He that will not when he may; vol. I

CHAPTER IV.

Sir William did not come home for two days, but when he did return there was a line between his eyebrows which everybody knew did not come there for nothing. The first glimpse of him made the whole family certain that he knew: and that he was angry; but he did not say anything until dinner was over and the children gone to bed. By that time the ladies began to hope with trembling, either that they had been mistaken, or that nothing was going to be said. “I will tell him this evening, but I will choose my time,” Lady Markham whispered to Alice as Sir William stood up in front of the fireplace and took his coffee after dinner. He was not a man who sat long after dinner, and he liked to have his coffee in the drawing-room, when all the boys and girls had said good-night. He was a little man of very neat and precise appearance, always carefully dressed, always dignified and stately. Perhaps this had been put on at first as a necessary balance to his insignificant stature; but it was part of himself now. His family could not but look up to a man who so thoroughly respected himself. He had a fine head, with abundant hair, though it was growing white, and very penetrating, keen blue eyes; but to see him standing thus against the carved marble of the mantelpiece with the faint glimmer of an unnecessary fire throwing up now and then a feeble flash behind him, it was not difficult to understand that his family were afraid of his displeasure. The conversation they maintained was of the most feeble, disjointed description, while he stood there not saying a word. Paul stood about too, helplessly, as men do in a drawing-room, unoccupied, and prepared to resent anything that might be said to him. If only he could be got away Lady Markham felt that she would have courage to dare everything, and tell her husband, as was her wont, all that had occurred since he went away.

“The Westlands called on Tuesday. They were not more amusing than usual. He wanted to tell you of some great discovery he has made about the state of the law. Paul, will you go and fetch me that law-book I told you of, out of the library? I want to show something in it to papa.”

“I don’t know what you mean by a law-book,” said Paul. He saw that it was intended as a pretext to send him away, and he would not budge.

“And I had a long talk with the vicar about the new cottages. He thinks only those should be allowed to get them who have been very well behaved in the old ones. Paul, by the way, that reminds me I promised to send down the Mudie books to the vicarage. Will you go and see after them, and tell Brown to send them away?”

“Presently,” said Paul. He drank his coffee with the most elaborate tediousness. The more his mother tried to get rid of him, the more determined he was not to go.

“Except the vicar and the Westlands we have seen—scarcely anybody. But I want those books to go to-night, Paul.”

“You are very anxious to get Paul out of the way,” said Sir William. “What does ‘scarcely anybody’ mean? Is it true that a man called Spears, a trades-unionist, a paid agitator——?”

“He is nothing of the sort,” said Paul, with a sudden burst of passion. “If he is an agitator, it is for the right against the wrong, not for payment; anybody who knows him will tell you so.”

“I have heard it from people who know him,” said Sir William. “Is it possible that you took advantage of my absence, Paul, to bring such a man here—to lodge such a person in my house?”

“Such a person!” Paul, who had felt it coming ever since his father’s arrival, stood to his arms at once. “He is the best man I know,” he said, indignantly. “There is no house in the country that might not be proud to receive him; and as for taking advantage of your absence, sir——”

“Indeed,” said Lady Markham, holding up her head, though she had grown pale, “you must not say so, William; he did not know you were away; and as for Mr. Spears, I was just about to tell you. He is not a man to be afraid of. It is true he is not—in society, perhaps—he has not quite the air of a person in society—has he, Alice?” This was said with scarcely a tremble. “But his manners were perfectly good, and his appearance, though it was quite simple—I think you must be making some mistake. I saw no harm in him.”

Will it be believed that Paul, instead of showing gratitude, was indignant at this mild approval? “Saw no harm in him,” he cried; “his manners, his appearance. Are you mad, mother? He is a man who is worthy to be a king, if merit made kings; or if any man worth the name would accept an office which has been soiled by such ignoble use!”

“Hold your tongue, sir,” said Sir William. “It is you who are mad. A stump-orator, a fellow who does much mischief in England! My house is not to be made a shelter for such canaille. Your mother should have turned him to the door; and so she would have done, I don’t doubt—her instincts are too fine not to have seen the kind of creature he was—but for her foolish devotion to you.”

“Paul, Paul! Oh, don’t speak—don’t say anything,” cried Alice in an agony, in her brother’s ear.

“Let him say what he pleases,” said Sir William. “This must be put a stop to. When the house is his, he can dishonour it if he likes, but in the meantime the house is mine.”

“Certainly the house is yours, sir,” cried his son; “I make no claim on it. I feel no right to it. Let me alone, Alice! Do I want the house, or the land, or the money which we steal from the poor to make ourselves splendid, while our fellow-creatures are starving? I am ready to give it up at a moment’s notice. It wounds my conscience, it restrains my action. I want nothing with your house, sir. If I may not bring one honest man into it, you may hand it over to any one you please; it is no home for me.”

“Paul, Paul!” cried his mother in tones of alarm. Sir William only laughed that laugh of anger which frightens a household.

“Let him rave—let him rave,” he cried, throwing himself into a chair. “A boy who speaks so of his home does not deserve one. He does not deserve the position Providence has given him—a good name, a good fortune, honourable ancestors, all thrown away.”

“I acknowledge no honour in the ancestors that robbed the poor to make me rich,” cried the hot-headed youth. And the end of all was that his mother and sister had much ado to keep him from leaving the house at once, late as it was, in the heat of passion. Never before had such a storm—or indeed any storm at all—arisen in the peaceful house. It marked the ending of that idyllic age in which the rulers of a family are supreme, and where no new-developed will confronts them within their sacred walls. Raised voices and faces aglow with anger are terrible things in such an inclosure. It seemed to Lady Markham that she would die with shame when she met the look of subdued wonder, curiosity, and sympathy in old Brown’s eyes; when, after the storm was over, after a decent interval, he came in, taking great precautions to make himself audible as he approached. It was the first time since she entered the house that her servants had occasion to be sorry for Lady Markham, and this consciousness went to her heart. By the time Brown came in, however, all was very quiet. Sir William had gone away to his library, and Paul, breathing indignation at every pore, was walking about the room with his hands in his pockets, now and then launching an arrow at his mother or sister. A truce had been patched up. He had consented, as a great matter, not to plunge out of the house into the darkness, but to wait till to-morrow. This was a concession for which they were as grateful as if it had been the noblest gift; it was for their sake he did it; nothing else, he declared, would have made him remain an hour under the same roof.

“Oh hush, Paul—hush! I forbid you to say another word,” cried his mother; and then all was silent, as they heard Brown cough before he opened the door.

“Tell Lewis to have the dog-cart ready for Mr. Markham for the first train,” she said, not raising her eyes. But all the same she saw the pity in the face of old Brown. He asked no question; he did not express his sorrow to hear of Mr. Markham’s sudden departure, as on previous occasions he would have done, exercising the right of his old service; he said, “Certainly, my lady,” in a tone which went to Lady Markham’s heart. Even Brown perceived that there was no more to be said.

That was in other ways a notable year for the Markhams. For one thing Alice “came out.” She was eighteen: she had not been prematurely introduced as an eldest daughter very often is. And in consequence Lady Markham stayed in London longer and went more into society. This moment, so exciting to the débutante, was clouded over to Alice and to her mother by the fact that Paul was in disgrace. They were still in London when the Oxford term ended, and it had been their hope that he would join them there. It is true that this prospect was not altogether an unmingled delight, for a certain alarm was involved in their joy. How would his father and he “get on” after this first quarrel? Would Paul be as submissive, would Sir William be as forgiving, as they ought? All the little triumphs of Alice, her succès, the admiration she had excited were made of no account by this doubt and fear about her brother. But when, just before the long vacation began, a letter arrived from Paul, announcing that he did not mean to join them at all, but was going to “stay up and read,” with a party of other “men” who entertained that virtuous intention, the revulsion of feeling in the minds of the mother and sister was very painful. They forgot that they had ever entertained any fear about his coming, and cried over his letter with the bitterest pangs of disappointment.

“It is all papa’s fault,” Alice cried in mournful wrath; and though Lady Markham checked her daughter, saying, “Hush! surely your papa knows better than you do,” yet there was a little rebellion in her heart too against the head of the house. Had he been less hard, Paul would have been more docile.

Sir William, however, as it happened, was rather mollified than offended by this intimation. The authorities of Paul’s college had been finding fault. High hopes had been entertained of the young man at first. It had been believed that he would bring distinction to his college, which, who can doubt? is the first thing to be considered. But that hope had proved delusive; he had not “gone in for” half so much as he ought, and of all those things he had “gone in for” he had not been successful in one. This made him to be looked upon coldly by eyes which at first winked with benevolence at the blunders and idleness of a statesman’s son. Now that they were aware that he was not likely to bring them any honour, the dons grew querulous with Paul. He was not a duke or a duke’s son that he should ride roughshod over the habitudes of the university and its inviolable order. They had not of late shown that delight in him which parents love to see. He had not excited parental feelings in their academical bosoms. He was visionary, he was Radical; and it was whispered that he received visitors in his rooms who were not of a character to be received there. Fortunately this last accusation had not reached Lady Markham’s ears. Had she known, how could she ever have borne that “staying up to read,” which at present seemed a proof of Paul’s innate virtue? But Sir William was of tougher fibre. He was not displeased to be free of personal contact with his son at this crisis. It is not expedient that there should be quarrels in a family. All that nonsense would blow over. Paul’s intellectual measles might be severe, but they were only measles after all, a malady of youth which a young man of marked character took more seriously than a frivolous boy, but which would pass away. “It will be all the better for his degree,” his father said with that simplicity of confidence in the noble purpose of “staying up to read” which it is so touching to see. And what could the women say? If it was good for him, was it their part to complain? They were cruelly disappointed, and yet perhaps they were relieved as well. They wrote letters full of the former feeling, but they did not say anything about the latter—not even to each other. How could they allow even to themselves that it was better for Paul to stay away?

However this disappointment seriously interfered with the glories of her first season to Alice. She did not wish to stay longer in town than Lady Markham’s usual time. She longed for the country, when the summer reached its very crown of brightness, and the park looked baked and the streets scorching. They went home as they were in the habit of doing, in the end of June, leaving Sir William to toil through the end of the session by himself; and though it was still more melancholy to be without Paul in the quietness of home, yet there were compensations. They had their usual work to occupy them, and that routine of ordinary living which is the best prop and support of the anxious mind; and Alice was young enough, and her mother scarcely too old to forget, by times altogether, that there were troubles in the world. Nothing very dreadful had happened after all. If Paul did not write very often, were not all boys the same? Thus they kept their anxieties subdued, and were not unhappy—except perhaps for half an hour now and then.

Thus the summer went on. The holidays came once more. The boys came home, the girls were delivered from their governess, and the reign of innocence recommenced. Not to last long this time, for everybody knew that in the second week in August papa was coming home. The children, however, took the good of the fortnight they had all to themselves. The sunshine, the harvest, the woods, how delightful they are in August, with no lessons, no governess, and mamma all to themselves! From morning till night the house was full of laughter and commotion, except when it lay all open and silent with the whole family out of it, gone pic-nicking, gone upon excursions, making simple holiday.

“My lady is the biggest baby of them all,” Mrs. Fry said with indulgent disapproval, shaking her head, “if she wasn’t thinking all the time of Mr. Paul.”

“Bless you there ain’t a minute as that boy is out of her head,” said Brown. Brown was too respectful to say anything but Mr. Markham in public, but he said Mr. Paul, or even Paul tout court, when he was in the housekeeper’s room. While these pranks were going on, the house lay like an enchanted palace, all its doors and windows open to the sweet summer air, the rooms full of flowers and sweetness, but nobody there. There were too many servants about for any fear of robbers, but it is doubtful whether Sir William would have thought it decorous had he seen the openness and vacancy of this summer palace, waiting all garnished and bright for the return of the revellers, for the rush of light feet, the smiles, the voices, the chattering and laughter, the gaiety and glee that in a moment would flood it through and through. But to the spectator whose dignity was not involved, these changes were pretty and pleasant to see, and it was not to be wondered at perhaps if Brown and the army under his charge took holiday too.

One day very shortly before that on which Sir William was expected, a stranger walked slowly up the avenue and came to the great open door. Everything was open as usual. He saw into the great hall as he came gradually up, and saw that it was empty and still. It was a warm day, and he was weighted with a little valise, which he carried, shifting it from one hand to the other with some appearance of fatigue. He was a tall man, very thin and very brown, with the unmistakable look of an old soldier in his well-squared shoulders, even though his figure drooped a little with fatigue and heat, and slightly with age. When he reached the door, he looked round him, and seeing nobody there went in and placed himself in a great chair which was near the open door. “He’s come into my house without knocking many’s the day,” he said to himself. It was hot, and he was tired, and the coolness and shade inside completed what the glare without had done. He put his valise down by his side and leaned back, and felt himself very comfortable; then quite tranquilly and pleasantly closed his eyes and rested; had there been anything to drink all would have been perfect. But even without this it was very comfortable. The house was perfectly still, but outside a little breeze was getting up, making a murmuring cadence among the trees. There was a sound of bees in the air close at hand, and of birds further off among the branches—everything was sweet and summery and reposeful. The new-comer lay back in his chair in the mood which makes fatigue an accessory of enjoyment. Something of the vagabond was in his appearance which yet scarcely marred his air of gentleman. Poor he was without doubt, growing old, very tired, dusty, and travel-worn. He was not fastidious about his accommodation, and could have slept as well on a grassy bank, had it been needful, but the chair was very comfortable and pleasant. He fell asleep, or rather went to sleep, quite voluntarily. It was afternoon, near the time when the party might be expected to return, but up to this moment nobody had made any preparation for them, and the new-comer took possession without challenge of all the comfort of the vacant place.

Roland had been allowed that day to drive the dog-cart, the carriage being full, and he and Marie had so urged the stout cob Primrose, which was the steed specially given up to the uses of the schoolroom, that he flew like the wind and got home before the carriage. The little pair burst into the stable-yard like a flash of lightning, and tossed the reins to the first astonished groom they encountered.

“Let’s rush in the back way and pretend we have been here for an hour,” cried Marie.

They flew rather than walked round by the flower-garden, and through the open window of the drawing-room. There was the carriage turning in at the gate, a quarter of a mile off; there was plenty of time. But the fact that there was plenty of time did not make them move quietly. They proceeded into the hall, making themselves audible by the chatter of their childish voices and laughter.

“Won’t mamma be surprised!” cried Marie.

But, on the contrary, it was herself that was surprised. She gave a lengthened “Oh!” of wonder, alarm, and consternation, as they came in sight of the stranger in the hall. She turned round and clutched at Roland, and like a little coward put him first. He was twelve, not an age to be frightened, and Marie was but eleven. Roland said “Oh!” too, but with a different tone, and, dropping back a little upon her, confronted and gazed at the sleeper in the easy chair. His looks were not of the kind that children fly. The heavy moustache drooping over his mouth seemed to add to the appearance of complete, yet pleasant weariness, in which the shabby figure was wrapped. Here was a thing to encounter when one got home: a man, a gentleman, whom one had never seen before, fast asleep in the great chair in the hall!

“Will he not wake?” whispered Marie. “Oh, Roland! are you frightened? Shall I run and tell Brown?”

“Frightened!—likely,” said Roland; but he kept hold of her frock, not that she could have been of any real assistance to him, but “for company.”

The two children stood transfixed before this strange apparition, watching if he would move. At the first stir, Marie most likely would have run away with a shriek; but after all what was there to fear? Mamma had certainly turned into the avenue, and might arrive any moment, and Brown with his army of men and maids was somewhere in the background within call, so there was no real reason to fear. Nevertheless, when the arms that rested on the arms of the chair began to stretch themselves, and the intent gaze of the children drew the tired eyes open, Marie’s best efforts to command herself could not restrain a tremulous cry, which quite completed the stranger’s awakening.

“Bless me, I’ve been asleep!” he said, opening his eyes. Then when he saw the two little figures before him, his eyelids opened wider, and a smile came out from underneath them. “Little folks, who are you?”

“It’s you to tell us,” cried Roland with spirit. “This is our house, but it isn’t yours.”

“That’s true, my little man. I’ve been asleep, more shame to me. It was hot, and I’ve had a long walk.”

“If you are very tired, poor gentleman,” said Marie, coming in now that there seemed nothing to be afraid of, “I—don’t think mamma will mind. Oh, Rol, here she is! come and tell her,” the little girl cried. They forgot their triumph of being first, in the excitement of this strange piece of news, and flew bursting with it to the door of the carriage which swept up at the moment, filling the stillness with echoes, and waking up the whole silent house. Brown and the footman on duty appeared as by magic, and the whole enchanted palace came to life. The stranger sat still and watched it all with a smile on his face. He saw pretty Alice and her beautiful mother descend from the carriage, and a curious light broke over his countenance.

“Lucky little beggar,” he said.

He repeated this phrase two or three times to himself before he was altogether roused from the half-dream, half-languor, he was still in, by the sight of Lady Markham’s eyes fixed upon him, and the alarmed, guilty, nervous inspection of old Brown.

“You must get out of here, sir—you must get out of here, sir—heaven knows how you got into it; this must have been your fault, Charles. I can’t let you stay here, though I don’t want to be uncivil. My lady’s coming this way.”

“It’s your lady I want, my friend,” said the intruder, rising languidly. He made Lady Markham a fine bow as she approached, with surprise in her face. “I must be my own godfather, and present myself to my old friend’s family,” he said. “I am Colonel Lenny, of the 50th West India Regiment. St. John Lenny at your service, my dear madam, once Will Markham’s closest friend.”

Lady Markham made him a curtsey in return for his bow.

“Sir William is not at home,” she said. If she had not already suffered for her hospitality, his reception would have been less cold; but she had never heard of Colonel Lenny, and what could she say?

“He must have talked to you about me and mine. I married a Gaveston—Katey. You must have heard him speak of her. No? That is very strange. Then perhaps you will think me an intruder, my Lady Markham. I beg your pardon. I thought I was sure of a welcome; and I was so done with the heat, though I used not to mind the heat, that I fell asleep in your nice, pleasant hall, in this big chair.”

Lady Markham inclined her head in assent. What was she to do? who was Colonel Lenny? She cast a glance at Alice, seeking counsel; but how could Alice advise?

“Will you come in now and take a cup of tea with us?” she said.

CHAPTER V.

“Hold your tongue,” said Brown; “you’ll do what I tell you if you want to go from here with a character. So mind your business, and keep your silly remarks to yourself.”

But when Charles disappeared muttering, Brown turned over the dusty, humble portmanteau with his foot, with serious disgust. “My lady hasn’t the heart to say no to nobody,” he said to himself. He felt perfectly convinced that this miserable representation of a gentleman’s luggage would sooner or later have to be carried up stairs.

The stranger followed Lady Markham into the drawing-room, at which he gazed with wonder and admiration. “This is something like a house,” he said. “Little we thought when I used to know Will Markham that he would ever come to this honour and glory. It was in the year—bless me, not any year you can recollect—forty years ago if it is a day. His brothers were living, and he was nearly as poor as the rest of us. I married Katey. He must have spoken of the Gavestons, though he might not mention his old friend Lenny. Ah, well, maybe no—to be sure I am not taking everything into consideration. Did your father ever tell you, my boys, of the West Indies, and the insurrection, and all the stirring times we had there?”

Harry and Roland looked at each other with eyes brightening, yet confused. Papa was not a man who told stories of anything,—and Lady Markham interposed. “I think you must be making a mistake,” she said. “I am sure Sir William has never been in the West Indies. You must be thinking of some one else of the same name.”

The old soldier looked at her with bewildered surprise. “A mistake!” he said. “I make a mistake about Will Markham? I have known all about him, and the name of his place, his family, and all his belongings for the last forty years! Why, I—I am his——” Then he paused and looked at Lady Markham, and added slowly, “One of his very oldest friends, be the other who he may.”

“I beg your pardon,” she said, concealing her embarrassment over the tea-table.

Colonel Lenny was not particularly fond of tea: he would have liked, he thought, something else instead of it, something that foamed and sparkled; yet the tea was better than nothing. He gave her his pardon very easily, not dwelling upon the offence.

“Ah,” he said, “I can tell you stories that will make your hair stand on end. When those niggers broke out, it was not preaching that would do much. That was in the old time, you know, when land meant something in the islands, before emancipation. Did you ever hear about the emancipation? I’ll tell you a story about the times before that. We had to get the women and children stowed away—the devils would have thought no more of cutting them to pieces—we were after them in the woods night and day sometimes. Once your father was with us—he was not in the service, as we were, but he was very plucky though he was always small—he joined as a volunteer.”

“Where was that? and when was that?” cried the boys; and the girls too drew near, much attracted by the promise of a story. Colonel Lenny waved his long brown hand to them, and went on—

“I’ll tell you all about that presently; but I must ask you to let me know, my dear lady, when Markham is expected home. I’ve got business to talk over—business that is more his than mine. He’ll know all about it as soon as he hears my name. It is a long time since we met—and perhaps the notion would never have struck me to seek him out but for—things that have happened. It is more his business than mine.”

“I am not sure whether he will return to-morrow or next day—next day at the latest,” said Lady Markham, faltering.

She could not make up her mind what to do. On the occasion of her former mistake, Paul in person had been present to answer for his friend, but there was no one to guarantee this second stranger—this new claimant on her hospitality. If he should be an impostor! but he did not look like an impostor; or, if it should be a mistake after all, and his Will Markham quite a different man? Will Markham! it seemed incredible to Lady Markham that any one should ever have addressed her husband with so much familiarity. These, and a hundred other thoughts, ran through her mind as she poured out the tea.

Meantime, Colonel Lenny made great friends with the children. He began to tell them the most exciting stories. He was not ill at ease as Spears had been, but sat luxuriously thrown back into a luxurious chair, his long limbs stretched out, his long brown hands giving animation to his narrative. Lady Markham managed to escape while this was going on, and got Burke down from the bookshelves in the hall, and anxiously looked up its various lists. There was no Sir William Markham except her husband, no William Markham at all among the county gentry. When Brown, become suspicious by his past experiences, came into the hall at the sound of her foot, she put back the book again guiltily.

The old butler came forward with an expression of concern and trouble on his countenance. “What does your ladyship intend,” he asked, solemnly, “that I should do with this?” touching with his foot as he spoke the dusty valise—the old soldier’s luggage, which lay very humbly as if ashamed of itself half under the big chair.

Lady Markham could have laughed and she could have cried. “I don’t know what to do, Brown,” she said.

Brown was very much tempted to give his mistress the benefit of his advice. He forbore, however, exercising a wise discretion, for Lady Markham, though very gracious, was proud; but he was not self-denying enough to divest himself of a general air of anxiety—the air of one who could say a great deal if he would—shaking his head slightly, and looking at the offending article which seemed to try to withdraw itself out of notice under the shadow of the chair. He could have said a great deal if he had dared. He would have bidden his mistress beware who she took into her house, Sir William wasn’t best pleased before, and if it happens again—— Perhaps Lady Markham read something of this in Brown’s eyes; and she did not like the butler’s advice, which was more or less disapproval, as all effective advice is. The result was however that before dinner the poor little valise was carried up, to the great scorn of the domestics, to a bedroom, and that Colonel Lenny, after keeping the children suspended on his lips all the evening, withdrew early, leaving the mother and daughter to an anxious consultation over him. Alice, too, had consulted a book, but it was an Army List that was the subject of her studies. She came to her mother triumphantly with this volume open in her hand.

“Here he is, mamma. John St. John Lenny, 50th West India Regiment. I am so glad I have found it. He is delightful. There never could be any doubt about such a thorough old soldier.”

“You thought Mr. Spears interesting, Alice,” said Lady Markham, feebly.

“Mamma! and so did you. He was very interesting. I have his lily that he drew for me, and it is beautiful. But he was not a gentleman. He did not know how to sit on his chair, nor how to stand, nor what to say to you or even me. He called me Miss Alice, and you my lady. But Colonel Lenny is entirely different. He is just the same as everybody else, only more amusing than most people. Did you hear the story he was telling about——?”

“Oh, my dear, I was a great deal too anxious to be able to attend to any story. What if he should turn out some agitator too? what if he were a spy to see what kind of life we lead, or an impostor, or some one who has made a mistake, and takes your papa for some other Markham? If I have taken in some one else whom I ought not to have taken in, I think I shall die of shame.”

“How can he be an impostor, when he is here in the Army List?”

“Let me see it,” Lady Markham said. She read out the name word by word, and her mind was a little relieved. “I suppose there cannot be any mistake since he is here,” she said, with a sigh of relief. But, as a matter of fact, Lady Markham sat up in her dressing-gown half the night, afraid of she knew not what, and listening anxiously to all the vague mystical noises that arise in a sleeping house in the middle of the night. She did not know what it was of which she was afraid. How could he be an impostor when his name was in the Army List, and when he had that kind brown face? But then, on the other hand, a man from the West Indies, who called her husband Will Markham, was an incredible person. She sat up till the blue summer daylight came silently in at all the windows, putting her suspicious candles to shame, when she, too, became ashamed of herself for her suspicions, and crept very quietly to bed.

Sir William did not come next day, but Colonel Lenny stayed on, and as it is always the premier pas que coûte, Lady Markham’s doubts were lulled to rest, and she neither frowned nor watched the second night. And on the third Sir William came. It was Alice who went to meet him at the station, in a pretty little pony carriage which he had given her. Everything was done instinctively by the ladies to disarm any displeasure papa might feel, and to prepare him to receive this second visitor with a friendly countenance. If there was anything that moved Sir William’s heart with a momentary impulse of unreasoning pride and foolish fondness, it was supposed by his wife to be the sight of his pretty daughter, with her pretty ponies. These ponies had been named To-to and Ta-ta before Alice had them—after, it was understood, two naughty personages in a play—and as the ponies were very naughty the names were retained. There were no such mischievous and troublesome individuals about the house, and Alice was very proud of the fact that it was she with her light hand who managed them best. Sir William was not fond of wild animals, and yet all the household knew that he liked to be brought home by his daughter in her little carriage, with the ponies skimming over the roads as if they were flying. It was the one piece of dash and daring in which he delighted.

Lady Markham, who was not fond of risking her daughter, came out to the door to entreat her to take care.

“And you will explain everything?” she said; “how it happened, and how very uneasy we have been; but my darling, above all, take care of yourself. Do not let those wicked little things run away with you. Give George the reins if you feel them too strong for your wrist. And make him understand, Alice, how nice, how really nice, and kind, and agreeable he is. George, you must never take your eye off the ponies, and see that Miss Markham takes care.”

“I hope they know my hand better than George’s,” said Alice, scornfully, “better than any one else’s. Nobody can interfere between them and me.”

“Pretty creatures! I don’t know which is the prettiest,” said Colonel Lenny, coming up. He had all the children in a cluster round him. “They are three beauties; that is all there is to be said. If you were not so little I could tell you now about a great number of pretty girls in a family, that were called the pride of Barbadoes. I married one of them, and my friend Markham—why, my friend Markham knew them very well, my dear madam,” the Colonel said. It did not seem to be the conclusion which he intended to give to his description. However, he added, with a smile, “But as you’re so little I won’t tell you about young ladies. I’ll tell you about the Oboe men, and the harm they do among the poor niggers.”

“Oh,” cried Bell and Marie, in one breath, “we should like to hear about the young ladies best.”

“Bosh!” cried the boys; “what is the good of stories about a pack of girls? I hate stories that are full of love and all that stupid stuff.”

“Then here goes for the Oboe men,” said the old soldier. He seated himself under the great portico, in a large Indian bamboo chair that stood there in summer, and the children perched about him like a flight of birds.

Lady Markham looked at this group for a moment, with a softening of all the anxious lines that had got into her face. She was not afraid of her husband, who had always been so good to her, but she was afraid of disapproval, and the Spears’ affair was fresh in her mind. But then, in all the circumstances, that was so different!

She left the pretty group round the door, and went slowly down the avenue, that she might be the first to meet her husband. Now that the critical moment arrived, she began for the first time to think what the business could be which Colonel Lenny was waiting to discuss. “More his business than mine.” What was it? This question rose in her mind, giving a little, a very little additional anxiety to her former disquietude. And then, being anxious anyhow, what wonder that her mind should glide on to the subject of Paul and what he was doing. That was a subject that was never long out of her thoughts. Would he come home when the shooting began? He could not stay up to read for ever. Would his father and he meet as father and son ought to meet? Would it be possible to reason or laugh the boy out of his foolish notions, and bring him back to right views, to the disposition which ought to belong to his father’s son? This was a wide sea of troubles to be launched upon, all starting from the tiny rivulet of alarm lest Sir William should dislike the new visitor. She went slowly down the avenue, under the nickers of sunshine and shade, under the murmuring of the leaves, catching now and then the sound of the colonel’s voice in the distance, and the exclamations of the children. Ah, at their age how simple it all was—no complication of opposed wills, no unknown friends or influences to contend with! She sighed, poor lady, with happiness, and with pain. It is easy even for a mother to dismiss from her thoughts those who are happy; but how can she forget the one who perhaps is not happy, who is absent, who is among unknown elements, not good or innocent? Thus Lady Markham’s thoughts, however occupied with other subjects, came back like the doves to their windows, always to Paul.

CHAPTER VI.

“No accident that I know of,” said Sir William. He cast a look of pleasure at the pretty equipage and the pretty charioteer—a look of proud proprietorship and paternal pride. Alice was his favourite, they all said. But notwithstanding, he would not join her till he had seen that all his portmanteaus had been got out and carefully packed on the dog-cart which had come for them. Sir William’s own gentleman, Mr. Roberts, a most careful and responsible person, whose special charge these portmanteaus were, superintended the operation; but this did not satisfy his master. He stood by the pony-carriage, talking to his daughter, but he kept his eyes upon his luggage. There were despatch-boxes, no doubt freighted with the interests of the kingdom, and too important to be left to the care of a valet, however conscientious, and a railway porter. It was only when they were all collected and safe that he took his place by the side of Alice.

“You may be sure, my dear,” he said, “that unless you take similar precautions you will always be losing something.” The ponies had gone off with such a start of delight the moment they were set free, that Sir William’s remark was jerked out of his mouth.

“It would be quite a novelty if that happened to you—it would be rather nice, showing that you were human, like the rest of us. Did you really never, never, lose anything, papa?”

“Never,” he said; and you had only to look at him to see that this was no exaggeration. Such a perfectly precise and orderly person was never seen; from the top of his hat to the tip of his well-brushed boots there was nothing out of order about him, notwithstanding his journey. His clothes fitted him perfectly; they were just of the cut and the colour that suited his age, his importance and position. That he would ever have neglected any duty, or forgotten any necessary precaution, seemed impossible. “However,” he added, “I must not say too much; when I was young I have no doubt accidents happened. What I object to is that the present generation seems to think it a privilege to be forgetful. I was taught to be ashamed of it in my day.”

“Oh yes, papa, we are very silly,” said Alice; “though mamma says I am a little old maid and never forget. I take after you, that is what they all say.”

Sir William looked at her with a benevolent smile. There is no more subtle flattery that a child can address to a parent than this of “taking after” him, though why it should please us so it would be hard to say. He leaned back in his seat with a sense of well-deserved repose, while the impatient ponies flew along, tossing their pretty heads, their bells jingling, their hasty little hoofs beating time over the dry summer road. “This is very pleasant,” he said. It was a perfect summer evening, cool after a hot day, and the road lay through a tranquil, wealthy country, so fresh after the burnt-up parks, yet full of harvest wealth; the sheaves standing in the fields, some golden breadths of corn still uncut, and the heavy richness of the full foliage throwing deep shadows eastward. The ponies flew like the wind, and Alice, holding them with firm little vigorous hands, turned her soft face to him, all lit up with pleasure at his return. A conscientious statesman, a man who has been broiling in the service of his country, sitting on committees, listening to endless wearisome discussions and all the bothers of the end of the session, it may be supposed what a pleasant relief it was to step into this little fairy carriage and be carried swiftly and softly through the happy autumn fields to his home. “All well?” he said. But a man who has a daily bulletin from his wife asks such a question tranquilly, without any anxiety for the reply.

“I wonder who that lady was in the pink bonnet,” said Alice. “Strangers so seldom come out at our station. I wonder who she is going to. Perhaps it is somebody for the vicarage. Oh, yes, they are all quite well. The boys came home on Friday week, and they have never been out of mischief ever since. They are in the woods all day; and the girls have begun their holidays too. Mademoiselle has gone. We wanted only you, papa, you—and Paul. But who could that lady with the pink bonnet be?”

This second expression of curiosity was added artificially to cover the allusion to Paul. Sir William did not take any notice of either one or the other. “So Mademoiselle has gone?” he said. “I hope you keep order, and that mamma does not let them be too irregular. They will be far happier for a little wholesome restraint.”

“I suppose so,” said Alice, dubiously. “Anyhow,” she added, “they have had nearly a fortnight all to themselves. We have all been idle; but we will settle down into right laws and proper habits now we have got you, papa.”

“That will be quite necessary,” he said; then, with a slightly impatient tone, “You spoke of Paul—what is your last news of Paul?”

To-to had a very sensitive mouth. At this moment he so resented some imperceptible pull of the reins, that he got into the air altogether, capering with all his four feet, and called for Alice’s complete attention. In the midst of this little excitement she said, “Paul is still at Oxford, papa. He does not write very often. Oh, you bad To-to, what do you mean by this?”

“He has got very fond of Oxford all at once.”

“He has all his friends there—at least some of his friends. Papa,” cried Alice, with an impulse of alarm, “I wonder who that lady can be. She is coming after us in the village fly. I saw her bonnet just now through the window, when To-to made that bolt.”

“My dear, it is quite unimportant who she is—unless you think she is one of your brother’s friends. Considering who his associates are, one could never be astonished at any arrival. It may be a lady lecturer, perhaps, on Female Suffrage and Universal Equality.”

“Oh, papa! because he knows one man like that! But I have something to tell you—something that makes mamma and me a little uneasy. A gentleman came on Monday—oh, not a common person at all, a gentleman, and very nice. We could not tell what to do, but at last, after many consultations, we made up our minds to invite him to stay.”

“My dear Alice!” cried Sir William, “what do you and your mother mean? Is my house to be made into an hotel? What is the meaning of it? Am I to understand that you have taken in another nameless person, another disreputable acquaintance of Paul’s? Good heavens! is your mother mad? But I will not put up with it. My house shall not be made a refuge for adventurers, a den of——”

“For that matter,” said Alice growing pale, “I suppose it is mamma’s house too.”

There are opinions that get into the air and spread in sentiment when most opposed to principle. Nobody could have been more horrified than Lady Markham at any claim for her of woman’s rights; but when her little daughter, generously bred, found herself suddenly confronted by this undoubted claim of proprietorship, a chord was struck within her which had perhaps only learned to vibrate of recent days. She looked her father in the face with sudden defiance. She had not intended it—on the contrary, the object of her mission, the chief thing in her thoughts, had been to conciliate him in respect to this visitor, and soften his probable displeasure. But a girl’s mind is a delicate machine, and there is nothing that so easily changes its balance by a sudden touch. A whole claim of rights, a whole code of natural justice, blazed up in her blue eyes. She forgot To-to in her sudden indignation, looking with all the severity of logical youth in her father’s face.

Sir William was altogether taken aback. He returned her look with a kind of consternation.

“You little——” But then he stopped. A man sometimes remembers (though not always) that when he is speaking to his children of their mother it is necessary to do so with respect. Unquestionably it was expedient that a girl should have full faith in her mother. Besides (it gleamed upon Sir William) Alice was not a child. She was a reasonable little creature, able, after all, more or less, to form an opinion for herself. Perhaps he was more disposed to grant this privilege to the girl who was not likely to make any extravagant use of it, than to the boy; or perhaps his ill success in respect to the boy had taught him a lesson. Anyhow he paused. “Of course,” he said, “it is also, as you say, your mamma’s house. A friend of hers, I need not tell you, would be as welcome to me as a friend of my own. Do I ever attempt to settle without her who is to be asked? but with your sense, Alice, you must be aware there is a difference. I must interfere to prevent your excellent mother, who is only too good and kind, from being imposed upon by those disreputable acquaintances of Paul.”

“I beg your pardon, papa,” said Alice, who had been waiting breathless for the end of his address to make her eager apologies. “But,” she added, not unwilling to bring him down summarily from his elevation, “the gentleman I have been speaking of declares that he is your friend, and not Paul’s.”

“My friend! Then I daresay it is quite simple,” said Sir William, relapsing into his previous state of perfect repose and calm. “My friends are your mother’s friends too.”

“Ah, but this is different. (Papa, I am certain that woman is following us.) This is quite different. It is an old friend, whom none of us ever heard of. If we had known even his name we should not have been afraid. But do not be frightened, he is very nice. We all like him. He says he knew you in the West Indies, and the thing that alarmed us was that none of us, not even mamma, ever knew you had been there at all.”

“The West Indies!” Was it possible that Sir William started so much as to shake the pony carriage in which he sat? A cloud came suddenly over his serene countenance. He did not say, as Alice fancied he would, “I know nothing about the West Indies.” On the contrary, he paused, cleared his throat, and asked in a curiously restrained, yet agitated voice, “What does he—call himself?—what is his name?”

Alice was half alarmed by the effect she had produced. She did not understand it. She wanted to soften and do away with any disagreeable impression.

“Oh, he is very nice,” she said. “It is not any one you will mind, papa. And he is all right; he is in the Army List; we looked him up at once; we took every precaution; and there he was, just as he said, J. St. John Lenny, 50th West India Regiment, Lieutenant-Colonel. After that, of course, and when he said he had known you so well, we could not hesitate any more.”

“Lenny!” Sir William said. It was with a tone of relief. He drew a long breath “as if he had expected something much worse,” Alice said afterwards. He took out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead. To be sure it was a warm evening. But there was something very strange to the girl in her father’s agitation. She did not understand it—he who was always so calm, who never allowed anything to put him out.

“Then were you really in the West Indies, papa?”

“I was in a great many places in my youth,” he said. “I was not taken care of as my boys have been. I was the youngest, and I did pretty much as I liked—a bad thing,” he added, after a pause; “a very bad thing, though you children never understand it. It led me into places and among people whose very names I seem to have forgotten now.”

There was a pause. Alice was very curious, but she did not venture to say more. She did not like even to look at her father who was so unusually disturbed. What could make him so unlike himself? The idea that there might be a mystery in Sir William’s life was more than impossible, it was ludicrous. She tried to fix her attention upon the ponies, who were going so beautifully. Then her ear was caught by the steady roll of wheels coming after them. Certainly it was the fly from the village; and certainly it was following on to the gates of the Chase which were now in sight. This was not the way to the vicarage or to any other house to which a stranger who had stopped at the station of Markham Royal could be going. She had not really believed it possible that the lady in the pink bonnet could be coming to the Chase; but now it seemed almost certain. What could be the meaning of it? Her heart jumped up into sudden excitement. She nourished her whip and touched the ponies till they flew. She could not bear the heavy rolling of that fly, a long way behind, yet always following with the steadiness of fate. This distracted her thoughts at once from her father, and a thousand conjectures rushed into the girl’s head. Could it be somebody from Paul? The fly came pounding heavily along, nothing stopping it. What could she do to stop it or conjure its passenger away? If it was bad news that was coming in it, what doubt that it would arrive quite safely? Paul! what could a woman in a pink bonnet have to do with Paul? Could he be ill? Could he be going to marry somebody, to do something foolish? Alice became herself so excited that she could not think of her father. And her father for his part took little notice of Alice. His mind was full of thoughts that would have been very incomprehensible, very startling to her. The stranger’s name had fallen upon him in his tranquillity as a stone falls into still waters. The calm surface of his mind was all broken, filled with widening and ever-widening circles of recollection. He felt dizzy like a man in a dream. The past was so long past, that, thus suddenly recalled to him, after such an interval of years, Sir William had a moment of giddy uncertainty as to whether it had actually existed at all, whether it was not a mere fable, something he had read in a book. Forty years ago—is a man responsible for things he did forty years ago? Can he be blamed if he forgets them? Can he be expected to remember? He who was so systematic, so careful, who never lost anything, who had for years been in a position to set every one else right: was it possible that he had once been foolish as other men? He himself did not understand it. He could not believe it. Lenny? Yes, he remembered there had been a man—the West Indies—ah, yes! things had passed there which he would not care now to talk about, which had been forgotten, which were to him as if they had never been. Had they ever been? he could scarcely tell. The ponies skimmed along the road, the bells jingled, the gates of the house were in sight, another minute and they would have reached the avenue. And then—instead of his gentle wife, and his innocent children, and universal respect, service, comfort, and worship of every kind, would it be the past in bodily presence that would have to be encountered, painful explanations, revelations, which might make a sudden rending asunder of the beauty and the happiness of life? Sir William wiped his forehead again as they turned in at the gate to the shelter of the familiar trees.

And still there was the dull rumbling of the fly behind. He did not so much as hear it, having been swept away on this torrent of thought. But Alice cast a troubled glance behind as she turned round to go in at the open gate, and made sure that it was coming after her. The girl’s head was buzzing and her heart throbbing with mingled fear and excitement. “Would you mind driving up the avenue yourself, papa? I have something to say to Mrs. Lowry at the gate,” she said, faltering. Her father scarcely seemed to hear her; he said, “Go on, go on,” with an impatient wave of his hand. She knew nothing about his alarms, nor he about hers. Perhaps, after all, the anxious desire of Alice to intercept what her hasty imagination had concluded to be a messenger of evil had something in it of that eager youthful curiosity which burns to forestall every new event. But if so disappointment was her fate. The little carriage flashed on under the trees and through the slanting lines of sunshine in a breathless silence, both its occupants being far too much absorbed to speak. Half way up the avenue two figures were visible advancing towards them. Lady Markham had been joined by Colonel Lenny a few minutes before. They stood aside, one on each side of the road as the pony-carriage came up. And here on every other occasion Sir William had got down and walked back with his wife to the house. It was part of the formula of his return, which was never omitted. This time, however, when Alice drew up her impatient ponies, he greeted his wife without moving from the carriage.

“We have had a very tedious, dusty journey,” he said. “I will go home at once, my love, pardon me, and shake my dust off.”

Lady Markham, in the midst of her anxiety, grew pale with surprise at this unusual proceeding. She pressed close to the side of the little carriage—“William,” she said, “do you know who it is that is with me?”

The baronet turned round to the long brown figure on the other side. “Alice has told me,” he said. “Lenny, is it possible? I did not think I could have recognised you after all these years.”

“Nor I you, my fine fellow,” said the Colonel. “I’d have passed you if I had met you in Bond Street, Markham; but meeting you here, and knowing it’s you, makes a great deal of difference. We’ve both of us altered in forty years.”

“Is it as long as that?” Sir William said. There was no pleasure in his face such as, these innocent ladies thought, should always attend a meeting with an old friend. But on the other hand he cast no doubt upon Colonel Lenny (as indeed how could he, seeing the Colonel’s name was in the Army List?), but addressed him unhesitatingly, and acknowledged him, which set the worst of Lady Markham’s fears at rest. “Go on,” he said, in an undertone to his daughter, then waved his hand to the pedestrians. “In ten minutes I shall be with, you,” he cried.

The rumbling of the fly had stopped; had it gone further contrary to all Alice’s anticipations? This idea gave her a little relief, but she was in so nervous a mood that the sudden jerk with which she urged the ponies forward once more upset To-to’s temper, who was his mistress’s favourite. He darted on through the lines of trees like a mad thing, wild with the jar to his delicate mouth and the vicinity of his stables.

“Do you want to break your own neck and mine?” Sir William said; “that pony will not bear the whip.”

“Why shouldn’t he bear it as well as Ta-ta?” said Alice; “is he to be humoured because he is the naughty one? It should be the other way.”

“It seldom is the other way,” said Sir William, moralising with a self-reference, though Alice did not understand it. “You spoke a greater truth than you are aware of. It is not the best people who are humoured in life. It is the naughty ones who get their way. If you make the worst of everything circumstances will yield to you: but act anxiously for the best and all the burden falls on your shoulders.”

“Papa! that is like Thackeray; it is cynical. I never heard you speak so before.”

“Nevertheless it is true,” said Sir William. His straight and placid brow was ruffled with care. “One does everything one can to be secure from evil, and evil comes.”

Could he be thinking about Paul? She turned her ponies (to their great disappointment) as soon as Sir William had stept out of the carriage. Charles indeed had to come to To-to’s head and lead him round, so unwilling was that little Turk to turn away from his comfortable stable again. “I will go back and bring mamma home, she was looking tired,” the girl said. She was impatient to make sure about the fly that had followed from the station, and the lady in the pink bonnet, and to be in the midst of it, at least, if anything were going to happen. Her mother was still a long way down the avenue. But Alice had scarcely turned when she perceived that there were three figures instead of two in the group she had so lately left. Three figures—and a brilliant speck of colour making itself apparent like a flag at the head of the little procession. Alice felt her heart rush to the scene of action more quickly than the ponies, which still resisted, tossing their little wicked heads. The lady with the pink bonnet had fallen into the advancing rank. She was tall, and that oriflamme towered over Lady Markham’s hat with its soft gray feathers. But their pace was quite moderate, unexcited, showing no sign of trouble. Lady Markham moved along with no appearance of agitation. Perhaps, after all, this new-comer, whoever she might be, had nothing to do with the absent brother, and was no messenger of evil tidings after all.

CHAPTER VII.

“Mrs. Lenny!” cried Alice, in consternation, yet relief. She turned to her mother a pair of questioning, wondering eyes. But Lady Markham could make no answer. She slightly shrugged, so to speak, not her shoulders, but her eyebrows. She was very polite and very hospitable, but this second arrival was almost too much for her. “I thought you looked tired, mamma,” Alice continued. “I came back to drive you home.”

Lady Markham shook her head. She was almost cross—as near that unpleasant state as it was possible for her to be. “Perhaps Mrs. Lenny would like to drive, Alice? She has had a long journey. I am not at all tired. I will wait and meet your papa.”

“How cool it is under these delicious trees,” said the lady of the pink bonnet. “Yes, indeed, if the young lady will have me, it will be a treat to be behind those beautiful ponies. Pretty creatures! like their mistress. I have not seen anything so pretty, Lenny, since we left the regiment. Ah, that was a foolish step. But one never knows when one is well off. ‘Lay mew,’ as the French say, is the enemy of ‘lay bieng.’ Thank you, my dear. Now this is delightful! I wish, instead of being within sight, we were three or four miles from the house.”

“Take Mrs. Lenny round by the fishpond,” said Lady Markham. She sighed with relief at getting rid of this new claimant upon her attention, though she was so polite. Mrs. Lenny was tall like her husband, and like him, brown and soldierly. She made the light little carriage bend on one side as she got in. Her brown face within the pink shade of the bonnet was wreathed with smiles. She was delighted like a child with the pretty equipage, and the promised drive—much more delighted than Alice was, who, though relieved of her terrors about Paul, drove off in no very happy state of mind. Yet she could not help taking a little pleasure in her own discrimination.

“I knew you were coming here the first moment I saw you,” she said. “I kept asking papa who you were. But he had not seen you—he did not know you; he never knows any one—not even, if he were to see us at a distance, mamma or me.”

“Nor I,” said Mrs. Lenny. “I should no more have known him! for you may be sure I took a good stare at the station, seeing it was somebody of consequence. He is so changed—oh, not for the worse, my dear; but when you see a nice little old gentleman instead of a pretty young one, it’s a shock, that can’t be denied. You have to count up and think back how many years it is. Somehow one never feels old one’s self. You think the world has stood still with you, though it goes so fast with all the rest.”

“I don’t feel at all like that,” said Alice. “Sometimes I feel so old—older a great deal, I am sure, than mamma.”

This statement was received by her companion with laughter, which disconcerted Alice. She drew herself up. She was not so polite as her mother.

“I don’t see what there is to laugh at,” she said. “Age does not go only by years—when you have a great deal to think of——”

“You darling!” cried Mrs. Lenny. “Did the old woman laugh? But I’d laugh just the same if your dear mamma herself was to talk of feeling old. There’s what I call a lovely woman! Lenny never told me half what a dear she was. Old! but don’t you gloom at me, my pretty pet; I was once seventeen myself, though you wouldn’t think it. The birds now on the trees, I daresay they feel old between one Valentine’s day and another. It is not years that does it, as you say. When we come to my time of life the days go on one after another as fast as they can pelt: they’re all flyin’, flyin’, like the echoes in the song. But at your age they’re longer—they pass more slow—and when there’s much to think about did you say? Ah, but that’s true! When I was your age I had a great deal to think about. We were a large family, six girls of us, and not a penny among the lot. We were just ruined with the emancipation in the West Indies, and all that our parents said to us was, ‘Get married! There’s the officers,’ they said, ‘a set of simpletons! What’s the good of them but to marry the poor girls that know how to play their cards.’ Ah! I thought when I was after Lenny that to be married meant to be well off, and have everything that heart could desire. And so we all thought. We weren’t bad girls, don’t you think it; but that was how were brought up. Get married! and you’ll be well off directly. You never had anything like that said to you to make you old with thinking—”

“Oh, no, no,” said Alice, horrified. She scarcely knew whether to be offended by the familiarity of the stranger or interested in her talk. It was an experience altogether different from anything Alice knew of life.

“No, I should think not,” said the lady of the pink bonnet, nodding that article vigorously. “Just figure to yourself, my dear, what you would feel if you had to leave this beautiful place, and live down in a house in the town, and have that said to you. You would be shocked, wouldn’t you? But it did not shock us. That was how we were brought up. We had to marry by hook or by crook; and we all did marry. Well, there’s Lenny, he has made me a very good husband; but marrying him wasn’t like coming into a fortune, was it now?—though we’ve always been the best of friends. It was lucky in one way that we never had any children; it left us free to look after ourselves. Nowadays we live a great deal among our friends. We don’t interfere with each other, but we’re always glad to come together again. When I’m comfortable anywhere I send him word, and when he’s comfortable he sends me word. You mustn’t think my coming means more than that, and you must tell your dear mamma so. We’ve not come to do her any harm or her pretty family. Your papa is startled to see us, but he won’t mind in the end. I daresay you have often heard him talk of Barbadoes and the Gavestons? We were six handsome girls, though I say it that shouldn’t. You must have heard of us by name.”

Alice, whom this speech had filled with wonder, shook her head. “I never heard the name in my life,” she said.

“Well, that is odd,” said Mrs. Lenny. “I couldn’t believe it even though Lenny said so. That’s thorough,” she added, with a little laugh. A flush came over her brown cheek. “Never mind, my dear, it is not your fault,” she said.

Alice was more and more mystified. She could not imagine what this strange woman could mean. If she had been at first disposed to resent her familiarity, that offence had altogether evaporated. Mrs. Lenny looked and spoke as if she had something to do with the family; her eyes and her tone were full of kindness even when she evidently resented the fact that Alice had never heard of her. She spoke of herself without any kind of effort, as if it were natural that the girl should be interested; and Alice could not but wish to hear more. It was like a new story, original and out of the common. The momentary pause that ensued alarmed her lest it should be coming to an end.

“Did you all marry officers?” she asked at last.

“Did we all marry officers? We did that, every one—except the one that one that married—— Ah! I mean Gussy, that was the youngest. She married—a civilian—and died, poor girl. The rest of us all took the shilling. Ah! some of the girls are dead, and the rest are scattered—one in Australia, two out in India, me, wandering about the world as you see me, Lenny and I; most likely I’ll never see one of them again. We had but one brother; all the little the family had, he got it. It was he that took Gussy’s boy—did I tell you she left a boy? Poor Gussy! she died at twenty. It is like as if she never had married or been more than a child. When I think of the past it’s always she that comes uppermost—the little one, you know, the pet—and she never lived to get parted from us like the rest.”

Alice looked vaguely interested. It seemed to her that she was hearing the prologue of a novel. She did not draw any moral from it, or ask herself whether her own brothers and sisters might ever be dispersed like this about the world; but she wanted to hear more.

“Have the others no children?” she asked.

“Dozens, my dear,” said Mrs. Lenny, “here, and there, and everywhere. I’ve nephews in the service in every country under the sun, and nieces, all married in the army; it runs in our blood. But Gussy’s boy is the one I think of most. He’s not a boy now. He’s five-and-thirty if he’s a day, and my brother is dead that adopted him, and the property has gone from bad to worse, and I don’t know what is to be done. Lenny’s head is full of him. Perhaps if I were to speak a good word to your papa——”