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 THE LIBRARY OF THE 
 
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 ENDOWED BY THE 
 
 DIALECTIC AND PHILAT^THROPIC 
 
 SOCIETIES 
 
 PR5113 
 

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LADY WILLIAM 
 
,m>^ 
 
LADY WILLIAM 
 
 BY 
 
 MES. OLIPHANT 
 
 ilontion 
 
 MACMILLAN AND CO. 
 
 AXD NEW YORK 
 
 1894 
 
 All rights reserved 
 
 VRS))5 
 
«l 
 
 First Edition (3 Vols. Crown Zvo) January 1894 
 
 Reprinted Fchruary 1894 
 
 Second Edition (i Vol. Crown Zvo) May 1894 
 
The village of Watcliam is not a village in the ordinary sense of 
 the word, and yet it is a very pretty place, with a charming 
 picturesque aspect, and of which people say, ' What a pretty 
 village ! ' when they come upon its little landing-place on the 
 riverside, or drive through its old-fashioned green, where some of 
 the surrounding houses look as if they had come out of the seven- 
 teenth century, and some as if they had come out of the picture- 
 books of Mr. Randolph Caldecott. It is a village of genteel little 
 houses where a great many people live who have pretensions, but 
 are poor : and some who have no pretensions and yet are poor all 
 the same, and find the little, fresh, airy villa houses, with their 
 small rooms and little gardens, a wonderful relief from London, 
 even from the suburbs which are almost as rural as Watch am. 
 Watcham, however, has various advantages over Hampstead or 
 Wimbledon. It is close by the river, where a little quiet boating 
 may be had without any fear of plunging into the mob of excur- 
 sionists from London on one side, who make some portions of that 
 river hideous, or the more elegant mob of society on the other, 
 who do not add to its charm. But I need not linger on the 
 attractions of this little place, with which the reader will, no 
 doubt, if he (or she) has patience enough, become well acquainted 
 in time. 
 
 The church in Watcham is a pretty church of very old founda- 
 tion, low in stature and small in size, its porch covered with 
 climbing roses, its modest little spire rising out of a mantle of 
 ivy. Inside I have always felt that there was a faint breath of 
 generations past, perhaps not so desirable as the traces of them 
 left on the walls — which mingled with the breath of the congrega- 
 tion, and the whiff of incense, which was now and then added 
 to the composite atmosphere. For the Rector was ' High,' and, 
 though he never laid himself open to troublesome proceedings, 
 & E 
 
2 LADY WILLIAM i 
 
 was watched with great attention by a little band of parishioners 
 very anxious to be aggrieved, who kept an eye upon all he did, in 
 the hope of some day catching him at an unguarded moment, in 
 the act of lighting a candle or donning a vestment which exceeded 
 the rubric. But Mr. Plowden was quite aware of this watch, and 
 delighted in keeping his critics up to the highest mark of vigilance 
 without ever giving them the occasion they desired. The Rectory 
 was an old red-brick house showing rather high and narrow above 
 its garden wall, and the Plowden family consisted, besides the 
 Rector, of his wife, a son, and two daughters, to whose credit the 
 floral decorations, for which the church was famous, were laid, 
 undeservedly, by the strangers and visitors who frequented the 
 place — though this was always indignantly contradicted by the 
 inhabitants, to whom it was well known that Miss Grey was the 
 real artist who made the church so beautiful, and seemed to invent 
 flowers when none were to be had by other persons, for the adorn- 
 ment of the little sanctuary. There were a few houses dotted 
 about in their gardens in the neighbourhood of the church which 
 contained the aristocracy of the place. These were generally very 
 small, but, on the other hand, they were very refined, and contained 
 old china and dainty pieces of old furniture such as might have 
 made a dozen connoisseurs happy. They, however, were inhabited 
 chiefly by ladies, though there was an old soldier and an old 
 clergyman among them who stood out very strongly on the 
 feminine background. The old clergyman, indeed, was no better 
 than an old lady himself, and so considered in the place, which 
 sent him on errands, and set but little store by his opinion ; but 
 the General ! the General was very different. He had seen a great 
 deal of service ; and on occasions when he went at strictly-regulated 
 intervals to a levde or other great function, with all his medals 
 upon his ancient bosom, he was a sight to see. It was believed 
 generally in the village that he had won several victories with his 
 own right hand, and the sword which hung in his room was 
 believed to have been bathed in blood on many terrible occasions ; 
 but, as was to be expected, the old soldier bore no terrible aspect, 
 but was very amiable and gentle to his neighbours. The Arch- 
 deacon, of whom nobody stood in any awe, was on occasion ten 
 times more severe. 
 
 It will be perceived that society in Watcham was not without 
 dignitaries. But the person who was of highest rank in the 
 place, whom all the ladies had to acknowledge as unmistakably 
 their superior, who had the undoubted right to walk out of a room 
 and into a room before them all, was a lady who lived in one of the 
 
I LADY WILLIAM 3 
 
 smallest of those little houses which were as Belgravia to the 
 population of the village. Such a little house ! It had a pretty 
 little garden all round it, with a privet hedge and green gate, which 
 in their insignificance, yet comiDlete enclosure and privacy, were a 
 sort of symbol of their owner and her position. For it could not 
 be denied that she was Lady William, sister-in-law to a marquis, 
 connected (by marriage) witti half the aristocracy; and yet not 
 only was she very poor, but she was of herself, so to speak, 
 nobody, which was the exasperating particular in the tale. Nobody 
 at all, the Rector's sister, once a governess, whose elevation by her 
 marriage — and such a marriage! — over the heads of the best 
 people in Watcham was an affront which they never got over, 
 though these ladies were too well bred to make any quarrel, or to 
 be anything but observant of the necessities of the situation. I do 
 not pretend for a moment that it was ever suggested to Lady 
 William in any way that her precedence annoyed her neighbours, 
 and that to have to walk humbly behind that governess-woman, as 
 Mrs. FitzStephen, the General's wife, had hastily called her on her 
 retm-n to Watcham, was an accident of fate which made them 
 furious. She was a woman full of perception, however, and she 
 was quite aware of the fact, and derived from it a certain amuse- 
 ment. Above all was Lady William amused by it in respect to her 
 sister-in-law, Mrs. Plowden, who, as a married woman, and the 
 Rector's wife, not to speak of her own connections, had been vastly 
 superior to Emily Plowden in her earlier days when that young 
 woman was a governess and of no consequence at all. The first 
 time Lady William dined at the General's, and was taken out 
 by him before all the rest, the sight of Mrs. Plowden's face was 
 almost too much for her gravity. Her elevation had cost her dear, 
 and had brought her little, except that empty honour ; but she was 
 a woman with a fine sense of the ludicrous, and that moment 
 compensated her for many troubles. She was the first lady in 
 Watcham, where she had received many snubs once upon a time, 
 and this was at once a balm and an amusement to her of the most 
 agreeable kind. 
 
 But Lady William was very poor. They were none of them 
 rich in that little society, but Lady William had less than any, less 
 even than Miss Grey. The small annuity given her by her 
 husband's family, given very grudgingly, and sometimes in arrears, 
 was all she had to depend upon. She had, as people said severely, 
 as if it had been her fault, nothing of her own. The Plowdens 
 were not rich, and all that Emily Plowden had had been bestowed 
 upon a prodigal brother, who had disappeared in the wilds of 
 
4 LADY WILLIAM i 
 
 Australia, and never had been heard of more. What she had thus 
 lost would not have added fifty pounds a year to her income ; but 
 fifty pounds a year when you have only two hundred is a great 
 addition, and she was very much reproached for having made this 
 sacrifice ' to that good-for-nothing boy,' the neighbours said. I am 
 afraid she thouglit it very foolish herself when she came to be what 
 she was, middle-aged, with Mab growing up, and so little, so very 
 little, nothing at all, so to speak, to keep her little household upon. 
 Sometimes she would calculate to herself how much better ofi" she 
 would have been if she had still possessed the interest of her 
 thousand pounds which poor Ned had carried with him, and which 
 probably only enabled him to ruin himself more quickly. Some- 
 times she would amuse herself by speculating how much it would 
 have brought in. Thirty-five pounds perhaps, or possibly forty-five 
 if she had been very lucky : and how many comforts that might 
 have got during the year ; or she might have taken a little off it — 
 two hundred pounds or so — for Mab's education. And Mab had 
 really got no education, poor child. However, these were nothing 
 but sj)eculations, and had no bitterness in them. She did not 
 grudge her money to poor Ned. Poor Ned ! How often is there 
 one in a family who is never spoken of but with that prefix, and 
 how often he is the one who is the best beloved ! 
 
 Lady William was quite worthy in externals of her elevation, 
 being of what is called an aristocratic appearance, though it is an 
 appearance which is to be found impartially in all classes, and I 
 have often seen a young woman in a shop who was much more like 
 a duchess than the owners of that title sometimes are. Perhaps 
 it would be better to say that Lady William was conventionally 
 correct in every way, with a rather tall and slight figure, an oval 
 face, a deportment which strangers thought distinguished, and fine 
 hands and feet, which are always considered to betoken gentle 
 blood. But Mab, alas ! who ought to have possessed more of 
 these attractions, had none of them. She was rather short, and at 
 seventeen she was certainly too stout. Stumpy was what Mrs. 
 Plowden at the Eectory said, and there can be no doubt that there 
 was truth in that unlovely phrase. Her nose turned up, her face 
 was round and her features blunt, her hair no colour in particular. 
 As for waist the poor girl had none, and her feet were good useful 
 beetle-crushers, which she encased by preference in square-toed 
 shoes without heels. In short, it was impossible even for Mab 
 herself to entertain any illusions as to her personal appearance. 
 She was a plain and homely girl. ' Ah ! ' said the people who 
 disliked the Plowdens, and those who did not know anything about 
 
I LADY AVILLIAM 5 
 
 it, except that her mother had been a governess; 'the common 
 blood bursting out.' But, as a matter of fact, it was the noble 
 family to which her father belonged whom Mab resembled. She 
 was as like the present Marquis as it was possible for a girl to be 
 like an elderly man. None of his daughters (heaven be praised, 
 they said) were half so like him as the niece whom he barely ac- 
 knowledged. Mab was the very quintessence of that distinguished 
 man. She had very light hair of a faint greenish tinge, eyes 
 equally light, but bluish. To see her beside her graceful mother 
 was wonderful. And she did not show her blood like the Princess 
 in the fairy tale by feeling the pea that was underneath two 
 mattresses. Mab might have lain upon peas, and she would never 
 have been any the wiser. Her perceptions were not delicate. She 
 was not sensitive. In short she was the most perfectly robust and 
 contented little soul there was in Watcham, and met all her little 
 privations with a broad smile. 
 
 You could not imagine a more minute drawing-room than that 
 in which this mother and daughter spent the greater part of their 
 life. There was nothing poetical or romantic about the house. 
 The door was exactly in the middle, with a window on each side, 
 which indicated the two sitting-rooms, and three windows which 
 represented as many bedrooms above. The reader will perceive 
 that it was the rudimentary house designed by infantile art in its 
 first command of a slate or other pencil with which to express its 
 ideas. The narrow passage into which the outer door opened, and 
 from which you entered the sitting-rooms, was scarcely capable of 
 containing two persons at once. By dint of having the smallest 
 specimens possible of those pieces of furniture. Lady William had 
 contrived to have a sofa and a piano in the drawing-room. There 
 were also some low chairs and two or three of those little tables 
 which are so useful in this tea-drinking age, but which are chiefly 
 remarkable as handy things to throw down. You could scarcely 
 throw down Lady William's tables, however, for there was not 
 room enough for them to fall. The ladies were sitting together in 
 this little room with a large basket on the floor between them, in 
 which it was their habit to put their work if it was not suitable to 
 be beheld by visitors. They were both engaged at this particular 
 moment in the making of a dress, of a kind which is generally 
 described by novelists as 'some kind of light woollen material.' 
 Shopkeepers say simply ' material,' leaving the light woollen to the 
 imagination. I think, as I love to be particular, that it was hiege. 
 There was a fashion-book, or perhaps a copy of the Lady's Pictorial 
 — but I think the scene occurred before the commencement of that 
 
6 LADY WILLIAM i 
 
 excellent periodical — lying among the folds of the stuff, half hidden 
 by them. And this was Mab's spring dress, which her mother 
 was making, aided by the less skilled yet patient efforts of Mab 
 herself ' Do you think you like that sleeve ? ' Lady William was 
 saying, looking at it in her hand, with her head a little on one side, 
 as an artist looks at his picture ; ' these puffs are apt to look a little 
 fantastic, especially wlien they are home-made ' 
 
 'You mean when they are on a fat little girl like me, mother.' 
 
 ' Well, Mab, you are a little^stout,' Lady William said. She 
 did not take it so lightly as Mab did, but half resented, half 
 lamented, this unfortunate development. 
 
 * Don't say stout, please,' said Mab. ' Stout sounds such a 
 determined thing. Call me fat, mother : it's nicer— it might be 
 accidental : or I might, as Mrs. FitzStephen says, fine down.' 
 
 Lady AVilliam shook her head with a suppressed sigh. She 
 knew Mab would not fine down. ' Never mind about words,' she 
 said, ' but tell me ' 
 
 Here she was interrupted by a rattle of small shots, as of 
 pebbles, on the door. She knew very well what it was. It was 
 the knuckles of Patty, the little girl who was groom of the 
 chambers, and head footman, and kitchenmaid, and general aid to 
 the woman-of-all-work at the cottage. She opened the door when 
 she had delivered this volley, and thrust in a curly head at about 
 the height of the keyhole. ' Please, my lydy,' she said, breathless, 
 ' it's Missis and the young lydies from the Rectory. I thought as 
 you'd like to know ' 
 
 ' Are they coming here, Patty 1 ' 
 
 ' Leastways, I think so, my lydy,' Patty said. 
 
 ' Thank you, Patty ; as soon as you've let them in, bring tea.' 
 
 There was no thought of closing the door to these privileged 
 visitors. But the dress was carefully and swiftly disposed of in 
 the big basket, which was thrust under the sofa. ' They've 
 nothing to do with your new frock,' said Lady William, in an 
 apologetic parenthesis. Mab, who required no apology, who had 
 seen this little feat of legerdemain accomplished more often than 
 she could count, required no explanation ; but she did not take up 
 any other work. Lady William, on the other hand, had a piece of 
 knitting provided for such occasions, and was working at it as if it 
 were the chief occupation of her life when the Piectory ladies were 
 ushered in. Mrs. Plowden had reversed the order which ruled in 
 Lady William's house, for it was she who was short and stout, 
 while her daughters were of the Plowden type, long and thin, like, 
 and yet not like, their aunt, who was slim and tall, words that 
 
r LADY WILLIAM 7 
 
 mean the same thing with a difference. The three figures came in 
 like an army, filling the small room. 
 
 'Well, Emily, busy, as usual?' Mrs. Plowden said, a little 
 breathless from her walk. ' And Mab idle, as usual ? ' she added, 
 after she had taken breath. 
 
 ' Just as we always are, aunt,' said Mab with a laugh, conscious 
 of the half-finished dress. 
 
 'You might come, now and then, to the Sewing Society, 
 Mabel,' said Emmy, her cousin. ' It's quite amusing, and it would 
 show you how nice a quiet hour's sewing can be.' 
 
 ' But Mab does not like parish things — and neither do I,' said 
 the other, the heterodox daughter, under her breath. 
 
 ' I wonder,' said Mrs. Plowden, ' that you don't set her in 
 some way of employing herself systematically, Emily. Doing 
 things by fits and starts loses half of the advantage. What should 
 I ever have done with Emmy and Florry if I had not gone on in 
 the most systematic way 1 ' 
 
 ' And look what examples we are,' said Florry, as usual under 
 her breath. 
 
 ' Haven't we made up our minds to agree to diff'er on these 
 points 1 ' said Lady William. ' I am sure you had something 
 more amusing to tell me than the way you brought up your girls 
 and how I have spoiled Mab.' 
 
 ' I don't know if you will think it amusing. There was some- 
 thing else I had to tell you. Have you heard that Mrs. Swinford 
 and her son have come back to the Hall 1 ' 
 
 ' The Swinfords ! ' said Lady William, with a start of excite- 
 ment, ' Have they come back 1 I thought they were never 
 coming back any more.' 
 
 ' I don't know what reason you had for such an idea. I never 
 heard of it, and as James is the clergyman, and knows most about 
 his parishioners — but, at all events, they have come back : and I 
 want to know what your ideas are about calling. People stood a 
 little aloof, I have always been told ; but it's a long time ago, and 
 naturally the people here will take great notice of what you and I 
 do, Emily. It will all depend upon what we do how Mrs. Swin- 
 ford is received. Do you think you shall call 1 ' 
 
 ' Call ! ' cried Lady William. A little colour had come upon 
 her face, a little agitation into her usual calm. The exclamation 
 seemed like a kind of reply, but whether it meant ' Call ! of course 
 I shall call ! ' or 'Call! how could you expect me to do such a thing?' 
 her sister-in-law could not tell ; neither did she follow up that mono- 
 syllable with any further elucidation. She said, after a momentary 
 
8 LADY WILLIAM t 
 
 pause, ' How long it is ago, and how many things have happened 
 since then ! ' 
 
 ' That is very true— but it's always like that when people have 
 been away for more than twenty years. Half the people that were 
 living then are dead, of course : and other things — why, none of 
 the children were born.' 
 
 ' ISTor dreamt of,' said Lady William. It gave her a great deal 
 to think about ; but after a while Mrs. Plowden grew tired of 
 waiting for some definite response to her question, and took up the 
 theme on her own account. 
 
 'As I am a new person here since her time it would be siUy 
 of me to keep up old prejudices. I know nothing about any old 
 story. I am quite justified in saying so, for, of course, I was not 
 even here. We had only a curacy, and your father was still alive : 
 James did not get the living till a year after : and then, of course, 
 I was a very young woman, thinking of none of these things. 
 Your mother had a prejudice — but why should I take up her pre- 
 judices 1 And they are rich, and the son is an agreeable young 
 man, people say ; and probably they will entertain a good deal. 
 It would be sinning against a merciful Providence if one refused 
 to take advantage of what is brought to your very door. Every- 
 body says that they will entertain, and probably a great deal.' 
 
 ' And Leo will want a wife,' said Lady William. 
 
 ' Good gracious, Emily ! don't talk in that way before my 
 girls ! I keep all such ideas out of their minds. But what I 
 meant to say was, if you think of going don't you think we might 
 go together ? It would have a very good effect, and be an example 
 for the parish. I suppose they have got c^uite French being so long 
 away, and I have been so long out of the way of speaking it that 
 But you are quite a linguist, Emily.' 
 
 ' You don't suppose Mrs. Swinford will have forgotten her 
 native tongue 1 ' Lady William said, with a laugh. 
 
 'Well, if you think not — oh! I suppose not; but one gets 
 so rusty in a language one never uses. Look at me ! I spoke 
 both French and German like a native when I left school ; but, 
 for want of practice, you could put me out completely by a single 
 question. So I think, as you have always kept it up, I should 
 feel more comfortable. And as they can't all go, suppose we take 
 the eldest. You and I and Emmy — three are quite enough to 
 make a call. Don't you see 1 ' 
 
 ' I see,' Lady William said ; but it was not for a long time 
 that Mrs. Plowden could get her to say more. 
 
II 
 
 ' The Swinfords come back,' Lady William said to herself, as she 
 sat on the little sofa in the twilight by the light of the little fire. 
 She had been very silent after the Plowdens withdrew, saying 
 little except on the subject of the frock, which was resumed as 
 soon as these ladies were gone. And when Mab went out, as she 
 had a way of doing when the light began to fail. Lady William 
 put the work away, and sat down in the corner of the sofa, which 
 was the cosiest spot in the little room, almost out of reach of the 
 draught. This is an extremely difficult thing to attain in small 
 rooms where the doors and windows are at right angles, and you 
 never can get far enough off from one of them to avoid the stream 
 of cold air which pours in under the door, or from the window, or 
 somewhere else in the sweet uncertainty of cottage architecture. 
 But that end of the sofa was nearly out of the way from them all : 
 and there she sat when she did not go out, at that wistful hour 
 when it is neither night nor day. Lady William was not old 
 enough to like that wistful hour. She was young enough to prefer 
 taking a run with Mab, being, though she was Mab's mother, 
 quite as elastic and strong, and as foud of fresh air and exercise as 
 she : and she was philosopher enough to take care not to think 
 more than was absolutely necessary ; for I do not disguise that 
 there were episodes in her past life which were not pleasant to go 
 back upon, and that the future, when she gazed into it closely, 
 was too precarious and alarming to inspect. But to-day Lady 
 William's mind had been stirred, and so many things had come 
 up which forced themselves to be remembered that she had no 
 resource but to allow herself to think. The Swinfords ! They 
 were the great people of the place. Their house was close to 
 Watcham, its gates opening upon the road a little beyond the village 
 — and they had in her early days exercised a great influence upon 
 Emily Plowden's life. A flood of recollections poured back upon 
 
10 LADY WILLIAM ii 
 
 her, a succession of scenes one after another — scenes in the house, 
 in the park, and in the conservatory, all about the place. She 
 remembered even the looks of certain eyes, glances that had 
 been cast at herself, or even at others, swift changes of aspect, 
 vicissitudes of sun and shade which were more rapid than the 
 shadows upon the hills. What a thing it is to recollect over 
 twenty years and more the way one look succeeded another on a 
 face, perhaps gone into dulness and decay, or perhaps only changed 
 out of knowledge, but equally separated from us and the scenes in 
 which we remembered it ! Lady William sat and recollected, and 
 saw again the very light of the days that were past, how it came 
 through a long window and fell upon — sometimes her own face, 
 which was as changed as any of the others, sometimes other faces 
 fixed in eager regard upon hers. How strange to think that she 
 was the girl that stood then on the threshold of life, so full of 
 many emotions, so easily touched one way or another, smiles and 
 tears chasing each other over her face. And to think it was all 
 over, and everything connected with that time was as a dream ! She 
 had met her husband there ; a great many things had befallen her 
 there ; and now here was Jane Plowden coming to ask her to call 
 — to call, of all things in the world, on Mrs. Swinford, as if she 
 were an ordinary neighbour, as if there was nothing between them 
 that could not be told over the tea-table among the afternoon visitors ! 
 And she had consented to do it, which was more strange still — 
 half for the wonder of it, half because now they had come back, 
 she was curious to see how things looked across the abyss which 
 separated now from then. Oh, as she thought of it there rose a 
 hundred things she wanted to know ! Her busy fancy figured 
 how the patroness of her youth would look ; what she would say ; 
 the questions she would ask. ' So you have settled in Watcham 
 again — in Watcham, after all 1 And you have a little girl 1 And 
 
 you never see or hear of ^Oh, but that is impossible — you must 
 
 hear of them constantly, for it is in the papers.' All these things 
 she heard Mrs. Swinford say with the little foreign accent which 
 was one of that lady's peculiarities. Then Lady William paused 
 with a foreboding and asked herself whether she could not avoid 
 the meeting — whether she could have a bad headache, or go off on 
 a visit, or simply sit still and refuse to move. Alas ! going off on 
 a visit is not so easy — you want money for that, and there was 
 nowhere she could go except for a day or two. Neither would a 
 bad headache last beyond a day : and as for sitting still, that 
 would be equally ineffectual, for if she did not go to Mrs. Swin- 
 ford, Mrs. Swinford would probably come to her. She considered 
 
ri LADY WILLIAM 11 
 
 that but one of two things could be done— either to go away alto- 
 gether from Watcham while the Swinfords remained there, which 
 was, of course, impossible — or to call with Jane as was proposed 
 to her. She laughed at this softly, with a little secret fright, yet 
 sense of the ludicrous — to call with Jane ! walking in over the 
 ashes of volcanoes (so to speak), over the dragons' teeth that had 
 been sown in their time and produced such harvests, with that in- 
 carnation of the commonplace by her side. No doubt the ashes 
 would be covered with Persian carpets, and Jane would think of 
 nothing but the future parties to be given there, and whether per- 
 haps young Mr. Swinford Lady William could not be supposed 
 
 to be particularly happy during this review of the things that had 
 been and the things that would have to be, but she laughed to 
 herself again. That eternal question could never be left out, she 
 said to herself. 
 
 ' What are you laughing at, mother 1 ' said Mab, as she came 
 in, bringing with her a rush of cold, and that smell of the fresh 
 air which changes the whole atmosphere of a little room in a 
 moment. Her whole person was breathing it out. Her hat, 
 which she took off when she came in, was full of it, sending the 
 mingled fragrance and chill into every corner of the tiny little fire- 
 iit room. Lady William shivered a little. 
 
 ' You have brought in the draught with you, Mab, like a gale 
 at sea.' 
 
 ' I am sorry,' said the girl, turning back to shut the door. And 
 she came to the fire and knelt down before it, and repeated, with 
 the pertinacity of youth, ' What were you laughing at, mother 1 ' 
 
 ' Nothing very much — chiefly at Aunt Jane and this new thing 
 she has got in her head ! ' 
 
 ' Oh, Aunt Jane,' said Mab carelessly, as if that was a subject 
 already exhausted. Then, however, she added, still pertinacious, 
 ' but what is the new thing she has got into her head 1 ' 
 
 Lady William thought of a certain baby in a book who wanted 
 to see ' the wheels go wound,' and laughed a little once more. 
 
 ' How do you know that I can tell you 1 ' she said. 
 
 'Don't you tell me everything, mammy?' said Mab, rubbing 
 her head against her mother's arm like an afiectionate puppy : and 
 Lady William stroked her child's hair, which glistened with a drop 
 or two of cold dew upon it from the dripping branches outside. 
 
 ' You have pretty hair, Mab,' she said softly, with praise, which 
 was a caress. 
 
 ' Have I ? Oh, I don't think there's anything pretty about 
 me,' said the girl. ' What a little fool I was not to take after you, 
 
12 LADY WILLIAM ii 
 
 mother ! It is you who are the pretty one : and Emmy has the 
 impudence to be a little like you — Emmy, and not me ! But never 
 mind. What has Aunt Jane got in her head ? ' 
 
 ' The pertinacious child ! She has this in her head, that she 
 wants to drag me to-morrow to go with her and call at the Halh' 
 
 ' Oh, is that all ? ' said Mab. She felt that her lively curiosity, 
 which was a pleasant sensation, had been wasted. But then she 
 added, ' Is there anything that makes it of importance that she 
 should call at the Hall ? ' 
 
 How the child swept over the ashes of the volcanoes, raising a 
 little pungent dust, which got into her mother's throat : but she 
 laughed a little, for Aunt Jane was always fair game. 
 
 ' Do you remember the Bennets in Pride and Prejudice' she 
 said, ' and the commotion there was when Mr. Bingley first came 1 ' 
 
 These ladies were great readers of novels, which held perhaps 
 the first place among the amusements of their lives : and they were 
 happy enough to possess an old edition of Miss Austen, which kept 
 them, as much perhaps from their good luck as from good taste, 
 familiar with all she has added to our knowledge of life, and fully 
 prepared with an example for most emergencies that could occur in 
 their little world. 
 
 ' Yes,' said Mab, a little wondering. And then she said, ' Oh, 
 I see. Aunt Jane is like Mrs. Bennet, and Emmy — But Emmy is 
 not half so nice as Jane. And Mr. Bingley is — Oh, I see, I 
 see ' 
 
 ' Don't see too much,' said Lady AVilliam, ' for it is all in 
 embryo ; but I should not wonder if your aunt were at jiresent in 
 her imagination arranging Emmy's trousseau, and thinking over 
 what hymns should be sung at the wedding. "The voice that 
 breathed o'er Eden" is a little common. It was sung for Susan 
 Gi-reen only last week, who said, "No, my lady; we ain't got 
 nothing to do with gardens nor apples, nor folks going about with- 
 out no clo'es." ' 
 
 It is very probable that this story was told by the artful mother 
 with the intention of throwing dust in the child's eyes and leading 
 her away from a subject on which explanations were difficult ; but, 
 if so, she reckoned without her Mab. The girl owned the fact of 
 the anecdote with a little laugh just proportioned to the occasion. 
 
 ' Is Mr. Swinford quite — young ? ' said Mab doubtfully. ' And 
 then there is his mother, who lives with him ' 
 
 ' Well, yes, I suj^pose that is the right way of putting the case,' 
 said Lady William. ' He lived with his mother when I knew 
 them — and as for his age, I remember him a little boy.' 
 
II LADY WILLIAM 13 
 
 ' Oh,' said Mab, with partial satisfaction, ' but you were young 
 yourself then. I think I saw somebody in the village just now who 
 may have been — this gentleman. He was in a big coat, all fur, 
 and shiny shoes — fancy shiny shoes for going through the mud at 
 Watcham ! And he was as old, I should think, as — as old as — 
 Uncle James's last curate, the one who was locum te?iens, and who 
 did not stay — Oh, over thirty at the least. Now Mr. Bingley 
 cannot have been more than twenty-five. I am sure he was not 
 more than twenty-five — and I don't call that very young.' 
 
 ' Leo Swiuford must be over thirty, as you say. He was about 
 nine or ten when I was eighteen — a great diflference then, but 
 perhaps, as you say, not so great a difference now. Who is that, 
 Mab, at the gate 1 ' It showed how Lady William had been 
 roused and disturbed by this afternoon's intelligence that she should 
 be thus moved by the idea of any one at the gate. 
 
 'If you please, my lady,' said Patty, the little maid, putting 
 in her curly head once more ; ' it's a gentleman as I never see 
 before. Nayther the Kector, nor the Curate, nor the General, nor 
 nobody as I know; and he has got fur round his neck like a 
 female,' said Patty, with a cough which covered a laugh. ' It's 
 just like the thing as they call a victorine. I never see it on 
 nobody but a female before.' 
 
 'Let him come in, Patty,' said Lady William. She gave a 
 swift glance at the candles on the mantelpiece, and then she 
 decided not to light them. ' Mab, get up and take a seat like a 
 rational creature. You will soon have your curiosity satisfied, it 
 appears.' 
 
 She said to herself that she did not care for Leo Swinford, not 
 a bit ! It was his mother, not he, who had affected her former 
 life. He had been a boy, and now he would be a man, just like 
 the others. It showed that they meant to be civil that she should 
 send him so soon. This was the only point of view in which Lady 
 William regarded the visit ; but that was the point of view which 
 affected her mind most. She cared no more for Leo Swinford in 
 himself than for any curate in the diocese — which was almost the 
 only other specimen of young man which she was likely to see. 
 She drew back into her corner, which was so near the fire that it 
 was deep in shade, the reflection going quickly through her mind 
 that her first question would be. How does she look 1 is she much 
 altered 1 does she look old 1 That was what his mother would want 
 to know. But she should be baulked in that desire at least. The 
 firelight flickered about, making a pleasant ruddy half-light in the 
 little room. It danced about Mab, coming and going, giving a 
 
14 LADY WILLIAM ii 
 
 note of colour to her light hair, and showing the round youthful 
 curve of her cheeks without any insistence upon the overfulness of 
 her chubby, childish figure. It was very favourable to the child, 
 this ruddy, picturesque, uncertain light. These thoughts flashed 
 through Lady William's mind in the moment that elapsed before 
 Patty threw open the door again, and with a loud voice an- 
 nouncing, ' The gentleman, my lydy,' shut it again smartly upon 
 herself and the sudden chilly draught from outside. And then 
 the scene changed, and the principal figure became, not Lady 
 William and her thoughts any longer, but a solid shadow in the 
 midst of the firelight, a man, unaccustomed intruder here, bringing 
 with him a faint odour of cigars, and that sort of contradictory 
 atmosphere which comes into a feminine household with the very 
 breath of an unknown being of this unhabitual kind. It was an 
 embarrassing position for a stranger ; at least, it would have been 
 an embarrassing position for most men. But Leo Swinford was 
 not one of those who allow themselves to be affected by circum- 
 stances. He made a bow vaguely directed towards the corner, 
 drawing his heels together after the manner of France, and then 
 spoke in the easiest tone, though his words expressed the embarrass- 
 ment which he did not at all feel. 
 
 ' I am under a double disadvantage,' he said, ' and how am 
 I to come out of it ? I came prepared to say that I feared 
 you would not remember me, and now you cannot even see me. 
 Never mind. I am Leo Swinford, and you cannot have for- 
 gotten altogether that name.' 
 
 ' No,' said Lady William. She held out to him from the shade 
 a hand which looked very white in the ruddy light. ' I heard 
 this afternoon that you had come home,' she said, 'and your name 
 was on our lips.' 
 
 ' What a good thing for me,' he said, ' save that it does not 
 at all test your recollection, which I had pleased myself with 
 thoughts of trying. But it is all the same. Do not send for 
 lights, and as you cannot see me, next time we meet I can put 
 my question with equal force.' 
 
 ' I see you very well,' said Lady William, ' and I should not 
 have known you. How could 1 1 You were a child, and now you 
 are a man. And I was a girl, and now I am an old woman. 
 Your mother will see innumerable changes. How is she ? It was 
 kind of her to send you to see me so soon.' 
 
 ' Ah ! ' said the visitor, ' I said I was at a double disadvantage, 
 but it seems there are more. She did not send me to see you, 
 dear lady. I came on my proper feet, and by my proper will. 
 
II LADY WILLIAM 15 
 
 Mamma is not changed, but she no longer sends little Leo on her 
 errands. He has certain instincts of his own.' 
 
 ' Well, then, it was a kind instinct that brought you here,' said 
 Lady William. 
 
 ' I am not so sure of that — an instinct very kind to 
 myself: I foresee little pleasure in the society of home, you 
 will not be offended if I say so. But there was one quarter in 
 which I knew I could indemnify myself, so long as you permit it, 
 madame.' 
 
 He spoke very much like a Frenchman throughout, Mab 
 thought, who sat breathlessly looking on, rather hostile but ex- 
 ceedingly curious, thinking it was as good as a play ; but the 
 ' madame ' was altogether French, not that harsh ' madam ' of the 
 English, which comes at you like a stone, and which may mean 
 more animosity than respect. 
 
 ' We have not, indeed, much variety here,' said Lady William ; 
 ' you will soon exhaust our little resources. But then we are not 
 very far from town, and I advise you to keep the house full. 
 After Paris, Watcham ! It is perhaps rather too much of a differ- 
 ence, unless you have a very strong head.' 
 
 ' My head is indifferent strong. I can stand a good deal in 
 the way of change, from ten degrees below zero to twenty over it. 
 Ah ! I forgot you go by that other impossible standard of Fahren- 
 heit here. You have not presented me to the young lady whom I 
 see by glimpses, as if we were all in a fairy tale.' 
 
 ' My daughter, Mab ; and, as you have already divined Mab, 
 the gentleman whom we were talking of, and who remains in my 
 mind ten years old, in a velvet suit, with lace, and, I believe, 
 curls — — ■' 
 
 He waved his hand. ' Spare me the curls, they were the 
 supplice of my early days. Picture to yourself. Miss Mab — Mab ! 
 how ciirious to put Miss before that name ! One might as well 
 say Miss Titania.' 
 
 ' Gne does sometimes in this day of fantastic names. There 
 are Miss Euids and Miss Imogenes.' 
 
 ' I was saying, picture to yourself a very plain little boy, with 
 very common hair, exactly like every other little boy's, only worse 
 — in long curls upon his wretched shoulders ! they made my life a 
 burden to me. Mamma is a most interesting woman — not at all 
 like other people — I am exceijtionally happy in having had such a 
 companion for my life — but so long as I was a child there were 
 drawbacks. By degrees things right themselves,' he added after a 
 brief dramatic pause. ' I have no longer curls, nor am I sent to 
 
16 LADY WILLIAM ii 
 
 call, and we have solved the problem of having two independent 
 rulers in one house.' 
 
 There was another pause, which Lady William did not herself 
 wish to break. Perhaps his voice, the atmosphere about him, 
 produced recollections that were too strong for her : or perhaps 
 Leo Swinford by himself did not interest Lady William. It was 
 Mab who blurted forth suddenly, with a juvenile instinct of reliev- 
 ing the tension of the silence, a piece of information. 
 
 ' I saw you just now in the village, Mr. Swinford. I wondered if 
 it was you. We don't see many strangers in the village — at least 
 at this time of the year. I said to myself: unless it is some one 
 from the Hall, I don't know who it can be.' 
 
 ' Some one from the Hall is veiy vague. Miss Mab — Queen 
 Mab, if I may say so. I hope you had heard of me, myself, an 
 individual, before that vague conjecture arose.' 
 
 ' No, I can't say I had,' said Mab bluntly. ' Mother said 
 something to-day to Aunt Jane about Leo wanting a wife ; but 
 then, you see, I didn't know who Leo was.' 
 
 ' If that is the only attitude in which I am to be presented to 
 my new world ! but I don't want a wife,' he added plaintively, 
 addressing himself to the dark corner in which Lady William was 
 seated. ' However, I am Leo,' he added, turning to the girl again 
 with such a bow as Mab had never seen before. 
 
Ill 
 
 Many messages passed between the Rectory and the Cottage the 
 next morning on the subject of the visit to the Halh How shall 
 we go 1 Would it be best to get the fly, as there is a prospect of 
 rain 1 Would it do to go in the pony-carriage, as the clouds were 
 making a lift 1 Finally, when the sun came out, would it be best 
 to walk ? Emmy and Florry Plowden were running to and fro all 
 the morning with notes and messages. Emmy (who was going) 
 was anxious and serious on this great subject. It would be such 
 a pity to get wet. ' It is true it is nearly the end of the winter, 
 and our dresses are not in their first freshness ; but it is so dis- 
 agreeable to go into a new house feeling mouldy and damp. First 
 impressions are of so much consequence. Don't you think so, 
 aunt 1 and Mrs. Swinford is Parisian, and accustomed to every- 
 thing in the last fashion.' 
 
 ' You might as well go draggled as not,' said Florence, ' if that 
 is what you are thinking of : for she will see there is not much of 
 the last fashion about you.' 
 
 ' Aunt always looks as if she were the leader of the fashion 
 wherever she goes,' said Emily proudly. She it was who was con- 
 scious of being the only one who was like her aunt. 
 
 ' Thank you for such a pretty compliment,' said Lady William ; 
 ' but Florry is right, I am sorry to say. We shall all be so much 
 below her standard at our best, that a little more or less doesn't 
 matter. Still, without reference to Mrs. Swinford or her impres- 
 sions, it is impleasant to get wet.' 
 
 ' Then you vote for the fly,' said Emmy with satisfaction, 
 ' that is what I always thought you would do. One does not get 
 blown about, one comes out fresh, without having one's hair all 
 wild and marks of mud upon one's shoes. Thanks, Aunt Emily, 
 you always decide for what is best.' 
 
 In an hom', however, they returned, Florry, who was not going, 
 c 
 
18 LADY WILLIAM m 
 
 leading the way. ' Mamma thinks as it's so much brighter our 
 own pony-chaise will do. It's much nicer being in the air than 
 boxed up in a fly. And she thinks it would make so much fuss, 
 setting all the village talking, if the fly was ordered, and it was 
 known everywhere that she was going to the Hall.' 
 
 ' I thought she wished it to be known.' 
 
 ' Oh, of course,' said Emmy, who was the aggrieved party, 
 ' mamma wishes everything to be known. She says a clergy- 
 man's family should always live in a glass house and all that sort 
 of thing. And to have the pony-chaise out, and everybody seeing 
 where we are going, will be just the same thing.' 
 
 ' At all events it's your own private carriage, and not a nasty 
 hired fly,' said Florence. ' " Mrs. Plowden's carriage at the door," 
 and you needn't explain it's a shandrydan.' 
 
 And the unfeeling girl laughed, as was her way : for it was 
 not she who was going to have her fringe disarranged, and the 
 locks at the back blown about by driving in the pony-carriage in 
 the whistling March breeze. 
 
 ' Tell your mother I think the pony-chaise will do quite well 
 if she likes it ; everybody knows what sort of a carriage a country 
 clergyman can afi"ord to keep.' 
 
 ' But you are not a country clergyman. Aunt Emily.' 
 
 ' Heaven forbid ! ' that lady said. 
 
 Next time it was Emily alone who ran ' across,' as they called 
 it. ' Mamma thinks on the whole we might walk. The roads have 
 dried up beautifully, and it's not far. And walking is always cor- 
 rect in the country, isn't it, aunt 1 ' 
 
 ' It is always correct anywhere, Emmy, when you have no other 
 way to go.' 
 
 ' Ah, but we have two other ways to go ! There is the fly, 
 which I should prefer, as it protects one most, and there's our own 
 pony-chaise. It cannot be supposed to be for the want of means 
 of driving. Aunt Emily, if we pleased.' 
 
 ' Of course not,' said Lady "William with great gravity. ' And 
 there is a gipsy van somewhere about. I have always thought I 
 should like to drive about the country in a gipsy van.' 
 
 Emmy gave her aunt a look of reproach : but by this time 
 her sister had arrived with Mrs. Plowden's ultimatum. ' If the 
 sun comes out mamma will call for you at the door, if you will 
 please to be ready by three ; but if it is overcast she will come in 
 the fly. So that is all settled, I hope.' 
 
 Mab had maintained a great calm during all these searchings 
 of heart. She was not going, and had she been going it would 
 
Ill LADY WILLIAM 19 
 
 have been a matter of the greatest indifterence to her, consciously 
 a plain, and what is still more dreadful to the imagination, a fat 
 girl, whether her hair was blown about or not, and what first im- 
 pression Mrs. Swinford or even Leo Swinford might form of her. 
 As for Leo Swinford, indeed, in face of the fact that he had called 
 at the Cottage the night before, she felt for him something of that 
 familiarity which breeds contempt : and how it could matter to 
 anybody what he thought was to Mab's youthful soul a wonder 
 not to be expressed. 
 
 ' What are you so anxious about, after all 1 ' she said. ' If 
 your hair is untidy, what of that 1 Everybody in Watcham knows 
 exactly how your hair looks, Emmy, whether it is just newly done 
 and tidy, or whether it is hanging about your ears.' 
 
 ' I hope it never hangs about my ears,' said Emmy primly, 
 yet with indignation. If there was one thing upon which she 
 prided herself, it was the tidiness in which she stood superior over 
 all her peers. 
 
 ' Oh, I've seen it, after an afternoon at tennis, just as wild as other 
 people's,' said Mab, ' and everybody in the village has seen it too.' 
 
 ' But then,' said the other sister, ' these are not people in the 
 village ; they're new people, and there's a great deal in a fii'st 
 impression — at least, so Emmy thinks.' 
 
 ' A first impression — upon whom ? ' said Mab, with all the 
 severity of her age. Seventeen, being as yet scarcely in it, is a 
 severe critic of the ages over twenty which are in possession of 
 the field. 
 
 There was a pause, which Florence broke by one of her dis- 
 concerting laughs. 
 
 'Mab, you are too much of a baby. Don't you know the 
 Swinfords are going to entertain 1 Perhaps you don't know what 
 that means. They are going to give all sorts of parties, and 
 we'll not be asked if — we don't please.' 
 
 ' Whom 1 ' said Mab again. 
 
 And then there came another laugh from Florence, and an 
 ofi"ended ' What can you mean, Mab ? Mrs. Swinford, to be 
 sure. It is only she who could invite girls to make the house 
 pleasant, and,' said Emily, with a little dignity, ' it is as much 
 for you as for me.' 
 
 ' Oh ! I thought it might be Leo Swinford,' said the audacious 
 Mab, ' who wants a wife, mother says. But he says himself no, 
 he doesn't want anything of the kind.' 
 
 ' Mab ! ' said Lady William, in a warning tone from behind. 
 
 'He didn't say it in any secret,' said Mab, 'not the least. 
 
20 LADY WILLIAM in 
 
 He didn't tell you "But this is between ourselves," or "You won't 
 mention it," or anything of the kind, as people say when they con- 
 fide iu you. He said it right out.' 
 
 ' Who said it right out ? ' cried Emily. It was their turn to 
 question now, and they looked at each other after they had looked, 
 in consternation, at Mab — asking each other, with their eyes, awe- 
 stricken, what could this little minx mean, and how did she know 1 
 
 ' As for Leo Swinford, I don't think anything at all of him,' 
 said Mab. ' He was got up in a fur coat yesterday, when it was 
 not cold at all, only blustering ; and he had shiny shoes on and 
 red socks showing, as if he were got up for the evening — to v/alk 
 about the Watcham roads.' 
 
 'Do you mean to say,' said Emily severely, crushing these 
 pretensions in the bud, ' that i/ou have seen Mr. Swinford, Mab 1 
 And how did you know it was Mr. Swinford — it might have been 
 some excursionist or other down here by a cheap train.' 
 
 'A Marshall and Snelgrove young man,' said Florence. 
 ' Absurd ! red socks and evening shoes and a fur coat.' 
 
 'And we have always understood LIr. Swinford was a 
 gentleman,' Emily said. ' But it is not at all wonderful at Mab's 
 age to take up such a foolish idea. For a new jDerson in the 
 village always looks as if there was an adventure behind him, 
 doesn't he, aunt? — and Mab is such a child still.' 
 
 ' However,' said Lady William, ' I don't know how it came 
 about, but it was Leo Swinford, my dear. I knew him very well 
 when he was a child, and he sought me out because, I suppose, 
 he didn't know any one else here.' 
 
 There was another pause of consternation and disappointment : 
 for to think that Mab had seen this new personage before any of 
 them, and that he had seen Mab, was very disconcerting and 
 disagreeable to these young ladies. But then they reflected that 
 Mab did not count — a little fat, roundabout thing, looking even 
 younger than her age, and that if it was ordained that they 
 should be forestalled by any one, better Mab than another. The 
 horrid little thing ! But then it was a good sign for future 
 intimacy that he knew Aunt Emily, and had come iu this way at 
 once to her house. 
 
 'I am sure,' said Emmy, 'he might have come to the Rectory. 
 Papa would have been very glad to see him, and the clergyman is 
 generally the first person — unless when there is a squire. And 
 of course he is the squire himself But then Aunt Emily is the 
 highest in rank, everybody knows.' 
 
 ' My rank had not much to do with it. All that Leo knows 
 
Ill LADY WILLIAM 21 
 
 of me was as Emily Plowden, the Rector's daughter, just as you 
 are now, Emmy,' said Lady William, with a little laugh. She 
 was going out of the room as she spoke, and turned her head to 
 give them one glance from the door. If it occurred to Lady 
 William that the second Emily Plowden was not precisely like 
 the first, she did not give vent to that opinion. But it was a 
 little ludicrous from her point of view to be told, as she was told 
 so often, that Emily was 'her very image' — 'just what I re- 
 member you at her age.' It was with, perhaps, a little glance of 
 satire in her eyes that she flung this parting word at her niece. 
 But the Emily Plowden of the present generation understood no 
 jest. She blushed a little with conscious pleasure and pride, and 
 threw up her head. Now, Lady AVilliam had a throat like a 
 swan, but Emily's could be described no otherwise than as a long 
 neck, at the top of which her head jerked forward with a motion 
 not unlike the darting movement of a hen. 
 
 ' So you have really seen him, Mab ? Think of having a man, 
 a real man, a young man in Watcham ! Were you much excited ? 
 Had you presence of mind enough to note any particulars as to 
 eyes and hair and height, and so forth — as weU as the red socks 
 and the shiny shoes 1 ' 
 
 ' Oh, he's fair, I think,' said Mab indifferently, ' a sort of no- 
 coloiu^ed hair like mine, and the rest to correspond. He was very 
 talky and jokey with mother, just as if she had been a young 
 lady. But he said little to me.' 
 
 ' It was not to be expected,' said Emily, ' that a gentleman 
 and a man of the world like Mr. Swinford would find much to 
 say to you • and I wonder that he should have remembered Aunt 
 Emily. I have never heard that men like that cared much for 
 old ladies : but no doubt it was because he knew nobody else, and 
 just to pass the time.' 
 
 ' Mother is not an old lady,' said Mab ; ' if I were a man I 
 should like her better than all of you girls put together. You 
 are, on the whole, rather silly things. You don't talk out of your 
 own heads, but watch other people's eyes to see what will please 
 them. I don't call that talking ! You never would have found 
 out what would please that man if you had looked into his eyes 
 for a year. Now mother never minds — she says what comes into 
 her head : and if any one contradicts her she just goes on saying 
 the other thing.' 
 
 This somewhat vague description seemed to make a certain 
 impression upon the young ladies, who probably were able to fill 
 up the outlines for themselves. Emily gave a little sigh. 
 
22 LADY WILLIAM m 
 
 ' Conversation's quite a gift,' she said, ' and it's always difficult 
 with a new person till you know their tastes. I suppose Mr. 
 Swinford knows about pictures and that sort of thing, and unless 
 you've somebody to tell you when you go to the exhibitions it's 
 so hard to know which are really the good ones. Then books — 
 Mudie never sends us any of the best. He puts all the common 
 novels into the country parcels. At the Hall they will get every- 
 thing that comes out.' 
 
 ' He said nothing about books or pictures either,' said Mab — 
 'Yes, by the bye, he's going to lend mother some — but they're 
 French ones ' 
 
 ' French ones ! ' said the cousins ; and then there was a pause 
 of consternation. ' Papa once said if he had his will no French 
 novel should ever come into the parish.' 
 
 ' Ah ! ' said Mab, ' but then I suppose Mr. Swinford didn't 
 write and ask uncle what he should bring.' 
 
 Emily remained gazing out of the window with a troubled 
 air. 
 
 ' We shall never know what to say if that is the sort of thing ; 
 
 and as for going to their parties, if they are all made up of 
 
 Mamma, too, who never read a French book in her life. We had 
 a little practice in the schoolroom, when we had Fraulein, don't 
 
 you remember, Flo Who was it we read? It was all long 
 
 speeches, and one could never make out what they were about.' 
 
 'And they sounded exactly like German when Fraulein read 
 them. I never could tell which was which. But I know where 
 the books are, and perhaps if you learned one of the speeches and 
 said it to Mr. Swinford, he might like it, don't you know.' 
 
 ' I was not, of course, thinking of Mr. Swinford, but of Mrs. 
 Swinford,' said Emily, frowning. 
 
 ' And you think you will get a chance of talking to her with 
 mamma and Aunt Emily there 1 ' 
 
 'Well,' said Emily, 'at least I can show her that I know my 
 place, and how an English girl behaves.' 
 
 'I wish you would not wrangle,' said Mab; 'it was rather 
 fun listening to mother and him : they said no speeches out of 
 books — I believe after all what they said was chiefly chaff. 
 Mother is a wonderful hand at chaff. She looks so quiet all the 
 time, and goes on till you are nearly jumping. But he liked it, 
 and laughed, and gave her as good. There was one thing he 
 said,' added Mab demurely, 'which wasn't chaff, and which you 
 might like to hear. He said at once he didn't want ' 
 
 ' What ! I'm sure I don't care what he wants or doesn't want 
 
Ill LADY WILLIAM 23 
 
 ■ — a gardener perhaps 1 and papa has just heard of one he wanted 
 to recommend.' 
 
 ' A wife ! ' cried Mab, her blue eyes quickening a little with 
 mischief. ' Mother asked if he did, and he said he didn't. Per- 
 haps she had some one she wanted to recommend.' 
 
 ' Perhaps,' said Florence, coming to her sister's aid ; ' that is 
 the way in France, the parents arrange it all. I shouldn't mind 
 at all — that. I give my consent. It would be nice to be the 
 bride's relations and always about the house. If you'll promise to 
 ask nice people and always us to meet them — and be kind about 
 sending the carriage for us, and that sort of thing, for papa hates 
 a bill for flys — I shall give my consent.' 
 
 ' Me ! ' cried Mab, indignant, ' I would not marry Leo Swin- 
 
 ford, not if I'd rather marry the silliest of the curates. 
 
 I'd rather ' She stopped short breathless, unable to find a 
 
 stronger alternative. 
 
 'Then what a good thing for you,' said Florry, 'that he 
 doesn't want a wife ! ' 
 
 'If you think it is nice,' said Emily, 'for young girls to talk 
 about gentlemen, and whether they want wives or not, as if wives 
 were sold at the shop at so much a pound — I am not of that 
 kind of mind : and Aunt Emily would not like it any more than 
 mamma. Good-bye, you two. I have got to go home and get 
 ready, whatever you may have to do.' 
 
 And thus Emily retired with the honours of war. If there 
 was any one who had formed plans on the subject of Leo S win- 
 ford it was she; not plans, indeed, which are dreadful foreign 
 things, but just a floating idea such as an English girl might 
 entertain, that if a young man and a young woman are thrown 
 much together, why, then certain consequences might follow. 
 One never could tell what might happen, as Mrs. Plowden herself, 
 who was the very essence of propriety, did not hesitate to say. 
 
TV 
 
 The road was a little muddy, but not much ; and it was quite 
 possible by takiug a little trouble in walking to keep your boots 
 quite clean. Under the trees in the avenue this was not so easy, 
 for it was more sheltered, and the wind could not get in to sweep 
 through and through every opening. There is a pond, or lake, in 
 the grounds, as everybody knows, which had been the delight of 
 the neighbourhood for the skating in winter, all the long time the 
 Swinfords had been absent. 
 
 ' I wonder if they will still let us skate now they are at home,' 
 said Emily, as they walked round the bank over the crisped and 
 extremely living water, which did not look under the breeze as if 
 it had ever been bound by chains of frost. 
 
 ' Winter is a long way off,' said Mrs. Plowden, who was a little 
 blown by her walk. She desired her companions to pause a little 
 and look at the view. 'I don't Avant,' she said, panting, 'to go in 
 out of breath. These sort of people have quite advantage enough 
 over one in their fine houses without going in panting like a washer- 
 woman.' She added, 'Winter's a long way off, and, as we never 
 knew whether they gave permission at all, or if it was only Howell 
 at the gate, I wouldn't say anything about it, Emmy, if I were you.' 
 
 Mrs. Plowden's loss of breath partly proceeded from the fact 
 that she had been talking all the way. She had no want of sub- 
 jects : the past history of Mrs. Swinford, whom they were going to 
 visit, which she did not know ; but that made little difference ; 
 and the character of her son, which nobody in Watcham knew ; and 
 the precautions to be taken in arranging their intercourse with the 
 family so as to get all that might be advantageous out of that 
 intercourse without in any way compromising themselves in respect 
 to that which might be unsatisfactory. ' If there should be any 
 matrimonial entanglement,' said Mrs. Plowden, ' or that sort of 
 thing, of course it would be for the girl's family to make every 
 
IV LADY WILLIAM 25 
 
 inquiry. But I daresay as he's half a Frenchmau, and not at all 
 one of our sort, nothing of that kind will happen : and it is time 
 enough to take it into consideration when it does.' 
 
 ' Quite time enough,' said Lady William, very decidedly, 
 'especially as nothing can be more imlikely.' 
 
 ' That is just what I say. Of course when young people are 
 thrown together one never knows what may happen : and it is to 
 be hoped that Mr. Swinford may see how much better it would be 
 to settle down with a nice English wife than to bring over a French 
 mademoiselle, who never would understand English ways. But it 
 will be time enough, don't you think so, Emily? for I always 
 acknowledge you know better than me when it is anything French 
 that is in question — with your languages, you know, and all that.' 
 
 ' My languages won't help me much with Leo Swinford, who is 
 just as English as I am — nor with his mother, who is cosmopolitan, 
 and of no country at all' 
 
 ' That's just one of your sayings, Emily, for how could a woman 
 be of no country at all 1 What I'm most concerned for is whether 
 they will come to church : and I can see it's much on James's mind, 
 though he never says anything ; for a great house like that, almost 
 the only great house in the parish, sets such a dreadful example if 
 they don't go to church. One hears of it all through the place. 
 If the people at the Hall don't go, why should we ? I tell them 
 it's quite different — that the people at the Hall have many oppor- 
 tunities, and are deeply interested all the same, and all that ; 
 whereas if poor people don't pay attention to their religious duties, 
 what is to become of them 1 But often they don't seem to see it.' 
 
 ' I shouldn't see it if I was in their place. I thought that in 
 Christianity there was no respect of persons.' 
 
 ' Oh ! my dear Emily, you ought to know better than to bring 
 up that common argument against us, and your brother the Eector 
 of the parish. Of course there's no respect of persons ! But if 
 Mrs. Swinford comes to church she will be shown into the Hall 
 pew, and old I\Irs. Lloyd will just find a place for herself, if she is 
 early enough, in the free seats. How could anybody do otherwise ? 
 We must be practical. Old Mary Lloyd would be very uncom- 
 fortable if she were to sit down with you or me. She is much 
 more at home in the free seats. And with the poor people it is 
 only their individual selves that are in question, whereas the great 
 lady sets such an example : and there are all the servants and the 
 servants' families, and one doesn't know how many ' 
 
 ' I think you may set your mind at ease, Jane. Mrs. Swinford 
 wiU come to church.' 
 
26 LADY WILLIAM iv 
 
 ' You take a load off my mind, Emily ; but it is many, many 
 years since you have seen her, and people change a great deal. I 
 sometimes feel even myself, you know, an inclination to stay in bed 
 on Sunday mornings. It is a thing to be crushed in the bud. If 
 you give in to a headache once, there is no telling where it may 
 land you in the end.' 
 
 'But, mamma dear,' said the sympathetic Emmy, 'your head- 
 aches are so bad ! ' 
 
 ' Hum ! ' said Mrs. Plowden doubtfully. ' Yes, my headaches 
 are bad sometimes : but it is a thing that one should set one's face 
 against. It ought to be crushed in the bud — on Sundays, I mean ; 
 it does not matter so much on other days. And Mr. Swinford, 
 Emily. I hear that you have seen him already. Now, I wonder 
 what made him go to see you ' 
 
 ' Why shouldn't he 1 ' said Lady William, with a laugh. 
 
 ' Oh, well, you know ! I should have thought a gentleman 
 would have looked up the Eector, or the Archdeacon, or the 
 General, instead of a lady just living in a small way by herself, 
 like you.' 
 
 ' Mamma, you forget Aunt Emily's rank,' Emmy said in dismay. 
 
 ' Oh, I never forget her rank ! ' cried Mrs. Plowden, with a 
 little irritation. ' I hear enough of it, I am sure.' 
 
 ' The Eector and the Archdeacon and the General are all very 
 important persons. The only thing is that Leo Swinford did not 
 know them, and he knew me.' 
 
 ' I have always observed that people in that sort of position 
 know everybody,' said Mrs. Plowden, ' and, my dear Emily, I don't 
 want to seem censorious, but do you think it is quite nice to talk 
 of a young man like that by his Christian name 1 I don't even 
 know his Christian name. It may be Leonard or it may be Lionel, 
 or it may be ' 
 
 ' Oh ! Leopold, mamma ! ' 
 
 ' I don't see what you have got to do with it, Emmy. If your 
 aunt knows him so well as that, yoM don't know him — and perhaps 
 never will if he is that kind of man ! ' 
 
 ' Don't you think,' said Lady William, with that perfect com- 
 posure of which she was mistress, ' that we might stop for a 
 moment again and look at the view ' 
 
 ' Oh, if you feel the hill, Emily — it is a little steep — I don't 
 mind sitting down for a moment, if you feel you want it. It is 
 very pretty here,' said Mrs. Plowden, panting; ' the water — through 
 the trees — and the lodge — in the distance — with the wisteria just 
 beginning to shoot.' 
 
rr LADY WILLIAM 27 
 
 The pause made here was a few minutes in duration, for Mrs. 
 Plowden had heated herself much by her argument and by clam- 
 bering up the ascent — which was, indeed, only a very gentle ascent. 
 At last, however, the party reached the door. As they came up 
 sounds were audible inside, which disclosed themselves, when the 
 door was hastily opened, as produced by a game of billiards, played 
 by Mr. Leo Swinford, and — oh ! terrible sight — his butler : though 
 for the first moment Mrs. Plowden's eager intelligence had not 
 taken in this fact. She said, politely, that she was afraid they had 
 driven the gentleman away 
 
 ' Oh ! ' said Leo with a laugh, ' it's only Morris — let me fulfil 
 his functions and take you to my mother.' He offered the Rector's 
 wife his arm, but she drew modestly back. 
 
 ' My sister-in-law, Mr. Swinford. Oh, I hope I know what is 
 comme-il-faut. I could not go before Lady William.' Mrs. Plow- 
 den had a flash of exultation in thinking of that word — comvie-il- 
 faut. It was something like an inspiration that brought it to her 
 lips in the very nick of time. 
 
 The drawing-room at the Hall was a large room in three 
 divisions, divided with pillars of sham marble with gilded capitals. 
 It was too bright, notwithstanding the heaviness of the decorations. 
 Large windows almost from the roof to the floor poured in floods 
 of afternoon light, and shone pitiless upon the lady who rose lan- 
 guidly to meet her visitors, keeping her back to the light. She 
 was a tall woman, exceedingly worn and thin, but with a great 
 deal of grace in her movements, though she was old. Her age was 
 the first thing which the eager rural visitors noted, for it was a 
 sort of age which had never come under their observation before. 
 She was dressed picturesquely in dark velvet with such folds and 
 cunning lines as they had never dreamed of, and which plunged 
 them into anxious questioning whether that might be the latest 
 fashion. If so, it was unlike anything that Miss Singer had in 
 her books and papers, or even Madame Mantz, who was Miss 
 Singer's great example in town ; and her hair, which had not a 
 white thread in it, was uncovered. No cap on her head ! and 
 approaching seventy, Mrs. Plowden thought, making a rapid cal- 
 culation upon the facts she knew. Mrs. Swinford stepped forward 
 a little with a faint cry of ' Emily ' when Lady William appeared, 
 and took her, with every appearance of cordiality, into her arms, 
 and they kissed, or at least Mrs. Swinford touched Lady William's 
 cheeks one after the other, while the Plowdens made a respectful 
 circle round and looked on. ' This is indeed kind,' Mrs. Swinford 
 said. The ladies were so bent upon the aspect of the mistress of 
 
28 LADY WILLIAM iv 
 
 the Hall that they did not observe how pale Lady William was, 
 or how little part she took in the embrace. 'And though, of 
 course, she could not take us into her arms,' Mrs. Plowden said 
 after, ' never having set eyes on us before, she was quite as cordial, 
 and hoped she would see a gTeat deal of us, and that it was so 
 nice to feel that one was coming among people who felt like old 
 friends.' ' I have heard so much of you through Emily,' was what 
 Mrs. Swinford really did say ; to which Emily was so disagreeable 
 as to make no reply. And then they all sat down, and Mrs. 
 Plowden began to make conversation, as in duty bound. 
 
 ' We are so glad to see you in your own house, Mrs. Swinford. 
 The Rector has always said it was so cold like to feel that there 
 was no one in the Hall. A squire's house makes such a difference. 
 The poor people think so much of it, and the middle people are 
 always looking out for an example ; and of course the higher 
 class, it is yourself — so you being here is, if I may say so, of the 
 greatest consequence to everybody, and I do hope it will be agree- 
 able to you.' 
 
 ' You are very good,' said Mrs. Swinford, with a motion of her 
 head. ' It never occurred to me that it could be of any importance 
 except to ourselves.' 
 
 ' Oh, I assure you it is of the greatest consequence. What we 
 want in England is the higher classes to set a good example, to 
 keep back those horrid democratic ways, and show us how we 
 ought to behave. We are very loyal to a good example in England, 
 Mrs. Swinford. You have been so long away, perhaps you may 
 not remember how in a well-ordered parish the people are taught 
 to look up to those who are above them ' 
 
 ' But suppose we do not set a good example ? ' said the lady, 
 with a languid smile. She was looking at Lady William, who sat 
 by, saying little, and who was in the full flood of the light, which 
 she was quite able to bear. The elder woman, who was not, 
 bestowed an interested attention upon the friend whom she had 
 greeted so warmly — not even a look or movement, nor even a fold 
 of the very plain black dress, which showed how little means of 
 adornment the other possessed, yet how little it mattered to her 
 whether she was adorned or not, escaped her. Mrs. Swinford was 
 very deeply learned in all these arts, in all that tended to preserve 
 beauty and enhance it. She liad been a beauty herself in her day, 
 and was very reluctant to part with it. She looked at her old 
 friend with an eager, yet veiled attention, observing all that was in 
 her favour, and the few things against her. Poorly dressed, but 
 looking none the worse, the black being in its way a kind of veil 
 
1-v LADY WILLIAM 29 
 
 even of its own imperfections : the charm of the face enhanced by 
 sorrow and trouble and many experiences, the outlines uninjured, 
 the cheek almost as purely oval as in youth, the eyes as sweet, the 
 hair — it had a touch of gray, perhaps, but that is no harm to such 
 a woman, a woman not standing upon her appearance, perhaps not 
 thinking much of it — at least, giving herself the air of not thinking 
 of it at all. Mrs. Swinford did not believe that any woman was 
 ever indifferent to her appearance, or not thinking of it. It did 
 not matter much to herself at the present moment, when there was 
 no one she cared to aflect or charm, no one worth the lifting of a 
 finger ; and yet she was not indifferent to her own aspect, and why 
 should Lady William be 1 Lady William 1 A strange smile 
 crossed the elder lady's face as she remembered what was now 
 Emily Plowden's name. She said to her in the middle of Mrs. 
 Plowden's speech, to which she paid no attention, with a way that 
 women of the world have, ' How strange it is to think of you, 
 Emily, by that name ! ' 
 
 The entire company pricked up its ears. Mrs. Plowden stopped 
 short, much discomfited, in her explanation of what was the 
 Rector's opinion, in which Mrs. Swinford had interrupted her with 
 such absolute indifference as to what she was saying. And Emmy 
 raised her long neck, remembering always keenly that it was she 
 who was now Emily Plowden ; and even young Mr. Swinford, who 
 had been talking to Lady AVilliam, raised his head with sudden 
 attention, glancing from her to his mother. Lady William herself 
 coloured suddenly, and with an unusual air asked, ' What name ? ' 
 
 ' What but your married name, my dear 1 ' Mrs. Swinford said, 
 and laughed low, but very distinctly, with her eyes fixed upon her 
 guest. 
 
 'Ah, yes,' said Lady William, returning the look, 'you are 
 more used to my husband's name than mine.' 
 
 Kobody had the least idea what this passage of arms meant — 
 not even Mr. Swinford, who kept looking from his mother to Lady 
 William with a questioning look. As for the other ladies, they 
 stared severely, and did not attempt to understand. Mrs. Swin- 
 ford was a little rude, and so was Lady William. They did not 
 show the fine manners which ought to belong to fine ladies. On 
 the whole, Mrs. Plowden thought it might have been better for her 
 to make her first call alone. Mrs. Swinford had talked to her 
 quite sweetly, she said afterwards, but Emily and she did not seem 
 to be on such good terms. It is always a mistake, Mrs. Plowden 
 thought, to depend upon any one else in the way of introduction. 
 The Rector's wife in her own parish is the equal of any one. And 
 
30 LADY WILLIAM iv 
 
 as for French, in which Emily was believed to be so superior, 
 French was no more wanted, she reported to the Rector, ' than 
 between you and me.' 
 
 ' I daresay,' she said, when this little sensation was over, ' that 
 you find our poor Emily much changed. Such a difference for her 
 to come from the society in which she was, and everybody so 
 superior, to our little village again : but, of course, all these things 
 are little to the loss of a dear husband, which is the greatest a 
 woman can have to bear ' 
 
 ' You speak most eloquently, Mrs. Plowden,' said Mrs. S win- 
 ford, ' the very greatest a woman can be called upon to bear.' 
 
 ' It is very kind of you,' said Lady William, ' to feel so much 
 for me.' 
 
 ' Yes, yes, the very greatest : and she has taken it so well. 
 But naturally it makes a great difference. My daughter Emmy is 
 considered by everybody to be extremely like her aunt,' said Mrs. 
 Plowden, directing with a look the attention of the party to Emmy, 
 who bridled and drew up her long neck with that little forward 
 movement which was like a peck, but did not at all mean anything 
 of the kind. 
 
 Mrs. Swinford gave poor Emmy a look — one of those full, 
 undisguised looks which again women of the world alone permit 
 themselves ; but she made no remark — which was very eloquent, 
 more so than many remarks. She said, after a time, with the air 
 of a person who has been puzzling her brains to keep up a 
 conversation : 
 
 ' You have other daughters ? ' adding to her question a smile of 
 great sweetness, as if there was nothing in the world she was more 
 interested in. 
 
 ' One,' said Mrs. Plowden, much gratified, ' Florence, named 
 after another aunt, and more like my side of the house. And I 
 have a son, who we hoped would have gone into tlie Church ; but 
 he is like so many young men of the present day, he has religious 
 difficulties. And the Rector thinks it is not right to force his 
 inclinations, especially into a sacred profession. I have great 
 confidence in my husband's judgment, but I don't quite agree with 
 him on this point ; for I think if you only use a little pressure 
 upon them when they are young, they are often most truly grateful 
 to you afterwards, when they begin to understand the claims of 
 life. I wonder,' said Mrs. Plowden, with a glance at Leo, who was 
 once more leaning over Lady William's chair, 'whether you agree 
 with me ? I should like to have the support of your opinion, for 
 you must have experience in dealing with the young.' 
 
IV LADY WILLIAM 31 
 
 Mrs. SwinforJ had delicately intimated her entire indifference 
 to the homily of the clergyman's wife for some time past, but she 
 was recalled by this appeal, which amused her. 
 
 ' Yes,' she said, ' I have a son ; but I do not think I 
 have attempted to force his inclinations,' she added, after a 
 pause. 
 
 ' Ah, then you would agree with James ! I am sorry, for it 
 would have been a great support to me ; but we must all judge for 
 ourselves in these matters — and in such a question as entering a 
 sacred profession ' 
 
 ' Leo,' said Mrs. Swinford, ' we are forgetting : our habits are 
 not yet quite English. Oifer Lady William some tea.' 
 
 'Oh,' said Mrs. Plowden, with a start, 'let me pour it out! 
 Or Emily will do so, I am sure, with pleasure, if you will permit. It 
 is so awkward for a gentleman ' 
 
 ' Pray do not trouble yourself. Leo can manage it very well, 
 or he can ring for some one if he wants help. And you, Emily, 
 have a daughter, too ? ' 
 
 'Yes, I have a daughter.' 
 
 ' Quite young ? She can scarcely be grown up. I do not 
 
 remember many dates, but there are two or three Eighteen 
 
 perhaps, or a little less, or more 1 ' 
 
 ' She wiU not be eighteen for some months.' 
 
 ' And pretty 1 Like you ? Do you see anything of the family ? 
 Do they take any notice of the child ? ' 
 
 ' To tell the truth,' said Lady William, ' my child and I have 
 been very happy in our cottage, and we have not thought much of 
 any family — save our own very small family of two.' 
 
 She had flushed with supj^ressed anger, but with an evident 
 desire to keep her feelings concealed, answered the questions very 
 deliberately and in a tone of studied calm. 
 
 ' Ah, I recognise you in that ! always proud : but not prudent. 
 One must not despise a family, especially when it has a fine title. 
 You ought to consider, my dear Emily, how important it may be 
 for the child ; your excellent sister-in-law,' said Mrs. Swinford, 
 turning with her wonted smile to Mrs. Plowden, 'thoroughly 
 recognises that.' 
 
 Mrs. Plowden, thus unexpectedly referred to, was taken in an 
 undignified moment, when she had just begun to sip her first 
 mouthful of very hot tea. She had felt that a second interruption 
 in the very midst of what she had been saying was too much to be 
 forgiven; but on being appealed to in this marked manner she 
 changed her mind, and perceived that it was only Mrs. Swinford's 
 
32 LADY WILLIAM iv 
 
 way. She swallowed the hot tea hastily, to her great discomfort, 
 in her haste to respond. 
 
 ' Indeed I do/ she said fervently, coughing a little. ' Indeed 1 
 
 do I tell Emily often I would put my pride in my pocket, 
 
 and insist on having Mab invited to make acquaintance with her 
 father's family. And she's such a Pakenham, more like the 
 Marquis than any daughter he has.' 
 
 ' Oh, she's such a Pakenham ! ' said Mrs. Swinford, with a 
 faint laugh. 
 
 ' I think, Jane,' said Lady William, ' that you are forgetting 
 we walked here, and that it is time we were going back.' 
 
 ' Oh, please, let these dear ladies finish their tea. Leo, Miss 
 Plowden will take some cake. I am more interested than I can 
 tell to hear that your child does not take after you, but is like the 
 Pakenhams.' The laugh was very soft, quite low, most ladylike, 
 and, indeed, what is called poetically, silver in tone. 'What an 
 ill-advised little mortal ! ' she said. 
 
* Well,' said Florence to Mab, ' we two are left alone. We're the 
 young ones, we have to keep out of the way. But I am sure 
 the Swiufords would rather have seen you and me than Emmy. 
 We are the youngest and we axe the most amusing.' 
 
 ' Oh, please speak for yourself,' said Mab, ' I am not amusing 
 at all' 
 
 Florence looked at her with an air of consideration. ' Well, 
 perhaps that is true,' she said; 'you have a turn-up nose, and you 
 ought to be lively, but appearances are very deceiving. I wonder 
 what that army of observation will do to-day? I call them our 
 army of observation because they have gone to spy out the land, 
 and decide upon what are the proper lines of strategy. It's quite 
 new to us in Watcham to have a squire's family : and then it is 
 not even a common squire's family. They are such superior 
 people, and their ways are so unlike ours. Shouldn't you say it 
 would be a nice thing in Watcham to have people whose ways are 
 not as our ways 1 ' 
 
 ' Oh, I don't know,' said Mab, with the indifference of extreme 
 youth, ' we are well enough as we are.' 
 
 ' It is easy for you to speak, with only Aunt Emily to think 
 of, and your own way — and seventeen,' said Florry, with a sigh. 
 ' I would give something to be seventeen again.' 
 
 ' Why ? ' said Mab. ' It is the most ridiculous age — too old to 
 be a child, too young to be anything else. One cares no more for 
 dolls and that sort of thing, and one doesn't care either for what 
 the old people talk about. How they go on and on and talk ! as 
 if anybody minded.' 
 
 ' You shouldn't listen,' said Florry. 
 
 ' Sometimes one can't help it. Sometimes there's a bit of story 
 in it, and then it's nice — only in that case they say, ' You re- 
 member so-and-so : what a tragedy that was ! ' and then the other 
 
 D 
 
34 LADY WILLIAM v 
 
 wags his or her head, and they shut up, not reflecting that you're 
 dying to know.' 
 
 ' There's something of that sort about Mrs. Swinford,' said 
 Florence ; ' there was quite a tallc about calling before mamma 
 made up her mind. Mrs. FitzStephen came in about a week or 
 two ago, and she said, " I have come to know what you're going to 
 do ? " And mamma said, without even asking what she meant, " I 
 am very much perjjlexed, and I don't know in the least." And 
 then papa, standing in front of the fire, with his coat-tails on his 
 arms, you know, grumbles out — "You had better let it alone." 
 " Let what alone 1 " mamma called out quickly, and he just stared 
 and said nothing. At this mamma said, " They are sure to 
 entertain a great deal ; they are people that can't live without 
 company." And Mrs. FitzStephen, she said, " Oh, I don't care 
 for such company." And then mamma replied, with her grand 
 Roman matron air, " You have no young people to think of, Mrs. 
 FitzStephen." ' 
 
 Florence was a tolerable mimic, and she ' did ' those characters, 
 with whom Mab was intimately acquainted, in an exceedingly 
 broad style, and with considerable effect. 
 
 ' Florry, you oughtn't to take off" your own father and mother.' 
 
 ' Who then 1 ' cried Florry. ' I must take such as I have ; I 
 don't know such lots of people. Wait till the Swinfords come on 
 the scene and Fll do them.' 
 
 ' Ah, he's not so easy to do. The others you've known all your 
 life, and they are all the same kind of people : but you never saw 
 any one like — that gentleman. The General would give you no 
 clue to him, nor anybody you know here. He is like nobody you 
 ever saw ; he is — I don't know what to say.' 
 
 ' You are always thinking of that fur coat of his and patent 
 leather shoes, I wonder if they will see him to-day 1 They had 
 much better have taken you and me, Mab. Emmy may be the 
 eldest, but she will never make any impression. A man like that 
 will never look twice at her.' 
 
 ' Why should he ? ' said Mab, raising her eyebrows, ' or what 
 does it matter whether he does or not 1 ' 
 
 ' Oh, Mab, you silly little thing,' said Florence, ' you must 
 know, however silly you may be, that it matters a great deal. 
 Think only what it would matter ! To have a girl settled like 
 that — rich, able to do what she pleased, one's sister ; only think ; 
 or still more if it was one's self We've got twenty pounds a 
 year each for our clothes, fancy ! And Mrs. Swinford will have 
 hundreds — she will have just as much as she likes, and whatever 
 
T LADY WILLIAM 35 
 
 she likes, and a graud house where she could ask the Queen her- 
 self : and power — power to get Jim settled somehow, to make 
 him sure of his living : perhaps to get something better for papa, 
 and save mamma some of the anxiety she has. And if anything 
 happened to them, why, there would be a home for — for — the other 
 one, don't you see 1 Oh ! ' said Florence, with a deep-drawn breath 
 that seemed to come from the very depth of her being, ' it would 
 matter so much that it is wicked, it is dreadful, to think that a 
 man could make such a change in another creature's life only by 
 looking at her and throwing his handkerchief. It's immoral to 
 dangle a chance like that under a poor girl's very nose.' 
 
 Mab was not unimpressed with this terrible truth. She felt 
 also that to contemplate the differences that might ensue if one of 
 the daughters of the Rectory became Mrs. Swinford of the Hall 
 was more than words could say. The very possibility caught at 
 her breath. She made a momentary pause of awe, and then she 
 said, ' But he never will, he never will ! ' 
 
 ' Emmy, no,' said Florence ; ' no — she's too- — she's not enough 
 — oh ! she's impossible, and I can see that very well for myself. 
 Emmy is — she's one's sister, and she is as nice as ever was. You 
 know she is a nice girl ! But she was never made for that ; whereas 
 if they had taken you and me ' 
 
 ' Don't say me, please,' said Mab, reddening all over that 
 blunt -featured and irregular little face, which was unfortunately 
 so like the Pakenhams. The flush was quite hot, and discomposed 
 her, ' Fm impossible, too — much more impossible,' she said. 
 
 ' Oh ! you stand upon your family,' said Florence, ' and upon 
 your mother's position, and all that ; but you may take my word 
 for it, that if you were the Marquis's own daughter instead of a dis- 
 
 rep I mean instead of his brother's, you would have to do the 
 
 very same thing. If it is because you're not pretty, that's true 
 enough ; but there's never any telling what may take a man like 
 that, and you've got plenty of "go " in you, Mab, though I don't 
 want to flatter you : and even in looks a year or two may make a 
 great difi'erence ' 
 
 ' Will you stop ! will you stop, please ! ' said Mab ; ' Florry, 
 stop ! You make me ashamed. You make me feel as if ' 
 
 ' You were going in for it, too 1 ' said Florence calmly. ' It 
 
 makes me crazy, too, sometimes to think that But so long 
 
 as girls are poor, and a man, just because they please him, can 
 change everything for them — how can we help it 1 Even if you 
 were to work, as people say, what difi'erence would it make ? I 
 could perhaps make my living — and Emmy But dear, 
 
36 LADY WILLIAM v 
 
 dear, to think of the Hall beside any little breadwinniug of 
 ours ' 
 
 ' Don't talk so, jilease^ cried Mab, with a shiver. She was 
 not a visionary at all, nor had she any sentiment to speak of. 
 But she was very young, still something between a girl and a boy, 
 and ashamed to hear those revelations which she only half under- 
 stood ; or, rather, did not understand at all. 
 
 ' Well, one needn't talk,' said Florry, with a slight emphasis 
 on the word. ' But though you mayn't talk of it, you can't stop 
 a thing from being true.' 
 
 ' Let's go out for a walk,' said Mab, ' a long walk, down by 
 the Barou's Wood and up by Durham Hill ; or let's go out on the 
 river for a pull. Let us do something — one can't stay quiet all 
 this bright afternoon.' 
 
 ' I want so much to see them when they come back,' said 
 Florry. ' I want to know what they think of him — if they saw 
 him : and whether Emmy made any impression, and what hap- 
 pened.' 
 
 ' What could happen % Do you expect her to come home 
 engaged to him % ' said Mab. ' However well things may go, they 
 could not go so quickly as that.' 
 
 ' I am not a fool,' said Florry, with indignation. She stood 
 at the little gate looking out wistfully along the road by which 
 the ladies had gone. The great trees hung over the wall which 
 bounded there the nearest corner of the demesne of the Swin- 
 fords \ the lodge and gate were just round the corner out of sight. 
 It was too soon to expect them to come back. ' Unless Mrs. 
 Swinford had been out,' said Florry. ' She might be out, you 
 know, and then they'd be back directly.' 
 
 ' She never goes out,' said Mab ; ' it's too cold for her here.' 
 
 ' Or she might not receive them very well, and then they 
 would only stay a few minutes. You are so indifferent, you don't 
 care a bit wliat has happened : and I am on pins and needles till 
 I know.' 
 
 ' Then I shall go for a walk by myself.' 
 
 ' Don't do that,' said Florry, putting out her hand to stay her 
 cousin. She stood thus for a moment with her head turned to- 
 wards the Hall, but her hand clutching Mab, gazing in one direction 
 while her person inclined towards the other. She drew a long 
 breath, and turned at last from her fixed gaze. ' They must,' she 
 said, sighing again, 'have stayed to tea. Yes, I'll go on the 
 river if you like ; but let us go round home on the way and fetch 
 Jim.' 
 
V LADY WILLIAM 37 
 
 ' Jim ! ' said Mab. ' He'll want to scull, and I prefer to scull 
 myself.' 
 
 ' Ob, he doesn't mind. He is as lazy as He'll steer and 
 
 let us pull as long as ever you i^lease. I don't know anybody so 
 lazy as Jim.' 
 
 ' We should be better by ourselves,' said Mab ; ' not that 
 heavy weight in the stern of the boat. When we go by ourselves 
 it's no weight at all.' 
 
 ' He'll steer,' said Florry ; ' it's better to have some one to 
 steer. And don't you see it will keep him out of mischief for one 
 afternoon.' 
 
 ' You have always another reason behind,' said Mab. ' It 
 never is just the thing you think of, but something at the back of it.' 
 
 ' Well,' said Florry soothingly, ' it's always so, don't you know, 
 where there's a family. You are so lonely, you have no brothers 
 and sisters. If you do well, then everything is all right. But 
 our being right depends upon so many things : First, if papa is 
 in good humour, and if Jim is going straight. Emmy and I have 
 little questions between ourselves, of course, but these are the 
 chief ones. Now, you have only Aunt Emily to think of, and she 
 neither gets into rages nor goes wrong.' 
 
 ' I should hope not,' said Mab, indignantly. 
 
 ' It is all very well for you to throw up your head like that ; 
 but we cannot do it. We must manage the best we can. Mab, 
 I do often wish there could be a change.' 
 
 This was said when she had at last torn herself away from 
 the road to the Hall, and the two girls were walking towards the 
 Rectory and the river. 
 
 ' What sort of change '? ' 
 
 ' Oh ! anything. That Jim should go away, or that he should 
 do sometliing dreadful that couldn't be forgiven — or that Emmy 
 should marry. I would even marry myself — any one ! to make a 
 change in the family and get away.' 
 
 ' I should think, however bad things may be, that they would 
 be worse if you were all separated and not knowing what hap- 
 pened to each other. And what is there so very bad ? You are 
 all happy enough for anything one can see.' 
 
 'That is the worst of it,' said Florry, 'we are all pretending 
 about everything. It's just one big lie all round — and it isn't right 
 to tell lies, or at least the Bible says so. There is papa breaks 
 every one of the commandments, you know.' 
 
 ' Florry, don't tell stories of Uncle James ; I am very fond of 
 him, and I won't have it.' 
 
38 LADY WILLIAM V 
 
 ' It's true all the same. I don't say it's his fault, it's Jim's 
 fault. Papa swears — he does, he can't help it, at Jim, and then 
 pretends it's something else — -the gardener, or the overseer, or the 
 poor people, or even poor Dash — that makes him so angry. Isn't 
 that lying ? Then mamma pretends Jim has doubts and won't go 
 in for the Church because of them, when she knows very well 
 what it is really he has been sent down for. And Jim pretends 
 that he is going back to Cambridge next term, and that he is quite 
 friendly with all the dons, and came down to read — I've heard him 
 say that.' 
 
 ' It may not be true,' said Mab, doubtfully, ' but I shoiddn't 
 call that lying — why should we all go and tell that poor Jim has 
 not been good ? What have the other people to do with it ? 
 Mother says we're not called upon to give them any information — ■ 
 and she just says the same as you do : but that is not to lie.' 
 
 'We are all pretending, every one,' said Florry. ' Emmy and 
 I are by way of knowing nothing at aU. I believe Jim thinks 
 we don't know anything. So we have to pretend not only to 
 other people, but to him in our very own house, and papa too. I 
 have heard papa say, " Thank Heaven, the girls at least know 
 nothing," and mamma, the dreadful, dreadful liar that she is, 
 thanks Heaven too, though she knows very well that we knew as 
 soon as she did, and that she couldn't keep anything from us two. 
 If you think of that, Mab, and just imagine how we go on pre- 
 tending to each other, and to everybody. 
 
 ' Now, if Jim were to go off to a ranche, as people advise, we 
 should all be very wretched, and probably it would be his ruin, 
 but it would be a little relief aU the same. Or if Emmy were to 
 get hold of this man — oh, it may be odious, and you may cry out, 
 but it would be a great relief. There woidd be her wedding to 
 think about, and her things, and altogether it would be a change 
 for everybody • and then she could do something for Jim.' 
 
 ' Her husband could, you mean 1 ' 
 
 ' It is the same thing : he would, for his own sake, not to 
 have an idle brother always about. It is killing all of us. One 
 could bear it, perhaps ; but four all bearing it — all pretending 
 something different, as I tell you • Emmy and I not to know ; 
 mamma and papa that it's another thing altogether that vexes 
 them. Oh ! we get exasperated sometimes to that degree, we 
 could tear each other to pieces just to make a change.' 
 
 'You are so exaggerated, Florry; mother always says so. 
 You make a mountain out of a molehill.' 
 
 ' I just wish Aunt Emily had our molehill for a little while — 
 
V LADY WILLIAM 39 
 
 just for a little while — to see how she liked it. What a 
 Ivicky woman she is to have only a girl ! Nothing very bad 
 can ever happen to you, Mab, or come to her through you. 
 You may be dull, perhaps, just two women, one opposite to the 
 other ' 
 
 ' Dull ! mother and 1 1 Never. We don't know what it is to 
 be dull ! ' 
 
 'Ah, that's very well just now,' said Florence, 'you're only 
 seventeen ; but wait a bit till you are older, especially if you don't 
 marry, and year goes on after year, and nothing ever happens. 
 See whether you are not dull then. I don't know which is worst,' 
 she added thoughtfully, ' to have men in the family that make you 
 miserable, or to have no men at all about to make any variety, 
 but just women together, who never do any harm, but kill you 
 with dulness. I really don't know which is the worst.' 
 
 Mab was a little overwhelmed by this point of view. She was 
 at the same time still indignant and resentful of the unexpected 
 accusation. 'When we begin to be dull,' she said, 'I'll let you 
 know — but I don't see any reason for being so miserable. Poor 
 Jim has never done anything so very bad. Sometimes he is 
 silly ' 
 
 ' There you are quite wrong,' said Florence, with great decision 
 — ' he is not silly : I wish he were, then one might think he didn't 
 know any better ; but even papa allows he is very clever. It is 
 not from want of brains or sense either, if he would only be as good 
 as he knows how ' 
 
 ' Oh, if that is your opinion ! Mother thinks he is only weak, 
 and does what people ask him.' 
 
 ' Aunt Emily is just as far out of it as you are. Does he ever 
 do anything that we ask him 1 There is papa at him for ever — is 
 he any the better for it 1 Weak ! that is what people say, think- 
 ing it's a kind of an excuse. I call it strong — to resist everything 
 you ought to attend to, and take up everything you ought not. 
 How can that be weak 1 ' 
 
 ' I am sure I don't know,' said Mab ; ' I don't understand 
 about boys. Jim is the only one I ever knew intimately. But 
 mother thinks if some one were to get hold of him in the right 
 sort of way ' 
 
 ' What is the right sort of way 1 I suppose Aunt Emily thinks 
 papa doesn't know — nor any of us who have it to do ; that is just 
 the way with people. You are always thinking of a thing, think- 
 ing, and puzzling, and troubling : and then somebody comes in who 
 has never spent ten minutes on it altogether, and says you are not 
 
40 LADY WILLIAM V 
 
 taking the right way ! Perhaps we are not ; but who are they to 
 pretend to know better ? and since they are so wise, why don't they 
 tell us which is the right way 1 ' 
 
 ' I am sure,' cried Mab, ' I never meant to make you angry, 
 and mother is not one to interfere. She only said it to me. But 
 since you're so full of this, Florry, I think I had better go, and not 
 trouble you any more, for I only wanted some fun, and you are 
 thinking of nothing but trouble. I'll run down to the water, and 
 jump into a boat and have a little spin by myself 
 
 ' Oh, Mab, don't,' cried Florence, clutching her once more. 
 ' Here we are at our gate, just come in and ask him. He will 
 come far more readily for you than for me.' 
 
 But it was with an ill grace that Mab followed her cousin 
 through the Rectory kitchen garden, between the borders which 
 veiled the lines of potatoes and cabbages. It might be flattering to 
 suppose her capable of it, but she had not any desire to fill the 
 place of missionary and guiding influence to her cousin Jim. 
 
VI 
 
 The Rectory was a red house standing in a garden, which its 
 inhabitants, one and all, energetically declared not to be damp ; 
 from which the stranger might gather that they were not so certain 
 on the subject as it would be well to be. Its doors were quite 
 level with the ground, so that you walked in, without the interval 
 even of a step to raise you above the drippings of the rain : and as 
 the drawing-room windows also opened down to the ground, it was 
 rather a trying business in wet weather, and kept both the house- 
 maid and the family much on the alert. The two girls went in 
 through the open window, for the afternoon was quite bright and 
 fair, and no fear of rain : but they found nobody in the draAving- 
 room, which was low and rather dark, notwithstanding those two 
 good-sized French windows, which somehow seemed to keep the 
 light within themselves, and did not distribute it to the further 
 side of the drab-coloured wall ; this, unornamented with pictures 
 or any variety, afibrded a dingy background for the somewhat 
 dingy couches and easy-chairs, which were covered with brownish 
 chintz, intended to keep clean, or in franker language, ' not to show 
 the dirt ' for as long a period as possible. Chintzes and wall papers, 
 and even dresses, which were calculated not to show the dirt, were 
 very popular at the time Mrs. Plowden married, as means of 
 economy, and her daughters had been brought up in that tenet of 
 faith. Accordingly everything in the room was more or less of 
 this dingy drab complexion, which was not exhilarating to the 
 spirits. There were signs that the room had been recently occupied 
 by the untidiness of the loose cover of one of the sofas, which bore 
 evident signs that some one had been lying there, and had jumped 
 up hastily, and apparently iled, since the old novel he or she had 
 been reading lay open on its face on the floor, and the antimacassars 
 with which the sofa had been adorned were huddled up in limp 
 bundles, and lay here and there where restless shoulders or limbs 
 
42 LADY WILLIAM n 
 
 had left them. Florence gave her cousin a look as she picked up 
 the book and spread out the forlorn adornments on the arm and 
 back of the sofa. ' They were put on quite fresh two days ago, 
 and look at them ! ' said poor Florry ; they were chiefly in crochet, 
 and the work of her own bauds. 
 
 ' He has been here,' she said, ' and papa has called him to see 
 if he was at work. Papa might just as well let it alone, for 
 he is never at work ; but that is what they will not learn,' 
 said Florence, impatient of the blindness of her parents. ' We,' she 
 added, ' have to put the room tidy after him a dozen times a day ; 
 but I prefer him to be in the drawing-room, for at least he can't 
 smoke here ' 
 
 ' If he is out,' said Mab, ' let us go, Florry : we have lost half 
 the afternoon already.' 
 
 ' I don't believe he is out — he is being "jawed," as he calls it, 
 in papa's study : don't you hear them 1 Papa is at it hot ! and 
 what good will it do 1 He will only say the same thing over 
 and over — I could say it all myself off by heart, everything papa 
 says — and, of course, so could Jim, and what good can that do ? 
 Come and stop it, Mab. Jim will be so thankful to you : and 
 poor papa won't be sorry either,' Florence said, with a more sym- 
 pathetic perception, ' for he knows it's useless ; but when he 
 once begins he can't stop himself.' 
 
 ' Oh,' said Mab, ' I can't go and disturb Uncle James.' 
 
 ' When he'll be so thankful to be disturbed ! ' said Florry, 
 ' and you much better than me, for you will have the air of not 
 knowing what it all means. No ; don't go to the study door. Go 
 round by the garden, to the window where he can see you coming. 
 AValk slowly, and make a little noise to attract their attention, so 
 that you may not take them unawares. You might ring, or 
 whistle, or something— or call to Dash — and then papa would see 
 you, and have time to make up a face.' 
 
 These domestic diplomacies were unknown to Mab, but she 
 took to them with the natural instinct of femininity. There was 
 a certain element of fun, too, in stopping what she still called 'a 
 scolding,' and in getting the culprit off — even though the culprit 
 did not commend himself very warmly to her partiality. She 
 carried out the programme accordingly, while Florence waited just 
 out of sight of the study window. It was not a French window 
 like those in the drawing-room, and it looked out upon the dullest 
 portion of the surroundings — a bit of grass where tlie water lay 
 treacherous during the long winter months in the slight concave of 
 the ground, with shrubs cruelly green and unchanging around it, 
 
vj LADY WILLIAM 43 
 
 and a dead wall which they only partially veiled behind. Mab 
 began to call Dash loudly as she walked round the corner to this 
 sanctuary, scattering the gravel with her feet. 
 
 The scene that might have been seen inside the Rector's 
 window at that moment was this : a tall youth seated on a chair 
 presenting nothing more responsive than the crown of his head, 
 supported on his hands, to his father's remarks, and saying never a 
 word ; while the Rector, who had risen from his own seat at his 
 writing-table in his impatience, stood pouring out the vials of his 
 wrath. He was putting before Jim all the enormities of which 
 he had been guilty — his debts, the expense he had been to his 
 parents, the disappointment, the disgrace. When, however, Mr. 
 Plowden held up his hands to heaven and earth in grief and dis- 
 appointment that it should be ' viy son ' who had been sent down 
 by his college, it is to be feared that Jim was making angry 
 comments in his mind to the effect that all his father cared for was 
 that — 'not me, or anything about me.' He knew the circum- 
 stances very well — far better than his father could tell him ; and 
 was it likely his conscience would be more tender for being dragged 
 over the same ground again and again 1 When the Rector cried, 
 ' What is the use of talking to an impenitent cub like you 1 ' his 
 son felt deeply inclined to reply, * There is none.' He had, indeed, 
 been wound up to the pitch of saying, ' Why do you go on like 
 that when you're so sure it will make no difference ? ' — a pro- 
 foundly sensible utterance, but one, perhaps, which it does still less 
 good to say. 
 
 When ' Dash, Dash ! come here, old fellow— get ready to come 
 out for a walk,' sounded into the study, that home of anything but 
 retired leisure, the Rector came to a sudden stop. ' There's some 
 confounded visitor or other,' he "said in vexation, but not without 
 relief. 
 
 ' It isn't a visitor, it's Mab.' 
 
 ' Don't contradict me, sir ! Who is she but a visitor, a silly 
 
 girl breaking in where your mother herself Don't think I've 
 
 done with you because I'm interrupted. Don't let me see you stir 
 from your book till dinner. Try whether you can't do something 
 like your simple duty, for once in a way, just for the variety of the 
 thing ! Eh ! — yes, my dear, you can come in if you really want 
 to, if you have anything to say to me, but you know I'm always 
 busy.' 
 
 ' Open the window, please, uncle,' said Mab. ' Is Jim there ? 
 We want him. to come out with us, out on the river. The weeds 
 are coming up already in the backwater, and we don't want to risk 
 
44 LADY WILLIAM vi 
 
 going over the weir. It would be a wetting, and it might be a 
 drowning, don't you know : and we want Jim.' 
 
 The weeds and the weir were the invention of the moment, and 
 Mab felt rather proud of her skill ; for of course the most obstinate 
 of backwaters is not choked with weeds in March, and the girls, 
 who were used to the river, were not so foolish at that season as to 
 approach the weir. The Rector looked out upon his niece, of whom 
 he was proud, with a look of helplessness ; for even from his sister 
 he had kept the secret (knowing nothing of Florry's indiscretions) 
 of the sad state of affairs with Jim. 
 
 ' My dear,' he said, ' it is quite true that Jim is here : but he's 
 busy, almost as busy as I am, reading up, don't you know, for his 
 examination. You really must not tempt him to-day. I am sure 
 you know the river so well, you will take care not to go near the 
 weir.' 
 
 ' But, Uncle James, it is getting near four o'clock, we shan't 
 be more than an hour. Don't you think he wiU get on much 
 better with his work when he comes back 1 ' 
 
 Jim had gradually expanded himself while this conversation 
 was going on ; his father's back being turned he actually, not 
 metaphorically, kicked up his heels a little in secret demonstration 
 of his joy. Then he rose, and appeared exceedingly composed and 
 respectful behind his father, who was leaning out of the open win- 
 dow. ' Since it is a question of the girls' comfort, sir,' said Jim, 
 ' an hour won't make very much difference. I can get up that 
 Sophocles just as well after dinner as now.' 
 
 ' I don't put much faith in you after dinner,' said the Rector, 
 without turning his head. 
 
 ' Oh, but why shouldn't you, uncle ? ' said ]\Iab, ' I'll answer 
 for him ! Of course he'll work ! Why there's nothing to do 
 after dinner. Uncle says you may come, Jim.' 
 
 ' I don't say anything of the kind,' said Mr. Plowden. But 
 his eyes went from Mab outside to Jim within. They were both 
 of them so young, and surely if there could be anything innocent 
 in this world it would be an hour on the river with your sister and 
 your cousin, both interested in keeping a boy straight. What 
 was Sophocles after all (in which Jim took so little interest) in 
 comparison with a more healthy rule of habit and purified nature ? 
 If only he would but be good, what would it matter about Sophocles 1 
 The Rector sighed with perplexity and impatience. It was all 
 very well to attempt to keep Jim back, to say he was busy. 
 Would all that keep him at his book a moment longer than his 
 father's eye was on him 1 And if Jim escaped and stole out by 
 
yi LADY WILLIAM 45 
 
 himself, how could it be kuowu whether his companions would be 
 as innocent as Mab and Florry 1 Was it not even a good point 
 in the boy, showing at bottom some traces of early innocence, that it 
 was with Florry and Mab that he wished to go ? Mr. Plowden 
 turned in from the window and looked at his boy. He was the 
 only boy of the house, and no doubt he had been petted and 
 spoiled, and taught to think that everything was to give way to 
 him. The Rector looked at him with that longing of disappointed 
 love, the father's dreadful sense of impotence, the intolerable feel- 
 ing that a touch given somewhere somehow, at the right moment, 
 might bring all right if he only could tell when and how to give 
 it. What did it matter that all his plans and arrangements should 
 be put out the moment he had made them, if the right effect could 
 be produced anyhow ? Perhaps this little girl, with her childish 
 innocent mind — who could tell 1 And at least how innocent it all 
 was, the boy and the two girls ! They would bring no harm to 
 him, and perhaps — who could tell 1 
 
 ' You will come home straight, Jim, and get to work again as 
 soon as you return 1 ' 
 
 ' Of course, sir,' said Jim, opening large eyes, as if he had 
 never departed from his word in his life. ' Of course, when I say 
 it I will do it. If you would but learn that it is the best thing 
 to trust a fellow,' he said, looking at the Rector with a grieved 
 disappointment which quite outdid Mr. Plowden's sentiments of 
 the same kind. The poor Rector could not restrain a laugh as 
 the young man hurried out of the room, leaving Sophocles just 
 ready to topple over, on the very edge of the table ; but it was 
 not a cheerful laugh : though, perhaps, there was the chance that 
 
 little Mab, if she had only been a little prettier Prettiness, 
 
 however, as he knew, is not the only thing that matters in things 
 of this kind. 
 
 ' You little brick ! ' cried Jim, as they hurried along. ' I 
 owe you one for that. What put it into your little head to come 
 and get me off to-day ? for I was at the end of my patience, 
 and could not think of any excuse to get away.' 
 
 ' What should you have done, Jim, if I had not come ? read 
 your Greek 1 ' 
 
 ' Not if I know it,' said Jim. ' I should just have cut and 
 run, excuse or no excuse. A fellow can't be shut up all tlie 
 afternoon, and the sun shining. It's cruelty to animals. The 
 old Pater has forgotten that he was ever young.' 
 
 'But you will keep your promise, Jim, and go back and 
 learn up your Greek 1 ' 
 
46 LADY WILLIAM VI 
 
 ' Oh, we'll see about that. Let's get our pull first. Oh, 
 there's Flo ! I thought you aud I were goiug alone.' 
 
 'It was Florry who wanted you to come,' said Mab, with 
 the frankness of extreme youth, 'not me. I like to do the 
 pulling- myself.' 
 
 ' You shall if you like,' he said. ' I'm not fond of trouble. 
 And it's not much fun you know, after all, to go out with your 
 sister and your cousin. It's too much bread and butter. If 
 I'd known that Flo was in it I shouldn't have come.' 
 
 ' You can go back if you please — to your Greek.' 
 
 ' Oh, catch me,' said the young man. 
 
 ' B-ut you will when we come back, Jim 1 ' 
 
 ' Perhaps I shall ; not if you bully me. So I warn you. I 
 should do my work all right and make up lost time if I wasn't 
 bullied for ever and ever. Every one is at me. You heard 
 what papa said. He ought to know how a man feels and shut 
 up. But it's being so much among women, I suppose, makes a 
 clergyman like that. If he wasn't a clergyman he wouldn't nag, 
 he'd leave that to the women, and then I should feel that there 
 was some one who understood. But how do you suppose a 
 fellow is to do anything when from morning to night he hears 
 nothing but " Are you going to your work, Jim 1 When do you 
 begin your work 1 How are you getting on with your work ? " 
 and so forth. If I don't pass it will be the family's fault, it 
 will not be mine. Mab, do you row stroke or bow 1 ' 
 
 Mab jumped into the boat and took her place, without other- 
 wise answering his question ; but when they had floated out 
 amid the reflections of the still river, she found that httle 
 tongue, which was not always under proper control. 
 
 ' I like puUing,' she said, ' very much. I'd rather a great 
 deal have an oar myself than sit still and let other people row 
 me; and I like to bring mother out or — Aunt Jane.' She was 
 about to say even Aunt Jane, but happily remembered that Aunt 
 Jane was the mother of both her companions. ' But,' said Mab, 
 with a long, slow stroke, to which Florence, very anxious to hear 
 what was passing, kept time very badly, ' one thing I do hate is 
 to pull an idle man.' 
 
 ' By Jove ! ' burst from the lips of Jim. He had been 
 listening very calmly up to the last two or three words, amused 
 to hear little Mab's statement of what she liked and didn't like, 
 but quite sure that she could say nothing that was derogatory to 
 himself. ' I say, you little cat, why did you ask me to come 
 out if you meant next moment to give me a scratch like this 1 ' 
 
VI LADY WILLIAM 47 
 
 ' I told you it was Florry who wanted you and not me.' 
 
 'You might be civil at least,' said Jim, who had actually 
 reddened under this assault. ' What did you come and butter 
 up my father for, to let me go '? ' 
 
 ' That was different,' said Mab. ' When it is against the 
 old people, of course you are my own side ; and then it was fun 
 carrying you off as if you were something one had captured ; and 
 you looked so silly with uncle holding forth.' She broke into 
 a laugh, while Jim grew redder and redder. ' But one thing I 
 will never hold with,' said Mab, 'is that girls, who are not 
 nearly so strong, should take and row a big heavy man.' 
 
 ' Not so heavy,' cried Florence, pushing her head forward, 
 neglecting her stroke entirely, and putting the boat out of trim. 
 ' Oh, Mab, why should you reproach him too '? He's no heavier 
 than I am.' 
 
 ' Shut up, Flo,' cried Jim indignantly, ' I'm close upon eleven 
 stone, and that's the least a man should be of my size.' 
 
 'AVell,' said Mab ('I'll pull you round, Florry, if you don't 
 mind) — that is what I say ; girls may do for themselves as much 
 as they please, but to drag about a great heavy man, whether 
 it is pulling in a boat or driving in a dog-cart, or whatever it is, 
 is what I don't like. It is not what ought to be.' 
 
 'You are so old-fashioned, Mab,' said Florence anxiously 
 from behind. 'You and Aunt Emily, you have the old anti- 
 quated ways of thinking about women, that men should take 
 care of them, and work for them, and all that, when perhaps it 
 is the women that are most able to work, and take care of 
 others too.' 
 
 ' I have no antiquated ways,' said Mab. ' I have no ways 
 at all. I don't think about women any more than about — other 
 people. Mother and I have not got many men to take care of 
 us, have we? But I say, it isn't our place to pull a heavy 
 man. He should do that for us. I prefer to pull myself. Do, 
 do, Florry, keep time ! And I don't want your help, Jim. I 
 am not talking of to-day ; I am talking of things in general. 
 It isn't nice ; it doesn't look well ; it's not the right thing. I 
 don't want to have any man working for me ; I'd much rather 
 do it for myself. But he is the biggest and the strongest, and 
 we oughtn't to be doing things for him. That's my opinion, 
 without any reference to to-day.' 
 
 ' You are not very civil,' said Jim. ' Why didn't you leave 
 me at my Greek, Miss Mab? I might have done a lot, and 
 been free after dinner. Now, instead of father's jawing, which 
 
48 LADY WILLIAM ti 
 
 I'm used to. I have yours, which I'm not used to, and a slave in 
 the evening as well. Hold hard a moment, tiU I shake off my 
 coat and my boots, and I'll swim ashore.' 
 
 ' Oh, Jim ! it will be your death,' said the frightened Flor- 
 ence, starting from her seat, and once more putting the boat 
 dreadfully out of trim. 
 
 ' Be quiet, sit down ! ' cried j^Iab, ' or we shaU have an 
 accident. Do you hear 1 Jim is not going to do anything so 
 silly. I was not speaking of him ; I was only making a general 
 remark. You can sit there and welcome so long as you steer 
 against me, Jim : for I am pulling the boat round, can't you 
 see, and Florry is not the least good.' 
 
 'Girls never are,' said Jim; 'the least little thing puts them 
 out.' 
 
 ' You see, Florry : ' said Mab, ' it was on his account you 
 were exciting yourself and behaving like one of the cockneys on 
 Bank Holiday, and he doesn't mind. Let him alone. How far 
 can we go to get back in daylight, Jim ? ' 
 
 Florence once more put in her word. 'We can go as far as 
 the island,' she said. 
 
 ' Coming back to-morrow morning ? ' said Jim. ' How should 
 she know ? Going up you can go as far as the lock, and going 
 down you can go as far as the lock, but not a step more.' 
 
 ' That's like an oracle,' said Mab. 
 
 ' Well, so I am. If I don't know anything else, I know the 
 river. I know it every step up to Oxford and down to London. 
 I'm as good as the Thames Conservancy man. They'd better 
 put me on if they want to look after all the backwaters and 
 keep the riparians in order. That's what I could do. I may 
 not be a dab at Sophocles, but there isn't a man knows the river 
 better. You ask any man that knows me, either at Oxford or 
 here.' 
 
 ' Then why does not Uncle James try to get you an appoint- 
 ment on the river 1 It would be better than going out to the 
 colonies.' 
 
 ' Ob, they don't think so here. In the colonies nobody knows 
 you. You may go about in a flannel shirt and knickerbockers, 
 and a revolver in your belt ; but if you stay at home they want 
 some work for you that you can do in a black coat and top hat.' 
 
 ' Couldn't you take care of the riparians and the backwaters in 
 a top hat, if you liked 1 ' 
 
 ' Ob, they like a naval man,' said Jim ; ' their uniform gives 
 them a little dignity, don't you know, whereas I'm nobody.' 
 
VI LADY WILLIAM 49 
 
 'But it is the same in everything. You can't be somebody 
 all at once. You must begin low down,' said Mab, bending her 
 little person over her oar with that slow, steady stroke which 
 confused Florence. Florry was choppy and irregular — one time 
 slow, the next fast ; never able to hit the time which IMab gave 
 her with such steady composure. ' The way to do,' said Mab, 
 ' is to put everything else out of your head, as long as you are 
 able to, and think of nothing but that. You should never mind 
 what you like, or what you want, but just set your thoughts on 
 what you are doing. Look at Florry ; she wants to hear what 
 we're saying, and she wants to defend you, Jim, that I mayn't 
 say anything unpleasant ; and the consequence is that if you were 
 not steering against me with all your might, I should pull the 
 boat round and round.' 
 
 'Florry is only a girl, and a bad specimen,' said Jim. 'You 
 should have let me pull, and then you'd have seen something like 
 pulling.' 
 
 ' I am only a girl myself,' said Mab. 
 
 'But, then, you're a good specimen,' said the young man, 
 with a laugh. ' You keep yovu' eyes in the boat.' 
 
 ' Which is what you don't do, Jim ! ' 
 
 ' How do you know, you little thing, lecturing people older 
 than yourself? I may not with Sophocles — but I do with other 
 things.' 
 
 ' Which other things 1 ' said Mab. 
 
 But Jim made no reply; and here Florry interposed again 
 with strokes shorter and more irregular than ever, to talk over 
 her cousin's shoulder, and ask, though they were not half-way to 
 the island, or even to the lock for that matter, whether it would 
 be better to turn back and go home. They lay for a moment in 
 midstream. Mab pausing on her steady oar to remonstrate, 
 making a picture in the water, the boat floating as a bird floats 
 in mid air, between the sky and the river, which reflected every 
 line of cloud and stretch of blue. Some cows at the water's 
 edge stood double, feeding, on the very brink, and the trees still 
 bare, but all downy with life, pushing out a greenness here and 
 there, seemed to stretch out of the water in reflection to meet 
 the others on the bank. Watcham lay glorified, one white house 
 above the rest lighting up all the river with its white shadow in 
 the stream. The boat lay like a thing enchanted with the three 
 figures shining in afternoon light, above and below. 
 
VII 
 
 Jim strolled down into the village when the boat came to shore. 
 It was before the hour at which he had concluded he would go 
 home, which, as was natural, was considerably later than the hour 
 proposed by Mab. What Avas the good, he said to himself, of 
 going in before dinner, or at least before the time which was necessary 
 to get ready for dinner 1 In that hour, as everybody knows, very 
 little can be done. Mrs. Plowden and the girls Avould be in the 
 drawing-room talking about what had happened in the afternoon, 
 and the Rector would not have come in. So it was quite a 
 certainty in Jim's mind that no Sophocles would come of it if he 
 had returned home when Florence did, as she begged him to do. 
 He would not have worked ; and, indeed, it would be a kind of 
 breaking of his word if he had done so then, for had he not 
 promised his father to work after dinner, which was quite a different 
 thing 1 And it was more amusing to prowl along through the 
 village on the outlook for anything that might happen, than to go 
 in and listen to the girls chattering, probably about the Swinfords. 
 And Jim was sick of the very name of the Swinfords. He had 
 that distaste which a young man who has fallen into objectionable 
 ways so often acquires of party- givings and society in what his 
 mother called 'his own rank of life.' He flattered himself that 
 what he did dislike was the conventionalities and stifluess of 
 society, and that his own desire to see ' life ' was a more original 
 and natural sort of thing. He liked to hear what the people said 
 when they were at their ease in inn parlours and tap-rooms. He 
 liked, it is to be feared, what accompanied these sayings. And the 
 more familiar he became in such localities, the more ' out of it ' he 
 felt in the drawing-rooms, and among the staid and quiet folk who 
 rein-esented society in Watcham. So that the Swinfords represented 
 nothing but a succession of fresh annoyances to Jim. If they gave 
 parties, as his mother and the girls hoped, he would be obliged to 
 get himself up in gorgeous attire and take a part in these enter- 
 
VII LADY WILLIAM 51 
 
 tainments. There was a time when he, too, would have been 
 excited by such a prospect ; but that had departed after his first 
 experiences of the life of the somewhat disreputable undergraduate, 
 into which he had been so unfortunate as to fall. Now that he 
 could not lounge into any resort where he could meet his peers in 
 that class, Jim found his distaste for the home society grow upon 
 him. He was tired to death of the girls. The old ladies bored 
 him, which was not so wonderful. The correct old General and 
 the clergymen about were old fogeys, which indeed was true 
 enough. Where was the poor boy to find any one whom he coidd 
 talk to with the freedom of those delightful but too brief terms at 
 the University where he had been taught what life meant 1 It 
 had been a shock to his own remaining scruples, and all the force 
 of tradition, when he first strayed into the public-house. Oh no ; 
 not the public-house, but the little inn at Watcham, which was 
 quite a pretty little house, all brilliant with flowers, and where 
 peojole from town came down to stay in the summer ; it was so 
 nice, so quaint, so respectable, and so near the river. But it is a 
 very diff'ereut thing coming to stay at an inn for the sake of being 
 near the river, and stealing in in the evening to the same place for 
 society and amusement. There was nothing disreputable going on 
 in the parlour of the ' Swiuford Arms,' or the ' Blue Boar,' as it 
 was vulgarly called, in reference to the Swinford crest, which pre- 
 sented that aspect to the common eye. The people who went 
 there were respectable enough— the tradesmen in the village, good 
 decent men who liked to see the papers and talk them over with 
 the accompaniment of a glass of something, and a pipe : and the 
 veterinary surgeon, who was a great deal about the country, and 
 talked familiarly of Sir Thomas Barnes, and the Mortlocks of Well- 
 wood, the great hunting people. It made a young man who felt 
 acutely that he did not belong to the class of the tradesmen, more 
 satisfied with himself to talk with a man who spoke of such people 
 familiarly in a sort of hail-fellow well met way, even though he 
 was only the vet. But by degrees as Jim acquired the habit of 
 dropping in in the evenings to the ' Blue Boar,' he got to think that 
 the village shopkeepers were very good fellows, and their opinions 
 well worth hearing. So they were, indeed, as a matter of fact : 
 solid, decent men, whose measured glass of something probably did 
 them no harm, and whose wives were rather glad than otherwise 
 that they had this little eulivenment in the evening of a little 
 respectable society in the parlour of the ' Blue Boar,' which was 
 itself as respectable as could be desired. But yet it was not 
 respectable, alas ! for Jim. 
 
52 LADY WILLIAM vii 
 
 When the Rector first discovered that this wa^ where his son 
 went when he went out in the evenings to take a walk, as he said, 
 Mr. Plowden's feelings would be difficult to describe. The misery, 
 the shame, the acute and intolerable sense of downfall were perhaps 
 exaggerated. But who can say what the descent is from the 
 drawing-room of the Rectory to the parlour of the village public- 
 house 1 which is what it really was, no doubt, though it was a 
 most respectable little inn, and frequented in summer by the best 
 of comi^any. The first interview between the father and the son 
 was very painful, but not without hope, for Jim himself was very 
 well aware of all that it meant, and did not stand against his 
 father's reproaches. 'I know it is not a place for the Rector's 
 son,' he said, humbly enough. ' It's not a place for anybody's son,' 
 the Rector said. ' Do you think even White and Slaughter would 
 like their sons to go there 1 ' This was an argument Jim was not 
 prepared for, and he acknowledged with humility that he did not 
 think they would. The Rector was very gentle with the boy that 
 first time. He pointed out that for Slaughter and White, and 
 even the vet., it was a sort of club where they went to meet their 
 friends — and whether or not there might be any objections morally 
 to their glass of something, yet at all events it was a very moderate 
 indulgence, and went no further. ' I don't say it is quite right 
 even for them ; but that's a very different question,' Mr. Plowden 
 said, and Jim acknowledged the self-evident truth. The Rector 
 said nothing to his wife for that first time, nor for several times 
 afterwards ; but he could not conceal his anxiety when Jim 
 disappeared in the evening, as, after a few very quiet and dull 
 nights at home, he again began to do. When Mrs. Plowden heard 
 she cried, almost with indignation, ' But why didn't you speak to 
 him, James 1 ' Speak to him ! After two or three interviews 
 poor Mr. Plowden soon began to recognise how little use there was 
 in that. 
 
 Jim, accordingly, when he left the girls to stroll down the 
 village street, did so against the remonstrances of Florry, who tried 
 hard to persuade him to come back and hear what mamma and 
 Emmy had been doing at the Hall, then offered herself to share 
 his walk, with equal seriousness. ' I like a stroll by myself,' Jim 
 said. 
 
 ' It will very soon be dark, Jim ; it is no fun walking in the 
 dark.' 
 
 ' Not for you. But let me alone; if I like it, that's enough, Flo.' 
 
 ' Oh, Jim, mamma is so pleased when you come in early,' cried 
 Florence, pleading ; ' it does us all so much good. If you only saw 
 
\rii LADY WILLIAM 53 
 
 the difference in poor papa's face when he knows you're in the 
 drawing-room.' 
 
 ' I shouldn't be in the drawing-room in any case. I've got my 
 Greek to do.' 
 
 ' Still better if you are at your Greek. Oh, Jim, do for once 
 come liome with me ! ' 
 
 'I'll come in in half an hour — ^will that satisfy you? I only 
 want to shake myself up a bit after sitting there with nothing 
 to do.' 
 
 ' Well, mind you don't forget : in half an hour,' said Florence. 
 
 He went off waving his hand to her. Then thrusting his hands 
 into his pockets, with that idle lounging step of the man who is 
 ready for any mischief, but has none immediately in sight, he 
 strolled away. Florence stood looking after him, with anxiety in 
 every line of her face, until she remembered Mab looking on, whom 
 it was necessary to keep from knowing if possible : and then the 
 poor girl laughed. ' Isn't he lazy 1 ' she said ; ' and it does vex 
 papa so. Papa thinks Jim should like Sophocles as much as he 
 does, which is nonsense, isn't it? But Jim says that old people 
 never can understand young ones, and perhaps it's true.' 
 
 ' Mother always understands me,' said Mab, with a child's 
 unhesitating confidence, 
 
 ' Oh,' said Florence. Her secret thought was, ' What is there 
 in you, you little thing, to understand 1 ' She said after a moment, 
 ' Boys are so different ! ' with a sigh. 
 
 ' You should not nag at him so much,' said Mab, with a reflec- 
 tion of her mother's sentiments, who as yet knew little of Jim's 
 case, and gave her opinion privately in the bosom of her own home 
 that the boy was being driven out of his senses by never being left 
 alone, 
 
 ' I don't think we nag at him,' said Florence meekly : and then 
 the two girls parted, Mab taking the way to the cottage, and 
 Florry that which led to the Rectory. ' You don't want to hear 
 what they have got to say 1 ' Florry said, with a faint smile, before 
 the other left her. 
 
 ' I shall hear it from mother,' said Mab, ' and I don't know that 
 I care.' 
 
 So the cousins separated — with thoughts so different. And Jim 
 strolled away in the other direction with a thirst which was both 
 physical and mental, in his whole being. It was physical, alas ! 
 and that was perhaps in its immediate development the worst : but 
 it was also mental, a craving for sometliing he knew not what ; 
 something that would supply the atmosphere, the novelty, he 
 
54 LADY WILLIAM vii 
 
 wanted, the something he had not got. He knew very well at 
 other moments that the inn parlour, and the village society, and the 
 pipes and the glass — in his own case so often repeated — would not 
 give that. Ordinarily, he thought Oxford would give it and the 
 society of the young men with whom he sometimes talked meta- 
 physics, though usually it was only horses and racing, and boats 
 and bumps, and the qualities of the different dogs of the circle, that 
 they discussed • but still, it was not to be denied that there was 
 something in Jim's being which thirsted, as well as that fatal thirst 
 in his body, which, alas ! it was so much more easy to satisfy. 
 The drab-coloured house at home, with its habits fixed like iron ; 
 the evening round the lamp ; the mother's prolonged talk about her 
 neighbours, and about people she once knew, and about getting on ; 
 his father's scanty, careless replies ; the girls' talk, which was very 
 often about their dresses, and how things were worn now — all these 
 had become wearisome to the young man : and he did not care at 
 all for his Sophocles. He had found in Oxford that opening out of 
 the restricted household circle for which his young being craved ; 
 but it had not been the best of openings, and now poor Jim prowled 
 down the village street, wanting that something which he could not 
 tell how to attain to, neither what it was. He did not want to go 
 to the ' Blue Boar.' He had never yet gone in daylight openly, but 
 under cover of night, when the parlour window looked so bright in 
 the dull village street. It wanted some courage to go now, in cold 
 blood as it were, when there was no reason for it, and he felt all 
 that it meant, the son of the Rectory going in, in the light of 
 day, to the village public-house. He did not want to do it, if he 
 could only find somewhere else to go. 
 
 It happened in this way that Jim was very ready to be led in 
 any c[uarter where a little novelty or amusement was to be found. 
 Not in any quarter ; for supposing he had at that moment met 
 the good old General, whose company could do him nothing but 
 good, who had told him, perhaps, that he had a young nephew, 
 perhaps a pretty niece, to whom he wished to introduce the 
 Rector's son, Jim would at once have found that he had to go 
 back to his Greek : he would not have gone to the General's, 
 nor to any house, as his mother said, 'in his own rank of life.' 
 And why this should be I am quite unable to tell. Houses which 
 were in his own rank of life did not seem to him to have what he 
 wanted ; he would have felt sure in advance that the General's 
 nephew would be a prig, or perhaps an insolent young soldier, 
 thinking nobody was anybody who was out of the service ; and 
 the General's niece, ugly and stupid. This he would have felt 
 
VII LADY WILLIAM 55 
 
 sure of, though he could not have told why. Neither can I tell 
 why, nor any of those to whom it would be of the greatest 
 advantage to make this all -important discovery. It would be 
 even more important than finding out how to resist a deadly 
 disease ; and in the one case as in the other, there are many 
 surprises and many experiments. But nobody as yet has been 
 able to find out the way. 
 
 It was while he was thus moving along on the other side of 
 the street, not desiring to go to the ' Blue Boar,' yet not knowing 
 where else to go, and having within him an imperious wish to go 
 somewhere, that Jim suddenly heard in the soft stillness of the 
 evening air — for the wind had quite fallen as night came on — a 
 pleasant voice saying, ' Good evening, Mr. Plowden ' ; a voice 
 which was quite new to him, and which he could not associate 
 with anybody in Watcham. He knew everybody in Watcham, 
 great and small, so that it was not easy to take him by surprise. 
 He turned round, startled, and saw a woman, a lady, standing in 
 the half-light in the door of the house next to the schools, which 
 was appropriated to the village schoolmistress. He knew there 
 was a new schoolmistress, for he had heard it talked of, but he had 
 not seen her, so that this was about the only person in Watcham 
 whose voice he did not know. Jim stopped suddenly and made 
 a clutch at his cap. I hope he would on any occasion have taken 
 ofi" his hat to the schoolmistress, but at all events this voice made 
 it imperative, for it was a refined voice, the voice of a lady, or 
 else an exceedingly good make-believe. 
 
 ' Good evening,' he replied vaguely. He could not very well 
 make out her face, but yet there was something in it which it 
 appeared to him he had seen before. 
 
 ' You do not remember me 1 ' she said. 
 
 ' You have newly come to the school, I sui:)pose,' he said. ' I 
 beg your pardon. I don't think I have seen you before.' 
 
 ' You have seen me before, but not here, and if I were quite 
 sure you did not remember me I should be very glad.' 
 
 ' That is rather a queer thing to say,' said Jim. 
 
 ' Perhaps ; but it is a true thing. I wanted to ask you, if 
 you did remember me, not to do so — at least, to say nothing 
 about it.' 
 
 'This is more mysterious still.' 
 
 ' Yes, I daresay it does sound mysterious ; but it is important 
 to me. I don't know whether to trust to you in this way, that if 
 you remember me after you will say nothing about it ; or to be 
 frank and recall myself to your mind.' 
 
56 LADY WILLIAM vii 
 
 ' You liacl better let me judge,' said Jim. 
 
 Here was the something he wanted, perhaps — an adventure, 
 a mystery ; of all things iu the world the least likely thing to 
 find in Watcham village street. 
 
 The woman— lady he called her — gave a glance round to see 
 if any one was looking, then suddenly stepping back, bade him 
 come in. There was nothing in the house of the schoolmistress 
 that looked like mystery. He knew it well enough. He had 
 been there with his mother when he was a child. He had come 
 with errands from her to the late mistress. The narrow passage 
 and the tiny little sitting-room that opened off from it were as 
 familiar to him as the Rectory. He walked into the parlour, 
 which, however, startled him, as if it had been a new place which 
 he had never seen before. How well he remembered the black 
 haircloth sofa, the square table with its heavy woollen table-cover, 
 which left so little room for coming or going. It was newly 
 furnished, draped with curtains much more fresh than anything in 
 the Rectory, a small sofa with pretty chintz, an easy-chair or two, 
 the small tables which were not so common in those days. Jim 
 did not notice those things in detail, but the general effect was 
 such as to turn his head. 
 
 ' Hullo ! ' he said, in his surprise. 
 
 ' You see the difference in the room 1 No ; I wouldn't have 
 my predecessor's old things. I have done it almost all with my 
 own hands. Isn't it nice 1 ' 
 
 'It is very different,' said Jim. His home was dingy, but it 
 was natural, and he had an undefined sense that this was not 
 natural. There was something fictitious in the air of the little 
 room with its poor, coarsely-papered walls — a sort of copy of a 
 boudoir out of a novel, or on the stage. He was not very learned 
 iu such things, and yet it seemed to him to be part of a decor 
 rather than a room to live in. In Mrs. Peters' time it was very 
 ugly, but as lionest as the day. 
 
 'Sit down,' she said, 'and let me give you a cup of tea; or 
 perhaps — for I think I know gentlemen's tastes — there may be 
 something else that you will like better. Sit down, at least, 
 and I will try if I can find something to your taste ; for I want 
 to make a little bargain with you, Mr. Plowden, that may be for 
 my advantage and yours, too. Sit down for a moment, and wait 
 for me here.' 
 
 She vanished as she spoke, and left him much bewildered in 
 the little bedizened room. It occurred to him during the moment 
 he was left there that perhaps, on the whole, it would have been 
 
VII LADY WILLIAM 57 
 
 better had he gone after all to the parlour in the 'Blue Boar.' 
 But his entertainer reappeared in a minute or two, bearing in her 
 liands a tray, upon which stood a tall glass, foaming as nothing 
 ever foamed in the ' Blue Boar.' I don't pretend to say what its 
 contents were. They were foaming, and highly scented, and they 
 pleased Jim Plowden, I am sorry to say, better than tea. 
 
 ' That is something like what we had at Nuneham that lovely 
 day. Don't you recollect me now 1 ' 
 
 ' Mrs. Brown ! ' cried Jim. It was not a name which said 
 very much to the ordinary ear. It would, indeed, be difficult to 
 say less. But the new schoolmistress made him a curtsey such as 
 had never been seen in Watcham before. 
 
 ' I am glad,' she said, ' that you remember me ; though I 
 ought to have been pleased and satisfied that you did not — for a 
 woman, however she may came down in the world, never likes to 
 think that she has been forgotten. I have recalled myself to your 
 recollection, Mr. Plowden, in order to say that I hope you won't 
 say anything to your father or any one of where we met last. I 
 was then, if you remember, chaperon, to some young ladies.' 
 
 ' Oh yes, indeed, I remember perfectly,' cried Jim, ' j^our nieces.' 
 
 ' Well, yes, my nieces if you like ; and I was not at all like a 
 village schoolmistress, was 1 1 Things happen so in this life ; but 
 it would do me no good, Mr. Plowden, with the Ptcctor or the 
 other good people, to know that I had been — well, helping you 
 to squander your money at Oxford only last year.' 
 
 ' You did not help me to squander my money, Mrs. Brown. 
 I was only one of the guests. I had no money to squander ; but 
 I fear what you mean is that you have come down in the world. 
 I am very sorry, I am as sorry as I can be. It is very different, 
 this, from anything you have been accustomed to ; but instead of 
 saying nothing about it, which I can understand as a matter of pride, 
 don't you think it would be better for me to tell my mother, who 
 though she has her own ways which you might perhaps not care 
 for, is very kind, and would, I am sure, try to make things as 
 pleasant as she could and as little hard, and ask you up to the 
 Rectory and all that ? ' 
 
 Mrs. Brown turned her back upon Jim, and he feared that she 
 wept. But I don't think she wept, though when she turned 
 round again she had her handkerchief to her eyes. She said, ' I 
 am sure your mother is goodness itself, Mr. Plowden ; but I am 
 a proud woman, as you perceive. No, you must not breathe a 
 word to your mother. I have one friend who knows all about 
 me, and that is Mrs. Swinford, at the Hall ; but except her and 
 
58 LADY WILLIAM Vil 
 
 yourself I want uobody to know. Will you promise me that 
 nobody shall know from you, Mr. Jim 1 ' 
 
 How did she know his name, Jim 1 How did she remember 
 him at all, a little, young, ignorant freshman much honoured to 
 make one of the brilliant water party of which she and her nieces 
 had been the soul? He was ready to have promised anything, 
 everything she asked. 
 
VIII 
 
 'She was nice enough to us,' said Mrs. Plowden, 'but very 
 hoighty-toighty with your aunt. Did you observe that, Emmy 1 
 Poor Aunt Emily was very kind. She said in such a pretty way, 
 " That is Emily Plowden now," and really Emmy looked so very 
 like her at that moment — with the charm of youth, of course, 
 added on — that nobody could help remarking it. Mr. Swinford 
 looked from one to the other, making a little comparison I could 
 see — and you may imagine in whose favour it was.' 
 
 'It was in my sister's favour, of course,' said the Eector. 
 There was something in the way in which he emphasised the ??iy, 
 as if to mark the difference between his daughter, who was her 
 mother's as well as his, and his sister who was all his own, that 
 might have been amusing to a bystander, but to Mrs. Plowden 
 was not amusing at all. 
 
 ' It is most curious,' she said, ' the way you alwaj's stand up 
 for yom* own family •' 
 
 ' Whom do you mean by my own family 1 Emmy is my own 
 family, I suppose 1 ' 
 
 ' You know very well what I mean. I mean your side of the 
 house in opposition to mine. One would think that nobody born 
 was ever equal to your people — not even your own children.' 
 
 'My own children are as God has made them,' said the 
 Rector. He added, as if she had been somehow of a superior 
 manufacture, 'But my sister Emily was the sweetest creature I 
 ever saw when she was Emmy's age. Emmy is a good girl, and 
 she is very nice-looking or she could not be supposed to be like 
 my sister. But as for comparing the one to the other, my dear, 
 it only shows how little you know.' 
 
 ' Upon my word ! ' cried Mrs. Plowden, not without reason, 
 'I hope my Emmy may be compared to any one. Your sister 
 had always a great deal too much intellectual pride about 
 
60 LADY WILLIAM viii 
 
 her to please me. She was not content to be nice-looking, which 
 nobody ever denied, but she went in for being clever, too. I 
 know you don't approve of women taking that sort of position, 
 James. Indeed, you have said as much a hundred times — and 
 now to go on raving about your sister, as if we haven't all had 
 sisters that were out of the common in our day ! ' 
 
 ' My dear, I didn't know there was anybody out of the common 
 connected with you. My impression is I never heard you brag of 
 that before — no more than poor Emily ever did about being more 
 clever than the rest of us. Poor girl, it hasn't come to much in 
 her case.' 
 
 *I am not one to be always blowing a trumpet about my 
 family,' said IMrs. Plowden angrily; 'but if you think my brother 
 Thurston is nobody ' 
 
 ' Not in the least ; he is a very nice fellow, and a Q.C 
 
 ' Or my sister Florence ! ' said the Rector's wife, ' poor Florry's 
 godmother — and the girl takes after her, I'm glad to say — and it's 
 to her credit, whatever you may think.' 
 
 ' Oh, your sister Florence ! ' said the Rector. This was a point 
 that had been argued between them often before, for, as a matter 
 of fact, though Emily Plowden was understood to have done very 
 little good for herself by her distinguished marriage, yet it was a 
 distinguished marriage, and one of which the Rector's wife herself 
 was more proud than any one. She quoted Lady William in her 
 own family in a way which made her brother who was a Q.C. and 
 her sister who was Florence's godmother very angry. ' I wish you 
 would not be always dinning that eternal Lady William into our 
 ears,' was what these good people said. But at home, in face of 
 her husband, Mrs. Plowden liked to show her independence, and 
 that she and her brothers and sisters were as remarkable as he and 
 his brothers and sisters any day. 
 
 'Well,' said Mrs. Plowden, 'they were really more nice to 
 Emmy, though she is only my daughter, than they were to your 
 sister Emily, James. I did not think that Emily was received as 
 her rank demands. They were more civil to me, a simple clergy- 
 man's wife, than they were to her. Now, though one is always 
 pleased, of course to be put in the first place, I don't think it was 
 right. Oh ! not LIr. Swinford, he was very attentive ; but in 
 such cases the man does not count, and the old lady — ' 
 
 ' Is she really an old lady, mamma 1 ' said Florry, who had 
 not yet found the opening for her anxious questions which she 
 desired. 
 
 ' Well — her son is not quite young. He is not like Jim ; he 
 
VIII LADY WILLIAM 61 
 
 is a full-grown young man of the world. As for Mrs. Swinford, 
 she is so curled and frizzed and powdered and everything done to 
 her, that you can't tell how old she is. But it is always safe to 
 say the old lady when there is a son quite old enough to marry. 
 Of course she will be the old lady as soon as he gets a wife.' 
 
 'I am sure, mamma, it would not make you an old lady if 
 Jim were to marry,' said Emmy, always exemplary in her 
 sentiments. 
 
 ' Jim ! ' Mrs. Plowden said, with a sort of shriek. And then 
 she added : ' Poor Jim's not a landed proprietor like Mr. Swinford. 
 He can never make me a Dowager, poor boy ! And what chance 
 has he of ever marrying ? none that I know of, without any 
 money, and not even a ^Drofession. Alas ! there is a great 
 difference between Leo Swinford and Jim.' 
 
 ' Is Leo his name ? What an odd name ! ' 
 
 ' But pretty, don't you think — and so uncommon '? ' said Emmy. 
 
 Emmy had a slightly dazzled look about the eyes, as one that 
 has seen visions. She had been into that fairy palace, and come 
 into absolute contact with Prince Charming. Florry knew that 
 the details of the interview were not likely to come out until they 
 two came face to face in their room, with no father or mother in 
 the way. 
 
 ' By the way,' said the Eector, as if it had not been the 
 prominent thing in his mind all the time, ' did Jim come back 
 with you from the river, Flo 1 ' 
 
 ' ile thought he would like a little stroll before he came back 
 — for half an hour. He promised me faithfully he would come 
 back in half an hour.' 
 
 ' It is more than half an hour now,' said the Eector, with his 
 watch in his hand ; and then he sighed and went away. 
 
 ' Oh, children,' said Mrs. Plowden, when his steps had died out 
 in the distance of the rambling house, ' how often must I tell you 
 not to be so pointed with your half-hours 1 How can a young 
 man tell, if he strolls out in the evening, exactly to a moment 
 when he's to get back? He may meet a friend, or some little 
 accident may happen, and he is kept, without any doing of his. 
 And there is your father with his watch in his hand as if he had 
 never been a young man himself. I don't want you, I am sure, 
 to be anything but truthful — but if you could throw a little veil 
 over such things ! Now, however soon he may come, and how- 
 ever right he may be, your father will never forget having looked 
 at his watch. He will say you can never trust in his word be- 
 cause of that half-hour.' 
 
62 LADY WILLIAM viii 
 
 ' I only said what he told me, mamma,' said Florence, half 
 offended. 
 
 ' As if there was any use in saying what he told you ! ' cried 
 Mrs. Plowden, ' when you know that's Jim's weakness never to be 
 sure when he is coming in ; and to say in half an hour is just as 
 
 easy as in Jim ! why, here he is, as exact as clockwork. 
 
 Eun and tell your father, Florry : he can put his watch in his 
 pocket. Oh, I am so glad! It is always a little triumph for us 
 womenfolk who believe whatever you say, you troublesome Jim ! ' 
 
 ' Do you believe whatever I say, mother '? ' 
 
 ' Oh, more than I ought — more than I ought. And oh, Jim, 
 if you only knew the pleasure of it, the pride of it ! To see you 
 walking in at your time as a gentleman should — and like a gentle- 
 man in every way ! ' 
 
 The words were, perhaps, capable of various interpretations ; 
 but the little party in the Rectory drawing-room knew precisely 
 what they meant ; and Jim knew very well that his mother, in 
 the darkness of the room, where no lights as yet were lighted, was 
 crying quietly to herself over his virtue and punctuality. It 
 struck him with a sort of mingled shame and ridicule to think 
 that, perhaps, had she known where he had been, she would not 
 have been so much content, I may say that it was much more 
 like an hour and a half than half an hour since he had left the two 
 girls at the landing-place ; so that he was not precisely a model of 
 exactness after all. 
 
 When Jim came in all the other subjects in the world went 
 out ; and as he had no interest in the Hall and its inhabitants 
 there was no further gossip about the Swinfords in the Rectory 
 family that night, until, indeed, the evening was over, and the girls 
 found themselves face to face in the room which they shared, 
 which was a long and low one, under the eaves, v/ith a number of 
 small windows, and space enough to make up for a slanting roof 
 on one side. It was indeed quite a large room, with two little 
 beds, two little white-draped toilet tables, two sets of drawers, 
 everything double, as the two were who had lived in it all their 
 lives. All their little confidences had been made to each other 
 there, all that had happened had been discussed ; their whole life, 
 which was not eventful, had passed in this dim chamber, where the 
 light came in through greenish lattices, and under the shadow of 
 the waving trees. They came iipstairs, following each other very 
 demurely, each with her candle, but when they were safe in their 
 shelter, and had shut their door, each put down her candle on her 
 own table, and they rushed together, seizing each other's hands. 
 
VIII LADY WILLIAM 63 
 
 ' Oh, Emmj'-, tell me ! ' cried the one who had been left at 
 home. 
 
 'There is nothing to tell, indeed,' said Emmy, 'except what 
 you have heard already.' 
 
 ' I have heard nothing about him,' said her sister. 
 
 ' Oh, Flo, dear ! all that nonsense was amusing enough as 
 long as he was only a dream. He has been a dream for so long ; 
 but now he's a man, just like another.' 
 
 'Not like any other in the world, Em.' 
 
 ' That is, to you and me ; but, thank heaven, nobody knows 
 except ns two, and it is all over. He is like any other man, 
 rather more nicely dressed, rather more careful of his clothes.' 
 
 ' Oh, Emmy ! ' 
 
 ' That doesn't sound like our hero, does it 1 I suppose it is 
 because he is half French : red stockings and patent-leather shoes, 
 as Mab said.' 
 
 'Well,' said Florry, 'if true hearts are more than coronets, 
 they are certainly more than patent-leather shoes.' 
 
 ' That is very true, but somehow it goes dreadfully against 
 one's ideal. And, Flo, he is not— tall.' 
 
 Florence burst into a somewhat agitated laugh. ' What does 
 that matter ?' she said. 
 
 ' Oh, nothing at all. I know that little men are just as nice, 
 sometimes nicer, than big ones ; but you know what we always 
 thought : and he is not the least like it — not one little bit.' 
 
 Emmy looked as if she were going to cry ; for the fact was 
 that Mr. Swinford had been, by a piece of girlish romance not 
 very uncommon among such unsophisticated girls as those of the 
 Rectory, the hero of an entirely visionary castle in the air on the 
 part of this young lady. Florence was more wise ; she had the 
 ideas of her century, and was very strongly convinced that for her 
 sister to marry well was a thing most essential at the present 
 crisis of the family fortunes ; but she had been very indulgent to 
 Emmy's romance, possibly from the conviction that this was the 
 only way in which her sister could be moved to take such a step 
 — and partly because she had herself a sentimental side, and was 
 deeply convinced that no true marriage could be made without love. 
 
 ' Well,' she said soothingly, ' never mind ; he may be every- 
 thing that is delightful in himself, even though he is short and 
 not handsome.' 
 
 ' I never said he was not handsome,' said Emmy, with some 
 indignation, ' nor yet short. How exaggerated you are ! I said 
 he was not tall. He is very nice-looking. Not the way we used 
 
64 LADY WILLIAM viii 
 
 to think ; not dark-haired and with deep dark eyes as we used to 
 imagine — and not fair either, which is perhaps better : but yet 
 very nice — in his own way.' 
 
 ' ', Brown ! ' cried Florence, ' sober, sensible, common brown — like 
 most people. After all, that must be the best and safest since 
 Providence makes the most of us of that hue.' 
 
 'If you think he is common,' said Emmy indignantly, 'you are 
 making the greatest mistake. He is not heroic — in appearance : 
 but unusual — to a degree.' Emmy's powers of language were not 
 great, but her feeling was unmistakable. ' I never saw any one at 
 all like him,' she said. ' If he is not like a man in a poem or on 
 the stage, he is just as little like the ordinary man you meet. 
 Fancy, it was he who made the tea ! His mother said he always 
 did it. The way she calls Leo at every moment is the most 
 curious thing. She has a sweet voice, but it is so imperious, as 
 if she never thought it possible that any one could resist her • 
 and, though it is quite low, he hears her before she has half called 
 him, whatever he may be doing.' 
 
 ' All that is very interesting,' said Florence, ' but ' — she seized 
 her sister's hands and looked anxiously into her face — ' of course 
 you can't see how things are to go the first time — but, Emmy, oh, 
 tell me ! ' 
 
 Emmy shook her head ; she withdrew her hands ; her eyes 
 drooped before her sister's gaze. ' How can you ask 1 ' she said, 
 ' how could anybody tell 1 He was very nice, of course — as he 
 would have been to the housemaid if we had sent her, or to Mrs. 
 Brown at the school.' 
 
 ' Mamma said he was exceedingly nice to you, and not so nice 
 to Aunt Emily.' 
 
 ' Ah, that was Mrs. Swinford she was thinking of Mamma 
 naturally thinks of her. No, no, Flo, we must not deceive our- 
 selves ; it was all the other way. If there is any one here whom 
 Ml-. Swinford thinks it worth his while to talk to and make friends 
 with, it will neither be you nor me.' 
 
 ' Me, no ! I never thought of such a thing. But why not 
 you, Emmy 1 and, if not you, who else 1 ' 
 
 Emmy clasped her hands together and shook her head. She had 
 been shaking it for at least a minute before she let the words ' Aunt 
 Emily ' drop from her lips, with an accent of something like despair, 
 
 ' Aunt Emily ! ' said Florence in the profoundest surprise : her 
 tone changed in a moment into one of disdain. ' Aunt Emily ! 
 why, she is old enough to be — she is almost as old as mamma. 
 She has nothing to do with it at all.' 
 
viri LADY WILLIAM 65 
 
 ' Do you remember,' said Emmy, with some solemnity, ' that 
 French novel which we found in Uncle Thurston's room 1 ' 
 
 Florence nodded her head. It had been a fearful joy to find 
 in their uncle's room anything so wildly wicked, so universally 
 condemned, as a yellow French novel. It had not been so de- 
 lightful in the attempt to read it — for the girls were far too 
 innocent to understand the stimulating fare there placed before 
 them. But it was a terrible and alarming memory in their lives. 
 
 'Well, the heroine in that was a widow,' cried Emmy. 'She 
 was the one everybody thought of. And Blr. Swinford is quite 
 French, and Aunt Emily doesn't look old, and she is really hand- 
 some. Don't you know when people want to be very compli- 
 mentary to me they say I am like Aunt Emily ? — only when they 
 want to be very complimentary.' 
 
 ' So you are ; and the more he thinks of her the more he 
 ought to turn to you, who are so like her.' 
 
 ' Oh ! do you think so 1 I, for my part, feel sure that he will 
 like her best. She will be able to talk to him. She has been in 
 Paris, where he comes from. She will be like the people he has 
 been used to.' 
 
 ' Oh ! not like the people in Uncle Thurston's novel ! ' 
 
 'I did not mean that; but she can talk, and she is what 
 people call elegant, and you'll see he'll think more of her than 
 either of you or me.' 
 
 'It is impossible,' cried Florence, with the confidence of youth. 
 ' A woman with a grown-up daughter ! ' 
 
 'Wait,' said Emmy oracularly, 'and you will see.' 
 
IX 
 
 It was a clay or two after these events before any new incident 
 happened ; and, indeed, the appearance of Mr. Swinford in the 
 village of Watcham was not a very remarkable incident. For' 
 Watcham was not in the depths of the country, where the sight of 
 a new face was in itself extraordinary. People from London were 
 continually appearing in this little place. To be sure, it was too 
 early in March for the shoals of men in flannels who were to be 
 seen lounging about in summer ; but still there were people who 
 would come down ' to have a look at the river ' even in the winter 
 season, when the boats were laid up. And boating men, and 
 indeed others, had a way of appearing at the ' Blue Boar ' on visits 
 from Saturday till Monday, and were very correct in their town 
 costumes when they arrived, though afterwards falling into many 
 eccentricities of apjDarel. Mr. Swinford might have been one of 
 them, as he walked down on Saturday afternoon. He was not 
 very fond of walking, having had a French rather than an English 
 education. It had already been discovered that his usual way of 
 going about was in an exceedingly smart dog-cart, which he drove 
 in a way rather unusual to the aborigines, with a rein in each 
 hand. I need not i3ause to point out that Leo Swinford, an 
 Englishman educated in France, was not at all an Anglomane, but 
 probably more French than most young Frenchmen whose desire 
 would have been to look English — at least in everything that had 
 to do with riding or driving. But on this occasion he walked, and 
 might have been taken simjily for one of the Saturday to Monday 
 men. But no ; Watcham was too clever for that. None of them 
 were so point devise as the young master of the Hall. Though it 
 is always a little muddy on this riverside road, he still had the 
 chausmre, so much admired yet scorned by the young ladies who 
 had discussed it — -the red silk stockings and glistening patent- 
 leather shoes which had filled Mab with wonder and disdain. He 
 
IX LADY WILLIAM 67 
 
 had a ■warm greatcoat buttoned over a white silk cache-nez which 
 was round his throat. The cut of the coat, though excellent, was 
 not like Bond Street — or is it Savile Eow '\ I am of opinion that 
 it had been made there, but it had acquired from the wearer a 
 something, a little more shape than is common to a young English- 
 man, a je ne sais quoi of foreign and stranger. His hat, I sup- 
 pose, was also an English hat, but somehow curled at the brim, 
 as an Englishman's hat rarely does. The village got note of his 
 arrival in some extraordinary way before he was within its bounds. 
 People peeped over the little muslin blinds in the cottages ; a 
 woman or two bolder than the rest came out to the door to have 
 a good look at him. Even the men in the bakers' and butchers' 
 carts stopped and winked at each other ; ' awful Frenchy,' they 
 thought he was. 
 
 After a while it became apparent that this exquisite iigure was 
 bound for the Rectory ; and some thrill running through the very 
 path brought the news before he did to the Plowdens, who came 
 together as by some electric current driving the different atoms 
 towards each other. I have no doubt this is an impossible 
 metaphor, and that electric currents have nothing to do with 
 atoms ; but the reader who knows better will, I hope, derive a 
 little gratification from his smile at my ignorance. Anyhow, the 
 ladies of the house flew as by an instinctive movement into the 
 drawing-room. Mrs. Plowden was the first to get there ; and the 
 girls foimd her shaking up the sofa cushions, and drawing the 
 chairs about — not to range them against the wall and make every- 
 thing tidy as her grandmother would have done, but to give them 
 that air of comfortable disorder which is the right thing nowadays. 
 Emmy followed her mother's example with a little, flutter and 
 agitation, shaking up anew the sofa cushions which Mrs. Plowden 
 had just arranged to the best advantage, while Florence gathered 
 up a leaf or two which had fallen from the flower vases, and 
 picked off a faded flower or two from the pots of narcissus and 
 jonquils which were in the room. It might have been the Queen 
 who was coming, though it was only a natty young man. Then 
 the Rector appeared, a little anxious, rubbing his hands. ' What 
 had I better do 1 ' he said ; ' shall I be here with you to receive 
 him, or wait in my study 1 He may be coming only to call on 
 me.' 
 
 This view of the subject filled the ladies with consternation, 
 though they allowed there was a certain truth in it. 
 
 ' You had better be in the study, anyhow, James,' Mrs. Plow- 
 den said ; ' and if he asks for me, of course I will send for you ; 
 
68 LADY WILLIAM ix 
 
 if he is shown iu to you instead, of course you will say, after you 
 have had your conversation, " You must come into the drawing- 
 room, Mr. Swinford ; my wife and daughters will be rejoiced to 
 see you ;" or words to that effect.' 
 
 ' Oh, I don't suppose I shall be at a loss for words,' said the 
 Eector, who had no respect for his wife's style. He gave a glance 
 round the room ; not with any satisfaction, for he felt that it was 
 rather dingy, and that a stranger would not be likely to see what 
 he felt, being so accustomed to it, to be the real comfort of the 
 room. It was looking its best, however. The sunshine was bright 
 in the windows, the jonquils and narcissus filling it with the 
 fragrance of spring — a little too much, perhaps ; but then one 
 window was open, so that it was not overpowering. The green of 
 the lawn showed through that open window, just on a level with 
 the carpet ; but it was so bright outside that there was no chilling 
 suggestion in this. And the girls looked animated, with more 
 colour than usual, in their fervour of anticipation. The Eector 
 gave a little note of semi-satisfaction, semi-dissatisfaction peculiar 
 to men and fathers, and which is not in the least expressed by the 
 conventional Humph ! but I don't know what better synonym to 
 give than this time-honoured one ; and then he turned away and 
 shut himself into his study to await there the advent of the great 
 man. There was no reason why he should be deeply moved by 
 the coming of Leo Swinford. It would be well that the Rectory 
 and the Hall should maintain amicable relations, but that was all. 
 Mr. Plowden was not likely to be any the better whatever hap- 
 pened, except perhaps through the parish charities. There was 
 no better living or dignity of any kind to which this young man's 
 influence was likely to help him. Jim 1 Was there perhaps a 
 possibility that Leo, if he jDleased, might do something for Jim 1 
 or at least bring him into better society, make him turn to better 
 things, even if he did nothing more ? There was surely that pos- 
 sibility. One young man can do more for another, if he likes to 
 try, than any one else could do — if Jim would but allow himself 
 to be influenced. And surely he would in this case. He would 
 be flattered if Mr. Swinford sought him, if he was invited and 
 made welcome at the Hall. These thoughts were not very clearly 
 formed, as I set them down, in Mr. Plowden's head ; but they 
 flitted through his mind, as many an anxious parent will know 
 how. And this Avas what made his middle-aged bosom stir as he 
 sat and waited for Leo Swinford. Then a smile just crept about 
 his mouth as he remembered what his wife had been saying about, 
 perhaps, one of the girls. But the Rector shook his head. No, 
 
rx LADY WILLIAM 69 
 
 no, that was not to be tlioiight of. They were good girls — in- 
 valuable girls. But she might as well think of a prince for them 
 as of Leo Swinford, who was a sort of prince in his way. No, 
 not that ; but jDerhaps Jim 
 
 The question between the drawing-room and the study was now 
 put to rest, for Mr. Swinford, when he had walked up briskly to the 
 door, admired by the ladies from between the bars of the Venetian 
 blinds in the end window, asked for Mrs. Plowden, and was 
 triumphantly ushered into the room by the parlourmaid, who 
 secretly shared the excitement, wondering within herself which 
 of the young ladies % And he was received and shaken hands 
 with, and set in a comfortable chair ; and a polite conversation 
 began, before Mrs. Plowden, looking as if the matter had just 
 occurred to her, in the midst of her inquiries for Mrs. Swinford, 
 broke off, and said, ' Florry, my dear, your papa will be in the 
 study ; go and tell him that Mr. Swinford is here.' 
 
 ' Can I go r said the young man ; ' it is a shame to disturb 
 Miss Florry on my account ; tell me which door, and I will beard 
 the Kector in his den.' 
 
 ' No, no ! run, Flo ; my husband will be so glad to see you 
 here. I daresay you remember him in old times, though we 
 were not here when you were a child. It was his father then 
 who was Eector, and Lady William — I mean my sister-in-law 
 Emily — was the young lady at home, as it might be one of my 
 girls now.' 
 
 ' I recollect it all very well,' said Leo, with a look and a smile 
 which did not betray his sense that the girls now were not by any 
 means what the Emily Plowden he remembered had been. He 
 even paused, and said with a tone which naturally came into his 
 voice when he spoke to a young woman — ' I see now how like your 
 daughter is to the Miss Plowden who used to play with me, and 
 put up with me when I was a disagreeable little boy.' 
 
 ' I am sure you never were a disagreeable little boy,' said Mrs. 
 Plowden. ' I have often heard Emily speak of you. She was 
 very fond of you as a child.' 
 
 'I hope she will not give up that good habit now I am a 
 man. I hope, indeed, I am a little more bearable than I was then. 
 I was a spoiled brat, I am afraid. Now, I am more aware of my 
 deficiencies. Ah, Rector, how do you do % I am so glad to meet 
 another old friend.' 
 
 * How do you do, Leo % ' said the Rector. The girls admired 
 and wondered, to hear that their father did not hesitate to call 
 this fine gentleman by his Christian name. ' It is a very long time 
 
70 LADY WILLIAM ix 
 
 since we met, and I don't know that I should have recognised 
 you : a boy of twelve, and a man of ' 
 
 ' Thirty,' said Leo, with a laugh, ' don't spare me — though it 
 is a little hard in presence of these young ladies. But it has not 
 made any such change in you, sir, and I should have known you 
 anywhere.' 
 
 ' Twenty years is a long time. What do you say, Jane 1 
 Eighteen years : well, there's no great difference. And so you 
 have come home at last, and I hope now you are at home you 
 mean to stay, and take up the duties of an English country gentle- 
 man, my dear fellow — which is your real vocation, you know, as 
 your father's son.' 
 
 ' And what are those duties, my dear Rector,' said Leo, with 
 a laugh ; ' perhaps my ideas are rather muddled by my French 
 habits — to keep iip a pack of fox-hounds, and ride wildly across 
 country : and provide a beef roasted whole for Christmas ? ' 
 
 ' Well, you can never go wrong about the beef at Christmas — 
 but I think we'll let you off the fox-hounds. If you'll subscribe 
 to the hunt, that will be enough.' 
 
 ' That is a comfort,' said the unaccustomed squire, 'for I am 
 not, I fear, a Nimrod at all.' 
 
 To hear the familiar way in which their father talked, laying 
 down the law, but not in the least in his imperative way, filled 
 the girls, and even Mrs. Plowden, with an admiration for the Rector 
 which was not invariable in his own house. He was at once so 
 bold and so genial, so entirely at his ease with this gentleman, 
 who was so much out of their way, and beyond their usual range, 
 that they were at once astonished and proud — proud of their 
 father, who spoke to Leo as if he were no better than any other 
 young man in the place, and astonished that he should be able to 
 do so. But Mrs. Plowden could not longer allow these two to 
 have it all their own way. 
 
 ' It is so nice of Mrs. Swinford to give up her favoimte place, 
 and to consent to come home, in order that you may live among 
 your own people — for it must be a sacrifice. We can't say any- 
 thing in favour of our English climate, I fear. We all get on very 
 well, but then we are used to it — but Mrs. S-ndnford ' 
 
 ' Oh, your mother is with you, of course,' the Rector said in 
 no such conciliatory tone. 
 
 ' Yes, my mother is with me. But, so far as that goes, Mrs. 
 Plowden, Paris, where we have chiefly lived, is no great improve- 
 ment, that I know, upon England. It's very cold, and now and 
 then it's foggy too : but she likes the society : you know it's 
 
IX LADY WILLIAM 71 
 
 generally supposed to be more easy than in England. Not know- 
 ing England, except as a child, I can't tell ; but if you can manage 
 to be more conventional liere than people are in France, I sliall be 
 surprised. Of course, I should not have come, unless my mother 
 had seen the necessity : for I am all she has, you know, 
 now ' 
 
 ' Noiv,'' said the Rector, with pointed emphasis 
 
 At which Leo Swinford showed a little uneasy feeling. ' For 
 a great many years,' he said. ' You know my father died — shortly 
 after we left here.' 
 
 ' I know,' said the Rector, very gravely. Then he added, in a 
 softened tone, ' It is a very long time ago.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said the young man, more clieerfully, ' so long, that 
 almost my only experience of life is, that of being always with 
 my mother, her companion in everything. We have been a sort 
 of lovers,' he said, with a laugh ; ' everything in the world to each 
 other.' 
 
 Oh, how the girls admired tliis man, who said that his mother 
 was everything in the world to him ! It brought the tears to their 
 eyes. An Englishman, they thought, would not have said it, 
 however much it might have been the case : and Leo said it so 
 pleasantly, as if it were the most natural thing in the world ; 
 but papa, who had been so cheerful — papa kept a very serious 
 face. 
 
 ' I hope it will be found that Watcham is not injurious to 
 Mrs. Swinford's health,' he said, and then there was an uncomfort- 
 able pause. 
 
 ' I suppose,' cried Mrs. Plowden, rushing in to break it, ' that 
 you do not know any of your neighbours in the county, Mr. Swin- 
 ford ? They will be eager, of course, to make your acquaintance. 
 There is quite a nice society in the county. We only see them 
 now and then, of course, in this little village.' 
 
 ' Lady Wade was here on Tuesday, mamma, and the Lenthall 
 people the Saturday before, and Miss Twyford ' 
 
 ' Yes, that is true,' said Mrs. Plowden, delighted that Emmy 
 had been sensible enough to remember so opportunely, and bring 
 in all these appropriate names. ' They do not neglect us, though 
 it is rather a long drive, from Lenthall especially ; but Mr. Swin- 
 ford will have better opportunities of seeing a great deal of them. 
 When you have plenty of carriages and horses, everything is so 
 much easier.' 
 
 ' Bobby Wade came to see us in Paris,' said Mr. Swinford, 'a 
 fanny little man : and I have met some of the Lenthalls. One 
 
72 LADY WILLIAM nr 
 
 drifts across most people one time or another. The -u'orld is such 
 a small world.' 
 
 ' Oh, then you won't feel such a stranger among them,' ]\Ir.?. 
 Plowden said ; but she was a little disappointed. It had seemed 
 to her that there would be a fine role to jjlay in presenting this 
 young potentate, so to speak, to the people about ; but as she 
 reflected, with a sort of disgust, people iu that position have a 
 way of knowing each other, and are always drifting across each 
 other in that wonderful thing called society, which is such a mys- 
 tery to those that are out of it. She made a little pause of partial 
 discomfiture, and then she said, ' Emmy, do you know where Jim 
 is 1 Is Jim in the house, my dear 1 I should so like to introduce 
 to Mr. Swinford our boy Jim.' 
 
 ' jMost happy, I am sure. Is that the one who has religious 
 doubts 1 ' said Leo, smilincr. ' Perhajis, as I am not very ortho- 
 dox, the Rector may think he will not get any good from me.' 
 
 ' Has Jim doubts 1 ' said the Rector, with his severe, precise 
 air, transfixing the anxious mother with that regard : and then he 
 added, ' Quite the reverse, Leo, the society of a man like you 
 could not but be good for my boy ; I should like you to know 
 him. I'll go and fetch him myself.' 
 
 But, alas ! Jim was not to be found. He had gone out, the 
 maid said, immediately after Mr. Swinford came in. He had in- 
 deed seized the opportunity to escape, fearing that he would be 
 called in, and made to form an accjuaintance with this new man, 
 for whom he had a kind of aimless dislike, as cj^uite different from 
 himself The Rector came back with a serious face, which he 
 tried to conceal with a laugh. 
 
 ' We might have known,' he said, 'this was not a time to find 
 Jim. He is reading with me to make up a little special work for 
 his college, and as soon as his hours of work are over, he — bolts : 
 as I suppose most young men in these circumstances would.' 
 
 ' Every one of them,' said Leo. 'And do you find it answer, 
 sir, this work at home 1 Mr. Jim must be a wonderful man if he 
 keeps hours, and all that — at home with you.' 
 
 There was not any reply made for a moment, but the father 
 and mother exchanged a glance. Oh ! God bless the man who 
 speaks such words ; it seemed as if there was nothing wrong, 
 nothing but what was natural and universal in the shortcomings 
 of their boy. 
 
Mr. Swinford was afterwards watched by the village in his pro- 
 gress from one house to auother of the great people of Watcham 
 — the General's, where the family were at home, and he went in 
 and stayed for a quarter of an hour : the Archdeacon's, where they 
 were out, and where some close observers felt that he showed great 
 satisfaction in leaving cards : and then he walked with his alert 
 quick step round the village, as if to take a general view of it, and 
 then returned towards the cottage, which all the spectators thought 
 he was neglecting, the house of Lady William, generally the first 
 on the list of all callers. He was not very tall, as Emmy Plow- 
 den had so regretfully allowed, but yet not short either, as she had 
 indignantly asserted after. And it was true that he was neither 
 dark nor fair, but brown, common brown, according to Florence's 
 conclusion, the most well-wearing and steadygoing of all colours. 
 His eyes, I think, were blue, which is a pleasant combination ; 
 but I don't mean by that the heroical sentimental combination of 
 black hair and dark blue eyes which is so dear to romance, and so 
 distinct a type of beauty. Mr. Swinford's eyes were of rather 
 an ordinary blue, as his hair was of an ordinary brown, a little 
 curly on his temples. And he had a pleasant colour, and, what 
 was really the only very striking thing about him, a waxed and 
 pointed moustache, after the fashion of his former dwelling-place. 
 He walked briskly, but like a man not used to rough and muddy 
 roads ; stumbling sometimes, not remembering that it was necessary 
 to look where he set his foot, and looking down now and then, 
 with a sort of smiling dismay, upon the spots of mud upon his 
 varnished shoes ; yet he pushed on briskly all the same ; and 
 walked down to the landing-place to take a look at the river, 
 which was looking its best, reflecting the sunshine which began to 
 get low, and to dazzle in the eyes of the gazer. He gave a little 
 pleased nod, as of approval to the river, and then he came back 
 
74 LADY WILLIAM x 
 
 again to the village green, meeting the bands of children just 
 dismissed, who had poured out of the school doors the minute 
 before. He smiled upon them too, and their noise and their games, 
 with little involuntary shrugs of his shoulders and uplifting of his 
 eyebrows as he had to step out of their way : for they did not 
 make room for him as they ought to have done, being rough and 
 healthy village children, invaded by the spirit of the nineteenth 
 century, and having passed beyond the age of curtseys and bows to 
 the gentry. Some of the girls, indeed, stood aside with a little 
 curiosity and pointed him out to each other, with whispers and 
 giggles, which were less agreeable than the uproarious indifference 
 of the rest. When he had got through the crowd, and passed 
 the doors of the empty school, Leo suddenly stopped short at the 
 sight of a face he knew. ' What ! ' he said, ' you here ? ' with 
 very little pleasure in his tone. 
 
 'Yes,' said Mrs. Brown, with a slight sweep of a curtsey, 'I 
 am here. You do not say you are glad to see me, Leo.' 
 
 'You know I am not glad to see you, and I do not pretend it. 
 What are you doing here 1 ' 
 
 Mrs. Brown smiled. She was a handsome woman, and 
 looked, as all the village allowed, ' superior ' to a village school- 
 mistress. She was tall and dark, not like Leo, but there was a 
 resemblance in her face to that of his mother which filled him 
 with an angry impatience whenever this woman crossed his path. 
 She smiled, and again made a scarcely perceptible obeisance as 
 of satirical humility. ' That is my own concern,' she said. 
 
 ' It is not mine, certainly : and I have no desire to know : 
 but there is one thing I have to say,' he said sternly. 'Don't 
 come to the Hall — I won't have you there. If I do you injustice 
 I am sorry, but I don't want you, please, in my house.' 
 
 ' And what then about your mother's house 1 ' she said. 
 ' Has she no house ; or where are her friends to see her 1 It is 
 hard if at her age she has no place of her own to receive her 
 friends.' 
 
 ' How do you venture to call yourself one of lier friends 1 ' 
 
 'Ask her,' said Mrs. Brown, with a smile. 'I am sorry you 
 let your prejudice carry you so far. Ask your mother, Leo, and 
 then forbid me the house if you think well. I am going to see 
 Mrs. Swinford to-night.' 
 
 He turned away from her angrily with a wave of his hand, 
 while she stood for a moment looking after him. There was a 
 faint smile of triumph on her face, but it was not malicious or 
 unkind. 
 
X LADY WILLIAM 75 
 
 'Bless us all, Mrs. Brown,' said her colleague, the master, 
 coming up with no very amiable look, ' so it apjoears you know 
 Mr. Swinford, and all the rest of the grandees 1 ' 
 
 ' I don't know anything about grandees : but I taught Leo 
 Swinford his letters,' said Mrs. Bi'own. 
 
 ' Oh, that's it,' said the schoolmaster, with a sort of satis- 
 faction. It was an intelligible relationship, and seemed rather to 
 temper than enhance the painful superiority in appearance and 
 manners of Mrs. Brown. He added, ' It's a fine evening,' and 
 went upon his way. He had no house attached to the school, 
 while the mistress had : and he had wanted to get the appoint- 
 ment for his wife, who was not qualified, on the idea that he 
 could help her to 'rub through somehow,' and that the house 
 would be very convenient ; but this point of view had not been 
 taken by the authorities, and there was thus ' a little coolness ' 
 between him and his colleague, though she, of course, could not 
 be supposed to be in fault. Now to hear that she had taught 
 Mr. Swinford his letters partly consoled Mr. Atkinson. It 
 showed she was no lady who had seen better days, no fallen star, 
 but only a member of the profession all through, probably a 
 nursery governess. He liked to be assured of this, and thought 
 the better of her from that time. 
 
 Leo's light-hearted and amiable countenance was covered by a 
 passing cloud. He went on quickly, as if trying to throw oft' the 
 impression. He had many recollections in his life connected with 
 this woman, who had been a member of his family in his earliest 
 remembrance, who had taught him his letters, as she said, and 
 who had always played a part, he did not know what, in his 
 mother's life. She was not a servant, nor was she an equal. 
 She had disappeared when they left the Hall in his childhood, 
 but only to reappear again at intervals, and, he had always felt, 
 for harm, though he could not tell what harm. The faint re- 
 semblance between her and his mother was a horror and annoy- 
 ance to him more than words could say. It was, perhaps, her 
 greatest ofi'ence, one he could not get over. And now to find 
 her here, at their very door, as soon as they had settled in their 
 own house, gave him a feeling of angry impatience which was 
 intolerable. He hurried on to the only place in Watcham which 
 was not strange to him, the little house which the village 
 speculators thought he was neglecting, the cottage of Lady 
 William. All the rest were curiosities to this young man of the 
 world — the village Rectory, the retired old soldier, the decorous 
 little establishments where everything was on so moderate a 
 
76 LADY WILLIAM x 
 
 scale, yet where the iuhabitants were so cahiily secure in their 
 position, their social elevation above the masses. The stranger 
 from a larger sphere is apt to smile in all circumstances at such 
 a little hierarchy. But to Leo Swinford it was, in addition to 
 all, so quaintly characteristically English, so unlike anything to be 
 seen elsewhere, especially so unlike France, to which he was most 
 accustomed, that he had felt himself walking rather through a 
 mild English novel — one of those he had read, amid more exciting 
 fare, with amusement yet tenderness for the peculiarities of his 
 own country — than through a real village and actual life. He 
 had felt that he was playing his part in this simple society, doing 
 his social duty, much amused and often tickled by the oddity of 
 all its novel ways. He had meant all along, when those duties 
 had been done, and wlien he had shown himself the amiable 
 young sc|uire, friendly and accessible, to go to Lady William and 
 laugh with her over the humours of Watch am. She would under- 
 stand all that. She knew the other point of view, and how odd 
 it must all seem in the eyes of the cosmopolitan, who knew 
 French curds better than English churchmen, and to whom the 
 rural parish was the quaintest thing. But in the meantime this 
 last encounter was not in the harmony of the rural parish ; 
 there was another element, a tone of the more meretricious drama, 
 a sort of Porte St. Martin, he said to himself, thrown in. Some- 
 how that which was so much more exciting seemed vulgar to him 
 in this cjuiet iAa.ce. It was all so tranquil here and seemed so 
 pure, that the other tone of the fictitious and conventional came 
 in with a shock. Porte St. Martin, that was what this woman 
 was. Whereas there was nothing here that savoured of the 
 theatre in any way, but all pure nature and simjilicity, and real, 
 though to him almost inconceivable life. 
 
 He went on all the same, even after this shock, to Lady 
 William, with a wonderful comfort in finding that here was 
 somebody Avho woidd understand him when he spoke. The 
 cottage looked more ridiculously small than ever when he reached 
 it. The Eectory, and the red brick mansions on the other side, 
 werie large in comparison with this little place standing lowly in 
 its garden, with the trees hanging over it, and all the crop of 
 climbing plants with the sjmng sap pushing up through their 
 long shoots, and their new leaves forming. He almost stumbled 
 over the gate, and felt that to step over it would be more natural 
 than to open it and go in. Mab was in the garden busy about 
 somg new flower beds, at which slie was working with a child's 
 spade and trowel. She lifted her honest simple face flushed 
 
X LADY WILLIAM 77 
 
 -with work, and laughed that she could not offer him such a dirty- 
 hand. 'I have been grubbing,' she said, 'but mother is in the 
 drawing-room.' Her face was not only flushed, which sounds 
 well enough, but red, and her fair hair a little in disorder from 
 stooping over her 'grubbing.' Her plump arm was half bare, 
 and looked very capable of work. She was a girl totally un- 
 conscious as yet of anything that was not homely and actual, not 
 a budding woman with nerves and feelings, ready to thrill at a 
 new presence. Whether it were Leo Swinford or any old woman 
 that came in, it was quite the same to Mab. She laughed and 
 pointed behind her to the tiny house, and the little open window. 
 Even Emmy Plowden at the Rectory in all her English shyness 
 and correctness might have made a timid effort to detain him a 
 moment, to exchange a single word or two; but not Mab, who 
 wanted to be rid of him simply, or even did not want that so 
 much as to care whether he went or came. ' Mother is in the 
 drawing-room.' She waited a moment with her trowel in her 
 dirty hand till he should pass, then explained that she was in a 
 hurry to get done before night, and stooped clown again over her 
 work. 
 
 ' Can I help you 1 ' he said, with the instinct of politeness, 
 looking helplessly at her. 
 
 ' Oh dear, no ! ' said Mab, with energy. ' I don't suppose 
 you know anything about gardening ; and then I like best to do 
 it myself. Go in and talk to mother, Mr. Swinford. You'll 
 find her there.' 
 
 What a change it was to go into that little drawing-room ! 
 I am not of opinion that there was more 'taste' shown in this 
 little room than in the other houses about. There were no art 
 stuffs, no decorative articles to speak of; one or two sketches 
 which were not very good, and one or two prints which were 
 better, hung on the walls ; even the cheap ' pots ' which country- 
 ladies prize were not to be seen here : there were no Japanese 
 fans. But Leo felt there was something in the room which he 
 had not found anywhere else, and which made him feel himself at 
 home, not playing the simple drama of a country life. But I 
 really think that he deceived himself, and that the only thing 
 different was Lady William, who was sitting by the table at her 
 needlework, which she laid down when he came in. She was 
 very constant at her needle, always busy, but she knew better 
 than to keep on sewing when a man came to see her, especially 
 such a man as Leo Swinford, who probably would have thought 
 it an affectation, if not in her, yet in any one else who had treated 
 
78 LADY WILLIAM x 
 
 him so. A conventional man would naturally think that the 
 woman thought herself pretty in that attitude with her eyes 
 cast down. 
 
 'Well,' said Lady William, 'you have been parading the 
 village, paying your visits. I have heard of your progress this 
 hour past ; and now I presume they are over, and you have come 
 here to rest.' 
 
 ' How pleasant it is,' said Leo, throwing himself into a chair, 
 ' to be understood before one says anything ! That is precisely 
 what I have been doing, and what I have come to do.' 
 
 'There was no great insight required in either case,' said 
 Lady William. ' And how do you like us now you have seen us, 
 Leo 1 The Rectory is homely, but they're all as good as gold. 
 Yes, they are, though they are my people. You know one 
 doesn't often admire one's sister-in-law, and I don't pretend 
 to admire her ; but she's a good woman, and the girls are 
 excellent.' 
 
 Leo allowed to breathe into his voice a slight, though very 
 slight, suspicion of fatigue. 
 
 ' You will not be surprised, dear lady,' he said, ' if I say that 
 the member of the family who interested me most was your 
 brother ; and who is the son who could not be found, who is 
 reading with his father 1 ' 
 
 ' Ah, Jim, poor boy ! ' 
 
 ' Yes 1 I think I understand ; there are then troubles even 
 in this idyllic life ? ' 
 
 ' It is so little a stranger knows. I think thei'e is no idyllic 
 life. We are very prosaic and poor, and our troubles are so very 
 real — vulgar, you might call them. We look up, on the other 
 band, to what we call your brilliant and gay life, and think, 
 surely there are no troubles there. Thus it is true, you see, the 
 one Iialf of the world never understands the other.' 
 
 'But you,' said Leo, 'know both.' 
 
 ' Do I ? I had a little share of the other, very short, and 
 not, perhaps, very satisfactory. I never found it very brilliant or 
 gay. The village life I know by heart, and its troubles, which 
 are bad enough ; small little vices and weakness, dreadfully poor 
 and commonplace : you can't understand how pitiful they are.' 
 
 ' Can't 1 1 Well, so far as it is of any use, you must teach 
 me. For you know from henceforth I am English, and will do 
 my duty. My duty, perhaps, does not demand an endless seclu- 
 sion here.' 
 
 ' Seclusion do you call it 1 You will have half the people in 
 
X LADY WILLIAM 79 
 
 London pouring down soon, when j'our mother feels she has got 
 established, and is ready to receive them.' 
 
 ' Very likely,' he said. ' That will not change matters much. 
 Society is the same everywhere. At all events, I shall always 
 have you to come to.' 
 
 ' It is very good of you to think that I can helj^ you. 
 There's metal more attractive. The village is not everything ; in 
 the county there are some pleasant people.' 
 
 ' If you knew how sick I am of pleasant people ! In sober 
 fact, don't you know, I want to feel that I have something to 
 do in the world, and if this is my sphere, to make it really so, 
 and fill the place which you would say God had appointed for 
 me.' 
 
 ' Don't you say so, Leo 1 ' 
 
 ' I don't refuse to say so. I know so little. Religion has 
 not held much place in my life. Between the abbd of the 
 stage and the " clergjmian " of the English, what have I ever 
 known 1 I have not been instructed by any one, except ' — he 
 laughed a little. ' Do you know I remember scraps among all 
 sorts of stuff, of the hymns you used to teach me — how long, 
 long ago ! ' 
 
 ' Yes, it is very long ago.' The room was rather dark ; the 
 day was waning. Mab outside was putting her tools together 
 to leave off work. It was not possible for the two indoors to see 
 each other's faces, but there was something tremulous in Lady 
 William's tone. Leo Swiuford put out his hand and laid it 
 upon hers. 
 
 'You must begin again — not with the hymns, perhaps — but 
 to teach me what is the best way.' 
 
 Evidently there was a great deal of discrimination in what 
 Emmy Plowden said. 
 
XI 
 
 'Miss Geey knows, of course, everything about them. Miss 
 Grey knows the whole story. She has been the longest here,' 
 
 'Yes,' said Miss Grey, 'I know, I suppose, all the outs and 
 ins of it ; or, if not all, a great part ; all is a big word to say. I 
 don't suppose anybody knows all — about the simplest of us — ■ 
 except the Almighty who made us, and imderstands all our 
 curious ways.' 
 
 ' That is a true speech,' said the old General, ' for curious are 
 our ways, and strange are the devices we have to hide ourselves 
 from ourselves.' 
 
 'Come, Stephen,' said Mrs. FitzStephen, 'let us have none of 
 your philosophising. You like a story, or gossip, if you like to 
 call it so, just as well as any of us ; draw your chair nearer the 
 fire, and listen to what Miss Grey has got to tell us, for I can 
 read a whole story in her eye.' 
 
 It was General FitzStephen's drawing-room in which this 
 conversation was taking place, in the March afternoon, when 
 evening was falling. It had Iseen cold and boisterous all day, 
 with the March wind, which the farmer loves, drying and parching 
 everything outside; the roads all gray and dusty; the fields 
 looking as if every drop of sap in every green blade or leaf had 
 retired to the heart of the plant. The wind had blown itself out, 
 and fallen a little before the darkening, and Miss Grey, out, like 
 all the rest of the world, for a little walk, had been met and 
 apprehended by the General and his wife, and brought in for tea. 
 How much this was on Miss Grey's account and how much for 
 their own, I would not undertake to say. They were fond of 
 Miss Grey, and so was everybody at Watcham : and people had a 
 way of thinking that she was lonely and wanted cheering up — 
 which, in most cases, only meant that they wanted cheering up 
 themselves, and that there was nobody in the village who knew 
 
XI LADY WILLIAM 81 
 
 so well how to do this as the little louely spinster. The Fitz- 
 Stephens' house was exceedingly cosy, aud though it was not 
 large, it was much larger thau Lady William's, aud more pleasantly 
 built ; with cheerful irregularities in the shape of bow-windows, 
 which gave more light, aud agreeable little recesses aud corners to 
 talk in. It was not so plain iu any way. It was almost richly 
 furnished with warm Persian carpets aud thick curtains, and a 
 great deal of wadding and cushioning. The General and his wife 
 had, indeed, reached a proficiency in the art of making each other 
 comfortable, which only an elderly pair, without children, can 
 attain, and which, iu their hands becomes a fine art. There were 
 no rough corners in their house ; nothing that was not padded 
 and made soft. The draughts, which Lady William could only 
 faintly struggle against, they shut out by curtains, artistically 
 j^launed, to the arrangement of which they had given their whole 
 mind, two together, which everybody knows is better than one, 
 and each for the other, which is better still : for not a suspicion, 
 nor even a sensation, of selfishness can be in the man who is afraid 
 of a chiU for his wife, or the woman whose whole soul is bent on keep- 
 ing her husband comfortable. The candles had not been lighted, 
 but the firelight was shining brightly through the room, giving a 
 brightness which no other artificial light possesses : and, through 
 the windows, the yellow glow of a spring sunset, with a little 
 pink in it, but none of winter's violent and frosty red, came in. 
 Thus, between the day and the night, with the sweetness of the 
 western light outside like a picture, and the warm domestic glow 
 within, Mrs. FitzStephen's pretty tea-table was the most pleasant 
 thing one could see on an evening while it was still cold. They 
 had generally some one to share that darkening hour with them, 
 and make it more cheerful ; aud on this particular evening there 
 were two, Miss Grey, as has been said, and the wife of the Arch- 
 deacon, Llrs. Kendal, as quiet a meek woman as ever was, not 
 capable of doing much in the way of addition to the mirth, but 
 quietly receptive of it, wdiich is the next best thing. 
 
 It is a curious fact, which I don't seem to have seen com- 
 mented on, how well and easily a kind old man who has fallen 
 into quiet society along with his wife in the evening of his days, 
 takes to the feminine element which is apt to preponderate in it. 
 An old lady rarely makes herself at home with men in the same 
 way, or if she does it is perhaps with the young friends of her sons 
 who look up to her as a mother. But old soldiers as well as old 
 parsons, to whom that might seem more natural, fall into ladies' 
 society with a relish and satisfaction that is amazing. Pride of 
 
 G 
 
82 LADY WILLIAM XI 
 
 sex, ^yhich is rarely wanting, takes refuge, we may suppose, in 
 the little superiority so willingly accorded, the deferences and 
 flatteries with which he is surrounded, and which he repays with 
 little gallantries and pretty speeches with which the ladies on 
 their side are amused and pleased. General FitzStephen was a 
 great hero among all the ladies at Watcham, and he took his 
 place among them with little sense of incongruity, with a pleasant 
 ease and simplicity, not sighing for anything better, not wasting, 
 or so it seemed, a thought upon his club or his men. He liked 
 Miss Grey to come in to tea as well as his wife did, and was as 
 pleased with Mrs. Kendal as with her husband — more so, indeed, 
 for he thought and said that the Archdeacon was an old woman, 
 an expression which he never employed to any lady. For Lady 
 William he had a sort of devotion, but that was not remarkable, 
 for Lady William was of a different species, and not unlikely to 
 secure the homage of any age or kind of man. 
 
 It was therefore a very cheerful old party that was assembled 
 round the FitzStephen fire, none among them under fifty-five, the 
 General within easy sight of three-score and ten, but all very well, 
 with the exception of Mrs. Kendal, who had been more or less of 
 an invalid all her life, but enjoyed her ill-health on the whole, and 
 was as likely to live now as at thirty. She sat lost in the deepest 
 of easy-chairs on the side of the fire opposite the window and 
 where there was least light. Miss Grey was on the sofa in the 
 full light of the fire, which sparkled in a pair of beautiful brown 
 eyes she had, which looked none the worse for the number of 
 years which had passed over their possessor. Miss Grey was 
 very small, a little bit of a woman, with scarcely body enough to 
 lodge a soul which was not little at all : at least the part of it 
 which was heart, if there are any divisions in our spiritual being, 
 Avas so big as to run over continually. She was very dark, with 
 hair that had been black before it became iron-gray, and a gipsy 
 complexion of olive and cherry. Her feet and hands were 
 not so small as would have become her tiny person, but as they 
 were feet that were always in motion for the good of her poor 
 fellow-creatures, and hands that were noted in their service, these 
 things are the less necessary to look into. 
 
 Mrs. FitzStephen was remarkable for little more than the 
 neatness of her cap, and the trimuess of her dress and person 
 generalW. She had been what people call a pretty little woman, 
 and on that character she lived. She was a pretty little woman 
 still according to the limitations of her age, and her husband was 
 still proud of her simple and somewhat faded beauty. He had 
 
XI LADY WILLIAM 83 
 
 always been pleased to hear it said what a pretty little woman 
 Mrs. FitzStephen was, and he was still pleased with the thought. 
 She had not cliauged for him. She was seated in front of the 
 low tea-table, on a low chair, making the tea. The General, who 
 was tall, looked taller than ever moving about in the little glowing 
 room between the firelight and the dark, handing to the ladies 
 their cake and tea. 
 
 ' We are all quite new people in the place in comparison with 
 Miss Grey,' said Mrs. Kendal, in her little invalid voice, 'though 
 we used to come here, the Archdeacon and I, long ago, before he 
 was the Archdeacon or I was delicate : dear me, we used to go on 
 the water ! he was a great boating man once ' 
 
 ' I remember,' said Miss Grey, ' he once took the duty for old 
 Mr. Plowden, before the present Eector left College. I remember 
 you very well — you were the bride — and there were ever so many 
 little parties made ' 
 
 'To be sure,' said the Archdeacon's wife, sitting up in her 
 chair — ' dear me — it is so strange to think of the time when one 
 was young ' 
 
 ' Emily was a little thing who was about everywhere — the 
 child of the parish I used to call her. A girl who has lost her 
 mother is so often like that, everybody's child. I don't say it's 
 not very nice as long as they're children. One gets more used to 
 them. She was always dancing about through everybody's house 
 — thank you. General, I couldn't take any more cake — there 
 wasn't a house in the parish, rich or poor, but Emily was dancing 
 out and in ' 
 
 ' Very bad for the child,' said Mrs. FitzStephen. 
 
 'Do you think so"?' said Miss Grey; 'well, I don't know, 
 as long as she was a child.' 
 
 ' If it was bad for the child, my dear, the woman has come 
 handsomely out of it,' said the General, carrying the cake into the 
 dark corner to Mrs. Kendal. ' My dear lady, one morsel more — 
 to keep me company.' 
 
 ' Oh ! General, on that inducement — but only a very, very 
 small piece ' 
 
 ' It's bad when the child grows into a woman,' said little Miss 
 Grey, shaking her little head ; ' she was as dear a girl as ever 
 lived — not one of them now is fit to hold the candle to what she 
 was. Mabl — Mab's a darling, the honestest little straight- 
 forward thing : and she would have been safer than Emily — she 
 would never have been taken in — as her mother was.' 
 
 'Dear Miss Grey,' said Mrs. FitzStephen, 'another cup of 
 
84 LADY WILLIAM xi 
 
 tea : and you were going to tell us about the Swinfords — for we 
 all know there was something : she was a Seymour, wasn't she, 
 of a very good family 1 ' 
 
 'But foreign blood in her,' said Miss Grey; 'I think her 
 mother was a Russian ; she always was fond of foreign things and 
 foreign ways ; he was a dear, good, quiet man. It never came 
 into his head that anything could go wrong ' 
 
 ' No ; why should it, in a quiet neighbourhood like this 1 ' 
 
 ' Oh ! I like to hear you speak of a quiet neighbourhood. 
 When the Hall was in full swing it was about as quiet as — as 
 Windsor Castle in the old days, before Her Majesty knew what 
 trouble was ; always something going on, the town full of visitors ; 
 entertainments that were in The Morning Post, and every kind of 
 pleasure. They used to come down in the middle of the summer, 
 from their town house, for a few days at a time, and bring half 
 the town with them ; and in autumn in the time of the part- 
 ridges •' 
 
 ' There could never be much shootiug,' said the General with 
 satisfaction, as on a subject he knew. 
 
 ' At the other end of the estate, the forest end — I have heard 
 there was not very much, but it was very good ; that is to say, 
 it didn't last very long, but as long as it lasted — at all events the 
 shooting might be only a pretence : but the house was always full, 
 that is the only thing I know ' 
 
 ' I daresay,' said Mrs. FitzStephen, ' it will be so again ; a 
 young man fond of company, like young Mr. Swinford.' 
 
 ' Oh ! you may be sm'e it will be so again. I don't know 
 about him ; but I do know about Mrs. Swinford ' 
 
 ' Now, don't be spiteful, Miss Grey ; when one lady does not 
 approve of another it is the right thing to say that she is spiteful 
 
 ' the General said in an explanatory way, to take away the 
 
 sting of the word which had come out unawares. 
 
 'And it is very pleasant in a country place to see a little 
 company,' said Mrs. Kendal, ' not that I care for great parties — 
 nor the Archdeacon ; but it makes a little stir ' 
 
 'It keeps a movement in the air,' said Mrs. FitzStephen, 
 retiring from the fire. 
 
 ' Well, there will be plenty of it,' said Miss Grey. 
 
 ' But, my dear lady, we must not have you cross — cross is what 
 you never were ; and society don't you know, in this paradise of 
 Watcham is the only thing we want.' 
 
 ' It would be very nice,' said JMrs. FitzStephen, with a little 
 sigh : ' though we have all done without it nicely, with our little 
 
XI LADY WILLIAM 85 
 
 tea parties, and a friend from town from Saturday to Monday, 
 and so forth.' 
 
 'I never wish for more,' said Mrs. Kendal, 'nor the Arch- 
 deacon ; it is just what we like : but dear me, when I was young 
 —I've danced sometimes all night.' 
 
 'We've heard the chimes at midnight,' said the General, 
 rubbing his hands j ' so I don't see any great occasion, my dear 
 ladies, to be afraid.' 
 
 Miss Grey said nothing, but there was a little twitter and thrill 
 in her, half visible in the firelight, as of a bird stirring on a bough ; 
 perhaps this proceeded from a little nodding of her head, very slight, 
 but continued like a little protest under her breath. 
 
 'And then think of the young ladies,' said General FitzStephen 
 jauntily ; ' I have always heard that Lady William met her 
 husband there ' 
 
 'There is not much chance for any of them to meet their 
 husbands here : I often try to induce the General to ask a nice 
 young man — from Saturday to Monday, you know — the only way 
 we could ever induce a man from town to come here : but he says 
 it isn't good enough — and asks his old fogies instead ' 
 
 ' The old fogies are more agreeable to us, my dear,' said the 
 General, ' and the young ladies must find their husbands for them- 
 selves : but when the Hall is full of fine company as our dear 
 friend predicts ' 
 
 Upon which Miss Grey, nodding, introduced what seemed an 
 entirely new and uncalled-for assertion. 
 
 ' James Plowden,' she said, ' though he is the Rector, is not a 
 wise man any more than his father was before him ' 
 
 ' My dear lady ! ' cried the General. 
 
 ' Miss Grey ! ' said Mrs. Kendal mildly, out of the dark. 
 
 ' Nelly, Nelly ! ' cried Mrs. FitzStephen, who was the one most 
 intimate with the culprit. 
 
 ' James Plowden,' repeated Miss Grey, ' is no Solomon, as you 
 all very well know, I am saying nothing against him — he's a very 
 good man : but though he hasn't very much wisdom, if he thought 
 one of his girls was to get a prince for her husband in the same 
 way as his sister got hers, he is not the man I think him, if he 
 ever let one of them put a foot inside that door.' 
 
 They all said ' Lady William ! ' with a joint cry, which, though 
 it was very quietly uttered by each individual, rose into quite an 
 outcry when uttered by the whole. 
 
 ' Poor little Emily ! ' said Miss Grey, putting up her handker- 
 chief to her eyes, 'that's how I think of her — though if she gets 
 
86 LADY WILLIAM xi 
 
 any pleasure out of her title, poor child, if you can call that a 
 title ' 
 
 ' Of course it is a title — she takes precedence of all of us,' said 
 Mrs. FitzStephen. 
 
 ' A courtesy title,' said the General. 
 
 ' Dear, I never knew there was anything against it,' said Mrs. 
 Kendal. 
 
 ' I hope she gets some pleasure out of it, poor dear,' said Miss 
 Grey ; ' little else has she ever got. A horrible man, who never, I 
 believe, made himself pleasant to her, never for one day : and a 
 horrible life for I don't know how many years. If there had been 
 
 a mother, or if he hadn't been well, I won't call him names 
 
 now he's in his grave — such a sacrifice would never have been made.' 
 
 ' But I suppose she liked him at the time,' said one of the ladies. 
 
 ' And no doubt he was in love with her,' said another ; ' Lord 
 Portcullis' son, and she a country clergyman's daughter.' 
 
 ' Oh, as for that, God knows : she was perhaps dazzled with the 
 miserable title, and her father of course, who was only a silly old 
 man — and then she was besought and persuaded, God knows how, 
 by those who did it for their own sake, not hers ' 
 
 ' But what reason could any one have V said Mrs. FitzStephen ; 
 ' my dear Nelly Grey, you must be making up a story in your 
 head ; what cause could any one have, unless to satisfy the man 
 who was in love with a girl, or to help forward the girl to a match 
 above her ? These are the only two reasons possible, and there's no 
 harm in them ; we would, any of us, do it,' she said. 
 
 ' Not if the man was of bad character,' said the General. 
 
 ' And if the girl was not in love with him ? Oh, I don't call 
 that romantic at all,' Mrs. Kendal said. 
 
 Miss Grey shook her head again, shook it till her little bonnet, 
 and all that could twitter and tremble about her, shook too. 
 
 ' You're all good people,' she said ; * you don't know the 
 mystery of a wicked woman's heart — or for that matter of a man's 
 either.' 
 
 ' Nelly,' said Mrs. FitzStephen, almost sharply, ' what can you 
 know, a little single woman, about mysteries and wicked persons 1 
 A soldier's wife like me, that has been knocked about the world ' 
 
 ' Or, oh, dear me, a clergyman's ! ' said Mrs. Kendal, ' and they 
 are told everything ' 
 
 ' Whatever you may know, you don't know Mrs. Swinford,' said 
 Miss Grey, hastily tying her bonnet-strings — ' No, I must go home, 
 thank you ; I want to be in before it's quite dark. And really 
 there's not much to tell ; nothing that I've seen with my eyes, as 
 
XI LADY WILLIAM 87 
 
 you may have, my dear, knocking about as a soldier's wife ; or as 
 a clergyman's wife may have heard dreadful things trickling out 
 through her husband. No, I've no husband. I haven't knocked 
 about the world. I may have fancied things, being always so quiet 
 here. But good-night, for I must go ; it's nearly dark, and my 
 little maid is always frightened if I'm not in before dark ' 
 
 ' The General will step round with you, Nelly dear — General, 
 you'll put on your greatcoat ' 
 
 ' Of course I am going,' said the General. It was a duty he 
 never was negligent of, to see a lady who came by herself to tea 
 safely home. 
 
XII 
 
 ' I HAVE been on a tour of inspection,' said Leo Swinford. He had 
 met on another beautiful afternoon all the villagers, that is, the 
 gentry of the village, partj^ by party, and he had repeated to them 
 all the same phrase : ' A tour of inspection ! ' Perhaps he Hked the 
 words, for he had the love of his adopted country for significant and 
 appropriate phrases ; and it seemed to that simijlicity, which lies 
 at the bottom of so much that is conventional on the other side of 
 the Channel, that it was highly appropriate, and very English and 
 business-like, to describe his prowl about the village in such words. 
 But it was not until, after many little pauses and talks, he had 
 come upon Lady William and her daughter, that he went further 
 into the matter. When he saw the two figures coming along, one 
 of which at least was like no one else in Watcham, Leo felt that he 
 had reached the society in Avhich he could speak freely : so, though 
 he repeated his phrase, he did not stop there. ' I know now,' he 
 said, nodding his head in half disgust, half satisfaction, ' what is 
 meant in England when you speak of the slums.' 
 
 ' The slums ! ' said Mab, who leant across her mother a little, 
 with an ear attentive to hear what he should say ; ' but there are 
 no slums in Watcham ; it is in London and in the East End that 
 there are slums. We have no slums here.' 
 
 Leo was too polite to say that what he said was not intended 
 for little girls ; but he gave that scarcely perceptible shrug of his 
 shoulders which means the same thing, and answered with a smile : 
 
 ' I did not suppose, Miss Mab, that you were ever permitted to 
 go there.' 
 
 ' Not permitted,' said Mab ; ' mother ! why shouldn't I be 
 permitted ? I hope I know every cottage in Watcham, and about 
 all the people, though of course they change a little. Mother, I 
 suppose he has been down by Kiverside.' 
 
 ' Very likely,' said Lady William, ' where the houses do not 
 
XII LADY WILLIAM 89 
 
 look attractive, we must allow. But Mab is right, Leo, though 
 perhaps she should uot be so ready with her opinion. The houses 
 do not look nice, nor, in some cases, the people that are in them ; 
 but we have nothing very bad here.' 
 
 ' I don't know, then, what you call very bad ; it must be some- 
 thing beyond my conception. I should like to clear all those 
 houses off the face of the earth. It is ugly ; it is loathsome. How 
 can' the children grow up with any sense of what is good in dens 
 like those 1 I have come home with the meaning to do my best 
 for the people who belong to me, you know. I have not very clear 
 ideas of what my duty is, perhaps; I only know it has been 
 neglected for many, many years.' 
 
 ' That is true, perhaps,' said Lady William ; ' but after all, you 
 know, the squire of the parish is not everything, and we have all 
 helped to keep things going. You don't know our aspect of 
 poverty, Leo ; perhaps it looks worse than it is. You will find 
 plenty to do, no doubt. If you announce your intentions, I know 
 several people who will be delighted to tell you just what you 
 must do ; my brother, of course, first of all.' 
 
 ' Shall I put myself, then, in the Rector's hands 1 ' 
 
 ' Oh, don't let him, mother,' said Mab (that little girl again : 
 how these little creatures are allowed to put themselves in the front 
 in England !), ' Uncle James has so many fads. He wants a ncAv 
 organ (we do want it very much) and a new infant school, and he 
 is always, always after the drains ! But I know a great many 
 things that it would be delightful to do.' 
 
 ' Of course your advice will be the best,' said her mother. 
 ' My dear Leo, it is so new to us to find a man delivering himself 
 over to be fleeced, for the good of the people.' 
 
 ' Do not use such a word ; I am so much in earnest ; I am so 
 anxious to do everything I can do. All these years I have been 
 receiving revenues from this place and giving nothing back ; and I 
 am lodged like a prince, while these poor people, who do their duty 
 to their country better than I have ever done, are in — what do you 
 call them, sties, stables, worse, a great deal worse, than my 
 horses ' 
 
 ' You must not run away with that idea,' said Lady William. 
 ' Mab, where can he have been V 
 
 ' I tell you, on Riverside, mother ; there are some houses there, 
 old, damp, horrid places ; it is quite true.' 
 
 'Dear lady,' said Mr. Swinford, laying his hand lightly on 
 Lady William's arm, ' you consult this child : but what can she 
 know of the miseries which at her age one does not understand 1 ' 
 
90 LADY WILLIAM xii 
 
 Mab kept down by an effort the reply which was breaking from 
 her hps. Child ! to a woman of seventeen ! and to be told she 
 did not understand : she that knew every soul on Kiverside, and 
 what they worked at, and how many children there were, and 
 every domestic incident ! She kept leaning across her mother to 
 catch every word, and cast terrible looks at the accuser, though she 
 commanded herself, and allowed Lady William to reply. 
 
 ' You forget,' said Lady William gently, 'that to us there is no 
 horror about our poor neighbours, Leo. We know most of them 
 as well as we know our own relations, perhaps better j for on that 
 level nothing is hid ; whereas on our own, if there is trouble in a 
 house, there is often an attempt to conceal, or perhaps even to 
 deceive outsiders, and pretend that everything is well.' 
 
 ' But, the very absence of concealment — the brutal frankness — 
 the vice — the horror ' 
 
 ' Mother, I suppose ]\Ir. Swinford means when the men drink, 
 and everything goes wrong 1 ' 
 
 ' Yes, Mab, that is what he means ; it is not so common in 
 France as in England. It is the root of everything here. They 
 are not unkind generally when they can be kept from drink. 
 Mr. Osborne, the curate, is a fanatic on that subject, and one 
 can't wonder. He would like you to oppose the giving of licenses, 
 Leo, and to shut up every place in Watcham where drink is to 
 be got. I am very much with him in my heart. But I would 
 not advise you to give yourself altogether up to his guidance 
 either.' 
 
 'Not to the Rector's, nor to the curate's (whom I have not 
 seen), nor to Miss Mab's 1 To yours, then, dear lady, which is 
 what I shall like best of all.' 
 
 'No, not to mine. I share all of these extravagances, one 
 now, and the other to-morrow. Sometimes I am all for Mr. 
 Osborne's way, sometimes I sympathise with my brother. You 
 must put yourself in nobody's hands, but examine everything, 
 and judge for yourself what it is best to do.' 
 
 ' Ah ! ' said Leo, throwing up his hands, ' you give me the 
 most difficult part of all. I will pull down their evil-smelling 
 places, and build them better ; or they shall have money, money 
 to get clothes instead of rags, to be clean. These are things I 
 understand ; but to examine and form conclusions as if I were 
 a statesman or a philanthropist — can't it be done with money'? 
 I hear it said that anything can be done with money.' 
 
 ' Oh, mother, a great deal,' said Mab eagerly ; ' don't discourage 
 him : a little money is such a help. I know people who could be 
 
XII LADY "WILLIAM 91 
 
 made so happy •with just a httle. There are the okl Lloyds, who 
 will have to go to the workhouse if their son does not send 
 them something, and he is out of work. And there is George, 
 who can't go fishing any longer for his rheumatism, and poor 
 dear Lizzie Minns, who is so afflicted, and won't live to be a 
 burden on her people. Oh, don't tell him no, mother ! Mr. 
 Swinford, people say it is wrong to give money,' said Mab, turning 
 to him, always across the figure of Lady "William, who was be- 
 tween, with her eyes, which Avere not pretty eyes, swimming in 
 tears, ' but I don't think so ; not in these kind of cases, where 
 a few shillings a week would make all the diflFerence : and we 
 haven't got it to give them, mother and I.' 
 
 ' They shall not go to the workhouse, nor die of their rheuma- 
 tisms,' cried Leo. He was so moved that the water stood in his 
 eyes too. ' Tell me how much it needs, or take my purse, or give 
 me your orders. I was a fool ! I was a fool ! thinking the angels 
 shouldn't know.' 
 
 Mab stared a little across her mother, not in the least compre- 
 hending this address, or that she was the angel on behalf of whom 
 Leo upbraided himself. She understood herself to be stigmatised 
 as a little girl, but she was not aware that the higher being had 
 anything to do with her. At the same time she perceived that 
 his heart was touched, and that to the old Lloyd's, etc., the 
 best results possible might accrue. As for Lady "William, she 
 was half touched, half amused by the incident ; pleased that her 
 little girl had come out so well, and pleased with Leo's enthusiasm, 
 yet ready to laugh at them both. She put up a subduing hand 
 between. 
 
 ' Don't beg in this outrageous way, Mab ; and don't give in to 
 her in that perfectly defenceless manner, Leo. I shall be com- 
 pelled to interfere and stop both of you. But here is somebody 
 coming who knows all about it, better than Mab, better than I 
 do, far better even than the parson of the parish. Here is not 
 only the head of all the charities, but Cliarity herself embodied. 
 Look at her coming along, that you may know her again when 
 you see her, one of the great Christian virtues in flesh and 
 blood.' 
 
 Leo winked the tear out of his eye, though he was not 
 ashamed of it, as a man all English might have been, and 
 laughed in response to this new appeal, in which he did not 
 know that there might not be a little satire. He said, ' I see 
 no white wings nor shining robes. I see a very small woman 
 in the dress of a — no, I will not say that — but it's a 
 
92 LADY WILLIAM xn 
 
 little droll, isu't it ? scanty, to say the least, and perhaps 
 shabby.' 
 
 ' Oh, if you want an appropriate dress ! It ought to be white, 
 with blazons of gold : but it is only an old black merino, worn 
 rusty in the service of the poor. Miss Grey, Mr. Leo Swiuford 
 wants you to remember him. He was only a little boy when 
 you saw him last, and he wants to speak to you about the 
 poor.' 
 
 ' Of course I should not have known you again,' said Miss 
 Grey, ' for I don't know that I ever saw you nearer than in the 
 carriage with your mamma. But I am very glad to know you, 
 Mr. Swinford, though not much worth the trouble — and especially 
 to tell you anything I can about the poor.' 
 
 ' He has views,' said Lady William, ' of abolishing them off the 
 face of the earth.' 
 
 ' Oh, you'll never do that,' said little Miss Grey, with a flash 
 of her beautiful brown eyes. ' The poor ye have always with you ; 
 never, till you can make the race perfect, will you get rid of the 
 poor.' 
 
 ' He thinks money will be able to do it : and Mab rather 
 agrees with him.' 
 
 ' Money ! ' said Miss Grey, with a disdain which no words could 
 express. She turned not to Lady William, wdio spoke, but to Leo, 
 when she replied, ' Money is of use, no doubt : but to sow it about 
 and give it to everybody is downright ruin.' 
 
 ' Not to good honest old people. Miss Grey, like the Lloyds 
 and old Riverside George.' 
 
 ' Pensions 1 ' said the little lady, with her head on one side like 
 a bird. ' Well, there may be something in that. Come into my 
 house and sit down, and we can argue it out.' 
 
 Miss Grey's cottage was a smaller cottage even than Lady 
 William's. It was lopsided — a house with only one window beside 
 the door ; one little sitting-room with a little kitchen behind. 
 
 The little parlour looked as if it could not by any means 
 contain the party which its little mistress ushered in. ' Step in, 
 step in,' she said, 'don't be afraid. There is far more room than 
 you would think. I have had ten of the mothers here at once, 
 and not so much as a saucer broken. The ladies know where they 
 can find places, but Mr. Swiuford, as you are a stranger, you shall 
 sit here.' 
 
 Here was a large easy-chair, the largest piece of furniture in 
 the room, which stood almost in the centre, with a small table 
 beside it. And there was a big old-fashioned sofa against the wall. 
 
xii LADY WILLIAM 93 
 
 occupying the whole side from door to window. It was the wonder 
 of all the AVatcham people how that sofa had been got into the 
 room which it blocked up. But Miss Grey's response always was 
 that she could not part with her furniture ; and that the old 
 Chesterfield, which was what she called the sofa, was a cherished 
 relic of her dear home. But the most remarkable thing about this 
 little room was the manner in which it was lined and garlanded 
 with china. Miss Grey was poor, but the chiua was not poor. It 
 was of every kind that could be described, and it was everywhere, 
 on little shelves and brackets against the wall, on the mantelpiece, 
 on every table. There was scarcely anything in the room except 
 the Chesterfield which did not support a row of dishes, or vases, 
 or plates. Lady William and Mab, being closely acquainted with 
 the place, managed to seat themselves without damaging any of 
 these treasures : but to an unaccustomed visitor the entrance was 
 one fidl of perils. It went to Miss Grey's heart that Mr. Swin- 
 ford made his entrance as gingerly as if all these riches had been 
 his own. 
 
 'Never mind,' she said, as something rattled down from a 
 corner, ' it's only a very common delft dish ; or is it the majolica ? 
 Only the yellow majolica, it doesn't matter at all ; and besides, it 
 isn't broken, or chipped, or anything. Oh, that's an accident that 
 happens every day : but my ten mothers didn't even knock down 
 that plate, and some of them were big bouncing women.' 
 
 ' You are a collector, Miss Grey 1 ' 
 
 ' Oh, I am not good enough for that ; they are all old things, 
 and I am fond of them ; most of them, Mr. Swinford, came from 
 my dear home ; the things that were in one's home are never like 
 anything else; and a few I have picked up, but very few, not 
 enough to make any difference. The majolica, I daresay you 
 think nothing of it, you that know what is really good. And 
 neither do I, but not from that reason, because I only bought it 
 myself at a sale. It is not from my dear home.' 
 
 ' And may I ask,' said Leo, with polite attention, ' what it 
 means, your ten mothers ? You must understand that I am very 
 ignorant of many things.' 
 
 ' Oh, that is easily explained,' said little Miss Grey ; ' ten 
 members of my mothers' meeting, that's what they are ; they 
 meet in the schoolroom once a week, and now and then I have 
 them here to tea.' 
 
 'Mothers,' said Leo, 'of children'? I understand.' He was 
 perfectly serious in his polite attention. ' And they meet every 
 week, and consult, perhaps upon education 1 ' 
 
94 LADY WILLIAM xii 
 
 'Oh no,' said. Miss Grey, 'poor things, they are not much up 
 to that. They cut out things for their children, Uttle petticoats, 
 and so forth, and work at them ; and one of us reads aloud ; and 
 they pay only a little for the material, just enough to feel that 
 they have bought it ; and the schoolroom is nice and warm and 
 bright, and it's a little society for them.' 
 
 Leo's face was very grave ; there was not even a ghost of a 
 smile upon it. ' I should never have thought of that,' he said, 
 ' but it is good, very good. But why not give them the material 
 to make things for their children 1 I understand the women love it, 
 and it does them good to work at it. But I will buy the stuff for you, 
 all you want, with pleasure. Would not that be the simplest way ?' 
 
 'I think so too, often,' said Mab, whose whole soul was in the 
 question, and who understood nothing at all of the amusement 
 with which her mother was looking on. 
 
 ' Not at all,' said Miss Grey, ' for then it would look like 
 charity ; now they buy everything, it is very cheap, but it is no 
 charity, it is their very own.' 
 
 ' But charity is no bad thing ; charity is to give what one has 
 to those who have not.' 
 
 ' I think so, too, often,' said Mab again. She added, nodding 
 her head, 'It is in the Bible just like that.' 
 
 ' But we must not pauperise them,' said Miss Grey ; ' we must 
 help them to keep their self-respect.' 
 
 ' There is nothing about self-respect in the Bible,' said Mab 
 quickly. 
 
 ' Oh, Mab, you are only a child. I am not against giving ; 
 sometimes it is the only way ; and it's a great pleasure. But it 
 isn't good for the people ; we must think first what is good for 
 
 them. We must not demoralise them ; we mustn't ' The 
 
 little woman hurried her argument till her cheeks grew like two 
 little dark roses, with excitement and perplexity. 
 
 ' It is this,' said Leo ; ' everything has been neglected by me 
 for many years. First I was a child and did not understand, and 
 then I was a young man, taken up by follies. I have come back. 
 I wish now to do my duty to my people. I will put into your 
 hands money, as much as you want, a hundred or a thousand 
 pounds, as much as is wanted, to make happy whom you can, if 
 they can be brought to be happy ; and to make clean, and plenti- 
 ful, and good. Hush ! dear lady, don't laugh at me. I would 
 like to pull down those frightful houses, and put all the poor 
 people in pleasant, bright rooms, where they could breathe.' 
 
 ' What frightful houses ? ' 
 
XII LADY WILLIAM 95 
 
 ' He means Riverside, Miss Grey.' 
 
 ' He means Riverside ! But they are not bad houses ; the 
 people are not unhappy there. Oh, I could show you some ! But 
 at Riverside they are only ugly. The people are not badly off; 
 they get on well enough. One heljjs them a little sometimes, but 
 they rarely come on the rates, or even apply to the Rector. Why, 
 Mr. Swinford, you mustn't only look at the outside of things.' 
 
 ' I know,' said Leo, repeating himself (but this was part of his 
 excited state), 'that I am housed like a prince, and they — not so 
 well as the horses in the stables.' 
 
 Little Miss G-rey kept her eyes on him as he spoke, as if he 
 were a madman, with a mixture of extreme curiosity and anxiety, 
 to know if there was method in his madness. ' AVell ! ' she cried, 
 ' that is not your fault. You are not — what do you call it, Emily ? 
 for I am not clever — anything feudal to them. You are not their 
 chief, like a Scotch clan. What makes them poor (and they're not 
 so very poor) is their own fault. They're as independent as you 
 are. If they drink and waste their wages they're badly off; if 
 they don't they're comfortable enough ; if they're dirty, it's because 
 they don't mind. Bless me, Mr. Swinford, it isn't your fault. If 
 you pulled down the houses, they would make an outcry that 
 would be heard from here to London. Besides, I don't think they 
 belong to you ! ' said Miss Grey triumphantly. ' They were all 
 built by White, the baker. I know they don't belong to you ! ' 
 
 Leo Swinford sat and gazed at her with a rising perception 
 that there was something ludicrous in the attitude he had assumed, 
 which, at the same time, was so entirely sincere and true. 
 
 'And as for the stables being better — some stables are ridi- 
 culous — sinful luxury, as if the poor dumb brutes were not just 
 as happy in the old way. Whj^, my little house,' said Miss Grey, 
 looking round, ' is not all marble and varnish, like your stables. 
 And you think, perhaps, it is a poor little place for me to live in, 
 while you live in your palace like a prince, as you say ? ' 
 
 He did not make any reply. This little woman took away his 
 breath. But he did cast a look round him at the minuteness of 
 the place ; a kind of wistful look, as if he could not deny the 
 feeling she imputed to him, and would have liked nothing so 
 much as to build her a palace, too. 
 
 ' Well ! ' said Miss Grey, ' and I would not give it for Windsor 
 Castle. I like it ten thousand times better than your palace ; and 
 the poor folk in Riverside are just like me.' 
 
 ' Dear lady,' said Leo, in his perplexity, ' it is not the same 
 thing ; but you take away my breath.' 
 
96 LADY WILLIAM xii 
 
 Here Lady William came to his aid, yet did not fail to point 
 a moral. ' You see,' she said, ' you must not follow a hasty im- 
 pulse even to do good. There are two reasons against making a 
 desert of Riverside ; first, because the people there don't find it 
 dreadful, as you do ; and next, my dear Leo, because you're not 
 their feudal lord, as Miss Grey says, and the houses don't belong 
 to you.' 
 
 He shrugged his sliovdders, as a man discomfited has a right 
 to do. But Miss Grey burst in before he had time to say a word : 
 'If that is what you want, Mr. Swinford, I can show you a 
 Dlace ! ' 
 
XIII 
 
 While Leo Swinford was making his first attemiDt to revolutionise, 
 or perhaps pauperise, the parish under the irreg'uhir and unofficial 
 guidance of Miss Grey and Mab, "who had, of course, no public 
 standing at all, though he would have been a bold Rector indeed 
 who had disowned the abounding services and constant help of 
 Miss Grey — other incidents were going on of still more importance 
 to the conduct of this history. Notwithstanding the indignation 
 with which she had received the suggestion that money was strong 
 enough to unlock aU doors and solve all problems, it was astonish- 
 ing how soon that unauthorised and unofficial Providence of the 
 parish found ways and means to disembarrass Leo of a considerable 
 sum of money, and to produce a list of requirements for which 
 that vulgar dross would be very useful. She adopted all Mab's 
 suggestions as to the Lloyd couple and old George, permitting that 
 little weekly allowances should be given them to keep them in life 
 and comfort ; and she pronounced and sealed the doom of a group 
 of cottages which, though they were not ugly, like Riverside, 
 rather the contrary, a picturesque group, making quite a feature 
 in the level country, were not fit to live in, as Mr. Swinford was 
 reluctantly brought to allow. He did not like pulling to pieces 
 the venerable walls and high-pitched roofs, with their growths of 
 lichen, which were a picture in themselves, and struggled long in 
 the name of art against that dire necessity. Indeed, the case was 
 a parable, since we are all but too willing to pull down the ugly 
 but not uncomfortable tenements of White the baker, though it 
 costs us a pang to do away with the unwholesome prettiness of 
 our own. But while Leo's education in the duties of a proprietor 
 was thus progressing, there was another young man whose training 
 was going on in a very difierent way. Jim's Sophocles became 
 more and more hard upon him as the spring days grew longer, and 
 the east winds blew themselves out, and the sun grew warm. 
 
 H 
 
98 LADY WILLIAM xiri 
 
 What was the good of all that Greek 1 he asked himself, and there 
 was reason in the question. If he were to be sent out to a ranch 
 it would not helji him much to know about Electra and Antigone. 
 Less tragic heroines, and lore less elevated, would serve the purpose 
 of the common day ; or if he went into a merchant's office, there 
 is no commercial correspondence in Greek, even if modern Greek 
 was the least like the classic. What, then, was the use of it? 
 And yet the Eector would hear no reason, but kept grinding on 
 and on. Jim had some cause for his dissatisfaction : and he could 
 not have understood the reluctance of his father, once a scholar in 
 his time, to resign for his son all hope of the honours which Jim 
 neither wished for nor prized. But the Eector could not wind 
 himself up to the point of deciding that what he fondly hoped 
 were his boy's talents should be hidden either in a ranch or in an 
 office. He kept hoping, as we all hope, that fate would take some 
 turn, that some opening would come which would still permit of a 
 happier conclusion. And nothing was settled from day to day, 
 and nothing done except that Sophocles, that sop to anxiety, that 
 poor expedient to occujDy the lad who hated it. It is a common- 
 place to add that if the vexed and unhappy Rector had contrived 
 a means to make his son's prospects worse and his life more un- 
 tenable, he could scarcely have hit upon a better. To send him 
 away had a hope in it, though it might have been destruction, but 
 to keep him unwilling and embittered at home, held in this tread- 
 mill of forced and unprofitable labour, was the destruction made 
 sure and without hope. 
 
 Jim was too sore and vexed with this fote from which there 
 seemed no escape, yet too well assured that it was his own fault, 
 and that nothing he could do was likely to restore him to the old 
 standing-ground in which everything that was good was hoped and 
 believed of him — to make any manly protest against it. There 
 was no such power in him, poor boy. It was his nature to drift, 
 and to resent the drifting, but to take no initiative of his own. 
 When he was upbraided, as he was so often for his idleness and 
 uselessness, he would make angry retorts now and then, that he 
 would work fast enough if he had anything to do except that 
 beastly Greek : but these retorts were growled out under his 
 breath, or flung over his shoulder as he escaped, and the angry 
 father paid no attention to them, and did not perceive the reason 
 that lay underneath this angry folly. Even when the Rector 
 adjured him, as he did sometimes, to say what he woidd do, to 
 strike out some path of his own, poor Jim had nothing to say. 
 He had no path of his own ; he had only an angry perception that 
 
xiri LADY WILLIAM 99 
 
 the one upon ■which he was now drifting was the worst : but if 
 they would only let him alone, Jim did not care otherwise much 
 about it. What he proposed was to do nothing at all except a 
 little boating and lawn tennis, or skating in winter. He did not 
 think of the future, nor ask anything of it. If they would but let 
 him alone. 
 
 When a young man in the country is what he calls bidlied at 
 home, Avork demanded of him which he hates, aims and jDurposes 
 insisted upon which he does not possess, it is an infinite relief to 
 him to escape to the society of those who will flatter and soothe, 
 and make him feel himself a fine fellow and a gentleman in spite 
 of all. Such was the comjDany in the ' Blue Boar ' where the 
 Rector's son was thought much of, and his opinions greatly looked 
 up to, notwithstanding a conviction on the part of the honest 
 tradespeojole who frequented the parlour that it was a thousand 
 pities he ever came there. They asked themselves why didn't his 
 father look to it, and see that Mr. Jim had summut to do, and 
 friends of his own kind — in the same breath with which they 
 flattered him as the nicest young gentleman, and considered it a 
 pleasure to hear what he thought of things ; but it was a long time 
 before any one among them could make up his mind to utter the 
 words which were on all their lips, and to tell Mr. Jim that the 
 parlour of the ' Blue Boar,' though it was so respectable, was not 
 the place for a young gentleman ; and in the meantime the incense 
 of their admiration and pride in his companionship was balm to the 
 youth, notwithstanding his own knowledge that he ought not to be 
 there. 
 
 And there was another place which' was becoming still more 
 agreeable to poor Jim. Since that first visit when she called him 
 in, in the darkening, he had paid many visits at the schoolroom 
 to Mrs. Brown, He could not go anywhere without passing the 
 door, and in the evening, when it was not very easy to see who 
 went or came, she was almost always there, looking out, breathing 
 the air as she said, after the day's work, and keeping a watch for 
 Jim. He was flattered by this watch for him even more than by 
 the admiration of the shopkeepers, and yet at the same time half 
 ashamed. For there was no depravity about the boy, and these 
 attentions on the part of a woman who was no longer young em- 
 barrassed him greatly, and gave him a sense of danger which, however, 
 in her presence was entirely soothed and smoothed away. There 
 was a sense of danger but still more a sense of ridicule, which 
 seized him whenever he left her, and made him resolve with a blush 
 never to go near her agaiu. And, yet again, there was safety too. 
 
100 LADY WILLIAM xiii 
 
 Had Mrs. Brown had a daughter, a girl whom he might have fallen 
 in love with, whom people might have talked about, Jim felt that 
 the circumstances would have been quite different ; then, indeed, 
 it would have been a duty to have stayed away : but a woman who 
 might be his mother ! If she liked to talk to him it was ridiculous, 
 but it couldn't be any harm. Nobody thought it anything wrong 
 that Osborne the curate should pay long visits to Miss Grey, and 
 take tea with her, and all that ; and why not Jim to Mrs. Brown 
 who was much more amusing, and who had no society ? She was 
 a capital one to talk ; she had been a great deal about the world ; 
 she knew hundreds of people : and there was always a comfortable 
 chair ready for him, and she had an art in manufacturing drinks 
 which nobody Jim knew was equal to. It never occurred to him 
 to inquire why she looked out for him in the evenings, and made 
 those exquisite drinks for him. It was ridiculous, but it was not 
 disagreeable, and in the evening as he prowled along, unwilling to 
 go into the dull familiar house, where there was reproach more or 
 less veiled in every eye, where even Florry, who stood by him the 
 most, would rush out unexpectedly with an ' Oh, Jim ! why can't 
 you do something and please papaT — there was a wonderful 
 seduction in the sight or half-sight, for it was generally dark, of 
 Mrs. Brown's handsome head looking out from the door. ' Good 
 evening, Mr. Plowden ; I hope you are coming in a little to cheer 
 me up.' It was said so low that, supposing somebody else to be 
 passing, which was very rare, it could reach no other ear but Jim's. 
 Sometimes he resisted the call ; sometimes when she was not at 
 the door he went in of himself It was all quite easy and irregular, 
 and out of the way. The entrance to Mrs. Brown's house was 
 close to a lane which led to the Rectory, and thus it was easy for 
 him to dart in without being observed. Once, he felt sure, Os- 
 borne passing had turned half-back to stare, and saw where he was 
 going. Confound that fellow ! but, what did it matter what 
 Osborne saw ? He had never been friendly with Jim, never showed 
 any relish for his society, which had rankled in the young man's 
 breast, though he was too proud ever to have breathed a conscious- 
 ness of the fact. But, whatever he was, the curate was not a 
 sneak who would go off to the Eectory and betray what he had 
 seen. Jim dived into the doorway, however, with an accelerated 
 pace of which he was ashamed ; and the ridicule of it came over 
 him with a keener heat and flush. A woman old enough to be his 
 mother ! But what was the difference ? That fellow Osborne 
 would go off all the same to little Nelly Grey. 
 
 ' Oh, Mr. Jim, what a pleasure to see you ! ' cried Mrs. Brown. 
 
XIII LADY WILLIAM 101 
 
 ' I had almost given up hope : for it is near the Rectory dinner, 
 isn't it, and you will be wanted at home ' 
 
 ' Oh, I am not such a good little boy as all that,' said Jim, 
 with an uneasy laugh ; ' I am not so afraid of being late.' 
 
 ' That's very bad, very bad,' said Mrs. Brown. ' I am sure 
 the young ladies are always in time and punctual ; they come 
 to see me sometimes, you know, and they always recommend 
 punctuality. It's a great virtue. I have all the ladies to come 
 to see me, but I sometimes think, Mr. Jim, if they were to 
 know ' 
 
 ' I don't know what, I am sure,' said Jim, growing very red, yet 
 looking at her steadily ; ' there is nothing I could tell that would 
 make them less respectful to you, Mrs. Brown — only that you were 
 once in a better position, and better off than you are now; my mother 
 and the rest may be a little narrow, but they would never think the 
 less of you for that.' 
 
 Mrs. Brown was not a woman who was easily disconcerted ; she 
 could have borne the assault of all the ladies of the parish and 
 given them as good, nay, much more than they could have given 
 her : for though Mrs. Plowden had a good steady command of 
 words when she was scolding the servants at the Eectory, she 
 never could have stood for a moment before the much more nimble 
 and fiery tongue of the schoolmistress. But before Jim's assertion 
 of her irreproachableness and conviction that her only disadvantage 
 was that she had seen better days, Mrs. Brown was utterly silenced ; 
 she could not answer the boy a word ; she was a woman quite 
 ready to laugh at the idea of innocence in a young man, but when 
 she was thus brought face to face with it, instead of laughing she 
 was struck dumb ; she could not make him any reply ; she pre- 
 tended to be busy with the lamp, raising and then lowering the 
 light, and then she left the room altogether without a word. Poor 
 Jim felt that he must have offended her by this untoward allusion 
 to better days. Did she think by any chance that he was taunting 
 her with her poverty, or that anybody in the world, at least any- 
 body at Watcham, could think the less of her ? Perhaps he ought 
 not even to have said that ; he ought to have made sure that it 
 went without saying, a certainty that it was half an offence to put 
 into words. As, however, he sat pondering this in doubt and fear, 
 Mrs. Brown came back all smiles, bringing that familiar tall glass 
 foaming high with the drink which nobody in Watcham could com- 
 pound — nobody he had ever known before. 
 
 ' Oh,' he said, ' I thought you were angry ; and here you come 
 like — like Hebe, you know — with nectar in your hand.' 
 
102 LADY WILLIAM xiii 
 
 'I am rather an elderly Hebe,' she said, 'but it's a pretty- 
 comparison all the same. If I were young and blooming instead 
 of being old and dried up, I should have made you a curtsey for 
 your compliment ; but there's this compensation, Mr. Jim, that a 
 Hebe of seventeen, which is, I believe, the right age, would prob- 
 ably not know how to make up a drink like this. Taste it, and 
 tell me if it isn't the very nicest I have made for you yet ? ' 
 
 'It is nectar,' said Jim fervently; 'but,' he added, 'do you 
 know, I wish you wouldn't make me such delicious things to 
 drink. Why should I give you all this trouble, and ' — he paused, 
 and added, embarrassed — ' expense too 1 ' 
 
 Mrs. Brown laughed and clapped her hands. ' Expense, too ! ' 
 she cried ; ' how good ! Oh, you don't know how I get the 
 materials, and how little they cost me ; people I used to employ 
 in — in what you call my better days, are so faithful to me. As 
 you say, Mr. Jim, the world isn't at all such a hard place as one 
 thinks ; and even the ladies of the parish — but you do amuse me 
 so with your stories of the parish — it's such an odd little world, 
 isn't it ? Tell me, what are they saying about Leo Swinford 1 
 Has any one made up her mind to marry him 1 That's what I 
 expect to hear every day.' 
 
 'I don't know anybody that wants to marry him,' said Jim. 
 ' I suppose he must take the first step in anything of that kind.' 
 
 ' Do you think so, really ? ' said Mrs. Brown. ' Now, do you 
 know, I am not at all so sure of that ; the ladies will think of it 
 first, I'll promise you. He is a nice young man, with a good 
 estate ; and he hadn't been a week in the parish, I'll answer for 
 it, before two or three ladies had settled who was to have him — 
 
 and as for the j'^oung ones themselves Ob, my dear Mr. 
 
 Jim, you are too good-hearted ; you don't think, then, of the 
 plans and schemes that may be laid for you 1 ' 
 
 ' Me ! ' said Jim, with a blush ; and then he shook his head. 
 ' Nobody approves of me enough to make any plans about me.' 
 
 'Don't you be too sure of that,' she said airily; 'but Leo 
 Swinford is a new man, and he's got a quantity of money. Now% 
 answer me my question, for I've known him all his life, and I 
 take an interest in him : who is going to marry him ? Does 
 
 your ' She paused, and the mischief in her eyes yielded to 
 
 alarm for a moment. However much a youth may be in your 
 bonds, and capable of guidance, yet it is possible that he may 
 rebel if you question him about his mother ; so she changed what 
 she was about to say. ' Does your — aunt,' she proceeded, ' Lady 
 William, don't you know, as everybody calls her — think of him 
 
xiri LADY WILLIAM 103 
 
 for her little fot girl 1 Oh, I beg your i^ardoii ; I think she is a 
 very nice little girl, but she is fat ; when she grows older she will 
 fine down.' 
 
 Jim's delicacy was not offended by this statement. He 
 laughed. ' Yes,' he said, ' Mab is fat ; but she is a nice little girl 
 for all that.' 
 
 ' A dear little girl,' said Mrs. Brown ; ' she comes and gives 
 me advice about the children. You would think she was seventy 
 instead of seventeen. Well, is she to be the bride. Have the 
 parish ladies given their votes for her 1 ' 
 
 ' For Mab ! ' Jim repeated with wonder. ' Mab's not that 
 kind of girl at all. She does not go in for — for marrying or so 
 forth. She's too young. She thinks of her garden, and of boat- 
 ing, and that sort of thing. She is a very jolly girl. She has 
 got a will of her own, just. The ladies might give their votes 
 as much as they please, it would not matter for that.' 
 
 ' Of course I may be mistaken,' said Mrs. Brown, ' I am the 
 poor schoolmistress. I don't judge the gentry from their own 
 point of view as you do. I have to look up from such a very, 
 very long way down.' She laughed, and Jim laughed too, though 
 he did not quite know why. ' But I know that he is always at 
 Lady William's. What a little cottage she lives in to be a lady 
 of title, Mr. Jim ; not very much bigger than mine ! ' 
 
 'Aunt Emily is not rich,' said Jim, with a little uneasiness, 
 feeling that he ought not to be discussing his relation. 
 
 ' Poor lady ; but if she marries her daughter to Leo Swinford 1 
 I know he is there almost every day.' 
 
 'Yes, so I hear,' said Jim, 'but I don't believe he thinks of 
 marrying any one. He goes to see Aunt Emily. He goes for a 
 good talk. There are not many people to talk to here.' 
 
 ' To talk to a middle-aged lady, when there are plenty of 
 young ones 1 Oh no, Mr. Jim, you must not try to persuade me 
 of that.' 
 
 ' But,' said Jim, stammering a little, ' it's quite true. What 
 difference is there 1 just as I come to see you, and Osborne — but 
 perhaps that's not quite the same thing.' 
 
 ' Osborne ' said Mrs. Brown. ' Oh, the curate, the good 
 
 young curate. As you come to see me — thank you, Mr. Jim, 
 how nice you are ! — Leo goes and sits with your dear aunt. 
 And Mr. Osborne — to whom docs Mr. Osborne go^ Oh, I owe 
 him something ; he is so nice to me about the school. Tell me 
 where he goes to have his talk.' 
 
 'Well, perhaps it's not quite the same thing,' said Jim, 
 
104 LADY WILLIAM xiii 
 
 confused ; ' Miss Grey, you know she is almost like another 
 curate, she knows as much about the parish ; but if he goes aud 
 has tea with her, I don't quite see, don't you know, what any- 
 body could say — how anybody coiUd object — or what is out of the 
 way, don't you know, in me ' 
 
 ' Going to sit a little in the evening with Mrs. Brown,' said 
 the schoolmistress with a burst of laughter, clapping her hands. 
 ' And quite right too ; the analogy is perfect. So there are three 
 of us,' she said, 'whom the young men prefer. You can't think 
 how nice, and cheering, and pleasant for an old person ; to think 
 of three old ladies. Lady William, Miss Grey, and me ! How 
 much I am obliged to you, my dear Mr. Jim ! ' 
 
 How was she obliged to him ? What had he said 1 Jim 
 felt very uncomfortable, though he could not have told why. 
 
XIV 
 
 When Leo Swinford said that he was lodged like a prince there 
 was little extravagance in the phrase. He was lodged like a 
 prince indeed in the age of reason, not that of subdued asstheti- 
 cism like this. The rooms in the Hall were spacious and lofty, 
 and decorated with mirrors and gilding and marble, generally 
 false marble, to an extent very rarely seen in England. And 
 they were hung with pictures which would have been worth a 
 king's ransom had the names upon them been genuine, which 
 of course they were not. A Swinford of a hundred years ago, 
 Leo's great-grandfather, had been one of those dilettanti of the 
 eighteenth century to whom the languid Italy of those days was 
 at once an idol and a place of plunder. He had filled his house 
 with copies, with supposed antiques picked up here and there, 
 with much old furniture and false statuary and bronzes. All the 
 splendid names of art flourished on the walls ; I am not sure that 
 there was not a fragment, so called, of Phidias, from some classic 
 excavation, and I am certain that there were several Raphaels, 
 and even a Michael Angelo (the day of Botticelli was not yet). 
 The cabinets and carvings which were genuine gave an air of 
 reality to much that was false. If it was not true art, it was at 
 least a good representation of the age when connoisseurs were few, 
 when the craft of the copyist was in great request, and when it 
 was fondly hoped, with that stupidity which belongs to the 
 cultured person in all ages, that the model of the Italian palace, 
 designed for skies and customs so different from ours, might be 
 made to improve the natural beauty of an English house ; the 
 attempt was a mistake, but here and there, when carried out 
 regardless of expense, it was not without effect, and the Hall was 
 a good specimen of its period. A hundred years is a respectable 
 period of time, and an example of the aims and meaning of a past 
 century is worth preserving. But the large suites of rooms 
 
106 LADY WILLIAM xiv 
 
 opening from each other, with large windows and doors, and no 
 system of warming, were chilly and severe in a season still 
 scarcely genial — England in this respect, with the cheerful open 
 fires upon which we pride ourselves, being so much inferior to 
 France with its calorifh'es, or Germany with its endless stuffy but 
 effective stoves, in the art of keeping a house warm. Our houses, 
 alas, are far from being warm, as many a shivering invalid 
 knows. 
 
 It was on a Saturday, late in the afternoon in the beginning 
 of April, but before the blasts were altogether over, that another 
 visitor who was not at all so well received as Lady William and 
 the Plowdens, walked briskly up the avenue and along by the 
 side of the lake towards the Hall. She went quietly, looking 
 neither to the right nor the left, with the air of a person who 
 knew very well where she was going ; and she was, I think, 
 better dressed than Lady William, with something like fashion in 
 the fit of her garments and the fall of her draperies, not over- 
 dressed either, in black with a little veil over her face, a woman 
 with a presence which all tlie poor in Watcham recognised as that 
 of a lady, and a person who had seen better days. How it was 
 that her air and aspect which impressed all the others, even Mrs. 
 Plowden and most of the other ladies of the parish, failed to 
 impress Morris the butler I cannot tell. There are mysteries in 
 all crafts, and though he was for a moment slightly flustered by 
 her bearing, Morris put himself straight in the middle of the 
 doorway and opposed Mrs. Brown's entrance with a decision 
 which he would not have ventured to exhibit in face of little Miss 
 Grey, who had the air of being dressed out of a rag-bag, or tlie 
 humblest curate's wife. ' Not at home,' Morris said with the 
 utmost audacity, looking the visitor full in the face. 
 
 'I know,' said Mrs. Brown, 'but I will come in till you have 
 sent up my name, for I know that she will see me.' 
 
 ' It is quite contrary to my lady's habits to see any one at 
 this hour,' said Morris, who was a person of education — 'if you 
 will state your business I will report it to Madame Julie, who 
 will convey it to her mistress at a fitting time, and then, if Mrs. 
 Swinford will receive you ' 
 
 Mrs. Brown laughed. 
 
 'Do you ask all the ladies that call to state their business?' 
 she said, with an air of amusement which confused Mr. Morris. 
 
 ' Ladies,' he said, with a slight falter in his assurance, ' who 
 call at the usual hours is a different thing.' 
 
 'Why, it isn't six o'clock,' said Mrs Brown, 'and if I had not 
 
XIV LADY WILLIAM 107 
 
 kuown Mrs. Swinford I should not have thought it too late. But 
 it is precisely because it is too late that I am here ; for I've no 
 business except to see your lady, Morris, so you may as well go 
 at once and not keep me standing here.' 
 
 Morris began to grow more and more uncertain in spite of 
 himself. Everything was against her ; her look, though how he 
 knew that, it would be difficult to tell ; her composure, not angry 
 as a real lady should have been (in his opinion) and indisposed 
 to bandy words. A curate's wife would have retired in high 
 dudgeon before he had enunciated his first phrase. Little Miss 
 Grey would have transfixed him with a look, and turned away ; 
 but this visitor was not disinclined even to chaff the butler, 
 therefore she was no lady. Yet there was something in her 
 patronage, in her composure, and last of all in that sudden use 
 of his own name, which gave the man a vague sensation of 
 alarm. 
 
 ' You seem to know my name,' he said, ' but you haven't even 
 taken the trouble, ma'am, to give me yours.' 
 
 Upon which the visitor broke into a laugh. 
 
 ' Mine is not very distinguished, Morris,' she said, ' I am Mrs. 
 Brown, but not the dressmaker from the village to ask for orders 
 from Julie, as you seem to suppose. Come, come, there's been 
 enough of this.' As she spoke, she passed Mr. Morris adroitly, 
 and entered the great lofty hall which formed the vestibule of the 
 Swinford mansion. ' There has been no change made, I see,' 
 she said, with a rapid glance round ; ' do you mean to tell me, 
 Morris, that your lady is going to support all this and make no 
 change ? ' 
 
 The hall was almost dark, the lamps as yet unlighted, and 
 only a dim evening light in the row of long windows. Some one 
 stirred, however, in a corner, and came forward, only half dis- 
 tinguishable in the twilight. 
 
 'Morris,' said this half-seen person, 'you know my mother 
 never receives at this hour ' 
 
 'Ah, Leo,' said the visitor, with a slight quaver in the assur- 
 ance of her voice, ' is it you 1 ' 
 
 When Morris heard his master called Leo, he retired discreetly 
 with a momentary sense that the sky, or rather the gilded roof of 
 the hall, was falling upon him. Had it occurred to him, so assured 
 in his duties, to mn ke a tremendous mistake 1 The feeling at first 
 gave him a sensation not to be put into words, and his impulse 
 was to take immediate flight ; but on reflection, he felt it so very 
 unlikely that he could have made a mistake, that he subsided into 
 
108 LADY AVILLIAM xiv 
 
 the shelter of one of the pillars and waited to see what would 
 happen. Mr. Leo Swinford was known among the servants as a 
 most affable gentleman ; but Morris was well aware that his 
 master was not one to submit to any impertinence. It was a 
 moment of great excitement, almost too thrilling — for a butler has 
 the pride of his profession, like another, and it would have been 
 dreadful to him to have to acknowledge that he had made a 
 mistake. 
 
 'I fear I must say that you have the advantage of me,' Lee 
 said, with a coldness that was balm to Morris's soul. 
 
 The visitor came forward with a short laugh, to one of the 
 windows. 
 
 ' You have a short memory,' she said; 'but yet if you remember 
 we met only the other day.' 
 
 Then there was a little pause, and then Mr. Swinford said in a 
 tone which was half rage and half contempt : 
 
 ' I thought I made my sentiments clear enough that day : but 
 I might have known ' 
 
 ' Yes,' said the lady, ' I think you might have known ; but I 
 don't blame you, Leo, your views and mine don't agree, and never 
 will ; all the same you can take off yoiu: bulldog and make him 
 understand that the house is free to your relations. I needn't 
 trouble you otherwise ; of course I have come to see your mother, 
 and I hope I know my way.' 
 
 Morris behind his pillar beheld aghast an alert shadow glide 
 through the gloom across the hall and up the stairs. There was 
 now so little light that she looked like a ghost, a darkness moving 
 through the gloom, but in no other way ghostlike, Cjuite vigorous, 
 full of life. The man could not move ; he was humiliated in his 
 tenderest point — a relation ! and to think he should have made 
 such a mistake ; but on the whole, Morris was consoled by the fact 
 that it was a relation ; relations are not always equals, they are not 
 always friends ; sometimes the people of the house would prefer to 
 have them shut out. If it had been a lady of a county family, 
 perhaps, or some intimate friend, it would have been different. He 
 gradually began to raise again his drooping spirits ; he was about 
 to start away from his post of observation when his master called 
 him briskly, having probably heard the noise of his retiring feet. 
 Morris did not like to be caught eavesdropping ; he was a func- 
 tionary of a very high ideal ; he allowed a moment to elapse, during 
 which he judiciously and stealthily edged further off, and answered, 
 as from a distance, ' Did you call, sir 1 ' with the air of a man who 
 has heard imperfectly, being so far off. 
 
XIV LADY WILLIAM 109 
 
 ' Come here, quick,' said Leo impatiently. ' Morris, I waut to 
 speak to you about that lady ; you refused to let her in.' 
 
 ' I am very sorry, sir, very sorry if I made a mistake ; but my 
 lady's orders are, after half-past five, no oue, unless there's an 
 exception.' 
 
 ' Just so, you are quite right ; but probably there will be an 
 exception ; I don't suppose my mother knew Mrs. Brown was here ; 
 she is a very old friend. Of course you must take my mother's 
 orders on the matter; but I suppose an exception will be 
 made.' 
 
 ' Of course, sir,' said Morris politely, with a sense of giving way 
 from his absolute right as guardian of the Swiuford House ; ' if it's 
 your — or my lady's wish ' 
 
 This sacrifice made the master of the house laugli, and cleared 
 his brow for the moment ; and presently he retired into the great 
 gilded pillared room which was the library. He was not without 
 a little pride in the grandiose decorations which had been his 
 ancestors' doing ; but as he cast his eye round the great room, with 
 the gilded gallery that ran round it, he thought, with a sigh, of the 
 luxurious apartment in Paris in which he had been brought up. 
 The one was so warm and gay, the other so glittering and cold ; he 
 believed there were a great many dummies on those huge shelves ; 
 unquestionably there were a great many worthless books ; it was 
 too big, too grand, too full of pretension to be made a home of, and 
 everything was new and laborious and dull around him, even his 
 own unaccustomed works of beneficence, Avhich had been amusing 
 at first. Had he been allowed to give up a portion of his income 
 in order to make hapjoy all the poor people without any trouble to 
 himself ! — but he had begun to be bored by Miss Grey and her 
 intimate knowledge of everybody's wants, and to cease to be 
 amused by the curate, who was all for shutting up the public-houses, 
 those public-houses which Leo, in the toleration of his foreign 
 training, looked upon as the only means of necessary relaxation 
 which the poor people possessed. There was only one thing 
 among his new surroundings that did not cease to amuse him, and 
 that was the little, the very little drawing-room in which of an 
 evening he found Lady William sitting in tlie firelight, and where 
 he could talk of all that was in his heart. It was, perhaps, a little 
 later than usual, for he had been detained by various matters of 
 business, but still it was not too late, and in a few minutes more 
 he had put on the coat with the fur lining which had made such a 
 sensation in Watcham, and was walking very briskly down the 
 avenue, with the gloom deepened and the vexation lightened, won- 
 
no LADY WILLIAM xiv 
 
 tiering how much he might tell her, and whether she would 
 remember Mrs. Brown. 
 
 Now I wonder much whether the reader would rather hear 
 what passed that evening in Lady William's drawing-room in the 
 firelight, at the hour when people can talk more confidentially and 
 cosily, only half seeing each other's faces, than at any other time ; 
 or whether he (or she) would prefer to be present at the interview 
 in Mrs. Swinford's boudoir, which was going on at the same 
 moment. I know which I prefer myself. The simple peoi^le in 
 the world who have no mysteries about them, who have their little 
 humours and follies, but mean no harm, and do no harm as far as 
 human judgment can guide them, are familiar and well known. I 
 know what they are thinking about, and what they say, and how 
 much or how little they mean. But with the others there is a 
 strain. I know, of course, very well what Mrs. Swinford and Mrs. 
 Brown had to talk about and what they said, but it is a kind of 
 artificial knowledge, and I don't like having much to do with these 
 women of the world. There are diff'erent kinds of women of the 
 world ; but the lady who was Leo iSwiuford's mother was not of 
 the good kind, neither was her old friend, or her relation, or who- 
 ever Mrs. Brown was. They were of the kind who are enemies of 
 the good, perhaps not absolutely meaning to. be so, but because 
 they were intent each of them on her own way, and on pleasing 
 herself; and looked upon every obstacle to that, only as something 
 to be cleared away. Therefore, if the gentle reader pleases, we will 
 put ofi' their talk for a while, and go cheerfully down with Leo 
 through the dark avenue, and by the side of the little wistful lake, 
 in which the clearness of the evening sky is reflected, and along 
 the quiet country road ; till we come to the village green where the 
 lights are beginning to shine in the windows, past the church with 
 its low spire rising against the sky, and the Rectory behind its 
 damp and level lawn ; and at last arrive at the quarter where the 
 best houses stand out against the w^est, with their trees budding 
 and the crocuses ablow in all the borders, and a pleasant scent of 
 wallflowers in the air. Lady William's garden was more full of 
 wallflowers than any of the others, and the narcissus were coming 
 out, and the primroses taking the place of the crocuses ; jealous 
 people said because, if anything, it had the finest south exposure ; 
 but chiefly because Mab was the head gardener, and had a genius 
 for that art. General FitzStephen was in his garden when Leo 
 passed, and called ' good evening ' to him over the privet hedge, for 
 the General knew very well where the young man was going, and 
 thought it very natural. The old gentleman was fond of little 
 
XIV LADY WILLIAM 111 
 
 Mab, and hoped that it was she, though she was so ridiculously 
 young, that was to make this great match ; but he did not feel so 
 sure as he would have liked to do, whether this was what Leo 
 meant. 
 
 In Lady William's cottage things were a little different from 
 the usual conditions — for Leo was late, later than he had ever been 
 before — and he did not like them quite so well as usual. For one 
 thing the lamp was lighted and the fire very low, the evening being, 
 or so these ladies thought, warmer than usual ; and for another 
 thing they were very busy, Mab and her mother, over their 
 necessary sewing. As everybody knows, the coming of summer is 
 a much more troublesome thing, in respect to dress, than winter, 
 when two warm nice dresses, one for common use and one for best, 
 is as much as anybody wants. But in summer, besides the best 
 frock on which Lady William was employed, with her daughter, 
 when we first made her acquaintance, there are cotton dresses to be 
 thought of, and things for the warm weather, of which a girl who 
 is always in movement wants a great many. And indeed, at this 
 present moment the work in hand was a white frock, which w^as 
 intended for a party, to be given by the FitzStephens, which very 
 possibly might end in a dance ; and this was naturally a very 
 interesting piece of work. 
 
 ' Shall I put it away, mother 1 ' said Mab. 
 
 'No,' said Lady William, 'a man knows nothing about it, he 
 will think we are hemming tablecloths ; and he would not be any 
 the wiser if he did know.' 
 
 It is curious that Mab, an inexperienced little girl, should have 
 known better in this respect than her mother, who was so much 
 more acquainted with the world. She went on with her work, 
 indeed, all the same, but she shook her head and felt convinced 
 that when Leo Swinford saw what they were doing, he would 
 perfectly well know ; and, indeed, he had scarcely been ushered in 
 by Patty, and found a chair for himself, than he said at once : 
 
 ' Why, you are making a dress ! ' 
 
 ' Why not ? ' said Lady AVilliam ; ' we always do.' 
 
 'It is for Miss Mab, and she is going to a party,' said Leo. 
 ' Is it a ball, and will they probably ask me 1 ' 
 
 ' Certainly, if you wiU go ; but you are the great man, you 
 know, here, and they may be afraid to ask you with all the little 
 village people.' 
 
 'I love the village peoj^le,' said Leo; and then he laughed a 
 little, remembering that there had been of late other thoughts in 
 his mind. 
 
112 LADY WILLIAM xiv 
 
 ' You arc getting a little tired of them,' said Lady William ; ' I 
 told you so ; between the time that they amuse you with their 
 little ways, and the time that you know the real goodness of them, 
 there comes a moment when you are bored. You must soon go to 
 town for the season, and let Watcham rest, or yourself.' 
 
 ' I have no desire to go to town for the season, or let Watcham 
 rest. I may be a little tired of the philanthropy : I am not tired 
 of this room,' he said, looking round upon it affectionately ; ' do 
 you know I don't think I ever saw it lighted before.' 
 
 ' So brilliantly lighted, al giorno,' said Lady William ; ' the 
 firelight is kind and hides its little defects. But you are late 
 to-night.' 
 
 ' Yes, my mother has had a visit, which sent me out untimely ; 
 it annoys me, and of course I must come and tell you my annoyance. 
 Do you remember a certain Mansfield woman long ago ? ' 
 
 ' Do I remember her ! ' 
 
 ' Of course you must ; there is always mischief where she is. 
 She has appeared again.' 
 
 ' But is that a strange event ? She is a relation, and your 
 mother was much attached to her, too.' 
 
 ' I suppose so ; though why 1 Can anybody explain these 
 
 things 1 And there is always mischief when she comes. I don't 
 know what may be brewing at present, nor why she comes now. 
 Does she live here 1 ' 
 
 ' Oh no,' said Lady William ; ' certainly not, she must have 
 come from London : everybody that is uncomfortable comes from 
 London. But you must not be superstitious. Mischief can't be 
 created if the elements of it don't exist, and I see none that she can 
 work upon now.' 
 
 ' She might make dissension ; she will make dissension, dear 
 lady, between my motlier and me.' 
 
 ' Forewarned is forearmed ; don't let her,' said Lady William, 
 ' that is the only thing to say.' 
 
 ' But she will be too many for me,' said Leo, shaking his head 
 yet smiling ; ' I have no confidence in myself.' 
 
 ' You are too superstitious ; she must not be too many for you ; 
 your mother's son is more to her than her cousin.' 
 
 ' Is she her cousin ? and ain I ' 
 
 ' Her son ! ' said Lady William, with a laugh ; ' the wonderful 
 question ! I don't think any doubt can be entertained on that 
 subject.' 
 
 ' No, no ; I meant am I more strong as son than the other 
 as How can I tell what to say?' 
 
XIV LADY WILLIAM 113 
 
 ' My dear Leo ! A son is stronger than anything in the world.' 
 
 ' ExcejDt a daughter,' he said, looking at Mab. 
 
 ' It is the same ; one's own child is more to one than all the 
 world beside.' 
 
 'Do you know,' he said, 'there is one thing that I think is 
 almost better, that clears away the clouds and brings out the sun, 
 and makes one see him : — and tliat is you.' He put his hand upon 
 hers softly, with a momentary touch. 
 
 ' That is a friend,' said Lady William hastily. A little uneasy 
 flush came over her face. She was very conscious, more conscious 
 than was pleasant, of little Mab sewing on sedately, never lifting 
 her eyes. 
 
XY 
 
 Mrs. Brown walked quickly through the darkening house. She 
 met a footman with a lamp, who stood bewildered at the strange 
 figure, and a housemaid in the upper corridor, who stopped her 
 to ask what she wanted, but was soon intimidated by her look 
 and voice. The stranger wanted no guidance, no indication, to 
 which side to turn, as the maid perceived, who stood watching her, 
 and saw her swift, familiar approach to Mrs. Swiuford's door. 
 ' Missis will go out of her senses,' said Mary Jane to herself, and 
 she hurried away, to be out of it, whatever might happen. ' No- 
 body can say as I let her in,' the young woman said. 
 
 Madame Julie, the maid, came to the door in answer to Mrs. 
 Brown's light knock, but not before that lady, waiting for no one, 
 had opened it and stepped into the ante-room in which Julie sat. 
 Mrs. Swinford's apartment was as complete as English comfort 
 and French refinement could make it. The ante-room, in which 
 Julie sat, was finer than any of the village drawing- rooms, kept 
 comfortable by many carpets and thick curtains, and lighted by a 
 large window turned to the west, by the remaining light in which 
 she regarded with alarm and fury the bold intruder. 
 
 'What you want here?' she said in her doubtful English, 
 uniutimidated by the aspect of the lady who had overawed Mary 
 Jane. ' Madame regoit personne,' she added, in a less assured 
 tone. 
 
 'Moi exceptde toujours, Julie,' said Mrs. Brown. 
 
 Upon which Julie started and clasped her hands. ' Mon Dieu ! ' 
 she said, ' Madame Art^mise ! ' 
 
 ' You need not announce me, I'll find my way by myself Has 
 she lights, Julie 1 Is she alone ? ' 
 
 ' You will startle Madame out of her life, Madame Artdmise.' 
 
 ' Not a bit. What is pleasant harms no one, and you know 
 she is always happy to see me.' 
 
XV LADY WILLIAM 115 
 
 Julie knew, yet did not look quite sure. ' I will say but a 
 word, a petit mot. Madame will not look up, but it will prepare 
 her. Ah, she hears us talk ! ' for a bell at this moment tinkled 
 into the stillness. Julie put aside the curtain and opened a door, 
 from which came a gleam of light, and a voice saying querulously, 
 ' You are talking with some one ; how often must I say no one 
 must come here 1 ' 
 
 ' It is not Julie's fault : it is I, Cecile, come to welcome you 
 home.' 
 
 Mrs. Swinford rose up from the couch upon which she had 
 been reclining, with a cry. She made a step forward, and allowed 
 herself to drop into the arms which the visitor held forth. It 
 was a strange embrace, apparently altogether on one side ; the 
 other passive, receiving only the marks of affection. Yet there 
 was something in the abandon with which the great lady let her- 
 self go into the stranger's arms, which showed almost a greater 
 warmth in the receiver than giver of the embrace. She put down 
 her head on Mrs. Brown's shoulder with a murmur of welcome 
 and satisfaction ; then raised it to wave an angry hand towards 
 Julie, bidding her go. The maid retired without a word. She 
 was a middle-aged Frenchwoman, very neat, and rather grim, 
 black-haired, and dark-complexioned, with a black gown, and 
 hair elaborately dressed. She obeyed her mistress in utter silence, 
 closing the door noiselessly behind her, but threw her head and 
 body, like a pendulum, to and fro as she went back to the work 
 which she had been doing under the west window by the waning 
 light. Evidently this stranger was no welcome apparition to 
 Julie, any more than to more important persons in the house. 
 
 ' What wind has blown you here 1 and where do you come 
 from, just when I felt such enormous need of you 1 ' Mrs. Swin- 
 ford said. 
 
 ' Some people would say it was an ill wind ; and you know 
 I feel always when you want me,' said Mrs. Brown. 
 
 ' You must have known that when I came here, where there 
 are so many horrible associations, I must have wanted you. It is 
 an instinct. Listen, Artdmise. Leo has forced me here against 
 my will. He has all his father's foolish notions, with more added 
 of his own. And he has the upper hand, which his father never 
 had ' 
 
 ' Sometimes, my dear.' 
 
 * Once, you mean,' said Mrs. Swinford. She was old, though 
 she kept that fact at bay, and did not admit it by any outward 
 sign : but she flushed over all her face like a girl at these words. 
 
116 LADY WILLIAM xv 
 
 ' Once, no more : and you know how that is brought back to me 
 here, and every incident of the time. That woman at my very 
 
 door, bearing the name which she never would have had but 
 
 for me.' 
 
 ' I never liked the expedient, Cecile.' 
 
 'Why, it was you who and it was the only way. But 
 
 now that the whole dreadful tale is swept away into the past, and 
 everybody, except you and me, has forgotten it, there she sits at 
 my door, calm, with that name. And I have to receive her ; to 
 
 call her friend ; to kiss her imagine ! I have kissed Emily 
 
 Plowden, and called her by that name ! ' 
 
 ' I don't see what else you could do. It was your own doing, 
 the whole affair. I will always stand by you, through thick and 
 thin. But I never approved of that, Cecile. It was too heavy a 
 responsibility. If you like to do certain things you know you 
 will have to pay for them. You get nothing for nothing in 
 this world. But I don't like meddling with another creature's 
 life.' 
 
 ' I detest you when you preach, Artemise ; you have so fine 
 a position for that ; hands so clean ! From whence do you come 
 now ? from wandering to and fro upon the earth ' 
 
 ' Seeking whom I may devour 1 No, I am devouring no 
 one ; I have settled myself — at your very door, too — to do good, 
 my dear.' 
 
 ' To do good ! ' 
 
 ' You are surprised. Don't you know there comes a time when 
 we would all like to be sisters of charity 1 But I have not gone 
 so far as that. I have a very nice little post in the village, gained 
 chiefly by a recommendation you once gave me, and your poor 
 
 husband naturally that had great weight here — and other 
 
 things. I am schoolmistress of the girls' school, Watcham parish. 
 At your service, Madame Cecile.' 
 
 Mrs. Swinford uttered that exclamation, which means so little 
 in French and so much in English. She did not join in the laugh 
 with which her visitor broke off. She was a more tragical person 
 altogether than Mrs. Brown. 
 
 ' Mistress of the school, living in the village ! You are welcome, 
 as you know, to live with me. Why should you demean yom-self 
 in such a way 1 Why do you always try to compromise ' 
 
 ' Not you, Mrs. Swinford. I have never compromised you. I 
 don't choose to be your dependent; to eat that bitter bread. 
 But you have never had any trouble brought into your life by me.' 
 
 ' Not that of being ignorant for years together where you are ? 
 
XV LADY WILLIAM. 117 
 
 of not knowing what you are doing ? whether you may be in want ? 
 whether you may be ill 1 if you may have died ' 
 
 ' On some roadside, or in some hospital, nobody knowing any- 
 thing about me,' said Mrs. Brown, Avith a harsh little laugh, ' and 
 not a bad thing either, and probably the way it will happen at 
 the last. But I should always, unless it was sudden, take care 
 that you knew. It is a curious thing,' she said, laughing again, 
 and winking her eyes rapidly, as if to shake off some moisture, 
 * that you and I, two such women as we are, not of the soft kind, 
 should in a sort of a way, not caring much for anybody else, love each 
 other, Cecile ! ' 
 
 ' We need not be sentimental and talk of it at least,' said the 
 other ; ' I see nothing wonderful in it. With others always con- 
 tradiction and contrariety, but between you and me understanding 
 —even when you take upon you, so much younger as you are, not 
 to approve.' 
 
 ' Oh, I must always reserve that power — if I were only four, 
 instead of forty,' said Mrs. Brown. 
 
 ' Forty and a little more.' 
 
 ' If you think I am in any danger of forgetting the little more 
 — forty-six — a sensible age. You would not imagine at that dis- 
 creet period of existence that my chief friend in Watcham should 
 be a young man.' 
 
 Mrs. Swinford shrugged her shoulders as if nothing could be 
 more perfectly indifferent to her. 
 
 ' Who keeps me informed of all that is going on,' she added, 
 after a moment's pause. 
 
 ' Ah ! ' Even this, however, did not awake the great lady's 
 interest ; for what were the village news to her 1 
 
 ' I hear of Leo's proceedings. He seems to mean to turn 
 everything upside down.' 
 
 ' The foolish boy ! he has got it into his head that he has 
 neglected his duties. What are his duties 1 I know not. One, 
 that he does not regard, is to make life as pleasant as time and 
 circumstances will admit to his mother. It is not much I ask. 
 To reside where I can breathe. To see a few people whom I like, 
 who understand me. To be kept from sordid calculations and 
 cares. What he thinks more important is to come back here to 
 look after his people, as he calls them. His people ! How are 
 they his people 1 They pay him rent, that is all. And he thinks 
 more of them than of what is comfort and life to me ! ' 
 
 ' I feel very much for you, Cecile, in many ways,' said Mrs. 
 Brown, not without a hidden tone of satire, ' but do you know, 
 
118 LADY WILLIAM xv 
 
 I cannot see that you are much deficient in point of comfort 
 here.' 
 
 Mrs. S win ford looked round the pretty room with an air of 
 disgust. It would have been difficult to imagine anything more 
 luxurious. The old grandfather's decorations had been removed or 
 softened with a taste more French than English, yet exquisite in 
 its way. The curtains were of the softest rich stuffs. The walls 
 were hung with a few bright pictures, little English water-colours, 
 French genre subjects, as cheerful and smiling as could be desired. 
 It was lighted with soft lamps carefully shaded, giving a subdued 
 silvery light. There were books of all kinds, from those in rows 
 of beautiful binding, which filled the low bookcases, to the French 
 novels in yellow paper, which occui^ied the table at Mrs. Swinford's 
 hand. If there was anything wanting to the beauty or comfort of 
 this wonderful little room it was difficult to find it out. Mrs. Brown 
 instantly compared it with the sitting-room in the school-house, 
 and burst into a laugh. 
 
 'You should see the rooms in which I live,' she said, 'and yet 
 I don't think they are bad rooms. I have known worse. I con- 
 sider myself very well off. Oh, you are difterent, a great lady as 
 you have always been, and I only a waif and stray.' 
 
 ' That was at yoiu* own will, Art^mise.' 
 
 ' I know ; I blame nobody. I have been the wilful one thai 
 have always taken my own way ; you have generally succeeded in 
 making other people take yours.' 
 
 Mrs. Swinford smiled faintly, and then she said, her face re- 
 suming its discontented expression : 
 
 ' That is over ; now, it is my son I have to deal with ; my son, 
 who owes me everything.' 
 
 ' Be reasonable ; he owes you his birth, of course, and a great 
 deal of petting when he was a boy ' 
 
 ' And the sacrifice of my life,' said Mrs. Swinford. ' Do you 
 think I ever would have done what I did and given up all I cared 
 for, if it had not been for Leo 1 Do you think I would have cared 
 for scandal or anything but for the boy 1 or for what his father 
 might say or do 1 The whole thing was for him. Emily may 
 thank him for her title, as they call it — ridiculous title ! When I 
 hear that name and her rank, talked of — her rank, forsooth — and 
 that she takes precedence of everybody — even, I suppose, she will, 
 with a fierce laugh, ' of me ' 
 
 ' Ah ! ' said Mrs. Brown, ' that's something, I did not think of 
 that ; but take care, Cecile, that she does not take precedence of 
 you in other ways.' 
 
XV LADY WILLIAM 119 
 
 'In what way? You mean, I suppose, that she is younger and 
 has a sort of beauty ! I cannot deny that she has a sort of beauty. 
 She is not the common pretty girl that Emily Plowden was. It is 
 not for nothing that I helped to plunge her into the world. She 
 knows something of life, and though she will never make anything 
 of the advantages she possesses, still she has them. You may 
 imagine I looked at her with sharp eyes enough, remembering 
 what she used to be and what she was. But her world is not my 
 world, and what do I care for her village precedence, or for any 
 comparison that may be made here ? ' 
 
 ' There will be no comparison made, Cecile.' 
 
 Mrs. Brown looked with a curious pitying glance at the woman, 
 who was old, yet had never given up the pretensions of youth. 
 She was nearly twenty years younger, and saw the futility of these 
 pretensions with perfect lucidity of vision ; but there was kindness 
 as well as pity in her eyes. Did not her glass say anything to 
 this old woman, that she should talk of comparison between her 
 and Lady William's mature but unfaded years ? Did not common 
 sense say anything 1 As Mrs. Brown was much more near to Lady 
 William's age than ]\Irs. Swinford's, the case was perfectly clear to 
 her eyes. 
 
 ' No, I do not suppose so,' Mrs. Swinford said ; ' and my 
 hope is that he will tire of it presently. What attraction can he 
 find in a country village in England? There is nothing. His 
 pliilanthropy, bah ! his people, ridiculous ! It is ignorance that 
 makes him talk of his people as if he were a great potentate, wben 
 he is only a country gentleman.' 
 
 ' It is his breeding,' said Mrs. Brown. ' How was he to find 
 out the difference in Paris 1 and you always treated him, you who 
 are, as I tell you, a great lady by nature, as if he were a grand 
 seigneur.' 
 
 ' I must be patient,' said Mrs. Swinford ; ' it is difficult, but I 
 must be patient : I gave him three months to be sick of the life, 
 and the half of the time is not gone ; I don't think he will hold out 
 a month more ' 
 
 ' Unless there shoidd in the meantime arise some other 
 attraction.' 
 
 ' What other attraction ? ' Mrs. Swinford caught her visitor by 
 the arm. ' An attraction — in this village 1 Artdmise, you have 
 heard of something ! A woman ? who is she ? I must know, I 
 must know ! ' 
 
 ' Do not be frightened. But I think you are imprudent, 
 Cecile ; you should have filled the house with company, you should 
 
120 LADY WILLIAM xv 
 
 have come back in a storm of gaiety ; he should have knowu 
 nothing of the village at all.' 
 
 ' Who is she 1 ' said Mrs. Swinford, tightening her grasp on 
 the other's arm ; ' some wretched girl with a baby face.' 
 
 ' It is uo girl, it is nothing of that sort ; it is a woman as old, 
 nearly as old as I am. I told you I had a young admirer too, 
 who comes to me for the superiority of my conversation, and my 
 knowledge of the world. So does Leo ; to discuss the world, and 
 things in general, and the topics of the day.' 
 
 'You are either laughing at everything, as has been your 
 custom all your life, or you are announcing to me a great danger ; 
 the loss of all my power.' 
 
 ' Do not always be so high heroical. Let me tell you my own 
 story first. My young friend is Jim, the Rector's son. He saw 
 me with a gay party in Oxford, and I thought that he would betray 
 me. But he is as innocent as a child, and resj^ects and admires 
 me as one who has seen better days. I keep him from vulgar 
 dangers ; from the " Blue Boar " — but you don't know the perils 
 of the " Blue Boar " ' 
 
 ' What are all these puerilities to me 1 ' said Mrs. Swinford. 
 ' You weary me. Do you think it is interesting to me, this story 
 of the Rector's son 1 ' 
 
 ' I am aware it wearies you ; one sees that on your still 
 fine countenance, Cecile : but I am coming to what will interest 
 you. In the same way Leo frequents a cottage, a very genteel 
 cottage, far superior to the schoolmistress's house. There is a 
 mother and a daughter in it. He may be falling in love with the 
 daughter, but I think not, for the little thing is plain. But the 
 mother is not plain ; she is a woman who has known the world. 
 She has been buried here, among the bucolics, for years. But 
 when she sees a man of manners, who also knows the world, is 
 there anytliing wonderful in it if she likes his conversation 
 too?' 
 
 'Artdmise, who is she? Tell me her name.' 
 
 Mrs. Brown did not say a word, but looked at her companion 
 with wondering eyes. 
 
XVI 
 
 Next day the village was roused into great excitement by tlie 
 appearance of a carriage from the Hall, in unusual state, with the 
 coachman and footman in their gala liveries — or so at least it 
 appeared to the unsophisticated ideas of the villagers, who came 
 out to gape at the sight. A carriage passing is nothing wonderful 
 in Watcliam, however gorgeous — but a carriage which drives 
 about from door to door, paying visits — this was a thing that 
 hajjpened seldom ; the great people in the neighbourhood, the 
 Lenthalls and Lady Wade, and the rest, would come occasionally 
 to leave a card at the FitzStephens', or to show civility to the 
 people in the Eectory : but the sight of the prancing horses, and 
 the footman attending his mistress from door to door, was a 
 delight to the eyes such as seldom happened. The children were 
 coming from school, and they ran in a little crowd to see and 
 make their remarks with the usual frankness of a population in 
 which the sharpness of town had crept in, modifying the bashful- 
 ness, but not the dull candour inaccessible to notions of civility, 
 of the country. The Watcham children were, fortunately, more 
 interested in the appearance of the servants than they were in 
 that of the mistress, though some of the girls whispered together 
 and indulged in pointed laughter at the lady who had to be 
 assisted from the carriage, and who picked her steps, with such 
 an expression in every turn of her person of impatient disgust, 
 along the garden paths. Mrs. Swinford felt it a personal injury 
 that the houses had all gardens and no entrance for the carriage, 
 so that it was absolutely necessary for her, however reluctant, to 
 walk so far before she could reach the door. But she was civil 
 to the FitzStephens', who both met her at their drawing-room 
 door with effusion, and handed her to the most comfortable chair 
 — which, however, Mrs. Swinford turned from the light before 
 she would sit down. 
 
122 LADY WILLIAM xvi 
 
 'My eyes will not support so much light. You seem to 
 make really no use of curtains and blinds in this country,' she 
 said. 
 
 ' My husband likes all the light he can get/ said Mrs. Fitz- 
 Stephen : though she had been, as the reader knows, a pretty 
 woman, and was a fool, according to her visitor's ideas, to face the 
 day and show her wrinkles as she did. But the General's wife 
 had no idea that her old beauty required to be taken care of in 
 this way. 
 
 'It is all very well for men,' said Mrs. Swinford — but she 
 explained no further. She added : ' I do not make calls generally, 
 and country visits are an abomination, even when one can drive 
 u}) to the door.' 
 
 'We take your call as all the greater compliment,' said the 
 General, with his finest bow ; but Mrs. FitzStephen remembering 
 that she herself was a Challoner, and certainly as good as any 
 Swinford of them all, not to speak of the claims of the Fitz- 
 StejDhens — was not quite so complacent. 
 
 ' It is a pity,' she said, ' that we have no drive, and that our 
 garden must be crossed on foot. We feel it very much when 
 we have company. It is impossible to put up an awning all the 
 way.' 
 
 ' Oh, you sometimes have company ! ' said the fine lady. 
 
 ' We are even looking forward to a dance, in ten days,' said 
 the General, ' a little ridiculous, you may think, for a quiet couple 
 without children like my wife and me : but a dance is more 
 pleasant to the young people than anything else.' 
 
 ' And consider,' said his wife, ' there is no need to do anything 
 to amuse them, except to provide good music and as nice a floor 
 as possible. They do the rest themselves.' 
 
 Mrs, Swinford looked round upon the small drawing-room 
 with an air of inquiry which she did not attempt to disguise. ' I 
 am not much interested in amusing young people,' she said ; 
 ' where do they dance ? ' in a tone that showed she was quite 
 satisfied no dancing could take place there. 
 
 Mrs. FitzStephen grew red, and the General confused. They 
 were very fond of this pretty drawing-room. Compliments upon 
 its furniture and arrangements were familiar to them, and they 
 were in the habit of deprecating too much praise by a fond apology 
 as to its diminutive size. ' Oh, it is too small for anything,' Mrs, 
 FitzStephen was in the habit of saying, with a mild inference 
 that she was herself accustomed to something much larger. But 
 the great lady's seeming simple question dashed all their little 
 
y^n LADY WILLIAM 123 
 
 pretences. Fortunately she left them no time to reply. ' You 
 have your little society in the village 1 ' she said. 
 
 ' Oh, we are not confined to the village,' said Mrs. FitzStephen 
 sharply, ' we have a tolerably large list — I expect the Lenthalls, 
 and some others.' 
 
 Mrs. Swinford again permitted her eyes to stray — with a 
 slight elevation of the eyebrows — round the tiny room, 
 
 ' We did not venture to send an invitation to the Hall,' said 
 the General, with an uneasy laugh. ' We scarcely ventured to 
 hope — though I am happy to say that Mr. Swinford is coming, 
 my dear.' 
 
 ' If you mean me,' said Mrs, Swinford, ' I never go out — at 
 least to balls — since I have ceased to dance,' 
 
 ' Ah well, those days soon pass over,' said the good old soldier, 
 'we find other amusements at our age.' 
 
 Mrs. Swinford gave him a look — which did not reduce the 
 gallant General to ashes, for he was not at all aware what she 
 meant. 
 
 ' My husband is very fond of seeing the young people enjoy 
 themselves,' said Mrs. FitzStephen ; ' that amuses him more than 
 anything for himself.' 
 
 ' Oh come, my dear, you must not give me too good a charac- 
 ter,' said the General. ' I like a snug little dinner-party too, and 
 a good talk.' 
 
 ' Do you talk here, too, as well as dance 1 ' said Mrs. Swinford, 
 with an inefli'able smile. 
 
 ' Oh, my dear lady, I assure you we have sometimes quite 
 remarkable conversations. The Rector is an exceedingly well- 
 informed man, and young Osborne has a great deal to say for 
 himself, though he is taken up with fads — too much. And then, 
 above all, there is Lady William ' 
 
 'Oh, Emily ! I had forgotten Lady William, as you call 
 her.' 
 
 ' One can't live in Watcham and leave out Lady William, I 
 assure you, my dear madam,' the General said ; ' besides her rank, 
 which of course places her in the front of all.' 
 
 ' Ah, to be sure ! ' said Mrs. Swinford, with a little gurgling 
 laugh, which stopped and then ran on again, as if with a ridicule 
 impossible to restrain — ' Her rank ! I had forgotten her rank — 
 such rank as it is.' 
 
 'We think a good deal of it here,' said Mrs. FitzSteiDheu. 
 ' Lady Wade, you know, is only a baronet's wife, and of course 
 has to give place. It gives quite a little distinction to our 
 
124 LADY WILLIAM xvi 
 
 village ; everybody even in the county, at this end of it at least, 
 must give way to Lady William. It is a great feather in our 
 cap.' 
 
 Mrs. Swinford went on laughing, breaking into fresh little 
 runs of merriment from time to time. ' This is really amusing,' 
 she said. ' Poor Emily : and does she talk too 1 ' 
 
 ' She is an exceedingly cultivated woman, and one who has 
 seen the world. I know few greater treats than to discuss either 
 books or people with Lady William,' said the General, with great 
 gravity, holding up his head as if he were in uniform — which 
 indeed this fine attitude almost persuaded his admiring wife that 
 he was. What a champion for any one to have ! But Mrs. 
 Swinford went on with her little exasperating laugh like the 
 vibration of an electric bell. It was very disconcerting to the 
 pair, who were a little proud of their friendship with Lady 
 William, and liked to wave her flag in any stranger's eyes. 
 
 'You see,' said the great lady, 'Emily Plowden, poor girl, 
 was in the bread and butter stage when I knew her best : and to 
 hear now of her rank, and then of her accomplishments, is a new 
 experience. I cannot convey to your minds the amusement it 
 causes me.' 
 
 ' Ah ! ' said General FitzStephen gravely, ' as I feel when I 
 hear of a little ensign who came out to India at sixteen, and is 
 now in command of my old regiment.' 
 
 Mrs. Swinford's laugh ran on like the endless irritating tinkle 
 of that electric bell. ' JMore,' she said, ' for the boy would gain 
 his promotion ; but Emily ! — it is more amusing than you can 
 have any idea of to see that she takes it au grcmd serieux, the 
 rank and all.' 
 
 'Perhaps, General,' said Mrs. FitzStephen quickly, 'you will 
 ring for tea, instead of standing there,' which was the most un- 
 called-for, rmjustifiable attack : for why should not he stand there, 
 and wliere else could he have stood but respectfully in front of her 
 chair, listening to their guest ? He roused himself with a little 
 start, and did what he was told, but not without a look of sur- 
 prised appeal at his wife's face. 
 
 ' No tea,' said Mrs. Swinford, rising ; ' I have not acquired 
 the habit : but I am sure the General will kindly give me his 
 arm to my carriage. I walk so little, I stumble ; I have not the 
 use of gravel walks.' 
 
 Mrs. FitzStephen watched the lady sweep away. She had 
 very high -heeled shoes and a long dress, too long for walking. 
 The General's wife watched her along the gravel path, which she 
 
XVI LADY WILLIAM 125 
 
 thought it very insolent of any one to object to. Mrs. Swinford 
 did not sweep (except indoors) or glide, or march, majestically, as 
 would have been consonant with her pretensions, but accoutred as 
 she was, hobbled, not more gracefully than if she had been any 
 old woman in the village. Her step showed she was an old 
 woman, however she might ignore that fact, and it gave the 
 General's wife, whom she had rubbed so persistently the wrong 
 way, a certain characteristic feminine satisfaction to feel that it 
 was so. Also Mrs. FitzStephen strongly disapproved of the 
 respectful and devoted air with which her husband conducted the 
 great lady. It was Stephen's way ; he could not help it. He 
 
 was an old , taken in by any woman that would take the 
 
 trouble. But what could she mean about Lady William, and all 
 those scoffs at her rank? Could there be any doubt about her 
 rank 1 It might be a courtesy title, but what did that matter ? 
 The daughter-in-law of a marquis held precedence over quite a 
 number of people who were Lady So-and-So. Lady Wade never 
 disputed it, and the Wades had an old baronetcy. They were 
 not upstart people. What did the — the — Mrs. FitzStephen 
 paused for a word — the old hag mean ? 
 
 ' Oh, she meant nothing but spite,' said the General when he 
 came back, ' feminine spite such as you all entertain towards your 
 neighbours when they are prettier or wiser than you.' 
 
 ' Perhaps you will tell me what woman I regard with feminine 
 spite,' Mrs. FitzStephen very reasonably said. 
 
 ' Oh, you, my dear, you've no occasion ; you are a pretty 
 woman still, and can hold your own : but that poor old soul,' said 
 the General, ' as you may have perceived, I had almost to carry 
 her down the walk ; that poor old creature must be seventy if she 
 is a day — and to see her old subaltern taking the pas from her : 
 I am not subject to the same kind of feelings — but I confess I 
 don't like it myself, if it comes to that,' the General said. 
 
 Mrs. Swinford went on to the Eectory with a curious smile 
 upon her face. She drove past the school-room door and saw her 
 friend standing at it, sheltered in the depth of the doorway, by no 
 means unlike a spider standing at watch, having laid all its nets, 
 till some silly fly buzzes in. A salutation of the eyes only passed 
 between the two women, the schoolmistress and the great lady of 
 the Hall. In the daylight they resembled each other, though 
 Mrs. Brown's plain black gown was not becoming to her dark 
 good looks, and every particular of Mrs. Swinford's attire was 
 calculated to enhance her antiquated beauty. There was a 
 softening in both pairs of eyes as they met. They were not good 
 
126 LADY WILLIAM xvi 
 
 women ; their aims were not fine nor the means they were dis- 
 posed to use ; but yet, curiously enough, they loved each other. 
 It was a strange sight to see. The walk from the little gate of 
 the Kectory to the door was still more trying to Mrs. Swinford 
 than the other had been. It made her quite sure that she had 
 no vocation to call at houses where there was no drive. Her dress 
 was long, and she resented the fact that it must trail on the gravel 
 and get dirty and damp. As for holding it up, it did not occur 
 to her : that any one should think she hobbled, or was not a glass 
 of fashion and mould of form wherever she went would have 
 been incredible to her ; but she resented much the length of that 
 walk, and that she should be exposed to such trouble and annoj^- 
 ance in the act of doing what she thought her duty. Had it 
 been only her duty, however, Mrs. Swinford would have cared 
 very little for fulfilling it ; but she had a diff'erent motive 
 now. 
 
 There was a dreadful hurry-scurry in the Rectory drawing- 
 room when she was seen approaching. The antimacassars, I am 
 sorry to say, were much tumbled and untidy, and the loose 
 covers of the chairs anything but what might be desired. Both 
 mother and daughters flew with one impulse to the arranging of 
 the room. Jim had been seated by the fireside all the after- 
 noon with a bad cold, which they had been nursing ; but he fled 
 at once into his own cold room, which might, his mother thought, 
 be very bad for him, but could not be helped in the circum- 
 stances. Florence ran, with more sense than any one would have 
 given her credit for, to tell the parlourmaid to bring in a more 
 elegant, less substantial tea than usual, and to give her father a 
 hint in his study—' Mrs. Swinford, papa ! ' while Mrs. Plowden 
 and Emily stood nervously awaiting the visit, anxious to go out 
 and meet her and bring her in by the drawing-room window, 
 which would have saved the old lady a few steps ; but kept back 
 by the fear that it might be thought indecorous, too familiar, 
 not dignified enough. Mrs. Swinford looked round upon the 
 Eectory drawing-room as she had done on Mrs. FitzStephen's, 
 but with a different air. 'You have made wonderfully few 
 changes,' she said ; ' it is just the same damp little place it used 
 to be.' She was like so many of those great ladies, not careful 
 of people's feelings ; but that was, no doubt, mainly from want of 
 thought. 
 
 ' Oh,' Mrs. Plowden said : and made a pause, that no explo- 
 sion might follow, 'I assure you,' she said, 'it is not damp at 
 all. We have proved again and again that no water ever comes 
 
XVI LADY WILLIAM 127 
 
 in. The elevation is small, but quite sufficient ; and as for the 
 llirniture and doing it up ' 
 
 ' Yes, I recognise all the old things,' Mrs. Swinford said, with 
 a careless wave of the hand (when there was not one thing, not 
 one, except the Indian cabinet, that had not been renewed !) ; 
 ' and another Emily Plowden just the same. It is only you,' 
 she said, with a sweet but careless smile upon the Rector's wife, 
 ' that are new ' 
 
 ' New ! But we have been here for fifteen years,' Mrs. 
 Plowden said : and her visitor smiled again as if in complacent 
 consciousness of having said the most agreeable thing in the 
 world. 
 
 ' I am glad,' she said, ' there is no other daughter, no one to 
 disturb the harmony of what used to be. Oh, but here is the 
 other daughter.' 
 
 ' Florence, my second, Mrs. Swinford : not considered like 
 the Plowdens, but taking more after my side of the house.' 
 
 ' I see she is not like the Plowdens,' said Mrs. Swinford, 
 with the look of indifierence which was natural to her : it was of 
 so little consequence ! ' The other is a little like Emily.' 
 
 ' Like her aunt, our dear Lady William.' 
 
 'You are all much delighted,' said the great lady, 'with that 
 name.' 
 
 'My sister-in-law's name? Well, we Like it, for she has no 
 other, poor thing. We couldn't call her anything else — as long 
 as she doesn't change it or marry again.' 
 
 ' Oh, mamma ! ' said Emmy and Florry together. 
 
 'No,' said Mrs. Plowden, 'I don't think she will marry 
 again — now. I did once hope she would ; for, though rank is 
 nice, a good husband who would have looked after her and her 
 little girl would have been nicer : while the late Lord William, 
 as I have heard ' 
 
 LIrs. Swinford made a little movement of impatience. 
 ' Have the family,' she said, ' taken any notice of Emily — or the 
 little girl ? ' 
 
 ' It is very funny,' said Florence, ' to hear Mab, who has 
 such a character of her own, spoken of as the little girl.' 
 
 ' Oh, Florry, hold your tongue, you are always making re- 
 marks. The family, Mrs. Swinford ? ' 
 
 ' Poor little thing, poor little thing,' said Mrs. Swinford, ' I 
 think you were very wise, my dear Llrs. Plowden, in advising your 
 sister-in-law to marry again. What a thing it would be if after 
 all it was found that nothing could be done for the little girl ! ' 
 
128 LADY WILLIAM xvi 
 
 ' They have their little annuity,' said Mrs. Plowden, startled ; 
 ' there has never been anything said of taking it away. And I 
 could not make such a statement as that I advised her to many, 
 for there has really been no one that she could have married 
 
 except , and he was quite an old gentleman. Not to say 
 
 that Emily ever thought of such a thing. She was not so happy 
 the first time as to have any wish • ' 
 
 Mrs. Swinford's attention had once more flagged, and here 
 she interposed with her usual calm bearing, addressing Emmy. 
 ' I thought you had a brother,' she said. 
 
 Emmy coloured high, being thus suddenly spoken to. ' Oh 
 yes.' 
 
 'Yes, indeed,' cried Mrs. Plowden, recovering herself the 
 more easily that this new subject was one on which she could be 
 eloquent. ' He has a bad cold, poor boy, or he would have been 
 here at once to pay his respects. Is that you, James 1 Mrs. 
 Swinford is making such kind inquiries.' 
 
 The great lady held out her band. ' You have not taken the 
 trouble to come and see me,' she said. 
 
 The Eector had come in much against his will. He made a 
 bow which had not his usual ease. ' I must beg your pardon,' 
 he said very gravely. ' I am aware that I have been negligent.' 
 
 ' Ah,' she said, ' you did not want to come ? but I supposed 
 when your excellent wife did me so much honour, that bygones 
 were to be bygones ; and Emily— ' 
 
 ' My sister acts for herself ; I do not try to influence her ; 
 and my wife thinks she knows what is best for her ' 
 
 ' Her family, of course ; good woman. She thought it would 
 be a wrong thing to neglect opportunities, and so did your father, 
 as you may recollect.' 
 
 ' I prefer not to recollect, any more than I can help,' said the 
 Rector. 
 
 ' Which ? that Emily has come to great promotion, very high 
 promotion, as all those ladies think — while she was in my house? 
 There would have been no title in the case — a title such as it is ! 
 —but for my house.' 
 
 ' The less that is said on that subject, I think, the better,' 
 said the Rector, standing holt upright before the fire. 
 
 ' Oh, James,' said his wife, ' when Mrs. Swinford is so 
 kind ' 
 
 'I gave it,' said Mrs. Swinford, bending forward, 'and, my 
 good Rector, you will take care not to be insolent ; I may also, 
 perhaps, take it away.' 
 
XVII 
 
 Lady William, on this eventful afternoon, had gone out with 
 Mab on one of her rambles. The air was full of spring, the buds 
 bursting on every tree, the cottage gardens all blooming with 
 those common flowers which can be got anywhere, which are the 
 inheritance of the poorest, and are more beautiful, spontaneous, 
 and abundant than any other : the early primroses, daffodils and 
 Lent lilies, the rich dark wallflowers that fill the air with sweet- 
 ness. Mab had a little basket with her, in which to bring home 
 any wild thing that pleased her in the woods and slopes of 
 Denham Hill, on the other side of the water. It was a long 
 walk, but neither mother nor daughter was afraid of a long walk. 
 They came back, breathing of every sweet-wildness of the spring, 
 just as Mrs. Swiuford, disappointed and angry, was leaving a card, 
 with a message, at the cottage door ; but the carriage had dis- 
 appeared along the road long before they reached tlieir own end 
 of Watcham. It had been a lovely afternoon, warm, yet fresh 
 with the dewy moisture of the April breezes, that germinating 
 weather, and sparkle of showers and waters which is not damp. 
 Several showers had fallen upon them in their ramble, but done 
 no harm ; they had taken shelter, after a laughing run against 
 the wind and the bright falling veil of rain, mider the trees, or 
 in a cottage when one was near, and shaken the rain-drops off" 
 their dresses, and carried the freshness of the outside atmos- 
 phere, as if they had been nymphs of the air, into the little 
 wayside houses. It would have been hard to say whether mother 
 or daughter was youngest in these runs and shelterings. Lady 
 William was almost more swift of foot than Mab, who more easily 
 got out of breath, and was built on heavier lines ; and though 
 the girl's colour was higher, the delicate flush on the other's 
 cheek spoke of almost finer health and brightness in its fluctua- 
 tions and changes. They were both equally interested about the 
 
 K 
 
130 LADY WILLIAM XVii 
 
 plants aud roots which Mab grubbed up from under the trees, 
 but hers was the dehght of superior knowledge, as she discovered 
 a rare something here aud there, a flower peculiar to one place or 
 another, ilab was altogether absorbed in her botany and her 
 researches, flushed with her digging, eager about her new trea- 
 sures. But her mother was more free for the delights of the 
 sweet air and sensations of the spring, the freedom of the woods, 
 and sometimes would burst out singing, and sometimes fling bits 
 of moss at her child, as she held the basket. 
 
 ' Isn't that beautiful, Mab ? ' 
 
 'Yes, mother,' Mab would say, digging, her head bent over the 
 mossy soil, nothing free of her but the ear which took in the sound 
 of the poetry in a kind of subdued pleasure which mingled with 
 her humbler sensations. 
 
 ' You are a little grub,' said Lady William ; ' you are never so 
 happy as when you are probing among the roots and the dead 
 leaves.' 
 
 'And you are of the kind of the birds, mother, and I like to 
 hear you up* among the branches,' said Mab. I do not mean to 
 say that Lady "William was a musician, or that you could hear the 
 bits of songs she sang, which had been Mab's lullaby as a baby, 
 aud amusement through all her childhood — a few yards from 
 where she stood. They were nothing but the spontaneous utter- 
 ances of her fresh spirit, like breathing, or the trilling of the birds, 
 to which Mab compared them. Mab did not herself require utter- 
 ances, givings forth, of that kind. She worked away and was 
 silent, wholly given to what she was about. But she admired the 
 trill and movement of the lighter spirit, and thought her mother 
 the most delightful human creature that had ever been upon this 
 earth. 
 
 The basket was tolerably heavy when they came back, and 
 Mab was still a little flushed with her hard work. The sky was 
 very sweet and subdued in colour, a great band of softened gold 
 binding the growing grayness of the afternoon, approaching night 
 — and opening, as it were, a glimpse into the heavens, a broad 
 shining pathwaj^, reflected fully in the river, between the awaken- 
 ing greens and browns of the spring country and the soft clouds 
 above. It was still light, but evening was in the air, and among 
 the folds of the clouds a few mild stars were already visible. The 
 cows were coming lowing home ; the children were leaving ofi" their 
 games ; and people coming up from the river, who found a little 
 chiU in the air after the sun had gone down. The mother and 
 daughter met everybody on their progress home, The doctor, 
 
XVII LADY WILLIAM 131 
 
 another botanist, who sniffed at Mab's basket, and affected con- 
 tempt at her brag of the peculiar coltsfoot she had found, which 
 grew nowhere but on Denham Hill. ' Common, common,' he said, 
 'you'll find it everywhere,' as one connoisseur says to another, upon 
 most new acquisitions ; but that was because he had never had 
 such luck himself, Mab felt convinced. And they met the tall 
 curate, Mr. Osborne, stalking off to a meeting, who stopped to ask 
 whether Lady William would not help in a temperance tea party 
 of his, where the ladies and gentlemen were to amuse the villagers, 
 and make them forget that there was such a thing on earth, or 
 rather, in Watcham, as the ' Why Not ? ' or the ' Blue Boar.' Mr, 
 Osborne wore his Inverness cape, as usual, and a quantity of books 
 and pamphlets under it; but there was something a little different 
 from his ordinary aspect in his looks. After he had passed he 
 made a step back again, and called Lady William, with a hesitating 
 voice. 
 
 'Do you see — young Plowden often?' he said, in the most 
 awkward way. 
 
 ' Jim ! ' she said, surprised, ' my nephew ? ' 
 
 ' Don't be vexed ; I think he goes to places which he had 
 
 better avoid,' said the curate. Lady William looked at him, 
 but there was nothing further to be learned from his cloudy 
 face. 
 
 ' That is very possible,' she said. ' Do you mean there 1 ' 
 
 for she had heard something of the 'Blue Boar,' which was now 
 beginning to light up, and looked cheerfid enough across the village 
 green. The curate gave a little stamp of impatience as he saw 
 some one else approaching, and said quickly : 
 
 'I can't say any more,' and stalked away, leaving, as such 
 monitors so often do, a prick of pain behind him, but nothing that 
 could do any good. It was the General who was coming, and he 
 walked a few steps with the ladies, congratulating them on their 
 walk. 
 
 ' For I should not wonder if it rained to-morrow,' he said. And 
 then he told them of Mrs. Swiuford's visit, and how she had gone 
 from door to door. ' You see you have missed something ; you 
 have not had that honour.' 
 
 ' I am glad that we went for our long walk,' Lady William 
 said. And then, finally, they met Mr. Swinford, who came up joy- 
 fully, with his hat in his hand, and his head uncovered from the 
 moment he saw them. 
 
 ' Ah, I have found you at last,' said Leo ; ' I have waited for 
 you in the cottage, sitting inside by the invitation of Miss Patty, 
 
132 LADY WILLIAM xvii 
 
 who is very kind to me, and observing the proceedings of my 
 mother.' 
 
 ' I hear she has been paying visits.' 
 
 'To everybody, which is not, perhaps, the way to make the 
 visit prized ; but she does not like the English climate, and she 
 is used, you know, to do as she likes,' he said, with a smile. 
 
 ' Surely, in such matters as that she has a very good right.' 
 
 ' Yes, to be sure,' he said doubtfully, and then laughed. ' She 
 came to see you, too — and I lay there, like a spider in a web, 
 wondering if she would also come in to wait for you ; but Miss 
 Patty was not so kind to my mother as to me. I heard her answer 
 unhesitatingly, " Not at home ! " with a voice like that of a groom 
 of the chambers. She has great capabilities, Patty.' 
 
 ' And did you not go out, to say ' 
 
 ' What should I have said 1 I was waiting, feeling that you 
 would probably snub me for my pains, and why should I interfere 
 with my mother 1 She left a card with a message pencilled on it, 
 which I had the honourable feeling not to read. It got upon my 
 nerves to be in the same room with it, and if I had not come 
 out to meet you I should have yielded to the temptation.' 
 
 ' That would have been as bad as opening a letter,' said Mab, 
 who had as yet taken no part. 
 
 ' Would it, do you think 1 It was open ; there would have 
 been no seal broken ; but, at all events, I resisted temptation, so 
 you must praise me and not censure. Miss Mab.' 
 
 ' And how did you know,' said Mab, while her mother pondered, 
 ' that we were coming this way 1 ' 
 
 ' Give me the basket and I will tell you. What is in it 1 
 Worms 1 But also clay and earth. Have you not mud enough 
 already in Watcham, that you must bring in more from the 
 woods 1 ' 
 
 ' Give me my basket again,' said Mab indignantly ; ' there's a 
 clump of wood anemones, beauties, and the famous coltsfoot that 
 only grows at Denham. I have hunted for it for years, and I only 
 found it to-day. Give it me back.' 
 
 ' I am not worthy to carry such treasures,' said Leo, ' but the 
 contact will do me good.' 
 
 ' All the same you haven't answered,' said Mab. ' Who told 
 you we were coming this way 1 ' 
 
 ' If you must know, it was the accomplished Patty again. She 
 offered me tea, which I declined, and she offered me also my 
 mother's card, which in my high sense of honour I declined too, 
 and then she said, "My lydy was a-going to Denham Hill, and 
 
XVII LADY WILLIAM 133 
 
 you'll meet 'em sure, if you go that way." Patty is my friend, 
 Miss Mab ; she has a higher opinion of me than you have.' 
 
 ' We must hurry home now, Mab; we have been too long away,' 
 said Lady William, with a serious face. ' It does not do for a 
 woman of my age to go out on your long grubbiugs. Come, Leo, 
 give me the basket, and let us run home.' 
 
 ' I can run too,' he said. 'Are you really sorry, is that what 
 you mean, that you missed my mother 1 ' 
 
 ' I cannot quite say that honestly. No, I am not sorry I 
 missed your mother. Perhaps she and I have been too long apart 
 to bridge over the difference now. How I used to admire your 
 mother, Leo ! How beautiful she was ! ' 
 
 ' Was she, indeed 1 ' he said, with a sort of polite attention, but 
 surprised. Perhaps it is curious at any time for a man to realise 
 that his mother may have been beautiful and admired. ' I should 
 not have thought,' he said, 'with submission, that her features, for 
 instance ' 
 
 ' Women don't think of features,' said Lady William, with a 
 little impatience. ' It was she, not her features, that was beautiful. 
 She had so much charm — when she pleased. It must always be 
 added, that when she did not please — but we are not going to dis- 
 cuss your mother. She is a wonderful creature to be imiDrisoned 
 here.' 
 
 ' You are not imprisoned here,' he said, almost angrily, ' who 
 are still more wonderful : and you forget that my mother is old, 
 and has had her day.' 
 
 ' The day will not be over as long as she lives ; and as for me, 
 I am not imimsoned ; I dwell among my own people.' 
 
 ' How curious,' he said, ' pardon me, that the people here should 
 be your own people ! I say nothing against them, don't fear it ; 
 they are very good people, but not ' 
 
 ' Thanks,' she said, with a half laugh, ' it was I who used to 
 be the black sheep. Mrs. Plowden is not sure that she approves 
 of me now ; and if ' 
 
 'If what r 
 
 ' Nothing,' said Lady William, with the slightest tinge of angry 
 colour in her face. 
 
 ' That is just like mother,' said Mab ; ' she gives you a word 
 as if she were going to say something of importance, and then she 
 tells you it is nothing. I have known her to do it a hundred 
 times.' 
 
 ' There is nothing like the criticism of one's children,' said 
 Lady William, with a laugh. ' You, with your mother, Leo, and 
 
134 LADY WILLIAM xvii 
 
 Mab with hers, you are two iconoclasts. Now, the humble people, 
 like my good Emmy, are very different ; they do not criticise. 
 
 And then you despise them as common, you two Ah ! here 
 
 we are at our own door.' She turned and held out her hand to Leo, 
 who looked at her surprised. 
 
 ' Are you not going to ask me in ? ' he said, holding part of the 
 basket, for which Mab, too, had held out her hands. 
 
 They all stood looking at each other in front of the cottage door. 
 
 ' It is late,' said Lady William, with some hesitation — ' yes, if 
 you wish it : but don't you think it would be better to get back to 
 the Hall before it is dark 1 ' 
 
 ' No,' said Leo, ' why should I hurry back to the Hall 1 Of 
 course I wish it ; and you never told me before that I was not to 
 come.' 
 
 ' I do not say so now, but ' 
 
 ' But what 1 ' 
 
 ' Nothing,' said Lady William, with a faint smile. 
 
 ' I told you that was her way,' cried Mab, triumphant. 
 ' " Nothing," and one is sure that she means heaps of things more 
 than she ever says.' 
 
 He followed her into the little drawing-room, where there was 
 still a little bright fire, though it was no longer cold. Mrs. Swin- 
 ford's card was lying upon a small table conspicuously, though there 
 was not light enough to read its pencilled message. Lady William 
 hesitated a little, not sitting down, giving her visitor no excuse for 
 doing so. He followed her movements with a disturbed aspect, 
 standing within the door, watching her figure against the light, 
 Mab, who had seized the basket when he put it down, had gone 
 off to put her treasures in safety. ' I perceive,' he said at last, 
 ' that I have done something wrong. What have I done wrong ? 
 Am I troubling you coming in when you did not want me 1 Then 
 tell me so, dear lady, and send me away.' 
 
 ' Leo,' said Lady William, 'you should not have remained here 
 while your mother was at the door ; I do not like it ; it puts me 
 in a very uncomfortable position. Why didn't you go and tell her 
 we were out, Mab and 1 1 ' 
 
 '• I am your devoted servant, dear lady,' said Leo, ' but I am 
 not your groom of the chambers, and Patty is. How could I have 
 taken her duties out of her hands 1 ' 
 
 ' That is all very well for a laugh,' she said, ' but it vexes me 
 very much ; it is very uncomfortable ; why should you have been 
 in my drawing-room while your mother was sent away from the 
 door 1 ' 
 
xvii LADY WILLIAM 135 
 
 * You mean I ought not to have come in to wait.' 
 
 ' That for one thing, certainly ; but being in, you should cer- 
 tainly not have allowed ' 
 
 ' What 1 ' said the young man. 
 
 Lady William did not say ' Nothing ' again, but she stood at 
 the window looking out with her back turned to him, and as 
 strong an expression of discomfort and vexation in her attitude and 
 eloquent silence as if she had used many words. 
 
 ' I' see,' he said, ' I have been very indiscreet ; I have vexed 
 you though I did not mean it. I don't make any excuse for myself, 
 except that I thought at first you were coming back immediately. 
 Forgive me : and I will go away, and never at any time will I do 
 it any more.' 
 
 She gave a little laugh, turning round. ' No, I don't think 
 you will do it again ; but, unfortunately, that does not alter the 
 fact that you have done it, and made me very uncomfortable. Are 
 you going away 1 Then good night ; you will have a pleasant walk 
 up to the Hall.' 
 
 ' Not nearly so pleasant as if it had been an hour later,' he 
 said. 
 
 ' Oh, that is merely an idea. You will really like it better. Mab 
 ought to be here to thank you for carrying her basket. Good night, 
 Leo,' Lady William said. She stepped out into the narrow passage 
 after him to see him away ; and, at the moment, in the open door- 
 way Mab appeared with a cry of surprise. 
 
 ' Oh, are you going so soon 1 Are you not going to stop for 
 tea 1 ' 
 
 ' I am sent away,' he said. 
 
 ' By mother 1 ' 
 
 ' Yes. To make sure of amendment another time,' he said 
 ruefully, and went away with so much the air of a schoolboy 
 under punishment, that Mab came in open - mouthed to her 
 mother. 
 
 ' Oh ! what have you been doing to Mr. Leo ? Oh ! why have 
 you sent him away 1 ' 
 
 Lady William made no answer, but rang the bell, as it very 
 seldom was rung in this small house ; an unusual occurrence, which 
 brought Patty in with a rush, still rubbing a candlestick she held 
 in her hand. 
 
 ' Patty, did you ask Mr. Swinford to come in and wait till Miss 
 Mab and I came back 1 ' 
 
 ' Yes, my lydy,' said Patty, with sharp eyes that gleamed in 
 the licht. 
 
136 LADY WILLIAM xvn 
 
 ' And you did not ask Mrs. Swinford, when she called, to come 
 iu and wait 1 ' 
 
 'Ob, no, my lydy,' cried Patty, aggrieved. 
 
 ' Why 1 ' said her mistress solemnly. 
 
 'Oh, my lydy!' said Patty, thunderstruck 
 
 ' Yes, why 1 ' I want to know, w^hy should Mr. Swinford wait 
 for me and not Mrs. Swinford 1 I do not wish anybody to be asked 
 to wait for me when I am out. If you were ever to do it again, I 
 don't know what I might be obliged to say.' 
 
 ' Oh, my lydy,' said Patty, ' I thought as Mr. Swinford was a 
 young gentleman as perhaps made it a little cheerful for Miss Mab 
 
 and I thought as the old lady wasn't a pleasure for nobody ; 
 
 and I thouo'ht ' 
 
 ' If that is true of old ladies, why should you stay with me, 
 Patty, who am an old lady, too, and not a pleasure to any- 
 body ' 
 
 ' Oh, my lydy ! ' said Patty, bursting into a torrent of tears. 
 
 ' Go, you little goose, and think no more of it ; but ask nobody 
 to wait for me. Now remember ! you are here to do what you 
 are told, but never to think. Thinking is the destruction of little 
 maids. Ask Anne if she ever ventured to think when she was a 
 girl like you.' 
 
 'Yes, my lydy,' said Patty, drying her eyes. 
 
XVIII 
 
 It is not necessary to make a room snug with curtains drawn and 
 the draught shut out, in the month of April as it is in early March, 
 so that it was some time even after the lamp was brought in before 
 the "wistful clearness in the east, and that gleam of yellow, ' the 
 daffodil sky ' of the other quarter, which turns to ethereal tints of 
 green, and has so many gradations of colour all its own, was shut 
 out. Lady William liked to see the sky when she was in a cheer- 
 ful or excited, not a sad mood. Such moods came to her as to 
 every one by times ; but she was angry and active to-night. Mab 
 was not much used to such moments of commotion, to her mother's 
 slightly disturbed condition, and the scolding which had made 
 Patty cry. Scolding was very infrequent in the cottage. Now 
 and then Lady William would launch a fiery arrow ; she would 
 throw a distinct terrible light of displeasure upon dusty corners and 
 silver badly cleaned. Sometimes even Mab would be brought to a 
 sudden perception that her faults were quite visible and apparent, 
 notwithstanding all her mother's love and indulgence. But a 
 moment like this, when all was disturbed and broken without any 
 apparent motive, was astonishing to the girl. It was not for some 
 time that Mab felt even the courage to inquire : only after tea 
 when Lady William's hasty ejaculations and movements of anger 
 had almost died away. 
 
 ' But, mother, now that we are cool,' said Mab 
 
 ' Cool 1 1 have never been anything but cool.' 
 ' Now,' continued the girl, ' that it is over, what was there so 
 very bad in letting Mr. Leo come in to wait 1 ' 
 
 'And not his mother?' said Lady William. 'There would 
 have been nothing particular, though very absurd if everybody who 
 called had been asked in to wait. Fancy coming back to find the 
 room crowded like a dentist's waiting-room ! But to bring in one 
 and leave out another ! Though I confess,' said Lady William, 
 
138 LADY WILLIAM xvni 
 
 with an angry flush, ' that if the little goose had done so, and 
 brought in Mrs. Swinford to find her son waiting, I should have 
 been still more uncomfortable.' 
 
 ' Then you scolded her, mother, for what it was best to do 1 ' 
 
 ' Nothing of the sort ; her sin was inviting a gentleman to 
 come in and wait for us who — • — Oh, it is too horrid altogether, 
 and if Mrs. Swinford had found him ' 
 
 ' Mother, what then ? ' cried Mab, a little alarmed. 
 
 Her limpid gaze, so full of innocent surprise, seemed to bring 
 back all Lady William's annoyance. ' You must take it for granted, 
 Mab, that there are some things I know better than you do,' she 
 said. 'By-the-bye, give me her card; let us see what message 
 she left.' 
 
 The card did not seem to afford Lady William any more 
 satisfaction. It was a very highly- polished card, and the pencil 
 had cut into it, and the writing was difficult to read. She put it 
 down with a heightened colour, throwing it from her hand. 'I 
 wonder if she thinks I put any faith in her calmeries,' she said. 
 
 ' What are cdlineries, mother ? ' said Mab, taking up the card, 
 which was inscribed as follows : ' Chere Petite, — Much regret not 
 to find you. Come to see me to-morrow; I have something 
 important for your welfare to say.' ' Chere Petite,' repeated Mab, 
 ' that is a cdlinerie, I suppose. It seems queer to call you Petite 
 — but I suppose she knew you when you were quite little.' 
 
 ' She knew me, certainly, when the title was more aj^propriate 
 than it is now.' 
 
 ' That must be the reason ; and perhaps she thought you might 
 like it. Some ladies,' said Mab, with her serious, almost childish, 
 face, 'like to be thought young.' 
 
 ' I don't think she can have thought I would like it, Mab,' said 
 Lady William, with a little shiver. ' Close the window and draw 
 the curtain, please. I have a sort of uncomfortable feeling of some- 
 body looking in.' 
 
 ' You are uncomfortable altogether to-night, mother.' 
 
 ' Yes, I suppose it's my nerves ; it's — that woman. I never 
 thought I had any nerves before.' 
 
 ' Oh, but you have,' cried Mab ; ' I know better than that. 
 
 Not nerves, perhaps, like Aunt Jane, but ■ There is somebody 
 
 in the garden. Shall I go and see who it is ? ' 
 
 Lady William started up and looked over Mab's shoulder. 
 Whether she thought it might be Leo come again, or what other 
 intruder at this untimely hour, I cannot tell. But she said, in a 
 tone that was half relief and half annoyance : ' Your Aunt Jane in 
 
xviii LADY WILLIAM 139 
 
 person, Mab, aud the girls. What can they want now^' Her 
 tone was a little fretful. They were in the way of wanting a great 
 many things from her at the Rectory, and frequently her advice on 
 one subject or another, which they did not generally take. 
 
 ' It will be about their dresses for the FitzStephens' party,' 
 said Mab, to whom the ladies outside were beckoning that she 
 should open the door to them. But Lady AVilliam shook her head. 
 
 ' Run and let them in, at all events. They have not rung the 
 bell,' she said, drawing the curtains with an impatient movement. 
 The little room looked so full that it could contain no more when 
 the three ladies came in ; but they knew all its accommodations, 
 and settled themselves in their places at as great a distance as 
 possible from the little bright fire. ' It is such a mild night there 
 is no occasion for it,' said Mrs. Plowden, ' but you always keep up 
 fires, Emily, later than any one.' 
 
 ' Do I ? It's cheerful at least.' 
 
 ' And the window open ! That's rather wasteful, don't you 
 think 1 I like to do either one thing or another ; to shut up the 
 house and keep all the heat in, as one does on winter nights, or 
 else to throw up all the windows, and get the full advantage of the 
 air. But I don't see the good of dispersing all the heat outside, as 
 if it could warm the garden. That would be a very good idea ; 
 but I'm afraid it would not be a success if you were to try it ever 
 so much.' 
 
 'I suppose,' said Lady William, 'you have come to tell me 
 something; not to talk about the fire.' 
 
 ' I don't know. We came over just to see you. It's such a 
 lovely night I thought I should like a walk. I said to Emmy, 
 after James had gone back to his study, I think I'd like to have a 
 little run; it's so sweet to-night, not cold at all. Let's run out 
 and see your Aunt Emily, I said. I knew you were sure to be in.' 
 
 ' Oh, yes, we are always sure to be in.' 
 
 ' And, except ourselves, you are the only person of whom that 
 can be said ; for the FitzStephens are always dining with the 
 Kendals or the Kendals with the FitzStephens ; and Miss Grey, 
 she goes in later to tea, not to put the table out, or she is at one 
 of Mr. Osborne's meetings, or has some parish tea party of her own. 
 We are never sure to find anybody but you ; and it is such a thing 
 in a little place like this to know somebody you can depend upon 
 to be in, if you find it dull or want a little run.' 
 
 'I am afraid that Mab and I can't do much to help your 
 dulness.' 
 
 ' Oh, yes, you can. You can always talk nicely, Emily, on 
 
140 LADY WILLIAM xviii 
 
 almost any subject ; and I always say it is sucli a good thing for 
 the girls only to hear you talk. And Mab is the most sensible 
 little thing that ever was. I always tell the girls it's quite a treat 
 to hear her ; no nonsense, but so sensible, and taking up things so 
 quick ! ' 
 
 ' It is very kind of you, Jane, to have so good an opinion of my 
 little girl.' 
 
 ' Oh, it is merely the truth, Emily. I have always heard the 
 Marquis was a very sensible man, and we all know there was once 
 a Prime Minister in the family. Of course that's a great thing to 
 begin with. I can't boast anything like that on my side, and I can't 
 say I think the Plowdens are remarkable for common sense, do you 1 
 Our children have other qualities. My poor Jim complains that 
 his father is always at him because he does not stick to his Greek, 
 and how can you expect a young man to stick to his Greek when 
 it is only in that interrupted broken way 1 James thinks he gives 
 him his full attention. But you know what a parish is, Emily. 
 Sometimes it's a christening, or some sick person to see, or a 
 funeral. And then James has to tell him, " I can't hear you, Jim, 
 to-day." jSTow, I ask you, Emily, honestly, do you think a boy can 
 be expected to stick to his Greek like that 1 ' 
 
 'I quite agree with you, Jane; it is very hard upon him.' 
 
 ' Of course it is hard ; everything's hard. And he doesn't know 
 what's the good of it, or what it's for. He cannot go into the 
 Church, and it requires so much, all the technicalities, you know, 
 to be a schoolmaster ; and if James makes up his mind at the end 
 to put him into an office, or to send him — which is terrible to 
 think of,' cried poor Mrs. Plowden, putting her handkerchief to her 
 eyes — •' abroad — what use would all that Greek be 1 ' 
 
 ' It is quite true,' said Lady William, ' and I wish we could 
 persuade James to make up his mind. Do you know what friends 
 Jim has in the parish ; where he goes ; who are his companions 1 
 Some one said something to me ' 
 
 ' Oh, what did they say to you ? Who spoke to you ? Tell me 
 what any one has to say about my boy.' 
 
 'It was nothing, after all; it was Mr. Osborne. He said Jim 
 went to some house where it would be better he should not go.' 
 
 ' Mr. Osborne ! ' cried the Kector's wife. ' Oh, Emily, that 
 one who belongs to Jim should listen to that man ! There is a 
 man,' cried the troubled mother, 'who, if he liked, might have done 
 almost anything with Jim. Not preaching to him ; that's not 
 what I mean. But he is a young man, only five years older ; a 
 University man, a man wishing to have good influence. Where 
 
xviii LADY WILLIAM 141 
 
 does he go to exercise this good influence, Emily 1 To Riverside ; 
 to the men who don't care, who laugh at him behind his back — 
 and to get the old women to give up their glass of beer, and the 
 little children, that know nothing, to take his blue ribbon. Oh, 
 and there was Jim in his way,' said the poor mother, ' Jim at his 
 door, a University man, too ; his Rector's son, his own kind. Did 
 he ever try to get a good influence over Jim 1 to ask him of an 
 evening, to take him for walks, to give him an interest 1 Never, 
 never, never ! He goes about the parish and makes the poor 
 women promise to give up their drop of beer. What does he 
 know about what they need, about their innocent drop of beer, him 
 a strong young man, well fed, wanting nothing 1 But my Jim, 
 that was what he wanted, a strong man of his own kind ; a young 
 man that he had no suspicion of; that didn't need to preach. 
 That's what the boy wants, Emily ; not his father, that is angry, 
 or me that only cries, but one like himself. Is it better to gain a 
 good influence over poor old Mrs. Lloyd than over Jim, or to hold 
 temperance meetings when he might do a brother's part to get hold 
 of that boy 1 ' 
 
 ' Oh, mamma, what are you saying ? ' said Emmy, still anxious 
 to save aiDpearances. ' Aunt Emily will think that dear Jim ' 
 
 Florence said nothing, but sat staring into the vacant air with 
 wide open eyes full of trouble, while Mrs. Plowdeu, altogether 
 broken down, put her head upon Lady William's shoulder and cried. 
 
 ' It's mamma's nerves,' said Emmy again ; ' she has been upset 
 to-day. You are not to think. Aunt Emily, that anything dreadful 
 has happened. Nothing is wrong with Jim ; it is only that papa 
 is angry with him, and mamma has got it on her nerves, and — 
 mamma, this was not what you came to talk of, you know.' 
 
 Mrs. Plowden raised her head after a minute with a piteous 
 smile. 'Thank you, Emily, you're always kind,' she said; 'and 
 it's only my nerves, as Emmy says. I get agitated, and then every- 
 thing looks black, as if it never would come right again. It isn't 
 that there's anything to be frightened about, and you know what a 
 true good heart my Jim has, and that's everything, isn't it 1 That's 
 everything,' the poor lady said. 
 
 ' What mamma really wanted to ask you, Aunt Emily,' said 
 Emmy, ' was whether you had seen Mrs. Swinford. She has been 
 to call at the Rectory.' 
 
 ' Yes, yes,' said Mrs. Plowden ; ' that was what we wanted, to 
 be sure. Emily, you won't think anything more of the little fuss 
 I've made about Mr. Osborne, will you 1 You would think I meant 
 that he intended to slight my son. You know I couldn't mean 
 
142 LADY AYILLIAM xviii 
 
 that. And he is a very good curate, and James puts great con- 
 fidence in him. It's my nerves that get the better of me. But 
 Emmy al-nrays brings me up to the mark. Yes, about Mrs. Swin- 
 ford, that vas it ; did she come here, too ? ' 
 
 ' I believe so ; but before we came in. She left a card with a 
 message -' 
 
 ' My dear Emily, I don't think Mrs. Swinford is a very nice 
 woman,' said Mrs. Plowden solemnly. 
 
 'Don't you ?' said Lady William, with a faint smile. 
 
 ' You see, gii'ls,' said the Rector's wife, ' your aunt will never 
 say anything. Perhaps it Ls prudent, but it's a little confusing. 
 One doesn't know what to say.' 
 
 ' If you think you will hurt my feelings, Jane, by speaking 
 plainly, don't let that weigh upon your mind. I know very well 
 what Mrs. Swinford is, and I don't care to make myself her 
 champion.' 
 
 'I don't think she's a nice woman,' repeated the Rector's wife; 
 'I don't think she's a good woman. She looks to me — notwith- 
 standing that she professes to be so fond of you, and Emily this 
 and Emily that — as if she would like to do you a bad turn.' 
 
 Lady William took this alarming statement quite calmly. 
 ' Indeed I should not be surprised,' she said, ' but I don't think it 
 is in her power.' 
 
 ' We must try and make sure that it is not in her power. 
 Don't you think she could perhaps do you harm with the 
 family 1 It occurred to me, and you wiU wonder to hear that it 
 occurred to James. He said to me, " If that woman can injure 
 Emily she will." Dear Emily, you have never been such very 
 good friends with the family, and they have never seen Mab. 
 You know I've always wanted you to do something. If you were 
 to put yourself forward a little ' 
 
 ' You are very kind, Jane, and James too. I don't think the 
 family can do us much harm ; we have what they chose to give 
 us, and they will not give us anything more, nor do I wish it. 
 I have my pride, too.' 
 
 ' But their countenance, EmUy ! ' 
 
 ' Their countenance ! ' cried Lady William, rising to her feet 
 with a quick start of indignation. ' To me ! I want none .of 
 their countenance ; I can't help bearing their name, and they 
 cannot take it from me.' 
 
 ' Oh, my dear, my dear, there can be no question of that ! 
 They can't take away your rank, nor Mrs. Swinford either, 
 whatever she may do. My conviction,' said Mrs. Plowden, 
 
XVIII LADY AVILLIAM 143 
 
 nodding her head, ' is that she cau't bear the thought of your 
 rank. If you should meet auyAviiere out, and you were to pass 
 before her, Emily — that's the thought that she can't bear.' 
 
 A gleam of light passed over Lady William's face. ' That 
 would be a little compensation,' she said, half to herself. ' But 
 don't put such hopes in my head,' she added laughing ; ' she and 
 I will never meet out, alas ! ' 
 
 ' If it was only for that I should like to give a dinner party 
 at the Rectory and ask her, Emily — ^just to show her. Oh, I 
 should like that ! It might look strange, James giving his arm 
 to his own sister, but I should never mind how it looked. And 
 it would be a kind of duty, by way of welcoming them back. 
 But you know, Emily, though Mary Jane is an excellent parlom'- 
 maid, she is not equal to a formal party. We should require to 
 have a butler, or some one who would look like a butler. And 
 the dinner-service is very shabby and a great many pieces broken. 
 I am sure I would do it with the greatest pleasure, and, indeed, 
 would think it a duty ; but only ' 
 
 'No, my kindest Jane, you will do nothing of the sort for 
 me. As for Mrs. Swinford, she will go out to no joarties in the 
 village. Don't imagine for a moment that I want to be avenged 
 upon her in that very small way.' 
 
 ' Avenged ! I did not think of it in that light. And do you 
 know James was very cool to her to-day, scarcely civil. I 
 thought she had been very nice to you in the old times.' 
 
 ' Don't let us talk of the Swinfords for ever,' said Lady 
 William, 'we have had enough of them for one day. Let me 
 know what the girls are going to wear at the Fitz-Stephens', and 
 who is to be there ' 
 
 This new subject, notwithstanding that Mrs. Plowden had 
 her head full of graver matters, was too interesting to be dropped 
 quickly, and there ensued a long conversation, which Lady 
 William, having set it goiug, left to be carried on by the others. 
 Mrs. Plowden had naturally a great deal to say, and Emmy, 
 whose heart was full of the consciousness that any social occasion 
 where she could see and be seen was more important now in her 
 life than it had ever been before, lent her attention with great 
 earnestness to her mother's view, to Mab's remarks, and to the 
 occasional word with which Lady William kept up the talk. 
 Only Florence took no part in it. She had taken up a book, and 
 so appeared to have her attention fixed ; I don't know if she held 
 it upside down, but I am very sure that she did not read a page. 
 Her mind was occupied with affairs of her own. 
 
XIX 
 
 The dining-room at the Hall was gloomy but grand. The walls 
 dark, save where they were relieved by scrolls of gilding and 
 ornamental panels, in which were set some full-length portraits 
 of doubtful merit, and more than doubtful antiquity. It was 
 divided, like the drawing-room, by pillars, not of marble, though 
 they assumed that virtue, leaving a darker strait at each end, 
 intended, no doubt, to throw up the brilliancy of the larger 
 central room, in which stood the dinner-table with all its lights. 
 And this might have been the case had there been a large and 
 brilliant party round the table, and abundance of light, with 
 reflections of silver and crystal, as probably the builder of the 
 house intended should be the case. But now the Swinfords, 
 mother and son, alone at a round table of no great size, with a 
 shaded lamp suspended over it, furnished little more than an oasis 
 in the great desert of darkness. There was, indeed, a large fire 
 blazing, against which Mrs. Swinford sat, shivering from time to 
 time, notwithstanding the mild softness of the April night. And 
 the table was adorned with a great bouquet of flowers, dazzling 
 white azaleas, and the other brilliant children of the spring who 
 come in such a triumph over the footsteps of winter. Mrs. 
 Swinford was dressed, as she always was, elaborately, and like a 
 picture, in dark velvet, just showing a little colour here and 
 there where the light caught it — and a great deal of lace. She 
 had a lace scarf fastened over her head, fantastically indeed, and 
 scarcely enough to have been allowed by Mrs. Plowden to pass 
 muster as a cap, but still softening the age of the face, and the 
 tower of the abundant dark hair piled unnaturally upon her head. 
 She might have been a dethroned and indignant queen. She, 
 and the flowers, and Leo's more youthful face, gave a centre to 
 the dark solemnity around, through which the servants moved 
 noiseless. 
 
XIX LADY WILLIAM 145 
 
 'You have brjcn in the village,' he saiil ; 'I hear, making 
 calls.' But this was not till the lengthened and elaborate dinner — 
 of which Vjoth ate fastidiously, with many criticisms and remarks 
 little cornpliujentaiy to a very ambitious and highly-paid cook — 
 was done. 
 
 'I am glad you take so rxuioh interest in my movements, Leo, 
 as to know.' 
 
 ' Of course I know. I saw the carriage for one thing ; and 
 besides ' 
 
 'You, I suppose, were paying visits, too?' 
 
 ' Not much,' he said, with an embarrassed smile. ' I saw 
 little Miss Grey about some of our schemes ; but you don't give 
 Miss Grey the light of your countenance.' 
 
 ' I have never noticed any but the principal people — who, in 
 case of an election or any public matter, might be useful.' 
 
 ' I don't see what an election would be to us.' 
 
 ' ISTor I, Leo. But it is part of our hereditary policy to keep 
 the matter open, should you or any one of the family be of a 
 different opinion.' 
 
 'My dear mother,' he said, with a laugh, 'don't you think 
 this hereditary policy is overdone a little 1 I am afraid I 
 thought myself a person of much frreater importance than I prove 
 to be.' 
 
 ' I don't admit it,' she said ; ' but is that why you are taking 
 so much trouble for the canaille ? ' 
 
 ' Xo,' said the young man, growing red. ' I take trouble 
 for the canaille, as you call them — our poor neighbours, Miss 
 Grey says — because I thought I was somehow respjonsible for 
 them.' 
 
 ' Responsible 1 ' 
 
 'I should have been,' he said firmly, 'had I been their 
 seigneur ; which I supjpose in my folly was something like what 
 I thought : now that I know they are only our poor neigh- 
 bours ' 
 
 '"Well: you think you may at least get the benefit in popu- 
 larity,' she said, with a laugh. 
 
 ' My dear mother, as we shall never think alike on 
 these points, don't you think we had better choose another 
 subject ? ' 
 
 'The subject of my calls?' said Mrs. Swinford. 'But how, 
 Leo, about your own 1 You find a wonderfid attraction in the 
 village, I understand.' 
 
 ' You know, I think, pretty well what attraction I find in the 
 
 L 
 
146 LADY WILLIAM xix 
 
 village,' he said coldly ; ' I have made no secret of my doings 
 there.' 
 
 'Perhaps not; but you have dwelt little upon a certain 
 cottage. One knows how a man can be exceedingly frank in 
 order to conceak' 
 
 ' There is no certain cottage,' he said, with indignation. ' If 
 you mean Lady William's, I certainly go there with pleasure, and 
 often, and will continue to do so. In such a matter I may surely 
 be allowed to judge for myself.' 
 
 ' Why do you call her by that ridiculous name 1 It makes me 
 laugh — if it didn't make me furious ! ' 
 
 'What has she done to you?' said Leo. 'I thought you 
 were fond of her. It has always been represented so to me. 
 What has she done, a woman not very powerful or prosperous 
 certainly, not coming in your Avay, to make you hate her so ? ' 
 
 ' Not coming in my way ! — But what do you know of my 
 history or my feelings 1 She is already again coming in my way 
 — -with you.' 
 
 'That is nonsense, mother. No, I know little of your 
 history, perhaps, except what you have told me ; and as you say, 
 
 excessive frankness ' 
 
 'You forget, I think, Leo, that you are speaking to your 
 mother 1 ' 
 
 ' I never wish to do so,' he said. ' Believe me, mother, there 
 is nothing I desire so much as to make you feel my anxiety, my 
 
 strong desire, to do what will please you ' 
 
 ' By bringing me to this miserable country, for example, in 
 the middle of winter,' she cried. 
 
 Leo sprang to his feet, and began to pace about the room. 
 'It is my country,' he said. 'If I have duties anywhere, they 
 must be here. But I have never wished to bind you. Why, if 
 you hate England so, should you stay here? We have always 
 been together; but sooner than you should suffer, leave me, 
 mother. I will bear my loneliness as best I can.' 
 
 ' Your lonehness ! You would not be long lonely. You 
 would find plenty to cheer you; whereas I am in a different 
 position. Nay : come back with me. You have seen exactly 
 how things are. If you want to be charitable, nothing is more 
 easy. James Plowden, or if you prefer it, his sister,' she paused, 
 with a harsh laugh, ' will do everything you want in that way. 
 Come back to the life Ave know ; come back to the surroundings 
 you are accustomed to. You — you can't, any more than I, be 
 hajjpy here. Where are your courses, your clubs, your theatres 1 
 
XIX LADY WILLIAM 147 
 
 There is nothing, nothing to amuse you. Leo, you know you 
 would be more amused, you would be more happy, as well 
 as I.' 
 
 ' But this,' he said, ' is my proper sphere.' 
 
 ' Grand seigneur again,' she cried, with a laugh ; ' who takes 
 up that view now % Your great-grandfather bought this estate ; 
 it is then four generations in the family. And you think that 
 feudal ! Ah ! be kind to the canaille if you will ; they will 
 cheat you and hate you, but never mind. Leo, if you keep me 
 here, and I am tempted beyond my powers, and do harm — harm, 
 do you hear*? — murder even — the guilt will not be on me, but 
 you ! ' 
 
 'Mother, do you think there is any use in scaring yourself 
 by such big words % Murder ! Whom will you kill, for example ? 
 You who faint if you prick yourself and the blood runs ! I am 
 not afraid of you.' 
 
 ' There are more ways of murder than one. I will take no 
 life.' 
 
 ' No, I don't suppose so,' he said, with a laugh ; ' but if you 
 think you will die of enmd, which, I allow, is a danger, my dear 
 mother, your ai:)]}artement is still open. I will make every 
 arrangement. Pardon me if I feel it is my duty to live in my 
 own house ; but why should that affect you % ' 
 
 ' If I said, Leo, that I could not live without you, that you 
 are my only child ' 
 
 ' Mother,' he said, ' we both understand perfectly what that 
 means. When I was a child you were very fond of me. I was 
 part of your ensemble. You gave me everything I wanted. 
 Now, it is not yom' fault nor mine that I am a man of thirty- 
 five, not even in my first youth. If I am ever to be good for 
 anything, I have no time to lose ; but you have arrived at an 
 age ' 
 
 ' Ah ! ' she said, ' I have arrived at an age when I am no 
 longer good for anything, neither the pleasures nor the duties. 
 It is fit that it should be you who say that to me.' 
 
 ' I say that you have arrived at an age when everything 
 shoidd be made easy to you, and pleasant, mother ; and that 
 you should live, without consideration of others, as suits you 
 best.' 
 
 ' And you '? ' she said with a smile ; ' as suits you best 1 Is 
 not that what you mean 1 ' 
 
 'It was not what I meant; but perhaps it is true,' he 
 said. 
 
148 LADY WILLIAM xix 
 
 Then there was a silence, dining which Leo stood by the 
 high manteliDiece, leaning upon it, looking down upon the bright 
 blaze of the fire, yet furtively watching his mother's face. 
 
 ' I know who has done all this,' she said rapidly and very low, 
 as if speaking to herself. ' I know who has done it. It was a 
 caprice — a fancy that would have lasted a moment ; a trick of his 
 father's blood. But I know who has done it — who has stamped 
 it in. I know — I know ! for her own advantage as before ; to 
 put me under her foot as before. But let her take care, let her 
 take care ! ' she cried, suddenly raising her voice, ' J'ai des griffes, 
 moi / ' 
 
 ' Mother, for heaven's sake what do you mean ? Who is to 
 take care ? ' 
 
 ' A tigress, that's what men call a woman in respect to her 
 children, Leo. I said that a tigress has claws, that was all.' 
 
 ' There is no question, surely,' he said, looking at her, at her 
 soft lace, her warm velvet, her carefully-dressed hair, her air of 
 luxmy and delicacy, 'of claws or anything of the kind here.' 
 
 She burst out into a laugh, and rose, turning her face to the 
 fire. 
 
 ' No ; at the worst of little pins to prick, little pins that don't 
 draw blood, as you say, but still make a wound. Now, Leo, 
 though we quarrel, you will not refuse to give me your arm 
 upstairs 1 ' 
 
 The drawing-room was also illuminated by a blazing fire, and 
 groups of candles placed about which made it very bright, unlike 
 the gloom of the room below ; bright, yet with all manner of soft 
 shades and contrivances to temper the light. It was full of 
 flowers and sweetness, full of luxury. Mrs. Swinford paused and 
 looked round with a satirical smile. ' Charming ! ' she said ; 
 ' and a Kttle more or less feudal, grand seigneur, as we have been 
 saying, with all that is novel and delightful added ; but vacant, 
 Leo. Were we in Paris, one would come, and then another and 
 another, to talk, or chat round the fire; to bring the news, to 
 discuss everything, spiritual, gay. These words have no meaning 
 here.' 
 
 'I fully feel it for you, mother. It is very dull; no one 
 worth your trouble to talk to. I understand perfectly. But 
 why not, then, fill the house ? ' 
 
 ' For what end 1 There is not even shooting to tempt them 
 at this time of the year. Nothing to amuse. It is not the time. 
 In the autumn, perhaps, if I survive it so long ' 
 
 ' Then there is London,' said Leo ; ' it is not exactly a village, 
 
XIX LADY WILLIAM 149 
 
 though I believe it is a happy slang to call it so. Let us go 
 there.' 
 
 ' Londou ! ' Mrs. Swinford contracted her brows. ' I have 
 forgotten all my friends, or they have forgotten me. I don't go 
 to Court ' 
 
 'Why not, mother?' 
 
 She looked at him with a gleam of fury in her eyes, and a sort 
 of wild laugh, which was the most unlike mirth of anything Leo 
 had ever heard. ' Perhaps,' she said, ' Emily Plowden would 
 present me once again — whitewashed, after all these years.' 
 
 'What do you mean by whitewashed, mother?' There was 
 something then in the look with which he faced her, insisting 
 with a flush on his face, and a look of determination for which 
 she was not prepared. 
 
 ' What do I mean by whitewashed ? I mean ' she paused 
 
 a little, looking at him with a malicious devil in her eye, as if 
 undecided what she should say. But his look subdued her, though 
 it was a strange thing for any look of Leo to do. It was a look 
 of alarm yet dismay, excited and almost fierce, yet struck with 
 sudden fear. Her eyes sank before his. 
 
 ' I don't know why you should look at me so. I mean that I 
 am forgotten — as well may be, in all these years.' 
 
 She had placed herself in the deep chair covered with brocade, 
 which had been carefully placed for her at the exact angle from 
 the fire and the lights which she liked. The table beside it was 
 covered with the evening papers ; the French papers, arrived by 
 the evening post ; one or two yellow novels, an English book, and 
 all the little paraphernalia which ladies of her period affect. She 
 sat there, lying back in her luxurious chair, looking at her son 
 with defiance in her eyes ; defiance, and yet a certain uneasiness 
 underneath. And he looked at her, uneasily too, with a doubt, 
 yet no wish to question her fm'ther. She broke this silence by a 
 sudden shrill burst of laughter, clapping her delicate hands 
 together. 
 
 ' Could one give a greater pleasure to one's protegee of old ? 
 — to the little girl of whom one has made a lady ? A lady of 
 rank, if you jslease, according to all the clowns. Emily shall take 
 me ; she shall patronise me ; she shall be my condescending 
 superior. Mrs. Swinford, on her return to England, by Lady 
 William — bah ! the jest is too good.' 
 
 Her laugh rang out shrill into the silent space about them. 
 Leo, for his part, stood before her as grave as a judge. ' I don't 
 see anything so wonderful about it,' he said. 
 
150 LADY WILLIAM xix 
 
 'What, not that Emily ! Emily, the couutiy girl, not so 
 good as your governess, not much better than my maid ! Your 
 governess 1 Why, for the moment, that was Artemise.' 
 
 ' Mother, I must varn you that you are speaking of a lady for 
 whom not only I, but every one here has the most exalted 
 esteem.' 
 
 ' Ah ! ' she cried, still laughing, ' so Artemise tells me. The 
 most exalted ! She has thrown dust in everybody's eyes.' 
 
 'And your Artemise — 1 give you warning I doubt that 
 woman.' 
 
 'Ah ! perhaps you will forbid her the house.' 
 
 ' You know very well that the house is free to aU you please 
 to see here. For myself I shall certainly let her know that her 
 presence is not agreeable to me.' 
 
 'Well, Leo,' said his mother, 'that will do for a token between 
 us. When you turn my friend, my near relation, the only creature 
 whom I care for here, to the door — I shall understand that I 
 have notice to quit, and that you want no more with me.' 
 
 ' T\Tiat folly ! ' he cried, ' when you know I would as soon try 
 to interfere with the constitution of the earth as to lift a finger 
 against any of your friends.' 
 
 ' Or consort with any of my enemies, Leo.' 
 
 ' Certainly, no, if I knew who they were : but I know of none 
 here at least.' 
 
 She laughed again ; then, turning to her table, took up the 
 Figaro which lay there. ' Enough, enough,' she said. ' Enough, 
 Leo; a quarrel is a fearful joy; but one wearies even of that at 
 the last.' 
 
 Leo stood for a time in the same attitude, while she opened 
 her paper and began to read. Then he made a turn or two round 
 the room, stoj^piug here and there to look at a picture, though he 
 neither saw nor cared what it was. Finally, when this wandering 
 had lasted for, perhaps, five minutes without any sign on the part 
 of his mother, he went quietly out of the room and downstairs. 
 
 She did not move a finger imtil the sound of his steps had 
 died away; then she put down the paper, and listened for the 
 closing of his door. It came at last with a dull echo going 
 through the silent house. That sound brought many memories 
 to the mind of the lady left alone in the great room, which would 
 have held a crowd. She remembered the times without number 
 when his father had retired so, and gave vent to a low laugh of 
 scorn. And then she remembered other things, and her face grew 
 grave. The paper fell rustling at her Teet. She cast a look 
 
XIX LADY WILLIAM 151 
 
 round her upon the room with its flowers, its lights, its cosy- 
 atmosphere, which was a triumph of skill and care, just so warm, 
 and no more. The comfort and the luxury were perfect ; there 
 was nothing that could be done to increase the beauty, the ease, 
 the grace, and completeness of all about her ; and there she sat 
 like a queen — alone. 
 
XX 
 
 Lady William was still a little disturbed next morning, her 
 usual composure gone, her countenance clouded. She had not 
 forgiven little Patty, who in consequence went about her work 
 watering with tears, instead of damp tea -leaves as usual, the 
 carpet in the drawing-room which it was her business to sweep. 
 Patty entertained the idea which, alas ! is so little general among 
 servant-girls, that her mistress was an angel, or something even 
 more than that ; for angels to Patty's consciousness were generally 
 little boys with wings and without any clothes, to whom it would 
 have been profane to compare a lady. It may be imagined how 
 hollow the world was, and how little satisfactory the routine of 
 work when Lady William frowned ; everything went badly with 
 Patty. She broke a china bowl and received from Miss Mab — 
 Miss Mab always so hon camarade, if Patty had known the 
 qualification — a very sharp and decided scolding, not to say that 
 Anne — old Anne, whom Patty considered almost too old to live, 
 and whose work she was conscious of doing in great part — fell 
 upon her and nagged till the poor girl nearly ran away. Lady 
 William was not busy this lovely spring morning which ought to 
 have put new heart into everything. She said very little even to 
 Mab. She was evidently thinking of something with which even 
 Mab had but little to do. But when the girl talked of her own 
 afternoon's occupation, her mother interposed quickly. ' I think 
 you had better come up with me to the Hall, Mab.' 
 
 ' Then you are going, mother ? in obedience to a call like 
 that ' 
 
 ' In obedience to nothing ; because I hate it, and want to get 
 it over.' 
 
 ' Do you hate Mrs. Swinford, mother 1 ' 
 
 ' Oh, I hope not,' said Lady William, the tears starting to her 
 eyes ; ' don't ask me such questions. I hope not : I don't want 
 
XX LADY WILLIAM -153 
 
 to hate any one. I would rather not think of her. But I hate 
 going into a house that has so many memories — into a house 
 where I have known so much ' 
 
 ' It was there you met my father,' said Mab. 
 
 ' Yes ; ' the monosyllable dropped from Lady William's closed 
 li^DS as if dropped out against her will. 
 
 ' But that ought not to be altogether a painfid recollection, 
 mother.' Mab had never heard anything of her father who was 
 so long dead ; there was no portrait of him that she had ever seen. 
 Her idea of him was not precisely a happy one. Other people 
 talked of the husbands they had lost, especially the poor women 
 who liked to enlarge upon the good or bad qualities of the 
 departed — but Mab knew nothing of her father, whether he had 
 been bad or good. And she had a great curiosity, if no more, to 
 know something of him. It was seldom, very seldom, that an 
 opportunity occurred even for a question. 
 
 ' I cannot enter into the past,' said Lady William ; ' there is 
 a great deal that is very painful in it. I would rather not tell 
 you the story, Mab. It would do you no good, nor any one. I 
 had forgotten a great deal till this lady appeared again. So far 
 as I can see now, she is determined that I shall no longer forget.' 
 
 ' Is she your enemy, mother ? ' 
 
 ' I don't believe in enemies, it is too melodramatic ; and 
 probably she means no harm ; only she likes to stir up things 
 which I prefer to forget. Do you understand the difference 1 
 Perhaps it keeps up her interest, but to me it spoils everything. 
 Death is very dreadful to you, Mab ; but it's very merciful, too. 
 It makes you forget many things, when they are not forcibly 
 brought back to your mind.' 
 
 Mab eyed her mother very curiously with a hundred questions 
 on her lips : but Lady William's face was not encouraging, and 
 with a sigh the girl gave up her intended inquiry. She added, 
 after some time : ' The only thing, mother, is that Mrs. Swinford 
 may want to speak to you of things that you don't wish me to 
 know.' 
 
 ' That is very possible, Mab : and it is for that I want you to 
 go with me, to protect me. She would never bring up old stories 
 which would be j^ainful, before you.' 
 
 ' Mother,' said Mab, and then paused. 
 
 ' What is it r 
 
 ' I want to know — if I am perhaps at the mercy of a stranger 
 like Mrs. Swinford to tell me things that would be i^ainful — about 
 my father — whether it would not be better for you, mother, who 
 
154 LADY WILLIAM xx 
 
 would do it in love and quietly, to tell me yourself and put me 
 beyond her power ? ' 
 
 'Mab, you are very sensible, very reasonable.' 
 
 ' I don't know if I'm that : but it seems to me the better way.' 
 
 Lady William began to speak : then hesitated, became husky, 
 and paused a moment to steady her voice. ' There is nothing to 
 tell about your father, Mab, that could affect you ; nothing that 
 would hurt his name in the world ; only private matters between 
 him and me, in which imfortunately Mrs. Swinford was mixed up. 
 There is no such thing,' she went on after a pause, with a sort of 
 painful smile, 'as trouble — without faults on both sides. I was 
 to blame as much as any one else. You would not think the 
 better of either of your parents if you were to be told all that 
 there is to tell. Will you take my word for that 1 and that there 
 is nothing which it is at all necessary for you to hear?' 
 
 ' Certainly, I will take your word, mother. But I don't 
 believe you were so much wrong. You are hasty sometimes, but 
 you never keep on or nag. And sometimes you are so patient ; 
 if there were cjuarrels I know it was not your fault.' 
 
 The girl came to her mother's side and gave her a kiss, putting 
 down her soft young cheek upon Lady William's, which was as 
 soft, though no longer young. The mother took the kiss with a 
 smUe. It was not wholly a smile of pleasure at Mab's apjoroval 
 and vindication of her — innocent Mab that knew of nothing but 
 a quarrel, a difference of opinion, a nagging. J\Iab thought it was 
 a great pity, that perhaps her father had troubles of temper which 
 she was conscious herself of possessing, and that no doubt Mrs. 
 Swinford had interfered and made things worse. It brought her 
 father even a little nearer to her to learn that he had been cross. 
 Poor father ! he had been long forgiven and his tempers forgotten, 
 when they were not thrust back upon the memory : and poor 
 mother, who perhaps blamed herself more than was just, and 
 til ought now how often she might have answered with a soft word ! 
 Lady William smiled, reading in the child's mind as in a book, so 
 easy was that young interpretation, so desirable, so strange to the 
 woman who knew all. 
 
 The afternoon was radiant : sky and air had been washed clean, 
 as Mab said, by frequent showers, and there did not seem an 
 atom of impurity, not even a cloudlet that was not white and 
 shining, in the whole expanse of atmosjDhere. Lady William was 
 grave, but had recovered her composure, and Mab was gay with an 
 unusual freshness, ready to gambol about the path like the large 
 loose-limbed puppy from the lodge who was fond of taking walks 
 
XX LADY WILLIAM 155 
 
 with visitors, and who came up and offered himself as guide aud 
 companion as soon as the two ladies had entered the gate. Mab 
 was acquainted with the puppy's family for several generations, 
 and knew his mother upon intimate terms, so that there was no 
 need of ceremony. He and she had gone up the avenue to the 
 point at which the house becomes visible, rising high above the 
 little lake and among the trees, when Lady William called her 
 daughter back. 'You have had enough of the puppy,' she 
 said ; ' now you must turn into a young lady, Mab.' 
 
 ' It is not half so amusing, mother; but, oh, look at the violets, 
 how thick they are under the trees ! ' 
 
 ' About the ashen roots the violets blow,' said Lady William. 
 
 ' I never knew any one have so many bits of i^oetry ready for 
 all occasions,' said Mab admiringly. ' It's a pity they're only dog- 
 violets, and not sweet at all ; but they are pretty like that all 
 the same.' 
 
 ' Why, I wonder, should one speak of dog-violets, and dog- 
 roses, and dog- daisies'?' said Lady William. ' I suppose it is in 
 contempt of things that grow wild.' 
 
 ' A dog is the wisest thing that lives,' said Mab ; ' there's no 
 contempt in such a name. Puppy ! puppy ! where are you going ? 
 I must run after him, mother, and keep him from frightening 
 those ducks.' 
 
 ' There's contempt, if you please ! The famous Swiuford wild 
 fowl ! ' 
 
 ' Oh, I can't bear them, the stupid things. Puppy ! pupj^y ! 
 oh, don't be a fool, they are not worth your while.' 
 
 ' Nor yours either, pupjiy mine. You will be as red as a 
 peony next, and what will Mrs. Swiuford say 1 ' 
 
 ' I hate Mrs. S^vinford,' said Mab ; but she walked soberly 
 the rest of the way. Mrs. Swiuford was in the same room and 
 chair as she had occupied on the previous night : with flowers 
 piled in the jardiuiferes, on the tables, everywhere ; a wood fire 
 blazing very bright, but more bright than warm, and the mistress 
 of the house arrayed, as always, in dark velvet, with a crimson 
 tone in the lights, but without the lace which had softened at once 
 her features and her age. Her hair, in which there was not a 
 thread of white, was dressed high on her head ; her back was, as 
 usual, to the light. 
 
 'Oh, you have brought your little girl,' she said, in a tone 
 almost of displeasure. ' You are very perverse and contradictory, 
 my dear, as you always were. I had something to say to you, 
 alone.' 
 
156 LADY WILLIAM XX 
 
 ' Oh, as for that,' said Mab, angry, ' I can go away.' 
 
 Her mother gave her a restraining look. ' There is so little,' 
 she said, ' in my life that requires to be talked about en teU-h-tete, 
 and Mab goes wherever I go.' 
 
 ' That is to say, you bring her with you as young women some- 
 times bring their babies, in defence.' Mrs. Swinford laughed, and, 
 holding out her hand, added, ' Come here and let me see you, little 
 girl.' 
 
 'I am not a little girl,' said Mab, still angry; but another 
 glance from her mother to the lady of the house restored that 
 reasonableness in which tlie girl was so strong. ' And I am not 
 much to look at,' she added steadily, ' but, as it does not much 
 matter, here I am.' 
 
 Mrs. Swinford took her by the hand, and, drawing her forward, 
 looked at her closely. Then she dropped the girl's hand and 
 laughed. ' She proves her parentage, at least,' she said ; ' no 
 doubt upon that subject ; she is a Pakenham all over. And she 
 is like them, Emily, in temper and intellect, too.' 
 
 Mab, unfortunately, did not understand the whole weight of 
 the insinuation in this remark, and she did not see her mother's 
 face behind her. She answered quickly for herself. ' I have not 
 a very good temper, Mrs. Swinford. When peoi)le say nasty 
 things to me, I can be nasty too.' 
 
 So I presume,' said the lady of the house. 
 Or to my mother,' said Mab ; ' she is too patient and too much 
 a lady ; but I'm not.' 
 
 ' Mab ! ' said her mother's warning voice behind. 
 
 ' It is that I think this lady wants to provoke me,' said Mab, 
 ' and I don't see ' 
 
 ' My dear, you will show your superiority best by not suffering 
 yourself to be provoked.' 
 
 Mab went off to one of the jardinieres with a little toss of 
 her head, and it was at this moment that Leo came in, a little 
 hurried and not without agitation. He came in saying quickly, 
 ' I have just heard that you had visitors, mother.' 
 
 ' Leo,' said Mrs. Swinford, ' I have something to say to Emily 
 liere. I did not expect her to bring her daughter, and I did not 
 desire my son's company. You can go and show the young lady 
 the pictures ; it is a young man's business ; and you ought to thank 
 me for giving you the opportunity. Now, Emily, a nous deux.^ 
 
 ' I was not aware,' said Lady William, pale but steadfast, 
 ' that what you wanted to say to me was of particular import- 
 ance.' 
 
XX LADY WILLIAM 157 
 
 ' You thought I only sent for you to say I love you,' said Mrs. 
 Swinford. ' Well, you knew that already ; but I had something 
 much more serious to say. And I am glad, after all, you brought 
 your little girl, Emily ; for she is the strongest argument I can 
 bring forward to make you do what I want you to do.' 
 
 ' And what is that 1 ' said Lady William. ' I must warn you 
 that I am not very open to advice.' 
 
 ' As if I did not know you were not open to advice ! except, 
 my dear, you will recollect, when you wished to take a certain 
 course which was advised.' 
 
 ' Did I wish to take it ? ' said Lady William ; ' that is what 
 has never been clear.' 
 
 ' Oh, did you wish it ? ' cried Mrs. Swinford, with a laugh. 
 ' However, that is old ground ; but if I have any responsibility 
 for that first step, Emily, I have the more right to speak now. For 
 that child's sake you must make overtures to the family. What- 
 ever they may do or say, it is for you to put your pride in your 
 pocket, and make friends with them, if they like it or not. Your 
 claims must be fully established.' 
 
 ' My claims ? ' said Lady William ; ' there has never been any 
 question made of my claims.' 
 
 ' Probably not, so long as you live ; but look at that child. 
 You must make everything certain for her ; I must press it upon 
 you with all my might, Emily. Life is uncertain, and you have 
 nothing of your own,' 
 
 ' Not much, that is true.' 
 
 ' And what would she have to depend upon if you died ? You 
 don't even know what questions might arise. They might ask her 
 what her proofs were, what evidence she had.' 
 
 ' Of what 1 ' said Lady William, wondering. ' What evidence 
 does Mab require to prove that she is my daughter 1 But all the 
 parish coidd prove that, with the Rector at their head.' 
 
 ' Oh, so far as that goes ; but it does not suffice to be proved 
 to be her mother's daughter when the money is on the father's 
 side.' 
 
 ' What do you mean, Mrs. Swinford 1 ' Lady William had 
 grown red and a little angry. She fixed her eyes upon her adviser. 
 ' There is something in what you say that I do not understand.' 
 
 ' Nevertheless it is very true,' said Mrs. Swinford ; ' the 
 money is, you know, on the father's side, and the father's family 
 have a right to know everything about it. It should be put quite 
 out of their power to say afterwards that they never had any 
 proof.' 
 
158 LADY WILLIAM xx 
 
 ' Of what 1 You mean something that has not been suggested 
 to me before. I have been told I ought to make overtures ; 
 but what is this ? Please to tell me,' she said, almost sharply, 
 ' what you mean.' 
 
 ' You must surely have thought of it yourself. Here you are, 
 a widow, not very young, with an only child. They call you Lady 
 William, and you enjoy the rank. Oh, you need not wave your 
 hand as if to say no ; I know you better than you know yourself ; 
 you enjoy yoru- rank.' 
 
 ' For the sake of argument it may be allowed that I enjoy my 
 rank, such as it is.' 
 
 'Well, you do, I know, whether you choose to allow it or 
 refuse. Emily Plowden, it is your first business to prove your 
 claim to it, and your child's to her name.' 
 
 ' I am not Emily Plowden,' said Lady William ; ' you mistake 
 that, to begin with ; and I can only repeat that my claim, which I 
 have never required to prove, has been doubted by no one, nor my 
 child's right. Is it for pure insult j'ou say this 1 My movements 
 have always been open as the day.' 
 
 ' What ! when you left this house in the dark, in the middle 
 of the night ! I have never questioned your claims till now. My 
 motive is not to insult you,but to help you. Where were you mar- 
 ried, Emily Plowden 1 Who married you 1 Have you your certifi- 
 cates all in order ? You disappeared, and then you came back, 
 and I never asked, but took it all for granted. It is only when I 
 see your little girl that I begin to ask myself, Emily, have you got 
 your papers, whatever they may be ? Emily Plowden, are you sure 
 that you have any right to another name 1 ' 
 
XXI 
 
 In Miss Grey's drawing-room, which was as small as JMiss G-rey 
 herself, there were three persons assembled. Miss Grey, seated at 
 the writing-table — miich too large for the place, like the rest of the 
 furniture ; Florence Plowden on the big ' Chesterfield ' sofa ; and 
 a large and tail individual standing in the middle of the floor. 
 He was large in comparison with the ladies, and with the limited 
 space in which he stood. But otherwise, though tall, he was a 
 spare man ; his length of limb and scautness of flesh made par- 
 ticularly apparent by his long clerical coat. Needless to say 
 that he was the curate, and that it was parish business that 
 formed the staple of the conversation. Florence had come in 
 with her district visitor's book ; and other books of a similar de- 
 scription were on the table. They were talking in that curious 
 jargon of business and gossip which makes up the talk of the 
 workers in a parish or ecclesiastical organisation of any kind. 
 
 ' In whose district is Mead Lane ? ' said Mr. Osborne. ' A 
 man came to me last night from No. 3, to ask me to go and 
 see his wife. She had been in bed for about six weeks — 
 very ill now. There is a baby, of course, and I don't know how 
 many children ; man occasionally out of work — though not now. 
 Everything in disorder, as you may imagine. Nobody had called 
 to see them for weeks. A lady had come once or twice before the 
 woman fell ill ; never since.' 
 
 He made this report very drily, in staccato sentences, as if he 
 were abridging from a book. 
 
 Miss Grey turned round, twisting on her chair to give Florence 
 a look. ' I knew it would be so,' she said ; ' they are a couple of 
 old maids wrapped up in themselves. She says : "Do you think 
 you should go out, my dear, such a cold day 1 " and he says : 
 " The parish can surely wait ; but you mustn't go out, with your 
 delicate throat, in the rain." ' 
 
160 LADY WILLIAM xxi 
 
 ' This is very interesting as a social sketch,' said the curate, 
 ' but it does not answer my question.' 
 
 Florence was far from being in high spirits, but her native 
 genius was too much for her. She turned upon him with a little 
 mincing air, and deprecatory friction of her hands. ' Oh, don't you 
 really think so, Mr, Osborne ? ' she said. 
 
 He laughed, though with a certain look of disapproval, as if 
 amused against his will. ' I see,' he said. ' Mrs. Kendal ; what 
 is to be done with her ? If she will not do what she undertakes, 
 some one else must be got to do it.' 
 
 At which both Miss Grey and Florence shook their heads. ' It 
 would be such a slap in the face,' said the little lady of the house. 
 ' They are good people in their way, and liberal enough. We must 
 just manage it a little. Florence and I will go and see this poor 
 
 woman, and if Mrs. Kendal hears of it we can say Oh, some 
 
 excuse will be found easily enough.' 
 
 ' Excuse ! When she has let the woman die nearly — — ' 
 
 ' A miss is as good as a mile. I'll go over at once, and send in 
 the niirse if she wants it. What did you say was the name 1 
 Brownjohn ! Oh,' said Miss Grey, with a sudden diminution of 
 energy, ' I'm afraid, Florry, we know the illnesses of Mrs. 
 Brownjohn. She has a great many, and whatever district she 
 is in, the visitor always neglects her. We know her case very 
 well' 
 
 ' The woman is very ill now, and the house in a dreadful state ; 
 and the man, of course, as if things were not bad enough, taking 
 refuge in the public-house.' 
 
 ' Ah, that I can understand — — ' 
 
 ' The filthy place, Miss Grey, or the public-house ? ' the curate 
 said, with a little severity. 
 
 ' Oh, both, both ! You must be a little human. The public- 
 house is the natural consequence of a crowded little room, and no 
 comfort — even without the dirt.' 
 
 ' But surely you don't think that ought to be so ? Surely 
 you don't suppose that it isn't the man's duty to rectify 
 things instead of making them worse 1 If the wife's unable 
 to do her part, instead of abandoning her brutally, and letting 
 everything go to destruction, oughtn't he to stand in, to do 
 what he can, to make life possible ? That's how I read a man's 
 duty, at least.' 
 
 ' Oh, my dear Mr. Osborne,' said little Miss Grey, ' it's a man's 
 duty to be a good Christian and a perfect man. And so it is 
 everybody's duty ; we all acknowledge that.' 
 
XXI LADY WILLIAM 161 
 
 Mr. Osborne snorted slightly, with the impatience of a fiery 
 liorse suddenly pulled up. ' I hope I demand less than perfection, 
 though I know that I ought not to be content with less,' he said. 
 ' But in the meantime,' he added, pausing a minute to expel that 
 hot breath of impatience, ' I don't suppose you will think it right 
 because of Mrs. Kendal's feelings, or even her own imperfections, 
 that this poor creature should be left to die ? ' 
 
 Miss Grey and Florry exchanged glances beliind the curate's 
 back, Avith a slight shaking of heads. Oh, these arbitrary young 
 men, wanting everything their own way, and thinking you have no 
 feeling if you don't go so far as they do ! This was the sentiment in 
 the older lady's mind ; but Florence was naturally more fierce. 
 
 ' We are not in the habit of leaving poor people to die — when 
 there is any truth in it,' she said. 
 
 He gave her a look half fierce, half tender, full of the natural 
 animosity of a man checked in his certainties of opinion, yet 
 with a longing that she at least should understand and know what 
 he meant. 
 
 ' Oh yes,' said Miss Grey, ' I'll go ; and have a little order put 
 in the place, at least. That little girl — the eldest, Florry, don't 
 you remember ? — who was sent to the seaside after her fever, she 
 ought to be good for something now.' 
 
 ' There is a little girl,' said the curate. 
 
 Miss Grey turned round upon him with a laugh that made him 
 furious. ' As if we didn't know ! •' she said. Then, turning to 
 Florence again, 'You might go in, as you pass, my dear, to Mrs. 
 Gould, and see if the nurse is engaged. Tell her, if she can, to 
 run round to Mead Lane about two o'clock. She'll probably find 
 me there, and if it is anything really serious we'll get the doctor to 
 see her. Come now, let's see if there is anything else we want to 
 consult Mr. Osborne about.' 
 
 ' I want to ask you, at least,' he said, ' if you will help me with 
 my meeting, to give them an evening's entertainment. I recognise,' 
 with a little severity, ' as well as you do, that they must be amused 
 as well as looked after.' 
 
 'Well,' said Miss Grey, 'if it's children I am quite ready to 
 play any number of games with them. But I'm not a great one 
 for providing amusement, Mr. Osborne. In the first place I can't 
 sing to them, or dance to them, or play the fiddle ; in the next, I 
 think they like their own amusements best.' 
 
 'The public-house. Miss Grey?' 
 
 The little lady had tears in her eyes. ' I am not iu favour of 
 the public-house, God knows — but I am not so sure that your 
 
 M 
 
162 LADY WILLIAM xxi 
 
 meetingvS will do away with that. It's just as likely to make them 
 thirsty coming out at niue, after you've suug to them aud fiddled 
 to them, and seeing the red light in the window that looks so 
 cheerful to them. But never mind me — Florry and Emmy will 
 sing, aud the London young ladies in the new villa will play the 
 piano, and you can get a quartette of fiddles, you know, quite 
 easily from Winwich. And Jim — -Jim might recite ; he used to 
 be very good at it' 
 
 ' Oh — Mr. Plowden 1 ' said the curate, with a slight hesitation. 
 
 ' Jim I mean : he used to read very well when he was a boy.' 
 
 ' I asked Lady William,' Mr. Osborne said hurriedly, as if to 
 
 change the subject, ' but she said like you, Miss Grey, that she 
 
 neither sang nor — I am not aware I suggested that any one should 
 
 dance.' 
 
 ' They would like that ! but the thing is not so much what they 
 would like to see, but what all the ladies and gentlemen would like 
 to do. And by-the-bye there is that dark-eyed woman at the 
 school — whom I have a strong feeling I have seen before — and who 
 looks no more like a schoolmistress than — any one does. I feel 
 quite sure she could act or recite or something — or perhaps sing. 
 I would ask her if I were you.' 
 
 ' I am unfortunate in not being of your opinion, Jliss Grey ; I 
 should not think of asking that person to help in any case.' 
 ' Oh, you're too particular,' Miss Grey said. 
 And then Florence got up to go. 
 
 ' The old Lloyds,' she said, ' want to have a week of their 
 pension in advance — may I say you will give it to them, Miss 
 Grey?' 
 
 ' Oh dear, don't say anything of the kind ; if they get a 
 week in advance how are they to live the next week when they 
 have none 1 ' 
 
 ' I said so — but then she cried, poor old body, and said they 
 were worse ofi' now than before— for if they wanted something very 
 bad out of the usual way, some kind person used to give it to 
 them — whereas now when they have a regular pension they have to 
 stick to it, and nobody minds.' 
 
 ' There's a sermon,' cried Miss Grey, ' on the uses of beneficence 
 in a small parish. You have only to tell Mr. Swinford, Florry, 
 and he'll give them the advance and the week's money too, and 
 next time they'll want a fortnight's advance — it's what I've always 
 said. He's a nice young fellow and a warm heart, but to sow 
 money about is no good.' 
 
 ' You said yourself, Miss Grey, that so much a week ' 
 
XXI LADY WILLIAM 163 
 
 ' Oh yes, I said it luysclf — I'd like to give them the advance 
 and the week's money too, just as well as Mr. Swinford does — 
 though Mr. Osborne thinks on the other hand that I am ready, 
 because I've little faith in her, to leave a poor creature to die. Oh, 
 don't say anything — I know of course you didn't exactly mean that. 
 Are you going too ? Good-bye ; I'll get my bonnet and I'll be in 
 Mead Lane before you've got to the Eectory gate.' 
 
 It did not appear, however, that there was any intention in the 
 mind of these two young people to take the road which led to the 
 Rectory gate. There was a momentary pause when they got outside, 
 and Florence hurriedly, in view of the fact that the curate's way to 
 his lodging did lie in that direction, held out her hand to him. 
 ' Good morning, I am going ujd to Mrs. Gould's to see about the 
 nurse,' she said, somewhat breathless and eager to escape. 
 
 ' I am going that way, too,' said the young man, but not with- 
 out a blush. Curates are, after all, like other men, and do not 
 hesitate to change their route and to assert that they always meant 
 to go that way ; but there is so much consistency in the young 
 Anglican that he blushes when he announces that innocent fallacy. 
 He was going that way : where, then, was he going to ? The part 
 of the parish in which Mrs. Gould lived was not in the curate's 
 district, and he could not surely have any impertinent intention of 
 interfering with what was in the Rector's hands ? These ideas 
 flashed through the mind of Florence, but natui-ally she did not put 
 them into words. She was very angry with Mr. Osborne, full of 
 indignation, and yet she did not wish him to turn back and leave 
 her at Miss Grey's door. The blush which had surprised him as 
 he told that fib reflected itself on her countenance, but in both 
 their hearts there was a thrill of pleasure as they turned thus into 
 the wrong way — the way that Florry had chosen to elude him, 
 without in the least wanting to go to Mrs. Gould's (for she knew 
 all the time where the parish nurse was) ; the way that he falsely 
 asserted to be his, though he knew it was nothing of the kind. It 
 was a guilty pleasure, which neither of them would have owned to, 
 but yet there was not much guilt in it after all. 
 
 ' Miss Grey is a very good woman,' said the curate, ' and 
 excellent for the parish — but she has very old-fashioned ways of 
 looking at things.' 
 
 ' I don't see that,' said Florence lightly, 'at all.' 
 
 ' You would, I am sure,' said Mr. Osborne, 'if you would aUow 
 yourself to take a larger view. You won't, I am afraid, adopt my 
 standing-point, for you think that I am op]30sed to her and that I 
 don't appreciate lier.' 
 
164 LADY WILLIAM xxi 
 
 ' You can't of course know her as we do,' said Florence, ' for 
 all our lives she has been an example before our eyes.' 
 
 ' That is again entirely the individual view of the question,' said 
 the curate gently, ' and in that I grant you — but don't you think 
 we might take a more extended range when the question is a joublic 
 one 1 I don't in the least object to that, far from it. I know 
 there is nothing so good as the way of working by individualities, 
 of getting hold of Tom, and Will, and Peter, one by one, the door- 
 to-door system, as I may call it ; but when you have a great public 
 evil like that of intemperance, don't you think. Miss Florence, it is 
 well, while not leaving the other undone, to try what some large 
 public method will do ' 
 
 ' Like Father Matthew's 1 ' said Florence. 
 
 ' Father Matthew was too sensational,' said Mr. Osborne ; ' and 
 it is impossible to tell how much fiction there was in such a move- 
 ment. Indeed, I rather think the one by one system is the best ; 
 but to interest them eii masse, to make them see what a thing it 
 would be for all their families, and themselves, of course, and how 
 much purer and more rational pleasure they would get out of their 
 lives ' 
 
 ' Do you think they learn in that way ? ' 
 
 ' If they don't, I do not know how they are to learn.' 
 
 ' But they all know beforehand how dreadful a thing it is — they 
 know it's destruction. Oh, don't you think they know far better 
 than we do, since they see it before them every day, and all day 
 long 1 ' 
 
 ' What would you do, then,' said the curate, ' to bring this 
 home to them ? I've got all the statistics. Of course they know, 
 for misfortune brings it home ; but if we could fully convince them 
 what a prodigious evil it is over all the country, how many better 
 things they could do with the money. I remember proving to a 
 man once, that if he only put by every penny he had been 
 accustomed to spend in drink, he could buy his cottage, he could 
 have a little garden of his own, and a pig, and I don't know how 
 many things which every man prizes ' 
 
 ' And did he do it ? ' said Florence. 
 
 ' Do it ! ' said the curate. ' Of course that meant a course of 
 years. One could not tell whether he did it or not, till a long time 
 was passed. Well, no,' he added, with a sigh, 'I am trjang to 
 deceive you, not to admit my failure ; he did not do it. He went 
 on just in his old way, and almost killed his wife, and starved his 
 children, till he died.' 
 
 ' Is it true, Mr. Osborne,' said Florence, ' that you said to old 
 
XXI LADY WILLIAM 165 
 
 Mrs. Lloyd, if she would give up her beer, and take the pledge, you 
 would do so too ? ' 
 
 A flush came over the curate's face, of ingenuous pleasure and 
 satisfaction. He liked her to know that he was capable of any 
 sacrifice to save his flock. 'It is quite true,' he said. 'I was 
 quite ready, and had made up my mind to do it ; for how can I ask 
 my people to give up what I don't give up myself ? ' 
 
 ' But why did you choose poor old Mrs. Lloyd ? It did her no 
 harm, her little drop of beer.' 
 
 ' Every drop of beer does harm, in a community like this, 
 scourged by that vice ' 
 
 'Mr. Osborne,' said Florence timidly. 
 
 ' Yes,' he said, bending towards her, ' you were going to say 
 something.' 
 
 ' I want to say something ; but, oh, I don't know whether I 
 ought, I don't know whether I may.' 
 
 The curate trembled, too, as much as she did. They were in a 
 quiet road, with nobody in sight. He put his hand suddenly upon 
 hers with a hurried, tremulous pressure. ' There is nothing you 
 ought not to say to me,' he said. ' Nothing, nothing that I will 
 not gladly hear. If you should reprove me, even, it would be as a 
 precious balm — whatever, whatever you will say ! ' 
 
 There was a little pause, and it was very still all about, a bird 
 or two trilling in the half-clothed trees, not a harsher sound to 
 disturb the two young creatures, there standing at the crisis of 
 their lives. ' But first,' he said, ' first let me say something to 
 you ' 
 
 ' No,' said Florence, ' no, that was not what I meant, not now 
 — I had something to say. Mr, Osborne, listen. If, instead of 
 an old woman, and her a good old woman that did no harm, it were 
 a man, a boy, a gentleman, that you could have held out your hand 
 to — oh, not to make him take pledges and things ! and perhaps, 
 you, hearing of him, thought him no company for you. But if you 
 could have turned him away from harm to go with you ; if you 
 had suffered his society, not approving of it, because your society 
 might have saved him ; if you had thought to yourself that to be 
 your companion might have been everything for him, and that to 
 make him do things with you, and almost live with you, though 
 you might not like it, would have made life another thing to him. 
 Oh, Mr. Osborne, would not that have been a better way?' Her 
 eyes were so full of tears that she could not see him, but when he 
 spoke she heard a sound in his voice which made her start and 
 turn hastily to where the man who was almost her accepted lover, 
 
166 LADY WILLIAM xxi 
 
 who had the words on his lips that were to bind them for ever, 
 stood. The music and the softness had altogether gone out of 
 these staccato tones. 
 
 ' Miss Plowden,' he said, as if a sudden gulf had come between 
 them over which his voice sounded far away, ' I will not even ask 
 what you mean. I should feel myself a most presumptuous 
 intruder, and impertinent — • — Good morning. I find I have 
 not so much time as I thought for this roundabout way,' 
 
XXII 
 
 Florence went faithfully to Mrs. Gould's to ask for the nurse, 
 though she knew the nurse was not there. A man, perhaps, 
 would have departed from that position when it was no longer 
 necessary, but she considered it needful, as a proof of good faith, 
 to carry out her announced intention. It was a long way round, 
 and then she had to make another tour to get to the place where 
 the nurse really was, so that her walk altogether occupied some 
 three-quarters of an hour more than it need have done, and the 
 time was long, although, on the other hand, she was glad to have 
 it to herself, and to get over the pang of that abrupt separation. 
 She knew very well what it was that the curate had to say to her. 
 It had been on his lips for many days, and she had dreaded it, not 
 because she did not want to hear it, but because of a girl's natural 
 evasion of the moment she wishes for most, the shy, half mischiev- 
 ous, half visionary putting off of the sweet cwp from the lips. 
 The expectation of it was sweet ; all the pleasures of imagination 
 lay in that moment which would bring an entire change in her 
 life, a remodelling of aU its circumstances. Florence had taken a 
 pleasure in stealing away, in postiDoning till to-morrow. But it 
 cannot be said that she experienced that pleasure to-day. She felt 
 that she had received a blow when the curate turned with that 
 hasty leave-taking and left her. To run away is one thing, and 
 hold oft" a joy which is on the way ; but to be thus abandoned is 
 another. It gave her a dull shock like that of an unexpected, 
 uncomprehended blow. She had wondered how he would take her 
 remonstrance, her statement of what she thought his duty, which 
 had been on her lips so long ; but she had never expected him to 
 take it with instant off"ence, with a resentment which drove all 
 other thoughts out of his mind. What did he resent ? To have 
 this duty which he did not wish to recognise pointed out to him, 
 or that she should ventm'c to point it out — she only a girl, and 
 
168 LADY WILLIAM xxii 
 
 the girl who, by loving him, he perhaps thought was bound to see 
 no flaw in him 1 Florence was not one of those who can see 
 nothing but excellence in those they love, but she felt, with a 
 momentary gleam of insight sharpened by pain, that perhaps Mr. 
 Osborne was of tlie kind which requkes that in a woman. She 
 had not thought of the possibility before, that this might not be 
 merely a momentary offence, but a wound from which he would 
 not recover, which he would not forgive. A love-quarrel ever 
 seems thus even when of the most trivial origin. It appears at 
 once tragic, a thing never to be got over : an end of all the 
 romance. Florence's heart went down, down to the very depths. 
 She said to herself that it was all over : that the last step would 
 never now be taken, that there would be no more all her life hut 
 only an aching void, not even the recollection of words said that 
 never could be forgotten. Had she let him speak she would at 
 least have had that to cheer her ; but as it was she would have 
 nothing, not even the gloomy importance of an engagement to 
 break off, a farewell that would have a whole tragedy in it : not 
 even that : only a mere drifting asunder, a vacancy where there 
 had been so much hope : a life blighted before it had come to 
 bloom. 
 
 This thought occupied her mind sadly as she made that un- 
 necessary round. He had gone off like a racehorse, scarcely 
 touching the ground in the heat of his vexation and offence, but 
 she went along very slowly, with the depression of the one who is 
 in fault ; whose interference and perhaps unreasonable censure had 
 made the breach. Who, after all, was she that she should tell 
 him of his duty, or that something else than the course he had 
 adopted was a better way 1 she, only a girl with no education in 
 particular, dictating not only to a man trained to discriminate 
 what was the best, but a priest with the highest of vows upon 
 him, and a special consecration to God's service ? Her presump- 
 tion overwhelmed her when she thought of it in this light. But 
 perhaps to be a member of a clerical family, used to see gentlemen 
 of that profession too closely, and amid all the little trials of life, 
 takes away to a certain extent the visionary reverence which it 
 would be perhaiDS better to keep like an aureole about them. 
 Florence could not surrender her natural judgment to this extent, 
 nor convince herself that she had done wrong. She had taken 
 perhaps an inopportune moment, but she had not said anything 
 that was not true. She had managed badly for herself, and she 
 would have to bear the result : but it was not wrong what she had 
 said, nor was it wrong to say it ; for perhaps, who could tell, he 
 
XXII LADY WILLIAM 169 
 
 had never thought of that side of the question before ? Very 
 likely he had never thought of it. Some people are so happy that 
 they never have in all their lives to encounter misery in their 
 family, and how can they know, unless somebody who does know 
 it, somebody who has been forced to understand it, tells them 1 
 And perhaps — she thought with a forlorn consolation — what she 
 had said would bear fruit, though he might never have anything 
 to do with her again. He was too much offended, wounded, hurt, 
 to think of her any more ; that was a thing to be received as 
 certain once for all ; but perhaps what she had said would come 
 back to him, and he might feel that it was true. 
 
 Then if she had let it alone for the present, if she had allowed 
 him to say what was on his lips, and had answered what was on 
 hers, and had become his, and had pledged herself to him — why, 
 then one time or other she must have spoken, not as now in the 
 general, but plainly of Jim? And what if the righteous young 
 man's high disapproval and disgust with the unrighteous had gone 
 even further, to the length of putting poor Jim, whom his sister 
 loved, out of the charities of life altogether and casting him off as 
 some good people do 1 Florence felt that no tie, not even marriage 
 itself, would have made her bear that, and so concluded at last, 
 mournfully, that what she had done was, perhaps, after all the 
 best, so as to warn him off in time, and show him that her views 
 were very different from his. Oh, what mistakes men can make 
 even when they are the most highly instructed, the most high- 
 minded and nobly purposed of their kind ! Edward Osborne was 
 all that ; yet he thought that it was a more pious thing to make 
 poor old Mrs. Lloyd and such harmless old bodies give up their 
 little harmless indulgences than to risk a little trouble or company 
 that, perhaps, might be distasteful to him, in order to save Jim. 
 
 Florence got home at last just in time for the family luncheon, 
 which was a good thing for her, as it kept her from exposure to 
 the close personal observation of her mother and sister, who were 
 too well acquainted with every change of her countenance not to 
 perceive at once when anything was wrong with Florry. But the 
 fiimily meal occupied Mrs. Plowden, and Emmy was fortunately 
 so full of her own morning's occupations that her sister escaped 
 notice. 
 
 'You are not eating anything, child, and you have no colour,' 
 her mother said, ' after your long walk.' 
 
 ' It is the long walk that has done it, she has over-tired her- 
 self; you shouldn't permit those long walks,' said the Rector. 
 This was his favourite way of treating any annoyance — with that 
 
170 LADY AVILLIAM xxri 
 
 consolatory conviction that it must be his wife's fault, which 
 supports many men throvigh the smaller miseries of life. Mrs. . 
 Plowden took an ecjual pleasure in the pleas of Self-defence. 
 ' How am I to prevent long walks when there is always so much 
 to do in the parish 1 ' she said. ' I am constantly telling you you 
 should have more district visitors, or a mission woman, or some- 
 thing. Those girls have never a moment to themselves.' 
 
 ' Oh, it is nothing, mamma,' said Florence. ' I had to make a 
 long round to get the parish nurse : for I went to Mrs. Gould's to 
 find her, and, of course, she wasn't there.' 
 
 'You ought to have known that, Florry, so it is your own 
 fault. Why, you sent her off yourself to the little Heaths.' 
 
 ' I know, mamma : I can't think how I could be so stupid,' 
 Florence said. 
 
 ' And who wants her now 1 ' said the Rector curtly. 
 
 ' It is that woman in Mead Lane, who is always in trouble. 
 Mr. Osborne,' said Florence, so anxious to keep her voice firm that 
 she gave the name an emphasis and importance she had no inten- 
 tion of giving, 'had been sent for to see her last night.' 
 
 ' Osborne ! he's always finding a mare's nest somewhere — do 
 you mean that woman that always is in trouble, as you say? 
 — trouble, indeed ! drink you mean, and all that follows. If he 
 could get her to take the pledge it might do some good : that's if 
 she would keep it — which I don't believe for a moment.' 
 
 ' Then why should he take the trouble, papa, if it is to do no 
 good ? ' 
 
 ' That's what I tell him for ever : but he believes in himself, 
 the young prig : I wish he would keej) to his own business, and 
 not mix himself up with things he cannot possibly understand.' 
 
 ' My dear James,' said Mrs. Plowden, ' Mr. Osborne is an 
 excellent young man. There has not been a curate in the parish 
 I have liked so much since Mr. Sinclair's time. And he is very 
 well connected and well-off, I believe, and altogether a creditable 
 person to have about — an Oxford man and all that.' 
 
 'That's why he gives himself so many airs,' the Rector said — 
 which was not to say that the Rector did not really approve of 
 Mr. Osborne, but only that it was his role to take the critical 
 side. Mrs. Plowden, for her part, knew very well what was 
 going on, and though she had burst forth in the fulness of 
 her heart to her sister-in-law upon his shortcomings, she was 
 on ordinary occasions very careful to keep up Mr. Osborne's 
 reputation, and to impress Florence with a due sense of all his 
 qualities. 
 
XXII LADY WILLIAM 171 
 
 Now there arose a testimony in Mr. Osborne's favour which 
 was totally unexpected ' He wasn't at all a bad lot at Oxford, 
 said Jim. ' Fellows that knew him liked him there : he played 
 racquets for the University, and won. I wonder if he ever gets a 
 game now.' 
 
 'You astonish me, Jim,' said Mrs. Plowden. 'I never should 
 have thought he was a man for games. AVhat is racquets 1 is it 
 a kind of tenuis ? for of course tennis is played with racquets. 
 Perhaps we could get up a game for him here.' 
 
 At this Jim laughed loudly, and his father, who did not often 
 join in his jokes, such as they were, backed him up faintly with a 
 smile. 
 
 ' No, I don't think we could get up a game for him here. 
 It's a tremendous game ; not like anything so simple as lawn 
 tennis. It is the old jeu de pcmme, isn't it 1 ' said the Eector, 
 ' the beginning of them all.' 
 
 A conversation between the Eector and his son, on a general 
 subject, on a question, something they were both interested in, 
 without reproof on one side, or defence on the other : what a 
 thing that was ! Mrs. Plowden's eyes grew lambent with the 
 light of unusual happiness ; after a moment she said : ' I suppose 
 you play it, Jim ? ' 
 
 ' I ! ' said the young man. ' Oh, I'm not half enough of a 
 swell for that, mother,' 
 
 ' I don't see,' said the mother, half happy, half indignant, 
 ' why you shouldn't be swell enough, Jim, to do anything Mr. 
 Osborne does.' 
 
 'You don't remember,' said the Kector shaiply, 'that it 
 takes application to play a game well, as well as to study well, 
 and that Jim never thought it good enough, either for one thing 
 or another.' 
 
 Alas ! how short the moment of happiness is ! 
 
 ' Oh, girls,' said Mrs. Plowden, when lunch was over, and the 
 three ladies were in the drawing-room again, ' if Mr. Osborne 
 would only take up Jim ! He is the only man in the parish who 
 could do it ; and now that I hear he plays games and things I 
 feel a little hopeful. For whatever yoiu- father may say, I know 
 that Jim is good at all games. We might get up this racquets, 
 whatever it is, and get them to play together. We might ask the 
 General, Florry, what it is. Army men always know every- 
 thing of that kind. Or, Emmy, you might remember to ask 
 your aunt ; and there's Mr Swinford ; perhaps he plays it 
 too.' 
 
172 LADY WILLIAM xxii 
 
 'I suppose it is a gentleman's game,' said Emmy, witii per- 
 haps not so strong an enthusiasm. 
 
 'Do you think I might speak to Mr. Osborne about if?' 
 said the mother, pondering. Wlien she asked advice of her 
 girls it was in fact a sort of thinking aloud, a putting of the 
 question to her own mind. A thing often seems quite different 
 put out in audible words from what it does when only turned 
 over and over in the recesses of yoiu' own heart. ' I might tell 
 him that Jim was very fond of it, and that hearing he was good 
 I thought I would consult him how we should get it up.' 
 
 ' But Jim never said he was fond of it, mamma.' 
 
 ' Oh, how matter-of-fact you are, Emmy ! Jim would be 
 fond of anything that was a game. He would be glad of any 
 break ; and to get him surrounded with nice companions like 
 himself, and taking his pleasure with them, wouldn't that be 
 better for him than Sophocles, or any old Pagan of them all 1 
 Your father doesn't think so, perhaps, but I do ; and, if you look 
 at it reasonably, so will you too.' 
 
 'I would not trust to Mr. Osborne if I were you,' said 
 Florence. She was standing in the corner beyond the window at 
 the big old-fashioned round table, which had been dismissed from 
 its old-fashioned place in the centre of the room, but was retained 
 in the corner because it was so useful, Florence had her back 
 to her mother and sister, and was very busy cutting out clothes 
 for her girls' class, which, like Miss Grey's mothers' meeting, met 
 weekly for needlework. ' I would not speak to him about it. 
 He sometimes takes offence when you suggest a thing, and then 
 goes away and does it. I would not say a word if I were you.' 
 
 ' But it never has been suggested to him, Florry ! Why, you 
 know I never heard of this even, till to-day. Here is your aunt 
 Emily coming. We can ask her what she thinks. She has been 
 more in the world than any of us, and probably she can tell us 
 what racquets is.' 
 
 A considerable time elapsed, but no visitors appeared ; and 
 then Mrs. Plowden, from wondering what Emily would say, at 
 last came to Avonder where Emily could be, or if her eyes had 
 deceived her, and Lady William had not crossed the lawn at all. 
 'I declare,' she said, 'I shall feel quite unhappy if your aunt 
 does not appear : for I saw her as plainly as I see you. I saw 
 her black gown, and the feather in her hat, which really ought to 
 be renewed if she will go on wearing black for ever — and that 
 umbrella of hers with the long handle.' 
 
 ' But, mamma dear,' said Emmy, ' you must have known at 
 
xxii LADY WILLIAM 173 
 
 once whether it was Aunt Emily or not, without thinking what 
 she had on.' 
 
 ' Well, so I should have supposed,' said Mrs. Plowden, be- 
 wildered, ' but then where is she, and what has become of her 1 
 She should have been here ten minutes ago. Oh, who is that ? 
 Mab ! Why, child, where have you come from 1 And where is 
 your mother ? I am sure I saw her cross the lawn ten minutes 
 ago or more.' 
 
 'And we think it must have been her wraith, Mab.' 
 
 ' Mother has gone to talk to Uncle James,' said Mab. ' She 
 says it's about business, but I think it is some worry, she looks 
 so serious. So I came on after to wait for her. Oh, are you 
 cutting out, Florry? Shall I heljD you, or do you want any 
 helpr 
 
 'Some worry?' said Mrs. Plowden, with a sorrowful brow. 
 ' I hope it is not anything new about your uncle Eeginald, 
 girls.' 
 
 Reginald was the brother to whom Lady William had given 
 her money, and who had never come back. 
 
 'Hadn't we better wait till we hear what it is, mamma? I 
 thought Uncle Reginald had not been heard of for years.' 
 
 * That is quite true, and it was my opinion we should never 
 hear from him any more ; but what worry can your aunt Emily 
 have if it is not about him ? For I am sure otherwise slie is a 
 happy woman, and never has the shadow of a trouble. AVas it 
 after getting a foreign letter that she grew so serious, Mab 1 ' 
 
 'She has had no letter at all,' said Mab, 'and she did not say 
 it was anything but business. The worry was only my own fancy ; 
 and I daresay I was wrong.' 
 
 'What else could it be?' said Mrs. Plowden. 'She may 
 have heard he is coming home. And I am sure, if he is coming 
 home, I don't know what I shall do. He shall not come here. 
 I could not have him in this house. Our own burdens we must 
 bear; but Reginald Plowden — oh, Reginald Plowden is too 
 much ! If he comes here I shall run away.' 
 
 ' Dear mamma, don't you think we had better wait a little ? 
 Aunt Emily is sure to come here when she leaves papa, and then 
 you will know.' 
 
 ' Oh, it is all very well to tell me to wait — when Reginald 
 Plowden would just put the crown upon everything,' the poor 
 lady said. 
 
XXIII 
 
 La BY William had gone across the lawn, not to the usual door 
 which admitted into what may be called the private part of the 
 Kectory, but to the little parish door where people came who 
 wanted the Rector on parish business. This was always open, 
 always accessible, though I don't know that the parishioners used 
 it very much. It was at least an excellent thing for them to 
 have their clergyman always within reach, and suited the Rector's 
 theory of his duty, which was a great matter, even if it were not 
 of very much practical use. Miss Grey trotted in by it with her 
 parish books, and the curate came, when something occurred 
 about which it was necessary to consult his chief. He did not, 
 Mr. Plowden thought, consult his chief nearly as much as would 
 have been appropriate and desirable — being a young man who 
 liked his own way, and considered that the elder generation did 
 not always understand. 
 
 The Rector, however, was much surprised when the door 
 sounded with the familiar little click which he knew so well, 
 and his sister presently appeared in his study. lie had expected 
 one or other of the two functionaries above named, or perhaps the 
 churchwarden, or the treasurer of the schools, who was a trouble- 
 some person with nothing to do, and consequently an endless 
 number of things to suggest. AVhen he saw Lady William his 
 heart — which you may say ought to have been sufficiently 
 experienced to take things quietly — gave a jump. Experience 
 does not make us indifferent in certain cases, and the Rector 
 was as easily disturbed on one subject as if he had no experience 
 at all. It flaslied into his mind that his sister, who was not 
 much in the habit of consulting him, must have something to say 
 about Jim. 
 
 ' Emily ! ' he said, with great surprise : and then, with a 
 little attempt at a lighter tone, which was not very successful, 
 ' What, have you fallen into parish business, too ? ' 
 
XXI I J LADY WILLIAM 175 
 
 'No,' she replied, with a quickly drawn breath, which the 
 Rector, as a man acccustomed to have to do with people in 
 trouble, knew must mean excitement, or anxiety, or distress. 
 ' No,' she said, ' I want to consult you, James : but it is entirely 
 about my own private business.' 
 
 The Rector drew a long breath. He was not glad — oh no ! — 
 to think that his sister was in trouble : but nothing that afi'ected 
 her could be so serious, he felt, as if it had been something about 
 Jim. He drew forward a chair near himself for her. He had 
 always been both fond and proud of Emily. Perhaps the fact tliat 
 she was Lady William (though he knew the marriage had not been 
 a success) added a little to the feeling that she was a being by 
 herself, not to be compared with any one else. But still, a great 
 deal of it was very genuine, and meant a conviction that he knew 
 nobody comparable to Emily. He was pleased that she should 
 consult him on her own affairs, of which, generally, she said very 
 little. She had thrown away almost all her own money upon 
 Reginald — provided only that she did not mean to tell him that 
 scapegrace was coming back to trouble his respectable connec- 
 tions again ! Thus the same idea that had disturbed his wife 
 occurred to the Rector, both terrors, no doubt, arising from the 
 fact that neither could imagine what Lady William could wish to 
 consult the Rector about. 
 
 'My affairs,' she said, w'th a faint smile, as she got her 
 breath, 'haven't for a long time bten very troublesome to my family, 
 James. I hope they are not entering now into a new stage.' 
 
 ' A new stage 1 ' he said, and the Rector's middle-aged heart 
 actually took a jump again. What could it all mean 1 Good 
 heavens ! — Emily's affairs in a new stage ! What could she be 
 going to do 1 It could not be about any change in her life that 
 she was going to consult him. Change in her life ! That was 
 what people said when somebody was going to marry. He 
 looked at his sister with sudden alarm. Emily marry ! Vague 
 things he had heard said of Leo Swiuford and jests about Lady 
 William's attractions, started up in his mind. It rarely happens, 
 I think, that a man likes liis sister (if she is not dependent upon 
 him) to compromise her dignity by a second marriage. He did 
 not like to think that Emily might intend to come down from her 
 pedestal and show herself a mere common person, like the rest. 
 
 ' What do you mean by a new stage 1 ' he said, with a pucker 
 in his brow. ' You are very well as you are, and occupy a very 
 good position, and all that. I don't see what need there is for 
 a new stage.' 
 
176 LADY WILLIAM xxiii 
 
 ' Nor I,' she said ; ' and I hope you will continue of the same 
 opinion when I tell you. I knew/ she continued, with a little 
 hot colour flushing across her face, 'that the coming of the Swin- 
 fords would upset all our tranquillity. I was sure of it. She is 
 a woman of evil omen wherever she appears.' 
 
 ' Yet you were once very fond of her, if I remember right.' 
 
 ' When I was a girl, and she petted me, and made much of 
 me — I was going to say for her own ends ; but I hope it was 
 not for her own ends from the beginning — that would be too 
 diabolical.' 
 
 '"What ends could she have had that were to be promoted 
 by you 1 ' said the Kector, with a smile. He was sufficiently 
 used to these preposterous notions women so often have of their 
 own importance, prompting them to think the attention of other 
 people, who probably never thought of them, is fixed upon them, 
 and that intentions of various kinds are formed respecting them, 
 without the least foundation in fact. Thus his own wife was in 
 the habit of thinking that her girls were watched and followed j 
 that their movements and their dresses were the subject of con- 
 stant remark, when in all probability nobody even knew that they 
 were there. He was surprised, however, that his sister Emily 
 should share this view. 
 
 ' AVe need not discuss that,' she said. ' James, I want to ask 
 you — do you think it is my duty by Mab to seek further acquaint- 
 ance with her father's family? We are exceedingly well as we 
 are. The allowance they make is not large, but it is enough, and 
 there is something settled on Mab when I die. They have done 
 their duty, if not very liberally, yet they have done it. And I 
 don't want any more from them. Mab is quite contented, she 
 likes her home better than anything ; and though she is a very 
 dear girl, and, my hope and comfort, I don't know if she is fitted 
 to shine in — what people call the great world. I might get them., 
 of course, to bring her oiit in a way more fitting, perhaps — to take 
 her to Court, and all that ' 
 
 ' I don't see,' said the Rector, ' that that would do her much 
 good.' Men ought not, to be sure, to be touched by any of those 
 motives, which are entirely feminine ; but it did certainly flash 
 across the Sector's mind that his own girls had none of these 
 advantages, had never gone to Court or anything of the kind, and 
 yet could not be said to be any the worse. 
 
 ' No, that is just what I think. She is quite satisfied as she 
 is : to go out with her Pakenham cousins, probably to their annoy- 
 ance and against their will, and to be taken to places where she 
 
xxin LADY WILLIAM 177 
 
 knew nobody, would be no pleasure to my little girl. She is such 
 a thoroughly reasonable, sensible, understanding child. I am so 
 glad that you agree with me on that point, James.' 
 
 While she was speaking the Rector began to think that 
 perhaps all was not said in that hasty opinion of his, and that a 
 man consulted by his nearest relation should not be moved by any 
 little trilling feeling — like that which might be legitimate enough 
 in a mother, about his own girls. And he said, ' Stop a little, 
 Emily. You're still quite a young woman, but life is uncertain. 
 Perhaps, you know, if anything were to happen to you : — as long 
 as you are there, that is all right, of course — but she would be 
 very forlorn, poor little thing, if she were left ' 
 
 ' There would be you and Jane, James, You would both be 
 very kind to her.' But Lady William was a little startled by 
 what he said. It is startling to all, however little objection we 
 may have to that catastrophe, even however desirable it may be, 
 to be spoken to abruptly of our own death. 
 
 ' Both my wife and I are older than you are, and we could 
 introduce her to nobody in — well, in her father's rank of life. If 
 she married it would probably be a curate — the Marquis of Port- 
 cullis's niece ! ' 
 
 ' Oh, if it were no worse than a curate ! ' said Lady William, 
 with a laugh. The laugh was a little strained, and under her 
 eyes there was a hot, red colour which did not consort with 
 laughter. She grew suddenly very grave, and added hurriedly, 
 ' That was not exactly all. James, in case of the — risk of which 
 you were speaking, do you think as Mrs. Swiuford does ' 
 
 ' What, Emily 1 ' He was frightened when he saw the excite- 
 ment that seemed to come over her. 
 
 ' Well ! That the family would have a right to — examine 
 into — and have all the papers about — my marriage, and her birth, 
 and all that.' 
 
 It was of Lady William's marriage alone that Mrs. Swinford 
 had spoken, but it made it a little easier to state it so. 
 
 ' Oh ! ' said the Ptector, startled, ' Well,' he added, ' I suppose 
 it's a very good thing to have your papers all in order, and saves 
 trouble afterwards. It is so seldom that people take the trouble 
 to do it. I am sure I don't know anything about my own 
 marriage certificate, though I furnish them to other people. Have 
 you got them all 1 ' 
 
 Lady William's face blanched out of its momentarily high 
 colour. ' I have got none of them,' she said, in a faint voice, 
 
 ' WeU, there is no particular harm in that, I don't know who 
 N 
 
178 LADY WILLIAM xxiii 
 
 has — not me, I am suie. What does your friend want you to do 
 — send these things to the Marquis ? What does the Marquis 
 want with Mab's baptismal certificate 1 My dear Emily, I suppose 
 that woman, being partly French, thinks that you should always 
 have yonr 2)a2^i€rs in order? There could not be greater nonsense.' 
 
 ' Do you really think so 1 I did myself. Why should there 
 ever be any question 1 Nobody asks you, as you say, for your 
 marriage certificate, James.' 
 
 ' No,' said the Rector ; but he added, looking at the question 
 from a purely professional point of view, ' of course, you can get 
 that sort of thing, when it's wanted, at a moment's, at least, at a 
 day's notice. Where were you married, Emily ? ' 
 
 She was evidently not prepared for this question, and came to 
 herself with a little start. The colour forsook her cheeks. She 
 clasped her hands together nervously. ' Oh James, that is what 
 gives it its sting. I don't know.' 
 
 ' You don't know 1 ' 
 
 ' Is that dreadful 1 Is it dangerous ? Might it throw a doubt? 
 My father went with me, that is the only thing — to London some- 
 where.' 
 
 ' I knew you were not married at home,' said Mr. Plowden, 
 rising up and placing himself in front of the fireplace. ' I knew 
 there was something queer about it. In the name of wonder, 
 Emily, why, if my father went with you, didn't he have you 
 married at home ? He can't, in that case, have disapproved.' 
 
 ' I don't think he disapproved.' 
 
 ' Then why, wh?/ weren't you married at home 1 My father 
 went with you, and you don't know? What a very queer 
 business ! And who went with you beside my father ? ' 
 
 ' Old Meredith, do you remember, who used to be my nurse — 
 and a lady. But Meredith is dead, and papa is dead — and the 
 other ' 
 
 ' This grows rather funny,' said the Rector. ' I mean it isn't 
 funny at all. So there is nobody living who was there, and you 
 don't know where it was 1 Does your friend, Mrs. Swiuford, know 
 these circumstances, Emily, and does she want to frighten you ? 
 It would be like her amiable temper.' 
 
 ' James, tell me, is there any real reason to fear ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, dear, no. Of course not ; the only thing is to find the 
 place. Of course, it must be on the register. What a queer 
 thing not to know the church you were married in ! I thought 
 a woman always remembered that, whatever she forgot.' 
 
 ' I was a frightened girl,' said Lady William. ' I didn't know 
 
xxiii LADY WILLIAM 179 
 
 what they were going to do with me. I was sent down from the 
 Hall at midnight, as I thought in disgrace — though I could not 
 tell for what. There was a great tumult in the house. Mr. 
 Swinford, who was so quiet, in the midst of it all ; and then my 
 husband came down here with me, and my father was called up 
 to speak to him • and then it was all like a flash of lightning. I 
 was taken up to London two days after, and there I was married. 
 It was a little old church, in a district which I didn't know.' 
 
 ' How is it I never heard anything of this before 1 ' 
 
 ' How can I tell ? ' she said. ' I was taken away, frightened, 
 not knowing what had happened. Oh, I suppose that I was not 
 unwilling : I did not understand it : but my father was there — 
 and he liked it, James. He said it was a great match for me, and, 
 though it was so hurried, I was not to mind. After, I understood 
 better — but at the time not at all.' 
 
 ' It must have been by special license,' said the Rector ; ' but 
 why in the name of wonder didn't my father have it here ? — Why 
 
 But I suppose it's no use saying why and why. There 
 
 must have been reasons ' He looked at his sister fijcedly, 
 
 yet avoiding her eye. 
 
 But Lady William neither met nor avoided his look. She sat 
 before him, pale, with an air of deep and melancholy recollection. 
 ' Oh, there were reasons,' she said, shaking her head sadly. ' It 
 was years before I found them out. I would rather not enter 
 into them even now- — reasons which for a time made life odious 
 to me. It had not been very happy before. Don't let us speak 
 of that.' 
 
 ' They were reasons — which Mrs. Swinford knew ! ' 
 
 'Don't speak of her to me,' said Lady William. 'I was a 
 fool to go near her, to see her again. Knew ! ah, indeed she 
 knew — indeed she knew ! She was my patroness, my kind friend. 
 My father thought it such a fine thing for me to be at the Hall. 
 Oh, James, why should a girl be allowed to live when she has no 
 mother ? She ought to be put away in her mother's coffin, and 
 not enter helpless into the world.' 
 
 ' In my opinion fathers are some good,' said the Rector, with 
 severity. 
 
 And then a few hot tears fell from his sister's eyes. ' Poor 
 papa ! ' she said. Mr. Plowden added nothing to this phrase. 
 They remained silent, both thinking of the parent who had not 
 indeed been very wise, but always kind. After a while Lady 
 William resumed : ' He approved : if he had not approved — I 
 should never But what could I do against my father t And 
 
180 LADY WILLIAM xxiii 
 
 Miss Mansfield told me I should be ungrateful to the friend who 
 had made such a match for me.' 
 
 ' Who was Miss Mansfield, Emily 1 ' 
 
 ' The lady I told you of— a cousin of Mrs. Swinford's, who was 
 with me that day.' 
 
 ' And is she dead, too '? ' 
 
 ' I think not. No ; Leo Swinford said something of her the 
 other day — that she had been here.' 
 
 'Then she must be found, Emily.' 
 
 Lady William gave him a startled look. ' Do you think, then, 
 James, after all, it is necessary to go into all that again — to rake 
 up everything 1 Oh ! when I think of it — the hurry, the strangers, 
 the unknown place, which looked as if there was shame in it ' 
 
 ' My dear Emily, it is only the hurry and the unknown place 
 that make it important. As soon as you know where to write to 
 find the marriage in the register it does not matter, you can let it 
 rest. But noAV that I know — even if Mrs. Swinford had never 
 said a word — I shall not rest till I find it out.' 
 
 ' Then I wish,' she said, with returning spirit, ' that I had said 
 nothing to you on the subject, James.' 
 
 ' Don't say that. To whom should you go but to your 
 brother*? And be sure I'll find it out, Emily. I don't like to 
 say a word that will hurt you. I am afraid you have been the 
 victim of some plot or other, my poor girl.' 
 
 She did not answer for a moment, then she said : ' I cannot 
 have been without blame myself. I was pleased with the pro- 
 motion, I suppose, and with the romance, and all that. Eomauce ! 
 it seemed so strange to be carried away, to be married almost in 
 
 spite of myself; and I suppose the name It is all very 
 
 vague and dreadful, though at the time I was dazzled, and it 
 sounded like something in a story. I wonder, rather, that you 
 do not despise your sister, James.' 
 
 ' Poor Emily ! ' he said, patting her shoulder with his hand. 
 
XXIV 
 
 Mrs. Plowden awaited with some anxiety the appearance of her 
 sister-in-law in the drawing-room, whicli was an ordeal whicli 
 Lady William would have liked much to escape. But as this was 
 not possible, she submitted to it with as good a grace as might be. 
 The Rector kindly led the way, saying on the threshold : ' Here 
 is Emily, Jane,' as if that had been at all necessary ; as if they 
 had not all been on the outlook for her appearance for the last 
 half-hour. Mrs. Plowden took her by the hand, and led her to a 
 comfortable sofa in the corner, which was where she took her 
 friends when they had something to say to her, or she something 
 to say to them. 'My dear Emily,' she said, 'I hear you have 
 been sadly worried about something, and, of course, you know I 
 have been trying to guess. You have heard from Reginald again 1 ' 
 
 ' From Reginald 1 ' said Lady William. ' Poor fellow ! Ah, 
 no. I wish I had. And who said I had been sadly worried 1 I 
 had only some business I wanted to talk over with James.' 
 
 ' Not Reginald — really 1 ' said Mrs. Plowden. She was much 
 relieved ; but there sprang up in her a fresh curiosity, very lively 
 and warm, to think, if it was not Reginald, what it could be"? 
 Of course she said to herself she would hear all about it from 
 James ; but she did not like to wait till the uncertain moment, 
 never to be calculated on during the day, when she should find 
 her husband alone. 
 
 And then it occurred to Lady William that to tell a half 
 truth frankly as if it were the whole is sometimes a wise thing 
 to do. 
 
 ' To tell the truth,' she said, ' I was asking James's serious 
 advice on that matter which you have so often spoken to me about, 
 Jane — -whether I should attempt to improve my acquaintance 
 with the Pakenhams, and get Mab, now that she is almost old 
 enough, introduced to the world in their way.' 
 
182 LADY WILLIAM xxiv 
 
 ' Oh ! ' cried Mrs. Plowden, making a very large mouthful of 
 that word ; astonishment, and satisfaction, and pride, and yet a 
 little drawback of another feeling was in her tone. ' So you are 
 thinking at last, Emily, that there may be something in what I 
 said.' 
 
 ' I always knew,' said Lady William, ' that there was a great 
 deal of sense in what you said. But, I was very unwilling to do 
 it, it must be allowed. And now Mrs. Swinford says the same 
 thing ; and though I am very doubtful whether it would be to 
 Mab's advantage, still — I am thinking it over once more.' 
 
 ' And what advice did you get from James 1 James is too 
 like yourself in many ways, Emily, to be your best adviser.' 
 
 'Do you think he is like myself?' The Rector had gone back 
 to his study after, as it were, introducing his sister into the 
 feminine part of the house. ' Well, perhaps,' said Lady William, 
 with a smile, ' there may be a family resemblance. There is so 
 far as this — that he is by no means certain, I think, of the 
 advantage to Mab.' 
 
 ' Oh, what nonsense,' said the Rector's wife, ' and what does 
 he know about such things 1 Advantage ! of course it would be 
 an advantage. Dear me, to go to Court with the Ladies Paken- 
 ham, to be taken out into society by the Marchioness, to see the 
 best of company at her uncle's house ! My dear Emily, you 
 might just as well say, to confuse small things with great, that 
 it would not be an advantage in the parish of Watcham to belong 
 to the Rectory — and that is what nobody would say.' 
 
 The comparison was one which made Lady William smile, 
 though she was not much inclined to smiling. ' There are 
 differences,' she said, ' however ; for you could not but be kind to 
 a girl thrown on your care. Whereas, I doubt very much if the 
 Marchioness would be at all kind to a poor relation ; and I don't 
 care to have my Mab thought of as a poor relation in any 
 case.' 
 
 'You are so proud,' said the Rector's wife; and then she said, 
 with a laugh, ' Fancy little Mab to be the one of us all that will see 
 the great world, and make her curtsey to the Queen ! ' 
 
 If the Rector himself had thought of this, it would have been 
 wonderful indeed that his wife should not think of it. She 
 laughed continuously for a miimte with an odd little trill in her 
 laugh, looking at her own girls, who she could not help thinking 
 were more worthy than Mab of such a distinction. It was a 
 thing she had urged upon Mab's mother since her child was ten. 
 But now that it seemed an actual possibility, nay more than that 
 
XXIV LADY WILLIAM 183 
 
 — for Mrs. Plowden's mind leaped forward to the ceremony, and 
 already wondered what Mab would wear, and if feathers would 
 really be wanted upon her little head— the ridicule of the thought 
 that Mab, little Mab, would be the one to go to Court, an honour 
 which was quite beyond the hopes of Emmy and Florry, gave 
 their mother a shock of half-irritated feeling. That their cousin 
 shoidd have this glory would not hurt them — but still — if honours 
 went by merit in this world how different things would be ! 
 
 'I wonder,' said Lady William, as they walked home, 'what 
 your opinion, Mab, may be in the matter which everybody has 
 been discussing. It was your little fortunes that Mrs. Swinford 
 wanted to talk to me about yesterday, and that I have been 
 advising about with Uncle James to-day.' 
 
 ' My little fortunes ? ' said ]\Iab. ' I never knew I had 
 any.' 
 
 ' Your future, perhaps, it would be better to say.' 
 
 ' My future ! is that to be detached and put separate from 
 other people's like an odd piece in a piizzle 1 I don't know still 
 what you mean, mother ! ' 
 
 ' And yet it is plain enough,' said Lady William, with a sigh. 
 ' The other girls here are all in their natural sphere. But you, 
 Mab, are a bird of another species in a sparrow's nest.' 
 
 ' I hope you don't compare me to a cuckoo, mother.' 
 
 ' Something very different, my dear ; the others are plain 
 brown homely birds. Emmy and Florry will twitter under the 
 eaves in some parsonage or other, probably all their lives ; but 
 you are a Pakenham.' 
 
 ' What's a Pakenham '? ' said Mab ; ' you speak as if it were a 
 Plantagenet.' 
 
 'Well, not so grand, perhaps — but still it is different. And 
 I have brought you up only like what I was myself: a little 
 country girl.' 
 
 ' Only like what you were yourself ! You know very well, 
 mother, and it's unkind to remind me of it, that if I were to live 
 a hundred years I should never get to be like you. It's Emmy 
 that's like you. I'm not envious ; but to think that your daughter 
 should be a little — ^just a — Pakenham, as you say ; and Emmy 
 like you ! ' 
 
 ' She is not very like me— if I'm any judge myself,' Lady 
 William said. 
 
 ' She is not half nor a quarter so pretty as you are, mammy 
 dear.' 
 
 ' You little flatterer ! Emmy is a much better girl than I 
 
184 LADY WILLIAM xxiv 
 
 ever was, Mab, and perhaps that's pretty much the same thing. 
 She is a much better girl to tell the truth than my own little 
 girl is.' 
 
 ' I know ; my own opinion is that Emmy is too good. She is 
 never out of temper, always puts up with everything, is bored by 
 nobody. That, I understand, is one reason why — as you say, 
 mother. For I think, to tell the truth, that to look really 
 nice, and be like a human woman, you must not be quite so 
 good.' 
 
 ' That is a dangerous doctrine, Mab. And it is not the 
 question ; which is, what do you think 1 The Pakenhams are 
 more or less fashionable, and of course they have a fine position. 
 With them you would see a little of the world. You would meet 
 people very different from any you ever see here in the village. 
 I am told that I ought to make advances to them ; to tell them 
 of my child who is growing up, and ought to be introduced 
 properly into the world.' 
 
 ' Oh, is that what it means 1 ' said Mab. ' Tell me more 
 about them, that I may be able to judge. I don't know anything 
 at all about them, and how can I say 1 ' 
 
 Lady William's heart sank a little at this calm and judicial 
 tone on the part of her child. She, too, jumped, as Mrs. Plowden 
 had done, to the spectacle of Mab's presentation imder the wing 
 of the Marchioness, and at all that might follow. 
 
 ' I have never seen Lady Pakenham or the girls. Your uncle 
 I have seen, and he was — not unkind. ISTo, I am sure he was 
 not in the least unkind ; he did what he could for me. He took 
 a little notice of you as a baby, and so did the other brother — 
 your uncle John. They were not clever, nor distinguished in any 
 way ; but they were by no means without feeling.' 
 
 'That w^as when my father died.' 
 
 Lady William, who had rarely to Mab said anything about 
 her father, nodded her head. Her eyes had a dreamy look, fixed 
 far away. ]\Iab never was sure whether it was for grief that her 
 mother was so reticent, or from some other cause. 
 
 ' And do you mean to say, mother,' said Mab, ' that my aunt 
 — if she is my aunt — never came near you when you were in such 
 trouble 1 ' 
 
 ' She is just exactly as much your aunt as your uncle James's 
 wife is — neither less nor more. No, she never came near me. 
 But I was not surprised. It happened in Paris, and then I came 
 away as soon as I could to this little place. I neither expected 
 her to come to Paris, which would have been absurd : nor to 
 
XXIV LADY WILLIAM 185 
 
 come after me here, where she knew I would be among my own 
 peoiAe.' 
 
 ' Why,' said Mab, ' you would have gone ! You would not 
 have minded if it had been in Paris, or at the end of the 
 world.' 
 
 'I do a great many foolish things,' said Lady William, with 
 a smile, ' that wise people don't do ; besides they hadn't apjjroved 
 much, as was natural. Substantially kind is what you may 
 call them, practically kind ; your uncles were that, and have 
 been ' 
 
 ' And yet I am seventeen and I have never seen them.' 
 
 ' If you had been a boy,' said Lady William, they would have 
 felt their duty more ; a girl is supposed to be best with her 
 mother. You must not be surprised at that, my dear child. 
 Your uncle Pakenham has always supplied all your wants.' 
 
 ' Yoi; never showed me any of his letters ' 
 
 ' His letters ! oh, he is not a man who writes letters. His 
 lawyer does all that ; but substantially, he has been very kind.' 
 
 ' Mother,' said Mab, ' instead of wishing to know these people, 
 to visit them, and all that, I'll tell you what I should like to do. 
 I should like to be able to work for you, and throw theu- money 
 in their face — which is what you mean, I suppose, when you say 
 they are substantially kind.' 
 
 ' That would be very foolish, Mab ; the money is your right, 
 and for that matter mine too.' 
 
 ' It may be right, but I should like to fling it in their faces 
 all the same. Had my father nothing to leave us, to give us to 
 live on, that you should have to accept it from them ? ' 
 
 Lady William made no answer for some time. Then she said 
 in a low tone : ' Yoiu* father had many things to do. I cannot 
 enter into such questions, Mab ; you are not old enough. No ; 
 we were destitute but for them.' 
 
 ' You had money of your own, mother 1 ' 
 
 ' Fortunately,' said Lady William, ' that did not come to me 
 till after.' And then she stopped short and bit her lip with 
 annoyance. ' I didn't do much with it when it did come,' she 
 said. ' I gave it to your poor uncle Reginald. He was to make 
 his fortune, poor fellow, and ours.' 
 
 ' Perhaps he may yet, mother.' 
 
 ' Thank you for the suggestion, ]\Iab ; perhaps he may. Alas ! 
 I am afraid it is not very likely ' 
 
 ' If he were to do so, mother, you would take this dirty money 
 and fling it back in their faces 1 ' 
 
186 LADY WILLIAM xxiv 
 
 ' I don't know that I should, Mab. I doubt if it would be 
 kiud or just — and still more, whether it would be wise.' 
 
 ' Oh, you may be sure they wouldn't mind, people like that ! 
 They would only be glad to have it back, whether you flung it at 
 them or not, provided they had it.' 
 
 ' My dear, you are very hot-headed. In that respect you are, 
 I fear, of my side of the house.' 
 
 ' And Emmy, who is like you, isn't. She would eat any 
 amount of dirt ; she thinks it her duty not to resent anything. 
 That's not my way of thinking,' cried Mab. 'I resent it, and I 
 should like to fling it in their face.' 
 
 The two ladies went on after this in silence for a little while, 
 Mab pondering many things in her heart. Some she knew about, 
 and some she did not know. Of her father she had very little 
 idea, scarcely any at all. She had never seen any one belonging 
 to him. He was dead ; that was all she knew ; and she had 
 never missed him, or any one, having her mother. Vague ideas 
 that he had not been good to her mother had floated through her 
 mind, and yet she never was sure that it was not out of great 
 love that Lady William spoke of him so little. She had kuown 
 in the parish people who grieved like that, who could not mention 
 the names of those who were gone. It might be for that reason. 
 She walked on pondering, saying nothing till they had nearly 
 reached the cottage door. Then she suddenly turned on her 
 mother, having forgotten till this moment what was the question 
 that had been given her to answer. 
 
 ' And you want me,' she said, ' to say that I would like to go 
 to those people — to leave you 1 ' 
 
 ' Not to leave me, Mab, except for a little time.' 
 
 ' Then I won't, mother, short time or long time ! What ! to a 
 woman that knew you were in trouble, and never went to you — 
 whom you don't even know ! If I am allowed to have any say in 
 it, I would not for anything in the world. And what is it for 1 
 To go to parties with them, to be taken out, to enjoy myself? 
 Mother, mother, do you think I am like that — to enjoy myself with 
 people who don't know you, who leave you, who are insolent to 
 you 1 ' 
 
 ' No ; they are not insolent — they ignore me ; but, then, I have 
 always wished to be ignored. To tell the truth, Mab, I doubt 
 very much whether you would enjoy yourself. It is possible that 
 you might, but I fear it is more likely that you would not. 
 That is why I am against it.' 
 
 ' Then you are against it, mother *? ' 
 
XXIV LADY WILLIAM 187 
 
 ' For that reason — that I could not bear my Mab to be treated 
 like a nobody, to be taken out, perhaps, because they could not help 
 it, or left alone and snubbed ' 
 
 ' Snubbed ! They should not snub me twice, mother ! ' 
 
 ' No, you little hothead ! But everybody here thinks it would 
 be so much to your advantage to go to Court — that is something — 
 to be introduced as you ought to be.' 
 
 ' Introduced to whom 1 — to the Queen 1 Yes, that would be 
 nice. But then I don't suppose the Queen would take the least 
 notice of me, would she ? I would just be another little girl among 
 so many. No, mother, people here — Aunt Jane, or whoever it is — 
 may say what they like. I will have nothing to say to those people 
 who took no notice of you.' 
 
 ' Your uncle James is of the same opinion — and Mrs. 
 Swinfovd.' 
 
 ' Odious old woman ! ' said Mab. 
 
 ' My dear child, how do you know that she is an odious old 
 woman 1 She was a very fascinating woman once. When I was 
 like you I would have laid down my life for her.' Lady William 
 breathed forth a long, soft sigh involuntarily, unable to restrain 
 herself. ' I think I did,' she said under her breath. 
 
 Mab did not hear these words, but she said somewhat loudly, 
 ' Odious old woman ! ' again. 
 
 ' Who is that you are describing so succinctly 1 ' cried a voice 
 behind them. ' Miss Mab has an energy and conciseness of expres- 
 sion which I admire.' 
 
 ' She has a pitch of voice occasionally which is not at all admir- 
 able,' said Lady William, turning round. Mab, as may be supposed, 
 turned a bright scarlet up to her hat, her very hair warming in the 
 quick suffusion of colour. But her mother was skilled in such 
 emergencies and betrayed nothing. 
 
 ' It is always admirable to know what you think, and to express 
 it clearly,' said Swinford. ' I was on my way,' he added, putting 
 his hands together with a supplicating movement, ' to inquire 
 whether I might consider myself forgiven. You know you turned 
 me out the other day. May I come back with you now? You 
 take so much from me when you shut your door. Miss Mab will 
 intercede for me. She was as much shocked as I was when you 
 sent me away.' 
 
 ' There was no sending away,' said Lady William. ' We have 
 been having an argument — my daughter and I. You shall be the 
 impartial umpire and set us right.' 
 
 ' AVith all the pleasure in tlie world,' he said. 
 
XXV 
 
 ' It is a very good thing to have somebody impartial to refer to,' 
 said Lady William ; ' all our advisers take a side strongly. Now, 
 Leo, you are of no faction ; you can give us fair advice.' 
 
 ' I am of your faction always,' he said. 
 
 ' Ah, but I am of no faction. I am the seeker of advice. We 
 want to be well advised, Mab and I. By the way, she does take 
 a side strongly, but I will not tell you which it is.' 
 
 ' Expound the case. Miss Mab ; I must know before I can 
 say.' 
 
 ' So you shall know ; but Mab must not tell you, for she has a 
 bias. The case is this : Mab you see is grown up — — ' 
 
 He gave a glance at her in her (still) short frock, with her (still) 
 large waist, and round, artless, almost childish look. 
 
 ' I see,' he said, with a smile. 
 
 ' And must presently be introduced into society. The question 
 is, must it be the society of Watcham, and is the dance at the 
 FitzStephens' to be her debut ? or is she to enter the world in a 
 difterent way, and be taken to town for a season with all that fol- 
 lows 1 What is your opinion ? ' 
 
 ' Can there be two opinions ? ' he said, opening his eyes wide. 
 ' This is not treating me well. I hoped it was to be a difficult 
 and delicate question, but it is no question at all.' 
 
 ' You see,' said Lady William to her daughter. 
 
 ' If you put it to him in that way, mother : but that is not the 
 way. Imagine, Mr. Leo, what they all want ! — that mother, who 
 is, I know, better than the whole of them, every one, whoever they 
 may be — should go and — and — petition my uncle and his wife, who 
 have never taken any notice of us — to take me by the hand and 
 introduce me, as people saj^, into society: to introduce me — me, 
 Mab, do you understand, to the Queen and all the rest ; to get me 
 asked to parties with them — me, Mab, do you understand ? ' said 
 
XXV LADY WILLIAM 189 
 
 the girl, beating upon her breast, ' only me ; and that is what every- 
 body wants, and mother hesitates and wonders whether she ought 
 to do it : and I,' cried the girl, her dull eyes growing bright, 'I 
 will obey mother. I have never gone against her yet except in the 
 way of reason, and if she were to tell me to jump into the river I 
 would do it (hoping to scramble out somewhere lower down) ; and 
 I'll do this of course if I must, and perhaps escape alive — but never, 
 never of my own free will. Now say what you think, Mr. Leo. 
 Isn't it I that am in the right 1 ' 
 
 ' The question has a very different aspect, certainly,' said Leo, 
 'from Miss Mab's side.' 
 
 ' Hasn't it 1 ' said the girl triumphantly. ' Now I should be 
 proud, mother, if he who is of your faction should pronounce for me.' 
 
 ' But there is a great deal more to be said on both sides,' said 
 Leo ; ' we have not come to a decision yet. And just tell me why 
 you should not go to town yourself as everybody does, and introduce 
 your daughter in your own person, and show yourself in the 
 world ? That would seem so much the most natural way.' 
 
 ' Ah ! ' cried Mab, with something like a shout of triumph. 
 ' That is something like advice ! I did not think much, I tell you 
 true, of consulting Mr. Leo — but now I see he is a Daniel come to 
 judgment. And to think that none of us ever thought of that 
 before ! ' 
 
 Lady William grew red and she grew pale. It had not occurred 
 to her, strangely enough, that any one would suggest this simple 
 alternative. The other advisers, indeed, knew her position too 
 weU to think of it. She said with a laugh : ' You speak very 
 much at your ease, you young people. Where am I to get the 
 money for a campaign in town 1 I might squeeze out a few dresses 
 for Mab — that is all I could do. You forget that I am not a 
 wealthy person like you, Leo. And then I know nobody. We 
 might as well stay here for anything I could do for her. Yes, the 
 Lenthalls might invite us, or Lady Wade, who belongs to this 
 neighbourhood ; but nobody else. And we should be ruined ! 
 No, no ; that is more impossible than anything else. It must, 
 I fear, be Lady Portcullis, or nobody. Her aunt is her only 
 hope.' 
 
 ' If I am to be sent off to Lady Portcullis like a brown- 
 paper parcel,' said Mab, 'I will do what I'm told, mother; but 
 I won't discuss it any more. Mr. Leo, I would ask you to 
 stand up for me, if I thought you could ever stand up against 
 mother.' 
 
 ' It's hard, isn't it 1 ' said Leo ; ' but I will try as much as 
 
190 LADY WILLIAM xxv 
 
 I can.' He got up to open the door for her (for by this time 
 they had reached the cottage), which was a thing Mab hated, 
 feeling the attention very right for her mother, but a sort of 
 mockery iu the case of a little girl like herself She submitted 
 with her head bent ; and then bolted like a young colt, which 
 she still was. It must be allowed that the young man, who, 
 according to all laws, ought to have preferred her company, was 
 relieved when she was gone. He came quickly back to where 
 Lady William sat, her head bowed upon her hand in much 
 thought, and drew a low chair, Mab's little baby -chair, to her 
 feet. 
 
 ' I have a counter proposition to make,' he said, lightly touch- 
 ing her hand to draw her attention. 
 
 She smiled, and said, ' What is that 1 ' with a friendly in- 
 difference which made him frown. It was very clear that his pro- 
 position, whatever it might be, awakened no excitement, scarcely 
 even curiosity, in Lady William's breast. He made a very long 
 pause indeed, but she took no notice until there had been time for 
 various tumults and revolutions of thought in his mind. Then she 
 looked up, with a little start, to see him in an attitude which was 
 strangely like supplication, though he was in reality only seated in 
 the low chair. 'Well,' she said, iu her easy tone, 'what is it 1 
 You keep me a long time in suspense.' 
 
 ' It was — nothing,' he said. 
 
 'Ah,' said Lady William, with a laugh, 'you pay me back in 
 my own coin.' 
 
 ' Kather,' he said in a changed tone, ' let us say that it was 
 this. We must, I suj^pose, go to London next mouth — though my 
 mother does not seem to care for it now as I thought she would. 
 However, we shall go ; and why should not you come too ? Come 
 with us ; take Miss ]\Iab where you please, and come back when 
 you please. It would obviate all the difficulties you were speaking 
 
 of, and secure all the What ! You wUl not listen to such a 
 
 simple suggestion as that ? ' 
 
 There had been a great many exclamations on Lady William's 
 lips as he went on, but she had smothered them one by one till it 
 was impossible to keep silence longer. ' With your mother ? ' she 
 said, almost under her breath. 
 
 ' Well : I should like it, oh, a great deal better, if it were with 
 me ; but you think of me as if I were a cabbage, and my mother was 
 your friend — ^was she not your friend 1 — and I am your servant — 
 to mount behind your carriage, if you like.' 
 
 ' Do not speak nonsense, Leo ; you are my very kind friend, and 
 
XXV LADY WILLIAM 191 
 
 the greatest acquisition, and if you had been going to town with 
 
 your wife instead of your mother It is not indispensable, 
 
 don't you know, that old friends should continue friends for ever. 
 Your mother was very good to me once — that is, I believe, for a 
 time : but it would do no good to go into those old questions. She 
 
 would not suffer me with her, nor would I No, no ; forgive 
 
 me. That does not mean necessarily any harm, does it ? that we 
 do not now — see things — exactly in the same light ' 
 
 ' Then that is settled,' he said gloomily, ' so far as my mother 
 is concerned ; as for me, though, you call me a friend and all 
 that ' 
 
 'My dear boy,' said Lady William, 'you don't imagine for a 
 moment, I hope, that I would let you pay my expenses— for the 
 benefit of Mab ? ' 
 
 He paused again, gazing at her, saying nothing ; then threw up 
 his hands with an impatient sigh. 
 
 ' And yet friendship is supposed to be something more than 
 words,' he said. 
 
 ' There is one thing that friendship is not,' said Lady William ; 
 ' at least, in England, Leo. It is not monej'. When that comes 
 in it is supposed to spoil all.' 
 
 ' What an absurd, false, conventional, inhuman, ridiculous 
 view ! ' 
 
 ' Perhaps. Oh ! I don't know that it need tell between two 
 young men. There is an allowance to be made in that way for 
 bons caviarades. But I think it is a just rule on the whole. My 
 poor little experience is that it is best not to be very much obliged 
 to one's neighbours. No, no ! I don't say so for you, Leo. I 
 believe you might give everything you have to a friend, and never 
 remind him of it — never recollect it even yourself, as long as you 
 lived.' 
 
 ' Is that much to say ? ' 
 
 ' In the way of the world, it is something extraordinary to say; 
 but this is a totally different question from my little problem, which 
 is urged upon me by your mother, Leo, as well as by my innocent 
 people — my brother and sister here.' 
 
 'You think my mother is not innocent — that she had some 
 other motive 1 ' 
 
 ' I did not say so ; why should she have another motive? What- 
 ever there may have been between her and me, I, at least, have done 
 her no harm.' 
 
 ' Then it must be she who has harmed you ? ' 
 
 ' No ; what can any one do to you, outside of yourself ? All 
 
192 LADY AVILLIAM xxv 
 
 our troubles come from our own faults or mistakes. We say 
 faults when we speak of others, mistakes when it is ourselves. . 
 You told me once that Miss Mansfield — Artdmise — had appeared 
 again 1 ' 
 
 ' Ah ! I should like to know what she had to do with it,' he 
 cried. 
 
 ' Nothing,' said Lady William ; ' but it would be important 
 to me to know where to find her. Will you find out for me ? 
 There is something which she only knows which I am anxious to 
 make sure of.' 
 
 ' Something important to you ? ' 
 
 'They tell me so. I was not aware of it, and yet — if you 
 could bring me to speech of her, Leo, for five minutes. She was 
 never unkind to me.' 
 
 ' She is a bird of evil omen ! ' cried Leo ; ' wherever she appears 
 some harm follows.' 
 
 ' Ah ! ' said Lady William, ' and you said she was here the 
 other day ! ' 
 
 ' Tliere is something which has happened between you and 
 my mother — something she has done to you which you will not 
 tell me ? ' 
 
 ' What could she have done to me T Lady William made a 
 movement as though shaking off some annoyance. ' No ; all she 
 has done is to persuade me to this — about Lady Portcullis and the 
 introduction of Mab into society. What could be more innocent ? ' 
 she said, with a laugh. 
 
 ' There is one thing,' he said, ' that one ought to do before 
 giving an opinion. Has Lady Portcullis ever shown any interest 1 
 I have met her ; she is very commoni^lace — one of the rigid 
 English. Oh ! very English. You do not know her ? she has not 
 sought your acquaintance 1 Would she 1 — has she ever 1 — do you 
 think it is likely 1 ' 
 
 Lady William laughed again, but uneasily, painfully. 'You 
 are a sorcerer, Leo — this is the doubt I have never mentioned to 
 any one — not to Mab herself, not to my brother. Do I think it is 
 
 likely 1 Since you ask me, I must answer no; my pride 
 
 prevented me from saying it — not even to your mother did I say it 
 — but she — ah ! ' Lady William broke off again, still laughing — 
 and the evening was beginning to fade, but Leo thought he could 
 see the hot flush on her cheek. 
 
 'I am not my mother's champion,' he said; 'she has her 
 peculiarities. She may have thought it would embroil you with 
 the family.' 
 
XXV LADY WILLIAM 193 
 
 ' That,' said Lady William, ' was the least of what she 
 thought ! ' 
 
 * Dear lady,' he said, ' here is some mystery. You know that 
 I am of your faction whatever happens. But you must tell me 
 before I can do any good.' 
 
 Lady William did not make any immediate reply. She said at 
 last : ' Artdmise : if you can bring me to speech of Artdmise, I 
 shall want nothing more.' Then with a change of tone — ' Here is 
 Mab coming back; no more of it — no more of it ! there has been 
 too much already. Mab, Leo is waiting till you give him some tea.' 
 
 ' Give it me strong and sweet,' said Leo, who had jumped up 
 from his low chair with perhaps a touch of embarrassment — but 
 Lady William felt none — ' sweet and strong ; for my head is a little 
 confused, and I want it clear.' 
 
 ' Is it all about me and my father's people "? That is very good 
 of you, Mr. Leo,' said Mab, ' to take so much interest — and have 
 you converted mother to my way of thinking? — which is the thing 
 I want most.' 
 
 ' I have been doing my best,' he said, standing up beside her 
 against the waning light in the window. And then it was for the 
 
 first time that it occurred to Lady William Well, she was 
 
 no more a matchmaking mother than you or I ; but to see two 
 young people together — one of them your own child, and the other 
 a very good match — very well oif, and kind, and true, and good, 
 par-clessus le marche — this is a thing which will make the most 
 unworldly woman think. To be sure, Leo was twice or nearly 
 twice the age of Mab — but at their respective ages that was of no 
 consequence. It was true also that Leo gave unmistakable signs 
 at this present moment of much preferring Emily, the mother, to any 
 seventeen-year-old ; but that Lady William in her wisdom thought 
 less important still. That would blow over quickly enough ; it was 
 scarcely even worth a thought; but they were smiling at each other 
 in a very happy, pleasant way, she appealing, he answering the appeal. 
 It was nothing, but yet it was a suggestion — and how many 
 pleasant things it would involve ! It was far too distant, too misty 
 and vague to suggest to the mother how she should feel in her 
 cottage if her Mab was spirited away. But it was a suggestion — 
 and gave a new and agreeable direction to her thoughts. 
 
 Leo remained until the lamp was brought in by little Patty, 
 whose eyes shone at the sight of him, partly because it pleased her 
 to see ' a gentleman ' again in the house (for Patty was a match- 
 maker, if you please, and never looked upon a ' gentleman ' without 
 an immediate calculation whether or not he would ' do ' for Miss 
 
194 LADY WILLIAM xxv 
 
 Mab), and partly because she felt that she must now be "wholly 
 forgiven for any wrong thing she had done in respect to him, seeing 
 he was allowed to come back. Patty had never been sure what it 
 was that she had done which was wrong ; but none the less was it 
 evident to her that she herself must have shared the pardon of the 
 worst offender. And in the meantime there had been a pleasant 
 little hour over the tea-table ; as if to encourage her mother's 
 imagination, Mab had for once been seized with an impulse to talk, 
 which was a thing that happened to her now and then. And it 
 was beyond doubt that Leo was amused by her chatter, and 
 responded gaily. They discussed Lord and Lady Portcullis with 
 great mutual satisfaction, and the Ladies Pakenhara, whom Leo 
 had met in Paris ; and he gave Mab a great deal of information as 
 to her family, which the girl received with a mixture of amusement 
 and offence, proving to her mother that there had been more things 
 even in little Mab's thoughts than were dreamt of in her philosophy. 
 And then the young man went away, and they were left alone 
 to resume the controversy or not, as fate might decide. Lady 
 William, who had been brought into very close observation of her 
 daughter, left the subject in Mab's hands — but Mab did not enter 
 into it again. She changed the subject to the FitzStephens' dance, 
 which was now so near, and led her mother to a discussion of the 
 dresses they were to wear, which had the air of absorbing all Mab's 
 thoughts. ' Do you think I will look very fat in white, mother ? 
 and my arms so red and healthy,' she said. And this sort of 
 conversation was carried on until Mab fairly put her mother, with 
 all her anxieties and questions, to bed. The little girl was not 
 without questions in her own mind, questions about her father, 
 about the life she could not remember, or scarcely could remember, 
 in Paris ; about the family and relations she had never seen. By 
 dint of much reflection it appeared to her that she could recollect 
 a stiff gentleman with a fat face, who must have been Lord 
 Portcullis himself. Why was it she knew nothing of her uncle 1 
 Why did he take no notice? Was there any reason for it? 
 or was it her mother's fault 1 If so, Mab was as strongly 
 determined that she was of her mother's faction as ever Leo Swin- 
 ford could be ; but more still than Leo Swinford she wanted to 
 know from the beginning, and find out how and why it all was. 
 
XXVI 
 
 The night of the FitzStephens' dance was a great one in Watcham. 
 It was not precisely a dance, to tell the truth, as, to temper the 
 pretensions belonging to the name of a ball, there was to be a 
 little musical periormance to begin with — a duet from Emily and 
 Florry Plowden, a few pieces for violin and piano, and so on — 
 which was sufficient to give something of the air of an impromptu 
 and accidental performance to the dance, which, of course, was the 
 real meaning of the whole. Some of the people were so unkind as 
 not to arrive till the music was over, which was thought exceedingly 
 bad taste by the performers and their families, and gave the 
 General and his wife a moment of dread lest the party they had 
 got up so carefully might not be a success after all. But by ten 
 o'clock the music was over, the piano rolled into its appointed 
 corner, and the music stands, which had been prepared for the 
 violinists, put away. The musicians who were engaged for the 
 dance did not want any music stands, and the assembled party 
 required every scrap of room that was available. The excellent 
 FitzStephens had done wonders to enlarge the space. They had 
 taken away everything — almost the fixtures of the house : doors 
 were imhung, carpets lifted : I cannot really calculate the trouble 
 that had been taken. Even after the party assembled, the removal 
 of the chairs on which they had been seated to hear the music was 
 a matter of labour, for they were not all light chairs like those 
 which people in Watcham borrow by the dozen from Simpkinson 
 of the 'Blue Boar,'. but included a number of comfortable easy- 
 chairs for the ladies who did not dance, of whom there were a 
 considerable number. The FitzStephens did not see the necessity 
 of leaving the elder people out. They were old themselves, and 
 though they delighted in seeing the young ones enjoy themselves, 
 as they said, yet they liked also to have their own playfellows, with 
 whom to have a comfortable talk, while they looked on. What 
 
196 LADY WILLIAM xxvi 
 
 Mrs. FitzStephen would have liked best would have been to keep 
 the elder ladies apart in the room which was called the General's 
 study, which had a door (removed) into the dancing room, by the 
 opening of which (had it not been crowded by the elder gentlemen) 
 the matrons could have seen enough of their children's performances, 
 as well as have been out of the way. This, however, was the one 
 point which was not successful in the arrangements, for the mothers 
 preferred to cling to the walls in the dancing room itself, at the 
 risk of being swept away by flying skirts, or trodden upon by 
 nimble feet ; and the fathers occupied the doorway in a solemn 
 block, so that nobody could see anything through them. Even 
 Lady William, who generally was so great a help in getting people 
 to stay where they were wanted, herself got into a corner in the 
 dancing room, taking up, it must be admitted, very little room, as 
 she stood up agaiust the wall to watch how Mab got on among the 
 dancers ; and Miss Grey; in a costume in which she had gone to 
 all the parties in the neighbourhood for the last twenty years, 
 flitted about like an aged butterfly, getting the pufi"s of super- 
 annuated tulle about her into everybody's way, in order to see not 
 only how Mab got on, but how everybody got on in whom she was 
 interested, and that meant every girl in the room. Thus Mrs. 
 FitzStephen had one little point of vexation amid the perfect 
 success of everything else. But it was so natural. The General 
 declared that he himself liked to see the dancing, and was not at 
 all satisfied to be sent away into another room. 
 
 The reader, perhaps, would like to know at once how Mab, who 
 was the debutante of the evening, got on. Her white frock was 
 very simple, being, as has been said, the manufacture of her mother 
 and herself; but Lady William was universally allowed to have 
 great taste, and it is saying a great deal to say that she herself was 
 satisfied with the efi'ort. As a matter of fact, the finest dress- 
 maker in the world could not have disguised the fact that Mab's 
 figure was too solid, and her well-formed, round arms a little too 
 rosy with health, for perfect grace. But that solid form and rosy 
 tint agreed very well with the childish roundness of the face, under 
 the dimpled and infantile softness of which Mab hid so much good 
 sense and independent judgment of her own; She looked as she 
 was, like a little girl just escaped from the trammels of childhood, 
 enjoying the dance with all her might, without thinking for a 
 moment whether anybody admired her, or what people thought of 
 her dancing or demeanour, and without the slightest thrill of 
 consciousness in mind or person. Mab was so popular that she 
 was a little bored at first by her own success, for many of the most 
 
XXVI LADY WILLIAM 197 
 
 dignified persons present, men quite old enough to be her father, 
 considered it a right thing to show their interest in her by ' coming 
 forward ' and performing a solemn dance with her — General Fitz- 
 Stephen himself (who might have been her grandfather) taking her 
 out for a quadrille as he might have taken Mrs. Swinford had she 
 been there. There passed through Mab's mind a devout thanks- 
 giving that Uncle James was a clergyman, or perhaps he might 
 have asked her too. The Archdeacon, indeed, who was also 
 prevented by his cloth from any such escapades, insisted on taking 
 her to liave an ice, which she did not want, and which almost lost 
 her one waltz. It will be seen from this that the dance was all 
 that a first dance ought to be to Mab. Her card was filled before 
 she had been two minutes in the room, the gentlemen crowding 
 round her, so that before the end of the evening she, who accepted 
 everybody at first with smiles and pleasure, became critical, and 
 actually threw over young Mr. Wade, one of the county people, 
 whom most girls delighted to dance with, in order to career over 
 the floor with Jim for the third time in succession, to the astonish- 
 ment of everybody. Jim, with whom she was on terms of easy 
 family intimacy, finding fault with him all the time, was, on the 
 whole, the dancer she preferred — though there was much to be 
 said for Leo, who was making himself extremely agreeable, and 
 whose ' style ' most of the ladies admired greatly as something 
 quite out of the common, and not in the least like the careless 
 romping of Bobby Wade, who had been supposed to be the 
 representative of the fashionable world, and to bring the last graces 
 of the hecm monde to astonish the villagers. That Mr. Swinford, 
 on the contrary, should be so quiet, so far from any ideas of 
 romping, filled the ladies with surprise, who had been watching 
 Bobby as the glass of fashion and the mould of form. But Mab 
 thought, and did not hesitate to say so, that Leo was a little stifi". 
 She said whatever came into her head, that daring little girl — she 
 was not afraid of off'ending anybody, especially not Mr. Leo, as she 
 called him, to the admiration and wonder of all the other girls. 
 
 Mab, in short, enjoyed herself so much, and was so frankly 
 delighted with the progress of events, that the questions that were 
 poured upon her by all the old ladies became superfluous. 
 
 ' Well, Mab, are you getting partners ? ' Mrs. Plowden said, 
 whose attention had been riveted upon her own children, and 
 who, in sincerity, had scarcely noticed Mab until she danced with 
 Jim. 
 
 ' Partners ! she has never once sat down the whole evening,' 
 cried Miss Grey. 
 
198 LADY WILLIAM xxvi 
 
 Mrs. Plowden was aware that Emmy had not danced the 
 two last dances, and she felt the humiliation ; but she smiled. 
 ' Everybody is anxious that a girl should enjoy her fiist ball,' she 
 said. 'Jim wanted you so much to enjoy yourself to-night.' 
 
 ' Well, she paid him back for it,' said Miss Grey ; ' she threw 
 over Bobby Wade for him.' 
 
 ' Bobby Wade ! ' cried Mrs. Plowden. 
 
 Bobby Wade had not asked either of the Ptectory girls. This 
 little heartburning ran on along all the line of mothers who sat 
 or stood by the wall. Mr. Wade and Mr. Swinford were the two 
 men whose approach made every heart beat. Those who had 
 not been asked by them — or, rather, whose daughters had not 
 been asked by them — felt the vanity of the whole affair, and that 
 the apjjles which were so bright outside were but ashes within. 
 Leo, for his part, worked very hard that nobody might be left 
 out ; but young Wade did not care in the least, dancing up with 
 his arm extended to the young lady he fancied, when he pleased, 
 and carrying her off sometimes under the very nose of her partner. 
 
 ' He had better not try that on with me,' said Jim. 
 
 'What would you do? You couldn't knock him down in 
 Mrs. Fitz-Stephen's room 1 ' 
 
 'No, I don't suppose I could do that,' said Jim, 'for their 
 sakes ; but I should certainly give him to understand ' 
 
 ' How could you give him to understand 1 ' said Mab, pursuing 
 her cousin with pitiless practicality. But, as it happened, the 
 proof of what Jim could do occurred at once, for Mr. Wade made 
 a long step up to her — her very self — and held out that insolent 
 arm. 
 
 ' Our da-ance, I think,' he said. 
 
 ' Indeed, it is nothing of the kind ! ' said Mab ; ' I am not 
 engaged to you at all — ' 
 
 Wade opened his eyes very wide, and looked as if he could 
 not believe his ears. 'I assure you this is ours — booked first 
 thing in the evening. Come ! ' he said. 
 
 ' We are losing half the waltz,' said Mab to her partner, and 
 they dashed off, brushing against Mr. Wade's extended arm. It 
 was very rude, and Lady William took her daughter very much 
 to task for her want of politeness. 
 
 ' But it wasn't the least his dance — he had nothing to do 
 with it, mother.' 
 
 'That may be,' said Lady V^^illiam, 'but it is one thing to 
 refuse a partner and another nearly to knock him down.' 
 
 ' Oh, did we knock him down 1 ' said Mab, delighted, and 
 
XXVI LADY WILLIAM 199 
 
 softly clapping her hands. She was disappointed to hear that he 
 had not befen knocked down at all, but was standing in a corner 
 of the room very sulky, and vowing vengeance upon the little 
 fat thiug who had rejected his condescending offer. When, how- 
 ever, the Rectory girls and some others surrounded her open- 
 mouthed, to hear what it all meant, Mab took higher ground. 
 ' If I hadn't snubbed hira,' she said, ' Jim would have punched 
 his head, or something. He told me he would not stand it, sd 
 I thought it better a girl should do it than a boy. He may sulk, 
 but he cannot do anything to me. And what do I care for his 
 sulking? He cannot dance a bit,' said this high-handed young 
 lady, who had not a dance, not even an extra, to give to any one ; 
 others who were not so deeply engaged did not, perhaps, feel 
 themselves so free. They surrounded her, however, with a certain 
 wondering admiration, and those girls who were not acquainted 
 with Bobby Wade, and who had hitherto been a little ashamed 
 of the fact, now proclaimed it as a superiority. ■ 
 
 ' He is such bad form,' they all said. 
 
 It need scarcely be said that there were other things in 
 Lady William's mind than even her child's success, as she stood 
 up in her corner watching the dancers. It would be to do great 
 injustice to Mrs. FitzStephen, a woman of very good connec- 
 tions, and who had taken so much trouble to make her party 
 everything that a party in a village, out of London, out of the 
 great world, could be, to say that it was in any sense of the 
 word common or inferior. They were all very nice people, some 
 even, as has been seen, from the county, for Bobby Wade had 
 brought his sisters with him, who really gave themselves no airs 
 at all among the village folk, though they did what they could 
 to appropriate Leo, and gave him to understand that he was 
 the only man in the least degree of their own set. But Lady 
 William, as she looked round the room, was haunted by an 
 altogether unreasonable regret and discomfort, which she was 
 indignant with herself for feeling, but which came into her mind 
 in spite of her. This was not the scene, she said to herself, in 
 which ]\Iab should be making her first acquaintance with the 
 world. Then, why not? her self said to her, hotly. It would 
 have been far better for Mab's mother if she had never known 
 any other ; if she had looked forward to an innocent dance in the 
 village as her greatest pleasure, and never stepped out of that 
 simple circle. Ah, but she had done so, tlie other visionary party 
 in the argument said. She had stepped out of that circle, and 
 her daughter was Lord William Pakenham's daughter as well as 
 
200 LADY WILLIAM xxvi 
 
 hers : and was it not a wrong to Mab that she should be here 
 where everybody looked up to the Wades, people who were of 
 no particular importance, whose origin could not be compared to 
 hers 1 These things Lady William was pondering with a grave 
 face, when General FitzStepheu came up to her, dodging between 
 the dancers, to take her to supper. 
 
 ' I know you never take supper,' the General said, ' but none 
 of the ladies can move till you do, and I should think you would 
 at least be glad to sit down a little.' 
 
 None of the ladies could move till she did. That was true 
 enough ; she had the benefit, such as it was, of her rank. Lady 
 Wade it was well known woidd not come to the village festivities 
 because she was unseated from her usual priority by the superior 
 claims of Lady William. She had the advantage, such as it was ; 
 but the child 
 
 ' Mab is having a thoroughly " good time," ' said the General. 
 ' You need not concern yourself with her any more. She is as 
 happy as the night is long, and I hope the young ones will make 
 it long and keep it up. They all seem to be enjoying themselves 
 tremendously now.' 
 
 ' Yes ; they all seem very happy. It is so kind of you ' 
 
 ' To give ourselves the pleasure of seeing them so 1 ' said the 
 old General. ' I don't call that kindness but selfishness on our 
 parts. My wife was always fond of young people — which made 
 it more a regret to us in former times that we had no children of 
 our own.' 
 
 ' Yes, indeed ; how strange it is — you who would have done 
 them so much justice — who would have been such perfect 
 parents ! and they seem to be sown broadcast about the streets at 
 everybody's door.' 
 
 'We must not say that, for, of course. Providence arranges 
 for the best,' said the General, ' and I don't regret it now — I 
 don't regret it now. The worst troubles that people have come 
 through their children — either they have not enough for them ; 
 or they spend everything their parents have got ; or they are ill- 
 behaved ; or they are unhappy. And there is scarcely a moment 
 of their lives that fathers and mothers are not at their children's 
 mercy, to be struck to the ground by one thing or another — 
 perhaps misfortune perhaps death. Oh no, my dear lady, I do 
 not regret it. I am very glad to be ending my life with my dear 
 wife without anxiety — now.' 
 
 ' And yet I can't contemplate life at all without my Mab/ 
 Lady William said. 
 
XXVI LADY WILLIAM 201 
 
 ' Ah, my dear lady, that is exactly what I say. You are 
 entirely in her power. You can't call your soul your own. If 
 she were to take a perverse line, or if she were to fall ill ' 
 
 ' For Heaven's sake. General, don't be such an evil prophet,' 
 she said, with a shiver, and then laughing, ' I had meant to dis- 
 tinguish myself at supper, and you have taken all my appetite 
 away.' 
 
 ' I don't believe in your appetite,' said the fatherly old gentle- 
 man ; ' I have never seen it yet. But seriously, even you must 
 be pleased with Mab's little success ; and I hear she snubbed 
 Bobby Wade. Do him all the good in the world to be well 
 snubbed by a little girl. The little fool thinks be has all the 
 girls at his feet. But Mab will never be of that mind.' 
 
 ' She is independent enough. I wonder what you will think 
 of my puzzle. General. They say that I ought not to keep her 
 here in the village — that she ought to come out under her aunt. 
 Lady Portcullis', auspices, instead of living so quietly here with me.' 
 
 'They talk nonsense, my dear lady,' said the General; 'a 
 girl is always best, and I think she always looks her nicest, by 
 her mother's side.' 
 
 ' Thank you for that kind opinion. General.' 
 
 ' But I can't see any reason,' said the old gentleman, ' why 
 her mother, a lady whom we all admire and honour, should not 
 herself abandon the quiet corner a little (though we should miss 
 her dreadfully), and bring out her daughter, which would be 
 better than any Lady Portcullis in the world.' 
 
 'Ah, but that is impossible,' Lady William said quickly. 
 She was moved a little out of her place by the rush of the pro- 
 cession from the drawing-room, all the elder ladies going in ; but 
 presently she went back and addressed herself to doing her duty 
 by Mrs. FitzStephen in guiding these elder ladies as they 
 returned into the smaller room. ' We may as well make ourselves 
 comfortable here,' she said, ' since all the children are hajipy and 
 in full swing.' It was always Lady AVilliam who settled these 
 things — and so quietly. The ladies were very glad of comfort- 
 able seats after standing half the evening against the wall, and 
 the General managed to get up the quiet rubber he loved, while 
 still one waltz followed another, and the whirling figures went 
 round and round. 
 
 'Tell me,' said Leo Swinford, coming in behind her a little 
 out of breath, ' why Miss Wade tells me I am the only one of her 
 set. I am not of her set, or any set ; is it intended to be civil, 
 or what does she mean 1 ' 
 
202 LADY WILLIAM xxvi 
 
 ' She means that the rest of us are of the village, and she and 
 you are of the county, which is a very different thing.' 
 
 'It is a distinction I do not understand. Nobility and 
 gentry ! — yes, I know what that means : but we are not noblesse 
 at all, neither she nor I. We are more or less rich — no two of 
 us the same — but is that the only distinction here 1 ' 
 
 'Oh no ; there are a great many grades of distinction. The 
 county means the aristocracy ' 
 
 ' Permit me ; you and Miss Mab are the only persons noble 
 here — is that not so 1 Ah, you will have to give me many lessons 
 to bring me to a proper understanding. 
 
 ' And yet I condemn Mab to be nobody,' said Lady William. 
 ' Yes, that is what I am doing. Her old friends are very good to 
 her. She has her little triumph to-night. But it will not always 
 be her first ball. And it is I who keep her in obscmity. I think I 
 am learning my lesson more quickly than you do yours.' 
 
XXVII 
 
 There is nothing that happens more frequently in human experi- 
 ence than that, after long doubting what to do, and hesitation 
 over a new step, the whole matter is suddenly taken out of our 
 hands, and the question solved for us in a moment, and in the 
 most summary way. Lady William had -found many reasons for 
 resisting the advice, whether given in love or enmity, of her 
 friends. Her husband's family had not been hostile to her, but 
 it had been bitterly indifferent, taking no notice, making no 
 inquiry into her condition or that of her child, and she had but 
 small inducement to endeavour to draw closer that very loose and 
 artificial tie which united her to the great people. It seemed to 
 herself a sort of accidental tie, meaning so little to any body except 
 to herself — and to herself whose whole life it had shaped, it was no 
 pleasure to recur to the few years of marriage in which she had 
 been taken so entirely out of her sphere without attaining any- 
 thing else that was of pleasure or advantage to her. Sometimes 
 she had been tempted to ask herself whether that was more than 
 a terrible dream, a sort of fever through which she had passed, 
 and at the end of which she had found herself back again in her 
 native place, among the quiet scenes of her childhood, but with a 
 different name, a changed personality, and Mab — the greatest 
 sign of all that things were not as they had been. The Rector 
 and his wife, however, did not take into consideration the great 
 indifference of the family to Lady William and her child. They 
 knew but little about the details. Mrs. Plowden for one could 
 scarcely have got into her head that to be Lady William, to have 
 lived in France, as well as in the great world, and to have grown 
 familiar with many things that appeared very grand and de- 
 lightful to a country lady who had never moved out of her 
 parish, was perhaps to be rather humiliated than elevated both 
 in one's own opinion and in that of the world. Such an idea 
 
204 LADY WILLIAM xxtii 
 
 could have found no place in her intelligence. And she had not 
 the slightest doubt that Lord and Lady Portcidlis, if it were 
 properly represented to them, would do their duty by their niece 
 if not by their sister-in-law. She thought it was Emily's pride 
 which alone stood in the way. And though her husband knew 
 the world better, yet he, too, was of opinion that it was chiefly 
 Emily's pride. Mrs. Swinford's thoughts on the subject were of 
 a very difterent complexion, even before she had thrown that 
 horrible uncertainty into Lady William's mind, that feeling that 
 even her position, so modest as it was, might be assailed and 
 turned into shame. If she had held back hitherto it was not 
 from pride nor from fear of inquiry, but from a doubt whether it 
 would be of the least advantage to her child to make any over- 
 tures or petition. Petition, that was the right word — and a 
 petition which was more or less likely to be rejected, as she 
 felt sure. 
 
 She was seated in her little drawing-room full of these doubts 
 and questions one morning very soon after the FitzStephens' ball. 
 It seemed impossible now that things could go on as they were. 
 The mere fact of all that had been said on the subject shook the 
 foundations of life. And Mab's age made a change in everything. 
 So long as she was a child, the obscurity of her position was of no 
 consequence. All that was needed for her was her mother's care, 
 and to be with her mother wherever she might happen to be ; but 
 with every day the position changed. Lord William Pakenham's 
 child was one thing, and Emily Plowden's another. Was it her 
 duty to let ]\Iab grow up in the humbler region, perhaps fix her 
 own fate in that, and settle for ever as a poor man's wife in the 
 village, while another world might be open to her 1 Had she any 
 right to bind her child to her own hmited fortunes, to keep her all 
 her life a mere pensioner on the bounty of those who ought to 
 recognise and care for her in a very different way 1 But if she 
 made any attempt to alter the position, might she not make it 
 worse instead of better 1 Might she not subject herself only, and 
 Mab, who was of more consequence, to a repulse which would be 
 much worse than neglect, to perhaps a question even of the humble 
 rights which had been already recognised, the right of the widow 
 and child to -a subsistence, however doled out 1 The thought of 
 having to fight for those rights, to open up the secrets of her life, 
 and prove that she had a right to her name, was an idea intolerable 
 to Lady William. She said to herself with a sick heart that she 
 would rather die — she would rather die ! Oh, that would be an 
 easy way out of it ; but that she should die and leave Mab behind 
 
XXVII LADY WILLIAM 205 
 
 her to fight it out, to prove her own lawful birth, her mother's 
 honour, that was impossible. If she were to die she must climb 
 out of her grave, she felt, to prevent that, to take the brunt upon 
 herself, to save from such a horrible struggle the child, the little 
 girl who did not know what dishonour was — Mab, of all creatures 
 in the world, to have any stain upon her of any kind ! Then Lady 
 William tried to brace herself up to think that she must no longer 
 hesitate, that for Mab's happiness she must venture everything, and 
 prove at last, beyond auj question, that whatever her fate might 
 be there could never be in it any doubt or possibility of shame. 
 
 She was seated thinkiug of all this, her needlework going 
 mechanically through her hands, her head bent, and every 
 faculty occupied with this debate within herself, when she heard 
 the little click of the gate which announced a visitor, and then the 
 rap of Patty's knuckles upon the door. ' If you please, my lydy, it 
 is Mr. Swinford and a strange gentleman. Am I to say as your 
 lydyship's at home 1 ' 
 
 ' Did I ever tell you to say I was not at home, Patty '? ' 
 
 ' I don't know, my lydy. You wouldn't speak to me not for 
 two days, 'cause I let Mr. Leo come in.' 
 
 ' You are a little nuisance,' said Lady William, which was 
 enough to make Patty's heart dance as she rushed along the 
 narrow passage to answer — what was not yet, however, a knock at 
 the door. 
 
 For the two gentlemen had met Mab in the garden, Mab was 
 very busy in the garden in the end of April. She had a hundred 
 things to do. She had a large apron with pockets heavy with all 
 kinds of necessities covering her dress, and a very homely hat upon 
 her head — one of those broad articles plaited of brown rushes, which 
 are called feed hats, and may be bought for sixpence anywhere. 
 It was not unbecoming, though it was entirely without decoration. 
 Mab's hair was slightly untidy from much stooping over the flower- 
 beds, and her cheeks were flushed by the same cause. She had 
 fortimately large gardening gloves on, which kept her hands from 
 the soil and pricks which were too familiar to them. Mab met the 
 two young men as they came in. She was hurrying past with a 
 box full of roots in one arm. But she was not in the least 
 embarrassed by the encounter. She put the trowel which she 
 carried in the other hand, among the roots, and stopped to speak. 
 ' I am very busy,' she said. ' It is beautiful this morning, isn't it 1 
 but we shall have rain before night. So it is just the very 
 opportunity to put in my carnations. They are a little late, but I 
 was waiting for some good kinds.' 
 
206 LADY WILLIAM xxvii 
 
 Of course, while she spoke to Leo her eyes had wandered to the 
 other man with him, who was of quite a different kind — younger 
 than Leo, still in the twenties, Mab thought, and not handsome ; 
 but surely she had seen him somewhere before. He was fair, like 
 herself, with blunt features, and eyes that were blue, but not 
 bright. In every way his appearance was quite different to that of 
 Leo Swinford — no foreign air about him — clothes that looked much 
 less thought of and cared for, more carelessly worn, but somehow 
 giving, Mab could not tell how, a more perfect effect. She gave 
 him a friendly glance, though she did not know him. But, indeed, 
 she did not feel at all as if she did not know him. She was 
 confident that the face was quite famiUar to her, and that she must 
 have seen him before. 
 
 ' I have brought a friend to introduce to you. Miss Mab : and 
 I expect you to be friends at once, although you have never seen 
 each other before.' 
 
 ' Have I never seen him before 1 ' said Mab. ' Perhaps you are 
 mistaken, Mr. Leo. I am sure I know his face, though I don't 
 know his name.' 
 
 And then the young men both laughed. ' I will tell you 
 where you have seen his face — in your own glass when you dress 
 in the morning — I am sure you never look at it afterwards. This 
 is Lord Will Pakenham, Miss Mab, and to be sure you ought to 
 have known each other all your lives.' 
 
 ' Lord Will ' Mab grew very red from the tip of her chin 
 
 to the untidy locks on her forehead. ' Does that mean Lord 
 William — my father's name 1 ' 
 
 ' And I am your cousin Will,' said the young man. 
 
 Mab paused a few moments longer before she held out to him 
 her big gardening glove. ' I do not remember my father,' she 
 said, ' so you cannot remind me of him. Did we ever — perhaps 
 when we were little children — see each other before 1 ' 
 
 ' Every time,' said Leo, ' did I not tell you, that you have 
 looked in the glass.' 
 
 I do not know what was the effect at that moment upon Lord 
 AVill, but the impression on Mab's mind was one full of pleasure. 
 These other people, with their clean-cut features, Leo himself, her 
 cousin Emmy, who had the impertinence to be like Mab's own 
 mother, who belonged to her — were a sort of reproach to the girl. 
 But here was somebody who had a blunt nose, and eyes which 
 were rather dull in colour, like her own, and who looked friendly, 
 homely, as if he did not mind — who also smiled upon her in a very 
 natural way, as if he too felt that he had known her all his life. 
 
xxvii LADY WILLIAM 207 
 
 ' Stop,' said Mab, suddenly drawing off her glove with her white, 
 strong, small teeth. ' This time my hand is cleaner than my 
 glove.' She caught the glove in her other hand as it fell. If she 
 had been a year older, of course she would not have done it : and 
 her frock was short and her manner entirely at ease. Though she 
 had been at a dance, and might be supj^osed to have come out, she 
 was still Lady AVilliam's little girl. 
 
 ' Come in to mother ; she will be glad to see you,' she added 
 immediately. 'I can't go into the drawing-room, can I, with all 
 this ? and I must get these put in before I do anything. Mr. Leo, 
 please go in to mother ; you know the way.' 
 
 Next minute Leo was presenting Lord Will to Lady William. 
 It was a very curious scene. She rose up in the midst of her 
 thoughts, wondering, questioning with herself what she was to do, 
 and heard in a moment her husband's name pronounced in her 
 ears. The effect was so great that as she rose hastily from her 
 chair the blood forsook her face altogether. She held by the table 
 before her, letting her work fall out of her hand. 
 
 ' Dear lady,' said Leo, ' we have startled you. I ought to have 
 known.' 
 
 ' Whom did you say 1 ' 
 
 'I am William Pakenham,' said the young man. 'I beg 
 you ten thousand pardons. Swinford has brought me to make 
 acquaintance with — my relations.' 
 
 She sank back into her chair, and for a moment covered her 
 eyes with her hand. ' You must forgive me,' she said, ' I am very 
 foolish ; but the sound of your name so suddenly in the midst of 
 
 all I was thinking ' She paused a little, and then looked up 
 
 at him. A smile came upon her face. She felt like one who has 
 looked up and, expecting to see some painful apparition, sees 
 instead a smiling face. 'You are like my Mab,' she said, tears 
 coming with a rush to her eyes. 
 
 ' So Swinford tells me ; but I am not like my uncle.' 
 
 Lady William did not say anything, but something in her eyes, 
 something in the momentary tremor of her lips, seemed to say, 
 ' Thank God.' 
 
 It was an exceedingly awkward, stupid, uncalled-for remark 
 upon the part of Will Pakenham, who knew that his uncle had 
 been a scamp, but did not know whether or not his wife might 
 have cherished his memory all the same. There are some wives 
 who deify a blackguard after he is gone. But the visitor was 
 young, and this possibility did not occur to him. 
 
 'You have been living here,' he said, 'a long time.' 
 
208 LADY WILLIAM xxyii 
 
 It may be supposed that Lady William was very much shaken 
 out of her usual self-command before she would allow the stranger 
 to take the conversation thus into his own hands, and to begin an 
 interrogatory examination. It was not so much the suddenness of 
 his introduction that had this effect upon her, as the bewilderment 
 of thoughts in which she was involved when these intricacies were 
 thus cut as by a knife, by the appearance of such an astonishing 
 and unexpected figure upon tlie scene. She began now, however, 
 to recover herself, and to realise that these questions were not at 
 all of the manner in which she chose to permit herself to be 
 addressed. Accordingly, though she smiled in reply, she gave no 
 other answer, but turned to Leo, who stood by watching her, and 
 by no means at his ease. 
 
 ' You were telling us the other day of the ladies of the family,' 
 she said, with a half-reproachful smile ; ' but you did not tell us of 
 Lord Will ' 
 
 How quick she was, seizing the diminutive which made the name 
 less dreadful to her — though she had never heard it before ! 
 
 ' We are old friends,' said Leo ; ' but I did not think — in short, 
 it is years since we saw each other. He has come on purpose to 
 make your acquaintance, and his cousin's.' 
 
 ' He is very good,' Lady William said, with a little bow towards 
 him. ' I have been here for many years open to a visit. And you, 
 are you adopting any profession or service 1 or are you merely a 
 gentleman at large 1 ' 
 
 She smiled upon the young man with her usual gracious 
 reserve ; and he began clearly to perceive that questions to her 
 were practicable no more. He answered, ' Oh, Coldstreams,' a 
 little awkwardly, feeling somehow that this lady in the little 
 cottage, whose daughter did her own gardening, and who had a 
 little charity girl for a servant, had put him back in his own place. 
 
 ' That is a great deal better than doing nothing,' said Lady 
 William ; ' but it is not very hard work. I thought you were all 
 adopting professions, to work hard, you young men about town. 
 Has your father come to town yet 1 ' 
 
 'My father?' said Lord Will vaguely. 'Oh, he's some- 
 where fishing. My mother comes up after Easter. The governor's 
 not very fond of towTi,' 
 
 ' And your uncle John ? -' 
 
 ' Oh ' said the young man, colouring a little, ' we thought 
 
 you would be sure to see it in the papers — everybody is supposed 
 to see everything in the papers : he died about a fortnight ago.' 
 
 ' Died ! ' 
 
XXVII LADY WILLIAM 209 
 
 ' Well, he was rather an old fellow, don't you know,' said Will 
 in an apologetic tone, ' and lived hard. I don't think it was ever 
 expected he'd have dragged on so long.' 
 
 ' In France,' said Lady William, ' there is such a thing as a 
 faire part. They don't exist in England, I suppose ■?' 
 
 ' They are hideous things in France,' said Leo, with a shiver, 
 ' when you get a letter black to your elbow with a long string of 
 names which you don't know, till you come to one little one at the 
 end ' 
 
 ' They are better, however, than no information at all.' 
 
 ' Oh, I hope you will not think there was any incivility meant. 
 I myself heard my mother say that you must be informed. There 
 was a search through all the address books, but we could not find 
 at first where you lived. And then I volunteered ' 
 
 'To come here, of all places in the world — next door to my 
 cottage ! How extraordinarily acute your fiair must be, my dear 
 Lord WUl ! ' 
 
 ' It's not that,' said the young man, very red. ' I knew that 
 Swinford knew you. He wrote to one of the girls, saying what a 
 stun — I mean that you were in his neighbourhood, and about your 
 daughter, and all that ' 
 
 ' Perhaps it was the first intimation you had of our existence,' 
 she said. 
 
 ' Oh, no — no ; don't think so. Besides, you are in the peerage ; 
 there can be no mistake about that.' 
 
 ' That is an honour I didn't think of. And so your uncle 
 John is dead? He was a very strange man — not like any of the 
 family ' 
 
 ' Not at all like the rest of us. None of the others had ever 
 two sixpences to rub against each other. He has died leaving a 
 great fortune.' 
 
 ' A great fortune ! ' said Lady William, startled. 
 
 The young man looked as if he had said more than he intended. 
 ' A — a good deal of money,' he said. ' I don't mean a great fortune 
 as people think of fortunes nowadaj^s. A good bit of money.' He 
 paused a little as if unwilling to go further, then quickly throwing 
 the words from him like a stone, 'And no will,' he said. 
 
XXVIII 
 
 ' So,' said Mrs. Swinford, ' you have seen your dear aunt.' 
 
 Lord Will had arrived in the afternoon, and she had scarcely 
 seen him until dinner. After that meal — in the moment always 
 anxiously awaited when there is any subject to talk of, when the 
 servants had left the room — she entered into conversation. It was 
 not by her invitation that he had come to the Hall — neither, of 
 coui'se, were any of the circumstances of her arranging. Some- 
 times, strangely enough, when there is an evil deed to be done. 
 Providence will seem to arrange all the circumstances for it with 
 sjoecial care — to give the intending sinner a clearer light for the 
 resistance of temptation, or to commit him to his evil choice and 
 inevitable doom. Thus Mrs. SAvinford's whole soul was set upon 
 the ruin of Lady William — if she could fathom it — and the chain 
 of possibihties seemed woven for that end. 
 
 ' Yes,' said Lord Will, though a little embarrassed by this 
 description, ' I have seen Lady William : and being a dear aunt 
 whom I never saw before, and whom I did not expect to be proud 
 of, she is the greatest piece of luck I ever came u^Don. You know 
 her, I suppose 1 ' 
 
 ' Know her ! ' said LIrs. Swinford, with that little continuous 
 laugh which was like the tingling of an electric bell. ' Indeed, I 
 know her— to my cost.' 
 
 ' Ah ! there's mischief in her, then ? ' 
 
 ' There are always old sores in a friendship of twenty years. 
 Isn't that true, mother ? But whatever they are, they must be of 
 very old date, and there can be no reason for bringing them forward 
 now.' 
 
 Thus Leo, who was evidently very uneasy, and had showed 
 symptoms of rising from the table though his mother had as yet 
 given no sign. 
 
 'Leo,' said Mrs. Swinford, 'has fallen under the fascination 
 
XXVIII LADY WILLIAM 211 
 
 which a -woman of that age often exercises— too old to be 
 dangerous, but old enough to know how to make herself very- 
 agreeable.' 
 
 ' Oh, she's very agreeable,' said Lord Will ; * as for fascination, 
 one doesn't associate it somehow with the name of an aunt, don't 
 you know.' 
 
 ' That is true, but you see she is not everybody's aunt. To 
 some people she is ' 
 
 ' I should say to everybody a charming woman. Do you take 
 your coffee downstairs to-night, mother 1 ' 
 
 ' I know what you mean, Leo : but coffee or no coffee, you 
 must understand that I have a great deal to say to Lord Will. 
 It may be now, or it may be later — but I have a great deal to 
 say ' 
 
 ' I need not tell you I am entirely at your disposition, Mrs. 
 Swinford.' 
 
 ' You know,' said Leo, almost angrily, ' it is bad for your health 
 to stay up late : and Will wants a glass of wine, or perhaps to knock 
 about the balls a little ' 
 
 ' I hope I don't look like a fellow to knock about balls — when 
 I have so much better within reach ' 
 
 ' It's always well,' said Mrs. Swinford, ' to know how to turn a 
 compliment. Will you now give me your arm upstairs like a 
 Frenchman, or wait like a Britisher till you have had your glass of 
 wine 1 ' 
 
 ' Perish the glass of wine ! ' said Lord Will with a laugh, 
 ' though I hear ladies say nowadays that they like the British 
 fashion best.' 
 
 ' These are strong-minded ladies, who are, I believe, the fashion, 
 too — whom the men don't care for, and who, consequently, pretend 
 not to care for the men.' 
 
 'Well, that's very flattering to us, at least,' said Lord WiU. 
 He was perhaps a little too much in the movement of his time to 
 accept it as the gospel it has always been supposed to be, and was 
 even a little disposed to laugh in his sleeve at the antiquated 
 charmer who held by that old doctrine. Mrs. Swinford's air of the 
 ancient seductrice and devourer of men was not a new tiling to this 
 experienced youth. 
 
 ' It comes to much the same thing,' said Leo, ' for the French- 
 men adjourn for their cigarette after they have reconducted the 
 ladies. Come, mother, let him be English for to-night. I have 
 something to say to him, too.' 
 
 ' My sou,' said Mrs. Swinford, with the blandest smile, ' Lord 
 
212 LADY WILLIAM xxviii 
 
 Will shall choose between us. I am not going to exercise any 
 pressure, or pull against you.' 
 
 The natural result, of course, was that in a minute or two more 
 Mrs. Swiuford was established in the great drawing-room in her 
 favourite chair, just within reach of the influence of the blazing, 
 cheerful fire, amid the banks of flowers and pleasant twinkling of 
 the lights, with Lord Will before her, at her feet. 
 
 ' We need not detain you, Leo,' she said, with a nod and a smile ; 
 ' I know your liking for this hour by yourself.' 
 
 ' I have no choice of one hour more than another by myself,' 
 said Leo, ' and I, too, prefer the company of my guest to my 
 own.' 
 
 ' Go, dear boy,' she said, kissing the tips of her fingers. ' I 
 prefer that you should not remain : I have a great deal to say, and 
 it is grave. You can say your say afterwards. At present, I 
 don't want to be contradicted. It puts me out.' 
 
 Leo looked at her with an earnest remonstrance in his eyes, 
 but she continued to nod and smile at him, waving him away with 
 that action of her arm which had once been .so graceful and playful. 
 Leo had been brought up to think all his mother's movements 
 graceful, and herself the most distinguished of women. But there 
 was a painful sense of unwilling ridicule in his mind as he looked 
 back at her waving him away, placed in the most careful pose in 
 the great chair, and with the young man, much perplexed between 
 curiosity and embarrassment, and a sense of ridicule, too, in the low 
 chair at her feet. He withdrew into the shade beyond the pillars, 
 but he did not go away. His mother could still see him moving 
 in the partial dark, standing staring at a half-seen picture, or 
 taking up and throwing down again book after book. 
 
 ' We are not to be left quite alone,' she said, shrugging her 
 shoulders; 'Leo acts sheep-dog. It is a new role for him. But 
 whether it is in my interest or yom's, Lord Will, I cannot tell.' 
 
 'There can be only one of us who is in any danger,' said the 
 young man. 
 
 ' I might say that was enigmatical still : but I will receive it 
 as I am sure it is meant, and I congratulate you upon a very pretty 
 turn of speech. Few young Englishmen deserve that. My Leo I 
 used to think — but he is getting heavy in England, as most young 
 men do.' 
 
 To this Lord Will, who was much intent upon the revelations 
 to be made to him, was prepared with no reply ; and serious as 
 this old woman's meaning was, and fatal in intent, she was never- 
 theless half disappointed that he did not continue a little the 
 
XXVIII LADY WILLIAM 213 
 
 badinage with which she would have been pleased to preface what 
 she had to say. She had an eye to serious interest even in deyiring 
 to prolong this moment. For no man likes to see his old mother 
 imitating the coquette, and it might have resulted in sending Leo 
 away. 
 
 'I think I heard you say — and you must pardon me for 
 interfering with your family affairs — that there was a question 
 of money involved in your coming here to see after these unknown 
 relations ? ' 
 
 'Yes,' said Lord Will, straightening himself up with relief; 
 ' there is money. My uncle John died the other day, rich, and 
 without a will. There were only two other brothers, my father 
 and my Uncle William. In that case. Uncle William's heirs would 
 come in for half the estate.' He stopped with a little embarrass- 
 ment. ' And my father was of opinion — my mother thought 
 
 It seemed a little hard perhaps that people we know nothing of — 
 and then, for his rank, and with all he has to keep up, my father 
 is a poor man.' 
 
 ' So you came to see ? ' 
 
 Whatever her own motives might be, Mrs. Swinford had no 
 thought of letting off a culprit of another kind. The young man 
 grew red under her searching eye. ' You thought it a pit}-,' she 
 went on, 'that the money you could spend so much better should 
 be wasted upon a couple of insignificant women — who perhaps had 
 never heard, never knew that they had any claim to it, so would 
 have been none the worse 1 ' 
 
 ' You take me up too sharply,' answered Lord Will. ' I don't 
 think I meant anything like that. I meant that it was best to see 
 something of them — to know something. My father has given Lady 
 William an allowance all along. I don't know that he was com- 
 pelled to do it. He has not abandoned his brother's widow. We 
 thought that perhaps ' 
 
 ' I will not ask what you find so much difiiculty in putting into 
 words. What would your father say to any one who gave him a 
 chance of proving — that Emily Plowden was not William Paken- 
 ham's widow at all ? ' 
 
 She had lowered her voice, but yet spoke with such a keenness 
 of meaning that she was heard further than she intended. Leo 
 came striding out of the dark where he was, calling out in a voice 
 of indignation, ' Mother ! ' She turned to him and waved her hand 
 quickly, threateningly, without any of the former consciousness of 
 a gracious pose. 
 
 ' Go away ! ' she cried, ' go away, go away ! What I am saying 
 
214 LADY WILLIAM xxviii 
 
 is not for you. Go away, Leo Swinford, or you may hear something 
 you will like still less — go away, go away ! ' 
 
 ' Swinford,' said Lord Will, standing up, ' this you see is too 
 serious to be suppressed. Whether it's fact or not, don't you see 
 I must hear out what your mother has got to say ? ' 
 
 Leo did not make any reply. He retired again to the darker 
 part of the room, but instead of lounging about drew forward a 
 chair almost ostentatiously, and placed himself therein. 
 
 ' I see,' said Mrs. Swinford, with a laugh, ' the Devil's Advo- 
 cate — on the part of his client. That will not make any difference. 
 Would you like me to tell you how these two came together 1 I 
 can do so in every detail.' 
 
 ' The question for me is,' said Lord Will, after a pause : for to 
 tell the truth, being a young mau with a clear view of his own 
 interests, but no wickedness in him, nor desire to harm his neigh- 
 bours — at least no more than was essential to benefit himself — he 
 was a little frightened by the gleam of devilry in Mrs. Swinford's 
 eyes ; and he was well enough aware — -as people in society are 
 aware of everything of the kind — that there was something about 
 Mrs. Swinford herself which had kept her out of England for so 
 long. ' The question for me is simply about the marriage. If 
 there is scandal there is no use in raking up old scandals ; besides, 
 whatever happened before, if she is his wife and the girl his child, 
 nothing else matters to us. I am sure it would be all very in- 
 teresting — but you see ' 
 
 ' I am not going to rake up old scandals,' Mrs. Swinford 
 
 said, 'but as it all happened within my knowledge She 
 
 was here — a pretty little country girl, nothing more. She has 
 immensely improved — quite, quite a different creature. A girl 
 I had taken a fancy to. I am not sure that she did not teach 
 Leo a little. That was her standing, the daughter of the parish 
 clergyman.' 
 
 'That I am sure she did not,' said Leo from behind ; ' you 
 forget that I had a governess, mother.' 
 
 ' Oh, you are there still, old Truepenny ! You seem practising 
 for the ghost in Hamlet, Leo. No, decidedly I cannot go on while 
 he is there. It shall be for another time. To-morrow you will come 
 to me in my boudoir before you go away.' 
 
 Lord Will looked round to his friend with an appealing air. 
 Then going up to him, ' Swinford,' he said, ' like a good fellow, let 
 me hear it all now. I must know it.' 
 
 ' In order, if you can, to keep what is theirs from two helpless 
 women ? ' 
 
XXVIII LADY WILLIAM 215 
 
 ' I want to keep nothing that is theirs from any one,' said the 
 young man, with an angry flush. 
 
 ' And yet it appears this is what you came here for. But fore- 
 warned is forearmed. Yes, you shall hear it all now ; I will not 
 interfere.' 
 
 ' Is he gone 1 ' said Mrs. Swiuford, ' really gone 1 Leo is the 
 most scrupulous and delicate of men. He hates your talk of the 
 clubs, gossip and scandal, as he calls it. If I had brought him up 
 in England would it have been so 1 Shut the door, and draw the 
 curtain, Lord Will. I have the temperature kept up as well as I 
 can, but there are always cold winds about.' She shivered a little 
 and drew round her a film of a white shawl that had been hanging 
 over her chair. ' Now come back and put yourself there. Now I 
 may speak my mind.' 
 
 'You must know,' she went on after all had been done as she 
 ordered, ' that your uncle William was a great deal here in this 
 house — a very great deal — it was a kind of home to him, I can- 
 not say that I myself remarked that he had been attracted by 
 Emily Plowden, but I have told you that she had a certain bread- 
 and-butter -prettiness. I do not say becmte de diable, for it was 
 neither beaute, nor had she enough in her for the devil to have any- 
 thing to do with it. Youth alone sometimes attracts a man. 
 Enjin, I never saw anything of it : but one evening, nay, it was 
 pretty late — he came to me ' — she paused a little and drew a long 
 breath — 'to tell me — -it was a confused story — something about 
 having committed himself. Mr. Swinford, Leo's father, was a 
 little like Leo, but more English, more rigid. He burst in while 
 this was being explained to me, took up a false idea, got what you 
 
 call the wrong end of the stick ' She spoke not with her 
 
 usual ease, but with strange breaks of breathlessness. ' ' Enough, 
 he got it all wrong, completely wrong from beginning to end, and 
 stormed and made a scene. And when he understood that it was 
 Emily who was concerned — Emily had always been a great 
 favourite,' with the electrical tinkle running through her words, 
 ' he insisted that a marriage should take place at once. She left 
 our house late that night, escorted by your uncle : and what 
 happened I cannot tell. I never met her again except in Paris, 
 where she was called Lady William, but saw no society, except the 
 sort of men among whom your poor uncle, by that time heartbroken 
 and misunderstood ' 
 
 ' But why heartbroken — if he had been in love with her"?' 
 
 ' You are an innocent young man,' said Mrs. Swinford, tapping 
 him on the shoulder with her fan. ' Oh, a very innocent dear 
 
216 LADY WILLIAM " xxviii 
 
 boy ! You don't think what a man like that would feel with a 
 creature like her — a country girl tied to him, and no doubt leading 
 him a life ! She kept him — from saying a word to me, watching 
 over him like a cat over a mouse. He was burning to tell me— 
 something ; I know not what. My husband also was much pre- 
 judiced, and would not let us meet. So that I never heard his 
 secret, if there was a secret, as I suppose there must have been. I have 
 never seen her again till I saw her last month, shining as Lady Wil- 
 liam, and believed in by all the country folk — taking precedence,' 
 Mrs. Swinford cried with her little laugh, throwing up her fine 
 hands, with all her rings flashing, ' upon next to nothing a year.' 
 
 ' But she was acknowledged by my uncle as his wife.' 
 
 ' She was called Lady William among the sort of demi-monde 
 they lived in. But what happened between the time she left my 
 house and the time I saw her there ' 
 
 'Do you mean to say that my uncle eloped with this young 
 lady, Mrs. Swinford ? ' 
 
 'My dear Lord Will, you are young, but you know the world. 
 They left the house together, late at night. I tell you, quite late, 
 after midnight. He, a man who was known to be — well, not the 
 safest for women : and she a country girl of nineteen — oh, very 
 well able to take care of herself, but as silly and ignorant as they 
 usually are : and — I know no more.' 
 
 Mrs. Swinford threw up her hands again, with the dazzling 
 rings. There was a thrill and tremble in her whole frame with 
 the excitement of the story, which was so elaborately false yet so 
 nearly true. The young man had not seated himself a second 
 time. He stood leaning upon the mantelpiece, his head bent, 
 looking down upon the blazing fire. 
 
 ' And you 1 ' he said, ' you allowed a girl to go out of your 
 house like that — a girl, unprotected ? ' 
 
 ' What could I do ? ' said Mrs. Swinford. ' I was not her 
 keeper, neither was I in command of afi"airs. I tell you that my 
 husband insisted ' 
 
 'For the marriage, you said, for a marriage — that was very 
 diflferent.' 
 
 ' Ah, you are difficile I And she, a hot-headed girl full of her 
 own attractions, do you think she would be restrained ' 
 
 ' From leaving home with her lover in the dead of night 1 ' 
 
 ' Her lover ! ' cried Mrs. Swinford, with the tingling laugh ; 
 ' her lover ! ' 
 
 •' Vf as he not her lover 1 For heaven's sake say what you 
 mean.' 
 
xxviii LADY WILLIAM 217 
 
 There was a little pause agaiu, through which her laugh rau 
 on, as if she could not stop it when once it had begun. Lord 
 Will was the first to speak. He said : ' All this is very curious 
 and dramatic and strange ; but the one question of my uncle's 
 marriage is, after all, the chief thing. I don't think my father 
 ever entertained any doubt. It is in the peerage ' 
 
 ' That is no proof,' said Mrs. Swinford sharply. 
 
 'I know; but still — my father was sent for at his death. 
 There was no suspicion. I have heard that it was a mesalliance, 
 but that is all I have ever heard.' 
 
 ' Your father arrived when he was dying, had no communica- 
 tion with him, nor had any of his true friends. She kept them 
 away. Lord Will, perhaps we have talked on this question long 
 enough ; it is no matter to me, it is only you who are affected. If 
 there is money involved it is of the more consequence. You will 
 require proof of the marriage before you do anything further. 
 That is all you have to do. Ask her to send in her certificates, 
 child's birth, and all that. Women of that class are very wary ; 
 they generally see after their papers. I have thought it over ; I 
 thought it all over before I made up my mind to speak to you. I 
 felt that I could not allow what might be a great wrong to be done 
 to the family of one who was once a dear friend ' 
 
 Mrs. Swinford put her handkerchief lightly to her eyes ; it was 
 scarcely substantial enough to have imbibed one tear. And there 
 were perhaps other reasons why tears would have been out of 
 place ; but, had they existed at all, they would have been not dew, 
 but fiire. 
 
XXIX 
 
 LoED Will was greatly impressed, as may be supposed, by that 
 interview with Mrs. Swiuford. When he joined Leo downstairs 
 he had very little to say. He had not the heart to play a game 
 at billiards, but knocked l.he balls a little vaguely, and took the 
 refreshment which was given to him while he puffed at his cigar. 
 ' I say, Swinford, your mother and this aunt of mine don't seem to 
 hit it off,' he said. 
 
 ' Don't they ? ' said Leo. ' I don't know, indeed ; they were 
 great friends once.' 
 
 ' Which makes women hate each other all the more when they 
 fall out.' 
 
 ' Does it 1 ' said Leo. ' You seem to know so much. I am 
 older, but my knowledge is much less.' 
 
 ' By Jove ! ' said Lord Will. ' You ought to have learnt a 
 thing or two,' and then he became suddenly silent, thinking it 
 would be very difficult if he were called upon to explain himself. 
 Leo did not ask any questions, but he was not indifferent to what 
 his friend said. 
 
 ' I think you should not take anybody's opinion,' he said. 
 'If you want to know about your aunt, go and see her for 
 yourself.' 
 
 ' I've done that, thanks to you, Swinford ; and I thought her 
 stunning — that's the truth. But you see there's money in it, and 
 we're not to call rich at Pakenham. It would be a deal pleasanter 
 for my father to keep all Uncle John's money than to divide with 
 a lady who perhaps has no real right. Don't jump up in that way 
 — I think her stunning. But still you know that's a very queer 
 story of Mrs. Swinford's. Uncle Will was no end of a bad old 
 man, I've always heard. Why mightn't he do that as well as the 
 rest 1 ' 
 
 ' I do not know,' said Leo, who had grown pale, ' what your 
 
XXIX LADY WILLIAM 219 
 
 respected uncle is suijposed to have done. He maj^ have been the 
 greatest reprobate that ever lived ; but I do not see how that 
 furthers your case. I presume there must have been two of them 
 before it would do you any good ; and the man who will endeavour 
 to cast a blemish iipon that lady — well, I may say he will have to 
 do with me first.' 
 
 ' Swinford ! for goodness' sake don't take up that tone. Why, 
 what have you to do with it 1 Do you mean to challenge me 1 
 These are your French ways — you know as well as I do they're no 
 go here.' 
 
 ' The more's the pity, when it is a question of injuring a 
 woman ! ' said Leo, whose moustache had taken a warlike twist, 
 and every nerve in his person seemed strung. 
 
 ' I don't want to injure her ; but if you think fifty thousand 
 pounds or so — that's a nice bit of money to hand over for no 
 motive but sheer love of justice — if it should turn out 
 perhaps — ' 
 
 ' If what should turn out 1 ' 
 
 ' Well — that perhaps they had no real right. I don't mean 
 that it would be their fault. She might have been taken in, and 
 never known. I've always heard he was a horrible old scamp, up 
 to everything — and would have cheated you as soon as look at you. 
 It would be nothing wonderful if he had cheated a girl who, I 
 suppose, was fond of him. A woman will be fond of anything 
 that notices her, I believe. And fifty thousand pounds is a big 
 bit of money to throw away.' 
 
 ' Well, my friend,' said Leo, ' I am quite well aware that fighting 
 is, as you say in England, no go ; but I am bound also to allow 
 that it is a farce in France, and that if it were ever so serious and 
 real it is not a way to decide a question like this. However, let 
 us try, if not to decide it at least to throw some light upon it.' 
 
 'Oh, that's easy enough done, old man,' said Lord Will. 
 ' You needn't trouble yourself She has a solicitor, I suppose, and 
 he will have to send in all the joapers to our man, and they'll 
 manage it between them. Of course, if our fellow has a hint that 
 there is anything irregular he will be more particular. That's 
 more or less what I came for, don't you know : to see what she 
 had heard about old John, and so forth, and what she expected 
 and ' 
 
 ' What you say,' said Leo, ' sounds as if you meant — that you 
 were to try whether she could be made to be content with less 
 than her rights — with anything that it was thought well to give. 
 I don't suppose that is what you mean.' 
 
220 LADY WILLIAM xxix 
 
 'It's kind of you to add that much,' said Lord Will, who had 
 stopped in his amusement of knocking about the balls, which he 
 had been doing savagely, to stare in a threatening way at his 
 friend. Then he threw down the cue and began to walk up and 
 down the hall. ' Swinford,' he said after a while, coming back to 
 the table, ' do you know that is, I believe, exactly what I was 
 intended to do ? I knew it in a kind of a way, but I never put 
 it into words. I believe they thought she might have been 
 put off with a thousand pounds or two, as if it had been a 
 legacy.' 
 
 ' But your lawyers — I suppose they have a character to lose — 
 would not have consented.' 
 
 ' Oh ! there's no saying what lawyers will consent to when 
 they're on your side. I note what you say, about having char- 
 acters to lose, I suppose you think that we — haven't much, 
 perhaps.' 
 
 ' I did not mean that,' said Leo briefly. 
 
 ' Well, perhaps you will now — but that would be a mistake. 
 We're none of us lawyers. Don't you know that people sometimes 
 take up an idea that looks quite allowable until you put it into 
 words 1 Here's a woman Hviug quite by herself in a corner, 
 wanting very little money. And the governor, you know, has 
 been making her an allowance all this time. What can she want 
 with a lot of money like that 1 It would only worry her, make 
 her think, perhaps, she could set up in a dift'erent way of living, 
 and bring her to grief in the end. And she as good as owes the 
 family her allowance all these years, which my father wasn't any 
 way compelled to give. D'ye see 1 Well, it doesn't sound very 
 high-minded, I allow, but it's very plausible. It would be no 
 end of use to us — fifty thousand pounds, or say forty-five with five 
 thousand or so off to her ' 
 
 ' Oh ! you mean to be so liberal as that ! ' 
 
 ' By Jove ! don't drive me to it, or I may Look here, 
 
 don't let's quarrel, S^vinford. It's so caddish. I never thought 
 of the business, I tell you, from your point of view. It sounds 
 very plausible. It's quite possible the lawyers worddn't have 
 stood it ; I don't know. They never thought of the law, nor that 
 she had any natural right, don't you see, to old John's money. 
 They knew very well he would never have left it to her, when he 
 knew how heavily the governor was dipped and all that. I fail to 
 see even now what harm there was in it. The allowance, of 
 course, would be continued, and five thousand pounds is as much 
 to a woman living like that, as fifty is at home. It woidd have 
 
XXIX LADY WILLIAM 221 
 
 been an enormous windfall ; that is what my mo — I mean what 
 my people thought.' 
 
 Leo Swiuford had a mind which was very tolerant, and he 
 wanted of course, now he had calmed down a little, to make the 
 best of it. He nodded his head, and said : ' I allow that perhaps 
 it was plausible ; but I presume it would be felony all the same.' 
 
 ' Felony,' said the other with a stare of astonishment — the 
 word seemed to puzzle him. ' The governor is the head of the 
 family,' he said vaguely, which somehow seemed a reason. 
 
 ' It would be defrauding one of the heirs of an intestate person 
 of her just share. The heir would be Mab, I sujipose, not her 
 mother.' 
 
 ' Oh,' said Lord Will, quite confused ; what between the trans- 
 ference of the heirship, the inattention of his friend to his plea 
 that his father was the head of the family, which to himself seemed 
 to be a condition of importance, and the extremely big word that 
 Leo had used, this young man, who was not clever, but who was 
 not at all a bad fellow notwithstanding the mission in which his 
 dull intelligence had not seen any harm, was quite bewildered, and 
 did not know what to think. 
 
 ' Yes,' said Leo, ' I don't know much about English law, but 
 Mab no doubt would be the heir ; and any reasoning brought to 
 bear upon her to make her accept a portion of her natural right in 
 place of the whole, would be the same, I presume, as if you had 
 stolen so much from her.' 
 
 ' Oh, stolen ! rubbish ! ' cried Lord Will ; then he explained 
 ingenuously, ' there was to be no reasoning brought to bear ; I 
 was to inform them simply that Uncle John had left — a legacy.' 
 
 ' That would have been what I believe is called in English — 
 lying.' 
 
 ' Swinford ! you mean, I think, to make me forget that I am 
 your guest, in your house.' 
 
 ' In French,' said Leo, taking no notice, ' it is called mensonge, 
 and has sometimes interpretations more or less favourable. When 
 you save your mother's reputation or your father's honour, as it is 
 called, mensonge is the word, and you are not judged too severely ; 
 but I have always heard that in England to lie was the worst 
 offence.' 
 
 Lord Will was a little stupid, and therefore very placable. 
 But this stung him to the quick. He knew what a lie meant, 
 and though he felt a resistance and i^rofound objection in himself 
 to accept that dreadful word as representing his action, still, he felt 
 there was a horrible resemblance between his intentions and that 
 
222 LADY WILLIAM xxix 
 
 theory. Certainly the legacy would have been a lie. He did not 
 see that though he had come to say this, he had already in the frank- 
 ness which was far deeper down in his nature than any intention 
 of guilt, committed himself to the actual truth. No consciousness 
 of that fact softened his sensations. What Leo said was true. 
 He had come not only to say but to act a lie. 
 
 ' You're tremendously severe,' he said. ' I should knock you 
 down by rights for hinting at such a thing.' 
 
 'Yes, you might,' said Leo, ' and you could if you liked. You 
 are bigger than I am ; but I don't see what difference that would 
 make.' 
 
 ' I don't either,' said Lord Will. And then there was a pause ; 
 he was not clear enough in his mind to stop there. ' But if this,' 
 he said, ' that Mrs. Swinford tells me is true ' 
 
 ' What did my mother tell you 1 ' 
 
 ' Well ! you ought to care more about what she says than about 
 any other woman's pretences. She says that it's very uncertain 
 whether they were ever married at all. Look here, don't you know, 
 it isn't me, it's your mother. She says they went off from her house 
 together, eloping, as far as I could make out, in the middle of the 
 night : and that the next time she saw them, she — this lady — was 
 with my uncle in Paris and called Lady William. That's all. Of 
 course, if it was a marriage she'll be able to prove everything 
 about it ; but if not, it does seem a little hard, dosen't it, that 
 those fifty thousand pounds of old John's money should be lost ? 
 And you must remember, Swinford, it is your mother who says so; 
 it is not I.' 
 
 Leo was silenced by this speech. He had not been prepared 
 for so bold a statement, nor that Mrs. Swinford would interfere 
 in such a way as this. Whence had she derived this hate against 
 her old friend 1 His mind went back easily to the period when 
 Emily Plowden was the pet of the house. He had only been a 
 child, indeed, but a child remembers CA^ery detail which older people 
 forget. And he remembered more vaguely, yet well enough, to 
 have heard his father speak of Lady William after their establish- 
 ment in Paris. Leo had not known very much of his father, who 
 was a reserved man, and not demonstrative to the boy, who was 
 his mother's toy and darling, a little drawing-room puppet, every- 
 thing that an English father would most dislike in his son. Leo 
 was aware of all this now, and exaggerated it, as was natural, 
 his ov/n later conduct in life having been revolutionised more or 
 less by compunctions and repentances in respect to his father. 
 He could not tell how it was that in a moment the image of that 
 
XXIX LADY WILLIAM 223 
 
 father leaped into his mind. It seemed to him that he could 
 almost see the little scene — the ornate suite of rooms in Paris, his 
 mother lying back scornful and splendid in a great chair, his father 
 walking up and down in high indignation and something about 
 Lady William on his lips. What it was he did not remember, 
 but that his father had spoken in respect, he was sure. The 
 recollection came to his mind like an assurance and pledge that 
 all was well. 
 
 ' You must take care,' he said, taking the cue which Lord 
 Will had thrown down, and beginning in his turn to tortiure the 
 balls, ' that the wish is not father to the thought. When it is 
 for one's interest that a thing should be, it is so easy to persuade 
 oneself that it is.' 
 
 ' That is not my case, Swinford. I did hope I might have 
 made something of the business ; but to have it settled for good 
 and all in this way was never in my thoughts. The governor 
 himself never knew, nor any one. I don't believe he ever sus- 
 pected ' 
 
 ' And yet you are certain, all at once 1 ' 
 
 ' Well, not certain,' said Lord Will ; ' but when a lady, a 
 friend of the woman, with nothing in her mind but justice, I 
 suppose ' 
 
 ' My mother,' said Leo, ' has told you nothing from her own 
 knowledge. She informs you of a possibility of wrong. Your 
 own father was on the spot ; he went over when his brother died, 
 but he suspected nothing ; and my father, a man of the highest 
 honour, though I did not know him as I ought, suspected nothing. 
 Take care how you let a mere insinuation — a doubt ' 
 
 ' It was your mother who made it, Swinford.' 
 
 Leo was very pale, and an angry cloud came over his counte- 
 nance. He turned round with an impulse of indignation towards 
 the young man who forced this upon him. ' My mother,' he said, 
 ' may be mistaken ; she is human, like the rest of us. In the 
 meantime, I think you are showing little knowledge of human 
 nature, Pakenham. Do you think that lady whom you saw to-day 
 could have lived as she has done for all these years under a burden 
 of shame ■? and could look as she does if she knew that she might 
 be found out any day 1 ' 
 
 ' Women are dreadful hypocrites,' said Lord AVill. ' They 
 can face things out in a way no man could do. Why, I've seen 
 at home how things can be faced out — and no doubt so have you, 
 too.' 
 
 ' She is not of the kind to face things out.' 
 
224 LADY WILLIAM xxix 
 
 ' Oh, I quite acknowledge she's a stunner, and all that. Reason 
 the more why she should hold her own, and refuse to understand 
 if a fellow dared to put a question — oh, not that I should ever 
 dare to do that. I'm no more a coward than most other people, 
 but say to a woman like that that I believed she wasn't rightly 
 married, I'd sooner jump into the river any day with a bullet at 
 my heel.' 
 
 ' Which means simply that your inner man — the better part 
 of you— is aware of the fact, which, for your interest, you would 
 like to deny : that is all about it. I advise you to drop the idea, 
 like a hot potato, as they say here. It is not true.' 
 
 ' Prove that it isn't true, and I'll not say another word.' 
 
 ' I prove it by simply pointing to the lady in question,' said 
 Leo hotly. 
 
 ' Oh, that ! but even if I were to take that view, she mightn't 
 know, herself. She might be deceived as well as the rest.' 
 
 A look of sudden alarm came upon Leo's face. Lady William 
 was a person of high intelligence, but she was not a woman of the 
 world. In the quick look he gave upward, in his way of return- 
 ing to his aimless play, and the impatience with which he struck 
 again the innocent balls, sending them coursing to every corner, 
 the trouble of his mind might be guessed. This gave his visitor 
 fresh courage. 
 
 ' You needn't fear, Swinford,' he said, ' that I'll bully a — per- 
 son like that. Whatever her position may be, there's nothing 
 common about her, that's clear. I'll give our man a hint. Get 
 it all clear about marriage and all that, and the proof of the 
 child's birth and so forth — all in the way of business. You may 
 trust me for that : not a word to her, but just what's necessary 
 between the two solicitors, don't you know. I think now I'm 
 going to bed.' 
 
 * I advise you,' said Leo, taking care not to see his companion's 
 hand stretched out to him, ' to be careful how you discount your 
 hopes. Do not count your eggs, as they say here, till they are 
 hatched.' 
 
 'You mean the chickens: and I should not dream of putting 
 the fifty thousand pounds in my own pocket. Why, man alive, it's 
 not for me ! I shan't get twenty thousand farthings of it, nor 
 anything like that.' 
 
 ' Ah, then you are hopeless, for you will feel yourself disinter- 
 ested,' said Leo, so busy with the balls that once more he missed 
 seeing Lord Will's hand stretched out. 
 
 ' I say, Swinford, there's no ill-feeling, I hope.' 
 
XXIX LADY WILLIAM 225 
 
 ' Why should there be any ill-feeling ? ' said Leo, raising his 
 eyes for a moment with a benign but too radiant smile. He 
 turned to the balls again the nest moment as he said lightly with 
 a wave of his cue, ' Good night.' 
 
 It is confusing, it must be allowed, to a plain intelligence, to 
 have one member of a family force information of the most serious 
 kind upon you, while another avoids shaking hands with you be- 
 cause you believe it. Such things happen, no doubt, in the world, 
 but they are rare, and Lord Will went upstairs to his room in a 
 very uncomfortable state of mind, not knowing which he should 
 depend on of those two conflicting powers. Leo remained for 
 some time after, still knocking about the balls. Morris, with 
 whom his master in the dearth of other companions had sometimes 
 played an occasional game, hung about in prospect of a call. But 
 Morris was disappointed, though it was perhaps an hour later 
 before Mr Swinford left that uninviting occupation. He went on 
 with the gravest face in the world, but very devious strokes, evi- 
 dently as indifferent to what he was doing as he was overwhelm- 
 ingly serious in doing it. The click of the balls and of his steps 
 round the table gave a curious sound in the midst of the silence of 
 the great house. Such sounds say more of solitude than the most 
 complete stillness, and Leo's countenance was as grave as if he had 
 been playing, like a man in an old legend, with some unseen being 
 for his own soul. 
 
XXX 
 
 It is not to be supposed that during this period the visits of Mrs. 
 Brown, the schoolmistress, to her friend at the Hall, who was 
 so like yet so unlike her — so unlike in personal importance — so 
 superior in position, and yet so strangely resembling — should have 
 ceased. There were no other two persons in all the precincts of 
 Watcham so evidently belonging to the same world and species, 
 and yet there were no two more separate in all those externals 
 that distinguish life. Mrs. Brown's visits were almost all paid in 
 the evening, sometimes very late, sometimes at that hour before 
 dinner when Mrs. Swinford was known to receive no one. But 
 there was no bar at any time against the entrance of this privileged 
 visitor. On the evening which Lord Will spent at the Hall 
 Mrs. Brown came late, while dinner was going on. She had an 
 entrance of her own by which she preferred to come in, a door 
 which gave admittance to the servants' quarters, but which was 
 always open, and spared the schoolmistress the intervention of 
 Morris, whom she did not dislike to see now and then, and meta- 
 phorically put her foot upon with the pride of a superior knowledge 
 which he could not understand. But this malicious gratification, 
 though she enjoyed it occasionally, was not enough to make up 
 for the disadvantage of having her movements known and chron- 
 icled, and it suited her character and habits better to have a 
 mode of access absolutely free and beyond control. She was so 
 swift and subtle in her movements, and so fortunate, as the clan- 
 destine often are, in finding her passage free, that on many occasions 
 she had glided through the great house, mounted the great stairs, 
 and appeared noiseless in the ante-room occupied by Julie, the maid, 
 without an individual in the house being aware that she was there. 
 It had so happened on this particular night when even Julie was 
 out of the way. Mrs. Brown came in noiseless, slightly breathless, 
 having hurried upstairs, and just escaped meeting a strange young 
 
XXX LADY WILLIAM 227 
 
 man, whose wide shirt-front indicated him in the partial dark- 
 ness of the corridor as if he had carried a light, but whom to her 
 surprise she did not know. A woman with her wits so much 
 about her, knew by sight by this time everybody in the neighbour- 
 hood who was likely to dine with Leo. She avoided him by a 
 rapid step aside, and consequently she was a little out of breath 
 when she arrived in Julie's room, where there was no one, a 
 dereliction of duty that might have cost Julie her place had it been 
 known. Mrs. Brown looked round her with a nod of satisfaction 
 as she put off the heavy veil in wliich she was accustomed to wrap 
 herself on these visits. She went into the inner room, and 
 looked round with an even more vivid look of satisfaction. Mrs. 
 Swinford's luxurious room was as she had left it in the perfection 
 of silent repose and comfort — soft light, soft warmth, everything 
 that the most refined suggestion of luxury and ease could com- 
 mand. Mrs. Brown gave a sigh, and then a laugh. She said to 
 herself, ' How little a difference would have made me like this ! ' 
 and then she said, ' What a bore it would have been ! ' The laugh 
 suited her better than the sigh. It called forth a twinkle of 
 mischief and lurking vagabondism in her eyes. She then lay 
 down on Mrs. Swinford's sofa, put back her head upon the cushions, 
 took up first one book, then another, and read a page or two. 
 Then she threw them down one after another, and looked round 
 the room again. How pretty it was ! Her eyes lingered for a 
 moment here and there on the pictures, the little graceful bronzes, 
 the prevailing ornament, the lights, carefully planned to the ad- 
 vantage of the decorations. And then a strange shadow came 
 over her face. Good heavens, to lie here, and remember ! she said. 
 Perhaps in her energy of feeling, these words were said aloud. At 
 least, they brought in Juhe, who had in the meantime returned to 
 her room, not suspecting the presence of this visitor, and who 
 peeped in suspicious, half- terrified, with her hand on her breast. 
 ' C'est vous, Madame 1 ' she said, with a look of mingled terror and 
 relief. 
 
 'Who else should it be, unless a thief?' said Mrs Brown. 
 * But as it might have been a thief and not me, you know, you 
 ought not to be absent, ma chere.' 
 
 Julie clasped her hands and entreated that Madame would 
 not say anything. ' This is not the house for thiefs,' she said. 
 
 ' On the contrary, it is just the house. Don't you know all 
 the robberies of jewels are done when the family are at dinner ? ' 
 Mrs. Brown rose from the sofa and took a low chair beside 
 the fire, where she continued to sit when she had dismissed 
 
228 LADY WILLIAM xxx 
 
 Julie much alarmed by the admonition. Many thoughts went 
 through her mind while she waited, and she had a long time to 
 wait. She compared her own vagabond lot, now up, now down, 
 which she had led after her own wild fancy — tlie life rather of a 
 man than of a woman — with this beauty and luxury, with a 
 shudder of pity going over her. The pity was not for herself, but 
 for the other woman shut in, in this gilded cage to remem- 
 ber ! The pictures on the walls, the carefully arranged lights, 
 the unchangeable surroundings, all luxury and brightness, affected 
 her like a spell. Good heavens ! to sit there day after day, 
 evening after evening, and remember ! Mrs. Brown thought of 
 her own little rooms which it had given her pleasure to arrange 
 and decorate in a manner which she felt to be fictitious and out of 
 character, but which amused her all the same, and which she 
 laughed at, having done it, with a full consciousness that it was 
 trumpery, and that the trumpery was out of place, as a woman 
 who knew better could not fail to see. ' Ah, well ! ' she said to 
 herself, ' I'd rather have my trumpery that I can throw away any 
 day, and probably shall some day, and that I can run away from 
 when I like, when it gets too absurd.' And then there were the 
 books : French novels, going over and over with fantastic varia- 
 tions the one story — the story of (so-caUed) love — that is, the 
 complicated ways by which two people, generally old enough to 
 know better, are brought into the relations of intrigue or passion 
 with each other — which ends badly, either in the death of one or 
 the disgust of both : and so da capo, always beginning over 
 again. ' Good heavens ! ' said Mrs. Brown to herself again, ' how 
 can she go on day after day, day after day, reading tliat — and 
 remembering ! ' The schoolmistress had no objection to a French 
 novel of this class herself now and then ; and reading only now 
 and then — being within reach of such indulgences only now and 
 then — naturally she got only the best, the ones that had wit and 
 genius in them. But the unhappy woman who lived upon that 
 food for ever ! What garbage, what insipidity of nastiness must 
 go through her hands ! The poor Bohemian whose life was a con- 
 tinual scuffle (chiefly of her own choosing) looked upon this unvary- 
 ing luxury, ease, and wealth, with a horror and wonder which it 
 would be dif&cult to describe. ' Good heavens ! ' she repeated to 
 herself ; ' why doesn't she take a little chloral and be done % ' 
 
 Mrs. Swinford gave a start of pleasure when, sweeping into 
 her room in those long and splendid robes which were more fit 
 for a Court than for a country house of so little distinction as the 
 Hall at Watchara, she perceived Mrs. Brown sitting by the fire. 
 
XXX LADY WILLIAM 229 
 
 It was, perhaps, the only event which could have lighted up her 
 face with pleasure. She was cross, excited, full of the impati- 
 ence and exasperation of effort which she felt to be at least only 
 half successful ; and Julie had perceived by her first glance at 
 the lines on her lady's brow that her evening's task to undress, 
 and soothe, and persuade into calm and sleep this agitated and 
 disturbed old woman would be no easy one. 'You come at the 
 best time. You always know when I have need of you,' Mrs. 
 Swinford said, letting herself droj), as was her wont, into Mrs. 
 Brown's arms. The very passiveness of the embrace was a habit 
 — a habit of reliance and expected help which had never failed. 
 If such a thing as affection had ever been in Mrs. Swinford's heart 
 it was this other woman, so like her, and so unlike, who was its 
 object. 
 
 ' I see you are got up for conquest,' Mrs. Brown said, 
 
 ' Conquest ! I am dressed as usual. There was one guest 
 at dinner — an insignificant boy. You can leave us, Julie, till I 
 ring. A boy, but with such a name ! What do you think 1 A 
 nephew — Lord Will they call him fortunately, or it woidd have 
 been too much.' 
 
 ' A nephew ! of ' 
 
 ' Do you need to inquire '? Then you are growing dull, dull 
 as your surroundings. You who used to understand everything d, 
 demi-mot 1 ' 
 
 ' I understand. I almost met him on the stairs. I thought 
 there was something familiar in his face. And what does he 
 want here ? ' 
 
 ' Is it necessary to ask ? Might he not come to see me, or 
 Leo, whom he knows 1 But no, no, Artdmise, I will not deceive 
 you. He has come to find out about that woman — her rights to 
 his name — which she has none, having stolen it, as you know ; 
 and to some money that has fallen in, do I care how ! He 
 could not have come to a better quarter. I gave him some 
 information.' 
 
 ' What information 1 ' said Mrs. Brown, sitting up in her chair. 
 
 ' I told him all that I knew. You will please to remember 
 it is all I know : that she left the Hall hastily at midnight, that 
 I met her after in Paris bearing his name.' Mrs. Smnford, too, 
 sat upright, with a colour in her cheeks and a fire in her eyes 
 that recalled something of the beauty of old to her worn face. 
 'What do I know more? Nothing,' she said, with a movement of 
 her hands, which made the rings upon them flash and send out 
 rays like sparks of light. 
 
230 LADY WILLIAM xxx 
 
 ' Ah ! you told him that 1 ' 
 
 'There is money in the question,' said Mrs. Swinford, leaning 
 forward and speaking low, ' and their object is to find out that 
 she has no rights. He took my hints like milk ; they were balm 
 to him. Fancy so many thousand pounds — I know no details — ■ 
 and if not to her they will go to him. Is not that worth the 
 trouble 1 ' 
 
 ' To the man, perhaps, Cecile— but why to you ? ' 
 
 ' To me much more than to him,' she said, with flashing eyes. 
 
 'Why?' 
 
 'You are stupid to-night,' said Mrs. Swinford coldly; 'not 
 for a long time, for many years, have I found you so before.' 
 
 'Because,' said Mrs. Brown, 'this that you have said is, as 
 you are aware, not ' 
 
 'Your scruples are engaging, they are beautiful, they are 
 something to put in a story-book,' said the lady. ' You to stand 
 for that ! You, who- ' 
 
 ' It is better not to go too far. I have done a great many 
 reckless things. I am a reckless woman altogether, and have not 
 cared what became of me for many a long day : but I have never 
 done anything like that. Ah yes, I have scruples ; every one 
 has, you even, if one knew where to look for them.' 
 
 ' It was you,' said Mrs. Swinford, ' who made the suggestion 
 at the first.' 
 
 ' To save you, Cecile, to save you.' 
 
 ' I should have found some other way to get out of it. There 
 was never a difficulty yet but I found a way of getting out of it. 
 I should have done so then, had you not come forward to say it 
 was Emily — Emily, a child, a nobody — whom he loved, and that 
 I was his confidante. I can see it all now. He had no escape. 
 Art(^mise, I have loved you better than any woman all your life, 
 and you repaid me by taking away from me — handing over to that 
 girl ' 
 
 Her eyes were ablaze in her flushed yet withered face. Her 
 whole frame was trembling with angry emotion. Mrs. Brown 
 rose quickly and went to her, taking her hands, holding her fast. 
 ' It is twenty years ago,' she said, ' and it was to save your 
 honoiu-, yom- position, everything, Cecile — your child, your wealth, 
 everything you had in the world.' 
 
 ' I can see the scene now as if it was yesterday — my husband 
 there, blazing like white light. He never looked like that in his 
 life but once. And he — confused, afraid — on the other side of me, 
 trembling for me.' 
 
XXX LADY WILLIAM 231 
 
 ' And a little for himself, Cecile.' 
 
 ' Silence ! If you say so, I will strike you. And you, with 
 your smooth tongue — always with your smooth tongue. How 
 many lies it must have told first to be capable of that ! ' 
 
 ' For your sake ; you know it was for your sake. If you 
 remember all that, remember, too, how the storm died down in a 
 moment, and all was well.' 
 
 ' Well ! ' said the other. She leant back her head upon the 
 breast of the woman whom she was accusing. ' If it had raged 
 itself out, and done its worst, would not that have been better 
 than all that has followed — the bitterness and the hate, and the 
 horror, and that girl living at my very door, to make me mad ? ' 
 
 ' Why did you see her, Cecile 1 You might have ignored her 
 altogether, forgotten her existence.' 
 
 ' You forget,' cried Mrs. Swinford. ' She is the great lady 
 of the village— takes precedence' — she laughed out with a 
 hysterical violence which shook her from head to foot — ' preced- 
 ence of me, if we were in the world together ! Don't you know 
 that ? But it will soon come to an end,' she added, laughing 
 again with that electric tinkle which wore out the nerves of all 
 who heard her. ' What a good thing they are so sordid a family, 
 those Pakenhams, loving money as other people love their children, 
 whatever is dearest to them ! She will be called on to prove 
 every step, and she will not be able to prove one. And then ! — 
 we shall see what the village will think of her title and her 
 precedence then.' 
 
 ' You have been agitating yourself in the most imprudent, in 
 the most foolish way. Where are your drops ? Her precedence, 
 poor thing, will not hurt you, but a long faint will hurt you. 
 Cecile, must I call your maid to see you in this state, or will you 
 be quiet and listen to me 1 ' 
 
 ' Give me my drops. I must not, I must not, have another 
 attack. The doctor says so. Artemise, don't leave me, don't 
 leave me ! ' 
 
 ' I will, if you do not turn from this subject at once. Throw 
 it away from you. What on earth is Emily Plowden, or Paken- 
 ham, or whatever her name is, to you ? Cecile, I begin to think 
 a woman like you never learns, and that you are no better than 
 a fool.' 
 
 While she said these words, however, Mrs. Brown was busy 
 with the most affectionate cares, soothing the excited woman, 
 bathing her forehead, rubbing her hands, administering the 
 specific, loosening the elaborate dress, which made the heaving 
 
232 LADY WILLIAM xxx 
 
 of the shrunken figure, and the strain of the emaciated throat, so 
 much the more dreadful. The passion calmed down by degrees, 
 and then Julie was summoned, and the robes of state replaced by 
 a quilted dressing-gown, scarcely less fine, but more appropriate. 
 After this the conversation was resumed in a less exciting vein. 
 Mrs. Swinford was perhaps a little ashamed to have betrayed the 
 fury of her feelings even to so trustworthy a confidante. 
 
 ' It is fine to see a family like that,' she said, ' not carried 
 away by passion, Artdmise, like you and me. Love or revenge 
 are not in their way, nor hatred ; but money, money. To secure 
 a few thousands, they will be my instruments, or any one's, to 
 punish a traitor. And what you are horrified to think I should 
 want to do, for such good reason as you know, they will do for 
 nothing at all — for money, as I say.' 
 
 'Many people think money a much more sufficient reason 
 than what you call passion,' said Mrs. Brown. 'And it will be 
 well to keep your Lord whatever you call him, from know- 
 ledge of me, for I can spoil his little transaction.' 
 
 ' Ah, you — you were there ! ' 
 
 The two women looked at each other, and Mrs. Swinford, not- 
 withstanding her age and her knowledge of the world, was 
 sensible of a sudden heat rising to the edge of her hair ; not the 
 blush that comes to more innocent faces, but that burning colour 
 of shame at a self-betrayal which she ought to have been too 
 strong to fall into. Mrs. Brown nodded her head gravely. ' You 
 said you had no means of knowing, but you perceive that you 
 have : and for me, I can make an end of any such pretension. 
 He had better not come across my path.' 
 
 ' You would not balk me, Artdmise 1 ' 
 
 'I would balk him, as soon as look at him, and the family, 
 bless them ; and I would not bring the innocent to shame, not 
 even for you.' 
 
 ' Arte'mise ! after all we know of each other, such a pre- 
 tension ' 
 
 ' My dear Cecile, what I know of you is one thing, what you 
 know of me is another. I have broken every law, especially of 
 society ; but to harm the innocent is what I have never done — at 
 least,' she added after a moment, 'not in that way. And though 
 I'd give my head for you, which is, of course, a figure of speech, 
 I will not ruin Emily Plowden for you, and that's flat, whatever 
 you may say.' 
 
 ' Don't interfere, Artdmise,' said Mrs. Swinford, with a sound 
 of tears in her voice, ' don't, don't interfere. Go away, and let 
 
XXX LADY WILLIAM 233 
 
 things take their chaDce. No doubt she must have other evi- 
 dence ; I was a fool not to think of that. But don't you, who 
 are my nearest and dearest, go against me ; don't interfere. It 
 is not, it has never been, a fit position for you, wherever you are ; 
 go to London, where I will find a home for you, Artdmise.' 
 
 'Do you think after standing out so long, I will consent to be 
 dependent on you now — for a reason?' Then she laughed, chang- 
 ing her tone. ' If you can imagine a better place to hide myself 
 in than the Girls' National School at Watcham,' she resumed, ' you 
 have very much the advantage of me.' 
 
XXXI 
 
 It was not very often the Rector found time to visit his sister. 
 They saw each other constantly at the Rectory, at church, in the 
 village street, in all sorts of places, almost every day; but his 
 visits were few, especially such a visit as the present. He paused 
 at the further end of the garden and called over the hedge to Mab, 
 to know if her mother was alone. ' I have got some business to 
 talk over,' Mr. Plowden said. 'Take the trouble, will you, Mab, 
 to see that no one comes in to disturb us.' 
 
 Mab thought it curious that, thus for two days within a week, 
 her mother should have private business with Uncle James ; but 
 she said nothing except a ready assent to what he asked of her. 
 ' I'll come towards the gate,' she said ; ' I've got some things to 
 put in on that border, and if any one comes that I can't send 
 away, you will hear me talking with them, Uncle James.' She 
 walked through the garden with him, so to speak, she on one side 
 of the hedge, he on the other. ' Fancy who turned up yesterday,' 
 she said ; ' a cousin whom, of course, I never saw before — a Lord 
 William like my father ; but fortunately they called him Lord 
 Will.' 
 
 ' Lord William ! ' cried the Rector, ' a Pakenham — a son of 
 the Marquis ! Did he come to see you, or — for — for anything 
 special 1 ' 
 
 ' I don't know what he wanted,' said Mab. ' To see us, I 
 suppose. The funny thing is, he is like me. From this you may 
 imagine he is not a beautiful young man, Uncle James.' 
 
 ' I don't know why I should imagine that ; I like your looks 
 very well, my dear.' 
 
 ' Thank you. Uncle James,' said Mab, with a laugh. ' He is 
 staying at the Hall, and I think he said that he would come back 
 this morning, so, of course, if he comes I cannot send him away.' 
 
 ' I understand,' said the Rector, with a countenance somewhat 
 
XXXI LADY WILLIAM 235 
 
 troubled. And he went into the little drawing-room, where Lady 
 William rose up to meet him looking a little anxious. ' You, 
 James ! ' she said. ' I did not expect, especially at this hour, to 
 see you.' 
 
 ' I can't see why you should not have expected me, Emily ; 
 our last interview was serious enough,' he said, shutting the door 
 carefully behind him : and then he went across the room to the 
 window, which was open. Being so nearly on a level with the 
 garden it would, of course, have been easy enough for any one to 
 hear from outside whatever conversation was going on within. 
 
 ' You frighten me with these precautions, James.' 
 
 ' There is nothing to be frightened about. You may imagine 
 I have been thinking a great deal of what you told me the other 
 day.' 
 
 ' Yes : and I heard Mab tell you the new incident.' 
 
 ' The appearance of the cousin 1 What is the signification of 
 that, I wonder? But let us take the other, which is more im- 
 portant, first. Did you know my father kept a diary, Emily 1 ' 
 
 ' I have seen him making little notes in various little books : 
 but it is so long ago.' 
 
 'And you were not here, of course, when we came into the 
 Rectory. I found a quantity of these little books in the study, 
 little calendars and almanacs, and so forth. I didn't pay much 
 attention to them — that is, I looked into one or two and they 
 didn't seem interesting. Queer, when people might really make 
 such a record important, and they put in the merest trifles 
 instead.' 
 
 ' " Chronicle small beer," ' she said, with a faint smile ; but 
 she was pale with an interest much deeper than any record of 
 public events could have commanded. 
 
 ' Eh *? ' said the Rector, who was not literary ; ' but I thought 
 it might be just possible — so I have been making a hunt through 
 them, and I came upon something that might — that must help us.' 
 
 ' Thank God ! ' she said, clasping her hands instinctively 
 together. 
 
 ' We must not be too sanguine : and yet, of course, a dead 
 man's diary is evidence itself in a way.' 
 
 ' Tell me,' she cried, with excitement, ' teU me what papa 
 said.' 
 
 'Nearly twenty years ago,' said the Rector, with a little 
 emotion. 'It's like hearing the old man talk — with abrupt 
 sentences, don't you know — ^just as he spoke.' 
 
 ' What does he say 1 What does he say, James 1 ' 
 
236 LADY WILLIAM xxxi 
 
 ' This is the one, I think ; no, it's the next — no. I hope I 
 haven't brought the wrong ones after all.' 
 
 Lady "William sat very quietly with her hands on her knee, 
 only her fingers, which clasped aucl unclasped each other, showing 
 a little the excitement of the suspense in which she was, as he 
 drew forth one little book after another from the ample pockets 
 of his coat. At last the right one was found, and then a minute 
 or two elapsed before the Rector with his spectacles could find the 
 entry of which he was in search. Lady William made no attempt 
 to snatch it from his hand. She sat quite still with a self-enforced 
 patience which was belied by the glitter in her eyes. 
 
 ' Here it is at last — October 23rd. Would that be the date 1 ' 
 
 She bowed her head quicklj^, and her brother began to divine 
 that she could not speak. He gave her a keen look, and then 
 returned to the book. 
 
 ' " October 23rd. — Very agitating and extraordinary night. 
 Em. came home after midnight accompanied by woman M., and 
 Lord W. Extraordinary explanations. Marriage immediately or 
 not at all. Leaving England. Gave consent." Is that right ? ' 
 
 Lady William moved impatiently in her chair. ' If you find 
 it in the book, it must be right.' 
 
 'Ah, well, that is true, no doubt. Then comes another — 
 " 25th. — Emily married. Old Gepps. Gave her away. They 
 left train, Paris." ' 
 
 'Is tliat alir 
 
 ' It is all. I suppose old Gepps is the man who performed the 
 ceremony. Did you ever hear my father speak of any one of that 
 name 1 Do you remember the man 1 ' 
 
 ' I recollect an old man with a white beard. I think I have 
 a vague recollection even of the name.' 
 
 ' It is most extraordinary,' cried the Rector, getting up from 
 his chair, ' that on an occasion of such importance you should not 
 have remembered both place and name ! ' 
 
 ' Ah ! it was just because it was an occasion of such im- 
 portance, and everything so dreadful and so strange.' 
 
 ' Emily, I have hesitated to ask you : why in heaven's name 
 were you married like that 1 What was the cause 1 ' 
 
 She pointed towards the book with a hand that trembled. 
 ' Papa has put it down there.' 
 
 ' He has put down the fact, but no explanation. The explana- 
 tion apparently was given to him, but not recorded. But you — 
 why should you not tell me 1 A sudden marriage like that, in 
 such headlong haste — why was it ? What did it mean 1 ' 
 
XXXI LADY WILLIAM 237 
 
 Lady William was silent for some time, clasping her fingers 
 and unclasping them, gazing into the vacant air. At last she 
 said : ' James, you will think me too great a fool if I say that I 
 did not know, at the time.' 
 
 'Emily,' he said, with a tone so sharp and keen that it went 
 through her like a knife, 'it is a long time since, and I have a 
 right to know. Was it — was it through any fault of yours 1 ' 
 
 She turned her eyes to him with a look of the utmost amaze- 
 ment. ' Fault of mine ! ' she said. ' What could that have had 
 to do with it — any fault of mine 1 ' 
 
 She was a mature woman, and was supposed to know the 
 world ; but Mab herself could not have given him a more limpid 
 look, could not have received his questions with more surprise. 
 The Rector, quite confused, stepped back a pace, and said, ' I beg 
 your pardon,' with a humility which was entirely out of his habits. 
 He had grown quite pale, and glanced at her with a sort of fright, 
 terrified lest perhaps it might dawn upon her what he meant. 
 
 ' I was bewildered,' she said. ' I was taken altogether by 
 surprise. It was the romance that dazzled me — what seemed the 
 romance — and all that they told me : that he had to leave 
 England, must go, would be in danger of I know not what, yet 
 would not go without me. And poor papa thought of — oh the 
 folly, the pettiness of it ! — the title, perhaps, and what he thought 
 the connection. My poor father thought a great deal of connec- 
 tion.' She smiled a little sadly, looking back with a sort of 
 tenderness upon the weakness and folly of a time so long past. 
 Then she drew herself up unconsciously, holding her head high. 
 ' I discovered the real meaning, but not till after. It was very 
 bitter and terrible ; but after all it is Mab's father of whom we 
 are speaking. James, let us return to the question of most im- 
 portance. What is gained by this I don't see. I don't under- 
 stand things of that kind.' 
 
 It was very conciliating and satisfactory to Mr. Plowden that 
 she did not understand. 'It gives a clue,' he said. 'We must 
 look up Gepps. He must have been a friend of my father's, and 
 he must, of course, be in the " Clergy List." I have been looking 
 up what old ones I have, but I cannot find him. I have not got 
 that year, but it can be got, it can be got. He was an old man, 
 you say, and he must have died, I suppose, but he cannot have 
 taken his church and his registers with him. We must ascertain 
 what was his church.' 
 
 'It was a little old-fashioned place, very dingy, with heavy 
 pews ; a small place with an old-fashioned pulpit and canopy. I 
 
238 LADY WILLIAM xxxi 
 
 remember the look of it — and the clergyman, an old man, with a 
 white beard.' 
 
 ' In the City, most likely 1 ' 
 
 Lady William shook her head. ' I knew nothing of the City 
 — nor anywhere except the parks and the streets round about that 
 in which the Swinfords had a house. We went seldom, very 
 seldom, to town in those days ; I never, except with them.' 
 
 ' It must have been in the City,' said Mr. Plowden. ' What 
 you describe settles the question. Well, then, I think now, 
 Emily, there need be very little difficulty. Gepps must be in the 
 " Clergy List." If he is living, so much the better; he may have 
 retired somewhere. But at all events the register must exist. I 
 will go up to town to-morrow, and find the list for 'sixty-five, and 
 after that it will be plain sailing. All the same, how my father 
 and you, but especially my father, could be such a fool ! ' 
 
 Lady William made no reply. To have her mind so thrown 
 back upon that wonderful tragic moment of her life : to think of 
 herself, the bewildered romantic girl, with all the wonderfid tales 
 poured into her ear by the flatterer by her side — that flatterer 
 who was not the silent, disturbed bridegroom who himself said so 
 little to explain the hot haste, the desperation of the strange 
 wedding — was of itself painful enough and exciting. She had 
 herself broached the subject to her brother when the question 
 opened up by Mrs. Swinford had burst upon her, but she had not 
 then entered into it so fully as now, and her mind was shaken by 
 all those recollections. She seemed to see the shabby old church 
 already, even so long ago, an anachronism among churches, with 
 its heavy pulpit and pews and small round-headed windows, and 
 the old clergyman with his white beard, and the complete absence of 
 all those prettinesses with which a girl's imagination surrounds 
 her bridal — prettinesses, however, made up for by the thrilling 
 romance which, when the moment came, had begun to yield a 
 little to the natural pain of the position. She remembered with 
 what a start of alarm she had found herself consigned to the 
 husband of whom she knew so little, who was so little like the 
 romantic hero of such a marriage, and who — as she only began to 
 see when the step was irrevocable — showed so little of any senti- 
 ment for her which could justify the impetuous impatience of the 
 proceedings. She remembered the awful sensation in her mind 
 when she looked back from the window of the railway carriage 
 upon her father's smiling, complacent old face, enchanted by the 
 consciousness that his daughter was now Lady William, sister-in- 
 law to the Marquis of PortciUlis, and on the mocking smile and 
 
XXXI LADY WILLIAM 239 
 
 exaggerated courtesies of Artemise : aud felt eveiythiug she loved 
 sliding from her, aud nothing left to her but the saturnine counte- 
 nance opposite — the almost strange man, who if he loved her 
 hotly had, as yet at least, shown no signs of it to herself. She 
 did not hear her brother's voice speaking to her in the heat and 
 hurry of her thoughts. Oh, what recollections were these ! So 
 much more real than anything that occurred to her now, so much 
 more potent in their terror and excitement than anything that 
 could happen. She had known nothing in all her experience, 
 read nothing, so tragical and terrible as the feelings of that poor 
 little bride of nineteen, as she woke wp from her romantic dream, 
 and saw her father's foolish old face so fresh and ruddy, so 
 innocent and unconscious, just before it fifially dropped out of 
 sight to be seen no more. Perhaps it was her brother's question, 
 though she \7as scarcely aware that she heard it, how could my 
 father be such a fool 1 that gave the impression of foolishness, of 
 strange, cheerful imbecility to her last view of that rosy old face. 
 
 ' I repeat, Emily,' said the Eector, with a httle heat, ' how 
 could my father be such a fool 1 A girl of your age, of course, 
 could not be expected to think of such things — but my father ! — 
 And I suppose he knew that the man you married was not — a 
 model of every virtue.' 
 
 ' He was Mab's father, James, and he was at least quite 
 honourable, so far as I was concerned ; he took no advantage — in 
 respect to me.' 
 
 ' He could scarcely have been such a brute as that,' the Eector 
 said. ' Well, I'll go, Emily. To-morrow I'll go to town and see 
 if I can bring back all the papers square. Hush, what is that 1 
 "Who is Mab talking to 1 We've done our talk, however, and it's 
 no matter being interrupted now,' 
 
 ' Good morning. Lord William,' Mab's voice was heard saying, 
 perhaps a little louder than was necessary, to give her uncle the 
 warning she had promised. 
 
 Lady William started violently at the sound of the name. 
 She put her hand upon her breast where her heart had begun to 
 beat loudly. ' All those old recollections have upset my nerves,' 
 she said, with a little piteous smile. ' Forgive me, James ; it is 
 the young man that Mab told you of, the coiisin with the same name.' 
 
 ' Poor Emily ! ' he said, taking her hand in both of his. ' You 
 have, I fear, no pleasant memories connected with it : but why, 
 then, in the name of heaven, or the other place perhaps ' 
 
 ' The other place,' she said, bursting into a faint hysterical 
 laugh. ' But wait a moment, the boy is coming in.' 
 
240 LADY WILLIAM ■ xxxi 
 
 ' I thought you were going away tins morning,' said Mab, 
 evidently leading the way into the house. ' You need not think 
 of shaking hands, for I am always muddy when I am working in 
 the garden. Yes, I do a great deal of work in the garden — in- 
 deed, I'm the gardener. Patty's father gives me a hand for the 
 heavier things, but do you imagine I M^ould trust any one else with 
 my flowers 1 Ah, it's a little too early, but if you came here in 
 June, then you should see ! It's not very big, to be sure. Mr. 
 Leo has a great deal more space at the Hall, and I don't know 
 how many men, but — — •' Mab said, ending abruptly with a little 
 grimace (which, of course, could not be seen indoors) which said 
 more than words. 
 
 ' I daresay it's great fun working in the garden,' said Lord 
 Will, with a very serious face. 
 
 'A garden is no fun at all when you don't work in it,' said 
 Mabj 'and, so far as I've seen, most other things are just the 
 same. They become fun if you take an interest in them, and not 
 in any other way.' 
 
 ' But then Miss Mab was always a philosopher,' said Leo's 
 voice, with the faint sound in it that was not English. 
 
 ' Oh, Swinford's there, too,' said the Rector to his sister in- 
 side. ' Don't you think, Emily, you have him a little too often 
 herer 
 
 'The other is staying with him,' Lady William said, which 
 was no doubt a subterfuge : but then it was very evident that she 
 had no time to say any more. 
 
XXXII 
 
 It was Leo who led the way, but the Rector was quite unin- 
 terested in Leo. His eyes followed to the other young man 
 behind, who came in with something like diflSdence, though that 
 is not a common aspect for a young man of fashion to bear. He 
 came in, indeed, with the air of a most unwilling visitor. He 
 would have greatly preferred to go away without repeating his 
 visit in the changed circumstances in which he found himself, but 
 Leo had insisted that the visit should be paid. He shook hands 
 with Lady William, and was presented to her brother, with the 
 air of a man who wished himself a hundred miles away. 
 
 'I've just come, don't you know, to take my leave,' said Lord 
 Will. ' I'm summoned to town. I thought that you would 
 understand ; but Swinford here said I ought to come — that is to 
 say, I was glad to take the opportunity of saying good-bye.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Lady William, looking from one to another ; ' I 
 should have understood, I think. It is a pity, Leo, that you 
 gave your friend the trouble.' 
 
 'Oh ! delighted, of course,' said Lord Will. 
 
 'I have been telling my brother,' said Lady William, 'about 
 •your visit : and to see one of Mab's relations is a pleasure — so 
 unlooked-for.' 
 
 ' I will not say unlooked-for. I have always looked forward,' 
 said the Rector, ' to making the acquaintance of the family. How 
 do you do? And, of course, at once I perceive the likeness you 
 spoke of, Emily. You are here on a very brief visit, it appears. 
 
 Lord .' It seemed to Mr. Plowden that to say AVill would 
 
 be too familiar, and to say William would affect his sister's 
 nerves ; therefore he stopped short there, and said no name at all. 
 'You have scarcely had time to make your cousin's acquaintance,' 
 he said. 
 
 Lord Will had been quite unprepared for a man and a brother 
 
242 LADY WILLIAM xxxii 
 
 taking the part of the poor lady about whom he had been hokling 
 so many discussions. He was a little taken aback. ' As a point 
 of fact, a fellow has so little time,' he said, hesitating a little. 
 ' I came down to see Swinford — dine and sleep, don't you know — 
 that sort of thing. Swinford's such a capital fellow to know in 
 Paris — takes you everywhere — shows you all the swells, and that 
 sort of thing.' 
 
 Mr. Plowden had not, perhaps, very much acquaintance with 
 the highest order of society, at least in its young and fashionable 
 branches. To hear Lord Will Pakenham talk of swells took 
 away his breath. He smiled, however, paternally upon the 
 young man who was Mab's cousin and Lord Portcullis's son. He 
 was unwilling to believe that a young man of such a family could 
 make any pretext or tell any fibs about the plain duty of paying 
 his respects to his near relations. ' I hope,' he said, ' that we 
 shall have other opportunities of seeing a little more of you. My 
 sister, Lady William, has been for a long time established here, 
 and all the neighbourhood would receive with pleasure any — any 
 relation — any connection — I mean any member of such a family 
 as yours.' 
 
 Lord Will stared a little, as is the manner of his kind, but 
 made no reply. What reply could the poor young man make 1 
 It was so bewildering to be offered an enthusiastic welcome from 
 the society of a village because of being related to the little 
 gardening girl in the muddy gloves outside, that all his self- 
 possession, which was sufficient for ordinary uses, was taken away. 
 He gave a glance at Lady William, and espied a gleam in her 
 eye which gave him a little comfort. There was agitation in her 
 face, yet she saw the absurdity as well as he did. Decidedly, 
 under other circumstances, this widow, real or fictitious, of his 
 disreputable uncle would have been a woman not to be despised. 
 
 'But I hear,' said the Rector, 'that you are the bearer of bad 
 news. Another relation, my sister tells me, has joined the 
 majority. I had once the pleasure, many years ago, of meeting 
 Lord John — before there was any connection between the families. 
 And he is gone ! Well, we must all follow — we have here no 
 abiding city. It is almost fortunate for Mab that, not having 
 known her uncle, the shock of his loss will alFect her less than it 
 would otherwise have done.' 
 
 ' My dear James,' said Lady William, ' Lord Will will excuse 
 you from all condolence, I am sure. There can be no shock to 
 Mab, who has scarcely heard her uncle's name : and to the other 
 members of the family the shock is also softened by, I believe, 
 
xxxri LADY AVILLIAM 243 
 
 the joys of inheritance. For he has not carried his money with 
 him, which is always a good thing.' 
 
 ' I did not think to hear, Emily, any such cynical speech from 
 you.' 
 
 ' But it is true,' said Leo Swinford, ' and my friend has come 
 for the reason of communicating this intelligence, n'est-ce pas, 
 Will? — which Lady "William did not understand, I am sure, 
 yesterday. Lord John has died without any will : his fortune, 
 which is all personal, is therefore divided — is not that so 1 — be- 
 tween the nearest relations : therefore. Miss Mab, on account of 
 her father, will become — — ' 
 
 ' Bless me ! ' said the Rector. He had seated himself in order 
 to do justice to the new acquaintance who was at the same time a 
 connection, but now he sprang to his feet. ' Bless me ! ' he said, 
 ' an heiress ! I must congratulate Mab. Emily, my dear ' 
 
 ' An heiress is a big word,' said Lord Will, who had sucked 
 his cane with anything but a countenance of delight while Leo 
 was speaking. ' There's money,' said the young man, ' but it 
 would be a pity to make the mistake of thinking it's a big 
 fortune. I told you,' he said, turning to Lady William, 'last 
 night. I said there was no will.' 
 
 Lady William had grown very pale. ' I did not understand,' 
 she said faintly. 'I was not aware — and that my Mab would 
 
 come in ' The news had rather a painful than exhilarating 
 
 effect upon her. She gave her brother an anxious look, then 
 turned to the young man whose explanations were so disjointed. 
 * It was kind, very kind,' she said, with a troublous smile, ' to 
 come and hunt us up — strangers to you — to tell us this.' 
 
 ' Oh ! as for that ' said Lord Will. 
 
 'You have no idea, dear lady,' said Leo, 'how disinterested, 
 how high-minded are the golden youth in England. They wiU go 
 any distance to make such an announcement, never thinking 
 that what is given to another diminishes their own share.' 
 
 ' Shut up, Swinford,' growled Lord Will over his cane. 
 
 ' I hope,' said the Rector, smiling, ' that Mr. Swinford does 
 not think this is any information to us, Emily 1 I hope I know 
 what the instinct of an English gentleman is. To a lady in my 
 sister's position, living out of the world, who might never have 
 heard even of the death, let alone the inheritance, that feeling is 
 the best protection — as I hope we both know.' 
 
 'Oh, sh ,' murmured Lord Will. He could not say 'shut 
 
 up ' to the Rector, but a more crestfallen and abashed young man 
 did not exist. He sat with the head of his cane to his lips, but 
 
244 LADY WILLIAM xxxii 
 
 evidently deriving no consolation from it, when Mab, who had 
 taken off her gardening apron and washed her hands, came in. 
 Mab had her ciu'iosities like other girls. She wantgd to know 
 what they were all talking of, and what was being done in the 
 room where there were so many interesting peojDle met together. 
 She was by no means sure that it was not her own fate that was 
 being decided. After all that had been said about her father's 
 family, the sudden appearance of her cousin was too curiously well- 
 timed to be a mere accident, and she could not help fearing that 
 while she was busy over her carnations they might be settling the 
 course of her future life. Mab had no idea that this should be 
 done without her own concurrence, or the utterance of her opinion, 
 and accordingly, after turning it over in her mind for a few 
 minutes, she left her flowers and hurried upstairs to make herself 
 presentable. Such a conjunction as that of her vmcle, so rare a 
 visitor, her new unknown cousin, and Leo Swiuford, her mother's 
 counsellor, could not, she thought, have happened for nothing. 
 But when Mab went into the room the first thing she saw was 
 Lord Will — in whom she took a natural interest as resembling 
 herself, and as being a relation, and a new-comer — seated in the 
 middle of the group with a depressed and sullen countenance, his 
 eyes cast down, and his lips resting upon the head of his cane. 
 
 'Mother,' said Mab, 'what have you been doing to Lord 
 Will 1 ' 
 
 No one had thought of Mab's appearance at this particular 
 crisis of fate, and the mere sight of her as she opened the door 
 sent a little thrill through the party, who were all aware of troub- 
 lous circumstances involving ]\Iab, of which she herself was entirely 
 unconscious, and of prospects utterly strange to her, which were 
 opening before her feet. They all turned to look at her as she 
 stood there with the fresh morning air about her, not beautiful, 
 certainly, but honest and fresh as the morning, and so free from 
 all embarrassment, so unaware either of troubles or hopes which 
 could affect her beyond the wholesome round of every day, that 
 even the Rector, the most ignorant of the party, felt something 
 like a conspirator. Mab came forward quite unconscious of break- 
 ing into the middle of a strained situation. ' What,' she repeated, 
 ' have you been doing to Lord Will ? Has he done anything 
 wrong that you are all round about him, sitting on him like this 1 
 I'm glad I've come to see fair play.' 
 
 ' My dear,' said the Rector, who was the only one who could 
 speak, ' you are quite mistaken. Your cousin is receiving on the 
 contrary all our thanks for bringing some news which will be of the 
 
XXXII LADY WILLIAM 245 
 
 greatest importance to you, I hope, and will make your future 
 more suitable, my child, to your rank.' 
 
 ' Oh, I thought that was how it must be ! ' cried Mab, in a tone 
 of disgust. ' Rank ! I have no rank ; and if it is this idea of 
 recommending me to Lady Portcullis, and getting her to take me 
 
 to Court and all that, which has brought Lord Will here 
 
 Mother, let me speak ; I am not a little child. I want to judge for 
 myself I don't wish it, you must all know. I care not the least in 
 the world for going to Court. I am quite happy as I am — a 
 country girl. Lord Will is very kind if he came about that. I 
 shall alwaj's remember it of him, that he is the only one of my 
 father's family that has been kind ; though why you should sit 
 upon him for it — for you were all sitting upon him — I'm sure I 
 don't know.' 
 
 ' I think I'd better go,' said Lord Will, rising from his chair. 
 ' It's true they have been sitting upon me, though what for I can't 
 tell — any more than I can tell why this ' — he paused a little with 
 the impulse to say little girl, but thought better of it — ' this young 
 lady should be grateful to nie ; for I have done neither good nor 
 harm that I know of But now I think I'd better go.' 
 
 ' Have I said anything wrong ? Is it I that have broken up 
 the talk ? ' cried Mab in consternation, coming to her mother's 
 side. 
 
 ' Well,' said the Rector cheerfuUj'-, ' perhaps we can scarcely go 
 on with a business matter just now ; but if Lord William Paken- 
 ham will do me the pleasure to come to the Rectory, which is close 
 by ' 
 
 ' I'm not a business man,' said Lord Will. ' Swinford, you 
 brought me into it, can't you get me out of it ? — and be hanged to 
 you,' he said in an undertone. 
 
 ' I am afraid you have broken up the consultation, Mab : but 
 perhaps it is as well.' Lady William held out her hand to the 
 young man, who stood dangling his cane, and eager to get away. 
 ' I think we must have something to thank you for,' she said, with 
 a smile. ' Of coiu'se, a piece of business is not settled by a friendly 
 visit. I shall hear, no doubt, from the lawyers about what you 
 have told me, or my brother will communicate with them for me. 
 Thank you for the information, and for bringing it yourself. 
 Good-bye.' 
 
 He had been standing ready to tell her, as he took his leave, 
 with a tone that might convey some of the suspicions that were in 
 his mind, that the lawyers would communicate with her further. 
 But in taking the words out of his mouth, Lady William took all 
 
246 LADY WILLIAM xxxii 
 
 the courage out of his mind. He stared at her for a moment with 
 those heavy blue eyes, which she did not now think were so like 
 Mab's, and touched the hand she held out with a cold momentary 
 touch, as if he were afraid it might sting him. Mab stood by 
 looking on with an astonishment which slowly grew into conster- 
 nation, and which burst forth as her cousin made her a stiff and 
 slight bow. 
 
 'What is the matter?' she said, following him out. 'Are 
 you not my cousin after all? Why, you were very nice last 
 night, and I was delighted to know somebody that belonged to 
 me on my father's side. And they all said we were so like 
 each other. What has gone wrong 1 Are you not my cousin 
 after all ? ' 
 
 She went out after him as she spoke into the garden, where a 
 little while before she had greeted him so heartily, filled with as- 
 tonishment and dismay, yet with a sense of absurdity also. And 
 the young man, who had made so abrupt an exit, was in fact rather 
 sore in heart, feeling that he had not done himself any credit, and 
 that he had been snubbed and ' sat upon,' as Mab said. Her frank 
 surprise and regret gave him a little consolation. He turned round 
 when they both came out into the garden from the narrow doorway. 
 ' I am just the same,' he said, still somewhat sullenly, but melting, 
 ' as I was last night.' 
 
 * But then,' cried Mab, ' why did you call me " this young 
 lady " ? and why did you look at mother so, and let her hand drop 
 as if it had been a frog, and do like this to me T Mab was not a 
 mimic, like her cousin Florence, but the imitation she made of his 
 stiff and angry bow was so ludicrous that he could not but laugh 
 — stiffly. And Mab, who did not know what it was to be stiff, 
 laughed out with all her heart, with a half childish cordial crow, 
 which sounded into the fresh air with the most genuine tone of 
 innocent mirth. ' You had better shake hands with me after that, 
 Cousin Will,' she said. 
 
 ' You are making peace. Miss Mab,' said Leo Swinford, who had 
 followed them out. 
 
 ' No, I am not making peace, for we never made war,' said 
 Mab, who had given her cousin a warm grasp of the hand. And 
 she stood at the gate looking after them with some regret. For 
 Lord Will was young, and they were of the same blood, and he was 
 a great novelty, something far more new than even Leo Swinford. 
 She was unfeiguedly sorry that he was going away. And she could 
 not understand why, nor how it was that the young man who was 
 so cordial yesterday should be so cold again now. 
 
xxxn > LADY WILLIAM 247 
 
 Lady William stood as she had done when young Pakenham 
 dropjjed her hand until Leo Swinford, following his friend, had 
 closed the door of the little drawing-room. I think she heard 
 through the open window all that Mab said — at all events, the 
 laugh so full of merriment and spontaneity biu'sting out into the 
 pleasant air. Then she suddenly sank into the chair, and covering 
 her face with her hands fell into a sudden burst of silent weeping. 
 There was no sound, but her shoulder heaved with the effort to 
 control and subdue the sudden emotion. Mr. Plowden had bee» 
 standing, too, perplexed and disappointed by the stranger's sudden 
 withdrawal, but a little consoled by the laugh which seemed to 
 prove that there was at all events a good understanding between 
 Mab and her cousin. He did not perceive for a moment the effect 
 upon his sister, and it was only after the young man had gone out 
 of the garden gate, that, turning to speak to her, he perceived the 
 attitude of abandonment, the restrained but almost irrestrainable 
 passion by which she had been seized. He was not so much 
 afraid of seeing women cry as men less experienced are. But 
 Emily had never been of the weeping kind, and the Eector was 
 startled and touched by the sight of the paroxysm with which she 
 was struggling, to keep it down. 
 
 ' Emily,' he cried, ' Emily, my dear, what is it 1 You're not 
 breaking down ? ' 
 
 ' James,' she cried, but very low, suddenly lifting to him a face 
 full of anguish and exceedingly pale, ' if we should not be able to 
 prove it ; if we can't get the evidence ! Oh James, my Mab, my 
 child ! ' 
 
 ' Why shouldn't we be able to i^rove it ? ' he said, with half- 
 angry calm. ' Where is the difficulty of proving it 1 and what has 
 that to do with it 1 Why, Emily, I never knew your good sense 
 fail you before.' 
 
 ' My good sense ! ' she said, with a miserable stnile. 
 
 ' To be sure ! AVhy, what is there to cry about 1 Such an 
 unexpected windfall to Mab — a fortune, no doubt, though he did 
 not tell us how much. You cut the young man short, Emily. I 
 can't see wh}^ He seemed a very civil young man.' 
 
 Lady William raised herself up and dried her wet eyes. 
 
 ' You are quite right,' she said, ' it is my common sense that is 
 failing me, James.' 
 
 ' Failed you for a moment,' he said, indulgently patting her on 
 the shoulder. For to be a man with a wife and daughters of his 
 own he was very fond of his sister; and he was also agreeably 
 excited by the sight of the second Lord William, actually one of 
 
248 LADY WILLIAM , xxxii 
 
 the Portcullis family, Mab's own cousin, about whom the ladies of 
 the Eectory, when they heard, would be so deeply excited. Mr. 
 Plowden was anxious to convey tliat wonderful intelligence to them 
 as quickly as was possible. 'Well, my dear Emily,' he said, 'I 
 must go. I have no doubt you've been a good deal excited this 
 morning, and I should advise you to lie down and rest a little. 
 And to-morrow — well, no, perhaps not to-morrow, for now I re- 
 member, I have some churchings and various other things to 
 attend to, but the very first free day I have ' 
 
 She put her hands together beseechingly. ' Oh, go at once — 
 don't keep me in this suspense.' 
 
 ' My dear girl ! you are frightening yourself in the most absurd 
 way. After to-morrow, the very earliest minute that I can get 
 away.' 
 
 Lady William did not lie down and rest when her brother left 
 her, but she went upstairs and took refuge in her own room, very 
 thankful that Mab had returned to her gardening. That Mab was 
 an heiress and that ' the family ' were seeking her acquaintance 
 was the news Mr. Plowden longed to tell. But Mab's mother was 
 filled with another thought. If it could be that the search should 
 fail ! She believed more in failure than success with her experience. 
 If it should fail, if there should fall upon Mab any cloud, any 
 shadow of possible shame ! She wrung her hands till they hurt 
 her, but her heart was wrung more sorely still. It was a view she 
 had not thought of before. Shame for herself would be bad enough. 
 But for Mab ! And even the possibility that Mab should turn 
 astonished eyes upon her, should ask even with those eyes alone a 
 question — should have such a thought suggested even for a moment, 
 to her mind ! Lady William had borne many miseries in her 
 not yet very long life, but in that there would be the crown 
 of all. 
 
XXXIII 
 
 It will be recollected that Mr. Osborue, the curate, ended very sud- 
 denly, and with no small amount of heat and displeasure, that walk 
 with Florence Plowden which had so nearly decided the whole 
 colour of his life. He had fallen in love (as people say — and, in- 
 deed, it is as good a phrase as any, for it is often by no means a 
 voluntary action) with the Rector's daughter in spite of himself. 
 It was so perfectly hanal and commonplace a thing to do ; the 
 sort of thing looked for by everybody ; so suitable, that bugbear 
 of youth ; so exactly what might — except by his own ambitious 
 relations, who thought him worthy of a loftier fate — have been 
 expected, that the young man had resisted almost fiercely the tide 
 of being which led him to that commonplace conclusion. But yet, 
 when there is fate in it, what is the use of struggling 1 Florence 
 Plowden was, Mr. Osborne thought, the prettiest, the most delight- 
 ful and attractive of all the girls in Watcham — more than that, of 
 all the girls he had ever seen. I do not know that this idea was 
 justified by universal consent. Many people gave the palm in 
 respect to good looks to Emmy, and, indeed, neither of them was 
 at all up to the level of many of the girls from London who came 
 down during the boating season, or of Dora Wade, for example, 
 who was the belle of the county. However, the fact that this 
 opinion was by no means universal did not affect the certainty of 
 the curate, who had a very high idea of his own judgment, and, in 
 fact, was better pleased that it should not chime in with other 
 people's, which was the last thing in the world he wished to do. 
 He was a young man who was very well connected, and to lift his 
 eyes even to Dora Wade would scarcely have been beyond his pre- 
 tensions. But the mere fact that she was the acknowledged beauty 
 was enough to make that jDursuit unlikely to Edward Osborne. 
 The hanalite of falling in love with his Rector's daughter was bad 
 enough, but it would have been nothing in comparison with the 
 
250 LADY WILLIAM xxxiii 
 
 downright vulgarity of falling in love with the beauty who had, as 
 it were, signposts put up all round her to indicate her position as the 
 Queen of Hearts. Edward Osborne would have died rather than 
 follow these indications. They convinced him instead that she was 
 not fair at all, but a most matter-of-fact and commonplace Blowsi- 
 bella, whose radiant complexion was of the mere dairymaid order, 
 and meant nothing but high health and good digestion — good 
 enough things in their way, but altogether devoid of romance, and 
 of any attraction which could dominate a highly trained and fasti- 
 dious spirit like himself. At first, when he came to Watcham, he 
 would have also said that the attributes of a Rector's daughter, 
 the delightful good young woman of the parish, acquainted with 
 all the poor people and their wants, and occupied with clothing 
 clubs, penny banks, sewing classes, and mothers' meetings, were 
 also the very last things that would attract a young philanthropist 
 of the higher order like himself, who proposed to get at the people 
 in a loftier way, to convince them by reason and argument of their 
 foolish ways of living, and to inaugurate some large movement 
 among them which would have little to do with the petty methods 
 of feminine supervision. Florence Plowden, by universal consent, 
 was made to be a clergyman's wife, which was almost as strong an 
 argument against her as if she had been an acknowledged beauty. 
 But, as a matter of fact, there is no rule which tells in those 
 mysterious ways of mutual attraction which draw the most unlikely 
 or, which is worse, the most likely people together. And it had 
 grown a certainty with Mr. Osborne that he had never met any 
 one like Florence before her attention had been directed to him at 
 all, and before even it had occurred to himself as possible that he 
 could ever get over the dreadful obstacle of all that there was in 
 her favour, and think of her as in possible relationship to himself. 
 He represented it to himself as a thing that could affect him in no 
 possible way, but yet a certain thing — that Florence Plowden was 
 as a swan among the ducklings about her, that there was no one 
 at all equal to her far and near, and that it was one of the mysteries 
 of humanity how such a creature could spring and blossom from 
 such a root, and among such surroundings. But I will not attempt 
 to follow the matter from that first germ — obstinately held against 
 all the force of the general idea that Florence was a nice girl and 
 a very good girl (praises both calculated to drive an idealist mad), 
 but nothing very particular — just like other girls, in fact, and a 
 little like her mother. ' When she is Mrs. Plowden's age, Florence, 
 indeed, will, I think, be very much like her mother,' the General 
 had once said, without the slightest idea that the curate, Avho was 
 
x^iii LADY "WILLIAM 251 
 
 an athletic young person, would have liked to knock him down for 
 saying it. And why shouldn't Florence Plowden resemble her 
 mother ? But it was blasjihemy to Mr. Osborne's ears. 
 
 I will not, I repeat, attempt to follow all that happened from 
 that first impression to the moment Avhen he had made up his mind 
 that without the companionship of Florence life would be, if not 
 unworthy living, yet so diminished in everything that was fair and 
 sweet that all its glory and hope woidd be over. Many notions 
 about life had been in this young man's head. He had once 
 thought that there was no institution in the world so great as that 
 of a celibate clergy, and that it would be his highest duty to tread 
 that austere and lofty path. I don't know whether Florence could 
 be justly chargeable with the destruction of that ideal. He had 
 come to see at last that it could not be made a general rule of, or 
 universally enforced, before he arrived at the sudden conviction 
 that he was not himself adapted for that form of self-abnegation. 
 I am obliged to confess that all the different steps in Mr. Osborne's 
 progress had been made suddenly, as with a bound, surprising him- 
 self as much as any one else. And perhaps he had no certain idea 
 upon that morning when he found himself engaged in a discussion 
 with his fast friend, Miss Grey, and opposed by the object of his 
 affections — that these affections were to burst all the restraints with 
 which he had bound them, and pour themselves forth in a burst of 
 enthusiasm at Florry's feet. And then, to think that when the 
 flood could scarcely be restrained — when despite her opposition, 
 despite all her naughty ways, he was about to tell her that there 
 was nobody like her in the world (a statement which would have 
 been as astounding and incredible to Florry as any mu-acle) — that 
 she should have stopped him by contradicting all his theories, by 
 finding fault with what he felt to be, in its way, a small martyrdom, 
 and by suggesting something quite different — she a girl, a nobody 
 — to him, a priest and consecrated person set apart to instruct and 
 lead mankind, as the better way ! 
 
 Edward Osborne would not pause to refute, to reprove, to pour 
 down the thimders of his wrath upon the girl whom in another 
 moment he would have asked to be his wife. He did what was 
 the only thing possible in the circumstances, turned and left her, 
 flinging her image and her counsel behind him in the fiu"y of his 
 indignation. He walked from that spot to his lodgings, which was 
 about a mile off, in three minutes or thereabouts, his long steps 
 skimming over the soil, his mind in a turmoil scarcely to be 
 described, boihng with anger, with indignation, with resentment 
 against this interference with his superior rights of manhood and 
 
252 LADY WILLIAM xxxjii 
 
 of priesthood, as well as with the strong revulsion of thoughts 
 thrown back upon himself and disappointed feeling. It would 
 scarcely be too much to say that for the moment he would have 
 liked something dreadful to happen to Florence, and if there had 
 been a thunderbolt handy, which happily is not a missile within 
 ready reach, he would probably have blackened the face of the 
 whole country in order to dumb and to frighten (for I don't think 
 he would have gone so far as to blind) the girl he loved. When 
 he got home he shut himself into his sitting-room, giving a stern 
 order that no one was to be admitted, and betook himself to the 
 writing of a sermon, which seemed the best way to sfogarsi, as the 
 Italians say, to blow off the pernicious excitement which made his 
 veins throb and his heart beat. But he soon threw that aside, 
 finding it quite inadequate to the occasion, and wrote a letter to 
 the newspapers, which was «o fierce that it frightened the editor to 
 whom it was addressed. I need scarcely say that it was on the 
 subject of temperance. 
 
 After the vehemence of the first shock was over, which, how- 
 ever, took some time, Mr. Osborne made a distinct but insufficient 
 effort to cure himself altogether of Florence. He never entered 
 the Rectory, contriving to settle any question he might have with 
 the Rector either when they met in church or by letter. He 
 refused all invitations lest perhaps she might be there — for where, 
 indeed, could a man go in the parish, to dinner or tea or evening 
 solemnity, without the chance of encountering the family of the 
 Rector 1 Of course Mr. Osborne was unaware that for a somewhat 
 similar reason Florence refused the same invitations at this crisis, 
 and, indeed, awakened the curiosity of her mother and Emmy — to 
 whom, even to Emmy, she had said nothing — by her disinclination 
 to go ' out.' ' I'd rather stay and keep Jim company,' she was 
 forced to say on several occasions — though, alas ! with very little 
 hope that the temptation of her company would have much effect 
 in keeping Jim indoors. It did, however, once or twice, and that 
 was both reward and justification. 
 
 But it is not to be supposed that this curious incident passed 
 over the head of the Rev. Edward Osborne without a certain 
 effect. His heart began to long after Florry long before the smart 
 of the wound she had given him was healed. And what she had 
 said rankled in his mind even before that. Was there any truth 
 in what she had said 1 Was it, perhaps, a better way, to win a 
 young man who was his equal — i.e., whom no missionary effort was 
 likely to be brought to bear upon, a man quite beyond the blandish- 
 ments of district visitors, Bible readers, temperance lecturers, or 
 
XXXIII LADY WILLIAM 253 
 
 even, in a general way, of the curate — to the paths of virtue, than 
 to persuade an old lady to relinquish her poor little glass of beer 
 by the sacrifice of his own very moderate glass of wine 1 The 
 latter sacrifice had been mentioned in one or two papers, and held 
 up as an example to other men. He had been applauded, but with 
 reproof which was another kind of praise, by his own people and 
 others. ' Remember,' his mother had written, ' that Timothy was 
 bidden by St. Paul to take a little wine for his stomach's sake : and 
 I am sm-e you are not such a giant of strength that you can afford 
 to do without the little you take : though I quite appreciate the 
 sacrifices you think it your duty to make, my dear boy.' Sacrifice ! 
 It was no sacrifice. Osborne did not care in the least for the beer, 
 which he took as a matter of habit, or the wine which was served 
 to him at other people's tables when he dined out. He rather 
 liked, if truth must be told, to gently, tacitly snub his hosts by 
 taking nothing. And it seemed to him, on the whole, an achieve- 
 ment which partook of the nature of the sublime to get old Mrs. 
 Lloyd to give up her beer — not that it did her a great deal of 
 harm, poor soul ! But if she took none herself she would be 
 strengthened to refuse it to her husband, and it would be an 
 example to her sons and to the rest of the world — that small, dingy 
 unenlightened world which it was so difiicult to teach, which had 
 so little to brighten or cheer it, and which pays so dearly for its 
 indulgences in that sordid, dreadful way. 
 
 But Jim Plowden ! that was a very difi'erent thing from Mrs. 
 Lloyd. I do not for a moment believe that Mr. Osborne would 
 have hesitated to take the pledge for and with Jim : but that was 
 not at all what Florence had suggested. She had suggested that 
 he should admit him to his society, take him for a companion, 
 induce him to share in his pursuits — that last above all. She did 
 not know, of course, that among the drawbacks to herself, of all of 
 which Mr. Osborne was so conscious, her brother and her family 
 took the first place. He would need to be friendly, or even more 
 than friendly, with all the Plowdens. Nothing but the fact that 
 Florence was unique in the world, that there was none like her, 
 none, could make up for that. And now she demanded of him 
 that he should take her brother into his bosom, so to speak, not as 
 a consequence of being accepted by her, but as a matter of duty in 
 his capacity as a priest, as a better way than that of taking the 
 pledge along with old Mrs. Lloyd. That lout ! he repeated to 
 himself : that fellow to whom had been given all the same 
 advantages as other people, even as Mr. Edward Osborne, and who 
 had thrown, or was throwing, them away : the brother, who 
 
254 LADY WILLIAM xxxiir 
 
 frequented the 'Blue Boar,' who was the friend of the school- 
 mistress, who shunned all the ordinary assemblages of his kind ; 
 and yet it was suggested to him that to take up this rowdy under- 
 graduate, sent down from Oxford, would be the better way ! 
 
 Is it to be wondered at if Mr. Osborne was angry 1 — if, when- 
 ever it came into his head, for as long a time as a fortnight after, 
 he flung down whatever he was doing and turned aside to something 
 else that would be more exciting, to forget the exasperations to 
 which he had been exposed 1 But this did not effectually chase the 
 suggestion, it appeared, out of his mind. It recurred to him at 
 times when he could not chase it away ; in the middle of the night, 
 for instance, when he could not jump out of bed and write a letter 
 to a temperance newspaper, and when it bored in quietly to his 
 brain, like some fine, delicate instrument used by a cunning, 
 persistent hand. It was not the hand of Florence, it was that of 
 some demon, or some angel, or his own. 
 
 Had he, after all, perhaps as much responsibility for Jim 
 Plowden as for Mrs. Lloyd 1 Was Jim Plowden, perhaps, in his 
 youth, and with certain faculties that might be of use in the world, 
 of as much, nay, even of more importance, than the old washer- 
 woman ? Strange questions for a young idealist, a young man 
 deeply compassionate of the poor, deeply indignant as concerns 
 those who throw their own advantages, theu' own education, and 
 other good gifts away. 
 
 These wonderful convolutions of thought — returns upon itself of 
 the disturbed mind, bubblings up of a suggestion not to be got rid 
 of, however trampled upon and thrown aside — brought Osborne to 
 the day on which the Rector had gone up to town, and Jim was 
 left free of that controlling influence of his father's presence which 
 kept him within certain limits. But the curate knew nothing of 
 this incident of the day ; indeed, save in so far as concerned the 
 church and ' duty ' he had known nothing of the movements of his 
 chief since the day when Florence stopped the words on his lips 
 which might have made him a son of her father's house. 
 
 Mr. Plowden went up to town by a morning train, 'and it was 
 Jim's duty, of course, to go to his Sophocles, however unwillingly, as 
 on other days. He was always unwilling, but his father being 
 present, went grumbling to his work, as a tired horse goes into the 
 shafts, knowing there is nothing else to be done. The morning, 
 however, was bright, and when he got into the little room which 
 was called his study — vain title ! — the sunshine came in and called 
 him, almost as if it had been a comrade at his door. The window 
 was open, and the air could not have been more fresh and sweet 
 
XXXIII LADY WILLIAM 255 
 
 (as far as we can tell) had it blown out of heaven. The breath of 
 the first lilacs was wpon it, and other celestial things of spring. 
 The leaves waved above in all the first new greenness of spring 
 leaves. The book lay open on a table before the window. It was 
 not green nor bright, nor did it smell of the spring. A great 
 lexicon was open beside it, and other books with prodigious notes 
 to them, and notebooks lying ready to the hand. He was expected 
 to construe into such halting English as he could manage that 
 great page, and search into its difficulties by the help of the notes 
 of a dreadfid German worker (who no doubt liked that sort of 
 thing), and some English ones. Unfortunate Jim — and the 
 sunshine outside ! and the soft air blowing iu through the window ! 
 and the green leaves fluttering ! and the silvery river flowing ! 
 And the Rector out of reach in London, after some private business 
 of his own. 
 
 He made a little fight, be it said to his credit ; but what 
 virtue faintly said in favour of the Sophocles was boldly contra- 
 dicted by something else, not virtue, and yet not vice either, which 
 asked, 'What good is there in Sophocles'? I am not to go back to 
 Oxford ; I am to go to a ranche in America, or else I am to go to 
 a merchant's office in town. What good will Greek, or all the 
 finest poetry in the world, do me there ? If I were learning book- 
 keeping by double entry (whatever that may be), it might do me 
 some good — or something about cows ; but Sophocles ! ' One note 
 of admiration was not half enough to express Jim's indignant 
 sense of a folly which could not be defended from any point of 
 view. Sophocles ! Slaughter, the butcher, who had greasy books 
 to keep, could have shown him a mystery more worth knowing, if 
 he went to an office ; and the vet., with all his experience of 
 animals, was a professor worth (to Jim if he went to a ranche) 
 more than Sophocles, Eschylus, and the rest, with the German 
 notes and the English dons all thrown into one. Fancy construing 
 a hard chorus when you should be out after the cows ! Fancy 
 spending your time over a disputed passage when you have a batch 
 of letters to write for the mail — much good Sophocles would do a 
 man in either of these circumstances ! And to fancy that father, 
 who had such sense in an ordinary way (the day was so bright that 
 Jim felt quite just and amiable even towards his father), should be 
 so bigoted, so ridiculous in this ! 
 
 It may be imagined that after such a self-argument, the sun- 
 shine, calling him exactly as one of his comrades used to do, 
 drumming on his window, soon had the best of it. Jim — poor 
 Jim — learned in clandestine movements by the very fact of the 
 
256 LADY WILLIAM xxxiii 
 
 anxiety of all about him, listened a little to make sure that the 
 coast was clear. He heard his mother go upstairs, and the voices 
 of the girls in a room they had for their work at the back of the 
 house. All the exits of the house were therefore open to him — 
 not a jealous eye about, not an anxious ear. He strolled out 
 whistling softly, with his hands in his pockets — whistling, thereby 
 convincing himself that he was afraid of nobody ; that there was 
 nothing clandestine, or stealthy, or wrong in the whole proceeding, 
 but only that natural inclination towards the fresh air which every- 
 body feels on such a day. When he had got beyond the bounds 
 of the Rectory, and was quite free and at his ease on the public 
 road, with nobody to make him afraid, and Sophocles as much out 
 of the question as if he had never existed, Jim strolled on for a 
 little, enjoying the air, and then paused to think what he should 
 do. That, after all, was not so easy a question to decide. Every- 
 body about was busy with something. No possibility of dropping 
 in upon Mrs. Brown at this hour. There was the river, to be 
 sure : but to go and get a boat, and then to toil up-stream by 
 himself, which either coming or going he would have been obliged 
 to do, seemed too much trouble on this sweet, indolent morning. 
 It occurred to him that if he dropped in at the ' Blue Boar ' to see 
 the papers he might very probably meet the vet., and acquire from 
 him some useful information ; or something else might turn up ; 
 so he turned his steps that Avay with a delightful sense of freedom. 
 There was nobody about, and he was responsible to nobody. For 
 this once he would take his own way. 
 
 But Jim met Mr. Osborne before he reached the ' Blue Boar.' 
 
XXXIV 
 
 Jim was not in any way afraid of Osborne, the curate — that is, he 
 was not afraid of being stopped by him, or interrupted in any way 
 in his career. He could not, indeed, go into the ' Blue Boar ' 
 whUe the curate was about ; that would be giving an occasion to 
 the adversary to blaspheme. But Jim did not dislike Osborne. 
 He was quite willing to walk along with him so long as their ways 
 ran together, turning back when the curate turned the first corner. 
 It would always be something to do ; and whether he arrived at 
 that undesirable destination half an hour earlier or later was of 
 importance to nobody. He did not notice that the curate's saluta- 
 tion was anything more than usual, or that he came up to him 
 with a distinct purpose, instead of the usual cool nod with which 
 the two young men passed each other by on ordinary occasions. 
 
 ' Oh, Plowden,' Mr. Osborne said, ' have you got work over 
 early, or are you taking holiday 1 ' 
 
 Few people in Watcham took Jim's work seriously. Most of 
 them, having the advantage over him of having known him all his 
 life, were disposed to be a little admonitory, and shook their heads 
 when they met him out. ' No work to-day, Jim 1 ' the General 
 would say : and most people shared the same feeling. But 
 Osborne, probably because he also was young, never took a mean 
 advantage. He spoke as if it were quite natural that Jim should 
 have a holiday now and then. 
 
 ' Well, yes,' said Jim, moved to confidence, and to take the 
 matter easily, too. ' The Rector has gone to town, and I have 
 half a day to myself. If I had been wise no doubt I should have 
 taken it in the afternoon,' he added, with ingratiating frankness ; 
 'but then, who knows, it may rain this afternoon, and it's too fine 
 this morning to work.' 
 
 ' Then you'd better come with me,' said Osborne quickly. ' I'm 
 going to walk into Winwick to see if I can pick up some musicians 
 
 s 
 
258 LADY WILLIAM xxxiv 
 
 for my entertainment. There never was a finer morning for a 
 walk. It is not too hot, and what with the shower this morning 
 there will be no dust. Will you come 1 We can look in upon 
 Ormerod for a bit of bread and cheese if we're kept late for 
 lunch.' 
 
 Jim hesitated a moment, but all the same there mounted up 
 into his cheek a pleasant colour and into his heart a certain 
 warmth of gratification. He had always entertained a certain 
 admiration for Osborne, a fellow who had played for the University! 
 On the other hand, it w'as agreeable to lounge into the 'Blue 
 Boar,' where everybody was so very civil to him, and where he 
 anticipated meeting the vet. Thus it was with a mixture of 
 pleasure and reluctance that he received the unlooked-for invitation. 
 To look in upon Ormerod, who was another parson in Winwick, 
 was not without its temptations too, for that gentleman was a fine 
 cricketer, known over all the county. Jim was not often led into 
 such society — his usual cronies admired Mr. Ormerod at a distance, 
 talking big of having seen him do this and that feat. A fear of 
 being de trop, of being looked down upon by these men, of having 
 to act the part of an undesired third, checked, however, his 
 pleasure in that thought. Poor Jim was proud, though he had 
 not very much reason for it, and his pride had received some severe 
 blows, and was always on the watch for more. For a moment its 
 whisper that he would be nobody between these two, and that he 
 was always somebody at the 'Blue Boar,' had almost turned him 
 back. But then ' Come along,' said Osborne, ' come along, don't 
 let us lose the best of the day ! ' 
 
 If Jim had known that Florry was at the bottom of it all — 
 Florry, only a girl, one of the home police who kept that insuff'er- 
 able watch upon him, his sister ! But, fortunately, no such idea 
 could by any chance have crossed his mind. Florry ! what could 
 she have had to do with it 1 And he was moved by the cheerful 
 call of the curate, who was not in general a very cheerful man, and 
 who rather preferred in an ordinary way to tramp through the 
 slush and cold than to take advantage of a beautiful morning for a 
 walk. He said, ' I suppose you will not be very late,' hesitating 
 at the corner. 
 
 ' Late ! You know how far it is to Winwick,' said Mr. 
 Osborne, 'a matter of three miles — not much that to you and me.' 
 
 ' No, it's not much,' said Jim. ' I think I'll risk it,' he added, 
 when the turn was actually taken, and the Winwick Road stretched 
 before them. ' I'm on an easy bit to-day. I'll have time to get 
 it all up when we get back.' 
 
XXXIV LADY WILLIAM 259 
 
 'A good walk always clears a man's head,' said Osborne; and 
 he resumed after a pause, ' What are you reading now 1 ' 
 
 'Oh, it's Sophocles. Seven against Thebes, don't you know, 
 with all those hard choruses.' 
 
 'Oh, for Greats?' 
 
 ' I wish I only knew what it was for,' cried Jim. ' You know 
 I haven't been lucky, Osborne. I got into a scrape, don't you 
 know. I suppose everybody knows : though we think at the 
 Rectory that if we make-believe strong enough nobody need 
 know.' 
 
 'A great many men get into scrapes,' said the curate 
 oracularly. 
 
 ' Don't they, now '? ' cried Jim, with eagerness ; ' that's what 
 my people won't see.' 
 
 'The only thing is to get out of them as fast as possible,' 
 added Mr. Osborne. 
 
 ' Ah,' said Jim, a little crestfallen. He went on after a pause : 
 ' If you knew what your governor meant, don't you know. He 
 wants me to read, and yet he says I'm to go out to a ranche or 
 into an office in the city. Why doesn't he make up his mind 1 
 And what good will Greek do me on a ranche ? Morris the vet. 
 could teach me what would be more use for that than all the 
 Sophocles in the world.' 
 
 ' But then you see,' said the curate, ' Morris is not just the 
 kind of tutor for a gentleman.' 
 
 ' Oh,' said Jim again. His pride was of the kind that could 
 not bear to desert his friends, however undesirable. ' He's a 
 decent fellow enough.' 
 
 ' In his own sphere — I suppose so,' said Osborne ; ' and clever, 
 they tell me, in his way ; but not our kind.' He added : ' I 
 believe, from what I've heard, if you are going to a ranche, the 
 best way of learning is just — to go.' 
 
 ' If any one he minds would only tell my father that,' said 
 Jim, gratified by the pronoun, and that Osborne had said ' our ' 
 instead of 'your.' He was aware that Osborne's 'kind' was 
 different from his own, and that his kind would not have been, 
 perhaps, very desirable for one of the curate's cloth. Thank God, 
 there was no question of Jim going into the Church, though it had 
 been his mother's desire. ' That's the chief thing I complain of,' 
 he said ; ' let them tell me straight out what I'm to do. Whether 
 it's one thing or the other I don't mind. If it's to be Oxford over 
 again, well, then the Greek's good for something ; but if it's the 
 ranche ' 
 
260 LADY WILLIAM xxxiv 
 
 'That is reasonable,' said the curate, 'and if you put it to the 
 Rector like that, surely ' 
 
 ' Poor father ! ' said Jim, moved to unusual sympathy, ' I don't 
 believe he knows himself First he thinks one thing and then he 
 thinks another. And chiefly, I suppose, he thinks that I am not 
 good for very much, any way.' 
 
 'That's an idea that you must get him out of, Plowden.' 
 
 ' It's easy to say so, but how am I to do it 1 When people 
 
 lose their confidence in you ' said Jim. And then he hesitated 
 
 and drew back. ' What did you say you were going to Winwick 
 for ? ' he added hastily. ' Musicians for your — what did you 
 say?' 
 
 'Musicians for my entertainment — to amuse my temperance 
 people. Your sisters are going to sing : and I hear you recite, 
 Plowden.' 
 
 ' No, I don't — not good enough for you. I used sometimes to 
 do things at penny readings ; but that was before I went to 
 Oxford,' said Jim, with a sudden flush, which seemed to envelop 
 him from head to foot — a flush half of unexpected pleasure, half of 
 overwhelming shame. 
 
 ' Well,' said the curate, ' you had better begin again : unless 
 you disapprove of my temperance meetings, like ' — he paused a 
 little and said fiercely — ' your sister.' 
 
 ' My sister ! ' cried Jim with amazement ; and then he laughed. 
 ' I don't suppose you mind very much. Which was it 1 Emmy 1 
 She's dreadfully serious about everything that God has given us 
 being meant for use. I think that myself, you know,' he said. 
 
 ' But perhaps you haven't seen, as I have, the terrible misery 
 it has brought,' said the curate, watching secretly with great 
 interest to see what the result would be. 
 
 Now Jim knew a great deal about himself, more than anybody 
 else knew : but he did not accuse himself in this respect. He had 
 not realised the danger here. In other ways he was aware that 
 there was danger ; but in this, for himself, no. 
 
 'I'm not such a novice as you think,' he said. 'I've known 
 fellows at Oxford — Good God ! if one was to think of it, it's 
 enough to make your brain go round — nice fellows, men that there 
 was no harm in, and yet ' 
 
 Jim walked on very soberly for a few minutes, thinking of 
 tragic scenes he had seen. Even though he was so young, Heaven 
 help him, he had seen tragic scenes. He had beheld with his own 
 eyes the tribute of youth, which the infernal powers demand and 
 receive wherever youth abounds. He knew it well enough. But 
 
XXXIV LADY WILLIAM 261 
 
 for himself there was no question of that ; for himself there was 
 only a little escape from paternal coercion — a place to lounge in 
 when he had nothing to do, a set of people obsequious, admiring 
 him whenever he opened his mouth. Danger in the ' Blue Boar ! ' 
 He could have laughed at the thought ; and so had the nice 
 fellows by whose example he was not warned. He did not say 
 anything at all for a few minutes, being deeply moved by things 
 he remembered, though not by any trouble for himself. 
 
 ' Plowden,' said the curate, ' that's one thing I wanted to speak 
 to you about. I don't know how you feel, but to think upon those 
 men makes me so sick at heart that I don't know what to do. 
 They're so often nice fellows : and how are we to get hold of them 1 
 How are we to stop them ? You're freshly out of it, you're of the 
 present generation. What is a man that wants to stop them to 
 do?' 
 
 Jim gave him a frightened half-glance, then lowered his eyes. 
 ' Good Heavens,' he said, ' what a question to ask ! How am I 
 to know 1 ' 
 
 'How is one to get at them? How is one to get hold of 
 them ? ' said the curate. ' There's always some way of getting at 
 the young fellows in the slums. You may not do any good, but 
 yet you can say out what you've got to say. There's the river 
 men, the boatmen, and all those. I don't say that usually they 
 pay a bit of attention, but now and then there's a chance of getting 
 hold of them and speaking one's mind. They can't help listening 
 to you, and they know what you say is true. But the gentlemen 
 are different. You can't get at them, and they wouldn't believe it 
 if you did ; they don't know the result. They think they can stop 
 when they please, and there will always be some one who will stick 
 to them. How are we to get hold of them, Plowden 1 — our own 
 very brothers, men of our own kind. They're all our brothers, 
 every one, to be sure ; but think, Plowden, those fellows at Oxford, 
 in London, everywhere. God help us ! all the harm isn't in the 
 slums. There must be some way of getting at them too ! ' 
 
 Jim Plowden looked at the curate with an interest he had 
 never felt before. He was moved by this earnestness, almost 
 passion, that was in him. ' The poor beggar must have a brother 
 that's gone to the bad,' he said to himself. That it should be he 
 himself about whom the curate was concerned, or that there was 
 any reason why anybody should be so concerned for him, never 
 entered into Jim's head.- 
 
 ' I see what you mean,' he said, ' but I couldn't answer your 
 question if you were to give me a fortune for it. They know fast 
 
262 LADY WILLIAM xxxiv 
 
 enough. They see other men going to the dogs every day. I 
 suppose that ought to be better than sermons or any other kind of 
 missionary work, or what a parson could do. I'm sure I can't tell 
 you, or how you're to get hold of them. It won't be with any 
 teetotal stuff, if I must say what I think.' 
 
 A shade of anger crossed the curate's face, and he looked at 
 Jim with a wondering gaze, which awoke that young man's surprise 
 in return. ' What do you look at me like that for ? ' he said, half 
 irritated in his turn. 
 
 ' Like what 1 I beg your pardon. I didn't mean anything — 
 particular. I suppose I thought I saw the others, the men I v>'ant 
 to get hold of, through you, or behind you,' he said. This was 
 not a speech which was very agreeable to Jim, who did not see any 
 reason why he should be chosen as a type of the young man of 
 whom the curate wanted to get hold. But Mr. Osborne here made 
 a diversion by another reference to Jim's suspended power of recita- 
 tion or reading, and by entering with him into a discussion of what 
 would be suitable for the occasion, which distracted Jim's atten- 
 tion. Before they got to Winwick Jim had proposed to read some- 
 thing — unwillingly, yet not without a little gratification too. 
 
 When they had accomplished their business, and secured the 
 aid of two or three amateurs all very willing to exhibit themselves 
 and their accomplishments, the two young men made their way to 
 the lodgings of Mr. Ormerod, who was one of the curates of the 
 place, and who produced for them the bread and cheese demanded 
 in the shape of a beef-steak, round which they were all mildly 
 merry as befitted the character of the party, and talked cricket and 
 miLsic, and other matters in which Jim felt himself quite able to 
 take his share, and did so. to the surprise of his host, who had 
 heard the usual derogatory murmurs which breathe into the air 
 concerning every such young defaulter — and of his companion, who 
 had given poor Jim the credit of being a fool as well as other 
 troublesome things. The entertainment took solid shape in the 
 hands of the two curates, and poor Jim felt a certain elation in 
 feeling himself one of them — taking a part with those who were 
 of 'one's own kind,' as Osborne had said. A passing reflection 
 even glanced through his mind that it would not have been nearly 
 so comfortable had he been leaving the ' Blue Boar,' a little heated 
 by the refreshment which it was necessary to take there, after an 
 hour or two's talk with Morris the vet., and the landlord, even on 
 a subject so instructive as cows. He knew exactly what would 
 have happened in that case. He would have been very late for 
 lunch, for which meal the ladies would have waited till he 
 
XXXIV LADY WILLIAM 263 
 
 came in ; and his feeling that his morning had not been very 
 profitably employed, as well as the refreshment that had been 
 necessary, would have made him irritable. He would have 
 answered his mother (who of course would have said something 
 brutal to him) insolently, and then there would have followed a 
 hush at table, no one saying anything, since all were angry, for 
 the sake of the servant who waited. And his sisters would have 
 looked as if they would like to cry, and his mother would have 
 been red with wrath, and as soon as the meal was over he would 
 have strolled off — to his study in the first place, where he would 
 have opened his books, and then sat down to think how hard it 
 was upon a fellow never to be left to himself, never to have funds 
 for anything, to get angry words and tearful looks whatever he 
 did. And then, after half an hour's indignant musing, he would 
 have strolled out again. Now how different everything was, as 
 he walked through the hilly street of Wiuwick, keeping up with 
 his companion's long strides, fresh and good-humom-ed, feeling that 
 he had done himself credit, with Mr. Ormerod's wholesome beer, 
 light upon both mind and stomach, and the three miles' stretch of 
 leafy road before him. To be sure there would be a little rush at 
 the Rectory to meet him, a cry of ' Jim, where have you been 1 ' 
 • But he was not afraid of that cry. If there were tearful looks 
 they would be looks of pleasure. If his mother met him red with 
 anxiety, she would soon be bubbling a hundred questions full of 
 satisfaction. ' Walked into Winwick with Osborne. I know I 
 ought not to have done it, but don't be frightened, I've time to do 
 the Sophocles before father comes back. And we lunched with 
 Ormerod at Winwick, who gave us a capital beef-steak.' What a 
 secret thrill of pleasure would run through the faded drawing-room 
 at this explanation ! There was no virtue in having gone off to 
 Winwick instead of doing his work. To tell the truth, it was not 
 a whit more virtuous than strolling into the ' Blue Boar.' But oh, 
 the difference ! the difi'erence ! The difference to himself, walking 
 home with a calm conscience and a light heart ! And the differ- 
 ence to them, whose trembling would all at once in a moment be 
 turned into joy, though he did not doubt that for the moment they 
 were unhappy enough now ! 
 
 ' Come over, will you, in the evening, and try over that " Ride 
 from Ghent," ' said Mr. Osborne, when they parted. 
 
 ' I will, with pleasure,' said Jim. Tliey parted, though neither 
 was aware of it, in sight of Florry, who had come out very 
 wretched to see whether in her perambulations about the village 
 she could catch a glimpse of Jim, and who came up to him a few 
 
264 LADY WILLIAM xxsiv 
 
 moments after he had left the curate, in a state of curious com- 
 motion which Jim found it very difficult to understand. 
 
 ' Oh, Jim,' she cried, ' where have you been 1 ' — the usual 
 phrase. But then she added, ' Have you been somewhere with 
 Mr. Osborne ? ' in a voice that fluttered like a bird. 
 
 ' I have been to Winwick with Osborne, and we lunched with 
 Ormerod off an excellent beef-steak,' said the comjDlacent Jim. 
 
 But Florence answered not a word. She put down her veil, 
 which was unnecessary, and struggled with it a little to draw it 
 over her face, turning away her head. 
 
XXXV 
 
 Jim was very busy about the book-shelves that evening, taking out 
 and putting back various books, until, at last, his movements called 
 forth the observations of his anxious family. The Rector, who had 
 come home moody and troubled, and who had made no inquiry into 
 Sophocles, neither had shown the interest that was expected in 
 Jim's expedition to Winwick with the curate, looked up fretfully 
 and begged his son to have a little respect for other people's occupa- 
 tions if he had none of his own. Mr. Plowden was doing nothing 
 more serious than reading the evening paper, so that the gravity of 
 this address was a little uncalled-for ; but he was put out about 
 something, as all the family was aware. 
 
 ' What are you looking for 1 ' said his mother, who had bound- 
 less patience with Jim. 
 
 ' I want to take two or three things over to Osborne,' said 
 Jim, ' to let him choose. I'm to read something for him at his 
 entertainment.' 
 
 ' What 1 ' said the Rector, looking over the top of his paper 
 with angry eyes. 
 
 Upon which Jim repeated his announcement a little louder and 
 with a shght air of defiance ; or, at least, the air of a man ready 
 to be defiant, as — when tliere is nothing but virtue in his mind, a 
 man feels that he has a right to be. 
 
 ' His entertainment ! His teetotal entertainment ! StuflF and 
 nonsense — cramming the fellows' heads with pride and folly, as if 
 they were better than their neighbours.' 
 
 ' Oh, James ! ' said his wife, ' let them be as silly as they like. 
 What does that matter in comparison with ruining their families 
 by drink?' 
 
 ' They'll ruin their families by something else,' said the Rector ; 
 ' if not in one way they'll get it out in another — politics, most 
 likely, and socialism, and that sort of thing. What Osborne wUl 
 
266 LADY WILLIAM xxxv 
 
 do is to make them all a set of insufferable, narrow - minded 
 prigs.' 
 
 ' Even that, James ' began Mrs. Plowden. 
 
 ' Don't tell me,' said the Rector, ' that you'll make men 
 Christians by teaching them that there's a curse on one of the 
 gifts of God. You may abuse any and all of the gifts of God ; 
 but to make a young ass think he is suiDcrior to his honest father, 
 because he abstains, forsooth, and the old man likes his honest 
 glass of beer ! ' 
 
 'Mr. Osborne doesn't teach them that, papa,' said Florry from 
 the further corner of the room, in which, her eyes, she said, being 
 a little weak, she had established herself Mr. Plowden turned 
 upon her like a tempest. 
 
 ' Who are you 1 ' he said ; ' a little chit of a girl, to tell me 
 what Osborne teaches them or doesn't teach them ! I should hope 
 I am still able to judge for myself — at least, in such a question 
 as this.' 
 
 ' Hush, Florry ! ' said her mother, with a little nod at Florence. 
 They were all aware that in certain conjunctures it was inexpedient 
 to contradict the Rector. As for Jim, he held up two books to 
 his mother behind backs over Mr. Plowden's head and disappeared 
 with them, shutting the door softly behind him. He was too 
 much in the habit of closing doors softly and stealing out ; but 
 Mrs. Plowden's mind being otherwise occupied, she did not think 
 of this to-night. 
 
 If there had been anything wanted to throw Jim into the arms 
 of the curate, that tirade did it. Had his father sent him forth to 
 Mr. Osborne's company with a blessing, it would have spoiled all ; 
 but to escape for all the world as if he were going to spend the 
 evening with Mrs. Brown, put things at once on a right footing. 
 Jim walked through the village, not in his usual lounging way, but 
 with a long stride and head high. He glanced at the ' Blue Boar,' 
 with the cheerful light shining through its red curtains, and 
 thought with a little contempt of the fellows who were seated, he 
 knew, in a cloud of smoke within, and with talk as smoky as the 
 air, he thought to himself lightly. It was a place where a man 
 might go to pass the time when he had nothing else to do ; but he 
 had never entertained any illusion on the subject of its dulness, 
 Jim said to himself. 
 
 It is doubtful whether Mr. Osborne heard Jim's step coming 
 through the little garden of the cottage in which he lodged with 
 the same exhilaration. The curate, indeed, had been of opinion that 
 Jim was not at all likely to come, and had settled himself to his 
 
XXXV LADY WILLIAM 267 
 
 evening's occupation with that view. He had not found much 
 pleasure in the young man's companionship during their long walk. 
 He had caught the look of surprise, the lifting of the eyebrows, 
 with which the people of Winwick testified their amazement to see 
 such a superior person as Mr. Osborne accompanied by that unlucky 
 Jim — and Mr. Osborne had not liked it. The fact that he did 
 not like it, however, was the one good thing in the matter, for it 
 gave him the conviction that since he did not like it, it must be 
 the right thing. He had liked that little glorification of taking 
 the pledge to induce old Mrs. Lloyd to do it ; and this sensation 
 had made him much less strong than he might have been as to the 
 absolute virtue of the act. Mr. Osborne, as will be perceived, was 
 really a very superior young man. When Mr. Ormerod had taken 
 him aside, with again a lifting of the eyebrows, and asked him 
 whether that young cub of Plowden's had turned over a new leaf 
 as he (Osborne) had taken him in tow, the curate of Watcham had 
 been angry. ' Don't you think it might be perhaps my duty to 
 help him to turn over a new leafT he had said, with some 
 asperity, at which the Winwick curate had lifted his eyebrows 
 more and more. They had all thought that to consort with Jim 
 was rather a token that Mr. Osborne himself was acqmring a relish 
 for indifferent society, than that it was his duty to endeavour to 
 reclaim that species of lost sheep. This naturally and beneficially 
 excited the temper of Edward Osborne, which was a fine, animated, 
 vigorous sort of temper, capable of doing a great deal to encourage 
 him in an unpopular way. If it had been a young boatman on 
 Eiverside there would have been no lifting of eyebrows. So much 
 the more was it evident that this particular thing was his duty, 
 and that he was bound to pursue what these asses took upon them 
 to disapprove of. A man may be a very good man, and yet feel 
 his virtuous determination strengthened by the consciousness that 
 those who are against him are asses. And just as Jim was en- 
 couraged by his father's angry opposition, so was Mr. Osborne by 
 the surprise, whether put in words or not, of his Winwick friends. 
 They had all been greatly complimentary and touched to the heart 
 by the episode of old Mrs. Llyod. 
 
 But he had thought that his reformatory efibrt w^as over for 
 the day. The invitation he had given Jim for the evening had been 
 a sudden and passing impulse, and he had never suspected that 
 it would be accepted. Even when it was accepted in word, he 
 still thought nothing more would come of it. The young fellow 
 would not be able to pass the ' Blue Boar,' or he would be 
 caught at the schoolhouse by Mrs. Brown. Having done his duty 
 
268 LADY WILLIAM xxxv 
 
 amplj'-, as he felt he had done, it was almost with relief that the 
 curate concluded that Jim would never manage to pass the 
 ' Blue Boar.' When he heard, on the contrary, a footstep ring 
 upon the little line of pavement which divided in two the cot- 
 tage garden where his lodgings were, Mr. Osborne was much 
 startled, and it cannot be said that his start was one of pleasure. 
 ' Oh ! here's this confounded fellow again.' I am afraid that 
 was the thought that passed through his mind ; and he pushed 
 away his work with impatience, clearing away several books 
 which he had been consulting. He wanted to make a conquest, 
 a convert of Jim. He had a hundred reasons for wishing it. 
 First, the conviction that on the whole it was a far more diffi- 
 cult task tlian administering the pledge to Mrs. Lloyd : second, 
 that Jim Plowden, after all, would be a more considerable prize 
 than the old woman, that lie was at least worth as much trouble 
 as a young waterman on Eiverside ; third, that perhaps it might 
 be allowed that an Oxford man and a gentleman has a peculiar 
 duty towards another Oxford man and gentleman who is going 
 astray, even though that duty is very little acknowledged. 
 
 Fourthly No ! there was nothing at all about Florence 
 
 Plowden in the matter, nothing but an undying resentment against 
 the girl who had presumed to teach him his duty ! She might 
 be right. I presume he felt in his heart that she was right, or 
 he would not have taken the measures he had done. But he 
 also felt in his heart that he could never forgive her for her 
 temerity, for departing from the woman's part so much as to 
 venture to suggest to one of the priests of her parish what he 
 should do. No, Florence Plowden told for nothing in the effort he 
 was making. When her name floated up it awakened nothing but 
 feelings of anger in his breast. 
 
 Poor Florry ! She sat half in the dark with her knitting, 
 pretending she felt her eyes weak, in order that she might not 
 betray the melting mist of happiness that was in her face, the soft 
 dew that kept coming into her eyes. If anybody had seen how 
 near she was to crying, they would have thought her unliappy : 
 whereas she was almost too happy to think, certainly too glad — 
 except in a momentary impulse like that which had called upon her 
 the reproof of both parents — to speak. 
 
 Jim put his books before Osborne, who grinned at the sight. 
 It was intended for a smile, but it was a poor version of a smile. 
 ' Oh, yes,' he said, ' Browning, the " Kide to Aix." Isn't it just 
 a little hackneyed ^ Oh, no, not the poem itself I don't mean 
 that : but everybody does it. What's the other ? Ingoldsby. 0— 
 
XXXV LADY WILLIAM 269 
 
 oh. I don't kuow, if you ask me my opinion, that I care so very 
 much for lugoldsbj^, myself.' 
 
 ' Perhaps not,' said Jim, who for this once was wiser than his 
 leader, ' but they do, you know. He's always the most popular of 
 all.' 
 
 ' Eh — -oh — ah,' said Mr. Osborne, putting his head on one side 
 as though to see in that way the virtues which were visible to 
 the people in general. ' Now, I should have thought,' he said, 
 ' that this sort of stuff was too — too conventional, too fictitious, in 
 the wrong sense of the word, to please these sort of rough intelli- 
 gences ; that they would like something more — more straightfor- 
 ward, don't you know.' 
 
 ' Like the " Ride to Aix " % But then they're awfully anxious 
 to know,' said Jim, ' what it was for, what the news was, and 
 when it was, and all that ; and I've never found yet any one that 
 knew.' 
 
 Mr. Osborne discreetly turned that question aside, for on this 
 point he had no more information than other people. ' Suppose 
 you read it and let me hear,' he said. It was very good-humoured 
 and kind of him. He expected nothing, if truth must be told, 
 and he was really very full of occupation and had a great many 
 things to do. But Jim, as it turned out, did not read badly at all. 
 And there came a note of emotion in his voice as the gallop rang 
 on ; that sort of sympathy with the excitement of the strain, and 
 climbing passion in the throat, which only a few readers are moved 
 by. The curate listened in amaze while this high note of poetic 
 sympathy thrilled through the lines, which Jim read with a pause 
 or two and strain of breath to overcome himself. He could not 
 understand what it meant to feel thus, and yet to drift into the 
 parlour of the ' Blue Boar' ; to tremble and flush with the poetry, 
 and then listen to Slaughter and White maundering about politics, 
 or sit with the schoolmistress. There came over the curate for the 
 first time in a great many years a sense of humility, a sudden con- 
 viction that there were more things in heaven and earth than were 
 dreamt of in his philosophy. 
 
 ' By Jove,' said Jim, ' I got through it pretty well this time. 
 The worst is my voice always breaks at that line : " And into the 
 square Roland staggered and stood." One gets wound up so, 
 don't you know. After that I can always manage the rest.' 
 
 ' Give me the book,' said Osborne ; and he, too, read the last 
 verses, but his voice did not break at all, the water did not come 
 into his eyes. He read it all as if it were one of his own sermons. 
 Decidedly there were things in heaven and earth — perhaps he 
 
270 LADY WILLIAM xxxv 
 
 acknowledged it a little gnidgingly : ' Evidently, Plowden, you 
 have the knack of it much better than I.' 
 
 ' Nonsense,' said Jim, with a good-humoured laugh, ' You 
 read so well. I've got no knack. It is only that a few of these 
 things get over me somehow. Because — because they are mere 
 stories and of no consequence.' 
 
 ' Plowden,' said the curate. 
 
 'Yes?' 
 
 ' I wonder if you'd be dreadfully offended if I asked you one 
 thing?' 
 
 ' I am not very peppery,' said Jim ; ' fire away ? ' 
 
 ' Well,' he said, ' I will, but you will be angry, I fear. It is 
 just this. When you feel these things so, more than most people 
 — more,' he added, with a naive surprise, ' than I do myself; how 
 is it, you know — that — I don't want to offend you — how is it 
 that — -' 
 
 Jim's countenance grew deeply red, a cloud came over it for 
 a moment ; then he shook his head as if to shake off any con- 
 sideration of such questions. ' I say, don't ask me that kind of 
 conundrum. I'm not good at gTiessing things,' he said. ' Will 
 the "Ride" do?' 
 
 ' The " Ride" will do capitally,' said the curate. He too 
 shook off with a flush the questions which had risen involuntarily 
 to his lips. He was grateful to Jim for passing it over, for neither 
 taking offence in words nor jumping up and breaking off the con- 
 ference. ' What sort of people do you think will come,' he said, 
 ' since you seem to have experience of these things ? ' 
 
 ' Oh ! ' said Jim, ' a number of the village people will come 
 — the daughters of the tradespeople, and those shifting folks that 
 live in Pleasant Place, and a number of the "gentry" — the 
 General ' 
 
 Mr. Osborne made a sign of impatience and dissatisfaction. 
 
 ' Don't you want the gentry to come 1 But the others like it. 
 I assure you they do. Mrs. AVhite and Mrs. Slaughter will not 
 come, they are too grand. They're able to pay for their pleasure 
 when they make up their minds to go out.' 
 
 Jim said this with a gleam of Florry's mimicry, which dis- 
 composed the cui'ate more than he could say. ' You seem to know 
 all about it,' he cried, a little sharply. ' But I want the men from 
 Riverside, the fellows from the boats. I don't want ladies and 
 gentlemen. What I want is to keep the men from the public- 
 house. Do you mean to say the same sort of thing has been done 
 here before ? ' 
 
XXXV LADY WILLIAM 271 
 
 * Oh, yes,' said Jim, ' we have done it before ; but I don't 
 think we got any of the Riverside men. The people who come 
 generally are — well, just the village people, Osborne, the people 
 you know, particularly the women and the Sunday School lads, 
 those that my sisters teach carving to, and so forth ; and the ones 
 that come to the night-school.' 
 
 ' Ah ! ' said the curate, ' that is always something,' with a sigh 
 of relief. 
 
 ' And all that my mother calls the nice, respectable people,' 
 said Jim, with a laugh, destroying the momentary good efiect he 
 had produced. 
 
 The curate put his face in his hands, and was silent for a 
 minute. ' So that I have been taking all this trouble,' he said, 
 ' and getting people to come over from Winwick, and laying myself 
 under obligations — to amuse the old women — and the gentry, as 
 you call them.' 
 
 ' Well, yes ; there will be old Mrs. Lloyd, and some more of 
 her kind,' Jim said. 
 
 Mr. Osborne looked at his visitor for a moment, with as deep a 
 colour as that which Jim had shown when he was being ques- 
 tioned — as much heat of embarrassment, and an air of offence 
 much more marked. Mrs. Lloyd ! The curate felt that the name 
 of this old woman was a missile that any one was now at liberty 
 to fling at him, to turn him into ridicule. Strange ! when a very 
 short time ago it appeared to him the finest feather in his cap. 
 
 ' We must do something about this, Plowdeu,' he said. ' We 
 must lay hold on some of these fellows, and get them to come. 
 I've pledged myself it's for them. I've meant it all along for 
 them. What can we do to get hold of them 1 You've been here 
 all your life ; you must have known half of them as boys. Can't 
 we do something ? can't we find some way of attracting them ? 
 Think for yourself. Do you want to read that "Ride," which you 
 
 do so well, to Mrs. Lloyd 1 ' It would be impossible to 
 
 express the tone of disgust with which Mr. Osborne said this 
 name. 
 
 ' I don't suppose she would understand much of it, poor old 
 body. But she will like to hear the girls sing,' said Jim, more 
 charitable, after all, to the old lady than was the instrument of her 
 conversion from beer. ' About the men, I don't know ; they're 
 very hard to fetch. Yes, I used to know a lot of the young 
 ones as boys ; but I haven't seen anything of them for a long 
 time.' 
 
 ' I tell you what, Plowden,' said the curate, ' we'll go down 
 
272 LADY WILLIAM xxxv 
 
 there some evening when the fellows are about. You can talk to 
 
 them, for old acquamtance' sake, while I Put your shoulder 
 
 to the wheel ! Of course, you could do a great deal if you chose. 
 Don't, for the credit of the parish, let those fellows say we bring 
 them over here to play to the old women. I can't stand it. I 
 may have been a fool,' Mr. Osborne said. He said it with a force 
 and bitterness which Jim could not understand— not to Jim, that 
 was clear, but to some unknown adversary. ' But stand by me,' 
 he said, putting his hand on Jim's shoulder, ' and we'll tell another 
 tale.' 
 
 ' Stand by me ! ' Was it the curate that spoke, and was this 
 Jim to whom he appealed '? 
 
XXXVI 
 
 Jim was hiurying home to the Kectory full of the plans that had 
 been settled between him and his new friend, full of the unusual 
 excitement of something to do which was novel at least, and 
 might be amusing, and was voluntary, exacted from him by no 
 one. It was the loveliest spring night, the first of May, but full 
 of a softness which is little to be depended upon at that season, 
 the stars shining sweetly in a sky which was fresh and luminous, 
 with nothing of the sparkle of frost in it, but a prophecy, almost 
 a realisation, of siunmer. The village was quiet, as it usually 
 was at that hour ; the window of the ' Blue Boar ' still shining 
 with light, for it was not yet the closing hour : but all except the 
 habitues of that respectable place, where general drinking was 
 not encouraged, had left. Jim did not feel the drawing to-night 
 of those invisible links which drew him to the ' Blue Boar,' and 
 he was hurrying along towards home, when he encountered a 
 wrapped-up figure which paused as he approached, but which he 
 did not at first recognise. Indeed, to tell the truth, he thought 
 for a moment with a quick movement of anger, that it was one 
 of his own belongings, mother or sister, who had taken the liberty 
 of coming out thus, veiled and covered up, to look for him, which 
 was a thing that the young man in his greatness of superiority 
 would not very readily have forgiven. But it was not anything 
 so innocent as poor Mrs. Piowden with her shawl over her head, 
 strolling forth, as she would have explained, because it was such 
 a beautiful night, just to breathe the air ; not anything nearly so 
 innocent. The dark figure stopped as Jim came up, and with a 
 little cough to call his attention, said : ' Is this Mr. Jim 1 ' 
 
 ' Oh ! ' he said, coming to a sudden pause, ' Mrs. Brown ! ' but 
 not with any delight in his tone. 
 
 ' I fear,' said Mrs. Brown, ' there is not much pleasure in 
 seeing me in that exclamation ; but then, of course, you can't see 
 
 T 
 
274 LADY WILLIAM sxxvi 
 
 me, which takes from it all the uucomplimentary meaning. And 
 where are you coming from at this horn' — some of your smart 
 parties 1 ' 
 
 'You know as well as I do,' he said, aggrieved, 'that there 
 are no smart parties here.' 
 
 'What do you call Mrs. FitzStephen's balll' she said, with 
 her laugh of mockery. ' I have heard that it was very smart — 
 the young ladies' dresses beautiful, and diamonds upon some of 
 the old ones. I call that very smart. Unfortunately, I hear, 
 there were no Royal Highnesses — unless it was yourself, Mr. 
 Jim.' 
 
 ' How fond you are of laughing at people ! ' said Jim. 
 
 ' I — the most innocent woman in the world ! I will be very 
 civil, now, if you will walk as far as my house with me. I don't 
 mind the road up to the Hall, but here in the village, where a 
 tipsy man might run up against me ' 
 
 ' Oh, I don't think you need be afraid,' said Jim ; but he 
 could not refuse so small a request, though he did not like it — 
 neither the interruption nor the fact, indeed, of escorting the 
 schoolmistress, who was exceedingly amusing, and knew how to 
 make herself agreeable in her own place ; but here, outside, where 
 he might be recognised by any one ! Jim was half disgusted with 
 himself for this feeling, yet felt it all the same, and turned back 
 with a little reluctance, which he concealed, indeed, but which, from 
 his companion's quick eyes, was not altogether to be concealed. 
 
 ' You have been somewhere to-night where you ought to have 
 been,' said Mrs. Brown. ' One soon gets to know the ways of 
 young men. Sometimes you are not proud of the place in which 
 you have been spending your evening, but to-night it's different. 
 You are going home in a hurry to tell them all about it before 
 they go to bed. What a pity that I should have met you just 
 to-night ! ' 
 
 ' It can never be a pity that I should have met you,' said Jim, 
 a little sulkily, 'if I can be of any use.' 
 
 ' Poor boy,' she said, with a half laugh, and then she added : 
 ' I have been among naughty people to-night, who have been 
 putting naughty schemes in my head. Tell me what nice, good 
 society you have been having, to put it out of my mind.' 
 
 ' Where are those naughty people to be found 1 ' said Jim. 
 
 ' Ah, you Avould rather know that than tell me your news ! 
 
 But they are not naughty people of your kind ; they wouldn't 
 
 amuse you at all. There is no fun in their naughtiness, but 
 
 rather the reverse : envy and malice and all uncharitableness, not 
 
XXXVI LADY WILLIAM 275 
 
 the folly that pleases you poor boys. Poor boys ! for the one 
 often leads to the other, don't you know, when you outgrow the 
 fun and yet love the naughtiness, and get out of the way of all 
 that's good ' 
 
 ' You are in a very serious humour to-night.' 
 
 'No,' she said, 'not more than usual. I'm a very serious 
 woman, though you may not have found it out. You have not 
 found it out, have you 1 ' she said, with a sudden laugh, apparently 
 overcome by the absurdity of the situation, which, however, Jim 
 did not feel at all. He saw no fun in it : all that he was afraid 
 of was that with her laugh, though it was very soft, she might 
 attract the observation of some one whom they met. 
 
 'No,' he said, 'I — I haven't thought about the subject, I 
 never tried to ' 
 
 ' Understand, did you 1 ' she said quickly ; ' took me as you 
 found me 1 Of course you did. And you were quite right. 
 Don't be afraid that any one will find you with me. In the first 
 place, there is nobody to be seen, and in the second place ' 
 
 ' I am not at all afraid of any one seeing me. I am not re- 
 sponsible to any one. I hope I am of an age to choose my own 
 friends.' 
 
 ' Well spoken, Mr. Jim, and very manly of you ; and I am 
 glad you would stand by me like that, as one of your own friends. 
 Now, there is something I would like you to do for me. It is a 
 great secret, and you must tell nobody of the request I am going 
 to make.' 
 
 ' AVell,' he said, with a laugh, ' I hope I don't want much 
 cautioning on that subject. The moment one is told that a matter 
 is private, it is sacred — at least, to a man.' 
 
 ' Ah ! you think more sacred to a man than a woman, Mr. 
 Jim 1 I don't agree with you ; but still, I'm glad that it's 
 
 your view. If you should find out You know of all that 
 
 is going on in the family, don't you 1 ' 
 
 ' In the family,' cried Jim, astonished ; ' in what family ? ' 
 
 ' You may well be surprised. What should I have to do with 
 your respectable family ? ' cried Mrs. Brown, laughing again. It 
 was not like other people's laughter ; it was a thin little sound, 
 which, if it conveyed mockery of other people, seemed in some 
 indescribable way to mock herself too. 'But yet,' she added, 
 ' it is really your respectable family I mean. If yoiu: aunt should 
 be hard pressed by those people, and felt as if she might be 
 crushed altogether— now, mind what I say — felt as if she might 
 be crushed altogether ' 
 
276 LADY WILLIAM xxxvi 
 
 'Do you mean my aunt Emily, Lady William? Why, who 
 in the name of wonder wants to crush her altogether 1 You have 
 got some joke in your mind that I don't understand.' 
 
 'Felt/ repeated Mrs. Brown with emphasis, 'as if she might 
 be crushed altogether. I will make you say it after me to impress 
 it on your memory, if you don't mind. Felt as if she might be 
 crushed altogether — you understand ? ' 
 
 ' I understand the words : but what they mean, or what you 
 mean ' 
 
 ' That is quite enough, so long as you know the words. Keep 
 them fast, and in such a case let me know ; not until you see 
 there is very grave trouble, mind — not if you hear that she sees 
 her way out of it.' 
 
 ' You are speaking Hebrew, I think,' said Jim. 
 
 ' No, I am speaking English. You will see, even if they don't 
 tell you, by your people's looks, or you will get it out of one of 
 your sisters. Mind ! if you find that they are all in the dumps, 
 and she feels herself beaten — you'll see it in their looks — let me 
 know. If I should not be here I will let you know where 
 I am.' 
 
 ' Are you going away 1 ' said Jim, 
 
 She did not make him any immediate answer, but turned 
 round upon him, in the light of a lamp which they were approach- 
 ing, putting back her veil a little, with a mischievous look. 
 ' Should you be very sorry 1 No, I'm afraid you would not be 
 very sorry,' she said. 
 
 ' Yes, I should,' said Jim, with an impetuosity which alarmed 
 him next moment, as he suddenly realised that somebody passing 
 (but there was no one passing), or somebody unseen at a door or 
 window, might hear what he said. 'I should be very sorry 
 indeed to think I should not see you any more,' he added, in a 
 lower tone. 
 
 ' But that dreadful fate need not come, even if I were to 
 leave Watcham,' she said, in her mocking tone. ' We met before 
 I came here, which is the origin of all our acquaintance, and we 
 may meet after I leave here. The world is a wide place. I shall 
 let you know, somehow, where I am : and in the case I have so 
 impressed upon you • ' 
 
 ' The case in which Aunt Emily (of all people in the world !) 
 should find herself crushed altogether.' 
 
 ' You are a good scholar. You have learned your lesson. In 
 that case you will take care — but only when there is no other 
 hope — to let me know. Now I'll release you, Mr, Jim. I won't 
 
XXXVI LADY WILLIAM 277 
 
 exact that you should come to my very door. No harm can 
 happen to me between this and my door.' 
 
 ' It is the only part of the Avay where anything could happen,' 
 said Jim. ' It's the middle of the town.' 
 
 ' A wonderful town, and a wonderful middle,' she said, laugh- 
 ing. 'No, nothing will happen. Good night, and I am more 
 obliged to you than I can say.' 
 
 Jim stood irresolute, and watched her as she drew down her 
 veil over her face, and hurried along to the door of the school- 
 house. He was, on the whole, well pleased to get rid of her, 
 but he did not like the idea of being thus dismissed at the 
 moment it occurred to her to do so — a sensation which roused 
 his pride and kept him, accordingly, standing where she left him 
 until he saw that she had reached her own door. She turned 
 round there and made a slight gesture of farewell, or dismissal. 
 It was just at that moment that the convives at the ' Blue 
 Boar' began to stream out, with a little noise of voices and 
 feet, the last jokes of the little convivial club. Jim turned and 
 hurried homeward, not without an uncomfortable feeling that 
 his return would correspond unpleasingly with the dispersion of 
 that assembly. But yet it was not his fault. 
 
 His mother was in the drawing-room still, waiting for him, 
 or at least pretending not to wait for him, but to be very busy 
 with something she had to do. And Jim had by this time 
 remembered again the great news he had been carrying home so 
 eagerly when he met Mrs. Brown. Though Jim detested the 
 ' parish ' in the official sense of the word, he was not without a 
 natural feeling for his own side ; and it pleased him almost as 
 much as if he had been a Rector's son of the more orthodox 
 description to find that the new curate, with his immense com- 
 motion as of a new broom, found it necessary after all to have 
 recourse to the old rulers and their ways for help. He had, I 
 need not say, not the faintest idea of the curate's benevolent 
 intentions towards himself; but Mr. Osborne had been a little 
 superior in the morning — it was his nature to be a little 
 superior — and his final appeal for help to Jim, who of all 
 the Rectory family was the only one whom nobody else would 
 have thought of appealing to, was a triumph which Jim could 
 not but be sensible of. His mother looked up at him from 
 her sewing with those curves about her eyes which he had grown 
 accustomed to, and did not at this present moment take any 
 notice of, notwithstanding the keen inspection of him which she 
 made instantly, an inspection so keen that it seemed to cut 
 
278 LADY WILLIAM xxsvi 
 
 below the surface and see what never can be seen. Jim was 
 more or less aware of this inspection when he had anything to 
 conceal, but on this occasion, having nothing to conceal, it did 
 not occur to him. ' Have the girls gone to bed 1 ' he said, in a 
 disappointed tone. He had brought in with him no heavy odour 
 of tobacco or other scent inharmonious with the place, but a whole 
 atmosphere of fresh air, cool and pure, to which the haste of his 
 arrival gave an impetus, and which seemed to fill and refresh the 
 whole room, which was half dark, with only Mrs. Plowden's 
 solitary lamp shining on the round table. 'They've gone up- 
 stairs,' she said, rising to meet him with that sudden sweetness 
 of relief which fills an anxious heart when its anxiety is found 
 unnecessary. ' Do you want them 1 Shall I call them 1 Oh, 
 Jim, they will be too happy to come.' 
 
 'I'll call them myself,' he said, then paused — 'unless it will 
 disturb my father ! He looked a little worried at dinner.' 
 
 ' It is like you to think of your father.' Mrs. Plowden could 
 not but caress her son's shoulder as she passed him. ' You can 
 always see farther than any one — with your heart, my dear. 
 Yes, he was worried. But never mind that ; I'll call the girls.' 
 
 They came at the call like two birds flitting noiselessly down 
 the staircase, and came into the room with a faint rustle as of wings. 
 
 ' Jim has something he wants to tell you, ' the mother said, 
 and there went a quick glance round the three like an electrical 
 flash ; oh ! of such ease, joy, consolation to themselves ; of such 
 admiration, enthusiasm for him ! That there should be nothing 
 to lament over, nothing to find fault with, meant whole litanies of 
 honour and praise to Jim. 
 
 He told them his story with a pleasure which found an 
 immediate echo and reflection from his mother and Emmy. 
 Florence, of whose sympathy he had felt most sure, had turned a 
 little away. 
 
 ' He seemed struck all of a heap,' said Jim, not pausing to 
 choose his language, ' when he heard we'd had those sort of things 
 before. He thinks he's the first to do everything; and when I 
 told him it was the respectable folks that came and the Fitz- 
 Stephens and so forth, and the old women — Mrs, Lloyd and the 
 rest ' 
 
 ' Jim,' cried Florence, seizing his arm, ' it was ungenerous to 
 mention Mrs. Lloyd.' 
 
 ' Why? ' cried Jim, opening his eyes ; and Florry made no reply. 
 ' Well,' he continued, ' Osborne was taken all aback, as I tell you. 
 He says it is the men he wants to catch — the fellows down by the 
 
XXXVI LADY WILLIAM • 279 
 
 river, that sort. When I told him he might as soon look for the 
 Prince of Wales, I never saw a man so broken down. He said, 
 " How are we to catch hold of 'em, Plowden ? What are we to do 
 to fetch 'em? Come down with me," he said. "You must have 
 known some of them from boys. Come down, you and me together, 
 and let's see what we can do." I said to myself, " Oho, my fine 
 fellow ! for all so grand as you think yourself, you can't get on 
 without the oldest inhabitant after all." ' 
 
 ' But, Jim, you'll help him,' cried Emmy ; ' so wiJl I, I am 
 sure, with all my heart. We have always wanted to get hold of 
 them ; and you could do something, Jim, if you were working 
 with him.' 
 
 ' Oh yes, I shall help him,' said Jim in a magisterial way, 
 ' fast enough. He isn't a bad sort of fellow when you know him. 
 I said I'd go down with him when the fellows were at home in the 
 evening Avhenever he liked. Of course, as he said, I know them 
 all ; half of them I've licked or they've licked me. He has sense to 
 see the advantage of that, and, of course, now he's asked me I'll do 
 whatever I can for him ; and see if I don't have them up to hear 
 all the tootle-te-tooting and you girls singing and all the rest.' 
 
 ' If your father approves, Jim,' said Mrs. Plowden. ' We cannot 
 make quite sure that your father approves.' 
 
 'Oh, papa will approve,' cried Emmy. 'I am sure he really 
 knows how much good there is in Mr. Osborne. He only does not 
 like his little Well, I don't like to call it conceit.' 
 
 ' Excellent opinion of himself; but that's so common with young 
 men,' said the Rector's wife. 
 
 And Florence — Florence who was the lively one, who on any 
 ordinary occasion would have been in the heat of the discussion, 
 talking now in the tones of Mr. Osborne, now like old Mrs. Lloyd, 
 now like all the 'fellows' at Riverside — Florence said nothing at 
 all ! That is, nothing to speak of — nothing for her. She kept 
 her face away from the light, and threw in a monosyllable now and 
 then ; and when Mr. Osborne's conceit was spoken of, threw up 
 her head with an indignation which happily nobody perceived. To 
 think they should discuss him so, who was doing all this, giving up 
 his pride in his superior management, for their sake — appealing to 
 Jim ! It seemed to Florry that the force of noble self-abnegation 
 could not further go. 
 
XXXVII 
 
 The Rector, when he came home upon that day, when Jim's 
 alliance with Mr. Osborne began, did not show any such pleasure in 
 the circumstances as his wife expected. He mumbled and coughed, 
 and with a lowering brow said that anything was an excuse that 
 kept the boy from his Avork, and that if Jim picked up Osborne's 
 fads in addition to his own faults they would make a pretty hash of 
 it altogether. Mrs. Plowden, however, made the less of this that 
 the Rector was evidently in but an indifferent state of temper and 
 spirits generally. ' He has been put out about something,' his 
 interpreter said to the girls ; ' something has gone wrong with him 
 in town ; he has not got his business done as he wished.' But 
 what that business was, his wife was obliged to allow that she did 
 not know. ' I can't help thinking,' she said, ' that it's something 
 about your uncle Reginald. What else could Emily have come 
 over in such hot haste about 1 And then your father going up to 
 town in this wild way without giving any reason. I can't imagine 
 what can be the cause unless it was something about Reginald. 
 They are dreadful for sticking to each other, the Plowdens ; they 
 would think, perhaps, that I would make a remark, and I am sure 
 that there are plenty of remarks I might make, for if ever there 
 was a man who was utterly unbearable in a house it was Reginald 
 Plowden, and nothing in the world would make me consent to have 
 him here again, nothing ! Your father has had something on his 
 mind for some time back. Don't you remember he burst iu one 
 day as if he were full of something to tell us, and then stopped 
 short all at once ? ' 
 
 ' But that looked as if it was good news, mamma. He had met 
 Mr. Swinford and he was just going to tell us.' 
 
 'What good news could come to us through Leo Swin- 
 ford 1 ' cried Mrs. Plowden scornfully : which was to poor 
 Emmy as if somebody had given her a blow in the face. She 
 
XXXVII LADY WILLIAM 281 
 
 fell back quite suddenly behind her sister, and attempted no 
 reply. 
 
 ' It did look at first as if it was something good,' Mrs. Plowden 
 allowed ; ' but when I tried to draw it out of him he only got into 
 a fuss you know, as he does so often, and told me I'd hear it all in 
 good time. I am sure ever since he has had something on his 
 mind ; and when he came back from town last night he could have 
 torn us all in pieces. If it is not about Eeginald I am sure I can't 
 imagine what it can be.' 
 
 ' It may be something about Aunt Emily, mamma.' 
 
 ' What could there be about Emily 1 No, she has heard from 
 Reginald, that is what it is, and he has told her he was sending 
 back her money, or something of that sort, and your father has 
 gone up to town to see if it was true. And he has found out, of 
 course, that it was not true, as I could have told him before he 
 went a step on such an errand. And now he can't contain himself 
 for rage and disappointment, and if I'm not mistaken, he has gone 
 over to teU your aunt Emily that she is not to think of it any 
 more.' 
 
 ' He did walk over to the cottage,' one of the girls said ; and 
 the other added : 
 
 ' How do you find out things, mamma 1 Now I am sure I 
 never should have thought of anything of that kind.' 
 
 ' My dears,' said Mrs. Plowden with a certain complaisance, 
 'you never knew Reginald Plowden. And I do. You cannot 
 gather grapes off thorns, or figs off thistles ; and if there ever was 
 thorns and thistles in flesh and blood, Reginald Plowden is the 
 man. That your Aunt Emily should still expect to get her 
 money back from him, just shows what a thing family affection 
 is ; but she might as well expect it to drop down from those 
 lilac- trees.' 
 
 The girls did not say anything in reply ; but Emmy, for her 
 part, thought of quite a different explanation. She believed that 
 Leo Swiuford, whose proceedings had been so great an object of 
 interest, and of whom she knew both by her own observation and 
 by common report that he was ' always at the cottage,' had offered 
 himself and his fortune to Lady William. Proposed to Aunt 
 Emily ! — that was how poor Emmy put it. A girl cannot but 
 think such a proposal wholly ridiculous, if not an absolute infatua- 
 tion. Her respect for her aunt made her still believe and hope 
 that the proposal had been rejected ; but this wonderful event 
 would quite account for the ' something on his mind,' which it was 
 very clear the Rector had. What he had gone to town about, 
 
282 LADY WILLIAM xxxvii 
 
 however, and whether his mission could have any bearing upon 
 this disquieting question, Emmy could not say. Florence was 
 so preoccupied with other matters that upon this, even though 
 it cost her sister so much disquietude, she expressed no opinion 
 at all. 
 
 The Rector, as had been perceived, had gone towards the 
 cottage when he went out with care upon his brow. He had not, 
 after all, as the reader will understand, proclaimed the wonderful 
 news about Mab when he went home after his meeting with Lord 
 Will. He reflected to himself that it might be some time before 
 he could set his sister's position quite straight, and that in the 
 meantime the report of Mab's heiress-ship would flash all over the 
 parish, and that any question, any hesitation, any delay, on the 
 subject would attract the curiosity and interest of the village folks. 
 Mab an heiress ! It would go from one end of the county to the 
 other, and questions as to when she would come into her fortune 
 would come from all sides ; very likely that last horror of 
 impertinent gossip which reveals what everybody leaves behind 
 him to the admiration of the public, would communicate the news 
 in spite of all precautions. Lord John's death intestate and the 
 amount of his fortune would be in all the papers, with a list of the 
 kindred concerned. But at all events, the Eector said to himself, 
 he would say nothing till the matter was more assured. It was 
 not an easy thing to do. He felt it bursting from his lips during 
 the first day when he allowed himself to mention Lord Will simply 
 to relieve his mind, but by main force kept the other communica- 
 tion back. And to say that it was not with the most dreadful 
 difliculty that he kept his mouth shut on those many occasions when 
 it is so natural to let slip to your wife the secret that is in your 
 heart, would be to do Mr. Plowden great injustice. He was not in 
 the habit of keeping things to himself. Even the secrets of the 
 parish, it must be allowed, sometimes slipped — things that ought 
 to have been kept rigorously inviolate. He had not, perhaps, the 
 most exalted opinion of his wife's discretion, and yet she was his 
 other self — a being indivisible, inseparable, with whom he could 
 not be on his guard. But she had shown great discrimination when 
 she said that the Plowdens stuck to each other. Nothing would 
 have made him confess to his wife that there was any insecurity in 
 the position of his sister. Emily was a thing beyond remark, a 
 creature not to be criticised. He would have nothing said about 
 her — not a word of compassion. There are a great many men who 
 deliver over their sisters and mothers without hesitation to be cut 
 in small pieces by their wives, but here and there occurs an excejj- 
 
xxxvir LADY WILLIAM 283 
 
 tion. Emily was James Plowdeu's ideal and the impersonation of 
 the family honour and credit. He could not have a word on that 
 subject, and thus he was strengthened in his resolution to say 
 nothing of Mab's prospects — until, at least, they were established 
 beyond any kind of doubt. 
 
 This did not by any means look like the position in which they 
 were now. Mr. Plowden went into the cottage almost with a little 
 secrecy — looking round him before he opened the little garden gate 
 • — for the gossips in the parish were quite capable of reporting that 
 there was something odd and unusual in the Rector's constant 
 visits to his sister, and that certainly something must be 'up.' 
 To be sure it was only his second business visit — but even so much 
 as that was unlike his usual habits, and he was extremely anxious 
 that no question should be raised on the subject. He found her in 
 the drawing-room, at her usual sewing. Mab was out, which was 
 a thing of which the Rector was glad. She looked up hastily at 
 the sight of him, reading his face, as women do with their eyes, 
 before he had time to say a word. 
 
 ' You have not succeeded, James ? ' 
 
 ' How do you know I have not succeeded 1 ' he asked crossly. 
 ' I have not, perhaps, done all that I hoped to do — but Rome was 
 not built in a day. It was absurd to expect that I had only to go 
 up to London — an hour in the train — and walk into old Gepps' 
 parsonage and find him still there.' 
 
 ' You did not find him at all ? ' 
 
 ' No, I didn't find him at all. I never expected to find him, 
 considering that he was an older man than my father, and that my 
 father has been dead for sixteen years.' 
 
 ' To be sure,' said Lady William faintly. 
 
 ' I found his name, however, all right, and the place — not quite 
 in the City, as I thought — St. Alban's proprietary chapel, 
 Marylebone.' 
 
 'Ah!' 
 
 ' Do you remember the name 1 ' 
 
 ' No,' said Lady William ; ' I'm afraid I don't remember even 
 the name.' 
 
 ' Well, never mind ; Gepps was incumbent then. And a 
 very good place, too, for anything that was to be kept quiet — 
 hidden away in a labyrinth of little streets ; not so noticeable 
 as the City, where an old church in the midst of warehouses is 
 often something to see. Lady Somebody or other's proprietary 
 chapel ; incumbent, the Rev. T. I. Gepps. No doubt that was 
 the one.' 
 
284 LADY WILLIAM xxxvii 
 
 ' Was it like my description 1 But, to be sure, it may have 
 been changed, or restored, or something.' 
 
 ' I can tell nothing about that. It has been changed with a 
 vengeance. Emily, the chapel has been burned down ' 
 
 She gave a little scream of annoyance, but more because of the 
 face he had put on, than from any perception in her own mind of 
 the significance of the words. 
 
 'A few of the things were saved — the books, I mean — but 
 not all, not all, by any means : and all those between 1860 and 
 1870 perished.' 
 
 ' What do you say, James ? ' 
 
 She began to awaken to a little consciousness that this concerned 
 her, which she had not at first understood. ' The books 1 ' — she 
 took it up but vaguely now — ' the books 1 What — what does that 
 mean, James 1 ' 
 
 ' It means that of the period of your marriage there is no record 
 at all. Do you understand me, Emily 1 No record, no certificate 
 possible — nothing. It is as if you had planned it all. A clergyman 
 who is dead ; a chapel which is burned down ; a registry which is 
 destroyed. That is what it might be made to look by skilful 
 hands — as if you had invented the whole.' 
 
 She sat half stupefied looking at him, the work still in her hands, 
 her needle in her fingers, looking up at him more astonished than 
 was compatible with speech. ' The clergyman dead, the chapel 
 burnt down, the registry destroyed ! ' She said these words in a 
 kind of half- conscious tone — repeating them after him, yet not 
 knowing what she had said. 
 
 ' That is about the state of the case ; if you had meant to de- 
 ceive, you couldn't have done better all round.' 
 
 Lady William looked at him with a curious half smile, yet 
 wistful wonder in her eyes. ' But,' she said, ' I did not want to 
 deceive.' There was a sort of startled amusement in her tone, 
 mingling with something of reality, a question half rising, a faint 
 feeling of the possibility, and that even, perhaps, her brother 
 ' James,' she cried, ' you do not imagine that I — I ' 
 
 The words failed her ; the colour forsook her face, and she sat 
 looking up at him dismayed ; her work fallen into her lap, but the 
 needle still in her hand. 
 
 ' Of course I do not imagine that you — nor, did I doubt that, 
 could I doubt for a moment when there's my father's hand and date 
 upon it. And I suppose that would be evidence in a court of 
 justice,' the Rector said, knitting his brows — ' I'm rather ignorant 
 on such subjects, and I don't know. But I suppose it would be 
 
XXXVII LADY WILLIAM 285 
 
 evidence. I could prove my father's handwriting, and that I 
 found his notebooks, and produce the rest of them, and so 
 forth. But it's touch and go to rely upon a thing so close as 
 that.' 
 
 ' The books destroyed ! ' she said, repeating the words, ' the 
 church burned down, the clergyman dead. Do such things happen ? 
 all to overcome a poor woman ? If it was in a book one would say 
 how impossible — how absurd ' 
 
 ' Emily,' said the Eector, ' you must forgive me for saying it, 
 but that's just what your whole story is — impossible and absurd. 
 It has been so from the beginning ; people have no right to launch 
 themselves on such a career. You had it always in your power 
 not to take the first step. I blame my father almost more than 
 you — he ought not to have allowed you to do it : but I blame you 
 too. For even a girl of nineteen is old enough to know what's 
 possible and what's impossible. You ought not to liave allowed 
 yourself to be launched upon such a bad way. After your ridiculous 
 marriage you might have expected everything else that was ridi- 
 culous to follow. It is all of a piece. Nobody would believe one 
 word of it from the beginning to the end— if it was, as you say, in 
 a book.' 
 
 Lady William listened to this tirade with a curious piteous 
 look, almost like a child's ; a look that was on the verge of 
 tears and yet had a faint appealing smile in it, an appeal against 
 judgment. Oh what a foolish girl that had been, that girl of 
 nineteen, that ought to have known better ! and what a good 
 thing for her if she had known better ; if she had been able by 
 her own good sense and judgment to overcome those about her : 
 the foolish old father, the false friend who led her into the net 
 Listening to her brother's voice so long, long after the event, and 
 looking back upon the thing that was so impossible, the thing 
 which between them these foolish people had done — she could see 
 very well how preposterous it was, and how it could have been re- 
 sisted. Mab (all these thoughts flew through her mind while the 
 Eector was speaking) would not have done it. But Mab's mother 
 had done it, and could not even now see what else she could have 
 done among these three people surrounding her, arranging every- 
 thing for her. And there was a sort of whimsical, ridiculous 
 humour in the idea that all these complications must have followed 
 from that foolish beginning. What could she expect but that the 
 clergyman should die, the church be burned down, and the books 
 destroyed 1 To the disturbed and disappointed Rector, thoroughly 
 put out, touched in mind and in temper by a contretemps so painful 
 
286 LADY WILLIAM xxxvii 
 
 and disconcerting, there was nothing whatever ludicrous in the 
 thought. But to her, whose whole life hung upon it, her child's 
 fortune, her own good name, everything that was worth thinking 
 of in the world, there was an absurdity which had almost made her 
 laugh in the midst of her desjDair. 
 
 ' I am very sensible of the folly of it now,' she said, command- 
 ing her voice, ' and I know all the misery that has been involved 
 better than any one can tell me — but it is too late now to think of 
 that. AVe must think in these dreadful circumstances what is now 
 to be done.' 
 
 'You see, Emily,' said Mr. Plowden, 'I never knew the rights 
 of it till the other day. I knew there was something queer and 
 hasty about it, a sort of running away ; but you know that till 
 you came back here a widow with your little girl I had heard 
 actually nothing — and, indeed, not very much until you came to the 
 Rectory the other day.' 
 
 ' That is quite true ; and I am very sorry, James.' 
 
 ' I don't say it to upbraid you, my dear. My father was much 
 more to blame than you were. I would not like to have any of 
 my daughters exposed to such a temptation, even at their age. 
 And Florence is twenty-three. And you were always a spoiled 
 child, getting everything your own way.' The Rector had gradually 
 worked out his impatience and had gone round the circle to tender- 
 ness and indulgence again. He put his hand on her shoulder, 
 and patted it as he might have done a child. 'My poor girl,' 
 he said, ' my poor Emily ! ' with the voice of one who brings 
 tidings of death, and a face as long as a day without bread, as 
 the French say. 
 
 She looked up at him with a gaze of alarm. 
 
 ' James ! ' she cried, ' do you think it is all over with us 1 Don't 
 say so, for Heaven's sake ! I'll find Art(^mise if I seek her through 
 all the country ; I'll find evidence somehow. Don't condemn us 
 with that dreadful tone.' 
 
 ' Condemn you ! ' said Mr. Plowden, ' never will I condemn you, 
 Emily. Even if you had done something wrong instead of only 
 something very foolish, you may be siire I should have stood by you 
 through thick and thin. No, my poor dear, you shall get no con- 
 demnation from me ; and Jane, I am sure, has far too much sense 
 and too good a heart ' 
 
 Here the Rector's voice broke a little. The idea that his wife 
 would have to be made the judge of his sister, and might almost, 
 indeed, hold Emily's reputation in her hands, was more than he 
 could bear. 
 
XXXVII LADY WILLIAM 287 
 
 ' Jane ! ' said Lady William, with a ring in her voice as sharp 
 and keen as that of her brother's was lachrymose ; but, happily, 
 she had sufficient command of herself not to express the exaspera- 
 tion which this suggestion of being at Jane's mercy caused her. 
 She said, however, with a painful smile, ' You are throwing down 
 your arms too soon ; I don't intend to be discouraged so easily. 
 Now I know that the fight will be desperate I can rouse myself to 
 it. It is evident that the one thing that is indispensable is to find 
 Art^mise.' 
 
 ' Who is Artdmise 1 Some French maid or other ? ' said the 
 Rector, with a tinge of disdain. 
 
 'Art^mise is Miss Mansfield, who was with us — a cousin, or 
 some people thought a half-sister, of Mrs. Swinford. Their 
 father was a strange man, more French than English, and that 
 is the reason of their names, and — many other odd things. 
 She is a strange woman, and has a strange history. She was at 
 
 the Hall, a sort of governess — when And she was sent 
 
 with me that night. And without her I don't think — but we 
 need not enter into those old stories now. One thing I know is 
 that she is living, and that Leo Swinford has seen her — not very 
 long ago.' 
 
 ' A disreputable witness,' said Mr. Plowden, shaking his head, 
 'is not much better than no witness at all.' 
 
 He was in a despondent mood, and ready to throw discourage- 
 ment upon every hoi^e. 
 
 ' I don't know that she is disreputable ; and at all events she 
 was present,' said Lady William. ' That must always tell — in a 
 court of justice, as you say : though God grant that it may never 
 come there.' 
 
 ' I suppose you can lay your hand upon her without any difii- 
 culty, through Mr. Swinford,' the Rector said, suddenly adopting 
 an indifterent tone as if with the rest of the business he had 
 nothing to do. 
 
 ' That is, perhaps, too much to say ; but at least she may be 
 found — or I hope so,' Lady William replied. 
 
 ' And now I must go,' said Mr. Plowden. ' Of course, anything 
 and everything I can do, Emily — when you have tried what is to 
 
 be accomplished in your own way ' He turned towards the 
 
 door, and then returned again, with a still more cloudy face. ' My 
 dear sister,' he said, in a tone of solemnity and tenderness adapted 
 to the words, ' you may have to seek his help for this ; but for 
 all our sakes do not, any more than you can help, have young Mr. 
 Swinford here.' 
 
288 LADY WILLIAM xxxvii 
 
 Lady AVilliam looked up quickly with a half - defiant 
 glance. 
 
 ' Above . all,' said the Rector impressively, ' while there is 
 any sort of doubt, any sort of cloud, and when every step you 
 
 take will be remarked Don't make me enter into esplana- 
 
 tions, but, for all our sakes, don't have Mr. Swinford always 
 here.' 
 
XXXVIII 
 
 It is almost needless to say that the Rector left his sister in a 
 state of mind in which exasperation healthily and beneficially con- 
 tended with despair. She might have been crushed altogether by 
 his discovery ; but he had managed to mingle with that so many 
 other sentiments that Lady William felt herself no broken-down 
 and miserable woman, but a creature all full of fight and resist- 
 ance — tingling, indeed, with pain, and scorched with a fire of in- 
 jury, feeling insulted and outraged to the depths of her being, but 
 all the same full of angry strength and force, determined that nothing 
 as yet was lost, and that sooner than yield herself to the tolerance 
 of her sister-in-law and indulgent interpretations of her friends, 
 who would pity and assure each other that whatever dreadful thing 
 had really happened, poor Emily, a merfe child at the time, was 
 innocent — there was nothing she was not capable of doing. To 
 change from Lady William — in a sort, the head of the little com- 
 munity — to poor Emily, was a thought which fired her blood. For 
 that, as well as for her child, the small motive thrusting in in the 
 immediate present into the foreground — there was nothing she 
 would not do. To find Artdmise was a trifle to her roused and 
 indignant soul. If she went out herself on foot with a lanthorn, 
 she said to herself with a vehemence which soon turned into an 
 angry laugh, she would find her. The lanthorn and the search on 
 foot turned it all into stormy ridicule, as the Rector's suggestion 
 that the little, dingy, dark private chapel had been burned and the 
 books destroyed as a natural consequence of her folly in being 
 married there, had done. Lady William felt the laughter burst 
 out in the middle of the bitter pain. For the pain was bitter 
 enough down in the breast from which that stormy humour burst, 
 so sharp that she could not sit still, but went raging about like — 
 as she said to herself — a wild beast, pushing the crowded furniture 
 aside, holding her hands together as if to keep down the anguish 
 
 u 
 
290 LADY WILLIAM xxxviii 
 
 by physical torture. A thumbscrew or a deadly boot to crush her 
 flesh would have beeu something of a relief to her in the active 
 
 anguish of her soul. Mab to hear that her mother was Oh 
 
 no ; never that her mother was but only that there was a 
 
 doubt, a horrible peradventure, a failure of proof. 
 
 Lady William paused in her movement to and fro and tried to 
 look at it for a moment through Mab's eyes. That is often a very 
 good thing to do, but a difficult. We forget nature when the 
 question is one so all-important as this, what a child will think of 
 its mother. Often we believe in an opinion too favourable, with- 
 out inquiry, forgetting what a formidable criticism is that which 
 our children make of us from their cradles, learning our habitual 
 ways so much better than we know them ourselves. But there 
 are some ways in which the natural judgment of candid and clear- 
 sighted youth may give any who is unjustly accused comfort. In 
 the light of Mab's eyes (though they were neither bright nor 
 beautiful) Lady William felt for a moment that her trouble melted 
 away. Mab might not see the fun — that she shoidd see fun at 
 such a crisis of her life ! — of James's suggestion of the connection 
 between the burning of the church and the folly of the marriage : 
 but she would be utterly stolid like a block of stone to any idea 
 of shame. No one could cast suspicion upon her mother's honour 
 to Mab. Lady William thought she could see the girl's look of 
 utter disdain on any one who could suggest such a suspicion even 
 by a glance. There was once a lady known to fame who, moved 
 by a hot fit of jealous pain and misery, left the house in which 
 she was being entertained, and walked home alone at night up 
 the long length of Piccadilly. A man who met her, moved, I 
 suppose, by her solitude and the unusual sight, followed, and at 
 last addressed her. When her attention was attracted she turned 
 round upon him, looked at him, and uttering the one word 
 ' Idiot ! ' walked on, as secure as if she had been surrounded by 
 a bodyguard of chivalry. Somehow that incident floated into 
 Lady William's memory. That was what Mab would do. She 
 would think, if she did not say ' Idiot ! ' and pass by, too con- 
 temptuous almost to be angry, feeling it unnecessary to answer 
 a word to the depth of imbecility which was capable of such a 
 thought. 
 
 Yes ; it made her quieter, it calmed her down, it delivered her 
 from that worst and deepest horror, to look at it through Mab's 
 sensible, quiet eyes. But when Lady William remembered that 
 James would tolerate her, and be kind, and that everybody else 
 would say, ' Poor Emily ! ' the intolerableuess of the catastrophe 
 
XXXVIII LADY WILLIAM 291 
 
 caught her once more — and the advantage which even her brother 
 even James, who loved her in his way, who would spare no trouble 
 for her, had taken of it already. While there was a shade, while 
 there was a shadow of a doubt upon her, she must not admit Leo 
 Swinford ' for all our sakes.' Women do not habitually swear, 
 or I think Lady William would have used bad words, had she 
 known any, when this intolerable recollection came into her mind, 
 just as, if she had not been bound by the inevitable bonds of 
 education and natural self-control, she might have broken the china 
 or the furniture to relieve herself A gentlewoman cannot do either 
 of these things, fortunately, or imfortunately, for her, and they are 
 outlets which must sometimes be of use. But the quick movement 
 with which she dashed her hands together when that last thought 
 came into her mind, upset a little table upon which was a plant, 
 one of Mab's especial nurslings just shaping for flower, as well as 
 various other nicknacks of less importance. The sense of guilt and 
 shame with which she saw what she had done, the compunction 
 with which she stooped over the broken flower-pot, and gathered 
 up the fortunately uninjured plant, and the specially prepared 
 soil in which it had been placed, and wdiich was but dirt to Patty, 
 who came dashing in at the sound of the crash to set matters 
 right — did Lady William as much good as smashing a window or 
 two might have done to a poor woman out of Society. She was 
 very penitent and much ashamed of herself, and horribly amused 
 all the same. To express her rage, her injured feelings, her pride 
 and desperation, by breaking a flower-pot, was again where bathos 
 and ridicule came in. 
 
 ' I'll sweep it all up, my lady,' cried Patty, ' and there won't 
 be no harm.' 
 
 ' Miss Mab's leaf-mould 1 No, you shan't do anything of the 
 kind. Find me another flower-pot, and let us gather it all up care- 
 fully, and put it back.' 
 
 ' Miss Mab's full of fads,' said Patty, under her breath. 
 
 But Lady William did not allow herself such freedom of criti- 
 cism, and she had scarcely gathered up the mould and built it 
 securely round the plant in the new pot before Mab came in. 
 ' Oh, are you filling it up with fresh mould, mother 1 My poor 
 auricula ! It will never produce a prize bloom now, and I had 
 such hopes.' 
 
 ' You imgrateful child ! when I have gathered up every scrap 
 of your famous mould with my own dirty hands ! ' 
 
 ' Poor mother,' cried Mab, ' that can never bear to dirty her 
 hands ! let me see them.' 
 
292 LADY WILLIAM xxxviii 
 
 Mab kissed the fingers which Lady William held out, smiling. 
 ' After all it is clean dirt, nice mould carefully made, and with 
 everything nice in it both for the colour and the health. Mother, 
 your hands are a little like the auriculas, velvety and soft.' 
 
 ' And brown, and purple,' said Lady William, laughing. Who 
 is it that says that if we would not cry we must laugh 1 Heaven 
 knows how true it is. 
 
 ' It must have been Patty that did it,' said Mab. ' That 
 child will never learn to take care. And, oh ! the little Dresden 
 shoe is broken that I got off the Christmas tree, and the silver 
 things all scattered. I wish Patty might get a whipping ; it is 
 the only thing that would make her take care.' 
 
 ' Whip me, then, Mab, for it was I. I was vexed and 
 angry ' 
 
 ' You ! angry, mother 1 ' 
 
 'It is not a thing that never happens, Mab.' 
 
 ' No,' said Mab judicially ; ' it is not a thing that never hap- 
 pens : but it only happens when you are put out. And I should 
 like to know what had put you out.' 
 
 ' Nothing,' said Lady William, with a smile. 
 
 ' Oh ! mother ; you may say that to other people — but to me ! 
 Of course, I shall find out.' 
 
 ' It was something your uncle James said to me, Mab.' 
 
 ' Oh ! ' said Mab, satisfied ; ' I am not surprised if he was in 
 it. He does say such strange things. But he means well enough. 
 Come out, then, mother, for a walk. That always does you more 
 good than anything.' 
 
 ' It is too early ; it is not noon yet. It is dissipated going 
 away from one's work at this time of the day.' 
 
 But the conclusion was that the two ladies did go out, and went 
 to the river-side, where Lady WilHam sat down on a bench by the 
 landing-place, while Mab made certain investigations in respect to 
 the boats. It was a fine morning, but not over bright— one of those 
 gray days in the beginning of May, when Nature seems to veil her- 
 self capriciously by way of making the after-glory more glorious. 
 The day was gray, with breaks of quiet light, not bright enough 
 to be called sunshine, through the clouds, and all the new foliage 
 tempered and softened in its fresh greenness of spring by the 
 neutral tints that enveloped everything. The river flowed quietly 
 upon its way, stopping for nothing, indifferent whether overhead 
 there was sunshine or clouds, working away at the tall growing 
 reeds on the edge, and sweeping round them, pushing them back 
 out of its way, sapping the camp-shedding on the other side, 
 
XXXVIII LADY WILLIAM 293 
 
 hollowing out the bank that intruded into the current. The soft, 
 strong flowing carries one's thoughts with it, whatever they may- 
 be, and Lady William gradually gave way to that silent coercion, 
 and let her more painful reflections escape her, and the thoughts 
 she could not get rid of swell round and round her mind like the 
 circles of the stream. The scenery was not remarkable at that 
 point. From the river, indeed, the pretty little landing-place, with 
 its bit of green bank, its marshalled boats, and the old red-and- 
 white houses behind, made a delightful touch of life and colour : 
 but to the spectators on the bank there was nothing exciting to 
 be seen, only the grassy shore opposite, the trees, a brown cow or 
 two coming down to the river, or a passing boat full of travellers, 
 or of merrymakers, as the chance might be. How softening, 
 l^acifying, composing it was ! Mab's voice talking to the boatman 
 on the river's edge came softly through the harmonious air. Who 
 can think, in the mild calm of such a day, of confusion, or trouble, 
 or shame 1 
 
 ' I am in much luck,' said Leo Swinford's voice behind her, 
 ' to find you here ; you are not usually to be found out in the 
 morning.' 
 
 ' No,' said Lady William, telling him the reason with a burst 
 of assumed cheerfulness. ' It is possible that all Mab's hopes of 
 her auricula are spoiled by my fault ; yet she forgives me,' she 
 said. Then suddenly she put forth her hand and gripped his arm, 
 with a change on her face — 'Leo, where is Artdmise? Find me 
 Artdmise ! ' 
 
 ' What is the matter, dear lady 1 ' he said. 
 
 ' Ah ! it is of no importance what is the matter. I will tell 
 you afterwards. It is only this, that I must find Art^mise— if I 
 take a lanthorn myself and go out and search for her.' 
 
 ' Ah ! you laugh,' he said, ' and I am relieved. It is Mrs. 
 Mansfield you mean — is she Mansfield now? — I think not, nor 
 can I tell what her name is. Certainly I can find her. I saw her 
 once, as I told you — twice — here in this village, as if she were 
 living here ; and then she came to see my mother. I am sure 
 she has been with my mother since ; but I have not seen her 
 again.' 
 
 ' With your mother is not the question. Your mother, I fear, 
 Leo, would rather I did not see her. She likes no one to meddle 
 with those she cares for.' 
 
 ' Does she really care for this woman ? ' 
 
 * Can you ask me 1 They are near relations, and dear friends, 
 and love each other.' 
 
294 LADY WILLIAM xxxviii 
 
 ' Are you sure of all that V he said ; ' from my mother I have 
 never heard ' 
 
 ' But it is true.' 
 
 ' The last I suppose is true,' said Leo reluctantly. ' My mother 
 is fond of her — though "why ' 
 
 Lady William gave him a look, as if there might be two 
 sides to the question ; then she said : ' It is of the utmost im- 
 portance to me to see her, Leo — and soon. Will you give me 
 your attention, and remember it is no mere wish — for an old 
 friend.' 
 
 ' An old friend ! I cannot conceive that she should ever have 
 been a friend of yours.' 
 
 ' Yet, more than that ; I desire to see her more than the dearest 
 friend I have in the world.' 
 
 ' Your bidding shall be done, dear lady : should I go myself 
 and take the lanthorn — as you say. But that will not be neces- 
 sary. I shall find her, I hope, more easily — or whatever else you 
 are pleased to wish for,' he added in a lower tone. ' That is too 
 easy. Set me some task that will prove what I can do.' 
 
 Lady William cast at him a keen look from under her eyelids. 
 She remembered her brother's adjuration, ' for all our sakes.' ' A 
 romantic task,' she said, ' that would prove what you could do is 
 quite different. I ask my friend to help me in a way I really 
 want ; but no one ever wanted a white cat that would go through 
 a ring — or was it a shawl 1 I forget.' 
 
 'I never thought,' he said, with an uneasy laugh, 'that you 
 would send me ofi' in search of a white cat.' 
 
 ' I might, though,' she said, ' if the white cat would turn out 
 an enchanted princess and make you happy all your life after — 
 which I hope is what will happen one of these days. And my 
 gracious nephew, Leo, did he leave you as he said 1 ' 
 
 Leo replied with another question : ' How does Miss Mab 
 like it that she is to be an heiress 1 I have not seen her to ask 
 her.' 
 
 ' You can see her at once. She is there, you see, with her 
 friends the boatmen ; but you must not ask her, please, for she 
 knows nothing of heiress-ship as yet.' 
 
 ' All ! ' he said, ' you are afraid to turn her head.' 
 
 ' I am not at all afraid of her head, but I am afraid of other 
 things. Tell me, why did he come here 1 The Pakenhams are not 
 generous people, and they are not rich, and I should have known 
 nothing of Lord John's fortune. Was it out of kindness to his 
 cousin, whom he did not know, that he came here ? ' 
 
XXXVIII LADY WILLIAM 295 
 
 ' Ah, who can tell 1 ' said Leo. ' He thought, perhaps, that 
 you were sure to see it in the papers.' 
 
 ' But even then I should not have known that Mab had any 
 right.' 
 
 ' Who can tell 1 ' said Leo again, shaking his head, ' what are 
 the motives of these people who are above rule, who do not re- 
 quire to behave like ordinary mortals 1 He thought, perhaps, yes, 
 of his little cousin — he thought, perhaps, most likely of himself. 
 He might have thought with all that fortune that it might be 
 well if Miss Mab, perhaps, should — what do you call it ? — take a 
 fancy to him, and return it all to his pocket, which is not too full. 
 How can you tell what any one's motives are, not to speak of 
 a Lord Will?' 
 
 ' It is true,' said Lady William, with a sigh • ' but I suppose 
 my best course now is to wait — to take no steps till I hear from 
 the lawyers.' 
 
 ' Perhaps, instead, your own lawyer ' 
 
 ' Ah, I have had so little need of one — of course there is a 
 man of business who used to manage my father's affairs. One 
 does not seem to care,' she said, with a faint laugh, 'we poor 
 people,who have nothing but our poverty — to confide all our affairs 
 even to such a man.' 
 
 ' Ah, but they are not men — they are like priests. There is a 
 seal as of the confessional upon their lips. I should not have 
 thought you, who are so transparent, so open, would have had such 
 a scruple.' 
 
 This was a little duel, though neither suspected the object of 
 the other. Lady William was eager to find out from Leo what ' the 
 family' had intended to do by sending that messenger, and Leo 
 was eager to persuade Lady William to confide in him, to show 
 him what her difiiculty was, and how far the broken revelations 
 of his mother's attack upon her were true. But neither ventured 
 to unravel the motive which was foremost in their minds. Both 
 endeavoured to extract the information which the other had no 
 intention of revealing. But to the spectators who were looking 
 on, the two people on the bench, who were in reality thus resisting 
 and eluding each other, had an air of great and tender intimacy 
 as they sat together, each turned towards the other, pursuing their 
 mutual investigations by the study, not only of what was said, 
 but what was looked, by the betrayals of the eyes as well as of 
 the tongue. Even Mab, returning from her long talk with old 
 George the boatman, was a little struck by the absorbed attention 
 of Leo to her mother, and of her mother to Leo. With what 
 
296 LADY WILLIAM xxxviii 
 
 interest they were talking ; seeing no one else that was near ; pay- 
 ing no attention to anything that passed ! Lady William was not 
 wont to lose herself thus in conversation. She had always an eye 
 for what was going on ; for the passing boats on the river, or even 
 for the clouds and brightness of the sky — and much more for her 
 little girl who was hanging about anxious to join her, yet daunted 
 a little by this too animated, too eager talk. Mab had heard a 
 stray word here and there on the subject of Leo Swinford and his 
 visits, to which she had paid no attention, but such words will 
 sometimes linger Avithout any desire of hers in a little girl's ear. 
 
XXXIX 
 
 ' I ASKED old George to go to your fandango, Jim, and he said he 
 would, and take another man or two. He said he'd like to hear 
 the young ladies sing, if they'd sing something as an old man could 
 understand ; and he woiddu't mind hearing Mr. Jim if he said 
 somethin' as was funny and would make a man laugh. Lord, you 
 didn't want to cry when you went out for something as pretended 
 to be pleasuring. The old woman can do that fast enough at 
 home. And as for Mr. Osborne, old George said as he draw'd the 
 line at him.' 
 
 ' What a horrid old man ! ' said Florence. 
 
 * No, he's not at all a horrid old man. He is a great friend of 
 mine ; but he doesn't like, as he says, and I agree with him, to 
 have some one always a-nagging at him. When one's mother does 
 it, it's horrid : and the curate would be worse. Jim, do you really 
 like Mr. Osborne that you have grown such friends 1 ' 
 
 'Well,' said Jim, with much innocence and a touch of com- 
 plaisance besides, 'it's him that looks as if he liked me.' 
 
 ' What excellent grammar, and what still more excellent 
 humility ! ' cried Florence. Florence was, it must be allowed, a 
 little bitter. Jim's acquaintance with the curate had gone on 
 increasing daily. It had done him a great deal of good — in one 
 way. The doors of the ' Blue Boar ' were closed to him : he 
 went there no longer. He thought of the vet. and Simpkinson, 
 the landlord, with a sort of horror, asking himself whether it was 
 true that he had actually sought their society. It had been in 
 pure vacancy he knew now, and because there was no other to be 
 had. But yet he had persuaded himself that they were very 
 good fellows, and that to make acquaintance with their ways of 
 thinking was a good thing, and expanded his knowledge of life 
 and the world. He had all the fervour now of a new convert in 
 respect to the superiority of his present surroundings, but still 
 
298 LADY WILLIAM sxxix 
 
 was pleased with the thought that it was Mr. Osborne who had 
 sought him, and not he who had sought Mr. Osborne. The 
 curate had thus fulfilled towards him all, and more than all, that 
 Florence had ventured to suggest. In making Jim believe that 
 it was pure liking that attracted him, Mr. Osborne had bettered 
 the prayer that had been made to him. Had he done it for her 
 sake 1 — who could tell 1 If it was so, it was a transfer complete 
 and thorough, for he had never approached Florence, never 
 spoken to her when he could avoid it, never looked at her since 
 that day. He said, 'How do you do, Miss Plowden?' as if he 
 had never known more of them than from a chance meeting in the 
 village street, when he met the sisters. Not even his anxiety 
 about his entertainment broke down the barrier he had raised 
 between himself and the girl to whom he had all but offered his 
 heart and life. ' What is the matter with Mr. Osborne 1 ' Emmy 
 had asked of her sister, in consternation, for it is needless to say 
 that Florry's sister and constant companion had been well enough 
 aware of the previous state of affairs. Florence had not answered 
 the question, but she had preserved her composure, which was a 
 great thing, and had thus led her sister to believe that, whatever 
 the matter was, it was a temporary one. Mrs. Plowden, too, 
 had put a similar question, but had herself answered it in the 
 most satisfactory way. ' AVhat has become of Mr. Osborne ? ' 
 she said, and then replied to herself, ' I suppose since he sees so 
 much of Jim at his own place, he doesn't think it worth his 
 while to come here. It isn't perhaps very civil to the rest of us ; 
 but what does it matter to any of us 1 and it is quite an advantage 
 to Jim. I am sure he may be as rude to me as he likes ; if he 
 is nice to Jim, what do I care 1 ' 
 
 This did not perhaps make Florence feel less sore. She could 
 not help feeling that all her own prospects might come to nothing, 
 and so long as it was well for Jim her mother would not care 
 or any one. To tell the truth, Mrs. Plowden was of opinion that 
 the curate's apparent admiration of Florence had been only a cover 
 for his desire to secure- the friendship of her son, so wonderfully 
 had her mind changed since the evening when she had bemoaned 
 the use that Mr. Osborne might, but would not, be to Jim, and 
 when Florence had formed the heroic resolution of setting that 
 duty before her lover, if he should ever become her lover. The 
 poor girl had carried out that vow, and had achieved that purpose. 
 She said to herself that she had nothing to regret. It was far 
 more important that he should tide Jim over this dangerous 
 period, that he should restore him to better aims and hopes, than 
 
XXXIX LADY WILLIAM 299 
 
 that he should 'pay attention,' as the gossips said, to herself. 
 Florry said to herself proudly that she wanted no 'attentions,' 
 from Mr. Osborne. If he had loved her, as she once thought, 
 that would have been a very dijfferent matter. But it was 
 apparent enough now that this had never been the case ; and 
 what did she want with him and his attentions 1 He had been 
 angry, furious with her for the suggestion she had made to him. 
 Evidently he was one of the men who think that women should 
 never open their mouths, should see only what they are told to 
 see. But he was a man with a conscience, and even the sug- 
 gestion of a despised girl had borne fruit. He had been able to 
 put her out of his mind, but not to put the thing she had said 
 out of his mind. So much the better ! He had held out a 
 rescuing hand to Jim. He was doing the work of a Christian 
 knight towards her brother. And as for any little delusion of 
 hers, what did it matter ? It was far better so, so long as 
 nobody suspected — as nobody should suspect, did it cost her her 
 life ! — the pang that was in poor Florry's heart. 
 
 It had been suspected, however — nay, more, divined — by one 
 person, who was one of the group, coming down the street of 
 Watcham together from the practice which had been held in the 
 schoolroom on the morning of Mr. Osborne's entertainment. 
 Emmy and Florence had gone through their song, with some 
 applause from the other performers, but not a word from the 
 curate, who seemed not to make even a pretence of listening, and 
 whose inditferent aspect was actually rudeness to the two young 
 ladies, his Rector's daughters, who had the greatest call upon his 
 attention. He made himself, on the other hand, very agreeable 
 to the two young London ladies who abode in one of the villas at 
 Riverbauk, and whose performance upon the piano was not re- 
 markable. Miss Grey, who was present in her capacity of lay or 
 feminine curate, the official best known and most fully recognised 
 in the parish, could not help but see this ; and, indeed, there were 
 plenty of other people who remarked it, wondering whether Mr. 
 Osborne had cjuarrelled with the Rectory family, a supposition, 
 however, which was untenable in sight of his intimacy with Jim. 
 Jim's reading had the curate's warmest applause. He referred to 
 Jim on everything, sent him off to arrange matters, consulted him 
 about the programme, and the succession of the performances ; in 
 short, conducted himself as if Jim Plowden were his other self 
 and as much the giver of the entertainment as he was. The last 
 thing he did after the practice was over, was to call to Jim that 
 he should expect him at five to look up the fellows at Riverside. 
 
800 LADY WILLIAM xxxix 
 
 lu the meantime Mr. Osborne bad to entertain the Winwick 
 contingent. But all this was so strange, so marked, so unlike 
 Mr. Osborne's former behaviour, that little Miss Grey, between 
 consternation and amusement, did not know what to think. She 
 was an experienced little woman, and she saw very well what was 
 coming when Florence and the curate left her house together, 
 three weeks before. She had expected that very day to have 
 another visit from one or both of them to tell her the great news. 
 And, instead, there was to all appearance a total disruption be- 
 tween them; and not only so, but Jim — Jim! — received into 
 the curate's heart as closest friend and first favourite apparently, 
 in his sister's place. 
 
 Miss Grey felt that there must be an explanation of this, 
 though she could not make it out as yet ; and, above all, she was 
 very sure that Mr. Osborne's rudeness to the Plowdens did not 
 come from nothing. There must be a reason for it. ^Vhatever 
 it meant, indifference was certainly the last thing it could mean. 
 And Jim's complaisance in respect to his new friendship with the 
 curate made the whole question still more complicated. ' It's 
 him that looks as if he liked me.' Looks as if he liked Jim, and 
 looks as if he disliked Florence ! But that was more than Miss 
 Grey, with all her knowledge of man, and even of curate-kind, 
 could understand. And the slight sharpness in the tone of 
 Florence threw an additional cloud upon the whole matter. 
 Nobody but must feel that it was good for Jim to be engaged in 
 the curate's schemes instead of talking second-hand politics at the 
 ' Blue Boar.' But Florence's voice had a sharp tone in it, and in 
 Florence's self there was a sort of thrill of offended dignity, which 
 Miss Grey was quick to see. The girl was wounded, and not 
 much wonder. Her part of the performance was precisely the 
 one in which Mr. Osborne seemed to take no interest. To be 
 sure. Miss Grey was not aware that since that fated morning 
 Florence and he had not exchanged one word that was not indis- 
 pensable to the preservation of appearances. And yet she had 
 not refused Mr. Osborne, which would have explained everything 
 — at least, there was no reason to suppose that she had refused 
 him. Had she done so it would somehow have oozed out. Birds 
 of the air carry these matters. It shows upon the aspect of the 
 rejected more sm-ely than does the delight of acceptance. And 
 besides, Florence Plowden had not intended to reject — there was 
 no appearance of that purpose in her. The matter became more 
 and more mysterious the longer Miss Grey thought it over. She 
 could get no light upon this mysterious question. 
 
XXXIX LADY "WILLIAM 301 
 
 They were all walking along together — a bevy of young people 
 with Miss Grey in the midst, with a little excitement consequent 
 upon the performances past and the performance to come, making 
 a good deal of cheerful noise in the cheerful road. Two or three 
 were always talking at the same time, and nobody was listening, 
 though Jim found it possible to hear what Mab was saying to 
 him, and Florence could not help but remark upon every word 
 that concerned Mr. Osborne. The rest were discussing their own 
 share in the performance and what the violinists from Winwick 
 and the rest of the people were going to do. 'Fiddlers are 
 thought everything of nowadays,' said the pianists, 'and yet 
 where would they be without an accompanist 1 ' They thought 
 the same thing of the singers more or less, and the singers, who 
 were aware that they were themselves the most popular part of 
 the entertainment, returned that feeling. As for those who were 
 merely to read, the musical part of the performers had a sort 
 of impartial and indifferent contempt for them, as for people 
 who were merely making a little exhibition of themselves — not 
 rivals at all. Shakespeare or Ingoldsby, the young ladies from 
 Riverbank did not think it mattered a bit which it was. And 
 even Mab asked, more from civility than with interest, what Jim 
 was going to do. 
 
 ' The " Eide to Ghent " 1 We have had the " Ride to Ghent " 
 so often. If you had wanted a ride, you might have taken that 
 other one from Browning, where the man thought " Perhaps the 
 world will end to-night." ' 
 
 ' Do you think the boatmen would care about that 1 ' said 
 Florence. ' Oh no, you don't know it, Jim. It is a man who is 
 going to have a last ride with a girl who does not care for him. 
 At all events, he thinks this is their last ride. And then perhaps 
 he thinks the world may come to an end.' 
 
 'I don't see much meaning in that,' said Jim. 'I suppose 
 there will always be plenty other girls in the world. Browning is 
 always so far-fetched, except ■' 
 
 'When he isn't,' said Mab, laughing. 'The "Ride to Ghent," 
 is not far-fetched.' 
 
 'But what is it about?' said Jim. 'I've been asking Osborne, 
 who did something tremendous in history, in Greats — and he can't 
 tell me. Now, if I could say before I begin, " This was after a 
 great fight between the — what 1 the Spanish and the Dutch, or 
 something " ' 
 
 'You can say,' said Mab, 'that it was a starving time, and if 
 they didn't hear the good news they would have to give in — after 
 
302 LADY WILLIAM xxxix 
 
 holding out till they were nearly dead : though I can't make 
 out/ added that young lady, ' if the country was so free as that, 
 and Loris and the other two could ride a whole day without any 
 one disturbing them, why the town should be starving 1 But you 
 are not called upon to explain. They would like the " Pied Piper " 
 still better, you know,' she continued reflectively. 'It's easier to 
 understand. They want a story, and they want it to go quick, 
 without reflections — like this,' said the experienced little woman 
 of the parish, striking her hands together, which startled them all. 
 
 ' There are nothing but vulgar stories that do that — claptrap 
 things, things that ladies and gentlemen could not listen to,' 
 said Emmy Plowden. 
 
 ' Oh, what does it matter about the ladies and gentlemen ? I 
 should not care a bit for them. There is that new Indian man, 
 that writes the stories — a man with a curious name ; but, then, 
 they are not good stories at all. The soldiers drink and 
 swear, and that would never do. Is it necessary to drink and 
 swear in order to have "go" in jouV said Mab. 'As for your 
 old Ingoldsby, they see it's meant to be fun, and they laugh. But 
 they don't care.' 
 
 ' I fear,' said Florence, always with that little sharp tone in 
 her voice, ' that Jim will have to take what he has got, instead of 
 waiting till the right thing comes.' 
 
 ' Is the new schoolmistress going to do something 1 ' said Miss 
 
 Grey. ' I heard a report I don't like the looks of that 
 
 woman, but she is as clever as ever she can be. She could do 
 Lady Macbeth, or — anything she likes. And she knows — ■ 
 quantities of things, far too much for a village school- 
 mistress. I have seen her somewhere before, I am certain, and 
 she is quite out of her place here. But why doesn't Mr. Osborne 
 get hold of her, and see what she could do? She'd make them 
 attend, I'll warrant you ! There wouldn't be much wandering 
 attention if she were there.' 
 
 ' It's a pity,' said Jim stiffly, ' that she could not hear you, 
 Miss Grey : for she said the ladies would not like it if she 
 appeared.' 
 
 'She thinks she could throw us all into the shade,' said 
 Florence — ' we should be jealous of her, I suppose.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Jim, ' of course she would ; she would throw every- 
 body here into the shade.' 
 
 He spoke with a little fervour, forgetting, unhappy boy ! that 
 he had no right to know anything whatever of Mrs. Brown. 
 
 ' Jim, how should you know 1 ' said Emmy, mildly ; and then, 
 
XXXIX LADY WILLIAM 303 
 
 to make bad worse, Jim stumbled into an explanation how he had 
 gone to her from Mr. Osborne, and how she had laughed, and 
 'said' something to him, 'a piece of poetry,' Jim called it, which 
 made his hair stand upright on his head ; but after that, she had 
 refused, saying, ' No, no ; the ladies would not have it, the ladies 
 would not like it.' 
 
 ' As if we should care ! ' said Florence, with a little sneer. 
 ' You can go and tell her if you like, that the ladies have no objec- 
 tion. We are not jealous, are we — of Mrs. Brown 1 ' 
 
 This was not poor Florrj^s natural tone, and the sharpness of 
 it went to one heart at least — that of Miss Grey, who discovered 
 what it meant : and startled the rest, who did not understand any 
 meaning in it at all. 
 
 'Don't send Jim,' said Mab, 'let me go. I'U tell her we 
 should all like her to do — Lady Macbeth or whatever she pleases 
 — and that noue of the ladies would mind — not you. Miss Grey, 
 I may tell her — for perhaps she thinks the young ones don't count' 
 
 ' Don't bother, Mab,' said Jim hastily, ' It is too late ; even if 
 she were willing we cannot change the programme now.' 
 
 ' Oh, but I am going ! I have a fancy for Mrs. Brown,' said 
 Mab, waving her hand. 
 
XL 
 
 Mab left the others separating on every side towards their homes, 
 and ran back to the schoolhouse, from which the children had all 
 dispersed a little while before. She was full of her errand, in 
 which there was a little sense of mischief as well as of pleasure, 
 the one giving piquancy to the other. No doubt it was quite true 
 that the ladies were not jealous of Mrs. Brown. It was to Mab 
 the most amusing thing in the world that anybody should think 
 so. Florence and Emmy, for instance, jealous — of a woman 
 twice as old as they were, if she were the most beautiful and 
 attractive woman in the world ! How absurd it was ! Youth 
 has confidence in youth, in a manner as astonishing to the rest of 
 the world as is the futility of that confidence in so many cases. 
 And to a girl of seventeen a woman of forty is so entirely out of 
 any sort of competition with herself that the suggestion is too 
 ridiculous to be taken into the mind at all. Mrs. FitzStephen, 
 perhaps, or Aunt Jane might be jealous of Mrs. Brown, but then 
 they had nothing to do with it : and it was still more absurd to 
 think that these good ladies could have anything in hand that 
 would make it possible for jealousy to come in. All this ran 
 through Mab's cheerful mind as she went back, not noting the half- 
 alarmed, half-displeased look which Jim threw after her, and his 
 hesitating step in advance, as if he would have gone too. It was 
 an exceedingly good joke to Mab, for though, of course, the ladies 
 were not jealous, they would no doubt be much surprised to see 
 Mrs. Brown appear — surprised, and perhaps not quite pleased. It 
 was not that they habitually looked down upon the schoolmistress 
 — even Mab in her short memory knew of some who had been 
 much petted by the gentry in Watcham. There was one girl, who 
 was delicate, and who was as much thought of as if she had been 
 a princess in disguise, all ' the best people ' uniting to spoil her, 
 ]\Iab thought, who, being more on this young woman's level, saw 
 
XL LADY WILLIAM 305 
 
 things with a clear eye. But Mrs. Brown was not a favourite 
 though nobody could tell why. She had seen better days, which 
 was nothing against her ; but then she had none of that genteel 
 decay about her, which ought to be characteristic of those who had 
 seen better days. She appeared, indeed, to make a joke of it all, 
 rather than to lament her fallen estate. There was always a 
 twinkle in those eyes, which were so bright, so bold, and so all- 
 seeing. Mab had felt, like all the rest, an instinctive revulsion 
 against her. But this had died off in that appreciation of cheerful- 
 ness and courage, which was deep in Mab's nature. To be less well 
 off than you used to be, and yet take it, not with a moan, but with a 
 jest, or even a gibe, laughing at yourself, seemed to ]\Iab a much 
 more attractive thing than the melancholy of decayed gentility ; 
 but this was not the aspect in which the other ladies regarded it. 
 They would all have been sorry for Mrs. Brown had she taken her 
 humiliation sadly. What they did not understand was the joke 
 she made of it, which, to them, seemed impudence and defiance. 
 Perhaps, Mab thought to herself in the abundance of her thoughts 
 as she ran along, this feeling on the part of the ladies was what the 
 gentlemen called jealousy. It was not so bad a guess for a little 
 girl. 
 
 It may be added here that Lady William had not made 
 acquaintance with the schoolmistress from the fact that Lady 
 William, probably by right of having been herself the Rector's 
 daughter and born to that work, refused determinedly to have any- 
 thing to do with the parish. She did not keep Mab back from 
 that inevitable work, but she would not herself take any part. 
 District visiting, schools, mothers' or girls' meetings, penny banks, 
 clothing clubs, all the machinery of the parish. Lady William kept 
 religiously apart from them all. She had a recipe for beef tea 
 which was known far and near, the strongest and the most quickly 
 made, everybody knew, that had ever been heard of, and would go 
 to the kitchen and make it herself, if old Anne, who was the 
 sovereign there, was out of the way or out of temper : and puddings 
 came from her house for the sick people which would have tempted 
 an anchorite to eat : and if warm things were wanted for the 
 winter there was no end to the flannel petticoats, the children's 
 frocks, and the knitted comforters and stockings which Lady 
 William could turn out. But that was all. She said lightly 
 that there were plenty of people to manage the parish, and that it 
 was not her role. She took no responsibility, and had not entered 
 the schools since she was Emily Plowden aiding and abetting all 
 manner of little rebellions in a way not at all becoming for the 
 
 X 
 
306 LADY WILLIAM xt 
 
 Rector's daughter. This was one reason she gave for taking no 
 supervision of the schools now. ' I should always be on the 
 children's side,' she said, and thus it happened, which was so 
 strange, that she had never even seen Mrs. Brown. 
 
 But Mab knew her very well, and burst into her little house at 
 this hour Avhich was Mrs. Brown's own hour, in which the parish 
 had no right to interfere with her, with an absence of regard which 
 the girl did not realise, and which no doubt was an unthought-of 
 result of the inferior position in which the schoolmistress was, 
 though quite unintentional on the part of the young intruder. She 
 gave the lightest little tap at the door of Mrs. Brown's sitting- 
 room, and burst in without waiting for any reply. Mab was, how- 
 ever, a little taken aback when she found Mrs. Brown seated at a 
 little meal, which was not only very agreeable to the smell, but 
 extremely dainty in appearance, much more so, Mab felt instinct- 
 ively, than any table she was herself accustomed to. Perhaps it 
 was the sight of this, so very different from the usual slovenly 
 repast of the schoolmistresses, which brought Mab up suddenly 
 with a little start, and cry : ' Oh, I beg your pardon ! ' which she 
 gave forth in spite of herself 
 
 ' Why should you beg my pardon ? ' said Mrs. Brown. She 
 had what seemed a little silver dish before her — some dainty little 
 twists and loaves of French bread — a cover on her table of exquisite 
 linen, white and fresh. Mab knew how it feels when the table- 
 cloth is not in its first freshness when any one comes, and how 
 frequently that little domestic incident happens ; but Mrs. Brown's 
 table-cloth shone like white satin, and was fresh in all its folds. 
 ' Why should you beg my pardon ? ' she said. ' Do you think I do 
 not know. Miss Pakeuham, that I belong to the parish, body and 
 soul 1 I must eat, to be sure, in order to live, but I ought to know 
 better than to expect that I am to eat undisturbed.' 
 
 ' Oh, I beg your pardon,' said Mab again, crimson with shame ; 
 ' it was so silly of me not to think : but as it is so early ' 
 
 ' I must take my food .when the children do so,' said the 
 schoolmistress ; ' pray sit down. I am not much of a sight when 
 I feed, but still ' 
 
 ' I hope you don't think I came on purpose to disturb you at 
 your — lunch,' said Mab. To the schoolmistress of the old regime 
 she would have said dinner. ' I came — to ask you if you wouldn't 
 say something — I mean recite something, or act something, at the 
 entertainment to-night. AVe all think you would do it much 
 better than any one here.' 
 
 ' Do what 1 How kind of you — almost as if I were on an 
 
zi LADY WILLIAM 307 
 
 equality : though perhaps it is because of some one having failed 
 that the schoolmistress may come in ? Who has failed, Miss 
 Pakenham, at the eleventh hour ? I see, of course, that in these 
 circumstances to apply to a dependent was the only way.' 
 
 ' Mrs. Brown,' said Mab, ' I have always thought you were a 
 lady ] but if you are so ready to think that we are not ladies, I 
 shan't think so any more.' 
 
 ' Well said ! ' said the schoolmistress, laying down her fork. 
 ' Will you have a little of my ragout 1 I have taught my little 
 maid to make it, and I think it's very successful. I am fond of 
 good cooking — that is one of the remnants, though, perhaps, at 
 your age you will not think it a very romantic one — of my better 
 days.' 
 
 ' I should have thought,' said Mab, ' if you were like most of 
 the people who have seen better days, that you would not have 
 cared what you eat.' 
 
 ' Ah, yes ! ' said Mrs. Brown, ' that is very true : but I am 
 not like most of those peoj^le. I am not so sure that I regret 
 my better days - — or that if I liked I might not have them 
 back.' 
 
 ' Then in the name of wonder,' said Mab, ' why do you stay 
 here? — don't they often drive you half-mad, those little things 
 that never will learn to spell, and that can't remember anything 
 if you were to say it to them twenty times in an hour 1 I would 
 not be a schoolmistress a moment longer than I could help it, if it 
 were me.' 
 
 ' Then let us hope it will never be you,' said Mrs. Brown. 
 ' The little girls are not alone in driving one half-mad, as you say. 
 There are hundreds of things in the world that would drive you 
 much madder if you knew them as I do.' 
 
 ' I suppose you have known— all kinds of things ? ' said Mab, 
 looking with curiosity at her companion, whose eyes were fuU of 
 knowledge too strange for the little girl. Mab had forgotten all 
 about her object in coming, in the interest with which she looked 
 at this curious human creature, who was like an undiscovered 
 country, a world unrealised to her young imagination. She felt 
 like an explorer coasting about in a little skiff to discover unknown 
 headlands and bays of some quaint island far at sea. 
 
 ' Yes, I have known a good many kinds of things,' said Mrs. 
 Brown, ' things that would make the hair of the ladies in Watcham 
 stand on end. I have been in a great many places — and, I am 
 sorry to say, in a great many wrong places. I am not, to tell the 
 truth, a sort of a woman for .you to associate with, my dear young 
 
308 LADY WILLIAM XL 
 
 lady. You ought to draw your petticoats close round you in case 
 they should touch anything of mine.' 
 
 ' I don't understand you,' said Mab, greatly startled. 
 
 ' No ; I did not suppose you would. You would be a capital 
 confessor, for that reason ; for I might pour all my sins into an 
 innocent little ear like yours, and you would never understand 
 them. Will you really refuse my ragout 1 It is very good, I 
 assure you. Then have one of those pommes au sucre ; I rather 
 pride myself on them.' 
 
 ' They are like apples of gold,' said Mab, who was so young 
 that a sweetmeat was a great temptation to her. 
 
 ' I wish they were in a dish of silver — for your sake ; but here 
 is a little Dresden plate, which is quite as pretty. And there is a 
 little pot of cream. This is friendly, now, and gives me pleasure. 
 Your cousin, Mr. Jim ' 
 
 ' Do you know Jim % ' cried Mab, looking up from her apple, 
 which was very good, with great surprise. 
 
 ' Ah, I have known a great many people,' said Mrs. Brown, 
 ' your father among others, and old Lord John, who died the other 
 day. You never saw your uncle John 1 Well, you had no great 
 loss ; but his money will do you just as much good as if he had 
 been the greatest hero in the world.' 
 
 ' I do not know what you mean about my uncle John and 
 money. Do you mean to say that you knew my father 1' 
 
 'Ah!' said Mrs. Brown, 'they have not told you — and I 
 don't doubt that was wise enough until all is settled. It was the 
 right thing not to do.' 
 
 ' Did you know my father, Mrs. Brown ? ' 
 
 ' My dear, I told you I have known all sorts of people. I 
 knew them all, more or less, in Paris. There was always plenty 
 going on ; and I love to be where a great many things are going 
 on. I will tell you how I know your cousin Jim. I am in a 
 very frank humour to-day — in a coming on mood like Rosalind. 
 I had met him in Oxford, when I was not as I am now, at a very 
 gay, noisy party indeed, where I was with some people— whom I 
 would not name in your hearing. I spoke to him here out of 
 prudence, thinking he might say to his father, the Rector, or his 
 mother, the Rectoress — I have seen that woman before, and she 
 is not fit to have charge of your school. So for a selfish motive I 
 made friends with him. It took away his breath at first ; but he 
 is a lamb, poor innocent, like yourself, and was very sorry to think 
 I should have so come down in the world.' 
 
 ' Mrs. Brown ! ' cried Mab. She was put at a dreadful dis- 
 
XL LADY WILLIAM 309 
 
 advantage by that apple, which was very good, especially with 
 the little pot of cream poured over it in the most lavish hospitable 
 way. When you have once accepted such a thing, and are in the 
 middle of it with the spoon in yoiu" hand, and the sweetness melt- 
 ing in your mouth, it is very difficult to express your consterna- 
 tion, or indignation, or dismay. 
 
 'And my opinion is,' said the schoolmistress, ' that he can be 
 stopped and brought back, if anybody will take the trouble — 
 judiciously — not in the driving and nagging way. I'm glad to 
 see the curate has stepped in, though he is no friend of mine. 
 Well ! but you would like to hear a little more of my history. 
 Do you know what a Bohemian is? You must have seen the 
 word in books. Well, then, I was a Bohemian born. We were 
 both so ; but the other, who was the great lady, settled, as great 
 ladies do, and had her irregularities about her, in her own king- 
 dom, don't you know • but I went out to seek mine. I never did 
 very much harm, however, or I would not talk to a little girl like 
 you about it. I looked on at other people's fun, and that was fun 
 enough for me. There is alwaj's mud about it in the end, and it 
 sticks. I like best to look on ' 
 
 Mab had finished her apple by dint of taking large mouthfuls. 
 She had felt that it would be something dreadful, ungrateful, 
 uncivil beyond description to put it down and run away. So, 
 though she was much troubled, she only hurried the more over the 
 consumption of what was on her plate. When it was finished 
 she put down the plate, thankful to have it over, yet feeling that 
 even now she could not be so beggarly as to jumjo up at once and 
 go away. ' I wish,' she said, faltering, ' please, Mrs. Brown — 
 that you would not tell me any more ' 
 
 ' Oh, don't be afraid,' cried Mrs. Brown, with a laugh ; ' I shall 
 not bring a blush upon that cheek. I have always been in mis- 
 chief, but I have not done much harm. I go wherever the whim 
 takes me. I am sometimes in the heart of the demi-monde — 
 though you don't know where that is — and sometimes in a great 
 lady's boudoir, and sometimes in a girls' school. You may wonder 
 how I got here ; but my certificates were perfectly good, and no 
 one had a word to say against me. The demi-monde, you know, 
 either in London or Paris, has no connection with Watcham 
 School.' 
 
 ' Oh, I wish you would not tell me any more — please don't tell 
 me any more ! ' cried Mab, rising up (though still deeply sensible 
 that it was too abrupt after the apple), 'for,' she added, in her 
 trouble, ' I don't know at all what you mean.' 
 
310 LADY WILLIAM XL 
 
 ' But my dear young lady,' said Mrs. Brown, ' you have neither 
 told me how you liked my apple, nor what you wanted me to do.' 
 
 ' Oh,' cried Mab, arrested and feeling all the weight of that 
 sin against the hospitality she had accepted. Her honest little 
 face grew crimson-red, and her eyes sank for the moment before 
 those bold and keen ones that seemed to read her very soul. 
 ' The apple was very nice, thank you,' she said, faltering, ' I — 
 never tasted any like it : but — mother will be waiting for me for 
 her dinner — I — think I must go.' 
 
 ' Tell me first,' said Mrs. Brown, ' what you wanted me to do.' 
 
 Mab had very seldom been silenced or daunted in her life, or 
 kept from saying out what was in her mind. For once she had 
 been overcome — chiefly by the apple and its effects, the sense of 
 familiarity and obligation thus brought into her embarrassed mind 
 — but such an embarrassment could not last, nor was she cowed 
 except for a moment by Mrs. Brown's personality — potent though 
 it was. 
 
 ' I wish,' she cried, ' you had not told me these things. You 
 put a weight upon my mind, for, of course, I cannot tell them to 
 anybody, and I shall have to carry them all about as if they were 
 secrets of mine. It was not just or fair to tell me — when I can't 
 tell them again or free myself from knowing, or forget for a long 
 time what you have said. And as for what we wanted you to do 
 — it was when we thought you were only Mrs. Brown, a lady that 
 was poor, and obliged to put up with the school to get her living. 
 Which did not matter to anybody — but now — now ' 
 
 ' You are disappointed in me,' said Mrs. Brown. ' You think 
 I am not a lady, or obliged to get my living — and you think you 
 had better say no more about it. You are quite right, for I should 
 not have done it whatever you had said to me. I have a great 
 curiosity, however, I confess, to know what- it was to be.' 
 
 ' Please ! ' said Mab, ' of course I know you are a lady, but it 
 is all different ; they thought you might have done — Lady Mac- 
 beth — or something. But all that doesn't matter now.' 
 
 ' Lady Macbeth — or something. What other thing did their 
 wisdom think could go beside Lady Macbeth ? No, my dear Miss 
 Pakenham, I will not do Lady Macbeth — or anything. Tell the 
 ladies I make my courtesy down to the ground,' she did so as she 
 spoke with the greatest gravity, while Mab followed her every 
 movement fascinated, 'for their kindness and for their thought that 
 I was good enough to exhibit myself among them. You know now 
 that I am not good enough. I am not a decayed gentlewoman 
 that has known better days ; but don't hesitate on my account to 
 
XT, LADY WILLIAM 311 
 
 clear your bosom of that perilous stuflf. Tell it out, my dear, run 
 home aud tell it all to my lady, your mamma.' 
 
 She stopped short suddenly, but as if she would have said a 
 great deal more. Mab seemed to stop short, too, in the hot tide 
 of her interest as the schoolmistress paused. It was as if some 
 swift career and progress of horse or man had been drawn up and 
 cut short in their midst. Mab's breath, which she had held in 
 the great fever of her interest, burst from her with a kind of gasp. 
 She seemed to herself to have been stopped short on the edge of 
 some precipice.- 
 
 ' Did you know,' she said, hesitating, and thinking over every 
 word, ' my — mother — too ? ' 
 
 Mrs. Brown apparently did not expect this question. She 
 stared at her for a moment, and then burst into an uneasy laugh 
 and turned away. 
 
 ' Sarah, Sarah,' she cried, clapping her hands, ' it is almost 
 time for school ; come and clear these things away.' 
 
XLI 
 
 Mab went home from her visit to Mrs, Brown a very different 
 girl from that little person who had run off from the group of 
 her friends to ask the co-operation of the schoolmistress — which 
 had seemed to her a very amusing mission. She had wondered 
 much how it would be taken — with satire or with pleasure. Mrs. 
 Brown's tongue was one which could stiug, Mab knew ; but a 
 tongue is all the more amusing for that, when its sting is not for 
 one's self. Mab rather liked to hear her sending her arrows from 
 right to left. She had thought that probably it was misfortune 
 that caused this, and the sense which people who have seen better 
 days are apt to entertain that it is somehow a wrong to themselves 
 that other people should be prosperous. We are all, unfortunately, 
 too apt to feel so. Blatant prosperity, smiling and smooth, how 
 hard it is for the rest of us not to hate its superior well-being, even 
 if we do not think that it is something taken from ourselves. 
 But that was a very different thing from the dreadful confidences 
 which Mab had received, and which made of her, even herself, 
 who had certainly nothing to do with Mrs. Brown's sin, a heavy- 
 laden and burdened spirit. Little Mab, who had run down to the 
 schoolhouse as light as a feather — though she was not, as the reader 
 is aware, one of your thread-paper girls — came back from it as if 
 she had carried that pack upon her back which Christian had in 
 the Pilgrim's Progress. The pack belonged to Christian him- 
 self, and he had a right to bear it ; but, I repeat, Mab had nothing 
 to do with Mrs. Brown's sins. And I am not at all siu-e what 
 Mab conceived these sins to be ; she knew nothing about them : 
 they were something vaguely terrible, vaguely yet frightfully 
 guilty to her childish sense of purity and rectitude. And yet 
 Mrs. Brown was the schoolmistress, the woman who had all the 
 Watcham girls in her hands ; and Mab alone, of all the parish, 
 knew that she was not fit to be trusted with that charge. She 
 
XLi LADY WILLIAM 313 
 
 walked home with the tread and the air of a woman of fifty, her 
 soft brow lined with prodigious scores of thought, her spiritual 
 back bent under this burden. Mab knew, while all the parish 
 lay in darkness. And Mab, the Eector's niece, and a district 
 visitor, and Lady Bountiful from her cradle, had a duty to the 
 parish which a person less bound with ties of duty might not 
 Imve thought of There was her duty to the parish, and, on 
 the other hand, there was her duty to her penitent ; for, though 
 she had not asked to have that high oifice, still Mab felt that she 
 had been adopted as the confessor of the sinner. Sinner was a 
 better name for her than penitent, for she was not penitent ; but 
 yet she had trusted Mab. And what was the person so trusted to 
 do 1 — betray it to the parish, or to any one in the parish 1 Oh, 
 no, no ! And yet was not that to betray the parish and its trust 
 and confidence in herself? If you can imagine any subject more 
 likely to score with wrinkles a brow of seventeen, such a divina- 
 tion is beyond my powers. Mab thought and thought, turning 
 the question over and over in her mind with more curiosity than 
 if she had been a philosopher in search of a new theory. What 
 it is right to do between two conflicting duties is a question for 
 a moralist more than a philosopher, if there is, indeed, any 
 difterence between the two. It was a tremendous question. 
 She did not see her friend, the General, though he took off his 
 hat and waved it in cordial greeting as she passed his garden 
 hedge ; nor Miss Grey, who had run after her, but finally gave up 
 the chase, unable to make Mab hear her call. Lady William 
 was waiting, though not impatiently, for the mid-day meal, which 
 was the chief repast in the cottage, when Mab reached home : her 
 mother called out to her to make haste, for Anne in the kitchen 
 was apt to lose her temper when her ladies were unpunctual. But 
 Mab was too much confused to make haste. She did not come 
 down for a quarter of an hour, until Anne was half-wild, and 
 Patty in the highest agitation. The dinner had already been sent 
 in, which should have pacified Anne, but she was something of an 
 artiste, in feeling at least, and could not bear her dishes to be 
 spoiled. Mab heard her voice from the depths of the kitchen 
 intoning comminations, and saw that Patty had tears in her eyes, 
 though they sent out pretty sparks of satisfaction at sight of the 
 laggard. 
 
 ' Oh, Miss Mab, the soup's cold,' she ventured to say, even 
 Patty thus raising a protest. 
 
 But Lady William was not very severe. ' You little sluggish 
 thing,' she said. 'What have you been doing? Patty and I 
 
314 LADY WILLIAM xli 
 
 have been suffering much from Anne. And I fear the soup will 
 be quite cold.' 
 
 ' Oh, that's all the better,' said Mab, trying to pluck up a 
 spirit, ' for it's a very warm day.' 
 
 ' I am glad you find it so,' said Lady William, with a shiver. 
 ' May is seldom so hot in England as to make cold soup desirable. 
 And how did the practice go off, and where have you been 1 for I 
 saw Emmy and Florry go home a long time ago.' 
 
 ' I have been to Mrs. Brown. They wanted her to act some- 
 thing. She is a very funny woman. She was at her lunch, or 
 dinner, or whatever she calls it. She gave me an apple, which 
 she called Pomnie au sucre, and I never tasted anything so 
 nice.' 
 
 'Oh, she is like that, is she?' said Lady William; 'the 
 woman who has seen better days.' 
 
 'Yes, mother, she is like that,' said Mab ; even to say so much 
 as this relieved her mind a little, though she had no idea what was 
 meant by the question or reply. 
 
 ' And is she going to — act 1 To act, did you say ?— that will 
 be an odd thing for the schoolmistress to do.' 
 
 ' They thought — • she might do Lady Macbeth — or some- 
 thing.' 
 
 ' Or something ! ' said Lady William, just as Mrs. Brown had 
 done : ' that will be still more odd,' she added, with a laugh. 
 ' And is she going to do it, Mab 1 I shall see this woman, then, 
 at last.' 
 
 ' No, she is not going to do it, mother. She laughed at the 
 idea. She said, "Lady Macbeth — or something," just as you did. 
 She is a very strange woman, but I don't think that you would 
 like her.' 
 
 ' Probably not,' said Lady William. ' It is, perhaps, unkind 
 to say it, but I am not very fond of the decayed gentlewoman in 
 general. It would serve me right,' she said, with half a smile and 
 half a sigh, ' to end like that myself.' 
 
 'But how could that be?' said Mab. It was one of those 
 questions to which there is no answer possible. Nor did she 
 expect an answer. But it brought a little cloud over Lady 
 William's brow. Indeed, it was all Lady William could do to 
 keep her face tolerably unclouded, and her conversation as cheerful 
 as usual for Mab's sake. And this struggle on her mother's part 
 kept Mab's unusually serious face from being noticed as it other- 
 wise must have been. After that there were no further questions 
 asked about Mrs. Brown, and Mab went out to her gardening and 
 
XLi LADY WILLIAM 315 
 
 the many other occupations which filled up her time. Bi;t what- 
 ever she was doing this heavy question hung upon her mind, and 
 she carried with her the burden that was lilie Christian's, yet 
 which slie had not, lilce him, any right to bear. Her duty to the 
 parish was to denounce the woman who ought not, with her 
 mysterious guiltiness, to have the training of the girls of Watcham. 
 And her duty to her penitent was to keep everything jealously 
 within her own breast which had been confided to her, so to 
 speak, under the seal of confession. Mab had, as was natural, a 
 tremendous sense of her responsibility to both, but how she was 
 to reconcile the two was more than she could think of. She 
 determined at last upon a compromise, which was not indeed half 
 sufficient to meet the case, but which was the only thing she 
 could think of. She herself, she concluded, would for the future 
 go constantly to the school, and thus neutralise any evil that 
 might be produced by Mrs. Brown. She would go and watch 
 over the girls, and see that their morals were all right, and that 
 nothing was said or done to lead them astray. By dint of think- 
 ing it over the whole afternoon, shutting herself up alone to 
 wrestle with it, refraining even from tea in order that her delibera- 
 tions might be unbroken — this was the middle course to which 
 Mab attained. She could not betray ivlrs. Brown. That was out 
 of the question : and it was also dreadful to think of betraying the 
 parish, which, alas ! if it knew what Mab knew, would not con- 
 tinue Mrs. Brown in her place for a single day ; but if Mab took 
 it upon herself — her little innocent self — to watch over the girls, 
 to be there early and late, guarding them from every allusion, 
 from every lesson that could hurt them — would not that make up 
 for the silence 1 She would watch the children as nobody else 
 could watch. She would have eyes like the lynx and ears like 
 those who heard the grass growing. This was what Mab deter- 
 mined upon in the anxiety of her soul. 
 
 She had persuaded her mother to go to the entertainment, 
 though it was a dissipation to which Lady William was noways 
 inclined. But Mab, notwithstanding the sad check that had been 
 put upon her by the forenoon's proceedings, Avas very anxious 
 about the delights of the evening, which were of a kind unusual 
 in Watcham, where there was so very little going on. A concert 
 was of the rarest occurrence. A little comedy had once been 
 known to be jDlayed in the large room of the ' Blue Boar ' by a 
 strolling company, and, as we are aware, there had been a dance 
 at General FitzStephen's. But the occasions that occurred in 
 Watcham of putting on a best cap or a flower in your hair and 
 
316 LADY WILLIAM XLi 
 
 sallying forth in the evening without your bonnet, to meet other 
 persons under the same beatific conditions, were so very rare that 
 nobody wished to miss the curate's entertainment. There had 
 been very grave and serious questions among the ladies as to the 
 point of costume, some being of opinion that as the entertainment 
 was primarily for the working people, it would be ' better taste ' 
 on the part of the ladies and gentlemen not to go in evening dress, 
 or at all events to shroud their glories in bonnets on one side, and 
 great-coats on the other. This, however, had been boldly com- 
 bated by Mrs. Plowden, who maintained that it would be much 
 better for ' the poor things ' to have the exhilarating spectacle for 
 once in a way of ladies in their evening toilettes, and gentlemen 
 with shirit-fronts that could be seen half a mile off. It would do 
 tliem good, the Eector's wife said, to see that the best people 
 were ready to mingle with them thus on a sort of equal terms, 
 coming to enjoy themselves just as the boatmen did. And it was 
 absolutely necessary that the young ladies who were to perform 
 should be arrayed and made to look their best ; it would have 
 been very hard upon them to step down from the platform amongst 
 a mass of bonnets, and thus be made conspicuous in the assembly 
 even when they had finished their exertions in its behalf I don't 
 think that Mrs. Plowden had the least difliculty in bringing the 
 others to her opinion, and accordingly the front seats in the school- 
 room where the performance was to take place, were peopled by a 
 small, and select, but distinguished audience, which rather over- 
 shadowed, it must be allowed, and put out the homely ranks 
 behind, and made the curate gnash his teeth when he saw 
 immediately in front of his presiding chair all the shining shirt- 
 fronts and frizzed or smooth locks, or lace-covered heads of the 
 familiar little society of Watcham. Poor higher classes ! They 
 wanted a little amusement to the full as much, or perhaps more, 
 than the boatmen and their wives from Riverside. And, perhaps, 
 had they been at the back and the others in front, Mr. Osborne 
 would not have minded. As it was, perhaps in this as in greater 
 matters all was for the best — for General FitzStephen's high head 
 prevented the curate from seeing how old George from the landing 
 yawned over the quartette of the violinists from Winwick. Breed- 
 ing is everything in such cases, for the General was quite as much 
 bored as old George ; yet he applauded when it was over (partly 
 in thankfulness for that fact) as if he had never heard anything so 
 beautiful before. 
 
 As for Mab, she was able to forget for the moment her inter- 
 view with Mrs. Brown. Not only was it pleasant to be out in the 
 
SLI LADY WILLIAM 317 
 
 evening — though only in a white frock high up to the neck, -which 
 was in reality a morning dress, but quite enough in Lady William's 
 opinion for such an entertainment ; but tlie excitement of feeling 
 that she had really a part in the performance through the songs 
 of Emmy and Florence, and the recitation of Jim, enlivened her 
 spirits and raised her courage. The Rectory girls sang two duets, 
 far better in Mab's opinion than all the other performers, and she 
 felt sure that if Florence, whose voice was so much the strongest, 
 had but had the courage to sing alone — ! But this was a sugges- 
 tion that Florence had crushed at once. It was bad enough to 
 stand up there in face of all these people with Emmy to support 
 her : but alone ! 
 
 ' Don't you think it was rather silly of Florry to be so parti- 
 cular,' whispered Mab, 'when they have all known her — almost 
 since she was born V 
 
 'No. I don't think it was sillj-,' said Miss Grey 
 decisively. 
 
 ' Oh ! but you never think any one silly,' said Mab. 
 
 ' Don't I ! ' said Miss Grey, with a truculence which left all 
 the swearing roughs of Riverside far behind. 'I know who I 
 think silly,' said that enraged dove. 
 
 Mab's eyes ranged over all the people on the platform in 
 astonishment, to see who could be the object of this outburst. 
 
 ' Not poor Jim ? ' she said, faltering. 
 
 ' Jim is worth a dozen of him,' said Miss Grey. 
 
 There was only one face that was not friendly and bright. 
 And that was, Mab supposed, because Mr. Osborne was so anxious 
 that everything should go off welL Florence, the duet just over, 
 was standing within three steps of him, with a little group about 
 her congratulating her on her success, and the sound of the 
 applause behind was still riotous in the room. Old George was 
 very audibly exclaiming at the top of his gruff voice : ' That's 
 your sort now ! that's somethin' as a man can understand ; ' while 
 some of the Riverside lads, the people Mr. Osborne had been so 
 anxious about, kept on clapping their big rough hands persistently, 
 when everybody else had stopped, not daring to cry encore to the 
 young ladies, but signifying their wishes very clearly in that way. 
 The two girls hesitated and lingered, kept by their friends from 
 retiring while this noisy but timid call went on, which presently 
 was joined in by all the front benches, under the leadership of the 
 General, who was not at all shy, and cried ' encore ' lustily. IMr. 
 Osborne grew more gloomy than ever, and called imperiously for 
 the next performers. 'We must stick to the programme,' he 
 
318 LADY WILLIAM XLi 
 
 cried; 'we shall never get done at this rate,' and the Winwick 
 amateurs came up again with their fiddles, while Emmy and 
 Florry stole away, escaping abashed from their friends, who were 
 discomfited too. It was then that Miss Grey said between her 
 closed teeth, ' I know who I think is silly ; ' as if she would have 
 liked to crush that person in her little hand which (in a very 
 ill-fittiDg glove) she clenched as she spoke. If he had been a 
 butterfly he would have had no chance in that clenched fist of 
 Miss Grey. 
 
 And then Jim came up smiling and delivered his ' Ride,' and 
 was applauded till the roof rang, chiefly, however, because he 
 was Jim, and there was something about racing horses in what he 
 had read. ' That's your sort,' old George said again, but more 
 doubtfully ; ' though I'd like to have known a little more about 
 them horses,' he added ; and shortly after the entertainment came 
 to an end. There was no doubt it had been a great success. 
 While the common people streamed out, not sorry to be able to 
 stretch their limbs and let loose their opinion, and indemnify 
 themselves for having been silent so long, the audience in the 
 front benches lingered to pay their respects and congratulations, 
 and to assure the curate that everything had gone oflp beautifully. 
 ' I hope the Riverside people enjoyed it. I am sure / did,' said 
 General FitzStephen. Mr. Osborne looked at that gallant officer 
 as if he would have liked to knock him down. He could not 
 have shown a more angry and clouded face had the entertainment 
 been a failure. ' Oh yes. I suppose it has done well enough,' 
 he said. Mab, who did not know what all this meant, but who 
 was able to perceive that something was wrong, was fixing her 
 wits upon this mystery, and very anxious to know what it meant, 
 when she suddenly heard a little cry from her mother, whose eyes 
 were fixed upon the last stragglers of the crowd going out, and 
 who suddenly broke off in the midst of a conversation, and with 
 every appearance of excitement suddenly rushed out after some 
 one — Mab could not tell whom. Mab rushed after her mother 
 full of astonishment and eager curiosity, but only to find Lady 
 William standing outside looking vaguely round her with an 
 anxious, bewildered look upon her face. 'What is it, mother? 
 Who is it ? ' Mab cried. ' Do you want to speak to somebody 1 ' 
 ' I am certain,' cried Lady William, ' I saw her in the crowd. 
 She turned round for a moment and I saw her face.' ' Who is it, 
 mother? Who is it, mother?' cried Mab. But Lady William 
 did not make any reply to her. She turned round to another 
 who had rushed after her (' That Leo Swiuford, of com'se,' Mab 
 
XLi LADY WILLIAM 319 
 
 said to herself) and put out her haud to him, as if he, and not her 
 child, could help her. ' I have seen her, I am sure I have seen 
 her ! ' she cried — and she repeated in a tone of rising excitement 
 what she had said before — ' with a black veil over her head. 
 She turned round as she went out of the door; and there was 
 Artdmise. Oh, find her for me ; find her, Leo ! ' Lady William 
 cried. 
 
XLII 
 
 Next morning, however, there came a crisis which drove all 
 thought of anything else for the moment out of Lady William's 
 mind. 
 
 It came in the shape of a letter laid upon her innocent break- 
 fast table, along with the little bunch of correspondence, very 
 small, and very unimportant, which was all that the post generally 
 brought to that peaceable house. Lady William had, of course, a 
 friend or two with whom occasionally she exchanged those utterly 
 unimportant letters which form so large a portion in the lives of 
 some unoccupied women. It would be hard to grudge these poor 
 ladies so innocent a pleasure, but their letters were not exciting 
 enough to make a woman like Lady William, who felt that she 
 had herself a great deal to do, and did not want that gentle 
 stimulant, very impatient for the arrival of the post : and her 
 mild correspondence waited for her quite contentedly on both sides 
 till she had performed various little morning duties, and was 
 ready to sit down to breakfast. The long blue envelope, how- 
 ever, alarmed her a little whenever she saw it, and yet there was 
 nothing so very alarming in it, for it was a similar envelope, 
 directed in the same writing, as that which brought her the 
 cheque for her quarterly allowance, which, as it happened, was 
 now a little overdue. She lingered, however, over the letter — 
 though it did enclose a cheque, which she took out and laid upon 
 the table — much longer than she was wont to linger over the 
 letters of Messrs. Fox and Round. She read it carefully over, 
 and then she folded it up, put it in its envelope, and poured out 
 the coffee. But before she touched her own cup, returned to the 
 letter ; took it once more from its envelope, read it all over again, 
 and put it back once more. Mab had a little letter of her own to 
 read, all about nothing, from a girl of her own age, so that she 
 did not for a minute or so observe these proceedings of her mother. 
 
XLii LADY WILLIAM 321 
 
 But she very soon did so, and divined not only from them, but 
 from the manner in which Lady William swallowed her coffee and 
 I^ushed away the innocent rolls on the table as if they had done 
 her some harm, that all was not as usual. When Lady William 
 spoke, however, it was in a voice elaborately calm. 
 
 ' Are you going out this morning, Mab 1 ' 
 
 ' Yes, mother — I am going ' Mab paused a moment. She 
 
 had got up that morning with her mind full of the weighty 
 determination of last night ; but it seemed to her that if she said 
 she was going to the school it might partly betray the secret 
 which was not hers, but which lay so heavy on her soul. ' I 
 think,' she went on, correcting herself, ' I will run over and see 
 how they feel at the Rectory, now it's over, about last night. 
 And I will probably look in at the school,' she added, for to have 
 a secret from her mother was dreadful to her, 'before I come 
 back.' 
 
 'If you are going to the Rectory,' said Lady William, 'tell 
 your uncle James that I should like to see him, Mab.' 
 
 ' Yes, mother ; ' but Mab could not help glancing aside at the 
 letter with an awakened interest, and wondering what Uncle 
 James, so infrequent a visitor on ordinary occasions, could be 
 wanted for — again. 
 
 ' You are right, Mab,' said her mother, ' it is about business 
 and about this letter in particular. And if you can give him my 
 message without anybody else knowing, I shall be all the better 
 pleased.' 
 
 ' Is it about — Uncle Reginald, mother 1 ' 
 
 ' About Reginald ! Oh no, you may make your mind easy. 
 It is not about Reginald. It is,' she said, with a sudden desire 
 for sympathy, ' something much more important to you and me ; 
 but I cannot tell you now,' she added, remembering herself, 'you 
 will know of it all in time.' 
 
 ' Is it from Mr. Leo, mother 1 ' said Mab, growing very pale, 
 and towering over the table as she looked at her mother, with 
 severity, yet terror, as if she had suddenly grown a foot in stature. 
 Lady William, altogether engrossed in other thoughts, gave her a 
 look of astonishment which was balm to Mab's soul. 
 
 ' From Leo ! ' she said, amazed. ' Why should it be from 
 Leo 1 I told you,' she said, with a little impatience, ' that it was 
 a letter of importance, which none of his little communications 
 could be. Tell your uncle,' she continued, falling into her usual 
 tone, ' that I have received a letter on which I wish to consult him. 
 Remember that I have no secrets,' she said, suddenly looking up ; 
 
 Y 
 
322 LADY WILLIAM xlii 
 
 ' I don't want you to make a mystery ; but if you could see him 
 — by himself, to give him my message ' 
 
 ' Oh yes, I can do that easily,' said Mab, in the relief of her 
 mind. ' I want to say something to him about Mrs. Brown.' 
 
 ' I must see this Mrs. Brown,' said Lady William, with a 
 smile. ' She seems to have a fascination for you, Mab.' 
 
 At this unexpected and most unintentional carrying of the war 
 into her own country ]\Iab flushed crimson, and cried quickly : 
 ' Oh no, nothing of the sort. I don't even like her. She is not 
 like any one else I ever saw.' 
 
 'I must see her — one of these days,' said Lady Wilham 
 vaguely : and then the faint smile died off her face, and she turned 
 to contemplate the long blue letter which lay by her plate. It 
 looked a dangerous thing among the little inoffensive white and 
 gray envelopes. Lady William's letters were chiefly gray, written 
 upon that ugly paper which people, and especially ladies, use out 
 of economy, and which is one of the additional (small) miseries of 
 life. 
 
 Mab felt much ashamed of her foolish question as she went 
 out, but hoped her mother had forgotten, or had not attached any 
 meaning to it. It was all the fault of the horrid people who 
 talked — as if there was anything strange in Mr. Swinford's visits. 
 ' Where else should he go ? ' Mab said indignantly to herself. 
 ' To the FitzStephens or the Kendalls, who are six times as old as 
 he is *? or to the Rectory, where Aunt Jane would talk to him all 
 the time, and the girls never could get in a word 1 How different 
 mother is ! I don't think I have ever seen any one so nice as 
 mother ! Well, of course, she is mother, which is a great thing 
 in her favour; but not, perhaps, in the way of society. Emmy 
 and Florry are very fond of Aunt Jane. She is very nice and 
 kind if you are iU, and all that ; but I am sure they would rather 
 talk a little themselves sometimes, rather than just listen to her, 
 especially when it is Mr. Leo.' This was the result of Mab's 
 unprejudiced observation, and she was much ashamed of herself 
 for having been moved to ask the very inappropriate question 
 which her mother had not paid any attention to, thank heaven. 
 Mab, as good luck would have it, met the Rector at his own door, 
 and conveyed her message in the most natural way in the world. 
 'Mother would like to see you. Uncle James. Would you go 
 into the cottage as you pass ? She has got a letter.' 
 
 ' Oh, she has got a letter 1 ' said the Rector. 
 
 Mab longed to say, 'Not a letter from Leo Swinford, an 
 important letter, a letter about business,' but she restrained her 
 
XLil LADY WILLIAM 323 
 
 inclination. Probably Uncle James had never thought upon that 
 other subject. She went on quickly to the Rectory, in order to 
 carry out her own programme which she had in a way bound her- 
 self to by announcing it to her mother. But she did not find the 
 girls at the Rectory very anxious to talk over the events of the 
 previous night. Mrs. Plowden, indeed, had no objection to discuss 
 it fully ; but it was in its connection with Jim that she thought 
 of it most. 
 
 ' If it had not been for Jim,' Mrs. Plowden said, 'Mr. Osborne 
 might just have kept all his music and his things to himself. Oh 
 yes, I daresay, the Fitz-Stephens, and Kendalls, and ourselves, 
 and those people from the villas would have come ; but, as for the 
 men from Riverside, they came for Jim, not for him. And did 
 you hear, Mab, what a noise they made with their cheers and 
 their clappings after Jim's piece ? They thought that the gem of 
 the whole evening. They came chiefly to hear that. As for Mr. 
 Osborne, with his little speeches and his fiddles from Win- 
 wick ' 
 
 ' Oh, mamma,' cried Emmy, ' the violins were a great treat. 
 We have not heard any music like that in Watcham for ever so 
 long.' 
 
 ' Well, you may say what you like about fiddles,' said the 
 Rector's wife, ' but there's always something a little like a village 
 fair in them to me. And the poor people were bored beyond any- 
 thing. They liked your songs, girls, and wanted to encore them 
 if Mr. Osborne would have allowed it ; and they liked that piano 
 bit, with the tunes from the Pinafore. They understood that, and 
 so do I, I allow ; but what do they care for a classical quartette ? 
 I don't myself, and I know more about music than they can be 
 supposed to do. But a fine, stirring thing like Jim's " Ride to 
 Aix" ' 
 
 'It was Mr. Browning's "Ride to Aix," mamma.' 
 
 ' As if I did not know that ! But, all the same, it was Jim's 
 ride to me. Don't you think he did it great justice, ]\Iab ? I 
 never heard it come off so well. The people were so attentive. 
 That and the duets were certainly the success of the evening ; and 
 what it would have been without them I can't tell.' 
 
 ' It would have been much more satisfactoiy without them, 
 mamma,' cried Florry, half turning a shadowed countenance to- 
 wards her mother. ' Mr. Osborne did not want mere amusement 
 for the people — he wanted them to take pledges, and turn from 
 drinking. That was his object, don't you know — and a far better 
 object than hearing two poor little country birds like Emmy and 
 
324 LADY WILLIAM xlii 
 
 me sing. And I approve of it,' said Florence a little loudly, as if 
 she would have liked all the world to hear. 
 
 Mrs. Plowden looked at Mab and shrugged her shoulders be- 
 hind her daughter. ' I can't think what has come over Florry,' 
 she said. ' She has grown so domineering of late — I dare not 
 say a word.' 
 
 What Mab thought was that poor Florry looked dark, and pale, 
 and out of heart — she seemed to be losing her good looks and her 
 merry ways. It was rare, very rare, when she put forth any of 
 her old arts of mimicry which the elders laughed yet pretended to 
 frown at, and which all the young ones delighted in ] but I will 
 not have it supposed that Mab was so precocious as to divine what 
 was the matter with Florence — for this, to tell the truth, never 
 came into her unconscious thoughts. 
 
 The Rector hurried along to see his sister after he had received 
 Mab's message. He was anxious and disturbed about the state of 
 affairs, and very desirous to find some way of setting his poor 
 Emily straight, and making her independent, as she would be 
 gloriously, did this great fortune come to Mab. If, perhaps, he 
 was at the same time not quite sorry that she had been brought to 
 see she was not so able to do everything for herself as she sup- 
 posed, and had it proved to her in the most effectual way that 
 to have respectable relatives to fall back upon was the greatest 
 blessing a woman could have, it was no more than natural : and 
 certainly above all, his desire was to be able to help her, and 'pull 
 her through : ' but it would be uphill work he felt, and require all 
 the efforts that he himself could make. His brow was full of care 
 when he went into the room in which she sat expecting him ; not, 
 indeed, looking so serious as he did, but, still, vrith work enough 
 for all her thoughts. 
 
 ' Well 1 ' he said, as he drew a chair opposite to her, and sat 
 down on the other side of the table at which she sat at her work. 
 He bent forward across this little table, fixing upon her a look of 
 such solemnity that Lady William's first impulse (though, heaven 
 knows, she was not in a merry mood) was to laugh at his portent- 
 ous looks, which would have been very inappropriate and improper, 
 and would have shocked Mr. Plowden more than words could say. 
 As she checked herself in this impulse there burst from her instead 
 something which was half a sob and half also a chuckle : but he 
 took it as a sob, which was much the best. 
 
 ' My dear,' he said, ' my dear ! ' putting his hand upon hers, 
 ' it can't be so bad as that you should cry about it. We will stick 
 to you, whatever happens. Oome, Emily, take heart, take heart ! ' 
 
XLii LADY WILLIAM 325 
 
 ' I am not losing heart,' she said, ' I have expected it, you 
 know. It is a distinct demand for my certificates. And now the 
 moment is come when I must decide what to do.' 
 
 ' Is this the letter 1 ' he said. It was lying on the table be- 
 tween them, and Mr. Plowden took it up and read it over with 
 great care, making little comments of distress with his tongue 
 against his palate, ' Tchich, tchuch,' as he did so. Lady William 
 went on with her work, raising her eyes to him from time to time 
 as he read. His arrival and his tragic looks had amused her for 
 the moment, but those distressful, inarticulate remarks acted after 
 a while on her imagination and nerves. 
 
 'You think it a very bad business, James? How I wish,' 
 she said, ' that John, who never was a friend of mine, could have 
 lived for ever, or carried his dirty money with him to the grave ! ' 
 
 ' I don't think that is a very Christian wish, Emily.' 
 
 ' What, to wish him alive and in enjoyment of all he ever 
 possessed 1 ' 
 
 ' Oh, well, perhaps that is one way of looking at it,' said the 
 Rector, 'but, my dear, the noble family to which in fact you 
 belong ' 
 
 ' And which show their belief in me so nobly,' said Lady 
 William, this time permitting herself to laugh. 
 
 ' The noble family to which you belong,' repeated Mr. Plowden 
 with a little irritation, ' will be very much benefited by this money. 
 That nice young Lord Will as good as said so : and your own 
 daughter, Emily, if all goes well, and we are able to establish your 
 rights ' 
 
 ' If ! ' she cried, with a flash of her eyes which seemed for 
 
 the moment to set the room aflame. 
 
 ' You know what I mean. I at least have no doubt what 
 your rights are : the question now is what is the best thing to 
 do.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Lady William, ' we are in front of something 
 definite at last. I have done little but think about it, as you 
 may suppose, ever since you brought me that crushing news : and 
 it seems to me that there are several ways that are open to us : 
 the first ' 
 
 ' Emily,' said the Eector, ' by far the best, and first step to 
 take, in my opinion, is to consult Perowne — which we should have 
 done long ago.' 
 
 ' What could Mr. Perowne do ? He could not rebuild the 
 chapel and restore the books and bring back poor Mr. Gepps to 
 life again. He might put my answer into formal words, but that 
 
326 LADY WILLIAM XLil 
 
 is quite unnecessary. I have not the least inclination to consult 
 Mr. Perowne ' 
 
 ' Still, he must know how such things are managed better than 
 we can do/ murmured the Eector. 
 
 ' Such things — what things '? You sjDeak as if this was a 
 common case.' 
 
 'No, no, Emily, no, no ' 
 
 ' When it is, perhaps, such a case as never occurred before,' 
 she said. ' I can answer these men formally to their questions, 
 but to him I should have to go into the whole matter, explaining 
 everything from the first stejD to the last. No, I will not ask Mr. 
 Perowne for his opinion,' she said. Her countenance, naturally so 
 soft in colour, was suffused with a sudden flush. ' Anything but 
 that,' she repeated, in almost an angry tone. 
 
 It is so difficult to be purely business-like in matters where 
 men and women are concerned. Mr. Perowne, the ' man of 
 business' employed by the old Rector of Watcham, the father of 
 Emily Plowden — had taken upon him to admire that young lady, 
 and to make certain overtures which were not received graciously 
 in the days that were gone. Lady William would rather have 
 died than disclose all the circumstances of her marriage, as well 
 as the possible doubt that might be thrown upon it, to her former 
 lover. It was no figure of speech to say this ; she would rather 
 have died. But to her brother it all seemed very foolish, and to 
 show an arrogant confidence in her own judgment which he did 
 not share. 
 
 ' Well,' he said, ' of course, it is your own business, and I 
 cannot interfere with you, Emily : but that lawyer should meet 
 lawyer is surely a much better way than that you should think 
 you could encounter Messrs. Fox and Ptound — who are, of course, 
 experienced in all sorts of villainy — in your own strength.' 
 
 ' It is a mere simple statement of fact that has to be made 
 to them,' she said. ' I will write and say I have no certificates, 
 but that one person is still alive who was present at my marriage 
 if she can be found : and that my father ' 
 
 ' For goodness' sake ! ' cried the Piector. ' What, what do you 
 mean— you are going to show your hand at once to these men, and 
 let them see that you have no proof at all 1 ' 
 
 ' My father's diary is the best of evidence,' she said. ' The 
 law is not such a bugbear as you make it out to be. There must 
 be some sense and justice in it : my father's word, a clergyman, 
 and a man of honour ' 
 
 ' They may say it is a got-up thing, and what so easy as for 
 
XLii LADY WILLIAM 327 
 
 me to write that entry in an old book 1 I write very like my 
 father.' 
 
 ' What folly, James ! You ! as little likely to cheat as my 
 father, a clergyman, and a man of honom* too ! ' 
 
 ' We might say,' said the Rector, ' for I have been thinking it 
 over too, my dear Emily — that you were married at St. Alban's 
 Proprietary Chapel, Backwood Street, Marylebone, on such a day 
 and year, by the incumbent, the Reverend T. I. Gepps : and leave 
 it to them to get a copy of the register for themselves — if they 
 can,' he added grimly. ' The books, of course, ought to have been 
 saved, and perhaps some of them may be. It is their business to 
 find all that out.' 
 
 This specious suggestion staggered Lady William for the 
 moment. ' But when they find out that the church is burnt, the 
 book destroyed, and the clergyman dead — which is a catastrophe 
 almost too complete for the theatre — they may think we have 
 chosen the place on that account, and that we mean fraud and 
 nothing else.' 
 
 'I,' cried the Rector, 'meaning fraud — and you! It would 
 be just as easy to suppose that I had forged the entry in my 
 father's diary. I hope we are two honourable people.' 
 
 Lady William shook her head. 
 
 ' I hope so too : but I could not send them on such a wild- 
 goose chase, which would certainly harm us in the end, without 
 letting them know the truth.' 
 
 ' Oh, the truth,' cried the Rector. ' Isn't it all the truth, both 
 one thing and the other ? The truth is all very well and can't be 
 altered were you to harp upon it for ever, but what tliey want 
 and what we want is the proof.' 
 
XLIII 
 
 Leo Swinford had been during all these proceedings haunted 
 with a sense of a visitor about the house, whose comings and 
 goings were kept secret from him. Those who were concerned 
 were much too clever to permit this to be known or suspected by 
 the risks of absolute meeting, by sudden withdrawal into corners, 
 whisking past of clandestine shadows in the dark. It was not 
 that he ever met Mrs. Brown on the stairs or in the hall, or just 
 missed meeting her, as is generally the case under such circum- 
 stances. She had, as has been said, an entrance kept for herself, 
 which opened upon the back part of the house, where there was a 
 thick shrubbery, and where it would have been as impossible to find 
 a fugitive in the dark as to find the proverbial needle in a bottle 
 of hay. And Artdmise was far too deeply learned in all the lore 
 of evasion to be caught within the house. Nevertheless, he was 
 well aware that the place was haunted by a personality very, per- 
 haps unjustly, disagreeable to him, and with which he associated 
 all those vague suspicious and troubles which haunt the mind of 
 a child brought up among family secrets and discoveries. He 
 had been accustomed all his life to this uncomfortable sense of 
 some one about who was not seen, who had presumably unac- 
 knowledged errands of mischief-making, and whose presence, 
 whose very existence, was inimical to family peace. That Leo's 
 thoughts went a great deal too far, and that this curious secret 
 agent and confidante exercised, in fact, no evil influence, but had 
 in many cases held the side of honour and justice, was a fact 
 that Leo was not only quite unaware of, but totally incapable of 
 believing in. It had always been, indeed, a sort of consolation when 
 there was anything equivocal in Mrs. Swinford's proceedings, to 
 be able to think that it was not his mother who was to blame, 
 but that wretched Artdmise. Leo's father, so long as he lived, 
 had laid that flattering unction to his soul, and during his life- 
 
XLiii LADY WILLIAM 329 
 
 time the appearance of Artdmise had always been the occasion of 
 domestic trouble. It was natural that Leo in his youth should 
 have had no such right or reason to object or interfere ; and he had 
 not even been of his father's faction in the house until that father 
 was dead, and a natural compunction towards a man not happy in 
 his life nor lamented in his death, awoke his sense of reason, and 
 of right and wrong in this matter. But he had always had an 
 instinctive dislike to Artdmise. She had teased and sneered at 
 him as a ohild, which is a recollection seldom altogether forgotten, 
 and she was his mother's evil genius in life — or so it gave him a 
 certain relief to believe. 
 
 The commission given him by Lady William to find this 
 woman, so strange and incompreliensible a commission, and which 
 was not explained in any way, roused all the indefinite feelings of 
 disgust, and a kind of despair which had filled his mind from the 
 moment of her reappearance (after a long interval, in which he had 
 been of opinion that she was permanently shaken off) in the house. 
 He had expressed to his mother so distinctly his objection to her 
 presence, that it vv^as difiicult for him to reopen the subject, and 
 still more difiicult to suggest, as he was tempted to do, that since 
 Mrs. Swinford could not live without her, it would be better on 
 the whole that she should come to live in the house than haunt it 
 clandestinely. Diificult, however, as these overtures were, he felt 
 the necessity of making them, as soon as he understood that the 
 finding of Artdmise was necessary to his friend. What would not 
 he have done to serve her, to please her ? The laugh with which 
 she had turned off" his offer of service, the suggestion that such 
 offers belonged to the regions of fairy tales, had scarcely been 
 necessary to show Leo how futile, so far as she was concerned, 
 was his devotion. But this conviction rarely puts an end to 
 devotion, and it must be said that as there is fashion in all things, 
 it was not disagreeable to Leo's fashion of man to entertain a 
 devotion of this kind, however hopeless, for an older woman, whom 
 it was, in the nature of things, impossible that he could ever 
 marry. In the nature of things as seen by her, that is to say, 
 and which he clearly divined. His double breeding as Frenchman 
 and Englishman did him service in this complication of fate. As 
 an Englishman he was aware that such relationships as are 
 possible to a Frenchman's ideal, without apparently injuring it in 
 his standard of honour, were here as impossible as that the sky 
 should fall : while as Frenchman he was not so determined on that 
 strong step of marriage which seems the foregone conclusion of 
 love in an Englishman's eyes. He was willing to be utterly 
 
330 LADY WILLIAM XLin 
 
 devoted to this lady of dreams who was not for him, and to ask 
 no more, seeing that more could not be — but that her wishes 
 should be obeyed and her commissions executed at whatever cost, 
 was the thing most certain to his mind. 
 
 ' Mother,' he said, on the first occasion when he tad the 
 possibility of an interview, for Mrs. Swinford, after the litde con- 
 troversy over Lord Will, had exercised her usual caprice, appearing 
 only when she pleased at the common table, and ' was not well 
 enough' to receive even her own son in her boudoir, 'you have, 
 I think, a very frequent visitor.' 
 
 ' I — have very frequent visitors ! Where do I find them 1 I 
 should be glad if you would tell me, Leo.' 
 
 ' I have no desire to be disagreeable, mother — you have 
 Artdmise.' 
 
 ' Ah, Art^mise ! Yes, fate for once has been a little favour- 
 able to me. To keep me from dying of England, snd your village, 
 and all the exciting circumstances of my life. I have Artdmise — 
 that is occasionally. You know that I am not permitted to have 
 her here.' 
 
 ' Mother ! ' he said ; then subduing himself, ' You are very 
 much attached to this woman, who has never done anything but 
 harm, so far as I know,' 
 
 'Well,' said Mrs. Swinford, 'and what then? Is it not per- 
 mitted to me to love as well as to hate 1 Artdmise is the nearest 
 to me in blood of any one in the world.' 
 
 ' You forget your son, it appears.' 
 
 ' My son — ah, that is a difterent matter. Sons have a way of 
 being in opposition to their mothers. Besides, isn't there a high 
 authority which says that a mother is no relation, so to speak — an 
 accident ? It is so in English law.' 
 
 ' English law has little to do with you and me, or any law. 
 Mother, if you prefer this Artdmise to every one, why have her 
 pay you visits clandestinely like ' 
 
 ' Like a lover ! ' she said, with her tinkling laugh. ' Well, say 
 she is my lover and I like it ; have it so.' 
 
 ' Such a simile is insulting,' he said. ' I resent for you that 
 you should even yourself say it.' 
 
 ' Ah, but I do not resent ; I like the simile. The thing itself 
 might not be so impossible. But you are a Puritan, Leo, like 
 your father. I have tried to prevent it, but one cannot stop the 
 course of nature. Fortunately, my own constitution is not so.' 
 
 He rose in impatience, as was generally the result of these con- 
 versations, and paced the long dining-room from end to end. 
 
XLlli LADY WILLIAM 331 
 
 Then he returned to where she sat with her back to the fire, 
 which she still insisted on, though it was now May. He stood 
 half behind her, leaning on the mantelpiece. It was better, 
 perhaps, than being face to face. 
 
 ' What I mean,' he said, ' is, that if your comfort ^o depends 
 upon this woman — whom I don't pretend to like, as you know ; 
 but that does not matter : if your comfort depends upon her, 
 mother, or if she is some pleasure to you, it would certainly be 
 better to have her here, living with you, than skulkiug to and fro 
 like a ' 
 
 ' Lover ! ' she said again, with a laugh to madden him. Then 
 she tm-ned round upon him, as he stood with his head bent regard- 
 ing the glow of the fire. ' I don't say that you've made your offer 
 an insult, Leo, which would be the truth — but what is the cause 
 of such a change 1 You have a motive. Ah ! I think I see it ! ' 
 
 He looked up with a more profoundly clouded brow than had 
 ever been seen in Leo before. 
 
 ' What do you see ? ' he said. 
 
 She laughed again. Any one who has ever listened to the 
 dreadful endless tinkling of an electric bell at a foreign railway 
 station will understand how Mrs. Swinford laughed, and how it 
 affected the nerves of those who listened. 
 
 ' Ah ! I think I see ! ' she repeated. 
 
 Perhaps it was because he was used to these agaceries that he 
 bore it so well. What tempests of impatience were in his heart ! 
 He did not move. He remained as still as if he had been made 
 in bronze, leaning against the mantlepiece till the laugh ceased. 
 Then he said coldly : 
 
 ' I have expressed myself willing to give up what may be my 
 own prejudice on your account, mother. I think it would be more 
 dignified, more fit and becoming for you that your visitor did not 
 come by stealth. What motive you credit me with I can't tell. 
 If you do not think fit to adopt my suggestion, so be it ; but at 
 least let her come openly, not by stealth.' 
 
 The tinkling began again with that supreme power of exaspera- 
 tion, and she said amid her laughing, every word coming tinkling 
 out : 
 
 ' That you may have her at hand and within reach when she 
 is wanted, eh ? I divine you, my Leo. What is becoming for the 
 mother who is so little callable of understanding that for herself, 
 is a beautiful pretext — what is convenient for some one else ' 
 
 'Who is the person,' he said, suddenly lifting his eyes, 'to 
 whom it will be so convenient to know where this woman is 1 ' 
 
332 LADY WILLIAM XLiii 
 
 He did not shrink or show any consciousness as he thus carried 
 the war into the enemy's country. Leo, after all, was a man of 
 the world, and his mother's son. 
 
 ' Ah ! ' she cried, stopping in her laugh, which was always a gain. 
 ' I congratulate you, my son, upon your aplomb. But don't you 
 know you take away all grace from your offer, if there were any in 
 it, when you say this woman ? How dare you speak of your 
 mother's dear friend and relation as this woman ? It is an affront 
 I will not bear.' 
 
 ' Mother, this is a subterfuge,' said Leo indignantly. 
 
 ' And is not your proposal a subterfuge 1 Understand that I 
 will manage things in my own way, Leo. Artdmise shall come to 
 me how she and I please. She shall stay with me if I wish it, 
 and she consents to it, as would have been the case whatever you 
 had felt on the subject. I am not here, you understand, as your 
 housekeeper,' she laughed scornfully, ' or your dependent ; I am, 
 while I am here, the mistress of the house : and shall invite whom 
 I please. If you think your order to shut her out affected me, any 
 more than your order to admit her does now — I think we have 
 said enough on this subject. You can give me your arm upstairs.' 
 
 She held out her arm, imperiously rising from the table, and 
 Leo obeyed. They presented a group full of natural grace, as he 
 led her carefully upstairs, subduing his steps to hers. She, 
 wonderful in all her laces and draperies, a marquise, a lady of the 
 old regime, exacting every sign of devotion ; he, not made of velvet 
 or brocade, as her cavalier ought to have been, but in the spare and 
 reserved costume of modern days, with a manner very grave, very 
 self-controlled, full of care, and attention, and duty. There was 
 nothing in it of that pretty gallantry, so charming from a son to a 
 mother, of which Leo for years of his life had been an example, 
 but a serious care of guidance and protection, which was as 
 different as night from day. They went upstairs thus, she leaning 
 all her weight upon him, he careful above measure to keep her foot 
 from stumbling even upon her own too ample skirts. When he 
 had placed her in her favourite chair, and seen that she had every- 
 thing she liked near her, he stood gravely by her side. 
 
 ' Is this your last word, mother 1 ' he said, 
 
 'It is quite my last word. Should Artdmise come here, I 
 shall expect you to be civil to her. Should she not come, you wiU 
 be carefid to let her alone.' 
 
 ' I must act in that matter according to my own judgment,' 
 he said. 
 
 He could hear the tinkle of the laugh as he went away. That 
 
XLiii LADY WILLIAM 333 
 
 laugh !~it had been compared to silver bells dans les tem2JS. It 
 was not that now, but an electric jar or vibration that got on the 
 nerves. Mrs. Swiuford's sou did not think of tliis, or feel any 
 pity for the woman who had descended thus from the poetic state 
 of compliment and adulation. Sons, perhaps, rarely consider that 
 downfall with any sympathy. And Leo was too angry to make 
 any sentiment possible for the moment. He was all the more 
 angry because of his own undisclosed motive, which his mother 
 had been so quick to discover. Had he been quite single-minded, 
 desiring only his mothei''s comfort and honour, things might per- 
 haps have gone better ; but he was not single-minded. And now 
 the question was, not how to justify his mother, but to discover 
 for Lady William the woman she wanted — to secure her, wherever 
 she was, and whatever might be the motive for which she was 
 sought. He did not very clearly know what that was, nor was he 
 sure as to the previous connection of Artdmise with Lady William's 
 history. But his mother's revelations to Lord Will had helped 
 the vague recollections in his own mind, and he divined something 
 of her possible importance — importance most probably (he thought) 
 more fancied than real, for it would be in the nature of a woman 
 to give weight to a personal witness of the marriage, above all 
 papers and records. Importance or not, however, real or fancied as 
 might be the need of her, it was enough that Lady William wanted 
 her to make Leo's action certain. She must be found, he said to 
 himself, as he went downstairs. 
 
 He questioned Morris that evening carelessly : ' Do you 
 remember a lady, Morris, who came here one evening in the 
 dusk 1 A lady — who insisted on disturbing Mrs. Swinford. Don't 
 you remember 1 And by dint of insisting was allowed to go in 1 ' 
 
 ' Eemember 'er, sir ! ' said Morris, with much emphasis. ' I 
 should just think I did — as well as I remember my own name.' 
 
 ' She has never,' said Leo, carelessly aiming at a ball on the 
 billiard table, ' been here again 1 ' 
 
 He spoke in so artificially careless a tone to convey no suspicion 
 of any special meaning in the question, that Morris would not have 
 been a man and a butler had he not been put upon the alert. 
 
 ' Oh, 'asn't she, sir ! ' said Morris. ' I should say, sir, as she's 
 here most days, is that lady ; as if the house was her own ' 
 
 ' I have never seen her,' said Leo, with as natural an expression 
 of surprise as he could put on. 
 
 ' No more haven't I,' said Morris. ' Never ; and how she gets 
 in and goes out is more nor I can say ; but she's favoured, sir, of 
 course, in the 'igher suckles ; that we know.' 
 
334 LADY WILLIAM XLiii 
 
 'Morris, my man,' said Leo briskly, 'you forget yourself, I 
 think. I asked you if a lady, who is a friend of my mother's, had 
 been here again : and you take it upon you to talk of how she 
 comes into the house without attracting your intelligent attention, 
 which was not the question at all.' 
 
 ' I 'umbly beg your pardon, sir,' said Morris ; and here the 
 conversation stayed. Leo felt that he had done as much as in the 
 meantime it was possible to do. His own faculties alone must 
 arrange the rest. Those faculties, thoroughly awakened and put 
 to the sharpest usage that was in them, were, however, of but 
 little use to Leo for a day or two. There could be no doubt, he 
 felt sure, that Artdmise was continually in the house. But it was 
 impossible for him to storm his mother's apartments in search of 
 her, and equally impossible to show himself to a keen-eyed houseful 
 of servants as in waiting to trap her near his mother's door. 
 The situation was one of the utmost difficulty, and demanded 
 extreme caution, and the only result he attained after twenty-four 
 hours' sustained observation was that it was possible from Mrs. 
 Swinford's rooms to reach, without going near the formal entrance, 
 a servants' door, apparently little used, and which opened at an 
 unfrequented angle of the house, quite apart from the noisy and 
 populous kitchen entrance. He had made up his mind to post 
 himself in the shrubbery close to this door at the hour of dinner, 
 when his mother would imagine him to be occupied with his meaL 
 She had sent down word that she herself was not coming to dinner, 
 and the opportunity seemed propitious. Leo was pondering upon 
 this resolution, and how to carry it out, as he returned from the 
 village, where Lady William had told him that the need for finding 
 Artdmise was greater than ever. It was a hazy, rainy evening, 
 not dark, but growing towards dusk, as he walked home soberly 
 under his umbrella, full of this intention. And he had just 
 passed the glimmer of the lake, all dimpled with the circlets of 
 the falling rain, when a movement in the shrubbery behind 
 caught his eye. The bushes were thick there, a heavy hosquet of 
 all the flowering shrubs that make spring delicious, a thicket of 
 lilac and syringa, which extended along the further side of the 
 pretty piece of water. Leo scarcely paused to think, but, putting 
 down his iimbrella, and pulling himself together, started at full 
 speed for the house to intercept the visitor who, on whatsoever 
 errand, was making her way towards the back entrance : probably 
 only a servant using the legitimate way. He was not near enough, 
 nor was there light enough to make out absolutely who it was, or, 
 indeed, more than that the figure was that of a woman, covered 
 
XLiii LADY WILLIAM 335 
 
 from head to foot with one of the shapeless garments, ulster or 
 waterproof, which are the habitual wear of a humble class of the 
 community. He managed so well that he reached the neighbour- 
 hood of the house sooner than this gliding figure, who was more a 
 movement than a being, and whom, in a less excited state of his 
 nerves, he would probably not have noticed at all. He made for 
 the little entrance which he had discovered and arrived there 
 before her. Woidd he be convicted of spying by the astonished 
 
 eyes of some innocent maidservant 1 Or would he 1 What 
 
 was that 1 Certainly the movement had been there for a moment 
 in the bushes, and there had been a pause — a pause was it of 
 consternation to see him on the watch 1 A moment after, he 
 perceived that the almost imperceptible quiver of the pale lilac, 
 washed almost white with the rain, had gone further off; the 
 visitor had retreated. He hurried along in the track, his heart 
 beating. Certainly it was retreating. Down again along the edge 
 of the little lake he followed, cautious, tracking the faint swaying 
 in the branches. If the evening had not been perfectly still, he 
 could not have noted any progress at all, the path of the fugitive 
 was so judiciously chosen. Then he gave almost a shout of satis- 
 faction ; skirting among the bushes became no longer practicable, 
 and, trusting to the dark and the rain, an indistinct form suddenly 
 appeared in the open, moving like a shadow, but -with great speed, 
 over the grass. He uttered a cry, almost without knowing it, and 
 launched himself forth in pursuit. 
 
XLIV 
 
 He had almost stumbled in his haste and perplexity upon another 
 figure all cloaked in waterproof and sheltered under an umbrella 
 near the Rectory gate. By this time it was quite dark, and the 
 rain, small and soft but joersistent, had increased so much as to be 
 almost blinding. A faint exclamation — ' Oh, Mr. Swinford ! ' — 
 greeted him as he was passing. 
 
 ' Miss Plowden,' he said, ' I beg your pardon,' and then he 
 added, breathlessly, ' I am running after a lady — don't laugh — an 
 old friend of whom I had a sudden glimpse. I have pursued her 
 all the way from the lake, and thought I had kept her well in 
 sight, but at last I have lost the track. Have you met any one 1 
 Excuse me for keeping you in the rain.' 
 
 ' A lady ? ' said Emmy. ' No, I have seen no one — that is, 
 no one that is not well known in Watcham. I suppose it was a 
 stranger 1 ' 
 
 ' How can I tell 1 ' said Leo in his perplexity ; ' a slight 
 woman, exceedingly swift and energetic— witness, I have not been 
 able to make up with her all this way — in a cloak — impermeable 
 — what do you call it 1 — like what you wear.' 
 
 ' In a waterproof ! ' said Emmy. ' No one has passed me but 
 the schoolmistress. It could not be the schoolmistress 1 ' 
 
 The idea was so ludicrous to Leo that he burst into a laugh in 
 the midst of his wretchedness and perplexity. 
 
 ' That does not seem likely,' he said. 
 
 'No one else has passed,' said Emmy; 'but there are some 
 lanes, if the lady had wanted a short cut to the station, for 
 instance.' 
 
 ' That is exactly what I should expect.' 
 
 ' Then if you will turn down to the right the first opening you 
 
 come to, and afterwards to the left, and then The quickest 
 
 way,' she said suddenly, with a blush and a laugh, 'would 
 
XLiv LADY AVILLIAM 337 
 
 be to show you ; for I fear I am uot clever enough to de- 
 scribe it.' 
 
 ' Not in this rain 1 ' 
 
 ' Oh, I don't care for the rain. We are out in all weathers ; 
 it will not take ten minutes.' ' She had already turned and was 
 hastening on in the direction she had indicated with a friendly 
 desire to serve him, at which Leo admired and wondered. 
 ' Besides, I don't call this bad rain,' said Emmy cheerfully, ' it is 
 so soft and warm. But for habit I should prefer to have no 
 umbrella. But you, perhaps, would like a share of mine ? ' 
 
 ' Thanks, it would do me no good and hamper you. I am as 
 wet as I can be.' 
 
 ' Yes, you are very wet I see. Well, there is one good thing, 
 you cannot be any worse now, and you must change as soon as you 
 get in. When one is only a little wet one does not see the need, 
 but when it is as bad as that you must. This way : I am afraid 
 it is a little dirty, Mr. Swinford,' said Emmy, with a tone of 
 apology, as if it were somehow her fault. 
 
 'It is not very clean,' he said, with a laugh, 'but it is worse 
 for you than for me. I have an object, but you have none, save 
 kindness,' he added, with a grateful look that pleased Emmy. 
 
 ' If it were kindness,' she said, ' that is the best object of all. 
 But I can't claim that, for it is a pleasure to heliD a — friend if one 
 can, in such a very little thing.' 
 
 'You hesitated. Miss Plowden, before you said a friend.' 
 
 'Yes,' she said, with the faint little laugh of embarrassment, 
 ' I was not sure that I knew you enough to use that name.' 
 
 ' I hope,' cried Leo, ' you will never doubt that again after all 
 the rain and mud you have faced to help me.' 
 
 ' Oh,' said Emmy, ' I would do as much for any one — if I had 
 never seen them before : I should be a poor creature indeed if I 
 took credit for this. Is that your lady, Mr. Swinford, running 
 down the lane to the station 1 I am afraid she will be late for her 
 train. Pam on, please — never mind me — I'll follow and see if you 
 find her, though,' she called after him cheerfully. 
 
 It was the pleasantest little excitement to Emmy, even had it 
 not been Leo Swinford about whom she had once entertained so 
 many romantic dreams. These dreams had faded away in the 
 most wonderful manner in the light of reality — though they still 
 kept a little atmosphere of romance about him. But it was 
 perfectly true that she would have done this little service for any 
 one, and would have felt the exhilaration of a small adventure in 
 doing it,, and the same curiosity to see how it ended. She went 
 
 z 
 
338 LADY WILLIAM xliv 
 
 on accordingly smiling under her umbrella : her hair was touched 
 here and there by the raindrops, and shone in the light of the 
 lamps, and her walk and the little excitement had given her a 
 pretty colour. All the likeness to Lady William, of which Emmy 
 was so proud, came out in the pleasant commotion in which she 
 stood on the opposite side of the platform to look if Mr. Swinford 
 had found his friend. But his friend, as the reader knows, was 
 not bound for the station, and was, indeed, at that moment secure 
 in the last place in the world where he was likely to look for her, 
 shaking the rain from her cloak, and changing her shoes with the 
 sensation of warmth and comfort which dry garments give after a 
 drenching. Mrs. Brown had on the whole rather enjoyed the 
 stern-chase, in which she felt herself quite safe : for she knew that 
 she could elude her pursuer one way or the other — either by allow- 
 ing him to overtake her, in which case she was confident that her 
 own wits were quite equal to any encounter with Leo — or by 
 vanishing into some side way by which she could gain her school- 
 house — the last place where he would seek her. Artdmise was 
 quite invigorated by the incident, which kept up, perhaps, an 
 interest which was slightly flagging in her continued visits to Mrs, 
 Swinford. If she were to be pursued every time, it would give to 
 these visits a wonderful zest. 
 
 Leo came across the railway with a sensation of pleasure, for 
 which he was quite unprepared, to give his guide the information 
 that he had failed in his search. Emmy had always been pensive 
 and stony when he had seen her before, a pale resemblance, like a 
 half-faded photograph, of her aunt. Now her bright interest and 
 readiness to listen and sympathise warmed him almost as much as 
 the dry shoes which Artdmise was luxuriously putting on by her 
 little kitchen fire. 
 
 ' No,' he said, ' she is not there. Perhaps she felt that I was 
 likely to go to the railway, and so avoided me — to take, perhaps, 
 a later train.' 
 
 ' Oh,' said Emmy, ' did she want then not to be found ? ' 
 
 There was a slight unconscious tone of suspicion in this which 
 was very flattering to the young man. 
 
 ' She wanted to avoid me — yes,' said Leo. ' She knows that 
 I don't love to have her in my house. She is an old friend,' he 
 added, 'I am not sure what — but a sort of relation of my 
 mother.' 
 
 ' Oh,' said Emmy, 
 
 This very English exclamation, which is so often laughed at, 
 has, according to the intention — or sometimes contrary to the 
 
XLTV LADY WILLIAM 839 
 
 intention — of the speaker, a wonderful deal of meaning in it. In 
 the present case it meant surprise, mingled with a sort of disap- 
 proval, and almost reproof An old friend, a relation, and yet you 
 don't like to have her in your house ! This was all expressed in 
 Emmy's tone. She would not — I need scarcely say — have put 
 such a sentiment in words for the world, and had not the least 
 intention of expressing it even in her astonished ' Oh ! ' 
 
 ' You think that strange 1 ' said Leo. 
 
 *0h — no,' said Emmy, hesitating slightly. 'I — don't know 
 any of the circumstances,' she added hastily, with a sudden blush. 
 ' Please, don't think for a moment, if I knew them all, that I 
 would set up myself for a, judge.' 
 
 ' Why not 1 ' he said. ' You are as well qualified to judge as 
 any one I know ; and even your surprise throws a little new light 
 for me on the situation. It is always good to see a thing through 
 another pair of eyes. However, what I want to find this lady for, 
 is to prevent a wrong thing being done — which she could set right, 
 but I fear does not want to set right. So I must find her.' 
 
 ' Certainly in that case ' said Emmy. She added, ' I 
 
 wonder if I could help you — if there was any place here where you 
 think she might have gone ! ' 
 
 'She may, perhaps,' said Leo, with a laugh, 'have doubled 
 like a hare, and got safely into my mother's room after all, while 
 I have been hunting her here.' 
 
 ' Into — your ! ' Emmy was so bewildered that she could 
 
 not keep in these astonished words, which were out of her mouth 
 before she felt that here was some complicated matter with which 
 she had no right to interfere. ' Oh, never mind,' she cried, ' never 
 mind ! I did not mean to be so impertinent as to make any 
 remark.' 
 
 ' Well,' said Leo, 'perhaps I did not mean to say so much : but 
 I must tell you now, Miss Plowden ' 
 
 * Oh, nothing, nothing, please,' said Emmy in distress. 
 
 ' That my mother and I don't look on the matter in the same 
 light. She takes one view, I another. We need not enter into 
 the question, but that is the fact. It is permitted to a man to 
 differ with his mother in judgment when he is as old as I am.' 
 
 ' One cannot help it sometimes,' said Emmy, in a low tone, 
 with a slight bowing of her head. 'It is very painful, but I 
 suppose God never meant that we were not to exercise the faculties 
 He has given us. We may keep the commandment all the same. 
 It says " honour." It does not say always agree. The Bible is 
 always so reasonable, don't you think '? ' 
 
340 LADY WILLIAM XLIV 
 
 ' Oh ! I don't know that I have very much considered that 
 question, Miss Plow den,' 
 
 'Never anything excessive that would be a burden,' said 
 Emmy, with the grave simplicity of assurance. ' Perhaps if you 
 coidd give me any indication, Mr. Swinford, I might think of a 
 place to look for her, being on the spot, and knowing all the 
 people. 
 
 ' Indeed you must go in at once out of the rain — with my most 
 grateful thanks for what you have done.' 
 
 ' To be sure,' said Emmy, ' no lady would be likely to stay 
 out in such a wet night — but there are two or three people who 
 keep lodgings in Watcham where I could inquire for you — or I 
 could go to the early train and see if she goes by that. But you 
 must describe her — what she looks like, and what I should 
 say ' 
 
 ' And you would really take all this trouble for me ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, for any one ! ' cried Emmy. Then she laughed, and 
 added : ' That does not sound very civil. Of course I should do 
 everything I could — a great deal more — for you, who are a — 
 friend. But I mean I would do that much — or any of us would 
 do it — for any one. You know my father is the Eector. It is in 
 a kind of way our business to be of any use we can — especially,' 
 she added, ' when it is a question of right and wrong.' 
 
 ' You are too good,' said Leo. ' You are too systematically 
 good. I don't want to be helped merely because I am a fellow- 
 creature, which I fear is what it comes to. I should like — very 
 much — to be helped — because it was me ' 
 
 ' And it would be because it was you,' said Emmy. These 
 words were far more pleasant to hear, on both sides, than it is to 
 be feared they were intended to be — but they were even upon 
 Leo's part perfectly sincere. He wanted to be more than merely 
 any one, to be helped and served for his own sake, and perhaps it 
 did not occur to him that to an unsophisticated girl like Emmy 
 (of whose romance, to be sure, he was profoundly ignorant) such 
 words as those meant more than they did to him. 
 
 ' You are very wet,' she said suddenly ; ' will you come into 
 the Rectory and get dried? Perhaps you could wear some 
 of Jim's things. You ought not to be so long in your damp 
 clothes.' 
 
 This motherly solicitude amused Leo much, and, to tell the 
 truth, he began to forget the annoyance of his unsuccessful quest 
 and to feel very uncomfortable in his wetness, and disposed to- 
 wards a little light and warmth. He hesitated for a moment. 
 
XLiv LADY WILLIAM 341 
 
 ' It would be wise to go home at once,' he said, ' and change my 
 wet things there.' 
 
 ' Oh ! ' said Emmy, who had indeed expected no favourable 
 answer to her invitation, ' I am sure mamma would be very sorry 
 if you went away that long walk without resting. She would ask 
 you to share our dinner and go home in the fly — for it means to 
 rain on, I am sure, all night.' 
 
 ' Do you think Mrs. Plowden would be so very good ? ' Leo 
 said. 
 
 I do not deny that dreadful questions ran through Emmy's 
 mind about the dinner. She did not know in the first place what 
 it was, for Mrs. Plowden was severely determined on the point of 
 retaining the housekeeping in her own hands : nor was she quite 
 sure that she would escape a lecture for bringing him in upon 
 them like this without notice, a man accustomed to a French 
 cook. But Leo was town-bred — Paris-bred, and not accustomed 
 to long expeditions in all weathers, and it was clear that he was 
 beginning to shiver in the persistent though softly falling rain. 
 
 ' I am quite sure mamma would never forgive me if I let you 
 pass the door,' she said, leading him in through the damp garden, 
 where already the rain began to form little pools. 
 
 Emmy felt no cold as she went in by the side door, which was 
 always on the latch, leading her captive. Her cheeks had never 
 glowed with such a rosy colour ; her eyes had never shown so 
 like two stars. She slid off" her cloak in the passage, and stood 
 dry and trim underneath in her little gray dress as if she had come 
 straight from her toilette. When she pushed open the drawing- 
 room door the light flashed about her in a sudden warm dazzle, 
 shining in her eyes, and in those raindrops that were like pearls 
 in her hair. 
 
 ' Mamma,' said Emmy, in a voice that had never before 
 sounded so soft, 'I have made Mr. Swinford come in with me, 
 he is so wet ; and I have told him you will make him stay to 
 dinner ; and that he must put on some of Jim's clothes.' 
 
 ' Which will be much too long for me,' said Leo ; ' but if 
 you will really be so charitable as Miss Plowden says ' 
 
 What a sudden sensation it ^made in the drawing-room ! Mrs. 
 Plowden sent Florence upstairs flying, to put a match to the fire 
 in Jim's room. 
 
 ' It is all laid ready ; it is no trouble,' she explained breath- 
 lessly ; ' but Florry will do it so much quicker than ringing the 
 bell. And Emmy, call Jim — he is in the study with your papa — 
 to get everything comfortable for Mr, Swinford. You are wet 
 
342 LADY WILLIAM XLiv 
 
 indeed. I will not even keep you downstairs to give you some 
 tea.' 
 
 ' Perhaps,' said Emmy modestly, ' a little wine or something, 
 mamma, to keep him from catching cold ' 
 
 ' And what do you take to keep you from catching cold 1 ' he 
 said. ' Am I supposed to be more delicate than you ? ' 
 
 ' Oh,' said Mrs. Plowden, sending Emmy off with a look, 
 ' they are used to it ; they are accustomed to our climate. How 
 glad I am you came ! This is the way, Mr. Swinford ; let me 
 show you the way. You must excuse me if I don't take you to 
 one of the best rooms, but only to Jim's, which will be the most 
 homely ; for I think comfort is the thing to think of when one is 
 wet and cold. Oh, here you are, Jim. I will just go with you 
 to see that the fire is burning — and you must get out dry things 
 to make Mr. Swinford comfortable. Have you lighted the candles, 
 Florry ? And is the fire biuning up 1 Oh, well, then I will leave 
 you with Jim.' 
 
 Thus the whole family ministered to Leo, who, half-horrified, 
 half-amused to see the two girls sent flying in different directions 
 for his comfort, and Jim much puzzled and flurried, extracted 
 from the dreadful depths of the study — submitted himself to these 
 attentions with the best grace in the world. If he had fathomed 
 Jim's dreadful perplexity as to whether he should offer the brand- 
 new coat which he had got for the FitzStephens' ball, or his old 
 one, which he believed in his heart would be a better fit, he could 
 not have spoken more wisely than he did on this subject. 
 
 ' Give me an old coat,' he said, ' one you had before you had 
 grown so big. You are a head taller than I am.' 
 
 The whole house was stirred by this unexpected visitor. Mrs. 
 Plowden downstairs was eager in her questions to Emmy. 
 
 ' Where did you meet him 1 What made you think of asking 
 him? What a good thing that we have such a nice dinner — 
 really too nice a dinner to eat by ourselves to-day. I said so to 
 cook this morning. Those beautiful chickens Mrs. Barndon sent 
 us, and a piece of salmon, and Eeally, a dinner for a dinner- 
 party. What a very lucky thing it was to-day ! ' 
 
 Even the Eector came forth from his study to hear what the 
 commotion was about. 
 
 * Emmy brought in Mr. Swinford to change his wet clothes 
 and dine.' 
 
 ' Emmy brought him in ? Why, you must be dreaming, 
 Jane ! ' 
 
 ' And why shouldn't Emmy bring him in 1 ' cried Mrs. 
 
XLiv LADY WILLIAM 343 
 
 Plowden, triumphant ; ' iucleed, what could she do else on such a 
 wet night 1 ' 
 
 Thus, instead of diuiug mournfidly alone, with Morris behind 
 his chair, in the great dark dining-room with the mock marble 
 pillars, Leo sat down with the cheerful Rectory party around the 
 severe but shabby mahogany, upon a chair covered with horse- 
 hair, to a dinner cooked by a plain cook. He was more amused 
 than words could say, and delighted with the new scene, the kind 
 people, and, above all, the contrast of the family party with his 
 solitude, and the bourgeois comfort with his own elegant and fas- 
 tidious fare. The chickens, carved anxiously by ]\lrs. Plowden 
 with ' Just another little piece of the breast,' in addition to the 
 well-developed wing, were so good, and everything was so warm 
 and bright, so honest and simple, that his amusement soon grew 
 into pleasure. What a contrast ! He told them even his story 
 with judicious elisions. 
 
 ' I cannot think how I lost her,' he said, ' even if she did not 
 want me to find her : and where she disappeared I cannot tell.' 
 
 ' I came all through the village,' Emmy explained, to add to 
 the tale, ' and no one creature passed me but Mrs. Brown, the 
 schoolmistress, flying along in a great hurry to get out of the 
 rain.' 
 
 Jim looked up at these words with a little start, but took care 
 not to say anything, as may well be believed. 
 
 ' Perhaps,' said Leo, with a laugh, ' it might be Mrs. Brown, 
 the schoolmistress, whom I was pursuing all the time. She 
 might be paying an innocent visit to some friend in the servants' 
 hall. In which case she wiU think me a dangerous madman, and 
 I owe her an apology.' 
 
 ' Oh, she's not one of that sort ! ' cried Jim. He said it 
 under his breath, and fortunately nobody heard him but Florence, 
 who gave him a look of inquiry, but no more. 
 
 ' So I might have saved myself the trouble — and the wetting,' 
 Leo said. 
 
XLV 
 
 As it happened, however, there were several people much occupied 
 about Mrs. Brown on the morning after that wonderful chase with 
 all its consequences. Mab, under one pretext or another, had 
 spent most of the previous day in the school. She had heard the 
 bigger girls say their lessons ; she had hovered about the classes 
 taught by the schoolmistress ; she had watched over the course of 
 instruction in general with anxious eyes. Was there any tamper- 
 ing with the morals of the girls of Watcham 1 Were the little 
 ones taught their hymns and collects ? Were the big ones kept 
 up to their catechism now that the time for their confirmation 
 began to approach 1 Mab had never hitherto felt herself one of 
 the clergy of the parish, as the Eector's niece might have been 
 permitted to do. But now she was torn with those sensations 
 which we may suppose to be felt by a priest who has received 
 under the seal of confession a new light upon the jDroceediugs and 
 motives of an important olficial. This is a drawback of the 
 priestly office which has rarely struck the general observer. To 
 know that a man who is largely influential in life, who has im- 
 portant issues on hand, is using his powers for evil and not for 
 good, and yet to be powerless to do anything, to prevent anything, 
 to give any warning on the subject ! Many a good priest no 
 doubt has been bowed down under this unthought-of weight. 
 And so was Mab, whose young shoulders were quite unfit for the 
 part. Should she tell it all to Lady William, this knowledge 
 that was too much for her to bear ? Should she give her uncle a 
 hint that she had discovered something which made the school- 
 mistress unfit for her place ? Mab felt that in all likelihood 
 Uncle James would laugh at her discovery, and to repeat Mrs. 
 Brown's confidences, even to Lady William, would be a breach of 
 trust. Thus the only thing Mab could do was to come in, in her 
 own person, to hold Mrs. Brown (perhaps) in awe, to watch over 
 
XLV LADY WILLIAM 345 
 
 the instruction, to correct what was wrong, to see how far it might 
 be her bounden duty to interfere. One wonders how a priest 
 would act in a similar case, or whether the possession of many 
 secret responsibilities in his consciousness may perhaps neutralise 
 the weight of each. Nothing neutralised this dreadful weight in 
 Mab's case. She watched Mrs. Brown as a cat watches a mouse. 
 She did not like to let that enigmatical person out of her sight. 
 She even followed down .the ranks of the girls whose heads were 
 bent over their copybooks, to see that the line so beautifully 
 written in round hand at the head of each page was orthodox. 
 Mab gave herself a great deal more to do than if she had herself 
 been the mistress of the school. She asked the girls all sorts of 
 unexpected questions to test their views of morality. 
 
 'What would you do if you saw somebody take something 
 out of a shop 1 Suppose you saw a very poor person take a loaf 
 from the baker's ? ' said Mab, with an anxious pucker in her fore- 
 head. 
 
 ' Oh, miss ! ' cried two or three girls together ; ' tell Mr. White 
 that minute, and if he runned away, catch him up.' 
 
 ' But if he were very, very poor — starving ? ' said Mab. 
 
 There was a pause, for of course all the gii'ls studied her 
 countenance to know what she wished them to reply ; and Mab's 
 little round, blunt-featiu'sd face, with an anxious cloud upon its 
 childish brow, was void of all expression that could be taken as 
 guidance. 
 
 ' If we knowed the man we could tell after — when he was 
 gone,' said one Jesuitical little person. 
 
 'And then 'e could run after 'im to 'is 'ouse- — or send the 
 police,' cried the rest. The idea of sending the police was the 
 most popular. It seemed somehow to take off the responsibility. 
 But the girls soon perceived that this was not the solution re- 
 quired. 
 
 ' If you please, miss,' said a sharp little girl who was well 
 acquainted with Mab's ways, ' if I 'ad a penny I'd pay instead of 
 'im, and then it wouldn't be stealing at all.' 
 
 This was received, however, by a spontaneous groan from the 
 class. ' Oh, Lizzie Jones ! that would be cheating as well.' 
 
 ' And it ain't likely as I'd 'ave the penny,' said Lizzie meekly. 
 She drew from Mab's countenance the consolation that, after all, 
 it was she who had answered the best. 
 
 To describe the delight with which Mrs. Brown looked on and 
 listened to all this would be difficult. She read little Mab like a 
 book, and her sense of humour was tickled beyond description. 
 
346 LADY WILLIAM 2lv 
 
 That she was herself upon her trial, and that the sentiments of 
 her scholars were to be considered in justification or condemnation 
 — while, at the same time, Mab was covertly consulting their 
 ignorance and (supposed) spontaneousness of perception like an 
 oracle, was as clear as daylight to this clever woman. She had 
 never met anything so funny in her life ; and it delighted her as 
 a good joke delights people who are given that way, whether it is 
 against themselves or not. But the gravity of her aspect was 
 equally beyond description. She seemed to take this question in 
 ethics with the most perfect good faith and all the seriousness in 
 the world. 
 
 ' If the man was starving,' she said, taking up the argument, 
 ' and Lizzie Jones had not a penny, as is most likely, and he was 
 known not to be a dishonest man, but only driven mad by the 
 poor children hungry at home^ ' 
 
 ' Yes, teacher,' said Lizzie Jones, who felt that she herself had 
 thrown most light on the subject. 
 
 'Well,' said Mrs. Brown, ' of course it is never right to shield 
 a wrong act.' 
 
 This was so unlike what the girls expected after her exordium 
 that there was a little cry of surprise, swiftly modified into one of 
 cordial assent. 
 
 ' But,' said the schoolmistress, ' knowing that this is so — which 
 you must never forget — I'll tell you what this young lady would 
 do. She would go after the man to his house — which most 
 likely she would know : and I'm not sure that she would not 
 stop and buy some things on the way — at the butcher's, 
 perhaps ' 
 
 At this the girls manifested a little doubt ; while one murmured 
 ' Tea, teacher,' and another said ' Potatoes ' loud out that she 
 might not be overlooked; at which the class, consulting Mrs. 
 Brown's face by a lightning glance, burst into a laugh. 
 
 ' Hush ! ' said Mrs. Brown. 'This is a very interesting question 
 that is set to us — as good as a story ; but you mustn't laugh. 
 The young lady would go to the man's house, and she woidd pro- 
 bably see the children devouring the bread ; and she would ask a 
 number of questions — far more than she has asked you to-day, 
 though she has asked a great many. She would discover there 
 was no fire (supposing it to be cold, which it isn't to-day) and 
 nothing to eat in the house, and that the man was out of work 
 and the wife ill and the children starving. She would immediately 
 send off for all that was wanted ' 
 
 'Please, teacher,' said Lizzie Jones, holding out her hand, 
 
XLV LADY WILLIAM 347 
 
 ' she'd give 'em a coal ticket, and a bread ticket and bid 'em send 
 one of the little ones up with a basket for the pieces.' 
 
 ' Well, perhaps she would do that. And when she had sup- 
 plied their wants, she would take the man aside, and she would 
 say to him, " I saw you steal that loaf at Mr. White's." ' 
 
 There was a long breath and a cry of ' Oh ! ' from the girls, and 
 Lizzie Jones, who was soft-hearted — or was it only that she was 
 forward? — began to cry. 
 
 ' " Now,' the young lady would say, " come back with me and 
 pay for it. You're going to get work again presently, and the 
 children shall not starve ; but you must not have anything against 
 you when you get work." ' 
 
 There was another very large round ' Oh ! ' from the girls, who 
 turned their eyes with one accord from Mrs. Brown's to Mab's face. 
 
 ' I don't know if I would do that,' said Mab. 
 
 'Neither do I,' said Mrs. Brown; 'but judging by what I 
 know of your character, Miss Pakenham, that is what I should 
 expect you to do.' 
 
 This happened on the morning of the day after Leo's chase in 
 the rain. Mab went home very soberly when the children were 
 dismissed for dinner and in a very uncertain state of mind. She 
 did not know how to take Mrs. Brown's apologue, which already 
 was being circulated through the village in a dozen different 
 versions as a thing which Miss Mab had actually done, until it 
 came to the ears of White, the baker, who contradicted it in- 
 dignantly, and declared that he'd give a stale loaf as soon as look 
 at it if the children were starving ; but let a man off as stole it 
 because he come and offered to pay up after was what he wouldn't 
 never do. 
 
 In the meantime Leo had been turning over in his mind that 
 idea of Mrs. Brown, the schoolmistress. At first it amused him to 
 think that so harmless a visitor to the servants' hall might have 
 been the object of his very unnecessary pursuit, and in this sense 
 he laughed at the situation, which was so ludicrous, and longed to 
 cross over to the cottage in the rain, when he left the Rectory, to 
 make Lady William the partaker of so good a joke. But as he 
 drove home in Jim's clothes and the sober AVatcham fly, which 
 Mrs. Plowden, in her motherly care, had ordered for him, a 
 different view suddenly occurred to Leo. The joke was good, but 
 not good enough to last out that slow drive through the deep 
 dark and the falling rain. It occurred to him as he thought of it 
 that a visitor to the servants' hall might, indeed, be disconcerted by 
 the curiosity of the master of the house, but would not, unless she 
 
348 LADY WILLIAM XLV 
 
 had some very dishonest meaning, tm-n back and fly. Why should 
 the schoolmistress, probably acquainted with the housekeeper and 
 entertaining a very good opinion of herself, fly from Leo ? There 
 was no reason in the world why she should fly. She would pro- 
 bably have quickened her steps, and arrived at the little side 
 entrance pufiiug and blowing, but chiefly with indignation, and 
 given very warmly her opinion of the young master who spied upon 
 the back-door visitors. But to turn back at the sight of him and 
 get herself out of the way meant something more than a respect- 
 able visit to the housekeeper. What did it mean? A village 
 schoolmistress was not one to visit the young maids, or get them 
 into mischief ; but why, why did she turn and flee 1 It was im- 
 possible to assign a sufiicient reason for this to himself. 
 
 And then there was suddenly shot into his mind, as our best 
 intuitions come, suddenly and with a sharp shock — almost a pang 
 — the question, Who was the schoolmistress'? Art<^mise was 
 nothing if not a woman of variety. He had himself known her 
 go through the most extraordinary transformation; one time dazzling 
 in sjolendour, the nest almost a beggar. Why should not she herself 
 be the schoolmistress ? There could be no such concealment, no 
 such unlikely place to look for her, as in the parish school of 
 Watcham. There she would be at his mother's very door, 
 accessible on every occasion, ever within call. He had thought it 
 scarcely possible that she could come constantly from London and 
 disappear again imseen ; but if she were in Watcham, at hand, in 
 such a place, where nobody could think of looking for her, the 
 difliculty would disappear. And she was an excellent actress ; a 
 woman to take anybody in, not to say an unsophisticated and 
 artless company like the Kector and his churchwardens. He could 
 scarcely help smiling to himself in the dark as he suddenly thought 
 of the perfect representation of a model schoolmistress which 
 Artdmise would get up for the edification of the authorities. No 
 schoolmistress in the world was ever so excellent a type of the class 
 as Artdmise would make herself look — her voice, her gestures, her de- 
 meanour would be all perfect. And she would have the satisfaction 
 of being perfectly safe, for who would think of looking for her there ? 
 
 But then there were the ladies, who were different. Would 
 she take in the ladies, too 1 Would not they suspect the repre- 
 sentation to be too complete ? And then Lady William — Lady 
 William could not have been deceived. She must have recognised 
 at once the woman of whom she was in search. Leo did not know 
 Lady William's peculiarity about the parish. He was aware that 
 Mab knew everybody and all their circumstances, and it did not 
 
ZLV LADY WILLIAM 349 
 
 occur to him that her mother woiUd hold apart. This seemed to 
 cut the ground from under his feet again. But he determined to 
 see for himself next day who the schoolmistress was. 
 
 Next day, however, was a half-holiday, and he did not reach 
 the school till the afternoon, when all the children were dispersed 
 and the house shut up. Mrs. Brown, he was informed at the 
 nearest cottage, where it appeared her little maid-servant lived, 
 had gone away for the afternoon, so that his inquiries made no 
 further progress that day. He went to tell his adventure to Lady 
 William, and, if not to suggest this solution, at least to ask what 
 she knew of Mrs. Brown. But Lady William also was out of 
 doors, and nothing more was to be done. He hesitated whether 
 he should not go to the Eectory to make a call of thanks, and to 
 see (perhaps) if Emmy Plowden resembled her aunt as much by 
 daylight as she had done in the unusually favourable circumstances 
 of last night. But this intention he did not carry out. Un- 
 fortunately for romance, Leo was so ungrateful as to recall what 
 he called the hourgeois dinner, the drab-coloured comfort, the petty 
 little anxieties and cares (chiefly on his own account) of the 
 Rectory party, with more amusement than admiration, though 
 with a compunction, too. Kind excellent people ! How abomin- 
 able it was to laugh at them ! But his laughter was not checked 
 by the compunction — it only gave a certain piquancy to all that 
 was ludicrous in the picture. 
 
 The third person whose mind was full of Mrs. Brown was 
 Jim Plowden. He had seen her little of late, partly that the 
 many calls Mr. Osborne made upon him left him less time for 
 those strolls about the village, which had ended so often in the 
 * Blue Boar,' but sometimes, to his advantage, in the schoolhouse ; 
 partly because, now that the evenings were so much lighter, he 
 could not go there unseen. This reason had acted with the others 
 in the partial reformation of Jim. It was scarcely possible to go 
 into the ' Blue Boar ' in the lingering daylight while all the village 
 folk were about. Had he been altogether xminterrupted in his 
 former habits, it is possible that by this time he might not have 
 cared. But Mr. Osborne's warm and exacting friendship had 
 begun with the lengthening days, and after an interval, even of a 
 week or two, such a hindrance told. On this occasion, however, 
 Jim felt that he must risk a little danger for the sake of a woman 
 who had been kind to him, who had certainly amused him, and, 
 he sometimes began to think, had done him good. It could be 
 nothing to her advantage to have a visitor such as he was. She 
 had done it, he thought vaguely, out of kindness, and now he 
 
350 LADY WILLIAM xlv 
 
 •would risk something for kindness too ; and then he could always 
 say he had brought a message about the school from his father, or 
 Florence, who took an interest in the school, or Mab, or somebody. 
 Fortified by his good intention he walked into the schoolmistress's 
 house about six o'clock that evening when all the people were 
 about, several of whom stared, he could see, at Mrs. Brown's 
 visitor — in which, however, I need not say, Jim deceived himself, 
 for the village people were already aware that he visited Mrs. 
 Brown, as well as that he visited the ' Blue Boar,' and held these 
 secrets in store against the time when they might be of use either 
 for or against the Sector's son. He went in, however, boldly, to 
 the surprise of Mrs. Brown, who did not expect him, and who was 
 engaged in some sort of operation that looked very much like pack- 
 ing. She invited him to come in, and cleared one of the chairs 
 from a number of miscellaneous articles with which it was covered, 
 and which she was putting away. 
 
 ' You are not — going on a journey 1 ' he said, alarmed. 
 
 'Oh no, not that I know of; but you know, Mr. Jim, a 
 woman in such a humble position as mine, with so many people to 
 please, has but an uncertain tenure. I am putting some old things 
 in order, so that should anything untoward happen ' 
 
 ' But I hear nothing except praise,' said Jim ; ' they say no 
 one ever kept the school in such order, or the children so bright, 
 or ' 
 
 ' Do they really say so ? How traly good of them ! ' said Mrs. 
 Brown, with a laugh. It was a laugh of so much amusement 
 that Jim, who did not see the joke, was disposed to be angry, but 
 she ended by shaking her head and putting on a comically doleful 
 look. ' But I do not please everybody,' she said ; ' oh, far from it. 
 Your friend, Mr. Osborne, does not like me : and your cousin, 
 Miss Mab, is full of suspicions.' 
 
 ' Mab,' said Jim in high disdain, ' as if it mattered what Mab 
 thought ! ' 
 
 ' Don't you know,' said Mrs. Brown, ' that Miss Mab will prob- 
 ably be an heiress one of these days, and that it will matter a 
 great deal what she thinks 1 ' 
 
 ' Nonsense,' cried Jim, ' as much an heiress as I am ! We 
 have no rich relations, alas ! to leave us money.' 
 
 'But she may have,' said Mrs. Brown, 'and if you will take 
 my advice you will go in for your cousin, Mr. Jim ; that would 
 make everything straight if you got a nice little bit of money with 
 your wife.' 
 
 ' Nonsense,' cried Jim, becoming scarlet, and feeling the very 
 
XLV LADY WILLIAM 351 
 
 tips of his ears burn. ' Besides,' he said, ' if I ever have a wife 
 I'd rather keep her than that she should keep me.' 
 
 ' A very excellent sentiment,' said his adviser, ' but I don't 
 quite see how you are going to cany it out.' 
 
 ' I shall carry it out by having no wife at all,' said Jim : and 
 then he added hastily, ' that's not what I came to tell you. Have 
 you any reason for not wanting Swinford to know that you are 
 here 1 ' 
 
 ' For not wanting — Swinford — to know '? ' A little colour 
 
 seemed to rise, too, in her dark countenance. 'This change of 
 subject,' she cried, 'takes away my breath. You are too quick for 
 
 me. Have I any reason 1 It is Leo Swinford you mean, at 
 
 the Hall ? ' As if slie did not know who it was ! Even Jim was 
 clever enough to perceive that she was simply gaining time. ' No,' 
 she answered slowly, 'I have no particular reason. I do not, 
 perhaps, in a general way wish — to receive — friends who have 
 
 known me elsewhere, here ' She looked round upon her little 
 
 room, with a laugh. 'You may, perhaps, if you think of it, 
 understand why. Have you come to warn me that I am found 
 outr 
 
 ' Oh no,' said Jim. 'And I'm sure I don't want to interfere ; 
 but he was at the Eectory last night. He said he had caught a 
 glimpse of a lady he knew, and had followed her all the way down 
 to the village to speak to her, and she had disappeared. Some 
 one said that no one had passed but Mrs. Brown. And then he 
 laughed and said, " Perhaps it was Mrs. Brown he had seen going 
 to pay a visit to some one in the servants' hall.'" 
 
 A sudden flash shot out of Mrs. Brown's dark eyes. 'I hope,' 
 she said, 'you encouraged the idea that I paid visits in the 
 servants' hall 1 ' 
 
 ' I didn't say anything — good or bad,' said Jim. 
 
 Which was not strictly true ; but then nobody heard him, 
 which came to the same thing. 
 
 ' Good friend,' said Mrs. Brown, ' true friend ! but you can tell 
 Leo Swinford when you see him again that one of these days Mrs. 
 Brown is coming to call on him, with important information, at 
 the Hall, and he will never need to hunt her through the rain any 
 more ! ' 
 
XLVI 
 
 What a contrast from the little schoolhouse, though it was so 
 much more decorated than a schoolmistress's little sitting-room has 
 any right to be, or from the drab drawing-room at the Rectory ! 
 The more one became acquainted with Mrs. Swinford's boudoir, 
 the more exquisite it appeared. Those little water-colom-s which 
 were hung on the walls were worth a small fortune, and a crowd 
 of collectors would have appeared like ravens on the scene if it had 
 been suggested that they could be sold : and the little Italian 
 cabinets between the windows, with their delicate inlayings of 
 ivory — not like the untrained beauty of the East, but fanciful and 
 varied as a dream — were almost as valuable. And then the 
 tempered, delicious warmth, and the softened, delightful light ! 
 Yet I think (though, of course, she would not have endured them 
 for a day) that the roughest wooden furniture, and the shabbiest 
 surroundings would have been a sort of relief — for the moment at 
 least — to Mrs. Swinford. She surrounded herself with all these 
 beautiful things, and then she hated them. They never varied, 
 they were lovely and novel for a moment, and then there they 
 hung for years, and never changed. How tired she was of them 
 all ! To have broken the delicate frames, and torn up a picture 
 here and there, which was only a piece of paper after all, would 
 have given her a sensation. And yet that would not have done 
 much good • it would have left a visible blank on the wall, which 
 it would have been necessary to fill up, searching far and near 
 through all the studios to find something that would fill its place 
 — which would keep a little movement in life for a short time. 
 But it would be ludicrous to tear up a picture for that reason, and 
 ridicule was more unbearable even than weariness. On this 
 particular occasion, however, the room looked brighter even to her 
 than usual. It was again an evening of soft-falling spring rain. 
 The skies had been one unbroken gray all the afternoon. The soft 
 
XLXi LADY WILLIAM 353 
 
 small flood fell almost imseen over the country, making the young 
 foliage, which did not dislike the wetting, glisten, and washing the 
 colour out of the lilacs, and covering the ground under the fruit- 
 trees with fallen white petals, almost like snow. A day which the 
 lonely lady thought, if ever by chance she glanced from her 
 window, was enough to account for any suicide. And she had 
 been reading the greater part of the day, reading, save the mark ! 
 exciting French novels, in which all the ways of breaking the 
 seventh commandment were dwelt upon to the sickening of any 
 appetite. Even Mrs. Swiuford, who considered that the chief 
 occupation of life, was a little sick of one after another. The 
 delicacy of the analysis of sentiment, etc., palled upon her after 
 hours of such reading. She would have liked, perhaps, even at 
 her age, if some gay Lothario had entered her boudoir, and led 
 her, or tried to lead her, into those paths which relieve the idle 
 soul : but only to look on while one woman after another was led 
 astray ! The books were like the room, her habitual reading as it 
 was her habitual scene ; and she would have declared it impossible 
 to exist without the one and the other. But even to her accus- 
 tomed faculties it became sickening at the last. Was that life 
 any more than the boudoir was life ? It was impossible for any 
 drudge to have been more sick of her toil and wretchedness than 
 Mrs. Swinford was of her existence, if this were all. 
 
 But at the moment of distraction Artdmise arrived, and everj^- 
 thing for the moment became tolerable. She had thrown off her 
 cloak and overshoes in the other room ; that the shock of seeing a 
 damp woman, who had walked through the rain, might not be 
 given to the delicate lady within. And Artdmise truly enjoyed 
 the difference in the atmosphere, and held her feet to the fire, and 
 breathed in the warm and balmy air with genuine pleasure. ' How 
 comfortable you are ! ' she said. 
 
 ' Comfortable ! I am miserable — always and always ! ' the 
 great lady cried. 
 
 ' My dear, many people would be very glad to have the half of 
 your misery,' said Mrs. Brown, ' though I confess I agree with you 
 more or less. It would bore me to death. A fight with Mrs. 
 Jones on the question whether or not Lizzie is getting on with her 
 lessons as well as she ought, for the great sum of fourpence a week, 
 is more agreeable to me.' 
 
 'Are you going on with that dreadful work for ever, 
 Art6mise 1 ' 
 
 ' No, I am afraid not. It is not that I dislike it, however. 
 It is great fun. You should see little Mab Pakenham, who has 
 
 2 a 
 
354 LADY WILLIAM XLVi 
 
 couceived some doubts of me from what I have told her — so it is 
 entirely my own fault — coming down as grave as a judge to super- 
 intend the moral effects of my teaching. She would not betray 
 me for the world, but she is afraid of me lest I should teach the 
 girls principles unknown to Watcham.' 
 
 ' The little impertinent ! She ought to look at home ! ' 
 
 ' She does look at home, and that is what makes her so 
 staunch. She comes and superintends, but betrays me, never ! 
 However, as my morals might prove too great a charge for little 
 Mab, and as your son Leo has got on my track ' 
 
 ' What, Leo — has got on your track, Art^mise 1 ' 
 
 'Yes, that was rather fun, too. I saw him the other day 
 watching me through the bushes, and as I did not want to fall 
 into his arms at that little side door — which is so convenient — I 
 turned and dodged him. His patience was wonderful ; he was 
 resolved to have me. We played an amusing game through and 
 through the shrubbery, and then I took to the open, thinking I 
 was lost. But the rain was blinding, I suppose, and the dark 
 coming on, so I got off safe. Were you aware that he dined at 
 the Eectory one night ? ' 
 
 ' I heard he did not come in for dinner. I was not downstairs. 
 It did not concern me. At the Rectory — with that Plowden 
 woman ' 
 
 ' And that Plowden girl. Do you know one of them is like 
 her aunt ? How should you like it if Leo — — ' 
 
 'You insult my son, Art^mise.' 
 
 ' Ah well ! There is never any telling ; since he cannot have 
 one, he may content himself with the other. I have seen more 
 wonderful things before now.' 
 
 ' Who is the one he cannot have 1 ' 
 
 ' My dear Cecile, why this tone of surprise ? I told you before. 
 Leo thinks Lady William the most attractive woman he ever saw, 
 and I do not wonder. She was always attractive, even as a silly 
 girl' 
 
 ' How you insult me, Artdmise ! — a woman I hate, who has no 
 right to that name, and will soon be proved the impostor I have 
 always known she was.' 
 
 Mrs. Swiuford sat upright on her sofa, with a glow of anger on 
 her face. 
 
 ' Then I had better hurry off,' said Mrs. Brown composedly. 
 ' If she is to be attacked, it is evident I cannot stay here.' 
 
 ' But you said it was the safest place,' cried Mrs. Swinford in 
 alarm, ' that nobody would think of looking for you in Watcham.' 
 
xivi LADY WILLIAM. 355 
 
 ' It is no longer safe now that Leo is on my track, and little 
 Mab full of alarm as to my morality. She will not betray me, that 
 little thing- but some time or other she will make her mother 
 come with her, to judge if my teaching is all right.' 
 
 ' Then you must go, Ai'tdmise — you must go at once ; though 
 how I am to live, in this dreadful place, with no one to care 
 whether I am alive or dead ' 
 
 'Yes,' said Mrs. Brown solemnly, 'I have thought of that. 
 You want somebody to look after you. You will have to make 
 up yom- mind between two things, between the two greatest things 
 in the world — love and hate. If you hate her more than you love 
 me, I will go. But you must remember, it is not going to come 
 back. I will have to disappear so entirely, that no one will ever 
 hear of me more. I can't turn up again when you want me, even 
 by stealth, as I do now.' 
 
 * Why, why ? ' said Mrs. Swinford, who had uttered this 
 question again and again, while Mrs. Brown was speaking. ' Why 
 should you disappear entirely 1 When it has blown over, when it 
 is forgotten — everything is forgotten after a while.' 
 
 'Do you think Emily will forget a thing that means her 
 honour, and her child's inheritance 1 — you have not forgotten, and 
 it ought to be nothing to you.' 
 
 ' Nothing ! You know what it is to me, Artdmise.' 
 
 ' Yes, I know what it is to you. It is hate and revenge — 
 and do you think your motives are stronger than hers ? You want 
 to pay off an old score, but she wants to live respected and . to 
 provide for her child. She will send detectives after me every- 
 where as soon as she knows. She will have you watched so that 
 I shall never be able to approach you. It will be good-bye for ever 
 between you and me, Cecile, if I am to carry out that role ' 
 
 ' Artdmise, you are too cruel ! You know that I cannot live 
 long without you. You know that seeing you, having you at 
 hand, is my only comfort. I live only while you are here ; for the 
 rest of the time I only exist, I vegetate, and hate the light ' 
 
 ' I know,' said Mrs. Brown, in a slightly softened tone, ' that 
 you are fond of me, Cecile ; that I have been more or less necessary 
 to you ever since I was born. You must make up your mind, 
 however, soon, for it will certainly be as I say.' 
 
 ' No, no ! ' said Mrs. Swinford, rising from her sofa, trailing her 
 long skirts after her from end to end of the beautiful room. ' Ko, 
 no ! We will leave this place ; we will go to Paris, where we can 
 be secure. There are places there no detective would think of. 
 Detective — an English detective' — she laughed her tinkling 
 
356 LADY WILLIAM xlvi 
 
 intolerable laugh. ' Bunglers all ! what do they ever find out 1 I 
 tell you, Arte'mise, we can live there in perfect safety, you and I 
 together — and see our friends — and amuse ourselves. All with 
 you ! Fancy what a changed life ! ' 
 
 ' On the edge of a volcano — for me.' 
 
 ' On the edge of no volcano — what could be done to you 1 
 Nothing ! It is no crime — and she would give it up very soon. 
 She could not help herself, she would have no money. These 
 people will take even her allowance from her — she will have 
 nothing, nothing — not a penny, not a name ; she will have to work 
 — she will not think much of detectives then ; she will not be able 
 to go to law. No, Artdmise ; we shall live together, and you will 
 be safe, safe as a child.' 
 
 ' My dear Oecile ! In the meantime if all this should come to 
 pass, Leo will marry Lady William, who will have no alternative 
 but to accept him, and it will be she who will have the revenge, 
 not you. Stop a bit — and he has plenty of money, and will never 
 rest till he has found me out. He will know well enough where 
 to look. All that you know in Paris, and more, he knows.' 
 
 Mrs. Swiuford had kept saying ' No, no, no ! ' all the time. 
 Her face flushed, her eyes shone. 
 
 ' He shall not, he shall not ! It will be with my curse. He 
 shall never, never do it,' she cried, 'I would rather he were 
 dead.' 
 
 ' It does not matter much what you wish — your curse ! you 
 have not made your blessing a thing to be desired, Cecile. Oh, I 
 am not blaming you ; it is not my affair, but I don't believe in the 
 curse, you know. He will do it, and the woman whom you have 
 ruined will marry him, for she will have no other resource. And 
 Leo will find me wherever you hide me : no, it is for you to choose 
 — between love and hate, Cecile.' 
 
 'I will never,' she said between her closed teeth, 'let that 
 woman go.' 
 
 ' Then you choose hate 1 1 knew you would,' said Mrs. Brown, 
 still perfectly calm ; ' and now, my dear, you must hear me. For 
 I never meant to serve your hate all the time ; I never meant to 
 let Emily be ruined. If she needs me I shall reappear. Yes, 
 wherever I am. I am going away, but I shall leave my address 
 with Leo, or with Jim, or with ' 
 
 ' Artdmise ! ' she cried. 
 
 It was rarely that the sound of a raised voice was heard out of 
 Mrs. Swinford's room. She had nobody there to excite her to 
 anger, but on this occasion she was no longer the sovereign in her 
 
XLVi LADY WILLIAM 357 
 
 own palace. It was not rebellion that moved her, for Art^mise 
 had always retained her independence ; nor defiance, for nothing- 
 could be more quiet than Mrs. Brown's tone. It was the im- 
 patience of contradiction, the surprise at opposition which a woman 
 to whom everybody has yielded feels at the first check, and the 
 sound was so sharp and keen, and raised to such an unusual pitch 
 of surprised exasperation, that when a knock came immediately 
 after to the door, and Leo's voice was heard asking ' May I come 
 in 1 ' it was impossible for his mother to stop him with the languid, 
 'No, I do not wish to be distirrbed,' with which she had often 
 closed the door upon him. Julie, the usual sentinel, had stolen 
 away, believing her mistress to be too much occupied to miss her 
 — unhappy Julie when the moment of retribution came. 
 
 There was not a word said. Mrs. Swinford had not recovered 
 her composirre when her son opened the door. 
 
 ' You do not say anything ; so I suppose I may come in,' he said. 
 
 The man's intrusion was strange in this chamber never intended 
 for him. A man and a son ! — that is something different from a 
 man and a brother. Mrs. Swinford gave her visitor a sharp and 
 meaning look, and then said : 
 
 ' What may you want, Leo, coming upon us in such a sudden 
 
 way 
 
 ' Was I sudden 1 I heard you with some one, and I thought 
 I might venture also, as you were evidently talking. And here I 
 find precisely the person I wanted.' 
 
 ' Leo, you are very ill-bred. When you come to your mother's 
 room, which is not very often, you might pretend, at least, that it 
 was for her you came.' 
 
 ' That surely goes without saying, mother. I was not aware 
 wdien I came that there was any one here.' 
 
 ' And you may be very well assured, Cecile, that at all events 
 it was not for the love of me.' 
 
 Mrs. Swinford retiurned to her sofa with an exclamation of 
 impatience. 
 
 'You have all your own objects,' she said, 'you are all pursuing 
 your own ends. There is no one who thinks what is best for me. 
 Leo, we were talking on private matters, women's matters. Now 
 that you have seen Artdmise, as you seem to have wished, your 
 good sense will tell you tliat it is best to go away.' 
 
 'It was not from any desire to see her,' said Leo. 'Madame 
 Art^mise knows very well what I should be likely to wish in that 
 respect : nor to talk to her, though she is so entertaining, but to 
 know where I may find her, for the sake of others.' 
 
358 LADY WILLIAM xlvi 
 
 ' Oh yes, we all know what you mean. It is Emily Plowclen 
 you mean — it is you who have been backing her up all this time 
 against your mother. I know you, Leo — that it should be against 
 your mother, gives it a zest. You make her think — poor thing ! — 
 that it is for her, while your real desire is to expose your mother 
 — to build her up in opposition to me.' 
 
 'I think you must be dreaming,' he said provoked. 'Madame 
 Artdmise, was it you I saw the other night in the shrubbery? 
 Why did you run away 1 ' 
 
 'Do you call that running away? I wasn't, however, dis- 
 pleased to have had a little excitement for once. But you see I 
 was not afraid of you, for I have come back.' 
 
 'I don't know wherein the excitement lies,' said Leo im- 
 patiently. 'I have a message to give you, that is all.' 
 
 ' You will give no message to Madame Artemise in my room.' 
 
 ' Are you mad, mother 1 Why should I not say what I have 
 got to say 1 There is nothing so sacred in your room. I respect 
 your seclusion, and never interfere ; but surely when I find you 
 with your chosen companion ' 
 
 ' She is my chosen companion. She is the only person who 
 cares for me in the world. She shall come here and live with me, 
 and comfort me for all the evil I have had to bear. She knows 
 how I have been treated here, by those who should have cherished 
 me most. My husband, who never understood me : my son, who 
 has been beguiled from my side by my enemy. Artemise knows all 
 my miseries, every one. She has consoled me when I have been 
 at my worst. She shall come and live with me now, and be my 
 companion, as you say, or else ' 
 
 But then Mrs. Swinford paused. There had been a certain 
 pathos and dignity in her complaint. And she meant to add a 
 threat, but instead stopped short and looked her son in the face. 
 
 'Mother,' he said, 'you have always been the mistress of your 
 own house, and chosen your own company. You invite whom you 
 choose here ' 
 
 ' Yes, I will invite whom I choose. Artdmise shall stay with 
 me, and we will fill the house. Oh, it is not the time for the 
 country, I know ; but later, later. Thank you, Leo, I will trouble 
 you no longer. Send the housekeeper here, I will give my orders ; 
 or Julie — Julie will give my orders. You need not take any 
 trouble. And we will not detain you any longer ; you must have 
 affairs of your own that interest you more than ours.' 
 
 Mrs. Swinford waved her hands and all her rings, dismissing 
 her sou, who made a step towards the door. 
 
XLVi LADY WILLIAM 359 
 
 ' Leo will stay a little longer, please. You are speaking very 
 much at your ease — mother and son : are you aware that this is a 
 proposal that has been made before, and that I have never consented 
 to it 1 No, Cecile, I will not live in your house — nor will I do 
 your bidding, whatever it may be, Leo. The schoolmistress of 
 Watcham has her own humble duties to perform, and she will 
 perform them just as long as she chooses. She is a woman not 
 bound by rules in general, and who does not care for a character 
 from her last place, or anything of that sort. But at present she 
 cannot be spared from her duties, not even for the sake of the best 
 of friends who dispose of her so sweetly. She is not a woman to 
 be calculated upon or to be disposed of, except in her own way.' 
 
 'Do you mean to say that you are the schoolmistress, Mrs. 
 Brown ? ' 
 
 Leo had no inclination or desire to thwart her, or to disturb 
 her in her position. He commented to himself with secret satis- 
 faction on the inconsequence of the woman who thus gave herself 
 up, so to speak, into his hands. For all that he wanted he had 
 now discovered, that is, where she was to be found. 
 
 ' Yes ; I am the schoolmistress, Mrs. Brown, whom you scared 
 the other day. Why should I have been scared and fled, and led 
 you such a dance 1 Because it amused me, Mr. Swinford : and I 
 am here because it amuses me. And I shall go away when I 
 please, probably without giving notice. I think, Cecile, if you will 
 ring your bell, it would probably please Mr. Morris, your dignified 
 butler, to let me out to-night by the great door.' 
 
 'It rains,' said Leo. 'If you will permit me, Madame 
 Artdmise, I will order the brougham to take you home.' 
 
 She made him another curtsey with a merry devil twinkling in 
 her eye. 
 
 'The poor schoolmistress ! That will be the best joke of all,' 
 she said. 
 
XLVII 
 
 ' Mother, I want you to come with me to the school,' said Mab. 
 She had lost no time in carrying out Mrs. Brown's previsions, 
 though she was quite unaware of them. 
 
 ' Me — to go with you to the school 1 You know I have never 
 had anything to do with the school. There are plenty of ladies to 
 look after the school.' 
 
 ' Yes, I know what you always say, mother : and I never asked 
 you before. You will never have anything to do with the parish ; 
 but this is not the parish, it is me. Mrs. Brown is a very queer 
 woman. She has them all in the most excellent order ; but — I 
 want you to see with your own eyes and tell me what you think.' 
 
 ' I have a very important letter to write, Mab.' 
 
 ' You are always writing important letters now, mother. What 
 is it about 1 You never tell me anything now. I used to know 
 all about your letters, and lately you never tell me anything. You 
 are always conspiring with Uncle James. You never trust any- 
 thing to me ! ' 
 
 ' Poor Uncle James ! How much perplexity and trouble I 
 have brought him — and everybody connected with me.' 
 
 ' You — mother ! ' 
 
 Mab stood and stared at her with wide-open eyes. 
 
 ' No,' said Lady William, with a blush and a laugh. ' You do 
 well to stare, Mab. I suppose that is one of the conventional 
 things that people say when they are in trouble. jSTo, I have not 
 brought perplexity upon any one, or trouble, for a great number of 
 years ; but it is true that I have begun again now ' 
 
 ' What is it, mother 1 ' Mab came to the back of her mother's 
 chair, put her arms round Lady William's neck, and rubbed her 
 downy girlish cheek against the other, which was paler, but not 
 less soft. Then Mab made a guess at the trouble in the only form 
 that occurred to her. ' Have we been spending too much money 1 
 
XLVII LADY WILLIAM 361 
 
 Have we got into debt 1 Has anything happened about — Uncle 
 Reginald ■' 
 
 ' Poor Kegiuald ! ' cried Lady William. ' That is what it is to 
 be the prodigal of the family — everything is laid upon him. No, 
 it is quite another matter. It is — why shouldn't I tell her 1 It 
 is your father's brother, who has died and left a great deal of 
 money. And there are things to arrange. If I can settle every- 
 thing, as I wish — you will be a rich girl. But it is all uncertain, 
 and it has stirred up so much that was gone and past.' 
 
 ' Then it is about money,' said Mab in a relieved tone. ' And 
 perhaps we may be rich ! Well, that is nothing to trouble about, 
 mother. I should like it, on the contrary. Come out, and leave 
 the letter till to-morrow. Come anyhow — whether you come to 
 the school or not ' 
 
 ' What a little pertinacity you are ! But, Mab, there is another 
 side to the question. If it is not settled that you are to be rich — 
 an heiress, as people call it — we shall, perhaps, be very poor, poorer 
 than you can imagine : with nothing — less than nothing ! ' cried 
 Lady William, thinking with a pang of the good name and honour 
 — the loss of which Mab never could understand. 
 
 ' Well ! ' said Mab, with another rub of her cheek upon her 
 mother's, ' that's nothing so very dreadful either. Most people 
 are poor — far, far more people than are rich. We shall be no 
 worse than our neighbours. I daresay we shall be able to do 
 something for our living. AVe are not useless people, mother, you 
 and me. And now come out, come out, mother dear ! You will 
 write your letter much better after you have had a walk. 
 The fresh air puts things into your head, the right things to 
 say- ' 
 
 'Ah, Mab,' cried Lady William, 'if you only knew how willing 
 I am to be tempted, how much rather I would put it off — for ever 
 if I could ' 
 
 ' Well, mother, putting it off till the afternoon is not putting 
 it off for ever,' said sensible Mab. 
 
 And when Lady William went to get her hat, Mab, who had 
 always a hundred things to do within as well as outside the 
 house, in the course of her moving about as she put things 
 straight upon the table, saw her mother's letter upon the blotting- 
 book, which Lady William had left open. Mab had no idea that 
 she did anything wrong in looking at it. She had had no hesita- 
 tion in all her life before, about anything that was her mother's, 
 and why now"? It began, ' Gentlemen,' which was a queer mode 
 of address, Mab thought, and this was how it went on : 
 
362 LADY WILLIAM XLVI 
 
 ' I had already heard of Lord John Pakenham's death, and 
 expected your letter accordingly. I have no certificates to send 
 you, as it never occurred to me to jDrovide myself with anything of 
 the kind, and circumstances, as I hear from my brother, have 
 occurred to make it somewhat difficult to obtain them ; but you 
 will perhaps know better how to act in the matter than I do. I 
 was married on the loth May, in St. Alban's Proprietary Chapel, 
 Stone Street, Marylebone, by the Rev. Mr. Gepps, who is since 
 dead. And I am informed by my brother that the Chapel was 
 burnt down some years ago. It seems an unfortunate concatena- 
 tion of accidents, but I don't doubt that you will know how to 
 proceed in the matter. There is no witness of the marriage still 
 alive — except ' 
 
 Here the writing broke ofi", and Mab stopped short with a 
 curious sensation as if she had been pulled up suddenly. It 
 startled her a little ; she could scarcely tell why. What did 
 people mean, inquiring into matters so long past 1 Her mother's 
 marriage ! Why, everybody knew all about her mother's mar- 
 riage. ' Am not I a proof of it 1 Mab said to herself. ' I 
 hope they don't mean to suggest that I am not my mother's 
 child ! ' It disturbed her a little, though she could not have told 
 why. Poor mother ! she never liked talking about her marriage. 
 Why should she be troubled 1 Mab had long ago made up her 
 mind that it could not have been a happy marriage, though natural 
 piety (which was strong in her) prevented her from blaming her 
 father. They did not understand each other, she supposed. Many 
 married people failed in that : strange to think how anybody could 
 fail to understand mother, who was so very easy to get on with, 
 not jealous or touchy, or any of those things ! And that any- 
 body should worry her about her marriage after all this time 
 when she had been a widow for such years and years ! Mab 
 could not bear that her mother should be worried in this or any 
 other way. 
 
 ' Mother,' she said, when they set out, ' I want to say some- 
 thing to you. I read your letter, you know, in the writing- 
 book ' 
 
 ' You read my letter, Mab 1 ' 
 
 ' Well, you never said I mustn't ; I never thouglit you coidd 
 be writing anything you did not want me to see.' 
 
 ' And you are quite right, my dear,' said Lady William seri- 
 ously ; but all the same, she asked herself with a shudder, ' How 
 far she had gone, what she had said ? ' 
 
 'And, mother, if they are raking up everything, all those 
 
XLVii LADY WILLIAM 363 
 
 things you prefer not to talk of, that you have never even told 
 me — because of this money that might or should come to me — 
 mother, I don't want their money. Let them keep it to them- 
 selves. I Avill not have you worried or get that look over the 
 eyes for anything of the kind. I ought to have a say in it, if it 
 is for me.' 
 
 'My love, it is very sweet of you to say that — and quite 
 what I might have expected from my Mab ; but unfortunately 
 they, if you mean the lawyers, won't keep it to themselves, nor 
 
 can they keep it from you, if The family would keep it 
 
 willingly, I have no doubt, but then it is not in their hands.' 
 
 ' If— what, mother 1 ' 
 
 To think — among all her mother had said — that this little 
 straightforward, practical mind should have seized on the one little 
 word which she had not meant to say ! Lady William was pale, 
 besides having, as Mab remarked, a look over her eyes. ' If — I 
 can settle it all as I wish,' she replied. 
 
 Mab gave a dissatisfied look, but said no more on the subject. 
 Lady William's tone admitted of no more questioning, and the 
 little girl knew when to stop. She took her advantage, however, 
 in another direction, and seizing her mother's arm as they reached 
 the village street, said : ' Now, mother, come with me to the 
 school.' 
 
 Lady WiUiam laughed, and consented. A laugh, an escape 
 from present anxiety, a run with a little coaxing, not-to-be-denied 
 giii through the morning air and sunshine — how pleasant these 
 things are ! She had been a little vexed about the letter, and had 
 checked Mab's inquiries in a manner which does not at all show in 
 print, but which was very effectual, and now she could not fail to 
 make up for all this by giving in to Mab. When they reached 
 the schoolroom, however, it did not present the same aspect of 
 quiet without and occupation within which it generally did. 
 There was a little crowd round the door, in the midst of which 
 were some of the elder girls talking volubly. And at the moment 
 when Lady William and her daughter appeared upon the scene, 
 ]\Ir. Osborne was visible coming towards them on one side and 
 Leo Swinford on the other. What was the matter 1 Mab, whom 
 everybody knew, pushed into the midst of the agitated group. 
 
 ' Oh, Miss, teacher's gone,' the girls cried, hurrying round as 
 to a new listener. 
 
 ' Gone ! Mrs. Brown ! ' cried Mab, with almost a shriek of 
 dismay : and then the story was told by half-a-dozen eager voices 
 at once. Mrs. Brown had returned last evening in a grand 
 
364 LADY WILLIAM XLVii 
 
 carriage — the carriage from the Hall — to the wouder and awe of the 
 nearest neighbours who were witnesses of the event ; but whether 
 she went away again late that night or by the first train in the 
 morning no one knew. What was certain was that when the 
 children came to school in the morning the schoolroom (oh, joy!) 
 was locked up, and no trace to be found of Mrs. Brown. Later, 
 when the schoolmaster decided upon the strong step of breaking 
 open the doors, it was found that Mrs. Brown's trunks were 
 fastened, her house stripped of all its embellishments, and no sign 
 of her left anywhere. The boxes were addressed to a railway 
 station in London to be left till called for. There was no letter, 
 no statement of any excuse. She was gone, that was all that 
 coidd be said. 
 
 This, of course, was by no means all that was said as the 
 schoolgirls chattered and the women compared notes. A number 
 of them had perceived as something was up. Some had seen from 
 the first as she wasn't the kind of woman for our school, and it 
 woiddn't answer long; though several acknowledged as it must 
 be allowed she pushed the girls on. 
 
 ' There's my Lizzie,' said an admiring mother, ' passed all the 
 standards and done with schooling, and she but twelve ; and the 
 help it is to have her at home ! ' 
 
 ' But teacher was allays fond of me, mother,' said Lizzie, 
 ' and pushed me on.' 
 
 Then a great many had bm-st in to declare that teacher was 
 very fond of them individually, and had pushed them all on. A 
 little Babel of talk arose at the schoolroom door, which was only 
 partially stayed when Mr. Osborne arrived, to whom the whole 
 story had to be told over again. And then Mr. Swinford came 
 up breathless, who received the news with more excitement than 
 any one. 
 
 ' Gone ! ' he cried, ' gone ! ' as if he could not believe his ears. 
 ' Have they searched the house 1 ' he inquired anxiously. 
 
 ' Well, sir, what's the good o' searching the house 1 She can't 
 be hiding upstairs,' the women said. 
 
 Leo was not satisfied with this, however, but ran into the 
 schoolmistress's house with a very white and anxious face, making 
 his way upstairs to her bedroom and into the little kitchen and 
 every corner. He came down again and took Lady William by 
 the arm, leading her aside. He did not even observe the scrutiny 
 of Mab, who, fall of curiosity which she herself did not under- 
 stand, watched and followed them. 
 
 ' Did you see her 1 ' he asked anxiously. 
 
SLVii LADY WILLIAM 365 
 
 ' See her 1 ' cried Lady William — ' the schoolmistress ? Mrs. 
 Brown ? ' 
 
 ' Then you had not found out,' he said, ' that she was Art^- 
 mise? ' 
 
 And then Mab thought that her mother would have fainted. 
 She threw up her arms and cried : ' Artdmise ! ' almost with a 
 shriek. ' And she has been here at my door — here — and I never 
 knew ! ' 
 
 'Mr. Leo,' said Mab, 'mother has been worried until she is 
 almost ill. She has had business and all sorts of things to worry 
 her. Why did you tell her this, whatever it means, to make 
 her worse 1 ' She had drawn Lady William into a chair and stood 
 behind her, supporting her head upon her own breast, with her 
 arms over her mother's shoulders like the wings of some homely 
 angel half-fledged and not in full heavenly state. 
 
 ' Somebody must go after her,' Lady William cried hurriedly, 
 ' She must not, she must not escape. Here ! do you mean to 
 say here, at my very door 1 And I had been told to go and see 
 her, and Mab, my wise Mab, had made me come at last. Oh, 
 
 child, why was it not yesterday — why was it not 1 And Leo, 
 
 to think you should never have told me. The woman that can 
 
 make all right, that can save Mab's fortune, and my Leo, 
 
 Leo, why didn't you tell me 1 Oh, Mab, why did you not make 
 me come before to-day 1 ' 
 
 ' I only made the discovery last night,' he said, while she sat 
 wringing her hands, 'and that she should fly like this never 
 came into my mind. I was on my way to tell you, to bring you 
 here.' 
 
 ' Mab did that. Mab, though she knows nothing, understands. 
 And who is to follow that woman and secure her now 1 Some 
 one must go at once, before the scent is cold, before — before ' 
 
 ' Dear lady, I am ready to go — wherever you please to send 
 me. I am here only for your service. I will go to where the address 
 is and wait, wait till she comes. It is easy. I will never forgive 
 myself for letting her go last night.' 
 
 Lady William had been slowly coming to herself, the giddi- 
 ness going out of her head, and the dimness from her eyes. When 
 she recovered her composure, she saw that a little crowd had 
 gathered round her — some of the women from outside, one of 
 whom held a glass of water, while another had rolled forward 
 Mrs. Brown's sofa and was entreating her ladyship to lie down ; 
 while behind stood two tall figures looking on, Mr. Osborne and 
 Jim. The curate had on that mask of disapproval which he was 
 
366 LADY WILLIAM XLVil 
 
 too apt to show to any weakness. Why Lady William should 
 get up a little faint because this schoolmistress, of whom he him- 
 self had never approved, had gone, he found it impossible to 
 divine. A faint ! As if it were anything to her — the school- 
 mistress ! of whom she had never taken any notice. It was like 
 the folly of women, making a fuss upon every possible occasion. 
 Mr. Osborne did not pause to consider that Lady William was 
 not the woman to faint in order to make a fuss, or even to remem- 
 ber that she had not fainted at all. Such considerations interfere 
 sadly with the solid foundations of tradition. Jim stood beside 
 his friend with a very different expression upon his face. It was 
 anxious, full of sympathy, and of something more than sympathy, 
 eager to interfere, to speak ; but nobody took any notice of Jim. 
 
 ' Mother, do you think you could walk home now ? ' said Mab 
 in her ear. ' Please, please, mother, come away if you can.' 
 
 ' I ought to go after her, Mab.' 
 
 ' Dear lady, I will go,' cried Leo. ' Siu-ely you can trust me?' 
 
 ' Oh, mother,' cried Mab, more and more imijatient, ' come 
 home now, come home.' 
 
 Mab could scarcely tell why it was that she was so anxious 
 for her mother to come away. Other people were arriving from 
 moment to moment. Miss Grey, on one of her parochial rounds, 
 startled by the commotion and the sight of so many children 
 about during school hours : and G-eneral FitzStephen, who, seeing 
 that something had happened (always such a godsend in a village), 
 had walked over to inquire into it. Mab could not bear that her 
 mother's agitation should be seen by so many curious pairs of eyes. 
 And by Mr. Osborne above all, looking disapproval over the heads 
 of the little crowd. 
 
 ' There is no train,' she said, ' till the afternoon ; and if the 
 things are not sent off, how can she come to claim them ? And 
 you could not hang about a railway station waiting. Oh, mother, 
 come home.' 
 
 ' Mab,' said Jim, making his way to her, ' I'll do anything. 
 You can send me anywhere. And let me take Aunt Emily 
 home.' 
 
 Lady William rose from among the attendants, recalled to 
 herself by these offers of aid. 
 
 ' Mab has always the most sense of all of us,' she said with a 
 smile. ' Of course nobody can go when there is no train. 
 Thanks ; but I don't think I need your arm, Jim. No, no ; I am 
 not ill at all. I was only much startled to find that Mrs. Brown, 
 who has just gone away so hastily, was an old friend whom I 
 
XLVii LADY WILLIAM 367 
 
 had many reasons for wishing to see : and I never knew she was 
 here.' 
 
 ' Do you know,' cried Miss Grey, ' I always thought her face 
 was familiar to me ; but I could not put a name to it. Who was 
 she? I ought to have kuo\^Ti her, too.' 
 
 'And she has gone away — without any notice!' said the 
 General. ' I never heard of such a thing. The schoolmistress ! 
 And what is to be done to fill her place ? ' 
 
 Lady William, under cover of this discussion, which was im- 
 mediately taken up by the curate and Miss Grey, left the house, 
 which had never before, perhaps, been so invaded by the crowd. 
 The released children were in full emeute outside — those who had 
 not already been secured by their mothers — filling the village 
 street with commotion, and sorely trying the patience of the boys 
 on the other side, who heard but could not understand those 
 sounds of jubilee. To think that there were no means of checking 
 the riot, and that half of the children in the parish had thus an 
 unexpected holiday, was grievous to the soul of Mr. Osborne, who 
 formed a sort of committee instantly in the abandoned house over 
 Mrs. Brown's boxes. Miss Grey called to Mab that she would 
 come in the afternoon and tell them how things were arranged, as 
 they M^ent away. That little lay- curate could not imagine, 
 sympathetic as she was, that there could be any question so inter- 
 esting as this. 
 
 And, indeed, nothing had happened in Watcham for years that 
 had been so exciting. The schoolmistress ! without a word of 
 warning, without a thought, apparently, of the embarrassment or 
 trouble it would cause to the parish, without any consideration 
 even of her own interest — for how could she ever obtain another 
 situation, having left her charge like this ? People came out to their 
 doors to ask, as Lady William passed, could it be true*? and groups 
 stood discussing the strange event all along the street. The 
 schoolmistress ! that functionary of all others in an English parish 
 is the least apt to be revolutionary. What could this portent 
 mean ? 
 
XLVIII 
 
 It was very hard to get rid of Leo Swinford, but Mab succeeded at 
 last. He insisted on walking with Lady William to the cottage, 
 full of apologies and excuses all the way. 
 
 ' I thought this morning,' he said, ' when I was told she was 
 gone, that it was a dose of chloral. All women like her take 
 chloral, and all women like her are apt to take a sudden disgust 
 with life.' 
 
 ' Poor Artdmise 1 ' said Lady William, who was always fair and 
 rarely unkind. 'Do any of us know what kind of woman she 
 was ? She has never had justice all her life, and with all that 
 power and independence and spirit, she would have made a better 
 man than a woman. I cannot think if she had known how much 
 I wanted her that she would have gone away.' 
 
 To this Leo made no reply. He thought he knew a great deal 
 better. He thought it was because of a cruel plot with his mother 
 that Artdmise had disappeared. But he would not destroy Lady 
 William's confidence, nor did he dare betray how mucli more he 
 knew about the matter, and the cause of her anxiety to see 
 Artdmise than had ever been confided to him. But he walked on 
 by her side repeating what he would do. He would go to London 
 and take the boxes with him. He would wait at the station she 
 had indicated till she came. But she might not come. She might 
 send a stranger. 
 
 'Bien/' said Leo. 'I will be there. I will follow, who- 
 ever it may be. I will not lose sight of her property, her boxes, 
 till I have found her or some clue to her. Dear lady, the boxes 
 — that is the best of guides : for what is a woman without her 
 "things"? Is it not so r 
 
 'You are always safe to have a theory about women to fall 
 back upon,' said Lady William, beguiled into a laugh ; and then 
 they reached the door of the cottage, and Leo, who was not 
 
XLViii LADY WILLIAM 369 
 
 invited to cross the threshold, had nothing for it but to go 
 away. 
 
 The ladies, however, had another attendant, who was more 
 pertinacious, who waited for no invitation, but stalked in after them 
 as he had stalked along by Mab's side, with a much -troubled 
 countenance but few words, all the way. Jim found himself in the 
 midst of this imbroglio, which he did not in the least understand, 
 not as a spectator only, but as a potential agent with something to 
 say if he could but secure the means of saying it. What the 
 message with which he was charged meant he knew as little as he 
 could comprehend what possible or impossible link there could be 
 between Mrs. Brown and Lady William, the one the symbol of 
 
 dignity and modest greatness to Jim, the other He thought 
 
 no evil of Mrs. Brown : he thought she was ' queer ' though kind : 
 that a woman so old and so clever should be on the terms of a hon 
 camaracle with himself was astounding to him, but agreeable. 
 There was no harm in anything she had either said or done in his 
 knowledge. But he had known that the ladies of the parish, at 
 whom she laughed so much, would have very little approval of 
 Mrs. Brown had they known more of her — and Lady William was 
 ' a cut above ' the ladies of the parish : that she should be so much 
 distressed by Mrs Brown's sudden departm-e as to faint, or almost 
 faint, when she discovered it, was incredible to him. But things 
 being so, Mrs. Brown's message, which he had thought at the time 
 to be a kind of insanity, began to have meaning in it — meaning stUl 
 dark to him, but which, perhaps. Lady William would understand. 
 He went into the cottage after them, accordingly, indifferent to 
 Mab's looks, who frowned him back : but Jim was not to be kept 
 back byMab. When he appeared in the drawing-room. Lady William 
 had thrown herself into a chair, and was leaning back with an 
 air of anxiety and trouble, yet relief to be at rest and unobserved 
 for the moment. Jim's entrance made her start, with a little 
 exclamation of annoyance. 
 
 ' Jim,' said Mab, ' oh, do go away, there's a good fellow ; don't 
 you see that mother's overdone 1 ' 
 
 ' Yes, I see,' said Jim, ' but I've got something to say to Aunt 
 Emily.' 
 
 ' Oh, what can you have to say ? Something about going 
 up to town. There's a hundred people ready to go up to 
 town — if that would do any good. Please, Jim, please, go 
 away ! ' 
 
 ' I have something to say to Aunt Emily,' said Jim, standing 
 first on one foot and then on the other in his embarrassment, but 
 
 2 B 
 
370 LADY WILLIAM xlviii 
 
 with a dogged look of determination that had never been seen 
 upon his face before. 
 
 ' Get me a glass of water, Mab,' said Lady William, ' and let 
 Jim alone. It is very kind of him to be so ready to help.' 
 
 It did not occur to her, indeed, that Jim could have very much 
 real help to give ; but she saw the anxiety in the young man's 
 face, and even (as she was always a person who could be amused 
 at the most unlikely moments) the attitude of her little Mab, 
 determined to sweep this big and obstinate encumbrance out of the 
 yvaj, stirred her with that sense of the humorous which gives so 
 much solace to life. When Mab had most unwillingly gone out 
 of the room, Jim came up, red and eager, and much flustered, to 
 Lady William's chair. 
 
 ' Aunt Emily,' he said, breathless ; ' I know Mrs. Brown. 
 She told me to tell you ' 
 
 * What, Jim ! she told you — ^ou ! ' 
 
 ' Never mind that now,' he cried, ' I'll explain after. She 
 said : " If there is any chance of harm to Lady William — it sounds 
 like madness, but I must say it — if she is likely to be overwhelmed, 
 tell her not to be afraid, I'll come." That's what she said, Aunt 
 Emily. I thought she was mad — but then I thought I must tell 
 you ' 
 
 ' She was not mad. Thank you, thank you, Jim. Don't say 
 anything — to any one. She said she would come 1 ' 
 
 ' I was to tell you she would stand by you — not to be afraid 
 — if you were likely to be overwhelmed ' 
 
 ' Here is Mab coming back. Thank you, Jim, I understand, 
 and I believe her — I believe her ! You've given me great com- 
 fort. Thank you, thank you, Jim ! ' 
 
 Jim did not know why he was thanked any more than he 
 knew what the meaning of his communication was ; but he was 
 greatly elated all the same, and felt the clearing up of Lady Wil- 
 liam's countenance — which was, he said to himself, exactly like 
 the clearing of the clouds from the sky — to be his doing, with 
 the warmest sense of beneficence and pleasure. 
 
 ' She is ever so much better ; she is almost quite right,' he 
 said to Mab, who came hurrying in with a glass of water, and 
 who could not help feeling a little annoyance to be thus as- 
 sured by Jim of her mother's recovery. By Jim ! — with a smirk 
 as if he had been instrumental in the improvement. He went 
 away with that look of complacence and gratification on his face 
 for which Mab would fain have boxed his ears ; but at all events 
 he did take himself away, and that was always something gained. 
 
XLViii LADY WILLIAM 371 
 
 ' Now, mother, you will have a little peace,' said Mab. ' Lie 
 clown a little ou the sofa, and close your eyes. That always does 
 Aunt Jane good, and perhaps it may you. But I don't know what 
 will do you good ; you never give me the chance to know.' 
 
 ' I don't think closing my eyes will do me any good,' said Lady 
 William. ' Give me that work of yours to set right, which you 
 got into such a muddle last night. I am much better; I am 
 almost all right, as poor Jim said.' 
 
 'He seemed to think he had something to do with it,' said 
 Mab, with a snort of disdain. 
 
 ' Poor Jim ! and perhaps he had. He brought me a message. 
 You never told me much about Mrs. Brown, Mab.' 
 
 ' Oh, mother ! I told you till I was tired telling you. I told 
 you she was a lady. Well, what business had a lady in our 
 school 1 But what does all that matter now 1 Who was she, 
 mother ? It is your turn to tell me.' 
 
 'An old friend, Mab.' 
 
 ' Oh, that I know ! But something more, surely 1 or you would 
 not have been so startled to-day, or so distressed to miss her.' 
 
 ' The distress was selfish,' said Lady William. ' She was with 
 me once, at a most important moment of my life ; and she can 
 help me better than any one to settle that question with the 
 lawyers about your money, Mab.' 
 
 ' Oh ! ' said Mab, ' She told me she knew my father, and old 
 John, as she called him, and ' 
 
 ' And you never told me, Mab.' 
 
 ' It was in a kind of confidence. And she did not say she 
 knew you ; and it was aU so mixed up with things — that made 
 me think she oughtn't to be there, mother, in our school. And yet 
 how could I tell any one, and make her lose her place ? And that 
 is why I wanted you to go this morning, to see what you thought ; 
 for you would have known in a moment if there was anything 
 wrong.' 
 
 ' And that is why you have been so often at the school of late, 
 my little girl 1 ' 
 
 Mab nodded her head, slightly abashed, but yet not shaken in 
 her confidence that it was the right thing. 
 
 Lady William drew her child into her arms and kissed her, 
 * My little girl ! ' she repeated, with a soft burst of laughter. 
 And then she put her handkerchief to her eyes, and pushed Mab 
 away and took the tangled work of last night, in which Mab had 
 come to great grief, into her clever hands. 
 
 No doubt, whatever it was that had done it — even were it 
 
372 LADY WILLIAM xlviii 
 
 Jim — Jim, of all people in the world ! — mother was better, 
 brighter, happier, Mab concluded, half comforted, half perplexed. 
 For that Jim should have had the power to do that — Jim ! — 
 transcended Mab's powers of imagination. Lady William retained 
 her cheerfulness until the afternoon, when she sat down to finish 
 that letter which had been left in her blotting-book. But she 
 made small speed over it, and it appeared to Mab that ' the look 
 over her eyes' came back. If it could be imagined that Mab was 
 capable of being glad at the overclouding of her mother's face, I 
 would say she was at least not displeased when this occurred, so 
 that such a ridiculous instrumentality as that of Jim might be 
 proved insufficient for the change it seemed to have caused. But 
 this was a feeling of which Mab was ashamed after the first mo- 
 ment when it flashed upon her. Lady William sat for a long time 
 over the letter, but she did not add anything to it. She held her 
 pen in her hand, and on several occasions bent over the paper as if 
 she were abou.t to write, but always stopped short. What had she 
 more to say % She knew now that when these words were written 
 the all-important witness had been within her reach \ but now she 
 was as much out of it as Lady William had then supposed her' to 
 be — lost in that big world of London where the most anxious 
 parent cannot find his child. And who could tell whether Artd- 
 mise would ever hear how things went, or whether she was 
 wanted % The promise Jim brought had consoled her for a mo- 
 ment. It had been like a revelation of comfort to hear that at 
 least Arte'mise was on her side. But this did not outlast the 
 depressing effect of the afternoon — ^that pidler-down of hopes. 
 Artdmise might be on her side, but how, now that she had dis- 
 appeared again, was she to find her when that moment arrived at 
 which her word was indispensable % And then Lady William felt 
 that this promise of help only in the moment of uttermost need 
 had something humiliating in it. To keep her in suspense to the 
 last, trembling with the sword suspended over her head, and then 
 to step in — no sooner. This was not surely the act of a friend. 
 And why should Artdmise be her friend when Mrs. Swinford was 
 her enemy? Her heart sank. The little flush of satisfaction 
 faded. She threw down her pen, and left her letter unfinished, as 
 before. 
 
 And then Leo Swinford came with his eager proposals to go 
 to town, to find the runaway at all hazards, until Lady William, 
 exhausted by many emotions and by that sickening revulsion of 
 fresh despair after a rising of hope, became impatient, and more 
 than half resentful of his importunities, which were more ardent 
 
XLviii LADY WILLIAM 373 
 
 than the occasion required — or seemed so to this fastidious lady, 
 who in the failure of her own confidence was disposed to take 
 umbrage at his — which rested upon the certainty of being able 
 to do himself by his unassisted exertions now, what it would have 
 been so easy, so simple, to do yesterday, and so entirely within bis 
 power. 
 
 ' It scarcely seems to me worth the while,' she said, with a 
 weary look. ' Why should you make a sentry of yourself at that 
 railway ? She will send some one for her boxes and elude you, as 
 she has done before.' 
 
 This was hard upon poor Leo, who, indeed, had done his best. 
 He was still there when the Eector appeared, who interrupted 
 one of those protestations and entreaties to be trusted, from 
 which Lady AVilliam turned so coldly. And the Eector was still 
 more cold. 
 
 ' If we had but known in time,' Mr. Plowden said. ' I had 
 never seen the lady. If any of those who must have known her 
 had but given us a hint in time.' 
 
 It could only be Leo to whom this reproach was addressed, 
 and the Eector did not notice his protest that he had never asso- 
 ciated his mother's visitor with the school. Even Lady William 
 was iTDJust. She said : ' You must have suspected that she had 
 some haunt or shelter at Watcham.' Leo had to fall back upon 
 some of his own general theories about women, that they are always 
 unjust. But he did not go away, which made the Eector more 
 angry still : for Mr. Plowden had come on business. Some days 
 had elapsed since the lawyer's letter was received, and yet it had 
 not been answered, nor had any decision been come to as to what 
 was or was not to be said in the reply. He had come again to-day 
 with the intention of pressing for Mr. Perowne — Mr. Perowne and 
 his firm had known all the secrets of the Plowden family for 
 generations, why should not he be entrusted with this 1 But 
 Lady William would only look at him with a silent resistance. 
 She would not accept Mr. Perowne, nor would she tell him why. 
 
 ' I have begun my letter,' she said, ' I will finish it to-night ; 
 it is merely to tell them the facts ' 
 
 ' For Heaven's sake,' said the Eector solemnly, ' don't send it 
 away at least without lettiug me see it — without taking my opinion 
 at least.' 
 
 ' There is as much as I have written,' she said, handing him 
 the letter, ' you are welcome to see it, but whatever comes of it I 
 must do it my own way.' 
 
 And Leo had the bad taste to sit through this discussion, to 
 
374 LADY WILLIAM xlviii 
 
 remain even while the Rector read the half- written letter, 
 vehemently shaking his head and saying ' no — no — no ' as he went 
 on. It is true tliat Mr. Swinford went to the other side of the 
 room and talked to Mab, whose presence there her uncle also felt 
 to be de trop. For the room was so small that being at the other 
 end of it only meant that those other two people were some two 
 or three yards away. 
 
 ' No,' he said, ' I would admit nothing, Emily. You are 
 wrong — you are wrong. You are making no stand for yourself 
 at all. Why tell them about the chapel being burnt down, and 
 
 why say you don't know where she is . It is wrong, I say ; 
 
 it is betraying everything. When they see this, they will have 
 no mercy.' 
 
 ' You think I should go away % ' said Leo to Mab. ' But I 
 have not yet received my orders. Have patience with me a little, 
 and I will go.' 
 
 And then, as if there were not already too many. Miss Grey 
 came in, to fulfil her volunteer promise to bring them news of ho"w 
 things were settled. 
 
 ' Oh, Mr. Plowden, how glad I am to see you,' she said, ' for 
 I am very anxious to know whether you wiU sanction our arrange- 
 ment. Mr. Osborne seemed to think it was all right because 
 Florry — though, as I said to him, Florry is a darling, but she is 
 not the Rector. What an extraordinary business it was, to be 
 sure ! ' 
 
 ' Do you mean Mrs. Brown ? ' the Rector asked, very im- 
 patiently : and yet incivility was not possible to Miss Grey. 
 
 ' What a wonderful thing to do, to shake the dust from her 
 feet, as the Bible says. But we never did anything unkind. I 
 should have laid myself out to be friendly if she would have 
 responded. But I always felt she was a most unlikely person to 
 hold that position. Did you happen to keep her testimonials, 
 Mr. Plowden, or do you remember who they came from 1 There 
 should be some inquiry made ; and the peojDle who recommended 
 her should be warned of the way she treated us. Not that there 
 was a word to say against her management of the school. Every- 
 body seems to say she did very well there.' 
 
 ' I don't remember,' said the Rector, more affronted than ever, 
 ' anything about her appointment. Miss Grey.' 
 
 ' Ah, well ! but you remember something about her, Emily. 
 Didn't you say you knew her — under some other name ? If it 
 was here, I must surely remember her, too. I always felt that I 
 had seen her face somewhere before. The first time I saw her it 
 
XLViii LADY WILLIAM 375 
 
 made quite an impression on me. I kept asking myself where 
 
 have I seen that foce 1 But, you know, familiarity breeds 
 
 that is to say, when you get used to a face, you no longer think. 
 Was it in Watcham you knew her, Lady William, my dear 1 ' 
 
 ' She did not live actually in Watcham,' Lady William replied, 
 with hesitation. ' I saw her — that is, she was present — at my 
 marriage.' 
 
 The Rector (for what reason I cannot tell) looked at his sister 
 angrily, shaking his head as if this had somehow been a betrayal 
 of weakness too. 
 
 As for Miss Grey, she threw up her hands as if a sudden light 
 had flashed upon her, and cried : ' Ah, to be sure ! now I remem- 
 ber — at your marriage ! I recollect all about her now : that was 
 where I saw her — and often in Mrs. Swinford's carriage before.' 
 
 ' That was where you saw her 1 ' 
 
 Lady William's bosom heaved with a quick breath ; her colour 
 changed from pale to red ; she bent forward as if her hearing had 
 failed her. As for Miss Grey, she gave her friend a sudden apolo- 
 getic look, put up her hands as if to cover her face, and burst into 
 a deprecating laugh. 
 
 ' Didn't you know 1 ' she said. ' No, of course you didn't 
 know. I kept it to myself, for I had no business to be there. 
 And I was a little huffy that you had not asked me. Yes, my 
 dear, I saw you married,' said little Miss Grey. 
 
 Lady William fell back in her chair, and covered her face with 
 her hands. The Rector, for his part, got up and walked to the 
 window, where he stood looking out, ' to see if it rained,' he 
 muttered ; though a brighter sky could not be than that which 
 shone in upon the startled group. Mab and Leo, looking on, were 
 as much startled as little Miss Grey herself, by the sensation she 
 had evidently produced. 
 
 ' You don't mean to say that you're angry,' she said, ' Emily, 
 after nearly twenty years ? ' 
 
 Lady William uncovered her face, from which the blood had 
 receded again, leaving her perfectly pale. She rose up tremulously, 
 and cast herself upon the neck of her old friend. 
 
 ' Angry ? ' she said. ' Oh, glad, thankful beyond measure. 
 Why didn't I know it before 1 ' 
 
 ' Well, my dear, I suppose I was ashamed to confess the 
 liberty I had taken,' said Miss Grey, who was much surprised, and 
 yet pleased by the impression made. ' I may as well make a 
 clean breast of it now, since you're not displeased. I was going 
 up to town that day. I do assure you I was going up on my own 
 
376 LADY WILLIAM XLvm 
 
 business to town. And I saw you at the station, tlie dear old 
 Rector, and you in a little white bonnet, and another lady. Bless 
 me, to think that should have been Mrs. Brown ! You were 
 looking like a lily flower- — paler even than you are now. Ah ! 
 you are not pale now, you are like a rose. Did ever any one see 
 the mother of a big girl like Mab change colour like that before ? 
 I saw you all three get into a cab — and then my curiosity got the 
 better of me. I daresay it was very dreadful. I was too much 
 ashamed ever to tell anybody. I took another cab and followed 
 you. And I crept in behind to the very back of that nasty ugly 
 little chapel, quite furious with the Rector and everybody that you 
 should have had such a wedding. To think how things come 
 out all of a sudden after one has bottled them up for twenty 
 years ! ' 
 
 I 
 
 I 
 
XLIX 
 
 When Mr. Osborne found himself alone — the impromptu com- 
 mittee which had hastily discussed the emergency having melted 
 away, with the understanding that nothing could be done for this 
 morning, that the holiday must be permitted, and a more formal 
 meeting held in the afternoon at which some expedient might be 
 settled upon — he stood for a moment at the door of the school- 
 house looking out upon the emancipated children, and making up 
 his mind what to do. There was one thing very clear, and that 
 was that the Rector ought to know. The curate stood and medi- 
 tated with many things in his mind. He had not gone to the 
 Rectory for some weeks, not since that disastrous moment when 
 Florence had spoken her mind. His heart leaped wp in his 
 bosom, and began to beat in a most wild, unclerical, and unjustifi- 
 able way, when he saw that it was his duty to go now, and that 
 there was no one else to do it for him. Jim had gone off in 
 attendance upon Lady Wilhara, which was wholly unnecessary, 
 seeing she had already her daughter and Swinford with her ; but 
 the fact that he had gone was evident, and more immediately 
 important than to decide whether he had any right to go. And 
 there was nobody but the curate to fulfil this necessary duty. 
 Miss G-rey even, the feminine curate, who ought to have been the 
 first to undertake that mission, had melted away with the rest, 
 going off" to her district — as if her district for once could not wait ! 
 Mr. Osborne looked round him for help, but found none. At last 
 he buttoned up his coat, which was the same as the Scriptural 
 preparation of girding his loins, and Avent forth, hesitating no 
 longer, but walking with a firm foot, light and swift, up the village 
 street, resolved to do his duty. His duty was clearly to beard 
 the lion in his den : no, not the Rector — the Rector was no lion 
 to this critical young man : the lion whom he felt himself called 
 upon to beard was a person of very difi"erent appearance from that 
 
378 LADY WILLIAM xlix 
 
 of the respectable middle-aged clergyman who was Mr. Osborne's 
 ecclesiastical superior, and whom, with the instinct of the new 
 generation, the curate was disposed to estimate lightly. It was a 
 very different kind of lion indeed — a lion probably in a white 
 gown, with pretty brown locks a little astray on her forehead, with 
 a pair of mild brown eyes, that could indeed shine with sacred 
 fire, as when she dared to discourse to a consecrated priest upon 
 his duty — his duty ! which was, first of all, by all laws, both of 
 Nature and the Church, to hold her in subjection and ordain for 
 her what she was to do — a case which she had taken upon herself 
 to reverse. It would be difficult to say why Mr. Osborne should 
 have concluded that this dangerous animal was the one he would 
 see at the Rectory and not the true spiritual ruler of the parish 
 himself, or even the ruler-ess, at whose pretensions the curate 
 would have snapped his fingers. No, curiously enough, it was of 
 neither of these that he thought. He felt absolutely certain, by 
 what means I cannot tell, that it was Florence he would see — 
 Florence, who had so offended him that he had all but insulted her 
 sister and herself in the sight of the whole parish about their 
 duet : and now he would have to face her — probably alone. To 
 all ordinary calculations nothing could be more improbable than 
 this — that circumstances should conjoin in such a concatenation 
 accordingly as that nobody should be in the Rectory to receive Mr. 
 Osborne but Florence ; that her father should be out — a man 
 always in his study till luncheon ; and her mother out — a woman 
 devoted to housekeeping and the cares of her family ; and even 
 Emmy out, with whom Mr. Osborne had no controversy. Only 
 that spitfire, that little dictator, that feminine meddler, who had 
 taken upon her to give advice to a priest ! Such a contingency 
 was not to be looked for by any of the laws of probability ; and 
 yet Mr. Osborne felt certain this was how it would be. His heart 
 would not have beat so, his cheek taken such a colour, his head 
 been held so high, if it had been the Rector he expected to see. 
 He knew he should see her, and no one else ; and he strode along 
 accordingly, with sensations which were somewhere between those 
 which moved David when he went out to meet Goliath and those 
 which might be supposed to inspire a Forlorn Hope. 
 
 He did, however, everything he could to persuade himself 
 that, after all, this was an ordinary visit upon parish business to 
 the Rector. He went in by the parish door, which, as has been 
 said, was a swinging door, always open in case any shy and shame- 
 faced parishioner should wish to communicate with the spiritual 
 authorities : but I\Ir. Plowden was not in his study, as Mr. Osborne 
 
XLix LADY WILLIAM 379 
 
 foresaw. As he came out of that room, pretending to himself that 
 he was disappointed — which he was not — he met one of the 
 servants, who informed him (what he had discovered without her 
 aid) that her master was out, and missis was out, and Mr. Jim 
 was out, but she thought there was some one in the drawing-room, 
 one of the young ladies, if that would do. Mr. Osborne could not 
 say to Mary Jane that that would not do, that it was the last 
 thing he wished, though he had been sure of it all along. All 
 that he did was to nod his head rather impatiently in reply, and 
 push past Mary Jane. No, he would not have himself announced 
 by the maid, as if it were quite a usual matter. He waved her 
 away, and went on by himself and opened the drawing-room door. 
 How his heart beat, and what a wrathful shining was in his eyes ! 
 
 And of course his previsions were quite true, true in every 
 particular : there she sat, looking as if — as if, according to the old 
 wives, butter would not melt in her mouth. Not with the air of a 
 lion to be bearded in his den. Oh no ! much more like a lamb — - 
 in the white dress which (even that detail !) the unfortunate curate 
 had foreseen, looking so peaceable and innocent, so — so — sweet, 
 confoimd her ! Oh no, the curate did not say that. It is I who 
 say it, in the impossibility of finding words to express his senti- 
 ments. It all surged upon him now — much worse even than he 
 had expected ! the abominable impertinence and presumption of 
 her, the sweetness of her, the everything he liked best, conjoined 
 with that intolerable something which he could not endiire. 
 Poor curate ! He had foreseen it all — but not so bad, not quite 
 so bad as it turned out. She was seated close by the window, at 
 one side of the large table which had been thrust into a corner, 
 but not put away, as being so convenient for work — with a good 
 deal of white stuff about, cotton from which she was cutting out 
 various shapes, of which I do not pretend that Mr. Osborne 
 recognised more than the purpose of them, which was for the 
 sewing class evidently in the first place, and the comfort of its 
 members after that. A clergyman — if not celibate, which, 
 perhaps, is the best — but Mr. Osborne had regretfully allowed the 
 difficulties of it some months before this — could not well behold in 
 visions a wife more suitably employed. Florence was so busy 
 that it did not occur to her to turn round when the door opened. 
 She was singing to herself in a sort of undertone as she planned 
 out, and pinned, and cut, not thinking of any visitor. It piqued 
 Mr. Osborne extremely, as if it were a special little defiance thrown 
 out at himself, that she should be singing at her work. 
 
 ' Miss Plowden,' he said. 
 
380 LADY WILLIAM xlix 
 
 Oh, then he was revenged for the moment ! Florence started 
 so that she nearly jumped from her chair, and the scissors with 
 which she was cutting out so carefully gave a long and jagged gash 
 into the cotton like a wound, and the cheeks and pretty white 
 throat which were under his gaze suddenly turned red to the edge 
 of the white dress as if with some ruby dye. 
 
 ' Mr. Osborne ! ' she said, with a half-terrified look. 
 
 ' I am afraid I startled you. I came to see the Eector — to 
 tell him of a most extraordinary incident.' 
 
 Florence uttered a quavering, troubled ' — oh ! ' and then she 
 said, dropping her scissors, ' I hope it is not bad news.' 
 
 ' Oh, not to any of us,' said the curate hurriedly, ' to the 
 parish, perhaps ; but I am not even sure of that.' 
 
 When Florence hea:''d it was only the parish that was threat- 
 ened, she calmed down immediately ; her ' — oh ! ' repeated, was 
 in quite a different tone. ' My ftither is out,' she said, 'and so, I 
 am afraid, are mamma and Emmy. It is very seldom,' said 
 Florence, feeling herself almost on her defence, ' that I am the only 
 one at home j but I can tell papa — anything ' 
 
 Anything ? How was it that it occurred to both of them in- 
 stinctively that there might be things which Florry could not tell 
 papa — which it would be Mr. Osborne's duty to say in his own 
 person ? If there is anything that it is specially embarrassing to 
 think of, at any given moment, that, one may be sure, is the thing 
 that conies into one's head. Anything ? If the curate wanted 
 to ask Mr. Plowden for his daughter, for example, which was a 
 thing that did not seem unlikely some time ago, though not now 
 — oh, certainly, not now ! This thought in all its ramifications 
 went like lightning through the minds of both, and made each — 
 thinking nothing could be further from the ideas of the other — 
 more confused than words can say. 
 
 ' It is to ask,' said the curate, recovering himself, ' that the 
 Rector would call together the education committee at once, if he 
 does not mind. A wonderful thing has occurred. The school- 
 mistress, without giving any notice or warning, without a word to 
 any one, has gone away. When the children went to school this 
 morning the door was locked, and she was gone.' 
 
 ' The schoolmistress ? Mrs. Brown ? ' 
 
 'I don't know how she was appointed,' said the curate ; ' I was 
 away at the time for my holiday ; nor who is responsible for her, 
 nor what recommendations she had. I had never any confidence 
 in her, for my own part. She did not at all seem fitted for such 
 a sphere.' 
 
XLix LADY WILLIAM 381 
 
 Florence felt that this was an assault upon her father's judgment, 
 and Immediately stood to her guns. 
 
 ' She was an excellent teacher ; the girls would do anything for 
 her, and the inspector said there was such an improvement.' 
 
 ' She was not a woman to have charge of the moral training 
 of all those girls.' 
 
 ' Oh, their moral training ! But it was for the standards that 
 she Avas there.' 
 
 'We need not quarrel over that,' said the curate, as who 
 should say, we have plenty of subjects to quarrel upon, ' the thing 
 is that she is gone. I was going to say bag and baggage ; but 
 that would not be correct, for her boxes are left all fastened up — 
 directed to a distant railway station. She has not even left an 
 address.' 
 
 ' How very odd ! ' Florence said. And then there was a little 
 pause : there is nothing so dangerous as a pause in certain positions 
 of affairs. 
 
 Mr. Osborne stood in front of the window, and when he came 
 to the end of a sentence looked out upon the garden. Florence, 
 except when she was speaking and was obliged to raise her eyes to 
 him now and then, kept them upon her work. She had not asked 
 him to sit down — partly from inadvertence, partly from embar- 
 rassment — and botli of them cast furtive glances at the gate, 
 longing for somebody to come. Did they long for somebody to 
 come 1 At last the silence became so very appalling that Florence 
 rushed into it, not knowing what might come of that too eloquent 
 pause. 
 
 'I am to tell papa that there is to be a meeting of the 
 • education ' 
 
 ' I hope j'ou don't think I would send my Rector a message 
 like that ? That, if he thinks well, there ought, perhaps, to be a 
 meeting — for something must be done at once ; the children are 
 all about' — Mr. Osborne added, sinking into a more confidential 
 tone — ■' we cannot keep the girls' school shut.' 
 
 ' No,' said Florence, 'oh no ; do you know of any one 1 
 There is Anderson's wife, the schoolmaster. He wanted her to get 
 it, but now she has the infant school. At the worst, don't you 
 think for a day or two we ladies, perhaps 1 If you can't hear of 
 any one, I could take the reading and spelling, and perhaps the 
 writing. Having the copylines makes that easy, though, of course, 
 I don't write well enough myself.' 
 
 ' You might do it. Miss Plowdeu ; you don't mind what trouble 
 you put yourself to — ' He had to pull up sharply, or he did not 
 
382 LADY WILLIAM xlix 
 
 know what he might have said. His voice began to grow rather 
 soft in spite of himself, which was a thing that could not be per- 
 mitted to be. ' We might think of Mrs. Anderson,' he said ; ' as 
 for the other ladies, I don't think it would do. It is useless 
 trusting to amateurs.' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Florence, with humility. ' I never thought, of 
 course, that I could be much good, or any of us, only for a stop- 
 gap for the moment. Mrs. Anderson would be the most hopeful 
 thing, perhaps.' 
 
 ' I did not mean to imply that you would be no good. Quite 
 the reverse. I meant ' 
 
 ' Oh ! I know, I know, Mr. Osborne,' said Florry. ' We need 
 not stand upon compliments ; we are only tryiug to think what's 
 best for the children.' 
 
 That was all — what was best for the children — nothing 
 more. 
 
 He stood looking out of the window, and Florence pinned her 
 paper patterns to new folds of the white cotton. And there was 
 again a pause — which Florry this time did not try to break. It 
 was he who began. ' Your brother,' he said, suddenly but harshly, 
 ' was so good about that ridiculous entertainment of mine ; I 
 should never have got those men to come but for him.' 
 
 ' Jim 1 ' said Florence. ' I am very glad ; he liked to help ; 
 but I don't see why you should call it a ridiculous entertainment.' 
 
 ' I felt it so,' cried the curate fiercely. ' What is the good of 
 such attempts 1 Perhaps if they went on, like the public-house, 
 every night, a warm bright place, with ladies to sing, and ' 
 
 ' Dance ! ' said Florry, with unsteady laughter, ' as Miss Grey 
 said. Well, then, you must start a working-man's club, Mr. 
 Osborne, and then you can have it every night, and there will 
 always be a nice bright, light place to sit in, and games, you know, 
 and papers ' 
 
 ' And beer 1 ' 
 
 ' I have heard people say,' said Florence, ' that it is best to let 
 them have whatever they would have if it was natural. But I am 
 rather on your side about that, and so is mamma.' 
 
 ' On 7)11/ side 1 ' said the curate, with a faintness in his voice. 
 
 ' About the temperance. But, on the other hand, papa says it 
 is not having no beer, but having just as much as is good, that is 
 temperance.' 
 
 ' None is good,' cried Mr. Osborne impulsively. 
 
 ' Well,' said Florence, with judicial calm, ' I have said that I 
 think I am on your side.' 
 
XLix LADY WILLIAM 383 
 
 A pause again, and Florence went on with her work steadily. 
 Nobody came — the May sunshine fell over the lawn without a 
 shadow to break it. Would they never come back, Florry asked 
 herself? And yet the present situation was not without its charm. 
 All his displeasure was oozing out of his fingers' ends, all his 
 unwillingness to be dictated to by a girl. He thought he would 
 like it if she would dictate to him again, and tell him what was 
 his duty. No ; he did not think this, he only felt it vaguely- 
 touched, he could not tell why, by her avowal of being on his side. 
 Was he not her spiritual superior, and was it not her duty, as soon 
 as she heard his sentiments on the subject, to be on his sidel 
 But somehow he did not feel so sure of that position, and rather 
 wanted to hear her unbiassed opinion and what she would say. 
 
 'Your brother has been a great help to me,' he said again. 
 
 He would not for the world have reminded her of what she 
 had said that day. And, of course, she had said nothing in so 
 many words about her brother. He was by no means sure that it 
 was not a mean thing thrusting this forward to make her think 
 she was obliged to him, but yet — when a man is at his wits' end, 
 what can he say? 
 
 ' We have all been so glad to see that Jim was beginning — to 
 take an interest ' 
 
 'And he knows so much,' pursued the curate, 'more than I do. 
 If we were to get up a club, he might do almost anything he 
 pleased with the men. I have to thank you, Miss Florence,' he 
 went on, finding as he proceeded that it was necessary to be 
 definite if he was to make any impression, 'for giving me a 
 hint ' 
 
 ' I don't think I gave you any hint,' said Florence, dropping 
 her scissors ; while she stooped for them she went on, saying 
 quickly : ' We know what we owe to you ; we all feel it. One 
 can't talk of such things, Mr. Osborne, and I was very bold and 
 disagreeable once ; but if you think I don't thank you from my 
 heart— — ' 
 
 ' Florence ! ' said the curate. 
 
 ' Oh, I don't mind, call me whatever you like. You had a 
 good right to be angry, and I took a great deal, a very great deal 
 upon me — but if you knew how we all thanked you from the 
 bottom of our hearts.' 
 
 ' Florence ! ' the curate said again ; he had got down on his 
 knee on the carpet to look for the scissors too — they were strange 
 scissors to disappear like that — scissors are not round things like 
 a ring or a reel of cotton to run into a corner ; yet they eluded 
 
384 LADY WILLIAM xlix 
 
 both these people who were looking for them, and who, not finding 
 them, suddenly somehow looked at each other, probably for the 
 first time since that day. 
 
 I think it highly probable that these young people forgot from 
 that moment that there was a girls' school in Watcham at all, 
 much more that the mistress had ran away from it, or that there 
 was any occasion for moving heaven and earth, as Mr. Osborne 
 had intended when he entered the Rectory, to get a substitute for 
 Mrs. Brown. 
 
Mr. Osborne went off and had a long walk after this little scene, 
 and Florence retreated to her own room. Neither of them for that 
 first hour felt at all disposed to face the looks and possible 
 inquiries of those ridiculously composed and commonplace persons 
 to whom nothing had happened. The presence of these people 
 surrounding them on every side, prying at them, laughing or 
 wondering, or making investigation into their feehngs, is at once a 
 trouble and an astonishment to the hero and heroine. On a day 
 which is the beginning of a new life to them, to think there should 
 be so many in the world to whom it was only the fifteenth of 
 May. How grotesque it seems ! Only a day like another to be 
 written down quite calmly as the date of their letters, and never 
 thought of more, just the same as the sixteenth or the twenty- 
 second ! There are so many stupidities, so much that is dull and 
 common in this life. 
 
 And in the afternoon there was that other event, so much less 
 important, but yet meaning much, in Lady William's cottage. 
 That the Kector, after spending all the morning out of doors, 
 should have gone out again in the afternoon was a contrariety 
 which Mr. Osborne for one could scarcely believe. When he came 
 back in the afternoon to see his chief and to tell his tale, the 
 curate's face, on hearing that once more that chief was out, was a 
 study. Astonishment, annoyance, even displeasure were written 
 on it, as well as a subduing consciousness that Florence would 
 laugh, which Florence did accordingly with a strong inclination 
 partially mastered to mimic the curate to his face : an inclination 
 which, perhaps— who can tell? — if indulged in might have been 
 too much for that gentleman, though he was very much in love. 
 She laughed, and explained that poor papa could not mean any 
 offence, seeing he was quite unaware what great intimation was 
 about to be made to him. 
 
 2c 
 
386 LADY WILLIAM L 
 
 ' I tried to keep him,' she said, ' but he had business with 
 Auut Emily, and frowned upon me when I tried to insinuate that 
 there might be more important business at home.' 
 
 Florence had come out to meet her curate at the gate. She 
 put her hand within his arm as they came together across the 
 lawn, and as she said these words she looked up into his face with 
 so exact a representation of the Eector's frown, and his ' Go 
 away, child, don't worry me with nonsense,' that Mr. Osborne, 
 all grave, provoked, and half offended as he was, could not help 
 but laugh. 
 
 Tlorry, darling,' he said, pressing her arm to his side, 'it is 
 
 very funny — but when you are a clergyman's wife, you know ' 
 
 Poor Florry had not had the heart to mimic anybody since that 
 April day : but now she only laughed at the reproof : she was 
 ready to have 'taken off' the Archbishop of Canterbury had His 
 Grace come in her way. 
 
 I need scarcely say that the sight of Florry coming across the 
 lawn with her arm within that of the curate, laughing and looking 
 up at him, while he looked down, and shook his head, and had the 
 air of reproving, though with a smile on his face, had the greatest 
 effect upon the people in the drawing-room who saw that scene 
 from the windows. 
 
 ' Emmy — Emmy I ' cried IMrs. Plowden to her daughter, who 
 was coming in calmly with the basket of stockings to be darned — 
 and as soon as Emmy was within reach, her mother seized her by 
 the skirts and palled her forward to the window. ' What does 
 that mean ? ' cried the Rector's wife. Mrs. Plowden's heart had 
 leaped up into her throat, beating almost as fast and as tumultuously 
 as the curate's heart had done when he stooped down in that very 
 spot to look for the scissors. ' Tell me, what does that mean 1 ' 
 she said imperiously, while Emmy in consternation gazed out, not 
 knowing what to say. 
 
 ' Well, mamma, you are not angry, are you 1 ' said Emmy, 
 with a sympathetic jump of her heart, too. 
 
 ' Angry ! ' said Mrs. Plowden, and began forthwith to cry ; for 
 though she was fussy, and perhaps commonplace, she was a very 
 devoted mother. And there was not a word to be said against 
 Mr. Osborne — he was tolerably well off, well connected, likely to 
 ' get on,' and an excellent young man — almost too good, if a fault 
 might be hinted ; and Florry liked him ; and, crowning virtue of 
 all, he had been kind to Jim. Afterwards, when the little 
 epanchement was over which followed on the entry of these two 
 evident lovers, after she had cried a good deal and laughed a little, 
 
L LADY WILLIAM 387 
 
 and given her consent and blessed them, and retired to see whether 
 Mr. Plowden had returned, followed by Emmy, who thought it 
 would be well to tell the cook to have some sally-luns for tea — 
 Mrs. Plowden expressed her sentiments more freely. 'I should 
 not like to marry him myself,' she said, ' but since Florry likes it, 
 and everything is so suitable, I feel quite sure your father will be 
 pleased.' 
 
 ' No,' said Emmy thoughtfully, ' he is very nice, but I should 
 not like to marry him.' Which was just as well, probably, since 
 there was no possibility of anything of the kind. Emmy thought 
 of Another, with Avhom she thought Mr. Osborne could not bear 
 comparison. But, alas ! that Other, it is to be feared, was quite 
 as little likely to fall in Emmy's way. 
 
 The young pair walked over to Lady William's cottage after a 
 while, with that satisfaction in communicating the fact of their 
 happiness which is natural to well-conditioned friendly young pairs. 
 I am not myself sure that Mr. Osborne, indeed, liked to be led, in 
 triumph even to the house of so near a relation, for he had a 
 secret dread of ridicule, which gave this young man a great deal of 
 trouble. They met Mr. Swinford walking away from the cottage 
 with a grave face, accompanied by little Miss Grey, who was full 
 of excitement. I need not say that by this time, as they walked 
 along in full view of the village, Florence no longer hung on the 
 curate's arm, as she had done while crossing the lawn at the 
 Rectory. On the contrary, they were walking very demurely side 
 by side, with the air of people who had met accidentally in the 
 street and could not help but walk together, little as they liked it, 
 as they were going the same way. Miss Grey's chatter was 
 audible almost before they came in sight of her. Her countenance 
 was wreathed in smiles, her old-fashioned broad hat had got a 
 little to one side, and looked more jaunty and 'fast' than the most 
 fashionable headgear. 
 
 ' I could have told her years ago if I had thought it would be 
 of any consequence,' Miss Grey was saying; and so much pre- 
 occupied was she, that the unusual spectacle of the curate and 
 Florence walking together, although in the most austere manner, 
 which would have excited her so much on another occasion, did 
 not even attract her observation now. 
 
 ' Has anything happened. Miss Grey ? ' Florence asked de- 
 murely, with a secret consciousness which made her heart dance, 
 of all she had herself to tell, and of the very great thing which 
 had certainly happened, far greater than anything else which could 
 possibly have taken place in Watcham. And Miss Grey remjirked 
 
388 LADY WILLIAM L 
 
 nothing ! The young people gave a glance of amazement at each 
 other, and Miss Grey fell in the opinion of both — but most in that 
 of the curate, who had been so great a friend of hers, and who 
 felt that she ought to have divined him at the first glance. 
 
 ' I should think, indeed, something has happened,' cried Miss 
 Grey. ' I have just been telling your dear aunt Emily, Lady 
 William, that I was at her marriage. And she is so pleased, it 
 has been quite a little /e!!e for me. Think of Lady William, the 
 darling, being so pleased that I was there, and I always frightened 
 she should find out, fearing she would think it a liberty ! I am 
 sure I might have told her years ago if I had thought she would 
 have liked it. It made quite a little sensation, Mr. Swinford can 
 tell you. It agitated her a little, poor darling, to think of that 
 time at all ; and yet she was so pleased.' 
 
 ' She never speaks of her marriage,' said Florence carelessly. 
 Oh ! what waste of sentiment to think of people making a fuss 
 about a marriage of twenty years ago when they might hear at 
 first hand of one that was going to be now ! 
 
 ' No, she never speaks of it ; and I had taken it into my head 
 that she did not like to go back upon it. We never knew him, 
 and I don't know why people should have taken an unfavourable 
 impression ; but to see her agitation and her change of colour when 
 I spoke ! Ah, my dear Florry, there are many things in this world 
 that are never thought of in our philosophy ! She must have been 
 thinking of him many and many a day when we thought there was 
 no such thing in her mind.' 
 
 It surprised Miss Grey a little, it must be allowed, to see that 
 the curate stood by all this time, and did not stalk on about his 
 business, leaving Florry to go also her own way ; and afterwards 
 she thought of it with a little surprise and a question to herself. 
 But, in the meantime, sbe was much more taken up with what was 
 in her own mind. 
 
 ' I thought,' cried Florry when they had passed on, ' that we 
 carried it written all over us ; and yet she never found out any- 
 thing ! Miss Grey, too, who knows so many things.' 
 
 ' It proves,' said the curate loftily, ' how much more largely the 
 most trivial incident in our own experience bulks in our eyes than 
 the greatest event in another's. I must say I am surprised that 
 Miss Grey should be so obtuse — Miss Grey, of all people in the 
 world.' 
 
 He was perhaps, to tell the truth, a little ofi'ended, too. 
 
 They went into the cottage, where Lady WUliam was iu the 
 cours§ of writing a letter, for which the Rector seemed to be waiting 
 
L LADY WILLIAM 389 
 
 to give it his approval. Lady William was writing hurriedly, 
 sometimes pausing to listen to something he said, but, I fear, not 
 giving him the devoted attention which the Rector felt that he 
 merited. Mr. Osbonie was not a very common visitor at the 
 cottage, and Lady William stopped her writing to give him a 
 reception a little more ceremonious than usual. 
 
 ' Will you excuse me for a moment/ she said, ' while I finish a 
 letter 1 It is an important one, which must be ready for this post, 
 and my brother must see it before it goes.' 
 
 And then there ensued a curious pause. Mab did her best 
 to entertain the visitors, discoursing to them on what she in her 
 innocence still believed to be the principal event of the day — for 
 Miss Grey's revelation did not strike Mab as particularly exciting, 
 and she had thought her mother's interest in it quite out of pro- 
 portion with the importance of the subject. And she felt the 
 appearance of Florence and the curate together to be another proof 
 of the momentous nature of the morning's event ; for what could 
 have brought them here but a desire to settle about Mrs. Brown's 
 successor 1 So Mab began, thinking, no doubt, this was the chief 
 matter in their thoughts, to talk of Mrs. Brown. 
 
 ' I was there yesterday,' she said, ' she might have given me a 
 hint. I was there almost all the morning ; the afternoon was a 
 half-holiday. She might have said she was going away.' 
 
 ' My dear,' cried Florry, a little impatient, ' if she had intended 
 to tell, there were other people whom she was more likely to tell 
 than you.' 
 
 ' She told me a great many things,' said Mab, ' and I was in- 
 terested in her. But, Mr. Osborne, there is a very nice girl, who 
 was a pupil teacher, in one of the houses down by Riverside. She 
 would do very well till you can get somebody, if you like to try 
 her. I meant to have told Uncle James, but Uncle James is so 
 full of that business of mother's.' 
 
 ' Just as you are about the schoolmistress, Mab,' said Florence, 
 with a laugh. 
 
 Mr. Osborne did not make any remark, but he, too, thought — 
 to fuss about Lady William's business, whatever it might be, to 
 make a commotion about the very ordinary and commonplace fact 
 that Miss Grey had been present at a certain wedding twenty years 
 ago — what a waste of emotion, what folly it was, when there was 
 here, waiting for the telling, a piece of news so much more in- 
 teresting ! He exchanged a glance with Florence, and they both 
 laughed at human absurdity and the blindness even of fathers and 
 aunts, the latter especially, who are supposed to have an eye for 
 
390 LADY WILLIAM L 
 
 events of the kind of which these two were so conscious. And 
 then that everlasting affair about the schoolmistress ! To be sure, 
 somebody must be found and something done ; but to thrust it 
 upon them noiv ! 
 
 Lady William had finished the letter, which was the one she 
 had begun in the morning with the admission which Mr. Plowden 
 thought so rash of the burning down of the chapel. She had 
 struck out the line in which she said ' one witness of my marriage 
 is alive, but .' What she wrote was as follows : 
 
 ' There are two witnesses of my marriage alive, one Miss Grey, 
 The Nook, Watcham, who will make an affidavit, or see anybody 
 you may send to take her evidence ; the other, Mrs. Artdmise 
 Mansfield. I do not know at this present moment where to find 
 the latter, but she will appear if necessary. There is also a record 
 in a diary of my father's which I am told would hold good in 
 law ' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Mr. Plowden doubtfully, ' I suppose that is all 
 right, Emily; Miss Grey's evidence, of course, makes all the 
 difference. Still, I can't see why you should be so anxious to con- 
 fess to them that the chapel is burnt down.' 
 
 ' They would discover that fact themselves : and they might 
 think we knew it all the time, and had chosen that place on 
 purpose to have a good excuse.' 
 
 ' Who is thinking ill of her fellow-creatures now % ' said the 
 Eector. ' Yes, yes, I suppose it will do — with my father's diary 
 and Miss Grey to back you up, you may say anything you please. 
 Yes, I think you may send it, and I think I may congratulate 
 Mab now. Yes, I believe we may allow ourselves to think that 
 it is all right now.' He watched while Lady William folded up 
 and put the letter into its envelope. ' Yes, yes,' he said, so as to 
 be heard by all, ' this has been a very interesting day. There was 
 first that untoward act of the schoolmistress going away — which 
 indeed I must not call untoward, for she was not the sort of person 
 for the place : but that also had to do with you, Emily : and then 
 the quite unhoped-for, unthought-of discovery that Miss Grey had 
 gone to see you married in such an easy, natural way ; and then 
 the great fact, to be announced to-day for the first time, that little 
 Mab is an heiress. Do you hear, Florry ? Could you have be- 
 lieved such a thing % The finest piece of news ! that our little 
 Mab is an heiress. She has come into a great deal of money. 
 She will be able to take her proper position, which is far better 
 than anything we can give her in Watcham. Mab,' said the 
 Rector, rising up and looking round him, as he had a way of doing 
 
L LADY WILLIAM 391 
 
 when addressing a much larger audience, ' has come into a fortune 
 of fifty thousand pounds — as to-day.' 
 
 A little shriek broke from Florence — it came against her will. 
 It was not wonder and sympathj^, as might have been expected 
 from her, but an intolerable sense of the contrariety and distraction 
 of things. ' Oh, papa ! ' There was a protest in it against Mab, 
 Mab's mother, and all that could happen to those secondary 
 persons. What did anything matter in comparison with what she 
 herself had to tell 1 And they were all in a conspiracy against her 
 to prevent her from getting it out ! 
 
 At last, however, there arrived a crisis, as the Rector got his 
 hat and prepared to go away. The curate rose, too. 
 
 ' I'll go with you, if you will permit me. There is something 
 I want to talk to you about,' said Mr. Osborne, with a visible 
 blush, which Lady William, looking suddenly up, caught, and 
 started a little to behold, feeling for the first time some thrill in 
 the air of the new thing. 
 
 ' Oh yes, to be sure, the schoolmistress,' the Rector said. He 
 gave a little sigh of impatience. ' To be sure, that is a thing that 
 must be attended to,' he said. 
 
 ' No, it is not the schoolmistress. It is something much more 
 important,' said Mr. Osborne, at the end of his patience. There 
 was something in the tone of his voice this time which made them 
 all look up. 
 
 ' Ah ■? ' said Mr. Plowden, half alarmed. 
 
 ' Oh ! ' said Lady William, sitting upright, bending forward to 
 catch the new light. Mab did not say anything, but her eyes 
 turned upon Florence with a certain illumination too. Florence, 
 excited, exasperated, and worn out with the suspense which had 
 been so little expected, was on the point of bursting into tears. 
 Mr. Osborne took her hand, and pressed it so that she gave another 
 little shriek of excitement and almost pain, as he followed the 
 Rector out ; and there was Florence left half sobbing, angry, full 
 of the news which was so much greater than any of the others — 
 even Mab's fortune, which she did not in the least believe in — 
 which nobody would take the trouble to understand. 
 
 ' Florry, dear child, what is this 1 ' cried Lady William, while 
 the big steps of the gentlemen were heard, one following the other, 
 from the door. 
 
 ' Oh, what does it matter 1 ' cried Florry, ' you are all so full 
 of your own affairs. We came to tell you, thinking you would be 
 interested ; but you would not let us speak ; and to see papa 
 standing there talking about the finest piece of news ! " Mab, our 
 
392 LADY WILLIAM l 
 
 little Mab, is au heiress," ' cried the irreverent girl, getting up and 
 looking round exactly as he had done, and with all his solemnity, 
 ' " Mab has come into a fortune." ' 
 
 ' Florry, Florry, spare your father ! ' cried Lady William, with 
 an irrepressible laugh. 
 
 And then Florry, who, notwithstanding her white frock, and 
 her agitated heart, and her girl's face, had been the Rev. James 
 Plowden in person for one malicious, humorous, angry moment, 
 dropped into her chair and fell a-crying in her own character and 
 no other. 
 
 ' Oh,' she cried, ' to think that you should be so stupid. Aunt 
 Emily, you that always see everything. When we came expressly 
 to tell you ! Good gracious, what are fortunes, or schoolmistresses, 
 or Miss Greys, or anything, in comparison with it being all right, 
 all right and everything settled between Edward and me 1 ' 
 
LI 
 
 Notwithstanding Miss Grey's testimony and all that had 
 happened to make her quite sure of her position, it cannot be 
 denied that Lady Wilham awaited the lawyers' reply to her 
 letter with some anxiety. How does an uninstructed woman 
 know what lawyers may do '? They may find the clearest evidence 
 wanting in something, some formality which may invalidate the 
 whole. Had she not heard a hundred times of the difference be- 
 tween moral certainty and legal evidence 1 They might allege 
 something of this sort, and perhaps, for anything she could tell, 
 insist upon a trial, and the public appearance of witnesses, and the 
 discussion of her marriage in the papers, a possibility which made 
 Lady William's heart sick. I am not at all sure (but then I know 
 little more about law than Lady William did) that had Messrs. 
 Fox and Round been pettifogging lawyers, and their clients petty 
 and unknown people, they might not have attempted something 
 of the kind ; but, as a matter of fact, they had never advised their 
 clients to do anything in the matter, and Lord Portcullis, who 
 remembered his sister-in-law very well, and all the circumstances 
 of Lord William's death, had never entertained a doubt on the 
 subject. 
 
 ' Certificates 1 ' he said, ' why, I have seen the woman ! ' as if 
 that was more than certificates ; and Lord Portcullis was not a 
 man who was ignorant of the evil that exists in the world, or who 
 was at all in a general way an optimist about women. It had 
 been the Marchioness, more hasty, and more disposed to think 
 that by a bold coup anything could be done, who hoped to secure 
 the whole of Lord John's fortune in that way. When she found 
 that this was impossible (though she always retained a secret con- 
 viction that Lady William was 'just as much Lady William as 
 my old housekeeper is ! ') my Lady Portcullis thought of another 
 way — a way, indeed, which had been one of the two things 
 
394 LADY WILLIAM li 
 
 she had thought of iu sending her son Will to see into the 
 affair. 
 
 ' If we can't have it in any other way we might at least marry 
 it', she said to her husband. ' If Will got it in the end it would not 
 be altogether lost.' And this was how it happened that the gay 
 Guardsman, cursing his luck, was sent down again to Watcham to 
 pay a visit ' at that hole of an old Hall, with that dreadful witch of 
 an old woman,' as he expressed it to his friends, in the first burst 
 of the opening season, when everything had a special zest, and all 
 was delightful, fresh, and new. Lord Will's petition to be received 
 so soon again was the first thing which revealed, to the Swinfords at 
 least, that against Lady William therewas now no further word tosay. 
 
 ' Why don't you come up to town ? ' that young gentleman said 
 at dinner, where Mrs Swinford was not present. ' What good can 
 it do, Swinford, to bury yourself down here ? Why, man alive ! 
 it's not even the country ; it's not much better than a suburban 
 villa. Fine place, I allow, and all that ; curious old relic of grand- 
 papa, don't you know ; but grandpapa is such a very recent relation, 
 it is not much worth your while keeping this up.' 
 
 ' Thanks for your kindness,' said Leo ; ' I may say, also, if that 
 is not too much, that, had I not been here, it would, my dear 
 Will, have been less convenient for you.' 
 
 ' Ah yes,' said the young man, ' less convenient, but much nicer, 
 if the truth must be told ; for to come down here a-fortune-hunting, 
 don't you know, is about the last thing in the world to please me.' 
 
 ' Oh, that is it ! ' said Leo. 
 
 ' That's it, to be sure,' said the other. ' A cousin, too ; and 
 it is not such a heavy price to put oneself up for. There's half-a- 
 dozen little Americans about town, or Australians, or whatever 
 you like to call them, that are much better worth than that, if a 
 man is to make a sacrifice of himself,' said poor Lord Will. 
 
 ' But so long as your brother Pontoon is well and strong, the 
 Americans don't care much, do they, for a courtesy title ? ' 
 
 ' They're getting awfully well up,' confessed the other in a 
 doleful tone, 'got their peerage at their fingers' ends, and care 
 nothing for younger brothers, that's the truth ; and I'm sure I 
 don't want to marry any of them, nor any girl that I know of. I 
 say, Swinford, you don't know how well off you are, you lucky 
 beggar, to be all there is of your family. I don't mean to say that 
 I'm not a bore to Pontoon, and all that, having to be provided for 
 somehow — as much as he is to me, standing in my way.' 
 
 ' You think it would be a better arrangement having only one 
 son ? ' 
 
LI * LADY WILLIAM 395 
 
 • One child, that's what I should recommend ; like the French 
 do,' said this victim of English prejudices. He was not aware 
 that his grammar was bad, and would not have cared had he 
 known. There are some people who are above grammar, just as 
 there are many who are below it. He sighed, and added, as if 
 that was a dreadful fact that needed no comment : * There are four 
 girls, and none of them married.' A second sigh after he had 
 made this announcement was something like a groan. 
 
 ' They are almost too young for that, as yet,' said Leo, with 
 good nature. 
 
 ' Too young ! This will be Addie's third season, and not so 
 much as a nibble. If you don't think that serious, by Jove, I do 
 — and Betty treading on her heels, and the little ones beginning to 
 perk their heads out of the schoolroom. The poor old mother, it's 
 enough to turn her gray. And when she bids me up and do 
 something for myself, I can't turn on her, Swinford, I can't indeed, 
 though it's hard on a fellow all the same. It ought all to have 
 come to us, it ought indeed — without any encumbrance, the 
 advertisements say.' 
 
 'The encumbrance,' said Leo, who was half angry and half 
 amused, ' is not a thing you will find it so easy to reckon with, my 
 poor Will. She has her own ways of thinking, and a will of her 
 own.' 
 
 ' Ah ! ' said Lord Will, with much calm. He was not afraid, 
 it would appear, of Mab. He thought of the little roundabout 
 thing whom he had seen on his previous visit, not, certainly, with 
 much alarm, but with a sense that if she resisted his advances 
 (which was so very unlikely) he would not be inconsolable. 
 Anyhow, he would have done what duty and his parents required 
 of him. It was very satisfactory to him that Mrs. Swinford did 
 not come downstairs that evening, for the recollection of his last 
 interview with her was not agreeable to him in the present 
 changed circumstances. How he was to explain to her the motif 
 of his conduct now, and how the failure of all her information — 
 her hints and prophecies of evil — was to be got over, did there 
 ever again ensue a tete-dAete between the hostess and her visitor, he 
 could not tell. Mrs. Swinford was much more alarming to Lord 
 Will than the little cousin whom he came to woo. 
 
 The first assurance received by Lady William that all was well 
 was thus conveyed to her by the second visit of the young man 
 who bore her husband's name, who came stalking into the cottage 
 alone on the morning after his arrival as if he had been one of the 
 intimates there, and addressed her as Aunt William, to her great 
 
396 LADY WILLIAM li 
 
 surprise and agitation. Not a word did Lord Will say of his 
 uncle's money or the proceedings of Messrs. Fox and Round. 
 Watcham was so handy for town, was what the young man said. 
 It was so easy to run down for a breath of fresh air : and boxed 
 up in town, as it was his hard fate to be, nobody could think what 
 a pleasure it was to get into the country from time to time. 
 
 ' I had no idea that you were such a lover of the country,' 
 Lady William said. 
 
 ' Not the country in the abstract,' said Lord Will ; ' but a 
 pleasant little place like this within an hour's ride — with such a 
 pleasant fellow as Swinford always throwing open his doors — a 
 man with really a nice place, and the best chef I've met with, out 
 of the very best houses, don't you know.' 
 
 ' Yes, I see,' said Lady William ; ' I should not think of asking 
 you to meet my cook after that.' 
 
 ' Oh, delighted,' said Lord Will. ' I don't demand a chef like 
 Swinford's everywhere ; besides, there's not a dozen of his quality 
 in the world — brought him from Paris with them, don't you know. 
 Women don't often care much for what they eat — but when they 
 do !' 
 
 'Yes,' said Lady William, with great gravity, 'when women 
 are bad, as people say, they are worse than men ; which is a com- 
 pliment or not, according as we receive it.' 
 
 ' There is nothing bad, my dear aunt, in being particular about 
 what you eat.' 
 
 ' Nothing in the world, or I should be a great sinner. We 
 both like nice things, both Mab and I.' 
 
 ' Oh,' said Lord Will — ' but I am not surprised,' he added — 
 ' not even that my cousin should show so much sense : for when 
 she has had the advantage of being trained by such a mother ' 
 
 Lady William burst into a laugh. His compliments pleased 
 her, as showing how complete was her own victory ; but he amused 
 her still more. 
 
 ' Let us hope that Mab will continue to show that she has 
 profited by that training,' she said. 
 
 'Oh, ah,' said Lord Will; 'now, of course, you will take her 
 to town. My mother, indeed, wanted to know if she could do 
 anything for you about that — look out for a house, or see after 
 rooms, or that sort of thing % ' 
 
 ' Lady Portcullis is very kind. I am not sure if I shall 
 make any move this year. Mab is only seventeen ; there is plenty 
 of time.' 
 
 ' That is just what my mother thought,' said Lord Will. 
 
LI LADY WILLIAM 397 
 
 Lady William could not restrain another laugh. The kindness 
 of Lady Portcullis, and her desire to be useful, were profoundly 
 amusing to her. 
 
 ' Your mother is too kind to take my plans into consideration,' 
 she said. 
 
 ' Well, you see, the mother has girls of her own, and knows all 
 the fuss about introducing them and all that. A girl is ever so 
 much more trouble than sons. We are tossed into the world to 
 sink or swim ; but there's all sorts of fuss about invitations and 
 things for them — the right sort of invitations, don't you know, to 
 meet the right sort of people. My mother's deeply up in all that. 
 She could give you a great many wrinkles. That's one reason, I 
 suppose, why women are so pleased when they get their girls oft' 
 their hands.' 
 
 ' Is it the result of your personal observation, my dear Lord 
 Will, that women are so pleased to get their girls, as you say, oft" 
 their hands ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, Lord, yes,' cried the Guardsman, with warm conviction ; 
 ' to marry them oft" in their first season is the very best thing that 
 can happen, especially if there's money in the case. You get a lot 
 of fellows dangling about that think of nothing else ; and the poor 
 things get ticketed, you know, with their values, and if a man 
 thinks he can let himself go at that price ' 
 
 ' What a terrible prospect for the girls with money — and their 
 mothers ! ' 
 
 ' So it is. And if a decent fellow turns up beforehand who can 
 take care of the girl, don't you know ' 
 
 ' I see,' said Lady William. ' How good you are to come and 
 give me these hints — to be a guide to my ignorance ! ' 
 
 He gave her a doubtful look ; but seeing her perfect gravity 
 was encouraged. 
 
 'Well,' said Lord Will, 'some people would think it wasn't 
 my place ; but when I see a nice woman like you. Aunt 
 William ' 
 
 ' Thank you, Lord WHl.' 
 
 ' Oh, you need not thank me ; it is a pleasure. When I see 
 you just starting out of this nice quiet place upon the world, and 
 think what a horrid wicked deceitful place it is ' 
 
 ' My dear Lord Will, you almost make me cry over you in the 
 character of youthful prophet, and myself in that of the inexperi- 
 enced novice. You are a Daniel come to judgment ; but surely 
 you have too bad an opinion of the poor world.' 
 
 ' I hope you will think so when you come to try it,' he said. 
 
398 LADY WILLIAM Li 
 
 And then looking up suddenly he was caught by the gleam of fun 
 in Lady William's eye. 
 
 ' I believe,' he said, ' you are laughing at me and my advice all 
 the time.' 
 
 ' I shall not perhaps require to take advantage of it,' she said 
 evasively, ' till next year : and one can never tell what wonderful 
 things may happen before that time.' 
 
 It was Lord Will's decision as he went away that his dear 
 aunt was much ' deeper ' than he had given her credit for being, 
 and that perhaps to be chary of advice might be better on the 
 whole. But he came back in the afternoon, and also next morning 
 before he went away, and was very anxious to be permitted 
 to be of use to the ladies when they came to town — if they should 
 come. 
 
 ' I suppose you'll come up — for the pictures or something,' he 
 said, ' or to go to the opera, or that sort of thing 1 — when a fellow 
 that knows his way about might be of use. Drop me a line. Aunt 
 William. There is nothing I like so much as being of use.' 
 
 'I like a day in town,' said Mab, who this time was present. 
 ' Don't you think, mother, it's a good idea 1 There are a number 
 of things I want to see. I should like to go to the Row with 
 somebody who could tell me who everybody was. And if Cousin 
 Will can spare the time ' 
 
 ' I shall take care to spare the time. Cousin Mab.' 
 
 ' And you can tell me who everybody is 1 ' 
 
 ' Oh ! I know a few of the swells,' the young man responded 
 modestly ; and an appointment was accordingly made. But in the 
 evening, when they were alone together, Mab made inquiries into 
 the sudden cordiality of her cousin. ' Why should he have come 
 back again so soon 1 I am sure you did not wish him to come 
 back : and why should he be so kind ? He was not kind like this 
 when he was here before. And you look either as if you were very 
 happy about it, or as if it were a capital joke.' 
 
 ' It is a capital joke — as it has turned out, Mab ; but I don't 
 know what it might have been if Lucy Grey, devoured by curiosity, 
 had not gone to my marriage without being asked, as she told us 
 the other day.' 
 
 J\Iab opened her eyes very wide. 
 
 ' What could it matter whether Miss G-rey was there or not ? ' 
 
 ' I will tell you, Mab — I can't keep secrets. I was married in 
 a great hurry, and got no — certificates, or things of that sort. 
 The church has been burnt down ; the clergyman is dead — 
 accidents which your uncle James thinks have been partly my 
 
LI LADY WILLIAM 399 
 
 fault for being married there — and I might have had difficulty iu 
 l)roving my marriage ' 
 
 ' Why, mother ? ' 
 
 'Well, Mab Why, because I had no evidence, don't 
 
 you see 1 ' 
 
 ' You had me,' said Mab calmly ; ' surely I am evidence. If 
 you had not been married how could you account for me ? ' 
 
 Lady William kept an expression of perfect gravity, though 
 not without some trouble. 
 
 ' That is an unquestionable proof, to be sure,' she said, bending 
 her head; 'but,' she added, iu a lighter tone, 'I could not 
 send you by post to show the lawyers, as I could have done a 
 certificate.' 
 
 ' A certificate ! ' cried Mab, with mild disdain, ' as if people 
 would ever ask for certificates from you ! But that,' she added, 
 'anyhow has nothing to do with Cousin Will. Why should he 
 have come back so soon 1 and why should he be so kind 1 and why 
 are we asked to lunch with the Marchioness, and all that 1 I think 
 there must be more in this than meets the eye.' 
 
 ' You know that you have just come into a fortune ' 
 
 ' Oh, mother, don't say it is for that,' Mab said, in tones of 
 disgust. 
 
 ' No, it's not exactly for that. But perhaps your cousin 
 thinks that he might help you — to spend it, or take care of it ' 
 
 ' Oh ! ' said Mab. She did not blush, nor was she excited, but 
 a faint movement swept over her round face which indicated that 
 she knew what his visit meant. And not only did she know what it 
 meant, but it gave her a certain satisfaction as clearing up for her 
 a question which had been very puzzling to her little sober brain. 
 
 'Oh,' she said again, 'is that what it means?' 
 
 ' No one can speak quite certainly on such a subject,' said 
 Lady William, ' but I think that is what it means.' 
 
 It M'as some time before Mab spoke again. 
 
 ' Is it then,' she said, ' a very large fortune, mother 1 ' 
 
 ' It is fifty thousand pounds.' 
 
 ' And how much does that mean a year 1 ' 
 
 Lady William had a woman's limited understanding of interest, 
 that is, a woman's view who has never had money to invest. She 
 thought it meant something about five per cent, a little more or a 
 little less, and replied accordingly that it meant a little more than 
 two thousand pounds a year. 
 
 ' That's not so much, is it, for a man like Cousin Will 1 ' 
 
 ' No, it is not so very much ' 
 
400 LADY WILLIAM li 
 
 ' Aud a cousin — that would be no fun. If I were to marry a 
 cousin, I think I would much rather have Jim ' 
 
 ' Jim ! ' cried Lady William, with a start. ' Not for the world, 
 Mab ! an idle young man, with bad habits — you would never be 
 so mad as that ! ' 
 
 ' Everybody is not made exactly alike, mother,' said Mab 
 gravely. 'Jim is idle, it is true, and he always will be idle, 
 should all the Eectory people go on at him till doomsday. The 
 more reason that he should be married (if he is ever married) to 
 some one who is very steady, and has money enough to live on, 
 and can keep him straight.' 
 
 ' But, Mab,' her mother said, with a gasp, ' what reasoning is 
 this 1 To put a premium on idleness, and save a man from 
 himself.' 
 
 ' Well, mother, I've heard you say what a pity it was that 
 people were so afraid of responsibility. I am not afraid of it. If 
 I were to marry my cousin — which would be no fun at all, in the 
 first place — I should certainly rather have Cousin Jim, whom I 
 could be of most use to, than Cousin Will.' 
 
LII 
 
 'So that is all finished and settled and done with,' said Leo 
 Swinford, with no great expression of delight on his face. 
 
 * You don't seem to see the great happiness and satisfaction of 
 it,' said Lady William. 
 
 ' No, perhaps I do not. I had always the hope that I might 
 have been of some use, of some service to you, something more 
 both in importance and use than a mere friend.' 
 
 ' Is there anything more than a true friend ? ' said Lady 
 William, holding out her hand. 
 
 He took her hand, which was so cool and soft and white — and 
 kind — and indifferent. As kind as could be, ready to soothe him, 
 help him, do anything for him that he needed ; and perfectly 
 indifferent, as if he had been the little boy of ten whom Emily 
 Plowden had been so fond of in his ingenuous childish days. 
 
 ' Yes,' said Leo, ' there is something more ' 
 
 ' Not according to my understanding of life. Perhaps my 
 experience has not been a very favourable one. I like a friend — 
 one who understands me and whom I understand — who would 
 stand by me in any need as I woidd stand by him — with a nice 
 wife and children whom I could love.' 
 
 ' Ah ! ' said Leo, dropping the hand he had held. After a 
 moment he said, in a different tone : ' My mother has finally made 
 up her mind that she can endure this hermitage no more.' 
 
 ' And you are going to town 1 It will be better for you in 
 every wa)^' 
 
 ' She is going back to Paris. I have done all I could to 
 persuade her to gather friends about her here — or in London better 
 still. But she will not hear me. Her opinion is that Paris, even 
 out of season, is better than Loudon at its gayest. She will 
 go, perhaps, to some ville de mer, and then back in October to 
 her old apartment and her old friends.' 
 
 2d 
 
402 LADY WILLIAM Lii 
 
 ' And you, Leo 1 ' 
 
 ' I am an Englishman,' he said, with a little air half of pride, 
 haK of self-abnegation, which created in his friend a profane in- 
 clination to laugh. 
 
 ' In spite of all temptations 
 To belong to other nations,' 
 
 she said. 
 
 Leo laughed, too, but not with the best grace in the world. 
 
 'It is true that I perceive drawbacks in it,' he said. 'The 
 life is not — gay.' 
 
 ' No, it is not gay. You must go to town when your mother 
 goes to her ville de mer. And in autumn you must fill the house. 
 And then — you must marry, Leo.' 
 
 He gave her a wistful, lingering look. 
 
 'Whom*?' he said, and then he went away. 
 
 He went away, going down the village, turning many things 
 over in his mind. It occurred to him to remember that rush down 
 this same street in the rain in pursuit of Mrs. Brown, while he was 
 still fully of the mind that much was in his power to do for the 
 woman who occupied his thoughts — and with the possibility at 
 the end that he might rescue her from undeserved humiliation by 
 the offer of his home and name. And then he remembered the 
 girl whom he had met, who had entered so warmly into his search, 
 and of her eyes shining in the lamplight and the raindrops upon 
 her hair. The raindrops upon Emmy's hair were certainly not 
 moral qualifications like the unfeigned kindness of her look, the 
 instant sympathy with which she had responded to his call, her 
 concern about his condition of damp and discomfort. He thought 
 of her with a rush of kind and almost tender feeling. Certainly 
 she never looked so pretty as on that evening. And she was very 
 like Lady William. When her mind was roused to interest, and 
 what he in his modesty called kindness, there was nothing in 
 Emmy of the vulgarity of her surroundings. Nor was it vulgarity, 
 properly speaking. Mrs. Plowden, good woman, was hourgeoise, 
 that was all. And how kind she had been ! How she had 
 stirred the whole house to attend to his comfort ! Leo saw all 
 the family running this way and that to wait upon him, and 
 Jim turning out his wardrobe to give him whatever he liked. 
 How kind they all were ! He had never been in the smallest 
 degree civil to them. None of the entertainments to which 
 Mrs. Plowden had looked forward had been given at the Hall. 
 There had not been so much as a dinner to the neighbours. Mrs. 
 Swinford had put her veto upon anything of the kind, and Leo 
 
Lil LADY WILLIAM 403 
 
 had felt it impossible to do anything without his mother. And 
 yet how kind, how anxious to serve him they had all been ! Leo 
 laughed within himself at the race of civility — every one trying 
 to be agreeable to him. And then his thoughts turned upon 
 Emmy, who, after introducing him to the Rectory, had done 
 nothing — had stood aloof a little from all these attentions. Why 
 did she stand aloof? Perhaps if she had been the kindest and 
 most active of all, doing everything for him, his vanity would 
 have profited by that. It did still serve when he remembered that 
 she was the only one who stood aloof. Why 1 Was it because 
 Emmy felt the inclination to be a little more than kind which he 
 had felt for Lady William ? A very small matter is enough for a 
 complacent imagination to build upon. He hesitated, with a half 
 intention of going to the Rectory, of making a call upon — whom 1 
 His call could not be upon Emily. It would be upon her mother, 
 who would receive it as a piece of ordinary civility. He paused, 
 lingering at the corner where the road to the Rectory crossed the 
 high-road in which stood the great gates and chief entrance to the 
 Hall. 
 
 It was at this moment that Jim, feeling himself much ' out 
 of it,' suddenly loomed in view. Very much out of it was poor 
 Jim once more. Mr. Osborne was so much engrossed with Florry 
 that he had clean forgotten that Workman's Club which he and 
 his future brother-in-law were about to begin to organise. And 
 Jim was aware that to go to the curate's rooms was unnecessary, 
 seeing he was much more likely to be found near or about the 
 Rectory. And Mrs. Brown was gone. There was no longer the 
 alternative of dropping in at the schoolhouse. What was he to 
 do with himself these late afternoons when the time for work 
 was over, and there was nothing to do? Did he think of the 
 'Blue Boar' again? I hope Jim had no hankering after the 
 ' Blue Boar' ; but he wanted a little variety — a change, somebody 
 to speak to who did not belong to him, who would not tell him 
 over again the same things he had heard at breakfast and luncheon 
 and tea. He, too, was wavermg, not certain which way to go — 
 the road that led out to the country, where he could take a walk 
 — a very doubtful kind of pleasure — or the road that led to the 
 ' Blue Boar.' 
 
 No one had ever told Leo Swinford to put forth a hand to 
 this youth, who was still lingering between good and evil. No 
 Florence had taken upon herself to preach to him upon this text. 
 It was no business of his ; he had no responsibility in respect to 
 Jim ; but he suddenly remembered certain things he had heard, 
 
404 LADY WILLIAM Lii 
 
 and good-nature and a good heart, which are sometunes even more 
 efficacious, being more spontaneous, than a sense of duty prompted 
 him. It was more self-denying than the curate's interposition, 
 for Leo had no Florry to please ; and it was less self-denying, for 
 he had no feeling of repulsion to the careless young fellow 
 wavering between good and evil. He waved his hand to Jim, 
 who was coming slowly towards him, and waited at that corner of 
 the road. 
 
 ' You are the very man,' said Leo, ' whom I wished to see. 
 Come and dine with me to-night at the Hall, will you, Plowden ? 
 It will be an act of charity, for I shall be quite alone.' 
 
 ' At the Hall ! ' said Jim, startled. 
 
 ' It is far to go for a charitable object,' said Leo, with a 
 laugh. 
 
 ' Oh, I didn't mean that ! ' cried Jim, confused. And thus 
 once more the ' Blue Boar' (which was, indeed, quite an innocent 
 beast, and rather relieved than otherwise that the Rector's son 
 entered its jaws no more) was cheated of its prey. 
 
 But whether Jim, unconscious Jim, may be the means of bring- 
 ing together Leo Swinford and the good Emmy, who was so like, 
 and yet so unlike, the other Emily Plowden of the past, is a fact 
 which lies still undiscovered in the womb of time — where also it 
 remains as yet unknown whether the dispositions of Mab in his 
 favour (conditionally) will ever be understood by him or carried 
 out. Should they be, the reader may be sure that the strenuous 
 opposition of Lady William will be a difficulty hard to surmount 
 in the experiences of this young pair. 
 
 Mab and her mother, however, spent more than one day in 
 town during that summer — it being decided that the young lady's 
 introduction to society was not to take place till she was eighteen 
 — under the escort of Lord Will : and they went to luncheon with 
 the family, and were most benignly received by the Marchioness, 
 who regretted warmly that she had never up to this time made 
 the acquaintance of her sister-in-law. 
 
 ' But you see how my time is taken up,' she said, with a sig- 
 nificant glance at the four tall girls (all taking after her ladyship's 
 family, and not a Pakenham among them, thank Heaven ! she was 
 apt to say) who assembled at luncheon, the two who were still in 
 the schoolroom looking quite as mature as the two who were ' out.' 
 Mab was the only one who was like Lord Portcidlis, ridiculously 
 like, all the family agreed. And one day they went to the Row 
 together, where Lord Will and his sister, who accompanied the 
 party, pointed out everybody who was anybody to Mab. They 
 
Lii LADY WILLIAM 405 
 
 pointed out to her many people whose names she knew, and whom 
 she looked upon with admiration and interest, and a great many 
 who were to her quite unknown. 
 
 ' I never heard of them before,' said little Mab, ready to yawn 
 after a list of such names. ' Who are they 1 What have they 
 done ? ' 
 
 ' Oh, you little simpleton,' said Lady Betty, ' they are the 
 very smartest people in town,' for that odious adjective had just 
 come into use at the time. 
 
 As for Lord Will, he was at that moment engaged in com- 
 municating a piece of modern history to the charming aunt, whom 
 that young man much preferred to her daughter. 
 
 ' You know the Swinford woman's gone off,' he said. * What 
 a release for that poor Leo who was never allowed to stir from her 
 apron-strings ! ' 
 
 * I don't know,' said Lady William, ' that he will think it such 
 a release.' 
 
 ' And, of course, you know why she's going,' said the young 
 man of fashion. ' The old witch thought everybody had forgotten 
 her naughty ways. Well, she's old enough, she might be allowed 
 benefit of clergy : and she meant to go to the Drawing Eoom and 
 get whitewashed, don't you know. But H.M. has a long memory 
 — wouldn't have her at any price — asked what they meant by 
 insulting her Court, bringing such a Person there. When Her 
 Most Gracious calls a woman a Person there's an end of her. So 
 town don't agree with that old lady's health, no more does the 
 Hall — and she's off to her beloved France, she says, where there's 
 something like society — society, don't you know, where there's 
 nobody that has any right to interfere.' 
 
 ' Is that the reason ? ' said Lady William — her heart was 
 touched, though she was aware that she had little cause to love 
 Mrs. Swinford. ' I have not been very much in charity with her 
 lately, but she was once very kind. I am sorry this should have 
 happened. Everything that is naughty, as you say, must have 
 been over long ago.' 
 
 ' Oh, don't you be too sure of that,' said Lord Will. ' The 
 old hag, made up for a burlesque, would have flirted with me the 
 other day, between the showers of the venom she was shooting out 
 upon you.' 
 
 ' Did she shoot out venom upon me ? ' said Lady William. 
 Her face lighted up for a moment with a gleam of angry indigna- 
 tion. And then, ' Poor old woman ! ' she said. 
 
 I am afraid Lord Will had no comprehension whatever of this 
 
406 LADY WILLIAM Lli 
 
 misplaced pity. He stared ; aud he made up his mind that his 
 handsome aunt overestimated his simplicity, and intended to take 
 him in by that show of feeling — which was the most unlikely 
 undertaking, seeing that Lord WUl was a young man about town, 
 and up, as he himself woidd have said, to all the dodges. It was 
 trouble altogether thrown away in his case. 
 
 'What did Will mean by H.M. having a long memory?' said 
 Mab, who had overheard part of thLs talk. 
 
 ' He means that Her Majesty remembers all about everybody 
 — it is a point of Royal politeness — and that the Queen will not 
 receive anybody at Court with a stain upon her name.' 
 
 ' But that is the very thing she ought to do ! ' cried Mab. 
 
 She was not aware that it was improper to use vulgar pronouns 
 in speaking of the greatest lady in the land. 
 
 Lady William made no reply. She was thinking of the long 
 life of self-indulgence, of luxury and pleasure, a life in which no 
 wish had been allowed to remain unfulfilled, of the woman who 
 had sentenced herself in her youth, remorselessly, to a horrible 
 fate — to deception and undeception, one more dreadful than the 
 other — in order to save her own reputation : and then had turned 
 upon her and endeavoured to ruin her for having been thus de- 
 ceived. Mrs. Swinford had suffered little outwardly for all those 
 indulgences which she had insisted upon securing for herself, and 
 for all the wrong she had done to others. But here, at last, her 
 lovers, her victims, her husband whom she had deceived, her friend 
 whom she had sacrificed, were avenged. By what ? — by the Lord 
 Chamberlain's wand across that doorway forbidding entrance to 
 one of the most tiresome ceremonials in the world. 
 
 ' Poor old woman ! ' Lady William said. 
 
 ' I don't know who is the poor old woman,' said Mab, ' nor 
 what she has done ; but it's grand of the Queen, if she is a wicked 
 old woman, not to let her in. So, say poor woman as much as 
 you like, mother ; I approve of the Queen.' 
 
 ' I hope Her Majesty may be duly grateful, Mab,' her mother 
 replied. 
 
 I will not say that Mr. Francis Osborne's family were quite 
 satisfied that he had done as well for himself as he ought by mariy- 
 ing his Rector's daughter. With his connections and prospects 
 he might, as they said, have married anybody. But, at the same 
 time, for a curate to marry his Rector's daughter is a thing that 
 is always on the cards, and the Plowdens in their way were un- 
 exceptionable ; and then there was that connection with the Port- 
 cullis family, which was always something. So the Osborues and 
 
i.Ti LADY WILLIAM 407 
 
 the kindred in general exerted themselves, as they had always 
 intended to do on fit occasion, and provided the living which 
 was always understood to be waiting until Francis should have 
 gained a little experience. There was the prettiest wedding in 
 Watcham Chiu:ch, which became a bower of flowers, all the old 
 lines of its arches and pillars traced out with lilies and roses, and 
 the dim building made bright with a festal company of old and 
 young, which filled it as if for an Easter or a Christmas service. 
 The procession walked from the Rectory through the little private 
 gate to the church, with all Watcham looking on outside the 
 hedge of the garden. Fortunately, it was very dry as well as 
 bright, and the most delicate dresses got no harm, and the sight 
 afforded the truest gratification to all the parishioners, great and 
 small. "When Florence had changed her wedding robes for the 
 pretty gray gown in which she was to travel, she lingered in the 
 old room which she had shared for nearly all her life with her 
 sister, and kissed her inseparable Emmy with a few tears. 
 
 ' If it had not been me, it would have been you,' Florry said. 
 ' One of us was bound to go the first. And it will soon be your 
 turn, too.' 
 
 ' No,' said Emmy, ' I do not think I shall ever marry.' 
 
 ' Oh, what nonsense ! ' Florence said, ' He has kept beside 
 you all day.' 
 
 Emmy disengaged herself from her sister with a gravity be- 
 yond description. 
 
 ' That will never be,' she said. ' You know it was only a 
 girl's fancy, and never, never meant anything.' 
 
 ' I know nothing of the sort,' Florence said, ' and I think it 
 never meant so much as now.' 
 
 ' Florry ! ' cried Emily, in sudden alarm, ' if you ever tell, if 
 you ever breathe a syllable ! ' 
 
 ' No, I never will ! ' said Florence, pursing up her lips as if to 
 prevent any treacherous word from coming out. 
 
 And, though she had many temptations and struggles with 
 herself, she never did — until there came a time 
 
 THE END 
 
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 5. TWO ON A TOWER. 
 
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Three-and-Sixpenny Library 13 
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 HYPATIA ; or, New Foes with an old Face. 
 
 TWO YEARS AGO. 
 
 ALTON LOCKE, Tailor and Poet. An Autobiography. 
 
 HEREWARD THE WAKE, " Last of the English." 
 
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 AT LAST. A Christmas in the West Indies. With Illustrations. 
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 ALL SAINTS' DAY : and other Sermons. 
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 THE GOOD NEWS OF GOD. Sermons. 
 GOSPEL OF THE PENTATEUCH. 
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 WESTMINSTER SERMONS. 
 
14 Macmillan and Co.'s 
 
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 i6, 
 
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 ZOROASTER. 
 
 MARZIO'S CRUCIFIX. 
 
 A TALE OF A LONELY PARISH. 
 
 PAUL PATOFF. 
 
 WITH THE IMMORTALS. 
 
 GREIFENSTEIN. 
 
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 A ROSE OF YESTERDAY. 
 
 SANT' ILARIO. 
 
 A CIGARETTE-MAKER'S ROMANCE, 
 
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 THE THREE FATES. 
 
 THE WITCH OF PRAGUE 
 
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 KATHARINE LAUDERDALE. 
 
Three-and-Sixpenny Library 15 
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 THE SQUATTER'S DREAM. 
 
 A SYDNEY-SIDE SAXON. 
 
 A COLONIAL REFORMER. 
 
 NEVERMORE. 
 
 PLAIN LIVING: A Bash Idyll. 
 
 MY RUN HOME. 
 
 THE CROOKED STICK; or, Pollie's Probation. 
 
 OLD MELBOURNE MEMORIES. 
 
 WAR TO THE KNIFE ; or, Tangata Maori. 
 
 BABES IN THE BUSH. 
 
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Three-and-Sixpenny Library 17 
 
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 TWELVE STORIES AND A DREAM. 
 
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 MARSHFIELD THE OBSERVER. 
 
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 THE SECRET ORCHARD. 
 
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 Over 700,000 of these works have been printed. 
 
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Three-and-Sixpenny Library 19 
 THE NOVELS OF 
 
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 Over 700,000 of these works have been printed. 
 
 13. THE HIGHWAY OF FATE. 23rd Thousand. 
 
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 HEARTSEASE ; or, the Brother's Wife. New Edition. With 
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 HOPES AND FEARS ; or, Scenes from the Life of a Spinster. 
 With Illustrations by Herbert Gandy. 
 
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 THE YOUNG STEPMOTHER ; or, a Chronicle of Mistakes. 
 
 With Illustrations by Marian Huxley. 
 
 THE CLEVER WOMAN OF THE FAMILY. With lUustra- 
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 THE THREE BRIDES, With Illustrations by Adrian Stokes. 
 
 MY YOUNG ALCIDES : A Faded Photograph. With Illustra- 
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 THE CAGED LION. With Illustrations by W. J. Hennessy. 
 
 THE DOVE IN THE EAGLE'S NEST. With Illustrations 
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 LOVE AND LIFE: an Old Story in Eighteenth Century Costume. 
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 UNKNOWN TO HISTORY. A Story of the Captivity of Mary 
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Three-and-Sixpenny Library 21 
 THE NOVELS AND TALES OF 
 
 CHARLOTTE M. YONGE 
 
 THE ARMOURER'S 'PRENTICES. With Illustrations by 
 
 W. J. Hennessy. 
 SCENES AND CHARACTERS ; or, Eighteen Months at 
 
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 CHANTRY HOUSE. With Illustrations by W. J. Hennessy. 
 A MODERN TELEMACHUS. With Illustrations by W. J. 
 
 Hennessy. 
 BYWORDS. A collection of Tales new and old. 
 BEECHCROFT AT ROCKSTONE. 
 MORE BYWORDS. 
 A REPUTED CHANGELING; or, Three Seventh Years Two 
 
 Centuries Ago. 
 THE LITTLE DUKE, RICHARD THE FEARLESS. With 
 
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 With Illustrations by Adrian Stokes. 
 TWO PENNILESS PRINCESSES. With Illustrations by 
 
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 THAT STICK. 
 AN OLD WOMAN'S OUTLOOK IN A HAMPSHIRE. 
 
 VILLAGE. 
 GRISLY GRISELL ; or. The Laidly Lady of Whitburn. A Tale- 
 
 of the Wars of the Roses. 
 HENRIETTA'S WISH. Second Edition. 
 THE LONG VACATION. 
 
 THE RELEASE ; or, Caroline's French Kindred. 
 THE PILGRIMAGE OF THE BEN BERIAH. 
 THE TWO GUARDIANS ; or, Home in this World. Second 
 
 Edition. 
 COUNTESS KATE AND THE STOKESLEY SECRET. 
 MODERN BROODS ; or, Developments Unlooked for. 
 STROLLING PLAYERS : A Harmony of Contrasts. By C. M 
 
 YoNGE and C. R. Coleridge. 
 STRAY PEARLS. Memoirs of Margaret de Ribaumont, Vis- 
 countess of Bellaise. With Illustrations by W. J. Hennessy. 
 
22 Macmillan and Co.'s 
 
 Works by Mrs. Craik 
 
 Olive : A Novel. With Illustrations by G, Bowers. 
 
 Agatha's Husband : A Novel. With Illustrations by 
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 The Head of the Family : A Novel. With Illustrations 
 
 by Walter Crane. 
 
 Two Marriages. 
 
 The Laurel Bush. 
 
 King Arthur: Not a Love Story. 
 
 About Money, and other Things. 
 
 Concerning Men, and other Papers. 
 
 Works by Mrs. Oliphant 
 
 Neighbours on the Green. 
 
 Kirsteen : the Story of a Scotch Family Seventy Years Ago. 
 
 A Beleaguered City : A Story of the Seen and the Unseen. 
 
 Hester : a Story of Contemporary Life. 
 
 He that 'Will Not when He May. 
 
 The Railway Man and his Children. 
 
 The Marriage of Elinor. 
 
 Sir Tom. 
 
 The Heir-Presumptive and the Heir-Apparent. 
 
 A Country Gentleman and his Family. 
 
 A Son of the Soil. 
 
 The Second Son. 
 
 The Wizard's Son : A Novel 
 
 -Lady William. 
 
 Young Musgrave. 
 
Three-and-Sixpenny Library 23 
 
 The Works of Dean Farrar 
 
 SEEKERS AFTER GOD. The Lives of Seneca, Epictetus, and 
 
 Marcus Aurelius. 
 ETERNAL HOPE. Sermons preached in Westminster Abbey. 
 THE FALL OF MAN : and other Sermons, 
 THE WITNESS OF HISTORY TO CHRIST. 
 THE SILENCE AND VOICES OF GOD, with other Sermons. 
 "IN THE DAYS OF THY YOUTH." Sermons on Practical 
 
 Subjects. 
 SAINTLY WORKERS. Five Lenten Lectures. 
 EPHPHATHA ; or, the Amelioration of the World. 
 MERCY AND JUDGMENT : a few last words on Christian 
 
 Eschatology. 
 SERMONS & ADDRESSES DELIVERED IN AMERICA. 
 
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 SERMONS PREACHED IN LINCOLN'S INN CHAPEL. 
 
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 SERMONS PREACHED IN COUNTRY CHURCHES. 
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 THEOLOGICAL ESSAYS. 
 THE PROPHETS and KINGS of the OLD TESTAMENT. 
 
 THE PATRIARCHS AND LAWGIVERS OF THE OLD 
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 THE GOSPEL OF THE KINGDOM OF HEAVEN. 
 
 THE GOSPEL OF ST. JOHN. 
 
 THE EPISTLES OF ST. JOHN. 
 
 THE FRIENDSHIP OF BOOKS : and other Lectures. 
 
 THE PPLAYER BOOK AND THE LORD'S PRAYER. 
 
 THE DOCTRINE OF SACRIFICE. Deduced from the 
 Scriptures. 
 
 THE ACTS OF THE APOSTLES. 
 
 THE KINGDOM OF CHRIST; or, Hints to a Quaker re- 
 specting the Principles, Constitution, and Ordinances ot the 
 Catholic Church, 2 vols. 
 
24 Macmillan and Co.'s 
 
 By J. H. SHORTHOUSE 
 JOHN INGLESANT: A Romance. 
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 A TEACHER OF THE VIOLIN. 
 BLANCHE, LADY FALAISE. 
 
 By GERTRUDE ATHERTON 
 THE CONQUEROR. 
 A DAUGHTER OF THE VINE. 
 THE CALIFORNIANS. 
 
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 A FAMILY AFFAIR. 
 
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 MAROONED. 
 
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 A YORK AND A LANCASTER ROSE. 
 
 CASTLE DALY: the Story of an Irish Home thirty 
 
 years ago. 
 
 JANET'S HOME. | OLDBURY. 
 
 A DOUBTING HEART. 
 
 THE NATIONS AROUND ISRAEL. ' , 
 
Three-and-Sixpenny Library 25 
 
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 TOM BROWN'S SCHOOLDAYS. 
 
 TOM BROWN AT OXFORD. 
 
 THE SCOURING OF THE WHITE HORSE. 
 
 ALFRED THE GREAT. 
 
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 BARRACKS, BIVOUACS, AND BATTLES. 
 
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 LEAVES OF A LIFE. 
 
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26 Macmillan and Co.'s 
 
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Three-and-Sixpenny Library 27 
 
 Works by Various Authors 
 
 Moffan, M.P. 
 
 Flittors, Tatters, and the Counsellor 
 
 The New Antigone 
 
 Memories of Father Healy 
 
 Canon ATKINSON.— The Last of the Giant Killers 
 
 — Playhours and Half-Holidays; or, further Experiences 
 
 of Two Schoolboys 
 Sir S. baker.— True Tales for my Grandsons 
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 BLENNERHASSET and SLEEMAN.— Adventures in Mashona- 
 
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 LANOE FALCONER.— Cecilia de Ncel 
 
 W. FORBES-MITCHELL.— Reminiscences of the Great Mutinj 
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 MARY LINSKILL.— Tales of the North Biding 
 S. R. LYSAGHT.— The Marplot 
 
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 M. M'LENNAN.— Muckle Jock, and other Stories 
 
 G. MASSON. — A Compendious Dictionary of the French 
 
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 Major GAMBIER PARRY.— The Story of Dick 
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 Lord REDESDALE.— Tales of Old Japan 
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 MARCHESA THEODOLL— Under Pressure 
 ANTHONY TROLLOPE.— The Three Clerks 
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28 Three-and-Sixpenny Library 
 
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30 
 
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 NORTHANGER AbBEY, 
 
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31 
 
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