Her acquiescence was complete in all that had happened. Not that it was

clearly what she would have chosen, even if she could have foreseen all

its outcomings, and pictured to herself what she would have been

refusing, had refusal been practicable. Her actual choice, putting aside

newly kindled love for this mysterious and beautiful agency, half

daughter and half Guardian Angel, that had been sprung upon her life so

near its close, might easily have been to face the risks of some

half-dried plaster, and go back to her old chair by the fire in Sapps

Court, and her day-dreams of the huge cruel world she had all but seen

the last of; to watch through the hours for what was now the great

relaxation of her life, the coming of Dave and Dolly, and to listen

through the murmur of the traffic that grew and grew in the silence of

the house, for the welcome voices of the children on the stairs. But how

meet Gwen's impulsive decisions with anything but acquiescence? It was

not, with her, mere ready deference to the will of a superior; she might

have stickled at that, and found words to express a wish for her old

haunts and old habits of life. It was much more nearly the feeling a

mother might have had for a daughter, strangely restored to her, after

long separation that had made her a memory of a name. It was mixed with

the ready compliance one imputes to the fortunate owner of a Guardian

Angel, who is deserving of his luck. No doubt also with the fact that no

living creature, great or small, ever said nay to Gwen. But, for

whatever reason, she complied, and wondered.

Remember, too, the enforced associations of her previous experience.

Think how soon the conditions of her early youth--which, if they

afforded no high culture, were at least those of a respected middle

class in English provincial life--came to an end, and what they gave

place to! Then, on her return to England, how little chance her

antecedents and her son's vicious inherited disposition gave her of

resuming the position she would have been entitled to had her exile, and

its circumstances, not made the one she had to submit to abnormal! Aunt

M'riar and Mrs. Burr were good women, but those who study class-niceties

would surely refuse to _ranger_ either with Granny Marrable. And even

that old lady is scarcely a fair illustration; for, had her sister's

bridegroom been what the bride believed him, the social outcome of the

marriage would have been all but the same as of her own, had she wedded

his elder brother.

It is little wonder that old Mrs. Picture, who once was Maisie, should

succumb to the influences of this dazzling creature with all the world

at her feet. And less that these influences grew upon her, when there

was none to see, and hamper free speech with conventions. For when they

were alone, it came about that either unpacked her heart to the other,

and Gwen gave all the tale of the shadow on her own love in exchange

for that of the blacker shadows of the galleys--of the convict's cheated

wife, and the terrible inheritance of his son.

The story is sorry to have to admit that Gwen's bad faith to the old

lady, in the matter of her pledge of secrecy, did not show itself only

in her repetition of the story to her lover and his sister. She told her

father, a nobleman with all sorts of old-fashioned prejudices, among

others that of disliking confidences entrusted to him in disregard of

solemn oaths of secrecy. His protest intercepted his daughter's

revelation at the outset. "Unprincipled young monkey!" he exclaimed.

"You mustn't tell me when you've promised not to. Didn't you, now?"

"Of course I did! But _you_ don't count. Papas don't, when trustworthy.

Besides, the more people of the right sort know a secret, the better it

will be kept." Gwen had to release her lips from two paternal fingers to

say this. She followed it up by using them--she was near enough--to run

a trill of kisslets across the paternal forehead.

"Very good!" said the Earl. "Fire away!" It has been mentioned that Gwen

always got her will, somehow. This _how_ was the one she used with her

father. She told the whole tale without reserves; except, perhaps,

slight ones in respect of the son's misdeeds. They were not things to be

spoken of to a good, innocent father, like hers.

She answered an expression on his face, when she had finished,

with:--"As for any chance of the story not being true, that's

impossible."

"Then it must be true," was the answer. Not an illogical one!

"Don't agree meekly," says Gwen. "Meek agreement is contradiction....

What makes you think it fibs?"

"I don't think it fibs, my darling. Because I attach a good deal of

weight to the impression it has produced upon you. But other people

might, who did not know you."

"Other people are not to be told, so they are out of it.... Well,

perhaps that _has_ very little to do with the matter."

"Not very much. But tell me!--does the old lady give no names at all?"

"N-no!--I can remember none. Her real name is not Picture, of course ...

I should have said Prichard."

"I understand. But couldn't you get at her husband's name, to verify the

story?"

"I don't want it verified. Where's the use?... No, she hasn't told me a

single surname of any of the people.... Oh yes--stop a minute! Of

course she told me Prichard was a name in her family--some old nurse's.

But it's such a common name."

"Did she not say where she came from--where her family belonged?"

"Yes--Essex. But Essex is like Rutlandshire. Nobody has ever been to

either, or knows anyone that is there by nature."

"I didn't know that was the case, but I have no interest in proving the

contrary. Suppose you try to get at her husband's name--her real married

name. I could tell my man in Lincoln's Inn to hunt up the trial. Or even

if you could get the exact date it might be enough. There cannot have

been so very many fathers-in-laws' signatures forged in one year."

But Gwen did not like to press the old lady for information she was

reluctant to give, and the names of the family in Essex and the

delinquent remained untold; or, if told to Gwen, were concealed more

effectually by her than the narrative they were required to fill out.

And as the confidants to whom she had repeated that narrative were more

loyal to her than she herself had been to its first narrator, it

remained altogether unknown to the household at the Towers; and, indeed,

to anyone who could by repeating it have excited suspicion of the

twinship of the farmer's widow at Chorlton-under-Bradbury and the old

lady whom her young ladyship's eccentricities had brought from London.

Apart from their close contiguity, nothing occurred for some time to

make mutual recognition more probable than it had been at any moment

since Dave's visit to Chorlton had disclosed to each the bare fact of

the other's existence. They were within five miles of one another, and

neither knew it; nor had either a thought of the other but as a memory

of long ago; still cherished, as a sepulchral stone cherishes what Time

leaves legible, while his slow hand makes each letter fainter day by

day.

And yet--how near they went on one occasion to what must have led to

recognition, had the period of their separation been less cruelly long,

and its strange conditions less baffling! How near, for instance, three

or four days after old Maisie's arrival at the Towers, when Gwen the

omnipotent decided that she would take Mrs. Picture for a long drive in

the best part of the day--the longest drive that would not tire her to

death!

Whether the old soul that her young ladyship had taken such a fancy

to--that was how Blencorn the coachman and Benjamin the coachboy thought

of her--really enjoyed the strange experience of gliding over smooth

roads flanked by matchless woodlands or primeval moorland; cropless

Autumn fields or pastures of contented cattle; through villages of the

same mind about the undesirableness of change that had been their creed

for centuries, with churches unconscious of judicious restoration and an

unflawed record of curfews; by farms with all the usual besetting sins

of farms, black duck-slush and uncaptivating dung-heaps; cattle no

persuasion weighs with; the same hen that never stops the same

dissertation on the same egg, the same cock that has some of the vices

of his betters, our male selves to wit--whether the said old soul really

enjoyed all this, who can say? She may have been pretending to satisfy

her young ladyship. If so, she succeeded very well, considering her

years. But it was all part of a dream to her.

In that dream, she waked at intervals to small realities. One of these

was Farmer Jones's Bull. Not that she had more than a timid hope of

seeing that celebrated quadruped himself. She was, however,

undisguisedly anxious to do so; inquiring after him; the chance of his

proximity; the possibility of cultivating his intimate acquaintance. No

other bull would serve her purpose, which was to take back to Dave, who

filled much of her thoughts, an authentic report of Farmer Jones's.

"Dave must be a very nice little boy," said Gwen. "Anyhow, he's pretty.

And Dolly's a darling." This may have been partly due to the way in

which Dolly had overwhelmed the young lady--the equivalent, as it were,

of a kind of cannibalism, or perhaps octopus-greed--which had stood in

the way of a maturer friendship with her brother. However, there had

really been very little time.

"You see, my dear," said the old lady, "if I was to _see_ Farmer Jones's

Bull, I could tell the dear child about him in London. Isn't that a

Bull?" But it wasn't, though possibly a relation he would not have

acknowledged.

"I think Blencorn might make a point of Farmer Jones's Bull," said Gwen.

"Blencorn!"

"Yes, my lady."

"I want to stop at Strides Cottage, coming back. _You_ know--Mrs.

Marrable's!"

"Yes, my lady."

"Well--isn't that Farmer Jones's farm, on the left, before we get there?

Close to the Spinney." Now Mr. Blencorn knew perfectly well. But he was

not going to admit that he knew, because farms were human affairs, and

he was on the box. He referred to his satellite, the coachboy, whose

information enabled him to say:--"Yes, my lady, on the left." Gwen then

said:--"Very good, then, Blencorn, stop at the gate, and Benjamin can

go in and say we've come to see the Bull. Go on!"

"I wonder," said old Mrs. Prichard, with roused interest, "if that is

Davy's granny I wrote to for him. Such a lot he has to say about her!

But it was Mrs.... Mrs. Thrale Dave went to stop with."

"Mrs. Marrable--Granny Marrable--is Mrs. Thrale's mother. A nice old

lady. Rather younger than you, and awfully strong. She can walk nine

miles." In Rumour's diary, the exact number of a pedestrian's miles is

vouched for, as well as the exact round number of thousands Park-Laners

have _per annum_. "I dare say we shall see her," Gwen continued. "I hope

so, because I promised my cousin Clo to give her this parcel with my own

hands. Only she may be out.... Aren't you getting very tired, dear Mrs.

Picture?"

Mrs. Picture was getting tired, and admitted it. "But I must see the

Bull," said she. She closed her eyes and leaned back, and Gwen

said:--"You can drive a little quicker, Blencorn." There had been plenty

of talk through a longish drive, and Gwen was getting afraid of

overdoing it.

This was the gate of the farm, my lady. Should Benjamin go across to the

house, and express her ladyship's wishes? Benjamin was trembling for the

flawless blacking of his beautiful boots, and the unsoiled felt of his

leggings. Yes, he might go, and get somebody to come out and speak to

her ladyship, or herself, as convenient. But while Benjamin was away on

this mission, the unexpected came to pass in the form of a boy. We all

know how rarely human creatures occur in fields and villages, in

England. This sporadic example, in answer to a question "Are you Farmer

Jones's boy?" replied guardedly:--"Ees, a be woon."

"Very well then," said Gwen. "Find Farmer Jones, to show us his Bull."

The boy shook his head. "Oo'r Bull can't abide he," said he. "A better

tarry indowers, fa'ather had, and leave oy to ha'andle un. A be a foine

Bull, oo'r Bull!"

"You mean, you can manage your Bull, and father can't. Is that it?"

Assent given. "And how can you manage your Bull?"

"Oy can whistle un a tewun."

"Is he out in the field, or here in his stable or house, or whatever

it's called?"

"That's him nigh handy, a-roomblin'." It then appeared that this youth

was prepared, for a reasonable consideration, to lead this formidable

brute out into the farmyard, under the influence of musical cajolery. He

met a suggestion that his superiors might disapprove of his doing so, by

pointing out that they would all keep "yower side o' th' gayut" until

the Bull--whose name, strange to say, seemed to be Zephyr--was safe in

bounds, chained by his nose-ring to a sufficient wall-staple.

Said old Mrs. Picture, roused from an impending nap by the interest of

the event:--"This must be the boy Davy told about, who whistled to the

Bull. Why--the child can never tire of telling that story." It certainly

was the very selfsame boy, and he was as good as his word, exhibiting

the Bull with pride, and soothing his morose temper as he had promised,

by monotonous whistling. Whether he was more intoxicated with his

success or with a shilling Gwen gave him as recompense, it would have

been hard to say.

The old lady was infinitely more excited and interested about this Bull,

on Dave's account, than about any of the hundred-and-one things Gwen had

shown her during her five-mile drive. When Gwen gave the direction:--"Go

on to Strides Cottage, Blencorn," and Blencorn, who had scarcely

condescended to look at the Bull, answered:--"Yes, my lady," her

interest on Dave's account was maintained, but on a rather different

line. She was, however, becoming rapidly too fatigued to entertain any

feelings of resentment against her rival, and none mixed with the

languid interest the prospect of seeing her aroused during the

three-minutes' drive from Farmer Jones's to Strides Cottage.

* * * * *

This story despairs of showing to the full the utter strangeness of the

position that was created by this meeting of old Maisie and old Phoebe,

each of whom for nearly half a century had thought the other dead. It is

forced to appeal to its reader to make an effort to help its feeble

presentations by its own powers of imagery.

Conceive that suddenly a voice that imposed belief on its hearers had

said to each of them:--"This is your sister of those long bygone

years--slain, for you, by a cunning lie; living on, and mourning for a

death that never was; dreaming, as you dreamed, of a slowly vanishing

past, vanishing so slowly that its characters might still be visible at

the end of the longest scroll of recorded life. Look upon her, and

recognise in that shrunken face the lips you kissed, the cheeks you

pressed to yours, the eye that laughed and gave back love or mockery!

Try to hear in that frail old voice the music of its speech in the years

gone by; ask for the song it knew so well the trick of. Try to caress

in those grey, thin old tresses the mass of gold from whose redundance

you cut the treasured locks you almost weep afresh to see and handle,

even now." Then try to imagine to yourself the outward seeming of its

hearers, always supposing them to understand. It is a large supposition,

but the dramatist would have to accept it, with the ladies in the stalls

getting up to go.

Are _you_ prepared to accept, off the stage, a snapshot recognition of

each other by the two old twins, and curtain? It is hard to conceive

that mere eyesight, and the hearing of a changed voice, could have

provoked such a result. However, it is not for the story to decide that

in every case it would be impossible. It can only record events as they

happened, however much interest might be gained by the interpolation of

a little skilful fiction.

* * * * *

That morning, at Strides Cottage, a regrettable event had disturbed

Granny Marrable's equanimity. A small convalescent, named Toby, who was

really old enough to know better, had made a collection of beautiful,

clean, new horse-chestnuts from under the tree in the field behind the

house. Never was the heart of man more embittered by this sort being no

use for cooking than in the case of these flawless, glossy rotundities.

Each one was a handful for a convalescent, and that was why Toby so

often had his hands in his pockets. He was, in fact, fondling his

ammunition, like Mr. Dooley. For that was, according to Toby, the

purpose of Creation in the production of the horse-chestnut tree. He had

awaited his opportunity, and here it was:--he was unwatched in the large

room that was neither kitchen nor living-room, but more both than

neither, and he seized it to show his obedience to a frequent injunction

not to throw stones. He was an honourable convalescent, and he proved it

in the choice of a missile. His first horse-chestnut only gave him the

range; his second smashed the glass it was aimed at. And that glass was

the door or lid of the automatic watermill on the chimney-piece!

The Granny was quite upset, and Widow Thrale was downright angry, and

called Toby an undeserving little piece, if ever there was one. It was a

harsh censure, and caused Toby to weep; in fact, to roar. Roaring,

however, did nothing towards repairing the mischief done, and nearly led

to a well-deserved penalty for Toby, to be put to his bed and very

likely have no sugar in his bread-and-milk--such being the exact wording

of the sentence. It was not carried out, as it was found that the

watermill and horses, the two little girls in sun-bonnets, and the

miller smoking at the window, were all intact; only the glass being

broken. There was no glazier in the village, which broke few windows,

and was content to wait the coming round of a peripatetic plumber, who

came at irregular intervals, like Easter, but without astronomical

checks. So, as a temporary expedient to keep the dust out, Widow Thrale

pasted a piece of paper over the breakage, and the mill was hidden from

the human eye. Toby showed penitence, and had sugar in his

bread-and-milk, but the balance of his projectiles was confiscated.

Consequently, old Mrs. Marrable was not in her best form when her young

ladyship arrived, and Benjamin the coachboy came up the garden pathway

as her harbinger to see if she should descend from the carriage to

interview the old lady. She did not want to do so, as she felt she ought

to get Mrs. Prichard home as soon as possible; but wanted, all the same,

to fulfil her promise of delivering Sister Nora's parcel with her own

hands. She was glad to remain in the carriage, on hearing from Benjamin

that both Granny Marrable and her daughter were on the spot; and would,

said he, be out in a minute.

"They'll curtsey," said Gwen. "Do, dear Mrs. Picture, keep awake one

minute more. I want you so much to see Dave's other Granny. She's such a

nice old body!" Can any student of language say why these two old women

should be respectively classed as an old soul and an old body, and why

the cap should fit in either case?

"I won't go to sleep," said Mrs. Prichard, making a great effort. "That

must be Dave's duck-pond, across the road." The duck-pond had no alloy.

She did not feel that her curiosity about Dave's other Granny was quite

without discomfort.

"Oh--had Dave a duck-pond? It looks very black and juicy.... Here come

the two Goodies! I've brought you a present from Sister Nora, Granny

Marrable. It's in here. I know what it is because I've seen it--it's

nice and warm for the winter. Take it in and look at it inside. I

mustn't stop because of Mrs.... There now!--I was quite forgetting...."

It shows how slightly Gwen was thinking of the whole transaction that

she should all but tell Blencorn to drive home at this point, with the

scantiest farewell to the Goodies, who had curtsied duly as foretold.

She collected herself, and continued:--"You remember the small boy, Mrs.

Marrable, when I came with Sister Nora, whose letter we read about the

thieves and the policeman?"

"Ah, dear, indeed I do! That dear child!--why, what would we not give,

Ruth and me, to see him again?"

"Well, this is Mrs. Picture, who wrote his letter for him. This is

Granny Marrable, that Dave told you all about. She says she wants him

back."

And then Maisie and Phoebe looked each other in the face again after

half a century of separation. Surely, if there is any truth in the

belief that the souls of twins are linked by some unseen thread of

sympathy, each should have been stirred by the presence of the other. If

either was, she had no clue to the cause of her perturbation. They

looked each other in the face; and each made some suitable recognition

of her unknown sister. Phoebe hoped the dear boy was well, and Maisie

heard that he was, but had not seen him now nigh a month. Phoebe had had

a letter from him yesterday, but could not quite make it out. Ruth would

go in and get it, for her ladyship to see. Granny Marrable made little

direct concession to the equivocal old woman who might be anything, for

all she was in her ladyship's carriage.

"I suppose," said Gwen, "the boy has tried to describe the accident, and

made a hash of it. Is that it?"

"Indeed, my lady, he does tell something of an accident. Only I took it

for just only telling--story-book like!... Ah, yes, that will be the

letter. Give it to her ladyship."

Gwen took the letter from Widow Thrale, but did not unfold it. "Mayn't I

take it away," she said, "for me and Mrs. Picture to read at home? I

want to get her back and give her some food. She's knocking up."

Immediately Granny Marrable's heart and Widow Thrale's overflowed. What

did the doubts that hung over this old person matter, whatever she was,

if she was running down visibly within the zone of influence of

perceptible mutton-broth; which was confirming, through the door, what

the wood-smoke from the chimney had to say about it to the Universe? Let

Ruth bring out a cup of it at once for Mrs. Picture. It was quite good

and strong by now. Granny Marrable could answer for that.

But it was one thing to be generous to a rival, another to accept a

benevolence from one. Mrs. Picture quite roused herself to acknowledge

the generosity, but she wouldn't have the broth on any terms, evidently.

Gwen thought she could read the history of this between the lines. As we

have seen, she was aware of the sort of jealousy subsisting between

these two old Grannies about their adopted grandson. She thought it best

to favour immediate departure, and Blencorn jumped at the first symptom

of a word to that effect. The carriage rolled away, waving farewells to

the cottage, and the tenants of the latter went slowly back to the

mutton-broth.

And neither of the two old women had the dimmest idea whose face it was

that she had looked at in the broad full light of a glorious autumn day;

not passingly, as one glances at a stranger on the road, who comes one

knows not whence, to vanish away one knows not whither; but inquiringly,

as when a first interview shows us the outward seeming of one known by

hearsay--one whom our mind has dwelt on curiously, making conjectural

images at random, and wondering which was nearest to the truth. And to

neither of those who saw this meeting, for all they felt interest to

note what each would think of the other, did the thought come of any

very strong resemblance between them. They were two old women--that was

all!

And yet, in the days of their girlhood, these old women had been so much

alike that they were not allowed to dress in the same colour, for mere

mercy to the puzzled bystanders. So much alike that when, for a frolic,

each put on the other's clothes, and answered to the other's name, the

fraud went on for days, undetected!

It seems strange, but gets less strange as all the facts are sorted out,

and weighed in the scale. First and foremost the whole position was so

impossible _per se_--one always knows what is and is not possible!--that

any true version of the antecedents of the two old women would have

seemed mere madness. Had either spectator noted that the bones of the

two old faces were the same, she would have condemned her own powers of

observation rather than doubt the infallibility of instinctive

disbelief, which is the attitude of the vernacular mind not only to what

it wishes to be false, but to anything that runs counter to the

octave-stretch forlorn--as Elizabeth Browning put it--of its limited

experience. Had either noted that the eyes of the two were the same, she

would have attached no meaning to the similarity. So many eyes are the

same! How many shades of colour does the maker of false eyes stock, all

told? Guess them at a thousand, and escape the conclusion that in a

world of a thousand million, a million of eyes are alike, if you can. If

they had compared the hair still covering the heads of both, they would

have found Dave's comparison of it with Pussy's various tints a good and

intelligent one. Maisie was silvery white, Phoebe merely grey. But the

greatest difference was in the relative uprightness and strength of the

old countrywoman, helped--and greatly helped--by the entire difference

in dress.

No!--it was not surprising that bystanders should not suspect offhand

that something they would have counted impossible was actually there

before them in the daylight. Was it not even less so that Maisie and

Phoebe, who remembered Phoebe and Maisie last in the glory and beauty of

early womanhood, should each be unsuspicious, when suspicion would have

gone near to meaning a thought in the mind of each that the other had

risen from the grave? It is none the less strange that two souls,

nourished unborn by the same mother, should have all but touched, and

that neither should have guessed the presence of the other, through the

outer shell it dwelt in.

How painfully we souls are dependent on the evidence of our

existence--eyes and noses and things!

To get back to the thread of the story. Mrs. Picture, on her part,

seemed--so far as her fatigue allowed her to narrate her impressions--to

take a more favourable view of her rival than the latter of herself. She

went so far as to speak of her as "a nice person." But she was in a

position to be liberal; being, as it were, in possession of the bone of

contention--unconscious Dave, equally devoted to both his two Grannies!

Would she not go back to him, and would not he and Dolly come up and

keep her company, and Dolly bring her doll? Would not Sapps Court rise,

metaphorically speaking, out of its ashes, and the rebuilt wall of that

Troy get bone-dry, and the window be stood open on summer evenings by

Mrs. Burr, for to hear Miss Druitt play her scales? It was much easier

for Maisie to forgive Phoebe her claim on Dave's affection than _vice

versa_.

She was, however, so thoroughly knocked up by this long drive that she

spoke very little to Gwen about Strides Cottage or anything else, at the

time. Gwen saw her on the way to resuscitation, and left her rather

reluctantly to Mrs. Masham and Lutwyche; who would, she knew, take very

good care that her visitor wanted for nothing, however much she

suspected that those two first-class servants were secretly in revolt

against the duty they were called on to execute. They would not enter

their protest against any whim of her young ladyship, however mad they

might think it, by any act of neglect that could be made the basis of an

indictment against them.

She herself was overdue at the rather late lunch which her august

parents were enjoying in solitude. They were leaving for London in the

course of an hour or so, having said farewell in the morning to such

guests as still remained at the Towers; and intended, after a short stay

in town, to part company--the Earl going to Bath, where it was his

practice each year to go through a course of bathing, by which means he

contended his life might be indefinitely prolonged--to return in time

for Christmas, which they would probably celebrate--or, as the Earl

said, undergo--at Ancester Towers, according to their usual custom.

"What on earth have you been doing, Gwen, to make you so late?" said the

Countess. "We couldn't wait."

"It doesn't matter," was her daughter's answer. "I can gobble to make up

for lost time. Don't bring any arrears, Norbury. I can go on where they

are. What's this--grouse? Not if it's grousey, thank you!...

Oh--well--perhaps I can endure it ... What have I been doing? Why,

taking a drive!... Yes--hock. Only not in a tall glass. I hate tall

glasses. They hit one's nose. Besides, you get less.... I took my old

lady out for a drive--all round by Chorlton, and showed her things. We

saw Farmer Jones's Bull."

"Is that the Bull that killed the man?" This was the Earl. His eyes were

devouring his beautiful daughter, as they were liable to do, even at

lunch, or in church.

"I believe he did. It was a man that beat his wife. So it was a good

job. He's a dear Bull, but his eyes are red. He had a little boy ...

Nonsense, mamma!--why don't you wait till I've done? He had a little boy

to whistle to him and keep his nerves quiet. The potatoes could have

waited, Norbury." The story hopes that its economies of space by

omitting explanations will not be found puzzling.

The Countess's mien indicated despair of her daughter's manners or

sanity, or both. Also that attempts to remedy either would be futile.

Her husband laughed slightly to her across the table, with a

sub-shrug--the word asks pardon--of his shoulders. She answered it by

another, and "Well!" It was as though they had said:--"Really--our

daughter!"

"And where else did you go?" said the Earl, to re-rail the conversation.

"And what else did you see?"

"Mrs. Picture was knocking up," said Gwen. "So we didn't see so much as

we might have done. We left a parcel from Cousin Clo at Goody

Marrable's, and then came home as fast as we could pelt. You know Goody

Marrable, mamma?"

"Oh dear, yes! I went there with Clo, and she gave us her strong-tea."

Gwen nodded several times. "Same experience," said she. "Why is it they

_will_?" The story fancies it referred, a long time since, to this vice

of Goody Marrable's. No doubt Gurth the Swineherd would have made tea on

the same lines, had he had any to make.

The Countess lost interest in the tea question, and evidently had

something to say. Therefore Gwen said:--"Yes, mamma! What?" and got for

answer:--"It's only a suggestion."

"But _what_ is a suggestion?" said the Earl.

"No attention will be paid to it, so it's no use," said her ladyship.

"But what _is_ it?" said the Earl. "No harm in knowing _what_ it is,

that I can see!"

"My dear," said the Countess, "you are always unreasonable. But Gwen may

see some sense in what I say. It's no use your looking amused, because

that doesn't do any good." After which little preliminary skirmish she

came to the point, speaking to Gwen in a half-aside, as to a

fellow-citizen in contradistinction to an outcast, her father. "Why

should not your old woman be put up at Mrs. Marrable's? They do this

sort of thing there. However, perhaps Mrs. Marrable is full up."

"I didn't see anybody there but the two Goodies. I didn't go in, though.

But why is Mrs. Picture not to stop where she is?"

"Just as you please, my dear." Her ladyship abdicated with the

promptitude of a malicious monarch, who seeks to throw the Constitution

into disorder. "How long do you want to stop here yourself?"

"I haven't made up my mind. But _why_ is Mrs. Picture not to stop where

she is?" This was put incisively.

Her ladyship deprecated truculence. "My dear Gwen!--really! _Are_ you

Farmer Jones's Bull, or who?" Then, during a lull in the servants, for

the moment out of hearing, she added in an undertone:--"You can ask

Norbury, and see what _he_ thinks. Only wait till Thomas is out of the

room." To which Gwen replied substantially that she was still in

possession of her senses.

Now Norbury stood in a very peculiar relation to this noble Family.

Perhaps it is best described as that of an Unacknowledged Deity,

tolerating Atheism from a respect for the Aristocracy. He was not

allowed altars or incense, which might have made him vain; but it is

difficult to say what questions he was not consulted on, by the Family.

Its members had a general feeling that opinions so respectful as his

_must_ be right, even when they did not bear analysis.

Gwen let the door close on Thomas before she approached the Shrine of

the Oracle. It must be admitted that she did so somewhat as Farmer

Jones's Bull might have done. "_You've_ heard all about old Mrs.

Picture, Norbury?" said she.

Why should it have been that Mr. Norbury's "Oh _dear_, yes, my lady!"

immediately caused inferences in his hearers' minds--one of which, in

the Countess's, caused her to say to Gwen, under her voice:--"I told you

so!"?

But Gwen was consulting the Oracle; what did it matter to her what

forecasts of its decisions the Public had made? "But you haven't _seen_

her?" said she. No--Mr. Norbury had _not_ seen her; perfect candour must

admit that. She was only known to him by report, gathered from

conversations in which he himself was not joining. How could he be

induced to disclose that part of them that was responsible for a

peculiar emphasis in his reply to her ladyship's previous question?

Not by the Countess's--"She is being well attended to, I suppose?"

spoken as by one floating at a great height above human affairs, but to

a certain extent responsible if they miscarried. For this only produced

a cordial testimonial from the Oracle to the assiduity, care, and skill

with which every want of the old lady was being supplied. Gwen's method

was likely to be much more effective, helped as it was by her absolute

licence to be and to do whatever she liked, and to suffer nothing

counter to her wishes, though, indeed, she always gained them by

omnipotent persuasion. She had also, as we have seen, a happy faculty of

going straight to the point. So had Farmer Jones's Bull, no doubt, on

occasion shown.

"Which is it, Lutwyche or Mrs. Masham?" said she. What it was that was

either remained indeterminate.

Mr. Norbury set himself to say which, without injustice to anyone

concerned. He dropped his voice to show how unreservedly he was telling

the truth, yet how reluctant he was that his words should be overheard

at the other end of the Castle. "No blame attaches," said he, to clear

the air. "But, if I might make so bold, the arrangement would work more

satisfactory if put upon a footing."

The Countess said:--"You see, Gwen. I told you what it would be." The

Earl exchanged understandings with Norbury, which partly took the form

of inaudible speech. The fact was that Gwen had sprung the old lady on

the household without doing anything towards what Mr. Norbury called

putting matters on a footing.

CHAPTER IV

OLD MEMORIES, AGAIN. THE VOYAGE OUT, FIFTY YEARS SINCE. SAPPS

COURT, AND BREAD-AND-BUTTER SPREAD ON THE LOAF. HOW GWEN CAME INTO

THE DREAM SUDDENLY. HOW THEY READ DAVE'S LETTER, AND MUGGERIDGE WAS

UNDECIPHERABLE. HOW IT WASN'T THE MIDDLE AGES, BUT JEALOUSIES BRED

RUCTIONS. SO GWEN DINED ALONE, BUT WENT BACK. A CONTEMPTIBLE

HOT-WATER BOTTLE. MISS LUTWYCHE'S SKETCH OF THE RUCTIONS, AND HER

MAGNANIMITY. NAPOLEON DE SOUCHY. HIS VANITY. BUT MAISIE AND

PHOEBE REMAINED UNCONSCIOUS, AS WHY SHOULD THEY NOT? INDEED, WHY

NOT POSTPONE THE DISCOVERY UNTIL AFTER THE GREAT INTERRUPTION,

DEATH?

The problem of where the anomalous old lady was to be lodged might have

been solved by what is called an accommodating disposition, but not by

the disposition incidental to the _esprit de corps_ of a large staff of

domestic servants. To control them is notoriously the deuce's own

delight, and old Nick's relish for it must grow in proportion as they

become more and more corporate. As Mr. Norbury said--and we do not feel

that we can add to the force of his words--her young ladyship had not

took proper account of tempers. Two of these qualities, tendencies,

attributes, or vices--or indeed virtues, if you like--had developed, or

germinated, or accrued, or suppurated, as may be, in the respective

bosoms of Miss Lutwyche and Mrs. Masham. It was not a fortunate

circumstance that the dispositions of these two ladies, so far from

being accommodating, were murderous. That is, they would have been so

had it happened to be the Middle Ages, just then. But it wasn't. Tempers

had ceased to find expression in the stiletto and the poison-cup, and

had been curbed and stunted down to taking the other party up short,

showing a proper spirit, and so on.

"What was that you were saying to Norbury, papa dear?" Gwen asked this

question of her father in his own room, half an hour later, having

followed him thither for a farewell chat.

"Saying at lunch?" asked the Earl, partly to avoid distraction from the

mild Havana he was lighting, partly to consider his answer.

"Saying at lunch. Yes."

"Oh, Norbury! Well!--we were speaking of the same thing as you and your

mother, I believe. Only it was not so very clear what that was. You

didn't precisely ... formulate."

"Dear good papa! As if everything was an Act of Parliament! What did

Norbury say?"

"I only remember the upshot. Miss Lutwyche has a rather uncertain

temper, and Mrs. Masham has been accustomed to be consulted."

"Well--and then?"

"That's all I can recollect. It's a very extraordinary thing that it

should be so, but I have certainly somehow formed an image in my mind of

all my much too numerous retinue of servants taking sides with Masham

and Miss Lutwyche respectively, in connection with this old lady of

yours, who must be a great curiosity, and whom, by the way, I haven't

seen yet." He compared his watch with a clock on the chimney-piece,

whose slow pendulum said--so he alleged--"I, am, right, you, are,

wrong!" all day.

"Suppose you were to come round and see her now!"

"Should I have time? Yes, I think I should. Just time to smoke this in

peace and quiet, and then we'll pay her a visit. Mustn't be a long one."

* * * * *

The day had lost its beauty, and the wind in the trees and the chimneys

was inconsolable about the loss, when Gwen said to the old

woman:--"Here's my father, come to pay you a visit, Mrs. Picture."

Thereon the Earl said:--"Don't wake her up, Gwennie." But to this she

said:--"She isn't really asleep. She goes off like this." And he

said:--"Old people do."

Her soft hand roused the old lady as gently as anything effectual could.

And then Mrs. Picture said:--"I heard you come in, my dear." And, when

Gwen repeated that her father had come, became alive to the necessity of

acknowledging him, and had to give up the effort, being told to sit

still.

"You had such a long drive, you see," said Gwen. "It has quite

worn you out. It was my fault, and I'm sorry." Then, relying on

inaudibility:--"It makes her seem so old. She was quite young when we

started off this morning."

"Young folks," said his lordship, "never believe in old bones, until

they feel them inside, and then they are not young folks any longer.

Why--where did we drive to, to knock ourselves up so? What's her

name--Picture?" He was incredulous, evidently, about such a name being

possible. But there was a sort of graciousness, or goodwill, about his

oblique speech in the first person plural, that more than outweighed

abruptness in his question about her.

She rallied under her visitor's geniality--or his emphasis, as might be.

"Maisie Prichard, my lord," said she, quite clearly. Her designation for

him showed she was broad awake now, and took in the position. She could

answer his question, repeated:--"And where _did_ we drive?" by

saying:--"A beautiful drive, but I've a poor head now for names." She

tried recollection, failed, and gave it up.

"Chorlton-under-Bradbury?" said the Earl.

"We went there too. I know Chorlton quite well, of course. The other

one!--where the clock was." Gwen supplied the name, a singular one,

Chernoweth; and the Earl said:--"Oh yes--Chernoweth. A pretty place. But

why 'Chorlton quite well, of course'?"

Gwen explained. "Because of the small boy, Dave. Don't you know,

papa?--I told you Mrs. Picture has directed no end of letters to

Chorlton, for Dave." The Earl was not very clear. "Don't you

remember?--to old Mrs. Marrable, at Strides Cottage?" Still not very

clear, he pretended he was, to save trouble. Then he weakened his

pretence, by saying:--"But I remember Mrs. Marrable, and Strides

Cottage, near forty years ago, when your Uncle George and I were two

young fellows. Fine, handsome woman she was--didn't look her age--she

had just married Farmer Marrable--was a widow from Sussex, I think.

Can't think what her name had been ... knew it once, too!"

"She's a fine-looking old lady now," said Gwen. "Isn't she, Mrs.

Picture?"

"I am sure she is that too, my dear, or you would not say so. Only my

eyesight won't always serve me nowadays as it did, not for seeing near

up." The reserves about Dave's other Granny were always there, however

little insisted on. Old Maisie was exaggerating about her eyesight. She

had seen her rival quite clearly enough to have an opinion about her

looks.

"Did you see the inside of the cottage, and the old chimney-corners? And

the well out at the back?" Thus the Earl.

"We didn't go in. I wanted to get home. But what a lot you recollect of

it, papa dear!"

"I ought to recollect something about it. It was Strides Cottage where

your Uncle George was taken when he broke his leg, riding."

"Oh, was it there? Yes, I've heard of that. His horse threw him on a

heap of stones, and bolted, and pitched into Dunsters Gap, and had to be

shot."

"Yes, he shouldn't have ridden that horse. But he was always at that

sort of thing, George." A sound came in here that had the same relation

to a sigh that a sip has to a draught. "Well!--Mrs. Marrable nursed him

up at Strides Cottage till he was fit to move--they were afraid about

his back at first--and I used to ride over every morning. We used to

chaff poor Georgy about his beautiful nurse.... Oh yes!--she was young

enough for that. Woman well under forty, I should say."

Gwen made calculations and attested possibilities. Oh dear, yes!--Granny

Marrable must have been under forty then. She surprised his lordship,

first by gently smoothing aside the silver hair on the old woman's

forehead, then by stooping down and kissing it. "Why, how old are you

now, dear?" she said, as though she were speaking to a child. He for his

part was only surprised, not dumfounded. He just felt a little glad his

Countess was elsewhere; and was not sorry, on looking round, to see that

no domestic was present. What a wild, ungovernable daughter it was, this

one of his, and how he loved it!

So did old Mrs. Picture, to judge by the illumination of the eyes she

turned up to the girl's young face above her. "How old am I now, my

dear?" said she. "Eighty-one this Christmas." Thereupon said Gwen:--"You

see, papa! Old Mrs. Marrable must have been quite a young woman in Uncle

George's time. She's heaps younger than Mrs. Picture." She again

smoothed the beautiful silver hair, adding:--"It's not unfeelingness,

because Uncle George died years before I was born."

"Killed at Rangoon in twenty-four," said the Earl, with another

semi-sigh. "Poor Georgy!" And then his visit was cut as short as--even

shorter than--his forecast of its duration, for his next words were:--"I

hear someone coming to fetch me. Your mamma is sure to start an hour

before the time. Good-bye, Mrs.... Picture. I hope you are being well

fed and properly attended to." To which the old lady replied:--"I thank

your lordship, indeed I am," in an old-fashioned way that went well with

the silver hair. And Gwen said:--"Dear old parent! Do you think _I_

shan't see to that?" and followed him out of the room.

"She's a nice old soul," said he, in the passage. "I wanted to see what

she was like. But I thought it best to say nothing about the convict."

"Of course not. I'll follow you round before you go, to say good-bye.

You won't start for half an hour." And Gwen returned to the old soul,

who presently said to her--to account to her for knowing how to say "my

lord" and "your lordship"--"When I first married, my husband's great

friend was Lord Pouralot. But I very soon called him Jack." This was a

reminiscence of her interim between her victimisation and loneliness,

which of course her innocence thought of as marriage. But was this early

lordship's really a ladyship, if such a one appeared, we wonder? Very

likely she was only another dupe, like Maisie. Possibly less fortunate,

in one way. For, owing to the high price of women, in the land of

Maisie's destiny, she--poor girl--never knew she was not a good one,

until she found she was not a widow, although her worthless love of a

lifetime was dead.

Oh, the difference Law's sanctions make! For a woman shall be the same

in thought and word and deed through all her sojourn on Earth, yet vary

as saint and sinner with the hall-mark of Lincoln's Inn.

* * * * *

Gwen followed the Earl very shortly, and left old Maisie to dream away

the time until, somewhile after the final departure of her parents, she

was free to return. When she did so she found the old woman sitting

where she had left her, to all seeming quite contented. The day had died

a sudden death intestate, and the flickering firelight meant to have its

say unmolested, till candletime. The intrusion of artificial light was

intercepted by Gwen, who liked to sit and talk to Mrs. Picture in the

twilight, thank you, Mrs. Masham! Take it away!

Where had the old mind wandered in that two hours' interval? Had the

actual meeting with her sister--utterly incredible even had she known

its claims to belief--taken any hold on it that bore comparison with

that of Farmer Jones's Bull, for instance, or the visit of a real live

Earl? Certainly not the former, while as for the latter it was at best a

half-way grip between the two; perhaps farther, if anything, from the

supreme Bull, the great enthralling interest that was to be vested in

her letter to Dave, to be written at the next favourable climax of

strength, nourished by repose. Some time in the morning--to-day she was

far too tired to think of it.

How she dwelt upon that appalling quadruped, and his savage breast--have

bulls breasts?--soothed by the charms of music! How she phrased the

various best ways of describing the mountain he was pleased to call his

neck, with its half-hundredweight of dewlap; the merciless strength of

his horns; the blast of steam from his nostrils into the chill of the

October day; the deep-seated objection to everybody in his lurid eyes,

attesting the unclubableness of his disposition! How she hesitated

between this way and that of expressing to the full his murderousness

and the beautiful pliancy of his soul, if got at the right way; showing,

as the pseudo-Browning has it, that "we never should think good

impossible"!

One thing she made up her mind to. She would not tell that dear boy,

that this bull--which was in a sense _his_ bull, or Sapps Court's,

according as you look at it--had ever had to succumb on a fair field of

battle. For Gwen had told her, as they rode home, and she had roused

herself to hear it, how one summer morning, so early that even rangers

were still abed and asleep, they were waked by terrific bellowings from

a distant glade in the parklands, and, sallying out to find the cause,

were only just in time to save the valued life of this same bull--even

Jones's. For he had broken down a gate and vanished overnight, and

wandered into the sacred precincts of the _villosi terga bisontes_, the

still-wild denizens of the last league of the British woodlands Caesar

found; and _Bos Taurus_ had risen in his wrath, and showed that an

ancient race was not to be trifled with, with impunity. Even Jones's

Bull went down in the end--though, mind you, evidence went to show that

he made an hour's stand!--before the overwhelming rush and the terrible

horns of the forest monarch. And the victor only gave back before a wall

of brandished torch and blazing ferns, that the unsportsmanlike spirit

of the keepers did not scruple to resort to. No--she would not admit

that Dave's bull had ever met his match. She would say how he had killed

a man, which Gwen had told her also; but to save the boy from too much

commiseration for this man, she would lay stress upon the brutality of

the latter to his wife, and even point out that Farmer Jones's Bull

might be honestly unconscious of the consequences that too often result

when one gores or tramples on an object of one's righteous indignation.

Strides Cottage played a very small part in the memories of the day.

Some interest certainly attached to the older woman who had emerged from

it to interview the carriage, but it was an interest apt to die down

when once its object had been ascertained to resemble any other handsome

old village octogenarian. Any peculiarity or deformity might have

intensified it, or at least kept it alive; mere good looks and upright

carriage, and strict conformity with the part of an ancient dependent of

a great local potentate, neither fed nor quenched the mild fires of her

rival granny's jealousy. Old Mrs. Picture had looked upon Granny

Marrable, and was none the wiser. That Granny had at least seen her way

to moralising on the way appearances might dupe us, and how sad it would

be if, after all, such a respectable-looking old person should be an

associate oL thieves, a misleader of youth, and a fraud. But Mrs.

Picture found little to say to herself, and nothing to say to anybody

else, about Strides Cottage.

Rather, she fell back, as soon as Jones's Bull flagged, on her long

record of an unforgotten past. That wind that was growing with the

nightfall no longer moaned for her in the chimney, five centuries old,

of the strange great house strange Fate had brought her to, but through

the shrouds of a ship on the watch for what the light of sunrise might

show at any moment. She could hear the rush and ripple of the cloven

waters under the prow, just as a girl who leaned upon the gunwale,

intent for the first sight of land, heard it in the dawn over fifty

years ago. She could seem to look back at the girl--who was, if you

please, herself--and a man who leaned on the same timber, some few feet

away, intent on the horizon or his neighbour, as might be; for he stood

aft, and her face was turned away from him. And she could seem to hear

his words too, for all the time that came between:--"Say the word,

mistress, and I'll be yours for life. I would give all I have to give,

and all I may live to get, but to call you mine for an hour." And how

his petition seemed empty sound, that she could answer with a curt

denial, so bent was her heart on another man in the land she hoped to

see so soon. Yet he was a nice fellow, too, thought old Mrs. Prichard as

she sat before Mrs. Masham's fire at the Towers; and she forgave him the

lawlessness of his impulse for its warmth, bred in the narrow limits of

a ship on the seas for three long months!--how could he help it? Such a

common story on shipboard, and ... such an uncommon ending! Ask the

captains of passenger ships what _they_ think, even now that ships steam

twenty knots an hour. One's fellow-creatures are so human, you see.

Then a terrible dream of a second voyage, from Sydney to Port Macquarie,

that almost made her wish she had accepted this man's offer to see her

safe into the arms of her lawful owner, out on leave and growing

prosperous in Van Diemen's Land. Need she have said him nay so firmly?

Could she not have trusted to his chivalry? Or was the question she

asked herself not rather, could she have trusted her own heart, if that

chivalry had stood as gold in the furnace.

Back again to the throbbing wheel, and the ceaseless flow of the little

river at the Essex mill, and childhood! Why should her waking dream hark

back to the dear old time? The natural thing would have been to dream on

into the years she spent out there with the man she loved, who at least,

to all outward seeming, gave her back love for love, while he played the

sly devil against her for his own ends. But she knew nothing of this:

and, till his death revealed the non-legal character of their union, she

could leave him on his pinnacle. So it was not because her mind shrank

from these memories of her married life that it conjured back again the

scent of the honeysuckles on the house-porch that looked on the garden

with the sundial on the wall above it, its welcome to that of the June

roses; its dissension with the flavour of the damp weeds that clung to

the time-worn timbers of the water-wheel, or that of the grinding flour

when the wind blew from the mill, and carried with it from the

ventilators some of the cloud that could not help forward the whitening

of the roof. She might almost have been breathing again the air that

carried all these scents; and then, with them, the old mill itself was

suddenly upon her; and she and Phoebe were there, in the shortest waists

ever frockmaker dreamed of, and the deepest sunbonnets possible, with

the largest possible ribbons, very pale yellow to harmonize--as canons

then ruled--with the lilac of their dresses. They were there, they two,

watching the inexhaustible resource of interest to their childish lives;

the consignment of grain to storage in the loft above the whirling

stones, and the dapple-grey horse that was called Mr. Pitt, and the dark

one with the white mane that was Mr. Fox. She could remember _their_

names well; but by some chance all those years of utter change had

effaced that of the carman who slung the sacks on the fall-rope, which

by some mysterious agency bore them up to a landing they vanished from

into a doorway half-way to Heaven. What on earth was that man's name?

Her mind became obsessed with the name Tattenhall, which was entirely

wrong, and, moreover, stood terribly in the way of Muggeridge,

which--you may remember?--was the name Dave had carried away so clearly

from his inspection of the mill on Granny Marrable's chimney-piece.

* * * * *

Her memories of her old home had died away, and she was back in Sapps

Court again, sympathizing with Dolly over an accident to Shockheaded

Peter, the articulation of whose knee-joint had given way, causing his

leg to come off promptly, from lack of integuments and tendons. She had

pointed out to Dolly that it was still open to her, as The Authority,

to hush Peter to sleep as before, his leg being carefully replaced in

position, although without ligatures. Dolly had carried out this

instruction in perfect good faith; but it had not led to a satisfactory

result. It failed owing to the patient's restlessness. "He _will_ tit in

his s'eep, and he tums undone," said the little lady, hard to console.

Oh dear--how soon Dolly would be four, and begin to lose her early

versions of consonants!

Poor Susan Burr had then flashed across her recollection, provoked by

the bread-and-butter Dolly baptized with the bitter tears she shed over

Peter's leg. That naturally led to the household loaf, which was

buttered before the slice was cut; sometimes the whole round, according

to how many at tea. This led to a controversy of long standing between

Dave and Dolly, as to which half should be took first; Dave having a

preference for the underside, with the black left on. Students of the

half-quartern household loaf will appreciate the niceties involved. In

this connection, Susan Burr had come in naturally, like the officiating

priest at Mass. Poor Susan! Suppose, after all, that Europe had been

mistaken in what seemed to be its estimate of married nieces at Clapham!

Suppose Susan was being neglected--how then? But marriage and Clapham,

between them, soothed and reassured misgivings a mere unqualified niece

might easily generate. By this time the waking dreamer was on the

borderland of sleep, and Mrs. Burr's image crossed it with her and

became a real dream, and whistled the tune the boy had whistled to

Farmer Jones's Bull. And into that dream came, suddenly and unprovoked,

her sister Phoebe of old, beautiful and fresh as violets in April, and

ended a tale of how she would have none of Ralph Daverill, come what

might, by saying, "Why, you are all in the dark, and the fire's going

out!"

This resurrection of Phoebe, at this moment, may have been mere

coincidence--a reflex action of Gwen's sudden reappearance; her first

words creating, in her hearer's sleep-waking mind, the readiest image of

a youth and beauty to match her own. As soon as the dream died, the

dreamer was aware of the speaker's identity. "Oh, my dear!" she said,

"I've been asleep almost ever since you went away."

"Mrs. Masham was quite right, for once, not to let them disturb you. Now

they'll bring tea--it's never too late for tea--and then we can read

your little friend's letter." Thus Gwen, and the old woman brightened up

under a living interest.

"There now!" said she. "The many times I've told my boy that one day he

would write my letters for me, instead of me for him! To think of his

managing all by himself, spelling and all!"

"Well, we shall see what sort of a job the young man's made of it. Put

the candles behind Mrs. Picture, Lupin, so as not to glare her eyes."

Lupin obeyed, with a studied absence of protest on her face against

having to wait upon an anomaly. Who could be sure this venerable

person--from Sapps Court, think of it!--had never waited on anyone

herself? It was the ambiguity that was so disgusting.

"Please may I see it, to look at?" said Mrs. Picture. "I may not be able

to read it, quite, but you shall have it back, to read." She was eager

to see the young scribe's progress, but was baffled by obscurities, as

she anticipated. She was equal to:--"Dear Granny Marrable." No more!

"Hand it over!" said Gwen. "'Dear Granny Marrable.' That's all plain

sailing; now what's this? 'This crorce is for Dolly's love.' There's a

great big black cross to show it, and everything is spelt just as I say

it. 'I give you my love itself!' Really, he's full of the most excellent

differences, as Shakespeare says. I'll go on. 'Arnt M'riar she's

took....' Oh dear! this _is_ a word to make out! Whatever can it be?

Let's see what comes after.... Oh, it goes on:--'because she is not

here.' Really it looks as if Aunt Maria had gone to Kingdom Come. Is

there anything she _would_ have taken because she was 'not there,' that

you know of? Is your tea all right?"

"It's very nice indeed, my dear. I think perhaps it might be the

omnibus, because Aunt M'riar _did_ take the omnibus that day she came to

see me. She was to come again, without the children, to see all

straight."

"H'm!--it may be the omnibus, spelt with an H. Suppose we accept

_homliburst_, and see how it works out! '... because she is not here.

She is going'--he's put a W in the middle of going--'to see Mrs.'--I

know this word is Mrs., but he's put the S in the middle and the R at

the end--'to see Mrs. Spicture tookted away by Dolly's lady to Towel.'

That wants a little thinking out." Gwen stopped to think it over, and

wondrous lovely she looked, thinking.

"Perhaps," said the old lady diffidently, "I can guess what it means,

because I know Dave. Suppose Aunt M'riar came the day we came away, and

found us gone! If she came up to say goodbye?..."

"No, that won't do! Because we came on Wednesday. This was written on

Thursday. It's dated 'On Firsday.' Did he mean that Aunt Maria had come

up to Sapps Court, but would not come to Cavendish Square because she

knew you had come here? It's quite possible. I don't wonder Mrs.

Marrable couldn't make it out." The old lady seemed to think the

interpretation plausible, and Gwen read on:--"'I say we had an

axdnt'--that really is beautifully spelt--'because the house forled

over, and Mrs. Ber underneath and Me and Dolly are sory.'" Gwen stopped

a moment to consider the first two words of this sentence, and decided

that "I say" was an apostrophe. "I see," said she, "that the next

sentence has your name in it again, only he's left out the U, and made

you look something between Spider and Spectre."

"The dear boy! What does he say next about me?" The old lady was looking

intensely happy; a reflex action of Dave.

"There's a dreadful hard word comes next ... Oh--I see what it is!

'Supposing.' Only he's made it 'sorsppposing'--such a lot of P's! I

think it is only to show how diffidently he makes the suggestion. It

doesn't matter. Let's get on. 'Supposing you was to show'--something I

really cannot make head or tail of--'to Mrs. Spictre who is my other

graney?' I wonder what on earth it can be!"

"I don't think it's any use my looking, my dear. What letters does it

look most like?"

"Why!--here's an M, and a U, and a C, and an E, and an R, and an I, and

a J. That's a word by itself. 'Mucerij.' But what word can he mean? _It_

can't be _mucilage_; that's impossible! I thought it might be _museum_

at first, as it was to be shown. But it's written too plain, in a big

round hand--all in capitals. What _can_ it be?" And Gwen sat there

puzzling, turning the word this way and that, looking all the lovelier

for the ripple of amusement on her face at the absurd penmanship of the

neophyte.

Poor dear Dave! With the clearest possible perception of the name

Muggeridge, when spoken, he could go no nearer to correct writing of it

than this! He could hardly have known of the two G's, from the sound;

but the omission of the cross-bar from the one that was _de rigueur_ was

certainly a _lapsus calami_, and a serious one. The last syllable was

merely phonetic, and unrecognisable; but the G that looked like a C was

fatal.

It was an odd chance indeed that brought this name, or its distortion,

to challenge recognition at this moment, when the thought of its owner

had just passed off the mind that might have recognised it, helped by a

slight emendation. The story dwells on it from a kind of fascination,

due to the almost incredible strangeness of these two sisters' utter

unconsciousness of one another, and yet so near together! It was almost

as though a mine were laid beneath their feet, and this memory of a name

floated over it as a spark, and drifted away on a wind of chance to be

lost in a space of oblivion. However, sparks drift back, now and again.

This conversation over Dave's letter had no peculiar interest for either

speaker, over and above its mere face-value, which was of course far

greater for the elder of the two. Gwen deciphered it to the end,

laughing at the writer's conscientious efforts towards orthography. But

when the end came, with an attestation of affectionate grandsonship that

roused suspicions of help from seniors, so orthodox was the spelling,

she consigned the missive to its envelope after very slight revision of

points of interest. But she would talk a little about Dave too, in

deference to his other granny's solicitude about him. That was the

source of her own interest in what was otherwise a mere recollection of

an attractive _gamin_ with an even more attractive sister.

It was part of the embarrassment consequent on her own headstrong

creation of an anomalous social position, that Gwen could not decide,

nominally omnipotent as she was in her parents' absence, on telling the

servants to serve her dinner in the room Mrs. Picture occupied. Had it

not been for her suspicion of a hornet's nest at hand, she might have

dared to ordain that Mrs. Picture should be her sole guest in her own

section of the Towers, or at least that she herself should become the

table-guest of the old lady in Francis Quarles; "might have," not "would

have," because Mrs. Picture's own feelings had to be reckoned with.

Might she not be embarrassed, and overweighted by too emphatic a change

of circumstances? Indeed, had Gwen known it, she was only tranquil and

contented with things as they were in the sense in which one who passes

through a dream is tranquil and contented. It was the quietude of

bewilderment, alive to gratitude.

Uncertainty on this point co-operated with the possible hornet's nest,

and sent Gwen away to a lonely evening meal in her own rooms; for

nothing short of a suite of apartments was allotted to any inmate of

importance at the Towers. She had to submit to a banquet of a kind, if

only as a measure of conciliation to the household. But, the banquet

ended, she was free to return and take coffee with her _protegee_. She

had no objection to talking about her lover to Mrs. Picture, rather

welcoming the luxury of speaking of her marriage with him as a thing

already guaranteed by Fate.

"When we are married," said she, "I mean to have that delicious old

house we saw on the hill. That's why I wanted to show it to you. It's

all nonsense about the ghost. I dare say the Roundheads murdered the

ghost there--I mean the woman the ghost's the ghost of--but she wouldn't

appear to me. Ghosts never do. Did you ever see one?... But you wouldn't

be in the house. You would be at a sweet little cottage just close,

which is simply one mass of roses. You and Dolly. And Mrs. Burr." Mrs.

Burr was thrown into attend to the _menage_.

Old Mrs. Picture did not quite know what to say. She had found out

instinctively that perpetual gratitude had its drawbacks for the

receiver as well as the giver. So she said, diffidently:--"Wouldn't it

cost a great deal of money?"

"Cost nothing," said Gwen. "The place belongs to my father. It's all

very well for people, that mind ghosts, not to live in it. But I don't

see why that should apply to Mr. Torrens and me."

"Doesn't he mind ghosts?"

"Not the least." She was going to say more, but was stopped, by danger

ahead. The chances of his seeing, or not seeing, a ghost, could hardly

be discussed. The old lady probably felt this too, for she seemed to

keep something back.

Her next words showed what it had been, in an odd way. "Is he not to

see?" she said, speaking almost as if afraid of the sound of her own

words.

Gwen's answer came in a hurried undertone:--"Oh, I dare not think so. He

_will_ see! He _must_ see!" Her distress was in her fingers, that she

could not keep still, as well as in her voice. She rose suddenly,

crossed the room to the window, and stood looking out on the darkness.

Presently she turned round, esteeming herself mistress of her strength

again, and hoping for the serenity of her companion's old face, and its

still white hair, to help her. Old Maisie could not shed a tear now on

her own behalf. But ... to think of the appalling sorrow of this

glorious girl! Gwen did not return to her seat; but preferred a

footstool, at the feet of the dear old lady, whose voice was

heart-broken.

"Oh, my dear--my dear! That he should never see _you_!... never!...

never!" The golden head with all its wealth was in her lap, and the

silver of her own was white against it as she spoke. No such tears had

yet fallen from Gwen's eyes as these that mixed with this old woman's,

the convict's relict--the convict's mother--from Sapps Court.

An effort against herself, to choke them back, and an ignominious

failure! A short breakdown, another effort, and a success! Gwen rose

above herself, morally triumphant. The beautiful young face, when it

looked up, assorted well with the words:--"This is all cowardice, dear

Mrs. Picture. He _has_ seen, though it was only a few seconds. The sight

is there. And look what Dr. Merridew said. His eyes might be as strong

as they had ever been in his life."

Then followed reflections on the pusillanimity of despair, the duty of

hoping, and an attempt on Gwen's part to forestall a possible shock to

the old lady should she ever come to the knowledge of Adrian's free

opinions. She wanted her to think well of her lover. But she could not

conscientiously give him a character for orthodoxy. She took refuge in a

position which is often a great resource in like cases, ascribing to him

an intrinsic devoutness, a hidden substantial sanctity compatible with

the utmost latitudes of heterodoxy; a bedrock of devout gneiss or

porphyry hidden under a mere alluvium of modern freethinking; a

reality--if the truth were known--of St. Francis of Assisi behind a mask

of Voltaire. Her hearer only half followed her reasoning, but that

mattered little, as she was brimming with assent to anything Gwen

advanced, with such beautiful and earnest eyes to back it.

"It's a great deal too far to drive you over to see him," said Gwen. "It

would knock you to pieces--eighteen miles each way! It's over two hours

and a half in the carriage, even when the roads are not muddy. The mare

got me there in an hour and three-quarters the other day, but you

couldn't stand that sort of thing. I'm going again in the gig

to-morrow.... Oh no!--not till eleven o'clock. I shall come and sit with

you and see all comfortable before I go. I shall get there at lunch. How

do you get on with Masham?" This was asked with a pretence of absence of

misgiving, and the response to it was a testimonial to Mrs. Masham,

rather overdone. Gwen extenuated Mrs. Masham. She had known Masham all

her life, and she really was a very good woman, in spite of her caps. As

for her expanse, it was not her fault, but the hand of Nature; and her

black jet ringlets were, Gwen believed, congenital.

But the next clock was going to say ten, however inaccurately. In fact,

a little one, in a hurry, got its word in first, and was condemned by a

reference to Gwen's repeater, which refused to go farther than nine.

She, however, rang up Masham, of whose voice, _inter alias_, she had

been half-conscious in the distance for some time past; and who gave the

impression of having recently shown a proper spirit.

"She'll be better in bed, I think, Masham. She's had such a tiring day.

It was my fault. I was rather afraid at the time. I suppose she'll be

all right. She gets everything she wants, I suppose?"

"I beg your ladyship's pardon!"

"She gets everything she wants?"

"So far as comes to my knowledge, my lady. Touching wishes not

expressed, I could not undertake to say." Mrs. Masham bridled somewhat,

and showed signs of having a right to feel injured. "If your ladyship

would make inquiry, and satisfy yourself...." Then something would be

revealed in the service of Truth. Only she did not finish the sentence.

It was Gwen's way to accept every challenge. "Is her bed nice and warm?"

said she, going straight to a point--the nearest in sight, for this took

place within view of the bed in question, seen through a half-open door.

Prudence would have waived investigation, but Gwen's prudence was never

at home when wanted. She ought not to have accepted the housekeeper's

suggestion that she could satisfy herself by an autopsy. The comfort of

this couch, warm or cold, was already leagues above its occupant's

wildest conception of luxury. What must her ladyship do but say:--"Yes,

thank you, Masham, I'll feel for myself." And there, if that young

hussy, Lupin, hadn't sent the hot bottle right down to the end!

This version of the incident, gathered from a subsequent communication

of the housekeeper, will be at once intelligible to all but the very few

to whom the hot bottle is a stranger. _They_ have not had the experience

so many of us are familiar with, of being too short to reach down all

that way, and having either to wallow under the coverlids like a Kobold,

or untuck the bed, and get at the remote bottle like a paper-knife.

Probably this bottle's prominence in the unpleasantness that germinated

among the servants who remained at the Towers after the departure of the

Earl and Countess was due to the extreme impalpability of other

grievances. It was something you could lay hold of; and was laid hold

of, for instance, by Miss Lutwyche, to flagellate Mrs. Masham. "At any

rate," said that severe critic, "what I took charge of, that I would act

up to. When I undertook the old party in Cavendish Square, she was kept

warm, and no playing fast and loose with bottles. And she didn't give

offence, that I see, but seemed"--here her love of new expressions came

in, tending to wards superiority--"but seemed of an accommodating

habit." This expression was far from unfortunate, and it was owing to

the disposition so described that old Maisie, as soon as she was fully

aware that she had been the unintentional cause of strained relations in

the household, became very uncomfortable; and, much as she loved the

beautiful but headstrong creature that had taken such a fancy to her,

felt more than ever that the sooner she returned to her own proper

surroundings the better.

Gwen returned to her own quarters after a certain amount of

good-humoured fault-finding, having listened to and made light of many

expressions of contrition from the old lady that she should have

occasioned what Miss Lutwyche afterwards spoke of as just so much

uncalled-for hot water. Gwen's youth and high spirits, and her supreme

contempt for the petty animosities of the domestics, made it less easy

for her to understand the feelings of her old guest, and the rather

anomalous position in which she had placed her. She thought she had said

all she need about it when she warned Mrs. Picture not to be put out by

Mrs. Masham and Lutwyche's nonsense. Servants were always like that.

Bother Mrs. Masham and Lutwyche!

The latter, however, when assisting her young mistress to retire for the

night--an operation which takes two when a young lady of position is

cast for the leading part--was eloquent about the hot water, which she

said no doubt prevailed, but appeared to her entirely unwarranted. Her

account of the position redounded to her own credit. Hers had been the

part of a peace-maker. She had made the crooked straight, and the rough

places plain. The substratum of everybody else's character was also

excellent, but human weakness, to which all but the speaker were liable,

stepped in and distorted the best intentions. If only Mrs. Masham did

not give away to the sharpness of her tongue, a better heart did not

exist. Mr. Norbury might frequently avoid misunderstandings if an acute

sense of duty and an almost startling integrity of motive were the only

things wanted to procure peace with honour in a disturbed household. But

that was where it was. You must have Authority, and a vacillating

disposition did not contribute to its exercise. In Mr. Norbury a fatal

indecision in action and a too great sensitiveness of moral fibre

paralysed latent energies of a high order which might otherwise have

made him a leader among men. As for the girls, the dove-like innocence

of inexperience, so far as it could exist among a lot of young monkeys,

was responsible for _their_ contribution to the hot water. A negligible

quantity of a trivial ingredient! Young persons were young persons, and

would always remain so--an enigmatical saying. As for the French Cook,

Napoleon de Souchy, he was in bed and knew nothing about it. Besides, he

went next day. He had, in fact, gone by the same train as the Earl,

travelling first-class, and had been taken for his lordship at Euston,

which hurt his vanity.

To this revelation Gwen listened with interest, hoping to hear more

precisely what the row was about. Why hot water at all, if uncalled for?

As she had not expected to hear much, she was very little surprised to

hear nothing. She pictured the attitude in action of Miss Lutwyche, whom

she knew well enough to know that she would coax history in her own

favour. The best of lady's-maids cannot be at once a Tartar and an

Angel. Gwen surmised that in the region of the servants' common-room and

the kitchen Miss Lutwyche would show so much of the former as had been

truly ascribed to her, whereas she herself would only see the latter.

The worst of it was that her old lady, being within hearing, would know

or suspect the dissensions she was the innocent cause of, and would be

uncomfortable. She must say or do something, consolatory or reassuring,

to-morrow. She fretted a little, till she fell asleep, over this matter,

which was really a trifle. Think of the thing she had seen that day,

that she was so profoundly unconscious of--the two sisters whose lips

met last a lifetime ago; whose grief, each for each, had nearly died of

time!--think of the two of them, then and there, face to face in the

daylight! But they too slept, that night, old Maisie and old Phoebe, as

calm as Gwen; and as safe, to all seeming, in their ignorance.

Would it not be better--thought thinks, involuntarily--that they should

remain in this ignorance, through the little span of Time still left

them, in a state which is a best decay? Would it not be best that the

few hours left should run their course, and that the two should either

pass away to nothingness and peace, as may be, or--as may be too, just

as like as not--wake to a wonder none can comprehend, an inconceivable

surprise, a sudden knowledge what the whole thing meant that must seem,

if they come to comprehend it now, a needless cruelty? If they--and you

and I, in our turn--are to be nothing, mere items of the past lost in

Oblivion, why not spare them the hideous revelation of the many, many

years of might-have-been, when the same sun shone unmoved on each, even

marked the hours for them alike, each unseen by the other, each beyond

the sound of the other's speech, the touch of the other's hand? Why

should either now, at the eleventh hour, come to know of the audacious

fraud that made them strangers?

But why--why anything, for that matter? Why the smallest pain, the

greatest joy? What end does either serve, but to pass and be forgotten.

What is left for us but the bald consolation of imaging a form for the

Supreme Power--one like ourselves by preference--and a concession to

it.... _Fiat voluntas tua!_ It doesn't really matter _what_ form, you

see! The phantasmata vary, but the invisible what?--or who?--remains the

same. Gloria in excelsis Deo, nomine quocunque!

CHAPTER V

HOW MRS. PICTURE SPOILED OLD PHOEBE'S DREAM, BUT WAS A NICE OLD

SOUL, TO LOOK AT. PARSON DUNAGE's MOTHER. A CLOCK THAT STRUCK,

BETWEEN TWO TWINS. HOW TOBY DID NOT WAKE, AND KEZIAH SOLMES CAME

NEXT DAY FOR HIM. THE WICKED MAN WHO DID IT AGAIN, AND HIS

RESEMBLANCE TO TOBY. THE COATINGS OF THE LATTER'S STOMACH. MRS.

LAMPREY. COLONEL WARRENDER AND THE PHEASANTS. HOW WIDOW THRALE AND

KEZIAH WENT TO SEE AN OLD SOUL NEXT DAY. A RETROSPECULATION.

SUPPOSE WIDOW THRALE HAD BEEN TOLD! ON IMPROBABILITY,

IMPOSSIBILITY, INCREDIBILITY, AND MAISIE's PILGRIMAGE TO A GRAVE

SHE NEVER FOUND. MATTHEW, MARK, LUKE, JOHN, AND THEIR IRRELEVANCE

"'Tis pity she could not stop!" said Granny Marrable in the course of

evening chat with the niece, who was scarcely thought of as anything but

a daughter, by even the oldest village gossips. Indeed, when we reflect

that little Ruth Daverill, now Widow Thrale, was under four when her

mother tore herself from her to rejoin her husband, it is little wonder

that she should take the same view of her own parentage. For one thing,

there was the twinship between the mother and aunt. The child under four

can have seen little difference between them.

The pen almost shrinks from writing Widow Ruth's reply to old Phoebe, so

plainly did it word her ignorance of who this was that she had seen two

hours since. "Who, mother? Oh, the old person! Ay, but she has a kind

heart, has Gwen." This was not disrespectful familiarity. All the

villagers in those parts, talking among themselves, gave their

christened names to the Earl's family. The moment an outsider came in,

"The Family" consisted entirely of lordships and ladyships.

But how strange, that such a speech--actually the naming of a mother by

a daughter--should be so slightly spoken, in an ignorance so complete!

Granny Marrable's thought, of the two, dwelt more on "the old person";

whose identity, as Dave's other Granny, had made its impression on her.

Otherwise, for all she had seen of her, it might have passed from her

mind. Also, she was grieved about that mutton-broth. The poor old soul

had just looked worn to death, and all that way to drive! If she had

only just swallowed half a cup, it would have made such a difference. It

added to Granny Marrable's regret, that the mutton-broth had proved so

good. The old soul had passed on unrefreshed even while Strides Cottage

was endorsing that mutton-broth.

The Granny quite fretted over it, not even the beautiful fur tippet

Sister Nora had sent her having power to expel it from her mind. And,

quite late, nigh on to midnight, she woke with a start from a dream she

had had; it set her off talking again about old Mrs. Picture. For it was

one of this old lady's vices that she would sit up late and waste a deal

of good sleep out of bed in that venerable arm-chair of hers.

"There now, Ruth," said she, "I was asleep again and dreaming." For she

never would admit that this practice was an invariable one.

"What about, mother?" said Widow Thrale.

"That breaking of the glass set me a-dreaming over our old mill, and

your mother, child, that died across the seas. We was both there, girls

like, all over again. Only Dave's Mrs. Picture, she come across the

dream, and spoilt it."

It was not necessary for Mrs. Ruth to take her attention off the

pillow-lace she was at work upon. She remarked:--"I thought her a nice

old soul, to look at." This was not quite uncoloured by the vague

indictment against Mrs. Picture about Dave, who had, somehow, qualified

for the receipt of forgiveness. Which implies some offence to condone.

Shadowy as the offence was, Granny Marrable could not ignore it

altogether. "Good looks are skin-deep--so they say! But it's not for me

to be setting up for judge. At her time of life, and she a-looking so

worn out, too!" The memory of the mutton-broth rankled. Forgiveness was

setting in.

"At her time of life, mother? Why, she's none so much older than you.

What should you take her to be?" The subject was just worth spare

attention not wanted for the lace-spools.

"Why, now--there's Parson Dunage's mother at the Rectory. She's

ninety-four this Christmas. This old soul she might be half-way on,

between me and Parson Dunage's mother at the Rectory."

Mrs. Ruth dropped the spools, to think arithmetically, with her fingers.

"Eighty-six, eighty-seven, eighty-eight," she said, "Eighty-seven!...

This one's nearer your own age than that, mother." She went on with her

work.

"There now, Ruth, is not that just like you, all over? You will always

be making me out older than I am. I am not turned of eighty-one, child,

not till next year. My birthday comes the first day of the year."

"I thought you and my mother were both born at Christmas."

"Well, my dear, we always called it Christmas, for to have a birthday

together on New Year's Eve. But the church-clock got time to strike the

hour betwixt and between the two of us, so Maisie was my elder sister by

just that, and no more. She would say ... Ah dearie me!--poor Maisie!...

she would say by rights _she_ should marry first, being the elder. And

then I would tell her the clock was fast, and we were both of an age.

'Twas a many years sooner she married, as God would have it. All of

three years before ever I met poor Nicholas." And then the old woman,

who had hitherto kept back the story of her sister's marriage, made a

slip of the tongue. "Maybe I was wrong, but I was a bit scared of men

and marriage in those days."

It was no wonder Ruth connected this with the father she had never seen.

"Why _did_ my father go to Australia?" said she. It was asked entirely

as a matter of history, for did it not happen before the speaker was

born? The passive acceptance through a lifetime of such a fact can only

be understood by persons who have experienced a similar sealed

antecedent. Non-inquiry into such a one may be infused into a mother's

milk.

Granny Marrable could be insensible to pressure after a life-time of

silence. She had never thrown light on the mystery and she would not,

now. Her answer even suggested a false solution. "He grew to be rich

after your mother died. But I lost touch of him then, and when and where

he came by his death is more than I can tell ye, child!" There was

implication in this of a prosperous colonist, completely impatriated in

the land of his wealth.

Ruth's father's vanished history was of less importance than the clock's

statement that it was midnight. Her "Now, mother, we're later and later.

It's striking to-morrow, now!" referred to present life and present

bedtime, and her rapid adjustment of the spools meant business.

The old Granny showed no sense of having escaped an embarrassment. She

did not shy off to another subject. On the contrary, she went back to

the topic it had hinged on. "Eighty-one come January!" said she,

lighting her own candle. "And please God I may see ninety, and only be

the worse by the price of a new pair of glasses to read my Testament.

Parson Dunage's mother at the Rectory, she's gone stone-deaf, and one

may shout oneself hoarse. But everyone else than you, child, _I_ can

hear plain enough. There's naught to complain of in _my_ hearing, yet a

while."

Granny Marrable's conscience stung her yet again about Mrs. Picture's

departure unrefreshed. "I would have been the happier for knowing that

that old soul was none the worse," said she. But all the answer she got

was:--"Be quiet, mother, you'll wake up Toby."

She harped on the same string next day, the immediate provocation to the

subject being a visit from Keziah Solmes the old keeper's wife--you

remember her connection Keziah; she who remonstrated with her husband

about the use of fire-arms, and nearly saved Adrian Torrens's

eyesight?--who had been driven over, in a carrier's cart that kept up a

daily communication between the Towers and Chorlton, in pursuance of an

arrangement suggested one day by Gwen. Why should not Widow Thrale's

convalescents, when good, enjoy the coveted advantages of a visit to the

Towers? Mrs. Keziah Solmes had welcomed the opportunity for her grandson

Seth. Seth was young, but with well-marked proclivities and aspirations,

one of which was a desire for male companionship, preferably of boys

older than himself, whom he could incite to acts of lawlessness and

destruction he was still too small to commit effectually. He despised

little girls. He had been pleased with the account given of the

convalescent Toby, and had consented to receive him on stated terms,

having reference to the inequitable distribution of cake in his own

favour. Hence this visit of his grandmamma to Strides Cottage, with the

end in view that she should return with Toby, who for his part had

undertaken to be good, with secret reservations in his own mind as to

special opportunities to be bad, created by temporary withdrawals of

control.

"He can be a very bad little boy indeed," said Widow Thrale, shaking her

head solemnly, "when he's forgotten himself. Who was it broke a pane of

glass Thursday morning before his breakfast, and very nearly had no

sugar?"

Toby said, "Me!" and did not show a contrite heart; seemed too much like

the wicked man that did it again.

Granny Marrable entered into undertakings for Toby's future conduct.

"He's going to be a wonderful good little boy this time," said she, "and

do just exactly whatever he's told, and nothing else." Toby looked very

doubtful, but allowed the matter to drop.

"He's vary hearty to look at now, Aunt Phoebe," said Mrs. Keziah--Granny

Marrable was always Aunt Phoebe to her husband's relations--when this

youth had gone away to conduct himself unexceptionably elsewhere, on his

own recognisances. "What has the little ma'an been ailing with?" Widow

Thrale gave particulars of Toby's disaster, which had let him in for a

long convalescence, the moral of which was that no little boy should

drink lotions intended for external use only, however inquiring his

disposition might be. Toby had nearly destroyed the coatings of his

stomach, and his life had only been preserved by a miracle; which,

however, _had_ happened, so it didn't matter.

Mrs. Solmes was to await the return of the carrier's cart in a couple of

hours, hence it was possible to review and report upon the little local

world, deliberately. Granny Marrable began near home. How was the

visitor's husband?

"He doan't get any yoonger, Aunt Phoebe," said Keziah. "But he has but a

vary little to complain of, at his time of life. If and only he could

just be off fretting! He's never been the same in heart since he went so

nigh to killing Mr. Torrens o' Pensham, him that yoong Lady Gwen is

ta'aking oop with. But a can't say a didn't forewarn him o' what cooms

of a lwoaded gwun. And he _doan't_--so I'll do him fair justice."

"Young Torrens of Pensham, _he_ can't complain," said a sharp, youngish

woman who had come into the room just soon enough to catch the thread of

the conversation. She was the housekeeper at Dr. Nash's, who supplied

what he prescribed, and was always very obliging about sending. She came

with a bottle.

"Why can't he complain, Mrs. Lamprey?" Widow Thrale asked this first, so

the others only thought it.

"Where would he have been, Mrs. Thrale, but for the accident? _Accident_

you may call it! A rare bit o' luck some'll think! Why--who would the

young gentleman have got for a wife, if nobody had shot him? Answer me

that! Some girl, I suppose!"

Yes, indeed! To marry Gwen o' the Towers! But how about the poor

gentleman's eyesight? This crux was conjointly propounded. "Think what

eyesight is to a man!" said Widow Thrale gravely and convincingly.

Mrs. Lamprey echoed back:--"His eyesight?" with a pounce on the first

syllable. But seemed to reflect, saying with an abated emphasis:--"Only

of course you wouldn't know _that_." Know what?--said inquiry.

"Why--about his eyesight! And perhaps I've no call to tell you, seeing I

had it in confidence, as you might say."

This was purely formal, in order to register a breach of confidence as

an allotropic form of good faith. All pointed out their perfect

trustworthiness; and Mrs. Lamprey, with very little further protest,

narrated how she had been present when her master, Dr. Nash--whom you

will remember as having attended Adrian after the accident--told how his

colleague at Pensham Steynes had written to him an account of the

curious momentary revival of Adrian's eyesight, or perhaps dream. But

Dr. Nash had thrown doubt on the dream, and had predicted to his wife

that other incidents of the same sort would follow, would become more

frequent, and end in complete recovery.

A general expression of rejoicing--most emphatic on the part of Keziah,

who had a strong personal interest at stake--was followed by a reaction.

It was hardly possible to concede Gwen o' the Towers to any consort

short of a monarch on his throne, or a coroneted lord of thousands of

acres at least, except by virtue of some great sacrifice on the part of

the fortunate man, that would average his lot with that of common

humanity. It wasn't fair. Let Fate be reasonable! Adrian, blind for

life, was one thing; but to call such a peerless creature wife, and have

eyes to see her! A line must be drawn, somewhere!

"We must hope," said Granny Marrable, as soon as a working eyesight was

fairly installed in each one's image of Mr. Torrens, "that he may prove

himself worthy."

Said Widow Thrale:--"'Tis no ways hard to guess which her ladyship would

choose. I would not have been happy to wed with a blind husband. Nor

yourself, Cousin Keziah!"

Said Mrs. Keziah:--"I'm a-looking forward to the telling of my good man.

But I lay he'll be for sayun' next, that he'll be all to blame if the

wedding turn out ill."

"How can ye put that down to him, to lay it at his door? The fault is

none of his, Cousin Keziah." Thus Widow Thrale.

"Truly the fault be none of his. But thou doesna knaw Ste'aphen Solmes

as I do. He'll be for sayun'--if that g'woon had a been unlwoaded,

Master Torrens had gone his way, and no harm done, nouther to him nor

yet to Gwen. But who can say for certain that 'tis not God's will all

along?"

Mrs. Lamprey interrupted. There was the child's medicine, to be taken

regular, three times a day as directed on the bottle, and she had to

take Farmer Jones his gout mixture. "But what I told you, that's all

correct," said she, departing. "The gentleman will get his eyesight

again, and Dr. Nash says so."

Keziah waited for Mrs. Lamprey to depart, and then went on:--"They do

say marriages are made in Heaven, and 'tis not unlike to be true. 'Tis

all one there whether we be high or low." This was a tribute to

Omnipotence, acknowledging its independence of County Families. So

august a family as the Earl's might wed as it would, without suffering

disparagement. Anyway, there was her young ladyship driving off this

very morning to Pensham, so there was every sign at present that the

decrees of Providence would hold good. She, Keziah, had heard from her

nephew, Tom Kettering, where he was to drive, the carrier's cart having

called at the Towers after picking her up at the cottage. Moreover,

she--having alighted to interchange greetings with the household--had

chanced to overhear her young ladyship say where she was going and when

she would be back. She was talking with an old person, a stranger, in

black, with silver-white hair.

"That would be Dave's old Mrs. Picture, Ruth," said Granny Marrable,

with apparent interest. She was not at all sorry to hear something of

her having arrived safely at the Towers, none the worse for her long

drive yesterday. Mrs. Keziah, however, showed a disposition to qualify

her report, saying:--"Th' o'ald la'ady was ma'akin' but a power show, at

that. She'll be a great age, shower-ly! Only they do say, creaking

dowers ha'ang longest."

Said Widow Thrale then, explanatorily:--"Mother will be fretting by

reason that the old soul would take no refreshment. But reckon you can't

with Wills and Won'ts, do what you may! They just drove away, sharp,

they did! I tell mother she took no harm, and if she did, t'was no fault

of hers, or mine, I lay!"

Two days later, Widow Thrale went over by arrangement to Mrs. Solmes's

cottage to recover her convalescent, Toby. She also travelled by the

carrier's cart, accepting the hospitality of her cousin for the night,

and returning next day with Toby. Granny Marrable was not going to be

left alone at the cottage, as she was bidden to spend a day or two with

her granddaughter, or more strictly grandniece, Maisie Costrell, to make

up for her inability, owing to a bad cold six weeks since, to accompany

Widow Thrale to the first celebration of the birthday of the latter's

grandchild, at whose entry into the world you may remember the old lady

was officiating when Dave visited Strides Cottage a year ago.

Said she, parting at the door from Widow Thrale:--"You'll keep it in

mind what I said, Ruth."

Said Ruth, in reply,--"Touching the two yards of calico, or young Davy's

London Granny?" For she had more than one mission to Keziah.

"If you name her so, child." This rather stiffly. "Anywise, her young

ladyship's old soul that come in the carriage. 'Tis small concern of

mine or none at all to be asking. But I would be the easier to be

assured that all went well with her, looking so dazed as she did. At her

time of life too! More like than not Keziah will be for taking you over

to the Castle, and maybe you'll see Mrs.--Picture...."

"Picture's not her real name, only young Davy he's made it for her."

"Well, child, 'tis the same person bears it, whatever the name be! Maybe

you'll see Mrs. Picture, and maybe she'll have something to tell of

little Davy. I would have made some inquiry of him from her myself, but

the time was not to spare." This Granny had not been at all disposed to

admit that another Granny could give her any information about Dave. But

curiosity rankled, and inquiry through an agent was another matter.

"Lawsey me, mother," said Widow Thrale. "I'll get Keziah to take me

round, and I'll get some gossip with the old soul. I'll warrant she

hasn't lost her tongue, even be she old as Parson Dunage's mother at the

Rectory. Good-bye, mother dear! Take care of yourself on the road to

Maisie's. Put on Sister Nora's fur tippet in the open cart, for the wind

blows cold at sundown." Granny Marrable disallowed the fur tippet, with

some scorn for the luxury of the Age.

If Brantock the carrier, who drove away with Widow Thrale, promising

that she should be in time for sooper at Soalmes's, and a bit thrown in,

had been told whose mother she would speak with next day, and when she

saw her last, he would probably have said nothing--for carriers don't

talk; they carry--but his manner would have betrayed his incredulity.

And Brantock was no more of a Sadducee than his betters. Who could have

believed that that afternoon Widow Thrale and Granny Marrable went away

in opposite directions, the former to her own mother, the latter to Mrs.

Picture's grandchild, amid the utter ignorance of all concerned? Yet the

facts of the case were just as we have stated them, and no one of the

incidents that brought them about was in itself incredible.

Brantock was not told anything at all about anything, and did not

himself originate a single remark, except that the rain was holding off.

It may have been. His horse appeared to have read the directions on all

the parcels, choosing without instruction the most time-saving routes to

their different destinations, and going on the moment they were paid

for. In fact, Mr. Brantock had frequently to resume his seat on a cart

in motion, at the risk of his life. When they arrived at the passenger's

destination, the horse looked round to make quite sure she was safe on

the ground, and then started promptly. His master showed his superiority

to the mere brute creation, at this point, by saying, "Goodnight,

mistress!" The horse said nothing.

Widow Thrale had only expected to hear a mixed report of the success of

her convalescent's visit, so she was not disappointed. It gradually came

out that Seth and Toby had at first glared suspiciously at one another;

the former, as the host, refusing to shake hands; the latter denying his

identity, saying to him explicitly:--"_You_ ain't the woman's little

boy!" They had then dissimulated their hostility, in order to mislead

their introducers. They had even gone the length of affecting readiness

to play together, in order that they might take advantage of the absence

of authority to arrange a duel without seconds. This was interrupted,

not because the unrestrained principals could injure each other--they

were much too small and soft to do that--but in order to do justice to

civilised usage, which defines the relations of host and guest; crossing

fisticuffs, even pacifisticuffs, off their programme altogether, and

only countenancing religion and politics with reservations. Being

separated, each laid claim to having licked the other. In which they

followed the time-honoured usage of embattled hosts, or at least of

their respective war correspondents. They then became fast friends till

death. Widow Thrale was grieved and shocked at the behaviour of a little

boy to whom she had ascribed superhuman goodness. A fallen idol!

However, as both were too young to be troubled with consciences, and

nothing appeared to overtax their powers of digestion, the visit was

considered a great success. In fact, it competed with a previous visit

last year, of our Dave Wardle, to the disadvantage of the latter; as

Dave and Seth had been too far apart in age, and the only point in which

Dave's visit scored was that he was big enough to carry Seth on his

shoulders, and even this had been prohibited owing to his recent

surgical experiences. The making of the comparison naturally led to the

connection of Dave, whatever it was, with the old woman at the Towers,

whom Lady Gwen had nigh lost her wits about--so folks said. "But tha

knowas what o'or Gwen be!" said Mrs. Keziah. Gwen's reputation with all

the countryside was that of waywardness and wilfulness carried to

excess, but always with an unerring nobility of object.

Old Stephen had something to say about this, and preferred to put it as

a contradiction to Keziah. "Na-ay, na-ay, wife! O'or Gwen can guess a

lady, by tokens, as well as thou or I. Tha-at be the story of it. Some

la-ady that's coom by ill-luck in her o'ald age, and no friend to hand.

She'm gotten a friend now, and a good one!" The old boy did not seem

nearly so depressed as his wife's account of him had led Strides Cottage

to believe. But then, to be sure, the first thing she had told him when

she reached home with the boy yesterday, was Mrs. Lamprey's story of Mr.

Torrens's probable restoration of sight. Hope was Hope, and the cloud

had lifted. His speculation about Mrs. Picture's possible social status

was quite a talkative effort, for him.

Somehow it did not seem convincing to his hearers. Keziah shook her head

in slow doubt. "If that were the right of it, husband, the housekeeper's

rooms would be no place for her. Gwen would not put it on her to bide

with Mrs. Masham."

Old Stephen did not acquiesce. "May happen the old soul would shrink shy

of the great folk at the Towers," said he.

"Ay, but there be none!" said his wife. She went on to say that there

was scarce a living soul now at the Castle, beyond Gwen and sundry

domestics, making ready for the Colonel on Monday. This was a gentleman

who scarcely comes into the story, a much younger brother of the

Countess, who was allowed to bring friends down for the shooting every

autumn to the Towers, and took full advantage of the permission. This

year had been an exceptionally good year for the pheasants; in _their_

sense, not the sportsman's. For all the Colonel's friends were in the

Crimea, and the October shooting had been sadly neglected except by the

poachers. He was now back from the Crimea, but was not good for much

shooting or fox-hunting, having been himself shot through the lungs in

September at the Battle of the Alma, and invalided home. But he was

already equal to the duties of host to a shooting-party, and though he

could kill nothing himself, he could hear others do so, and could smell

the nice powder. The Earl hated this sort of thing, and was glad to get

out of the way till the worst of it was over.

Widow Thrale kept modestly outside this review of the Castle's

economies, but when they were exhausted referred again to her wish to

get a sight of old Mrs. Picture, putting her anxiety to do so entirely

on the shoulders of the Granny, of whose wish to know that the old woman

had borne the rest of her journey she made the most. She was not

prepared to confess to her own curiosity, so she used this device to

absolve her of confession. Cousin Keziah also was really a little

inquisitive, so an arrangement was easily made that these two should

walk over to the Towers on the afternoon of next day, pledging old

Stephen to the keeping of a careful eye on the pranks of the two young

conspirators against the peace and well-being of maturity, whose

business it is to know the exact amount of licence permissible to youth,

and at what point the restraint of a firm enunciation of high moral

principles becomes a necessity.

* * * * *

If Widow Thrale had been seized with a sudden mania for the improbable,

and had set her wits to work their hardest on a carefully chosen typical

example, could she have lighted on one that would have imposed a greater

strain on human powers of belief than the presence, a mile off, of her

mother, dead fifty years since? How improbable it would have seemed to

her that her aunt and her kith and kin of that date should fall so

easily dupes to a fraud! How improbable that folk should be so content

without inquiry, on either side of the globe; that her own mother should

remain so for years, and should even lack curiosity, when she returned

to England, to seek out her sister's grave; an instinctive tribute, one

would have said, almost certain to be paid by so loving a survivor! How

improbable that no two lines of life of folk concerned should ever

intersect thereafter, through nearly fifty years! And then, how about

her father?--how about possible half-brothers and sisters of hers?--how

improbable that they should remain quiescent and never seek to know

anything about their own flesh and blood, surviving in England! What a

tissue of improbabilities!

But then, supposing all facts known, would not old Maisie's daughter

have admitted their possibility, even made concession as to

probability? Had the tale been told to her then and there, at the

Ranger's Lodge in the Park, the two forged letters shown her, and all

the devil's cunning of their trickery, would it have seemed so strange

that her simple old aunt should be caught in the snare, or others less

concerned in the detection of the fraud? And had she then come to know

this--that when her mother in the end, twenty years later, came back to

her native land, her first act was to seek out the grave where she knew

her father was buried, and to find his name alone upon it; that she was

then misled by a confused statement of a witness speaking from hearsay;

and that she went away thereupon, having kept a strict lock on her

tongue as to her own name, and the marriage she now knew to have been no

marriage--had Ruth Thrale been told all this, would it not have gone far

to soften the harshness of the tale's incredibility?

That story was a strange one, nevertheless, of Maisie's visit to the

little graveyard in Essex, where she thought to find the epitaph of

Phoebe and of Phoebe's husband probably, and her father's to a

certainty. For wherever her brother-in-law and his wife were interred,

her father's remains must have been placed beside her mother's, in the

grave she had known from her childhood. But nothing had been added to

the inscription of her early recollections, except her father's name and

appropriate Scriptural citations; with a date, as it chanced, near

enough to the one she expected, to rouse no suspicion of the deceptions

her husband had practised on her.

Her consciousness of her equivocal position had weighed upon her so

strongly that she hesitated to make herself known to any of the older

inhabitants of the village--indeed, she would have been at a loss whom

to choose--and least of all to any of her husband's relatives, though it

would have been easy to find them. No doubt also it made her speech

obscure to the only person of whom she made any inquiry. This person,

who may have been the parish clerk, saw her apparently looking for a

particular grave, and asked if he could give any information. Instead of

giving her sister's name, or her own, she answered:--"I am looking for

my sister's grave. We were the daughters of Isaac Runciman." His

reply:--"She went away. I could not tell you where" was evidently a

confused idea, involving a recollection by a man well under forty of

Maisie's own disappearance during a period of his boyhood just too early

for vital interest in two young women in their twenties. He had taken

her for Phoebe. But he must have felt the shakiness of his answer

afterwards. For nothing can make it a coherent one, as a speech to

Phoebe. On the other hand, it did not seem incoherent to Maisie. She

connected it with the false story of her sister's departure to nurse her

husband in Belgium, and the wreck of the steamer in which they recrossed

the Channel. Her tentative question:--"Did you know of the shipwreck?"

only confirmed this. His reply was:--"I was not here at the time, so I

only knew that she was going abroad to her husband." _He_ was speaking

of Maisie's own voyage to Australia, and took her speech to mean that

the ship _she_ sailed in was wrecked. _She_ was thinking of the forged

letter.

* * * * *

Have you, who read this, ever chanced to have an experience of how vain

it is to try to put oneself in touch with events of twenty or thirty

years ago? How came Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John to be so near of a

tale if, as some fancy, they never put stylus to papyrus till Paul

pointed out their duty to them? Did they compare notes? But if they did,

why did they leave any work to be done by harmonizers?

However, this story has nothing to do with Matthew, Mark, Luke, or John.

Reflections suggest themselves, for all that, with unconscious Mrs. Ruth

Thrale in charge of her cousin by marriage, Keziah Solmes, making her

way by the road--because the short cut through the Park is too wet--to

the great old Castle, with a room in it where an old, old woman with a

sweet face and silver-white hair is watching the cold November sun that

has done its best for the day and must die, and waiting patiently for

the coming of a Guardian Angel with a golden head and a voice that rings

like music. For that is what Gwen o' the Towers is to old Mrs. Prichard

of Sapps Court, who came there from Skillicks.

What is that comely countrywoman on the road to old Mrs. Prichard? What

was old Mrs. Prichard to her, fifty-odd years ago, before she drew

breath? What, when that strong hand, a baby's then, tugged at those

silver locks, then golden?

CHAPTER VI

HOW OLD MAISIE RECEIVED A VISIT FROM HER DAUGHTER RUTH, AND REMADE

HER ACQUAINTANCE. HOW RUTH STAYED TO TEA. OF HER RESEMBLANCE TO

POMONA. OF DAVE'S CONFUSION, LAST YEAR, BETWEEN HIS TWO HONORARY

GRANNIES. OF MAGIC MUSIC, AND HOW AGGRAVATED AN ANGEL MIGHT HAVE

BEEN, WHO PLAYED, FOR DESTINY TO GUESS. HOW OLD MAISIE DIDN'T GO TO

SLEEP, AND POMONA MADE TOAST. OF A LOG, AND SOME LICHENS. HOW A

LITTLE BEETLE GOT BURNT ALIVE. AND POSSIBLY THE SERVANTS WERE NOT

QUARRELLING. HOW OLD MAISIE HEARD HERSELF CALLED "A PLAGUY OLD

CAT." MRS. MASHAM'S DUPLICITY. HOW OLD MAISIE WISHED FOR HER OWN

DAUGHTER, UNAWARES

Old Maisie had a difficulty in walking, owing to rheumatism. But this

had improved since her promotion from the diet of Sapps Court to that of

Cavendish Square; and later, of the Towers. So much so, that she would

often walk about the room, for change; and had even gone cautiously on

the garden-terrace, keeping near the house; which was possible, as

Francis Quarles had lodged on a ground-floor when he gave his name to

the room she occupied.

So, this afternoon, after wondering for some time whose voices those

were she heard, variously, in the several passages and antechambers of

the servants' quarters, and deciding that one broad provincial accent

was a native's, and the other, a softer and sweeter one, that of one of

the inhabitants of Strides Cottage, she could not be sure which, she got

up slowly from her chair by the fire, and made her way to the window, to

see the better the little that was left of the sunlight.

Was that cold red disk, going oval in the colder grey of the mist that

rose from the darkening land, the selfsame remorseless sun that, one

Christmas Day that she remembered well, blazed so over Macquarie that

the awkward well-handle, the work of a convict on ticket-of-leave, who

had started a forge near by, grew so hot it all but singed the sheep's

wool she wrapped round it to protect her hands? So hot that her husband,

even when the sun was as low as this, could light his pipe with a

burning-glass--a telescope lens whose tube had gone astray, to lead a

useless life elsewhere. She remembered that shoeing-smith well; a good

fellow, sentenced for life for a crime akin to Wat Tyler's, mercifully

reprieved from death by King George in consideration of his

provocation; for was he not, like Wat Tyler, the girl's father? She

remembered what she accounted that man's only weakness--his dwelling

with joy on the sound of the hammer-stroke of his swift, retributive

justice--the concussion of the remorseless wrought iron on the split

skull of a human beast. She remembered his words with a shudder:--"Ay,

mistress, I can shut my eyes and listen for it now. And many was the

time it gave me peace to think upon it. Ay!--in the worst of my twenty

years, the nights in the cursed river-boat they called the hulks, I

could bear them I was shut up with in the dark, and the vermin that

crawled about us, and a'most laugh to be able to hear it again, and

bless God that it sent him to Hell without time for a prayer!" The words

came back to her mind like the hideous incident of a dream we cannot for

shame repeat aloud, and made her flesh creep. But then, suppose the girl

had been her Dolly Wardle, grown big, or her own little maid, whom she

never saw again, who died near fifty years ago! Why--the sleeping face

of that baby was fresh on her lips still; had never lost its freshness

since she tore herself away to reach, at any cost, the man she loved!

Could not the sun have been content to set, without becoming a link with

a past she shrank from, so many were the evil memories that clung about

it? She was glad that someone should come into the room, to break

through this one. There was nothing in this good-humoured

villager--surely Pomona's self in a cotton print, somewhat older than is

usual with that goddess--nothing but what served to banish these

nightmares of her lonely recollection. Only, mind you, Sam Rendall--that

was Wat Tyler's name, this time--was a good man, who deserved to have

had that daughter's children on his knee. She, Maisie, had deserted

hers.

"May happen you'll call me to mind, ma'am, me and my old mother, at the

door of Strides Cottage, two days agone. I made bold to look in, hoping

to see you better." Thus Pomona, and old Maisie was grateful for the

wholesome voice. Still, she was puzzled, being unconscious that she had

seemed so ill. Pomona thought her introduction of herself had not been

clear, and repeated:--"Strides Cottage, just this side Chorlton, betwixt

Farmer Jones and the Reedcroft--where her young ladyship bid stop the

carriage...." She paused to let the old lady think. Perhaps she was

going too fast.

But no--it was not that at all. Old Maisie was quite clear about the

incident, and its whereabouts. "Oh yes!" said she. "I knew it was

Strides Cottage, because I had the name from my little Davy, for the

envelopes of his letters. And I knew Farmer Jones, because of his Bull.

It was only a bit of fatigue, with the long ride." Then as the bald

disclaimer of any need for solicitude seemed a chill return for Pomona's

cordiality, old Maisie hastened to add a corollary:--"I did not find the

time to thank your mother as I would have liked to do; but I get old and

slow, and the coachman was a bit quick of his whip. I should be sorry

for you to think me ungrateful, or your good mother."

It was as well that she added this, for there was a shade of wavering in

Ruth Thrale's heart as to whether the interview was welcome. A trace of

that jealousy about Dave just hung in Maisie's manner. And she rather

stood committed, by not having accepted the mutton-broth. That corollary

may have been Heaven-sent, to keep the mother and daughter in touch, in

the dark--just for a chance of light!

And yet it only just served its turn. For the daughter's half-hesitating

reply:--"But I thought I would look in," if expanded to

explanation-point, would have been worded:--"I came to show good-will,

more than from any grounded misgivings about your health, ma'am; and

now, having shown it, it is time to go." And she might have departed,

easily.

But Fate also showed good-will, and would not permit it. Old Mrs.

Picture became suddenly alive to the presence of a well-wisher, and to

her own reluctance to drive her away. "Oh, but you need not go yet,"

said she. "Or perhaps they want you?"

Oh dear no!--nobody wanted _her_. Her friend she came with, her Cousin

Keziah, was talking to Mrs. Masham. The pleasant presence would remain,

its owner said, and take a seat near the fire. The old lady was glad,

for she had had but little talk with anyone that day. Her morning

interview with Gwen had been a short one, for that young lady was

longing to get away for a second visit to her lover.

Old Maisie, to encourage possible diffidence to believe that a quiet

chat would really be welcome to her, made reference to the

disappointment such a short allowance of her young ladyship had been,

and resuming her high-backed chair, put on her spectacles to get a

better view of her visitor--oh, how unconsciously!

Think of the last kiss she gave a sleeping baby, half a century ago!

There was, of course, a topic they could speak of--little Dave Wardle,

dear to both. Widow Thrale, fond as she had been of the child, had not

Granny Marrable's bias towards monopolizing him. _That_ was the result

of a _grande passion_, generated perhaps by the encouragement the young

man had given to a second Granny, so very equivalent to his first.

Moreover, there was that obscure reference in his letters to an

accident--for _axdnt_ was a mere clerical error. She worded an inquiry

after Dave, tentatively.

"I have not seen the dear child for four weeks," said old Maisie. "Oh

dear me, yes--four weeks and more! Let me see, when was the accident?...

Oh dear!--how the time does slip away!..."

"Was that the accident Dave speaks of in his letter? We could not quite

make out Dave's letter. Sometimes 'tis a little to seek, what the child

means."

Old Maisie nodded assent. "But he'll soon be quite a scholar and write

his own letters all through. I think her ladyship took this one to send

it back. I can tell you about the accident. It was owing to the

repairs." The old lady pursued the subject in the true spirit of a

narrator, beginning at a wrong end, by preference one unintelligible to

her hearer. In consequence, the actual fall of the house-wall was

postponed, in favour of a description of its cause, which dealt

specially with the blamelessness of Mr. Bartlett, and incidentally with

the dishonesty of some colleagues of his, of whom he had spoken as

"they," without particulars. Her leniency to Mr. Bartlett was entirely

founded on the fact that she had conversed with him once on the subject,

and had been mysteriously impressed with his simplicity and manliness.

How did Mr. Bartlett manage it? A faint percentage of beer, like foreign

matter in analyses, is not alone enough to establish integrity. Nor a

flavour of clothes.

The wall fell in the end, and Widow Thrale saw a light on the story,

after expressing more admiration and sympathy for Mr. Bartlett than was

human, under the circumstances. She was much impressed. "And by the

mercy of God you were all saved, ma'am," said she. "Her young ladyship

and little Dave, and his sister, and yourself!" It really seemed quite a

stroke of business, this, on the part of a Superior Power, which had

left building materials and gravitation, after creating them, to their

own wayward impulses.

Old Maisie admitted the beneficence of Providence, but rather as an act

of courtesy. "For," said she, "we were never in any real danger, owing

to the piece of timber Mr. Bartlett had thrown across to catch the

floor-joists." She was of course repeating Mr. Bartlett's own words,

without close analysis of their actual meaning. Her mind only just

avoided associations of cricket. But poor Susan Burr--oh dear!--that was

much worse. "She has done wonderfully well, though," continued the old

lady, "and her case gave the greatest satisfaction to the Doctors at the

Hospital. She has written to me herself since leaving. And she must be

really better, because she has gone to her married niece at Clapham." It

seemed a sort of destiny that this niece's wifehood should always be

emphasized. It was almost implied that a less complete recovery would

have resulted in a journey to a single niece, at Clapham; or possibly,

only at Battersea. Widow Thrale was interested in the accident, but she

wanted to get back to Dave Wardle. "Then no one could live in the house,

ma'am," she said, "after it had fallen down?"

"Not in my rooms upstairs, nor his Aunt M'riar's underneath. Only his

uncle stopped in, to keep the place. _His_ room was all safe. It was

like the front of two rooms, all down in the street as if it was an

earthquake. And no forewarning, above a crack or two! But the children

safe, God be thanked, and her young ladyship! Also her cousin, Miss

Grahame, down below with Aunt M'riar."

"That lady we call Sister Nora?"

"That lady. But I was so stunned and dazed with the start it gave me,

and the noise, that I had no measure of anything. They took me home with

them. I can just call to mind moving in the carriage, and the

lamplighter." Old Maisie recollected seeing the lamplighter, but she had

forgotten how she was got into that carriage.

"Then you hardly saw the children?"

"I was all mazed. I heard my Dolly cry, poor little soul! Her ladyship

says Dave took Dolly up very short for being such a coward. But he

kissed her, for comfort, and to keep her in heart."

"_He_ didn't cry!"

"Davy?--not he. Davy makes it a point to be afraid of nothing. His uncle

has taught him so. He was"--here some hesitation--"he belonged to what

they called the Prize Ring. A professional boxer." It sounded better

than "prizefighter"--more restrained.

"Oh dear!" said Widow Thrale. "Yes. I had heard that."

"But he is a good man," said old Maisie, warming to the defence of Uncle

Mo. "He is indeed! He won't let Dave fight, only a little now and then.

But Dave says he told him, Uncle Mo did, that if ever he saw a boy hit a

little girl, he was to hit that boy at once, without stopping to think

how big he was. And he told him where! Is not that a good man?"

"Oh dear!" said Widow Thrale again, uneasily. "Won't Dave hit some boy

that's too strong for him, and get hurt?"

"I think he may, ma'am. But then ... someone _may_ take his part! I

should pray." She went on to repeat an adventure of Dave's, when he

behaved as directed to a young monster who was stuffing some abomination

into a little girl's mouth. But it ended with the words:--"The boy ran

away." Perhaps Uncle Mo had judged rightly of the class of boy that he

had in mind, as almost sure to run away.

The Pomona in Widow Thrale had gone behind a cloud during her misgivings

about Uncle Mo. The cloud passed, as the image of this boy fled from

Nemesis. He was a London boy, evidently, and up to date. The Feudal

System, as surviving at Chorlton, countenanced no such boys. The voice

of Pomona was cheerful again as she resumed Dave:--"Where, then, is the

boy, till he goes back home?"

"His aunt has got him at her mother's, at Ealing. His real

grandmother's." Pomona had a subconsciousness that this made three; an

outrageous allowance of grandmothers for any boy! But she would not say

so, as this old lady might be sensitive about her own claims, which

might be called in question if Dave's list was revised.

Ealing recalled an obscure passage in his letter, which was really an

insertion, in the text, of the address of his haven of refuge. It read,

transcribed literally:--"My grandMother is hEALing," and the

recollection of it reinforced the laugh with which Pomona pleaded to

misinterpretation. "Mother and I both thought she had cut herself," said

she.

Old Maisie, amused at Dave, made answer:--"No!--it's where he is. Number

Two, Penkover Terrace, Ealing. Penkover is very hard to recollect. So do

write it down. Write it now. I shall very likely forget it directly;

because when I get tired with talking, I swim, and the room goes

round.... Oh no--I'm not tired yet, and you do me good to talk to."

But the old lady had talked to the full extent of her tether. But even

in this short conversation the impression made upon her by this new

acquaintance was so favourable that she felt loth to let her depart; to

leave her, perhaps, to some memory of the past as painful as the one she

had interrupted. If she had spoken her exact mind she would have

said:--"No, don't go yet. I can't talk much, but it makes me happy to

sit here in the growing dusk and hear about Dave. It brings the child

back to me, and does my heart good." That was the upshot of her thought,

but she felt that their acquaintance was too short to warrant it. She

was bound to make an effort, if not to entertain, at least to bear her

share of the conversation.

"Tell me more about Davy, when you had him at the Cottage. Did he talk

about me?" This followed her declaration that she was "not tired yet" in

a voice that lost force audibly. Her visitor chose a wiser course than

to make a parade of her readiness to take a hint and begone. She chatted

on about Dave's stay with her a year since, about little things the

story knows already, while the old lady vouched at intervals--quite

truly--that she heard every word, and that her closed eyes did not mean

sleep. The incident of Dave's having persisted--when he awaked and found

"mother" looking at him, the day after his first arrival--that it was

old Mrs. Picture upstairs, and how they thought the child was still

dreaming, was really worth the telling. Old Maisie showed her amusement,

and felt bound to rouse herself to say:--"The name is not really

Picture, but it doesn't matter. I like Dave's name--Mrs. Picture!" It

was an effort, and when she added:--"The name is really Prichard," her

voice lost strength, and her hearer lost the name. Fate seemed against

Dave's pronunciation being corrected.

You know the game we used to call Magic Music--we oldsters, when we were

children? You know how, from your seat at the piano, you watched your

listener striving to take the hints you strove to give, and wandering

aimlessly away from the fire-irons he should have shouldered--the book

he should have read upside down--the little sister he should have kissed

or tickled--what not? You remember the obdurate pertinacity with which

he missed fire, and balked the triumphant outburst that should have

greeted his success? Surely, if some well-wisher among the choir of

Angels, harping with their harps, had been at Chorlton then and there,

under contract to guide Destiny, by playing loud and soft--not giving

unfair hints--to the reuniting of the long-lost sisters, that Angel

would have been hard tried to see how near the spark went to fire the

train, yet flickered down and died; how many a false scent crossed the

true one, and threw the tracker out!

Old Maisie's powers of sustained attention were, of course, much less

than she supposed, and her visitor's pleasant voice, rippling on in the

growing dusk, was more an anodyne than a stimulant. She did not go to

sleep--people don't! But something that very nearly resembled sleep must

have come to her. Whatever it was, she got clear of it to find, with

surprise, that Mrs. Thrale, with her bonnet off, was making toast at

the glowing wood-embers; and that candles were burning and that, somehow

tea had germinated.

"I thought I would make you some toast, more our sort.... Oh yes! What

the young lady has brought is very nice, but this will be hotter." The

real Pomona never looked about fifty--she was a goddess, you see!--but

if she had, and had made toast, she must have resembled Ruth Thrale.

Then old Maisie became more vividly alive to her visitor, helped by the

fact that she had been unconscious in her presence. That was human

nature. The establishment of a common sympathy about Lupin, the

tea-purveyor, was social nature. Pomona had called Miss Lupin "the young

lady." This had placed Miss Lupin; she belonged to a superior class, and

her ministrations were a condescension. It was strange indeed that such

trivialities should have a force to span the huge gulf years had dug

between these two, and yet never show a rift in the black cloud of their

fraud-begotten ignorance. They _did_ draw them nearer together, beyond a

doubt; especially that recognition of Miss Lupin's position. Old Maisie

had never felt comfortable with the household, while always oppressed

with gratitude for its benevolences. She had felt that she had expressed

it very imperfectly to her young ladyship, to cause her to say:--"They

will get all you want, I dare say. But how _do_ they behave? That's the

point! Are they giving themselves airs, or being pretty to you?" For

this downright young beauty never minced matters. But naturally old

Maisie had felt that she could do nothing but show gratitude for the

attention of the household, especially as she could not for the life of

her define the sources of her discomfort in her relations with it.

This saddler's widow from Chorlton, with all her village life upon her,

and her utter ignorance of the monstrous world of Maisie's own past

experience, came like a breath of fresh air. Was it Pomona though?--or

was it the tea? Reserve gave way to an impulse of informal speech:--"My

dear, you have had babies of your own?"

Pomona's open-eyed smile seemed to spread to her very finger-tips.

"Babies? _Me?_" she exclaimed. "Yes, indeed! But not so very many, if

you count them. Five, all told! Two of my little girls I lost--'tis a

many years agone now. My two boys are aboard ship, one in the Black Sea,

one in the Baltic. My eldest on the _Agamemnon_. My second--he's but

sixteen--on the _Tithonus_. But he's seen service--he was at Bomarsund

in August. Please God, when the war is over, they'll come back with a

many tales for their mother and their granny! I lie awake and pray for

them, nights."