CHAPTER IV.

The Education of Women.

“I’ve locked him up in the dark closet in the shop till he will promise to be good,” said the father, with a laugh; “and if you will throw yourself at my feet, Molly, and promise to bear half of his punishment for him, I will, perhaps, let him out to-morrow.”

Little Molly half rose from her chair. She gave a questioning glance at her mother before she threw herself into the breach; while Phil, reddening and wondering, stood on the alert, ready to undertake he knew not what.

“Nonsense, children; sit down; your father is laughing at you. Seriously, Tom, without any absurdity, what is it?” cried Lady Mary. “I wanted him so to-morrow to hear the first lecture—and he did not mean to stay in town when he left here this morning.”

“It is business, mere business,” repeated Mr. Tottenham. “We are not all fine ladies and gentlemen, like you and Phil, Molly. Some of us have to work for our living. If it hadn’t been for Earnshaw, I should, perhaps, have stayed myself. I think we had better stay in town the night of the entertainment, Mary. It will be a long drive for you back here, and still longer for the children. They are going to have a great turn out. I have been writing invitations all day to the very finest of people. I don’t suppose Her Grace of Middlemarch ever heard anything so fine as Mr. Watson’s solo on the cornet. And, Phil, I rely on you to get an encore.”

“Oh! I like old Watson. I’ll clap for him,” cried Phil, with facile change of sentiments; though little Molly kept still eyeing her father and mother alternately, not quite reassured. And thus the conversation slid away from Edgar to the usual crotchets of the establishment.

“We have settled all about the seats, and about the refreshments,” said Mr. Tottenham, with an air of content. “You great people will sit in front, and the members of the establishment who are non-performers, on the back seats; and the grandest flunkies that ever were seen shall serve the ices. Oh! John is nothing to them. They shall be divinely tall, and powdered to their eyebrows; in new silk stockings taken from our very best boxes, for that night only. Ah, children, you don’t know what is before you! Miss Jemima Robinson is to be Serjeant Buzfuz. She is sublime in her wig. She is out of the fancy department, and is the best of saleswomen. We are too busy, we have too much to do to spend time in improving our minds, like you and your young ladies, Mary; but you shall see how much native genius Tottenham’s can produce.”

Harry Thornleigh kept very quiet during this talk. His head was still rather giddy, poor fellow; his balance was still disturbed by the face and the eyes and the look which had come to him like a revelation. It would be vain to say that he had never been in love before; he had been in love a dozen times, lightly, easily, without much trouble to himself or anyone else. But now he did not know what had happened to him. He kept thinking what she would be likely to like, what he could get for her—if, indeed, he ever was again admitted to her presence, and had that voiceless demand made upon him. Oh! what a fool he had been, Harry thought, to waste his means and forestall his allowance, and spend money for no good, when all the time there was existing in the world a being like that! I don’t know what his allowance had to do with it, and neither, I suppose, did Harry; but the thought went vaguely through his head amid a flood of other thoughts equally incoherent. He was glad of Edgar’s absence, though he could not have told why; and when Lady Mary began, in the drawing-room after dinner, to describe the new-comer to her husband, he sat listening with glaring eyes till she returned to that stale and contemptible joke about Mrs. Smith, upon which Harry retired in dudgeon, feeling deeply ashamed of her levity. He went to the smoking-room and lit his cigar, and then he strolled out, feeling a want of fresh air, and of something cool and fresh to calm him down. It was a lovely starlight night, very cold and keen. All the mists and heavy vapours had departed with the day, and the sky over Tottenham’s was ablaze with those silvery celestial lights, which woke I cannot tell how many unusual thoughts, and what vague inexplicable emotion and delicious sadness in Harry’s mind. Something was the matter with him; he could have cried, though nobody was less inclined to cry in general; the water kept coming to his eyes, and yet his soul was lost in a vague sense of happiness. How lovely the stars were; how stupid to sit indoors in a poky room, and listen to bad jokes and foolish laughter when it was possible to come out to such a heavenly silence, and to all those celestial lights. The Aurora Borealis was playing about the sky, flinging waving rosy tints here and there among the stars, and as he stood gazing, a great shadowy white arm and hand seemed to flit across the heavens, dropping something upon him. What was it? the fairy gift for which those blue eyes had asked him, those eyes which were like the stars? Harry was only roused from his star-gazing by the vigilant butler, attended by a footman with a lantern, who made a survey of the house every night, to see that all the windows and doors were shut, and that no vagrants were about the premises.

“Beg your pardon, Sir,” said that functionary, “but there’s a many tramps about, and we’re obliged to be careful.”

Harry threw away his cigar, and went indoors; but he did not attempt to return to the society of his family. Solitude had rather bored him than otherwise up to this moment; but somehow he liked it that night.

Next morning was as bright and sunshiny as the night had been clear, and Lady Mary was again bound for the village, with Phil and his sister.

“Come with us, Harry; it will do you good to see what is going on,” she said.

Harry had no expectation of getting any good, but he had nothing to do, and it seemed possible that he might see or hear of the beautiful stranger, so he graciously accompanied the little party in their walk. Lady Mary was in high spirits. She had brought all her schemes to completion, and on this day her course of lectures was to begin. Nothing could surpass her own conscientiousness in the matter. No girl graduate, or boy graduate either, for that matter, was ever more determined to work out every exercise and receive every word of teaching from the instructors she had chosen. I do not think that Lady Mary felt herself badly equipped in general for the work of life; indeed, I suppose she must have felt, as most clever persons do, a capability of doing many things better than other people, and of understanding any subject that was placed before her, with a rapidity and clearness which had been too often remarked upon to be unknown to herself. She must have been aware too, I suppose, that the education upon which she harped so much, had not done everything for its male possessors which she expected it to do for the women whose deficiencies she so much lamented. I suppose she must have known this, though she never betrayed her consciousness of it; but by whatever means it came about, it is certain that Lady Mary was a great deal more eager for instruction, and more honestly determined to take the good of it, than any one of the girls at Harbour Green for whose benefit she worked with such enthusiasm, and who acquiesced in her efforts, some of them for fun, some of them with a half fictitious reflection of her enthusiasm, and all, or almost all, because Lady Mary was the fashion in her neighbourhood, and it was the right thing to follow her in her tastes and fancies. There was quite a pretty assembly in the schoolroom when the party from Tottenham’s arrived—all the Miss Witheringtons in a row, and the young ladies from the Rectory, and many other lesser lights. Harry Thornleigh was somewhat frightened to find himself among so many ladies, though most of them were young, and many pretty.

“I’ll stay behind backs, thanks,” he said, hurriedly, and took up a position near the door, where Phil joined him, and where the two conversed in whispers.

“They’re going to do sums, fancy,” said Phil, opening large eyes, “mamma and all! though nobody can make them do it unless they like.”

“By Jove!” breathed Harry into his moustache. Amaze could go no further, and he felt words incapable of expressing his sentiments. I don’t know whether the spectacle did the young fellow good, but it stupefied and rendered him speechless with admiration or horror, I should not like to say which. “What are they doing it for?” he whispered to Phil, throwing himself in his consternation even upon that small commentator for instruction.

Phil’s eyes were screwed tightly in his head, round as two great O’s of amazement; but he only shook that organ, and made no response. I think, on the whole, Phil was the one of all the assembly (except his mother) who enjoyed it most. He was privileged to sit and look on, while others were, before his eyes, subjected to the torture from which he had temporarily escaped. Phil enjoyed it from this point of view; and Lady Mary enjoyed it in the delight of carrying out her plan, and riding high upon her favourite hobby. She listened devoutly while the earliest propositions of Euclid were being explained to her, with a proud and happy consciousness that thus, by her means, the way to think was opened to a section at least of womankind; and what was more, this very clever woman put herself quite docilely at her lecturer’s feet, and listened to every word he said with the full intention of learning how to think in her own person—notwithstanding that, apart from her hobby, she had about as much confidence in her own power of thought as most people. This curious paradox, however, is not so uncommon that I need dwell upon it. The other persons who enjoyed the lecture most, were, I think, Myra Witherington, who now and then looked across to her friend Phil, and made up her pretty face into such a delightful copy of the lecturer’s, that Phil rolled upon his seat with suppressed laughter; and Miss Annetta Baker, who—there being no possibility of croquet parties at this time of the year—enjoyed the field-day immensely, and nodded to her friends, and made notes of Lady Mary’s hat, and of the new Spring dresses in which the Rectory girls certainly appeared too early, with genuine pleasure. The other ladies present did their best to be very attentive. Sometimes a faintly smothered sigh would run through the assembly; sometimes a little cough, taken up like a fugue over the different benches, gave a slight relief to their feelings; sometimes it would be a mere rustle of dresses, indicative of a slight universal movement. The curate’s wife, unable to keep up her attention, fell to adding up her bills within herself, a much more necessary mathematical exercise in her case, but one also which did very little towards paying the same, as poor Mrs. Mildmay knew too well. Miss Franks, the old doctor’s eldest daughter, after the first solemnity of the commencement wore off, began to think of her packing, and what nonsense it was of papa to send her here when there was so much to do—especially as they were leaving Harbour Green, and Lady Mary’s favour did not matter now. There was one real student, besides Lady Mary, and that was Ellen Gregory, the daughter of the postmistress, who sat far back, and was quite unthought of by the great people, and whose object was to learn a little Euclid for an approaching examination of pupil-teachers, and not in the least the art of thinking. Ellen was quite satisfied as to her powers in that particular; but she knew the effect that a little Euclid had upon a school-inspector, and worked away with a will, with a mind as much intent as Lady Mary’s, and eyes almost as round as Phil’s.

From this it will be seen that Lady Mary’s audience was about as little prepared for abstract education as most other audiences. When it was over, there was a pleasant stir of relief, and everybody began to breathe freely. The lecturer came from behind his table, and the ladies rose from their benches, and everybody shook hands.

“Oh, it was delightful, Lady Mary!” said the eldest Miss Witherington; “how it does open up one’s mental firmament.”

“Mr. Thornleigh, will you help me to do the fourth problem?” said Myra. “I don’t understand it a bit—but of course you know all about it.”

“I!” cried Harry, recoiling in horror, “you don’t mean it, Miss Witherington? It’s a shame to drag a fellow into this sort of thing without any warning. I couldn’t do a sum to save my life!”

“Lady Mary, do you hear? is it any shame to me not to understand it, when a University man says just the same?” cried Myra, laughing. Poor Harry felt himself most cruelly assailed, as well as ill-used altogether, by being led into this extraordinary morning’s work.

“I hope there’s more use in a University than that rot,” he said. “By Jove, Aunt Mary! I’ve often heard women had nothing to do—but if you can find no better way of passing your time than doing sums and problems, and getting up Euclid at your time of life——”

“Take him away, for heaven’s sake, Myra!” whispered Lady Mary; “he is not a fool when you talk to him. He is just like other young men, good enough in his way; but I can’t be troubled with him now.”

“Ah!” cried Myra, with an unconscious imitation of Lady Mary’s own manner, which startled, and terrified, and enchanted all the bystanders, “if the higher education was only open to us poor women, if we were not persistently kept from all means of improving ourselves—we might get in time to be as intellectual as Mr. Thornleigh,” she added, laughing in her own proper voice.

Lady Mary did not hear the end of this speech; she did not see herself in the little mimic’s satire. She was too much preoccupied, and too serious to notice the fun—and the smiles upon the faces of her friends annoyed without enlightening her.

“How frivolous we all are,” she said, turning to the eldest Miss Baker, with a sigh; “off at a tangent, as soon as ever the pressure is removed. I am sure I don’t want to think it—but sometimes I despair, and feel that we must wait for a new generation before any real education is possible among women. They are all like a set of schoolboys let loose.”

“My dear Lady Mary, that is what I am always telling you; not one in a hundred is capable of any intellectual elevation,” said the only superior person in the assembly; and they drew near the lecturer, and engaged him in a tough conversation, though he, poor man, having done his duty, and being as pleased to get it over as the audience, would have much preferred the merrier crowd who were streaming—with suppressed laughter, shaking their heads and uttering admonitions to wicked Myra—out into the sunshine, through the open door.

“Don’t do that again,” cried Phil, very red. “I say, Myra, I like you and your fun, and all that; but I’ll never speak to you again, as long as I live, if you take off mamma!”

“I didn’t mean it, dear,” said Myra, penitent. “I’m so sorry, I beg your pardon, Phil. Lady Mary’s a dear, and I wouldn’t laugh at her for all the world. But don’t you ever mimic anyone, there’s a good boy; for one gets into the habit without knowing what one does.”

“Oh, that’s all very fine,” said Phil, feeling the exhortation against a sin for which he had no capability to be out of place; but he did not refuse to make up the incipient quarrel. As for Harry, he had not listened, and consequently was not aware how much share he had in the cause of the general hilarity.

“I should like to know what all the fun’s about,” he said. “Good lord! to see you all at it like girls at school! Ladies are like sheep, it seems to me—where one goes you all follow; because that good little aunt of mine has a craze about education, do you all mean to make muffs of yourselves? Well, I’m not a man that stands up for superior intellect and that sort of thing—much; but, good gracious! do you ever see men go in for that sort of nonsense?”

“That is because you are all so much cleverer, and better educated to start with, Mr. Thornleigh,” said Sissy Witherington. He looked up at her to see if she were laughing at him; but Sissy was incapable of satire, and meant what she said.

“Well, perhaps there is something in that,” said Harry, mollified, stroking his moustache.

Harry lunched with the Witheringtons at their urgent request, and thus shook himself free from Phil, who was disposed, in the absence of Earnshaw, to attach himself to his cousin. Mrs. Witherington made much of the visitor, not without a passing thought that if by any chance he should take a fancy to Myra—and of course Myra to him, though that was a secondary consideration—why, more unlikely things might come to pass. But Harry showed no dispositions that way, and stood and stared out of the window of the front drawing-room, after luncheon, towards Mrs. Smith’s lodgings, on the other side of the Green, with a pertinacity which amazed his hostesses. When he left them he walked in the same direction slowly, with his eyes still fixed on the cottage with its green shutters and dishevelled creepers. Poor Harry could not think of any excuse for a second call; he went along the road towards the cottage hoping he might meet the object of his thoughts, and stared in at the window through the matted growth of holly and rhododendrons in the little garden, equally without effect. She had been seated there on the previous evening, but she was not seated there now. He took a long walk, and came back again once more, crossing slowly under the windows, and examining the place; but still saw nothing. If Margaret had only known of it, where she sat listlessly inside feeling extremely dull, and in want of a little excitement, how much good it would have done her! and she would not have been so unkind as to refuse her admirer a glance. But she did not know, and Harry went back very unhappy, dull and depressed, and feeling as if life were worth very little indeed to him. Had that heavenly vision appeared, only to go out again, to vanish for ever, from the eyes which could never forget the one glimpse they had had of her? Harry had never known what it was to be troubled with extravagant hopes or apprehensions before.

CHAPTER V.

Mrs. Smith.

Lady Mary blushed slightly. She answered with some confusion: “No, I don’t suppose it was.” But at the same time she felt upon her conscience the weight of many remarks, as to country practitioners, and doctors of the old school, and men who did not advance with the progress of science even in their own profession, which she had made at various times, and which, no doubt, had gone forth with a certain influence. She had not had it in her power to influence Dr. Franks as to the person who should succeed him; but she had perhaps been a little instrumental in dethroning the old country doctor of the old school, whose want of modern science she had perceived so clearly. These remarks were made the second day after the lecture, and Edgar had not yet returned. Nobody at Tottenham’s knew where he was, or what had become of him; nobody except the master of the house, who kept his own counsel. Harry had made another unavailing promenade in front of Mrs. Smith’s lodgings on the day before, and had caught a glimpse of Margaret in a cab, driving with her brother to some patient, following the old lofty gig which was Dr. Franks’ only vehicle. He had taken off his hat, and stood at the gate of Tottenham’s, worshipping while she passed, and she had given him a smile and a look which went to his heart. This look and smile seemed the sole incidents that had happened to Harry; he could not remember anything else; and when Lady Mary spoke of the note his heart leaped into his mouth. She had, as usual, a hundred things to do that morning while he waited, interviews with the housekeeper, with the gardener, with the nurse, a hundred irrelevant matters. And then she had her letters to write, a host of letters, at which he looked on with an impatience almost beyond concealment—letters enclosing circulars, letters asking for information, letters about her lectures, about other “schemes” of popular enlightenment, letters to her friends, letters to her family. Harry counted fifteen while he waited. Good lord! did any clerk in an office work harder? “And most of them about nothing, I suppose,” Harry said cynically to himself. Luncheon interrupted her in the middle of her labours, and Harry had to wait till that meal was over before he could obtain the small envelope, with its smaller enclosure, which justified his visit. He hurried off as soon as he could leave the table, but not without a final arrangement of his locks and tie. The long avenue seemed to flee beneath his feet as he walked down, the long line of trees flew past him. His heart went quicker than his steps, and so did his pulse, both of them beating so that he grew dizzy and breathless. Why this commotion? he said to himself. He was going to visit a lady whom he had only seen once before; the loveliest woman he had ever seen in his life, to be sure; but it was only walking so quickly, he supposed, which made him so panting and excited. He lost time by his haste, for he had to pause and get command of himself, and calm down, before he could venture to go and knock at the shabby little green door.

Margaret was seated on the end of the little sofa, which was placed beside the fire. This, he said to himself, no doubt was the reason why he had not seen her at the window. She had her work-basket on the table, and was sewing, with her little girl seated on a stool at her feet. The little girl was about seven, very like her mother, seated in the same attitude, and bending her baby brows over a stocking which she was knitting. Margaret was very plainly, alas! she herself felt, much too plainly-dressed, in a dark gown of no particular colour, with nothing whatever to relieve it except a little white collar; her dark hair, which she also lamented over as quite unlike and incapable of being coaxed into, the fashionable colour of hair, was done up simply enough, piled high up upon her head. She had not even a ribbon to lend her a little colour. And she was not wise enough to know that chance had befriended her, and that her beautiful pale face looked better in this dusky colourless setting, in which there was no gleam or reflection to catch the eye, than it would have done in the most splendid attire. She raised her eyes when the door opened and rose up, her tall figure, with a slight wavering stoop, looking more and more like a flexile branch or tall drooping flower. She put out her hand quite simply, as if he had been an old friend, and looked no surprise, nor seemed to require any explanation of his visit, but seated herself again and resumed her work. So did the child, who had lifted its violet eyes also to look at him, and now bent them again on her knitting. Harry thought he had never seen anything so lovely as this group, the child a softened repetition of the mother—in the subdued greenish atmosphere with winter outside, and the still warmth within.

“I came from my aunt with this note,” said Harry, embarrassed. She looked up again as he spoke, and this way she had of looking at him only now and then gave a curious particularity to her glance. He thought, poor fellow, that his very tone must be suspicious, that her eyes went through and through him, and that she had found him out. “I mean,” he added, somewhat tremulously, “that I was very glad of—of the chance of bringing Lady Mary’s note; and asking you how you liked the place.”

“You are very kind to come,” said Margaret in her soft voice, taking the note. “It’s a little lonely, knowing nobody—and a visit is very pleasant.”

The way in which she lingered upon the “very,” seemed sweetness itself to Harry Thornleigh. Had a prejudiced Englishman written down the word, probably he would, after Margaret’s pronunciation, have spelt it “varry;” but that would be because he knew no better, and would not really represent the sound, which had a caressing, lingering superlativeness in it to the listener. She smiled as she spoke, then opened her letter, and read it over slowly. Then she raised her eyes to his again with still more brightness in them.

“Lady Mary is very kind, too,” she said, with a brightening of pleasure all over her face.

“She’s waiting for your cousin to come back—I suppose she says so—before asking you to the house; and I hope it will not be long first, for I am only a visitor here,” said Harry impulsively. Margaret gave him another soft smile, as if she understood exactly what he meant.

“You are not staying very long, perhaps?” she said.

“Oh, for some weeks, I hope; I hope long enough to improve my acquaintance with—with Dr. Murray and yourself.”

“I hope so too,” said Margaret, with another smile. “Charlie is troubled with an anxious mind. To see you so friendly will be very good for him, very good.”

“Oh, I hope you will let me be friendly!” cried Harry, with a glow of delight. “When does he go out? I suppose he is busy with the old doctor, visiting the sick people. You were with him yesterday—”

“He thinks it is good for my health to go with him; and then he thinks I am dull when he’s away,” said Margaret. “He is a real good brother; there are not many like him. Yes, he is going about with Dr. Franks nearly all the day.”

“And you are quite alone, and dull? I am so sorry. I wish you would let me show you the neighbourhood; or if you would come and walk in the park or the wood—my aunt, I am sure, would be too glad.”

“Oh, I’m not dull,” said Margaret. “I have my little girl. She is all I have in the world, except Charles; and we are great companions, are we no, Sibby?”

This was said with a change in the voice, which Harry thought, made it still more like a wood-pigeon’s note.

“Ay are we,” said the little thing, putting down her knitting, and laying back her little head, like a kitten, rubbing against her mother’s knee. Nothing could be prettier as a picture, more natural, more simple; and though the child’s jargon was scarcely comprehensible to Harry, his heart answered to this renewed appeal upon it.

“But sometimes,” he said, “you must want other companionship than that of a child.”

“Do I?” said Margaret, pressing the little head against her. “I am not sure. After all, I think I’m happiest with her, thinking of nothing else; but you, a young man, will scarcely understand that.”

“Though I am a young man, I think I can understand it,” said Harry. He seemed to himself to be learning a hundred lessons, with an ease and facility he was never conscious of before. “But if I were to come and take you both out for a walk, into the woods, or through the park, to show you the country, that would be good both for her and you.”

“Very good,” said Margaret, raising her eyes, “and very kind of you; but I think I know why you’re so very good. You know my cousin, Edgar Earnshaw, too?”

“Yes; I know him very well,” said Harry.

“He must be very good, since everybody is so kind that knows him; and fancy, I don’t know him!” said Margaret. “Charles and he are friends, but Sibby and I have only seen him once. We have scarcely a right to all the kind things that are done for his sake.”

“Oh, it isn’t for his sake,” cried Harry. “I like him very much; but there are other fellows as good as he is. I wouldn’t have you make a hero of Edgar; he is odd sometimes, as well as other folks.”

“Tell me something about him; I don’t know him, except what he did for Granny,” said Margaret. “It’s strange that, though I am his relative, you should know him so much better. Will you tell me? I would like to know.”

“Oh, there’s nothing very wonderful to tell,” said Harry, somewhat disgusted; “he’s well enough, and nice enough, but he has his faults. You must not think that I came for his sake. I came because I thought you would feel a little lonely, and might be pleased to have some one to talk to. Forgive me if I was presumptuous.”

“Presumptuous! no,” said Margaret, with a smile. “You were quite right. Would you like a cup of tea? it is just about the time. Sibby, go ben and tell Mrs. Sims we will have some tea.”

“She is very like you,” said Harry, taking this subject, which he felt would be agreeable, as a new way of reaching the young mother’s heart.

“So they tell me,” said Margaret. “She is like what I can mind of myself, but gentler, and far more good. For, you see, there were always two of us, Charlie and me.”

“You have always been inseparable?”

“We were separated, so long as I was married; but that was but two years,” said Margaret, with a sigh; and here the conversation came to a pause.

Harry was so touched by her sigh and her pause, that he did not know how to show his sympathy. He would have liked to say on the spot, “Let me make it all up to you now;” but he did not feel that this premature declaration would be prudent. And then he asked himself, what did she mean? that the time of her separation from her brother was sad? or that she was sad that it came to an end so soon? With natural instinct, he hoped it might be the former. He was looking at her intently, with interest and sympathy in every line of his face, when she looked up suddenly, as her manner was, and caught him—with so much more in his looks than he ventured to say.

Margaret was half amused, half touched, half flattered; but she did not let the amusement show. She said, gratefully, “You are very kind to take so much interest in a stranger like me.”

“I do not feel as if you were a stranger,” cried Harry eagerly; and then not knowing how to explain this warmth of expression, he added in haste, “you know I have known—we have all known your cousin for years.”

Margaret accepted the explanation with a smile, “You all? You are one of a family too—you have brothers and sisters like Charles and me?”

“Not like you. I have lots of brothers and sisters, too many to think of them in the same way. There is one of my sisters whom I am sure you would like,” said Harry, who had always the fear before his eyes that the talk would flag, and his companion get tired of him—a fear which made him catch wildly at any subject which presented itself.

“Yes?” said Margaret, “tell me her name, and why you think I would like her best.”

From this it will be seen that she too was not displeased to keep up the conversation, nor quite unskilled in the art.

“The tea’s coming,” said little Sibby, running in and taking her seat on her footstool. Perhaps Harry thought he had gone far enough in the revelation of his family, or perhaps only that this was a better subject. He held out his hand and made overtures of friendship to the little girl.

“Come and tell me your name,” he said, “shouldn’t you like to come up with me to the house, and play with my little cousins in the nursery? There are three or four of them, little things. Shouldn’t you like to come with me?”

“No without mamma,” said little Sibby, putting one hand out timidly, and with the other clinging to her mother’s dress.

“Oh, no,” said Harry, “not without mamma, she must come too; but you have not told me your name. She is shy, I suppose.”

“A silly thing,” said Margaret, stroking her child’s dark hair. “Her name is Sybilla, Sybil is prettier; but in Scotland we call it Sibby, and sometimes Bell for short. Now, dear, you must not hold me, for the gentleman will not eat you, and here is the tea.”

Harry felt himself elected into one of the family, when Mrs. Sims came in, pushing the door open before her, with the tray in her arms; upon which there was much bread and butter of which he partook, finding it delightful, with a weakness common to young men in the amiable company of the objects of their affection. He drew his chair to the table opposite to Margaret, and set Sibby up on an elevated seat at the other side, and felt a bewildering sensation come over him as if they belonged to him. It was not a very high ideal of existence to sit round a red and blue table in a cottage parlour of a winter’s afternoon, and eat bread and butter; but yet Harry felt as if nothing so delightful and so elevating had ever happened to him before in all his life.

It was a sad interruption to his pleasure, when Dr. Murray came in shortly afterwards, pushing the door open as Mrs. Sims had done, and entering with the air of a man to whom, and not to Harry, the place belonged. He had his usual doubtful air, looking, as Lady Mary said, to see what you thought of him, and not sure that his sister was not showing an injudicious confidence in thus revealing to Harry the existence of such a homely meal as tea. But he had no desire to send the visitor away, especially when Margaret, who knew her brother’s humour, propitiated him by thrusting into his hand Lady Mary’s note.

“I am sure her Ladyship is very kind,” he said, his face lighting up, “Margaret, I hope you have written a proper reply.”

“When we have had our tea, Charles—will you not have some tea?” his sister said; she always took things so easily, so much more easily than he could ever do.

“Oh, you are having tea with the child, five o’clock tea,” said the poor doctor, who was so anxious to make sure that everybody knew him to have been “brought up a gentleman;” and he smiled a bland uneasy smile, and sat down by Sibby. He would not take any bread and butter, though he was hungry after a long walk; he preferred Harry to think that he was about to dine presently, which was far from being the case. But Harry neither thought of the matter nor cared; he had no time nor attention to spare, though he was very civil to her brother, and engaged him at once in conversation, making himself agreeable with all his might.

“I suppose you are making acquaintance with quantities of people, and I hope you think you will like the place,” he said.

“Yes, a great many people,” said Dr. Charles, “and it was full time that somebody should come who knew what he was doing. Dr. Franks, I am afraid, is no better than an old wife.”

“Oh, Charlie, how rashly you speak! he always says out what he thinks,” said Margaret with an appealing look at Harry, “and it is often very far from a wise thing to do.”

“Bravo, Aunt Mary will be delighted,” cried Harry, “it is what she always said.”

“I knew Lady Mary Tottenham was very talented,” said Dr. Murray with some pomp, “and that she would see the state of affairs. I can’t tell you what a pleasure and support it is to have a discriminating person in the neighbourhood. He is just an old wife. You need not shake your head at me, Margaret, I know Mr. Thornhill is a gentleman, and that he will not repeat what is said.”

“Surely not,” said Harry, somewhat surprised to find himself thus put on his honour; “but my name is Thornleigh; never mind, it was a very simple mistake.”

The doctor blushed with annoyance, and confounded himself in excuses. Harry took his leave before these apologies were half over. He was rather glad to get away at the last, feeling that a shadow had come over his happiness; but before he had left the Green, this momentary shade disappeared, and all the bliss of recollection came back upon him. What an hour he had spent, of happiness pure and unalloyed, with so many smiles, so many looks to lay up as treasures! how lovely she was, how simple, how superior to everything he had ever seen before! Talk of fashion, Harry said to himself hotly, talk of rank and society and high birth, and high breeding! here was one who had no need of such accessories, here was a perfect creature, made in some matchless mould that the world had never seen before; and how kindly she had looked at him, how sweetly talked to him! What had he done, that he should have suddenly fallen upon such happiness?

CHAPTER VI.

In Love.

Life had become a new thing altogether for Harry Thornleigh. Up to this time his existence had been that of his immediate surroundings, an outward life so to speak. The history of the visible day in any household of which he formed a part would have been his history, not much more nor less; but this easy external existence was over for him. He began to have a double being from the moment he saw Margaret. All that he was most conscious of, was within him, a life of thought, of recollection, of musing, and imagination; and external matters affected him but vaguely through the cloud of this more intimate consciousness. Yet his faculties were at the same time quickened, and the qualities of his mind brought out—or so at least he felt. He had been very angry with Lady Mary for her mirth over Mrs. Smith’s name; but his new feelings (though they originated this anger) seemed to give him prudence and cleverness enough to make an instrument of the very jest he detested. He began to speak of Mrs. Smith the morning after his visit to her, restraining his temper admirably, and opening the subject in the most good-humoured way.

“I delivered your note, Aunt Mary,” he said; “you are right after all, about the name. It is ridiculous. Mrs. Smith! after being Miss Murray, as I suppose she was. She ought to change back again.”

“There are other ways of changing,” said Lady Mary, “and I daresay such a pretty woman could easily do it if she wished. Yes, I got a very nice little note from her, thanking me. Though I am disappointed in the brother, I must show them some civility. Did you hear when they were to get into their house?”

Harry had not heard; but he propitiated his aunt by telling her what was Dr. Murray’s opinion of his predecessor, an opinion which greatly comforted Lady Mary, and made her feel herself quite justified in the part she had taken in the matter.

“There must be more in him than I thought,” she said, in high good-humour; and then Harry felt bold to make his request.

“The sister,” he said, toning down the superlatives in which he felt disposed to speak of that peerless being, with an astuteness of which he felt half-ashamed, half-proud, “is rather lonely, I should think, in that poky little place; and she has a nice little girl about Molly’s age.” (This was a very wild shot, for Harry had about as much idea of their relative ages as he had about the distances between two stars). “They don’t know any one, and I don’t think she’s very strong. Without asking them formally, Aunt Mary, don’t you think you might have her and the child up to luncheon or something, to see the conservatories and all that? it would be a little change for them. They looked rather dismal in Mrs. Sims’ parlour, far from everything they know.”

“How considerate and kind of you, Harry!” cried Lady Mary. “I am ashamed of myself for not having thought of it. Of course, poor thing, she must be lonely—nothing to do, and probably not even any books. The Scotch all read; they are better educated a great deal than we are. To be sure, you are quite right. I might drive down to-morrow, and fetch her to lunch. But, by-the-by, I have Herr Hartstong coming to-morrow, who is to give the botany lecture—”

“An extra lady and a little girl would not hurt Herr Hartstong.”

“There is no telling,” said Lady Mary, with a laugh, “such a pretty creature as she is. But I think he has a wife already. I only meant I could not go to fetch her. But to be sure she’s a married woman, and I don’t see what harm there would be. You might do that.”

“With the greatest pleasure,” cried Harry, trying with all his might to keep down his exultation, and not let it show too much in his face and voice.

“Then we’ll settle it so. You can take the ponies, and a fur cloak to wrap her in, as she’s delicate; and Herr Hartstong must take his chance. But, by the way,” Lady Mary added, pausing, turning round and looking at him—“by the way, you are of a great deal more importance. You must take care she does not harm you.”

“Me!” said Harry, with a wild flutter at his heart, forcing to his lips a smile of contempt. “I am a likely person, don’t you think, to be harmed by anybody belonging to the country doctor? I thought, Aunt Mary, you had more knowledge of character.”

“Your class exclusivism is revolting, Harry,” cried Lady Mary, severely. “A young man with such notions is an anachronism; I can’t understand how you and I can come of the same race. But perhaps it’s just as well in this case,” she added, gliding back into her easier tone. “Your mother would go mad at the thought of any such danger for you.”

“I hope I can take care of myself by this time, without my mother’s help,” said Harry, doing his best to laugh. He was white with rage and self-restraint; and the very sound of that laugh ought to have put the heedless aunt, who was thus helping him on the way to destruction, on her guard. But Lady Mary’s mind was occupied by so many things, that she had no attention to bestow on Harry; besides the high confidence she felt in him as an unimpressionable blockhead and heart-hardened young man of the world.

To-morrow, however—this bliss was only to come to-morrow—and twenty-four hours had to be got through somehow without seeing her. Harry once more threw himself in the way persistently. He went down to the village, and called upon all his old acquaintances; he kept about the Green the whole afternoon; but Margaret did not appear. At last, when his patience would hold out no longer, he called at the cottage, saying to himself, that in case Lady Mary had forgotten to write, it would be kind to let her know what was in store for her. But, alas! she was not to be found at the cottage. How she had been able to go out without being seen, Harry could not tell, but he had to go back drearily at night without even a glimpse of her. What progress his imagination had made in three or four days! The very evening seemed darker, the stars less divine, the faint glimmers of the Aurora which kept shooting across the sky had become paltry and unmeaning. If that was all electricity could do, Harry felt it had better not make an exhibition of itself. Was it worth while to make confusion among the elements for so little? was it worth while to suffer the bondage of society, to go through luncheons and dinners, and all the common action of life without even a glance or a smile to make a man feel that he had a soul in him and a heaven above him? Thus wildly visionary had poor Harry become all in a moment, who had never of his own free will read a line of poetry in his life.

“I am so sorry to give you the trouble, Harry,” said Lady Mary, pausing for a moment in her conversation with Herr Hartstong (whose lecture was to be given next morning) to see the ponies go off.

“Oh! I don’t mind it once in a way,” said the young man, scarcely able to restrain the laughter with which, partly from sheer delight, partly from a sense of the ludicrous inappropriateness of her apology, he was bursting. He went down the avenue like an arrow, the ponies tossing their heads, and ringing their bells, the wintry sunshine gleaming on him through the long lines of naked trees. Margaret, to whom Lady Mary had written, was waiting for him with a flush of pleasure upon her pale face, and a look of soft grateful friendliness in her beautiful eyes.

“It was kind of you to come for us,” she said, looking up at him.

“I am so glad to come,” said Harry, with all his heart in his voice. He wrapt her in the warm furs, feeling somehow, with a delicious sense of calm and security, that, for the moment, she belonged to him. “The morning is so fine, and the ponies are so fresh, that I think we might take a turn round the park,” he said. “You are not afraid of them?”

“Oh no! the bonnie little beasties,” cried Margaret, leaning back with languid enjoyment. She had often harnessed the rough pony at Loch Arroch with her own hands, and driven him to the head of the loch without thinking of fear, though she looked now so dainty and delicate; but she did not feel inclined to tell Harry this, or even to recall to herself so homely a recollection. Margaret had been intended by nature for a fine lady. She lay back in the luxurious little carriage, wrapped in the furred mantle, and felt herself whisked through the sunny wintry air to the admiration of all beholders, with a profound sense of enjoyment. She liked the comfort dearly. She liked the dreamy pleasure which was half of the mind, and half of the body. She liked the curtseys of the gatekeepers, and the glances of the stray walkers, who looked after her, she thought, with envy. She felt it natural that she should thus be surrounded by things worthy, and pleasant, and comfortable. Even the supreme gratification of the young attendant by her side, whose infatuation began to shew itself so clearly in his eyes, was a climax of pleasure to Margaret, which she accepted easily without fear of the consequences.

Yes, she thought, he was falling in love with her, poor boy; and it is seldom unpleasant to be fallen in love with. Most probably his people would put a stop, to it, and as she did not mean to give him what she called “any encouragement,” there would be no harm done. Whereas, on the other hand, if his people did not interfere, there was always the chance that it might come to something. Margaret did not mean any harm—she was only disposed to take the Scriptural injunction as her rule, and to let the morrow care for the things of itself.

She lay back in the little carriage with the grey feather in her hat swaying like her slight figure, and Sibby held fast in her arms.

“I feel as if I were in a nest,” she said, when Harry asked tenderly if she felt the cold; and thus they flew round the park, where a little stir of Spring was visible in the rough buds, and where here and there one dewy primrose peeped forth in a sheltered nook—the ponies’ hoofs ringing, and their heads tossing, and their bells tinkling—Harry lost in a foolish joy beyond expression, and she wrapped in delicious comfort. He was thinking altogether of her, she almost altogether of herself—and of her child, who was another self.

“I have enjoyed it so much,” she said softly, as he helped her to get out in front of the hall door.

“I do not think I ever spent so happy a morning,” Harry said very low.

Margaret made no sign of having heard him. She walked upstairs without any reply, leaving him without ceremony. “He is going too fast,” she said to herself. And Harry was a little, just a little, mortified, but soon got over that, and went after her, and was happy once more—happy as the day was long. Indeed, the visit altogether was very successful. Margaret was full of adaptability, very ready to accept any tone which such a personage as Lady Mary chose to give to the conversation, and with, in reality, a lively and open intelligence, easily roused to interest. Besides, though an eager young admirer like Harry was pleasant enough, and might possibly become important, she never for a moment deceived herself as to the great unlikelihood that his friends would permit him to carry out his fancy; and the chance that, instead of bringing advantage, she might bring harm to herself and her brother if she gave any one a right to say that she had “encouraged” him. Whereas nothing but unmingled good could come from pleasing Lady Mary, who was, in every way, the more important person. This being the principle of Margaret’s conduct, it is almost unnecessary to say that Lady Mary found it perfect, and felt that nothing could be in better taste than the way in which the young Scotchwoman kept Harry’s attentions down, and accorded the fullest attention to her own observations. She even took her nephew aside after luncheon, to impress upon him a greater respect for their guest.

“This Mrs. Smith is evidently a very superior person,” said Lady Mary, “and I am sorry to see, Harry, that you are rather disposed to treat her simply as a very pretty young woman. I am not at all sure that you have not been trying to flirt with her during lunch.”

“I—flirt!—Aunt Mary,” stammered Harry, “you altogether mistake—”

“Oh, of course, you never did such a thing in your life,” she said mocking, “but this is not quite an ordinary young lady. The Scotch are so well educated—we can see at a glance that she has read a great deal, and thought as well—which is by no means common. If you take her round the conservatories, you must recollect that it is not a mere pretty girl you are with, Harry. She will not understand your nonsense,” said Lady Mary with a little warmth.

She, herself, had some final arrangements to make with Herr Hartstong, who was also very much interested in the graceful listener, from whom he had received such flattering attention. He made her his best bow, and hoped he should see her next day at the lecture, when Harry, doing his best to suppress all manifestations of feeling, led her away.

“It is so kind of you to let me treat you without ceremony,” said Lady Mary. “Show Mrs. Smith the orchids, Harry. Before you get to the palm tree, I shall be with you—” and then Harry was free and alone with his enchantress. He could not talk to her—he was so happy—he led her away quickly out of sight of his aunt—who had seated herself in a corner of the big drawing-room, to settle all her final arrangements with the botanist—and of Herr Hartstong’s big yellow eyes, which looked after him with suspicion. Harry was eager to get her to himself, to have her alone, out of sight of everybody; but when he had secured this isolation, he could not make much use of it. He was dumb with bliss and excitement—he took her into the fairy palace of flowers where summer reigned in the midst of winter; and instead of making use of his opportunities in this still perfumy place, where everything suited the occasion, found that he had nothing to say. He had talked, laboriously it is true, but still he had talked, when he had called on her at the cottage; he had made a few remarks while he drove her round the park; but on this, the first opportunity he had of being alone with her, he felt his tongue tied. Instead of taking her to the orchids as Lady Mary had suggested, he conducted her straight to the palm tree, and there placed her on the sofa, and stood by, gazing at her, concealing his agitation by cutting sprays of Cape jasmine, of which there happened to be a great velvety cluster in front of her seat.

“It is like something in a book,” said Margaret, with a sigh. “What a fine thing it is to be very rich! I never was in such a beautiful place.”

“Yes, it’s nice to be well off,” said Harry; “but heaps of people are well off who never could invent anything so pretty. You see Tottenham was very much in love with Aunt Mary. She’s a nice little woman,” he added, parenthetically. “A man in love will do a deal to please the woman he likes.”

“Yes, I suppose so,” said Margaret, feeling somewhat disposed to laugh; “and that makes it all the more interesting. Is Mr. Tottenham very poetical and romantic? I have not seen him yet.”

“Tottenham poetical!” cried Harry, with a laugh; “no, not exactly. And that’s an old affair now, since they’ve been married about a century; but it shows what even a dull man can do. Don’t you think love’s a very rum thing?” said the young man, cutting the Cape jasmine all to pieces; “don’t you think so? A fellow doesn’t seem to know what he is doing.”

“Does Lady Mary let you cut her plants to pieces, Mr. Thornleigh?” said Margaret, feeling her voice quaver with amusement. Upon which Harry stopped short, and looked sheepishly down at the bunch of flowers in his hand.

“I meant to get you a nosegay, and here is a great sheaf like a coachman’s bouquet on a drawing-room day,” cried Harry, half conscious of this very distinct commentary upon his words. “Never mind, I’ll tell the gardener. I suppose there are heaps more.”

“How delightful to have heaps more!” said Margaret. “I don’t think poor folk should ever be brought into such fairy places. I used to think myself so lucky with a half-a-dozen plants.”

“Then you are fond of flowers?” said Harry.

What woman, nay, what civilised person of the present age, ever made but one answer to such a question? There are a few people left in the world, and only a few, who still dare to say they are not fond of music; but fond of flowers!

“I do so wish you would let me keep you supplied,” said Harry, eagerly. “Trouble! it would be the very reverse of trouble; it would be the very greatest pleasure—and I could do it so easily—”

“Are you a cultivator, then?” said Margaret, “a great florist?” she said it with a half-consciousness of the absurdity, yet half deceived by his earnestness. Harry himself was startled for the moment by the question.

“A florist! Oh, yes, in a kind of a way,” he said, trying to restrain an abrupt momentary laugh. A florist? yes; by means of Covent Garden, or some ruinous London nurseryman. But Margaret knew little of such refinements. “It would be such a pleasure to me,” he said, anxiously. “May I do it? And then you will not be able quite to forget my very existence.”

Margaret got up, feeling the conversation had gone far enough. “May not I see the—orchids? It was the orchids I think that Lady Mary said.”

“This is the way,” said Harry, almost sullen, feeling that he had fallen from a great height. He went after her with his huge handful of velvety jasmine flowers. He did not like to offer them, he did not dare to strew them at her feet that she might walk upon them, which was what he would have liked best. He flung them aside into a corner in despite and vexation. Was he angry with her? If such a sentiment had been possible, that would have been, he felt, the feeling in his mind. But Margaret was not angry nor annoyed, though she had stopped the conversation, feeling it had gone far enough. To “give him encouragement,” she felt, was the very last thing that, in her position, she dared to do. She liked the boy, all the same, for liking her. It gave her a soothing consciousness of personal well-being. She was glad to please everybody, partly because it pleased herself, partly because she was of a kindly and amiable character. She had no objection to his admiration, to his love, if the foolish boy went so far, so long as no one had it in his power to say that she had given him encouragement; that was the one thing upon which her mind was fully made up; and then, whatever came of it, she would have nothing with which to reproach herself. If his people made a disturbance, as they probably would, and put a stop to his passion, why, then, Margaret would not be to blame; and if, on the contrary, he had strength of mind to persevere, or they, by some wonderful chance, did not oppose, why then Margaret would reap the benefit. This seems a somewhat selfish principle, looking at it from outside, but I don’t think that Margaret had what is commonly called a selfish nature. She was a perfectly sober-minded unimpassioned woman, very affectionate in her way, very kind, loving comfort and ease, but liking to partake these pleasures with those who surrounded her. If fate had decreed that she should marry Harry Thornleigh, she knew very well that she would make him an admirable wife, and she would have been quite disposed to adapt herself to the position. But in the meantime she would do nothing to commit herself, or to bring this end, however desirable it might be in itself, about.

CHAPTER VII.

No Encouragement.

“No trouble,” said Lady Mary, “but you shall have the close carriage, which will be better for you than Harry and the ponies. I hope he did not frighten you in the morning. I don’t think I could give him a character as coachman; he all but upset me the other night, when we left your house—to be sure I had been aggravating—eh, Harry?” she said, looking wickedly at him. “It was very good of you to let me have my talk out with the Professor; ladies will so seldom understand that business goes before pleasure. And I hope you will do as he asked, and come to the lecture to-morrow.”

“I am not very understanding about lectures,” said Margaret.

“Are not you? you look very understanding about everything,” said Lady Mary. She too, as well as Harry, had fallen in love with the doctor’s sister. The effect was not perhaps so sudden; but Lady Mary was a woman of warm sympathies, and sudden likings, and after a few hours in Margaret’s society she had quite yielded to her charm. She found it pleasant to look at so pretty a creature, pleasant to meet her interested look, her intelligent attention. There could not be a better listener, or a more delightful disciple; she might not perhaps know a great deal herself, but then she was so willing to adopt your views, or at least to be enlightened by them. Lady Mary sat by, and looked at her after the promenade round the conservatories, with all a woman’s admiration for beauty of the kind which women love. This, as all the world knows, is not every type; but Margaret’s drooping shadowy figure, her pathetic eyes, her soft paleness, and gentle deferential manner, were all of the kind that women admire. Lady Mary “fell in love” with the stranger. They were all three seated in the conservatory in the warm soft atmosphere, under the palm tree, and the evening was beginning to fall. The great fire in the drawing-room shone out like a red star in the distance, through all the drooping greenness of the plants, and they began half to lose sight of each other, shadowed, as this favourite spot was, by the great fan branches of the palm.

“I think there never was such delightful luxury as this,” said Margaret, softly. “Italy must be like it, or some of the warm islands in the sea.”

“In the South Sea?” said Lady Mary, smiling, “perhaps; but both the South Seas and Italy are homes of indolence, and I try all I can to keep that at arm’s length. But I assure you Herr Hartstong was not so poetical; he gave me several hints about the management of the heat. Do come to-morrow and hear him, my dear Mrs. Smith. Botany is wonderfully interesting. Many people think it a dilettante young-lady-like science; but I believe in the hands of a competent professor it is something very different. Do let me interest you in my scheme. You know, I am sure, and must feel, how little means of education there are—and as little Sibby will soon be craving for instruction like my child—”

“I suppose there is no good school for little girls here?” said Margaret, timidly; her tact told her that schools for little girls were not in question; but she did not know what else to say.

“Oh!” said Lady Mary, with momentary annoyance; “for mere reading and writing, yes, I believe there is one; but it is the higher instruction I mean,” she added, recovering herself, “probably you have not had your attention directed to it; and to be sure in Scotland the standard is so much higher, and education so much more general.”

Margaret had the good sense to make no reply. She had herself received a solid education at the parish school of Loch Arroch, along with all the ploughboys and milkmaids of the district, and had been trained into English literature and the Shorter Catechism, in what was then considered a very satisfactory way. No doubt she was so much better instructed than her patroness that Lady Mary scarcely knew what the Shorter Catechism was. But Margaret was not proud of this training, though she was aware that the parochial system had long been a credit to Scotland—and would much rather have been able to say that she was educated at Miss So-and-So’s seminary for young ladies. As she could not claim any such Alma Mater, she held her tongue, and listened devoutly, and with every mark of interest while Lady Mary’s scheme was propounded to her. Though, however, she was extremely attentive, she did not commit herself by any promise, not knowing how far her Loch Arroch scholarship would carry her in comparison with the young ladies of Harbour Green. She consented only conditionally to become one of Lady Mary’s band of disciples.

“If I have time,” she said; and then Lady Mary, questioning, drew from her a programme of her occupations, which included the housekeeping, Sibby’s lessons, and constant attendance, when he wanted her, upon her brother. “I drive with him,” said Margaret, “for he thinks it is good for my health—and then there is always a good deal of sewing.”

“But,” said Lady Mary, “that is bad political economy. You neglect your mind for the sake of the sewing, when there are many poor creatures to whom, so to speak, the sewing belongs, who have to make their livelihood by working, and whom ladies’ amateur performances throw out of bread.”

Thus the great lady discoursed the poor doctor’s sister, who but for him would probably have been one of the said poor creatures; this, however, it did not enter into Lady Mary’s mind to conceive. Margaret was overawed by the grandeur of the thought. For the first moment, she could not even laugh covertly within herself at the thought of her own useful sewing being classified as a lady’s amateur performance. She was silent, not venturing to say anything for herself, and Lady Mary resumed.

“I really must have you among my students; think how much more use you would be to Sibby, if you kept up, or even extended, your own acquirements. Of course, I say all this with diffidence, because I know that in Scotland education is so much more thought of, and is made so much more important than it is with us.”

“Oh, no!” cried Margaret. She could not but laugh now, thinking of the Loch Arroch school. And after all, the Loch Arroch school is the point in which Scotland excels England, or did excel her richer neighbour; and the idea of poor Margaret being better educated than the daughter of an English earl, moved even her tranquil spirit to laughter. “Oh, no; you would not think that if you knew,” she said, controlling herself with an effort. If it had not been for a prudent sense that it was best not to commit herself, she would have been deeply tempted to have her laugh out, and confide the joke to her companions. As it was, however, this suppressed sense of ridicule was enough to make her uncomfortable. “I will try to go,” she said gently, changing the immediate theme, “after the trouble of the flitting is over, when we have got into our house.”

Lady Mary fell into the snare. She began to ask about the house, and whether they had brought furniture, or what they meant to do, and entered into all the details with a frank kindness which went to Margaret’s heart. During all this conversation, Harry Thornleigh kept coming and going softly, gliding among the plants, restless, but happy. He could not have her to himself any longer. He could not talk to her; but yet she was there, and making her way into the heart of at least one of his family. While these domestic subjects were discussed, and as the evening gradually darkened, Harry said to himself that he had always been very fond of his aunt, and that she was very nice and sympathetic, and that to secure her for a friend would be wise in any case. It was almost night before Dr. Murray made his appearance, and he was confounded by the darkness of the place into which he was ushered, where he could see nothing but shadows among the plants and against the pale lightness of the glass roofs. I am not sure, for the moment, that he was not half offended by being received in so unceremonious a way. He stood stiffly, looking about him, till Lady Mary half rose from her seat.

“Excuse me for having brought you here,” she said; “this is our favourite spot, where none but my friends ever come.”

Lady Mary felt persuaded that she saw, even in the dark, the puffing out of the chest with which this friendly speech was received.

“For such a pleasant reason one would excuse a much worse place,” he said, with an attempt at ease, to the amusement of the great lady who was condescending to him. Excuse his introduction to her conservatory! He should never have it in his power to do so again. Dr. Charles then turned to his sister, and said, “Margaret, we must be going. You and the child have troubled her Ladyship long enough.”

“I am delighted with Mrs. Smith’s society, and Sibby has been a godsend to the children,” said Lady Mary. “Let us go into the drawing-room, where there are lights, and where we can at least see each other. I like the gloaming, your pretty Scotch word; but I daresay Dr. Murray thinks us all rather foolish, sitting like crows in the dark.”

She led the way in, taking Margaret’s arm, while Margaret, with a little thrill of annoyance, tried through the imperfect light to throw a warning look at her brother. Why did he speak so crossly, he who was never really cross; and why should he say ladyship? Margaret knew no better than he did, and yet instinct kept her from going wrong.

Dr. Murray entered the drawing-room, looking at the lady who had preceded him, to see what she thought of him, with furtive, suspicious looks. He was very anxious to please Lady Mary, and still more anxious to show himself an accomplished man of the world; but he could not so much as enter a room without this subtle sense of inferiority betraying itself. Harry, coming after him, thought the man a cad, and writhed at the thought; but he was not at all a cad. He hesitated between the most luxurious chair he could find, and the hardest, not feeling sure whether it was best to show confidence or humility. When he did decide at last, he looked round with what seemed a defiant look. “Who can say I have no right to be here?” poor fellow, was written all over his face.