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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..d7b82bc --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,4 @@ +*.txt text eol=lf +*.htm text eol=lf +*.html text eol=lf +*.md text eol=lf diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6312041 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This eBook, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. Anyone seeking to utilize +this eBook outside of the United States should confirm copyright +status under the laws that apply to them. diff --git a/README.md b/README.md new file mode 100644 index 0000000..329bf40 --- /dev/null +++ b/README.md @@ -0,0 +1,2 @@ +Project Gutenberg (https://www.gutenberg.org) public repository for +eBook #64888 (https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/64888) diff --git a/old/64888-0.txt b/old/64888-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index a9e00bc..0000000 --- a/old/64888-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,14864 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of In Trust; the Story of a Lady and her Lover, -by Mrs. Margaret Oliphant - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world 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. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: In Trust; the Story of a Lady and her Lover - -Author: Mrs. Margaret Oliphant - -Release Date: March 20, 2021 [eBook #64888] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -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) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IN TRUST; THE STORY OF A LADY AND -HER LOVER *** - - - - - IN TRUST - - Ballantyne-Press - BALLANTYNE, HANSON AND CO - EDINBURGH AND LONDON - - - - - IN TRUST - - _THE STORY OF A LADY AND HER LOVER_ - - - BY - - M. O. W. OLIPHANT - - AUTHOR OF ‘THE CHRONICLES OF CARLINGFORD’ ETC. - - - _NEW EDITION_ - - - LONDON - LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO. - 1883 - - _All rights reserved_ - - - - - CONTENTS - - -CHAPTER PAGE - - I. FATHER AND DAUGHTER 1 - - II. THE REST OF THE FAMILY 11 - - III. THE ‘GAME’ 22 - - IV. UNDER THE BEECHES 34 - - V. EXPLANATIONS 47 - - VI. GOOD-BYE 59 - - VII. CROSS-EXAMINATION 70 - - VIII. THE MEADOWLANDS’ PARTY 83 - - IX. COSMO 94 - - X. FAMILY COUNSELS 108 - - XI. PROJECTS OF MARRIAGE 121 - - XII. MISTRESS AND MAID 134 - - XIII. HEATHCOTE MOUNTFORD 146 - - XIV. THE SPECTATOR’S VIEW 160 - - XV. TAMPERING WITH A LAWYER 171 - - XVI. GOOD ADVICE 184 - - XVII. THE ABSOLUTE AND THE COMPARATIVE 198 - - XVIII. AFTERTHOUGHTS 211 - - XIX. THE CATASTROPHE 228 - - XX. THE WILL 239 - - XXI. WHEN ALL WAS OVER 252 - - XXII. SOPHISTRY 268 - - XXIII. HEATHCOTE’S PROPOSAL 279 - - XXIV. A VISITOR 292 - - XXV. PACKING UP 307 - - XXVI. GOING AWAY 318 - - XXVII. A NEW BEGINNING 331 - -XXVIII. HEATHCOTE’S CAREER 342 - - XXIX. CHARLEY INTERFERES 356 - - XXX. THE RECTOR SATISFIED 370 - - XXXI. FALLEN FROM HER HIGH ESTATE 383 - - XXXII. ROSE ON HER DEFENCE 397 - -XXXIII. THE MAN OF THE PERIOD 414 - - XXXIV. THE HEIRESS’S TRIAL 422 - - XXXV. A SIMPLE WOMAN 442 - - XXXVI. THE LAST 456 - - - - - IN TRUST. - - - - -CHAPTER I. - -FATHER AND DAUGHTER. - - -‘My dear, the case is as plain as noonday; you must give this man up.’ - -‘The case is not plain to me, father--at least, not in your sense.’ - -‘Anne, you are very positive and self-opinionated, but you cannot--it is -not possible--set up your judgment against mine on such a point. You, an -inexperienced, prejudiced girl, a rustic with no knowledge of the world! -What do you know about the man? Oh, I allow he is well enough to look -at; he has had the usual amount of education, and so forth; but what do -you _know_ about him? that is what I ask.’ - -‘Not much, father,’ said Anne, steadily; ‘but I know _him_.’ - -‘Stuff! you, a girl not much over twenty, know a _man_! Does he tell -you, do you suppose, all the adventures of his life? Does he confess his -sins to you? A young fellow that has been trained at a public school, -that has been at the university, that has knocked about the world--is he -going to confide all that to _you_? He would be unworthy the name of -gentleman if he did.’ - -‘Would he not be more unworthy the name of gentleman if he had done -things which he could not confide to me?’ said Anne; then reddening -suddenly, she added, ‘And even if it were so, father, if in those days -he had done things unfit for my ears, let him be silent; I will not ask -any questions: I know what he is now.’ - -‘Oh, stuff, I tell you! stuff and nonsense, child! You know what he is -_now_! Yes, what he is when his best coat is on, when he is going to -church with his hymn-book in his pocket and you on his arm; that is a -very edifying aspect of him; but if you think that is all, or nearly -all----’ - -Anne was silent. It was not that she was convinced, but that her -indignation took words from her. She could not make any reply to such -calumnies; and this was troublesome to her father, who preferred an -argument to a distinct and unsupported statement. He looked at her for a -moment, baffled, feeling himself cut short in the full flow of -utterance--then picked up the thread again, and resumed: - -‘You would be a fool to trust in any man in that unguarded way: and -above all in a lawyer. They are all rogues; it is in them. When did you -ever hear a good word spoken for that class of men? I will not consent -to any such nonsense: and if you act without my consent, you know the -consequence. I will not give your mother’s money to maintain in luxury a -man who is--who will be--never mind! You shall not have it. I will give -it to Rose, as I have the power.’ - -‘You would not be so unjust,’ said Anne. - -‘Unjust! I will do it if you defy me in this way. Rose has always been a -better child to me than you have been; and she shall have the money if -you don’t mind.’ - -Whoever had looked at Anne Mountford then would not have given much for -the chance of her submission. She said nothing, but her upper lip shut -down upon the lower with an unrelenting, immovable determination. She -would not even add a word to her protest against the possibility of the -injustice with which she had been threatened. She was too proud to -repeat herself; she stood still, unbending, betraying no impatience, -ready to receive with calmness everything that might be said to her, but -firm as the house upon its foundations, or the hills that are called -everlasting. Her father knew something of the character of his eldest -child; he knew very well that no small argument would move her, but -perhaps he was not aware how far beyond his power she was. He looked at -her, however, with a passionate annoyance very different from her calm, -and with something vindictive and almost spiteful in his reddish-grey -eyes. Most likely he had felt himself dashed against the wall of her -strong will before now, and had been exasperated by the calm force of -opposition which he could make no head against. - -‘You hear what I say,’ he repeated roughly; ‘if you insist, I shall -exercise the right your mother gave me; I shall alter my will: and the -fortune which is no doubt your chief attraction in this man’s eyes--the -fortune he has been calculating upon--I will give to Rose. You hear what -I say?’ - -‘Yes,’ said Anne. She bowed her head gravely; no doubt that she -understood him, and equally no doubt that what he said had moved her as -much as a shower of rain might have done, and that she was fully -determined to take her own way. - -‘On your own head be it then,’ he cried. - -She bowed again, and after waiting for a moment to see if he had -anything further to say to her, went quietly out of the room. It was in -the library of a country house that this interview had taken place--the -commonplace business room of a country gentleman of no very great -pretensions. The walls were lined with bookcases in which there was a -tolerable collection of books, but yet they did not tell for much in the -place. They were furniture like the curtains, which were rather shabby, -and the old Turkey carpet--most respectable furniture, yet a little -neglected, wanting renewal. Mr. Mountford’s writing-table was laden with -papers; he had plenty of business to transact, though not of a strictly -intellectual kind. He was an old man, still handsome in his age, with -picturesque snow-white hair in masses, clearly-cut, fine features, and -keen eyes of that reddish hazel which betokens temper. Those eyes -constantly burned under the somewhat projecting eyebrows. They threw a -sort of angry lurid light on his face. The name of the house was Mount; -it had been in the Mountford family for many generations; but it was not -a beautiful and dignified house any more than he was a fine old English -gentleman. Both the place and the man had traditionary rights to popular -respect, but neither man nor place had enforced this claim by any -individual beauty or excellence. There was no doubt as to the right of -the Mountfords to be ranked among the gentry of the district, as good as -the best, in so far that the family had been settled there for -centuries; but they were of that curiously commonplace strain which is -prevalent enough among the smaller gentry, without any splendour of -wealth to dazzle the beholder, and which rouses in the mind of the -spectator a wonder as to what it is that makes the squire superior to -his neighbours. The Mountfords from father to son had got on through the -world without any particular harm or good, uninteresting, ordinary -people, respectable enough, yet not even very respectable. They were not -rich, they were not able; they had nothing in themselves to distinguish -them from the rest of the world; yet wherever the name of Mountford -appeared, throughout all the southern counties at least, the claims of -its possessor to gentility were founded on his relationship to the -Mountfords of Mount. Most curious of all the triumphs of the -aristocratical principle! Or rather perhaps it is the more human -principle of continuance which is the foundation of this prejudice to -which we are all more or less subject. A family which has lasted, which -has had obstinacy enough to cling to its bit of soil, to its old house, -must have something in it worth respect. This principle, however, tells -in favour of the respectable shopkeeper quite as much as the squire, but -it does not tell in the same way. The Mountfords felt themselves of an -entirely different order from the shopkeeper--why, heaven knows! but -their estimate was accepted by all the world. - -Mount had the distinction of being entailed; it was not a large estate -nor a valuable one, and it had been deeply mortgaged when the present -Mr. Mountford, St. John by name, came of age. But he had married an -heiress, who had liberated his acres and added greatly to his social -importance. The first Mrs. Mountford had died early, leaving only one -daughter, and at the same time her entire fortune in the hands of her -husband, to do with it what he pleased. These were the days when public -opinion was very unanimous as to the impropriety and unnecessariness of -female rights of any kind, and everybody applauded Mrs. Mountford for -resisting all conditions, and putting herself and her child unreservedly -in her husband’s hands. He had re-married two years after her death, but -unfortunately had succeeded in obtaining only another girl from -unpropitious fate. His first wife’s daughter was Anne, universally -considered as the natural heiress of the considerable fortune which, -after clearing the estate, had remained of her mother’s money, and which -her father had kept scrupulously ‘in a napkin,’ like the churl in the -parable, neither increasing nor diminishing the store. The other -daughter was Rose. Such was the household at Mount in the days when this -history begins. The reigning Mrs. Mountford was a good sort of easy -woman who did not count for much. She was one of the Codringtons of -Carrisford--a ‘very good family’ of the same class as the Mountfords. -Nothing could be better than the connections on both sides--or duller. -But the girls were different. It is very hard to say why the girls -should have been different--perhaps because the present new wave of life -has distinctly affected the girls more than any other class of society. -At all events, the point was indisputable. Anne perhaps might have taken -after her mother, who was of an entirely new stock, not a kind which had -ever before been ingrafted on the steady-going family tree. She had come -out of a race partly mercantile, partly diplomatic; her grandfather had -been Spanish; it was even suspected that one of her ancestors had been a -Jew. All kinds of out-of-the-way sources had furnished the blood which -had been destined to mix with the slow current in the Mountford veins; -and probably Anne had inherited certain bizarre qualities from this -jumble. But Rose had no such mixed antecedents. There was not a drop of -blood in her veins that did not belong to the county, and it was -difficult to see how she could have ‘taken after’ her sister Anne, as -was sometimes suggested, in respect to peculiarities which had come to -Anne from her mother; but if she did not take after Anne, who _did_ she -take after, as Mrs. Mountford often demanded? - -Rose was now eighteen and Anne just over one-and-twenty. They were -considered in the neighbourhood to be attractive girls. A household -possessing two such daughters is naturally supposed to have all the -elements of brightness within it; and perhaps if there had been -brothers the girls would have taken their natural place as harmonisers -and peacemakers. But there were no brothers, and the girls embodied all -the confusing and disturbing influences natural to boys in their own -persons, with certain difficulties appropriate to their natural -character. It is true they did not get into scrapes or into debt; they -were not expelled from school or ‘sent down’ from College. Duns did not -follow them to the paternal door, or roistering companions break the -family peace. But yet Anne and Rose contrived to give as much trouble to -Mr. and Mrs. Mountford as if they had been Jack and Tom. These good -people had lived for about a dozen years in their rural mansion like the -cabbages in the kitchen garden. Nothing had disturbed them. There had -been no call upon their reasoning faculties, no strain upon their -affections: everything had gone on quite tranquilly and comfortably, -with that quiet persistence of well-being which makes trouble seem -impossible. They had even said to themselves with sighs, that to have -only girls was after all good for something. They could not be tormented -as others were, or even as the rector, one of whose boys had gone ‘to -the bad.’ The thing which had been was that which should be. The shocks, -the discoveries, the commotions, which the restless elements involved in -male youth bring with them, could not trouble their quiet existence. So -they consoled themselves, although not without a sigh. - -Alas, good people! they had reckoned without their girls. The first -storm that arose in the house was when Anne suddenly discovered that her -governess never detected her false notes when she played, and passed the -mistakes which she made, on purpose to test her, in her grammar. ‘I want -some one who can teach me,’ the girl said. She was only fifteen, but she -had already made a great deal more use of that pernicious faculty of -reading which works so much mischief in the world than Mrs. Mountford -approved. Someone who could teach her! That meant a lady at seventy-five -or a hundred pounds a year, instead of thirty-five, which was what they -had hitherto given. Mrs. Mountford nearly cried over this most -unreasonable demand. Miss Montressor was very nice. She was of a family -which had seen better days, and she was fully conscious of her good -fortune in having gained an entry into a county family. After all, what -did it matter about false notes or mistakes in grammar? It was a -ladylike person that was everything. But when Rose too declared in her -little treble that she wanted somebody who could teach her, Miss -Montressor had to go; and the troubles that followed! To do them -justice, the Squire and his wife did their very best to satisfy these -unreasonable young people. They got a German governess with all kinds of -certificates, who taught Rose to say ‘pon chour;’ they got a French -lady, who commended herself to the best feelings of Mrs. Mountford’s -nature by making her up the sweetest cap, but who taught the girls that -Charles I. was all but rescued from the scaffold by the generous -exertions of a Gascon gentleman of the name of D’Artagnan and three -friends who were devoted to him. Mrs. Mountford herself was much pleased -with this information, but Anne and her father were of a different -opinion. However, it would be too long to follow them minutely through -all these troubles. At seventeen Anne wanted Greek and to ‘go in for’ -examinations--which gave a still more complete blow to the prejudices of -the house. ‘The same as a young man!’ It was improper in the highest -degree, almost wicked; Mrs. Mountford did not like to think of it. It -seemed to her, as to some of our ablest critics, that nothing but -illicit longings after evil could make a girl wish to pass examinations -and acquire knowledge. She must want to read the naughty books which are -written in Greek and Latin, and which deprave the minds of young men, -the good woman thought. As for the certificates and honours, they might -be all very well for the governesses of whom Mrs. Mountford had such -melancholy experience; but a young lady of a county family, what did she -want with them? They would be things to be ashamed, not proud of. And on -this point Anne was vanquished. She was allowed to learn Greek with many -forebodings, but not to be examined in her knowledge. However, this -decision was chiefly intended to prevent Rose from following her sister, -as she always did; for to refuse Girton to Rose would have been more -difficult than to neglect Anne’s entreaties. For, though Anne was the -eldest sister, it was Rose who was the princess royal and reigned over -the whole demesne. - -This desire of the higher education on the part of Rose, who still said -‘pon chour,’ and was not at all certain that two and two always make -four, would have been enough to keep the house in commotion if there had -not occurred just then one of the family troubles appropriate to girls -after so many that could not be called feminine. It has already been -said that the rector of the parish had a son who had ‘gone to the bad.’ -He had two other sons, rocks ahead for the young ladies at Mount. Indeed -these two young men were such obvious dangers that Mrs. Mountford had -taken precautions against them while Rose was still in her cradle. One -was a curate, his father’s probable successor; but as the living was in -Mr. Mountford’s hands, and it was always possible that someone else -might be preferred to Charley, some Mountford connection who had a -nearer claim, that prospect did not count for much. The other was -nothing at all, a young man at Oxford, not yet launched upon life. But -fortunately these young men, though very familiar in the house, were not -handsome nor dangerously attractive, and this peril is one which must -always be encountered in the country, even by people of much higher -pretensions than the Mountfords. The first trouble, however, did not -come from this obvious quarter, though it came through there. It was not -one of the Ashleys; but it was a person still less satisfactory. One of -the curate’s friends arrived suddenly on a visit in the late summer--a -young Mr. Douglas, a barrister, which sounds well enough; but not one of -the Douglasses who have ever been heard of. They did not find this out -for some time, imagining fondly that he belonged, at a distance perhaps, -to the Morton family, or to the house of Queensberry, or at least to -Douglasses in Scotland, of whom it could be said that they were of -Lanarkshire or Selkirkshire or some other county. Indeed, it was not -until the whole household was thrown into commotion by a morning call -from Mr. Douglas, who asked for Mr. Mountford, and boldly demanded from -him the hand of Anne, that it burst upon them that he was a Douglas of -nowhere at all. He had been very well educated, and he was at the bar; -but when he was asked what branch of the Douglasses he belonged to, he -answered ‘None,’ with a smile. ‘I have no relations,’ he said. Relations -can be dispensed with. There is no harm in being without them; but a -family was indispensable, and he belonged to nobody. It was just like -Anne, however, not to care. She did not in the least care, nor did she -see any harm in her lover’s countyless condition. And when Mr. Mountford -politely declined the honour of an alliance with this Mr. Douglas of -nowhere at all, she did not hesitate to say that she entirely disagreed -with her father. This was the state in which things were at the time of -the interview I have recorded. Mr. Mountford was determined, and so was -his daughter. This struggle of wills had taken place before, but never -before had it gone so far. In former cases Anne had given in, or she had -been given in to, the one as much as the other. But now there was no -yielding on one side or the other. The father had declared himself -inexorable; the daughter had said little, but her countenance had said -much. And the threat with which he wound up had introduced an entirely -new element into the discussion. What was to come of it? But that was -what at this moment nobody could venture to say. - - - - -CHAPTER II. - -THE REST OF THE FAMILY. - - -The old house of Mount was a commodious but ugly house. It was not even -so old as it ought to have been. Only in one corner were there any -picturesque remains of antiquity, and that was in the back of the house, -and did not show. The only thing in its favour was that it had once been -a much larger place than it was now, and a detached bit of lime -avenue--very fine trees, forming in the summer two lovely walls of -tender shade--was supposed in the traditions of the place to indicate -where once the chief entrance and the best part of the mansion had been. -At the foot of the terrace on which these trees stood, and at a -considerably lower altitude, was the flower-garden, very formally laid -out, and lying along the side of the house, which was of dull brick with -very flat windows, and might almost have been a factory, so -uninteresting was it; but the lawns that spread around were green and -smooth as velvet, and the park, though not large, was full of fine -trees. Mr. Mountford’s room was in the back of the house, and Anne had -to go from one end to another to reach the common morning-room of the -family, which was the hall. This had been nothing but a mere passage in -former days, though it was square and not badly proportioned; but the -modern taste for antiquity had worked a great change in this once -commonplace vestibule. It had been furnished with those remains which -are always to be found about an old house, relics of past generations, -curtains which had been rejected as too dingy for wear a hundred years -ago, but now were found to be the perfection of tone and taste--old -folding screens, and chairs and tables dismissed as too clumsy or too -old-fashioned for the sitting-rooms of the family. All these together -made a room which strangers called picturesque, but which old neighbours -regarded with contempt, as a thing of shreds and patches. There was but -one huge window reaching from the ceiling almost to the floor, and an -equally large mantelpiece almost matching the window and opposite to it. -The large round table before the fire was covered with an old Indian -shawl carefully darned and mended for this use--a use which had revolted -all the old ladies in the county--and with books, magazines, and -newspapers, carefully arranged by old Saymore, the butler, in a kind of -pattern; for Saymore followed his young ladies, and took a great -interest in everything that was artistic. A work-table in one corner -overflowed with crewels; in another stood an easel. The place was full -of the occupations and fancies of the two girls who had fashioned it -into its present shape. While Anne was having the conversation with her -father which has been recorded, Mrs. Mountford and Rose were pursuing -their different employments in this room. Mrs. Mountford was a -contradiction to everything about her. She wore ribbons of the most -pronounced brightness, dresses of the old gay colours; and did worsted -work. She was a round plump woman, with rosy cheeks and a smiling mouth; -but she was not quite so innocent and easy as her looks indicated. She -could stand very fast indeed where any point of interest was -concerned--and she was doubly immovable in consequence of the fact that -her interests were not her own but those of Rose, and therefore she -could not be made to feel guilty in respect to them. She had a little -table of her own in the midst of all the properties--which she called -rubbish--accumulated by the girls, and there pursued her placid way week -after week and year after year, working, as if she had been born a -century earlier, groups of roses and geraniums for cushions and -footstools, and strips of many coloured work for curtains and rugs. Had -she been permitted to have her will, the house would have been furnished -with these from garret to basement; but as Rose was ‘artistic,’ poor -Mrs. Mountford’s Berlin wools were rarely made any use of. They were -given away as presents, or disposed of at bazaars. There was a closet in -her own room which was full of them, and a happy woman was she when any -girl of her acquaintance married, or a fancy fair was announced for any -charitable object, which reduced her stores. A workbasket full of the -most brilliant wools in the tidiest bundles, a German pattern printed in -squares, a little pile of tradesmen’s books in red covers, and a small -brown basket full of keys, were the signs of her little settlement in -the hall. These possessions stood upon a small table with three legs, -decorated with a broad band of Mrs. Mountford’s work. She had said -boldly that if she were not permitted to put her own work upon her own -table, she did not know what the world would come to. And upon hearing -this protest Anne had interfered. Anne was the only person who ever -interfered to save her stepmother from the tyranny exercised over her -by her own child; but Mrs. Mountford was not grateful enough to return -this service by taking Anne’s part. - -Rose was the presiding spirit of the hall. Though she did not originate -anything, but followed her sister’s lead, yet she carried out all the -suggestions that ever glanced across the surface of Anne’s mind with an -energy which often ended in making the elder sister somewhat ashamed of -her initiative. Anne’s fancies became stereotyped in Rose’s execution, -and nothing but a new idea from the elder changed the current of the -younger girl’s enthusiasm. When Anne took to ornamental design, Rose -painted all the panels of the doors and window shutters, and even had -begun a pattern of sunflowers round the drawing-room (which had been -newly decorated with a dado and three kinds of wall-papers), when Anne -fortunately took to sketching from nature, and saved the walls by -directing her sister’s thoughts in another direction. The easel remained -a substantial proof of these studies, but a new impulse had changed the -aspect of affairs. In the course of the sketching it had been discovered -that some of the cottages on the estate were in the most wretched -condition, and Anne, with the instinct of a budding squire and -philanthropist united, had set to work upon plans for new houses. The -consequence of which was that Rose, with compasses and rulers and a box -of freshly-cut pencils, was deep in the question of sculleries and -wash-houses, marking all the measurements upon the plan, with her whole -heart in the work. - -‘Anne is a long time with papa,’ said Mrs. Mountford; ‘I suppose she is -trying to talk him over; she might just as well try to move the house. -You girls never will understand that it is of no use arguing with papa.’ - -‘One never can help thinking that reason must prevail,’ said Rose, -without raising her head, ‘at the end.’ - -‘Reason!’ said Mrs. Mountford, lifting her hands and her eyebrows; ‘but, -even if it were always reason, what would that matter? As for Anne, she -has a great deal too much self-confidence; she always thinks she is -right.’ - -‘And so she is--almost always,’ said Rose, very busy with her measuring. -‘Do you happen to remember, mamma, whether it is ninety feet or a -hundred that the pigsty must be off the house?’ - -‘What should I know about pigsties? I am sure I often wonder papa takes -all the trouble he does when you are both so headstrong. Fortunately for -him he has me to talk to where _you_ are concerned; but Anne!----oh, -here she is--don’t say anything, she may not like to have it talked -about. So here you are at last, Anne; we thought you were never coming. -But I wish I had someone to do my work for me when I am busy about -something else, as Rose does for you. She never takes so much trouble on -my account.’ - -‘It is not her work,’ said Rose, offended, ‘it is my own. Mayn’t I have -something now and then that is my own? How many yards, Anne, do you -remember, must the pigsty be off the house?’ - -Anne did not remember this important piece of knowledge. ‘But,’ she -said, ‘it is in that book of specifications. It is dry to read, but it -is a very good book; you should have it on the table to refer to. You -have made the living room too large in comparison with the rest of the -house.’ - -‘Because they are poor,’ said Rose, indignantly. ‘is that to say that -they are to have nothing pretty in their lives?’ - -‘But there must be a good scullery,’ said Anne. She stood with a very -grave face behind her sister, looking over her shoulder at the drawings -spread out on the table. Whether it was the importance of the scullery, -or of the other matters concerning her own happiness which she had in -her head, it is certain that Anne’s countenance was very serious. The -very tone of her voice proved to those who knew her so well that her -mood was graver than usual. At other times the importance of the -scullery would have brought a tone of laughter, an accent of fun into -her voice; but her gravity was now quite real and unbroken by any -lighter sentiment. She was taller than her sister, and of a different -order altogether. Anne was rather pale than otherwise, with but a slight -evanescent colour now and then; her features good, her face oval, her -eyes dark grey, large and lucid, and with long eyelashes curling -upwards. But Rose, though she had all that _beauté de diable_ which is -the privilege of youth, was, like her mother, round and rosy, though her -pretty little face and figure had not the solidity, nor her complexion -the set and rigid tone which placid middle age acquires. The one face -over the other contrasted pleasantly; the elder serious, as if nothing -in heaven or earth could ever make her smile again; the younger bent -with momentary gravity and importance over her work. But they had no air -of belonging to each other. Nothing but an accident could have linked -together two beings so little resembling. The accident was Mr. -Mountford, whom neither of them was at all like. They were not -Mountfords at all, as everybody in the neighbourhood allowed. They took -after their mothers, not the one and indivisible head of the family; but -that did not really matter, for these two girls, like their mothers, -were no more than accidents in the house. - -The ancient estate was entailed, and knew nothing of such slight things -as girls. When their father died they would have to give up Mount and go -away from it. It was true that there still would be a great deal of -land in the county belonging to one of them at least, for Mr. Mountford -had not been able to resist the temptation of buying and enlarging his -estate at the time when he married his first wife, and thought of no -such misfortune as that of leaving only a couple of girls behind him. A -long life and boys to succeed him were as certainties in his thoughts -when he bought all the lands about Charwood and the estate of Lower -Lilford. There they lay now, embracing Mount on every side, Mount which -must go to Heathcote Mountford, the head of the _other_ family. It was -grievous, but it could not be helped. And the girls were not Mountfords, -either the one or the other. They betrayed, shall we say, an inherent -resentment against the law of entail and all its harsh consequences, by -resembling their mothers, and declining to be like the race which thus -callously cast them forth. - -Mrs. Mountford looked at them with very watchful eyes. She knew what it -was which had made her husband send for his eldest daughter into his -study after breakfast. It was a circumstance which often galled Anne, a -high-spirited girl, that her stepmother should be in the secret of all -her personal concerns; but still man and wife are one, and it could not -be helped. This fact, however, that everything was known about her, -whether she would or not, shut her lips and her heart. Why should she be -confidential and open herself to their inspection when they knew it all -beforehand without her? This stopped all inclination to confide, and had -its effect, no doubt, as all repression has, on Anne’s character. Her -heart was in a turmoil now, aching with anger and annoyance, and -disappointment, and a sense of wrong. But the only effect of this was to -make her more serious than ever. In such a mood to win a smile from her, -to strike her sense of humour, which was lively, or to touch her heart, -which was tender, was to open the floodgates, and the girl resented and -avoided this risk with all the force of her nature. And, truth to tell, -there was little power, either in Mrs. Mountford or her daughter, to -undo the bonds with which Anne had bound herself. It was seldom that -they appealed to her feelings, and when they made her laugh it was not -in sympathy, but derision--an unamiable and unsatisfactory kind of -laughter. Therefore it happened now that they knew she was in trouble, -and watched her keenly to see the traces of it; and she knew they knew, -and sternly repressed any symptom by which they might divine how much -moved she was. - -‘You build your cottages your way,’ cried Rose, ‘and I will build mine -in mine. Papa will let me have my choice as well as you, and just see -which will be liked best.’ - -‘If Heathcote should have to be consulted,’ said Anne, ‘it will be the -cheapest that he will like best.’ - -‘Anne! I shouldn’t have thought that even you could be so unfeeling. To -remind us that dear papa----’ cried Mrs. Mountford; ‘dear papa! Do not -speak of his life in that indifferent way, at least before Rose.’ - -‘Oh, it would not matter,’ said Rose, calmly, ‘whatever happens; for -they are for the Lilford houses on our very own land. Heathcote hasn’t -anything to do with them.’ - -‘Anne might say, “Nor you either,” my Rosie,’ said her mother; ‘for -everybody knows that you are cut off out of it in every way. Oh, I don’t -find any fault. I knew it when I married, and you have known it all your -life. It is rather hard, however, everything turning out against us, you -and me, my pet; part of the property going away altogether to a distant -cousin, and the rest all tied up because one of you is to be made an -eldest son.’ - -‘Mamma!’ said Rose, petulantly, giving a quick glance up at her mother, -and shrugging her shoulders with the superiority of youth, as who would -say, Why speak of things you don’t understand? Then she closed her -compasses and put down her pencil. ‘Are we to have a game this -afternoon?’ she said; ‘I mean, Anne, are you going to play? Charley and -Willie are sure to come, but if you go off as usual, it will be no good, -for three can’t play.’ - -The colour came in a flood over Anne’s pale face. ‘Mamma plays better -than I do,’ she said. ‘I have a headache. I don’t think I shall do -anything this afternoon.’ - -‘Will Mr. Douglas have a headache too?’ said Rose; ‘he generally has -when you have. It is not much fun,’ she added, with a little virtuous -indignation, ‘for Charley and Willie to play with mamma.’ - -Mrs. Mountford showed no resentment at this frank speech. ‘No,’ she -said, ‘it is not much fun for Charley and Willie. I don’t think it has -been much fun for them since Mr. Douglas came. Anne likes his talk; he -is a very fine talker. It is more interesting to listen to him than to -play.’ - -‘Sometimes it is,’ said Anne gravely, though with another blush; and -then the two others laughed. - -‘My dear, you bring it on yourself; if we are not to have your -confidence, we must have our laugh. We have eyes in our head as well as -other people--or, at least, I have eyes in my head,’ said the mother. -Anne could not but acknowledge that there was reason in what she said, -but it was not said in a way to soften the wounded and angry girl. - -‘I do not ask you not to laugh,’ she said. - -‘You look more like crying,’ said Rose; and she got up and threw her -arms suddenly about her sister, being an impulsive little person whose -sympathies were not to be calculated upon. ‘What is it, dear: tell -_me_,’ she cried, with her soft lips upon her sister’s cheek. - -Anne’s heart swelled as if it would burst out of her breast. There are -states of mind in which everything can be borne but sympathy. The gates -so hastily rolled to and pushed close began to open. The tears came to -her eyes. But then she remembered that the threat her father had made -was not one to be confided to them. - -‘Never mind. I have been talking to my father, and he and I don’t see -things in the same light. We don’t always--one can’t help that,’ said -Anne, in a subdued voice. - -‘Come up to my room,’ said Rose in her ear. ‘Never mind mamma--oh, come -up to my room, Anne darling, and tell me all about it! I never was -anyone’s confidant before.’ - -But this was not a process which Anne, shy with a fervour of feeling -more profound than Rose could understand, or she herself express, felt -at all disposed to go through. She put her younger sister gently aside, -and brought her plans too to the table. ‘We had better settle about the -pigsties,’ she said, with a little relaxation of her gravity. She -laughed in spite of herself. ‘It is a safe subject. Show me, Rosie, what -you have done.’ - -Rose was still fresh to this pursuit, and easily recalled to it, so she -produced her drawings with little hesitation, and after a while forgot -the more interesting matter. They sat with their heads together over the -plans, while Mrs. Mountford pursued her worsted work. A moralist might -have found in the innocent-seeming group all that inscrutableness of -human nature which it is so easy to remark and so impossible to fathom. -Rose, it was true, had not much in her little mind except the cottages, -and the hope of producing a plan which should be approved as the best, -having in her heart a childish desire to surpass Anne, which by no means -diminished her faithful allegiance to her as the origin of all impulses -and setter of every fashion. But Anne’s heart, underneath the fresh -crispness of her muslin dress, and the apparent interest with which she -pursued her work, and discussed her sculleries, was beating high with -much confused and painful emotion. Indignation and a sense of wrong, -mingled with a certain contempt even for the threat which had wounded -her as an empty menace, never to be carried out--a false and fictitious -weapon meant for no end but that of giving her pain; and, on the other -hand, the disappointment of her hopes, and a certainty of severance from -the love which had been a revelation to her of so much in heaven and -earth of which she was unaware before--filled her being. She would not -give him up, but she would be parted from him. He would go away, and any -intercourse they might hereafter keep up must be maintained in -resistance to the authority under which she had lived all her life. Thus -what she had supposed to be the crown and glory of existence was -summarily turned into bitterness and wrong. She was turning it over and -over in her mind, while she sat there steadily comparing her -measurements with those of her sister, and wondering how long she must -go on with this in order to confound her stepmother’s suspicions, and -prove that she was neither discouraged nor rendered unhappy by what had -happened. Naturally, in her inexperience, Anne gave great importance to -this feat of baffling her stepmother’s observation, and looking ‘just as -usual;’ and naturally, also, she failed altogether in the attempt. Mrs. -Mountford was an experienced woman. She knew what it meant when a girl -looked too much as if nothing had happened. And she watched with great -vigilance, partly by simple instinct, partly with a slight sense of -gratification, that the elder daughter, who was so much more important -than her own child, should feel that she was mortal. It was not any -active malevolence that was in Mrs. Mountford’s mind. She would have -been horrified had it been suggested to her that she wished Anne any -harm. She wished her no harm; but only that she might feel after all -that life was not one triumph and scene of unruffled success and -blessedness--which is the best moral discipline for everybody, as is -well known. - - - - -CHAPTER III. - -THE ‘GAME.’ - - -The name of the parish in which Mount was the principal house was -Moniton, by some supposed to be a corruption of Mount-ton, the village -being situated on the side of a circular hill looking more like a -military mound than a natural object, which gave the name alike to the -property and the district. Mount Hill, as it was called with unnecessary -amplification, was just outside the park gates, and at its foot lay the -Rectory, the nearest neighbouring house with which the Mountfords could -exchange civilities. When one comes to think of it, the very existence -of such ecclesiastical houses close by the mansions of the English -gentry and nobility is a standing menace and danger to that nobler and -more elevated class--now that the family living is no longer a natural -provision for a younger son. The greatest grandee in the land has to -receive the clergyman’s family as equals, whatever may be his private -opinion on the subject; they are ladies and gentlemen, however poor they -may be, or little eligible to be introduced into closer connection with -members of the aristocracy, titled or otherwise; and, as a matter of -fact, they have to be so received, whence great trouble sometimes -arises, as everybody knows. The young people at the Hall and the -parsonage grow up together, they meet continually, and join in all each -other’s amusements, and if they determine to spend their lives together -afterwards, notwithstanding all those social differences which are -politely ignored in society, until the moment comes when they must be -brought into prominence, who can wonder at it? The wonder is that on the -whole so little harm occurs. The young Ashleys were the nearest -neighbours of the Mountford girls. They called each other by their -Christian names; they furnished each other with most of their -amusements. Had the boys not been ready to their call for any scheme of -pleasure or use, the girls would have felt themselves aggrieved. But if -Charley or Willie had fallen in love with Anne or Rose, the whole social -economy would have been shaken by it, and no earthquake would have made -a greater commotion. Such catastrophes are constantly happening to the -confusion of one district after another all over the country; but who -can do anything to prevent it? That it had not happened (openly) in the -present case was due to no exceptional philosophy or precaution on any -side. And the chance which had made Mr. Cosmo Douglas speak first -instead of his friend, the curate, was in no way a fortunate one, except -in so far, indeed, that, though it produced great pain and sorrow, it, -at least, preserved peace between the two families. The Rector was as -much offended, as indignant as Mr. Mountford could be, at the audacity -of his son’s friend. A stranger, a chance visitor, an intruder in the -parish, he, at least, had no vested rights. - -The facts of the case were as yet, however, but imperfectly known. -Douglas had not gone away, though it was known that his interview with -Mr. Mountford had not been a successful one; but that was no reason why -the Ashleys should not stroll up to Mount on this summer afternoon, as -was their very general practice. There was always some business to talk -about--something about the schools, or the savings bank, or other -parochial affairs; and both of them were well aware that without them ‘a -game’ was all but impossible. - -‘Do you feel up to it, old fellow?’ Willie said to Charley, who was the -curate. The elder brother did not make any distinct reply. He said, -‘There’s Douglas to be thought of,’ with a somewhat lugubrious glance -behind him where that conquering hero lay on the grass idly puffing his -cigar. - -‘Confound Douglas!’ said the younger brother, who was a secular person -and free to speak his mind. Charley Ashley replied only with a stifled -sigh. He might not himself have had the courage to lay his curacy and -his hopes at Anne’s feet, at least for a long time to come, but it was -not to be expected that he could look with pleasure on the man who had -rushed in where he feared to tread, his supplanter, the Jacob who had -pushed him out of his path. But yet he could not help in a certain sense -admiring his friend’s valour. He could not help talking of it as they -took their way more slowly than usual across the park, when Douglas, -with a conscious laugh, which went sharply, like a needle, through the -poor curate’s heart, declined to join them but begged they ‘would not -mind’ leaving him behind. - -‘When a fellow has the pluck to do it, things generally go well with -him,’ Charley said. - -The two brothers were very good friends. The subject of Anne was one -which had never been discussed between them, but Willie Ashley knew by -instinct what were his brother’s sentiments, and Charley was conscious -that he knew. The little roughness with which the one thrust his arm -into the other’s spoke of itself a whole volume of sympathy, and they -walked through the sunshine and under the flickering shadows of the -trees, slowly and heavily, the curate with his head bent, and his brown -beard, of which he was as proud as was becoming to a young clergyman, -lying on his breast. - -‘Pluck carries everything before it,’ he said, with a sigh. ‘I never was -one of your plucky ones.’ - -‘If you call that pluck!’ cried the other, ‘when a fellow thinks of -nothing but himself, and goes straight before him, whatever happens.’ - -The curate pressed his brother’s arm with tacit thanks, but he sighed -even more. ‘All the same it was a plucky thing to do,’ he said. - -The young men were seen approaching for a long time before they reached -the house. ‘I wonder what has happened,’ said Rose; ‘they walk as if -they were going to a funeral; but I suppose I had better go and see that -everything is ready for the game.’ After all this was the important -matter, and the Ashleys, though of no great consequence in themselves, -were at least the only young men in the parish; and if the Woodheads -came, as Rose expected, it looked a poor sort of thing to have no men. -What the game was I can scarcely pretend to say. It might be croquet, or -it might be lawn tennis. This is entirely a chronological question, and -one upon which, as the date of this commencement is a little vague, I -cannot take upon me to decide. And just as Willie and Charley approached -slowly, in a solemn march, the familiar house to which they had so often -turned with steps and hearts less weighted, the Woodheads appeared on -the other side. - -‘I was sure they would come,’ cried Rose; ‘here are Gerty and Fanny.’ -These young ladies were a clergyman’s daughters, and might have paired -off most suitably with the Ashleys and no harm done; but perverse -humanity may be so far trusted as to make sure that none of the four -thought of any such sensible arrangement. - -As for Anne, a sigh of satisfaction and relief came from her bosom, not -like that deeper sigh which breathed forth the curate’s cares. As soon -as she had seen the game begun and all comfortable, she would escape to -her own business. Her heart beat high with the thought of the meeting -that awaited her, and of the long, confiding, lover’s talk, the pouring -out of all her cares into another heart which was her own. Anne had not -been accustomed to much sympathy in her life. She had not wanted it -perhaps. She loved her little sister with her whole heart; but a high -sense of honour had kept her, even when a child, from confiding to Rose -any of the little jars and frets of which Rose’s mother was the chief -cause; and what other cares had Anne? So that the delight of saying -everything that was in her heart was as new to her as the love that made -it possible. And it was one of the elements of wondering happiness that -filled her whole being to find out how many things she had to tell. She -had thought herself reserved, unexpansive, sometimes even cold and -heartless, when she beheld the endless confidential chatter of other -girls, and wondered why it was that she had nothing to confide. But now -she was half dismayed and half transported to discover how much she too -had to say. The deep waters of her heart seemed to flow over from that -secret place, and pour out in an irrestrainable flood. It seemed to -herself that she kept them in with difficulty even to other people -_now_. She had so much to tell him that she could scarcely help -preluding even to those who were indifferent, betraying to them the -great tide of utterance that was in her. As a matter of fact, she did -not at all betray herself; the Woodheads and the Ashleys saw that Anne -was slightly flushed and feverish, justifying the complaint she made of -a headache, for the sake of which she feared staying out in the sun; and -one of the former, who was a medical young lady, accustomed to manage -all the lighter maladies of her father’s parish, immediately prescribed -for the sufferer. - -‘Don’t stay out here,’ Miss Fanny said; ‘it is the worst thing possible. -Go and lie down; or, if you don’t like that, sit down in the shade and -take a quiet book. Have you got a novel?--if it’s not an exciting one, -that will do--but keep yourself perfectly quiet and never mind us. Her -pulse is just a little excited--nothing to be alarmed about--if she will -but go and lie down.’ - -The others, especially the two young men, exchanged furtive glances. -Willie pressed Charley’s arm with a whisper, ‘Keep it up, old fellow!’ -Poor curate! he looked piteously at the girl whom he had not had the -courage to try for. Would her cheeks have taken that lovely flush, her -eye got that anxious, nervous brightness for him? Was it all a question -of pluck, and who should be the first to speak? He watched her going -back to the house, across the flower garden, with his lips in an -unconscious foolish gape of self-renunciation and tender pity and -regret. But happily that rich brown beard of his hid the imbecility of -this pathetic simple gaze. And then he turned with sober resolution to -the game. He cared for nothing any more now that Anne had gone. But an -Englishman must play his game out whatever happens; though heaven and -earth should melt away. - -Nobody suspected her, nobody dreamt what Anne was about to do. That she -should do anything that was not open and manifest entered into no one’s -idea of her. She had always been mistress of herself and all her ways, -and had never quailed before the face of man. Did she feel guilty now -when she thus appeared to accept the advice offered to her--appeared to -consent to take shelter from the sun, and went back to the house to lie -down, or take a quiet book, as was recommended? Anne was a great deal -too much occupied with her own thoughts and plans to feel any of those -little guilts yet. She was scarcely conscious of what she herself felt -and thought. She had to carry the report of the morning to the other -person, who was as much concerned as she was in it; to tell him -everything, to know what he had to say, to consult with him as to what -they were to do. With all this in her heart, a flood of thought, rising -and falling, like waves of the sea, is it possible that she could think -of what the others would say, or even of the novel aspect of her -subterfuge and evasion? She could think of nothing about them, but of -how to get free, to be delivered from her companions. To see him was -necessary, indispensable. She had never permitted it to be supposed that -she would not see him, or suffered anything to be drawn from her which -could imply an intention of giving him up. Her father had said nothing -on this subject. There had been neither condition nor promise. But still -it was no doubt contrary to Anne’s character, as it was to high honour -and sincerity, that she should allow it to be supposed that she was -returning to the house on account of her headache, when her intention -was to go out another way and meet her lover. When she thought of it -afterwards the flush of shame which came over her ran from head to foot; -but at the present moment she was entirely unmoved by it. The idea did -not so much as cross the threshold of her mind. - -She went softly into the cool and silent house. There was nobody -visible in the long passages, nor in the hall through which she passed, -not consciously going with any precaution, yet making little sound with -her light foot. Even Mr. Mountford was out; the doors stood open, the -sunshine streamed in here and there at a window making a bar of blazing -whiteness across the corridor or stair. Old Saymore was in the open -vestibule, full of plants and flowers, into which the great door opened. -He was standing before a tall vase of white glass, almost as high as -himself, in which he was arranging with great anxiety and interest a -waving bouquet of tall ferns and feathery branches. Old Saymore had a -soul for art, and the fancies of his young mistress stood in place of -all the canons and science of beauty to his mind. He stood with his head -on one side, now and then walking a few steps backward to consider the -combination of his leaves like an artist before a picture, pulling one -forward, pushing one back, pondering with the gravest countenance how to -prop up in the middle the waving plume of sumach with which he intended -to crown the edifice. He was too much absorbed in his performance to -notice Anne, who for her part was too completely preoccupied by hers to -see him where he stood, embowered in all that greenery, calculating and -considering with the most serious countenance as if the weight of an -empire was on his shoulders. As she ran down the steps he heard her for -the first time, and turned round hurriedly, moved by the hope of finding -a critic and adviser. But his cry of ‘Miss Anne!’ failed to reach her -ear. Her heart was beating high, her thoughts rushing at such a rapid -rate that they made a little atmosphere of sound about her, and shut out -all less ethereal appeals. - -After the Ashleys had left the Rectory, Mr. Cosmo Douglas for his part -raised himself from the grass where he had lain so luxuriously puffing -his cigar. He was more amused than distressed by the confusion he had -brought among them. Charley Ashley was his friend, but the affection had -been chiefly on one side. It had been, as the other very well knew, a -distinction for Ashley, who was not distinguished in any other way, to -be known as the friend of a personage so much more brilliant and popular -than himself. Douglas had been accustomed to smile when he was asked by -his admirers ‘what he could see’ in the good fellow who was neither -clever nor gay, nor rich, nor witty, and who had, indeed, no particular -recommendation except his goodness. It pleased him to attach to himself -this useful, faithful, humble friend, who was always ready to stand up -for him, and never likely to bring him into any scrape or trouble. And -he had always been ready, he thought, to do anything for Charley--to -coach him for an examination, to write an essay for him, to ‘pull him -through’ any of the crises of a college career. But to go so far as to -curb his own fancy for a girl who pleased him because Charley had set -his affections in the same quarter, was a thing entirely beyond Cosmo’s -perceptions of the duties of friendship. And when he saw the dismal -looks of his friend--his heavy dropping back upon the sympathy of -Willie, his younger brother, who had never hitherto been his confidant, -and the suppressed indignation towards himself of that younger and -always jealous companion--he was more tickled than grieved by it. The -idea that he could find a serious rival in Ashley never entered his -thoughts--or, indeed, that anyone should pay the slightest regard to -poor Charley while he was by. Douglas had, indeed, so much confidence in -the humility of his friend that he felt his own preference of any thing -or person to be a quite sufficient reason why Charley should give it up. -‘He likes to give in to me,’ was what he had said on many previous -occasions; and he was unable to understand how any other affection could -be more deeply rooted in Ashley’s bosom than that which was directed to -himself. Therefore he only smiled at what he supposed a momentary -petulance. Good simple soul! perhaps Douglas respected his friend more -that he was capable of being so badly ‘hit.’ But yet he could scarcely -realise the possibility of it. Charley in love had not presented itself -to him as a credible idea. It made him laugh in spite of himself. And as -for interfering with Charley!--as if anyone could suppose it possible -that Charley was a man to catch a lady’s eye. - -Cosmo’s first visit had been at Christmas, when all was new to him, and -when the revelation of the two girls at Mount, so full of life and -movement amid the gentle stagnation of the parish, had been the most -delightful surprise to the resigned visitor, who had come as a matter of -duty, determined to endure anything, and make himself agreeable to -Charley’s friends. ‘You never told me what sort of neighbours you had,’ -he had said almost with indignation. ‘Neighbours! I told you about the -Mountfords and the Woodheads, and Lord Meadowlands, who is our great -gun,’ said Charley tranquilly. ‘You speak as if they were all the -same--Mountfords and Woodheads and Smiths and Jones--whereas Miss -Mountford would be remarked in any society,’ Douglas had said. He -remembered afterwards that Charley had looked at him for a moment before -he replied, and had grown red; but all he had said was, ‘I didn’t know -that you thought much about girls.’ All this passed through Douglas’s -mind as he stood looking after the two brothers, watching the -mournfulness of their march with an irrepressible sense of the -ludicrous. To see that victim of fate leaning on his brother’s arm, -dropping now and then a melancholy word or deep-heaved sigh, and -walking gloomily, as after a funeral, to the afternoon ‘game,’ was a -sight at which the most sympathetic looker-on might have been excused -for smiling. ‘I didn’t know that you thought much about girls!’ Was -there ever a more stupid remark? And how was I to know _he_ thought much -about girls? Douglas asked himself with another laugh. His conscience -was easily satisfied on this point. And he had come down at the -beginning of the long vacation to see a little more of the Ashleys’ -neighbours. He could not but feel that it must be a relief to them also -to see a conversible being, an alive and awake human creature amidst -those scenes of rural life. - -But now how far things had gone! Douglas had been a month at the -Rectory, and as his eyes followed the two Ashleys along the white -sun-swept road and away under the shadow of the park trees, the idea -came to him, with a curious sense of expansive and enlarged being, that -the masses of foliage sweeping away towards the west, amid which the two -solemn wayfarers soon disappeared, would one day, in all probability, be -his own. ‘No, by the bye, not that; that’s the entailed part,’ he said -to himself; then laughed again, this time partly in gentle -self-ridicule, partly in pleasure, and turned his face the other way, -towards Lower Lilford--for he had made himself master of the whole -particulars. Facing this way, and with the laugh still on his lips, he -suddenly found himself in the presence of the Rector, who had come out -by his own study window at the sight of the solitary figure on the lawn. -Douglas felt himself taken in the act--though of what it would have been -hard to say. He grew red in spite of himself under the gaze of the -Rector’s mild and dull eyes. - -‘Have the boys left you alone? I can’t think how they could be so rude,’ -Mr. Ashley said. - -‘Not rude at all, sir. It is I who am rude. I was lazy, and promised to -follow them when I had finished my--novel.’ Happily, he recollected in -time that he had been holding one in his hand. ‘I am going now,’ he -added. ‘I dare say I shall catch them up before they get to the house.’ - -‘I was afraid they were leaving you to take care of yourself--that is -not our old-fashioned way,’ said the old clergyman. ‘I wish you a -pleasant walk. It is a fine afternoon, but you will find the road dusty. -I advise you to go over the meadows and round the lower way.’ - -‘That is just how I intended to go.’ - -‘Very sensible. The boys always take the high road. The other takes you -round by the Beeches, much the prettiest way; but it is longer round, -and that is why they never use it. A pleasant walk to you,’ Mr. Ashley -said, waving his hand as he went back to the house. - -Douglas laughed to himself as he took the path through the meadows which -Mr. Ashley had indicated. The Rector had not as yet interested himself -much in what was going on, and the simplicity with which he had -suggested the way which the lovers had chosen, and which led to their -trysting-place, amused the intruder still more. ‘If he but knew!’ -Douglas said to himself, transferring to the old clergyman the thoughts -that filled the mind of his son, by a very natural heightening of his -own importance. And yet, to tell the truth, had Mr. Ashley known, it -would have been a great relief to his mind, as releasing Charley from a -great danger and the parish from a possible convulsion. To know this, -however, might have lessened the extreme satisfaction with which Douglas -set out for the meeting. He went slowly on across the green fields, all -bright in the sunshine, across the little stream, and up the leafy -woodland road that led to the Beeches, his heart pleasantly agitated, -his mind full of delightful anticipations. Anne herself was sweet to -him, and his conquest of her flattered him in every particular. -Happiness, importance, wealth, an established place in the world, were -all coming to him, linked hand in hand with the loves and joys which -surrounded the girl’s own image. He had no fear of the consequences. -Remorseless fathers were not of his time. Such mediæval furniture had -been cleared out of the world. He expected nothing from this meeting but -acceptance, reconciliation, love, and happiness. - - - - -CHAPTER IV. - -THE BEECHES. - - -The Beeches were a beautiful clump of trees on a knoll in the middle of -the park. They were renowned through the county, and one of the glories -of Mount. When the family was absent--which did not happen often--picnic -parties were made up to visit them. There was nothing like them in all -the country round. The soil was rich and heavy round them with the -shedding of their own leaves, and when the sun got in through their big -branches and touched that brown carpet it shone like specks of gold. -Some of the branches were like trees in themselves, and the great grey -trunks like towers. One of them had been called, from time immemorial, -the lover’s tree. It was scrawled over with initials, some of them half -a century old, or more. From the elevation on which they stood the -spectator looked down upon the house lying below among its gardens, on -the green terrace and the limes, and could watch what the group there -was doing, while himself safe from all observation. When Douglas had -informed Anne of her father’s rejection of his suit, she had bidden him -come to this spot to hear the issue of her own interview with Mr. -Mountford. He seated himself tranquilly enough under the lover’s tree -to await her coming. He was not too much agitated to smoke his cigar. -Indeed, he was not much agitated at all. He had no fear for the eventual -issue. True, it might not come immediately. He did not know that he -wanted it to come immediately. To love is one thing, to marry another. -So long as he was sure of Anne, he did not mind waiting for a year or -two. And he felt that he was sure of Anne, and in that case, eventually, -of her father too. Consequently, he sat still and waited, pleased, in -spite of himself, with the little lawlessness. To be received in the -ordinary way as a son-in-law, to kiss the ladies of the house, and shake -hands with the men, and be told in a trembling voice that it was the -choicest treasure of the family that was being bestowed upon him, were -all things which a man of courage has to go through, and does go through -without flinching. But on the whole it was more delightful to have Anne -steal away to him out of all commonplace surroundings and make him sure -of her supreme and unfailing love, whatever anyone might say--with, -_bien entendu_, the paternal blessing in the background, to be won after -a little patience. Douglas was flattered in all his wishes and fancies -by this romantic beginning. He would have the good, he thought, both of -the old system of love-making and the new--Anne by herself, without any -drawbacks, willing to dare any penalties for his sake; but at the end -everything that was legitimate and proper--settlements and civilities. -He liked it better so than if it had been necessary to wind up -everything in a few months, and marry and be settled; indeed it pleased -him much, being so sure as he was of all that was to follow, to have -this little secret and clandestine intercourse. He liked it. To get Anne -to do so much as this for him was a triumph; his vanity overflowed while -he sat and waited for her, though vanity was but a small part of his -character. He reached that spot so soon that he saw the beginning of the -‘game,’ and Anne’s white figure going back through the flower garden all -blazing with colour, to the house. What excuse had she been able to find -for leaving them? She must have invented some excuse. And he saw the -curate settling himself to that ‘game,’ with unspeakable amusement. He -took his cigar from between his lips to laugh. Poor old Charley! his -heart was broken, but he did his duty like a man. He watched him -settling to his afternoon’s work with Gertrude Woodhead as his partner, -and laughed, feeling the full humour of the event, and enjoying the -tremendous seriousness with which that sacrifice to duty was made. Then, -while the game went on in the bright foreground of the picture, he saw -the moving speck of that white figure re-issuing on the other side of -the house, and advancing towards him, threading her way among the trees. -It was for him that Anne did this, and he it was alone of all concerned -who could sit here calmly puffing the blue smoke among the branches, and -waiting for his happiness to come to him. Never was man more elated, -more flattered, more perfectly contented with himself. - -He threw the cigar away when she was within a short distance of the -spot, and went to meet her with triumphant pleasure. - -‘My faithful Anne--my true love,’ he said as he met her. And Anne came -to him; her eyes shining, her lips apart with eagerness. What a meeting -it was! No tame domestic reception and hubbub of family excitement could -compare with it. How glad and flattered he felt that it was a -clandestine indulgence, and that papa had not vulgarised everything by -giving his consent! Then they sat down upon the knoll, arm linked in -arm, and clasping each other’s hands. There was the peaceful house -within sight, and the party on the green terrace absorbed in their -inferior amusement, in complete ignorance, not knowing what romance was -going on, scarcely out of their range of vision, under the trees. All -these experiences served to enhance the delight of his position. For the -first few minutes he attached less importance to the words which Anne -said. - -‘But you do not seem to understand me. My father will not consent.’ - -‘If _you_ consent, my darling, what do I want more? I am not afraid of -your father.’ - -‘But Cosmo--listen! you are not really paying any attention----’ - -‘Every attention, to the real matter in question. I am reading that in -your eyes, in your hands, in you altogether. If I am too happy to take -any notice of those vulgarer symbols, words----’ - -‘But they are not vulgar symbols. Yes, I am happy too. I am not afraid -of anything. But, Cosmo, you must listen, and you must understand. My -father refuses his consent.’ - -‘For how long?’ he said with a smile. ‘I also should like to refuse you -something for the pleasure of being persuaded to forswear myself. I -think papa is right. I should hold out as long as you would put any -faith in the delusion of my resistance.’ - -‘It is no delusion,’ said Anne, shaking her head. ‘You must not think -so. It is very serious. He has threatened me. There was no make-believe -in his mind, Cosmo.’ - -‘Threatened you? With what? Ah! so should I if I thought you were going -to desert me.’ - -‘You will not see how serious it is! I do not believe he will give in, -Cosmo. He has threatened me that if I persevere he will leave everything -he has to leave, away from me.’ - -‘Away from you? But he has no power to do that,’ said the young man. ‘It -is skilful of him to try your faithfulness--but he might have tried it -by less conventional means.’ - -‘Yes, he has the power,’ said Anne, neglecting the other part of this -speech. ‘He has power over everything, except, indeed, the entail; and I -believe he will do what he says. My father is not a man at all likely to -try my faithfulness. He knows me, for one thing.’ - -‘And knows you true as steel,’ said Cosmo, looking admiringly in her -face and still quite unimpressed by the news. - -‘Knows that I am not one to give way. He knows that very well. So here -is something for your serious consideration. No, indeed, it is no joke. -You must not laugh. We must face what is before us,’ said Anne, -endeavouring to withdraw her hand and half offended by his unbelief. - -‘I cannot face your frown,’ said Cosmo; ‘that is the only thing I am -really afraid of. What! must it really be so stern as this? But these -hard fathers, my darling, belong to the fifteenth century. You don’t -mean to tell me that rebellious daughters are shut up in their rooms, -and oaths insisted upon, and paternal curses uttered _now_!’ - -‘I said nothing about being shut up in my room; but it is quite -certain,’ said Anne, with a little heat, ‘that if I oppose him in this -point my father will take all that ought to come to me and give it to -Rose.’ - -‘To Rose!’ a shade of dismay stole over Cosmo’s face. ‘But I thought,’ -he said--showing an acquaintance with the circumstances which after, -when she thought of it, surprised Anne--‘I thought your fortune came -from your mother, not from Mr. Mountford at all.’ - -‘And so it does; but it is all in his hands; my mother trusted in my -father entirely, as she was of course quite right to do.’ - -‘As it must have been the height of imprudence to permit her to do!’ -cried Douglas, suddenly reddening with anger. ‘How could the trustees be -such fools? So you, like the money, are entirely in Mr. Mountford’s -hands?’ - -All at once the tone had ceased to be that of a lovers’ interview. Anne, -startled and offended, this time succeeded in drawing her hand out of -his. - -‘Yes,’ she said, with a chill of surprise in her voice, ‘entirely in his -hands.’ - -What was going to follow? Under the great beechen boughs, through the -warm summer sunshine there seemed all at once to breathe a wintry gale -which penetrated to the heart. - -This sudden cloud was dissipated in a moment by another laugh, which -rang almost too loudly among the trees. ‘Well,’ he said, drawing her arm -through his again, and holding the reluctant hand clasped fast, ‘what of -that? Because you are in his hands, Anne, my own, do you think I am -going to let you slip out of mine?’ - -The sun grew warm again, and the air delicious as before. Two on one -side, and all the world on the other, is not that a perfectly fair -division? So long as there are two--if there should come to be but one, -then the aspect of everything is changed. Anne’s hands clasped between -two bigger ones all but disappeared from view. It would be hard, very -hard, to slip out of that hold; and it was a minute or two before she -regained possession of what Cosmo had called the vulgarer symbols, -words. Without recurrence to their aid between people who love each -other, how much can be said! - -‘That is all very well,’ said Anne, at last; ‘but whatever we may do or -say we must come back to this: My father has promised to disinherit me, -Cosmo, and he will not go back from his word.’ - -‘Disinherit! the very word sounds romantic. Are we in a novel or are we -not? I thought disinherit was only a word for the stage.’ - -‘But you know this is mere levity,’ said Anne. She smiled in spite of -herself. It pleased her to the bottom of her heart that he should take -it so lightly, that he should refuse to be frightened by it. ‘We are not -boy and girl,’ she said, with delightful gravity of reproof. ‘We _must_ -think seriously of a thing which affects our interests so much. The -question is, what is to be done?’ - -Had she but known how keenly under his levity he was discussing that -question within himself! But he went on, still half laughing as if it -were the best joke in the world. - -‘The only thing, so far as I can see, that is _not_ to be done,’ he -said, ‘is to obey papa and give me up.’ - -‘Give up--I would not give up a dog!’ cried Anne, impetuously; ‘and -Cosmo, you!’ - -‘I am not a dog; and yet in one sense, in Mr. Mountford’s eyes---- What -is it, Anne, that hedges you round with such divinity, you landed -people? Mountford of Mount: it sounds very well, I confess. And why was -I not Douglas of somewhere or other? It is very hard upon you, but yet -it is not my fault.’ - -‘I like you infinitely better,’ cried Anne, with proud fervour, ‘that -you are Douglas of nowhere, but stand upon yourself--the father of your -own fortunes. That is the thing to be proud of--if one has ever any -right to be proud.’ - -‘I have not achieved much to be proud of as yet,’ he said, shaking his -head; and then there was again a pause, perhaps not quite so ecstatic a -pause, for practical necessity and the urgent call for a decision of -one kind or other began to be felt, and silenced them. It was easy to -say that there was one thing that was _not_ to be done--but after? Then -for the first time in her life Anne felt the disability of her -womanhood. This tells for little so long as the relations between men -and women are not in question. It is when these ties begin--and a girl, -who has perhaps taken the initiative all her life, finds herself -suddenly reduced to silence in face of her lover--that the bond is felt. -What could she say or suggest? She had exhausted her powers when she -declared with such proud emphasis that to give up was impossible. Then -nature, which is above all law, stepped in and silenced her. What could -she do further? It was for him to speak. The first sense of this -compulsion was both sweet and painful to her--painful, because her mind -was overflowing with active energy and purpose which longed for -utterance: sweet, as the sign and symbol of a new condition, a union -more rich and strange than any individuality. Anne had hesitated little -in her life, and had not known what it was to wait. Now she bent her -head to the necessity in a curious maze of feeling--bewildered, happy, a -little impatient, wondering and hoping, silent as she had never in all -her life before been tempted to be. - -As for Douglas, he was silent too, with a much less delightful -consciousness. In such circumstances what are the natural things for a -man to say? That what his love has is nothing to him, so long as she -brings him herself--that if there is only a sacrifice of money in -question, no money can be allowed to stand in the way of happiness; that -he has no fear, unless it might be for her; that to labour for her, to -make her independent of all the fathers in the world, is his first -privilege; and that the only thing to be considered is, when and how she -will make his happiness complete by trusting herself to his care. These -are, no doubt, the right things for a man to say, especially if they -happen to be true, but even whether they are quite true or not, as his -natural _rôle_ requires. Then, on the other side, the woman (if she has -any sense) will certainly come in and impose conditions and limit the -fulness of the sacrifice; so that, what by masculine boldness of plan, -and feminine caution of revisal, something reasonable and practical is -at last struck out. But the caution, the repression, the prudence, ought -not to be on the man’s side. Nothing can be more distinct than this -great law. It becomes the woman to see all the drawbacks, to hold back, -and to insist upon every prudential condition, not to make herself a -burden upon him or permit him to be overwhelmed by his devotion. But it -is not from his side that these suggestions of prudence can be allowed -to come, however strongly he may perceive them. Perhaps it is as hard -upon the man, who sees all the difficulties, to be compelled to adopt -this part, as it is on the woman, accustomed to lead the way, to be -silent and hold back. Douglas was in this predicament, if Anne felt all -the mingled penalties and privileges of the other. He must do it, or -else acknowledge himself a poor creature. And Cosmo had not the -slightest inclination to appear a poor creature in Anne’s eyes. Yet at -the same time he felt that to propose to this impetuous girl--who was -quite capable of taking him at his word--that she should marry him at -once in face of her father’s menace, was madness. What was he to do? He -sat silent--for more minutes than Anne’s imagination approved. Her heart -began to sink, a wondering pang to make itself felt in her breast, not -for herself so much as for him. Was he about to fail to the emergency? -to show himself unprepared to meet it? Was he, could it be possible, -more concerned about the loss of the money than herself? - -‘Here am I in a nice predicament,’ he burst forth at last; ‘what am I to -say to you? Anne--you who have been brought up to wealth, who have known -nothing but luxury--what am I to say to you? Is it to be my part to -bring you down to poverty, to limit your existence? I who have no -recommendation save that of loving you, which heaven knows many a better -man must share with me; I an intruder whom you did not know a year -ago--an interloper----’ - -There are some cases in which there is no policy like the naked truth. -Anne held up her hands to stop him as he went on, exclaiming softly, -‘Cosmo, Cosmo!’ in various tones of reproach and horror. Then at last -she stopped him practically, by putting one of her hands upon his -mouth--an action which made her blush all over with tender agitation, -pleasure, and shame. - -‘How can you say such things? Cosmo! I will not hear another word.’ - -‘Am I anything but an interloper? How is any man worth calling a man to -let you sacrifice yourself to him, Anne?’ - -‘I shall soon think it is you that want to throw me over,’ she said. - -This shifted the tragic issue of the question and put him more at ease. -If it could but be brought back to the general ground, on which mutual -professions of fidelity would suffice and time could be gained! So far -as that went, Cosmo knew very well what to say. It was only the -practical result that filled him with alarm. Why had he been so hasty in -declaring himself? The preliminaries of courtship may go on for years, -but the moment an answer has been asked and given, some conclusion must -be come to. However, it is always easy to answer a girl when she utters -such words as these. He eluded the real difficulty, following her lead, -and so filled up the time with lovers’ talk that the hour flew by -without any decision. They talked of the one subject in a hundred -different tones--it was all so new, and Anne was so easily transported -into that vague and beautiful fairyland where her steps were treading -for the first time. And she had so much to say to him on her side; and -time has wings, and can fly on some occasions though he is so slow on -others. It was she who at the end of many digressions finally discovered -that while they had been talking the green terrace below had become -vacant, the company dispersed. She started up in alarm. - -‘They have all gone in. The game is over. How long we must have been -sitting here! And they will be looking for me. I was obliged to say I -had a headache. Indeed I had a headache,’ said Anne, suddenly waking to -a sense of her subterfuge and hanging her head--for he had -laughed--which was a failure of perception on his part and almost roused -her pride to arms. But Cosmo was quick-sighted and perceived his -mistake. - -‘Dear Anne! is this the first issue of faith to me?’ he said. ‘What am I -to do, my darling? Kill myself for having disturbed your life and made -your head ache, or----’ - -‘Do not talk nonsense, Cosmo; but I must go home.’ - -‘And we have been talking nonsense, and have come to no settlement one -way or another,’ he said, with a look of vexation. Naturally Anne took -the blame to herself. It could only be her fault. - -‘The time has gone so fast,’ she said, with a sigh. ‘But, perhaps, on -the whole, it is best not to settle anything. Let us take a little time -to think. Is there any hurry? Nobody can separate us so long as we are -faithful to each other. There is no need that I know for--any -conclusion.’ - -Poor Cosmo! there were points in which at this moment his was a hard -case. He was obliged to look vexed and complain, though he was so fully -convinced of the wisdom of this utterance. ‘You forget,’ he said -tenderly, ‘that I have to go away, to return to my life of -loneliness--perhaps to ask myself if Anne was only a heavenly dream, a -delusion, and to find myself waking----’ - -‘To what?’ she replied, in her enthusiasm, half angry, ‘to what?’ ‘If -you have my heart with you and my thoughts, is not that the best part of -me? The Anne that will be with you will be the true Anne, not the -outside of her which must stay here.’ - -‘But I want the outside too. Ah, Anne, if I were to stay here, if I -could live at your gate like Charley Ashley (poor fellow!). But you -forget that I must go away.’ - -‘I don’t forget it. When must you go?’ She sank her voice a little and -drew closer to him, and looked at him with a cloud rising over her face. -He must go, there was no eluding that certainty, and to think of it was -like thinking of dying--yet of a sweet death to be borne heroically for -the sake each of each, and with a speedy bright resurrection in -prospect; but it would be an extinction of all the delight of living so -long as it lasted. Cosmo’s mind was not so elevated as Anne’s, nor his -imagination so inspiring, but the look of visionary anguish and courage -went to his heart. - -‘I don’t deserve it,’ he cried with a broken voice; which was very true. -Then recovering himself, ‘It would not do for me to linger after what -has passed between your father and me. It will be a terrible wrench, and -without knowing when we are to meet again. Love, it must be before -Saturday,’ he said. - -They were standing close, very close together, clasping each other’s -hands. Two tears came into Anne’s eyes, great lakes of moisture not -falling, though brimming over. But she gave him such a smile as was all -the sweeter reflected in them. ‘By Friday, then--we must make up our -minds what we are to do.’ - -His fears and doubtfulness yielded for the moment to an impulse of real -emotion. ‘How am I to live without you, now that I know you?’ he said. - -‘You will not be without me, Cosmo! Did I not tell you the best of me -would be with you always? Let us both think with all our might what will -be the right thing for us.’ - -‘I know what I shall feel to be the best, Anne.’ He said this with a -little fervour, suddenly coming to see--as now and then a man does--by a -sudden inspiration, entirely contrary to his judgment, what would be his -only salvation. This answered his purpose far better than any cleverness -he could have invented. She shook her head. - -‘We must not insist on choosing the happiest way,’ she said. ‘We must -wait--in every way, I feel sure that to wait is the only thing we can -do.’ - -‘Certainly not the happiest,’ he said, with emphasis. ‘There is no -reason because of that interview with your father why I should not come -to say good-bye. I will come on Friday publicly; but to-morrow, Anne, -to-morrow, here----’ - -She gave him her promise without hesitation. There had been no pledge -against seeing him asked or given, and it was indispensable that they -should settle their plans. And then they parted, he, in the agitation -and contagious enthusiasm of the moment, drawn closer to the girl whom -he loved, but did not understand, nearer knowing her than he had ever -been before. The impulse kept him up as on borrowed wings as far as the -enclosure of the park. Then Cosmo Douglas dropped down to earth, ceased -to reflect Anne Mountford, and became himself. She on wings which were -her own, and borrowed from no one--wings of pure visionary passion, -devotion, faith--skimmed through the light air homeward, her heart -wrung, her sweet imagination full of visions, her courage and constancy -strong as for life or death. - - - - -CHAPTER V. - -EXPLANATIONS. - - -It is an awkward and a painful thing to quarrel with a friend when he is -staying under your roof; though in that case it will no doubt make a -breach, and he will go away, which will relieve you, even if you regret -it afterwards. But if there is no quarrel, yet you find out suddenly -that you have a grievance--a grievance profound and bitter, but not -permitting of explanation--the state of affairs is more painful still; -especially if the friend is thrown into your special society, and not -taken from you by the general courtesies of the house. It was in this -unfortunate position that the young men at the Rectory found themselves -on the evening that followed. There was nobody in the house to diminish -the pressure. Mrs. Ashley had died some years before, and the Rector, at -that time left much alone, as both his sons were absent at school and -university, had fallen into the natural unsocial habits of a solitary. -He had been obliged to make life bearable for himself by perpetual -reading, and now he could do little but read. He was very attentive to -his duty, visiting his sick parishioners with the regularity of -clockwork, and not much more warmth; but when he came in he went to his -study, and even at table would furtively bring a book with him, to be -gone on with if the occasion served. Charley and Willie were resigned -enough to this shutting out of their father from the ordinary social -intercourse. It liberated them from the curb imposed by his grave looks -and silence. He had always been a silent man. Now that he had not his -wife to speak to, utterance was a trouble to him. And even his meals -were a trouble to Mr. Ashley. He would have liked his tray brought into -his study among his books, which was the doleful habit he had fallen -into when he was left to eat the bread of tears alone. He gave up this -gratification when the boys were at home, but it cost him something. And -he painfully refrained even from a book when there were visitors, and -now and then during the course of a meal would make a solemn remark to -them. He was punctilious altogether about strangers, keeping a somewhat -dismal watch to see that they were not neglected. This it was which had -brought him out of his study when he saw Douglas alone upon the lawn. -‘In your mother’s time,’ he would say, ‘this was considered a pleasant -house to stay at. I have given up asking people on my own account; but -when you have friends I insist upon attention being paid them.’ This -made the curate’s position doubly irksome; he had to entertain the -stranger who was his own friend, yet had, he felt, betrayed him. There -was nothing to take Douglas even for an hour off his hands. Willie, as -the spectator and sympathiser, was even more indignant than his brother, -and disposed to show his indignation; and the curate had to satisfy his -father and soothe Willie, and go through a semblance of intimate -intercourse with his friend all at the same time. His heart was very -heavy; and, at the best of times, his conversation was not of a lively -description; nor had he the power of throwing off his troubles. The -friend who had proved a traitor to him had been his leader, the first -fiddle in every orchestra where Charley Ashley had produced his solemn -bass. All this made the state of affairs more intolerable. In the -evening what could they do? They had to smoke together in the little den -apportioned to this occupation, which the Rector himself detested; for -it rained, to wind up all those miseries. As long as it was fine, talk -could be eluded by strolling about the garden; but in a little room, -twelve feet by eight, with their pipes lit and everything calculated to -make the contrasts of the broken friendship seem stronger, what could be -done? The three young men sat solemnly, each in a corner, puffing forth -clouds of serious smoke. Willie had got a ‘Graphic,’ and was turning it -over, pretending to look at the pictures. Charley sat at the open -window, with his elbow leaning upon the sill, gazing out into the -blackness of the rain. As for Douglas, he tilted his chair back on its -hind legs, and looked just as usual--a smile even hovered about his -mouth. He was the offender, but there was no sense of guilt in his mind. -The cloud which had fallen on their relationship amused him instead of -vexing him. It wrapped Charley Ashley in the profoundest gloom, who was -innocent; but it rather exhilarated the culprit. Ten minutes had passed, -and not a word had been said, which was terrible to the sons of the -house, but agreeable enough to their guest. He had so much to think of; -and what talk could be so pleasant as his own thoughts? certainly not -poor Ashley’s prosy talk. He swayed himself backward now and then on his -chair, and played a tune with his fingers on the table; and a smile -hovered about his mouth. He had passed another hour under the Beeches -before the rain came on, and everything had been settled to his -satisfaction. He had not required to make any bold proposal, and yet he -had been argued with and sweetly persuaded as if he had suggested the -rashest instantaneous action. He could not but feel that he had managed -this very cleverly, and he was pleased with himself, and happy. He did -not want to talk; he had Anne to think about, and all her tender -confidences, and her looks and ways altogether. She was a girl whose -love any man might have been proud of. And no doubt the father’s -opposition would wear away. He saw no reason to be uneasy about the -issue. In these days there is but one way in which such a thing can end, -if the young people hold out. And, with a smile of happy assurance, he -said to himself that Anne would hold out. She was not a girl that was -likely to change. - -Some trifling circumstance here attracted Cosmo’s attention to the very -absurd aspect of affairs. A big moth, tumbling in out of the rain, flew -straight at the candle, almost knocked the light out, burned off its -wings, poor imbecile! and fell with a heavy thud, scorched and helpless, -upon the floor. The curate, whose life was spent on summer evenings in a -perpetual crusade against those self-destroying insects, was not even -roused from his gloom by this brief and rapidly-concluded tragedy. He -turned half round, gave a kind of groan by way of remark, and turned -again to his gloomy gaze into the rain. Upon this an impulse, almost of -laughter, seized Douglas in spite of himself. ‘Charley, old fellow, what -are you so grumpy about?’ he said. - -This observation from the culprit, whom they were both trying their best -not to fall upon and slay, was as a thunderbolt falling between the two -brothers. The curate turned his pale countenance round with a look of -astonishment. But Willie jumped up from his chair. ‘I can’t stand this,’ -he said, ‘any longer. Why should one be so frightened of the rain? I -don’t know what you other fellows mean to do, but I am going out.’ - -‘And we are going to have it out,’ said Cosmo, as the other hurried -away. He touched the foot of the curate, who had resumed his former -attitude, with his own. ‘Look here, Charley, don’t treat me like this; -what have I done?’ he said. - -‘Done? I don’t know what you mean. Nothing,’ said the curate, turning -his head round once more, but still with his eyes fixed on the rain. - -‘Come in, then, and put it into words. You should not condemn the -greatest criminal without a hearing. You think somehow--why shouldn’t -you own it? it shows in every look--you think I have stood in your way.’ - -‘No,’ said Ashley again. His under-lip went out with a dogged -resistance, his big eyelids drooped. ‘I haven’t got much of a way--the -parish, that’s about all--I don’t see how _you_ could do me any damage -there.’ - -‘Why are you so bitter, Charley? If you had ever taken me into your -confidence you may be sure I would not have interfered--whatever it -might have cost me.’ - -‘I should like to know what you are talking about,’ the other said, -diving his hands into the depths of his pockets, and turning to the rain -once more. - -‘Would you? I don’t think it; and it’s no good naming names. Look here. -Will you believe me if I say I never meant to interfere? I never found -out what was in your mind till it was too late.’ - -‘I don’t know that there is anything in my mind,’ Charley said. He was -holding out with all his might: but the fibres of his heart were giving -way, and the ice melting. To be sure, how should any one have found -out? had it not been hidden away at the very bottom of his heart? Anne -had never suspected it, how should Cosmo? He would not even turn his -head to speak; but he was going, going! he felt it, and Douglas saw it. -The offender got up, and laid his hand upon the shoulder of his wounded -friend. - -‘I’d rather have cut off my hand, or tugged out my heart, than wound -you, Charley; but I never knew till it was too late.’ - -All this, perhaps, was not quite true; but it was true--enough. Douglas -did not want to quarrel; he liked his faithful old retainer. A bird in -the hand--that is always worth something, though perhaps not so much as -is the worth of the two who are in the bush; and he is a foolish man who -will turn away the certain advantage of friendship for the chance of -love; anyhow, the address went entirely into the simple, if wounded, -heart. - -‘I didn’t mean to show I was vexed. I don’t know that I’m vexed--a man -is not always in the same disposition,’ he said, but his voice was -changing. Douglas patted him on the shoulder, and went back to his seat. - -‘You needn’t envy me--much,’ said Douglas. ‘We don’t know what’s to come -of it; the father won’t hear of me. He would have had nothing to say to -you either, and think what a rumpus it would have made in the parish! -And there’s the Rector to think of. Charley----’ - -‘Perhaps you are right,’ Charley said, with a great heave of his -shoulders. His pipe had gone out. As he spoke, he got up slowly, and -came to the table to look for the matches. Cosmo lighted one, and held -it out to him, looking on with interest while the solemn process of -rekindling was gone through. Charley’s face, lighted by the fitful flame -as he puffed, was still as solemn as if it had been a question of life -and death; and Cosmo, looking on, kept his gravity too. When this act -was accomplished, the curate in silence gripped his friend’s hand, and -thus peace was made. Poor faithful soul; his heart was still as heavy as -lead--but pain was possible, though strife was not possible. A load was -taken off his honest breast. - -‘I’ve seen it coming,’ he said, puffing harder than was needful. ‘I -oughtn’t to have felt it so much. After all, why should I grumble? I -never could have been the man.’ - -‘You are a far better fellow than I am,’ cried the other, with a little -burst of real feeling. - -Charley puffed and puffed, with much exertion. The red gleam of the pipe -got reflected under his shaggy eyebrows in something liquid. Then he -burst into an unsteady laugh. - -‘You might as well fire a damp haystack as light a pipe that’s gone -out,’ was the next sentimental remark he made. - -‘Have a cigar?’ said Cosmo, tenderly, producing a case out of his -pocket, with eager benevolence. And thus their peace was made. Anne’s -name was not mentioned, neither was there anything said but these vague -allusions to the state of affairs generally. Of all things in the world -sentimental explanations are most foreign to the intercourse of young -Englishmen with each other. But when Willie Ashley returned, very wet, -and with an incipient cold in his head from the impatient flight he had -made, he was punished for his cowardly abandonment of an unpleasant -position by finding his brother with the old bonds refitted upon him, -completely restored to his old devotion and subjection to Cosmo. Willie -retired to bed soon after, kicking off his boots with an energy which -was full of wrath. ‘The fool!’ he said to himself; while the reconciled -pair carried on their tobacco and their reunion till far in the night. -They were not conversational, however, though they were reconciled. -Conversation was not necessary to the curate’s view of social happiness, -and Cosmo was glad enough to go back upon his own thoughts. - -While this was going on at the Rectory, Anne for her part was submitting -to a still more severe course of interrogation. Mrs. Mountford had -discussed the question with herself at some length, whether she should -take any notice or not of the domestic convulsion which had occurred -under her very eye without having been brought openly to her cognisance. -Her husband had of course told her all about it; but Anne had not said -anything--had neither consulted her stepmother nor sought her sympathy. -After a while, however, Mrs. Mountford sensibly decided that to ignore a -matter of such importance, or to make-believe that she was not -acquainted with it, would be equally absurd. Accordingly she arranged -that Rose should be sent for after dinner to have a dress tried on; -which was done, to that young lady’s great annoyance and wrath. Mrs. -Worth, Mrs. Mountford’s maid, was not a person who could be defied with -impunity. She was the goddess Fashion, La Mode impersonified at Mount. -Under her orders she had a niece, who served as maid to Anne and Rose; -and these two together made the dresses of the family. It was a great -economy, Mrs. Mountford said, and all the county knew how completely -successful it was. But to the girls it was a trouble, if an advantage. -Mrs. Worth studied their figures, their complexions, and what she called -their ‘hidiousiucrasies’--but she did not study the hours that were -convenient for them, or make allowance for their other occupations. And -she was a tyrant, if a beneficent one. So Rose had to go, however loth. -Lady Meadowlands was about to give a fête, a great garden party, at -which all ‘the best people’ were to be assembled. And a new dress was -absolutely necessary. Wouldn’t it do in the morning?’ she pleaded. But -Mrs. Worth was inexorable. And so it happened that her mother had a -quiet half-hour in which to interrogate Anne. - -The drawing-room was on the side of the house overlooking the flower -garden; the windows, a great row of them, flush with the wall outside -and so possessing each a little recess of its own within, were all open, -admitting more damp than air, and a chilly freshness and smell of the -earth instead of the scents of the mignonette. There were two lamps at -different ends of the room, which did not light it very well: but Mrs. -Mountford was economical. Anne had lit the candles on the writing-table -for her own use, and she was a long way off the sofa on which her -stepmother sat, with her usual tidy basket of neatly-arranged wools -beside her. A little time passed in unbroken quiet, disturbed by nothing -but the soft steady downfall of the rain through the great open space -outside, and the more distant sound of pattering upon the trees. When -Mrs. Mountford said ‘Anne,’ her stepdaughter did not hear her at first. -But there was a slight infraction of the air, and she knew that -something had been said. - -‘Did you speak, mamma?’ - -‘I want to speak to you, Anne. Yes, I think I did say your name. Would -you mind coming here for a little? I want to say something to you while -Rose is away.’ - -Anne divined at once what it must be. And she was not unreasonable--it -was right that Mrs. Mountford should know: how could she help but know, -being the wife of one of the people most concerned? And the thing which -Anne chiefly objected to was that her stepmother knew everything about -her by a sort of back way, thus arriving at a clandestine knowledge not -honestly gained. It was not the stepmother that was to blame, but the -father and fate. She rose and went forward slowly through the partial -light--reluctant to be questioned, yet not denying that to ask was Mrs. -Mountford’s right. - -‘I sent her away on purpose, Anne. She is too young. I don’t want her to -know any more than can be helped. My dear, I was very sorry to hear from -your father that you had got into that kind of trouble so soon.’ - -‘I don’t think I have got into any trouble,’ said Anne. - -‘No, of course I suppose _you_ don’t think so; but I have more -experience than you have, and I am sorry your mind should have been -disturbed so soon.’ - -‘Do you call it so very soon?’ said Anne. ‘I am twenty-one.’ - -‘So you are; I forgot. Well! but it is always too soon when it is not -suitable, my dear.’ - -‘It remains to be seen whether it is not suitable, mamma.’ - -‘My love! do you think so little of your father’s opinion? That ought to -count above everything else, Anne. A gentleman is far better able to -form an opinion of another gentleman than we are. Mr. Douglas, I allow, -is good-looking and well-bred. I liked him well enough myself; but that -is not all--you must acknowledge that is not half enough.’ - -‘My father seems to want a great deal less,’ said Anne; ‘all that he -asks is about his family and his money.’ - -‘Most important particulars, Anne, however romantic you may be; you must -see that.’ - -‘I am not romantic,’ said Anne, growing red, and resenting the -imputation, as was natural; ‘and I do not deny they are important -details; but not surely to be considered first as the only things worth -caring for--which is what my father does.’ - -‘What do you consider the things worth caring for, dear? Be reasonable. -Looks?’ said Mrs. Mountford, laying down her work upon her lap with a -benevolent smile. ‘Oh, Anne, my dear child, at your age we are always -told that beauty is skin-deep, but we never believe it. And I am not one -that would say very much in that respect. I like handsome people myself; -but dear, dear, as life goes on, if you have nothing but looks to trust -to----!’ - -‘I assure you,’ said Anne, vehemently, succeeding after two or three -attempts to break in, ‘I should despise myself if I thought that beauty -was anything. It is almost as bad as money. Neither the one nor the -other is yourself.’ - -‘Oh, I would not go so far as that,’ said Mrs. Mountford, with -indulgence. ‘Beauty is a great deal in my opinion, though perhaps it is -gentlemen that think most about it. But, my dear Anne, you are a girl -that has always thought of duty. I will do you the justice to say that. -You may have liked your own way, but even to me, that have not the first -claim upon you, you have always been very good. I hope you are not going -to be rebellious now. You must remember that your father’s judgment is -far more mature than yours. He knows the world. He knows what men are.’ - -‘So long as he does not know--one thing,’ said Anne, indignantly, ‘what -can all that other information matter to me?’ - -‘And what is the one thing, dear?’ Mrs. Mountford said. - -Anne did not immediately reply. She went to the nearest window and -closed it, for sheer necessity of doing something; then lingered, -looking out upon the rain and the darkness of the night. - -‘Thank you, that is quite right,’ said her stepmother. ‘I did not know -that window was open. How damp it is, and how it rains! Anne, what is -the one thing? Perhaps I might be of some use if you would tell me. What -is it your father does not know?’ - -‘Me,’ said Anne, coming slowly back to the light. Her slight white -figure had the pose of a tall lily, so light, so firm, that its very -fragility looked like strength. And her face was full of the constancy -upon which, perhaps, she prided herself a little--the loyalty that would -not give up a dog, as she said. Mrs. Mountford called it obstinacy, of -course. ‘But what does that matter,’ she added, with some vehemence, -‘when in every particular we are at variance? I do not think as he does -in anything. What he prizes I do not care for--and what I prize----’ - -‘My dear, it is your father you are speaking of. Of course he must know -better than a young girl like you----’ - -‘Mamma, it is not his happiness that is involved--it is mine! and I am -not such a young girl--I am of age. How can he judge for me in what is -to be the chief thing in my life?’ - -‘Anne,’ said Mrs. Mountford kindly, ‘this young man is almost a stranger -to you--you had never seen him a year ago. Is it really true, and are -you quite sure that this involves the happiness of your life?’ - -Anne made no reply. How otherwise? she said indignantly in her heart. -Was she a girl to deceive herself in such a matter--was she one to make -protestations? She held her head high, erecting her white throat more -like a lily than ever. But she said nothing. What was there to say? She -could not speak or tell anyone but herself what Cosmo was to her. The -sensitive blood was ready to mount into her cheeks at the mere breathing -of his name. - -Mrs. Mountford shook her head. ‘Oh, foolish children,’ she said, ‘you -are all the same. Don’t think you are the only one, Anne. When you are -as old as I am you will have learned that a father’s opinion is worth -taking, and that your own is not so infallible after all.’ - -‘I suppose,’ said Anne softly, ‘you are twice my age, mamma--that would -be a long time to wait to see which of us was right.’ - -‘I am more than twice your age,’ said Mrs. Mountford, with a little -heat; then suddenly changing her tone, ‘Well! so this is the new fashion -we have been hearing so much of. Turn round slowly that I may see if it -suits you, Rose.’ - - - - -CHAPTER VI. - -GOOD-BYE. - - -Next day was one of those crowning days of summer which seem the climax, -and at the same time the conclusion, of the perfect year. From morning -till night there was no shadow upon it, no threatening of a cloud, no -breath of unfriendly air. The flowers in the Mount gardens blazed from -the level beds in their framework of greenness, the great masses of -summer foliage stood out against the soft yet brilliant sky; every -outline was round and distinct, detaching itself in ever-varying lines, -one curve upon another. Had the weather been less perfect their -distinctness would have been excessive and marred the unity of the -landscape, but the softness of the summer air harmonised everything in -sight and sound alike. The voices on the terrace mingled in subtle -musical tones at intervals; and, though every branch of the foliage was -perfect in itself, yet all were melodiously mingled, and belonged to -each other. On the sea-shore and among the hills distance seemed -annihilated, and every outline pressed upon the eye, too bright, too -near for pleasure, alarming the weather-wise. But here, so warmly -inland, in a landscape so wealthy and so soft, the atmosphere did not -exaggerate, it only brightened. It was the end of August, and changes -were preparing among the elements. Next day it might be autumn with a -frost-touch somewhere, the first yellow leaf; but to-day it was full -summer, a meridian more rich than that of June, yet still meridian, full -noon of the seasons. - - Il nous reste un gâteau de fête; - Demain nous aurons du pain noir: - -Anne woke up this heavenly morning saying these words to herself. It had -rained half the night through, and the morning had risen pale, exhausted -as with all this weeping: but after awhile had thought better of it, and -sworn to have, ere summer ended, one other resplendent day. Then the sun -had got up to his work like a bridegroom, eternal image, in a flush of -sacred pride and joy. People said to each other ‘What a lovely day!’ -Though it had been a fine summer, and the harvest had been got in with -the help of many a lusty morning and blazing afternoon, yet there was -something in this that touched the general heart; perhaps because it was -after the rain, perhaps because something in the air told that it was -the last, that Nature had surpassed herself, and after this was capable -of nothing further. As a matter of fact, nobody could do anything for -the delight of the exquisite morning. First one girl stole out, and then -another, through the garden, upon which the morning sun was shining; -then Mrs. Mountford sailed forth under the shelter of her parasol. Even -she, though she was half ashamed of herself, being plump, had put on, -dazzled by the morning, a white gown. ‘Though I am too old for white,’ -she said with a sigh. ‘Not too old, but a little too stout, ‘m,’ said -Mrs. Worth, with that ferocious frankness which we have all to submit to -from our maids. None of the three reappeared again till the -luncheon-bell rang, so demoralised were they. Anne, if truth must be -told, went towards the Beeches: ‘Il nous reste un gâteau de fête,’ she -sang to herself under her breath, ‘Demain nous aurons du pain noir.’ - -The same thing happened at the Rectory: even the rector himself came -out, wandering, by way of excusing himself for the idleness, about the -flowerbeds. ‘The bedding-out plants have done very well this year,’ he -said; but he was not thinking of the bedding-out plants any more than -the young men were thinking of their cigars. In their minds there was -that same sense of the one bit of cake remaining to eat which was in -Anne’s song. Charley, who had not the cake, but was only to stand by and -assist while his friend ate it, was sympathetically excited, yet felt a -little forlorn satisfaction in the approaching resumption of the _pain -noir_. He was never to get anything better, it appeared; but it would be -pleasanter fare when the munching of the _gâteau_ was over. And Douglas -stole off to consume that last morsel when the curate, reluctantly, out -of the sweetness of the morning, went off to his schools. Under the -Beeches the day was like a fresh bit out of Paradise. If Adam and Eve -are only a fable, as the scientific gentlemen say, what a poet Moses -was! Eden has never gone out of fashion to this day. The two under the -trees, but for her muslin and his tweed, were, over again, the primæval -pair--and perhaps the serpent was about too: but neither Eve had seen -it, nor Adam prepared that everlasting plea of self-defence which has -been handed down through all his sons. This was how the charmed hours -stole on, and the perfection of summer passed through the perfection of -noon; so many perfections touching each other! a perfect orb of -loveliness and happiness, with that added grace which makes perfection -more perfect, the sense of incompleteness--the human crown of hope. All -the time they were thinking of the something better, something sweeter, -that was to come. ‘Will there ever be such another perfect day?’ she -said, in a wonder at the new discovered bliss with which she was -surrounded. ‘Yes, the next,’ he said, ‘on which we shall not have to -part.’ To be sure: there was the parting; without that conclusion, -perhaps, this hour would not have been so exquisite: but it was still -some hours off, thank heaven! - -After luncheon the chairs were carried out to the green terrace where -the shadow of the limes fell. The limes got in the way of the sun almost -as soon as he began to descend, and threw the most delicious dancing -shadow over the grass--a shadow that was quite effectual, and kept the -lawn as cool as in the middle of a forest, but which was in itself a -lovely living thing, in soft perpetual motion, every little twig and -green silken leaf contributing its particular canopy, and flinging down -a succession of little bobs and curtseys with every breath of air that -blew. ‘Everybody will be out to-day, and I daresay we shall have a great -many visitors. Tell Saymore he may bring out the big table,’ said Mrs. -Mountford. She liked to feel that her house was the chief house in the -neighbourhood, the place to which everybody came. Mrs. Mountford had -regretfully relinquished by this time her white gown. We all cling to -our white gowns, but when you are stout, it must be acknowledged the -experiment is rash. She had not been able to get Mrs. Worth’s candid -criticism out of her mind all the morning. ‘Do I look very stout, Rose?’ -she had said, in an unconsciously ingratiating tone. And Rose was still -more entirely impartial than Worth. She threw a careless glance at her -mother. ‘You do look fat, mamma!’ she said. It was hard upon the poor -lady; she changed it, with a sigh, for her darkest silk. ‘Not black, -Worth,’ she said faintly. ‘If I had my way, ‘m,’ said Worth, ‘I’d dress -you always in black. There is nothing like it when one gets to a certain -time of life.’ It was under the influence of this sobering _douche_ that -Mrs. Mountford came out again, accompanied by Saymore with her -workbasket. It was put down upon the table, a dazzling bit of colour. -‘But I really don’t feel inclined to work. It is too fine to work,’ Mrs. -Mountford said. ‘What is that you are singing for ever, Anne? I have -heard you at it all day.’ - - Il nous reste un gâteau de fête; - Demain nous aurons du pain noir. - -Anne sang without changing colour, though her heart was beating; she had -become too breathless for conversation. When would he come for the -farewell, and what would her father say? Would he hear of it and come -out? What was to happen? She sat very still in her basket-chair, with -all the lime leaves waving over her, letting in stray gleams of sunshine -that ornamented her as with lines of jewels here and there. - -Then, after an interval, two dark figures were seen upon the whiteness -and unsheltered light of the road through the park. ‘There are the -Ashley boys,’ said Rose. ‘Anne, you will be obliged to play to-day.’ - -‘The Ashley boys! Now that Charley is ordained, you should speak with -more respect,’ said Mrs. Mountford. Anne looked up, and her heart seemed -to stand still--only two of them! But she soon satisfied herself that it -was not Cosmo that was the defaulter; she sat, not saying anything, -scarcely daring to breathe. The moment had come. - -Willie Ashley had not regarded with much satisfaction the reconciliation -which he found to his great amazement had taken place while he was out -in the rain. Indeed the attitude of his mind had been nothing less than -one of disgust, and when he found next day that Douglas was setting out -arm-in-arm with the curate, and almost more confidential than before, to -walk to Mount, his impatience rose to such a point that he flung off -altogether. ‘Two may be company, but three is none,’ he said to his -brother. ‘I thought you had a little more spirit; I’m not going to -Mount: if you can see yourself cut out like that, I can’t. I’ll walk up -as far as the Woodheads’; I daresay they’ll be very glad to get up a -game there.’ This was how there were only two figures on the road. They -were very confidential, and perhaps the curate was supported more than -he himself was aware by the certainty that his friend was going away -that night. Henceforward the field would be clear. It was not that he -had any hope of supplanting Cosmo in his turn, as he had been -supplanted; but still to have him away would be something. The black -bread is wholesome fare enough when there is not some insolent happiness -in the foreground insisting upon devouring before you its bunches of -cake. - -‘I declare,’ said Mrs. Mountford, ‘there is _that_ Mr. Douglas with -Charley Ashley! What am I to do? I am sure it is not Willie--he is -taller and bigger, and has a different appearance altogether. You cannot -expect me, Anne, to meet anyone whom papa disapproves. What shall I do? -Run, Rose, and tell Saymore; but of course Charley will not knock at the -door like an ordinary visitor--he will come straight here. I have always -thought these familiarities should not have been permitted. They will -come straight here, though they know he has been sent away and forbidden -the house.’ - -‘He has never been forbidden the house,’ cried Anne indignantly. ‘I -hope, mamma, you will not be so uncivil as to refuse to say good-bye to -Mr. Douglas. He is going away.’ - -‘Forbidden the house!’ cried Rose, her eyes opening up like two great -O’s. ‘Then it is true!’ - -‘You had better go away at least, if I must stay,’ said Mrs. Mountford -in despair. ‘Rosie, run indoors and stay in the drawing-room till he is -gone. It would be in far better taste, Anne, and more dutiful, if you -were to go too.’ - -Anne did not say a word, partly, no doubt, in determined resistance, but -partly because just then her voice had failed her, the light was -swimming in her eyes, and the air seemed to be full of pairs of dark -figures approaching from every different way. - -‘Run indoors! why should I?’ said Rose. ‘He can’t do any harm to me; -besides, I like Mr. Douglas. Why shouldn’t he come and say good-bye? It -would be very uncivil of him if he didn’t, after being so much here.’ - -‘That is just what I am always saying; you have them constantly here, -and then you are surprised when things happen,’ cried Mrs. Mountford, -wringing her hands. ‘Anne, if you have any feeling you ought to take -your sister away.’ - -Rose’s eyes grew rounder and rounder. ‘Was it _me_ he was in love with, -then?’ she asked, not without reason. But by this time it was too late -for anyone to run away, as the young men were already making their way -across the flower-garden, and could see every movement the ladies made. - -‘Sit down, sit down, if it must be so,’ said Mrs. Mountford, ‘and for -heaven’s sake let us have no scene; look at least as if it were a common -call and meant nothing--that is the only thing to do now.’ ‘How d’ye do, -how d’ye do, Charley,’ she said, waving her hand in friendly salutation: -‘was there ever such a lovely day? Come and sit down; it is too fine -for a game. Is that Mr. Douglas you have with you? I was quite blinded -with the sun this morning, I can’t get it out of my eyes. How do you -do?--you will excuse my looking surprised; I thought I heard that you -had gone away.’ - -‘Not yet,’ he said; ‘I hope you did not think me so little grateful for -all your kindness as not to make my acknowledgments before leaving the -parish. I have lingered longer than I ought to have done, but every -happiness must come to an end, and I am bound for Beedon this afternoon -to catch the Scotch mail to-night.’ - -Mrs. Mountford made him a little bow, by way of showing that her -interest in this was no more than politeness demanded, and returned to -the curate, to whom she was not generally so gracious. ‘I hope your -father is well,’ she said; ‘and Willie, where is Willie? It is not often -he fails. When we saw you crossing the park just now I made sure it was -Willie that was with you. I suppose we shall not have him much longer. -He should not disappoint his friends like this.’ - -‘I fear,’ said Douglas (‘thrusting himself in again; so ill-bred, when -he could see I meant to snub him,’ Mrs. Mountford said), ‘that Willie’s -absence is my fault. He likes to have his brother to himself, and I -don’t blame him. However, I am so soon to leave the coast clear! If -anything could have made it more hard to turn one’s back upon Mount it -would be leaving it on such a day. Fancy going from this paradise of -warmth and sunshine to the cold North!’ - -‘To Scotland?’ cried Rose; ‘that’s just what I should like to do. You -may call this paradise if you like, but it’s dull. Paradise would be -dull always, don’t you think, with nothing happening. To be sure, -there’s Lady Meadowlands’ fête; but one knows exactly what that will -be--at least, almost exactly,’ Rose added, brightening a little, and -feeling that a little opening was left for fate. - -‘Let us hope it will be as different as possible from what you expect. I -have known garden-parties turn out so that one was not in the least like -another,’ said Douglas smilingly, accepting the transfer to Rose which -Mrs. Mountford’s too apparent snub made necessary. Anne, for her part, -did not say a word; she sat quite still in the low basket-chair, -scarcely venturing to look up, listening to the tones of his voice and -the smile which seemed to pervade his words with that strange -half-stunned, half-happy sensation which precedes a parting. Yes, it was -happiness still to feel him there, and recognise every distinctive sound -of the voice which had awoke her heart. Was there no way of stopping -this flying moment, arresting it, so that it should last, or coming to -an end in it, which is the suggested sentiment of all perfection? She -sat as in a dream, longing to make it last, yet impatient that it should -be over; wondering how it was to end, and whether any words more -important than these might pass between them still. They had taken -farewell of each other under the Beeches. This postscript was almost -more than could be borne--intolerable, yet sweet. The voices went on, -while the scene turned round and round with Anne, the background of the -flowers confusing her eyes, and the excitement mounting to her head. At -last, before they had been a moment there, she thought--though it was -half an hour--the dark figures had risen up again and hands were being -held out. Then she felt her dress twitched, and ‘Let us walk to the end -of the garden with them,’ said Rose. This made a little commotion, and -Anne in her dream felt Mrs. Mountford’s expostulation--‘Girls!’ in a -horrified undertone, ‘what can you be thinking of? Rosie, are you -crazy? ANNE!’ - -This last was almost in a shriek of excitement. But Rose was far too -much used to her own way to pay any attention. ‘Come along,’ she said, -linking her fingers in her sister’s. Anne, who was the leader in -everything, followed for the first time in her life. - -The garden was sweet with all manner of autumn flowers, banks of -mignonette and heliotrope perfuming the air, and red geraniums blazing -in the sunshine--all artificial in their formal beds, just as this -intercourse was artificial, restrained by the presence of spectators and -the character of the scene. By-and-by, however, Rose untwined her hand -from her sister’s. ‘There is no room to walk so many abreast; go on with -Mr. Douglas, Anne; I have something to say to Charley,’ the girl cried. -She was curious, tingling to her fingers’ ends with a desire to know all -about it. She turned her round eyes upon Charley with an exciting look -of interrogation as soon as the other pair had gone on before. Poor -Ashley had drooped his big head; he would have turned his back if he -could to give them the benefit of this last moment, but he felt that he -could not be expected not to feel it. And as for satisfying the -curiosity of this inquisitive imp, whose eyes grew bigger and bigger -every moment! he dropped his nice brown beard upon his bosom, and -sighed, and slightly shook his head. ‘Tell me what it means, or I’ll -tell mamma you’re helping them,’ whispered Rose. - -‘Can’t you see what it means?’ said the curate, with a glance, she -thought, of contempt. What did she know about it? A blush of humiliation -at her own ignorance flew over Rose. - -‘I owe your little sister something for this,’ said Douglas, under his -breath. ‘Once more we two against the world, Anne!’ - -‘Not against the world: everything helps us, Cosmo. I did not think I -could even venture to look at you, and now we can say good-bye again.’ - -His fingers twined into hers among the folds of her gown, as Rose’s had -done a minute before. They could say good-bye again, but they had no -words. They moved along together slowly, not walking that they knew of, -carried softly as by a wave of supreme emotion; then, after another -moment, Anne felt the landscape slowly settling, the earth and the sky -getting back into their places, and she herself coming down by slow -gyrations to earth again. She was standing still at the corner of the -garden, with once more two dark figures upon the white road, but this -time not approaching--going away. - -‘Tell me about it, tell me all about it, Anne. I did it on purpose; I -wanted to see how you would behave. You just behaved exactly like other -people, and shook hands with him the same as I did. I will stand your -friend with papa and everybody if you will tell me all about it, Anne.’ - -Mrs. Mountford also was greatly excited; she came sailing down upon them -with her parasol expanded and fanning herself as she walked. ‘I never -had such a thing to do,’ she said; ‘I never had such an awkward -encounter in my life. It is not that I have any dislike to the man, he -has always been very civil; though I must say, Anne, that I think, -instead of coming, it would have been better taste if he had sent a note -to say good-bye. And if you consider that I had not an idea what to say -to him! and that I was in a state of mind all the time, saying to -myself, “Goodness gracious! if papa should suddenly walk round the -corner, what should we all do?” I looked for papa every moment all the -time. People always do come if there is any special reason for not -wanting them. However, I hope it is all over now, and that you will not -expose us to such risks any more.’ - -Anne made no reply to either of her companions. She stole away from them -as soon as possible, to subdue the high beating of her own heart, and -come down to the ordinary level. No, she was not likely to encounter any -such risks again; the day was over and with it the last cake of the -feast: the black bread of every day was all that now furnished forth the -tables. A kind of dull quiet fell upon Mount and all the surrounding -country. The clouds closed round and hung low. People seemed to speak in -whispers. It was a quiet that whispered of fate, and in which the -elements of storm might be lurking. But still it cannot be said that the -calm was unhappy. The light had left the landscape, but only for the -moment. The banquet was over, but there were fresh feasts to come. -Everything fell back into the old conditions, but nothing was as it had -been. The world was the same, yet changed in every particular. Without -any convulsion, or indeed any great family disturbance, how did this -happen unsuspected? Everything in heaven and earth was different, though -all things were the same. - - - - -CHAPTER VII. - -CROSS-EXAMINATION. - - -The change that is made in a quiet house in the country when the chief -source of life and emotion is closed for one or other of the inhabitants -is such a thing as ‘was never said in rhyme.’ There may be nothing -tragical, nothing final about it, but it penetrates through every hour -and every occupation. The whole scheme of living seems changed, although -there may be no change in any habit. It is, indeed, the very sameness -and unity of the life, the way in which every little custom survives, in -which the feet follow the accustomed round, the eyes survey the same -things, the very same words come to the lips that make the difference so -palpable. This was what Anne Mountford felt now. To outward seeming her -existence was absolutely as before. It was not an exciting life, but it -had been a happy one. Her mind was active and strong, and capable of -sustaining itself. Even in the warm and soft stagnation of her home, her -life had been like a running stream always in movement, turning off at -unexpected corners, flowing now in one direction, now another, making -unexpected leaps and variations of its own. She had the wholesome love -of new things and employments which keeps life fresh; and there had -scarcely been a week in which she had not had some new idea or other, -quickly copied and turned into matter-of-fact prose by her little -sister. This had made Mount lively even when there was nothing going on. -And for months together nothing did go on at Mount. It was not a great -country house filled with fashionable visitors in the autumn and winter, -swept clean of all its inhabitants in spring. The Mountfords stayed at -home all the year round, unless it were at the fall of the leaf, when -sometimes they would go to Brighton, sometimes at the very deadest -season to town. They had nobody to visit them except an occasional old -friend belonging to some other county family, who understood the kind of -life and lived the same at home. On these occasions if the friend were a -little superior they would ask Lord and Lady Meadowlands to dinner, but -if not they would content themselves with the clergymen of the two -neighbouring parishes, and the Woodheads, whose house was not much more -than a villa. Lately, since the girls grew up, the ‘game’ in the -afternoon which brought young visitors to the house in summer had added -to the mild amusements of this life; but the young people who came were -always the same, and so were the old people in the village, who had to -be visited, and to have flannels prepared for them against Christmas, -and their savings taken care of. When a young man ‘went wrong,’ or a -girl got into trouble, it made the greatest excitement in the parish. -‘Did you hear that Sally Lawson came home to her mother on Saturday, -sent away from her place at a moment’s notice?’ or: ‘Old Gubbins’s boy -has enlisted. Did you ever hear anything so sad--the one the rector took -so much pains with, and helped on so in his education?’ It was very sad -for the Gubbinses and Lawsons, but it was a great godsend to the parish. -And when Lady Meadowlands’ mother, old Lady Prayrey Poule, went and -married, actually _married_ at sixty, it did the very county, not to -speak of those parishes which had the best right to the news, good. This -was the way in which life passed at Mount. And hitherto Anne had -supplemented and made it lively with a hundred pursuits of her own. Even -up to the beginning of August, when Mr. Douglas, who had left various -reminiscences behind him of his Christmas visit, came back--having -enjoyed himself so much on the previous occasion, as he said--Anne had -continued in full career of those vigorous fancies which kept her always -interested. She had sketched indefatigably all the spring and early -summer, growing almost fanatical about the tenderness of the shadows and -the glory of the lights. Then finding the cottages, which were so -picturesque, and figured in so many sketches, to be too wretched for -habitation, though they were inhabited, she had rushed into building, -into plans, and elevations, and measurements, which it was difficult to -force Mr. Mountford’s attention to, but which were evidently a step in -the right direction. But on Douglas’s second arrival these occupations -had been unconsciously intermitted, they had been pushed aside by a -hundred little engagements which the Ashleys had managed to make for the -entertainment of their friend. There had been several pic-nics, and a -party at the rectory--the first since Mrs. Ashley’s death--and a party -at the Woodheads’, the only other people in the parish capable of -entertaining. Then there had been an expedition to the Castle, which the -Meadowlands, on being informed that Charley Ashley’s friend was anxious -to see it, graciously combined with a luncheon and a ‘game’ in the -afternoon. And then there was the game at Mount on all the other -afternoons. Who could wonder, as Mrs. Mountford said, that something had -come of it? The young men had been allowed to come continually about the -house. No questions had been asked, no conditions imposed upon them. -‘Thou shalt not make love to thy entertainer’s daughter’ had not been -written up, as it ought to have been, on the lodge. And now, all this -was over. Like a scene at the theatre, opening up, gliding off with -nothing but a little jar of the carpentry, this momentous episode was -concluded and the magician gone. And Anne Mountford returned to the -existence--which was exactly as it had been of old. - -The other people did not see any difference in it; and to her the -wonderful thing was that there was no difference in it. She had been in -paradise, caught up, and had seen unspeakable things; but now that she -had dropped down again, though for a moment the earth seemed to jar and -tingle under her feet as they came in contact with it, there was no -difference. Her plans were there just the same, and the question still -to settle about how far the pigsty must be distant from the house; and -old Saymore re-emerged to view making up his bouquets for the vases, and -holding his head on one side as he looked at them, to see how they -‘composed;’ and Mrs. Worth, who all this time had been making dresses -and trying different shades to find out what would best set off Miss -Rose’s complexion. They had been going on like the figures on the -barrel-organ, doing the same thing all the time--never varying or -changing. Anne looked at them all with a kind of doleful amusement, -gyrating just in the old way, making the same little bobs and curtseys. -They had no want of interest or occupation, always moving quite -contentedly to the old tunes, turning round and round. Mr. Mountford sat -so many hours in his business-room, walked one day, rode the next for -needful exercise, sat just so long in the drawing-room in the evening. -His wife occupied herself an hour every morning with the cook, took her -wool-work at eleven, and her drive at half-past two, except when the -horses were wanted. Anne came back to it all, with a little giddiness -from her expedition to the empyrean, and looked at the routine with a -wondering amusement. She had never known before how like clockwork it -was. Now her own machinery, always a little eccentric, declined to -acknowledge that key: some sort of new motive power had got into her, -which disturbed the action of the other. She began again with a great -many jerks and jars, a great many times: and then would stop and look at -all the others in their unconscious dance, moving round and round, and -laugh to herself with a little awe of her discovery. Was this what the -scientific people meant by the automatic theory, she wondered, being a -young woman who read everything; but then in a law which permitted no -exceptions, how was it that she herself had got out of gear? - -Rose, who followed her sister in everything, wished very much to follow -her in this too. She had always managed to find out about every new -impulse before, and catch the way of it, though the impulse itself was -unknown to her. She gave Anne no rest till she had ascertained about -this too. ‘Tell us what it is like,’ she said, with a hundred -repetitions. ‘How did you first find out that he cared for you? What -put it into your head? Was it anything he said that made you think -_that_? As it is probably something that one time or another will happen -to me too, I think it is dreadful of you not to tell me. Had you never -found it out till he told you? and what did he say? Did he ask you all -at once if you would marry him? or did it all come on by degrees?’ - -‘How do you think I can tell?’ said Anne; ‘it is not a thing you can put -into words. I think it all came on by degrees.’ - -But this, though it was her own formula, did not satisfy Rose. ‘I am -sure you could tell me a great deal more if you only would,’ she cried; -‘what did he _say_? Now, _that_ you can’t help remembering; you must -know what he said. Did he tell you he was in love with you, or ask you -straight off to marry him? You can’t have forgotten that--it is not so -very long ago.’ - -‘But, Rosie, I could not tell you. It is not the words, it is not -anything that could be repeated. A woman should hear that for the first -time,’ said Anne, with shy fervour, turning away her head to hide the -blush, ‘when it is said to herself.’ - -‘A woman! Then you call yourself a woman now? I am only a girl; is that -one of the things that show?’ asked Rose, gravely, in pursuit of her -inquiry. ‘Well, then, you ought surely to let me know what kind of a -thing it is. Are you so very fond of him as people say in books? are you -always thinking about him? Anne, it is dreadfully mean of you to keep it -all to yourself. Tell me one thing: when he said it first, did he go -down upon his knees?’ - -‘What nonsense you are talking!’ said Anne, with a burst of laughter. -Then there rose before her in sweet confusion a recollection of various -moments in which Rose, always matter-of-fact, might have described her -lover as on his knees. ‘You don’t know anything about it,’ she said, -‘and I can’t tell you anything about it. I don’t know myself, Rosie; it -was all like a dream.’ - -‘It is you who are talking nonsense,’ said Rose. ‘How could it be like a -dream? In a dream you wake up and it is all over; but it is not a bit -over with you. Well, then, _after_, how did it feel, Anne? Was he always -telling you you were pretty? Did he call you “dear,” and “love,” and all -that sort of thing? It would be so _very_ easy to tell me--and I do so -want to know.’ - -‘Do you remember, Rose,’ said Anne, with a little solemnity, ‘how we -used to wish for a brother? We thought we could tell him everything, and -ask him questions as we never could do to papa, and yet it would be -quite different from telling each other. He would know better; he would -be able to tell us quantities of things, and yet he would understand -what we meant too.’ - -‘I remember you used to wish for it,’ said Rose, honestly, ‘and that it -would have been such a very good thing for the entail.’ - -‘Then,’ said Anne, with fervour, ‘it is a little like that--like what we -thought that would be. One feels that one’s heart is running over with -things to say. One wants to tell him everything, what happened when one -was a little girl, and all the nonsense that has ever been in one’s -mind. I told him even about that time I was shut up in the blue room, -and how frightened I was. Everything! it does not matter if it is a -trifle. One knows he will not think it a trifle. Exactly--at least -almost exactly, like what it would be to have a brother--but yet with a -difference too,’ Anne added, after a pause, blushing, she could scarcely -tell why. - -‘Ah!’ said Rose, with great perspicacity, ‘but the difference is just -what I want to know.’ - -The oracle, however, made no response, and in despair the pertinacious -questioner changed the subject a little. ‘If you will not tell me what -he said, nor what sort of a thing it is, you may at least let me know -one thing--what are you going to do?’ - -‘Nothing,’ said Anne, softly. She stood with her hands clasped before -her, looking with some wistfulness into the blueness of the distant air, -as if into the future, shaking her head a little, acknowledging to -herself that she could not see into it. ‘Nothing--so far as I know.’ - -‘Nothing! are you going to be in love, and engaged, and all that, and -yet do _nothing_? I know papa will not consent--mamma told me. She said -you would have to give up everything if you married him; and that it -would be a good thing for----’ - -Here Rose paused, gave her head a little shake to banish the foolish -words with which she had almost betrayed the confidence of her mother’s -communication, and reddened with alarm to think how near she had been to -letting it all out. - -‘I am not going to----marry,’ said Anne, in spite of herself, a little -coldly, though she scarcely knew why, ‘if that is what you want to -know.’ - -‘Then what,’ said Rose, majestically, ‘do you mean to do?’ - -The elder sister laughed a little. It was at the serious pertinacity of -her questioner, who would not take an answer. ‘I never knew you so -curious before,’ she said. ‘One does not need to do anything all at -once----’ - -‘But what are you going to _do_?’ said Rose. ‘I never knew you so dull, -Anne. Dear me, there are a great many things to do besides getting -married. Has he just gone away for good, and is there an end of it? Or -is he coming back again, or going to write to you, or what is going to -happen? I know it can’t be going to end like that; or what was the use -of it at all?’ the girl said, with some indignation. It was Rose’s -office to turn into prose all Anne’s romancings. She stopped short as -they were walking, in the heat of indignant reason, and faced her -sister, with natural eloquence, as all oratorical talkers do. - -‘It is not going to end,’ said Anne, a shade of sternness coming over -her face. She did not pause even for a moment, but went on softly with -her abstracted look. Many a time before in the same abstraction had she -escaped from her sister’s questions; but Rose had never been so -persistent as now. - -‘If you are not going to do anything, and it is not to end, I wonder -what is going to happen,’ said Rose. ‘If it were me, I should know what -I was to do.’ - -They were walking up and down on the green terrace where so many games -had been played. It was getting almost too dark for the lime avenue when -their talk had begun. The day had faded so far that the red of the -geraniums had almost gone out; and light had come into the windows of -the drawing-room, and appeared here and there over the house. The season -had changed all in a day--a touch of autumn was in the air, and mist -hung in all the hollows. The glory of the year was over; or so at least -Anne thought. - -‘And another thing,’ said Rose; ‘are you going to tell anybody? Mamma -says I am not to tell; but do you think it is right to go to the -Meadowlands’ party, and go on talking and laughing with everybody just -the same, and you an engaged girl? Somebody else might fall in love with -you! I don’t think it is a right thing to do.’ - -‘People have not been in such a hurry to fall in love with me,’ said -Anne; ‘but, Rose, I don’t think this is a subject that mamma would -think at all suited for you.’ - -‘Oh, mamma talked to me about it herself; she said she wished you would -give it up, Anne. She said it never could come to anything, for papa -will never consent.’ - -‘Papa may never consent; but yet it will come to something,’ said Anne, -with a gleam in her eyes. ‘That is enough, Rose; that is enough. I am -going in, whatever you may do.’ - -‘But, Anne! just one thing more; if papa does not consent, what _can_ -you do? Mamma says he could never afford to marry if you had nothing, -and you would have nothing if papa refused. It is only _your_ money that -you would have to marry on; and if you had no money---- So what _could_ -you do?’ - -‘I wish, when mamma speaks of my affairs, she would speak to me,’ said -Anne, with natural indignation. She was angry and indignant; and the -words made, in spite of herself, a painful commotion within her. Money! -what had money to do with it? She had felt the injustice, the wrong of -her father’s threat; but it had not occurred to her that this could -really have any effect upon her love; and though she had been annoyed to -find that Cosmo would not treat the subject with seriousness, or believe -in the gravity of Mr. Mountford’s menace, still she had been entirely -satisfied that his apparent carelessness was the right way for him to -consider it. He thought it of no importance, of course. He made jokes -about it; laughed at it; beguiled her out of her gravity on the subject. -Of course! what was it to him whether she was rich or poor; what did -Cosmo care? So long as she loved him, was not that all he was thinking -of? What would she have minded had she been told that _he_ had nothing? -Not one straw--not one farthing! But when this little prose personage, -with her more practical views of the question, rubbed against Anne, -there did come to her, quite suddenly, a little enlightenment. It was -like one chill, but by no means depressing, ray of daylight bursting in -through a crevice into the land of dreams. If he had no money, and she -no money, what then? Then, notwithstanding all generosity and nobleness -of affection, money certainly would have something to do with it. It -would count among the things to be taken into consideration; count -dolefully, in so far as it would keep them apart; yet count with -stimulating force as a difficulty to be surmounted, an obstacle to be -got the better of. When Mrs. Mountford put her head out of the window, -and called them to come in out of the falling dews, Anne went upstairs -very seriously, and shut the door of her room, and sat down in her -favourite chair to think it out. Fathers and mothers are supposed to -have an objection to long engagements; but girls, at all events at the -outset of their career, do not entertain the same objection. Anne was -still in the dreamy condition of youthful rapture, transported out of -herself by the new light that had come into the world, so that the -indispensable sequence of marriage did not present itself to her as it -does to the practical-minded. It was a barrier of fact with which, in -the meantime, she had nothing to do. She was not disappointed or -depressed, because _that_ was not the matter in question. It would come -in time, no doubt, as the afternoon follows the morning, and autumn -summer, but who would change the delights of the morning for the warmer, -steady glory of three o’clock? though that also is very good in its way. -She was quite resigned to the necessity of waiting, and not being -married all at once. The contingency neither alarmed nor distressed her. -Its immediate result was one which, indeed, most courses of thought -produced in her mind at the present moment. If I had but thought, of -that, she said to herself, before he went away! She would have liked to -talk over the money question with Cosmo; to discuss it in all its -bearings; to hear him say how little it mattered, and to plan how they -could do without it; not absolutely without it, of course; but Anne’s -active mind leaped at once at the thought of those systems of domestic -economy which would be something quite new to study, which had not yet -tempted her, but which would now have an interest such as no study ever -had. And, on his side, there could be no doubt that the effort would be -similar; in all likelihood even now (if he had thought of it) he was -returning with enthusiasm to his work, saying to himself, ‘I have Anne -to work for; I have my happiness to win.’ ‘_He_ could never afford to -marry if _you_ had nothing. It is only your money that you could marry -on; and if you had no money, what could you do?’ Anne smiled to herself -at Rose’s wisdom; nay, laughed in the silence, in the dark, all by -herself, with an outburst of private mirth. Rose--prose, she said to -herself, as she had said often before. How little that little thing -knew! but how could she know any better, being so young, and with no -experience? The thrill of high exhilaration which had come to her own -breast at the thought of this unperceived difficulty--the still higher -impulse that no doubt had been given to Cosmo, putting spurs to his -intellect, making impossibilities possible--a child like Rose could not -understand those mysteries. By-and-by Anne reminded herself that, as the -love of money was the root of all evil, so the want of it had been, not -only no harm, but the greatest good. Painters, poets, people of genius -of every kind had been stimulated by this wholesome prick. Had -Shakespeare been rich? She threw her head aloft with a smile of -conscious energy, and capacity, and power. No money! That would be the -best way to make a life worth living. She faced all heroisms, all -sacrifices, with a smile, and in a moment had gone through all the -labours and privations of years. He, working so many hours at a stretch, -bursting upon the world with the eloquence which was inspired by love -and necessity; she, making a shabby room into a paradise of content, -working for him with her own happy hands, carrying him through every -despondency and difficulty. Good heavens! could any little idiot suppose -that to settle down on a good income and never have any trouble would be -half so delightful as this? Anne used strong language in the swelling of -her breast. - -It made her laugh with a little ridicule of herself, and a half sense -that, if Rose’s tendency was prose, hers might perhaps be heroics, when -it occurred to her that Cosmo, instead of rushing back to his work, had -only intended to catch the Scotch mail, and that he was going to the -Highlands to shoot; while she herself was expected in Mrs. Worth’s room -to have her dress tried on for the Meadowlands’ party. But, after all, -what did that matter? There was no hurry; it was still the Long -Vacation, in which no man can work, and in the meantime there was no -economy for her to begin upon. - -The maid whom she and Rose shared between them, and whose name was -Keziah, came to the door to call her when she had reached this point. - -‘Oh, I beg your pardon, Miss Anne,’ she said; ‘I didn’t know you had no -lights.’ - -‘They were quite unnecessary, thank you,’ said Anne, rising up out of -her meditations, calmed, yet with all the force of this new stimulus to -her thoughts. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. - -THE MEADOWLANDS’ PARTY. - - -It was a very large party--collected from all the quarters of England, -or even it may be said of the globe, seeing there was a Russian princess -and an American literary gentleman among the lists of the guests, as -well as embracing the whole county, and everybody that had any claim to -be affiliated into society there. Lady Meadowlands made a very liberal -estimate of what could be called the society of the county--too liberal -an estimate, many people thought. The clergy, everyone knows, must be -present in force at every such function, and all their belongings, down -to the youngest daughter who is out; but such a rule surely ought not to -apply to country practitioners; and even to the brewer at Hunston, who, -though he was rich, was nobody. Upon that point almost everybody made a -stand, and it is to be feared that Mrs. and Miss Brewer did not enjoy -themselves at the Castle. But these were drawbacks not fully realised -till afterwards. The people who were aggrieved by the presence of the -brewer’s family were those who themselves were not very sure of their -standing, and who felt it was ‘no compliment’ to be asked when such -persons were also acknowledged as within the mystic ring. Dr. Peacock’s -wife and Miss Woodhead were the ladies who felt it most; though poor Mr. -Peacock himself was considered by some to be quite as great a blot. All -the roads in the neighbourhood of the Castle were as gay as if there had -been a fair going on. The village turned out bodily to see the carriages -and horses of the quality; though these fine people themselves were -perhaps less admired by the rustics than the beautiful tall footman in -powder who had come from town with Lady Prayrey Poule. But as every new -arrival drove up, the excitement rose to a high pitch; even the soberest -of people are moved by the sensation of multitude, the feeling of -forming part of a distinguished crowd. And the day was fine, with a -sunny haze hanging about the distance, reddening the sun and giving a -warm indistinctness to the sky. The grounds at Meadowlands were fine, -and the park very extensive. The house was a modern and handsome house, -and at some distance from it stood an old castle in ruins, which was the -greatest attraction of the place. Upon the lawns a great many ‘games’ -were going on. I have already said that I have no certainty as to -whether the games were croquet or lawn-tennis, not knowing or -remembering when the one period ended and the other began. But they were -enough in either case to supply lively groups of young persons in pretty -dresses, and afford a little gentle amusement to the lookers-on, -especially when those lookers-on were the parents or relations of the -performers. The Mountford party held a half-way place in the hierarchy -of Lady Meadowlands’ guests. They were, as has been said, a very old -family, though their want of wealth had for some time made them less -desirable neighbours than it is pleasant for members of an old family to -be. And though the girls might, as was generally said, now ‘marry -anybody,’ and consequently rise to any distinction, Mr. and Mrs. -Mountford were not the kind of people whom it would have afforded the -Princess Comatosky any pleasure to have presented to her, or who would -have been looked upon as fine types of the English landed gentry by Mr. -Greenwood, the American. But, on the other hand, they occupied a -position very different from that of the rank and file, the people who, -but for their professional position, would have had no right to appear -in the heaven of county society at all. And Anne and Rose being pretty, -and having the hope, one of a very good fortune, the other of a -reasonable _dot_, were really in the first rank of young ladies without -any drawbacks at all. Perhaps the reader will like to know what they -wore on this interesting occasion. They were not dressed alike, as -sisters so often are, without regard to individuality. After very -serious thought, Mrs. Worth had decided that the roses of Rose wanted -subduing, and had dressed her in Tussore silk, of the warm natural grass -colour; while Anne, always much more easy to dress, as that artist said, -was in an ivory-tinted cashmere, very plain and simple, which did all -that was wanted for her slim and graceful figure. Rose had flouncelets -and puffings beyond mortal power to record. Anne was better without the -foreign aid of ornament. I don’t pretend to be so uninstructed as to -require to describe a lady’s dress as only of ‘some soft white -material.’ It was cashmere, and why shouldn’t one say so? For by this -time a little autumn chill had set in, and even in the middle of the day -it was no longer overpoweringly warm. - -It is needless to say that the Ashleys were also there. These young men, -though so constantly with the girls at home, had to relinquish their -place a little when abroad, and especially when in more exalted company. -Then it became apparent that Charley and Willie, though great friends, -were not in any way of the same importance as Anne and Rose. They were -not handsome, for one thing, or very clever or amusing--but only Charley -and Willie Ashley, which was a title for friendship, but not for social -advancement. And especially were they separated from Anne, whose climax -of social advancement came when she was presented to the Princess -Comatosky, who admired her eyes and her dress, the latter being a most -unusual compliment. There was a fashionable party assembled in the house -besides all the county people, and the Miss Mountfords were swept away -into this brilliant sphere and introduced to everybody. Rose was a -little abashed at first, and looked back with anxious eyes at her -mother, who was seated on the edge of that higher circle, but not within -it; but she soon got confidence. Anne, however, who was not so -self-possessed, was excited by the fine company. Her complexion, which -was generally pale, took a faint glow, her eyes became so bright that -the old Russian lady grew quite enthusiastic. ‘I like a handsome girl,’ -she said; ‘bring her back once more to speak to me.’ Mr. Greenwood, the -American, was of the same opinion. He was not at all like the American -author of twenty years ago, before we knew the species. He spoke as -little through his nose as the best of us, and his manners were -admirable. He was more refinedly English than an Englishman, more -fastidious in his opposition to display and vulgarity, and his horror of -loud tones and talk; and there was just a _nuance_ of French politeness -in his look and air. He was as exquisitely polite to the merest commoner -as if he had been a crowned head, but at the same time it was one of the -deepest certainties of his heart that he was only quite at home among -people of title and in a noble house. Not all people of title: Mr. -Greenwood had the finest discrimination and preferred at all times the -best. But even he was pleased with Anne. ‘Miss Mountford is very -inexperienced,’ he said, in his gentle way; ‘she does not know how to -drop into a conversation or to drop out of it. Perhaps that is too fine -an art to learn at twenty: but she is more like a lady than anyone else -I see here.’ Lady Meadowlands, like most of the fashionable world, had a -great respect for Mr. Greenwood’s opinion. ‘That is so much from you!’ -she said gratefully; ‘and if you give her the advantage of seeing a -little of you, it will do dear Anne the greatest good.’ Mr. Greenwood -shook his head modestly, deprecating the possibility of conferring so -much advantage, but he felt in his heart that it was true. - -Thus Anne, for the first time in her life, had what may be called a -veritable _succès_. We may perhaps consider the word naturalised by this -time and call it a success. There was a certain expansion and -brightening of all her faculties consequent upon the new step she had -taken in life, of which no one had been conscious before, and the state -of opposition in which she found herself to her family had given her -just as much emancipation as became her, and gave force to all her -attractions. She was not beautiful perhaps, nor would she have satisfied -a critical examination; but both her face and figure had a certain -nobility of line which impressed the spectator. Tall and light, and -straight and strong, with nothing feeble or drooping about her, the -girlish shyness to which she had been subject was not becoming to Anne. -Rose, who was not shy, might have drooped her head as much as she -pleased, but it did not suit her sister. And the fact that she had -judged for herself, had chosen her own path, and made up her own mind, -and more or less defied Fate and her father, had given just the -inspiration it wanted to her face. She was shy still, which gave her a -light and shade, an occasional gleam of timidity and alarm, which -pleased the imagination. ‘I told you Anne Mountford would come out if -she had the chance,’ Lady Meadowlands said to her lord. ‘What is this -nonsense I hear about an engagement? Is there an engagement? What folly! -before she has seen anybody or had any chance, as you say,’ said Lord -Meadowlands to his lady. They were interested in Anne, and she was -beyond question the girl who did them most credit of all their country -neighbours, which also told for something in its way. - -The Rev. Charles Ashley, in his most correct clerical coat, and a -general starch of propriety about him altogether unlike the ease of his -ordinary appearance, looked on from afar at this brilliant spectacle, -but had not much share in it. Had there been anybody there who could -have been specially of use to Charley--the new bishop for instance, who -did not yet know his clergy, or the patron of a good living, or an -official concerned with the Crown patronage, anyone who could have lent -him a helping hand in his profession--no doubt Lady Meadowlands would -have taken care to introduce the curate and speak a good word for him. -But there being nobody of the kind present, Charley was left with the -mob to get up a game on his own account and amuse the young ladies who -were unimportant, who made up the mass of the assembly. And the young -Ashleys both accepted this natural post, and paid such harmless -attentions as were natural to the wives and daughters of other -clergymen, and the other people whom they knew. They had no desire to be -introduced to the Princess, or the other great persons who kept -together, not knowing the county. But, while Willie threw himself with -zeal into the amusements and the company provided, the curate kept his -eyes upon the one figure, always at a distance, which was the chief -point of interest for him. - -‘I want to speak to Anne,’ he said to Rose, who was less inaccessible, -who had not had so great a success; ‘if you see Anne, will you tell her -I want to speak to her?’ - -‘Anne, Charley wants to speak to you,’ Rose said, as soon as she had an -opportunity, in the hearing of everybody; and Anne turned and nodded -with friendly assent over the chairs of the old ladies. But she did not -make any haste to ask what he wanted. She took it with great ease, as -not calling for any special attention. There would be abundant -opportunities of hearing what Charley had to say. On the way home she -could ask him what he wanted; or while they were waiting for the -carriage; or even to-morrow, when he was sure to come to talk over the -party, would no doubt be time enough. It would be something about the -schools, or some girl or boy who wanted a place, or some old woman who -was ill. ‘Anne, Charley says he _must_ speak to you,’ said Rose again. -But it was not till after she had received a third message that Anne -really gave any attention to the call. ‘Cannot he tell you what he -wants?--I will come as soon as I can,’ she said. Perhaps the curate was -not so much distressed as he thought he was by her inattention. He -watched her from a distance with his hands in his pockets. When he was -accosted by other clergymen and country friends who were wandering about -he replied to them, and even carried on little conversations, with his -eyes upon her. Something grim and humorous, a kind of tender -spitefulness, was in the look with which he regarded her. If she only -knew! But it was her own fault if she did not know, not his. It gave him -a kind of pleasure to see how she lingered, to perceive that her mind -was fully occupied, and that she never divined the nature of his -business with her. So far as his own action went he had done his duty, -but he could not help a half chuckle, quickly suppressed, when he -imagined within himself how Douglas would look if he saw how impossible -it was to gain Anne’s attention. Did that mean, he asked in spite of -himself, that after all she was not so much interested? Charley had felt -sure that at the first word Anne would divine. ‘_I_ should divine if a -note of _hers_ was on its way to me,’ he said to himself--and it pleased -him that she never guessed that a letter from Cosmo was lying safe in -the recesses of his pocket. When she came hastily towards him at last, a -little breathless and hurried, and with only a moment to spare, there -was no consciousness in Anne’s face. - -‘What is it?’ she said--before the Woodheads! She would have said it -before anybody, so entirely unsuspicious was she. ‘I must go back to the -old lady,’ she added, with a little blush and smile, pleased in spite of -herself by the distinction; ‘but, Rose told me you wanted me. Tell me -what it is.’ - -He made elaborate signs to her with his eyebrows, and motions -recommending precaution with his lips--confounding Anne completely. For -poor Charley had heavy eyebrows, and thick lips, and his gestures were -not graceful. She stared at him in unfeigned astonishment, and then, -amused as well as bewildered, laughed. He enjoyed it all, though he -pretended to be disconcerted. She looked as bright as ever, he said to -himself. There was no appearance of trouble about her, or of longing -uncertainty. She laughed just as of old, with that pleasant ring in the -laughter which had always charmed him. The temptation crossed the -curate’s mind, as she did not seem to want it, as she looked so much -like her old self, as she showed no perception of what he had for her, -to put the letter down a little deeper in his pocket, and not disturb -her calm at all. - -‘Oh yes,’ he said, as if he had suddenly recollected, ‘it was something -I wanted to show you. Come down this path a little. You seem to be -enjoying the party, Anne.’ - -‘Yes, well enough. It is pretty,’ she said, glancing over the pretty -lawns covered with gaily-dressed groups. ‘Are _you_ not enjoying -yourself? I am so sorry. But you know everybody, or almost everybody -here.’ - -‘Except your grand people,’ he said, with some malice. - -‘My grand people! They are all nice whether they are grand or not, and -the old lady is very funny. She has all kinds of strange old ornaments -and crosses and charms mixed together. What is it, Charley? you are -looking so serious, and I must go back as soon as I am able. Tell me -what it is.’ - -‘Can’t you divine what it is?’ he said, with an air half reproachful, -half triumphant. - -She looked at him astonished; and then, suddenly taking fire from his -look, her face kindled into colour and expectation and wondering -eagerness. Poor curate! he had been pleased with her slowness to -perceive, but he was not so pleased now when her whole countenance -lighted under his eyes. He in his own person could never have brought -any such light into her face. She opened her mouth as if to speak, then -stood eager, facing him with the words arrested on her very lips. - -‘Is it a message from----’ She paused, and a wave of scarlet came over -her face up to her hair. Poor Charley Ashley! There was no want of the -power to divine now. His little pleasant spitefulness, and his elation -over what he considered her indifference, died in the twinkling of an -eye. - -‘It is more than a message,’ he said, thinking what an ass he was to -doubt her, and what a traitor to be delighted by that doubt. ‘It is--a -letter, Anne.’ - -She did not say anything--the colour grew deeper and deeper upon her -face, the breath came quickly from her parted lips, and without a word -she put out her hand. - -Yes, of course, that was all--to give it her, and be done with it--what -had he to do more with the incident? No honourable man would have wished -to know more. To give it to her and to withdraw. It was nothing to him -what was in the letter. He had no right to criticise. In the little -bitterness which this feeling produced in him he wanted to say what, -indeed, he had felt all along: that though he did not mind _once_, it -would not suit his office to be the channel through which their -communications were to flow. He _wanted_ to say this now, whereas before -he had only felt that he ought to say it; but in either case, under the -look of Anne’s eyes, poor Charley could not say it. He put his hand in -his pocket to get the letter, and of course he forgot in which pocket he -had put it, and then became red and confused, as was natural. Anne for -her part did not change her attitude. She stood with that look of sudden -eagerness in her face--a blush that went away, leaving her quite pale, -and then came back again--and her hand held out for the letter. How hot, -how wretched he got, as he plunged into one pocket after another, with -her eyes looking him through! ‘Anne,’ he stammered, when he found it at -last, ‘I beg your pardon--I am very glad--to be of--any use. I like to -do anything, anything for you! but--I am a clergyman----’ - -‘Oh, go away--please go away,’ said Anne. She had evidently paid no -attention to what he said. She put him away even, unconsciously, with -her hand. ‘Don’t let anyone come,’ she said, walking away from him round -the next corner of the path. Then he heard her tear open the envelope. -She had not paid any attention to his offer of service, but she had made -use of it all the same, taking it for granted. The curate turned his -back to her and walked a few steps in the other direction. She had told -him not to let anyone come, and he would not let anyone come. He would -have walked any intruders backward out of the sacred seclusion. Yet -there he stood dumbfoundered, wounded, wondering why it was that Cosmo -should have so much power and he so little. Cosmo got everything he -wanted. To think that Anne’s face should change like that at his mere -name, nay, at the merest suggestion of him!--it was wonderful. But it -was hard too. - -Anne’s heart was in her mouth as she read the letter. She did not take -time to think about it, nor how it came there, nor of any unsuitableness -in the way it reached her. It was to ask how they were to correspond, -whether he was to be permitted to write to her. ‘I cannot think why we -did not settle this before I left,’ Cosmo said; ‘I suppose the going -away looked so like dying that nothing beyond it, except coming back -again, seemed any alleviation.’ But this object of the letter did not -strike Anne at first. She was unconscious of everything except the -letter itself, and those words which she had never seen on paper in -handwriting before. She had read something like it in books. Nothing but -books could be the parallel of what was happening to her. ‘My dear and -only love,’ that was in a poem somewhere Anne was certain, but Cosmo did -not quote it out of any poem. It was the natural language; that was how -she was to be addressed now, like Juliet. She had come to that state and -dignity all at once, in a moment, without any doing of hers. She stood -alone, unseen, behind the great tuft of bushes, while the curate kept -watch lest anyone should come to disturb her, and all the old people sat -round unseen, chatting and eating ices, while the young ones fluttered -about the lawns. Nobody suspected with what a sudden, intense, and -wondering perception of all the emotions she had fallen heir to, she -stood under the shadow of the rhododendrons reading her letter; and -nobody knew with what a sore but faithful heart the curate stood, -turning his back to her, and protected her seclusion. It was a scene -that was laughable, comical, pathetic, but pathetic more than all. - -This incident coloured the whole scene to Anne, and gave it its -character. She had almost forgotten the very existence of the old -Princess when she went back. ‘Bring me that girl,’ the old lady said, in -her excellent English, ‘bring me back that girl. She is the one I -prefer. All the others they are demoiselles, but this is a woman.’ But -when Anne was brought back at last the keen old lady saw the difference -at once. ‘Something has happened,’ she said; ‘what has happened, my -all-beautiful? someone has been making you a proposal of marriage. That -comes of your English customs which you approve so much. To me it is -intolerable; imagine a man having the permission in society to startle -this child with an _emotion_ like that.’ She pronounced _emotion_ and -all similar words as if they had been in the French language. Anne -protested vainly that no such emotion had fallen to her share. Mr. -Greenwood agreed with the Princess, though he did not express himself so -frankly. Could it be the curate? he thought, elevating his eyebrows. He -was a man of experience, and knew how the most unlikely being is -sometimes gifted to produce such an emotion in the fairest bosom. - - - - -CHAPTER IX. - -COSMO. - - -It is time to let the reader of this story know who Cosmo Douglas was, -whose appearance had made so great a commotion at Mount. He was--nobody. -This was a fact that Mr. Mountford had very soon elicited by his -inquiries. He did not belong to any known house of Douglasses under the -sun. It may be said that there was something fair in Cosmo’s frank -confession on this point, put perhaps it would be more true to say that -it showed the good sense which was certainly one of his characteristics; -for any delusion that he might have encouraged or consented to in this -respect must have been found out very shortly, and it would only have -been to his discredit to claim good connections which did not belong to -him. ‘Honesty is the best policy’ he had said to himself, and therefore -he had been honest. Nevertheless it was a standing mystery to Cosmo that -he was nobody. He could not understand it. It had been a trouble to him -all his life. How was he inferior to the other people who had good -connections? He had received the same kind of education, he had the same -kind of habits, he was as much a ‘gentleman,’ that curious English -distinction which means everything and nothing, as any of them. He did -not even feel within himself the healthy thrill of opposition with which -the lowly born sometimes scorn the supposed superiority of blue blood. -He for his part had something in his heart which entirely coincided with -that superstition. Instinctively he preferred for himself that his -friends should be well born. He had as natural a predilection that way -as if his shield held ever so many quarterings; and it was terrible to -know that he had no right to any shield at all. In his boyhood he had -accepted the crest which his father wore at his watchchain, and had -stamped upon his spoons and forks, with undoubting faith, as if it had -descended straight from the Crusaders; and when he had read of the ‘dark -grey man’ in early Scotch history, and of that Lord James who carried -Bruce’s heart to the Holy Land, there was a swell of pride within him, -and he had no doubt that they were his ancestors. But as he grew older -it dawned upon Cosmo that his father had assumed the bleeding heart -because he found it represented in the old book of heraldry as the -cognisance of the Douglasses, and not because he had any hereditary -right to it--and, indeed, the fact was that good Mr. Douglas knew no -better. He thought in all simplicity that his name entitled him to the -symbol which was connected with the name, and that all those great -people so far off from the present day were ‘no doubt’ his ancestors, -though it was too far back to be able to tell. - -Mr. Douglas himself was a man of the highest respectability. He was the -managing clerk in a solicitor’s office, with a good salary, and the -entire confidence of his employers. Perhaps he might even have been a -partner had he been of a bolder temper; but he was afraid of -responsibility, and had no desire, he said, to assume a different -position, or rise in the social scale. That would be for Cosmo, he -added, within himself. He had lost his wife at a very early period, when -Cosmo was still a child, and upon the boy all his father’s hopes were -built. He gave him ‘every advantage.’ For himself he lived very quietly -in a house with a garden out Hampstead way, a small house capable of -being managed by one respectable woman-servant, who had been with him -for years, and a young girl under her, or sometimes a boy, when she -could be persuaded to put up with one of these more objectionable -creatures. But Cosmo had everything that was supposed to be best for an -English young man. He was at Westminster School, and so received into -the fraternity of ‘public school men,’ which is a distinct class in -England; and then he went to the University. When he took his degree he -studied for the bar. Both at Oxford and Lincoln’s Inn he was ‘in for’ -all his examinations in company with the son of his father’s employer; -but it was Cosmo who was the most promising student always, and the most -popular man. He had the air and the bearing, the ‘je ne sçais quoi’ -which is supposed to indicate ‘family,’ though he was of no family. -Nothing ever was more perplexing. He could not understand it himself. -What was it that made this wonderful difference? When he looked at -Charley Ashley a smile would sometimes steal over his countenance. In -that point of view the prejudice certainly showed its full absurdity. -Charley was his retainer, his faithful follower--his dog, in a way. But -Mr. Mountford, though he would probably have thought Charley not a -suitable match for his daughter, would not have looked upon him with the -same puzzled air as on a creature of a different species, with which he -regarded the suitor who was nobody. When this contrast struck him, no -doubt Cosmo smiled with a little bitterness. Charley had connections -among all the little squires of the district. He had an uncle here and -there whose name was in some undistinguished list or other--the ‘Gentry -of Great Britain’ or some other such beadroll. But Cosmo had no link at -all to the classes who consider themselves the natural masters of the -world. - -If you will think of it, it was as troublesome and unpleasant a position -as could be conceived--to have all that makes a gentleman and to be a -gentleman, fully considered and received as such, yet upon close -investigation to be found to be nobody, and have all your other -qualities ignored in consequence. It was hard--it was a complicating, -perplexing grievance, such as could only occur in the most artificial -state of society. In the middle ages, if a man ‘rose,’ it was by dint of -hard blows, and people were afraid of him. But ‘rising in the world’ had -a very different meaning in Cosmo’s case. He had always known what it -was to be carefully tended, daintily fed, clothed with the best of -clothes--as well as a duke’s son need have been. He had all the books to -read which any duke’s son could have set his face to; and though the -Hampstead rooms were small, and might have looked poky had there been a -family cooped up in them, Cosmo and his father had felt no want of space -nor of comfort. Even that little Hampstead house was now a thing of the -past. Mr. Douglas had died, though still not much beyond middle age, -and Cosmo had his chambers, like any other young barrister, and several -clubs, and all the ‘advantages’ which his father had sworn he should -have. He had a little money, and a little practice, and was ‘getting -on.’ If he was not in fashionable society, he was yet in an excellent -‘set’--rising barristers, literary people, all rising too, people of -reputation, people who suppose themselves to sway the world, and who -certainly direct a great deal of its public talk, and carry a large -silent background of its population with them. He was very well thought -of among this class, went out a great deal into society, knew a great -many people whom it is supposed something to know--and yet he was -nobody. The merest clown could have confused him at any time by asking, -‘Which is your county, Douglas?’ Poor Cosmo had no county. He took the -deficiency admirably, it is needless to say, and never shirked the truth -when there was any need to tell it. In the majority of cases it was not -at all necessary to tell it; but yet his friends knew well enough that -he had no relations to give him shooting, or ask him during the hunting -season; no district had any claim upon him, nor he upon it. A man may -love his home when it has never been anywhere but in Hampstead. But it -makes a great difference--even when his friends make up the deficiencies -of family to him, and invite him, as he had this year been invited, to -share the delights of a Scotch moor--still it makes a great difference. -And when it is a matter of matrimony, and of producing his proofs of -gentility, and of being a fit person to marry Anne Mountford, then the -difference shows most of all. - -When Cosmo attained that perfect freedom from all ties, and power of -roaming wherever he pleased, without any clog to draw him back, which -was involved in his father’s death (though it may be said for him that -this was an event which he deeply regretted) he made up his mind that he -would not marry, at least until he had reached sufficient distinction in -his profession to make him somebody, quite independent of connections. -But then he had not seen Anne Mountford. With her, without any secondary -motives, he had fallen honestly and heartily in love, a love which he -would, however, have managed to quench and get the better of, had it not -turned out upon inquiry that Anne was one whom it was entirely -permissible to love, and who could help him, not hold him back in the -career of success. He had, however, many discussions with himself before -he permitted himself to indulge his inclinations. He had felt that with -people like the Mountfords the fact that he was nobody would tell with -double power; and, indeed, if he had ever been tempted to invent a -family of Douglasses of Somewhere-or-other, it was now. He had almost -been led into doing this. He had even half-prepared a little romance, -which no doubt Mr. Mountford, he thought, would have swallowed, of a -ruined house dwindled away to its last representative, which had lost -lands and even name in one of the rebellions. He had not chosen which -rebellion, but he had made up the story otherwise with great enjoyment -and a fine sense of its fitness: when that modern quality which for want -of a better name we call a sense of humour stopped him. For a man of his -time, a man of his enlightened opinions, a member of a liberal -profession, a high-bred (if not high-born) Englishman to seek importance -from a silly little school-girl romance was too absurd. He could not do -it. He laughed aloud at himself with a little flush of shame on his -countenance, and tossed away the fiction. But what a thing it would have -been for Cosmo if the tumbledown old house which he had invented and -the bit of school-girl fiction had been true! They became almost such to -him, so strongly did he feel that they would exactly fit his case. ‘They -would have been as stupid probably as--Mr. Mountford,’ Cosmo said to -himself, ‘and pig-headed into the bargain, or they never would have -thrown away everything for a gingerbread adventurer like Prince -Charley--rude Lowland rustics talking broad Scotch, not even endowed -with the mystery of Gaelic. But to be sure I might have made them Celts, -and the Lord of Mount would not have been a whit the wiser. I think I -can see a snuffy old laird in a blue bonnet, and a lumbering young lout -scratching his red head. And these be your gods, oh Israel! I don’t -think I should have been much the better of such ancestors.’ But -nevertheless he felt in his heart that he would have been much the -better for them. Other men might despise them, but Cosmo would have -liked to believe in those Douglasses who had never existed. However, -though he had invented them, he could not make use of them. It would -have been too absurd. He laughed and reddened a little, and let them -drop; and with a perfectly open and composed countenance informed Mr. -Mountford that he was nobody and sprang from no known Douglasses at all. -It was a kind of heroism in its way, the heroism of good sense, the -influence of that wholesome horror of the ridiculous which is one of the -strongest agencies of modern life. - -After the interview with Mr. Mountford, and after the still greater -shock of Anne’s intimation that her father would not yield, Cosmo’s mind -had been much exercised, and there had been a moment, in which he had -not known what to do or say. Marriage without pecuniary advantage was -impossible to him--he could not, he dared not think of it. It meant -downfall of every kind, and a narrowing of all the possibilities of -life. It would be ruin to him and also to the girl who should be his -wife. It would be impossible for him to keep her in the position she -belonged to, and he would have to relinquish the position which belonged -to him--two things not for a moment to be thought of. The only thing -possible, evidently, was to wait. He was in love, but he was not anxious -to marry at once. In any case it would be expedient to defer that event; -and the old man might die--nay, most likely would die--and would not -certainly change his will if all things were kept quiet and no -demonstration made. He left Mount full of suppressed excitement, yet -glad to be able to withdraw; to go away without compromising Anne, -without being called upon to confront or defy the harsh parent, or do -anything to commit himself. If Anne but held her tongue, there was no -reason why Mr. Mountford might not suppose that she had given Cosmo up, -and Cosmo was rather pleased than otherwise with the idea that she might -do so. He wanted no sentimental passion; no sacrifice of everything for -his sake. All for love and the world well lost, was not in the least a -sentiment which commended itself to him. He would have much preferred -that she had dissembled altogether, and put on an appearance of obeying -her father; but this was a thing that he could not recommend her to do, -any more than he could put forth his invented story of the ruined -Douglasses. The fashion of his age and his kind and his education was so -against lying, that it could be practised only individually, so to -speak, and as it were accidentally. You might be betrayed into it by the -emergency of a moment, but you could not, unless you were very sure -indeed of your ground and your coadjutor, venture to suggest falsehood. -The thing could not be done. This, however, was what he would have -thought the safest thing--that all should fall back into its usual -state; that Anne should go on as if she were still simply Anne, without -any difference in her life; and that, except for the fine but concealed -bond between them, which should be avowed on the first possible -occasion, but never made any display of while things were not ripe, -everything should be exactly as before. This was perfectly fair in love, -according to all known examples and rules. Something like it had -happened in the majority of similar cases, and indeed, Cosmo said to -himself with a half smile, a lover might feel himself little flattered -for whom such a sacrifice would not be made. But all the same he could -not suggest it. He could not say to Anne, ‘Tell a lie for me--persuade -your father that all is over between us, though it is not all over -between us and never shall be till death parts us.’ A young man of the -nineteenth century, brought up at a public school and university, a -member of the bar, and in very good society, could not say that. It -would have been an anachronism. He might wish it, and did do so -fervently; but to put it in words was impossible. - -It was with this view, however, that Cosmo had omitted all mention of -correspondence in his last interviews with Anne. They were full of so -much that was novel and exciting to her that she did not notice the -omission, nor in the hurry and rush of new sensations in her mind had -she that eager longing for a letter which most girls would have felt on -parting with their lovers. She had no habit of letters. She had never -been at school or made any friendships of the kind that need to be -solaced by continual outpourings upon paper. Almost all her intimates -were about her, seeing her often, not standing in need of -correspondence. She had not even said in the hurry of parting, ‘You will -write.’ Perhaps she saw it like himself, but like himself was unwilling -to propose the absolute concealment which was desirable. Cosmo’s mind -had been full of nothing else on his way to Scotland to his friend’s -moor. He had thought of her half the time, and the other half of the -time he had thought how to manage, how to secure her without injuring -her (which was how he put it); the long night’s journey was made short -to him by these thoughts. He did not sleep, and he did not want to -sleep; the darkness of the world through which he was rushing, the -jumble of perpetual sound, which made a sort of atmosphere about him, -was as a hermitage to Cosmo, as it has been to many before him. Railway -trains, indeed, are hermitages in life for the much-pondering and -careworn sons of the present age. There they can shut themselves up and -think at will. He turned it all over and over in his mind. No wild -notion--such as had moved the inexperienced mind of Anne with a thrill -of delightful impulse--of rushing back to work and instantly beginning -the toil which was to win her, occurred to Anne’s lover. To be sure it -was the Long Vacation, which is a thing girls do not take into account, -and Cosmo would have smiled at the notion of giving up his shooting and -going back to his chambers out of the mere sentiment of losing no time, -which probably would have appeared to Anne a heroic and delightful idea; -but he did what Anne could not have done; he went into the whole -question, all the _pros_ and _cons_, and weighed them carefully. He had -a long journey, far up into the wilds, by the Highland railway. Morning -brought him into the land of hills and rivers, and noon to the bleaker -mountains and glens, wealthy only in grouse and deer. He did nothing but -think it over in the night and through the day. Nevertheless, Cosmo, -when he reached Glentuan, was as little worn out as it becomes an -experienced young Englishman to be after a long journey. He was quite -fresh for dinner after he had performed the customary rites--ready to -take his part in all the conversation and help in the general amusement. - -‘Douglas--which of the Douglasses does he belong to?’ one of the guests -asked after he had withdrawn. - -‘I’ve always known him as Douglas of Trinity,’ said the host. - -‘Trinity, Trinity,’ answered the other, who was a local personage, -thinking of nothing but territorial designation, ‘I never heard of any -Douglasses of Trinity. Do you mean the place near Edinburgh where all -the seaside villas are?’ - -‘He means Cambridge,’ said another, laughing. - -‘Douglas is the best fellow in the world, but he is--nobody: at least so -I’ve always heard.’ - -Cosmo did not overhear this conversation, but he knew that it had taken -place as well as if he had heard it; not that it did him the least harm -with his comrades of the moment, to whom he was a very nice fellow, a -capital companion, thoroughly acquainted with all the habits and customs -of their kind, and though no great shot, yet good enough for all that -was necessary, good enough to enjoy the sport, which nobody who is -awkward and really ignorant can do. But he knew that one time or other -this little conversation would take place, and though he felt that he -might do himself the credit to say that he had no false shame, nor -attached any exaggerated importance to the subject, still it was no -doubt of more importance to him than it was to those with whom it was -only one out of many subjects of a casual conversation. All the same, -however, even these casual talkers did not forget it. Strange -superstition, strangest folly, he might well say to himself with such a -smile as was possible in the circumstances. Douglas of Trinity--Douglas -of Lincoln’s Inn meant something--but to be one of the Douglasses of -some dilapidated old house, what did that mean? This question, however, -had nothing to do with the matter, and the smile had not much -pleasantness in it, as may easily be perceived. - -The fruit of Cosmo’s cogitations, however, was that he wrote to Anne, as -has been seen, and sent his letter to Charley Ashley to be delivered. -This was partly policy and partly uncertainty, a sort of half measure to -feel his way; but, on the whole, was most of all the necessity he felt -to say something to her, to seize upon her, not to let this beautiful -dream escape from him. - -‘We said nothing about writing, and I don’t know, my dearest, what you -wish in this respect. Silence seems impossible, but if you wish it, if -you ask this sacrifice, I will be content with my perfect trust in my -Anne, and do whatever she would have me do. I know that it would be -against your pride and your delicacy, my darling, to keep up any -correspondence which the severest parent could call clandestine, and if -I take advantage of a good fellow who is devoted to us both, for once, -it is not with the least idea that you will like it, or will allow me to -continue it. But what can I do? I must know what is your will in this -matter, and I must allow myself the luxury once, if only once, of -telling you on paper what I have tried to tell you so often in -words--how I love you, my love, and what it is to me to love you--a new -creation, an opening up both of earth and heaven.’ (We need not continue -what Cosmo said on this point because, to be sure, it has all been said -over and over again, sometimes no doubt worse, and sometimes -unquestionably a great deal better, than he said it: and there is no -advantage that we know of to be got from making young persons -prematurely acquainted with every possible manner in which this -sentiment can be expressed.) At the end he resumed, with generous -sentiment, which was perfectly genuine, and yet not any more free of -calculation and the idea of personal advantage than all the rest was:-- - -‘Charley Ashley is the truest friend that ever man had; he has loved you -all his life (_that_ is nothing wonderful), and yet, though, at such a -cost as I do not like to try to estimate, he still loves me, though he -knows that I have come between him and any possibility there was that he -should ever win any return from you. To do him full justice, I do not -think he ever looked for any return, but was content to love you as in -itself a happiness and an elevation for which a man might well be -grateful; but still it is hard upon him to see a man no better than -himself, nay, less worthy in a hundred ways, winning the unimaginable -reward for which he, poor Charley, had not so much as ventured to hope. -Yet with a generosity--how can I express it, how could I ever have -emulated it?--which is beyond words, he has neither withdrawn his -brotherly kindness from me, nor refused to stand by me in my struggle -towards you and happiness. What can we say to a friend like this? Trust -him, my dearest, as I do. I do not mean that he should be the medium of -communication between us, but there are ways in which he may be of help -and comfort to us both; and, in the meantime, you will at your dear -pleasure tell me yourself what you wish to do, or let me know by him: if -I may write, if I must be silent, if you will make me a happy man now -and then by a word from your hand, or if I am to wait for that hand till -I dare claim it as mine. Nay, but my Anne, my darling, for once, if for -once only, you must send two or three words, a line or two, to give me -patience and hope.’ - -As he folded this up his whole heart longed for the ‘word or two’ he -had asked for. Without that it almost seemed to him that all that had -passed before might mean nothing, might roll away like the mists, like -the fabric of a vision. But at the same time Cosmo felt in his heart -that if Anne would send him the consolation of this one letter through -Charley Ashley, and after that bid him be silent and wait for chance -opportunities or modes of communication, that she would do well. It was -what he would have advised her to do had he been free to tell her -exactly what he thought. But he was not free to advise such a -proceeding. It was not in his _rôle_; nor could he have proposed any -clandestine correspondence, though he would have liked it. It was -impossible. Anne would most probably have thrown him off as altogether -unworthy had he proposed anything of the kind to her, or at least would -have regarded him with very different eyes from those with which she -looked upon him now. And even independent of this he could not have done -it: the words would have failed him to make such a proposal. It was -contrary to all tradition, and to the spirit of his class and time. - -When he had despatched this letter Cosmo’s bosom’s lord sat more lightly -upon his throne. He went out next morning very early and made a -respectable, a very respectable, bag. Nobody could say that he was a -cockney sportsman not knowing how to aim or hold a gun. In this as in -everything else he had succeeded in mastering the rules of every -fashion, and lived as a man who was to the manner born. He was indeed to -the manner born, with nothing in him, so far as he was aware, that went -against the traditions of a gentleman: and yet similar conversations to -that one which occurred in the smoking-room, occurred occasionally on -the hills among the heather. ‘Of what Douglasses is your friend?’ ‘Oh, I -don’t know that he is of any Douglasses,’ the master of the moor would -say with impatience. ‘He is a capital fellow, and a rising man in the -law--that’s all I know about him;’ or else, ‘He is a college friend, a -man who took a very good degree, as clever a fellow as you will meet -with, and getting on like a house on fire.’ But all these -recommendations, as they all knew, were quite beside the question. He -was of nowhere in particular--he was nobody. It was a mysterious -dispensation, altogether unexplainable, that such a man should have come -into the world without suitable ancestors who could have responded for -him. But he had done so. And he could not even produce that fabulous -house which, as he had invented it, was a far prettier and more truly -gentle and creditable family than half the families who would have -satisfied every question. Thus the very best quality of his age was -against him as well as its superstitions. Had he been an enriched grocer -to whom it could have done no possible good, he might easily have -invented a pedigree; but being himself he could not do it. And thus the -injury he had sustained at the hands of Providence was beyond all remedy -or hope of amendment. - - - - -CHAPTER X. - -FAMILY COUNSELS. - - -‘Has Anne spoken to you at all on the subject--what does she intend to -do?’ - -Mr. Mountford was subjecting his wife to a cross-examination as to the -affairs of the household. It was a practice he had. He felt it to be -beneath his dignity to inquire into these details in his own person, but -he found them out through her. He was not a man who allowed his -authority to be shared. So far as ordering the dinner went and -regulating the household bills, he was content to allow that she had a -mission in the world; but everything of greater importance passed -through his hands. Mrs. Mountford was in the habit of expressing her -extreme satisfaction with this rule, especially in respect to Anne. -‘What could I have done with a stubborn girl like that? she would have -worn me out. The relief that it is to feel that she is in her father’s -hands and not in mine!’ she was in the habit of saying. But, though she -was free of the responsibility, she was not without trouble in the -matter. She had to submit to periodical questioning, and, if she had -been a woman of fine susceptibilities, would have felt herself something -like a spy upon Anne. But her susceptibilities were not fine, and the -discussion of other people which her husband’s inquisitions made -necessary was not disagreeable to her. Few people find it altogether -disagreeable to sit in a secret tribunal upon the merits and demerits of -those around them. Sometimes Mrs. Mountford would rebel at the closeness -of the examination to which she was subjected, but on the whole she did -not dislike it. She was sitting with her husband in that business-room -of his which could scarcely be dignified by the name of a library. She -had her usual worsted work in her hand, and a wisp of skeins plaited -together in various bright colours on a table before her. Sometimes she -would pause to count one, two, three, of the stitches on her canvas; her -head was bent over it, which often made it more easy to say what she had -got to say. A serious truth may be admitted, or censure conveyed, in the -soft sentence which falls from a woman’s lips with an air of having -nothing particular in it, when the one, two, three, of the Berlin -pattern, the exact shade of the wool, is evidently the primary subject -in her mind. Mrs. Mountford felt and employed to the utmost the shield -of her work. It made everything more easy, and took away all tedium from -these prolonged conversations. As for Mr. Mountford, there was always a -gleam of expectation in his reddish hazel eyes. Whether it was about a -servant, or his children, or even an indifferent person in the parish, -he seemed to be always on the verge of finding something out. ‘What does -she intend to do?’ he repeated. ‘She has never mentioned the subject -again, but I suppose she has talked it over with you.’ - -‘Something has been said,’ answered his wife; ‘to say that she had -talked it over with me would not be true, St. John. Anne is not one to -talk over anything with anybody, especially me. But something was said. -I confess I thought it my duty, standing in the place of a mother to -her, to open the subject.’ - -‘And what is she going to do?’ - -‘You must know very little about girls, St. John, though you have two of -your own (and one of them as difficult to deal with as I ever -encountered), if you think that all that is wanted in order to know what -they are going to do is to talk it over with them--it is not so easy as -that.’ - -‘I suppose you heard something about it, however,’ he said, with a -little impatience. ‘Does she mean to give the fellow up? that is the -chief thing I want to know.’ - -‘I never knew a girl yet that gave a fellow up, as you call it, because -her father told her,’ said Mrs. Mountford: and then she paused, -hesitating between two shades; ‘that blue is too blue, it will never go -with the others. I must drive into Hunston to-day or to-morrow, and see -if I cannot get a better match.--As for giving up, that was not spoken -of, St. John. Nobody ever believes in it coming to that. They think you -will be angry; but that of course, if they stand out, you will come -round at the last.’ - -‘Does Anne think that? She must know very little of me if she thinks -that I will come round at the last.’ - -‘They all think it,’ said Mrs. Mountford, calmly counting the lines of -the canvas with her needle: ‘I am not speaking only of Anne. I daresay -she counts upon it less than most do, for it must be allowed that she is -very like you, St. John, and as obstinate as a mule. You have to be very -decided indeed before a girl will think you mean it. Why, there is Rose. -What I say is not blaming Anne, for I am a great deal more sure what my -own child would think than what Anne would think. Rose would no more -believe that you would cross her seriously in anything she wanted than -she would believe you could fly if you tried. She would cry outwardly, I -don’t doubt, but she would smile in her heart. She would say to herself, -“Papa go against me! impossible!” and the little puss would look very -pitiful and submissive, and steal her arms round your neck and coax you, -and impose upon you. You would be more than mortal, St. John, if you did -not come round at the end.’ - -Mr. Mountford’s countenance relaxed while this description was made--an -almost imperceptible softening crept about the corners of his mouth. He -seemed to feel the arms of the little puss creeping round his neck, and -her pretty little rosebud face close to his own. But he shook off the -fascination abruptly, and frowned to make his wife think him insensible -to it. ‘I hope I am not such a weak fool,’ he said. ‘And there is not -much chance that Anne would try that way,’ he added, with some -bitterness. Rose was supposed to be his favourite child, but yet he -resented the fact that no such confession of his absolute authority and -homage to his power was to be looked for from Anne. Mrs. Mountford had -no deliberate intention of presenting his eldest daughter to him under -an unfavourable light, but if she wished him to perceive the superior -dutifulness and sweetness of her own child, could anyone wonder? Rose -had been hardly used by Nature. She ought to have been a boy and the -heir of entail, or, if not so, she ought to have had a brother to take -that position, and protect her interests; and neither of these things -had happened. That her father should love her best and do all in his -will that it was possible to do for her, was clearly Rose’s right as -compensation for the other injustices of fate. - -‘No,’ said Mrs. Mountford, after a longer piece of mental arithmetic -than usual, ‘that is not Anne’s way; but still you must do Anne justice, -St. John. She will never believe, any more than Rose, that you will go -against her. I don’t say this from anything she has said to me. Indeed, -I cannot say that she has spoken to me at all on the subject. It was I -that introduced it; I thought it my duty.’ - -‘And she gave you to understand that she would go on with it, whatever I -might say; and that, like an old fool, if she stuck to it, I would give -in at the end?’ - -‘St. John! St. John! how you do run away with an idea! I never said -that, nor anything like it. I told you what, judging from what I know of -girls, I felt sure Anne must feel. They never dream of any serious -opposition: as we have given in to them from their childhood, they think -we will continue to give in to them to the end; and I am sure it is -quite reasonable to think so; only recollect how often we have yielded, -and done whatever they pleased.’ - -‘This time she will find that I will not yield,’ said Mr. Mountford, -getting up angrily, and planting himself in front of the polished -fireplace, which was innocent of any warmth. He set himself very firmly -upon his feet, which were wide apart, and put his hands under his coat -tails in the proverbial attitude of an Englishman. To see him standing -there you would have thought him a man who never would yield; and yet he -had, as his wife said, yielded to a great many vagaries of the girls. -She gave various curious little glances of investigation at him from -over her wools. - -‘I should like to know,’ she said, ‘why you object so much to Mr. -Douglas? he seems a very gentlemanly young man. Do you know something -more of him than we know?’ - -‘Nobody,’ said Mr. Mountford, with solemnity, ‘knows any more of the -young man than we know.’ - -‘Then why should you be so determined against him?’ persisted his wife. - -Mr. Mountford fixed his eyes severely upon her. ‘Letitia,’ he said, -‘there is one thing, above all others, that I object to in a man; it is -when nobody knows anything about him. You will not deny that I have had -some experience in life; some experience you must grant me, whatever my -deficiencies may be; and the result of all I have observed is that a man -whom nobody knows is not a person to connect yourself with. If he is a -member of a well-known family--like our own, for instance--there are his -people to answer for him. If, on the other hand, he has made himself of -consequence in the world, that may answer the same purpose. But when a -man is nobody, you have nothing to trust to; he may be a very good sort -of person; there may be no harm in him; but the chances are against him. -At all times the chances are heavily against a man whom nobody knows.’ - -Mr. Mountford was not disinclined to lay down the law, but he seldom did -it on an abstract question; and his wife looked at him, murmuring ‘one, -two, three’ with her lips, while her eyes expressed a certain mild -surprise. The feeling, however, was scarcely so strong as surprise; it -was rather with a sensation of unexpectedness that she listened. Surely -nobody had a better right to his opinion: but she did not look for a -general dogma when she had asked a particular question. ‘But,’ she said, -‘papa! he was known very well, I suppose, or they would not have had him -there--to the Ashleys, at least.’ - -‘What was known? Nothing about him--nothing whatever about him! as Anne -was so absurd as to say they know _him_, or their own opinion of him; -but they know nothing _about_ him--nobody knows anything about him. -Whatever you may think, Letitia, that is quite enough for me.’ - -‘Oh, my dear, I don’t pretend to understand; but we meet a great many -people whom we don’t know anything of. In society we are meeting them -for ever.’ - -‘Pardon me,’ said Mr. Mountford, lifting an emphatic finger; ‘_we_ may -know nothing about them, but somebody knows. Now, all I hear of this man -is that he is nobody; he may be good or he may be bad, much more likely -the latter; but, this being the case, if he were an angel I will have -nothing to do with him; neither shall anyone belonging to me. We are -well-known people ourselves, and we must form connections with -well-known people--or none at all.’ - -‘None at all; you would not keep her an old maid, papa?’ - -‘Pshaw!’ said Mr. Mountford, turning away. Then he came back to add a -last word. ‘Understand me, Letitia,’ he said; ‘I think it’s kind of you -to do your best for Anne, for she is a girl who has given you a great -deal of trouble; but it is of no use; if she is so determined to have -her own way, she shall not have anything else. I am not the weak idiot -of a father you think me; if I have given in to her before, there was -no such important matter in hand; but I have made up my mind now: and it -may be better for Rose and you, perhaps, if the worst comes to the -worst.’ - -Mrs. Mountford was completely roused now; the numbers, so to speak, -dropped from her lips; her work fell on her knee. ‘It is quite true what -you say,’ she said, feeling herself on very doubtful ground, and not -knowing what to do, whether to express gratitude or to make no reference -to this strange and dark saying: ‘she has given me a great deal of -trouble: but she is your child, St. John, and that is enough for me.’ - -He did not make any reply; nor did he repeat the mysterious promise of -advantage to follow upon Anne’s disobedience. He was not so frank with -his wife as he had been with his daughter. He went to his writing-table -once more, and sat down before it with that air of having come to an end -of the subject under discussion which his wife knew so well. He did not -mean to throw any further light to her upon the possible good that might -result to Rose. To tell the truth, this possibility was to himself too -vague to count for much. In the first place, he expected Anne to be -frightened, and to give in; and, in the second place, he fully intended -to live long after both his daughters had married and settled, and to be -able to make what dispositions he pleased for years to come. He was not -an old man; he was still under sixty, and as vigorous (he believed) as -ever he had been. In such a case a will is a very pretty weapon to -flourish in the air, but it does nobody much harm. Mr. Mountford thought -a great deal of this threat of his; but he no more meant it to have any -speedy effect than he expected the world to come to an end. Perhaps most -of the injustices that people do by will are done in the same way. It is -not comprehensible to any man that he should be swept away and others -reign in his stead; therefore he is more free to make use of that -contingency than if he believed in it. There would always be plenty of -time to set it right; he had not the least intention of dying; but for -the moment it was something potent to conjure withal. He reseated -himself at his table, with a consciousness that he had the power in his -hands to turn his whole world topsy-turvy, and yet that it would not do -anybody any harm. Naturally, this feeling was not shared either by Anne, -to whom he had made the original threat, nor by his wife, to whom he -held out the promise. We all know very well that other people must -die--it is only in our own individual case that the event seems -unlikely. - -Mrs. Mountford’s mind was filled with secret excitement; she was eager -to know what her husband meant, but she did not venture to ask for any -explanation. She watched him over her work with a secret closeness of -observation such as she had never felt herself capable of before. What -did he mean? what would he do? She knew nothing about the law of -inheritance, except that entail kept an estate from the daughters, which -was a shame, she thought. But in respect to everything else her mind was -confused, and she did not know what her husband could do to benefit Rose -at Anne’s expense. But the more she did not understand, the more eager -she was to know. When you are possessed by an eager desire for the -enrichment of another, it does not seem a bad or selfish object as it -might do if the person to be benefited was yourself; and, least of all, -does it ever appear that to look out for the advantage of your child can -be wrong. But the poor lady was in the uncomfortable position of not -being able to inquire further. She could not show herself too anxious to -know what was to happen after her husband’s death; and even to take ‘the -worst’ for granted was not a pleasant thing, for Mrs. Mountford, though -naturally anxious about Rose, was not a hard woman who would wilfully -hurt anyone. She sat for some time in silence, her heart beating very -fast, her ears very alert for any word that might fall from her -husband’s mouth. But no word came from his mouth. He sat and turned over -the papers on the table; he was pleased to have excited her interest, -her hopes and fears, but he did not half divine the extent to which he -had excited her, not feeling for his own part that there was anything in -it to warrant immediate expectation: while she, on the other hand, -though she had a genuine affection for her husband, could not help -saying to herself, ‘He may go any day; there is never a day that some -one does not die; and if he died while he was on these terms with Anne, -what was it, what was it, that might perhaps happen to Rose?’ Mrs. -Mountford turned over in her mind every possible form of words she could -think of in which to pursue her inquiries; but it was very difficult, -nay, impossible, to do it: and, though she was not altogether without -artifice, her powers altogether failed her in presence of this difficult -question. At length she ventured to ask, clearing her throat with -elaborate precaution, - -‘Do you mean to say that if Anne sets her heart upon her own way, and -goes against you--all our children do it more or less; one gets -accustomed to it. St. John--do you mean to say----that you will change -your will, and put her out of the succession?----’ Mrs. Mountford -faltered over the end of her sentence, not knowing what to say. - -‘There is no succession. What I have is my own to do what I like with -it,’ he said sharply: and then he opened a big book which lay on the -table, and began to write. It was a well-known, if tacit, signal between -them, that his need of social intercourse was over, and that his wife -might go; but she did not move for some time. She went on with her -work, with every appearance of calm; but her mind was full of commotion. -As her needle went through and through the canvas, she cast many a -furtive glance at her husband turning over the pages of his big book, -writing here and there a note. They had been as one for twenty years; -two people who were, all the world said, most ‘united’--a couple devoted -to each other. But neither did she understand what her husband meant, -nor could he have believed the kind of feeling with which, across her -worsted work, she kept regarding him. She had no wish but that he should -live and thrive. Her position, her personal interests, her importance -were all bound up in him; nevertheless, she contemplated the contingency -of his death with a composure that would have horrified him, and thought -with much more keen and earnest feeling of what would follow than any -alarm of love as to the possibility of the speedy ending of his life -produced in her. Thus the two sat within a few feet of each other, -life-long companions, knowing still so little of each other--the man -playing with the fears and hopes of his dependents, while smiling in his -sleeve at the notion of any real occasion for those fears and hopes; the -woman much more intent upon the problematical good fortune of her child -than on the existence of her own other half, her closest and nearest -connection, with whom her life had been so long identified. Perhaps the -revelation of this feeling in her would have been the most cruel -disclosure had both states of mind been made apparent to the eye of day. -There was not much that was unnatural in his thoughts, for many men like -to tantalise their successors, and few men realise with any warmth of -imagination their own complete withdrawal from the pains and pleasures -of life; but to know that his wife could look his death in the face -without flinching, and think more of his will than of the event which -must precede any effect it could have, would have penetrated through all -his armour and opened his eyes in the most dolorous way. But he never -suspected this; he thought, with true human fatuity, with a little -gratified importance and vanity, of the commotion he had produced--that -Anne would be ‘pulled up’ in her career by so serious a threat; that -Rose would be kept ‘up to the mark’ by a flutter of hope as to the -reward which might fall to her. All this it pleased him to think of. He -was complacent as to the effect of his menaces and promises, but at -bottom he felt them to be of no great consequence to himself--amusing -rather than otherwise; for he did not in the least intend to die. - -At last Mrs. Mountford felt that she could stay no longer. She rose up -from her chair, and gathered her wools in one arm. ‘The girls will be -coming in from their ride,’ she said. ‘I must really go.’ - -The girls had all the machinery of life at Mount in their hands; in -other houses it is ‘the boys’ that are put forward as influencing -everything. The engagements and occupations of the young people map out -the day, and give it diversity, though the elder ones move the springs -of all that is most important. It was generally when ‘the girls’ were -busy in some special matter of their own that Mrs. Mountford came to -‘sit with’ her husband in the library, and furnished him with so much -information. But their positions had been changed to-day. It was he who -had been her informant, telling her about things more essential to be -known than any of her gossip about Anne’s intentions or Rose’s habits. -She lingered even as she walked across the floor, and dropped her little -plaited sheaf of many colours and stooped to pick it up, inviting -further confidence. But her husband did not respond. He let her go -without taking any notice of her proceedings or asking any question as -to her unusual reluctance to leave him. At last, when she had fairly -turned her back upon him, and had her hand upon the handle of the door, -his voice startled her, and made her turn round with anxious -expectation. - -‘By the way,’ he said, ‘I forgot to tell you: I have a letter to-day -from Heathcote Mountford, offering a visit. I suppose he wants to spy -out the nakedness of the land.’ - -‘Heathcote Mountford!’ cried his wife, bewildered; then added, after a -little interval, ‘I am sure he is quite welcome to come when he -pleases--he or anyone. There is no nakedness in the land that we need -fear.’ - -‘He is coming next week,’ said Mr. Mountford. ‘Of course, as you -perceive, I could not refuse.’ - -Mrs. Mountford paused at the door, with a great deal of visible interest -and excitement. It was no small relief to her to find a legitimate -reason for it. ‘Of course you could not refuse: why should you refuse? I -shall be very glad to see him; and’--she added, after a momentary pause, -which gave the words significance, ‘so will the girls.’ - -‘I wish I could think so; the man is forty,’ Mr. Mountford said. Then he -gave a little wave of his hand, dismissing his wife. Even the idea of a -visit from his heir did not excite him. He was not even conscious, for -the moment, of the hostile feeling with which men are supposed to regard -their heirs in general, and which, if legitimate in any case, is -certainly so in respect to an heir of entail. It is true that he had -looked upon Heathcote Mountford with a mild hatred all his life as his -natural enemy; but at the present crisis the head of the house regarded -his successor with a kind of derisive complacency, as feeling that he -himself was triumphantly ‘keeping the fellow out of it.’ He had never -been so certain of living long, of cheating all who looked for his -death, as he was after he had made use of that instrument of terrorism -against his daughter. Heathcote Mountford had not been at Mount for -nearly twenty years. It pleased his kinsman that he should offer to come -now, just to be tantalised, to have it proved to him that his -inheritance of the family honours was a long way off, and very -problematical in any sense. ‘A poor sort of fellow; always ailing, -always delicate; my life is worth two of his,’ he was saying, with -extreme satisfaction, in his heart. - - - - -CHAPTER XI. - -PROJECTS OF MARRIAGE. - - -The girls had just come in from their ride; they were in the hall -awaiting that cup of tea which is the universal restorative, when Mrs. -Mountford with her little sheaf of wools went to join them. They heard -her come softly along the passage which traversed the house, from the -library, in quite the other end of it, to the hall,--a slight shuffle in -one foot making her step recognisable. Rose was very clear-sighted in -small matters, and it was she who had remarked that, after having taken -her work to the library ‘to sit with papa,’ her mother had generally a -much greater acquaintance with all that was about to happen on the -estate or in the family affairs. She held up her finger to Anne as the -step was heard approaching. ‘Now we shall hear the last particulars,’ -Rose said; ‘what is going to be done with us all, and if we are to go to -Brighton, and all that is to happen.’ Anne was much less curious on -these points. Whether the family went to Brighton or not mattered little -to her. She took off her hat, and smoothed back her hair from her -forehead. It was October by this time, and no longer warm; but the sun -was shining, and the afternoon more like summer than autumn. Old Saymore -had brought in the tray with the tea. There was something on his very -lips to say, but he did not desire the presence of his mistress, which -checked his confidences with the young ladies. Anne, though supposed -generally to be proud, was known by the servants to be very gentle of -access, and ready to listen to anything that concerned them. And as for -Rose, old Saymore--who had, so to speak, seen her born--did not feel -himself restrained by the presence of Rose. ‘I had something to ask Miss -Anne,’ he said, in a kind of undertone, as if making a remark to -himself. - -‘What is it, Saymore?’ - -‘No, no,’ said the old man, shaking his head. ‘No, no; I am not such a -fool as I look. There is no time now for my business. No, no, Miss Anne, -no, no,’ he went on, shaking his head as he arranged the cups and -saucers. The sun, though it had passed off that side of the house, had -caught in some glittering thing outside, and sent in a long ray of -reflection into the huge old dark mirror which filled up one side of the -room. Old Saymore, with his white locks, was reflected in this from top -to toe, and the shaking of the white head produced a singular commotion -in it like circles in water. He was always very deliberate in his -movements; and as Mrs. Mountford’s step stayed in the passage, and a -sound of voices betrayed that she had been stopped by some one on the -way, Rose, with ideas of ‘fun’ in her mind, invited the arrested -confidence. ‘Make haste and speak,’ she said, ‘Saymore; mamma has -stopped to talk to Worth. There is no telling how long it may be before -she comes here.’ - -‘If it’s Mrs. Worth, it may be with the same object, miss,’ said -Saymore, with solemnity. And then he made a measured, yet sidelong step -towards Anne. ‘I hope, Miss Anne, you’ll not disapprove?’ - -‘What do you want me to approve of, Saymore? I don’t think it matters -very much so long as mamma is pleased.’ - -‘It matters to me, Miss Anne; it would seem unnatural to do a thing that -was really an important thing without the sanction of the family; and I -come from my late lady’s side, Miss Anne. I’ve always held by you, miss, -if I may make so bold as to say it.’ - -Saymore made so bold as to say this often, and it was perfectly -understood in the house; indeed it was frequently supposed by new-comers -into the servants’ hall that old Saymore was a humble relation of the -family on that side. - -‘It is very kind of you to be so faithful; tell me quickly what it is, -if you want to say it to me privately, and not to mamma.’ - -‘Miss Anne, I am an old man,’ he said; ‘you’ll perhaps think it -unbecoming. I’m a widower, miss, and I’ve no children nor nobody -belonging to me.’ - -‘We’ve known all that,’ cried Rose, breaking in, ‘as long as we’ve -lived.’ - -Saymore took no notice of the interruption; he did not even look at her, -but proceeded with gravity, though with a smile creeping to the corners -of his mouth. ‘And some folks do say, Miss Anne, that, though I’m old, -I’m a young man of my years. There is a deal of difference in people. -Some folks is older, some younger. Yourself, Miss Anne, if I might make -so bold as to say so, you’re not a _young_ lady for your years.’ - -‘No, is she?’ said Rose. ‘I always tell you so, Anne! you’ve no -imagination, and no feelings; you are as serious as the big trees. -Quick, quick, Saymore, mamma is coming!’ - -‘I’ve always been considered young-looking,’ said old Saymore, with a -complacent smile, ‘and many and many a one has advised me to better my -condition. That might be two words for themselves and one for me, Miss -Anne,’ he continued, the smile broadening into a smirk of consciousness. -‘Ladies is very pushing now-a-days; but I think I’ve picked out one as -will never deceive me, and, if the family don’t have any objections, I -think I am going to get married, always hoping, Miss Anne, as you don’t -disapprove.’ - -‘To get married?’ said Anne, sitting upright with sheer amazement. -Anne’s thoughts had not been occupied on this subject as the thoughts of -girls often are; but it had entered her imagination suddenly, and Anne’s -imagination was of a superlative kind, which shed a glory over -everything that occupied it. This strange, beautiful, terrible, -conjunction of two had come to look to her the most wonderful, -mysterious, solemn thing in the world since it came within her own -possibilities. All the comedy in it which is so apt to come uppermost -had disappeared when she felt herself walking with Cosmo towards the -verge of that unknown and awful paradise. Life had not turned into a -tragedy indeed, but into a noble, serious poem, full of awe, full of -wonder, entering in by those great mysterious portals, which were -guarded as by angels of love and fate. She sat upright in her chair, and -gazed with wide open eyes and lips apart at this caricature of her -fancy. Old Saymore? the peal of laughter with which Rose received the -announcement was the natural sentiment; but Anne had not only a deep -sense of horror at this desecration of an idea so sacred, but was also -moved by the secondary consciousness that old Saymore too had feelings -which might be wounded, which added to her gravity. Saymore, for his -part, took Rose’s laugh lightly enough, but looked at her own grave -countenance with rising offence. ‘You seem to think that I haven’t no -right to please myself, Miss Anne,’ he said. - -‘But who is the lady? tell us who is the lady,’ cried Rose. - -Saymore paused and held up a finger. The voices in the corridor ceased. -Some one was heard to walk away in the opposite direction, and Mrs. -Mountford’s soft shuffle advanced to the hall. ‘Another time, Miss Anne, -another time,’ he said, in a half whisper, shaking his finger in sign of -secresy. Then he walked towards the door, and held it open for his -mistress with much solemnity. Mrs. Mountford came in more quickly than -usual; she was half angry, half laughing. ‘Saymore, I think you are an -old fool,’ she said. - -Saymore made a bow which would have done credit to a courtier. ‘There’s -a many, madam,’ he replied, ‘as has been fools like me.’ He did not -condescend to justify himself to Mrs. Mountford, but went out without -further explanation. He belonged to the other side of the house; not -that he was not perfectly civil to his master’s second wife--but she was -always ‘the new mistress’ to Saymore, though she had reigned at Mount -for nearly twenty years. - -‘What does he mean, mamma?’ cried Rose, with eager curiosity. She was -fond of gossip, about county people if possible, but, if not, about -village people, or the servants in the house, it did not matter. Her -eyes shone with amazement and excitement. ‘Is it old Worth? who is it? -What fun to have a wedding in the house!’ - -‘He is an old fool,’ said Mrs. Mountford, putting the wools out of her -arm and placing herself in the most comfortable chair. ‘Give me a cup of -tea, Rose. I have been standing in the corridor till I’m quite tired, -and before that with papa.’ - -‘You were not standing when you were with papa?’ - -‘Well, yes, part of the time; he has a way--Anne has it too, it is very -tiresome--of keeping the most important thing he has to say till the -last moment. Just when you have got up and got to the door, and think -you are free, then he tells you. It is very tiresome--Anne is just the -same--in many things she is exceedingly like papa.’ - -‘Then he told you something important?’ cried Rose, easily diverted from -the first subject. ‘Are we to go to Brighton? What is going to happen? I -told Anne you would have something to tell us when we heard you had been -sitting with papa.’ - -‘Of course we consult over things when we get a quiet hour together,’ -Mrs. Mountford said; and then she made a pause. Even Anne felt her heart -beat. It seemed natural that her own affairs should have been the -subject of this conference; for what was there in the family that was -half so interesting as Anne’s affairs? A little colour came to her face, -then fled again, leaving her more pale than usual. - -‘If it was about me, I would rather not have my affairs talked over,’ -she said. - -‘My dear Anne,’ said Mrs. Mountford, ‘try not to get into the way of -thinking that everything that is interesting in the family must come -from you; this is a sort of way that girls get when they begin to think -of love and such nonsense; but I should have expected more sense from -you.’ - -Love and such nonsense! Anne’s countenance became crimson. Was this the -way to characterise that serious, almost solemn, mystery which had taken -possession of her life? And then the girl, in spite of herself, laughed. -She felt herself suddenly placed beside old Saymore in his grotesque -sentiment, and between scorn and disgust and unwilling amusement words -failed her; then the others laughed, which made Anne more angry still. - -‘I am glad to hear you laugh,’ said Mrs. Mountford, ‘for that shows you -are not so much on your high horse as I fancied you were. And yours is -such a very high horse, my dear! No, I don’t mean to say you were not -referred to, for you would not believe me; there was some talk about -you; but papa said he had spoken to you himself, and I never make nor -meddle between him and you, as you know, Anne. It was something quite -different. We are not going to Brighton, Rosie; some one is coming -here.’ - -‘Oh--h!’ Rose’s countenance fell. Brighton, which was a break upon the -monotony of the country, was always welcome to her. ‘And even Willie -Ashley gone away!’ was the apparently irrelevant observation she made, -with a sudden drooping of the corners of her mouth. - -‘What is Willie Ashley to you? you can’t have your game in winter,’ said -her mother, with unconscious cynicism; ‘but there is somebody coming who -is really interesting. I don’t know that you have ever seen him; -I have seen him only once in my life. I thought him the most -interesting-looking man I ever saw; he was like a hero on the stage, -tall and dark, with a natural curl in his hair; and such eyes!’ - -Rose’s blue and inexperienced orbs grew round and large with excitement. -‘Who is it? No one we ever saw; oh, no, indeed, I never saw a man a bit -like that. Who is it, mamma?’ - -Mrs. Mountford liked to prolong the excitement. It pleased her to have -so interesting a piece of news in hand. Besides, Anne remained perfectly -unmoved, and to excite Rose was too easy. ‘He is a man with a story -too,’ she said. ‘When he was quite young he was in love with a lady, a -very grand personage, indeed, quite out of the reach of a poor -gentleman like--this gentleman. She was an Italian, and I believe she -was a princess or something. That does not mean the same as it does -here, you know; but she was a great deal grander than he was, and her -friends would not let her marry him.’ - -‘And what happened?’ cried Rose breathless, as her mother came to an -artful pause. Anne did not say anything, but she leant forward, and her -eyes too had lighted up with interest. It was no part of Mrs. -Mountford’s plan to interest Anne, but, once entered upon her story, the -desire of the artist for appreciation seized upon her. - -‘What could happen, my dear?’ she said, pointedly adding a moral; ‘they -gave everybody a great deal of trouble for a time, as young people who -are crossed in anything always do; but people abroad make very short -work with these matters. The lady was married, of course, to somebody in -her own rank of life.’ - -‘And the gentleman?--it was the gentleman you were telling us about.’ - -‘The gentleman--poor Heathcote! well, he has got on well enough--I -suppose as well as other people. He has never married; but then I don’t -see how he could marry, for he has nothing to marry upon.’ - -‘Heathcote! do you mean Heathcote Mountford?’ - -It was Anne who spoke this time--the story had grown more and more -interesting to her as it went on. Her voice trembled a little as she -asked this hasty question; it quivered with sympathy, with wondering -pain. The lady married somebody--in her own rank in life--the man never -married at all, but probably could not because he had nothing to marry -on. Was that the end of it all--a dull matter-of-fact little tragedy? -She remembered hearing such words before often enough, but never had -given them any attention until now. - -‘Yes, I mean your cousin Heathcote Mountford. He is coming next week to -see papa.’ - -Rose had been looking from one to another with her round eyes full of -excitement. Now she drew a long breath and said in a tone of awe, ‘The -heir of the entail.’ - -‘Yes, the heir of the entail,’ said Mrs. Mountford solemnly. She looked -at her daughter, and the one pair of eyes seemed to take fire from the -other. ‘He is as poor--as poor as a mouse. Of course he will have Mount -when--anything happens to papa. But papa’s life is as good as his. He is -thirty-five, and he has never had much stamina. I don’t mean to say that -it is so generally, but sometimes a man is quite old at thirty-five.’ - -At this time very different reflections gleamed across the minds of the -girls. ‘Papa was nearly forty when mamma married him,’ Rose said to -herself with great quickness, while the thought that passed through -Anne’s mind was ‘Thirty-five--five years older than Cosmo.’ Neither one -thing nor the other, it may be said, had much to do with Heathcote -Mountford; and yet there was meaning in it, so far as Rose at least was -concerned. - -She was thoughtful for the rest of the day, and asked her mother several -very pertinent questions when they were alone, as ‘Where does Heathcote -Mountford live? Has he any money at all? or does he do anything for his -living? has he any brothers and sisters?’ She was determined to have a -very clear understanding of all the circumstances of his life. - -‘Oh yes, my love, he has a little,’ Mrs. Mountford said; ‘one says a man -has nothing when he has not enough to settle upon; but most people have -a little. I suppose he lives in London in chambers, like most unmarried -men. No, he has no brothers and sisters,--but, yes, I forgot there is -one--a young one--whom he is very much attached to, people say.’ - -‘And he will have Mount when papa dies,’ said Rose. ‘How strange that, -though papa has two children, it should go away to quite a different -person, not even a very near relation! It is very unjust; don’t you -think it is very unjust? I am sure it is not a thing that ought to be.’ - -‘It is the entail, my dear. You must remember the entail.’ - -‘But what is the good of an entail? If we had had a brother, it might -have been a good thing to keep it in the family; but surely, when we -have no brother, we are the proper heirs. It would be more right even, -if one person were to have it all, that Anne should be the person. -_She_,’ said Rose, with a little fervour, ‘would be sure to take care of -me.’ - -‘I think so too, Rosie,’ said her mother; ‘but then Anne will not always -just be Anne. She will marry somebody, and she will not have a will of -her own--at least not _such_ a will of her own. There is one way,’ Mrs. -Mountford added with a laugh, ‘in which things are sometimes put right, -Rose. Do you remember Mr. Collins in Miss Austen’s novel? He came to -choose a wife among the Miss Bennetts to make up for taking their home -from them. I am afraid that happens oftener in novels than in real life. -Perhaps,’ she said, laughing again, but with artificial mirth, ‘your -cousin Heathcote is coming to look at you girls to see whether he would -like one of you for his wife.’ - -‘I daresay,’ said Rose calmy; ‘that went through my mind too. He would -like Anne, of course, if he could get her; but then Anne--likes -somebody else.’ - -‘There are more people than Anne in the world,’ said the mother, with -some indignation. ‘Anne! we all hear so much of Anne that we get to -think there is nobody like her. No, my pet, a man of Heathcote -Mountford’s age--it is not anything like Anne he is thinking of; they -don’t want tragedy queens at that age; they want youth.’ - -‘You mean, mamma, said Rose, still quite serious, ‘that he would like me -best.’ - -‘My pet, we don’t talk of such things. It is quite time enough when they -happen, if they ever happen.’ - -‘But I prefer to talk about them,’ said Rose. ‘It would be very nice to -keep Mount; but then, if Anne had all the money, what would be the good -of Mount? We, I mean, could never keep it up.’ - -‘This is going a very long way,’ said her mother, amused; ‘you must not -talk of what most likely will never happen. Besides, there is no telling -what changes may take place. Anne has not pleased papa, and no one can -say what money she may have and what you may have. That is just what -nobody can tell till the time comes.’ - -‘You mean--till papa dies?’ - -‘Oh, Rosie,’ said Mrs. Mountford, alarmed, ‘don’t be so plain-spoken, -dear; don’t let us think of such a thing. What would become of us if -anything happened to dear papa?’ - -‘But it must happen some time,’ said Rose, calmly, ‘and it will not -happen any sooner because we speak of it. I hope he will live a long -time, long after we are both married and everything settled. But if one -of us was rich, it would not be worth her while to marry Heathcote, -unless she was very fond of Mount; and I don’t think we are so very fond -of Mount. And if one of us was poor, it would not be worth _his_ while, -because he would not be able to keep it up.’ - -‘That is the very best conclusion to come to,’ said her mother; ‘since -it would not be worth while either for the rich one or the poor one, you -may put that out of your head and meet him at your ease, as you ought to -meet an elderly cousin.’ - -‘Thirty-five is not exactly elderly--for a man,’ said Rose, -thoughtfully. She did not put the question out of her mind so easily as -her mother suggested. ‘But I suppose it is time to go and dress,’ she -added, with a little sigh. ‘No Brighton, and winter coming on, and -nobody here, not even Willie Ashley. I hope he will be amusing at -least,’ she said, sighing again, as she went away. - -Mrs. Mountford followed slowly with a smile on her face. She was not -sorry, on the whole, to have put the idea into her child’s head. Even -when the Mountfords of Mount had been poor, it was ‘a very nice -position’--and Heathcote had something, enough to live upon: and Rose -would have something. If they ‘fancied’ each other, worse things might -happen. She did not feel inclined to oppose such a consummation. It -would be better than marrying Willie Ashley, or--for of course _that_ -would be out of the question--wanting to marry him. Mrs. Mountford knew -by experience what it was for a girl to spend all her youth in the -unbroken quiet of a house in the country which was not really a great -house. She had been thirty when she married Mr. Mountford, and before -that time there had occurred sundry passages, involving at least one -ineligible young man, which had not quite passed from her memory. How -was it possible to help it?--a girl must do something to amuse herself, -to occupy the time that hangs so heavily on her hands. And often, she -reflected, before you know what you are doing, it has become serious, -and there is no way out of it. As she looked back she remembered many -instances in which this had happened. Better, far better, an elderly -cousin with an old though small estate, than the inevitable clergyman or -Willie Ashley. And thirty-five, for a man, was not an age to make any -objection to. - -She went upstairs with her head full of such thoughts, and there once -more she found Mrs. Worth, with whom she had held so earnest a colloquy -in the corridor, while Saymore opened his heart to his young ladies. -Mrs. Worth shook her head when her mistress addressed a question to her. -She pinned on the lace pelerine with which it was Mrs. Mountford’s pride -to make her old dresses look nice for the evening, with many shakings of -her head. - -‘I don’t know, ma’am, as I shall ever bring her to hear reason,’ Mrs. -Worth said. ‘I tell her as a good worthy man, and a nice little bit of -money, is not for any girl to despise, and many that is her betters -would be glad of the chance. But “you can’t put an old head on young -shoulders,” as the saying is, and I don’t know as I shall ever bring her -to hear reason. There’s things as nothing will teach us but experience -ma’am,’ Mrs. Worth said. - -‘Well, he _is_ old for such a girl, said Mrs. Mountford, candidly; ‘we -must not be too hard upon her, Worth.’ - -‘Old, ma’am! well, in one way he may be called old,’ said the -confidential maid; ‘but I don’t call it half so bad when they’re that -age as when they’re just betwixt and between, both old and young, as you -may say. Forty or so, that _is_ a worry; but sixty-five you can do with. -If I’ve told her that once I’ve told her fifty times; but she pays no -attention. And when you think what a nice little bit of money he’s put -away since he’s been here, and how respectable he is, and respected by -the family; and that she has nothing, poor girl! and nobody but me to -look to! I think, if Miss Anne were to speak a word to her, ma’am, -perhaps it would make a difference. They think a deal more of what a -young lady says, like themselves, so to speak, than an old person like -me.’ - - - - -CHAPTER XII. - -MISTRESS AND MAID. - - -Anne had gone upstairs some time before. At this time of her life she -liked to be alone, and there were many reasons why solitude should be -dear to her. For one thing, those who have just begun to thread the -flowery ways of early love have always a great deal to think of. It is -an occupation in itself to retrace all that has been done and said, nay, -even looked and thought, and to carry this dream of recollection on into -the future, adding what shall be to what has been. A girl does not -require any other business in life when she has this delightful maze -awaiting her, turning her room into a _Vita nuova_, another life which -she can enter at her pleasure, shutting impenetrable doors upon all -vulgar sights and sounds. In addition to this, which needed no addition, -she had something active and positive to occupy her. She had answered -Cosmo’s letter, thanking him for his offer to deny himself, to be silent -if she wished him to be silent. But Anne declared that she had no such -wish. ‘Do not let us make a folly of our correspondence,’ she had -written; ‘but neither must we deny ourselves this great happiness, dear -Cosmo, for the sake of my father. I have told my father that in this -point I cannot obey him. I should scorn myself now if I made believe to -obey him by giving up such intercourse as we can have. He has not asked -this, and I think it would not be honest to offer it. What he wanted was -that we should part altogether, and this we are not going to do. Write -to me then, not every day, nor even every week, to make it common, but -when your heart is full, and it would be an injustice to keep it from me -any longer. And so will I to you.’ The bargain, if somewhat highflown, -was very like Anne, and on this footing the letters began. Anne very -soon felt that her heart was always full, that there was constantly more -to say than a sheet of paper could carry; but she held by her own rule, -and only broke silence when she could not keep it any longer, which gave -to her letters a character of intensity and delicate passion most rare -and strange, which touched her lover with an admiration which sometimes -had a little awe in it. His own letters were delightful to Anne, but -they were of a very different character. They were full of genuine love; -for, so far as that went, there was nothing fictitious in his -sentiments; but they were steady-going weekly letters, such as a man -pens on a certain day and sends by a certain post, not only to the -contentment of his own heart, but in fulfilment of what is expected of -him, of what it is indeed his duty to do. This made a great difference; -and Cosmo--who was full of intellectual perceptions and saw more clearly -than, being not so complete in heart as in mind, it was to his own -comfort to see--perceived it very clearly, with an uneasy consciousness -of being ‘not up to’ the lofty strain which was required of him. But -Anne, in her innocence and inexperience, perceived it not. His letters -were delightful to her. The words seemed to glow and shine before her -eyes. If there was a tame expression, a sentence that fell flat, she set -it down to that reticence of emotion, that English incapacity for saying -all that is felt and tendency to depreciate itself, which we all believe -in, and which counts for so much in our estimates of each other. These -letters, as I have said, added an actual something to be done to the -entrancing occupation of ‘thinking over’ all that had happened and was -going to happen. Whenever she had a little time to spare, Anne, with her -heart beating, opened the little desk in which she kept these two or -three precious performances. I think, indeed, she carried the last -always about her, to be re-read whenever an occasion occurred: and it -was with her heart intent upon this gratification, this secret delight -which nobody knew of, that she went into her room, leaving her sister -and stepmother still talking over their tea in the hall. More sweet to -her than the best of company was this pleasure of sitting alone. - -But on this occasion she found herself not alone. Though the -dressing-bell would not ring for about an hour, Keziah was already there -preparing her young lady’s evening toilette. She was standing with her -back to the door laying out Anne’s dress upon the bed, and crying softly -to herself. Keziah was very near Anne’s age, and they had been in a -manner brought up together, and had known everything that had happened -to each other all their lives. This makes a bond between mistress and -maid, not common in the ordinary relationships which we form and break -so easily. To see Keziah crying was not a matter of indifference to -Anne; but neither was it a matter of alarm, for it was not difficult to -make Keziah cry. Some one, no doubt, had been scolding the girl; her -aunt, who was very strict with her, or the cook, who was -half-housekeeper and apt to find fault with the younger servants. Anne -stepped forward with her light foot, which Keziah, in her agitation, did -not hear, and put her hand on the girl’s shoulder. But this, which was -done in all kindness, had tragical results. Keziah started violently, -and a great big tear, as large as half-a-crown, fell upon the airy -skirts of the dress which the was opening out on the bed. The poor girl -uttered a shriek of dismay. - -‘Oh, Miss Anne! I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean it!’ she cried. - -‘What is it, Keziah? There is no harm done; but why are you crying? Has -anything happened at home? Have you bad news? or is it only Worth that -has been cross again?’ - -‘I’m silly, Miss Anne, that’s what it is,’ said Keziah, drying her eyes. -‘Oh, don’t pity me, please, or I’ll only cry more! Give me a good -shaking; that’s what I want, as aunt always says.’ - -‘Has she been scolding you?’ said Anne. It was not the first time that -she had found Keziah in tears; it was not an alarming occurrence, nor -did it require a very serious cause. - -‘But to think,’ cried the girl, ‘that I should be such a silly, me that -ought to know better, as to go and cry upon an Indian muslin, that -oughtn’t to go to the wash not for ever so long! Aunt would never -forgive me if she knew; and oh, I’m bad enough already without that! If -I could only tell you, Miss Anne! Morning or evening she never lets me -be. It’s that as makes me so confused, I don’t know what I’m doing. -Sometimes I think I’ll just take and marry him, to have done with him -and her too.’ - -‘Marry him? is that what is the matter? It must be some one you don’t -like, or you wouldn’t cry so.’ - -‘It isn’t so much that I don’t like him. If that was all,’ said Keziah, -with philosophy, ‘I wouldn’t mind so much. Many a girl has had the same -to do. You have to take the bitter with the sweet, as aunt always says.’ - -‘Keziah!’ exclaimed Anne, with consternation. ‘You wouldn’t mind! then -what are you crying for? And why do you try to cheat me into sympathy,’ -cried the young lady, indignantly, ‘if you don’t mind, as you say?’ - -Keziah by this time had mastered her tears. She had dried the spot -carefully and tenderly with a handkerchief, pressing the muslin between -two folds. - -‘Miss Anne,’ she said, ‘don’t you say as I’m cheating, or my heart will -break. That is one thing nobody can say of me. I tell him honest that I -can’t abide him, and if he will have me after that, is it my fault? No, -it’s not that,’ she said shaking her head with the melancholy gravity of -superior experience: ‘I wasn’t thinking just of what I’d like. You -ladies do what you please, and when you’re crossed, you think the world -is coming to an end; but in our class of life, you’re brought up to know -as you can’t have your own way.’ - -‘It is not a question of having your own way. How could you marry a man -you did not--love?’ cried Anne, full of wrath and indignation, yet with -awe of the sacred word she used. Was it too fine a word to be used to -little Keziah? The girl gazed at her for a moment, half-roused, -half-wondering; then shook her head again. - -‘Oh, Miss Anne, _love_! a girl couldn’t love an old man like that; and -he don’t look for it, aunt says. And he’d think a deal of me, more -than--than others might. It’s better to be an old man’s darling than a -young man’s slave. And he’s got plenty of money--I don’t know how -much--in the bank; and mother and all of us so poor. He would leave it -to me, every penny. You can’t just hear that, Miss Anne, can you, and -take no notice? There’s a deal to be said for him, I don’t deny it; and -if it was only not being fond of him, I shouldn’t mind that.’ - -‘Then you must not ask me to be sorry for you,’ said Anne, with stern -severity, ‘if you could sell yourself for money, Keziah! But, no, no, -you could not do it, it is not possible--you, a girl just my age, and -brought up with me. You could not do it, Keziah. You have lived here -with me almost all your life.’ - -‘Miss Anne, you don’t understand. You’ve been used to having your own -way; but the like of us don’t get our own way. And aunt says many a lady -does it and never minds. It’s not that,’ said Keziah, with a fresh -outburst of tears. ‘I hope as I could do my duty by a man whether I was -fond of him or whether I wasn’t. No, it isn’t that: it’s--it’s the other -one, Miss Anne.’ - -And here the little girl hid her face in her hands and sobbed; while -Anne, her sternness melting in spite of herself, stood looking on with -the face of the recording angel, horrified by this new admission and -reluctant to write it down. - -‘Is there--another?’ she asked in a whisper of horror. - -Keziah uncovered her face; the tone in which she was addressed curdled -her blood; she turned her white, little, tear-stained countenance to her -mistress with an appalled look of guilt. She had not understood before, -poor little girl, how guilty she was. She had not known that it was -guilt at all. She was herself standing at the bar, a poor little -tremulous criminal in the blaze of Anne’s indignant eyes. - -‘Yes, Miss Anne.’ Keziah’s voice was almost inaudible; but her eyes kept -an astonished appeal in them against the tremendous sentence that seemed -to await her. - -‘Another whom you love. And you would give him up for this man who is -rich, who can leave you his money? Keziah! if this were true, do you -know what you would deserve? But I cannot believe it is true.’ - -‘Miss Anne!’ The poor little culprit regained a little courage; the -offence of a mercenary marriage did not touch her conscience, but to be -supposed to be laying claim without reason to a real lover went to her -heart. ‘Miss Anne; it’s quite true. We were always sweethearts, always -since we were little things. Him and me: we’ve always kept company. It’s -as true--as true! Nobody can say different,’ cried the girl, with a -fresh burst of angry tears. ‘You have seen him yourself, Miss Anne; and -all the village knows. Ask aunt, if you don’t believe me; ask anyone. -We’re as well known to be keeping company, as well known--as the Beeches -on Mount Hill.’ - -‘That is not what I mean, Keziah. What I can’t believe is that you could -make up your mind to--marry the man who is rich. What! leave the other -whom you love, and marry one whom you don’t love! However rich he was, -you would be miserable; and he, poor fellow! would be miserable too.’ - -‘Oh, Miss Anne, that’s what I am afraid of!’ cried the girl; ‘that’s -what I’m always saying to myself. I could face it if it were only -me--(for it’s a great thing to be well off, Miss Anne, for us as have -been so poor all our lives); but Jim will be miserable; that is what I -always say. But what can I do? tell me what can I do.’ - -‘I will tell you what you can do. Be faithful to Jim, Keziah; be -faithful to him whatever anyone says. Marry him, not the other. That is -the only thing to do.’ - -‘Marry him? But how can I marry him when he’s enlisted and gone off for -a soldier, and maybe I’ll never see him more?’ - -‘Enlisted!’ said Anne, for the moment taken aback; but she recovered -quickly, seeing the easiest way out of it. ‘Soldiers are allowed to buy -themselves out. I would rather a great deal do without a dress and give -you the money for his discharge. Anything would be better than to see -you sacrifice yourself--sell yourself. Oh, you could not do it! You -must not think of it any more.’ - -‘It’s not me, Miss Anne,’ said Keziah, mournfully; ‘it’s Mr. Saymore and -aunt.’ - -‘Old Saymore! is it old Saymore?’ Anne did not know how to speak with -ordinary patience of such a horrible transaction. ‘Keziah, this cannot -be put up with for a moment. If they frighten you, _I_ will speak to -them. Old Saymore! No, Keziah; it is Jim you must marry, since you love -him: and no one else.’ - -‘Yes, Miss Anne,’ said Keziah, very doubtfully; ‘but I don’t know,’ she -added, ‘whether Jim wanted me--to marry him. You see he is young, and he -had nothing but his weekly wage, when he was in work; and I don’t even -know if he wants to buy his discharge. Men is very queer,’ said the -girl, shaking her head with profound conviction, ‘and keeping company’s -not like marrying. Them that haven’t got you want you, and them that can -have you for the asking don’t ask. It is a funny world and men are -queer; things is not so straightforward before you to do one or another -as you think, Miss Anne.’ - -‘Then, at all events, there is one thing you can always do--for it -depends upon yourself alone. Marry no one, but be faithful, Keziah; -faithful to Jim if you love him; and, you may be sure, things will come -right at the last.’ - -‘I don’t know, Miss Anne,’ said Keziah, shaking her head; ‘it seems as -if it ought to; but it don’t always, as far as I can see. There’s -ladies, and real ladies, aunt says, as has just the same before them; -for if the man you like hasn’t a penny, Miss Anne, and other folks has -plenty, what, even if you’re a lady, is a girl to do?’ - -‘You can always be faithful, whatever happens,’ cried Anne, holding her -head high; ‘that depends only on yourself.’ - -‘If your folks will let you alone, Miss Anne.’ Keziah had dried her -tears, and Anne’s confidence had given her a little courage; but still -she felt that she had more experience of the world than her mistress, -and shook her little head. - -‘What can your “folks” do, Keziah? You have only to hold fast and be -true,’ cried Anne. Her eyes shone with the faith and constancy that were -in her. The very sight of her was inspiring. She looked like a woman who -might have rallied an army, standing up with her head high, defying all -danger. ‘They may make you unhappy, they may take everything from you; -but only yourself can change you. The whole world cannot do anything to -you if you remain true, and stand fast----’ - -‘Oh, Miss Anne, if we was all like you!’ said the girl, admiring but -despondent. But just then the dressing-bell began to ring, and poor -Keziah was recalled to her duties. She flew to the drawers and wardrobes -to lay out the miscellaneous articles that were needed--the evening -shoes, the ribbons, and little ornaments Anne was to wear. Then she -lingered for a moment before fulfilling the same office for Rose. ‘Don’t -you think, Miss Anne,’ she said, ‘if it comes to _that_ at the end: -don’t you think I mind for myself. I hope as I’ll do my duty, whoever -the man may be. I’m not one to stick to my own way when I see as I can’t -get it. It isn’t that I’m _that_ bent on pleasing myself----’ - -‘But Keziah, Keziah!’ cried Anne, provoked, distressed, and -disappointed, ‘when this is what you are thinking of, it is your duty to -please yourself.’ - -‘The Bible don’t say so, Miss Anne,’ said Keziah, with a little air of -superior wisdom as she went away. - -This discussion made the most curious break in Anne’s thoughts; instead -of spending the half-hour in blessed solitude, reading over Cosmo’s last -letter or thinking over some of his last words, how strange it was to -be thus plunged into the confused and darkling ways of another world, so -unlike her own! To the young lady it was an unalterable canon of faith -that marriage was only possible where love existed first. Such was the -dogma of the matter in England, the first and most important proviso of -the creed of youth, contradicted sometimes in practice, but never shaken -in doctrine. It was this that justified and sanctified all the rest, -excusing even a hundred little departures from other codes, little -frauds and compromises which lost all their guilt when done for the sake -of love. But here was another code which was very different, in which -the poor little heroine was ashamed to have it thought that, so far as -concerned herself, love was the first thing in question. Keziah felt -that she could do her duty whoever the man might be; it was not any wish -to please herself that made her reluctant. Anne’s first impulse of -impatience, and annoyance, and disgust at such a view of the question, -and at the high ground on which it was held, transported her for the -moment out of all sympathy with Keziah. No wonder, she thought, that -there was so much trouble and evil deep down below the surface when that -was how even an innocent girl considered the matter. But by-and-by -Anne’s imagination got entangled with the metaphysics of the question, -and the clear lines of the old undoubting dogmatism became less clear. -‘The Bible don’t say so.’ What did the Bible say? Nothing at all about -it; nothing but a rule of mutual duty on the part of husbands and wives; -no guidance for those who were making the first great decision, the -choice that must mean happiness or no happiness to their whole lives. -But the Bible did say that one was not to seek one’s own way, nor care -to please one’s self, as Keziah said. Was the little maid an unconscious -sophist in her literal adoption of these commands? or was Anne to -blame, who, in this point of view, put aside the Bible code altogether, -without being aware that she did so? Deny yourself! did that mean that -you were to consent to a mercenary union when your heart was against it? -Did that mean that you might profane and dishonour yourself for the sake -of pleasing others? Keziah thought so, taking the letter as her rule; -but how was Anne to think so? Their theories could not have been more -different had the width of the world been between them. - -And then the story of Heathcote Mountford glanced across her mind. This -was what had happened to him. His Italian princess, though she loved -him, had done her duty, had married somebody of her own rank, had left -the man she loved to bear the desertion as he could. Was it the women -who did this, Anne asked herself, while the men were true? It was bitter -to the girl to think so, for she was full of that visionary pride--born -both of the chivalrous worship and the ceaseless jibes of which they -have been the objects--which makes women so sensitive to all that -touches their sex. A flush of shame as visionary swept over her. If this -cowardly weakness was common to women, then no wonder that men despised -them; then, indeed, they must be inferior creatures, incapable of real -nobleness, incapable of true understanding. For a moment Anne felt that -she despised and hated her own kind; to be so poor, so weak, so -miserable; to persuade the nobler, stronger being by their side that -they loved him, and then weakly to abandon him; to shrink away from him -for fear of a parent’s scolding or the loss of money, or comfort, or -luxury! What indignation Anne poured forth upon these despicable -creatures! and to call it duty! she cried within herself. When you can -decide that one side is quite in the wrong, even though it be your own -side, there is consolation in it; then all is plain sailing in the moral -element, and no complication disturbs you. Though she felt it bitter, -and humiliating, and shameful, Anne clung to this point of view. She was -barely conscious, in the confused panorama of that unknown world that -spread around her, of some doubtful points on which the light was not -quite so simple and easy to identify. ‘Those that can have you for the -asking don’t ask you,’ Keziah said: and she had not been sure that her -lover wanted her to marry him, though she believed he would be miserable -if she abandoned him. And Heathcote Mountford, though he seemed to be so -faithful, had never been rich enough to make inconstancy possible. These -were the merest specks of shadow on the full light in which one side of -her picture was bathed. But yet they were there. - -This made an entire change in Anne’s temper and disposition for the -evening. Her mind was full of this question. When she went downstairs -she suffered a great many stories to be told in her presence to which, -on previous occasions, she would have turned a deaf ear; and it was -astonishing how many corresponding cases seem to exist in society--the -women ‘doing their duty’ weakly, giving in to the influence of some -mercenary parent, abandoning love and truth for money and luxury; the -men withdrawing embittered, disgusted, no doubt to jibe at women, -perhaps to hate them; to sink out of constancy into misanthropy, into -the rusty loneliness of the old bachelor. Her heart grew sad within her -as she pondered. Was it to be her fate to vindicate all women, to show -what a woman could do? but for the moment she felt herself too deeply -disgusted with her sex to think of defending them from any attack. To be -sure, there was that shadow in her picture, that fluctuation, that -uncomfortable balance of which she was just conscious--Jim who, perhaps, -would not have wanted to marry Keziah, though he loved her; and the -others who could not afford to commit any imprudence, who could marry -only when there was a fortune on what Mrs. Mountford would call ‘the -other side.’ Anne felt herself cooped in, in the narrowest space, not -knowing where to turn; ‘who could marry only when there was money on the -other side.’ Why, this had been said of Cosmo! Anne laughed to herself, -with an indignation and wrath, slightly, very slightly, tempered by -amusement. Where Cosmo was concerned she could not tolerate even a -smile. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII. - -HEATHCOTE MOUNTFORD. - - -The visit of the unknown cousin had thus become a very interesting event -to the whole household, though less, perhaps, to its head than to anyone -else. Mr. Mountford flattered himself that he had nothing of a man’s -natural repugnance towards his heir. Had that heir been five-and-twenty, -full of the triumph and confidence of youth, then indeed it might have -been difficult to treat him with the same easy tolerance; for, whatever -may be the chances in your own favour, it would be difficult to believe -that a young man of twenty-five would not, one way or the other, manage -to outlive yourself at sixty. But Heathcote Mountford had lived, his -kinsman thought, very nearly as long as himself; he had not been a young -man for these dozen years. It was half a lifetime since there had been -that silly story about the Italian lady. Nothing can be more easy than -to add on a few years to the vague estimate of age which we all form in -respect to our neighbours; the fellow must be forty if he was a day; and -between forty and sixty after all there is so little difference, -especially when he of forty is an old bachelor of habits perhaps not too -regular or virtuous. Mr. Mountford was one of the people who habitually -disbelieve in the virtue of their neighbours. He had never been a man -about town, a frequenter of the clubs, in his own person; and there was, -perhaps, a spice of envy in the very bad opinion which he entertained of -such persons. A man of forty used up by late hours and doubtful habits -is not younger--is as a matter of fact older--than a respectable married -man of sixty taking every care of himself, and regular as clockwork in -all his ways. Therefore he looked with good-humoured tolerance on -Heathcote, at whose rights under the entail he was almost inclined to -laugh. ‘I shall see them all out,’ he said to himself--nay he even -permitted himself to say this to his wife, which was going perhaps too -far. Heathcote, to be sure, had a younger brother; but then he was well -known to be a delicate, consumptive boy. - -To the ladies of the family he was more interesting, for various -reasons. Rose and her mother regarded him with perfectly simple and -uncomplicated views. If he should happen to prove agreeable, if things -fitted in and came right, why then--the arrangement was one which might -have its advantages. The original estate of Mount which was comprehended -in the entail was not a large one, but still it was not unworthy -consideration, especially when _he_ had a little and _she_ had a little -besides. Anne, it need not be said, took no such serious contingency -into her thoughts. But she too looked for Heathcote’s arrival with -curiosity, almost with anxiety. He was one who had been as she now was, -and who had fallen--fallen from that high estate. He had been loved--as -Anne felt herself to be loved; but he had been betrayed. She thought -with awe of the anguish, the horror of unwilling conviction, the dying -out of all beauty and glory from the world, which it must have been his -to experience. And he had lived long years since then, on this changed -earth, under these changed skies. She began to long to see him with a -fervour of curiosity which was mingled with pity and sympathy, and yet a -certain touch of delicate scorn. How could he have lived after, lived so -long, sunk (no doubt) into a dreamy routine of living, as if mere -existence was worth retaining without hope or love? She was more curious -about him than she had ever been about any visitor before, with perhaps -a far-off consciousness that all this might happen to herself, mingling -with the vehement conviction that it never could happen, that she was as -far above it and secure from it as heaven is from the tempests and -troubles of earth. - -The much-expected visitor arrived in the twilight of an October evening -just before dinner, and his first introduction to the family was in the -indistinct light of the fire--one of the first fires of the season, -which lighted up the drawing-room with a fitful ruddy blaze shining upon -the white dresses of the girls, but scarcely revealing the elder people -in their darker garments. A man in evening dress very often looks his -best: but he does not look romantic--he does not look like a hero--the -details of his appearance are too much like those of everybody else. -Anne, looking at him breathlessly, trying to get a satisfactory -impression of him when the light leaped up for a moment, found him too -vigorous, too large, too life-like for her fastidious fancy; but Rose -was made perfectly happy by the appearance of a man with whom it would -not be at all necessary, she thought, to be upon stilts. The sound of -his voice when he spoke dispersed ever so many visions. It was not too -serious, as the younger sister had feared. It had not the lofty -composure which the elder had hoped. He gave his arm to Mrs. Mountford -with the air of a man not the least detached from his fellow-creatures. -‘There will be a frost to-night,’ he said; ‘it is very cold outside; but -it is worth while being out in the cold to come into a cosy room like -this.’ Charley Ashley would have said the very same had it been he who -had walked up to dinner from the rectory. Heathcote had not been in the -house for years, not perhaps ever since all _that_ had happened, yet he -spoke about the cosy room like any chance visitor. It would not be too -much to say that there was a certain disgust in the revulsion with which -Anne turned from him, though no doubt it was premature to pass judgment -on him in the first five minutes like this. - -In the light of the dining-room all mystery departed, and he was seen as -he was. A tall man, strong, and well developed, with dark and very curly -hair tinged all about his temples with grey; his lips smiling, his eyes -somewhat serious, though kindling now and then with a habit of turning -quickly round upon the person he was addressing. Four pairs of eyes were -turned upon him with great curiosity as he took his seat at Mrs. -Mountford’s side; two of them were satisfied, two not so. This, Mr. -Mountford felt, was not the rusty and irregular man about town, for whom -he had felt a contempt; still he was turning grey, which shows a feeble -constitution. At sixty the master of Mount had not a grey hair in his -head. As for Anne, this grey hair was the only satisfactory thing about -him. She was not foolish enough to conclude that it must have turned so -in a single night. But she felt that this at least was what might be -expected. She was at the opposite side of the table, and could not but -give a great deal of her attention to him. His hair curled in sheer -wantonness of life and vigour, though it was grey; his voice was round, -and strong, and melodious. As he sat opposite to her he smiled and -talked, and looked like a person who enjoyed his life. Anne for her own -part scarcely took any part in the conversation at all. For the first -time she threw back her thoughts upon the Italian princess whom she had -so scorned and condemned. Perhaps, after all, it was not she who had -suffered the least. Anne conjured up a picture of that forlorn lady -sitting somewhere in a dim solitary room in the heart of a great silent -palace, thinking over that episode of her youth. Perhaps it was not she, -after all, that was so much in the wrong. - -‘I started from Sandhurst only this morning,’ he was saying, ‘after -committing all kinds of follies with the boys. Imagine a respectable -person of my years playing football! I thought they would have knocked -all the breath out of me: yet you see I have survived. The young fellows -had a match with men far too strong for them--and I used to have some -little reputation that way in old days----’ - -‘Oh, yes, you were a great athlete; you played for Oxford in University -matches, and got ever so many goals.’ - -‘This is startling,’ Heathcote said; ‘I did not know my reputation had -travelled before me; it is a pity it is not something better worth -remembering. But what do you know about goals, Miss Mountford, if I may -make so bold?’ - -‘Rose,’ said that little person, who was wreathed in smiles; ‘that is -Miss Mountford opposite. I am only the youngest. Oh, I heard from -Charley Ashley all about it. We know about goals perfectly well, for we -used to play ourselves long ago in the holidays with Charley and -Willie--till mamma put a stop to it,’ Rose added, with a sigh. - -‘I should think I put a stop to it! You played once, I believe,’ said -Mrs. Mountford, with a slight frown, feeling that this was a quite -unnecessary confidence. - -‘Oh, much oftener; don’t you recollect, Anne, you played football too, -and you were capital, the boys said?’ - -Now Anne was, in fact, much troubled by this revelation. She, in her -present superlative condition, walking about in a halo of higher things, -to be presented to a stranger who was not a stranger, and, no doubt, -would soon hear all about her, as a football player, a girl who was -athletic, a tom-boy, neither less nor more! She was about to reply with -annoyance, when the ludicrous aspect of it suddenly struck her, and she -burst into a laugh in spite of herself. ‘There is such a thing as an -inconvenient memory,’ she said. ‘I am not proud of playing football -now.’ - -‘I am not at all ashamed of it,’ said Rose. ‘I never should have known -what a goal was if I hadn’t played. Do you play tennis, _too_, Mr. -Heathcote? It is not too cold if you are fond of it. Charley said you -were good at anything--good all round, he said.’ - -‘That is a very flattering reputation, and you must let me thank Mr. -Charley, whoever he is, for sounding my trumpet. But all that was a -hundred years ago,’ Heathcote said; and this made up a little lost -ground for him with Anne, for she thought she heard something like a -sigh. - -‘You will like to try the covers,’ said Mr. Mountford. ‘I go out very -little myself now-a-days, and I daresay you begin to feel the damp, too. -I don’t preserve so much as I should like to do; these girls are always -interfering with their false notions; but, all the same, I can promise -you a few days’ sport.’ - -‘Is it the partridges or the poachers that the young ladies patronise?’ -Heathcote said. - -‘My dear,’ said Mrs. Mountford, ‘what is the use of calling attention -to Anne’s crotchets? She has her own way of thinking, Mr. Heathcote. I -tell her she must never marry a sportsman. But, indeed, she has a great -deal to say for herself. It does not seem half so silly when you hear -what she has got to say.’ - -Anne presented a somewhat indignant countenance to the laughing glance -of the new cousin. She would not be drawn into saying anything in her -own defence. - -‘You will find a little sport, all the same,’ said Mr. Mountford; ‘but I -go out very seldom myself; and I should think you must be beginning to -feel the damp, too.’ - -‘Not much,’ said the younger man, with a laugh. He was not only athletic -and muscular, but conscious of his strength, and somewhat proud of it. -The vigour in him seemed an affront to all Anne’s pre-conceived ideas, -as it was to her father’s comfortable conviction of the heir’s -elderliness; his very looks seemed to cast defiance at these two -discomfited critics. That poor lady in the Italian palace! it could not -have been she that was so much in the wrong, after all. - -‘I like him very much, mamma,’ cried Rose, when they got into the -drawing-room; ‘I like him immensely: he is one of the very nicest men I -ever saw. Do let us make use of him now he is here. Don’t you know that -dance you always promised us?--let us have the dance while Heathcote is -here. Old! who said he was old? he is delightful; and so nice-looking, -and such pretty curly hair.’ - -‘Hush, my pet, do not be too rapturous; he is very nice, I don’t deny; -but still, let us see how he bears a longer inspection; one hour at -dinner is not enough to form an opinion. How do you like your cousin -Heathcote, Anne?’ - -‘He is not at all what I expected,’ Anne said. - -‘She expected a Don Quixote; she expected a Lord Byron, with his collar -turned down; somebody that talked nothing but poetry. I am so glad,’ -said Rose, ‘he is not like that. I shall not mind Mount going to -Heathcote now. He is just my kind of man, not Anne’s at all.’ - -‘No, he is not Anne’s kind,’ said the mother. - -Anne did not say anything. She agreed in their verdict; evidently -Heathcote was one of those disappointments of which before she met Cosmo -the world had been full. Many people had excited generally her -curiosity, if not in the same yet in a similar way, and these had -disappointed her altogether. She did not blame Heathcote. If he was -unable to perceive his own position in the world, and the attitude that -was befitting to him, possibly it was not his fault. Very likely it was -not his fault; most probably he did not know any better. You cannot -expect a man to act contrary to his nature, Anne said to herself; and -she gave up Heathcote with a little gentle disdain. This disdain is the -very soul of toleration. It is so much more easy to put up with the -differences, the discrepancies, of other people’s belief or practice, -when you find them inferior, not to be judged by your standards. This -was what Anne did. She was not angry with him for not being the -Heathcote she had looked for. She was tolerant: he knew no better; if -you look for gold in a pebble, it is not the pebble’s fault if you do -not find it. This was the mistake she had made. She went to the other -end of the room where candles were burning on a table and chairs set out -around. It was out of reach of all the chatter about Heathcote in which -she did not agree. She took a book, and set it up before her to make a -screen before her gaze, and, thus defended, went off at once into her -private sanctuary and thought of Cosmo. Never was there a transformation -scene more easily managed. The walls of the Mount drawing-room divided, -they gave place to a group of the beeches, with two figures seated -underneath, or to a bit of the commonplace road, but no longer -commonplace--a road that led to the Manor. What right had a girl to -grumble at her companions, or any of their ways, when she could escape -in the twinkling of an eye into some such beautiful place, into some -such heavenly company, which was all her own? But yet there would come -back occasionally, as through a glass, an image of the Italian lady upon -whom she had been so hard a little while before. Poor Italian lady! -evidently, after all, Heathcote’s life had not been blighted. Had she, -perhaps, instead of injuring him only blighted her own? - -The softly-lighted room, the interchange of soft voices at one end, the -figure at the other intent upon a book, lighting up eyes full of dreams, -seemed a sort of enchanted vision of home to Heathcote Mountford when, -after an interval, he came in alone, hesitating a little as he crossed -the threshold. He was not used to home. A long time ago his own house -had been closed up at the death of his mother--not so much closed up but -that now and then he went to it with a friend or two, establishing their -bachelorhood in the old faded library and drawing-room, which could be -smoked in, and had few associations. But the woman’s part of the place -was all shut up, and he was not used to any woman’s part in his life. -This, however, was all feminine; he went in as to an enchanted castle. -Even Mrs. Mountford, who was commonplace enough, and little Rose, who -was a pretty little girl and no more, seemed wonderful creatures to him -who had dropped out of acquaintance with such creatures; and the elder -daughter was something more. He felt a little shy, middle-aged as he -was, as he went in. And this place had many associations; one time or -other it would be his own; one time or other it might come to pass that -he, like his old kinsman, would pass by the drawing-room, and prefer the -ease of the library, his own chair and his papers. At this idea he -laughed within himself, and went up to Mrs. Mountford on her sofa, who -stopped talking when she saw who it was. - -‘Mr. Mountford has gone to his own room. I was to tell you he has -something to do.’ - -‘Oh, papa has always an excuse!’ cried Rose; ‘he never comes here in the -evening. I am sure this room is far nicer, and we are far nicer, than -sitting there all by himself among those musty books. And he never reads -them even! he puts on his dressing-gown and sits at his ease----’ - -‘Hush, you silly child! When a gentleman comes to be papa’s age he can’t -be expected to care for the company of girls, even when they are his -own. I will take my work and sit with him by-and-by. You must not give -your cousin reason to think that you are undutiful to papa.’ - -‘Oh, never mind!’ said Rose; ‘Mr. Heathcote, come, and be on my side -against mamma. It is so seldom we have gentlemen staying here--indeed, -there are very few gentlemen in the county--there are daughters, nothing -but daughters, in most of the houses. And mamma has promised us a dance -whenever we could get enough men. I want her to give it while you are -here.’ - -‘While I am here; but you don’t suppose I am a dancing man?’ - -‘You can dance, I am sure,’ said Rose. ‘I can see it in your face; and -then you would make acquaintance with all the neighbours. It would be -dreadful when you come to live here after our time if you do not know a -soul. You must make acquaintance with everybody; and it would be far -more fun to have a ball than a quantity of dreary dinner-parties. Do -come here and be on my side against mamma!’ - -‘How can I be against my kind kinswoman,’ he said laughing, ‘who has -taken me in and received me so graciously, though I belong to the other -branch? That would be ingratitude of the basest sort.’ - -‘Then you must be against me,’ said Rose. - -‘That would be impossible!’ he said, with another laugh; and drew his -chair close to the table and threw himself into the discussion. Rose’s -bright little countenance lighted up, her blue eyes shone, her cheeks -glowed. She got a piece of paper and a pencil, and began to reckon up -who could be invited. ‘The men first,’ she said, with the deepest -gravity, furtively applying her pencil to her lips to make it mark the -blacker as in old school-room days; ‘the men must go down first, for we -are always sure of plenty of girls--but you cannot have a dance without -men. First of all, I will put down you. You are one to start with--Mr. -Heathcote Mountford; how funny it is to have a gentleman of the same -name, who is not papa!’ - -‘Ah! that is because you never had a brother!’ said Mrs. Mountford, with -a sigh; ‘it never seemed at all strange to us at home. I beg your -pardon, I am sure, Mr. Heathcote; of course it would have interfered -with you; but for girls not to have a brother is sad for them, poor -things! It always makes a great deal of difference in a girl’s life.’ - -‘What am I to say?’ asked Heathcote. ‘I am very sorry, but--how can I be -sorry when I have just become conscious of my privileges; it is an -extremely pleasant thing to step into this vacant post.’ - -‘A second cousin is not like a brother,’ said Rose; ‘but, anyhow, at a -dance you would be the man of the house. And you do dance? if you don’t -you must learn before the ball. We will teach you, Anne and I.’ - -‘I can dance a little, but I have no doubt lessons would do me good. Now -go on; I want to see my comrades and coadjutors.’ - -Rose paused with her pencil in her hand. ‘Mr. Heathcote Mountford, that -is one; that is a great thing to begin with. And then there is--then -there is--who shall I put down next? who is there else, mamma? Of course -Charley Ashley; but he is a clergyman, he scarcely counts. That is why a -garden-party is better than a dance in the country, because the -clergymen all count for that. I think there is somebody staying with the -Woodheads, and there is sure to be half-a-dozen at Meadowlands; shall I -put down six for Meadowlands? They must invite some one if they have not -so many; all our friends must invite some one--we must insist upon it,’ -Rose said. - -‘My dear, that is always the difficulty; you know that is why we have -had to give it up so often. In the vacation there is Willie Ashley; he -is always somebody.’ - -‘He must come,’ cried Rose, energetically, ‘for three days--that will be -enough--for three days; Charley must write and tell him. And then there -is--who is there more, mamma? Mr. Heathcote Mountford, that is an -excellent beginning, and he is an excellent dancer, and will go on all -the evening through, and dance with everybody. Still, we cannot give a -ball with only one man.’ - -‘I will send for my brother and some more of those young fellows from -Sandhurst, Mrs. Mountford, if you can put them up.’ - -‘If we can put them up!’ Rose all but threw herself into the arms of -this new cousin, her eyes all but filled with tears of gratitude. She -gave a little shriek of eagerness--‘Of course we can put them up; oh! -as many as ever you please, as many as you can get:--shall I put down -twenty for Sandhurst? Now we have a real ball in a moment,’ said Rose, -with enthusiasm. It had been the object of her desires all her life. - -‘Does Miss Mountford take no interest in the dance?’ Heathcote asked. - -‘Anne? Oh, she will take it up when it comes near the time. She will do -a great deal; she will arrange everything; but she does not take any -pleasure in planning; and then,’ said Rose, dropping her voice to a -whisper--‘Hush! don’t look to make her think we are talking of her; she -does not like to be talked of--Mr. Heathcote! Anne is--engaged.’ - -‘My dear child!’ cried her mother. ‘Mr. Heathcote, this is all nonsense; -you must not pay the least attention to what this silly child says. -Engaged!--what folly, Rose! you know your sister is nothing of the kind. -It is nothing but imagination; it is only your nonsense, it is----’ - -‘You wouldn’t dare, mamma, to say that to Anne,’ said Rose, with a very -solemn face. - -‘Dare! I hope I should dare to say anything to Anne. Mr. Heathcote will -think we are a strange family when the mother wouldn’t _dare_ to say -anything to the daughter, and her own child taunts her with it. I don’t -know what Mr. Heathcote would think of us,’ said Mrs. Mountford, -vehemently, ‘if he believed what you said.’ - -‘I do not think anything but what you tell me,’ said Heathcote, -endeavouring to smooth the troubled waters. ‘I know there are family -difficulties everywhere. Pray don’t think of making explanations. I am -sure whatever you do will be kind, and whatever Miss Mountford does will -spring from a generous heart. One needs only to look at her to see -that.’ - -Neither of the ladies thought he had paid any attention to Anne, and -they were surprised--for it had not occurred to them that Anne, -preoccupied as she was, could have any interest for the new comer. They -were startled by the quite unbounded confidence in Anne which he thus -took it upon him to profess. They exchanged looks of surprise. ‘Yes, -Anne has a generous heart--no one can deny that,’ Mrs. Mountford said. -It was in the tone of a half-unwilling admission, but it was all the -more effective on that account. Anne had listened to their voices, -half-pleased thus to escape interruption, half-disgusted to have more -and more proofs of the frivolity of the new comer: she had heard a -sentence now and then, an exclamation from Rose, and had been much -amused by them. She was more startled by the cessation of the sounds, by -the sudden fall, the whispering, the undertones, than by the -conversation. What could they be talking of now, and why should they -whisper as if there were secrets in hand? Next minute, however, when she -was almost roused to the point of getting up to see what it was, Mrs. -Mountford’s voice became audible again. - -‘Do you sing now, Mr. Heathcote? I remember long ago you used to have a -charming voice!’ - -‘I don’t know that it was ever very charming; but such as it is I have -the remains of it,’ he said. - -‘Then come and sing something,’ said Mrs. Mountford. What was it they -had been saying which broke off so suddenly, and occasioned this jump to -a different subject? But Anne composed herself to her dreams again, when -she saw the group moving towards the piano. He sang, too, then! sang and -danced and played football, after what had happened to him? Decidedly, -the Italian princess must have had much to be said on her side. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV. - -THE SPECTATOR’S VIEW. - - -A few days passed, and the new cousin continued to be very popular at -Mount. Mrs. Mountford made no secret of her liking for him. - -‘Of course,’ she said, ‘I was never partial to the other branch, -especially having no son myself. The Mount family has never liked them. -Though they have always been poor, they have claimed to be the elder -branch, and when your property is to go away from you without any fault -of yours, naturally you are not fond of those to whom it goes. But with -Heathcote one forgets all these prejudices. He is so thoroughly nice, he -is so affectionate. He has no family of his own (unless you call his -delicate brother a family), and anyone can see how he likes ladies’ -society. Mr. Mountford thinks as much of him as we do. I quite look -forward to introducing him to our friends; and I hope he may get to be -popular in the county, for now that we have made such friends with him, -he will be often here I trust.’ - -Such was the excellent opinion his cousin’s wife expressed of him. It is -needless to say that her neighbours imputed motives to poor Mrs. -Mountford, and jumped at the cause of her partiality. ‘She means him to -marry Rose,’ everybody said; and some applauded her prudence; and some -denounced her selfishness in sacrificing Rose to a man old enough to be -her father; but, on the whole, the county approved both the man himself -and the opportunity of making his acquaintance. He was asked to dinner -at Meadowlands, which was all that could be desired for any visitor in -the neighbourhood. The Mountfords felt that they had done their utmost -for any guest of theirs when they had procured them this gratification. -And Lord Meadowlands quite ‘took to’ Heathcote. This was the best thing -that could happen to anyone new to the county, the sort of thing on -which the other members of society congratulated each other when the -neophyte was a favourite, taking each other into corners and saying: ‘He -has been a great deal at the Castle,’ or ‘He has been taken up by Lord -Meadowlands.’ Thus the reception given to the heir of entail was in -every way satisfactory, and even Mr. Mountford himself got to like him. -The only one who kept aloof was Anne, who was at this moment very much -preoccupied with her own thoughts; but it was not from any dislike to -the new member of the household. He had not fulfilled her expectations. -But that most probably was not his fault. And, granting the utter want -of delicate perception in him, and understanding of the rôle which ought -to have been his in the circumstances, Anne, after a few days, came to -think tolerably well of her new kinsman. He was intelligent: he could -talk of things which the others rejected as nonsense or condemned as -highflown. On the question of the cottages, for instance, he had shown -great good sense; and on the whole, though with indifference, Anne -conceded a general approval to him. But they did not draw together, or -so at least the other members of the family thought. Rose monopolised -him when he was in the drawing-room. She challenged him at every turn, -as a very young and innocent girl may do, out of mere high spirits, -without conscious coquetry at least: she contradicted him and defied -him, and adopted his opinions and scoffed at them by turns, keeping him -occupied, with an instinctive art which was quite artless, and meant -‘fun’ more than anything serious. At all this pretty play Anne looked on -without seeing it, having her head full of other things. And the mother -looked on, half-afraid, half-disapproving (as being herself of a -stricter school and older fashion), yet not sufficiently afraid or -displeased to interfere; while Heathcote himself was amused, and did not -object to the kittenish sport of the pretty little girl, whose father -(he said to himself) he might have been, so far as age went. But he kept -an eye, notwithstanding, on ‘the other girl,’ whom he did not -understand. That she was ‘engaged,’ and yet not permitted to be spoken -of as ‘engaged’--that there was some mystery about her--was evident. A -suspicion of a hidden story excites every observer. Heathcote wanted to -find it out, as all of us would have done. As for himself, he was not -incapable of higher sentiments, though Anne had easily set him down as -being so: but his experiences had not been confined to one romantic -episode, as she, in her youthful ignorance, had supposed. The story was -true enough, but with a difference. The Italian princess was not a noble -lady compelled to wed in her own rank and relinquish her young -Englishman, as Mrs. Mountford had recounted it, but a poor girl of much -homelier gentility, whose lot had been fixed long before Heathcote -traversed her simple path, and who fulfilled that lot with a few tears -but not very much reluctance, much more in the spirit of Keziah than of -Anne. Heathcote himself looked back upon the little incident with a -smile. He would have gone to the ends of the earth to serve her had she -wanted his help, but he did not regret that Antonia had not been his -wife all these years. Perhaps he would have required a moment’s -reflection to think what anyone could mean who referred to this story. -But even the fact that such an episode was of no special importance in -his life would have been against him with Anne in the present state of -her thoughts. She would not have allowed it as possible or right that a -man should have gone beyond the simplicity of such an incident. In her -experience love was as yet the first great fact, the one enlightener, -awakener of existence. It had changed her own life from the foundation, -nay, had given her an individual, separate life, as she fondly thought, -such as, without this enchantment, no one could have. But Heathcote had -lived a great deal longer, had seen a great deal more. He had been -‘knocked about,’ as people say. He had seen the futility of a great many -things upon which simple people set their hopes; he had come to be not -very solicitous about much which seems deeply important to youth. -Thirty-five had worked upon him its usual influence. But of all this -Anne knew nothing, and she put him aside as a problem not worth -solution, as a being whose deficiencies were deficiencies of nature. She -was more interesting to him. She was the only one of the house who was -not evident on the surface. And his interest was stimulated by natural -curiosity. He wanted to know what the story was which the child-sister -referred to so frankly, which the mother wanted to ignore. There was -even a something in the intercourse between Anne and her father which -caught his attention. They were on perfectly good terms--but what was -it? He was a man who took things as they came, who did not feel a very -profound interest in anything--save one thing. But this little mystery -reflected in Anne’s serious eyes, and pervading the house with a sense -of something not apparent, roused the dormant sentiment more than he -could have thought possible. - -The one thing that interested Heathcote Mountford to the bottom of his -heart was his young brother, for whom he had a tender, semi-parental -passion, preferring his concerns above everything else in the world. It -was this, indeed, which had brought him to Mount with a proposal which -he could not but feel that Mr. Mountford would grasp at. He had come to -offer to his predecessor in the entail that they should join together -and break it--a singular step for an heir in his position to take. But -as yet he had said nothing about this chief object of his visit. When he -formed the project it had not cost him much. What did he want with an -estate and a big house to keep up, he had said to himself in the -snugness of his bachelor’s chambers, so much more comfortable than -Mount, or any other such big barrack of a place could ever be made? He -had already a shabby old house to which he went now and then to shoot, -and which--because Edward (not to speak of himself) had been born in it, -and their mother had died in it, as well as many generations of Edwards -and Heathcotes in the past--could not be done away with, however -melancholy and dismal it might get to be. But Mount had no associations -for him. Why should not St. John’s girls have it, as was just and -natural? The Mountfords of Mount were not anything so very great that -heaven and earth should be moved to keep them up. Besides, he would not -be of much use in keeping them up; he never meant to marry (not because -of Antonia, but probably because of ‘knocking about’ and forgetting that -any one thing in the world was more important than any other), and -Edward was delicate, and there was no telling what the boy might -do;--far better to have a good sum of money, to set that wayward fellow -above the reach of trouble, and leave it to St. John’s girls to provide -for the race. No doubt they would do that fast enough. They would marry, -and their children could take the name. Thus he had his plans all cut -and dry before he reached Mount. But when he got there, either the -reserve of Mr. Mountford’s manner, or some certain charm in the place -which he had not anticipated, deferred the execution of it. He thought -it over and arranged all the details during each day’s shooting, -notwithstanding that the gamekeepers insisted all the time on -discoursing with him upon the estate, and pointing out what should be -done under a new reign which the present master did not care to have -done; but in the evening he was too tired (he said to himself) to open -so important a subject; and thus day after day went on. Perhaps the -discourses even of the gamekeepers, and their eagerness to point out to -him the evils that were to be amended at presumably the not very distant -period when a new monarch should reign, and the welcome he received from -the people he met, and the success he had at Meadowlands, and the -interest which he excited in the county, had something to do with the -disinclination to open the subject which seemed to have crept upon him; -or probably it was only laziness. This was the reason which he assigned -to himself--indolence of mind, which was one of his besetting sins he -knew. But, anyhow, whatever was the cause, he had as yet said nothing on -the subject. He had accepted all the allusions that were made to his -future connection with the county, and the overtures of friendship; and -he had owned himself flattered by the attentions of Lord Meadowlands: -everything had gone indeed precisely as things might have gone had he -fully accepted his position as heir of the Mountfords. Nobody for a -moment doubted that position: and still he did nothing to undeceive -them, nothing to show his real disinclination to assume the burden of -the ownership of Mount. Was he really so disinclined to accept it? After -this week of the new life his head seemed confused on the subject, and -he was not quite so sure. - -But all the same he felt instinctively that Anne would make a far better -squire than he should. He had gone through the village with the girls, -and he had seen how everything centred in Anne. Though there was (he -thought) a certain severity in her, the village people evidently did not -feel it. They were more at home with her than even with her little -sister. The rector came up to her in the street, and put his arm within -hers, and led her away to see something which had to be done, with a -mixture of authority and appeal which touched the looker-on. Mr. Ashley -was old and feeble, and there was something pretty in the way in which -he supported himself at once physically and morally on the young, slim, -elastic strength of the girl, who was the natural born princess of the -place. At the schools she was supreme. Wherever she went, it was -evidently recognised that she was the representative at once of law and -of power. Heathcote, who had not been used to it, looked upon her with -surprise and a wondering admiration. ‘You are in great demand,’ he said. -‘You have a great deal to do. You seem to have the government of the -place in your hands.’ - -‘Papa is not so active as he used to be,’ Anne said. ‘Besides, there are -so many little things which come more naturally to me.’ - -‘You are princess regent,’ he said: ‘I see; you act for the king, but -you are more than the king. A man could never do that.’ - -‘Men can do a great deal more than women in everything,’ said Anne, with -decision. - -‘Oh! can they? I should not have said so; but no doubt you know best.’ - -‘If they cannot, what is the meaning of everything that is said in the -world, Mr. Heathcote? you would have to change the entire language. We -are never supposed to be good for anything. What is life to us is -supposed to be an amusement to you.’ - -‘This is a new light,’ said Heathcote, somewhat startled. He had no idea -that it was poor Antonia, the mother of half a dozen children, who was -in Anne’s mind all the time. - -‘Anne, don’t! Mamma says you should never talk like that to gentlemen; -they will think you go in for women’s rights and all sorts of horrible -things. She doesn’t, cousin Heathcote. She only wants to make you -stare.’ - -‘I think I go in for everybody’s rights; I don’t mind whether they are -women or men,’ said Anne. ‘Mrs. Fisher, what is the matter? The children -don’t come to school, and Johnny has left the choir. There must be some -reason for all that.’ - -‘Miss Anne,’ said the woman, with a smirk and a curtsey, ‘Johnny’s been -in the rectory kitchen learning to be a boy. Mr. Douglas, miss, that was -stopping at the rectory, took a fancy to him, and old Simes is -a-training of him. Mr. Douglas--that’s the gentleman--is going to have -him at his house in town, Miss Anne. You knows him, Johnny says.’ - -At this Rose gave vent to a suppressed giggle, and the woman smirked -more broadly than ever. But these signs might not have caught the -attention of Heathcote but for the violent flush which he saw overspread -Anne’s face. His attention was roused on the moment. - -‘Mr. Douglas has been gone for some time,’ he heard Anne say. A note had -got into her voice that had not been there before--a softness, a -roundness, a melting of the tones. Mr. Douglas!--who was he? Heathcote -said who was the fellow? within himself with an instinctive opposition. -‘The fellow’ had nothing whatever to do with him, yet he disliked him at -once. - -‘Yes, Miss Anne; but Johnny has been in the rectory kitchen a-training -ever since the gentleman went away.’ - -Anne made the woman a little friendly sign with her hand and went on. -She did not pursue her inquiries as officer of the school any more: she -accepted the excuse, though it was no excuse; which showed, he said to -himself with a smile, how efficient female officers of school boards -would be. Perhaps she was half humbled by this evidence of being too -easily satisfied. She volunteered a profession of her faith. - -‘I do not approve of too stringent measures: you ought not to set up one -arbitrary rule; you ought to take the circumstances into consideration.’ -All this was said with a little heat. ‘I suppose why school boards have -been so unpopular where they exist is very much because of that.’ - -Again a little giggle escaped from the bosom of Rose; but it was quickly -suppressed. She gave Heathcote a significant look, as Anne was stopped -by some one else who wanted to speak to her. ‘That was the gentleman,’ -Rose whispered, with mischievous delight. - -Well, if it was the gentleman! Heathcote thought, he was a lucky fellow; -but the idea of giving up Mount was from that moment less pleasant, he -could scarcely tell why. He did not relish the notion of some fellow -called Douglas, probably some Scotsman who would not part with his very -ordinary name for a king’s ransom, coming into possession of the old -place. Who was Douglas? On the whole, Heathcote for the first time -acknowledged to himself that there might be two sides to the question, -and that there was something wrong and faithless in separating the old -name of Mountford and the male heir from Mount. - -Next day, however, by accident further light was thrown to him on this -question. The principal post came in at noon, and it was the habit of -the house that the letters which came by it should be ranged upon one of -the tables in the hall, in little heaps, where their respective owners -found them. Coming in to get his share of the budget, Heathcote found -that Mr. Mountford was there before him. He had his letters in his left -hand, but with his right had taken up another which lay on Anne’s heap. -He was balancing it in his fingers half-contemptuous, half-angry, when -Heathcote, with the involuntary indiscretion which so often belongs to -the innocent, knowing no reason why anything should be done in secret, -paused behind him, and saw at a glance what he was about. It was not -anything tragical: Mr. Mountford had no intention of tampering with -Anne’s letter: but he held it up, and turned it over, and looked at it -all round with a look of disgust on his countenance. By this time -Heathcote had been awakened to the sense that he was prying into a -domestic mystery, he who had no right to do so, and he hastened to -gather his own letters from the table. Mrs. Mountford by this time had -come in, on the same errand. Her husband held the letter up to her with -an indignant ‘humph!’ ‘Do you see? She is keeping it up in spite of all -I have said.’ - -‘I don’t want to see it,’ said the stepmother, nervously; ‘put it down. -I have nothing to do with Anne’s letters, papa!’ - -And then a sort of sensation spread through the room, he could not tell -what, and Heathcote became aware that Anne herself had come in. She -walked straight to the table where her father stood, still with her -letter in his hand. She recognised it in his hand with a sudden flush of -consciousness, and stood facing him, saying nothing, pale now, but with -courage, not fear. - -‘This is for you apparently, Anne; you are keeping up the correspondence -whatever I may say.’ - -‘Yes, papa, I am keeping it up.’ She put out her hand and took the -letter. She made no explanation or excuse; but went away with it, -slowly, with a sort of formal dignity. It was a strange little scene. -The observer seemed to see the story rising like a picture before -him--as Anne had thought she saw his story--but more distinctly as being -more near. He was more interested than he could say. He had no right to -inquire into what was so distinctly a family secret. If she only would -have confided in him, told him how it was!--but that he had no right to -expect. It made a visible commotion in the house for the rest of the -day. Little signs of agitation were visible, signs which without this -elucidation would only have puzzled, would have conveyed no -enlightenment to his mind. Anne did not appear at lunch. She had gone, -it was said, to the village, and no doubt had stopped to luncheon with -the Woodheads. And Mr. Mountford was gloomy and absent, yet at the same -time more alert than usual. ‘I am going to ride over to Hunston this -afternoon,’ he announced. ‘Perhaps you would like to go with me, -Heathcote, and see the place?’ - -‘What are you going to do at Hunston, papa? Let me come with you too: -let us all go together,’ said Rose. - -‘I am going to see Mr. Loseby,’ her father said; and this, though it had -no effect upon Rose, made her mother start slightly, and cast an anxious -look towards the head of the table. - -‘Do you think, St. John, it is a good day to go to Hunston? It is very -damp, and I am sure you will make your cold worse.’ - -Mrs. Mountford was not the soul of generosity: but she was far from -being unjust or cruel. She was afraid of what her husband might be going -to do, even should it be for the advantage of Rose. - -‘I think I can manage to take care of my cold,’ he said. - -‘But that is just what gentlemen never do. Don’t go to-day, St. John. -Wait till it is drier and brighter;’ she even got up from her chair and -went round to him and put her hand on his shoulder. ‘Wait till you have -had time to think.’ - -‘I have taken too much time to think,’ he said crossly, turning away his -head and rising from the table. ‘Heathcote, if you would like to come -with me, I shall be ready in half-an-hour.’ - -‘What is it, mamma?’ said Rose, half frightened too, as her father went -out of the room. Mrs. Mountford--the spectator always thought the better -of her for it--fell a-crying, without being able to restrain herself, -half in real distress, half in nervous excitement. ‘Oh, Mr. Heathcote, -if you can do anything to smooth him down, do so; I am afraid he is -going to--to tamper with his will!’ she cried. - - - - -CHAPTER XV. - -TAMPERING WITH A LAWYER. - - -The road to Hunston was a pleasant road. They went through the park -first, which was in all the glory of autumn colouring, the oaks and the -beeches a wonder to see, and even the slim elms all golden standing up -against a blue afternoon sky, in which already there began to appear -faint beginnings of purple and crimson as the sun got westward; and -after that the road ran between other parks, and more and more wealth of -russet or of golden foliage. But Mr. Mountford was not a very -entertaining companion. Heathcote when he was ‘at home’ was in very good -society--in society, that is to say, which was agreeable, where there -was much talk and great freedom of intercourse, and since he had been at -Mount he had found pleasure in the society of the girls, one of whom -amused him, while one interested him. Mr. Mountford, however, did -neither the one nor the other. He indicated the different houses with -his riding-whip as they passed. - -‘That’s Newton-Magna. The Newtons once contested the county with us. My -grandfather married a Newton--they are, therefore, connections. This is -where old Lady Prayrey Poule lives. She has just made a ridiculous -marriage, of which everybody is talking. I don’t know who the man is. -There is Meadowlands to the right, and that’s young Lassell’s place, -whom I suppose you have heard of.’ - -This was the style of his conversation. Sometimes he varied it by giving -his kinsman an account of the value of the livings and the goodness of -the land. - -‘It is worth so much an acre on this side of the river, and not half on -the other side. The land up my way is generally good, and the livings -are excellent. In my parish the living has always been held by a younger -son, but naturally there has been no younger son. Ah! you think that -Edward;--well, if I had known more of Edward, I might perhaps--but he is -quite young; there is plenty of time.’ - -Between the intervals, however, when he was not engaged with these local -details, Mr. Mountford had not much to say. He was not brilliant in -himself, and he was preoccupied. He had all the air of a man who was -going, as his wife said, to tamper with his will. When his companion -spoke to him he gave short answers: his thoughts were somewhere else. -When they approached the town he became still more brief in his -indications. - -‘The church is considered fine, I believe, and the High Street is a nice -street. I am going to Loseby’s, who is my lawyer. He has had all the -Mount affairs in his hands since ever I can remember, and much -longer--he and his father before him. He’ll like to make your -acquaintance; but in the meantime I have some business with him. Perhaps -you would like to look about the town a little.’ - -Heathcote said he would like to look about the town, and Mr. Mountford, -evidently gathering himself up with an effort, buttoned up a button -which had come undone of his coat, and with a very determined air -strode into the lawyer’s office. It was part of a tall red brick house, -which formed an important feature in the scene, a house with many rows -of windows, long and narrow, which twinkled in the setting sun. In -Heathcote’s mind there was a great deal of mingled curiosity and -sympathy. He would have liked to know what was going to happen, to be -behind Mr. Loseby’s curtains, or in some cupboard full of parchments. -There could be no doubt that something affecting Anne’s future was in -the wind. He laughed at himself, after a moment, to think how much -importance, how much gravity he was attaching to it. After all, he said -to himself, as Cosmo had done before, tyrannical fathers are a thing of -the past--nobody cuts off a child now-a-days with a shilling. No doubt -all Mr. Mountford meant was to tie up her money so that no worthless -fellow of a husband could get at it. But, though he felt that this was -the only reasonable interpretation of Mr. Mountford’s mission, yet the -various little scenes he had been a witness to made an impression upon -his mind in spite of himself. Anne standing grave and simple, facing her -father, holding out her hand for her letter, saying, ‘Yes, I keep it -up’--was it undutiful of the girl? and the father’s stern displeasure -and the mother’s (or stepmother was it? all the more credit to her) -excitement and distress. To be sure a family quarrel always threw a -house into agitation, even where no great harm was to be looked for. No -doubt it was undutiful of the girl. After all, if a parent is not to -have influence on that point, where is the use of him? And no doubt she -had chosen a man unworthy of her, or such a fuss never would have been -made. Heathcote was not a parent, but still he had in some respects the -responsibilities of a parent. Edward was delicate--he was not strong -enough to fight his way against the world; but he was not amiable, the -quality which ought to belong to all delicate and weakly persons, and -which makes up for so many deficiencies. He had strong passions in his -weak body. He had already got into various scrapes, out of which his -brother had been called upon to draw him. Heathcote had a letter in his -pocket now which had given him a great deal of thought. It had drawn him -back to his former conviction that Edward’s affairs were the most -important in the world. It was not in his power by himself to do all -that Edward wanted, to secure the boy’s comfort, so far as that was -possible. He must speak to Mr. Mountford on the ride home. It was not a -thing to be neglected any longer. This was the chief thing in his mind -as he walked about Hunston, looking into the old church and surveying -all the shops. He ‘made acquaintance,’ as his kinsman had bidden him, -with the quiet little county town, with a curious mingling of ideas in -his mind. In the first place, he could not but think how many -generations of Mountfords had trodden this pavement--ladies in -farthingales and men in periwigs, bucks of the Regency, sober -politicians of the period of Reform; and by-and-by it would be his own -turn--he too in his day would ride in on a steady-going old cob, like -St. John Mountford, or drive in the family coach to see his lawyer and -his banker and do his business. But no--he contradicted himself with a -little confusion--no, this was just what he was not to do. For the -moment he had forgotten his own purpose, the object that brought him to -the old home of the race--which was to sever himself from it. No, after -all, he said to himself with a smile, there was not very much to give -up; the pleasure of riding into the county town and receiving the -respectful salutations of all the shopkeepers: that was not much. The -Albany was a better place to live in, Piccadilly was a little more -entertaining than the High Street. Nevertheless, it was certain that -Heathcote felt a pinch of regret when he remembered that the glories of -Mount and the greetings of Hunston were not to be his. He laughed, but -he did not like it. All the more was it essential that this step should -be taken without delay. - -Heathcote examined everything there was to see in the place, and walked -three or four times from one end to another of the High Street, -awakening the greatest curiosity in the bosoms of all the shopkeepers, -and a flutter of futile hope and expectation behind the bonnets in the -milliner’s windows, where Miss Trimmin’s niece took this novel -apparition for the hero of her last romance. That a gentleman should see -a face at a window, and walk up and down High Street for an hour for the -chance of another glimpse of it, was not at all an out-of-the-way event -for the readers of the ‘Family Herald’--much more likely than that he -should be waiting for Mr. Mountford. When, however, the master of Mount -appeared at last, he bore all the outward signs of a prolonged combat. -His hair was rubbed up off his forehead, so that his hat rested upon the -ends of it, not upon his head. His eyes were agitated and rolling. Mr. -Loseby, a little stout old gentleman, with a large watchchain and seals, -came out after him with similar signs of commotion. The family lawyer -was red and breathless, while his companion was choked and pale. They -came out together with that air of formal politeness which follows a -quarrel, to the door. - -‘Heathcote,’ Mr. Mountford called, holding up his hand; ‘this is Mr. -Loseby, whose name must be known to you as the man of business of my -family for several generations. We have always had the utmost confidence -in them, as they have always done their best for us.’ - -‘After such an introduction,’ said Mr. Loseby, ‘I ought to make a bow -and hope for the continuance of custom and favour, which my best efforts -will be exerted to deserve.’ - -And then there was a forced laugh, in which some of the resentment of -the two elder men fortunately blew off. They stood together in a circle -at the door of the Queen Anne Mansion. Mr. Loseby only wore no hat. He -was bald and round and shining all over, a man to whom genial -good-humour was evidently more natural than the air of heat and -irritation which was upon him now. - -‘I hope we are to see something of Mr. Heathcote Mountford in the county -after this. I hope you mean to make acquaintance with your neighbours, -and feel yourself at home. The name of Mountford is a passport here.’ -(‘Though I don’t know why it should be--obstinate asses! pig-headed -fools!’ the puffing little lawyer said to himself.) - -‘I am here on false pretences,’ Heathcote said. ‘I fear I have been -taking in my cousin and his family and all their excellent friends. I -may as well tell it at last. My real object in coming was rather to -sever myself from the county than to draw the bond tighter----’ - -‘What do you mean?’ said Mr. Mountford, abruptly. - -‘Forgive me for saying nothing about it before. This is a good -opportunity now, when we have Mr. Loseby’s assistance. I came with the -express intention of making a proposal to you, St. John, about the -entail.’ - -Mr. Loseby looked first at the speaker and then at his client, forming -his lips into a round, as if he would have said, ‘Whew-w!’ This was -something altogether new. - -Mr. Mountford took no notice of his look; he said, still more abruptly -than before, ‘What about the entail?’ - -‘Pardon me if I say it,’ said Heathcote. ‘Mount is quite new to me; it -does not attract me’ (what a fib that was, he felt in his heart). ‘I -shall never marry. I have suffered the time for forming new connections -to pass, and my brother has indifferent health and no liking for country -life. On the other hand, it is natural that my cousin should prefer to -be succeeded by his own family. What I have to say is that I am very -willing, if you like it, to join with you in breaking the entail.’ - -‘In breaking the entail!’ Mr. Loseby’s mouth grew rounder and rounder: -he seemed to be forming one whistle after another, which came to -nothing. But he did not take time to express his own surprise or his own -opinion, so much was he occupied in watching the effect of this -announcement upon Mr. Mountford. The latter was dumbfoundered; he stood -and stared at the speaker with blank dismay and consternation. But it -did not apparently produce any livelier or happier impression upon his -mind. He was not eager to snatch at the opportunity of putting his own -child in his place. - -‘You must be cracked,’ he said; ‘do you know how long the Mountfords -have been at Mount?--the oldest house in the county, and, if not the -richest or the largest, in some ways by far the most interesting. -Heathcote, there must be something under this. If you are pressed for -money, if there is anything you want to do, I dare say Loseby will -manage it for you.’ - -‘I will do anything that is in reason,’ Mr. Loseby said, not without a -little emphasis which brought a tinge of red on his client’s -countenance. They could not yet give up their duel with each other, -however important the other communication might be. - -‘Heathcote Mountford will not ask you to do anything out of reason,’ -cried the other; ‘and in case he should exceed that limit, here am I -ready to be his security. No, we must not hear anything more about -breaking the entail.’ - -‘I am afraid you must consent to hear something more,’ said Heathcote, -half pleased, half angry; ‘it is not a sudden fancy. I have considered -it thoroughly; there are numberless advantages, and, so far as I can -see, nothing of substantial weight to be brought forward on the other -side.’ - -‘Oh, come, this is too much!’ cried the lawyer, moved to professional -interest; ‘nothing on the other side! But this is not a place to discuss -so serious a subject. Step into my office, and let us have it out.’ - -‘I have had enough of your office for one day,’ said Mr. Mountford (at -which the lawyer barely restrained a chuckle); ‘I have had quite enough -of your office, I’ll go and see about the horses. If there is anything -wrong, Heathcote, have it out, as he says, with Loseby. He’ll make it -all right for you. He may not always be satisfactory to deal with for -those who prefer to judge for themselves sometimes; but if it is -anything you want, he’ll give you trustworthy advice.’ - -‘Thank you for your good word, squire,’ said the lawyer, laughing and -putting his hand to his forehead with the duck of a country bumpkin. -‘Now take a seat,’ he added, as he led the stranger into a trim -wainscoted room with cupboards hid behind half the panels, and the -secrets of half the families of the county in them, ‘and let us talk -this over. I cannot understand why Mountford does not jump at it (yes, I -do; I _can_ understand, now), but why you should wish to do it! Pardon -me, if I say on your side it is mere madness. What good can it do you? -If you want money, as your cousin says, I can get you as much money as -you like--at least,’ he said, pausing to survey him with dubious looks, -as if with a momentary apprehension that his new acquaintance might turn -out a sporting man in difficulties or something of that disreputable -kind, ‘almost as much as you like.’ - -‘I do want money,’ Heathcote said, ‘but I do not want it unless I give a -fair equivalent. The entail is of no advantage to me. I live in London. -I do not want to keep up the faded glories of a place in the country.’ - -‘Faded glories! We thought, on the contrary, everything was as fine as -in the Queen’s palace, and all new,’ cried Mr. Loseby, with his -favourite restrained whistle of comic surprise. - -‘I have a place of my own,’ said Heathcote, ‘a poor one, I allow, but -enough for my requirements. I am not a marrying man, and very likely, -God knows, to be the last of my family; what do I want with an entailed -estate?’ - -‘But that is so easily remedied,’ said the lawyer. ‘Marry--marry, my -dear sir! and you will no longer be the last of your family, and will -very soon learn to appreciate an entailed estate. By----!’ cried Mr. -Loseby, rubbing his hands. He would not say ‘By Jove!’ or even ‘By -George!’ or anything of the sort, which would have been unbecoming his -years and dignity; but when things were too many for him, he swore -‘By----!’ and was refreshed. ‘I could tell you a thing to do,’ cried the -lawyer, with a chuckle, ‘that would save the family from a great deal of -trouble. What do you think that obstinate--I beg your pardon, Mr. -Heathcote, he and I are old friends, we say what we please to each -other?--what do you suppose he has been doing here?--trying to force me, -against all the teachings of reason, to alter his will--to cut off that -fine girl, that delightful creature, Anne.’ - -‘Mr. Loseby, I don’t suppose this is a thing which I am intended to -know.’ - -‘You will know, sooner or later, if he carries it out,’ cried the -lawyer; ‘but you are right, I have no business to betray my client’s -affairs. But, look here now,’ he said, bending across the table, leaning -on both his elbows to look insinuatingly, coaxingly in Heathcote’s face, -‘look here now! I never saw you before, Mr. Heathcote, but your name is -as familiar to me as my a, b, c, and I am a very old family friend, as I -may say, as well as their man of business. Look here now. You are a very -personable man, and not a bit too old for her, and a most suitable match -in every way. Why shouldn’t you make up to Anne? Hear me out, and don’t -flare up. Bless you, I am not a stranger, nor a mere impudent country -attorney, as perhaps you are thinking. I knew them all before they were -born. Anne is perhaps a little serious, you will think, a little -highfaluting. But nobody knows till they _do_ know her what a fine -creature she is. Anne Mountford is a wife for a king. And here she’s got -entangled with some fellow whom nobody knows, and Mountford of course -refuses his consent. But she is not the girl to be bullied or treated -with severity. Why couldn’t you go in now and try for Anne? You are not -to be supposed to know anything about it; it would all be innocence in -you; and who knows that she mightn’t be glad of the chance of slipping -out of the other, though she won’t give in to threats. Won’t you think -of it? Won’t you think of it? I don’t know the man, if he were a prince, -that might not be proud of Anne.’ - -All this Heathcote listened to with very strange sensations. He was -angry, amused, touched by the enthusiasm of the little round shining man -who thus entreated him, with every kind of eloquence he was capable of, -his eyes and hands and his whole frame twisting into gestures of -persuasion. Heathcote was disposed to laugh, but he was still more -disposed to resent this familiar employment of his cousin’s name. - -‘Are you aware that I have no right to be brought into the family -secrets, to have their affairs thus revealed to me?’ he said. ‘Stop--nor -to hear the name of a young lady for whom I have so much respect treated -so. Allowing that I need not resent it as a liberty, since you are an -older friend than I am, still you must see that between you and me, -strangers to each other----’ - -‘Yes, yes, I see,’ said Mr. Loseby, ‘you are quite right. I see. I -thought perhaps exceptional circumstances might warrant--but never mind. -I am wrong; I see it. Well, then, about this entail business. Don’t you -see this is why our friend does not jump at it? Little Rose could never -be Mountford of Mount. Anne would make a noble squire, but it is out of -the question for her sister. Keep to your entail, Mr. Heathcote, and if -I can be of use to you, I will do my best. If it’s a money difficulty -we’ll tide it over for you. Let me know all the circumstances, and I -will do my best.’ - -‘I cannot give up my project all at once,’ Heathcote said, hesitating. - -‘I would if I were you. It would harm yourself and do good to nobody. I -certainly would if I were you,’ said the lawyer, getting up and -accompanying him to the door. - -‘I must exercise my own judgment on that point, Mr. Loseby.’ - -‘Certainly, certainly, certainly, Mr. Heathcote Mountford! You will all -exercise your judgment, you will all do what seems good in your own -eyes. I know what the Mountfords are from generation to generation. If -it had not been that St. John Mountford had the luck to take a fancy to -a rich woman for his first wife, what would the place have been by this -time? But that is a chance that doesn’t happen once in a century. And -now, when here is another--the finest chance! with openings for such a -settlement! But never mind; never mind; of course you will all take your -own way.’ - -‘I hope you have brought him to reason, Loseby,’ said Mr. Mountford, -from the back of his cob, as they emerged again into the street. - -‘All arrangements about property which are against nature are against -reason,’ said the little lawyer, sententiously. ‘Good afternoon, -gentlemen. When you go in for these fancy arrangements, it is some sort -of a poetical personage you want, and not a lawyer. I wish you a -pleasant ride.’ - -‘He is a character,’ said Mr. Mountford, with a short laugh, as they -rode away. But that laugh was the only sound of the lighter sort that -broke the gravity of their silent companionship, as their horses’ hoofs -clattered over the stones of the little town, and came out upon the long -silence of the country road now falling rapidly into twilight. ‘We are a -little late,’ Mr. Mountford said, half-an-hour after. As for Heathcote, -he did not feel, any more than his kinsman, in a humour for talk. What -he had heard, though he had protested against hearing it, dwelt in his -mind, and the somewhat morose gravity of the other infected him in spite -of himself. What had St. John Mountford, who was in reality a -commonplace, good enough sort of man, been doing to warrant so gloomy an -aspect? Had he been turning the fortunes of the family upside down and -spoiling the life of the daughter he loved best? or was it a mere -exhibition of sulkiness consequent upon the quarrel with the lawyer and -the opposition he had encountered? Heathcote had known nothing about -these Mountfords a week ago, and now how closely he felt himself knitted -up in their affairs, whether he continued to be formally connected with -them or not! As he rode along in silence by his kinsman’s side, he could -not help thinking of the catastrophe which might be coming; that ‘fine -creature’ Anne--the little old bald shining lawyer had grown eloquent -when he spoke of her. And though she seemed a little severe to -Heathcote, he could not but acknowledge to himself that she had always -interested him. Rose? oh, Rose was a pretty little thing, a child, a -nobody; it did not matter very much what happened to her; but if it -should happen that Anne’s life was being changed, the brightness taken -out of it, and all those advantages which seem so natural and becoming -transferred from her to the profit of Rose? Heathcote felt that this -would be a wrong to move heaven and earth; but it was not a subject in -which he, a stranger, had any right to interfere. As he looked at the -dark muffled figure of her father by his side against the faint crimson -which still lingered in the west, he could scarcely help chafing at the -thought that, though he was their nearest relation, he was still a -stranger, and must not, dared not say a word. And what kind of fellow, -he said to himself, in natural indignation, could it be who was wilfully -leading Anne into the wilderness, accepting her sacrifice of that which -was the very foundation of her life? Perhaps had he himself been the man -who loved Anne he would have seen things in a different light; but from -his present point of view his mind was full of angry wrath and contempt -for the unknown who could let a girl inexperienced in the world give up -so much for him. He was a nobody, they said. He must be a poor sort of -creature, Heathcote, on these very insufficient grounds, decided in his -heart. - -It was a beautiful clear October night, with frost in the air, the stars -shining every minute more and more brightly, the crimson disappearing, -even the last golden afterglow fading into palest yellow in the west, -and all the great vault of sky darkening to perfect night. The horses’ -hoofs beat upon the long, safe, well-kept road, bordered by long -monotonous walls and clouds of trees, from which darkness had stolen -their colour--a perfectly safe, tranquil country road, with a peaceful -house at the end, already lighting all its windows, preparing its table -for the wayfarers. Yet there was something of the gloom of a tragedy in -the dark figure wrapped in silence, pondering one could not tell what -plans of mischief, and wrathful gloomy intentions, which rode by -Heathcote’s side, without a word, along all those miles of darkling way. - - - - -CHAPTER XVI. - -GOOD ADVICE. - - -The dinner to which the family sat down after this ride somewhat alarmed -the stranger-relative who so suddenly found himself mixed up in their -affairs. He thought it must necessarily be a constrained and -uncomfortable meal. But this did not turn out to be the case. Anne knew -nothing at all about what her father had been doing, and from Rose’s -light nature the half comprehended scene at luncheon, when her mother -had wept and her father’s face had been like a thundercloud, had already -faded away. These two unconscious members of the party kept the tide of -affairs in flow. They talked as usual--Anne even more than usual, as one -who is unaware of the critical point at which, to the knowledge of all -around, he or she is standing, so often does. She gave even a little -more information than was called for about her visit to the Woodheads, -being in her own mind half ashamed of her cowardice in staying away -after the scene of the morning. On the whole she was glad, she persuaded -herself, of the scene of the morning. It had placed her position beyond -doubt. There had seemed no occasion to make any statement to her father -as to the correspondence which he had not forbidden or indeed referred -to. He had bidden her give up her lover, and she had refused: but he had -said nothing about the lover’s letters, though these followed as a -matter of course. And now it was well that he should know the exact -position of affairs. She had been greatly agitated at the moment, but -soon composed herself. And in her desire to show that she was satisfied, -not grieved by what had happened, Anne was more than usually cheerful -and communicative in her talk. - -‘Fanny is very happy about her brother who is coming home from India. He -is to be here only six weeks; but he does not grudge the long journey: -and they are all so happy.’ - -‘He is a fool for his pains,’ growled Mr. Mountford from the head of the -table. ‘I don’t know what our young men are coming to. What right has he -to such a luxury? It will cost him a hundred pounds at the least. Six -weeks--he has not been gone as many years.’ - -‘Four years--that is a long time when people are fond of each other,’ -said Anne, with a scarcely perceptible smile. Every individual at table -instantly thought of the absent lover. - -‘She is thinking that I will be dead and gone in four years, and she -will be free,’ the angry father said to himself, with a vindictive sense -that he was justified in the punishment he meant to inflict upon her. -But Anne, indeed, was thinking of nothing of the kind, only with a -visionary regret that in her own family there was no one to come eager -over sea and land to be longed and prayed for with Fanny Woodhead’s -anxious sisterly motherly passion. This was far, very far from the -imagination of the others as a motive likely to produce such a sigh. - -‘A brother from India is always anxiously looked for,’ said Mrs. -Mountford, stepping in with that half-compunctious readiness to succour -Anne which the knowledge of this day’s proceedings had produced in her. -She did not, in fact, know what these proceedings had been, and they -were in no way her fault. But still she felt a compunction. ‘They always -bring such quantities of things with them,’ she added. ‘An Indian box is -the most delightful thing to open. I had a brother in India, too----’ - -‘I wish we had,’ said Rose, with a pout. Heathcote had been preoccupied: -he had not been so ‘attentive’ as usual: and she wished for a brother -instantly, ‘just to spite him,’ she said to herself. - -‘Fanny is not thinking of the presents; but Rose, consider you are -interested in it, too--that is another man for your dance.’ - -Rose clapped her hands. ‘We are looking up,’ she said. ‘Twenty men from -Sandhurst, and six from Meadowlands, and Lady Prayrey Poule’s husband, -and Fred Woodhead and Willie Ashley--for of course Willie is coming---- -’ - -‘A dance at this time of the year is folly,’ said Mr. Mountford; ‘even -in summer it is bad enough; but the only time of the year for -entertainments in the country is when you have warm weather and short -nights.’ - -‘It was because of cousin Heathcote, papa. It is not often we have a -man, a real relation, staying at Mount.’ - -‘Heathcote! oh, so it is for your sake, Heathcote? I did not know that -dancing was an attribute of reasonable beings after thirty,’ Mr. -Mountford said. - -Then it was Anne who came to Heathcote’s aid. ‘You are not afraid of -seeming frivolous?’ she said, giving him the kindest look he had yet -seen in her eyes; and his heart was touched by it: he had not known that -Anne’s eyes had been so fine--‘and it will please everybody. The county -requires to be stirred up now and then. We like to have something to -talk about, to say, “Are you going to the So-and-so’s on the 25th?”’ - -‘An admirable reason certainly for trouble and expense. If you were -electioneering, it might be reasonable; but I presume your woman’s -rights are not so advanced yet as that. Miss Anne Mountford can’t stand -for the county!’ - -‘I don’t think she is likely to try, father,’ said Anne, ‘whatever might -be the rights--or wrongs.’ - -‘You must not think, Mr. Heathcote,’ said Mrs. Mountford anxiously, -‘that Anne has anything to say to women’s rights. She is far too -sensible. She has her own ways of thinking, but she is neither absurd -nor strong-minded----’ - -‘I hope you do not think me weak-minded, mamma,’ Anne said, with a soft -laugh. - -And then little more was said. Mr. Mountford half rose and mumbled that -grace after meat which leaves out all the more ethereal part of the -repast as, we suppose, a kind of uncovenanted mercies for which no -thanks are to be uttered; and after a while the ladies left the room. It -was cold, but the whole frosty world outside lay enchanted under the -whitening of the moon. The girls caught up fur cloaks and shawls as they -went through the hall, and stepped outside involuntarily. The sky was -intensely blue; the clouds piled high in snowy masses, the moon sailing -serenely across the great expanse, veiling herself lightly here and -there with a film of vapour which the wind had detached from the -cloud-mountains. These filmy fragments were floating across the sky at -extraordinary speed, and the wind was rising, whirling down showers of -leaves. The commotion among the trees, the sound of the wind, the rapid -flight of the clouds, all chimed in with Anne’s mood. She took hold of -her sister’s arm with gentle force. ‘Stay a little, Rose--it is all -quiet inside, and here there is so much going on: it is louder than -one’s thoughts,’ Anne said. - -‘What do you mean by being louder than your thoughts? Your thoughts are -not loud at all--not mine at least: and I don’t like those dead leaves -all blowing into my face; they feel like things touching you. I think I -shall go in, Anne.’ - -‘Not yet, dear. I like it: it occupies one in spite of one’s self. The -lawn will be all yellow to-morrow with scattered gold.’ - -‘You mean with scattered leaves; of course it will,’ said Rose. ‘When -the wind is high like this it brings the leaves down like anything. The -lime trees will be stripped, and it is a pity, for they were pretty. -Everything is pretty this year. Papa has been to Hunston,’ she said, -abruptly, looking Anne in the face; but it was very difficult even for -Rose’s keen little eyes to distinguish in the moonlight whether or not -Anne _knew_. - -Anne took very little notice of this bit of news. ‘So Saymore told me. -Did Mr. Heathcote see the church, I wonder? I hope some one told him how -fine it was, and that there were some Mountford monuments.’ - -‘Do you know what papa was doing in Hunston, Anne? He went to see Mr. -Loseby. Mamma made quite a fuss when he went away. She would not tell me -what it was. Perhaps she did not know herself. She often gets into quite -a state about things she doesn’t know. Can you tell me what papa could -want with Mr. Loseby? you can see for yourself how cross he is now he -has come back.’ - -‘With Mr. Loseby? no, I cannot tell you, Rose.’ Anne heard the news with -a little thrill of excitement. It was rarely that Mr. Mountford went so -far; very rarely that he did anything which, through his wife, or -Saymore, or Rose herself, did not find its way to the knowledge of the -entire household. Anne connected the incident of the morning with this -recent expedition, and her heart beat faster in her breast. Well: she -was prepared; she had counted the cost. If she was to be disinherited, -that could be borne--but not to be untrue. - -‘That means you will not tell me, Anne. I wonder why I should always be -the last to know. For all anyone can tell, it may just be of as much -consequence to me as to you, if he went to tamper with his will, as -mamma said. What do you call tampering with a will? I don’t see,’ cried -Rose, indignantly, ‘why I should always be supposed too young to know. -Most likely it is of just as much consequence to me as to you.’ - -‘Rose,’ cried her mother, from the window, ‘come in--come in at once! -How can you keep that child out in the cold, Anne, when you know what a -delicate throat she has?’ Then Mrs. Mountford gave an audible shiver and -shut down the window hastily; for it was very cold. - -‘I have nothing to tell you, dear,’ Anne said gently. ‘But you are quite -right; if there is any change made, it will be quite as important to you -as to me: only you must not ask me about it, for my father does not take -me into his confidence, and I don’t know.’ - -‘You don’t want to tell me!’ said the girl; but this time Mrs. Mountford -knocked loudly on the window, and Rose was not sufficiently emancipated -to neglect the second summons. Anne walked with her sister to the door, -but then came back again to the sheltered walk under the windows. It was -a melancholy hour when one was alone. The yellow leaves came down in -showers flying on the wind. The clouds pursued each other over the sky. -The great masses of vapours behind the wind began to invade the frosty -blue; yet still the moon held on serenely, though her light was more and -more interrupted by sudden blanks of shadow. Anne had no inclination to -go into the quiet of the drawing-room, the needlework, and Mrs. -Mountford’s little lectures, and perhaps the half-heard chattering with -which Rose amused and held possession of her cousin. To her, whose -happier life was hidden in the distance, it was more congenial to stay -out here, among the flying winds and falling leaves. If it was so that -Fortune was forsaking her; if her father had carried out his threat, and -she was now penniless, with nothing but herself to take to Cosmo, what -change would this make in her future life? Would _he_ mind? What would -he say? Anne had no personal experience at all, though she was so -serious and so deeply learned in the troubles at least of village life. -As she asked herself these questions, a smile crept about her lips in -spite of her. She did not mean to smile. She meant to inquire very -gravely: would he mind? what would he say? but the smile came without -her knowledge. What could he say but one thing? If it had been another -man, there might have been doubts and hesitations--but Cosmo! The smile -stole to the corners of her mouth--a melting softness came into her -heart. How little need was there to question! Did not she _know_? - -Her thoughts were so full of this that she did not hear another foot on -the gravel, and when Heathcote spoke she awakened with a start, and came -down out of that lofty hermitage of her thoughts with little -satisfaction; but when he said something of the beauty of the night and -the fascination of all those voices of the wind and woods, Anne, whether -willingly or not, felt herself compelled to be civil. She came down -from her abstraction, admitting, politely, that the night was fine. -‘But,’ she said, ‘it is very cold, and the wind is rising every moment; -I was thinking of going in.’ - -‘I wonder if you would wait for a few minutes, Miss Mountford, and hear -something I have to say.’ - -‘Certainly,’ Anne said; but she was surprised; and now that it was no -longer her own will which kept her here, the wind all at once became -very boisterous, and the ‘silver lights and darks’ dreary. ‘Do you know -we have a ghost belonging to us?’ she said. ‘She haunts that lime -avenue. We ought to see her to-night.’ - -‘We have so little time for ghosts,’ said Heathcote, almost fretfully; -and then he added, ‘Miss Mountford, I came to Mount on a special -mission. Will you let me tell you what it was? I came to offer your -father my co-operation in breaking the entail.’ - -‘Breaking the entail!’ the idea was so surprising that all who heard it -received it with the same exclamation. As for Anne, she did more: she -cast one rapid involuntary glance around her upon the house with all its -lights, the familiar garden, the waving clouds of trees. In her heart -she felt as if a sharp arrow of possible delight, despair, she knew not -which, struck her keenly to the core. It was only for a moment. Then she -drew a long breath and said, ‘You bewilder me altogether; break the -entail--why should you? I cannot comprehend it. Pardon me, it is as if -the Prince of Wales said he would not have the crown. Mount is England -to us Mountfords. I cannot understand what you mean.’ - -Heathcote thought he understood very well what _she_ meant. He -understood her look. Everything round was dear to her. Her first thought -had been--Mount! to be ours still, ours always! But what did _ours_ -mean? Did she think of herself as heiress and mistress, or of--someone -else? This pricked him at the heart, as she had been pricked by a -different sentiment, by the thought that she had no longer the first -interest in this piece of news; but there was no reason whatever for -keen feeling in his case. What did it matter to him who had it? He did -not want it. He cleared his throat to get rid of that involuntary -impatience and annoyance. ‘It is not very difficult to understand,’ he -said. ‘Mount is not to me what it is to you; I have only been here once -before. My interests are elsewhere.’ - -Anne bowed gravely. They did not know each other well enough to permit -of more confidential disclosures. She did not feel sufficient interest -to ask, he thought; and she had no right to pry into his private -concerns, Anne said to herself. Then there was a pause: which she broke -quite unexpectedly with one of those impulses which were so unlike -Anne’s external aspect, and yet so entirely in harmony with herself. - -‘This makes my heart beat,’ she said, ‘the idea that Mount might be -altogether ours--our home in the future as well as in the past; but at -the same time, forgive me, it gives me a little pain to think that there -is a Mountford, and he the heir, who thinks so little of Mount. It seems -a slight to the place. I grudge that you should give it up, though it is -delightful to think that we may have it; which is absurd, of -course--like so many other things.’ - -‘Do you know,’ he said, ‘there is a great deal of the same sort of -feeling in my own mind. I can’t care for Mount, can I? I have not seen -it for fifteen years; I was a boy then; now I am middle-aged, and don’t -care much for anything. But yet I too grudge that I should care for it -so little; that I should be so willing to part with it. The feeling is -absurd, as you say. If you could have it, Miss Mountford, I should -surmount that feeling easily: I should rejoice in the substitution----’ - -‘And why should not I have it?’ cried Anne quickly, turning upon him. -Then she paused and laughed, though with constraint, and begged his -pardon. ‘I don’t quite know what you mean,’ she said, ‘or what you -know.’ - -‘Miss Mountford, having said so much to you, may I say a little more? I -am one of your nearest relatives, and I am a great deal older than you -are. There is some question which divides you from your father. I do not -ask nor pretend to divine what it is. You are not agreed--and for this -reason he thinks little of my proposal, and does not care to secure the -reversion of his own property, the house which, in other circumstances, -he would have desired to leave in your possession. I think, so far as I -have gone, this is the state of the case?’ - -‘Well!’ She neither contradicted him nor consented to what he had said, -but stood in the fitful moonlight, blown about by the wind, holding her -cloak closely round her, and looking at him between the light and gloom. - -‘Pardon me,’ he said, ‘I have no right whatever to interfere: but--if -you could bend your will to his--if you could humour him as long as his -life lasts: your father is becoming an old man. Miss Mountford, you -would not need perhaps to make this sacrifice for very long.’ - -She elapsed her hands with impatient alarm, stopping him abruptly--‘Is -my father ill? Is there anything you know of that we do not know?’ - -‘Nothing whatever. I only know his age, no more. Could you not yield to -him, subdue your will to his? You are young, and you have plenty of time -to wait. Believe me, the happiness that will not bear to be waited for -is scarcely worth having. I have no right to say a word--I do not -understand the circumstances--actually I _know_ nothing about them. But -if you could yield to him, humour him for a time----’ - -‘Pretend to obey him while he lived,’ Anne said, in a low voice, ‘in -order that I may be able to cheat him when he is gone: that is a strange -thing to recommend to me.’ - -‘There is no question of cheating him. What I mean is, that if you would -submit to him; give him the pleasure of feeling himself obeyed in the -end of his life----’ - -‘I owe my father obedience at all times; but there are surely -distinctions. Will you tell me why you say this to me?’ - -‘I cannot tell you why: only that there is something going on which will -tell against you: sincerely, I do not know what it is. I do not want to -counsel you to anything false, and I scarcely know what I am advising -you to do. It is only, Miss Mountford, while you can--if you can--to -submit to him: or even, if no better can be, _seem_ to submit to him. -Submit to him while he lives. This may be a caprice on his part--no -more: but at the same time it may affect your whole life.’ - -Anne stood for a moment irresolute, not knowing what to say. The night -favoured her and the dark. She could speak with less embarrassment than -if the daylight had been betraying her every look and change of aspect. -‘Mr. Heathcote, I thank you for taking so much interest in me,’ she -said. - -‘I take the greatest interest in you, Miss Mountford; but in the -meantime I would say the same to anyone so young. Things are going on -which will injure you for your life. If you can by your submission avert -these ills, and make him happier--even for a time?’ - -‘In short,’ she said again, ‘pretend to give up until he is no longer -here to see whether I follow my own inclinations or his? It may be wise -advice, Mr. Heathcote; but is it advice which you would like -your--anyone you cared for--to take?’ - -‘I should not like anyone I cared for,’ he said hesitating--‘Pardon me, -I cannot help offending you--to be in opposition to her family on such a -point.’ - -The colour rushed to Anne’s face, and anger to her heart: but as the one -was invisible, so she restrained the other. She put restraint in every -way on herself. - -‘That may be so, that may be so! you cannot tell unless you know -everything,’ she said. Then, after a pause, ‘But whether it was right or -wrong, it is done now, and I cannot alter it. It is not a matter upon -which another can decide for you. Obedience at my age cannot be -absolute. When you have to make the one choice of your life, can your -father do it, or anyone but yourself? Did you think so when you were -like me?’ she said, with an appeal full of earnestness which was almost -impassioned. This appeal took Heathcote entirely by surprise, and -changed all the current of his thoughts. - -‘I was never like you,’ he said, hastily--‘like you! I never could -compare myself--I never could pretend--I thought I loved half-a-dozen -women. Did I ever make the one choice of my life? No, no! A wandering -man afloat upon the world can never be like--such as you: there is too -great a difference. We cannot compare things so unlike----’ - -‘But I thought’--she said, then stopped: for his story which she had -heard bore a very different meaning. And what right had she to advert to -it? ‘I don’t know if you speak in--in respect--or in contempt?’ - -‘In contempt--could that be? Here is the state of the case as concerns -yourself--leaving the general question. My offer to break the entail has -no attractions for your father, because he thinks he cannot secure Mount -to you. It is doing something against his own heart, against all he -wishes, to punish you. Don’t you know, Miss Mountford--but most likely -you never felt it--that - - to be wroth with those we love - Doth work like madness in the brain?’ - -‘Love?--that would be great love, passionate love--we have not anything -of the kind in our house,’ said Anne, in a low tone of emotion. ‘If -there was that, do you think I would go against it, even for----’ - -Here she stopped with a thrill in her voice. ‘I think you must be -mistaken a little, Mr. Heathcote. But I do not see how I can change. -Papa asked of me--not the lesser things in which I could have obeyed -him, but the one great thing in which I could not. Were I to take your -advice, I do not know what I could do.’ - -Then they walked in silence round the side of the house, under the long -line of the drawing-room windows, from which indeed the interview had -been watched with much astonishment. Rose had never doubted that the -heir of the house was on her side. It seemed no better than a desertion -that he should walk and talk with Anne in this way. It filled her with -amazement. And in such a cold night too! ‘Hush, child!’ her mother was -saying; ‘he has been with papa to Hunston, he has heard all the business -arrangements talked over. No doubt he is having a little conversation -with Anne, for her good.’ - -‘What are the business arrangements? What is going to happen? Is he -trying to make her give up Mr. Douglas?’ said Rose: but her mother -could not or would not give her any information. By-and-by Heathcote -came in alone. Anne was too much disturbed by this strange interview to -appear when it was over in the tranquil circle of the family. She went -upstairs to take off her wraps, to subdue the commotion in her mind and -the light in her eyes, and tame herself down to the every-day level. Her -mind was somewhat confused, more confused than it had yet been as to her -duty. Cosmo somehow had seemed to be gently pushed out of the first -place by this stranger who never named him, who knew nothing of him, and -who certainly ignored the fact that, without Cosmo, Anne no longer lived -or breathed. She was angry that he should be so ignorant, yet too shy -and proud to mention her lover or refer to him save by implication. She -would have been willing to give up corresponding with him, to make any -immediate sacrifice to her father’s prejudice against him--had that been -ever asked of her. But to give up ‘the one choice of her life,’ as she -had said, would have been impossible. Her mind was affected strongly, -but not with alarm, by the intelligence that something was being done -mysteriously in the dark against her, that the threat under which she -had been living was now being carried out. But this did not move her to -submit as Heathcote had urged--rather it stimulated her to resist. - -Had Cosmo but been at hand! But if he had been at hand, how could he -have ventured to give the advice which Heathcote gave? He could not have -asked her to yield, to dissemble, to please the old man while his life -lasted, to pretend to give himself up. Nothing of this could he have -suggested or she listened to. And yet it was what Cosmo would have liked -to advise; but to this state of Cosmo’s mind Anne had no clue. - - - - -CHAPTER XVII. - -THE ABSOLUTE AND THE COMPARATIVE. - - -This secret incident in the family history left a great deal of -agitation in the house. Mrs. Mountford had not been informed in any -detail what her husband’s mission to Hunston was. She knew that he had -gone to ‘tamper with his will,’ as she said, but what were the exact -changes he meant to make in that will she did not know. They were -certainly to the advantage of Rose and to the detriment of Anne: so much -she was aware of, but scarcely anything more. And she herself was -frightened and excited, afraid of all the odium to which she would -infallibly be exposed if the positions of the sisters were changed, and -more or less affected by a shrinking from palpable injustice; but yet -very much excited about Rose’s possible good fortune, and not feeling it -possible to banish hopes and imaginations on this point out of her mind. -If Rose was put in the first place it would not be just--not exactly -just, she said to herself, with involuntary softening of the expression. -Rose’s mother (though she would be blamed) knew that of herself she -never would have done anything to deprive Anne of her birthright. But -still, if papa thought Anne had behaved badly, and that Rose deserved -more at his hands, he was far better--no doubt _far better_, able to -judge than she was; and who could say a word against his decision? But -it was very irritating, very wearing, not to know. She tried a great -many ways of finding out, but she did not succeed. Mr. Mountford was on -his guard, and kept his own counsel. He told her of Heathcote’s -proposal, but he did not tell her what he himself meant to do. And how -it was that her husband was so indifferent to Heathcote’s proposal Mrs. -Mountford could not understand. She herself, though not a Mountford -born, felt her heart beat at the suggestion. ‘Of course you will jump at -it?’ she said. - -‘I do not feel in the least disposed to jump at it. If there had been a -boy, it might have been different.’ Mrs. Mountford always felt that in -this there was an inferred censure upon herself--how unjust a censure it -is unnecessary to say: of course she would have had a boy if she -could--of that there could be no question. - -‘A boy is not everything,’ she said. ‘It would be just the same thing if -Anne’s husband took the name.’ - -‘Don’t speak to me of Anne’s husband,’ he cried, almost with passion. ‘I -forbid you to say a word to me of Anne’s affairs.’ - -‘St. John! what can you mean? It would be barbarous of me, it would be -unchristian,’ cried the much-exercised mother, trying hard to do her -duty, ‘not to speak of Anne’s affairs. Probably the man you object to -will never be her husband; probably----’ - -‘That is enough, Letitia. I want to hear nothing more upon the subject. -Talk of anything else you like, but I will have nothing said about -Anne.’ - -‘Then you are doing wrong,’ she cried, with a little real indignation. -After this her tone changed in a moment: something like bitterness stole -into it. ‘It shows how much more you are thinking of Anne than of anyone -else. You are rejecting Mount because you don’t choose that she should -be the heir. You forget you have got another child.’ - -‘Forget I have got another child! It is the first subject of my -thoughts.’ - -‘Ah, yes, perhaps so far as the money is concerned. Of course if Anne -does not have it, there is nobody but Rose who could have any right to -it. But you don’t think your youngest daughter good enough to have -anything to do with Mount. I see very well how it is, though you don’t -choose to explain.’ - -‘If that is how you prefer to look at it,’ he said; but at this moment a -budget of papers arrived from Hunston by a special messenger, and Mrs. -Mountford withdrew perforce. She was in a very irritable condition, as -all the house knew, ready to find fault with everything. Perhaps it was -rather an advantage to her to have a grievance, and to be able to -reproach her husband with preferring in his heart the elder to the -younger, even when he was preferring the younger to the elder in this -new will. ‘There will never be any question of _my_ child’s husband -taking the name, that is very clear,’ she said to herself, with much -vehemence, nursing her wrath to keep it warm, and thus escaping from the -question of injustice to Anne. And again it occurred to her, but with -more force than before, that to announce to her husband that Rose was -going to marry Heathcote Mountford would be a delightful triumph. She -would thus be Mrs. Mountford of Mount in spite of him, and the victory -would be sweet. But even this did not seem to progress as it appeared to -do at first. Heathcote, too, seemed to be becoming interested in Anne: -as if that could advantage him! when it was clear that Anne was ready to -lose everything, and was risking everything, every day, for that other! -Altogether Mrs. Mountford’s position was not a comfortable one. To know -so much and yet to know so little was very hard to bear. - -Her husband had a still harder life as being a free agent, and having -the whole weight of the decision upon his shoulders. It was not to be -supposed that he could free himself entirely from all sense of guilt -towards the child whom in his heart he loved most. He had resolved to -punish her and he clung to his resolution with all the determination of -a narrow mind. He had said that she should never marry the man who was -nobody, that if she held by him he would give her fortune to Rose. And -she did hold by him, with an obstinacy equal to his own. Was it possible -that he should bear this and give her reason to laugh at his words as -mere sound and fury signifying nothing? No, whatever he might have to -suffer for it, no! Perhaps, however, the great secret of Mr. Mountford’s -obstinate adherence to a determination which he could not but know to be -unjust and cruel--and of many more of the cruelties and eccentricities -that people perpetrate by their wills--lay in the fact that, after all, -though he took so much trouble to make his will, he had not the -slightest intention of dying. If a man does not die, a monstrous will is -no more than an angry letter--a thing which wounds and vexes, perhaps, -and certainly is intended to wound and vex, and which suffices to blow -off a great deal of the steam of family quarrels; but which does no real -harm to anybody, in that there is plenty of time to change it, and to -make all right again some time or other. Another thing which assisted -him in getting over his own doubts and disquietudes was the strenuous, -almost violent, opposition of Mr. Loseby, who did not indeed refuse at -last to carry out his wishes, but did so with so many protests and -remonstrances that Mr. Mountford’s spirit was roused, and he forgot the -questionings of his own conscience in the determination to defend -himself against those of this other man who had, he declared to himself, -nothing whatever to do with it, and no right to interfere. Could not a -man do what he would with his own? The money was his own, the land his -own, and his children too were his own. Who else had anything to do with -the arrangements he chose to make for them? It was of his grace and -favour if he gave them his money at all. He was not bound to do so. It -was all his: he was not responsible to any mortal; it was a pretty -piece of impudence that Loseby should venture to take so much upon him. -This opposition of Loseby’s did him all the good in the world. It set -him right with himself. But still those packets of papers, always -accompanied by a letter, were annoying to him. ‘I send you the draft of -the new codicil, but you must allow me to observe----’ ‘I return draft -with the corrections you have made, but I must once more entreat you to -pause and reconsider----’ What did the old fellow mean? Did he think he -had any right to speak--a country attorney, a mere man of business? To -be sure he was an old friend--nobody said he was not an old friend; but -the oldest friend in the world should know his own place, and should not -presume too far. If Loseby thought that now, when matters had gone this -length, _his_ representations would have any effect, he was indeed -making a mistake. Before pen had been put to paper Mr. Mountford might -perhaps have reconsidered the matter; but now, and in apparent deference -to _Loseby_! this was a complaisance which was impossible. - -The whole house was agitated by these proceedings, though publicly not a -word was said nor an allusion made to them. Anne even, absolutely -disinterested as she was, and full of a fine, but alas! quite -unreasonable contempt for fortune--the contempt of one who had no -understanding of the want of it--felt it affect her in, as she thought, -the most extraordinary and unworthy way. She was astonished at herself. -After all, she reflected, with a sense of humiliation, how much power -must those external circumstances have on the mind, when she, whose -principles and sentiments were all so opposed to their influence, could -be thus moved by the possible loss of a little land or a little money! -It was pitiful: but she could not help it, and she felt herself humbled -to the very dust. In the fulness of her heart she wrote an account of -all that was happening to Cosmo, reproaching herself, yet trying to -account for her weakness. ‘It cannot be the mere loss of the wealth that -affects me,’ Anne wrote. ‘I cannot believe so badly of myself, and I -hope--I hope--you will not think so badly of me. It must be (don’t you -think?) the pain of feeling that my father thinks so little of me as to -put upon me this public mark of his displeasure. I say to myself, dear -Cosmo, that this must be the cause of the very unquestionable pain I -feel; and I hope you will think so too, and not, that it is the actual -money I care for. And, then, there is the humiliation of being put -second--I who have always been first. I never thought there was so much -in seniority, in all those little superiorities which I suppose we plume -ourselves upon without knowing it. I can’t bear the idea of being -second, I suppose. And then there is the uncertainty, the sense of -something that is going on, in which one is so closely concerned, but -which one does not know, and the feeling that others are better -informed, and that one is being talked of, and the question discussed -how one will bear it. As if it mattered! but I acknowledge with -humiliation that it does matter, that I care a great deal more than I -ever thought I cared--that I am a much poorer creature than I believed I -was. I scorn myself, but I hope my Cosmo will not scorn me. You know the -world better, and the heart which is pettier than one likes to think. -Perhaps it is women only that are the victims of these unworthy -sentiments. I cannot think of you as being moved by them; perhaps what -is said of us is true, and we are only “like moonlight unto sunlight, -and like water unto wine.” But these are far too pretty comparisons if I -am right. However, heaven be praised, there is the happiness of feeling -that, if I am but after all a mean and interested creature, there is you -to fall back upon, who are so different. O Cosmo mio, what would the -world be now if I had not you to fall back upon (I like these words!), -and lean against and feel myself doubled, or so much more than doubled, -and propped up by you. I feel already a little better for getting this -off my mind and telling you what I have found out in myself, and how -ashamed I am by my discoveries. You have “larger, other eyes” than mine, -and you will understand me, and excuse me, and put me right.’ - -Cosmo Douglas received this letter in his chambers, to which he had now -gone back. He read it with a sort of consternation. First, the news it -convened was terrible, making an end of all his hopes; and second, this -most ill-timed and unnecessary self-accusation was more than his common -sense could put up with. It was not that the glamour of love was wearing -off, for he still loved Anne truly; but that anyone in her senses could -write so about money was inconceivable to him. Could there be a more -serious predicament? and yet here was she apologising to him for feeling -it, making believe that he would not feel it. Is she a fool? he said to -himself--he was exasperated, though he loved her. And in his reply he -could not but in some degree betray this feeling. - -‘My dearest,’ he said, ‘I don’t understand how you can blame yourself. -The feelings you express are most natural. It is very serious, very -painful--infinitely painful to me, that it is my love and the tie which -binds us which has brought this upon you. What am I to say to my dear -love? Give me up, throw me over? I will bear anything rather than that -you should suffer; but I know your generous heart too well to imagine -that you will do this. If you were “petty,” as you call yourself (heaven -forgive you for such blasphemy!) I could almost be tempted to advise you -to have recourse to--what shall I call it?--strategy--one of the -fictions that are said to be all fair in love and war. I could do this -myself, I am afraid, so little is there in me of the higher sentiment -you give me credit for. Rather than that you should lose your -birthright, if it were only my happiness that was concerned, I would -take myself out of the way, I would give up the sweet intercourse which -is life to me, and hope for better days to come. And if you should -decide to do this, I will accept whatever you decide, my darling, with -full trust in you that you will not forget me, that the sun may shine -for me again. Will you do this, my Anne? Obey your father, and let me -take my chance: it will be better that than to be the cause of so much -suffering to you. But even in saying this I feel that I will wound your -tender heart, your fine sense of honour: what can I say? Sacrifice me, -my dearest, if you can steel your heart to the possibility of being -unkind. I would be a poor wretch, indeed, unworthy the honour you have -done me, if I could not trust you and bide my time.’ - -This letter was very carefully composed and with much thought. If Anne -could but have been made a convert to the code that all is fair in love, -what a relief it would have been; or if she could have divined the -embarrassment that a portionless bride, however much he loved her, would -be to Cosmo! But, on the other hand, there was no certainty that, even -if the worst came to the worst, she would be a portionless bride; and -the chances of alarming her, and bringing about a revulsion of feeling, -were almost more dreadful than the chances of losing her fortune. It -wanted very delicate steering to hit exactly the right passage between -those dangers, and Cosmo was far from confident that he had hit it. A -man with a practical mind and a real knowledge of the world has a great -deal to go through when he has to deal with the absolute in the person -of a young inexperienced and high-flown girl, altogether ignorant of the -world. And, as a matter of fact, the letter did not please Anne. It gave -her that uneasy sense of coming in contact with new agencies, powers -unknown, not to be judged by her previous canons, which is one of the -first disenchantments of life. How to lie and yet not be guilty of lying -was a new science to her. She did not understand that casuistry of love, -which makes it a light offence to deceive. She understood the art of -taking her own way, but that of giving up her own way, and yet resolving -to have it all the same, was beyond her power. What they wanted her to -do was to deceive her father, to wait--surely the most terrible of all -meanness--till he should be dead and then break her promise to him. This -was what Heathcote had advised, and now Cosmo--Cosmo himself replied to -her when she threw herself upon him for support, in the same sense. A -chill of disappointment, discouragement, came over her. If this was the -best thing to be done, it seemed to Anne that her own folly was better -than their wisdom. Had she been told that love and a stout heart and two -against the world were better than lands or wealth, she would have felt -herself strong enough for any heroism. But this dash of cold water in -her face confounded her. What did they mean by telling her to obey her -father? he had not asked for obedience. He had said, ‘If you do not give -up this man, I will take your fortune from you,’ and she had proudly -accepted the alternative. That was all; and was she to go back to him -now, to tell him a lie, and with a mental reservation say, ‘I prefer my -fortune; I have changed my mind; I will give him up?’ Anne knew that she -could not have survived the utter scorn of herself which would have been -her portion had she done this. Were it necessary to do it, the proud -girl would have waited till the other sacrifice was completed, till her -father had fulfilled his threat. Cosmo’s letter gave her a chill in the -very warmth of her unbounded faith in him. She would not allow to -herself that he did not understand her, that he had failed of what she -expected from him. This was honour, no doubt, from his point of view; -but she felt a chill sense of loneliness, a loss of that power of -falling back upon an unfailing support which she had so fondly and -proudly insisted on. She was subdued in her courage and pride and -confidence. And yet this was not all that Anne had to go through. - -It was Mr. Loseby who was the next operator upon her disturbed and -awakening thoughts. One wintry afternoon when November had begun, he -drove over to Mount in his little phaeton with a blue bag on the seat -beside him. ‘Don’t say anything to your master yet, Saymore,’ he said, -when he got down, being familiar with all the servants, and the habits -of the house, as if it had been his own. ‘Do you think you could manage -to get me a few words privately with Miss Anne?’ - -‘If I might make bold to ask, sir,’ said Saymore, ‘is it true as there -is something up about Miss Anne? Things is said and things is ‘inted, -and we’re interested, and we don’t know what to think. Is it along of -_that_ gentleman, Mr. Loseby? Master is set against the match, I know as -much as that.’ - -‘I dare say you’re right,’ said the lawyer. ‘An old family servant like -you, Saymore, sees many things that the rest of the world never guess -at. Hold your tongue about it, old fellow, that’s all I’ve got to say. -And try whether you can bring me to speech of Miss Anne. Don’t let -anyone else know. You can manage it, I feel sure.’ - -‘I’ll try, sir,’ Saymore said, and he went through the house on tiptoe -from room to room, looking for his young mistress, with the air of a -conspirator in an opera, doing everything he could to betray himself. -When he found her, he stole behind a large screen, and made mysterious -gestures which everybody saw. ‘What is it, Saymore?’ asked Anne. Then -Saymore pointed downstairs, with jerks over his shoulder, and much -movement of his eyebrows. ‘There’s somebody, Miss Anne, as wants a word -with you,’ he said, with the deepest meaning. Anne’s heart began to -beat. Could it be Cosmo come boldly, in person, to comfort her? She was -in the billiard-room with Rose and Heathcote. She put down the cue which -she had been using with very little energy or interest, and followed the -old man to the hall. ‘Who is it, Saymore?’ she asked tremulously. ‘It’s -some one that’s come for your good. I hope you’ll listen to him, Miss -Anne, I hope you’ll listen to him.’ Anne’s heart was in her mouth. If he -should have come so far to see her, to support her, to make up for the -deficiency of his letter! She seemed to tread on air as she went down -the long passages. And it was only Mr. Loseby after all! - -The disappointment made her heart sink. She could scarcely speak to him. -It was like falling down to earth from the skies. But Mr. Loseby did not -notice this. He put his arm into hers as the rector did, with a fatherly -familiarity, and drew her to the large window full of the greyness of -the pale and misty November sky. ‘I have something to say to you, my -dear Miss Anne--something that is of consequence. My dear, do you know -anything about the business that brings me here?’ - -‘I know--that my father is making some alteration in his will, Mr. -Loseby. I don’t know any more--why should I?--I do not see why I should -believe that it has anything to do with me.’ - -‘Anne, my dear, I can’t betray your father’s secrets; but I am afraid it -has something to do with you. Now look here, my dear girl--why it is -not so long since you used to sit on my knee! Tell me what this is, -which has made you quarrel with papa----’ - -‘Mr. Loseby!--I--do not know that I have quarrelled with my father----’ - -‘Don’t be so stern, my dear child. Call him papa. After all he is your -papa, Anne. Who was so fond of you when you were a tiny creature? I -remember you a baby in his arms, poor man! when he lost his first wife, -before he married again. Your mother died so young, and broke his life -in two. That is terribly hard upon a man. Think of him in that light, my -dear. He was wrapped up in you when you were a baby. Come! let me go to -him, an old friend, your very oldest friend, and say you are ready to -make it up.’ - -‘To make it up?--but it is not a quarrel--not anything like a quarrel.’ - -‘Yes, yes, it is--I know better. Only say that you will do nothing -without his consent; that you will form no engagement; that you will -give up corresponding and all that. You ought to, my dear; it is your -duty. And when it will save you from what would inconvenience you all -your life! What, Anne, you are not going to be offended with what I say, -your oldest friend?’ - -‘Mr. Loseby, you do not understand,’ she said. She had attempted, in her -impatience, to withdraw her arm from his. ‘He said “Give up”--I do not -wish to conceal who it is--“give up Mr. Douglas, or I will take away -your portion and give it to your sister.” What could I say? Could I show -so little faith in the choice I had made--so little--so little--regard -for the gentleman I am going to marry, as to say, “I prefer my fortune?” -I will not do it; it would be falsehood and baseness. This is all the -alternative I have ever had. It is like saying, “Your money or your -life”----’ - -‘In that case one gives the money, Anne, to save the life.’ - -‘And so I have done,’ she said, proudly. ‘Dear Mr. Loseby, I don’t want -to vex you. I don’t want to quarrel with anyone. Can I say, when it is -not true--“I have changed my mind, I like the money best?” Don’t you see -that I could not do that? then what can I do?’ - -‘You can give in, my dear, you can give in,’ repeated the lawyer. ‘No -use for entering into particulars. So long as you authorise me to say -you give in--that is all, I am sure, that is needful. Don’t turn me off, -Anne--give me the pleasure of reconciling you, my dear.’ - -Mr. Loseby had always given himself out as one of Anne’s adorers. His -eyes glistened with the moisture in them. He pressed her arm within his. -‘Come, my dear! I never was a father myself, which I have always -regretted; but I have known you all your life. Let me do you a good -turn--let me put a stop to all this nonsense, and tell him you will make -it up.’ - -Anne’s heart had sunk very low; with one assault of this kind after -another she was altogether discouraged. She did not seem to care what -she said, or what interpretation was put upon her words. ‘You may say -what you please,’ she said. ‘I will make it up, if you please: but what -does that mean, Mr. Loseby? I will give up writing, if he wishes it--but -how can I give up the--gentleman I am engaged to? Do you think I want to -quarrel? Oh, no, no--but what can I do? Give up!--I have no right. He -has my promise and I have his. Can I sell that for money?’ cried Anne, -indignantly. ‘I will do whatever papa pleases--except that.’ - -‘You are making him do a dreadful injustice, Anne. Come, what does this -young fellow say? Does he not want to release you, to save you from -suffering? does he hold you to your promise in the face of such a loss? -An honourable young man would tell you: never mind me----’ - -Anne detached her arm with a little energy from his. ‘Why should you -torment me?’ she cried. ‘An honourable man?--is it honour, then, to -prefer, as you said yourself, one’s money to one’s life?’ - -‘My dear child, money is always there, it is always to be relied upon; -it is a strong back, whatever happens--whereas this, that you call -life----!’ cried Mr. Loseby, spreading out his hands and lifting up his -eyebrows; he had chosen the very image she had herself used when writing -to her lover. Was this then what they all thought, that wealth was the -best thing to fall back upon? She smiled, but it was a smile of pain. - -‘If I thought so, I should not care either for the life or the money,’ -she said. - -Mr. Loseby held up his hands once more. He shook his shining little bald -head, and took up his blue bag from the table. ‘You are as obstinate, as -pig-headed, the whole family of you--one worse than another,’ he said. - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII. - -AFTERTHOUGHTS. - - -There were two witnesses wanted for the will; one of these was Heathcote -Mountford, the other the clerk whom Mr. Loseby had brought with him in -his phaeton. He stood by himself, looking as like an indignant prophet -whose message from heaven has been disregarded, as a fat little shining -man of five feet four could look. It had been to make a last attempt -upon the mind of Mr. Mountford, and also to try what effect he could -produce on the heart of Anne, that he had come himself, facing all the -risks of an east wind, with perhaps snow to come. And there had been a -long and stormy interview in the library before the clerk had been -called in. ‘She will give up the correspondence. She is as sweet as a -girl can be,’ said the old lawyer, fibbing manfully; ‘one can see that -it goes to her heart that you should think her disobedient. Mountford, -you don’t half know what a girl that is. But for the money she would -come to you, she would put herself at your feet, she would give up -everything. But she says, bless her! “Papa would think it was because of -the money. Do you think I would do that for the money which I wouldn’t -do to please him?” That’s Anne all over,’ said her mendacious advocate. -‘After you have accomplished this injustice and cut her off, that sweet -creature will come to you some fine day and say, “Papa, I give him up. I -give everything up that displeases you--I cannot go against my duty.”’ - -There was a slight attempt at imitation of Anne’s voice in Mr. Loseby’s -tone; he tried a higher key when he made those imaginary speeches on her -behalf: but his eyes were glistening all the time: he did not intend to -be humorous. And neither was Mr. Mountford a man who saw a joke. He took -it grimly without any softening. - -‘When she does that, Loseby, if I see reason to believe that she means -it, I’ll make another will.’ - -‘You speak at your ease of making another will--are you sure you will -have it in your power? When a man makes an unjust will, I verily believe -every word is a nail in his coffin. It is very seldom,’ said Mr. Loseby, -with emphasis, carried away by his feelings, ‘that they live to repent.’ - -Mr. Mountford paled in spite of himself. He looked up sharply at his -mentor, then laughed a short uneasy laugh. ‘There’s nothing like a -partisan,’ he said; ‘I call that brutal--if it were not so silly, -Loseby--unworthy a man of your sense.’ - -‘By----!’ the lawyer cried to relieve himself, ‘I don’t see the -silliness; when you’ve taken a wrong step that may plunge other people -into misery, I cannot see how you can have any confidence, even in the -protection of God; and you are not in your first youth any more than -myself. The thought of dying can’t be put aside at your age or at my -age, Mountford, as if we were boys of twenty. We have got to think of -it, whether we will or not.’ - -This address made Mr. Mountford furious. He felt no occasion at all in -himself to think of it; it was a brutal argument, and quite beyond all -legitimate discussion; but nevertheless it was not pleasant. He did not -like the suggestion. ‘Perhaps you’ll call that clerk of yours, and let -us finish the business, before we get into fancy and poetry. I never -knew you were so imaginative,’ he said, with a sneer; but his lips were -bluish, notwithstanding this attempt at disdain. And Mr. Loseby stood -with his spectacles pushed up on his forehead, as if with a desire not -to see, holding his little bald head high in the air, with a fine -indignation in every line of his figure. Heathcote, who was brought in -to sign as one of the witnesses, felt that it needed all his -consciousness of the importance of what was going on to save him from -indecorous laughter. When Mr. Mountford said, ‘I deliver this,’ ‘And I -protest against it,’ Mr. Loseby cried, in a vehement undertone, ‘protest -against it before earth and heaven.’ ‘Do you mean little Thompson there -and Heathcote Mountford?’ said the testator, looking up with a laugh -that was more like a snarl. And Heathcote too perceived that his very -lips were palish, bluish, and the hand not so steady as usual with which -he pushed the papers away. But Mr. Mountford recovered himself with -great courage. ‘Now that I have finished my business, we will have time -to consider your proposition,’ he said, putting his hand on Heathcote’s -shoulder as he got up from his chair. ‘That is, if you have time to -think of anything serious in the midst of all this ball nonsense. You -must come over for the ball, Loseby, a gay young bachelor like you.’ - -‘You forget I am a widower, Mr. Mountford,’ said the lawyer, with great -gravity. - -‘To be sure; I beg your pardon; but you are always here when there is -anything going on; and while the young fools are dancing, we’ll consider -this question of the entail.’ - -‘I don’t know what he means,’ Mr. Loseby said, some time after taking -Heathcote into a corner; ‘consider the question of the entail the moment -he has made another will! I’ll tell you what it is--he is repenting -already. I thought what I said couldn’t be altogether without effect. -St. John Mountford is as obstinate as a pig, but he is not a fool. I -thought he must be touched by what I said. That’s how it is; he would -not seem to give in to us; but if you agree on this point, it will be a -fine excuse for beginning it all over again. That’s a new light--and -it’s exactly like him--it’s St. John Mountford all over,’ said the -lawyer, rubbing his hands; ‘as full of crotchets as an egg is full of -meat--but yet not such a bad fellow after all.’ - -The household, however, had no such consoling consciousness of the -possibility there was of having all done over again, and there was a -great deal of agitation on the subject, both upstairs and down. Very -silent upstairs--where Mrs. Mountford, in mingled compunction on Anne’s -account and half-guilty joy (though it was none of her doing she said to -herself) in respect to Rose’s (supposedly) increased fortune, was -reduced to almost complete dumbness, her multiplicity of thoughts -making it impossible to her to share in Rose’s chatter about the coming -ball; and where Anne, satisfied to think that whatever was to happen had -happened, and could no longer be supposed to depend upon any action of -hers, sat proud and upright by the writing-table, reading--and -altogether out of the talk which Rose carried on, and was quite able to -carry on whatever happened, almost entirely by herself. Rose had the -same general knowledge that something very important was going on as the -rest; but to her tranquil mind, a bird in the hand was always more -interesting than two or three in the bush. Downstairs, however, Saymore -and Worth and the cook were far from silent. They had a notion of the -state of affairs which was wonderfully accurate, and a strong conviction -that Miss Anne for her sins had been deposed from her eminence and Miss -Rose put in her place. The feeling of Saymore and the cook was strong in -Anne’s favour, but Mrs. Worth was not so certain. ‘Miss Rose is a young -lady that is far more patient to have her things tried on,’ Worth said. -Saymore brought down an account of the party in the drawing-room, which -was very interesting to the select party in the housekeeper’s room. -‘Missis by the side of the fire, as serious as a judge--puckering up her -brows--never speaking a word.’ - -‘I dare say she was counting,’ said Worth. - -‘And Miss Anne up by the writing-table, with her back against the wall, -reading a book, never taking no notice no more than if she were seventy; -and Miss Rose a-chattering. The two before the fire had it all their own -way. They were writing down and counting up all the folks for this -dance. Dash the dance!’ said Saymore; ‘that sort of a nonsense is no -satisfaction to reasonable folks. But Miss Rose, she’s as merry as a -cricket with her Cousin Heathcote and Cousin Heathcote at every word. -She knows it’s all to her advantage what’s been a-doing to-day.’ - -‘That might be a match, I shouldn’t wonder--eh!’ said the cook, who was -from the north-country; ‘the luck as some folks have--I never can -understand these queer wills; why can’t gentlefolks do like poor folks, -and divide fair, share and share alike? As for what you call entail, I -don’t make head or tail of it; but if Miss Rose’s to get all the brass, -and marry the man with the land, and Miss Anne to get nought, it’s easy -to see that isn’t fair.’ - -‘If it’s the cousin you mean,’ said Mrs. Worth, ‘he is just twice too -old for Miss Rose.’ - -‘Then he will know how to take care of her,’ said Saymore, which made -the room ring with laughter: for though the affairs of the drawing-room -were interesting, there was naturally a still warmer attraction in the -drama going on downstairs. - -Mr. Mountford was in his room alone. He had retired there after dinner, -as was his custom. At dinner he had been very serious. He had not been -able to get Mr. Loseby’s words out of his mind. Every word a nail in his -coffin! What superstitious folly it was! No man ever died the sooner for -attending to his affairs, for putting them in order, he said to himself. -But this was not simply putting them in order. His mind was greatly -disturbed. He had thought that, as soon as he had done it he would be -relieved and at ease from the pressure of the irritation which had -disturbed him so; but now that it was done he was more disturbed than -ever. Perhaps for the first time he fully realised that, if anything -should happen to himself, one of his children would be made to sustain -the cruellest disappointment and wrong. ‘It will serve her right,’ he -tried to say to himself, ‘for the way she has behaved to me;’ but when -it became really apparent to him that this would be, not merely a -tremendous rebuff and discomfiture for Anne, but a settled fate which -she could not escape, a slight shiver ran through him. He had not seen -this so plainly before. He had meant to punish her, cruelly, even -bitterly, and with an ironical completeness. But then he had never meant -to die. This made a greater difference than it was possible to say. He -meant that she should know that her marriage was impossible; that he had -the very poorest opinion of the man she had chosen; that he would not -trust him, and was determined never to let him handle a penny of his -(Mr. Mountford’s) money. In short, he said to himself, what he meant was -to save Anne from this adventurer, who would no longer wish to marry her -when he knew her to be penniless. He meant, he persuaded himself, that -his will should have this effect in his lifetime; he meant it to be -known, and set things right, not in the future, but at once. Now that -all was done he saw the real meaning of the tremendous instrument he had -made for the first time. To save Anne from an adventurer--not to die and -leave her without provision, not really to give anything away from her, -though she deserved it after the way in which she had defied him, had -been his intention. Mr. Mountford thought this over painfully, not able -to think of anything else. Last night even, no later, he had been -thinking it over vindictively, pleased with the cleverness and -completeness with which he had turned the tables upon his daughter. It -had pleased him immoderately before it was done. But now that it was -done, and old Loseby, like an old fool, had thrown in that bit of silly -superstition about the nails in his coffin, it did not please him any -longer. His face had grown an inch or two longer, nothing like a smile -would come whatever he might do. When his wife came ‘to sit with him,’ -as she often did, perturbed herself, half frightened, half exultant, and -eager to learn all she could, he sent her away impatiently. ‘I have a -great deal to do,’ he said. ‘What do I care for your ball? For heaven’s -sake let me have a little quiet. I have a great mind to say that there -shall be no ball----’ ‘Papa!’ his wife said, ‘you would not be so -unkind. Rose has set her heart on it so.’ ‘Oh confound----!’ he said. -Did he mean confound Rose, whom he had just chosen to be his heir, whom -he had promoted to the vacant place of Anne? All through this strange -business Mrs. Mountford’s secret exultation, when she dared to permit -herself to indulge it, in the good fortune of her daughter had been -chequered by a growing bitterness in the thought that, though Rose was -to have the inheritance, Anne still retained by far the higher place -even in her husband’s thoughts. He was resolved apparently that nobody -should have any satisfaction in this overturn--not even the one person -who was benefited. Mrs. Mountford went away with a very gloomy -countenance after the confound----! The only thing that gave her any -consolation was to see the brisk conversation going on between her -daughter and Heathcote Mountford. Anne sat stiff and upright, quite -apart from them, reading, but the two who were in front of the cheerful -fire in the full light of the lamp were chattering with the gayest ease. -Even Mrs. Mountford wondered at Rose, who surely knew enough to be a -little anxious, a little perturbed as her mother was--but who showed no -more emotion than the cricket that chirped on the hearth. Was it mere -innocence and childish ease of heart, or was it that there was no heart -at all? Even her mother could not understand her. And Heathcote, too, -who knew a great deal, if not all that was going on, though he threw -back lightly the ball of conversation, wondered at the gaiety of this -little light-minded girl who was not affected, not a hair’s breadth, by -the general agitation of the house, nor by the disturbed countenance of -her mother, nor by her sister’s seriousness. He talked--it was against -his principles not to respond to the gay challenges thrown out to -him--but he wondered. Did she know nothing, though everybody else knew? -Was she incapable of divining that other people were in trouble? The -conversation was very lively in front of the fire, but he, too, as well -as the others, wondered at Rose. - -And Mr. Mountford alone in his library thought, and over again thought. -Supposing after all, incredible as it seemed, that _he was to die_? He -did not entertain the idea, but it took possession of him against his -will. He got up and walked about the room in the excitement it caused. -He felt his pulse almost involuntarily, and was a little comforted to -feel that it was beating just as usual; but if it should happen as -Loseby said? He would not acknowledge to himself that he had done a -wrong thing, and yet, if anything of that sort were to take place, he -could not deny that the punishment he had inflicted was too severe. -Whereas, as he intended it, it was not a punishment, but a precaution; -it was to prevent Anne throwing herself away upon an adventurer, a -nobody. Better even that she should have no money than be married for -her money, than fall into the hands of a man unworthy of her. But then, -supposing he were to die, and this will, made--certainly, as he -persuaded himself, as a mere precautionary measure--should become final? -That would make a very great difference. For a long time Mr. Mountford -thought over the question. He was caught in his own net. After all that -had been said and done, he could not change the will that he had made. -It was not within the bounds of possibility that he should send for that -little busybody again and acknowledge to him that he had made a mistake. -What was there that he could do? He sat up long beyond his usual hour. -Saymore, extremely curious and excited by so strange an incident, came -to his door three several times to see that the fire was out and to -extinguish the lamp, and received the last time such a reception as sent -the old man hurrying along the passages at a pace nobody had ever seen -him adopt before, as if in danger of his life. Then Mrs. Mountford came, -very anxious, on tiptoe in her dressing-gown, to see if anything was the -matter; but she too retired more quickly than she came. He let his fire -go out, and his lamp burn down to the last drop of oil--and it was only -when he had no more light to go on with, and was chilled to death, that -he lighted his candle and made his way to his own room through the -silent house. - -The victim herself was somewhat sad. She had spent the evening in a -proud and silent indignation, saying nothing, feeling the first jar of -fate, and the strange pang of the discovery that life was not what she -had thought, but far less moved by what her father had done than by the -failure round of her understanding and support. And when she had gone to -her room, she had cried as did not misbecome her sex and her age, but -then had read Cosmo’s letter over again, and had discovered a new -interpretation for it, and reading between the lines, had found it all -generosity and nobleness, and forthwith reconciled herself to life and -fate. But her father had no such ready way of escape. He was the master -of Anne’s future in one important respect, the arbiter of the family -existence, with the power of setting up one and putting down another; -but he had no reserve of imaginative strength, no fund of generous and -high-flown sentiment, no love-letter to restore his courage. He did what -he could to bring that courage back. During the hours which he spent -unapproachable in his library, he had been writing busily, producing -pages of manuscript, half of which he had destroyed as soon as it was -written. At the end, however, he so far satisfied himself as to concoct -something of which he made a careful copy. The original he put into one -envelope, the duplicate into another, and placed these two packets in -the drawer of his writing-table, just as his light failed him. As he -went upstairs his cold feet and muddled head caused him infinite alarm, -and he blamed himself in his heart for risking his health. What he had -done in his terror that night might have been left till to-morrow; -whereas he might have caught cold, and cold might lead to bronchitis. -Every word a nail in his coffin! What warrant had Loseby for such a -statement? Was there any proof to be given of it? Mr. Mountford’s head -was buzzing and confused with the unusual work and the still more -unusual anxiety. Perhaps he had caught an illness; he did not feel able -to think clearly or even to understand his own apprehensions. He felt -his pulse again before he went to bed. It was not feverish--yet: but who -could tell what it might be in the morning? And his feet were so cold -that he could not get any warmth in them, even though he held them close -to the dying fire. - -He was not, however, feverish in the morning, and his mind became more -placid as the day went on. The two packets were safe in the drawer of -the writing-table. He took them out and looked at them as a man might -look at a bottle of quack medicine, clandestinely secured and kept in -reserve against an emergency. He would not care to have his possession -of it known, and yet there it was, should the occasion to try it occur. -He felt a little happier to know that he could put his hands upon it -should it be wanted--or at least a little less alarmed and nervous. And -days passed on without any symptoms of cold or other illness. There was -no sign or sound of these nails driven into his coffin. And the -atmosphere grew more clear in the house. Anne, between whom and himself -there had been an inevitable reserve and coldness, suddenly came out of -that cloud, and presented herself to him the Anne of old, with all the -sweetness and openness of nature. The wrong had now been accomplished, -and was over, and there was a kind of generous amusement to Anne in the -consternation which her sudden return to all her old habits occasioned -among the people surrounding her, who knew nothing of her inner life of -imaginative impulse and feeling. She took her cottage-plans into the -library one morning with her old smile as if nothing had happened or -could happen. The plans had been all pushed aside in the silent combat -between her father and herself. Mr. Mountford could not restrain a -little outburst of feeling, which had almost the air of passion. ‘Why do -you bring them to me? Don’t you know you are out of it, Anne? Don’t you -know I have done--what I told you I should do?’ - -‘I heard that you had altered your will, papa; but that does not affect -the cottagers. They are always there whoever has the estate.’ - -‘Don’t you mind, then, who has the estate?’ - -‘Yes, immensely,’ said Anne, with a smile. ‘I could not have thought I -should mind half so much. I have felt the coming down and being second. -But I am better again. You have a right to do what you please, and I -shall not complain.’ - -He sat in his chair at his writing-table (in the drawer of which were -still those two sealed packets) and looked at her with contemplative, -yet somewhat abashed eyes. There was an unspeakable relief in being thus -entirely reconciled to her, notwithstanding the sense of discomfiture -and defeat it gave him. ‘Do you think--your sister--will be able to -manage property?’ he said. - -‘No doubt she will marry, papa.’ - -‘Ah!’ he had not thought of this somehow. ‘She will marry, and my -substance will go into the hands of some stranger, some fellow I never -heard of; that is a pleasant prospect: he will be a fool most likely, -whether he is an adventurer or not.’ - -‘We must all take our chance, I suppose,’ said Anne, with a little -tremor in her voice. She knew the adventurer was levelled at herself. ‘I -suppose you have made it a condition that he shall take the name of -Mountford, papa?’ - -He made her no reply, but looked up suddenly with a slight start. Oddly -enough he had made no stipulation in respect to Rose. It had never -occurred to him that it was of the slightest importance what name Rose’s -husband should bear. He gave Anne a sudden startled look; then, for he -would not commit himself, changed the subject abruptly. After this -interval of estrangement it was so great a pleasure to talk to Anne -about the family affairs. ‘What do you think,’ he said, ‘about -Heathcote’s proposal, Anne?’ - -‘I should have liked to jump at it, papa. Mount in our own family! it -seemed too good to be true.’ - -‘Seemed! you speak as if it were in the past. I have not said no yet. I -have still got the offer in my power. Mount in our own family! but we -have not got a family--a couple of girls!’ - -‘If we had not been a couple of girls there would have been no trouble -about the entail,’ said Anne, permitting herself a laugh. ‘And of course -Rose’s husband----’ - -‘I know nothing about Rose’s husband,’ he cried testily. ‘I never -thought of him. And so you can talk of all this quite at your ease?’ he -added. ‘You don’t mind?’ - -This was a kind of offence to him, as well as a satisfaction. She had no -right to think so little of it: and yet what a relief it was! - -Anne shook her head and smiled. ‘It is better not to talk of it at all,’ -she said. - -This conversation had a great effect upon Mr. Mountford. Though perhaps -it proved him more wrong than ever, it restored him to all the ease of -family intercourse which had been impeded of late. And it set the whole -house right. Anne, who had been in the shade, behind backs, resigning -many of her usual activities on various pretences, came back naturally -to her old place. It was like a transformation scene. And everybody was -puzzled, from Mrs. Mountford, who could not understand it at all, and -Heathcote, who divined that some compromise had been effected, to the -servants, whose interest in Miss Anne rose into new warmth, and who -concluded that she had found means at last ‘to come over master,’ which -was just what they expected from her. After this everything went on very -smoothly, as if the wheels of life had been freshly oiled, and velvet -spread over all its roughnesses. Even the preparations for the ball -proceeded with far more spirit than before. The old wainscoted -banqueting-room, which had not been used for a long time, though it was -the pride of the house, was cleared for dancing, and Anne had already -begun to superintend the decoration of it. Everything went on more -briskly from the moment that she took it in hand, for none of the -languid workers had felt that there was any seriousness in the -preparations till Anne assumed the direction of them. Heathcote, who was -making acquaintance very gradually with the differing characters of the -household, understood this sudden activity less than anything before. -‘Is it for love of dancing?’ he said. Anne laughed and shook her head. - -‘I don’t know that I shall enjoy this ball much; but I am not above -dancing--and I enjoy _this_,’ she said. ‘I like to be doing something.’ -To have regained her own sense of self-command, her superiority to -circumstances, made this magnanimous young woman happy in her downfall. -She liked the knowledge that she was magnanimous almost more than the -good fortune and prosperity which she had lost. She had got over her -misfortunes. She gave her head a little toss aloft, shaking off all -shadows, as she ran hither and thither, the soul of everything. She had -got the upper hand of fate. - -As for Mr. Mountford, he had a great deal more patience about the -details of the approaching entertainment when Anne took them in hand. -Either she managed to make them amusing to him, or the additional -reality in the whole matter, from the moment she put herself at the head -of affairs, had a corresponding effect upon her father. Perhaps, indeed, -a little feeling of making up to her, by a more than ordinary readiness -to accept all her lesser desires, was in his mind. His moroseness melted -away. He forgot his alarm about his health and Mr. Loseby’s ugly words. -It is possible, indeed, that he might have succeeded in forgetting -altogether what he had done, or at least regaining his feeling that it -was a mere expedient to overawe Anne and bring her into order, liable to -be changed as everything changes--even wills, when there are long years -before the testator--but for the two sealed envelopes in his drawer -which he could not help seeing every time he opened it. A day or two -before the ball some business called him into Hunston, and he took them -out with a half smile, weighing them in his hand. Should he carry them -with him and put them in Loseby’s charge? or should he leave them there? -He half laughed at the ridiculous expedient to which Loseby’s words had -driven him, and looked at the two letters jocularly; but in the end he -determined to take them, it would be as well to put them in old Loseby’s -hands. Heathcote volunteered to ride with him as he had done before. It -was again a bright calm day, changed only in so far as November is -different from October. There had been stormy weather in the meantime, -and the trees were almost bare; but still it was fine and bright. Anne -came out from the hall and stood on the steps to see them ride off. She -gave them several commissions: to inquire at the bookseller’s for the -ball programmes, and to carry to the haberdasher’s a note of something -Mrs. Worth wanted. She kissed her hand to her father as he rode away, -and his penitent heart gave him a prick. ‘You would not think that was a -girl that had just been cut off with a shilling,’ he said, half -mournfully (as if it had been a painful necessity), and half with -parental braggadocio, proud of her pluck and spirit. - -‘I thought you must have changed your mind,’ Heathcote said. - -Mr. Mountford shook his head and said, ‘No, worse luck. I have not -changed my mind.’ - -This was the only expression of changed sentiment to which he gave vent. -When they called at Mr. Loseby’s, the lawyer received them with a -mixture of satisfaction and alarm. ‘What’s up now?’ he said, coming out -of the door of his private room to receive them. ‘I thought I should see -you presently.’ But when he was offered the two sealed letters Mr. -Loseby drew back his hand as if he had been stung. ‘You have been making -another will,’ he said, ‘all by yourself, to ruin your family and make -work for us lawyers after you are dead and gone.’ - -‘No,’ said Mr. Mountford, eagerly, ‘no, no--it is only some -stipulations.’ - -The packets were each inscribed with a legend on the outside, and the -lawyer was afraid of them. He took them gingerly with the ends of his -fingers, and let them drop into one of the boxes which lined his walls. -As for Mr. Mountford, he became more jaunty and pleased with himself -every moment. He went to the haberdasher’s for Mrs. Worth, and to the -stationer’s to get the programmes which had been ordered for the ball. -He was more cheerful than his companion had ever seen him. He opened the -subject of the entail of his own accord as they went along. ‘Loseby is -coming for the ball: it is a kind of thing he likes; and then we shall -talk it over,’ he said. Perhaps in doing this a way might be found of -setting things straight, independent of these sealed packets, which, -however, in the meantime, were a kind of sop to fate, a propitiation to -Nemesis. Then they rode home in cheerful talk. By the time night fell -they had got into the park; and though the trees stood up bare against -the dark blue sky, and the grass looked too wet and spongy for pleasant -riding, there was still some beauty in the dusky landscape. Mount, -framed in its trees and showing in the distance the cheerful glow of its -lights, had come in sight. ‘It is a pleasant thing to come home, and to -know that one is looked for and always welcome,’ Mr. Mountford said. -Heathcote had turned round to answer, with some words on his lips about -his own less happy lot, when suddenly the figure at his side dropped out -of the dusk around them. There was a muffled noise, a floundering of -horse’s hoofs, a dark heap upon the grass, moving, struggling, yet only -half discernible in the gloom, over which he almost stumbled and came to -the ground also, so sudden was the fall. His own horse swerved -violently, just escaping its companion’s hoof. And through the darkness -there ran a sharp broken cry, and then a groan: which of them came from -his own lips Heathcote did not know. - - - - -CHAPTER XIX. - -THE CATASTROPHE. - - -All was pleasant commotion and stir in Mount, where almost every room -had received some addition to its decoration. On this particular evening -there was a great show of candles in the old banqueting hall, which was -to be the ballroom, and great experiments in lighting were going on. The -ball at Mount was stirring the whole county. In all the houses about -there was more or less commotion, toilets preparing, an additional -thrill of liveliness and pleasure sent into the quiet country life. And -Mount itself was all astir. Standing outside, it was pretty to watch the -lights walking about the full house, gliding along the long corridors, -gleaming at windows along the whole breadth of the rambling old place. -With all these lights streaming out into the night, the house seemed to -warm the evening air, which was now white with inevitable mists over the -park. Rose ran about like a child, delighted with the stir, dragging -holly wreaths after her, and holding candles to all the workers; but -Anne had the real work in hand. It was to her the carpenters came for -their orders, and the servants who never knew from one half-hour to -another what next was to be done. Mrs. Mountford had taken the supper -under her charge, and sat serenely over her worsted work, in the -consciousness that whatever might go wrong, that, at least, would be -right. ‘As for your decorations, I wash my hands of them,’ she said. It -was Anne upon whom all these cares fell. And though she was by no means -sure that she would enjoy the ball, it was quite certain, as she had -said to Heathcote, that she enjoyed _this_. She enjoyed the sensation of -being herself again, and able to throw herself into this occupation -with a fine indifference to her own personal standing in the house. If -she had been dethroned in the will, only herself could dethrone her in -nature. She felt, as she wished to feel, that she was above all that; -that she was not even under the temptation of sullenness, and had no -sense of injury to turn the sweet into bitter. She went about holding -her head consciously a little higher than usual, as with a gay defiance -of all things that could pull her down. Who could pull her down, save -herself? And what was the use of personal happiness, of that inspiration -and exhilaration of love which was in her veins, if it did not make her -superior to all little external misfortunes? She felt magnanimous, and -to feel so seemed to compensate her for everything else. It would have -been strange, indeed, she said to herself, if the mere loss of a fortune -had sufficed to crush the spirit of a happy woman, a woman beloved, with -a great life before her. She smiled at fate in her faith and happiness. -Her head borne higher than usual, thrown back a little, her eyes -shining, a smile, in which some fine contempt for outside trouble just -touched the natural sweetness of her youth, to which, after all, it was -so natural to take pleasure in all that she was about--all these signs -and marks of unusual commotion in her mind, of the excitement of a -crisis about her, struck the spectators, especially the keen-sighted -ones below stairs. ‘It can’t be like we think. She’s the conquering -hero, Miss Anne is. She’s just like that army with banners as is in the -Bible,’ said the north-country cook. ‘I don’t understand her not a bit,’ -Saymore said, who knew better, who was persuaded that Anne had not -conquered. Mrs. Worth opined that it was nature and nothing more. ‘A -ball is a ball, however downhearted you may be; it cheers you up, -whatever is a going to happen,’ she said; but neither did this theory -find favour in old Saymore’s eyes. - -What a beehive it was! Rooms preparing for the visitors who were to come -to-morrow, linen put out to air, fires lighted, housemaids busy; in the -kitchen all the cook’s underlings, with aids from the village, already -busy over the ball supper. Even Mrs. Mountford had laid aside her -worsted work, and was making bows of ribbons for the cotillon. There was -to be a cotillon. It was ‘such fun,’ Rose had said. In the ballroom the -men were busy hammering, fixing up wreaths, and hanging curtains. Both -the girls were there superintending, Rose half encircled by greenery. -There was so much going on, so much noise that it was difficult to hear -anything. And it must have been a lull in the hammering, in the -consultation of the men, in the moving of stepladders and sound of heavy -boots over the floor, which allowed that faint sound to penetrate to -Anne’s ear. What was it? ‘What was that?’ she cried. They listened a -moment, humouring her. What should it be? The hammers were sounding -gaily, John Stokes, the carpenter belonging to the house, mounted high -upon his ladder, with tacks in his mouth, his assistant holding up to -him one of the muslin draperies. The wreaths were spread out over the -floor. Now and then a maid put in her head to gaze, and admire, and -wonder. ‘Oh, you are always fancying something, Anne,’ said Rose. ‘You -forget how little time we have.’ Then suddenly it came again, and -everybody heard. A long cry, out of the night, a prolonged halloo. John -Stokes himself put down his hammer. ‘It’s somebody got into the pond,’ -he said. ‘No, it’s the other side of the park,’ said the other man. Anne -ran out to the corridor, and threw open the window at the end, which -swept a cold gust through all the house. A wind seemed to have got up at -that moment, though it had been calm before. Then it came again, a -long, far-echoing ‘halloo--halloo--help!’ Was it ‘help’ the voice cried? -No doubt it was an appeal, whatever it was. - -The men threw down their hammers and rushed downstairs with a common -instinct, to see what it was. Anne stood leaning out of the window -straining her eyes in the milky misty air, which seemed to grow whiter -and less clear as she gazed. ‘Oh please put down the window,’ cried -Rose, shivering, ‘it is so cold--and what good can we do? It is -poachers, most likely; it can’t be anybody in the pond, or they wouldn’t -go on shrieking like that.’ Saymore, who had come up to look at the -decorations, gave the same advice. ‘You’ll get your death of cold, Miss -Anne, and you can’t do no good; maybe it’s something caught in a -snare--they cry like Christians, them creatures do, though we call ’em -dumb creatures; or it’s maybe a cart gone over on the low road--the -roads is very heavy; or one of the keepers as has found something; it’s -about time for Master and Mr. Heathcote coming back from Hunston; -they’ll bring us news. Don’t you be nervish, Miss Anne; they’ll see what -it is. I’ve known an old owl make just such a screeching.’ - -‘Could an owl say “halloo,”’ said Anne, ‘and “help”? I am sure I heard -“help.” I hear somebody galloping up to the door--no, it is not to the -door, it is to the stables. It will be papa or Heathcote come for help. -I am sure it is something serious,’ she said. And she left the great -window wide open, and rushed downstairs. As for Rose she was very -chilly. She withdrew within the warmer shelter of the ballroom, and -arranged the bow of ribbon with which one of the hangings was to be -finished. ‘Put down the window,’ she said; ‘it can’t do anyone any good -to let the wind pour in like that, and chill all the house.’ - -Heathcote had been half an hour alone in the great wilderness of the -park, nothing near him that could help, the trees rustling in the wind, -standing far off round about like a scared circle of spectators, holding -up piteous hands to heaven, but giving no aid. He was kneeling upon the -horse’s head, himself no more than a protuberance in the fallen mass, -unable to get any answer to his anxious questions. One or two groans -were all that he could elicit, groans which grew fainter and fainter; he -shouted with all his might, but there seemed nothing there to reply--no -passing labourer, no one from the village making a short cut across the -park, as he had seen them do a hundred times. The mist rose up out of -the ground, choking him, and, he thought, stifling his voice; the echoes -gave him back the faint sounds which were all he seemed able to make. -His throat grew dry and hoarse. Now and then the fallen horse gave a -heave, and attempted to fling out, and there would be another scarcely -articulate moan. His helplessness went to his very heart; and there, -almost within reach, hanging suspended, as it were, between heaven and -earth, were the lights of the house, showing with faint white haloes -round them, those lights which had seemed so full of warmth and welcome. -When the first of the help-bringers came running, wildly flashing a -lantern about, Heathcote’s limbs were stiffened and his voice scarcely -audible; but it required no explanation to show the state of the case. -His horse, which had escaped when he dismounted, had made its way to the -stable door, and thus roused a still more effectual alarm. Then the -other trembling brute was got to its legs, and the body liberated. The -body!--what did they mean? There was no groan now or cry--‘Courage, sir, -courage--a little more patience and you will be at home,’ Heathcote -heard himself saying. To whom? There was no reply; the groan would have -been eloquence. But he could not permit himself to believe that the -worst had come. He kept on talking, not knowing what he was doing, while -they brought something, he did not know what, to place the motionless -figure upon. ‘Softly, softly!’ he cried to the men, and took the limp -hand into his own, and continued to speak. He heard himself talking, -going along, repeating always the same words, ‘A little longer, only a -little longer. Keep up your heart, sir, we are nearly there.’ When they -had almost reached the door of the house, one of the bearers suddenly -burst forth in a kind of loud sob, ‘Don’t you, sir, don’t you -now!--don’t you see as he’ll never hear a spoken word again?’ - -Then Heathcote stopped mechanically, as he had been speaking -mechanically. His hat had been knocked off his head. His dress was wet -and muddy, his hair in disorder, his whole appearance wild and terrible. -When the light from the door fell full upon him, and Anne stepped -forward, he was capable of nothing but to motion her away with his hand. -‘What is it?’ she said, in an awe-stricken voice. ‘Don’t send me away. I -am not afraid. Did papa find it? He ought to come in at once. Make him -come in at once. What is it, Mr. Heathcote? I am not afraid.’ - -‘Send the young lady away, sir,’ cried the groom, imperatively. ‘Miss -Anne, I can’t bring him in till you are out o’ that. Good Lord, can’t -you take her away?’ - -‘I am not afraid,’ she said, very pale, ranging herself on one side to -let them pass. Heathcote, who did not know what it was, any more than -she did, laid a heavy hand upon her shoulder, and put her, almost -roughly, out of the way. ‘I will go,’ she said, frightened. ‘I will -go--if only you will make papa come in out of the damp--it is so bad for -his---- Ah!’ She fell down upon her knees and her cry rang through all -the house. She had seen a sudden light from a lantern out of doors flash -across the covered face, the locks of grey hair. - -It was not long till everybody knew; from the top to the bottom of the -great house the news ran in a moment. John Stokes, the carpenter, -returned and mounted his ladder mechanically, to resume his work: then -remembered, and got down solemnly and collected his tools, leaving one -wreath up and half of the drapery. ‘There won’t be no ball here this -time,’ he said to his mate. ‘You bring the stepladder, Sam.’ This was -the first sign that one cycle of time, one reign was over, and another -begun. - -From that moment Heathcote Mountford’s position was changed. He felt it -before he had gone up the stairs, reverently following that which now he -no longer addressed with encouraging human words, but felt to be the -unapproachable and solemn thing it was. A man had ridden off for the -doctor before they entered the house, but there was no question of a -doctor to those who now laid their old master upon his bed. ‘I should -say instantaneous, or next to instantaneous,’ the doctor said when he -came; and when he heard of the few groans which had followed the fall, -he gave it as his opinion that these had been but unconscious plaints of -the body after all sense of pain or knowledge of what was happening had -departed. The horse had put his foot into a hole in the spongy wet -turf--a thing that might have happened any day, and which it was a -wonder did not happen oftener. There were not even the usual -questionings and wonderings as to how it came about, which are so -universal when death seizes life with so little warning. Mr. Mountford -had been in the habit of riding with a loose rein. He had unbounded -confidence in his cob, which, now that the event had proved its danger, -a groom came forward to say by no means deserved his confidence, but -had two or three times before stumbled with its rider. Heathcote felt -that doctors and grooms alike looked to himself with something more than -ordinary courtesy and respect. He walked away from the comfortable -bedroom now turned into a solemn presence chamber, and all its homely -uses intermitted, with a gravity he had not felt before for years. He -was not this man’s son, scarcely his friend, that his death should -affect him so. But, besides the solemnity of the event thus happening in -his presence, it changed his position even more than if he had been St. -John Mountford’s son. It would be barbarous to desert the poor women in -their trouble; but how was he to remain here, a comparative stranger, -their kinsman but their supplanter, become in a moment the master of the -house in which these girls had been born, and which their mother had -ruled for twenty years. He went to his room to change his wet and soiled -clothes, with a sense of confusion and sadness that made everything -unreal to him. His past as well as that of his kinsman had ended in a -moment; his careless easy life was over, the indulgences which he had -considered himself entitled to as a man upon whom nobody but Edward had -any special claim. Now Edward’s claims, for which he had been willing to -sacrifice his patrimony, must be put aside perforce. He could no longer -think of the arrangement which an hour ago he had been talking of so -easily, which was to have been accomplished with so little trouble. It -was in no way to be done now. Actually in a moment he had become -Mountford of Mount, the representative of many ancestors, the proprietor -of an old house and property, responsible to dependents of various -kinds, and to the future and to the past. In a moment, in the twinkling -of an eye; no idea of this kind had crossed his mind during that long -half-hour in the park, which looked like half a year. A fatal issue had -not occurred to him. It was not until he had reached the threshold of -the house, until he felt hope and help to be near, until he had heard -Anne’s voice appealing to him to know what it was, that the whole -meaning of it had burst upon him. St. John Mountford dead, and he -himself master of the house! It was impossible that, apart from the -appalling suddenness of the catastrophe, and the nervous agitation of -his own share in it, the death of his cousin even in this startling and -pitiful way should plunge him into grief. He was deeply shocked and awed -and impressed--sorry for the ladies, stricken so unexpectedly with a -double doom, loss of their head, loss of their home--and sorry beyond -words for the poor man himself, thus snatched out of life in a moment -without preparation, without any suggestion even of what was going to -happen; but it was not possible that Heathcote Mountford could feel any -private pang in himself. He was subdued out of all thought of himself, -except that strange sensation of absolute change. He dressed -mechanically, scarcely perceiving what it was he was putting on, in his -usual evening clothes which had been laid out for him, just as if he had -been dressing for the usual peaceful dinner, his kinsman in the next -room doing the same, and the table laid for all the family party. -Notwithstanding the absolute change that had occurred, the revolution in -everything, what could a man do but follow mechanically the habitual -customs of every day? - -He dressed very slowly, sometimes standing by the fire idly for ten -minutes at a time, in a half stupor of excitement, restless yet benumbed -and incapable of either action or thought; and when this was -accomplished went slowly along the long corridors to the drawing-room, -still as if nothing had happened, though more had happened than he could -fathom or realise. The change had gone down before him and was apparent -in every corner of the deserted place. There were two candles burning -feebly on the mantelpiece, and the fire threw a little fitful light -about, but that was all; and no one was there; of course it was -impossible that anyone should be there--but Heathcote was strange to -family trouble, and did not know what happened when a calamity like this -same crashing down from heaven into the midst of a household of people. -Mrs. Mountford’s work was lying on the sofa with the little sheaf of -bright-coloured wools, which she had been used to tuck under her arm -when she went ‘to sit with papa;’ and on the writing-table there was the -rough copy of the ball programme, corrected for the printer in Rose’s -hand. The programmes; it floated suddenly across his mind to recollect -the commission they had received on this subject as they had ridden -away; had they fulfilled it? he asked himself in his confusion; then -remembered as suddenly how he who was lying upstairs had fulfilled it, -and how useless it now was. Ball programmes! and the giver of the ball -lying dead in the house within reach of all the preparations, the -garlands, and ornaments. It was incredible, but it was true. Heathcote -walked about the dark and empty room in a maze of bewildered trouble -which he could not understand, troubled for the dead, and for the women, -and for himself, who was neither one nor the other, who was the person -to profit by it. It was no longer they who had been born here, who had -lived and ruled here for so many years, but he himself who was supreme -in the house. It was all his own. The idea neither pleased him nor -excited, but depressed and bewildered him. His own house: and all his -easy quiet life in the Albany, and his little luxuries in the way of art -and of travel--all over and gone. It seemed unkind to think of this in -the presence of calamity so much more serious. Yet how could he help -it? When some one came with a soft knock at the door he was startled as -if it had been a ghost. It was Saymore who came into the room, neat in -his evening apparel, dressed and trim whatever happened, making his -little formal bow. ‘The ladies, sir,’ Saymore said, conquering a little -huskiness, a little faltering in his own voice, ‘send their compliments -and they don’t feel equal to coming down. They hope you will excuse -them; and dinner is served, Mr. Mountford,’ the old man said, his voice -ending in a jar of broken sound, almost like weeping. Heathcote went -downstairs very seriously, as if he had formed one of the usual -procession. He seated himself at the end of the table, still decorated -with all its usual prettinesses as for the family meal; he did all this -mechanically, taking the place of the master of the house, without -knowing that he did so, and sitting down as if with ghosts, with all -those empty seats round the table and every place prepared. Was it real -or was it a dream? He felt that he could see himself as in a picture, -sitting there alone, eating mechanically, going through a semblance of -the usual meal. The soup was set before him, and then the fish, and -then-- - -‘Saymore, old man,’ Heathcote said suddenly, starting up, ‘I don’t know -if this is a tragedy or a farce we are playing--I cannot stand it any -longer--take all those things away.’ - -‘It do seem an awful change, sir, and so sudden,’ cried the old man, -frightened by the sudden movement, and by this departure from the rigid -rules of ceremony--yet relieved after his first start was over. And then -old Saymore began to sob, putting down the little silver dish with the -entrée. ‘I’ve been his butler, sir, this thirty years, and ten years in -the pantry before that, footman, and born on the property like. And all -to be over, sir, in a moment; and he was a good master, sir, though -strict. He was very particular, but always a kind master. It’ll be long -before we’ll yet another like him--not but what I beg your pardon, Mr. -Mountford. I don’t make no doubt but them as serves you will give the -same character to you.’ - -This good wish relieved the oppression with a touch of humour; but -Heathcote did not dare to let a smile appear. ‘I hope so, sir,’ Saymore -said. He rubbed his old eyes hard with his napkin. Then he took up again -the little silver dish. ‘It’s sweetbreads, sir, and it won’t keep; it -was a great favourite with master. Have a little while it’s hot. It will -disappoint cook if you don’t eat a bit; we must eat, whatever happens, -sir,’ the old man said. - - - - -CHAPTER XX. - -THE WILL. - - -It is needless to dwell upon the gloom of the days that followed this -event. Mr. Loseby came over from Hunston, as pale as he was rosy on -ordinary occasions, and with a self-reproach that was half pathetic, -half ludicrous. ‘I said every word of that new will of his would be a -nail in his coffin, God forgive me,’ he said. ‘How was I to know? A man -should never take upon himself to prophesy. God knows what a murdering -villain he feels if it chances to come true.’ - -‘But nothing you said could have made the horse put his foot in that -rabbit-hole,’ Heathcote said. - -‘That is true, that is true,’ said the little lawyer: and then he began -the same plaint again. But he was very active and looked after -everything, managing the melancholy business of the moment, the inquest, -and the funeral. There was a great deal to do. Telegrams flew about the -country on all sides, warning the guests invited to the ball of what had -happened--yet at least one carriage full of ladies in full ball dress -had to be turned back from the lodge on the night when so much gaiety -had been expected at Mount. Charley Ashley had come up from the rectory -at once and took the position of confidential agent to the ladies, in a -way that Heathcote Mountford could not do. He thought it wrong to -forsake them, and his presence was needed as mourner at his cousin’s -funeral; otherwise he would have been glad to escape from the chill -misery and solitude that seemed to shut down upon the house which had -been so cheerful. He saw nothing of the ladies, save that now and then -he would cross the path of Anne, who did not shut herself up like her -stepmother and sister. She was very grave, but still she carried on the -government of the house. When Heathcote asked her how she was, she -answered with a serious smile, though with quick-coming moisture in her -eyes: ‘I am not ill at all; I am very well, Mr. Heathcote. Is it not -strange one’s grief makes no difference to one in that way? One thinks -it must, one even hopes it must; but it does not; only my heart feels -like a lump of lead.’ She was able for all her work, just as usual, and -saw Mr. Loseby and gave Charley Ashley the list of all the people to be -telegraphed to, or to whom letters must be written. But Mrs. Mountford -and Rose kept to their rooms, where all the blinds were carefully closed -and every table littered with crape. Getting the mourning ready was -always an occupation, and it did them good. They all went in a close -carriage to the village church on the day of the funeral, but only Anne -followed her father’s coffin to the grave. It was when Heathcote stood -by her there that he remembered again suddenly the odiousness of the -idea that some man or other, a fellow whom nobody knew, had managed to -get between Anne Mountford and all the rest of the world. It was not a -place for such a thought, yet it came to him in spite of himself, when -he saw her falter for a moment and instinctively put out his arm to -sustain her. She looked round upon him with a look in which gratitude -and something like a proud refusal of his aid were mingled. That look -suggested to him the question which suddenly arose in his mind, though, -as he felt, nothing could be more inappropriate at such a time and -place. Where was the fellow? Why was he not here? If he had permitted -Anne to be disinherited for his sake, why had he not hurried to her side -to support her in her trouble? Heathcote was not the only person who had -asked himself this question. The Curate had not looked through Anne’s -list of names before he sent intelligence of Mr. Mountford’s death to -his friend. The first person of whom he had thought was Cosmo. ‘Of -course you will come to the rectory,’ he telegraphed, sending him the -news on the evening of the occurrence. He had never doubted that Cosmo -would arrive next morning by the earliest train. All next day while he -had been working for them, he had expected every hour the sound of the -arrival, saying to himself, when the time passed for the morning and for -the evening trains, that Cosmo must have been from home, that he could -not have received the message, that of course he would come to-morrow. -But when even the day of the funeral arrived without Cosmo, Charley -Ashley’s good heart was wrung with mingled wrath and impatience. What -could it mean? He was glad, so far as he himself was concerned, for it -was a kind of happiness to him to be doing everything for Anne and her -mother and sister. He was proud and glad to think that it was natural he -should do it, he who was so old a friend, almost like a brother to the -girls. But the other, who had a closer claim than that of any brother, -who had supplanted Charley and pushed him aside, where was he? On this -subject Anne did not say a word. She had written and received various -letters, but she did not take anyone into her confidence. And yet there -was a something in her eyes, a forlorn look, a resistance of any -support, as if she had said to herself, ‘Since I have not his arm I will -have no one else’s support.’ Heathcote withdrew from her side with a -momentary sense of a rebuff. He followed her down the little churchyard -path and put her into the carriage, where the others were waiting for -her, without a word. Then she turned round and looked at him again. Was -it an appeal for forgiveness, for sympathy--and yet for not too much -sympathy--which Anne was making? These looks of mingled feeling which -have so much in them of the poetry of life, how difficult they are to -interpret! how easily it may be that their meaning exists only in the -eyes that see them! like letters which may be written carelessly, -hastily, but which we weigh, every word of them, in balances of the -sanctuary, too fine and delicate for earthly words, finding out so much -more than the writer ever thought to say. Perhaps it was only -Heathcote’s indignant sense that the lover, for whom she had already -suffered, should have been by Anne’s side in her trouble that made him -see so much in her eyes. Charley Ashley had been taking a part in the -service; his voice had trembled with real feeling as he read the psalms; -and a genuine tear for the man whom he had known all his life had been -in his eye; but he, too, had seen Anne’s looks and put his own -interpretation upon them. When all was over, he came out of the vestry -where he had taken off his surplice and joined Heathcote. He was going -up to Mount, the general centre of everything at this moment. The -mourners were going there to luncheon, and afterwards the will was to -be read. Already, Mr. Mountford being safely in his grave, covered with -wreaths of flowers which everybody had sent, the interest shifted, and -it was of this will and its probable revelations that everybody thought. - -‘Have you any idea what it is?’ the Curate said; ‘you were in the house, -you must have heard something. It is inconceivable that a just man -should be turned into an unjust one by that power of making a will. He -was a good man,’ Charley added, with a little gulp of feeling. ‘I have -known him since I was _that_ high. He never talked very much about it, -but he never was hard upon anyone. I don’t think I ever knew him to be -hard on anyone. He said little, but I am sure he was a good man at -heart.’ - -Heathcote Mountford did not make any answer; he replied by another -question: ‘Mr. Douglas is a friend of yours, I hear?’ - -‘Oh, yes, he is a friend of mine: it was I--we are such fools--that -brought him. Just think--if it brings harm to Anne, as everybody seems -to believe--that I should have to reflect that _I_ brought him! I who -would cut off a hand!--I see you are thinking how strange it is that he -is not here.’ - -‘It is strange,’ Heathcote said. - -‘Strange! strange is not the word. Why, even Willie is here: and he that -could have been of such use----. But we must remember that Anne has her -own ways of thinking,’ the Curate added. ‘He wrote half-a-dozen lines to -me to say that he was at her orders, that he could not act of himself. -Now, whether that meant that she had forbidden him to come--if so, there -is a reason at once.’ - -‘I don’t think I should have been inclined to take such a reason,’ -Heathcote said. - -The Curate sighed. How could he consider what he would have done in such -circumstances? he knew that he would not have stopped to consider. ‘You -don’t know Anne,’ he said: ‘one couldn’t go against her--no, certainly -one couldn’t go against her. If she said don’t come, you’d obey, whether -you liked it or not.’ - -‘I don’t think I should. I should do what I thought right without -waiting for anyone’s order. What! a woman that has suffered for you, not -to be there, not to be by, when she was in trouble! It is inconceivable. -Ashley, your friend must be a--he must be, let us say the least----’ - -‘Hush! I cannot hear any ill of him, he has always been my friend; and -Anne--do you think anything higher could be said of a man than that -Anne--you know what I mean.’ - -Heathcote was very sympathetic. He gave a friendly pressure to the arm -that had come to be linked in his as they went along. The Curate had not -been able to disburden his soul to anyone in these days past, when it -had been so sorely impressed upon him that, though he could work for -Anne, it was not his to stand by her and give her the truest support. -Heathcote was sympathetic, and yet he could scarcely help smiling within -himself at this good faithful soul, who, it was clear, had ventured to -love Anne too, and, though so faithful still, had an inward wonder that -it had been the other and not himself that had been chosen. The -looker-on could have laughed, though he was so sorry. Anne, after all, -he reflected, with what he felt to be complete impartiality, though only -a country girl, was not the sort of young woman to be appropriated by a -curate: that this good, heavy, lumbering fellow should sigh over her -choice of another, without seeing in a moment that he and such as he was -impossible! However, he pressed Charley’s arm in sympathy, even though -he could not refrain from this half derision in his heart. - -‘He might have stayed at the rectory,’ Charley continued; ‘that is what -I proposed--of course he could not have gone to Mount without an -invitation. I had got his room all ready; I sent our old man up to meet -two trains. I never for a moment supposed--Willie, of course, never -thought twice. He came off from Cambridge as a matter of course.’ - -‘As any one would----’ said Heathcote. - -‘Unless they had been specially forbidden to do it--there is always that -to be taken into account.’ - -Thus talking, they reached the house, where, though the blinds had been -drawn up, the gloom was still heavy. The servants were very solemn as -they served at table, moving as if in a procession, asking questions -about wine and bread in funereal whispers. Old Saymore’s eyes were red -and his hand unsteady. ‘Thirty years butler, and before that ten years -in the pantry,’ he said to everyone who would listen to him. ‘If I don’t -miss him, who should? and he was always the best of masters to me.’ But -the meal was an abundant meal, and there were not many people there -whose appetites were likely to be affected by what had happened. Mr. -Loseby, perhaps, was the one most deeply cast down, for he could not -help feeling that he had something to do with it, and that St. John -Mountford might still have been living had he not said that about the -words of an unjust will being nails in the coffin of the man who made -it. This recollection prevented him from enjoying his meal; but most of -the others enjoyed it. Many of the luxurious dainties prepared for the -ball supper appeared at this less cheerful table. The cook had thought -it a great matter, since there was no ball, that there was the funeral -luncheon when they could be eaten, for she could not bear waste. After -the luncheon most of the people went away; and it was but a small party -which adjourned into the room where Mr. Mountford had spent most of his -life, to hear the will read, to which everybody looked forward with -excitement. Except Heathcote and the Rector, and Mr. Loseby, there was -nobody present save the family. When Anne came, following her stepmother -and sister, who went first, clinging together, she saw Charley Ashley in -the hall, and called to him as she passed. ‘Come,’ she said softly, -holding out her hand to him, ‘I know you will be anxious--come and hear -how it is.’ He looked wistfully in her face, wondering if, perhaps, she -asked him because he was Cosmo’s friend; and perhaps Anne understood -what the look meant; he could not tell. She answered him quietly, -gravely. ‘You are our faithful friend--you have been like our brother. -Come and hear how it is.’ The Curate followed her in very submissively, -glad, yet almost incapable of the effort. Should he have to sit still -and hear her put down out of her natural place? When they were all -seated Mr. Loseby began, clearing his throat: - -‘Our late dear friend, Mr. Mountford, made several wills. There is the -one of 1868 still in existence--it is not, I need scarcely say, the will -I am about to propound. It was made immediately after his second -marriage, and was chiefly in the interests of his eldest daughter, then -a child. The will I am about to read is of a very different kind. It is -one, I am bound to say, against which I thought it my duty to protest -warmly. Words passed between us then which were calculated to impair the -friendship which had existed between Mr. Mountford and myself all our -lives. He was, however, magnanimous. He allowed me to say my say, and he -did not resent it. This makes it much less painful to me than it might -have been to appear here in a room so associated with him, and make his -will known to you. I daresay this is all I need say, except that after -this will was executed, on the day indeed of his death, Mr. Mountford -gave to me in my office at Hunston two sealed packets, one addressed to -Miss Mountford and the other to myself, with a clause inserted on the -envelope to the effect that neither was to be opened till Miss Rose -should have attained her twenty-first birthday. I calculated accordingly -that they must have something to do with the will. Having said this, I -may proceed to read the will itself.’ - -The first part of the document contained nothing very remarkable. Many -of the ordinary little bequests, legacies to servants, one or two to -public institutions, and all that was to belong to his widow, were very -fully and clearly enumerated. The attention of the little company was -lulled as all this was read. There was nothing wonderful in it after -all. The commonplace is always comforting: it relieves the strained -attention far better than anything more serious or elevated. An -unconscious relief came to the minds of all. But Mr. Loseby’s voice grew -husky and excited when he came to what was the last paragraph-- - -‘All the rest of my property of every kind, including----[and here -there was an enumeration of the unentailed landed property and money in -various investments, all described] I leave to my eldest daughter, Anne -Mountford----.’ Here the reader made a little involuntary half-conscious -pause of excitement--and all the anxious people round him testified the -strain relieved, the wonder satisfied, and yet a new rising of wonder -and pleasant disappointment. What did it mean? why then had their -interest been thus raised, to be brought, to nothing? Everything, then, -was Anne’s after all! There was a stir in which the next words would -have been lost altogether, but for a louder clearing of the voice on the -part of the reader, calling as it seemed for special attention. He -raised his hand evidently with the same object. ‘I leave,’ he repeated, -‘to my eldest daughter, Anne Mountford--in trust for her sister, -Rose----’ - -Mrs. Mountford, who had been seated in a heap in her chair, a mountain -of crape, had roused up at the first words. She raised herself up in her -chair forgetful of her mourning, not believing her ears; ‘To Anne!’ she -said under her breath in strange dismay. Had it meant nothing then? Had -all this agitation both on her own part and on that of her husband, who -was gone, come to nothing, meant nothing? She had suffered much, Mrs. -Mountford remembered now. She had been very unhappy; feeling deeply the -injustice which she supposed was being done to Anne, even though she -knew that Rose was to get the advantage--but now, to think that Rose had -no advantage and Anne everything! So many things can pass through the -mind in a single moment. She regretted her own regrets, her -remonstrances with him (which she exaggerated), the tears she had shed, -and her compunctions about Anne. All for nothing. What had he meant by -it? Why had he filled her with such wild hopes to be all brought to -nothing? The tears dried up in a moment. She faced Mr. Loseby with a -scared pale face, resolving that, whatever happened, she would contest -this will, and declare it to be a falsehood, a mistake. Then she, like -all the others, was stopped by the cough with which Mr. Loseby -recommenced, by the lifting of his finger. ‘Ah!’ she said unconsciously; -and then among all these listening, wondering people, fell the other -words like thunderbolts out of the skies, ‘in trust--for her sister, -Rose----’ They sat and listened all in one gasp of suspended breathing, -of eagerness beyond the power of description; but no one took in the -words that followed. Anne was to have an income of five hundred a year -charged on the property till Rose attained her twenty-first year. Nobody -paid any attention to this--nobody heard it even, so great grew the -commotion; they began to talk and whimper among themselves before the -reader had stopped speaking. Anne to be set aside, and yet employed, -made into a kind of steward of her own patrimony for her sister’s -benefit; it was worse than disinheritance, it was cruelty. The Rector -turned round to whisper to Heathcote, and Rose flung her arms about her -mother. The girl was bewildered. ‘What does it mean? what does it mean?’ -she cried. ‘What is that about Anne--and me?’ - -‘Mr. Loseby,’ the Rector said, with a trembling voice, ‘this cannot be -so: there must be some mistake. Our dear friend, whom we have buried -to-day, was a good man; he was a just man. It is not possible; there -must be some mistake.’ - -‘Mistake! I drew it out myself,’ Mr. Loseby said. ‘You will not find any -mistake in it. There was a mistake in his own mind. I don’t say anything -against that; but in the will there’s no mistake. I wish there was. I -would drive a coach and six through it if I could; but it’s all fast and -strong. Short of a miracle, nobody will break that will--though I -struggled against it. He was as obstinate as a mule, as they all -are--all the Mountfords.’ - -‘Mr. Loseby,’ said Mrs. Mountford, ‘I did not approve any more than you -did. It was not any doing of mine. I protested against it; but my -husband--my husband had his reasons.’ - -‘There are no reasons that could justify this,’ said the tremulous old -Rector; ‘it is a shame and a sin; it ought not to be. When a man’s will -is all wrong, the survivors should agree to set it right. It should not -be left like that; it will bring a curse upon all who have anything to -do with it,’ said the old man, who was so timid and so easily abashed. -‘I am not a lawyer. I don’t know what the law will permit; but the -Gospel does not permit such injustice as this.’ - -Mr. Loseby had pushed his spectacles up on his forehead and listened -with an astonishment which was tinctured first with awe, then with -amusement. The old Rector, feeblest of men and preachers! The lawyer -gazed at him as at a curiosity of nature. It was a fine thing in its -way. But to attack a will of his, John Loseby’s! He smiled at the folly, -though he sympathised with the courage. After all, the old fellow had -more in him than anybody thought. - -Mrs. Mountford was roused too beyond her wont. ‘My husband had his -reasons,’ she said, her pale face growing red; ‘he never did anything -without thought. I would not change what he had settled, not for all the -world, not for a kingdom. I interfere to set a will aside! and _his_ -will! I don’t think you know what you are saying. No one could have such -a right.’ - -‘Then it will bring a curse and no blessing,’ said the Rector, getting -up tremulously. ‘I have nothing to do here; I said so at the first. -Anne, my dear excellent child, this is a terrible blow for you. I wish I -could take you out of it all. I wish--I wish that God had given me such -a blessing as you for my daughter, my dear.’ - -Anne rose up and gave him her hand. All the usual decorums of such a -meeting were made an end of by the extraordinary character of the -revelation which had been made to them. - -‘Thank you, dear Mr. Ashley; but never think of me,’ Anne said. ‘I knew -it would be so. And papa, poor papa, had a right to do what he pleased. -We spoke of it together often; he never thought it would come to this. -How was he to think what was to happen? and so soon--so soon. I feel -sure,’ she said, her eyes filling with tears, ‘it was for this, and not -for pain, that he groaned after he fell.’ - -‘He had need to groan,’ said the Rector, shaking his head--‘he had need -to groan! I hope it may not be laid to his charge.’ Mr. Ashley was too -much moved to recollect the ordinary politenesses; he pushed his chair -away, back to the wall, not knowing what he was doing. ‘Come, Charley!’ -he said, ‘come, Charley! I told you we had nothing to do here. We cannot -mend it, and why should we be in the midst of it? It is more than I can -bear. Come, Charley--unless you can be of use.’ - -But Mrs. Mountford felt it very hard that she should thus be disapproved -of by her clergyman. It compromised her in every way. She began to cry, -settling down once more into the midst of her crape. ‘I don’t know why -you should turn against me,’ she said, ‘Mr. Ashley. I had nothing to do -with it. I told him it would make me wretched if he punished Anne; but -you cannot ask me to disapprove of my husband, and go against my -husband, and he only to-day--only to-day----’ - -Here she was choked by genuine tears. Rose had kept close by her -mother’s side all the time. She cried occasionally, but she gave her -attention closely to all that was going on, and the indignation of the -bystanders at her own preferment puzzled her somewhat narrow -understanding. Why should not she be as good an heiress as Anne? Why -should there be such a commotion about her substitution for her sister? -She could not make out what they meant. ‘I will always stand by you, -mamma,’ she said, tremulously. ‘Come upstairs. I do not suppose we need -stay any longer, Mr. Loseby? There is nothing for us to do.’ - -‘Nothing at all, Miss Rose,’ said the lawyer. The men stood up while the -ladies went away, Mrs. Mountford leaning on her child’s arm. Anne, too, -stood aside to let them pass. There was no reason perhaps why they -should have said anything to her; but she looked at them wistfully, and -her lip trembled a little. There were two of them, but of her only one. -One alone to face the world. She cast a glance round upon the others who -were all of her faction, yet not one able to stand by her, to give her -any real support. Once more, two of them at least felt that there was an -appeal in her eyes--not to them, nor to any one--a secret sense of the -cruelty of--what?--circumstances, fate, which left her quite alone at -such a crisis. Then she, too, turned to the lawyer. ‘May I go too?’ she -said. ‘No doubt there will be a great deal for me to learn and to do; -but I need not begin, need I, to-day?’ - -‘My dear Miss Anne,’ cried Mr. Loseby, ‘I don’t know that you need to -accept the trust at all. I said to him I should be disposed to throw it -into Chancery, and to make your sister a ward of the Court. I don’t know -that you need to accept it at all----’ - -‘Oh, yes,’ she said, with a smile. ‘I will accept it. I will do it. My -father knew very well that I would do it; but I need not begin, need I, -to-day?’ - - - - -CHAPTER XXI. - -WHEN ALL WAS OVER. - - -The night dropped over Mount very darkly, as dark a November night as -ever fell, fog and damp heaviness over everything outside, gloom and -wonder and bewilderment within. Mr. Loseby stayed all night and dined -with Heathcote, to his great relief. Nobody else came downstairs. Mrs. -Mountford, though she felt all the natural and proper grief for her -great loss, was not by any means unable to appear, and Rose, who was -naturally tired of her week’s seclusion, would have been very glad to do -so; but her mother was of opinion that they ought not to be capable of -seeing anyone on the funeral day, and their meal was brought up to their -rooms as before. They played a melancholy little game of bézique -together afterwards, which was the first symptom of returning life which -Mrs. Mountford had permitted herself to be able for. Anne had joined -them in Mrs. Mountford’s sitting-room, and had shared their dinner, -which still was composed of some of the delicacies from the ball supper. -In winter everything keeps so long. There had been very little -conversation between them there, for they did not know what to say to -each other. Mrs. Mountford, indeed, made a little set speech, which she -had conned over with some care and solemnity. ‘Anne,’ she had said, ‘it -would not become me to say a word against what dear papa has done; but I -wish you to know that I had no hand in it. I did not know what it was -till to-day: and, for that matter, I don’t know now. I was aware that he -was displeased and meant to make some change, and I entreated him not to -do so. That was all I knew----’ - -‘I am sure you had nothing to do with it,’ Anne said gently; ‘papa spoke -to me himself. He had a right to do as he pleased. I for one will not -say a word against it. I crossed him, and it was all in his hands. I -knew what the penalty was. I am sure it has been a grief to you for some -time back.’ - -‘Indeed, you only do me justice, Anne,’ cried her stepmother, and a kiss -was given and received; but perhaps it was scarcely possible that it -should be a very warm caress. After they had eaten together Anne went -back to her room, saying she had letters to write, and Rose and her -mother played that game at bézique. It made the evening pass a little -more quickly than if they had been seated on either side of the fire -reading good books. And when the bézique was over Mrs. Mountford went to -bed. There are many people who find in this a ready way of getting -through their superfluous time. Mrs. Mountford did not mind how soon she -went to bed; but this is not an amusement which commends itself to -youth. When her mother was settled for the night, Rose, though she had -promised to go too, felt a little stirring of her existence within her -roused, perhaps, by the dissipation of the bézique. She allowed that she -was tired; but still, after her mother was tucked up for the night, she -felt too restless to go to bed. Where could she go but to Anne’s room, -which had been her refuge all her life, in every trouble? Anne was still -writing letters, or at least one letter, which looked like a book, there -was so much of it, Rose thought. She came behind her sister, and would -have looked over her shoulder, but Anne closed her writing-book quickly -upon the sheet she was writing. ‘Are you tired, dear?’ she said--just, -Rose reflected, like mamma. - -‘I am tired--of doing nothing, and of being shut up. I hope mamma will -let us come downstairs to-morrow,’ said Rose. Then she stole a caressing -arm round her sister’s waist. ‘I wish you would tell me, Anne. What is -it all about, and what does it mean?’ - -‘It is not so easy to tell. I did not obey papa----’ - -‘Are you sorry, Anne?’ - -‘Sorry? very sorry to have vexed him, dear. If I had known he would be -with us only such a little time--but one never knows.’ - -‘I should have thought you would have been too angry to be sorry----’ - -‘Angry--when he is dead?’ said Anne, with quick rising tears. ‘Oh, no! -if he had been living I might have been angry; but now to think he -cannot change it, and perhaps would do anything to change it----’ - -Rose did not understand this. She said in a little, petulant voice, ‘Is -it so dreadfully wrong to give it to me instead of you?’ - -‘There is no question of you or me,’ said Anne, ‘but of justice. It was -my mother’s. You are made rich by what was hers, not his or anyone -else’s. This is where the wrong lies. But don’t let us talk of it. I -don’t mean to say a word against it, Rose.’ - -Then Rose roamed about the room, and looked at all the little familiar -pictures and ornaments she knew. The room was more cheerful than her -mother’s room, with all its heavy hangings, in which she had been living -for a week. After a few minutes she came back and leaned upon Anne’s -shoulder again. - -‘I wish you would tell me what it means. What is In Trust? Have you a -great deal to do with me?’ she said. - -Anne’s face lighted up a little. ‘I have everything to do with you,’ she -said; ‘I am your guardian, I think. I shall have to manage your money -and look after all your interests. Though I am poor and you are rich, -you will not be able to do anything without me.’ - -‘But that will not last for ever,’ said Rose, with a return of the -little, petulant tone. - -‘No; till you come of age. Didn’t you hear to-day what Mr. Loseby said? -and look, Rosie, though it will break your heart, look here.’ - -Anne opened her desk and took out from an inner drawer the sealed packet -which Mr. Mountford had himself taken to the lawyer on the day of his -death. The tears rose to her eyes as she took it out, and Rose, though -curiosity was so strong in her as almost to quench emotion, felt -something coming in her throat at the first sight of her father’s -writing, so familiar as it was. ‘For my daughter Anne, not to be opened -till Rose’s twenty-first birthday.’ Rose read it aloud, wondering. She -felt something come in her throat, but yet she was too curious, too full -of the novelty of her own position, to be touched as Anne was. ‘But that -may change it all over again,’ she said. - -‘It is not likely; he would not have settled things one day and -unsettled them the next; especially as nothing had happened in the -meantime to make him change again.’ - -Rose looked very curiously, anxiously, at the letter. She took it in her -hand and turned it over and over. ‘It must be about me, anyhow, I -suppose----’ - -‘Yes,’ said Anne, with a faint smile, ‘or me; perhaps he might think, -after my work for you was over, that I might want some advice.’ - -‘I suppose you will be married long before that?’ said Rose, still -poising the letter in her hands. - -‘I don’t know--it is too early to talk of what is going to be done. You -are tired, Rosie--go to bed.’ - -‘Why should I be tired more than you? You have been doing a great deal, -and I have been doing nothing. That is like mamma’s way of always -supposing one is tired, and wants to go to bed. I hate bed. Anne, I -suppose you will get married--there can be nothing against it, now--only -I don’t believe he has any money: and if you have no money either----’ - -‘Don’t let us talk on the subject, dear--it is too early, it hurts -me--and I want to finish my letter. Sit down by the fire--there is a -very comfortable chair, and a book--if you don’t want to go to bed.’ - -‘Are you writing to Mr. Douglas, Anne?’ - -Anne answered only with a slight nod of her head. She had taken her pen -into her hand. She could not be harsh to her little sister this day -above all others, in which her little sister had been made the means of -doing her so much harm--but it cost her an effort to be patient. Rose, -for her part, had no science to gain information from the inflections of -a voice. ‘Why wasn’t he here to-day?’ was the next thing she said. - -‘Rosie, dear, do you know I have a great deal to do? Don’t ask me so -many questions,’ Anne said, piteously. But Rose was more occupied by her -own thoughts than by anything her sister said. - -‘He ought to have been at the funeral,’ she said, with that calm which -was always so astonishing to her sister. ‘I thought when you went to the -grave you must have known you were to meet him there. Mamma thought so, -too.’ - -These words sank like stones into Anne’s heart; but there was a kind of -painful smile on her face. ‘You thought I was thinking of meeting anyone -there? Oh, Rose, did you think me so cold-hearted? I was thinking only -of him who was to be laid there.’ - -‘I don’t mean that you are cold-hearted. Of course we were all wretched -enough. Mamma said it would have been too much either for her or me; but -you were always the strongest, and then of course we expected Mr. -Douglas would be there.’ - -‘You do not know him,’ cried Anne, with a little vehemence; ‘you do not -know the delicacy, the feeling he has. How was he to come intruding -himself the moment that my father was gone--thrusting himself even into -his presence, after being forbidden. A man of no feeling might have done -it, but he----. Rosie, please go away. I cannot talk to you any more.’ - -‘Oh, was that how it was?’ Rose was silenced for the moment. She went -away to the seat by the fire which her sister had pointed out to her. -Anne had not noticed that she had still the letter in her hands. And -then she was quiet for some time, while her sister resumed her writing. -Cosmo’s conduct soon went out of Rose’s head, while she occupied herself -with the other more important matter which concerned herself. What might -be in this letter of papa’s? Probably some new change, some new will, -something quite different. ‘If I am not to be the heiress after all, -only have the name of it for three years, what will be the use?’ Rose -said to herself. She was very sensible in her limited way. ‘I would -rather not have any deception or have the name of it, if it is going to -be taken away from me just when I should want to have it.’ She looked at -the seals of the packet with longing eyes. If they would only melt--if -they would but break of themselves. ‘I wonder why we shouldn’t read it -now?’ she said. ‘It is not as if we were other people, as if we were -strangers--we are his own daughters, his two only children--he could not -have meant to hide anything from us. If you will open and read it, and -tell me what it is, we need not tell anyone--we need not even tell -mamma.’ - -‘What are you talking of, Rose?’ - -‘I am talking of papa’s letter, of course. Why should you keep it, not -knowing what harm it may be going to do---- Anne! you hurt me--you hurt -me!’ Rose cried. - -Anne sprang to her feet with the natural impetuosity which she tried so -hard to keep under, and seized the letter out of her sister’s hands. - -‘You must never speak nor think of anything of the kind,’ she cried; ‘my -father’s wish, his last charge to us----’ - -‘I am sure,’ said Rose, beginning to cry, ‘you need not speak--it is you -that refused to do what he told you, not I? This is quite innocent; what -could it matter? It can’t vex him now, whatever we do, for he will -never know. I would not have disobeyed him when he was living--that is, -not in anything serious, not for the world--but now, what can it matter, -when he will never, never know?’ - -The utter scepticism and cynicism of the little childish creature, -crying by the fire, did not strike Anne. It was only a naughtiness, a -foolishness upon the child’s part, nothing more. She restored the packet -to the private drawer and locked it with energy, closing down and -locking the desk, too. It was herself she blamed for having shown the -packet, not Rose, who knew no better. But now it was clear that she must -do, what indeed she generally had to do, when Rose claimed her -attention--give up her own occupation, and devote herself to her sister. -She came and sat down by her, leaving the letter in which her heart was. -And Rose, taking advantage of the opportunity, tormented her with -questions. When at last she consented to retire to her room, Anne could -do nothing but sit by the fire, making a vain attempt to stifle the more -serious questions, which were arising, whether she would or no, in her -own heart. ‘Rose = prose,’ she had tried hard to say to herself, as so -often before; but her lips quivered, so that a smile was impossible. She -sat there for a long time after, trying to recover herself. She had -arrived at a crisis of which she felt the pain without understanding the -gravity of it. And indeed the sudden chaos of confusion and wonder into -which she had wandered, she could not tell how, had no doubt so deadened -the blow of the strange will to her, as to give her a heroism which was -half stupidity, as so many heroisms are. She, too, had expected, like -all the world, that Cosmo would have come to her at once--if not to -Mount, yet to the rectory, where his friends would have received him. -She had taken it for granted--though she had not said a word on the -subject to anyone, nor even to herself, feeling that to see him and -feel him near her would be all the greater consolation if she had never -said she looked for it, even in her own heart. She had not given his -name to Charley Ashley as one of those to be informed by telegraph, nor -had she mentioned his name at all, though she seemed to herself to read -it in a continual question in the Curate’s eyes. A chill had stolen over -her when she heard nothing of him all the first long day. She had not -permitted herself to ask or to think, but she had started at every -opening door, and listened to every step outside, and even, with a pang -which she would not acknowledge, had looked out through a crevice of the -closed shutters, with an ache of wondering anguish in her heart, to see -the Curate coming up the avenue alone on the second morning. But when -Cosmo’s letter came to her, by the ordinary return of post, Anne tried -to say to herself that of course he was right and she was wrong--nay -more than that--that she had known exactly all through which was the -more delicate and noble way, and that it was this. How could he come to -Mount, he who had been turned away from it (though this was not quite -true), who had been the cause of her disinheritance? How could he -present himself the moment the father, who had objected to him so -strenuously, was dead? Cosmo laid the whole case before her with what -seemed the noblest frankness, in that letter. ‘I am in your hands,’ he -said. ‘The faintest expression of a wish from you will change -everything. Say to me, “Come,” and I will come, how gladly I need not -say--but without that word, how can I intrude into the midst of a grief -which, believe me, my dearest, I shall share, for it will be yours, but -which by all the rest of the world will seem nothing but a deliverance -and relief to me.’ Anne, who had not allowed herself to say a word, even -to her own soul, of the sickening of disappointment and wonder in her, -who had stood bravely dumb and refused to be conscious that she had -expected him, felt her heart leap up with a visionary triumph of -approval, when this letter came. Oh, how completely and nobly right he -was! How superior in his instinctive sense of what it was most -delicately honourable and fit to do, in such an emergency, to any other, -or to herself even, who ought to have known better! - -She wrote instantly to say, ‘You are right, dear Cosmo. You are more -than right; how could anyone be so blind as not to see that this is what -you ought to, what you must have done, and that nothing else was -possible?’ And since then she had said these words over to herself again -and again--and had gone about all her occupations more proudly, more -erect and self-sustaining, because of this evident impossibility that he -should have been there, which the heavier people about, without his fine -perceptions and understanding, did not seem to see. As a matter of fact, -she said to herself, she wanted no help. She was not delicate or very -young, like Rose, but a full-grown woman, able for anything, worthy of -the confidence that had been placed in her. Nevertheless, there had been -a moment, when Heathcote had put out his arm to support her at the side -of the grave, when the sense of Cosmo’s absence had been almost more -than she could bear, and his excuse had not seemed so sufficient as -before. She had rejected the proffered support. She had walked firmly -away, proving to all beholders that she was able to do all that she had -to do, and to bear all that she had to bear; but, nevertheless the pang -and chill of this moment had shaken Anne’s moral being. She had read in -Heathcote’s eyes some reflection of the indignant question, ‘Where is -_that_ fellow?’ She had discerned it in Charley Ashley’s every look and -gesture--and there had been a dull anticipation and echo of their -sentiments in her heart. She had, as it were, struck against it, and her -strength and her nerves were shaken by the encounter. The after thrill -of this, still going through and through her, had made her almost -indifferent to the shock given by the reading of the will. She had not -cared the least about that. She had been dulled to it, and was past -feeling it--though it was not in the least what she had expected, and -had so much novelty and individuality of vengeance in it as to have -given a special blow had she been able to receive it. Even now when her -intelligence had fully taken it in, her heart was still untouched by -it--_Un chiodo caccia un’ altro_. But she had slowly got the better of -the former shock. She had re-read Cosmo’s letters, of which she received -one every day, and had again come to see that his conduct was actuated -by the very noblest motives. Then had come Rose’s visit and all those -questionings, and once more Anne had felt as if she had run against some -one in the dark, and had been shaken by the shock. She sat trying to -recover herself, trembling and incapable for a long time, before she -could go and finish her letter. And yet there was much in that letter -that she was anxious Cosmo should know. - -While all this was going on upstairs, the two gentlemen were sitting -over their dinner, with still a little excitement, a little gloom -hovering over them, but on the whole comfortable, returning to their -usual ways of thinking and usual calm of mind. Even to those most -intimately concerned, death is one of the things to which the human mind -most easily accustoms itself. Mr. Loseby was more new than Heathcote was -to the aspect of the house, from which for the time all its usual -inhabitants and appearances had gone. He said ‘Poor Mountford!’ two or -three times in the course of dinner, and stopped to give an account of -the claret on which the late master of the house had much prided -himself. ‘And very good it is,’ Mr. Loseby said. ‘I suppose, unless the -widow reserves it for her own use--and I don’t believe she knows it from -Gladstone claret at 12_s._ a dozen--there will be a sale.’ This intruded -a subject which was even more interesting than the will and all that -must flow from it. ‘What do you intend to do?’ - -Now Heathcote Mountford was not very happy, any more than the other -members of the household. He had gone through a disappointment too. -Heathcote had but one person in the world who had been of any importance -in his past life, and that was his young brother Edward, now at -Sandhurst. It had been settled that Edward and a number of his comrades -should come to Mount for the dance, but when Heathcote had signified his -wish, after all this was over, that Edward should come for the funeral, -the young man had refused. “Why should I? You will all be as dull as -ditch-water; and I never knew our kinsman as you call him. You are -dismal by nature, Heathcote, old boy,’ the young man had said, ‘but not -I--why should I come to be another mute? Can’t you find enough without -me?’ Edward, who was very easily moved when his own concerns were in -question, was as obstinate as the rest of the Mountfords as to affairs -which did not concern himself. He paid no attention to his brother’s -plea for a little personal consolation. And Heathcote, who regarded the -young fellow as a father regards his spoiled child, was disappointed. To -be sure, he represented to himself, Edward too had been disappointed; he -had lost his ball, which was a thing of importance to him, and the -settlement of his affairs, for which he had been looking with such -confidence, was now indefinitely postponed. Edward had not been an easy -boy to manage; he had not been a very good boy. He had been delicate -and wayward and spoiled--spoiled as much by the elder brother who was -thoroughly aware how wrong it was, as by the mother who had been foolish -about Edward, and had died when he was still so young that spoiling did -not matter much. Heathcote had carried the process on, he had vowed to -himself that, so far as was possible, the delicate boy should not miss -his mother’s tenderness; and he had kept his word, and ruined the boy. -Edward had got everything he wanted from his brother, so long as he -wanted only innocent things; and afterwards he had got for himself, and -insisted on getting, things that were not so innocent; and the result -was that, though still only twenty, he was deeply in debt. It was for -this that Heathcote had made up his mind to sacrifice the succession to -Mount. Sacrifice--it was not a sacrifice; he cared nothing for Mount, -and Edward cared less than nothing. Even afterwards, when he had begun -to look upon Mount with other eyes, he had persevered in his intention -to sacrifice it; but now all that had come to an end. Whether he would -or not, Heathcote Mountford had become the possessor of Mount, and -Edward’s debts were very far from being paid. In these circumstances -Heathcote felt it specially hard upon him that his brother did not come -to him, to be with him during this crisis. It was natural; he did not -blame Edward; and yet he felt it almost as a woman might have felt it. -This threw a gloom over him almost more than the legitimate gloom, -which, to be sure, Heathcote by this time had recovered from. It was not -in nature that he could have felt it very deeply after the first shock. -His own vexations poured back upon his mind, when Mr. Loseby said, ‘What -do you intend to do?’ - -‘You will say what have I to do with that?’ the old lawyer said. ‘And -yet, if you will think, I have to do with it more or less. We have to -get the family out on our side. It’s early days--but if you should wish -an early settlement----’ - -‘I don’t mind if it is never settled,’ said Heathcote; ‘what should I do -with this great place? It would take all my income to keep it up. If -they like to stay, they are very welcome. I care nothing about it. Poor -St. John had a handsome income from other sources. He was able to keep -it up.’ - -‘Good Lord, Mr. Heathcote!’ said the lawyer, ‘why didn’t you come a year -ago? A young man should not neglect his relations; it always turns out -badly. If you had come here a year ago, in the natural course of events, -I could have laid a thousand pounds upon it that you and Anne would have -taken a fancy to each other. You seem to me exactly cut out for each -other--the same ways, a little resemblance even in looks----’ - -‘You pay me too great a compliment,’ said Heathcote, with an uneasy -laugh, colouring in spite of himself; ‘and you must let me say that my -cousin’s name is sacred, and that, old friend as you are, you ought not -to discuss her so.’ - -‘I--oughtn’t to talk of Anne? Why, she has sat upon my knee,’ said Mr. -Loseby. ‘Ah! why didn’t you come a year ago? I don’t say now that if it -was to your mind to make yourself comfortable as poor Mountford did, in -the same way, there’s still the occasion handy. No, I can’t say that,’ -said the old lawyer, ‘I am too sick of the whole concern. Anne treated -like that, and Rose, little Rose, that bit of a girl!---- However,’ he -said, recovering himself, ‘I ought to remember that after all you can’t -take the same interest in them as I do, and that we were talking of your -own concerns.’ - -‘I take a great interest in my cousins,’ said Heathcote gravely. ‘Do you -know I believe poor St. John meant to buy my interest, to accept my -proposal, and leave Mount to his eldest daughter.’ - -‘No; you don’t think so? Well, that might have been a way out of -it--that might have been a way out of it--now that you recall it to me -the same thought struck myself; at least I thought he would take -advantage of that to make a new settlement, after he had taken his fling -and relieved his mind with this one. Ah, poor man, he never calculated -on the uncertainty of life--he never thought of that rabbit-hole. God -help us, what a thing life is! at the mercy of any rolling stone, and -any falling branch, of a poor little rabbit’s burrowing, or even a glass -of water. And what a thing is man! as Hamlet says; it’s enough to make -anyone moralise: but we never take a bit of warning by it--never a bit. -And so you really think he meant to take Mount off your hands and settle -it on Anne? I don’t think he had gone so far as that--but I’ll tell you -what we’ll do, we’ll tell her so, and that will make her happy. She’s -not like other people, she is all wrong here,’ said Mr. Loseby, -laughing, with the tears in his eyes, and tapping his forehead. ‘She has -a bee in her bonnet, as the Scotch say. She is a fool, that is what Anne -is--she will be as pleased as if he had left her a kingdom. The worst -thing of it all to that girl is, that her father has made himself look -like a tyrant and a knave--which he wasn’t, you know--he wasn’t, poor -Mountford! though he has done his best to make himself appear so. Once -give her something to build up his character again upon, some ground, it -doesn’t matter how fanciful it is, and she’ll be happy. She won’t mind -her own loss, bless you,’ said the old lawyer, half crying, ‘she is such -a fool!’ - -‘Mr. Loseby,’ said Heathcote with an emotion which surprised him, ‘I -think you are giving my cousin Anne the most beautiful character that -ever was.’ - -‘Sir,’ cried Mr. Loseby, not ashamed to dry his eyes, ‘whoever said -anything different? Did you ever hear anything different? As long as I -have known the world I have never known but one Anne Mountford. Oh, Mr. -Heathcote, Mr. Heathcote,’ he added, his voice turning into tremulous -laughter, ‘what a thousand pities that you did not make your appearance -a year before!’ - -Heathcote got up from his chair with a start, and walked about the room -in a nervous impatience, for which he could give no reason to himself. -Was it that he, too, wished he had come to Mount a year sooner? He left -the old man to finish his wine, and roamed about, now pausing a moment -with his back to the fire, now extending his walk into the dark corners. -He had lit his cigarette, which furnished him with an excuse--but he was -not thinking of his cigarette. What he was thinking was--What the devil -did that fellow mean by staying away now? Why didn’t he come and stand -by her like a man? What sort of a pitiful cur was he that he didn’t -come, now he was free to do it, and stand by her like a man? He disposed -of Charley Ashley’s mild plea with still greater impatience. Perhaps she -had forbidden him to come. ‘Would I have been kept away by any -forbidding?’ Heathcote said to himself without knowing it. Then he came -back from the corners in which such suggestions lay, feeling uneasy, -feeling wroth and uncomfortable, and took his stand again before the -fire. ‘Perhaps you will give me a little advice about the money I -wanted,’ he said to Mr. Loseby. This was safer on the whole than -suffering himself to stray into foolish fancies as to what he would have -done, or would not have done, supposing an impossible case--supposing he -had made his appearance a year sooner; before there was any complication -of any unsatisfactory ‘fellow’ with the image of his cousin Anne. - - - - -CHAPTER XXII. - -SOPHISTRY. - - -It is not to be supposed that the events which had moved so deeply the -household at Mount, and all its connections, should have passed lightly -over the one other person who, of all to whom the Mountfords were -familiar, could alone feel himself a principal in the important matters -involved. Douglas had looked on from a distance, keeping himself out of -all the immediate complications, but not the less had he looked on with -a beating heart, more anxious than it is possible to say, and, though -still quiescent, never less than on the verge of personal action, and -never clear that it would not have been wisest for him to plunge into -the midst of it from the first. His position had not been easy, nor his -mind composed, from the beginning. When he had heard of Mr. Mountford’s -death his agitation was great. He had not become indifferent to Anne. -The thought that she was in trouble, and he not near her, was no -pleasant thought. All the first evening, after he had received Charley -Ashley’s telegram, he had spent in a prolonged argument with himself. He -knew from Anne that something had been done, though he did not know -what; that, according to her father’s own words, the property had been -taken from her and given to her sister. She had told him what her father -said, that it was understood between them that this transfer was to be -made, and that she had no longer any interest in the fortune which had -once been so certainly considered hers. Cosmo had not admired the ease -with which she spoke on this question. He had gnashed his teeth at -Anne’s unworldliness, at her calm consent to her father’s arrangements, -and ready making up of the quarrel with him. She was his love, his -dearest, in all truth the one woman in the world who had captivated his -affections, and made him feel that he had no longer any choice, any -preference, that did not point to her; but he had acted like a fool all -the same, he thought. In some minds, perhaps in most minds, this -conviction can exist without in the least affecting the reality of the -love which lies behind. He loved Anne, but his love did not make him -think that everything she did was well done. She had behaved like a -fool. Old Mr. Loseby said the same thing, but he said it with glistening -eyes, and with an appreciation of the folly and its character such as -Cosmo was altogether incapable of. - -Nevertheless, Anne’s lover did not feel his love materially lessened by -this conviction. He gnashed his teeth at it, thinking, ‘Had I but been -there!’ though he knew very well that, had he been there, he could have -done nothing to change it. But one thing he could do: when she was his -wife he could put a stop to such follies. There should be none of this -ridiculous magnanimity, this still more ridiculous indifference, then. -In writing to her he had felt that it was difficult to keep all vestige -of his disapproval out of his letters, but he had managed pretty nearly -to do so: feeling wisely that it was useless to preach to her on such a -subject, that only his own constant guidance and example, or, better -still, his personal conduct of her affairs, could bring real good sense -into them. He had been anxious enough while this was going on, not -seeing what was to come, feeling only certain that, love as he might, he -could no more marry his love without a penny than he could make himself -Lord Chief Justice. It was out of the question: in his position marriage -was difficult in the best of circumstances; but to marry a wife without -a fortune of her own, without enough to keep her comfortable, was -simply folly not to be thought of. Anne’s dreams of romantic toil, of -the enthusiasm of hard work into which a man might rush for the sake of -a woman he loved, and of the heroic life the two could lead, helping -each other on to fame and fortune at the end, were to him as silly as a -nursery tale. Men who made their own way like that, overcoming every -obstacle and forcing their way to the heights of ambition, were men who -did it by temperament, not by love, or for any sentimental motive. Cosmo -knew that he was not the sort of man to venture on such a madness. His -wife must have enough to provide for her own comfort, to keep her as she -had been accustomed to be kept, or else he could have no wife at all. - -This had given him enough to think of from the very beginning of the -engagement, as has been already shown. His part was harder than Anne’s, -for she had fanciful ups and downs as was natural to her, and if she -sometimes was depressed would be next moment up in the clouds, exulting -in some visionary blessedness, dreaming out some love in a cottage or -still more ludicrous love in chambers, which his sterner reason never -allowed to be possible, not for an hour; therefore his was the hardest -burden of the two. For he was not content to part with her, nor so much -as to think of parting with her; and yet, with all his ingenuity, he -could not see how, if her father did not relent, it could be done. And -the worst thing now was that the father was beyond all power of -relenting--that he was dead, absolutely dead, allowed to depart out of -this world having done his worst. Not one of the family, not one of Mr. -Mountford’s dependents, was more stunned by the news than Cosmo. Dead! -he read over the telegram again and again--he could not believe his -eyes--it seemed impossible that such a piece of wickedness could have -been accomplished; he felt indignant and furious at everybody concerned, -at Mr. Mountford for dying, at God for permitting it. A man who had made -such a mistake, and to whom it was absolutely indispensable that he -should be allowed time to repent of his mistake and amend it--and -instead of this he had died--he had been permitted to die. - -The news threw Cosmo into a commotion of mind which it is impossible to -describe. At one period of the evening he had thrown some things into a -bag, ready to start, as Ashley expected him to do; then he took another -thought. If he identified himself with everything that was being done -now, how could he ever withdraw after, how postpone ulterior -proceedings? This, however, is a brutal way of stating even the very -first objection that occurred to Cosmo. Sophistry would be a poor art if -it only gave an over-favourable view of a man’s actions and motives to -the outside world, and left himself unconvinced and undeceived. His was -of a much superior kind. It did a great deal more for him. When its -underground industry was once in full action it bewildered himself. It -was when he was actually closing his bag, actually counting out the -contents of his purse to see if he had enough for the journey, that this -other line of reasoning struck him. If he thus rushed to Mount to take -his place by Anne’s side, and yet was not prepared (and he knew he was -not prepared) to urge, nay, almost force himself upon Anne’s immediate -acceptance as her husband, would he not be doing a wrong to Anne? He -would compromise her; he would be holding her up to the world as the -betrothed of a poor man, a man not so well off as to be able to claim -her, yet holding her bound. He paused, really feeling this to throw a -new light upon the subject. Would it be acting honourably by Anne? -Would it, in her interest, be the right thing to do? - -This, however, was not all or half the mental process he had to go -through. He paused for her sake; yet not in this way could the reason of -his hesitation be made clear to her. She would not mind being -‘compromised.’ She would not insist upon the fulfilment of their -engagement. He had to think of some other reason to prove to her that it -was better he should stay away. He made out his case for her, gradually, -at more cost of thought than the plea which had convinced himself; but -at the end it satisfied him as full of very cogent and effective -reasoning. The whole matter opened up before him as he pondered it. He -began to ask himself, to ask her, how he could, as a man of honour, -hurry to Mount as soon as the breath was out of the body of the master -of the house who had rejected and sent him away? How could he thrust -himself into Mr. Mountford’s presence as soon as he was dead and -incapable of resenting it--he, who when living would have refused to -admit him, would have had nothing to say to him? He put back his money -into his purse, and slowly undid his bag and threw out his linen as -these thoughts arose and shaped themselves in his mind. In either point -of view it would be impossible to do it; in either point of view manly -self-denial, honour, and consideration for all parties required that in -this emergency he should not think of what was pleasant either to her or -himself. It was a crisis too important for the mere action of -instinctive feelings. Of course he would like to be with her--of course -she would like to have him by her. But here was something more than what -they would like--a world of things to be considered. To say that Cosmo, -deep down at the bottom of his heart, was not aware that there might be -another larger, simpler mode of considering the question which would -sweep all these intellectual cobwebs away and carry him off in a moment -to Anne’s side, to stand by her in defiance of all prudential motives, -would be untrue. It is the curse of sophistry that this sense of -something better, this consciousness of a fundamental flaw in its -arguments, is seldom quite obliterated; but at the same time it was far -more in accordance with his nature to act according to the more -elaborate, and not according to the simpler system. He satisfied -himself, if not completely, yet sufficiently to reconcile himself to -what he was doing; and he satisfied Anne so far at least as her first -response, her first apprehension was concerned. ‘Dear Cosmo, you are -right, you are right, you are more than right, as you always are,’ she -had said with a kind of enthusiasm, in her first letter. ‘They say that -women have more delicate perceptions, but that only shows how little -people know. I see in a moment the truth and the wisdom and the fine -honour of what you say. I am capable of understanding it at least, but I -feel how far you go beyond me in delicacy of feeling as well as in other -things. No, no! you must not come; respect for my dear father forbids -it, although I cannot but hope and feel certain that my father himself -knows better now.’ This had been her first reply to his explanation; and -he had been satisfied then that what he had done, and the reasons he had -given, were in all senses the best. - -It was now, however, the day after Mr. Mountford’s funeral, and -everything had progressed beyond that event. Till it is over, the dead -is still the first person to be considered, and all things refer to him -as to one who is the centre of every thought. But when the earth has -closed over his head then an inevitable change occurs. He is left there -where he lies--be he the most important, the most cherished and -beloved--and other interests push in and take the first place. Cosmo -sat in his chambers on the evening of that day, and read his letters -with a distinct consciousness of this difference, though he himself had -taken no immediate share in the excitements of the dying and the burial. -There was a long, very long letter from Anne, and a shorter one from -Charley Ashley, which he read first with a slight sensation of alarm, -notwithstanding his anxiety to hear about the will; for Cosmo could not -but feel, although he was satisfied himself with the reasons for his -conduct, and though Anne was satisfied, that such a rude simpleton as -the Curate might possibly take a different view. He held Anne’s letter -in his hand while he read the other. Charley was very brief. He was not -much of a correspondent in any case. - -‘We got over the funeral well on the whole,’ Charley wrote. ‘The others -only went to the church, but she followed her father to the grave as you -would expect. At one moment I thought she would break down; and then I -confess that I felt, in your place, scarcely her own express command -could have made up to me for being absent at such a time. The reading of -the will was still more trying, if possible--at least I should have -thought so. But she behaved like--herself--I can’t say anything more. I -thought you would like to have a separate account, as, no doubt, she -will make as light of all she has to go through as possible. Only on -this point you ought not altogether to take her own word. She has -acknowledged that she will have a great deal to bear. She wants support, -whatever she may say.’ - -A slight smile went over Cosmo’s face as he put down this note. It was -not a very comfortable smile. A man does not like even an imaginary tone -of contempt in another man’s voice. And Charley Ashley was his own -retainer, his dog, so to speak. To be judged by him was a novel and not -a pleasant sensation. A year ago Cosmo could have felt certain that -Charley would find everything he did right; he would have believed in -his friend’s inscrutable motives, even if he could not understand them. -But now there was a change. It was not only the hopeless rivalry which -Charley himself felt to be hopeless, and which had never stood for a -moment in Cosmo’s way, but it was the instinct of true affection in the -good fellow’s heart which made a severe critic, a judge incorruptible, -of Charley. Douglas did not think very much of Charley’s opinion or -approval; but to feel it withdrawn from him, to detect a doubt, and even -suspicion in his faithful adherent’s words, gave him a sting. Then he -read the long letter in which Anne had poured forth all her heart; there -were revelations in it also. It had been interrupted by Rose’s -matter-of-fact questions. Darts of vulgar misapprehension, of -commonplace incapacity to understand those fine motives of Cosmo’s which -to herself were so eloquent, had come across the current of her words. -Anne had not been aware of the risings and fallings of sentiment with -which she wrote. She had known that by turns her heart in her bosom -felt, as she had herself described it, ‘like lead.’ She had been aware -that now and then there had seemed no sort of comfort nor lightening of -the sky wherever she looked, even when she looked to him, and -endeavoured to think of that ‘falling back upon’ him to support her, -which had seemed the happiest image of their mutual relations a few days -ago. But she had not been aware of the breaks in her letter, following -these fluctuations of sentiment, of how she had flagged and shown her -discouragement, and sometimes permitted to be audible a breathing, not -of complaint, not of reproach, but of something which was neither, yet -included both--a sort of sigh of loneliness. - -‘My heart almost failed me when all was over, she wrote; ‘I think I must -have shown it in my looks, for our cousin, Heathcote Mountford, held out -his arm to me. It was not his arm I wanted, Cosmo, you know. Oh, how -strange and how sad it is that just when we want support most, hard life -has so altered everything that we cannot have it!’ And then, again, -after giving him the fullest details of the will: ‘I told you before -that the thought of being set aside--of being second where I had always -been first--was more hard to me than I could have believed possible; and -you, who are always ready to think the best of me, said that it was -natural, that I could not have been expected to feel otherwise. I must -tell you now, however, in my own defence, that I did not feel at all -like this to-day; I never imagined, though I have thought so often on -the subject, that it would have been possible to set me aside so -completely as has been done. You understand that I have nothing (except -what came to me from old Uncle Ben), nothing--except indeed a sort of -allowance like a schoolmistress for taking care of Rose, which will only -last three years. But, Cosmo, if you will believe me, I never thought of -it; my heart did not sink in the least. I did not seem to care that it -had all gone away from me, or that Rose had been set in my place, or -that my father--(poor papa--how he must have felt it at the last!) -should have been so unjust. They were all made of no account, as if they -were the most trifling things in the world by--something else. I owe -that to you too: and you must understand, dear Cosmo, you _must_ -understand that I feel you must have thought of this, and more or less -done it on purpose, for my sake. I cared nothing, nothing, for all the -loss and downfall, because there just gleamed upon me a possibility--no, -not a possibility--a fancy, an imagination, of how different it would be -if I had to face not the loss of fortune, but the loss of love, and -companionship, and support. I cried out to myself, What would it all -matter in comparison with that? Thank God that it is money that has been -taken from me, not _that_. Feeling myself just for that moment, and for -good reason, alone, made me realise to the very bottom of my heart what -it would be to be really alone--to have no one to fall back upon, no -Cosmo, no world of my own where I can enter in and be above all the -world. So you see this little bitter has been sweet, it has been -medicine for all my other weaknesses. Through this I rose altogether -superior to everything that was sordid. I was astonished at myself. -Making believe not to care and not caring are two different things, and -this time I attained real indifference, thanks to you.’ - -This was the passage that affected him most; there were others in which -there were slighter references of the same kind, showing that Anne had -already tasted the forlorn consciousness of what it was to be alone. It -was not a complaint, as will be seen; it was indeed quite the opposite -of a complaint; but it gave Cosmo a chill of alarm, a sensation which it -would be very difficult to describe. Nor was it a threat on Anne’s -part--yet he was alarmed; he grew pale and chilly in spite of himself. -When he read Anne’s letter he took up Charley’s again, and ran over -that. If he did not want to marry on nothing, and have a family to -provide for before he had enough for himself, still less did he wish -anyone to regard him us the hero of a broken engagement, a domestic -traitor. He was not bad nor treacherous, nor had he any pleasure in the -possibility of breaking a heart. What he wanted was, first, to find in -the woman he loved ‘a lady richly left’ like Portia, bringing with her -all the natural provisions for a beautiful home which she would grace -and give charm to; second, if the first should not prove possible, -patience to wait, and make no fuss, and see what would turn up. But to -be supposed to have behaved badly to a lady, to be set down as drawing -back, or holding off, or any of the mild phrases which imply desertion, -was terrible to him. This Cosmo could not bear. He did not want to lose -or even to risk Anne. And to have her think badly of him, lose the -respect, not to say the love, which she felt for him, was a danger that -made the hair stand upright on his head. He did not wish even to lose -Charley Ashley’s regard, and become a mean and discredited person in the -Curate’s eyes: how much more in Anne’s, whom he loved! A panic took -possession of Cosmo. A dishonourable lover, a betrayer, was as much an -anachronism as a cruel father; it was a thing out of date. Men of his -stamp broke no vows. They might be disinclined to heroic measures -generally, and above all to the uncomfortable heroism of dragging down a -woman into poverty, taking advantage of her inexperience, and marrying -in the face of every suggestion of prudence. But to desert her because -she had lost her fortune, to cry off as soon as it became evident that -she was no longer a good match--this, whatever the vulgar imagination -may think, is what a young man on his promotion, like Cosmo Douglas, -could not venture to do. He was horrified by the very notion. In all -questions of marriage there is of course a possibility that it may all -come to nothing, that ‘circumstances may arise’--that incompatibilities -may be discovered--even that a mutual sense of what is prudent may cause -an absolute breach. Such things are to be heard of every day in society. -But for a man, especially one who is a nobody, to ‘behave badly’ to a -lady--that is what cannot be. If the mere suggestion of such a thing got -out, it would be unendurable. And Cosmo knew that everybody was ready -to report every rumour, to put on record every incident of such a story. -At the same time, the great crisis being over, there need be no longer, -he said to himself, any idea of compromising Anne. Perhaps the ground on -which he framed his new resolution was less solid than that on which he -had framed the last. But, according to his new light, the emergency was -pressing, and there was no time to lose. - -That evening accordingly, the linen which had been put back into his -drawers was replaced in the bag, and the contents of his purse -reinvestigated. He sent a telegram to Charley Ashley, which filled that -good fellow with excitement, compunction, and perhaps a touch of -disappointment, and left London by the night train. It brought him to -the rectory uncomfortably early; but still there was no other so -convenient which entailed so little loss of time, and Cosmo felt the -advantage of making it apparent that he had come hurriedly and had -little time to spare. He arrived while it was still dark on the wintry, -foggy, chill morning. Could any man do more to show the fervent reality -of his passion? He had stayed away as long as Anne was filling a kind of -official position, so long as she was the object of general observation. -Now, when she had no longer any sort of artificial claim upon her, or -necessity for exerting herself, here he was at her command. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIII. - -HEATHCOTE’S PROPOSAL. - - -It was a new world upon which Anne rose that day. The excitement was -over, the gloomy details of business drawing to completion, and the new -circumstances of the family life remained to be settled by the family -themselves. It was still early when Anne came downstairs, and took her -way to the library in which Mr. Loseby was sitting. He was at her -father’s table, almost in the same spot where Mr. Mountford, for as long -as she could remember, had done his business, or made believe to do it. -This startled her a little; but it was time to resist these overwhelming -associations, and address herself, she felt, to the business in hand. -She came up to him quickly, giving herself no time to think. ‘Mr. -Loseby, you must instruct me what are my duties,’ she said. - -Heathcote Mountford was at the other end of the room, idly looking -through the books, and she had not seen him, but he was unconscious of -this. By degrees he had come to know all about Anne, to feel a -difference in the atmosphere when she came in, to see her whenever she -appeared as if with eyes in the back of his head. - -‘Your duties, my dear child?’ Mr. Loseby said, pushing up his spectacles -on his forehead. ‘Sit down there in front of me and let us talk. It does -one good to look at you, Anne.’ - -‘You were always very kind,’ she said gratefully. ‘But you must not -spoil me now, for if you do I shall cry, and all my morning’s work will -come to an end. Mamma is coming downstairs to-day, and all is to be -as--it can never be again,’ said Anne, with an abrupt interruption of -herself. ‘But in the meantime it is very needful for me to know what I -am to do. I want you to tell me while we are safe--while we are alone.’ - -‘My dear Anne,’ said the old lawyer, ‘my dear Anne!’ and the tears came -to his eyes. ‘I wish I were everything that I can’t be--a fairy prince -or a romantic hero--for your sake.’ - -‘I like you a great deal better as Mr. Loseby than if you were a fairy -prince.’ - -‘I dare say that is true; but in the one case I might have delivered -you, and in the other I can’t. Do! I don’t know what you have got to -do.’ - -‘Somebody must,’ said Anne. ‘Tell me, please. Am I the guardian, or what -does it mean? In Trust! It might be a great deal, or it might not be -much. I want to do my duty, Mr. Loseby.’ - -‘That I am sure you will do, whatever happens. You will have to -administer the whole, and watch over the money, and look out for the -investments. It is the most extraordinary office for you: but we will -not say anything about that.’ - -‘No: but I do not think it is such an extraordinary office. If the money -had been mine, I should have had it to do naturally, and of course I -shall do it with all the more care when it is for Rose. The pity is that -I don’t know anything about it,’ said Anne, gravely. ‘But I suppose -there are books on the subject, books about money and how to manage it. -You must tell me how to learn my new profession,’ she added with a -smile. ‘It is a curious thing all at once to wake up and find that one -has a trade.’ - -‘I don’t see how you can call it a trade.’ - -‘Oh, yes, Mr. Loseby, and I am to have 500_l._ a-year of pay--I shall -not be worth half so much. When I was young,’ said Anne, with the serene -consciousness of maturity, ‘it was one of my fancies to learn something -that I could live by. I am afraid I thought of quite little pettifogging -businesses--little bits of art-work or such like. I shall be a kind of -land-steward with a little of a stockbroker in me, now.’ - -‘Yes, something of that sort,’ he said, humouring her, looking at her -with a smile. - -‘Curious,’ said Anne, with a gleam of laughter getting into her eyes, ‘I -think I shall like it too; it ought to be amusing--it ought to have an -interest--and you know everybody says that what we girls want is an -interest in our lives.’ - -‘You have never wanted an interest in your life.’ - -‘No, I do not think I have; but you must not look so sorry--I am not -sorry for myself. What does it matter after all?’ said Anne, raising her -head with that lofty visionary defiance of all evil. ‘There are things -which one could not consent to lose--which it really breaks one’s heart -to lose--which would need to be torn and wrenched out of one: you know, -Mr. Loseby?--but not money; how different when it is only money! The -mere idea that you might lose the one makes you feel what loss would be, -makes you contemptuous of the other.’ - -‘I know?--do you think I know?--Indeed, my dear, I cannot tell,’ said -Mr. Loseby, shaking his head. ‘If I lost what I have, I should not find -it at all easy to console myself. I don’t think I should be contemptuous -or indifferent if all my living were to go.’ - -‘Ah!’ she cried, with a sudden light of compunction and pity in her -eyes, ‘but that is because you---- Oh, forgive me!’ with a sudden -perception of what she was saying. - -‘That is because I have not much else to lose?’ said the old lawyer. -‘Don’t be sorry for saying it, it is true. I lost all I had in that way, -my dear, as you know, many many years ago. Life, to be sure, has changed -very much since then, but I am not unhappy. I have learnt to be content; -and it would make a great difference to me if I lost what I have to live -upon. Anne, I have got something to tell you which I think will make you -happier.’ - -She looked at him eagerly with her lips apart, her eyes full of -beseeching earnestness. ‘It is about your father, Anne.’ - -Her countenance changed a little, but kept its eagerness. She had not -expected anything to make her happier from that quarter; but she was -almost more anxious than before to hear what it was. - -‘Your cousin has been telling me--you heard his proposal about the -entail, which, alas! no time was left us to discuss?--he thinks from -what your father said to him,’ said the lawyer, leaning across the table -and putting his hand upon hers, ‘that he meant to have arranged this -according to Heathcote Mountford’s wishes, and to have settled Mount on -you.’ - -Anne could not speak at first. The tears that had been gathering in her -eyes overflowed and fell in a warm shower upon Mr. Loseby’s hand. ‘My -cousin Heathcote told you this?’ she said, half sobbing, after a pause. - -‘Yes, Anne. I thought it would please you to know.’ - -‘Please me!’ she made a little pause again, sobbing and smiling. Then -she clasped his old hand in both hers with sudden enthusiasm. ‘It makes -me perfectly happy!’ she cried: ‘nothing, nothing troubles me any more.’ - -Then, with natural feminine instinct, she wanted to hear every detail -from him of the distinct conversation which she immediately concluded to -have taken place between her father and her cousin. Though no one was -more ready to jump to conclusions, Anne became as matter-of-fact as Rose -herself in her eagerness to know everything that had taken place. The -old lawyer did not feel himself able to cope with her questions. ‘I was -not present,’ he said; ‘but your cousin himself is here, and he will -tell you. Yes, there he is, looking at the books. I am going to fetch -some papers I left in my bedroom. Mr. Heathcote, will you come and -explain it all while I am away?’ - -He chuckled to himself with satisfaction as he left them together: but -after all what was the use? ‘Good Lord,’ he cried to himself, ‘why -_couldn’t_ the fellow have come a year ago?’ To see how Providence seems -to take a pleasure in making the best of plans impracticable! It was -inconceivable that nobody had sense enough ever to have thought of that -plan before. - -But when Anne found herself face to face with Heathcote Mountford, and -suddenly discovered that he had been present all the time, she did not -feel the same disposition to pursue her inquiries. She had even a -feeling that she had committed herself, though she could scarcely tell -how. She rose up from her seat with a faint smile, mastering her tears -and excitement. ‘Thank you for telling Mr. Loseby what has made me so -happy,’ she said. Then added, ‘Indeed, it was more for others than -myself. I knew all the time my father had not meant to wrong anyone; no, -no, he never was unjust in his life; but others, strangers, like -yourself, how were you to know?’ - -‘I am sure this was what he meant,’ Heathcote said, putting much more -fervour into the asseveration than it would have required had it been as -certain as he said. Anne was chilled a little by his very warmth, but -she would not admit this. - -‘I was very certain of it always,’ she said, ‘though I did not know how -he meant it to be. But now, Mr. Heathcote, thank you, thank you with all -my heart! you have set that matter to rest.’ - -Was it really good for her to think that the matter was set at rest, -that there never had been any doubt about it, that nothing but honour, -and justice, and love towards her had ever been in her father’s -thoughts? No doubt she would set up some theory of the same kind to -explain, with the same certainty, the sluggishness of the other, of the -fellow who, having a right to support her, had left her to stand alone -in her trouble. This brought a warm glow of anger into Heathcote’s -veins; but he could only show it by a little impatience expressed with a -laugh over a small grievance of his own. - -‘You said Cousin Heathcote just now. I think, after all we have seen and -felt together, that a title at least as familiar as that might be mine.’ - -‘Surely,’ she said, with so friendly a smile, that Heathcote felt -himself ridiculously touched. Why this girl should with a smile make him -feel disposed to weep, if that were possible to a man of his age, he -could not tell. It was too absurd, but perhaps it was because of the -strange position in which she herself stood, and the way in which she -occupied it, declaring herself happy in her loss, yet speaking with such -bated breath of the other loss which she had discovered to be possible, -and which, in being possible, had taken all feeling about her fortune -away from her. A woman, standing thus alone among all the storms, so -young, so brave, so magnanimous, touches a man’s heart in spite of -himself. This was how he explained it. As he looked at her, he found it -difficult to keep the moisture out of his eyes. - -‘I want to speak to you about business,’ he said. ‘Mr. Loseby is not the -only instructor in that art. Will you tell me--don’t think I am -impertinent: where you intend--where you wish--to live?’ - -A flush came upon Anne’s face. She thought he wanted possession of his -own house, which was so natural. ‘We will not stay to trouble you!’ she -cried. Then, overcoming the little impulse of pride, ‘Forgive me, Cousin -Heathcote, that was not what you meant, I know. We have not talked of -it, we have had no consultation as yet. Except Mount, where I have -always lived, one place is the same as another to me.’ - -But while she said this there was something in Anne’s eyes that -contradicted her, and he thought that he could read what it meant. He -felt that he knew better than she knew herself, and this gave him zeal -in his proposal; though what he wanted was not to further but to hinder -the wish which he divined in her heart. - -‘If this is the case, why not stay at Mount?’ Heathcote said. ‘Listen to -me; it is of no use to me; I am not rich enough to keep it up. This is -why I wanted to get rid of it. You love the place and everything about -it--whereas it is nothing to me.’ - -‘Is it so?’ said Anne, with a voice of regret. ‘Mount!--nothing to you?’ - -‘It was nothing to me, at least till the other day; and to you it is so -much. All your associations are connected with it; you were born here, -and have all your friends here,’ said Heathcote, unconsciously enlarging -upon the claims of the place, as if to press them upon an unwilling -hearer. Why should he think she was unwilling to acknowledge her love -for her home? And yet Anne felt in her heart that there was divination -in what he said. - -‘But, Cousin Heathcote, it is yours, not ours. It was our home, but it -is no longer so. Don’t you think it would be more hard to have no right -to it, and yet stay, than to give it up and go? The happiness of Mount -is over,’ she said softly. ‘It is no longer to us the one place in the -world.’ - -‘That is a hard thing to say to me, Anne.’ - -‘Is it? why so? When you are settled in it, years after this, if you -will ask me, I will come to see you, and be quite happy,’ said Anne with -a smile; ‘indeed I shall; it is not a mean dislike to see you here. That -is the course of nature. We always knew it was to be yours. There is no -feeling of wrong, no pain at all in it; but it is no longer _ours_. -Don’t you see the difference? I am sure you see it,’ she said. - -‘But if your father had carried out his intention----’ - -‘Do you know,’ said Anne, looking at him with a half wistful, half -smiling look, ‘on second thoughts it would perhaps be better not to say -anything to mamma or Rose about my father’s intention? They might think -it strange. They might say that was no punishment at all. I am very glad -to know it for my own comfort, and that you should understand how really -just he was; but they might not see it in the same light.’ - -‘And it has nothing to do with the question,’ said Heathcote, almost -roughly; ‘the opportunity for such an arrangement is over. Whether he -intended or whether he did not intend it--I cannot give you Mount.’ - -‘No, no; certainly you cannot give it to me----’ - -‘At least,’ he cried, carried beyond himself by the excitement of the -moment. ‘There was only one way in which I could have given it to you: -and that, without ever leaving me the chance, without thinking of any -claim I had, you have put out of my power--you have made impossible, -Anne!’ - -She looked at him, her eyes opened wider, her lips dropping apart, with -a sort of consternation, then a tinge of warmer colour gradually rose -over her face. The almost fierceness of his tone, the aggrieved voice -and expression had something half ludicrous in it; but in her surprise -this was not visible to Anne. And he saw that he had startled her, which -is always satisfactory. She owed him reparation for this, though it was -an unintentional wrong. He ended with a severity of indignation which -overwhelmed her. - -‘It does not seem to me that I was ever thought of, that anyone took me -into consideration. I was never allowed to have a chance. Before I came -here, my place, the place I might have claimed, was appropriated. And -now I must keep Mount though I do not want it, and you must leave it -though you do want it, when our interests might have been one. But no, -no, I am mistaken. You do not want it now, though it is your home. You -think you will prefer London, because London is----’ - -‘Mr. Heathcote Mountford, I think you forget what you are saying----’ - -‘Don’t call me that at least,’ he cried; ‘don’t thrust me away again as -a stranger. Yes, I am absurd; I have no right to claim any place or any -rights. If I had not been a fool, I should have come here a year, five -years ago, as old Loseby says.’ - -‘What is that about old Loseby?’ said the lawyer, coming into the room. -He was carrying a portfolio in his hands, which, let us hope, he had -honestly gone to look for when he left them. Anyhow he carried it -ostentatiously as if this had been his natural object in his absence. -But the others were too much excited to notice his portfolio or his -severely business air. At least Heathcote was excited, who felt that he -had evidently made a fool of himself, and had given vent to a bit of -ridiculous emotion, quite uncalled for, without any object, and -originating he could not tell how. What was the meaning of it, he would -have asked himself, but that the fumes of his own words had got into his -head. He turned away, quite beyond his own control, when the lawyer -appeared, his heart beating, his blood coursing through his veins. How -had all this tempest got up in an instant? Did it come from nothing, and -mean nothing? or had it been there within him, lying quiescent all this -time. He could not answer the question, nor, indeed, for that matter, -did he ask it, being much too fully occupied for the moment with the -commotion which had thus suddenly got up like the boiling of a volcano -within him, without any will of his own. - -And Anne was too much bewildered, too much astonished to say anything. -She could not believe her own ears. It seemed to her that her senses -must be playing her false, that she could not be seeing aright or -hearing aright--or else what did it mean? Mr. Loseby glided in between -them with his portfolio, feeling sure they would remark his little -artifice and understand his stratagem; but he had succeeded in that -stratagem so much better than he thought, that they paid no attention to -him at all. - -‘What are you saying about old Loseby?’ he asked. ‘It is not civil in -the first place, Mr. Heathcote, to call your family man of business old. -It is a contumelious expression. I am not sure that it is not -actionable. That reminds me that I have never had anything to do with -your branch of the family--which, no doubt, is the reason why you take -this liberty. I am on the other side----’ - -‘Do me this service, then, at once,’ said Heathcote, coming back from -that agitated little walk with which a man who has been committing -himself and showing uncalled-for emotion so often relieves his feelings. -‘Persuade my cousins to gratify me by staying at Mount. I have clearly -told you I should not know what to do with it. If they will stay nothing -need be changed.’ - -‘It is a very good idea,’ said Mr. Loseby. ‘I think an excellent idea. -They will pay you a rent for it which will be reasonable, which will not -be exorbitant.’ - -‘They shall do nothing of the sort,’ cried Heathcote: ‘rent--between me -and----’ - -‘Yes, between you and Mrs. Mountford, the most reasonable proposal in -the world. It is really a thing to be taking into your full -consideration, Anne. Of course you must live somewhere. And there is no -place you would like so well.’ - -Here a guilty flush came upon Anne’s face. She stole a furtive glance at -Heathcote to see if he were observing her. She did not wish to give him -the opportunity of saying ‘I told you so,’ or convicting her out of her -own mouth. - -‘I think mamma and Rose have some idea--that is, there was some -talk--Rose has always wanted masters whom we can’t get here. There was -an idea of settling in London--for a time----’ - -He did not turn round, which was merciful. If he had divined her, if he -now understood her, he gave no sign at least. This was generous, and -touched Anne’s heart. - -‘In London! Now, what on earth would you do in London, country birds -like Rose and you? I don’t say for a little time in the season, to see -the pictures, and hear some music, and that sort of thing; but settling -in London, what would you do that for? You would not like it; I feel -sure you would not like it. You never could like it, if you tried.’ - -To this Anne was dumb, making no response. She stood with her eyes cast -down, her face flushed and abashed, her two hands clasped together, as -much like a confused and naughty child as it was possible for Anne to -be. She gave once more an instantaneous, furtive glance from under her -downcast eyelids at Heathcote. Would he rejoice over her to see his -guess, his impertinent guess, proved true? But Heathcote was taking -another agitated turn about the room, to blow off his own excitement, -and was not for the moment observant of hers. - -After this Mr. Loseby began to impart to Anne real information about the -duties which would be required of her, to which she gave what attention -she could. But this was not so much as could have been desired. Her -mind was running over with various thoughts of her own, impulses which -had come to her from another mind, and new aspects of old questions. She -left the library as soon as she could, in order to get back to the -shelter of her own room and there think them out. Had Heathcote known -how little attention she gave to his own strange, unintentional -self-betrayal--if it was indeed a self-betrayal, and not a mere -involuntary outbreak of the moment, some nervous impulse or other, -incomprehensible to the speaker as to the hearer--he would have been -sadly humbled. But, as a matter of fact, Anne scarcely thought of his -words at all. He had made some mistake, she felt sure. She had not heard -him right, or else she had missed the real meaning of what he said, for -that surface meaning was of course impossible. But she did think about -the other matter. He had divined her almost more clearly than she had -understood herself. When she had decided that to go to London would be -the best thing the family could do, she had carefully directed her mind -to other motives; to the facilities of getting masters for Rose, and -books, and everything that was interesting; to the comfort and ease of -life in a place where everything could be provided so easily, where -there would be no great household to keep up. She had thought of the -cheerfulness of a bright little house near the parks, and all the things -there would be to see--the interests on all sides, the means of -occupying themselves. But she had not thought--had she thought?--that -Cosmo would be at hand, that he would be within reach, that he might be -the companion of many expeditions, the sharer of many occupations. Had -she secretly been thinking of this all the time? had this been her -motive and not the other? Heathcote Mountford had seen through her and -had divined it, though she had not known it herself. She paused now to -ask herself with no small emotion, if this were true; and she could not -say that it was not true or half true. If it were so, was it not -unmaidenly, unwomanly, wrong to go after him, since he did not come to -her? She had made up her mind to it without being conscious of that -motive: but now the veil was torn from her eyes, and she was aware of -the weakness in her own heart. Ought she to go, being now sure that to -be near Cosmo was one of her chief objects; or would it be better to -remain at Mount as Heathcote’s tenant? Anne’s heart sank down, down to -the lowest depth; but she was a girl who could defy her heart and all -her inclinations when need was. She threw herself back as a last -resource upon the others who had to be consulted. Though she knew she -could turn them as she pleased, yet she proposed to herself to make an -oracle of them. According to their response, who knew nothing about it, -who would speak according to the chance impression of the moment, so -should the decision be. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIV. - -A VISITOR. - - -That evening all things had recommenced to be at Mount as----‘they -could never be again,’ as Anne said: that is, the habits of the first -week of mourning had been laid aside, the ladies had come downstairs, -and appeared at table, and everything returned to its use and wont. Mr. -Mountford’s place was left vacant at the table. Heathcote would not take -it, though he had been assured, with tears, that the family would wish -it so to be, and that no one would feel wounded by his assumption of his -rights. ‘I will sit where I have always sat if you will let me,’ he -said, putting himself at Mrs. Mountford’s right hand. Thus he sat -between her and Rose, who was pleased by what she thought the preference -he showed her. Rose dearly liked to be preferred--and, besides, -Heathcote was not to be despised in any way. Grave thoughts of uniting -the property had already entered her little head. He was not young, -indeed he was distinctly old in Rose’s juvenile eyes, but she said to -herself that when a man has so much in his favour a trifling matter like -age does not count. She was very serious, what her mother called -practical, in her ways of thinking: and the importance of uniting the -property affected Rose. Therefore she was glad that he seemed to like -her best, to choose her side of the table. Anne sat opposite, -contemplating them all serenely, meeting Heathcote’s eyes without any -shyness, which was more than he could boast in respect to her. He -scarcely addressed her at all during the time of dinner, and he never, -she perceived, broached to her stepmother or sister the question which -he had discussed with her with so much vehemence. At dinner Anne felt -herself at leisure--she was able to look at him and observe him, as she -had never done before. He had a very handsome face, more like the ideal -hero of a book than anything that is usually met with in the world. His -eyes were large and dark; his nose straight; his hair dark, too, and -framing his face as in a picture. ‘I do not like handsome men,’ Anne -said to herself. She smiled when the thought had formed in her mind, -smiled at herself. Cosmo was not handsome; he was of no particular -colour, and had no very striking features. People said of him that he -was gentlemanlike. It was the only thing to say. But here was a face -which really was beautiful. Beauty! in a man she said to herself! and -felt that she disliked it. But she could not but look at him across the -table. She could not lift her eyes without seeing him. His face was the -kind of face that it was natural to suppose should express fine -sentiments, high-flown, Anne said to herself, she whom everybody else -called high-flown. But he listened with a smile to Rose who was not of -that constitution of mind. - -After dinner, when the ladies were alone in the drawing-room, Anne made -their cousin’s proposal known to them: that they should continue to live -at Mount, paying him rent according to Mr. Loseby’s suggestion. She did -not herself wish to accept this proposal--but a kind of opposition was -roused in her by the blank manner in which it was listened to. She had -been struggling against a guilty sense of her own private inclination to -go to London, to be in the same place with her lover--but she did not -see why _they_ should wish the same thing. There seemed to Anne to be a -certain impertinence in any inclination of theirs which should turn the -same way. What inducement had they to care for London, or any change of -residence? Though they were virtually backing her up, yet she was angry -with them for it. ‘I thought you would be sure to wish to stay,’ she -said. - -‘You see, Anne,’ said Mrs. Mountford, with some hesitation, ‘it is not -now as it was before; when we were all happy together, home was home. -But now, after all we have gone through--and things would not be the -same as before--your sister wants a change--and so do you----’ - -‘Do not think of me,’ said Anne, hastily. - -‘But it is my duty to think of you, too. Rose has always been delicate, -and the winters at Mount are trying, and this year, of course, you would -have no variety, no society. I am sure it is very kind of Heathcote: but -if we could get a comfortable little house in town--a change,’ said Mrs. -Mountford, growing bolder, ‘would do us all good.’ - -‘Oh, don’t let us stay at Mount!’ cried Rose. ‘In the wet, cold winter -days it is terrible. I have never liked Mount in winter. Do let us get -away now that we can get away. I have never seen anything. Let us go to -town till the spring, and then let us go abroad.’ - -‘That is what I should like,’ said Mrs. Mountford, meekly. ‘Change of -air and scene is always recommended. You are very strong, Anne, you -don’t feel it so much--you could go on for ever; but people that are -more delicately organised, people who _feel_ things more, can’t just -settle down after trouble like ours. We ought to move about a little and -have thorough change of scene.’ - -Anne was amazed at herself for the annoyance, the resentment, the -resistance to which she felt herself moved. It was simple perversity, -she felt, for in her heart she wanted to move, perhaps more than they -did--and she had a reason for her wish--but they had none. It was mere -wanton desire for change on their part. She was angry, though she saw -how foolish it was to be angry. ‘It was extremely kind of Heathcote to -make such a proposal,’ she said. - -‘I don’t say it was not kind, Anne--but he feels that he cannot keep it -up. He does not like the idea of leaving the place all dismantled and -uninhabited. You may tell him I will leave the furniture; I should not -think of taking it away, just at present. I think we should look about -us,’ said Mrs. Mountford, ‘before we settle anywhere; and select a -really good place--which Mount would never be,’ she added, with a little -shaking out of her crape, ‘for us, in our changed circumstances. It may -be very kind of Heathcote--but I don’t see that we can do it. It would -be too much to expect.’ - -And Anne was silenced, not knowing what pleas to bring forward for the -defeat of the cause which was her own cause; but she was angry that -they should presume to think so _too_. What was town to them? They had -no one in it to make that great wilderness feel like home. They had no -inducement that she knew of. She felt reluctant to be happy by such -unreasonable means. - -Keziah, the little maid to whom Anne had, during the interval since she -was last mentioned, imparted a great deal of very energetic advice as to -the duty of holding fast to her lover, and taking no thought of -interest, had red eyes that night when she came to put her mistress’s -things away. Anne was very independent. She did not require much actual -service. It was Rose who benefited by Keziah’s services in this respect. -But when she was dismissed by Rose she came into the room where Anne sat -writing, and instead of doing her work as usual with noiseless speed, -and taking herself away, she hovered about for a long time, poking the -fire, arranging things that had no particular need of arranging, and -crossing and re-crossing Anne’s point of view. She had red eyes, but -there was in her little person an air of decision that was but seldom -apparent there. This Anne perceived, when, attracted at length by these -manœuvres, she put away her writing and looked up. ‘Keziah,’ she said, -‘how are things going? I can’t help thinking you have something to say -to me to-night.’ - -‘Yes, Miss Anne,’ said the girl, very composedly: ‘I have got something -to say--I wanted you to know, as you’ve always been so kind and taken an -interest--people has the same sort of feelings, I suppose, whether -they’re quality or whether they’re common folks----’ - -‘That is very true, Keziah. I suspect we are all of the same flesh and -blood.’ - -‘Don’t you laugh at me, Miss Anne. Miss Anne, I would like to tell you -as I’ve made up my mind to-night.’ - -‘I hope you have made a right decision, Keziah,’ said Anne, with some -anxiety, feeling suspicious of the red eyes. - -‘Oh, I’m not afraid of its being _right_, Miss Anne. If it wasn’t -right,’ said the little girl, with a wan smile, ‘I don’t think as it -would be as hard. I’d have settled sooner if it hadn’t been for thinking -what Jim would say,’ she added, a tear or two coming to dilate her eyes; -‘it wasn’t for myself. If you do your duty, Miss Anne, you can’t do no -more.’ - -‘Then, Keziah, you have been talked over,’ said Anne, with some -indignation, rising up from her desk. ‘Worth has been worrying you, and -you have not been able to resist her. Why did you not tell her, as I -told you, to come and have it out with me?’ - -‘I don’t know what good that would have done, Miss Anne. It was me that -had to settle after all.’ - -‘Of course it was you that had to settle. Had it been anyone else I -should not have lost all this time, I should have interfered at once. -Keziah, do you know what you are doing? A young girl like you, just my -age--(but I am not so young, I have had so much to think of, and to go -through), to sell herself to an old man.’ - -‘Miss Anne, I’m not selling myself,’ said Keziah, with a little flush of -resentment. ‘He hasn’t given me anything, not so much as a ring--I -wouldn’t have it of him--I wouldn’t take not a silver thimble, though -he’s always teasing--for fear you should say---- Whatever anyone may -think, they can’t say as I’ve sold myself,’ said Keziah proudly. ‘I -wouldn’t take a thing from him, not if it was to save his life.’ - -‘This is mere playing upon words, Keziah,’ said Anne, towering over the -victim in virtuous indignation. ‘Old Saymore is well off and poor Jim -has nothing. What do you call that but selling yourself? But it is not -your doing! it is Worth’s doing. Why doesn’t he marry _her_? It would be -a great deal more suitable than marrying you.’ - -‘He don’t seem to see that, Miss Anne,’ said Keziah with a demure half -curtsey: a certain comic sense of the absurdity of marrying the aunt -when the niece was by, crept into the profound seriousness of her looks. -That anybody should suppose old Saymore would marry Worth gave the girl -a melancholy amusement in spite of herself. - -‘She would be far more suitable,’ cried Anne in her impetuous way. ‘I -think I’ll speak to them both and set it before them. It would be a -thousand times more suitable. But old Saymore is too old even for Worth: -what would he be for you?’ - -Keziah looked at her young mistress with eyes full of very mingled -feelings. The possibility of being delivered by the simple expedient of -a sudden match got up by the tormentors themselves gave her a -half-frightened visionary hope, but it was mixed with a half-offended -sentiment of proprietorship which she could scarcely acknowledge: old -Saymore belonged to her. She would have liked to get free from the -disagreeable necessity of marrying him, but she did not quite like the -idea of seeing him married off to somebody else under her very eyes. - -‘It’s more than just that, Miss Anne,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘All -of us in the house are thinking of what is likely to happen, and Mr. -Saymore, he says he will never take another place after having been so -long here. And he has a good bit of money laid by, Miss Anne,’ said -Keziah, not without pride. ‘And Mr. Goodman, of the “Black Bull” at -Hunston, he’s dead. That’s where we’re thinking of settling. I know how -to keep the books and make up the bills, and mother she would be in the -kitchen, and such a fine opening for the boys. I don’t know what I -shouldn’t deserve if I were to set up myself against all that. And it -isn’t myself neither,’ said Keziah. ‘I should be ashamed to make a fuss -for me. I have always told you that, Miss Anne. I hope I’m not one as -would go against my duty. It’s Jim I’ve always thought upon. Men folks -are more wilful than women. They are more used to get their own way. If -he was to go to the bad, Miss Anne, and me the cause of it----’ - -Here Keziah broke down, and wept without any further attempt to restrain -her tears. - -‘I don’t understand you,’ cried Anne impetuously. ‘You pretend to be -sorry for him, and this is how you treat him. But leave Jim to take care -of himself, Keziah. Let us think of you. This is what I call going to -the bad. Poor Jim might take to drinking, perhaps, and ruin himself--but -I don’t think that is so much going to the bad as to love one man and -marry another. That is the worst of sin,’ said the girl, with cheeks and -eyes both flaming. ‘It is treachery, it is falsehood, it is dishonour, -to you and to everyone concerned.’ - -Poor little Keziah quailed before this outburst. She shrank back with a -look of pain as if she feared her mistress’s wrath would take some -tangible form. She cried bitterly, sobbing aloud, ‘You’ve got no call to -be angry, Miss Anne. You didn’t ought to be angry, Miss Anne. I’m -a-going to do my duty; it’s nothing but my duty as I’m going to do!’ - -Anne felt, when the interview was over, that she had in all probability -done more harm than good. She had frightened Keziah, and made her cling -all the more to the comfort which sprang from a settled resolution, and -she had even stimulated that resolve by the prick of opposition which -moves the meekest of natures. She had made Keziah feel herself wronged, -her sacrifice unappreciated, her duty misconceived, and the girl had -fallen back with all the more confidence on the approval of her (as -Anne thought) worldly-minded aunt, and the consolation of the old -bridegroom, who, though he was old, was a great man in the servants’ -hall--great as the butler and head of the establishment downstairs, and -still more great as the prospective landlord of the ‘Black Bull’ at -Hunston. To be the future mistress of such a place was a glory enough to -turn a girl’s head. Keziah went away crying, and feeling that she had -not deserved the cruel ‘scolding’ administered by Miss Anne. She going -to the bad! when she was doing her duty in the highest and most -superlative way, and had hanging over her head, almost touching it, the -crown of that landlady’s cap, with the most becoming ribbons, which -ranks like the strawberry leaves of another elevation in the -housekeeper’s room and the servants’ hall. - -It was the morning after this that Cosmo arrived. Anne was going -downstairs to a morning’s work with Mr. Loseby, thoughtful and serious -as she always was now; but by this time all the strangeness of her -position was over; she had got used to it and even reconciled to it. She -had work to do, and a position in the world which was all that one -wanted for happiness. Indeed, she was better off, she said to herself, -than if she had been in her natural position. In that case, in all -probability, she would have had someone else to do for her what she was -now to do for Rose, and her occupation would have been gone. She felt -that she had passed into the second chapter of life--as if she had -married, she said to herself with a passing blush--though so different. -She had real work to do in the world, not make-believe, but actual--not -a thing she could throw aside if she pleased, or was doing only for -amusement. Perhaps it requires a whole life of leisure, and ideas shaped -by that exemption from care which so often strikes the generous mind as -ignoble, which made her appreciate so highly this fine burden of real -unmistakable work, not done to occupy her time merely, but because it -had to be done. She prepared herself for it, not only without pain but -with actual pleasure. But on her way down to the library, where Mr. -Loseby was waiting her, Anne chanced to cast her eyes out from the end -of the corridor across the park. It was the same window to which she had -rushed to listen to the cry the night her father died. It had been night -then, with a white haze of misty moonlight and great shadows of -blackness. But now it was morning, and the red sunshine lighted up the -hoar frost on the grass, already pursuing it into corners, melting away -the congealed dew upon the herbs and trees. She stood for a moment’s -meditation, still gazing out without any object, scarcely knowing why. -To a thoughtful and musing mind there is a great attraction at a window, -which is a kind of opening in the house and in one’s being, full of long -wistful vistas of inspection into the unseen. But Anne had not been -there many minutes before a cry broke from her lips, and her whole -aspect changed. Charley Ashley was coming along the road which crossed -the park--but not alone. A thrill ran through her from her head to her -feet. In a moment her mind went over the whole of the past fortnight’s -story. Her chill and dumbness of disappointment, which she would not -express even to herself, when he did not come; her acquiescence of -reason (but still with a chill of the heart) in his explanations; the -subdued sense of restraint, and enforced obedience to other rules, not -first or only to those of the heart, and the effort with which she had -bowed herself: her solitude, her longing for support, her uneasiness -every way under the yoke which he had thought it necessary to impose -upon himself and her, all this seemed to pass before her view in a -moment. She had acquiesced; she had even reasoned herself into -satisfaction; but oh! the glorious gleam of approval with which Anne -saw all that she had consented to beforehand in the light of the fact -that now he was here; now he was coming, all reason for his staying away -being over--not hurriedly, as if wishing to chase the recollection of -her father from her mind, or to grudge him that last pre-eminence in the -thoughts of those belonging to him, which is the privilege of every man -who dies. Cosmo had fulfilled every reverent duty towards him who was -his enemy. He had done what it was most difficult to do. He had kept -away till all the rites were accomplished; and now he was coming! All -was over, not one other observance of affection possible; the very widow -coming out again, thinking (a little) of the set of her cap and planning -to go abroad in spring. And now there was no longer any reason why the -lover should stay away. If there is one feeling in the world which is -divine, it is the sense of full approval of those whom one loves most. -To be able with one’s whole heart to consent and know that all they have -done is well, to approve them not with blindness (though that is the -silliest fable) of love, or its short-sightedness, but, on the contrary, -with all its enlightenment in the eyes that cannot be content with less -than excellence: to look on and see everything and approve--this, and -not any personal transport or enjoyment, is heaven. Anne, standing by -the window seeing the two figures come in sight, in a moment felt the -gates of Paradise open before her, and was swept within them by a silent -flood of joy. She approved, making no exception, reserving nothing. As -she walked downstairs, her feet did not seem to touch the ground. What a -poor, small, ignoble little being she had been not to read him all the -time! but now that the illumination had come, and she saw his conduct -from first to last, Anne saw, or thought she saw, that everything was -right, everything noble. She approved, and was happy. She forgot Mr. -Loseby and the morning’s business, and walked towards the hall with a -serene splendour about her, a glory as of the moon and the stars, all -beautiful in reflected light. - -There was nobody in the hall, and the kind Curate when he came in did -nothing but pass through it. ‘I suppose I shall find them in the -drawing-room?’ he said, waving his hand and walking past. Anne accepted -the passing greeting gladly. What did she want with Charley? He went -through the hall while the other came to her side. - -‘You wanted me, Anne?’ - -‘Wanted you--oh, how I have wanted you!--there has been so much to do; -but I approve, Cosmo--I approve everything you have done. I feel it -right that I should have stood alone till now. You help me more in doing -my duty, than if you had done all for me. You were right all along, all -through----’ - -‘Thank you, my dearest,’ he said. ‘But, Anne, I see in what you say that -there have been moments in which you have not approved. This was what I -feared--and it would have been so much easier to do what was pleasant.’ - -‘No--I do not think there were moments--at least not anything more. -Cosmo, what do you think of me now, a woman without a penny? I wonder if -you approve of me as I approve of you.’ - -‘I think I do more, dear: I admire, though I don’t think I could have -been so brave myself. If you had not been just the girl you are, I fear -I should have said, Throw me over and let us wait.’ - -‘You did say it,’ she said in a lower tone; ‘that is the only thing of -all that I do not like in you.’ - -‘To think you should have undergone such a loss for me!--and I am not -worth it--it humbles me, Anne. I could not believe it was possible. Up -to the last minute I felt it could not be.’ - -‘I knew it would be,’ she said softly: was not there something else that -Cosmo had to say? She waited for half a minute with a certain -wistfulness in her eyes. The glory of her approval faded a little--a -very little. To be perfect he had to say something more. ‘If thou -wouldst be perfect!’ Was not even the Saviour himself disappointed -(though he knew what was in man) when the young ruler whom he loved at -first sight did not rise to that height which was opened to him? Anne -could not say the same words, but she felt them in her heart. Oh, Cosmo, -if thou wouldst be perfect! but he did not see it, or he did not do it -at least. - -‘I cannot understand it yet,’ he went on. ‘Such injustice, such -cruelty--do I pain you, my darling? I cannot help it. If it had been -only the postponement of all our hopes, that would have been bad enough: -but to take your rights from you arbitrarily, absolutely, without giving -you any choice----’ - -‘I would so much rather you did not speak of it, Cosmo. It cannot be -mended. I have got to accept it and do the best I can,’ she said. - -‘You take it like an angel, Anne. I knew you would do that: but I am not -an angel: and to have all our happiness thrust into the distance, -indefinitely, making the heart sick--you must not expect me to take it -so easily. If I had been rich indeed--how one longs to be rich -sometimes!’ he said, almost hurting her with the close clasp of his arm. -Every word he said was true; he loved her even with passion, as he -understood passion. And if he had been rich, Cosmo would have satisfied -that judgment of hers, which once more, in spite of her, was up in the -tribunal, watchful, anxious, not able to blind its eyes. - -‘I do not long to be rich,’ she said; ‘little will content me.’ - -‘My dearest!’ he said with tender enthusiasm, with so much love in his -looks and tone, so much admiration, almost adoration, that Anne’s heart -was put to silence in spite of herself. How is a woman, a girl, to -remain uninfluenced by all these signs of attachment? She could not -repulse them; she could not say, All this is nothing. If thou would’st -be perfect! Her consciousness of something wanting was not put away, but -it was subdued, put down, forced into the shade. How could she insist -upon what was, indeed, the final test of his attachment? how could she -even indicate it? Anne had, in her mind, no project of marriage which -would involve the laying aside of all the active practical duties which -her father had left as his only legacy to her; but that her lover should -take it for granted that her loss postponed all their hopes, was not a -thing which, in itself, was pleasant to think of. She could not banish -this consciousness from her mind. But in those early moments when Cosmo -was so tender, when his love was so evident, how could she hold back and -doubt him? It was easier by far to put a stop upon herself, and to -silence her indefinite, indefinable dissatisfaction. For in every -respect but this Cosmo was perfect. When he presented himself before -Mrs. Mountford his demeanour was everything that could be desired. He -threw himself into all their arrangements, and asked about their plans -with the gentle insistence of one who had a right to know. He promised, -nay offered, at once to begin the search for a house, which was the -first thing to be done. ‘It will be the pleasantest of duties,’ he said. -‘What a difference to my life! It will be like living by the gates of -heaven, to live in the same place with you, to know I may come and see -you: or even come and look at the house you are in.’ ‘Certainly,’ Mrs. -Mountford said afterwards, ‘Mr. Douglas was very nice. I wonder why dear -papa was so prejudiced against him, for, indeed, nothing could be nicer -than the way he talked; and he will be a great help to us in finding a -house.’ He stayed the whole day, and his presence made everything go -smoothly. The dinner-table was absolutely cheerful with the aid of his -talk, his town news, his latest information about everything. He pleased -everybody, even down to old Saymore, who had not admired him before. -Cosmo had to leave next day, having, as he told them, while the courts -were sitting, no possibility of a holiday; but he went charged with many -commissions, and taking the position almost of a member of the family--a -son of the house. Anne walked with him to the village to see him go; and -the walk through the park, though everything was postponed, was like a -walk through Paradise to both. ‘To think that I am going to prepare for -your arrival is something more than words can say,’ he told her as they -parted. ‘I cannot understand how I can be so happy.’ All this lulled her -heart to rest, and filled her mind with sweetness, and did everything -that could be done to hoodwink that judgment which Anne herself would so -fain have blindfolded and drowned. This she did not quite succeed in -doing--but at all events she silenced it, and kept it quiescent. She -began to prepare for the removal with great alacrity and pleasure; -indeed, the thought of it cheered them all--all at least except -Heathcote Mountford, whose views had been so different, and whose -indignation and annoyance, though suppressed, were visible enough. He -was the only one who had not liked Cosmo. But then he did not like the -family plans, nor their destination, nor anything, Rose said with a -little pique. Anne, for her part, avoided Heathcote, and declared to -herself that she could not bear him. What right had he to set up a -tribunal at which Cosmo was judged? That she should do it was bad -enough, but a stranger! She knew exactly what Heathcote thought. Was it -because she thought so, too, that she divined him, and knew what was in -his heart? - - - - -CHAPTER XXV. - -PACKING UP. - - -Mount was soon turned upside down with all the excitement of packing. It -was a relief from the monotony which hangs about a house from which the -world is shut out, and where the family life is still circling round one -melancholy event. Days look like years in these circumstances; even when -the grief is of the deepest those who are left behind must do something -to keep the dulled wheels of life in motion, since not even the most -truly bereaved can die of grief when they will. But in the case of the -Mountfords the affliction was not excessive. Anne, whom her father had -wronged, perhaps mourned most of all, not because of more love, but more -depth of nature, which could not leave the old so lightly to turn to the -new, and which felt more awe and reverence for those mysterious changes -which alter the very face of life. Rose cried a great deal during the -first few days, and Mrs. Mountford still went on performing little acts -of devotion, going to look at her husband’s portrait, and thinking of -him as a mournful duty; but there was a certain excitement of new -existence in both their hearts. So long as he was there they were bound -to Mount, and all the old habits of their life--indeed never thought of -breaking them, or supposed it possible they could be broken; but now -they were free, and their smiles came back involuntarily as they -prepared for this exciting removal, the beginning of a new life. Anne’s -mind was kept in a graver key by many causes. The nameless and -causeless compunctions, remorses, which move the sensitive spirit in -profound and awe-stricken sympathy with the dead, were for her alone in -the house. She only tormented herself with thoughts of other -possibilities, of things that might have been done and were not done; of -words, nay even looks, which, had she but known how near her father was -to the unseen world, might have been modified or withheld; and she only -followed him, halting, uncertain, to the portals of the unseen -existence, as she had followed him to his grave. What was he doing -there? a man not heavenly, with qualities that were more suited for the -common soil below than the celestial firmament above. It was she only -who put these questions, not, perhaps as we have said, that she loved -him more, but that she felt more deeply, and everything that happened -was of more consequence to her. Besides, she had other causes of -gravity. Her position was more serious altogether. Even the new-made -widow had a straightforward path before her, lonely yet troubled by no -uncertainty--but Anne was walking in darkness, and did not comprehend -her lot. - -Of all her surroundings the one who was most conscious of this was the -Rector, who, getting no satisfaction, as he said, from his son, came out -to Mount himself one of those wintry mornings to question Anne in -person. ‘What have they settled?’ he had asked confidently, as soon as -the Curate returned from the station where he had been seeing his friend -off. ‘I don’t think they have settled anything, sir,’ said Charley, -turning his back upon his father, not caring to betray more than was -needful of his own feelings. ‘They are all going off to London--that is -the only thing that seems to be decided.’ ‘God bless my soul!’ cried the -Rector--which benediction was the good man’s oath; ‘but that has nothing -to do with it. I want to know what is settled about Anne.’ Then poor -Charley, out of the excess of his devotion and dissatisfaction, made a -stand for his friend. ‘You know, sir, what a struggle a young barrister -has to do anything,’ he said; ‘how can they--settle, when all the money -is gone?’ ‘God bless my soul!’ the Rector said again; and after many -thoughts he set off to Mount expressly to have it out, as he said, with -Anne herself. He found her in the library, arranging with old Saymore -what books were to be packed to take away, while Heathcote Mountford, -looking very black and gloomy, sat at the further window pretending to -read, and biting his nails furiously. The mild old Rector wondered for a -moment what that sullen figure should have to do in the background, and -why Heathcote did not go and leave his cousins free: but there was no -time then to think of Heathcote. ‘So you are really going,’ the Rector -said, ‘the whole family? It is very early days.’ - -‘Mamma thinks it will be better to make the change at once. She thinks -it will do her good, and Rose----’ - -The Rector fidgeted about the room, pulling out one here and there of a -long line of books, and pretending to inspect it. Then he said abruptly, -‘The fact was I wanted to speak to you, Anne.’ - -Heathcote Mountford was sitting some way off, and Mr. Ashley’s voice was -a gentle one--but he stirred immediately. ‘If I am in the way----’ he -said, getting up. Of course he was in the way; but his faculties must -have been very sharp, and his attention very closely fixed on what was -going on, to hear those words. The good Rector murmured some apology; -but Heathcote strolled away carrying his book in his hand. It was not so -easy to get rid of old Saymore, who had a thousand questions to ask; but -he, too, went at last. - -‘No, we are not taking all the books,’ said Anne, ‘we are taking -scarcely anything. My cousin Heathcote does not wish to refurnish the -house at present, and as we do not know what we may do eventually, mamma -prefers to leave everything. It is a mutual convenience. In this way we -may come back in summer, when I hope you will be glad to see us,’ she -added with a smile. - -‘Of course we shall be glad to see you--I don’t know what we shall do, -or how we can get on without you. But that is not the immediate -question,’ he said, with some energy. ‘I have come to ask you, now that -you have seen Douglas, what is settled, Anne?’ - -This was the first time the question had been put formally into words. -It gave her a little shock. The blood all rallied to her heart to give -her strength to answer. She looked him in the face very steadily, that -he might not think she was afraid. ‘Settled?’ she said, with a little -air of surprise. ‘In present circumstances, and in our deep mourning, -what could be settled? We have not even discussed the question.’ - -‘Then I say that is wrong, Anne,’ said the Rector in a querulous voice. -‘He is a young man, and I am an old one, but it is not a question I -should leave undiscussed for an hour. It should be settled what you are -going to do.’ - -‘So far it is settled,’ she said. ‘My duty is with mamma and Rose.’ - -‘What, Anne!’ cried Mr. Ashley. ‘God bless my soul! You are engaged to -be married, and your duty is to your mother and sister? I don’t know -what you young people mean.’ - -Anne did not answer just at once. ‘Did not Charley tell you,’ she said, -after a pause, ‘that we were all going away?’ - -‘Yes, he told me--and I say nothing against that. It seems to be the -way, now. Instead of bearing their grief at home, people flee from it as -if it were a plague. Yes, Charley told me; but he could not tell me -anything about the other question.’ - -‘Because there is nothing to tell. Dear Rector, don’t you know my father -did leave me a great legacy, after all----’ - -‘What was that? What was that? Somethink that was not in the will. I -thank God for it, Anne,’ cried Mr. Ashley. ‘It is the best news I have -heard for many a day.’ - -‘Oh, don’t speak as if it were something new! Mr. Ashley, he left me the -care of the property, and the charge of Rose. Can I do whatever I please -with this on my hands?’ - -‘Is that all?’ the Rector said, in a tone of disappointment; ‘but this -is exactly the work in which Douglas could help you. A man and a -barrister, of course he knows all about it, much better than you can do. -And do you mean to tell me that nothing has been settled, _nothing_, -Anne?’ cried Mr. Ashley, with that vehemence to which mild men are -subject. ‘Don’t talk to me of your mourning; I am not thinking of -anything that is to happen to-day or to-morrow; but is it _settled_? -That is what I want to know.’ - -‘There is nothing settled,’ she said--and they stood there for a minute -facing each other, his countenance full of anxiety and distrust, hers -very firm and pale, almost blank even with determined no meaning. She -smiled. She would not let him think she was even disconcerted by his -questions. And the Rector was baffled by this firmness. He turned away -sighing, and wringing his hands. ‘God bless my soul!’ he said. For it -was no use questioning Anne any further--that, at least, was very clear. -But as he went away, he came across Heathcote Mountford who was walking -about in the now abandoned hall like a handsome discontented ghost. - -‘I am glad to see that you take a great interest in your cousins,’ the -Rector said, with a conciliatory smile. He did not feel very friendly, -to tell the truth, towards Heathcote Mountford, feeling that his -existence was a kind of wrong to Anne and Rose; but yet he was the new -lord of the manor, and this is a thing which the spiritual head of a -parish is bound to remember, whatever his personal feelings may be. Even -in this point of view, however, Heathcote was unsatisfactory--for a poor -lord of the manor in the best of circumstances is a trial to a rector, -especially one who has been used to a well-to-do squire with liberal -ways. - -‘My interest is not of much use,’ Heathcote said, ‘for you see, though I -have protested, they are going away.’ - -Just then Mr. Loseby’s phaeton drew up at the door, and he himself got -out, enveloped with greatcoats and mufflers from head to foot. He was -continually coming and going, with an almost restless interest in -everything that happened at Mount. - -‘It is the very best thing they can do,’ he said. ‘Change of scene: it -is the remedy for all trouble now-a-days. They have never seen anything, -poor ladies; they have been buried in the country all their lives. And -Anne, of course, will like to be in town. That anyone can see with half -an eye.’ - -Here the Rector found another means, if not of satisfying his anxious -curiosity, at least of sharing it with some one. He put his arm into Mr. -Loseby’s and led him away to the big window. The idea of at least -opening his heart to another friend of the family did him good. ‘Do you -know,’ he said, with a gasp of excitement, ‘I have been questioning -Anne, and she tells me there is nothing settled--nothing settled! I -could not believe my ears.’ - -‘My dear fellow,’ said Mr. Loseby, who was not reverential, ‘what could -be settled? A young couple with not a penny between them----’ - -‘We should not have thought of that, Loseby, in my young days.’ - -‘We were fools in our young days,’ said the lawyer, with a -laugh--‘inexperienced idiots. That’s not the case now. They all know -everything that can happen, and calculate the eventualities like a -parcel of old women. No, no, the day of imprudent matches is over. Of -course there is nothing settled. I never expected it for my part----’ - -‘But--but, Loseby, he could be of such use to her. They could manage -better together than apart----’ - -‘And so he will be of use to her; he’s not at all a bad fellow; he’ll -make himself very pleasant to the whole party. He’ll go with them to the -opera, and dine with them three times a week, and be one in all their -little expeditions; and he’ll keep his chambers and his club all the -same, and have no self-denial forced upon him. He is a most sensible -fellow,’ said Mr. Loseby, with a laugh. - -The Rector had no great sense of humour. He looked sternly at the little -round man all shining and smiling. ‘Do you mean to tell me,’ he said, -severely, ‘that you approve of that?’ but the lawyer only laughed again, -and would make no reply. - -And thus the days went on, leaden-footed, yet getting done one after -another, nay, getting shorter, swifter, as the preparations for -departure went on. Mrs. Mountford did everything that could be expected -of her. She left a sum of money in the Rector’s hands for the usual -charities at Christmas, and all the requirements of the parish; and she -left instructions with the sexton’s wife, who had once been a housemaid -at Mount, and therefore ‘took an interest,’ to have a fresh wreath -placed on her husband’s grave weekly on the day he died. So nobody was -neglected, living or dead. And their hearts rose a little as the time of -departure drew near. Cosmo had thrown his whole soul into the work of -house-hunting. And he had found them, which was the most wonderful luck, -a small house in Park Lane, which was too dear, Mrs. Mountford thought, -yet so cheap as to be almost incredible to anyone who knew what Park -Lane was. Even Anne felt a little exhilaration at the thought of windows -which should look out upon the Park under the red wintry sunshine, and -of all the sights and wonders that would be within reach. - -All this time Heathcote stayed on. It was very bad taste, some people -thought; and very silly, said other some. Yet still he remained. Of -course it must be Rose that was the inducement, Anne being known to be -engaged; and Fanny Woodhead did not hesitate to say that she really -thought the man had no sense whatever of what was fitting, to stay on, -and stay on, until the very last moment. But the household themselves -did not object. They had got used to Heathcote. Even Anne liked him at -those times when he did not look as if he were sitting in judgment upon -Cosmo. Sometimes this was his aspect, and then she could not bear him. -But generally he was very supportable. ‘You forget I live in London, -too,’ he said. ‘I mean to see a great deal of you there. You may as well -let me stay and take care of you on the journey.’ And Mrs. Mountford -liked the proposal. For purposes of travelling and general caretaking -she believed in men, and thought these among their principal uses. She -even went so far as to say, ‘We shall be very well off in London with -Mr. Douglas and your cousin Heathcote:’ so strangely had everything -changed from the time when St. John Mountford disinherited his daughter -because Cosmo was a nobody. Anne did not know what to think of this -change of sentiment. Sometimes it seemed to make everything easier, -sometimes to make all further changes impossible. Her heart beat with -the idea of seeing him almost daily, looking for his constant visits, -feeling the charm of his companionship round her: and then a mist would -seem to gather between them, and she would foresee by instinct how Cosmo -might, though very near, become very far. After this she would stop -short and upbraid herself with folly. How could constant meeting and -family companionship make them less near to each other? nothing could be -more absurd: and yet the thought--but it was not a thought, scarcely a -feeling, only an instinct--would come over her and give her a spiritual -chill, a check in all her plans. - -‘Mamma says she thinks we will be very well off in London,’ said Rose, -‘and we can go to concerts, and all those sorts of things. There is -nothing in a concert contrary to mourning. Dances, of course, and _gay_ -parties are out of the question,’ she added, with a slight sigh of -regret; ‘but it is just when we are going to public places that -gentlemen are so useful. You will have your Douglas and I shall have -Cousin Heathcote. We shall be very well off----’ - -To this Anne made no reply. She was taking her papers out of the drawers -of her writing-table, arranging them in a large old despatch-box, in -which they were henceforth to be carried about the world. Rose came and -stood over her curiously, looking at every little bundle as it was taken -out. - -‘I can see Mr. Douglas’s writing,’ she said. ‘Have you got a great many -letters from Mr. Douglas, Anne?’ She put out her hand to touch one that -had strayed out of its place. ‘Oh, may I look at it? just one little -peep. I want so much to know what a real love-letter is like.’ - -Anne took her letter up hastily and put it away with a blush and tremor. -These sacred utterances in Rose’s hands would be profanation indeed. -‘Wait, Rosie,’ she said, ‘wait, dear: you will soon have letters of all -kinds--of your very own.’ - -‘You mean,’ said Rose, ‘that now that I am the rich one people will like -me the best? Anne, why didn’t you give up Mr. Douglas when papa told -you? I should have, in a moment, if it had been me; but I suppose you -never thought it would come to anything. I must say I think you have -been very foolish; you ought to have given him up, and then, now, you -would have been free to do as you pleased.’ - -‘I did not make any calculations, Rose. Don’t let us talk about it, -dear, any more.’ - -‘But I want to talk of it. You see now you never can marry Mr. Douglas -at all: so even for that it was silly of you. And you affronted -papa--you that always were the clever one, the sensible one, and me the -little goose. I can’t think how you could have made such a mistake, -Anne!’ - -Anne did not make any answer. The words were childish, but she felt them -like a shower of stones thrown at her. ‘Now you never can marry Mr. -Douglas at all.’ Was this how it was going to be? - -‘Mr. Loseby says,’ Rose continued, ‘that when I am of age I ought to -make a fresh settlement. He says it is all wicked, and blames papa -instead of you; but I think you are certainly to blame too. You always -stand to a thing so, if you have once said it. A fresh settlement means -a new will; it means that I am to give you back a large piece of what -papa has left to me.’ - -‘I do not wish you to do so, Rose. If Mr. Loseby had told me first, I -should not have let him speak on such a subject. Rose, remember, you -are not to do it. I do not wish any fresh settlement made for me.’ - -‘If Mr. Loseby says it, and mamma says it, of course I must do it, -whether you consent or not,’ said Rose. ‘And, besides, how can you ever -marry Mr. Douglas unless there is a fresh settlement? Oh,’ cried Rose, -‘there is that sealed letter--that secret that you would not let me -open--that is to be kept till I am twenty-one. Perhaps that will change -everything. Look here: there are only you and me here, and I would never -tell. I do so want to know what it is: it might show one what to do if -one knew what was in it. Let me, let me open it, Anne!’ - -‘Rose! that is sacred. Rose! you must not touch it. I will never forgive -you if you so much as break one seal,’ cried Anne. - -‘Well, then, do it yourself. What can it matter if you break it to-day -or in two years and a half? Papa never could mean that you were to keep -it there and look at it, and never open it for two years and a half.’ -All this time Rose turned over and over the little packet with its three -red seals, playing with it as a cat plays with a mouse. ‘Perhaps it -changes everything,’ she said; ‘perhaps there is a new will here without -me having to make it. Why should we all be kept in such suspense, not -knowing anything, and poor Mr. Douglas made so unhappy?’ - -‘Did Mr. Douglas tell you that he was unhappy?’ said Anne, humouring her -tormentor, while she kept her eyes upon the letter. ‘Dear Rose, put it -back again: here is the place for it. I have a great deal to do and to -think of. Don’t worry me, dear, any more.’ - -Then Rose put it back, but with reluctance. ‘If it were addressed to me -I should open it at once,’ she said. ‘It is far more important now than -it will be after. Mr. Douglas did not tell me he was unhappy, but he let -mamma guess it, which was much the same. Anne, if I were you, I would -break the engagement; I would set him free. It must be dreadful to hold -anyone like that bound up for life. And when you think--if nothing turns -up, if this is to be the end, if you never have money enough to marry, -why shouldn’t you do it now, and give yourselves, both of you, another -chance?’ - -Anne rose up from her papers, thrusting them into the despatch-box -pell-mell in the confusion of her thoughts. The little calm -matter-of-fact voice which sounded so steadily, trilling on like a large -cricket--was it speaking the truth? was this, perhaps, what it would -have to come to? Her hands trembled as she shut the box hastily; her -limbs shook under her. But Rose was no way disturbed. ‘You would be sure -to get someone else with more money,’ she said serenely, ‘and so would -he.’ - - - - -CHAPTER XXVI. - -GOING AWAY. - - -But this was not the first time that Anne had been driven out of -patience by the suggestions of her little sister. When Rose had gone -away, she calmed down by degrees and gradually got back her -self-possession. What did Rose know about this matter or any other -matter in which serious things like the heart, like love and the larger -concerns of life were involved? She knew about superficial things, -having often a keen power of observation, Anne knew; but the other -matters were too high for her. Her unawakened mind could not comprehend -them. How could she have found a way of seeing into Cosmo’s heart which -was denied to Anne? It was impossible; the only thing that could have -made her believe in Rose’s superior penetration was that, Anne felt, she -did not herself understand Cosmo as she had thought she did, and was -perplexed about his course of action, and anxious as to the motives -which she could not believe to have been anything but fine and noble. -Though his coming had brought her back to something of her original -faith, yet she had been checked and chilled without admitting it to -herself. All that we can conceive of perfection is, perhaps, what we -would have done ourselves in certain circumstances, or, at least, what -we would have wished to do, what we might have been capable of in the -finest combination of motives and faculties; and whatsoever might be the -glosses with which she explained his behaviour to herself, Anne knew -very well that this was not how Cosmo had behaved. She could not think -of his conduct as carrying out any ideal, and here accordingly was the -point in which her mind was weak and subject to attack. But after a -while she laughed, or tried to laugh, at herself; ‘as if Rose could -know!’ she said, and settled down to arrange her papers again, and -finally to write to Cosmo, which was her way of working off her fright -and returning to herself. - -‘Rose has been talking to me and advising me,’ she wrote. ‘She has been -telling me what I ought to do. And the chief point of all is about you. -She thinks, as we are both poor now, that I ought to release you from -our engagement, and so “give us both another chance,” as she says. It is -wonderful the worldly wisdom that is in my little sister. She thinks -that you and I could both use this “chance” to our own advantage, and -find someone else who is well off as a fitter mate for our respective -poverties. Is it the spirit of the time of which we all hear so much, -that suggests wisdom like this even in the nursery? It makes me open my -eyes and feel myself a fool. And she does it all in such innocence, with -her dear little chin turned up, and everything about her so smooth and -childlike; she suggests these villanies with the air of a good little -girl saying her lesson. I cannot be sure that it amused me, for you know -I am always a little, as you say, _au grand sérieux_; but for you who -have a sense of humour, I am afraid it would be very amusing. I wonder, -if the people she advises for their good, took Rose at her word, whether -she would be horrified? I hope and believe she would. And as for you, -Cosmo, I trust you will let me know when you want to be freed from your -engagement. I am afraid it would take that to convince me. I cannot -think of you even, from any level but your own, and, as that is above -mine, how could it be comprehensible to Rose? This calculation would -want trigonometry (is not that the science?), altogether out of my -power. Give me a hint from yourself, dear Cosmo, when that moment -arrives. I shall know you have such a motive for it as will make it -worthy of you.’ - -When she had written this she was relieved; though perhaps the letter -might never be sent to its address. In this way her desk was full of -scraps which she had written to Cosmo for the relief of her mind rather -than the instruction of his. Perhaps, if her confidence in him had been -as perfect as she thought, she would have sent them all to him. They -were all appeals to the ideal Cosmo who was her real lover, confidences -in him, references to his understanding and sympathy, which never would -have failed had he been what she thought. This had been the charm and -delight of her first and earliest abandonment of heart and soul to her -love. But as one crisis came after another, or rather since the last -crisis came which had supplied such cruel tests, Anne had grown timid of -letting all these outpourings reach his eyes; though she continued to -write them all the same, and they relieved her own heart. When she had -done this now, her mind regained its serenity. What a wonder was little -Rose! Where had the child learned all that ‘store of petty maxims,’ all -those suggestions of prudence? Anne smiled to herself with the -indulgence which we all have for a child. Some people of a rough kind -are amused by hearing blasphemies, oaths which have no meaning as said -by her, come out of a child’s lips. It was with something of the same -kind of feeling that Anne received her little sister’s recommendations. -They did not amuse her indeed, but yet impressed her as something -ludicrous, less to be blamed than to be smiled at, not calling forth any -real exercise of judgment, nor to be considered as things serious enough -to be judged at all. - -The packing up kept the house in commotion, and it was curious how -little feeling there was, how little of the desolation of parting, the -sense of breaking up a long-established home. The pleasure of freedom -and expectations of a new life were great even with Mrs. Mountford: and -Rose’s little decorous sorrow had long ago worked itself out. ‘Some -natural tears she dropped, but wiped them soon.’ And it did not give -these ladies any great pang to leave Mount. They were not leaving it -really, they said to themselves. So long as the furniture was there, -which was Mrs. Mountford’s, it was still their house, though the walls -of it belonged to Heathcote--and then, if Heathcote ‘came forward,’ as -Mrs. Mountford, at least, believed he would do----. Rose did not think -anything at all about this. At first, no doubt, it had appeared to her -as rather a triumph, to win the affections of the heir of entail, and to -have it in her power to assume the position of head of the house, as her -mother had done. But, as the sniff of the freshening breeze came to her -from the unseen seas on which she was about to launch forth, Rose began -to feel more disdain than pleasure for such easy triumphs. Cousin -Heathcote was handsome, but he was elderly--thirty-five! and she was -only eighteen. No doubt there were finer things in the unknown than any -she had yet caught sight of; and what was Mount? a mere simple country -house, not half so grand as Meadowlands--that the possible possession of -it in the future should so much please a rich girl with a good fortune -and everything in her favour. Leaving home did not really count for much -in her mind, as she made her little individual preparations. The future -seemed her own, the past was not important one way or another. And -having given her sister the benefit of her advice with such decision, -she felt herself still more able to advise Keziah, who cried as she put -up Miss Rose’s things. On the whole, perhaps, there was more fellowship -between Keziah and Rose than the little maid felt with the more serious -Anne, who was so much older than herself, though the same age. - -‘I would not have married Saymore if I had been you,’ said Rose. ‘You -will never know anything more than Hunston all your life now, Keziah. -You should have come with me into the world. At Mount, or in a little -country place, how could you ever see anybody? You have had no choice at -all--Jim, whom you never could have married, and now old Saymore. I -suppose your aunt thinks it is a great thing for you--but I don’t think -it a great thing. If you had come with us, you might have done so much -better. I wish you had consulted me----’ - -‘So do I, Miss Rose,’ said Keziah, dropping tears into the box, which, -fortunately, contained only boots and shoes, and articles which would -not mark. ‘Oh! I wish I had talked to you at the very first! but I was -distracted like, Miss Rose, about poor Jim, and I couldn’t think of -anything else.’ - -‘That was nonsense,’ said Rose; ‘that was always quite out of the -question; how could you have married a poor labourer after having been -used to live with us, and have every comfort? It would have killed you, -Keziah; you were never very strong, you know; and only think! you that -have had fires in your room, and nice luncheons three or four times a -day, how could you ever live upon a bit of bacon and weak tea, like the -women in the cottages? You never could have married him.’ - -‘That is what aunt used to tell me,’ said Keziah faintly; ‘she said I -should have been the first to repent; but then Miss Anne----’ - -‘Oh, never mind Miss Anne--she is so romantic. She never thinks about -bread and butter,’ said Rose. ‘Jim is out of the question, and there is -no use thinking of him; but old Saymore is just as bad,’ said the little -oracle; ‘I am not sure that he isn’t the worst of the two.’ - -‘Do you think so, Miss Rose?’ said Keziah wistfully. It was an ease to -her mind to have her allegiance to Jim spoken of so lightly. Anne had -treated it as a solemn matter, as if it were criminal to ‘break it off;’ -whereas Keziah’s feeling was that she had a full right to choose for -herself in the matter. But old Saymore was a different question. If she -could have had the ‘Black Bull’ without him, no doubt it would have been -much better. And now here was a rainbow glimmer of possible glories -better even than the ‘Black Bull’ passing over her path! She looked up -with tears in her eyes. Something pricked her for her disloyalty to Miss -Anne, but Miss Rose was ‘more comforting like.’ Perhaps this wiser -counsellor would even yet see some solution to the question, so that -poor old Saymore might be left out of it. - -‘I think,’ said Rose with decision, ‘that suppose I had been engaged to -anyone, when I left Mount, I should have given it up. I should have -said, “I am going into the world. I don’t know what may be best now; -things will be so very different. Of course, I don’t want to be -disagreeable, but I must do the best for myself.” And anybody of sense -would have seen it and consented to it,’ said Rose. ‘Of course you must -always do the best you can for yourself.’ - -‘Yes, Miss Rose,’ said Keziah. This chimed with her own profoundest -instincts. ‘But then there’s mother and the boys. Mother was to be in -the kitchen, and Johnny in the stable, and little Tom bred up for a -waiter. It was setting them all up in the world, aunt said.’ - -‘All that may be very well,’ said Rose. ‘Of course it is always right to -be kind to your mother and the rest. But remember that your first duty -is always to yourself. And if you like to come with me, I am to have a -maid all to myself, Keziah; and you would soon find someone better than -old Saymore, if you wanted to marry. You may be very sure of that.’ - -With this Rose marched away, very certain that she had given the best of -advice to the little maid. But Keziah remained doubtful, weeping freely -into the trunk which held the boots and shoes. After all there remained -‘mother and the boys’ to think of, who would not be bettered by any such -means of doing the best for herself as Rose had pointed out. Keziah -thought, perhaps it would be better after all to submit the question -once more to Miss Anne, before her final decision was given forth. - -The other servants were affected by the breaking up more in Keziah’s way -than with any dismal realisation in their own persons of a conclusion to -this chapter of life. They had all ‘characters’ that would procure them -new places wherever they went; for Mrs. Mountford had not tolerated any -black sheep. And as for old Saymore, he was greatly elated by his -approaching landlordship, and the marriage which he hoped was settled. -He was not aware of Rose’s interference, nor of the superior hopes which -she had dangled before his bride. ‘I don’t need to say as I’m sorry to -leave, sir,’ Saymore said to Mr. Loseby, who settled his last bills; -‘and sorry, very sorry, for the occasion. Master was a gentleman as -seemed to have many years’ life in him, and to be cut off like that is a -lesson to us all. But the living has to think of themselves, sir, when -all’s done as can be done to show respect for the dead. And I don’t know -as I could have had a finer opening. I will miss a deal as I’ve had -here, Mr. Loseby. The young ladies I’ll ever take the deepest interest -in. I’ve seen ’em grow up, and it’ll always be a ‘appiness to see them, -and you too, sir, as has always been most civil, at my ‘otel. But though -there’s a deal to regret, there’s something on the other side to be -thankful for, and we’re told as everything works together for the best.’ - -This was the idea very strung in the mind of the house. As the landlord -of the ‘Black Bull’ holds a higher position in the world than even the -most trusted of butlers, so the position of Mrs. Cook, as henceforward -housekeeper and virtual mistress of Mount, was more dignified than when -she was only at the head of the kitchen: and Worth, if she did not gain -in dignity, had at least the same compensation as her mistress, and -looked forward to seeing the world, and having a great deal of variety -in her life. They all said piously that everything worked together for -the best. So that poor Mr. Mountford was the cause of a great deal of -gratification to his fellow-creatures without knowing or meaning it, -when his horse put his foot into that rabbit-hole. The harm he did his -favourite child scarcely counted as against the advantage he did to many -of his dependents. Such are the compensations in death as in life. - -But it was December before they got away. After all it turned out that -‘mother and the boys’ had more weight with Keziah than Rose’s offer, and -the promise of superior advantage in the future; and she was left in the -cottage she came from, preparing her wedding things, and learning by -daily experiment how impossible it would have been to content herself -with a similar cottage, weak tea, bad butter, and fat bacon, instead of -the liberal _régime_ of the servants’ hall, which Rose had freely and -graphically described as meaning ‘three or four nice luncheons a day.’ -The Mountfords finally departed with very little sentiment; everything -was provided for, even the weekly wreath on the grave, and there was -nothing for anyone to reproach herself with. Anne, as usual, was the one -who felt the separation most. She was going to Cosmo’s constant society, -and to the enjoyment of many things she had pined for all her life. Yet -the visionary wrench, the total rending asunder of life and all that was -implied in it, affected her more than she could say, more than, in the -calm of the others, there seemed any reason for. She went out the day -before for a long farewell walk, while Rose was still superintending her -packing. Anne made a long round through the people in the village, glad -that the women should cry, and that there should be some sign here at -least of more natural sentiment--and into the Rectory, where she -penetrated to the Rector’s study, and was standing by him with her hand -upon his arm before he was aware. ‘I have come to say good-bye,’ she -said--looking at him with a smile, yet tears in her eyes. - -The Rector rose to his feet hastily and took her into his arms. ‘God -bless you, my dear child! but you might have been sure I would have come -to see the last of you, to bid you farewell at the carriage door----’ - -‘Yes,’ said Anne, clinging to her old friend, ‘but that is not like -good-bye here, is it? where I have always been allowed to come to you, -all my life.’ - -‘And always shall!’ cried the Rector, ‘whenever you want me, howsoever I -can be of any use to you!’ - -The Curate came in while they were still clinging to each other, -talking, as people will do when their hearts are full, of one who was no -longer there to be bidden good-bye to--the Rector’s wife, for whom he -went mourning always, and who had been fond of Anne. Thus she said her -farewell both to the living and the dead. Charley walked solemnly by her -side up to the park gates. He did not say much; his heart was as heavy -as lead in his breast. ‘I don’t know how the world is to go on without -you,’ he said; ‘but I suppose it will, all the same.’ - -‘After a while it will not make much difference,’ said Anne. - -‘I suppose nothing makes much difference after a while,’ the Curate -said; and at the park gates he said good-bye. ‘I shall be at the train -to-morrow--but you don’t want me to go to all the other places with -you,’ he said with a sigh; ‘and it is of no use telling you, Anne, as my -father did, that, night or day, I am at your service whenever you may -want me--you know that.’ - -‘Yes, I know it,’ she said, giving him her hand; but he was glad that he -left her free to visit some other sacred places alone. - -Then, as he went back drearily to the parish in which lay all his duty, -his work in the world, but which would be so melancholy with Mount shut -up and silent, she went lightly over the frosty grass, which crackled -under her feet, to the beeches, to visit them once more and think of her -tryst under them. How different they were now! She remembered the soft -air of summer, the full greenness of the foliage, the sounds of voices -all charmed and sweet with the genial heat of August. How different -now! Everything at her feet lay frost-bound; the naked branches overhead -were white with rime. Nothing was stirring in the wintry world about -save the blue smoke from the house curling lazily far off through the -anatomy of the leafless trees. This was where she had sat with Cosmo -talking, as if talk would never have an end. As she stood reflecting -over this with a certain sadness, not sure, though she should see Cosmo -to-morrow, that she ever would talk again as she had talked then pouring -forth the whole of her heart--Anne was aware of a step not far off -crackling upon a fallen branch. She turned round hastily and saw -Heathcote coming towards her. It was not a pleasant surprise. - -‘You are saying good-bye,’ he said, ‘and I am an intruder. Pardon me; I -strayed this way by accident----’ - -‘Never mind,’ said Anne; ‘yes, I am saying good-bye.’ - -‘Which is the last word you should say, with my will.’ - -‘Thanks, Cousin Heathcote, you are very good. I know how kind you have -been. If I seem to be ungrateful,’ said Anne, ‘it is not that I don’t -feel it, but only that my heart is full.’ - -‘I know that,’ he said, ‘very well. I was not asking any gratitude. The -only thing that I feel I have a right to do is to grumble, because -everything was settled, everything! before I had a chance.’ - -‘That is your joke,’ said Anne, with a smile; and then, after a time, -she added, ‘Will you take me to the spot as far as you remember it, the -very spot----’ - -‘I know,’ he said; and they went away solemnly side by side, away from -that spot consecrated to love and all its hopeful memories, crossing -together the crisp ice-bound grass. The old house rose up in front of -them against the background of earth and sky, amid the clustering -darkness of the leafless branches. It was all silent, nothing visible of -the life within, except the blue smoke rising faintly through the air, -which was so still. They said little as they went along by the great -terrace and the lime avenue, avoiding the flower-garden, now so bare and -brown. The winter’s chill had paralysed everything. ‘The old house will -be still a little more sad to-morrow,’ Heathcote said. - -‘I don’t think it ought to be. You have not the affection for it which -you might have had, had you known it better: but some time or other it -will blossom for you and begin another life.’ - -He shook his head. ‘May I bring Edward to see you in Park Lane? Edward -is my other life,’ he said, ‘and you will see how little strength there -is in that.’ - -‘But, Cousin Heathcote, you must not speak so. Why should you? You are -young; life is all before a man at your age.’ - -‘Who told you that?’ he said with a smile. ‘That is one of your feminine -delusions. An old fellow of thirty-five, when he is an old fellow, is as -old as Methuselah, Anne. He has seen everything and exhausted -everything. This is the true age at which all is vanity. If he catches -at a new interest and begins to hope for a renewal of his heart, -something is sure to come in and stop him. He is frustrated and all his -opportunities baulked as in my own case--or something else happens. I -know you think a great deal more of our privileges than they deserve.’ - -‘We are taught to do so,’ said Anne. ‘We are taught that all our best -time is when we are young, but that it is different with a man. A man, -so to speak, never grows old.’ - -‘One knows what that means. He is supposed to be able to marry at any -age. And so he is--somebody. But, if you will reflect, few men want to -marry in the abstract. They want to marry one individual person, who, so -far as my experience goes, is very often, most generally I should say, -not for them. Do you think it is a consolation for the man who wants to -marry Ethelinda, that probably Walburgha might have him if he asked her? -I don’t see it. You see how severely historical I am in my names.’ - -‘They are both Mountford names,’ said Anne, ‘but very -severe--archæological, rather than historical.’ And then they came out -on the other side and were silent, coming to the broad stretch of the -park on which Mr. Mountford’s accident took place. They walked along -very silently with a sort of mournful fellowship between them. So far as -this went there was nobody in the world with whom Anne could feel so -much in common. His mind was full of melancholy recollections as he -walked along the crisp and crackling grass. He seemed to see the quiet -evening shadows, the lights in the windows, and to hear the tranquil -voice of the father of the family pointing out the welcome which the old -house seemed to give: and then the stumble, the fall, the cry; and the -long long watch in the dark, so near help--the struggles of the -horse--the stillness of the huddled heap which could scarcely be -identified from the horse, in the fatal gloom. When they came to the -spot they stood still, as over a grave. There were still some marks of -the horse’s frantic hoofs in the heavy grass. - -‘Was it long?’ he said. ‘The time seemed years to me--but I suppose it -was not an hour.’ - -‘They thought only about half-an-hour,’ said Anne, in a low reverential -voice. - -‘A few minutes were enough,’ Heathcote said, and again there was a -silence. He took her hand, scarcely knowing what he did. - -‘We are almost strangers,’ he said; ‘but this one recollection will bind -us together, will it not, for all our lives?’ - -Anne gave a soft pressure to his hand, partly in reply, partly in -gratitude. Her eyes were full of tears, her voice choked. ‘I hope he had -no time to think,’ she said. - -‘A moment, but no more. I feel sure that after that first cry, and one -groan, there was no more.’ - -She put down her veil and wept silently as they went back to the house. -Mrs. Mountford all the time was sitting with Rose in her bedroom -watching Worth as she packed all the favourite knicknacks, which make a -lady’s chamber pretty and homelike. She liked to carry these trifles -about, and she was interested and anxious about their careful packing. -Thus it was only the daughter whom he had wronged who thought of the -dead father on the last day which the family spent at Mount. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVII. - -A NEW BEGINNING. - - -For people who are well off, not to say rich, and who have no prevailing -anxieties to embitter their life, and who take an interest in what is -going on around them, London is a pleasant place enough, even in -December. And still more is Park Lane a pleasant place. To see the red -wintry sunshine lighting up the misty expanse of the Park, the brisk -pedestrians going to and fro under the bare trees, the carriages -following each other along the broad road, the coveys of pretty children -and neat nursemaids, and all the flood of prosperous life that flows -along, leisurely in the morning, crowding in the afternoons, is very -pleasant to the uninitiated. All the notable people that are to be found -in London at that period, appearing now and then, and a great many -people who get lost to sight in the throngs of the season, but are more -worth seeing than even those throngs, were pointed out to the ladies by -the two cicerones who took in hand to enlighten their ignorance. The -house they had was one of those small houses with large, ample, bow -windows to the drawing-rooms, which give a sort of rustic, irregular -simplicity to this street of the rich. Those people who are happy and -well off and live in Park Lane must be happier and more well off than -people anywhere else. They must be amused besides, which is no small -addition to happiness. Even Anne felt that to sit at that window all day -long would be a pleasant way of occupying a day. The misty distance, -penetrated by the red rays of sunshine, was a kind of poem, relieved by -the active novelty of the animated foreground, the busy passengers, the -flood and high tide of life. How different from the prospect over the -park at Mount, where Charley Ashley on the road, coming up from the -Rectory, was something to look at, and an occasional friend with him the -height of excitement. The red rays made the mist brighter and brighter; -the crowd increased; the carriages went faster; and then the sun waned -and got low and went out in a bank of cloud, and the lamps were all -lighted in the misty twilight, but still the crowd went on. The ladies -sat at the window and were amused, as by a scene in a play; and then to -think that ‘all the pictures,’ by which Anne meant the National Gallery, -were within reach--and many another wonder, of which they had been able -to snatch a hasty glance once a year, or not so often as once a year, -but which was now daily at their hand: and even, last, but yet -important, the shops behind all, in which everything that was -interesting was to be found. Rose and her mother used to like, when they -had nothing better and more important to buy, to go to the Japanese -shop, and turn over the quaint articles there. Everything was new to -them, as if they had come from the South Seas. But the newest of all was -this power of doing something whenever they pleased, finding something -to look at, something to hear, something to buy. The power of shopping -is in itself an endless delight to country ladies. Nothing to do but to -walk into a beautiful big place, with obsequious people ready to bring -you whatever you might want, graceful young women putting on every -variety of mantle to please you, bland men unfolding the prettiest -stuffs, the most charming dresses. The amusement thus afforded was -unending. Even Anne liked it, though she was so highflown. Very -different from the misty walk through their own park to ask after some -sick child, or buy postage stamps at the village post-office. This was -about all that could be done at Mount. But London was endless in its -variety. And then there was sightseeing such as never could be managed -when people came up to town only for a month in the season. Mr. -Mountford indeed had been impatient at the mere idea that his family -wanted to see St. Paul’s and the Tower, like rustics come to town for a -holiday. Now they were free to do all this with nobody to interfere. - -And it was Cosmo who was their guide, philosopher, and friend in this -new career. He had chosen their house for them, with which they were all -so entirely pleased, and it was astonishing how often he found leisure -to go with them here and there, explaining to them that his work was -capable of being done chiefly in the morning, and that those afternoon -hours were not good for much. ‘Besides, you know the time of a briefless -barrister is never of much importance,’ he said, with a laugh. Rose was -very curious on this point. She questioned him a great deal more closely -than Anne would have done. ‘Are you really a briefless barrister, Mr. -Douglas? What is a briefless barrister? Does that mean that you have no -work at all to do?’ she said. - -‘Not very much. Sometimes I am junior with some great man who gets all -the fees and all the reputation. Sometimes an honest, trustful -individual, with a wrong to be redressed, comes to ask my advice. This -happens now and then, just to keep me from giving in altogether. It is -enough to swear by, that is about all,’ he said. - -‘Then it is not enough to live on,’ said Rose, pushing her inquiries to -the verge of rudeness. But Cosmo was not offended. He was indulgent to -her curiosity of every kind. - -‘No, not near enough to live on. I get other little things to do, you -know--sometimes I write a little for the newspapers--sometimes I have a -report to write or an inquiry to conduct. And sometimes a kind lady, a -friend to the poor, will ask me out to dinner,’ he said, with a laugh. -They were sitting at dinner while this conversation was going on. - -‘But then, how could you----?’ Rose began, then stopped short, and -looked at her sister. ‘I will ask you that afterwards,’ she said. - -‘Now or afterwards, your interest does me honour, and I shall do my best -to satisfy you,’ said Cosmo, with a bow of mock submission. He was more -light-hearted, Anne thought, than she had ever seen him before; and she -was a little surprised by the amount of leisure he seemed to have. She -had formed no idea of the easy life of the class of so-called poor men -to which Cosmo belonged. According to her ideas they were all toiling, -lying in wait for Fortune, working early and late, and letting no -opportunity slip. She could have understood the patience, the -weariness, the obstinate struggle of such lives; but she could not -understand how, being poor, they could get on so comfortably, and with -so little strain, with leisure for everything that came in the way, and -so many little luxuries. Anne was surprised by the fact that Cosmo could -bestow his afternoons upon their little expeditions, and go to the club -when he left them, and be present at all the theatres when anything of -importance was going on, and altogether show so little trace of the -pressure which she supposed his work could not fail to make upon him. He -seemed indeed to have fewer claims upon his time than she herself had. -Sometimes she was unable to go out with the others, having letters from -Mr. Loseby to answer, or affairs of the estate to look after; but -Cosmo’s engagements were less pressing. How was it? she asked herself. -Surely it was not in this way that men got to be Judges, Lord -Chancellors--all those great posts which had been in Anne’s mind since -first she knew that her lover belonged to the profession of the law. -That he must be aspiring to these heights seemed to her inevitable--and -especially now, when she had lost all her money, and there was no -possible means of union for them, save in his success. But could success -be won so easily? Was it by such simple means that men got to the top of -the tree, or even reached as far as offices which were not the highest? - -These questions began to meet and bewilder her very soon after their -arrival, after the first pleasure of falling into easy constant -intercourse with the man who loved her and whom she loved. - -At first it had been but too pleasant to see him continually, to get -acquainted with the new world in which they were living, through his -means, and to admire his knowledge of everything--all the people and all -their histories. But by-and-by Anne’s mind began to get bewildered. She -was only a woman and did not understand--nay, only a girl, and had no -experience. Perhaps, it was possible men got through their work by such -a tremendous effort of power that the strain could only be kept up for a -short period of time; perhaps Cosmo was one of those wonderful people -who accomplish much without ever seeming to be employed at all; -perhaps--and this she felt was the most likely guess--it was her -ignorance that did not understand anything about the working of an -accomplished mind, but expected everything to go on in the jog-trot -round of labour which was all she understood. Happy are the women who -are content to think that all is well which they are told is well--and -who can believe in their own ignorance and be confident in the better -knowledge of the higher beings with whom they are connected. Anne could -not do this--she abode as in a city of refuge in her own ignorance, and -trusted in that to the fullest extent of her powers--but still her mind -was confused and bewildered. She could not make it out. At the same -time, however, she was quite incapable of Rose’s easy questioning. She -could not take Cosmo to task for his leisure, and ask him how he was -employing it. When she heard her little sister’s interrogations she was -half alarmed, half horrified. Fools rush in--she did not say this to -herself, but something like it was in her thoughts. - -After this particular dinner, however, Rose kept to her design very -steadily. She beckoned Cosmo to come to her when he came upstairs. -Rose’s rise into importance since her father’s death had been one of the -most curious incidents in the family history. It was not that she -encroached upon the sphere of Anne, who was supreme in the house as she -had always been--almost more supreme now, as having the serious business -in her hands; nor was she disobedient to her mother, who, on her side, -was conscientiously anxious not to spoil the little heiress, or allow -her head to be turned by her elevation. But Rose had risen somehow, no -one could tell how. She was on the top of the wave--the successfulness -of success was in her veins, exhilarating her, calling forth all her -powers. Anne, though she had taken her own deposition with so much -magnanimity, had yet been somewhat changed and subdued by it. The gentle -imperiousness of her character, sympathetic yet naturally dominant, had -been already checked by these reverses. She had been stopped short in -her life, and made to pause and ask of the world and the unseen those -questions which, when once introduced into existence, make it impossible -to go on with the same confidence and straightforward rapidity again. -But little Rose was full of confidence and curiosity and faith in -herself. She did not hesitate either in advising or questioning the -people around her. She had told Anne what she ought to do--and now she -meant to tell Cosmo. She had no doubt whatever as to her competence for -it, and she liked the _rôle_. - -‘Come and sit here beside me,’ she said. ‘I am going to ask you a great -many questions. Was that all true that you told me at dinner, or was it -your fun? Please tell me in earnest this time. I want so very much to -know.’ - -‘It would have been poor fun; not much of a joke, I think. No, it was -quite true.’ - -‘All of it? About writing in the newspapers, and one person asking your -advice once in a way? And about ladies asking you out to dinner?’ - -‘Perhaps that would be a little too matter-of-fact. I have always had -enough to pay for my dinner. Yes, I think I can say that much,’ said -Cosmo, with a laugh. - -‘But that does not make very much difference,’ said Rose. ‘Well, then, -now I must ask you another question. How did you think, Mr. Douglas, -that you could marry Anne?’ - -She spoke low, so that nobody else could hear, and looked him full in -the face, with her seeming innocence. The question was so unexpected, -and the questioner so unlike a person entitled to institute such -examinations, that Cosmo was entirely taken by surprise. He gave an -almost gasp of amazement and consternation, and though he was not easily -put out, his countenance grew crimson. - -‘How did I think I could----? You put a very startling question. I -always knew I was entirely unworthy,’ he stammered out. - -‘But that isn’t what I meant a bit. Anne is awfully superior,’ said -Rose. ‘I always knew she was--but more than ever now. I am not asking -you how you ventured to ask her, or anything of that sort--but how did -you think that you could marry--when you had only enough to be sure of -paying for your own dinner? And I don’t mean either just at first, for -of course you thought she would be rich. But when you knew that papa was -so angry, and that everything was so changed for her, how _could_ you -think you could go on with it? It is that that puzzles me so.’ - -Rose was seated in a low chair, busy with a piece of crewel work, from -which she only raised her eyes now and then to look him in the face with -that little matter-of-fact air, leaving him no loophole of sentiment to -escape by. And he had taken another seat on a higher elevation, and had -been stooping over her with a smile on his face, so altogether -unsuspicious of any attack that he had actually no possibility of -escape. Her half-childish look paralysed him: it was all he could do not -to gape at her with open mouth of bewilderment and confusion. But her -speech was a long one, and gave him a little time to get up his courage. - -‘You are very right,’ he said. ‘I did not think you had so much -judgment. How could I think of it--I cannot tell. It is presumption; it -is wretched injustice to her--to think of dragging her down into my -poverty.’ - -‘But you don’t seem a bit poor, Mr. Douglas; that is the funny -thing--and you are not very busy or working very hard. I think it would -all be very nice for you, and very comfortable. But I cannot see, for my -part,’ said the girl, tranquilly, ‘what you would do with Anne.’ - -‘Those are questions which we do not discuss----’ he was going to say -‘with little girls,’ being angry; but he paused in time--‘I mean which -we can only discuss, Anne and I, between ourselves.’ - -‘Oh, Anne! she would never mind!’ said Rose, with a certain contempt. - -‘What is it that Anne would never mind?’ said Mrs. Mountford. Anne was -out of the room, and had not even seen this curious inquisition into the -meaning of her betrothed. - -‘Nothing at all that is prudent, mamma. I was asking Mr. Douglas how he -ever thought he would be able to get married, living such an easy life.’ - -‘Rose, are you out of your senses?’ cried her mother, in alarm. ‘You -will not mind her, Mr. Douglas, she is only a child--and I am afraid she -has been spoiled of late. Anne has always spoiled her: and since her -dear papa has been gone, who kept us all right----’ - -Here Mrs. Mountford put her handkerchief lightly to her eyes. It was her -tribute to the occasion. On the whole she was finding her life very -pleasant, and the pressure of the cambric to her eyelids was the little -easy blackmail to sorrow which she habitually paid. - -‘She asks very pertinent questions,’ said Cosmo, getting up from the -stool of repentance upon which he had been placed, with something -between a smile and a sigh. - -‘She always had a great deal of sense, though she is such a child,’ said -her mother fondly; ‘but, my darling, you must learn that you really -cannot be allowed to meddle with things that don’t concern you. People -always know their own affairs best.’ - -At this moment Anne came back. When the subject of a discussion suddenly -enters the place in which it has been going on, it is strange how -foolish everybody looks, and what a sense of wrong-doing is generally -diffused in the atmosphere. They had been three together to talk, and -she was but one. Cosmo, who, whatever he might do, or hesitate to do, -had always the sense in him of what was best, the perception of moral -beauty and ideal grace which the others wanted, looked at her as she -came across the room with such compunctious tenderness in his eyes as -the truest lover in existence could not have surpassed. He admired and -loved her, it seemed to him, more than he ever did before. And Anne -surprised this look of renewed and half-adoring love. It went through -and through her like a sudden warm glow of sunshine, enveloping her in -sudden warmth and consolation. What a wonderful glory, what a help and -encouragement in life, to be loved like that! She smiled at him with the -tenderest gratitude. Though there might be things in which he fell below -the old ideal Cosmo, to whom all those scraps of letters in her desk had -been addressed, still life had great gladness in it which had this Cosmo -to fall back upon. She returned to that favourite expression, which -sometimes lately she had refrained even from thinking of, and with a -glance called him to her, which she had done very little of late. ‘I -want your advice about Mr. Loseby’s letter,’ she said. And thus the -first result of Rose’s cross-examination was to bring the two closer to -each other. They went together into the inner room, where Anne had her -writing-table and all her business papers, and where they sat and -discussed Mr. Loseby’s plans for the employment of money. ‘I would -rather, _far_ rather, do something for the estate with it,’ Anne said. -‘Those cottages! my father would have consented to have them; and Rose -always took an interest in them, almost as great an interest as I did. -She will be so well off, what does it matter? Comfort to those poor -people is of far more importance than a little additional money in the -bank, for that is what it comes to--not even money to spend, we have -plenty of that.’ - -‘You do not seem to think that all this should have been for yourself, -Anne. Is it possible? It is more than I could have believed.’ - -‘Dear Cosmo,’ said Anne, apologetically, ‘you know I have never known -what it is to be poor. I don’t understand it. I am intellectually -convinced, you know, that I am a beggar, and Rose has everything; but -otherwise it does not have the slightest effect upon me. I don’t -understand it. No, I am not a beggar. I have five hundred a year.’ - -‘Till that little girl comes of age,’ he said, with an accent of -irritation which alarmed Anne. She laid her soft hand upon his to calm -him. - -‘You like Rose well enough, Cosmo; you have been so kind to her, taking -them everywhere. Don’t be angry, it is not her fault.’ - -‘No, it is my fault,’ he said. ‘I am at the bottom of all the mischief. -It is I who have spoiled your life. She has been talking to me, that -child, and with the most perfect reason. She says how could I think of -marrying Anne if I was so poor? She is quite right, my dearest: how -could I think of marrying you, of throwing my shadow across your -beautiful, bright, prosperous life?’ - -‘For that matter,’ said Anne, with a soft laugh, ‘you did not, -Cosmo--you only thought of loving me. You are like the father in the -“Précieuses Ridicules,” do you remember, who so shocked everybody by -coming brutally to marriage at once. _That_, after all, has not so much -to do with it. Scores of people have to wait for years and years. In the -meantime the _pays de tendre_ is very sweet; don’t you think so?’ she -said, turning to him soft eyes which were swimming in a kind of dew of -light, liquid brightness and happiness, like a glow of sunshine in them. -What could Cosmo do or say? He protested that it was very sweet, but not -enough. That nothing would be enough till he could carry her away to the -home which should be hers and his, and where nobody would intermeddle. -And Anne was as happy as if her lover, speaking so earnestly, had been -transformed at once into the hero and sage, high embodiment of man in -all the nobleness of which man is capable, which it was the first -necessity of her happiness that he should be. - - - - -CHAPTER XXVIII. - -HEATHCOTE’S CAREER. - - -Heathcote Mountford went with his cousins to London, and when he had -taken them to their house, returned to his chambers in the Albany. They -were very nice rooms. I do not know why an unmarried man’s lodging -should be called chambers, but it does not make them at all different -from other rooms which are not dignified by that name. They were very -comfortable, but not very orderly, with numbers of books about, and a -boot or two now and then straying where it had no right to be, but also -with the necessary curiosities and prettinesses which are now part of -the existence of every well-bred person, though these were not shown off -to the full advantage, but lost among a good deal of litter scattered -here and there. He was not a man who put his best foot foremost in any -way, but let his treasures lie about, and permitted his own capacities -and high qualities to go to rust under the outside covering of -indifference and do-nothingness. It had never been necessary to him to -do anything. He had very little ambition, and whatever zeal for -enjoyment had been in his life, had been satisfied and was over. He had -wandered over a great part of the earth, and noticed many things in a -languid way, and then he had come home and gone to his chambers, and, -unpacking the treasures which, like everybody else, he had taken some -trouble to ‘pick up’ here and there, suffered them to lie about among -all sorts of trifling things. He had Edward to care for, his younger -brother, who made a rush upon him now and then, from school first, and -then from Sandhurst, always wanting money, and much indulgence for his -peccadilloes and stupidities: but no one else who took any interest in -himself or his possessions: and Edward liked a cigar far better than a -bronze, and among all his brother’s possessions, except bank notes and -stray sovereigns, or an occasional cheque when he had been more -extravagant than usual, cared for nothing but the French novels, which -Heathcote picked up too, not because he liked them much, but because -everybody did so--and Edward liked them because they were supposed to be -so wrong. Edward was not on the whole an attractive boy. He had a great -many tastes and a great many friends who were far from agreeable to his -brother, but he was the only real ‘object in life’ to Heathcote, who -petted him much and lectured him as little as was possible. There seemed -to be scarcely any other point at which his own contemplative, inactive -existence touched the practical necessities of life. - -He came back to London with the idea that he would be very glad to -return again to the quiet of his chambers, where nothing ever happened. -He said to himself that excursions into the outer world, where something -was always happening, were a mistake. He had but stepped out of his -hermitage without thinking, once in a way, to pay a visit which, after -all, was a duty visit, when a whole tragedy came straightway about his -ears--accident, death, sorrow, injustice, a heroine, and a cruel father, -and all the materials of a full-blown romance. How glad he would be, he -thought, to get into his hermitage again! Within its quiet centre there -was everything a man wanted--books, an occasional cigar, an easy chair -(when it was clear from papers and general literature) for a friend to -sit in. But when he did get back, he was not so certain of its -advantages: no doubt it was everything that could be desired--but yet, -it was a hermitage, and the outlook from the windows was not cheerful. -If Park Lane was brighter than the view across the park at Mount, the -Albany, with its half-monastic shade, like a bit of a male _béguinage_, -was less bright. He sat at his window, vaguely looking out--a thing he -had never had the slightest inclination to do before--and felt an -indescribable sense of the emptiness of his existence. Nor was this only -because he had got used to the new charms of household life, and liked a -house with women in it, as he had suggested to himself--not even -that--it was an influence more subtle. He took Edward with him to Park -Lane, and presented that hero, who did not understand his new relations. -He thought Rose was ‘very jolly,’ but Anne alarmed him. And the ladies -were not very favourably moved towards Edward. Heathcote had hoped that -his young brother might be captivated by them, and that this might very -possibly be the making of him: as the friends of an unsatisfactory young -man are always so ready to hope. But the result did not justify his -expectation. ‘If the little ‘un were by herself, without those two old -fogeys, she might, perhaps, be fun,’ Edward thought, and then he gave -his brother a description of the favourite Bet Bouncer of his -predilections. This attempt having failed, Heathcote for his part did -not fall into mere aimless fluttering about the house in Park Lane as -for a time he had been tempted to do. It was not the mere charm of -female society which had moved him. Life had laid hold upon him on -various sides, and he could not escape into his shell, as of old. Just -as Cosmo Douglas had felt, underneath all the external gratifications of -his life, the consciousness that everybody was asking. ‘What Douglases -does he belong to?’ so Heathcote, in the stillness of his chambers, was -conscious that his neighbours were saying, ‘He is Mountford of Mount.’ -As a matter of fact very few people knew anything about Mount--but it is -hard even for the wisest to understand how matters which so deeply -concern themselves should be utterly unimportant to the rest of the -world. And by-and-by many voices seemed to wake up round him, and -discuss him on all sides. ‘He has a very nice old place in the country, -and a bit of an entailed estate--nothing very great, but lands that have -been in the family for generations. Why doesn’t he go and look after -it?’ He did not know if those words were really said by anyone, yet he -seemed to hear them circling about his head, coming like labels in an -old print out of the mouths of the men at his club. ‘Why doesn’t he look -after his estate? Is there nothing to be done on his property that he -stays on, leading this idle life here?’ It was even an object of -surprise to his friends that he had not taken the good of the shooting -or invited anyone to share it. He seemed to himself to be hunted out of -his snug corner. The Albany was made unbearable to him. He held out as -long as the ladies remained in Park Lane, but when they were gone he -could not stand it any longer--not, he represented to himself, that it -was on their account he remained in London. But there was a certain duty -in the matter, which restrained him from doing as he pleased while they -were at hand and might require his aid. They never did in the least -require his aid--they were perfectly well off, with plenty of means, and -servants, and carriages, and unbounded facilities for doing all they -wanted. But when they went away, as they did in February, he found out, -what he had been suspecting for some time, that London was one vast and -howling wilderness, that the Albany was a hideous travesty of -monasticism, fit only for men without souls, and lives without duties; -and that when a man has anything that can be called his natural business -in life, it is the right thing that he should do it. Therefore, to the -astonishment and disgust of Edward, who liked to have his brother’s -chambers to come to when he ‘ran up to town’--a thing less difficult -then than in these days of stricter discipline--Heathcote Mountford -turned his back upon his club and his hermitage, and startled the parish -out of its wits by arriving suddenly on a rainy day in February at the -dreary habitation which exercised a spell upon him, the house of his -ancestors, the local habitation to which in future his life must belong, -whether he liked it or not. - -And certainly its first aspect was far from a cheerful one. The cook, -now housekeeper, had made ready for him hastily, preparing for him the -best bedroom, the room where Mr. Mountford, now distinguished as the old -Squire, had lain in state, and the library where he had lived through -his life. It was all very chilly when he arrived, a dampness clinging to -the unoccupied house, and a white mist in all the hollows of the park. -He could not help wondering if it was quite safe, or if the humid chill -which met him when he entered was not the very thing to make a solitary -inhabitant ill, and end his untimely visit in a fever. They did their -very best for him in the house. Large fires were lighted, and the little -dinner, which was served in a corner of the dining-room, was as dainty -as the means of the place would allow. But it would be difficult to -imagine anything more dreary than the first evening. He sat among -ghosts, thinking he heard Mr. Mountford’s step, scarcely capable of -restraining his imagination: seeing that spare figure seated in his -usual chair, or coming in, with a characteristic half-suspicious -inspecting look he had, at the door. The few lamps that were in working -order were insufficient to light the place. The passages were all black -as night, the windows, when he glanced out at them behind the curtains, -showing nothing but a universal blackness, not even the sky or the -trees. But if the trees were not visible, they were audible, the wind -sighing through them, the rain pattering--a wild concert going on in the -gloom. And when the rain ceased it was almost worse. Then there came -silence, suspicious and ghostly, broken by a sudden dropping now and -then from some overcharged evergreen, the beating of a bough against a -window, the hoot of the owl in the woods. After he had swallowed his -dinner Heathcote got a book, and sat himself down solemnly to read it. -But when he had read a page he stopped to listen to the quiet, and it -chilled him over again. The sound of footsteps over the stone pavements, -the distant clang of a hansom driving up, the occasional voices that -passed his window, all the noises of town, would have been delightful -to him: but instead here he was at Mount, all alone, with miles of park -separating him from any living creature, except the maids and outdoor -man who had been left in charge. - -Next morning it was fine, which mended matters a little. Fine! he said -to himself with a little shiver. But he buttoned up his great-coat and -went out, bent upon doing his duty. He went to the Rectory first, -feeling that at least this would be an oasis in the desert, and found -the clergy sitting in two different rooms, over two sermons, which was -not a cheerful sight. The Rector was writing his with the calm fluency -of thirty years of use and wont; but poor Charley was biting his pen -over his manuscript with an incapacity which every successive Sunday -seemed to increase rather than diminish. ‘My father, he has got into the -way of it,’ the Curate said in a tone which was half admiring, half -despairing. Charley did not feel sure that he himself would ever get -into the way of it. He had to take the afternoon service when the -audience was a very dispiriting one: even Miss Fanny Woodhead did not -come in the afternoon, and the organ was played by the schoolmaster, and -the hymns were lugubrious beyond description. As the days began to grow -longer, and the winter chill to take ever a deeper and deeper hold, the -Curate had felt the mournfulness of the position close round him. When -Mount was shut up there was nobody to speak to, nobody to refer to, no -variety in his life. A house with only two men in it, in the depths of -the country, with no near neighbours, and not a very violent strain of -work, and no special relief of interesting pursuits, is seldom a -cheerful house. When Charley looked up from his heavy studies and saw -Heathcote, he almost upset his table in his jump of delighted welcome. -Then there succeeded a moment of alarm. ‘Are they all well?--nothing -has happened?’ he cried, in sudden panic. ‘Nothing at all,’ Heathcote -said, ‘except what concerns myself.’ And it amused the stranger to see -how relieved his host was by this assurance, and how cheerfully he drew -that other chair to the fire to discuss the business which only -concerned so secondary a person. Charley, however, was as sympathetic as -heart could desire, and ready to be interested in everything. He -understood and applauded the new Squire’s sentiments in respect to his -property and his new responsibilities. ‘It is quite true,’ the Curate -said with a very grave face, ‘that it makes the greatest difference to -everybody. When Mount is shut up the very sky has less light in it,’ -said the good fellow, growing poetical. Heathcote had a comprehension of -the feeling in his own person which he could not have believed in a -little while ago, but he could scarcely help laughing, which was -inhuman, at the profound depression in Charley Ashley’s face, and which -showed in every line of his large, limp figure. His countenance itself -was several inches longer than it had been in brighter days. - -‘I am afraid,’ said Heathcote, with a smile, ‘that so much opening of -Mount as my arrival will make, will not put very much light into the -sky.’ - -‘And it is not only the company and the comfort,’ said the Curate, ‘we -feel that dreadfully, my father and I--but there is more than that. If -anyone was ill in the village, there was somebody down directly from -Mount with beef-tea and wine and whatever was wanted; and if anyone was -in trouble, it was always a consolation to tell it to the young ladies, -and to hear what they thought. The farmers could not do anything -tyrannical, nor the agents be hard upon a tenant--nor anyone,’ cried -Charley, with enthusiasm, ‘maltreat anyone else. There was always a -court of appeal at Mount.’ - -‘My dear fellow,’ said Heathcote, ‘you are thinking of a patriarchal -age--you are thinking of something quite obsolete, unmodern, destructive -of all political economy.’ - -‘_That_ for political economy!’ said the Curate, snapping his fingers; -his spirits were rising--even to have someone to grumble to was a -consolation. ‘Political anything is very much out of place in a little -country parish. What do our poor labourers know about it? They have so -very little at the best of times, how are they to go on when they are -ill or in trouble, without some one to give them a lift?’ - -‘Then they should have more for their work, Ashley. I am afraid it is -demoralising that they should be so dependent upon a Squire’s house.’ - -‘Who is to give them more?’ cried the Curate, hotly. ‘The farmers have -not got so very much themselves; and I never said they were dependent; -they are not dependent--they are comfortable enough as a matter of fact. -Look at the cottages, you will see how respectable they all are. There -is no real distress in our parish--thanks,’ he added, veering round very -innocently and unconsciously to the other side of the circle, ‘to -Mount.’ - -‘We need not argue the point,’ said Heathcote, amused. ‘I am as sorry as -you can be that the ladies will not retain possession. What is it to me? -I am not rich enough to do all I would, and I don’t know the people as -they did. They will never look up to me as they did to my predecessors. -I hope my cousins will return at all events in summer. All the same,’ he -added, laughing, ‘I am quite illogical’--like you, he would have said, -but forbore. ‘I want them to come back, and yet I feel this infection of -duty that you speak of. It seems to me that it must be my business to -live here henceforward--though I confess to you I think it will be very -dismal, and I don’t know what I shall do.’ - -‘It will be dismal,’ said the Curate; his face had lighted up for a -moment, then rapidly clouded over again. ‘_I_ don’t know what you will -do. You that have been always used to a luxurious town life----’ - -‘Not so luxurious--and not so exclusively town,’ Heathcote ventured to -interpose, feeling a whimsical annoyance at this repetition of his own -thoughts. - -‘---- And who don’t know the people, nor understand what to do, and what -not to do--it takes a long apprenticeship,’ said Charley, very gravely. -‘You see, an injudicious liberality would be very bad for them--it would -pauperise instead of elevating. It is not everybody that knows what is -good and what is bad in help. People unaccustomed to the kind of life do -more harm than good.’ - -‘You don’t give me very much encouragement to settle down on my property -and learn how to be a patriarch in my turn,’ said Mountford, with a -laugh. - -‘No, I don’t,’ said the Curate, his face growing longer and longer. The -presence of Heathcote Mountford at Mount had smiled upon him for a -moment. It would be better than nothing; it would imply some -companionship, sympathy more or less, someone to take a walk with -occasionally, or to have a talk with, not exclusively parochial; but -when the Curate reflected that Heathcote at Mount would altogether do -away with the likelihood of ‘the family’ coming back--that they could -not rent the house for the summer, which was a hope he had clung to, if -the present owner of it was in possession--Charley at once perceived -that the immediate pleasure of a neighbour would be a fatal advantage, -and with honest simplicity applied himself to the task of subduing his -visitor’s new-born enthusiasm. ‘You see,’ he said, ‘it’s quite different -making a new beginning, knowing nothing about it, from having been born -here, and acquainted with the people all your life.’ - -‘Everybody must have known, however,’ said Heathcote, slightly piqued, -‘that the property would change hands some time or other, and that great -alterations must be made.’ - -‘Oh yes, everybody knew that,’ said the Curate, with deadly seriousness; -‘but, you see, when you say a thing must happen some time, you never -know when it will happen, and it is always a shock when it comes. The -old Squire was a hearty man, not at all old for his years. He was not so -old as my father, and I hope _he_ has a great deal of work left in him -yet. And then it was all so sudden; none of us had been able to -familiarise ourselves even with the idea that you were going to succeed, -when in a moment it was all over, and you _had_ succeeded. I don’t mean -to say that we are not very glad to have you,’ said Charley, with a -dubious smile, suddenly perceiving the equivocal civility of all he had -been saying; ‘it is a great deal better than we could have expected. -Knowing them and liking them, you can have so much more sympathy with us -about them. And as you wish them to come back, if that is possible----’ - -‘Certainly, I do wish them to come back--if it is possible,’ said -Heathcote, but his countenance, too, grew somewhat long. He would have -liked for himself a warmer reception, perhaps. And when he went to see -Mr. Ashley, though his welcome was very warm, and though the Rector was -absolutely gleeful over his arrival, and confided to him instantly half -a dozen matters in which it would be well that he should interest -himself at once, still it was not very long before ‘they’ recurred also -to the old man’s mind as the chief object of interest. ‘Why are they -going abroad? it would be far better if they would come home,’ said the -Rector, who afterwards apologised, however, with anxious humility. ‘I -beg your pardon--I beg your pardon with all my heart. I forgot actually -that Mount had changed hands. Of course, of course, it is quite natural -that they should go abroad. They have no home, so to speak, till they -have made up their mind to choose one, and I always think that is one of -the hardest things in the world to do. It is a blessing we do not -appreciate, Mr. Mountford, to have our home chosen for us and settled -beyond our power to change----’ - -‘I don’t think Mrs. Mountford dislikes the power of choice,’ said -Heathcote; ‘but so far as I am concerned, you know I should be very -thankful if they would continue to occupy their old home.’ - -‘I know, I know. You have spoken most kindly, most generously, exactly -as I could have wished you to speak,’ said the Rector, patting Heathcote -on the shoulder, as if he had been a good boy. Then he took hold of his -arm and drew him towards the window, and looked into his eyes. ‘It is a -delicate question,’ he said, ‘I know it is a delicate question: but -you’ve been in town, and no doubt you have heard all about it. What is -going to happen about Anne?’ - -‘Nothing that I know of,’ Heathcote replied briefly. ‘Nothing has been -said to me.’ - -‘Tchk, tchk, tchk!’ said the Rector, with that particular action of the -tongue upon the palate, which is so usual an expression of bother, or -annoyance, or regret, and so little reducible into words. He shook his -head. ‘I don’t understand these sort of shilly-shally doings,’ he said: -‘they would have been incomprehensible when I was a young man.’ - -The same question was repeated by Mr. Loseby, whom next day Heathcote -went to see, driving over to Hunston in the Rector’s little carriage, -with the sober old horse, which was in itself almost a member of the -clerical profession. Mr. Loseby received him with open arms, and much -commended the interest which he was showing in his property. ‘But Mount -will be a dreary place to live in all by yourself,’ he said. ‘If I were -you I would take up my abode at the Rectory, at least till you can have -your establishment set on a proper footing. And now that is settled,’ -said the lawyer (though nothing was settled), ‘tell me all about Anne.’ - -‘I know nothing to tell you,’ said Heathcote. ‘Mr. Douglas is always -there----’ - -‘Mr. Douglas is always there! but there is nothing to tell, nothing -settled; what does the fellow mean? Do you suppose she is going to -forego every advantage, and go dragging on for years to suit his -convenience? If you tell me so----’ - -‘But I don’t tell you so,’ cried Heathcote; ‘I tell you nothing--I don’t -know anything. In short, if you don’t mind, I’d rather not discuss the -question. I begin to be of your opinion, that I was a fool not to turn -up a year sooner. There was nothing to keep me that I am aware of; I -might as well have come sooner as later; but I don’t know that anyone is -to be blamed for that.’ - -‘Ah!’ said the old lawyer, rubbing his hands, ‘what a settlement that -would have made! Anne would have kept her money, and little Rose her -proper place and a pretty little fortune, just like herself--and -probably would have married William Ashley, a very good sort of young -fellow. There would have been some pleasure in arranging a settlement -like that. I remember when I drew out the papers for her mother’s -marriage--that was the salvation of the Mountfords--they were sliding -downhill as fast as they could before that; but Miss Roper, who was the -first Mrs. St. John Mountford, set all straight. You get the advantage -of it more or less, Mr. Heathcote, though the connection is so distant. -Even your part of the property is in a very different condition from -what it was when I remember it first. And if you had--not been a -fool--but had come in time and tried your chance---- Ah! however, I dare -say if it had been so, something would have come in the way all the -same; you would not have fancied each other, or something would have -happened. But if that fellow thinks that he is to blow hot and cold with -Anne----’ - -‘I don’t like the mere suggestion. Pardon me,’ said Heathcote, ‘I am -sure you mean nothing but love and tenderness to my cousin: but I cannot -have such a thing suggested. Whatever happens to Anne Mountford, there -will be nothing derogatory to her dignity; nothing beneath her own fine -character, I am sure of that.’ - -‘I accept the reproof,’ said Mr. Loseby, with more twinkle than usual in -his spectacles, but less power of vision through them. ‘I accept the -reproof. What was all heaven and earth about, Heathcote Mountford, that -you were left dawdling about that wearisome Vanity Fair that you call -the world, instead of coming here a year since, when you were wanted? If -there is one thing more than another that wants explaining it is the -matrimonial mismanagement of this world. It’s no angel that has the care -of that, I’ll answer for it!’ cried the little man with comic -indignation. And then he took off his spectacles and wiped them, and -grasped Heathcote Mountford by the hand and entreated him to stay to -dinner, which, indeed, the recluse of Mount was by no means unwilling to -do. - - - - -CHAPTER XXIX. - -CHARLEY INTERFERES. - - -Heathcote Mountford, however, notwithstanding the dulness and the dismal -weather, and all the imperfections of the incomplete household, -continued at Mount. The long blanks of country life, nothing happening -from the arrival of one post to another, no stir of life about, only the -unbroken stillness of the rain or the sunshine, the good or bad weather, -the one tempting him out, the other keeping him within, were all -novelties, though of the heavy kind, and gave him a kind of -amused-spectator consciousness of the tedium, rather than any suffering -from it. He was not so easily affected as many people would be by the -circumstances of external life, and knowing that he could at any moment -go back to his den at the Albany, he took the much deeper seclusion of -Mount as a sort of ‘retreat,’ in which he could look out upon the before -and after, and if he sometimes ‘pined for what was not,’ yet could do it -unenviously and unbitterly, wondering at rather than objecting to the -strange misses and blunders of life. Mr. Loseby, who had tutored Anne in -her duties, did the same for Heathcote, showing him by what means he -could ‘take an interest’ in the dwellers upon his land, so as to be of -some use to them. And he rode about the country with the land-agent, and -became aware, and became proud as he became aware, of the character of -his own possessions, of the old farmhouses, older than Mount itself, and -the old cottages, toppling to their ruin, among which were many that -Anne had doomed. Wherever he went he heard of what Miss Anne had done, -and settled to do. The women in the condemned cottages told him the -improvements she had promised, and he, in most cases, readily undertook -to carry out these promises, notwithstanding his want of means. ‘They’re -doing it at Lilford, where Miss Anne has been and given her orders,’ -said the women. ‘I don’t know why there should be differences made. -We’re as good every bit as the Lilford folks.’ ‘But you have not got -Miss Anne,’ said Heathcote. And then there would be an outburst of -lamentations, interrupted by anxious questioning. ‘Why haven’t we got -Miss Anne?--is it true as all the money has been left away from her?’ -Heathcote had a great many questions of this kind to answer, and soon -began to feel that he himself was the supposed culprit to whom the -estate had been ‘left away.’ ‘I am supposed to be your supplanter,’ he -wrote to Anne herself, ‘and I _feel_ your deputy doing your work for -you. Dear Lady of Mount, send me your orders. I will carry them out to -the best of my ability. I am poor, and not at all clever about the needs -of the estate, but I think, don’t you think? that the great Mr. -Bulstrode, who is so good as to be my agent, is something of a bully, -and does not by any means do his spiriting gently. What do you think? -You are not an ignoramus, like me.’ This letter Anne answered very -fully, and it produced a correspondence between them which was a great -pleasure to Heathcote, and not only a pleasure, but in some respects a -help, too. She approved greatly of his assumption of his natural duties -upon his own shoulders, and kindly encouraged him ‘not to mind’ the -bullying of the agent, the boorishness of Farmer Rawlins, and the -complaints of the Spriggs. In this matter of the estate Anne felt the -advantage of her experience. She wrote to him in a semi-maternal way, -understanding that the information she had to give placed her in a -position of superiority, while she gave it, at least. Heathcote was -infinitely amused by these pretensions; he liked to be schooled by her, -and made her very humble replies; but the burden of all his graver -thoughts was still that regret expressed by Mr. Loseby, Why, why had he -not made his appearance a year before? But now it was too late. - -Thus the winter went on. The Mountfords had gone abroad. They had been -in all the places where English families go while their crape is still -fresh, to Paris and Cannes, and into Italy, trying, as Mrs. Mountford -said, ‘the effect of a little change.’ And they all liked it, it is -needless to deny. They were so unaccustomed to use their wings that the -mere feeling of the first flight, the wild freedom and sense of -boundless action and power over themselves filled them with pleasure. -They were not to come back till the summer was nearly over, going to -Switzerland for the hot weather, when Italy became too warm. They had -not intended, when they set out, to stay so long, but indeed it was -nearly a year from the period of Mr. Mountford’s death when they came -home. They did not return to Park Lane, nor to any other settled abode, -but went to one of the many hotels near Heathcote’s chambers, to rest -for a few days before they settled what they were to do for the autumn; -for it was Mrs. Mountford’s desire to go ‘abroad’ again for the winter, -staying only some three months at home. When the little world about -Mount heard of this, they were agitated by various feelings--desire to -get them back alternating in the minds of the good people with -indignation at the idea of their renewed wanderings, which were all put -down to the frivolity of Mrs. Mountford; and a continually growing -wonder and consternation as to the future of Anne. ‘She has no right to -keep a poor man hanging on so long, when there can be no possible reason -for it; when it would really be an advantage for her to have someone to -fall back upon,’ Miss Woodhead said, in righteous indignation over her -friend’s extraordinary conduct--extraordinary as she thought it. ‘Rose -has her mother to go with her. And I think poor Mr. Douglas is being -treated very badly for my part. They ought to come home here, and stay -for the three months, and get the marriage over, among their own -people.’ Fanny Woodhead was considered through all the three adjacent -parishes to be a person of great judgment, and the Rector, for one, was -very much impressed with this suggestion. ‘I think Fanny’s idea should -be acted upon. I think it certainly should be acted on,’ he said. ‘The -year’s mourning for her father will be over, if that is what they are -waiting for--and look at all the correspondence she has, and the -trouble. She wants somebody to help her. Someone should certainly -suggest to Anne that it would be a right thing to follow Fanny -Woodhead’s advice.’ - -Heathcote, who, though he had allowed himself a month of the season, was -back again in Mount, with a modest household gathered round him, and -every indication of a man ‘settling down,’ concurred in this counsel, so -far as to write, urging very warmly that Mount should be their -head-quarters while they remained in England. Mr. Loseby was of opinion -that the match was one which never would come off at all, an idea which -moved several bosoms with an unusual tremor. There was a great deal of -agitation altogether on the subject among the little circle, which felt -that the concerns of the Mountfords were more or less concerns of their -own; and when it was known that Charley Ashley, who was absent on his -yearly holiday, was to see the ladies on his way through London, there -was a general impression that something would come of it--that he would -be able to set their duty before them, or to expedite the settlement of -affairs in one way or another. The Curate himself said nothing to -anyone, but he had a very serious purpose in his mind. He it was who -had introduced these two to each other; his friendship had been the link -which had connected Douglas--so far as affairs had yet gone, very -disastrously--with the woman who had been the adoration of poor -Charley’s own life. He had resigned her, having neither hopes nor rights -to resign, to his friend, with a generous abandonment, and had been -loyal to Cosmo as to Anne, though at the cost of no little suffering to -himself. But, if it were possible that Anne herself was being neglected, -then Charley felt that he had a right to a word in the matter. He was -experimenting sadly in French seaside amusements with his brother at -Boulogne, when the ladies returned to England. Charley and Willie were -neither of them great in French. They had begun by thinking all the -humours of the bathing place ‘fun,’ and laughing mightily at the men in -their bathing dresses, and feeling scandalised at their presence among -the ladies; but, after a few days, they had become very much bored, and -felt the drawback of having ‘nothing to do;’ so that, when they heard -that the Mountfords had crossed the Channel and were in London, the two -young men made haste to follow. It was the end of July when everybody -was rushing out of town, and only a small sprinkling of semi-fashionable -persons were to be seen in the scorched and baked parks. The Mountfords -were understood to be in town only for a few days. It was all that any -lady who respected herself could imagine possible at this time of the -year. - -‘I suppose they’ll be changed,’ Willie said to his brother, as they made -their way to the hotel. ‘I have never seen them since all these changes -came about; that is, I have never seen Rose. I suppose Rose won’t be -Rose now, to me at least. It is rather funny that such a tremendous -change should come about between two times of seeing a person whom you -have known all your life.’ By ‘rather funny’ Willie meant something much -the reverse of amusing: but that is the way of English youth. He, too, -had entertained his little dreams, which had been of a more substantial -character than his brother’s; for Willie was destined for the bar, and -had, or believed himself to have, chances much superior to those of a -country clergyman. And according to the original disposition of Mr. St. -John Mountford’s affairs, a rising young fellow at the bar, with Willie -Ashley’s hopes and connections, would have been no very bad match for -little Rose. This it was that made him feel it was ‘funny.’ But still -his heart was not gone together in one great sweep out of his breast, -like Charley’s. And he went to see his old friends with a little -quickening of his pulse, yet a composed determination ‘to see if it was -any use.’ If it seemed to him that there was still an opening, Willie -was not afraid of Rose’s fortune, and did not hesitate to form ulterior -plans; and he stood on this great vantage ground that, if he found it -was not ‘any use,’ he had no intention of breaking his heart. - -When they went in, however, to the hotel sitting-room in which the -Mountfords were, they found Rose and her mother with their bonnets on, -ready to go out, and there were but a few minutes for conversation. Rose -was grown and developed so that her old adorer scarcely recognised her -for the first minute. She was in a white dress, profusely trimmed with -black, and made in a fashion to which the young men were unaccustomed, -the latest Parisian fashion, which they did not understand, indeed, but -which roused all their English conservatism of feeling, as much as if -they had understood it. ‘Oh, how nice of you to come to see us!’ Rose -cried. ‘Are you really passing through London, and were you at Boulogne -when we came through? I never could have imagined you in France, either -the one or the other. How did you get on with the talking? You could not -have any fun in a place unless you understood what people were saying. -Mamma, I don’t think we ought to wait for Mr. Douglas; it is getting so -late.’ - -‘Here is Mr. Douglas,’ said Mrs. Mountford; ‘he is always punctual. Anne -is not going with us; she has so much to do--there is quite a packet of -letters from Mr. Loseby. If you would rather be let off going with us, -Mr. Douglas, you have only to say so; I am sure we can do very well by -ourselves.’ - -But at this suggestion Rose pouted, a change of expression which was not -lost upon the anxious spectators. - -‘I came for the express purpose of going with you,’ said Cosmo; ‘why -should I be turned off now?’ - -‘Oh, I only thought that because of Anne----; but of course you will see -Anne after. Will you all, like good people, come back and dine, as we -are going out now? No, Charley, I will not, indeed, take any refusal. I -want to hear all about Mount, dear Mount--and what Heathcote Mountford -is doing. Anne wishes us to go to Hunston; but I don’t know that I -should like to be so near without being at Mount.’ - -‘Is Anne too busy to see us now? I should just like to say how d’you -do.’ - -‘Oh, if you will wait a little, I don’t doubt that you will see her. But -I am sure you will excuse us now, as we had fixed to go out. We shall -see you this evening. Mind you are here by seven o’clock,’ cried Mrs. -Mountford, shaking her fingers at them in an airy way which she had -learned ‘abroad.’ And Rose said, as they went out, ‘Yes, do come; I want -to hear all about Mount.’ About two minutes after they left the room -Anne came in. She had not turned into a spider or wasp, like Rose in her -Paris costume, but she was much changed. She no longer carried her head -high, but had got a habit of bowing it slightly, which made a curious -difference in her appearance. She was like a tall flower bent by the -winds, bowing before them; she was more pale than she used to be; and to -Charley it seemed that there was an inquiry in her eyes, which first -cast one glance round, as if asking something, before they turned with a -little gleam of pleasure to the strangers. - -‘You here?’ Anne said. ‘How glad I am to see you! When did you come, and -where are you staying? I am so sorry that mamma and Rose have gone out; -but you must come back and see them: or will you wait? They will soon be -back;’ and once more she threw a glance round, investigating--as if some -one might be hiding somewhere, Willie said. But his brother knew better. -Charley felt that there was the bewilderment of wonder in her eyes, and -felt that it must be a new experience to her that Cosmo should not wait -to see her. For a moment the light seemed to fade in her face, then came -back: and she sat down and talked with a subdued sweetness that went to -their hearts. ‘Not to Mount,’ she said; ‘Heathcote is very kind, but I -don’t think I will go to Mount. To Hunston rather--where we can see -everybody all the same.’ - -‘What is the matter with Anne?’ Willie Ashley asked, wondering, when -they came away. ‘It can’t be because she has lost her money. She has no -more spirit left in her. She has not a laugh left in her. What is the -cause of it all?’ But the Curate made no answer. He set his teeth, and -he said not a word. There was very little to be got out of him all that -day. He went gloomily about with his brother, turning Willie’s holiday -into a somewhat poor sort of merry-making. And when they went to dinner -with the Mountfords at night, Charley’s usual taciturnity was so much -aggravated that he scarcely could be said to talk at all. But the dinner -was gay enough. Rose, it seemed to young Ashley, who had his private -reasons for being critical, ‘kept it up’ with Douglas in a way which was -not at all pleasant. They had been together all the afternoon, and had -all sorts of little recollections in common. Anne was much less subdued -than in the morning, and talked like her old self, yet with a -difference. It was when the party broke up, however, that Willie Ashley -felt himself most ill-used. He was left entirely out in the cold by his -brother, who said to him briefly, ‘I am going home with Douglas,’ and -threw him on his own devices. If it had not been that some faint guess -crossed the younger brother’s mind as to Charley’s meaning, he would -have felt himself very badly used. - -The Curate put his arm within his friend’s. It was somewhat against the -grain, for he did not feel so amicable as he looked. ‘I am coming back -with you,’ he said. ‘We have not had a talk for so long. I want to know -what you’ve been after all this long while.’ - -‘Very glad of a talk,’ said Douglas, but neither was he quite as much -gratified as he professed to be; ‘but as for coming back with me, I -don’t know where that is to be, for I am going to the club.’ - -‘I’ll walk with you there,’ said Charley. However, after this -announcement Cosmo changed his mind: he saw that there was gravity in -the Curate’s intentions, and turned his steps towards his rooms. He had -not been expected there, and the lamp was not lighted, nor anything -ready for him; and there was a little stumbling in the dark and ringing -of bells before they got settled comfortably to their _tête-à-tête_. -Charley seated himself in a chair by the table while this was going on, -and when lights came he was discovered there as in a scene in a theatre, -heavy and dark in his black clothes, and the pale desperation with which -he was addressing himself to his task. - -‘Douglas,’ he said, ‘for a long time I have wanted to speak to you----’ - -‘Speak away,’ said the other; ‘but have a pipe to assist your utterance, -Charley. You never could talk without your pipe.’ - -The Curate put away the offered luxury with a determined hand. How much -easier, how much pleasanter it would have been to accept it, to veil his -purpose with the friendly nothings of conversation, and thus perhaps -delude his friend into disclosures without affronting him by a solemn -demand! That would have been very well had Charley had any confidence in -his own powers--but he had not, and he put the temptation away from him. -‘No, thank you, Douglas,’ he said, ‘what I want to say is something -which you may think very interfering and impertinent. Do you remember a -year ago when you were at the Rectory and we had a talk--one very wet -night?’ - -‘Perfectly. You were sulky because you thought I had cut you out; but -you always were the best of fellows, Charley----’ - -‘Don’t talk of it like that. You might have taken my life blood from me -after that, and I shouldn’t have minded. That’s a figure of speech. I -mean that I gave up to you then what wasn’t mine to give, what you had -got without any help from me. You know what I mean. If you think I -didn’t mind, that was a mistake. A great many things have happened since -then, and some things have not happened that looked as if they ought to -have done so. You made use of me after that, and I was glad enough to be -of use. I want to ask you one question now, Douglas. I don’t say that -you’ll like to be questioned by me----’ - -‘No,’ said Cosmo, ‘a man does not like to be questioned by another man -who has no particular right to interfere: for I don’t pretend not to -understand what you mean.’ - -‘No: you can’t but understand what I mean. All of us, down about Mount, -take a great interest--there’s never a meeting in the county of any kind -but questions are always asked. As for my father, he is excited on the -subject. He cannot keep quiet. Will you tell me for his satisfaction and -my own, what is going to come of it? is anything going to come of it? I -think that, as old friends, and mixed up as I have been all through, I -have a right to inquire.’ - -‘You mean,’ said Cosmo, coolly knocking a pipe upon the mantelpiece with -his back turned to the questioner, whose voice was broken with emotion, -and who was grasping the table nervously all the while he spoke--‘you -mean, is marriage going to come of it? at least, I suppose that is what -you mean.’ - -The Curate replied by a sort of inarticulate gurgle in his throat, an -assent which excitement prevented from forming itself into words. - -‘Well!’ said the other. He took his time to everything he did, filled -the pipe aforesaid, lighted it with various long-drawn puffs, and -finally seated himself at the opposite side of the dark fireplace, over -which the candles on the mantelpiece threw an additional shadow. ‘Well! -it is no such simple matter as you seem to think.’ - -‘I never said it was a simple matter; and yet when one thinks that there -are other men,’ cried the Curate, with momentary vehemence, ‘who would -give their heads----’ - -Douglas replied to this outburst with a momentary laugh, which, if he -had but known it, as nearly gave him over to punishment as any foolish -step he ever took in his life. Fortunately for him it was very short, -and in reality more a laugh of excitement than of mirth. - -‘Oh, there’s more than one, is there?’ he said. ‘Look here, Charley, I -might refuse point-blank to answer your question. I should have a -perfect right. It is not the sort of thing that one man asks another in -a general way.’ - -The Curate did not make any reply, and after a moment Douglas -continued-- - -‘But I won’t. I understand your motives, if you don’t understand mine. -You think I am shilly-shallying, that I ought to fulfil my engagement, -that I am keeping Anne hanging on.’ - -‘Don’t name any names,’ cried Ashley, hoarsely. - -‘I don’t know how I can give you an answer without naming names: but -I’ll try to please you. Look here, it is not such an easy matter, -plain-sailing and straightforward as you think. When I formed that -engagement I was--well, just what I am now--a poor devil of a barrister, -not long called, with very little money, and not much to do. But, then, -_she_ was rich. Did you make a remark?’ - -Charley had stirred unconsciously, with a movement of indignant fury, -which he was unable altogether to restrain. But he made no answer, and -Douglas continued with a quickened and somewhat excited tone-- - -‘I hope you don’t suppose that I mean to say that had anything to do -with the engagement. Stop! yes, it had. I should not have ventured to -say a word about my feelings to a poor girl. I should have taken myself -off as soon as they became too much for me. I don’t hide the truth from -you, and I am not ashamed of it. To thrust myself and her into trouble -on my present income is what I never would have thought of. Well, you -know all that happened as well as I do. I entreated her not to be rash, -I begged her to throw me over, not so much as to think of me when her -father objected. She paid no attention. I don’t blame her----’ - -‘Blame her!’ - -‘Those were the words I used. I don’t blame her. She knew nothing about -poverty. She was not afraid of it: it was rather a sort of excitement to -her, as they say a revolution was to the French princesses. She laughed -at it, and defied her father. If you think I liked that, or encouraged -that, it is a mistake; but what could I do? And what am I to do now? Can -I bring her here, do you think? What can I do with her? I am not well -enough off to marry. I should never have dreamt of such a thing on my -own account. If you could show me a way out of it, I should be very -thankful. As for working one’s self into fame and fortune and all that -kind of thing, you know a little what mere romance it is. Some fellows -do it; but they don’t marry to begin with. I am almost glad you -interviewed me to get this all out. What am I to do? I know no more than -you can tell me. I have got the character of playing fast and loose, of -behaving badly to a girl whom I love and respect; for I do love and -respect her, mind you, whatever you and your belongings may think or -say.’ - -‘You could not well help yourself, so far as I can see,’ said the Curate -hotly. - -‘That is all you know. If you were in my place and knew the false -position into which I have been brought, the expectations I have been -supposed to raise, the reluctance I have seemed to show in carrying them -out--by Jove! if you could only feel as I do all the miseries of my -position, unable to stir a step one way or another----’ - -‘I know men who would give their heads to stand in your position----’ - -‘And what would they do in it?’ asked Douglas, pulling ineffectually at -the pipe, which had long gone out. ‘Say yourself, for example; you are -totally different--you have got your house and your settled income, and -you know what is before you.’ - -‘I can’t discuss it in this way. Do you imagine that I have as much to -spend, to use your own argument,’ cried the Curate, ‘as you have here?’ - -‘It is quite different,’ Douglas said. Then he added, with a sort of -dogged determination, ‘I am getting on. I think I am getting the ball at -my foot; but to marry at present would be destruction--and to her still -more than to me.’ - -‘Then the short and the long is----’ - -‘The short and the long is exactly what I have told you. You may tell -her yourself, if you please. Whatever love in a cottage may be, love in -chambers is impossible. With her fortune we could have married, and it -would have helped me on. Without it, such a thing would be madness, ruin -to me and to her too.’ - -Charley rose up, stumbling to his feet. ‘This is all you have got to -say?’ he said. - -‘Yes, that is all I have got to say; and, to tell the truth, I think it -is wonderfully good of me to say it, and not to show you politely to the -door; but we are old friends, and you are her old friend----’ - -‘Good-night, Douglas,’ the Curate said, abruptly. He did not offer his -friend his hand, but went out bewildered, stumbling down the stairs and -out at the door. This was what he had yielded up all his hopes (but he -never had any hopes) for! this was what Anne had selected out of the -world. He did not go back to his hotel, but took a long walk round and -round the parks in the dismal lamplight, seeing many a dismal scene. It -was almost morning when his brother, utterly surprised and alarmed, -heard him come in at last. - - - - -CHAPTER XXX. - -THE RECTOR SATISFIED. - - -‘No, I did not get any satisfaction; I can’t say that he gave me any -satisfaction,’ the Curate said. - -He had put down his pipe out of deference to his father, who had come -into the little den inhabited by Charley the morning after his return. -Mr. Ashley’s own study was a refined and comfortable place, as became -the study of a dignified clergyman; but his son had a little -three-cornered room, full of pipes and papers, the despair of every -housemaid that ever came into the house. Charley had felt himself more -than usually that morning in need of the solace that his pipe could -give. He had returned home late the evening before, and he had already -had great discussions with his brother Willie as to Rose Mountford, whom -Willie on a second interview had pronounced ‘just as nice as ever,’ but -whom the elder had begun to regard with absolute disgust. Willie had -gone off to Hunston to execute a commission which in reality was from -Anne, and which the Curate had thought might have been committed to -himself--to inquire into the resources of the ‘Black Bull,’ where old -Saymore had now for some time been landlord, and to find out whether the -whole party could be accommodated there. The Curate had lighted his pipe -when his brother went off on this mission. He wanted it, poor fellow! He -sat by the open window with a book upon the ledge, smoking out into the -garden; the view was limited, a hedgerow or two in the distance, -breaking the flatness of the fields, a big old walnut tree in front -shutting in one side, a clump of evergreens on the other. What he was -reading was only a railway novel picked up in mere listlessness; he -pitched it away into a large untidy waste-paper basket, and put down his -pipe when his father came in. The Rector had not been used in his youth -to such disorderly ways, and he did not like smoke. - -‘No, sir, no satisfaction; the reverse of that--and yet, perhaps, there -is something to be said too on his side,’ the Curate said. - -‘Something on his side! I don’t know what you mean,’ cried his father. -‘When I was a young fellow, to behave in this sort of way was disgrace -to an honourable man. That is to say, no honourable man would have been -guilty of it. Your word was your word, and at any cost it had to be -kept.’ - -‘Father,’ said Charley with unusual energy, ‘it seems to me that the -most unbearable point of all this is--that you and I should venture to -talk of any fellow, confound him! keeping his word and behaving -honourably to---- That’s what I can’t put up with, for my part.’ - -‘You are quite right,’ said the Rector, abashed for the moment. And then -he added, pettishly, ‘but what can we do? We must use the common words, -even though Anne is the subject. Charley, there is nobody so near a -brother to her as you are, nor a father as I.’ - -‘Yes, I suppose I’m like a brother,’ the Curate said with a sigh. - -‘Then tell me exactly what this fellow said.’ - -Mr. Ashley was wound up for immediate action. Perhaps the increased -tedium of life since the departure of ‘the family’ from Mount had made -him more willing, now when it seemed to have come to a climax, for an -excitement of any kind. - -‘It isn’t what she has a right to,’ said the Curate, painfully -impartial when he had told his tale. ‘She--ought to be received like a -blessing wherever she goes. We know that better than anyone: but I don’t -say that Douglas doesn’t know it too----’ - -‘Don’t let me hear the fellow’s name!’ - -‘That’s very true, sir,’ said the Curate; ‘but, after all, when you come -to think of it! Perhaps, now-a-days, with all our artificial -arrangements, you know---- At least, that’s what people say. He’d be -bringing her to poverty to please himself. He’d be taking her out of her -own sphere. She doesn’t know what poverty means, that’s what he -says--and she laughs at it. How can he bring her into trouble which she -doesn’t understand--that’s what he says.’ - -‘He’s a fool, and a coward, and an idiot, and perhaps a knave, for -anything I can tell!’ cried the Rector in distinct volleys. Then he -cried sharply with staccato distinctness, ‘I shall go to town to-night.’ - -‘To town! to-night? I don’t see what _you_ could do, sir!’ said the -Curate, slightly wounded, with an injured emphasis on the pronoun, as -much as to say, if _I_ could not do anything, how should you? But the -Rector shook off this protest with a gesture of impatience, and went -away, leaving no further ground for remonstrance. It was a great -surprise to the village generally to hear that he was going away. Willie -Ashley heard of it before he could get back from Hunston; and Heathcote -Mountford in the depths of the library which, the only part of the house -he had interfered with, he was now busy transforming. ‘The Rector is -going to London!’ ‘It has something to do with Anne and her affairs, -take my word for it!’ cried Fanny Woodhead, who was so clear-sighted, -‘and high time that somebody should interfere!’ - -The Rector got in very late, which, as everybody knows, is the drawback -of that afternoon train. You get in so late that it is almost like a -night journey; and he was not so early next morning as was common to -him. There was no reason why he should be early. He sent a note to Anne -as soon as he was up to ask her to see him privately, and about eleven -o’clock sallied forth on his mission. Mr. Ashley had come to town not as -a peacemaker, but, as it were, with a sword of indignation in his hand. -He was half angry with the peaceful sunshine and the soft warmth of the -morning. It was not yet hot in the shady streets, and little carts of -flowers were being driven about, and all the vulgar sounds softened by -the genial air. London was out of town, and there was an air of grateful -languor about everything; few carriages about the street, but perpetual -cabs loaded with luggage--pleasure and health for those who were going -away, a little more room and rest for those who were remaining. - -But the Rector was not in a humour to see the best side of anything. He -marched along angrily, encouraging himself to be remorseless, not to -mind what Anne might say, but if she pleaded for her lover, if she clung -to the fellow, determining to have no mercy upon her. The best of women -were such fools in this respect. They would not be righted by their -friends; they would prefer to suffer, and defend a worthless fellow, so -to speak, to the last drop of their blood. But all the same, though the -Rector was so angry and so determined, he was also a little afraid. He -did not know how Anne would take his interference. She was not the sort -of girl whom the oldest friend could dictate to--to whom he could say, -‘Do this,’ with any confidence that she would do it. His breath came -quick and his heart beat now that the moment approached, but ‘There is -nobody so near a father to her as I am,’ he said to himself, and this -gave him courage. Anne received him in a little sitting-room which was -reserved to herself. She was sitting there among her papers waiting for -him, and when he entered came forward quickly, holding out her hands, -with some anxiety in her face. ‘Something has happened?’ she said, she -too with a little catching of her breath. - -‘No--nothing, my dear, nothing to alarm you; I mean really nothing at -all, Anne--only I wanted to speak to you----’ - -She put him into a comfortable chair, and drew her own close to him, -smiling, though still a little pale. ‘Then it is all pleasure,’ she -said, ‘if it is not to be pain. What a long time it is since I have seen -you! but we are going to Hunston, where we shall be quite within reach. -All the same you look anxious, dear Mr. Ashley--you were going to speak -to me----’ - -‘About your own affairs, my dear child,’ he said. - -‘Ah!’ a flush came over her face, then she grew paler than before. ‘Now -I know why you look so anxious,’ she said, with a faint smile. ‘If it is -only about me, however, we will face it steadily, whatever it is----’ - -‘Anne,’ cried the Rector, taking both her hands in his--‘Anne, my dear -child! I have loved you as if you had been my own all your life.’ - -She thanked him with her eyes, in which there was the ghost of a -melancholy smile, but did not speak. - -‘And I can’t bear to see you slighted, my dear. You _are_ slighted, -Anne, you whom we all think too good for a king. It has been growing -more and more intolerable to me as the months have gone by. I cannot -bear it, I cannot bear it any longer. I have come to say to yourself -that it is not possible, that it must not go on, that it cannot be.’ - -Anne gave his hands which held hers a quick pressure. ‘Thank you,’ she -said, ‘dear Mr. Ashley, for coming to _me_. If you had gone to anyone -else I could not have borne it: but say whatever you will to me.’ - -Then he got up, his excitement growing. ‘Anne, this man stands aloof. -Possessing your love, my dear, and your promise, he has--not claimed -either one or the other. He has let you go abroad, he has let you come -home, he is letting you leave London without coming to any decision or -taking the place he ought to take by your side. Anne, hear me out; you -have a difficult position, my dear; you have a great deal to do; it -would be an advantage to you to have someone to act for you, to stand by -you, to help you.’ - -‘So far as that goes,’ she said with a pained smile--‘no: I don’t think -there is very much need of that.’ - -‘Listen to me, my dear. Rose has her mother; she does not want your -personal care, so that is no excuse; and all that you have to do makes -it more expedient that you should have help and support. None of us but -would give you that help and support, oh! so gladly, Anne! But there is -one whom you have chosen, by means of whom it is that you are in this -position--and he holds back. He does not rush to your side imprudently, -impatiently, as he ought. What sort of a man is it that thinks of -prudence in such circumstances? He lets you stand alone and work alone: -and he is letting you go away, leave the place where he is, without -settling your future, without coming to any conclusion--without even a -time indicated. Oh, I have no patience with it--I cannot away with it!’ -said the Rector, throwing up his arms, ‘it is more than I can put up -with. And that you should be subjected to this, Anne!’ - -Perhaps she had never been subjected to so hard an ordeal as now. She -sat with her hands tightly clasped on the table, her lips painfully -smiling, a dark dew of pain in her eyes--hearing her own humiliation, -her downfall from the heights of worship and service where she had been -placed all her life by those who loved her, recounted like a well-known -history. She thought it had been all secret to herself, that nobody had -known of the wondering discoveries, the bitter findings out, the -confusion of all her ideas, as one thing after another became clear to -her. It was not all clear to her yet; she had found out some things, but -not all. And that all should be clear as daylight to others, to the -friends whom she had hoped knew nothing about it! this knowledge -transfixed Anne like a sword. Fiery arrows had struck into her before, -winged and blazing, but now it was all one great burning scorching -wound. She held her hands clasped tight to keep herself still. She would -not writhe at least upon the sword that was through her, she said to -herself, and upon her mouth there was the little contortion of a smile. -Was it to try and make it credible that she did not believe what he was -saying, or that she did not feel it, that she kept that smile?--or had -it got frozen upon her lips so that the ghost could not pass away? - -When he stopped at last, half frightened by his own vehemence, and -alarmed at her calm, Anne was some time without making any reply. At -last she said, speaking with some difficulty, her lips being dry: ‘Mr. -Ashley, some of what you say is true.’ - -‘Some--oh, my dear, my dear, it is all true--don’t lay that flattering -unction to your soul. Once you have looked at it calmly, -dispassionately----’ - -Here Anne broke forth into a little laugh, which made Mr. Ashley hold -out his hands in eager deprecation, ‘Oh, don’t, my darling, don’t, -don’t!’ - -‘No,’ she said, ‘no, no--I will not laugh--that would be too much. Am I -so dispassionate, do you think? Able to judge calmly, though the case -is my own----’ - -‘Yes, Anne,’ cried the old Rector; his feelings were too much for -him--he broke down and sobbed like a woman. ‘Yes, my beautiful Anne, my -dearest child! you are capable of it--you are capable of everything that -is heroic. Would I have ventured to come to you but for that? You are -capable of everything, my dear.’ - -Anne waited a little longer, quite silently, holding her hands clasped -tight. One thing she was not capable of, and that was to stand up. -Whatever else she might be able to do, she could not do that. She said -under her breath, ‘Wait for a moment,’ and then, when she had got -command of herself, rose slowly and went to the table on which her -papers were. There she hesitated, taking a letter out of the -blotting-book--but after a moment’s pause brought it to him. ‘I did not -think I should ever show--a letter--to a third person,’ she said with -confused utterance. Then she went back to her table, and sat down and -began to move with her hands among the papers, taking up one and laying -down another. The Rector threw himself into the nearest chair and began -to read. - - - ‘Dear Cosmo,--You will think it strange to get a long letter from - me, when we met this morning; and yet, perhaps, you will not think - it strange--you will know. - - ‘In the first place let me say that there are a great many things - which it will not be needful to put on paper, which you and I will - understand without words. We understand--that things have not been - lately as they were some time ago. It is nobody’s fault; things - change--that is all about it. One does not always feel the same, - and we must be thankful that there is no absolute necessity that - we should feel the same; we have still the full freedom of our - lives, both I and you. - - ‘This being the case, I think I should say to you that it seems to - me we have made a mistake. You would naturally have a delicacy in - saying it, but women have a privilege in this respect, and - therefore I can take the initiative. We were too hasty, I fear; or - else there were circumstances existing then which do not exist now, - and which made the bond between us more practicable, more easily to - be realised. This is where it fails now. It may be just the same in - idea, but it has ceased to be possible to bring anything - practicable out of it; the effort would involve much, more than we - are willing to give, perhaps more--I speak brutally, as the French - say--than it is worth. - - ‘In these uncertainties I put it to you whether it would not be - better for us in great friendship and regret to shake hands - and--part? It is not a pleasant word, but there are things which - are much less pleasant than any word can be, and those we must - avoid at all hazards. I do not think that your present life and my - present life could amalgamate anyhow--could they? And the future is - so hazy, so doubtful, with so little in it that we can rely - upon--the possibilities might alter, in our favour, or against us, - but no one can tell, and most probably any change would be - disadvantageous. On the other hand, your life, as at present - arranged, suits you very well, and my life suits me. There seems no - reason why we should make ourselves uncomfortable, is there? by - continuing, at the cost of much inconvenience, to contemplate - changes which we do not very much desire, and which would be a very - doubtful advantage if they were made. - - ‘This being the case--and I think, however unwilling you may be to - admit it, to start with, that if you ask yourself deep down in the - depths of your heart, you will find that the same doubts and - questions, which have been agitating my mind, have been in yours, - too--and that there is only one answer to them--don’t you think my - suggestion is the best? Probably it will not be pleasant to either - of us. There will be the talk and the wonderings of our friends, - but what do these matter?--and what is far worse, a great crying - out of our own recollections and imaginations against such a - severance--but these, _I feel sure_, lie all on the surface, and if - we are brave and decide upon it at once, will last as short a time - as--most other feelings last in this world. - - ‘If you agree with me, send me just three words to say so--or six, - or indeed any number of words--but don’t let us enter into - explanations. Without anything more said, we both understand. - - ‘Your true friend in all circumstances, - - ‘ANNE.’ - - -There are some names which are regal in their mere simplicity of a few -letters. This signature seemed like Anne Princess, or Anne Queen to the -eyes of the old man who read it. He sat with the letter in his hands for -some time after he had read to the end, not able to trust his voice or -even his old eyes by any sudden movement. The writer all this time sat -at her table moving about the papers. Some of the business letters which -were lying there she read over. One little note she wrote a confused -reply to, which had to be torn up afterwards. She waited--but not with -any tremor--with a still sort of aching deep down in her heart, which -seemed to answer instead of beating. How is it that there is so often -actual pain and heaviness where the heart lies, to justify all our -metaphorical references to it? The brain does not ache when our hearts -are sore; and yet, they say our brains are all we have to feel with. Why -should it be so true, so true, to say that one’s heart is heavy? Anne -asked herself this question vaguely as she sat so quietly moving about -her papers. Her head was as clear as yours or mine, but her -heart--which, poor thing, means nothing but a bit of hydraulic -machinery, and was pumping away just as usual--lay heavy in her bosom -like a lump of lead. - -‘My dear child, my dear child!’ the old Rector said at length, rising up -hastily and stumbling towards her, his eyes dim with tears, not seeing -his way. The circumstances were far too serious for his usual -exclamation of ‘God bless my soul!’ which, being such a good wish, was -more cheerful than the occasion required. - -‘Do you think that is sufficient?’ said Anne, with a faint smile. ‘You -see I am not ignorant of the foundations. Do you think that will do?’ - -‘My dear, my dear!’ Mr. Ashley said. He did not seem capable of saying -any more. - -With that Anne, feeling very like a woman at the stake--as if she were -tied to her chair, at least, and found the ropes, though they cut her, -some support--took the letter out of his hand and put it into an -envelope, and directed it very steadily to ‘Cosmo Douglas, Esq., Middle -Temple.’ ‘There, that is over,’ she said. The ropes were cutting, but -certainly they were a support. The papers before her were all mixed up -and swimming about, but yet she could see the envelope--four-square--an -accomplished thing, settled and done with; as perhaps she thought her -life too also was. - -‘Anne,’ said the old Rector, in his trembling voice, ‘my dear! I know -one far more worthy of you, who would give all the world to know that he -might hope----’ - -She put out one hand and pushed herself away from the table. The -giddiness went off, and the paper again became perceptible before her. -‘You don’t suppose that I--want anything to do with any man?’ she said, -with an indignant break in her voice. - -‘No, my dear; of course you do not. It would not be in nature if you did -not scorn and turn from---- But, Anne,’ said the old Rector, ‘life will -go on, do what you will to stand still. You cannot stand still, whatever -you do. You will have to walk the same path as those that have gone -before you. You need never marry at all, you will say. But after a -while, when time has had its usual effect, and your grief is calmed and -your mind matured, you will do like others that have gone before you. Do -not scorn what I say. You are only twenty-two when all is done, and life -is long, and the path is very dreary when you walk by yourself and there -is no one with you on the way.’ - -Anne did not say anything. It was her policy and her safety not to say -anything. She had come to herself. But the past time had been one of -great struggle and trial, and she was worn out by it. After a while Mr. -Ashley came to see that the words of wisdom he was speaking fell upon -deaf ears. He talked a great deal, and there was much wisdom and -experience and the soundest good sense in what he said, only it dropped -half-way, as it were, on the wing, on the way to her, and never got to -Anne. - -He went away much subdued, just as a servant from the hotel came to get -the letters for the post. Then the Rector left Anne, and went to the -other part of the house to pay his respects to the other ladies. They -had been out all the morning, and now had come back to luncheon. - -‘Mr. Douglas is always so good,’ Mrs. Mountford said. ‘Fortunately it is -the long vacation; but I suppose you know that; and he can give us -almost all his time, which is so good of him. It was only the -afternoons in the winter that we could have. And he tells Rose -everything. I tell her Mr. Douglas is more use to her than any governess -she ever had.’ - -‘Is Anne never of your parties?’ the Rector said. - -‘Oh, Anne! she is always busy about something, or else she says she is -busy. I am sure she need not shut herself up as she does. I wish you -would speak to her. You are an old friend, and always had a great -influence over Anne. She is getting really morose--quite morose--if you -will take my opinion,’ said Mrs. Mountford. Rose was almost as emphatic. -‘I don’t know what she has against me. I cannot seal myself up as she -does, can I, Mr. Ashley? No, she will never come with us. It is so -tiresome; but I suppose when we are in the country, which she is always -so fond of, that things will change.’ - -Just then Anne came into the room softly, in her usual guise. Mr. Ashley -looked at her half in alarm. She had managed to dismiss from her voice -and manner every vestige of agitation. What practice she must have had, -the Rector said to himself, to be able to do it. - -‘I hope you have had a pleasant morning,’ she said. She did not avoid -Cosmo, but gave him her hand as simply as to the rest. She addressed him -little, but still did not hesitate to address him, and once the Rector -perceived her looking at him unawares with eyes full of the deepest -compassion. Why was she so pitiful? Cosmo did not seem to like the look. -He was wistful and anxious. Already there was something, a warning of -evil, in the air. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXI. - -FALLEN FROM HER HIGH ESTATE. - - -The ‘Black Bull’ at Hunston is one of those old inns which have been -superseded, wherever it is practicable, by new ones, and which are in -consequence eagerly resorted to by enlightened persons, wherever they -are to be found; but there was nobody in Hunston, beyond the ordinary -little countrytown visitors, to appreciate its comfortable old rooms, -old furniture, and old ways. When there was a county ball, the county -people who had daughters engaged rooms in it occasionally, and the -officers coming from Scarlett-town filled up all the corners. But county -balls were rare occurrences, and there had not been yet under the -_régime_ of old Saymore a single instance of exceptional gaiety or -fulness. So that, though it was highly respectable, and the position of -landlord one of ease and dignity, the profits had been as yet limited. -Saymore himself, however, in the spotless perfection of costume which he -had so long kept up at Mount, and with his turn for artistic -arrangements, and general humble following of the ‘fads’ of his young -ladies, was in himself a model of a master for a Queen Anne house -(though not in the least what the prototype of that character would have -been), and was in a fair way to make his house everything which a house -of that period ought to be. And though Keziah, in the most fashionable -of nineteenth-century dresses, was a decided anachronism, yet her little -face was pleasant to the travellers arriving hot and dusty on an August -evening, and finding in those two well-known figures a something of home -which went to their hearts. To see Saymore at the carriage door made -Mrs. Mountford put her handkerchief to her eyes, a practice which she -had given up for at least six months past. And, to compare small things -with great, when Keziah showed them to their rooms, notwithstanding the -pride of proprietorship with which she led the way, the sight of Anne -and Rose had a still greater effect upon little Mrs. Saymore; Rose -especially, in her Paris dress, with a waist like nothing at -all--whereas to see Keziah, such a figure! She cried, then dried her -tears, and recollected the proud advances in experience and dignity she -had made, and her responsibilities as head of a house, and all her plate -and linen, and her hopes: so much had she gone through, while with them -everything was just the same: thus pride on one side in her own second -chapter of life, and envy on the other of the freedom of their untouched -lives produced a great commotion in her. ‘Mr. Saymore and me, we thought -this would be the nicest for Miss Anne, and I put you here, Miss Rose, -next to your mamma. Oh, yes, I am very comfortable. I have everything as -I wish for. Mr. Saymore don’t deny me nothing--he’d buy me twice as many -things as I want, if I’d let him. How nice you look, Miss Rose, just the -same, only nicer; and such style! Is that the last fashion? It makes her -look just nothing at all, don’t it, Miss Anne? Oh, when we was all at -Mount, how we’d have copied it, and twisted it, and changed it to look -something the same, and not the least the same--but I’ve got to dress up -to forty and look as old as I can now.’ - -Saymore came into the sitting-room after them with his best bow, and -that noiseless step, and those ingratiating manners which had made him -the best of butlers. ‘I have nothing to find fault with, ma’am,’ he -said. ‘I’ve been very well received, very well received. Gentlemen as -remembered me at Mount has been very kind. Mr. Loseby, he has many a -little luncheon here. “I’ll not bother my old housekeeper,” he says, -when he has gentlemen come sudden. “I’ll just step over to my old friend -Saymore. Saymore knows how to send up a nice little lunch, and he knows -a good glass of wine when he sees it.” That’s exactly what Mr. Loseby -said, no more than three days ago. But business is quiet,’ Saymore -added. ‘I don’t complain, but things is quiet; we’d be the better, -ma’am, of a little more stir here.’ - -‘But I hope you find everything comfortable--at home, Saymore?’ said his -former mistress. ‘You know I always told you it was an experiment. I -hope you find everything comfortable at home.’ - -‘Meaning Mrs. Saymore, ma’am?’ replied the landlord of the ‘Black Bull,’ -with dignity. ‘I’m very glad to say as she have given me and everybody -great satisfaction. She is young, but that is a fault, as I made so bold -as to observe to you, ma’am, on a previous occasion, a fault as is sure -to mend. I’ve never repented what I did when I married. She’s as nice as -possible downstairs, but never too nice--giving herself no airs: but -keeping her own place. She’s given me every satisfaction,’ said Saymore, -with much solemnity. In the meantime Keziah was giving her report on the -other side of the question, upstairs. - -‘No, Miss Anne. I can’t say as I’ve repented. Oh, no, I’ve never -repented. Mr. Saymore is very much respected in Hunston--and there’s -never a day that he don’t bring me something, a ribbon or a new collar, -or a story book if he can’t think of nothing else. It _was_ a little -disappointing when mother was found not to do in the kitchen. You see, -Miss Anne, we want the best of cooking when strangers come, and mother, -she was old-fashioned. She’s never forgiven me, though it wasn’t my -fault. And Tommy, he was too mischievous for a waiter. We gave him a -good long try, but Mr. Saymore was obliged at last to send him away. -Mother says she don’t see what it’s done for her, more than if I had -stayed at Mount--but I’m very comfortable myself, Miss Anne,’ said -Keziah, with a curtsey and a tear. - -‘I am very glad to hear it: and I hope you’ll be still happier -by-and-by,’ said Anne, retiring to the room which was to be hers, and -which opened from the little sitting-room in which they were standing. -Rose remained behind for further talk and gossip. And when all the news -was told Keziah returned to her admiration of the fashion of Rose’s -gown. - -‘Are they all made like that now, in Paris? Oh, dear, I always thought -when you went to France I’d go too. I always thought of Paris. But it -wasn’t to be.’ - -‘You see, Keziah, you liked Saymore best,’ said Rose, fixing her -mischievous eyes upon Keziah’s face, who smiled a little sheepish smile, -and made a little half-pathetic appeal with her eyes, but did not disown -the suggestion, which flattered her vanity if not her affection. - -‘You are as blooming as a rose, Miss--as you always was,’ said Keziah, -‘but what’s Miss Anne been a-doing to herself? She’s like a white marble -image in a church; I never saw her that pale.’ - -‘Hush!’ cried Rose, in a whisper, pointing to the door behind them, by -which Anne had disappeared; and then she came close to the questioner, -with much pantomime and mystery. ‘Don’t say a word. Keziah. It is all -broken off. She has thrown the gentleman over. Hush, for heaven’s sake, -don’t say a word!’ - -‘You don’t mean it, Miss Rose. Broken off! Mr. Dou----’ - -Rose put her hand on the little landlady’s mouth. ‘She must not hear we -are talking of her. She would never forgive me. And besides, I don’t -know--it is only a guess; but I am quite, quite sure.’ - -Keziah threw up her hands and her eyes. ‘All broken off--thrown the -gentleman over! Is there someone else?’ she whispered, trembling, -thinking with mingled trouble and complacency of her own experiences in -this kind, and of her unquestioned superiority nowadays to the lover -whom she had thrown over--the unfortunate Jim. - -‘No, no, no,’ said Rose, making her mouth into a circle, and shaking her -head. No other! No richer, better, more desirable lover! This was a -thing that Keziah did not understand. Her face grew pale with wonder, -even with awe. To jilt a gentleman for your own advancement in life, -that might be comprehensible--but to do it to your own damage, and have -cheeks like snowflakes in consequence--that was a thing she could not -make out. It made her own position, with which she was already -satisfied, feel twice as advantageous and comfortable; even though her -marriage had not turned out so well for mother and the boys as Keziah -had once hoped. - -Mr. Loseby came across the street, humming a little tune, to join them -at dinner. He was shining from top to toe in his newest black suit, all -shining, from his little varnished shoes to his bald head, and with the -lights reflected in his spectacles. It was a great day for the lawyer, -who was fond of both the girls, and who had an indulgent amity, mingled -with contempt, for Mrs. Mountford herself, such as men so often -entertain for their friends’ wives. He was triumphant in their arrival, -besides, and very anxious to secure that they should return to the -neighbourhood and settle among their old friends. He, too, however, -after his first greetings were over, was checked in his rejoicings by -the paleness of his favourite. ‘What have you been doing to Anne?’ were, -after his salutations, the first words he said. - -‘If anything has been done to her, it is her own doing,’ said Mrs. -Mountford, with a little indignation. - -‘Nothing has been done to me,’ said Anne, with a smile. ‘I hear that I -am pale, though I don’t notice it. It is all your letters, Mr. Loseby, -and the business you give me. I have to let mamma and Rose go to their -dissipations by themselves.’ - -‘Our dissipations! You do not suppose I have had spirits for much -dissipation,’ said Mrs. Mountford, now fully reminded of her position as -a widow, and with her usual high sense of duty, determined to live up to -it. She pressed her handkerchief upon her eyelids once more, after the -fashion she had dropped. ‘But it is true that I have tried to go out a -little,’ she added, ‘more than I should have done at home--for Rose’s -sake.’ - -‘You were quite right,’ said the lawyer; ‘the young ones cannot feel as -we do, they cannot be expected to go on in our groove. And Rose is -blooming like her name. But I don’t like the looks of Anne. Have I been -giving you so much business to do? But then, you see, I expected that -you would have Mr. Douglas close at hand, to help you. Indeed, my only -wonder was----’ - -Here Mr. Loseby broke off, and had a fit of coughing, in which the rest -of the words were lost. He had surprised a little stir in the party, a -furtive interchange of looks between Mrs. Mountford and Rose. And this -roused the alarm of the sympathetic friend of the family, who, indeed, -had wondered much--as he had begun to say-- - -‘No,’ said Anne, with a smile, ‘you know I was always a person of -independent mind. I always liked to do my work myself. Besides, Mr. -Douglas has his own occupations, and the chief part of the time we have -been away.’ - -‘To be sure,’ said Mr. Loseby. He was much startled by the -consciousness which seemed to pervade the party, though nothing more was -said. Mrs. Mountford became engrossed with her dress, which had caught -in something; and Rose, though generally very determined in her -curiosity, watched Anne, the spectator perceived, from under her -eyelids. Mr. Loseby took no notice externally. ‘That’s how it always -happens,’ he said cheerfully; ‘with the best will in the world we always -find that our own business is as much as we can get through. I have -found out that to my humiliation a hundred times in my life.’ - -‘These questions about the leases are the most difficult,’ said Anne, -steadily. ‘I suppose the old tenants are not always the best.’ - -‘My dear, I hope in these bad times we may get tenants at all, old or -new,’ said the old lawyer. And then he plunged into the distresses of -the country, the complaints of the farmers, the troubles of the -labourers, the still greater trials of the landlord. ‘Your cousin -Heathcote has made I don’t know how much reduction. I am not at all sure -that he is right. It is a dreadfully bad precedent for other landlords. -And for himself he simply can’t afford it. But I cannot get him to hear -reason. “What does it matter to me?” he says, “I have always enough to -live on, and those that till the land have the best right to any -advantage they can get out of it.” What can you say to a man that thinks -like that? I tell him he is a fool for his pains; but it is I who am a -fool for mine, for he takes no notice though I talk myself hoarse.’ - -‘Indeed, I think it is very unjustifiable conduct,’ said Mrs. Mountford. -‘He should think of those who are to come after him. A man has no right -to act in that way as if he stood by himself. He ought to marry and -settle down. I am sure I hope he will have heirs of his own, and not -leave the succession to that horrid little Edward. To think of a -creature like that in Mount would be more than I could bear.’ - -‘I doubt if Heathcote will ever marry; not unless he gets the one -woman---- But we don’t all get _that_ even when we are most lucky,’ said -the old lawyer, briskly. ‘He is crotchety, crotchety, full of his own -ideas: but a fine fellow all the same.’ - -‘Does he want to marry more than one woman?’ cried Rose, opening great -eyes, ‘and you talk of it quite coolly, as if it was not anything very -dreadful; but of course he can’t, he would be hanged or something. -Edward is not so bad as mamma says. He is silly; but, then, they are -mostly silly.’ She had begun to feel that she was a person of -experience, and justified in letting loose her opinion. All this time it -seemed to Mr. Loseby that Anne was going through her part like a woman -on the stage. She was very quiet; but she seemed to insist with herself -upon noticing everything, listening to all that was said, giving her -assent or objection. In former times she had not been at all so -particular, but let the others chatter with a gentle indifference to -what they were saying. She seemed to attend to everything, the table, -and the minutiae of the dinner, letting nothing escape her to-night. - -‘I think Heathcote is right,’ she said; ‘Edward will not live to succeed -him; and, if he does not marry, why should he save money, and pinch -others now, on behalf of a future that may never come? What happens if -there is no heir to an entail? Could not it all be eaten up, all -consumed, re-absorbed into the country, as it were, by the one who is -last?’ - -‘Nonsense, Anne. He has no right to be the last. No one has any right to -be the last. To let an old family die down,’ cried Mrs. Mountford, ‘it -is a disgrace. What would dear papa have said? When I remember what a -life they all led me because I did not have a boy--as if it had been my -fault! I am sure if all the hair off my head, or everything I cared for -in my wardrobe, or anything in the world I had, could have made Rose a -boy, I would have sacrificed it. I must say that if Heathcote does not -marry I shall think I have been very badly used: though, indeed, his -might all be girls too,’ she added, half hopefully, half distressed. -‘Anyhow, the trial ought to be made.’ Notwithstanding the danger to the -estate, it would have been a little consolation to Mrs. Mountford if -Heathcote on marrying had been found incapable, he also, of procuring -anything more than girls from Fate. - -‘When an heir of entail fails----’ Mr. Loseby began, not unwilling to -expound a point on which he was an authority; but Rose broke in and -interrupted him, never having had any wholesome fear of her seniors -before her eyes. Rose wanted to know what was going to be done now they -were here, if they were to stay all the autumn in the ‘Black Bull;’ if -they were to take a house anywhere; and generally what they were to do. -This gave Mr. Loseby occasion to produce his scheme. There was an old -house upon the property which had not been entailed, which Mr. Mountford -had bought with his first wife’s money, and which was now the -inheritance of Rose. It had been suffered to fall out of repair, but it -was still an inhabitable house. ‘You know it, Anne,’ the lawyer said; -‘it would be an amusement to you all to put it in order. A great deal -could be done in a week or two. I am told there is no amusement like -furnishing, and you might make a pretty place of it.’ The idea, however, -was not taken up with very much enthusiasm. - -‘In all probability,’ Mrs. Mountford said, ‘we shall go abroad again for -the winter. The girls like it, and it is very pleasant, when one can, -to escape from the cold.’ - -The discussion of this subject filled the rest of the evening. Mr. -Loseby was very anxious on his side. He declared that it did not bind -them to anything; that to have a house, a _pied-à-terre_, ‘even were it -only to put on your cards,’ was always an advantage. After much argument -it was decided at last that the house at Lilford, an old Dower-house, -and bearing that picturesque name, should be looked at before any -conclusion was come to; and with this Mr. Loseby took his leave. Anne -had taken her full share in the discussion. She had shown all the energy -that her _rôle_ required. She had put in suggestions of practical weight -with a leaning to the Dower-house, and had even expressed a little -enthusiasm about that last popular plaything--a house to furnish--which -nowadays has become the pleasantest of pastimes. ‘It shall be Morris-ey, -but not too Morris-ey,’ she had said, with a smile, still in perfect -fulfilment of her _rôle_. But to see Anne playing at being Anne had a -wonderful effect upon her old friend. Her stepmother and sister, being -with her perpetually, did not perhaps so readily suspect the fine -histrionic effort that was going on by their side. It was a fine -performance; but such a performance is apt to make the enlightened -beholder’s heart ache. When he had taken his leave of the other -ladies--early, as they were tired, or supposed it right to be tired, -with their journey--Anne followed Mr. Loseby out of the room. She asked -him to come into another close by. ‘I have something to say to you,’ she -said, with a faint smile. Mr. Loseby, like the old Rector, was very fond -of Anne. He had seen her grow up from her infancy. He had played with -her when she was a child, and carried her sugar-plums in his coat -pockets. And he had no children of his own to distract his attention -from his favourite. It troubled him sadly to see signs of trouble about -this young creature whom he loved. - -‘What is it, Anne? What is it, my dear? Something has happened?’ he -said. - -‘No, nothing of consequence. That is not true,’ she said, hurriedly; ‘it -is something, and something of consequence. I have not said anything -about it to them. They suspect, that is all; and it does not matter to -them; but I want to tell you. Mr. Loseby, you were talking to-night of -Mr. Douglas. It is about Mr. Douglas I want to speak to you.’ - -He looked at her very anxiously, taking her hand into his. ‘Are you -going to be married?’ - -Anne laughed. She was playing Anne more than ever; but, on the whole, -very successfully. ‘Oh no,’ she said, ‘quite the reverse----’ - -‘Anne! do you mean that he has--that you have--that it is broken off?’ - -‘The last form is the best,’ she said. ‘It is all a little confused just -yet. I can’t tell if he has, or if I have. But yes--I must do him -justice: it is certainly not his doing. I am wholly responsible myself. -It has come to an end.’ - -She looked into his face wistfully, evidently fearing what he would say, -deprecating, entreating. If only nothing might be said! And Mr. Loseby -was confounded. He had not been kept up like the others to the course of -affairs. - -‘Anne, you strike me dumb. You take away my breath. What! he whom you -have sacrificed everything for: he who has cost you all you have in the -world? If it is a caprice, my dear girl, it is a caprice utterly -incomprehensible; a caprice I cannot understand.’ - -‘That is exactly how to call it,’ she said, eagerly: ‘a caprice, an -unpardonable caprice. If Rose had done it, I should have whipped her, I -believe; but it is I, the serious Anne, the sensible one, that have -done it. This is all there is to say. I found myself out, fortunately, -before it was too late. And I wanted you to know.’ - -In this speech her powers almost failed her. She forgot her part. She -played not Anne, but someone else, some perfectly artificial character, -which her audience was not acquainted with, and Mr. Loseby was startled. -He pushed away his spectacles, and contracted his brows, and looked at -her with his keen, short-sighted eyes, which, when they could see -anything, saw very clearly. But with all his gazing he could not make -the mystery out. She faced him now, after that one little failure, with -Anne’s very look and tone, a slight, fugitive, somewhat tremulous smile -about her mouth, her eyes wistful, deprecating blame; but always very -pale: that was the worst of it, that was the thing least like herself. - -‘After losing,’ said the lawyer slowly, ‘everything you had in the world -for his sake.’ - -‘Yes,’ Anne said, with desperate composure, ‘it is ridiculous, is it -not? Perhaps it was a little to have my own way, Mr. Loseby. Nobody can -tell how subtle one’s mind is till one has been tried. My father defied -me, and I suppose I would not give in; I was very obstinate. It is -inconceivable what a girl will do. And then we are all obstinate, we -Mountfords. I have heard you say so a hundred times; pig-headed, was not -that the word you used?’ - -‘Most probably it was the word I used. Oh, yes, I know you are -obstinate. Your father was like an old mule; but you, you--I declare to -you I do not understand it, Anne.’ - -‘Nor do I myself,’ she said, with another small laugh, a very small -laugh, for Anne’s strength was going. ‘Can anyone understand what -another does, or even what they do themselves? But it is so; that is all -that there is to say.’ - -Mr. Loseby walked about the room in his distress. He thrust up his -spectacles till they formed two gleaming globes on the shining firmament -of his baldness. Sometimes he thrust his hands behind him under his coat -tails, sometimes clasped them in front of him, wringing their plump -joints. ‘Sacrificed everything for it,’ he said, ‘made yourself a -beggar! and now to go and throw it all up. Oh, I can’t understand it, I -can’t understand it! there’s more in this than meets the eye.’ - -Anne did not speak--truth to tell, she could not--she was past all -histrionic effort. She propped herself up against the arm of the sofa, -close to which she was standing, and endured, there being nothing more -that she could do. - -‘Why--why,’ cried Mr. Loseby, ‘child, couldn’t you have known your own -mind? A fine property! It was bad enough, however you chose to look at -it, but at least one thought there was something to set off against the -loss; now it’s all loss, no compensation at all. It’s enough to bring -your father back from his grave. And I wish there was something that -would,’ said the little lawyer vehemently; ‘I only wish there was -something that would. Shouldn’t I have that idiotical will changed as -fast as pen could go to paper! Why, there’s no reason for it now, -there’s no excuse for it. Oh, don’t speak to me, I can’t contain myself! -I tell you what, Anne,’ he cried, turning upon her, seizing one of the -hands with which she was propping herself up, and wringing it in his -own, ‘there’s one thing you can do, and only one thing, to make me -forgive you all the trouble you have brought upon yourself; and that is -to marry, straight off, your cousin, Heathcote Mountford, the best -fellow that ever breathed.’ - -‘I am afraid,’ said Anne faintly, ‘I cannot gratify you in that, Mr. -Loseby.’ She dropped away from him and from her support, and sank upon -the first chair. Fortunately he was so much excited himself, that he -failed to give the same attention to her looks. - -‘That would make up for much,’ he said; ‘that would cover a multitude of -sins.’ - -Anne scarcely knew when he went away, but he did leave her at last -seated there, not venturing to move. The room was swimming about her, -dark, bare, half lighted, with its old painted walls. The prints hung -upon them seemed to be moving round her, as if they were the decorations -of a cabin at sea. She had got through her crisis very stoutly, without, -she thought, betraying herself to anybody. She said to herself vaguely, -always with a half-smile, as being her own spectator, and more or less -interested in the manner in which she acquitted herself, that every -spasm would probably be a little less violent, as she had heard was the -case in fevers. And, on the whole, the spasm like this, which prostrated -her entirely, and left her blind and dumb for a minute or two to come to -herself by degrees, was less wearing than the interval of dead calm and -pain that came between. This it was that took the blood from her cheeks. -She sat still for a few minutes in the old-fashioned arm-chair, held up -by its hard yet comforting support, with her back turned to the table -and her face to the half-open door. The very meaninglessness of her -position, thus reversed from all use and wont, gave a forlorn -completeness to her desolation--turned away from the table, turned away -from everything that was convenient and natural; her fortune given away -for the sake of her love, her love sacrificed for no reason at all, the -heavens and the earth all misplaced and turning round. When Anne came to -herself the half-smile was still upon her lip with which she had been -regarding herself, cast off on all sides, without compensation--losing -everything. Fate seemed to stand opposite to her, and the world and -life, in which, so far as appearance went, she had made such shipwreck. -She raised herself up a little in her chair and confronted them all. -Whatever they might do, she would not be crushed, she would not be -destroyed. The smile came more strongly to the curves of her mouth, -losing its pitiful droop. Looking at herself again, it was ludicrous; no -wonder Mr. Loseby was confounded. Ludicrous--that was the only word. To -sacrifice everything for one thing: to have stood against the world, -against her father, against everybody, for Cosmo: and then by-and-by to -be softly detached from Cosmo, by Cosmo himself, and allowed to drift, -having lost everything, having nothing. Ludicrous--that was what it was. -She gave a little laugh in the pang of revival. A touch with a redhot -iron might be as good as anything to stimulate failing forces and string -loose nerves. Ice does it--a plunge into an icy stream. Thus she mused, -getting confused in her thoughts. In the meantime Rose and Mrs. -Mountford were whispering with grave faces. ‘Is it a quarrel, or is it -for good? I hope you hadn’t anything to do with it,’ said the mother, -much troubled. ‘How should I have anything to do with it?’ said innocent -Rose; ‘but, all the same, I am sure it is for good.’ - - - - -CHAPTER XXXII. - -ROSE ON HER DEFENCE. - - -All the country was stirred by the news of the return of the Mountfords, -and the knowledge that they were, of all places in the world, at the -‘Black Bull’ at Hunston, which was the strangest place to go to, some -people thought, though others were of opinion that Anne Mountford -‘showed her sense’ by taking the party there. It was Anne who got the -credit of all the family arrangements, and sometimes without fully -deserving it. Lady Meadowlands and Fanny Woodhead, though at the -opposite ends of the social scale, both concurred in the opinion that it -was the best thing they could have done. Why not go back to Mount? some -people said, since it was well known that the bachelor cousin had put -the house at their disposal, and the furniture there still belonged to -Mrs. Mountford. But how could Anne go to Mount, both these ladies asked, -when it was clear as daylight that Heathcote Mountford, the new master, -was as much in love with her as a man could be? Very silly of him, no -doubt, and she engaged: but oh dear, oh dear, Fanny Woodhead cried, what -a waste of good material that all these people should be in love with -Anne! why should they all be in love with Anne, when it was clear she -could not marry more than one of them? Lady Meadowlands took a higher -view, as was natural, being altogether unaffected by the competition -which is so hard upon unmarried ladies in the country. She said it was a -thousand pities that Anne had not seen Heathcote Mountford, a very -good-looking man, and one with all his wits about him, and with a great -deal of conversation, before she had been carried away with the tattle -of _that_ Mr. Douglas, who had no looks and no family, and was only the -first man (not a clergyman) whom she had ever seen. In this particular, -it will be observed, her ladyship agreed with Mr. Loseby, who had so -often lamented over the lateness of Heathcote’s arrival on the field. -All these good people ordered their carriages to drive to Hunston and -call at the ‘Black Bull.’ The Miss Woodheads went in their little pony -cart, and Lady Meadowlands in a fine London carriage, her town chariot, -which was only taken out on great occasions: and the Rector was driven -in by Charley very soberly in the vehicle which the younger son of the -family, with all the impertinence of Oxford, profanely called a -shandrydan. With each successive visitor Anne’s looks were, above all -things, the most interesting subject. ‘I think it suits her,’ Lady -Meadowlands said thoughtfully--which was a matter the others did not -take into consideration. ‘Don’t you think so, Mr. Mountford?’ she said -with deliberate cruelty to Heathcote, who rode back part of the way by -her carriage door. ‘I am not a judge,’ he said; ‘I have a great deal of -family feeling. I think most things suit my cousin Anne. If she were -flushed and florid, most likely I should think the same.’ - -‘And you would be perfectly right,’ said the first lady in the county. -‘Whatever she does, you’d have her do so ever. You and I are of the same -opinion, Mr. Mountford; but if I were you I would not leave a stone -unturned to get her back to Mount.’ ‘If will would do it!’ he said. -‘Will can do everything,’ cried the great lady, waving her hand to him -as she turned the corner. He stood still and gazed after her, shaking -his head, while the beautiful bays devoured the way. - -The most agitating of all these visitors to Anne were the Ashleys, who -knew more about her, she felt, than all the rest put together. The -Rector came in with an elaborately unconcerned countenance, paying his -respects to the stepmother and commending the bloom of Rose--but, as -soon as he could get an opportunity, came back to Anne and took her by -the arm, as was his usual way. ‘Did you send it?’ he said in her ear, -leading her toward the further window. It was a large broad bow-window -with round sashes and old-fashioned panes, looking down the High Street -of Hunston. They did not look at each other, but looked out upon the -street as they stood there, the old man holding the girl close to him -with his arm through hers. - -‘Yes--I sent it--that very day----’ - -‘And he sent you an answer?’ - -A tremor ran through Anne’s frame which the Rector was very sensible of; -but he did not spare her, though he pitied her. - -‘I--suppose so: there was a letter; it is all over now, if that is what -you mean. Don’t talk about it any more.’ - -Mr. Ashley held her close by the arm, which he caressed with the -pressure of his own. ‘He took it, then, quietly--he did not make any -resistance?’ he said. - -‘Mr. Ashley,’ said Anne, with a shiver running over her, ‘don’t let us -talk of it any more.’ - -‘As you please, as you please, my dear,’ said the old man; but it was -with reluctance that he let her go; he had a hundred questions to ask. -He wanted to have satisfied himself about Cosmo, why he had done it, how -he had done it, and everything about it. The Rector was confused. He -remembered the letter to Cosmo, which she had given him to read, and -which had bewildered him at the time by its apparent calm. And yet now -she seemed to mind! he did not understand it. He wanted to hear -everything about it, but she would not let him ask. His questions, which -he was not permitted to give vent to, lay heavy upon his heart as he -went back. ‘She would not open her mind to me,’ he said to Charley. -‘Whatever has happened, it must have been a comfort to her to open her -mind. That is what is making her so pale. To shut it all up in her own -heart cannot be good for her. But she would not open her mind to me.’ - -‘It would have been difficult to do it with all those people present,’ -the Curate said, and this gave his father a little consolation. For his -own part Charley had never been so out of spirits. So long as she was -happy, what did it matter? he had said so often to himself. And now she -was no longer happy and there was nothing anyone could do to make her -so. He for one had to stand by and consent to it, that Anne should -suffer. To suffer himself would have been a hundred times more easy, but -he could not do anything. He could not punish the man who had been at -the bottom of it all. He could not even permit himself the gratification -of telling that fellow what he thought of him. He must be dumb and -inactive, whatever happened, for Anne’s sake. While the good Rector told -out his regrets and disappointment, and distress because of Anne’s -silence, and certainty that to open her heart would do her good, the -Curate was wondering sadly over this one among the enigmas of life. He -himself, and Heathcote Mountford, either of them, would have given half -they had (all they had in the world, Charley put it) to be permitted to -be Anne’s companion and comforter through the world. But Anne did not -want either of them. She wanted Cosmo, who would not risk his own -comfort by taking the hand she held out to him, or sacrifice a scrap of -his own life for hers. How strange it was, and yet so common--to be met -with everywhere! And nobody could do anything to mend it. He scarcely -ventured to allow, when he was in his parish, that there were a great -many things of this kind which it was impossible to him to understand: -he had to be very sure that everything that befell his poor people was -‘for their good;’ but in the recesses of his own bosom he allowed -himself more latitude. He did not see how this, for instance, could be -for anyone’s good. But there is very little consolation in such a view, -even less than in the other way of looking at things. And he was very -‘low,’ sad to the bottom of his good heart. He had not said anything to -Anne. He had only ventured to press her hand, perhaps a little more -warmly than usual, and he had felt, poor fellow, that for that silent -sympathy she had not been grateful. She had drawn her hand away -impatiently; she had refused to meet his eye. She had not wanted any of -his sympathy. Perhaps it was natural, but it was a little hard to bear. - -Rose had her own grievances while all this was going on. If her sister, -worked into high irritation by the questions and significant looks to -which she had been exposed, had found it almost intolerable to live -through the succession of visits, and to meet everybody with genial -indifference, and give an account of all they had been doing, and all -that they were about to do--Rose was much displeased, for her part, to -find herself set down again out of the importance to which she had -attained, and made into the little girl of old, the young sister, the -nobody whom no one cared to notice particularly while Anne was by. It -was not Rose’s fault, certainly, that her father had made that will -which changed the positions of herself and her sister: but Lady -Meadowlands, for one, had always treated her as if it was her fault. -Even that, however, was less disrespectful than the indifference of the -others, who made no account of her at all, and to whom she was still -little Rose, her sister’s shadow--nothing at all to speak of in her own -person. They did not even notice her dress, which she herself thought a -masterpiece, and which, was certainly such a work of art as had never -been seen in Hunston before. And when all these people went away, Rose, -for her part, sought Mrs. Keziah, who was always ready to admire. She -was so condescending that she went downstairs to the parlour in which -old Saymore and his young wife spent most of their lives, and went in -for a talk. It was a thing Rose was fond of doing, to visit her humble -friends and dependents in their own habitations. But there were a great -many reasons why she should do what she liked in Saymore’s house: first, -because she was one of ‘his young ladies’ whom he had taken care of all -their lives; second, because she was an important member of the party -who were bringing success and prosperity to Saymore’s house. She was -queen of all that was in the ‘Black Bull.’ Miss Anne might be first in -Saymore’s allegiance, as was the case with all the old friends of the -family; but, on the other hand, Anne was not a person to skip about -through the house and come in for a talk to the parlour, as Rose did -lightly, with no excuse at all. ‘I am so sick of all those people,’ she -cried; ‘I wish they would not all come and be sympathetic; I don’t want -any one to be sympathetic! Besides, it is such a long, long time since. -One must have found some way of living, some way of keeping on, since -then. I wish they would not be so awfully sorry for us. I don’t think -now that even mamma is so sorry for herself.’ - -‘Your mamma is a Christian, Miss Rose,’ said old Saymore, getting up, -though with a little reluctance, from his comfortable arm-chair as she -came in. ‘She knows that what can’t be cured must be endured; but, at -the same time, it is a great pleasure and an honour to see all the -carriages of the gentry round my door. I know for certain, Miss Rose, -that Lady Meadowlands never takes out that carriage for anybody below a -title, which shows the opinion she has of our family. Your papa was -wonderfully respected in the county. It was a great loss; a loss to -everything. There is not a gentleman left like him for the trouble he -used to take at Quarter Sessions and all that. It was a dreadful loss to -the county, not to speak of his family. And a young man, comparatively -speaking,’ said Saymore, with a respectful sigh. - -‘Poor dear papa! I am sure I felt it as much as anyone--at the time,’ -said Rose; ‘don’t you remember, Keziah, how awful that week was? I did -nothing but cry; but for a young man, Saymore, you know that is -nonsense. He was not the least young; he was as old, as old----’ - -Here Rose stopped and looked at him, conscious that the words she had -intended to say were, perhaps, not quite such as her companions would -like to hear. Keziah was sitting by, sewing. She might have taken it -amiss if her young mistress had held up this new husband of hers as a -Methuselah. Rose looked from one to the other, confused, yet hardly able -to keep from laughing. And probably old Saymore divined what she was -going to say. - -‘Not old, Miss Rose,’ he said, with the steady pertinacity which had -always been one of his characteristics; ‘a gentleman in the very prime -of life. When you’ve lived virtuous and sober, saving your presence, -Miss, and never done nothing to wear yourself out, sixty is nothing but -the prime of life. Young fools, as has nothing but their youth to -recommend them, may say different, but from them as has a right to give -an opinion, you’ll never hear nothing else said. He was as healthy a -man, your late dear papa, as ever I wish to see; and as hearty, and as -full of life. And all his wits about him, Miss. I signed a document not -longer than the very last day before he was taken--me and John -Gardiner--and he was as clear as any judge, that’s what he was. “It’s -not my will,” he said to me, “Saymore--or you couldn’t sign, as you’re -one of the legatees; for a bit of a thing like this it don’t matter.” I -never see him more joky nor more pleasant, Miss Rose. He wasn’t joky not -in his ordinary, but that day he was poking his fun at you all the time. -“It’s a small bit of a thing to want witnessing, ain’t it?” he said; -“and it’s not a new will, for you couldn’t witness that, being both -legatees.”’ - -Rose was a good deal startled by this speech. Suddenly there came before -her a vision of the sealed-up packet in Anne’s desk--the seals of which -she had been so anxious to break. ‘What a funny thing that he should -have made you sign a paper!’ she said. - -‘Bless you, they’re always having papers to sign,’ said Saymore; -‘sometimes it’s one thing, sometimes it’s another. A deal of money is a -deal of trouble, Miss Rose. You don’t know that as yet, seeing as you’ve -got Miss Anne to do everything for you.’ - -‘I shan’t always have Miss Anne,’ Rose said, not knowing well what were -the words she used; her mind was away, busy in other ways, very busy in -other thoughts. She had always been curious, as she said to herself, -from the first moment she saw that packet. What was in it? could it be -the paper that Saymore signed? Could it be?--but Rose did not know what -to think. - -‘When you have not got Miss Anne, you’ll have a gentleman,’ Saymore -said. ‘We ain’t in no sort of doubt about that, Miss Rose, Keziah and -me. There are ladies as always gets their gentleman, whatever happens; -and one like you, cut out by nature, and a deal of money -besides--there’s not no question about that. The thing will be as you’ll -have too many to choose from. It’s a deal of responsibility for a young -creature at your age.’ - -‘I will come and ask your advice, Saymore,’ said Rose, her head still -busy about other things. ‘Keziah asked my advice, you know.’ - -‘Did she, Miss Rose? Then I hope as you’ll never repent the good advice -you gave her,’ said old Saymore, drawing himself up and putting out his -chest, as is the manner of man when he plumes himself. Rose looked at -him with eyes of supreme ridicule, and even his little wife gave a -glance up from her sewing with a strong inclination to titter; but he -did not perceive this, which was fortunate. Neither had Saymore any idea -that the advice the young lady had given had ever been against him. - -‘And you might do worse,’ he added, ‘than consult me. Servants see many -a thing that other folks don’t notice. You take my word, Miss Rose, -there’s nowhere that you’ll hear the truth of a gentleman’s temper and -his goings on, better than in the servants’ hall.’ - -‘I wonder if it was a law paper that had to have two witnesses?’ said -Rose, irrelevantly. ‘I wonder if it was something about the estate? Anne -never has anything to sign that wants witnesses; was it a big paper, -like one of Mr. Loseby’s? I should so like to know what it was.’ - -‘It wasn’t his will; that is all I can tell you, Miss Rose. How joky he -was, to be sure, that day! I may say it was the last time as I ever saw -master in life. It was before they started--him and Mr. Heathcote, for -their ride. He never was better in his life than that afternoon when -they started. I helped him on with his great-coat myself. He wouldn’t -have his heavy coat that he always wore when he was driving. “The other -one, Saymore,” he said, “the other one; I ain’t a rheumatic old fogey -like you,” master said. Queer how it all comes back upon me! I think I -can see him, standing as it might be there, Miss Rose, helping him on -with his coat; and to think as he was carried back insensible and never -opened his lips more!’ - -Rose was awed in spite of herself; and Keziah wiped her eyes. ‘He spoke -to me that day more than he had done for ever so long,’ she said. ‘I met -him in the long corridor, and I was that frightened I didn’t know what -to do; but he stopped as kind as possible. “Is that you, little Keziah?” -he said. “How is the mother getting on and the children?” Mother was -_that_ pleased when I told her. She cried, and we all cried. Oh, I don’t -wonder as it is a trial to come back, losing a kind father like that and -your nice ‘ome!’ - -Now this was the kind of sympathy which Rose had particularly announced -she did not wish to receive. She did not in the least regret ‘her nice -‘ome,’ but looked back upon Mount with unfeigned relief to have escaped -from the dull old world of its surroundings. But she was a little -touched by these reminiscences of her father, and a great curiosity was -excited within her upon other matters. She herself was a very different -person from the little girl--the second daughter, altogether subject and -dependent--which she had been on that fatal day. She looked back upon it -with awe, but without any longing that it should be undone and -everything restored to its previous order. If Mr. Mountford could come -back, and everything be as before, the change would not be a comfortable -one for Rose. No change, she thought, would be pleasant. What could papa -mean, signing papers on that very last day? What did he want witnesses -for, after his will was signed and all done? Rose did not know what to -think of it. Perhaps, indeed, it was true, as old Saymore said, that -gentlemen always had papers to sign; but it was odd, all the same. She -went away with her head full of it upstairs to the room where her mother -and sister were sitting. They were both a little languid, sitting at -different ends of the room. Mrs. Mountford had been making much use of -her handkerchief, and it was a little damp after so many hours. She had -felt that if she were not really crying she ought to be. To see all the -old people and hear so many words of welcome, and regret that things -were not as they used to be, had moved her. She was seated in this -subdued state, feeling that she ought to be very much affected. She -felt, indeed, that she ought not to be able to eat any dinner--that she -ought to be good for nothing but bed. However, it was summer, when it is -more difficult to retire there. Mrs. Mountford made great use of her -handkerchief. Anne was seated in the bow-window, looking out upon the -few passengers of the High Street. In reality she did not see them; but -this was her outside aspect. Her book was upon her knees. She had given -herself up to her own thoughts, and these, it was evident, were not -over-bright. Rose’s coming in was a relief to both, for, happily, Rose -was not given to thinking. On most occasions she occupied herself with -what was before her, and took no trouble about what might lie beneath. - -‘Isn’t it time to dress for dinner?’ Rose said. - -‘To be sure,’ cried Mrs. Mountford gratefully. To make a movement of any -kind was a good thing; ‘it must be time to dress for dinner. One feels -quite out here, with no bell to tell us what to do. I suppose it -wouldn’t do for Saymore, with other people in the house, to ring a -dressing-bell. One is lost without a dressing-bell,’ the good lady said. -She had her work and her wools all scattered about, though in the -emotion of the moment she had not been working. Now she gathered them -all in her arms, and, with much content that the afternoon was over, -went away. - -‘Do you ever have things to sign that want witnesses, Anne?’ - -‘No,’ said Anne, looking up surprised. ‘Why do you ask? Sometimes a -lease, or something of that sort,’ she said. - -‘Then perhaps it was a lease,’ said Rose to herself. She did not utter -this audibly, or give any clue to her thoughts, except the ‘Oh, -nothing,’ which is a girl’s usual answer when she is asked what she -means. And then they all went to dress for dinner, and nothing more -could be said. - -Nothing more was said that night. As soon as it was dusk, Mrs. Mountford -retired to her room. It had been a fatiguing day, and everything had -been brought back, she said. Certainly her handkerchief was quite damp. -Worth was very sympathetic as she put her mistress to bed. - -‘Strangers is safest,’ Worth said; ‘I always did say so. There’s no need -to keep up before them, and nothing to be pushed back upon you. Trouble -is always nigh enough, without being forced back.’ - -And Rose, too, went to bed early. She had a great deal of her mother in -her. She recognised the advantage of getting rid of herself, if not in -any more pleasant way, then in that. But she could not sleep when she -wished, which is quite a different thing from going to bed. She seemed -to see as plainly as possible, dangling before her, with all its red -seals, the packet which was to be opened on her twenty-first birthday. -Why shouldn’t it be opened now? What could it matter to anyone, and -especially to papa, whether it was read now or two years hence? Rose was -nineteen; from nineteen is not a long step to one-and-twenty. And what -if that packet contained the paper that Saymore had witnessed? She had -told Anne she ought to open it. She had almost opened it herself while -Anne looked on. If she only could get at it now! - -Next morning a remarkable event occurred. Anne drove out with Mr. Loseby -to see the Dower-house at Lilford, and report upon it. The old lawyer -was very proud as she took her seat by him in his high phaeton. - -‘I hope everybody will see us,’ he said. ‘I should like all the people -in the county to see Queen Anne Mountford in the old solicitor’s shay. I -know some young fellows that would give their ears to be me, baldness -and all. Every dog has his day, and some of us have to wait till we are -very old dogs before we get it.’ - -‘Remember, Anne,’ said Mrs. Mountford, ‘that if it is the least damp I -will have nothing to do with it.’ - -Rose watched from the old bow-window with the round panes to see them -drive away. She waved her hand to Anne, but she was scarcely conscious -what she was doing, her heart beat so much. She sent her maid out to -match some ribbon, which she knew would take a long time to match, and -then Rose made a general survey of the rooms. They all opened off a -square vestibule, or, more correctly, an antechamber. She went through -her mother’s first, carelessly, as if looking for something; then -through her own; and only went to Anne’s as the last. Her heart beat -high, but she had no feeling that she was going to do anything that was -wrong. How could it be wrong? to read a letter a little earlier than the -time appointed for reading it. If there had been anything to say that -Rose was not to read it at all, then it might have been wrong; but what -could it possibly matter whether it was read now or in two years? To be -sure, it was not addressed to Rose, but what of that? Except Cosmo’s -letters, which of course were exceptional, being love-letters, all -correspondence of the family was in common--and especially, of all -things in the world, a letter from poor papa! But nevertheless Rose’s -heart beat as she went into Anne’s room. The despatch-box generally -stood by the writing-table, open, with all its contents ready for -reference. The lid was shut down to-day, which gave her a great fright. -But it was not locked, as she had feared. She got down on her knees -before it and peeped in. There was the little drawer in which it had -been placed, a drawer scarcely big enough to contain it. The red seals -crackled as she took it out with trembling hands. One bit of the wax -came off of itself. Had Anne been taking a peep too, though she would -not permit Rose to do so? No; there was no abrasion of the paper, no -break of the seal. Rose suddenly remembered that the very seal her -father had used was at this moment on her mother’s desk. She got up -hastily to get it, but then, remembering, took out the packet and -carried it with her. She could lock the door of her own room, but not of -Anne’s, and it would not do to scatter scraps of the red wax about -Anne’s room and betray herself. She carried it away stealthily as a -mouse, whisking out and in of the doors. Her cheeks were flushed, her -hands trembling. Now, whatever it was, in a minute more she would know -all about it. Never in her life had Rose’s little being been in such a -commotion. Not when her father’s will was read; not when _that_ -gentleman at Cannes made her her first proposal; for at neither of these -moments had there been any alarm in her mind for what was coming. The -others might have suffered, perhaps, but not she. - -Mrs. Mountford complained afterwards that she had not seen Rose all day. -‘Where is Rose?’ Anne asked when she came back full of the Dower-house, -and anxious to recommend it to all concerned. After inquiries everywhere -it was found that Rose was lying down in her room with a bad headache. -She had made the maid, when she returned from her fruitless quest for -the ribbon, which could not be matched, draw down the blinds: and there -she lay in great state, just as Mrs. Mountford herself did in similar -circumstances. Anne, who went up to see her, came down with a half-smile -on her lips. - -‘She says it is like one of your headaches, mamma; and she will keep -still till dinner.’ - -‘That is the best thing she can do,’ said Mrs. Mountford. ‘If she can -get a little sleep she will be all right.’ - -Secretly it must be allowed that Anne was more amused than alarmed by -her little sister’s indisposition. Mrs. Mountford had been subject to -such retirements as long as anyone could remember; and Rose’s get-up -was a very careful imitation of her mother’s--eau de Cologne and water -on a chair beside her sofa, a wet handkerchief spread upon her head, her -hair let down and streaming on the pillow. - -‘Don’t let anyone take any notice,’ she said in a faint little voice. -‘If I am let alone I shall soon be better.’ - -‘Nobody shall meddle with you,’ said Anne, half laughing. And then she -retired downstairs to discuss the house with Mrs. Mountford, who was -only half an authority when Rose was not by. - -But if anyone could have known the thoughts that were going on under the -wet handkerchief and the dishevelled locks! Rose’s head was aching, not -with fever, but with thinking. She had adopted this expedient to gain -time, because she could not make up her mind what to do. The packet -re-sealed, though with considerably more expenditure of wax than the -original, was safely returned to the despatch-box. But Rose had been so -startled by the information she had received that further action had -become impossible to her. What was she to do? She was not going to sit -down under _that_, not going to submit to it, and live on for two years -knowing all about it. How could she do that? This was a drawback that -she had not foreseen: information clandestinely obtained is always a -dreadful burden to carry about. How was she to live for two years -knowing _that_, and pretending not to know it? Never before in her life -had the current of thought run so hot in her little brain. What was she -to do? Was there nothing she could do? She lay still for some minutes -after Anne had left her. To be in such a dilemma, and not to be able to -tell anybody--not to ask anybody’s advice! She thought once of rushing -to Keziah, putting the case to her us of someone else. But how could -Keziah tell her what to do? At last a sudden gleam of suggestion shot -through Rose’s brain; she sprang half up on her sofa, forgetting the -headache. At this period she was in a kind of irresponsible unmoral -condition, not aware that she meant any harm, thinking only of defending -herself from a danger which she had just discovered, which nobody else -knew. She must defend herself. If a robber is after you in the dark, and -you strike out wildly and hurt someone who is on your side, who is -trying to defend you--is that your fault? Self-defence was the first -thing, the only thing, that occurred to Rose. After it came into her -mind in the sole way in which it was possible she took no time to think, -but rushed at it, and did it without a moment’s pause. She wrote a -letter, composing it hurriedly, but with great care. It was not long, -but it meant a great deal. It was addressed, as Anne’s letter, which was -also of so much importance, had been addressed, to ‘Cosmo Douglas, Esq., -Middle Temple.’ What could little Rose be writing to Cosmo Douglas -about? She slid it into her pocket when, still very much flushed and -excited, she went down to dinner, and carried it about with her till -quite late in the evening, when, meeting Saymore with the bag which he -was about to send off to the post office, she stopped him on the stairs, -and put it in with her own hand. - -This was the history of Rose’s day--the day when she had that feverish -attack which alarmed all the inhabitants of the ‘Black Bull.’ She -herself always said it was nothing, and happily it came to nothing. But -who could prevent a mother from being alarmed, when her child suddenly -appeared with cheeks so flushed, and a pulse that was positively racing, -Mrs. Mountford said. However, fortunately, as the patient herself always -predicted, a night’s rest set it all right. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIII. - -THE MAN OF THE PERIOD. - - -There is in human nature an injustice towards those who do wrong, those -who are the sinners and agents of woe in this world, which balances a -good deal of the success of wickedness. There are plenty of wicked -persons who flourish like the green bay tree, and receive to all -appearance no recompense for their evil ways. But, on the other hand, -when a man fails to conduct himself as he ought to do, from cowardice, -from an undue regard to prudential motives--from, as often happens, an -overweening regard for the world’s opinion--that world repays him -pitilessly with contempt and neglect, and makes no allowance for all the -pangs which he suffers, and for all the struggles in his soul. Cosmo -Douglas has had hard measure in these pages, where, as we have -pretended, his character was understood. But even in understanding it, -we have dealt, we are aware and confess, hardly with this -nineteenth-century man, who had done nothing more than all the canons of -his age declared it his duty to do. He erred, perhaps, in loving Anne, -and in telling her so at first; for he ought to have taken it into -consideration that he would not be allowed to marry her, notwithstanding -the bias towards the romantic side of such questions which the world -professes in words. But then he was led astray by another wave of -popular opinion, that which declares with much apparent reason that the -race of cruel fathers is as extinct as the dodo, and that no girl is -ever really prevented, if she chooses to stick to him, from marrying -‘the man of her heart.’ Cosmo had believed this devoutly till he was -forced by events to take up a different opinion; and from that moment -every impartial observer must allow that he acted up to the highest -tenets of the modern creed. As soon as he perceived that it was really -likely that Anne would be deprived of her fortune in consequence of her -adherence to him, he did everything a man could do, within the limits -permitted to a gentleman of the period, to induce her to decide for her -own advantage and against himself. He could not say in so many words, -‘You must keep your fortune, and throw me over; I shall not mind it.’ -But he as near said it as a person of perfectly good manners could do. -It is not for a man to take the initiative in such a case, because -women, always more foolish than men, are very likely to be piqued on the -side of their generosity, and to hold all the more strenuously to a -self-denying lover, the more he does _not_ wish to bind them. In this -point his position was very difficult, very delicate, as any one may -perceive; and when, in spite of all his remonstrances, and hints, and -suggestions, Anne’s sacrifice was accomplished, and she was actually -cast off by her angry father, with no fortune, and nothing to recompense -her but the attachment of a barrister without occupation, and an empty -engagement to him, which it was impossible in present circumstances to -carry out, it would be difficult to imagine anything more embarrassing -than his position. She had made this sacrifice, which he did not wish, -for him; had insisted on making it, notwithstanding all that he could -venture to say; and now of course looked to him for gratitude, for -requital, and an impassioned sense of all that she had done and -relinquished for him, notwithstanding that it was the very last thing in -his mind that she should relinquish anything for him. What was he to do? - -If the man was exasperated, was there much wonder? He could no more, -according to his tenets, throw her over than he could marry her. Both -were alike impossible. It was strictly according to the laws of society -that a man should decline to marry when he had nothing to marry upon; -but it was not consistent with those laws (at least according to the -interpretation of them accepted by men of Cosmo’s type) that he should -throw the lady over as soon as she had lost her fortune. Here -accordingly arose a dilemma out of which it was impossible to come -unharmed. Cosmo’s very heart was impaled upon these forks. What could he -do? He could not marry upon nothing, and bring his wife down to the -position of a household drudge, which was all, so far as he knew, that -would be practicable. For Anne’s sake this was out of the question. -Neither could he say to her honestly, ‘You are poor and I am poor, and -we cannot marry.’ What could he do? He was blamed, blamed brutally, and -without consideration, by most of the people round; people like the -Ashleys, for instance, who would have plunged into the situation and -made something of it one way or another, and never would have found out -what its characteristic difficulties were. But to Cosmo those -difficulties filled up the whole horizon. What was he to do? How was he -to do it? To plunge himself and Anne into all the horrors of a penniless -marriage was impossible, simply impossible; and to separate himself from -her was equally out of the question. If the reader will contemplate the -position on all sides, he will, I am sure, be brought to see that, -taking into account the manner of man Cosmo was, and his circumstances, -and all about him, the way in which he did behave, perplexedly keeping -up his relations with her family, showing himself as useful as possible, -but keeping off all too-familiar consultations, all plans and projects -for the future, was really the only way open to him. He was not -romantic, he was not regardless of consequences; being a man of his -time how could he make himself so? and what else could he do? - -When he received one day quite suddenly, without any preparation, that -letter which Anne had given to Mr. Ashley to read, it came upon him like -a thunderbolt. I cannot take upon me to say that after the first shock -he was surprised by it or found it unnatural: he did not experience any -of these feelings. On the contrary, it was, so far as I know, after, as -has been said, the first shock, a relief to his mind. It showed him that -Anne, too, had perceived the situation and accepted it. He was startled -by her clear-sightedness, but it gained his approbation as the most -sensible and seemly step which she could have taken. But, all the same, -it hurt him acutely, and made him tingle with injured pride and shame. -It does not come within the code of manhood, which is of longer -existence than the nineteenth century, that a woman should have it in -her power to speak so. It gave him an acute pang. It penetrated him with -a sense of shame; it made him feel somehow, to the bottom of his heart, -that he was an inferior kind of man, and that Anne knew it. It was all -according to the canons of the situation, just as a sensible woman -should have behaved; just as his own proceedings were all that a -sensible man could do; but it hurt him all the same. The letter, with -that calm of tone which he suspected to mean contempt, seemed to him to -have been fired into him with some sharp twangling arrow; where it -struck it burnt and smarted, making him small in his own esteem, petty -and miserable; notwithstanding which he had to reply to it ‘in the same -spirit in which it was written’--to use a phrase which was also of his -time. He did this, keeping up appearances, pretending to Anne that he -did not perceive the sentiments which her letter veiled, but accepted it -as the most natural thing in the world. It may be as well to give here -the letter which he wrote in reply:-- - - - ‘Dearest Anne,--Your letter has indeed been a surprise to me of the - most dolorous kind. - - ‘Yes, I understand. There is no need, as you say, for - explanations--six words, or six hundred, would not be enough to say - what I should have to say, if I began. But I will not. I refrain - from vexing you with protestations, from troubling you with - remonstrances. Circumstances are against me so heavily, so - overwhelmingly, that nothing I could say would appear like anything - but folly in the face of that which alone I can do. I am - helpless--and you are clear-sighted, and perceive the evils of this - long suspense, without allowing your clearer judgment to be - flattered, as mine has been, by the foolishness of hope. - - ‘What then can I say? If I must, I accept your decision. This is - the sole ground on which it can be put. I will not bind you against - your will--that is out of the question, that is the one thing that - is impossible. I will never give up hope that some change may come - in the circumstances or in your resolution, till--something happens - to show me that no change can come. Till then, I do not call myself - your friend, for that would be folly. I am more than your friend, - or I am nothing--but I will sign myself yours, as you are, without - any doubt, the woman whom I will always love, and admire, and - reverence, beyond any woman in the world. - - ‘COSMO DOUGLAS.’ - - -And this was all quite true. He did love and admire her more than anyone -in the world. It was the curse of his training that he knew what was -best when he saw it, and desired that; though often men of his kind take -up with the worst after, and are contented enough. But Anne was still -his type of perfection--she was beautiful to him, and sweet and -delightful--but she was not possible. Is not that more than any beauty -or delight? And yet, notwithstanding the acute pangs which he suffered, -I don’t suppose one individual out of a hundred who reads this history -will be sorry for Cosmo. They will be sorry for Anne, who does not want -their sorrow half so much. - -He had a very melancholy time after the Mountfords went away. He had not -accepted any invitations for August, being, indeed, in a very unsettled -mind, and not knowing what might be required of him. He stayed in his -chambers, alone with many thoughts. They were gone, and Anne had gone -out of his life. It was a poor sort of life when he looked at it now, -with the light of her gone, yet showing, at the point where she -departed, what manner of existence it had been and was: very poor, -barren, unsatisfactory--yet the only kind of life that was possible. In -the solitude of these early August days he had abundance of time to -think it over. He seemed to be able to take it in his hand, to look at -it as a spectator might. The quintessence of life in one way, all that -was best in the world made tributary to is perfection--and yet how poor -a business! And though he was young, it was all he would ever come to. -He was not of the stuff, he said to himself, of which great men are -made. Sooner or later, no doubt, he would come to a certain success. He -would get some appointment; he would have more to live upon; but this -would not alter his life. If Anne had kept her fortune, that might have -altered it; or if he could in any way become rich, and go after her and -bring her back while still there was time. But, short of that, he saw no -way to make it different. She was right enough, it was impossible; there -was nothing else to be said. Yet while he arrived at this conclusion he -felt within himself to the bottom of his heart what a paltry conclusion -it was. A man who was worth his salt would have acted otherwise; would -have shown himself not the slave but the master of circumstances. Such -men were in the backwoods, in the Australian bush, where the primitive -qualities were all in all, and the graces of existence were not known. -Out of the colonies, however, Cosmo believed that his own was about the -best known type of man, and what he did, most men, at least in society, -would have done. But he did not feel proud of himself. - -The Mountfords had not been away a week when he received another letter -which made his heart jump, though that organ was under very good -control, and did not give him the same trouble that hearts less -experienced so often give to their possessors. The post-mark, Hunston, -was in itself exciting, and there was in Rose’s feeble handwriting that -general resemblance to her sister’s which so often exists in a family. -He held it in his hand and looked at it with a bewildered sense that -perhaps his chances might be coming back to him, and the chapter of -other life reopening. Had she relented? Was there to be a place of -repentance allowed him? He held the letter in his hand, not opening it -for the moment, and asking himself if it were so, whether he would be -happy, or--the reverse. It had been humiliating to come to an end of the -dream of brighter things, but--would it not be rather inconvenient that -it should be resumed again? These were his reflections, his -self-questionings, before he opened the letter. But when he did open it, -and found that the letter was not from Anne but Rose Mountford, the -anticlimax was such that he laughed aloud. Little Rose! he had paid her -a great deal of attention, and made himself something of a slave to her -little caprices, not for any particular reason, though, perhaps, with a -sense that an heiress was always a person to please, whoever she might -be. What could little Rose want with him? to give him a -commission--something to buy for her, or to match, or one of the -nothings with which some girls have a faculty for keeping their friends -employed. He began to read her letter with a smile, yet a pang all the -same in the recollection that this was now the only kind of -communication he was likely to have from the family. Not Anne: not those -letters which had half vexed, half charmed him with their impracticable -views, yet pleased his refined taste and perception of beauty. This gave -him a sharp prick, even though it was with a smile that he unfolded the -letter of Rose. - -But when he read it he was brought to himself with a curious shock. What -did it mean? Rose’s letter was not occupied with any commissions, but -was of the most startling character, as follows:-- - - - ‘Dear Mr. Douglas,--I am writing to you quite secretly--nobody - knows anything about it--and I hope at least, whatever you do, that - you will keep my secret, and not let Anne know, or mamma. - - ‘I feel quite sure, though nobody has said a word, that Anne and - you have quarrelled--and I am so sorry; I don’t know if she thought - you neglected her and paid too much attention to us. I am quite - sure you never meant anything by it. But what I want to say is, - that I hope you won’t pay attention if she is cross. _Do_ make it - up, and get married to Anne. You know all the money has been left - to me, but if you marry, I will promise faithfully to give her a - part of it, say a quarter, or even a third, which would be enough - to make you comfortable. Mr. Loseby proposed this to me some time - ago, and I have quite made up my mind to it now. I will give her - certainly a quarter, perhaps a third, and this ought to be enough - for you to marry on. I can’t do it till I come of age, but then - you may be sure, _if you are married_, that I will make a new will - directly and settle it so. The first thing is that you should be - married, Anne and you. I wish for it very much now. - - ‘Be sure, above everything, that you don’t let out that I have - written to you, _ever_, either to Anne or mamma. - - ‘Yours very truly, - - ‘ROSE MOUNTFORD.’ - - -This letter filled Cosmo with consternation, with derision, with sharp -irritation, yet such a sense of the absurdity, as made him laugh in the -midst of all his other sentiments. For a moment the thought, the -question, glanced across his mind, Could it be, however distantly, -however unconsciously, inspired by Anne? But that was not to be -believed: or could Mrs. Mountford, wanting perhaps to get rid of her -stepdaughter’s supervision, have put this idea of intermeddling into -Rose’s head? But her anxiety that her secret should be kept seemed to -clear the mother; and as for Anne! That much he knew, however he might -be deceived in any other way. He read it over again, with a sense of -humiliation and anger which mastered his sense of the absurdity. This -little frivolous plaything of a girl to interfere in his affairs! It is -true, indeed, that if this assurance had been conveyed to him in a -serious way, becoming its importance, say by Mr. Loseby himself, and -while there was yet time to make everything comfortable, it would have -been by no means an unpleasant interference to Cosmo. He could not but -think what a difference it might have made if only a month back, only a -fortnight back, this information had been conveyed to him. But now that -it was perfectly useless, now that Anne’s letter and his own reply had -entirely closed the matter between them, to have this child push in with -her little impertinent offer--her charity to her sister! Rose bestowing -a quarter of her fortune upon Anne--the younger graciously affording a -provision to the elder! By Jove! Cosmo said to himself, with an outburst -of fury. Rose, a creature like Rose, to have it in her power thus to -insult Anne! He was himself detached from Anne, and never more would -there be any contact between them. Still it was in his power to avenge -her for once in a way. Cosmo did not pause, for once in his life, to -think what was prudent, but stretched out his hand for paper and ink, -and immediately indited his reply:-- - - - ‘My dear little Miss Rose,--Your letter is very kind; it makes me - feel as if I were a prince in a fairy tale, and you the good fairy, - removing the obstacles from my way; but, unfortunately, there were - not any obstacles in my way of the kind you suppose, and your - present of part of your fortune to me, which seems to be what you - mean, though carried out through your sister, is, I fear, a sort of - thing that neither the respectable Mr. Loseby nor any other lawyer - would sanction. It is very kind of you to wish to gratify me with - so much money, but, alas! I cannot take it--unless, indeed, you - were to give me the whole of it, along with your own pretty little - hand, which I should not at all object to. Are you quite, quite - sure I never “meant anything” by the attention I paid you? Perhaps - I meant all the time to transfer my affections from one sister to - the other, from the one without any money to the one with a - fortune, which she can afford to divide into four or even three - parts. Think over it again, and perhaps you will find out that this - was in my mind all the time. But, short of this, I fear there is - not much ground for a commercial transaction of any kind between - you and me. - - ‘Your obedient servant to command, - - ‘C. DOUGLAS.’ - - -This was the revenge he took upon Rose for her impertinence: it was mere -impertinence, he supposed. Once, and once only, it crossed his mind that -she might have had a motive for her anxiety that he should marry her -sister. But how could that be? It was an impossibility. And -notwithstanding the miserable way in which you will say he had himself -behaved, his furious indignation at this patronage of Anne by Rose shows -how real was still the love and better worship for Anne that was in his -heart. - -And when he had satisfied his temper by this letter, he sat and thought -of Anne. Would it have been well with this support behind to have -ventured, perhaps, and been bold, and knit their lives together? Rose’s -guarantee, though the offer irritated him so much, would have made that -possible which at present was impossible. Would the game have been worth -the candle? He sat and thought over it for a long time in the darkening -evening and sighed. On the whole, perhaps, as things stood---- And then -he went out to his club to dine. Not proud of himself--far from proud of -himself--feeling on the whole a poor creature--and yet---- Perhaps, as -things stood, it was just as well. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXIV. - -THE HEIRESS’S TRIAL. - - -Rose’s letter to Cosmo had been conceived in a sudden commotion of -feeling, in which her instincts and sensations had come uppermost, and -got almost out of her own control. That savage sense of property which -exists in unreasoning childhood had risen to flame and fire within her, -mingled with and made still more furious by the terror and panic of -possible loss. Beneath all her gentleness and smoothness, and the many -glosses of civilisation that clothed her being, Rose had an entirely -primitive nature, tenacious of every personal belonging, full of natural -acquisitiveness and a love of _having_, which children and savages share -with many highly cultivated persons. She was one of those who, without -any conscious evil meaning, are rendered desperate by the idea of -personal loss. Her first impulse, when she knew that her ‘rights’ were -in danger, was to fight for them wildly, to turn upon all assailants -with impassioned fury. She did not want to hurt anyone, but what she had -got she meant to keep. The idea of losing the position to which she had -been elevated, and the fortune which had made her for the last year so -much more important a person than before, filled her with a kind of -cruel panic or fierce terror which was ready to seize at any instrument -by which its enemies could be confounded. This fierce passion of fear is -apt to do more mischief than deliberate cruelty. It will launch any -thunderbolt that comes to hand, arrest the very motion of the earth, if -possible, and upset the whole course of mortal living. It is more -unscrupulous than any tyrant. Rose was altogether possessed by this -ferocious terror. When she saw her property and importance threatened, -she looked about her wildly to see what machinery she could set in -motion for the confusion of her enemies and her own defence. The -character of it, and the result of it to others, seemed entirely -unimportant to her if only it could stop the danger, forestall the -approaching crisis. In the letter which she had surreptitiously read it -was stipulated that in a certain case her inheritance was to be -absolutely secure, and it had immediately become all-important to Rose -to bring about the forbidden thing against which her father had made so -violent a stand. She took her measures instantly, with the cunning of -ignorance and simplicity and the cruel directness of a childish mind. -That there was some difficulty between her sister and Cosmo her quick -observation had early divined. Perhaps her vanity had whispered that it -was because he liked her best: but, on the other hand, Rose understood -the power of pecuniary obstacles, and could feel the want of money in a -much more reasonable way than her sister, though so much her superior, -ever had done. And in either case her appeal to Cosmo would be -sovereign, she thought, in the first heat of her panic. If he had liked -her best, he would perceive that it was hopeless. If he had been afraid, -because of the want of fortune, her letter would reassure him. And if -she could but bring it about--make Anne unpardonable--secure her own -‘rights’!--with a passion of hostility against everybody who could -injure her, this was what Rose thought. - -But when the letter was fairly gone, and the machinery set in motion, a -little chill crept over that first energy of passionate self-defence. -Other thoughts began to steal in. The strength of the savage and of the -child lies in their singleness of vision. As long as you can perceive -only what you want and how it is to be had, or tried for, everything is -possible; but when a cold breath steals upon you from here and there, -suggesting perhaps the hurt of another whom you have really no desire to -hurt, perhaps the actual wickedness which you have no desire to -perpetrate, what chills come upon the heat of action, what creeping -doubts even of the first headlong step already taken! Rose had three -days to reflect upon what she had done, and those three days were not -happy. She disguised her discomposure as much as she could, avoiding the -society of her mother and sister. Anne, though she was absorbed in -occupations much more important than anything that was likely to be -involved in the varying looks of Rose, perceived her little sister’s -flightiness and petulance with a grieved consciousness that her -position as heiress and principal personage of the family group was, now -that they were in their own country and better able to realise what it -meant, doing Rose harm; while Mrs. Mountford set it down to the girl’s -unreasonable fancy for little Keziah, whose company she seemed to seek -on all occasions, and whose confidences and preparations were not the -kind of things for a young girl to share. - -‘No good ever comes of making intimates of your servants,’ her mother -said, disturbed by Rose’s uncertain spirits, her excitedness and -agitation. What was there to be agitated about? Once or twice the girl, -so wildly stirred in her own limited being, so full of ignorant -desperation, boldness, and terror, and at the same time cold creepings -of doubt and self-disapproval, came pressing close to her mother’s side, -with a kind of dumb overture of confidence. But Mrs. Mountford could not -understand that there was anything to tell. If there had been a lover at -hand, if Heathcote had shown his former admiration (as she understood -it) for Rose, or even if he had been coming daily to visit them, she -might have been curious, interested, roused to the possibility that -there was a secret to tell. But what could Rose find of a nature to be -confidential about in Hunston? The thing was incredible. So Mrs. -Mountford had said with a little impatience, ‘Can’t you find a seat, my -dear? I want my footstool to myself,’ when the child came to her feet as -girls are in the habit of doing. Rose felt herself rejected and pushed -aside: and Anne’s serious countenance repulsed her still more -completely. It frightened her to think that she had been venturing to -interfere in her sister’s affairs. What would Anne say? Her panic when -she thought of this was inconceivable. It was not a passion of fright -like that with which her own possible loss had filled her, but it was a -terror that put wings to her feet, that gave her that impulse of -instant flight and self-concealment which is the first thought of -terror. Thus the poor little undeveloped nature became the plaything of -desperate emotions, while yet all incapable of bearing them, and not -understanding what they were. She was capable of doing deadly harm to -others on one side, and almost of doing deadly harm to herself on the -other, out of her extremity of fear. - -Cosmo’s letter, however, was as a dash of cold water in Rose’s face. Its -momentary effect was one of relief. He would not do what she wanted, -therefore he never, never was likely to betray to Anne that she had -interfered, and at the same time his refusal eased her sense of -wrong-doing: but after the first momentary relief other sensations much -less agreeable came into her mind. Her property! her property! Thus she -stood, a prey to all the uncertainties--nay, more than this, almost sure -that there was no uncertainty, that danger was over for Anne, that she -herself was the victim, the deceived one, cruelly betrayed and deserted -by her father, who had raised her so high only to abase her the -lower--and even by Anne, who had--what had Anne done? Was it certain, -Rose asked herself, that Anne had not herself privately read that fatal -letter, and acted upon it, though she had pretended to be so much -shocked when Rose touched it? That must have been at the bottom of it -all. Yes, no doubt that was how it was; most likely it was all a plot--a -conspiracy! Anne _knew_; and had put Cosmo aside--ordered him, perhaps, -to pretend to like Rose best!--bound him to wait till the three years -were over, and Rose despoiled, and all secure, when the whole thing -would come on again, and they would marry, and cheat poor papa in his -grave, and rob Rose of her fortune! She became wild with passion as this -gradually rose upon her as the thing most likely--nay, more than -likely, certain! Only this could have warranted the tone in which Cosmo -wrote. His letter was dreadful: it was unkind, it was mocking, it was -insolent. Yes! that was the word--insolent! insulting! was what it was. -Why, he pretended to propose to her!--to her! Rose! after being engaged -to her sister! When Rose read it over again and perceived what even her -somewhat obtuse faculties could not miss--the contemptuous mockery of -Cosmo’s letter, she stamped her feet with rage and despite. Her passion -was too much for her. She clenched her hands tight, and cried for anger, -her cheeks flaming, her little feet stamping in fury. And this was the -sight which Keziah saw when she came into the room--a sight very -alarming to that poor little woman; and, indeed, dangerous in the state -of health in which she was. - -‘Oh! Miss Rose! Miss Rose!’ she said, with a violent start (which was so -bad for her); ‘what is it? what is the matter?’ - -Rose was in some degree brought to herself by the appearance of a -spectator; and, at the same time, it was a comfort to relieve her -burdened soul by speaking to someone. - -‘Keziah,’ she said, in a great flush of agitation and resentment, ‘it -is--it is a gentleman that has been uncivil to me!’ - -‘Oh, Miss Rose!’ old Saymore’s wife cried out with excitement, attaching -a much more practical meaning to the words than Rose had any insight -into. ‘Oh, Miss Rose! in our house! Who is it? who is it? Only tell me, -and Mr. Saymore will turn him out of doors if it was the best customer -we have!’ - -This rapid acceptance of her complaint, and swift determination to -avenge it, brought Rose still more thoroughly to herself. - -‘Oh, it is not anyone here. It is a gentleman on--a letter,’ Rose said; -and this subdued her. ‘It is not anything Saymore can help me about, nor -you, nor anyone.’ - -‘We are only poor folks, Miss Rose,’ said Keziah, ‘but for a real -interest, and wishing you well, there’s none, if it was the Queen -herself----’ - -The ludicrousness of the comparison struck Rose, but struck her not -mirthfully--dolefully. - -‘It is not much that the Queen can care,’ she said. ‘Anne was presented, -but I was never presented. Nobody cares! What was I when Anne was there? -Always the little one--the one that was nobody!’ - -‘But, Miss Rose! Miss Rose!’ - -Keziah did not know how to put the consolation she wished to give, for -indeed she, like everybody else, had mourned the injustice to Anne, -which she must condone and accept if she adopted the first suggestion of -her sympathy. - -‘You know,’ she said, with a little gasp over the renegade nature of the -speech--‘you know that Miss Anne is nobody now, and you are the one that -everybody thinks of----’ - -Keziah drew her breath hard after this, and stopped short, more ashamed -of her own turncoat utterance than could have been supposed: for indeed, -she said to herself, with very conciliatory speciousness of reasoning, -though Miss Anne was the one that everybody thought of, she herself had -always thought most of Miss Rose, who was not a bit proud, but always -ready to talk and tell you anything, and had liked her best. - -‘Ah!’ cried Rose, shaking her head, ‘if that were always to last!’ and -then she stopped herself suddenly, and looked at Keziah as if there was -something to tell, as if considering whether she should tell something. -But Rose was not without prudence, and she was able to restrain herself. - -‘It does not matter--it does not matter, Keziah,’ she cried, with that -air of injured superiority which is always so congenial to youth. ‘There -are some people who never get justice, whatever they may do.’ - -Little Mrs. Saymore was more bewildered than words could say. If there -was a fortunate person in the world, was it not Miss Rose? So suddenly -enriched, chosen, instead of Miss Anne, to have Miss Anne’s fortune, and -all the world at her feet! Keziah did not know what to make of it. But -Rose, who had no foolish consideration for other people’s feelings, left -her little time for consideration. - -‘You may go now,’ she said, with a little wave of her hand; ‘I don’t -want anything. I want only to be left alone.’ - -‘I am sure, Miss Rose,’ said Keziah, offended, ‘I didn’t mean to intrude -upon you. I wanted to say as all _the things_ has come home, and if you -would like to look at them, I’ve laid them all out in the best room, and -they do look sweet,’ said the little, expectant mother. - -Rose had taken a great deal of interest in the things, and even had -aided in various small pieces of needlework--a condescension which Mrs. -Mountford did not approve. But to-day she was in no mood for this -inspection. She shook her head and waved her hand with a mixture of -majesty and despondency. - -‘Not to-day. I have other things to think of, Keziah. I couldn’t look at -them to-day.’ - -This made Keziah take an abrupt leave, with offence which swallowed up -her sympathy. Afterwards sympathy had the better of her resentment. She -went and reviewed her little show by herself, and felt sorry for Miss -Rose. It must be a trouble indeed which could not be consoled by a -sight of _the things_, with all their little frills goffered, and little -laces so neatly ironed, laid out in sets upon the best bed. - -When, however, Keziah had withdrawn, the want of anyone to speak to -became intolerable to Rose. She was not used to be shut up within the -limits of her own small being; and though she could keep her little -secrets as well as anyone, yet the possession of this big secret, now -that there was no longer anything to do--now that her initiative had -failed, and produced her nothing but Cosmo’s insolent letter, with its -mock proposal--was more than she could contain. She dared not speak to -Anne, and her mother had unwittingly repulsed her confidence. A tingling -impatience took possession of her. If Keziah had been present--little as -Keziah would have understood it, and unsuitable as she would have been -for a _confidante_--Rose felt that she must have told her all. But even -Keziah was not within her reach. She tried to settle to something, to -read, to do some of her fancy-work. For a moment she thought that to -‘practise’--a duty which in her emancipation she had much -neglected--might soothe her; but she could only practise by going to the -sitting-room where the piano was, where her mother usually sat, and -where Anne most likely would be at that hour. Her book was a novel, but -she could not read it. Even novels, though they are a wonderful resource -in the vigils of life, lose their interest at the moments when the -reader’s own story is at, or approaching, a crisis. When she sat down to -read, one of the phrases in Cosmo’s letter would suddenly dart upon her -mind like a winged insect and give her a sting: or the more serious -words of the other letter--the secret of the dead which she had -violated--would flit across her, till her brain could stand it no -longer. She rose up with a start and fling, in a kind of childish -desperation. She could not, would not bear it! all alone in that little -dark cell of herself, with no rays of light penetrating it except the -most unconsolatory rays, which were not light at all, but spurts as of -evil gases, and bad little savage suggestions, such as to make another -raid upon Anne’s despatch-box, and get the letter again and burn it, and -make an end of it coming into her mind against her will. But then, even -if she were so wicked as to do that, how did she know there was not -another? indeed, Rose was almost sure that Anne had told her there was -another--the result of which would be that she would only have the -excitement of doing something very wrong without getting any good from -it. She sat with her book in her hand, and went over a page or two -without understanding a word. And then she jumped up and stamped her -little feet and clenched her hands, and made faces in the glass at Cosmo -and fate. Then, in utter impatience, feeling herself like a hunted -creature, pursued by something, she knew not what, Rose seized her hat -and went out, stealing softly down the stairs that nobody might see her. -She said to herself that there was a bit of ribbon to buy. There are -always bits of ribbon to buy for a young lady’s toilette. She would save -the maid the trouble and get it for herself. - -The tranquil little old-fashioned High Street of a country town on an -August morning is as tranquillising a place as it is possible to -imagine. It was more quiet, more retired, and what Rose called dull, -than the open fields. All the irregular roofs--here a high-peaked gable, -there an overhanging upper story, the red pediment of the Queen Anne -house which was Mr. Loseby’s office and dwelling, the clustered chimneys -of the almshouses--how they stood out upon the serene blueness of the -sky and brilliancy of the sunshine! And underneath how shady it was! -how cool on the shady side! in what a depth of soft shelter, contrasting -with the blaze on the opposite pavement, was the deep cavernous doorway -of the ‘Black Bull,’ and the show in the shop windows, where one mild -wayfarer in muslin was gazing in, making the quiet more apparent! A boy -in blue, with a butcher’s tray upon his head, was crossing the street; -two little children in sunbonnets were going along with a basket between -them; and in the extreme distance was a costermonger’s cart with fruit -and vegetables, which had drawn some women to their doors. Of itself the -cry of the man who was selling these provisions was not melodious, but -it was so softened by the delight of the still, sweet, morning air, in -which there was still a whiff of dew, that it toned down into the -general harmony, adding a not unpleasant sense of common affairs, the -leisurely bargain, the innocent acquisition, the daily necessary traffic -which keeps homes and tables supplied. The buying and selling of the -rosy-cheeked apples and green cabbages belonged to the quiet ease of -living in such a softened, silent place. Rose did not enter into the -sentiment of the scene; she was herself a discord in it. In noisy London -she would have been more at home; and yet the quiet soothed her, though -she interrupted and broke it up with the sharp pat of her high-heeled -boot and the crackle of her French muslin. She was not disposed towards -the limp untidy draperies that are ‘the fashion.’ Her dress neither -swept the pavement nor was huddled up about her knees like the curtains -of a shabby room, but billowed about her in crisp puffs, with enough of -starch; and her footstep, which was never languid, struck the pavement -more sharply than ever in the energy of her discomposure. The butcher in -the vacant open shop, from which fortunately most of its contents had -been removed, came out to the door bewildered to see who it could be; -and one of Mr. Loseby’s clerks poked out of a window in his -shirt-sleeves, but drew back again much confused and abashed when he -caught the young lady’s eye. The clerks in Mr. Loseby’s office were not, -it may be supposed, of an order to hope from any notice from a Miss -Mountford of Mount; yet in the twenties both boys and girls have their -delusions on that point. Rose, however, noticed the young clerk no more -than if he had been a costermonger, or one of the cabbages that worthy -was selling; yet the sight of him gave her a new idea. Mr. Loseby! any -Mountford of Mount had a right to speak to Mr. Loseby, whatever trouble -he or she might be in. And Rose knew the way into his private room as -well as if she had been a child of the house. She obeyed her sudden -impulse, with a great many calculations equally sudden springing up -spontaneously in her bosom. It would be well to see what Mr. Loseby -knew; and then he might be able to think of some way of punishing Cosmo: -and then--in any case it would be a relief to her mind. The young clerk -in his shirt-sleeves, yawning over his desk, heard the pat of her high -heels coming up the steps at the door, and could not believe his ears. -He addressed himself to his work with an earnestness which was almost -solemn. Was she coming to complain of his stare at her from the window? -or was it to ask Mr. Loseby, perhaps, who was that nice-looking young -man in the little room close to the door? - -Mr. Loseby’s room was apt to look dusty in the summer, though it was in -fact kept in admirable order. But the Turkey carpet was very old, and -penetrated by the sweeping of generations, and the fireplace always had -a tinge of ashes about it. To-day the windows were open, the Venetian -blinds down, and there was a sort of green dimness in the room, in which -Rose, dazzled by the sunshine out of doors, could for the moment -distinguish nothing. She was startled by Mr. Loseby’s exclamation of her -name. She thought for the moment that he had found her out internally as -well as externally, and surprised her secret as well as herself. ‘Why, -little Rose!’ he said. He was sitting in a coat made of yellow Indian -grass-silk which did not accord so well as his usual shining blackness -with the glistening of his little round bald head, and his eyes and -spectacles. His table was covered with papers done up in bundles with -all kinds of red tape and bands. ‘This is a sight for sore eyes,’ he -said. ‘You are like summer itself stepping into an old man’s dusty den; -come and sit near me and let me look at you, my summer Rose! I don’t -know which is the freshest and the prettiest!’ said the old lawyer, -waving his hand towards a beautiful luxurious blossom of ‘La France’ -which was on his table in a Venetian glass. He had a fancy for pretty -things. - -‘Oh, I was passing, and I thought I would come in--and see you,’ Rose -said. - -Mr. Loseby had taken her appearance very quietly, as a matter of course; -but when she began to explain he was startled. He pushed his spectacles -up upon his forehead and looked at her curiously. ‘Ah!’ he said, ‘that -was kind of you--to come with no other object than to see an old man.’ - -‘Oh!’ cried Rose, confused, ‘I did not say I had no other object, Mr. -Loseby. I want you to tell me--is--is--Anne likely to settle upon the -Dower-house? I do so want to know.’ - -‘My dear child, your mother has as much to do with it as Anne has. You -will hear from her better than from me.’ - -‘To be sure, that is true,’ said Rose; and then, after a pause, ‘Oh, Mr. -Loseby, is it really, really true that Cosmo Douglas is not going to -marry Anne? isn’t it shameful? to bring her into such trouble and then -to forsake her. Couldn’t he be made to marry her? I think it is a horrid -shame that a man should behave like that and get no punishment at all.’ - -Mr. Loseby pushed his spectacles higher and higher; he peered at her -through the partial light with a very close scrutiny. Then he rose and -half drew up one of the blinds. But even this did not satisfy him. ‘Do -you think then,’ he said at last, ‘that it would be a punishment to a -man to marry Anne?’ - -‘It would depend upon what his feelings were,’ said Rose with much force -of reason; ‘if he wanted, for example, to marry--somebody else.’ - -‘Say Rose--instead of Anne,’ said the acute old lawyer, with a grin -which was very much like a grimace. - -‘I am sure I never said that!’ cried Rose. ‘I never, never said it, nor -so much as hinted at it. He may say what he pleases, but _I_ never, -never said it! you always thought the worst of me, Mr. Loseby, Anne was -always your favourite; but you need not be unjust. Haven’t I come here -expressly to ask you? Couldn’t he be made to marry her? Why, they were -engaged! everybody has talked of them as engaged. And if it is broken -off, think how awkward for Anne.’ - -Mr. Loseby took off his spectacles, which had been twinkling and -glittering upon his forehead like a second pair of eyes--this was a very -strong step, denoting unusual excitement--and wiped them deliberately -while he looked at Rose. He had the idea, which was not a just idea, -that either Rose had been exercising her fascinations upon her sister’s -lover, or that she had been in her turn fascinated by him. ‘You saw a -good deal of Mr. Douglas in town?’ he said, looking at her keenly, -always polishing his spectacles; but Rose sustained the gaze without -shrinking. - -‘Oh, a great deal,’ she said; ‘he went everywhere with us. He was very -nice to mamma and me. Still I do not care a bit about him if he behaves -badly to Anne; but he ought not to be let off--he ought to be made to -marry her. I told him--what I was quite ready to do----’ - -‘And what are you quite ready to do, if one might know?’ Mr. Loseby was -savage. His grin at her was full of malice and all uncharitableness. - -‘Oh, you know very well!’ cried Rose, ‘it was you first who said---- -Will you tell me one thing, Mr. Loseby,’ she ran on, her countenance -changing; ‘what does it mean by the will of 1868?’ - -‘What does what mean?’ The old lawyer was roused instantly. It was not -that he divined anything, but his quick instinct forestalled suspicion, -and there suddenly gleamed over him a consciousness that there was -something to divine. - -‘Oh!--I mean,’ said Rose, correcting herself quickly, ‘what is meant by -the will of 1868? I think I ought to know.’ - -Mr. Loseby eyed her more and more closely. ‘I wonder,’ he said, ‘how you -know that there was a will of 1868?’ - -But there was nothing in his aspect to put Rose on her guard. ‘I think I -ought to know,’ she said, ‘but I am always treated like a child. And if -things were to turn round again, and everything to go back, and me never -to have any good of it, I wonder what would be the use at all of having -made any change?’ - -Mr. Loseby put on his spectacles again. He wore a still more familiar -aspect when he had his two spare eyes pushed up from his forehead, ready -for use at a moment’s notice. He was on the verge of a discovery, but -he did not know as yet what that discovery would be. - -‘That is very true,’ he said; ‘and it shows a great deal of sense on -your part: for if everything were to turn round it would certainly be no -use at all to have made any change. The will of 1868 is the will that -was made directly after your father married for the second time; it was -made to secure her mother’s fortune to your sister Anne.’ - -‘Without even the least thought of me!’ cried Rose, indignant. - -‘It was before you were born,’ said Mr. Loseby, with a laugh that -exasperated her. - -‘Oh!’ she cried, with an access of that fury which had frightened -Keziah, ‘how horrible people are! how unkind things are! how odious it -is to be set up and set down and never know what you are, or what is -going to happen! Did I do anything to Cosmo Douglas to make him break -off with Anne? is it my fault that he is not going to marry her after -all? and yet it will be me that will suffer, and nobody else at all. Mr. -Loseby, can’t it be put a stop to? I know you like Anne best, but why -should not I have justice, though I am not Anne? Oh, it is too bad! it -is cruel--it is wicked! Only just because papa was cross and out of -temper, and another man is changeable, why should I be the one to -suffer? Mr. Loseby, I am sure if you were to try you could change it; -you could stop us from going back to this will of 1868 that was made -before I was born. If it was only to burn that bit of paper, that horrid -letter, that thing! I had nearly put it into the fire myself. Oh!’ Rose -wound up with a little cry: she came suddenly to herself out of her -passion and indignation, and shrank away, as it were, into a corner, and -confronted the old lawyer with a pale and troubled countenance like a -child found out. What had she done? She had betrayed herself. She -looked at him alarmed, abashed, in a sudden panic which was cold, not -hot with passion, like her previous one. What could he cause to be done -to her? What commotion and exposure might he make? She scarcely dared to -lift her eyes to his face; but yet would not lose sight of him lest -something might escape her which he should do. - -‘Rose,’ he said, with a tone of great severity, yet a sort of chuckle -behind it which gave her consolation, ‘you have got hold of your -father’s letter to Anne.’ - -‘Well,’ she said, trembling but defiant, ‘it had to be read some time, -Mr. Loseby. It was only about us two; why should we wait so many years -to know what was in it? A letter from papa! Of course we wanted to know -what it said.’ - -‘_We!_ Does Anne know too?’ he cried, horrified. And it gleamed across -Rose’s mind for one moment that to join Anne with herself would be to -diminish her own criminality. But after a moment she relinquished this -idea, which was not tenable. ‘Oh, please!’ she cried, ‘don’t let Anne -know! She would not let me touch it. But why shouldn’t we touch it? It -was not a stranger that wrote it--it was our own father. Of course I -wanted to know what he said.’ - -There was a ludicrous struggle on Mr. Loseby’s face. He wanted to be -severe, and he wanted to laugh. He was disgusted with Rose, yet very -lenient to the little pretty child he had known all his life, and his -heart was dancing with satisfaction at the good news thus betrayed to -him. ‘I have got a duplicate of it in my drawer, and it may not be of -much use when all is said. Since you have broken your father’s -confidence, and violated his last wishes, and laid yourself open to all -sorts of penalties, you--may as well tell me all about it,’ he said. - -When Rose emerged into the street after this interview, she came down -the steps straight upon Willie Ashley, who was mooning by, not looking -whither he was going, and in a somewhat disconsolate mood. He had been -calling upon Mrs. Mountford, but Rose had not been visible. Willie knew -it was ‘no use’ making a fool of himself, as he said, about Rose; but -yet when he was within reach he could not keep his feet from wandering -where she was. When he thus came in her way accidentally, his glum -countenance lighted up into a blaze of pleasure. ‘Oh, here you are!’ he -cried in a delighted voice. ‘I’ve been to Saymore’s and seen your -mother, but you were not in.’ This narrative of so self-evident a fact -made Rose laugh, though there were tears of agitation and trouble on her -face, which made Willie conclude that old Loseby (confound him!) had -been scolding her for something. But when Rose laughed all was well. - -‘Of course I was not in. It is so tiresome there--nothing to do, nowhere -to go. I can’t think why Anne wishes to keep us here of all places in -the world.’ - -‘But you are coming to the Dower-house at Lilford? Oh! say you are -coming, Rose. I know some people that would dance for joy.’ - -‘What people? I don’t believe anybody cares where we live,’ said Rose -with demure consciousness, walking along by his side with her eyes cast -down, but a smile hovering about the corners of her mouth. Confession -had been of use to her, and had relieved her soul, even though Mr. -Loseby had no power to confer absolution. - -‘Don’t we? Well, there’s Charley for one; he has never had a word to -throw to a dog since you went away. Though a fellow may know it is no -good, it’s always something to know that you’re there.’ - -‘What is no good?’ said Rose, with extreme innocence. And thus the two -went back talking--of matters very important and amusing--through the -coolness and sweetness and leisure of the little country street. Anne, -who was seated in the bow-window of the sitting-room with her books and -her papers, could not help breathing forth a little sigh as she looked -out and saw them approaching, so young and so like each other. ‘What a -pity!’ she said to herself. So far as she herself was concerned, it was -far more than a pity; but even for Rose----. - -‘What is a pity?’ said Mrs. Mountford: and she came and looked out over -Anne’s shoulder, being a little concerned about her child’s absence. -When she saw the pair advancing she flushed all over with annoyance and -impatience. ‘Pity! it must be put a stop to,’ she cried; ‘Willie Ashley -was always out of the question; a boy with next to nothing. But now it -is not to be thought of for a moment. I rely upon you, if you have any -regard for your sister, to put a stop to it, Anne!’ - - - - -CHAPTER XXXV. - -A SIMPLE WOMAN. - - -The Dower-house at Lilford was fixed upon shortly after by general -consent. It was an old house, but showed its original fabric chiefly in -the tall stacks of chimneys which guaranteed its hospitable hearths from -smoke, and gave an architectural distinction to the pile of building, -the walls of which were all matted in honeysuckles, roses, and every -climbing plant that can be imagined, embroidering themselves upon the -background of the ivy, which filled every crevice. And the pleasure of -furnishing, upon which Mr. Loseby had been cunning enough to enlarge, as -an inducement to the ladies to take possession of this old -dwelling-place, proved as great and as delightful as he had represented -it to be. It was a pleasure which none of the three had ever as yet -experienced. Even Mrs. Mountford had never known the satisfaction, -almost greater than that of dressing one’s self--the delight and -amusement of dressing one’s house and making it beautiful. She had been -taken as a bride to the same furniture which had answered for her -predecessor; and though in the course of the last twenty years something -had no doubt been renewed, there is no such gratification in a new -carpet or curtains, which must be chosen either to suit the previous -furniture, or of those homely tints which, according to the usual -formula of the shops, ‘would look well with anything,’ as in the blessed -task of renovating a whole room at once. They had everything to do here, -new papers (bliss! for you may be sure Mrs. Mountford was too -fashionable to consult anybody but Mr. Morris on this important -subject), and a whole array of new old furniture. They did not transfer -the things that had been left at Mount, which would have been, Mrs. -Mountford felt, the right thing to do, but merely selected a few -articles from the mass which nobody cared for. The result, they all -flattered themselves, was fine. Not a trace of newness appeared in all -the carefully decorated rooms. A simulated suspicion of dirt, a ghost of -possible dust, was conjured up by the painter’s skill to make everything -perfect--not in the way of a vulgar copy of that precious element which -softens down the too perfect freshness, but, by a skilful touch of art, -reversing the old principle of economy, and making ‘the new things look -as weel’s the auld.’ This process, with all its delicate difficulties, -did the Mountford family good in every way. To Anne it was the must -salutary and health-giving discipline. It gave her scope for the -exercise of all those secondary tastes and fancies, which keep the -bigger and more primitive sentiments in balance. To be anxious about the -harmony of the new curtains, or concerned about the carpet, is sometimes -salvation in its way; and there were so many questions to decide--things -for beauty and things for use--the character of every room, and the -meaning of it, which are things that have to be studied nowadays before -we come so far down as to consider the conveniences of it, what you are -to sit upon, or lie upon, though these two are questions almost of life -and death. Anne was plunged into the midst of all these questions. -Besides her serious business in the management of the estate which Mr. -Loseby had taken care should occupy her more and more, there were a -hundred trivial play-anxieties always waiting for her, ready to fill up -every crevice of thought. She had, indeed, no time to think. The heart -which had been so deeply wounded, which had been compelled to give up -its ideal and drop one by one the illusions it had cherished, seemed -pushed into a corner by this flood of occupation. Anne’s mind, indeed, -was in a condition of exhaustion, something similar to that which -sometimes deadens the sensations of mourners after a death which in -anticipation has seemed to involve the loss of all things. When all is -over, and the tortures of imagination are no longer added to those of -reality, a kind of calm steals over the wounded soul. The worst has -happened; the blow has fallen. In this fact there is quiet at least -involved, and now the sufferer has nothing to think of but how to bear -his pain. The wild rallying of all his forces to meet a catastrophe to -come is no longer necessary. It is over; and though the calm may be but -‘a calm despair,’ yet it is different from the anguish of looking -forward. And in Anne’s case there was an additional relief. For a long -time past she had been forcing upon herself a fictitious satisfaction. -The first delight of her love, which she had described to Rose as the -power of saying everything to her lover, pouring out her whole heart in -the fullest confidence that everything would interest him and all be -understood, had long ago begun to ebb away from her. As time went on, -she had fallen upon the pitiful expedient of writing to Cosmo without -sending her letters, thus beguiling herself by the separation of an -ideal Cosmo, always the same, always true and tender, from the actual -Cosmo whose attention often flagged, and who sometimes thought the -things that occupied her trivial, and her way of regarding them foolish -or high-flown. Yes, Cosmo too had come to think her high-flown: he had -been impatient even of her fidelity to himself; and gradually it had -come about that Anne’s communications with him were but carefully -prepared abridgments of the genuine letters which were addressed -to--someone whom she had lost, someone, she could not tell who, on whom -her heart could repose, but who was not, so far as she knew, upon this -unresponsive earth. All this strain, this dual life, was over now. No -attempt to reconcile the one with the other was necessary. It was all -over; the worst had happened; there was no painful scene to look forward -to, no gradual loosening of a tie once so dear; but whatever was to -happen had happened. How she might have felt the blank, had no such -crowd of occupations come in to fill up her time and thoughts, is -another question. But, as it was, Anne had no time to think of the -blank. In the exhaustion of the revolution accomplished she was seized -hold upon by all these crowding occupations, her thoughts forced into -new channels, her every moment busy. No soul comes through such a crisis -without much anguish and many struggles, but Anne had little time to -indulge herself. She had to stand to her arms, as it were, night and -day. She explained her position to Mr. Loseby, as has been said, and -she informed her stepmother briefly of the change; but to no one else -did she say a word. - -‘There was silence in heaven for the space of half an hour.’ Could any -word express more impressively the pause of fate, the quiet of patience -and deliberation over the great and terrible things to come. There was -silence in the heaven of Anne’s being. She forbore to think, forbore to -speak, even to herself. All was still within her. The firmament had -closed in around her. Her world was lessened, so much cut off on every -side, a small world now with no far-shining distances, no long gleams of -celestial light, nothing but the little round about her, the circle of -family details, the work of every day. Instead of the wide sky and the -infinite air, to have your soul concentrated within a circle of Mr. -Morris’s papers, however admirable they may be, makes a great difference -in life. Sometimes she even triumphed over circumstances so far as to -see the humorous side of her own fate, and to calculate with a smile -half pathetic, all that her unreasonable fidelity had cost her. It had -cost her her father’s approbation, her fortune, her place in life, and -oh! strange turning of the tables! it had cost her at the same time the -lover whom she had chosen, in high youthful absolutism and idealism, at -the sacrifice of everything else. Was there ever a stranger -contradiction, completion, of a transaction? He for whom she had given -up all else, was lost to her because she had given everything for him. A -woman might weep her heart out over such a fate, or she might smile as -Anne smiled, pale, with a woful merriment, a tremulous pathetic scorn, -an indignation half lost in that sentiment which made Othello cry out, -‘The pity of it! The pity of it!’ Oh, the pity of it! that such things -should be; that a woman should give so much for so little--and a man -return so little for so much. Sometimes, when she was by herself, this -smile would come up unawares, a scarcely perceptible gleam upon her -pale countenance. ‘What are you smiling at, Anne?’ her stepmother or -Rose would ask her as she sat at work. ‘Was I smiling? I did not -know--at nobody--I myself,’ she would say, quoting Desdemona this time. -Or she would remind herself of a less dignified simile--of poor Dick -Swiveller, shutting up one street after another, in which he had made -purchases which he could not pay for. She had shut up a great many -pleasant paths for herself. Her heart got sick of the usual innocent -romance in which the hero is all nobleness and generosity, and the -heroine all sweet dependence and faith. She grew sick of poetry and all -her youthful fancies. Even places became hateful to her, became as paths -shut up. To see the Beeches even from the road gave her a pang. Mount, -where she had written volumes all full of her heart and inmost thoughts -to Cosmo, pained her to go back to, though she had to do it -occasionally. And she could not think of big London itself without a -sinking of the heart. He was there. It was the scene of her -disenchantment, her disappointment. All these were as so many slices cut -off from her life. Rose’s estate, and the leases, and the tenants, and -the patronage of Lilford parish, which belonged to it, and all its -responsibilities, and the old women, with their tea and flannels, and -the Dower-house with Mr. Morris’s papers--these circumvented and bound -in her life. - -But there was one person at least whose affectionate care of her gave -Anne an amusement which now and then found expression in a flood of -tears: though tears were a luxury which she did not permit herself. This -was the Rector, who was always coming and going, and who would walk -round Anne at the writing-table, where she spent so much of her time, -with anxious looks and many little signs of perturbation. He did not say -a great deal to her, but watched her through all the other -conversations that would arise, making now and then a vague little -remark, which was specially intended for her, as she was aware, and -which would strike into her like an arrow, yet make her smile all the -same. When there was talk of the second marriage of Lord Meadowlands’ -brother, the clergyman, Mr. Ashley was strong in his defence. ‘No one -can be more opposed than I am to inconstancies of all kinds; but when -you have made a mistake the first time it is a wise thing and a right -thing,’ said the good Rector, with a glance at Anne, ‘to take advantage -of the release given you by Providence. Charles Meadows had made a great -mistake at first--like many others.’ And then, when the conversation -changed, and the Woodheads became the subject of discussion, even in the -fulness of his approbation of ‘that excellent girl Fanny,’ Mr. Ashley -found means to insinuate his constant burden of prophecy. ‘What I fear -is that she will get a little narrow as the years go on. How can a woman -help that who has no opening out in her life, who is always at the first -chapter?’ - -‘Dear me, Rector,’ said Mrs. Mountford, ‘I did not know you were such an -advocate of marriage.’ - -‘Yes, I am a great advocate of marriage: without it we all get narrow. -We want new interests to carry on our life; we want to expand in our -children, and widen out instead of closing in.’ - -‘But Fanny has not closed in,’ said Anne, with a half malicious smile, -which had a quiver of pain in it: for she knew his meaning almost better -than he himself did. - -‘No, no, Fanny is an excellent girl. She is everything that can be -desired. But you must marry, Anne, you must marry,’ he said, in a lower -tone, coming round to the back of her chair. There was doubt and alarm -in his eyes. He saw in her that terror of single-minded men, an old -maid. Women have greatly got over the fear of that term of reproach. -But men who presumably know their own value best; and take more deeply -to heart the loss to every woman of their own sweet society, have a -great horror of it. And Anne seemed just the sort of person who would -not marry, having been once disgusted and disappointed, Mr. Ashley -concluded within himself, with much alarm. He was even so far carried -away by his feelings as to burst forth upon his excellent son and -Curate, one evening in the late autumn, when they were returning -together from the Dower-house. They had been walking along for some time -in silence upon the dusty, silent road, faintly lighted by some -prevision of a coming moon, though she was not visible. Perhaps the same -thoughts were in both their minds, and this mutual sympathy warmed the -elder to an overflow of the pent-up feeling. ‘Man alive!’ he cried out -suddenly, turning upon Charley with a kind of ferocity, which startled -the Curate as much as if a pistol had been presented at him. ‘Man alive! -can’t _you_ go in for her? you’re better than nothing if you’re not very -much. What is the good of you, if you can’t try, at least _try_, to -please her? She’s sick of us all, and not much wonder; but, bless my -soul, you’re young, and why can’t you make an effort? why can’t you try? -that’s what I would like to know,’ the Rector cried. - -Charley was taken entirely by surprise. He gasped in his agitation, -‘I--_try_? But she would not look at me. What have I to offer her?’ he -said, with a groan. - -Upon which the Rector repeated that ungracious formula. ‘You may not be -very much, but you’re better than nothing. No,’ the father said, shaking -his head regretfully, ‘we are none of us very much to look at; but, Lord -bless my soul, think of Anne, _Anne_, settling down as a single woman: -an old maid!’ he cried, with almost a shriek of dismay. The two men -were both quite subdued, broken down by the thought. They could not help -feeling in their hearts that to be anybody’s wife would be better than -that. - -But when they had gone on for about half an hour, and the moon had risen -silvery over the roofs of the cottages, showing against the sky the -familiar and beloved spire of their own village church, Charley, who had -said nothing all the time, suddenly found a voice. He said, in his deep -and troubled bass, as if his father had spoken one minute ago instead of -half an hour, ‘Heathcote Mountford is far more likely to do something -with her than I.’ - -‘Do you think so?’ cried the Rector, who had not been, any more than his -son, distracted from the subject, and was as unconscious as Charley was -of the long pause. ‘She does not know him as she knows you.’ - -‘That is just the thing,’ said the Curate, with a sigh. ‘She has known -me all her life, and why should she think any more about me? I am just -Charley, that is all, a kind of a brother; but Mountford is a stranger. -He is a clever fellow, cleverer than I am; and, even if he were not,’ -said poor Charley, with a tinge of bitterness, ‘he is new, and what he -says sounds better, for they have not heard it so often before. And then -he is older, and has been all about the world; and besides--well,’ the -Curate broke off with a harsh little laugh, ‘that is about all, sir. He -is he, and I am me--that’s all.’ - -‘If that is what you think,’ said the Rector, who had listened to all -this with very attentive ears, pausing, as he took hold of the upper bar -of his own gate, and raising a very serious countenance to his son, ‘if -this is really what you think, Charley--you may have better means of -judging--we must push Mountford. Anything would be better,’ he said, -solemnly, ‘than to see Anne an old maid. And she’s capable of doing -that,’ he added, laying his hand upon his son’s in the seriousness of -the moment. ‘She is capable of doing it, if we don’t mind.’ - -Charley felt the old hand chill him like something icy and cold. And he -did not go in with his father, but took a pensive turn round the garden -in the moonlight. No, she would never walk with him there. It was too -presumptuous a thought. Never would Anne be the mistress within, never -would it be permitted to Charley to call her forth into the moonlight in -the sweet domestic sanctity of home. His heart stirred within him for a -moment, then sank, acknowledging the impossibility. He breathed forth a -vast sigh as he lit the evening cigar, which his father did not like him -to smoke in his presence, disliking the smell, like the old-fashioned -person he was. The Curate walked round and round the grass-plats, sadly -enjoying this gentle indulgence. When he tossed the end away, after -nearly an hour of silent musing, he said to himself, ‘Mountford might do -it,’ with another sigh. It was hard upon Charley. A stranger had a -better chance than himself, a man that was nothing to her, whom she had -known for a few months only. But so it was: and it was noble of him that -he wished Mountford no manner of harm. - -This was the state of affairs between the Rectory and the Dower-house, -which, fortunately, was on the very edge of Lilford parish, and -therefore could, without any searchings of heart on the part of the new -Vicar there, permit the attendance of the ladies at the church which -they loved. When Willie was home at Christmas his feet wore a distinct -line on the road. He was always there, which his brother thought foolish -and weak, since nothing could ever come of it. Indeed, if anything did -exasperate the Curate, it was the inordinate presumption and foolishness -of Willie, who seemed really to believe that Rose would have something -to say to him. _Rose!_ who was the rich one of the house, and whose eyes -were not magnanimous to observe humble merit like those of her sister. -It was setting that little thing up, Charley felt, with hot indignation, -as if she were superior to Anne. But then Willie was always more -complacent, and thought better of himself than did his humble-minded -brother. As for Mr. Ashley himself, he never intermitted his anxious -watch upon Anne. She was capable of it. No doubt she was just the very -person to do it. The Rector could not deny that she had provocation. If -a woman had behaved to him like that, he himself, he felt, might have -turned his back upon the sex, and refused to permit himself to become -the father of Charley and Willie. That was putting the case in a -practical point of view. The Rector felt a cold dew burst out upon his -forehead, when it gleamed across him with all the force of a revelation, -that in such a case Charley and Willie might never have been. He set out -on the spot to bring this tremendous thought before Anne, but stopped -short and came back after a moment depressed and toned down. How could -he point out to Anne the horrible chance that perhaps two such paragons -yet unborn might owe their non-existence (it was difficult to put it -into words even) to her? He could not say it; and thus lost out of -shyness or inaptness, he felt (for why should there have been any -difficulty in stating it?), by far the best argument that had yet -occurred to him. But though he relinquished his argument he did not get -over his anxiety. Anne an old maid! it was a thought to move heaven and -earth. - -In the meantime Heathcote Mountford felt as warmly as anyone could have -desired the wonderful brightening of the local horizon which followed -upon the ladies’ return. The Dower-house was for him also within the -limits of a walk, and the decoration and furnishing which went on to a -great extent after they had taken possession, the family bivouacking -pleasantly in the meantime, accepting inconveniences with a composure -which only ladies are capable of under such circumstances, gave -opportunity for many a consultation and discussion. It was no obsequious -purpose of pleasing her which made Heathcote almost invariably agree -with Anne when questions arose. They were of a similar mould, born under -the same star, to speak poetically, with a natural direction of their -thoughts and fancies in the same channel, and an agreement of tastes -perhaps slightly owing to the mysterious affinities of the powerful and -wide-spreading family character which they both shared. By-and-by it -came to be recognised that Anne and Heathcote were each other’s natural -allies. One of them even, no one could remember which, playfully -identified a certain line of ideas as ‘our side.’ When the winter came -on and country pleasures shrank as they are apt to do, to women, within -much restricted limits, the friendship between these two elder members -of the family grew. That they were naturally on the same level, and -indeed about the same age, nobody entertained any doubt, aided by that -curious foregone conclusion in the general mind (which is either a -mighty compliment or a contemptuous insult to a woman) that a girl of -twenty-one is in reality quite the equal and contemporary, so to speak, -of a man of thirty-five. Perhaps the assumption was more legitimate than -usual in the case of these two; for Anne, always a girl of eager -intelligence and indiscriminate intellectual appetite, had lived much of -her life among books, and was used to unbounded intercourse with the -matured minds of great writers, besides having had the ripening touch of -practical work, and of that strange bewildering conflict with -difficulties unforeseen which is called disenchantment by some, -disappointment by others, but which is perhaps to a noble mind the most -certain and unfailing of all maturing influences. Heathcote Mountford -had not lived so much longer in the world without having known what that -experience was, and in her gropings darkly after the lost ideal, the -lost paradise which had seemed so certain and evident at her first -onset, Anne began to feel that now and then she encountered her -kinsman’s hand in the darkness with a reassuring grasp. This -consciousness came to her slowly, she could scarcely tell how; and -whether he himself was conscious of it at all she did not know. But let -nobody think this was in the way of love-making or overtures to a new -union. When a girl like Anne, a young woman full of fresh hope and -confidence and all belief in the good and true, meets on her outset into -life with such a ‘disappointment’ as people call it, it is not alone the -loss of her lover that moves her. She has lost her world as well. Her -feet stumble upon the dark mountains; the steadfast sky swims round her -in a confusion of bewildering vapours and sickening giddy lights. She -stands astonished in the midst of a universe going to pieces, like -Hamlet in those times which were out of joint. All that was so clear to -her has become dim. If she has a great courage, she fights her way -through the blinding mists, not knowing where she is going, feeling only -a dull necessity to keep upright, to hold fast to something. And if by -times a hand reaches hers thrust out into the darkness, guiding to this -side or that, her fingers close upon it with an instinct of -self-preservation. This, I suppose, is what used to be called catching a -heart in the rebound. Heathcote himself was not thinking of catching -this heart in its rebound. He was not himself aware when he helped her; -but he was dimly conscious of the pilgrimage she was making out of the -gloom back into the light. - -This was going on all the winter through. Mr. Morris’s papers, and all -the harmonies or discordances of the furniture, and the struggle against -too much of Queen Anne, and the attempts to make some compromise that -could bear the name of Queen Victoria, afforded a dim amusement, a -background of trivial fact and reality which it was good to be able -always to make out among the mists. Love may perish, but the -willow-pattern remains. The foundation of the world may be shaken, but -so long as the dado is steady! Anne had humour enough to take the good -of all these helps, to smile, and then laugh, at all the dimly comic -elements around her, from the tremendous seriousness of the decorator, -up to the distress and perplexity of the Rector and his alarmed -perception of the possible old maid in her. Anne herself was not in the -least alarmed by the title which made Mr. Ashley shiver. The idea of -going over all that course of enchantment once again was impossible. It -had been enchantment once--a second time it would be--what would a -second time be? impossible! That was all that could be said. It was over -for her, as certainly as life of this kind is over for a widow. To be -sure it is not always over even for a widow: but Anne, highly -fantastical as became her temper and her years, rejected with a lofty -disdain any idea of renewal. Nevertheless, towards the spring, after the -darkness had begun to lighten a little, when she found at a hard corner -that metaphorical hand of Heathcote taking hers, helping her across a -bad bit of the road, her heart was conscious of a throb of pleasure. - - - - -CHAPTER XXXVI. - -THE LAST. - - -Rose’s behaviour had been a trouble and a puzzle to her family during -the latter part of the year. Whether it was that the change from the -dissipation of London and the variety of their wanderings ‘abroad’ to -the dead quiet of country life, in which the young heiress became again -little Rose and nothing more, was a change beyond the powers of -endurance, or whether it was some new spring of life in her, nobody -could tell. She became fretful and uncertain in temper, cross to her -mother, and absolutely rebellious against Anne, to whom she spoke in a -way which even Mrs. Mountford was moved to declare ‘very unbecoming.’ - -‘You ought to remember that Anne is your elder sister, at least, -whatever else,’ the mother said, who had always been a little aggrieved -by the fact that, even in making her poor, her father had given to Anne -a position of such authority in the house. - -‘Mamma!’ Rose had cried, flushed and furious, ‘she may manage my -property, but she shall not manage _me_.’ - -The little girl talked a great deal about her property in those days, -except when Mr. Loseby was present, who was the only person, her mother -said, who seemed to exercise any control over her. By-and-by, however, -this disturbed condition of mind calmed down. She gave Willie Ashley a -great deal of ‘encouragement’ during the Christmas holidays; then turned -round upon him at Easter, and scarcely knew him. But this was Rose’s -way, and nobody minded very much. In short, the Curate was cruelly -consoled by his brother’s misadventure. It is a sad confession to have -to make; but, good Christian as he was, Charley Ashley felt better when -he found that Willie had tumbled down from confidence to despair. - -‘I told you you were a fool all the time,’ he said, with that fraternal -frankness which is common among brothers; and he felt it less hard -afterwards to endure the entire abandonment in his own person of any -sort of hope. - -And thus the time went on. Routine reasserted those inalienable rights -which are more potent than anything else on earth, and everybody yielded -to them. The Mountfords, like the rest, owned that salutary bondage. -They half forgot the things that had happened to them--Anne her -disenchantments, Rose her discovery, and Mrs. Mountford that life had -ever differed much from its present aspect. All things pass away except -dinner-time and bed-time, the day’s business, and the servants’ meals. - -But when the third year was nearly completed from Mr. Mountford’s death, -the agitation of past times began to return again. Rose’s temper began -to give more trouble than ever, and Mr. Loseby’s visits were more -frequent, and even Anne showed a disturbance of mind unusual to her. She -explained this to her kinsman Heathcote one autumn afternoon, a few days -before Rose’s birthday. He had asked the party to go and see the last -batch of the cottages, which had been completed--a compliment which went -to Anne’s heart--according to her plans. But Heathcote had stopped to -point out some special features to his cousin, and these two came along -some way after the others. The afternoon was soft and balmy, though it -was late in the year. The trees stood out in great tufts of yellow and -crimson against the sky, which had begun to emulate their hues. The -paths were strewed, as for a religious procession, with leaves of russet -and gold, and the low sun threw level lights over the slopes of the -park, which were pathetically green with the wet and damp of approaching -winter. - -‘The season is all stillness and completion,’ Anne said; ‘but I am -restless. I don’t know what is the matter with me. I want to be in -motion--to do something--from morning to night.’ - -‘You have had too much of the monotony of our quiet life.’ - -‘No: you forget I have always been used to the country; it is not -monotonous to me. Indeed, I know well enough what it is,’ said Anne, -with a smile. ‘It is Rose’s birthday coming so near. I will lose my -occupation, which I am fond of--and what shall I do?’ - -‘I could tell you some things to do.’ - -‘Oh, no doubt I shall find something,’ said Anne, with heightened -colour. ‘I cannot find out from Rose what she intends. It must be a -curious sensation for a little girl who--has never been anything but a -little girl--to come into such a responsibility all at once.’ - -‘But you were no older than she--when you came into--’ said Heathcote, -watching her countenance--‘all this responsibility, and other things as -well.’ - -‘I was older, a great deal, when I was born,’ said Anne, with a laugh. -‘It is so different--even to be the eldest makes a difference. I think I -shall ask Rose to keep me on as land-agent. She must have someone.’ - -‘On your own property; on the land which your mother brought into the -family; on what would have been yours but for----’ - -‘Hu-ush!’ said Anne, with a prolonged soft utterance, lifting her hand -as if to put it on his mouth; and, with a smile, ‘never say anything of -that--it is over--it is all over. I don’t mind it now; I am rather -glad,’ she said resolutely, ‘if it must be faced, and we must talk of -it--rather glad that it is for nothing that I have paid the price: -without any compensation. I dare say it is unreasonable, but I don’t -think there is any bitterness in my mind. Don’t bring it up----’ - -‘I will not--God forbid!’ he said, ‘bring bitterness to your -sweetness--not for anything in the world, Anne; but think, now you are -free from your three years’ work, now your time will be your own, your -hands empty----’ - -‘Think! why that is what I am thinking all day long: and I don’t like -it. I will ask Rose to appoint me her land-agent.’ - -‘I will appoint you mine,’ he said. ‘Anne, we have been coming to this -moment all these three years. Don’t send me away without thinking it -over again. Do you remember all that long time ago how I complained that -I had been forestalled; that I had not been given a chance? And for two -years I have not dared to say a word. But see the change in my life. I -have given up all I used to care for. I have thought of nothing but -Mount and you--you and Mount. It does not matter which name comes first; -it means one thing. Now that you are free, it is not Rose’s land-agent -but mine that you ought to be. I am not your love,’ he said, a deep -colour rising over his face, ‘but you are mine, Anne. And, though it -sounds blasphemy to say so, love is not everything; life is something; -and there is plenty for us to do--together.’ - -His voice broke off, full of emotion, and for a moment or two -she could not command hers. Then she said, with a tremor in her -tone--‘Heathcote--you are poor and I am poor. Two poverties together -will not do the old place much good.’ - -‘Is that all you know, Anne----still? They will make the old place -holy; they will make it the beginning of better things to come. But if -it is not possible still to sacrifice those other thoughts--I can wait, -dear,’ he said, hurriedly, ‘I can wait.’ - -Then there was a little pause, full of fate. After a time she answered -him clearly, steadily. ‘There is no question of sacrifice: but wait a -little, Heathcote, wait still a little.’ Then she said with something -that tried to be a laugh, ‘You are like the Rector; you are frightened -lest I should be an old maid.’ - -And then in his agitation he uttered a cry of alarm as genuine as the -Rector’s, but more practical. ‘That you shall not be!’ he cried -suddenly, grasping her arm in both his hands. Anne did not know whether -to be amused or offended. But after awhile they went on quietly together -talking, if not of love, yet of what Heathcote called life--which -perhaps was not so very different in the sense in which the word was at -present employed. - -Two days after was Rose’s birthday. Mr. Loseby came over in great state -from Hunston, and the friends of the family were all gathered early, the -Ashleys and Heathcote coming to luncheon, with Fanny Woodhead and her -sister, while a great party was to assemble in the evening. Rose -herself, oddly enough, had resisted this party, and done everything she -could against it, which her mother had set down to simple perversity, -with much reason on her side. ‘Of course we must have a party,’ Mrs. -Mountford said. ‘Could anything be more ridiculous? A coming of age and -no rejoicing! We should have had a party under any circumstances, even -if you had not been so important a person.’ Rose cried when the -invitations were sent out. There were traces of tears and a feverish -agitation about her as the days went on. Two or three times she was -found in close conversation with Mr. Loseby, and once or twice he had -the look of urging something upon her which she resisted. Mrs. Mountford -thought she knew all about this. It was, no doubt his constant appeal -about the provision to be made for Anne. This was a point upon which the -sentiments of Rose’s mother had undergone several changes. At one time -she had been very willing that a division of the property should take -place, not, perhaps, a quite equal division, but sufficiently so to -content the world, and give everybody the impression that Rose ‘had -behaved very handsomely!’ but at another time it had appeared to her -that to settle upon Anne the five hundred a year which had been her -allowance as the guardian of her sister’s interests, would be a very -sufficient provision. She had, as she said, kept herself aloof from -these discussions latterly, declaring that she would not influence her -daughter’s mind--that Rose must decide for herself. And this, no doubt, -was the subject upon which Mr. Loseby dwelt with so much insistence. -Mrs. Mountford did not hesitate to say that she had no patience with -him. ‘I suppose it is always the same subject,’ she said. ‘My darling -child, I won’t interfere. You must consult your own heart, which will be -your best guide. I might be biassed, and I have made up my mind not to -interfere.’ Rose was excited and impatient, and would scarcely listen to -her mother. ‘I wish nobody would interfere,’ she cried; ‘I wish they -would leave us alone, and let us settle it our own way.’ - -At last the all-important day arrived. The bells were rung in the little -church at Lilford very early, and woke Rose with a sound of -congratulation, to a day which was as bright as her life, full of -sunshine and freshness, the sky all blue and shining, the country gay -with its autumn robes, every tree in a holiday dress. Presents poured in -upon her on all sides. All her friends, far and near, had remembered, -even those who were out of the way, too far off to be invited for the -evening festivities, what a great day it was in Rose’s life. But she -herself did not present the same peaceful and brilliant aspect. Mrs. -Worth had not this time been successful about her dress. She was in a -flutter of many ribbons as happened to be the fashion of the moment, and -her round and blooming face was full of agitation, quite uncongenial to -its character. There were lines of anxiety in her soft forehead, and a -hot feverish flush upon her cheeks. When the Ashleys arrived they were -called into the library where the family had assembled--a large sunny -room filled at one end with a great bow-window, opening upon the lawn, -which was the favourite morning-room of the family. At the upper end, at -the big writing-table which was generally Anne’s throne of serious -occupation, both the sisters were seated with Mr. Loseby and his blue -bag. Mr. Loseby had been going over his accounts, and Anne had brought -her big books, while Rose between them, like a poor little boat bobbing -up and down helplessly on this troubled sea of business, gave an -agitated attention to all they said to her. Mrs. Mountford sat at the -nearest window with her worsted work, as usual counting her stitches, -and doing her best to look calm and at her ease, though there was a -throb of anxiety which she did not understand in her mind, for what was -there to be anxious about? The strangers felt themselves out of place at -this serious moment, all except the old Rector, whose interest was so -strong and genuine that he went up quite naturally to the table, and -drew his chair towards it, as if he had a right to know all about it. -Heathcote Mountford stood against the wall, near Mrs. Mountford, and -made a solemn remark to her now and then about nothing at all, while -Charley and Willie stood about against the light in the bow-window, -mentally leaning against each other, and wishing themselves a hundred -miles away. - -The group at the table was a peculiar one: little Rose in the centre, -restless, uneasy, a flush on her face, clasping and unclasping her -hands, turning helplessly from one to the other: Mr. Loseby’s shining -bald head stooped over the papers, its polished crown turned towards the -company as he ran on in an unbroken stream of explanation and -instruction, while Anne on the other side, serene and fair, sat -listening with far more attention than her sister. Anne had never looked -so much herself since all these troubles arose. Her countenance was -tranquil and shining as the day. She had on (the Curate thought) the -very same dress of white cashmere, easy and graceful in its long -sweeping folds, which she wore at Lady Meadowlands’ party; but as that -was three years ago, I need not say the gown was not identically the -same. A great quietness was in Anne’s mind. She was pleased, for one -thing, with the approbation she had received. Mr. Loseby had declared -that her books were kept as no clerk in his office could have kept them. -Perhaps this was exaggerated praise, and bookkeeping is not an heroic -gift, but yet the approbation pleased her. And she had executed her -father’s trust. Whatever might be the next step in her career, this, at -least, was well ended, and peace was in her face and her heart. She made -a little sign of salutation to Charley and Willie as they came in, -smiling at them with the ease that befitted their fraternal relations. A -soft repose was about her. Her time of probation, her lonely work, was -over. Was there now, perhaps, a brighter epoch, a happier life to begin? - -But Rose was neither happy nor serene; her hot hands kept on a perpetual -manœuvring, her face grew more and more painfully red, her ribbons -fluttered with the nervous trembling in her--now and then the light -seemed to fail from her eyes. She could scarcely contain herself while -Mr. Loseby’s voice went on. Rose scarcely knew what she wanted or -wished. Straight in front of her lay the packet directed in her father’s -hand to Mr. Loseby, the contents of which she knew, but nobody else -knew. Fifty times over she was on the point of covering it with her -sleeve, slipping it into her pocket. What was the use of going on with -all this farce of making over her fortune to her, if _that_ was to be -produced at the end? or was it possible, perhaps, that it was not to be -produced? that this nightmare, which had oppressed her all the time, had -meant nothing after all? Rose was gradually growing beyond her own -control. The room went round and round with her; she saw the figures -surrounding her darkly, scarcely knowing who they were. Mr. Loseby’s -voice running on seemed like an iron screw going through and through her -head. If she waited a moment longer everything would be over. She -clutched at Anne’s arm for something to hold fast by--her hour had come. - -They were all roused up in a moment by the interruption of some unusual -sound, and suddenly Rose was heard speaking in tones which were sharp -and urgent in confused passion. ‘I don’t want to hear any more,’ she -said; ‘what is the use of it all? Oh, Mr. Loseby, please be quiet for -one moment and let me speak! The first thing is to make a new will. - -‘To make your will--there is plenty of time for that,’ said the old -lawyer, astonished, pushing his spectacles as usual out of his way; -while Mrs. Mountford said with a glance up from her worsted-work, ‘My -pet! that is not work for to-day.’ - -‘Not my will--but papa’s!’ she cried. ‘Mr. Loseby, you know; you have -always said I must change the will. Anne is to have the half--I settled -it long ago. We are to put it all right. I want Anne to have the -half--or nearly the half!’ she cried, with momentary hesitation, ‘before -it is too late. Put it all down, and I will sign; the half, or as near -the half as---- Quick! I want it all to be settled before it is too -late!’ - -What did she mean by too late? Anne put her arm behind her sister to -support her, and kissed her with trembling lips. ‘My Rosie!’ she cried, -‘my little sister!’ with tears brimming over. Mrs. Mountford threw down -all her wools and rushed to her child’s side. They all drew close, -thinking that ‘too late’ could only mean some fatal impression on the -girl’s mind that she was going to die. - -‘Yes, half: half is a great deal!’ said Rose, stammering, ‘nearly half, -you know--I have always meant it. Why should I have all and she none? -And she has not married Mr. Douglas--I don’t know why. I think--but it -hasn’t come about--I want everybody to know, papa made a mistake; but I -give it to her, _I_ give it to her! Mr. Loseby, make a new will, and say -that half--or nearly half--is to be for Anne. And oh! please, no more -business--that will do for to-day.’ - -She got up and sat down as she was speaking, feverishly. She shook off -her mother’s hand on her shoulder, gave up her hold upon Anne, drew her -hand out of the Rector’s, who had clasped it, bidding God bless her, -with tears running down his old cheeks. She scarcely even submitted to -the pressure of Anne’s arm, which was round her, and did not seem to -understand when her sister spoke. ‘Rose!’ Anne was saying, making an -appeal to all the bystanders, ‘Do you know what she says? She is giving -me everything back. Do you hear her--the child! My little Rosie! I don’t -care--I don’t care for the money; but it is everything that she is -giving me. What a heart she has! do you hear, do you all -hear?--everything!’ Anne’s voice of surprise and generous joy went to -all their hearts. - -Mrs. Mountford made an effort to draw Rose towards herself. ‘There had -better be no exaggeration--she said the half--and it is a great thing to -do,’ said the mother thoughtfully. There was nothing to be said against -it; still half was a great deal, and even Rose, though almost wild with -excitement, felt this too. - -‘Yes, half--I did not mean all, as Anne seems to think; half is--a great -deal! Mr. Loseby, write it all down and I will sign it. Isn’t that -enough--enough for to-day?’ - -‘Only one thing else,’ Mr. Loseby said. He put out his hand and took up -the letter that was lying innocently among the other papers. ‘This -letter,’ he said--but he was not allowed to go any further. Rose turned -upon him all feverish and excited, and tore it out of his hands. ‘Anne!’ -she cried, with a gasp, ‘Anne! I can’t hear any more to-day.’ - -‘No more, no more,’ said Anne, soothingly; ‘what do we want more, Mr. -Loseby? She is quite right. If you were to secure the crown to me, you -could not make me more happy. My little Rose! I am richer than the -Queen!’ Anne cried, her voice breaking. But then, to the astonishment of -everybody, Rose burst from her, threw down the letter on the table, and -covered her face, with a cry shrill and sharp as if called forth by -bodily pain. - -‘You can read it, if you please,’ the girl cried; ‘but if you read it, I -will die!’ - -Mr. Loseby looked at Anne and she at him. Something passed between them -in that look, which the others did not understand. A sudden flush of -colour covered her face. She said softly ‘My trust is not over yet. What -can it matter to anyone but ourselves what is in the letter? We have -had business enough for one day.’ - -And Rose did not appear at lunch. She had been overwrought, everybody -said. She lay down in a dark room all the afternoon with a great deal of -eau de Cologne about, and her mother sitting by. Mrs. Mountford believed -in bed, and the pulling down of the blinds. It was a very strange day: -after the luncheon, at which the queen of the feast was absent, and no -one knew what to say, the familiar guests walked about the grounds for a -little, not knowing what to think, and then judiciously took themselves -away till the evening, while Mr. Loseby disappeared with Anne, and Mrs. -Mountford soothed her daughter. In the evening Rose appeared in a very -pretty dress, though with pale cheeks. Anne, who was far more serious -now than she had been in the morning, kissed her little sister tenderly, -but they did not say anything to each other. Neither from that time to -this has the subject ever been mentioned by one to the other. The money -was divided exactly between them, and Anne gave no explanations even to -her most intimate friends. Whether it was Rose who shared with her, or -she with Rose, nobody knew. The news stole out, and for a little while -everybody celebrated Rose to the echo; but then another whisper got -abroad, and no one knew what to think. As a matter of fact, however, Mr. -Mountford’s two daughters divided everything he left behind. The only -indication Anne ever received that the facts of the case had oozed out -beyond the circle of the family, was in the following strange letter, -which she received some time after, when her approaching marriage to -Heathcote Mountford, of Mount, was made known:-- - -‘You will be surprised to receive a letter from me. Perhaps it is an -impertinence on my part to write. But I will never forget the past, -though I may take it for granted that you have done so. Your father’s -letter, which I hear was read on your sister’s birthday, will explain -many things to you and, perhaps, myself among the many. I do not pretend -that I was aware of it, but I may say that I divined it; and divining -it, what but one thing in the face of all misconstructions, remained for -me to do? Perhaps you will understand me and do me a little justice now. -Pardon me, at least, for having troubled even so small a portion of your -life. I try to rejoice that it has been but a small portion. In mine you -stand where you always did. The altar may be veiled and the worshipper -say his litanies unheard. He is a nonjuror, and his rites are licensed -by no authority, civil or sacred: nor can he sing mass for any new king. -Yet in darkness and silence and humiliation, for your welfare, -happiness, and prosperity does ever pray--C. D.’ - -Anne was moved by this letter more than it deserved, and wondered if, -perhaps----? But it did not shake her happiness as, possibly, it was -intended to do. - -And then followed one of the most remarkable events in this story. Rose, -who had always been more or less worldly-minded, and who would never -have hesitated to say that to better yourself was the most legitimate -object in life--Rose--no longer a great heiress, but a little person -with a very good fortune, and quite capable of making what she, herself, -would have called a good marriage--Rose married Willie Ashley, to the -astonishment and consternation of everybody. Mrs. Mountford, though she -lives with them and is on the whole fond of her son-in-law, has not even -yet got over her surprise. And as for the old Rector, it did more than -surprise, it bewildered him. A shade of alarm comes over his countenance -still, when he speaks of it. ‘I had nothing to do with it,’ he is -always ready to say. With the Curate the feeling is still deeper and -more sombre. In the depths of his heart he cannot forgive his brother. -That Rose should have been the one to appreciate modest merit and give -it its reward, Rose and not her sister--seems like blasphemy to Charley. -Nevertheless, there are hopes that Lucy Woodhead, who is growing up a -very nice girl, and prettier than her sister, may induce even the -faithful Curate to change the current of his thoughts and ways. - - - THE END. - - - PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE, HANSON AND CO. - EDINBURGH AND LONDON - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IN TRUST; THE STORY OF A LADY AND -HER LOVER *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law 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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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 <a href="https://www.gutenberg.org">www.gutenberg.org</a>. If you -are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the -country where you are located before using this eBook. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Title: In Trust; the Story of a Lady and her Lover</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-top:1em; margin-bottom:1em; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>Author: Mrs. Margaret Oliphant</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Release Date: March 20, 2021 [eBook #64888]</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Language: English</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'>Character set encoding: UTF-8</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin-left:2em; text-indent:-2em'>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)</div> - -<div style='margin-top:2em; margin-bottom:4em'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IN TRUST; THE STORY OF A LADY AND HER LOVER ***</div> -<hr class="full" /> - -<div class="c"> -<a href="images/cover.jpg"> -<img src="images/cover.jpg" height="550" alt="" /></a> -</div> - -<p class="c">I N T R U S T<br /><br /><br /> -<span class="eng">Ballantyne-Press</span><br /> -BALLANTYNE, HANSON AND CO<br /> -EDINBURGH AND LONDON<br /> -</p> - -<h1>IN TRUST</h1> - -<p class="c"><i>THE STORY OF A LADY AND HER LOVER</i><br /> -<br /> -<br /> -BY<br /> -<br /> -M. O. W. OLIPHANT<br /> -<br /><small> -AUTHOR OF ‘THE CHRONICLES OF CARLINGFORD’ ETC.</small><br /> -<br /> -<br /> -<i>NEW EDITION</i><br /> -<br /> -<br /> -LONDON<br /> -LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO.<br /> -1883<br /> -<br /><small> -<i>All rights reserved</i></small><br /> -</p> - -<h2><a name="CONTENTS" id="CONTENTS"></a>CONTENTS</h2> - -<table border="0" cellpadding="1" cellspacing="0" summary=""> -<tr><td class="rt"><small>CHAPTER</small></td><td> </td> -<td class="rt"><small>PAGE</small></td></tr> - -<tr><td valign="top" class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_I">I.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_I">Father and Daughter</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_1">1</a></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_II">II.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_II">The Rest of the Family</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_11">11</a></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_III">III.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_III">The ‘Game’</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_22">22</a></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_IV">IV.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_IV">Under the Beeches</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_34">34</a></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_V">V.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_V">Explanations</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_47">47</a></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_VI">VI.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_VI">Good-bye</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_59">59</a></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_VII">VII.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_VII">Cross-examination</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_70">70</a></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">VIII.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_VIII">The Meadowlands’ Party</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_83">83</a></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_IX">IX.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_IX">Cosmo</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_94">94</a></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_X">X.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_X">Family Counsels</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_108">108</a></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_XI">XI.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XI">Projects of Marriage</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_121">121</a></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_XII">XII.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XII">Mistress and Maid</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_134">134</a></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIII">XIII.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIII">Heathcote Mountford</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_146">146</a></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIV">XIV.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIV">The Spectator’s View</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_160">160</a></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_XV">XV.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XV">Tampering with a Lawyer</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_171">171</a></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_XVI">XVI.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XVI">Good Advice</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_184">184</a></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_XVII">XVII.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XVII">The Absolute and the Comparative</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_198">198</a></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_XVIII">XVIII.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XVIII">Afterthoughts</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_211">211</a></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIX">XIX.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XIX">The Catastrophe</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_228">228</a></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_XX">XX.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XX">The Will</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_239">239</a></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXI">XXI.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXI">When all was Over</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_252">252</a></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXII">XXII.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXII">Sophistry</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_268">268</a></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXIII">XXIII.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXIII">Heathcote’s Proposal</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_279">279</a></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXIV">XXIV.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXIV">A Visitor</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_292">292</a></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXV">XXV.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXV">Packing Up</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_307">307</a></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXVI">XXVI.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXVI">Going Away</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_318">318</a></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXVII">XXVII.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXVII">A New Beginning</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_331">331</a></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXVIII">XXVIII.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXVIII">Heathcote’s Career</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_342">342</a></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXIX">XXIX.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXIX">Charley Interferes</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_356">356</a></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXX">XXX.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXX">The Rector Satisfied</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_370">370</a></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXI">XXXI.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXI">Fallen from her High Estate</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_383">383</a></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXII">XXXII.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXII">Rose on her Defence</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_397">397</a></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIII">XXXIII.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIII">The Man of the Period</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_414">414</a></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIV">XXXIV.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXIV">The Heiress’s Trial</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_422">422</a></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXV">XXXV.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXV">A Simple Woman</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_442">442</a></td></tr> -<tr><td valign="top" class="rt"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXVI">XXXVI.</a></td><td valign="top"><a href="#CHAPTER_XXXVI">The Last</a></td><td class="rt" valign="bottom"><a href="#page_456">456</a></td></tr> -</table> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_1" id="page_1">{1}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="IN_TRUST" id="IN_TRUST"></a>IN TRUST.</h2> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_I" id="CHAPTER_I"></a>CHAPTER I.<br /><br /> -<small>FATHER AND DAUGHTER.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">‘My</span> dear, the case is as plain as noonday; you must give this man up.’</p> - -<p>‘The case is not plain to me, father—at least, not in your sense.’</p> - -<p>‘Anne, you are very positive and self-opinionated, but you cannot—it is -not possible—set up your judgment against mine on such a point. You, an -inexperienced, prejudiced girl, a rustic with no knowledge of the world! -What do you know about the man? Oh, I allow he is well enough to look -at; he has had the usual amount of education, and so forth; but what do -you <i>know</i> about him? that is what I ask.’</p> - -<p>‘Not much, father,’ said Anne, steadily; ‘but I know <i>him</i>.’</p> - -<p>‘Stuff! you, a girl not much over twenty, know a <i>man</i>! Does he tell -you, do you suppose, all the adventures of his life? Does he confess his -sins to you? A young fellow that has been trained at a public school, -that has been at the university, that has knocked about the world—is he -going to confide all that to <i>you</i>? He would be unworthy the name of -gentleman if he did.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_2" id="page_2">{2}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>‘Would he not be more unworthy the name of gentleman if he had done -things which he could not confide to me?’ said Anne; then reddening -suddenly, she added, ‘And even if it were so, father, if in those days -he had done things unfit for my ears, let him be silent; I will not ask -any questions: I know what he is now.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, stuff, I tell you! stuff and nonsense, child! You know what he is -<i>now</i>! Yes, what he is when his best coat is on, when he is going to -church with his hymn-book in his pocket and you on his arm; that is a -very edifying aspect of him; but if you think that is all, or nearly -all——’</p> - -<p>Anne was silent. It was not that she was convinced, but that her -indignation took words from her. She could not make any reply to such -calumnies; and this was troublesome to her father, who preferred an -argument to a distinct and unsupported statement. He looked at her for a -moment, baffled, feeling himself cut short in the full flow of -utterance—then picked up the thread again, and resumed:</p> - -<p>‘You would be a fool to trust in any man in that unguarded way: and -above all in a lawyer. They are all rogues; it is in them. When did you -ever hear a good word spoken for that class of men? I will not consent -to any such nonsense: and if you act without my consent, you know the -consequence. I will not give your mother’s money to maintain in luxury a -man who is—who will be—never mind! You shall not have it. I will give -it to Rose, as I have the power.’</p> - -<p>‘You would not be so unjust,’ said Anne.</p> - -<p>‘Unjust! I will do it if you defy me in this way. Rose has always been a -better child to me than you have been; and she shall have the money if -you don’t mind.’</p> - -<p>Whoever had looked at Anne Mountford then would not have given much for -the chance of her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_3" id="page_3">{3}</a></span> submission. She said nothing, but her upper lip shut -down upon the lower with an unrelenting, immovable determination. She -would not even add a word to her protest against the possibility of the -injustice with which she had been threatened. She was too proud to -repeat herself; she stood still, unbending, betraying no impatience, -ready to receive with calmness everything that might be said to her, but -firm as the house upon its foundations, or the hills that are called -everlasting. Her father knew something of the character of his eldest -child; he knew very well that no small argument would move her, but -perhaps he was not aware how far beyond his power she was. He looked at -her, however, with a passionate annoyance very different from her calm, -and with something vindictive and almost spiteful in his reddish-grey -eyes. Most likely he had felt himself dashed against the wall of her -strong will before now, and had been exasperated by the calm force of -opposition which he could make no head against.</p> - -<p>‘You hear what I say,’ he repeated roughly; ‘if you insist, I shall -exercise the right your mother gave me; I shall alter my will: and the -fortune which is no doubt your chief attraction in this man’s eyes—the -fortune he has been calculating upon—I will give to Rose. You hear what -I say?’</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ said Anne. She bowed her head gravely; no doubt that she -understood him, and equally no doubt that what he said had moved her as -much as a shower of rain might have done, and that she was fully -determined to take her own way.</p> - -<p>‘On your own head be it then,’ he cried.</p> - -<p>She bowed again, and after waiting for a moment to see if he had -anything further to say to her, went quietly out of the room. It was in -the library of a country house that this interview had taken place—the -commonplace business room of a country gentleman of no very great -pretensions. The walls were lined<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_4" id="page_4">{4}</a></span> with bookcases in which there was a -tolerable collection of books, but yet they did not tell for much in the -place. They were furniture like the curtains, which were rather shabby, -and the old Turkey carpet—most respectable furniture, yet a little -neglected, wanting renewal. Mr. Mountford’s writing-table was laden with -papers; he had plenty of business to transact, though not of a strictly -intellectual kind. He was an old man, still handsome in his age, with -picturesque snow-white hair in masses, clearly-cut, fine features, and -keen eyes of that reddish hazel which betokens temper. Those eyes -constantly burned under the somewhat projecting eyebrows. They threw a -sort of angry lurid light on his face. The name of the house was Mount; -it had been in the Mountford family for many generations; but it was not -a beautiful and dignified house any more than he was a fine old English -gentleman. Both the place and the man had traditionary rights to popular -respect, but neither man nor place had enforced this claim by any -individual beauty or excellence. There was no doubt as to the right of -the Mountfords to be ranked among the gentry of the district, as good as -the best, in so far that the family had been settled there for -centuries; but they were of that curiously commonplace strain which is -prevalent enough among the smaller gentry, without any splendour of -wealth to dazzle the beholder, and which rouses in the mind of the -spectator a wonder as to what it is that makes the squire superior to -his neighbours. The Mountfords from father to son had got on through the -world without any particular harm or good, uninteresting, ordinary -people, respectable enough, yet not even very respectable. They were not -rich, they were not able; they had nothing in themselves to distinguish -them from the rest of the world; yet wherever the name of Mountford -appeared, throughout all the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_5" id="page_5">{5}</a></span> southern counties at least, the claims of -its possessor to gentility were founded on his relationship to the -Mountfords of Mount. Most curious of all the triumphs of the -aristocratical principle! Or rather perhaps it is the more human -principle of continuance which is the foundation of this prejudice to -which we are all more or less subject. A family which has lasted, which -has had obstinacy enough to cling to its bit of soil, to its old house, -must have something in it worth respect. This principle, however, tells -in favour of the respectable shopkeeper quite as much as the squire, but -it does not tell in the same way. The Mountfords felt themselves of an -entirely different order from the shopkeeper—why, heaven knows! but -their estimate was accepted by all the world.</p> - -<p>Mount had the distinction of being entailed; it was not a large estate -nor a valuable one, and it had been deeply mortgaged when the present -Mr. Mountford, St. John by name, came of age. But he had married an -heiress, who had liberated his acres and added greatly to his social -importance. The first Mrs. Mountford had died early, leaving only one -daughter, and at the same time her entire fortune in the hands of her -husband, to do with it what he pleased. These were the days when public -opinion was very unanimous as to the impropriety and unnecessariness of -female rights of any kind, and everybody applauded Mrs. Mountford for -resisting all conditions, and putting herself and her child unreservedly -in her husband’s hands. He had re-married two years after her death, but -unfortunately had succeeded in obtaining only another girl from -unpropitious fate. His first wife’s daughter was Anne, universally -considered as the natural heiress of the considerable fortune which, -after clearing the estate, had remained of her mother’s money, and which -her father had kept scrupulously ‘in a napkin,’ like the churl in the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_6" id="page_6">{6}</a></span> -parable, neither increasing nor diminishing the store. The other -daughter was Rose. Such was the household at Mount in the days when this -history begins. The reigning Mrs. Mountford was a good sort of easy -woman who did not count for much. She was one of the Codringtons of -Carrisford—a ‘very good family’ of the same class as the Mountfords. -Nothing could be better than the connections on both sides—or duller. -But the girls were different. It is very hard to say why the girls -should have been different—perhaps because the present new wave of life -has distinctly affected the girls more than any other class of society. -At all events, the point was indisputable. Anne perhaps might have taken -after her mother, who was of an entirely new stock, not a kind which had -ever before been ingrafted on the steady-going family tree. She had come -out of a race partly mercantile, partly diplomatic; her grandfather had -been Spanish; it was even suspected that one of her ancestors had been a -Jew. All kinds of out-of-the-way sources had furnished the blood which -had been destined to mix with the slow current in the Mountford veins; -and probably Anne had inherited certain bizarre qualities from this -jumble. But Rose had no such mixed antecedents. There was not a drop of -blood in her veins that did not belong to the county, and it was -difficult to see how she could have ‘taken after’ her sister Anne, as -was sometimes suggested, in respect to peculiarities which had come to -Anne from her mother; but if she did not take after Anne, who <i>did</i> she -take after, as Mrs. Mountford often demanded?</p> - -<p>Rose was now eighteen and Anne just over one-and-twenty. They were -considered in the neighbourhood to be attractive girls. A household -possessing two such daughters is naturally supposed to have all the -elements of brightness within it; and perhaps if<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_7" id="page_7">{7}</a></span> there had been -brothers the girls would have taken their natural place as harmonisers -and peacemakers. But there were no brothers, and the girls embodied all -the confusing and disturbing influences natural to boys in their own -persons, with certain difficulties appropriate to their natural -character. It is true they did not get into scrapes or into debt; they -were not expelled from school or ‘sent down’ from College. Duns did not -follow them to the paternal door, or roistering companions break the -family peace. But yet Anne and Rose contrived to give as much trouble to -Mr. and Mrs. Mountford as if they had been Jack and Tom. These good -people had lived for about a dozen years in their rural mansion like the -cabbages in the kitchen garden. Nothing had disturbed them. There had -been no call upon their reasoning faculties, no strain upon their -affections: everything had gone on quite tranquilly and comfortably, -with that quiet persistence of well-being which makes trouble seem -impossible. They had even said to themselves with sighs, that to have -only girls was after all good for something. They could not be tormented -as others were, or even as the rector, one of whose boys had gone ‘to -the bad.’ The thing which had been was that which should be. The shocks, -the discoveries, the commotions, which the restless elements involved in -male youth bring with them, could not trouble their quiet existence. So -they consoled themselves, although not without a sigh.</p> - -<p>Alas, good people! they had reckoned without their girls. The first -storm that arose in the house was when Anne suddenly discovered that her -governess never detected her false notes when she played, and passed the -mistakes which she made, on purpose to test her, in her grammar. ‘I want -some one who can teach me,’ the girl said. She was only fifteen, but she -had already made a great deal more use of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_8" id="page_8">{8}</a></span> that pernicious faculty of -reading which works so much mischief in the world than Mrs. Mountford -approved. Someone who could teach her! That meant a lady at seventy-five -or a hundred pounds a year, instead of thirty-five, which was what they -had hitherto given. Mrs. Mountford nearly cried over this most -unreasonable demand. Miss Montressor was very nice. She was of a family -which had seen better days, and she was fully conscious of her good -fortune in having gained an entry into a county family. After all, what -did it matter about false notes or mistakes in grammar? It was a -ladylike person that was everything. But when Rose too declared in her -little treble that she wanted somebody who could teach her, Miss -Montressor had to go; and the troubles that followed! To do them -justice, the Squire and his wife did their very best to satisfy these -unreasonable young people. They got a German governess with all kinds of -certificates, who taught Rose to say ‘pon chour;’ they got a French -lady, who commended herself to the best feelings of Mrs. Mountford’s -nature by making her up the sweetest cap, but who taught the girls that -Charles I. was all but rescued from the scaffold by the generous -exertions of a Gascon gentleman of the name of D’Artagnan and three -friends who were devoted to him. Mrs. Mountford herself was much pleased -with this information, but Anne and her father were of a different -opinion. However, it would be too long to follow them minutely through -all these troubles. At seventeen Anne wanted Greek and to ‘go in for’ -examinations—which gave a still more complete blow to the prejudices of -the house. ‘The same as a young man!’ It was improper in the highest -degree, almost wicked; Mrs. Mountford did not like to think of it. It -seemed to her, as to some of our ablest critics, that nothing but -illicit longings after evil could make a girl wish to pass<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_9" id="page_9">{9}</a></span> examinations -and acquire knowledge. She must want to read the naughty books which are -written in Greek and Latin, and which deprave the minds of young men, -the good woman thought. As for the certificates and honours, they might -be all very well for the governesses of whom Mrs. Mountford had such -melancholy experience; but a young lady of a county family, what did she -want with them? They would be things to be ashamed, not proud of. And on -this point Anne was vanquished. She was allowed to learn Greek with many -forebodings, but not to be examined in her knowledge. However, this -decision was chiefly intended to prevent Rose from following her sister, -as she always did; for to refuse Girton to Rose would have been more -difficult than to neglect Anne’s entreaties. For, though Anne was the -eldest sister, it was Rose who was the princess royal and reigned over -the whole demesne.</p> - -<p>This desire of the higher education on the part of Rose, who still said -‘pon chour,’ and was not at all certain that two and two always make -four, would have been enough to keep the house in commotion if there had -not occurred just then one of the family troubles appropriate to girls -after so many that could not be called feminine. It has already been -said that the rector of the parish had a son who had ‘gone to the bad.’ -He had two other sons, rocks ahead for the young ladies at Mount. Indeed -these two young men were such obvious dangers that Mrs. Mountford had -taken precautions against them while Rose was still in her cradle. One -was a curate, his father’s probable successor; but as the living was in -Mr. Mountford’s hands, and it was always possible that someone else -might be preferred to Charley, some Mountford connection who had a -nearer claim, that prospect did not count for much. The other was -nothing at<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_10" id="page_10">{10}</a></span> all, a young man at Oxford, not yet launched upon life. But -fortunately these young men, though very familiar in the house, were not -handsome nor dangerously attractive, and this peril is one which must -always be encountered in the country, even by people of much higher -pretensions than the Mountfords. The first trouble, however, did not -come from this obvious quarter, though it came through there. It was not -one of the Ashleys; but it was a person still less satisfactory. One of -the curate’s friends arrived suddenly on a visit in the late summer—a -young Mr. Douglas, a barrister, which sounds well enough; but not one of -the Douglasses who have ever been heard of. They did not find this out -for some time, imagining fondly that he belonged, at a distance perhaps, -to the Morton family, or to the house of Queensberry, or at least to -Douglasses in Scotland, of whom it could be said that they were of -Lanarkshire or Selkirkshire or some other county. Indeed, it was not -until the whole household was thrown into commotion by a morning call -from Mr. Douglas, who asked for Mr. Mountford, and boldly demanded from -him the hand of Anne, that it burst upon them that he was a Douglas of -nowhere at all. He had been very well educated, and he was at the bar; -but when he was asked what branch of the Douglasses he belonged to, he -answered ‘None,’ with a smile. ‘I have no relations,’ he said. Relations -can be dispensed with. There is no harm in being without them; but a -family was indispensable, and he belonged to nobody. It was just like -Anne, however, not to care. She did not in the least care, nor did she -see any harm in her lover’s countyless condition. And when Mr. Mountford -politely declined the honour of an alliance with this Mr. Douglas of -nowhere at all, she did not hesitate to say that she entirely disagreed -with her father. This was the state in which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_11" id="page_11">{11}</a></span> things were at the time of -the interview I have recorded. Mr. Mountford was determined, and so was -his daughter. This struggle of wills had taken place before, but never -before had it gone so far. In former cases Anne had given in, or she had -been given in to, the one as much as the other. But now there was no -yielding on one side or the other. The father had declared himself -inexorable; the daughter had said little, but her countenance had said -much. And the threat with which he wound up had introduced an entirely -new element into the discussion. What was to come of it? But that was -what at this moment nobody could venture to say.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_II" id="CHAPTER_II"></a>CHAPTER II.<br /><br /> -<small>THE REST OF THE FAMILY.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> old house of Mount was a commodious but ugly house. It was not even -so old as it ought to have been. Only in one corner were there any -picturesque remains of antiquity, and that was in the back of the house, -and did not show. The only thing in its favour was that it had once been -a much larger place than it was now, and a detached bit of lime -avenue—very fine trees, forming in the summer two lovely walls of -tender shade—was supposed in the traditions of the place to indicate -where once the chief entrance and the best part of the mansion had been. -At the foot of the terrace on which these trees stood, and at a -considerably lower altitude, was the flower-garden, very formally laid -out, and lying along the side of the house, which was of dull brick with -very flat windows, and might almost have been a factory, so -uninteresting was it; but the lawns that spread around were green and -smooth as velvet, and the park, though not large,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_12" id="page_12">{12}</a></span> was full of fine -trees. Mr. Mountford’s room was in the back of the house, and Anne had -to go from one end to another to reach the common morning-room of the -family, which was the hall. This had been nothing but a mere passage in -former days, though it was square and not badly proportioned; but the -modern taste for antiquity had worked a great change in this once -commonplace vestibule. It had been furnished with those remains which -are always to be found about an old house, relics of past generations, -curtains which had been rejected as too dingy for wear a hundred years -ago, but now were found to be the perfection of tone and taste—old -folding screens, and chairs and tables dismissed as too clumsy or too -old-fashioned for the sitting-rooms of the family. All these together -made a room which strangers called picturesque, but which old neighbours -regarded with contempt, as a thing of shreds and patches. There was but -one huge window reaching from the ceiling almost to the floor, and an -equally large mantelpiece almost matching the window and opposite to it. -The large round table before the fire was covered with an old Indian -shawl carefully darned and mended for this use—a use which had revolted -all the old ladies in the county—and with books, magazines, and -newspapers, carefully arranged by old Saymore, the butler, in a kind of -pattern; for Saymore followed his young ladies, and took a great -interest in everything that was artistic. A work-table in one corner -overflowed with crewels; in another stood an easel. The place was full -of the occupations and fancies of the two girls who had fashioned it -into its present shape. While Anne was having the conversation with her -father which has been recorded, Mrs. Mountford and Rose were pursuing -their different employments in this room. Mrs. Mountford was a -contradiction to everything about her. She wore ribbons of the most -pronounced<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_13" id="page_13">{13}</a></span> brightness, dresses of the old gay colours; and did worsted -work. She was a round plump woman, with rosy cheeks and a smiling mouth; -but she was not quite so innocent and easy as her looks indicated. She -could stand very fast indeed where any point of interest was -concerned—and she was doubly immovable in consequence of the fact that -her interests were not her own but those of Rose, and therefore she -could not be made to feel guilty in respect to them. She had a little -table of her own in the midst of all the properties—which she called -rubbish—accumulated by the girls, and there pursued her placid way week -after week and year after year, working, as if she had been born a -century earlier, groups of roses and geraniums for cushions and -footstools, and strips of many coloured work for curtains and rugs. Had -she been permitted to have her will, the house would have been furnished -with these from garret to basement; but as Rose was ‘artistic,’ poor -Mrs. Mountford’s Berlin wools were rarely made any use of. They were -given away as presents, or disposed of at bazaars. There was a closet in -her own room which was full of them, and a happy woman was she when any -girl of her acquaintance married, or a fancy fair was announced for any -charitable object, which reduced her stores. A workbasket full of the -most brilliant wools in the tidiest bundles, a German pattern printed in -squares, a little pile of tradesmen’s books in red covers, and a small -brown basket full of keys, were the signs of her little settlement in -the hall. These possessions stood upon a small table with three legs, -decorated with a broad band of Mrs. Mountford’s work. She had said -boldly that if she were not permitted to put her own work upon her own -table, she did not know what the world would come to. And upon hearing -this protest Anne had interfered. Anne was the only person who ever -interfered to save her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_14" id="page_14">{14}</a></span> stepmother from the tyranny exercised over her -by her own child; but Mrs. Mountford was not grateful enough to return -this service by taking Anne’s part.</p> - -<p>Rose was the presiding spirit of the hall. Though she did not originate -anything, but followed her sister’s lead, yet she carried out all the -suggestions that ever glanced across the surface of Anne’s mind with an -energy which often ended in making the elder sister somewhat ashamed of -her initiative. Anne’s fancies became stereotyped in Rose’s execution, -and nothing but a new idea from the elder changed the current of the -younger girl’s enthusiasm. When Anne took to ornamental design, Rose -painted all the panels of the doors and window shutters, and even had -begun a pattern of sunflowers round the drawing-room (which had been -newly decorated with a dado and three kinds of wall-papers), when Anne -fortunately took to sketching from nature, and saved the walls by -directing her sister’s thoughts in another direction. The easel remained -a substantial proof of these studies, but a new impulse had changed the -aspect of affairs. In the course of the sketching it had been discovered -that some of the cottages on the estate were in the most wretched -condition, and Anne, with the instinct of a budding squire and -philanthropist united, had set to work upon plans for new houses. The -consequence of which was that Rose, with compasses and rulers and a box -of freshly-cut pencils, was deep in the question of sculleries and -wash-houses, marking all the measurements upon the plan, with her whole -heart in the work.</p> - -<p>‘Anne is a long time with papa,’ said Mrs. Mountford; ‘I suppose she is -trying to talk him over; she might just as well try to move the house. -You girls never will understand that it is of no use arguing with papa.’</p> - -<p>‘One never can help thinking that reason must<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_15" id="page_15">{15}</a></span> prevail,’ said Rose, -without raising her head, ‘at the end.’</p> - -<p>‘Reason!’ said Mrs. Mountford, lifting her hands and her eyebrows; ‘but, -even if it were always reason, what would that matter? As for Anne, she -has a great deal too much self-confidence; she always thinks she is -right.’</p> - -<p>‘And so she is—almost always,’ said Rose, very busy with her measuring. -‘Do you happen to remember, mamma, whether it is ninety feet or a -hundred that the pigsty must be off the house?’</p> - -<p>‘What should I know about pigsties? I am sure I often wonder papa takes -all the trouble he does when you are both so headstrong. Fortunately for -him he has me to talk to where <i>you</i> are concerned; but Anne!—--oh, -here she is—don’t say anything, she may not like to have it talked -about. So here you are at last, Anne; we thought you were never coming. -But I wish I had someone to do my work for me when I am busy about -something else, as Rose does for you. She never takes so much trouble on -my account.’</p> - -<p>‘It is not her work,’ said Rose, offended, ‘it is my own. Mayn’t I have -something now and then that is my own? How many yards, Anne, do you -remember, must the pigsty be off the house?’</p> - -<p>Anne did not remember this important piece of knowledge. ‘But,’ she -said, ‘it is in that book of specifications. It is dry to read, but it -is a very good book; you should have it on the table to refer to. You -have made the living room too large in comparison with the rest of the -house.’</p> - -<p>‘Because they are poor,’ said Rose, indignantly. ‘is that to say that -they are to have nothing pretty in their lives?’</p> - -<p>‘But there must be a good scullery,’ said Anne. She stood with a very -grave face behind her sister, looking over her shoulder at the drawings -spread out<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_16" id="page_16">{16}</a></span> on the table. Whether it was the importance of the scullery, -or of the other matters concerning her own happiness which she had in -her head, it is certain that Anne’s countenance was very serious. The -very tone of her voice proved to those who knew her so well that her -mood was graver than usual. At other times the importance of the -scullery would have brought a tone of laughter, an accent of fun into -her voice; but her gravity was now quite real and unbroken by any -lighter sentiment. She was taller than her sister, and of a different -order altogether. Anne was rather pale than otherwise, with but a slight -evanescent colour now and then; her features good, her face oval, her -eyes dark grey, large and lucid, and with long eyelashes curling -upwards. But Rose, though she had all that <i>beauté de diable</i> which is -the privilege of youth, was, like her mother, round and rosy, though her -pretty little face and figure had not the solidity, nor her complexion -the set and rigid tone which placid middle age acquires. The one face -over the other contrasted pleasantly; the elder serious, as if nothing -in heaven or earth could ever make her smile again; the younger bent -with momentary gravity and importance over her work. But they had no air -of belonging to each other. Nothing but an accident could have linked -together two beings so little resembling. The accident was Mr. -Mountford, whom neither of them was at all like. They were not -Mountfords at all, as everybody in the neighbourhood allowed. They took -after their mothers, not the one and indivisible head of the family; but -that did not really matter, for these two girls, like their mothers, -were no more than accidents in the house.</p> - -<p>The ancient estate was entailed, and knew nothing of such slight things -as girls. When their father died they would have to give up Mount and go -away from it. It was true that there still would<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_17" id="page_17">{17}</a></span> be a great deal of -land in the county belonging to one of them at least, for Mr. Mountford -had not been able to resist the temptation of buying and enlarging his -estate at the time when he married his first wife, and thought of no -such misfortune as that of leaving only a couple of girls behind him. A -long life and boys to succeed him were as certainties in his thoughts -when he bought all the lands about Charwood and the estate of Lower -Lilford. There they lay now, embracing Mount on every side, Mount which -must go to Heathcote Mountford, the head of the <i>other</i> family. It was -grievous, but it could not be helped. And the girls were not Mountfords, -either the one or the other. They betrayed, shall we say, an inherent -resentment against the law of entail and all its harsh consequences, by -resembling their mothers, and declining to be like the race which thus -callously cast them forth.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Mountford looked at them with very watchful eyes. She knew what it -was which had made her husband send for his eldest daughter into his -study after breakfast. It was a circumstance which often galled Anne, a -high-spirited girl, that her stepmother should be in the secret of all -her personal concerns; but still man and wife are one, and it could not -be helped. This fact, however, that everything was known about her, -whether she would or not, shut her lips and her heart. Why should she be -confidential and open herself to their inspection when they knew it all -beforehand without her? This stopped all inclination to confide, and had -its effect, no doubt, as all repression has, on Anne’s character. Her -heart was in a turmoil now, aching with anger and annoyance, and -disappointment, and a sense of wrong. But the only effect of this was to -make her more serious than ever. In such a mood to win a smile from her, -to strike her sense of humour, which was lively, or to touch her heart, -which was tender, was to open<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_18" id="page_18">{18}</a></span> the floodgates, and the girl resented and -avoided this risk with all the force of her nature. And, truth to tell, -there was little power, either in Mrs. Mountford or her daughter, to -undo the bonds with which Anne had bound herself. It was seldom that -they appealed to her feelings, and when they made her laugh it was not -in sympathy, but derision—an unamiable and unsatisfactory kind of -laughter. Therefore it happened now that they knew she was in trouble, -and watched her keenly to see the traces of it; and she knew they knew, -and sternly repressed any symptom by which they might divine how much -moved she was.</p> - -<p>‘You build your cottages your way,’ cried Rose, ‘and I will build mine -in mine. Papa will let me have my choice as well as you, and just see -which will be liked best.’</p> - -<p>‘If Heathcote should have to be consulted,’ said Anne, ‘it will be the -cheapest that he will like best.’</p> - -<p>‘Anne! I shouldn’t have thought that even you could be so unfeeling. To -remind us that dear papa——’ cried Mrs. Mountford; ‘dear papa! Do not -speak of his life in that indifferent way, at least before Rose.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, it would not matter,’ said Rose, calmly, ‘whatever happens; for -they are for the Lilford houses on our very own land. Heathcote hasn’t -anything to do with them.’</p> - -<p>‘Anne might say, “Nor you either,” my Rosie,’ said her mother; ‘for -everybody knows that you are cut off out of it in every way. Oh, I don’t -find any fault. I knew it when I married, and you have known it all your -life. It is rather hard, however, everything turning out against us, you -and me, my pet; part of the property going away altogether to a distant -cousin, and the rest all tied up because one of you is to be made an -eldest son.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_19" id="page_19">{19}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>‘Mamma!’ said Rose, petulantly, giving a quick glance up at her mother, -and shrugging her shoulders with the superiority of youth, as who would -say, Why speak of things you don’t understand? Then she closed her -compasses and put down her pencil. ‘Are we to have a game this -afternoon?’ she said; ‘I mean, Anne, are you going to play? Charley and -Willie are sure to come, but if you go off as usual, it will be no good, -for three can’t play.’</p> - -<p>The colour came in a flood over Anne’s pale face. ‘Mamma plays better -than I do,’ she said. ‘I have a headache. I don’t think I shall do -anything this afternoon.’</p> - -<p>‘Will Mr. Douglas have a headache too?’ said Rose; ‘he generally has -when you have. It is not much fun,’ she added, with a little virtuous -indignation, ‘for Charley and Willie to play with mamma.’</p> - -<p>Mrs. Mountford showed no resentment at this frank speech. ‘No,’ she -said, ‘it is not much fun for Charley and Willie. I don’t think it has -been much fun for them since Mr. Douglas came. Anne likes his talk; he -is a very fine talker. It is more interesting to listen to him than to -play.’</p> - -<p>‘Sometimes it is,’ said Anne gravely, though with another blush; and -then the two others laughed.</p> - -<p>‘My dear, you bring it on yourself; if we are not to have your -confidence, we must have our laugh. We have eyes in our head as well as -other people—or, at least, I have eyes in my head,’ said the mother. -Anne could not but acknowledge that there was reason in what she said, -but it was not said in a way to soften the wounded and angry girl.</p> - -<p>‘I do not ask you not to laugh,’ she said.</p> - -<p>‘You look more like crying,’ said Rose; and she got up and threw her -arms suddenly about her sister, being an impulsive little person whose -sympathies<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_20" id="page_20">{20}</a></span> were not to be calculated upon. ‘What is it, dear: tell -<i>me</i>,’ she cried, with her soft lips upon her sister’s cheek.</p> - -<p>Anne’s heart swelled as if it would burst out of her breast. There are -states of mind in which everything can be borne but sympathy. The gates -so hastily rolled to and pushed close began to open. The tears came to -her eyes. But then she remembered that the threat her father had made -was not one to be confided to them.</p> - -<p>‘Never mind. I have been talking to my father, and he and I don’t see -things in the same light. We don’t always—one can’t help that,’ said -Anne, in a subdued voice.</p> - -<p>‘Come up to my room,’ said Rose in her ear. ‘Never mind mamma—oh, come -up to my room, Anne darling, and tell me all about it! I never was -anyone’s confidant before.’</p> - -<p>But this was not a process which Anne, shy with a fervour of feeling -more profound than Rose could understand, or she herself express, felt -at all disposed to go through. She put her younger sister gently aside, -and brought her plans too to the table. ‘We had better settle about the -pigsties,’ she said, with a little relaxation of her gravity. She -laughed in spite of herself. ‘It is a safe subject. Show me, Rosie, what -you have done.’</p> - -<p>Rose was still fresh to this pursuit, and easily recalled to it, so she -produced her drawings with little hesitation, and after a while forgot -the more interesting matter. They sat with their heads together over the -plans, while Mrs. Mountford pursued her worsted work. A moralist might -have found in the innocent-seeming group all that inscrutableness of -human nature which it is so easy to remark and so impossible to fathom. -Rose, it was true, had not much in her little mind except the cottages, -and the hope of producing a plan which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_21" id="page_21">{21}</a></span> should be approved as the best, -having in her heart a childish desire to surpass Anne, which by no means -diminished her faithful allegiance to her as the origin of all impulses -and setter of every fashion. But Anne’s heart, underneath the fresh -crispness of her muslin dress, and the apparent interest with which she -pursued her work, and discussed her sculleries, was beating high with -much confused and painful emotion. Indignation and a sense of wrong, -mingled with a certain contempt even for the threat which had wounded -her as an empty menace, never to be carried out—a false and fictitious -weapon meant for no end but that of giving her pain; and, on the other -hand, the disappointment of her hopes, and a certainty of severance from -the love which had been a revelation to her of so much in heaven and -earth of which she was unaware before—filled her being. She would not -give him up, but she would be parted from him. He would go away, and any -intercourse they might hereafter keep up must be maintained in -resistance to the authority under which she had lived all her life. Thus -what she had supposed to be the crown and glory of existence was -summarily turned into bitterness and wrong. She was turning it over and -over in her mind, while she sat there steadily comparing her -measurements with those of her sister, and wondering how long she must -go on with this in order to confound her stepmother’s suspicions, and -prove that she was neither discouraged nor rendered unhappy by what had -happened. Naturally, in her inexperience, Anne gave great importance to -this feat of baffling her stepmother’s observation, and looking ‘just as -usual;’ and naturally, also, she failed altogether in the attempt. Mrs. -Mountford was an experienced woman. She knew what it meant when a girl -looked too much as if nothing had happened. And she watched with great -vigilance, partly by simple instinct, partly<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_22" id="page_22">{22}</a></span> with a slight sense of -gratification, that the elder daughter, who was so much more important -than her own child, should feel that she was mortal. It was not any -active malevolence that was in Mrs. Mountford’s mind. She would have -been horrified had it been suggested to her that she wished Anne any -harm. She wished her no harm; but only that she might feel after all -that life was not one triumph and scene of unruffled success and -blessedness—which is the best moral discipline for everybody, as is -well known.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_III" id="CHAPTER_III"></a>CHAPTER III.<br /><br /> -<small>THE ‘GAME.’</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> name of the parish in which Mount was the principal house was -Moniton, by some supposed to be a corruption of Mount-ton, the village -being situated on the side of a circular hill looking more like a -military mound than a natural object, which gave the name alike to the -property and the district. Mount Hill, as it was called with unnecessary -amplification, was just outside the park gates, and at its foot lay the -Rectory, the nearest neighbouring house with which the Mountfords could -exchange civilities. When one comes to think of it, the very existence -of such ecclesiastical houses close by the mansions of the English -gentry and nobility is a standing menace and danger to that nobler and -more elevated class—now that the family living is no longer a natural -provision for a younger son. The greatest grandee in the land has to -receive the clergyman’s family as equals, whatever may be his private -opinion on the subject; they are ladies and gentlemen, however poor they -may be, or little eligible to be introduced into closer connection with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_23" id="page_23">{23}</a></span> -members of the aristocracy, titled or otherwise; and, as a matter of -fact, they have to be so received, whence great trouble sometimes -arises, as everybody knows. The young people at the Hall and the -parsonage grow up together, they meet continually, and join in all each -other’s amusements, and if they determine to spend their lives together -afterwards, notwithstanding all those social differences which are -politely ignored in society, until the moment comes when they must be -brought into prominence, who can wonder at it? The wonder is that on the -whole so little harm occurs. The young Ashleys were the nearest -neighbours of the Mountford girls. They called each other by their -Christian names; they furnished each other with most of their -amusements. Had the boys not been ready to their call for any scheme of -pleasure or use, the girls would have felt themselves aggrieved. But if -Charley or Willie had fallen in love with Anne or Rose, the whole social -economy would have been shaken by it, and no earthquake would have made -a greater commotion. Such catastrophes are constantly happening to the -confusion of one district after another all over the country; but who -can do anything to prevent it? That it had not happened (openly) in the -present case was due to no exceptional philosophy or precaution on any -side. And the chance which had made Mr. Cosmo Douglas speak first -instead of his friend, the curate, was in no way a fortunate one, except -in so far, indeed, that, though it produced great pain and sorrow, it, -at least, preserved peace between the two families. The Rector was as -much offended, as indignant as Mr. Mountford could be, at the audacity -of his son’s friend. A stranger, a chance visitor, an intruder in the -parish, he, at least, had no vested rights.</p> - -<p>The facts of the case were as yet, however, but imperfectly known. -Douglas had not gone away,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_24" id="page_24">{24}</a></span> though it was known that his interview with -Mr. Mountford had not been a successful one; but that was no reason why -the Ashleys should not stroll up to Mount on this summer afternoon, as -was their very general practice. There was always some business to talk -about—something about the schools, or the savings bank, or other -parochial affairs; and both of them were well aware that without them ‘a -game’ was all but impossible.</p> - -<p>‘Do you feel up to it, old fellow?’ Willie said to Charley, who was the -curate. The elder brother did not make any distinct reply. He said, -‘There’s Douglas to be thought of,’ with a somewhat lugubrious glance -behind him where that conquering hero lay on the grass idly puffing his -cigar.</p> - -<p>‘Confound Douglas!’ said the younger brother, who was a secular person -and free to speak his mind. Charley Ashley replied only with a stifled -sigh. He might not himself have had the courage to lay his curacy and -his hopes at Anne’s feet, at least for a long time to come, but it was -not to be expected that he could look with pleasure on the man who had -rushed in where he feared to tread, his supplanter, the Jacob who had -pushed him out of his path. But yet he could not help in a certain sense -admiring his friend’s valour. He could not help talking of it as they -took their way more slowly than usual across the park, when Douglas, -with a conscious laugh, which went sharply, like a needle, through the -poor curate’s heart, declined to join them but begged they ‘would not -mind’ leaving him behind.</p> - -<p>‘When a fellow has the pluck to do it, things generally go well with -him,’ Charley said.</p> - -<p>The two brothers were very good friends. The subject of Anne was one -which had never been discussed between them, but Willie Ashley knew by -instinct what were his brother’s sentiments, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_25" id="page_25">{25}</a></span> Charley was conscious -that he knew. The little roughness with which the one thrust his arm -into the other’s spoke of itself a whole volume of sympathy, and they -walked through the sunshine and under the flickering shadows of the -trees, slowly and heavily, the curate with his head bent, and his brown -beard, of which he was as proud as was becoming to a young clergyman, -lying on his breast.</p> - -<p>‘Pluck carries everything before it,’ he said, with a sigh. ‘I never was -one of your plucky ones.’</p> - -<p>‘If you call that pluck!’ cried the other, ‘when a fellow thinks of -nothing but himself, and goes straight before him, whatever happens.’</p> - -<p>The curate pressed his brother’s arm with tacit thanks, but he sighed -even more. ‘All the same it was a plucky thing to do,’ he said.</p> - -<p>The young men were seen approaching for a long time before they reached -the house. ‘I wonder what has happened,’ said Rose; ‘they walk as if -they were going to a funeral; but I suppose I had better go and see that -everything is ready for the game.’ After all this was the important -matter, and the Ashleys, though of no great consequence in themselves, -were at least the only young men in the parish; and if the Woodheads -came, as Rose expected, it looked a poor sort of thing to have no men. -What the game was I can scarcely pretend to say. It might be croquet, or -it might be lawn tennis. This is entirely a chronological question, and -one upon which, as the date of this commencement is a little vague, I -cannot take upon me to decide. And just as Willie and Charley approached -slowly, in a solemn march, the familiar house to which they had so often -turned with steps and hearts less weighted, the Woodheads appeared on -the other side.</p> - -<p>‘I was sure they would come,’ cried Rose; ‘here<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_26" id="page_26">{26}</a></span> are Gerty and Fanny.’ -These young ladies were a clergyman’s daughters, and might have paired -off most suitably with the Ashleys and no harm done; but perverse -humanity may be so far trusted as to make sure that none of the four -thought of any such sensible arrangement.</p> - -<p>As for Anne, a sigh of satisfaction and relief came from her bosom, not -like that deeper sigh which breathed forth the curate’s cares. As soon -as she had seen the game begun and all comfortable, she would escape to -her own business. Her heart beat high with the thought of the meeting -that awaited her, and of the long, confiding, lover’s talk, the pouring -out of all her cares into another heart which was her own. Anne had not -been accustomed to much sympathy in her life. She had not wanted it -perhaps. She loved her little sister with her whole heart; but a high -sense of honour had kept her, even when a child, from confiding to Rose -any of the little jars and frets of which Rose’s mother was the chief -cause; and what other cares had Anne? So that the delight of saying -everything that was in her heart was as new to her as the love that made -it possible. And it was one of the elements of wondering happiness that -filled her whole being to find out how many things she had to tell. She -had thought herself reserved, unexpansive, sometimes even cold and -heartless, when she beheld the endless confidential chatter of other -girls, and wondered why it was that she had nothing to confide. But now -she was half dismayed and half transported to discover how much she too -had to say. The deep waters of her heart seemed to flow over from that -secret place, and pour out in an irrestrainable flood. It seemed to -herself that she kept them in with difficulty even to other people -<i>now</i>. She had so much to tell him that she could scarcely help -preluding even to those who were indifferent, betraying<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_27" id="page_27">{27}</a></span> to them the -great tide of utterance that was in her. As a matter of fact, she did -not at all betray herself; the Woodheads and the Ashleys saw that Anne -was slightly flushed and feverish, justifying the complaint she made of -a headache, for the sake of which she feared staying out in the sun; and -one of the former, who was a medical young lady, accustomed to manage -all the lighter maladies of her father’s parish, immediately prescribed -for the sufferer.</p> - -<p>‘Don’t stay out here,’ Miss Fanny said; ‘it is the worst thing possible. -Go and lie down; or, if you don’t like that, sit down in the shade and -take a quiet book. Have you got a novel?—if it’s not an exciting one, -that will do—but keep yourself perfectly quiet and never mind us. Her -pulse is just a little excited—nothing to be alarmed about—if she will -but go and lie down.’</p> - -<p>The others, especially the two young men, exchanged furtive glances. -Willie pressed Charley’s arm with a whisper, ‘Keep it up, old fellow!’ -Poor curate! he looked piteously at the girl whom he had not had the -courage to try for. Would her cheeks have taken that lovely flush, her -eye got that anxious, nervous brightness for him? Was it all a question -of pluck, and who should be the first to speak? He watched her going -back to the house, across the flower garden, with his lips in an -unconscious foolish gape of self-renunciation and tender pity and -regret. But happily that rich brown beard of his hid the imbecility of -this pathetic simple gaze. And then he turned with sober resolution to -the game. He cared for nothing any more now that Anne had gone. But an -Englishman must play his game out whatever happens; though heaven and -earth should melt away.</p> - -<p>Nobody suspected her, nobody dreamt what Anne was about to do. That she -should do anything that was not open and manifest entered into no<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_28" id="page_28">{28}</a></span> one’s -idea of her. She had always been mistress of herself and all her ways, -and had never quailed before the face of man. Did she feel guilty now -when she thus appeared to accept the advice offered to her—appeared to -consent to take shelter from the sun, and went back to the house to lie -down, or take a quiet book, as was recommended? Anne was a great deal -too much occupied with her own thoughts and plans to feel any of those -little guilts yet. She was scarcely conscious of what she herself felt -and thought. She had to carry the report of the morning to the other -person, who was as much concerned as she was in it; to tell him -everything, to know what he had to say, to consult with him as to what -they were to do. With all this in her heart, a flood of thought, rising -and falling, like waves of the sea, is it possible that she could think -of what the others would say, or even of the novel aspect of her -subterfuge and evasion? She could think of nothing about them, but of -how to get free, to be delivered from her companions. To see him was -necessary, indispensable. She had never permitted it to be supposed that -she would not see him, or suffered anything to be drawn from her which -could imply an intention of giving him up. Her father had said nothing -on this subject. There had been neither condition nor promise. But still -it was no doubt contrary to Anne’s character, as it was to high honour -and sincerity, that she should allow it to be supposed that she was -returning to the house on account of her headache, when her intention -was to go out another way and meet her lover. When she thought of it -afterwards the flush of shame which came over her ran from head to foot; -but at the present moment she was entirely unmoved by it. The idea did -not so much as cross the threshold of her mind.</p> - -<p>She went softly into the cool and silent house.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_29" id="page_29">{29}</a></span> There was nobody -visible in the long passages, nor in the hall through which she passed, -not consciously going with any precaution, yet making little sound with -her light foot. Even Mr. Mountford was out; the doors stood open, the -sunshine streamed in here and there at a window making a bar of blazing -whiteness across the corridor or stair. Old Saymore was in the open -vestibule, full of plants and flowers, into which the great door opened. -He was standing before a tall vase of white glass, almost as high as -himself, in which he was arranging with great anxiety and interest a -waving bouquet of tall ferns and feathery branches. Old Saymore had a -soul for art, and the fancies of his young mistress stood in place of -all the canons and science of beauty to his mind. He stood with his head -on one side, now and then walking a few steps backward to consider the -combination of his leaves like an artist before a picture, pulling one -forward, pushing one back, pondering with the gravest countenance how to -prop up in the middle the waving plume of sumach with which he intended -to crown the edifice. He was too much absorbed in his performance to -notice Anne, who for her part was too completely preoccupied by hers to -see him where he stood, embowered in all that greenery, calculating and -considering with the most serious countenance as if the weight of an -empire was on his shoulders. As she ran down the steps he heard her for -the first time, and turned round hurriedly, moved by the hope of finding -a critic and adviser. But his cry of ‘Miss Anne!’ failed to reach her -ear. Her heart was beating high, her thoughts rushing at such a rapid -rate that they made a little atmosphere of sound about her, and shut out -all less ethereal appeals.</p> - -<p>After the Ashleys had left the Rectory, Mr. Cosmo Douglas for his part -raised himself from the grass where he had lain so luxuriously puffing -his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_30" id="page_30">{30}</a></span> cigar. He was more amused than distressed by the confusion he had -brought among them. Charley Ashley was his friend, but the affection had -been chiefly on one side. It had been, as the other very well knew, a -distinction for Ashley, who was not distinguished in any other way, to -be known as the friend of a personage so much more brilliant and popular -than himself. Douglas had been accustomed to smile when he was asked by -his admirers ‘what he could see’ in the good fellow who was neither -clever nor gay, nor rich, nor witty, and who had, indeed, no particular -recommendation except his goodness. It pleased him to attach to himself -this useful, faithful, humble friend, who was always ready to stand up -for him, and never likely to bring him into any scrape or trouble. And -he had always been ready, he thought, to do anything for Charley—to -coach him for an examination, to write an essay for him, to ‘pull him -through’ any of the crises of a college career. But to go so far as to -curb his own fancy for a girl who pleased him because Charley had set -his affections in the same quarter, was a thing entirely beyond Cosmo’s -perceptions of the duties of friendship. And when he saw the dismal -looks of his friend—his heavy dropping back upon the sympathy of -Willie, his younger brother, who had never hitherto been his confidant, -and the suppressed indignation towards himself of that younger and -always jealous companion—he was more tickled than grieved by it. The -idea that he could find a serious rival in Ashley never entered his -thoughts—or, indeed, that anyone should pay the slightest regard to -poor Charley while he was by. Douglas had, indeed, so much confidence in -the humility of his friend that he felt his own preference of any thing -or person to be a quite sufficient reason why Charley should give it up. -‘He likes to give in to me,’ was what he had said on many previous<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_31" id="page_31">{31}</a></span> -occasions; and he was unable to understand how any other affection could -be more deeply rooted in Ashley’s bosom than that which was directed to -himself. Therefore he only smiled at what he supposed a momentary -petulance. Good simple soul! perhaps Douglas respected his friend more -that he was capable of being so badly ‘hit.’ But yet he could scarcely -realise the possibility of it. Charley in love had not presented itself -to him as a credible idea. It made him laugh in spite of himself. And as -for interfering with Charley!—as if anyone could suppose it possible -that Charley was a man to catch a lady’s eye.</p> - -<p>Cosmo’s first visit had been at Christmas, when all was new to him, and -when the revelation of the two girls at Mount, so full of life and -movement amid the gentle stagnation of the parish, had been the most -delightful surprise to the resigned visitor, who had come as a matter of -duty, determined to endure anything, and make himself agreeable to -Charley’s friends. ‘You never told me what sort of neighbours you had,’ -he had said almost with indignation. ‘Neighbours! I told you about the -Mountfords and the Woodheads, and Lord Meadowlands, who is our great -gun,’ said Charley tranquilly. ‘You speak as if they were all the -same—Mountfords and Woodheads and Smiths and Jones—whereas Miss -Mountford would be remarked in any society,’ Douglas had said. He -remembered afterwards that Charley had looked at him for a moment before -he replied, and had grown red; but all he had said was, ‘I didn’t know -that you thought much about girls.’ All this passed through Douglas’s -mind as he stood looking after the two brothers, watching the -mournfulness of their march with an irrepressible sense of the -ludicrous. To see that victim of fate leaning on his brother’s arm, -dropping now and then a melancholy word or deep-heaved sigh, and -walking<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_32" id="page_32">{32}</a></span> gloomily, as after a funeral, to the afternoon ‘game,’ was a -sight at which the most sympathetic looker-on might have been excused -for smiling. ‘I didn’t know that you thought much about girls!’ Was -there ever a more stupid remark? And how was I to know <i>he</i> thought much -about girls? Douglas asked himself with another laugh. His conscience -was easily satisfied on this point. And he had come down at the -beginning of the long vacation to see a little more of the Ashleys’ -neighbours. He could not but feel that it must be a relief to them also -to see a conversible being, an alive and awake human creature amidst -those scenes of rural life.</p> - -<p>But now how far things had gone! Douglas had been a month at the -Rectory, and as his eyes followed the two Ashleys along the white -sun-swept road and away under the shadow of the park trees, the idea -came to him, with a curious sense of expansive and enlarged being, that -the masses of foliage sweeping away towards the west, amid which the two -solemn wayfarers soon disappeared, would one day, in all probability, be -his own. ‘No, by the bye, not that; that’s the entailed part,’ he said -to himself; then laughed again, this time partly in gentle -self-ridicule, partly in pleasure, and turned his face the other way, -towards Lower Lilford—for he had made himself master of the whole -particulars. Facing this way, and with the laugh still on his lips, he -suddenly found himself in the presence of the Rector, who had come out -by his own study window at the sight of the solitary figure on the lawn. -Douglas felt himself taken in the act—though of what it would have been -hard to say. He grew red in spite of himself under the gaze of the -Rector’s mild and dull eyes.</p> - -<p>‘Have the boys left you alone? I can’t think how they could be so rude,’ -Mr. Ashley said.</p> - -<p>‘Not rude at all, sir. It is I who am rude. I was lazy, and promised to -follow them when I had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_33" id="page_33">{33}</a></span> finished my—novel.’ Happily, he recollected in -time that he had been holding one in his hand. ‘I am going now,’ he -added. ‘I dare say I shall catch them up before they get to the house.’</p> - -<p>‘I was afraid they were leaving you to take care of yourself—that is -not our old-fashioned way,’ said the old clergyman. ‘I wish you a -pleasant walk. It is a fine afternoon, but you will find the road dusty. -I advise you to go over the meadows and round the lower way.’</p> - -<p>‘That is just how I intended to go.’</p> - -<p>‘Very sensible. The boys always take the high road. The other takes you -round by the Beeches, much the prettiest way; but it is longer round, -and that is why they never use it. A pleasant walk to you,’ Mr. Ashley -said, waving his hand as he went back to the house.</p> - -<p>Douglas laughed to himself as he took the path through the meadows which -Mr. Ashley had indicated. The Rector had not as yet interested himself -much in what was going on, and the simplicity with which he had -suggested the way which the lovers had chosen, and which led to their -trysting-place, amused the intruder still more. ‘If he but knew!’ -Douglas said to himself, transferring to the old clergyman the thoughts -that filled the mind of his son, by a very natural heightening of his -own importance. And yet, to tell the truth, had Mr. Ashley known, it -would have been a great relief to his mind, as releasing Charley from a -great danger and the parish from a possible convulsion. To know this, -however, might have lessened the extreme satisfaction with which Douglas -set out for the meeting. He went slowly on across the green fields, all -bright in the sunshine, across the little stream, and up the leafy -woodland road that led to the Beeches, his heart pleasantly agitated, -his mind full of delightful anticipations. Anne herself was sweet to -him, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_34" id="page_34">{34}</a></span> his conquest of her flattered him in every particular. -Happiness, importance, wealth, an established place in the world, were -all coming to him, linked hand in hand with the loves and joys which -surrounded the girl’s own image. He had no fear of the consequences. -Remorseless fathers were not of his time. Such mediæval furniture had -been cleared out of the world. He expected nothing from this meeting but -acceptance, reconciliation, love, and happiness.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IV" id="CHAPTER_IV"></a>CHAPTER IV.<br /><br /> -<small>THE BEECHES.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> Beeches were a beautiful clump of trees on a knoll in the middle of -the park. They were renowned through the county, and one of the glories -of Mount. When the family was absent—which did not happen often—picnic -parties were made up to visit them. There was nothing like them in all -the country round. The soil was rich and heavy round them with the -shedding of their own leaves, and when the sun got in through their big -branches and touched that brown carpet it shone like specks of gold. -Some of the branches were like trees in themselves, and the great grey -trunks like towers. One of them had been called, from time immemorial, -the lover’s tree. It was scrawled over with initials, some of them half -a century old, or more. From the elevation on which they stood the -spectator looked down upon the house lying below among its gardens, on -the green terrace and the limes, and could watch what the group there -was doing, while himself safe from all observation. When Douglas had -informed Anne of her father’s rejection of his suit, she had bidden him -come to this spot to hear the issue of her own interview with Mr. -Mountford.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_35" id="page_35">{35}</a></span> He seated himself tranquilly enough under the lover’s tree -to await her coming. He was not too much agitated to smoke his cigar. -Indeed, he was not much agitated at all. He had no fear for the eventual -issue. True, it might not come immediately. He did not know that he -wanted it to come immediately. To love is one thing, to marry another. -So long as he was sure of Anne, he did not mind waiting for a year or -two. And he felt that he was sure of Anne, and in that case, eventually, -of her father too. Consequently, he sat still and waited, pleased, in -spite of himself, with the little lawlessness. To be received in the -ordinary way as a son-in-law, to kiss the ladies of the house, and shake -hands with the men, and be told in a trembling voice that it was the -choicest treasure of the family that was being bestowed upon him, were -all things which a man of courage has to go through, and does go through -without flinching. But on the whole it was more delightful to have Anne -steal away to him out of all commonplace surroundings and make him sure -of her supreme and unfailing love, whatever anyone might say—with, -<i>bien entendu</i>, the paternal blessing in the background, to be won after -a little patience. Douglas was flattered in all his wishes and fancies -by this romantic beginning. He would have the good, he thought, both of -the old system of love-making and the new—Anne by herself, without any -drawbacks, willing to dare any penalties for his sake; but at the end -everything that was legitimate and proper—settlements and civilities. -He liked it better so than if it had been necessary to wind up -everything in a few months, and marry and be settled; indeed it pleased -him much, being so sure as he was of all that was to follow, to have -this little secret and clandestine intercourse. He liked it. To get Anne -to do so much as this for him was a triumph; his vanity overflowed while -he sat and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_36" id="page_36">{36}</a></span> waited for her, though vanity was but a small part of his -character. He reached that spot so soon that he saw the beginning of the -‘game,’ and Anne’s white figure going back through the flower garden all -blazing with colour, to the house. What excuse had she been able to find -for leaving them? She must have invented some excuse. And he saw the -curate settling himself to that ‘game,’ with unspeakable amusement. He -took his cigar from between his lips to laugh. Poor old Charley! his -heart was broken, but he did his duty like a man. He watched him -settling to his afternoon’s work with Gertrude Woodhead as his partner, -and laughed, feeling the full humour of the event, and enjoying the -tremendous seriousness with which that sacrifice to duty was made. Then, -while the game went on in the bright foreground of the picture, he saw -the moving speck of that white figure re-issuing on the other side of -the house, and advancing towards him, threading her way among the trees. -It was for him that Anne did this, and he it was alone of all concerned -who could sit here calmly puffing the blue smoke among the branches, and -waiting for his happiness to come to him. Never was man more elated, -more flattered, more perfectly contented with himself.</p> - -<p>He threw the cigar away when she was within a short distance of the -spot, and went to meet her with triumphant pleasure.</p> - -<p>‘My faithful Anne—my true love,’ he said as he met her. And Anne came -to him; her eyes shining, her lips apart with eagerness. What a meeting -it was! No tame domestic reception and hubbub of family excitement could -compare with it. How glad and flattered he felt that it was a -clandestine indulgence, and that papa had not vulgarised everything by -giving his consent! Then they sat down upon the knoll, arm linked in -arm, and clasping each<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_37" id="page_37">{37}</a></span> other’s hands. There was the peaceful house -within sight, and the party on the green terrace absorbed in their -inferior amusement, in complete ignorance, not knowing what romance was -going on, scarcely out of their range of vision, under the trees. All -these experiences served to enhance the delight of his position. For the -first few minutes he attached less importance to the words which Anne -said.</p> - -<p>‘But you do not seem to understand me. My father will not consent.’</p> - -<p>‘If <i>you</i> consent, my darling, what do I want more? I am not afraid of -your father.’</p> - -<p>‘But Cosmo—listen! you are not really paying any attention——’</p> - -<p>‘Every attention, to the real matter in question. I am reading that in -your eyes, in your hands, in you altogether. If I am too happy to take -any notice of those vulgarer symbols, words——’</p> - -<p>‘But they are not vulgar symbols. Yes, I am happy too. I am not afraid -of anything. But, Cosmo, you must listen, and you must understand. My -father refuses his consent.’</p> - -<p>‘For how long?’ he said with a smile. ‘I also should like to refuse you -something for the pleasure of being persuaded to forswear myself. I -think papa is right. I should hold out as long as you would put any -faith in the delusion of my resistance.’</p> - -<p>‘It is no delusion,’ said Anne, shaking her head. ‘You must not think -so. It is very serious. He has threatened me. There was no make-believe -in his mind, Cosmo.’</p> - -<p>‘Threatened you? With what? Ah! so should I if I thought you were going -to desert me.’</p> - -<p>‘You will not see how serious it is! I do not believe he will give in, -Cosmo. He has threatened me that if I persevere he will leave everything -he has to leave, away from me.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_38" id="page_38">{38}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>‘Away from you? But he has no power to do that,’ said the young man. ‘It -is skilful of him to try your faithfulness—but he might have tried it -by less conventional means.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, he has the power,’ said Anne, neglecting the other part of this -speech. ‘He has power over everything, except, indeed, the entail; and I -believe he will do what he says. My father is not a man at all likely to -try my faithfulness. He knows me, for one thing.’</p> - -<p>‘And knows you true as steel,’ said Cosmo, looking admiringly in her -face and still quite unimpressed by the news.</p> - -<p>‘Knows that I am not one to give way. He knows that very well. So here -is something for your serious consideration. No, indeed, it is no joke. -You must not laugh. We must face what is before us,’ said Anne, -endeavouring to withdraw her hand and half offended by his unbelief.</p> - -<p>‘I cannot face your frown,’ said Cosmo; ‘that is the only thing I am -really afraid of. What! must it really be so stern as this? But these -hard fathers, my darling, belong to the fifteenth century. You don’t -mean to tell me that rebellious daughters are shut up in their rooms, -and oaths insisted upon, and paternal curses uttered <i>now</i>!’</p> - -<p>‘I said nothing about being shut up in my room; but it is quite -certain,’ said Anne, with a little heat, ‘that if I oppose him in this -point my father will take all that ought to come to me and give it to -Rose.’</p> - -<p>‘To Rose!’ a shade of dismay stole over Cosmo’s face. ‘But I thought,’ -he said—showing an acquaintance with the circumstances which after, -when she thought of it, surprised Anne—‘I thought your fortune came -from your mother, not from Mr. Mountford at all.’</p> - -<p>‘And so it does; but it is all in his hands; my<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_39" id="page_39">{39}</a></span> mother trusted in my -father entirely, as she was of course quite right to do.’</p> - -<p>‘As it must have been the height of imprudence to permit her to do!’ -cried Douglas, suddenly reddening with anger. ‘How could the trustees be -such fools? So you, like the money, are entirely in Mr. Mountford’s -hands?’</p> - -<p>All at once the tone had ceased to be that of a lovers’ interview. Anne, -startled and offended, this time succeeded in drawing her hand out of -his.</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ she said, with a chill of surprise in her voice, ‘entirely in his -hands.’</p> - -<p>What was going to follow? Under the great beechen boughs, through the -warm summer sunshine there seemed all at once to breathe a wintry gale -which penetrated to the heart.</p> - -<p>This sudden cloud was dissipated in a moment by another laugh, which -rang almost too loudly among the trees. ‘Well,’ he said, drawing her arm -through his again, and holding the reluctant hand clasped fast, ‘what of -that? Because you are in his hands, Anne, my own, do you think I am -going to let you slip out of mine?’</p> - -<p>The sun grew warm again, and the air delicious as before. Two on one -side, and all the world on the other, is not that a perfectly fair -division? So long as there are two—if there should come to be but one, -then the aspect of everything is changed. Anne’s hands clasped between -two bigger ones all but disappeared from view. It would be hard, very -hard, to slip out of that hold; and it was a minute or two before she -regained possession of what Cosmo had called the vulgarer symbols, -words. Without recurrence to their aid between people who love each -other, how much can be said!</p> - -<p>‘That is all very well,’ said Anne, at last; ‘but whatever we may do or -say we must come back to this: My father has promised to disin<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_40" id="page_40">{40}</a></span>herit me, -Cosmo, and he will not go back from his word.’</p> - -<p>‘Disinherit! the very word sounds romantic. Are we in a novel or are we -not? I thought disinherit was only a word for the stage.’</p> - -<p>‘But you know this is mere levity,’ said Anne. She smiled in spite of -herself. It pleased her to the bottom of her heart that he should take -it so lightly, that he should refuse to be frightened by it. ‘We are not -boy and girl,’ she said, with delightful gravity of reproof. ‘We <i>must</i> -think seriously of a thing which affects our interests so much. The -question is, what is to be done?’</p> - -<p>Had she but known how keenly under his levity he was discussing that -question within himself! But he went on, still half laughing as if it -were the best joke in the world.</p> - -<p>‘The only thing, so far as I can see, that is <i>not</i> to be done,’ he -said, ‘is to obey papa and give me up.’</p> - -<p>‘Give up—I would not give up a dog!’ cried Anne, impetuously; ‘and -Cosmo, you!’</p> - -<p>‘I am not a dog; and yet in one sense, in Mr. Mountford’s eyes—— What -is it, Anne, that hedges you round with such divinity, you landed -people? Mountford of Mount: it sounds very well, I confess. And why was -I not Douglas of somewhere or other? It is very hard upon you, but yet -it is not my fault.’</p> - -<p>‘I like you infinitely better,’ cried Anne, with proud fervour, ‘that -you are Douglas of nowhere, but stand upon yourself—the father of your -own fortunes. That is the thing to be proud of—if one has ever any -right to be proud.’</p> - -<p>‘I have not achieved much to be proud of as yet,’ he said, shaking his -head; and then there was again a pause, perhaps not quite so ecstatic a -pause, for practical necessity and the urgent call for a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_41" id="page_41">{41}</a></span> decision of -one kind or other began to be felt, and silenced them. It was easy to -say that there was one thing that was <i>not</i> to be done—but after? Then -for the first time in her life Anne felt the disability of her -womanhood. This tells for little so long as the relations between men -and women are not in question. It is when these ties begin—and a girl, -who has perhaps taken the initiative all her life, finds herself -suddenly reduced to silence in face of her lover—that the bond is felt. -What could she say or suggest? She had exhausted her powers when she -declared with such proud emphasis that to give up was impossible. Then -nature, which is above all law, stepped in and silenced her. What could -she do further? It was for him to speak. The first sense of this -compulsion was both sweet and painful to her—painful, because her mind -was overflowing with active energy and purpose which longed for -utterance: sweet, as the sign and symbol of a new condition, a union -more rich and strange than any individuality. Anne had hesitated little -in her life, and had not known what it was to wait. Now she bent her -head to the necessity in a curious maze of feeling—bewildered, happy, a -little impatient, wondering and hoping, silent as she had never in all -her life before been tempted to be.</p> - -<p>As for Douglas, he was silent too, with a much less delightful -consciousness. In such circumstances what are the natural things for a -man to say? That what his love has is nothing to him, so long as she -brings him herself—that if there is only a sacrifice of money in -question, no money can be allowed to stand in the way of happiness; that -he has no fear, unless it might be for her; that to labour for her, to -make her independent of all the fathers in the world, is his first -privilege; and that the only thing to be considered is, when and how she -will make his happiness complete by trusting<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_42" id="page_42">{42}</a></span> herself to his care. These -are, no doubt, the right things for a man to say, especially if they -happen to be true, but even whether they are quite true or not, as his -natural <i>rôle</i> requires. Then, on the other side, the woman (if she has -any sense) will certainly come in and impose conditions and limit the -fulness of the sacrifice; so that, what by masculine boldness of plan, -and feminine caution of revisal, something reasonable and practical is -at last struck out. But the caution, the repression, the prudence, ought -not to be on the man’s side. Nothing can be more distinct than this -great law. It becomes the woman to see all the drawbacks, to hold back, -and to insist upon every prudential condition, not to make herself a -burden upon him or permit him to be overwhelmed by his devotion. But it -is not from his side that these suggestions of prudence can be allowed -to come, however strongly he may perceive them. Perhaps it is as hard -upon the man, who sees all the difficulties, to be compelled to adopt -this part, as it is on the woman, accustomed to lead the way, to be -silent and hold back. Douglas was in this predicament, if Anne felt all -the mingled penalties and privileges of the other. He must do it, or -else acknowledge himself a poor creature. And Cosmo had not the -slightest inclination to appear a poor creature in Anne’s eyes. Yet at -the same time he felt that to propose to this impetuous girl—who was -quite capable of taking him at his word—that she should marry him at -once in face of her father’s menace, was madness. What was he to do? He -sat silent—for more minutes than Anne’s imagination approved. Her heart -began to sink, a wondering pang to make itself felt in her breast, not -for herself so much as for him. Was he about to fail to the emergency? -to show himself unprepared to meet it? Was he, could it be possible, -more concerned about the loss of the money than herself?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_43" id="page_43">{43}</a></span></p> - -<p>‘Here am I in a nice predicament,’ he burst forth at last; ‘what am I to -say to you? Anne—you who have been brought up to wealth, who have known -nothing but luxury—what am I to say to you? Is it to be my part to -bring you down to poverty, to limit your existence? I who have no -recommendation save that of loving you, which heaven knows many a better -man must share with me; I an intruder whom you did not know a year -ago—an interloper——’</p> - -<p>There are some cases in which there is no policy like the naked truth. -Anne held up her hands to stop him as he went on, exclaiming softly, -‘Cosmo, Cosmo!’ in various tones of reproach and horror. Then at last -she stopped him practically, by putting one of her hands upon his -mouth—an action which made her blush all over with tender agitation, -pleasure, and shame.</p> - -<p>‘How can you say such things? Cosmo! I will not hear another word.’</p> - -<p>‘Am I anything but an interloper? How is any man worth calling a man to -let you sacrifice yourself to him, Anne?’</p> - -<p>‘I shall soon think it is you that want to throw me over,’ she said.</p> - -<p>This shifted the tragic issue of the question and put him more at ease. -If it could but be brought back to the general ground, on which mutual -professions of fidelity would suffice and time could be gained! So far -as that went, Cosmo knew very well what to say. It was only the -practical result that filled him with alarm. Why had he been so hasty in -declaring himself? The preliminaries of courtship may go on for years, -but the moment an answer has been asked and given, some conclusion must -be come to. However, it is always easy to answer a girl when she utters -such words as these. He eluded the real difficulty, following her lead, -and so<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_44" id="page_44">{44}</a></span> filled up the time with lovers’ talk that the hour flew by -without any decision. They talked of the one subject in a hundred -different tones—it was all so new, and Anne was so easily transported -into that vague and beautiful fairyland where her steps were treading -for the first time. And she had so much to say to him on her side; and -time has wings, and can fly on some occasions though he is so slow on -others. It was she who at the end of many digressions finally discovered -that while they had been talking the green terrace below had become -vacant, the company dispersed. She started up in alarm.</p> - -<p>‘They have all gone in. The game is over. How long we must have been -sitting here! And they will be looking for me. I was obliged to say I -had a headache. Indeed I had a headache,’ said Anne, suddenly waking to -a sense of her subterfuge and hanging her head—for he had -laughed—which was a failure of perception on his part and almost roused -her pride to arms. But Cosmo was quick-sighted and perceived his -mistake.</p> - -<p>‘Dear Anne! is this the first issue of faith to me?’ he said. ‘What am I -to do, my darling? Kill myself for having disturbed your life and made -your head ache, or——’</p> - -<p>‘Do not talk nonsense, Cosmo; but I must go home.’</p> - -<p>‘And we have been talking nonsense, and have come to no settlement one -way or another,’ he said, with a look of vexation. Naturally Anne took -the blame to herself. It could only be her fault.</p> - -<p>‘The time has gone so fast,’ she said, with a sigh. ‘But, perhaps, on -the whole, it is best not to settle anything. Let us take a little time -to think. Is there any hurry? Nobody can separate us so long as we are -faithful to each other. There is no need that I know for—any -conclusion.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_45" id="page_45">{45}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>Poor Cosmo! there were points in which at this moment his was a hard -case. He was obliged to look vexed and complain, though he was so fully -convinced of the wisdom of this utterance. ‘You forget,’ he said -tenderly, ‘that I have to go away, to return to my life of -loneliness—perhaps to ask myself if Anne was only a heavenly dream, a -delusion, and to find myself waking——’</p> - -<p>‘To what?’ she replied, in her enthusiasm, half angry, ‘to what?’ ‘If -you have my heart with you and my thoughts, is not that the best part of -me? The Anne that will be with you will be the true Anne, not the -outside of her which must stay here.’</p> - -<p>‘But I want the outside too. Ah, Anne, if I were to stay here, if I -could live at your gate like Charley Ashley (poor fellow!). But you -forget that I must go away.’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t forget it. When must you go?’ She sank her voice a little and -drew closer to him, and looked at him with a cloud rising over her face. -He must go, there was no eluding that certainty, and to think of it was -like thinking of dying—yet of a sweet death to be borne heroically for -the sake each of each, and with a speedy bright resurrection in -prospect; but it would be an extinction of all the delight of living so -long as it lasted. Cosmo’s mind was not so elevated as Anne’s, nor his -imagination so inspiring, but the look of visionary anguish and courage -went to his heart.</p> - -<p>‘I don’t deserve it,’ he cried with a broken voice; which was very true. -Then recovering himself, ‘It would not do for me to linger after what -has passed between your father and me. It will be a terrible wrench, and -without knowing when we are to meet again. Love, it must be before -Saturday,’ he said.</p> - -<p>They were standing close, very close together,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_46" id="page_46">{46}</a></span> clasping each other’s -hands. Two tears came into Anne’s eyes, great lakes of moisture not -falling, though brimming over. But she gave him such a smile as was all -the sweeter reflected in them. ‘By Friday, then—we must make up our -minds what we are to do.’</p> - -<p>His fears and doubtfulness yielded for the moment to an impulse of real -emotion. ‘How am I to live without you, now that I know you?’ he said.</p> - -<p>‘You will not be without me, Cosmo! Did I not tell you the best of me -would be with you always? Let us both think with all our might what will -be the right thing for us.’</p> - -<p>‘I know what I shall feel to be the best, Anne.’ He said this with a -little fervour, suddenly coming to see—as now and then a man does—by a -sudden inspiration, entirely contrary to his judgment, what would be his -only salvation. This answered his purpose far better than any cleverness -he could have invented. She shook her head.</p> - -<p>‘We must not insist on choosing the happiest way,’ she said. ‘We must -wait—in every way, I feel sure that to wait is the only thing we can -do.’</p> - -<p>‘Certainly not the happiest,’ he said, with emphasis. ‘There is no -reason because of that interview with your father why I should not come -to say good-bye. I will come on Friday publicly; but to-morrow, Anne, -to-morrow, here——’</p> - -<p>She gave him her promise without hesitation. There had been no pledge -against seeing him asked or given, and it was indispensable that they -should settle their plans. And then they parted, he, in the agitation -and contagious enthusiasm of the moment, drawn closer to the girl whom -he loved, but did not understand, nearer knowing her than he had ever -been before. The impulse kept him up as on<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_47" id="page_47">{47}</a></span> borrowed wings as far as the -enclosure of the park. Then Cosmo Douglas dropped down to earth, ceased -to reflect Anne Mountford, and became himself. She on wings which were -her own, and borrowed from no one—wings of pure visionary passion, -devotion, faith—skimmed through the light air homeward, her heart -wrung, her sweet imagination full of visions, her courage and constancy -strong as for life or death.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_V" id="CHAPTER_V"></a>CHAPTER V.<br /><br /> -<small>EXPLANATIONS.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">It</span> is an awkward and a painful thing to quarrel with a friend when he is -staying under your roof; though in that case it will no doubt make a -breach, and he will go away, which will relieve you, even if you regret -it afterwards. But if there is no quarrel, yet you find out suddenly -that you have a grievance—a grievance profound and bitter, but not -permitting of explanation—the state of affairs is more painful still; -especially if the friend is thrown into your special society, and not -taken from you by the general courtesies of the house. It was in this -unfortunate position that the young men at the Rectory found themselves -on the evening that followed. There was nobody in the house to diminish -the pressure. Mrs. Ashley had died some years before, and the Rector, at -that time left much alone, as both his sons were absent at school and -university, had fallen into the natural unsocial habits of a solitary. -He had been obliged to make life bearable for himself by perpetual -reading, and now he could do little but read. He was very attentive to -his duty, visiting his sick parishioners with the regularity of -clockwork, and not much more warmth; but when he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_48" id="page_48">{48}</a></span> came in he went to his -study, and even at table would furtively bring a book with him, to be -gone on with if the occasion served. Charley and Willie were resigned -enough to this shutting out of their father from the ordinary social -intercourse. It liberated them from the curb imposed by his grave looks -and silence. He had always been a silent man. Now that he had not his -wife to speak to, utterance was a trouble to him. And even his meals -were a trouble to Mr. Ashley. He would have liked his tray brought into -his study among his books, which was the doleful habit he had fallen -into when he was left to eat the bread of tears alone. He gave up this -gratification when the boys were at home, but it cost him something. And -he painfully refrained even from a book when there were visitors, and -now and then during the course of a meal would make a solemn remark to -them. He was punctilious altogether about strangers, keeping a somewhat -dismal watch to see that they were not neglected. This it was which had -brought him out of his study when he saw Douglas alone upon the lawn. -‘In your mother’s time,’ he would say, ‘this was considered a pleasant -house to stay at. I have given up asking people on my own account; but -when you have friends I insist upon attention being paid them.’ This -made the curate’s position doubly irksome; he had to entertain the -stranger who was his own friend, yet had, he felt, betrayed him. There -was nothing to take Douglas even for an hour off his hands. Willie, as -the spectator and sympathiser, was even more indignant than his brother, -and disposed to show his indignation; and the curate had to satisfy his -father and soothe Willie, and go through a semblance of intimate -intercourse with his friend all at the same time. His heart was very -heavy; and, at the best of times, his conversation was not of a lively -description; nor had he the power<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_49" id="page_49">{49}</a></span> of throwing off his troubles. The -friend who had proved a traitor to him had been his leader, the first -fiddle in every orchestra where Charley Ashley had produced his solemn -bass. All this made the state of affairs more intolerable. In the -evening what could they do? They had to smoke together in the little den -apportioned to this occupation, which the Rector himself detested; for -it rained, to wind up all those miseries. As long as it was fine, talk -could be eluded by strolling about the garden; but in a little room, -twelve feet by eight, with their pipes lit and everything calculated to -make the contrasts of the broken friendship seem stronger, what could be -done? The three young men sat solemnly, each in a corner, puffing forth -clouds of serious smoke. Willie had got a ‘Graphic,’ and was turning it -over, pretending to look at the pictures. Charley sat at the open -window, with his elbow leaning upon the sill, gazing out into the -blackness of the rain. As for Douglas, he tilted his chair back on its -hind legs, and looked just as usual—a smile even hovered about his -mouth. He was the offender, but there was no sense of guilt in his mind. -The cloud which had fallen on their relationship amused him instead of -vexing him. It wrapped Charley Ashley in the profoundest gloom, who was -innocent; but it rather exhilarated the culprit. Ten minutes had passed, -and not a word had been said, which was terrible to the sons of the -house, but agreeable enough to their guest. He had so much to think of; -and what talk could be so pleasant as his own thoughts? certainly not -poor Ashley’s prosy talk. He swayed himself backward now and then on his -chair, and played a tune with his fingers on the table; and a smile -hovered about his mouth. He had passed another hour under the Beeches -before the rain came on, and everything had been settled to his -satisfaction. He had not required to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_50" id="page_50">{50}</a></span> make any bold proposal, and yet he -had been argued with and sweetly persuaded as if he had suggested the -rashest instantaneous action. He could not but feel that he had managed -this very cleverly, and he was pleased with himself, and happy. He did -not want to talk; he had Anne to think about, and all her tender -confidences, and her looks and ways altogether. She was a girl whose -love any man might have been proud of. And no doubt the father’s -opposition would wear away. He saw no reason to be uneasy about the -issue. In these days there is but one way in which such a thing can end, -if the young people hold out. And, with a smile of happy assurance, he -said to himself that Anne would hold out. She was not a girl that was -likely to change.</p> - -<p>Some trifling circumstance here attracted Cosmo’s attention to the very -absurd aspect of affairs. A big moth, tumbling in out of the rain, flew -straight at the candle, almost knocked the light out, burned off its -wings, poor imbecile! and fell with a heavy thud, scorched and helpless, -upon the floor. The curate, whose life was spent on summer evenings in a -perpetual crusade against those self-destroying insects, was not even -roused from his gloom by this brief and rapidly-concluded tragedy. He -turned half round, gave a kind of groan by way of remark, and turned -again to his gloomy gaze into the rain. Upon this an impulse, almost of -laughter, seized Douglas in spite of himself. ‘Charley, old fellow, what -are you so grumpy about?’ he said.</p> - -<p>This observation from the culprit, whom they were both trying their best -not to fall upon and slay, was as a thunderbolt falling between the two -brothers. The curate turned his pale countenance round with a look of -astonishment. But Willie jumped up from his chair. ‘I can’t stand this,’ -he said, ‘any longer.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_51" id="page_51">{51}</a></span> Why should one be so frightened of the rain? I -don’t know what you other fellows mean to do, but I am going out.’</p> - -<p>‘And we are going to have it out,’ said Cosmo, as the other hurried -away. He touched the foot of the curate, who had resumed his former -attitude, with his own. ‘Look here, Charley, don’t treat me like this; -what have I done?’ he said.</p> - -<p>‘Done? I don’t know what you mean. Nothing,’ said the curate, turning -his head round once more, but still with his eyes fixed on the rain.</p> - -<p>‘Come in, then, and put it into words. You should not condemn the -greatest criminal without a hearing. You think somehow—why shouldn’t -you own it? it shows in every look—you think I have stood in your way.’</p> - -<p>‘No,’ said Ashley again. His under-lip went out with a dogged -resistance, his big eyelids drooped. ‘I haven’t got much of a way—the -parish, that’s about all—I don’t see how <i>you</i> could do me any damage -there.’</p> - -<p>‘Why are you so bitter, Charley? If you had ever taken me into your -confidence you may be sure I would not have interfered—whatever it -might have cost me.’</p> - -<p>‘I should like to know what you are talking about,’ the other said, -diving his hands into the depths of his pockets, and turning to the rain -once more.</p> - -<p>‘Would you? I don’t think it; and it’s no good naming names. Look here. -Will you believe me if I say I never meant to interfere? I never found -out what was in your mind till it was too late.’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t know that there is anything in my mind,’ Charley said. He was -holding out with all his might: but the fibres of his heart were giving -way, and the ice melting. To be sure, how should any one have<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_52" id="page_52">{52}</a></span> found -out? had it not been hidden away at the very bottom of his heart? Anne -had never suspected it, how should Cosmo? He would not even turn his -head to speak; but he was going, going! he felt it, and Douglas saw it. -The offender got up, and laid his hand upon the shoulder of his wounded -friend.</p> - -<p>‘I’d rather have cut off my hand, or tugged out my heart, than wound -you, Charley; but I never knew till it was too late.’</p> - -<p>All this, perhaps, was not quite true; but it was true—enough. Douglas -did not want to quarrel; he liked his faithful old retainer. A bird in -the hand—that is always worth something, though perhaps not so much as -is the worth of the two who are in the bush; and he is a foolish man who -will turn away the certain advantage of friendship for the chance of -love; anyhow, the address went entirely into the simple, if wounded, -heart.</p> - -<p>‘I didn’t mean to show I was vexed. I don’t know that I’m vexed—a man -is not always in the same disposition,’ he said, but his voice was -changing. Douglas patted him on the shoulder, and went back to his seat.</p> - -<p>‘You needn’t envy me—much,’ said Douglas. ‘We don’t know what’s to come -of it; the father won’t hear of me. He would have had nothing to say to -you either, and think what a rumpus it would have made in the parish! -And there’s the Rector to think of. Charley——’</p> - -<p>‘Perhaps you are right,’ Charley said, with a great heave of his -shoulders. His pipe had gone out. As he spoke, he got up slowly, and -came to the table to look for the matches. Cosmo lighted one, and held -it out to him, looking on with interest while the solemn process of -rekindling was gone through. Charley’s face, lighted by the fitful flame -as he puffed, was still as solemn as if it had been a question of life<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_53" id="page_53">{53}</a></span> -and death; and Cosmo, looking on, kept his gravity too. When this act -was accomplished, the curate in silence gripped his friend’s hand, and -thus peace was made. Poor faithful soul; his heart was still as heavy as -lead—but pain was possible, though strife was not possible. A load was -taken off his honest breast.</p> - -<p>‘I’ve seen it coming,’ he said, puffing harder than was needful. ‘I -oughtn’t to have felt it so much. After all, why should I grumble? I -never could have been the man.’</p> - -<p>‘You are a far better fellow than I am,’ cried the other, with a little -burst of real feeling.</p> - -<p>Charley puffed and puffed, with much exertion. The red gleam of the pipe -got reflected under his shaggy eyebrows in something liquid. Then he -burst into an unsteady laugh.</p> - -<p>‘You might as well fire a damp haystack as light a pipe that’s gone -out,’ was the next sentimental remark he made.</p> - -<p>‘Have a cigar?’ said Cosmo, tenderly, producing a case out of his -pocket, with eager benevolence. And thus their peace was made. Anne’s -name was not mentioned, neither was there anything said but these vague -allusions to the state of affairs generally. Of all things in the world -sentimental explanations are most foreign to the intercourse of young -Englishmen with each other. But when Willie Ashley returned, very wet, -and with an incipient cold in his head from the impatient flight he had -made, he was punished for his cowardly abandonment of an unpleasant -position by finding his brother with the old bonds refitted upon him, -completely restored to his old devotion and subjection to Cosmo. Willie -retired to bed soon after, kicking off his boots with an energy which -was full of wrath. ‘The fool!’ he said to himself; while the reconciled -pair carried on their tobacco and their reunion till far in the night. -They were not conversational, however, though they<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_54" id="page_54">{54}</a></span> were reconciled. -Conversation was not necessary to the curate’s view of social happiness, -and Cosmo was glad enough to go back upon his own thoughts.</p> - -<p>While this was going on at the Rectory, Anne for her part was submitting -to a still more severe course of interrogation. Mrs. Mountford had -discussed the question with herself at some length, whether she should -take any notice or not of the domestic convulsion which had occurred -under her very eye without having been brought openly to her cognisance. -Her husband had of course told her all about it; but Anne had not said -anything—had neither consulted her stepmother nor sought her sympathy. -After a while, however, Mrs. Mountford sensibly decided that to ignore a -matter of such importance, or to make-believe that she was not -acquainted with it, would be equally absurd. Accordingly she arranged -that Rose should be sent for after dinner to have a dress tried on; -which was done, to that young lady’s great annoyance and wrath. Mrs. -Worth, Mrs. Mountford’s maid, was not a person who could be defied with -impunity. She was the goddess Fashion, La Mode impersonified at Mount. -Under her orders she had a niece, who served as maid to Anne and Rose; -and these two together made the dresses of the family. It was a great -economy, Mrs. Mountford said, and all the county knew how completely -successful it was. But to the girls it was a trouble, if an advantage. -Mrs. Worth studied their figures, their complexions, and what she called -their ‘hidiousiucrasies’—but she did not study the hours that were -convenient for them, or make allowance for their other occupations. And -she was a tyrant, if a beneficent one. So Rose had to go, however loth. -Lady Meadowlands was about to give a fête, a great garden party, at -which all ‘the best people’ were to be assembled. And a new dress was -absolutely necessary. Wouldn’t it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_55" id="page_55">{55}</a></span> do in the morning?’ she pleaded. But -Mrs. Worth was inexorable. And so it happened that her mother had a -quiet half-hour in which to interrogate Anne.</p> - -<p>The drawing-room was on the side of the house overlooking the flower -garden; the windows, a great row of them, flush with the wall outside -and so possessing each a little recess of its own within, were all open, -admitting more damp than air, and a chilly freshness and smell of the -earth instead of the scents of the mignonette. There were two lamps at -different ends of the room, which did not light it very well: but Mrs. -Mountford was economical. Anne had lit the candles on the writing-table -for her own use, and she was a long way off the sofa on which her -stepmother sat, with her usual tidy basket of neatly-arranged wools -beside her. A little time passed in unbroken quiet, disturbed by nothing -but the soft steady downfall of the rain through the great open space -outside, and the more distant sound of pattering upon the trees. When -Mrs. Mountford said ‘Anne,’ her stepdaughter did not hear her at first. -But there was a slight infraction of the air, and she knew that -something had been said.</p> - -<p>‘Did you speak, mamma?’</p> - -<p>‘I want to speak to you, Anne. Yes, I think I did say your name. Would -you mind coming here for a little? I want to say something to you while -Rose is away.’</p> - -<p>Anne divined at once what it must be. And she was not unreasonable—it -was right that Mrs. Mountford should know: how could she help but know, -being the wife of one of the people most concerned? And the thing which -Anne chiefly objected to was that her stepmother knew everything about -her by a sort of back way, thus arriving at a clandestine knowledge not -honestly gained. It was not the stepmother that was to blame, but the -father and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_56" id="page_56">{56}</a></span> fate. She rose and went forward slowly through the partial -light—reluctant to be questioned, yet not denying that to ask was Mrs. -Mountford’s right.</p> - -<p>‘I sent her away on purpose, Anne. She is too young. I don’t want her to -know any more than can be helped. My dear, I was very sorry to hear from -your father that you had got into that kind of trouble so soon.’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t think I have got into any trouble,’ said Anne.</p> - -<p>‘No, of course I suppose <i>you</i> don’t think so; but I have more -experience than you have, and I am sorry your mind should have been -disturbed so soon.’</p> - -<p>‘Do you call it so very soon?’ said Anne. ‘I am twenty-one.’</p> - -<p>‘So you are; I forgot. Well! but it is always too soon when it is not -suitable, my dear.’</p> - -<p>‘It remains to be seen whether it is not suitable, mamma.’</p> - -<p>‘My love! do you think so little of your father’s opinion? That ought to -count above everything else, Anne. A gentleman is far better able to -form an opinion of another gentleman than we are. Mr. Douglas, I allow, -is good-looking and well-bred. I liked him well enough myself; but that -is not all—you must acknowledge that is not half enough.’</p> - -<p>‘My father seems to want a great deal less,’ said Anne; ‘all that he -asks is about his family and his money.’</p> - -<p>‘Most important particulars, Anne, however romantic you may be; you must -see that.’</p> - -<p>‘I am not romantic,’ said Anne, growing red, and resenting the -imputation, as was natural; ‘and I do not deny they are important -details; but not surely to be considered first as the only things worth -caring for—which is what my father does.’</p> - -<p>‘What do you consider the things worth caring<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_57" id="page_57">{57}</a></span> for, dear? Be reasonable. -Looks?’ said Mrs. Mountford, laying down her work upon her lap with a -benevolent smile. ‘Oh, Anne, my dear child, at your age we are always -told that beauty is skin-deep, but we never believe it. And I am not one -that would say very much in that respect. I like handsome people myself; -but dear, dear, as life goes on, if you have nothing but looks to trust -to——!’</p> - -<p>‘I assure you,’ said Anne, vehemently, succeeding after two or three -attempts to break in, ‘I should despise myself if I thought that beauty -was anything. It is almost as bad as money. Neither the one nor the -other is yourself.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, I would not go so far as that,’ said Mrs. Mountford, with -indulgence. ‘Beauty is a great deal in my opinion, though perhaps it is -gentlemen that think most about it. But, my dear Anne, you are a girl -that has always thought of duty. I will do you the justice to say that. -You may have liked your own way, but even to me, that have not the first -claim upon you, you have always been very good. I hope you are not going -to be rebellious now. You must remember that your father’s judgment is -far more mature than yours. He knows the world. He knows what men are.’</p> - -<p>‘So long as he does not know—one thing,’ said Anne, indignantly, ‘what -can all that other information matter to me?’</p> - -<p>‘And what is the one thing, dear?’ Mrs. Mountford said.</p> - -<p>Anne did not immediately reply. She went to the nearest window and -closed it, for sheer necessity of doing something; then lingered, -looking out upon the rain and the darkness of the night.</p> - -<p>‘Thank you, that is quite right,’ said her stepmother. ‘I did not know -that window was open. How damp it is, and how it rains! Anne, what is<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_58" id="page_58">{58}</a></span> -the one thing? Perhaps I might be of some use if you would tell me. What -is it your father does not know?’</p> - -<p>‘Me,’ said Anne, coming slowly back to the light. Her slight white -figure had the pose of a tall lily, so light, so firm, that its very -fragility looked like strength. And her face was full of the constancy -upon which, perhaps, she prided herself a little—the loyalty that would -not give up a dog, as she said. Mrs. Mountford called it obstinacy, of -course. ‘But what does that matter,’ she added, with some vehemence, -‘when in every particular we are at variance? I do not think as he does -in anything. What he prizes I do not care for—and what I prize——’</p> - -<p>‘My dear, it is your father you are speaking of. Of course he must know -better than a young girl like you——’</p> - -<p>‘Mamma, it is not his happiness that is involved—it is mine! and I am -not such a young girl—I am of age. How can he judge for me in what is -to be the chief thing in my life?’</p> - -<p>‘Anne,’ said Mrs. Mountford kindly, ‘this young man is almost a stranger -to you—you had never seen him a year ago. Is it really true, and are -you quite sure that this involves the happiness of your life?’</p> - -<p>Anne made no reply. How otherwise? she said indignantly in her heart. -Was she a girl to deceive herself in such a matter—was she one to make -protestations? She held her head high, erecting her white throat more -like a lily than ever. But she said nothing. What was there to say? She -could not speak or tell anyone but herself what Cosmo was to her. The -sensitive blood was ready to mount into her cheeks at the mere breathing -of his name.</p> - -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_59" id="page_59">{59}</a></span></p><p>Mrs. Mountford shook her head. ‘Oh, foolish children,’ she said, ‘you -are all the same. Don’t think you are the only one, Anne. When you are -as old as I am you will have learned that a father’s opinion is worth -taking, and that your own is not so infallible after all.’</p> - -<p>‘I suppose,’ said Anne softly, ‘you are twice my age, mamma—that would -be a long time to wait to see which of us was right.’</p> - -<p>‘I am more than twice your age,’ said Mrs. Mountford, with a little -heat; then suddenly changing her tone, ‘Well! so this is the new fashion -we have been hearing so much of. Turn round slowly that I may see if it -suits you, Rose.’</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VI" id="CHAPTER_VI"></a>CHAPTER VI.<br /><br /> -<small>GOOD-BYE.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Next</span> day was one of those crowning days of summer which seem the climax, -and at the same time the conclusion, of the perfect year. From morning -till night there was no shadow upon it, no threatening of a cloud, no -breath of unfriendly air. The flowers in the Mount gardens blazed from -the level beds in their framework of greenness, the great masses of -summer foliage stood out against the soft yet brilliant sky; every -outline was round and distinct, detaching itself in ever-varying lines, -one curve upon another. Had the weather been less perfect their -distinctness would have been excessive and marred the unity of the -landscape, but the softness of the summer air harmonised everything in -sight and sound alike. The voices on the terrace mingled in subtle -musical tones at intervals; and, though every branch of the foliage was -perfect in itself, yet all were melodiously mingled, and belonged to -each other. On the sea-shore and among the hills<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_60" id="page_60">{60}</a></span> distance seemed -annihilated, and every outline pressed upon the eye, too bright, too -near for pleasure, alarming the weather-wise. But here, so warmly -inland, in a landscape so wealthy and so soft, the atmosphere did not -exaggerate, it only brightened. It was the end of August, and changes -were preparing among the elements. Next day it might be autumn with a -frost-touch somewhere, the first yellow leaf; but to-day it was full -summer, a meridian more rich than that of June, yet still meridian, full -noon of the seasons.</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Il nous reste un gâteau de fête;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Demain nous aurons du pain noir:<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p class="nind">Anne woke up this heavenly morning saying these words to herself. It had -rained half the night through, and the morning had risen pale, exhausted -as with all this weeping: but after awhile had thought better of it, and -sworn to have, ere summer ended, one other resplendent day. Then the sun -had got up to his work like a bridegroom, eternal image, in a flush of -sacred pride and joy. People said to each other ‘What a lovely day!’ -Though it had been a fine summer, and the harvest had been got in with -the help of many a lusty morning and blazing afternoon, yet there was -something in this that touched the general heart; perhaps because it was -after the rain, perhaps because something in the air told that it was -the last, that Nature had surpassed herself, and after this was capable -of nothing further. As a matter of fact, nobody could do anything for -the delight of the exquisite morning. First one girl stole out, and then -another, through the garden, upon which the morning sun was shining; -then Mrs. Mountford sailed forth under the shelter of her parasol. Even -she, though she was half ashamed of herself, being plump, had put on, -dazzled by the morning, a white gown. ‘Though I am too<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_61" id="page_61">{61}</a></span> old for white,’ -she said with a sigh. ‘Not too old, but a little too stout, ‘m,’ said -Mrs. Worth, with that ferocious frankness which we have all to submit to -from our maids. None of the three reappeared again till the -luncheon-bell rang, so demoralised were they. Anne, if truth must be -told, went towards the Beeches: ‘Il nous reste un gâteau de fête,’ she -sang to herself under her breath, ‘Demain nous aurons du pain noir.’</p> - -<p>The same thing happened at the Rectory: even the rector himself came -out, wandering, by way of excusing himself for the idleness, about the -flowerbeds. ‘The bedding-out plants have done very well this year,’ he -said; but he was not thinking of the bedding-out plants any more than -the young men were thinking of their cigars. In their minds there was -that same sense of the one bit of cake remaining to eat which was in -Anne’s song. Charley, who had not the cake, but was only to stand by and -assist while his friend ate it, was sympathetically excited, yet felt a -little forlorn satisfaction in the approaching resumption of the <i>pain -noir</i>. He was never to get anything better, it appeared; but it would be -pleasanter fare when the munching of the <i>gâteau</i> was over. And Douglas -stole off to consume that last morsel when the curate, reluctantly, out -of the sweetness of the morning, went off to his schools. Under the -Beeches the day was like a fresh bit out of Paradise. If Adam and Eve -are only a fable, as the scientific gentlemen say, what a poet Moses -was! Eden has never gone out of fashion to this day. The two under the -trees, but for her muslin and his tweed, were, over again, the primæval -pair—and perhaps the serpent was about too: but neither Eve had seen -it, nor Adam prepared that everlasting plea of self-defence which has -been handed down through all his sons. This was how the charmed hours -stole on, and the perfection of summer passed through<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_62" id="page_62">{62}</a></span> the perfection of -noon; so many perfections touching each other! a perfect orb of -loveliness and happiness, with that added grace which makes perfection -more perfect, the sense of incompleteness—the human crown of hope. All -the time they were thinking of the something better, something sweeter, -that was to come. ‘Will there ever be such another perfect day?’ she -said, in a wonder at the new discovered bliss with which she was -surrounded. ‘Yes, the next,’ he said, ‘on which we shall not have to -part.’ To be sure: there was the parting; without that conclusion, -perhaps, this hour would not have been so exquisite: but it was still -some hours off, thank heaven!</p> - -<p>After luncheon the chairs were carried out to the green terrace where -the shadow of the limes fell. The limes got in the way of the sun almost -as soon as he began to descend, and threw the most delicious dancing -shadow over the grass—a shadow that was quite effectual, and kept the -lawn as cool as in the middle of a forest, but which was in itself a -lovely living thing, in soft perpetual motion, every little twig and -green silken leaf contributing its particular canopy, and flinging down -a succession of little bobs and curtseys with every breath of air that -blew. ‘Everybody will be out to-day, and I daresay we shall have a great -many visitors. Tell Saymore he may bring out the big table,’ said Mrs. -Mountford. She liked to feel that her house was the chief house in the -neighbourhood, the place to which everybody came. Mrs. Mountford had -regretfully relinquished by this time her white gown. We all cling to -our white gowns, but when you are stout, it must be acknowledged the -experiment is rash. She had not been able to get Mrs. Worth’s candid -criticism out of her mind all the morning. ‘Do I look very stout, Rose?’ -she had said, in an unconsciously ingratiating tone. And Rose was still<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_63" id="page_63">{63}</a></span> -more entirely impartial than Worth. She threw a careless glance at her -mother. ‘You do look fat, mamma!’ she said. It was hard upon the poor -lady; she changed it, with a sigh, for her darkest silk. ‘Not black, -Worth,’ she said faintly. ‘If I had my way, ‘m,’ said Worth, ‘I’d dress -you always in black. There is nothing like it when one gets to a certain -time of life.’ It was under the influence of this sobering <i>douche</i> that -Mrs. Mountford came out again, accompanied by Saymore with her -workbasket. It was put down upon the table, a dazzling bit of colour. -‘But I really don’t feel inclined to work. It is too fine to work,’ Mrs. -Mountford said. ‘What is that you are singing for ever, Anne? I have -heard you at it all day.’</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i0">Il nous reste un gâteau de fête;<br /></span> -<span class="i2">Demain nous aurons du pain noir.<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>Anne sang without changing colour, though her heart was beating; she had -become too breathless for conversation. When would he come for the -farewell, and what would her father say? Would he hear of it and come -out? What was to happen? She sat very still in her basket-chair, with -all the lime leaves waving over her, letting in stray gleams of sunshine -that ornamented her as with lines of jewels here and there.</p> - -<p>Then, after an interval, two dark figures were seen upon the whiteness -and unsheltered light of the road through the park. ‘There are the -Ashley boys,’ said Rose. ‘Anne, you will be obliged to play to-day.’</p> - -<p>‘The Ashley boys! Now that Charley is ordained, you should speak with -more respect,’ said Mrs. Mountford. Anne looked up, and her heart seemed -to stand still—only two of them! But she soon satisfied herself that it -was not Cosmo that was the defaulter; she sat, not saying anything, -scarcely daring to breathe. The moment had come.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_64" id="page_64">{64}</a></span></p> - -<p>Willie Ashley had not regarded with much satisfaction the reconciliation -which he found to his great amazement had taken place while he was out -in the rain. Indeed the attitude of his mind had been nothing less than -one of disgust, and when he found next day that Douglas was setting out -arm-in-arm with the curate, and almost more confidential than before, to -walk to Mount, his impatience rose to such a point that he flung off -altogether. ‘Two may be company, but three is none,’ he said to his -brother. ‘I thought you had a little more spirit; I’m not going to -Mount: if you can see yourself cut out like that, I can’t. I’ll walk up -as far as the Woodheads’; I daresay they’ll be very glad to get up a -game there.’ This was how there were only two figures on the road. They -were very confidential, and perhaps the curate was supported more than -he himself was aware by the certainty that his friend was going away -that night. Henceforward the field would be clear. It was not that he -had any hope of supplanting Cosmo in his turn, as he had been -supplanted; but still to have him away would be something. The black -bread is wholesome fare enough when there is not some insolent happiness -in the foreground insisting upon devouring before you its bunches of -cake.</p> - -<p>‘I declare,’ said Mrs. Mountford, ‘there is <i>that</i> Mr. Douglas with -Charley Ashley! What am I to do? I am sure it is not Willie—he is -taller and bigger, and has a different appearance altogether. You cannot -expect me, Anne, to meet anyone whom papa disapproves. What shall I do? -Run, Rose, and tell Saymore; but of course Charley will not knock at the -door like an ordinary visitor—he will come straight here. I have always -thought these familiarities should not have been permitted. They will -come straight here, though they know he has been sent away and forbidden -the house.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_65" id="page_65">{65}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>‘He has never been forbidden the house,’ cried Anne indignantly. ‘I -hope, mamma, you will not be so uncivil as to refuse to say good-bye to -Mr. Douglas. He is going away.’</p> - -<p>‘Forbidden the house!’ cried Rose, her eyes opening up like two great -O’s. ‘Then it is true!’</p> - -<p>‘You had better go away at least, if I must stay,’ said Mrs. Mountford -in despair. ‘Rosie, run indoors and stay in the drawing-room till he is -gone. It would be in far better taste, Anne, and more dutiful, if you -were to go too.’</p> - -<p>Anne did not say a word, partly, no doubt, in determined resistance, but -partly because just then her voice had failed her, the light was -swimming in her eyes, and the air seemed to be full of pairs of dark -figures approaching from every different way.</p> - -<p>‘Run indoors! why should I?’ said Rose. ‘He can’t do any harm to me; -besides, I like Mr. Douglas. Why shouldn’t he come and say good-bye? It -would be very uncivil of him if he didn’t, after being so much here.’</p> - -<p>‘That is just what I am always saying; you have them constantly here, -and then you are surprised when things happen,’ cried Mrs. Mountford, -wringing her hands. ‘Anne, if you have any feeling you ought to take -your sister away.’</p> - -<p>Rose’s eyes grew rounder and rounder. ‘Was it <i>me</i> he was in love with, -then?’ she asked, not without reason. But by this time it was too late -for anyone to run away, as the young men were already making their way -across the flower-garden, and could see every movement the ladies made.</p> - -<p>‘Sit down, sit down, if it must be so,’ said Mrs. Mountford, ‘and for -heaven’s sake let us have no scene; look at least as if it were a common -call and meant nothing—that is the only thing to do now.’ ‘How d’ye do, -how d’ye do, Charley,’ she said, waving her hand in friendly salutation: -‘was there ever<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_66" id="page_66">{66}</a></span> such a lovely day? Come and sit down; it is too fine -for a game. Is that Mr. Douglas you have with you? I was quite blinded -with the sun this morning, I can’t get it out of my eyes. How do you -do?—you will excuse my looking surprised; I thought I heard that you -had gone away.’</p> - -<p>‘Not yet,’ he said; ‘I hope you did not think me so little grateful for -all your kindness as not to make my acknowledgments before leaving the -parish. I have lingered longer than I ought to have done, but every -happiness must come to an end, and I am bound for Beedon this afternoon -to catch the Scotch mail to-night.’</p> - -<p>Mrs. Mountford made him a little bow, by way of showing that her -interest in this was no more than politeness demanded, and returned to -the curate, to whom she was not generally so gracious. ‘I hope your -father is well,’ she said; ‘and Willie, where is Willie? It is not often -he fails. When we saw you crossing the park just now I made sure it was -Willie that was with you. I suppose we shall not have him much longer. -He should not disappoint his friends like this.’</p> - -<p>‘I fear,’ said Douglas (‘thrusting himself in again; so ill-bred, when -he could see I meant to snub him,’ Mrs. Mountford said), ‘that Willie’s -absence is my fault. He likes to have his brother to himself, and I -don’t blame him. However, I am so soon to leave the coast clear! If -anything could have made it more hard to turn one’s back upon Mount it -would be leaving it on such a day. Fancy going from this paradise of -warmth and sunshine to the cold North!’</p> - -<p>‘To Scotland?’ cried Rose; ‘that’s just what I should like to do. You -may call this paradise if you like, but it’s dull. Paradise would be -dull always, don’t you think, with nothing happening. To be sure, -there’s Lady Meadowlands’ fête; but<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_67" id="page_67">{67}</a></span> one knows exactly what that will -be—at least, almost exactly,’ Rose added, brightening a little, and -feeling that a little opening was left for fate.</p> - -<p>‘Let us hope it will be as different as possible from what you expect. I -have known garden-parties turn out so that one was not in the least like -another,’ said Douglas smilingly, accepting the transfer to Rose which -Mrs. Mountford’s too apparent snub made necessary. Anne, for her part, -did not say a word; she sat quite still in the low basket-chair, -scarcely venturing to look up, listening to the tones of his voice and -the smile which seemed to pervade his words with that strange -half-stunned, half-happy sensation which precedes a parting. Yes, it was -happiness still to feel him there, and recognise every distinctive sound -of the voice which had awoke her heart. Was there no way of stopping -this flying moment, arresting it, so that it should last, or coming to -an end in it, which is the suggested sentiment of all perfection? She -sat as in a dream, longing to make it last, yet impatient that it should -be over; wondering how it was to end, and whether any words more -important than these might pass between them still. They had taken -farewell of each other under the Beeches. This postscript was almost -more than could be borne—intolerable, yet sweet. The voices went on, -while the scene turned round and round with Anne, the background of the -flowers confusing her eyes, and the excitement mounting to her head. At -last, before they had been a moment there, she thought—though it was -half an hour—the dark figures had risen up again and hands were being -held out. Then she felt her dress twitched, and ‘Let us walk to the end -of the garden with them,’ said Rose. This made a little commotion, and -Anne in her dream felt Mrs. Mountford’s expostulation—‘Girls!’ in a -horrified<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_68" id="page_68">{68}</a></span> undertone, ‘what can you be thinking of? Rosie, are you -crazy? <span class="smcap">Anne!</span>’</p> - -<p>This last was almost in a shriek of excitement. But Rose was far too -much used to her own way to pay any attention. ‘Come along,’ she said, -linking her fingers in her sister’s. Anne, who was the leader in -everything, followed for the first time in her life.</p> - -<p>The garden was sweet with all manner of autumn flowers, banks of -mignonette and heliotrope perfuming the air, and red geraniums blazing -in the sunshine—all artificial in their formal beds, just as this -intercourse was artificial, restrained by the presence of spectators and -the character of the scene. By-and-by, however, Rose untwined her hand -from her sister’s. ‘There is no room to walk so many abreast; go on with -Mr. Douglas, Anne; I have something to say to Charley,’ the girl cried. -She was curious, tingling to her fingers’ ends with a desire to know all -about it. She turned her round eyes upon Charley with an exciting look -of interrogation as soon as the other pair had gone on before. Poor -Ashley had drooped his big head; he would have turned his back if he -could to give them the benefit of this last moment, but he felt that he -could not be expected not to feel it. And as for satisfying the -curiosity of this inquisitive imp, whose eyes grew bigger and bigger -every moment! he dropped his nice brown beard upon his bosom, and -sighed, and slightly shook his head. ‘Tell me what it means, or I’ll -tell mamma you’re helping them,’ whispered Rose.</p> - -<p>‘Can’t you see what it means?’ said the curate, with a glance, she -thought, of contempt. What did she know about it? A blush of humiliation -at her own ignorance flew over Rose.</p> - -<p>‘I owe your little sister something for this,’ said Douglas, under his -breath. ‘Once more we two against the world, Anne!’</p> - -<p>‘Not against the world: everything helps us,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_69" id="page_69">{69}</a></span> Cosmo. I did not think I -could even venture to look at you, and now we can say good-bye again.’</p> - -<p>His fingers twined into hers among the folds of her gown, as Rose’s had -done a minute before. They could say good-bye again, but they had no -words. They moved along together slowly, not walking that they knew of, -carried softly as by a wave of supreme emotion; then, after another -moment, Anne felt the landscape slowly settling, the earth and the sky -getting back into their places, and she herself coming down by slow -gyrations to earth again. She was standing still at the corner of the -garden, with once more two dark figures upon the white road, but this -time not approaching—going away.</p> - -<p>‘Tell me about it, tell me all about it, Anne. I did it on purpose; I -wanted to see how you would behave. You just behaved exactly like other -people, and shook hands with him the same as I did. I will stand your -friend with papa and everybody if you will tell me all about it, Anne.’</p> - -<p>Mrs. Mountford also was greatly excited; she came sailing down upon them -with her parasol expanded and fanning herself as she walked. ‘I never -had such a thing to do,’ she said; ‘I never had such an awkward -encounter in my life. It is not that I have any dislike to the man, he -has always been very civil; though I must say, Anne, that I think, -instead of coming, it would have been better taste if he had sent a note -to say good-bye. And if you consider that I had not an idea what to say -to him! and that I was in a state of mind all the time, saying to -myself, “Goodness gracious! if papa should suddenly walk round the -corner, what should we all do?” I looked for papa every moment all the -time. People always do come if there is any special reason for not -wanting them. However, I hope it is all over now, and that you will not -expose us to such risks any more.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_70" id="page_70">{70}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>Anne made no reply to either of her companions. She stole away from them -as soon as possible, to subdue the high beating of her own heart, and -come down to the ordinary level. No, she was not likely to encounter any -such risks again; the day was over and with it the last cake of the -feast: the black bread of every day was all that now furnished forth the -tables. A kind of dull quiet fell upon Mount and all the surrounding -country. The clouds closed round and hung low. People seemed to speak in -whispers. It was a quiet that whispered of fate, and in which the -elements of storm might be lurking. But still it cannot be said that the -calm was unhappy. The light had left the landscape, but only for the -moment. The banquet was over, but there were fresh feasts to come. -Everything fell back into the old conditions, but nothing was as it had -been. The world was the same, yet changed in every particular. Without -any convulsion, or indeed any great family disturbance, how did this -happen unsuspected? Everything in heaven and earth was different, though -all things were the same.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VII" id="CHAPTER_VII"></a>CHAPTER VII.<br /><br /> -<small>CROSS-EXAMINATION.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> change that is made in a quiet house in the country when the chief -source of life and emotion is closed for one or other of the inhabitants -is such a thing as ‘was never said in rhyme.’ There may be nothing -tragical, nothing final about it, but it penetrates through every hour -and every occupation. The whole scheme of living seems changed, although -there may be no change in any habit. It is, indeed, the very sameness -and unity of the life, the way in which every little custom survives, in -which the feet<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_71" id="page_71">{71}</a></span> follow the accustomed round, the eyes survey the same -things, the very same words come to the lips that make the difference so -palpable. This was what Anne Mountford felt now. To outward seeming her -existence was absolutely as before. It was not an exciting life, but it -had been a happy one. Her mind was active and strong, and capable of -sustaining itself. Even in the warm and soft stagnation of her home, her -life had been like a running stream always in movement, turning off at -unexpected corners, flowing now in one direction, now another, making -unexpected leaps and variations of its own. She had the wholesome love -of new things and employments which keeps life fresh; and there had -scarcely been a week in which she had not had some new idea or other, -quickly copied and turned into matter-of-fact prose by her little -sister. This had made Mount lively even when there was nothing going on. -And for months together nothing did go on at Mount. It was not a great -country house filled with fashionable visitors in the autumn and winter, -swept clean of all its inhabitants in spring. The Mountfords stayed at -home all the year round, unless it were at the fall of the leaf, when -sometimes they would go to Brighton, sometimes at the very deadest -season to town. They had nobody to visit them except an occasional old -friend belonging to some other county family, who understood the kind of -life and lived the same at home. On these occasions if the friend were a -little superior they would ask Lord and Lady Meadowlands to dinner, but -if not they would content themselves with the clergymen of the two -neighbouring parishes, and the Woodheads, whose house was not much more -than a villa. Lately, since the girls grew up, the ‘game’ in the -afternoon which brought young visitors to the house in summer had added -to the mild amusements of this life; but the young people who came were -always the same, and so were the old people in the village,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_72" id="page_72">{72}</a></span> who had to -be visited, and to have flannels prepared for them against Christmas, -and their savings taken care of. When a young man ‘went wrong,’ or a -girl got into trouble, it made the greatest excitement in the parish. -‘Did you hear that Sally Lawson came home to her mother on Saturday, -sent away from her place at a moment’s notice?’ or: ‘Old Gubbins’s boy -has enlisted. Did you ever hear anything so sad—the one the rector took -so much pains with, and helped on so in his education?’ It was very sad -for the Gubbinses and Lawsons, but it was a great godsend to the parish. -And when Lady Meadowlands’ mother, old Lady Prayrey Poule, went and -married, actually <i>married</i> at sixty, it did the very county, not to -speak of those parishes which had the best right to the news, good. This -was the way in which life passed at Mount. And hitherto Anne had -supplemented and made it lively with a hundred pursuits of her own. Even -up to the beginning of August, when Mr. Douglas, who had left various -reminiscences behind him of his Christmas visit, came back—having -enjoyed himself so much on the previous occasion, as he said—Anne had -continued in full career of those vigorous fancies which kept her always -interested. She had sketched indefatigably all the spring and early -summer, growing almost fanatical about the tenderness of the shadows and -the glory of the lights. Then finding the cottages, which were so -picturesque, and figured in so many sketches, to be too wretched for -habitation, though they were inhabited, she had rushed into building, -into plans, and elevations, and measurements, which it was difficult to -force Mr. Mountford’s attention to, but which were evidently a step in -the right direction. But on Douglas’s second arrival these occupations -had been unconsciously intermitted, they had been pushed aside by a -hundred little engagements which the Ashleys had managed to make for the -entertainment of their friend. There<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_73" id="page_73">{73}</a></span> had been several pic-nics, and a -party at the rectory—the first since Mrs. Ashley’s death—and a party -at the Woodheads’, the only other people in the parish capable of -entertaining. Then there had been an expedition to the Castle, which the -Meadowlands, on being informed that Charley Ashley’s friend was anxious -to see it, graciously combined with a luncheon and a ‘game’ in the -afternoon. And then there was the game at Mount on all the other -afternoons. Who could wonder, as Mrs. Mountford said, that something had -come of it? The young men had been allowed to come continually about the -house. No questions had been asked, no conditions imposed upon them. -‘Thou shalt not make love to thy entertainer’s daughter’ had not been -written up, as it ought to have been, on the lodge. And now, all this -was over. Like a scene at the theatre, opening up, gliding off with -nothing but a little jar of the carpentry, this momentous episode was -concluded and the magician gone. And Anne Mountford returned to the -existence—which was exactly as it had been of old.</p> - -<p>The other people did not see any difference in it; and to her the -wonderful thing was that there was no difference in it. She had been in -paradise, caught up, and had seen unspeakable things; but now that she -had dropped down again, though for a moment the earth seemed to jar and -tingle under her feet as they came in contact with it, there was no -difference. Her plans were there just the same, and the question still -to settle about how far the pigsty must be distant from the house; and -old Saymore re-emerged to view making up his bouquets for the vases, and -holding his head on one side as he looked at them, to see how they -‘composed;’ and Mrs. Worth, who all this time had been making dresses -and trying different shades to find out what would best set off Miss -Rose’s complexion. They had been<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_74" id="page_74">{74}</a></span> going on like the figures on the -barrel-organ, doing the same thing all the time—never varying or -changing. Anne looked at them all with a kind of doleful amusement, -gyrating just in the old way, making the same little bobs and curtseys. -They had no want of interest or occupation, always moving quite -contentedly to the old tunes, turning round and round. Mr. Mountford sat -so many hours in his business-room, walked one day, rode the next for -needful exercise, sat just so long in the drawing-room in the evening. -His wife occupied herself an hour every morning with the cook, took her -wool-work at eleven, and her drive at half-past two, except when the -horses were wanted. Anne came back to it all, with a little giddiness -from her expedition to the empyrean, and looked at the routine with a -wondering amusement. She had never known before how like clockwork it -was. Now her own machinery, always a little eccentric, declined to -acknowledge that key: some sort of new motive power had got into her, -which disturbed the action of the other. She began again with a great -many jerks and jars, a great many times: and then would stop and look at -all the others in their unconscious dance, moving round and round, and -laugh to herself with a little awe of her discovery. Was this what the -scientific people meant by the automatic theory, she wondered, being a -young woman who read everything; but then in a law which permitted no -exceptions, how was it that she herself had got out of gear?</p> - -<p>Rose, who followed her sister in everything, wished very much to follow -her in this too. She had always managed to find out about every new -impulse before, and catch the way of it, though the impulse itself was -unknown to her. She gave Anne no rest till she had ascertained about -this too. ‘Tell us what it is like,’ she said, with a hundred -repeti<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_75" id="page_75">{75}</a></span>tions. ‘How did you first find out that he cared for you? What -put it into your head? Was it anything he said that made you think -<i>that</i>? As it is probably something that one time or another will happen -to me too, I think it is dreadful of you not to tell me. Had you never -found it out till he told you? and what did he say? Did he ask you all -at once if you would marry him? or did it all come on by degrees?’</p> - -<p>‘How do you think I can tell?’ said Anne; ‘it is not a thing you can put -into words. I think it all came on by degrees.’</p> - -<p>But this, though it was her own formula, did not satisfy Rose. ‘I am -sure you could tell me a great deal more if you only would,’ she cried; -‘what did he <i>say</i>? Now, <i>that</i> you can’t help remembering; you must -know what he said. Did he tell you he was in love with you, or ask you -straight off to marry him? You can’t have forgotten that—it is not so -very long ago.’</p> - -<p>‘But, Rosie, I could not tell you. It is not the words, it is not -anything that could be repeated. A woman should hear that for the first -time,’ said Anne, with shy fervour, turning away her head to hide the -blush, ‘when it is said to herself.’</p> - -<p>‘A woman! Then you call yourself a woman now? I am only a girl; is that -one of the things that show?’ asked Rose, gravely, in pursuit of her -inquiry. ‘Well, then, you ought surely to let me know what kind of a -thing it is. Are you so very fond of him as people say in books? are you -always thinking about him? Anne, it is dreadfully mean of you to keep it -all to yourself. Tell me one thing: when he said it first, did he go -down upon his knees?’</p> - -<p>‘What nonsense you are talking!’ said Anne, with a burst of laughter. -Then there rose before her in sweet confusion a recollection of various<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_76" id="page_76">{76}</a></span> -moments in which Rose, always matter-of-fact, might have described her -lover as on his knees. ‘You don’t know anything about it,’ she said, -‘and I can’t tell you anything about it. I don’t know myself, Rosie; it -was all like a dream.’</p> - -<p>‘It is you who are talking nonsense,’ said Rose. ‘How could it be like a -dream? In a dream you wake up and it is all over; but it is not a bit -over with you. Well, then, <i>after</i>, how did it feel, Anne? Was he always -telling you you were pretty? Did he call you “dear,” and “love,” and all -that sort of thing? It would be so <i>very</i> easy to tell me—and I do so -want to know.’</p> - -<p>‘Do you remember, Rose,’ said Anne, with a little solemnity, ‘how we -used to wish for a brother? We thought we could tell him everything, and -ask him questions as we never could do to papa, and yet it would be -quite different from telling each other. He would know better; he would -be able to tell us quantities of things, and yet he would understand -what we meant too.’</p> - -<p>‘I remember you used to wish for it,’ said Rose, honestly, ‘and that it -would have been such a very good thing for the entail.’</p> - -<p>‘Then,’ said Anne, with fervour, ‘it is a little like that—like what we -thought that would be. One feels that one’s heart is running over with -things to say. One wants to tell him everything, what happened when one -was a little girl, and all the nonsense that has ever been in one’s -mind. I told him even about that time I was shut up in the blue room, -and how frightened I was. Everything! it does not matter if it is a -trifle. One knows he will not think it a trifle. Exactly—at least -almost exactly, like what it would be to have a brother—but yet with a -difference too,’ Anne added, after a pause, blushing, she could scarcely -tell why.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_77" id="page_77">{77}</a></span></p> - -<p>‘Ah!’ said Rose, with great perspicacity, ‘but the difference is just -what I want to know.’</p> - -<p>The oracle, however, made no response, and in despair the pertinacious -questioner changed the subject a little. ‘If you will not tell me what -he said, nor what sort of a thing it is, you may at least let me know -one thing—what are you going to do?’</p> - -<p>‘Nothing,’ said Anne, softly. She stood with her hands clasped before -her, looking with some wistfulness into the blueness of the distant air, -as if into the future, shaking her head a little, acknowledging to -herself that she could not see into it. ‘Nothing—so far as I know.’</p> - -<p>‘Nothing! are you going to be in love, and engaged, and all that, and -yet do <i>nothing</i>? I know papa will not consent—mamma told me. She said -you would have to give up everything if you married him; and that it -would be a good thing for——’</p> - -<p>Here Rose paused, gave her head a little shake to banish the foolish -words with which she had almost betrayed the confidence of her mother’s -communication, and reddened with alarm to think how near she had been to -letting it all out.</p> - -<p>‘I am not going to——marry,’ said Anne, in spite of herself, a little -coldly, though she scarcely knew why, ‘if that is what you want to -know.’</p> - -<p>‘Then what,’ said Rose, majestically, ‘do you mean to do?’</p> - -<p>The elder sister laughed a little. It was at the serious pertinacity of -her questioner, who would not take an answer. ‘I never knew you so -curious before,’ she said. ‘One does not need to do anything all at -once——’</p> - -<p>‘But what are you going to <i>do</i>?’ said Rose. ‘I never knew you so dull, -Anne. Dear me, there are a great many things to do besides getting -married. Has he just gone away for good, and is there an end of it? Or -is he coming back again, or going to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_78" id="page_78">{78}</a></span> write to you, or what is going to -happen? I know it can’t be going to end like that; or what was the use -of it at all?’ the girl said, with some indignation. It was Rose’s -office to turn into prose all Anne’s romancings. She stopped short as -they were walking, in the heat of indignant reason, and faced her -sister, with natural eloquence, as all oratorical talkers do.</p> - -<p>‘It is not going to end,’ said Anne, a shade of sternness coming over -her face. She did not pause even for a moment, but went on softly with -her abstracted look. Many a time before in the same abstraction had she -escaped from her sister’s questions; but Rose had never been so -persistent as now.</p> - -<p>‘If you are not going to do anything, and it is not to end, I wonder -what is going to happen,’ said Rose. ‘If it were me, I should know what -I was to do.’</p> - -<p>They were walking up and down on the green terrace where so many games -had been played. It was getting almost too dark for the lime avenue when -their talk had begun. The day had faded so far that the red of the -geraniums had almost gone out; and light had come into the windows of -the drawing-room, and appeared here and there over the house. The season -had changed all in a day—a touch of autumn was in the air, and mist -hung in all the hollows. The glory of the year was over; or so at least -Anne thought.</p> - -<p>‘And another thing,’ said Rose; ‘are you going to tell anybody? Mamma -says I am not to tell; but do you think it is right to go to the -Meadowlands’ party, and go on talking and laughing with everybody just -the same, and you an engaged girl? Somebody else might fall in love with -you! I don’t think it is a right thing to do.’</p> - -<p>‘People have not been in such a hurry to fall in love with me,’ said -Anne; ‘but, Rose, I don’t think<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_79" id="page_79">{79}</a></span> this is a subject that mamma would -think at all suited for you.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, mamma talked to me about it herself; she said she wished you would -give it up, Anne. She said it never could come to anything, for papa -will never consent.’</p> - -<p>‘Papa may never consent; but yet it will come to something,’ said Anne, -with a gleam in her eyes. ‘That is enough, Rose; that is enough. I am -going in, whatever you may do.’</p> - -<p>‘But, Anne! just one thing more; if papa does not consent, what <i>can</i> -you do? Mamma says he could never afford to marry if you had nothing, -and you would have nothing if papa refused. It is only <i>your</i> money that -you would have to marry on; and if you had no money—— So what <i>could</i> -you do?’</p> - -<p>‘I wish, when mamma speaks of my affairs, she would speak to me,’ said -Anne, with natural indignation. She was angry and indignant; and the -words made, in spite of herself, a painful commotion within her. Money! -what had money to do with it? She had felt the injustice, the wrong of -her father’s threat; but it had not occurred to her that this could -really have any effect upon her love; and though she had been annoyed to -find that Cosmo would not treat the subject with seriousness, or believe -in the gravity of Mr. Mountford’s menace, still she had been entirely -satisfied that his apparent carelessness was the right way for him to -consider it. He thought it of no importance, of course. He made jokes -about it; laughed at it; beguiled her out of her gravity on the subject. -Of course! what was it to him whether she was rich or poor; what did -Cosmo care? So long as she loved him, was not that all he was thinking -of? What would she have minded had she been told that <i>he</i> had nothing? -Not one straw—not one farthing! But when this little prose personage, -with her more practical views<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_80" id="page_80">{80}</a></span> of the question, rubbed against Anne, -there did come to her, quite suddenly, a little enlightenment. It was -like one chill, but by no means depressing, ray of daylight bursting in -through a crevice into the land of dreams. If he had no money, and she -no money, what then? Then, notwithstanding all generosity and nobleness -of affection, money certainly would have something to do with it. It -would count among the things to be taken into consideration; count -dolefully, in so far as it would keep them apart; yet count with -stimulating force as a difficulty to be surmounted, an obstacle to be -got the better of. When Mrs. Mountford put her head out of the window, -and called them to come in out of the falling dews, Anne went upstairs -very seriously, and shut the door of her room, and sat down in her -favourite chair to think it out. Fathers and mothers are supposed to -have an objection to long engagements; but girls, at all events at the -outset of their career, do not entertain the same objection. Anne was -still in the dreamy condition of youthful rapture, transported out of -herself by the new light that had come into the world, so that the -indispensable sequence of marriage did not present itself to her as it -does to the practical-minded. It was a barrier of fact with which, in -the meantime, she had nothing to do. She was not disappointed or -depressed, because <i>that</i> was not the matter in question. It would come -in time, no doubt, as the afternoon follows the morning, and autumn -summer, but who would change the delights of the morning for the warmer, -steady glory of three o’clock? though that also is very good in its way. -She was quite resigned to the necessity of waiting, and not being -married all at once. The contingency neither alarmed nor distressed her. -Its immediate result was one which, indeed, most courses of thought -produced in her mind at the present moment. If I had but thought,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_81" id="page_81">{81}</a></span> of -that, she said to herself, before he went away! She would have liked to -talk over the money question with Cosmo; to discuss it in all its -bearings; to hear him say how little it mattered, and to plan how they -could do without it; not absolutely without it, of course; but Anne’s -active mind leaped at once at the thought of those systems of domestic -economy which would be something quite new to study, which had not yet -tempted her, but which would now have an interest such as no study ever -had. And, on his side, there could be no doubt that the effort would be -similar; in all likelihood even now (if he had thought of it) he was -returning with enthusiasm to his work, saying to himself, ‘I have Anne -to work for; I have my happiness to win.’ ‘<i>He</i> could never afford to -marry if <i>you</i> had nothing. It is only your money that you could marry -on; and if you had no money, what could you do?’ Anne smiled to herself -at Rose’s wisdom; nay, laughed in the silence, in the dark, all by -herself, with an outburst of private mirth. Rose—prose, she said to -herself, as she had said often before. How little that little thing -knew! but how could she know any better, being so young, and with no -experience? The thrill of high exhilaration which had come to her own -breast at the thought of this unperceived difficulty—the still higher -impulse that no doubt had been given to Cosmo, putting spurs to his -intellect, making impossibilities possible—a child like Rose could not -understand those mysteries. By-and-by Anne reminded herself that, as the -love of money was the root of all evil, so the want of it had been, not -only no harm, but the greatest good. Painters, poets, people of genius -of every kind had been stimulated by this wholesome prick. Had -Shakespeare been rich? She threw her head aloft with a smile of -conscious energy, and capacity, and power. No money! That would be the -best way to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_82" id="page_82">{82}</a></span> make a life worth living. She faced all heroisms, all -sacrifices, with a smile, and in a moment had gone through all the -labours and privations of years. He, working so many hours at a stretch, -bursting upon the world with the eloquence which was inspired by love -and necessity; she, making a shabby room into a paradise of content, -working for him with her own happy hands, carrying him through every -despondency and difficulty. Good heavens! could any little idiot suppose -that to settle down on a good income and never have any trouble would be -half so delightful as this? Anne used strong language in the swelling of -her breast.</p> - -<p>It made her laugh with a little ridicule of herself, and a half sense -that, if Rose’s tendency was prose, hers might perhaps be heroics, when -it occurred to her that Cosmo, instead of rushing back to his work, had -only intended to catch the Scotch mail, and that he was going to the -Highlands to shoot; while she herself was expected in Mrs. Worth’s room -to have her dress tried on for the Meadowlands’ party. But, after all, -what did that matter? There was no hurry; it was still the Long -Vacation, in which no man can work, and in the meantime there was no -economy for her to begin upon.</p> - -<p>The maid whom she and Rose shared between them, and whose name was -Keziah, came to the door to call her when she had reached this point.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, I beg your pardon, Miss Anne,’ she said; ‘I didn’t know you had no -lights.’</p> - -<p>‘They were quite unnecessary, thank you,’ said Anne, rising up out of -her meditations, calmed, yet with all the force of this new stimulus to -her thoughts.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_83" id="page_83">{83}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_VIII" id="CHAPTER_VIII"></a>CHAPTER VIII.<br /><br /> -<small>THE MEADOWLANDS’ PARTY.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">It</span> was a very large party—collected from all the quarters of England, -or even it may be said of the globe, seeing there was a Russian princess -and an American literary gentleman among the lists of the guests, as -well as embracing the whole county, and everybody that had any claim to -be affiliated into society there. Lady Meadowlands made a very liberal -estimate of what could be called the society of the county—too liberal -an estimate, many people thought. The clergy, everyone knows, must be -present in force at every such function, and all their belongings, down -to the youngest daughter who is out; but such a rule surely ought not to -apply to country practitioners; and even to the brewer at Hunston, who, -though he was rich, was nobody. Upon that point almost everybody made a -stand, and it is to be feared that Mrs. and Miss Brewer did not enjoy -themselves at the Castle. But these were drawbacks not fully realised -till afterwards. The people who were aggrieved by the presence of the -brewer’s family were those who themselves were not very sure of their -standing, and who felt it was ‘no compliment’ to be asked when such -persons were also acknowledged as within the mystic ring. Dr. Peacock’s -wife and Miss Woodhead were the ladies who felt it most; though poor Mr. -Peacock himself was considered by some to be quite as great a blot. All -the roads in the neighbourhood of the Castle were as gay as if there had -been a fair going on. The village turned out bodily to see the carriages -and horses of the quality; though these fine people themselves were -perhaps less admired by the rustics than the beautiful tall footman in -powder who had come from<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_84" id="page_84">{84}</a></span> town with Lady Prayrey Poule. But as every new -arrival drove up, the excitement rose to a high pitch; even the soberest -of people are moved by the sensation of multitude, the feeling of -forming part of a distinguished crowd. And the day was fine, with a -sunny haze hanging about the distance, reddening the sun and giving a -warm indistinctness to the sky. The grounds at Meadowlands were fine, -and the park very extensive. The house was a modern and handsome house, -and at some distance from it stood an old castle in ruins, which was the -greatest attraction of the place. Upon the lawns a great many ‘games’ -were going on. I have already said that I have no certainty as to -whether the games were croquet or lawn-tennis, not knowing or -remembering when the one period ended and the other began. But they were -enough in either case to supply lively groups of young persons in pretty -dresses, and afford a little gentle amusement to the lookers-on, -especially when those lookers-on were the parents or relations of the -performers. The Mountford party held a half-way place in the hierarchy -of Lady Meadowlands’ guests. They were, as has been said, a very old -family, though their want of wealth had for some time made them less -desirable neighbours than it is pleasant for members of an old family to -be. And though the girls might, as was generally said, now ‘marry -anybody,’ and consequently rise to any distinction, Mr. and Mrs. -Mountford were not the kind of people whom it would have afforded the -Princess Comatosky any pleasure to have presented to her, or who would -have been looked upon as fine types of the English landed gentry by Mr. -Greenwood, the American. But, on the other hand, they occupied a -position very different from that of the rank and file, the people who, -but for their professional position, would have had no right to appear -in the heaven of county society at all. And Anne and Rose being pretty, -and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_85" id="page_85">{85}</a></span> having the hope, one of a very good fortune, the other of a -reasonable <i>dot</i>, were really in the first rank of young ladies without -any drawbacks at all. Perhaps the reader will like to know what they -wore on this interesting occasion. They were not dressed alike, as -sisters so often are, without regard to individuality. After very -serious thought, Mrs. Worth had decided that the roses of Rose wanted -subduing, and had dressed her in Tussore silk, of the warm natural grass -colour; while Anne, always much more easy to dress, as that artist said, -was in an ivory-tinted cashmere, very plain and simple, which did all -that was wanted for her slim and graceful figure. Rose had flouncelets -and puffings beyond mortal power to record. Anne was better without the -foreign aid of ornament. I don’t pretend to be so uninstructed as to -require to describe a lady’s dress as only of ‘some soft white -material.’ It was cashmere, and why shouldn’t one say so? For by this -time a little autumn chill had set in, and even in the middle of the day -it was no longer overpoweringly warm.</p> - -<p>It is needless to say that the Ashleys were also there. These young men, -though so constantly with the girls at home, had to relinquish their -place a little when abroad, and especially when in more exalted company. -Then it became apparent that Charley and Willie, though great friends, -were not in any way of the same importance as Anne and Rose. They were -not handsome, for one thing, or very clever or amusing—but only Charley -and Willie Ashley, which was a title for friendship, but not for social -advancement. And especially were they separated from Anne, whose climax -of social advancement came when she was presented to the Princess -Comatosky, who admired her eyes and her dress, the latter being a most -unusual compliment. There was a fashionable party assembled in the house -besides all<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_86" id="page_86">{86}</a></span> the county people, and the Miss Mountfords were swept away -into this brilliant sphere and introduced to everybody. Rose was a -little abashed at first, and looked back with anxious eyes at her -mother, who was seated on the edge of that higher circle, but not within -it; but she soon got confidence. Anne, however, who was not so -self-possessed, was excited by the fine company. Her complexion, which -was generally pale, took a faint glow, her eyes became so bright that -the old Russian lady grew quite enthusiastic. ‘I like a handsome girl,’ -she said; ‘bring her back once more to speak to me.’ Mr. Greenwood, the -American, was of the same opinion. He was not at all like the American -author of twenty years ago, before we knew the species. He spoke as -little through his nose as the best of us, and his manners were -admirable. He was more refinedly English than an Englishman, more -fastidious in his opposition to display and vulgarity, and his horror of -loud tones and talk; and there was just a <i>nuance</i> of French politeness -in his look and air. He was as exquisitely polite to the merest commoner -as if he had been a crowned head, but at the same time it was one of the -deepest certainties of his heart that he was only quite at home among -people of title and in a noble house. Not all people of title: Mr. -Greenwood had the finest discrimination and preferred at all times the -best. But even he was pleased with Anne. ‘Miss Mountford is very -inexperienced,’ he said, in his gentle way; ‘she does not know how to -drop into a conversation or to drop out of it. Perhaps that is too fine -an art to learn at twenty: but she is more like a lady than anyone else -I see here.’ Lady Meadowlands, like most of the fashionable world, had a -great respect for Mr. Greenwood’s opinion. ‘That is so much from you!’ -she said gratefully; ‘and if you give her the advantage of seeing a -little of you, it will do dear Anne the greatest good.’ Mr. Green<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_87" id="page_87">{87}</a></span>wood -shook his head modestly, deprecating the possibility of conferring so -much advantage, but he felt in his heart that it was true.</p> - -<p>Thus Anne, for the first time in her life, had what may be called a -veritable <i>succès</i>. We may perhaps consider the word naturalised by this -time and call it a success. There was a certain expansion and -brightening of all her faculties consequent upon the new step she had -taken in life, of which no one had been conscious before, and the state -of opposition in which she found herself to her family had given her -just as much emancipation as became her, and gave force to all her -attractions. She was not beautiful perhaps, nor would she have satisfied -a critical examination; but both her face and figure had a certain -nobility of line which impressed the spectator. Tall and light, and -straight and strong, with nothing feeble or drooping about her, the -girlish shyness to which she had been subject was not becoming to Anne. -Rose, who was not shy, might have drooped her head as much as she -pleased, but it did not suit her sister. And the fact that she had -judged for herself, had chosen her own path, and made up her own mind, -and more or less defied Fate and her father, had given just the -inspiration it wanted to her face. She was shy still, which gave her a -light and shade, an occasional gleam of timidity and alarm, which -pleased the imagination. ‘I told you Anne Mountford would come out if -she had the chance,’ Lady Meadowlands said to her lord. ‘What is this -nonsense I hear about an engagement? Is there an engagement? What folly! -before she has seen anybody or had any chance, as you say,’ said Lord -Meadowlands to his lady. They were interested in Anne, and she was -beyond question the girl who did them most credit of all their country -neighbours, which also told for something in its way.</p> - -<p>The Rev. Charles Ashley, in his most correct<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_88" id="page_88">{88}</a></span> clerical coat, and a -general starch of propriety about him altogether unlike the ease of his -ordinary appearance, looked on from afar at this brilliant spectacle, -but had not much share in it. Had there been anybody there who could -have been specially of use to Charley—the new bishop for instance, who -did not yet know his clergy, or the patron of a good living, or an -official concerned with the Crown patronage, anyone who could have lent -him a helping hand in his profession—no doubt Lady Meadowlands would -have taken care to introduce the curate and speak a good word for him. -But there being nobody of the kind present, Charley was left with the -mob to get up a game on his own account and amuse the young ladies who -were unimportant, who made up the mass of the assembly. And the young -Ashleys both accepted this natural post, and paid such harmless -attentions as were natural to the wives and daughters of other -clergymen, and the other people whom they knew. They had no desire to be -introduced to the Princess, or the other great persons who kept -together, not knowing the county. But, while Willie threw himself with -zeal into the amusements and the company provided, the curate kept his -eyes upon the one figure, always at a distance, which was the chief -point of interest for him.</p> - -<p>‘I want to speak to Anne,’ he said to Rose, who was less inaccessible, -who had not had so great a success; ‘if you see Anne, will you tell her -I want to speak to her?’</p> - -<p>‘Anne, Charley wants to speak to you,’ Rose said, as soon as she had an -opportunity, in the hearing of everybody; and Anne turned and nodded -with friendly assent over the chairs of the old ladies. But she did not -make any haste to ask what he wanted. She took it with great ease, as -not calling for any special attention. There would be abundant<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_89" id="page_89">{89}</a></span> -opportunities of hearing what Charley had to say. On the way home she -could ask him what he wanted; or while they were waiting for the -carriage; or even to-morrow, when he was sure to come to talk over the -party, would no doubt be time enough. It would be something about the -schools, or some girl or boy who wanted a place, or some old woman who -was ill. ‘Anne, Charley says he <i>must</i> speak to you,’ said Rose again. -But it was not till after she had received a third message that Anne -really gave any attention to the call. ‘Cannot he tell you what he -wants?—I will come as soon as I can,’ she said. Perhaps the curate was -not so much distressed as he thought he was by her inattention. He -watched her from a distance with his hands in his pockets. When he was -accosted by other clergymen and country friends who were wandering about -he replied to them, and even carried on little conversations, with his -eyes upon her. Something grim and humorous, a kind of tender -spitefulness, was in the look with which he regarded her. If she only -knew! But it was her own fault if she did not know, not his. It gave him -a kind of pleasure to see how she lingered, to perceive that her mind -was fully occupied, and that she never divined the nature of his -business with her. So far as his own action went he had done his duty, -but he could not help a half chuckle, quickly suppressed, when he -imagined within himself how Douglas would look if he saw how impossible -it was to gain Anne’s attention. Did that mean, he asked in spite of -himself, that after all she was not so much interested? Charley had felt -sure that at the first word Anne would divine. ‘<i>I</i> should divine if a -note of <i>hers</i> was on its way to me,’ he said to himself—and it pleased -him that she never guessed that a letter from Cosmo was lying safe in -the recesses of his pocket. When she came hastily towards him at last, a -little breathless and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_90" id="page_90">{90}</a></span> hurried, and with only a moment to spare, there -was no consciousness in Anne’s face.</p> - -<p>‘What is it?’ she said—before the Woodheads! She would have said it -before anybody, so entirely unsuspicious was she. ‘I must go back to the -old lady,’ she added, with a little blush and smile, pleased in spite of -herself by the distinction; ‘but, Rose told me you wanted me. Tell me -what it is.’</p> - -<p>He made elaborate signs to her with his eyebrows, and motions -recommending precaution with his lips—confounding Anne completely. For -poor Charley had heavy eyebrows, and thick lips, and his gestures were -not graceful. She stared at him in unfeigned astonishment, and then, -amused as well as bewildered, laughed. He enjoyed it all, though he -pretended to be disconcerted. She looked as bright as ever, he said to -himself. There was no appearance of trouble about her, or of longing -uncertainty. She laughed just as of old, with that pleasant ring in the -laughter which had always charmed him. The temptation crossed the -curate’s mind, as she did not seem to want it, as she looked so much -like her old self, as she showed no perception of what he had for her, -to put the letter down a little deeper in his pocket, and not disturb -her calm at all.</p> - -<p>‘Oh yes,’ he said, as if he had suddenly recollected, ‘it was something -I wanted to show you. Come down this path a little. You seem to be -enjoying the party, Anne.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, well enough. It is pretty,’ she said, glancing over the pretty -lawns covered with gaily-dressed groups. ‘Are <i>you</i> not enjoying -yourself? I am so sorry. But you know everybody, or almost everybody -here.’</p> - -<p>‘Except your grand people,’ he said, with some malice.</p> - -<p>‘My grand people! They are all nice whether<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_91" id="page_91">{91}</a></span> they are grand or not, and -the old lady is very funny. She has all kinds of strange old ornaments -and crosses and charms mixed together. What is it, Charley? you are -looking so serious, and I must go back as soon as I am able. Tell me -what it is.’</p> - -<p>‘Can’t you divine what it is?’ he said, with an air half reproachful, -half triumphant.</p> - -<p>She looked at him astonished; and then, suddenly taking fire from his -look, her face kindled into colour and expectation and wondering -eagerness. Poor curate! he had been pleased with her slowness to -perceive, but he was not so pleased now when her whole countenance -lighted under his eyes. He in his own person could never have brought -any such light into her face. She opened her mouth as if to speak, then -stood eager, facing him with the words arrested on her very lips.</p> - -<p>‘Is it a message from——’ She paused, and a wave of scarlet came over -her face up to her hair. Poor Charley Ashley! There was no want of the -power to divine now. His little pleasant spitefulness, and his elation -over what he considered her indifference, died in the twinkling of an -eye.</p> - -<p>‘It is more than a message,’ he said, thinking what an ass he was to -doubt her, and what a traitor to be delighted by that doubt. ‘It is—a -letter, Anne.’</p> - -<p>She did not say anything—the colour grew deeper and deeper upon her -face, the breath came quickly from her parted lips, and without a word -she put out her hand.</p> - -<p>Yes, of course, that was all—to give it her, and be done with it—what -had he to do more with the incident? No honourable man would have wished -to know more. To give it to her and to withdraw. It was nothing to him -what was in the letter. He had no right to criticise. In the little -bitterness<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_92" id="page_92">{92}</a></span> which this feeling produced in him he wanted to say what, -indeed, he had felt all along: that though he did not mind <i>once</i>, it -would not suit his office to be the channel through which their -communications were to flow. He <i>wanted</i> to say this now, whereas before -he had only felt that he ought to say it; but in either case, under the -look of Anne’s eyes, poor Charley could not say it. He put his hand in -his pocket to get the letter, and of course he forgot in which pocket he -had put it, and then became red and confused, as was natural. Anne for -her part did not change her attitude. She stood with that look of sudden -eagerness in her face—a blush that went away, leaving her quite pale, -and then came back again—and her hand held out for the letter. How hot, -how wretched he got, as he plunged into one pocket after another, with -her eyes looking him through! ‘Anne,’ he stammered, when he found it at -last, ‘I beg your pardon—I am very glad—to be of—any use. I like to -do anything, anything for you! but—I am a clergyman——’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, go away—please go away,’ said Anne. She had evidently paid no -attention to what he said. She put him away even, unconsciously, with -her hand. ‘Don’t let anyone come,’ she said, walking away from him round -the next corner of the path. Then he heard her tear open the envelope. -She had not paid any attention to his offer of service, but she had made -use of it all the same, taking it for granted. The curate turned his -back to her and walked a few steps in the other direction. She had told -him not to let anyone come, and he would not let anyone come. He would -have walked any intruders backward out of the sacred seclusion. Yet -there he stood dumbfoundered, wounded, wondering why it was that Cosmo -should have so much power and he so little. Cosmo got everything he -wanted. To think that Anne’s face should change<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_93" id="page_93">{93}</a></span> like that at his mere -name, nay, at the merest suggestion of him!—it was wonderful. But it -was hard too.</p> - -<p>Anne’s heart was in her mouth as she read the letter. She did not take -time to think about it, nor how it came there, nor of any unsuitableness -in the way it reached her. It was to ask how they were to correspond, -whether he was to be permitted to write to her. ‘I cannot think why we -did not settle this before I left,’ Cosmo said; ‘I suppose the going -away looked so like dying that nothing beyond it, except coming back -again, seemed any alleviation.’ But this object of the letter did not -strike Anne at first. She was unconscious of everything except the -letter itself, and those words which she had never seen on paper in -handwriting before. She had read something like it in books. Nothing but -books could be the parallel of what was happening to her. ‘My dear and -only love,’ that was in a poem somewhere Anne was certain, but Cosmo did -not quote it out of any poem. It was the natural language; that was how -she was to be addressed now, like Juliet. She had come to that state and -dignity all at once, in a moment, without any doing of hers. She stood -alone, unseen, behind the great tuft of bushes, while the curate kept -watch lest anyone should come to disturb her, and all the old people sat -round unseen, chatting and eating ices, while the young ones fluttered -about the lawns. Nobody suspected with what a sudden, intense, and -wondering perception of all the emotions she had fallen heir to, she -stood under the shadow of the rhododendrons reading her letter; and -nobody knew with what a sore but faithful heart the curate stood, -turning his back to her, and protected her seclusion. It was a scene -that was laughable, comical, pathetic, but pathetic more than all.</p> - -<p>This incident coloured the whole scene to Anne,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_94" id="page_94">{94}</a></span> and gave it its -character. She had almost forgotten the very existence of the old -Princess when she went back. ‘Bring me that girl,’ the old lady said, in -her excellent English, ‘bring me back that girl. She is the one I -prefer. All the others they are demoiselles, but this is a woman.’ But -when Anne was brought back at last the keen old lady saw the difference -at once. ‘Something has happened,’ she said; ‘what has happened, my -all-beautiful? someone has been making you a proposal of marriage. That -comes of your English customs which you approve so much. To me it is -intolerable; imagine a man having the permission in society to startle -this child with an <i>emotion</i> like that.’ She pronounced <i>emotion</i> and -all similar words as if they had been in the French language. Anne -protested vainly that no such emotion had fallen to her share. Mr. -Greenwood agreed with the Princess, though he did not express himself so -frankly. Could it be the curate? he thought, elevating his eyebrows. He -was a man of experience, and knew how the most unlikely being is -sometimes gifted to produce such an emotion in the fairest bosom.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_IX" id="CHAPTER_IX"></a>CHAPTER IX.<br /><br /> -<small>COSMO.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">It</span> is time to let the reader of this story know who Cosmo Douglas was, -whose appearance had made so great a commotion at Mount. He was—nobody. -This was a fact that Mr. Mountford had very soon elicited by his -inquiries. He did not belong to any known house of Douglasses under the -sun. It may be said that there was something fair in Cosmo’s frank -confession on this point, put perhaps it would be more true to say that -it showed the good sense which was certainly one of his characteristics; -for<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_95" id="page_95">{95}</a></span> any delusion that he might have encouraged or consented to in this -respect must have been found out very shortly, and it would only have -been to his discredit to claim good connections which did not belong to -him. ‘Honesty is the best policy’ he had said to himself, and therefore -he had been honest. Nevertheless it was a standing mystery to Cosmo that -he was nobody. He could not understand it. It had been a trouble to him -all his life. How was he inferior to the other people who had good -connections? He had received the same kind of education, he had the same -kind of habits, he was as much a ‘gentleman,’ that curious English -distinction which means everything and nothing, as any of them. He did -not even feel within himself the healthy thrill of opposition with which -the lowly born sometimes scorn the supposed superiority of blue blood. -He for his part had something in his heart which entirely coincided with -that superstition. Instinctively he preferred for himself that his -friends should be well born. He had as natural a predilection that way -as if his shield held ever so many quarterings; and it was terrible to -know that he had no right to any shield at all. In his boyhood he had -accepted the crest which his father wore at his watchchain, and had -stamped upon his spoons and forks, with undoubting faith, as if it had -descended straight from the Crusaders; and when he had read of the ‘dark -grey man’ in early Scotch history, and of that Lord James who carried -Bruce’s heart to the Holy Land, there was a swell of pride within him, -and he had no doubt that they were his ancestors. But as he grew older -it dawned upon Cosmo that his father had assumed the bleeding heart -because he found it represented in the old book of heraldry as the -cognisance of the Douglasses, and not because he had any hereditary -right to it—and, indeed, the fact was that good Mr. Douglas knew no -better. He thought<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_96" id="page_96">{96}</a></span> in all simplicity that his name entitled him to the -symbol which was connected with the name, and that all those great -people so far off from the present day were ‘no doubt’ his ancestors, -though it was too far back to be able to tell.</p> - -<p>Mr. Douglas himself was a man of the highest respectability. He was the -managing clerk in a solicitor’s office, with a good salary, and the -entire confidence of his employers. Perhaps he might even have been a -partner had he been of a bolder temper; but he was afraid of -responsibility, and had no desire, he said, to assume a different -position, or rise in the social scale. That would be for Cosmo, he -added, within himself. He had lost his wife at a very early period, when -Cosmo was still a child, and upon the boy all his father’s hopes were -built. He gave him ‘every advantage.’ For himself he lived very quietly -in a house with a garden out Hampstead way, a small house capable of -being managed by one respectable woman-servant, who had been with him -for years, and a young girl under her, or sometimes a boy, when she -could be persuaded to put up with one of these more objectionable -creatures. But Cosmo had everything that was supposed to be best for an -English young man. He was at Westminster School, and so received into -the fraternity of ‘public school men,’ which is a distinct class in -England; and then he went to the University. When he took his degree he -studied for the bar. Both at Oxford and Lincoln’s Inn he was ‘in for’ -all his examinations in company with the son of his father’s employer; -but it was Cosmo who was the most promising student always, and the most -popular man. He had the air and the bearing, the ‘je ne sçais quoi’ -which is supposed to indicate ‘family,’ though he was of no family. -Nothing ever was more perplexing. He could not understand it himself. -What was it that made this wonderful difference? When he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_97" id="page_97">{97}</a></span> looked at -Charley Ashley a smile would sometimes steal over his countenance. In -that point of view the prejudice certainly showed its full absurdity. -Charley was his retainer, his faithful follower—his dog, in a way. But -Mr. Mountford, though he would probably have thought Charley not a -suitable match for his daughter, would not have looked upon him with the -same puzzled air as on a creature of a different species, with which he -regarded the suitor who was nobody. When this contrast struck him, no -doubt Cosmo smiled with a little bitterness. Charley had connections -among all the little squires of the district. He had an uncle here and -there whose name was in some undistinguished list or other—the ‘Gentry -of Great Britain’ or some other such beadroll. But Cosmo had no link at -all to the classes who consider themselves the natural masters of the -world.</p> - -<p>If you will think of it, it was as troublesome and unpleasant a position -as could be conceived—to have all that makes a gentleman and to be a -gentleman, fully considered and received as such, yet upon close -investigation to be found to be nobody, and have all your other -qualities ignored in consequence. It was hard—it was a complicating, -perplexing grievance, such as could only occur in the most artificial -state of society. In the middle ages, if a man ‘rose,’ it was by dint of -hard blows, and people were afraid of him. But ‘rising in the world’ had -a very different meaning in Cosmo’s case. He had always known what it -was to be carefully tended, daintily fed, clothed with the best of -clothes—as well as a duke’s son need have been. He had all the books to -read which any duke’s son could have set his face to; and though the -Hampstead rooms were small, and might have looked poky had there been a -family cooped up in them, Cosmo and his father had felt no want of space -nor of comfort. Even that little Hampstead house was now a thing of the -past. Mr.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_98" id="page_98">{98}</a></span> Douglas had died, though still not much beyond middle age, -and Cosmo had his chambers, like any other young barrister, and several -clubs, and all the ‘advantages’ which his father had sworn he should -have. He had a little money, and a little practice, and was ‘getting -on.’ If he was not in fashionable society, he was yet in an excellent -‘set’—rising barristers, literary people, all rising too, people of -reputation, people who suppose themselves to sway the world, and who -certainly direct a great deal of its public talk, and carry a large -silent background of its population with them. He was very well thought -of among this class, went out a great deal into society, knew a great -many people whom it is supposed something to know—and yet he was -nobody. The merest clown could have confused him at any time by asking, -‘Which is your county, Douglas?’ Poor Cosmo had no county. He took the -deficiency admirably, it is needless to say, and never shirked the truth -when there was any need to tell it. In the majority of cases it was not -at all necessary to tell it; but yet his friends knew well enough that -he had no relations to give him shooting, or ask him during the hunting -season; no district had any claim upon him, nor he upon it. A man may -love his home when it has never been anywhere but in Hampstead. But it -makes a great difference—even when his friends make up the deficiencies -of family to him, and invite him, as he had this year been invited, to -share the delights of a Scotch moor—still it makes a great difference. -And when it is a matter of matrimony, and of producing his proofs of -gentility, and of being a fit person to marry Anne Mountford, then the -difference shows most of all.</p> - -<p>When Cosmo attained that perfect freedom from all ties, and power of -roaming wherever he pleased, without any clog to draw him back, which -was in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_99" id="page_99">{99}</a></span>volved in his father’s death (though it may be said for him that -this was an event which he deeply regretted) he made up his mind that he -would not marry, at least until he had reached sufficient distinction in -his profession to make him somebody, quite independent of connections. -But then he had not seen Anne Mountford. With her, without any secondary -motives, he had fallen honestly and heartily in love, a love which he -would, however, have managed to quench and get the better of, had it not -turned out upon inquiry that Anne was one whom it was entirely -permissible to love, and who could help him, not hold him back in the -career of success. He had, however, many discussions with himself before -he permitted himself to indulge his inclinations. He had felt that with -people like the Mountfords the fact that he was nobody would tell with -double power; and, indeed, if he had ever been tempted to invent a -family of Douglasses of Somewhere-or-other, it was now. He had almost -been led into doing this. He had even half-prepared a little romance, -which no doubt Mr. Mountford, he thought, would have swallowed, of a -ruined house dwindled away to its last representative, which had lost -lands and even name in one of the rebellions. He had not chosen which -rebellion, but he had made up the story otherwise with great enjoyment -and a fine sense of its fitness: when that modern quality which for want -of a better name we call a sense of humour stopped him. For a man of his -time, a man of his enlightened opinions, a member of a liberal -profession, a high-bred (if not high-born) Englishman to seek importance -from a silly little school-girl romance was too absurd. He could not do -it. He laughed aloud at himself with a little flush of shame on his -countenance, and tossed away the fiction. But what a thing it would have -been for Cosmo if the tumbledown old house which he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_100" id="page_100">{100}</a></span> had invented and -the bit of school-girl fiction had been true! They became almost such to -him, so strongly did he feel that they would exactly fit his case. ‘They -would have been as stupid probably as—Mr. Mountford,’ Cosmo said to -himself, ‘and pig-headed into the bargain, or they never would have -thrown away everything for a gingerbread adventurer like Prince -Charley—rude Lowland rustics talking broad Scotch, not even endowed -with the mystery of Gaelic. But to be sure I might have made them Celts, -and the Lord of Mount would not have been a whit the wiser. I think I -can see a snuffy old laird in a blue bonnet, and a lumbering young lout -scratching his red head. And these be your gods, oh Israel! I don’t -think I should have been much the better of such ancestors.’ But -nevertheless he felt in his heart that he would have been much the -better for them. Other men might despise them, but Cosmo would have -liked to believe in those Douglasses who had never existed. However, -though he had invented them, he could not make use of them. It would -have been too absurd. He laughed and reddened a little, and let them -drop; and with a perfectly open and composed countenance informed Mr. -Mountford that he was nobody and sprang from no known Douglasses at all. -It was a kind of heroism in its way, the heroism of good sense, the -influence of that wholesome horror of the ridiculous which is one of the -strongest agencies of modern life.</p> - -<p>After the interview with Mr. Mountford, and after the still greater -shock of Anne’s intimation that her father would not yield, Cosmo’s mind -had been much exercised, and there had been a moment, in which he had -not known what to do or say. Marriage without pecuniary advantage was -impossible to him—he could not, he dared not think of it. It meant -downfall of every kind, and a narrowing of all the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_101" id="page_101">{101}</a></span> possibilities of -life. It would be ruin to him and also to the girl who should be his -wife. It would be impossible for him to keep her in the position she -belonged to, and he would have to relinquish the position which belonged -to him—two things not for a moment to be thought of. The only thing -possible, evidently, was to wait. He was in love, but he was not anxious -to marry at once. In any case it would be expedient to defer that event; -and the old man might die—nay, most likely would die—and would not -certainly change his will if all things were kept quiet and no -demonstration made. He left Mount full of suppressed excitement, yet -glad to be able to withdraw; to go away without compromising Anne, -without being called upon to confront or defy the harsh parent, or do -anything to commit himself. If Anne but held her tongue, there was no -reason why Mr. Mountford might not suppose that she had given Cosmo up, -and Cosmo was rather pleased than otherwise with the idea that she might -do so. He wanted no sentimental passion; no sacrifice of everything for -his sake. All for love and the world well lost, was not in the least a -sentiment which commended itself to him. He would have much preferred -that she had dissembled altogether, and put on an appearance of obeying -her father; but this was a thing that he could not recommend her to do, -any more than he could put forth his invented story of the ruined -Douglasses. The fashion of his age and his kind and his education was so -against lying, that it could be practised only individually, so to -speak, and as it were accidentally. You might be betrayed into it by the -emergency of a moment, but you could not, unless you were very sure -indeed of your ground and your coadjutor, venture to suggest falsehood. -The thing could not be done. This, however, was what he would have -thought the safest thing—that all should fall back into its usual<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_102" id="page_102">{102}</a></span> -state; that Anne should go on as if she were still simply Anne, without -any difference in her life; and that, except for the fine but concealed -bond between them, which should be avowed on the first possible -occasion, but never made any display of while things were not ripe, -everything should be exactly as before. This was perfectly fair in love, -according to all known examples and rules. Something like it had -happened in the majority of similar cases, and indeed, Cosmo said to -himself with a half smile, a lover might feel himself little flattered -for whom such a sacrifice would not be made. But all the same he could -not suggest it. He could not say to Anne, ‘Tell a lie for me—persuade -your father that all is over between us, though it is not all over -between us and never shall be till death parts us.’ A young man of the -nineteenth century, brought up at a public school and university, a -member of the bar, and in very good society, could not say that. It -would have been an anachronism. He might wish it, and did do so -fervently; but to put it in words was impossible.</p> - -<p>It was with this view, however, that Cosmo had omitted all mention of -correspondence in his last interviews with Anne. They were full of so -much that was novel and exciting to her that she did not notice the -omission, nor in the hurry and rush of new sensations in her mind had -she that eager longing for a letter which most girls would have felt on -parting with their lovers. She had no habit of letters. She had never -been at school or made any friendships of the kind that need to be -solaced by continual outpourings upon paper. Almost all her intimates -were about her, seeing her often, not standing in need of -correspondence. She had not even said in the hurry of parting, ‘You will -write.’ Perhaps she saw it like himself, but like himself was unwilling -to propose the absolute concealment which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_103" id="page_103">{103}</a></span> was desirable. Cosmo’s mind -had been full of nothing else on his way to Scotland to his friend’s -moor. He had thought of her half the time, and the other half of the -time he had thought how to manage, how to secure her without injuring -her (which was how he put it); the long night’s journey was made short -to him by these thoughts. He did not sleep, and he did not want to -sleep; the darkness of the world through which he was rushing, the -jumble of perpetual sound, which made a sort of atmosphere about him, -was as a hermitage to Cosmo, as it has been to many before him. Railway -trains, indeed, are hermitages in life for the much-pondering and -careworn sons of the present age. There they can shut themselves up and -think at will. He turned it all over and over in his mind. No wild -notion—such as had moved the inexperienced mind of Anne with a thrill -of delightful impulse—of rushing back to work and instantly beginning -the toil which was to win her, occurred to Anne’s lover. To be sure it -was the Long Vacation, which is a thing girls do not take into account, -and Cosmo would have smiled at the notion of giving up his shooting and -going back to his chambers out of the mere sentiment of losing no time, -which probably would have appeared to Anne a heroic and delightful idea; -but he did what Anne could not have done; he went into the whole -question, all the <i>pros</i> and <i>cons</i>, and weighed them carefully. He had -a long journey, far up into the wilds, by the Highland railway. Morning -brought him into the land of hills and rivers, and noon to the bleaker -mountains and glens, wealthy only in grouse and deer. He did nothing but -think it over in the night and through the day. Nevertheless, Cosmo, -when he reached Glentuan, was as little worn out as it becomes an -experienced young Englishman to be after a long journey. He was quite -fresh for dinner<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_104" id="page_104">{104}</a></span> after he had performed the customary rites—ready to -take his part in all the conversation and help in the general amusement.</p> - -<p>‘Douglas—which of the Douglasses does he belong to?’ one of the guests -asked after he had withdrawn.</p> - -<p>‘I’ve always known him as Douglas of Trinity,’ said the host.</p> - -<p>‘Trinity, Trinity,’ answered the other, who was a local personage, -thinking of nothing but territorial designation, ‘I never heard of any -Douglasses of Trinity. Do you mean the place near Edinburgh where all -the seaside villas are?’</p> - -<p>‘He means Cambridge,’ said another, laughing.</p> - -<p>‘Douglas is the best fellow in the world, but he is—nobody: at least so -I’ve always heard.’</p> - -<p>Cosmo did not overhear this conversation, but he knew that it had taken -place as well as if he had heard it; not that it did him the least harm -with his comrades of the moment, to whom he was a very nice fellow, a -capital companion, thoroughly acquainted with all the habits and customs -of their kind, and though no great shot, yet good enough for all that -was necessary, good enough to enjoy the sport, which nobody who is -awkward and really ignorant can do. But he knew that one time or other -this little conversation would take place, and though he felt that he -might do himself the credit to say that he had no false shame, nor -attached any exaggerated importance to the subject, still it was no -doubt of more importance to him than it was to those with whom it was -only one out of many subjects of a casual conversation. All the same, -however, even these casual talkers did not forget it. Strange -superstition, strangest folly, he might well say to himself with such a -smile as was possible in the circumstances. Douglas of Trinity—Douglas -of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_105" id="page_105">{105}</a></span> Lincoln’s Inn meant something—but to be one of the Douglasses of -some dilapidated old house, what did that mean? This question, however, -had nothing to do with the matter, and the smile had not much -pleasantness in it, as may easily be perceived.</p> - -<p>The fruit of Cosmo’s cogitations, however, was that he wrote to Anne, as -has been seen, and sent his letter to Charley Ashley to be delivered. -This was partly policy and partly uncertainty, a sort of half measure to -feel his way; but, on the whole, was most of all the necessity he felt -to say something to her, to seize upon her, not to let this beautiful -dream escape from him.</p> - -<p>‘We said nothing about writing, and I don’t know, my dearest, what you -wish in this respect. Silence seems impossible, but if you wish it, if -you ask this sacrifice, I will be content with my perfect trust in my -Anne, and do whatever she would have me do. I know that it would be -against your pride and your delicacy, my darling, to keep up any -correspondence which the severest parent could call clandestine, and if -I take advantage of a good fellow who is devoted to us both, for once, -it is not with the least idea that you will like it, or will allow me to -continue it. But what can I do? I must know what is your will in this -matter, and I must allow myself the luxury once, if only once, of -telling you on paper what I have tried to tell you so often in -words—how I love you, my love, and what it is to me to love you—a new -creation, an opening up both of earth and heaven.’ (We need not continue -what Cosmo said on this point because, to be sure, it has all been said -over and over again, sometimes no doubt worse, and sometimes -unquestionably a great deal better, than he said it: and there is no -advantage that we know of to be got from making young persons -prematurely acquainted with every possible manner in which this<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_106" id="page_106">{106}</a></span> -sentiment can be expressed.) At the end he resumed, with generous -sentiment, which was perfectly genuine, and yet not any more free of -calculation and the idea of personal advantage than all the rest was:—</p> - -<p>‘Charley Ashley is the truest friend that ever man had; he has loved you -all his life (<i>that</i> is nothing wonderful), and yet, though, at such a -cost as I do not like to try to estimate, he still loves me, though he -knows that I have come between him and any possibility there was that he -should ever win any return from you. To do him full justice, I do not -think he ever looked for any return, but was content to love you as in -itself a happiness and an elevation for which a man might well be -grateful; but still it is hard upon him to see a man no better than -himself, nay, less worthy in a hundred ways, winning the unimaginable -reward for which he, poor Charley, had not so much as ventured to hope. -Yet with a generosity—how can I express it, how could I ever have -emulated it?—which is beyond words, he has neither withdrawn his -brotherly kindness from me, nor refused to stand by me in my struggle -towards you and happiness. What can we say to a friend like this? Trust -him, my dearest, as I do. I do not mean that he should be the medium of -communication between us, but there are ways in which he may be of help -and comfort to us both; and, in the meantime, you will at your dear -pleasure tell me yourself what you wish to do, or let me know by him: if -I may write, if I must be silent, if you will make me a happy man now -and then by a word from your hand, or if I am to wait for that hand till -I dare claim it as mine. Nay, but my Anne, my darling, for once, if for -once only, you must send two or three words, a line or two, to give me -patience and hope.’</p> - -<p>As he folded this up his whole heart longed for<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_107" id="page_107">{107}</a></span> the ‘word or two’ he -had asked for. Without that it almost seemed to him that all that had -passed before might mean nothing, might roll away like the mists, like -the fabric of a vision. But at the same time Cosmo felt in his heart -that if Anne would send him the consolation of this one letter through -Charley Ashley, and after that bid him be silent and wait for chance -opportunities or modes of communication, that she would do well. It was -what he would have advised her to do had he been free to tell her -exactly what he thought. But he was not free to advise such a -proceeding. It was not in his <i>rôle</i>; nor could he have proposed any -clandestine correspondence, though he would have liked it. It was -impossible. Anne would most probably have thrown him off as altogether -unworthy had he proposed anything of the kind to her, or at least would -have regarded him with very different eyes from those with which she -looked upon him now. And even independent of this he could not have done -it: the words would have failed him to make such a proposal. It was -contrary to all tradition, and to the spirit of his class and time.</p> - -<p>When he had despatched this letter Cosmo’s bosom’s lord sat more lightly -upon his throne. He went out next morning very early and made a -respectable, a very respectable, bag. Nobody could say that he was a -cockney sportsman not knowing how to aim or hold a gun. In this as in -everything else he had succeeded in mastering the rules of every -fashion, and lived as a man who was to the manner born. He was indeed to -the manner born, with nothing in him, so far as he was aware, that went -against the traditions of a gentleman: and yet similar conversations to -that one which occurred in the smoking-room, occurred occasionally on -the hills among the heather. ‘Of what Douglasses is your friend?’ ‘Oh, I -don’t know that he is of any Douglasses,’ the master of the moor<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_108" id="page_108">{108}</a></span> would -say with impatience. ‘He is a capital fellow, and a rising man in the -law—that’s all I know about him;’ or else, ‘He is a college friend, a -man who took a very good degree, as clever a fellow as you will meet -with, and getting on like a house on fire.’ But all these -recommendations, as they all knew, were quite beside the question. He -was of nowhere in particular—he was nobody. It was a mysterious -dispensation, altogether unexplainable, that such a man should have come -into the world without suitable ancestors who could have responded for -him. But he had done so. And he could not even produce that fabulous -house which, as he had invented it, was a far prettier and more truly -gentle and creditable family than half the families who would have -satisfied every question. Thus the very best quality of his age was -against him as well as its superstitions. Had he been an enriched grocer -to whom it could have done no possible good, he might easily have -invented a pedigree; but being himself he could not do it. And thus the -injury he had sustained at the hands of Providence was beyond all remedy -or hope of amendment.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_X" id="CHAPTER_X"></a>CHAPTER X.<br /><br /> -<small>FAMILY COUNSELS.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">‘Has</span> Anne spoken to you at all on the subject—what does she intend to -do?’</p> - -<p>Mr. Mountford was subjecting his wife to a cross-examination as to the -affairs of the household. It was a practice he had. He felt it to be -beneath his dignity to inquire into these details in his own person, but -he found them out through her. He was not a man who allowed his -authority to be shared.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_109" id="page_109">{109}</a></span> So far as ordering the dinner went and -regulating the household bills, he was content to allow that she had a -mission in the world; but everything of greater importance passed -through his hands. Mrs. Mountford was in the habit of expressing her -extreme satisfaction with this rule, especially in respect to Anne. -‘What could I have done with a stubborn girl like that? she would have -worn me out. The relief that it is to feel that she is in her father’s -hands and not in mine!’ she was in the habit of saying. But, though she -was free of the responsibility, she was not without trouble in the -matter. She had to submit to periodical questioning, and, if she had -been a woman of fine susceptibilities, would have felt herself something -like a spy upon Anne. But her susceptibilities were not fine, and the -discussion of other people which her husband’s inquisitions made -necessary was not disagreeable to her. Few people find it altogether -disagreeable to sit in a secret tribunal upon the merits and demerits of -those around them. Sometimes Mrs. Mountford would rebel at the closeness -of the examination to which she was subjected, but on the whole she did -not dislike it. She was sitting with her husband in that business-room -of his which could scarcely be dignified by the name of a library. She -had her usual worsted work in her hand, and a wisp of skeins plaited -together in various bright colours on a table before her. Sometimes she -would pause to count one, two, three, of the stitches on her canvas; her -head was bent over it, which often made it more easy to say what she had -got to say. A serious truth may be admitted, or censure conveyed, in the -soft sentence which falls from a woman’s lips with an air of having -nothing particular in it, when the one, two, three, of the Berlin -pattern, the exact shade of the wool, is evidently the primary subject -in her mind. Mrs. Mountford felt and employed to the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_110" id="page_110">{110}</a></span> utmost the shield -of her work. It made everything more easy, and took away all tedium from -these prolonged conversations. As for Mr. Mountford, there was always a -gleam of expectation in his reddish hazel eyes. Whether it was about a -servant, or his children, or even an indifferent person in the parish, -he seemed to be always on the verge of finding something out. ‘What does -she intend to do?’ he repeated. ‘She has never mentioned the subject -again, but I suppose she has talked it over with you.’</p> - -<p>‘Something has been said,’ answered his wife; ‘to say that she had -talked it over with me would not be true, St. John. Anne is not one to -talk over anything with anybody, especially me. But something was said. -I confess I thought it my duty, standing in the place of a mother to -her, to open the subject.’</p> - -<p>‘And what is she going to do?’</p> - -<p>‘You must know very little about girls, St. John, though you have two of -your own (and one of them as difficult to deal with as I ever -encountered), if you think that all that is wanted in order to know what -they are going to do is to talk it over with them—it is not so easy as -that.’</p> - -<p>‘I suppose you heard something about it, however,’ he said, with a -little impatience. ‘Does she mean to give the fellow up? that is the -chief thing I want to know.’</p> - -<p>‘I never knew a girl yet that gave a fellow up, as you call it, because -her father told her,’ said Mrs. Mountford: and then she paused, -hesitating between two shades; ‘that blue is too blue, it will never go -with the others. I must drive into Hunston to-day or to-morrow, and see -if I cannot get a better match.—As for giving up, that was not spoken -of, St. John. Nobody ever believes in it coming to that. They think you -will be angry; but that of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_111" id="page_111">{111}</a></span> course, if they stand out, you will come -round at the last.’</p> - -<p>‘Does Anne think that? She must know very little of me if she thinks -that I will come round at the last.’</p> - -<p>‘They all think it,’ said Mrs. Mountford, calmly counting the lines of -the canvas with her needle: ‘I am not speaking only of Anne. I daresay -she counts upon it less than most do, for it must be allowed that she is -very like you, St. John, and as obstinate as a mule. You have to be very -decided indeed before a girl will think you mean it. Why, there is Rose. -What I say is not blaming Anne, for I am a great deal more sure what my -own child would think than what Anne would think. Rose would no more -believe that you would cross her seriously in anything she wanted than -she would believe you could fly if you tried. She would cry outwardly, I -don’t doubt, but she would smile in her heart. She would say to herself, -“Papa go against me! impossible!” and the little puss would look very -pitiful and submissive, and steal her arms round your neck and coax you, -and impose upon you. You would be more than mortal, St. John, if you did -not come round at the end.’</p> - -<p>Mr. Mountford’s countenance relaxed while this description was made—an -almost imperceptible softening crept about the corners of his mouth. He -seemed to feel the arms of the little puss creeping round his neck, and -her pretty little rosebud face close to his own. But he shook off the -fascination abruptly, and frowned to make his wife think him insensible -to it. ‘I hope I am not such a weak fool,’ he said. ‘And there is not -much chance that Anne would try that way,’ he added, with some -bitterness. Rose was supposed to be his favourite child, but yet he -resented the fact that no such confession of his absolute authority and -homage to his power was to be looked for from Anne.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_112" id="page_112">{112}</a></span> Mrs. Mountford had -no deliberate intention of presenting his eldest daughter to him under -an unfavourable light, but if she wished him to perceive the superior -dutifulness and sweetness of her own child, could anyone wonder? Rose -had been hardly used by Nature. She ought to have been a boy and the -heir of entail, or, if not so, she ought to have had a brother to take -that position, and protect her interests; and neither of these things -had happened. That her father should love her best and do all in his -will that it was possible to do for her, was clearly Rose’s right as -compensation for the other injustices of fate.</p> - -<p>‘No,’ said Mrs. Mountford, after a longer piece of mental arithmetic -than usual, ‘that is not Anne’s way; but still you must do Anne justice, -St. John. She will never believe, any more than Rose, that you will go -against her. I don’t say this from anything she has said to me. Indeed, -I cannot say that she has spoken to me at all on the subject. It was I -that introduced it; I thought it my duty.’</p> - -<p>‘And she gave you to understand that she would go on with it, whatever I -might say; and that, like an old fool, if she stuck to it, I would give -in at the end?’</p> - -<p>‘St. John! St. John! how you do run away with an idea! I never said -that, nor anything like it. I told you what, judging from what I know of -girls, I felt sure Anne must feel. They never dream of any serious -opposition: as we have given in to them from their childhood, they think -we will continue to give in to them to the end; and I am sure it is -quite reasonable to think so; only recollect how often we have yielded, -and done whatever they pleased.’</p> - -<p>‘This time she will find that I will not yield,’ said Mr. Mountford, -getting up angrily, and planting himself in front of the polished -fireplace, which was innocent of any warmth. He set himself very firmly<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_113" id="page_113">{113}</a></span> -upon his feet, which were wide apart, and put his hands under his coat -tails in the proverbial attitude of an Englishman. To see him standing -there you would have thought him a man who never would yield; and yet he -had, as his wife said, yielded to a great many vagaries of the girls. -She gave various curious little glances of investigation at him from -over her wools.</p> - -<p>‘I should like to know,’ she said, ‘why you object so much to Mr. -Douglas? he seems a very gentlemanly young man. Do you know something -more of him than we know?’</p> - -<p>‘Nobody,’ said Mr. Mountford, with solemnity, ‘knows any more of the -young man than we know.’</p> - -<p>‘Then why should you be so determined against him?’ persisted his wife.</p> - -<p>Mr. Mountford fixed his eyes severely upon her. ‘Letitia,’ he said, -‘there is one thing, above all others, that I object to in a man; it is -when nobody knows anything about him. You will not deny that I have had -some experience in life; some experience you must grant me, whatever my -deficiencies may be; and the result of all I have observed is that a man -whom nobody knows is not a person to connect yourself with. If he is a -member of a well-known family—like our own, for instance—there are his -people to answer for him. If, on the other hand, he has made himself of -consequence in the world, that may answer the same purpose. But when a -man is nobody, you have nothing to trust to; he may be a very good sort -of person; there may be no harm in him; but the chances are against him. -At all times the chances are heavily against a man whom nobody knows.’</p> - -<p>Mr. Mountford was not disinclined to lay down the law, but he seldom did -it on an abstract question; and his wife looked at him, murmuring ‘one, -two, three’ with her lips, while her eyes expressed a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_114" id="page_114">{114}</a></span> certain mild -surprise. The feeling, however, was scarcely so strong as surprise; it -was rather with a sensation of unexpectedness that she listened. Surely -nobody had a better right to his opinion: but she did not look for a -general dogma when she had asked a particular question. ‘But,’ she said, -‘papa! he was known very well, I suppose, or they would not have had him -there—to the Ashleys, at least.’</p> - -<p>‘What was known? Nothing about him—nothing whatever about him! as Anne -was so absurd as to say they know <i>him</i>, or their own opinion of him; -but they know nothing <i>about</i> him—nobody knows anything about him. -Whatever you may think, Letitia, that is quite enough for me.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, my dear, I don’t pretend to understand; but we meet a great many -people whom we don’t know anything of. In society we are meeting them -for ever.’</p> - -<p>‘Pardon me,’ said Mr. Mountford, lifting an emphatic finger; ‘<i>we</i> may -know nothing about them, but somebody knows. Now, all I hear of this man -is that he is nobody; he may be good or he may be bad, much more likely -the latter; but, this being the case, if he were an angel I will have -nothing to do with him; neither shall anyone belonging to me. We are -well-known people ourselves, and we must form connections with -well-known people—or none at all.’</p> - -<p>‘None at all; you would not keep her an old maid, papa?’</p> - -<p>‘Pshaw!’ said Mr. Mountford, turning away. Then he came back to add a -last word. ‘Understand me, Letitia,’ he said; ‘I think it’s kind of you -to do your best for Anne, for she is a girl who has given you a great -deal of trouble; but it is of no use; if she is so determined to have -her own way, she shall not have anything else. I am not the weak idiot -of a father you think me; if I have given in to her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_115" id="page_115">{115}</a></span> before, there was -no such important matter in hand; but I have made up my mind now: and it -may be better for Rose and you, perhaps, if the worst comes to the -worst.’</p> - -<p>Mrs. Mountford was completely roused now; the numbers, so to speak, -dropped from her lips; her work fell on her knee. ‘It is quite true what -you say,’ she said, feeling herself on very doubtful ground, and not -knowing what to do, whether to express gratitude or to make no reference -to this strange and dark saying: ‘she has given me a great deal of -trouble: but she is your child, St. John, and that is enough for me.’</p> - -<p>He did not make any reply; nor did he repeat the mysterious promise of -advantage to follow upon Anne’s disobedience. He was not so frank with -his wife as he had been with his daughter. He went to his writing-table -once more, and sat down before it with that air of having come to an end -of the subject under discussion which his wife knew so well. He did not -mean to throw any further light to her upon the possible good that might -result to Rose. To tell the truth, this possibility was to himself too -vague to count for much. In the first place, he expected Anne to be -frightened, and to give in; and, in the second place, he fully intended -to live long after both his daughters had married and settled, and to be -able to make what dispositions he pleased for years to come. He was not -an old man; he was still under sixty, and as vigorous (he believed) as -ever he had been. In such a case a will is a very pretty weapon to -flourish in the air, but it does nobody much harm. Mr. Mountford thought -a great deal of this threat of his; but he no more meant it to have any -speedy effect than he expected the world to come to an end. Perhaps most -of the injustices that people do by will are done in the same way. It is -not comprehensible to any man that he should be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_116" id="page_116">{116}</a></span> swept away and others -reign in his stead; therefore he is more free to make use of that -contingency than if he believed in it. There would always be plenty of -time to set it right; he had not the least intention of dying; but for -the moment it was something potent to conjure withal. He reseated -himself at his table, with a consciousness that he had the power in his -hands to turn his whole world topsy-turvy, and yet that it would not do -anybody any harm. Naturally, this feeling was not shared either by Anne, -to whom he had made the original threat, nor by his wife, to whom he -held out the promise. We all know very well that other people must -die—it is only in our own individual case that the event seems -unlikely.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Mountford’s mind was filled with secret excitement; she was eager -to know what her husband meant, but she did not venture to ask for any -explanation. She watched him over her work with a secret closeness of -observation such as she had never felt herself capable of before. What -did he mean? what would he do? She knew nothing about the law of -inheritance, except that entail kept an estate from the daughters, which -was a shame, she thought. But in respect to everything else her mind was -confused, and she did not know what her husband could do to benefit Rose -at Anne’s expense. But the more she did not understand, the more eager -she was to know. When you are possessed by an eager desire for the -enrichment of another, it does not seem a bad or selfish object as it -might do if the person to be benefited was yourself; and, least of all, -does it ever appear that to look out for the advantage of your child can -be wrong. But the poor lady was in the uncomfortable position of not -being able to inquire further. She could not show herself too anxious to -know what was to happen after her husband’s death; and even to take ‘the -worst’ for granted was not a pleasant thing, for Mrs. Mount<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_117" id="page_117">{117}</a></span>ford, though -naturally anxious about Rose, was not a hard woman who would wilfully -hurt anyone. She sat for some time in silence, her heart beating very -fast, her ears very alert for any word that might fall from her -husband’s mouth. But no word came from his mouth. He sat and turned over -the papers on the table; he was pleased to have excited her interest, -her hopes and fears, but he did not half divine the extent to which he -had excited her, not feeling for his own part that there was anything in -it to warrant immediate expectation: while she, on the other hand, -though she had a genuine affection for her husband, could not help -saying to herself, ‘He may go any day; there is never a day that some -one does not die; and if he died while he was on these terms with Anne, -what was it, what was it, that might perhaps happen to Rose?’ Mrs. -Mountford turned over in her mind every possible form of words she could -think of in which to pursue her inquiries; but it was very difficult, -nay, impossible, to do it: and, though she was not altogether without -artifice, her powers altogether failed her in presence of this difficult -question. At length she ventured to ask, clearing her throat with -elaborate precaution,</p> - -<p>‘Do you mean to say that if Anne sets her heart upon her own way, and -goes against you—all our children do it more or less; one gets -accustomed to it. St. John—do you mean to say——that you will change -your will, and put her out of the succession?——’ Mrs. Mountford -faltered over the end of her sentence, not knowing what to say.</p> - -<p>‘There is no succession. What I have is my own to do what I like with -it,’ he said sharply: and then he opened a big book which lay on the -table, and began to write. It was a well-known, if tacit, signal between -them, that his need of social intercourse was over, and that his wife -might go; but she did not move for some time. She went on with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_118" id="page_118">{118}</a></span> her -work, with every appearance of calm; but her mind was full of commotion. -As her needle went through and through the canvas, she cast many a -furtive glance at her husband turning over the pages of his big book, -writing here and there a note. They had been as one for twenty years; -two people who were, all the world said, most ‘united’—a couple devoted -to each other. But neither did she understand what her husband meant, -nor could he have believed the kind of feeling with which, across her -worsted work, she kept regarding him. She had no wish but that he should -live and thrive. Her position, her personal interests, her importance -were all bound up in him; nevertheless, she contemplated the contingency -of his death with a composure that would have horrified him, and thought -with much more keen and earnest feeling of what would follow than any -alarm of love as to the possibility of the speedy ending of his life -produced in her. Thus the two sat within a few feet of each other, -life-long companions, knowing still so little of each other—the man -playing with the fears and hopes of his dependents, while smiling in his -sleeve at the notion of any real occasion for those fears and hopes; the -woman much more intent upon the problematical good fortune of her child -than on the existence of her own other half, her closest and nearest -connection, with whom her life had been so long identified. Perhaps the -revelation of this feeling in her would have been the most cruel -disclosure had both states of mind been made apparent to the eye of day. -There was not much that was unnatural in his thoughts, for many men like -to tantalise their successors, and few men realise with any warmth of -imagination their own complete withdrawal from the pains and pleasures -of life; but to know that his wife could look his death in the face -without flinching, and think more of his will than of the event<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_119" id="page_119">{119}</a></span> which -must precede any effect it could have, would have penetrated through all -his armour and opened his eyes in the most dolorous way. But he never -suspected this; he thought, with true human fatuity, with a little -gratified importance and vanity, of the commotion he had produced—that -Anne would be ‘pulled up’ in her career by so serious a threat; that -Rose would be kept ‘up to the mark’ by a flutter of hope as to the -reward which might fall to her. All this it pleased him to think of. He -was complacent as to the effect of his menaces and promises, but at -bottom he felt them to be of no great consequence to himself—amusing -rather than otherwise; for he did not in the least intend to die.</p> - -<p>At last Mrs. Mountford felt that she could stay no longer. She rose up -from her chair, and gathered her wools in one arm. ‘The girls will be -coming in from their ride,’ she said. ‘I must really go.’</p> - -<p>The girls had all the machinery of life at Mount in their hands; in -other houses it is ‘the boys’ that are put forward as influencing -everything. The engagements and occupations of the young people map out -the day, and give it diversity, though the elder ones move the springs -of all that is most important. It was generally when ‘the girls’ were -busy in some special matter of their own that Mrs. Mountford came to -‘sit with’ her husband in the library, and furnished him with so much -information. But their positions had been changed to-day. It was he who -had been her informant, telling her about things more essential to be -known than any of her gossip about Anne’s intentions or Rose’s habits. -She lingered even as she walked across the floor, and dropped her little -plaited sheaf of many colours and stooped to pick it up, inviting -further confidence. But her husband did not respond. He let her go -without taking any notice of her proceedings or asking any question as -to her unusual<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_120" id="page_120">{120}</a></span> reluctance to leave him. At last, when she had fairly -turned her back upon him, and had her hand upon the handle of the door, -his voice startled her, and made her turn round with anxious -expectation.</p> - -<p>‘By the way,’ he said, ‘I forgot to tell you: I have a letter to-day -from Heathcote Mountford, offering a visit. I suppose he wants to spy -out the nakedness of the land.’</p> - -<p>‘Heathcote Mountford!’ cried his wife, bewildered; then added, after a -little interval, ‘I am sure he is quite welcome to come when he -pleases—he or anyone. There is no nakedness in the land that we need -fear.’</p> - -<p>‘He is coming next week,’ said Mr. Mountford. ‘Of course, as you -perceive, I could not refuse.’</p> - -<p>Mrs. Mountford paused at the door, with a great deal of visible interest -and excitement. It was no small relief to her to find a legitimate -reason for it. ‘Of course you could not refuse: why should you refuse? I -shall be very glad to see him; and’—she added, after a momentary pause, -which gave the words significance, ‘so will the girls.’</p> - -<p>‘I wish I could think so; the man is forty,’ Mr. Mountford said. Then he -gave a little wave of his hand, dismissing his wife. Even the idea of a -visit from his heir did not excite him. He was not even conscious, for -the moment, of the hostile feeling with which men are supposed to regard -their heirs in general, and which, if legitimate in any case, is -certainly so in respect to an heir of entail. It is true that he had -looked upon Heathcote Mountford with a mild hatred all his life as his -natural enemy; but at the present crisis the head of the house regarded -his successor with a kind of derisive complacency, as feeling that he -himself was triumphantly ‘keeping the fellow out of it.’ He had never -been so certain of living long, of cheating all who looked for his -death, as he was after he had made use of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_121" id="page_121">{121}</a></span> that instrument of terrorism -against his daughter. Heathcote Mountford had not been at Mount for -nearly twenty years. It pleased his kinsman that he should offer to come -now, just to be tantalised, to have it proved to him that his -inheritance of the family honours was a long way off, and very -problematical in any sense. ‘A poor sort of fellow; always ailing, -always delicate; my life is worth two of his,’ he was saying, with -extreme satisfaction, in his heart.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XI" id="CHAPTER_XI"></a>CHAPTER XI.<br /><br /> -<small>PROJECTS OF MARRIAGE.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> girls had just come in from their ride; they were in the hall -awaiting that cup of tea which is the universal restorative, when Mrs. -Mountford with her little sheaf of wools went to join them. They heard -her come softly along the passage which traversed the house, from the -library, in quite the other end of it, to the hall,—a slight shuffle in -one foot making her step recognisable. Rose was very clear-sighted in -small matters, and it was she who had remarked that, after having taken -her work to the library ‘to sit with papa,’ her mother had generally a -much greater acquaintance with all that was about to happen on the -estate or in the family affairs. She held up her finger to Anne as the -step was heard approaching. ‘Now we shall hear the last particulars,’ -Rose said; ‘what is going to be done with us all, and if we are to go to -Brighton, and all that is to happen.’ Anne was much less curious on -these points. Whether the family went to Brighton or not mattered little -to her. She took off her hat, and smoothed back her hair from her -forehead. It was October by this time, and no<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_122" id="page_122">{122}</a></span> longer warm; but the sun -was shining, and the afternoon more like summer than autumn. Old Saymore -had brought in the tray with the tea. There was something on his very -lips to say, but he did not desire the presence of his mistress, which -checked his confidences with the young ladies. Anne, though supposed -generally to be proud, was known by the servants to be very gentle of -access, and ready to listen to anything that concerned them. And as for -Rose, old Saymore—who had, so to speak, seen her born—did not feel -himself restrained by the presence of Rose. ‘I had something to ask Miss -Anne,’ he said, in a kind of undertone, as if making a remark to -himself.</p> - -<p>‘What is it, Saymore?’</p> - -<p>‘No, no,’ said the old man, shaking his head. ‘No, no; I am not such a -fool as I look. There is no time now for my business. No, no, Miss Anne, -no, no,’ he went on, shaking his head as he arranged the cups and -saucers. The sun, though it had passed off that side of the house, had -caught in some glittering thing outside, and sent in a long ray of -reflection into the huge old dark mirror which filled up one side of the -room. Old Saymore, with his white locks, was reflected in this from top -to toe, and the shaking of the white head produced a singular commotion -in it like circles in water. He was always very deliberate in his -movements; and as Mrs. Mountford’s step stayed in the passage, and a -sound of voices betrayed that she had been stopped by some one on the -way, Rose, with ideas of ‘fun’ in her mind, invited the arrested -confidence. ‘Make haste and speak,’ she said, ‘Saymore; mamma has -stopped to talk to Worth. There is no telling how long it may be before -she comes here.’</p> - -<p>‘If it’s Mrs. Worth, it may be with the same object, miss,’ said -Saymore, with solemnity. And then he made a measured, yet sidelong step -to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_123" id="page_123">{123}</a></span>wards Anne. ‘I hope, Miss Anne, you’ll not disapprove?’</p> - -<p>‘What do you want me to approve of, Saymore? I don’t think it matters -very much so long as mamma is pleased.’</p> - -<p>‘It matters to me, Miss Anne; it would seem unnatural to do a thing that -was really an important thing without the sanction of the family; and I -come from my late lady’s side, Miss Anne. I’ve always held by you, miss, -if I may make so bold as to say it.’</p> - -<p>Saymore made so bold as to say this often, and it was perfectly -understood in the house; indeed it was frequently supposed by new-comers -into the servants’ hall that old Saymore was a humble relation of the -family on that side.</p> - -<p>‘It is very kind of you to be so faithful; tell me quickly what it is, -if you want to say it to me privately, and not to mamma.’</p> - -<p>‘Miss Anne, I am an old man,’ he said; ‘you’ll perhaps think it -unbecoming. I’m a widower, miss, and I’ve no children nor nobody -belonging to me.’</p> - -<p>‘We’ve known all that,’ cried Rose, breaking in, ‘as long as we’ve -lived.’</p> - -<p>Saymore took no notice of the interruption; he did not even look at her, -but proceeded with gravity, though with a smile creeping to the corners -of his mouth. ‘And some folks do say, Miss Anne, that, though I’m old, -I’m a young man of my years. There is a deal of difference in people. -Some folks is older, some younger. Yourself, Miss Anne, if I might make -so bold as to say so, you’re not a <i>young</i> lady for your years.’</p> - -<p>‘No, is she?’ said Rose. ‘I always tell you so, Anne! you’ve no -imagination, and no feelings; you are as serious as the big trees. -Quick, quick, Saymore, mamma is coming!’</p> - -<p>‘I’ve always been considered young-looking,’ said<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_124" id="page_124">{124}</a></span> old Saymore, with a -complacent smile, ‘and many and many a one has advised me to better my -condition. That might be two words for themselves and one for me, Miss -Anne,’ he continued, the smile broadening into a smirk of consciousness. -‘Ladies is very pushing now-a-days; but I think I’ve picked out one as -will never deceive me, and, if the family don’t have any objections, I -think I am going to get married, always hoping, Miss Anne, as you don’t -disapprove.’</p> - -<p>‘To get married?’ said Anne, sitting upright with sheer amazement. -Anne’s thoughts had not been occupied on this subject as the thoughts of -girls often are; but it had entered her imagination suddenly, and Anne’s -imagination was of a superlative kind, which shed a glory over -everything that occupied it. This strange, beautiful, terrible, -conjunction of two had come to look to her the most wonderful, -mysterious, solemn thing in the world since it came within her own -possibilities. All the comedy in it which is so apt to come uppermost -had disappeared when she felt herself walking with Cosmo towards the -verge of that unknown and awful paradise. Life had not turned into a -tragedy indeed, but into a noble, serious poem, full of awe, full of -wonder, entering in by those great mysterious portals, which were -guarded as by angels of love and fate. She sat upright in her chair, and -gazed with wide open eyes and lips apart at this caricature of her -fancy. Old Saymore? the peal of laughter with which Rose received the -announcement was the natural sentiment; but Anne had not only a deep -sense of horror at this desecration of an idea so sacred, but was also -moved by the secondary consciousness that old Saymore too had feelings -which might be wounded, which added to her gravity. Saymore, for his -part, took Rose’s laugh lightly enough, but looked at her own grave -countenance<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_125" id="page_125">{125}</a></span> with rising offence. ‘You seem to think that I haven’t no -right to please myself, Miss Anne,’ he said.</p> - -<p>‘But who is the lady? tell us who is the lady,’ cried Rose.</p> - -<p>Saymore paused and held up a finger. The voices in the corridor ceased. -Some one was heard to walk away in the opposite direction, and Mrs. -Mountford’s soft shuffle advanced to the hall. ‘Another time, Miss Anne, -another time,’ he said, in a half whisper, shaking his finger in sign of -secresy. Then he walked towards the door, and held it open for his -mistress with much solemnity. Mrs. Mountford came in more quickly than -usual; she was half angry, half laughing. ‘Saymore, I think you are an -old fool,’ she said.</p> - -<p>Saymore made a bow which would have done credit to a courtier. ‘There’s -a many, madam,’ he replied, ‘as has been fools like me.’ He did not -condescend to justify himself to Mrs. Mountford, but went out without -further explanation. He belonged to the other side of the house; not -that he was not perfectly civil to his master’s second wife—but she was -always ‘the new mistress’ to Saymore, though she had reigned at Mount -for nearly twenty years.</p> - -<p>‘What does he mean, mamma?’ cried Rose, with eager curiosity. She was -fond of gossip, about county people if possible, but, if not, about -village people, or the servants in the house, it did not matter. Her -eyes shone with amazement and excitement. ‘Is it old Worth? who is it? -What fun to have a wedding in the house!’</p> - -<p>‘He is an old fool,’ said Mrs. Mountford, putting the wools out of her -arm and placing herself in the most comfortable chair. ‘Give me a cup of -tea, Rose. I have been standing in the corridor till I’m quite tired, -and before that with papa.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_126" id="page_126">{126}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>‘You were not standing when you were with papa?’</p> - -<p>‘Well, yes, part of the time; he has a way—Anne has it too, it is very -tiresome—of keeping the most important thing he has to say till the -last moment. Just when you have got up and got to the door, and think -you are free, then he tells you. It is very tiresome—Anne is just the -same—in many things she is exceedingly like papa.’</p> - -<p>‘Then he told you something important?’ cried Rose, easily diverted from -the first subject. ‘Are we to go to Brighton? What is going to happen? I -told Anne you would have something to tell us when we heard you had been -sitting with papa.’</p> - -<p>‘Of course we consult over things when we get a quiet hour together,’ -Mrs. Mountford said; and then she made a pause. Even Anne felt her heart -beat. It seemed natural that her own affairs should have been the -subject of this conference; for what was there in the family that was -half so interesting as Anne’s affairs? A little colour came to her face, -then fled again, leaving her more pale than usual.</p> - -<p>‘If it was about me, I would rather not have my affairs talked over,’ -she said.</p> - -<p>‘My dear Anne,’ said Mrs. Mountford, ‘try not to get into the way of -thinking that everything that is interesting in the family must come -from you; this is a sort of way that girls get when they begin to think -of love and such nonsense; but I should have expected more sense from -you.’</p> - -<p>Love and such nonsense! Anne’s countenance became crimson. Was this the -way to characterise that serious, almost solemn, mystery which had taken -possession of her life? And then the girl, in spite of herself, laughed. -She felt herself suddenly placed beside old Saymore in his grotesque -sentiment, and between scorn and disgust and unwilling<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_127" id="page_127">{127}</a></span> amusement words -failed her; then the others laughed, which made Anne more angry still.</p> - -<p>‘I am glad to hear you laugh,’ said Mrs. Mountford, ‘for that shows you -are not so much on your high horse as I fancied you were. And yours is -such a very high horse, my dear! No, I don’t mean to say you were not -referred to, for you would not believe me; there was some talk about -you; but papa said he had spoken to you himself, and I never make nor -meddle between him and you, as you know, Anne. It was something quite -different. We are not going to Brighton, Rosie; some one is coming -here.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh—h!’ Rose’s countenance fell. Brighton, which was a break upon the -monotony of the country, was always welcome to her. ‘And even Willie -Ashley gone away!’ was the apparently irrelevant observation she made, -with a sudden drooping of the corners of her mouth.</p> - -<p>‘What is Willie Ashley to you? you can’t have your game in winter,’ said -her mother, with unconscious cynicism; ‘but there is somebody coming who -is really interesting. I don’t know that you have ever seen him; I have -seen him only once in my life. I thought him the most -interesting-looking man I ever saw; he was like a hero on the stage, -tall and dark, with a natural curl in his hair; and such eyes!’</p> - -<p>Rose’s blue and inexperienced orbs grew round and large with excitement. -‘Who is it? No one we ever saw; oh, no, indeed, I never saw a man a bit -like that. Who is it, mamma?’</p> - -<p>Mrs. Mountford liked to prolong the excitement. It pleased her to have -so interesting a piece of news in hand. Besides, Anne remained perfectly -unmoved, and to excite Rose was too easy. ‘He is a man with a story -too,’ she said. ‘When he was quite young he was in love with a lady, a -very grand<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_128" id="page_128">{128}</a></span> personage, indeed, quite out of the reach of a poor -gentleman like—this gentleman. She was an Italian, and I believe she -was a princess or something. That does not mean the same as it does -here, you know; but she was a great deal grander than he was, and her -friends would not let her marry him.’</p> - -<p>‘And what happened?’ cried Rose breathless, as her mother came to an -artful pause. Anne did not say anything, but she leant forward, and her -eyes too had lighted up with interest. It was no part of Mrs. -Mountford’s plan to interest Anne, but, once entered upon her story, the -desire of the artist for appreciation seized upon her.</p> - -<p>‘What could happen, my dear?’ she said, pointedly adding a moral; ‘they -gave everybody a great deal of trouble for a time, as young people who -are crossed in anything always do; but people abroad make very short -work with these matters. The lady was married, of course, to somebody in -her own rank of life.’</p> - -<p>‘And the gentleman?—it was the gentleman you were telling us about.’</p> - -<p>‘The gentleman—poor Heathcote! well, he has got on well enough—I -suppose as well as other people. He has never married; but then I don’t -see how he could marry, for he has nothing to marry upon.’</p> - -<p>‘Heathcote! do you mean Heathcote Mountford?’</p> - -<p>It was Anne who spoke this time—the story had grown more and more -interesting to her as it went on. Her voice trembled a little as she -asked this hasty question; it quivered with sympathy, with wondering -pain. The lady married somebody—in her own rank in life—the man never -married at all, but probably could not because he had nothing to marry -on. Was that the end of it all—a dull matter-<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_129" id="page_129">{129}</a></span>of-fact little tragedy? -She remembered hearing such words before often enough, but never had -given them any attention until now.</p> - -<p>‘Yes, I mean your cousin Heathcote Mountford. He is coming next week to -see papa.’</p> - -<p>Rose had been looking from one to another with her round eyes full of -excitement. Now she drew a long breath and said in a tone of awe, ‘The -heir of the entail.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, the heir of the entail,’ said Mrs. Mountford solemnly. She looked -at her daughter, and the one pair of eyes seemed to take fire from the -other. ‘He is as poor—as poor as a mouse. Of course he will have Mount -when—anything happens to papa. But papa’s life is as good as his. He is -thirty-five, and he has never had much stamina. I don’t mean to say that -it is so generally, but sometimes a man is quite old at thirty-five.’</p> - -<p>At this time very different reflections gleamed across the minds of the -girls. ‘Papa was nearly forty when mamma married him,’ Rose said to -herself with great quickness, while the thought that passed through -Anne’s mind was ‘Thirty-five—five years older than Cosmo.’ Neither one -thing nor the other, it may be said, had much to do with Heathcote -Mountford; and yet there was meaning in it, so far as Rose at least was -concerned.</p> - -<p>She was thoughtful for the rest of the day, and asked her mother several -very pertinent questions when they were alone, as ‘Where does Heathcote -Mountford live? Has he any money at all? or does he do anything for his -living? has he any brothers and sisters?’ She was determined to have a -very clear understanding of all the circumstances of his life.</p> - -<p>‘Oh yes, my love, he has a little,’ Mrs. Mountford said; ‘one says a man -has nothing when he has<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_130" id="page_130">{130}</a></span> not enough to settle upon; but most people have -a little. I suppose he lives in London in chambers, like most unmarried -men. No, he has no brothers and sisters,—but, yes, I forgot there is -one—a young one—whom he is very much attached to, people say.’</p> - -<p>‘And he will have Mount when papa dies,’ said Rose. ‘How strange that, -though papa has two children, it should go away to quite a different -person, not even a very near relation! It is very unjust; don’t you -think it is very unjust? I am sure it is not a thing that ought to be.’</p> - -<p>‘It is the entail, my dear. You must remember the entail.’</p> - -<p>‘But what is the good of an entail? If we had had a brother, it might -have been a good thing to keep it in the family; but surely, when we -have no brother, we are the proper heirs. It would be more right even, -if one person were to have it all, that Anne should be the person. -<i>She</i>,’ said Rose, with a little fervour, ‘would be sure to take care of -me.’</p> - -<p>‘I think so too, Rosie,’ said her mother; ‘but then Anne will not always -just be Anne. She will marry somebody, and she will not have a will of -her own—at least not <i>such</i> a will of her own. There is one way,’ Mrs. -Mountford added with a laugh, ‘in which things are sometimes put right, -Rose. Do you remember Mr. Collins in Miss Austen’s novel? He came to -choose a wife among the Miss Bennetts to make up for taking their home -from them. I am afraid that happens oftener in novels than in real life. -Perhaps,’ she said, laughing again, but with artificial mirth, ‘your -cousin Heathcote is coming to look at you girls to see whether he would -like one of you for his wife.’</p> - -<p>‘I daresay,’ said Rose calmy; ‘that went through my mind too. He would -like Anne, of course, if he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_131" id="page_131">{131}</a></span> could get her; but then Anne—likes -somebody else.’</p> - -<p>‘There are more people than Anne in the world,’ said the mother, with -some indignation. ‘Anne! we all hear so much of Anne that we get to -think there is nobody like her. No, my pet, a man of Heathcote -Mountford’s age—it is not anything like Anne he is thinking of; they -don’t want tragedy queens at that age; they want youth.’</p> - -<p>‘You mean, mamma, said Rose, still quite serious, ‘that he would like me -best.’</p> - -<p>‘My pet, we don’t talk of such things. It is quite time enough when they -happen, if they ever happen.’</p> - -<p>‘But I prefer to talk about them,’ said Rose. ‘It would be very nice to -keep Mount; but then, if Anne had all the money, what would be the good -of Mount? We, I mean, could never keep it up.’</p> - -<p>‘This is going a very long way,’ said her mother, amused; ‘you must not -talk of what most likely will never happen. Besides, there is no telling -what changes may take place. Anne has not pleased papa, and no one can -say what money she may have and what you may have. That is just what -nobody can tell till the time comes.’</p> - -<p>‘You mean—till papa dies?’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, Rosie,’ said Mrs. Mountford, alarmed, ‘don’t be so plain-spoken, -dear; don’t let us think of such a thing. What would become of us if -anything happened to dear papa?’</p> - -<p>‘But it must happen some time,’ said Rose, calmly, ‘and it will not -happen any sooner because we speak of it. I hope he will live a long -time, long after we are both married and everything settled. But if one -of us was rich, it would not be worth her while to marry Heathcote, -unless she was very fond of Mount; and I don’t think we are so very fond -of Mount.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_132" id="page_132">{132}</a></span> And if one of us was poor, it would not be worth <i>his</i> while, -because he would not be able to keep it up.’</p> - -<p>‘That is the very best conclusion to come to,’ said her mother; ‘since -it would not be worth while either for the rich one or the poor one, you -may put that out of your head and meet him at your ease, as you ought to -meet an elderly cousin.’</p> - -<p>‘Thirty-five is not exactly elderly—for a man,’ said Rose, -thoughtfully. She did not put the question out of her mind so easily as -her mother suggested. ‘But I suppose it is time to go and dress,’ she -added, with a little sigh. ‘No Brighton, and winter coming on, and -nobody here, not even Willie Ashley. I hope he will be amusing at -least,’ she said, sighing again, as she went away.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Mountford followed slowly with a smile on her face. She was not -sorry, on the whole, to have put the idea into her child’s head. Even -when the Mountfords of Mount had been poor, it was ‘a very nice -position’—and Heathcote had something, enough to live upon: and Rose -would have something. If they ‘fancied’ each other, worse things might -happen. She did not feel inclined to oppose such a consummation. It -would be better than marrying Willie Ashley, or—for of course <i>that</i> -would be out of the question—wanting to marry him. Mrs. Mountford knew -by experience what it was for a girl to spend all her youth in the -unbroken quiet of a house in the country which was not really a great -house. She had been thirty when she married Mr. Mountford, and before -that time there had occurred sundry passages, involving at least one -ineligible young man, which had not quite passed from her memory. How -was it possible to help it?—a girl must do something to amuse herself, -to occupy the time that hangs so heavily on her hands. And often, she -reflected, before you know what you are doing, it has become serious, -and there is no way out of it. As she looked<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_133" id="page_133">{133}</a></span> back she remembered many -instances in which this had happened. Better, far better, an elderly -cousin with an old though small estate, than the inevitable clergyman or -Willie Ashley. And thirty-five, for a man, was not an age to make any -objection to.</p> - -<p>She went upstairs with her head full of such thoughts, and there once -more she found Mrs. Worth, with whom she had held so earnest a colloquy -in the corridor, while Saymore opened his heart to his young ladies. -Mrs. Worth shook her head when her mistress addressed a question to her. -She pinned on the lace pelerine with which it was Mrs. Mountford’s pride -to make her old dresses look nice for the evening, with many shakings of -her head.</p> - -<p>‘I don’t know, ma’am, as I shall ever bring her to hear reason,’ Mrs. -Worth said. ‘I tell her as a good worthy man, and a nice little bit of -money, is not for any girl to despise, and many that is her betters -would be glad of the chance. But “you can’t put an old head on young -shoulders,” as the saying is, and I don’t know as I shall ever bring her -to hear reason. There’s things as nothing will teach us but experience -ma’am,’ Mrs. Worth said.</p> - -<p>‘Well, he <i>is</i> old for such a girl, said Mrs. Mountford, candidly; ‘we -must not be too hard upon her, Worth.’</p> - -<p>‘Old, ma’am! well, in one way he may be called old,’ said the -confidential maid; ‘but I don’t call it half so bad when they’re that -age as when they’re just betwixt and between, both old and young, as you -may say. Forty or so, that <i>is</i> a worry; but sixty-five you can do with. -If I’ve told her that once I’ve told her fifty times; but she pays no -attention. And when you think what a nice little bit of money he’s put -away since he’s been here, and how respectable he is, and respected by -the family; and that she has nothing, poor girl! and nobody but me to -look to! I think, if Miss Anne were to speak a word to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_134" id="page_134">{134}</a></span> her, ma’am, -perhaps it would make a difference. They think a deal more of what a -young lady says, like themselves, so to speak, than an old person like -me.’</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XII" id="CHAPTER_XII"></a>CHAPTER XII.<br /><br /> -<small>MISTRESS AND MAID.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Anne</span> had gone upstairs some time before. At this time of her life she -liked to be alone, and there were many reasons why solitude should be -dear to her. For one thing, those who have just begun to thread the -flowery ways of early love have always a great deal to think of. It is -an occupation in itself to retrace all that has been done and said, nay, -even looked and thought, and to carry this dream of recollection on into -the future, adding what shall be to what has been. A girl does not -require any other business in life when she has this delightful maze -awaiting her, turning her room into a <i>Vita nuova</i>, another life which -she can enter at her pleasure, shutting impenetrable doors upon all -vulgar sights and sounds. In addition to this, which needed no addition, -she had something active and positive to occupy her. She had answered -Cosmo’s letter, thanking him for his offer to deny himself, to be silent -if she wished him to be silent. But Anne declared that she had no such -wish. ‘Do not let us make a folly of our correspondence,’ she had -written; ‘but neither must we deny ourselves this great happiness, dear -Cosmo, for the sake of my father. I have told my father that in this -point I cannot obey him. I should scorn myself now if I made believe to -obey him by giving up such intercourse as we can have. He has not asked -this, and I think it would not be honest to offer it. What he wanted was -that we should part<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_135" id="page_135">{135}</a></span> altogether, and this we are not going to do. Write -to me then, not every day, nor even every week, to make it common, but -when your heart is full, and it would be an injustice to keep it from me -any longer. And so will I to you.’ The bargain, if somewhat highflown, -was very like Anne, and on this footing the letters began. Anne very -soon felt that her heart was always full, that there was constantly more -to say than a sheet of paper could carry; but she held by her own rule, -and only broke silence when she could not keep it any longer, which gave -to her letters a character of intensity and delicate passion most rare -and strange, which touched her lover with an admiration which sometimes -had a little awe in it. His own letters were delightful to Anne, but -they were of a very different character. They were full of genuine love; -for, so far as that went, there was nothing fictitious in his -sentiments; but they were steady-going weekly letters, such as a man -pens on a certain day and sends by a certain post, not only to the -contentment of his own heart, but in fulfilment of what is expected of -him, of what it is indeed his duty to do. This made a great difference; -and Cosmo—who was full of intellectual perceptions and saw more clearly -than, being not so complete in heart as in mind, it was to his own -comfort to see—perceived it very clearly, with an uneasy consciousness -of being ‘not up to’ the lofty strain which was required of him. But -Anne, in her innocence and inexperience, perceived it not. His letters -were delightful to her. The words seemed to glow and shine before her -eyes. If there was a tame expression, a sentence that fell flat, she set -it down to that reticence of emotion, that English incapacity for saying -all that is felt and tendency to depreciate itself, which we all believe -in, and which counts for so much in our estimates of each other. These -letters, as I have said, added an<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_136" id="page_136">{136}</a></span> actual something to be done to the -entrancing occupation of ‘thinking over’ all that had happened and was -going to happen. Whenever she had a little time to spare, Anne, with her -heart beating, opened the little desk in which she kept these two or -three precious performances. I think, indeed, she carried the last -always about her, to be re-read whenever an occasion occurred: and it -was with her heart intent upon this gratification, this secret delight -which nobody knew of, that she went into her room, leaving her sister -and stepmother still talking over their tea in the hall. More sweet to -her than the best of company was this pleasure of sitting alone.</p> - -<p>But on this occasion she found herself not alone. Though the -dressing-bell would not ring for about an hour, Keziah was already there -preparing her young lady’s evening toilette. She was standing with her -back to the door laying out Anne’s dress upon the bed, and crying softly -to herself. Keziah was very near Anne’s age, and they had been in a -manner brought up together, and had known everything that had happened -to each other all their lives. This makes a bond between mistress and -maid, not common in the ordinary relationships which we form and break -so easily. To see Keziah crying was not a matter of indifference to -Anne; but neither was it a matter of alarm, for it was not difficult to -make Keziah cry. Some one, no doubt, had been scolding the girl; her -aunt, who was very strict with her, or the cook, who was -half-housekeeper and apt to find fault with the younger servants. Anne -stepped forward with her light foot, which Keziah, in her agitation, did -not hear, and put her hand on the girl’s shoulder. But this, which was -done in all kindness, had tragical results. Keziah started violently, -and a great big tear, as large as half-a-crown, fell upon the airy -skirts of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_137" id="page_137">{137}</a></span> the dress which the was opening out on the bed. The poor girl -uttered a shriek of dismay.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, Miss Anne! I didn’t mean it, I didn’t mean it!’ she cried.</p> - -<p>‘What is it, Keziah? There is no harm done; but why are you crying? Has -anything happened at home? Have you bad news? or is it only Worth that -has been cross again?’</p> - -<p>‘I’m silly, Miss Anne, that’s what it is,’ said Keziah, drying her eyes. -‘Oh, don’t pity me, please, or I’ll only cry more! Give me a good -shaking; that’s what I want, as aunt always says.’</p> - -<p>‘Has she been scolding you?’ said Anne. It was not the first time that -she had found Keziah in tears; it was not an alarming occurrence, nor -did it require a very serious cause.</p> - -<p>‘But to think,’ cried the girl, ‘that I should be such a silly, me that -ought to know better, as to go and cry upon an Indian muslin, that -oughtn’t to go to the wash not for ever so long! Aunt would never -forgive me if she knew; and oh, I’m bad enough already without that! If -I could only tell you, Miss Anne! Morning or evening she never lets me -be. It’s that as makes me so confused, I don’t know what I’m doing. -Sometimes I think I’ll just take and marry him, to have done with him -and her too.’</p> - -<p>‘Marry him? is that what is the matter? It must be some one you don’t -like, or you wouldn’t cry so.’</p> - -<p>‘It isn’t so much that I don’t like him. If that was all,’ said Keziah, -with philosophy, ‘I wouldn’t mind so much. Many a girl has had the same -to do. You have to take the bitter with the sweet, as aunt always says.’</p> - -<p>‘Keziah!’ exclaimed Anne, with consternation. ‘You wouldn’t mind! then -what are you crying for? And why do you try to cheat me into sympathy,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_138" id="page_138">{138}</a></span>’ -cried the young lady, indignantly, ‘if you don’t mind, as you say?’</p> - -<p>Keziah by this time had mastered her tears. She had dried the spot -carefully and tenderly with a handkerchief, pressing the muslin between -two folds.</p> - -<p>‘Miss Anne,’ she said, ‘don’t you say as I’m cheating, or my heart will -break. That is one thing nobody can say of me. I tell him honest that I -can’t abide him, and if he will have me after that, is it my fault? No, -it’s not that,’ she said shaking her head with the melancholy gravity of -superior experience: ‘I wasn’t thinking just of what I’d like. You -ladies do what you please, and when you’re crossed, you think the world -is coming to an end; but in our class of life, you’re brought up to know -as you can’t have your own way.’</p> - -<p>‘It is not a question of having your own way. How could you marry a man -you did not—love?’ cried Anne, full of wrath and indignation, yet with -awe of the sacred word she used. Was it too fine a word to be used to -little Keziah? The girl gazed at her for a moment, half-roused, -half-wondering; then shook her head again.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, Miss Anne, <i>love</i>! a girl couldn’t love an old man like that; and -he don’t look for it, aunt says. And he’d think a deal of me, more -than—than others might. It’s better to be an old man’s darling than a -young man’s slave. And he’s got plenty of money—I don’t know how -much—in the bank; and mother and all of us so poor. He would leave it -to me, every penny. You can’t just hear that, Miss Anne, can you, and -take no notice? There’s a deal to be said for him, I don’t deny it; and -if it was only not being fond of him, I shouldn’t mind that.’</p> - -<p>‘Then you must not ask me to be sorry for you,’ said Anne, with stern -severity, ‘if you could sell yourself for money, Keziah! But, no, no, -you could not do it, it is not possible—you, a girl just my age,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_139" id="page_139">{139}</a></span> and -brought up with me. You could not do it, Keziah. You have lived here -with me almost all your life.’</p> - -<p>‘Miss Anne, you don’t understand. You’ve been used to having your own -way; but the like of us don’t get our own way. And aunt says many a lady -does it and never minds. It’s not that,’ said Keziah, with a fresh -outburst of tears. ‘I hope as I could do my duty by a man whether I was -fond of him or whether I wasn’t. No, it isn’t that: it’s—it’s the other -one, Miss Anne.’</p> - -<p>And here the little girl hid her face in her hands and sobbed; while -Anne, her sternness melting in spite of herself, stood looking on with -the face of the recording angel, horrified by this new admission and -reluctant to write it down.</p> - -<p>‘Is there—another?’ she asked in a whisper of horror.</p> - -<p>Keziah uncovered her face; the tone in which she was addressed curdled -her blood; she turned her white, little, tear-stained countenance to her -mistress with an appalled look of guilt. She had not understood before, -poor little girl, how guilty she was. She had not known that it was -guilt at all. She was herself standing at the bar, a poor little -tremulous criminal in the blaze of Anne’s indignant eyes.</p> - -<p>‘Yes, Miss Anne.’ Keziah’s voice was almost inaudible; but her eyes kept -an astonished appeal in them against the tremendous sentence that seemed -to await her.</p> - -<p>‘Another whom you love. And you would give him up for this man who is -rich, who can leave you his money? Keziah! if this were true, do you -know what you would deserve? But I cannot believe it is true.’</p> - -<p>‘Miss Anne!’ The poor little culprit regained a little courage; the -offence of a mercenary marriage did not touch her conscience, but to be -supposed to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_140" id="page_140">{140}</a></span> be laying claim without reason to a real lover went to her -heart. ‘Miss Anne; it’s quite true. We were always sweethearts, always -since we were little things. Him and me: we’ve always kept company. It’s -as true—as true! Nobody can say different,’ cried the girl, with a -fresh burst of angry tears. ‘You have seen him yourself, Miss Anne; and -all the village knows. Ask aunt, if you don’t believe me; ask anyone. -We’re as well known to be keeping company, as well known—as the Beeches -on Mount Hill.’</p> - -<p>‘That is not what I mean, Keziah. What I can’t believe is that you could -make up your mind to—marry the man who is rich. What! leave the other -whom you love, and marry one whom you don’t love! However rich he was, -you would be miserable; and he, poor fellow! would be miserable too.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, Miss Anne, that’s what I am afraid of!’ cried the girl; ‘that’s -what I’m always saying to myself. I could face it if it were only -me—(for it’s a great thing to be well off, Miss Anne, for us as have -been so poor all our lives); but Jim will be miserable; that is what I -always say. But what can I do? tell me what can I do.’</p> - -<p>‘I will tell you what you can do. Be faithful to Jim, Keziah; be -faithful to him whatever anyone says. Marry him, not the other. That is -the only thing to do.’</p> - -<p>‘Marry him? But how can I marry him when he’s enlisted and gone off for -a soldier, and maybe I’ll never see him more?’</p> - -<p>‘Enlisted!’ said Anne, for the moment taken aback; but she recovered -quickly, seeing the easiest way out of it. ‘Soldiers are allowed to buy -themselves out. I would rather a great deal do without a dress and give -you the money for his discharge. Anything would be better than to see -you sacrifice<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_141" id="page_141">{141}</a></span> yourself—sell yourself. Oh, you could not do it! You -must not think of it any more.’</p> - -<p>‘It’s not me, Miss Anne,’ said Keziah, mournfully; ‘it’s Mr. Saymore and -aunt.’</p> - -<p>‘Old Saymore! is it old Saymore?’ Anne did not know how to speak with -ordinary patience of such a horrible transaction. ‘Keziah, this cannot -be put up with for a moment. If they frighten you, <i>I</i> will speak to -them. Old Saymore! No, Keziah; it is Jim you must marry, since you love -him: and no one else.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, Miss Anne,’ said Keziah, very doubtfully; ‘but I don’t know,’ she -added, ‘whether Jim wanted me—to marry him. You see he is young, and he -had nothing but his weekly wage, when he was in work; and I don’t even -know if he wants to buy his discharge. Men is very queer,’ said the -girl, shaking her head with profound conviction, ‘and keeping company’s -not like marrying. Them that haven’t got you want you, and them that can -have you for the asking don’t ask. It is a funny world and men are -queer; things is not so straightforward before you to do one or another -as you think, Miss Anne.’</p> - -<p>‘Then, at all events, there is one thing you can always do—for it -depends upon yourself alone. Marry no one, but be faithful, Keziah; -faithful to Jim if you love him; and, you may be sure, things will come -right at the last.’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t know, Miss Anne,’ said Keziah, shaking her head; ‘it seems as -if it ought to; but it don’t always, as far as I can see. There’s -ladies, and real ladies, aunt says, as has just the same before them; -for if the man you like hasn’t a penny, Miss Anne, and other folks has -plenty, what, even if you’re a lady, is a girl to do?’</p> - -<p>‘You can always be faithful, whatever happens,’ cried Anne, holding her -head high; ‘that depends only on yourself.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_142" id="page_142">{142}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>‘If your folks will let you alone, Miss Anne.’ Keziah had dried her -tears, and Anne’s confidence had given her a little courage; but still -she felt that she had more experience of the world than her mistress, -and shook her little head.</p> - -<p>‘What can your “folks” do, Keziah? You have only to hold fast and be -true,’ cried Anne. Her eyes shone with the faith and constancy that were -in her. The very sight of her was inspiring. She looked like a woman who -might have rallied an army, standing up with her head high, defying all -danger. ‘They may make you unhappy, they may take everything from you; -but only yourself can change you. The whole world cannot do anything to -you if you remain true, and stand fast——’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, Miss Anne, if we was all like you!’ said the girl, admiring but -despondent. But just then the dressing-bell began to ring, and poor -Keziah was recalled to her duties. She flew to the drawers and wardrobes -to lay out the miscellaneous articles that were needed—the evening -shoes, the ribbons, and little ornaments Anne was to wear. Then she -lingered for a moment before fulfilling the same office for Rose. ‘Don’t -you think, Miss Anne,’ she said, ‘if it comes to <i>that</i> at the end: -don’t you think I mind for myself. I hope as I’ll do my duty, whoever -the man may be. I’m not one to stick to my own way when I see as I can’t -get it. It isn’t that I’m <i>that</i> bent on pleasing myself——’</p> - -<p>‘But Keziah, Keziah!’ cried Anne, provoked, distressed, and -disappointed, ‘when this is what you are thinking of, it is your duty to -please yourself.’</p> - -<p>‘The Bible don’t say so, Miss Anne,’ said Keziah, with a little air of -superior wisdom as she went away.</p> - -<p>This discussion made the most curious break in Anne’s thoughts; instead -of spending the half-hour in blessed solitude, reading over Cosmo’s last -letter<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_143" id="page_143">{143}</a></span> or thinking over some of his last words, how strange it was to -be thus plunged into the confused and darkling ways of another world, so -unlike her own! To the young lady it was an unalterable canon of faith -that marriage was only possible where love existed first. Such was the -dogma of the matter in England, the first and most important proviso of -the creed of youth, contradicted sometimes in practice, but never shaken -in doctrine. It was this that justified and sanctified all the rest, -excusing even a hundred little departures from other codes, little -frauds and compromises which lost all their guilt when done for the sake -of love. But here was another code which was very different, in which -the poor little heroine was ashamed to have it thought that, so far as -concerned herself, love was the first thing in question. Keziah felt -that she could do her duty whoever the man might be; it was not any wish -to please herself that made her reluctant. Anne’s first impulse of -impatience, and annoyance, and disgust at such a view of the question, -and at the high ground on which it was held, transported her for the -moment out of all sympathy with Keziah. No wonder, she thought, that -there was so much trouble and evil deep down below the surface when that -was how even an innocent girl considered the matter. But by-and-by -Anne’s imagination got entangled with the metaphysics of the question, -and the clear lines of the old undoubting dogmatism became less clear. -‘The Bible don’t say so.’ What did the Bible say? Nothing at all about -it; nothing but a rule of mutual duty on the part of husbands and wives; -no guidance for those who were making the first great decision, the -choice that must mean happiness or no happiness to their whole lives. -But the Bible did say that one was not to seek one’s own way, nor care -to please one’s self, as Keziah said. Was the little maid an unconscious -sophist in her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_144" id="page_144">{144}</a></span> literal adoption of these commands? or was Anne to -blame, who, in this point of view, put aside the Bible code altogether, -without being aware that she did so? Deny yourself! did that mean that -you were to consent to a mercenary union when your heart was against it? -Did that mean that you might profane and dishonour yourself for the sake -of pleasing others? Keziah thought so, taking the letter as her rule; -but how was Anne to think so? Their theories could not have been more -different had the width of the world been between them.</p> - -<p>And then the story of Heathcote Mountford glanced across her mind. This -was what had happened to him. His Italian princess, though she loved -him, had done her duty, had married somebody of her own rank, had left -the man she loved to bear the desertion as he could. Was it the women -who did this, Anne asked herself, while the men were true? It was bitter -to the girl to think so, for she was full of that visionary pride—born -both of the chivalrous worship and the ceaseless jibes of which they -have been the objects—which makes women so sensitive to all that -touches their sex. A flush of shame as visionary swept over her. If this -cowardly weakness was common to women, then no wonder that men despised -them; then, indeed, they must be inferior creatures, incapable of real -nobleness, incapable of true understanding. For a moment Anne felt that -she despised and hated her own kind; to be so poor, so weak, so -miserable; to persuade the nobler, stronger being by their side that -they loved him, and then weakly to abandon him; to shrink away from him -for fear of a parent’s scolding or the loss of money, or comfort, or -luxury! What indignation Anne poured forth upon these despicable -creatures! and to call it duty! she cried within herself. When you can -decide that one side is quite in the wrong, even though it be your own<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_145" id="page_145">{145}</a></span> -side, there is consolation in it; then all is plain sailing in the moral -element, and no complication disturbs you. Though she felt it bitter, -and humiliating, and shameful, Anne clung to this point of view. She was -barely conscious, in the confused panorama of that unknown world that -spread around her, of some doubtful points on which the light was not -quite so simple and easy to identify. ‘Those that can have you for the -asking don’t ask you,’ Keziah said: and she had not been sure that her -lover wanted her to marry him, though she believed he would be miserable -if she abandoned him. And Heathcote Mountford, though he seemed to be so -faithful, had never been rich enough to make inconstancy possible. These -were the merest specks of shadow on the full light in which one side of -her picture was bathed. But yet they were there.</p> - -<p>This made an entire change in Anne’s temper and disposition for the -evening. Her mind was full of this question. When she went downstairs -she suffered a great many stories to be told in her presence to which, -on previous occasions, she would have turned a deaf ear; and it was -astonishing how many corresponding cases seem to exist in society—the -women ‘doing their duty’ weakly, giving in to the influence of some -mercenary parent, abandoning love and truth for money and luxury; the -men withdrawing embittered, disgusted, no doubt to jibe at women, -perhaps to hate them; to sink out of constancy into misanthropy, into -the rusty loneliness of the old bachelor. Her heart grew sad within her -as she pondered. Was it to be her fate to vindicate all women, to show -what a woman could do? but for the moment she felt herself too deeply -disgusted with her sex to think of defending them from any attack. To be -sure, there was that shadow in her picture, that fluctuation, that -uncomfortable balance of which she was just conscious—Jim who, perhaps, -would not have wanted<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_146" id="page_146">{146}</a></span> to marry Keziah, though he loved her; and the -others who could not afford to commit any imprudence, who could marry -only when there was a fortune on what Mrs. Mountford would call ‘the -other side.’ Anne felt herself cooped in, in the narrowest space, not -knowing where to turn; ‘who could marry only when there was money on the -other side.’ Why, this had been said of Cosmo! Anne laughed to herself, -with an indignation and wrath, slightly, very slightly, tempered by -amusement. Where Cosmo was concerned she could not tolerate even a -smile.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIII" id="CHAPTER_XIII"></a>CHAPTER XIII.<br /><br /> -<small>HEATHCOTE MOUNTFORD.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> visit of the unknown cousin had thus become a very interesting event -to the whole household, though less, perhaps, to its head than to anyone -else. Mr. Mountford flattered himself that he had nothing of a man’s -natural repugnance towards his heir. Had that heir been five-and-twenty, -full of the triumph and confidence of youth, then indeed it might have -been difficult to treat him with the same easy tolerance; for, whatever -may be the chances in your own favour, it would be difficult to believe -that a young man of twenty-five would not, one way or the other, manage -to outlive yourself at sixty. But Heathcote Mountford had lived, his -kinsman thought, very nearly as long as himself; he had not been a young -man for these dozen years. It was half a lifetime since there had been -that silly story about the Italian lady. Nothing can be more easy than -to add on a few years to the vague estimate of age which we all form in -respect to our neighbours; the fellow must be forty if he was a day; and -between forty<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_147" id="page_147">{147}</a></span> and sixty after all there is so little difference, -especially when he of forty is an old bachelor of habits perhaps not too -regular or virtuous. Mr. Mountford was one of the people who habitually -disbelieve in the virtue of their neighbours. He had never been a man -about town, a frequenter of the clubs, in his own person; and there was, -perhaps, a spice of envy in the very bad opinion which he entertained of -such persons. A man of forty used up by late hours and doubtful habits -is not younger—is as a matter of fact older—than a respectable married -man of sixty taking every care of himself, and regular as clockwork in -all his ways. Therefore he looked with good-humoured tolerance on -Heathcote, at whose rights under the entail he was almost inclined to -laugh. ‘I shall see them all out,’ he said to himself—nay he even -permitted himself to say this to his wife, which was going perhaps too -far. Heathcote, to be sure, had a younger brother; but then he was well -known to be a delicate, consumptive boy.</p> - -<p>To the ladies of the family he was more interesting, for various -reasons. Rose and her mother regarded him with perfectly simple and -uncomplicated views. If he should happen to prove agreeable, if things -fitted in and came right, why then—the arrangement was one which might -have its advantages. The original estate of Mount which was comprehended -in the entail was not a large one, but still it was not unworthy -consideration, especially when <i>he</i> had a little and <i>she</i> had a little -besides. Anne, it need not be said, took no such serious contingency -into her thoughts. But she too looked for Heathcote’s arrival with -curiosity, almost with anxiety. He was one who had been as she now was, -and who had fallen—fallen from that high estate. He had been loved—as -Anne felt herself to be loved; but he had been betrayed. She thought -with awe of the anguish, the horror of unwilling conviction, the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_148" id="page_148">{148}</a></span> dying -out of all beauty and glory from the world, which it must have been his -to experience. And he had lived long years since then, on this changed -earth, under these changed skies. She began to long to see him with a -fervour of curiosity which was mingled with pity and sympathy, and yet a -certain touch of delicate scorn. How could he have lived after, lived so -long, sunk (no doubt) into a dreamy routine of living, as if mere -existence was worth retaining without hope or love? She was more curious -about him than she had ever been about any visitor before, with perhaps -a far-off consciousness that all this might happen to herself, mingling -with the vehement conviction that it never could happen, that she was as -far above it and secure from it as heaven is from the tempests and -troubles of earth.</p> - -<p>The much-expected visitor arrived in the twilight of an October evening -just before dinner, and his first introduction to the family was in the -indistinct light of the fire—one of the first fires of the season, -which lighted up the drawing-room with a fitful ruddy blaze shining upon -the white dresses of the girls, but scarcely revealing the elder people -in their darker garments. A man in evening dress very often looks his -best: but he does not look romantic—he does not look like a hero—the -details of his appearance are too much like those of everybody else. -Anne, looking at him breathlessly, trying to get a satisfactory -impression of him when the light leaped up for a moment, found him too -vigorous, too large, too life-like for her fastidious fancy; but Rose -was made perfectly happy by the appearance of a man with whom it would -not be at all necessary, she thought, to be upon stilts. The sound of -his voice when he spoke dispersed ever so many visions. It was not too -serious, as the younger sister had feared. It had not the lofty -composure which the elder had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_149" id="page_149">{149}</a></span> hoped. He gave his arm to Mrs. Mountford -with the air of a man not the least detached from his fellow-creatures. -‘There will be a frost to-night,’ he said; ‘it is very cold outside; but -it is worth while being out in the cold to come into a cosy room like -this.’ Charley Ashley would have said the very same had it been he who -had walked up to dinner from the rectory. Heathcote had not been in the -house for years, not perhaps ever since all <i>that</i> had happened, yet he -spoke about the cosy room like any chance visitor. It would not be too -much to say that there was a certain disgust in the revulsion with which -Anne turned from him, though no doubt it was premature to pass judgment -on him in the first five minutes like this.</p> - -<p>In the light of the dining-room all mystery departed, and he was seen as -he was. A tall man, strong, and well developed, with dark and very curly -hair tinged all about his temples with grey; his lips smiling, his eyes -somewhat serious, though kindling now and then with a habit of turning -quickly round upon the person he was addressing. Four pairs of eyes were -turned upon him with great curiosity as he took his seat at Mrs. -Mountford’s side; two of them were satisfied, two not so. This, Mr. -Mountford felt, was not the rusty and irregular man about town, for whom -he had felt a contempt; still he was turning grey, which shows a feeble -constitution. At sixty the master of Mount had not a grey hair in his -head. As for Anne, this grey hair was the only satisfactory thing about -him. She was not foolish enough to conclude that it must have turned so -in a single night. But she felt that this at least was what might be -expected. She was at the opposite side of the table, and could not but -give a great deal of her attention to him. His hair curled in sheer -wantonness of life and vigour, though it was grey; his voice was round, -and strong, and melodious. As<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_150" id="page_150">{150}</a></span> he sat opposite to her he smiled and -talked, and looked like a person who enjoyed his life. Anne for her own -part scarcely took any part in the conversation at all. For the first -time she threw back her thoughts upon the Italian princess whom she had -so scorned and condemned. Perhaps, after all, it was not she who had -suffered the least. Anne conjured up a picture of that forlorn lady -sitting somewhere in a dim solitary room in the heart of a great silent -palace, thinking over that episode of her youth. Perhaps it was not she, -after all, that was so much in the wrong.</p> - -<p>‘I started from Sandhurst only this morning,’ he was saying, ‘after -committing all kinds of follies with the boys. Imagine a respectable -person of my years playing football! I thought they would have knocked -all the breath out of me: yet you see I have survived. The young fellows -had a match with men far too strong for them—and I used to have some -little reputation that way in old days——’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, yes, you were a great athlete; you played for Oxford in University -matches, and got ever so many goals.’</p> - -<p>‘This is startling,’ Heathcote said; ‘I did not know my reputation had -travelled before me; it is a pity it is not something better worth -remembering. But what do you know about goals, Miss Mountford, if I may -make so bold?’</p> - -<p>‘Rose,’ said that little person, who was wreathed in smiles; ‘that is -Miss Mountford opposite. I am only the youngest. Oh, I heard from -Charley Ashley all about it. We know about goals perfectly well, for we -used to play ourselves long ago in the holidays with Charley and -Willie—till mamma put a stop to it,’ Rose added, with a sigh.</p> - -<p>‘I should think I put a stop to it! You played once, I believe,’ said -Mrs. Mountford, with a slight<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_151" id="page_151">{151}</a></span> frown, feeling that this was a quite -unnecessary confidence.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, much oftener; don’t you recollect, Anne, you played football too, -and you were capital, the boys said?’</p> - -<p>Now Anne was, in fact, much troubled by this revelation. She, in her -present superlative condition, walking about in a halo of higher things, -to be presented to a stranger who was not a stranger, and, no doubt, -would soon hear all about her, as a football player, a girl who was -athletic, a tom-boy, neither less nor more! She was about to reply with -annoyance, when the ludicrous aspect of it suddenly struck her, and she -burst into a laugh in spite of herself. ‘There is such a thing as an -inconvenient memory,’ she said. ‘I am not proud of playing football -now.’</p> - -<p>‘I am not at all ashamed of it,’ said Rose. ‘I never should have known -what a goal was if I hadn’t played. Do you play tennis, <i>too</i>, Mr. -Heathcote? It is not too cold if you are fond of it. Charley said you -were good at anything—good all round, he said.’</p> - -<p>‘That is a very flattering reputation, and you must let me thank Mr. -Charley, whoever he is, for sounding my trumpet. But all that was a -hundred years ago,’ Heathcote said; and this made up a little lost -ground for him with Anne, for she thought she heard something like a -sigh.</p> - -<p>‘You will like to try the covers,’ said Mr. Mountford. ‘I go out very -little myself now-a-days, and I daresay you begin to feel the damp, too. -I don’t preserve so much as I should like to do; these girls are always -interfering with their false notions; but, all the same, I can promise -you a few days’ sport.’</p> - -<p>‘Is it the partridges or the poachers that the young ladies patronise?’ -Heathcote said.</p> - -<p>‘My dear,’ said Mrs. Mountford, ‘what is the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_152" id="page_152">{152}</a></span> use of calling attention -to Anne’s crotchets? She has her own way of thinking, Mr. Heathcote. I -tell her she must never marry a sportsman. But, indeed, she has a great -deal to say for herself. It does not seem half so silly when you hear -what she has got to say.’</p> - -<p>Anne presented a somewhat indignant countenance to the laughing glance -of the new cousin. She would not be drawn into saying anything in her -own defence.</p> - -<p>‘You will find a little sport, all the same,’ said Mr. Mountford; ‘but I -go out very seldom myself; and I should think you must be beginning to -feel the damp, too.’</p> - -<p>‘Not much,’ said the younger man, with a laugh. He was not only athletic -and muscular, but conscious of his strength, and somewhat proud of it. -The vigour in him seemed an affront to all Anne’s pre-conceived ideas, -as it was to her father’s comfortable conviction of the heir’s -elderliness; his very looks seemed to cast defiance at these two -discomfited critics. That poor lady in the Italian palace! it could not -have been she that was so much in the wrong, after all.</p> - -<p>‘I like him very much, mamma,’ cried Rose, when they got into the -drawing-room; ‘I like him immensely: he is one of the very nicest men I -ever saw. Do let us make use of him now he is here. Don’t you know that -dance you always promised us?—let us have the dance while Heathcote is -here. Old! who said he was old? he is delightful; and so nice-looking, -and such pretty curly hair.’</p> - -<p>‘Hush, my pet, do not be too rapturous; he is very nice, I don’t deny; -but still, let us see how he bears a longer inspection; one hour at -dinner is not enough to form an opinion. How do you like your cousin -Heathcote, Anne?’</p> - -<p>‘He is not at all what I expected,’ Anne said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_153" id="page_153">{153}</a></span></p> - -<p>‘She expected a Don Quixote; she expected a Lord Byron, with his collar -turned down; somebody that talked nothing but poetry. I am so glad,’ -said Rose, ‘he is not like that. I shall not mind Mount going to -Heathcote now. He is just my kind of man, not Anne’s at all.’</p> - -<p>‘No, he is not Anne’s kind,’ said the mother.</p> - -<p>Anne did not say anything. She agreed in their verdict; evidently -Heathcote was one of those disappointments of which before she met Cosmo -the world had been full. Many people had excited generally her -curiosity, if not in the same yet in a similar way, and these had -disappointed her altogether. She did not blame Heathcote. If he was -unable to perceive his own position in the world, and the attitude that -was befitting to him, possibly it was not his fault. Very likely it was -not his fault; most probably he did not know any better. You cannot -expect a man to act contrary to his nature, Anne said to herself; and -she gave up Heathcote with a little gentle disdain. This disdain is the -very soul of toleration. It is so much more easy to put up with the -differences, the discrepancies, of other people’s belief or practice, -when you find them inferior, not to be judged by your standards. This -was what Anne did. She was not angry with him for not being the -Heathcote she had looked for. She was tolerant: he knew no better; if -you look for gold in a pebble, it is not the pebble’s fault if you do -not find it. This was the mistake she had made. She went to the other -end of the room where candles were burning on a table and chairs set out -around. It was out of reach of all the chatter about Heathcote in which -she did not agree. She took a book, and set it up before her to make a -screen before her gaze, and, thus defended, went off at once into her -private sanctuary and thought of Cosmo. Never was there a transformation -scene more easily<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_154" id="page_154">{154}</a></span> managed. The walls of the Mount drawing-room divided, -they gave place to a group of the beeches, with two figures seated -underneath, or to a bit of the commonplace road, but no longer -commonplace—a road that led to the Manor. What right had a girl to -grumble at her companions, or any of their ways, when she could escape -in the twinkling of an eye into some such beautiful place, into some -such heavenly company, which was all her own? But yet there would come -back occasionally, as through a glass, an image of the Italian lady upon -whom she had been so hard a little while before. Poor Italian lady! -evidently, after all, Heathcote’s life had not been blighted. Had she, -perhaps, instead of injuring him only blighted her own?</p> - -<p>The softly-lighted room, the interchange of soft voices at one end, the -figure at the other intent upon a book, lighting up eyes full of dreams, -seemed a sort of enchanted vision of home to Heathcote Mountford when, -after an interval, he came in alone, hesitating a little as he crossed -the threshold. He was not used to home. A long time ago his own house -had been closed up at the death of his mother—not so much closed up but -that now and then he went to it with a friend or two, establishing their -bachelorhood in the old faded library and drawing-room, which could be -smoked in, and had few associations. But the woman’s part of the place -was all shut up, and he was not used to any woman’s part in his life. -This, however, was all feminine; he went in as to an enchanted castle. -Even Mrs. Mountford, who was commonplace enough, and little Rose, who -was a pretty little girl and no more, seemed wonderful creatures to him -who had dropped out of acquaintance with such creatures; and the elder -daughter was something more. He felt a little shy, middle-aged as he -was, as he went in. And this place had many associations; one time or -other it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_155" id="page_155">{155}</a></span> would be his own; one time or other it might come to pass that -he, like his old kinsman, would pass by the drawing-room, and prefer the -ease of the library, his own chair and his papers. At this idea he -laughed within himself, and went up to Mrs. Mountford on her sofa, who -stopped talking when she saw who it was.</p> - -<p>‘Mr. Mountford has gone to his own room. I was to tell you he has -something to do.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, papa has always an excuse!’ cried Rose; ‘he never comes here in the -evening. I am sure this room is far nicer, and we are far nicer, than -sitting there all by himself among those musty books. And he never reads -them even! he puts on his dressing-gown and sits at his ease——’</p> - -<p>‘Hush, you silly child! When a gentleman comes to be papa’s age he can’t -be expected to care for the company of girls, even when they are his -own. I will take my work and sit with him by-and-by. You must not give -your cousin reason to think that you are undutiful to papa.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, never mind!’ said Rose; ‘Mr. Heathcote, come, and be on my side -against mamma. It is so seldom we have gentlemen staying here—indeed, -there are very few gentlemen in the county—there are daughters, nothing -but daughters, in most of the houses. And mamma has promised us a dance -whenever we could get enough men. I want her to give it while you are -here.’</p> - -<p>‘While I am here; but you don’t suppose I am a dancing man?’</p> - -<p>‘You can dance, I am sure,’ said Rose. ‘I can see it in your face; and -then you would make acquaintance with all the neighbours. It would be -dreadful when you come to live here after our time if you do not know a -soul. You must make acquaintance with everybody; and it would be far -more fun to have a ball than a quantity of dreary<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_156" id="page_156">{156}</a></span> dinner-parties. Do -come here and be on my side against mamma!’</p> - -<p>‘How can I be against my kind kinswoman,’ he said laughing, ‘who has -taken me in and received me so graciously, though I belong to the other -branch? That would be ingratitude of the basest sort.’</p> - -<p>‘Then you must be against me,’ said Rose.</p> - -<p>‘That would be impossible!’ he said, with another laugh; and drew his -chair close to the table and threw himself into the discussion. Rose’s -bright little countenance lighted up, her blue eyes shone, her cheeks -glowed. She got a piece of paper and a pencil, and began to reckon up -who could be invited. ‘The men first,’ she said, with the deepest -gravity, furtively applying her pencil to her lips to make it mark the -blacker as in old school-room days; ‘the men must go down first, for we -are always sure of plenty of girls—but you cannot have a dance without -men. First of all, I will put down you. You are one to start with—Mr. -Heathcote Mountford; how funny it is to have a gentleman of the same -name, who is not papa!’</p> - -<p>‘Ah! that is because you never had a brother!’ said Mrs. Mountford, with -a sigh; ‘it never seemed at all strange to us at home. I beg your -pardon, I am sure, Mr. Heathcote; of course it would have interfered -with you; but for girls not to have a brother is sad for them, poor -things! It always makes a great deal of difference in a girl’s life.’</p> - -<p>‘What am I to say?’ asked Heathcote. ‘I am very sorry, but—how can I be -sorry when I have just become conscious of my privileges; it is an -extremely pleasant thing to step into this vacant post.’</p> - -<p>‘A second cousin is not like a brother,’ said Rose; ‘but, anyhow, at a -dance you would be the man of the house. And you do dance? if you do<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_157" id="page_157">{157}</a></span>n’t -you must learn before the ball. We will teach you, Anne and I.’</p> - -<p>‘I can dance a little, but I have no doubt lessons would do me good. Now -go on; I want to see my comrades and coadjutors.’</p> - -<p>Rose paused with her pencil in her hand. ‘Mr. Heathcote Mountford, that -is one; that is a great thing to begin with. And then there is—then -there is—who shall I put down next? who is there else, mamma? Of course -Charley Ashley; but he is a clergyman, he scarcely counts. That is why a -garden-party is better than a dance in the country, because the -clergymen all count for that. I think there is somebody staying with the -Woodheads, and there is sure to be half-a-dozen at Meadowlands; shall I -put down six for Meadowlands? They must invite some one if they have not -so many; all our friends must invite some one—we must insist upon it,’ -Rose said.</p> - -<p>‘My dear, that is always the difficulty; you know that is why we have -had to give it up so often. In the vacation there is Willie Ashley; he -is always somebody.’</p> - -<p>‘He must come,’ cried Rose, energetically, ‘for three days—that will be -enough—for three days; Charley must write and tell him. And then there -is—who is there more, mamma? Mr. Heathcote Mountford, that is an -excellent beginning, and he is an excellent dancer, and will go on all -the evening through, and dance with everybody. Still, we cannot give a -ball with only one man.’</p> - -<p>‘I will send for my brother and some more of those young fellows from -Sandhurst, Mrs. Mountford, if you can put them up.’</p> - -<p>‘If we can put them up!’ Rose all but threw herself into the arms of -this new cousin, her eyes all but filled with tears of gratitude. She -gave a little shriek of eagerness—‘Of course we can put them up;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_158" id="page_158">{158}</a></span> oh! -as many as ever you please, as many as you can get:—shall I put down -twenty for Sandhurst? Now we have a real ball in a moment,’ said Rose, -with enthusiasm. It had been the object of her desires all her life.</p> - -<p>‘Does Miss Mountford take no interest in the dance?’ Heathcote asked.</p> - -<p>‘Anne? Oh, she will take it up when it comes near the time. She will do -a great deal; she will arrange everything; but she does not take any -pleasure in planning; and then,’ said Rose, dropping her voice to a -whisper—‘Hush! don’t look to make her think we are talking of her; she -does not like to be talked of—Mr. Heathcote! Anne is—engaged.’</p> - -<p>‘My dear child!’ cried her mother. ‘Mr. Heathcote, this is all nonsense; -you must not pay the least attention to what this silly child says. -Engaged!—what folly, Rose! you know your sister is nothing of the kind. -It is nothing but imagination; it is only your nonsense, it is——’</p> - -<p>‘You wouldn’t dare, mamma, to say that to Anne,’ said Rose, with a very -solemn face.</p> - -<p>‘Dare! I hope I should dare to say anything to Anne. Mr. Heathcote will -think we are a strange family when the mother wouldn’t <i>dare</i> to say -anything to the daughter, and her own child taunts her with it. I don’t -know what Mr. Heathcote would think of us,’ said Mrs. Mountford, -vehemently, ‘if he believed what you said.’</p> - -<p>‘I do not think anything but what you tell me,’ said Heathcote, -endeavouring to smooth the troubled waters. ‘I know there are family -difficulties everywhere. Pray don’t think of making explanations. I am -sure whatever you do will be kind, and whatever Miss Mountford does will -spring from a generous heart. One needs only to look at her to see -that.’</p> - -<p>Neither of the ladies thought he had paid any<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_159" id="page_159">{159}</a></span> attention to Anne, and -they were surprised—for it had not occurred to them that Anne, -preoccupied as she was, could have any interest for the new comer. They -were startled by the quite unbounded confidence in Anne which he thus -took it upon him to profess. They exchanged looks of surprise. ‘Yes, -Anne has a generous heart—no one can deny that,’ Mrs. Mountford said. -It was in the tone of a half-unwilling admission, but it was all the -more effective on that account. Anne had listened to their voices, -half-pleased thus to escape interruption, half-disgusted to have more -and more proofs of the frivolity of the new comer: she had heard a -sentence now and then, an exclamation from Rose, and had been much -amused by them. She was more startled by the cessation of the sounds, by -the sudden fall, the whispering, the undertones, than by the -conversation. What could they be talking of now, and why should they -whisper as if there were secrets in hand? Next minute, however, when she -was almost roused to the point of getting up to see what it was, Mrs. -Mountford’s voice became audible again.</p> - -<p>‘Do you sing now, Mr. Heathcote? I remember long ago you used to have a -charming voice!’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t know that it was ever very charming; but such as it is I have -the remains of it,’ he said.</p> - -<p>‘Then come and sing something,’ said Mrs. Mountford. What was it they -had been saying which broke off so suddenly, and occasioned this jump to -a different subject? But Anne composed herself to her dreams again, when -she saw the group moving towards the piano. He sang, too, then! sang and -danced and played football, after what had happened to him? Decidedly, -the Italian princess must have had much to be said on her side.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_160" id="page_160">{160}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIV" id="CHAPTER_XIV"></a>CHAPTER XIV.<br /><br /> -<small>THE SPECTATOR’S VIEW.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">A few</span> days passed, and the new cousin continued to be very popular at -Mount. Mrs. Mountford made no secret of her liking for him.</p> - -<p>‘Of course,’ she said, ‘I was never partial to the other branch, -especially having no son myself. The Mount family has never liked them. -Though they have always been poor, they have claimed to be the elder -branch, and when your property is to go away from you without any fault -of yours, naturally you are not fond of those to whom it goes. But with -Heathcote one forgets all these prejudices. He is so thoroughly nice, he -is so affectionate. He has no family of his own (unless you call his -delicate brother a family), and anyone can see how he likes ladies’ -society. Mr. Mountford thinks as much of him as we do. I quite look -forward to introducing him to our friends; and I hope he may get to be -popular in the county, for now that we have made such friends with him, -he will be often here I trust.’</p> - -<p>Such was the excellent opinion his cousin’s wife expressed of him. It is -needless to say that her neighbours imputed motives to poor Mrs. -Mountford, and jumped at the cause of her partiality. ‘She means him to -marry Rose,’ everybody said; and some applauded her prudence; and some -denounced her selfishness in sacrificing Rose to a man old enough to be -her father; but, on the whole, the county approved both the man himself -and the opportunity of making his acquaintance. He was asked to dinner -at Meadowlands, which was all that could be desired for any visitor in -the neighbourhood. The Mountfords felt that they had done their utmost<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_161" id="page_161">{161}</a></span> -for any guest of theirs when they had procured them this gratification. -And Lord Meadowlands quite ‘took to’ Heathcote. This was the best thing -that could happen to anyone new to the county, the sort of thing on -which the other members of society congratulated each other when the -neophyte was a favourite, taking each other into corners and saying: ‘He -has been a great deal at the Castle,’ or ‘He has been taken up by Lord -Meadowlands.’ Thus the reception given to the heir of entail was in -every way satisfactory, and even Mr. Mountford himself got to like him. -The only one who kept aloof was Anne, who was at this moment very much -preoccupied with her own thoughts; but it was not from any dislike to -the new member of the household. He had not fulfilled her expectations. -But that most probably was not his fault. And, granting the utter want -of delicate perception in him, and understanding of the rôle which ought -to have been his in the circumstances, Anne, after a few days, came to -think tolerably well of her new kinsman. He was intelligent: he could -talk of things which the others rejected as nonsense or condemned as -highflown. On the question of the cottages, for instance, he had shown -great good sense; and on the whole, though with indifference, Anne -conceded a general approval to him. But they did not draw together, or -so at least the other members of the family thought. Rose monopolised -him when he was in the drawing-room. She challenged him at every turn, -as a very young and innocent girl may do, out of mere high spirits, -without conscious coquetry at least: she contradicted him and defied -him, and adopted his opinions and scoffed at them by turns, keeping him -occupied, with an instinctive art which was quite artless, and meant -‘fun’ more than anything serious. At all this pretty play Anne looked on -without seeing it, having her head full of other things. And<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_162" id="page_162">{162}</a></span> the mother -looked on, half-afraid, half-disapproving (as being herself of a -stricter school and older fashion), yet not sufficiently afraid or -displeased to interfere; while Heathcote himself was amused, and did not -object to the kittenish sport of the pretty little girl, whose father -(he said to himself) he might have been, so far as age went. But he kept -an eye, notwithstanding, on ‘the other girl,’ whom he did not -understand. That she was ‘engaged,’ and yet not permitted to be spoken -of as ‘engaged’—that there was some mystery about her—was evident. A -suspicion of a hidden story excites every observer. Heathcote wanted to -find it out, as all of us would have done. As for himself, he was not -incapable of higher sentiments, though Anne had easily set him down as -being so: but his experiences had not been confined to one romantic -episode, as she, in her youthful ignorance, had supposed. The story was -true enough, but with a difference. The Italian princess was not a noble -lady compelled to wed in her own rank and relinquish her young -Englishman, as Mrs. Mountford had recounted it, but a poor girl of much -homelier gentility, whose lot had been fixed long before Heathcote -traversed her simple path, and who fulfilled that lot with a few tears -but not very much reluctance, much more in the spirit of Keziah than of -Anne. Heathcote himself looked back upon the little incident with a -smile. He would have gone to the ends of the earth to serve her had she -wanted his help, but he did not regret that Antonia had not been his -wife all these years. Perhaps he would have required a moment’s -reflection to think what anyone could mean who referred to this story. -But even the fact that such an episode was of no special importance in -his life would have been against him with Anne in the present state of -her thoughts. She would not have allowed it as possible or right that a -man should have gone beyond the simplicity<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_163" id="page_163">{163}</a></span> of such an incident. In her -experience love was as yet the first great fact, the one enlightener, -awakener of existence. It had changed her own life from the foundation, -nay, had given her an individual, separate life, as she fondly thought, -such as, without this enchantment, no one could have. But Heathcote had -lived a great deal longer, had seen a great deal more. He had been -‘knocked about,’ as people say. He had seen the futility of a great many -things upon which simple people set their hopes; he had come to be not -very solicitous about much which seems deeply important to youth. -Thirty-five had worked upon him its usual influence. But of all this -Anne knew nothing, and she put him aside as a problem not worth -solution, as a being whose deficiencies were deficiencies of nature. She -was more interesting to him. She was the only one of the house who was -not evident on the surface. And his interest was stimulated by natural -curiosity. He wanted to know what the story was which the child-sister -referred to so frankly, which the mother wanted to ignore. There was -even a something in the intercourse between Anne and her father which -caught his attention. They were on perfectly good terms—but what was -it? He was a man who took things as they came, who did not feel a very -profound interest in anything—save one thing. But this little mystery -reflected in Anne’s serious eyes, and pervading the house with a sense -of something not apparent, roused the dormant sentiment more than he -could have thought possible.</p> - -<p>The one thing that interested Heathcote Mountford to the bottom of his -heart was his young brother, for whom he had a tender, semi-parental -passion, preferring his concerns above everything else in the world. It -was this, indeed, which had brought him to Mount with a proposal which -he could not but feel that Mr. Mountford would grasp<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_164" id="page_164">{164}</a></span> at. He had come to -offer to his predecessor in the entail that they should join together -and break it—a singular step for an heir in his position to take. But -as yet he had said nothing about this chief object of his visit. When he -formed the project it had not cost him much. What did he want with an -estate and a big house to keep up, he had said to himself in the -snugness of his bachelor’s chambers, so much more comfortable than -Mount, or any other such big barrack of a place could ever be made? He -had already a shabby old house to which he went now and then to shoot, -and which—because Edward (not to speak of himself) had been born in it, -and their mother had died in it, as well as many generations of Edwards -and Heathcotes in the past—could not be done away with, however -melancholy and dismal it might get to be. But Mount had no associations -for him. Why should not St. John’s girls have it, as was just and -natural? The Mountfords of Mount were not anything so very great that -heaven and earth should be moved to keep them up. Besides, he would not -be of much use in keeping them up; he never meant to marry (not because -of Antonia, but probably because of ‘knocking about’ and forgetting that -any one thing in the world was more important than any other), and -Edward was delicate, and there was no telling what the boy might -do;—far better to have a good sum of money, to set that wayward fellow -above the reach of trouble, and leave it to St. John’s girls to provide -for the race. No doubt they would do that fast enough. They would marry, -and their children could take the name. Thus he had his plans all cut -and dry before he reached Mount. But when he got there, either the -reserve of Mr. Mountford’s manner, or some certain charm in the place -which he had not anticipated, deferred the execution of it. He thought -it over and arranged all the details during each day’s shooting, -notwith<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_165" id="page_165">{165}</a></span>standing that the gamekeepers insisted all the time on -discoursing with him upon the estate, and pointing out what should be -done under a new reign which the present master did not care to have -done; but in the evening he was too tired (he said to himself) to open -so important a subject; and thus day after day went on. Perhaps the -discourses even of the gamekeepers, and their eagerness to point out to -him the evils that were to be amended at presumably the not very distant -period when a new monarch should reign, and the welcome he received from -the people he met, and the success he had at Meadowlands, and the -interest which he excited in the county, had something to do with the -disinclination to open the subject which seemed to have crept upon him; -or probably it was only laziness. This was the reason which he assigned -to himself—indolence of mind, which was one of his besetting sins he -knew. But, anyhow, whatever was the cause, he had as yet said nothing on -the subject. He had accepted all the allusions that were made to his -future connection with the county, and the overtures of friendship; and -he had owned himself flattered by the attentions of Lord Meadowlands: -everything had gone indeed precisely as things might have gone had he -fully accepted his position as heir of the Mountfords. Nobody for a -moment doubted that position: and still he did nothing to undeceive -them, nothing to show his real disinclination to assume the burden of -the ownership of Mount. Was he really so disinclined to accept it? After -this week of the new life his head seemed confused on the subject, and -he was not quite so sure.</p> - -<p>But all the same he felt instinctively that Anne would make a far better -squire than he should. He had gone through the village with the girls, -and he had seen how everything centred in Anne. Though there was (he -thought) a certain severity in her, the village people evidently did not -feel it. They were<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_166" id="page_166">{166}</a></span> more at home with her than even with her little -sister. The rector came up to her in the street, and put his arm within -hers, and led her away to see something which had to be done, with a -mixture of authority and appeal which touched the looker-on. Mr. Ashley -was old and feeble, and there was something pretty in the way in which -he supported himself at once physically and morally on the young, slim, -elastic strength of the girl, who was the natural born princess of the -place. At the schools she was supreme. Wherever she went, it was -evidently recognised that she was the representative at once of law and -of power. Heathcote, who had not been used to it, looked upon her with -surprise and a wondering admiration. ‘You are in great demand,’ he said. -‘You have a great deal to do. You seem to have the government of the -place in your hands.’</p> - -<p>‘Papa is not so active as he used to be,’ Anne said. ‘Besides, there are -so many little things which come more naturally to me.’</p> - -<p>‘You are princess regent,’ he said: ‘I see; you act for the king, but -you are more than the king. A man could never do that.’</p> - -<p>‘Men can do a great deal more than women in everything,’ said Anne, with -decision.</p> - -<p>‘Oh! can they? I should not have said so; but no doubt you know best.’</p> - -<p>‘If they cannot, what is the meaning of everything that is said in the -world, Mr. Heathcote? you would have to change the entire language. We -are never supposed to be good for anything. What is life to us is -supposed to be an amusement to you.’</p> - -<p>‘This is a new light,’ said Heathcote, somewhat startled. He had no idea -that it was poor Antonia, the mother of half a dozen children, who was -in Anne’s mind all the time.</p> - -<p>‘Anne, don’t! Mamma says you should never talk like that to gentlemen; -they will think you go<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_167" id="page_167">{167}</a></span> in for women’s rights and all sorts of horrible -things. She doesn’t, cousin Heathcote. She only wants to make you -stare.’</p> - -<p>‘I think I go in for everybody’s rights; I don’t mind whether they are -women or men,’ said Anne. ‘Mrs. Fisher, what is the matter? The children -don’t come to school, and Johnny has left the choir. There must be some -reason for all that.’</p> - -<p>‘Miss Anne,’ said the woman, with a smirk and a curtsey, ‘Johnny’s been -in the rectory kitchen learning to be a boy. Mr. Douglas, miss, that was -stopping at the rectory, took a fancy to him, and old Simes is -a-training of him. Mr. Douglas—that’s the gentleman—is going to have -him at his house in town, Miss Anne. You knows him, Johnny says.’</p> - -<p>At this Rose gave vent to a suppressed giggle, and the woman smirked -more broadly than ever. But these signs might not have caught the -attention of Heathcote but for the violent flush which he saw overspread -Anne’s face. His attention was roused on the moment.</p> - -<p>‘Mr. Douglas has been gone for some time,’ he heard Anne say. A note had -got into her voice that had not been there before—a softness, a -roundness, a melting of the tones. Mr. Douglas!—who was he? Heathcote -said who was the fellow? within himself with an instinctive opposition. -‘The fellow’ had nothing whatever to do with him, yet he disliked him at -once.</p> - -<p>‘Yes, Miss Anne; but Johnny has been in the rectory kitchen a-training -ever since the gentleman went away.’</p> - -<p>Anne made the woman a little friendly sign with her hand and went on. -She did not pursue her inquiries as officer of the school any more: she -accepted the excuse, though it was no excuse; which showed, he said to -himself with a smile, how efficient female officers of school boards -would be. Perhaps<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_168" id="page_168">{168}</a></span> she was half humbled by this evidence of being too -easily satisfied. She volunteered a profession of her faith.</p> - -<p>‘I do not approve of too stringent measures: you ought not to set up one -arbitrary rule; you ought to take the circumstances into consideration.’ -All this was said with a little heat. ‘I suppose why school boards have -been so unpopular where they exist is very much because of that.’</p> - -<p>Again a little giggle escaped from the bosom of Rose; but it was quickly -suppressed. She gave Heathcote a significant look, as Anne was stopped -by some one else who wanted to speak to her. ‘That was the gentleman,’ -Rose whispered, with mischievous delight.</p> - -<p>Well, if it was the gentleman! Heathcote thought, he was a lucky fellow; -but the idea of giving up Mount was from that moment less pleasant, he -could scarcely tell why. He did not relish the notion of some fellow -called Douglas, probably some Scotsman who would not part with his very -ordinary name for a king’s ransom, coming into possession of the old -place. Who was Douglas? On the whole, Heathcote for the first time -acknowledged to himself that there might be two sides to the question, -and that there was something wrong and faithless in separating the old -name of Mountford and the male heir from Mount.</p> - -<p>Next day, however, by accident further light was thrown to him on this -question. The principal post came in at noon, and it was the habit of -the house that the letters which came by it should be ranged upon one of -the tables in the hall, in little heaps, where their respective owners -found them. Coming in to get his share of the budget, Heathcote found -that Mr. Mountford was there before him. He had his letters in his left -hand, but with his right had taken up another which lay on Anne’s heap. -He<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_169" id="page_169">{169}</a></span> was balancing it in his fingers half-contemptuous, half-angry, when -Heathcote, with the involuntary indiscretion which so often belongs to -the innocent, knowing no reason why anything should be done in secret, -paused behind him, and saw at a glance what he was about. It was not -anything tragical: Mr. Mountford had no intention of tampering with -Anne’s letter: but he held it up, and turned it over, and looked at it -all round with a look of disgust on his countenance. By this time -Heathcote had been awakened to the sense that he was prying into a -domestic mystery, he who had no right to do so, and he hastened to -gather his own letters from the table. Mrs. Mountford by this time had -come in, on the same errand. Her husband held the letter up to her with -an indignant ‘humph!’ ‘Do you see? She is keeping it up in spite of all -I have said.’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t want to see it,’ said the stepmother, nervously; ‘put it down. -I have nothing to do with Anne’s letters, papa!’</p> - -<p>And then a sort of sensation spread through the room, he could not tell -what, and Heathcote became aware that Anne herself had come in. She -walked straight to the table where her father stood, still with her -letter in his hand. She recognised it in his hand with a sudden flush of -consciousness, and stood facing him, saying nothing, pale now, but with -courage, not fear.</p> - -<p>‘This is for you apparently, Anne; you are keeping up the correspondence -whatever I may say.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, papa, I am keeping it up.’ She put out her hand and took the -letter. She made no explanation or excuse; but went away with it, -slowly, with a sort of formal dignity. It was a strange little scene. -The observer seemed to see the story rising like a picture before -him—as Anne had thought she saw his story—but more distinctly as being -more near. He was more interested than he could say.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_170" id="page_170">{170}</a></span> He had no right to -inquire into what was so distinctly a family secret. If she only would -have confided in him, told him how it was!—but that he had no right to -expect. It made a visible commotion in the house for the rest of the -day. Little signs of agitation were visible, signs which without this -elucidation would only have puzzled, would have conveyed no -enlightenment to his mind. Anne did not appear at lunch. She had gone, -it was said, to the village, and no doubt had stopped to luncheon with -the Woodheads. And Mr. Mountford was gloomy and absent, yet at the same -time more alert than usual. ‘I am going to ride over to Hunston this -afternoon,’ he announced. ‘Perhaps you would like to go with me, -Heathcote, and see the place?’</p> - -<p>‘What are you going to do at Hunston, papa? Let me come with you too: -let us all go together,’ said Rose.</p> - -<p>‘I am going to see Mr. Loseby,’ her father said; and this, though it had -no effect upon Rose, made her mother start slightly, and cast an anxious -look towards the head of the table.</p> - -<p>‘Do you think, St. John, it is a good day to go to Hunston? It is very -damp, and I am sure you will make your cold worse.’</p> - -<p>Mrs. Mountford was not the soul of generosity: but she was far from -being unjust or cruel. She was afraid of what her husband might be going -to do, even should it be for the advantage of Rose.</p> - -<p>‘I think I can manage to take care of my cold,’ he said.</p> - -<p>‘But that is just what gentlemen never do. Don’t go to-day, St. John. -Wait till it is drier and brighter;’ she even got up from her chair and -went round to him and put her hand on his shoulder. ‘Wait till you have -had time to think.’</p> - -<p>‘I have taken too much time to think,’ he said crossly, turning away his -head and rising from the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_171" id="page_171">{171}</a></span> table. ‘Heathcote, if you would like to come -with me, I shall be ready in half-an-hour.’</p> - -<p>‘What is it, mamma?’ said Rose, half frightened too, as her father went -out of the room. Mrs. Mountford—the spectator always thought the better -of her for it—fell a-crying, without being able to restrain herself, -half in real distress, half in nervous excitement. ‘Oh, Mr. Heathcote, -if you can do anything to smooth him down, do so; I am afraid he is -going to—to tamper with his will!’ she cried.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XV" id="CHAPTER_XV"></a>CHAPTER XV.<br /><br /> -<small>TAMPERING WITH A LAWYER.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> road to Hunston was a pleasant road. They went through the park -first, which was in all the glory of autumn colouring, the oaks and the -beeches a wonder to see, and even the slim elms all golden standing up -against a blue afternoon sky, in which already there began to appear -faint beginnings of purple and crimson as the sun got westward; and -after that the road ran between other parks, and more and more wealth of -russet or of golden foliage. But Mr. Mountford was not a very -entertaining companion. Heathcote when he was ‘at home’ was in very good -society—in society, that is to say, which was agreeable, where there -was much talk and great freedom of intercourse, and since he had been at -Mount he had found pleasure in the society of the girls, one of whom -amused him, while one interested him. Mr. Mountford, however, did -neither the one nor the other. He indicated the different houses with -his riding-whip as they passed.</p> - -<p>‘That’s Newton-Magna. The Newtons once contested the county with us. My -grandfather married a Newton—they are, therefore, connections. This is<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_172" id="page_172">{172}</a></span> -where old Lady Prayrey Poule lives. She has just made a ridiculous -marriage, of which everybody is talking. I don’t know who the man is. -There is Meadowlands to the right, and that’s young Lassell’s place, -whom I suppose you have heard of.’</p> - -<p>This was the style of his conversation. Sometimes he varied it by giving -his kinsman an account of the value of the livings and the goodness of -the land.</p> - -<p>‘It is worth so much an acre on this side of the river, and not half on -the other side. The land up my way is generally good, and the livings -are excellent. In my parish the living has always been held by a younger -son, but naturally there has been no younger son. Ah! you think that -Edward;—well, if I had known more of Edward, I might perhaps—but he is -quite young; there is plenty of time.’</p> - -<p>Between the intervals, however, when he was not engaged with these local -details, Mr. Mountford had not much to say. He was not brilliant in -himself, and he was preoccupied. He had all the air of a man who was -going, as his wife said, to tamper with his will. When his companion -spoke to him he gave short answers: his thoughts were somewhere else. -When they approached the town he became still more brief in his -indications.</p> - -<p>‘The church is considered fine, I believe, and the High Street is a nice -street. I am going to Loseby’s, who is my lawyer. He has had all the -Mount affairs in his hands since ever I can remember, and much -longer—he and his father before him. He’ll like to make your -acquaintance; but in the meantime I have some business with him. Perhaps -you would like to look about the town a little.’</p> - -<p>Heathcote said he would like to look about the town, and Mr. Mountford, -evidently gathering himself up with an effort, buttoned up a button -which had come undone of his coat, and with a very deter<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_173" id="page_173">{173}</a></span>mined air -strode into the lawyer’s office. It was part of a tall red brick house, -which formed an important feature in the scene, a house with many rows -of windows, long and narrow, which twinkled in the setting sun. In -Heathcote’s mind there was a great deal of mingled curiosity and -sympathy. He would have liked to know what was going to happen, to be -behind Mr. Loseby’s curtains, or in some cupboard full of parchments. -There could be no doubt that something affecting Anne’s future was in -the wind. He laughed at himself, after a moment, to think how much -importance, how much gravity he was attaching to it. After all, he said -to himself, as Cosmo had done before, tyrannical fathers are a thing of -the past—nobody cuts off a child now-a-days with a shilling. No doubt -all Mr. Mountford meant was to tie up her money so that no worthless -fellow of a husband could get at it. But, though he felt that this was -the only reasonable interpretation of Mr. Mountford’s mission, yet the -various little scenes he had been a witness to made an impression upon -his mind in spite of himself. Anne standing grave and simple, facing her -father, holding out her hand for her letter, saying, ‘Yes, I keep it -up’—was it undutiful of the girl? and the father’s stern displeasure -and the mother’s (or stepmother was it? all the more credit to her) -excitement and distress. To be sure a family quarrel always threw a -house into agitation, even where no great harm was to be looked for. No -doubt it was undutiful of the girl. After all, if a parent is not to -have influence on that point, where is the use of him? And no doubt she -had chosen a man unworthy of her, or such a fuss never would have been -made. Heathcote was not a parent, but still he had in some respects the -responsibilities of a parent. Edward was delicate—he was not strong -enough to fight his way against the world; but he was not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_174" id="page_174">{174}</a></span> amiable, the -quality which ought to belong to all delicate and weakly persons, and -which makes up for so many deficiencies. He had strong passions in his -weak body. He had already got into various scrapes, out of which his -brother had been called upon to draw him. Heathcote had a letter in his -pocket now which had given him a great deal of thought. It had drawn him -back to his former conviction that Edward’s affairs were the most -important in the world. It was not in his power by himself to do all -that Edward wanted, to secure the boy’s comfort, so far as that was -possible. He must speak to Mr. Mountford on the ride home. It was not a -thing to be neglected any longer. This was the chief thing in his mind -as he walked about Hunston, looking into the old church and surveying -all the shops. He ‘made acquaintance,’ as his kinsman had bidden him, -with the quiet little county town, with a curious mingling of ideas in -his mind. In the first place, he could not but think how many -generations of Mountfords had trodden this pavement—ladies in -farthingales and men in periwigs, bucks of the Regency, sober -politicians of the period of Reform; and by-and-by it would be his own -turn—he too in his day would ride in on a steady-going old cob, like -St. John Mountford, or drive in the family coach to see his lawyer and -his banker and do his business. But no—he contradicted himself with a -little confusion—no, this was just what he was not to do. For the -moment he had forgotten his own purpose, the object that brought him to -the old home of the race—which was to sever himself from it. No, after -all, he said to himself with a smile, there was not very much to give -up; the pleasure of riding into the county town and receiving the -respectful salutations of all the shopkeepers: that was not much. The -Albany was a better place to live in, Piccadilly was a little more -entertaining<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_175" id="page_175">{175}</a></span> than the High Street. Nevertheless, it was certain that -Heathcote felt a pinch of regret when he remembered that the glories of -Mount and the greetings of Hunston were not to be his. He laughed, but -he did not like it. All the more was it essential that this step should -be taken without delay.</p> - -<p>Heathcote examined everything there was to see in the place, and walked -three or four times from one end to another of the High Street, -awakening the greatest curiosity in the bosoms of all the shopkeepers, -and a flutter of futile hope and expectation behind the bonnets in the -milliner’s windows, where Miss Trimmin’s niece took this novel -apparition for the hero of her last romance. That a gentleman should see -a face at a window, and walk up and down High Street for an hour for the -chance of another glimpse of it, was not at all an out-of-the-way event -for the readers of the ‘Family Herald’—much more likely than that he -should be waiting for Mr. Mountford. When, however, the master of Mount -appeared at last, he bore all the outward signs of a prolonged combat. -His hair was rubbed up off his forehead, so that his hat rested upon the -ends of it, not upon his head. His eyes were agitated and rolling. Mr. -Loseby, a little stout old gentleman, with a large watchchain and seals, -came out after him with similar signs of commotion. The family lawyer -was red and breathless, while his companion was choked and pale. They -came out together with that air of formal politeness which follows a -quarrel, to the door.</p> - -<p>‘Heathcote,’ Mr. Mountford called, holding up his hand; ‘this is Mr. -Loseby, whose name must be known to you as the man of business of my -family for several generations. We have always had the utmost confidence -in them, as they have always done their best for us.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_176" id="page_176">{176}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>‘After such an introduction,’ said Mr. Loseby, ‘I ought to make a bow -and hope for the continuance of custom and favour, which my best efforts -will be exerted to deserve.’</p> - -<p>And then there was a forced laugh, in which some of the resentment of -the two elder men fortunately blew off. They stood together in a circle -at the door of the Queen Anne Mansion. Mr. Loseby only wore no hat. He -was bald and round and shining all over, a man to whom genial -good-humour was evidently more natural than the air of heat and -irritation which was upon him now.</p> - -<p>‘I hope we are to see something of Mr. Heathcote Mountford in the county -after this. I hope you mean to make acquaintance with your neighbours, -and feel yourself at home. The name of Mountford is a passport here.’ -(‘Though I don’t know why it should be—obstinate asses! pig-headed -fools!’ the puffing little lawyer said to himself.)</p> - -<p>‘I am here on false pretences,’ Heathcote said. ‘I fear I have been -taking in my cousin and his family and all their excellent friends. I -may as well tell it at last. My real object in coming was rather to -sever myself from the county than to draw the bond tighter——’</p> - -<p>‘What do you mean?’ said Mr. Mountford, abruptly.</p> - -<p>‘Forgive me for saying nothing about it before. This is a good -opportunity now, when we have Mr. Loseby’s assistance. I came with the -express intention of making a proposal to you, St. John, about the -entail.’</p> - -<p>Mr. Loseby looked first at the speaker and then at his client, forming -his lips into a round, as if he would have said, ‘Whew-w!’ This was -something altogether new.</p> - -<p>Mr. Mountford took no notice of his look; he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_177" id="page_177">{177}</a></span> said, still more abruptly -than before, ‘What about the entail?’</p> - -<p>‘Pardon me if I say it,’ said Heathcote. ‘Mount is quite new to me; it -does not attract me’ (what a fib that was, he felt in his heart). ‘I -shall never marry. I have suffered the time for forming new connections -to pass, and my brother has indifferent health and no liking for country -life. On the other hand, it is natural that my cousin should prefer to -be succeeded by his own family. What I have to say is that I am very -willing, if you like it, to join with you in breaking the entail.’</p> - -<p>‘In breaking the entail!’ Mr. Loseby’s mouth grew rounder and rounder: -he seemed to be forming one whistle after another, which came to -nothing. But he did not take time to express his own surprise or his own -opinion, so much was he occupied in watching the effect of this -announcement upon Mr. Mountford. The latter was dumbfoundered; he stood -and stared at the speaker with blank dismay and consternation. But it -did not apparently produce any livelier or happier impression upon his -mind. He was not eager to snatch at the opportunity of putting his own -child in his place.</p> - -<p>‘You must be cracked,’ he said; ‘do you know how long the Mountfords -have been at Mount?—the oldest house in the county, and, if not the -richest or the largest, in some ways by far the most interesting. -Heathcote, there must be something under this. If you are pressed for -money, if there is anything you want to do, I dare say Loseby will -manage it for you.’</p> - -<p>‘I will do anything that is in reason,’ Mr. Loseby said, not without a -little emphasis which brought a tinge of red on his client’s -countenance. They could not yet give up their duel with each other, -however important the other communication might be.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_178" id="page_178">{178}</a></span></p> - -<p>‘Heathcote Mountford will not ask you to do anything out of reason,’ -cried the other; ‘and in case he should exceed that limit, here am I -ready to be his security. No, we must not hear anything more about -breaking the entail.’</p> - -<p>‘I am afraid you must consent to hear something more,’ said Heathcote, -half pleased, half angry; ‘it is not a sudden fancy. I have considered -it thoroughly; there are numberless advantages, and, so far as I can -see, nothing of substantial weight to be brought forward on the other -side.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, come, this is too much!’ cried the lawyer, moved to professional -interest; ‘nothing on the other side! But this is not a place to discuss -so serious a subject. Step into my office, and let us have it out.’</p> - -<p>‘I have had enough of your office for one day,’ said Mr. Mountford (at -which the lawyer barely restrained a chuckle); ‘I have had quite enough -of your office, I’ll go and see about the horses. If there is anything -wrong, Heathcote, have it out, as he says, with Loseby. He’ll make it -all right for you. He may not always be satisfactory to deal with for -those who prefer to judge for themselves sometimes; but if it is -anything you want, he’ll give you trustworthy advice.’</p> - -<p>‘Thank you for your good word, squire,’ said the lawyer, laughing and -putting his hand to his forehead with the duck of a country bumpkin. -‘Now take a seat,’ he added, as he led the stranger into a trim -wainscoted room with cupboards hid behind half the panels, and the -secrets of half the families of the county in them, ‘and let us talk -this over. I cannot understand why Mountford does not jump at it (yes, I -do; I <i>can</i> understand, now), but why you should wish to do it! Pardon -me, if I say on your side it is mere madness. What good can it do you? -If you want money, as your cousin says, I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_179" id="page_179">{179}</a></span> can get you as much money as -you like—at least,’ he said, pausing to survey him with dubious looks, -as if with a momentary apprehension that his new acquaintance might turn -out a sporting man in difficulties or something of that disreputable -kind, ‘almost as much as you like.’</p> - -<p>‘I do want money,’ Heathcote said, ‘but I do not want it unless I give a -fair equivalent. The entail is of no advantage to me. I live in London. -I do not want to keep up the faded glories of a place in the country.’</p> - -<p>‘Faded glories! We thought, on the contrary, everything was as fine as -in the Queen’s palace, and all new,’ cried Mr. Loseby, with his -favourite restrained whistle of comic surprise.</p> - -<p>‘I have a place of my own,’ said Heathcote, ‘a poor one, I allow, but -enough for my requirements. I am not a marrying man, and very likely, -God knows, to be the last of my family; what do I want with an entailed -estate?’</p> - -<p>‘But that is so easily remedied,’ said the lawyer. ‘Marry—marry, my -dear sir! and you will no longer be the last of your family, and will -very soon learn to appreciate an entailed estate. By——!’ cried Mr. -Loseby, rubbing his hands. He would not say ‘By Jove!’ or even ‘By -George!’ or anything of the sort, which would have been unbecoming his -years and dignity; but when things were too many for him, he swore -‘By——!’ and was refreshed. ‘I could tell you a thing to do,’ cried the -lawyer, with a chuckle, ‘that would save the family from a great deal of -trouble. What do you think that obstinate—I beg your pardon, Mr. -Heathcote, he and I are old friends, we say what we please to each -other?—what do you suppose he has been doing here?—trying to force me, -against all the teachings of reason, to alter his will—to cut off that -fine girl, that delightful creature, Anne.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_180" id="page_180">{180}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>‘Mr. Loseby, I don’t suppose this is a thing which I am intended to -know.’</p> - -<p>‘You will know, sooner or later, if he carries it out,’ cried the -lawyer; ‘but you are right, I have no business to betray my client’s -affairs. But, look here now,’ he said, bending across the table, leaning -on both his elbows to look insinuatingly, coaxingly in Heathcote’s face, -‘look here now! I never saw you before, Mr. Heathcote, but your name is -as familiar to me as my a, b, c, and I am a very old family friend, as I -may say, as well as their man of business. Look here now. You are a very -personable man, and not a bit too old for her, and a most suitable match -in every way. Why shouldn’t you make up to Anne? Hear me out, and don’t -flare up. Bless you, I am not a stranger, nor a mere impudent country -attorney, as perhaps you are thinking. I knew them all before they were -born. Anne is perhaps a little serious, you will think, a little -highfaluting. But nobody knows till they <i>do</i> know her what a fine -creature she is. Anne Mountford is a wife for a king. And here she’s got -entangled with some fellow whom nobody knows, and Mountford of course -refuses his consent. But she is not the girl to be bullied or treated -with severity. Why couldn’t you go in now and try for Anne? You are not -to be supposed to know anything about it; it would all be innocence in -you; and who knows that she mightn’t be glad of the chance of slipping -out of the other, though she won’t give in to threats. Won’t you think -of it? Won’t you think of it? I don’t know the man, if he were a prince, -that might not be proud of Anne.’</p> - -<p>All this Heathcote listened to with very strange sensations. He was -angry, amused, touched by the enthusiasm of the little round shining man -who thus entreated him, with every kind of eloquence he was capable of, -his eyes and hands and his whole frame<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_181" id="page_181">{181}</a></span> twisting into gestures of -persuasion. Heathcote was disposed to laugh, but he was still more -disposed to resent this familiar employment of his cousin’s name.</p> - -<p>‘Are you aware that I have no right to be brought into the family -secrets, to have their affairs thus revealed to me?’ he said. ‘Stop—nor -to hear the name of a young lady for whom I have so much respect treated -so. Allowing that I need not resent it as a liberty, since you are an -older friend than I am, still you must see that between you and me, -strangers to each other——’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, yes, I see,’ said Mr. Loseby, ‘you are quite right. I see. I -thought perhaps exceptional circumstances might warrant—but never mind. -I am wrong; I see it. Well, then, about this entail business. Don’t you -see this is why our friend does not jump at it? Little Rose could never -be Mountford of Mount. Anne would make a noble squire, but it is out of -the question for her sister. Keep to your entail, Mr. Heathcote, and if -I can be of use to you, I will do my best. If it’s a money difficulty -we’ll tide it over for you. Let me know all the circumstances, and I -will do my best.’</p> - -<p>‘I cannot give up my project all at once,’ Heathcote said, hesitating.</p> - -<p>‘I would if I were you. It would harm yourself and do good to nobody. I -certainly would if I were you,’ said the lawyer, getting up and -accompanying him to the door.</p> - -<p>‘I must exercise my own judgment on that point, Mr. Loseby.’</p> - -<p>‘Certainly, certainly, certainly, Mr. Heathcote Mountford! You will all -exercise your judgment, you will all do what seems good in your own -eyes. I know what the Mountfords are from generation to generation. If -it had not been that St. John Mountford had the luck to take a fancy to -a rich woman<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_182" id="page_182">{182}</a></span> for his first wife, what would the place have been by this -time? But that is a chance that doesn’t happen once in a century. And -now, when here is another—the finest chance! with openings for such a -settlement! But never mind; never mind; of course you will all take your -own way.’</p> - -<p>‘I hope you have brought him to reason, Loseby,’ said Mr. Mountford, -from the back of his cob, as they emerged again into the street.</p> - -<p>‘All arrangements about property which are against nature are against -reason,’ said the little lawyer, sententiously. ‘Good afternoon, -gentlemen. When you go in for these fancy arrangements, it is some sort -of a poetical personage you want, and not a lawyer. I wish you a -pleasant ride.’</p> - -<p>‘He is a character,’ said Mr. Mountford, with a short laugh, as they -rode away. But that laugh was the only sound of the lighter sort that -broke the gravity of their silent companionship, as their horses’ hoofs -clattered over the stones of the little town, and came out upon the long -silence of the country road now falling rapidly into twilight. ‘We are a -little late,’ Mr. Mountford said, half-an-hour after. As for Heathcote, -he did not feel, any more than his kinsman, in a humour for talk. What -he had heard, though he had protested against hearing it, dwelt in his -mind, and the somewhat morose gravity of the other infected him in spite -of himself. What had St. John Mountford, who was in reality a -commonplace, good enough sort of man, been doing to warrant so gloomy an -aspect? Had he been turning the fortunes of the family upside down and -spoiling the life of the daughter he loved best? or was it a mere -exhibition of sulkiness consequent upon the quarrel with the lawyer and -the opposition he had encountered? Heathcote had known nothing about -these Mountfords a week ago, and now how closely he felt himself knitted -up in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_183" id="page_183">{183}</a></span> their affairs, whether he continued to be formally connected with -them or not! As he rode along in silence by his kinsman’s side, he could -not help thinking of the catastrophe which might be coming; that ‘fine -creature’ Anne—the little old bald shining lawyer had grown eloquent -when he spoke of her. And though she seemed a little severe to -Heathcote, he could not but acknowledge to himself that she had always -interested him. Rose? oh, Rose was a pretty little thing, a child, a -nobody; it did not matter very much what happened to her; but if it -should happen that Anne’s life was being changed, the brightness taken -out of it, and all those advantages which seem so natural and becoming -transferred from her to the profit of Rose? Heathcote felt that this -would be a wrong to move heaven and earth; but it was not a subject in -which he, a stranger, had any right to interfere. As he looked at the -dark muffled figure of her father by his side against the faint crimson -which still lingered in the west, he could scarcely help chafing at the -thought that, though he was their nearest relation, he was still a -stranger, and must not, dared not say a word. And what kind of fellow, -he said to himself, in natural indignation, could it be who was wilfully -leading Anne into the wilderness, accepting her sacrifice of that which -was the very foundation of her life? Perhaps had he himself been the man -who loved Anne he would have seen things in a different light; but from -his present point of view his mind was full of angry wrath and contempt -for the unknown who could let a girl inexperienced in the world give up -so much for him. He was a nobody, they said. He must be a poor sort of -creature, Heathcote, on these very insufficient grounds, decided in his -heart.</p> - -<p>It was a beautiful clear October night, with frost in the air, the stars -shining every minute more and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_184" id="page_184">{184}</a></span> more brightly, the crimson disappearing, -even the last golden afterglow fading into palest yellow in the west, -and all the great vault of sky darkening to perfect night. The horses’ -hoofs beat upon the long, safe, well-kept road, bordered by long -monotonous walls and clouds of trees, from which darkness had stolen -their colour—a perfectly safe, tranquil country road, with a peaceful -house at the end, already lighting all its windows, preparing its table -for the wayfarers. Yet there was something of the gloom of a tragedy in -the dark figure wrapped in silence, pondering one could not tell what -plans of mischief, and wrathful gloomy intentions, which rode by -Heathcote’s side, without a word, along all those miles of darkling way.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVI" id="CHAPTER_XVI"></a>CHAPTER XVI.<br /><br /> -<small>GOOD ADVICE.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> dinner to which the family sat down after this ride somewhat alarmed -the stranger-relative who so suddenly found himself mixed up in their -affairs. He thought it must necessarily be a constrained and -uncomfortable meal. But this did not turn out to be the case. Anne knew -nothing at all about what her father had been doing, and from Rose’s -light nature the half comprehended scene at luncheon, when her mother -had wept and her father’s face had been like a thundercloud, had already -faded away. These two unconscious members of the party kept the tide of -affairs in flow. They talked as usual—Anne even more than usual, as one -who is unaware of the critical point at which, to the knowledge of all -around, he or she is standing, so often does. She gave even a little -more information than was called for about her visit to the Woodheads, -being in her own mind half<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_185" id="page_185">{185}</a></span> ashamed of her cowardice in staying away -after the scene of the morning. On the whole she was glad, she persuaded -herself, of the scene of the morning. It had placed her position beyond -doubt. There had seemed no occasion to make any statement to her father -as to the correspondence which he had not forbidden or indeed referred -to. He had bidden her give up her lover, and she had refused: but he had -said nothing about the lover’s letters, though these followed as a -matter of course. And now it was well that he should know the exact -position of affairs. She had been greatly agitated at the moment, but -soon composed herself. And in her desire to show that she was satisfied, -not grieved by what had happened, Anne was more than usually cheerful -and communicative in her talk.</p> - -<p>‘Fanny is very happy about her brother who is coming home from India. He -is to be here only six weeks; but he does not grudge the long journey: -and they are all so happy.’</p> - -<p>‘He is a fool for his pains,’ growled Mr. Mountford from the head of the -table. ‘I don’t know what our young men are coming to. What right has he -to such a luxury? It will cost him a hundred pounds at the least. Six -weeks—he has not been gone as many years.’</p> - -<p>‘Four years—that is a long time when people are fond of each other,’ -said Anne, with a scarcely perceptible smile. Every individual at table -instantly thought of the absent lover.</p> - -<p>‘She is thinking that I will be dead and gone in four years, and she -will be free,’ the angry father said to himself, with a vindictive sense -that he was justified in the punishment he meant to inflict upon her. -But Anne, indeed, was thinking of nothing of the kind, only with a -visionary regret that in her own family there was no one to come eager -over sea and land to be longed and prayed for with Fanny Wood<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_186" id="page_186">{186}</a></span>head’s -anxious sisterly motherly passion. This was far, very far from the -imagination of the others as a motive likely to produce such a sigh.</p> - -<p>‘A brother from India is always anxiously looked for,’ said Mrs. -Mountford, stepping in with that half-compunctious readiness to succour -Anne which the knowledge of this day’s proceedings had produced in her. -She did not, in fact, know what these proceedings had been, and they -were in no way her fault. But still she felt a compunction. ‘They always -bring such quantities of things with them,’ she added. ‘An Indian box is -the most delightful thing to open. I had a brother in India, too——’</p> - -<p>‘I wish we had,’ said Rose, with a pout. Heathcote had been preoccupied: -he had not been so ‘attentive’ as usual: and she wished for a brother -instantly, ‘just to spite him,’ she said to herself.</p> - -<p>‘Fanny is not thinking of the presents; but Rose, consider you are -interested in it, too—that is another man for your dance.’</p> - -<p>Rose clapped her hands. ‘We are looking up,’ she said. ‘Twenty men from -Sandhurst, and six from Meadowlands, and Lady Prayrey Poule’s husband, -and Fred Woodhead and Willie Ashley—for of course Willie is coming—— -’</p> - -<p>‘A dance at this time of the year is folly,’ said Mr. Mountford; ‘even -in summer it is bad enough; but the only time of the year for -entertainments in the country is when you have warm weather and short -nights.’</p> - -<p>‘It was because of cousin Heathcote, papa. It is not often we have a -man, a real relation, staying at Mount.’</p> - -<p>‘Heathcote! oh, so it is for your sake, Heathcote? I did not know that -dancing was an attribute of reasonable beings after thirty,’ Mr. -Mountford said.</p> - -<p>Then it was Anne who came to Heathcote’s aid. ‘You are not afraid of -seeming frivolous?’ she said,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_187" id="page_187">{187}</a></span> giving him the kindest look he had yet -seen in her eyes; and his heart was touched by it: he had not known that -Anne’s eyes had been so fine—‘and it will please everybody. The county -requires to be stirred up now and then. We like to have something to -talk about, to say, “Are you going to the So-and-so’s on the 25th?”<span class="lftspc">’</span></p> - -<p>‘An admirable reason certainly for trouble and expense. If you were -electioneering, it might be reasonable; but I presume your woman’s -rights are not so advanced yet as that. Miss Anne Mountford can’t stand -for the county!’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t think she is likely to try, father,’ said Anne, ‘whatever might -be the rights—or wrongs.’</p> - -<p>‘You must not think, Mr. Heathcote,’ said Mrs. Mountford anxiously, -‘that Anne has anything to say to women’s rights. She is far too -sensible. She has her own ways of thinking, but she is neither absurd -nor strong-minded——’</p> - -<p>‘I hope you do not think me weak-minded, mamma,’ Anne said, with a soft -laugh.</p> - -<p>And then little more was said. Mr. Mountford half rose and mumbled that -grace after meat which leaves out all the more ethereal part of the -repast as, we suppose, a kind of uncovenanted mercies for which no -thanks are to be uttered; and after a while the ladies left the room. It -was cold, but the whole frosty world outside lay enchanted under the -whitening of the moon. The girls caught up fur cloaks and shawls as they -went through the hall, and stepped outside involuntarily. The sky was -intensely blue; the clouds piled high in snowy masses, the moon sailing -serenely across the great expanse, veiling herself lightly here and -there with a film of vapour which the wind had detached from the -cloud-mountains. These filmy fragments were floating across the sky at -extraordinary speed, and the wind was rising, whirling down showers of -leaves. The<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_188" id="page_188">{188}</a></span> commotion among the trees, the sound of the wind, the rapid -flight of the clouds, all chimed in with Anne’s mood. She took hold of -her sister’s arm with gentle force. ‘Stay a little, Rose—it is all -quiet inside, and here there is so much going on: it is louder than -one’s thoughts,’ Anne said.</p> - -<p>‘What do you mean by being louder than your thoughts? Your thoughts are -not loud at all—not mine at least: and I don’t like those dead leaves -all blowing into my face; they feel like things touching you. I think I -shall go in, Anne.’</p> - -<p>‘Not yet, dear. I like it: it occupies one in spite of one’s self. The -lawn will be all yellow to-morrow with scattered gold.’</p> - -<p>‘You mean with scattered leaves; of course it will,’ said Rose. ‘When -the wind is high like this it brings the leaves down like anything. The -lime trees will be stripped, and it is a pity, for they were pretty. -Everything is pretty this year. Papa has been to Hunston,’ she said, -abruptly, looking Anne in the face; but it was very difficult even for -Rose’s keen little eyes to distinguish in the moonlight whether or not -Anne <i>knew</i>.</p> - -<p>Anne took very little notice of this bit of news. ‘So Saymore told me. -Did Mr. Heathcote see the church, I wonder? I hope some one told him how -fine it was, and that there were some Mountford monuments.’</p> - -<p>‘Do you know what papa was doing in Hunston, Anne? He went to see Mr. -Loseby. Mamma made quite a fuss when he went away. She would not tell me -what it was. Perhaps she did not know herself. She often gets into quite -a state about things she doesn’t know. Can you tell me what papa could -want with Mr. Loseby? you can see for yourself how cross he is now he -has come back.’</p> - -<p>‘With Mr. Loseby? no, I cannot tell you, Rose.’ Anne heard the news with -a little thrill of excite<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_189" id="page_189">{189}</a></span>ment. It was rarely that Mr. Mountford went so -far; very rarely that he did anything which, through his wife, or -Saymore, or Rose herself, did not find its way to the knowledge of the -entire household. Anne connected the incident of the morning with this -recent expedition, and her heart beat faster in her breast. Well: she -was prepared; she had counted the cost. If she was to be disinherited, -that could be borne—but not to be untrue.</p> - -<p>‘That means you will not tell me, Anne. I wonder why I should always be -the last to know. For all anyone can tell, it may just be of as much -consequence to me as to you, if he went to tamper with his will, as -mamma said. What do you call tampering with a will? I don’t see,’ cried -Rose, indignantly, ‘why I should always be supposed too young to know. -Most likely it is of just as much consequence to me as to you.’</p> - -<p>‘Rose,’ cried her mother, from the window, ‘come in—come in at once! -How can you keep that child out in the cold, Anne, when you know what a -delicate throat she has?’ Then Mrs. Mountford gave an audible shiver and -shut down the window hastily; for it was very cold.</p> - -<p>‘I have nothing to tell you, dear,’ Anne said gently. ‘But you are quite -right; if there is any change made, it will be quite as important to you -as to me: only you must not ask me about it, for my father does not take -me into his confidence, and I don’t know.’</p> - -<p>‘You don’t want to tell me!’ said the girl; but this time Mrs. Mountford -knocked loudly on the window, and Rose was not sufficiently emancipated -to neglect the second summons. Anne walked with her sister to the door, -but then came back again to the sheltered walk under the windows. It was -a melancholy hour when one was alone. The yellow leaves came down in -showers flying on the wind.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_190" id="page_190">{190}</a></span> The clouds pursued each other over the sky. -The great masses of vapours behind the wind began to invade the frosty -blue; yet still the moon held on serenely, though her light was more and -more interrupted by sudden blanks of shadow. Anne had no inclination to -go into the quiet of the drawing-room, the needlework, and Mrs. -Mountford’s little lectures, and perhaps the half-heard chattering with -which Rose amused and held possession of her cousin. To her, whose -happier life was hidden in the distance, it was more congenial to stay -out here, among the flying winds and falling leaves. If it was so that -Fortune was forsaking her; if her father had carried out his threat, and -she was now penniless, with nothing but herself to take to Cosmo, what -change would this make in her future life? Would <i>he</i> mind? What would -he say? Anne had no personal experience at all, though she was so -serious and so deeply learned in the troubles at least of village life. -As she asked herself these questions, a smile crept about her lips in -spite of her. She did not mean to smile. She meant to inquire very -gravely: would he mind? what would he say? but the smile came without -her knowledge. What could he say but one thing? If it had been another -man, there might have been doubts and hesitations—but Cosmo! The smile -stole to the corners of her mouth—a melting softness came into her -heart. How little need was there to question! Did not she <i>know</i>?</p> - -<p>Her thoughts were so full of this that she did not hear another foot on -the gravel, and when Heathcote spoke she awakened with a start, and came -down out of that lofty hermitage of her thoughts with little -satisfaction; but when he said something of the beauty of the night and -the fascination of all those voices of the wind and woods, Anne, whether -willingly or not, felt herself com<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_191" id="page_191">{191}</a></span>pelled to be civil. She came down -from her abstraction, admitting, politely, that the night was fine. -‘But,’ she said, ‘it is very cold, and the wind is rising every moment; -I was thinking of going in.’</p> - -<p>‘I wonder if you would wait for a few minutes, Miss Mountford, and hear -something I have to say.’</p> - -<p>‘Certainly,’ Anne said; but she was surprised; and now that it was no -longer her own will which kept her here, the wind all at once became -very boisterous, and the ‘silver lights and darks’ dreary. ‘Do you know -we have a ghost belonging to us?’ she said. ‘She haunts that lime -avenue. We ought to see her to-night.’</p> - -<p>‘We have so little time for ghosts,’ said Heathcote, almost fretfully; -and then he added, ‘Miss Mountford, I came to Mount on a special -mission. Will you let me tell you what it was? I came to offer your -father my co-operation in breaking the entail.’</p> - -<p>‘Breaking the entail!’ the idea was so surprising that all who heard it -received it with the same exclamation. As for Anne, she did more: she -cast one rapid involuntary glance around her upon the house with all its -lights, the familiar garden, the waving clouds of trees. In her heart -she felt as if a sharp arrow of possible delight, despair, she knew not -which, struck her keenly to the core. It was only for a moment. Then she -drew a long breath and said, ‘You bewilder me altogether; break the -entail—why should you? I cannot comprehend it. Pardon me, it is as if -the Prince of Wales said he would not have the crown. Mount is England -to us Mountfords. I cannot understand what you mean.’</p> - -<p>Heathcote thought he understood very well what <i>she</i> meant. He -understood her look. Everything round was dear to her. Her first thought -had been—Mount! to be ours still, ours always! But what<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_192" id="page_192">{192}</a></span> did <i>ours</i> -mean? Did she think of herself as heiress and mistress, or of—someone -else? This pricked him at the heart, as she had been pricked by a -different sentiment, by the thought that she had no longer the first -interest in this piece of news; but there was no reason whatever for -keen feeling in his case. What did it matter to him who had it? He did -not want it. He cleared his throat to get rid of that involuntary -impatience and annoyance. ‘It is not very difficult to understand,’ he -said. ‘Mount is not to me what it is to you; I have only been here once -before. My interests are elsewhere.’</p> - -<p>Anne bowed gravely. They did not know each other well enough to permit -of more confidential disclosures. She did not feel sufficient interest -to ask, he thought; and she had no right to pry into his private -concerns, Anne said to herself. Then there was a pause: which she broke -quite unexpectedly with one of those impulses which were so unlike -Anne’s external aspect, and yet so entirely in harmony with herself.</p> - -<p>‘This makes my heart beat,’ she said, ‘the idea that Mount might be -altogether ours—our home in the future as well as in the past; but at -the same time, forgive me, it gives me a little pain to think that there -is a Mountford, and he the heir, who thinks so little of Mount. It seems -a slight to the place. I grudge that you should give it up, though it is -delightful to think that we may have it; which is absurd, of -course—like so many other things.’</p> - -<p>‘Do you know,’ he said, ‘there is a great deal of the same sort of -feeling in my own mind. I can’t care for Mount, can I? I have not seen -it for fifteen years; I was a boy then; now I am middle-aged, and don’t -care much for anything. But yet I too grudge that I should care for it -so little; that I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_193" id="page_193">{193}</a></span> should be so willing to part with it. The feeling is -absurd, as you say. If you could have it, Miss Mountford, I should -surmount that feeling easily: I should rejoice in the substitution——’</p> - -<p>‘And why should not I have it?’ cried Anne quickly, turning upon him. -Then she paused and laughed, though with constraint, and begged his -pardon. ‘I don’t quite know what you mean,’ she said, ‘or what you -know.’</p> - -<p>‘Miss Mountford, having said so much to you, may I say a little more? I -am one of your nearest relatives, and I am a great deal older than you -are. There is some question which divides you from your father. I do not -ask nor pretend to divine what it is. You are not agreed—and for this -reason he thinks little of my proposal, and does not care to secure the -reversion of his own property, the house which, in other circumstances, -he would have desired to leave in your possession. I think, so far as I -have gone, this is the state of the case?’</p> - -<p>‘Well!’ She neither contradicted him nor consented to what he had said, -but stood in the fitful moonlight, blown about by the wind, holding her -cloak closely round her, and looking at him between the light and gloom.</p> - -<p>‘Pardon me,’ he said, ‘I have no right whatever to interfere: but—if -you could bend your will to his—if you could humour him as long as his -life lasts: your father is becoming an old man. Miss Mountford, you -would not need perhaps to make this sacrifice for very long.’</p> - -<p>She elapsed her hands with impatient alarm, stopping him abruptly—‘Is -my father ill? Is there anything you know of that we do not know?’</p> - -<p>‘Nothing whatever. I only know his age, no more. Could you not yield to -him, subdue your will to his? You are young, and you have plenty of time -to wait. Believe me, the happiness that will<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_194" id="page_194">{194}</a></span> not bear to be waited for -is scarcely worth having. I have no right to say a word—I do not -understand the circumstances—actually I <i>know</i> nothing about them. But -if you could yield to him, humour him for a time——’</p> - -<p>‘Pretend to obey him while he lived,’ Anne said, in a low voice, ‘in -order that I may be able to cheat him when he is gone: that is a strange -thing to recommend to me.’</p> - -<p>‘There is no question of cheating him. What I mean is, that if you would -submit to him; give him the pleasure of feeling himself obeyed in the -end of his life——’</p> - -<p>‘I owe my father obedience at all times; but there are surely -distinctions. Will you tell me why you say this to me?’</p> - -<p>‘I cannot tell you why: only that there is something going on which will -tell against you: sincerely, I do not know what it is. I do not want to -counsel you to anything false, and I scarcely know what I am advising -you to do. It is only, Miss Mountford, while you can—if you can—to -submit to him: or even, if no better can be, <i>seem</i> to submit to him. -Submit to him while he lives. This may be a caprice on his part—no -more: but at the same time it may affect your whole life.’</p> - -<p>Anne stood for a moment irresolute, not knowing what to say. The night -favoured her and the dark. She could speak with less embarrassment than -if the daylight had been betraying her every look and change of aspect. -‘Mr. Heathcote, I thank you for taking so much interest in me,’ she -said.</p> - -<p>‘I take the greatest interest in you, Miss Mountford; but in the -meantime I would say the same to anyone so young. Things are going on -which will injure you for your life. If you can by your submission avert -these ills, and make him happier—even for a time?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_195" id="page_195">{195}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>‘In short,’ she said again, ‘pretend to give up until he is no longer -here to see whether I follow my own inclinations or his? It may be wise -advice, Mr. Heathcote; but is it advice which you would like -your—anyone you cared for—to take?’</p> - -<p>‘I should not like anyone I cared for,’ he said hesitating—‘Pardon me, -I cannot help offending you—to be in opposition to her family on such a -point.’</p> - -<p>The colour rushed to Anne’s face, and anger to her heart: but as the one -was invisible, so she restrained the other. She put restraint in every -way on herself.</p> - -<p>‘That may be so, that may be so! you cannot tell unless you know -everything,’ she said. Then, after a pause, ‘But whether it was right or -wrong, it is done now, and I cannot alter it. It is not a matter upon -which another can decide for you. Obedience at my age cannot be -absolute. When you have to make the one choice of your life, can your -father do it, or anyone but yourself? Did you think so when you were -like me?’ she said, with an appeal full of earnestness which was almost -impassioned. This appeal took Heathcote entirely by surprise, and -changed all the current of his thoughts.</p> - -<p>‘I was never like you,’ he said, hastily—‘like you! I never could -compare myself—I never could pretend—I thought I loved half-a-dozen -women. Did I ever make the one choice of my life? No, no! A wandering -man afloat upon the world can never be like—such as you: there is too -great a difference. We cannot compare things so unlike——’</p> - -<p>‘But I thought’—she said, then stopped: for his story which she had -heard bore a very different meaning. And what right had she to advert to -it? ‘I don’t know if you speak in—in respect—or in contempt?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_196" id="page_196">{196}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>‘In contempt—could that be? Here is the state of the case as concerns -yourself—leaving the general question. My offer to break the entail has -no attractions for your father, because he thinks he cannot secure Mount -to you. It is doing something against his own heart, against all he -wishes, to punish you. Don’t you know, Miss Mountford—but most likely -you never felt it—that</p> - -<div class="poetry"> -<div class="poem"><div class="stanza"> -<span class="i3">to be wroth with those we love<br /></span> -<span class="i0">Doth work like madness in the brain?’<br /></span> -</div></div> -</div> - -<p>‘Love?—that would be great love, passionate love—we have not anything -of the kind in our house,’ said Anne, in a low tone of emotion. ‘If -there was that, do you think I would go against it, even for——’</p> - -<p>Here she stopped with a thrill in her voice. ‘I think you must be -mistaken a little, Mr. Heathcote. But I do not see how I can change. -Papa asked of me—not the lesser things in which I could have obeyed -him, but the one great thing in which I could not. Were I to take your -advice, I do not know what I could do.’</p> - -<p>Then they walked in silence round the side of the house, under the long -line of the drawing-room windows, from which indeed the interview had -been watched with much astonishment. Rose had never doubted that the -heir of the house was on her side. It seemed no better than a desertion -that he should walk and talk with Anne in this way. It filled her with -amazement. And in such a cold night too! ‘Hush, child!’ her mother was -saying; ‘he has been with papa to Hunston, he has heard all the business -arrangements talked over. No doubt he is having a little conversation -with Anne, for her good.’</p> - -<p>‘What are the business arrangements? What is going to happen? Is he -trying to make her give up Mr. Douglas?’ said Rose: but her mother -could<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_197" id="page_197">{197}</a></span> not or would not give her any information. By-and-by Heathcote -came in alone. Anne was too much disturbed by this strange interview to -appear when it was over in the tranquil circle of the family. She went -upstairs to take off her wraps, to subdue the commotion in her mind and -the light in her eyes, and tame herself down to the every-day level. Her -mind was somewhat confused, more confused than it had yet been as to her -duty. Cosmo somehow had seemed to be gently pushed out of the first -place by this stranger who never named him, who knew nothing of him, and -who certainly ignored the fact that, without Cosmo, Anne no longer lived -or breathed. She was angry that he should be so ignorant, yet too shy -and proud to mention her lover or refer to him save by implication. She -would have been willing to give up corresponding with him, to make any -immediate sacrifice to her father’s prejudice against him—had that been -ever asked of her. But to give up ‘the one choice of her life,’ as she -had said, would have been impossible. Her mind was affected strongly, -but not with alarm, by the intelligence that something was being done -mysteriously in the dark against her, that the threat under which she -had been living was now being carried out. But this did not move her to -submit as Heathcote had urged—rather it stimulated her to resist.</p> - -<p>Had Cosmo but been at hand! But if he had been at hand, how could he -have ventured to give the advice which Heathcote gave? He could not have -asked her to yield, to dissemble, to please the old man while his life -lasted, to pretend to give himself up. Nothing of this could he have -suggested or she listened to. And yet it was what Cosmo would have liked -to advise; but to this state of Cosmo’s mind Anne had no clue.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_198" id="page_198">{198}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVII" id="CHAPTER_XVII"></a>CHAPTER XVII.<br /><br /> -<small>THE ABSOLUTE AND THE COMPARATIVE.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">This</span> secret incident in the family history left a great deal of -agitation in the house. Mrs. Mountford had not been informed in any -detail what her husband’s mission to Hunston was. She knew that he had -gone to ‘tamper with his will,’ as she said, but what were the exact -changes he meant to make in that will she did not know. They were -certainly to the advantage of Rose and to the detriment of Anne: so much -she was aware of, but scarcely anything more. And she herself was -frightened and excited, afraid of all the odium to which she would -infallibly be exposed if the positions of the sisters were changed, and -more or less affected by a shrinking from palpable injustice; but yet -very much excited about Rose’s possible good fortune, and not feeling it -possible to banish hopes and imaginations on this point out of her mind. -If Rose was put in the first place it would not be just—not exactly -just, she said to herself, with involuntary softening of the expression. -Rose’s mother (though she would be blamed) knew that of herself she -never would have done anything to deprive Anne of her birthright. But -still, if papa thought Anne had behaved badly, and that Rose deserved -more at his hands, he was far better—no doubt <i>far better</i>, able to -judge than she was; and who could say a word against his decision? But -it was very irritating, very wearing, not to know. She tried a great -many ways of finding out, but she did not succeed. Mr. Mountford was on -his guard, and kept his own counsel. He told her of Heathcote’s -proposal, but he did not tell her what he himself meant to do. And how -it was that her husband was so indifferent to Heathcote’s proposal Mrs. -Mountford<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_199" id="page_199">{199}</a></span> could not understand. She herself, though not a Mountford -born, felt her heart beat at the suggestion. ‘Of course you will jump at -it?’ she said.</p> - -<p>‘I do not feel in the least disposed to jump at it. If there had been a -boy, it might have been different.’ Mrs. Mountford always felt that in -this there was an inferred censure upon herself—how unjust a censure it -is unnecessary to say: of course she would have had a boy if she -could—of that there could be no question.</p> - -<p>‘A boy is not everything,’ she said. ‘It would be just the same thing if -Anne’s husband took the name.’</p> - -<p>‘Don’t speak to me of Anne’s husband,’ he cried, almost with passion. ‘I -forbid you to say a word to me of Anne’s affairs.’</p> - -<p>‘St. John! what can you mean? It would be barbarous of me, it would be -unchristian,’ cried the much-exercised mother, trying hard to do her -duty, ‘not to speak of Anne’s affairs. Probably the man you object to -will never be her husband; probably——’</p> - -<p>‘That is enough, Letitia. I want to hear nothing more upon the subject. -Talk of anything else you like, but I will have nothing said about -Anne.’</p> - -<p>‘Then you are doing wrong,’ she cried, with a little real indignation. -After this her tone changed in a moment: something like bitterness stole -into it. ‘It shows how much more you are thinking of Anne than of anyone -else. You are rejecting Mount because you don’t choose that she should -be the heir. You forget you have got another child.’</p> - -<p>‘Forget I have got another child! It is the first subject of my -thoughts.’</p> - -<p>‘Ah, yes, perhaps so far as the money is concerned. Of course if Anne -does not have it, there is nobody but Rose who could have any right to -it. But you don’t think your youngest daughter good<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_200" id="page_200">{200}</a></span> enough to have -anything to do with Mount. I see very well how it is, though you don’t -choose to explain.’</p> - -<p>‘If that is how you prefer to look at it,’ he said; but at this moment a -budget of papers arrived from Hunston by a special messenger, and Mrs. -Mountford withdrew perforce. She was in a very irritable condition, as -all the house knew, ready to find fault with everything. Perhaps it was -rather an advantage to her to have a grievance, and to be able to -reproach her husband with preferring in his heart the elder to the -younger, even when he was preferring the younger to the elder in this -new will. ‘There will never be any question of <i>my</i> child’s husband -taking the name, that is very clear,’ she said to herself, with much -vehemence, nursing her wrath to keep it warm, and thus escaping from the -question of injustice to Anne. And again it occurred to her, but with -more force than before, that to announce to her husband that Rose was -going to marry Heathcote Mountford would be a delightful triumph. She -would thus be Mrs. Mountford of Mount in spite of him, and the victory -would be sweet. But even this did not seem to progress as it appeared to -do at first. Heathcote, too, seemed to be becoming interested in Anne: -as if that could advantage him! when it was clear that Anne was ready to -lose everything, and was risking everything, every day, for that other! -Altogether Mrs. Mountford’s position was not a comfortable one. To know -so much and yet to know so little was very hard to bear.</p> - -<p>Her husband had a still harder life as being a free agent, and having -the whole weight of the decision upon his shoulders. It was not to be -supposed that he could free himself entirely from all sense of guilt -towards the child whom in his heart he loved most. He had resolved to -punish her and he clung to his resolution with all the determination of -a narrow mind. He had said that she should<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_201" id="page_201">{201}</a></span> never marry the man who was -nobody, that if she held by him he would give her fortune to Rose. And -she did hold by him, with an obstinacy equal to his own. Was it possible -that he should bear this and give her reason to laugh at his words as -mere sound and fury signifying nothing? No, whatever he might have to -suffer for it, no! Perhaps, however, the great secret of Mr. Mountford’s -obstinate adherence to a determination which he could not but know to be -unjust and cruel—and of many more of the cruelties and eccentricities -that people perpetrate by their wills—lay in the fact that, after all, -though he took so much trouble to make his will, he had not the -slightest intention of dying. If a man does not die, a monstrous will is -no more than an angry letter—a thing which wounds and vexes, perhaps, -and certainly is intended to wound and vex, and which suffices to blow -off a great deal of the steam of family quarrels; but which does no real -harm to anybody, in that there is plenty of time to change it, and to -make all right again some time or other. Another thing which assisted -him in getting over his own doubts and disquietudes was the strenuous, -almost violent, opposition of Mr. Loseby, who did not indeed refuse at -last to carry out his wishes, but did so with so many protests and -remonstrances that Mr. Mountford’s spirit was roused, and he forgot the -questionings of his own conscience in the determination to defend -himself against those of this other man who had, he declared to himself, -nothing whatever to do with it, and no right to interfere. Could not a -man do what he would with his own? The money was his own, the land his -own, and his children too were his own. Who else had anything to do with -the arrangements he chose to make for them? It was of his grace and -favour if he gave them his money at all. He was not bound to do so. It -was all his: he was not responsible to any mortal;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_202" id="page_202">{202}</a></span> it was a pretty -piece of impudence that Loseby should venture to take so much upon him. -This opposition of Loseby’s did him all the good in the world. It set -him right with himself. But still those packets of papers, always -accompanied by a letter, were annoying to him. ‘I send you the draft of -the new codicil, but you must allow me to observe——’ ‘I return draft -with the corrections you have made, but I must once more entreat you to -pause and reconsider——’ What did the old fellow mean? Did he think he -had any right to speak—a country attorney, a mere man of business? To -be sure he was an old friend—nobody said he was not an old friend; but -the oldest friend in the world should know his own place, and should not -presume too far. If Loseby thought that now, when matters had gone this -length, <i>his</i> representations would have any effect, he was indeed -making a mistake. Before pen had been put to paper Mr. Mountford might -perhaps have reconsidered the matter; but now, and in apparent deference -to <i>Loseby</i>! this was a complaisance which was impossible.</p> - -<p>The whole house was agitated by these proceedings, though publicly not a -word was said nor an allusion made to them. Anne even, absolutely -disinterested as she was, and full of a fine, but alas! quite -unreasonable contempt for fortune—the contempt of one who had no -understanding of the want of it—felt it affect her in, as she thought, -the most extraordinary and unworthy way. She was astonished at herself. -After all, she reflected, with a sense of humiliation, how much power -must those external circumstances have on the mind, when she, whose -principles and sentiments were all so opposed to their influence, could -be thus moved by the possible loss of a little land or a little money! -It was pitiful: but she could not help it, and she felt herself humbled -to the very dust. In the fulness of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_203" id="page_203">{203}</a></span> her heart she wrote an account of -all that was happening to Cosmo, reproaching herself, yet trying to -account for her weakness. ‘It cannot be the mere loss of the wealth that -affects me,’ Anne wrote. ‘I cannot believe so badly of myself, and I -hope—I hope—you will not think so badly of me. It must be (don’t you -think?) the pain of feeling that my father thinks so little of me as to -put upon me this public mark of his displeasure. I say to myself, dear -Cosmo, that this must be the cause of the very unquestionable pain I -feel; and I hope you will think so too, and not, that it is the actual -money I care for. And, then, there is the humiliation of being put -second—I who have always been first. I never thought there was so much -in seniority, in all those little superiorities which I suppose we plume -ourselves upon without knowing it. I can’t bear the idea of being -second, I suppose. And then there is the uncertainty, the sense of -something that is going on, in which one is so closely concerned, but -which one does not know, and the feeling that others are better -informed, and that one is being talked of, and the question discussed -how one will bear it. As if it mattered! but I acknowledge with -humiliation that it does matter, that I care a great deal more than I -ever thought I cared—that I am a much poorer creature than I believed I -was. I scorn myself, but I hope my Cosmo will not scorn me. You know the -world better, and the heart which is pettier than one likes to think. -Perhaps it is women only that are the victims of these unworthy -sentiments. I cannot think of you as being moved by them; perhaps what -is said of us is true, and we are only “like moonlight unto sunlight, -and like water unto wine.” But these are far too pretty comparisons if I -am right. However, heaven be praised, there is the happiness of feeling -that, if I am but after all a mean and interested creature, there is you -to fall back upon,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_204" id="page_204">{204}</a></span> who are so different. O Cosmo mio, what would the -world be now if I had not you to fall back upon (I like these words!), -and lean against and feel myself doubled, or so much more than doubled, -and propped up by you. I feel already a little better for getting this -off my mind and telling you what I have found out in myself, and how -ashamed I am by my discoveries. You have “larger, other eyes” than mine, -and you will understand me, and excuse me, and put me right.’</p> - -<p>Cosmo Douglas received this letter in his chambers, to which he had now -gone back. He read it with a sort of consternation. First, the news it -convened was terrible, making an end of all his hopes; and second, this -most ill-timed and unnecessary self-accusation was more than his common -sense could put up with. It was not that the glamour of love was wearing -off, for he still loved Anne truly; but that anyone in her senses could -write so about money was inconceivable to him. Could there be a more -serious predicament? and yet here was she apologising to him for feeling -it, making believe that he would not feel it. Is she a fool? he said to -himself—he was exasperated, though he loved her. And in his reply he -could not but in some degree betray this feeling.</p> - -<p>‘My dearest,’ he said, ‘I don’t understand how you can blame yourself. -The feelings you express are most natural. It is very serious, very -painful—infinitely painful to me, that it is my love and the tie which -binds us which has brought this upon you. What am I to say to my dear -love? Give me up, throw me over? I will bear anything rather than that -you should suffer; but I know your generous heart too well to imagine -that you will do this. If you were “petty,” as you call yourself (heaven -forgive you for such blasphemy!) I could almost be tempted to advise you -to have recourse to—what<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_205" id="page_205">{205}</a></span> shall I call it?—strategy—one of the -fictions that are said to be all fair in love and war. I could do this -myself, I am afraid, so little is there in me of the higher sentiment -you give me credit for. Rather than that you should lose your -birthright, if it were only my happiness that was concerned, I would -take myself out of the way, I would give up the sweet intercourse which -is life to me, and hope for better days to come. And if you should -decide to do this, I will accept whatever you decide, my darling, with -full trust in you that you will not forget me, that the sun may shine -for me again. Will you do this, my Anne? Obey your father, and let me -take my chance: it will be better that than to be the cause of so much -suffering to you. But even in saying this I feel that I will wound your -tender heart, your fine sense of honour: what can I say? Sacrifice me, -my dearest, if you can steel your heart to the possibility of being -unkind. I would be a poor wretch, indeed, unworthy the honour you have -done me, if I could not trust you and bide my time.’</p> - -<p>This letter was very carefully composed and with much thought. If Anne -could but have been made a convert to the code that all is fair in love, -what a relief it would have been; or if she could have divined the -embarrassment that a portionless bride, however much he loved her, would -be to Cosmo! But, on the other hand, there was no certainty that, even -if the worst came to the worst, she would be a portionless bride; and -the chances of alarming her, and bringing about a revulsion of feeling, -were almost more dreadful than the chances of losing her fortune. It -wanted very delicate steering to hit exactly the right passage between -those dangers, and Cosmo was far from confident that he had hit it. A -man with a practical mind and a real knowledge of the world has a great -deal to go<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_206" id="page_206">{206}</a></span> through when he has to deal with the absolute in the person -of a young inexperienced and high-flown girl, altogether ignorant of the -world. And, as a matter of fact, the letter did not please Anne. It gave -her that uneasy sense of coming in contact with new agencies, powers -unknown, not to be judged by her previous canons, which is one of the -first disenchantments of life. How to lie and yet not be guilty of lying -was a new science to her. She did not understand that casuistry of love, -which makes it a light offence to deceive. She understood the art of -taking her own way, but that of giving up her own way, and yet resolving -to have it all the same, was beyond her power. What they wanted her to -do was to deceive her father, to wait—surely the most terrible of all -meanness—till he should be dead and then break her promise to him. This -was what Heathcote had advised, and now Cosmo—Cosmo himself replied to -her when she threw herself upon him for support, in the same sense. A -chill of disappointment, discouragement, came over her. If this was the -best thing to be done, it seemed to Anne that her own folly was better -than their wisdom. Had she been told that love and a stout heart and two -against the world were better than lands or wealth, she would have felt -herself strong enough for any heroism. But this dash of cold water in -her face confounded her. What did they mean by telling her to obey her -father? he had not asked for obedience. He had said, ‘If you do not give -up this man, I will take your fortune from you,’ and she had proudly -accepted the alternative. That was all; and was she to go back to him -now, to tell him a lie, and with a mental reservation say, ‘I prefer my -fortune; I have changed my mind; I will give him up?’ Anne knew that she -could not have survived the utter scorn of herself which would have been -her portion had she done this. Were it necessary to do<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_207" id="page_207">{207}</a></span> it, the proud -girl would have waited till the other sacrifice was completed, till her -father had fulfilled his threat. Cosmo’s letter gave her a chill in the -very warmth of her unbounded faith in him. She would not allow to -herself that he did not understand her, that he had failed of what she -expected from him. This was honour, no doubt, from his point of view; -but she felt a chill sense of loneliness, a loss of that power of -falling back upon an unfailing support which she had so fondly and -proudly insisted on. She was subdued in her courage and pride and -confidence. And yet this was not all that Anne had to go through.</p> - -<p>It was Mr. Loseby who was the next operator upon her disturbed and -awakening thoughts. One wintry afternoon when November had begun, he -drove over to Mount in his little phaeton with a blue bag on the seat -beside him. ‘Don’t say anything to your master yet, Saymore,’ he said, -when he got down, being familiar with all the servants, and the habits -of the house, as if it had been his own. ‘Do you think you could manage -to get me a few words privately with Miss Anne?’</p> - -<p>‘If I might make bold to ask, sir,’ said Saymore, ‘is it true as there -is something up about Miss Anne? Things is said and things is ‘inted, -and we’re interested, and we don’t know what to think. Is it along of -<i>that</i> gentleman, Mr. Loseby? Master is set against the match, I know as -much as that.’</p> - -<p>‘I dare say you’re right,’ said the lawyer. ‘An old family servant like -you, Saymore, sees many things that the rest of the world never guess -at. Hold your tongue about it, old fellow, that’s all I’ve got to say. -And try whether you can bring me to speech of Miss Anne. Don’t let -anyone else know. You can manage it, I feel sure.’</p> - -<p>‘I’ll try, sir,’ Saymore said, and he went through the house on tiptoe -from room to room, looking for<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_208" id="page_208">{208}</a></span> his young mistress, with the air of a -conspirator in an opera, doing everything he could to betray himself. -When he found her, he stole behind a large screen, and made mysterious -gestures which everybody saw. ‘What is it, Saymore?’ asked Anne. Then -Saymore pointed downstairs, with jerks over his shoulder, and much -movement of his eyebrows. ‘There’s somebody, Miss Anne, as wants a word -with you,’ he said, with the deepest meaning. Anne’s heart began to -beat. Could it be Cosmo come boldly, in person, to comfort her? She was -in the billiard-room with Rose and Heathcote. She put down the cue which -she had been using with very little energy or interest, and followed the -old man to the hall. ‘Who is it, Saymore?’ she asked tremulously. ‘It’s -some one that’s come for your good. I hope you’ll listen to him, Miss -Anne, I hope you’ll listen to him.’ Anne’s heart was in her mouth. If he -should have come so far to see her, to support her, to make up for the -deficiency of his letter! She seemed to tread on air as she went down -the long passages. And it was only Mr. Loseby after all!</p> - -<p>The disappointment made her heart sink. She could scarcely speak to him. -It was like falling down to earth from the skies. But Mr. Loseby did not -notice this. He put his arm into hers as the rector did, with a fatherly -familiarity, and drew her to the large window full of the greyness of -the pale and misty November sky. ‘I have something to say to you, my -dear Miss Anne—something that is of consequence. My dear, do you know -anything about the business that brings me here?’</p> - -<p>‘I know—that my father is making some alteration in his will, Mr. -Loseby. I don’t know any more—why should I?—I do not see why I should -believe that it has anything to do with me.’</p> - -<p>‘Anne, my dear, I can’t betray your father’s secrets; but I am afraid it -has something to do with<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_209" id="page_209">{209}</a></span> you. Now look here, my dear girl—why it is -not so long since you used to sit on my knee! Tell me what this is, -which has made you quarrel with papa——’</p> - -<p>‘Mr. Loseby!—I—do not know that I have quarrelled with my father——’</p> - -<p>‘Don’t be so stern, my dear child. Call him papa. After all he is your -papa, Anne. Who was so fond of you when you were a tiny creature? I -remember you a baby in his arms, poor man! when he lost his first wife, -before he married again. Your mother died so young, and broke his life -in two. That is terribly hard upon a man. Think of him in that light, my -dear. He was wrapped up in you when you were a baby. Come! let me go to -him, an old friend, your very oldest friend, and say you are ready to -make it up.’</p> - -<p>‘To make it up?—but it is not a quarrel—not anything like a quarrel.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, yes, it is—I know better. Only say that you will do nothing -without his consent; that you will form no engagement; that you will -give up corresponding and all that. You ought to, my dear; it is your -duty. And when it will save you from what would inconvenience you all -your life! What, Anne, you are not going to be offended with what I say, -your oldest friend?’</p> - -<p>‘Mr. Loseby, you do not understand,’ she said. She had attempted, in her -impatience, to withdraw her arm from his. ‘He said “Give up”—I do not -wish to conceal who it is—“give up Mr. Douglas, or I will take away -your portion and give it to your sister.” What could I say? Could I show -so little faith in the choice I had made—so little—so little—regard -for the gentleman I am going to marry, as to say, “I prefer my fortune?” -I will not do it; it would be falsehood and baseness. This<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_210" id="page_210">{210}</a></span> is all the -alternative I have ever had. It is like saying, “Your money or your -life”——’</p> - -<p>‘In that case one gives the money, Anne, to save the life.’</p> - -<p>‘And so I have done,’ she said, proudly. ‘Dear Mr. Loseby, I don’t want -to vex you. I don’t want to quarrel with anyone. Can I say, when it is -not true—“I have changed my mind, I like the money best?” Don’t you see -that I could not do that? then what can I do?’</p> - -<p>‘You can give in, my dear, you can give in,’ repeated the lawyer. ‘No -use for entering into particulars. So long as you authorise me to say -you give in—that is all, I am sure, that is needful. Don’t turn me off, -Anne—give me the pleasure of reconciling you, my dear.’</p> - -<p>Mr. Loseby had always given himself out as one of Anne’s adorers. His -eyes glistened with the moisture in them. He pressed her arm within his. -‘Come, my dear! I never was a father myself, which I have always -regretted; but I have known you all your life. Let me do you a good -turn—let me put a stop to all this nonsense, and tell him you will make -it up.’</p> - -<p>Anne’s heart had sunk very low; with one assault of this kind after -another she was altogether discouraged. She did not seem to care what -she said, or what interpretation was put upon her words. ‘You may say -what you please,’ she said. ‘I will make it up, if you please: but what -does that mean, Mr. Loseby? I will give up writing, if he wishes it—but -how can I give up the—gentleman I am engaged to? Do you think I want to -quarrel? Oh, no, no—but what can I do? Give up!—I have no right. He -has my promise and I have his. Can I sell that for money?’ cried Anne, -indignantly. ‘I will do whatever papa pleases—except that.’</p> - -<p>‘You are making him do a dreadful injustice,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_211" id="page_211">{211}</a></span> Anne. Come, what does this -young fellow say? Does he not want to release you, to save you from -suffering? does he hold you to your promise in the face of such a loss? -An honourable young man would tell you: never mind me——’</p> - -<p>Anne detached her arm with a little energy from his. ‘Why should you -torment me?’ she cried. ‘An honourable man?—is it honour, then, to -prefer, as you said yourself, one’s money to one’s life?’</p> - -<p>‘My dear child, money is always there, it is always to be relied upon; -it is a strong back, whatever happens—whereas this, that you call -life——!’ cried Mr. Loseby, spreading out his hands and lifting up his -eyebrows; he had chosen the very image she had herself used when writing -to her lover. Was this then what they all thought, that wealth was the -best thing to fall back upon? She smiled, but it was a smile of pain.</p> - -<p>‘If I thought so, I should not care either for the life or the money,’ -she said.</p> - -<p>Mr. Loseby held up his hands once more. He shook his shining little bald -head, and took up his blue bag from the table. ‘You are as obstinate, as -pig-headed, the whole family of you—one worse than another,’ he said.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XVIII" id="CHAPTER_XVIII"></a>CHAPTER XVIII.<br /><br /> -<small>AFTERTHOUGHTS.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">There</span> were two witnesses wanted for the will; one of these was Heathcote -Mountford, the other the clerk whom Mr. Loseby had brought with him in -his phaeton. He stood by himself, looking as like an indignant prophet -whose message from heaven has been disregarded, as a fat little shining -man of five feet four could look. It had been to make a last attempt -upon the mind of Mr. Mountford, and also<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_212" id="page_212">{212}</a></span> to try what effect he could -produce on the heart of Anne, that he had come himself, facing all the -risks of an east wind, with perhaps snow to come. And there had been a -long and stormy interview in the library before the clerk had been -called in. ‘She will give up the correspondence. She is as sweet as a -girl can be,’ said the old lawyer, fibbing manfully; ‘one can see that -it goes to her heart that you should think her disobedient. Mountford, -you don’t half know what a girl that is. But for the money she would -come to you, she would put herself at your feet, she would give up -everything. But she says, bless her! “Papa would think it was because of -the money. Do you think I would do that for the money which I wouldn’t -do to please him?” That’s Anne all over,’ said her mendacious advocate. -‘After you have accomplished this injustice and cut her off, that sweet -creature will come to you some fine day and say, “Papa, I give him up. I -give everything up that displeases you—I cannot go against my duty.”<span class="lftspc">’</span></p> - -<p>There was a slight attempt at imitation of Anne’s voice in Mr. Loseby’s -tone; he tried a higher key when he made those imaginary speeches on her -behalf: but his eyes were glistening all the time: he did not intend to -be humorous. And neither was Mr. Mountford a man who saw a joke. He took -it grimly without any softening.</p> - -<p>‘When she does that, Loseby, if I see reason to believe that she means -it, I’ll make another will.’</p> - -<p>‘You speak at your ease of making another will—are you sure you will -have it in your power? When a man makes an unjust will, I verily believe -every word is a nail in his coffin. It is very seldom,’ said Mr. Loseby, -with emphasis, carried away by his feelings, ‘that they live to repent.’</p> - -<p>Mr. Mountford paled in spite of himself. He<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_213" id="page_213">{213}</a></span> looked up sharply at his -mentor, then laughed a short uneasy laugh. ‘There’s nothing like a -partisan,’ he said; ‘I call that brutal—if it were not so silly, -Loseby—unworthy a man of your sense.’</p> - -<p>‘By——!’ the lawyer cried to relieve himself, ‘I don’t see the -silliness; when you’ve taken a wrong step that may plunge other people -into misery, I cannot see how you can have any confidence, even in the -protection of God; and you are not in your first youth any more than -myself. The thought of dying can’t be put aside at your age or at my -age, Mountford, as if we were boys of twenty. We have got to think of -it, whether we will or not.’</p> - -<p>This address made Mr. Mountford furious. He felt no occasion at all in -himself to think of it; it was a brutal argument, and quite beyond all -legitimate discussion; but nevertheless it was not pleasant. He did not -like the suggestion. ‘Perhaps you’ll call that clerk of yours, and let -us finish the business, before we get into fancy and poetry. I never -knew you were so imaginative,’ he said, with a sneer; but his lips were -bluish, notwithstanding this attempt at disdain. And Mr. Loseby stood -with his spectacles pushed up on his forehead, as if with a desire not -to see, holding his little bald head high in the air, with a fine -indignation in every line of his figure. Heathcote, who was brought in -to sign as one of the witnesses, felt that it needed all his -consciousness of the importance of what was going on to save him from -indecorous laughter. When Mr. Mountford said, ‘I deliver this,’ ‘And I -protest against it,’ Mr. Loseby cried, in a vehement undertone, ‘protest -against it before earth and heaven.’ ‘Do you mean little Thompson there -and Heathcote Mountford?’ said the testator, looking up with a laugh -that was more like a snarl. And Heathcote too perceived that his very -lips were palish, bluish, and the hand not so steady as usual with which -he pushed the papers away.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_214" id="page_214">{214}</a></span> But Mr. Mountford recovered himself with -great courage. ‘Now that I have finished my business, we will have time -to consider your proposition,’ he said, putting his hand on Heathcote’s -shoulder as he got up from his chair. ‘That is, if you have time to -think of anything serious in the midst of all this ball nonsense. You -must come over for the ball, Loseby, a gay young bachelor like you.’</p> - -<p>‘You forget I am a widower, Mr. Mountford,’ said the lawyer, with great -gravity.</p> - -<p>‘To be sure; I beg your pardon; but you are always here when there is -anything going on; and while the young fools are dancing, we’ll consider -this question of the entail.’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t know what he means,’ Mr. Loseby said, some time after taking -Heathcote into a corner; ‘consider the question of the entail the moment -he has made another will! I’ll tell you what it is—he is repenting -already. I thought what I said couldn’t be altogether without effect. -St. John Mountford is as obstinate as a pig, but he is not a fool. I -thought he must be touched by what I said. That’s how it is; he would -not seem to give in to us; but if you agree on this point, it will be a -fine excuse for beginning it all over again. That’s a new light—and -it’s exactly like him—it’s St. John Mountford all over,’ said the -lawyer, rubbing his hands; ‘as full of crotchets as an egg is full of -meat—but yet not such a bad fellow after all.’</p> - -<p>The household, however, had no such consoling consciousness of the -possibility there was of having all done over again, and there was a -great deal of agitation on the subject, both upstairs and down. Very -silent upstairs—where Mrs. Mountford, in mingled compunction on Anne’s -account and half-guilty joy (though it was none of her doing she said to -herself) in respect to Rose’s (supposedly) increased fortune, was -reduced to almost complete<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_215" id="page_215">{215}</a></span> dumbness, her multiplicity of thoughts -making it impossible to her to share in Rose’s chatter about the coming -ball; and where Anne, satisfied to think that whatever was to happen had -happened, and could no longer be supposed to depend upon any action of -hers, sat proud and upright by the writing-table, reading—and -altogether out of the talk which Rose carried on, and was quite able to -carry on whatever happened, almost entirely by herself. Rose had the -same general knowledge that something very important was going on as the -rest; but to her tranquil mind, a bird in the hand was always more -interesting than two or three in the bush. Downstairs, however, Saymore -and Worth and the cook were far from silent. They had a notion of the -state of affairs which was wonderfully accurate, and a strong conviction -that Miss Anne for her sins had been deposed from her eminence and Miss -Rose put in her place. The feeling of Saymore and the cook was strong in -Anne’s favour, but Mrs. Worth was not so certain. ‘Miss Rose is a young -lady that is far more patient to have her things tried on,’ Worth said. -Saymore brought down an account of the party in the drawing-room, which -was very interesting to the select party in the housekeeper’s room. -‘Missis by the side of the fire, as serious as a judge—puckering up her -brows—never speaking a word.’</p> - -<p>‘I dare say she was counting,’ said Worth.</p> - -<p>‘And Miss Anne up by the writing-table, with her back against the wall, -reading a book, never taking no notice no more than if she were seventy; -and Miss Rose a-chattering. The two before the fire had it all their own -way. They were writing down and counting up all the folks for this -dance. Dash the dance!’ said Saymore; ‘that sort of a nonsense is no -satisfaction to reasonable folks. But Miss Rose, she’s as merry as a -cricket with her Cousin Heathcote and Cousin Heathcote at every<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_216" id="page_216">{216}</a></span> word. -She knows it’s all to her advantage what’s been a-doing to-day.’</p> - -<p>‘That might be a match, I shouldn’t wonder—eh!’ said the cook, who was -from the north-country; ‘the luck as some folks have—I never can -understand these queer wills; why can’t gentlefolks do like poor folks, -and divide fair, share and share alike? As for what you call entail, I -don’t make head or tail of it; but if Miss Rose’s to get all the brass, -and marry the man with the land, and Miss Anne to get nought, it’s easy -to see that isn’t fair.’</p> - -<p>‘If it’s the cousin you mean,’ said Mrs. Worth, ‘he is just twice too -old for Miss Rose.’</p> - -<p>‘Then he will know how to take care of her,’ said Saymore, which made -the room ring with laughter: for though the affairs of the drawing-room -were interesting, there was naturally a still warmer attraction in the -drama going on downstairs.</p> - -<p>Mr. Mountford was in his room alone. He had retired there after dinner, -as was his custom. At dinner he had been very serious. He had not been -able to get Mr. Loseby’s words out of his mind. Every word a nail in his -coffin! What superstitious folly it was! No man ever died the sooner for -attending to his affairs, for putting them in order, he said to himself. -But this was not simply putting them in order. His mind was greatly -disturbed. He had thought that, as soon as he had done it he would be -relieved and at ease from the pressure of the irritation which had -disturbed him so; but now that it was done he was more disturbed than -ever. Perhaps for the first time he fully realised that, if anything -should happen to himself, one of his children would be made to sustain -the cruellest disappointment and wrong. ‘It will serve her right,’ he -tried to say to himself, ‘for the way she has behaved to me;’ but when -it became really apparent to him that this would be, not merely a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_217" id="page_217">{217}</a></span> -tremendous rebuff and discomfiture for Anne, but a settled fate which -she could not escape, a slight shiver ran through him. He had not seen -this so plainly before. He had meant to punish her, cruelly, even -bitterly, and with an ironical completeness. But then he had never meant -to die. This made a greater difference than it was possible to say. He -meant that she should know that her marriage was impossible; that he had -the very poorest opinion of the man she had chosen; that he would not -trust him, and was determined never to let him handle a penny of his -(Mr. Mountford’s) money. In short, he said to himself, what he meant was -to save Anne from this adventurer, who would no longer wish to marry her -when he knew her to be penniless. He meant, he persuaded himself, that -his will should have this effect in his lifetime; he meant it to be -known, and set things right, not in the future, but at once. Now that -all was done he saw the real meaning of the tremendous instrument he had -made for the first time. To save Anne from an adventurer—not to die and -leave her without provision, not really to give anything away from her, -though she deserved it after the way in which she had defied him, had -been his intention. Mr. Mountford thought this over painfully, not able -to think of anything else. Last night even, no later, he had been -thinking it over vindictively, pleased with the cleverness and -completeness with which he had turned the tables upon his daughter. It -had pleased him immoderately before it was done. But now that it was -done, and old Loseby, like an old fool, had thrown in that bit of silly -superstition about the nails in his coffin, it did not please him any -longer. His face had grown an inch or two longer, nothing like a smile -would come whatever he might do. When his wife came ‘to sit with him,’ -as she often did, perturbed herself, half frightened, half exultant, and -eager to learn all she could, he sent her away impa<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_218" id="page_218">{218}</a></span>tiently. ‘I have a -great deal to do,’ he said. ‘What do I care for your ball? For heaven’s -sake let me have a little quiet. I have a great mind to say that there -shall be no ball——’ ‘Papa!’ his wife said, ‘you would not be so -unkind. Rose has set her heart on it so.’ ‘Oh confound——!’ he said. -Did he mean confound Rose, whom he had just chosen to be his heir, whom -he had promoted to the vacant place of Anne? All through this strange -business Mrs. Mountford’s secret exultation, when she dared to permit -herself to indulge it, in the good fortune of her daughter had been -chequered by a growing bitterness in the thought that, though Rose was -to have the inheritance, Anne still retained by far the higher place -even in her husband’s thoughts. He was resolved apparently that nobody -should have any satisfaction in this overturn—not even the one person -who was benefited. Mrs. Mountford went away with a very gloomy -countenance after the confound——! The only thing that gave her any -consolation was to see the brisk conversation going on between her -daughter and Heathcote Mountford. Anne sat stiff and upright, quite -apart from them, reading, but the two who were in front of the cheerful -fire in the full light of the lamp were chattering with the gayest ease. -Even Mrs. Mountford wondered at Rose, who surely knew enough to be a -little anxious, a little perturbed as her mother was—but who showed no -more emotion than the cricket that chirped on the hearth. Was it mere -innocence and childish ease of heart, or was it that there was no heart -at all? Even her mother could not understand her. And Heathcote, too, -who knew a great deal, if not all that was going on, though he threw -back lightly the ball of conversation, wondered at the gaiety of this -little light-minded girl who was not affected, not a hair’s breadth, by -the general agitation of the house, nor by the disturbed countenance<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_219" id="page_219">{219}</a></span> of -her mother, nor by her sister’s seriousness. He talked—it was against -his principles not to respond to the gay challenges thrown out to -him—but he wondered. Did she know nothing, though everybody else knew? -Was she incapable of divining that other people were in trouble? The -conversation was very lively in front of the fire, but he, too, as well -as the others, wondered at Rose.</p> - -<p>And Mr. Mountford alone in his library thought, and over again thought. -Supposing after all, incredible as it seemed, that <i>he was to die</i>? He -did not entertain the idea, but it took possession of him against his -will. He got up and walked about the room in the excitement it caused. -He felt his pulse almost involuntarily, and was a little comforted to -feel that it was beating just as usual; but if it should happen as -Loseby said? He would not acknowledge to himself that he had done a -wrong thing, and yet, if anything of that sort were to take place, he -could not deny that the punishment he had inflicted was too severe. -Whereas, as he intended it, it was not a punishment, but a precaution; -it was to prevent Anne throwing herself away upon an adventurer, a -nobody. Better even that she should have no money than be married for -her money, than fall into the hands of a man unworthy of her. But then, -supposing he were to die, and this will, made—certainly, as he -persuaded himself, as a mere precautionary measure—should become final? -That would make a very great difference. For a long time Mr. Mountford -thought over the question. He was caught in his own net. After all that -had been said and done, he could not change the will that he had made. -It was not within the bounds of possibility that he should send for that -little busybody again and acknowledge to him that he had made a mistake. -What was there that he could do? He sat up long beyond his usual hour. -Saymore,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_220" id="page_220">{220}</a></span> extremely curious and excited by so strange an incident, came -to his door three several times to see that the fire was out and to -extinguish the lamp, and received the last time such a reception as sent -the old man hurrying along the passages at a pace nobody had ever seen -him adopt before, as if in danger of his life. Then Mrs. Mountford came, -very anxious, on tiptoe in her dressing-gown, to see if anything was the -matter; but she too retired more quickly than she came. He let his fire -go out, and his lamp burn down to the last drop of oil—and it was only -when he had no more light to go on with, and was chilled to death, that -he lighted his candle and made his way to his own room through the -silent house.</p> - -<p>The victim herself was somewhat sad. She had spent the evening in a -proud and silent indignation, saying nothing, feeling the first jar of -fate, and the strange pang of the discovery that life was not what she -had thought, but far less moved by what her father had done than by the -failure round of her understanding and support. And when she had gone to -her room, she had cried as did not misbecome her sex and her age, but -then had read Cosmo’s letter over again, and had discovered a new -interpretation for it, and reading between the lines, had found it all -generosity and nobleness, and forthwith reconciled herself to life and -fate. But her father had no such ready way of escape. He was the master -of Anne’s future in one important respect, the arbiter of the family -existence, with the power of setting up one and putting down another; -but he had no reserve of imaginative strength, no fund of generous and -high-flown sentiment, no love-letter to restore his courage. He did what -he could to bring that courage back. During the hours which he spent -unapproachable in his library, he had been writing busily, producing -pages of manuscript, half of which he had destroyed<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_221" id="page_221">{221}</a></span> as soon as it was -written. At the end, however, he so far satisfied himself as to concoct -something of which he made a careful copy. The original he put into one -envelope, the duplicate into another, and placed these two packets in -the drawer of his writing-table, just as his light failed him. As he -went upstairs his cold feet and muddled head caused him infinite alarm, -and he blamed himself in his heart for risking his health. What he had -done in his terror that night might have been left till to-morrow; -whereas he might have caught cold, and cold might lead to bronchitis. -Every word a nail in his coffin! What warrant had Loseby for such a -statement? Was there any proof to be given of it? Mr. Mountford’s head -was buzzing and confused with the unusual work and the still more -unusual anxiety. Perhaps he had caught an illness; he did not feel able -to think clearly or even to understand his own apprehensions. He felt -his pulse again before he went to bed. It was not feverish—yet: but who -could tell what it might be in the morning? And his feet were so cold -that he could not get any warmth in them, even though he held them close -to the dying fire.</p> - -<p>He was not, however, feverish in the morning, and his mind became more -placid as the day went on. The two packets were safe in the drawer of -the writing-table. He took them out and looked at them as a man might -look at a bottle of quack medicine, clandestinely secured and kept in -reserve against an emergency. He would not care to have his possession -of it known, and yet there it was, should the occasion to try it occur. -He felt a little happier to know that he could put his hands upon it -should it be wanted—or at least a little less alarmed and nervous. And -days passed on without any symptoms of cold or other illness. There was -no sign or sound of these nails driven into his coffin. And the -atmosphere<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_222" id="page_222">{222}</a></span> grew more clear in the house. Anne, between whom and himself -there had been an inevitable reserve and coldness, suddenly came out of -that cloud, and presented herself to him the Anne of old, with all the -sweetness and openness of nature. The wrong had now been accomplished, -and was over, and there was a kind of generous amusement to Anne in the -consternation which her sudden return to all her old habits occasioned -among the people surrounding her, who knew nothing of her inner life of -imaginative impulse and feeling. She took her cottage-plans into the -library one morning with her old smile as if nothing had happened or -could happen. The plans had been all pushed aside in the silent combat -between her father and herself. Mr. Mountford could not restrain a -little outburst of feeling, which had almost the air of passion. ‘Why do -you bring them to me? Don’t you know you are out of it, Anne? Don’t you -know I have done—what I told you I should do?’</p> - -<p>‘I heard that you had altered your will, papa; but that does not affect -the cottagers. They are always there whoever has the estate.’</p> - -<p>‘Don’t you mind, then, who has the estate?’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, immensely,’ said Anne, with a smile. ‘I could not have thought I -should mind half so much. I have felt the coming down and being second. -But I am better again. You have a right to do what you please, and I -shall not complain.’</p> - -<p>He sat in his chair at his writing-table (in the drawer of which were -still those two sealed packets) and looked at her with contemplative, -yet somewhat abashed eyes. There was an unspeakable relief in being thus -entirely reconciled to her, notwithstanding the sense of discomfiture -and defeat it gave him. ‘Do you think—your sister—will be able to -manage property?’ he said.</p> - -<p>‘No doubt she will marry, papa.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_223" id="page_223">{223}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>‘Ah!’ he had not thought of this somehow. ‘She will marry, and my -substance will go into the hands of some stranger, some fellow I never -heard of; that is a pleasant prospect: he will be a fool most likely, -whether he is an adventurer or not.’</p> - -<p>‘We must all take our chance, I suppose,’ said Anne, with a little -tremor in her voice. She knew the adventurer was levelled at herself. ‘I -suppose you have made it a condition that he shall take the name of -Mountford, papa?’</p> - -<p>He made her no reply, but looked up suddenly with a slight start. Oddly -enough he had made no stipulation in respect to Rose. It had never -occurred to him that it was of the slightest importance what name Rose’s -husband should bear. He gave Anne a sudden startled look; then, for he -would not commit himself, changed the subject abruptly. After this -interval of estrangement it was so great a pleasure to talk to Anne -about the family affairs. ‘What do you think,’ he said, ‘about -Heathcote’s proposal, Anne?’</p> - -<p>‘I should have liked to jump at it, papa. Mount in our own family! it -seemed too good to be true.’</p> - -<p>‘Seemed! you speak as if it were in the past. I have not said no yet. I -have still got the offer in my power. Mount in our own family! but we -have not got a family—a couple of girls!’</p> - -<p>‘If we had not been a couple of girls there would have been no trouble -about the entail,’ said Anne, permitting herself a laugh. ‘And of course -Rose’s husband——’</p> - -<p>‘I know nothing about Rose’s husband,’ he cried testily. ‘I never -thought of him. And so you can talk of all this quite at your ease?’ he -added. ‘You don’t mind?’</p> - -<p>This was a kind of offence to him, as well as a satisfaction. She had no -right to think so little of it: and yet what a relief it was!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_224" id="page_224">{224}</a></span></p> - -<p>Anne shook her head and smiled. ‘It is better not to talk of it at all,’ -she said.</p> - -<p>This conversation had a great effect upon Mr. Mountford. Though perhaps -it proved him more wrong than ever, it restored him to all the ease of -family intercourse which had been impeded of late. And it set the whole -house right. Anne, who had been in the shade, behind backs, resigning -many of her usual activities on various pretences, came back naturally -to her old place. It was like a transformation scene. And everybody was -puzzled, from Mrs. Mountford, who could not understand it at all, and -Heathcote, who divined that some compromise had been effected, to the -servants, whose interest in Miss Anne rose into new warmth, and who -concluded that she had found means at last ‘to come over master,’ which -was just what they expected from her. After this everything went on very -smoothly, as if the wheels of life had been freshly oiled, and velvet -spread over all its roughnesses. Even the preparations for the ball -proceeded with far more spirit than before. The old wainscoted -banqueting-room, which had not been used for a long time, though it was -the pride of the house, was cleared for dancing, and Anne had already -begun to superintend the decoration of it. Everything went on more -briskly from the moment that she took it in hand, for none of the -languid workers had felt that there was any seriousness in the -preparations till Anne assumed the direction of them. Heathcote, who was -making acquaintance very gradually with the differing characters of the -household, understood this sudden activity less than anything before. -‘Is it for love of dancing?’ he said. Anne laughed and shook her head.</p> - -<p>‘I don’t know that I shall enjoy this ball much; but I am not above -dancing—and I enjoy <i>this</i>,’ she said. ‘I like to be doing something.’ -To have<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_225" id="page_225">{225}</a></span> regained her own sense of self-command, her superiority to -circumstances, made this magnanimous young woman happy in her downfall. -She liked the knowledge that she was magnanimous almost more than the -good fortune and prosperity which she had lost. She had got over her -misfortunes. She gave her head a little toss aloft, shaking off all -shadows, as she ran hither and thither, the soul of everything. She had -got the upper hand of fate.</p> - -<p>As for Mr. Mountford, he had a great deal more patience about the -details of the approaching entertainment when Anne took them in hand. -Either she managed to make them amusing to him, or the additional -reality in the whole matter, from the moment she put herself at the head -of affairs, had a corresponding effect upon her father. Perhaps, indeed, -a little feeling of making up to her, by a more than ordinary readiness -to accept all her lesser desires, was in his mind. His moroseness melted -away. He forgot his alarm about his health and Mr. Loseby’s ugly words. -It is possible, indeed, that he might have succeeded in forgetting -altogether what he had done, or at least regaining his feeling that it -was a mere expedient to overawe Anne and bring her into order, liable to -be changed as everything changes—even wills, when there are long years -before the testator—but for the two sealed envelopes in his drawer -which he could not help seeing every time he opened it. A day or two -before the ball some business called him into Hunston, and he took them -out with a half smile, weighing them in his hand. Should he carry them -with him and put them in Loseby’s charge? or should he leave them there? -He half laughed at the ridiculous expedient to which Loseby’s words had -driven him, and looked at the two letters jocularly; but in the end he -determined to take them, it would be as well to put them in old Loseby’s -hands. Heathcote volunteered to ride<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_226" id="page_226">{226}</a></span> with him as he had done before. It -was again a bright calm day, changed only in so far as November is -different from October. There had been stormy weather in the meantime, -and the trees were almost bare; but still it was fine and bright. Anne -came out from the hall and stood on the steps to see them ride off. She -gave them several commissions: to inquire at the bookseller’s for the -ball programmes, and to carry to the haberdasher’s a note of something -Mrs. Worth wanted. She kissed her hand to her father as he rode away, -and his penitent heart gave him a prick. ‘You would not think that was a -girl that had just been cut off with a shilling,’ he said, half -mournfully (as if it had been a painful necessity), and half with -parental braggadocio, proud of her pluck and spirit.</p> - -<p>‘I thought you must have changed your mind,’ Heathcote said.</p> - -<p>Mr. Mountford shook his head and said, ‘No, worse luck. I have not -changed my mind.’</p> - -<p>This was the only expression of changed sentiment to which he gave vent. -When they called at Mr. Loseby’s, the lawyer received them with a -mixture of satisfaction and alarm. ‘What’s up now?’ he said, coming out -of the door of his private room to receive them. ‘I thought I should see -you presently.’ But when he was offered the two sealed letters Mr. -Loseby drew back his hand as if he had been stung. ‘You have been making -another will,’ he said, ‘all by yourself, to ruin your family and make -work for us lawyers after you are dead and gone.’</p> - -<p>‘No,’ said Mr. Mountford, eagerly, ‘no, no—it is only some -stipulations.’</p> - -<p>The packets were each inscribed with a legend on the outside, and the -lawyer was afraid of them. He took them gingerly with the ends of his -fingers, and let them drop into one of the boxes which lined<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_227" id="page_227">{227}</a></span> his walls. -As for Mr. Mountford, he became more jaunty and pleased with himself -every moment. He went to the haberdasher’s for Mrs. Worth, and to the -stationer’s to get the programmes which had been ordered for the ball. -He was more cheerful than his companion had ever seen him. He opened the -subject of the entail of his own accord as they went along. ‘Loseby is -coming for the ball: it is a kind of thing he likes; and then we shall -talk it over,’ he said. Perhaps in doing this a way might be found of -setting things straight, independent of these sealed packets, which, -however, in the meantime, were a kind of sop to fate, a propitiation to -Nemesis. Then they rode home in cheerful talk. By the time night fell -they had got into the park; and though the trees stood up bare against -the dark blue sky, and the grass looked too wet and spongy for pleasant -riding, there was still some beauty in the dusky landscape. Mount, -framed in its trees and showing in the distance the cheerful glow of its -lights, had come in sight. ‘It is a pleasant thing to come home, and to -know that one is looked for and always welcome,’ Mr. Mountford said. -Heathcote had turned round to answer, with some words on his lips about -his own less happy lot, when suddenly the figure at his side dropped out -of the dusk around them. There was a muffled noise, a floundering of -horse’s hoofs, a dark heap upon the grass, moving, struggling, yet only -half discernible in the gloom, over which he almost stumbled and came to -the ground also, so sudden was the fall. His own horse swerved -violently, just escaping its companion’s hoof. And through the darkness -there ran a sharp broken cry, and then a groan: which of them came from -his own lips Heathcote did not know.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_228" id="page_228">{228}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XIX" id="CHAPTER_XIX"></a>CHAPTER XIX.<br /><br /> -<small>THE CATASTROPHE.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">All</span> was pleasant commotion and stir in Mount, where almost every room -had received some addition to its decoration. On this particular evening -there was a great show of candles in the old banqueting hall, which was -to be the ballroom, and great experiments in lighting were going on. The -ball at Mount was stirring the whole county. In all the houses about -there was more or less commotion, toilets preparing, an additional -thrill of liveliness and pleasure sent into the quiet country life. And -Mount itself was all astir. Standing outside, it was pretty to watch the -lights walking about the full house, gliding along the long corridors, -gleaming at windows along the whole breadth of the rambling old place. -With all these lights streaming out into the night, the house seemed to -warm the evening air, which was now white with inevitable mists over the -park. Rose ran about like a child, delighted with the stir, dragging -holly wreaths after her, and holding candles to all the workers; but -Anne had the real work in hand. It was to her the carpenters came for -their orders, and the servants who never knew from one half-hour to -another what next was to be done. Mrs. Mountford had taken the supper -under her charge, and sat serenely over her worsted work, in the -consciousness that whatever might go wrong, that, at least, would be -right. ‘As for your decorations, I wash my hands of them,’ she said. It -was Anne upon whom all these cares fell. And though she was by no means -sure that she would enjoy the ball, it was quite certain, as she had -said to Heathcote, that she enjoyed <i>this</i>. She enjoyed the sensation of -being<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_229" id="page_229">{229}</a></span> herself again, and able to throw herself into this occupation -with a fine indifference to her own personal standing in the house. If -she had been dethroned in the will, only herself could dethrone her in -nature. She felt, as she wished to feel, that she was above all that; -that she was not even under the temptation of sullenness, and had no -sense of injury to turn the sweet into bitter. She went about holding -her head consciously a little higher than usual, as with a gay defiance -of all things that could pull her down. Who could pull her down, save -herself? And what was the use of personal happiness, of that inspiration -and exhilaration of love which was in her veins, if it did not make her -superior to all little external misfortunes? She felt magnanimous, and -to feel so seemed to compensate her for everything else. It would have -been strange, indeed, she said to herself, if the mere loss of a fortune -had sufficed to crush the spirit of a happy woman, a woman beloved, with -a great life before her. She smiled at fate in her faith and happiness. -Her head borne higher than usual, thrown back a little, her eyes -shining, a smile, in which some fine contempt for outside trouble just -touched the natural sweetness of her youth, to which, after all, it was -so natural to take pleasure in all that she was about—all these signs -and marks of unusual commotion in her mind, of the excitement of a -crisis about her, struck the spectators, especially the keen-sighted -ones below stairs. ‘It can’t be like we think. She’s the conquering -hero, Miss Anne is. She’s just like that army with banners as is in the -Bible,’ said the north-country cook. ‘I don’t understand her not a bit,’ -Saymore said, who knew better, who was persuaded that Anne had not -conquered. Mrs. Worth opined that it was nature and nothing more. ‘A -ball is a ball, however downhearted you may be; it cheers you up, -whatever is a going to happen,’ she said; but<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_230" id="page_230">{230}</a></span> neither did this theory -find favour in old Saymore’s eyes.</p> - -<p>What a beehive it was! Rooms preparing for the visitors who were to come -to-morrow, linen put out to air, fires lighted, housemaids busy; in the -kitchen all the cook’s underlings, with aids from the village, already -busy over the ball supper. Even Mrs. Mountford had laid aside her -worsted work, and was making bows of ribbons for the cotillon. There was -to be a cotillon. It was ‘such fun,’ Rose had said. In the ballroom the -men were busy hammering, fixing up wreaths, and hanging curtains. Both -the girls were there superintending, Rose half encircled by greenery. -There was so much going on, so much noise that it was difficult to hear -anything. And it must have been a lull in the hammering, in the -consultation of the men, in the moving of stepladders and sound of heavy -boots over the floor, which allowed that faint sound to penetrate to -Anne’s ear. What was it? ‘What was that?’ she cried. They listened a -moment, humouring her. What should it be? The hammers were sounding -gaily, John Stokes, the carpenter belonging to the house, mounted high -upon his ladder, with tacks in his mouth, his assistant holding up to -him one of the muslin draperies. The wreaths were spread out over the -floor. Now and then a maid put in her head to gaze, and admire, and -wonder. ‘Oh, you are always fancying something, Anne,’ said Rose. ‘You -forget how little time we have.’ Then suddenly it came again, and -everybody heard. A long cry, out of the night, a prolonged halloo. John -Stokes himself put down his hammer. ‘It’s somebody got into the pond,’ -he said. ‘No, it’s the other side of the park,’ said the other man. Anne -ran out to the corridor, and threw open the window at the end, which -swept a cold gust through all the house. A wind seemed to have got up at -that moment,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_231" id="page_231">{231}</a></span> though it had been calm before. Then it came again, a -long, far-echoing ‘halloo—halloo—help!’ Was it ‘help’ the voice cried? -No doubt it was an appeal, whatever it was.</p> - -<p>The men threw down their hammers and rushed downstairs with a common -instinct, to see what it was. Anne stood leaning out of the window -straining her eyes in the milky misty air, which seemed to grow whiter -and less clear as she gazed. ‘Oh please put down the window,’ cried -Rose, shivering, ‘it is so cold—and what good can we do? It is -poachers, most likely; it can’t be anybody in the pond, or they wouldn’t -go on shrieking like that.’ Saymore, who had come up to look at the -decorations, gave the same advice. ‘You’ll get your death of cold, Miss -Anne, and you can’t do no good; maybe it’s something caught in a -snare—they cry like Christians, them creatures do, though we call ’em -dumb creatures; or it’s maybe a cart gone over on the low road—the -roads is very heavy; or one of the keepers as has found something; it’s -about time for Master and Mr. Heathcote coming back from Hunston; -they’ll bring us news. Don’t you be nervish, Miss Anne; they’ll see what -it is. I’ve known an old owl make just such a screeching.’</p> - -<p>‘Could an owl say “halloo,”<span class="lftspc">’</span> said Anne, ‘and “help”? I am sure I heard -“help.” I hear somebody galloping up to the door—no, it is not to the -door, it is to the stables. It will be papa or Heathcote come for help. -I am sure it is something serious,’ she said. And she left the great -window wide open, and rushed downstairs. As for Rose she was very -chilly. She withdrew within the warmer shelter of the ballroom, and -arranged the bow of ribbon with which one of the hangings was to be -finished. ‘Put down the window,’ she said; ‘it can’t do anyone any good -to let the wind pour in like that, and chill all the house.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_232" id="page_232">{232}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>Heathcote had been half an hour alone in the great wilderness of the -park, nothing near him that could help, the trees rustling in the wind, -standing far off round about like a scared circle of spectators, holding -up piteous hands to heaven, but giving no aid. He was kneeling upon the -horse’s head, himself no more than a protuberance in the fallen mass, -unable to get any answer to his anxious questions. One or two groans -were all that he could elicit, groans which grew fainter and fainter; he -shouted with all his might, but there seemed nothing there to reply—no -passing labourer, no one from the village making a short cut across the -park, as he had seen them do a hundred times. The mist rose up out of -the ground, choking him, and, he thought, stifling his voice; the echoes -gave him back the faint sounds which were all he seemed able to make. -His throat grew dry and hoarse. Now and then the fallen horse gave a -heave, and attempted to fling out, and there would be another scarcely -articulate moan. His helplessness went to his very heart; and there, -almost within reach, hanging suspended, as it were, between heaven and -earth, were the lights of the house, showing with faint white haloes -round them, those lights which had seemed so full of warmth and welcome. -When the first of the help-bringers came running, wildly flashing a -lantern about, Heathcote’s limbs were stiffened and his voice scarcely -audible; but it required no explanation to show the state of the case. -His horse, which had escaped when he dismounted, had made its way to the -stable door, and thus roused a still more effectual alarm. Then the -other trembling brute was got to its legs, and the body liberated. The -body!—what did they mean? There was no groan now or cry—‘Courage, sir, -courage—a little more patience and you will be at home,’ Heathcote -heard himself saying. To whom? There was no<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_233" id="page_233">{233}</a></span> reply; the groan would have -been eloquence. But he could not permit himself to believe that the -worst had come. He kept on talking, not knowing what he was doing, while -they brought something, he did not know what, to place the motionless -figure upon. ‘Softly, softly!’ he cried to the men, and took the limp -hand into his own, and continued to speak. He heard himself talking, -going along, repeating always the same words, ‘A little longer, only a -little longer. Keep up your heart, sir, we are nearly there.’ When they -had almost reached the door of the house, one of the bearers suddenly -burst forth in a kind of loud sob, ‘Don’t you, sir, don’t you -now!—don’t you see as he’ll never hear a spoken word again?’</p> - -<p>Then Heathcote stopped mechanically, as he had been speaking -mechanically. His hat had been knocked off his head. His dress was wet -and muddy, his hair in disorder, his whole appearance wild and terrible. -When the light from the door fell full upon him, and Anne stepped -forward, he was capable of nothing but to motion her away with his hand. -‘What is it?’ she said, in an awe-stricken voice. ‘Don’t send me away. I -am not afraid. Did papa find it? He ought to come in at once. Make him -come in at once. What is it, Mr. Heathcote? I am not afraid.’</p> - -<p>‘Send the young lady away, sir,’ cried the groom, imperatively. ‘Miss -Anne, I can’t bring him in till you are out o’ that. Good Lord, can’t -you take her away?’</p> - -<p>‘I am not afraid,’ she said, very pale, ranging herself on one side to -let them pass. Heathcote, who did not know what it was, any more than -she did, laid a heavy hand upon her shoulder, and put her, almost -roughly, out of the way. ‘I will go,’ she said, frightened. ‘I will -go—if only you will make papa come in out of the damp—it is so bad for -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_234" id="page_234">{234}</a></span>his—— Ah!’ She fell down upon her knees and her cry rang through all -the house. She had seen a sudden light from a lantern out of doors flash -across the covered face, the locks of grey hair.</p> - -<p>It was not long till everybody knew; from the top to the bottom of the -great house the news ran in a moment. John Stokes, the carpenter, -returned and mounted his ladder mechanically, to resume his work: then -remembered, and got down solemnly and collected his tools, leaving one -wreath up and half of the drapery. ‘There won’t be no ball here this -time,’ he said to his mate. ‘You bring the stepladder, Sam.’ This was -the first sign that one cycle of time, one reign was over, and another -begun.</p> - -<p>From that moment Heathcote Mountford’s position was changed. He felt it -before he had gone up the stairs, reverently following that which now he -no longer addressed with encouraging human words, but felt to be the -unapproachable and solemn thing it was. A man had ridden off for the -doctor before they entered the house, but there was no question of a -doctor to those who now laid their old master upon his bed. ‘I should -say instantaneous, or next to instantaneous,’ the doctor said when he -came; and when he heard of the few groans which had followed the fall, -he gave it as his opinion that these had been but unconscious plaints of -the body after all sense of pain or knowledge of what was happening had -departed. The horse had put his foot into a hole in the spongy wet -turf—a thing that might have happened any day, and which it was a -wonder did not happen oftener. There were not even the usual -questionings and wonderings as to how it came about, which are so -universal when death seizes life with so little warning. Mr. Mountford -had been in the habit of riding with a loose rein. He had unbounded -confidence in his cob, which, now that the event had proved its danger, -a groom came forward to say by no means de<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_235" id="page_235">{235}</a></span>served his confidence, but -had two or three times before stumbled with its rider. Heathcote felt -that doctors and grooms alike looked to himself with something more than -ordinary courtesy and respect. He walked away from the comfortable -bedroom now turned into a solemn presence chamber, and all its homely -uses intermitted, with a gravity he had not felt before for years. He -was not this man’s son, scarcely his friend, that his death should -affect him so. But, besides the solemnity of the event thus happening in -his presence, it changed his position even more than if he had been St. -John Mountford’s son. It would be barbarous to desert the poor women in -their trouble; but how was he to remain here, a comparative stranger, -their kinsman but their supplanter, become in a moment the master of the -house in which these girls had been born, and which their mother had -ruled for twenty years. He went to his room to change his wet and soiled -clothes, with a sense of confusion and sadness that made everything -unreal to him. His past as well as that of his kinsman had ended in a -moment; his careless easy life was over, the indulgences which he had -considered himself entitled to as a man upon whom nobody but Edward had -any special claim. Now Edward’s claims, for which he had been willing to -sacrifice his patrimony, must be put aside perforce. He could no longer -think of the arrangement which an hour ago he had been talking of so -easily, which was to have been accomplished with so little trouble. It -was in no way to be done now. Actually in a moment he had become -Mountford of Mount, the representative of many ancestors, the proprietor -of an old house and property, responsible to dependents of various -kinds, and to the future and to the past. In a moment, in the twinkling -of an eye; no idea of this kind had crossed his mind during that long -half-hour in the park, which looked like half a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_236" id="page_236">{236}</a></span> year. A fatal issue had -not occurred to him. It was not until he had reached the threshold of -the house, until he felt hope and help to be near, until he had heard -Anne’s voice appealing to him to know what it was, that the whole -meaning of it had burst upon him. St. John Mountford dead, and he -himself master of the house! It was impossible that, apart from the -appalling suddenness of the catastrophe, and the nervous agitation of -his own share in it, the death of his cousin even in this startling and -pitiful way should plunge him into grief. He was deeply shocked and awed -and impressed—sorry for the ladies, stricken so unexpectedly with a -double doom, loss of their head, loss of their home—and sorry beyond -words for the poor man himself, thus snatched out of life in a moment -without preparation, without any suggestion even of what was going to -happen; but it was not possible that Heathcote Mountford could feel any -private pang in himself. He was subdued out of all thought of himself, -except that strange sensation of absolute change. He dressed -mechanically, scarcely perceiving what it was he was putting on, in his -usual evening clothes which had been laid out for him, just as if he had -been dressing for the usual peaceful dinner, his kinsman in the next -room doing the same, and the table laid for all the family party. -Notwithstanding the absolute change that had occurred, the revolution in -everything, what could a man do but follow mechanically the habitual -customs of every day?</p> - -<p>He dressed very slowly, sometimes standing by the fire idly for ten -minutes at a time, in a half stupor of excitement, restless yet benumbed -and incapable of either action or thought; and when this was -accomplished went slowly along the long corridors to the drawing-room, -still as if nothing had happened, though more had happened than he could -fathom or realise. The change had gone<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_237" id="page_237">{237}</a></span> down before him and was apparent -in every corner of the deserted place. There were two candles burning -feebly on the mantelpiece, and the fire threw a little fitful light -about, but that was all; and no one was there; of course it was -impossible that anyone should be there—but Heathcote was strange to -family trouble, and did not know what happened when a calamity like this -same crashing down from heaven into the midst of a household of people. -Mrs. Mountford’s work was lying on the sofa with the little sheaf of -bright-coloured wools, which she had been used to tuck under her arm -when she went ‘to sit with papa;’ and on the writing-table there was the -rough copy of the ball programme, corrected for the printer in Rose’s -hand. The programmes; it floated suddenly across his mind to recollect -the commission they had received on this subject as they had ridden -away; had they fulfilled it? he asked himself in his confusion; then -remembered as suddenly how he who was lying upstairs had fulfilled it, -and how useless it now was. Ball programmes! and the giver of the ball -lying dead in the house within reach of all the preparations, the -garlands, and ornaments. It was incredible, but it was true. Heathcote -walked about the dark and empty room in a maze of bewildered trouble -which he could not understand, troubled for the dead, and for the women, -and for himself, who was neither one nor the other, who was the person -to profit by it. It was no longer they who had been born here, who had -lived and ruled here for so many years, but he himself who was supreme -in the house. It was all his own. The idea neither pleased him nor -excited, but depressed and bewildered him. His own house: and all his -easy quiet life in the Albany, and his little luxuries in the way of art -and of travel—all over and gone. It seemed unkind to think of this in -the presence of calamity so much more serious. Yet how could he help -it?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_238" id="page_238">{238}</a></span> When some one came with a soft knock at the door he was startled as -if it had been a ghost. It was Saymore who came into the room, neat in -his evening apparel, dressed and trim whatever happened, making his -little formal bow. ‘The ladies, sir,’ Saymore said, conquering a little -huskiness, a little faltering in his own voice, ‘send their compliments -and they don’t feel equal to coming down. They hope you will excuse -them; and dinner is served, Mr. Mountford,’ the old man said, his voice -ending in a jar of broken sound, almost like weeping. Heathcote went -downstairs very seriously, as if he had formed one of the usual -procession. He seated himself at the end of the table, still decorated -with all its usual prettinesses as for the family meal; he did all this -mechanically, taking the place of the master of the house, without -knowing that he did so, and sitting down as if with ghosts, with all -those empty seats round the table and every place prepared. Was it real -or was it a dream? He felt that he could see himself as in a picture, -sitting there alone, eating mechanically, going through a semblance of -the usual meal. The soup was set before him, and then the fish, and -then—</p> - -<p>‘Saymore, old man,’ Heathcote said suddenly, starting up, ‘I don’t know -if this is a tragedy or a farce we are playing—I cannot stand it any -longer—take all those things away.’</p> - -<p>‘It do seem an awful change, sir, and so sudden,’ cried the old man, -frightened by the sudden movement, and by this departure from the rigid -rules of ceremony—yet relieved after his first start was over. And then -old Saymore began to sob, putting down the little silver dish with the -entrée. ‘I’ve been his butler, sir, this thirty years, and ten years in -the pantry before that, footman, and born on the property like. And all -to be over, sir, in a moment; and he was a good master, sir, though -strict. He was very<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_239" id="page_239">{239}</a></span> particular, but always a kind master. It’ll be long -before we’ll yet another like him—not but what I beg your pardon, Mr. -Mountford. I don’t make no doubt but them as serves you will give the -same character to you.’</p> - -<p>This good wish relieved the oppression with a touch of humour; but -Heathcote did not dare to let a smile appear. ‘I hope so, sir,’ Saymore -said. He rubbed his old eyes hard with his napkin. Then he took up again -the little silver dish. ‘It’s sweetbreads, sir, and it won’t keep; it -was a great favourite with master. Have a little while it’s hot. It will -disappoint cook if you don’t eat a bit; we must eat, whatever happens, -sir,’ the old man said.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XX" id="CHAPTER_XX"></a>CHAPTER XX.<br /><br /> -<small>THE WILL.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">It</span> is needless to dwell upon the gloom of the days that followed this -event. Mr. Loseby came over from Hunston, as pale as he was rosy on -ordinary occasions, and with a self-reproach that was half pathetic, -half ludicrous. ‘I said every word of that new will of his would be a -nail in his coffin, God forgive me,’ he said. ‘How was I to know? A man -should never take upon himself to prophesy. God knows what a murdering -villain he feels if it chances to come true.’</p> - -<p>‘But nothing you said could have made the horse put his foot in that -rabbit-hole,’ Heathcote said.</p> - -<p>‘That is true, that is true,’ said the little lawyer: and then he began -the same plaint again. But he was very active and looked after -everything, managing the melancholy business of the moment, the inquest, -and the funeral. There was a great deal to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_240" id="page_240">{240}</a></span> do. Telegrams flew about the -country on all sides, warning the guests invited to the ball of what had -happened—yet at least one carriage full of ladies in full ball dress -had to be turned back from the lodge on the night when so much gaiety -had been expected at Mount. Charley Ashley had come up from the rectory -at once and took the position of confidential agent to the ladies, in a -way that Heathcote Mountford could not do. He thought it wrong to -forsake them, and his presence was needed as mourner at his cousin’s -funeral; otherwise he would have been glad to escape from the chill -misery and solitude that seemed to shut down upon the house which had -been so cheerful. He saw nothing of the ladies, save that now and then -he would cross the path of Anne, who did not shut herself up like her -stepmother and sister. She was very grave, but still she carried on the -government of the house. When Heathcote asked her how she was, she -answered with a serious smile, though with quick-coming moisture in her -eyes: ‘I am not ill at all; I am very well, Mr. Heathcote. Is it not -strange one’s grief makes no difference to one in that way? One thinks -it must, one even hopes it must; but it does not; only my heart feels -like a lump of lead.’ She was able for all her work, just as usual, and -saw Mr. Loseby and gave Charley Ashley the list of all the people to be -telegraphed to, or to whom letters must be written. But Mrs. Mountford -and Rose kept to their rooms, where all the blinds were carefully closed -and every table littered with crape. Getting the mourning ready was -always an occupation, and it did them good. They all went in a close -carriage to the village church on the day of the funeral, but only Anne -followed her father’s coffin to the grave. It was when Heathcote stood -by her there that he remembered again suddenly the odiousness of the -idea that some man or other, a fellow whom nobody<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_241" id="page_241">{241}</a></span> knew, had managed to -get between Anne Mountford and all the rest of the world. It was not a -place for such a thought, yet it came to him in spite of himself, when -he saw her falter for a moment and instinctively put out his arm to -sustain her. She looked round upon him with a look in which gratitude -and something like a proud refusal of his aid were mingled. That look -suggested to him the question which suddenly arose in his mind, though, -as he felt, nothing could be more inappropriate at such a time and -place. Where was the fellow? Why was he not here? If he had permitted -Anne to be disinherited for his sake, why had he not hurried to her side -to support her in her trouble? Heathcote was not the only person who had -asked himself this question. The Curate had not looked through Anne’s -list of names before he sent intelligence of Mr. Mountford’s death to -his friend. The first person of whom he had thought was Cosmo. ‘Of -course you will come to the rectory,’ he telegraphed, sending him the -news on the evening of the occurrence. He had never doubted that Cosmo -would arrive next morning by the earliest train. All next day while he -had been working for them, he had expected every hour the sound of the -arrival, saying to himself, when the time passed for the morning and for -the evening trains, that Cosmo must have been from home, that he could -not have received the message, that of course he would come to-morrow. -But when even the day of the funeral arrived without Cosmo, Charley -Ashley’s good heart was wrung with mingled wrath and impatience. What -could it mean? He was glad, so far as he himself was concerned, for it -was a kind of happiness to him to be doing everything for Anne and her -mother and sister. He was proud and glad to think that it was natural he -should do it, he who was so old a friend, almost like a brother to the -girls. But the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_242" id="page_242">{242}</a></span> other, who had a closer claim than that of any brother, -who had supplanted Charley and pushed him aside, where was he? On this -subject Anne did not say a word. She had written and received various -letters, but she did not take anyone into her confidence. And yet there -was a something in her eyes, a forlorn look, a resistance of any -support, as if she had said to herself, ‘Since I have not his arm I will -have no one else’s support.’ Heathcote withdrew from her side with a -momentary sense of a rebuff. He followed her down the little churchyard -path and put her into the carriage, where the others were waiting for -her, without a word. Then she turned round and looked at him again. Was -it an appeal for forgiveness, for sympathy—and yet for not too much -sympathy—which Anne was making? These looks of mingled feeling which -have so much in them of the poetry of life, how difficult they are to -interpret! how easily it may be that their meaning exists only in the -eyes that see them! like letters which may be written carelessly, -hastily, but which we weigh, every word of them, in balances of the -sanctuary, too fine and delicate for earthly words, finding out so much -more than the writer ever thought to say. Perhaps it was only -Heathcote’s indignant sense that the lover, for whom she had already -suffered, should have been by Anne’s side in her trouble that made him -see so much in her eyes. Charley Ashley had been taking a part in the -service; his voice had trembled with real feeling as he read the psalms; -and a genuine tear for the man whom he had known all his life had been -in his eye; but he, too, had seen Anne’s looks and put his own -interpretation upon them. When all was over, he came out of the vestry -where he had taken off his surplice and joined Heathcote. He was going -up to Mount, the general centre of everything at this moment. The -mourners were going there to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_243" id="page_243">{243}</a></span> luncheon, and afterwards the will was to -be read. Already, Mr. Mountford being safely in his grave, covered with -wreaths of flowers which everybody had sent, the interest shifted, and -it was of this will and its probable revelations that everybody thought.</p> - -<p>‘Have you any idea what it is?’ the Curate said; ‘you were in the house, -you must have heard something. It is inconceivable that a just man -should be turned into an unjust one by that power of making a will. He -was a good man,’ Charley added, with a little gulp of feeling. ‘I have -known him since I was <i>that</i> high. He never talked very much about it, -but he never was hard upon anyone. I don’t think I ever knew him to be -hard on anyone. He said little, but I am sure he was a good man at -heart.’</p> - -<p>Heathcote Mountford did not make any answer; he replied by another -question: ‘Mr. Douglas is a friend of yours, I hear?’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, yes, he is a friend of mine: it was I—we are such fools—that -brought him. Just think—if it brings harm to Anne, as everybody seems -to believe—that I should have to reflect that <i>I</i> brought him! I who -would cut off a hand!—I see you are thinking how strange it is that he -is not here.’</p> - -<p>‘It is strange,’ Heathcote said.</p> - -<p>‘Strange! strange is not the word. Why, even Willie is here: and he that -could have been of such use——. But we must remember that Anne has her -own ways of thinking,’ the Curate added. ‘He wrote half-a-dozen lines to -me to say that he was at her orders, that he could not act of himself. -Now, whether that meant that she had forbidden him to come—if so, there -is a reason at once.’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t think I should have been inclined to take such a reason,’ -Heathcote said.</p> - -<p>The Curate sighed. How could he consider what he would have done in such -circumstances? he knew<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_244" id="page_244">{244}</a></span> that he would not have stopped to consider. ‘You -don’t know Anne,’ he said: ‘one couldn’t go against her—no, certainly -one couldn’t go against her. If she said don’t come, you’d obey, whether -you liked it or not.’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t think I should. I should do what I thought right without -waiting for anyone’s order. What! a woman that has suffered for you, not -to be there, not to be by, when she was in trouble! It is inconceivable. -Ashley, your friend must be a—he must be, let us say the least——’</p> - -<p>‘Hush! I cannot hear any ill of him, he has always been my friend; and -Anne—do you think anything higher could be said of a man than that -Anne—you know what I mean.’</p> - -<p>Heathcote was very sympathetic. He gave a friendly pressure to the arm -that had come to be linked in his as they went along. The Curate had not -been able to disburden his soul to anyone in these days past, when it -had been so sorely impressed upon him that, though he could work for -Anne, it was not his to stand by her and give her the truest support. -Heathcote was sympathetic, and yet he could scarcely help smiling within -himself at this good faithful soul, who, it was clear, had ventured to -love Anne too, and, though so faithful still, had an inward wonder that -it had been the other and not himself that had been chosen. The -looker-on could have laughed, though he was so sorry. Anne, after all, -he reflected, with what he felt to be complete impartiality, though only -a country girl, was not the sort of young woman to be appropriated by a -curate: that this good, heavy, lumbering fellow should sigh over her -choice of another, without seeing in a moment that he and such as he was -impossible! However, he pressed Charley’s arm in sympathy, even though -he could not refrain from this half derision in his heart.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_245" id="page_245">{245}</a></span></p> - -<p>‘He might have stayed at the rectory,’ Charley continued; ‘that is what -I proposed—of course he could not have gone to Mount without an -invitation. I had got his room all ready; I sent our old man up to meet -two trains. I never for a moment supposed—Willie, of course, never -thought twice. He came off from Cambridge as a matter of course.’</p> - -<p>‘As any one would——’ said Heathcote.</p> - -<p>‘Unless they had been specially forbidden to do it—there is always that -to be taken into account.’</p> - -<p>Thus talking, they reached the house, where, though the blinds had been -drawn up, the gloom was still heavy. The servants were very solemn as -they served at table, moving as if in a procession, asking questions -about wine and bread in funereal whispers. Old Saymore’s eyes were red -and his hand unsteady. ‘Thirty years butler, and before that ten years -in the pantry,’ he said to everyone who would listen to him. ‘If I don’t -miss him, who should? and he was always the best of masters to me.’ But -the meal was an abundant meal, and there were not many people there -whose appetites were likely to be affected by what had happened. Mr. -Loseby, perhaps, was the one most deeply cast down, for he could not -help feeling that he had something to do with it, and that St. John -Mountford might still have been living had he not said that about the -words of an unjust will being nails in the coffin of the man who made -it. This recollection prevented him from enjoying his meal; but most of -the others enjoyed it. Many of the luxurious dainties prepared for the -ball supper appeared at this less cheerful table. The cook had thought -it a great matter, since there was no ball, that there was the funeral -luncheon when they could be eaten, for she could not bear waste. After -the luncheon most of the people went away; and it was but a small party -which adjourned<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_246" id="page_246">{246}</a></span> into the room where Mr. Mountford had spent most of his -life, to hear the will read, to which everybody looked forward with -excitement. Except Heathcote and the Rector, and Mr. Loseby, there was -nobody present save the family. When Anne came, following her stepmother -and sister, who went first, clinging together, she saw Charley Ashley in -the hall, and called to him as she passed. ‘Come,’ she said softly, -holding out her hand to him, ‘I know you will be anxious—come and hear -how it is.’ He looked wistfully in her face, wondering if, perhaps, she -asked him because he was Cosmo’s friend; and perhaps Anne understood -what the look meant; he could not tell. She answered him quietly, -gravely. ‘You are our faithful friend—you have been like our brother. -Come and hear how it is.’ The Curate followed her in very submissively, -glad, yet almost incapable of the effort. Should he have to sit still -and hear her put down out of her natural place? When they were all -seated Mr. Loseby began, clearing his throat:</p> - -<p>‘Our late dear friend, Mr. Mountford, made several wills. There is the -one of 1868 still in existence—it is not, I need scarcely say, the will -I am about to propound. It was made immediately after his second -marriage, and was chiefly in the interests of his eldest daughter, then -a child. The will I am about to read is of a very different kind. It is -one, I am bound to say, against which I thought it my duty to protest -warmly. Words passed between us then which were calculated to impair the -friendship which had existed between Mr. Mountford and myself all our -lives. He was, however, magnanimous. He allowed me to say my say, and he -did not resent it. This makes it much less painful to me than it might -have been to appear here in a room so associated with him, and make his -will known to you. I daresay this is all I need say, except that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_247" id="page_247">{247}</a></span> after -this will was executed, on the day indeed of his death, Mr. Mountford -gave to me in my office at Hunston two sealed packets, one addressed to -Miss Mountford and the other to myself, with a clause inserted on the -envelope to the effect that neither was to be opened till Miss Rose -should have attained her twenty-first birthday. I calculated accordingly -that they must have something to do with the will. Having said this, I -may proceed to read the will itself.’</p> - -<p>The first part of the document contained nothing very remarkable. Many -of the ordinary little bequests, legacies to servants, one or two to -public institutions, and all that was to belong to his widow, were very -fully and clearly enumerated. The attention of the little company was -lulled as all this was read. There was nothing wonderful in it after -all. The commonplace is always comforting: it relieves the strained -attention far better than anything more serious or elevated. An -unconscious relief came to the minds of all. But Mr. Loseby’s voice grew -husky and excited when he came to what was the last paragraph—</p> - -<p>‘All the rest of my property of every kind, including——[and here -there was an enumeration of the unentailed landed property and money in -various investments, all described] I leave to my eldest daughter, Anne -Mountford——.’ Here the reader made a little involuntary half-conscious -pause of excitement—and all the anxious people round him testified the -strain relieved, the wonder satisfied, and yet a new rising of wonder -and pleasant disappointment. What did it mean? why then had their -interest been thus raised, to be brought, to nothing? Everything, then, -was Anne’s after all! There was a stir in which the next words would -have been lost altogether, but for a louder clearing of the voice on the -part of the reader, calling as it seemed for special<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_248" id="page_248">{248}</a></span> attention. He -raised his hand evidently with the same object. ‘I leave,’ he repeated, -‘to my eldest daughter, Anne Mountford—in trust for her sister, -Rose——’</p> - -<p>Mrs. Mountford, who had been seated in a heap in her chair, a mountain -of crape, had roused up at the first words. She raised herself up in her -chair forgetful of her mourning, not believing her ears; ‘To Anne!’ she -said under her breath in strange dismay. Had it meant nothing then? Had -all this agitation both on her own part and on that of her husband, who -was gone, come to nothing, meant nothing? She had suffered much, Mrs. -Mountford remembered now. She had been very unhappy; feeling deeply the -injustice which she supposed was being done to Anne, even though she -knew that Rose was to get the advantage—but now, to think that Rose had -no advantage and Anne everything! So many things can pass through the -mind in a single moment. She regretted her own regrets, her -remonstrances with him (which she exaggerated), the tears she had shed, -and her compunctions about Anne. All for nothing. What had he meant by -it? Why had he filled her with such wild hopes to be all brought to -nothing? The tears dried up in a moment. She faced Mr. Loseby with a -scared pale face, resolving that, whatever happened, she would contest -this will, and declare it to be a falsehood, a mistake. Then she, like -all the others, was stopped by the cough with which Mr. Loseby -recommenced, by the lifting of his finger. ‘Ah!’ she said unconsciously; -and then among all these listening, wondering people, fell the other -words like thunderbolts out of the skies, ‘in trust—for her sister, -Rose——’ They sat and listened all in one gasp of suspended breathing, -of eagerness beyond the power of description; but no one took in the -words that followed. Anne was to have an income of five<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_249" id="page_249">{249}</a></span> hundred a year -charged on the property till Rose attained her twenty-first year. Nobody -paid any attention to this—nobody heard it even, so great grew the -commotion; they began to talk and whimper among themselves before the -reader had stopped speaking. Anne to be set aside, and yet employed, -made into a kind of steward of her own patrimony for her sister’s -benefit; it was worse than disinheritance, it was cruelty. The Rector -turned round to whisper to Heathcote, and Rose flung her arms about her -mother. The girl was bewildered. ‘What does it mean? what does it mean?’ -she cried. ‘What is that about Anne—and me?’</p> - -<p>‘Mr. Loseby,’ the Rector said, with a trembling voice, ‘this cannot be -so: there must be some mistake. Our dear friend, whom we have buried -to-day, was a good man; he was a just man. It is not possible; there -must be some mistake.’</p> - -<p>‘Mistake! I drew it out myself,’ Mr. Loseby said. ‘You will not find any -mistake in it. There was a mistake in his own mind. I don’t say anything -against that; but in the will there’s no mistake. I wish there was. I -would drive a coach and six through it if I could; but it’s all fast and -strong. Short of a miracle, nobody will break that will—though I -struggled against it. He was as obstinate as a mule, as they all -are—all the Mountfords.’</p> - -<p>‘Mr. Loseby,’ said Mrs. Mountford, ‘I did not approve any more than you -did. It was not any doing of mine. I protested against it; but my -husband—my husband had his reasons.’</p> - -<p>‘There are no reasons that could justify this,’ said the tremulous old -Rector; ‘it is a shame and a sin; it ought not to be. When a man’s will -is all wrong, the survivors should agree to set it right. It should not -be left like that; it will bring a curse upon all who have anything to -do with it,’ said the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_250" id="page_250">{250}</a></span> old man, who was so timid and so easily abashed. -‘I am not a lawyer. I don’t know what the law will permit; but the -Gospel does not permit such injustice as this.’</p> - -<p>Mr. Loseby had pushed his spectacles up on his forehead and listened -with an astonishment which was tinctured first with awe, then with -amusement. The old Rector, feeblest of men and preachers! The lawyer -gazed at him as at a curiosity of nature. It was a fine thing in its -way. But to attack a will of his, John Loseby’s! He smiled at the folly, -though he sympathised with the courage. After all, the old fellow had -more in him than anybody thought.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Mountford was roused too beyond her wont. ‘My husband had his -reasons,’ she said, her pale face growing red; ‘he never did anything -without thought. I would not change what he had settled, not for all the -world, not for a kingdom. I interfere to set a will aside! and <i>his</i> -will! I don’t think you know what you are saying. No one could have such -a right.’</p> - -<p>‘Then it will bring a curse and no blessing,’ said the Rector, getting -up tremulously. ‘I have nothing to do here; I said so at the first. -Anne, my dear excellent child, this is a terrible blow for you. I wish I -could take you out of it all. I wish—I wish that God had given me such -a blessing as you for my daughter, my dear.’</p> - -<p>Anne rose up and gave him her hand. All the usual decorums of such a -meeting were made an end of by the extraordinary character of the -revelation which had been made to them.</p> - -<p>‘Thank you, dear Mr. Ashley; but never think of me,’ Anne said. ‘I knew -it would be so. And papa, poor papa, had a right to do what he pleased. -We spoke of it together often; he never thought it would come to this. -How was he to think what was to happen? and so soon—so soon. I feel -sure,’ she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_251" id="page_251">{251}</a></span> said, her eyes filling with tears, ‘it was for this, and not -for pain, that he groaned after he fell.’</p> - -<p>‘He had need to groan,’ said the Rector, shaking his head—‘he had need -to groan! I hope it may not be laid to his charge.’ Mr. Ashley was too -much moved to recollect the ordinary politenesses; he pushed his chair -away, back to the wall, not knowing what he was doing. ‘Come, Charley!’ -he said, ‘come, Charley! I told you we had nothing to do here. We cannot -mend it, and why should we be in the midst of it? It is more than I can -bear. Come, Charley—unless you can be of use.’</p> - -<p>But Mrs. Mountford felt it very hard that she should thus be disapproved -of by her clergyman. It compromised her in every way. She began to cry, -settling down once more into the midst of her crape. ‘I don’t know why -you should turn against me,’ she said, ‘Mr. Ashley. I had nothing to do -with it. I told him it would make me wretched if he punished Anne; but -you cannot ask me to disapprove of my husband, and go against my -husband, and he only to-day—only to-day——’</p> - -<p>Here she was choked by genuine tears. Rose had kept close by her -mother’s side all the time. She cried occasionally, but she gave her -attention closely to all that was going on, and the indignation of the -bystanders at her own preferment puzzled her somewhat narrow -understanding. Why should not she be as good an heiress as Anne? Why -should there be such a commotion about her substitution for her sister? -She could not make out what they meant. ‘I will always stand by you, -mamma,’ she said, tremulously. ‘Come upstairs. I do not suppose we need -stay any longer, Mr. Loseby? There is nothing for us to do.’</p> - -<p>‘Nothing at all, Miss Rose,’ said the lawyer. The men stood up while the -ladies went away, Mrs. Mountford leaning on her child’s arm. Anne, too,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_252" id="page_252">{252}</a></span> -stood aside to let them pass. There was no reason perhaps why they -should have said anything to her; but she looked at them wistfully, and -her lip trembled a little. There were two of them, but of her only one. -One alone to face the world. She cast a glance round upon the others who -were all of her faction, yet not one able to stand by her, to give her -any real support. Once more, two of them at least felt that there was an -appeal in her eyes—not to them, nor to any one—a secret sense of the -cruelty of—what?—circumstances, fate, which left her quite alone at -such a crisis. Then she, too, turned to the lawyer. ‘May I go too?’ she -said. ‘No doubt there will be a great deal for me to learn and to do; -but I need not begin, need I, to-day?’</p> - -<p>‘My dear Miss Anne,’ cried Mr. Loseby, ‘I don’t know that you need to -accept the trust at all. I said to him I should be disposed to throw it -into Chancery, and to make your sister a ward of the Court. I don’t know -that you need to accept it at all——’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, yes,’ she said, with a smile. ‘I will accept it. I will do it. My -father knew very well that I would do it; but I need not begin, need I, -to-day?’</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXI" id="CHAPTER_XXI"></a>CHAPTER XXI.<br /><br /> -<small>WHEN ALL WAS OVER.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> night dropped over Mount very darkly, as dark a November night as -ever fell, fog and damp heaviness over everything outside, gloom and -wonder and bewilderment within. Mr. Loseby stayed all night and dined -with Heathcote, to his great relief. Nobody else came downstairs. Mrs. -Mountford, though she felt all the natural and proper grief for her -great loss, was not by any means unable to appear, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_253" id="page_253">{253}</a></span> Rose, who was -naturally tired of her week’s seclusion, would have been very glad to do -so; but her mother was of opinion that they ought not to be capable of -seeing anyone on the funeral day, and their meal was brought up to their -rooms as before. They played a melancholy little game of bézique -together afterwards, which was the first symptom of returning life which -Mrs. Mountford had permitted herself to be able for. Anne had joined -them in Mrs. Mountford’s sitting-room, and had shared their dinner, -which still was composed of some of the delicacies from the ball supper. -In winter everything keeps so long. There had been very little -conversation between them there, for they did not know what to say to -each other. Mrs. Mountford, indeed, made a little set speech, which she -had conned over with some care and solemnity. ‘Anne,’ she had said, ‘it -would not become me to say a word against what dear papa has done; but I -wish you to know that I had no hand in it. I did not know what it was -till to-day: and, for that matter, I don’t know now. I was aware that he -was displeased and meant to make some change, and I entreated him not to -do so. That was all I knew——’</p> - -<p>‘I am sure you had nothing to do with it,’ Anne said gently; ‘papa spoke -to me himself. He had a right to do as he pleased. I for one will not -say a word against it. I crossed him, and it was all in his hands. I -knew what the penalty was. I am sure it has been a grief to you for some -time back.’</p> - -<p>‘Indeed, you only do me justice, Anne,’ cried her stepmother, and a kiss -was given and received; but perhaps it was scarcely possible that it -should be a very warm caress. After they had eaten together Anne went -back to her room, saying she had letters to write, and Rose and her -mother played that game at bézique. It made the evening pass a little -more<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_254" id="page_254">{254}</a></span> quickly than if they had been seated on either side of the fire -reading good books. And when the bézique was over Mrs. Mountford went to -bed. There are many people who find in this a ready way of getting -through their superfluous time. Mrs. Mountford did not mind how soon she -went to bed; but this is not an amusement which commends itself to -youth. When her mother was settled for the night, Rose, though she had -promised to go too, felt a little stirring of her existence within her -roused, perhaps, by the dissipation of the bézique. She allowed that she -was tired; but still, after her mother was tucked up for the night, she -felt too restless to go to bed. Where could she go but to Anne’s room, -which had been her refuge all her life, in every trouble? Anne was still -writing letters, or at least one letter, which looked like a book, there -was so much of it, Rose thought. She came behind her sister, and would -have looked over her shoulder, but Anne closed her writing-book quickly -upon the sheet she was writing. ‘Are you tired, dear?’ she said—just, -Rose reflected, like mamma.</p> - -<p>‘I am tired—of doing nothing, and of being shut up. I hope mamma will -let us come downstairs to-morrow,’ said Rose. Then she stole a caressing -arm round her sister’s waist. ‘I wish you would tell me, Anne. What is -it all about, and what does it mean?’</p> - -<p>‘It is not so easy to tell. I did not obey papa——’</p> - -<p>‘Are you sorry, Anne?’</p> - -<p>‘Sorry? very sorry to have vexed him, dear. If I had known he would be -with us only such a little time—but one never knows.’</p> - -<p>‘I should have thought you would have been too angry to be sorry——’</p> - -<p>‘Angry—when he is dead?’ said Anne, with quick rising tears. ‘Oh, no! -if he had been living<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_255" id="page_255">{255}</a></span> I might have been angry; but now to think he -cannot change it, and perhaps would do anything to change it——’</p> - -<p>Rose did not understand this. She said in a little, petulant voice, ‘Is -it so dreadfully wrong to give it to me instead of you?’</p> - -<p>‘There is no question of you or me,’ said Anne, ‘but of justice. It was -my mother’s. You are made rich by what was hers, not his or anyone -else’s. This is where the wrong lies. But don’t let us talk of it. I -don’t mean to say a word against it, Rose.’</p> - -<p>Then Rose roamed about the room, and looked at all the little familiar -pictures and ornaments she knew. The room was more cheerful than her -mother’s room, with all its heavy hangings, in which she had been living -for a week. After a few minutes she came back and leaned upon Anne’s -shoulder again.</p> - -<p>‘I wish you would tell me what it means. What is In Trust? Have you a -great deal to do with me?’ she said.</p> - -<p>Anne’s face lighted up a little. ‘I have everything to do with you,’ she -said; ‘I am your guardian, I think. I shall have to manage your money -and look after all your interests. Though I am poor and you are rich, -you will not be able to do anything without me.’</p> - -<p>‘But that will not last for ever,’ said Rose, with a return of the -little, petulant tone.</p> - -<p>‘No; till you come of age. Didn’t you hear to-day what Mr. Loseby said? -and look, Rosie, though it will break your heart, look here.’</p> - -<p>Anne opened her desk and took out from an inner drawer the sealed packet -which Mr. Mountford had himself taken to the lawyer on the day of his -death. The tears rose to her eyes as she took it out, and Rose, though -curiosity was so strong in her as almost to quench emotion, felt -something coming in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_256" id="page_256">{256}</a></span> her throat at the first sight of her father’s -writing, so familiar as it was. ‘For my daughter Anne, not to be opened -till Rose’s twenty-first birthday.’ Rose read it aloud, wondering. She -felt something come in her throat, but yet she was too curious, too full -of the novelty of her own position, to be touched as Anne was. ‘But that -may change it all over again,’ she said.</p> - -<p>‘It is not likely; he would not have settled things one day and -unsettled them the next; especially as nothing had happened in the -meantime to make him change again.’</p> - -<p>Rose looked very curiously, anxiously, at the letter. She took it in her -hand and turned it over and over. ‘It must be about me, anyhow, I -suppose——’</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ said Anne, with a faint smile, ‘or me; perhaps he might think, -after my work for you was over, that I might want some advice.’</p> - -<p>‘I suppose you will be married long before that?’ said Rose, still -poising the letter in her hands.</p> - -<p>‘I don’t know—it is too early to talk of what is going to be done. You -are tired, Rosie—go to bed.’</p> - -<p>‘Why should I be tired more than you? You have been doing a great deal, -and I have been doing nothing. That is like mamma’s way of always -supposing one is tired, and wants to go to bed. I hate bed. Anne, I -suppose you will get married—there can be nothing against it, now—only -I don’t believe he has any money: and if you have no money either——’</p> - -<p>‘Don’t let us talk on the subject, dear—it is too early, it hurts -me—and I want to finish my letter. Sit down by the fire—there is a -very comfortable chair, and a book—if you don’t want to go to bed.’</p> - -<p>‘Are you writing to Mr. Douglas, Anne?’</p> - -<p>Anne answered only with a slight nod of her head. She had taken her pen -into her hand. She<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_257" id="page_257">{257}</a></span> could not be harsh to her little sister this day -above all others, in which her little sister had been made the means of -doing her so much harm—but it cost her an effort to be patient. Rose, -for her part, had no science to gain information from the inflections of -a voice. ‘Why wasn’t he here to-day?’ was the next thing she said.</p> - -<p>‘Rosie, dear, do you know I have a great deal to do? Don’t ask me so -many questions,’ Anne said, piteously. But Rose was more occupied by her -own thoughts than by anything her sister said.</p> - -<p>‘He ought to have been at the funeral,’ she said, with that calm which -was always so astonishing to her sister. ‘I thought when you went to the -grave you must have known you were to meet him there. Mamma thought so, -too.’</p> - -<p>These words sank like stones into Anne’s heart; but there was a kind of -painful smile on her face. ‘You thought I was thinking of meeting anyone -there? Oh, Rose, did you think me so cold-hearted? I was thinking only -of him who was to be laid there.’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t mean that you are cold-hearted. Of course we were all wretched -enough. Mamma said it would have been too much either for her or me; but -you were always the strongest, and then of course we expected Mr. -Douglas would be there.’</p> - -<p>‘You do not know him,’ cried Anne, with a little vehemence; ‘you do not -know the delicacy, the feeling he has. How was he to come intruding -himself the moment that my father was gone—thrusting himself even into -his presence, after being forbidden. A man of no feeling might have done -it, but he——. Rosie, please go away. I cannot talk to you any more.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, was that how it was?’ Rose was silenced for the moment. She went -away to the seat by the fire which her sister had pointed out to her. -Anne<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_258" id="page_258">{258}</a></span> had not noticed that she had still the letter in her hands. And -then she was quiet for some time, while her sister resumed her writing. -Cosmo’s conduct soon went out of Rose’s head, while she occupied herself -with the other more important matter which concerned herself. What might -be in this letter of papa’s? Probably some new change, some new will, -something quite different. ‘If I am not to be the heiress after all, -only have the name of it for three years, what will be the use?’ Rose -said to herself. She was very sensible in her limited way. ‘I would -rather not have any deception or have the name of it, if it is going to -be taken away from me just when I should want to have it.’ She looked at -the seals of the packet with longing eyes. If they would only melt—if -they would but break of themselves. ‘I wonder why we shouldn’t read it -now?’ she said. ‘It is not as if we were other people, as if we were -strangers—we are his own daughters, his two only children—he could not -have meant to hide anything from us. If you will open and read it, and -tell me what it is, we need not tell anyone—we need not even tell -mamma.’</p> - -<p>‘What are you talking of, Rose?’</p> - -<p>‘I am talking of papa’s letter, of course. Why should you keep it, not -knowing what harm it may be going to do—— Anne! you hurt me—you hurt -me!’ Rose cried.</p> - -<p>Anne sprang to her feet with the natural impetuosity which she tried so -hard to keep under, and seized the letter out of her sister’s hands.</p> - -<p>‘You must never speak nor think of anything of the kind,’ she cried; ‘my -father’s wish, his last charge to us——’</p> - -<p>‘I am sure,’ said Rose, beginning to cry, ‘you need not speak—it is you -that refused to do what he told you, not I? This is quite innocent; what -could it matter? It can’t vex him now, whatever we do,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_259" id="page_259">{259}</a></span> for he will -never know. I would not have disobeyed him when he was living—that is, -not in anything serious, not for the world—but now, what can it matter, -when he will never, never know?’</p> - -<p>The utter scepticism and cynicism of the little childish creature, -crying by the fire, did not strike Anne. It was only a naughtiness, a -foolishness upon the child’s part, nothing more. She restored the packet -to the private drawer and locked it with energy, closing down and -locking the desk, too. It was herself she blamed for having shown the -packet, not Rose, who knew no better. But now it was clear that she must -do, what indeed she generally had to do, when Rose claimed her -attention—give up her own occupation, and devote herself to her sister. -She came and sat down by her, leaving the letter in which her heart was. -And Rose, taking advantage of the opportunity, tormented her with -questions. When at last she consented to retire to her room, Anne could -do nothing but sit by the fire, making a vain attempt to stifle the more -serious questions, which were arising, whether she would or no, in her -own heart. ‘Rose = prose,’ she had tried hard to say to herself, as so -often before; but her lips quivered, so that a smile was impossible. She -sat there for a long time after, trying to recover herself. She had -arrived at a crisis of which she felt the pain without understanding the -gravity of it. And indeed the sudden chaos of confusion and wonder into -which she had wandered, she could not tell how, had no doubt so deadened -the blow of the strange will to her, as to give her a heroism which was -half stupidity, as so many heroisms are. She, too, had expected, like -all the world, that Cosmo would have come to her at once—if not to -Mount, yet to the rectory, where his friends would have received him. -She had taken it for granted—though she had not said a word on the -subject to anyone, nor even to herself, feeling that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_260" id="page_260">{260}</a></span> to see him and -feel him near her would be all the greater consolation if she had never -said she looked for it, even in her own heart. She had not given his -name to Charley Ashley as one of those to be informed by telegraph, nor -had she mentioned his name at all, though she seemed to herself to read -it in a continual question in the Curate’s eyes. A chill had stolen over -her when she heard nothing of him all the first long day. She had not -permitted herself to ask or to think, but she had started at every -opening door, and listened to every step outside, and even, with a pang -which she would not acknowledge, had looked out through a crevice of the -closed shutters, with an ache of wondering anguish in her heart, to see -the Curate coming up the avenue alone on the second morning. But when -Cosmo’s letter came to her, by the ordinary return of post, Anne tried -to say to herself that of course he was right and she was wrong—nay -more than that—that she had known exactly all through which was the -more delicate and noble way, and that it was this. How could he come to -Mount, he who had been turned away from it (though this was not quite -true), who had been the cause of her disinheritance? How could he -present himself the moment the father, who had objected to him so -strenuously, was dead? Cosmo laid the whole case before her with what -seemed the noblest frankness, in that letter. ‘I am in your hands,’ he -said. ‘The faintest expression of a wish from you will change -everything. Say to me, “Come,” and I will come, how gladly I need not -say—but without that word, how can I intrude into the midst of a grief -which, believe me, my dearest, I shall share, for it will be yours, but -which by all the rest of the world will seem nothing but a deliverance -and relief to me.’ Anne, who had not allowed herself to say a word, even -to her own soul, of the sickening of disappointment and wonder in her, -who had stood<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_261" id="page_261">{261}</a></span> bravely dumb and refused to be conscious that she had -expected him, felt her heart leap up with a visionary triumph of -approval, when this letter came. Oh, how completely and nobly right he -was! How superior in his instinctive sense of what it was most -delicately honourable and fit to do, in such an emergency, to any other, -or to herself even, who ought to have known better!</p> - -<p>She wrote instantly to say, ‘You are right, dear Cosmo. You are more -than right; how could anyone be so blind as not to see that this is what -you ought to, what you must have done, and that nothing else was -possible?’ And since then she had said these words over to herself again -and again—and had gone about all her occupations more proudly, more -erect and self-sustaining, because of this evident impossibility that he -should have been there, which the heavier people about, without his fine -perceptions and understanding, did not seem to see. As a matter of fact, -she said to herself, she wanted no help. She was not delicate or very -young, like Rose, but a full-grown woman, able for anything, worthy of -the confidence that had been placed in her. Nevertheless, there had been -a moment, when Heathcote had put out his arm to support her at the side -of the grave, when the sense of Cosmo’s absence had been almost more -than she could bear, and his excuse had not seemed so sufficient as -before. She had rejected the proffered support. She had walked firmly -away, proving to all beholders that she was able to do all that she had -to do, and to bear all that she had to bear; but, nevertheless the pang -and chill of this moment had shaken Anne’s moral being. She had read in -Heathcote’s eyes some reflection of the indignant question, ‘Where is -<i>that</i> fellow?’ She had discerned it in Charley Ashley’s every look and -gesture—and there had been a dull anticipation and echo<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_262" id="page_262">{262}</a></span> of their -sentiments in her heart. She had, as it were, struck against it, and her -strength and her nerves were shaken by the encounter. The after thrill -of this, still going through and through her, had made her almost -indifferent to the shock given by the reading of the will. She had not -cared the least about that. She had been dulled to it, and was past -feeling it—though it was not in the least what she had expected, and -had so much novelty and individuality of vengeance in it as to have -given a special blow had she been able to receive it. Even now when her -intelligence had fully taken it in, her heart was still untouched by -it—<i>Un chiodo caccia un’ altro</i>. But she had slowly got the better of -the former shock. She had re-read Cosmo’s letters, of which she received -one every day, and had again come to see that his conduct was actuated -by the very noblest motives. Then had come Rose’s visit and all those -questionings, and once more Anne had felt as if she had run against some -one in the dark, and had been shaken by the shock. She sat trying to -recover herself, trembling and incapable for a long time, before she -could go and finish her letter. And yet there was much in that letter -that she was anxious Cosmo should know.</p> - -<p>While all this was going on upstairs, the two gentlemen were sitting -over their dinner, with still a little excitement, a little gloom -hovering over them, but on the whole comfortable, returning to their -usual ways of thinking and usual calm of mind. Even to those most -intimately concerned, death is one of the things to which the human mind -most easily accustoms itself. Mr. Loseby was more new than Heathcote was -to the aspect of the house, from which for the time all its usual -inhabitants and appearances had gone. He said ‘Poor Mountford!’ two or -three times in the course of dinner, and stopped to give an account of -the claret on which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_263" id="page_263">{263}</a></span> the late master of the house had much prided -himself. ‘And very good it is,’ Mr. Loseby said. ‘I suppose, unless the -widow reserves it for her own use—and I don’t believe she knows it from -Gladstone claret at 12<i>s.</i> a dozen—there will be a sale.’ This intruded -a subject which was even more interesting than the will and all that -must flow from it. ‘What do you intend to do?’</p> - -<p>Now Heathcote Mountford was not very happy, any more than the other -members of the household. He had gone through a disappointment too. -Heathcote had but one person in the world who had been of any importance -in his past life, and that was his young brother Edward, now at -Sandhurst. It had been settled that Edward and a number of his comrades -should come to Mount for the dance, but when Heathcote had signified his -wish, after all this was over, that Edward should come for the funeral, -the young man had refused. “Why should I? You will all be as dull as -ditch-water; and I never knew our kinsman as you call him. You are -dismal by nature, Heathcote, old boy,’ the young man had said, ‘but not -I—why should I come to be another mute? Can’t you find enough without -me?’ Edward, who was very easily moved when his own concerns were in -question, was as obstinate as the rest of the Mountfords as to affairs -which did not concern himself. He paid no attention to his brother’s -plea for a little personal consolation. And Heathcote, who regarded the -young fellow as a father regards his spoiled child, was disappointed. To -be sure, he represented to himself, Edward too had been disappointed; he -had lost his ball, which was a thing of importance to him, and the -settlement of his affairs, for which he had been looking with such -confidence, was now indefinitely postponed. Edward had not been an easy -boy to manage; he had not been a very good boy. He had been delicate -and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_264" id="page_264">{264}</a></span> wayward and spoiled—spoiled as much by the elder brother who was -thoroughly aware how wrong it was, as by the mother who had been foolish -about Edward, and had died when he was still so young that spoiling did -not matter much. Heathcote had carried the process on, he had vowed to -himself that, so far as was possible, the delicate boy should not miss -his mother’s tenderness; and he had kept his word, and ruined the boy. -Edward had got everything he wanted from his brother, so long as he -wanted only innocent things; and afterwards he had got for himself, and -insisted on getting, things that were not so innocent; and the result -was that, though still only twenty, he was deeply in debt. It was for -this that Heathcote had made up his mind to sacrifice the succession to -Mount. Sacrifice—it was not a sacrifice; he cared nothing for Mount, -and Edward cared less than nothing. Even afterwards, when he had begun -to look upon Mount with other eyes, he had persevered in his intention -to sacrifice it; but now all that had come to an end. Whether he would -or not, Heathcote Mountford had become the possessor of Mount, and -Edward’s debts were very far from being paid. In these circumstances -Heathcote felt it specially hard upon him that his brother did not come -to him, to be with him during this crisis. It was natural; he did not -blame Edward; and yet he felt it almost as a woman might have felt it. -This threw a gloom over him almost more than the legitimate gloom, -which, to be sure, Heathcote by this time had recovered from. It was not -in nature that he could have felt it very deeply after the first shock. -His own vexations poured back upon his mind, when Mr. Loseby said, ‘What -do you intend to do?’</p> - -<p>‘You will say what have I to do with that?’ the old lawyer said. ‘And -yet, if you will think, I have to do with it more or less. We have to -get the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_265" id="page_265">{265}</a></span> family out on our side. It’s early days—but if you should wish -an early settlement——’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t mind if it is never settled,’ said Heathcote; ‘what should I do -with this great place? It would take all my income to keep it up. If -they like to stay, they are very welcome. I care nothing about it. Poor -St. John had a handsome income from other sources. He was able to keep -it up.’</p> - -<p>‘Good Lord, Mr. Heathcote!’ said the lawyer, ‘why didn’t you come a year -ago? A young man should not neglect his relations; it always turns out -badly. If you had come here a year ago, in the natural course of events, -I could have laid a thousand pounds upon it that you and Anne would have -taken a fancy to each other. You seem to me exactly cut out for each -other—the same ways, a little resemblance even in looks——’</p> - -<p>‘You pay me too great a compliment,’ said Heathcote, with an uneasy -laugh, colouring in spite of himself; ‘and you must let me say that my -cousin’s name is sacred, and that, old friend as you are, you ought not -to discuss her so.’</p> - -<p>‘I—oughtn’t to talk of Anne? Why, she has sat upon my knee,’ said Mr. -Loseby. ‘Ah! why didn’t you come a year ago? I don’t say now that if it -was to your mind to make yourself comfortable as poor Mountford did, in -the same way, there’s still the occasion handy. No, I can’t say that,’ -said the old lawyer, ‘I am too sick of the whole concern. Anne treated -like that, and Rose, little Rose, that bit of a girl!—-- However,’ he -said, recovering himself, ‘I ought to remember that after all you can’t -take the same interest in them as I do, and that we were talking of your -own concerns.’</p> - -<p>‘I take a great interest in my cousins,’ said Heathcote gravely. ‘Do you -know I believe poor St. John meant to buy my interest, to accept my -proposal, and leave Mount to his eldest daughter.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_266" id="page_266">{266}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>‘No; you don’t think so? Well, that might have been a way out of -it—that might have been a way out of it—now that you recall it to me -the same thought struck myself; at least I thought he would take -advantage of that to make a new settlement, after he had taken his fling -and relieved his mind with this one. Ah, poor man, he never calculated -on the uncertainty of life—he never thought of that rabbit-hole. God -help us, what a thing life is! at the mercy of any rolling stone, and -any falling branch, of a poor little rabbit’s burrowing, or even a glass -of water. And what a thing is man! as Hamlet says; it’s enough to make -anyone moralise: but we never take a bit of warning by it—never a bit. -And so you really think he meant to take Mount off your hands and settle -it on Anne? I don’t think he had gone so far as that—but I’ll tell you -what we’ll do, we’ll tell her so, and that will make her happy. She’s -not like other people, she is all wrong here,’ said Mr. Loseby, -laughing, with the tears in his eyes, and tapping his forehead. ‘She has -a bee in her bonnet, as the Scotch say. She is a fool, that is what Anne -is—she will be as pleased as if he had left her a kingdom. The worst -thing of it all to that girl is, that her father has made himself look -like a tyrant and a knave—which he wasn’t, you know—he wasn’t, poor -Mountford! though he has done his best to make himself appear so. Once -give her something to build up his character again upon, some ground, it -doesn’t matter how fanciful it is, and she’ll be happy. She won’t mind -her own loss, bless you,’ said the old lawyer, half crying, ‘she is such -a fool!’</p> - -<p>‘Mr. Loseby,’ said Heathcote with an emotion which surprised him, ‘I -think you are giving my cousin Anne the most beautiful character that -ever was.’</p> - -<p>‘Sir,’ cried Mr. Loseby, not ashamed to dry his<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_267" id="page_267">{267}</a></span> eyes, ‘whoever said -anything different? Did you ever hear anything different? As long as I -have known the world I have never known but one Anne Mountford. Oh, Mr. -Heathcote, Mr. Heathcote,’ he added, his voice turning into tremulous -laughter, ‘what a thousand pities that you did not make your appearance -a year before!’</p> - -<p>Heathcote got up from his chair with a start, and walked about the room -in a nervous impatience, for which he could give no reason to himself. -Was it that he, too, wished he had come to Mount a year sooner? He left -the old man to finish his wine, and roamed about, now pausing a moment -with his back to the fire, now extending his walk into the dark corners. -He had lit his cigarette, which furnished him with an excuse—but he was -not thinking of his cigarette. What he was thinking was—What the devil -did that fellow mean by staying away now? Why didn’t he come and stand -by her like a man? What sort of a pitiful cur was he that he didn’t -come, now he was free to do it, and stand by her like a man? He disposed -of Charley Ashley’s mild plea with still greater impatience. Perhaps she -had forbidden him to come. ‘Would I have been kept away by any -forbidding?’ Heathcote said to himself without knowing it. Then he came -back from the corners in which such suggestions lay, feeling uneasy, -feeling wroth and uncomfortable, and took his stand again before the -fire. ‘Perhaps you will give me a little advice about the money I -wanted,’ he said to Mr. Loseby. This was safer on the whole than -suffering himself to stray into foolish fancies as to what he would have -done, or would not have done, supposing an impossible case—supposing he -had made his appearance a year sooner; before there was any complication -of any unsatisfactory ‘fellow’ with the image of his cousin Anne.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_268" id="page_268">{268}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXII" id="CHAPTER_XXII"></a>CHAPTER XXII.<br /><br /> -<small>SOPHISTRY.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">It</span> is not to be supposed that the events which had moved so deeply the -household at Mount, and all its connections, should have passed lightly -over the one other person who, of all to whom the Mountfords were -familiar, could alone feel himself a principal in the important matters -involved. Douglas had looked on from a distance, keeping himself out of -all the immediate complications, but not the less had he looked on with -a beating heart, more anxious than it is possible to say, and, though -still quiescent, never less than on the verge of personal action, and -never clear that it would not have been wisest for him to plunge into -the midst of it from the first. His position had not been easy, nor his -mind composed, from the beginning. When he had heard of Mr. Mountford’s -death his agitation was great. He had not become indifferent to Anne. -The thought that she was in trouble, and he not near her, was no -pleasant thought. All the first evening, after he had received Charley -Ashley’s telegram, he had spent in a prolonged argument with himself. He -knew from Anne that something had been done, though he did not know -what; that, according to her father’s own words, the property had been -taken from her and given to her sister. She had told him what her father -said, that it was understood between them that this transfer was to be -made, and that she had no longer any interest in the fortune which had -once been so certainly considered hers. Cosmo had not admired the ease -with which she spoke on this question. He had gnashed his teeth at -Anne’s unworldliness, at her calm consent to her father’s arrangements, -and ready making up of the quarrel<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_269" id="page_269">{269}</a></span> with him. She was his love, his -dearest, in all truth the one woman in the world who had captivated his -affections, and made him feel that he had no longer any choice, any -preference, that did not point to her; but he had acted like a fool all -the same, he thought. In some minds, perhaps in most minds, this -conviction can exist without in the least affecting the reality of the -love which lies behind. He loved Anne, but his love did not make him -think that everything she did was well done. She had behaved like a -fool. Old Mr. Loseby said the same thing, but he said it with glistening -eyes, and with an appreciation of the folly and its character such as -Cosmo was altogether incapable of.</p> - -<p>Nevertheless, Anne’s lover did not feel his love materially lessened by -this conviction. He gnashed his teeth at it, thinking, ‘Had I but been -there!’ though he knew very well that, had he been there, he could have -done nothing to change it. But one thing he could do: when she was his -wife he could put a stop to such follies. There should be none of this -ridiculous magnanimity, this still more ridiculous indifference, then. -In writing to her he had felt that it was difficult to keep all vestige -of his disapproval out of his letters, but he had managed pretty nearly -to do so: feeling wisely that it was useless to preach to her on such a -subject, that only his own constant guidance and example, or, better -still, his personal conduct of her affairs, could bring real good sense -into them. He had been anxious enough while this was going on, not -seeing what was to come, feeling only certain that, love as he might, he -could no more marry his love without a penny than he could make himself -Lord Chief Justice. It was out of the question: in his position marriage -was difficult in the best of circumstances; but to marry a wife without -a fortune of her own,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_270" id="page_270">{270}</a></span> without enough to keep her comfortable, was -simply folly not to be thought of. Anne’s dreams of romantic toil, of -the enthusiasm of hard work into which a man might rush for the sake of -a woman he loved, and of the heroic life the two could lead, helping -each other on to fame and fortune at the end, were to him as silly as a -nursery tale. Men who made their own way like that, overcoming every -obstacle and forcing their way to the heights of ambition, were men who -did it by temperament, not by love, or for any sentimental motive. Cosmo -knew that he was not the sort of man to venture on such a madness. His -wife must have enough to provide for her own comfort, to keep her as she -had been accustomed to be kept, or else he could have no wife at all.</p> - -<p>This had given him enough to think of from the very beginning of the -engagement, as has been already shown. His part was harder than Anne’s, -for she had fanciful ups and downs as was natural to her, and if she -sometimes was depressed would be next moment up in the clouds, exulting -in some visionary blessedness, dreaming out some love in a cottage or -still more ludicrous love in chambers, which his sterner reason never -allowed to be possible, not for an hour; therefore his was the hardest -burden of the two. For he was not content to part with her, nor so much -as to think of parting with her; and yet, with all his ingenuity, he -could not see how, if her father did not relent, it could be done. And -the worst thing now was that the father was beyond all power of -relenting—that he was dead, absolutely dead, allowed to depart out of -this world having done his worst. Not one of the family, not one of Mr. -Mountford’s dependents, was more stunned by the news than Cosmo. Dead! -he read over the telegram again and again—he could not believe his -eyes—it seemed impossible that such a<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_271" id="page_271">{271}</a></span> piece of wickedness could have -been accomplished; he felt indignant and furious at everybody concerned, -at Mr. Mountford for dying, at God for permitting it. A man who had made -such a mistake, and to whom it was absolutely indispensable that he -should be allowed time to repent of his mistake and amend it—and -instead of this he had died—he had been permitted to die.</p> - -<p>The news threw Cosmo into a commotion of mind which it is impossible to -describe. At one period of the evening he had thrown some things into a -bag, ready to start, as Ashley expected him to do; then he took another -thought. If he identified himself with everything that was being done -now, how could he ever withdraw after, how postpone ulterior -proceedings? This, however, is a brutal way of stating even the very -first objection that occurred to Cosmo. Sophistry would be a poor art if -it only gave an over-favourable view of a man’s actions and motives to -the outside world, and left himself unconvinced and undeceived. His was -of a much superior kind. It did a great deal more for him. When its -underground industry was once in full action it bewildered himself. It -was when he was actually closing his bag, actually counting out the -contents of his purse to see if he had enough for the journey, that this -other line of reasoning struck him. If he thus rushed to Mount to take -his place by Anne’s side, and yet was not prepared (and he knew he was -not prepared) to urge, nay, almost force himself upon Anne’s immediate -acceptance as her husband, would he not be doing a wrong to Anne? He -would compromise her; he would be holding her up to the world as the -betrothed of a poor man, a man not so well off as to be able to claim -her, yet holding her bound. He paused, really feeling this to throw a -new light upon the subject. Would it be acting honourably by Anne?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_272" id="page_272">{272}</a></span> -Would it, in her interest, be the right thing to do?</p> - -<p>This, however, was not all or half the mental process he had to go -through. He paused for her sake; yet not in this way could the reason of -his hesitation be made clear to her. She would not mind being -‘compromised.’ She would not insist upon the fulfilment of their -engagement. He had to think of some other reason to prove to her that it -was better he should stay away. He made out his case for her, gradually, -at more cost of thought than the plea which had convinced himself; but -at the end it satisfied him as full of very cogent and effective -reasoning. The whole matter opened up before him as he pondered it. He -began to ask himself, to ask her, how he could, as a man of honour, -hurry to Mount as soon as the breath was out of the body of the master -of the house who had rejected and sent him away? How could he thrust -himself into Mr. Mountford’s presence as soon as he was dead and -incapable of resenting it—he, who when living would have refused to -admit him, would have had nothing to say to him? He put back his money -into his purse, and slowly undid his bag and threw out his linen as -these thoughts arose and shaped themselves in his mind. In either point -of view it would be impossible to do it; in either point of view manly -self-denial, honour, and consideration for all parties required that in -this emergency he should not think of what was pleasant either to her or -himself. It was a crisis too important for the mere action of -instinctive feelings. Of course he would like to be with her—of course -she would like to have him by her. But here was something more than what -they would like—a world of things to be considered. To say that Cosmo, -deep down at the bottom of his heart, was not aware that there might be -another larger, simpler mode of considering the question<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_273" id="page_273">{273}</a></span> which would -sweep all these intellectual cobwebs away and carry him off in a moment -to Anne’s side, to stand by her in defiance of all prudential motives, -would be untrue. It is the curse of sophistry that this sense of -something better, this consciousness of a fundamental flaw in its -arguments, is seldom quite obliterated; but at the same time it was far -more in accordance with his nature to act according to the more -elaborate, and not according to the simpler system. He satisfied -himself, if not completely, yet sufficiently to reconcile himself to -what he was doing; and he satisfied Anne so far at least as her first -response, her first apprehension was concerned. ‘Dear Cosmo, you are -right, you are right, you are more than right, as you always are,’ she -had said with a kind of enthusiasm, in her first letter. ‘They say that -women have more delicate perceptions, but that only shows how little -people know. I see in a moment the truth and the wisdom and the fine -honour of what you say. I am capable of understanding it at least, but I -feel how far you go beyond me in delicacy of feeling as well as in other -things. No, no! you must not come; respect for my dear father forbids -it, although I cannot but hope and feel certain that my father himself -knows better now.’ This had been her first reply to his explanation; and -he had been satisfied then that what he had done, and the reasons he had -given, were in all senses the best.</p> - -<p>It was now, however, the day after Mr. Mountford’s funeral, and -everything had progressed beyond that event. Till it is over, the dead -is still the first person to be considered, and all things refer to him -as to one who is the centre of every thought. But when the earth has -closed over his head then an inevitable change occurs. He is left there -where he lies—be he the most important, the most cherished and -beloved—and other interests push in and take<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_274" id="page_274">{274}</a></span> the first place. Cosmo -sat in his chambers on the evening of that day, and read his letters -with a distinct consciousness of this difference, though he himself had -taken no immediate share in the excitements of the dying and the burial. -There was a long, very long letter from Anne, and a shorter one from -Charley Ashley, which he read first with a slight sensation of alarm, -notwithstanding his anxiety to hear about the will; for Cosmo could not -but feel, although he was satisfied himself with the reasons for his -conduct, and though Anne was satisfied, that such a rude simpleton as -the Curate might possibly take a different view. He held Anne’s letter -in his hand while he read the other. Charley was very brief. He was not -much of a correspondent in any case.</p> - -<p>‘We got over the funeral well on the whole,’ Charley wrote. ‘The others -only went to the church, but she followed her father to the grave as you -would expect. At one moment I thought she would break down; and then I -confess that I felt, in your place, scarcely her own express command -could have made up to me for being absent at such a time. The reading of -the will was still more trying, if possible—at least I should have -thought so. But she behaved like—herself—I can’t say anything more. I -thought you would like to have a separate account, as, no doubt, she -will make as light of all she has to go through as possible. Only on -this point you ought not altogether to take her own word. She has -acknowledged that she will have a great deal to bear. She wants support, -whatever she may say.’</p> - -<p>A slight smile went over Cosmo’s face as he put down this note. It was -not a very comfortable smile. A man does not like even an imaginary tone -of contempt in another man’s voice. And Charley Ashley was his own -retainer, his dog, so to speak. To be<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_275" id="page_275">{275}</a></span> judged by him was a novel and not -a pleasant sensation. A year ago Cosmo could have felt certain that -Charley would find everything he did right; he would have believed in -his friend’s inscrutable motives, even if he could not understand them. -But now there was a change. It was not only the hopeless rivalry which -Charley himself felt to be hopeless, and which had never stood for a -moment in Cosmo’s way, but it was the instinct of true affection in the -good fellow’s heart which made a severe critic, a judge incorruptible, -of Charley. Douglas did not think very much of Charley’s opinion or -approval; but to feel it withdrawn from him, to detect a doubt, and even -suspicion in his faithful adherent’s words, gave him a sting. Then he -read the long letter in which Anne had poured forth all her heart; there -were revelations in it also. It had been interrupted by Rose’s -matter-of-fact questions. Darts of vulgar misapprehension, of -commonplace incapacity to understand those fine motives of Cosmo’s which -to herself were so eloquent, had come across the current of her words. -Anne had not been aware of the risings and fallings of sentiment with -which she wrote. She had known that by turns her heart in her bosom -felt, as she had herself described it, ‘like lead.’ She had been aware -that now and then there had seemed no sort of comfort nor lightening of -the sky wherever she looked, even when she looked to him, and -endeavoured to think of that ‘falling back upon’ him to support her, -which had seemed the happiest image of their mutual relations a few days -ago. But she had not been aware of the breaks in her letter, following -these fluctuations of sentiment, of how she had flagged and shown her -discouragement, and sometimes permitted to be audible a breathing, not -of complaint, not of reproach, but of something which was neither, yet -included both—a sort of sigh of loneliness.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_276" id="page_276">{276}</a></span></p> - -<p>‘My heart almost failed me when all was over, she wrote; ‘I think I must -have shown it in my looks, for our cousin, Heathcote Mountford, held out -his arm to me. It was not his arm I wanted, Cosmo, you know. Oh, how -strange and how sad it is that just when we want support most, hard life -has so altered everything that we cannot have it!’ And then, again, -after giving him the fullest details of the will: ‘I told you before -that the thought of being set aside—of being second where I had always -been first—was more hard to me than I could have believed possible; and -you, who are always ready to think the best of me, said that it was -natural, that I could not have been expected to feel otherwise. I must -tell you now, however, in my own defence, that I did not feel at all -like this to-day; I never imagined, though I have thought so often on -the subject, that it would have been possible to set me aside so -completely as has been done. You understand that I have nothing (except -what came to me from old Uncle Ben), nothing—except indeed a sort of -allowance like a schoolmistress for taking care of Rose, which will only -last three years. But, Cosmo, if you will believe me, I never thought of -it; my heart did not sink in the least. I did not seem to care that it -had all gone away from me, or that Rose had been set in my place, or -that my father—(poor papa—how he must have felt it at the last!) -should have been so unjust. They were all made of no account, as if they -were the most trifling things in the world by—something else. I owe -that to you too: and you must understand, dear Cosmo, you <i>must</i> -understand that I feel you must have thought of this, and more or less -done it on purpose, for my sake. I cared nothing, nothing, for all the -loss and downfall, because there just gleamed upon me a possibility—no, -not a possibility—a fancy, an imagination, of how different it would be -if I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_277" id="page_277">{277}</a></span> had to face not the loss of fortune, but the loss of love, and -companionship, and support. I cried out to myself, What would it all -matter in comparison with that? Thank God that it is money that has been -taken from me, not <i>that</i>. Feeling myself just for that moment, and for -good reason, alone, made me realise to the very bottom of my heart what -it would be to be really alone—to have no one to fall back upon, no -Cosmo, no world of my own where I can enter in and be above all the -world. So you see this little bitter has been sweet, it has been -medicine for all my other weaknesses. Through this I rose altogether -superior to everything that was sordid. I was astonished at myself. -Making believe not to care and not caring are two different things, and -this time I attained real indifference, thanks to you.’</p> - -<p>This was the passage that affected him most; there were others in which -there were slighter references of the same kind, showing that Anne had -already tasted the forlorn consciousness of what it was to be alone. It -was not a complaint, as will be seen; it was indeed quite the opposite -of a complaint; but it gave Cosmo a chill of alarm, a sensation which it -would be very difficult to describe. Nor was it a threat on Anne’s -part—yet he was alarmed; he grew pale and chilly in spite of himself. -When he read Anne’s letter he took up Charley’s again, and ran over -that. If he did not want to marry on nothing, and have a family to -provide for before he had enough for himself, still less did he wish -anyone to regard him us the hero of a broken engagement, a domestic -traitor. He was not bad nor treacherous, nor had he any pleasure in the -possibility of breaking a heart. What he wanted was, first, to find in -the woman he loved ‘a lady richly left’ like Portia, bringing with her -all the natural provisions for a beautiful home which she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_278" id="page_278">{278}</a></span> would grace -and give charm to; second, if the first should not prove possible, -patience to wait, and make no fuss, and see what would turn up. But to -be supposed to have behaved badly to a lady, to be set down as drawing -back, or holding off, or any of the mild phrases which imply desertion, -was terrible to him. This Cosmo could not bear. He did not want to lose -or even to risk Anne. And to have her think badly of him, lose the -respect, not to say the love, which she felt for him, was a danger that -made the hair stand upright on his head. He did not wish even to lose -Charley Ashley’s regard, and become a mean and discredited person in the -Curate’s eyes: how much more in Anne’s, whom he loved! A panic took -possession of Cosmo. A dishonourable lover, a betrayer, was as much an -anachronism as a cruel father; it was a thing out of date. Men of his -stamp broke no vows. They might be disinclined to heroic measures -generally, and above all to the uncomfortable heroism of dragging down a -woman into poverty, taking advantage of her inexperience, and marrying -in the face of every suggestion of prudence. But to desert her because -she had lost her fortune, to cry off as soon as it became evident that -she was no longer a good match—this, whatever the vulgar imagination -may think, is what a young man on his promotion, like Cosmo Douglas, -could not venture to do. He was horrified by the very notion. In all -questions of marriage there is of course a possibility that it may all -come to nothing, that ‘circumstances may arise’—that incompatibilities -may be discovered—even that a mutual sense of what is prudent may cause -an absolute breach. Such things are to be heard of every day in society. -But for a man, especially one who is a nobody, to ‘behave badly’ to a -lady—that is what cannot be. If the mere suggestion of such a thing got -out, it would be unendurable. And Cosmo knew that everybody was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_279" id="page_279">{279}</a></span> ready -to report every rumour, to put on record every incident of such a story. -At the same time, the great crisis being over, there need be no longer, -he said to himself, any idea of compromising Anne. Perhaps the ground on -which he framed his new resolution was less solid than that on which he -had framed the last. But, according to his new light, the emergency was -pressing, and there was no time to lose.</p> - -<p>That evening accordingly, the linen which had been put back into his -drawers was replaced in the bag, and the contents of his purse -reinvestigated. He sent a telegram to Charley Ashley, which filled that -good fellow with excitement, compunction, and perhaps a touch of -disappointment, and left London by the night train. It brought him to -the rectory uncomfortably early; but still there was no other so -convenient which entailed so little loss of time, and Cosmo felt the -advantage of making it apparent that he had come hurriedly and had -little time to spare. He arrived while it was still dark on the wintry, -foggy, chill morning. Could any man do more to show the fervent reality -of his passion? He had stayed away as long as Anne was filling a kind of -official position, so long as she was the object of general observation. -Now, when she had no longer any sort of artificial claim upon her, or -necessity for exerting herself, here he was at her command.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIII" id="CHAPTER_XXIII"></a>CHAPTER XXIII.<br /><br /> -<small>HEATHCOTE’S PROPOSAL.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">It</span> was a new world upon which Anne rose that day. The excitement was -over, the gloomy details of business drawing to completion, and the new -circumstances of the family life remained to be settled by<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_280" id="page_280">{280}</a></span> the family -themselves. It was still early when Anne came downstairs, and took her -way to the library in which Mr. Loseby was sitting. He was at her -father’s table, almost in the same spot where Mr. Mountford, for as long -as she could remember, had done his business, or made believe to do it. -This startled her a little; but it was time to resist these overwhelming -associations, and address herself, she felt, to the business in hand. -She came up to him quickly, giving herself no time to think. ‘Mr. -Loseby, you must instruct me what are my duties,’ she said.</p> - -<p>Heathcote Mountford was at the other end of the room, idly looking -through the books, and she had not seen him, but he was unconscious of -this. By degrees he had come to know all about Anne, to feel a -difference in the atmosphere when she came in, to see her whenever she -appeared as if with eyes in the back of his head.</p> - -<p>‘Your duties, my dear child?’ Mr. Loseby said, pushing up his spectacles -on his forehead. ‘Sit down there in front of me and let us talk. It does -one good to look at you, Anne.’</p> - -<p>‘You were always very kind,’ she said gratefully. ‘But you must not -spoil me now, for if you do I shall cry, and all my morning’s work will -come to an end. Mamma is coming downstairs to-day, and all is to be -as—it can never be again,’ said Anne, with an abrupt interruption of -herself. ‘But in the meantime it is very needful for me to know what I -am to do. I want you to tell me while we are safe—while we are alone.’</p> - -<p>‘My dear Anne,’ said the old lawyer, ‘my dear Anne!’ and the tears came -to his eyes. ‘I wish I were everything that I can’t be—a fairy prince -or a romantic hero—for your sake.’</p> - -<p>‘I like you a great deal better as Mr. Loseby than if you were a fairy -prince.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_281" id="page_281">{281}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>‘I dare say that is true; but in the one case I might have delivered -you, and in the other I can’t. Do! I don’t know what you have got to -do.’</p> - -<p>‘Somebody must,’ said Anne. ‘Tell me, please. Am I the guardian, or what -does it mean? In Trust! It might be a great deal, or it might not be -much. I want to do my duty, Mr. Loseby.’</p> - -<p>‘That I am sure you will do, whatever happens. You will have to -administer the whole, and watch over the money, and look out for the -investments. It is the most extraordinary office for you: but we will -not say anything about that.’</p> - -<p>‘No: but I do not think it is such an extraordinary office. If the money -had been mine, I should have had it to do naturally, and of course I -shall do it with all the more care when it is for Rose. The pity is that -I don’t know anything about it,’ said Anne, gravely. ‘But I suppose -there are books on the subject, books about money and how to manage it. -You must tell me how to learn my new profession,’ she added with a -smile. ‘It is a curious thing all at once to wake up and find that one -has a trade.’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t see how you can call it a trade.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, yes, Mr. Loseby, and I am to have 500<i>l.</i> a-year of pay—I shall -not be worth half so much. When I was young,’ said Anne, with the serene -consciousness of maturity, ‘it was one of my fancies to learn something -that I could live by. I am afraid I thought of quite little pettifogging -businesses—little bits of art-work or such like. I shall be a kind of -land-steward with a little of a stockbroker in me, now.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, something of that sort,’ he said, humouring her, looking at her -with a smile.</p> - -<p>‘Curious,’ said Anne, with a gleam of laughter getting into her eyes, ‘I -think I shall like it too; it ought to be amusing—it ought to have an -interest<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_282" id="page_282">{282}</a></span>—and you know everybody says that what we girls want is an -interest in our lives.’</p> - -<p>‘You have never wanted an interest in your life.’</p> - -<p>‘No, I do not think I have; but you must not look so sorry—I am not -sorry for myself. What does it matter after all?’ said Anne, raising her -head with that lofty visionary defiance of all evil. ‘There are things -which one could not consent to lose—which it really breaks one’s heart -to lose—which would need to be torn and wrenched out of one: you know, -Mr. Loseby?—but not money; how different when it is only money! The -mere idea that you might lose the one makes you feel what loss would be, -makes you contemptuous of the other.’</p> - -<p>‘I know?—do you think I know?—Indeed, my dear, I cannot tell,’ said -Mr. Loseby, shaking his head. ‘If I lost what I have, I should not find -it at all easy to console myself. I don’t think I should be contemptuous -or indifferent if all my living were to go.’</p> - -<p>‘Ah!’ she cried, with a sudden light of compunction and pity in her -eyes, ‘but that is because you—— Oh, forgive me!’ with a sudden -perception of what she was saying.</p> - -<p>‘That is because I have not much else to lose?’ said the old lawyer. -‘Don’t be sorry for saying it, it is true. I lost all I had in that way, -my dear, as you know, many many years ago. Life, to be sure, has changed -very much since then, but I am not unhappy. I have learnt to be content; -and it would make a great difference to me if I lost what I have to live -upon. Anne, I have got something to tell you which I think will make you -happier.’</p> - -<p>She looked at him eagerly with her lips apart, her eyes full of -beseeching earnestness. ‘It is about your father, Anne.’</p> - -<p>Her countenance changed a little, but kept its<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_283" id="page_283">{283}</a></span> eagerness. She had not -expected anything to make her happier from that quarter; but she was -almost more anxious than before to hear what it was.</p> - -<p>‘Your cousin has been telling me—you heard his proposal about the -entail, which, alas! no time was left us to discuss?—he thinks from -what your father said to him,’ said the lawyer, leaning across the table -and putting his hand upon hers, ‘that he meant to have arranged this -according to Heathcote Mountford’s wishes, and to have settled Mount on -you.’</p> - -<p>Anne could not speak at first. The tears that had been gathering in her -eyes overflowed and fell in a warm shower upon Mr. Loseby’s hand. ‘My -cousin Heathcote told you this?’ she said, half sobbing, after a pause.</p> - -<p>‘Yes, Anne. I thought it would please you to know.’</p> - -<p>‘Please me!’ she made a little pause again, sobbing and smiling. Then -she clasped his old hand in both hers with sudden enthusiasm. ‘It makes -me perfectly happy!’ she cried: ‘nothing, nothing troubles me any more.’</p> - -<p>Then, with natural feminine instinct, she wanted to hear every detail -from him of the distinct conversation which she immediately concluded to -have taken place between her father and her cousin. Though no one was -more ready to jump to conclusions, Anne became as matter-of-fact as Rose -herself in her eagerness to know everything that had taken place. The -old lawyer did not feel himself able to cope with her questions. ‘I was -not present,’ he said; ‘but your cousin himself is here, and he will -tell you. Yes, there he is, looking at the books. I am going to fetch -some papers I left in my bedroom. Mr. Heathcote, will you come and -explain it all while I am away?’</p> - -<p>He chuckled to himself with satisfaction as he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_284" id="page_284">{284}</a></span> left them together: but -after all what was the use? ‘Good Lord,’ he cried to himself, ‘why -<i>couldn’t</i> the fellow have come a year ago?’ To see how Providence seems -to take a pleasure in making the best of plans impracticable! It was -inconceivable that nobody had sense enough ever to have thought of that -plan before.</p> - -<p>But when Anne found herself face to face with Heathcote Mountford, and -suddenly discovered that he had been present all the time, she did not -feel the same disposition to pursue her inquiries. She had even a -feeling that she had committed herself, though she could scarcely tell -how. She rose up from her seat with a faint smile, mastering her tears -and excitement. ‘Thank you for telling Mr. Loseby what has made me so -happy,’ she said. Then added, ‘Indeed, it was more for others than -myself. I knew all the time my father had not meant to wrong anyone; no, -no, he never was unjust in his life; but others, strangers, like -yourself, how were you to know?’</p> - -<p>‘I am sure this was what he meant,’ Heathcote said, putting much more -fervour into the asseveration than it would have required had it been as -certain as he said. Anne was chilled a little by his very warmth, but -she would not admit this.</p> - -<p>‘I was very certain of it always,’ she said, ‘though I did not know how -he meant it to be. But now, Mr. Heathcote, thank you, thank you with all -my heart! you have set that matter to rest.’</p> - -<p>Was it really good for her to think that the matter was set at rest, -that there never had been any doubt about it, that nothing but honour, -and justice, and love towards her had ever been in her father’s -thoughts? No doubt she would set up some theory of the same kind to -explain, with the same certainty, the sluggishness of the other, of the -fellow who, having a right to support her, had left her to stand<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_285" id="page_285">{285}</a></span> alone -in her trouble. This brought a warm glow of anger into Heathcote’s -veins; but he could only show it by a little impatience expressed with a -laugh over a small grievance of his own.</p> - -<p>‘You said Cousin Heathcote just now. I think, after all we have seen and -felt together, that a title at least as familiar as that might be mine.’</p> - -<p>‘Surely,’ she said, with so friendly a smile, that Heathcote felt -himself ridiculously touched. Why this girl should with a smile make him -feel disposed to weep, if that were possible to a man of his age, he -could not tell. It was too absurd, but perhaps it was because of the -strange position in which she herself stood, and the way in which she -occupied it, declaring herself happy in her loss, yet speaking with such -bated breath of the other loss which she had discovered to be possible, -and which, in being possible, had taken all feeling about her fortune -away from her. A woman, standing thus alone among all the storms, so -young, so brave, so magnanimous, touches a man’s heart in spite of -himself. This was how he explained it. As he looked at her, he found it -difficult to keep the moisture out of his eyes.</p> - -<p>‘I want to speak to you about business,’ he said. ‘Mr. Loseby is not the -only instructor in that art. Will you tell me—don’t think I am -impertinent: where you intend—where you wish—to live?’</p> - -<p>A flush came upon Anne’s face. She thought he wanted possession of his -own house, which was so natural. ‘We will not stay to trouble you!’ she -cried. Then, overcoming the little impulse of pride, ‘Forgive me, Cousin -Heathcote, that was not what you meant, I know. We have not talked of -it, we have had no consultation as yet. Except Mount, where I have -always lived, one place is the same as another to me.’</p> - -<p>But while she said this there was something in Anne’s eyes that -contradicted her, and he thought<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_286" id="page_286">{286}</a></span> that he could read what it meant. He -felt that he knew better than she knew herself, and this gave him zeal -in his proposal; though what he wanted was not to further but to hinder -the wish which he divined in her heart.</p> - -<p>‘If this is the case, why not stay at Mount?’ Heathcote said. ‘Listen to -me; it is of no use to me; I am not rich enough to keep it up. This is -why I wanted to get rid of it. You love the place and everything about -it—whereas it is nothing to me.’</p> - -<p>‘Is it so?’ said Anne, with a voice of regret. ‘Mount!—nothing to you?’</p> - -<p>‘It was nothing to me, at least till the other day; and to you it is so -much. All your associations are connected with it; you were born here, -and have all your friends here,’ said Heathcote, unconsciously enlarging -upon the claims of the place, as if to press them upon an unwilling -hearer. Why should he think she was unwilling to acknowledge her love -for her home? And yet Anne felt in her heart that there was divination -in what he said.</p> - -<p>‘But, Cousin Heathcote, it is yours, not ours. It was our home, but it -is no longer so. Don’t you think it would be more hard to have no right -to it, and yet stay, than to give it up and go? The happiness of Mount -is over,’ she said softly. ‘It is no longer to us the one place in the -world.’</p> - -<p>‘That is a hard thing to say to me, Anne.’</p> - -<p>‘Is it? why so? When you are settled in it, years after this, if you -will ask me, I will come to see you, and be quite happy,’ said Anne with -a smile; ‘indeed I shall; it is not a mean dislike to see you here. That -is the course of nature. We always knew it was to be yours. There is no -feeling of wrong, no pain at all in it; but it is no longer <i>ours</i>. -Don’t you see the difference? I am sure you see it,’ she said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_287" id="page_287">{287}</a></span></p> - -<p>‘But if your father had carried out his intention——’</p> - -<p>‘Do you know,’ said Anne, looking at him with a half wistful, half -smiling look, ‘on second thoughts it would perhaps be better not to say -anything to mamma or Rose about my father’s intention? They might think -it strange. They might say that was no punishment at all. I am very glad -to know it for my own comfort, and that you should understand how really -just he was; but they might not see it in the same light.’</p> - -<p>‘And it has nothing to do with the question,’ said Heathcote, almost -roughly; ‘the opportunity for such an arrangement is over. Whether he -intended or whether he did not intend it—I cannot give you Mount.’</p> - -<p>‘No, no; certainly you cannot give it to me——’</p> - -<p>‘At least,’ he cried, carried beyond himself by the excitement of the -moment. ‘There was only one way in which I could have given it to you: -and that, without ever leaving me the chance, without thinking of any -claim I had, you have put out of my power—you have made impossible, -Anne!’</p> - -<p>She looked at him, her eyes opened wider, her lips dropping apart, with -a sort of consternation, then a tinge of warmer colour gradually rose -over her face. The almost fierceness of his tone, the aggrieved voice -and expression had something half ludicrous in it; but in her surprise -this was not visible to Anne. And he saw that he had startled her, which -is always satisfactory. She owed him reparation for this, though it was -an unintentional wrong. He ended with a severity of indignation which -overwhelmed her.</p> - -<p>‘It does not seem to me that I was ever thought of, that anyone took me -into consideration. I was never allowed to have a chance. Before I came -here,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_288" id="page_288">{288}</a></span> my place, the place I might have claimed, was appropriated. And -now I must keep Mount though I do not want it, and you must leave it -though you do want it, when our interests might have been one. But no, -no, I am mistaken. You do not want it now, though it is your home. You -think you will prefer London, because London is——’</p> - -<p>‘Mr. Heathcote Mountford, I think you forget what you are saying——’</p> - -<p>‘Don’t call me that at least,’ he cried; ‘don’t thrust me away again as -a stranger. Yes, I am absurd; I have no right to claim any place or any -rights. If I had not been a fool, I should have come here a year, five -years ago, as old Loseby says.’</p> - -<p>‘What is that about old Loseby?’ said the lawyer, coming into the room. -He was carrying a portfolio in his hands, which, let us hope, he had -honestly gone to look for when he left them. Anyhow he carried it -ostentatiously as if this had been his natural object in his absence. -But the others were too much excited to notice his portfolio or his -severely business air. At least Heathcote was excited, who felt that he -had evidently made a fool of himself, and had given vent to a bit of -ridiculous emotion, quite uncalled for, without any object, and -originating he could not tell how. What was the meaning of it, he would -have asked himself, but that the fumes of his own words had got into his -head. He turned away, quite beyond his own control, when the lawyer -appeared, his heart beating, his blood coursing through his veins. How -had all this tempest got up in an instant? Did it come from nothing, and -mean nothing? or had it been there within him, lying quiescent all this -time. He could not answer the question, nor, indeed, for that matter, -did he ask it, being much too fully occupied for the moment with the -commotion which had thus<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_289" id="page_289">{289}</a></span> suddenly got up like the boiling of a volcano -within him, without any will of his own.</p> - -<p>And Anne was too much bewildered, too much astonished to say anything. -She could not believe her own ears. It seemed to her that her senses -must be playing her false, that she could not be seeing aright or -hearing aright—or else what did it mean? Mr. Loseby glided in between -them with his portfolio, feeling sure they would remark his little -artifice and understand his stratagem; but he had succeeded in that -stratagem so much better than he thought, that they paid no attention to -him at all.</p> - -<p>‘What are you saying about old Loseby?’ he asked. ‘It is not civil in -the first place, Mr. Heathcote, to call your family man of business old. -It is a contumelious expression. I am not sure that it is not -actionable. That reminds me that I have never had anything to do with -your branch of the family—which, no doubt, is the reason why you take -this liberty. I am on the other side——’</p> - -<p>‘Do me this service, then, at once,’ said Heathcote, coming back from -that agitated little walk with which a man who has been committing -himself and showing uncalled-for emotion so often relieves his feelings. -‘Persuade my cousins to gratify me by staying at Mount. I have clearly -told you I should not know what to do with it. If they will stay nothing -need be changed.’</p> - -<p>‘It is a very good idea,’ said Mr. Loseby. ‘I think an excellent idea. -They will pay you a rent for it which will be reasonable, which will not -be exorbitant.’</p> - -<p>‘They shall do nothing of the sort,’ cried Heathcote: ‘rent—between me -and——’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, between you and Mrs. Mountford, the most reasonable proposal in -the world. It is really a thing to be taking into your full -consideration, Anne.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_290" id="page_290">{290}</a></span> Of course you must live somewhere. And there is no -place you would like so well.’</p> - -<p>Here a guilty flush came upon Anne’s face. She stole a furtive glance at -Heathcote to see if he were observing her. She did not wish to give him -the opportunity of saying ‘I told you so,’ or convicting her out of her -own mouth.</p> - -<p>‘I think mamma and Rose have some idea—that is, there was some -talk—Rose has always wanted masters whom we can’t get here. There was -an idea of settling in London—for a time——’</p> - -<p>He did not turn round, which was merciful. If he had divined her, if he -now understood her, he gave no sign at least. This was generous, and -touched Anne’s heart.</p> - -<p>‘In London! Now, what on earth would you do in London, country birds -like Rose and you? I don’t say for a little time in the season, to see -the pictures, and hear some music, and that sort of thing; but settling -in London, what would you do that for? You would not like it; I feel -sure you would not like it. You never could like it, if you tried.’</p> - -<p>To this Anne was dumb, making no response. She stood with her eyes cast -down, her face flushed and abashed, her two hands clasped together, as -much like a confused and naughty child as it was possible for Anne to -be. She gave once more an instantaneous, furtive glance from under her -downcast eyelids at Heathcote. Would he rejoice over her to see his -guess, his impertinent guess, proved true? But Heathcote was taking -another agitated turn about the room, to blow off his own excitement, -and was not for the moment observant of hers.</p> - -<p>After this Mr. Loseby began to impart to Anne real information about the -duties which would be required of her, to which she gave what attention -she could. But this was not so much as could have<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_291" id="page_291">{291}</a></span> been desired. Her -mind was running over with various thoughts of her own, impulses which -had come to her from another mind, and new aspects of old questions. She -left the library as soon as she could, in order to get back to the -shelter of her own room and there think them out. Had Heathcote known -how little attention she gave to his own strange, unintentional -self-betrayal—if it was indeed a self-betrayal, and not a mere -involuntary outbreak of the moment, some nervous impulse or other, -incomprehensible to the speaker as to the hearer—he would have been -sadly humbled. But, as a matter of fact, Anne scarcely thought of his -words at all. He had made some mistake, she felt sure. She had not heard -him right, or else she had missed the real meaning of what he said, for -that surface meaning was of course impossible. But she did think about -the other matter. He had divined her almost more clearly than she had -understood herself. When she had decided that to go to London would be -the best thing the family could do, she had carefully directed her mind -to other motives; to the facilities of getting masters for Rose, and -books, and everything that was interesting; to the comfort and ease of -life in a place where everything could be provided so easily, where -there would be no great household to keep up. She had thought of the -cheerfulness of a bright little house near the parks, and all the things -there would be to see—the interests on all sides, the means of -occupying themselves. But she had not thought—had she thought?—that -Cosmo would be at hand, that he would be within reach, that he might be -the companion of many expeditions, the sharer of many occupations. Had -she secretly been thinking of this all the time? had this been her -motive and not the other? Heathcote Mountford had seen through her and -had divined it, though she had not known it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_292" id="page_292">{292}</a></span> herself. She paused now to -ask herself with no small emotion, if this were true; and she could not -say that it was not true or half true. If it were so, was it not -unmaidenly, unwomanly, wrong to go after him, since he did not come to -her? She had made up her mind to it without being conscious of that -motive: but now the veil was torn from her eyes, and she was aware of -the weakness in her own heart. Ought she to go, being now sure that to -be near Cosmo was one of her chief objects; or would it be better to -remain at Mount as Heathcote’s tenant? Anne’s heart sank down, down to -the lowest depth; but she was a girl who could defy her heart and all -her inclinations when need was. She threw herself back as a last -resource upon the others who had to be consulted. Though she knew she -could turn them as she pleased, yet she proposed to herself to make an -oracle of them. According to their response, who knew nothing about it, -who would speak according to the chance impression of the moment, so -should the decision be.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIV" id="CHAPTER_XXIV"></a>CHAPTER XXIV.<br /><br /> -<small>A VISITOR.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">That</span> evening all things had recommenced to be at Mount as——‘they -could never be again,’ as Anne said: that is, the habits of the first -week of mourning had been laid aside, the ladies had come downstairs, -and appeared at table, and everything returned to its use and wont. Mr. -Mountford’s place was left vacant at the table. Heathcote would not take -it, though he had been assured, with tears, that the family would wish -it so to be, and that no one would feel wounded by his assumption of his -rights. ‘I will sit where I have always sat if you will let me,’ he -said, putting himself at Mrs. Mountfor<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_293" id="page_293">{293}</a></span>d’s right hand. Thus he sat -between her and Rose, who was pleased by what she thought the preference -he showed her. Rose dearly liked to be preferred—and, besides, -Heathcote was not to be despised in any way. Grave thoughts of uniting -the property had already entered her little head. He was not young, -indeed he was distinctly old in Rose’s juvenile eyes, but she said to -herself that when a man has so much in his favour a trifling matter like -age does not count. She was very serious, what her mother called -practical, in her ways of thinking: and the importance of uniting the -property affected Rose. Therefore she was glad that he seemed to like -her best, to choose her side of the table. Anne sat opposite, -contemplating them all serenely, meeting Heathcote’s eyes without any -shyness, which was more than he could boast in respect to her. He -scarcely addressed her at all during the time of dinner, and he never, -she perceived, broached to her stepmother or sister the question which -he had discussed with her with so much vehemence. At dinner Anne felt -herself at leisure—she was able to look at him and observe him, as she -had never done before. He had a very handsome face, more like the ideal -hero of a book than anything that is usually met with in the world. His -eyes were large and dark; his nose straight; his hair dark, too, and -framing his face as in a picture. ‘I do not like handsome men,’ Anne -said to herself. She smiled when the thought had formed in her mind, -smiled at herself. Cosmo was not handsome; he was of no particular -colour, and had no very striking features. People said of him that he -was gentlemanlike. It was the only thing to say. But here was a face -which really was beautiful. Beauty! in a man she said to herself! and -felt that she disliked it. But she could not but look at him across the -table. She could not lift her eyes without seeing him. His<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_294" id="page_294">{294}</a></span> face was the -kind of face that it was natural to suppose should express fine -sentiments, high-flown, Anne said to herself, she whom everybody else -called high-flown. But he listened with a smile to Rose who was not of -that constitution of mind.</p> - -<p>After dinner, when the ladies were alone in the drawing-room, Anne made -their cousin’s proposal known to them: that they should continue to live -at Mount, paying him rent according to Mr. Loseby’s suggestion. She did -not herself wish to accept this proposal—but a kind of opposition was -roused in her by the blank manner in which it was listened to. She had -been struggling against a guilty sense of her own private inclination to -go to London, to be in the same place with her lover—but she did not -see why <i>they</i> should wish the same thing. There seemed to Anne to be a -certain impertinence in any inclination of theirs which should turn the -same way. What inducement had they to care for London, or any change of -residence? Though they were virtually backing her up, yet she was angry -with them for it. ‘I thought you would be sure to wish to stay,’ she -said.</p> - -<p>‘You see, Anne,’ said Mrs. Mountford, with some hesitation, ‘it is not -now as it was before; when we were all happy together, home was home. -But now, after all we have gone through—and things would not be the -same as before—your sister wants a change—and so do you——’</p> - -<p>‘Do not think of me,’ said Anne, hastily.</p> - -<p>‘But it is my duty to think of you, too. Rose has always been delicate, -and the winters at Mount are trying, and this year, of course, you would -have no variety, no society. I am sure it is very kind of Heathcote: but -if we could get a comfortable little house in town—a change,’ said Mrs. -Mountford, growing bolder, ‘would do us all good.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, don’t let us stay at Mount!’ cried Rose.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_295" id="page_295">{295}</a></span> ‘In the wet, cold winter -days it is terrible. I have never liked Mount in winter. Do let us get -away now that we can get away. I have never seen anything. Let us go to -town till the spring, and then let us go abroad.’</p> - -<p>‘That is what I should like,’ said Mrs. Mountford, meekly. ‘Change of -air and scene is always recommended. You are very strong, Anne, you -don’t feel it so much—you could go on for ever; but people that are -more delicately organised, people who <i>feel</i> things more, can’t just -settle down after trouble like ours. We ought to move about a little and -have thorough change of scene.’</p> - -<p>Anne was amazed at herself for the annoyance, the resentment, the -resistance to which she felt herself moved. It was simple perversity, -she felt, for in her heart she wanted to move, perhaps more than they -did—and she had a reason for her wish—but they had none. It was mere -wanton desire for change on their part. She was angry, though she saw -how foolish it was to be angry. ‘It was extremely kind of Heathcote to -make such a proposal,’ she said.</p> - -<p>‘I don’t say it was not kind, Anne—but he feels that he cannot keep it -up. He does not like the idea of leaving the place all dismantled and -uninhabited. You may tell him I will leave the furniture; I should not -think of taking it away, just at present. I think we should look about -us,’ said Mrs. Mountford, ‘before we settle anywhere; and select a -really good place—which Mount would never be,’ she added, with a little -shaking out of her crape, ‘for us, in our changed circumstances. It may -be very kind of Heathcote—but I don’t see that we can do it. It would -be too much to expect.’</p> - -<p>And Anne was silenced, not knowing what pleas to bring forward for the -defeat of the cause which was her own cause; but she was angry that -they<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_296" id="page_296">{296}</a></span> should presume to think so <i>too</i>. What was town to them? They had -no one in it to make that great wilderness feel like home. They had no -inducement that she knew of. She felt reluctant to be happy by such -unreasonable means.</p> - -<p>Keziah, the little maid to whom Anne had, during the interval since she -was last mentioned, imparted a great deal of very energetic advice as to -the duty of holding fast to her lover, and taking no thought of -interest, had red eyes that night when she came to put her mistress’s -things away. Anne was very independent. She did not require much actual -service. It was Rose who benefited by Keziah’s services in this respect. -But when she was dismissed by Rose she came into the room where Anne sat -writing, and instead of doing her work as usual with noiseless speed, -and taking herself away, she hovered about for a long time, poking the -fire, arranging things that had no particular need of arranging, and -crossing and re-crossing Anne’s point of view. She had red eyes, but -there was in her little person an air of decision that was but seldom -apparent there. This Anne perceived, when, attracted at length by these -manœuvres, she put away her writing and looked up. ‘Keziah,’ she said, -‘how are things going? I can’t help thinking you have something to say -to me to-night.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, Miss Anne,’ said the girl, very composedly: ‘I have got something -to say—I wanted you to know, as you’ve always been so kind and taken an -interest—people has the same sort of feelings, I suppose, whether -they’re quality or whether they’re common folks——’</p> - -<p>‘That is very true, Keziah. I suspect we are all of the same flesh and -blood.’</p> - -<p>‘Don’t you laugh at me, Miss Anne. Miss Anne, I would like to tell you -as I’ve made up my mind to-night.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_297" id="page_297">{297}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>‘I hope you have made a right decision, Keziah,’ said Anne, with some -anxiety, feeling suspicious of the red eyes.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, I’m not afraid of its being <i>right</i>, Miss Anne. If it wasn’t -right,’ said the little girl, with a wan smile, ‘I don’t think as it -would be as hard. I’d have settled sooner if it hadn’t been for thinking -what Jim would say,’ she added, a tear or two coming to dilate her eyes; -‘it wasn’t for myself. If you do your duty, Miss Anne, you can’t do no -more.’</p> - -<p>‘Then, Keziah, you have been talked over,’ said Anne, with some -indignation, rising up from her desk. ‘Worth has been worrying you, and -you have not been able to resist her. Why did you not tell her, as I -told you, to come and have it out with me?’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t know what good that would have done, Miss Anne. It was me that -had to settle after all.’</p> - -<p>‘Of course it was you that had to settle. Had it been anyone else I -should not have lost all this time, I should have interfered at once. -Keziah, do you know what you are doing? A young girl like you, just my -age—(but I am not so young, I have had so much to think of, and to go -through), to sell herself to an old man.’</p> - -<p>‘Miss Anne, I’m not selling myself,’ said Keziah, with a little flush of -resentment. ‘He hasn’t given me anything, not so much as a ring—I -wouldn’t have it of him—I wouldn’t take not a silver thimble, though -he’s always teasing—for fear you should say—— Whatever anyone may -think, they can’t say as I’ve sold myself,’ said Keziah proudly. ‘I -wouldn’t take a thing from him, not if it was to save his life.’</p> - -<p>‘This is mere playing upon words, Keziah,’ said Anne, towering over the -victim in virtuous indignation. ‘Old Saymore is well off and poor Jim -has nothing. What do you call that but selling<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_298" id="page_298">{298}</a></span> yourself? But it is not -your doing! it is Worth’s doing. Why doesn’t he marry <i>her</i>? It would be -a great deal more suitable than marrying you.’</p> - -<p>‘He don’t seem to see that, Miss Anne,’ said Keziah with a demure half -curtsey: a certain comic sense of the absurdity of marrying the aunt -when the niece was by, crept into the profound seriousness of her looks. -That anybody should suppose old Saymore would marry Worth gave the girl -a melancholy amusement in spite of herself.</p> - -<p>‘She would be far more suitable,’ cried Anne in her impetuous way. ‘I -think I’ll speak to them both and set it before them. It would be a -thousand times more suitable. But old Saymore is too old even for Worth: -what would he be for you?’</p> - -<p>Keziah looked at her young mistress with eyes full of very mingled -feelings. The possibility of being delivered by the simple expedient of -a sudden match got up by the tormentors themselves gave her a -half-frightened visionary hope, but it was mixed with a half-offended -sentiment of proprietorship which she could scarcely acknowledge: old -Saymore belonged to her. She would have liked to get free from the -disagreeable necessity of marrying him, but she did not quite like the -idea of seeing him married off to somebody else under her very eyes.</p> - -<p>‘It’s more than just that, Miss Anne,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘All -of us in the house are thinking of what is likely to happen, and Mr. -Saymore, he says he will never take another place after having been so -long here. And he has a good bit of money laid by, Miss Anne,’ said -Keziah, not without pride. ‘And Mr. Goodman, of the “Black Bull” at -Hunston, he’s dead. That’s where we’re thinking of settling. I know how -to keep the books and make up the bills, and mother she would be in the -kitchen, and such a fine opening for the boys. I don’t know what I -shouldn’t deserve if I were to set up myself<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_299" id="page_299">{299}</a></span> against all that. And it -isn’t myself neither,’ said Keziah. ‘I should be ashamed to make a fuss -for me. I have always told you that, Miss Anne. I hope I’m not one as -would go against my duty. It’s Jim I’ve always thought upon. Men folks -are more wilful than women. They are more used to get their own way. If -he was to go to the bad, Miss Anne, and me the cause of it——’</p> - -<p>Here Keziah broke down, and wept without any further attempt to restrain -her tears.</p> - -<p>‘I don’t understand you,’ cried Anne impetuously. ‘You pretend to be -sorry for him, and this is how you treat him. But leave Jim to take care -of himself, Keziah. Let us think of you. This is what I call going to -the bad. Poor Jim might take to drinking, perhaps, and ruin himself—but -I don’t think that is so much going to the bad as to love one man and -marry another. That is the worst of sin,’ said the girl, with cheeks and -eyes both flaming. ‘It is treachery, it is falsehood, it is dishonour, -to you and to everyone concerned.’</p> - -<p>Poor little Keziah quailed before this outburst. She shrank back with a -look of pain as if she feared her mistress’s wrath would take some -tangible form. She cried bitterly, sobbing aloud, ‘You’ve got no call to -be angry, Miss Anne. You didn’t ought to be angry, Miss Anne. I’m -a-going to do my duty; it’s nothing but my duty as I’m going to do!’</p> - -<p>Anne felt, when the interview was over, that she had in all probability -done more harm than good. She had frightened Keziah, and made her cling -all the more to the comfort which sprang from a settled resolution, and -she had even stimulated that resolve by the prick of opposition which -moves the meekest of natures. She had made Keziah feel herself wronged, -her sacrifice unappreciated, her duty misconceived, and the girl had -fallen back with all the more confidence on the approval of her (as -Anne<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_300" id="page_300">{300}</a></span> thought) worldly-minded aunt, and the consolation of the old -bridegroom, who, though he was old, was a great man in the servants’ -hall—great as the butler and head of the establishment downstairs, and -still more great as the prospective landlord of the ‘Black Bull’ at -Hunston. To be the future mistress of such a place was a glory enough to -turn a girl’s head. Keziah went away crying, and feeling that she had -not deserved the cruel ‘scolding’ administered by Miss Anne. She going -to the bad! when she was doing her duty in the highest and most -superlative way, and had hanging over her head, almost touching it, the -crown of that landlady’s cap, with the most becoming ribbons, which -ranks like the strawberry leaves of another elevation in the -housekeeper’s room and the servants’ hall.</p> - -<p>It was the morning after this that Cosmo arrived. Anne was going -downstairs to a morning’s work with Mr. Loseby, thoughtful and serious -as she always was now; but by this time all the strangeness of her -position was over; she had got used to it and even reconciled to it. She -had work to do, and a position in the world which was all that one -wanted for happiness. Indeed, she was better off, she said to herself, -than if she had been in her natural position. In that case, in all -probability, she would have had someone else to do for her what she was -now to do for Rose, and her occupation would have been gone. She felt -that she had passed into the second chapter of life—as if she had -married, she said to herself with a passing blush—though so different. -She had real work to do in the world, not make-believe, but actual—not -a thing she could throw aside if she pleased, or was doing only for -amusement. Perhaps it requires a whole life of leisure, and ideas shaped -by that exemption from care which so often strikes the generous mind as -ignoble, which made her appreciate so highly this<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_301" id="page_301">{301}</a></span> fine burden of real -unmistakable work, not done to occupy her time merely, but because it -had to be done. She prepared herself for it, not only without pain but -with actual pleasure. But on her way down to the library, where Mr. -Loseby was waiting her, Anne chanced to cast her eyes out from the end -of the corridor across the park. It was the same window to which she had -rushed to listen to the cry the night her father died. It had been night -then, with a white haze of misty moonlight and great shadows of -blackness. But now it was morning, and the red sunshine lighted up the -hoar frost on the grass, already pursuing it into corners, melting away -the congealed dew upon the herbs and trees. She stood for a moment’s -meditation, still gazing out without any object, scarcely knowing why. -To a thoughtful and musing mind there is a great attraction at a window, -which is a kind of opening in the house and in one’s being, full of long -wistful vistas of inspection into the unseen. But Anne had not been -there many minutes before a cry broke from her lips, and her whole -aspect changed. Charley Ashley was coming along the road which crossed -the park—but not alone. A thrill ran through her from her head to her -feet. In a moment her mind went over the whole of the past fortnight’s -story. Her chill and dumbness of disappointment, which she would not -express even to herself, when he did not come; her acquiescence of -reason (but still with a chill of the heart) in his explanations; the -subdued sense of restraint, and enforced obedience to other rules, not -first or only to those of the heart, and the effort with which she had -bowed herself: her solitude, her longing for support, her uneasiness -every way under the yoke which he had thought it necessary to impose -upon himself and her, all this seemed to pass before her view in a -moment. She had acquiesced; she had even reasoned herself into -satisfaction; but oh!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_302" id="page_302">{302}</a></span> the glorious gleam of approval with which Anne -saw all that she had consented to beforehand in the light of the fact -that now he was here; now he was coming, all reason for his staying away -being over—not hurriedly, as if wishing to chase the recollection of -her father from her mind, or to grudge him that last pre-eminence in the -thoughts of those belonging to him, which is the privilege of every man -who dies. Cosmo had fulfilled every reverent duty towards him who was -his enemy. He had done what it was most difficult to do. He had kept -away till all the rites were accomplished; and now he was coming! All -was over, not one other observance of affection possible; the very widow -coming out again, thinking (a little) of the set of her cap and planning -to go abroad in spring. And now there was no longer any reason why the -lover should stay away. If there is one feeling in the world which is -divine, it is the sense of full approval of those whom one loves most. -To be able with one’s whole heart to consent and know that all they have -done is well, to approve them not with blindness (though that is the -silliest fable) of love, or its short-sightedness, but, on the contrary, -with all its enlightenment in the eyes that cannot be content with less -than excellence: to look on and see everything and approve—this, and -not any personal transport or enjoyment, is heaven. Anne, standing by -the window seeing the two figures come in sight, in a moment felt the -gates of Paradise open before her, and was swept within them by a silent -flood of joy. She approved, making no exception, reserving nothing. As -she walked downstairs, her feet did not seem to touch the ground. What a -poor, small, ignoble little being she had been not to read him all the -time! but now that the illumination had come, and she saw his conduct -from first to last, Anne saw, or thought she saw, that everything was -right, everything noble. She approved, and was happy.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_303" id="page_303">{303}</a></span> She forgot Mr. -Loseby and the morning’s business, and walked towards the hall with a -serene splendour about her, a glory as of the moon and the stars, all -beautiful in reflected light.</p> - -<p>There was nobody in the hall, and the kind Curate when he came in did -nothing but pass through it. ‘I suppose I shall find them in the -drawing-room?’ he said, waving his hand and walking past. Anne accepted -the passing greeting gladly. What did she want with Charley? He went -through the hall while the other came to her side.</p> - -<p>‘You wanted me, Anne?’</p> - -<p>‘Wanted you—oh, how I have wanted you!—there has been so much to do; -but I approve, Cosmo—I approve everything you have done. I feel it -right that I should have stood alone till now. You help me more in doing -my duty, than if you had done all for me. You were right all along, all -through——’</p> - -<p>‘Thank you, my dearest,’ he said. ‘But, Anne, I see in what you say that -there have been moments in which you have not approved. This was what I -feared—and it would have been so much easier to do what was pleasant.’</p> - -<p>‘No—I do not think there were moments—at least not anything more. -Cosmo, what do you think of me now, a woman without a penny? I wonder if -you approve of me as I approve of you.’</p> - -<p>‘I think I do more, dear: I admire, though I don’t think I could have -been so brave myself. If you had not been just the girl you are, I fear -I should have said, Throw me over and let us wait.’</p> - -<p>‘You did say it,’ she said in a lower tone; ‘that is the only thing of -all that I do not like in you.’</p> - -<p>‘To think you should have undergone such a loss for me!—and I am not -worth it—it humbles me,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_304" id="page_304">{304}</a></span> Anne. I could not believe it was possible. Up -to the last minute I felt it could not be.’</p> - -<p>‘I knew it would be,’ she said softly: was not there something else that -Cosmo had to say? She waited for half a minute with a certain -wistfulness in her eyes. The glory of her approval faded a little—a -very little. To be perfect he had to say something more. ‘If thou -wouldst be perfect!’ Was not even the Saviour himself disappointed -(though he knew what was in man) when the young ruler whom he loved at -first sight did not rise to that height which was opened to him? Anne -could not say the same words, but she felt them in her heart. Oh, Cosmo, -if thou wouldst be perfect! but he did not see it, or he did not do it -at least.</p> - -<p>‘I cannot understand it yet,’ he went on. ‘Such injustice, such -cruelty—do I pain you, my darling? I cannot help it. If it had been -only the postponement of all our hopes, that would have been bad enough: -but to take your rights from you arbitrarily, absolutely, without giving -you any choice——’</p> - -<p>‘I would so much rather you did not speak of it, Cosmo. It cannot be -mended. I have got to accept it and do the best I can,’ she said.</p> - -<p>‘You take it like an angel, Anne. I knew you would do that: but I am not -an angel: and to have all our happiness thrust into the distance, -indefinitely, making the heart sick—you must not expect me to take it -so easily. If I had been rich indeed—how one longs to be rich -sometimes!’ he said, almost hurting her with the close clasp of his arm. -Every word he said was true; he loved her even with passion, as he -understood passion. And if he had been rich, Cosmo would have satisfied -that judgment of hers, which once more, in spite of her, was up in the -tribunal, watchful, anxious, not able to blind its eyes.</p> - -<p>‘I do not long to be rich,’ she said; ‘little will content me.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_305" id="page_305">{305}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>‘My dearest!’ he said with tender enthusiasm, with so much love in his -looks and tone, so much admiration, almost adoration, that Anne’s heart -was put to silence in spite of herself. How is a woman, a girl, to -remain uninfluenced by all these signs of attachment? She could not -repulse them; she could not say, All this is nothing. If thou would’st -be perfect! Her consciousness of something wanting was not put away, but -it was subdued, put down, forced into the shade. How could she insist -upon what was, indeed, the final test of his attachment? how could she -even indicate it? Anne had, in her mind, no project of marriage which -would involve the laying aside of all the active practical duties which -her father had left as his only legacy to her; but that her lover should -take it for granted that her loss postponed all their hopes, was not a -thing which, in itself, was pleasant to think of. She could not banish -this consciousness from her mind. But in those early moments when Cosmo -was so tender, when his love was so evident, how could she hold back and -doubt him? It was easier by far to put a stop upon herself, and to -silence her indefinite, indefinable dissatisfaction. For in every -respect but this Cosmo was perfect. When he presented himself before -Mrs. Mountford his demeanour was everything that could be desired. He -threw himself into all their arrangements, and asked about their plans -with the gentle insistence of one who had a right to know. He promised, -nay offered, at once to begin the search for a house, which was the -first thing to be done. ‘It will be the pleasantest of duties,’ he said. -‘What a difference to my life! It will be like living by the gates of -heaven, to live in the same place with you, to know I may come and see -you: or even come and look at the house you are in.’ ‘Certainly,’ Mrs. -Mountford said afterwards, ‘Mr. Douglas was very nice. I wonder why dear -papa was so prejudiced<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_306" id="page_306">{306}</a></span> against him, for, indeed, nothing could be nicer -than the way he talked; and he will be a great help to us in finding a -house.’ He stayed the whole day, and his presence made everything go -smoothly. The dinner-table was absolutely cheerful with the aid of his -talk, his town news, his latest information about everything. He pleased -everybody, even down to old Saymore, who had not admired him before. -Cosmo had to leave next day, having, as he told them, while the courts -were sitting, no possibility of a holiday; but he went charged with many -commissions, and taking the position almost of a member of the family—a -son of the house. Anne walked with him to the village to see him go; and -the walk through the park, though everything was postponed, was like a -walk through Paradise to both. ‘To think that I am going to prepare for -your arrival is something more than words can say,’ he told her as they -parted. ‘I cannot understand how I can be so happy.’ All this lulled her -heart to rest, and filled her mind with sweetness, and did everything -that could be done to hoodwink that judgment which Anne herself would so -fain have blindfolded and drowned. This she did not quite succeed in -doing—but at all events she silenced it, and kept it quiescent. She -began to prepare for the removal with great alacrity and pleasure; -indeed, the thought of it cheered them all—all at least except -Heathcote Mountford, whose views had been so different, and whose -indignation and annoyance, though suppressed, were visible enough. He -was the only one who had not liked Cosmo. But then he did not like the -family plans, nor their destination, nor anything, Rose said with a -little pique. Anne, for her part, avoided Heathcote, and declared to -herself that she could not bear him. What right had he to set up a -tribunal at which Cosmo was judged? That she should do it was bad<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_307" id="page_307">{307}</a></span> -enough, but a stranger! She knew exactly what Heathcote thought. Was it -because she thought so, too, that she divined him, and knew what was in -his heart?</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXV" id="CHAPTER_XXV"></a>CHAPTER XXV.<br /><br /> -<small>PACKING UP.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Mount</span> was soon turned upside down with all the excitement of packing. It -was a relief from the monotony which hangs about a house from which the -world is shut out, and where the family life is still circling round one -melancholy event. Days look like years in these circumstances; even when -the grief is of the deepest those who are left behind must do something -to keep the dulled wheels of life in motion, since not even the most -truly bereaved can die of grief when they will. But in the case of the -Mountfords the affliction was not excessive. Anne, whom her father had -wronged, perhaps mourned most of all, not because of more love, but more -depth of nature, which could not leave the old so lightly to turn to the -new, and which felt more awe and reverence for those mysterious changes -which alter the very face of life. Rose cried a great deal during the -first few days, and Mrs. Mountford still went on performing little acts -of devotion, going to look at her husband’s portrait, and thinking of -him as a mournful duty; but there was a certain excitement of new -existence in both their hearts. So long as he was there they were bound -to Mount, and all the old habits of their life—indeed never thought of -breaking them, or supposed it possible they could be broken; but now -they were free, and their smiles came back involuntarily as they -prepared for this exciting removal, the beginning of a new life. Anne’s -mind was kept in a graver key by many<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_308" id="page_308">{308}</a></span> causes. The nameless and -causeless compunctions, remorses, which move the sensitive spirit in -profound and awe-stricken sympathy with the dead, were for her alone in -the house. She only tormented herself with thoughts of other -possibilities, of things that might have been done and were not done; of -words, nay even looks, which, had she but known how near her father was -to the unseen world, might have been modified or withheld; and she only -followed him, halting, uncertain, to the portals of the unseen -existence, as she had followed him to his grave. What was he doing -there? a man not heavenly, with qualities that were more suited for the -common soil below than the celestial firmament above. It was she only -who put these questions, not, perhaps as we have said, that she loved -him more, but that she felt more deeply, and everything that happened -was of more consequence to her. Besides, she had other causes of -gravity. Her position was more serious altogether. Even the new-made -widow had a straightforward path before her, lonely yet troubled by no -uncertainty—but Anne was walking in darkness, and did not comprehend -her lot.</p> - -<p>Of all her surroundings the one who was most conscious of this was the -Rector, who, getting no satisfaction, as he said, from his son, came out -to Mount himself one of those wintry mornings to question Anne in -person. ‘What have they settled?’ he had asked confidently, as soon as -the Curate returned from the station where he had been seeing his friend -off. ‘I don’t think they have settled anything, sir,’ said Charley, -turning his back upon his father, not caring to betray more than was -needful of his own feelings. ‘They are all going off to London—that is -the only thing that seems to be decided.’ ‘God bless my soul!’ cried the -Rector—which benediction was the good man’s oath; ‘but that has nothing -to do with it. I want to know<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_309" id="page_309">{309}</a></span> what is settled about Anne.’ Then poor -Charley, out of the excess of his devotion and dissatisfaction, made a -stand for his friend. ‘You know, sir, what a struggle a young barrister -has to do anything,’ he said; ‘how can they—settle, when all the money -is gone?’ ‘God bless my soul!’ the Rector said again; and after many -thoughts he set off to Mount expressly to have it out, as he said, with -Anne herself. He found her in the library, arranging with old Saymore -what books were to be packed to take away, while Heathcote Mountford, -looking very black and gloomy, sat at the further window pretending to -read, and biting his nails furiously. The mild old Rector wondered for a -moment what that sullen figure should have to do in the background, and -why Heathcote did not go and leave his cousins free: but there was no -time then to think of Heathcote. ‘So you are really going,’ the Rector -said, ‘the whole family? It is very early days.’</p> - -<p>‘Mamma thinks it will be better to make the change at once. She thinks -it will do her good, and Rose——’</p> - -<p>The Rector fidgeted about the room, pulling out one here and there of a -long line of books, and pretending to inspect it. Then he said abruptly, -‘The fact was I wanted to speak to you, Anne.’</p> - -<p>Heathcote Mountford was sitting some way off, and Mr. Ashley’s voice was -a gentle one—but he stirred immediately. ‘If I am in the way——’ he -said, getting up. Of course he was in the way; but his faculties must -have been very sharp, and his attention very closely fixed on what was -going on, to hear those words. The good Rector murmured some apology; -but Heathcote strolled away carrying his book in his hand. It was not so -easy to get rid of old Saymore, who had a thousand questions to ask; but -he, too, went at last.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_310" id="page_310">{310}</a></span></p> - -<p>‘No, we are not taking all the books,’ said Anne, ‘we are taking -scarcely anything. My cousin Heathcote does not wish to refurnish the -house at present, and as we do not know what we may do eventually, mamma -prefers to leave everything. It is a mutual convenience. In this way we -may come back in summer, when I hope you will be glad to see us,’ she -added with a smile.</p> - -<p>‘Of course we shall be glad to see you—I don’t know what we shall do, -or how we can get on without you. But that is not the immediate -question,’ he said, with some energy. ‘I have come to ask you, now that -you have seen Douglas, what is settled, Anne?’</p> - -<p>This was the first time the question had been put formally into words. -It gave her a little shock. The blood all rallied to her heart to give -her strength to answer. She looked him in the face very steadily, that -he might not think she was afraid. ‘Settled?’ she said, with a little -air of surprise. ‘In present circumstances, and in our deep mourning, -what could be settled? We have not even discussed the question.’</p> - -<p>‘Then I say that is wrong, Anne,’ said the Rector in a querulous voice. -‘He is a young man, and I am an old one, but it is not a question I -should leave undiscussed for an hour. It should be settled what you are -going to do.’</p> - -<p>‘So far it is settled,’ she said. ‘My duty is with mamma and Rose.’</p> - -<p>‘What, Anne!’ cried Mr. Ashley. ‘God bless my soul! You are engaged to -be married, and your duty is to your mother and sister? I don’t know -what you young people mean.’</p> - -<p>Anne did not answer just at once. ‘Did not Charley tell you,’ she said, -after a pause, ‘that we were all going away?’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, he told me—and I say nothing against<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_311" id="page_311">{311}</a></span> that. It seems to be the -way, now. Instead of bearing their grief at home, people flee from it as -if it were a plague. Yes, Charley told me; but he could not tell me -anything about the other question.’</p> - -<p>‘Because there is nothing to tell. Dear Rector, don’t you know my father -did leave me a great legacy, after all——’</p> - -<p>‘What was that? What was that? Somethink that was not in the will. I -thank God for it, Anne,’ cried Mr. Ashley. ‘It is the best news I have -heard for many a day.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, don’t speak as if it were something new! Mr. Ashley, he left me the -care of the property, and the charge of Rose. Can I do whatever I please -with this on my hands?’</p> - -<p>‘Is that all?’ the Rector said, in a tone of disappointment; ‘but this -is exactly the work in which Douglas could help you. A man and a -barrister, of course he knows all about it, much better than you can do. -And do you mean to tell me that nothing has been settled, <i>nothing</i>, -Anne?’ cried Mr. Ashley, with that vehemence to which mild men are -subject. ‘Don’t talk to me of your mourning; I am not thinking of -anything that is to happen to-day or to-morrow; but is it <i>settled</i>? -That is what I want to know.’</p> - -<p>‘There is nothing settled,’ she said—and they stood there for a minute -facing each other, his countenance full of anxiety and distrust, hers -very firm and pale, almost blank even with determined no meaning. She -smiled. She would not let him think she was even disconcerted by his -questions. And the Rector was baffled by this firmness. He turned away -sighing, and wringing his hands. ‘God bless my soul!’ he said. For it -was no use questioning Anne any further—that, at least, was very clear. -But as he went away, he came across Heathcote<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_312" id="page_312">{312}</a></span> Mountford who was walking -about in the now abandoned hall like a handsome discontented ghost.</p> - -<p>‘I am glad to see that you take a great interest in your cousins,’ the -Rector said, with a conciliatory smile. He did not feel very friendly, -to tell the truth, towards Heathcote Mountford, feeling that his -existence was a kind of wrong to Anne and Rose; but yet he was the new -lord of the manor, and this is a thing which the spiritual head of a -parish is bound to remember, whatever his personal feelings may be. Even -in this point of view, however, Heathcote was unsatisfactory—for a poor -lord of the manor in the best of circumstances is a trial to a rector, -especially one who has been used to a well-to-do squire with liberal -ways.</p> - -<p>‘My interest is not of much use,’ Heathcote said, ‘for you see, though I -have protested, they are going away.’</p> - -<p>Just then Mr. Loseby’s phaeton drew up at the door, and he himself got -out, enveloped with greatcoats and mufflers from head to foot. He was -continually coming and going, with an almost restless interest in -everything that happened at Mount.</p> - -<p>‘It is the very best thing they can do,’ he said. ‘Change of scene: it -is the remedy for all trouble now-a-days. They have never seen anything, -poor ladies; they have been buried in the country all their lives. And -Anne, of course, will like to be in town. That anyone can see with half -an eye.’</p> - -<p>Here the Rector found another means, if not of satisfying his anxious -curiosity, at least of sharing it with some one. He put his arm into Mr. -Loseby’s and led him away to the big window. The idea of at least -opening his heart to another friend of the family did him good. ‘Do you -know,’ he said, with a gasp of excitement, ‘I have been questioning -Anne, and she tells me there is nothing settled—nothing settled! I -could not believe my ears.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_313" id="page_313">{313}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>‘My dear fellow,’ said Mr. Loseby, who was not reverential, ‘what could -be settled? A young couple with not a penny between them——’</p> - -<p>‘We should not have thought of that, Loseby, in my young days.’</p> - -<p>‘We were fools in our young days,’ said the lawyer, with a -laugh—‘inexperienced idiots. That’s not the case now. They all know -everything that can happen, and calculate the eventualities like a -parcel of old women. No, no, the day of imprudent matches is over. Of -course there is nothing settled. I never expected it for my part——’</p> - -<p>‘But—but, Loseby, he could be of such use to her. They could manage -better together than apart——’</p> - -<p>‘And so he will be of use to her; he’s not at all a bad fellow; he’ll -make himself very pleasant to the whole party. He’ll go with them to the -opera, and dine with them three times a week, and be one in all their -little expeditions; and he’ll keep his chambers and his club all the -same, and have no self-denial forced upon him. He is a most sensible -fellow,’ said Mr. Loseby, with a laugh.</p> - -<p>The Rector had no great sense of humour. He looked sternly at the little -round man all shining and smiling. ‘Do you mean to tell me,’ he said, -severely, ‘that you approve of that?’ but the lawyer only laughed again, -and would make no reply.</p> - -<p>And thus the days went on, leaden-footed, yet getting done one after -another, nay, getting shorter, swifter, as the preparations for -departure went on. Mrs. Mountford did everything that could be expected -of her. She left a sum of money in the Rector’s hands for the usual -charities at Christmas, and all the requirements of the parish; and she -left instructions with the sexton’s wife, who had once been a housemaid -at Mount, and therefore ‘took an interest,’ to have a fresh wreath -placed on her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_314" id="page_314">{314}</a></span> husband’s grave weekly on the day he died. So nobody was -neglected, living or dead. And their hearts rose a little as the time of -departure drew near. Cosmo had thrown his whole soul into the work of -house-hunting. And he had found them, which was the most wonderful luck, -a small house in Park Lane, which was too dear, Mrs. Mountford thought, -yet so cheap as to be almost incredible to anyone who knew what Park -Lane was. Even Anne felt a little exhilaration at the thought of windows -which should look out upon the Park under the red wintry sunshine, and -of all the sights and wonders that would be within reach.</p> - -<p>All this time Heathcote stayed on. It was very bad taste, some people -thought; and very silly, said other some. Yet still he remained. Of -course it must be Rose that was the inducement, Anne being known to be -engaged; and Fanny Woodhead did not hesitate to say that she really -thought the man had no sense whatever of what was fitting, to stay on, -and stay on, until the very last moment. But the household themselves -did not object. They had got used to Heathcote. Even Anne liked him at -those times when he did not look as if he were sitting in judgment upon -Cosmo. Sometimes this was his aspect, and then she could not bear him. -But generally he was very supportable. ‘You forget I live in London, -too,’ he said. ‘I mean to see a great deal of you there. You may as well -let me stay and take care of you on the journey.’ And Mrs. Mountford -liked the proposal. For purposes of travelling and general caretaking -she believed in men, and thought these among their principal uses. She -even went so far as to say, ‘We shall be very well off in London with -Mr. Douglas and your cousin Heathcote:’ so strangely had everything -changed from the time when St. John Mountford disinherited his daughter -because Cosmo was a nobody. Anne did not know<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_315" id="page_315">{315}</a></span> what to think of this -change of sentiment. Sometimes it seemed to make everything easier, -sometimes to make all further changes impossible. Her heart beat with -the idea of seeing him almost daily, looking for his constant visits, -feeling the charm of his companionship round her: and then a mist would -seem to gather between them, and she would foresee by instinct how Cosmo -might, though very near, become very far. After this she would stop -short and upbraid herself with folly. How could constant meeting and -family companionship make them less near to each other? nothing could be -more absurd: and yet the thought—but it was not a thought, scarcely a -feeling, only an instinct—would come over her and give her a spiritual -chill, a check in all her plans.</p> - -<p>‘Mamma says she thinks we will be very well off in London,’ said Rose, -‘and we can go to concerts, and all those sorts of things. There is -nothing in a concert contrary to mourning. Dances, of course, and <i>gay</i> -parties are out of the question,’ she added, with a slight sigh of -regret; ‘but it is just when we are going to public places that -gentlemen are so useful. You will have your Douglas and I shall have -Cousin Heathcote. We shall be very well off——’</p> - -<p>To this Anne made no reply. She was taking her papers out of the drawers -of her writing-table, arranging them in a large old despatch-box, in -which they were henceforth to be carried about the world. Rose came and -stood over her curiously, looking at every little bundle as it was taken -out.</p> - -<p>‘I can see Mr. Douglas’s writing,’ she said. ‘Have you got a great many -letters from Mr. Douglas, Anne?’ She put out her hand to touch one that -had strayed out of its place. ‘Oh, may I look at it? just one little -peep. I want so much to know what a real love-letter is like.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_316" id="page_316">{316}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>Anne took her letter up hastily and put it away with a blush and tremor. -These sacred utterances in Rose’s hands would be profanation indeed. -‘Wait, Rosie,’ she said, ‘wait, dear: you will soon have letters of all -kinds—of your very own.’</p> - -<p>‘You mean,’ said Rose, ‘that now that I am the rich one people will like -me the best? Anne, why didn’t you give up Mr. Douglas when papa told -you? I should have, in a moment, if it had been me; but I suppose you -never thought it would come to anything. I must say I think you have -been very foolish; you ought to have given him up, and then, now, you -would have been free to do as you pleased.’</p> - -<p>‘I did not make any calculations, Rose. Don’t let us talk about it, -dear, any more.’</p> - -<p>‘But I want to talk of it. You see now you never can marry Mr. Douglas -at all: so even for that it was silly of you. And you affronted -papa—you that always were the clever one, the sensible one, and me the -little goose. I can’t think how you could have made such a mistake, -Anne!’</p> - -<p>Anne did not make any answer. The words were childish, but she felt them -like a shower of stones thrown at her. ‘Now you never can marry Mr. -Douglas at all.’ Was this how it was going to be?</p> - -<p>‘Mr. Loseby says,’ Rose continued, ‘that when I am of age I ought to -make a fresh settlement. He says it is all wicked, and blames papa -instead of you; but I think you are certainly to blame too. You always -stand to a thing so, if you have once said it. A fresh settlement means -a new will; it means that I am to give you back a large piece of what -papa has left to me.’</p> - -<p>‘I do not wish you to do so, Rose. If Mr. Loseby had told me first, I -should not have let him speak on such a subject. Rose, remember, you -are<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_317" id="page_317">{317}</a></span> not to do it. I do not wish any fresh settlement made for me.’</p> - -<p>‘If Mr. Loseby says it, and mamma says it, of course I must do it, -whether you consent or not,’ said Rose. ‘And, besides, how can you ever -marry Mr. Douglas unless there is a fresh settlement? Oh,’ cried Rose, -‘there is that sealed letter—that secret that you would not let me -open—that is to be kept till I am twenty-one. Perhaps that will change -everything. Look here: there are only you and me here, and I would never -tell. I do so want to know what it is: it might show one what to do if -one knew what was in it. Let me, let me open it, Anne!’</p> - -<p>‘Rose! that is sacred. Rose! you must not touch it. I will never forgive -you if you so much as break one seal,’ cried Anne.</p> - -<p>‘Well, then, do it yourself. What can it matter if you break it to-day -or in two years and a half? Papa never could mean that you were to keep -it there and look at it, and never open it for two years and a half.’ -All this time Rose turned over and over the little packet with its three -red seals, playing with it as a cat plays with a mouse. ‘Perhaps it -changes everything,’ she said; ‘perhaps there is a new will here without -me having to make it. Why should we all be kept in such suspense, not -knowing anything, and poor Mr. Douglas made so unhappy?’</p> - -<p>‘Did Mr. Douglas tell you that he was unhappy?’ said Anne, humouring her -tormentor, while she kept her eyes upon the letter. ‘Dear Rose, put it -back again: here is the place for it. I have a great deal to do and to -think of. Don’t worry me, dear, any more.’</p> - -<p>Then Rose put it back, but with reluctance. ‘If it were addressed to me -I should open it at once,’ she said. ‘It is far more important now than -it will be after. Mr. Douglas did not tell me he was unhappy, but he let -mamma guess it, which was much<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_318" id="page_318">{318}</a></span> the same. Anne, if I were you, I would -break the engagement; I would set him free. It must be dreadful to hold -anyone like that bound up for life. And when you think—if nothing turns -up, if this is to be the end, if you never have money enough to marry, -why shouldn’t you do it now, and give yourselves, both of you, another -chance?’</p> - -<p>Anne rose up from her papers, thrusting them into the despatch-box -pell-mell in the confusion of her thoughts. The little calm -matter-of-fact voice which sounded so steadily, trilling on like a large -cricket—was it speaking the truth? was this, perhaps, what it would -have to come to? Her hands trembled as she shut the box hastily; her -limbs shook under her. But Rose was no way disturbed. ‘You would be sure -to get someone else with more money,’ she said serenely, ‘and so would -he.’</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVI" id="CHAPTER_XXVI"></a>CHAPTER XXVI.<br /><br /> -<small>GOING AWAY.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">But</span> this was not the first time that Anne had been driven out of -patience by the suggestions of her little sister. When Rose had gone -away, she calmed down by degrees and gradually got back her -self-possession. What did Rose know about this matter or any other -matter in which serious things like the heart, like love and the larger -concerns of life were involved? She knew about superficial things, -having often a keen power of observation, Anne knew; but the other -matters were too high for her. Her unawakened mind could not comprehend -them. How could she have found a way of seeing into Cosmo’s heart which -was denied to Anne? It was impossible; the only thing that could have -made her believe in Rose’s superior penetration was that, Anne felt, she -did not herself understand Cosmo as she had thought she did,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_319" id="page_319">{319}</a></span> and was -perplexed about his course of action, and anxious as to the motives -which she could not believe to have been anything but fine and noble. -Though his coming had brought her back to something of her original -faith, yet she had been checked and chilled without admitting it to -herself. All that we can conceive of perfection is, perhaps, what we -would have done ourselves in certain circumstances, or, at least, what -we would have wished to do, what we might have been capable of in the -finest combination of motives and faculties; and whatsoever might be the -glosses with which she explained his behaviour to herself, Anne knew -very well that this was not how Cosmo had behaved. She could not think -of his conduct as carrying out any ideal, and here accordingly was the -point in which her mind was weak and subject to attack. But after a -while she laughed, or tried to laugh, at herself; ‘as if Rose could -know!’ she said, and settled down to arrange her papers again, and -finally to write to Cosmo, which was her way of working off her fright -and returning to herself.</p> - -<p>‘Rose has been talking to me and advising me,’ she wrote. ‘She has been -telling me what I ought to do. And the chief point of all is about you. -She thinks, as we are both poor now, that I ought to release you from -our engagement, and so “give us both another chance,” as she says. It is -wonderful the worldly wisdom that is in my little sister. She thinks -that you and I could both use this “chance” to our own advantage, and -find someone else who is well off as a fitter mate for our respective -poverties. Is it the spirit of the time of which we all hear so much, -that suggests wisdom like this even in the nursery? It makes me open my -eyes and feel myself a fool. And she does it all in such innocence, with -her dear little chin turned up, and everything about her so smooth and -childlike; she suggests these<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_320" id="page_320">{320}</a></span> villanies with the air of a good little -girl saying her lesson. I cannot be sure that it amused me, for you know -I am always a little, as you say, <i>au grand sérieux</i>; but for you who -have a sense of humour, I am afraid it would be very amusing. I wonder, -if the people she advises for their good, took Rose at her word, whether -she would be horrified? I hope and believe she would. And as for you, -Cosmo, I trust you will let me know when you want to be freed from your -engagement. I am afraid it would take that to convince me. I cannot -think of you even, from any level but your own, and, as that is above -mine, how could it be comprehensible to Rose? This calculation would -want trigonometry (is not that the science?), altogether out of my -power. Give me a hint from yourself, dear Cosmo, when that moment -arrives. I shall know you have such a motive for it as will make it -worthy of you.’</p> - -<p>When she had written this she was relieved; though perhaps the letter -might never be sent to its address. In this way her desk was full of -scraps which she had written to Cosmo for the relief of her mind rather -than the instruction of his. Perhaps, if her confidence in him had been -as perfect as she thought, she would have sent them all to him. They -were all appeals to the ideal Cosmo who was her real lover, confidences -in him, references to his understanding and sympathy, which never would -have failed had he been what she thought. This had been the charm and -delight of her first and earliest abandonment of heart and soul to her -love. But as one crisis came after another, or rather since the last -crisis came which had supplied such cruel tests, Anne had grown timid of -letting all these outpourings reach his eyes; though she continued to -write them all the same, and they relieved her own heart. When she had -done this now, her mind regained its serenity. What a wonder was little<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_321" id="page_321">{321}</a></span> -Rose! Where had the child learned all that ‘store of petty maxims,’ all -those suggestions of prudence? Anne smiled to herself with the -indulgence which we all have for a child. Some people of a rough kind -are amused by hearing blasphemies, oaths which have no meaning as said -by her, come out of a child’s lips. It was with something of the same -kind of feeling that Anne received her little sister’s recommendations. -They did not amuse her indeed, but yet impressed her as something -ludicrous, less to be blamed than to be smiled at, not calling forth any -real exercise of judgment, nor to be considered as things serious enough -to be judged at all.</p> - -<p>The packing up kept the house in commotion, and it was curious how -little feeling there was, how little of the desolation of parting, the -sense of breaking up a long-established home. The pleasure of freedom -and expectations of a new life were great even with Mrs. Mountford: and -Rose’s little decorous sorrow had long ago worked itself out. ‘Some -natural tears she dropped, but wiped them soon.’ And it did not give -these ladies any great pang to leave Mount. They were not leaving it -really, they said to themselves. So long as the furniture was there, -which was Mrs. Mountford’s, it was still their house, though the walls -of it belonged to Heathcote—and then, if Heathcote ‘came forward,’ as -Mrs. Mountford, at least, believed he would do——. Rose did not think -anything at all about this. At first, no doubt, it had appeared to her -as rather a triumph, to win the affections of the heir of entail, and to -have it in her power to assume the position of head of the house, as her -mother had done. But, as the sniff of the freshening breeze came to her -from the unseen seas on which she was about to launch forth, Rose began -to feel more disdain than pleasure for such easy triumphs. Cousin -Heathcote was handsome, but he was elderly—thirty-five! and she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_322" id="page_322">{322}</a></span> was -only eighteen. No doubt there were finer things in the unknown than any -she had yet caught sight of; and what was Mount? a mere simple country -house, not half so grand as Meadowlands—that the possible possession of -it in the future should so much please a rich girl with a good fortune -and everything in her favour. Leaving home did not really count for much -in her mind, as she made her little individual preparations. The future -seemed her own, the past was not important one way or another. And -having given her sister the benefit of her advice with such decision, -she felt herself still more able to advise Keziah, who cried as she put -up Miss Rose’s things. On the whole, perhaps, there was more fellowship -between Keziah and Rose than the little maid felt with the more serious -Anne, who was so much older than herself, though the same age.</p> - -<p>‘I would not have married Saymore if I had been you,’ said Rose. ‘You -will never know anything more than Hunston all your life now, Keziah. -You should have come with me into the world. At Mount, or in a little -country place, how could you ever see anybody? You have had no choice at -all—Jim, whom you never could have married, and now old Saymore. I -suppose your aunt thinks it is a great thing for you—but I don’t think -it a great thing. If you had come with us, you might have done so much -better. I wish you had consulted me——’</p> - -<p>‘So do I, Miss Rose,’ said Keziah, dropping tears into the box, which, -fortunately, contained only boots and shoes, and articles which would -not mark. ‘Oh! I wish I had talked to you at the very first! but I was -distracted like, Miss Rose, about poor Jim, and I couldn’t think of -anything else.’</p> - -<p>‘That was nonsense,’ said Rose; ‘that was always<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_323" id="page_323">{323}</a></span> quite out of the -question; how could you have married a poor labourer after having been -used to live with us, and have every comfort? It would have killed you, -Keziah; you were never very strong, you know; and only think! you that -have had fires in your room, and nice luncheons three or four times a -day, how could you ever live upon a bit of bacon and weak tea, like the -women in the cottages? You never could have married him.’</p> - -<p>‘That is what aunt used to tell me,’ said Keziah faintly; ‘she said I -should have been the first to repent; but then Miss Anne——’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, never mind Miss Anne—she is so romantic. She never thinks about -bread and butter,’ said Rose. ‘Jim is out of the question, and there is -no use thinking of him; but old Saymore is just as bad,’ said the little -oracle; ‘I am not sure that he isn’t the worst of the two.’</p> - -<p>‘Do you think so, Miss Rose?’ said Keziah wistfully. It was an ease to -her mind to have her allegiance to Jim spoken of so lightly. Anne had -treated it as a solemn matter, as if it were criminal to ‘break it off;’ -whereas Keziah’s feeling was that she had a full right to choose for -herself in the matter. But old Saymore was a different question. If she -could have had the ‘Black Bull’ without him, no doubt it would have been -much better. And now here was a rainbow glimmer of possible glories -better even than the ‘Black Bull’ passing over her path! She looked up -with tears in her eyes. Something pricked her for her disloyalty to Miss -Anne, but Miss Rose was ‘more comforting like.’ Perhaps this wiser -counsellor would even yet see some solution to the question, so that -poor old Saymore might be left out of it.</p> - -<p>‘I think,’ said Rose with decision, ‘that suppose I had been engaged to -anyone, when I left Mount, I should have given it up. I should have -said, “I am<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_324" id="page_324">{324}</a></span> going into the world. I don’t know what may be best now; -things will be so very different. Of course, I don’t want to be -disagreeable, but I must do the best for myself.” And anybody of sense -would have seen it and consented to it,’ said Rose. ‘Of course you must -always do the best you can for yourself.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, Miss Rose,’ said Keziah. This chimed with her own profoundest -instincts. ‘But then there’s mother and the boys. Mother was to be in -the kitchen, and Johnny in the stable, and little Tom bred up for a -waiter. It was setting them all up in the world, aunt said.’</p> - -<p>‘All that may be very well,’ said Rose. ‘Of course it is always right to -be kind to your mother and the rest. But remember that your first duty -is always to yourself. And if you like to come with me, I am to have a -maid all to myself, Keziah; and you would soon find someone better than -old Saymore, if you wanted to marry. You may be very sure of that.’</p> - -<p>With this Rose marched away, very certain that she had given the best of -advice to the little maid. But Keziah remained doubtful, weeping freely -into the trunk which held the boots and shoes. After all there remained -‘mother and the boys’ to think of, who would not be bettered by any such -means of doing the best for herself as Rose had pointed out. Keziah -thought, perhaps it would be better after all to submit the question -once more to Miss Anne, before her final decision was given forth.</p> - -<p>The other servants were affected by the breaking up more in Keziah’s way -than with any dismal realisation in their own persons of a conclusion to -this chapter of life. They had all ‘characters’ that would procure them -new places wherever they went; for Mrs. Mountford had not tolerated any -black sheep. And as for old Saymore, he was greatly elated<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_325" id="page_325">{325}</a></span> by his -approaching landlordship, and the marriage which he hoped was settled. -He was not aware of Rose’s interference, nor of the superior hopes which -she had dangled before his bride. ‘I don’t need to say as I’m sorry to -leave, sir,’ Saymore said to Mr. Loseby, who settled his last bills; -‘and sorry, very sorry, for the occasion. Master was a gentleman as -seemed to have many years’ life in him, and to be cut off like that is a -lesson to us all. But the living has to think of themselves, sir, when -all’s done as can be done to show respect for the dead. And I don’t know -as I could have had a finer opening. I will miss a deal as I’ve had -here, Mr. Loseby. The young ladies I’ll ever take the deepest interest -in. I’ve seen ’em grow up, and it’ll always be a ‘appiness to see them, -and you too, sir, as has always been most civil, at my ‘otel. But though -there’s a deal to regret, there’s something on the other side to be -thankful for, and we’re told as everything works together for the best.’</p> - -<p>This was the idea very strung in the mind of the house. As the landlord -of the ‘Black Bull’ holds a higher position in the world than even the -most trusted of butlers, so the position of Mrs. Cook, as henceforward -housekeeper and virtual mistress of Mount, was more dignified than when -she was only at the head of the kitchen: and Worth, if she did not gain -in dignity, had at least the same compensation as her mistress, and -looked forward to seeing the world, and having a great deal of variety -in her life. They all said piously that everything worked together for -the best. So that poor Mr. Mountford was the cause of a great deal of -gratification to his fellow-creatures without knowing or meaning it, -when his horse put his foot into that rabbit-hole. The harm he did his -favourite child scarcely counted as against the advantage he did to many -of his dependents. Such are the compensations in death as in life.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_326" id="page_326">{326}</a></span></p> - -<p>But it was December before they got away. After all it turned out that -‘mother and the boys’ had more weight with Keziah than Rose’s offer, and -the promise of superior advantage in the future; and she was left in the -cottage she came from, preparing her wedding things, and learning by -daily experiment how impossible it would have been to content herself -with a similar cottage, weak tea, bad butter, and fat bacon, instead of -the liberal <i>régime</i> of the servants’ hall, which Rose had freely and -graphically described as meaning ‘three or four nice luncheons a day.’ -The Mountfords finally departed with very little sentiment; everything -was provided for, even the weekly wreath on the grave, and there was -nothing for anyone to reproach herself with. Anne, as usual, was the one -who felt the separation most. She was going to Cosmo’s constant society, -and to the enjoyment of many things she had pined for all her life. Yet -the visionary wrench, the total rending asunder of life and all that was -implied in it, affected her more than she could say, more than, in the -calm of the others, there seemed any reason for. She went out the day -before for a long farewell walk, while Rose was still superintending her -packing. Anne made a long round through the people in the village, glad -that the women should cry, and that there should be some sign here at -least of more natural sentiment—and into the Rectory, where she -penetrated to the Rector’s study, and was standing by him with her hand -upon his arm before he was aware. ‘I have come to say good-bye,’ she -said—looking at him with a smile, yet tears in her eyes.</p> - -<p>The Rector rose to his feet hastily and took her into his arms. ‘God -bless you, my dear child! but you might have been sure I would have come -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_327" id="page_327">{327}</a></span>to see the last of you, to bid you farewell at the carriage door——’</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ said Anne, clinging to her old friend, ‘but that is not like -good-bye here, is it? where I have always been allowed to come to you, -all my life.’</p> - -<p>‘And always shall!’ cried the Rector, ‘whenever you want me, howsoever I -can be of any use to you!’</p> - -<p>The Curate came in while they were still clinging to each other, -talking, as people will do when their hearts are full, of one who was no -longer there to be bidden good-bye to—the Rector’s wife, for whom he -went mourning always, and who had been fond of Anne. Thus she said her -farewell both to the living and the dead. Charley walked solemnly by her -side up to the park gates. He did not say much; his heart was as heavy -as lead in his breast. ‘I don’t know how the world is to go on without -you,’ he said; ‘but I suppose it will, all the same.’</p> - -<p>‘After a while it will not make much difference,’ said Anne.</p> - -<p>‘I suppose nothing makes much difference after a while,’ the Curate -said; and at the park gates he said good-bye. ‘I shall be at the train -to-morrow—but you don’t want me to go to all the other places with -you,’ he said with a sigh; ‘and it is of no use telling you, Anne, as my -father did, that, night or day, I am at your service whenever you may -want me—you know that.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, I know it,’ she said, giving him her hand; but he was glad that he -left her free to visit some other sacred places alone.</p> - -<p>Then, as he went back drearily to the parish in which lay all his duty, -his work in the world, but which would be so melancholy with Mount shut -up and silent, she went lightly over the frosty grass, which crackled -under her feet, to the beeches, to visit them once more and think of her -tryst under them. How different they were now! She remembered the soft -air of summer, the full greenness of the foliage, the sounds of voices -all charmed and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_328" id="page_328">{328}</a></span> sweet with the genial heat of August. How different -now! Everything at her feet lay frost-bound; the naked branches overhead -were white with rime. Nothing was stirring in the wintry world about -save the blue smoke from the house curling lazily far off through the -anatomy of the leafless trees. This was where she had sat with Cosmo -talking, as if talk would never have an end. As she stood reflecting -over this with a certain sadness, not sure, though she should see Cosmo -to-morrow, that she ever would talk again as she had talked then pouring -forth the whole of her heart—Anne was aware of a step not far off -crackling upon a fallen branch. She turned round hastily and saw -Heathcote coming towards her. It was not a pleasant surprise.</p> - -<p>‘You are saying good-bye,’ he said, ‘and I am an intruder. Pardon me; I -strayed this way by accident——’</p> - -<p>‘Never mind,’ said Anne; ‘yes, I am saying good-bye.’</p> - -<p>‘Which is the last word you should say, with my will.’</p> - -<p>‘Thanks, Cousin Heathcote, you are very good. I know how kind you have -been. If I seem to be ungrateful,’ said Anne, ‘it is not that I don’t -feel it, but only that my heart is full.’</p> - -<p>‘I know that,’ he said, ‘very well. I was not asking any gratitude. The -only thing that I feel I have a right to do is to grumble, because -everything was settled, everything! before I had a chance.’</p> - -<p>‘That is your joke,’ said Anne, with a smile; and then, after a time, -she added, ‘Will you take me to the spot as far as you remember it, the -very spot——’</p> - -<p>‘I know,’ he said; and they went away solemnly side by side, away from -that spot consecrated to love and all its hopeful memories, crossing -together the crisp ice-bound grass. The old house rose up in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_329" id="page_329">{329}</a></span> front of -them against the background of earth and sky, amid the clustering -darkness of the leafless branches. It was all silent, nothing visible of -the life within, except the blue smoke rising faintly through the air, -which was so still. They said little as they went along by the great -terrace and the lime avenue, avoiding the flower-garden, now so bare and -brown. The winter’s chill had paralysed everything. ‘The old house will -be still a little more sad to-morrow,’ Heathcote said.</p> - -<p>‘I don’t think it ought to be. You have not the affection for it which -you might have had, had you known it better: but some time or other it -will blossom for you and begin another life.’</p> - -<p>He shook his head. ‘May I bring Edward to see you in Park Lane? Edward -is my other life,’ he said, ‘and you will see how little strength there -is in that.’</p> - -<p>‘But, Cousin Heathcote, you must not speak so. Why should you? You are -young; life is all before a man at your age.’</p> - -<p>‘Who told you that?’ he said with a smile. ‘That is one of your feminine -delusions. An old fellow of thirty-five, when he is an old fellow, is as -old as Methuselah, Anne. He has seen everything and exhausted -everything. This is the true age at which all is vanity. If he catches -at a new interest and begins to hope for a renewal of his heart, -something is sure to come in and stop him. He is frustrated and all his -opportunities baulked as in my own case—or something else happens. I -know you think a great deal more of our privileges than they deserve.’</p> - -<p>‘We are taught to do so,’ said Anne. ‘We are taught that all our best -time is when we are young, but that it is different with a man. A man, -so to speak, never grows old.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_330" id="page_330">{330}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>‘One knows what that means. He is supposed to be able to marry at any -age. And so he is—somebody. But, if you will reflect, few men want to -marry in the abstract. They want to marry one individual person, who, so -far as my experience goes, is very often, most generally I should say, -not for them. Do you think it is a consolation for the man who wants to -marry Ethelinda, that probably Walburgha might have him if he asked her? -I don’t see it. You see how severely historical I am in my names.’</p> - -<p>‘They are both Mountford names,’ said Anne, ‘but very -severe—archæological, rather than historical.’ And then they came out -on the other side and were silent, coming to the broad stretch of the -park on which Mr. Mountford’s accident took place. They walked along -very silently with a sort of mournful fellowship between them. So far as -this went there was nobody in the world with whom Anne could feel so -much in common. His mind was full of melancholy recollections as he -walked along the crisp and crackling grass. He seemed to see the quiet -evening shadows, the lights in the windows, and to hear the tranquil -voice of the father of the family pointing out the welcome which the old -house seemed to give: and then the stumble, the fall, the cry; and the -long long watch in the dark, so near help—the struggles of the -horse—the stillness of the huddled heap which could scarcely be -identified from the horse, in the fatal gloom. When they came to the -spot they stood still, as over a grave. There were still some marks of -the horse’s frantic hoofs in the heavy grass.</p> - -<p>‘Was it long?’ he said. ‘The time seemed years to me—but I suppose it -was not an hour.’</p> - -<p>‘They thought only about half-an-hour,’ said Anne, in a low reverential -voice.</p> - -<p>‘A few minutes were enough,’ Heathcote said,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_331" id="page_331">{331}</a></span> and again there was a -silence. He took her hand, scarcely knowing what he did.</p> - -<p>‘We are almost strangers,’ he said; ‘but this one recollection will bind -us together, will it not, for all our lives?’</p> - -<p>Anne gave a soft pressure to his hand, partly in reply, partly in -gratitude. Her eyes were full of tears, her voice choked. ‘I hope he had -no time to think,’ she said.</p> - -<p>‘A moment, but no more. I feel sure that after that first cry, and one -groan, there was no more.’</p> - -<p>She put down her veil and wept silently as they went back to the house. -Mrs. Mountford all the time was sitting with Rose in her bedroom -watching Worth as she packed all the favourite knicknacks, which make a -lady’s chamber pretty and homelike. She liked to carry these trifles -about, and she was interested and anxious about their careful packing. -Thus it was only the daughter whom he had wronged who thought of the -dead father on the last day which the family spent at Mount.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVII" id="CHAPTER_XXVII"></a>CHAPTER XXVII.<br /><br /> -<small>A NEW BEGINNING.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">For</span> people who are well off, not to say rich, and who have no prevailing -anxieties to embitter their life, and who take an interest in what is -going on around them, London is a pleasant place enough, even in -December. And still more is Park Lane a pleasant place. To see the red -wintry sunshine lighting up the misty expanse of the Park, the brisk -pedestrians going to and fro under the bare trees, the carriages -following each other along the broad road, the coveys of pretty children -and neat nursemaids, and all the flood of prosperous life that flows -along, leisurely in the morning, crowding in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_332" id="page_332">{332}</a></span> the afternoons, is very -pleasant to the uninitiated. All the notable people that are to be found -in London at that period, appearing now and then, and a great many -people who get lost to sight in the throngs of the season, but are more -worth seeing than even those throngs, were pointed out to the ladies by -the two cicerones who took in hand to enlighten their ignorance. The -house they had was one of those small houses with large, ample, bow -windows to the drawing-rooms, which give a sort of rustic, irregular -simplicity to this street of the rich. Those people who are happy and -well off and live in Park Lane must be happier and more well off than -people anywhere else. They must be amused besides, which is no small -addition to happiness. Even Anne felt that to sit at that window all day -long would be a pleasant way of occupying a day. The misty distance, -penetrated by the red rays of sunshine, was a kind of poem, relieved by -the active novelty of the animated foreground, the busy passengers, the -flood and high tide of life. How different from the prospect over the -park at Mount, where Charley Ashley on the road, coming up from the -Rectory, was something to look at, and an occasional friend with him the -height of excitement. The red rays made the mist brighter and brighter; -the crowd increased; the carriages went faster; and then the sun waned -and got low and went out in a bank of cloud, and the lamps were all -lighted in the misty twilight, but still the crowd went on. The ladies -sat at the window and were amused, as by a scene in a play; and then to -think that ‘all the pictures,’ by which Anne meant the National Gallery, -were within reach—and many another wonder, of which they had been able -to snatch a hasty glance once a year, or not so often as once a year, -but which was now daily at their hand: and even, last, but yet -important, the shops behind all, in which everything<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_333" id="page_333">{333}</a></span> that was -interesting was to be found. Rose and her mother used to like, when they -had nothing better and more important to buy, to go to the Japanese -shop, and turn over the quaint articles there. Everything was new to -them, as if they had come from the South Seas. But the newest of all was -this power of doing something whenever they pleased, finding something -to look at, something to hear, something to buy. The power of shopping -is in itself an endless delight to country ladies. Nothing to do but to -walk into a beautiful big place, with obsequious people ready to bring -you whatever you might want, graceful young women putting on every -variety of mantle to please you, bland men unfolding the prettiest -stuffs, the most charming dresses. The amusement thus afforded was -unending. Even Anne liked it, though she was so highflown. Very -different from the misty walk through their own park to ask after some -sick child, or buy postage stamps at the village post-office. This was -about all that could be done at Mount. But London was endless in its -variety. And then there was sightseeing such as never could be managed -when people came up to town only for a month in the season. Mr. -Mountford indeed had been impatient at the mere idea that his family -wanted to see St. Paul’s and the Tower, like rustics come to town for a -holiday. Now they were free to do all this with nobody to interfere.</p> - -<p>And it was Cosmo who was their guide, philosopher, and friend in this -new career. He had chosen their house for them, with which they were all -so entirely pleased, and it was astonishing how often he found leisure -to go with them here and there, explaining to them that his work was -capable of being done chiefly in the morning, and that those afternoon -hours were not good for much. ‘Besides, you know the time of a briefless -barrister is never of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_334" id="page_334">{334}</a></span> much importance,’ he said, with a laugh. Rose was -very curious on this point. She questioned him a great deal more closely -than Anne would have done. ‘Are you really a briefless barrister, Mr. -Douglas? What is a briefless barrister? Does that mean that you have no -work at all to do?’ she said.</p> - -<p>‘Not very much. Sometimes I am junior with some great man who gets all -the fees and all the reputation. Sometimes an honest, trustful -individual, with a wrong to be redressed, comes to ask my advice. This -happens now and then, just to keep me from giving in altogether. It is -enough to swear by, that is about all,’ he said.</p> - -<p>‘Then it is not enough to live on,’ said Rose, pushing her inquiries to -the verge of rudeness. But Cosmo was not offended. He was indulgent to -her curiosity of every kind.</p> - -<p>‘No, not near enough to live on. I get other little things to do, you -know—sometimes I write a little for the newspapers—sometimes I have a -report to write or an inquiry to conduct. And sometimes a kind lady, a -friend to the poor, will ask me out to dinner,’ he said, with a laugh. -They were sitting at dinner while this conversation was going on.</p> - -<p>‘But then, how could you——?’ Rose began, then stopped short, and -looked at her sister. ‘I will ask you that afterwards,’ she said.</p> - -<p>‘Now or afterwards, your interest does me honour, and I shall do my best -to satisfy you,’ said Cosmo, with a bow of mock submission. He was more -light-hearted, Anne thought, than she had ever seen him before; and she -was a little surprised by the amount of leisure he seemed to have. She -had formed no idea of the easy life of the class of so-called poor men -to which Cosmo belonged. According to her ideas they were all toiling, -lying in wait for Fortune, working early and late, and letting no -opportunity slip. She could have understood the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_335" id="page_335">{335}</a></span> patience, the -weariness, the obstinate struggle of such lives; but she could not -understand how, being poor, they could get on so comfortably, and with -so little strain, with leisure for everything that came in the way, and -so many little luxuries. Anne was surprised by the fact that Cosmo could -bestow his afternoons upon their little expeditions, and go to the club -when he left them, and be present at all the theatres when anything of -importance was going on, and altogether show so little trace of the -pressure which she supposed his work could not fail to make upon him. He -seemed indeed to have fewer claims upon his time than she herself had. -Sometimes she was unable to go out with the others, having letters from -Mr. Loseby to answer, or affairs of the estate to look after; but -Cosmo’s engagements were less pressing. How was it? she asked herself. -Surely it was not in this way that men got to be Judges, Lord -Chancellors—all those great posts which had been in Anne’s mind since -first she knew that her lover belonged to the profession of the law. -That he must be aspiring to these heights seemed to her inevitable—and -especially now, when she had lost all her money, and there was no -possible means of union for them, save in his success. But could success -be won so easily? Was it by such simple means that men got to the top of -the tree, or even reached as far as offices which were not the highest?</p> - -<p>These questions began to meet and bewilder her very soon after their -arrival, after the first pleasure of falling into easy constant -intercourse with the man who loved her and whom she loved.</p> - -<p>At first it had been but too pleasant to see him continually, to get -acquainted with the new world in which they were living, through his -means, and to admire his knowledge of everything—all the people and all -their histories. But by-and-by<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_336" id="page_336">{336}</a></span> Anne’s mind began to get bewildered. She -was only a woman and did not understand—nay, only a girl, and had no -experience. Perhaps, it was possible men got through their work by such -a tremendous effort of power that the strain could only be kept up for a -short period of time; perhaps Cosmo was one of those wonderful people -who accomplish much without ever seeming to be employed at all; -perhaps—and this she felt was the most likely guess—it was her -ignorance that did not understand anything about the working of an -accomplished mind, but expected everything to go on in the jog-trot -round of labour which was all she understood. Happy are the women who -are content to think that all is well which they are told is well—and -who can believe in their own ignorance and be confident in the better -knowledge of the higher beings with whom they are connected. Anne could -not do this—she abode as in a city of refuge in her own ignorance, and -trusted in that to the fullest extent of her powers—but still her mind -was confused and bewildered. She could not make it out. At the same -time, however, she was quite incapable of Rose’s easy questioning. She -could not take Cosmo to task for his leisure, and ask him how he was -employing it. When she heard her little sister’s interrogations she was -half alarmed, half horrified. Fools rush in—she did not say this to -herself, but something like it was in her thoughts.</p> - -<p>After this particular dinner, however, Rose kept to her design very -steadily. She beckoned Cosmo to come to her when he came upstairs. -Rose’s rise into importance since her father’s death had been one of the -most curious incidents in the family history. It was not that she -encroached upon the sphere of Anne, who was supreme in the house as she -had always been—almost more supreme now, as having the serious business -in her hands; nor was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_337" id="page_337">{337}</a></span> she disobedient to her mother, who, on her side, -was conscientiously anxious not to spoil the little heiress, or allow -her head to be turned by her elevation. But Rose had risen somehow, no -one could tell how. She was on the top of the wave—the successfulness -of success was in her veins, exhilarating her, calling forth all her -powers. Anne, though she had taken her own deposition with so much -magnanimity, had yet been somewhat changed and subdued by it. The gentle -imperiousness of her character, sympathetic yet naturally dominant, had -been already checked by these reverses. She had been stopped short in -her life, and made to pause and ask of the world and the unseen those -questions which, when once introduced into existence, make it impossible -to go on with the same confidence and straightforward rapidity again. -But little Rose was full of confidence and curiosity and faith in -herself. She did not hesitate either in advising or questioning the -people around her. She had told Anne what she ought to do—and now she -meant to tell Cosmo. She had no doubt whatever as to her competence for -it, and she liked the <i>rôle</i>.</p> - -<p>‘Come and sit here beside me,’ she said. ‘I am going to ask you a great -many questions. Was that all true that you told me at dinner, or was it -your fun? Please tell me in earnest this time. I want so very much to -know.’</p> - -<p>‘It would have been poor fun; not much of a joke, I think. No, it was -quite true.’</p> - -<p>‘All of it? About writing in the newspapers, and one person asking your -advice once in a way? And about ladies asking you out to dinner?’</p> - -<p>‘Perhaps that would be a little too matter-of-fact. I have always had -enough to pay for my dinner. Yes, I think I can say that much,’ said -Cosmo, with a laugh.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_338" id="page_338">{338}</a></span></p> - -<p>‘But that does not make very much difference,’ said Rose. ‘Well, then, -now I must ask you another question. How did you think, Mr. Douglas, -that you could marry Anne?’</p> - -<p>She spoke low, so that nobody else could hear, and looked him full in -the face, with her seeming innocence. The question was so unexpected, -and the questioner so unlike a person entitled to institute such -examinations, that Cosmo was entirely taken by surprise. He gave an -almost gasp of amazement and consternation, and though he was not easily -put out, his countenance grew crimson.</p> - -<p>‘How did I think I could——? You put a very startling question. I -always knew I was entirely unworthy,’ he stammered out.</p> - -<p>‘But that isn’t what I meant a bit. Anne is awfully superior,’ said -Rose. ‘I always knew she was—but more than ever now. I am not asking -you how you ventured to ask her, or anything of that sort—but how did -you think that you could marry—when you had only enough to be sure of -paying for your own dinner? And I don’t mean either just at first, for -of course you thought she would be rich. But when you knew that papa was -so angry, and that everything was so changed for her, how <i>could</i> you -think you could go on with it? It is that that puzzles me so.’</p> - -<p>Rose was seated in a low chair, busy with a piece of crewel work, from -which she only raised her eyes now and then to look him in the face with -that little matter-of-fact air, leaving him no loophole of sentiment to -escape by. And he had taken another seat on a higher elevation, and had -been stooping over her with a smile on his face, so altogether -unsuspicious of any attack that he had actually no possibility of -escape. Her half-childish look paralysed him: it was all he could do not -to gape at her with open mouth of bewilderment and confusion.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_339" id="page_339">{339}</a></span> But her -speech was a long one, and gave him a little time to get up his courage.</p> - -<p>‘You are very right,’ he said. ‘I did not think you had so much -judgment. How could I think of it—I cannot tell. It is presumption; it -is wretched injustice to her—to think of dragging her down into my -poverty.’</p> - -<p>‘But you don’t seem a bit poor, Mr. Douglas; that is the funny -thing—and you are not very busy or working very hard. I think it would -all be very nice for you, and very comfortable. But I cannot see, for my -part,’ said the girl, tranquilly, ‘what you would do with Anne.’</p> - -<p>‘Those are questions which we do not discuss——’ he was going to say -‘with little girls,’ being angry; but he paused in time—‘I mean which -we can only discuss, Anne and I, between ourselves.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, Anne! she would never mind!’ said Rose, with a certain contempt.</p> - -<p>‘What is it that Anne would never mind?’ said Mrs. Mountford. Anne was -out of the room, and had not even seen this curious inquisition into the -meaning of her betrothed.</p> - -<p>‘Nothing at all that is prudent, mamma. I was asking Mr. Douglas how he -ever thought he would be able to get married, living such an easy life.’</p> - -<p>‘Rose, are you out of your senses?’ cried her mother, in alarm. ‘You -will not mind her, Mr. Douglas, she is only a child—and I am afraid she -has been spoiled of late. Anne has always spoiled her: and since her -dear papa has been gone, who kept us all right——’</p> - -<p>Here Mrs. Mountford put her handkerchief lightly to her eyes. It was her -tribute to the occasion. On the whole she was finding her life very -pleasant, and the pressure of the cambric to her eyelids was the little -easy blackmail to sorrow which she habitually paid.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_340" id="page_340">{340}</a></span></p> - -<p>‘She asks very pertinent questions,’ said Cosmo, getting up from the -stool of repentance upon which he had been placed, with something -between a smile and a sigh.</p> - -<p>‘She always had a great deal of sense, though she is such a child,’ said -her mother fondly; ‘but, my darling, you must learn that you really -cannot be allowed to meddle with things that don’t concern you. People -always know their own affairs best.’</p> - -<p>At this moment Anne came back. When the subject of a discussion suddenly -enters the place in which it has been going on, it is strange how -foolish everybody looks, and what a sense of wrong-doing is generally -diffused in the atmosphere. They had been three together to talk, and -she was but one. Cosmo, who, whatever he might do, or hesitate to do, -had always the sense in him of what was best, the perception of moral -beauty and ideal grace which the others wanted, looked at her as she -came across the room with such compunctious tenderness in his eyes as -the truest lover in existence could not have surpassed. He admired and -loved her, it seemed to him, more than he ever did before. And Anne -surprised this look of renewed and half-adoring love. It went through -and through her like a sudden warm glow of sunshine, enveloping her in -sudden warmth and consolation. What a wonderful glory, what a help and -encouragement in life, to be loved like that! She smiled at him with the -tenderest gratitude. Though there might be things in which he fell below -the old ideal Cosmo, to whom all those scraps of letters in her desk had -been addressed, still life had great gladness in it which had this Cosmo -to fall back upon. She returned to that favourite expression, which -sometimes lately she had refrained even from thinking of, and with a -glance called him to her, which she had done very little of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_341" id="page_341">{341}</a></span> late. ‘I -want your advice about Mr. Loseby’s letter,’ she said. And thus the -first result of Rose’s cross-examination was to bring the two closer to -each other. They went together into the inner room, where Anne had her -writing-table and all her business papers, and where they sat and -discussed Mr. Loseby’s plans for the employment of money. ‘I would -rather, <i>far</i> rather, do something for the estate with it,’ Anne said. -‘Those cottages! my father would have consented to have them; and Rose -always took an interest in them, almost as great an interest as I did. -She will be so well off, what does it matter? Comfort to those poor -people is of far more importance than a little additional money in the -bank, for that is what it comes to—not even money to spend, we have -plenty of that.’</p> - -<p>‘You do not seem to think that all this should have been for yourself, -Anne. Is it possible? It is more than I could have believed.’</p> - -<p>‘Dear Cosmo,’ said Anne, apologetically, ‘you know I have never known -what it is to be poor. I don’t understand it. I am intellectually -convinced, you know, that I am a beggar, and Rose has everything; but -otherwise it does not have the slightest effect upon me. I don’t -understand it. No, I am not a beggar. I have five hundred a year.’</p> - -<p>‘Till that little girl comes of age,’ he said, with an accent of -irritation which alarmed Anne. She laid her soft hand upon his to calm -him.</p> - -<p>‘You like Rose well enough, Cosmo; you have been so kind to her, taking -them everywhere. Don’t be angry, it is not her fault.’</p> - -<p>‘No, it is my fault,’ he said. ‘I am at the bottom of all the mischief. -It is I who have spoiled your life. She has been talking to me, that -child, and with the most perfect reason. She says how could I think of -marrying Anne if I was so poor? She is quite right, my dearest: how -could I think<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_342" id="page_342">{342}</a></span> of marrying you, of throwing my shadow across your -beautiful, bright, prosperous life?’</p> - -<p>‘For that matter,’ said Anne, with a soft laugh, ‘you did not, -Cosmo—you only thought of loving me. You are like the father in the -“Précieuses Ridicules,” do you remember, who so shocked everybody by -coming brutally to marriage at once. <i>That</i>, after all, has not so much -to do with it. Scores of people have to wait for years and years. In the -meantime the <i>pays de tendre</i> is very sweet; don’t you think so?’ she -said, turning to him soft eyes which were swimming in a kind of dew of -light, liquid brightness and happiness, like a glow of sunshine in them. -What could Cosmo do or say? He protested that it was very sweet, but not -enough. That nothing would be enough till he could carry her away to the -home which should be hers and his, and where nobody would intermeddle. -And Anne was as happy as if her lover, speaking so earnestly, had been -transformed at once into the hero and sage, high embodiment of man in -all the nobleness of which man is capable, which it was the first -necessity of her happiness that he should be.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXVIII" id="CHAPTER_XXVIII"></a>CHAPTER XXVIII.<br /><br /> -<small>HEATHCOTE’S CAREER.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Heathcote Mountford</span> went with his cousins to London, and when he had -taken them to their house, returned to his chambers in the Albany. They -were very nice rooms. I do not know why an unmarried man’s lodging -should be called chambers, but it does not make them at all different -from other rooms which are not dignified by that name. They were very -comfortable, but not very orderly, with numbers of books about, and a -boot or two now and then straying where it had no right to be,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_343" id="page_343">{343}</a></span> but also -with the necessary curiosities and prettinesses which are now part of -the existence of every well-bred person, though these were not shown off -to the full advantage, but lost among a good deal of litter scattered -here and there. He was not a man who put his best foot foremost in any -way, but let his treasures lie about, and permitted his own capacities -and high qualities to go to rust under the outside covering of -indifference and do-nothingness. It had never been necessary to him to -do anything. He had very little ambition, and whatever zeal for -enjoyment had been in his life, had been satisfied and was over. He had -wandered over a great part of the earth, and noticed many things in a -languid way, and then he had come home and gone to his chambers, and, -unpacking the treasures which, like everybody else, he had taken some -trouble to ‘pick up’ here and there, suffered them to lie about among -all sorts of trifling things. He had Edward to care for, his younger -brother, who made a rush upon him now and then, from school first, and -then from Sandhurst, always wanting money, and much indulgence for his -peccadilloes and stupidities: but no one else who took any interest in -himself or his possessions: and Edward liked a cigar far better than a -bronze, and among all his brother’s possessions, except bank notes and -stray sovereigns, or an occasional cheque when he had been more -extravagant than usual, cared for nothing but the French novels, which -Heathcote picked up too, not because he liked them much, but because -everybody did so—and Edward liked them because they were supposed to be -so wrong. Edward was not on the whole an attractive boy. He had a great -many tastes and a great many friends who were far from agreeable to his -brother, but he was the only real ‘object in life’ to Heathcote, who -petted him much and lectured him as little as was possible. There seemed -to be scarcely any other point at which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_344" id="page_344">{344}</a></span> his own contemplative, inactive -existence touched the practical necessities of life.</p> - -<p>He came back to London with the idea that he would be very glad to -return again to the quiet of his chambers, where nothing ever happened. -He said to himself that excursions into the outer world, where something -was always happening, were a mistake. He had but stepped out of his -hermitage without thinking, once in a way, to pay a visit which, after -all, was a duty visit, when a whole tragedy came straightway about his -ears—accident, death, sorrow, injustice, a heroine, and a cruel father, -and all the materials of a full-blown romance. How glad he would be, he -thought, to get into his hermitage again! Within its quiet centre there -was everything a man wanted—books, an occasional cigar, an easy chair -(when it was clear from papers and general literature) for a friend to -sit in. But when he did get back, he was not so certain of its -advantages: no doubt it was everything that could be desired—but yet, -it was a hermitage, and the outlook from the windows was not cheerful. -If Park Lane was brighter than the view across the park at Mount, the -Albany, with its half-monastic shade, like a bit of a male <i>béguinage</i>, -was less bright. He sat at his window, vaguely looking out—a thing he -had never had the slightest inclination to do before—and felt an -indescribable sense of the emptiness of his existence. Nor was this only -because he had got used to the new charms of household life, and liked a -house with women in it, as he had suggested to himself—not even -that—it was an influence more subtle. He took Edward with him to Park -Lane, and presented that hero, who did not understand his new relations. -He thought Rose was ‘very jolly,’ but Anne alarmed him. And the ladies -were not very favourably moved towards Edward. Heathcote had hoped that -his young<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_345" id="page_345">{345}</a></span> brother might be captivated by them, and that this might very -possibly be the making of him: as the friends of an unsatisfactory young -man are always so ready to hope. But the result did not justify his -expectation. ‘If the little ‘un were by herself, without those two old -fogeys, she might, perhaps, be fun,’ Edward thought, and then he gave -his brother a description of the favourite Bet Bouncer of his -predilections. This attempt having failed, Heathcote for his part did -not fall into mere aimless fluttering about the house in Park Lane as -for a time he had been tempted to do. It was not the mere charm of -female society which had moved him. Life had laid hold upon him on -various sides, and he could not escape into his shell, as of old. Just -as Cosmo Douglas had felt, underneath all the external gratifications of -his life, the consciousness that everybody was asking. ‘What Douglases -does he belong to?’ so Heathcote, in the stillness of his chambers, was -conscious that his neighbours were saying, ‘He is Mountford of Mount.’ -As a matter of fact very few people knew anything about Mount—but it is -hard even for the wisest to understand how matters which so deeply -concern themselves should be utterly unimportant to the rest of the -world. And by-and-by many voices seemed to wake up round him, and -discuss him on all sides. ‘He has a very nice old place in the country, -and a bit of an entailed estate—nothing very great, but lands that have -been in the family for generations. Why doesn’t he go and look after -it?’ He did not know if those words were really said by anyone, yet he -seemed to hear them circling about his head, coming like labels in an -old print out of the mouths of the men at his club. ‘Why doesn’t he look -after his estate? Is there nothing to be done on his property that he -stays on, leading this idle life here?’ It was even an object of -surprise to his friends that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_346" id="page_346">{346}</a></span> he had not taken the good of the shooting -or invited anyone to share it. He seemed to himself to be hunted out of -his snug corner. The Albany was made unbearable to him. He held out as -long as the ladies remained in Park Lane, but when they were gone he -could not stand it any longer—not, he represented to himself, that it -was on their account he remained in London. But there was a certain duty -in the matter, which restrained him from doing as he pleased while they -were at hand and might require his aid. They never did in the least -require his aid—they were perfectly well off, with plenty of means, and -servants, and carriages, and unbounded facilities for doing all they -wanted. But when they went away, as they did in February, he found out, -what he had been suspecting for some time, that London was one vast and -howling wilderness, that the Albany was a hideous travesty of -monasticism, fit only for men without souls, and lives without duties; -and that when a man has anything that can be called his natural business -in life, it is the right thing that he should do it. Therefore, to the -astonishment and disgust of Edward, who liked to have his brother’s -chambers to come to when he ‘ran up to town’—a thing less difficult -then than in these days of stricter discipline—Heathcote Mountford -turned his back upon his club and his hermitage, and startled the parish -out of its wits by arriving suddenly on a rainy day in February at the -dreary habitation which exercised a spell upon him, the house of his -ancestors, the local habitation to which in future his life must belong, -whether he liked it or not.</p> - -<p>And certainly its first aspect was far from a cheerful one. The cook, -now housekeeper, had made ready for him hastily, preparing for him the -best bedroom, the room where Mr. Mountford, now distinguished as the old -Squire, had lain in state,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_347" id="page_347">{347}</a></span> and the library where he had lived through -his life. It was all very chilly when he arrived, a dampness clinging to -the unoccupied house, and a white mist in all the hollows of the park. -He could not help wondering if it was quite safe, or if the humid chill -which met him when he entered was not the very thing to make a solitary -inhabitant ill, and end his untimely visit in a fever. They did their -very best for him in the house. Large fires were lighted, and the little -dinner, which was served in a corner of the dining-room, was as dainty -as the means of the place would allow. But it would be difficult to -imagine anything more dreary than the first evening. He sat among -ghosts, thinking he heard Mr. Mountford’s step, scarcely capable of -restraining his imagination: seeing that spare figure seated in his -usual chair, or coming in, with a characteristic half-suspicious -inspecting look he had, at the door. The few lamps that were in working -order were insufficient to light the place. The passages were all black -as night, the windows, when he glanced out at them behind the curtains, -showing nothing but a universal blackness, not even the sky or the -trees. But if the trees were not visible, they were audible, the wind -sighing through them, the rain pattering—a wild concert going on in the -gloom. And when the rain ceased it was almost worse. Then there came -silence, suspicious and ghostly, broken by a sudden dropping now and -then from some overcharged evergreen, the beating of a bough against a -window, the hoot of the owl in the woods. After he had swallowed his -dinner Heathcote got a book, and sat himself down solemnly to read it. -But when he had read a page he stopped to listen to the quiet, and it -chilled him over again. The sound of footsteps over the stone pavements, -the distant clang of a hansom driving up, the occasional voices that -passed his window, all the noises of town, would<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_348" id="page_348">{348}</a></span> have been delightful -to him: but instead here he was at Mount, all alone, with miles of park -separating him from any living creature, except the maids and outdoor -man who had been left in charge.</p> - -<p>Next morning it was fine, which mended matters a little. Fine! he said -to himself with a little shiver. But he buttoned up his great-coat and -went out, bent upon doing his duty. He went to the Rectory first, -feeling that at least this would be an oasis in the desert, and found -the clergy sitting in two different rooms, over two sermons, which was -not a cheerful sight. The Rector was writing his with the calm fluency -of thirty years of use and wont; but poor Charley was biting his pen -over his manuscript with an incapacity which every successive Sunday -seemed to increase rather than diminish. ‘My father, he has got into the -way of it,’ the Curate said in a tone which was half admiring, half -despairing. Charley did not feel sure that he himself would ever get -into the way of it. He had to take the afternoon service when the -audience was a very dispiriting one: even Miss Fanny Woodhead did not -come in the afternoon, and the organ was played by the schoolmaster, and -the hymns were lugubrious beyond description. As the days began to grow -longer, and the winter chill to take ever a deeper and deeper hold, the -Curate had felt the mournfulness of the position close round him. When -Mount was shut up there was nobody to speak to, nobody to refer to, no -variety in his life. A house with only two men in it, in the depths of -the country, with no near neighbours, and not a very violent strain of -work, and no special relief of interesting pursuits, is seldom a -cheerful house. When Charley looked up from his heavy studies and saw -Heathcote, he almost upset his table in his jump of delighted welcome. -Then there succeeded a moment of alarm. ‘Are they all well?—nothing -has<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_349" id="page_349">{349}</a></span> happened?’ he cried, in sudden panic. ‘Nothing at all,’ Heathcote -said, ‘except what concerns myself.’ And it amused the stranger to see -how relieved his host was by this assurance, and how cheerfully he drew -that other chair to the fire to discuss the business which only -concerned so secondary a person. Charley, however, was as sympathetic as -heart could desire, and ready to be interested in everything. He -understood and applauded the new Squire’s sentiments in respect to his -property and his new responsibilities. ‘It is quite true,’ the Curate -said with a very grave face, ‘that it makes the greatest difference to -everybody. When Mount is shut up the very sky has less light in it,’ -said the good fellow, growing poetical. Heathcote had a comprehension of -the feeling in his own person which he could not have believed in a -little while ago, but he could scarcely help laughing, which was -inhuman, at the profound depression in Charley Ashley’s face, and which -showed in every line of his large, limp figure. His countenance itself -was several inches longer than it had been in brighter days.</p> - -<p>‘I am afraid,’ said Heathcote, with a smile, ‘that so much opening of -Mount as my arrival will make, will not put very much light into the -sky.’</p> - -<p>‘And it is not only the company and the comfort,’ said the Curate, ‘we -feel that dreadfully, my father and I—but there is more than that. If -anyone was ill in the village, there was somebody down directly from -Mount with beef-tea and wine and whatever was wanted; and if anyone was -in trouble, it was always a consolation to tell it to the young ladies, -and to hear what they thought. The farmers could not do anything -tyrannical, nor the agents be hard upon a tenant—nor anyone,’ cried -Charley, with enthusiasm, ‘maltreat anyone else. There was always a -court of appeal at Mount.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_350" id="page_350">{350}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>‘My dear fellow,’ said Heathcote, ‘you are thinking of a patriarchal -age—you are thinking of something quite obsolete, unmodern, destructive -of all political economy.’</p> - -<p>‘<i>That</i> for political economy!’ said the Curate, snapping his fingers; -his spirits were rising—even to have someone to grumble to was a -consolation. ‘Political anything is very much out of place in a little -country parish. What do our poor labourers know about it? They have so -very little at the best of times, how are they to go on when they are -ill or in trouble, without some one to give them a lift?’</p> - -<p>‘Then they should have more for their work, Ashley. I am afraid it is -demoralising that they should be so dependent upon a Squire’s house.’</p> - -<p>‘Who is to give them more?’ cried the Curate, hotly. ‘The farmers have -not got so very much themselves; and I never said they were dependent; -they are not dependent—they are comfortable enough as a matter of fact. -Look at the cottages, you will see how respectable they all are. There -is no real distress in our parish—thanks,’ he added, veering round very -innocently and unconsciously to the other side of the circle, ‘to -Mount.’</p> - -<p>‘We need not argue the point,’ said Heathcote, amused. ‘I am as sorry as -you can be that the ladies will not retain possession. What is it to me? -I am not rich enough to do all I would, and I don’t know the people as -they did. They will never look up to me as they did to my predecessors. -I hope my cousins will return at all events in summer. All the same,’ he -added, laughing, ‘I am quite illogical’—like you, he would have said, -but forbore. ‘I want them to come back, and yet I feel this infection of -duty that you speak of. It seems to me that it must be my business to -live here henceforward—though I confess to you I think it will be very -dismal, and I don’t know what I shall do.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_351" id="page_351">{351}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>‘It will be dismal,’ said the Curate; his face had lighted up for a -moment, then rapidly clouded over again. ‘<i>I</i> don’t know what you will -do. You that have been always used to a luxurious town life——’</p> - -<p>‘Not so luxurious—and not so exclusively town,’ Heathcote ventured to -interpose, feeling a whimsical annoyance at this repetition of his own -thoughts.</p> - -<p>‘—— And who don’t know the people, nor understand what to do, and what -not to do—it takes a long apprenticeship,’ said Charley, very gravely. -‘You see, an injudicious liberality would be very bad for them—it would -pauperise instead of elevating. It is not everybody that knows what is -good and what is bad in help. People unaccustomed to the kind of life do -more harm than good.’</p> - -<p>‘You don’t give me very much encouragement to settle down on my property -and learn how to be a patriarch in my turn,’ said Mountford, with a -laugh.</p> - -<p>‘No, I don’t,’ said the Curate, his face growing longer and longer. The -presence of Heathcote Mountford at Mount had smiled upon him for a -moment. It would be better than nothing; it would imply some -companionship, sympathy more or less, someone to take a walk with -occasionally, or to have a talk with, not exclusively parochial; but -when the Curate reflected that Heathcote at Mount would altogether do -away with the likelihood of ‘the family’ coming back—that they could -not rent the house for the summer, which was a hope he had clung to, if -the present owner of it was in possession—Charley at once perceived -that the immediate pleasure of a neighbour would be a fatal advantage, -and with honest simplicity applied himself to the task of subduing his -visitor’s new-born enthusiasm. ‘You see,’ he said, ‘it’s quite different -making a new beginning, knowing nothing about it, from having<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_352" id="page_352">{352}</a></span> been born -here, and acquainted with the people all your life.’</p> - -<p>‘Everybody must have known, however,’ said Heathcote, slightly piqued, -‘that the property would change hands some time or other, and that great -alterations must be made.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh yes, everybody knew that,’ said the Curate, with deadly seriousness; -‘but, you see, when you say a thing must happen some time, you never -know when it will happen, and it is always a shock when it comes. The -old Squire was a hearty man, not at all old for his years. He was not so -old as my father, and I hope <i>he</i> has a great deal of work left in him -yet. And then it was all so sudden; none of us had been able to -familiarise ourselves even with the idea that you were going to succeed, -when in a moment it was all over, and you <i>had</i> succeeded. I don’t mean -to say that we are not very glad to have you,’ said Charley, with a -dubious smile, suddenly perceiving the equivocal civility of all he had -been saying; ‘it is a great deal better than we could have expected. -Knowing them and liking them, you can have so much more sympathy with us -about them. And as you wish them to come back, if that is possible——’</p> - -<p>‘Certainly, I do wish them to come back—if it is possible,’ said -Heathcote, but his countenance, too, grew somewhat long. He would have -liked for himself a warmer reception, perhaps. And when he went to see -Mr. Ashley, though his welcome was very warm, and though the Rector was -absolutely gleeful over his arrival, and confided to him instantly half -a dozen matters in which it would be well that he should interest -himself at once, still it was not very long before ‘they’ recurred also -to the old man’s mind as the chief object of interest. ‘Why are they -going abroad? it would be far better if they would come home,’ said the -Rector, who afterwards apolo<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_353" id="page_353">{353}</a></span>gised, however, with anxious humility. ‘I -beg your pardon—I beg your pardon with all my heart. I forgot actually -that Mount had changed hands. Of course, of course, it is quite natural -that they should go abroad. They have no home, so to speak, till they -have made up their mind to choose one, and I always think that is one of -the hardest things in the world to do. It is a blessing we do not -appreciate, Mr. Mountford, to have our home chosen for us and settled -beyond our power to change——’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t think Mrs. Mountford dislikes the power of choice,’ said -Heathcote; ‘but so far as I am concerned, you know I should be very -thankful if they would continue to occupy their old home.’</p> - -<p>‘I know, I know. You have spoken most kindly, most generously, exactly -as I could have wished you to speak,’ said the Rector, patting Heathcote -on the shoulder, as if he had been a good boy. Then he took hold of his -arm and drew him towards the window, and looked into his eyes. ‘It is a -delicate question,’ he said, ‘I know it is a delicate question: but -you’ve been in town, and no doubt you have heard all about it. What is -going to happen about Anne?’</p> - -<p>‘Nothing that I know of,’ Heathcote replied briefly. ‘Nothing has been -said to me.’</p> - -<p>‘Tchk, tchk, tchk!’ said the Rector, with that particular action of the -tongue upon the palate, which is so usual an expression of bother, or -annoyance, or regret, and so little reducible into words. He shook his -head. ‘I don’t understand these sort of shilly-shally doings,’ he said: -‘they would have been incomprehensible when I was a young man.’</p> - -<p>The same question was repeated by Mr. Loseby, whom next day Heathcote -went to see, driving over to Hunston in the Rector’s little carriage, -with the sober old horse, which was in itself almost a member of the -clerical profession. Mr. Loseby received him<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_354" id="page_354">{354}</a></span> with open arms, and much -commended the interest which he was showing in his property. ‘But Mount -will be a dreary place to live in all by yourself,’ he said. ‘If I were -you I would take up my abode at the Rectory, at least till you can have -your establishment set on a proper footing. And now that is settled,’ -said the lawyer (though nothing was settled), ‘tell me all about Anne.’</p> - -<p>‘I know nothing to tell you,’ said Heathcote. ‘Mr. Douglas is always -there——’</p> - -<p>‘Mr. Douglas is always there! but there is nothing to tell, nothing -settled; what does the fellow mean? Do you suppose she is going to -forego every advantage, and go dragging on for years to suit his -convenience? If you tell me so——’</p> - -<p>‘But I don’t tell you so,’ cried Heathcote; ‘I tell you nothing—I don’t -know anything. In short, if you don’t mind, I’d rather not discuss the -question. I begin to be of your opinion, that I was a fool not to turn -up a year sooner. There was nothing to keep me that I am aware of; I -might as well have come sooner as later; but I don’t know that anyone is -to be blamed for that.’</p> - -<p>‘Ah!’ said the old lawyer, rubbing his hands, ‘what a settlement that -would have made! Anne would have kept her money, and little Rose her -proper place and a pretty little fortune, just like herself—and -probably would have married William Ashley, a very good sort of young -fellow. There would have been some pleasure in arranging a settlement -like that. I remember when I drew out the papers for her mother’s -marriage—that was the salvation of the Mountfords—they were sliding -downhill as fast as they could before that; but Miss Roper, who was the -first Mrs. St. John Mountford, set all straight. You get the advantage -of it more or less, Mr. Heathcote, though the connection is so distant. -Even your part of the property is in a very different<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_355" id="page_355">{355}</a></span> condition from -what it was when I remember it first. And if you had—not been a -fool—but had come in time and tried your chance—— Ah! however, I dare -say if it had been so, something would have come in the way all the -same; you would not have fancied each other, or something would have -happened. But if that fellow thinks that he is to blow hot and cold with -Anne——’</p> - -<p>‘I don’t like the mere suggestion. Pardon me,’ said Heathcote, ‘I am -sure you mean nothing but love and tenderness to my cousin: but I cannot -have such a thing suggested. Whatever happens to Anne Mountford, there -will be nothing derogatory to her dignity; nothing beneath her own fine -character, I am sure of that.’</p> - -<p>‘I accept the reproof,’ said Mr. Loseby, with more twinkle than usual in -his spectacles, but less power of vision through them. ‘I accept the -reproof. What was all heaven and earth about, Heathcote Mountford, that -you were left dawdling about that wearisome Vanity Fair that you call -the world, instead of coming here a year since, when you were wanted? If -there is one thing more than another that wants explaining it is the -matrimonial mismanagement of this world. It’s no angel that has the care -of that, I’ll answer for it!’ cried the little man with comic -indignation. And then he took off his spectacles and wiped them, and -grasped Heathcote Mountford by the hand and entreated him to stay to -dinner, which, indeed, the recluse of Mount was by no means unwilling to -do.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_356" id="page_356">{356}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXIX" id="CHAPTER_XXIX"></a>CHAPTER XXIX.<br /><br /> -<small>CHARLEY INTERFERES.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Heathcote Mountford</span>, however, notwithstanding the dulness and the dismal -weather, and all the imperfections of the incomplete household, -continued at Mount. The long blanks of country life, nothing happening -from the arrival of one post to another, no stir of life about, only the -unbroken stillness of the rain or the sunshine, the good or bad weather, -the one tempting him out, the other keeping him within, were all -novelties, though of the heavy kind, and gave him a kind of -amused-spectator consciousness of the tedium, rather than any suffering -from it. He was not so easily affected as many people would be by the -circumstances of external life, and knowing that he could at any moment -go back to his den at the Albany, he took the much deeper seclusion of -Mount as a sort of ‘retreat,’ in which he could look out upon the before -and after, and if he sometimes ‘pined for what was not,’ yet could do it -unenviously and unbitterly, wondering at rather than objecting to the -strange misses and blunders of life. Mr. Loseby, who had tutored Anne in -her duties, did the same for Heathcote, showing him by what means he -could ‘take an interest’ in the dwellers upon his land, so as to be of -some use to them. And he rode about the country with the land-agent, and -became aware, and became proud as he became aware, of the character of -his own possessions, of the old farmhouses, older than Mount itself, and -the old cottages, toppling to their ruin, among which were many that -Anne had doomed. Wherever he went he heard of what Miss Anne had done, -and settled to do. The women in the condemned cottages told him the -improvements she had promised,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_357" id="page_357">{357}</a></span> and he, in most cases, readily undertook -to carry out these promises, notwithstanding his want of means. ‘They’re -doing it at Lilford, where Miss Anne has been and given her orders,’ -said the women. ‘I don’t know why there should be differences made. -We’re as good every bit as the Lilford folks.’ ‘But you have not got -Miss Anne,’ said Heathcote. And then there would be an outburst of -lamentations, interrupted by anxious questioning. ‘Why haven’t we got -Miss Anne?—is it true as all the money has been left away from her?’ -Heathcote had a great many questions of this kind to answer, and soon -began to feel that he himself was the supposed culprit to whom the -estate had been ‘left away.’ ‘I am supposed to be your supplanter,’ he -wrote to Anne herself, ‘and I <i>feel</i> your deputy doing your work for -you. Dear Lady of Mount, send me your orders. I will carry them out to -the best of my ability. I am poor, and not at all clever about the needs -of the estate, but I think, don’t you think? that the great Mr. -Bulstrode, who is so good as to be my agent, is something of a bully, -and does not by any means do his spiriting gently. What do you think? -You are not an ignoramus, like me.’ This letter Anne answered very -fully, and it produced a correspondence between them which was a great -pleasure to Heathcote, and not only a pleasure, but in some respects a -help, too. She approved greatly of his assumption of his natural duties -upon his own shoulders, and kindly encouraged him ‘not to mind’ the -bullying of the agent, the boorishness of Farmer Rawlins, and the -complaints of the Spriggs. In this matter of the estate Anne felt the -advantage of her experience. She wrote to him in a semi-maternal way, -understanding that the information she had to give placed her in a -position of superiority, while she gave it, at least. Heathcote was -infinitely amused by these pretensions; he liked to be schooled<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_358" id="page_358">{358}</a></span> by her, -and made her very humble replies; but the burden of all his graver -thoughts was still that regret expressed by Mr. Loseby, Why, why had he -not made his appearance a year before? But now it was too late.</p> - -<p>Thus the winter went on. The Mountfords had gone abroad. They had been -in all the places where English families go while their crape is still -fresh, to Paris and Cannes, and into Italy, trying, as Mrs. Mountford -said, ‘the effect of a little change.’ And they all liked it, it is -needless to deny. They were so unaccustomed to use their wings that the -mere feeling of the first flight, the wild freedom and sense of -boundless action and power over themselves filled them with pleasure. -They were not to come back till the summer was nearly over, going to -Switzerland for the hot weather, when Italy became too warm. They had -not intended, when they set out, to stay so long, but indeed it was -nearly a year from the period of Mr. Mountford’s death when they came -home. They did not return to Park Lane, nor to any other settled abode, -but went to one of the many hotels near Heathcote’s chambers, to rest -for a few days before they settled what they were to do for the autumn; -for it was Mrs. Mountford’s desire to go ‘abroad’ again for the winter, -staying only some three months at home. When the little world about -Mount heard of this, they were agitated by various feelings—desire to -get them back alternating in the minds of the good people with -indignation at the idea of their renewed wanderings, which were all put -down to the frivolity of Mrs. Mountford; and a continually growing -wonder and consternation as to the future of Anne. ‘She has no right to -keep a poor man hanging on so long, when there can be no possible reason -for it; when it would really be an advantage for her to have someone to -fall back upon,’ Miss Woodhead said, in righteous indignation over<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_359" id="page_359">{359}</a></span> her -friend’s extraordinary conduct—extraordinary as she thought it. ‘Rose -has her mother to go with her. And I think poor Mr. Douglas is being -treated very badly for my part. They ought to come home here, and stay -for the three months, and get the marriage over, among their own -people.’ Fanny Woodhead was considered through all the three adjacent -parishes to be a person of great judgment, and the Rector, for one, was -very much impressed with this suggestion. ‘I think Fanny’s idea should -be acted upon. I think it certainly should be acted on,’ he said. ‘The -year’s mourning for her father will be over, if that is what they are -waiting for—and look at all the correspondence she has, and the -trouble. She wants somebody to help her. Someone should certainly -suggest to Anne that it would be a right thing to follow Fanny -Woodhead’s advice.’</p> - -<p>Heathcote, who, though he had allowed himself a month of the season, was -back again in Mount, with a modest household gathered round him, and -every indication of a man ‘settling down,’ concurred in this counsel, so -far as to write, urging very warmly that Mount should be their -head-quarters while they remained in England. Mr. Loseby was of opinion -that the match was one which never would come off at all, an idea which -moved several bosoms with an unusual tremor. There was a great deal of -agitation altogether on the subject among the little circle, which felt -that the concerns of the Mountfords were more or less concerns of their -own; and when it was known that Charley Ashley, who was absent on his -yearly holiday, was to see the ladies on his way through London, there -was a general impression that something would come of it—that he would -be able to set their duty before them, or to expedite the settlement of -affairs in one way or another. The Curate himself said nothing to -any<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_360" id="page_360">{360}</a></span>one, but he had a very serious purpose in his mind. He it was who -had introduced these two to each other; his friendship had been the link -which had connected Douglas—so far as affairs had yet gone, very -disastrously—with the woman who had been the adoration of poor -Charley’s own life. He had resigned her, having neither hopes nor rights -to resign, to his friend, with a generous abandonment, and had been -loyal to Cosmo as to Anne, though at the cost of no little suffering to -himself. But, if it were possible that Anne herself was being neglected, -then Charley felt that he had a right to a word in the matter. He was -experimenting sadly in French seaside amusements with his brother at -Boulogne, when the ladies returned to England. Charley and Willie were -neither of them great in French. They had begun by thinking all the -humours of the bathing place ‘fun,’ and laughing mightily at the men in -their bathing dresses, and feeling scandalised at their presence among -the ladies; but, after a few days, they had become very much bored, and -felt the drawback of having ‘nothing to do;’ so that, when they heard -that the Mountfords had crossed the Channel and were in London, the two -young men made haste to follow. It was the end of July when everybody -was rushing out of town, and only a small sprinkling of semi-fashionable -persons were to be seen in the scorched and baked parks. The Mountfords -were understood to be in town only for a few days. It was all that any -lady who respected herself could imagine possible at this time of the -year.</p> - -<p>‘I suppose they’ll be changed,’ Willie said to his brother, as they made -their way to the hotel. ‘I have never seen them since all these changes -came about; that is, I have never seen Rose. I suppose Rose won’t be -Rose now, to me at least. It is rather funny that such a tremendous -change should come about between two times of seeing a person whom<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_361" id="page_361">{361}</a></span> you -have known all your life.’ By ‘rather funny’ Willie meant something much -the reverse of amusing: but that is the way of English youth. He, too, -had entertained his little dreams, which had been of a more substantial -character than his brother’s; for Willie was destined for the bar, and -had, or believed himself to have, chances much superior to those of a -country clergyman. And according to the original disposition of Mr. St. -John Mountford’s affairs, a rising young fellow at the bar, with Willie -Ashley’s hopes and connections, would have been no very bad match for -little Rose. This it was that made him feel it was ‘funny.’ But still -his heart was not gone together in one great sweep out of his breast, -like Charley’s. And he went to see his old friends with a little -quickening of his pulse, yet a composed determination ‘to see if it was -any use.’ If it seemed to him that there was still an opening, Willie -was not afraid of Rose’s fortune, and did not hesitate to form ulterior -plans; and he stood on this great vantage ground that, if he found it -was not ‘any use,’ he had no intention of breaking his heart.</p> - -<p>When they went in, however, to the hotel sitting-room in which the -Mountfords were, they found Rose and her mother with their bonnets on, -ready to go out, and there were but a few minutes for conversation. Rose -was grown and developed so that her old adorer scarcely recognised her -for the first minute. She was in a white dress, profusely trimmed with -black, and made in a fashion to which the young men were unaccustomed, -the latest Parisian fashion, which they did not understand, indeed, but -which roused all their English conservatism of feeling, as much as if -they had understood it. ‘Oh, how nice of you to come to see us!’ Rose -cried. ‘Are you really passing through London, and were you at Boulogne -when we came through? I never<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_362" id="page_362">{362}</a></span> could have imagined you in France, either -the one or the other. How did you get on with the talking? You could not -have any fun in a place unless you understood what people were saying. -Mamma, I don’t think we ought to wait for Mr. Douglas; it is getting so -late.’</p> - -<p>‘Here is Mr. Douglas,’ said Mrs. Mountford; ‘he is always punctual. Anne -is not going with us; she has so much to do—there is quite a packet of -letters from Mr. Loseby. If you would rather be let off going with us, -Mr. Douglas, you have only to say so; I am sure we can do very well by -ourselves.’</p> - -<p>But at this suggestion Rose pouted, a change of expression which was not -lost upon the anxious spectators.</p> - -<p>‘I came for the express purpose of going with you,’ said Cosmo; ‘why -should I be turned off now?’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, I only thought that because of Anne——; but of course you will see -Anne after. Will you all, like good people, come back and dine, as we -are going out now? No, Charley, I will not, indeed, take any refusal. I -want to hear all about Mount, dear Mount—and what Heathcote Mountford -is doing. Anne wishes us to go to Hunston; but I don’t know that I -should like to be so near without being at Mount.’</p> - -<p>‘Is Anne too busy to see us now? I should just like to say how d’you -do.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, if you will wait a little, I don’t doubt that you will see her. But -I am sure you will excuse us now, as we had fixed to go out. We shall -see you this evening. Mind you are here by seven o’clock,’ cried Mrs. -Mountford, shaking her fingers at them in an airy way which she had -learned ‘abroad.’ And Rose said, as they went out, ‘Yes, do come; I want -to hear all about Mount.’ About two minutes<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_363" id="page_363">{363}</a></span> after they left the room -Anne came in. She had not turned into a spider or wasp, like Rose in her -Paris costume, but she was much changed. She no longer carried her head -high, but had got a habit of bowing it slightly, which made a curious -difference in her appearance. She was like a tall flower bent by the -winds, bowing before them; she was more pale than she used to be; and to -Charley it seemed that there was an inquiry in her eyes, which first -cast one glance round, as if asking something, before they turned with a -little gleam of pleasure to the strangers.</p> - -<p>‘You here?’ Anne said. ‘How glad I am to see you! When did you come, and -where are you staying? I am so sorry that mamma and Rose have gone out; -but you must come back and see them: or will you wait? They will soon be -back;’ and once more she threw a glance round, investigating—as if some -one might be hiding somewhere, Willie said. But his brother knew better. -Charley felt that there was the bewilderment of wonder in her eyes, and -felt that it must be a new experience to her that Cosmo should not wait -to see her. For a moment the light seemed to fade in her face, then came -back: and she sat down and talked with a subdued sweetness that went to -their hearts. ‘Not to Mount,’ she said; ‘Heathcote is very kind, but I -don’t think I will go to Mount. To Hunston rather—where we can see -everybody all the same.’</p> - -<p>‘What is the matter with Anne?’ Willie Ashley asked, wondering, when -they came away. ‘It can’t be because she has lost her money. She has no -more spirit left in her. She has not a laugh left in her. What is the -cause of it all?’ But the Curate made no answer. He set his teeth, and -he said not a word. There was very little to be got out of him all that -day. He went gloomily about with his brother, turning Willie’s holiday -into a some<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_364" id="page_364">{364}</a></span>what poor sort of merry-making. And when they went to dinner -with the Mountfords at night, Charley’s usual taciturnity was so much -aggravated that he scarcely could be said to talk at all. But the dinner -was gay enough. Rose, it seemed to young Ashley, who had his private -reasons for being critical, ‘kept it up’ with Douglas in a way which was -not at all pleasant. They had been together all the afternoon, and had -all sorts of little recollections in common. Anne was much less subdued -than in the morning, and talked like her old self, yet with a -difference. It was when the party broke up, however, that Willie Ashley -felt himself most ill-used. He was left entirely out in the cold by his -brother, who said to him briefly, ‘I am going home with Douglas,’ and -threw him on his own devices. If it had not been that some faint guess -crossed the younger brother’s mind as to Charley’s meaning, he would -have felt himself very badly used.</p> - -<p>The Curate put his arm within his friend’s. It was somewhat against the -grain, for he did not feel so amicable as he looked. ‘I am coming back -with you,’ he said. ‘We have not had a talk for so long. I want to know -what you’ve been after all this long while.’</p> - -<p>‘Very glad of a talk,’ said Douglas, but neither was he quite as much -gratified as he professed to be; ‘but as for coming back with me, I -don’t know where that is to be, for I am going to the club.’</p> - -<p>‘I’ll walk with you there,’ said Charley. However, after this -announcement Cosmo changed his mind: he saw that there was gravity in -the Curate’s intentions, and turned his steps towards his rooms. He had -not been expected there, and the lamp was not lighted, nor anything -ready for him; and there was a little stumbling in the dark and ringing -of bells before they got settled comfortably to their <i>tête-à-tête</i>. -Charley seated himself in a chair by the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_365" id="page_365">{365}</a></span> table while this was going on, -and when lights came he was discovered there as in a scene in a theatre, -heavy and dark in his black clothes, and the pale desperation with which -he was addressing himself to his task.</p> - -<p>‘Douglas,’ he said, ‘for a long time I have wanted to speak to you——’</p> - -<p>‘Speak away,’ said the other; ‘but have a pipe to assist your utterance, -Charley. You never could talk without your pipe.’</p> - -<p>The Curate put away the offered luxury with a determined hand. How much -easier, how much pleasanter it would have been to accept it, to veil his -purpose with the friendly nothings of conversation, and thus perhaps -delude his friend into disclosures without affronting him by a solemn -demand! That would have been very well had Charley had any confidence in -his own powers—but he had not, and he put the temptation away from him. -‘No, thank you, Douglas,’ he said, ‘what I want to say is something -which you may think very interfering and impertinent. Do you remember a -year ago when you were at the Rectory and we had a talk—one very wet -night?’</p> - -<p>‘Perfectly. You were sulky because you thought I had cut you out; but -you always were the best of fellows, Charley——’</p> - -<p>‘Don’t talk of it like that. You might have taken my life blood from me -after that, and I shouldn’t have minded. That’s a figure of speech. I -mean that I gave up to you then what wasn’t mine to give, what you had -got without any help from me. You know what I mean. If you think I -didn’t mind, that was a mistake. A great many things have happened since -then, and some things have not happened that looked as if they ought to -have done so. You made use of me after that, and I was glad enough to be -of use. I want to ask<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_366" id="page_366">{366}</a></span> you one question now, Douglas. I don’t say that -you’ll like to be questioned by me——’</p> - -<p>‘No,’ said Cosmo, ‘a man does not like to be questioned by another man -who has no particular right to interfere: for I don’t pretend not to -understand what you mean.’</p> - -<p>‘No: you can’t but understand what I mean. All of us, down about Mount, -take a great interest—there’s never a meeting in the county of any kind -but questions are always asked. As for my father, he is excited on the -subject. He cannot keep quiet. Will you tell me for his satisfaction and -my own, what is going to come of it? is anything going to come of it? I -think that, as old friends, and mixed up as I have been all through, I -have a right to inquire.’</p> - -<p>‘You mean,’ said Cosmo, coolly knocking a pipe upon the mantelpiece with -his back turned to the questioner, whose voice was broken with emotion, -and who was grasping the table nervously all the while he spoke—‘you -mean, is marriage going to come of it? at least, I suppose that is what -you mean.’</p> - -<p>The Curate replied by a sort of inarticulate gurgle in his throat, an -assent which excitement prevented from forming itself into words.</p> - -<p>‘Well!’ said the other. He took his time to everything he did, filled -the pipe aforesaid, lighted it with various long-drawn puffs, and -finally seated himself at the opposite side of the dark fireplace, over -which the candles on the mantelpiece threw an additional shadow. ‘Well! -it is no such simple matter as you seem to think.’</p> - -<p>‘I never said it was a simple matter; and yet when one thinks that there -are other men,’ cried the Curate, with momentary vehemence, ‘who would -give their heads——’</p> - -<p>Douglas replied to this outburst with a momen<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_367" id="page_367">{367}</a></span>tary laugh, which, if he -had but known it, as nearly gave him over to punishment as any foolish -step he ever took in his life. Fortunately for him it was very short, -and in reality more a laugh of excitement than of mirth.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, there’s more than one, is there?’ he said. ‘Look here, Charley, I -might refuse point-blank to answer your question. I should have a -perfect right. It is not the sort of thing that one man asks another in -a general way.’</p> - -<p>The Curate did not make any reply, and after a moment Douglas -continued—</p> - -<p>‘But I won’t. I understand your motives, if you don’t understand mine. -You think I am shilly-shallying, that I ought to fulfil my engagement, -that I am keeping Anne hanging on.’</p> - -<p>‘Don’t name any names,’ cried Ashley, hoarsely.</p> - -<p>‘I don’t know how I can give you an answer without naming names: but -I’ll try to please you. Look here, it is not such an easy matter, -plain-sailing and straightforward as you think. When I formed that -engagement I was—well, just what I am now—a poor devil of a barrister, -not long called, with very little money, and not much to do. But, then, -<i>she</i> was rich. Did you make a remark?’</p> - -<p>Charley had stirred unconsciously, with a movement of indignant fury, -which he was unable altogether to restrain. But he made no answer, and -Douglas continued with a quickened and somewhat excited tone—</p> - -<p>‘I hope you don’t suppose that I mean to say that had anything to do -with the engagement. Stop! yes, it had. I should not have ventured to -say a word about my feelings to a poor girl. I should have taken myself -off as soon as they became too much for me. I don’t hide the truth from -you, and I am not ashamed of it. To thrust myself and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_368" id="page_368">{368}</a></span> her into trouble -on my present income is what I never would have thought of. Well, you -know all that happened as well as I do. I entreated her not to be rash, -I begged her to throw me over, not so much as to think of me when her -father objected. She paid no attention. I don’t blame her——’</p> - -<p>‘Blame her!’</p> - -<p>‘Those were the words I used. I don’t blame her. She knew nothing about -poverty. She was not afraid of it: it was rather a sort of excitement to -her, as they say a revolution was to the French princesses. She laughed -at it, and defied her father. If you think I liked that, or encouraged -that, it is a mistake; but what could I do? And what am I to do now? Can -I bring her here, do you think? What can I do with her? I am not well -enough off to marry. I should never have dreamt of such a thing on my -own account. If you could show me a way out of it, I should be very -thankful. As for working one’s self into fame and fortune and all that -kind of thing, you know a little what mere romance it is. Some fellows -do it; but they don’t marry to begin with. I am almost glad you -interviewed me to get this all out. What am I to do? I know no more than -you can tell me. I have got the character of playing fast and loose, of -behaving badly to a girl whom I love and respect; for I do love and -respect her, mind you, whatever you and your belongings may think or -say.’</p> - -<p>‘You could not well help yourself, so far as I can see,’ said the Curate -hotly.</p> - -<p>‘That is all you know. If you were in my place and knew the false -position into which I have been brought, the expectations I have been -supposed to raise, the reluctance I have seemed to show in carrying them -out—by Jove! if you could only feel as I do all the miseries of my -<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_369" id="page_369">{369}</a></span>position, unable to stir a step one way or another——’</p> - -<p>‘I know men who would give their heads to stand in your position——’</p> - -<p>‘And what would they do in it?’ asked Douglas, pulling ineffectually at -the pipe, which had long gone out. ‘Say yourself, for example; you are -totally different—you have got your house and your settled income, and -you know what is before you.’</p> - -<p>‘I can’t discuss it in this way. Do you imagine that I have as much to -spend, to use your own argument,’ cried the Curate, ‘as you have here?’</p> - -<p>‘It is quite different,’ Douglas said. Then he added, with a sort of -dogged determination, ‘I am getting on. I think I am getting the ball at -my foot; but to marry at present would be destruction—and to her still -more than to me.’</p> - -<p>‘Then the short and the long is——’</p> - -<p>‘The short and the long is exactly what I have told you. You may tell -her yourself, if you please. Whatever love in a cottage may be, love in -chambers is impossible. With her fortune we could have married, and it -would have helped me on. Without it, such a thing would be madness, ruin -to me and to her too.’</p> - -<p>Charley rose up, stumbling to his feet. ‘This is all you have got to -say?’ he said.</p> - -<p>‘Yes, that is all I have got to say; and, to tell the truth, I think it -is wonderfully good of me to say it, and not to show you politely to the -door; but we are old friends, and you are her old friend——’</p> - -<p>‘Good-night, Douglas,’ the Curate said, abruptly. He did not offer his -friend his hand, but went out bewildered, stumbling down the stairs and -out at the door. This was what he had yielded up all his hopes (but he -never had any hopes) for! this was what Anne had selected out of the -world. He did not go back to his hotel, but took a long walk round and -round the parks in the dismal lamplight, seeing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_370" id="page_370">{370}</a></span> many a dismal scene. It -was almost morning when his brother, utterly surprised and alarmed, -heard him come in at last.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXX" id="CHAPTER_XXX"></a>CHAPTER XXX.<br /><br /> -<small>THE RECTOR SATISFIED.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">‘No</span>, I did not get any satisfaction; I can’t say that he gave me any -satisfaction,’ the Curate said.</p> - -<p>He had put down his pipe out of deference to his father, who had come -into the little den inhabited by Charley the morning after his return. -Mr. Ashley’s own study was a refined and comfortable place, as became -the study of a dignified clergyman; but his son had a little -three-cornered room, full of pipes and papers, the despair of every -housemaid that ever came into the house. Charley had felt himself more -than usually that morning in need of the solace that his pipe could -give. He had returned home late the evening before, and he had already -had great discussions with his brother Willie as to Rose Mountford, whom -Willie on a second interview had pronounced ‘just as nice as ever,’ but -whom the elder had begun to regard with absolute disgust. Willie had -gone off to Hunston to execute a commission which in reality was from -Anne, and which the Curate had thought might have been committed to -himself—to inquire into the resources of the ‘Black Bull,’ where old -Saymore had now for some time been landlord, and to find out whether the -whole party could be accommodated there. The Curate had lighted his pipe -when his brother went off on this mission. He wanted it, poor fellow! He -sat by the open window with a book upon the ledge, smoking out into the -garden; the view was limited, a hedgerow or two in the distance, -breaking the flatness of the fields, a big old walnut tree in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_371" id="page_371">{371}</a></span> front -shutting in one side, a clump of evergreens on the other. What he was -reading was only a railway novel picked up in mere listlessness; he -pitched it away into a large untidy waste-paper basket, and put down his -pipe when his father came in. The Rector had not been used in his youth -to such disorderly ways, and he did not like smoke.</p> - -<p>‘No, sir, no satisfaction; the reverse of that—and yet, perhaps, there -is something to be said too on his side,’ the Curate said.</p> - -<p>‘Something on his side! I don’t know what you mean,’ cried his father. -‘When I was a young fellow, to behave in this sort of way was disgrace -to an honourable man. That is to say, no honourable man would have been -guilty of it. Your word was your word, and at any cost it had to be -kept.’</p> - -<p>‘Father,’ said Charley with unusual energy, ‘it seems to me that the -most unbearable point of all this is—that you and I should venture to -talk of any fellow, confound him! keeping his word and behaving -honourably to—— That’s what I can’t put up with, for my part.’</p> - -<p>‘You are quite right,’ said the Rector, abashed for the moment. And then -he added, pettishly, ‘but what can we do? We must use the common words, -even though Anne is the subject. Charley, there is nobody so near a -brother to her as you are, nor a father as I.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, I suppose I’m like a brother,’ the Curate said with a sigh.</p> - -<p>‘Then tell me exactly what this fellow said.’</p> - -<p>Mr. Ashley was wound up for immediate action. Perhaps the increased -tedium of life since the departure of ‘the family’ from Mount had made -him more willing, now when it seemed to have come to a climax, for an -excitement of any kind.</p> - -<p>‘It isn’t what she has a right to,’ said the Curate,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_372" id="page_372">{372}</a></span> painfully -impartial when he had told his tale. ‘She—ought to be received like a -blessing wherever she goes. We know that better than anyone: but I don’t -say that Douglas doesn’t know it too——’</p> - -<p>‘Don’t let me hear the fellow’s name!’</p> - -<p>‘That’s very true, sir,’ said the Curate; ‘but, after all, when you come -to think of it! Perhaps, now-a-days, with all our artificial -arrangements, you know—— At least, that’s what people say. He’d be -bringing her to poverty to please himself. He’d be taking her out of her -own sphere. She doesn’t know what poverty means, that’s what he -says—and she laughs at it. How can he bring her into trouble which she -doesn’t understand—that’s what he says.’</p> - -<p>‘He’s a fool, and a coward, and an idiot, and perhaps a knave, for -anything I can tell!’ cried the Rector in distinct volleys. Then he -cried sharply with staccato distinctness, ‘I shall go to town to-night.’</p> - -<p>‘To town! to-night? I don’t see what <i>you</i> could do, sir!’ said the -Curate, slightly wounded, with an injured emphasis on the pronoun, as -much as to say, if <i>I</i> could not do anything, how should you? But the -Rector shook off this protest with a gesture of impatience, and went -away, leaving no further ground for remonstrance. It was a great -surprise to the village generally to hear that he was going away. Willie -Ashley heard of it before he could get back from Hunston; and Heathcote -Mountford in the depths of the library which, the only part of the house -he had interfered with, he was now busy transforming. ‘The Rector is -going to London!’ ‘It has something to do with Anne and her affairs, -take my word for it!’ cried Fanny Woodhead, who was so clear-sighted, -‘and high time that somebody should interfere!’</p> - -<p>The Rector got in very late, which, as everybody<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_373" id="page_373">{373}</a></span> knows, is the drawback -of that afternoon train. You get in so late that it is almost like a -night journey; and he was not so early next morning as was common to -him. There was no reason why he should be early. He sent a note to Anne -as soon as he was up to ask her to see him privately, and about eleven -o’clock sallied forth on his mission. Mr. Ashley had come to town not as -a peacemaker, but, as it were, with a sword of indignation in his hand. -He was half angry with the peaceful sunshine and the soft warmth of the -morning. It was not yet hot in the shady streets, and little carts of -flowers were being driven about, and all the vulgar sounds softened by -the genial air. London was out of town, and there was an air of grateful -languor about everything; few carriages about the street, but perpetual -cabs loaded with luggage—pleasure and health for those who were going -away, a little more room and rest for those who were remaining.</p> - -<p>But the Rector was not in a humour to see the best side of anything. He -marched along angrily, encouraging himself to be remorseless, not to -mind what Anne might say, but if she pleaded for her lover, if she clung -to the fellow, determining to have no mercy upon her. The best of women -were such fools in this respect. They would not be righted by their -friends; they would prefer to suffer, and defend a worthless fellow, so -to speak, to the last drop of their blood. But all the same, though the -Rector was so angry and so determined, he was also a little afraid. He -did not know how Anne would take his interference. She was not the sort -of girl whom the oldest friend could dictate to—to whom he could say, -‘Do this,’ with any confidence that she would do it. His breath came -quick and his heart beat now that the moment approached, but ‘There is -nobody so near a father to her as I am,’ he said to himself, and this -gave him courage. Anne<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_374" id="page_374">{374}</a></span> received him in a little sitting-room which was -reserved to herself. She was sitting there among her papers waiting for -him, and when he entered came forward quickly, holding out her hands, -with some anxiety in her face. ‘Something has happened?’ she said, she -too with a little catching of her breath.</p> - -<p>‘No—nothing, my dear, nothing to alarm you; I mean really nothing at -all, Anne—only I wanted to speak to you——’</p> - -<p>She put him into a comfortable chair, and drew her own close to him, -smiling, though still a little pale. ‘Then it is all pleasure,’ she -said, ‘if it is not to be pain. What a long time it is since I have seen -you! but we are going to Hunston, where we shall be quite within reach. -All the same you look anxious, dear Mr. Ashley—you were going to speak -to me——’</p> - -<p>‘About your own affairs, my dear child,’ he said.</p> - -<p>‘Ah!’ a flush came over her face, then she grew paler than before. ‘Now -I know why you look so anxious,’ she said, with a faint smile. ‘If it is -only about me, however, we will face it steadily, whatever it is——’</p> - -<p>‘Anne,’ cried the Rector, taking both her hands in his—‘Anne, my dear -child! I have loved you as if you had been my own all your life.’</p> - -<p>She thanked him with her eyes, in which there was the ghost of a -melancholy smile, but did not speak.</p> - -<p>‘And I can’t bear to see you slighted, my dear. You <i>are</i> slighted, -Anne, you whom we all think too good for a king. It has been growing -more and more intolerable to me as the months have gone by. I cannot -bear it, I cannot bear it any longer. I have come to say to yourself -that it is not possible, that it must not go on, that it cannot be.’</p> - -<p>Anne gave his hands which held hers a quick pressure. ‘Thank you,’ she -said, ‘dear Mr. Ashley,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_375" id="page_375">{375}</a></span> for coming to <i>me</i>. If you had gone to anyone -else I could not have borne it: but say whatever you will to me.’</p> - -<p>Then he got up, his excitement growing. ‘Anne, this man stands aloof. -Possessing your love, my dear, and your promise, he has—not claimed -either one or the other. He has let you go abroad, he has let you come -home, he is letting you leave London without coming to any decision or -taking the place he ought to take by your side. Anne, hear me out; you -have a difficult position, my dear; you have a great deal to do; it -would be an advantage to you to have someone to act for you, to stand by -you, to help you.’</p> - -<p>‘So far as that goes,’ she said with a pained smile—‘no: I don’t think -there is very much need of that.’</p> - -<p>‘Listen to me, my dear. Rose has her mother; she does not want your -personal care, so that is no excuse; and all that you have to do makes -it more expedient that you should have help and support. None of us but -would give you that help and support, oh! so gladly, Anne! But there is -one whom you have chosen, by means of whom it is that you are in this -position—and he holds back. He does not rush to your side imprudently, -impatiently, as he ought. What sort of a man is it that thinks of -prudence in such circumstances? He lets you stand alone and work alone: -and he is letting you go away, leave the place where he is, without -settling your future, without coming to any conclusion—without even a -time indicated. Oh, I have no patience with it—I cannot away with it!’ -said the Rector, throwing up his arms, ‘it is more than I can put up -with. And that you should be subjected to this, Anne!’</p> - -<p>Perhaps she had never been subjected to so hard an ordeal as now. She -sat with her hands tightly<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_376" id="page_376">{376}</a></span> clasped on the table, her lips painfully -smiling, a dark dew of pain in her eyes—hearing her own humiliation, -her downfall from the heights of worship and service where she had been -placed all her life by those who loved her, recounted like a well-known -history. She thought it had been all secret to herself, that nobody had -known of the wondering discoveries, the bitter findings out, the -confusion of all her ideas, as one thing after another became clear to -her. It was not all clear to her yet; she had found out some things, but -not all. And that all should be clear as daylight to others, to the -friends whom she had hoped knew nothing about it! this knowledge -transfixed Anne like a sword. Fiery arrows had struck into her before, -winged and blazing, but now it was all one great burning scorching -wound. She held her hands clasped tight to keep herself still. She would -not writhe at least upon the sword that was through her, she said to -herself, and upon her mouth there was the little contortion of a smile. -Was it to try and make it credible that she did not believe what he was -saying, or that she did not feel it, that she kept that smile?—or had -it got frozen upon her lips so that the ghost could not pass away?</p> - -<p>When he stopped at last, half frightened by his own vehemence, and -alarmed at her calm, Anne was some time without making any reply. At -last she said, speaking with some difficulty, her lips being dry: ‘Mr. -Ashley, some of what you say is true.’</p> - -<p>‘Some—oh, my dear, my dear, it is all true—don’t lay that flattering -unction to your soul. Once you have looked at it calmly, -dispassionately——’</p> - -<p>Here Anne broke forth into a little laugh, which made Mr. Ashley hold -out his hands in eager deprecation, ‘Oh, don’t, my darling, don’t, -don’t!’</p> - -<p>‘No,’ she said, ‘no, no—I will not laugh—that would be too much. Am I -so dispassionate, do you<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_377" id="page_377">{377}</a></span> think? Able to judge calmly, though the case -is my own——’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, Anne,’ cried the old Rector; his feelings were too much for -him—he broke down and sobbed like a woman. ‘Yes, my beautiful Anne, my -dearest child! you are capable of it—you are capable of everything that -is heroic. Would I have ventured to come to you but for that? You are -capable of everything, my dear.’</p> - -<p>Anne waited a little longer, quite silently, holding her hands clasped -tight. One thing she was not capable of, and that was to stand up. -Whatever else she might be able to do, she could not do that. She said -under her breath, ‘Wait for a moment,’ and then, when she had got -command of herself, rose slowly and went to the table on which her -papers were. There she hesitated, taking a letter out of the -blotting-book—but after a moment’s pause brought it to him. ‘I did not -think I should ever show—a letter—to a third person,’ she said with -confused utterance. Then she went back to her table, and sat down and -began to move with her hands among the papers, taking up one and laying -down another. The Rector threw himself into the nearest chair and began -to read.</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>‘Dear Cosmo,—You will think it strange to get a long letter from -me, when we met this morning; and yet, perhaps, you will not think -it strange—you will know.</p> - -<p>‘In the first place let me say that there are a great many things -which it will not be needful to put on paper, which you and I will -understand without words. We understand—that things have not been -lately as they were some time ago. It is nobody’s fault; things -change—that is all about it. One does not always feel the same, -and we must be thankful that there is no absolute necessity that -we<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_378" id="page_378">{378}</a></span> should feel the same; we have still the full freedom of our -lives, both I and you.</p> - -<p>‘This being the case, I think I should say to you that it seems to -me we have made a mistake. You would naturally have a delicacy in -saying it, but women have a privilege in this respect, and -therefore I can take the initiative. We were too hasty, I fear; or -else there were circumstances existing then which do not exist now, -and which made the bond between us more practicable, more easily to -be realised. This is where it fails now. It may be just the same in -idea, but it has ceased to be possible to bring anything -practicable out of it; the effort would involve much, more than we -are willing to give, perhaps more—I speak brutally, as the French -say—than it is worth.</p> - -<p>‘In these uncertainties I put it to you whether it would not be -better for us in great friendship and regret to shake hands -and—part? It is not a pleasant word, but there are things which -are much less pleasant than any word can be, and those we must -avoid at all hazards. I do not think that your present life and my -present life could amalgamate anyhow—could they? And the future is -so hazy, so doubtful, with so little in it that we can rely -upon—the possibilities might alter, in our favour, or against us, -but no one can tell, and most probably any change would be -disadvantageous. On the other hand, your life, as at present -arranged, suits you very well, and my life suits me. There seems no -reason why we should make ourselves uncomfortable, is there? by -continuing, at the cost of much inconvenience, to contemplate -changes which we do not very much desire, and which would be a very -doubtful advantage if they were made.</p> - -<p>‘This being the case—and I think, however unwilling you may be to -admit it, to start with, that if you ask yourself deep down in the -depths of your<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_379" id="page_379">{379}</a></span> heart, you will find that the same doubts and -questions, which have been agitating my mind, have been in yours, -too—and that there is only one answer to them—don’t you think my -suggestion is the best? Probably it will not be pleasant to either -of us. There will be the talk and the wonderings of our friends, -but what do these matter?—and what is far worse, a great crying -out of our own recollections and imaginations against such a -severance—but these, <i>I feel sure</i>, lie all on the surface, and if -we are brave and decide upon it at once, will last as short a time -as—most other feelings last in this world.</p> - -<p>‘If you agree with me, send me just three words to say so—or six, -or indeed any number of words—but don’t let us enter into -explanations. Without anything more said, we both understand.</p> - -<p class="c"> -‘Your true friend in all circumstances,<br /> -</p> - -<p class="r"> -‘<span class="smcap">Anne</span>.’<br /> -</p></div> - -<p>There are some names which are regal in their mere simplicity of a few -letters. This signature seemed like Anne Princess, or Anne Queen to the -eyes of the old man who read it. He sat with the letter in his hands for -some time after he had read to the end, not able to trust his voice or -even his old eyes by any sudden movement. The writer all this time sat -at her table moving about the papers. Some of the business letters which -were lying there she read over. One little note she wrote a confused -reply to, which had to be torn up afterwards. She waited—but not with -any tremor—with a still sort of aching deep down in her heart, which -seemed to answer instead of beating. How is it that there is so often -actual pain and heaviness where the heart lies, to justify all our -metaphorical references to it? The brain does not ache when our hearts -are sore; and yet, they say our brains are all we have to feel with. Why -should it be so true, so true, to say<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_380" id="page_380">{380}</a></span> that one’s heart is heavy? Anne -asked herself this question vaguely as she sat so quietly moving about -her papers. Her head was as clear as yours or mine, but her -heart—which, poor thing, means nothing but a bit of hydraulic -machinery, and was pumping away just as usual—lay heavy in her bosom -like a lump of lead.</p> - -<p>‘My dear child, my dear child!’ the old Rector said at length, rising up -hastily and stumbling towards her, his eyes dim with tears, not seeing -his way. The circumstances were far too serious for his usual -exclamation of ‘God bless my soul!’ which, being such a good wish, was -more cheerful than the occasion required.</p> - -<p>‘Do you think that is sufficient?’ said Anne, with a faint smile. ‘You -see I am not ignorant of the foundations. Do you think that will do?’</p> - -<p>‘My dear, my dear!’ Mr. Ashley said. He did not seem capable of saying -any more.</p> - -<p>With that Anne, feeling very like a woman at the stake—as if she were -tied to her chair, at least, and found the ropes, though they cut her, -some support—took the letter out of his hand and put it into an -envelope, and directed it very steadily to ‘Cosmo Douglas, Esq., Middle -Temple.’ ‘There, that is over,’ she said. The ropes were cutting, but -certainly they were a support. The papers before her were all mixed up -and swimming about, but yet she could see the envelope—four-square—an -accomplished thing, settled and done with; as perhaps she thought her -life too also was.</p> - -<p>‘Anne,’ said the old Rector, in his trembling voice, ‘my dear! I know -one far more worthy of you, who would give all the world to know that he -might hope——’</p> - -<p>She put out one hand and pushed herself away from the table. The -giddiness went off, and the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_381" id="page_381">{381}</a></span> paper again became perceptible before her. -‘You don’t suppose that I—want anything to do with any man?’ she said, -with an indignant break in her voice.</p> - -<p>‘No, my dear; of course you do not. It would not be in nature if you did -not scorn and turn from—— But, Anne,’ said the old Rector, ‘life will -go on, do what you will to stand still. You cannot stand still, whatever -you do. You will have to walk the same path as those that have gone -before you. You need never marry at all, you will say. But after a -while, when time has had its usual effect, and your grief is calmed and -your mind matured, you will do like others that have gone before you. Do -not scorn what I say. You are only twenty-two when all is done, and life -is long, and the path is very dreary when you walk by yourself and there -is no one with you on the way.’</p> - -<p>Anne did not say anything. It was her policy and her safety not to say -anything. She had come to herself. But the past time had been one of -great struggle and trial, and she was worn out by it. After a while Mr. -Ashley came to see that the words of wisdom he was speaking fell upon -deaf ears. He talked a great deal, and there was much wisdom and -experience and the soundest good sense in what he said, only it dropped -half-way, as it were, on the wing, on the way to her, and never got to -Anne.</p> - -<p>He went away much subdued, just as a servant from the hotel came to get -the letters for the post. Then the Rector left Anne, and went to the -other part of the house to pay his respects to the other ladies. They -had been out all the morning, and now had come back to luncheon.</p> - -<p>‘Mr. Douglas is always so good,’ Mrs. Mountford said. ‘Fortunately it is -the long vacation; but I suppose you know that; and he can give us -almost all his time, which is so good of him. It was only<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_382" id="page_382">{382}</a></span> the -afternoons in the winter that we could have. And he tells Rose -everything. I tell her Mr. Douglas is more use to her than any governess -she ever had.’</p> - -<p>‘Is Anne never of your parties?’ the Rector said.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, Anne! she is always busy about something, or else she says she is -busy. I am sure she need not shut herself up as she does. I wish you -would speak to her. You are an old friend, and always had a great -influence over Anne. She is getting really morose—quite morose—if you -will take my opinion,’ said Mrs. Mountford. Rose was almost as emphatic. -‘I don’t know what she has against me. I cannot seal myself up as she -does, can I, Mr. Ashley? No, she will never come with us. It is so -tiresome; but I suppose when we are in the country, which she is always -so fond of, that things will change.’</p> - -<p>Just then Anne came into the room softly, in her usual guise. Mr. Ashley -looked at her half in alarm. She had managed to dismiss from her voice -and manner every vestige of agitation. What practice she must have had, -the Rector said to himself, to be able to do it.</p> - -<p>‘I hope you have had a pleasant morning,’ she said. She did not avoid -Cosmo, but gave him her hand as simply as to the rest. She addressed him -little, but still did not hesitate to address him, and once the Rector -perceived her looking at him unawares with eyes full of the deepest -compassion. Why was she so pitiful? Cosmo did not seem to like the look. -He was wistful and anxious. Already there was something, a warning of -evil, in the air.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_383" id="page_383">{383}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXI" id="CHAPTER_XXXI"></a>CHAPTER XXXI.<br /><br /> -<small>FALLEN FROM HER HIGH ESTATE.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> ‘Black Bull’ at Hunston is one of those old inns which have been -superseded, wherever it is practicable, by new ones, and which are in -consequence eagerly resorted to by enlightened persons, wherever they -are to be found; but there was nobody in Hunston, beyond the ordinary -little countrytown visitors, to appreciate its comfortable old rooms, -old furniture, and old ways. When there was a county ball, the county -people who had daughters engaged rooms in it occasionally, and the -officers coming from Scarlett-town filled up all the corners. But county -balls were rare occurrences, and there had not been yet under the -<i>régime</i> of old Saymore a single instance of exceptional gaiety or -fulness. So that, though it was highly respectable, and the position of -landlord one of ease and dignity, the profits had been as yet limited. -Saymore himself, however, in the spotless perfection of costume which he -had so long kept up at Mount, and with his turn for artistic -arrangements, and general humble following of the ‘fads’ of his young -ladies, was in himself a model of a master for a Queen Anne house -(though not in the least what the prototype of that character would have -been), and was in a fair way to make his house everything which a house -of that period ought to be. And though Keziah, in the most fashionable -of nineteenth-century dresses, was a decided anachronism, yet her little -face was pleasant to the travellers arriving hot and dusty on an August -evening, and finding in those two well-known figures a something of home -which went to their hearts. To see Saymore at the carriage door made -Mrs. Mountford put her handkerchief to her eyes, a practice which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_384" id="page_384">{384}</a></span> she -had given up for at least six months past. And, to compare small things -with great, when Keziah showed them to their rooms, notwithstanding the -pride of proprietorship with which she led the way, the sight of Anne -and Rose had a still greater effect upon little Mrs. Saymore; Rose -especially, in her Paris dress, with a waist like nothing at -all—whereas to see Keziah, such a figure! She cried, then dried her -tears, and recollected the proud advances in experience and dignity she -had made, and her responsibilities as head of a house, and all her plate -and linen, and her hopes: so much had she gone through, while with them -everything was just the same: thus pride on one side in her own second -chapter of life, and envy on the other of the freedom of their untouched -lives produced a great commotion in her. ‘Mr. Saymore and me, we thought -this would be the nicest for Miss Anne, and I put you here, Miss Rose, -next to your mamma. Oh, yes, I am very comfortable. I have everything as -I wish for. Mr. Saymore don’t deny me nothing—he’d buy me twice as many -things as I want, if I’d let him. How nice you look, Miss Rose, just the -same, only nicer; and such style! Is that the last fashion? It makes her -look just nothing at all, don’t it, Miss Anne? Oh, when we was all at -Mount, how we’d have copied it, and twisted it, and changed it to look -something the same, and not the least the same—but I’ve got to dress up -to forty and look as old as I can now.’</p> - -<p>Saymore came into the sitting-room after them with his best bow, and -that noiseless step, and those ingratiating manners which had made him -the best of butlers. ‘I have nothing to find fault with, ma’am,’ he -said. ‘I’ve been very well received, very well received. Gentlemen as -remembered me at Mount has been very kind. Mr. Loseby, he has many a -little luncheon here. “I’ll not bother my<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_385" id="page_385">{385}</a></span> old housekeeper,” he says, -when he has gentlemen come sudden. “I’ll just step over to my old friend -Saymore. Saymore knows how to send up a nice little lunch, and he knows -a good glass of wine when he sees it.” That’s exactly what Mr. Loseby -said, no more than three days ago. But business is quiet,’ Saymore -added. ‘I don’t complain, but things is quiet; we’d be the better, -ma’am, of a little more stir here.’</p> - -<p>‘But I hope you find everything comfortable—at home, Saymore?’ said his -former mistress. ‘You know I always told you it was an experiment. I -hope you find everything comfortable at home.’</p> - -<p>‘Meaning Mrs. Saymore, ma’am?’ replied the landlord of the ‘Black Bull,’ -with dignity. ‘I’m very glad to say as she have given me and everybody -great satisfaction. She is young, but that is a fault, as I made so bold -as to observe to you, ma’am, on a previous occasion, a fault as is sure -to mend. I’ve never repented what I did when I married. She’s as nice as -possible downstairs, but never too nice—giving herself no airs: but -keeping her own place. She’s given me every satisfaction,’ said Saymore, -with much solemnity. In the meantime Keziah was giving her report on the -other side of the question, upstairs.</p> - -<p>‘No, Miss Anne. I can’t say as I’ve repented. Oh, no, I’ve never -repented. Mr. Saymore is very much respected in Hunston—and there’s -never a day that he don’t bring me something, a ribbon or a new collar, -or a story book if he can’t think of nothing else. It <i>was</i> a little -disappointing when mother was found not to do in the kitchen. You see, -Miss Anne, we want the best of cooking when strangers come, and mother, -she was old-fashioned. She’s never forgiven me, though it wasn’t my -fault. And Tommy, he was too mischievous for a waiter. We gave him a -good long try, but Mr. Saymore was<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_386" id="page_386">{386}</a></span> obliged at last to send him away. -Mother says she don’t see what it’s done for her, more than if I had -stayed at Mount—but I’m very comfortable myself, Miss Anne,’ said -Keziah, with a curtsey and a tear.</p> - -<p>‘I am very glad to hear it: and I hope you’ll be still happier -by-and-by,’ said Anne, retiring to the room which was to be hers, and -which opened from the little sitting-room in which they were standing. -Rose remained behind for further talk and gossip. And when all the news -was told Keziah returned to her admiration of the fashion of Rose’s -gown.</p> - -<p>‘Are they all made like that now, in Paris? Oh, dear, I always thought -when you went to France I’d go too. I always thought of Paris. But it -wasn’t to be.’</p> - -<p>‘You see, Keziah, you liked Saymore best,’ said Rose, fixing her -mischievous eyes upon Keziah’s face, who smiled a little sheepish smile, -and made a little half-pathetic appeal with her eyes, but did not disown -the suggestion, which flattered her vanity if not her affection.</p> - -<p>‘You are as blooming as a rose, Miss—as you always was,’ said Keziah, -‘but what’s Miss Anne been a-doing to herself? She’s like a white marble -image in a church; I never saw her that pale.’</p> - -<p>‘Hush!’ cried Rose, in a whisper, pointing to the door behind them, by -which Anne had disappeared; and then she came close to the questioner, -with much pantomime and mystery. ‘Don’t say a word. Keziah. It is all -broken off. She has thrown the gentleman over. Hush, for heaven’s sake, -don’t say a word!’</p> - -<p>‘You don’t mean it, Miss Rose. Broken off! Mr. Dou——’</p> - -<p>Rose put her hand on the little landlady’s mouth. ‘She must not hear we -are talking of her. She would never forgive me. And besides, I don’t -know—it is only a guess; but I am quite, quite sure.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_387" id="page_387">{387}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>Keziah threw up her hands and her eyes. ‘All broken off—thrown the -gentleman over! Is there someone else?’ she whispered, trembling, -thinking with mingled trouble and complacency of her own experiences in -this kind, and of her unquestioned superiority nowadays to the lover -whom she had thrown over—the unfortunate Jim.</p> - -<p>‘No, no, no,’ said Rose, making her mouth into a circle, and shaking her -head. No other! No richer, better, more desirable lover! This was a -thing that Keziah did not understand. Her face grew pale with wonder, -even with awe. To jilt a gentleman for your own advancement in life, -that might be comprehensible—but to do it to your own damage, and have -cheeks like snowflakes in consequence—that was a thing she could not -make out. It made her own position, with which she was already -satisfied, feel twice as advantageous and comfortable; even though her -marriage had not turned out so well for mother and the boys as Keziah -had once hoped.</p> - -<p>Mr. Loseby came across the street, humming a little tune, to join them -at dinner. He was shining from top to toe in his newest black suit, all -shining, from his little varnished shoes to his bald head, and with the -lights reflected in his spectacles. It was a great day for the lawyer, -who was fond of both the girls, and who had an indulgent amity, mingled -with contempt, for Mrs. Mountford herself, such as men so often -entertain for their friends’ wives. He was triumphant in their arrival, -besides, and very anxious to secure that they should return to the -neighbourhood and settle among their old friends. He, too, however, -after his first greetings were over, was checked in his rejoicings by -the paleness of his favourite. ‘What have you been doing to Anne?’ were, -after his salutations, the first words he said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_388" id="page_388">{388}</a></span></p> - -<p>‘If anything has been done to her, it is her own doing,’ said Mrs. -Mountford, with a little indignation.</p> - -<p>‘Nothing has been done to me,’ said Anne, with a smile. ‘I hear that I -am pale, though I don’t notice it. It is all your letters, Mr. Loseby, -and the business you give me. I have to let mamma and Rose go to their -dissipations by themselves.’</p> - -<p>‘Our dissipations! You do not suppose I have had spirits for much -dissipation,’ said Mrs. Mountford, now fully reminded of her position as -a widow, and with her usual high sense of duty, determined to live up to -it. She pressed her handkerchief upon her eyelids once more, after the -fashion she had dropped. ‘But it is true that I have tried to go out a -little,’ she added, ‘more than I should have done at home—for Rose’s -sake.’</p> - -<p>‘You were quite right,’ said the lawyer; ‘the young ones cannot feel as -we do, they cannot be expected to go on in our groove. And Rose is -blooming like her name. But I don’t like the looks of Anne. Have I been -giving you so much business to do? But then, you see, I expected that -you would have Mr. Douglas close at hand, to help you. Indeed, my only -wonder was——’</p> - -<p>Here Mr. Loseby broke off, and had a fit of coughing, in which the rest -of the words were lost. He had surprised a little stir in the party, a -furtive interchange of looks between Mrs. Mountford and Rose. And this -roused the alarm of the sympathetic friend of the family, who, indeed, -had wondered much—as he had begun to say—</p> - -<p>‘No,’ said Anne, with a smile, ‘you know I was always a person of -independent mind. I always liked to do my work myself. Besides, Mr. -Douglas has his own occupations, and the chief part of the time we have -been away.’</p> - -<p>‘To be sure,’ said Mr. Loseby. He was much<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_389" id="page_389">{389}</a></span> startled by the -consciousness which seemed to pervade the party, though nothing more was -said. Mrs. Mountford became engrossed with her dress, which had caught -in something; and Rose, though generally very determined in her -curiosity, watched Anne, the spectator perceived, from under her -eyelids. Mr. Loseby took no notice externally. ‘That’s how it always -happens,’ he said cheerfully; ‘with the best will in the world we always -find that our own business is as much as we can get through. I have -found out that to my humiliation a hundred times in my life.’</p> - -<p>‘These questions about the leases are the most difficult,’ said Anne, -steadily. ‘I suppose the old tenants are not always the best.’</p> - -<p>‘My dear, I hope in these bad times we may get tenants at all, old or -new,’ said the old lawyer. And then he plunged into the distresses of -the country, the complaints of the farmers, the troubles of the -labourers, the still greater trials of the landlord. ‘Your cousin -Heathcote has made I don’t know how much reduction. I am not at all sure -that he is right. It is a dreadfully bad precedent for other landlords. -And for himself he simply can’t afford it. But I cannot get him to hear -reason. “What does it matter to me?” he says, “I have always enough to -live on, and those that till the land have the best right to any -advantage they can get out of it.” What can you say to a man that thinks -like that? I tell him he is a fool for his pains; but it is I who am a -fool for mine, for he takes no notice though I talk myself hoarse.’</p> - -<p>‘Indeed, I think it is very unjustifiable conduct,’ said Mrs. Mountford. -‘He should think of those who are to come after him. A man has no right -to act in that way as if he stood by himself. He ought to marry and -settle down. I am sure I hope he will have heirs of his own, and not -leave<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_390" id="page_390">{390}</a></span> the succession to that horrid little Edward. To think of a -creature like that in Mount would be more than I could bear.’</p> - -<p>‘I doubt if Heathcote will ever marry; not unless he gets the one -woman—— But we don’t all get <i>that</i> even when we are most lucky,’ said -the old lawyer, briskly. ‘He is crotchety, crotchety, full of his own -ideas: but a fine fellow all the same.’</p> - -<p>‘Does he want to marry more than one woman?’ cried Rose, opening great -eyes, ‘and you talk of it quite coolly, as if it was not anything very -dreadful; but of course he can’t, he would be hanged or something. -Edward is not so bad as mamma says. He is silly; but, then, they are -mostly silly.’ She had begun to feel that she was a person of -experience, and justified in letting loose her opinion. All this time it -seemed to Mr. Loseby that Anne was going through her part like a woman -on the stage. She was very quiet; but she seemed to insist with herself -upon noticing everything, listening to all that was said, giving her -assent or objection. In former times she had not been at all so -particular, but let the others chatter with a gentle indifference to -what they were saying. She seemed to attend to everything, the table, -and the minutiae of the dinner, letting nothing escape her to-night.</p> - -<p>‘I think Heathcote is right,’ she said; ‘Edward will not live to succeed -him; and, if he does not marry, why should he save money, and pinch -others now, on behalf of a future that may never come? What happens if -there is no heir to an entail? Could not it all be eaten up, all -consumed, re-absorbed into the country, as it were, by the one who is -last?’</p> - -<p>‘Nonsense, Anne. He has no right to be the last. No one has any right to -be the last. To let an old family die down,’ cried Mrs. Mountford, ‘it -is a disgrace. What would dear papa have said?<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_391" id="page_391">{391}</a></span> When I remember what a -life they all led me because I did not have a boy—as if it had been my -fault! I am sure if all the hair off my head, or everything I cared for -in my wardrobe, or anything in the world I had, could have made Rose a -boy, I would have sacrificed it. I must say that if Heathcote does not -marry I shall think I have been very badly used: though, indeed, his -might all be girls too,’ she added, half hopefully, half distressed. -‘Anyhow, the trial ought to be made.’ Notwithstanding the danger to the -estate, it would have been a little consolation to Mrs. Mountford if -Heathcote on marrying had been found incapable, he also, of procuring -anything more than girls from Fate.</p> - -<p>‘When an heir of entail fails——’ Mr. Loseby began, not unwilling to -expound a point on which he was an authority; but Rose broke in and -interrupted him, never having had any wholesome fear of her seniors -before her eyes. Rose wanted to know what was going to be done now they -were here, if they were to stay all the autumn in the ‘Black Bull;’ if -they were to take a house anywhere; and generally what they were to do. -This gave Mr. Loseby occasion to produce his scheme. There was an old -house upon the property which had not been entailed, which Mr. Mountford -had bought with his first wife’s money, and which was now the -inheritance of Rose. It had been suffered to fall out of repair, but it -was still an inhabitable house. ‘You know it, Anne,’ the lawyer said; -‘it would be an amusement to you all to put it in order. A great deal -could be done in a week or two. I am told there is no amusement like -furnishing, and you might make a pretty place of it.’ The idea, however, -was not taken up with very much enthusiasm.</p> - -<p>‘In all probability,’ Mrs. Mountford said, ‘we shall go abroad again for -the winter. The girls like<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_392" id="page_392">{392}</a></span> it, and it is very pleasant, when one can, -to escape from the cold.’</p> - -<p>The discussion of this subject filled the rest of the evening. Mr. -Loseby was very anxious on his side. He declared that it did not bind -them to anything; that to have a house, a <i>pied-à-terre</i>, ‘even were it -only to put on your cards,’ was always an advantage. After much argument -it was decided at last that the house at Lilford, an old Dower-house, -and bearing that picturesque name, should be looked at before any -conclusion was come to; and with this Mr. Loseby took his leave. Anne -had taken her full share in the discussion. She had shown all the energy -that her <i>rôle</i> required. She had put in suggestions of practical weight -with a leaning to the Dower-house, and had even expressed a little -enthusiasm about that last popular plaything—a house to furnish—which -nowadays has become the pleasantest of pastimes. ‘It shall be Morris-ey, -but not too Morris-ey,’ she had said, with a smile, still in perfect -fulfilment of her <i>rôle</i>. But to see Anne playing at being Anne had a -wonderful effect upon her old friend. Her stepmother and sister, being -with her perpetually, did not perhaps so readily suspect the fine -histrionic effort that was going on by their side. It was a fine -performance; but such a performance is apt to make the enlightened -beholder’s heart ache. When he had taken his leave of the other -ladies—early, as they were tired, or supposed it right to be tired, -with their journey—Anne followed Mr. Loseby out of the room. She asked -him to come into another close by. ‘I have something to say to you,’ she -said, with a faint smile. Mr. Loseby, like the old Rector, was very fond -of Anne. He had seen her grow up from her infancy. He had played with -her when she was a child, and carried her sugar-plums in his coat -pockets. And he had no children of his own to distract his attention -from his favourite. It troubled<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_393" id="page_393">{393}</a></span> him sadly to see signs of trouble about -this young creature whom he loved.</p> - -<p>‘What is it, Anne? What is it, my dear? Something has happened?’ he -said.</p> - -<p>‘No, nothing of consequence. That is not true,’ she said, hurriedly; ‘it -is something, and something of consequence. I have not said anything -about it to them. They suspect, that is all; and it does not matter to -them; but I want to tell you. Mr. Loseby, you were talking to-night of -Mr. Douglas. It is about Mr. Douglas I want to speak to you.’</p> - -<p>He looked at her very anxiously, taking her hand into his. ‘Are you -going to be married?’</p> - -<p>Anne laughed. She was playing Anne more than ever; but, on the whole, -very successfully. ‘Oh no,’ she said, ‘quite the reverse——’</p> - -<p>‘Anne! do you mean that he has—that you have—that it is broken off?’</p> - -<p>‘The last form is the best,’ she said. ‘It is all a little confused just -yet. I can’t tell if he has, or if I have. But yes—I must do him -justice: it is certainly not his doing. I am wholly responsible myself. -It has come to an end.’</p> - -<p>She looked into his face wistfully, evidently fearing what he would say, -deprecating, entreating. If only nothing might be said! And Mr. Loseby -was confounded. He had not been kept up like the others to the course of -affairs.</p> - -<p>‘Anne, you strike me dumb. You take away my breath. What! he whom you -have sacrificed everything for: he who has cost you all you have in the -world? If it is a caprice, my dear girl, it is a caprice utterly -incomprehensible; a caprice I cannot understand.’</p> - -<p>‘That is exactly how to call it,’ she said, eagerly: ‘a caprice, an -unpardonable caprice. If Rose had done it, I should have whipped her, I -believe; but it is I, the serious Anne, the sensible one, that have<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_394" id="page_394">{394}</a></span> -done it. This is all there is to say. I found myself out, fortunately, -before it was too late. And I wanted you to know.’</p> - -<p>In this speech her powers almost failed her. She forgot her part. She -played not Anne, but someone else, some perfectly artificial character, -which her audience was not acquainted with, and Mr. Loseby was startled. -He pushed away his spectacles, and contracted his brows, and looked at -her with his keen, short-sighted eyes, which, when they could see -anything, saw very clearly. But with all his gazing he could not make -the mystery out. She faced him now, after that one little failure, with -Anne’s very look and tone, a slight, fugitive, somewhat tremulous smile -about her mouth, her eyes wistful, deprecating blame; but always very -pale: that was the worst of it, that was the thing least like herself.</p> - -<p>‘After losing,’ said the lawyer slowly, ‘everything you had in the world -for his sake.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes,’ Anne said, with desperate composure, ‘it is ridiculous, is it -not? Perhaps it was a little to have my own way, Mr. Loseby. Nobody can -tell how subtle one’s mind is till one has been tried. My father defied -me, and I suppose I would not give in; I was very obstinate. It is -inconceivable what a girl will do. And then we are all obstinate, we -Mountfords. I have heard you say so a hundred times; pig-headed, was not -that the word you used?’</p> - -<p>‘Most probably it was the word I used. Oh, yes, I know you are -obstinate. Your father was like an old mule; but you, you—I declare to -you I do not understand it, Anne.’</p> - -<p>‘Nor do I myself,’ she said, with another small laugh, a very small -laugh, for Anne’s strength was going. ‘Can anyone understand what -another does, or even what they do themselves? But it is so; that is all -that there is to say.’</p> - -<p>Mr. Loseby walked about the room in his dis<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_395" id="page_395">{395}</a></span>tress. He thrust up his -spectacles till they formed two gleaming globes on the shining firmament -of his baldness. Sometimes he thrust his hands behind him under his coat -tails, sometimes clasped them in front of him, wringing their plump -joints. ‘Sacrificed everything for it,’ he said, ‘made yourself a -beggar! and now to go and throw it all up. Oh, I can’t understand it, I -can’t understand it! there’s more in this than meets the eye.’</p> - -<p>Anne did not speak—truth to tell, she could not—she was past all -histrionic effort. She propped herself up against the arm of the sofa, -close to which she was standing, and endured, there being nothing more -that she could do.</p> - -<p>‘Why—why,’ cried Mr. Loseby, ‘child, couldn’t you have known your own -mind? A fine property! It was bad enough, however you chose to look at -it, but at least one thought there was something to set off against the -loss; now it’s all loss, no compensation at all. It’s enough to bring -your father back from his grave. And I wish there was something that -would,’ said the little lawyer vehemently; ‘I only wish there was -something that would. Shouldn’t I have that idiotical will changed as -fast as pen could go to paper! Why, there’s no reason for it now, -there’s no excuse for it. Oh, don’t speak to me, I can’t contain myself! -I tell you what, Anne,’ he cried, turning upon her, seizing one of the -hands with which she was propping herself up, and wringing it in his -own, ‘there’s one thing you can do, and only one thing, to make me -forgive you all the trouble you have brought upon yourself; and that is -to marry, straight off, your cousin, Heathcote Mountford, the best -fellow that ever breathed.’</p> - -<p>‘I am afraid,’ said Anne faintly, ‘I cannot gratify you in that, Mr. -Loseby.’ She dropped away from him and from her support, and sank upon -the first chair. Fortunately he was so much excited<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_396" id="page_396">{396}</a></span> himself, that he -failed to give the same attention to her looks.</p> - -<p>‘That would make up for much,’ he said; ‘that would cover a multitude of -sins.’</p> - -<p>Anne scarcely knew when he went away, but he did leave her at last -seated there, not venturing to move. The room was swimming about her, -dark, bare, half lighted, with its old painted walls. The prints hung -upon them seemed to be moving round her, as if they were the decorations -of a cabin at sea. She had got through her crisis very stoutly, without, -she thought, betraying herself to anybody. She said to herself vaguely, -always with a half-smile, as being her own spectator, and more or less -interested in the manner in which she acquitted herself, that every -spasm would probably be a little less violent, as she had heard was the -case in fevers. And, on the whole, the spasm like this, which prostrated -her entirely, and left her blind and dumb for a minute or two to come to -herself by degrees, was less wearing than the interval of dead calm and -pain that came between. This it was that took the blood from her cheeks. -She sat still for a few minutes in the old-fashioned arm-chair, held up -by its hard yet comforting support, with her back turned to the table -and her face to the half-open door. The very meaninglessness of her -position, thus reversed from all use and wont, gave a forlorn -completeness to her desolation—turned away from the table, turned away -from everything that was convenient and natural; her fortune given away -for the sake of her love, her love sacrificed for no reason at all, the -heavens and the earth all misplaced and turning round. When Anne came to -herself the half-smile was still upon her lip with which she had been -regarding herself, cast off on all sides, without compensation—losing -everything. Fate seemed to stand opposite to her, and the world and -life, in which, so far as appearance<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_397" id="page_397">{397}</a></span> went, she had made such shipwreck. -She raised herself up a little in her chair and confronted them all. -Whatever they might do, she would not be crushed, she would not be -destroyed. The smile came more strongly to the curves of her mouth, -losing its pitiful droop. Looking at herself again, it was ludicrous; no -wonder Mr. Loseby was confounded. Ludicrous—that was the only word. To -sacrifice everything for one thing: to have stood against the world, -against her father, against everybody, for Cosmo: and then by-and-by to -be softly detached from Cosmo, by Cosmo himself, and allowed to drift, -having lost everything, having nothing. Ludicrous—that was what it was. -She gave a little laugh in the pang of revival. A touch with a redhot -iron might be as good as anything to stimulate failing forces and string -loose nerves. Ice does it—a plunge into an icy stream. Thus she mused, -getting confused in her thoughts. In the meantime Rose and Mrs. -Mountford were whispering with grave faces. ‘Is it a quarrel, or is it -for good? I hope you hadn’t anything to do with it,’ said the mother, -much troubled. ‘How should I have anything to do with it?’ said innocent -Rose; ‘but, all the same, I am sure it is for good.’</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXII" id="CHAPTER_XXXII"></a>CHAPTER XXXII.<br /><br /> -<small>ROSE ON HER DEFENCE.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">All</span> the country was stirred by the news of the return of the Mountfords, -and the knowledge that they were, of all places in the world, at the -‘Black Bull’ at Hunston, which was the strangest place to go to, some -people thought, though others were of opinion that Anne Mountford -‘showed her sense’ by taking the party there. It was Anne who got the -credit of all the family arrangements, and sometimes without<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_398" id="page_398">{398}</a></span> fully -deserving it. Lady Meadowlands and Fanny Woodhead, though at the -opposite ends of the social scale, both concurred in the opinion that it -was the best thing they could have done. Why not go back to Mount? some -people said, since it was well known that the bachelor cousin had put -the house at their disposal, and the furniture there still belonged to -Mrs. Mountford. But how could Anne go to Mount, both these ladies asked, -when it was clear as daylight that Heathcote Mountford, the new master, -was as much in love with her as a man could be? Very silly of him, no -doubt, and she engaged: but oh dear, oh dear, Fanny Woodhead cried, what -a waste of good material that all these people should be in love with -Anne! why should they all be in love with Anne, when it was clear she -could not marry more than one of them? Lady Meadowlands took a higher -view, as was natural, being altogether unaffected by the competition -which is so hard upon unmarried ladies in the country. She said it was a -thousand pities that Anne had not seen Heathcote Mountford, a very -good-looking man, and one with all his wits about him, and with a great -deal of conversation, before she had been carried away with the tattle -of <i>that</i> Mr. Douglas, who had no looks and no family, and was only the -first man (not a clergyman) whom she had ever seen. In this particular, -it will be observed, her ladyship agreed with Mr. Loseby, who had so -often lamented over the lateness of Heathcote’s arrival on the field. -All these good people ordered their carriages to drive to Hunston and -call at the ‘Black Bull.’ The Miss Woodheads went in their little pony -cart, and Lady Meadowlands in a fine London carriage, her town chariot, -which was only taken out on great occasions: and the Rector was driven -in by Charley very soberly in the vehicle which the younger son of the -family, with all the impertinence of Oxford, profanely called<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_399" id="page_399">{399}</a></span> a -shandrydan. With each successive visitor Anne’s looks were, above all -things, the most interesting subject. ‘I think it suits her,’ Lady -Meadowlands said thoughtfully—which was a matter the others did not -take into consideration. ‘Don’t you think so, Mr. Mountford?’ she said -with deliberate cruelty to Heathcote, who rode back part of the way by -her carriage door. ‘I am not a judge,’ he said; ‘I have a great deal of -family feeling. I think most things suit my cousin Anne. If she were -flushed and florid, most likely I should think the same.’</p> - -<p>‘And you would be perfectly right,’ said the first lady in the county. -‘Whatever she does, you’d have her do so ever. You and I are of the same -opinion, Mr. Mountford; but if I were you I would not leave a stone -unturned to get her back to Mount.’ ‘If will would do it!’ he said. -‘Will can do everything,’ cried the great lady, waving her hand to him -as she turned the corner. He stood still and gazed after her, shaking -his head, while the beautiful bays devoured the way.</p> - -<p>The most agitating of all these visitors to Anne were the Ashleys, who -knew more about her, she felt, than all the rest put together. The -Rector came in with an elaborately unconcerned countenance, paying his -respects to the stepmother and commending the bloom of Rose—but, as -soon as he could get an opportunity, came back to Anne and took her by -the arm, as was his usual way. ‘Did you send it?’ he said in her ear, -leading her toward the further window. It was a large broad bow-window -with round sashes and old-fashioned panes, looking down the High Street -of Hunston. They did not look at each other, but looked out upon the -street as they stood there, the old man holding the girl close to him -with his arm through hers.</p> -<p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_400" id="page_400">{400}</a></span></p> -<p>‘Yes—I sent it—that very day——’</p> - -<p>‘And he sent you an answer?’</p> - -<p>A tremor ran through Anne’s frame which the Rector was very sensible of; -but he did not spare her, though he pitied her.</p> - -<p>‘I—suppose so: there was a letter; it is all over now, if that is what -you mean. Don’t talk about it any more.’</p> - -<p>Mr. Ashley held her close by the arm, which he caressed with the -pressure of his own. ‘He took it, then, quietly—he did not make any -resistance?’ he said.</p> - -<p>‘Mr. Ashley,’ said Anne, with a shiver running over her, ‘don’t let us -talk of it any more.’</p> - -<p>‘As you please, as you please, my dear,’ said the old man; but it was -with reluctance that he let her go; he had a hundred questions to ask. -He wanted to have satisfied himself about Cosmo, why he had done it, how -he had done it, and everything about it. The Rector was confused. He -remembered the letter to Cosmo, which she had given him to read, and -which had bewildered him at the time by its apparent calm. And yet now -she seemed to mind! he did not understand it. He wanted to hear -everything about it, but she would not let him ask. His questions, which -he was not permitted to give vent to, lay heavy upon his heart as he -went back. ‘She would not open her mind to me,’ he said to Charley. -‘Whatever has happened, it must have been a comfort to her to open her -mind. That is what is making her so pale. To shut it all up in her own -heart cannot be good for her. But she would not open her mind to me.’</p> - -<p>‘It would have been difficult to do it with all those people present,’ -the Curate said, and this gave his father a little consolation. For his -own part Charley had never been so out of spirits. So long as she was -happy, what did it matter? he had said so often to himself. And now she -was no longer happy<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_401" id="page_401">{401}</a></span> and there was nothing anyone could do to make her -so. He for one had to stand by and consent to it, that Anne should -suffer. To suffer himself would have been a hundred times more easy, but -he could not do anything. He could not punish the man who had been at -the bottom of it all. He could not even permit himself the gratification -of telling that fellow what he thought of him. He must be dumb and -inactive, whatever happened, for Anne’s sake. While the good Rector told -out his regrets and disappointment, and distress because of Anne’s -silence, and certainty that to open her heart would do her good, the -Curate was wondering sadly over this one among the enigmas of life. He -himself, and Heathcote Mountford, either of them, would have given half -they had (all they had in the world, Charley put it) to be permitted to -be Anne’s companion and comforter through the world. But Anne did not -want either of them. She wanted Cosmo, who would not risk his own -comfort by taking the hand she held out to him, or sacrifice a scrap of -his own life for hers. How strange it was, and yet so common—to be met -with everywhere! And nobody could do anything to mend it. He scarcely -ventured to allow, when he was in his parish, that there were a great -many things of this kind which it was impossible to him to understand: -he had to be very sure that everything that befell his poor people was -‘for their good;’ but in the recesses of his own bosom he allowed -himself more latitude. He did not see how this, for instance, could be -for anyone’s good. But there is very little consolation in such a view, -even less than in the other way of looking at things. And he was very -‘low,’ sad to the bottom of his good heart. He had not said anything to -Anne. He had only ventured to press her hand, perhaps a little more -warmly than usual, and he had felt, poor fellow, that for that silent -sympathy she had not<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_402" id="page_402">{402}</a></span> been grateful. She had drawn her hand away -impatiently; she had refused to meet his eye. She had not wanted any of -his sympathy. Perhaps it was natural, but it was a little hard to bear.</p> - -<p>Rose had her own grievances while all this was going on. If her sister, -worked into high irritation by the questions and significant looks to -which she had been exposed, had found it almost intolerable to live -through the succession of visits, and to meet everybody with genial -indifference, and give an account of all they had been doing, and all -that they were about to do—Rose was much displeased, for her part, to -find herself set down again out of the importance to which she had -attained, and made into the little girl of old, the young sister, the -nobody whom no one cared to notice particularly while Anne was by. It -was not Rose’s fault, certainly, that her father had made that will -which changed the positions of herself and her sister: but Lady -Meadowlands, for one, had always treated her as if it was her fault. -Even that, however, was less disrespectful than the indifference of the -others, who made no account of her at all, and to whom she was still -little Rose, her sister’s shadow—nothing at all to speak of in her own -person. They did not even notice her dress, which she herself thought a -masterpiece, and which, was certainly such a work of art as had never -been seen in Hunston before. And when all these people went away, Rose, -for her part, sought Mrs. Keziah, who was always ready to admire. She -was so condescending that she went downstairs to the parlour in which -old Saymore and his young wife spent most of their lives, and went in -for a talk. It was a thing Rose was fond of doing, to visit her humble -friends and dependents in their own habitations. But there were a great -many reasons why she should do what she liked in Saymore’s house: first, -because she was one of ‘his young ladies’ whom he<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_403" id="page_403">{403}</a></span> had taken care of all -their lives; second, because she was an important member of the party -who were bringing success and prosperity to Saymore’s house. She was -queen of all that was in the ‘Black Bull.’ Miss Anne might be first in -Saymore’s allegiance, as was the case with all the old friends of the -family; but, on the other hand, Anne was not a person to skip about -through the house and come in for a talk to the parlour, as Rose did -lightly, with no excuse at all. ‘I am so sick of all those people,’ she -cried; ‘I wish they would not all come and be sympathetic; I don’t want -any one to be sympathetic! Besides, it is such a long, long time since. -One must have found some way of living, some way of keeping on, since -then. I wish they would not be so awfully sorry for us. I don’t think -now that even mamma is so sorry for herself.’</p> - -<p>‘Your mamma is a Christian, Miss Rose,’ said old Saymore, getting up, -though with a little reluctance, from his comfortable arm-chair as she -came in. ‘She knows that what can’t be cured must be endured; but, at -the same time, it is a great pleasure and an honour to see all the -carriages of the gentry round my door. I know for certain, Miss Rose, -that Lady Meadowlands never takes out that carriage for anybody below a -title, which shows the opinion she has of our family. Your papa was -wonderfully respected in the county. It was a great loss; a loss to -everything. There is not a gentleman left like him for the trouble he -used to take at Quarter Sessions and all that. It was a dreadful loss to -the county, not to speak of his family. And a young man, comparatively -speaking,’ said Saymore, with a respectful sigh.</p> - -<p>‘Poor dear papa! I am sure I felt it as much as anyone—at the time,’ -said Rose; ‘don’t you remember, Keziah, how awful that week was? I did -nothing but cry; but for a young man, Saymore,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_404" id="page_404">{404}</a></span> you know that is -nonsense. He was not the least young; he was as old, as old——’</p> - -<p>Here Rose stopped and looked at him, conscious that the words she had -intended to say were, perhaps, not quite such as her companions would -like to hear. Keziah was sitting by, sewing. She might have taken it -amiss if her young mistress had held up this new husband of hers as a -Methuselah. Rose looked from one to the other, confused, yet hardly able -to keep from laughing. And probably old Saymore divined what she was -going to say.</p> - -<p>‘Not old, Miss Rose,’ he said, with the steady pertinacity which had -always been one of his characteristics; ‘a gentleman in the very prime -of life. When you’ve lived virtuous and sober, saving your presence, -Miss, and never done nothing to wear yourself out, sixty is nothing but -the prime of life. Young fools, as has nothing but their youth to -recommend them, may say different, but from them as has a right to give -an opinion, you’ll never hear nothing else said. He was as healthy a -man, your late dear papa, as ever I wish to see; and as hearty, and as -full of life. And all his wits about him, Miss. I signed a document not -longer than the very last day before he was taken—me and John -Gardiner—and he was as clear as any judge, that’s what he was. “It’s -not my will,” he said to me, “Saymore—or you couldn’t sign, as you’re -one of the legatees; for a bit of a thing like this it don’t matter.” I -never see him more joky nor more pleasant, Miss Rose. He wasn’t joky not -in his ordinary, but that day he was poking his fun at you all the time. -“It’s a small bit of a thing to want witnessing, ain’t it?” he said; -“and it’s not a new will, for you couldn’t witness that, being both -legatees.”<span class="lftspc">’</span></p> - -<p>Rose was a good deal startled by this speech. Suddenly there came before -her a vision of the sealed-up packet in Anne’s desk—the seals of which<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_405" id="page_405">{405}</a></span> -she had been so anxious to break. ‘What a funny thing that he should -have made you sign a paper!’ she said.</p> - -<p>‘Bless you, they’re always having papers to sign,’ said Saymore; -‘sometimes it’s one thing, sometimes it’s another. A deal of money is a -deal of trouble, Miss Rose. You don’t know that as yet, seeing as you’ve -got Miss Anne to do everything for you.’</p> - -<p>‘I shan’t always have Miss Anne,’ Rose said, not knowing well what were -the words she used; her mind was away, busy in other ways, very busy in -other thoughts. She had always been curious, as she said to herself, -from the first moment she saw that packet. What was in it? could it be -the paper that Saymore signed? Could it be?—but Rose did not know what -to think.</p> - -<p>‘When you have not got Miss Anne, you’ll have a gentleman,’ Saymore -said. ‘We ain’t in no sort of doubt about that, Miss Rose, Keziah and -me. There are ladies as always gets their gentleman, whatever happens; -and one like you, cut out by nature, and a deal of money -besides—there’s not no question about that. The thing will be as you’ll -have too many to choose from. It’s a deal of responsibility for a young -creature at your age.’</p> - -<p>‘I will come and ask your advice, Saymore,’ said Rose, her head still -busy about other things. ‘Keziah asked my advice, you know.’</p> - -<p>‘Did she, Miss Rose? Then I hope as you’ll never repent the good advice -you gave her,’ said old Saymore, drawing himself up and putting out his -chest, as is the manner of man when he plumes himself. Rose looked at -him with eyes of supreme ridicule, and even his little wife gave a -glance up from her sewing with a strong inclination to titter; but he -did not perceive this, which was fortunate. Neither had Saymore any idea -that the advice the young lady had given had ever been against him.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_406" id="page_406">{406}</a></span></p> - -<p>‘And you might do worse,’ he added, ‘than consult me. Servants see many -a thing that other folks don’t notice. You take my word, Miss Rose, -there’s nowhere that you’ll hear the truth of a gentleman’s temper and -his goings on, better than in the servants’ hall.’</p> - -<p>‘I wonder if it was a law paper that had to have two witnesses?’ said -Rose, irrelevantly. ‘I wonder if it was something about the estate? Anne -never has anything to sign that wants witnesses; was it a big paper, -like one of Mr. Loseby’s? I should so like to know what it was.’</p> - -<p>‘It wasn’t his will; that is all I can tell you, Miss Rose. How joky he -was, to be sure, that day! I may say it was the last time as I ever saw -master in life. It was before they started—him and Mr. Heathcote, for -their ride. He never was better in his life than that afternoon when -they started. I helped him on with his great-coat myself. He wouldn’t -have his heavy coat that he always wore when he was driving. “The other -one, Saymore,” he said, “the other one; I ain’t a rheumatic old fogey -like you,” master said. Queer how it all comes back upon me! I think I -can see him, standing as it might be there, Miss Rose, helping him on -with his coat; and to think as he was carried back insensible and never -opened his lips more!’</p> - -<p>Rose was awed in spite of herself; and Keziah wiped her eyes. ‘He spoke -to me that day more than he had done for ever so long,’ she said. ‘I met -him in the long corridor, and I was that frightened I didn’t know what -to do; but he stopped as kind as possible. “Is that you, little Keziah?” -he said. “How is the mother getting on and the children?” Mother was -<i>that</i> pleased when I told her. She cried, and we all cried. Oh, I don’t -wonder as it is a trial to come back, losing a kind father like that and -your nice ‘ome!<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_407" id="page_407">{407}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>Now this was the kind of sympathy which Rose had particularly announced -she did not wish to receive. She did not in the least regret ‘her nice -‘ome,’ but looked back upon Mount with unfeigned relief to have escaped -from the dull old world of its surroundings. But she was a little -touched by these reminiscences of her father, and a great curiosity was -excited within her upon other matters. She herself was a very different -person from the little girl—the second daughter, altogether subject and -dependent—which she had been on that fatal day. She looked back upon it -with awe, but without any longing that it should be undone and -everything restored to its previous order. If Mr. Mountford could come -back, and everything be as before, the change would not be a comfortable -one for Rose. No change, she thought, would be pleasant. What could papa -mean, signing papers on that very last day? What did he want witnesses -for, after his will was signed and all done? Rose did not know what to -think of it. Perhaps, indeed, it was true, as old Saymore said, that -gentlemen always had papers to sign; but it was odd, all the same. She -went away with her head full of it upstairs to the room where her mother -and sister were sitting. They were both a little languid, sitting at -different ends of the room. Mrs. Mountford had been making much use of -her handkerchief, and it was a little damp after so many hours. She had -felt that if she were not really crying she ought to be. To see all the -old people and hear so many words of welcome, and regret that things -were not as they used to be, had moved her. She was seated in this -subdued state, feeling that she ought to be very much affected. She -felt, indeed, that she ought not to be able to eat any dinner—that she -ought to be good for nothing but bed. However, it was summer, when it is -more difficult to retire there. Mrs. Mountford made great use of her -handkerchief.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_408" id="page_408">{408}</a></span> Anne was seated in the bow-window, looking out upon the -few passengers of the High Street. In reality she did not see them; but -this was her outside aspect. Her book was upon her knees. She had given -herself up to her own thoughts, and these, it was evident, were not -over-bright. Rose’s coming in was a relief to both, for, happily, Rose -was not given to thinking. On most occasions she occupied herself with -what was before her, and took no trouble about what might lie beneath.</p> - -<p>‘Isn’t it time to dress for dinner?’ Rose said.</p> - -<p>‘To be sure,’ cried Mrs. Mountford gratefully. To make a movement of any -kind was a good thing; ‘it must be time to dress for dinner. One feels -quite out here, with no bell to tell us what to do. I suppose it -wouldn’t do for Saymore, with other people in the house, to ring a -dressing-bell. One is lost without a dressing-bell,’ the good lady said. -She had her work and her wools all scattered about, though in the -emotion of the moment she had not been working. Now she gathered them -all in her arms, and, with much content that the afternoon was over, -went away.</p> - -<p>‘Do you ever have things to sign that want witnesses, Anne?’</p> - -<p>‘No,’ said Anne, looking up surprised. ‘Why do you ask? Sometimes a -lease, or something of that sort,’ she said.</p> - -<p>‘Then perhaps it was a lease,’ said Rose to herself. She did not utter -this audibly, or give any clue to her thoughts, except the ‘Oh, -nothing,’ which is a girl’s usual answer when she is asked what she -means. And then they all went to dress for dinner, and nothing more -could be said.</p> - -<p>Nothing more was said that night. As soon as it was dusk, Mrs. Mountford -retired to her room. It had been a fatiguing day, and everything had<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_409" id="page_409">{409}</a></span> -been brought back, she said. Certainly her handkerchief was quite damp. -Worth was very sympathetic as she put her mistress to bed.</p> - -<p>‘Strangers is safest,’ Worth said; ‘I always did say so. There’s no need -to keep up before them, and nothing to be pushed back upon you. Trouble -is always nigh enough, without being forced back.’</p> - -<p>And Rose, too, went to bed early. She had a great deal of her mother in -her. She recognised the advantage of getting rid of herself, if not in -any more pleasant way, then in that. But she could not sleep when she -wished, which is quite a different thing from going to bed. She seemed -to see as plainly as possible, dangling before her, with all its red -seals, the packet which was to be opened on her twenty-first birthday. -Why shouldn’t it be opened now? What could it matter to anyone, and -especially to papa, whether it was read now or two years hence? Rose was -nineteen; from nineteen is not a long step to one-and-twenty. And what -if that packet contained the paper that Saymore had witnessed? She had -told Anne she ought to open it. She had almost opened it herself while -Anne looked on. If she only could get at it now!</p> - -<p>Next morning a remarkable event occurred. Anne drove out with Mr. Loseby -to see the Dower-house at Lilford, and report upon it. The old lawyer -was very proud as she took her seat by him in his high phaeton.</p> - -<p>‘I hope everybody will see us,’ he said. ‘I should like all the people -in the county to see Queen Anne Mountford in the old solicitor’s shay. I -know some young fellows that would give their ears to be me, baldness -and all. Every dog has his day, and some of us have to wait till we are -very old dogs before we get it.’</p> - -<p>‘Remember, Anne,’ said Mrs. Mountford, ‘that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_410" id="page_410">{410}</a></span> if it is the least damp I -will have nothing to do with it.’</p> - -<p>Rose watched from the old bow-window with the round panes to see them -drive away. She waved her hand to Anne, but she was scarcely conscious -what she was doing, her heart beat so much. She sent her maid out to -match some ribbon, which she knew would take a long time to match, and -then Rose made a general survey of the rooms. They all opened off a -square vestibule, or, more correctly, an antechamber. She went through -her mother’s first, carelessly, as if looking for something; then -through her own; and only went to Anne’s as the last. Her heart beat -high, but she had no feeling that she was going to do anything that was -wrong. How could it be wrong? to read a letter a little earlier than the -time appointed for reading it. If there had been anything to say that -Rose was not to read it at all, then it might have been wrong; but what -could it possibly matter whether it was read now or in two years? To be -sure, it was not addressed to Rose, but what of that? Except Cosmo’s -letters, which of course were exceptional, being love-letters, all -correspondence of the family was in common—and especially, of all -things in the world, a letter from poor papa! But nevertheless Rose’s -heart beat as she went into Anne’s room. The despatch-box generally -stood by the writing-table, open, with all its contents ready for -reference. The lid was shut down to-day, which gave her a great fright. -But it was not locked, as she had feared. She got down on her knees -before it and peeped in. There was the little drawer in which it had -been placed, a drawer scarcely big enough to contain it. The red seals -crackled as she took it out with trembling hands. One bit of the wax -came off of itself. Had Anne been taking a peep too, though she would -not permit Rose to do so? No; there was no abrasion of the paper, no<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_411" id="page_411">{411}</a></span> -break of the seal. Rose suddenly remembered that the very seal her -father had used was at this moment on her mother’s desk. She got up -hastily to get it, but then, remembering, took out the packet and -carried it with her. She could lock the door of her own room, but not of -Anne’s, and it would not do to scatter scraps of the red wax about -Anne’s room and betray herself. She carried it away stealthily as a -mouse, whisking out and in of the doors. Her cheeks were flushed, her -hands trembling. Now, whatever it was, in a minute more she would know -all about it. Never in her life had Rose’s little being been in such a -commotion. Not when her father’s will was read; not when <i>that</i> -gentleman at Cannes made her her first proposal; for at neither of these -moments had there been any alarm in her mind for what was coming. The -others might have suffered, perhaps, but not she.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Mountford complained afterwards that she had not seen Rose all day. -‘Where is Rose?’ Anne asked when she came back full of the Dower-house, -and anxious to recommend it to all concerned. After inquiries everywhere -it was found that Rose was lying down in her room with a bad headache. -She had made the maid, when she returned from her fruitless quest for -the ribbon, which could not be matched, draw down the blinds: and there -she lay in great state, just as Mrs. Mountford herself did in similar -circumstances. Anne, who went up to see her, came down with a half-smile -on her lips.</p> - -<p>‘She says it is like one of your headaches, mamma; and she will keep -still till dinner.’</p> - -<p>‘That is the best thing she can do,’ said Mrs. Mountford. ‘If she can -get a little sleep she will be all right.’</p> - -<p>Secretly it must be allowed that Anne was more amused than alarmed by -her little sister’s indisposition. Mrs. Mountford had been subject to -such<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_412" id="page_412">{412}</a></span> retirements as long as anyone could remember; and Rose’s get-up -was a very careful imitation of her mother’s—eau de Cologne and water -on a chair beside her sofa, a wet handkerchief spread upon her head, her -hair let down and streaming on the pillow.</p> - -<p>‘Don’t let anyone take any notice,’ she said in a faint little voice. -‘If I am let alone I shall soon be better.’</p> - -<p>‘Nobody shall meddle with you,’ said Anne, half laughing. And then she -retired downstairs to discuss the house with Mrs. Mountford, who was -only half an authority when Rose was not by.</p> - -<p>But if anyone could have known the thoughts that were going on under the -wet handkerchief and the dishevelled locks! Rose’s head was aching, not -with fever, but with thinking. She had adopted this expedient to gain -time, because she could not make up her mind what to do. The packet -re-sealed, though with considerably more expenditure of wax than the -original, was safely returned to the despatch-box. But Rose had been so -startled by the information she had received that further action had -become impossible to her. What was she to do? She was not going to sit -down under <i>that</i>, not going to submit to it, and live on for two years -knowing all about it. How could she do that? This was a drawback that -she had not foreseen: information clandestinely obtained is always a -dreadful burden to carry about. How was she to live for two years -knowing <i>that</i>, and pretending not to know it? Never before in her life -had the current of thought run so hot in her little brain. What was she -to do? Was there nothing she could do? She lay still for some minutes -after Anne had left her. To be in such a dilemma, and not to be able to -tell anybody—not to ask anybody’s advice! She thought once of rushing -to Keziah, putting the case to her us of someone else. But how could -Keziah tell her what to<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_413" id="page_413">{413}</a></span> do? At last a sudden gleam of suggestion shot -through Rose’s brain; she sprang half up on her sofa, forgetting the -headache. At this period she was in a kind of irresponsible unmoral -condition, not aware that she meant any harm, thinking only of defending -herself from a danger which she had just discovered, which nobody else -knew. She must defend herself. If a robber is after you in the dark, and -you strike out wildly and hurt someone who is on your side, who is -trying to defend you—is that your fault? Self-defence was the first -thing, the only thing, that occurred to Rose. After it came into her -mind in the sole way in which it was possible she took no time to think, -but rushed at it, and did it without a moment’s pause. She wrote a -letter, composing it hurriedly, but with great care. It was not long, -but it meant a great deal. It was addressed, as Anne’s letter, which was -also of so much importance, had been addressed, to ‘Cosmo Douglas, Esq., -Middle Temple.’ What could little Rose be writing to Cosmo Douglas -about? She slid it into her pocket when, still very much flushed and -excited, she went down to dinner, and carried it about with her till -quite late in the evening, when, meeting Saymore with the bag which he -was about to send off to the post office, she stopped him on the stairs, -and put it in with her own hand.</p> - -<p>This was the history of Rose’s day—the day when she had that feverish -attack which alarmed all the inhabitants of the ‘Black Bull.’ She -herself always said it was nothing, and happily it came to nothing. But -who could prevent a mother from being alarmed, when her child suddenly -appeared with cheeks so flushed, and a pulse that was positively racing, -Mrs. Mountford said. However, fortunately, as the patient herself always -predicted, a night’s rest set it all right.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_414" id="page_414">{414}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXIII" id="CHAPTER_XXXIII"></a>CHAPTER XXXIII.<br /><br /> -<small>THE MAN OF THE PERIOD.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">There</span> is in human nature an injustice towards those who do wrong, those -who are the sinners and agents of woe in this world, which balances a -good deal of the success of wickedness. There are plenty of wicked -persons who flourish like the green bay tree, and receive to all -appearance no recompense for their evil ways. But, on the other hand, -when a man fails to conduct himself as he ought to do, from cowardice, -from an undue regard to prudential motives—from, as often happens, an -overweening regard for the world’s opinion—that world repays him -pitilessly with contempt and neglect, and makes no allowance for all the -pangs which he suffers, and for all the struggles in his soul. Cosmo -Douglas has had hard measure in these pages, where, as we have -pretended, his character was understood. But even in understanding it, -we have dealt, we are aware and confess, hardly with this -nineteenth-century man, who had done nothing more than all the canons of -his age declared it his duty to do. He erred, perhaps, in loving Anne, -and in telling her so at first; for he ought to have taken it into -consideration that he would not be allowed to marry her, notwithstanding -the bias towards the romantic side of such questions which the world -professes in words. But then he was led astray by another wave of -popular opinion, that which declares with much apparent reason that the -race of cruel fathers is as extinct as the dodo, and that no girl is -ever really prevented, if she chooses to stick to him, from marrying -‘the man of her heart.’ Cosmo had believed this devoutly till he was -forced by events to take up a different opinion; and from that moment -every impartial<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_415" id="page_415">{415}</a></span> observer must allow that he acted up to the highest -tenets of the modern creed. As soon as he perceived that it was really -likely that Anne would be deprived of her fortune in consequence of her -adherence to him, he did everything a man could do, within the limits -permitted to a gentleman of the period, to induce her to decide for her -own advantage and against himself. He could not say in so many words, -‘You must keep your fortune, and throw me over; I shall not mind it.’ -But he as near said it as a person of perfectly good manners could do. -It is not for a man to take the initiative in such a case, because -women, always more foolish than men, are very likely to be piqued on the -side of their generosity, and to hold all the more strenuously to a -self-denying lover, the more he does <i>not</i> wish to bind them. In this -point his position was very difficult, very delicate, as any one may -perceive; and when, in spite of all his remonstrances, and hints, and -suggestions, Anne’s sacrifice was accomplished, and she was actually -cast off by her angry father, with no fortune, and nothing to recompense -her but the attachment of a barrister without occupation, and an empty -engagement to him, which it was impossible in present circumstances to -carry out, it would be difficult to imagine anything more embarrassing -than his position. She had made this sacrifice, which he did not wish, -for him; had insisted on making it, notwithstanding all that he could -venture to say; and now of course looked to him for gratitude, for -requital, and an impassioned sense of all that she had done and -relinquished for him, notwithstanding that it was the very last thing in -his mind that she should relinquish anything for him. What was he to do?</p> - -<p>If the man was exasperated, was there much wonder? He could no more, -according to his tenets, throw her over than he could marry her. Both -were<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_416" id="page_416">{416}</a></span> alike impossible. It was strictly according to the laws of society -that a man should decline to marry when he had nothing to marry upon; -but it was not consistent with those laws (at least according to the -interpretation of them accepted by men of Cosmo’s type) that he should -throw the lady over as soon as she had lost her fortune. Here -accordingly arose a dilemma out of which it was impossible to come -unharmed. Cosmo’s very heart was impaled upon these forks. What could he -do? He could not marry upon nothing, and bring his wife down to the -position of a household drudge, which was all, so far as he knew, that -would be practicable. For Anne’s sake this was out of the question. -Neither could he say to her honestly, ‘You are poor and I am poor, and -we cannot marry.’ What could he do? He was blamed, blamed brutally, and -without consideration, by most of the people round; people like the -Ashleys, for instance, who would have plunged into the situation and -made something of it one way or another, and never would have found out -what its characteristic difficulties were. But to Cosmo those -difficulties filled up the whole horizon. What was he to do? How was he -to do it? To plunge himself and Anne into all the horrors of a penniless -marriage was impossible, simply impossible; and to separate himself from -her was equally out of the question. If the reader will contemplate the -position on all sides, he will, I am sure, be brought to see that, -taking into account the manner of man Cosmo was, and his circumstances, -and all about him, the way in which he did behave, perplexedly keeping -up his relations with her family, showing himself as useful as possible, -but keeping off all too-familiar consultations, all plans and projects -for the future, was really the only way open to him. He was not -romantic, he was not regardless of consequences;<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_417" id="page_417">{417}</a></span> being a man of his -time how could he make himself so? and what else could he do?</p> - -<p>When he received one day quite suddenly, without any preparation, that -letter which Anne had given to Mr. Ashley to read, it came upon him like -a thunderbolt. I cannot take upon me to say that after the first shock -he was surprised by it or found it unnatural: he did not experience any -of these feelings. On the contrary, it was, so far as I know, after, as -has been said, the first shock, a relief to his mind. It showed him that -Anne, too, had perceived the situation and accepted it. He was startled -by her clear-sightedness, but it gained his approbation as the most -sensible and seemly step which she could have taken. But, all the same, -it hurt him acutely, and made him tingle with injured pride and shame. -It does not come within the code of manhood, which is of longer -existence than the nineteenth century, that a woman should have it in -her power to speak so. It gave him an acute pang. It penetrated him with -a sense of shame; it made him feel somehow, to the bottom of his heart, -that he was an inferior kind of man, and that Anne knew it. It was all -according to the canons of the situation, just as a sensible woman -should have behaved; just as his own proceedings were all that a -sensible man could do; but it hurt him all the same. The letter, with -that calm of tone which he suspected to mean contempt, seemed to him to -have been fired into him with some sharp twangling arrow; where it -struck it burnt and smarted, making him small in his own esteem, petty -and miserable; notwithstanding which he had to reply to it ‘in the same -spirit in which it was written’—to use a phrase which was also of his -time. He did this, keeping up appearances, pretending to Anne that he -did not perceive the sentiments which her letter veiled, but accepted it -as the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_418" id="page_418">{418}</a></span> most natural thing in the world. It may be as well to give here -the letter which he wrote in reply:—</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>‘Dearest Anne,—Your letter has indeed been a surprise to me of the -most dolorous kind.</p> - -<p>‘Yes, I understand. There is no need, as you say, for -explanations—six words, or six hundred, would not be enough to say -what I should have to say, if I began. But I will not. I refrain -from vexing you with protestations, from troubling you with -remonstrances. Circumstances are against me so heavily, so -overwhelmingly, that nothing I could say would appear like anything -but folly in the face of that which alone I can do. I am -helpless—and you are clear-sighted, and perceive the evils of this -long suspense, without allowing your clearer judgment to be -flattered, as mine has been, by the foolishness of hope.</p> - -<p>‘What then can I say? If I must, I accept your decision. This is -the sole ground on which it can be put. I will not bind you against -your will—that is out of the question, that is the one thing that -is impossible. I will never give up hope that some change may come -in the circumstances or in your resolution, till—something happens -to show me that no change can come. Till then, I do not call myself -your friend, for that would be folly. I am more than your friend, -or I am nothing—but I will sign myself yours, as you are, without -any doubt, the woman whom I will always love, and admire, and -reverence, beyond any woman in the world.</p> - -<p class="r"> -‘<span class="smcap">Cosmo Douglas.</span>’<br /> -</p></div> - -<p>And this was all quite true. He did love and admire her more than anyone -in the world. It was the curse of his training that he knew what was -best when he saw it, and desired that; though often men of his kind take -up with the worst after, and are contented enough. But Anne was still -his type of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_419" id="page_419">{419}</a></span> perfection—she was beautiful to him, and sweet and -delightful—but she was not possible. Is not that more than any beauty -or delight? And yet, notwithstanding the acute pangs which he suffered, -I don’t suppose one individual out of a hundred who reads this history -will be sorry for Cosmo. They will be sorry for Anne, who does not want -their sorrow half so much.</p> - -<p>He had a very melancholy time after the Mountfords went away. He had not -accepted any invitations for August, being, indeed, in a very unsettled -mind, and not knowing what might be required of him. He stayed in his -chambers, alone with many thoughts. They were gone, and Anne had gone -out of his life. It was a poor sort of life when he looked at it now, -with the light of her gone, yet showing, at the point where she -departed, what manner of existence it had been and was: very poor, -barren, unsatisfactory—yet the only kind of life that was possible. In -the solitude of these early August days he had abundance of time to -think it over. He seemed to be able to take it in his hand, to look at -it as a spectator might. The quintessence of life in one way, all that -was best in the world made tributary to is perfection—and yet how poor -a business! And though he was young, it was all he would ever come to. -He was not of the stuff, he said to himself, of which great men are -made. Sooner or later, no doubt, he would come to a certain success. He -would get some appointment; he would have more to live upon; but this -would not alter his life. If Anne had kept her fortune, that might have -altered it; or if he could in any way become rich, and go after her and -bring her back while still there was time. But, short of that, he saw no -way to make it different. She was right enough, it was impossible; there -was nothing else to be said. Yet while he arrived at this conclusion he -felt within himself to the bottom<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_420" id="page_420">{420}</a></span> of his heart what a paltry conclusion -it was. A man who was worth his salt would have acted otherwise; would -have shown himself not the slave but the master of circumstances. Such -men were in the backwoods, in the Australian bush, where the primitive -qualities were all in all, and the graces of existence were not known. -Out of the colonies, however, Cosmo believed that his own was about the -best known type of man, and what he did, most men, at least in society, -would have done. But he did not feel proud of himself.</p> - -<p>The Mountfords had not been away a week when he received another letter -which made his heart jump, though that organ was under very good -control, and did not give him the same trouble that hearts less -experienced so often give to their possessors. The post-mark, Hunston, -was in itself exciting, and there was in Rose’s feeble handwriting that -general resemblance to her sister’s which so often exists in a family. -He held it in his hand and looked at it with a bewildered sense that -perhaps his chances might be coming back to him, and the chapter of -other life reopening. Had she relented? Was there to be a place of -repentance allowed him? He held the letter in his hand, not opening it -for the moment, and asking himself if it were so, whether he would be -happy, or—the reverse. It had been humiliating to come to an end of the -dream of brighter things, but—would it not be rather inconvenient that -it should be resumed again? These were his reflections, his -self-questionings, before he opened the letter. But when he did open it, -and found that the letter was not from Anne but Rose Mountford, the -anticlimax was such that he laughed aloud. Little Rose! he had paid her -a great deal of attention, and made himself something of a slave to her -little caprices, not for any particular reason, though, perhaps, with a -sense that an heiress<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_421" id="page_421">{421}</a></span> was always a person to please, whoever she might -be. What could little Rose want with him? to give him a -commission—something to buy for her, or to match, or one of the -nothings with which some girls have a faculty for keeping their friends -employed. He began to read her letter with a smile, yet a pang all the -same in the recollection that this was now the only kind of -communication he was likely to have from the family. Not Anne: not those -letters which had half vexed, half charmed him with their impracticable -views, yet pleased his refined taste and perception of beauty. This gave -him a sharp prick, even though it was with a smile that he unfolded the -letter of Rose.</p> - -<p>But when he read it he was brought to himself with a curious shock. What -did it mean? Rose’s letter was not occupied with any commissions, but -was of the most startling character, as follows:—</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>‘Dear Mr. Douglas,—I am writing to you quite secretly—nobody -knows anything about it—and I hope at least, whatever you do, that -you will keep my secret, and not let Anne know, or mamma.</p> - -<p>‘I feel quite sure, though nobody has said a word, that Anne and -you have quarrelled—and I am so sorry; I don’t know if she thought -you neglected her and paid too much attention to us. I am quite -sure you never meant anything by it. But what I want to say is, -that I hope you won’t pay attention if she is cross. <i>Do</i> make it -up, and get married to Anne. You know all the money has been left -to me, but if you marry, I will promise faithfully to give her a -part of it, say a quarter, or even a third, which would be enough -to make you comfortable. Mr. Loseby proposed this to me some time -ago, and I have quite made up my mind to it now. I will give her -certainly a quarter, perhaps a third, and this ought to be enough -for you to marry on. I can’t do<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_422" id="page_422">{422}</a></span> it till I come of age, but then -you may be sure, <i>if you are married</i>, that I will make a new will -directly and settle it so. The first thing is that you should be -married, Anne and you. I wish for it very much now.</p> - -<p>‘Be sure, above everything, that you don’t let out that I have -written to you, <i>ever</i>, either to Anne or mamma.</p> - -<p class="r"> -‘Yours very truly,<br /> -‘<span class="smcap">Rose Mountford</span>.’<br /> -</p></div> - -<p>This letter filled Cosmo with consternation, with derision, with sharp -irritation, yet such a sense of the absurdity, as made him laugh in the -midst of all his other sentiments. For a moment the thought, the -question, glanced across his mind, Could it be, however distantly, -however unconsciously, inspired by Anne? But that was not to be -believed: or could Mrs. Mountford, wanting perhaps to get rid of her -stepdaughter’s supervision, have put this idea of intermeddling into -Rose’s head? But her anxiety that her secret should be kept seemed to -clear the mother; and as for Anne! That much he knew, however he might -be deceived in any other way. He read it over again, with a sense of -humiliation and anger which mastered his sense of the absurdity. This -little frivolous plaything of a girl to interfere in his affairs! It is -true, indeed, that if this assurance had been conveyed to him in a -serious way, becoming its importance, say by Mr. Loseby himself, and -while there was yet time to make everything comfortable, it would have -been by no means an unpleasant interference to Cosmo. He could not but -think what a difference it might have made if only a month back, only a -fortnight back, this information had been conveyed to him. But now that -it was perfectly useless, now that Anne’s letter and his own reply had -entirely closed the matter between them, to have this child push in with -her little im<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_423" id="page_423">{423}</a></span>pertinent offer—her charity to her sister! Rose bestowing -a quarter of her fortune upon Anne—the younger graciously affording a -provision to the elder! By Jove! Cosmo said to himself, with an outburst -of fury. Rose, a creature like Rose, to have it in her power thus to -insult Anne! He was himself detached from Anne, and never more would -there be any contact between them. Still it was in his power to avenge -her for once in a way. Cosmo did not pause, for once in his life, to -think what was prudent, but stretched out his hand for paper and ink, -and immediately indited his reply:—</p> - -<div class="blockquot"><p>‘My dear little Miss Rose,—Your letter is very kind; it makes me -feel as if I were a prince in a fairy tale, and you the good fairy, -removing the obstacles from my way; but, unfortunately, there were -not any obstacles in my way of the kind you suppose, and your -present of part of your fortune to me, which seems to be what you -mean, though carried out through your sister, is, I fear, a sort of -thing that neither the respectable Mr. Loseby nor any other lawyer -would sanction. It is very kind of you to wish to gratify me with -so much money, but, alas! I cannot take it—unless, indeed, you -were to give me the whole of it, along with your own pretty little -hand, which I should not at all object to. Are you quite, quite -sure I never “meant anything” by the attention I paid you? Perhaps -I meant all the time to transfer my affections from one sister to -the other, from the one without any money to the one with a -fortune, which she can afford to divide into four or even three -parts. Think over it again, and perhaps you will find out that this -was in my mind all the time. But, short of this, I fear there is -not much ground for a commercial transaction of any kind between -you and me.</p> - -<p class="c"> -‘Your obedient servant to command,<br /> -</p> - -<p class="r"> -‘<span class="smcap">C. Douglas</span>.’<br /> -</p></div><p><span class="pagenum"><a name="page_424" id="page_424">{424}</a></span></p> - -<p>This was the revenge he took upon Rose for her impertinence: it was mere -impertinence, he supposed. Once, and once only, it crossed his mind that -she might have had a motive for her anxiety that he should marry her -sister. But how could that be? It was an impossibility. And -notwithstanding the miserable way in which you will say he had himself -behaved, his furious indignation at this patronage of Anne by Rose shows -how real was still the love and better worship for Anne that was in his -heart.</p> - -<p>And when he had satisfied his temper by this letter, he sat and thought -of Anne. Would it have been well with this support behind to have -ventured, perhaps, and been bold, and knit their lives together? Rose’s -guarantee, though the offer irritated him so much, would have made that -possible which at present was impossible. Would the game have been worth -the candle? He sat and thought over it for a long time in the darkening -evening and sighed. On the whole, perhaps, as things stood—— And then -he went out to his club to dine. Not proud of himself—far from proud of -himself—feeling on the whole a poor creature—and yet—— Perhaps, as -things stood, it was just as well.</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXIV" id="CHAPTER_XXXIV"></a>CHAPTER XXXIV.<br /><br /> -<small>THE HEIRESS’S TRIAL.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Rose’s</span> letter to Cosmo had been conceived in a sudden commotion of -feeling, in which her instincts and sensations had come uppermost, and -got almost out of her own control. That savage sense of property which -exists in unreasoning childhood had risen to flame and fire within her, -mingled with and made still more furious by the terror and panic of -possible loss. Beneath all her gentleness and smoothness, and the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_425" id="page_425">{425}</a></span> many -glosses of civilisation that clothed her being, Rose had an entirely -primitive nature, tenacious of every personal belonging, full of natural -acquisitiveness and a love of <i>having</i>, which children and savages share -with many highly cultivated persons. She was one of those who, without -any conscious evil meaning, are rendered desperate by the idea of -personal loss. Her first impulse, when she knew that her ‘rights’ were -in danger, was to fight for them wildly, to turn upon all assailants -with impassioned fury. She did not want to hurt anyone, but what she had -got she meant to keep. The idea of losing the position to which she had -been elevated, and the fortune which had made her for the last year so -much more important a person than before, filled her with a kind of -cruel panic or fierce terror which was ready to seize at any instrument -by which its enemies could be confounded. This fierce passion of fear is -apt to do more mischief than deliberate cruelty. It will launch any -thunderbolt that comes to hand, arrest the very motion of the earth, if -possible, and upset the whole course of mortal living. It is more -unscrupulous than any tyrant. Rose was altogether possessed by this -ferocious terror. When she saw her property and importance threatened, -she looked about her wildly to see what machinery she could set in -motion for the confusion of her enemies and her own defence. The -character of it, and the result of it to others, seemed entirely -unimportant to her if only it could stop the danger, forestall the -approaching crisis. In the letter which she had surreptitiously read it -was stipulated that in a certain case her inheritance was to be -absolutely secure, and it had immediately become all-important to Rose -to bring about the forbidden thing against which her father had made so -violent a stand. She took her measures instantly, with the cunning of -ignorance and simplicity and the cruel directness of a childish<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_426" id="page_426">{426}</a></span> mind. -That there was some difficulty between her sister and Cosmo her quick -observation had early divined. Perhaps her vanity had whispered that it -was because he liked her best: but, on the other hand, Rose understood -the power of pecuniary obstacles, and could feel the want of money in a -much more reasonable way than her sister, though so much her superior, -ever had done. And in either case her appeal to Cosmo would be -sovereign, she thought, in the first heat of her panic. If he had liked -her best, he would perceive that it was hopeless. If he had been afraid, -because of the want of fortune, her letter would reassure him. And if -she could but bring it about—make Anne unpardonable—secure her own -‘rights’!—with a passion of hostility against everybody who could -injure her, this was what Rose thought.</p> - -<p>But when the letter was fairly gone, and the machinery set in motion, a -little chill crept over that first energy of passionate self-defence. -Other thoughts began to steal in. The strength of the savage and of the -child lies in their singleness of vision. As long as you can perceive -only what you want and how it is to be had, or tried for, everything is -possible; but when a cold breath steals upon you from here and there, -suggesting perhaps the hurt of another whom you have really no desire to -hurt, perhaps the actual wickedness which you have no desire to -perpetrate, what chills come upon the heat of action, what creeping -doubts even of the first headlong step already taken! Rose had three -days to reflect upon what she had done, and those three days were not -happy. She disguised her discomposure as much as she could, avoiding the -society of her mother and sister. Anne, though she was absorbed in -occupations much more important than anything that was likely to be -involved in the varying looks of Rose, perceived her little sister’s -flightiness and petulance with a grieved consciousness<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_427" id="page_427">{427}</a></span> that her -position as heiress and principal personage of the family group was, now -that they were in their own country and better able to realise what it -meant, doing Rose harm; while Mrs. Mountford set it down to the girl’s -unreasonable fancy for little Keziah, whose company she seemed to seek -on all occasions, and whose confidences and preparations were not the -kind of things for a young girl to share.</p> - -<p>‘No good ever comes of making intimates of your servants,’ her mother -said, disturbed by Rose’s uncertain spirits, her excitedness and -agitation. What was there to be agitated about? Once or twice the girl, -so wildly stirred in her own limited being, so full of ignorant -desperation, boldness, and terror, and at the same time cold creepings -of doubt and self-disapproval, came pressing close to her mother’s side, -with a kind of dumb overture of confidence. But Mrs. Mountford could not -understand that there was anything to tell. If there had been a lover at -hand, if Heathcote had shown his former admiration (as she understood -it) for Rose, or even if he had been coming daily to visit them, she -might have been curious, interested, roused to the possibility that -there was a secret to tell. But what could Rose find of a nature to be -confidential about in Hunston? The thing was incredible. So Mrs. -Mountford had said with a little impatience, ‘Can’t you find a seat, my -dear? I want my footstool to myself,’ when the child came to her feet as -girls are in the habit of doing. Rose felt herself rejected and pushed -aside: and Anne’s serious countenance repulsed her still more -completely. It frightened her to think that she had been venturing to -interfere in her sister’s affairs. What would Anne say? Her panic when -she thought of this was inconceivable. It was not a passion of fright -like that with which her own possible loss had filled her, but it was a -terror that put wings to her<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_428" id="page_428">{428}</a></span> feet, that gave her that impulse of -instant flight and self-concealment which is the first thought of -terror. Thus the poor little undeveloped nature became the plaything of -desperate emotions, while yet all incapable of bearing them, and not -understanding what they were. She was capable of doing deadly harm to -others on one side, and almost of doing deadly harm to herself on the -other, out of her extremity of fear.</p> - -<p>Cosmo’s letter, however, was as a dash of cold water in Rose’s face. Its -momentary effect was one of relief. He would not do what she wanted, -therefore he never, never was likely to betray to Anne that she had -interfered, and at the same time his refusal eased her sense of -wrong-doing: but after the first momentary relief other sensations much -less agreeable came into her mind. Her property! her property! Thus she -stood, a prey to all the uncertainties—nay, more than this, almost sure -that there was no uncertainty, that danger was over for Anne, that she -herself was the victim, the deceived one, cruelly betrayed and deserted -by her father, who had raised her so high only to abase her the -lower—and even by Anne, who had—what had Anne done? Was it certain, -Rose asked herself, that Anne had not herself privately read that fatal -letter, and acted upon it, though she had pretended to be so much -shocked when Rose touched it? That must have been at the bottom of it -all. Yes, no doubt that was how it was; most likely it was all a plot—a -conspiracy! Anne <i>knew</i>; and had put Cosmo aside—ordered him, perhaps, -to pretend to like Rose best!—bound him to wait till the three years -were over, and Rose despoiled, and all secure, when the whole thing -would come on again, and they would marry, and cheat poor papa in his -grave, and rob Rose of her fortune! She became wild with passion as this -gradually rose upon her as the thing<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_429" id="page_429">{429}</a></span> most likely—nay, more than -likely, certain! Only this could have warranted the tone in which Cosmo -wrote. His letter was dreadful: it was unkind, it was mocking, it was -insolent. Yes! that was the word—insolent! insulting! was what it was. -Why, he pretended to propose to her!—to her! Rose! after being engaged -to her sister! When Rose read it over again and perceived what even her -somewhat obtuse faculties could not miss—the contemptuous mockery of -Cosmo’s letter, she stamped her feet with rage and despite. Her passion -was too much for her. She clenched her hands tight, and cried for anger, -her cheeks flaming, her little feet stamping in fury. And this was the -sight which Keziah saw when she came into the room—a sight very -alarming to that poor little woman; and, indeed, dangerous in the state -of health in which she was.</p> - -<p>‘Oh! Miss Rose! Miss Rose!’ she said, with a violent start (which was so -bad for her); ‘what is it? what is the matter?’</p> - -<p>Rose was in some degree brought to herself by the appearance of a -spectator; and, at the same time, it was a comfort to relieve her -burdened soul by speaking to someone.</p> - -<p>‘Keziah,’ she said, in a great flush of agitation and resentment, ‘it -is—it is a gentleman that has been uncivil to me!’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, Miss Rose!’ old Saymore’s wife cried out with excitement, attaching -a much more practical meaning to the words than Rose had any insight -into. ‘Oh, Miss Rose! in our house! Who is it? who is it? Only tell me, -and Mr. Saymore will turn him out of doors if it was the best customer -we have!’</p> - -<p>This rapid acceptance of her complaint, and swift determination to -avenge it, brought Rose still more thoroughly to herself.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_430" id="page_430">{430}</a></span></p> - -<p>‘Oh, it is not anyone here. It is a gentleman on—a letter,’ Rose said; -and this subdued her. ‘It is not anything Saymore can help me about, nor -you, nor anyone.’</p> - -<p>‘We are only poor folks, Miss Rose,’ said Keziah, ‘but for a real -interest, and wishing you well, there’s none, if it was the Queen -herself——’</p> - -<p>The ludicrousness of the comparison struck Rose, but struck her not -mirthfully—dolefully.</p> - -<p>‘It is not much that the Queen can care,’ she said. ‘Anne was presented, -but I was never presented. Nobody cares! What was I when Anne was there? -Always the little one—the one that was nobody!’</p> - -<p>‘But, Miss Rose! Miss Rose!’</p> - -<p>Keziah did not know how to put the consolation she wished to give, for -indeed she, like everybody else, had mourned the injustice to Anne, -which she must condone and accept if she adopted the first suggestion of -her sympathy.</p> - -<p>‘You know,’ she said, with a little gasp over the renegade nature of the -speech—‘you know that Miss Anne is nobody now, and you are the one that -everybody thinks of——’</p> - -<p>Keziah drew her breath hard after this, and stopped short, more ashamed -of her own turncoat utterance than could have been supposed: for indeed, -she said to herself, with very conciliatory speciousness of reasoning, -though Miss Anne was the one that everybody thought of, she herself had -always thought most of Miss Rose, who was not a bit proud, but always -ready to talk and tell you anything, and had liked her best.</p> - -<p>‘Ah!’ cried Rose, shaking her head, ‘if that were always to last!’ and -then she stopped herself suddenly, and looked at Keziah as if there was -something to tell, as if considering whether she should<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_431" id="page_431">{431}</a></span> tell something. -But Rose was not without prudence, and she was able to restrain herself.</p> - -<p>‘It does not matter—it does not matter, Keziah,’ she cried, with that -air of injured superiority which is always so congenial to youth. ‘There -are some people who never get justice, whatever they may do.’</p> - -<p>Little Mrs. Saymore was more bewildered than words could say. If there -was a fortunate person in the world, was it not Miss Rose? So suddenly -enriched, chosen, instead of Miss Anne, to have Miss Anne’s fortune, and -all the world at her feet! Keziah did not know what to make of it. But -Rose, who had no foolish consideration for other people’s feelings, left -her little time for consideration.</p> - -<p>‘You may go now,’ she said, with a little wave of her hand; ‘I don’t -want anything. I want only to be left alone.’</p> - -<p>‘I am sure, Miss Rose,’ said Keziah, offended, ‘I didn’t mean to intrude -upon you. I wanted to say as all <i>the things</i> has come home, and if you -would like to look at them, I’ve laid them all out in the best room, and -they do look sweet,’ said the little, expectant mother.</p> - -<p>Rose had taken a great deal of interest in the things, and even had -aided in various small pieces of needlework—a condescension which Mrs. -Mountford did not approve. But to-day she was in no mood for this -inspection. She shook her head and waved her hand with a mixture of -majesty and despondency.</p> - -<p>‘Not to-day. I have other things to think of, Keziah. I couldn’t look at -them to-day.’</p> - -<p>This made Keziah take an abrupt leave, with offence which swallowed up -her sympathy. Afterwards sympathy had the better of her resentment. She -went and reviewed her little show by herself, and felt sorry for Miss -Rose. It must be a trouble<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_432" id="page_432">{432}</a></span> indeed which could not be consoled by a -sight of <i>the things</i>, with all their little frills goffered, and little -laces so neatly ironed, laid out in sets upon the best bed.</p> - -<p>When, however, Keziah had withdrawn, the want of anyone to speak to -became intolerable to Rose. She was not used to be shut up within the -limits of her own small being; and though she could keep her little -secrets as well as anyone, yet the possession of this big secret, now -that there was no longer anything to do—now that her initiative had -failed, and produced her nothing but Cosmo’s insolent letter, with its -mock proposal—was more than she could contain. She dared not speak to -Anne, and her mother had unwittingly repulsed her confidence. A tingling -impatience took possession of her. If Keziah had been present—little as -Keziah would have understood it, and unsuitable as she would have been -for a <i>confidante</i>—Rose felt that she must have told her all. But even -Keziah was not within her reach. She tried to settle to something, to -read, to do some of her fancy-work. For a moment she thought that to -‘practise’—a duty which in her emancipation she had much -neglected—might soothe her; but she could only practise by going to the -sitting-room where the piano was, where her mother usually sat, and -where Anne most likely would be at that hour. Her book was a novel, but -she could not read it. Even novels, though they are a wonderful resource -in the vigils of life, lose their interest at the moments when the -reader’s own story is at, or approaching, a crisis. When she sat down to -read, one of the phrases in Cosmo’s letter would suddenly dart upon her -mind like a winged insect and give her a sting: or the more serious -words of the other letter—the secret of the dead which she had -violated—would flit across her, till her brain could stand it no -longer. She rose up with a start and fling, in a kind of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_433" id="page_433">{433}</a></span> childish -desperation. She could not, would not bear it! all alone in that little -dark cell of herself, with no rays of light penetrating it except the -most unconsolatory rays, which were not light at all, but spurts as of -evil gases, and bad little savage suggestions, such as to make another -raid upon Anne’s despatch-box, and get the letter again and burn it, and -make an end of it coming into her mind against her will. But then, even -if she were so wicked as to do that, how did she know there was not -another? indeed, Rose was almost sure that Anne had told her there was -another—the result of which would be that she would only have the -excitement of doing something very wrong without getting any good from -it. She sat with her book in her hand, and went over a page or two -without understanding a word. And then she jumped up and stamped her -little feet and clenched her hands, and made faces in the glass at Cosmo -and fate. Then, in utter impatience, feeling herself like a hunted -creature, pursued by something, she knew not what, Rose seized her hat -and went out, stealing softly down the stairs that nobody might see her. -She said to herself that there was a bit of ribbon to buy. There are -always bits of ribbon to buy for a young lady’s toilette. She would save -the maid the trouble and get it for herself.</p> - -<p>The tranquil little old-fashioned High Street of a country town on an -August morning is as tranquillising a place as it is possible to -imagine. It was more quiet, more retired, and what Rose called dull, -than the open fields. All the irregular roofs—here a high-peaked gable, -there an overhanging upper story, the red pediment of the Queen Anne -house which was Mr. Loseby’s office and dwelling, the clustered chimneys -of the almshouses—how they stood out upon the serene blueness of the -sky and brilliancy of the sunshine! And underneath how<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_434" id="page_434">{434}</a></span> shady it was! -how cool on the shady side! in what a depth of soft shelter, contrasting -with the blaze on the opposite pavement, was the deep cavernous doorway -of the ‘Black Bull,’ and the show in the shop windows, where one mild -wayfarer in muslin was gazing in, making the quiet more apparent! A boy -in blue, with a butcher’s tray upon his head, was crossing the street; -two little children in sunbonnets were going along with a basket between -them; and in the extreme distance was a costermonger’s cart with fruit -and vegetables, which had drawn some women to their doors. Of itself the -cry of the man who was selling these provisions was not melodious, but -it was so softened by the delight of the still, sweet, morning air, in -which there was still a whiff of dew, that it toned down into the -general harmony, adding a not unpleasant sense of common affairs, the -leisurely bargain, the innocent acquisition, the daily necessary traffic -which keeps homes and tables supplied. The buying and selling of the -rosy-cheeked apples and green cabbages belonged to the quiet ease of -living in such a softened, silent place. Rose did not enter into the -sentiment of the scene; she was herself a discord in it. In noisy London -she would have been more at home; and yet the quiet soothed her, though -she interrupted and broke it up with the sharp pat of her high-heeled -boot and the crackle of her French muslin. She was not disposed towards -the limp untidy draperies that are ‘the fashion.’ Her dress neither -swept the pavement nor was huddled up about her knees like the curtains -of a shabby room, but billowed about her in crisp puffs, with enough of -starch; and her footstep, which was never languid, struck the pavement -more sharply than ever in the energy of her discomposure. The butcher in -the vacant open shop, from which fortunately most of its contents had -been removed, came out to the door bewildered<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_435" id="page_435">{435}</a></span> to see who it could be; -and one of Mr. Loseby’s clerks poked out of a window in his -shirt-sleeves, but drew back again much confused and abashed when he -caught the young lady’s eye. The clerks in Mr. Loseby’s office were not, -it may be supposed, of an order to hope from any notice from a Miss -Mountford of Mount; yet in the twenties both boys and girls have their -delusions on that point. Rose, however, noticed the young clerk no more -than if he had been a costermonger, or one of the cabbages that worthy -was selling; yet the sight of him gave her a new idea. Mr. Loseby! any -Mountford of Mount had a right to speak to Mr. Loseby, whatever trouble -he or she might be in. And Rose knew the way into his private room as -well as if she had been a child of the house. She obeyed her sudden -impulse, with a great many calculations equally sudden springing up -spontaneously in her bosom. It would be well to see what Mr. Loseby -knew; and then he might be able to think of some way of punishing Cosmo: -and then—in any case it would be a relief to her mind. The young clerk -in his shirt-sleeves, yawning over his desk, heard the pat of her high -heels coming up the steps at the door, and could not believe his ears. -He addressed himself to his work with an earnestness which was almost -solemn. Was she coming to complain of his stare at her from the window? -or was it to ask Mr. Loseby, perhaps, who was that nice-looking young -man in the little room close to the door?</p> - -<p>Mr. Loseby’s room was apt to look dusty in the summer, though it was in -fact kept in admirable order. But the Turkey carpet was very old, and -penetrated by the sweeping of generations, and the fireplace always had -a tinge of ashes about it. To-day the windows were open, the Venetian -blinds down, and there was a sort of green dimness in the room, in which -Rose, dazzled by the sunshine out<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_436" id="page_436">{436}</a></span> of doors, could for the moment -distinguish nothing. She was startled by Mr. Loseby’s exclamation of her -name. She thought for the moment that he had found her out internally as -well as externally, and surprised her secret as well as herself. ‘Why, -little Rose!’ he said. He was sitting in a coat made of yellow Indian -grass-silk which did not accord so well as his usual shining blackness -with the glistening of his little round bald head, and his eyes and -spectacles. His table was covered with papers done up in bundles with -all kinds of red tape and bands. ‘This is a sight for sore eyes,’ he -said. ‘You are like summer itself stepping into an old man’s dusty den; -come and sit near me and let me look at you, my summer Rose! I don’t -know which is the freshest and the prettiest!’ said the old lawyer, -waving his hand towards a beautiful luxurious blossom of ‘La France’ -which was on his table in a Venetian glass. He had a fancy for pretty -things.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, I was passing, and I thought I would come in—and see you,’ Rose -said.</p> - -<p>Mr. Loseby had taken her appearance very quietly, as a matter of course; -but when she began to explain he was startled. He pushed his spectacles -up upon his forehead and looked at her curiously. ‘Ah!’ he said, ‘that -was kind of you—to come with no other object than to see an old man.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh!’ cried Rose, confused, ‘I did not say I had no other object, Mr. -Loseby. I want you to tell me—is—is—Anne likely to settle upon the -Dower-house? I do so want to know.’</p> - -<p>‘My dear child, your mother has as much to do with it as Anne has. You -will hear from her better than from me.’</p> - -<p>‘To be sure, that is true,’ said Rose; and then, after a pause, ‘Oh, Mr. -Loseby, is it really, really<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_437" id="page_437">{437}</a></span> true that Cosmo Douglas is not going to -marry Anne? isn’t it shameful? to bring her into such trouble and then -to forsake her. Couldn’t he be made to marry her? I think it is a horrid -shame that a man should behave like that and get no punishment at all.’</p> - -<p>Mr. Loseby pushed his spectacles higher and higher; he peered at her -through the partial light with a very close scrutiny. Then he rose and -half drew up one of the blinds. But even this did not satisfy him. ‘Do -you think then,’ he said at last, ‘that it would be a punishment to a -man to marry Anne?’</p> - -<p>‘It would depend upon what his feelings were,’ said Rose with much force -of reason; ‘if he wanted, for example, to marry—somebody else.’</p> - -<p>‘Say Rose—instead of Anne,’ said the acute old lawyer, with a grin -which was very much like a grimace.</p> - -<p>‘I am sure I never said that!’ cried Rose. ‘I never, never said it, nor -so much as hinted at it. He may say what he pleases, but <i>I</i> never, -never said it! you always thought the worst of me, Mr. Loseby, Anne was -always your favourite; but you need not be unjust. Haven’t I come here -expressly to ask you? Couldn’t he be made to marry her? Why, they were -engaged! everybody has talked of them as engaged. And if it is broken -off, think how awkward for Anne.’</p> - -<p>Mr. Loseby took off his spectacles, which had been twinkling and -glittering upon his forehead like a second pair of eyes—this was a very -strong step, denoting unusual excitement—and wiped them deliberately -while he looked at Rose. He had the idea, which was not a just idea, -that either Rose had been exercising her fascinations upon her sister’s -lover, or that she had been in her turn fascinated by him. ‘You saw a -good deal of Mr. Douglas in<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_438" id="page_438">{438}</a></span> town?’ he said, looking at her keenly, -always polishing his spectacles; but Rose sustained the gaze without -shrinking.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, a great deal,’ she said; ‘he went everywhere with us. He was very -nice to mamma and me. Still I do not care a bit about him if he behaves -badly to Anne; but he ought not to be let off—he ought to be made to -marry her. I told him—what I was quite ready to do——’</p> - -<p>‘And what are you quite ready to do, if one might know?’ Mr. Loseby was -savage. His grin at her was full of malice and all uncharitableness.</p> - -<p>‘Oh, you know very well!’ cried Rose, ‘it was you first who said—— -Will you tell me one thing, Mr. Loseby,’ she ran on, her countenance -changing; ‘what does it mean by the will of 1868?’</p> - -<p>‘What does what mean?’ The old lawyer was roused instantly. It was not -that he divined anything, but his quick instinct forestalled suspicion, -and there suddenly gleamed over him a consciousness that there was -something to divine.</p> - -<p>‘Oh!—I mean,’ said Rose, correcting herself quickly, ‘what is meant by -the will of 1868? I think I ought to know.’</p> - -<p>Mr. Loseby eyed her more and more closely. ‘I wonder,’ he said, ‘how you -know that there was a will of 1868?’</p> - -<p>But there was nothing in his aspect to put Rose on her guard. ‘I think I -ought to know,’ she said, ‘but I am always treated like a child. And if -things were to turn round again, and everything to go back, and me never -to have any good of it, I wonder what would be the use at all of having -made any change?’</p> - -<p>Mr. Loseby put on his spectacles again. He wore a still more familiar -aspect when he had his two spare eyes pushed up from his forehead, ready -for use at a moment’s notice. He was on the verge<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_439" id="page_439">{439}</a></span> of a discovery, but -he did not know as yet what that discovery would be.</p> - -<p>‘That is very true,’ he said; ‘and it shows a great deal of sense on -your part: for if everything were to turn round it would certainly be no -use at all to have made any change. The will of 1868 is the will that -was made directly after your father married for the second time; it was -made to secure her mother’s fortune to your sister Anne.’</p> - -<p>‘Without even the least thought of me!’ cried Rose, indignant.</p> - -<p>‘It was before you were born,’ said Mr. Loseby, with a laugh that -exasperated her.</p> - -<p>‘Oh!’ she cried, with an access of that fury which had frightened -Keziah, ‘how horrible people are! how unkind things are! how odious it -is to be set up and set down and never know what you are, or what is -going to happen! Did I do anything to Cosmo Douglas to make him break -off with Anne? is it my fault that he is not going to marry her after -all? and yet it will be me that will suffer, and nobody else at all. Mr. -Loseby, can’t it be put a stop to? I know you like Anne best, but why -should not I have justice, though I am not Anne? Oh, it is too bad! it -is cruel—it is wicked! Only just because papa was cross and out of -temper, and another man is changeable, why should I be the one to -suffer? Mr. Loseby, I am sure if you were to try you could change it; -you could stop us from going back to this will of 1868 that was made -before I was born. If it was only to burn that bit of paper, that horrid -letter, that thing! I had nearly put it into the fire myself. Oh!’ Rose -wound up with a little cry: she came suddenly to herself out of her -passion and indignation, and shrank away, as it were, into a corner, and -confronted the old lawyer with a pale and troubled countenance like a -child found out. What had she done? She had betrayed<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_440" id="page_440">{440}</a></span> herself. She -looked at him alarmed, abashed, in a sudden panic which was cold, not -hot with passion, like her previous one. What could he cause to be done -to her? What commotion and exposure might he make? She scarcely dared to -lift her eyes to his face; but yet would not lose sight of him lest -something might escape her which he should do.</p> - -<p>‘Rose,’ he said, with a tone of great severity, yet a sort of chuckle -behind it which gave her consolation, ‘you have got hold of your -father’s letter to Anne.’</p> - -<p>‘Well,’ she said, trembling but defiant, ‘it had to be read some time, -Mr. Loseby. It was only about us two; why should we wait so many years -to know what was in it? A letter from papa! Of course we wanted to know -what it said.’</p> - -<p>‘<i>We!</i> Does Anne know too?’ he cried, horrified. And it gleamed across -Rose’s mind for one moment that to join Anne with herself would be to -diminish her own criminality. But after a moment she relinquished this -idea, which was not tenable. ‘Oh, please!’ she cried, ‘don’t let Anne -know! She would not let me touch it. But why shouldn’t we touch it? It -was not a stranger that wrote it—it was our own father. Of course I -wanted to know what he said.’</p> - -<p>There was a ludicrous struggle on Mr. Loseby’s face. He wanted to be -severe, and he wanted to laugh. He was disgusted with Rose, yet very -lenient to the little pretty child he had known all his life, and his -heart was dancing with satisfaction at the good news thus betrayed to -him. ‘I have got a duplicate of it in my drawer, and it may not be of -much use when all is said. Since you have broken your father’s -confidence, and violated his last wishes, and laid yourself open to all -sorts of penalties, you—may as well tell me all about it,’ he said.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_441" id="page_441">{441}</a></span></p> - -<p>When Rose emerged into the street after this interview, she came down -the steps straight upon Willie Ashley, who was mooning by, not looking -whither he was going, and in a somewhat disconsolate mood. He had been -calling upon Mrs. Mountford, but Rose had not been visible. Willie knew -it was ‘no use’ making a fool of himself, as he said, about Rose; but -yet when he was within reach he could not keep his feet from wandering -where she was. When he thus came in her way accidentally, his glum -countenance lighted up into a blaze of pleasure. ‘Oh, here you are!’ he -cried in a delighted voice. ‘I’ve been to Saymore’s and seen your -mother, but you were not in.’ This narrative of so self-evident a fact -made Rose laugh, though there were tears of agitation and trouble on her -face, which made Willie conclude that old Loseby (confound him!) had -been scolding her for something. But when Rose laughed all was well.</p> - -<p>‘Of course I was not in. It is so tiresome there—nothing to do, nowhere -to go. I can’t think why Anne wishes to keep us here of all places in -the world.’</p> - -<p>‘But you are coming to the Dower-house at Lilford? Oh! say you are -coming, Rose. I know some people that would dance for joy.’</p> - -<p>‘What people? I don’t believe anybody cares where we live,’ said Rose -with demure consciousness, walking along by his side with her eyes cast -down, but a smile hovering about the corners of her mouth. Confession -had been of use to her, and had relieved her soul, even though Mr. -Loseby had no power to confer absolution.</p> - -<p>‘Don’t we? Well, there’s Charley for one; he has never had a word to -throw to a dog since you went away. Though a fellow may know it is no -good, it’s always something to know that you’re there.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_442" id="page_442">{442}</a></span>’</p> - -<p>‘What is no good?’ said Rose, with extreme innocence. And thus the two -went back talking—of matters very important and amusing—through the -coolness and sweetness and leisure of the little country street. Anne, -who was seated in the bow-window of the sitting-room with her books and -her papers, could not help breathing forth a little sigh as she looked -out and saw them approaching, so young and so like each other. ‘What a -pity!’ she said to herself. So far as she herself was concerned, it was -far more than a pity; but even for Rose——.</p> - -<p>‘What is a pity?’ said Mrs. Mountford: and she came and looked out over -Anne’s shoulder, being a little concerned about her child’s absence. -When she saw the pair advancing she flushed all over with annoyance and -impatience. ‘Pity! it must be put a stop to,’ she cried; ‘Willie Ashley -was always out of the question; a boy with next to nothing. But now it -is not to be thought of for a moment. I rely upon you, if you have any -regard for your sister, to put a stop to it, Anne!’</p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXV" id="CHAPTER_XXXV"></a>CHAPTER XXXV.<br /><br /> -<small>A SIMPLE WOMAN.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">The</span> Dower-house at Lilford was fixed upon shortly after by general -consent. It was an old house, but showed its original fabric chiefly in -the tall stacks of chimneys which guaranteed its hospitable hearths from -smoke, and gave an architectural distinction to the pile of building, -the walls of which were all matted in honeysuckles, roses, and every -climbing plant that can be imagined, embroidering themselves upon the -background of the ivy, which filled every crevice. And the pleasure of -furnishing, upon which Mr. Loseby had been cunning enough to enlarge, as -an inducement to the ladies to take possession of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_443" id="page_443">{443}</a></span> this old -dwelling-place, proved as great and as delightful as he had represented -it to be. It was a pleasure which none of the three had ever as yet -experienced. Even Mrs. Mountford had never known the satisfaction, -almost greater than that of dressing one’s self—the delight and -amusement of dressing one’s house and making it beautiful. She had been -taken as a bride to the same furniture which had answered for her -predecessor; and though in the course of the last twenty years something -had no doubt been renewed, there is no such gratification in a new -carpet or curtains, which must be chosen either to suit the previous -furniture, or of those homely tints which, according to the usual -formula of the shops, ‘would look well with anything,’ as in the blessed -task of renovating a whole room at once. They had everything to do here, -new papers (bliss! for you may be sure Mrs. Mountford was too -fashionable to consult anybody but Mr. Morris on this important -subject), and a whole array of new old furniture. They did not transfer -the things that had been left at Mount, which would have been, Mrs. -Mountford felt, the right thing to do, but merely selected a few -articles from the mass which nobody cared for. The result, they all -flattered themselves, was fine. Not a trace of newness appeared in all -the carefully decorated rooms. A simulated suspicion of dirt, a ghost of -possible dust, was conjured up by the painter’s skill to make everything -perfect—not in the way of a vulgar copy of that precious element which -softens down the too perfect freshness, but, by a skilful touch of art, -reversing the old principle of economy, and making ‘the new things look -as weel’s the auld.’ This process, with all its delicate difficulties, -did the Mountford family good in every way. To Anne it was the must -salutary and health-giving discipline. It gave her scope for the -exercise of all those secondary tastes and fancies,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_444" id="page_444">{444}</a></span> which keep the -bigger and more primitive sentiments in balance. To be anxious about the -harmony of the new curtains, or concerned about the carpet, is sometimes -salvation in its way; and there were so many questions to decide—things -for beauty and things for use—the character of every room, and the -meaning of it, which are things that have to be studied nowadays before -we come so far down as to consider the conveniences of it, what you are -to sit upon, or lie upon, though these two are questions almost of life -and death. Anne was plunged into the midst of all these questions. -Besides her serious business in the management of the estate which Mr. -Loseby had taken care should occupy her more and more, there were a -hundred trivial play-anxieties always waiting for her, ready to fill up -every crevice of thought. She had, indeed, no time to think. The heart -which had been so deeply wounded, which had been compelled to give up -its ideal and drop one by one the illusions it had cherished, seemed -pushed into a corner by this flood of occupation. Anne’s mind, indeed, -was in a condition of exhaustion, something similar to that which -sometimes deadens the sensations of mourners after a death which in -anticipation has seemed to involve the loss of all things. When all is -over, and the tortures of imagination are no longer added to those of -reality, a kind of calm steals over the wounded soul. The worst has -happened; the blow has fallen. In this fact there is quiet at least -involved, and now the sufferer has nothing to think of but how to bear -his pain. The wild rallying of all his forces to meet a catastrophe to -come is no longer necessary. It is over; and though the calm may be but -‘a calm despair,’ yet it is different from the anguish of looking -forward. And in Anne’s case there was an additional relief. For a long -time past she had been forcing upon herself a fictitious satisfaction. -The first delight of her love, which she<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_445" id="page_445">{445}</a></span> had described to Rose as the -power of saying everything to her lover, pouring out her whole heart in -the fullest confidence that everything would interest him and all be -understood, had long ago begun to ebb away from her. As time went on, -she had fallen upon the pitiful expedient of writing to Cosmo without -sending her letters, thus beguiling herself by the separation of an -ideal Cosmo, always the same, always true and tender, from the actual -Cosmo whose attention often flagged, and who sometimes thought the -things that occupied her trivial, and her way of regarding them foolish -or high-flown. Yes, Cosmo too had come to think her high-flown: he had -been impatient even of her fidelity to himself; and gradually it had -come about that Anne’s communications with him were but carefully -prepared abridgments of the genuine letters which were addressed -to—someone whom she had lost, someone, she could not tell who, on whom -her heart could repose, but who was not, so far as she knew, upon this -unresponsive earth. All this strain, this dual life, was over now. No -attempt to reconcile the one with the other was necessary. It was all -over; the worst had happened; there was no painful scene to look forward -to, no gradual loosening of a tie once so dear; but whatever was to -happen had happened. How she might have felt the blank, had no such -crowd of occupations come in to fill up her time and thoughts, is -another question. But, as it was, Anne had no time to think of the -blank. In the exhaustion of the revolution accomplished she was seized -hold upon by all these crowding occupations, her thoughts forced into -new channels, her every moment busy. No soul comes through such a crisis -without much anguish and many struggles, but Anne had little time to -indulge herself. She had to stand to her arms, as it were, night and -day. She explained her position to Mr. Loseby, as has been said, and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_446" id="page_446">{446}</a></span> -she informed her stepmother briefly of the change; but to no one else -did she say a word.</p> - -<p>‘There was silence in heaven for the space of half an hour.’ Could any -word express more impressively the pause of fate, the quiet of patience -and deliberation over the great and terrible things to come. There was -silence in the heaven of Anne’s being. She forbore to think, forbore to -speak, even to herself. All was still within her. The firmament had -closed in around her. Her world was lessened, so much cut off on every -side, a small world now with no far-shining distances, no long gleams of -celestial light, nothing but the little round about her, the circle of -family details, the work of every day. Instead of the wide sky and the -infinite air, to have your soul concentrated within a circle of Mr. -Morris’s papers, however admirable they may be, makes a great difference -in life. Sometimes she even triumphed over circumstances so far as to -see the humorous side of her own fate, and to calculate with a smile -half pathetic, all that her unreasonable fidelity had cost her. It had -cost her her father’s approbation, her fortune, her place in life, and -oh! strange turning of the tables! it had cost her at the same time the -lover whom she had chosen, in high youthful absolutism and idealism, at -the sacrifice of everything else. Was there ever a stranger -contradiction, completion, of a transaction? He for whom she had given -up all else, was lost to her because she had given everything for him. A -woman might weep her heart out over such a fate, or she might smile as -Anne smiled, pale, with a woful merriment, a tremulous pathetic scorn, -an indignation half lost in that sentiment which made Othello cry out, -‘The pity of it! The pity of it!’ Oh, the pity of it! that such things -should be; that a woman should give so much for so little—and a man -return so little for so much. Sometimes, when she was by herself, this -smile would come up unawares,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_447" id="page_447">{447}</a></span> a scarcely perceptible gleam upon her -pale countenance. ‘What are you smiling at, Anne?’ her stepmother or -Rose would ask her as she sat at work. ‘Was I smiling? I did not -know—at nobody—I myself,’ she would say, quoting Desdemona this time. -Or she would remind herself of a less dignified simile—of poor Dick -Swiveller, shutting up one street after another, in which he had made -purchases which he could not pay for. She had shut up a great many -pleasant paths for herself. Her heart got sick of the usual innocent -romance in which the hero is all nobleness and generosity, and the -heroine all sweet dependence and faith. She grew sick of poetry and all -her youthful fancies. Even places became hateful to her, became as paths -shut up. To see the Beeches even from the road gave her a pang. Mount, -where she had written volumes all full of her heart and inmost thoughts -to Cosmo, pained her to go back to, though she had to do it -occasionally. And she could not think of big London itself without a -sinking of the heart. He was there. It was the scene of her -disenchantment, her disappointment. All these were as so many slices cut -off from her life. Rose’s estate, and the leases, and the tenants, and -the patronage of Lilford parish, which belonged to it, and all its -responsibilities, and the old women, with their tea and flannels, and -the Dower-house with Mr. Morris’s papers—these circumvented and bound -in her life.</p> - -<p>But there was one person at least whose affectionate care of her gave -Anne an amusement which now and then found expression in a flood of -tears: though tears were a luxury which she did not permit herself. This -was the Rector, who was always coming and going, and who would walk -round Anne at the writing-table, where she spent so much of her time, -with anxious looks and many little signs of perturbation. He did not say -a great deal to her,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_448" id="page_448">{448}</a></span> but watched her through all the other -conversations that would arise, making now and then a vague little -remark, which was specially intended for her, as she was aware, and -which would strike into her like an arrow, yet make her smile all the -same. When there was talk of the second marriage of Lord Meadowlands’ -brother, the clergyman, Mr. Ashley was strong in his defence. ‘No one -can be more opposed than I am to inconstancies of all kinds; but when -you have made a mistake the first time it is a wise thing and a right -thing,’ said the good Rector, with a glance at Anne, ‘to take advantage -of the release given you by Providence. Charles Meadows had made a great -mistake at first—like many others.’ And then, when the conversation -changed, and the Woodheads became the subject of discussion, even in the -fulness of his approbation of ‘that excellent girl Fanny,’ Mr. Ashley -found means to insinuate his constant burden of prophecy. ‘What I fear -is that she will get a little narrow as the years go on. How can a woman -help that who has no opening out in her life, who is always at the first -chapter?’</p> - -<p>‘Dear me, Rector,’ said Mrs. Mountford, ‘I did not know you were such an -advocate of marriage.’</p> - -<p>‘Yes, I am a great advocate of marriage: without it we all get narrow. -We want new interests to carry on our life; we want to expand in our -children, and widen out instead of closing in.’</p> - -<p>‘But Fanny has not closed in,’ said Anne, with a half malicious smile, -which had a quiver of pain in it: for she knew his meaning almost better -than he himself did.</p> - -<p>‘No, no, Fanny is an excellent girl. She is everything that can be -desired. But you must marry, Anne, you must marry,’ he said, in a lower -tone, coming round to the back of her chair. There was doubt and alarm -in his eyes. He saw in her that terror of single-minded men, an old -maid. Women<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_449" id="page_449">{449}</a></span> have greatly got over the fear of that term of reproach. -But men who presumably know their own value best; and take more deeply -to heart the loss to every woman of their own sweet society, have a -great horror of it. And Anne seemed just the sort of person who would -not marry, having been once disgusted and disappointed, Mr. Ashley -concluded within himself, with much alarm. He was even so far carried -away by his feelings as to burst forth upon his excellent son and -Curate, one evening in the late autumn, when they were returning -together from the Dower-house. They had been walking along for some time -in silence upon the dusty, silent road, faintly lighted by some -prevision of a coming moon, though she was not visible. Perhaps the same -thoughts were in both their minds, and this mutual sympathy warmed the -elder to an overflow of the pent-up feeling. ‘Man alive!’ he cried out -suddenly, turning upon Charley with a kind of ferocity, which startled -the Curate as much as if a pistol had been presented at him. ‘Man alive! -can’t <i>you</i> go in for her? you’re better than nothing if you’re not very -much. What is the good of you, if you can’t try, at least <i>try</i>, to -please her? She’s sick of us all, and not much wonder; but, bless my -soul, you’re young, and why can’t you make an effort? why can’t you try? -that’s what I would like to know,’ the Rector cried.</p> - -<p>Charley was taken entirely by surprise. He gasped in his agitation, -‘I—<i>try</i>? But she would not look at me. What have I to offer her?’ he -said, with a groan.</p> - -<p>Upon which the Rector repeated that ungracious formula. ‘You may not be -very much, but you’re better than nothing. No,’ the father said, shaking -his head regretfully, ‘we are none of us very much to look at; but, Lord -bless my soul, think of Anne, <i>Anne</i>, settling down as a single woman: -an old maid!’ he cried, with almost a shriek of dismay. The<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_450" id="page_450">{450}</a></span> two men -were both quite subdued, broken down by the thought. They could not help -feeling in their hearts that to be anybody’s wife would be better than -that.</p> - -<p>But when they had gone on for about half an hour, and the moon had risen -silvery over the roofs of the cottages, showing against the sky the -familiar and beloved spire of their own village church, Charley, who had -said nothing all the time, suddenly found a voice. He said, in his deep -and troubled bass, as if his father had spoken one minute ago instead of -half an hour, ‘Heathcote Mountford is far more likely to do something -with her than I.’</p> - -<p>‘Do you think so?’ cried the Rector, who had not been, any more than his -son, distracted from the subject, and was as unconscious as Charley was -of the long pause. ‘She does not know him as she knows you.’</p> - -<p>‘That is just the thing,’ said the Curate, with a sigh. ‘She has known -me all her life, and why should she think any more about me? I am just -Charley, that is all, a kind of a brother; but Mountford is a stranger. -He is a clever fellow, cleverer than I am; and, even if he were not,’ -said poor Charley, with a tinge of bitterness, ‘he is new, and what he -says sounds better, for they have not heard it so often before. And then -he is older, and has been all about the world; and besides—well,’ the -Curate broke off with a harsh little laugh, ‘that is about all, sir. He -is he, and I am me—that’s all.’</p> - -<p>‘If that is what you think,’ said the Rector, who had listened to all -this with very attentive ears, pausing, as he took hold of the upper bar -of his own gate, and raising a very serious countenance to his son, ‘if -this is really what you think, Charley—you may have better means of -judging—we must push Mountford. Anything would be better,’ he said, -solemnly, ‘than to see Anne an old maid. And she’s capable of<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_451" id="page_451">{451}</a></span> doing -that,’ he added, laying his hand upon his son’s in the seriousness of -the moment. ‘She is capable of doing it, if we don’t mind.’</p> - -<p>Charley felt the old hand chill him like something icy and cold. And he -did not go in with his father, but took a pensive turn round the garden -in the moonlight. No, she would never walk with him there. It was too -presumptuous a thought. Never would Anne be the mistress within, never -would it be permitted to Charley to call her forth into the moonlight in -the sweet domestic sanctity of home. His heart stirred within him for a -moment, then sank, acknowledging the impossibility. He breathed forth a -vast sigh as he lit the evening cigar, which his father did not like him -to smoke in his presence, disliking the smell, like the old-fashioned -person he was. The Curate walked round and round the grass-plats, sadly -enjoying this gentle indulgence. When he tossed the end away, after -nearly an hour of silent musing, he said to himself, ‘Mountford might do -it,’ with another sigh. It was hard upon Charley. A stranger had a -better chance than himself, a man that was nothing to her, whom she had -known for a few months only. But so it was: and it was noble of him that -he wished Mountford no manner of harm.</p> - -<p>This was the state of affairs between the Rectory and the Dower-house, -which, fortunately, was on the very edge of Lilford parish, and -therefore could, without any searchings of heart on the part of the new -Vicar there, permit the attendance of the ladies at the church which -they loved. When Willie was home at Christmas his feet wore a distinct -line on the road. He was always there, which his brother thought foolish -and weak, since nothing could ever come of it. Indeed, if anything did -exasperate the Curate, it was the inordinate presumption and foolishness -of Willie, who seemed really to believe that<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_452" id="page_452">{452}</a></span> Rose would have something -to say to him. <i>Rose!</i> who was the rich one of the house, and whose eyes -were not magnanimous to observe humble merit like those of her sister. -It was setting that little thing up, Charley felt, with hot indignation, -as if she were superior to Anne. But then Willie was always more -complacent, and thought better of himself than did his humble-minded -brother. As for Mr. Ashley himself, he never intermitted his anxious -watch upon Anne. She was capable of it. No doubt she was just the very -person to do it. The Rector could not deny that she had provocation. If -a woman had behaved to him like that, he himself, he felt, might have -turned his back upon the sex, and refused to permit himself to become -the father of Charley and Willie. That was putting the case in a -practical point of view. The Rector felt a cold dew burst out upon his -forehead, when it gleamed across him with all the force of a revelation, -that in such a case Charley and Willie might never have been. He set out -on the spot to bring this tremendous thought before Anne, but stopped -short and came back after a moment depressed and toned down. How could -he point out to Anne the horrible chance that perhaps two such paragons -yet unborn might owe their non-existence (it was difficult to put it -into words even) to her? He could not say it; and thus lost out of -shyness or inaptness, he felt (for why should there have been any -difficulty in stating it?), by far the best argument that had yet -occurred to him. But though he relinquished his argument he did not get -over his anxiety. Anne an old maid! it was a thought to move heaven and -earth.</p> - -<p>In the meantime Heathcote Mountford felt as warmly as anyone could have -desired the wonderful brightening of the local horizon which followed -upon the ladies’ return. The Dower-house was for him also within the -limits of a walk, and the decoration and<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_453" id="page_453">{453}</a></span> furnishing which went on to a -great extent after they had taken possession, the family bivouacking -pleasantly in the meantime, accepting inconveniences with a composure -which only ladies are capable of under such circumstances, gave -opportunity for many a consultation and discussion. It was no obsequious -purpose of pleasing her which made Heathcote almost invariably agree -with Anne when questions arose. They were of a similar mould, born under -the same star, to speak poetically, with a natural direction of their -thoughts and fancies in the same channel, and an agreement of tastes -perhaps slightly owing to the mysterious affinities of the powerful and -wide-spreading family character which they both shared. By-and-by it -came to be recognised that Anne and Heathcote were each other’s natural -allies. One of them even, no one could remember which, playfully -identified a certain line of ideas as ‘our side.’ When the winter came -on and country pleasures shrank as they are apt to do, to women, within -much restricted limits, the friendship between these two elder members -of the family grew. That they were naturally on the same level, and -indeed about the same age, nobody entertained any doubt, aided by that -curious foregone conclusion in the general mind (which is either a -mighty compliment or a contemptuous insult to a woman) that a girl of -twenty-one is in reality quite the equal and contemporary, so to speak, -of a man of thirty-five. Perhaps the assumption was more legitimate than -usual in the case of these two; for Anne, always a girl of eager -intelligence and indiscriminate intellectual appetite, had lived much of -her life among books, and was used to unbounded intercourse with the -matured minds of great writers, besides having had the ripening touch of -practical work, and of that strange bewildering conflict with -difficulties unforeseen which is called disenchantment by some, -disappointment by others, but which is<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_454" id="page_454">{454}</a></span> perhaps to a noble mind the most -certain and unfailing of all maturing influences. Heathcote Mountford -had not lived so much longer in the world without having known what that -experience was, and in her gropings darkly after the lost ideal, the -lost paradise which had seemed so certain and evident at her first -onset, Anne began to feel that now and then she encountered her -kinsman’s hand in the darkness with a reassuring grasp. This -consciousness came to her slowly, she could scarcely tell how; and -whether he himself was conscious of it at all she did not know. But let -nobody think this was in the way of love-making or overtures to a new -union. When a girl like Anne, a young woman full of fresh hope and -confidence and all belief in the good and true, meets on her outset into -life with such a ‘disappointment’ as people call it, it is not alone the -loss of her lover that moves her. She has lost her world as well. Her -feet stumble upon the dark mountains; the steadfast sky swims round her -in a confusion of bewildering vapours and sickening giddy lights. She -stands astonished in the midst of a universe going to pieces, like -Hamlet in those times which were out of joint. All that was so clear to -her has become dim. If she has a great courage, she fights her way -through the blinding mists, not knowing where she is going, feeling only -a dull necessity to keep upright, to hold fast to something. And if by -times a hand reaches hers thrust out into the darkness, guiding to this -side or that, her fingers close upon it with an instinct of -self-preservation. This, I suppose, is what used to be called catching a -heart in the rebound. Heathcote himself was not thinking of catching -this heart in its rebound. He was not himself aware when he helped her; -but he was dimly conscious of the pilgrimage she was making out of the -gloom back into the light.</p> - -<p>This was going on all the winter through. Mr.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_455" id="page_455">{455}</a></span> Morris’s papers, and all -the harmonies or discordances of the furniture, and the struggle against -too much of Queen Anne, and the attempts to make some compromise that -could bear the name of Queen Victoria, afforded a dim amusement, a -background of trivial fact and reality which it was good to be able -always to make out among the mists. Love may perish, but the -willow-pattern remains. The foundation of the world may be shaken, but -so long as the dado is steady! Anne had humour enough to take the good -of all these helps, to smile, and then laugh, at all the dimly comic -elements around her, from the tremendous seriousness of the decorator, -up to the distress and perplexity of the Rector and his alarmed -perception of the possible old maid in her. Anne herself was not in the -least alarmed by the title which made Mr. Ashley shiver. The idea of -going over all that course of enchantment once again was impossible. It -had been enchantment once—a second time it would be—what would a -second time be? impossible! That was all that could be said. It was over -for her, as certainly as life of this kind is over for a widow. To be -sure it is not always over even for a widow: but Anne, highly -fantastical as became her temper and her years, rejected with a lofty -disdain any idea of renewal. Nevertheless, towards the spring, after the -darkness had begun to lighten a little, when she found at a hard corner -that metaphorical hand of Heathcote taking hers, helping her across a -bad bit of the road, her heart was conscious of a throb of pleasure.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_456" id="page_456">{456}</a></span></p> - -<h2><a name="CHAPTER_XXXVI" id="CHAPTER_XXXVI"></a>CHAPTER XXXVI.<br /><br /> -<small>THE LAST.</small></h2> - -<p class="nind"><span class="smcap">Rose’s</span> behaviour had been a trouble and a puzzle to her family during -the latter part of the year. Whether it was that the change from the -dissipation of London and the variety of their wanderings ‘abroad’ to -the dead quiet of country life, in which the young heiress became again -little Rose and nothing more, was a change beyond the powers of -endurance, or whether it was some new spring of life in her, nobody -could tell. She became fretful and uncertain in temper, cross to her -mother, and absolutely rebellious against Anne, to whom she spoke in a -way which even Mrs. Mountford was moved to declare ‘very unbecoming.’</p> - -<p>‘You ought to remember that Anne is your elder sister, at least, -whatever else,’ the mother said, who had always been a little aggrieved -by the fact that, even in making her poor, her father had given to Anne -a position of such authority in the house.</p> - -<p>‘Mamma!’ Rose had cried, flushed and furious, ‘she may manage my -property, but she shall not manage <i>me</i>.’</p> - -<p>The little girl talked a great deal about her property in those days, -except when Mr. Loseby was present, who was the only person, her mother -said, who seemed to exercise any control over her. By-and-by, however, -this disturbed condition of mind calmed down. She gave Willie Ashley a -great deal of ‘encouragement’ during the Christmas holidays; then turned -round upon him at Easter, and scarcely knew him. But this was Rose’s -way, and nobody minded very much. In short, the Curate was cruelly -consoled by his brother’s misadventure. It is a sad confession to have -to make; but, good Christian as<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_457" id="page_457">{457}</a></span> he was, Charley Ashley felt better when -he found that Willie had tumbled down from confidence to despair.</p> - -<p>‘I told you you were a fool all the time,’ he said, with that fraternal -frankness which is common among brothers; and he felt it less hard -afterwards to endure the entire abandonment in his own person of any -sort of hope.</p> - -<p>And thus the time went on. Routine reasserted those inalienable rights -which are more potent than anything else on earth, and everybody yielded -to them. The Mountfords, like the rest, owned that salutary bondage. -They half forgot the things that had happened to them—Anne her -disenchantments, Rose her discovery, and Mrs. Mountford that life had -ever differed much from its present aspect. All things pass away except -dinner-time and bed-time, the day’s business, and the servants’ meals.</p> - -<p>But when the third year was nearly completed from Mr. Mountford’s death, -the agitation of past times began to return again. Rose’s temper began -to give more trouble than ever, and Mr. Loseby’s visits were more -frequent, and even Anne showed a disturbance of mind unusual to her. She -explained this to her kinsman Heathcote one autumn afternoon, a few days -before Rose’s birthday. He had asked the party to go and see the last -batch of the cottages, which had been completed—a compliment which went -to Anne’s heart—according to her plans. But Heathcote had stopped to -point out some special features to his cousin, and these two came along -some way after the others. The afternoon was soft and balmy, though it -was late in the year. The trees stood out in great tufts of yellow and -crimson against the sky, which had begun to emulate their hues. The -paths were strewed, as for a religious procession, with leaves of russet -and gold, and the<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_458" id="page_458">{458}</a></span> low sun threw level lights over the slopes of the -park, which were pathetically green with the wet and damp of approaching -winter.</p> - -<p>‘The season is all stillness and completion,’ Anne said; ‘but I am -restless. I don’t know what is the matter with me. I want to be in -motion—to do something—from morning to night.’</p> - -<p>‘You have had too much of the monotony of our quiet life.’</p> - -<p>‘No: you forget I have always been used to the country; it is not -monotonous to me. Indeed, I know well enough what it is,’ said Anne, -with a smile. ‘It is Rose’s birthday coming so near. I will lose my -occupation, which I am fond of—and what shall I do?’</p> - -<p>‘I could tell you some things to do.’</p> - -<p>‘Oh, no doubt I shall find something,’ said Anne, with heightened -colour. ‘I cannot find out from Rose what she intends. It must be a -curious sensation for a little girl who—has never been anything but a -little girl—to come into such a responsibility all at once.’</p> - -<p>‘But you were no older than she—when you came into—’ said Heathcote, -watching her countenance—‘all this responsibility, and other things as -well.’</p> - -<p>‘I was older, a great deal, when I was born,’ said Anne, with a laugh. -‘It is so different—even to be the eldest makes a difference. I think I -shall ask Rose to keep me on as land-agent. She must have someone.’</p> - -<p>‘On your own property; on the land which your mother brought into the -family; on what would have been yours but for——’</p> - -<p>‘Hu-ush!’ said Anne, with a prolonged soft utterance, lifting her hand -as if to put it on his mouth; and, with a smile, ‘never say anything of -that—it is over—it is all over. I don’t mind it now; I am<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_459" id="page_459">{459}</a></span> rather -glad,’ she said resolutely, ‘if it must be faced, and we must talk of -it—rather glad that it is for nothing that I have paid the price: -without any compensation. I dare say it is unreasonable, but I don’t -think there is any bitterness in my mind. Don’t bring it up——’</p> - -<p>‘I will not—God forbid!’ he said, ‘bring bitterness to your -sweetness—not for anything in the world, Anne; but think, now you are -free from your three years’ work, now your time will be your own, your -hands empty——’</p> - -<p>‘Think! why that is what I am thinking all day long: and I don’t like -it. I will ask Rose to appoint me her land-agent.’</p> - -<p>‘I will appoint you mine,’ he said. ‘Anne, we have been coming to this -moment all these three years. Don’t send me away without thinking it -over again. Do you remember all that long time ago how I complained that -I had been forestalled; that I had not been given a chance? And for two -years I have not dared to say a word. But see the change in my life. I -have given up all I used to care for. I have thought of nothing but -Mount and you—you and Mount. It does not matter which name comes first; -it means one thing. Now that you are free, it is not Rose’s land-agent -but mine that you ought to be. I am not your love,’ he said, a deep -colour rising over his face, ‘but you are mine, Anne. And, though it -sounds blasphemy to say so, love is not everything; life is something; -and there is plenty for us to do—together.’</p> - -<p>His voice broke off, full of emotion, and for a moment or two she could -not command hers. Then she said, with a tremor in her -tone—‘Heathcote—you are poor and I am poor. Two poverties together -will not do the old place much good.’</p> - -<p>‘Is that all you know, Anne——still? They will make the old place -holy; they will make it<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_460" id="page_460">{460}</a></span> the beginning of better things to come. But if -it is not possible still to sacrifice those other thoughts—I can wait, -dear,’ he said, hurriedly, ‘I can wait.’</p> - -<p>Then there was a little pause, full of fate. After a time she answered -him clearly, steadily. ‘There is no question of sacrifice: but wait a -little, Heathcote, wait still a little.’ Then she said with something -that tried to be a laugh, ‘You are like the Rector; you are frightened -lest I should be an old maid.’</p> - -<p>And then in his agitation he uttered a cry of alarm as genuine as the -Rector’s, but more practical. ‘That you shall not be!’ he cried -suddenly, grasping her arm in both his hands. Anne did not know whether -to be amused or offended. But after awhile they went on quietly together -talking, if not of love, yet of what Heathcote called life—which -perhaps was not so very different in the sense in which the word was at -present employed.</p> - -<p>Two days after was Rose’s birthday. Mr. Loseby came over in great state -from Hunston, and the friends of the family were all gathered early, the -Ashleys and Heathcote coming to luncheon, with Fanny Woodhead and her -sister, while a great party was to assemble in the evening. Rose -herself, oddly enough, had resisted this party, and done everything she -could against it, which her mother had set down to simple perversity, -with much reason on her side. ‘Of course we must have a party,’ Mrs. -Mountford said. ‘Could anything be more ridiculous? A coming of age and -no rejoicing! We should have had a party under any circumstances, even -if you had not been so important a person.’ Rose cried when the -invitations were sent out. There were traces of tears and a feverish -agitation about her as the days went on. Two or three times she was -found in close conversation with Mr. Loseby, and once or<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_461" id="page_461">{461}</a></span> twice he had -the look of urging something upon her which she resisted. Mrs. Mountford -thought she knew all about this. It was, no doubt his constant appeal -about the provision to be made for Anne. This was a point upon which the -sentiments of Rose’s mother had undergone several changes. At one time -she had been very willing that a division of the property should take -place, not, perhaps, a quite equal division, but sufficiently so to -content the world, and give everybody the impression that Rose ‘had -behaved very handsomely!’ but at another time it had appeared to her -that to settle upon Anne the five hundred a year which had been her -allowance as the guardian of her sister’s interests, would be a very -sufficient provision. She had, as she said, kept herself aloof from -these discussions latterly, declaring that she would not influence her -daughter’s mind—that Rose must decide for herself. And this, no doubt, -was the subject upon which Mr. Loseby dwelt with so much insistence. -Mrs. Mountford did not hesitate to say that she had no patience with -him. ‘I suppose it is always the same subject,’ she said. ‘My darling -child, I won’t interfere. You must consult your own heart, which will be -your best guide. I might be biassed, and I have made up my mind not to -interfere.’ Rose was excited and impatient, and would scarcely listen to -her mother. ‘I wish nobody would interfere,’ she cried; ‘I wish they -would leave us alone, and let us settle it our own way.’</p> - -<p>At last the all-important day arrived. The bells were rung in the little -church at Lilford very early, and woke Rose with a sound of -congratulation, to a day which was as bright as her life, full of -sunshine and freshness, the sky all blue and shining, the country gay -with its autumn robes, every tree in a holiday dress. Presents poured in -upon her on all sides. All her friends, far and near, had remem<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_462" id="page_462">{462}</a></span>bered, -even those who were out of the way, too far off to be invited for the -evening festivities, what a great day it was in Rose’s life. But she -herself did not present the same peaceful and brilliant aspect. Mrs. -Worth had not this time been successful about her dress. She was in a -flutter of many ribbons as happened to be the fashion of the moment, and -her round and blooming face was full of agitation, quite uncongenial to -its character. There were lines of anxiety in her soft forehead, and a -hot feverish flush upon her cheeks. When the Ashleys arrived they were -called into the library where the family had assembled—a large sunny -room filled at one end with a great bow-window, opening upon the lawn, -which was the favourite morning-room of the family. At the upper end, at -the big writing-table which was generally Anne’s throne of serious -occupation, both the sisters were seated with Mr. Loseby and his blue -bag. Mr. Loseby had been going over his accounts, and Anne had brought -her big books, while Rose between them, like a poor little boat bobbing -up and down helplessly on this troubled sea of business, gave an -agitated attention to all they said to her. Mrs. Mountford sat at the -nearest window with her worsted work, as usual counting her stitches, -and doing her best to look calm and at her ease, though there was a -throb of anxiety which she did not understand in her mind, for what was -there to be anxious about? The strangers felt themselves out of place at -this serious moment, all except the old Rector, whose interest was so -strong and genuine that he went up quite naturally to the table, and -drew his chair towards it, as if he had a right to know all about it. -Heathcote Mountford stood against the wall, near Mrs. Mountford, and -made a solemn remark to her now and then about nothing at all, while -Charley and Willie stood about against the light in the bow-window, -mentally leaning against<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_463" id="page_463">{463}</a></span> each other, and wishing themselves a hundred -miles away.</p> - -<p>The group at the table was a peculiar one: little Rose in the centre, -restless, uneasy, a flush on her face, clasping and unclasping her -hands, turning helplessly from one to the other: Mr. Loseby’s shining -bald head stooped over the papers, its polished crown turned towards the -company as he ran on in an unbroken stream of explanation and -instruction, while Anne on the other side, serene and fair, sat -listening with far more attention than her sister. Anne had never looked -so much herself since all these troubles arose. Her countenance was -tranquil and shining as the day. She had on (the Curate thought) the -very same dress of white cashmere, easy and graceful in its long -sweeping folds, which she wore at Lady Meadowlands’ party; but as that -was three years ago, I need not say the gown was not identically the -same. A great quietness was in Anne’s mind. She was pleased, for one -thing, with the approbation she had received. Mr. Loseby had declared -that her books were kept as no clerk in his office could have kept them. -Perhaps this was exaggerated praise, and bookkeeping is not an heroic -gift, but yet the approbation pleased her. And she had executed her -father’s trust. Whatever might be the next step in her career, this, at -least, was well ended, and peace was in her face and her heart. She made -a little sign of salutation to Charley and Willie as they came in, -smiling at them with the ease that befitted their fraternal relations. A -soft repose was about her. Her time of probation, her lonely work, was -over. Was there now, perhaps, a brighter epoch, a happier life to begin?</p> - -<p>But Rose was neither happy nor serene; her hot hands kept on a perpetual -manœuvring, her face grew more and more painfully red, her ribbons -fluttered with the nervous trembling in her—now<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_464" id="page_464">{464}</a></span> and then the light -seemed to fail from her eyes. She could scarcely contain herself while -Mr. Loseby’s voice went on. Rose scarcely knew what she wanted or -wished. Straight in front of her lay the packet directed in her father’s -hand to Mr. Loseby, the contents of which she knew, but nobody else -knew. Fifty times over she was on the point of covering it with her -sleeve, slipping it into her pocket. What was the use of going on with -all this farce of making over her fortune to her, if <i>that</i> was to be -produced at the end? or was it possible, perhaps, that it was not to be -produced? that this nightmare, which had oppressed her all the time, had -meant nothing after all? Rose was gradually growing beyond her own -control. The room went round and round with her; she saw the figures -surrounding her darkly, scarcely knowing who they were. Mr. Loseby’s -voice running on seemed like an iron screw going through and through her -head. If she waited a moment longer everything would be over. She -clutched at Anne’s arm for something to hold fast by—her hour had come.</p> - -<p>They were all roused up in a moment by the interruption of some unusual -sound, and suddenly Rose was heard speaking in tones which were sharp -and urgent in confused passion. ‘I don’t want to hear any more,’ she -said; ‘what is the use of it all? Oh, Mr. Loseby, please be quiet for -one moment and let me speak! The first thing is to make a new will.</p> - -<p>‘To make your will—there is plenty of time for that,’ said the old -lawyer, astonished, pushing his spectacles as usual out of his way; -while Mrs. Mountford said with a glance up from her worsted-work, ‘My -pet! that is not work for to-day.’</p> - -<p>‘Not my will—but papa’s!’ she cried. ‘Mr. Loseby, you know; you have -always said I must change the will. Anne is to have the half—I settled<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_465" id="page_465">{465}</a></span> -it long ago. We are to put it all right. I want Anne to have the -half—or nearly the half!’ she cried, with momentary hesitation, ‘before -it is too late. Put it all down, and I will sign; the half, or as near -the half as—— Quick! I want it all to be settled before it is too -late!’</p> - -<p>What did she mean by too late? Anne put her arm behind her sister to -support her, and kissed her with trembling lips. ‘My Rosie!’ she cried, -‘my little sister!’ with tears brimming over. Mrs. Mountford threw down -all her wools and rushed to her child’s side. They all drew close, -thinking that ‘too late’ could only mean some fatal impression on the -girl’s mind that she was going to die.</p> - -<p>‘Yes, half: half is a great deal!’ said Rose, stammering, ‘nearly half, -you know—I have always meant it. Why should I have all and she none? -And she has not married Mr. Douglas—I don’t know why. I think—but it -hasn’t come about—I want everybody to know, papa made a mistake; but I -give it to her, <i>I</i> give it to her! Mr. Loseby, make a new will, and say -that half—or nearly half—is to be for Anne. And oh! please, no more -business—that will do for to-day.’</p> - -<p>She got up and sat down as she was speaking, feverishly. She shook off -her mother’s hand on her shoulder, gave up her hold upon Anne, drew her -hand out of the Rector’s, who had clasped it, bidding God bless her, -with tears running down his old cheeks. She scarcely even submitted to -the pressure of Anne’s arm, which was round her, and did not seem to -understand when her sister spoke. ‘Rose!’ Anne was saying, making an -appeal to all the bystanders, ‘Do you know what she says? She is giving -me everything back. Do you hear her—the child! My little Rosie! I don’t -care—I don’t care for the money; but it is everything that she is -giving me. What a heart she has! do you hear,<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_466" id="page_466">{466}</a></span> do you all -hear?—everything!’ Anne’s voice of surprise and generous joy went to -all their hearts.</p> - -<p>Mrs. Mountford made an effort to draw Rose towards herself. ‘There had -better be no exaggeration—she said the half—and it is a great thing to -do,’ said the mother thoughtfully. There was nothing to be said against -it; still half was a great deal, and even Rose, though almost wild with -excitement, felt this too.</p> - -<p>‘Yes, half—I did not mean all, as Anne seems to think; half is—a great -deal! Mr. Loseby, write it all down and I will sign it. Isn’t that -enough—enough for to-day?’</p> - -<p>‘Only one thing else,’ Mr. Loseby said. He put out his hand and took up -the letter that was lying innocently among the other papers. ‘This -letter,’ he said—but he was not allowed to go any further. Rose turned -upon him all feverish and excited, and tore it out of his hands. ‘Anne!’ -she cried, with a gasp, ‘Anne! I can’t hear any more to-day.’</p> - -<p>‘No more, no more,’ said Anne, soothingly; ‘what do we want more, Mr. -Loseby? She is quite right. If you were to secure the crown to me, you -could not make me more happy. My little Rose! I am richer than the -Queen!’ Anne cried, her voice breaking. But then, to the astonishment of -everybody, Rose burst from her, threw down the letter on the table, and -covered her face, with a cry shrill and sharp as if called forth by -bodily pain.</p> - -<p>‘You can read it, if you please,’ the girl cried; ‘but if you read it, I -will die!’</p> - -<p>Mr. Loseby looked at Anne and she at him. Something passed between them -in that look, which the others did not understand. A sudden flush of -colour covered her face. She said softly ‘My trust is not over yet. What -can it matter to anyone but<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_467" id="page_467">{467}</a></span> ourselves what is in the letter? We have -had business enough for one day.’</p> - -<p>And Rose did not appear at lunch. She had been overwrought, everybody -said. She lay down in a dark room all the afternoon with a great deal of -eau de Cologne about, and her mother sitting by. Mrs. Mountford believed -in bed, and the pulling down of the blinds. It was a very strange day: -after the luncheon, at which the queen of the feast was absent, and no -one knew what to say, the familiar guests walked about the grounds for a -little, not knowing what to think, and then judiciously took themselves -away till the evening, while Mr. Loseby disappeared with Anne, and Mrs. -Mountford soothed her daughter. In the evening Rose appeared in a very -pretty dress, though with pale cheeks. Anne, who was far more serious -now than she had been in the morning, kissed her little sister tenderly, -but they did not say anything to each other. Neither from that time to -this has the subject ever been mentioned by one to the other. The money -was divided exactly between them, and Anne gave no explanations even to -her most intimate friends. Whether it was Rose who shared with her, or -she with Rose, nobody knew. The news stole out, and for a little while -everybody celebrated Rose to the echo; but then another whisper got -abroad, and no one knew what to think. As a matter of fact, however, Mr. -Mountford’s two daughters divided everything he left behind. The only -indication Anne ever received that the facts of the case had oozed out -beyond the circle of the family, was in the following strange letter, -which she received some time after, when her approaching marriage to -Heathcote Mountford, of Mount, was made known:—</p> - -<p>‘You will be surprised to receive a letter from me. Perhaps it is an -impertinence on my part to write.<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_468" id="page_468">{468}</a></span> But I will never forget the past, -though I may take it for granted that you have done so. Your father’s -letter, which I hear was read on your sister’s birthday, will explain -many things to you and, perhaps, myself among the many. I do not pretend -that I was aware of it, but I may say that I divined it; and divining -it, what but one thing in the face of all misconstructions, remained for -me to do? Perhaps you will understand me and do me a little justice now. -Pardon me, at least, for having troubled even so small a portion of your -life. I try to rejoice that it has been but a small portion. In mine you -stand where you always did. The altar may be veiled and the worshipper -say his litanies unheard. He is a nonjuror, and his rites are licensed -by no authority, civil or sacred: nor can he sing mass for any new king. -Yet in darkness and silence and humiliation, for your welfare, -happiness, and prosperity does ever pray—C. D.’</p> - -<p>Anne was moved by this letter more than it deserved, and wondered if, -perhaps——? But it did not shake her happiness as, possibly, it was -intended to do.</p> - -<p>And then followed one of the most remarkable events in this story. Rose, -who had always been more or less worldly-minded, and who would never -have hesitated to say that to better yourself was the most legitimate -object in life—Rose—no longer a great heiress, but a little person -with a very good fortune, and quite capable of making what she, herself, -would have called a good marriage—Rose married Willie Ashley, to the -astonishment and consternation of everybody. Mrs. Mountford, though she -lives with them and is on the whole fond of her son-in-law, has not even -yet got over her surprise. And as for the old Rector, it did more than -surprise, it bewildered him. A shade of alarm comes over his countenance -still, when he speaks of it. ‘I<span class="pagenum"><a name="page_469" id="page_469">{469}</a></span> had nothing to do with it,’ he is -always ready to say. With the Curate the feeling is still deeper and -more sombre. In the depths of his heart he cannot forgive his brother. -That Rose should have been the one to appreciate modest merit and give -it its reward, Rose and not her sister—seems like blasphemy to Charley. -Nevertheless, there are hopes that Lucy Woodhead, who is growing up a -very nice girl, and prettier than her sister, may induce even the -faithful Curate to change the current of his thoughts and ways.</p> - -<p class="fint">THE END.<br /><br /><br /> -PRINTED BY BALLANTYNE, HANSON AND CO.<br /> -EDINBURGH AND LONDON<br /> -</p> - -<hr class="full" /> -<div style='display:block; margin-top:4em'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK IN TRUST; THE STORY OF A LADY AND HER LOVER ***</div> -<div style='text-align:left'> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Updated editions will replace the previous one—the old editions will -be renamed. -</div> - -<div style='display:block; margin:1em 0'> -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law 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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