CHAPTER IX

LOUISE'S DEPARTURE

"DEAR ANSTICE,—

"Many thanks for your letter and all your news. I don't doubt that

you're working wonders in my household. I shall be duly grateful on my

next visit home. Out here, my house and estate, and children all seem

vague and shadowy. But I like to hear of you all, so keep me posted

with details. You seem pretty experienced with children, so I'll leave

you to deal with Ruffie's education. I'm sure the little scamp won't

be too industrious. I have had the misfortune to damage my boat rather

seriously in a storm we came into two days ago, so we're going on

shore for repairs. This will delay me. I am glad you have made Malcolm

Dermot's acquaintance. He and I have been pals for many a long year. I

really don't understand why any awkward question may crop up. You have

married a rover—and you knew it when you did it. I have known other

married men who are both travellers and big game hunters. It is not

unusual. Perhaps our speedy marriage was unusual—I even acknowledge a

good bit of selfishness on my side; but you seem to be getting some

degree of comfort and enjoyment out of it, and I hope you'll continue

to do so.

"And tell the kind friends who ask inquisitive questions, that you

have a selfish brute of a husband who is not over-fond of children's

racket, and doesn't take to domesticity, but that you are not pining

for his society, and prefer to be without him. Isn't this the plain

truth? Let them swallow it, and say no more. Tell the youngsters,

I'll bring them back a parrot according to Ruffie's request, but as

to whether it will talk or not is at present unknown to me.

"Yours,

"JUSTIN H."

Anstice read this first letter from her husband, and drew a little

sigh. She had not expected more from him; and yet it left her with

the feeling that he was farther away than ever. Then she folded up

the letter and put it into her Davenport. Her occupation for the day

crowded out all thoughts of an indifferent husband. She had at last got

a satisfactory wicker chair made for Ruffie, and this was going to be

strapped on to the steady old cob, who was a mountain pony, bred and

born amongst the Fells, and consequently surefooted.

Ruffie's delight and astonishment when the cob was brought round to

the door for his inspection was very great. Brenda carried him down,

and then soft cushions were put into the little chair, and he took his

first ride down the drive. He declared it did not shake him at all and

wanted to go up the Fells then and there, but Anstice would not allow

that.

A week later, when he was found to be no worse for the motion, she and

the little girls took him up the lane at the back of the house and up

the nearest Fell.

The little boy's joy was unbounded, and when he finally reached the

summit of rather a small height, he sat looking out at the views below

him with rapturous eyes.

"I've never been above the earth before," he said. "What a lot you can

see! I s'pose in Heaven they can see all the world at once. That's why

God can see everybody."

"Isn't he ridic'lus!" laughed Georgie.

But Anstice did not think him so, and Ruffie was totally indifferent to

his sister's opinion of him.

Two days later, Anstice reminded them that the month was up. She told

the little girls this at the luncheon table.

Josie nodded gravely.

"Yes, me and Georgie made a tick in our calendar. Ruffie said we

weren't to say anything about it, but we meant to. We aren't going to

do what Ruffie says."

"Well, is it necessary to have another pow-wow?"

"Oh yes, that's fun! May we have it to-night?"

"Certainly. At six o'clock."

"I don't mean to paint up so much," Georgie announced. "It hurts

scraping it off!"

So that evening the pow-wow was held, and the fire was lighted in the

library, and three earnest-faced children sat round it with Anstice.

Josie was the first one to speak.

"We don't want to fight you," she said; "and you've given us a lot

of nice things. Ruffie has got his chair, and Georgie and me our

sitting-room, and our lessons aren't half bad now. I think we'll go on

as we are."

"Yes," nodded Georgie. "You aren't always running after us like the

governesses used to do. You let us get away from you sometimes. But we

want you to promise us that in the holidays we can do exactly as we

like."

"What does Ruffie say?" Anstice asked.

For answer, Ruffie wriggled closer to her and laid his head on her

shoulder.

"I love you," he said; "and I don't care if all the world knows it! I

don't want you ever to leave us."

Anstice felt tears rising to her eyes.

"My darlings!" she said. "Yes, I call you all darlings, because you

are. I don't mean to leave you. I want you to be as happy as children

can be. I shan't be hard on you in the holidays, Georgie. If you get

into scrapes, you must learn by experience that scrapes mean trouble to

you or to others. Tell me if you can what you want to do, and I'll meet

you as far as I can. And I'll try and make the holidays a really jolly

time."

After the pow-wow was over Josie got Georgie into a corner.

"It's no good," she said, "trying to go against her. And the funny

thing is that I don't want to. When did you first begin to like her,

Georgie?"

"It was one day when I called out to her, and she said: 'What is it,

darling?' Nobody had ever called me 'darling' before. I felt I could

hug her when she said it!"

"Yes, I s'pose it's because we feel she really likes us, and loves a

bit of fun."

As for Anstice, she was inexpressibly thankful that she had managed to

win the liking if not love of these troublesome children. Her Sunday

readings and talks she felt was an opportunity for sowing seed in the

soft ground of childish hearts, and though she never expected to turn

them into perfect children, she did seem to see a softening impression

upon their characters.

She found her time fully occupied through these long summer days.

Louise was a regular weekly visitor. She had taken a violent, almost

schoolgirl adoration for Anstice, and though she was not willing at

present to discuss religious matters with her, she was, in other

respects, as clay in her hands.

She had started a garden, and it was taking hold of her: she was

reading with avidity all the books that Anstice could lend her, and her

outlook on life was happier. She had been to see old Tommy Nixon and

his sister, and confessed that their cheery content did her good.

"But," she said, "they are old, and I am young. And the woman has

outgrown all restlessness."

One day she invited Anstice over to lunch. Her uncle smartened himself

up for the occasion, and struck Anstice as being a courteous scholar of

the old school. He and she discussed books together, for Anstice had

always been a great reader, and Louise said afterwards that her uncle

had talked more that day in an hour than he had done for a year when

only with her.

Anstice was gradually increasing her circle of acquaintances. Colonel

and Mrs. McInnes, who were regular church-goers, were very friendly.

Their daughters for a time held aloof; then, when they found Anstice a

good tennis player, persuaded her to come over sometimes to play with

them. There were a certain amount of summer visitors who were making

the neighbourhood quite gay. Anstice went to one or two garden-parties

and some local Fêtes and Flower-shows, but she preferred being quiet at

home.

When the holidays began, she had a tennis-court marked out on the

smooth level lawn, and instituted tennis as a pastime for the little

girls. They took to it at once, and it kept them out of mischief.

Picnics on the Fells, and on the lake; expeditions with the pony taking

Ruffie, ending up with farm-house teas, and occasional children's

parties at home—these all filled up the holiday time, and made life

enjoyable.

So the summer passed, lessons began again, and then came a wet spell of

autumn mists and rain.

Louise did not appear for three weeks, then Anstice heard she was ill,

and one day when the rain seemed to have cleared, she tramped over the

Fells herself to see how she was.

She found her in bed with bronchitis; she had narrowly escaped

pneumonia, and was lying very weak and dispirited. When she saw Anstice

come into the room, she looked up with real interest. For days, her

uncle said she had lain, saying nothing, and only taking food from the

little maid, Mary, who waited upon her.

"Oh," she said in a weak voice; "I have wanted you so much. I thought

I was going to die, and I was almost glad, and then I began to get

frightened and I prayed that I might be given another chance. But I

have been so lonely and miserable, and the rain has beaten against my

windows and the wind howled in the chimneys, and I felt as bad as I did

before you came!"

"My poor child!"

Anstice laid her hand caressingly against her cheek.

"If you did not live so far off, I would bring our trap over and drive

you home with me. I think I must get a car to come over for you.

Wrapped up, you would not hurt. That is if your uncle can spare you.

But you are not much good to him tucked away up here. I think I must go

down and consult with him."

A hot flush came into Louise's pale cheeks. Such a vista opening out

before her, as a visit to Butterdale Manor, was enough to fill her with

fresh hope and courage. She lay patiently in her small bed, awaiting

Anstice's return. She was a good half-hour away, and when she came up,

she smiled at the invalid in a very reassuring way.

"You have to be very good now, and take your medicine and food

regularly and get up your strength. This is Friday. On Monday, I shall

come myself in a car and bring you back to Butterdale with me. I am

going to nurse you back to health. And your uncle is quite willing. He

and I have had a very nice talk together. I think it is a pity you have

not confided in him more. He cares about you much more than you think."

"Will he really let me come to you?"

"Of course he will. I mustn't stay, for it is nearly dusk now. We will

meet again if all is well on Monday. I shall come over in the morning

for you."

And on Monday, Louise came to the Manor, and was put in a sweet little

room near Anstice. It was a haven of rest to her. The little girls were

delighted to visit her, and their light-hearted chatter brightened

her up. When she was quite convalescent, she walked up and down the

terrace outside in the sun, and Anstice and she had many a serious talk

together. One day, Anstice went over to Ramdale again to see her uncle

about her return. She came back to Louise with smiling face.

"I have wonderful news for you. I don't know whether it will be for

your true welfare or not, but the desire of your heart has been

granted."

"Oh, tell me quick, quick! Has uncle got another living? Is he going to

leave Ramdale?"

"No, but he is perfectly willing for you to go up to London and there

carve out your own life—and earn your living if you can."

"Back to London?"

Such light and colour came into Louise's pale face that it made her

absolutely beautiful. Then she faltered out:

"But how can I be spared? Who will look after him and the parish?

I haven't done much, I know, but I've just managed to keep things

together."

"Well, it is rather strange, but I happen to know a woman who would be

glad to go to your uncle as housekeeper. She used to be a cook at my

old home, but she is a most superior woman, and she loves the country.

I have not said anything to you, but I have been corresponding with

her about the post for some time. When you were ill and I had that

talk with your uncle, he said that he had often thought it was much

too lonely a life for a girl of your age, but he would not dream of

turning you out to earn your own living. I told him that was what you

were longing to do, and he said he wished that you had talked to him

about it. So then I set to work. Now when you are quite strong, you can

go anywhere you like. He will be able to give you a small allowance to

keep you from starving. What will you do, I wonder?"

Louise could hardly believe her ears. That very day, she wrote to her

old school friend the art student in London, and before very long, she

had arranged to share her small flat with her, and seek for congenial

work in that neighbourhood.

Anstice listened to the eager girl's hopes and aspirations. She did

not like to quench her ardour, but wrote to her cousins in London and

asked them to befriend her, and take her to occasional concerts and

entertainments. As to what she was going to do, Louise had very little

idea.

"I am not stupid. If other girls can learn shorthand and typewriting,

I can, and if I can't get office work, I shall go into some shop

or business place. I don't care what I do; I wouldn't mind selling

flowers, if only I can be in the middle of life again and in London."

But when the time came for her to leave the Manor, Louise was very

tearful. She hugged Anstice in quite a childish way.

"You won't give me up, and forget me? You will write to me and let me

write to you?"

"My dear, I don't make friends one day, and give them up the next. Of

course, we will write to each other. I am in a way responsible for this

London move, but I feel, when we are young, 'oughts' go down under

'wants.' It is of no use eating one's heart out thinking of all the

brave things we could do and dare, the best thing is to be given the

opportunity of attempting them."

"Yes, I shall be grateful to you all my life for getting me this

chance. I hope I shall make good! Though I feel you don't in your heart

approve of my going. You think it best for me to buy my experience! I

know! But you just wait and see! The hardest thing of all is to go away

from you!"

She went back to Ramdale for a week, and then departed to London, and

Anstice really missed her, for she had been in and out of the Manor so

much.

One day Anstice asked Mrs. Fergusson to stay to lunch when the

children's lessons were over.

"This incessant rain is getting upon my nerves," she said to her

laughingly. "I did not know I had any till lately. I feel as if I want

a good talk with some one to take me out of myself."

So Mrs. Fergusson stayed. Anstice always enjoyed her society. She had

read much and been about to many different countries, for she travelled

with her Russian pupils a great deal.

Anstice told her about Louise.

"I am so afraid she may fail in London. Can you give any advice about

work for a girl of her capabilities?"

"It is difficult. There is such a mad rush of these girls to London

now. They are overcrowding each other. If I had a daughter, I would

endeavour to keep her away from the offices in town. It is not a

healthy life in many ways. I wonder if she would like a secretary's

post in a large girls' school at Hampstead? I know the principal of

it, and could put in a word for her. She looks a capable girl, but of

course there will be about fifty or more trying to get the post, and

she wants to have some knowledge of book-keeping."

"That she could soon learn. May I write and suggest it to her?"

"Certainly, and let me know if she would like such a job."

Then Mrs. Fergusson smiled.

"When one chick leaves the shelter of your wing, do you look about for

another? Your own small people do not seem enough for your energy."

"Oh, they are, more than enough, but Louise was brought to me. I could

not help trying to help her. She seemed so solitary and forlorn away

there in the wilds. Even I, in this cheerful house, feel a little bit

down with this constant and ceaseless rain. Does it rain all the winter

here?"

"Oh no, we have lovely spells. Wait till the snow covers the hills, and

we get a rosy sunset! And a cold, bright frosty day with low sunshine

lying across the Fells, and the beautiful colouring of the lake, is too

exquisite for words! I am never lonely in winter. I have my needlework

and books, and sit looking out upon the lake till the moon rises, and

then sit on watching that till bedtime."

"Yes, I can fancy you doing it. I am inclined to waste a lot of time

gazing out of these windows—so I expect I shall enjoy the winters here."

"You will have your husband home soon?"

"Not till Christmas."

Anstice's tone was a little constrained. She changed the topic, and

they plunged into a discussion over a book which had been lent to

Anstice by Mrs. Fergusson. It was on "The Coming Race." Mrs. Fergusson

was an optimist.

"I think things will right themselves later on. It is the age for the

emancipation of the young from parents' rule, from old age principles,

from everything sweetly effeminate. You can no more stem the tide of

on-rushing youth and high spirits than you could dam Niagara's Falls.

And force is never as strong as persuasion—or rather suggestion. We

mustn't try to baulk or prevent them from leading the lives they do; we

can only stand-by in case of catastrophe, and give them a helping hand

when they fall."

"It does seem a strange upheaval to us who look on. The days of

tyrannical parents are gone, it is not the young who have their spirits

broken, it is their poor parents sitting in desolate homes, and in

many cases having no descendants to carry on their name and race. But,

in spite of all this, homes and parents will be loved and respected

again. Reaction will set in. I heard of a young girl the other day,

one of four brothers and sisters, all working and living in town. She

came into an unexpected legacy. And how do you think she spent it? She

wanted to benefit the others beside herself and she spent it all in

establishing herself in a country house, so that the London workers

should have one haven of rest and comfort to which they could come. She

had the home-making instinct, you say. But what she did, others will do

by and by. The restless rush will cease."

"I wish, oh I wish I could think so," said Anstice.

They talked on after lunch in Anstice's pretty morning-room over

a blazing log fire, Mrs. Fergusson busily sewing at her pretty

needlework, and Anstice embroidering some frocks for the little girls.

"There is one point for which you must be thankful," Mrs. Fergusson

said, towards the end of their conversation; "your small stepdaughters

have got a deep and adoring love for their home. They will never stay

long away from it when they get older. I do not think the lure of town

gaiety, and bustle, will have any attraction for them."

"Yes, they are devoted to their home. They consider the lake and Fells

as all part of their personal possessions. It's strange; for their

mother, I hear, never was happy here; neither is their father."

"But I hear he is very tenacious over his property; he will not let an

inch of land go out of his possession. If I may say so, I think the

discomforts in his home have driven him out of it. Men are generally

selfish as regards their own comfort and ease."

"Perhaps so."

Then, as Mrs. Fergusson rose to go, Anstice said impulsively:

"I am going to try to wean him from his wanderings. Wish me success!"

"I feel positively certain you will have it," said Mrs. Fergusson; "and

you certainly will deserve it."

BOOK II

FRIENDS

CHAPTER I

MISSING

SNOW-CAPPED Helvellyn's heights. Butterdale Manor looked out upon

white-crested Fells across a dark purple lake. The house itself was

shuttered up for the night. Justin Holme, in a thick overcoat, stepped

out of a car, and made his way up to his front door. He had sent no

word of his arrival in England. It was his fancy to take his family

unaware.

The respectable maid who opened the door to him was a stranger to him,

and he to her. She asked his name.

He gave a short laugh.

"You need not announce me. I'll announce myself."

He slipped out of his coat, gave directions about his luggage, then

made his way across the hall to the drawing-room. The door was ajar,

and he saw lights within.

Very softly he opened the door and stood silently looking upon the

scene before him.

The light came from the big blazing log fire in the grate. Round it

was gathered a little group. Anstice was seated in a low chair, clad

in a powder-blue velvet gown. The firelight played on her sunny brown

head, on her softly flushed cheeks, and dimples, and happy eyes. She

was telling a story. Her clear, vibrating voice rang out with happy

assurance:

"And so the Prince's troubles were over, his long journeys in search of

happiness was a thing of the past. He had found his dear Princess, and

never meant to leave her side again."

Ruffie's golden head was resting against her knee; he was sitting

amongst his cushions at her feet. Josie and Georgie were sprawling upon

the hearth-rug; their tense, eager faces were devouring every word that

came from Anstice's mouth. It was a pretty, home-like picture, and

Justin's restless eyes softened as he gazed.

Then he swung open the door and strode forward. There were shrieks

from the children, and all was babel and confusion. Ruffie was in his

arms, and the little girls, hanging on to him, were talking eagerly.

No one noticed that there was no greeting between husband and wife. If

for a moment Justin's tall head was bent in Anstice's direction, she

so quickly moved aside that nothing was possible but a few words of

welcome.

"Well, I have taken you all by surprise, have I not? I meant to have

been back in time for Christmas, but I dare say you have got on very

well without me. We were delayed by storms in the Pacific. Have I

brought the parrot? I have, but at present he will only say one word,

and that is not a polite one. You will have to teach him to talk

properly. He is in the hall by this time; come along and see him."

Carrying Ruffie in his arms, Justin took the little girls into the

hall. For the time he was completely absorbed in his children; but when

they were summoned to bed by Brenda, he sank down into an easy chair by

the drawing-room fire.

"They're rather strenuous, those small people, and I'm dead dog tired!

We only got into Liverpool early this afternoon, and we had a rough

tossing. All last night I never went to bed at all."

"You'll feel better after dinner," said Anstice cheerfully. She was

moving about the room as she spoke, tidying up, and putting cushions

into their right places.

"Come and sit down opposite me and let me look at you," said Justin

rather abruptly.

Anstice dropped into a chair with her happy easy laugh.

"I think you'll find no change in me. How do you think the children

look?"

"Oh, they're all right."

He was regarding her with a slow, direct gaze. Anstice felt her cheek

flush, though she was angry with herself for showing any emotion.

"I heard from your Cousin Lucy about a month ago, wanting to know the

length of my desertion. She had been up here for a day or two."

"Yes, on her way to some friends in Northumberland. It was just before

the first snow came. I made her as comfortable as I could, and quite

enjoyed her visit."

"Well, you show no signs of strain; she seemed to think it was all too

much for you alone."

"I have been, and am, very happy. Of course difficulties have arisen.

Cousin Lucy was here when Bob Falkland was taken ill, and I had to get

some one to help about the sheep. Hal Cross has been working over at

the farm, for poor Eliza almost collapsed. I knew you must be on your

way home, so could not write. Bob has had double pneumonia and nearly

died. But he is much better now."

"I could ill spare Bob. He is my right-hand man," said Justin with

concern. Then he looked about the room. "I congratulate you on the

changes you have made here," he said. "This was an unlovable room when

I left it. I suppose I shall find the house much improved?"

"I hope you will."

Then a whimsical sparkle came into his eyes.

"We didn't do so badly for ourselves, did we? Your Cousin Lucy seems to

think that I score most. What do you think?"

"I think," said Anstice, rising, "that you had better get ready for

dinner. You look as if you need it."

She left the room, and after she had gone, Justin drew a long breath.

"Malcolm is right. She's a beautiful creature. And I have been a

selfish brute. She has done wonders for me and mine. I am in my soul

grateful. I wonder if I shall have the courage to tell her so?"

Then he too made a move, and went up to his room. Brenda was there

unpacking his things.

"It seems like old times to see you here," he said to her; "the house

is getting shipshape at last, eh?"

"Oh, sir, it is a happy house now! I never could have believed anybody

could have come and put us all to rights in such a lovely way as Mrs.

Holme has. The little girls be changed entirely. And there's been no

fear or force used—just love and persuasion."

Justin congratulated himself afresh upon the present state of things.

He arrived down to dinner in the best of spirits. Anstice faced him

from one end of the long table. She had changed her gown and was

wearing a soft grey chiffon tea-gown with a bunch of violets on her

shoulder. They talked pleasantly together, Anstice giving him all the

local news, and he telling of his stormy voyage home.

"I really thought at one time, I should never see the shore," he said.

"Would you have cared much, I wonder, if the ocean had claimed me?"

"Ruffie would," responded Anstice lightly; "he never forgets you in his

prayers."

"But what would you have felt?" persisted Justin.

"Look here," said Anstice, dimpling, but though smiling, speaking

firmly, "I must ask you to keep all personalities out of our talk.

You are, as you know, almost a complete stranger to me, and I to you.

We can be friendly without bringing in any personal touch. I have

faithfully kept to my bargain. I expect you to keep to yours."

Justin's brows contracted, then he smiled.

"I will remember. But I am in my own house, and I don't want to be

continually snubbed, and made to feel my place!"

"I have no intention of doing anything of that sort," said Anstice in a

shocked voice. "I hope I shall never forget that you are the master of

the Manor, and the father of your children."

"And your husband," murmured Justin, but he took care that his words

did not reach her.

Justin went into his smoking-room after dinner, and did not join his

wife in the drawing-room until she was about to retire for the night.

He stood beside her silently for a moment, then suddenly put his hand

on her shoulder.

"I have always from a boy found it difficult to express my thanks to

anyone, but I would now thank you for all you have done in my absence.

It must have cost you a good deal of time and strength and effort—may I

say patience?—to have worked such changes amongst my belongings. And I

am duly grateful."

His gravity and sincerity of tone touched Anstice.

"It has been happy work," she said. "I want no thanks. In a way I was

only carrying out the conditions on which I came here, but I have

enjoyed it all, and been far happier than I ever thought possible. Good

night."

She held out her hand, and though for a moment Justin made a movement

as if he were about to claim more from her, he restrained himself, and

went forward to hold open the door for her.

The first few days of Justin's return were rather uncomfortable to

Anstice. He seemed to be watching her every movement, regarding her

with amused, critical eyes, listening to her talk with the children,

to her orders to the servants, and giving her the impression that he

was keenly observant of all her actions and words. It made her feel

self-conscious at first, and then gradually, as they became more

accustomed to be together, they lapsed into easy comradeship, and life

seemed difficult no longer.

Justin found that a good deal of superintendence was necessary on

his farm. Bob had not yet recovered his strength, and to Anstice's

amazement one morning, she saw, from a window, her husband driving the

plough across a seven-acre field. He came into breakfast amazingly

hungry.

"Yes, it's rather different work to yachting, but I've learnt every

branch of farming, and ploughing is interesting," he said to her. "I

have had to put my hands to most things. Bob always told me, I would

take the prize in any ploughing match. We must take advantage of this

mild spell, but our winters aren't severe as a rule up here."

"I want to go over to see the Nixons, if I can," Anstice said, looking

out of the window at a very grey lake and dark stormy skies. "Ellen is

ill; I must see that she is being looked after properly. I hope some of

the Watts at the inn are seeing to her."

"You don't walk over there?"

"Indeed I do. I shall start in an hour's time and take a bit of lunch

with me in case I may be delayed. Don't wait lunch for me—I shall be

back before dark."

"It's a pity you don't ride."

"But I can ride, only there is no horse, is there? I am too heavy for

our poor little pony."

"Would you ride if I got you one? Why haven't you used my mare? I did

not know you could ride."

"Do you think now that Bob would have let me lay a finger on your

darling Sheba?"

Anstice laughed at the very idea.

"No—I love walking, and enjoy the Fells at any time. I am only too

glad of any excuse to get up amongst them. You will be busy with your

ploughing. I shall be home for tea, perhaps long before."

Justin came in for a hurried lunch; he would not allow to himself how

much he missed Anstice, and what a blank there was in the house when

she was out of it. He went out to his ploughing again in the afternoon,

but came in before dusk to inquire if Anstice were home. A thick mist

and fine drizzling rain was already obscuring the Fells from view.

He paced up and down the hall uneasily, then called to Brenda. The

children were all making a great deal of noise in the nursery, so she

did not come at once. He spoke to her very sharply.

"Why don't you come when you are called? Is your mistress accustomed to

the Fells? Can she find her way about? She is not back yet, and there's

a thick mist coming on. Is she out as late as this generally?"

"Maybe she's dropped in to Hockerdale. 'Tis on the way to the Nixons.

She's always in by dusk. But 'tis a goodish step from Rutherswater."

An anxious look came into Brenda's face. Justin waited for twenty

minutes longer, then he went off to the farm, saddled his mare and

set off up into the Fells. He carried an electric torch with him and

flashed it here and there in the hope of attracting attention. The

mist grew thicker, until at last, even he found it difficult to follow

the track. But he managed to find Hockerdale; there, the James' were

sitting down to tea. The farmer sprang to his feet.

"The missus out on the Fells such an afternoon like this! May God save

her! She'll never find her way. I met her this marnin' an' warned her

not to kaap out an' about too lang."

"Have you a lantern, man? Come on with me. We must find her. I think

I'll put up my mare here and go on foot. She's not good at finding her

way in a mist."

Together they pushed on, shouting as they went, and then Frank James

brought slight ease of mind to Justin by reminding him that Anstice had

Hercules with her. Justin, after that, whistled a peculiar whistle of

his, which Hercules would hear and answer if he were anywhere within

reach. A fruitless hour passed, and then the two separated, going in

different directions. Justin determined to reach Rutherswater, if he

could. Anstice, he argued to himself, might still be taking refuge

with the old Nixons. So he pushed on, missing his track continually,

retracing his steps to find it again, and all the time shouting and

whistling to Hercules.

At last, there was a thudding of feet, a big form sprang upon him with

a low whimper of recognition. It was the mastiff. He heaved a deep sigh

of relief. He was on the right track.

"All right, old fellow. Take me to her! Fetch her!"

Hercules understood; but as he was bounding away Justin gripped him by

the collar.

"Not so fast, my man! I don't mean to lose you again if I can help it."

He took off a muffler he had round his throat, and slipped one end of

it through the mastiff's collar. Then suffered himself to be led along

at breakneck speed. But he believed in Hercules, and did not expect to

be dashed over the edge of some crag.

After a quarter of an hour's hard walking, they came right off the path

amongst rough blocks of granite. Here Justin stumbled again and again,

but Hercules led steadily on, and then—was it fancy? He thought he

heard a faint cry in the distance. They were descending now a steep,

precipitous path. It was dangerous going. But they rounded a sharp

corner and came upon a flat grassy plateau. And here, dimly through the

moving mist, he saw, under the shadow of a sharp overhanging crag, a

figure.

"Anstice!" he shouted.

And her voice, clear as a bell, answered him:

"I am here. This way!"

[Illustration: "He must have fallen down here from above."

_Her Kingdom_ Book II, Chapter I.]

He had found her! Crouched down over another figure lying on the ground

beside her.

"What are you doing? Are you hurt?"

"It is poor old Tommy Nixon."

She rose slowly to her feet.

He gripped her by the arm, but she shrank from his touch.

"Can you lift him up? Poor old man, he is seriously injured. He

must have fallen down here from above. I'll tell you all about it

afterwards, but how can we get him home? I haven't the least notion

where we are. I heard his dog barking. Take care, don't step on him; he

resents anyone touching his master. Is anyone with you?"

"James may be round about!" He sent a loud halloa out amongst the

Fells. Echoes resounded from the rocky crags, and a faint shout that

was not his came to them.

Then Justin flashed his torch to and fro. There was an answering gleam

in the mist, and in ten minutes' time, the farmer had joined them. Just

before he came up, Justin spoke almost roughly:

"Why the deuce didn't you come home and send some one out to this poor

fellow? I've been hunting for you for hours."

"And I have been waiting for hours," was the quiet reply. "I could not

leave him; he begged me not to do so. He was in terrible suffering. Now

he's unconscious, but I was able to give him some brandy, and he is

living still. Listen to his breathing!"

She was bending over him again. Her whole soul was with the poor old

man. She seemed indifferent to herself or to Justin. Then James came

up. But it was Justin who slipped out of his heavy coat, and lifting

the old man into it, used it as a stretcher, James taking one end of

it, and he the other.

"How far are we from his house?"

"A goodish way," said James. "We had best carry him to th' house and

let my wife tend to him."

"Yes," assented Anstice at once. "His sister is too ill to nurse him.

She wants a nurse herself. We will go to Hockerdale."

They started. Victory, the sheep-dog, after a little growling at

Hercules, followed the procession. Anstice seemed to have difficulty in

keeping up with them. More than once Justin stopped, and then said in

softened tone:

"You seem tired. Take hold of my arm."

"Oh no, you want all your strength to carry him over this rough ground.

Look! The mist is rolling away, and the moon's coming out! Thank God!"

It was indeed rolling away like great clouds from their feet. It seemed

a long time before they reached Hockerdale, but they were there at

last, and Mrs. James rose to the occasion. The old man was put in her

best bed in the big spare room. A fire was lighted and hot bottles

applied to his feet. A farm lad was sent off for the nearest doctor.

Justin stayed up in the bedroom helping, as Mrs. James said afterwards,

"in all the world like a sick nurse, turnin' 'im so deft like, and

knowin' how to get some hot drink down his throat!"

And when Justin was assured that he was as comfortable as possible,

he came down to the farm kitchen. There he found Anstice in a

half-fainting condition. She was sitting in the big chair by the fire,

her soaked clothes steaming from the heat; round one arm she had a

blood-soaked bandage, and to his horror, Justin saw that she had

seriously hurt herself.

"Oh, these women!" he ejaculated.

He called sharply to James, who had gone out to his cows in the farm,

for Mrs. James was still caring for old Nixon.

"Get me a basin of warm water," he said. "My wife wants seeing to now."

He forced her to swallow a little brandy, and then she slowly opened

her eyes. For an instant she looked at him vaguely.

"I am sorry," she murmured. "I had a tumble in finding Tommy, and cut

my arm. It bled a good bit, and makes me feel queer. I bandaged it as

tight as I could."

She closed her eyes again, whilst Justin set to work, and his touch was

as gentle as any woman's. He undid the bandage, bathed the wounded arm,

which was badly cut above the elbow, bandaged it up with fresh linen

again, and settled her back into the chair, arranging the cushions

behind her to his satisfaction and also to hers. She smiled at him; she

had winced when he had touched her arm, but otherwise had borne the

bandaging silently.

"Who taught you 'first aid'?" she asked.

"I taught myself," he said a little shortly; "have had plenty of

experience on my boat. You ought to have your wet clothes off."

"Oh no, I must get home. They have really dried on me. I can't stay

here, you know. One disabled person is quite enough."

"You'll stay here till I come back. I'll ride off and get a car. This

is a time when I regret not owning one. Ah! Here is Mrs. James. She'll

see to you."

He explained matters. Mrs. James soon had Anstice's wet clothes off her

and gave her some of her own to wear, whilst she set about drying hers.

Justin went off, and the farmer went upstairs to sit by old Nixon.

"I can't think," said Anstice in a quavering voice, "why I feel so

shaky. I suppose I must have lost more blood than I thought. I felt my

arm dripping as I walked. I nearly collapsed on the way."

"You look awful, ma'am. Don't ye talk; the doctor will be here and he'd

best look at your arm."

"I am thinking of poor Ellen Nixon. She is so bad, Mrs. James. One

of the Watts girls has promised to sit up with her to-night. How can

we get her a nurse? She must have one. It's severe bronchitis, she

can hardly breathe. She's so bad that I doubt if she will notice her

brother's absence, but of course she'll have to be told. Can you send

her a message early in the morning to say where he is?"

"Don't you worry, ma'am; we'll do that the first thing."

"Ellen thought her brother had been detained in Penrith, but Watts at

the inn told me he had left Penrith at twelve o'clock in the morning,

and ought to have been back before he was. He said he was afraid he was

having a business collecting his sheep. That was how—when I heard the

insistent barking of his dog, that I knew something was wrong."

"I wouldn't talk if I were you," advised Mrs. James, noting the

feverish flush coming into Anstice's cheeks. "Just you try and have a

wink or two of sleep, afore the Squire coom back."

Anstice subsided. The doctor arrived before her husband. He was a long

time with old Nixon. He had broken two ribs and dislocated his left

wrist, otherwise he was sound. Then he examined Anstice, and had to put

four stitches into her gashed arm.

"It's a nasty cut," he said, "but I'll give the Squire a certificate

for bandaging. I'll look up at the Manor to-morrow and see how you are."

He met Justin as he was going out at the gate.

"Take good care of your wife, Squire; she's very weak from loss of

blood. Keep her in bed till I see her again. I expect she has taken a

chill; she has a temperature. Have you got a closed car?"

"Yes."

"She'll be better off at home, so I suppose she must be moved.

Otherwise, she'd be wise to stay where she is. I've told her I'll look

in to-morrow."

Justin went in. Anstice struggled to her feet when she saw him.

"I am ready. In my own clothes again! Mrs. James has been wonderful."

But she staggered as she spoke, and Justin put his arm round her, and

when they got outside, he lifted her right up in his arms and deposited

her in the car, as he might have done a child.

"Well," she murmured, "I never realized you were so strong."

He smiled. Nothing could have been more protective and tender than his

care of her during that drive home. They spoke but little. Once Anstice

tried to explain her long absence, but he stopped her.

"You can tell me later. I only regret one thing, that you did not tell

me at once how hurt your arm was."

"You could have done nothing. Poor old Nixon was the injured one. He

had to be carried." Then she leant her head back and closed her eyes.

When they reached home, she went straight to bed, but her husband came

to the door of her room the last thing at night.

"How are you feeling?" he asked.

She tried to speak lightly.

"A little top-heavy and giddy, but I shall be all right in the morning."

"Brenda had better sleep in your room."

"Oh no, indeed, I do not want her."

He went down the passage and called to Brenda. "Your mistress ought not

to be left to-night. She's very feverish. Take your mattress in and

sleep on the floor, or there's a couch there—you can sleep on that, if

you take your bedding in. Keep up the fire, and give her some milk in

the night if she wants anything. That can't hurt her."

Brenda meekly obeyed. When Anstice remonstrated, she said it was the

master's orders.

It was a week before Anstice left her bed. She had taken a violent

chill, and had a good deal of fever with it. She was also weakened by

exposure and by the loss of blood, and when sitting up in a cushioned

chair, looked the shadow of her former self.

Justin was extraordinarily concerned about her, and the children were

miserable.

"Nothing goes right when Steppie is away from us," said Georgie to her

father in a miserable voice. She had been having rather a severe fight

with Josie out on the terrace, and her father had come upon the scene

and scolded them well.

"Josie tries to boss, and I won't be bossed," said Georgie, gulping

down a sob.

"She's been opening the door of the aviary and letting out the birds

into the drawing-room, Dad. And we can't find 'Cluckatoo,' the love

bird! Steppie made us promise we'd never let the birds out!"

"And you're a tell-tale and I hate you!"

Georgie was aiming a kick at her sister, when her father took hold of

her by the shoulder and marched her upstairs to a room at the end of

the passage which had always been called by the children the "Bogy

Hole." It was small and dark with one tiny window rather high up, and

had originally been known as the still room. He pushed her in and

locked the door upon her, telling Brenda to leave her there for a good

hour. And then he went off to the farm, feeling irritated with every

one.

CHAPTER II

THE "BEST OF THE BARGAIN"

IT was snowing heavily, the Fells were covered, the roads were blocked.

Outside was a grey cold world. But inside the Manor, the log-fires

were blazing and sputtering, the thick curtains were drawn to keep off

draughts, and in the drawing-room, Anstice was back in her big chair,

and the children clustered around her.

It was her first day downstairs. Only three o'clock, and yet it seemed

almost dark. Justin was in his study, checking his estate accounts.

The children were eagerly relating to Anstice all the small details of

their lives since she had been upstairs. How Hercules had lain down in

the passage outside Anstice's door with his nose against the mat, how

Dad had tumbled over him and then sworn and then begged his pardon!

How Ruffie's white mouse had run away and then appeared one morning

climbing up the ivy on to his window ledge, and scratched at the pane

till he was let in! How Mrs. Wykeham had come round to call, and burst

into the library whilst lessons were going on, to say that she had

heard that "Steppie" had smashed her ribs and been lost all night on

the Fells! And lastly, what a lovely holiday they were having, for

while the snow was so deep Mrs. Fergusson would not be able to come

over to them.

"I'm not so sure of that being a blessing," said Anstice, smiling at

them; "if there are no lessons there will be mischief brewing, I am

afraid, and mischief means trouble for some one."

"When the snow stops, we mean to make a snowman," said Josie, "and

we'll try and make him tall enough to peep into the nursery and say

good morning to Ruffie."

Ruffie was on Anstice's lap. He was leaning his golden head against her

shoulder with a look of deepest content.

"You hold me like Dad," he said to her once; "I never get pains in my

legs with either of you."

Now he looked up at her.

"Now tell us about the rain and the mist on the Fells and how you and

Hercules got lost."

The door had opened and Justin came in.

"I thought tea might be ready," he said, coming up and slipping into

the other big chair close to the fire. "Don't move, any of you. I heard

Ruffie asking about a point that wants to be made clear, so now you

are well enough to tell us—how was it that you did not send Hercules

home for help sooner? If he had not heard my whistle, he would not have

come! He ought to have found his way, surely!"

"Let her make it into a story, Dad."

Ruffie was very gently slipping off Anstice's lap. His mute appeal to

his father made Justin hold out his arms, and he was transferred to

his father's keeping. Here he nestled into those strong arms, with his

bright eyes fixed on Anstice.

"She does tell stories so ripping!"

"I'm afraid there is not much of a story about it, but it was a

funny jealousy between the two dogs. I heard Victory howling, and he

was standing over his master when I arrived. Hercules went forward

sniffing, and Victory flew at him. I managed to calm them; but when I

had helped poor old Tommy as much as I could, Victory lay down at his

feet and glared at Hercules, and then Hercules lay down at my feet and

glared at him! I tried to send Hercules off for help, but he wouldn't

leave me. He said to Victory—'Think I'm going to leave my missus in

your charge! Never! You're so full of your old master that you'd let

anything happen to her! Not if I know it.'"

"And then I tried my hand on Victory. 'Home!' I said. 'Fetch help,

good fellow. Go on!' But I knew it was hopeless. He just winked his

eye at me, and said: 'Think I'm going to leave my master to your

charge, to that great blunderbuss of a dog, who doesn't know one sheep

from another! Here I stay, and no one shall move me!' We were a funny

quartette, weren't we?"

Ruffie laughed out merrily:

"Go on; make the dogs talk to each other. What happened next?"

"Then we heard Dad's whistle, and Hercules went bounding away, but

Victory never stirred. And then we were all found, and the mist got

tired of misting, and ran away, and the rain stopped, and then the moon

came out and smiled upon us, and we all got back to the farm."

She stopped in her recital, for Brenda appeared to say that the nursery

tea was ready. She carried Ruffie off, and the little girls followed,

but Justin stayed where he was. He stretched out his long legs before

the fire, and leant his head back in the cushioned chair with a short

sigh.

"Don't you get very tired of always talking down to children?" he asked.

"Sometimes," said Anstice frankly; "but I have not had many other

people to talk to. Mrs. Fergusson is charming, but I can get her but

seldom—"

"She's improving those imps of girls: they're not half so wild as they

were six months ago."

"They're all right. They want plenty of occupation. I believe they'll

grow up into delightful young women."

A little silence fell between them. It was not often that Justin

settled down to talk. He seemed to elude his opportunities, and somehow

or other Anstice felt tongue-tied. She broke the silence by saying:

"As soon as the snow has cleared, I must get over and see poor Ellen

Nixon. She does so love to see anyone."

"She will have to go without seeing you," said Justin a little sharply.

"You must not think of wandering over the Fells again by yourself."

"But I have Hercules with me."

"He was not much good the other afternoon. In the summer-time, it is

different, but in the winter, the mists descend very rapidly. You must

confine your walks nearer home."

"I will choose a fine day."

"You will choose no day with my permission—you must postpone your long

walks on the Fells till the spring."

Anstice laughed her low laugh of amusement, her dimples coming into

play.

"That is the tone you use towards Josie or Georgie. I am unaccustomed

to be given orders."

"If you are a reasonable woman, you will respect my wishes. It is for

your own sake, though perhaps you'll credit me with the selfish desire

of saving myself from anxiety and a long tramp to bring you back again."

"That is altogether unnecessary."

"It was not unnecessary the other afternoon."

"No," said Anstice gently, "I am very grateful to you for all you did

for me. Well, if I must forgo visiting the poor old Nixons all the

winter, who is going to do it? The Rector is not strong enough. I am

more fit to do it than he."

"I may get over myself from time to time."

Tea appeared at this juncture. Justin roused himself. He waited upon

his wife assiduously, insisted upon pouring out the tea himself, as her

right arm was still in a sling, and left the subject of the Fells in

winter time alone. Anstice, wishing to interest him in other people,

began telling him about Louise.

He listened with a semblance of interest, but in reality was rather

bored.

When she told him that Louise was now happy working as secretary in the

school which Mrs. Fergusson had recommended, he said:

"That's what my girls will be wanting to do, I suppose, later on. This

craze for work in towns clears the country of all the young. If it

wasn't for the boy, I sometimes think I would sell this place. But he

loves it, and he will never be fit for anything but a quiet, retiring

life."

"And your girls love it too. Don't take away their home from them, if

you can help it. I doubt if they're the kind who will thrive in town. I

hope they will marry happily, and, till that event, be useful daughters

at home."

"Oh, marriage! That's a farce nowadays."

The bitter sneering tone escaped him; then he pulled himself up,

changing the conversation hastily.

"I saw our parson this morning; he called to inquire for you, but you

were not out of your room. He was rather in a fuss over the Sunday

Services. I told him you would not be able to touch the organ for some

considerable time, so he's arranging that the schoolmaster should try

his hand at it again."

"It's a torture to hear him," said Anstice with a little sigh. "He was

playing when I first came."

"Then why go to church to be inflicted with it? Stay at home as I do."

"Have you never been to church?" Anstice's tone was grave and soft.

"On rare occasions. As a boy of course I did. We had a racy old parson

then, who was always fox-hunting, and used to use hunt language in his

sermons. Then we had a very different sort of man. I had an earnest fit

as a young man. I got it at Oxford, and when I came down for vacation,

he and I chummed up, and I was going to do wonders with my life. He

inspired me for the time being. He was drowned one summer—was going

over the lake on a stormy day to visit some sick parishioner, and the

boat capsized, and he got a knock in the head which stunned him. I

married not long after that."

"I think Mr. Bolland would inspire you afresh, if you were to hear

him," Anstice said quietly. "He has altered my life for me since I came

here—has made me see and understand as I have never done before."

Justin looked at her, then shrugged his shoulders, but said nothing.

Presently he rose to his feet.

"I must go back to my work," he said. "This snow has a very sleepy

effect on me. I feel inclined to laze by a fire and do nothing."

Anstice was left alone. She could not work owing to her hurt arm, so

she gave herself up to thought. Her husband loomed large in the vision

of her mind.

"How could one woman spoil a man's life?" she pondered. "How could she

destroy his faith in God, and trust in his fellow-creatures? How could

she develop such concentrated bitterness of soul? And yet with it all,

how tenderness and courteousness creeps out! He's a strange mixture. I

wonder if I shall ever get to know him?"

The very next morning, Anstice received an urgent invitation from Lady

Lucy to come and spend a week or ten days in town with her. She said

she was not very well herself, and wanted companionship.

"I know your passion for helping those in need," she wrote; "so I

expect you to respond at once to my appeal. Tell Justin that he cannot

keep you shut up in that outlandish part of the world all the year

round, with no change at all. Now he is at home, he can take charge,

and you can have a holiday. Don't dare to refuse my invitation!"

Anstice read this through at breakfast time; then handed it to him.

"You know your aunt and her ways. What am I to say?"

He read it through with a frown upon his brow.

"Do you want to go?" he asked curtly.

Anstice considered.

"I think I should like to do so. I should not stay longer than ten

days. You would be here. Brenda can look after the children. The other

maids all know their work. I should not be missed."

He said nothing.

Anstice gave a little laugh.

"Don't look so funereal; it is nothing to ask you for. Ten days'

complete change—I won't say rest—for I know Cousin Lucy, and I am

rather sceptical about her ill-health. She wants some one to racket

round with her. You must remember that I have not stirred out of this

house since the beginning of last June."

"There is no question of asking me about it. You know you are your own

mistress, and if you like to stay away a month, you can do so without

any reference to me. As you are rather hors de combat, it will be a

good opportunity to go."

"Thank you. Then I will. I will resign my kingdom for the time being."

"I don't know that I shan't run up to town too, at the same time," said

Justin suddenly.

Anstice looked at him with twinkling eyes.

"My dear man, that isn't playing the game! You are wanted here in my

absence: you know you are! And Bob is not well yet, and there's nobody

you can trust to superintend the lads over at the farm. You can go off

when I come back."

Justin gazed back at her, and a glimmer of a smile came to his lips.

"I funk being snowed up here alone with these imps of children. I

remember them of old."

"But you will not have them riotous now. The snow is disappearing. Mrs.

Fergusson wrote to me that she hopes to be here to-morrow. They will

be at lessons all the morning, and their little den occupies them, and

keeps them well away from your vicinity."

"All right. You had better go. I won't make any promises, one way or

the other."

So Anstice made preparations to go. The children were rather dismayed.

"You're sure you're not going to run away from us, and leave us

altogether?"

Josie asked this question at the luncheon table.

"She dare not do that," said Justin.

"Why? When she gets away, she can do what she likes."

"She's made me a promise. Promises must be kept."

Anstice nodded brightly at Josie.

"Yes, I mean to come back," she said; "I told you long ago, didn't I,

that nothing would drive me away."

"We don't want to drive you away, now," said Georgie; "it's much nicer

when you're here. It was horrid when you were up in your bedroom."

"Thank you, Georgie."

Before she went, Anstice had a long and confidential talk with Josie.

"I'm going to make you responsible for good behaviour," she said;

"but I don't want you to boss Georgie too much. Coax her; don't scold

her when she wants to do anything she ought not. I want you to act as

the eldest daughter of the house should. You must come down to the

dining-room for breakfast whilst I am away, and pour out your father's

coffee, and sit at one end of the table. Look after him, and do little

things for him."

Josie giggled, but she adopted an important air.

"Oh, I'll look after things," she said airily.

Anstice gave her one or two special small duties to do in her absence,

such as feeding the birds in the aviary and watering the plants, and

arranging flowers for the dining-room table.

She had a good many last words to say. To Mrs. Parkin, to Brenda, to

Georgie and Ruffie.

The evening before she went away, Ruffie was sitting on his father's

knee in the smoking-room. She went in to tell him it was bedtime.

"Come here, Steppie," Ruffie said; "Dad is going to teach me chess.

I'll be able to play when you come back."

"That will be splendid. I haven't played chess for many years, but I

remember I used to be fond of it."

Ruffie held out his hand to her, and she went down on her knees at his

side.

"What is it, darling?" she asked.

He had one small arm tightly round his father's neck; with an impish

look in his eyes, he suddenly shot out his other arm and encircled her

neck with it. Then with a swift jerk, he brought their heads close

together.

"Now kiss each other," he said with his mischievous chuckle. "Why don't

grown-up people kiss each other? You must. I shan't let you go till

you've done it."

Justin promptly took advantage of the occasion. But Anstice, with

burning cheeks, broke away from Ruffie's clutch.

The child sank back, and leaning his head on his father's shoulder said:

"Rather as'hausting that was! When I bring Josie's and Georgie's heads

together, I give them a crack!"

"You're a veritable Puck," said his father, laughing.

And Anstice joined in the laugh, she could not help it.

She departed the next morning; and Justin insisted upon accompanying

her in the car to Penrith Station. He got her papers, wrapped a

travelling rug round her knees in a first-class compartment, and stood

leaning his elbow on the window as if he were loath to let her go.

"We shall miss you," he said gravely. "You have a way with you that

makes for every one's comfort. You can tell my aunt that we're very

good friends, eh?"

"Yes, I think we are," said Anstice, with one of her frank sweet

glances; "and if anything goes wrong, and you want me back, wire to me."

He got into the carriage for a moment before the guard came along to

shut the door. And, taking both her hands in his, he bent and gave her

a kiss.

"Some time I shall claim the same from you," he said; "we must show

Ruffie that grown-up people do kiss sometimes."

"Dear little Ruffie," said Anstice tenderly, steering away from the

topic of herself, "don't spoil him, Justin. Now, just a last word! Will

you, for the sake of your little girls, go to church with them next

Sunday morning? They will play truant, if you don't, and I want them to

attend church regularly, to get into the habit of it whilst they are

young."

"I'll see."

"I hope you will. Good-bye."

The train was off, and Justin strode away, got into the car and as

he drove home was conscious of a strangely desolate feeling. Was it

possible, he asked himself angrily, that this woman, whom he had only

married for the good of his children and household, was stealing her

way into his heart? He could honestly assure himself that he had

given her no encouragement, but neither had she put forth any effort

to attract him. She was always her happy natural self, and seemed as

happy—perhaps happier—without him as with him.

"I've got the best of our bargain," he muttered to himself. "And I

believe I have found a woman who is truly sincere."

CHAPTER III

AWAY FROM HOME

ANSTICE found her cousin, as she expected, much in her usual health.

She had had a bad cold, but was getting over it, and had come up to

London for the purpose of shopping combined with amusement. Anstice

was taken everywhere; she found opportunity of seeing her cousins in

town, who had been much astonished by the secrecy and suddenness of her

marriage, and very much hurt that they had not been asked to it. She

shopped a little for herself, and a great deal for Lady Lucy, and it

was not till a week had passed that she got any time for a quiet talk

with her old cousin.

Then one wet afternoon they sat over a blazing fire together in Lady

Lucy's comfortable Early Victorian drawing-room.

"I am afraid," Lady Lucy began, "that you have been having a lonely

time of it shut away with those naughty children all the lovely summer

months, but now in the winter it must be worse. I do not like the

country in winter. I always leave Norfolk, as you know, every October,

and don't go back to it till May or June. Of course now Justin is home,

it will be better. My dear, you and he must entertain a little. Have

you not done so? He has some rough shooting and there's good hunting,

and you could have quite a nice little house-party."

"I don't think he cares for society any more than I do."

"You are greatly mistaken. Justin has a good many friends, especially

men friends, and now he is married, they will expect to be offered

hospitality."

"I don't know him," admitted Anstice. Then she added impulsively:

"I wish you would tell me a little more about him. We are almost

strangers, remember! He has only been home for a few weeks, and we each

live our own lives independently of each other."

"But that will not last. It must not, my dear."

Anstice smiled, but there was a wistful look in her blue eyes.

"There is a very hard and bitter strain in him, Cousin Lucy, which

cannot be touched or broken. I feel every now and then, as if I am up

against a stone wall. I agree with you that he has a heart, and has

nice feelings, but they are encrusted over with this bitterness."

"He is North-country. You must remember that. They're hard and dour,

something like their Scotch neighbours, very slow at showing affection

or liking, but staunch and true and deep when they once let themselves

go. And when they meet with disillusion or injury, unforgiving and

unforgetting. That is the character of the Fell people. His father—my

husband's brother—was a North-country man to the core; he was a hard,

stern father, with little show of affection, and yet he idolized his

son. Justin fell head over ears in love with a pretty, heartless minx,

and disillusionment after marriage was his portion. He always had high

ideals of womanhood and of marriage. His wife smashed these ideals to

bits, and he has not yet recovered from his crash."

"Tell me more about him," said Anstice as she came to a pause.

"He has had a lonely life. Since he quarrelled with his only sister, he

has had no woman to give him any help or sympathy."

"His sister? You don't mean to say he had a sister living? This is the

first word I have heard of it."

"I wonder you have not come across her. Mrs. Wykeham knows her.

She lives up there not so very far away. In the neighbourhood of

Windermere. It's another instance of the North-country pride and

rankling resentment. She was mistress of the Manor till he married.

Brother and sister lived together, and she stupidly tried to stay on

after the wife came. You can imagine the result. And before long, she

was so rude and insulting to the bride that Justin literally turned

her out of the house. She has never spoken to him since. I believe

in justice. I must say that he has tried to make it up, but she is

adamant. I fancy the bride was more to blame than Justin thought at

the time. These family quarrels are very sad. It all accounts for the

bitterness you complain of in Justin."

"I don't believe the children know that they have an aunt," said

Anstice slowly. "This is all astonishing news to me."

"I rather think they have heard her name, but imagine she is dead. Of

course their father would never mention her to them."

"No, I suppose not. It seems dreadful to me. I almost wish you had not

told me."

"You are bound to know sooner or later. You might even come across her

at some friend's house. I am not a Holme, I am glad to say. I can't

understand bearing anyone a lifelong grudge. I only saw her once, a

very handsome woman, pride and power in every line of her face."

"I have seen a portrait of her with him as a little girl. I always

thought she must have died in infancy."

"Well, that's that, and now to talk of yourselves. You must soften him,

Anstice, win him! He must be made of stone to withstand you!"

"We are very good friends," said Anstice with dignity; "he told me

I could tell you that. I want nothing more at present. And when the

weather gets warmer and finer, he will be off again yachting."

"I wish his yacht was at the bottom of the ocean," said Lady Lucy with

warmth, "and I hope your absence now will make him see what a treasure

he is despising."

"I am sure he does not despise me," said Anstice, laughing, and then

she switched the conversation off to other topics.

But she thought a great deal of Justin, now that she was away from him,

and wondered if she would ever be able to make him a really happy man.

One day she asked if she might have Louise over from Hampstead to tea.

Lady Lucy suggested Sunday afternoon.

"I have nobody coming and you can have your protégée to yourself. I am

old enough now to like to retire to my room, and have a thorough good

sleep between lunch and tea."

So Louise came over. She was bright and animated, and overjoyed to see

Anstice again.

"I never can thank you enough for getting me out of that hole. I think

I should have gone melancholy mad had I stayed there much longer."

"I thought you might have come back to your uncle at Christmas time,"

said Anstice; "did you get holidays?"

"Oh yes, but winter in the Fells—at Ramdale! It is so awful! I went

down to Bournemouth with my friend and thoroughly enjoyed it. How is my

uncle? Do you know?"

"I wondered if you ever thought about him," said Anstice. "He is one of

the pleasant surprises in the Fells. An unselfish old man who gives up

his young niece for her good, and exchanges her bright society for a

sad, weary, elderly person not his equal in birth, and therefore hardly

a companion for him."

"I was never bright," said Louise with a shamed face; "I grumbled and

glowered all the time. But I will go back at Easter, and in the summer,

if he will have me; and I will try to be nice to him. Then I shall see

you again, I hope."

She chatted on then about her work, and Anstice listened and

sympathized. Lady Lucy appeared for tea, and then Anstice carried off

Louise to evening church, to hear a noted preacher near there.

She had rather a nice little talk with her on the way home; Louise told

her that she went to a very nice church at Hampstead.

"The Vicar there really makes me think, as you say your parson at

Butterdale does you. I have never forgotten what you said to me and the

verse you quoted, about not knowing Christ though He had been with us

all our lives. And the principal of the school, Miss Jarrett, is what

would be called a real earnest Christian, so you see I am being pulled

towards heaven in several different ways."

Anstice talked to her in her happy natural way, and felt really

thankful to find her not swallowed up in her work, or in the amusement

of town life, to the exclusion of better things.

When the ten days were over, Anstice received a letter from Justin.

"MY DEAR ANSTICE,—

"Let us know if you arrive by the five o'clock train or the later

one, and the day you come. We are all well. The small people are very

fairly good—Josie had a lapse yesterday, but I must not tell tales.

You will be glad to hear that we spent our Sunday in the orthodox

fashion. Three of us went to church in the morning. In the afternoon,

Ruffie took command, and ordered me in your chair with the Sunday Book.

I was not to read it, but to tell the story as it came. I was a

hopeless failure, so after struggling through a chapter of Christian's

misadventures, I shut it up and told them some of my own adventures

in the South Seas. I had so much domesticity on Sunday, that on Monday,

I took my mare out in the morning and never came home till dusk.

"Hunting is beginning, for the frost has gone, and I shall go out

to-morrow. Old Tommy Nixon is making good, he will soon be on his

feet again, and Ellen is sitting up and thanking her God for leaving

her on the earth a little longer. I was over there yesterday. Now,

is there anything else you want to know? Don't you let my aunt make

you discontented with the Fells. They suit you down to the ground.

You might bring the youngsters a table game from Gamages. Isn't there

parlour croquet or some such game, which requires hands and no feet? I

don't want anything in which the boy cannot join. He has now sent down

the enclosed for your perusal. I am sure it will interest you more than

this, so no more.

"Yours,

"JUSTIN."

This was Ruffie's letter:

"MY DEAR STEPPIE,—

"Come back this week. You have gone for two long, and Dad goes out

and forgets us at six, so we pray you come the very day the posman givs

you this letter. Josie is a beest so is Georgie, they would not dare be

onceevil if I had legs to katsh them. I made them look under my chare

for the new kiten wich never went ther, and then I priked ther legs

with my sharpest pensil wich serve them wright, and this is telling

tales wich is not a gentilman's duty, but we have all been wicket and

loanley till you come back. I draw your face all over my new book, but

I can not remember your exack smile. I want it badly, and I luv you

next to Dad who does not tell stories like you, and the ake in my head

is becorse you are not here.

"Your loving,

"RUFFIE."

Anstice replied to both these by return of post.

"DEAR JUSTIN,—

"I have been having a hectic time, but will keep my promise and

return on the tenth day, which will be next Tuesday. Cousin Lucy is

well, and we have long talks now just as we are thinking of going

to bed, which is a fashion with most women, I believe.

"I shall turn my face homewards with gladness. I have always known

that I own a country soul, a soul that would soon get parched and

wearied in the bustle and crush of London life. And sometimes now

with the distant sound of traffic—for I'm thankful we're in a quiet

square—I shut my eyes for a moment and see purple Fells against a

lemon sky, and that delicious stretch of calm, cool water below them.

So you see, I shall return with no laggard steps—I hope to arrive by

that five o'clock train—and am bringing parcels of joy for the chicks.

I am so thankful you have been over to the old Nixons. I hope you told

them that, directly the weather improves, I shall be coming to see

them. You will be interested to hear that I ran across Colonel Malcolm

Dermot the other day, and I lunched with him and his wife at

Claridges'. Now I must close—au revoir.

"Yours,

"ANSTICE."

"MY LITTLE DARLING,—

"What a long letter, and how tired the poor fingers must have been

with holding the pen, and what a business it must have been to think

of the spelling, and choose the right words, and guide the tiresome

pen to put them down in proper order and without any blots!

"I'm coming back, Ruffie, as fast as the train will take me, on

Tuesday next, and I hope to arrive before bedtime. I will try to have

my 'exack' smile to greet you. I am sorry there have been ructions of

sorts between you young people, and that you have been both wicked and

lonely, but I'll tell you a secret! I have felt lonely here, without

any little head leaning against my shoulder, and eager voices shouting

in my ear, 'Tell us more.' And as for wickedness, our hearts are much

alike, and I'm afraid I know what it is to be wicked sometimes! We must

all pray hard, and fight hard, mustn't we? How sorry I am that the

little head still aches. But you have Dad with you; ask him to stroke

the pain away as I try to do.

"And now good-bye, my sweet. And give Josie and Georgie my love.

I shall soon be with my dear little people again.

"Your loving,

"STEPPIE."

When Tuesday came, Anstice said good-bye to her old cousin with a light

heart. Lady Lucy was not satisfied with her short visit.

"It is no time at all. Justin ought to be made to feel your absence. I

hope he has been thoroughly miserable without you, but I'm afraid you

left him too comfortable for that."

Anstice could not help laughing.

"Justin and I are very happy together," she said.

"I will write and tell you if he has missed me much, but I expect he

has been too busy to give me a thought."

As she journeyed up North, her thoughts naturally went back to her

marriage day, and to the mingled feelings of doubt and dread with

which she travelled then to an unknown country and an unknown life.

How different was it now! She was assured a loving welcome from the

children who had tried to drive her from them; and as to her husband,

she had an instinctive conviction that he was no longer indifferent to

her. Whether he merely liked her because of the comfort and ease which

she had brought to his home and because of her easy companionship and

friendliness, remained to be seen.

When she arrived at Penrith, Justin was on the platform; he led her out

to a beautiful car.

"I've just bought it," he said. "It only arrived from London yesterday.

It was one I had seen with a view to purchase before I went abroad.

You'll be able to use it when I am away."

"And when may that be?" Anstice asked lightly.

And he responded as lightly:

"When the fit takes me."

"All the small fry wanted to come and meet you," he went on; "but I

refused to bring them. They're too much about one in the house. I like

to be free of them when I can."

"Your house would be very dull without the children," said Anstice, a

sparkle in her eyes.

"To you; I think I could dispense with them—perhaps not the boy."

"How is he?"

"Fairly well. His spirit never flags."

Then, as he neared the house, he put his hand on Anstice's shoulder.

"We're glad to have you back," he said. "I suppose I need hardly tell

you this."

"Oh, I like to hear it," said Anstice with her soft laugh. "It's a nice

welcome."

She got a very warm one from the two little girls, who dashed out on to

the terrace as the car drove up.

Ruffie was in his wheeled chair by the hall fire, for it was a cold,

windy evening. His tiny arms were flung round her neck.

"Have mercy, sweetest, you're throttling me," she cried, but quick

tears had sprung to her eyes as she returned his eager kisses. It was

nice to be loved like this, she thought.

Brenda came forward smiling to take her wraps, but Josie insisted upon

accompanying her to her room, and when she got there, shut her door in

Brenda's face.

"I want to speak to Steppie. You'll have to wait."

"What is it, darling?" asked Anstice, sitting down by her bedroom fire

and putting her arm round the child as she drew her near to her.

Josie clasped her hands nervously.

"Has Dad told you? It was Georgie's fault. I was late one morning.

I went to the aviary and was teaching Damon to say 'good morning,'

and then when I went into the dining-room, there was that sneak of a

Georgie sitting in my place and pouring out Dad's coffee! I told her

to get out, and Dad said, 'Oh, let her stay, you were late.' So then I

knocked her off her chair. I was furious, and she hit her head against

the leg of the table and it bled, and Dad was furious then, and he said

he would have his breakfast alone in the future and have neither of us.

I told him I hated him, and so I did. But we made it up the next day,

only for punishment I've never had breakfast with him again. Don't you

think he's a very hard kind of father? You wouldn't have punished me

like that. I was only wicked for a minute or two. I felt I would like

to have kicked Georgie, but we were all right the next day, only the

punishment went on for days. That isn't fair."

"Josie dear, whatever your father does is right. You don't remember

that men don't like children fussing round them at breakfast time.

And when you fight with Georgie, and nearly kill her—for a blow like

that might have killed her—I think the punishment must be hard enough

and long enough to make you remember it for the rest of your life.

I am sorry for you, and sorry for Georgie, and still more sorry for

your father. I hoped he would have found his eldest daughter a success

whilst I was away."

Josie gulped down a sob.

"Now you'll be against me!"

"Never, never!" said Anstice, kissing her warmly. "I love you for

telling me about it yourself, instead of letting me hear it from

someone else. You will be more gentle and self-controlled next time

anything annoys you, I am sure. We'll put it from us and forget all

about it. Now, after I've had a cup of tea we'll open some parcels.

That will be fun, won't it?"

Tea was in the hall, an innovation that Justin had started since

Anstice had been away.

"We always used to have it here in my parents' time," he said, "and I

like it. You haven't to get into different togs and drawing-room shoes."

"I think it's a very good idea," said Anstice.

The children had had their tea, but were allowed to undo the presents

which Anstice had brought them from town. A beautiful paint-box

for Ruffie, a set of Dickens' books for Georgie, and a Japanese

papier-mâché writing-case fitted up with stationery for Josie. Their

father's present was a set of parlour croquet. These gave universal

delight, and it was the greatest difficulty to get them to bed at their

proper time.

Later that evening, Anstice and Justin sat over the drawing-room fire

chatting together.

"I think we must have the Dermots here," said Justin. "Now you have got

a good staff of servants, we might entertain."

"I am quite willing, but at this time of year there are not many people

in the neighbourhood. The Wykehams are abroad."

"I'm not very keen on the locals. I know some men in town I would like

to ask for the shooting, and if you have any friends of your own, we

might have them. Not over a dozen—in all. I hate a crowd."

So it was settled that they should have a small house-party. Anstice

asked two of her young cousins from town. The Dermots; a Colonel

Armour; a Mr. Carstairs, a barrister; a naval captain, by name John

Hawk; two yachting friends, Tom Brett and Frank Agnew, with their

wives—these made thirteen guests in the house. In addition, they asked

Colonel and Mrs. McInnes, with their two daughters, and the Vicar, and

a niece who was staying with him, for the first dinner-party.

"We have two men more than women," said Anstice, "but that can't be

helped. I don't think we had better try more than twenty."

She was very busy arranging for her guests, as soon as the invitations

had been sent out and accepted.

Justin left everything to her. He was hunting now two days a week,

and was out a good deal when it was fine—Anstice found the car most

useful to take her to Penrith, for necessary shopping. The little girls

sometimes accompanied her. They were much excited at the idea of some

guests arriving and the empty bedrooms being used.

"We've never had visitors here before, never!" said Josie. "What will

they do? Will they dance?"

"They'll be out shooting and hunting most of the time," said Anstice.

"They will amuse each other, I hope; and if not, I will see what I can

do."

"You can always tell stories," said Josie.

Anstice laughed. If she had any qualms about her power as a hostess,

she kept them to herself. And Justin was pleasantly conscious that

she would not only be a capable and gracious hostess, but a most

fascinating one.

CHAPTER IV

NEIGHBOURS

THE house-party was in full swing. The weather was propitious, and the

shooting satisfactory.

Anstice's young cousins, Julia and Mabel Barrett, were very useful

to her in many ways. They were as ready to arrange flowers, and make

themselves pleasant to the elder folk, as they were to enjoy themselves

with the young ones. Anstice had ventured in view of a house-party

to add an experienced butler to her household, and he proved a great

success, for he seemed ready to turn his hand to anything.

The dinner-party went off without a hitch. In the drawing-room

afterwards, Mrs. Dermot said to Anstice: "Malcolm told me so much

about your perfections that I came here determined to dislike you

thoroughly. I wonder why I can't do it? I think it is because you have

the perfect trait of a good hostess; you make every one feel that

you really like them. Now, we have nothing in common. I only came

here out of curiosity, to see you. Malcolm hinted that there was some

mystery in your quiet and secretive marriage. I love the town and hate

the country. You do the reverse, and yet as you talk to me, I say to

myself, 'She's actually taken a liking to me!' I know you haven't, but

the impression remains."

"But, my dear Mrs. Dermot, I do like you," said Anstice, laughing;

"your frankness is so refreshing. I love anyone who lets me know a few

of their thoughts."

"I wish you would let me know a few of yours."

"At present, then, I'm nervously anxious that our house-party shall

be a success. I'm wondering if the young ones will get bored here in

the evenings with no dancing. We have no ballroom, and Justin hates

gramophones. And I am not up in all the jazz music of the day. Without

music of some sort, there can be no dancing. What do you advise?

There's the billiard-room for them to go to."

"It strikes me that the youth of to-day needs no amusing; what they

want to do, that they do, without any reference to their host or

hostess. I am thankful I have no children."

Anstice found that Mrs. Dermot was right; the young people got into the

billiard-room together, and were perfectly happy there having a rag,

and making a great deal of noise.

Colonel McInnes's daughters were the most lively ones of the party.

They were most disgusted when their parents insisted upon departing at

half-past ten.

One of them appealed to Anstice.

"Aren't we old-fashioned fogies, going off like this? Father never

imagines that we would prefer to be left behind, and come home in the

small hours of the morning!"

"You must come by yourselves one day," said Anstice, laughing, "then

you can order your car at any hour you like."

"I hope you'll ask us again. Lottie and I have always liked you. We've

stood up for you when the gossips said something was wrong between Mr.

Holme and yourself. But you're all right, aren't you?"

"Indeed we are," was Anstice's smiling response.

She had had several of these little stings already. And Justin

overheard one speech.

It was from Mrs. Frank Agnew. She was the least pleasant of the

house-party, a pretty little woman who attracted the men by a certain

charm of manner.

"Dear Justin!" she had said to Anstice soon after the gentlemen had

joined them in the drawing-room; "my husband and he have yachted so

much together. And when he got very sick of his house in these wilds,

he would come and stay with us at South Sea. I have received many

confidences from him. For several years I have been urging him to

marry, but he wouldn't hear of it. When we heard he had really done

it at last, and that his bride was no one whom we knew, I was frankly

devoured with curiosity. But it was rough lines on you for him to

yacht away from you a day or two after your wedding. My husband met

him at Gib on the way out, and Justin told him that he was no longer a

bachelor. Did you know his ways when you married him? You should have

bargained for a honeymoon at least. His yacht will be a powerful rival

to his wife. We always said it would. You will have to put your foot

down and refuse to be left behind next time. But perhaps you are a bad

sailor? I can hardly believe that Justin is a married man again. He

really seemed to be a confirmed woman-hater!"

"But there is always an exception to every rule."

It was Justin who spoke, and he laid his hand on his wife's shoulder

caressingly as he did so.

Anstice looked at him with her happy smile.

It was Mrs. Agnew who looked a little discomfited.

"Listeners never hear any good of themselves," she said. "I did not

notice you were so close to us, or I should have moderated my voice.

Still, I have said nothing that is not true. You did run away from your

wife directly you married."

"I will not contradict you," said Justin with a sarcastic little bow;

"no doubt all the circumstances under which I did it are known to you,

so nothing more need be said. Anstice, I think the Rector wants to say

good night to you."

Anstice moved away. For the next few days she was much engrossed with

her party, but she did not neglect the children, and though their hour

after tea with her had to be given up for the time, she never missed

visiting them at bedtime. Colonel Dermot inveigled her out for one or

two walks with him, and Justin would look at him with an amused look in

his eyes, when he began to sound his wife's praises.

"You don't appreciate her, she's one in a thousand."

"I am not a jealous husband," said Justin. "I feel flattered that you

should admire her so. It shows my good taste."

They were alone together over the smoking-room fire. The Colonel looked

at his friend in silence for a moment.

"No, you are not jealous, you are too cold-blooded, old chap. Jealousy

follows love."

"I don't know about that," said Justin. "My wife inspires me with such

confidence that I know nothing on earth would make her act in any way

to warrant jealousy on my part."

"You are right there."

Colonel Dermot spoke heartily, but conscience gave him a prick or

two. He had desperately tried to come to closer quarters than Anstice

would permit. He knew that as her husband's friend and Ruffie's

godfather, she welcomed and liked him, nothing more. She had shown him

unmistakably that she wanted no sympathy for herself and no admiration.

She was content with ordinary friendship.

When the house-party broke up, Anstice felt as if a great burden had

been lifted from her shoulders. She was standing on the terrace waving

farewell to the last of her guests when Justin joined her.

"Well," he said, "it's over. I really think we can congratulate

ourselves upon having got through it remarkably well. I'm thankful to

be quiet again for a bit."

"So am I—devoutly thankful," said Anstice with warmth.

"I don't think I could thrive amongst numbers, and yet Mrs. Dermot told

me that it is desolation when she is not in a crowd. What a comfort we

are not all made alike!"

Life slipped back again to its normal routine.

Then one evening after dinner Anstice said to her husband:

"Do you know some Miss Maybricks by name?"

He smiled.

"Of course I know them both. As young girls they were great favourites,

handsome and go-ahead. They were my seniors as far as age goes, and

when I was in my teens, I used to adore the younger—Carrie."

"Mr. Bolland has been talking about them. He wants me to go and see one

of them. How can I do it? She has not called upon me."

"She doubtless does not know of your existence. Harscale Hall is in the

wilds, right amongst the Fells, about twelve miles from us. Why does he

want you to know her?"

"He was telling me such a sad story about them. The younger had the

property left her by her father's will. She was his favourite, and the

elder was furious that she should be turned out of her home, and be

treated so by her father. She set up house for herself about five miles

away, five miles nearer us she is, for she is in Mr. Bolland's parish."

"She would be. She took an old farm-house and glorified it, making

it into a very comfortable home for herself. They've never spoken

to each other or met, I believe, since their father died. A case of

North-country pride and resentment."

"What terrible people North-country people can be!" said Anstice with

feeling. "Mr. Bolland told me that the younger, for want of something

better to do in that lonely place, took to betting on horses. For some

years she was in money difficulties, and then got into moneylenders'

hands, and mortgaged her property heavily. Now the mortgagee is

foreclosing, and she will have to turn out. She's in very bad health,

and is in great distress, especially as she finds that the elder sister

is the mortgagee, and will give her no mercy. She is literally going to

turn her out as she was turned out years ago. Isn't it sad? And they're

sisters!"

"How has Harriet got the money to buy in the property?" said Justin

musingly. "I remember she came in for her mother's money, but it wasn't

a fortune."

"Mr. Bolland says that she has been screwing and saving for years to do

it. He wants me to go and see Miss Carrie, but how can I force my way

in? And he thinks that if I get to know them I may make peace between

them, but how can I? He expects impossibilities from me. He went to see

the elder one, Miss Harriet, for she is really his parishioner, but he

says she is like adamant as far as her sister is concerned."

"I don't see that you need trouble about them," Justin said; "quarrels

like that can't be mended."

"Oh, but it's dreadfully sad, and it brings such hardness and

bitterness into lives which might be happy and serene in their old age."

"If people can't live at peace, let them part," said Justin sternly;

"because you've lived together as children is no reason for continuing

to do so when your tempers are contrary and your hearts bitter."

As he spoke, the quarrel between himself and his sister flashed into

Anstice's mind.

She looked at him inquiringly, and then impulse prompted her to say:

"Is that a bit of experience?"

"It is," he said shortly.

For a moment there was silence between them, then he looked at her

searchingly.

"Your face tells tales," he said; "you've heard from my Aunt Lucy about

our family row, I suppose?"

"Yes, I am afraid I did. Oh, Justin, you are not going to continue the

ill-feeling between you and your sister all your life?"

He shrugged his shoulders.

"Another case of these terrible North-country people, eh? I was willing

to be friends with her long ago, but, it is useless. If you can patch

up the Miss Maybricks' quarrel, you may be able to patch up ours. But

you'll be a very clever woman to do either. Now what do you want to do?

I wouldn't mind calling on Miss Carrie with you if you like. We could

take over the car to-morrow. But if she's ill, she'll hardly be likely

to see visitors."

"Mr. Bolland says it is rheumatism, but he says she does see people.

For it was an old friend who went to see her who told Mr. Bolland about

her. It's very good of you. I think I should like to see her."

So the next day Justin had out the car. He had engaged a chauffeur on a

month's trial, so did not drive himself.

It was a lovely day, and as they wound about the Fells, going up

through a pass into a still wilder and more desolate country beyond,

Anstice turned to her husband:

"Do you think that this wild, bold scenery hardens people's hearts

instead of softening? I imagine we are susceptible to our atmosphere."

He laughed.

"Have you found yourself hardening since you have been amongst the

Fells?"

"Ah, but we have the lake. I always think water softens scenery, and

then look at our woods and pastureland. Here is nothing but crag upon

crag. Lofty, steep, rocky heights with scanty grass. I think of the

Brontës and their writings, especially Emily's. Powerful, but not

pleasant. That is like the landscape about us, isn't it?"

"I did not think you were so fanciful. The last time I saw Miss Carrie

was at a garden-party at the Duke of N—'s place. She was in radiant

spirits, and very pleased with herself and her world. Here we are."

They had come to a little hamlet at the foot of a great mountain, then

turned in at some big gates in a high wall, and for two miles drove

through an avenue of beeches which still held some of their brown

leaves as if defying winter to strip them bare. Then they stopped

before a big square stone house. The grounds were untidy and neglected.

When they got to the front door, it was opened by an untidy old woman,

who looked like a caretaker.

"Is Miss Maybrick in?" she repeated after them dully. "Well, she is,

and she isn't. I reckon she's not in to strangers."

"Take her my card," said Justin promptly; "and tell her I have brought

my wife to see her. We will wait in the hall."

It was a bare, desolate-looking house. The stone flooring had

threadbare rugs upon it. The oak tables and chairs were thick with

dust. The old woman went upstairs, and after some considerable time

returned saying that Miss Maybrick would see them.

Anstice tried not to see the dust and decay on all sides of them as

they went upstairs and along a corridor to a sitting-room at the

extreme end.

When the door opened, they found a blazing fire to greet them. The room

originally had been handsomely furnished. Thick purple velvet curtains

hung from the windows, but they had a film of dust over them, as had

also the old Persian carpet underfoot.

Sitting in a chair by the fire was Miss Carrie Maybrick. She was not

a very old lady, and had a mass of untidy copper-coloured hair which

was coiled round on the top of her head. She had handsome rings on her

fingers and a necklace of emeralds round her neck. She was dressed in

a shabby brown velvet gown, and had bedroom slippers on. A novel was

in her hand, which she put down as she turned to greet them. The room

was most untidy. Cardboard boxes, books and papers, string, tins of

biscuits, were strewn about, some on the floor, some piled on chairs

or couches. There were handsome pictures on the walls, and old china;

but it was neither a pretty room nor a comfortable one. A small brown

Pomeranian was in a basket by her feet, and yapped persistently at the

intruders, until he was well slapped by his mistress.

Miss Maybrick seemed genuinely pleased to see Justin.

"Can't get up, my feet are swollen with rheumatic gout! Why, you old

sinner, you've never given me a call for a good fifteen years or so!

And just as good-looking as ever! I thought your wife was dead: is this

another?"

She turned to Anstice.

"I'm a dreadfully blunt creature, forgive me, but I feel sometimes as

if my wits are deserting me in this out-of-the-way place."

"We have only been married six months," said Justin. "I was a widower

for eight years. Why haven't we come across each other all these years?"

"Why? Because you won't take the trouble to come twelve miles to see an

old pal. You're never at home. I hear you live on a yacht. Have you got

tired of the sea? And are you settling down now that you have such a

charming wife?"

"I won't make any promises," said Justin lightly. "Are you living in

this great house all alone?"

She shook her head.

"Ah, I shall soon be turned out like a beggar in the street. Haven't

you heard? Hatty has got hold of it in her sly way, and is foreclosing

the mortgage. I suppose you haven't a few odd thousands you could lend

me? No? It's driving me mad. I lie awake at night and plan and plan. My

luck has deserted me. If I put on any horse now, I'm sure to lose. I've

got rid of all the silver to Lambert in town. I could bear leaving the

old place if anyone but Hatty was going to be the owner. Can't think

how she has squeezed together so much money. Isn't she a heartless

wretch to be turning her only sister out into the world, perhaps to die

in the union! I'm penniless, my lawyer tells me. The small farms I have

sold to pay my way have dropped into Hatty's hands."

"You should patch it up with her, and both live here together," said

Justin.

"I'm willing, but she's the aggrieved party. Says I drove her out once,

and now it is my turn!"

Miss Maybrick produced a rather dirty handkerchief and wiped her eyes,

but she did not give way to tears.

"I wish I could give you some tea, but I have none myself till

supper-time. I can't keep maids in this desolate house. I've only got

one old woman and her nephew attending upon me. It isn't worth while

to worry over an establishment if I'm to be turned out of it. Now I've

made my moan. Tell me the news of the neighbourhood."

Justin chatted away very pleasantly to her. Anstice for the most part

was a listener, but when they were taking their leave of her, Miss

Maybrick begged Anstice to come and see her again.

"If you have a car, twelve miles is nothing, and you could take me

out for a turn. I have no conveyance of any kind, and shall soon be a

bedridden cripple. I'm sure you and I would get on together. I love

your dimples, and your smile. Will you come?"

"Indeed I will," Anstice promised her.

"I feel," she said to her husband as they were driving home together,

"as if it is to be my mission to drag people out of their loneliness

in these Fells. I've had a try with a young life, and now this is an

old life. What a wonderful thing the love of home and possessions is to

some people! Miss Maybrick would be so much more comfortable in a small

modern house amongst neighbours. But she clings to that gloomy old

house as if it were a veritable paradise."

"Houses and estates are generally sources of family feuds," said Justin.

"Nothing," said Anstice firmly, "is more distressing than quarrels

amongst brothers and sisters."

Justin said nothing, and for the time Anstice dropped the subject.

CHAPTER V

FIRESIDE TALKS

IT was not long before Anstice visited Miss Maybrick again, and before

she came away, she had been entreated to go to the elder sister and

pave the way for a reconciliation between them. At the same time

Anstice felt that there was no love in Carrie's heart for her sister,

no sorrow for her share of wrong in the past, it was only in hopes of

being allowed to stay on in her old home that made her wish for peace.

Justin went up for a few days to town, and Anstice took that

opportunity for seeing the elder sister. She was struck, as she entered

Borrows Holt, as the farm was called, at the great contrast between the

two houses. Here was prosperity and comfort facing you whichever way

you looked. Well-kept barns and storehouses, beautiful pastureland,

a very pretty garden surrounding the house, and, inside, charmingly

furnished rooms.

Miss Harriet Maybrick was the elder of the two sisters, but she did not

look it. She was a tall, graceful woman, and except for very fierce

dark eyes and bushy eyebrows, and a certain hard compression of her

lips, would have been a very handsome woman.

It was an awkward moment when Anstice introduced herself.

"You used to know my husband, and I have been seeing something of your

sister at Harscale Hall. It is she who has implored me to come and see

you. I hope you will not think me impertinent for doing so."

"I am very pleased to meet Justin Holme's wife," said Miss Maybrick

graciously. "I ought, I know, to have called upon you, but I am a busy

woman, and gave up society a long while ago. I have been farming my own

land. I have heard about you from Mrs. Wykeham. She comes over to see

me sometimes."

Her pleasantness made it difficult for Anstice to proceed. They talked

about farming and about the lake and Fells, and she asked after

Justin's children.

"Mrs. Wykeham has told me that they were running wild. I expect that

you have had trouble with them."

"Wonderfully little," said Anstice. "They were mismanaged, and were

allowed to get the upper hand of their governesses. I am very fond of

them and they know it, but I never mean to spoil them."

Then she suddenly took the plunge.

"Miss Maybrick, at the risk of being thought officious, I come to plead

your sister's cause. Have you seen her lately? She is ill and feeble,

and very, very miserable. She wants the past forgiven and forgotten.

Can you in any way meet her?"

Miss Maybrick's lips were compressed, and her eyes like steel as she

replied:

"My sister has run through her fortune and has only herself to thank

for the present trouble. She never ceased working on my father's

feelings till she got him to make his will in her favour. She boasted

of this to me. When she had driven me out of my home, she neglected

the property, and let it all tumble into decay and ruin. She became

a gambler, and gambled away all that she possessed. For years I have

worked and saved and denied myself, so that I should be able to buy

back my old home. And now when I have done it, when she knows she can

afford to live there no longer, she works upon the pity of strangers

and sends them round to me to intercede on her behalf. What does she

expect, I should like to know? We are told that, as we sow, so shall we

reap. Her harvest has come."

"Yes," said Anstice sadly; "I know that all you say is true, she has

been her own worst enemy. It is right and fair that you should take

possession of your old home now. But is it necessary to turn her out?

Could you not let her have a couple of rooms in one wing?"

A short, bitter laugh escaped Miss Maybrick's lips.

"Did she apportion any rooms for my use after our father's death? He

was hardly cold in his grave before she strode into my room and told me

that there could be no two mistresses of Harscale Hall. I was out of

the house with all my belongings within a fortnight."

"But you had money. She has none. For the sake of your name, and your

own high principles of honour and pride, you cannot turn her out of her

home as a beggar."

"I think this conversation is waste of time. I never change my mind.

If the King himself on his bended knees came and pleaded for her, my

answer would be the same. She has made her own bed, let her lie in it."

Anstice rose. It had been a visit made much against her will and

liking. And yet, as she shook hands with Miss Maybrick, she could not

help saying in her tender way:

"We have all been treated so much better than we deserve. And mercy is

such a much grander force than power, that even now I dare to hope that

you will find a way out. A way of preserving your dignity of justice,

together with a great compassionate love towards the one who has

wronged you. May I thank you for listening to me and not being offended

at my interference in such a delicate and private family matter?"

Miss Maybrick was speechless.

Anstice returned home feeling downcast at her failure to move or touch

the stern North-country gentlewoman.

When her husband came back from town she told him of her visit.

"Would you object very much if I asked poor Miss Carrie to come and

stay with us till she could make her own plans? She cannot be turned

out of doors. It is cruel and inhuman of her sister to think of doing

it."

"No," said Justin sharply, "I am not going to have her here. You

have quite enough to do with running the house and looking after the

children, without having an invalid on your hands. Miss Harriet will

find lodgings for her somewhere; there are several big farms in that

neighbourhood where they would take her in. Don't think you have to be

benefactor to the whole world!"

It was a day or two after this that, coming home from hunting, Justin

paused on his way upstairs outside the drawing-room door.

Anstice was at the piano singing, in her mellow contralto, little songs

to the children, and they were joining in the chorus.

He opened the door and stood there listening.

"I want to stay little," said John Clifford Knight;

"The grown-ups are dull, and so old.

They never can run, they're too proper to fight;

They only look at us, and scold."

Chorus:

"But I'll sing when I'm little, and I'll sing when I'm big,

And my song will be Ha! Ha!! Ha!!!"

"They like sitting still, they can't climb a high wall,

They never play games and pretend,

The fairies and bogies they can't see at all,

Their money on sweets they'll not spend."

Chorus:

"But I'll sing," etc.

"I want to be bigger," said Peter McDuff,

"For grown-ups can do as they will;

They eat what they like and have more than enough

Without being seedy and ill."

Chorus:

"But I'll sing," etc.

"They always have money; they don't have to go

Off to bed every night before eight.

Whatever they want, there is never a 'No,'

And nobody scolds when they're late."

Chorus:

"But I'll sing," etc.

The children were rather astonished when a rich bass voice joined in

the chorus of the last verse.

Anstice looked over her shoulder and smiled.

And then, just as he was, he dropped into a chair.

"Sing another," he said.

So they sang another one, and then another, and then he moved over to

the fire, and Ruffie insisted upon being lifted on his knees.

"You sing very nice, Dad," he said, putting his tiny hand up and

holding his father's chin in a way that he had when he wanted to be

emphatic. "I think you'll have to come and sing with us always."

"Oh, Dad will soon be going away again," sang out Georgie; "he's been

home quite a long time now."

"I'm not going just yet," said Justin.

Then he added, with a slight twinkle in his eyes as he looked over at

Anstice: "But when I do, I'm thinking of taking someone with me."

"Not Steppie!" cried out both the little girls. "You shan't have

Steppie."

"No, you won't have her, we couldn't do without her," echoed Ruffie.

"But if I told her to come, she would have to do so," said Justin. "And

I expect she would like to come."

Anstice looked across at him. Their eyes met. Justin's gravely

imperturbable, Anstice's puzzled and slightly perplexed.

"Will you come with me, Anstice?"

His tone was not mocking, and yet beneath his steady gaze, Anstice felt

that he was amusing himself at her expense.

"I always keep my promises," she said gently but firmly. "Which is my

rightful place by our agreement? And who wants me most? The little ones

or you?"

"We do, Steppie, we do," cried the little girls.

"Well, if you won't come out just yet, I must wait for you," said

Justin, smiling enigmatically.

And then he got up, and put Ruffie into his wheeled chair with very

tender hands.

"I haven't changed," he said; "I must go and have a bath. No hunting

to-morrow. If fine, Ruffie, I'll take you on your pony up the Fells

to-morrow morning. We'll let the lessons go hang."

Some time later, when the children were in bed, Anstice came to her

husband.

"You'll have to go and comfort poor Ruffie. He has got the idea that

I am going to run off with you. You shouldn't joke with them so. They

don't understand it."

"You run off with me? No, it will be the other way about, but I will go

to him."

Ruffie's pillow was damp with tears.

"Dad, tell me on your gentleman's honour you won't take Steppie off!

It's bad enough you going, but she belongs to us much more than to you!

And when she's away, there's nobody to keep us merry and—comf'able. We

couldn't live without her now, we really couldn't. You don't want her

as we do."

"I don't know about that, my boy," said Justin, putting his hand on the

golden curls. "Your Dad is undergoing a kind of upheaval, turning out

of his heart some old rotten roots, and getting into a very topsy-turvy

state of mind. I don't know that your song is quite true to life. How

does it go?"

"Whatever they want, there is never a 'No.'"

"I've had a good many 'no's' in my life, and am likely to get some

more, I foresee."

"We say no, no, no, to Steppie leaving us," said Ruffie with a little

sob, "and I'm so 'fraid you'll do it of a sudden, like you go from us

gen'ally. We shall wake up one day and find Steppie gone. I'm so 'fraid

of it, I can't sleep."

"You're a little duffer," said his father, stooping to kiss him.

"Steppie, as you call her, doesn't want to come with me. She would hate

it, she would hate leaving you. Wild horses wouldn't drag her."

"But if you want her—"

"If I want her, I shall have to do without her. And if we all want her,

the best plan will be for me to stay at home, then we can all have each

other. Will that please you?"

"Oh yes, that's a very good plan, the best you could make."

Ruffie gave a sigh of relief, and turned over on his pillow. Five

minutes after, he was fast asleep.

After dinner that evening, Justin came into the drawing-room. As a rule

he was in his smoking-room for most of the evening.

If Anstice was surprised, she did not show it.

He took the big easy chair by the fire.

"Now," he said, "I want some music. May I have it? I don't see why the

children should be your only audience. You sing to them, I should like

you to sing to me."

Perhaps his tone was more peremptory than he knew. Anstice looked at

him with heightened colour in her cheeks.

"I don't think that was mentioned in our bond," she said in her

quietest tone.

He looked quite startled, then smiled at her. Justin's smiles were rare.

Anstice felt ashamed of herself.

"Then I will plead like Ruffie. Please! Please! Please!"

Without a word Anstice seated herself at the piano. She sang first a

lullaby, and as she sang Justin leant his head back against the cushion

in his chair and closed his eyes.

Then she sang an old English ballad, and she finished with "Robin

Adair."

"That's because we're close to Scotland here," she said, laughing,

as she left the piano. "I don't sing in public, so you must consider

yourself favoured. It is the old simple ballads I sing to the children.

The modern young people would be disgusted, but they are not critical

yet."

"Thank you. I am not modern, and I like ballads better than the French

and Italian operatic music which one hears so much nowadays. Now will

you sit down? I want to talk to you. The winter is going. Don't you

think that a horse would take you over the Fells better than your two

legs? I don't like your wandering about alone. You do ride?"

"Yes, I do," said Anstice. "I won't pretend that I shouldn't like a

steed, for I should love to have one, but you mustn't make me give

up my walking. It is good for one's health; and to wander out on the

short turf up amongst the Fells and mountains is a continual delight to

me. You must remember I have the car now. If you could afford it, two

rough mountain ponies for the little girls would give them tremendous

pleasure. They ride the old pony when they get the chance, but his back

is too broad for them, and now Ruffie uses him, they have to be content

with walking."

"I'll see what I can do in that way, but if they ride, they'll be

getting into mischief."

"I don't think so. It will keep them out of mischief. I wish you were a

little fonder of your small daughters."

He contracted his brows.

"They're too like their mother," he said shortly.

"That isn't their fault, poor mites! They're conscious of your

indifference to them, which is bad for you, and bad for them. I don't

want to ask you about the past, but doesn't time make us more tender

with the erring? If you could have gentler thoughts—"

He interrupted her.