I.

Mrs. Norton walked with her quiet, decisive step to the window, and

holding the gold-rimmed glasses to her eyes, she looked into the

landscape. The day was grimy with clouds; mist had risen, and it hung

out of the branches of the elms like a grey veil. She was a woman of

forty-five, tall, strongly-built, her figure setting to the squareness

of middle age. Her complexion was flushed, and her cold grey eyes were

close together above a long thin nose. Her fashionably-cut silk fitted

perfectly; the skirt was draped with grace and precision of style, and

the glossy shawl with the long soft fringe fell gracefully over her

shoulders. 'Surely,' she thought, 'he cannot have been foolish enough

to have walked over the downs such a day as this;' then, raising her

glasses again, she looked out at the smallest angle with the wall of

the house, so that she should get sight of a vista through which any

one coming from Shoreham would have to pass. At that moment a

silhouette appeared on the sullen sky. Mrs. Norton moved precipitately

from the window, and rang the bell.

'James,' she said, 'Mr. Hare has been going in for one of his long

walks. He is coming across the park. I am sure he has walked over the

downs; if so, he must be wet through. Have a fire lighted, and put out

a pair of slippers for him: Here is the key of Mr. Norton's wardrobe;

let Mr. Hare have what he wants.'

And having detached a key from one of the many bunches which filled

her basket, Mrs. Norton went herself to open the door to her visitor.

He was, however, still some distance away, and it was not until he

climbed the iron fence which separated the park from the garden

grounds that the figure grew into its individuality, into a man of

about fifty, about the medium height, inclined to stoutness. His white

neck-tie proclaimed him a parson, and the grey mud with which his

boots were bespattered told of his long walk.

'You are quite right, Lizzie, you are quite right,' he said; 'I

shouldn't have done it. Had I known what a state the roads were in, I

wouldn't have attempted it.'

'If you don't know what these roads are like in winter by this time,

you never will.'

'I never saw them in the state they are now; such a slush of chalk and

clay was never seen.' 'What can you expect after a month of heavy

rain? You are wringing wet.'

'Yes, I was caught in a heavy shower as I was crossing over by Fresh-

Combe-bottom. I am certainly not in a fit state to come into your

dining-room.'

'I should think not, indeed! I really believe, if I were to allow it,

you would sit the whole afternoon in your wet clothes. You'll find

everything ready for you in John's room. I'll give you ten minutes.

I'll tell them to bring up lunch in ten minutes. Stay, will you have a

glass of wine before going upstairs?'

'I am afraid of spoiling your carpet.'

'Yes, indeed! not one step further! I'll fetch it for you.'

When the parson had drunk the wine, and was following the butler

upstairs, Mrs. Norton returned to the dining-room with the empty glass

in her hand. She placed it on the chimney-piece; she stirred the fire,

and her thoughts flowed pleasantly as she dwelt on the kindness of her

old friend. They had known each other since they were children, and

had lived for twenty years separated only by a strip of downland.

'He only got my note this morning,' she mused. 'I wonder if he will be

able to persuade John to return home.'

And now, maturing her plans for getting her boy back, she stood by the

black mantelpiece, her head leaning on her hand. She uttered an

exclamation when Mr. Hare entered.

'What,' she said, 'you haven't changed your things, and I told you you

would find a suit of John's clothes. I must insist--'

'My dear Lizzie, no amount of insistence would get me into a pair of

John's trousers. I am thirteen stone and a half, and he is not much

over ten.'

'Ah! I had forgotten; but what are you to do? Something must be done;

you will catch your death of cold if you remain in your wet

clothes.... You are wringing wet.'

'No, I assure you, I am not. My feet were a little wet, but I have

changed my stockings and shoes. And now, tell me, Lizzie, what there

is for lunch,' he said, speaking rapidly to silence Mrs. Norton, who

he saw was going to protest again.

'There is chicken and some curried rabbit, but I am afraid you will

suffer for it if you remain the whole of the afternoon in those wet

clothes; I really cannot, I will not allow it.'

'My dear Lizzie, my dear Lizzie,' cried the parson, laughing all over

his rosy-skinned and sandy-whiskered face, 'I must beg of you not to

excite yourself. Give me a wing of that chicken. James, I'll take a

glass of sherry... and while I am eating you shall explain the matter

you are minded to consult me on, and I will advise you to the best of

my power, and then start on my walk across the hills.'

'What! you mean to say you are going to walk home? ... We shall have

another downpour presently.'

'I cannot come to much harm so long as I am walking, whereas if I

drove home in your carriage I might catch a chill.... It is at least

ten miles to Shoreham by the road, while across the hills it is not

more than six.'

'Six! it is eight if it is a yard!'

'Well, perhaps it is; but tell me, I am curious to hear what you want

to talk to me about.... Something about John, is it not?'

'Of course it is; what else have I to think about? what else concerns

middle-aged people like you and me but our children? Of course I want

to talk to you about John. Something must be done; things cannot go on

as they are. Why, it is nearly two years since he has been home. Why

does he not come and live at his own beautiful place? Why does he not

take up his position in the county? He is not a magistrate. Why does

he not marry? ... he is the last; there is no one to follow him.'

'Do you think he'll never marry?'

'I'm afraid not.'

'Does he give any reason?'

'He says that he's afraid that a woman might prove a disturbing

influence in his life.'

'And what did you say to that?'

'I told him that he was the last, and that it was his duty to marry.'

'I don't think that women present any attraction to him. In a way that

is a matter of congratulation.'

'I would much sooner he were wild, like other young men. Young men get

over those kind of faults, but he'll never get over his.'

Mr. Hare looked as if he thought these opinions were of a doubtful

orthodoxy.

'He is quite different,' he said, 'from other young men. I never

remember having seen him pay any woman the least attention. When he

speaks of women it is only to sneer.'

'He does that to annoy me.'

'Do you think so? I was afraid it was owing to a natural dislike.' The

conversation paused for a moment, and then Mr. Hare said:

'Have you had any news of him lately?'

'Yes, he wrote yesterday, but he did not speak of coming home.'

'What did he say?'

'He said he was meditating a book on the works of bishops and monks

who wrote Latin in the early centuries. He has put up a thirteenth

century window in the chapel, and he wants me to go up to London to

make inquiries about organs. He is prepared to go as far as a thousand

pounds. Did you ever hear of such a thing? Those Jesuits are

encouraging him. Of course it would just suit them if he became a

priest--nothing would suit them better; the whole property would fall

into their hands. Now, what I want you to do, my dear friend, is to go

to Stanton College to-morrow, or next day, as soon as you possibly

can, and to talk to John. You must tell him how unwise it is to spend

fifteen hundred pounds in one year building organs and putting up

windows. His intentions are excellent, but his estate won't bear such

extravagances; and everybody here thinks he is such a miser. I want

you to tell him that he should marry. Just fancy what a terrible thing

it would be if the estate passed away to distant relatives--to those

terrible cousins of ours.'

'This is very serious.'

'Yes, it is very serious. If it weren't very serious I should not have

put you to the trouble of coming over here to-day.'

'There was no trouble; I was glad of the walk. But I don't see how I

am to advise you in this matter.'

'I don't want advice. It is John who wants advice. Will you go to

Stanton College and talk to him?'

'What am I to say?'

'Tell him it is his duty to return home, to settle down and marry.'

'I don't think John would listen to me--it would not be prudent to

speak to him in that way. He is not the sort of man who allows himself

to be driven. But I might suggest that he should come home.'

'He certainly should come home for Christmas---'

'Very well, Lizzie, that's what I'll say. I have not seen him for five

years. The last time he was here I was away. I don't think it would be

a bad notion to suggest that the Jesuits are after his money--that

they are endeavouring to inveigle him into the priesthood in order

that they may get hold of his property.'

'No, no; you must not say such a thing. I will not have you say

anything against his religion. I was very wrong to suggest such a

thing. I am sure no such idea ever entered the Jesuits' heads. Perhaps

I am wrong to send you.... But I want you to try to get him to come

home. Try to get him to come home for Christmas.'