CHAPTER XXXVI. At Peace

VERA NEVILL

OR

POOR WISDOM'S CHANCE.

CHAPTER I.

THE VICAR'S FAMILY.

With that regal indolent air she had

So confident of her charm.

Owen Meredith.

Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear.

Shakespeare.

Amongst the divers domestic complications into which short-sighted man is

prone to fall there is none which has been more conclusively proved to be

an utter and egregious failure than that family arrangement which, for

lack of a better name, I will call a "composite household."

No one could have spoken upon this subject with greater warmth of

feeling, nor out of the depths of a more painful experience, than

could the Rev. Eustace Daintree, sometime vicar of the parish of

Sutton-in-the-Wold.

Mr. Daintree's family circle consisted of himself, his mother, his wife,

and his wife's sister, and I should like to know how a man could expect

to lead a life of peace and tranquillity with such a combination of

inharmonious feminine elements!

There were two children also, who were a fruitful source of discord and

disunion. It is certain that, had he chosen to do so, the Rev. Eustace

might have made many heart-rending and harrowing revelations concerning

the private life and customs of the inhabitants of his vicarage. It is

equally certain, however, that he would not have chosen to do so, for he

was emphatically a man of peace and gentleness, kind hearted and given

to good works; and was, moreover, sincerely anxious to do his duty

impartially to those whom Providence or fate, or a combination of chances

and changes, had somehow contrived to bring together under his roof.

Things had not always been thus with him. In the early days of their

married life Eustace Daintree and Marion his wife had had their home to

themselves, and right well had they enjoyed it. A fairly good living

backed up by independent means, a small rural parish, a pleasant

neighbourhood, a pretty and comfortable vicarage-house--what more can the

hearts of a clergyman of the Church of England and his wife desire? Mr.

and Mrs. Daintree, at all events, had wished for nothing better. But this

blissful state of things was not destined to last; it was, perhaps,

hardly to be expected that it should, seeing that man is born to trouble,

and that happiness is known to be as fleeting as time or beauty or any

other good thing.

When Eustace Daintree had been married five years, his father died,

and his mother, accepting his warmly tendered invitation to come to

Sutton-in-the-Wold upon a long visit, took up her abode in the pleasant

vicarage-house.

Her visit was long indeed. In a weak moment her son consented to her

urgent request to be allowed to subscribe her quota to the household

expenses--this was as good as giving her a ninety-nine years' lease of

her quarters. The thin end of the wedge thus inserted, Mrs. Daintree

_mère_ became immovable as the church tower or the kitchen chimney, and

the doomed members of the family began to understand that nothing short

of death itself was likely to terminate the old lady's residence amongst

them. For the future her son's house became her home.

But, even thus, things were not at their worst. Marion Daintree was a

soft-hearted, gentle-mannered little woman. It cannot be said that she

regarded the permanent instalment of her mother-in-law in her home with

pleasurable feelings; she would have been more than human had she done

so. But then she was unfeignedly fond of her husband, and desired so

earnestly to make his home happy that, not seeing her way to oust the

intruder without a warfare which would have distressed him, she

determined to make the best of the situation, and to preserve the

family peace and concord at all risks.

She succeeded in her praiseworthy efforts, but at what cost no one but

herself ever knew. Marion's whole life became one propitiatory sacrifice

to her mother-in-law. To propitiate Mrs. Daintree was a very simple

matter. Bearing in mind that her leading characteristics were a bad

temper and an ungovernable desire to ride rough-shod over the feelings of

all those who came into contact with her, in order to secure her favour

it was only necessary to study her moods, and to allow her to tread you

under foot as much as her soul desired. Provided that she had her own way

in these little matters, Mrs. Daintree became an amiable old lady. Marion

did all that was needful; figuratively speaking, she laid down in the

dust before her, and the Juggernaut of her fate consented to be appeased

by the lowly attitude, and crushed its way triumphantly over her fallen

body.

Thus Marion accepted her fate, and peace was preserved in her husband's

house. But by-and-by there came somebody into the family who would by no

manner of means consent to be so crushed and trodden under foot. This

somebody was Vera Nevill.

In order duly to set forth who and what was this young woman, who thus

audaciously set at defiance the powers that were, it will be necessary

that I should take a brief survey of Marion's family history.

Marion, then, be it known, was the eldest of three sisters; so much the

eldest, that when Mr. Daintree had met her and married her in Rome during

one of his brief holidays, the two remaining sisters had been at the time

hardly more than children. Colonel Nevill, their father, had married an

Italian lady, long since dead, and had lived a nomad life ever since he

had become a widower; moving about chiefly between Nice, Rome, and Malta.

Wherever pleasant society was to be found, there would Colonel Nevill and

his daughters instinctively drift, and year after year they became more

and more enamoured of their foreign life, and less and less disposed to

venture back to the chill fogs and cloudy skies of their native land.

Three years after Marion had left them, and gone away with her husband to

his English vicarage; Theodora, the second daughter, had at eighteen

married an Italian prince, whose lineage was ancient, but whose acres

were few; and Colonel Nevill, dying rather suddenly almost immediately

after, Vera, the youngest daughter, as was most natural, instantly found

a home with Princess Marinari.

All this time Marion lived at Sutton-in-the-Wold, and saw none of them.

She wept copiously at the news of her father's death, regretting bitterly

her inability to receive his parting blessing; but, her little Minnie

being born shortly after, her thoughts were fortunately diverted into a

happier channel, and she suffered from her loss less keenly and recovered

from it more quickly than had she had no separate life and no separate

interests of her own to engross her. Still, being essentially

affectionate and faithful, she clung to the memory of the two sisters now

separated so entirely from her. For some years she and Theodora kept up a

brisk correspondence. Marion's letters were full of the sayings and

doings of Tommy and Minnie, and Theodora's were full of nothing but Vera.

What Vera had looked like at her first ball, how Prince this and Marquis

so-and-so had admired her; how she had been smothered with bouquets and

bonbons at Carnival time; how she had sat to some world-famed artist, who

had entreated to be allowed to put her face into his great picture, and

how the house was literally besieged with her lovers. By all this, and

much more in the same strain, Marion perceived that her young sister,

whom she had last seen in all the raw unformed awkwardness of early

girlhood, had developed somehow into a beautiful woman.

And there came photographs of Vera occasionally, fully confirming the

glowing accounts Princess Marinari gave of her; fantastic photographs,

portraying her in strange and different ways. There was Vera looking out

through clouds of her own dark hair hanging loosely about her face; Vera

as a Bacchante crowned with vine leaves, laughing saucily; Vera draped as

a _dévote_, with drooping eyes and hands crossed meekly upon her bosom.

Sometimes she would be in a ball-dress, with lace about her white

shoulders; sometimes muffled up in winter sables, her head covered with

a fur cap. But always she was beautiful, always a young queen, even in

these poor, fading photographs, that could give but a faint idea of her

loveliness to those who knew her not.

"She must be very handsome," Eustace Daintree would say heartily, as his

wife, with a little natural flush of pride, handed some picture of her

young sister across the breakfast-table to him. "How I wish we could see

her, she must be worth looking at, indeed. Mother, have you seen this

last one of Vera?"

"Beauty is a snare," the old lady would answer viciously, hardly deigning

to glance at the lovely face; "and your sister seems to me, Marion, to be

dressed up like an actress, most unlike my idea of a modest English

girl."

Then Marion would take her treasure away with her up into her own room,

out of the way of her mother-in-law's stern and repelling remarks.

But one day there came sad news to the vicarage at Sutton. Theodora,

Princess Marinari, caught the Roman fever in its worst form, and after

a few agonizing letters and telegrams, that came so rapidly one upon the

other that she had hardly time to realize the dreadful truth, Marion

learnt that her sister was dead.

After that, the elder sister's English home became naturally the right

and fitting place for Vera to come to. So she left her gay life and her

lovers, her bright dresses and all that had hitherto seemed to her worth

living for, and came back to her father's country and took up her abode

in Eustace Daintree's quiet vicarage, where she became shortly her

sister's idol and her sister's mother-in-law's mortal foe.

And then it was that the worthy clergyman came to discover that to put

three grown-up women into the same house, and to expect them to live

together in peace and amity, is about as foolhardy an experiment as to

shut up a bulldog, a parrot, and a tom-cat in a cupboard, and expect

them to behave like so many lambs.

It is now rather more than a year since Vera Nevill came to live in her

brother-in-law's house. Let me waste no further time, but introduce her

to you at once.

The time of the year is October--the time of day is five o'clock. In the

vicarage drawing-room the afternoon tea-table has just been set out, and

the fire just lit, for it is chilly; but one of the long French windows

leading into the garden is still open, and through it Vera steps into

the room.

There is a background of brown and yellow foliage behind her, across the

garden, all aglow with the crimson light of the western sky, against

which the outlines of her figure, in its close-fitting dark dress, stand

out clearly and distinctly. Vera has the figure, not of a sylph, but of

a goddess; it is the absolute perfection of the female form. She is

tall--very tall, and she carries her head a little proudly, like a young

queen conscious of her own power.

She comes in with a certain slow and languid grace in her movements, and

pauses for an instant by the hearth, holding out her hand, that is white

and well-shaped, though perhaps a trifle too long-fingered, to the

warmth.

The glow of the newly-lit fire flickers up over her face--her face, with

its pure oval outlines, its delicate, regular features, and its dreamy

eyes, that are neither blue nor gray nor hazel, but something vague and

indistinctly beautiful, entirely peculiar to themselves. Her hair, a soft

dusky cloud, comes down low over her broad forehead, and is gathered up

at the back in some strange and thoroughly un-English fashion that would

not suit every one, yet that somehow makes a fitting crown to the stately

young head it adorns.

"Tea, Vera?" says Marion, from behind the cups and saucers.

Old Mrs. Daintree sits darning socks, severely, by the fading light.

There is a sound of distant whimpering from the shadowy corner behind the

piano; it is Tommy in disgrace. Vera turns round; Marion's kind face

looks troubled and distressed; the old lady compresses her lips firmly

and savagely.

Vera takes the cup from her sister's hands, and putting it down again on

the table, proceeds to cut a slice of bread from the loaf, and to spread

it thickly with strawberry jam.

"Come here, Tommy, and have some of Auntie's bread and jam."

Out comes a small person, with a very swollen face and a very dirty

pinafore, from the distant seclusion of the corner, and flies swiftly

to Vera's sheltering arm.

Mrs. Daintree drops her work angrily into her lap.

"Vera, I must beg of you not to interfere with Tom; are you aware that he

is in the corner by my orders?"

"Perfectly, Mrs. Daintree; and also that he was there before I went out,

exactly three-quarters of an hour ago; there are limits to all human

endurance."

"I consider it extremely impertinent," begins the old lady, nodding her

head violently.

"Darling Vera," pleads Marion, almost in tears; "perhaps you had better

let him go back."

"Tommy is quite good now," says Vera, calmly passing her hand over the

rough blonde head. Master Tommy's mouth is full of bread and jam, and he

looks supremely indifferent to the warfare that is being carried on on

his account over his head.

His crime having been the surreptitious purloining of his grandmamma's

darning cotton, and the subsequent immersion of the same in the inkstand,

Vera feels quite a warm glow of approval towards the little culprit and

his judiciously-planned piece of mischief.

"Vera, I _insist_ upon that child being sent back into the corner!"

exclaims Mrs. Daintree, angrily, bringing her large fist heavily down

upon her knee.

"The child has been over-punished already," she answers, calmly, still

administering the soothing solace of strawberry jam.

"Oh, Vera, _pray_ keep the peace!" cries Marion, with clasped hands.

"Here, I am thankful to say, comes my son;" as a shadow passes the

window, and Eustace's tall figure with the meekly stooping head comes

in at the door. "Eustace, I beg that you will decide who is to be in

authority in this house--your mother or this young lady. It is

insufferable that every time I send the children into the corner Vera

should call them out and give them cakes and jam."

Eustace Daintree looks helplessly from one to the other.

"My dear mother--my dear girls--what is it all about? I am sure Vera does

not mean----"

"No, Vera only means to be kind, grandmamma," cries Marion, nervously;

"she is so fond of the children----"

"Hold your tongue, Marion, and don't take your sister's part so

shamelessly!"

Meanwhile Vera rises silently and pushes Tommy and all his enormities

gently by the shoulders out of the room. Then she turns round and faces

her foe.

"Judge between us, Eustace!" the old lady is crying; "am I to be defied

and set at nought? are we all to bow down and worship Miss Vera, the most

useless, lazy person in the house, who turns up her nose at honest men

and prefers to live on charity, a burden to her relations?"

"Vera is no burden, only a great pleasure to me, my dear mother," said

the clergyman, holding out his hand to the girl.

"Oh, grandmamma, how unkind you are," says Marion, bursting into tears.

But Vera only laughs lazily and amusedly, she is so used to it all! It

does not disturb her.

"Is she to be mistress here, I ask, or am I?" continues Mrs. Daintree,

furiously.

"Marion is the mistress here," says Vera, boldly; "neither you nor I have

any authority in her house or over her children." And then the old lady

gathers up her work and sails majestically from the room, followed by her

weak, trembling daughter-in-law, bent on reconciliation, on cajolement,

on laying herself down for her own sins, and her sister's as well, before

the avenging genius of her life.

The clergyman stands by the hearth with his head bent and his hands

behind him. He sighs wearily.

Vera creeps up to him and lays her hand softly upon his coat sleeve.

"I am a firebrand, am I not, Eustace?"

"My dear, no, not that; but if you could try a little to keep the peace!"

He stayed the caressing hand within his own and looked at her tenderly.

His face is a good one, but not a handsome one; and, as he looks at his

wife's young sister, it is softened into its best and kindest. Who can

resist Vera, when she looks gentle and humble, with that rare light in

her dark eyes?

"Vera, why don't you look like that at Mr. Gisburne?" he says, smiling.

"Oh, Eustace! am I indeed a burden to you, as your mother says?" she

exclaims, evasively.

"No, no, my dear, but it seems hard for you here; a home of your own

might be happier for you; and Gisburne is a good man."

"I don't like good men who are poor!" says Vera, with a little grimace.

Her brother-in-law looks shocked. "Why do you say such hard worldly

things, Vera? You do not really mean them."

"Don't I? Eustace, look at me: do I look like a poor clergyman's wife? Do

survey me dispassionately." She holds herself at arm's length from him,

and looks comically up and down the length of her gray skirts. "Think of

the yards and yards of stuff it takes to clothe me; and should not a

woman as tall as I am be always in velvet and point lace, Eustace? What

is the good of condemning myself to workhouse sheeting for the rest of my

days?"

Mr. Daintree looks at her admiringly; he has learnt to love her; this

beautiful southern flower that has come to blossom in his home. Women

will be hard enough on Vera through her life--men, never.

"You have great gifts and great temptations, my child," he says,

solemnly. "I pray that I may be enabled to do my duty to you. Do not say

you do not like good men, Vera, it pains me to hear you say it."

"I like _one_ good man, and his name is Eustace Daintree!" she answers,

softly; "is not that a hopeful sign?"

"You are a little flatterer, Vera," he says, kissing her; but, though he

is a middle-aged clergyman and her brother-in-law, he is by no means

impervious to the flattery.

Meanwhile, upstairs, Marion is humbling herself into the dust, at the

footstool of her tyrant. Mrs. Daintree is very angry with Marion's

sister, and Mr. Gisburne is also the text whereon she hangs her sermon.

"I wish her no harm, Marion; why should I? She is most impertinent to me,

but of that I will not speak."

"Indeed, grandmamma, you do not understand Vera. I am sure she----"

"Oh, yes, excuse me, my dear, I understand her perfectly--the

impertinence to myself I waive--I hope I am a Christian, but I cannot

forgive her for turning up her nose at Mr. Gisburne--a most excellent

young man; what can a girl want more?"

"Dear Mrs. Daintree, does Vera look like a poor clergyman's wife?" said

Marion, using unconsciously Vera's own arguments.

"Now, Marion, I have no patience with such folly! Whom do you suppose she

is to wait for? We haven't got any Princes down at Sutton to marry her;

and I say it's a shame that she should go on living on her friends, a

girl without a penny! when she might marry a respectable man, and have

a home of her own."

And then even Marion said that, if Vera could be brought to like Mr.

Gisburne, it might possibly be happier for her to marry him.

CHAPTER II.

KYNASTON HALL.

Only the wind here hovers and revels

In a round where life seems barren as death.

Here there was laughing of old, there was weeping,

Haply of lovers none ever will know.

Swinburne, "A Forsaken Garden."

It seemed to be generally acknowledged by the Daintree family that if

Vera would only consent to yield to the solicitations of the Reverend

Albert Gisburne, and transfer herself to Tripton Rectory for life, it

would be the simplest and easiest solution of a good many difficult

problems concerning her.

In point of fact, Vera Nevill was an incongruous element in the Daintree

household. In that quiet humdrum country clergyman's life she was as much

out of her proper place as a bird of paradise in a chicken yard, or a

Gloire de Dijon rose in a field of turnips.

It was not her beauty alone, but her whole previous life which unfitted

her for the things amongst which she found herself suddenly transplanted.

She was no young unformed child, but a woman of the world, who had been

courted and flattered and sought after; who had learnt to hold her own,

and to fight her battles single-handed, and who knew far more about

the dangers and difficulties of life than did the simple-hearted

brother-in-law, under whose charge she now found herself, or the timid,

gentle sister who was so many years her senior.

But if she was cognizant of the world and its ways, Vera knew absolutely

nothing about the life of an English vicarage. Sunday schools and

mothers' meetings were enigmas to her; clothing clubs and friendly

societies, hopeless and uninteresting mysteries which she had no desire

to solve. She had no place in the daily routine. What was she to do

amongst it all?

Vera did what was most pleasant and also most natural to her--she did

nothing. She was by habit and by culture essentially indolent. The

southern blood she inherited, the life of the Italian fine lady she had

led, made her languid and fond of inaction. To lie late in bed, to sip

chocolate, and open her letters before she rose; to be dressed and

re-dressed by a fashionable lady's maid; to recline in luxurious

carriages, and to listen lazily to the flattery and adulation that had

surrounded her--that had been Vera's life from morning till night ever

since she grew up.

How, with such antecedents, was she to enter suddenly into all the

activity of an English clergyman's home? There were the schools, and the

vestry meetings, and the sick and the destitute to be fretted after from

Monday morning till Saturday night--Eustace and Marion hardly ever had a

moment's respite or a leisure hour the whole week; whilst Sunday, of

course, was the hardest day's work of all.

But Vera could not turn her life into these things. She would not have

known how to set about them, and assuredly she had no desire to try.

So she wandered about the garden in the summer time, or sat dreamily by

the fire in winter. She gathered flowers and decorated the rooms with

them; she spoilt the children, she quarrelled with their grandmother, but

she did nothing else; and the righteous soul of Eustace Daintree was

disquieted within him on account of her. He felt that her life was

wasted, and the responsibility of it seemed, to his over-sensitive

conscience, to rest upon himself.

"The girl ought to be married," he would say to his wife, anxiously. "A

husband and a home of her own is what she wants. If she were happily

settled she would find occupation enough."

"I don't see whom she could marry, Eustace; men are so scarce, and there

are so many girls in the county."

"Well, she might have had Barry." Barry was a curate whom Vera had lately

scorned, and who had, in consequence of the crushed condition of his

affections, incontinently fled. "And then there is Gisburne. Why couldn't

she marry Gisburne? He is quite a catch, and a good young man too."

"Yes, it is a pity; perhaps she may change her mind, and he will ask her

again after Christmas; he told me as much."

"You must try and persuade her to think better of it by then, my dear.

Now I must be off to old Abraham, and be sure you send round the port to

Mary Williams; and you will find the list for the blanket club on my

study table, love."

Her husband started on his morning rounds, and Marion, coming down into

the drawing-room, found old Mrs. Daintree haranguing Vera on the same

all-important topic.

"I am only speaking for your good, Vera; what other object could I have?"

she was saying, as she dived into the huge basket of undarned socks on

the floor before her, and extracted thereout a ragged specimen to be

operated upon. "It is sheer obstinacy on your part that you will not

accept such a good offer. And there was poor Mr. Barry, a most worthy

young man, and his second cousin a bishop, too, quite sure of a living,

I should say."

"Another clergyman!" said Vera, with a soft laugh, just lifting up her

hands and letting them fall down again upon her lap, with a little,

half-foreign movement of impatience. "Are there, then, no other men but

the clergy in this country?"

"And a very good thing if there were no others," glared the old lady,

defiantly, over her spectacles.

"I do not like them," said Vera, simply.

"Not like them! Considering that I am the daughter, the widow, and the

mother of clergymen, I consider that remark a deliberate insult to me!"

"Dear Mrs. Daintree, I am sure Vera never meant----" cried Marion,

trembling for fear of a fresh battle.

"Don't interrupt me, Marion; you ought to have more proper pride than to

stand by and hear the Church reviled."

"Vera only said she did not like them."

"No more I do, Marion," said Vera, stifling a yawn--"not when they are

young; when they are old, like Eustace, they are far better; but when

they are young they are all exactly alike--equally harmless when out of

the pulpit, and equally wearisome when in it!"

A few moments of offended silence on the part of the elder lady,

during which she tugs fiercely and savagely at the ragged sock in her

hands--then she bursts forth again.

"You may scorn them as much as you like, but let me tell you that the

life of a clergyman's wife--honoured, respected, and useful--is a more

profitable one than the idle existence which you lead, utterly

purposeless and lazy. You never do one single thing from morning till

night."

"What shall I do? Shall I help you to darn Eustace's socks?" reaching at

one of them out of the basket.

Mrs. Daintree wrenched it angrily from her hand.

"Good gracious! as if you could! What a bungle it would be. Why, I never

saw you with a piece of work in your hand in my life. I dare say you

could not even thread a needle."

"I am quite sure I have never threaded one yet," laughed Vera, lazily. "I

might try; but you see you won't let me be useful, so I had better resign

myself to idleness." And then she rose and took her hat, and went out

through the French window, out among the fallen yellow leaves, leaving

the other women to discuss the vexed problem of her existence.

She discussed it to herself as she walked dreamily along under the trees

in the lane beyond the garden, her head bent, and her eyes fixed upon the

ground; she swung her hat idly in her hand, for it was warm for the time

of year, and the gold-brown leaves fluttered down about her head and

rustled under the dark, trailing skirts behind her.

About half a mile up the lane, beyond the vicarage, stood an old iron

gateway leading into a park. It was flanked by square red-brick columns,

upon whose summits two stone griffins, "rampant," had looked each other

in the face for the space of some two hundred years or so, peering grimly

over the tops of the shields against which they stood on end, upon which

all the family arms and quarterings of the Kynastons had become softly

coated over by an indistinct veil of gray-green moss.

Vera turned in at this gate, nodding to the woman at the lodge within,

who looked out for a minute at her as she passed. It was her daily walk,

for Kynaston was uninhabited and empty, and any one was free to wander

unreproved among its chestnut glades, or to stand and gossip to its

ancient housekeeper in the great bare rooms of the deserted house.

Vera did so often. The square, red-brick building, with its stone

copings, the terrace walk before the windows, the peacocks sunning

themselves before the front door, the fountain plashing sleepily in the

stone basin, the statues down the square Italian garden--all had a

certain fascination for her dreamy poetical nature. Then turning in at

the high narrow doorway, whose threshold Mrs. Eccles, the housekeeper,

had long ago given her free leave to cross, she would stroll through the

deserted rooms, touching the queer spindle-legged furniture with gentle

reverent fingers, gazing absorbedly at the dark rows of family portraits,

and speculating always to herself what they had been like, these dead and

gone Kynastons, who had once lived and laughed, and sorrowed and died, in

the now empty rooms, where nothing was left of them save those dim and

faded portraits, and where the echo of her own footsteps was the only

sound in the wilderness of the carpetless chambers where once they had

reigned supreme.

She got to know them all at last by name--whole generations of them.

There was Sir Ralph in armour, and Bridget, his wife, in a ruff and a

farthingale; young Sir Maurice, who died in boyhood, and Sir Penrhyn, his

brother, in long love-locks and lace ruffles. A whole succession of Sir

Martins and Sir Henrys; then came the first Sir John and his wife in

powder and patches, with their fourteen children all in a row, whose

elaborate marriages and family histories, Vera, although assisted by Mrs.

Eccles, who had them all at her fingers' ends, had considerable

difficulty in clearly comprehending. It was a relief to be firmly landed

with Sir Maurice, in a sad-coloured suit and full-bottomed wig, "the

present baronet's grandfather," and, lastly, Sir John, "the present

baronet's father," in a deputy-lieutenant's scarlet uniform, with a

cocked hat under his arm--by far the worst and most inartistic painting

in the whole collection.

It was all wonderful and interesting to Vera. She elaborated whole

romances to herself out of these portraits. She settled their loves and

their temptations, heart-broken separations, and true lovers' meetings

between them. Each one had his or her history woven out of the slender

materials which Mrs. Eccles could give her of their real lives. Only one

thing disappointed her, there was no portrait of the present Sir John.

She would have liked to have seen what he was like, this man who was

unmarried still, and who had never cared to live in the house of his

fathers. She wondered what the mystery had been that kept him from it.

She could not understand that a man should deliberately prefer dark,

dirty, dingy London, which she had only once seen in passing from one

station to the other on her way to Sutton, to a life in this quiet

old-world red-brick house, with the rooks cawing among trees, and the

long chestnut glades stretching away into the park, and all the venerable

associations of those portraits of his ancestors. Some trouble, some

sorrow, must have kept him away from it, she felt.

But she would not question Mrs. Eccles about him; she encouraged her to

talk of the dead and gone generations as much as she pleased, but of the

man who was her master Vera would have thought it scarcely honourable to

have spoken to his servant. Perhaps, too, she preferred her dreams. One

day, idly opening the drawer of an old bureau in the little room which

Mrs. Eccles always called religiously "My lady's morning room," Vera came

upon a modern photograph that arrested her attention wonderfully.

It represented, however, nothing very remarkable; only a

broad-shouldered, good-looking young man, with an aquiline noise and a

close-cropped head. On the reverse side of the card was written in

pencil, "My son--for Mrs. Eccles." Lady Kynaston, she supposed, must

therefore have sent it to the old housekeeper, and of course it was Sir

John. Vera pushed it back again into the drawer with a little flush, as

though she had been guilty of an indiscretion in looking at it, and she

said no word of her discovery to the housekeeper. A day or two later she

sought for it again in the same place, but it had been taken away.

But the face thus seen made an impression upon her. She did not forget

it; and when Sir John Kynaston's name was mentioned, she invested him

with the living likeness of the photograph she had seen.

On this particular October morning that Vera strolled up idly to the old

house she did not feel inclined to wander among the deserted rooms; the

sunshine came down too pleasantly through the autumn leaves; the air was

too full of the lingering breath of the dying summer for her to care to

go indoors. She paused a minute by the open window of the housekeeper's

room, and called the old lady by name.

The room, however, was empty and she received no answer, so she wandered

on to the terrace and leant over the stone parapet that looked over the

gardens and the fountains, and the distant park beyond, and she thought

of the photograph in the drawer.

And then and there there came into Vera Neville's mind a thought that,

beginning with nothing more than an indistinct and idle fancy, ended in

a set and determined purpose.

The thought was this:--

"If Sir John Kynaston ever comes down here, I will marry him."

She said it to herself, deliberately and calmly, without the slightest

particle of hesitation or bashfulness. She told herself that what her

relations were perpetually impressing upon her concerning the

desirableness of her marrying and making a home of her own, was perfectly

just and true. It would undoubtedly be a good thing for her to marry; her

life was neither very pleasant nor very satisfactory to herself or to any

one else. She had never intended to end her days at Sutton Vicarage; it

had only been an intermediate condition of things. She had no vocation

for visiting the poor, or for filling that useful but unexciting family

office of maiden aunt; and, moreover, she felt that, with all their

kindness to her, her brother-in-law and his wife ought not to be burdened

with her support for longer than was necessary. As to turning governess,

or companion, or lady-help, there was an incongruity in the idea that

made it too ludicrous to contemplate even for an instant. There is no

other way that a handsome and penniless woman can deliver her friends

of the burden of her existence than by marriage.

Marriage decidedly was what Vera had to look to. She was in no way averse

to the idea, only she intended to look at the subject from the most

practical and matter-of-fact point of view.

She was not going to render herself wretched for life by rashly

consenting to marry Mr. Gisburne, or any other equally unsuitable husband

that her friends might choose to press upon her. Vera differed in one

important respect from the vast majority of young ladies of the present

day--she had no vague and indistinct dreams as to what marriage might

bring her. She knew exactly what she wanted from it. She wanted wealth

and position, because she knew what they were and what life became

without them; and because she knew that she was utterly unfitted to be

the wife of any one but a rich man.

And therefore it was that Vera looked from the square red house behind

her over the wide gardens and broad lawns, and down the noble avenues

that spread away into the distance, and said to herself, "This is what

will suit me, to be mistress of a place like this; I should love it

dearly; I should find real happiness and pleasure in the duties that such

a position would bring me. If Sir John Kynaston comes here, it is he whom

I will marry, and none other."

As to what her feelings might be towards the man whom she thus proposed

to marry it cannot be said that Vera took them into consideration at all.

She was not, indeed, aware whether or no she possessed any feelings; they

had never incommoded her hitherto. Probably they had no existence. Such

vague fancy as had been ever roused within her had been connected with a

photograph seen once in a writing-table drawer. The photograph of Sir

John Kynaston! The reflection did not influence her in the least, only

she said to herself also, "If he is like his photograph, I should be sure

to get on with him."

She was an odd mixture, this Vera. Ambitious, worldly-wise, mercenary

even, if you will; conscious of her own beauty, and determined to exact

its full value; and yet she was tender and affectionate, full of poetry

and refinement, honest and true as her own fanciful name.

The secret of these strange contradictions is simply this. Vera has never

loved. No one spark of divine fire has ever touched her soul or warmed

the latent energies of her being. She has lived in the thick of the

world, but love has passed her scatheless. Her mind, her intellect, her

brain, are all alive, and sharpened acutely; her heart slumbers still.

Happier for her, perhaps, had it never awakened.

She leant upon the stone parapet, supporting her chin upon her hand,

dreaming her dreams. Her hat lay by her side, her long dark dress fell in

straight heavy folds to her feet. The yellow leaves fluttered about her,

the peacocks strutted up and down, the gardeners in the distance were

sweeping up the dead leaves on the lawns, but Vera stirred not; one

motionless, beautiful figure giving grace, and life, and harmony to the

deserted scene.

* * * * *

Some one was passing along among the upper rooms of the house, followed

by Mrs. Eccles, panting and exhausted.

"I am sure, Sir John, I am quite ashamed that you should see the place so

choked up with dust and lumber. If you had only let me have a day's

notice, instead of being took all of a sudden like, I'd have had the

house tidied up a bit; but what with not expecting to see any of the

family, and my being old, and not so quick at the cleaning as I used to

be----"

"Never mind, Mrs. Eccles; I had just as soon see it as it is. I only

wanted to see if you could make three or four rooms tolerably habitable

in case I thought of bringing my horses down for a month or so. The

stables, I find, are in good repair."

"Yes, Sir John, and so is the house; though the furniture is that

old-fashioned, that it is hardly fit for you to use."

"Oh! it will do well enough; besides, I have not made up my mind at all.

It is quite uncertain whether I shall come----Who is that?" stopping

suddenly short before the window.

"That! Oh, bless me, Sir John, it's Miss Vera, from the vicarage. I hope

you won't object to her being here; of course, she could not know you was

back. I had given her leave to walk in the grounds."

"The vicarage! Has Mr. Daintree a daughter so old as that?"

"Oh, law! no, Sir John. It is Mrs. Daintree's sister. She came from

abroad to live with them last year. A very nice young lady, Sir John, is

Miss Nevill, and seems lonely like, and it kind of cheers her up to come

and see me and walk in the garden. I am sure I hope you won't take it

amiss that I should have allowed her to come."

"Take it amiss--good gracious, no! Pray, let Miss--Miss Nevill, did you

say?--come as often as she likes. What about the cellars, Mrs. Eccles?"

"I will get the key, Sir John." The housekeeper precedes him out of the

room, but Sir John stands still by the window.

"What a picture," he says to himself below his breath; "how well she

looks there. She gives to the old place just the one thing it lacks--has

always lacked ever since I have known it--the presence of a beautiful

woman. Yes, Mrs. Eccles, I am coming." This last aloud, and he hastens

downstairs.

Five minutes later, Sir John Kynaston says to his housekeeper,

"You need not scare that young lady away from the place by telling her

I was here to-day and saw her. And you may get the rooms ready, Mrs.

Eccles, and order anything that is wanted, and get in a couple of maids,

for I have made up my mind to bring my horses down next month."

CHAPTER III.

FANNING DEAD ASHES.

Weep no more, nor sigh, nor groan,

Sorrow calls no time that's gone,

Violets plucked, the sweetest rain

Makes not fresh, nor grow again.

Fletcher.

"Have you heard of Sir John's latest vagary, grandpapa? He is gone down

to Kynaston to hunt--so there's an end of _him_."

"Humph! Where did you hear that?"

"I've been lunching at Lady Kynaston's."

The speaker stood by the window of one of the large houses at Prince's

Gate overlooking the Horticultural Gardens. She was a small, slight

woman, with fair pale features and a mass of soft yellow hair. She had a

delicate complexion and very clear blue eyes. Altogether she was a pretty

little woman. A stranger would have guessed her to be a girl barely out

of her teens. Helen Romer was in reality five-and-twenty, and she had

been a widow four years.

Of her brief married life few people could speak with any certainty,

although there were plenty of surmises and conjectures concerning it. All

that was known was that Helen had lived with her grandfather till she was

nineteen; that one fine morning she had walked out of the house and had

been married to a man whom her grandfather disapproved of, and to whom

she had always professed perfect indifference. It was also known that

eighteen months later her husband, having rapidly wasted his existence by

drink and other irregular courses, had died in miserable poverty; and

that Helen, not being able to set up a home of her own, upon her slender

fortune of some five or six thousand pounds, had returned to her

grandfather's house in Prince's Gate, where she had lived ever since.

Why she had married William Romer no one ever exactly knew--perhaps Helen

herself least of any one. It certainly was not for love; it could hardly

have been from any worldly motive. Some people averred, and possibly they

were not far wrong, that she had done so out of pique because the man she

loved did not want her.

However that might be, Mrs. Romer returned a widow, and not a very

disconsolate one, to her grandfather's house.

It is certain that she would not have lived there could she have helped

it. She did not love old Mr. Harlowe, neither did Mr. Harlowe love her. A

sense of absolute duty to his dead daughter's child on the one side, a

sense of absolute necessity on the other, kept the two together. Their

natures were inharmonious. They kept up a form of affection and intimacy

openly; in reality, they had not one single thought in common.

It is not too much to say that Mr. Harlowe positively disliked his

grand-daughter. He had, perhaps, good reason for it. Helen had been

nothing but a trouble to him. He had not desired to bring up a young

lady in his house; he had not wished for the society which her presence

entailed, nor for the dissipations of London life into which he was

dragged more or less against his will. Added to which, Helen had not

striven to please him in essential matters. She had married a gambling,

drinking blackguard, whom he had forbidden to enter his doors; and now,

when she might retrieve her position, and marry well and creditably, she

refused to make the slightest effort to meet his views.

Helen's life was a mystery to all but herself. To the world she was a

pretty, lively little widow, with a good house to live in, and sufficient

money of her own to spend to very good effect upon her back, with not a

single duty or responsibility in her existence, and with no other

occupation in life than to amuse herself. At her heart Helen knew herself

to be a soured and disappointed woman, who had desired one thing all her

life, and who, having attained with great pains and toil that forbidden

fruit which she had coveted, had found it turn, as such fruits too often

do, to dust and ashes between her teeth. It was to have been sweet as

honeydew--and behold, it was nothing but bitterness!

She stood at the window looking out at the waning light of the November

afternoon. She was handsomely dressed in dark-green velvet, with a heavy

old-fashioned gold chain round her neck; every now and then she looked at

her watch, and a frown passed over her brow. The old man was bending over

the fire behind her.

"Gone to Kynaston, is he? Humph! that is your fault, you frightened him

off."

"Did I set my cap at him so palpably then?" said Helen, with a short,

hard laugh.

"You know very well what I mean," answered her grandfather, sulkily. "Set

your cap! No, you only do that to the men you know I don't approve of,

and who don't want you."

Helen winced a little. "You put things very coarsely, grandpapa," she

said, and laughed again. "I am sorry I have been unable to make love to

Sir John Kynaston to please you. Is that what you wanted me to do?"

"I want you to look after a respectable husband, who can afford to keep

you. What is the meaning of that perpetual going to Lady Kynaston's then?

And why have you dragged me up to town at this confounded time of the

year if it wasn't for that? You have played your cards badly as usual.

You might have had him if you had chosen."

"I have never had the least intention of casting myself at Sir John's

head," said Helen, scornfully.

"You can cast yourself, as you call it, at that good-for-nothing young

spendthrift's head fast enough if you choose it."

"I don't in the least know whom you mean," she said, shortly.

The old man chuckled. "Oh, yes, you know well enough--the brother who

spends his time racing and betting. You are a fool, Helen; he doesn't

want you; and if he did, he couldn't afford to keep you."

"Suppose we leave Captain Kynaston's name out of the discussion,

grandpapa," she said, quietly, but her face flushed suddenly and her

hands twisted themselves nervously in and out of her heavy chain. "Are

you not going to your study this evening?"

"Oh yes, I'm going, fast enough. You want me out of the way, I suppose.

Somebody coming to tea, eh? Oh yes, I'll clear out. I don't want to

listen to your rubbish."

The old man gathered up his books and papers and shuffled out of the

room, muttering to himself as he went.

The servant came in, bringing the lamp, replenished the fire and drew the

curtains, shutting out the light of day.

"Any one to tea, ma'am?" he inquired, respectfully.

"One gentleman--no one else. Bring up tea when he comes."

"Very well, ma'am;" and the servant withdrew. Mrs. Romer paced

impatiently up and down the room, stopping again and again before the

clock.

"Late again! A whole half-hour behind his time! It is insufferable that

he should treat me like this. He would go quickly enough to see some new

face--some fresh fancy that had attracted him."

She took out her watch and laid it on the table. "Let me see if he will

come before the minute-hand touches the quarter; he _must_ be here by

then!"

She continued to pace steadily up and down the room. The clock ticked on,

the minute-hand of the watch crept ever stealthily forward over the

golden dial; now and then a passing vehicle without made her heart beat

with sudden hope, and then sink down again with disappointment, as the

sound of the wheels went by and died away in the distance.

Suddenly she sank into an arm-chair, covering her face with her hands.

"Oh, what a fool--what a fool I am!" she exclaimed aloud. "Why have I not

strength of mind to go out before he comes, to show him that I don't

care? Why, at least, can I not call up grandpapa, and pretend I had

forgotten he was coming? That would be the best way to treat him; the way

to show him that I am not the miserable slave he thinks me. Why can I,

who know so well how to manage all other men, never manage the one man

whose love I want? That horrid old man was right--he does not want me--he

never did. Oh, if I only could be proud, and pretend I do not care! But I

can't, I can't--there is always this miserable sickening pain at my heart

for him, and he knows it. I have let him know it!"

A ring at the bell made her spring to her feet, whilst a glad flush

suddenly covered her face.

In another minute the man she loved was in the room.

"Nearly three-quarters of an hour late!" she cried, angrily, as he

entered. "How shamefully you treat me!"

He stood in front of the fire, pulling off his dogskin gloves:

a broad-shouldered, handsome fellow, with an aquiline nose and a

close-cropped head.

"Am I late?" he said, indifferently. "I really did not know it. I have

had fifty places to go to in as many minutes."

"Of course I shall forgive you if you have been so busy," she said,

softening at once. "Maurice, darling, are you not going to kiss me?" She

stood up by his side upon the hearthrug, looking at him with all her

heart in her eyes, whilst his were on the fire. She wound her arms round

his neck, and drew his head down. He leant his cheek carelessly towards

her lips, and she kissed him passionately; and he--he was thinking of

something else.

"Poor little woman," he said, almost with an effort recalling himself

to the present; he patted her cheek lightly and turned round to toss

his gloves into his hat on the table behind him. "How cold it has

turned--aren't you going to give me some tea?" And then he sat down on

the further side of the fire and stretched himself back in his arm-chair,

throwing his arms up behind his head.

Helen rang the bell for the tea.

"Is that all you have to say to me?" she said, poutingly.

Maurice Kynaston looked distressed.

"Upon my word, Helen, I am sure I don't know what you expect. I haven't

heard any particular news. I saw you only yesterday, you know. I don't

know what you want me to say."

Helen was silent. She knew very well what she wanted, she wanted him to

say and do things that were impossible to him--to play the lover to her,

to respond to her caresses, to look glad to see her.

Maurice was so tired of it all! tired alike of her reproaches and her

caresses. The first irritated him, the second gave him no pleasure. There

was no longer any attraction to him about her, her love was oppressive to

him. He did not want it, he had never wanted it; only somehow she had

laid it so openly and freely at his feet, that it had seemed almost

unmanly to him not to put forth his hand and take it. And now he was

tired of his thraldom, sick of her endearments, satiated with her kisses.

And what was it all to end in? He could not marry her, he would not have

desired to do so had he been able; but as things were, there was no money

to marry on either side. At his heart Maurice Kynaston was glad of it,

for he did not want her for a wife, and yet he feared that he was bound

to her.

Man-like, he had no courage to break the chains that bound him, and yet

to-night he had said to himself that he would make the effort--the state

of his affairs furnished him with a sufficiently good pretext for

broaching the subject.

"There is something I wanted to say to you," he said, after the tea had

been brought in and they were alone again. He sat forward in his chair

and stroked his moustache nervously, not looking at her as he spoke.

Helen came and sat on the hearthrug at his feet, resting her cheek

caressingly against his knee.

"What is it, Maurice?"

"Well, it's about myself. I have been awfully hard hit this last week at

Newmarket, you know."

"Yes, so you told me. I am so sorry, darling." But she did not care much

as long as he was with her and was kind to her--nothing else signified

much to her.

"Yes, but I am pretty well broke this time--I had to go to John again. He

is an awfully good fellow, is old John; he has paid everything up for me.

But I've had to promise to give up racing, and now I've got to live on

my pay."

"I could lend you fifty pounds."

"Fifty pounds! pooh! what nonsense! What would be the good of fifty

pounds to me?"

He said it rather ungraciously, perhaps, and her eyes filled with tears.

When a man does not love a woman, her little childish offers of help do

not touch him as they would if he loved her. He would not have taken five

thousand from her, yet he was angry with her for talking of fifty pounds.

"What I wanted to say to you, Helen, was that, of course, now I am so

hard up it's no good thinking of--of marrying--or anything of that kind;

and don't you think it would be happiest if you and I--I mean, wisest for

us both--for you, of course, principally----"

"_What!_" She lifted her head sharply. She saw what he meant at once. A

wild terror filled her heart. "You mean that you want to throw me over!"

she said, breathlessly.

"My dear child, do be reasonable. Throw you over! of course not--but what

is it all to lead to? How can we possibly marry? It was bad enough

before, when I had my few hundreds a year. But now even that is gone.

A captain in a line regiment is not exactly in a position to marry. Why,

I shall hardly be able to keep myself, far less a wife too. I cannot drag

you down to starvation, Helen; it would not be right or honourable to

continue to bind you to my broken fortunes."

She was standing up now before him very white and very resolute.

"Why do you make so many excuses? You want to be rid of me."

"My dear child, how unjust you are."

"Am I unjust? Wait! let me speak. How have we altered things? Could you

marry me any more before you lost this money? You know you could not.

Have we not always agreed to wait till better times? Why cannot we go on

waiting?"

"It would not be fair to tie you."

He had not the courage to say, "I do not love you--money or no money, I

do not wish to marry you." How indeed is a man who is a gentleman to say

such a discourteous thing to a lady for whom he has once professed

affection? Maurice Kynaston, at all events, could not say so.

"It would not be fair to tie you; it would be better to let you be free:"

that was all he could find to say. And then Helen burst forth

impetuously,

"I wish to be tied--I do not want to be free--I will not marry any other

man on earth but you. Oh! Maurice, my love, my darling!" casting herself

down again at his feet and clasping her arms wildly round him. "Whom else

do I want but you--whom else have I ever loved? You know I have always

been yours--always--long ago, in the old days when you never even gave me

a look, and I was so maddened with misery and despair that I did not care

what became of me when I married poor Willie, hardly knowing what I was

doing, only because my life was so unbearable at home. And now that I

have got you, do you think I will give you up? And you love me--surely,

surely, you _must_ love me. You said so once, Maurice--tell me so again.

You do love me, don't you?"

What was a man to do? Maurice moved uneasily under her embrace as though

he would withdraw her arms from about his neck.

"Of course," he said, nervously; "of course, I am fond of you, and all

that, but we can't marry upon less than nothing. You must know that as

well as I do."

"No; but we can wait."

"What are we to wait for?" he said, irritably.

"Oh, a hundred things might happen--your brother might die."

"God forbid!" he said, pushing her from him, in earnest this time.

"Well, we will hope not that, perhaps; but grandpapa can't live for ever,

and he ought to leave me all his money, and then we should be rich."

"It is horrible waiting for dead people's shoes," said Maurice, with a

little shudder; "besides, Mr. Harlowe is just as likely as not to leave

his money to a hospital, or to the British Museum, or the National

Gallery--you could not count upon anything."

"We could at all events wait and see."

"And be engaged all that time on the off-chance?" he said, drearily;

"that is a miserable prospect."

"Then you do wish to get rid of me!" she said, looking at him

suspiciously; "you have seen some other woman."

"Pooh! what a little fool you are!" He jumped up angrily from his chair,

leaving her there upon the hearthrug. A woman makes a false move when she

speaks of "another woman" to the man whose affection for her is on the

wane. In the present instance the accusation was utterly without

foundation. Many as were his self-reproaches on her account, that one had

never been amongst them. If he did not love her, neither had he the

slightest fancy for any other woman. Her remark irritated him beyond

measure; it seemed to annul and wipe out the score of his own

shortcomings towards her, and to make himself, not her, the injured one.

"Women are the most irrational, the most unjust, the most thoroughly

pig-headed set of creatures on the face of the earth!" he burst forth,

angrily.

She saw her mistake by this time. She was no fool; she was quick

enough--sharp as a needle--where her love did not, as love invariably

does, warp and blind her judgment.

"I am sorry, Maurice," she said, humbly. "I did not mean to doubt you, of

course. Have you not said you love me? Sit down again, please."

He sat down only half appeased, looking glum and sulky. She felt that

some concession on her part was necessary. She took his hand and stroked

it softly. She knew so well that he did not love her, and yet she clung

so desperately to the hope that she could win him back; she would not own

to herself even in the furthermost recesses of her own heart that his

love was dead. She would not believe it; to put it in words to herself

even would have half killed her; but still she was forced to acknowledge

that unless she met him half-way she might lose him altogether.

"I will tell you what I will do, Maurice," she said thoughtfully. "I will

consent to let our engagement be in abeyance for the present; I will

cease to write to you unless I have anything particular to say, and I

will not expect you to write to me. If people question us, we will deny

any engagement between us--we will say that we are each of us free--but

on one condition only, that you will promise me most solemnly, on your

honour as a gentleman, that should either of us be left any money--should

there be, say, a clear thousand a year between us, within the next five

years----"

"My dear Helen, I am as likely to have a thousand a year as to be

presented with the regalia."

"Never mind. If it is unlikely, so much the worse--or the better,

whichever you may like to call it. But if such a thing does happen, give

me your word of honour that you will come to me at once--that, in fact,

our engagement shall be renewed. If things are no better, our prospects

no brighter, in five years from now--well, then, let us each be free to

marry elsewhere."

There was a moment or two of silence between them. Maurice bent forward

in his chair, leaning his arms upon his knees, and staring moodily into

the fire. He was weighing her proposition. It was something; but it was

not enough. It virtually bound him to her for five years, for, of course,

an engagement that is to be tacitly consented to between the principal

contractors is an engagement still, though the whole world be in

ignorance of it. But then it gave him a chance, and a very good chance

too, of perfect liberty in five years' time. It was something, certainly;

though, as he had wanted his freedom at once, it could hardly be said to

be altogether satisfactory.

Helen knelt bolt upright in front of him, watching his face. How

passionately she desired to hear him indignantly repudiate the

half-liberty she offered him! How ardently she desired that he should

take her in his arms, and swear to her that he would never consent to her

terms, no one but herself could know. It had been her last expedient to

revive the old love, to rekindle the dead ashes of the smouldering fire.

Surely, if there was but a spark of it left, it must leap up into life

and vitality again at her words. But, as she watched him, her heart, that

had beat so wildly, sank cold and colder within her. She felt that his

heart was gone from her; she had cast her last die and lost. But, for all

that, she was not minded to let him go free--her wild, ungoverned passion

for him was too deeply rooted within her; since he would not be hers

willingly, he should be hers by force.

"Surely," she said, wistfully, "you cannot find my terms too hard to

consent to--you who--who love me?"

He turned to her quickly and took her hands, every feeling of

gentleman-like honour, every spark of manly courtesy towards her, aroused

by her gentle words.

"Say no more, Helen--you are too good--too generous to me. It shall be as

you say."

And then he left, thankful to escape from her presence and to be alone

again with his thoughts in the raw darkness of the November evening.

CHAPTER IV.

THE LAY RECTOR.

Or art thou complaining

Of thy lowly lot,

And, thine own disdaining,

Dost ask what thou hast not?

Of the future dreaming,

Weary of the past,

For the present scheming

All but what thou hast.

L. E. Landon.

In the churchyard at Sutton-in-the-Wold was a monument which, for

downright ugliness and bad taste, could hardly find its fellow in the

whole county. It was a wonderful and marvellous structure of gray

granite, raised upon a flight of steps, and consisted of an object like

unto Cleopatra's Needle surmounting a family tea-urn. It had been erected

by one Nathaniel Crupps, a well-to-do farmer in the parish, upon the

death of his second wife. The first partner of his affections had been

previously interred also in the same spot, but it was not until the death

of the second Mrs. Crupps, who was undoubtedly his favourite, that

Nathaniel bethought him of immortalizing the memory of both ladies by one

bold stroke of fancy, as exemplified by this portentous granite

monstrosity. On it the virtues of both wives were recorded, as it was

touchingly and naïvely stated, by their "sorrowing husband with strict

impartiality."

It was upon this graceful structure that Vera Nevill leant one foggy

morning in the first week of November, and surveyed the church in front

of her. She was not engaged in any sentimental musings appropriate to the

situation. She was neither meditating upon the briefness of life in

general, nor upon the many virtues of the ladies of the Crupps family,

over whose remains she was standing. She was simply waiting for Jimmy

Griffiths, and looking at the church because she had nothing else to look

at. The church, indeed, afforded her some food for reflection, purely, I

regret to state, of a practical and mundane character. It was a large and

handsome building, with a particularly fine old tower, that was sadly out

of repair; but the chancel was a modern and barn-like structure of brick

and plaster, which ought, of course, to be entirely swept away, and a new

and more appropriate one built in its stead. The chancel belonged, as

most chancels do, to the lay rector, and the lay rector was Sir John

Kynaston.

As soon as it became bruited abroad that Sir John was coming down to the

old house for the winter, there was a general excitement throughout the

parish, but no one partook of the excitement to a greater degree than did

its worthy vicar.

It was the dream of Eustace Daintree's life to get his church restored,

and more especially to get the chancel rebuilt. There had been a

restoration fund accumulating for some years, and could he have had the

slightest assistance from the lay rector concerning the chancel, Mr.

Daintree would assuredly have sent for the architect, and the builders,

and the stone-cutters, and have begun his church at once with that

beautiful disregard of the future chances of being able to get the money

to pay for it, and with that sparrow-like trust in Providence, which is

usually displayed by those clerical gentlemen who, in the face of an

estimate which tells them that eight thousand pounds will be the sum

total required, are ready to dash into bricks and mortar upon the actual

possession of eight hundred. But there was the chancel! To leave it as it

was whilst restoring the nave would have been too heart-rending; to touch

it without Sir John Kynaston's assistance, impossible and illegal.

Several times Eustace Daintree had applied to Sir John in writing upon

the subject. The answers had been vague and unsatisfactory. He would

promise nothing at all; he would come down and see it some day possibly,

and then he would be able to say more about it; meanwhile, for the

present, things must remain as they were.

When, therefore, the news was known that Sir John was actually coming

down, Mr. Daintree's thoughts flew at once to his beloved church.

"Now we shall get the chancel done at last," he said to his wife

gleefully, rubbing his hands. And the very day after Sir John's arrival

Eustace went up to the Hall after dinner to see him upon the subject.

"Had you not better wait a day or two?" counselled his more prudent wife.

"Wait till you meet him, naturally. You don't very well know what kind of

man he is, nor how he will take it."

"What is the use of waiting? I knew him well enough eight years ago; he

was a pleasant fellow enough then. He won't kill me, I suppose, and the

chancel is a disgrace--a positive disgrace to him. It is my duty to point

it out to him; the thing can't afford to wait, it ought to be done at

once."

So he disregarded Marion's advice, and Vera helped him on with his

great-coat in the hall, and wound his woollen comforter round his neck,

and bade him good luck on his expedition to Kynaston.

He came back sorrowful and abashed. Sir John had been civil, very civil;

he had insisted on his sitting down at his table--for he had apparently

not finished his dinner--and had opened a bottle of fine old port in his

honour. He had inquired about many of the old people, and had expressed

a friendly interest in the parish generally; but with regard to the

chancel, he had been as adamant.

He did not see, he had said, why it could not go on well enough as it

was. If it was in bad repair, Davis should see to it; a man with a

barrowful of bricks and a shovelful of mortar should be sent down. That,

of course, it was his duty to do. Sir John did not understand that more

could possibly be expected of him. The chancel had been good enough for

his father, it would probably be good enough for him; it would last his

time, he supposed, in any case.

But the soul of the Rev. Eustace became as water within him. It was

not of a barrowful of bricks and shovelful of mortar that he had been

dreaming, but of lancet windows and stone mouldings; of polished oak

rafters within, and of high gables and red tiles without.

He came down from the Hall disheartened and discomfited, with all the

spirit crushed out of him; and the ladies of his family, for once,

were of one mind about the matter. There arose about him a storm of

indignation and a gush of sympathy, which could not fail to soothe him

somewhat. Eustace went to rest that night sore and heavy-hearted, it is

true, but with all the damnatory verses in the Scriptures concerning the

latter end of the "rich man" ringing in his head; a course of meditation

which, upon the whole, afforded him a distinct sensation of consolation

and comfort.

And the next morning in the churchyard Vera leant against the Cruppsian

sarcophagus, and thought about it.

"Poor old Eustace," she said to herself; "how I wish I were very rich,

and could do his chancel for him! How pleased he would be; and what a

good fellow he is! How odd it is to think what different aims there are

in people's lives! There are Eustace and Marion simply miserable this

morning because of that hideous barn they can't get rid of. Well, it _is_

hideous certainly; but it doesn't disturb my peace of mind in the least.

What a mean curmudgeon Sir John must be, by the way! I should not have

thought it from his photograph; such a frank, open, generous face he

seemed to have. However, we all know how photographs can mislead one.

I wonder where that wretched boy can be!"

The "wretched boy" was Jimmy Griffiths afore-mentioned; he was the youth

who was in the habit of blowing the organ. The schoolmaster, who was also

the organist, was ill, and had sent word to Mr. Daintree that he would be

unable to be at the church on the morrow. Eustace had asked Vera to take

his place. Now Vera was not accomplished; she neither sang, nor played,

nor painted in water-colours; but she had once learnt to play the organ

a little--a very little. So she professed herself willing to undertake

the office of organ-player for once, that is to say, if she found she

could do it pretty well, only she must go into church and try all the

chants over. So Jimmy Griffiths was sent for from the village, and Vera,

with the church key in her pocket, strolled idly into the churchyard,

and, whilst awaiting him, meditated upon the tomb of the two Mrs. Crupps.

She had come in from the private gate of the vicarage, and the vicarage

garden--very bleak and very desolate by this time--lay behind her. To the

right, the public pathway led down through the lych-gate into the

village. Anybody coming up from the village could have seen her as she

stood against the granite monument. She wore a long fur cloak down almost

to her feet, and a round fur cap upon her head; they were her sister

Theodora's sables, which she had left to her. Old Mrs. Daintree always

told her she ought to sell them, a remark which made Vera very angry. Her

back was turned to the village and to the lych-gate, and she was looking

up at poor Eustace's bug-bear--the barn-like chancel.

Suddenly somebody came up close behind her and spoke to her.

"Can you tell me, please, where the keys of the church are kept?"

A gentleman stood beside her, lifting his hat as he spoke. Vera started

a little at being so suddenly spoken to, but answered quite quietly and

unconfusedly,

"They are generally kept at the vicarage, or else in the clerk's

cottage."

"Thank you; then I will go and fetch them."

"But they are not there now," said Vera, as though finishing her former

remark.

"If you will kindly tell me where I can find them," continued the

stranger, very politely, "I will go and get them."

"I am afraid you can't do that," said Vera, with just the vestige of a

smile playing upon her face, "because they are at present in my pocket."

"Oh, I beg your pardon;" and the stranger smiled outright.

"But I will let you into the church, if you like; if that is what you

wish?" she said, quite simply.

"Yes, if you please." Vera moved up the path to the porch, the gentleman

following her. She turned the key in the heavy door and held it open. "If

you will go in, please, I will take the keys; I must not leave them in

the door." The gentleman went in, and Vera looked at him as he passed by.

Most uninteresting! was her verdict as he passed her; forty at the very

least! What a beautiful situation for an adventure! What a romantic

incident! And how excessively tame is the _dénouement_! A middle-aged

gentleman, tall and slightly bald, with close-cropped whiskers and grave,

set features; who on earth could he be? A stranger, evidently; perhaps he

was staying at some neighbouring country house, and had walked over to

Sutton for the sake of exercise; but what on earth could he want to see

the church for!

The stranger stood just inside the door with his hat off, looking at her.

"Won't you come in and show it to me?" he asked, rather hesitatingly.

"The church? oh, certainly, if you like, but there is nothing to see in

it." She came in, closing the door behind her, and stood beside him. It

did not strike her as unusual or interesting, or as anything, in fact,

but the most common-place and unexciting proceeding, that she should do

the honours of the church to this middle-aged stranger.

They stood side by side in the centre of the small nave with all the

ugly, high, red-cushioned pews around them. Vera looked up and down the

familiar place as though she and not he were seeing it for the first

time; from the row of whitewashed pillars to the staring white windows;

from the hatchment on the plastered walls to the disfiguring gallery

along the west end.

"It is very hideous," she said, almost apologetically, "especially the

chancel; Mr. Daintree wants to have it restored, but I suppose that can't

be done at all now."

"Why can't it be done?"

"Oh, because nothing can be done unless the chancel is pulled down; that

belongs to the lay rector, and he has refused to restore it."

"Sir John Kynaston is the lay rector."

"Yes!" Vera looked a little startled; "do you know him?"

The gentleman passed his hand over his chin.

"Slightly," he answered, not looking at her.

"It is a pity he cannot be brought to see how necessary it is, for he

certainly ought to do it," continued Vera. "You see I cannot help being

interested in it because Mr. Daintree is such a good man, and has worked

so hard to get up money to begin the rest of the church. He had quite

counted upon the chancel being done, and now he is so much disappointed;

but, I beg your pardon, this cannot interest you."

"But it interests me very much. Why does not somebody put it in this

light to Sir John; he would not surely refuse?"

"My brother-in-law, Mr. Daintree, I mean, did ask him last night, and he

would not promise to do anything."

The stranger suddenly left her side and walked up the church by himself

into the chancel. He went straight up to the east end and made a minute

examination apparently of the wall; after that, he came slowly down

again, looking carefully into every corner and cranny from the

whitewashed ceiling down to the damp and uneven stone paving at his feet;

Vera thought him a very odd person, and wondered what he was thinking

about.

He came back to her and stood before her looking at her for a minute. And

then he made this most remarkable speech:

"If _you_ were to ask Sir John Kynaston this he would restore the

chancel!" he said.

For half-a-second Vera stared at him in blank amazement. Then she turned

haughtily round, and flushed hotly with angry indignation.

"There is nothing more to see in the church," she said, shortly, and

walked straight out of it.

The stranger had followed her; when they reached the churchyard he said

to her, quite humbly,

"I beg your pardon; Miss Nevill; how unlucky I am to have made you angry,

to begin with."

Vera looked at him in astonishment. How did he know her name; who was he?

He was looking at her with such a penitent and distressed expression,

that for the first time she noticed what a kind face it was. Then, before

she could answer him, she saw her brother-in-law over the paling of the

vicarage garden, coming towards them.

The stranger saw him, too, and lifted his hat to her.

"Good-bye," he said, rather hastily; "I did not mean to offend you; don't

be angry about it;" and, before she could say a word, he turned quickly

down the churchyard through the lych-gate into the road, and was gone.

"Vera," said Eustace Daintree, coming leisurely up to her through the

garden gate, "how on earth do you come to be talking to Sir John; has he

been saying anything to you about the chancel?"

"_Who_ was it? _who_ did you say?" cried Vera, aghast.

"Why, Sir John Kynaston, to be sure. Did you not know it was he?"

She was thunderstruck. "Are you quite sure?" she faltered.

"Why, of course! I saw him only last night, you know. I wonder why he

went off in such a hurry when he saw me?"

Vera was walking silently down the garden towards the house by his side.

The thought in her mind was, "If that was Sir John Kynaston, who then is

the photograph I found in the writing-table drawer?"

"What did he say to you, Vera? How came you to be talking to him?"

pursued her brother-in-law.

"I only let him into the church. I did not know who he was. I told him

the chancel ought to be restored--by himself."

Eustace Daintree looked dismayed.

"How very unfortunate. It will, perhaps, make him still more decided to

do nothing."

Vera smiled a little to herself. "I hope not, Eustace," was all she said.

But although she said no word of it to him, she knew at her heart that

his chancel would be restored for him.

Late that night Vera sat alone by her fireside, and thought over her

morning's adventure; and once again she said to herself, with a little

regretful sigh, "Whose, then, was the photograph?" But she put the

thought away from her.

After all, she said to herself, it made no difference. He was still Sir

John Kynaston of Kynaston Hall, and just as well worth a woman's while to

marry. She had made some mistake, that was all; and the real Sir John was

not the least romantic or interesting to look at, but Kynaston Hall

belonged to him all the same.

They were not very exalted or very much to be admired, these dreams of

Vera's girlhood. But neither were they quite so coarse and unlovely as

would have been those of a purely mercenary woman. She was free from the

vulgarity of desiring the man's money and his name from any desire to

raise herself above her relations, or to feed her own vanity and ambition

at their expense. It was only that, marriage being a necessity for her,

to marry anything but a rich man would have been, with her tastes and the

habits to which she had been brought up, the sheerest and rankest folly.

She thought she could make a good wife to any man whose life she would

like to share--that is to say, a life of ease and affluence. She knew she

would make a very bad wife to a poor man. Therefore she determined upon

so carving out her own fortunes that she should not make a failure of

herself. It was worldly wisdom of the purest and simplest character.

She was as much determined as ever upon winning Kynaston's owner if he

was to be won. Only she wished, with a little sigh, that he had happened

to be the man in the photograph. She hardly knew why she wished it--but

the wish was there.

She sat bending over her fire, with all her soft, dark hair loose about

her face and flowing down her back, and her eyes fixed dreamily upon the

flames. Her past life came back to her, her old life in the whirl and

turmoil of pleasure which had suited her so well. She compared it, a

little drearily, with the present; with the humdrum routine of the

vicarage; with the parish talk about the old women and the schools; and

the small tittle-tattle about the schoolmaster and the choir, going on

around her all day; with old Mrs. Daintree's sharp tongue and her

sister's meek rejoinders. She was very tired of it. It did not amuse her.

She was not exactly discontented with her lot. Eustace and her sister

were very kind to her, and she loved them dearly; but she did not live

their life--she was with them, but not of them. As for herself, for her

interests and her delights, they stagnated amongst them all. How long was

it to last?

And Kynaston, by contrast, appeared very fair, with its smooth lawns and

its terrace walks, and its great desolate rooms, that she would so well

understand how to fill with life and brightness; but Kynaston's master

counted for very little to her. She knew the power of her own beauty so

well. Experience had taught her that Vera Nevill had but to smile and to

win; it had been so easy to her to be loved and wooed.

"Only," she said to herself, as she stood up before her fire, and

stretched up her arms so that her long hair fell back like a cloud around

her, "only he is a different sort of man to what I had pictured him. It

will, perhaps, not be such an easy matter to win a man like that."

She went to bed and dreamt--not of Sir John Kynaston--but of the man

whose pictured face once seen had haunted her ever since.

CHAPTER V.

"LITTLE PITCHERS."

Once at least in a man's life, if only for a brief space, he reverences

the saint in the woman he desires. He may love and pursue again and

again, but she who has power to hold him back, who can make him tremble

instead of woo, who can make him silent when he feels eloquent, and

restrained when most impassioned, has won from him what never again can

be given.

It was an easier matter to win him than Vera thought.

A week later Sir John Kynaston sat alone by his library fire, after

breakfast, and owned to himself that he had fallen hopelessly and

helplessly in love with Vera Nevill.

This was all the more remarkable because Sir John was not a very young

man, and that he was, moreover, not of a nature to do things rashly or

impulsively.

He was, on the contrary, of a slow and hesitating disposition. He was in

the habit of weighing his words and his actions before he spoke or acted,

his mind was tardy to take in new thoughts and new ideas, and he was

cautious and almost sluggish in taking any steps in a strange and

unaccustomed direction.

Nevertheless, in this matter of Vera, he had succumbed to his fate with

all the uncalculating blindness of a boy in his teens.

Vera was like no other woman he had ever seen; she was as far removed

above common young-ladyhood as Raphael's Madonnas are beyond and above

Greuze's simpering maidens; there could be no other like her--she was

a queen, a goddess among women.

From the very first moment that he had caught sight of her on the terrace

outside his house her absolute mastery over him had begun. Her rare

beauty, her quiet smile, her slow, indolent movements, the very tones of

her rich, low voice, all impressed him in a strange and wonderful manner.

She seemed to him to be the incarnation of everything that was pure and

elevated in womanhood. To have imagined that such a one as she could have

thought of his wealth or his position would have been the rankest

blasphemy in his eyes.

He raised her up on a pedestal of his own creating, and then he fell down

before her and adored her.

John Kynaston had but little knowledge of women. Shy and retiring in

manner--somewhat suspicious and distrustful also--he had kept out of

their way through life. Once, in very early manhood, he had been

deceived; he had become engaged to a girl whom he afterwards discovered

to have accepted him only for his money and his name, whilst her heart

really belonged to another and a poorer man. He had shaken himself free

of her, with horror and disgust, and had sworn to himself that he would

never be so betrayed again. Since then he had been suspicious--and not

without just cause--of the young ladies who had smiled upon him, and of

their mothers, who had pressed him with gracious invitations to their

houses. He was a rich man, but he did not mean to be loved for his

wealth; he said to himself that, sooner than be so, he would die

unmarried and leave to Maurice the task of keeping up the old name and

the old family.

But he had seen Vera; and all at once all the old barriers of pride and

reserve were broken down! Here was the one woman on earth who realized

his dreams, the one woman whom he would wait and toil for, even as Jacob

waited and toiled for Rachel!

He had come down to Kynaston to hunt; but hitherto hunting had been very

little in his thoughts. He had been down to the vicarage once or twice,

he had met her once in the lanes, and he had longed for a glimpse of her

daily; as yet he had done nothing else. He opened his letters on this

particular morning slowly and abstractedly, tossing them into the fire,

one after the other, as he read them, and not paying very much attention

to their contents.

There was one, however, from his brother, "I wish you would ask me down

to Kynaston for a week or two, old fellow," wrote Maurice. "I know you

would mount me--now I have got rid of all my horses to please you--and

I should like a glimpse of the old country. Write and tell me if I shall

come down on Monday."

This letter Sir John did pay attention to. He rose hastily, as though not

a moment was to be lost, and answered it:--

"Dear Maurice,--I can't possibly have you down here yet. My own plans are

very uncertain, and if you are going to take your leave after Christmas,

you had far better not go away from your work now. If I am still here in

January, I shall be delighted if you will come down, and will mount you

as much as you like."

He was happier when he had written and directed this letter.

"I must be alone just now," he murmured. "I could not bear Maurice's

chatter--it would jar upon me."

Then he put on his hat and strolled out. He looked in at the stables one

minute, and called the head groom to him.

"Wright, did not Mr. Beavan say, when I bought that new bay mare of him,

that she had carried a lady to hounds?"

"Yes, Sir John; Miss Beavan rode her last season."

"Ah, she is a good rider. Well, I wish you would put a side-saddle and a

skirt on her, and exercise her this morning. I might want to--to lend her

to a lady; but she must be perfectly quiet. You can take her out every

day this week."

Sir John went on his way, leaving the worthy Wright a prey to speculation

as to who the mysterious lady might be for whom the bay mare was to be

exercised.

His master, meanwhile, bent his steps almost instinctively to the

vicarage.

Vera was undergoing a periodical persecution concerning Mr. Gisburne

at the hands of old Mrs. Daintree. She was standing up by the table

arranging some scarlet berries and some long trails of ivy which the

children had brought to her in a vase. Tommy and Minnie stood by watching

her intently; Mrs. Daintree sat at a little distance, her lap full of

undarned socks, and rated her.

"It is not as if you were a girl who could earn her living in case of

need. There is not one single thing you can do."

"Aunt Vera can make nosegays of berries boofully, grandma," interpolates

Tommy, earnestly; "can't she, Minnie?"

"Yes, she do," assented the smaller child, with emphasis.

"I wasn't speaking to you, Tom; little boys should be--"

"Heard and not seen," puts in Tommy, rapidly; "you always say that,

grandma."

Vera laughs softly. Mrs. Daintree goes on with her lecture.

"Many girls in your position are very accomplished; can teach the piano,

and history, and the elements of Latin; but it seems to me you have been

brought up in idleness."

"Idleness is not to be despised in its way," answers Vera, composedly.

"Another bit of ivy, Tommy. What shall I do, Mrs. Daintree?" she

continues, whilst her deft fingers wind the trailing greenery round and

round the glass stem of the vase. "Shall I go down to the village school

and sit at the feet of Mr. Dee? I have no doubt he could teach me a great

many things I know nothing about."

"That is nonsense; of course I don't mean that you can educate yourself

to any purpose now; it is too late for that; but you need not, at all

events, turn up your nose at the blessings that Providence sets before

you; and I must say, that for a young woman deliberately to choose to

remain a burden upon her friends, betokens an amount of servility and

a lack of the spirit of independence which I should not have supposed

possible even in you!"

"What do you want me to do?" said Vera, without a sign of impatience.

"Shall I walk over to Tripton this afternoon, and make a low curtsey to

Mr. Gisburne, and say to him very politely, 'Here is an idle and

penniless young woman who would be very pleased to stop here and marry

you!' Would that be the way to do it, Mrs. Daintree?"

"No, no, _no_!" imperatively from Tommy, who was listening with rapidly

crimsoning cheeks; "you shall _not_ go and stop at Tripton, and tell Mr.

Gisburne you will marry him!"

Vera laughed. "No, Tommy, I don't think I will; not, that is to say, if

you are a good boy. I think I can do something better than that with

myself!" she added, softly, as if to herself. Mrs. Daintree caught the

words.

"And _what_ better, pray? What better chance are you ever likely to have?

Let me tell you, bachelors who want penniless wives don't grow on the

blackberry bushes down here! If you were not so selfish and so conceited,

you would see where your duty to my son, who is supporting you, lay. You

would see that to be married to an honest, upright man like Albert

Gisburne is a chance that most girls would catch at only too thankfully."

The old lady had raised her voice; she spoke loud and angrily; she was

rapidly working herself into a passion. Tommy, accustomed to family rows,

stood on the hearthrug, looking excitedly from his grandmother to his

aunt. He was a precocious child; he did not quite understand, and yet he

understood partly. He knew that his grandmother was scolding Vera, and

telling her she was to go away and marry Mr. Gisburne. That Vera should

go away! That, in itself, was sufficiently awful. Tommy adored Vera with

all the intensity of his childish soul; that she should go away from him

to Mr. Gisburne seemed to him the most terrible visitation that could

possibly happen. His little heart swelled within him; the tears were very

near his eyes.

At this very minute the door softly opened, and Sir John Kynaston, whose

ring had been unheard in the commotion, was ushered in.

Tommy thought he saw a deliverer, specially sent in by Providence for the

occasion. He made one spring at him and caught him round the legs, after

the manner of enthusiastic small boys.

"Please--please--don't let grandmamma send aunt Vera away to Tripton

to marry Mr. Gisburne! He has red hair, and I hate him; and aunt Vera

doesn't want to go, she wants to stop at home and do something better!"

A moment of utter confusion on all sides; then Vera, crimson to the roots

of her hair, stepped forward and held out her hand.

"Little pitchers have long ears!" she said, laughing: "and Tommy is a

very silly little boy."

"No, but, aunt Vera, you said--you said," cried the child. What further

revelations he might have made were fortunately not destined to be known.

His aunt placed her hand unceremoniously over his small, eager mouth, and

hustled both children in some haste out of the room.

Meanwhile, Sir John, looking the picture of distress and embarrassment,

had shaken hands with the old lady, and inquired if he could speak with

her son.

"Mr. Daintree is in his study; I will take you to him," she said, rising,

and led him away out of the room. She looked at him sharply as she showed

him into the study; and it did come across her mind, "I wonder what you

come so often for." Still, no thought of Vera entered into her head. Sir

John was the great man of the place, the squire, the potentate in the

hollow of whose hand lay Sutton-in-the-Wold and all its inhabitants, and

Vera was a nobody in the old lady's eyes,--a waif, whose presence was of

no account at all. Sir John was no more likely to notice her than any of

the village girls; except, indeed, that he would speak politely to her

because she was Eustace's sister-in-law. Still, it did come across her

mind to wonder what he came so often for.

Five minutes later the two gentlemen were seen going across the vicarage

garden towards the church.

They remained there a very long time, more than half an hour. When they

came back Marion had finished her housekeeping and was in the room busy

cutting out unbleached calico into poor men's shirts, on the grand piano,

an instrument which she maintained had been specially and originally

called into existence for no other purpose. Mrs. Daintree still sat in

her chimney corner. Vera was at the writing-table with her back to the

room, writing a letter.

The vicar came in with his face all aglow with excitement and delight;

his wife looked up at him quickly, she saw that something unusual and of

a pleasant character had happened.

"My dear Marion, we must both thank our good friend, Sir John. I am happy

to tell you that he has consented to restore the chancel."

"Oh, Sir John, how can we ever thank you enough!" cried Marion, coming

forward breathlessly and pressing his hands in eager gratitude. Sir John

looked as if he didn't want to be thanked, but he glanced towards the

writing-table. Vera's back was turned; she made no sign of having heard.

"I am sure I had given up all hopes of it altogether," continued the

vicar. "You gave such an unqualified refusal when I spoke to you about

it before, I never dreamt that you would be induced to change your mind."

"Some one--I mean--I thought it over--and--and it was presented to my

notice--in another light," stammered Sir John, somewhat confusedly.

"And it is most kind, most generous of you to allow it to be done in my

own way, according to the plans I had wished to follow."

"Oh, I am quite sure you will understand it much better than I am likely

to do. Besides, I have no time to attend to it; it will suit me better to

leave it entirely in your hands."

"Would you not like to see the plans Mr. Woodley drew for us last year?"

"Not now, I think, thank you; I must be going; another time, Mr.

Daintree; I can't wait just now."

He was standing irresolute in the middle of the room. He looked again

wistfully at Vera's back. Was it possible that she was not going to give

him one word, one look, when surely she must know by whose influence he

had been induced to consent to rebuild the chancel!

Almost in despair he moved to the door, and just as he reached it, when

his hand was already on the handle, she looked up. Her eyes, all softened

with pleasure and gratitude, nay, almost with tenderness, met his. He

stopped suddenly short.

"Miss Nevill, might I ask you to walk with me as far as the clerk's

cottage? I--I forget which it is!"

It was the lamest and most blundering excuse. Any six-year-old child in

the village could have pointed out the cottage to him. Mrs. Daintree

looked up in astonishment. Vera blushed rosy red; Eustace, man-like, saw

nothing, and began eagerly,

"I am walking that way myself; we can go together----" Suddenly his coat

tails were violently pulled from behind. "Quite impossible, Eustace; I

want you at home for the next hour," says Marion, quietly standing by his

side, with a look of utter innocence upon her face. The vicar, almost

throttled by the violence of the assault upon his garments, perceived

that, in some mysterious manner, he had said something he ought not to

have said. He deemed it wisest to subside into silence.

Vera rose from the writing-table. "I will go and put my hat on," she

said, quietly, and left the room.

Three minutes later she and Sir John went out of the front door together.

"Well, that is the oddest fellow I ever came across in my life," said

Eustace, fairly puzzled as soon as he was gone. "It is my belief,"

tapping his forehead significantly, "that he is a little touched _here_.

I don't believe he quite knows what he is talking about. Why, the other

night he would have nothing to say to the chancel, wouldn't even listen

to me, cut me so short about it I really couldn't venture to pursue the

subject; and here he comes, ten days later, all of his own accord, and

proposes to do it exactly as it ought to be done, in the best and most

expensive way--purbeck columns round the lancet windows, and all, Marion,

just what I wanted; gives me absolute _carte blanche_ about it. I only

hope he won't take a fresh fancy into his head and change his mind

again."

"Perhaps he found he would make himself unpopular if he did not do it,"

suggested his mother.

Marion held her tongue, and snipped away at her unbleached calico.

"And then, again, about old Hoggs' cottage," pursued Mr. Daintree. "What

on earth could make him forget where it was? He might as well forget the

way to his own house. I really do think he must be a little gone in the

upper storey, poor fellow! Marion, what have you to say about it?"

"I have to say that if you stand chattering here all the morning, we

shall never get anything done. I want to speak to you immediately,

Eustace, in the other room."

She hurried her husband out into the study, and carefully closed the door

upon them.

What then was the Rev. Eustace's amazement to behold his wife suddenly

execute a series of capers round the room, which would not have disgraced

a _coryphée_ at a Christmas pantomime, but were hardly in keeping with

the demure and highly respectable bearing of the wife of the vicar of

Sutton-in-the-Wold!

Mr. Daintree began to think that everybody was going mad this morning.

"My dear Marion, what on earth is the matter?"

"Oh, you dear, stupid, blunder-headed old donkey!" exclaimed his wife,

finishing her _pas seul_ in front of him, and hugging him vehemently as a

finale to the entertainment. "Do you mean to say that you don't see it?"

"See it? See what?" repeated the unfortunate clergyman, in mortal

bewilderment, staring at her hard.

"Oh, you dear, stupid old goose! why, it's as plain as daylight. Can't

you guess?"

Eustace shook his head dolefully.

"Why, Sir John Kynaston has fallen in love with Vera!"

"_Marion!_ impossible!" in an awe-struck whisper. "What can make you

imagine such a thing?"

"Why, everything--the chancel, of course. She must have spoken to him

about it; it is to be done for her; did you not see him look at her? And

then, asking her to go down the village with him; he knows where Hoggs'

cottage is as well as you do, only he couldn't think of anything better."

Eustace literally gasped with the magnitude of the revelation.

"Great Heavens! and I offered to go with him instead of her."

"Yes, you great blundering baby!"

"Oh, my dear, are you sure--are you quite sure? Remember his position and

Vera's."

"Well, and isn't Vera good enough, and beautiful enough, for any

position?" answered her sister, proudly.

"Yes, yes; that is true; God bless her!" he said, fervently. "Marion,

what a clever woman you are to find it out."

"Of course I am clever, sir. But, Eustace, it is only beginning, you

know; so we must just let things take their course, and not seem to

notice anything. And, mind, not a word to your mother."

Meanwhile Vera and Sir John Kynaston were walking down the village street

together. The man awkward and ill at ease, the woman calm and composed,

and thoroughly mistress of the occasion.

"It is very good of you about the chancel," said Vera, softly, breaking

the embarrassment of the silence between them.

"You _knew_ I should do it," he said, looking at her.

She smiled. "I thought perhaps you would."

"You know _why_ I am going to do it--for whose sake, do you not?" he

pursued, still keeping his eyes upon her downcast face.

"Because it is the right thing to do, I hope; and for the sake of doing

good," she answered, sedately; and Sir John felt immediately reproved and

rebuked, as though by the voice of an angelic being.

"Tell me," he said, presently, "is it true that they want you to

marry--that parson--Gisburne, of Tripton? Forgive me for asking."

Vera coloured a little and laughed.

"What dreadful things little boys are!" was all she said.

"Nay, but I want to know. Are you--are you _engaged_ to him?" with a

sudden painful eagerness of manner.

"Most decidedly I am not," she answered, earnestly.

Sir John breathed again.

"I don't know what you will think of me; you will, perhaps, say I am very

impertinent. I know I have no right to question you."

"I only think you are very kind to take an interest in me," she answered,

gently, looking at him with that wonderful look in her shadowy eyes that

came into them unconsciously when she felt her softest and her best.

They had passed through the village by this time into the quiet lane

beyond; needless to say that no thought of Hoggs, the clerk, or his

cottage, had come into either of their heads by the way.

Sir John stopped short, and Vera of necessity stopped too.

"I thought--it seemed to me by what I overheard," he said, hesitatingly,

"that they were tormenting you--persecuting you, perhaps--into a marriage

you do not wish for."

"They have wished me to marry Mr. Gisburne," Vera admitted, in a low

voice, rustling the fallen brown leaves with her foot, her eyes fixed on

the ground.

"But you won't let them over-persuade you; you won't be induced to listen

to them, will you? Promise me you won't?" he asked, anxiously.

Vera looked up frankly into his face and smiled.

"I give you my word of honour I will not marry Mr. Gisburne," she

answered; and then she added, laughingly, "You had no business to make me

betray that poor man's secrets."

And then Sir John laughed too, and, changing the subject, asked her if

she would like to ride a little bay mare he had that he thought would

carry her. Vera said she would think of it, with the air of a young queen

accepting a favour from a humble subject; and Sir John thanked her as

heartily as though she had promised him some great thing.

"Now, suppose we go and find Hoggs' cottage," she said, smiling. And they

turned back towards the village.

CHAPTER VI.

A SOIRÉE AT WALPOLE LODGE.

When the lute is broken,

Sweet notes are remembered not;

When the lips have spoken,

Loved accents are soon forgot.

As music and splendour

Survive not the lamp and the lute,

The heart's echoes render

No song when the spirit is mute.

Shelley.

About three miles from Hyde Park Corner, somewhere among the cross-roads

between Mortlake and Kew, there stands a rambling, old-fashioned house,

within about four acres of garden, surrounded by a very high, red-brick

wall. It is one of those houses of which there used to be scores within

the immediate neighbourhood of London--of which there still are dozens,

although, alas! they are yearly disappearing to make room for gay rows of

pert, upstart villas, whose tawdry flashiness ill replaces the sedate

respectability of their last-century predecessors. But, uncoveted by the

contractor's lawless eye, untouched by the builder's desecrating hand,

Walpole Lodge stands on, as it did a hundred years ago, hidden behind

the shelter of its venerable walls, and half smothered under masses of

wisteria and Virginia creeper. On the wall, in summer time, grow

countless soft green mosses, and brown, waving grasses. Thick masses of

yellow stonecrop and tufts of snapdragon crown its summit, whilst the

topmost branches of the long row of lime-trees within come nodding

sweet-scented greetings to the passers-by along the dusty high road

below.

But in the winter the wall is flowerless and the branches of the

lime-trees are bare, and within, in the garden, there are only the

holly-trees and the yew-hedge of the shrubbery walks, and the empty brown

flower-beds set in the faded grass. But winter and summer alike, old Lady

Kynaston holds her weekly receptions, and thither flock all the wit, and

the talent, and the fashion of London. In the summer they are garden

parties, in the winter they become evening receptions. How she manages it

no one can quite tell; but so it is, that her rooms are always crowded,

that no one is ever bored at her house, that people are always keen to

come to her, and that there are hundreds who would think it an effort to

go to other people's parties across the street who think it no trouble at

all to drive nearly to Richmond, to hers. She has the rare talent of

making society a charm in itself. No one who is not clever, or beautiful,

or distinguished in some way above his or her fellows ever gains a

footing in her drawing-rooms. Every one of any note whatever is sure to

be found there. There are savants and diplomatists, poets and painters,

foreign ambassadors, and men of science. The fashionable beauty is sure

to be met there side by side with the latest type of strong-minded woman;

the German composer, with the wild hair, whose music is to regenerate

the future, may be seen chatting to a cabinet minister; the most rising

barrister of the day is lingering by the side of a prima-donna, or

discoursing to an Eastern traveller. Old Lady Kynaston herself has

charming manners, and possesses the rare tact of making every one feel

at home and happy in her house.

It was not done in a day--this gathering about her of so brilliant and

delightful a society. She had lived many years at Walpole Lodge, ever

since her widowhood, and was now quite an old lady. In her early life she

had written several charming books--chiefly biographies of distinguished

men whom she had known, and even now she occasionally put pen again to

paper, and sent some delightful social essay or some pleasantly written

critique to one or other of the Reviews of the day.

Her married life had been neither very long nor very happy. She had never

learnt to love her husband's country home. At his death she had turned

her back thankfully upon Kynaston, and had never seen it again. Of her

two sons, she stood in some awe of the elder, whose cold and unresponsive

character resembled her dead husband's, whilst she adored Maurice, who

was warm-hearted and affectionate in manner, like herself. There were ten

years between them, for she had been married twelve years; and at her

secret heart Lady Kynaston hoped and believed that John would remain

unmarried, so that the estates and the money might in time become

Maurice's.

It is the second Thursday in December, and Lady Kynaston is "at home" to

the world. Her drawing-rooms--there are three of them, not large, but

low, comfortable rooms, opening one out of the other--are filled, as

usual, with a mixed and brilliant crowd.

Across the square hall is the dining-room, where a cold supper, not very

sumptuous or very _recherché_, but still sufficient of its kind for the

occasion, is laid out; and beyond that is Lady Kynaston's boudoir, where

there is a piano, and which is used on these occasions as a music-room,

so that those who are musical may retire there, and neither interfere,

nor be interfered with, by the rest of the company. Some one is singing

in the music-room now--singing well, you may be sure, or he would not be

at Walpole Lodge--but the strains of the song can hardly be heard at all

across dining-room and hall, in the larger of the three rooms, where most

of the guests are congregated.

Lady Kynaston, a small, slight woman in soft gray satin and old lace,

moves about graciously and gracefully still, despite her seventy years,

among her guests--stopping now at one group, now at another, talking

politics to one, science to a second, whispering a few discreet words

about the latest scandal to this great lady, murmuring words of approval

upon her clever book or her charming poem to another. Her smiles are

equally dispensed, no one is passed over, and she has the rare talent of

making every single individual in the crowded room feel himself to be the

one particular person whom Lady Kynaston is especially rejoiced to see.

She has tact, and she has sympathy--two invaluable gifts in a woman.

Conspicuous among the crowd of well-dressed and handsome women is Helen

Romer. She sits on an ottoman at the further end of the room, where she

holds a little court of her own, dispensing her smiles and pleasant words

among the little knot of men who linger admiringly by her side.

She is in black, with masses of gold embroidery about her, and she

carries a large black and gold feather fan in her hands, which she

moves rapidly, almost restlessly, up and down; her eyes wander often

to the doorway, and every now and then she raises her hand with a short,

impatient action to her blonde head, as though she were half weary of

the talk about her.

Presently, Lady Kynaston, moving slowly among her guests, comes near her,

and, leaning for a moment on the back of the ottoman, presses her hand as

she passes.

Mrs. Romer is a favourite of hers; she is pretty, and she is piquant in

manner and conversation; two very good things, which she thinks highly of

in any young woman. Besides that, she knows that Helen loves her younger

son; and, although she hardly understands how things are between them,

nor how far Maurice himself is implicated, she believes that Helen will

eventually inherit her grandfather's money, and, liking her personally,

she has seen no harm in encouraging her too plainly displayed affection.

Moreover, the love they both bear to him has been a link between them.

They talk of him together almost as a mother and a daughter might do;

they have the same anxieties over his health, the same vexations over

his debts, the same rejoicings when his brother comes forward with his

much-needed help. Lady Kynaston does not want her darling to marry yet,

but when the time shall come for him to take unto himself a wife, she

will raise no objection to pretty Helen Romer, should he bring her to

her, as a daughter-in-law.

As the old lady stoops over her, Helen's upturned wistful eyes say as

plainly as words can say it--

"Is he coming to-night?"

"Maurice will be here presently, I hope," says his mother, answering the

look in her eyes; "he was to come up by the six o'clock train; he will

dine at his club and come on here later." Helen's face became radiant,

and Lady Kynaston passed on.

Maurice Kynaston's regiment was quartered at Northampton; he came up to

town often for the day or for the night, as he could get leave; but his

movements were never quite to be depended upon.

Half-an-hour or so more of feverish impatience. Helen watches the gay

crowd about her with a feeling of sick weariness. Two members of

Parliament are talking of Russian aggression and Turkish misrule close to

her; they turn to her presently and include her in the conversation; Mrs.

Romer gives her opinion shrewdly and sensibly. An elderly duchess is

describing some episode of Royalty's last ball; there is a general laugh,

in which Helen joins heartily; a young attaché bends over her and

whispers some admiring little speech in her ear, and she blushes and

smiles just as if she liked it above all things; while all the time her

eyes hardly stray for one second from the open doorway through which

Maurice will come, and her heart is saying to itself, over and over

again,

"Will he come, will he come?"

He comes at last. Long before the servant, who opens the door to him, has

taken his coat and hat from him, Helen catches sight of his handsome head

and his broad shoulders through an opening in the crowd. In another

minute he is in the room standing irresolute in the doorway, looking

round as if to see who is and who is not there to-night.