VIII

The one-horse fly, going at a one-horse fly pace, had made its way

with comfortable jaunting slowness from Riversford to St. Rest, its

stout, heavy-faced driver being altogether unconscious that his fare

was no less a personage than Miss Vancourt, the lady of the Manor.

When a small, girlish person, clad in a plain, close-fitting garb of

navy-blue serge, and wearing a simple yet coquettish dark straw hat

to match, accosted him at the Riversford railway station with a

brief, 'Cab, please,' and sprang into his vehicle, he was a trifle

sulky at being engaged in such a haphazard fashion by an apparently

insignificant young female who had no luggage, not so much as a

handbag.

"Wheer be you a-goin'?" he demanded, turning his bull neck slowly

round--"I baint pertikler for a far journey."

"Aren't you?" and the young lady smiled. "You must drive me to St.

Rest,--Abbot's Manor, please!"

The heavy-faced driver paused, considering. Should he perform the

journey, or should he not? Perhaps it would be wisest to undertake

the job,--there was the 'Mother Huff' at the end of the journey, and

Roger Buggins was a friend of his. Yes,--he would take the risk of

conveying the humbly-clad female up to the Manor; he had heard

rumours that the old place was once again to be inhabited, and that

the mistress of it was daily expected;--this person in the blue

serge was probably one of her messengers or retainers.

"My fare's ten shillings," he observed, still peering round

distrustfully; "It's a good seven mile up hill and down dale."

"All right!" responded the young woman, cheerfully; "You shall have

ten shillings. Only please begin to go, won't you?"

This request was accompanied by an arch smile, and a flash of blue

eyes from under the dark straw hat brim. Whereat the cumbrous Jehu

was faintly moved to a responsive grin.

"She ain't bad-looking, neither!" he muttered to himself,--and he

was in a somewhat better humour when at last he ondescended to

start. His vehicle was a closed one, and though be fully expected

his passenger would put her head out of the window, when the horse

was labouring up-hill, and entreat him to go faster,--which habit he

had found by experience was customary to woman in a one-horse fly,-

-nothing of the kind happened on this occasion. The person in the

blue serge was evidently both patient and undemonstrative. Whether

the horse crawled or slouched, or trotted,--whether the fly dragged,

or bumped, or jolted, she made no sign. When St. Rest was reached at

last, and the driver whipped his steed into a semblance of spirit,

and drove through the little village with a clatter, two or three

people came to the doors of their cottages and looked at the vehicle

scrutinisingly, wondering whether its occupant was, or was not Miss

Vancourt. But a meaning wink from the sage on the box intimated that

they need not trouble themselves,--the 'fare' was no one of the

least importance.

Presently, the fine old armorial gates of the drive which led up to

Abbot's Manor were reached,--they were set wide open, this having

been done according to Mrs. Spruce's orders. A woman at the lodge

came hastily out, but the cab had passed her before she had time to

see who was in it. Up through the grand avenue of stately oaks and

broad-branching elms, whose boughs, rich with the budding green,

swayed in the light wind with a soft rustling sound as of sweeping

silks on velvet, the unostentatious vehicle jogged slowly,--it was a

steady ascent all the way, and the driver was duly considerate of

his animal's capabilities. At last came the turn in the long

approach, which showed the whole width of the Manor, with its

ancient rose-brick frontage and glorious oaken gables shining in the

warm afternoon sunlight,--the old Tudor courtyard spreading before

it, its grey walls and paving stones half hidden in a wilderness of

spring blossom. Here, too, the gates were open, and the one-horse

fly made its lumbering and awkward entrance within, drawing up with

a jerk at the carved portico. The young person in blue serge jumped

out, purse in hand.

"Ten shillings, I think?" she said; but before the driver could

answer her, the great iron-clamped door of the Manor swung open, and

a respectable retainer in black stood on the threshold.

"Oh, will you pay the driver, please?" said the young lady,

addressing this functionary; "He says his fare is ten shillings. I

daresay he would like an extra five shillings for himself as well,"

and she smiled--"Here it is!"

She handed the money to the personage in black, who was no other

than the former butler to Sir Morton Pippitt, now at the Manor on

temp'ry service,' and who in turn presented it with an official

stateliness to the startled fly-man, who was just waking up to the

fact that his fare, whom he had considered as a person of no account

whatever, was the actual mistress of the Manor.

"Drive out to the left of the court," said the butler imperatively;

"Reverse way to which you entered."

The submissive Jehu prepared to obey. The young person in blue serge

smiled up at him.

"Good afternoon!" said she.

"Same to you, mum!" he replied, touching his cap; "And thank ye

kindly!"

Whereat, his stock of eloquence being exhausted, he whipped up his

steed to a gallop and departed in haste for the 'Mother Huff,' full

of eagerness to relate the news of Miss Vancourt's arrival, further

embellished by the fact that he had himself driven her up from the

station, 'all unbeknown like.'

Miss Vancourt herself, meanwhile, stepped into her ancestral halls,

and stood for a moment, silent, looking round her with a wistful,

almost pathetic earnestness.

"Tea is served in the morning-room, Madam," said the butler

respectfully, all the time wondering whether this slight, childlike-

looking creature was really Miss Vancourt, or some young friend of

hers sent as an advance herald of her arrival. "Mrs. Spruce thought

you would find it comfortable there."

"Mrs. Spruce!" exclaimed the girl, eagerly; "Where is she?"

"Here, ma'am-here, my lady," said a quavering voice-and Mrs. Spruce,

presenting quite a comely and maternal aspect in her best black silk

gown, and old-fashioned cap, with lace lappets, such as the late

Squire had always insisted on her wearing, came forward curtseying

nervously.

"I hope, ma'am, you've had a pleasant journey--"

But her carefully prepared sentence was cut short by a pair of arms

being flung suddenly round her, and a fresh face pressed against her

own.

"Dear Mrs. Spruce! I am so glad to see you! You knew me when I was

quite a little thing, didn't you? And you knew my father, too! You

were very fond of my father, weren't you? I am sure you were! You

must try to be fond of me now!"

Never, as Mrs. Spruce was afterwards wont to declare, had she been

so 'took back,' as by the unaffected spontaneity and sweetness of

this greeting on the part of the new mistress, whose advent she had

so greatly feared. She went, to quote her own words, 'all of a

fluster like, and near busted out cryin'. It was like a dear lovin'

little child comin' 'ome, and made me feel that queer you might have

knocked me down with a soap-bubble!'

Whatever the worthy woman's feelings were, and however much the

respectable butler, whose name was Primmins, might have been

astonished in his own stately mind at Miss Vancourt's greeting of

her father's old servant, Miss Vancourt herself was quite

unconscious of any loss of dignity on her own part.

"I am so glad!" she repeated; "It's like finding a friend at home to

find you, Spruce! I had quite forgotten what you looked like, but I

begin to remember now--you were always nice and kind, and you always

managed so well, didn't you? Yes, I'm sure you did! The man said tea

was in the morning-room. You come and pour it out for me, like a

dear old thing! I'm going to live alone in my own home now for

always,--for always!" she repeated, emphatically; "Nobody shall ever

take me away from it again!"

She linked her arm confidingly in that of Mrs. Spruce, who for once

was too much astonished to speak,--Miss Vancourt was so entirely

different to the chill and reserved personage her imagination had

depicted, that she was quite at a loss how to look or what to say.

"Is this the way?" asked Maryllia, stepping lightly past the stuffed

knight in armour; "Yes? I thought it was! I begin to remember

everything now! Oh, how I wish I had never gone away from this dear

old home!"

She entered the morning-room, guiding Mrs. Spruce, rather than being

guided by her,--for as that worthy woman averred to Primmins at

supper that self-same night: "I was so all in a tremble and

puspration with 'er 'oldin' on to my arm and takin' me round, that I

was like the man in the Testymen what had dumb devils,--and scarcely

knew what ground my feet was a-fallin' on!" The cheerful air of

welcome which pervaded this charming, sunny apartment, with its

lattice windows fronting the wide stretch of velvety lawn, terrace

and park-land, delighted Maryllia, and she loosened her hold on Mrs.

Spruce's arm with a little cry of pleasure, as a huge magnificently

coated Newfoundland dog rose from his recumbent position near the

window, and came to greet her with slow and expansive waggings of

his great plumy tail.

"Plato, my beauty!" she exclaimed; "How do you like Abbot's Manor,

boy? Eh? Quite at home, aren't you! Good dog! Isn't he a king of

dogs?" And she turned her smiling face on Mrs. Spruce. "A real king!

I bought him because he was so big! Weren't you frightened when you

saw such a monster?--and didn't you think he would bite everybody on

the least provocation? But he wouldn't, you know! He's a perfect

darling--as gentle as a lamb! He would kill anyone that wanted to

hurt me--oh, yes of course!--that's why I love him!"

And she patted the enormous creature's broad head tenderly.

"He's my only true friend!" she continued; "Money wouldn't buy HIS

fidelity!" Here, glancing at Mrs. Spruce, she laughed merrily. "Dear

Mrs. Spruce! You DO look so uncomfortable!--so--so warm! It IS warm,

isn't it? Make me some tea!--tea cools one, they say, though it's

hot to drink at first. We'll talk afterwards!"

Mrs. Spruce, with inaudible murmurings, hastened to the tea-tray,

and tried to compose her agitated nerves by bringing her attention

to bear on the silver tea-kettle which Primmins had just brought in,

and in which the water was beginning to bubble, in obedience to the

newly-kindled flame of the spirit-lamp beneath.

Maryllia, meanwhile, stepped out on the grass terrace in front of

the window, with the dog Plato at her side, and looked long and

earnestly at the fair stretch of woodland scenery before her. While

she thus stood absorbed, Mrs. Spruce stole covert glances at her

with increased wonder and bewilderment. She looked much younger than

her twenty-seven years,--her childlike figure and face portrayed her

as about eighteen, not more. She stood rather under than over the

medium height of woman,--yet she gave the impression of being taller

than she actually was, owing to the graceful curve of her arched

neck, which rose from her shoulders with a daintily-proud poise,

marking her demeanour as exceptional and altogether different to

that of ordinary women. Her back being turned to Mrs. Spruce for the

moment, that sagacious dame decided that she was 'real stately, for

all that she was small,' and also noted that her hair, coiled

loosely in a thick knot, which pushed itself with rebellious fulness

beyond the close-fitting edge of the dark straw hat she wore, was of

a warm auburn gold, rippling here and there into shades of darker

brown. Suddenly, with a decided movement, she turned from the

terrace and re-entered the morning-room.

"Tea ready?" she asked.

"Yes, ma'am!--yes, miss--my lady--it's just made--perhaps it's best

to let it draw a bit--"

"I don't like it strong!" said Maryllia, sitting down, and leisurely

taking off her hat; "And you mustn't call me 'my lady.' I'm not the

daughter of an earl, or the wife of a knight. If I were Scotch, I

might say 'I'm Mclntosh of Mclntosh'; or some other Mac of Mac,--but

being English, I'm Vancourt of Vancourt! And you must call me

'Miss,' till I become 'Ma'am.' I don't want to bear any unnecessary

dignities before my time! In fact, I think you'd better call me Miss

Maryllia, as you used to do when my father was alive."

"Very well, ma'am--miss--Miss Maryllia," faltered Mrs. Spruce,

fumbling distractedly with the tea-things, and putting cream and

sugar recklessly into three or four cups without thinking; "There!

Really, I don't know what I am a-doin' of--do you like cream and

sugar, my dear?--beggin' your parding--Miss Maryllia?"

"Yes, I like cream and sugar both," replied the young lady with a

mirthful gleam in her eyes, as she noted the old housekeeper's

confusion; "But don't spoil the tea with either! If you put too much

cream, you will make the tea cold,--if you put too much sugar, you

will make it syrupy,--you must arrive at the juste milieu in a cup

of tea! I am VERY particular!"

Poor Mrs. Spruce grew warmer and redder in the face than ever. What

was the 'juste milieu'? Often and often afterwards did she puzzle

over that remarkable phrase.

"I think," continued Maryllia, with a dimpling smile, "if you put

one lump of sugar in the cup and two brimming tea-spoonfuls of

cream, it will be exactly right!"

Gladly, and with relief, Mrs. Spruce obeyed these explicit

instructions, and handed her new mistress the desired refreshment

with assiduous and respectful care.

"You are a dear!" said Maryllia, lazily taking the cup from her

hand; "Just the kindest and nicest of persons! And good-tempered? I

am sure you are good-tempered, aren't you?"

"Pretty well so, Miss," responded Mrs. Spruce, now gaining courage

to look at the fair smiling face opposite her own, more squarely and

openly; "Leastways, I've been told I keeps my 'ead under any amount

of kitchen jawin'. For, as you may believe me, in a kitchen where

there's men as well as women, an' a servants' 'All leadin' straight

through from the kitchen, jawin' there is and jawin' there must be,

and such bein' the Lord's will, we must put up with it. But it wants

a 'ead to keep things straight, and I generally arranges pretty

well, though I'll not deny but I'm a bit flustered to-day,--

howsomever, it will soon be all right, and any think that's wrong,

Miss, if you will be so good as to tell me--"

"I will!" said Maryllia, sweetly; and she leaned back in her chair,

whimsically surveying the garrulous old dame with eyes which Mrs.

Spruce then and there discovered to be 'the most beautiful blue eyes

ever seen,'--"I will tell you all I do like, and all I don't like.

I'm sure we shall get on well together. The tea is perfect,--and

this room is exquisite. In fact, everything is delightful, and I'm

so happy to be in my own home once more! I wish I had never left

it!"

Her eyes darkened suddenly, and she sighed. Mrs. Spruce watched her

in submissive silence, realising as she gazed that Miss Maryllia was

'a real beauty and no mistake.' Why and how she came to that

conclusion, she could not very well have explained. Her ideas of

feminine loveliness were somewhat hazy and restricted. She privately

considered her own girl, Kitty, 'the handsomest lass in all the

country-side' and she had been known to bitterly depreciate what she

called 'the pink and white dolly-face' of Susie Prescott, the

acknowledged young belle of the village. But there was an

indefinable air of charm about her new lady which was quite foreign

to all her experience,--a bewildering grace and ease of manner

arising from high education and social cultivation, that confused

her and robbed her of all her usual self-sufficiency; and for once

in her life she checked her customary volubility and decided that it

was perhaps best to say as little as possible till she saw exactly

how things were going to turn out. Miss Maryllia was very kind,--but

who could tell whether she was not also capricious? There was

something slightly quizzical as well as sweet in her smile,--

something subtle--something almost mysterious. She had greeted her

father's old servant as affectionately as a child,--but her

enthusiasm might be only temporary. So Mrs. Spruce vaguely reflected

as she stood with her hands folded on her apron, waiting for the

next word. That next word came with a startling suddenness.

"Oh, you wicked Spruce! How could you!"

And Maryllia, springing up from her chair, made a bound to the

opposite corner of the room, where there was a tall vase filled with

peacocks' feathers. Gathering all these in her hand, she flourished

them dramatically in the old housekeeper's face.

"The most unlucky things in the world!" she exclaimed; "Peacocks'

feathers! How could you allow them to be in this room on the very

day of my return! It's dreadful!--quite dreadful!--you know it is!

Nothing is quite so awful as a peacock's feather!"

Mrs. Spruce stared, gasped and blinked,--her hand involuntarily

wandered to her side in search for convenient 'spasms.'

"They've always been 'ere, Miss," she stammered; "I 'adn't no idee

as 'ow you wouldn't like them, though to tell the truth, I 'ave

'eard somethin' about their bein' onlucky---"

"Unlucky! I should think so!" replied Maryllia, holding the

objectionable plumes as far away from herself as possible,--"No

wonder we've been unfortunate, if these feathers were always in the

old house! No wonder everything went wrong! I must break the spell

at once and for ever. Are there more of these horrible 'witch-eyes'

in any of the rooms?"

Poor Mrs. Spruce made a great effort to cudgel her memory. She was

affected by 'a palpitation,' as she expressed it. There was her

newly-arrived mistress confronting her with the authoritative air of

a young empress, holding the bunch of glittering peacocks' plumes

aloft, like a rod uplifted for summary chastisement, and asking her

to instantly remember whether there were any more 'horrible witch-

eyes' about. Mrs. Spruce had never before heard such a term applied

to the tail-sheddings of the imperial fowl,--but she never forgot

it, and never afterwards saw a peacock's feather without a qualm.

"I couldn't say, Miss; I'm not sure--" she answered flutteringly;

"But I'll have every 'ole and corner searched to-morrow---"

"No, to-night!" said Maryllia, with determination; "I will not sleep

in the house if ONE peacock's feather remains in it! There!" Her

brows were bent tragically;--in another moment she laughed; "Take

them away!" she continued, picking up Mrs. Spruce's apron at the

corners and huddling all the glittering plumage into its capacious

folds; "Take them all away! And go right through the house, and

collect every remaining feather you can find--and then--and then---"

Here she paused dubiously. "You mustn't burn them, you know! That

would be unluckier still!"

"Lor! Would it now, Miss? I never should 'ave thought it!" murmured

Mrs. Spruce plaintively, grasping her apronful of 'horrible witch-

eyes'; "What on earth shall I do with them?"

Maryllia considered. Very pretty she looked at that moment, with one

small finger placed meditatively on her lips, which were curved

close like a folded rosebud. "You must either bury them, or drown

them!" she said at last, with the gravest decision; "If you drown

them, you must tie them to a stone, so that they will not float. If

you bury them, you must dig ten feet deep! You must really! If you

don't, they will all come up again, and the eyes will be all over

the place, haunting you!" Here she broke into the merriest little

laugh possible. "Poor Spruce! You do look so miserable! See here--

I'll tell you what to do! Pack them ail in a box, and I will send

them to my aunt Emily! She loves them! She likes to see them stuck

all over the drawing-room. They're never unlucky to her. She has a

fellow-feeling for peacocks; there is a sort of affinity between

herself and them! Pack up every feather you can find, Spruce! The

box must go to-night by parcel's post Address to Mrs. Fred Vancourt,

at the Langham Hotel. She's staying there just now. Will you be sure

to send them off to-night?"

She held up her little white hand entreatingly, and her blue eyes

wonderfully sweet and childlike, yet grave and passionate, looked

straight into the elder woman's wrinkled apple face.

"When she looked at me like that, I'd a gone barefoot to kingdom-

come for her!" Mrs. Spruce afterwards declared to some of her

village intimates--"And as for the peacocks' feathers, I'd a

scrubbed though the 'ole 'ouse from top to bottom afore I'd a let

one be in it!"

To Maryllia she said:

"You may take my word for it, Miss! They'll all go out of the 'ouse

'fore seven o'clock. I'll send them myself to the post."

"Thank you, so much!" said Maryllia, with a comical little sigh of

relief. "And now, Spruce, I will go to my bedroom and lie down for

an hour. I'm just a little tired. Have you managed to get a maid for

me?"

"Well, Miss, there's jest a gel-she don't know anythink much, but

she's 'andy and willin' and 'umble, and quick with her needle, and

tidy at foldin', and got a good character. She's the best I could

do, Miss. Her name is Nancy Pyrle--I'll send her to you directly."

"Yes, do!" answered Miss Vancourt, with a little yawn; "And show me

to my rooms;--you prepared the ones I told you--my mother's rooms?"

"Yes, Miss," answered Mrs. Spruce in subdued accents; "I've made

them all fresh and sweet and clean; but of course the furniture is

left jest as it was when the Squire locked 'em all up after he lost

his lady--"

Maryllia said nothing, but followed the housekeeper upstairs, the

great dog Plato in attendance on her steps. On reaching the bedroom,

hung with faded rose silk hangings, and furnished with sixteenth

century oak, she looked at everything: with a curious wistfulness

and reverence. Approaching the dressing-table, she glanced at her

own reflection in the mirror; but fair as the reflection was that

glanced back at her, she gave it no smile. She was serious and

absorbed, and her eyes were clouded with a sudden mist of tears.

Mrs. Spruce took the opportunity to slip away with her collection of

peacocks' feathers, and descended in haste to the kitchen, where for

some time the various orders she issued caused much domestic

perturbation, and fully expressed the chaotic condition of her own

mind. The maid, Nancy Pyrle, was hustled off to 'wait on Miss

Vancourt upstairs, and don't be clumsy with your 'ands, whatever you

do!'--Primmins, the butler, was sent to remove the tea-things from

the morning-room,--at which command he turned round somewhat

indignantly, asking 'who are you a-orderin' of; don't you think I

know my business?'--Spruce himself, unhappily coming by chance to

the kitchen door to ask if it was really true that Miss Vancourt had

arrived, was shrilly told to 'go along and mind his own business,'--

and so it happened that when Bainton appeared, charged with the

Reverend John Walden's message concerning the Five Sisters, he might

as well have tried to obtain an unprepared audience with the King,

as to see or speak with the lady of the Manor. Miss Vancourt had

arrived--oh yes, she had certainly arrived, Mrs. Spruce told him,

with much heat and energy; but she was tired and was lying down, and

certainly could not be asked to see anyone, no matter what the

business was. And to make things more emphatic, at the very time

that Bainton was urging his cause, and Mrs. Spruce was firmly

rejecting it, Nancy Pyrle came down from attendance on her mistress

and said that Miss Vancourt was going to sleep a little, and she did

not wish to be disturbed till she rang her bell.

"Oh, and she's beautiful!" said Nancy, drawing a long breath,--"and

so very kind! She showed me how to do all she wanted--and was that

patient and gentle! She says I'll make quite a good maid after a

bit!"

"Well, I hope to the Lord you will!" said Mrs. Spruce with a sniffy

"For it's a chance in a 'undred, comin' straight out of the village

to a first situation with, a lady like Miss Vancourt. And I 'ope

you'll profit by it! And if you 'adn't taken the prize for

needlework in the school, you wouldn't 'ave 'ad it, so now you sees

what good it does to serve your elders when you're young." Here she

turned to Bainton, who was standing disconsolately half in and half

out of the kitchen doorway. "I'm real sorry, Mr. Bainton, that you

can't see our lady, more 'specially as you wishes to give a message

from Passon Walden himself--but you jest go back and tell 'im 'ow it

is;--Miss Vancourt is restin' and can't be disturbed nohow."

Bainton twirled his cap nervously in his hand.

"I s'pose no one couldn't say to her quiet-like as 'ow the Five

Sisters be chalked?--"

Mrs. Spruce raised her fat hands with a gesture of dismay.

"Lor' bless the man!" she exclaimed; "D'ye think we're goin' to

worrit Miss Vancourt with the likes o' that the very first evenin'

she's set foot in 'er own 'ouse? Why, we dussn't! An' that there

great dog Plato lyin' on guard outside 'er door! I've 'ad enough to-

day with peacocks' feathers, let alone the Five Sisters! Besides,

Oliver Leach is agent 'ere, and what he says is sure to be done. She

won't worry 'erself about it,--and you may be pretty certain he

won't be interfered with. You tell Passon Walden I'm real sorry, but

it can't be 'elped."

Reluctantly, Bainton turned away. He was never much disposed for a

discussion with Mrs. Spruce,--her mind was too illogical, and her

tongue too persistent. Her allusion to peacocks' feathers was

unintelligible to him, and he wondered whether 'anythink she's been

an' took' had gone to her head. Anyway, his errand was foiled for

the moment. But he was not altogether disheartened. He determined

not to go back to Walden with his message quite undelivered.

"Where there's a will, there's a way!" he said to himself. "I'll go

and do a bit of shoutin' to Spruce,--deaf as he is, he's more

reasonable-like than his old 'ooman!"

With this resolve, he went his way by a short-cut through Abbot's

Manor gardens to a small thatched shelter in the woods, known as

'the foresters' hut,' where Spruce was generally to be found at

about sunset, smoking a peaceful pipe, alone and well out of his

wife's way.

Meanwhile, Maryllia Vancourt, lying wide awake on her bed in the

long unused room that was to have been her mother's, experienced

various chaotic sensations of mingled pleasure and pain. For the

first time in her life of full womanhood she was alone,--

independent,--free to come or go as she listed, with no one to

gainsay her wishes, or place a check on her caprices. She had

deliberately thrown off her aunt's protection; and with that action,

had given up the wealth and luxury with which she had been lavishly

surrounded ever since her father's death. For reasons of her own,

which she considered sufficiently cogent, she had also resigned all

expectations of being her aunt's heiress. She had taken her liberty,

and was prepared to enjoy it. She had professed herself perfectly

contented to live on the comparatively small patrimony secured to

her by her father's will. It was quite enough, she said, for a

single woman,--at any rate, she would make it enough.

And here she was, in her own old home,--the home of her childhood,

which she was ashamed to think she had well-nigh forgotten. Since

her fifteenth year she had travelled nearly all over the world;

London, Paris, Vienna, New York, had each in turn been her 'home'

under the guidance of her wealthy perambulating American relative;

and in the brilliant vortex of an over-moneyed society, she had been

caught and whirled like a helpless floating straw. Mrs. 'Fred'

Vancourt, as her aunt was familiarly known to the press

paragraphist, had spared no pains to secure for her a grand

marriage,--and every possible advantage that could lead to that one

culminating point, had been offered to her. She had been taught

everything; that could possibly add to her natural gifts of

intelligence; she had been dressed exquisitely, taken about

everywhere, and 'shown off' to all the impecunious noblemen of

Europe;--she had been flattered, praised, admired, petted and

generally spoilt, and had been proposed to by 'eligible' gentlemen

with every recurring season,--but all in vain. She had taken a

singular notion into her head--an idea which her matter-of-fact aunt

told her was supremely ridiculous. She wanted to be loved.

"Any man can ask a girl to marry him, if he has pluck and

impudence!" she said; "Especially if the girl has money, or

expectations of money, and is not downright deformed, repulsive and

ill-bred. But proposals of marriage don't always mean love. I don't

care a bit about being married,--but I do want to be loved--really

loved!--I want to be 'dear to someone else' as Tennyson sings it,--

not for what I HAVE, but for what I AM."

It was this curious, old-fashioned notion of wanting to be loved,

that had estranged Maryllia from her wealthy American protectress.

It had developed from mere fireside argument and occasional

dissension, into downright feud, and its present result was self-

evident. Maryllia had broken her social fetters, and had returned to

her own rightful home in a state which, for her, considered by her

past experience, was one of genteel poverty, but which was also one

of glorious independence. And as she restfully reclined under the

old rose silk hangings which were to have encanopied that perished

beauty from which she derived her own fairness, she was conscious of

a novel and soothing sense of calm. The rush and hurry and frivolity

of society seemed put away and done with; through her open window

she could hear the rustling of leaves and the singing of birds;--the

room in which she found herself pleased her taste as well as her

sentiment,--and though the faintest shadow of vague wonder crossed

her mind as to what she would do with her time, now that she had

gained her own way and was actually all alone in the heart of the

country, she did not permit such a thought to trouble her peace. The

grave tranquillity of the old house was already beginning to exert

its influence on her always quick and perceptive mind,--the dear

remembrance of her father whom she had idolised, and whose sudden

death had been the one awful shock of her life, came back to her now

with a fresh and tender pathos. Little incidents of her childhood

and of its affection, such as she thought she had forgotten,

presented themselves one by one in the faithful recording cells of

her brain,--and the more or less feverish and hurried life she had

been compelled to lead under her aunt's command and chaperonage,

began to efface itself slowly, like a receding coast-line from a

departing vessel.

"It is home!" she said; "And I have not been in a home for years!

Aunt Emily's houses were never 'home.' And this is MY home--my very

own; the home of our family for generations. I ought to be proud of

it, and I WILL be proud of it! Even Aunt Emily used to say that

Abbot's Manor was a standing proof of the stuck-up pride of the

Vancourts! I'm sure I shall find plenty to do here. I can farm my

own lands and live on the profits--if there are any!"

She laughed a little, and rising from the bed went to the window and

leaned out. A large white clematis pushed its moonlike blossom up to

her face, as though asking to be kissed, and a bright red butterfly

danced dreamily up and down in the late sunbeams, now poising on the

ivy and anon darting off again into the mild still air.

"It's perfectly lovely!" said Maryllia, with a little sigh of

content; "And it is all my own!"

She drew her head in from the window and turned to her mirror.

"I'm getting old," she said, surveying herself critically, and with

considerable disfavour;--"It's all the result of society 'pressure,'

as they call it. There's a line here--and another there"--indicating

the imaginary facial defects with a small tapering forefinger--"And

I daresay I have some grey hairs, if I could only find them." Here

she untwisted the coil at the back of her head and let it fall in a

soft curling shower round her shoulders--"Oh, yes!--I daresay!" she

went on, addressing her image in the glass; "You think it looks very

pretty--but that is only an 'effect,' you know! It's like the

advertisements the photographers do for the hairdressers; 'Hair-

positively-forced-to-grow-in-six-weeks' sort of thing. Oh, what a

dear old chime!" This, as she heard the ancient clock in the square

turret which overlooked the Tudor courtyard give forth a mellow

tintinnabulation. "What time is it, I wonder?" She glanced at the

tiny trifle of a watch she had taken off and placed on her dressing-

table. "Quarter past seven! I must have had a doze, after all. I

think I will ring for Nancy Pyrle"--and she suited the action to the

word; "I have not the least idea where my clothes are."

Nancy obeyed the summons with alacrity. She could not help a slight

start as she saw her mistress, looking like 'the picture of an

angel' as she afterwards described it, in her loose white dressing-

gown, with all her hair untwisted and floating over her shoulders.

She had never seen any human creature quite so lovely.

"Do you know where my dresses are, Nancy?" enquired Maryllia.

"Yes, Miss. Mrs. Spruce unpacked everything herself, and the dresses

are all hanging in this wardrobe." Here Nancy went to the piece of

furniture in question. "Which one shall I give you, Miss?"

Maryllia came to her side, and looked scrutinisingly at all the

graceful Parisian and Viennese flimsies that hung in an. orderly row

within the wardrobe, uncertain which to take. At last she settled on

an exceedingly simple white tea-gown, shaped after a Greek model,

and wholly untrimmed, save for a small square gold band at the

throat.

"This will do!" she decided; "Nobody's coming to dine; I shall be

all alone--"

The thought struck her as quaint and strange. Nobody coming to

dinner! How very odd! At Aunt Emily's there was always someone, or

several someones, to dinner. To-night she would dine all alone.

Well! It would be a novel experience!

"Are there any nice people living about here?" she asked Nancy, as

that anxious young woman carefully divested her of her elegant

dressing-gown; "People I should like to know?"

"Oh, I don't think so, Miss," replied Nancy, quite frankly, watching

in wonder the dexterity and grace with which her mistress swept up

all her hair into one rich twist and knotted it with two big

tortoiseshell hairpins at the back of her head. "There's Sir Morton

Pippitt at Badsworth Hall, three miles from here--"

Maryllia laughed gaily.

"Sir Morton Pippitt! What a funny name! Who is he?"

"Well, Miss, they do say he makes his money at bone-melting; but

he's awful proud for all that--awful proud he is--"

"Well, I should think so!" said Maryllia, with much solemnity;

"Bone-melting is a great business! Does he melt human bones, Nancy?"

"Oh, lor', Miss, no!" And Nancy laughed, despite herself; "Not that

I've ever heard on--it's bones of animals he melts and turns into

buttons and such-like."

"Man is an animal, Nancy," said Maryllia, sententiously, giving one

or two little artistic touches to the loose waves of hair on her

forehead; "Why should not HIS bones be turned into buttons? Why

should HE not be made useful? You may depend upon it, Nancy, human

bones go into Sir Morton What's-his-name's stock-pot. I shouldn't

wonder if he had left his own bones to his business in his will!

"'Imperial Caesar dead and turned to clay, May stop a hole to

keep the wind away!'

That's so, Nancy! And is the gentleman who boils bones the only man

about here one could ask to dinner?"

Nancy reflected.

"There's the Passon--" she began.

"Oh, dear me!" exclaimed Maryllia, with a little shrug of

impatience; "Worse than the bone-boiler!--a thousand times worse!

There! That will do, Nancy! I'll stroll about till dinner's ready."

She left the room and descended the stairs, followed by the faithful

Plato, and was soon to be seen by various retainers of the curious

and excited household, walking slowly up and down on the grass

terrace in her flowing white draperies, the afterglow of the sinking

sun shining on her gold-brown hair, and touching up little reddish

ripples in it,--such ripples as were painted by the artist of

Charles the Second's day when he brushed into colour and canvas the

portrait of Mary Elia Adelgisa de Vaignecourt. Primmins, late butler

to the irascible Sir Morton Pippitt, was so taken with the sight of

her that he then and there resolved his 'temp'ry service' should be

life-long, if he could manage to please her; and little Kitty Spruce

being permitted by her mother to peep at the 'new lady' through the

staircase window, could only draw a long breath and ejaculate: "Oh!

Ain't she lovely!" while she followed with eagerly admiring eyes the

gossamer trail of Maryllia's white gown on the soft turf, and

strained her ears to catch the sound of the sweet voice which

suddenly broke out in a careless chansonette:

"Tu m'aimes, cherie?

Dites-moi!

Seulement un petit 'oui,'

Je demande a toi!

Le bonheur supreme

Vient quand on aime,

N'est-ce-pas cherie?

'Oui'!"

"She's singin' to herself!" said the breathless Kitty, whispering to

her mother; "Ain't she jest smilin' and beautiful?"

"Well, I will own," replied Mrs. Spruce, "she's as different to the

lady _I_ expected as cheese from chalk, which they generally says

chalk from cheese, howsomever, that don't matter. But if I don't

mistake, she's got a will of 'er own, for all that she's so smilin'

and beautiful as you says, Kitty; and now don't YOU go runnin' away

with notions that you can dress like 'er or look like 'er,--for when

once a gel of YOUR make thinks she can imitate the fashions and the

ways of a great lady, she's done for, body and soul! YOU ain't goin'

to wear white gowns and trail 'em up an' down on the grass, nor 'ave

big dogs a-follerin' up an' down while you sings in a furrin

langwidge to yerself; no, not if you was to read all the trashy

story-books in the world--so you needn't think it. For there ain't

no millionaires comin' arter you, as they doos in penny novels,--nor

nothink else what's dished up in newspapers; so jes' wear your

cotton frocks in peace, an' don't worry me with wantin' to look like

Miss Maryllia, for you never won't look like 'er if ye tried till ye

was dead! Remember that, now! The Lord makes a many women,--but now

and again He turns out a few chice samples which won't bear

copyin.'. Miss Maryllia's one of them samples, and we must take 'er

with prayer and thanksgivin' as sich!"