but it seems as if it should always be fine there.” - -“It is not, though. There is no invariable good weather,” said Russell -Penton. “It generally turns out to be exceptional, and just as bad as -what you have left, wherever you go.” - -He had forgotten his little flourish of trumpets about the sunshine; and -again they all sat silent, gazing at each other for a few terrible -moments, asking each other on each side, Why did they come? and, Why did -we come? - -“The river has kept in tolerable bounds this year,” said Russell Penton, -catching at a new subject; “no doubt because we have had less rain than -usual. Come to the window, and let me show you the view.” He led Lady -Penton to the further end of the room, where a side window commanded the -whole range of the river, with the red roofs of Penton Hook making a -spot of warm color low down by the side of the stream. “I am glad you -see it before anything is disturbed,” he said; “an empty house is -always a sight of dismay.” - -“Oh, I wish it were never to be disturbed at all!” cried the poor lady; -“I feel a dreadful impostor--an usurper--as if we were taking it from -its rightful owner. It is all so suitable to her, and she to it,” she -continued, casting an alarmed, admiring look to where the mistress of -the house sat, an imposing figure, all crape and jet, like a queen about -to abdicate, but not with her will. - -“Yes, for she has made it all,” said the Prince Consort of the place; -“but so will it be suitable to you when you have re-made it, Lady -Penton; and if it is any consolation to you to know, I shall be a much -happier man out of this house. After awhile I believe everything will be -brighter for us both. But don’t let us talk of that. We have all had -enough of the subject. Tell me what you are going to do about Mab, who -has fallen so deeply in love with you all.” - -“She is a dear little girl,” said Lady Penton. “I have asked her to come -and pay us a long visit.” - -“That is very kind; but pray remember that it would be still kinder to -her to let her be with you as she wishes. She has more money than a -little girl ought to have. It will be good and kind in every way.” - -Lady Penton shook her head as he went on talking. Some people are proud -in one way and some in another. She did not think much of Mab’s money. -She was ready to open her heart to the orphan girl, but not to profit by -her. They stood in the window with the great landscape before them, and -the great room behind, which was too splendid even for that chiffonier; -and involuntarily Lady Penton’s mind went back to that overwhelming -question of the furniture, which was so much more important than little -Mab and her fortune. To think of bringing anything from the Hook here! -The chairs and tables would be lost even if they were not so shabby. -Nothing would bear transplanting but the children, “And you can’t -furnish a house with children,” she said, ruefully, to herself. - -“Your wife no doubt will alter everything,” said Mrs. Russell Penton, -following the other pair with her eyes. - -“How could you think so, Alicia? It shall be altered as little as -possible. Everything that belongs to the past is as dear to me as to -you.” - -“I said your wife,” said Alicia. And then she added, “No doubt she would -like to go over the house.” - -“She wishes nothing, I am sure, that would vex you,” Sir Edward said. - -“Vex! I hope I have not so little self-command. The place has become -indifferent indeed to me. It was dear by association, but now that’s all -ended. One ends where another begins. I can only hope, Edward, that your -branch of the family will be more fortunate--more--than ours have been.” - -“Thank you, Alicia. I hope that you may be very happy, Russell and you. -He’s as good a fellow as lives; and I’m sure, a delightful companion to -be alone with.” - -“Are you recommending my husband to me?” she said, with one of those -smiles which made her cousin, whose utterances certainly were very -inappropriate, shrink into himself. “Don’t you think I ought to know -better than any one what a delightful companion he is? And I hear you -are to have a marriage in your family. Harry Rochford will, I hope, -prove a delightful companion too.” - -“He is a good fellow,” said poor Sir Edward, able to think of no more -original phrase. “He is not quite in the position a Penton might have -looked for--” - -“Oh,” she cried, hastily, “what does that matter?--there are Pentons and -Pentons. And your daughter, Edward--your daughter--” - -“I am sorry you don’t think well of my daughter, Alicia.” - -“I never said so. She is very pretty and what people call sweet. I know -no more of her; how could I? I was going to say she looked unambitious. -And against Harry Rochford there is not a word to be said. Don’t you -think your wife would like to see over the house?” - -This is how they parted, without any warm _rapprochement_, though -Alicia, with her usual consciousness of her own faults and her husband’s -opinion, involuntarily condemned every word she herself said, and -everything she did, while she almost forced Lady Penton from one room to -another, each of which filled that poor lady with deeper and deeper -dismay. But, notwithstanding this secret current of self-disapproval, -and notwithstanding the certainty she had of what her husband felt on -the subject, there was a certain stern pleasure in bidding her -supplanters good-bye on the threshold of the house that was still her -own; dismissing them, so to speak, for the last time from Penton with a -keen sense of the despondency and discouragement with which they went -away. She took notice of everything as she did them that unusual honor, -which was an aggravation under the circumstances, of accompanying them -to the door; of the pair of screws--of the absence of any footman--and, -still more, of the depressed looks of the simple pair. All these things -gave her a thrill of satisfaction. Who were they, to be the possessors -of Penton? They did not even appreciate it--did not admire it--thought -of the expense! But she went upstairs again with her husband following -her, feeling more like a culprit, a school-boy who is expecting a -lecture, than it was consistent with Alicia’s dignity to feel. Russell -did not say anything, but he showed inclinations to whistle, as it were, -under his breath. - -“I am very glad this is over,” she said. - -“So am I,” he replied. - -“I know what you think, Gerald--that I ought to be more sympathetic. In -what way could I be sympathetic? She is buried in calculations as to how -they are to live here; and he--” - -“I respect her calculations,” said Russell Penton. “It is a dreadful -white elephant to come into the poor lady’s hands.” - -“And yet you scarcely concealed your pleasure when it passed away from -me--to whom it has always been a home so dear.” - -“I never stand on my consistency, Alicia. I am glad and sorry about the -same thing, you see. I am sorry that you are sorry to go away, yet I -can’t help being glad that you are freed from the bondage of this place, -which has been a kind of idol to you all; and I am glad they have it, -yet sorry for poor Lady Penton and her troubled looks. When we go away -from Penton I shall feel as if we were starting for our honey-moon.” - -“Don’t say so, Gerald--when you think how it is that this has come -about.” - -“It has come about by a great grief, my darling, yet a natural one--one -that could not have been long averted. And I hope you don’t object -Alicia, now that you have fulfilled your duty to the last detail, that -your husband should be glad to have you more his own than Penton would -ever have permitted you to be.” - -She accepted the kiss he gave her, not without a sense of the sweetness -of being loved, but yet with a consciousness that when he spoke of her -fulfilling her duty to the last detail he implied a certain satisfaction -having got rid of that duty at last. She knew as well as he did, with a -faint pleasure mingling with many a thought of pain and some of -irritation, that this setting out together was indeed at last their real -honey-moon, in so far as that consists of a life together and alone. - -Lady Penton returned very grave and overwhelmed with thought to the -shelter of those red roofs at the Hook which made so picturesque a point -in the landscape from Penton. She did not make any response to the -children who rushed out in a body to see the parents come home, to -admire the pair of screws, and the new carriage. She went into the -drawing-room and gazed long upon the chiffonier, measuring and gauging -it with her eye from every side. It had, as has been said, a plate-glass -back, and it was inlaid, and had various brass ornaments entitling it to -the name of ormolu. She touched its corners with her hand lovingly, then -shook her head. “Not even the chiffonier will do for Penton,” she said; -“not even the chiffonier!” Nothing else could have given the family such -an idea of the grandeur of the great house, and their own grandeur to -whom it belonged, as well as of the saddening yet exhilarating fact that -everything would have to be got new. - -“Well, my dear,” said Sir Edward, “we must make up our minds to that, -for to tell the truth, though you were always so pleased with that piece -of furniture, I never liked it much.” - -He never liked it much! Lady Penton turned a reproachful glance upon her -husband; it was as if he had abandoned a friend in trouble. - -“Edward,” she said, with a tone of despair, “if this will not do, -nothing will do--nothing we have. I had given up the carpets and -curtains, but I still had a fond hope--I thought that one side of the -room, at any rate, would be furnished with _that_; but it would be -nothing in the Penton drawing-room--nothing! And if that won’t do, -nothing will do.” - -“My dear,” Sir Edward said--he planted himself very firmly on his feet, -with the air of Fitzjames, in the poem, setting his back against the -rock--“my dear,” he repeated, looking round as who should say, - - “Come one, come all, this rock shall fly - From its firm base as soon as I:” - -“I have thought of all that; and I have something to propose. You must -not take me up in a hurry, but hear me out. We are all very fond of -Penton Hook; but we can’t live in two houses at once.” - -“Especially when they are so close to each other,” cried Anne, -instinctively standing up by him. “I know what father means.” - -She was the only one whose mind was disengaged and free to follow every -new initiative. Ally was altogether occupied by her new prospects, and -Walter, though he did his best to resume his old aspect, was still too -much absorbed in those that were past. Anne alone was the cheerful -present, the to-day of the family, ready to take up every suggestion. -She stood up by her father womanfully and put her arm through his. “I am -with you, father--though I’m not of much account,” she said. - -Lady Penton withdrew her regretful gaze from her chiffonier. She did -not, to tell the truth, expect any practical light about the furniture -from her husband, who was only a theorist in such matters, or the -enthusiast by his side; but she was a woman of impartial mind, and she -would not refuse to listen. She turned her mild eyes upon the pair. - -“Well, then,” said Sir Edward, “this is what I am going to propose: that -I should let the Hook as it stands--poor old house, it is shabby enough, -but in summer it will always bring a fair rent. Take away nothing; the -chiffonier shall stand in all its glory, and you can come back and look -at it, my dear, from time to time. And look here, it is no use straining -at a gnat; we must make up our minds to it. As soon as my cousin goes we -must write to Gillow or somebody--who is the best man?--to go in at once -to Penton and furnish it from top to bottom. It is no use straining at a -gnat, as I say. We must just make a great gulp and get it down.” - -“Straining at a--do you call that a gnat, Edward? It is a camel you -mean.” - -“Camel or not, my dear,” said Sir Edward, with a look of determination; -“that is how it must be.” - -They all held their breath at this tremendous resolution. “But as for -Gillow, that is nonsense. It must be Maple at the very utmost,” Lady -Penton said. - - - - -CHAPTER XLVII - -AN AGITATING ENCOUNTER. - - -It was spring before these changes were accomplished and the family got -into Penton, all newly furnished from top to bottom as Sir Edward in his -magnificence had said. Perhaps this was not exactly true, for Lady -Penton kept an unwearying eye upon all the movements of the workmen, and -decided that it was unnecessary to touch many of the rooms where there -was still enough of furniture to make them habitable, or which only the -exigencies of a very large party of visitors would make necessary--and -that was not a contingency likely to occur. They took up their residence -in Penton when the woods were all carpeted with primroses, and -everything was opening to the new life and hope of the growing season. -No doubt it was evident at once that the grandeur of the old Pentons, -their cold but splendid dignity of living, and all the self-restrained -yet self-conscious wealth of their manners and ways, the costliness, the -luxury, the state, were not to be reproduced; but then the house had -become a cheerful house, which it never was under Mrs. Russell Penton’s -sway. It was no longer silent with one stately figure moving here and -there, and Russell Penton, fretted and impatient, protesting in his -morning coat with his hands in his pockets against the splendor. There -was no splendor now, but a perpetual movement, a flitting of many groups -about the lawns, a sound of cheerful voices. - -The children enjoyed it with their whole hearts, and Mab Russell, who -had come upon that promised long visit, and had managed to establish -herself with the maid and the man who were attached to her little -person, and other accessories, which looked like a very long visit, -indeed--plunged into the midst of all their diversions, and became the -ringleader in all nursery mischief. “I never had any growing up,” she -said. “I have always been out and seeing everything. I don’t like -grown-up people, except you, Lady Penton. Let me go back to the nursery; -and then I can be promoted to the school-room, and then burst upon the -world. After Ally and Anne are both married I shall be of such use. You -can’t do without a grown-up daughter. But I am only in the nursery now.” -“Anne is not thinking of marrying, my dear. She is too young,” Lady -Penton would say, which was all the gentle protest she made against -Mab’s claim. For she was very pitiful of the poor little orphan--and -then Walter--Perhaps it is not possible to be a mother without admitting -certain schemes into one’s head. And Sir Edward, for his part, did not -oppose, which was more curious. He was not fond of strangers, and as he; -like his wife, was too proud to hear of Mab’s allowance, and her horses -and she were a great expense to the restrained and economical household, -it may perhaps be supposed that the father, though no schemer, had -fancies in his mind, too. - -The one in the house whose heart beat low, whose life seemed to have -sunk into the shadow, was the one of all others who should have been the -brightest, and whose beginning of existence included most capabilities -of enjoyment. Walter was now the heir of Penton in reality. He had -attained everything he had once looked forward to. More than this, he -had that little fortune of his own which in a few months would be in his -actual and unfettered possession. But his life, before ever it opened -out, had been chilled. It seemed to him at first that life and all its -joys were over for him. It was not only that he had been disappointed in -his love, but it had been associated to him with all the disgusts that -affect youth so profoundly; he had touched the mercenary, the -meretricious, the degraded, and his pride had been humbled by the -contact. Yet he had been ready to endure that contact, to submit to be -linked with these horrors for the sake of his love. He had known even in -the midst of his rapture of youthful fantastic passion, that to be -linked with all these debasing circumstances would take the fragrance -and the beauty out of life. To have Mrs. Sam Crockford for his -mother-in-law, to recognize that uncleanly, untidy, sordid little house -as Emmy’s home would have been misery even in the midst of bliss; he had -been aware of this even in the hottest of his pursuit, while he was -possessed by the image of Emmy, and could think of no possibility of -happiness save that of marrying her. Had it been Crockford’s cottage in -all its old-fashioned humility; had it been the kind, deaf, dear old -woman who had been familiar to him all his life, how different! But the -dreadful woman in that dreadful parlor, with her smile, and her -portraits all smiling just the same upon the dingy walls, with her -white, horrible, unwholesome hands, even in Emmy’s presence how he had -shuddered at her! These images oppressed the poor boy’s imagination like -a nightmare--he could not forget them; and he could not forget her who -had made him accept and tolerate all that, who still could, if she would -but hold up a finger, make everything possible. How was it that this -magic existed? What was the meaning of it? He knew now with more or less -certainty what Emmy was. She was not, notwithstanding the cleverness of -speech which had so filled him with wonder at first, either educated or -refined; and she was not beautiful. He was able to perceive even that. -He saw, too, and hated himself for seeing, indications of her mother’s -face in Emmy’s, the beginning of that horrible smile. And he knew also -that she had no response to make to the enthusiastic love in his own -youthful breast, the passion of devotion and self-abandonment which had -swept in his mind all precaution and common sense away. No such -operations had taken place in her. She had weighed him in the balance of -the most common, the most prosaic form of sense, that of worldly -advantage--of money. His heart was sore with all these wounds, he felt -them in every fiber. It had been taken into consideration whether he was -rich enough, whether he had enough to offer. She whom he loved with -extravagant youthful devotion, ready to sacrifice everything for her, -even his tastes, the manners and ways of thinking in which he had been -brought up, had tried him by the vulgarest of tests. How could a young -heart bear all this? Seldom, very seldom, does so complete a -disenchantment come to one so young; for Walter did not take it as young -Pendennis did, or learn to laugh at his own delusion. He had no -temptation to laugh; he could not put out of his pained young being the -thought that it could not be true, that after all there must be some -mistake in it, that his love must have judged rightly, that his -disenchantment was but some horrible work of the devil. And wounded, -undeceived, quivering with pain as he was, his heart still yearned -after her; he formed to himself pictures of what he might find if he -stole back unawares, without any warning. He imagined her sitting in -dreariness and solitude, perhaps shut up by the mother lest she should -call him back, a patient martyr, knowing how she had been vilified in -his eyes--but not vilified, oh, no, only mistaken. He fed his heart with -dreams of this kind even while he knew--knew by experience, by -certainty, by her own words, and looks, and sentiments, noways -disguised, that the fact was not so. Women more often go on loving after -the beloved has lost all illusion than men do, but perhaps in extreme -youth the boy has this experience oftener than the girl. Poor Walter had -been stabbed in every sensitive part, and felt his wounds all keen; but -still he could not put her out of his heart. - -And the consequence of this morbid and divided soul was that his being -altogether was weakened and the life made languid in it. He had no -heart, as people say, for anything. He left the Hook without regret, and -entered on the larger life of Penton without pleasure; everything was -obscured to him as if a veil were over it. “No joy the blowing season -gives,” his vitality had sunk altogether. It was arranged that he was to -go to Oxford in April, but he felt neither pleasure nor unwillingness. -It was all unreal to him; nothing was real but that little episode. Emmy -in her brightness and lightness by his side in the streets, making those -little expeditions with him in all the confidence and closeness of -belonging to him, two betrothed that were like one; and the mother in -the background with her hands, which he still seemed to feel and shudder -at. He had almost daily impulses to go and see all these scenes again, -to see the actors in them, to make out if they were false or true. But -he did not do so, perhaps because of the languor of his being, perhaps -because he was afraid of any one divining what he wanted, perhaps -because he clung to some ray of illusion still. - -There began, however, to be frequent visits to town, Lady Penton being -absorbed in that important matter of Ally’s _trousseau_, which could no -longer be deferred. What changes seemed to have happened in their life -since the time when they all went up to London, a simple party, to -provide what was necessary for the visit to Penton! Penton, it had -seemed at that time, would never be theirs; they were giving it up and -contemplating a comfortable obscurity with a larger income and no -responsibilities. Now they had indeed the larger income, but so many -responsibilities with it, and so much to be done, that the poverty of -Penton Hook seemed almost wealth in comparison; yet--for the mind -accustoms itself very quickly to what is, however much it may have -struggled for a different way--there was perhaps no one of the family -who could now have returned to the Hook without the most humiliating -sense of downfall, a feeling which Lady Penton herself shared, in spite -of herself. The _trousseau_ occupied a great many of the thoughts of the -ladies at this period. They had a great many shops to go to, and when by -times one of the male members of the family accompanied them, it was -tedious work inspecting their proceedings and waiting, looking on, while -so many stuffs were turned over and patterns compared. - -It happened one of these days that Walter was of the party. How he had -been got to join it nobody knew, for he shrunk from London and could -scarcely be induced to enter it at all, his inclinations, and yet not -his inclinations so much as his dreams, and that uneasy sense that his -_disillusionment_ might of itself be an illusion, drew him in one -direction, while all the impulses of the moment were toward the other -way. But this day he had come he could not tell why. Mab was one of the -party, and though it can not be said that Mab’s presence was an -attraction, yet there was a certain _camaraderie_ between the two, and -she had taken it upon herself to talk to him, to attempt to amuse and -interest him, when nobody knew how to approach him in his forlorn -languor so unlike himself. Even Ally and Anne, his sisters, were so -moved by sympathy for Wat, and by dismayed wondering what he was -thinking of and what they could say, what depths of his recently -acquired experience he was straying in, and what they could do to call -him back from those depths--that they were silenced even by their -feeling for him. But Mab had no such restraint upon her, though she knew -more than they did, having seen him at the very crisis of his fate; and -though she thought she knew a great deal more than she really knew, Mab -had no such awed and trembling respect for Walter’s experiences as the -others had, and would break in upon him frankly and talk until he threw -off his dreams, or persuade him into a walk in the woods, or to join -them in something which made him for the moment forget himself. His idea -was that she knew nothing of that one unrevealed chapter in his history -which the others, he thought, could not forget; so that Mab and Walter -were very good friends. Even now, when Ally and her mother were busy -over their silks and muslins, Mab left that interesting discussion by -times to talk to Walter, who lounged about _distrait_, as creatures of -his kind will, in a shop adapted for the wants of the other half of -humanity. Walter stood about waiting, taking little notice of anything -except when he turned at her call to respond to what Mab said to him, -and that was only by intervals. It was in one of these pauses that his -eye was caught by a group at a little distance, which at first had no -more interest for him than any other of the groups about. It was in one -of the subdivisions of the great shop, framed in on two sides by stands -upon which hung all kinds of cloaks and mantles. In the vacant space in -the middle were two or three ladies, attended upon by one of the young -women of the shop, who was trying on for their gratification one mantle -after another, while the customers looked on to judge of the effect. -These figures moved before Walter’s dreamy eyes vaguely without -attracting his attention, until suddenly something in the attitude of -one of them struck upon his awakening sense. She was standing before a -tall glass, which reflected her figure, with the silken garment which -she was trying on drawn about her with a little shrug and twist of her -shoulders to get it into its place. Wat’s heart began to beat, the mist -fled from his eyes. The group grew distinct in a moment, separated as it -was from all the others by the little fence half round, the light coming -down from above upon the slim, elastic figure with all its graceful -curves, standing so lightly as if but newly poised on earth, turning -round with the air he knew so well. He had a moment of _eblouissement_, -of bewilderment, and then it all became clear and plain. He made but the -very slightest movement, uttered not a word; the shock of the discovery, -the thrill of her presence so near him, were too penetrating to be -betrayed by outward signs. He stood like one stupefied, though all his -faculties on the moment had become so keen and clear. There was no -possibility of any doubt; her light hair, all curled on her forehead, -her face so full of brightness and animation, gleamed out upon him as -she turned round. Emmy here, before his eyes! - -It was like watching a little drama to see her amid the more severely -clothed, cloaked, and bonneted figures of the ladies round. Her head was -uncovered. She was in what seemed her natural place. Her patience seemed -boundless. She took down cloak after cloak and slid them about her -graceful shoulders, and made a few paces up and down to show them. It -was a pretty occupation enough. She was dressed well; her natural grace -made what she was doing appear no vulgar service, but an action full of -courtesy and patience. The unfortunate boy watched her with eyes which -enlarged and expanded with gazing. This, then, was what she had been -doing while he had waited for her, while he had been her faithful -attendant. She had never betrayed it to him. Sometimes he had believed -that she was a teacher, sometimes that she went to work somewhere, he -did not know how. This was what her occupation had been all the time. To -make a trade out of her pretty gracefulness, her slim, youthful, easy -figure, her perception of what was comely, while he was there who would -have taken her out of all that, who would so fain have given her all he -had. Why had she not come to him? He watched the pretty head turn, and -that twist of the shoulders settling the new wrap. They were all -beautiful on her. Did the women who were round her believe--could they -believe that they could resemble Emmy--that anything could ever make -them like her? - -Walter’s whole aspect changed, he stood as if on tiptoe watching that -little scene. At last the bargain was decided, the purchase made; the -figures changed places, went and came from one side to another, as in -the theater, then dissolved away, leaving her there before the big -glass, in a little pose of her own, contemplating herself. It was in -this glass that by and by Emmy, looking at herself, with her head now on -one side, now on the other, suddenly perceived a stranger approaching, a -gentleman, not with the air of a customer, coming along hurriedly with -his face turned toward her. Emmy was sufficiently used to be admired. -She knew as well as any one that her pretty figure, as she put on the -cloaks that hung about, was a pretty sight to see, that the graceful -little tricks with which she arranged them on her shoulders gave -piquancy to her own appearance and a grace which perhaps did not belong -to it to the article of apparel which she put on. She knew this, and so -did her employers, who engaged her for this grace, and profited by her -prettiness and her skill. But Emmy was very well aware that with strange -gentlemen in this sanctuary of the feminine she had nothing to do. She -made her preparations for retiring discreetly before the approaching -man. But before she did so she gave him a glance over her shoulder, a -glance of invincible inherent coquetry, just to let him see that she -perceived she was admired, and had no objection theoretically, though as -a practical matter the thing was impossible. As she gave him this look -through the medium of the big mirror, Emmy recognized Walter as he had -recognized her. She gave a sudden low cry of alarm, and put up her hands -to her face to hide herself, and then darted like a startled hare -through the intricacies of all those subdivisions. Walter called out her -name, and hurried after her, breathless, forgetting everything, but in a -moment found himself hopelessly astray amid screens which balked his -passage and groups of ladies who stared at him as if he had been a -madman. Those screens, with their hanging finery, those astonished -groups disturbed in their occupation, seemed to swallow up all trace of -the little light figure which had disappeared in a moment. He stumbled -on as far as he could till he was met by a severe and stately personage -who blocked the way. - -“Is there anything I can show you, sir?” this stately lady said, who was -as imperious as if she had been a duchess. - -“I--I saw some one I knew,” said Walter; “if I might but speak to her -for a moment.” - -“Do you mean one of our young ladies, sir?” said that princess dowager. -“The young ladies in the mantle department are under my care: we shall -be happy to show you anything in the way of business, but private -friends are not for business hours; and this is a place for ladies, not -for young gentlemen,” the distinguished duenna said. - - - - -CHAPTER XLVIII. - -THE END OF ALL. - - -What was he to do? He was stopped short, bewildered, excited, quivering -with a hundred sensations, by this impassable guardian of virtue and -proprieties. A young gentleman is in every personal particular stronger, -more effective and potent than a middle-aged woman in a shop; yet a -bolder man than Walter would have been subdued by a representative of -law and order so uncompromising. He looked at her appealingly, with his -young eyes full of anxiety and trouble. - -“I wanted only--a moment--to say a word--” he faltered, as if his fate -hung upon her grace. But nothing could move her. She stood before him -with her black silk skirts filling up the passage, in all the -correctness of costume and demeanor which her position required. - -“Young gentleman,” she said, “remember that you may be doing a great -deal of harm by insisting. You can’t speak to any one here. If you’ll -take my advice you’ll join the ladies that seem to be looking for you. -That’s your party, I believe, sir,” she said, with a majestic wave of -her hand. And then poor Walter heard Ally’s voice behind him. - -“Oh, Wat, what are you doing? We thought we had lost you, and mother is -waiting. Oh, Wat, what were you doing _there_? Who were you talking to? -What could you want among all the mantles?” Another voice came to the -rescue while he turned round bewildered. “I know what he was doing, -Ally; he was looking for that wrap you were talking of. You should have -asked me to come and help you to choose it, Mr. Penton.” They swept him -away bewildered, their voices and soft rustle of movement coming round -him like the soft compulsion of a running stream. The girls flowed forth -in pleasant words as they got him between them, as irresistible as the -duenna, though in a different way, Ally thanking him for the intention -that Mab had attributed to him. “Oh, Wat, how good of you to think of -that!” - -“But, Mr. Penton, you should have asked _me_ to come with you to choose -it; I would have protected you,” said the laughing Mab. He was swept -away by them, confused, with something singing in his ears, with--not -the earth, but at least the solid flooring, covered with noiseless -carpets, laden with costly wares, giving way, as he felt, under his -stumbling feet. - -He accompanied them home as in a dream: fortunately their minds were -engrossed with subjects of their own, so that they did not remark his -silence, his preoccupation. He sat sunk in his corner of the railway -carriage, his face half covered with his hand, thinking it all over, -contemplating that scene, seeing those figures float before him, and her -look in the mirror over her shoulder. Ah! that look in the mirror was a -stab to him, keener than any blow. For it was not to him that Emmy threw -that glance--it was to any man, to the first pair of admiring eyes that -might find out her prettiness, her grace--oh, not to him! When she saw -who it was she had covered her face and fled. She had been ashamed to be -discovered. Why should she be ashamed to be discovered? There was -nothing shameful in what she was doing. In the quiet of the great shop, -among women, no disturbing influences near--among the pretty things that -suited her, the atmosphere warm and soft, the carpets noiseless under -her feet. Perhaps he said all this to himself to console him for some -internal shock it gave him to see her there at everybody’s will, turning -herself into a lay figure that all the vulgar women, the dumpy matrons, -the heavy girls, might be deceived and think that by assuming the same -garment they might become as beautiful as she. Walter was not aware of -this if it were so, but all his thoughts, which he had been trying to -sever from her, went back with a bound. He thought and thought, as the -lines of the country, all touched with reviving green, flew past the -carriage windows, and the jar and croak of the railway made conversation -difficult, and justified his retirement into himself--seeing her now in -a new light, seeing her in perspective, the light all round her, her -daily work, her home, the diversions she had loved. He said to himself -that it was a life of duty, though not one that the vulgar mind -recognized as drawn on elevated lines. How patient she had been, smiling -upon those whom she had served, putting on one thing after another, -exhibiting everything at its best to please them! It was all curiously -mixed up with pain and sharpness, this rapture of admiration, and -confusion, and longing, and regret, which the sight of her had worked in -his mind. The smile on her lips was a little like the smile with which -her mother had been represented as charming the public. Emmy had her -public to charm, too. Oh, if he could but snatch her away from it -all!--carry her off, hide her from all contact with the common world! It -occurred to him quite irrelevantly in the midst of his thoughts, how it -might be if Emmy at Penton, or in any other such place, should suddenly -encounter some one whom she had served at Snell and Margrove’s? This -thought came into his mind like an arrow fired by an enemy across the -tender and eager course of his anticipations and resolution. How could -she bear it? and how should _he_ bear it, to see the stare, the whisper, -the wonder, the scorn in the looks of some pair of odious, envious, -spiteful women (women always call forth these adjectives under such -circumstances). This arrow went to his very heart, and wounded him in -the midst of his longing and purpose, and hot, impatient aspiration. And -then he seemed to see her with that pretty trick of movement settling -the cloak upon her shoulders, to show it off to the intending purchaser! -Oh, Emmy! his Emmy! that she should be exposed to that! And yet he said -to himself it was nothing derogatory--oh, nothing derogatory!--a safe, -sheltered, noiseless place, among women, among beautiful stuffs and -things, with no jar of the outside world about! If he could but snatch -her away from it, carry her away! - -Penton contained his body but not his mind for some time after. What -could he do? She had rejected him--for motives of prudence, poor Emmy! -and returned to her shop. Why? why? Was he so distasteful to her as -that?--that she should prefer her shop to him and his ten thousand -pounds? And yet he had not felt himself to be distasteful. Even on this -unexpected, undreamed-of meeting, she had hidden her face and fled, that -he might not identify her, might not speak to her. Was she, then, so set -against him? And yet she had not always been set against him. Walter did -not know how long the time was which passed like a dream, while he -pondered these things, asking himself every morning what he should do? -whether he should return and try his fortune again; whether when she -knew all she would yield to his entreaties and allow him to deliver her -from that servitude? It was on a Saturday at last that the impulse -became suddenly uncontrollable. He had been thinking over her little -holiday, the Saturdays, which she had to herself, the little time when -she was free, when she had gone out with him enjoying the air, even -though it was winter, and the freedom, though he had not known in what -bondage her days were spent. He could not contain himself when he -remembered this. He went hurriedly away, not, as he had done on a -previous occasion, in hot enthusiasm and rapture, but sadly, perceiving -now all he was doing, and the break he must make, if he were successful, -between himself and his home--perceiving too the difficulties that might -come after, the habits that were not as his, the modes of life which are -so hard to efface. Even his anticipation of happiness was all mixed with -pain. It had become to him rather a vision of the happiness of -delivering her, of placing her in circumstances more fit, surrounding -her with everything delightful, than of the bliss to himself which would -come from her companionship. Was he a little uncertain of that after all -that had come and gone? But Walter would never have owned this to -himself--only it was of her happiness, not of his, that he thought; and -something wrung his heart as he left Penton behind, and took his way -toward the house of Mrs. Sam Crockford with a shuddering recollection -which he could not subdue. - -He had planned to get there about noon, when Emmy would be coming home. -She might be tired, she might be sad, she might be cheered by the sudden -appearance of a faithful lover, bringing the means of amusement and -variety in his hand. They might go to Richmond, and he would take her on -the river, as she had said she liked it, though in winter that had not -been practicable. And he had made up his mind to insist, to be -masterful, as it was said women liked a man to be. He would not accept a -denial, he thought. He would tell her that he could not endure it, that -this work of hers must come to an end. He made up his mind that neither -her sauciness nor her sweetness should distract him from his resolution, -that this thing must come to an end. He walked most of the long way from -the railway station to the little street in which was the mean little -house where she lived with her mother. How often he had trodden that way -with his heart beating--how often distracted with pain! There was more -pain than pleasure in his bosom now. He did not know how she would -receive him, but he had made up his mind not to be discouraged by any -reception she might give him. This time he would have his way. His -motive was no longer selfish, he said to himself. It was no longer for -him, but for her. - -There was a little commotion in the street, of which he took no -particular notice as he came up. A carriage with a pair of gray horses -was coming along with the familiar jog of a hack carriage which is paid -for at so much an hour. Walter did not suppose this could have anything -to say to him, and took no notice, as how should he? But when he -approached the house it became more and more evident that something had -happened or was happening. A group of idlers were standing about a door, -from which came the sound of voices and laughter, altogether festive -sounds. Somebody was rejoicing, it was apparent, with that not too -refined kind of joy--a happiness unrestrained by any particular regard -for the proprieties that belong to such regions. Even this did not rouse -Walter. What did it matter to him if some one had been married, or -christened, or was going through any of the joyful incidents of -life--next door? His mind was full of what she would say, of what she -would do, of the steps to be taken in order to complete her deliverance. -It would not be his deliverance. It would be his severance from much -that had acquired a new value in his eyes. But it would be freedom to -her; it would be, whatever she might say, comparative wealth. Why had -she so resisted? why, in her position, had she scorned his little -fortune? It could only be, he thought, that he might be hindered from -sacrificing so much on his side. - -He was deep, deep in thought as he approached. Surely it was next door, -this marriage, or whatever it was. It must be next door. The carriage -came leisurely up and stopped, the coachman displaying a great wedding -favor. It _was_ a marriage, then: strange that he should come with his -mind full of that proposal of his, to which he would take no denial, and -find a marriage going on next door! He smiled to himself at the odd -circumstance, but there was not very much pleasure in his smile. There -would soon be another there--but quiet--that at least he would -secure--not attended by this noisy revelry, the voices and cheers -ringing out into the street. Ah, no! but quiet, the marriage of two -people who would have a great deal to think of, to whom happiness would -come seriously, not without sacrifices, not without-- - -But, oh, that sudden shock and pause! what did this mean? It was not at -the next house, but at Mrs. Sam Crockford’s door that the carriage with -the two gray horses drew up. It was there the idlers were standing -grouped round to see somebody pass out: the voices came from within -that well-known narrow entrance. Walter stopped, struck dumb, his very -breath going, and stood with the rest, to see--what he might see. He -heard the stir of chairs pushed from the table, the chorus of good-byes, -and then-- - -The open doorway was suddenly filled by the bridal pair, the bridegroom -coming out first, she a step behind. Walter knew the man well enough; he -had seen him but once, but that seeing had been sufficient. He came out -flushed, in his wedding clothes, his hat upon one side of his head, his -white gloves in his hand. “Thank you all; we’ll be jolly enough, you -needn’t fear,” he was calling to the well-wishers behind. After him Emmy -came forward, perhaps more gayly apparelled than a bride of higher -position would have been for her wedding journey, her hat covered with -flowers and feathers, her dress elaborately trimmed. She too was a -little flushed, and full of smiles and satisfaction. Walter did not -stir, he stood and looked on grimly, like a man who had nothing to do -with it. It did not seem to affect him at all; his heart, which had been -beating loudly, had calmed in a moment. He stood and looked at them as -if they were people whom he had never seen before--standing silent in -the midst of the loungers of the little street, a few children and -women, a passing errand boy, and a man out of work, who stood too with -his hands in his pockets and gazed in a sullen way, with a sort of envy -of the people who were well-off and well-to-do. The bridegroom had not -the same outward deference to his bride which might be seen in other -circles. He held her arm loosely in his and dragged her behind him, -turning back and shouting farewells to his friends. “Oh, we’ll be joyful -enough!” he cried, taking no heed to her timid steps. And perhaps Emmy’s -steps could not be described as timid. She gave his arm a shake to rouse -him from the fervor of these good-byes. - -“Here, mind what you are doing, Ned, and let’s get on, or we shall miss -the train,” she said. - -Walter stood and gazed stupidly, and took all the little drama in. - -And then there ensued the farce at the end, the shower of rice, the old -shoes thrown after the departing pair. The jovial bridegroom threw back -several that fell into the carriage, and Emmy laughed and cheered him -on. They went off in a burst of laughter and gayety. Her quick eye had -glanced at the spectators on either side of the door. Could she have -seen him there? She had turned round to her mother, who followed them to -the door, and whispered something as they went away: but that was all. -Walter stood and watched them drive off; it was all like a scene in a -theater to him. He did not seem able to make up his mind to go away. - -And then suddenly he felt a touch upon his arm. “Oh, Mr. Penton, is it -you? Step in--step in, sir, please, and let me speak to you; I must say -a word to you.” - -“I can see no need for any words,” he said, dully; but partly to get -free of her, for her touch was intolerable to him, partly because of the -want of any impulse in his own mind, he followed her into the house, -into the parlor, all full of wedding favors and finery. The bridal party -had retired riotously, as was very apparent, to the table in the back -room. - -“Oh, Mr. Penton, you have been shamefully treated!” Mrs. Sam Crockford -cried. She was herself splendid in a new dress, with articles of jewelry -hung all over her. She touched her eyes lightly with her handkerchief as -she spoke. “Young gentleman,” she said, “though I have had to give in to -it, don’t think I approved of it. My chyild, of course, was my first -object, but I had some heart for you too. And you behaved so beautiful! -How she could ever do it, and prefer him to you, is more than I can -tell!” - -“Then it was going on all the time?” said Walter, dully. He did not seem -to have any feeling on the subject, or to care: yet he listened with a -sort of interest as to the argument of the play. - -“Sir,” said the woman, “everything is said to be fair in love. If it -will be any consolation to you, you have helped my chyild to an alliance -which--is not greater than her deserts--no, it is not greater than her -deserts, Mr. Penton, as you and I know: but so far as money goes was -little to be looked for. Edward is not perhaps a young man of manners as -refined as we could wish, but he can give her every advantage. He is in -business, Mr. Penton. Business has its requirements, which are different -to those of art. His mother has just died, who was not Emmy’s friend. -And he is rich. The business,” said Mrs. Sam Crockford, sinking her -voice, “brings in--I can’t tell you how many thousands a year.” - -Then Walter remembered what Emmy had said about some one who had as much -a year as his whole little fortune consisted of, and added that dully to -the story of the drama which he was hearing, paying a sort of courteous -attention without any interest to speak of. “Why did not she--do this at -once? that is what surprises me,” he said. - -“Mr. Penton, I said all things are fair in love. I am afraid she played -you against him to draw him on. She is my only child, it is hard for me -to blame her. I don’t know that strictly speaking she is to be blamed. A -girl has so few opportunities. He proposed a secret marriage, but my -Emmy has too much pride for that. You were always with her, Mr. Penton, -after she returned, and he was distracted. He thought she was going to -marry you. I thought so myself at first: but she played her cards very -well. She played you against him to draw him on.” - -“Oh, she played me against him to draw him on,” said Walter. These words -kept going through his head while Emmy’s mother went on talking at great -length, explaining, defending, blaming her chyild. She might as well -have said nothing more, for he could not take it in. The words seemed to -circle round and round him in the air. They did not wound him, but gave -a sort of wonder--a dull surprise. - -“She played me against him to draw him on.” He went back through the -endless streets to the railway-station, walking the whole way, feeling -as if that long, long course might go on forever, for nights and days, -for dreary centuries; and then the railway, with its whirl of noise and -motion, completed and confirmed the sense of an endless going on. He -could not have told how long he had been away when he walked up the -avenue again in the soft darkness of the spring night. His dulled mind -mixed this absence up somehow with the previous one, and, with this -confusion, brought a curious sense of guilt, and impulse to ask pardon. -He would arise and go to his father, and say, “Father, I have sinned.” -He would kneel down by his mother’s side. He could not understand that -he had done no harm--that he had only left Penton that day. “She played -me against him to draw him on.” It all seemed so simple--nobody’s -fault--not even perhaps Emmy’s--for girls have so few opportunities, as -her mother said. Perhaps it was natural, as it was the explanation of -all the play--the _mot de l’enigme_. It seemed a sort of satisfaction to -have such an ample explanation of it, at the last. - -Just inside the gate he saw something white fluttering among the trees, -and Mab cried, breathless, “Mr. Walter, is it you?” It was all he could -do not to answer her with that explanation which somehow seemed so -universally applicable. “She played me off”--but he restrained himself, -and only said, “Yes, it is I.” She put out her hand to him in an -impulsive, eager way. He had not in fact seen her that day before, and -Walter took the hand thrust into his in the dark with a curious -sensation of help and succor; it was a cool little soft fresh hand, not -like that large and clammy member which, thank Heaven, he had nothing to -do with any more. And there was an end of it all--there it all ended, in -Mab’s little frank hand meeting his in the twilight as if she were -admitting him to a new world. - - * * * * * - -Ally was married shortly after, and the marriage was very good for the -material interests of the house of Penton. It was a very fine marriage -for young Mr. Rochford of Reading, but it was also a fine thing for the -family in whose history he had in future more interest than merely that -of their man of business. Mab still promises every day that Anne will -soon follow her sister’s example, and that she herself will be the only -one left to fulfill the duties of the grown-up daughter. Her visit has -been prolonged again and again, till it has run out into the longest -visit that ever was known. Will it ever come to an end? Will she ever go -away again, and set up with a chaperon in the house in Mayfair with -which she is sometimes threatened by her guardians? Who can tell? There -will be many people to be consulted before it can be decided one way or -other. But if nobody else’s mind is made up, Mab’s is very distinct upon -this point, as well as upon most others within her range. And she is one -of those people who usually have their way. - -THE END. - - - - - -End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of A Poor Gentleman, by Margaret Oliphant - -*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A POOR GENTLEMAN *** - -***** This file should be named 61782-0.txt or 61782-0.zip ***** -This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: - http://www.gutenberg.org/6/1/7/8/61782/ - -Produced by Chuck Greif and the Online Distributed -Proofreading Team at http://www.pgdp.net (This file was -produced from images available at The Internet Archive) - - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions -will be renamed. - -Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no -one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation -(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without -permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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