‘Oh no, but Hailes knew about him, and so, indeed, did my father. It seems that three generations ago there was a son who followed the instincts of our race further than usual, and married a jockey’s daughter, or something of that sort. He was set up in a horse-breeding farm and cut the connection; but it seems that there was always a sort of p. 26communication of family events, so that Hailes knew exactly where to look for an heir.’
‘Not a jockey!’
‘Oh no, nothing so diverting. That would be fun!’ Bertha said, with a laugh that had no merriment in it. ‘He is a clerk—an attorney’s clerk! What do you think of that, Lettice?’
‘Better than the jockey.’
‘Oh, very respectable, they say’—with a sound of disgust.
‘Is he young?’
‘No; caught early, something might be done with him, but there’s not that hope. He is not much less than forty. Fancy a creature that has pettifogged, as an underling too, all his life.’
‘Married?’
‘Thank goodness, no, and all the mammas in London and in the country will be running after him. Not that he will be any great catch, for of course he has nothing—and the poor place will be brought to a low ebb.’
‘And what do you mean to do, Birdie?’
‘Get out of sight of it all as fast as possible! Forget that horses ever existed except as means of locomotion,’ and Bertha got up and walked towards the window as if restless with pain, then came back.
‘I shall get rid of all I can—and come to live as near as I can to Whitechapel, and slum! I’m free now.’ Then looking at her cousin’s sorrowful, wistful face, ‘Work, work, work, that’s all that’s good for me. Soberly, Lettice, this is my plan,’ she added, sitting down again. ‘I know how it all is left. This new man is to have enough to go on p. 27upon, so as not to be too beggarly and bring the title into contempt. He is only coming for to-morrow, having to wind up his business; but I shall stay on till he comes back, and settle what to do with the things here. Adela and I have our choice of them, and don’t want to leave the place too bare. Then I shall sell the London house, and all the rest of the encumbrances, and set up for myself.’
‘Not with Adela?’
‘Oh no; Adela means to stick by the old place, and I couldn’t do that for a constancy—oh no,’ with a shudder.
‘Does she?’ in some wonder.
‘Her own people don’t want her. The Arlingtons are with her now, but I fancy she would rather be sitting with us—or alone best of all, poor dear. You see, she is a mixture of the angel that is too much for some people. How she got it I don’t know, not among us, I should think, though she came to us straight out of the schoolroom, or I fancy she would never have come at all. But oh, Lettice, if you could have seen her how patient she has been throughout with my father, reading him all about every race, just because she thought it was less gall and wormwood to her than to me, and going out to the stables to satisfy him about his dear Night Hawk, and all the rest of it. When she was away for that fortnight over poor little Michael, I found to the full what she had been, and then after that, back she comes again, as white as a sheet, but all she ever was to my father, and more wonderful than all, setting herself to reconcile him to the notion of this new heir of his—and I do believe, if my father p. 28had not so suddenly grown worse, she would have made us have him up to be introduced—all out of rectitude and duty, you know, for Adela is the shyest of mortals, and recoils by nature from the underbred far more than we do. In fact, I rather like it. It gives me a sensation. I had ten times rather this man were a common sailor, or a tinker, than just a stupid stick of a clerk!’
‘Then Adela means to stay at the Dower House?’
‘Yes, she has rooted herself there by all her love to her poor people, and I fancy, too, that she does not want to bring Amice up among all the Arlington children, who are not after her pattern, so she intends to bear the brunt of it, and not leave Northmoor, unless the new-comers turn out unbearable.’
‘She goes away with her brother now.’
‘Oh yes, she must, and Lord Arlington is fond of her in a way! Can’t you stay on with me, Lettice?’
‘I wish I could, my dear Birdie, but I am anxious about Mary; I don’t think I must stay later than Sunday.’
‘Yes; you are too devoted a mother for me to absorb. Never mind, you will be in London, and I shall soon be within reach of you. You are a comfortable person, Lettice.’
p. 29CHAPTER V
THE PEER
Poor Miss Lang! After all her care that her young pupils’ heads should not be turned by folly about marriage and noblemen, the very event she had always viewed as most absurdly improbable had really occurred, and it was impossible to keep it a secret; though Miss Marshall did her very best to appear as usual, heard lessons with her accustomed diligence, conducted the daily exercises, watched over the instructions by masters, and presided over the needlework. But she grew whiter, more pinched, and her little face more mouse-like every day, and the elder girls whispered fancies about her. ‘She had no doubt heard that Lord Northmoor had broken it off!’—‘A little poky attorney’s clerk, of course he would.’—‘Poor dear thing, she will go into a consumption! Didn’t you hear her cough last night?’—‘And then we’ll all throw wreaths into her grave!’—‘Oh, that was only Elsie Harris!’—‘Nonsense, Mabel, I’m sure it was her, poor thing. Prenez garde, la vieille Dragonne vient.’
That Lord Northmoor was to come back by the p. 30mail train was known, and Miss Lang had sent a polite note to invite him to afternoon tea on the Sunday. The church to which he had been for many years devoted was a district one, and Miss Lang’s establishment had their places in the old parish church, so there was not much chance of meeting in the morning, though one pupil observed to another that ‘she should think him a beast if they did not meet him on the way to church.’
It is to be feared that she had to form this opinion, but on the other hand, by the early dinner-time, tidings pervaded the school that Lord Northmoor had been at St. Basil’s, and sung in his surplice just as if nothing had happened! The more sensational party of girls further averred that he had been base enough to walk thither with Miss Burford, and that Miss Marshall had been crying all church time. Whether this was true or not, it was certain that she ate scarcely any dinner, and that Miss Lang insisted on administering a glass of wine.
Moreover, when dinner was finally over, she quietly crept up to her own room, and resumed her church-going bonnet—a little black net, with a long-enduring bunch of violets. Then she knelt down and entreated, ‘Oh, show me Thy will, and give me strength and judgment to do that which may be best for him, and may neither of us be beguiled by the world or by ambition.’
Then she peeped out to make sure that the coast was clear—not that she was not quite free to go where she pleased, but she dreaded eyes and titters—out at the door, to the corner of the lane where for many a Sunday afternoon there had been a quiet p. 31tryste and walk. Her heart beat so as almost to choke her, and she hardly durst raise her eyes to see if the accustomed figure awaited her. Was it the accustomed figure? Her eyes dazzled so under her little holland parasol that she could hardly see, and though there was a movement towards her, she felt unable to look up till she heard the words, ‘Mary, at last!’ and felt the clasp of the hand.
‘Oh, Frank—I mean—’
‘You mean Frank, your own Frank; nothing else to you.’
‘Ought you?’ And as she murmured she looked up. It was the same, but still a certain change was there, almost indescribable, but still to be felt, as if a line of toil and weariness had passed from the cheek. The quiet gray eyes were brighter and more eager, the bearing as if ten years had been taken from the forty, and though Mary did not perceive the details, the dress showing that his mourning had not come from the country town tailor and outfitter, even the soft hat a very different article from that which was wont to replace the well-cherished tall one of Sunday mornings.
‘I had not much t
ime,’ he said, ‘but I thought this would be of the most use,’ and he began clasping on her arm a gold bracelet with a tiny watch on it. ‘I thought you would like best to keep our old ring.’
‘If—if I ought to keep it at all,’ she faltered.
‘Now, Mary, I will not have an afternoon spoilt by any folly of that sort,’ he said.
‘Is it folly? Nay, listen. Should you not get p. 32on far far better without such a poor little stupid thing as I am?’
‘I always thought I was the stupid one.’
‘You—but you are a man.’
‘So much the worse!’
‘Yes; but, Frank, don’t you see what I mean? This thing has come to you, and you can’t help it, and you are descended from these people really; but it would be choice for me, and I could not bear to feel that you were ashamed of me.’
‘Never!’ he exclaimed. ‘Look here, Mary. What should I do without you to come back to and be at rest with? All the time I was talking to those ladies and going through those fine rooms, I was thinking of the one comfort I should have when I have you all to myself. See,’ he added, going over the arguments that he had no doubt prepared, ‘it is not as if you were like poor Emma. You are a lady all over, and have always lived with ladies; and yet you are not too grand for me. Think what you would leave me to—to be wretched by myself, or else— I could never be at home with those high-bred folk. I felt it every moment, though Miss Morton was very kind, and even wanted me to call her Birdie. I did feel thankful I could tell her I was engaged.’
‘You did!’
‘Yes; and she was very kind, and said she was glad of it, and hoped soon to know you.’
‘Oh, Frank dear, I am sure no one ever was more really noble-hearted than you,’ she almost sobbed; ‘you know how I shall always feel it; but yet, but yet I can’t help thinking you ought to leave p. 33it a little more unsettled till you have looked about a little and seen whether I should be a very great disadvantage to you.’
‘Seen whether I could find such a dear, unselfish little woman, eh? No, no, Mary, put all that out of your head. We have not loved one another for twenty years for a trumpery title to come between us now! And you need not fear being too well off for the position. The agent, Hailes, has been continually apologising to me for the smallness of the means. He says either we must have no house in London, or else let Northmoor. He cannot tell me yet exactly what income we shall have, but the farms don’t let well, and there is not much ready money.’
‘Every one says you ought to marry a lady of fortune.’
‘My dear Mary, to what would you condemn me? What sort of lady of fortune do you think would take an old stick like me for the sake of being my Lady? I really shall begin to believe you are tired of it.’
‘Stick! oh no, no. Staff, if’—and the manner in which she began to cling was answer full and complete; indeed, as she saw that her resistance had begun to hurt him as much as herself, she felt herself free to throw herself into the interests, and ask, ‘Is Northmoor a very nice place?’
‘Not so pretty as Cotes Kenton outside. A great white house, with a portico for carriages to drive under, and not kept up very well, patches of plaster coming off; but there is a beautiful view over the woods, with a purple moor beyond.’
p. 34‘And inside?’
‘Well, rather dreary, waiting for you to make it homelike. They have not lived there much for some time past. Lady Adela has lived in the Dower House, and will continue there.’
‘Did you see much of them?’
‘Not Lady Adela. Poor lady, she had her own relations with her. She had not by any means recovered the loss of her little boy, and I can quite understand that it must have been too trying for her to see me in his place. I understand from Hailes—’
‘Your Mr. Burford,’ said Mary, smiling.
‘That she is a very refined, rather exclusive and domestic lady, devoted to her little girl, and extremely kind to the poor. Indeed, so is Miss Morton, but she prefers the London poor, and is altogether rather flighty, and what Hailes calls an unconventional young lady. There was a very nice lady with her, Mrs. Bury, the daughter of a brother of the late Lord, a widow, and very kind and friendly. Both were very good-natured, Miss Morton always acted hostess, and talked continually.’
‘About her father?’
‘Oh no, I do not think he had been a very affectionate father, and their habits and tastes had been very different. Lady Adela seems to have latterly been more to him. Miss Morton was chiefly concerned to advise me about politics and social questions, and how to deal with the estate and the tenants.’
He seemed somewhat to shudder at the recollection, and Mary certainly conceived a dread of the p. 35ladies of Northmoor. It was further elicited that he meant to help Mr. Burford through all the work and arrangements consequent on his own succession, indeed, to remain at his post either till a successor was found, or the junior sufficiently indoctrinated to take the place. Of course, as he said, six months’ notice was due, but Mr. Burford has waived this. During this time he meant to go to see ‘poor Emma’ at Westhaven, but it was not an expedition he seemed much to relish, and he wished to defer it till he could definitely tell what it would be in his power to do for her and her children, for whose education he was really anxious, rejoicing that they were still young enough to be moulded.
Then came the tea at Miss Lang’s—a stately meal, when the two ladies were grand; Lord Northmoor became shy and frozen, monosyllabic, and only spasmodically able to utter; and Mary felt it in all her nerves and subsided into her smallest self, under the sense that nobody ever would do him justice.
p. 36CHAPTER VI
THE WEIGHT OF HONOURS
The next was a fortnight of strange and new experiences. Lord Northmoor spent most of his days over the papers in the office, so much his usual self, that Mr. Burford generally forgot, and called to him as ‘Morton’ so naturally that after the first the other clerks left off sniggering.
There Sir Edward called on him, and in an interview in his sitting-room at the office asked him to a quiet dinner, together with the solicitor; but this was hardly a success, for Mr. Burford, being at home with the family, did all the talking, and Frank could not but feel in the presence of his master, and had not a word to say for himself, especially as George and Freda looked critical, and as if ‘That stick’ was in their minds, if not on their lips. The only time when he approached a thaw was when in the hot summer evening Lady Kenton made him her companion in a twilight stroll on the terraces, when he looked at the roses with delight, and volunteered a question about the best sorts, saying that the garden at Northmoor had been much p. 37neglected, and he wanted to have it in good order, ‘that is’—blushing and correcting himself—‘if we can live there.’
Lady Kenton noted the ‘we’ and was sorry to be here interrupted. ‘We shall do nothing with him till we get him alone,’ she said. ‘We must have him apart from Mr. Burford.’
Before this, however, they had to meet him at a very splendid party, given with all the resources of the Burford family at their villa, when the county folks, who had no small curiosity to see the new peer, were invited in full force, and the poor peer felt capable of fewer words than ever to throw at them.
Lady Kenton ventured on asking Mrs. Burford to introduce her to Miss Marshall, taking such presence for granted.
‘Oh, Lady Kenton, really now I did not think that foolish affair should be encouraged. It is such an unfortunate thing for him; and as Miss Lang and I agreed, it would be so much better for both of them if it were given up.’
‘Is there anything against her?’
‘Oh no, not at all; only that, poor thing, she is quite unfitted for the position, and between ourselves, in the condition of the property, it is really incumbent on his Lordship to marry a lady of fortune. At his age he cannot afford romance,’ she added with a laugh, being in fact rather inferior to her husband in tone, or perhaps in manners. Indeed, she was of all others the person who
most shrivelled up the man whom she had always treated like a poor dependent, till her politeness became still more p. 38embarrassing. Among all the party, Sir Edward and Lady Kenton were those with whom he was most nearly at ease, for they had nothing to revoke in their manners towards him, and could, without any change, treat him as an equal whom they respected; nor did they try to force him forward into general conversation—as did his host—with the best intentions.
Lady Kenton, under cover of Miss Burford’s piano, asked him whether she might call on Miss Marshall, and saw him flush with gratitude and pleasure, as he answered, ‘It will be very kind in you.’
Lady Kenton knew enough of the ways of the school to understand when to make her visit, so as to have a previous conversation with Miss Lang, whom of course she already knew. That lady received her in one of the drawing-rooms, the folding doors into the other were shut.
‘I have told Miss Marshall,’ said Miss Lang, ‘that the room is always at her service to receive Lord Northmoor, though, in fact, he never comes till after business hours.’
‘He is behaving very well.’
‘Very honourably indeed; but poor Miss Marshall is in a very distressing position.’
‘Indeed! Is she not very happy in his constancy?’
‘She is in great doubt and difficulty,’ said Miss Lang, ‘and we really hardly know how to advise her. She seems sure of his affection, but she shrinks from entering on a position for which she is so unfit.’
p. 39‘Is she really unfit?’
Miss Lang hesitated. ‘She is a complete lady, and as good and conscientious a creature as ever existed; but you see, Lady Kenton, her whole life has been spent here, ever since she was sixteen, she has known nothing beyond the schoolroom, and how she is ever to fulfil the duties of a peeress, and the head of a large establishment, I really cannot see. It might be just misery to her, and to him, too.’
‘Has she good sense?’
‘Yes, very fair sense. We can trust to her judgment implicitly in dealing with the girls, and she teaches well, but she is not at all clever, and could never shine.’
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