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 RACHEL'S SECRET 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2010 with funding from 
 
 University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/rachelssecret01tabo
 
 
 RACHEL'S SECRET. 
 
 BY 
 
 THE AUTHOR OF 
 
 THE MASTER OF MART ON. 
 
 Post tenebras lux.' 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS, 
 
 SUCCESSORS TO HENRY COLBURN, 
 
 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 
 
 1866. 
 
 The right of Translation is reserved.
 
 LONDON 
 
 PRINTED BY MAODONALD AND TUGWELL, BLENHEIM HOUSE. 
 
 BLENHEIM STREET, OXFORD STREET.
 
 £?3 
 
 St3U 
 ■ 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 OF 
 
 THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 I. The Slough of Despond ......•• 
 
 PAGE 
 1 
 
 II. DlJNSTAN DAYNE MAKES A START IN LlFE 
 
 17 
 
 III. The Gate Beautiful 
 
 28 
 
 IV. Poppy and Rue 
 
 39 
 
 V. The Sexton's Tale 
 
 56 
 
 VI. Supper .,.-•• 
 
 75 
 
 VII. The Brook Farm .... 
 
 96 
 
 VIII. By the Trout Stream 
 
 118 
 
 IX. Rachel Dallas . * . 
 
 . 134 
 
 X. Mrs. Doyle's Troubles 
 
 . 156 
 
 XI. DUNSTAN FINDS HIMSELF AT HOME 
 
 . 171 
 
 XII. Dr. Kennedy's Wife 
 
 . 190 
 
 XIII. An English Girl .... 
 
 . 208 
 
 XIV. Four Feet on the Fender 
 
 . 233 
 
 XV. The Squire of Rooklands . 
 
 . 239 
 

 
 VI CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 XVI. The Ivory Gates 257 
 
 XVII. Mrs. Mallinson entertains Quality . . 272 
 
 XVIII. Out on the Moor 288 
 
 XIX. Euphrasy 297
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE SLOUGH OF DESPOND. 
 
 TT was a bad fire, certainly, to which Dunstan 
 ■*■ Dayne had just come home — if, indeed, that 
 dingy room in the court of St. Clement's Inn 
 might deserve the sweet name of home. And 
 when the young man had hung up his damp coat 
 on the peg behind the door, and flung his boots 
 into a corner, and had sat down, with his feet on 
 the fender and his head in his hands, the smoul- 
 dering heap in the high narrow grate formed any- 
 thing but an agreeable companion. 
 
 It makes a wonderful difference, as everybody 
 knows, in the feelings of a man — especially if he 
 be poor, and young, and struggling on through the 
 world alone — to be greeted when he comes in at 
 night by a rollicking, blazing fire, with a ruddy 
 VOL. T. B
 
 2 Rackets Secret. 
 
 core of heat glowing at its centre, and the flames 
 flashing and dancing and leaping merrily up the 
 chimney. It is like opening the door upon the 
 bright face of a friend, and meeting the grasp of 
 his ready hand. But, as I said, this was a dull 
 fire — a very dull fire — and on this particular even- 
 ing was burning in a listless, indifferent fashion, 
 as if it had hardly energy enough to keep itself 
 alive, to say nothing of getting up an occasional 
 sparkle, by way of relief to the thin cloud of 
 smoke that was creeping lazily up the dark, yawn- 
 ing chasm above. Indeed, when, by-and-by, 
 Dunstan raised his head and looked around him 
 into the sickly twilight, it seemed as if the whole 
 atmosphere of the room had been infected by it, 
 for everything looked dreary, dull, and desolate 
 alike. 
 
 Not a pleasant aspect of affairs, by any means, 
 though, doubtless, it was in part the hue of his 
 own spirit that gloomed over them so dismally. For 
 hitherto life had been a hard thing for Dunstan 
 Dayne, as, indeed, it must be at first to most young
 
 The Slough of Despond. 3 
 
 men, who, with small means and few friends, are 
 yet resolved to struggle upward to a position which 
 their ambition and ability alone make it likely 
 they will ever reach. And so far, Dunstan's 
 efforts to secure for himself a firm footing in the 
 world had been doomed to disappointment ; and 
 disappointment, too often repeated, takes a great 
 deal of stuff out of a man. It empties him of 
 courage, pluck, and hope. It lessens that feeling 
 of self-help which is the backbone of success. It 
 frets his brain, and unstrings his nerves, and relaxes 
 his whole mental and muscular fibre, until, instead 
 of a brave heart, ready to do battle with everything 
 that opposes it, there is a limp dejection, which 
 obstacles may chafe into irritation, but have no 
 power to rouse to action. 
 
 And to this unpleasant pass had Dunstan Dayne 
 been brought on this particular evening from which 
 our history begins. 
 
 For the last four years, ever since he had 
 found himself, at one-and-twenty, his own master, 
 with a slender purse, a proud spirit, and a tolerable 
 
 b2
 
 4 Racltets Secret. 
 
 acquaintance with the mysteries of engineering as 
 his only capital, he had been trying with might 
 and main "to get on in the world," and with 
 all his efforts had not as yet made a single step 
 in the race for riches. Possibly, had he been a 
 little less fastidious as to the kind of work that 
 he was willing to undertake, or a little less inde- 
 pendent in his way of seeking it, he might have 
 succeeded better. As it was, he found himself 
 now with nothing to do, and no more prospect of 
 obtaining anything than he had when, two months 
 ago, he had let a capital chance slip through his 
 ringers, just because he was too proud to put himself 
 under obligation to a gentleman, who, not long be- 
 fore, had touched his dignity by passing him in the 
 street without a recognition. 
 
 It would have been such a first-rate opening for 
 him, just the thing that he had always been longing 
 to obtain — an appointment to superintend the for- 
 mation of a line of railway about to be laid down 
 in a northern county. A work which he knew ho 
 could have carried out successfully, and which would
 
 The Slough of Despond. "> 
 
 have called into play all those talents which he was 
 conscious of possessing. And, as he said to himself, 
 with the reputation for ability, which he would 
 thus have earned, what should hinder him henceforth 
 from rising rapidly in his profession ? 
 
 There was stern stuff in the young man. He 
 had borne up bravely as long as he could, but this 
 last blow had been too heavy for him. For he had 
 been so near obtaining the appointment, so sure 
 that it would be his ; and then to fail by just one 
 or two votes had been a disappointment almost too 
 great for him to bear. No wonder if just now he 
 saw everything through a fog. 
 
 It was growing late. The misty drizzle which 
 had been falling while he was out had settled into 
 a steady rain, that beat against the window-panes, 
 and dripped upon the sill with a dull, monotonous 
 plash. The smoky daylight was dying out, the 
 twilight thickening fast, the dark outlines of 
 the furniture in the room were fading into an 
 indistinguishable gloom, and still Dunstan sat 
 brooding moodily over his failure. For the more
 
 6 Rachels Secret. 
 
 the thought of it vexed and worried him, so much 
 the more with perverse persistency he continued to 
 suck out of it all the misery that it was capable of 
 affording. Each aggravating detail he rolled over 
 and over like a sweet morsel under his tongue, 
 until at last he almost began to feel as if the 
 whole world had set itself in leamie against him. 
 
 Other people, as he said to himself, had been 
 successful — why must he be doomed to perpetual 
 defeat, left to struggle single-handed with his fate, 
 alone there in that dreary London lodging, while 
 others had friends to give them a helping hand, 
 and homes with mothers and sisters — ay, and wives 
 too, of their own ? And with that Dunstan's 
 thoughts glanced aside to a certain Fanny Dale, a 
 tall, bright-eyed girl, daughter of the curate in his 
 native village, who had just achieved a splendid 
 match with a wealthy mill-owner in the neigh- 
 bourhood. For Dunstan had always intended that 
 if ever he did fall in love it should be with Fanny 
 Dale, and now, by marrying another, it seemed to 
 his vexed imagination as if she had actually inflicted 
 a personal injury on himself.
 
 The Slough of Despond. 7 
 
 It was unreasonable, no doubt, to feel himself 
 aggrieved, seeing that the young lady in question 
 had been quite unconscious of the contingency 
 alluded to. None the less Dunstan felt jnst then 
 as if he would have liked to have had her before 
 him, that he might upbraid her to his heart's con- 
 tent. For now that she was fairly out of his 
 reach, he had quite persuaded himself that she 
 was the only girl he should ever care to have. 
 But she was just like the rest of them. No one 
 had a thought for him ; people just kicked him 
 out of their way, and if he died like a dog it would 
 be all the same to them. 
 
 He was working himself up into a state of 
 sullen antagonism to himself and all the world 
 beside — foolish, doubtless, but, poor fellow, he 
 was weary just then, and bitter, and down-hearted. 
 Look which way he would, he saw his path hedged 
 up, every avenue closed that might lead him out 
 into the broad sunshine of prosperity. It was of 
 no use trying any longer. He might as well give 
 in at once, and let the tide of ill-luck drift him on 
 whither it would. And here the one live ember
 
 8 Rachels Secret. 
 
 in the grate winked at him maliciously with its 
 dull red eye, as if it would say, "I think you 
 might as well." 
 
 And yet, at five-and-twenty, the life is still 
 strong in a young man's breast. Hope may 
 be crushed, but it cannot quite be killed. 
 The clock of St. Clement's was striking eight. 
 Dnnstan roused himself from his reverie, got up, 
 stretched himself, and then took up the poker, and 
 gave a random stroke at the great block of coal 
 that was choking up the fire. It was a kind of 
 satisfaction to attack something, if it were only 
 a lump of coal. It formed an outlet to the 
 defiant feeling that had been gathering in his 
 breast. But he had better have been quiet, for 
 the blow only drove out a cloud of grey ashes 
 from the bottom of the grate, and quite smothered 
 the sickly gleam that had been struggling to keep 
 itself alight. 
 
 Dunstan drew back with an impatient gesture ; 
 even the fire set him at defiance. He flung down 
 the poker, and gave a violent jerk to the bell.
 
 The Slough of Despond. 9 
 
 There, at least, he had provoked opposition, for it 
 answered by a long resounding peal, that startled 
 Mrs. Drew, the woman who in a general way 
 "did for" the gentlemen of the house, into drop- 
 ping a stitch in the stocking she was knitting, and 
 roused her husband out of the comfortable nap in 
 which he was indulging as he sat before her in his 
 elbow-chair. But Mrs. Drew was too well accus- 
 tomed to these hasty peals to be permanently 
 affected by them. There were so many briefless 
 barristers and struggling disappointed men in- 
 habiting the chambers of which she had the 
 charge, that she had ceased long ago to attach any 
 special importance to even an unusually violent 
 summons, and had learned to make charitable 
 allowance for these little ebullitions of temper. 
 
 " It's yon Mr. Dayne," she said, as she quietly 
 picked up the dropped stitch and glanced at the 
 bell which was still clinking angrily in the midst 
 of the long row that hung just under the kitchen ceil- 
 ing. "It's yon Mr. Dayne. There's sumraut wrong 
 with that young man, as sure as I'm alive. He's
 
 10 RacheTs Secret. 
 
 been getting as twisty and as kranky this month 
 past as ever he knows how to be. An off his 
 victuals, too, he is. Not a bite did he eat, I do 
 believe, this morning to his breakfast ; and his tea 
 like brandy, it was so strong. An that's a sure 
 sign with me. I always says when a young man 
 isn't equal to his breakfast of a morning, either he's 
 been a-sitting up over night with his grog and his 
 cigars, or he's got something on his mind as he's a- 
 worrying hisself about. And it's my opinion that's 
 just where it is with Mr. Dayne." 
 
 And having made her knitting straight again, 
 Mrs. Drew laid it down, and waddled upstairs to 
 see what it was that Mr. Dayne might please to 
 want. 
 
 " Some sticks here directly to this fire, " 
 cried Dunstan, testily, as soon as she appeared. 
 " It is a strange thing that I can never leave the 
 house, but when I come back I find the fire has 
 gone out too." 
 
 Mrs. Drew prudently said nothing in reply. 
 She knew very w r ell that she had intended to go
 
 The Slough of Despond. 11 
 
 and look after it, as soon as she had finished her tea. 
 But that meal to-day had lasted longer than usual, 
 for she and her husband had had the claws of a 
 lobster to pick together, and before they had done 
 she had heard Mr. Dayne come in and slam his 
 door behind him. 
 
 She went downstairs, and returned a moment 
 after, bringing a box of matches in her hand, and 
 a basket with some sticks and shavings. In five 
 minutes the sticks were crackling in the grate, the 
 sparks flying up the chimney, and the coals be- 
 ginning to glow in the flame. The hearth was 
 swept clean, and the dull fireplace became at last 
 a centre of cheerful life in the chill and dreary 
 room. 
 
 And now by the ruddy light that is dancing fit- 
 fully over the walls and ceiling, casting fantastic 
 shadows on the floor, and throwing into sharp re- 
 lief each knob and promontory on the shabby, old- 
 fashioned furniture, we may look a little at the 
 outer man of Dunstan Dayne, who has just pushed 
 aside a china shepherdess of somewhat unprepos-
 
 12 Backers Secret. 
 
 sessing appearance, and is leaning with his elbow 
 on the mantelpiece, watching the progress of the 
 fire. 
 
 A tall, tawny-haired young fellow, deep-chested 
 and fine limbed, who looks as if nature had never 
 meant that sinewy right arm of his to hang idly by 
 his side. With an honest, impetuous face, clear 
 grey eyes, set rather deeply under very level brows, 
 and a mouth too full and firm perhaps for one of 
 his years, yet with a certain sweetness in the line 
 that marked the junction of the lips, which hinted 
 at many pleasant possibilities in a character that 
 hitherto had been modified by but few of the gentler 
 influences of life. 
 
 For Dunstan had never known a father's care, 
 and he had but few remembrances. of the mother 
 who had died while he was still too young to under- 
 stand his loss. She had left her son in the charge of 
 her half-brother, who had fulfilled his duty in so 
 far as seeing that the boy received an education 
 as good as his little patrimony would permit, and 
 was afterwards instructed duly in the profession
 
 The Slough of Despond. 13 
 
 which he was bent on following. Then, having 
 seen him fairly started in the world, he had given 
 him to understand that for any further advance- 
 ment he must look solely to his own resources, which 
 Dunstan accordingly had done, so long as he had any 
 resources left. But now, unless something speedily 
 turned up, there would be nothing for it but either 
 to run into debt, or raise money on the crumbling 
 old manor-house and garden, which, with its heavy 
 mortgages, was all that remained of the once hand- 
 some property that during his father's life-time 
 had melted away in the successive losses attendant 
 on an unlucky speculation in Cornish mines. 
 
 Neither of which courses commended itself to 
 Dunstan. And as he stood now, watching the 
 play of the dancing names, his thoughts by degrees 
 carne crowding back to their old vexatious theme. 
 
 He was fast relapsing into the moody fit from 
 which he had been for a moment roused, when 
 there came a tap at the door, and Mrs. Drew ap- 
 peared again, this time with a bundle of letters in 
 her hand, one of which she brought to him.
 
 14 Rackets Secret. 
 
 Dunstan took it. 
 
 " That will do— that will do," he said gruffly, 
 as he broke the seal, for Mrs. Drew was lingering 
 a moment in the room, drawing down the blind, 
 lighting the gas, straightening the old red table- 
 cover which was all awry upon the table, and giv- 
 ing various little comfortable touches to the room. 
 Mrs. Drew was a motherly old soul, and kind-hearted 
 in her way, though she did fail perhaps, sometimes, 
 to observe as strictly as she might the law of meum 
 and tuum with respect to the contents of the several 
 cupboards to which she had access. 
 
 " He's uncommon awkward to-night," she said 
 to herself, with an imperceptible shake of her head 
 as she went out of the room, closing the door very 
 softly after her. "For," as she of ten observed, " when 
 gents was a bit cantankerous, they might slam a 
 door as hard as they liked theirselves, and be all 
 the better for it ; it let off the steam, as you might 
 say, but they could never a-bear to have other folks 
 do the same." 
 
 Dunstan had heard the clink of the bell, and the
 
 The Slough of Despond. 15 
 
 sharp tramp of the postman's foot as he came into 
 the courtyard, but it was so seldom now that any- 
 thing arrived for him, that he had looked up half 
 surprised when Mrs. Drew came in with a letter. 
 He glanced at the direction. It was in a strange 
 hand. Then he opened the envelope with a sort 
 of vague expectation that something of importance 
 might be contained within it. 
 
 It was not a very long communication. He 
 read it over hastily ; then a second time more 
 slowly, passing his hand absently across his brow, 
 as if hardly yet comprehending the meaning of the 
 intelligence conveyed. Yet there it was plain 
 enough before his eyes. His fortune had come to 
 him at last, unsought. The engineer who had 
 been appointed in preference to him had been 
 obliged to resign, and being the next in order, the 
 post was offered to Dunstan, if he were still in a 
 position to accept it. 
 
 Yet somehow his heart did not seem to leap up, 
 as might have been supposed, to meet this un- 
 expected change in his affairs. To lose the ap-
 
 16 RacheVs Secret. 
 
 pointment had been a sore vexation, but his spirits 
 had been too long sodden in apathy and chagrin 
 for him to feel a corresponding elevation now that 
 fortune had thrown it at his feet. , Still the news 
 had stirred, not unpleasantly, the stagnant waters 
 of his life. There was something now to look for- 
 ward to, a change at any rate, if it were only leav- 
 ing this dingy room in which he had vegetated for 
 so long. 
 
 He went to a little painted cupboard that filled 
 a recess beside the window, unlocked it, and took 
 thence a bottle of bitter beer. He drew the 
 cork, poured himself out a glassful ; then he 
 lit a cigar — an unwonted indulgence now — and 
 sat down a second time before the fire, to meditate 
 on the prospect that within the last ten minutes 
 had opened out before him.
 
 17 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 DUNSTAN DAYNE MAKES A START IN LIFE. 
 
 TT was just a fortnight after the events narrated 
 A in the previous chapter, that Dunstan Dayne 
 was standing, with his leather travelling-case in 
 his hand, in the deep bay window of one of the 
 parlours in the old George Inn at Bedesby. The 
 appointment had been confirmed which had been 
 so unexpectedly offered to him, and he was on his 
 way now to Glinton, a village some seven miles 
 distant, where the operations connected with the 
 formation of the line in question were to com- 
 mence, and where for the present he was to take 
 up his abode. 
 
 He stood now gazing listlessly out of the window, 
 and waiting somewhat impatiently for the dinner 
 which he had ordered as he came in. 
 
 VOL. I. C
 
 18 Rachels Secret, 
 
 " A fine old place, but "uncommonly dull," he 
 said to himself, as he 'looked down the wide, still 
 street, with its quaint houses, many-gabled and 
 steep-roofed, their overhanging stories looking 
 almost ready to topple down upon the passengers 
 below; and then across the Cathedral Square, 
 where the great west front of the Minster rose 
 greyly before him, its towers and fretted pinnacles 
 traced out sharply against the clear afternoon sky. 
 
 It was nearly four o'clock. The bell for prayers 
 had just ceased ringing, and a group of white- 
 frilled chorister boys were scampering helter-skelter 
 up the broad flight of steps, in haste to don their 
 little white surplices, before it should be time to 
 take their places in the rear of the ecclesiastical 
 procession, which in a few minutes would be 
 fileing slowly through the great brazen gates into 
 the choir. One or two maiden ladies, with their 
 prayer-books in their hands, were pacing demurely 
 across the Close ; and here and there a stray pas- 
 senger might be seen dotting the footway, or a 
 tradesman standing with his hands in his pockets
 
 A Start in Life. 19 
 
 in the doorway of his shop. But with these ex- 
 ceptions, the street was as silent and deserted as if 
 the little city had been laid under some magician's 
 spell, and its inhabitants plunged in an enchanted 
 sleep. 
 
 But the cathedral front might be very grand. 
 No doubt it was, for everybody said so, and of 
 course what everybody said must be true. And the 
 Cathedral Square, into which Tower Street opened, 
 might also be very fine — at least, so the inhabi- 
 tants of Bedesby considered ; and they expected 
 everyone else to be of the same opinion with them- 
 selves. Still, when a man has breakfasted before 
 eight in the morning, and has been travelling 
 pretty nearly ever since, he may be excused for 
 allowing certain other interests to assert their pre- 
 eminence over even the triumphs of architectural 
 art. 
 
 Dunstan turned quickly round as the door 
 behind him opened, and a whiff of fragrance an- 
 nounced the arrival of the hot mutton chops and 
 potatoes which the waiter was just bringing in. 
 
 C 2
 
 20 BacheV s Secret. 
 
 "Wine, sir?" asked the man, as he set down the 
 dishes on the table. 
 
 " No," said Dunstan, who, though he would have 
 liked a glass or two of good sherry well enough, 
 abstained out of consideration to his pocket. "And 
 here, waiter, you've forgotten the bread, and look 
 sharp about it, for I'm desperately hungry." 
 
 As indeed he was just then, though when he had 
 seated himself and begun to eat, he was very soon 
 satisfied. The truth was, he was too restless and 
 excited to make a hearty meal. For the last fort- 
 night his brain had been in a perpetual ferment. 
 He had been hurrying hither and thither on busi- 
 ness connected with the office in which he had been 
 so suddenly installed, having interviews more or 
 less satisfactory with committees and directors ; 
 sometimes elated by his prospects, at others worry- 
 ing himself by groundless fears of his own 
 efficiency. And then, poor fellow ! he had but 
 half realized the fact of his good fortune, from 
 having no one to share it with him ; for among 
 the few casual acquaintances whom he had picked
 
 A Start in Life. 21 
 
 up during his residence in London, none had 
 tendered him very hearty congratulations on an 
 event which did not concern themselves. 
 
 It must have been the long journey that had 
 tired him, or perhaps the strong ale that had made 
 him drowsy, for though he had disposed of only a 
 solitary chop, yet he found himself still sitting be- 
 fore his empty plate when the Minster bell boomed 
 out the hour of five. He rubbed his eyes, pushed 
 back his chair, rang for the waiter, and then 
 lounged again towards the window, where he stood 
 with his hands in his pockets, examining with some- 
 what more interest than before the carved front of 
 the Cathedral, and watching the people, who, 
 service over, were just coming out from prayers. 
 
 There was not a very large assemblage. Some 
 half-dozen old ladies, as many old men and women, 
 and a score or so of choristers and singing boys. 
 Then came the old Dean, tottering down the steps, 
 three or four clergymen, and a few stragglers, 
 who, from the cloaks or bags they carried with 
 them, and the way in which they stared curiously
 
 22 Rachel's Secret. 
 
 around them, were evidently strangers in the 
 place. Apparently these had constituted the whole 
 of the congregation, for after them came an 
 ancient verger with his keys in his hand, who 
 carefully locked the door behind him, and then 
 set off home, glancing round first to see that no 
 stray half-crowns were likely to be picked up from 
 some one anxious to obtain admission after the 
 usual hours. 
 
 In a few minutes they were all dispersed, and 
 then again Dunstan remarked the blank, deserted 
 aspect of the street. 
 
 "This town of yours seems a sleepy sort of 
 place. Is it always as dull as this ?" he said, ad- 
 dressing the waiter, who had just come in. 
 
 " Oh ! dear, no, sir," returned the man, a little 
 nettled at Dunstan's disparaging remark. "Not 
 by no means. There's company enough in the town, 
 I can assure you, sir. But it's the races to-day, 
 and everybody's on the course. We shall have 
 stir enough here in another hour. There's been 
 better nor three thousand people corned in to-day
 
 A Start in Life. 23 
 
 with trips alone, beside the quality, an' them as 
 drives theirselves. Flying Dutchman and Vol- 
 tigeur, sir — wonder you haven't heard of it. It's 
 making a tremendous excitement — but perhaps 
 you're not in the racing line, sir? The town 
 hasn't been so full for years. Our beds is all 
 took up, and as many out of the house as we could 
 get ; an' two or three parties we've had to refuse. 
 Couldn't do nothink for them, sir." 
 
 Dunstan looked round rather blankly at this 
 last announcement. He had meant to stay at the 
 inn all night, and go forward on the morrow to 
 Glinton, where he had secured lodgings in a 
 farm-house to which he had been recommended. 
 
 "Your beds all full," he echoed, in some dis- 
 may. " Why, I want to stay all night here. Could 
 you not get me one somewhere ?" 
 
 " I'm afraid not, sir," replied the waiter. " We've 
 got as many beds out as ever we could meet with. 
 All the houses is the same," he added, not with- 
 out a touch of malicious satisfaction that the gen- 
 tleman who had spoken so slightingly of the place
 
 24 Rackets Secret. 
 
 should find himself in so awkward a predicament. 
 It was provoking enough, for, as Dunstan soon 
 discovered, the man was quite correct. There 
 would be no sleeping that night in Bedesby ; and, 
 worse still, when he began to make inquiries, he 
 found that if there were no accommodation for 
 spending the night in the town, neither was there 
 any facility for getting out of it. Every horse 
 a'nd gig and cab in the place was on the race- 
 ground, and would not be back for an hour or 
 more, and then there would be but small chance 
 of getting a driver to take a tired beast a journey 
 of seven or eight miles and back that night. 
 
 There was an omnibus, it was true, that would 
 start for Glinton at seven o'clock, only the places, 
 unfortunately, were all taken up, both inside and 
 out. And there was a carrier's cart, which would 
 leave at six. 
 
 " The Glinton Express we calls it, sir," said 
 the ostler, a sly grin twisting the corners of his 
 mouth. 
 
 But even if the Glinton Express had been a
 
 A Start in Life. 25 
 
 comfortable means o$ conveyance, it went at the 
 rate of only two miles an hour, besides, in all pro- 
 bability, it, like the omnibus, would be more than 
 full to-night. 
 
 "It's a good step to walk," said the ostler, 
 meditatively, "or else that 'ud be the handiest 
 way o' getting there. But, lor ! sir," he added, 
 with a glance at the young man's lithe, well-knit 
 limbs, " you'd do it, I'll be bound, easy enough. 
 An' then you needn't be beholden to nobody." 
 
 It was a " good step," certainly. However, there 
 seemed nothing else for it but to adopt the suggestion 
 of the ostler. And seeing that it was a soft, sunshiny 
 May evening, and that he had been cooped up all 
 day in a second-class railway carriage, half -stifled 
 by smoke and dust, Dunstan thought that it might 
 not be amiss upon the whole to refresh himself by 
 a long country walk. So he paid his bill, gave 
 directions for having his luggage sent after him, 
 and having inquired the way, he once more 
 shouldered his valise, and in ten minutes' time was 
 on his way to Glinton.
 
 26 Rachels Secret. 
 
 Down the crooked old streets, along which the 
 commissioner's water-cart was making a leisurely 
 progress, past two or three dingy churches, under 
 the abbey gateway, and then he was outside the 
 city walls and among the tall suburban residences, 
 occupied by the upper-ten-dom of the place. 
 Dark, severe -looking houses, that seemed as if they 
 were perpetually asserting their dignity, with long 
 narrow windows, and heavy cornices, and each 
 one guarded by a fierce chevaux de /rise of spiked 
 palisades. By-and-by these gave way to more 
 modern dwellings, chiefly in the gingerbread- 
 Gothic style of architecture, standing back a little 
 from the road, with stucco fronts, and bright 
 green blinds, and presenting altogether a gene- 
 ral air of mushroom opulence. These were the 
 " villas " of the more prosperous of the Bedesby 
 tradespeople, between whom and the respectable 
 classes of the community there existed a tacit and 
 perpetual feud. After these, Dunstan passed a 
 few ancient mansions standing at ease among their
 
 A Start in Life. 27 
 
 ancestral elms, and then he had left Bedesby be- 
 hind him, and was fairly started on the broad 
 dusty road that branched off to Glinton.
 
 28 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE GATE BEAUTIFUL. 
 
 TE walked for more than a mile, just enjoying 
 -■-*• the free, rapid motion, and the fresh air, 
 scented now with the sweet breath of the May that 
 lay like wreaths of snow on the tops of the tall 
 thorn hedges. Presently he came to a little hamlet 
 by the wayside, just a few scattered cottages, from 
 whose chimneys a thin blue smoke was curling up- 
 wards above the rosy drifts of apple-blossom that 
 tossed themselves over the brown thatched roofs. 
 
 For it was nigh upon six o'clock, and as Dunstan 
 glanced through the open doors, he could see in 
 every little kitchen busy wives preparing supper 
 for the husbands who would soon be home from 
 work, while the children crowded round the hearth 
 with hungry, expectant eyes. There was some-
 
 The Gate Beautiful. 29 
 
 thing in the bright gleam of the cottage firesides 
 that, like the touch of a kindly hand, warmed the 
 young man's heart, and woke within him a vague 
 unaccustomed feeling of comfort and content. 
 Perhaps it might be a dim sense of kindred with 
 his fellows which this glimpse into the midst of 
 these cottage homes inspired, loosening the bands 
 of isolation and self-seeking, that had been tightened 
 around him during those dreary years that he had 
 passed in that populous London solitude, where 
 day by day he had gone in and out of his dingy 
 lodging, with none to care for or to welcome him, 
 none to think for 3 none to live for but himself. 
 
 At the gate of one of the gardens stood a comely, 
 good-tempered-looking woman, dancing a baby in 
 her arms, and looking up the road, as if watching 
 for her husband. Dunstan could not resist having 
 a word with her as he passed. 
 
 " This is the road to Glinton !" he inquired ; 
 not that he wanted information, but obeying a 
 blind instinct, that just then was feeling out for 
 some companionship, however slight.
 
 30 RacheTs Secret. 
 
 The woman ceased dancing her child, and turned 
 upon him a sunburnt, beaming face. 
 
 " Ay, it's t'way, hard enough," she answered 
 in a cheery tone ; " but you're a good bit off o' 
 Glinton yet, without you go by t' fields, an' down 
 by t' river. It's gainer a deal that way, an' it isn't 
 bad to find. You've nobbut got to follow t' path 
 over yon stile, an' it'll bring you right out into t' 
 road, about a mile this side o' Glinton." 
 
 Dunstan thanked her, and set off again. It 
 was pleasant getting out of the dusty road into the 
 green pasture-land, and he strode along over the 
 springy turf, on which the sunshine lay poured out 
 like molten gold, lifting his head into the blythe, 
 free air, and half-wondering at the sense of bound- 
 ing life which just now made him feel as if every 
 pulse was beating in unison with those mysterious 
 forces that once again were thrilling the great 
 heart of nature. 
 
 For all around was the sweet riot of spring. 
 On every tree the fresh foliage was dancing in the 
 breeze ; the birch and sycamore were hanging out
 
 The Gate Beautiful. 31 
 
 their green tassels among the scarce unfolded 
 leaves. Here a laburnum shook out its golden 
 tresses to the sun, and there a giant oak flung its 
 twisted arms aloft. And all the scented air was 
 filled with the song of birds, and soft with the 
 blended perfume of myriads of opening flowers, 
 and quivering with that strange vitality that was 
 working like a thought from God in all around, 
 weaving from the dead elements for the wakening 
 earth its living, myriad-tinted robe. 
 
 Everything so glorious, so beautiful, and so 
 busy too, and without knowing it, he quickened 
 his pace as he went lightly on. Nature was win- 
 ning him to sympathy with this glad toil of hers, 
 rousing in him already a feeling of vague im- 
 patience to be at his own work also. Only that 
 morning he had left London, worried, anxious, 
 half afraid of what he was about to undertake, and 
 already, bathing his spirit in this tide of spring, he 
 felt the life leaping up with a strange new force 
 within him. Come what might, it seemed as if 
 now he could go on and conquer all. Those long
 
 32 RacheTs Secret. 
 
 empty days of waiting were over now. He had 
 left behind him the petty worries, the small econo- 
 mies, the chafing sense of forced inaction. They 
 had slipped from him like a withered sheath from 
 the bursting bud. He was free at last, and his 
 life lay before him, to make the best thing he could 
 out of it, which just now was what Dunstan Dayne 
 meant to do. 
 
 For more than two miles the path led him over 
 the breezy uplands. Then it sloped down into a 
 sort of wooded glen, and wound along beside a 
 broad and shallow stream, that babbled on musi- 
 cally over its pebbly bed, beneath the shadow of 
 the alders and grey willows that bent over it from 
 the opposite bank. 
 
 The trees here grew thickly overhead, twining 
 their branches together into a roof of matted ver- 
 dure, through which fell a tender light of sunshine 
 filtering through green leaves. Only here and 
 there, where the foliage was thinner, it streamed 
 brightly down, filling with a mellow radiance the 
 cups of the pale primulas and anemones, that
 
 The Gate Beautiful. 33 
 
 covered with their pearly blossoms the slopes below. 
 
 And all around him, as "Dunstan went on, was 
 that hush of sanctity and repose that breathes 
 through the woods at eventide. He felt it like an 
 unseen hand laid gently on his heart, changing its 
 gladness into reverence. For just now, alone with 
 himself, the young man's spirit was open to receive 
 those pure and living influences that were stream- 
 ing in upon him. It seemed to him as if, entering 
 those green solitudes, he had passed through a true 
 Gate Beautiful, into a temple wherein now he 
 walked with bowed head, awed by the sweet glory 
 around. Far down in the depths of his soul he 
 heard a voice calling him ; one to which, in those 
 dreary London lodgings, deafened as he had been 
 by the din of the great Babel around, he had 
 never listened before, even the voice of God, 
 walking, as of old, in the cool of the evening among 
 the trees. 
 
 For God is not in these days silent, as some 
 would tell us, to his creature man. AVhen the last 
 apostle, in the lonely isle, laid down his pen and 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 Rachel '« Secret. 
 
 closed the record of his vision, the Great Father 
 did not cry to his children, " Henceforth attend 
 no longer, the oracles are dumb." Nay, this 
 very longing which most men have in the spring- 
 time, when the year is young, to escape, if but for 
 a single day, from their dusty offices, their shops 
 and work-rooms, into the fields and woods, is but 
 one of those innumerable ways in which He summons 
 us through this Gate Beautiful, this porch which 
 men call Nature, to worship in the temple of His 
 presence. 
 
 And there is no beauty like that of the woods 
 in spring, just when the full -leafed May is nearing 
 the balmy-breathing June, and the trees, in their 
 vivid robe of changing green, are as rich in their 
 variety of tone and tint, as when October clothes 
 them in their gorgeous garb of russet, gold, and 
 purple. 
 
 As Dunstan walked along, it seemed to him as 
 if everything had been created anew, so fresh and 
 clean, so pure and joyous was all he saw. The 
 trees were all new-clad. The larch dropped
 
 The Gate Beautiful. 35 
 
 its long plumelets like a shower of falling 
 foliage to the ground, the Scotch firs stood erect 
 and tall, their red boughs gleaming through the 
 spiky leaves. Here and there the stem of a birch 
 gleamed out with a silver sheen among the trees, 
 while hoary oaks and beeches made a thick covert 
 of shade, beneath which Dunstan strayed on, un- 
 mindful now of his journey's end, gazing with 
 eyes that could never see enough, on this mysteri- 
 ous pomp of nature, and with a vague feeling with- 
 in him of joining in this universal psalm that was 
 rising from all created things. 
 
 At length, wearied somewhat by the unaccus- 
 tomed length of his walk, he threw himself down 
 upon a bed of dried leaves that lay heaped around 
 the roots of a spreading beech, and suffered the 
 tide of thought that was sweeping through him to 
 sway him as it would. 
 
 For awhile he lay gazing idly up into the 
 waving vault above him, through which, as from 
 time to time the boughs rocked themselves in the 
 wind, little rifts were opening into the blue heights 
 
 D 2
 
 36 ItacheTs Secret. 
 
 beyond. Through the silence lie could hear the 
 cooing of the wood-pigeons, the cawing of rooks in 
 some distant elms, the soft whisper of the wind 
 among the tree tops, the silver lapse of the water 
 as it streamed over the stones, all blending into 
 one continuous murmur, as if Nature were crooning 
 over him, as he lay there in her lap, some old lulla- 
 by, which soothed him though he could not tell the 
 w T ords. 
 
 And then there came creeping back to him half- 
 forgotten memories of the time when he used to 
 kneel, a little child beside his mother's lap, and with 
 hands folded in hers, repeat his evening prayer. 
 He recalled her grave, fair face, her soft caress, 
 the long looks of love that rested on him as she 
 bent over his little crib to give him her good-night 
 kiss. And an infinite tenderness and regret came 
 over him, a vague longing after that inward har- 
 mony, that childlike sense of innocence and trust 
 which, amid the wrong-doing and self-reproach, 
 the strife and bitterness and cares of later life, had 
 long since passed away.
 
 The Gate Beautiful. 37 
 
 How long he lay beneath the old beech tree upon 
 his bed of leaves, Dunstan hardly knew, but it 
 must have been nearly an hour, for when the 
 brushing of a squirrel's tail across his face roused 
 him from his reverie, the varied hues of the trees 
 were blending into one uniform tint of sober green, 
 the flowers were closing up their petals, the thick 
 embroidery of sunlight had faded from the turf, 
 the busy hum of insect life had ceased, and only 
 the clear rippling of the stream was to be heard 
 amid the deepening hush. 
 
 He rose hastily, surprised to see already the red 
 gleam of the setting sun through the boughs of an 
 old yew which stood before him at a little distance, 
 each twig and spray sharply outlined against the 
 glowing sky. Refreshed by his long rest, he went 
 on now at a more rapid pace, and soon reached a 
 footbridge, which, as the woman had told him, led 
 across the river, and brought him out into the 
 Glinton road. 
 
 The dews were falling now, and a purple mist 
 gathering over the distant fields, and toning down
 
 38 Rachel! s Secret. 
 
 the dark outlines of the woods that rode upon the 
 shoulders of the eastern hills. Above them the 
 round red moon hung, opposite the sun setting, 
 and just before him, nestling greyly among the 
 trees, he caught sight of the tower of the village 
 church, its brazen vane gleaming in the last light 
 of day, and seeming to him just then like a friendly 
 hand, which, his long day's journey ended, was 
 beckoning him to his home.
 
 39 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 POPPY AND RUE. 
 
 ri^HE Brook Farm, whither our traveller was 
 -*- bound, lay, as an old man whom he over- 
 took hobbling towards the village told him, "a 
 piece further on," down a lane that turned out of 
 the road just past the church. He walked on till 
 he reached the low stone wall that surrounded the 
 churchyard, a boundary, but scarcely a fence, for 
 even a child might easily climb over ; and there for 
 a moment he sat down again, and lifted his hat 
 to enjoy the coolness of the breeze, which was 
 whispering overhead among the outstretched 
 branches of a belt of yews that rose just behind on 
 the other side of the wall. 
 
 Ponderous old trees they were, that for the iast 
 five hundred years had stood there, presenting the
 
 40 Rackets Secret. 
 
 same dense front of grim unchanging gloom to the 
 winds that in winter swept up keenly from the 
 valley, as to the western sunlight that on summer 
 afternoons touched, but did not gild, the darkness 
 of their foliage. At Christmas time, perhaps, 
 when the new-fallen snow lay in myriads of fea- 
 thery crystals upon their outspread boughs, turn- 
 ing each tuft of black spines into a branch of 
 gleaming coral, the old yews might show to more 
 advantage. But now, as they gathered the sha- 
 dows beneath them, and lifted themselves sullenly 
 against the soft evening sky, they looked like a 
 frown upon the face of the smiling earth, so little 
 sympathy did they seem to have with the spring 
 gladness of everything around. 
 
 They grew so close together that the church 
 itself, with the exception of a bit of grey buttress 
 on the northern side, was quite concealed ; but as 
 Dunstan looked around him, he could see between 
 their trunks patches of grass dotted over with 
 gravestones, many of them mossed with age, and 
 half-fallen over the green mounds by which they
 
 Poppy and Rue. 41 
 
 stood. There is always something about a country 
 churchyard which seems to invite a stranger to 
 wander for a while within its quiet precincts. 
 Dunstan thought that as he was there he might as 
 well go through it, and out into the lane on the 
 other side, as walk round by the road. He set 
 down his travelling-bag upon the mossy coping, and 
 strode across to the other side. 
 
 And then he discovered to his regret, that he had 
 done mischief by this irregular mode of entrance, 
 for he had stepped upon a mound of soft earth, 
 and crushed with his feet some of the flowers that 
 were growing on it. 
 
 It was a grave that some one had evidently 
 tended carefully, for the long rank grass was 
 clipped close, so as to form a neat border round the 
 little enclosure, which was sown over with poppies, 
 just now pushing into bud. There were no other 
 flowers, none of the clove-pinks, gilliflowers, and 
 pansies, tjiat were blooming in gay patches here 
 and there in other parts of the churchyard. Only 
 at one end was a large straggling bush, which, as
 
 42 Rachels Secret. 
 
 Dunstan stooped to efface the footmarks he had 
 made, he knew, by its sad odour and dull leafage, 
 to be rue. 
 
 Whoever had planted this little plot must have 
 had an eye for the deep symbolism of nature. Xo 
 laboured epitaph could have told with a finer 
 pathos its tale of some long sorrow, that now slept 
 quiet in the grave. Dunstan felt at once the touch 
 of true poetry in this unwritten language. But 
 though he saw the meaning of the symbols, he 
 wondered in vain whose history it might be that 
 had thus been shadowed forth. For there was no 
 headstone to tell who lay below, not even the little 
 wooden cross, marked with the initials of the dead, 
 that was placed at the foot of many of the 
 graves. 
 
 Some poor person, doubtless, it had been, whose 
 memory was still embalmed in one heart at least. 
 A husband, perhaps, or a mother, who was resting 
 there. And it must also have been some time 
 since the grave had been disturbed, for Dunstan 
 noticed that the plant of rue was old and woody,
 
 Poppy and Rue. 43 
 
 as if it had been growing there certainly for several 
 years. 
 
 He stood for a moment, speculating curiously on 
 the quiet tragedy of which, possibly, these six feet 
 of earth had seen the close, and then turned away 
 to saunter down the churchyard path towards a 
 wicket-gate which he saw at the further end. 
 
 A quiet nook was that old churchyard, with its 
 girdling yews and shadowing elms, and its gray 
 tower, around which lay the dead beneath their 
 green and flowery pall. A pleasant place, surely, 
 to rest in, for it seemed as if, under that daisied 
 sod, there could not but be quiet sleep. 
 
 And Glinton was proud of its churchyard, as 
 well it might be, and liked to hear it said that there 
 was not such another anywhere about. But its 
 chief boast, that which raised it most in its own 
 estimation, and which strangers had even been known 
 to come from Bedesby on purpose to see, was the 
 great porch on the south side of the church. Nay, 
 it was only a fortnight ago that some little urchins, 
 who were going out bird-nesting on their Saturday
 
 44 RacheVs Secret. 
 
 half-holiday, had been horrified, though it was 
 broad daylight, by the apparition of a black "bogie," 
 moving about in a mysterious way beneath the 
 churchyard yews. Which "bogie" turned out after- 
 wards to be neither more nor less than a travelling 
 photographer, who, with his head under the flap 
 of his machine, was "focussing" for this very 
 porch, and who had informed Mr. Grainger, the 
 landlord of the " Glinton Arms," that he had 
 actually been engaged by the Archaeological 
 Society at Bedesby to take a view of it, as being 
 among the noteworthy objects in the neighbour- 
 hood. 
 
 And indeed it was a quaint piece of workman- 
 ship, so rich in carven imagery and grotesque de- 
 vice, that it might have served as a minor entrance 
 to even the Cathedral itself. With wealth of leaves 
 and flowers twining in sweet restraint along the 
 mouldings of the arches, yet with a careless grace 
 that nature herself could scarcely have surpassed, 
 while, peering out among them, were strange, heads 
 and figures, in which the sculptor, whoever he
 
 Poppy and Rue. 45 
 
 had been, seemed to have given the reins to his 
 fancy, and indulged in a perfect revelry of mirth 
 and humour. 
 
 u Queer fancies those old monks must have 
 had," thought Dunstan, laughing to himself at 
 the drollery of a face which he had just espied 
 ogling him from behind a cluster of oak-leaves 
 that wreathed the deeply-cut capital of one of the 
 columns. " There must have been some fun lurk- 
 ing in a corner of their shaven pates, and this was 
 the way, I suppose, in which it found its way 
 out." 
 
 At this moment the big iron-bossed door of the 
 church opened from within, and as it creaked 
 back upon its hinges, there appeared in the open- 
 ing a figure comical enough to have served as 
 model to some of those facetious monks. A small, 
 wiry old man, clad in a threadbare suit of rusty 
 brown, with grizzled hair and beard, bushy eye- 
 brows that hung like a pent-house over a pair of 
 keen grey eyes, and a mouth which either habit or 
 nature had twisted to one side, so as to produce a
 
 46 RaclieTs Secret. 
 
 whimsical resemblance to some of the stone oddi- 
 ties overhead. 
 
 This antiquated individual was Job Dolson, the 
 village clerk and sexton, who had just finished 
 ringing the eight o'clock bell, which had been sound- 
 ing in Dunstan's ears all the time that he had been 
 in the churchyard. Not an amiable-looking per- 
 son, by any means, as he stood eyeing Dunstan 
 askance, while he closed the door again behind 
 him, and proceeded to insert into the lock the 
 largest key on the bunch which he was carrying. 
 
 But Dunstan had a mind, seeing that the oppor- 
 tunity w r as thus afforded him, of taking a look 
 round the church into which he had just obtained 
 a glimpse. 
 
 " This is a line porch of yours," he began, in a 
 propitiatory tone. 
 
 "An' who says it isn't?" snapped the old man. 
 turning upon him a glance of crabbed curiosity : 
 but the next moment, seeing that Dunstan's hand 
 was travelling suggestively in the direction of his 
 pocket, he added, dropping his voice a little,
 
 Poppy and Rue. 47 
 
 " You can come in, if you've a mind. It's a fine 
 church an' all." 
 
 Dunstan nodded his head, and slipped a shilling 
 into the old man's hand. Job took the coin, 
 putting it pro tempore into his mouth, that being a 
 convenient receptacle, and more accessible at the 
 time than his breeches pocket ; then pushing the 
 door open again, he stood by to let Dunstan 
 pass in. 
 
 It was a fine church, as the sexton had said, a 
 very fine church, rich in quaint carving in wood 
 and stone 5 with stained glass in the windows, 
 among which were various heraldic devices ; and 
 faded hatchments here and there, and one or two 
 monumental brasses let into the wall, and several 
 crumbling monuments, which showed that in Glin- 
 ton church it was not to the poor only that, in 
 times gone by, the Gospel had been preached. 
 
 The old man followed Dunstan up the aisle, 
 volunteering now and then a gruff remark, though 
 he seemed to consider that the office of cicerone was 
 one decidedly beneath his dignity.
 
 48 JRacheFs Secret, 
 
 " Here's something here — I don't rightly know 
 what it is," he said, as they came to a little recess 
 beside the altar ; " but I believe it's where the 
 monks had used to wash their hands. There 
 used to be a deal on 'em here when t abbey was 
 standing." 
 
 " I beg your pardon," said Dunstan, politely ; 
 " is it not the vessel into which the consecrated 
 wine was poured after mass f 
 
 Job screwed up his face, and glanced round 
 with a look of comical bewilderment. 
 
 " Mebby it is, sir," he said, in a respectful tone. 
 u Mebby it is. Ah ! I see you belong to t' Komish 
 Church. You've corned from foreign parts, I 
 reckon. There's been a deal o' strangers one 
 time and another for to see Glinton church." 
 
 Dunstan smiled as he confessed that he had 
 travelled no further than from London. How- 
 ever, after this the old man opened out wonder- 
 fully, and finding that he had an appreciating 
 auditor, was at considerable pains to point out 
 whatever was worthy of notice.
 
 Poppy and Rue. 49 
 
 " Here's a tomb here, now," he said, and he 
 paused before a monumental effigy that bore date 
 nearly two centuries ago. " Here's a tomb here, 
 now, an' there's a queer tale belonging it." 
 
 Dunstan stopped to read the inscription on the 
 brazen band that ran around it. But it was grow- 
 ing dusk now, and being in Latin, he could not 
 easily decipher the crabbed, unaccustomed charac- 
 ters. There was the name however, 
 
 And further on, the date — 
 
 "Now this here tomb, sir," said the sexton, "be- 
 longs one of the Gilmours of Rooklands. You'll 
 have heard tell of the Gilmours of Rooklands !" 
 
 Dunstan shook his head. 
 
 " I am a stranger," he said; " I have never been 
 in this neighbourhood before." 
 
 " Why, it isn't much of a place to be sure, isn't 
 Rooklands," said Job, as if he would make some 
 little apology for his companion's ignorance, " nor 
 VOL. I. E
 
 50 RacheVs Secret. 
 
 never was ; and they're poor enough, is the Gil- 
 
 mours, to say that they're to call gentlefolks : but 
 
 they're a good family for all that. Leastways 
 
 they've lived there for as far back as any one can 
 
 tell, though there's been some of 'em as hasn't took 
 
 the best of karacters with them to their grave, an' 
 
 him as lies there was one on 'em." 
 
 "Well," said Dunstan, looking down with a 
 
 touch of curiosity on the ruffled and doubletted 
 
 figure before him, " it is to be hoped his ill-deeds, 
 
 whatever they may have been, lie buried with his 
 
 bones." 
 
 "Ay, sir, it would ha' been a good thing if they 
 
 had," said the sexton, who was polishing with the 
 
 cuff of his coat a corner of the famished brass 
 
 upon the monument. " But they haven't, mare's 
 
 the pity. You see there was a lady as he took in 
 
 with fair words, while she lost her fair fame 
 
 through 'em, an' they say she walks at Rooklands 
 
 to this very day. Anyhow, when she found that 
 
 he'd deceived her, she went mad, an' afore she 
 
 died she cursed him and his house. That's how
 
 Poppy and Rue. 51 
 
 the tale goes. There's a bit of a rhyme as every- 
 body hereabouts knows — 
 
 'When a Gilmour of Rooklands dies in his bed, 
 His lands from his line shall be sundered.' " 
 
 " Well, and has the curse fallen ?" asked Dun- 
 stan. 
 
 The old man edged a little nearer, and dropped 
 his voice mysteriously. 
 
 " That's the queerest part of it, sir. It's down 
 in Scriptur' that the curse causeless shall not come, 
 and to my mind that's as much as to say that if 
 there is a cause it shall. But, however, the White 
 Lady didn't curse him for nothing. Whether her 
 ghost walks or not, I won't take upon me to say. 
 Tve never seen it, though there's them that says 
 they have. But one thing's sure, sir — there's never 
 been a Gilmour died at Rooklands like a Christian 
 in his bed, that ever anybody's heard tell of. The} 
 allays comes to their end promiscus. They get 
 drown ded, or they drop down suddent, same as t' 
 last Mr. Gilmour did, or they're killed in a duel,
 
 52 RacJiels Secret. 
 
 or somethink. It's queer. But there's a deal o* 
 queer things i' this world." 
 
 Dunstan shrugged his shoulders, and stepped 
 down into the aisle. It was a gruesome story to he 
 listening to there in the dusk beside the dead man's 
 grave. There was an odd glitter, too, he fancied, 
 in the old man's eyes, as he peered up at him from 
 beneath his grizzled brows, that somehow made 
 him feel uncomfortable. He paused, however, for 
 a moment, as he walked towards the door, to read 
 an inscription that had caught his eye in passing. 
 
 It was the shortness of this inscription that had 
 attracted his attention ; for though the tablet itself 
 was large and massive, and the richness of its 
 carving set off by a ponderous slab of polished mar- 
 ble, there were upon it these words only — 
 
 In Memory of 
 CAROLINE, 
 
 Wife of Laurence Gilmour. 
 Who died December 25th, 18 — . aged ~J'2. 
 
 "She was t' squire's wife," said the sexton, jerk- 
 ing his elbow towards the monument, as he noticed
 
 Poppy and Rue. 53 
 
 Dunstan reading it. " That's the Rooklands pew. 
 It'll be twenty year come next Christmas since she 
 died." 
 
 "He had not much to say about her, apparently," 
 said Dunstan. 
 
 u Why, no," returned the sexton drily ; " least- 
 ways, if he had he kept it to hisself. Though I 
 can't say myself, but what I think it's better for 
 folk to say overlittle than overmuch about them 
 that's gone, particklar if they hadn't done as well 
 as they might by them while they was alive." 
 
 " He did not behave ill to her, surely V said 
 Dunstan, glancing again at the inscription. " So 
 young, too, and to have been married so short a 
 time. He could hardly have had, time, one would 
 think, to have grown tired of her." 
 
 " Why, no," replied the sexton, giving a know- 
 ing twist to the corner of his mouth. u I won't 
 say but what they agreed as well as most folk 
 that's shut up together from week end to week 
 end. An' he might take on when she died more 
 nor what folk thought. There's no telling, for
 
 54 Rachels Secret. 
 
 he's awful close. I believe if he was a-dying, he'd 
 never let on about it to no one, while he'd strength 
 to hold his tongue. But you see, sir, it's just 
 here — he's a bit queer, is t' squire, an' has been 
 ever since his father were took. You see, they'd 
 been having words, him an' his son, an' he dropped 
 right down while they was agate of it, did the 
 old squire, and never spoke again." 
 
 The old man has quite a collection of horrors, 
 thought Dunstan to himself. 
 
 " There's some will have it," continued Job, 
 " that Mr. Gilmour was that scared, while he's 
 never got over it since, an' it may be that ; but it 
 lies strong on my mind as he's got something on 
 his conscience that he'd be the better for making 
 a clean breast on, though I wouldn't go for to say 
 as much as that to everybody ; only I can tell by 
 t' looks o' you, being a gentleman, that it won't go 
 no further than yourself." 
 
 "You are quite safe," said Dunstan, with a 
 smile. 
 
 " You see, sir, folks in this place has such a way
 
 Poppy and Rue. 55 
 
 of saying back what they hear, while there's no 
 such a thing as speaking out your mind comfort- 
 able. It's a terrible place, is Glinton, for talk. I 
 may say freely, there isn't half-a-dozen people in 
 it as knows rightly how to hold their tongues, with- 
 out it be some of t' men that's hard at work all day, 
 an' has no time to let 'em wag." 
 
 They had reached the door by this time, and 
 the sexton, with a good deal of humouring of the' 
 rusty lock, had turned the key, and stood now in 
 the porch, settling his battered hat upon his head, 
 and looking as if he had nothing more to stay for ; 
 yet, as though having an intelligent auditor, and 
 one, too, who seemed able to hold his tongue, he 
 would not require much encouragement to carry on 
 the conversation, so inauspiciously begun.
 
 56 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 THE SEXTON S TALE. 
 
 TT was not late yet. The twilight was falling 
 -*- softly, and Dunstan was in the mood, after 
 the hints which the old man had just thrown out, 
 to let him unfold his tale a little further, the more 
 so as there was a touch of dry humour in his talk, 
 which tickled his fancy, as a spiced- dish might 
 please his palate. 
 
 " So the squire has never married again," he 
 began, sitting down as he spoke, on the stone bench 
 inside the porch ; while Job, with a twinkle of 
 satisfaction in his eye, settled himself on the other 
 side, and drawing a wooden snuff-box from his 
 waistcoat pocket, took a pinch of its contents, by 
 way of priming himself for the story that he was 
 about to tell.
 
 The Sexton's Tale. 57 
 
 " Married again ! — not he," said the sexton, jerk- 
 ing out the words as if he would imply that such 
 an event was hardly within the bounds of possi- 
 bility ; u though I daresay, for the matter o' that, 
 there's plenty hereabouts that wouldn't take a deal 
 o' persuading to have him. She'd a rough carry- 
 ing on with him, I reckon, afore she'd done." 
 
 And Job nodded his head towards the church, 
 where lay the remains of Caroline Gilmour in the 
 vault beneath the Eooklands pew. 
 
 " How came she to marry him, then 1 " asked 
 Dunstan. 
 
 "Why, it was just here," replied the sexton, 
 and spreading his snuffy handkerchief across his 
 knee, he fixed his elbow upon it, and leaned a 
 little forward towards his auditor. "You see, 
 there was a deal o' debt on the property in his 
 father's time. The old squire was a man that had 
 played hard when he'd been young, and the estate 
 was mortgaged up for very near as much as it was 
 worth, and that wasn't a deal, for it's nobbut a bit 
 of a place now, isn't Rooklands ; it's been nibbled
 
 58 Rachels Secret. 
 
 here and nibbled there this good bit back, while 
 there isn't much left to speak of. 
 
 a However, things had come to such a pass at 
 last, that there seemed nothing for it but selling 
 a piece of the land, an' the old man couldn't bring 
 hisself to that. He thought a deal about keeping 
 it together if he could, what there was left on it. 
 So then he set on at his son about marrying this 
 young lady on account of her forten, for her father 
 had been what they call a cotton lord, and she'd 
 just corned in to a mint o' money, that nobody could 
 touch but herself. 
 
 " It was an equal match, as you may say. She'd 
 the money and he'd the blood, an' folks did say 
 her mother had come to live at Bedesby o' purpose 
 to get her married into a good family. I can't 
 speak for that, but, you see, them that's riz their- 
 selves from nothing, and don't as much as know 
 who their own grandfather was, allays thinks a 
 deal about position an' that, an' the only- chance 
 they have o' getting their foot in among real
 
 The Sexton* s Tale. 5 ( J 
 
 quality is to marry some one that's got a long 
 pedigree and a short purse." 
 
 And Job twisted up his face, and looked as if 
 he felt that he had made a knowing observation. 
 
 "However," he continued, "Mr. Laurence didn't 
 seem as if he'd much notion of paying off the debts 
 that way. He hung off, and he hung off, though 
 he kept on going to see her, and her mother and 
 her used to be staying for weeks at Rooklands, 
 while at last he put the old man clean past his 
 patience, and he threatened him if he didn't make 
 up to her, and marry her right away, that he'd 
 sell the property out an' out, and cut him off with 
 a shilling. So he begun to think better of it then, 
 for he knew, if his father broke his heart over 
 it, he would keep his word ; it was say and do 
 always with him, so he went and got hisself en- 
 gaged there an' then. That was in the summer, 
 and the young lady's mother, she stuck to him like 
 a burr, and never rested while they got the day 
 fixed for his marrying of her. 
 
 "But it was a queer sort of wedding, I never see'd
 
 60 Rachel's Secret. 
 
 such a one afore or since. For all t' time they was in 
 church he was like a man in a swownd, an' when t' 
 parson says to him, c Will thou have this woman to be 
 thy wedded wife V he had to ax at him twice afore 
 ever a word he got out on him ; an' then he mum- 
 bled something between his teeth, while nobody 
 could tell whether it was 'I will/ or 'I won't/ 
 But, Lor' bless you ! she made up for him when it 
 come to her turn. i I will /' says she, right up, 
 an' as clear, though she'd a soft voice too, while 
 you might have heard her to t' far end of t' church. 
 And she said it as if she meant it, too. And she 
 didn't say it for nothing neither, for if ever there 
 was a w r oman had her w T ill in this world, it was her. 
 He just give in to her in everything, and whatever 
 she set her mind on, that she had. 
 
 " You see they was all to live together, so he 
 brought her to the Hall when they was wed, an' rare 
 doings there was for a bit — such dinners an' party- 
 ings, while you wouldn't ha' known Rooklands for 
 the same place as it was ! 
 
 " She was a pleasant young lady, too. The
 
 The Sextons Tale. 61 
 
 folks hereabouts liked her well enough, though 
 you could tell by her tongue an' by her manners, 
 that she wasn't quality-bred. I've known her 
 come into my house an' sit her down, without as 
 much as knocking at the door, or saying ( by your 
 leave.' But she meant no ill by it. It was just 
 her bringing up. An' there's a deal in bringing 
 up. It's just everything is bringing up, particklar 
 with women." 
 
 Dunstan nodded, as Job seemed to expect some 
 expression of agreement. He was becoming more 
 interested than he had supposed likely in the sex- 
 ton's tale. 
 
 " But for all the squire let her do as she pleased,*' 
 continued Job, " it was easy to see as he cared 
 nothing for her. I've heard the servants say he'd 
 be for days and never say a word to her. Not as 
 they didn't agree, but just he was queer. But, 
 Lor' bless you ! it made no odds to her. It was to 
 be Lady o' Rooklands as she'd set her mind on all 
 along. She'd gotten what she wanted, an' that 
 served her. She was like a deal more on 'em. She
 
 i)2 Rackets Secret. 
 
 married the house, an' took the husband into the 
 
 bargain. 
 
 " However, it didn't last long, for nobbut a bit 
 
 after he'd brought her home, t' old squire dropped 
 
 i 
 down suddent, as I was a-telling you, an' that 
 
 stopped my lady's doings for awhile. An' by the 
 
 time another Christmas had corned round, Kook- 
 
 lands was without a Missis again, and Glinton had 
 
 got enough to talk about for many a day." 
 
 Job paused here, and helped himself to another 
 pinch of snuff. He took it deliberately, with the 
 air of a man who knows that, having matters of 
 importance to communicate, he can afford to keep 
 his auditor waiting his pleasure. 
 
 When he had treated his nostrils to a leisurely 
 sniff or two, and had shaken himself up by a 
 hearty sneeze, he settled himself again to proceed 
 with his story, leaning forward with his chin upon 
 his hands, and peering up into Dunstan's face with 
 a look of mysterious confidence on his shrivelled 
 features, as if what he had to tell was a thing not 
 lightly to be dealt with.
 
 The Sextons Tale. 63 
 
 "She died?" said Dunstan, as the sexton still 
 paused on the threshold of his revelation. And he 
 wondered, though he did not ask, whether it could 
 have been in some unquiet way that the poor lady 
 had come to her end. For he recalled the hint 
 which the sexton had thrown out, of there being 
 some dark secret connected with the strange, unsocial 
 life that for so many years had been led by the 
 owner of Rooklands. 
 
 " Ay, she died," said the old man, in a tone that 
 seemed to hint at much more that lay behind. 
 " She died, an' I helped to let her down into her 
 grave. New Year's Day morning it was, as she 
 died o' Christmas Day. And the snow drifting on 
 to the pall all the time they was acarrying of her 
 to the church, while it was as white as the parson's 
 surplice, that you might have thought it was a 
 maid instead of a wife was being buried. Ay, 
 an' a mother she was an' all, poor thing ! though 
 she never looked into the bairns' faces to know 
 they was her own, for she died the same day as 
 they was born. There was twins, a boy an' a girl,
 
 64 Rackets Secret. 
 
 so, as you may say, the squire got double for what 
 he lost. 
 
 " There was to have been rare doings in Glinton, 
 for he'd been reckoning a deal on having an heir. 
 His wife he cared nothing about, but it was all 
 his thought to have a son to heir Rooklands after 
 him. There was to have been sheep roasted whole, 
 an' a dinner in t' barn, and bonfires on Carlsby 
 Hill and Glinton Moor, so as folks might know all 
 round that there was an heir to Kooklands. They'd 
 gotten them all ready for lighting, but, however, 
 all they did was to start ringing the bells, and they 
 wasn't agate long of that, afore they had to stop 
 'em and ring the dead bell instead." 
 
 " It must have been a strange Christmas for 
 them all," said Dunstan. 
 
 "Ay, you may say that," replied the sexton, 
 nodding his head significantly. " A strange day 
 it was, but you haven't heard the half yet. There 
 was a double death that day at Rooklands — a 
 young woman, as the squire found hisself, sitting 
 stark and stiff, with a child sleeping in her arms,
 
 The Sexton's Tale. 65 
 
 again' the Hall door, when he opened it in the 
 grey of the morning to look out for the doctor 
 that a man had rode off to Bedesby to fetch." 
 
 Dunstan gave an involuntary start. 
 
 " What a horrible thing !" he exclaimed. " Surely 
 she was not sitting there dead !" 
 
 " Ay, but she w T as," said the sexton, peering still 
 into Dunstan's face, " an' had been for a good bit, 
 for when the servants in the house heard the mas- 
 ter cry, and run to see what was to do, she was as 
 cold as any stone. It was a gruesome sight, I 
 reckon, for him to set his eyes on. You see, she 
 was reared up right again' the door, an' when he 
 opened it, she fell back'ards right across him over 
 the threshold. 
 
 u There was a deal of talk in Glinton about her, 
 an' some folk thought one thing, an' some another, 
 but nobody could tell where she came from or who 
 she was, only that there was her name, Rachel 
 Dallas, marked on her clothes ; an' there was a 
 young man, a grocer from Bedesby, that had 
 corned over to Glinton to spend Christmas, said 
 VOL. I. F
 
 66 RacheTs Secret. 
 
 he'd passed her on the road about ten o'clock the 
 night afore, an' given her a lift in his gig. But 
 he knew nothing about her, only he thought she 
 looked as if she was partly daft, an' she telled him 
 she'd had a long journey that day, for she'd tra- 
 velled from as far as Edinburgh since morning." 
 
 " Then she was Scotch ?" said Dunstan, who 
 felt the blood prick and tingle in his veins as he 
 listened to the sexton's tale. 
 
 " 1 can't say rightly. Mark Grayson — that was 
 him as gave her the lift in his gig — said he thought 
 by her tongue she was. An' she'd a Scotch 
 tartan cloak on that she'd got the little girl 
 wrapped up in warm again' her breast. But they 
 never made out no more about her. They had a 
 crowner's inquest, an' they just brought it in, 
 ' Found Dead.' The doctor said she'd been 
 perished with cold, for it was a terrible keen 
 night ; or else she didn't seem to have been any- 
 ways weakly or ailing. He said she'd most likely 
 just set herself down on the doorstep, an' fallen 
 asleep with the child in her arms, an' when folks
 
 The Sexton's Tale. 67 
 
 does that, they mostly don't wake up again." 
 
 "But what was she doing there?" said Dun- 
 stan. "One would have thought, getting in at 
 that time of night, with a child, too, that she 
 would have stopped at some place in the vil- 
 lage." 
 
 "Ay, that's what you may ask," replied the 
 sexton, nodding his head slowly up and down ; 
 " but you won't get any one to tell you. Dead 
 folk keeps their own secrets, and living ones too, 
 sometimes, for the matter of that. I've my own 
 thoughts about it, though I don't say nothing to 
 nobody. Least said is soonest mended." 
 
 And the old man's voice dropped to a whisper, 
 and his face puckered up, as if he would say 
 that there were things which he could tell if he 
 chose. 
 
 " You see the house at Rooklands lies back, an' 
 the road past it doesn't lead nowhere but into t' 
 planting, and down by t' waterside, as far as t' 
 mill, without it be the cottage by the pool, where 
 Andrew Gillespie lives. Anyhow, that's where 
 
 F 2
 
 68 Rackets Secret. 
 
 they took her, for it was just a piece past the Plall, 
 and the squire wouldn't have her brought in there 
 on no account. There was a deal o' folks cried 
 shame on him for it, but he was afraid, mebby, of 
 the corpse bringing bad luck with it. However, 
 he needn't have turned away the dead from his 
 door, for he'd one of his own afore night." 
 
 Dunstan shivered. 
 
 " And the child?" he asked. 
 
 "Why," replied the sexton, "I wouldn't say 
 but what it was a good thing for it as it happened. 
 For, you see, Andrew Gillespie, being Scotch, and 
 living with hisself, him and his housekeeper, and 
 never a child of his own, and neither kith nor kin, 
 it come over him as he'd keep it. So, when there 
 w T as talk of taking it away to Bedesby to the 
 workhouse, he offered to do for it, and bring it up 
 hisself ; and there was no one to say him nay. 
 The parish was overglad to shift the burden of 
 the bairn on to some one else's shoulders, and he 
 was a respectable man, was Mr. Gillespie. He'd 
 been in the Customs, and he'd a pension, let alone
 
 The Sexton's Tale. 69 
 
 # 
 
 a good bit of money that he'd saved ; so, as you 
 may say, it was a lucky thing for Rachel." 
 
 " Then she is living still ?" said Dunstan. 
 
 " Ay," replied the sexton, "and a tall, well-grown 
 young woman she is an' all, though she's overdark 
 and pale to be what some folks call good-looking. 
 You'd have seen her if you'd been here a bit 
 sooner. She was down doing up her mother's 
 grave. Yon's it set over with poppies by the wall 
 there, under yon big yew-tree. It's a queer fancy 
 to plant nought but a lot o' rubbishing poppies, 
 but she has it like that every year. An' you won't 
 persuade her to do it different. Or else I set her 
 a rose once unbeknown to her, but she had it took 
 up as soon as ever she see'd it. It's just a maggot 
 she's got in her head." 
 
 And the sexton turned stiffly round, and pointed 
 Dunstan to the same little plot by whose mute 
 symbolism he had been arrested as he entered the 
 churchyard. 
 
 So, then, he had been listening all the time to 
 the story of that quiet sleeper, by whose nameless
 
 70 RacheVs Secret. 
 
 grave he had lingered awhile ago, wondering what 
 tale of sorrow it was that had been thus recorded. 
 
 "She doesn't favour her mother much," con- 
 tinued Job, u that is, if she was her mother. I 
 see her myself when she was streaked out in Mr. 
 Gillespie's house, and a fairer corpse I never had 
 to bury. As clear and as fine her face was, as if 
 it had been cut out of ivory, and her hair as 
 bright as yon bit of saffron sky between the yews 
 yonder. She'd been a beauty, I'll wager, when 
 she'd been at her best, though it made no odds to 
 her, once she'd gotten her coffin lid afore her face." 
 
 And Job shook his head, and took another pinch 
 of snuff. 
 
 " But Rachel Dallas, now, is cut out of different 
 stuff altogether. There's a summut about her, 
 I can't rightly tell what it is, but she isn't like 
 other girls, neither in her looks nor in nowt else. 
 And she never gathers with them, neither, nor 
 never has. Her and the old man lives pretty near 
 as still a life all to theirselves in yon cottage down 
 by the Rookland's pool, as t' squire does hisself.
 
 The Sextons Tale. 71 
 
 You see he's bedfast, is old Mr. Gillespie, and has 
 been this twelvemonth past, and she just stops up 
 in the house with him and does for him, and 
 hardly stirs out sometimes from week's end to 
 week's end, without it be to come to church of a 
 Sunday, an' she doesn't oftens do that now he's so 
 bad." 
 
 But the sexton's last words were drowned by 
 the sharp clang of the clock. 
 
 " Bless me !" he exclaimed, as the sound smote 
 on his ear, "if yon isn't half after eight — how 
 time slips by, to be sure, when a man's talking with 
 them as has intellecks like himself ! I allays says, 
 there isn't a sociabler man in Glinton nor me, 
 nobbut I come across my ekals in mental abilities, 
 but there isn't a man in this place as is. The 
 society that's to be gotten here is nobbut poor, so I 
 shuts up mostly, and keeps my tongue within my 
 teeth." 
 
 Dunstan smiled, but it was too dusk in the 
 shadow of the porch for Job to see the twinkle in 
 his companion's eye.
 
 72 Rachel's Secret. 
 
 " You see," he went on, " the folks hereabouts 
 don't make much count o' mental abilities, without 
 it be Dr. Kennedy, that's him that lives up at the 
 Lodge yonder. Why, when him an' me gets agate 
 together, I've known him ax me questions as I've 
 had to put on my studying-cap to answer, and it 
 isn't a many as '11 do that. He's uncommon 
 fond o' nat'ral history, is the Doctor, so we're 
 brothers in science, as you may say, for I've a 
 klection of my own as I've gathered myself, an' he 
 comes down to my place oftens to have a look at 
 it. He's a sensible man, is Dr. Kennedy — him 
 an' me has a deal o' points in common ; but if you're 
 a stranger in Glinton, you mebby won't know him, 
 or else him an' you would get on together, I don't 
 doubt." 
 
 But Dunstan knew nothing about Dr. Kennedy, 
 whose society was so superior, that even Job Dol- 
 son himself could find satisfaction in it. 
 
 "You wouldn't be long without knowing the 
 looks of him, if you was to be stopping in Glin- . 
 ton," said Job. " He's good enough to tell. A
 
 The Sextons Tale. 73 
 
 well-set man he is, with warmish coloured hair, an' 
 broad shoulders he has, an' stoops his head forrard 
 rather when he walks. That's with writing so much 
 — he's wrote a sight o' books. But you'd tell in a 
 minute he was something out o' the common. It's 
 neither here nor there, as you may say, but just a 
 way he has, that sets on him like a crown." 
 
 " Surely I saw him, then, pass the churchyard 
 this evening," said Dunstan ; " and a great hound 
 with him, the size of a pony." 
 
 "Ay! that's him," said Job; "an' old Byke 
 with him. He makes a deal of that beast, does the 
 Doctor — as much as if it was a Christian ; and I 
 wouldn't say myself but what it has more sense 
 than amany of its betters. But 1 must be off now, 
 sir, axingyour pardon. She'll have got t' supper ready, 
 will Rebecca ; I've larned her to be partick'lar, an' 
 she allays has it set, an' a sup o' beer put on to 
 warm, when she hears t' half -hour bell go. It's nob- 
 but a step off, isn't my place," and Job pointed to a 
 low, brown thatched cottage on the other side of the 
 churchyard wall ; and then getting on his legs, he
 
 74 Rackets Secret. 
 
 stretched himself, put his handkerchief into the 
 crown of his hat, put his hat upon his head, and 
 taking up the bunch of keys that lay on the bench, 
 made a move to go. 
 
 Dunstan, too, arose. It was getting quite dusk 
 now, and the moonlight was beginning to shimmer 
 whitely on the gravestones that dotted the church- 
 yard grass. Internal admonitions also began to 
 warn him that supper would not be unacceptable 
 to himself also, so he bade the sexton good even- 
 ing, expressed a suitable sense of his obligations, 
 and the interest with which he had listened to his 
 communications, and turned down the lane beside 
 Job's cottage, which would bring him, as the old 
 man said, in ten minutes' time, to Gideon Doyle's 
 farm.
 
 75 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 SUPPER. 
 
 TT was a narrow winding lane, with a high 
 ■*- thorn hedge, and a row of huge beeches on 
 either side, whose branches, meeting overhead, 
 formed a pretty dense avenue, beneath which 
 Dunstan walked on, till he saw, twinkling among 
 the trees, a ruddy glow, as of firelight in some un- 
 curtained room. It shone out more clearly by-and- 
 by, and a moment after he reached a low stone 
 wall, beyond which rose the yellow front of the 
 farmhouse. Two tall yews, clipped into the form 
 of a pyramid, flanked a gate from which a grass- 
 grown path led up to a trellised porch. It was 
 plain, however, that no visitors were expected, for 
 when Dunstan attempted to lift the latch, he found 
 it effectually secured by a piece of rusty chain,
 
 76 RaclieTs Secret. 
 
 which, in default of a lock, had been wound round 
 and round the pillar against which the gate was 
 hung. 
 
 Everything looked shadowy, precise, and still. 
 Dunstan could see that though the roof was 
 thatched, and the rooms must certainly be rather 
 low, yet the house was substantial and well kept. 
 The lower story was of brick ; the upper one pro- 
 jected a little, and was washed of a deep buff 
 colour that in the moonlight brought out 
 into strong relief the deep carving of its oaken 
 timbers. 
 
 He stood for a moment inspecting his future home, 
 then made his way round to the back of the house, 
 where, doubtless, he would be able to find admis- 
 sion. There was no difficulty here. The gate of the 
 great pavfed yard that surrounded this part of the 
 house was swinging on its hinges, and the door of 
 the kitchen that opened into it, was standing 
 open, perhaps to admit the cool evening air, for as 
 Dunstan passed the unshuttered window, he saw- 
 that the light which he had observed proceeded
 
 Supper. 77 
 
 from a blazing log fire which was shining full 
 upon a large-made, ruddy-looking man, who was 
 sitting beside a table that seemed to be set ready 
 for supper. 
 
 Dunstan stepped across the threshold, and 
 knocked at the open door. 
 
 " Wha's there ?" cried a voice from within, in a 
 broad rich accent ; and then, as Dunstan came in 
 sight, Gideon Doyle, for he it was, rose from his 
 three-cornered chair, exclaiming, with a look of 
 surprise, 
 
 " Why, it'll be Mr. Dayne, I do believe ! Come 
 in, sir — come in, an' sit you down. Missis ! 
 Missis !" he added, going to an inner door, and 
 shouting to some one out of sight, a here's t' gen- 
 tleman corned." 
 
 Gideon was answered by the appearance of his 
 wife, a slight, neat little woman, who came in 
 looking somewhat disconcerted at this unexpected 
 arrival of her lodger, yet prepared, seeing that he 
 was there, to make him welcome. 
 
 " You did not expect me quite so soon?" said
 
 78 RacheVs Secret. 
 
 Dunstan, who had already unstrapped his travelling 
 case from his shoulder, and thrown himself down, 
 glad of the rest, on a chintz-covered settle that 
 stood in a corner beside the fire. " The fact is, 
 when I got to Bedesby, I found there were no 
 beds to be had there, so I just walked over at 
 once." 
 
 " Why, no, sir," she replied ; " we wasn't looking 
 for you while to-morrow, to be sure ; but, however, 
 it makes no matter, so long as you're comfortable. 
 You'll be glad of a bit of supper, I reckon, if you've 
 walked out from Bedesby. I'd have had something 
 hot for you if I'd known you'd been coming, but I'll 
 do you a slice of ham in a minute, if you'd like it. 
 We've a beauty just now on the cut." 
 
 "Don't trouble yourself, pray," said Dunstan ; 
 " I can make an excellent supper off this bread 
 and cheese that you have got on the table. You 
 were just going to sit down, I daresay, when I 
 came in ?" 
 
 But this went quite against Mrs. Doyle's notions 
 of propriety.
 
 Supper. 79 
 
 " I couldn't think of such a thing, sir," she said, 
 " to set a gentleman like you down to a bite of 
 bread and cheese, an' come off a journey, too." • 
 
 And as she spoke, without more ado, she reached 
 down a half ham that hung from one of the 
 rafters, and proceeded to cut off some slices. 
 
 u I daresay you'd as lief stop here awhile, sir," 
 she went on ; " or else the best parlour's all ready 
 for you, if you'd like to go in. I'll put a match to 
 the fire directly, an' it'll burn up by the time sup- 
 per's ready." 
 
 But Dunstan was too comfortable in his present 
 quarters to have any wish to change them for Mrs. 
 Doyle's best parlour, whatever that might be. 
 
 " I will just stay here, if you will allow me," he 
 said, " and have supper with you." 
 
 And, as if taking for granted that his proposal 
 would be agreeable, he drew off his boots, and 
 opening his valise, took out a pair of slippers, 
 which, having put on, he stretched himself again 
 at full length upon the settle. 
 
 " Ay ! ay, sir, that's right," said the farmer, a
 
 80 Backers Secret. 
 
 broad smile spreading itself over his face, " make 
 yourself at home. I allays likes to see folks com- 
 fortable. When Mr. Deakin were with us — that's 
 him as we had last back-end — he'd come here of a 
 night oftens, an' streek hisself out on that there 
 settle, just as you're a-doing now, sir, an' put his 
 arms aback of his head, an' says he to me, times 
 an' times again, ' Mr. Doyle,' says he, ( there isn't 
 a drawing-room in the kingdom can beat the looks 
 o' this here kitchen o' yours of an evening.' An' 
 I daresay there isn't, though I've never been but 
 in one myself, an' that's up at Rooklands yonder ; 
 but I know this, I'd a sight sooner sit down here to 
 my supper nor what I would in it." 
 
 " We mostly has our suppers here, sir," put in 
 Mrs. Doyle, washing probably to explain that the 
 farm kitchen was not their only sitting-room. 
 "The fire allays seems to draw you like o' nights 
 when there isn't one going in the parlour, an' our 
 master allays enjoys his pipe better in the chimney- 
 corner than any other place in the house." 
 
 No wonder, thought Dunstan, as he lay at ease,
 
 Supper. 81 
 
 and watched the good woman busying herself in 
 her preparations. And in truth the kitchen at the 
 Brook Farm was one of which any farmer's wife 
 might well be proud. It was large and low, the 
 walls spotlessly clean, and stained of a pale buff 
 colour which threw back a pleasant glow from 
 the firelight that was playing over it. A great 
 pine log was burning up the open chimney, sending 
 out from time to time sputtering jets of flame that 
 illumined every corner of the room, and rendered 
 almost superfluous the light from the small oil 
 lamp that was burning on the table. 
 
 The ceiling was whitewashed and crossed by 
 huge oaken rafters, from one of which hung a 
 long row of home-cured hams and sides of bacon. 
 Opposite to the fireplace was a snowy deal dresser, 
 surmounted by an oaken delf-rack filled with wil- 
 low-pattern crockery, and garnished by a number 
 of china pitchers and pewter mugs, that hung, 
 suspended by their handles, from brass hooks in 
 the rails. 
 
 Everything showed signs of thrift and plenty, 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 Backers Secret. 
 
 of use and comfort, too ; for it was plain that Mrs. 
 Doyle was a woman who managed well in her 
 house. Not a speck of dust was to be seen on all 
 the shining furniture, nor a spot of grease on the 
 bright red tiles with which the floor was paved. 
 Yet with all this nicety and order, there was also 
 such a look of homelike ease and comfort, that 
 Dunstan felt as if, whatever life hitherto had been, 
 it would be a tolerably pleasant thing to him 
 here. 
 
 It was something new to find himself amidst 
 such pleasant surroundings, where everything, 
 from the round painted face of the clock that 
 stood ticking loudly in the comer, to the tin 
 dish-covers and bright pewter mugs that hung 
 against the wall, seemed to blink at him in a cheer- 
 ful, companionable sort of way, as if already they 
 had established themselves on a friendly footing 
 with the new comer. A strange contrast, truly, 
 to that gloomy room in St. Clement's Inn, where 
 if a stray sunbeam ever by chance wandered in 
 through the smoky windows, it did but serve to
 
 Supper, 83 
 
 betray the threadbare patches on the carpet, or to 
 show more clearly the dust and cracks upon the 
 shabby painted mantelshelf. 
 
 Meanwhile the ham which Mrs. Doyle was broil- 
 ing began to diffuse a most delicious fragrance 
 through the kitchen, that blended delightfully with 
 the delicate scent of the burning pinewood, and 
 made Dunstan secretly congratulate himself on 
 not having succeeded in persuading her to let him 
 sup off bread and cheese alone. 
 
 He found a new interest, moreover, in watching 
 the progress of the cookery over which Mrs. Doyle 
 seemed to be bestowing special pains. The whole thing 
 had about it a savour of primitive simplicity that was 
 positively refreshing. And when all was ready and set 
 upon the table, and when Mrs. Doyle had put down 
 another plate and knife and fork, and had brought 
 in a large jug of foaming ale, and had given a 
 final glance over things in general to see that no- 
 thing had been omitted, Dunstan took the chair 
 she had drawn up, in such a courteous way, and 
 began to fall to upon the good things provided with 
 
 g2
 
 84 Rachels Secret. 
 
 such evident good will, that any lingering scruples 
 which she might have entertained as to setting him 
 down to supper in the kitchen, were entirely re- 
 moved. 
 
 She could not refrain, however, from expressing 
 her regret at there being such a scant bill of fare 
 on the occasion. 
 
 " I'm very sorry, sir, I'm sure, to have such a 
 poor supper as this. If only I'd known a bit 
 sooner that you was coming, I'd have had a chicken 
 or something done. A bit of broiled ham's like no- 
 thing. It isn't often that we're without a bit of 
 cold meat in the house, or a pigeon pie or so at 
 night, only we've had two men extra at work to- 
 day, and we've had them to meat ; an' being Fri- 
 day, they've cleared out everything." 
 
 " Now, Missis," said the farmer, setting down his 
 glass after a long draught of the home-brewed, 
 and wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, 
 " don't be worrying yourself. You couldn't have 
 had anything better. If a man's hungry he may 
 make a good meal enough off a ham like this ; an'
 
 Supper. 85 
 
 if he isn't, why he'll be the better o' fasting while 
 he is." 
 
 " You are right there," said Dunstan, laughing. 
 " However, I am not disposed just now to fast, I 
 can assure you." 
 
 And certainly he was not. Where the charm 
 was he hardly knew ; whether it really was in the 
 superior quality of Mrs. Doyle's ham, or in 
 the fine flavour of the brown ale, or the sweet- 
 ness of the home-made bread, or whether it was 
 the hearty good humour of the farmer, or the 
 anxious hospitality of his wife, or whether it was 
 the novelty of sitting down to eat with others be- 
 sides himself, or that his long walk had given him 
 an appetite, or perhaps all of these combined, but 
 he did quite win the heart of his hostess by the 
 ample justice which he did to his repast. For be 
 it known to all whom it may concern, that no 
 sweeter incense can be offered to the wife of a 
 North-country farmer than to evince a practical 
 appreciation of her skill in the culinary art, seeing 
 that thereby her pet vanity, and everybody has one,
 
 86 Rachels Secret. 
 
 is flattered in the most effectual manner pos- 
 sible. 
 
 They had just finished supper, when some one 
 came into the kitchen by the door that was still 
 standing open to the yard. 
 
 " Here's Martha," said Mrs. Doyle, rising and 
 pushing back her chair from the table. " You can 
 take away, Martha, we've done. How many eggs 
 have you got ?" 
 
 " Better nor six score," replied the damsel, in a 
 gruff, sonorous voice ; and turning about, Dunstan 
 saw alarge ungainly woman, with high shoulder bones 
 and a hard weather-beaten face that gave but little 
 clue, however, to her probable age. She might be not 
 more than six or seven and twenty, for hard work 
 and exposure to sun, wet and cold, soon take away 
 the bloom of youth from a farm-house servant ; or 
 she might be nearly forty, though she had still a 
 fresh, rather a high colour, and an abundance of 
 rough brown hair, which was pushed back behind her 
 ears, and twisted up at the back of her head into a 
 protuberance, bearing in form and colour a not
 
 Supper. 87 
 
 inconsiderable resemblance to a good sized po- 
 tato. 
 
 She was dressed in a gown of blue spotted cot- 
 ton, tucked up round her waist, a linsey petticoat, 
 and a large checked apron that covered nearly half 
 her dress. She had in her hand two flat market 
 baskets, one, which she lifted on to the dresser, 
 being filled with eggs ; while in the other were 
 ranged, side by side, several couples of fowls, ready 
 plucked and trussed. 
 
 "Let me see them, Martha," said Mrs. Doyle. 
 " They're nice an' plump," she added, feeling them 
 with an experienced hand as Martha brought the 
 to her. 
 
 "Ay, they are that. I lay them'll fetch five 
 shillings a couple to-morrow," said Martha, eyeing 
 them with stern complacency as she packed them 
 down again into the basket ; " an' I shan't need to 
 stand long behind 'em, neither. They're as fine a 
 lot as ever we've had." 
 
 And then, setting down the basket beside the 
 other, she unpinned her gown, and shaking it
 
 88 RaclieVs Secret. 
 
 down, began to clear away the supper things, giv- 
 ing in the meanwhile a look of leisurely inspec- 
 tion at the stranger. 
 
 "Must I side 'em all?" she asked. "There's 
 David isn't back. He'll mebby be wanting a bit 
 o' summut when he comes in." 
 
 "You'd better set them away," replied her 
 mistress. " He'll get himself a bit when he 
 comes in. We're late to-night, an' to-morrow's 
 Saturday." 
 
 " He's late, is David," said the farmer. " He's 
 hardly been staying at Mallinson's while this time 
 o' night." 
 
 " He said he'd mebby go round by Rooklands as 
 he come home," answered Mrs. Doyle. 
 
 " What ! he's gone to see Rachel, then, has he ?" 
 said the farmer. " He'd better ha' corned in and 
 gotten his supper." 
 
 Dunstan fancied there was a shade of uneasiness 
 in the farmer's voice, and that he saw a passing 
 cloud on Mrs. Doyle's quiet brow. Perhaps, 
 however, it was only fancy, for she was just going
 
 Supper, 89 
 
 out of the kitchen, and when, a moment after, she 
 returned, she looked just as placid as before. She 
 had brought with her a pair of fine linen sheets 
 and pillow-cases, which diffused a sweet odour of 
 lavender around, as she proceeded to open them 
 out and hang them before the fire over two of the 
 high-backed chairs, which she adjusted for the 
 purpose. 
 
 While this was going on the farmer had reached 
 his pipe from the corner behind the chair, and 
 was filling it out of a tobacco-box which stood 
 upon a shelf beside the fireplace. 
 
 "Mebby you wouldn't care to join me with a 
 pipe?" he said, looking across to Dunstan. 
 " Gentlemen like you mostly likes a cigar, I 
 reckon, an' I'm sorry that's a thing as I haven't 
 got to offer you." 
 
 " No, no," said Dunstan ; " I shall be glad to 
 have a pipe with you. But it's a shame, Mrs. 
 Doyle, to be smoking by the side of this sweet- 
 scented linen of yours. It smells like a garden." 
 
 "Why, sir," replied Mrs. Doyle, with a quiet
 
 90 Rachels Secret. 
 
 little laugh, et I must say, for my part, I think it's 
 pleasanter to lie in lavender than in tobacco. 
 However, if you don't mind it, I needn't, for it's 
 your own bed I'm going to put them on. Every- 
 thing's ready but just that." 
 
 She paused suddenly ; her quick ear had caught 
 the sound of a step in the yard, and the next 
 moment a young man entered by the outer door, 
 which he shut and bolted as he came in. 
 
 " Is that you, David f she exclaimed ; " we was 
 beginning to think long of you. This is the gen- 
 tleman," she added, as he crossed the kitchen and 
 came nearer to the group around the hearth. And 
 then, with a glance of motherly pride in her eye, 
 she introduced him to Dunstan. 
 
 " It's my son David, Mr. Dayne." 
 
 And a fine specimen of a young English 
 yeoman he was, as he stood in the farm kitchen 
 with the warm firelight playing over his figure. 
 One that his mother might well be proud to call 
 her son. Ruddy and robust, like his father, with 
 a large, well-filled frame, that conveyed an im-
 
 Supper. 91 
 
 pression, however, of mere physical force, rather 
 than of energy or address. He had an abundance 
 of light hair growing low over his forehead, and a 
 pair of mild blue eyes, that in a woman would 
 have been a beauty, but which in him, so soft and 
 sleepy were they, lent a somewhat effeminate 
 expression to an otherwise manly countenance. 
 Altogether, there was a quiet slowness about his 
 looks and manner, as if the soul within were 
 encumbered with a body almost too large for it to 
 manage ; or perhaps it only needed some great 
 impulse to rouse it up, in order more vigorously to 
 discharge its duties. 
 
 " Won't you have a bit of supper, David ?" 
 said his mother after awhile ; " the things is only 
 just sided. I thought you'd likely be late if you 
 was gone to Rooklands. How's Mr. Gillespie an' 
 Rachel ?" 
 
 " Rachel's very well, but Mr. Gillespie's not 
 much to speak on ; but I didn't stay long." And 
 as he spoke David walked to the dresser, and took 
 up a small tin lamp, which, with two or three
 
 92 RacJiets Secret. 
 
 others, was standing there. " I think I'll be going 
 to bed, mother ; I don't care about supper." 
 
 " But you're like to have a bit of something," 
 urged his mother. " There's a corner of berry pie 
 in the pantry I had put by at dinner on purpose 
 for you. Have that, an' a drop o' cream to it ; or 
 there's some ham, though it's neither cold nor hot 
 now, I doubt." 
 
 But David was not to be persuaded. Perhaps 
 the corner of "berry pie" did not possess sufficient 
 attractions, or perhaps he might not like sitting 
 down to his supper before a stranger. Anyhow, 
 he lit his lamp at once, and nodding goodnight to 
 all round, he took his departure. 
 
 "There's something wrong with David," said 
 Mrs. Doyle, as she turned the linen with a pre-oc- 
 cupied air. " It isn't often he's past his meat." 
 
 The farmer made no remark. He went on 
 smoking his pipe in silence, though his face had 
 lost its former genial aspect. Something evidently 
 had disturbed him, which he preferred just now 
 keeping to himself. He puffed on slowly at regu-
 
 Supper, 93 
 
 lar intervals, gazing abstractedly into the fire, 
 which shone over him now with a warm steady 
 glow, reflecting itself in the metal ^buttons of his 
 red plush waistcoat, and just touching with gold the 
 grey hair that grew somewhat thinly now upon his 
 temples. Neither was Dunstan much disposed now 
 for further conversation. The fatigues of the day, 
 added, perhaps, to the effects of Mrs. Doyle's strong 
 ale, and the warmth and ease of his position on 
 the chintz settle, were gradually inducing a sense 
 of drowsiness, which he hardly cared to overcome. 
 He certainly caught himself nodding, when Mrs. 
 Doyle's voice broke again upon his ear, telling him 
 that his room was ready now, whenever he liked 
 to go to it. 
 
 Just then the clock in the corner struck eleven, 
 in a spasmodic, jerking fashion, as if its internal 
 arrangements were such as to render the effort dis- 
 tressing to it. ' It was only half -past ten, however, 
 in reality, for Mrs. Doyle's clock, like most others 
 in farm-house kitchens, was always beforehand in 
 the race with time. It gave her plenty of warning,
 
 94 RacheTs Secret. 
 
 she used to say, besides making her feel as if she 
 had always half an hour on hand. 
 
 The farmerf who had been nodding too, rose 
 and stretched himself with a resounding yawn. 
 
 u Missis !" he exclaimed, " if yon isn't eleven 
 o'clock ! Fine hours for folks to be keeping that has 
 to be stirring afore five in the morning. An' here's 
 Mr. Dayne looks summut like me, as if he'd be 
 glad of a easier place for his head nor the back of 
 that settle. I doubt we've been poorish company 
 this bit back." 
 
 " It has been my fault, I am afraid," said Dun- 
 stan, " that you are all up so late. I will follow 
 you, Mrs. Doyle, if you will be good enough to 
 show me to my room. Good night, Mr. Doyle." 
 
 " The same to you, sir," said the farmer, as he 
 grasped in his horny palm the hand held out to 
 him and gave it a hearty shake. " I don't doubt 
 but what you'll sleep sound. An' now, Missis, give 
 us a light, an' I'll be going an' all." 
 
 Mrs. Doyle gave him the flat oil lamp which 
 she held in her hand, first lighting a long mould
 
 Supper, 95 
 
 candle, which was fixed in a gay japanned candle- 
 stick appropriated to the use of her lodgers alone. 
 Then going before Dunstan, she ushered him up- 
 stairs into his room. 
 
 " I'm sure I hope you'll be comfortable, sir," 
 she said, as she set down the candlestick on the 
 white dimity covered dressing-table. "And if 
 there's anything else as you want, if you'd be so 
 kind as mention it, I shall have the greatest of plea- 
 sure in getting it for you." 
 
 Then glancing around once more to see that all 
 was right, she bade him good night, and groped 
 her way downstairs, to make sure that the kitchen 
 fire was stirred together, and might safely be left 
 to burn out by itself.
 
 96 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE BROOK FARM. 
 
 THE stir of farmhouse life had long begun when 
 Dunstan awoke next morning. The men 
 were at work in the fields and fold-yard ; the cows 
 had been milked and driven to the pasture. 
 Breakfast was over in the great kitchen, and Mr. 
 Doyle had finished his and was already some dis- 
 tance on the road to Bedesby, jogging steadily 
 along in his green spring cart, with his samples of 
 wheat tied up in little canvas bags in his side-coat 
 pocket, and Martha by his side, sitting stiffly up- 
 right, clad in her second best gown and bonnet, 
 her green coloury shawl pinned across her high 
 square shoulders, and her three market baskets of 
 eggs, butter, and poultry, carefully deposited at 
 the back of the cart.
 
 The Brook Farm. 97 
 
 The sun was shining full upon the window, 
 casting a trellis-work of shadow from the latticed 
 casement on the blind, and filling the room with a 
 cool bright light, that enabled Dunstan to see 
 clearly all that he had been too tired the night 
 before to take much notice of. It was pleasant to 
 open his eyes in that fresh clean chamber after 
 having been used so long to those dingy close 
 apartments in St. Clement's Inn. For this room 
 was light and spacious, as were all the others at 
 the farm, though the ceiling was low, so low, 
 that, standing up, Dunstan could easily touch it 
 with his hand. The walls were covered with an 
 old-fashioned paper adorned with a running 
 pattern of roses and green leaves ; the doors and 
 woodwork were painted white ; the floor was of 
 dark oak, brightly polished, and carpeted only in 
 the middle. The window-curtains and the hang- 
 ings of the bed were white dimity, trimmed with a 
 curious fringe of little hanging balls of soft cotton. 
 Everything was wonderfully neat. As it had been 
 in the kitchen, so here, not a speck or stain was 
 VOL. I. II
 
 98 RacheVs Secret. 
 
 anywhere to be descried ; and about the whole room 
 was that indescribable air of simplicity and repose 
 which gave a charm of its own to this old-fashioned 
 chamber, such as one often misses in apartments 
 more sumptuously appointed. 
 
 For a moment, as Dunstan opened his eyes, he 
 hardly remembered where he was. Then the 
 mists of sleep cleared themselves away. This was 
 a room in the Brook farm-house, and he had done 
 with that miserable, cramped-up London life, and 
 had got leave now to work. And a new world lay 
 around him, fresh scenes, and fresh faces ; the 
 house, and the village, and spring-time in the 
 country, and the green fields, through which, 
 presently, that railway-line of his would run. 
 And as the thought of these things flashed 
 through his mind, he felt as if in haste to go forth 
 and meet it all. 
 
 A little flaxen-haired girl was sitting at the foot' 
 of the stairs as he went down, playing with an old 
 sheep dog, whose shaggy ears she was amusing 
 herself by tying beneath his chin. She started up
 
 The Brook Farm. 99 
 
 at the sound of a footstep above her head, then, 
 seeing Dunstan, she started off like a frightened 
 deer, and took refuge in the kitchen. 
 
 " Mother," he heard her cry, " here's the gentle- 
 man !" And the next moment Mrs. Doyle herself 
 appeared, and, throwing open a door at the foot of 
 the stairs, revealed a pleasant snug room, with 
 green panelled walls, and two deep windows looking 
 out into the garden. 
 
 A table with a white cloth upon it, stood spread 
 ready for breakfast. Everything looked bright 
 and cheerful, as did Mrs. Doyle's face, when 
 Dunstan assured her that he had slept uncom- 
 monly well in his new quarters, and that she 
 might bring him his coffee and eggs as soon as she 
 liked. 
 
 " So far, things seem as if they mean to turn 
 out pretty well," thought Dunstan, as he walked 
 to the window and looked out into the gay garden 
 before it, and over the low fence to the richly- 
 wooded, undulating country beyond. " I couldn't 
 have had things more to my liking if I had chosen 
 
 II 2
 
 100 Rachels Secret. 
 
 them myself. There will be rare shooting 
 among those woods by-and-by, if only I can 
 contrive to get a day of it. And there ought to 
 be trout in that stream that I came along by 
 yesterday. Bless me ! to think that I have hardly 
 had a rod in my hands since I was twenty, nor 
 fired a shot either. What in the world should I 
 have turned into by-and-by? A precious old fogy 
 I should have been by the time I was thirty ! 
 For what is a man good for, I should like to know, 
 who has forgotten how to enjoy himself ? And I 
 was in a fair way for that, if ever a poor wretch 
 was. It is a wonder I didn't knock under alto- 
 gether, or turn rogue and cheat, or something 
 worse, when I found honesty didn't pay. How- 
 ever, here goes for the good time coming ! Yon 
 may make a decent thing yet out of this world. 
 old boy, if you go the right way about it, and 
 needn't lose your chance of another, either P 
 
 For just then, as Dunstan looked through the 
 open casement into the sunny garden, and across 
 to the orchard that ran down beside it. where the
 
 The Brook Farm. 101 
 
 apple-trees were full in blossom, their rosy tufts 
 set off by a background of rich moist foliage, and 
 beyond all the quivering blue of the cloudless sky, 
 a train of association, like some old melody, or a 
 waft of remembered perfume, brought back to him 
 the feeling with which last night he had walked 
 through the woods at sunset. He had forgotten it 
 till now, but there it was, still sleeping in his 
 breast. For it had not died with the hour that 
 called it forth. Nothing ever does that is really 
 good within us. It lives on, though none may 
 know of it but the good God from whom it came, 
 in the change that it has wrought within us, just 
 as the summer sunshine that falls upon the crude 
 green fruit is not lost, but works unceasingly 
 within, a living force, through nights of darkness 
 and long days of cloud and storm. 
 
 Dunstan's work at his office would not begin 
 before the ensuing week, so that he had the whole 
 of this, his first day at Glinton, to look about him 
 and make acquaintance with the place. The farm- 
 house itself was worth a leisurely inspection. It
 
 102 Backers Secret. 
 
 was a fine old building, erected, as the date on a 
 stone over the porch declared, nearly two hundred 
 years ago, and looking as if it might weather the 
 storms of as many more. A quaint, home-like, 
 inconvenient old place, for there were hardly two 
 rooms in it that were on the same level. Either 
 you had to go up a step or two, or you went down 
 one into each ; and the architect, whoever he might 
 have been, seemed to have contrived, as far as 
 possible, that they should open one into another, 
 causing thereby no little embarrassment at times 
 to Mrs. Doyle. 
 
 The best bedroom, which was set apart for 
 Dunstan, had a staircase all to itself, and so had 
 the lumber-room and store-room ; while the attics, 
 which, however, were used chiefly as a convenient 
 place for spreading out upon the plaster floors the 
 winter stores of apples, pears, dried herbs and 
 onions, were to be reached only by one leading out 
 of that occupied by the farmer and his wife. But 
 there was a delightful flavour of originality and 
 old-world simplicity about all these little arrange-
 
 The Brook Farm. 103 
 
 merits which sorted well with the easy-hearted 
 ways of the inhabitants, and made Dunstan feel 
 from the first as if even the old house itself were 
 minded that he should feel himself at home 
 within it. 
 
 But Mrs. Doyle's kitchen was the real heart of 
 the house, a centre of warm life whose influence 
 reached from attic to cellar, and extended even to 
 the remotest field on her husband's farm where in 
 hay-time or harvest the sweating labourers lay 
 down in the shadow of the u stooks " and hedges, 
 and enjoyed their blink of rest while they took 
 their afternoon " drinkings " — long draughts of 
 the home-brewed beer which Mrs. Doyle sent down 
 to them in great stone jugs, together with baskets 
 filled with huge hunches of cheese, and flat cakes 
 of home-made bread. 
 
 For at the Brook Farm everything was either 
 home-made or home-raised. "Indeed," as Mrs. 
 Doyle used to say, " there was no end of the tew 
 and worry in a farm-house. Start work when you 
 would, it seemed as if you was never done ; but
 
 104 Racket 8 Secret. 
 
 she was free to own there was one beauty about it, 
 you had everything within yourself." 
 
 And so they had. They sent their own corn to 
 be ground at the mill, they killed their own pigs 
 and poultry, cured their own hams and bacon, and 
 brewed their own beer. Their apples, pears, and 
 plums grew in their own orchard. They needed 
 no market-gardener, for their kitchen-garden sup- 
 plied them with everything they wanted. Milk 
 and cream, butter and cheese, were always at hand 
 in the dairy. Eggs were brought in every day by 
 dozens from the nests about the steading. Rabbits 
 were to be had for the shooting, mushrooms for 
 gathering from the meadows. Even the wine 
 cellar — at least, the great closet under the stairs, 
 which served as such — Mrs. Doyle furnished from 
 her own resources. Elder-flower, currant, and 
 cowslip wine were there, with bottles of goose- 
 berry champagne, which Mrs. Green, the house- 
 keeper at Sir John Denham's, who often looked in 
 and had a glass of it, with a slice of seed cake, de- 
 clared was not to be surpassed by the real thing.
 
 The Brook Farm. 105 
 
 This kitchen was Mrs. Doyle's peculiar domain ; 
 for Martha, when not busy sweeping and scrub- 
 bing about the house, or milking, or feeding the 
 calves, or giving a hand at hay time or harvest, 
 carried on her washing and scouring and general 
 superintendence of Bessy, the " girl," in what was 
 called the back-house, a sort of large kitchen built 
 out from the end of the house, where in summer 
 time the farm labourers ate their meals, and where 
 was also the brewing vat and tubs, the gig harness, 
 and the best saddle, which Mr. Doyle and David 
 always used when they rode to Bedesby. 
 
 It was always warm by that great fireside, even 
 in the coldest days of winter. No wonder the 
 farmer thought its chimney corner the most com- 
 fortable place in the house. There was a brick 
 oven built at the side, in which, twice a week, 
 Mrs. Doyle's " baking " was done. And her 
 bakings were serious affairs, and no mistake ; for 
 besides their own family, there were the five men 
 whom they had to " meat." And the consumption 
 of food by a north-country farm labourer is some-
 
 106 Rachel! s Secret. 
 
 thing fabulous. Besides the beef, and boiled pork, 
 the potatoes, bread, and beer on which they dulled 
 the keener edge of their appetites, there were 
 " berry " pies in summer, and apple pies in winter, 
 custards baked in crusts on deep plates, beef- 
 steak pies, egg and bacon pies, lard cakes, and 
 immense cheese-cakes made in round flat tins. 
 And all these Mrs. Doyle prepared with her own 
 hands, besides more delicate pastry for the parlour 
 table ; so that to look into her larder about three 
 o'clock in the afternoon of baking-days, when 
 everything was out of the oven and duly marshalled 
 on the shelves, one might suppose that she had 
 been provisioning for a siege. 
 
 In front of the house was the garden, opening 
 into the lane, and alongside of this ran an orchard, 
 whose blossoming tress made it just now one vast 
 posy. Around the back was the paved yard before 
 mentioned, the farm buildings, and kitchen garden : 
 and beyond these again was a thick planting of 
 larch and beech trees, girdling in a ten-acre lot, 
 which formed a sort of summer parlour for Mrs.
 
 The Brook Farm. 107 
 
 Doyle's five milch cows, and where they spent 
 their days alternately grazing on the sweet, clover- 
 mingled grass, and lying at ease, peacefully rumi- 
 nating over their repast. 
 
 Truly, as Dunstan thought to himself when he 
 had made a leisurely survey of the whole, the lines 
 had fallen to him in a pleasant place, so far at 
 least as his abode was concerned. The next thing 
 was to go and see the railway yard, a large piece 
 of ground which had been fenced off near the end 
 of the village, and where already sheds for the 
 workmen, and a little brick office for himself, had 
 been erected. 
 
 He staid some time here, talking to the people 
 about the place, and examining everything with 
 the keenest interest. It looked something like 
 work. Immense piles of wood were heaped up 
 ready to form the " sleepers " on which the rails 
 were to be laid. There was the blacksmith's forge, 
 quiet enough now, though plenty of stir there would 
 be by-and-by, when the clinking of the hammers, 
 and the sound of axe and mallet, were heard from
 
 108 Backers Secret. 
 
 morning till night, waking the echoes far and 
 near. 
 
 Dunstan lingered in the railway yard till long 
 past noon. Then he went home to dinner; and after 
 he had lounged away an hour or two on the chintz- 
 covered couch in the bay window at the end of 
 his parlour, drowsily drinking in the scent of 
 the purple clusters of the Westeria that trailed 
 over the wall outside, he set off again to explore a 
 little further around his new abode. 
 
 First, however, he went upstairs to turn over his 
 portmanteau, which, with a large packing-case, in 
 which were bestowed the rest of his worldly goods, 
 had been sent on after him from Bedesby. 
 
 He had an impression that somewhere in it 
 there was a solitary cigar, if only he could lay his 
 hands upon it, which, however, w r as no easy mat- 
 ter. He turned out the things upon the floor of 
 his room, where they lay piled around him in pro- 
 miscuous confusion. Not a bad index, for a shrewd 
 observer, to the character of their owner. 
 
 There were no lavender kids, or fancy ties, or
 
 The Brook Farm, 109 
 
 patent-enamelled boots, or " sweet things in waist- 
 coats," among the young man's possessions. 
 Whatever pet weakness he might have, and most 
 young men have one of some sort or other, it 
 evidently did not blossom out in this direction. 
 
 There was a good stock of fine linen, clean and 
 white, notwithstanding that it must have been for 
 some time past " got up " by a London laundress. 
 There were two or three sober-looking suits, and a 
 blue flannel cricketing cap which seemed to have 
 done duty of late as a smoking-cap. There were a 
 pair of fencing-foils and gloves, a leathern knapsack, 
 a pair of tall fishing-boots, some tackle, and an 
 empty fly-book. A case of mathematical instru- 
 ments, a thumbed copy of Shakespeare, some books 
 on engineering, and one or two railway novels. 
 Finally, Dunstan lighted on the missing cigar-case. 
 Then he pushed back the things into the portman- 
 teau, dragged the lid over them, and went out to 
 see a little more of the country about Glinton. 
 
 He went through the kitchen, that being the 
 usual mode of entrance and of exit for evervon<j
 
 110 Backers Secret. 
 
 in the house. To be sure, the front door could be 
 used, but it never was in a general way, for, in 
 common with most front doors in old country- 
 houses, it had peculiar freaks and fancies of its own. 
 It creaked terribly on its hinges, and stuck at 
 the top, where the drip from a spout had warped 
 the woodwork, so that only by a tremendous 
 wrench could it be opened, and then it objected as 
 decidedly to being properly closed again. So that 
 even when she had gentlemen in the house, Mrs. 
 Doyle yielded the point and allowed them to pass 
 in and out through the kitchen, unless they chose, 
 as they often did, to get out by the best parlour 
 window, which opened down nearly to the ground. 
 
 She was standing by the dresser when Dunstan 
 went through, her sleeves rolled up, and a white 
 apron tied over her gown, busy making tea- 
 cakes. 
 
 Mrs. Doyle spent fully one-half of her time 
 either in dairy work or in some description or 
 other of cookery. She liked it. It gave her an 
 opportunity of exercising what she felt to be her
 
 The Brook Farm. Ill 
 
 peculiar gift, besides which, it formed an outlet 
 for that diffusive goodwill which delighted to ex- 
 pend itself, no matter how, on the gratification of 
 those about her. 
 
 "You're off again, Mr. Dayne?" she said, as 
 she went on rubbing her currants into the flour. 
 
 Mrs. Doyle was fond of having a little chat 
 now and then with her lodgers, when she could 
 enjoy it without interruption to what she was about. 
 
 " It's a nice day for walking," she went on, 
 " and Glinton's a pretty place for them that hasn't 
 seen it before." 
 
 " Is there not some good fishing in that stream?" 
 interrupted Dunstan. "It looked to me as if there 
 might be, as I came along it yesterday." 
 
 " Why, yes, sir, I believe there is, pretty fair. 
 Leastways, if there isn't, there ought to be, by the 
 trouble that people give theirselves about it. 
 You'd hardly credit it, sir, but we'd a gentleman 
 • last winter, three days he was here, an' bad wea- 
 ther it was all the time, an' if he wasn't out in it 
 from morning to night, and called it enjoying his-
 
 112 Rachels Secret. 
 
 self. I'm sure I used to say, if he'd had to work 
 as hard for his living as he did for his pleasure, 
 how he'd have grumbled." 
 
 Dunstan smiled at the practical view which Mrs. 
 Doyle took of the subject. 
 
 a I recklet one evening in particklar," she went 
 on. "He came in wet through, an' very near 
 perished with the cold, for he'd been standing good 
 part of the day up to his middle in water, an' such 
 deed as he made with his wet boots on the kitchen 
 floor. And he puts down his rod an' basket upon 
 this table, an' he says to our master, ' Mr. Doyle,' 
 says he, ( I never enjoyed a day's sport so much in 
 all my life.' An' to be sure he had got his basket 
 as full of fish as ever it would hold. But, then, 
 as I said, where was the good of it all. For there 
 was more than we could eat, all of us put together, 
 an' I had to do near half of it next day for the 
 men's dinners, an' they'd have relished a bit of boiled 
 pork just as well, an' better, perhaps, for there 
 isn't a deal of taste in fish to my way of thinking. 
 It's the sauce as does it."
 
 The Brook Farm. 113 
 
 And Mrs. Doyle shook some cinnamon into her 
 bowl, as if by way of practical commentary on her 
 assertion. 
 
 " I daresay," said Dunstan, who was mentally 
 regretting that his fishing-tackle, from long disuse, 
 was in such bad condition, and speculating on the 
 probability of a little place like Glinton supplying 
 him w r ith the means of putting it into working 
 order. " I must go some evening and try my 
 
 luck " 
 
 But Mrs. Doyle interrupted him. 
 "I doubt you won't get leave, sir, anywhere 
 near-hand Glinton, without you know some of 
 the gentlemen as the streams belongs to. The 
 fishing hereabouts is all preserved ; but there's a 
 beck about three mile away, up at Etton, as our 
 David oftens goes to, an' if you'd a mind, you'd 
 be welcome, I'm sure, to the use of his tackle any 
 time you was so disposed." 
 
 Dunstan was disappointed. He thanked her, 
 however, for, to a lover of the sport, three miles is 
 not an insurmountable obstacle in the way of his 
 VOL. I. I
 
 114 Backers Secret. 
 
 seeking it. And in days gone by, angling had been 
 one of Dunstan's hobbies. Not one of the lads 
 at the Sutton Grammar School was there who 
 could have beaten him in the dexterous use of rod 
 and line. And then, too, Mrs. Doyle made her 
 offer so readily that he felt he would be really 
 gratifying her by accepting it. 
 
 It was but a trifle, to be sure, yet it seemed to 
 draw him out to this good woman, who treated him 
 as one of her own household, and not as a mere 
 waif or stray who belonged to no one but him- 
 self. It strengthened the pleasant feeling that 
 since yesterday had sprung up within him, as if 
 suddenly some door beside him had been opened, 
 and he had been drawn unawares into the warm 
 heart of a home. For it was something so new to 
 Dunstan to have anyone to care for him, or do him 
 a service that was not expected to be paid 
 for. 
 
 He thought, as he stood chatting with Mrs. 
 Doyle, watching her as she went on deftly with 
 her cake, never pausing for a moment as she
 
 The Brook Farm, 115 
 
 talked, in what she was about, that he had never 
 seen a face which pleased him so much in his life 
 before. It was just the kindness which looked 
 out, and that makes any woman pleasant to 
 behold. 
 
 But Gideon Doyle's wife had a comely face, 
 too, though it was nearly five-and-twenty years 
 now since her husband had been so bewitched by 
 it in the days of their courtship. Good-tempered 
 women keep their looks so much longer than others 
 do. And though it is true there were silver 
 threads mixed here and there in the soft fair hair, 
 yet the bloom had not quite faded from the cheeks 
 that used to colour up when Gideon had looked a 
 little too hard upon them ; nor had a single 
 wrinkle come yet to spoil the smooth forehead by its 
 tell-tale lines ; and if the blue eyes were not quite 
 so bright as once they were, yet the sweet woman- 
 hood that looked out of them gave them a charm 
 now greater perhaps than even that which they had 
 lost. 
 
 There are many such women in the world — 
 • i2
 
 116 Rachel s Secret. 
 
 thank God for them — gentle, faithful souls, busy 
 and bright withal, the course of whose life flows on 
 within the narrow boundaries of home silently as 
 that of the brooklet hidden in the grass, which we 
 trace only by the greenness on its banks. Little 
 they know of " Woman's Mission," yet they do in 
 truth fulfil it. For their daily life, full of gracious 
 deeds and willing service, is itself a perpetual 
 evangel, subduing by the strong gentleness of love 
 the rugged hearts around them, winning and keep- 
 ing in the ways of household purity and peace those 
 who else might wander far on the dark mountains 
 of misery and sin. 
 
 And such a woman was Mrs. Doyle. No wonder 
 if that wholesome kindly nature had written itself 
 upon her face ; and as Dunstan stood talking to 
 her, he found himself instinctively reading it, as 
 one would a book of wise and homely thought. 
 How it was, he hardly knew, but when he turned 
 away at last, and went through the paved yard and 
 into the lane, he felt as if for a long time past he 
 had been labouring under some preposterous delu-
 
 The Brook Farm, 117 
 
 sion, and had just found out that really the world 
 was a very friendly place, and that the people in it 
 were not so bad, after all, as he used once to think.
 
 118 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 BY THE TROUT STREAM. 
 
 TE sauntered down the lane towards the hollow 
 -*-*- by the church through which the trout stream 
 flowed. True, there was not the prospect now 
 of fishing in it, still he thought he would just walk 
 along it for a mile or two, if only to satisfy him- 
 self of what it was that he had missed. 
 
 It was nearly four o'clock now, a breezy, sun- 
 shiny afternoon, and a light wind was ruffling the 
 tender foliage on the tops of the beech-trees in the 
 lane, and shaking down every now and then upon 
 him a shower of falling petals from the apple-trees 
 in the cottage-gardens by which he passed. 
 
 He had not far to go before he reached the path 
 leading down to the river. It was just a straight, 
 steep road, that looked as if it were used chiefly 
 •
 
 By the Trout Stream. 119 
 
 for leading cattle and horses down to water. But 
 the hedges on each side were white with May and 
 bramble-blossoms, with here and there a bunch of 
 honeysuckle hanging out, and long festoons of 
 briony clasping themselves among the thorns by 
 their curious elastic tendrils. And then, below, 
 the banks were all laced over with cunning broidery 
 work of flowers, those wayside wildlings, many- 
 tinted, many-scented, wherewith the lavish-handed 
 Spring loves to decorate such waste places of her 
 domains as man has left untouched. Daisies 
 held up their little cups to be filled with light, and 
 the blue speedwell, and the tiny hedge-gera- 
 nium were nestling half hidden among the long 
 grass, where the young fronds of the fern were 
 beginning to uncurl themselves, and to spread out 
 their delicate sprays to the sun which was glinting 
 in and out between the waving stems, and drawing 
 over the mossy tree trunks a living tracery of green 
 and gold. 
 
 No need, surely, for Nature to be amusing herself 
 thus with all this useless fancy-work, fringing even
 
 120 Rackets Secret. 
 
 the ditch at the bottom of the bank with that starry 
 border of forget-me-nots. Plenty for her to do, 
 one would imagine, in those fields on the other 
 side of the hedge. Acres upon acres of young 
 wheat bending before the wind, fields of oats and 
 barley that had not long begun to hide the brown 
 clods with their springing blades ; great patches of 
 turnips covering the furrows with their grey-purple 
 bloom ; meadows, where already you might wade 
 knee-deep through the scented grass, green pas- 
 tures, where full-fleeced sheep were browsing 
 among their lambs. With all this to attend to, 
 she might have spared, one would think, that use- 
 less trifling in the lane. 
 
 But no. There is a wise playfulness about 
 Dame Nature. The Glinton farmers might trust 
 her to look after their crops, none the less that, 
 with a sort of sportive recklessness, she would 
 amuse herself by planting out these mossy banks 
 with all this useless beauty. 
 
 And yet it was not quite useless, for as Dunstan 
 passed along, something of this gay luxuriance,
 
 By the Trout Stream. 121 
 
 this overflow of life, repeated itself within him. 
 He was glad, he knew not why. The young 
 blood was dancing in his veins. The very feeling 
 of life and health and youth, was itself a luxury, 
 as enjoyment came pouring in through every 
 avenue of sense. And when he reached the end 
 of the lane where it widened out towards the 
 river, and saw the broad, shallow pools, in which 
 long tufts of weeds were swaying to and fro, and 
 the sheltered coves beneath the bank, where doubt- 
 less, dozens of plumping trout were hiding away 
 from the hot sunbeams, he could have clapped his 
 hands like a child, as the old passion for the sport 
 returned upon him. 
 
 For more than a mile he tracked the stream, 
 lured on partly by curiosity, partly by the beauty 
 of the wooded glen through which it led him. 
 For all was so bright and fresh. The wind was 
 careering merrily among the trees, tossing to and 
 fro the light branches of the silver-stemmed 
 birches, and sweeping down the willow boughs 
 until they dipped their long grey tresses in the
 
 122 RaclieTs Secret 
 
 stream. And the sunlight was flashing down in 
 floods of golden rain, sparkling among the moss 
 and fern, glinting over the gnarled trunks of the 
 old beech-trees, and dancing upon the rippled sur- 
 face of the water. And myriads of leafy voices 
 were whispering overhead, and birds were trilling 
 out a musical reply, and through all the air was a 
 sound of life and frolic, as if the old earth had 
 grown young again, and was disporting itself 
 among the woods on this Saturday half-holiday. 
 
 Dunstan had just finished his cigar, and flung 
 the end away, when he found his further progress 
 checked by a high paling stretching across the 
 whole breadth of the dell. It ran down to the 
 water's edge, and was continued on the other side 
 of the stream, where it was hidden presently among 
 the thick underwood. Evidently it formed the 
 boundary of some private grounds, and the spiked 
 fence hinted to him plainly enough the propriety 
 of retracing his steps. 
 
 But as Dunstan looked over the envious barrier 
 into the green sunlit glade that stretched before
 
 By the Trout Stream. 123 
 
 him, he felt tempted to explore a little further. It 
 could not, he thought, be near to any gentleman's 
 house, for it was wilder here than in the part of the 
 wood through which he had already passed. The 
 stream, too, was wilder and shallower and more full 
 of those delicious pools suggestive of lurking trout. 
 He would risk it. There could be no harm in going 
 just a little further, as far at least as that bend, a 
 stone's throw distant, where a huge willow, that 
 some long past storm had overthrown, lay stretched 
 across the stream, with its mossy trunk almost 
 dipping into the water. What a delightful place 
 there would be among those twisting branches, to 
 sit and drop a line into the stream! If only such 
 a pleasure were for him ! 
 
 There was a wicket-gate in the fence. Dun- 
 stan tried it. It was open. There was nothing to 
 hinder him from going through, except of course that 
 although he saw no warning to trespassers posted 
 up, he felt quite aware that, as school-boys say, he 
 was getting out of bounds. 
 
 But then he did not mean to go far, only to that
 
 124 Rackets Secret. 
 
 willow trunk. And in all probability he would 
 meet no one on the way. If he did, why he could 
 but turn back, pleading the beauty of the place as 
 an extenuation of his fault. 
 
 He unlatched the gate and went in. He thrust 
 down his hands into his pockets and sauntered on till 
 he got nearly to the willow trunk. A sound of falling 
 waters was in his ears, a rush and gurgle mingling 
 with the rustle of the wind among the leaves, as 
 though the stream were pent in higher up, and 
 were forcing its way violently over some obstruct- 
 ing rocks. There were flakes of yellow foam, too, 
 hurrying down the current, and the water splashed 
 and eddied amongst the loose stones that lay in its 
 bed, as though it were being urged on by some impe- 
 tuous force behind. There was a cascade most likely 
 higher up, that was vexing the water into this pretty 
 rage. And as he had gone so far, Dunstan thought 
 it would be a pity not to see what there was ; and then 
 he would certainly return. For though everything 
 was still as rugged and careless as if no hand but 
 that of nature had meddled with the scene, yet
 
 By the Trout Stream. 125 
 
 one or two little signs convinced him that there 
 was a house not very far away. 
 
 Most likely the path he was in was one leading 
 to some pleasure-grounds, for there were choice 
 varieties of pine mingling with the common kinds 
 that clothed the slopes, and drooping cedars and 
 purple beeches here and there. And in the trunk 
 of one hollow tree, there had been fitted a rustic 
 seat, on which lay a lovely little cluster of spring 
 flowers, purple and white violets with a spray of 
 the brilliant leaves of the young sycamore, all tied 
 together with a blade of grass, and all as fresh as if 
 they had only just been gathered. 
 
 Some one must have been here not long ago, 
 that was certain. Dunstan resolved to turn back as 
 soon as he had satisfied himself of what lay beyond 
 this clump of beeches that grew just before him. 
 He went on a step or two further, and then he 
 stopped, arrested, in admiration and dismay, by a 
 picture from which he could not for the moment 
 withdraw his eyes. 
 
 For on the other side of the water, standing
 
 126 Rackets Secret. 
 
 quite down among the loose stones on the brink, 
 and framed round by the over-arching foliage of a 
 drooping ash, was a young girl, whom Dunstan 
 at once divined to be at home in the grounds. She 
 was gathering her fluttering dress closely round 
 her, and was just setting a little foot, with a per- 
 plexed and hesitating air, upon one of a ridge of 
 stones that rose here and there above the water, as 
 though she were anxious to get to the other side, 
 yet hardly dared to trust herself on so slippery a 
 standing. 
 
 Dunstan felt provoked beyond measure with 
 himself. He would have given anything to have 
 been able to beat an effectual retreat. But it was 
 too late. Already the young lady had perceived 
 him, and had stepped hastily back, shaking down 
 her dress around her, and looking somewhat dis- 
 concerted at this sudden apparition of a stranger. 
 For a moment, too, Dunstan felt himself embar- 
 rassed. He was ashamed to turn round and run 
 away, yet it was equally difficult to make any satis- 
 factory apology for his intrusion.
 
 By the Trout Stream. 127 
 
 But in the midst of his perplexity he caught 
 sight, to his infinite relief, of a little flossy spaniel 
 that was struggling in the stream just amongst the 
 branches of the prostrate willow tree. It was all 
 plain enough now. The young lady's pet had got 
 itself into difficulties by some means or other, and 
 she had been on the point of wading out into the 
 stream to its rescue, when she had been startled 
 by perceiving Dunstan. It was a happy chance 
 surely which put it thus into his power to make 
 some atonement for his fault. In a moment he 
 had clambered down the bank, and striding out 
 into the stream, had picked up the dripping dog, 
 and borne it triumphantly across. 
 
 It was easily accomplished, for the water was 
 nowhere more than a foot in depth ; indeed, with 
 a little care he might almost have stepped dry shod 
 from one to another of the scattered stones. But 
 if the water had been up to his middle, and so 
 enabled him to give a proof still stronger of his 
 gallantry, Dunstan would have been all the better 
 pleased. Though, indeed, a young man might have
 
 128 Backets Secret. 
 
 been excused doing almost any foolish thing for 
 the sake of winning such a brilliant smile as 
 greeted Dunstan, when with dripping feet he 
 reached the other side of the bank, bearing his 
 trophy with him. 
 
 For a more charming little creature than the one 
 who stood before him, could hardly be imagined. 
 Everything about her, from the blue dress flutter- 
 ing in the breeze, to the chestnut curls which the 
 wind had blown about her face, was so fresh and 
 crisp, so full of light and colour. The stream that 
 was flowing at her feet, each water-break and 
 ripple glancing in the sun, could hardly seem more 
 bright and sparkling than she, as she stood with 
 the ash tree dropping its green branches around 
 her, and looking almost as clear and pure as the bit 
 of blue sky that was peeping in between the boughs. 
 
 u Ah ! how kind of you ! — how very kind !" she 
 exclaimed, as she stretched out her hands to re- 
 ceive her unlucky pet. " My poor little Punch, 
 what trouble you have been in !"' And she took 
 the little creature, all wet and shivering, into her
 
 By the Trout Stream. 129 
 
 arms, to the terrible detriment of the blue muslin 
 dress. 
 
 " But you must have got sadly wet," she con- 
 tinued ; " I am so sorry." And as she spoke, she 
 turned a look of prett} r concern on Dunstan, who 
 stood before her with his boots full of water, and 
 his clothes all splashed by the wet that had run over 
 them from the dripping clog. 
 
 Now, on ordinary occasions, our friend Dunstan 
 was blessed with a comfortable amount of non- 
 chalance and self-possession ; but just at this crisis, 
 unluckily, from some cause or other, his customary 
 composure altogether failed him. 
 
 "Do not mention it," he stammered out. "It 
 is not of the slightest consequence. I am glad I 
 happened to be at hand to render you assistance, 
 but indeed it was the only apology I could offer 
 for being here at all." 
 
 And then, instead of waiting like a sensible 
 young man and improving the occasion — for though 
 certainly he was in fault, there did not seem much 
 fear of his delinquency being visited very heavily 
 
 VOL. I. R
 
 130 Rackets Secret. 
 
 upon him — he splashed back into the water, utterly 
 ignoring the stepping-stones, and trampled over to 
 the other side. 
 
 But this time fortune seemed to have taken a 
 spite against him, for just as he reached the bank, 
 his foot slipped on a bit of treacherous weed that 
 was trailing its slippery length over a boulder in the 
 stream, so that instead of making a dignified re- 
 treat, he found himself thrown tilt among the weeds 
 upon the brink. It would not have been particu- 
 larly pleasant under any circumstances. As it was, 
 Dunstan felt keenly the humiliation of his position. 
 For certainly it was rather humiliating to be scram- 
 bling up the bank on all fours with those bright 
 eyes upon him. He picked himself up as quickly 
 as he could, and without pausing to look behind 
 him, hurried back, his ears tingling with vexation, 
 to the wicket-gate, which just now he was wishing 
 most devoutly he had never entered. 
 
 But by-and-by, as he strode along, he found 
 his annoyance lessening. There is nothing like 
 sharp walking for driving little worries away, and
 
 By the Trout Stream. 131 
 
 it is these after all which make up the greater part 
 of the sum-total of human misery. Those Peri- 
 patetic philosophers were wise men in their way. 
 They knew — the cunning rogues — that it was 
 vastly easier to make Stoics of their disciples while 
 they kept them constantly engaged in a sort of 
 mild pedestrian tour in the groves of Academus, 
 than if they had been trying to prove that the ills 
 of life were mere chimeras, to hearers who were 
 engaged in kicking their heels on the benches of a 
 crowded lecture-hall. 
 
 By the time Dunstan had got back to the farm, 
 he had pretty well w T alked down his discomfiture, 
 nay, his thoughts, if the truth must be confessed, 
 were running now rather on the prospect of getting 
 something to eat, no matter what, than on his late 
 adventure. For it was such hungry air at Glinton. 
 Even when he had dispatched a most unreasonable 
 quantity of provision, Dunstan rose from table now 
 with a better appetite than in London he had ever sat 
 down with to his dreary meals. And among the 
 luxuries of life, and the things which go far towards
 
 1 132 EacheF s Secret. 
 
 putting a man on good terms with himself and all 
 the world beside, let none despise that of feeling 
 three times a day as if he could make an excellent 
 repast on bread and cheese alone, while, at the 
 same ~time, he has spread before him all the 
 dainties of farm-house fare, such as Mrs. Doyle 
 — good woman — had marshalled on our hero's 
 table against his return, and on which he fell to at 
 once in a manner edifying to behold. 
 
 She informed him that those were the Rook- 
 lands grounds into which, as he confessed, he had 
 been straying ; also that the young lady he had 
 seen must be Miss Winifred herself — a piece of in- 
 telligence which rather astonished Dunstan, for 
 never, he thought, had he seen a face and figure 
 that seemed so to belong to sunshine and flowers 
 and fresh air and everything that was bright and 
 joyous, as did the one he had seen this afternoon. 
 He could hardly believe that she was indeed the 
 daughter of this same moody man whose history 
 he had heard from the old sexton's lips. 
 
 But Mrs. Doyle had no time now to linger
 
 By the Trout Stream. 133 
 
 chatting with her lodger. It was Saturday even- 
 ing, and she had her market money to reckon up, 
 besides numberless little matters to attend to 
 that required clearing out of the way against 
 Sunday. Dunstan was obliged to restrain his 
 curiosity for the present, and content himself with 
 the means she had provided for satisfying the very 
 excellent appetite which he had brought in from 
 his ramble.
 
 134 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 RACHEL DALLAS. 
 
 A GOOD many bonnetted and other heads were 
 ^*- turned towards Gideon Doyle's pew the next 
 morning in Glinton church, for already the news 
 of Dunstan's arrival had been buzzed about the 
 village ; and though, during his progress the day 
 before to and from the railway yard, nearly every- 
 one had had the chance of catching at least a 
 glimpse of him, yet church was naturally considered 
 as being the place for making a more leisurely and 
 satisfactory inspection of the stranger than could 
 otherwise be obtained. 
 
 And Gideon Doyle's pew was conveniently 
 placed for observation, being situated at the chan- 
 cel end of the church, and commanding almost as 
 good a view of the congregation as was to be ob-
 
 Rachel Dallas. 135 
 
 tained from the pulpit itself. But though, on the 
 present occasion, the congregation generally 
 availed themselves to the full extent of the oppor- 
 tunity afforded them, the object of their regards 
 did not seem by any means disposed to return the 
 compliment. 
 
 The truth was, that just before him, so close in- 
 deed that he could hardly lift his eyes without en- 
 countering hers — pews in country churches are 
 generally so ingeniously contrived in this respect — 
 he saw the brown-haired beauty, who, the day 
 before, had been the spectator of that disastrous 
 exploit of his. 
 
 There she stood, as radiant and fresh as when, 
 played over by the dancing sunbeams, and with 
 the breeze tossing her brown curls about her 
 face, she had witnessed that unlucky stumble 
 which had caused poor Dunstan such distress. 
 But now the brown curls were tucked out of sight 
 somewhere beneath a little straw bonnet, and the 
 long eyelashes veiled those sparkling eyes, which, 
 nevertheless, Dunstan felt quite sure, from the
 
 136 Rackets Secret. 
 
 uncomfortable sensation he experienced, were more 
 than once directed towards himself. 
 
 And certainly one cannot help sympathizing 
 with him, for Dunstan was quite aware, and 
 who will blame him for it, that he was a stalwart 
 handsome young fellow ; and the knowledge that 
 a pair of bright eyes were falling now and then 
 upon him, would have been rather agreeable than 
 otherwise, if he could only have divested himself 
 of that uncomfortable consciousness of his mis- 
 hap. 
 
 It is to be feared that the state of his mind on 
 this, his first Sunday in Glinton church, was hardly 
 such as to fit him for entering with any great de- 
 gree of profit on the devotional exercises in which 
 he was apparently, at least, engaged. And this is the 
 more to be regretted, inasmuch as he was actually 
 conveying a very favourable impression of himself 
 to those who were criticising his appearance and 
 deportment, an impression based to a consider- 
 able extent on the exemplary manner in which 
 throughout the greater part of the service he con-
 
 Rachel Dallas. 137 
 
 fined his attention to the prayer-book which he held 
 in his hand. 
 
 He did get an opportunity, however, when the ser- 
 mon had commenced, of studying at his leisure the 
 bright face before him, for the young lady had changed 
 her position a little then, so that he could without 
 fear lift his eyes for the view, which, despite his 
 vexation, he had all the time been longing to ob- 
 tain. 
 
 And there were such lovely lines in that delicate 
 profile, such delicious curves of cheek and chin, 
 such soft sweep of rippling hair, that Dunstan 
 might almost be pardoned if, for awhile, he paid but 
 a slight and intermittent attention to the very 
 excellent and soporific discourse which the worthy 
 > rector was delivering. 
 
 There were two other occupants of the Rook- 
 lands pew — one, a pale, slender youth, who, from 
 what the sexton had told him the day before, must 
 be the twin brother of the young girl. A more 
 perfect contrast, however, could hardly be imagined 
 than existed between the two; for while she seemed
 
 138 RacheTs Secret. 
 
 the very embodiment of life and happiness, there 
 was about the lad the querulous, restless look of 
 habitual ill-health, as if in his case a sickly body 
 had produced its effect in a fretful and enfeebled 
 state of mind. The only thing in which they re- 
 sembled each other was a certain sweetness in the 
 mouth, and the large lustrous eyes, which in him 
 were of singular brilliancy and beauty, strangely 
 at variance, indeed, with the drawn appearance 
 of the rest of the face. 
 
 The remaining occupant of the pew was a man 
 of fifty or thereabouts, whom Dunstan conjectured 
 rightly to be Mr. Gilmour himself, and whose ap- 
 pearance accorded well with the impression con- 
 veyed by the sexton's story. 
 
 For the whole attitude and aspect cf the man 
 were those of a passionate and powerful nature, 
 borne down by the weight of some invisible but 
 crushing load. There was that in the stoop of the 
 broad shoulders, in the bowed head with its tangle- 
 ment of iron-grey hair, in the bound face trenched 
 by deep lines of unrest and care, which told plainly
 
 Rachel Dallas. 139 
 
 of a soul in bondage, and a bondage, too, from which 
 it was scarcely even struggling to release itself. 
 
 So at least Dunstan fancied, as, recalling the 
 story to which he had listened the day before, 
 his eye wandered from the fresh pure outlines 
 of the daughter's face, to fasten on the hard, 
 unquiet features of the father. Or it might be 
 only that in his early days some great sorrow or 
 perhaps remorse had seized the man's heart in its 
 angry grip, crushing out all the sweet, warm life, 
 and leaving it now but a shrivelled, sapless thing, 
 no longer able to infuse strength and energy into 
 his breast. Once only Dunstan saw its expression 
 of dreary gloom relax. It was when a sharp dry 
 cough drew the father's attention to the sickly 
 youth beside him, and then he turned for an in- 
 stant on the lad a look of anxious wistfulness, 
 which showed that, however he might shut himself 
 out from the world, there were some feelings still 
 that he possessed in common with his kind. 
 
 An oddly-assorted group, it must be owned, as 
 they sat scattered round the great square pew,
 
 140 RacheF s Secret. 
 
 with its dingy green baize lining, and with the marble 
 tablet and the faded hatchment on the wall above 
 them, and the soft May sunshine falling on them 
 every now and then through the flapping curtains 
 of an open window, in patches of rainbow-tinted 
 light. It could be only, one would think, in some 
 unaccountable freak that Nature had bound up in 
 one household bundle three beings apparently so 
 dissimilar, for there was not even betw r een them 
 that vague resemblance, which, underlying great 
 difference of features, may usually be traced 
 between those who are united by the ties of 
 blood. 
 
 At least, if there was, Dunstan could not detect 
 it, and he said as much to Mrs. Doyle that same 
 afternoon, when he had joined the farmer and his 
 wife as they were having a turn in the garden 
 before tea. For already he was beginning to feel 
 as if he were quite a part of the little household ; 
 and seeing Gideon in his Sunday suit, pacing 
 soberly up and down the walks, and his wife 
 beside him, dressed to correspond, enjoying to-
 
 Rachel Dallas. 141 
 
 gether their blink of leisure, he stepped across the 
 low window-sill where he was sitting smoking his 
 cigar, and gave them his company, much to Mrs. 
 Doyle's gratification. For, as she said, it looked 
 as if he were making himself at home with them, 
 and she was sure it must have been lonesome for 
 him, sitting up in the parlour with never a one to 
 speak to, like a sparrow without a mate. 
 
 Accordingly, there being no domestic impedi- 
 ment this afternoon in the way of a little friendly 
 intercourse with her lodger, Mrs. Doyle was quite 
 open to follow up any track of conversation on 
 which he might be disposed to travel ; and, as we 
 have seen, Dunstan improved the opportunity to 
 bring up the subject of the family at Rooklands, 
 that being the one which, since morning church, 
 had been floating like oil upon the surface of his 
 thoughts. 
 
 "Ay, she doesn't much favour her father, 
 doesn't Miss Winifred," said Mrs. Doyle, in reply 
 to Dunstan's observation, "nor her brother 
 neither, for the matter of that, for all they're
 
 142 Rackets Secret. 
 
 twins. But it's been the same since ever they 
 were born. He's allays been a sort of rickling, 
 has Mr. Lewis. The wonder is that he's lasted as 
 long as he has, poor young gentleman." 
 
 "Well, Miss Winny's gotten life enough to 
 serve all three on 'em," said Gideon. " She clean 
 runs over with it, like a bottle of our Missis's ale 
 when the cork's drawn. I allays says she's sucked 
 all t' goodness out of t' Rooklands air while there's 
 none left for t' others, though how she does to get 
 any at all it passes me to tell. It's a queer place, is 
 Rooklands. There's some folks has it the house is 
 haunted, though I can't say myself for certain 
 that it is. Anyhow, it's gotten a bad name, an* 
 well it may, for there's been queer things happened 
 there. An' then t' Squire being so krankv in his 
 ways, it makes folks talk. It was a wonder to see 
 him at church this morning. I've known him 
 be for months, an' never show his face in the 
 village." 
 
 "Ay," said Mrs. Doyle, ik but that's been when 
 Mr. Lewis has been badly. He mostly comes
 
 Rachel Dallas. 143 
 
 with him when he's well enough to be out. He 
 thinks a terrible deal of that lad. They do say 
 he's that wrapped up in him that it would be his 
 death if aught was to happen him. An' Miss 
 Winny, that anyone might think would be like 
 the apple of his eye, he makes no more count of 
 than if she didn't belong to him." 
 
 (i Why, it's just of a piece with all he does," put 
 in the farmer. " He seems as if he had it laid 
 upon him to take up with the bad, and cast out 
 with the good." 
 
 a Well, I pities for him," said his wife, shaking 
 her head compassionately. " He can't have a 
 deal of good out of his life, one would think. An' 
 such a fine, likely-looking young gentleman as he 
 used to be afore the old squire died, an' as plea- 
 sant an' as free-spoken as you are yourself, Mr. 
 Dayne, if you'll excuse me saying so, though, 
 mebby, he was proud-spirited rather, an' over-easy 
 huffed if anyone went again' him." 
 
 "And so as folks used to reckon," said the 
 farmer, " of his father dropping off, an' him com-
 
 144 RacheTs Secret. 
 
 ing into t' property. He was a queer one, was 
 old Mr. Gilmour ; broke hi3 wife's heart, he did, 
 and gamed away the estate very near, while he 
 was a young man hisself, an' then forced his son 
 to marry for money, so as to bring things round 
 again. An' he was sweir to do it an' all, poor 
 young man, if what folks said was true, though 
 I never heerd myself for certain that there was 
 any other lady as he'd set his mind on having. 
 But he was a' deal away from Rooklands. You 
 see him an' t'old squire didn't agree very well to- 
 gether." 
 
 "So I have heard," said Dunstan. "The old 
 sexton was telling me the whole story yesterday. 
 A sad affair, altogether." 
 
 Dunstan started backwards as he spoke. A great 
 spray of the lilac tree under which they were passing- 
 sway ed down before him, and dashed its scent ed 
 bosses in his face. At the same moment a merry 
 laugh issued from among the trees which made a 
 blossoming fence around the garden, and looking 
 up, he spied Susy, Mrs. Doyle's little daughter,
 
 Rachel Dallas. 145 
 
 who was sitting perched upon a crooked branch, 
 and wild with delight at the success of her little 
 bit of mischief. 
 
 " Father," she cried, as she pushed aside the 
 boughs with her little -fat hands, and peeped upon 
 them from her leafy hiding-place — " father, see 
 here is my nest. Didn't you ever find it out? and 
 I've been sitting here since ever you an' mother 
 came into the garden I" 
 
 u Hullo, little un !" cried Gideon, looking up 
 to where Susy's face was laughing out from 
 among the trees ; " so that's where you've putten 
 yourself all this while. I thought you was up to 
 summut, you was so still. You can stop where 
 you are. There's nobody a-wanting of you clown 
 here. Little birds must stay on their nests, an' 
 mind their eggs." 
 
 But Mrs. Doyle, more regardful of propriety, 
 cast a glance of disapproval upon Susy in her re- 
 treat. 
 
 "For shame, Susy! — for shame, you naughty 
 girl!" she exclaimed in a tone of mild rebuke. 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 Rackets Secret. 
 
 " Is that pretty manners to go an' shake the laylac 
 boughs in the gentleman's face ? And to think 
 of a little girl climbing trees, as if she was a boy ! 
 An' your Sunday frock an' all. Come down this 
 minute ! You'll make yourself not fit to be 
 seen." 
 
 But Susy was too well pleased with her nest to 
 be minded to leave it just yet. 
 
 " Mayn't I stop just a little longer — ever such a 
 little longer," she pleaded, in the tone of coaxing 
 entreaty, which, as she knew by experience, 
 generally had the effect of gaining her point with 
 her mother. 
 
 But the Sunday frock was a serious considera- 
 tion with Mrs. Doyle. 
 
 u Come down, Susy. Come down, now, there's 
 a good girl," she urged. " Your frock 'ull be such 
 a sight as never was, an' clean on this morning, 
 too." . 
 
 Susy looked down, and shifted irresolutely on 
 her perch; but while' the balance of victory was 
 still unturned, a click was heard at the little white
 
 Rachel Dallas. 147 
 
 gate which led through the quickset hedge into 
 the garden. 
 
 Mrs. Doyle looked up hastily. 
 
 "Bless me!" she exclaimed, "if yon isn't David 
 in the yard, an' Rachel Dallas with him. Where's 
 ever he fallen in with her this time of clay. An' 
 now I think of it, she wasn't at church this morn- • 
 ing. Surely the old man isn't worse." 
 
 She hastened towards the gate to meet them, 
 Susy, who had scrambled down at the announce- 
 ment of a visitor, running on before as fast as her 
 little legs would carry her, and the farmer coming 
 on at a more leisurely pace behind. Dunstan, too, 
 looked eagerly towards the gate, curious to obtain 
 a glimpse of Andrew Gillespie's adopted daughter. 
 
 But at first sight he was disappointed. There 
 was nothing remarkable in the appearance of the 
 tall, pale girl who was quietly shaking hands with 
 Mrs. Doyle. A stranger would have passed 
 almost without notice that dreamy, yet anxious, 
 countenance, though, lured as by some unaccount- 
 able fascination, he would probably have returned
 
 148 Rachel's Secret. 
 
 to study it again more carefully. For there was a 
 strange attraction in that twilight face, which, as 
 Dunstan drew nearer to the little group, he could 
 not help perceiving. Not that it was beautiful — 
 for though the features were regular, and the com- 
 plexion delicately clear and pure, yet it possessed 
 'none of that subtle charm which makes the faces 
 of some women, wdio are but passably fair, like a 
 lovely poem, which we long to read and read again. 
 Perhaps this attraction in the girl's face lay as 
 much as anything in the sort of quiet compassion 
 which it aroused. ■ For looking upon it, you saw, as 
 through a transparent veil, what a sensitive sad 
 nature lay beneath. The full tremulous lips, the 
 finely cut nostril, the drooping eyelids, the deep- 
 set restless eyes, all seemed to tell, that on this girl, 
 old beyond her years — for though she could not be 
 more than one or two and twenty, she might have 
 passed for thirty — the burden of life sat heavily al- 
 ready. There were no little coquettish graces 
 about her, none of those tricks of dress, or voice, 
 or manner, none of those innocent vanities which sit
 
 Rachel Dallas. 149 
 
 so charmingly on a young lighthearted girl, and 
 which, however we may make a grave show of dis- 
 approval, we are not seldom won, spite of our- 
 selves, to admire. 
 
 But in the appearance of Rachel Dallas there 
 was nothing to show that she cared in any way to 
 court attention. She was dressed very plainly in 
 a shawl and gown of some dark soft material, that 
 fell in heavy folds about a figure almost as perfect 
 in its symmetry as a Grecian statue. Indeed, there 
 was something Greek in the whole aspect of the 
 girl, in the level brows, the finely moulded chin, 
 and the somewhat heavy cast of countenance, which 
 nevertheless showed signs of fine perceptive powers, 
 and of a susceptibility intense and keen to influences 
 unfelt by ordinary natures. 
 
 " Father !" exclaimed Mrs. Doyle, turning round 
 as her husband came within hearing, " here's Mr. 
 Gillespie's been taken bad, an' Jean can't stir yet 
 with her lame foot, an' Rachel's come to see if 
 there's anyone we could tell them of to help to sit 
 up with him at nights."
 
 150 Rackets Secret. 
 
 Gideon looked grave. 
 
 " I misdoubted," said he, " there was something 
 wrong when I see'd you coming up. What, has 
 David gotten his rheumatics worse again ?" 
 
 " No," answered Rachel, in a dull, pained voice. 
 "It is worse than that, I am afraid, though it 
 is not so bad to bear. He was taken with a fit on 
 Friday night. I've never known him to be so bad 
 before." 
 
 " But I wouldn't take on about it so, Rachel," 
 said Mrs. Doyle in a consolatory tone. " He's had 
 a good few bad bouts, has old Mr. Gillespie, an" 
 corned round again. You mustn't meet a trouble 
 afore it's here." 
 
 " Ay," said the farmer, putting in his word. 
 •" You must cheer up and look on t' bright side o' 
 things. It's allays a bad plan for folks to saddle 
 theirselves with to-morrow's trouble, as well as to- 
 day's. It weakens the sperrits while they can't 
 bear up under what's laid upon "em. But what 
 does the doctor say about him ?" 
 
 " He won't say much," answered Rachel, " only
 
 Rachel Dallas. 151 
 
 that we must hope for the best ; but it seems to me 
 that is only another way of saying that we must 
 fear the worst. I was sitting up with him all last 
 night. He was asleep when I came away, or I 
 should not have liked to have left him. And he 
 does sleep a deal, but I am afraid, from what the 
 doctor says, that is not a good sign in his case." 
 
 " Dear, dear !" said Mrs. Doyle, in a tone of 
 grave concern, u to think of his having been taken 
 in that way, and us never to have heard of it. But 
 you're so out of the way yonder at Rooklands. 
 He might have died, and we should none of us 
 have known to have come down to you. But I've 
 been thinking, Rachel, there's the widow Greaves 
 would be most thankful to come in and help you 
 a bit, while Jean gets about again. A nice respect- 
 able woman, an' quiet to go into a house, an' a 
 person that you might trust to do for Mr. Gillespie 
 when you was laid down, for she had her husband 
 bedfast over two year before he died, an' so com- 
 fortable as she kept him, an' did all for him herself, 
 I'll see her myself before church ; it's a good piece
 
 152 Rackets Secret. 
 
 out of your way to go to her, and I can tell her to 
 come, if you like." 
 
 " It would be a great comfort to have her," said 
 Rachel, looking immensely relieved, " if you think 
 she could come." 
 
 " Oh ! I make no doubt of that," answered Mrs. 
 Doyle, " and glad to do it, top. But come into the 
 house, and sit you down a bit. You'll stop and 
 have your tea, now you're here." 
 
 " I must not do that," said Rachel. " I should 
 like to get back as soon as possible." 
 
 "But you're like to come in an' rest?" said 
 David, who had stood silent until now. "It's a 
 good step from the cottage, an' to have been sitting 
 up all night, an' all. You'd better step in." 
 
 " Ay, do, and have a bit of cake, and a glass of 
 wine," said Mrs. Doyle, with friendly urgency ; 
 for she was not a woman who would ever willingly 
 let a guest depart until the rites of hospitality had 
 been duly administered. 
 
 " No, no, you are very kind," answered Rachel, 
 nervously, "but I would rather not, if you will
 
 Rachel Dallas. 153 
 
 excuse me. I am not tired at all, and I should 
 only feel uneasy." 
 
 "Well, I won't press you," returned Mrs. 
 Doyle, " if you think you really must be going, or 
 else five minutes wouldn't have made a deal of 
 difference, and you'd have got back all the sooner, 
 mebby, for having had a bit of rest before you 
 started. I'll see Mrs. Greaves, then, Rachel, and 
 if there's anything hinders her that she can't come 
 to-night, I'll just step down myself." 
 
 " You are very kind," said Rachel, and the girl's 
 lip trembled as she spoke. " There was no one 
 else I knew that I could come to, and I don't 
 know what we should have done if I had got knocked 
 up myself. Poor Jean is almost helpless just now. 
 She makes a greater trouble of it than I do." 
 
 " I daresay," replied Mrs. Doyle ; " but it's a 
 sad let down to you just now, having her so lame, 
 and Mr. Gillespie so badly." 
 
 And then they said good-bye all round, for Mrs. 
 Doyle saw that it would be no kindness to detain her 
 visitor any longer.
 
 154 Rackets Secret. 
 
 But David did not give her his hand with the 
 rest. 
 
 " I'll set you a piece of the way down the lane, 
 Rachel," he said. "It's a long walk by your- 
 self." 
 
 Rachel looked distressed. 
 
 " Pray don't," she said ; " I shall keep you from 
 your tea, and I'd rather go alone." 
 
 But David had opened the gate already, and was 
 standing outside in the lane as if he had made up 
 his mind to go. 
 
 " There's plenty of time," he said. " Tea won't 
 be fit yet a bit, and I'll only go a piece of the 
 way !" 
 
 Rachel saw, perhaps, that there was not much 
 chance of escaping her proffered escort. She said 
 " good-bye " again to the farmer and his wife, just 
 moved to Dunstan who had been standing by 
 them all the while ; and stooping down to kiss the 
 rosy mouth that Susy was holding up, she went 
 through the gate to David, who was waiting for 
 her with an uneasy, anxious look, as if he felt that
 
 Rachel Dallas. 155 
 
 he was performing an unwelcome service, yet could 
 not persuade himself to refrain. 
 
 The little group stood for awhile watching the 
 pair, as they walked quickly down the lane, Susy 
 being mounted upon the palings, where she was 
 balancing herelf somewhat unsteadily on one of 
 the upper rails. 
 
 " Good-bye, David ! Good-bye, Kachel !" she 
 cried, clapping her hands, as the two disappeared 
 behind a bend in the road ; and then, jumping 
 down, she put her hand in Dunstan's, with whom 
 she had already tossed up quite a friendship, and 
 turned back with him into the garden,
 
 156 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 MRS, DOYLE'S TROUBLES. 
 
 GIDEON and his wife went sickly into the 
 house together, neither of them seeming to 
 care much about going back into the garden to 
 finish their inspection of the tulips and pansy beds, 
 or to mark the growth during the week of the young 
 peas and cauliflowers, the Windsor beans, asparagus, 
 and spinach, that flourished in close proximity to 
 the well-filled borders. 
 
 "It'll be a bad job for Rachel," said the farmer 
 at last, breaking the silence that had fallen between 
 them. " It'll be a bad job for Rachel, if aught 
 happens to old Mr. Gillespie. It's all the home she 
 has." 
 
 " It's all she has now," returned his wife ; " but 
 my mind misgives me, Gideon, that our David will
 
 Mrs. Doyle s Troubles. 157 
 
 be giving her the chance of another before long. 
 He's set his heart on Rachel, as sure as I'm here 
 to say it. I've had my doubts this while back 
 that he's been hankering after her, though he's 
 never let on to me about it. But this afternoon it 
 come over me as clear as daylight. I see it in the 
 look he cast upon her as he stood waiting for her 
 at the gate. An' he's a lad, is David, that when 
 he gets set on a thing, he is none so easy turned off 
 it." 
 
 " I've thought as much myself," said Gideon, 
 thrusting his hands deep into his pockets, and seat- 
 ing himself with an abstracted air in his three- 
 cornered chair. 
 
 They had come in now, but the bright roomy 
 kitchen, always clean and still on a Sunday after- 
 noon, looked too inviting for him to care to go 
 through into the parlour, where he could hear 
 Martha already clinking the cups and saucers as 
 she set the table for tea. For it was more than 
 half- past three by the day, and on Sundays they 
 always had tea a little before four, so as to allow
 
 158 JRacheF s Secret. 
 
 time for getting all cleared away and the milking 
 over before church went in at six o'clock. 
 
 And this afternoon it looked particularly plea- 
 sant, for the spring cleaning having been accom- 
 plished, everything that could shine was doing so 
 with renewed effect, and twinkling merrily in the 
 sunshine which had crept round now to the side of 
 the house and was pouring in a broadside of 
 beams through the long low window, that almost 
 put out the fire, over which a kettle was 
 droning its sleepy song to an accompaniment from 
 a great tortoise-shell cat, who was sitting upright 
 in the middle of the hearth, purring as if she 
 felt that the lines had fallen to her in pleasant 
 places, and that it behoved her to express her 
 satisfaction with her lot. 
 
 There was an appetising odour also diffusing 
 itself through the air, suggestive of the crisp lard 
 cakes which were being made hot in the oven, and 
 whose fragrance was quite overpowering that of 
 the great posy of red and white lilacs which Mrs. 
 Doyle had gathered the day before and put into
 
 Mrs. Doyle's Troubles. 159 
 
 the blue and gold china jug that stood on the table 
 underneath the window. 
 
 It might perhaps have been this agreeable com- 
 bination of outward circumstances which disposed 
 Gideon to take a more favourable view of matters 
 than his wife. 
 
 " I've thought as much myself," he repeated, as 
 if he felt it a relief to have the subject fairly 
 broached, even if it was not in all respects a plea- 
 sant one. "It's a bad job, but, however, it might 
 be worse. She's a steady girl, is Kachel Dallas, 
 an's had a good bringing up, and she's not so bad- 
 looking, for them that fancies that sort of face, 
 though I can't say that I much matter it myself. 
 It's overlittle life an' colour in it to suit my taste." 
 
 But it was a question of far greater moment than 
 that of mere looks, well-favoured or the reverse, that 
 just now was agitating Mrs. Doyle's maternal bosom, 
 causing therein a painful distraction between her 
 native kindliness of heart and the prejudices which 
 made David's suspected choice a matter of real 
 distress to the worthy woman.
 
 160 Rachels Secret. 
 
 "It isn't that as troubles me," she said. "I 
 should have nothing again' Rachel if it wasn't 
 on account of David. There's something about 
 her which makes you that you can't help being 
 drawn to her, though she's no more like other girls 
 than a vilet's like a buttercup. But it would be 
 such a let-down for David if he was to take up with 
 her, an' him come of a good stock on both sides, 
 and his forbears people that's been respected and 
 looked up to in all the country side for this two 
 hundred years an' more. I couldn't abide for 
 his children to have it cast up at them as their 
 mother was brought up on charity, an' didn't as 
 much as know who her own father was. Not as 
 it's any fault of -hers, either," she added, as if, 
 gentle soul, she could not bear to cast even the 
 shadow of reproach, without adding some saving 
 clause. 
 
 "To be sure not," responded the fanner, 
 briskly. "She didn't have the choosing of her 
 kin, I reckon, no more than any of the rest of us. 
 Rachel Dallas 'ud be no disgrace to any father,
 
 Mrs. Doyle's Troubles. 161 
 
 whoever he might be. But for all that, I'd as lief 
 David hadn't taken a fancy to have her. She's 
 made of t' right sort of stuff for a lady, but she 
 isn't cut out for a farmer's wife, no more than I 
 was cut out to sell ribbons an' stay-laces behind a 
 counter. Her hands is overjimpan' white to serve 
 her at farm-work. An' she's got just the trick o' 
 the tongue an' all, that the quality has. She 
 speaks very near as pretty as Miss Winifred her- 
 self ; but then, what good will that do her when 
 she hasn't to live among them ? It won't help 
 her to manage a dairy, I reckon, nor to brew good 
 beer." 
 
 And Gideon shook his head. He liked Kachel 
 Dallas well enough, but not enough to wish to 
 have her for his daughter-in-law. 
 
 " I doubt David's made nobbut a badpick,"he went 
 on to say, "an' so many nice girls as there is about 
 here that he might have chose out of. However, 
 it's his own look-out, an' I won't go again' 
 him, if so be as he's bent on having her. It's a 
 thing that he's a right to please himself about, I 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 162 Rachels Secret. 
 
 know I thought as much when I went courting, 
 an' I wasn't so far wrong neither. But as like as 
 not w T e're worretting werselves for naught. A 
 young man will often try it on with two or three 
 afore he lights on the one as fits. Mebby it's no 
 more than that with Rachel, an' w T e'll see him take 
 up with Lizzie Raimes after all. She's a likely lass 
 is Lizzie." 
 
 But Mrs. Doyle was not disposed to take such a 
 cheerful view of things, and all the time she was in 
 church she was meditating in her own mind how 
 best she might approach the subject with David 
 himself, so that if, as she feared, her suspicions 
 were correct, she might endeavour by^rgument or 
 entreaty to turn him from his purpose. 
 
 She had not long to wait for the coveted oppor- 
 tunity. That same evening, when supper was 
 over and the things cleared away, and when the 
 farmer had had his pipe, and the household was 
 moving off upstairs to bed, David lingered for a 
 moment behind the rest, and remained standing 
 before the fire with his arms folded upon his breast.
 
 Mrs. Doyle s Troubles. Kio 
 
 as if he were waiting there till every one was 
 gone. 
 
 His mother's heart beat fast. Now was the 
 time, she thought, as she moved nervously about 
 the kitchen, setting back the chairs against the 
 wall, and putting into their places the few things 
 that had been left standing about. But David 
 spared her the trouble of being the first to speak. 
 
 " Mother," he said, without moving his position 
 before the fire, "I thought 1 might as well tell 
 you. I've made up my mind — I mean to marry 
 Rachel Dallas;' 
 
 Poor Mrs. Doyle ! The words sank like lead 
 into her heart. 
 
 " Rachel Dallas !" she echoed, all the mother 
 rising in her breast and uttering itself in the tone 
 of anxious, pained remonstrance with which she 
 repeated Rachel's name. 
 
 But David made no response. He stood look- 
 ing down into the fire, which, now that the candles 
 were taken away, shone out with a warm still glow 
 through the kitchen, glistening here and there upon 
 
 M 2
 
 164 Rachel's Secret. 
 
 the polished surface of the well-rubbed furniture, 
 or on the tins and covers that hung against the 
 wall. 
 
 "I'd think better of it, David," she began again; 
 "I doubt Rachel Dallas isn't the wife for you. 
 You might as good take a cambric handkerchief 
 to make a sack as put her to the work of a farm-house. 
 It 'ud just wear her clean out if she had it laid 
 upon her constant. She knows no more about 
 dairy work and poultry and that, than the babe 
 in the creddle." 
 
 "She'd soon learn. She isn't daft, I reckon," 
 said David, " and she could work an' all, if she 
 had it to do. An' if she can't, I'm strong enough 
 to work both for her an' for myself." 
 
 He spoke in a moody determined voice, very 
 different from his usual easy, good-natured accents. 
 Mrs. Doyle felt that for once her arguments had 
 failed to move him. But she was not to be baffled 
 yet. She came near him and laid her hand upon his 
 shoulder with a gesture of fond entreaty, just as 
 she had done before over and over again, when
 
 Mrs. Doyle s Troubles. 165 
 
 she had wanted to persuade him into taking her 
 way instead of his own in any matter that he had 
 set his mind on. 
 
 "But there's other things, David," she con- 
 tinued in a pleading tone. "Not as I'd say aught 
 again' Rachel, for it is no doing of hers, poor thing ; 
 but to take a girl as belongs to nobody, an' hasn't 
 so much as a name of her own ! I'd think better 
 of it, David, I would indeed." 
 
 Think better of it ! as well try to put out a 
 blazing stack by throwing over it a bucketfull of 
 water, as to quench by her motherly advice the 
 flame that was burning in the young man's breast. 
 He shook off impatiently the hand that rested on 
 his shoulder, 
 
 " Mother," he said, in a husky voice, and turn- 
 ing full upon her now, u it's to no use trying to 
 put me off o' marrying Rachel Dallas. Neither 
 you nor nobody else shall keep me from her. 
 There's not a hair on her head that isn't worth 
 more to me than all the world beside. An' as to 
 her belonging to nobody, you'd better not say that
 
 166 RaclieVs Secret. 
 
 again. I'd like to see the man, or woman either, 
 that 'ud dare cast that in her face, an' me to the 
 fore. She'll belong to me when I get her, an' have 
 her I will, if I die for it. It'll be no matter 
 whose daughter she is, I reckon, when she's my 
 wife." 
 
 Mrs. Doyle was silent, half frightened by this 
 unaccustomed vehemence. She had never seen 
 David so moved as this. It was the first time, too, 
 that he had spoken so carelessly, even rudely to her. 
 Indeed, David was usually of too phlegmatic a dis- 
 position to be easily warmed into a display of temper 
 towards anyone, much less his mother, who had 
 always retained .her place in the affections of her 
 first-born, from the time when he used to toddle 
 after her, a little urchin in petticoats, following her 
 assiduously wherever she might be, from the 
 pantry to the brewhouse, and from the brewhouse 
 to the dairy, and receiving the reward of his devotion 
 in a frequent largesse of any stray comestible that 
 chanced to be at hand. 
 
 A dull pain stole round her heart as she drew
 
 Mrs. Doyle s Troubles. 1G7 
 
 away her hand. It shut out for the time even her 
 regret at the choice which David had thus defiantly 
 declared. She must stand aside now, and let 
 another take her place. A mightier than his 
 mother's love was sweeping now across the young 
 man's breast, driving out before it all save the pas- 
 sionate resolve to compass his determined end. 
 Yet she longed to say something that might bridge, 
 even now, the gulf that had opened thus suddenly 
 between them. But nothing came, only a troubled 
 tear that gathered in her eye, and which David did 
 not perceive; for without another word he strode 
 past her, and the next moment, as she stood alone, 
 only the heavy sound of his step, as he mounted 
 the stair, broke the silence of the house. 
 
 She sat down on her husband's chair, wounded 
 and heart-sick, and, covering her face with her 
 apron, had a quiet cry by herself. Then she fas- 
 tened the kitchen door, and crept up to bed. 
 
 But things looked better the next day, as they 
 generally do by morning light. Mrs. Doyle had 
 told her husband what she had learned from David
 
 
 168 BacheV s Secret. 
 
 the night before, keeping back, of course, all that 
 she thought would be best left unrepeated, and she 
 felt the easier for it. For though Gideon was 
 concerned to know for certain that things stood as 
 they did, yet he had not made such a trouble of the 
 matter as she had feared. 
 
 The girl was well enough, he said, and for his 
 part he had rather David took up with her as be 
 at a loose end and up to all sorts of tricks, like a 
 deal of young men before they got settled with a 
 house of their own. If they stood out against his 
 having her, and he was to go wrong, as there was 
 no telliu£ but what he might, f or there was nothing 
 made a lad so desperate as being crossed in these 
 matters, they would feel it laid upon them that the 
 fault was at their own door, and that would be 
 worse to bide than having him bring Rachel to 
 them for a daughter. 
 
 And Mrs. Doyle had confessed, with a sigh, 
 that such would be the case ; and like a wise woman 
 and a good mother, resolved forthwith to bring 
 her mind to her circumstances, and since she could
 
 Mrs. Doyle s Troubles. 169 
 
 not alter David's choice, at any rate to make the 
 best of it. 
 
 But peace returned, if not quite content, when 
 a day or two after, David stopped in the kitchen 
 for a moment, as he was following his father out 
 after breakfast to the field. 
 
 " Mother," he said, " I was a bit sharp, I doubt, 
 o' Sunday night, but you mustn't think no more 
 about it. I'd got angered on account o' Rachel, 
 so as I'd no thought o' what I was saying." 
 
 " Nay, nay, my lad — say no more ; let bygones 
 be bygones. I daresay we was both of us partly 
 in the wrong, an' so as Rachel makes you a good 
 wife, neither me nor your f ather'll go again' your 
 having her. We've no wish but to do for the best 
 for our children, an' I daresay, whoever you 
 might choose, there'd have been something as we 
 could have wished different. It's ill marrying 
 without love ; there's nought but misery ever 
 comes of it, an' so as you and Rachel's as happy 
 together as me an' your father's been before you, 
 I wouldn't wish anything better for you."
 
 170 RaclieTs Secret. 
 
 There was a tear trembling again in "Mrs. 
 Doyle's eye when she had finished, but this time it 
 dried up before it fell, for with an unwonted 
 impulse, David stooped down and kissed the lips 
 that were trembling a little with motherly emo- 
 tion. Just as he used to do years ago, when, after 
 mis-behaving in some childish fashion, he would 
 creep up to make peace in this way before ventur- 
 ing again on preferring his requests. 
 
 And the last tinge of bitterness passed out of 
 her heart as she thought that, after all, her boy's 
 heart might be large enough to hold a wife, and 
 yet leave room within it for his mother too.
 
 171 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 DUNSTAN FINDS HIMSELF AT HOME. 
 
 "FvUNSTAN had not been long in Glinton 
 ^ before he# began to feel as much at home in 
 the place as if he had lived in it all his life. The 
 secret, no doubt, of this comfortable mood was 
 that at last he was heartily at work and giving his 
 mind thoroughly to what he was about. No fear 
 now of his being compelled to rust in idleness ; 
 and day by day, and all day long, he flung 
 himself with might and main upon his welcome 
 task. 
 
 Each morning found him at his post, directing 
 and controlling the progress of affairs, keeping a 
 keen eye on all that was going forward, letting the 
 men see that, young as he was, he was master of
 
 172 Rackets Secret. 
 
 the situation, and yet with a bright glance and a 
 hearty word for all, that made him popular among 
 even the rough " navvies " who were u banking " 
 a few rods further up the line, and who, with 
 their flannel blouses and red caps, their huge 
 limbs, and swarthy, unshorn faces, might have- 
 passed for bandits in disguise. 
 
 There was tough work to be got through, the 
 tougher the better, for with each emergency Dun- 
 stan's spirits rose to meet it ; indeed, he rather 
 liked to grapple with a difficulty, and show to 
 others that he was man enough to master it. For 
 it was quite true that the young man had got into 
 the right groove at last. The very faults of his 
 character, his overplus of energy and resistance, 
 his too resolute will, his eagerness to stand well in 
 the opinion of others, were all in his favour here. 
 They lent him force ; they spurred him on to do 
 his best ; they gave him a certain sway over those 
 about him, which made it easy for him to carry 
 out his purposes. And when a strong will is 
 firmly bent in one direction, it is amazing how
 
 Dunstan finds himself at Home. 173 
 
 even difficulties themselves do but seem to pave 
 the way to success. 
 
 And as life began to rush more freely through 
 him, and as he learned to lift his head with the 
 pleasant consciousness that each day as it passed 
 left behind it a definite residuum of something 
 done, so also Dunstan found himself going forth 
 more freely to those around him. Every man, 
 woman, and child he met, seemed to him to wear a 
 friendly aspect. If even a little girl going to 
 school dropped him a smiling curtsey, or a 
 labourer said " good day " as he met him on the 
 road, he would nod back and say " good day " 
 again with such unmistakeable good will, that he 
 had soon won for himself the suffrages of all the 
 village people. 
 
 It was a hearty, natural, wholesome life that he 
 was leading during these first weeks of his sojourn 
 in Glinton — a life that was good for soul and 
 body both. And Dunstan expanded under its 
 influence, and spread himself forth to the light 
 and warmth, and went in and out with such a
 
 174 Rachel's Secret. 
 
 firm free tread, such a blythe face and ringing 
 voice, that any one who had seen him only, fretted 
 and careworn in those London lodgings, would 
 hardly have recognised him for the same. For 
 there was nothing now in his way of life that 
 jarred upon him, nothing that offended his taste, 
 nothing, as it seemed to him just then, that was 
 lacking. His days were rounded and complete, 
 filled up just as he would have them filled up, 
 with work enough to satisfy his restless hands and 
 busy brain, yet with not so much as to become a 
 toil. 
 
 Everything pleased him. He liked the farm- 
 house life, the simple household ways, the homely 
 kindness that he received. For it was pleasant, 
 certainly, to know that he was thought about and 
 cared for, and in every way made so much of as 
 he was by the good people at the Brook farm- 
 house. Indeed, Mrs. Doyle, on one occasion, ex- 
 pressed with such emphasis to her husband her 
 opinion that there never was a young gentleman 
 had so few airs, or made himself so agreeable as
 
 Dunstan finds himself at Home. 175 
 
 Mr. Dayne, that Gideon, who was fond of a sly 
 joke now and then, could not resist the opportunity 
 of having one. 
 
 " Why, Polly," he exclaimed, bringing down his 
 broad palm with a thump upon her shoulder, " if 
 things goes on this gate, I shall be having thee fall 
 in love with him thyself. I mun look a bit sharper 
 after thee, I doubt. There's mebby others beside 
 me that's thinking thou hasn't lost all thy good 
 looks yet." 
 
 But Mrs. Doyle went on quietly clicking her 
 needles over the grey ribbed stocking that she was 
 " footing " for David. She was accustomed to 
 these little pleasantries of her husband's, as well 
 as to the compliments that he generally contrived 
 to edge in with them. For though Gideon's court- 
 ing days were over, he knew well enough that his 
 wife was as fond as any woman of a word or two 
 of praise ; nor was he above humouring her 
 now and then himself by a little sugared non- 
 sense. 
 
 As he said one day to his neighbour, Mark
 
 176 RacheVs Secret. 
 
 Bray, who was inclined to remonstrate with him 
 on the folly of being u sweet " upon his wife, 
 
 " There's naught pays better than that sort of 
 thing, nobbut a man's picked the right sort o' wo- 
 man for his wife." Mark winced a little, for it 
 was well known that Mrs. Bray was a bit of a 
 termagant. " Why, if I was to start an' be con- 
 trary with my Missis, like some as I could name, 
 I should knock all the sperrit out of her in no 
 time. She'd go squash, like a pricked bladder, if 
 I was to give her a sharp word. But nobbut 
 stroke her down a bit, and make her believe as I 
 think all the world of her — an' it wouldn't be so 
 far from true neither — an' she'll work herself 
 to death sooner nor I shall find out as I've been 
 wrong. So you see, if owt goes again' me, an' I 
 get a bit riled, as you may say, why, I goes and 
 lets off at some one else, but I allays keeps a fair 
 tongue for her. You may take my word for it, 
 it's a thing as pays. Anyways, that's my ex- 
 perience, an' I've tried it now this twenty year 
 and more."
 
 Dunstan finds himself at Home. 177 
 
 The only person in the house who still kept 
 Dunstan at arm's length was Martha, who, though 
 a jewel of a servant, and a perfect marvel of clean- 
 liness and despatch, was still, as Gideon used to 
 say, " a bit cantankerous in her temper — some- 
 thing like yon red waggon as David bought at 
 Bedesby Fair, that would creak in the wheels, 
 whether they was oiled or no." 
 
 Dunstan had made several attempts to dislodge 
 her from her entrenchments; but Martha was not 
 to be won over by any amount of fair speeches, or 
 consideration even in such matters as abstaining 
 from leaving a wet footprint on her freshly-sanded 
 flags. 
 
 The extra work was a thing she cared nothing 
 about, but she did not approve, and never had, of 
 her mistress "demeaning" herself by keeping 
 lodgers. It was what no other farmer's wife did 
 anywhere about, and in Martha's opinion was a 
 great " let-down " to the respectability of the 
 family. 
 
 So Mr. Dayne might admire as much as he 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 Rachels Secret. 
 
 pleased that black Spanish hen with her brood of 
 chickens, and praise the splendour of the green 
 drake's head, and inquire whether she or her mis- 
 tress had the chief hand in the brewing of that 
 capital ale of theirs — Martba let him see all the 
 same that she looked upon him as an intruder in 
 the house, and a person whose presence might 
 be put up with, but was by no means to be re- 
 garded with anything like complacency. 
 
 But though, with this exception, Dunstan had 
 established himself thus firmly in the good graces 
 of the family at the Brook Farm, and was both 
 liked and looked up to by the men at the railway 
 yard, and never missed a friendly salute when he 
 encountered any of the village folk, yet he had not 
 as yet either gained or sought admittance into the 
 little world of Glinton society — by which term must, 
 of course, be understood either such members of 
 the community as got their living by doing no- 
 thing, which, in Glinton,' as elsewhere, was looked 
 upon as being decidedly the most genteel method 
 of obtaining it, or those who earned it in some re-
 
 Dunstan finds himself at Home, 179 
 
 spectable, that is professional way, of which section 
 the rector, the curate, Dr. Kennedy, and perhaps 
 Mr. Strangways, the surgeon, were the sole repre- 
 sentatives. 
 
 There was no doubt, however, that Glinton 
 society, such as it was, would have been only too 
 happy to have held out to Dunstan the right hand 
 of fellowship, if only he had been properly intro- 
 duced — that process being unfortunately indispens- 
 able in order to obtain admission to its various 
 privileges. 
 
 For, independently of his position, which, so far 
 as it went, was perfectly unexceptionable, he had 
 been subjected to a severe scrutiny on two succes- 
 sive Sundays during his attendance at church, the 
 result of which had been that everyone, with the 
 exception, perhaps, of Mrs. MacWirther, whose 
 conversation was always slightly depreciating, pro- 
 nounced him to be a young man of decidedly pre- 
 possessing appearance, and one who seemed likely 
 to be quite an addition to the place. 
 
 It was observed by those who were skilled in 
 
 N 2
 
 180 Rackets Secret. 
 
 such matters, and knew what conclusions might 
 legitimately be drawn therefrom, that his linen 
 was admirably fine and white, his pocket-hand- 
 kerchiefs unexceptionable, his coat well-cut and 
 well-brushed, and his necktie modestly unobtru- 
 sive in size and colour. Also that he stood straight 
 up, instead of lolling with his arm on the side of 
 the pew, during those portions of the service in 
 which the congregation are instructed to stand, and 
 that he kept his eyes discreetly at home during 
 sermon time and the reading of the lessons, in- 
 stead of allowing them to wander perpetually to- 
 wards the front seat in the gallery, where sat the 
 two Miss Hillyards, the belles of Glinton, blonde 
 beauties, with languishing eyes and complexions 
 like a ripe peach, who were not only quite con- 
 scious of their good looks, but generally succeeded 
 in attracting to themselves a degree of attention 
 that not a little scandalized the less favoured portion 
 of the feminine half of the congregation ; though 
 it would be more correct, perhaps, to say the femi- 
 nine three-quarters, for there was the same pre-
 
 Dunstan finds himself at Home. 181 
 
 ponderance of the female element in Glinton that 
 may be noticed by even the most superficial ob- 
 servers to prevail in most other places. 
 
 This preponderance might possibly be even more 
 marked in Glinton than elsewhere, owing to the 
 multitude of maiden ladies, of certain or uncertain 
 age, who singly, in pairs, or even triplets, occupied 
 the group of Gothic cottages which some few years 
 ago had been erected by an enterprising builder in 
 Bedesby, who having in his possession a strip of 
 land just at the end of the village, had built there- 
 on a number of elegant little tenements which 
 formed almost a suburb in themselves. These 
 cottages being, as the advertisements set forth, at 
 once genteel in their appearance, and of unusually 
 moderate rent, had been immediately swarmed into 
 by tenants, chiefly widows and spinsters, whose 
 means and requirements corresponded with these 
 advantages, their limited incomes and superior 
 family connexions, compelling them to keep up an 
 u appearance " at the smallest possible outlay. 
 
 Of course such an influx had sadly disturbed the
 
 182 Rachel a Secret. 
 
 balance that had previously existed in at least a 
 respectable degree between the two elements of 
 society. It was no longer possible at a Glinton 
 entertainment for the hostess to pair off her guests 
 to the dinner or the supper-table, a silk dress and 
 a dress-coat, a silk dress and a dress-coat, until the 
 procession was complete. Indeed, the ladies were 
 fast becoming such an overwhelming majority, 
 that Dr. Kennedy, who was troubled with facetious- 
 ness, and who was apt sometimes to trouble others 
 with it too, had been known on one occasion to have 
 declared that it would be an unspeakable advan- 
 tage tojdie place if some respectable Briareus were 
 to settle there, whose hundred arms might afford 
 accommodation to as many ladies, seeing that a gen- 
 tleman with only two of those appendages found 
 himself at times seriously at a loss in the midst of 
 such a bevy of unappropriated damsels. 
 
 Not very gallant, certainly, though it must be 
 owned that there were extenuating circumstances 
 connected with this lapsus linguae of the worthy Doc- 
 tor, seeing that he had only the evening before been
 
 Dunstan finds himself at Home. 183 
 
 dragged from his study fire, and compelled to leave 
 an uncut Quarterly containing a brilliant contri- 
 bution of his own, in order to assist at a muffin 
 struggle, where for four mortal hours he and the 
 curate had had to do the agreeable or disagreeable, 
 as the case might be, to no fewer than eleven of 
 the weaker vessels who were assembled to receive 
 him. 
 
 It will be obvious from these remarks that the 
 advent in Glinton of an eligible single gentleman 
 competent to go out to evening parties, and who 
 might be bowed to by the most respectable inhabi- 
 tants of the place without any serious compromise 
 of their position, was an event of considerable im- 
 portance to all whom it concerned. 
 
 It was, therefore, from no backwardness on the 
 part of the inhabitants themselves that, after a fort- 
 night's residence at the Brook Farm, Dunstan found 
 himself still on the outside of the bristling fence of 
 proprieties with which Glinton society made it a 
 point of conscience to surround itself. The truth 
 was, Dunstan did not care to put himself out of the
 
 184 Racheh Seer 
 
 et. 
 
 way in order to obtain what he had no special 
 wish to possess. And though some of my readers 
 may pronounce him to have been a young man of 
 shockingly low tastes, and wonder how he could 
 possibly find any pleasure in intercourse with peo- 
 ple who were accustomed to take their meals in their 
 kitchen, who spoke in such a broad north-country 
 accent, talked of " heggs " and " honions," drank 
 their tea out of their saucers, and ate their food with 
 their knives — all which enormities truth compels 
 this chronicler to admit were not unfrequently per- 
 petrated in the Brook farm-house, yet Dunstan did 
 nevertheless find himself quite content with such 
 society as it afforded. 
 
 There was nothing he liked better than to stand 
 for ten minutes chatting with Mrs. Doyle as he 
 passed through the kitchen, or to listen to the racy 
 talk of the farmer as he sat smoking his pipe of 
 an evening in the chimney-corner or on the bench 
 outside the house. And no wonder, for though these 
 north -country farmers are uncouth and rugged in 
 their words and ways, yet they are a shrewd, observ-
 
 Dunstan finds himself at Home. 185 
 
 ant set of men ; and, living as they do next door to 
 nature and to human nature, their speech acquires 
 a fine flavour of mingled sense and humour, with 
 sometimes a picturesque force of expression such 
 as might be sought for in vain among those whose 
 horizon is bounded for the most part by only bricks 
 and mortar, and who seldom meet their fellows ex- 
 cept upon the steps of the social treadmill. 
 
 But though Dunstan did not go forth himself 
 to meet society, society came to him, and it pre- 
 sented itself in the person of Mrs. Kennedy, who 
 appeared at the door of Mrs. Doyle's kitchen one 
 evening when Dunstan was seated on the top of 
 the long deal-table that stood under the window, 
 engaged in turning over the contents of a box full 
 of odds and ends which Susy had just brought him, 
 in the hopes of finding therein a bit of green silk 
 that might serve for the tail of a fly which he was 
 making. 
 
 "Why, it's Mrs. Kennedy, I do declare!" said 
 Mrs. Doyle, who was sitting at the further end of 
 the table, picking green gooseberries into a collan-
 
 186 Rackets Secret. 
 
 der, against her great baking next day. And 
 she stood up, shook out her apron, and hastened to 
 the door to admit her visitor. 
 
 But Mrs. Kennedy's business with Mrs. Doyle her- 
 self was soon disposed of. It was only to inquire if 
 she would save her a couple of cream cheeses that 
 week, which Mrs. Doyle promised with a smile to 
 do. No one about Glinton, everybody said, made 
 such delicious cream cheeses as those which came 
 from the dairy at the Brook Farm, and the good 
 woman liked having them bespoken in good time — 
 it looked as if they were properly appreciated. 
 
 " And this is Mr. Dayne, I am sure ?" said Mrs. 
 Kennedy, turning to Dunstan, and extending to 
 him a well-turned, well-gloved hand with a sort of 
 careless, queenly air that sat well upon her ; for 
 she was a tall, handsome woman, with a frank, 
 animated countenance, and a voice which, though 
 very clear and pleasant, had in it a certain ring as 
 of one who was well accustomed to be obeyed. 
 
 Dunstan bowed, with a half-start of pleased 
 surprise — he had descended from his perch upon
 
 Dunstan finds himself at Home. 187 
 
 the table as soon as Mrs. Kennedy had entered, and 
 took the hand thus smilingly accorded. 
 
 u We have been hoping to make your acquain- 
 tance," she continued, "ever since we heard that you 
 were coming to Glinton. You are not aware, perhaps, 
 that Dr. Kennedy and your father were old college 
 friends." 
 
 Dunstan's face kindled with delight. It was 
 such an unexpected pleasure, and he expressed it 
 very warmly, to meet thus with one who was as- 
 sociated in any way with the memory of either of 
 his parents. There were so few things or people in 
 the world that were links between him and them, 
 and these words of Mrs. Kennedy's seemed to throw 
 down at once the barrier of strangerhood, and make 
 him feel as if in the Doctor's wife it was some old 
 acquaintance that he had found again. 
 
 "Wesawyouin church," she wenton, "the Sunday 
 after you arrived. Dr. Kennedy recognized you at 
 once, by your resemblance to your father. Indeed, 
 he had hoped to have called upon you before now, 
 but he has been from home for the last ten days, as
 
 188 Rackets Secret. 
 
 you may be aware, perhaps. When he returns, I 
 trust we shall have the pleasure of seeing you at the 
 Lodge." 
 
 Dunstan bowed again, and acknowledged her cour- 
 tesy with such evident gratification, that Mrs.Kenne- 
 dy was moved to enter into further conversation. A nd 
 being in his happiest mood, and there being nothing 
 just then to prevent him from appearing to the 
 best advantage, he so commended himself to her 
 good opinion, that before she went away she had 
 renewed her invitation, and begged him to come 
 up to the Lodge on the following Saturday to 
 dine. 
 
 " For," she said, "Dr. Kennedy is sure to have re- 
 turned by then, and I should like to secure you as 
 soon as possible. You will come, will you not?" 
 she inquired, with a look that said plainly enough, 
 " Of course you will — there can be not the slightest 
 doubt about it :" and yet with a certain bright per- 
 suasive glance, which seemed to imply that by ac- 
 cepting her invitation, he would be as much con- 
 ferring a favour as accepting one.
 
 Dunstan finds himself at Home. 189 
 
 But Dunstan was in nowise minded to refuse 
 her request, for there was a cordial grace in the 
 lady's manner which was quite irresistible to the 
 young man, and made the prospect of spending an 
 evening at the Lodge too full of attraction for 
 him to do other than accept it. Altogether, when 
 Mrs. Kennedy took her leave at last, and Dun- 
 stan stood bareheaded at the gate and bowed 
 to her as she turned to give him a bright part- 
 ing glance, he felt as if he could not con- 
 gratulate himself enough on the happy chance 
 which had thrown in his way what seemed 
 likely to be one of the pleasantest acquaintances 
 he had ever made. Poor fellow ! he had not 
 made many during his life. Fortune seemed 
 to have taken a kindness to him now, and 
 to be showering all her favours down at once.
 
 190 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 dr. Kennedy's wife. 
 
 A GREEN nest of a house, completely swathed 
 -^*- in ivy, with a trellised porch covered by 
 a tangled mass of honey-suckle and climbing roses, 
 whose pale pink clusters were already full in 
 bloom. Around it was a gay old-fashioned 
 English garden, fenced in by a tall stone wall, 
 on whose broad coping flourished a luxuriant 
 crop of wall-flowers, snap-dragon, and golden 
 moss. And beyond the whole rose a back-ground 
 of magnificent elms, in whose branches there 
 was going on just now a great cawing and 
 general commotion amongst an extensive colony 
 of rooks, whose ragged nests were built pretty 
 thickly together in the topmost boughs. 
 
 A comfortable place to live in, quaint, quiet.
 
 Dr. Kennedys Wife. 191 
 
 homelike, shut out as it was from the stir of 
 even village life ; bright and cheerful neverthe- 
 less. Just the sort of house to make you feel 
 as if certainly they must be pleasant people by> 
 whom it was inhabited ; people whose acquain- 
 ance, if you could, you would like to make. 
 
 This was the Old Lodge, to which, five-and- 
 twenty years ago, Dr. Kennedy had brought his 
 pretty girl-wife, and where they had lived on ever 
 since, though fortune smiled more brightly on them 
 now than it had done then, and they might, if the}' 
 had cared to do so, have established themselves 
 long ago in a more commodious and ambitious 
 dwelling. But they loved the old spot where 
 they had tasted together the bitters and the sweets 
 of life, where their children had been born, where 
 one, their little May, had died, and where every 
 nook and corner was endeared to them by its as- 
 sociation with the past ; loved it too well to leave it. 
 And living in it through so many years, the whole 
 place seemed to have drunk in something of the 
 family life, and to have acquired a character of its
 
 192 Rackets Secret. 
 
 own, corresponding in some sort to that of its in- 
 habitants, as if they had grown and fitted themselves 
 together like a lobster and its shell. 
 
 And of all this Dunstan unconsciously took note 
 as he passed through the gate in the tall laurel 
 hedge, and walked up to the house on this his 
 first visit to the Lodge. There was a curi- 
 ous medley in the furniture and appointments 
 of the room into which he was shown on his 
 arrival, for the place had been furnished by de- 
 grees, as the means had increased wherewith to 
 add luxuries to necessaries. The hard stuffed 
 couch, the faded carpet and the great leathern chair, 
 in which, as Dunstan opined, the Doctor usually 
 sat — for there was a worn place on one side of the 
 cushion as if a tired head were wont to turn itself 
 there for rest — hardly corresponded with the rich- 
 ness of the inlaid Indian cabinets, the beauty of 
 the oak carving on the picture frames and brackets, 
 and the profusion of choice treasures of art that 
 were gathered together. And choice indeed 
 they were — queer old etchings, whose fabu- 
 lous value none but a connoisseur could ap-
 
 Dr. Kennedy's Wife. 193 
 
 predate, proof-engravings of some of the great 
 modern master-pieces, and statuettes of the most 
 faultless workmanship and exquisite design. 
 
 And yet, incongruous as the various details 
 were, there was that indescribable air of ease and 
 harmony pervading the apartment which betrays 
 infallibly the touch of some fine artistic hand, and 
 which mere upholstery can never give. Books 
 there were, too, littered on every table, and shining 
 resplendent in gold and morocco from their shelves 
 against the walls ; and by the open French win- 
 dow there stood a large raised basket, which exhaled 
 a delicious perfume from the wealth of wild hy- 
 acinths with which it was filled. 
 
 " Take care of my flowers, Geordie !" 
 
 But before Dunstan could turn to see whence 
 the voice proceeded — for he was standing with his 
 back to the window examining an engraving of 
 Maclise's picture, " The Play-scene in Hamlet" — a 
 small brown terrier had rushed out of the garden into 
 the room, followed by a sturdy little fellow in a tar- 
 tan frock ; and then Mrs. Kennedy herself stepped 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 194 RacheTs Secret. 
 
 into the room, and with her the Doctor, who looked 
 at the moment very much as if, which was really 
 the case, he, the terrier, and the child, had all been 
 having a game of romps together. 
 
 But there was a native dignity about the Doctor, 
 which nothing could derange. He shot a keen 
 glance at Dunstan as he entered, and then, his 
 wife having introduced -him to their visitor, came 
 up and greeted him with an air of genial courtesy 
 that made the young man feel himself at once a 
 welcome guest. 
 
 But though Mrs. Kennedy merely pronounced 
 her husband's name when she presented him to 
 Dunstan, it would be altogether unbecoming in me 
 to dismiss him with an equally curt introduction 
 on this, his first appearance in person upon the 
 stage of my history. 
 
 Dr. Kennedy, then, was a man of fine parts, and 
 of goodly presence, a keen critic, and a genial com- 
 panion; somewhat averse, perhaps, to thinking more 
 highly of other men, or women either, than Scrip- 
 ture enjoins every man to think of himself, yet
 
 Dr. Kennedy s Wife. 195 
 
 withal of a nature so generous and kindly that he 
 was not undeservedly popular with all the inhabit- 
 ants of Glinton, little boys and dogs included. 
 
 He had been senior wrangler at Oxford, and 
 had left behind him at his college a name sur- 
 rounded still by a halo of proud remembrance, 
 and a reputation for scholarship which in after 
 years had proved of no small service to him. 
 
 For Dr. Kennedy had had the misfortune to be 
 brought up with expectations, instead of to a pro- 
 fession — the consequence of which was that he had 
 found himself at the outset of life with expensive 
 tastes, a penniless young wife, and nothing on 
 which to maintain them, except his wits and a pa- 
 trimony of some two or three hundred a year in 
 place of as many thousands. He was too honour- 
 able to enter the Church only for a living, and it 
 was too late to studv for anything else. Accord- 
 ingly, he had directed his steps into the thorny 
 paths of literature, and by the sweat of his brain 
 had succeeded at length in obtaining therein both 
 name and fame, together with a somewhat larger 
 
 2
 
 196 Rackets Secret. 
 
 modicum than usual of that worldly pelf by which 
 they are not invariably accompanied. 
 
 True, for a long time after their marriage, 
 expenses had increased much faster than the 
 means of meeting them, and it was not until two 
 or three stout roly polies had emerged in jacket 
 and trousers from the nursery, that the pair had 
 arrived at a satisfactory solution of the great 
 modern problem of making both ends to meet. 
 They had succeeded, however, at last ; and now it 
 would be hard anywhere to find a brighter home, 
 or one into which fewer of the cares of this 
 troublesome world seemed to find an entrance, 
 than that of the Doctor and his wife. 
 
 One great trial they had had. Seven years ago 
 they had laid their only daughter May in a little 
 grave beneath the churchyard yews. The mother 
 had mourned as only mothers can, and then had 
 consoled herself in her three handsome boys, but 
 the iron had entered into the father s soul ; the 
 strongman had bowed himself, and had never risen 
 again to quite his former stature. For though he
 
 Dr. Kennedys Wife. 197 
 
 was proud, as well he might be, of his sons, yet all 
 the passionate tenderness of his nature had been 
 lavished on the fair frail child, in whose daisy- 
 sodded grave his sweetest hopes lay buried. 
 
 Outwardly, however, little change had passed 
 upon him, except that he was more gentle, peace- 
 able, and easy to be entreated than of old, toiled 
 less strenuously with his pen, and had fewer of 
 those fitful moods which used to tax so severely 
 the patience of his wife. But to-day he seemed 
 bent on justifying to Dunstan the eulogium which 
 the old sexton had been pleased to pass upon him, 
 for right royally did he feast his guest with the 
 choicest stores of his richly-furnished mind. He 
 was in one of his happiest veins this evening, the 
 result, perhaps, in part, of a certain critique 
 which had appeared that morning in a column 
 in the Times ; and now he poured forth, with 
 almost princely prodigality, such a mingled 
 stream of wit, wisdom, pathos, and humour, that 
 Dunstan, to whom this w T as altogether a novel 
 experience, as different from the meagreness of
 
 198 Rachel 8 Secret. 
 
 his London life as from the homely heartiness 
 of that at the farm, found himself again and 
 again fairly carried away by the excitement of 
 the moment. 
 
 " And now, Mr. Dayne," said the Doctor, as 
 they rose from their wine, "I must hand you 
 over, I am afraid, for half an hour, to the 
 tender mercies of my wife. I have some letters 
 to write, which must be ready by the time the 
 postman passes on his way to Bedesby. Geordie, 
 you stand sentinel at the gate, and the moment 
 you see his red coat in the distance, signalize 
 the same to me, and I shall be ready by the 
 time he gets up to the house." 
 
 Geordie rushed off at once, and the Doctor 
 strode out through the French window on to 
 the lawn below, and called to his wife, who 
 was at the other end of the garden, giving 
 directions, apparently, about some arrangements 
 in her flower-beds, to an old man who stood in 
 his shirt sleeves, wiping down his forehead with 
 the back of his hand, and listening in respectful
 
 Dr. Kennedys Wife. 199 
 
 silence to her instructions. She looked round 
 at the sound of her husband's voice, 
 
 " That is right," she exclaimed, advancing 
 towards them. "Now, Mr. Dayne, T shall 
 carry you off and have you all to myself. I 
 feel quite indignant at the way in which the 
 Doctor has been monopolising you ever since 
 you came. He ought to have considered, you 
 know, that this time you are my guest rather 
 than his." 
 
 "Such nonsense, Hester!" said the Doctor, 
 with a deprecatory wave of his hand, " as if a 
 woman could have property in anything apart 
 from her husband." 
 
 " So like one of your crotchets !" laughed the 
 lady, with a glance of gay resistance. " And 
 why not, may I ask ?" 
 
 "My dear, because the law forbids her," 
 returned the Doctor, with triumphant gravity. 
 " That is, with one exception." 
 
 " And pray what is that f ' demanded his 
 wife.
 
 200 RacMs Secret. 
 
 "Her own way," replied the Doctor, with a 
 humorous twinkle in his eye. 
 
 " Well," said Dunstan, venturing into the 
 discussion, "I suppose she may be content to 
 surrender everything else, so long as she is al- 
 lowed to have that." 
 
 "If she did but get it," sighed Mrs. Ken- 
 nedy. " But, Mr. Dayne, I shall not allow 
 you to talk any longer to the Doctor now. 
 You may possibly have a wife of your own 
 some day, and I should be sorry, you know, if 
 he were to teach you to tyrannise over her — " 
 
 "As you do over me," interrupted the Doc- 
 tor, lifting his eyebrows with a gesture of mock 
 distress. " My young friend, be warned in time, 
 only I fear you won't. You know, don't you. 
 what Chaucer says about matrimony ?" 
 
 " No," replied Dunstan, inquiringly, for he 
 saw that the Doctor was in a frolicsome 
 mood. 
 
 " Why, this — ' Marriage is such a rabble rout, 
 that those who are out are fain to get in, and
 
 Dr. Kennedy s Wife. 201 
 
 those who are in are fain to get out.' Now, 
 what do you think of that? And Chaucer, I 
 suppose, is an authority not to be despised." 
 
 " Why, I think," replied Dunstan, " that there 
 are some sayings, even of great men, which 
 are more honoured by being forgotten than re- 
 peated." 
 
 The Doctor shrugged his shoulders, and as 
 an apt retort did not at the moment present 
 itself, he stepped back, and retreating over the 
 window-sill into the dining-room, took refuge in 
 his letters, leaving his wife and guest to stroll 
 round the garden at their leisure." 
 
 So for the second time Dunstan was left 
 to a tete-a-tete with the Doctor's wife ; and when 
 Mrs. Kennedy was minded to make herself 
 agreeable, she could succeed as well as her 
 husband in doing so. Indeed, there were few 
 women who had more subtle tact than herself 
 in drawing others, as by some irresistible attrac- 
 tion, into close and intimate relations with her- 
 self. As the two walked and chatted together,
 
 202 Rackets Secret. 
 
 Dunstan began to find something strangely 
 piquant to his mental palate in her conversa- 
 tion, so sparkling, flowing, full of that in- 
 definable charm wherewith some women manage 
 to invest even the slightest gossip, but captivat- 
 ing him, above all, by its graceful interest in 
 himself. And it was so new to Dunstan to 
 meet with anyone who showed any sort of 
 friendly solicitude in what concerned himself 
 alone, that before he was aware, she had 
 drawn him out to speak quite freely to her of 
 his affairs, his position in life, his hopes and 
 prospects, his vexations and disappointments, with 
 the exception, indeed, of that little episode of 
 the curate's daughter, and that was a subject 
 which he carefully avoided. 
 
 So that by the time they had rambled to- 
 gether for half an hour through the quiet, old- 
 fashioned garden and shrubbery, Mrs. Ken- 
 nedy had quite won the confidence of her compan- 
 ion, and made herself acquainted with the main 
 facts, at least, of the young man's previous history.
 
 Dr. Kennedys Wife. 203 
 
 Not that Dunstan would have been equally 
 communicative under any other circumstances ; 
 his mind not being constructed on the prin- 
 ciple of an American clock, whose interior 
 mechanism is so arranged as to be open to 
 indiscriminate inspection. It was just the effect 
 of that species of fascination which a clever, 
 fine-toned, sunny-hearted woman is pretty sure 
 to exert where she is disposed to please, es- 
 pecially upon those who, like our friend Dun- 
 stan, are perhaps the more susceptible to 
 female influence, from having been hitherto 
 exposed but little to its power. 
 
 And on her part, also, Mrs. Kennedy, it 
 must be owned, was not ill-pleased to note 
 in the young man's kindling eye and frank 
 discourse, the evidence of that sway which she 
 was quite aware she had it in her power to 
 wield. For there was no mistake about the fact 
 that wherever she went, the Doctor's wife was 
 the centre of any circle that she might be in. 
 And this not because of any strong-mindedness
 
 204 MacheTs Secret. 
 
 or domineering force of will, but just by virtue 
 of her bountiful overflow of life, her keen, 
 bright sympathy with everything and every- 
 one around her, and perhaps also of a cer- 
 tain love of distinction and ambitiousness of 
 disposition, which more than most women she 
 possessed. 
 
 And Mrs. Kennedy was one able to make the 
 most of whatever faculties she possessed. She was 
 blessed with a fine flow of spirits, was never down- 
 cast or desponding, never troubled with nervousness 
 or headaches or any of those multitudinous minor 
 maladies which would seem to have been exclusively 
 appropriated by the feebler sex. Helpful, even-tem- 
 pered, always buoyant and bright, those only who 
 knew her well could detect, now and then, amid 
 the glad ring of that musical nature, the soft under- 
 tone of tenderness which just hinted and no more 
 of the depths of genuine feeling which lay beneath. 
 Just the wife, people said, for the Doctor, who was 
 oneof those large -brained, humorous, but withal often 
 heavy-hearted men, who live too intensely for either
 
 Dr. Kennedy's Wife. 205 
 
 mind or body to be able always to bear the strain 
 imposed upon them, and who are therefore depend- 
 ent more than most for peace and comfort upon the 
 ministrations of women, whose yielding and elastic 
 natures adapt themselves with ease to the varying 
 moods of those with whom they have to deal. 
 
 " And now, Mr. Dayne," said the lady, as they 
 took a final turn up and down the green beechen 
 alley at the end of the garden, "before we go into the 
 house to tea, I hope you will remember that while 
 you stay in Glinton, you may always be sure of a 
 welcome at the Lodge ; or if ever you find your- 
 self in a particularly friendless mood, pray come 
 up here and let us try to dispel it. You know, if 
 it were only for your father' s sake, I should like 
 you to feel at home with us ; his friendship was 
 a great boon to my husband in his younger 
 days, and it would be a pleasure to me to be 
 able to repay to his son what we both of us owe 
 to him." 
 
 There was a good deal of perception of character 
 as well as kindliness of disposition about the Doc-
 
 206 Rachels Secret. 
 
 tor's wife, and, during her brief intercourse with 
 Dunstan, she had been casting in her sounding line, 
 and had found already that he was a young man 
 well worth cultivating. 
 
 For there was a freshness about him altogether, 
 a sort of infectious gladness now in his honest 
 sunny face, a certain gusto in even the outspoken 
 brusquerie with which he would occasionally oppose 
 anything that did not chime in exactly with his 
 way of thinking, that was not without its attraction 
 to one, who, like Mrs. Kennedy, found the hum- 
 drum society of a stagnant little village at times 
 oppressively dull. 
 
 " Come any evening," she added, for she could 
 see that Dunstan was somewhat doubtful as to 
 how far he might avail himself of the privilege 
 which she had thus largely accorded ; " come 
 any evening. The Doctor seldom goes into his 
 study after dinner, and after such taskwork as 
 his, a little society is positively a relief to him, 
 and Glinton, I am sorry to say, has not very 
 much to offer in that direction. Besides," she
 
 Dr. Kennedy s Wife. 207 
 
 continued with a smile, and perhaps just a 
 soupcon of patronage in her tone, "I can see 
 that you have made already quite a favourable 
 impression on him."
 
 208 
 
 CHAPTEE XIIL 
 
 AN ENGLISH GIRL. 
 
 T)UT Mrs. Kennedy's last words were lost on 
 ■^ an unlistening ear, for even while she spoke 
 there was heard behind the hedge a peal of 
 lojv light laughter, and the tones of a soft 
 ringing voice mingling with the Doctor's deeper 
 accents ; and then for a second or two the young 
 man was conscious of nothing except that there 
 stood before him the same radiant girlish figure 
 which he had seen for the first time beside the 
 stream, the day after his arrival at Glinton, with 
 the same blue floating dress, and wide-brimmed 
 straw hat, from beneath which fell a shower of 
 sunny curls around the fair bright face. 
 
 That was all. The green, flowery garden, 
 the Doctor's broad figure, Mrs. Kenned}', every-
 
 An English Girl. 209 
 
 thing was blotted out except this shining vision 
 that had just appeared before him. It was but 
 for an instant, though. Through the buzz of 
 greeting that succeeded this interruption of their 
 tete-a-tete, Dunstan heard Mrs. Kennedy's voice 
 pronouncing the words, 
 
 " Mr. Dayne — Miss Gilmour." 
 
 And then he felt a little gloved hand within 
 his own, and heard its owner saying, 
 
 " This is not the first time we have ' met, I 
 think." 
 
 And then all at once he was himself again, 
 bowing low over the hand which he was just 
 relinquishing, with the Doctor and Mrs. Kennedy 
 standing beside him, and a young lady, who 
 was neither a dream nor a vision, but just Miss 
 Gilmour of Rooklands, to whom it was necessary 
 to say something in reply to the words which 
 she had just addressed to him. 
 
 But she spared him the trouble, for already, 
 in reply to Mrs. Kennedy's inquiring looks, 
 she was explaining how very kind Mr. Dayne 
 VOL. I. P
 
 210 Backers Secret 
 
 had been the other day, for that she was 
 sure her poor little Punch must have been 
 drowned if he had not come to his assist- 
 ance. 
 
 "And I am so glad to be able to thank 
 you properly," she went on, turning to Dun- 
 stan ; "for I was afraid afterwards that you 
 would think I was so rude and ungrateful, 
 when you had taken so much trouble to save 
 him. But he was so wet and cold, poor 
 little fellow, that just at first I was quite 
 taken up with him ; and then, when I would 
 have thanked you, you were gone. But indeed 
 I was very vexed with myself; and you must 
 have got sadly wet, too, I am sure, for the 
 water is deep there, just against the willow 
 trunk." 
 
 " Do not speak of it," said Dunstan, quite 
 at his ease now, for the frank way in which 
 the girl had expressed her thanks had been 
 already like balm to his wounded pride, dis- 
 persing any feelings of mortification that might
 
 An English Girl 211 
 
 have lingered from the remembrance of his little 
 misadventure. "Do not speak of it, pray. It 
 is I who ought to make an apology, for indeed 
 I suspected from the first that I was intruding 
 upon private grounds. But that stream was so 
 suggestive of trout fishing that I was tempted 
 to follow it a little further up." 
 
 " You are fond of fishing, then 9" said the 
 Doctor. 
 
 " I daresay the taste survives," replied Dun- 
 stan, laughing ; u but to tell the truth, I have 
 not handled a rod for years, so that I can 
 hardly speak positively on the subject. I have 
 so seldom had the opportunity lately of indulg- 
 ing myself in that direction." 
 
 "That is a pity," said the Doctor, "for it is 
 an art that is lost, like most others, by want 
 of practice. It does not require a man to be 
 much of an adept, though, in order to catch 
 trout in the Skilbeck." 
 
 "Indeed, it does not," said Winn}'. "You 
 might think they had been trained to let tliem- 
 
 p 2
 
 212 Rachels Secret. 
 
 selves be caught, they come up so foolishly 
 to take the bait. However, Mr. Dayne, if you 
 are fond of the sport, I am sure papa would 
 be pleased for you to fish up the Skilbeck 
 as far as it lies in our grounds, whenever you 
 are so disposed." 
 
 The very thing that Dunstan had been long- 
 ing for so much. 
 
 "Nothing would give me greater pleasure,"' 
 he answered, wdiile the bright look that crossed 
 his face showed plainly enough that his words 
 were truth. "But I should be sorry to intrude 
 on Mr. Gilmour's kindness." 
 
 " Oh ! you need not be afraid of that," she 
 answered. " Lewis was telling him only the 
 other day that the stream was getting over- 
 stocked. It ought to be fished in more fre- 
 quently than it is." 
 
 "Then why not practise a little yourself ? " 
 asked the Doctor. "The gentle craft ought not, 
 one would think, to be without its charms for 
 ladies."
 
 An English Girl 213 
 
 "I did try once," said Winny, laughing, 
 "to please Lewis. He said he did not care to 
 go fishing by himself, although he is so fond of 
 it. It was so dull," he said, " going alone, and 
 he persuaded me to learn, just to be company for 
 him, you know. But I was so stupid over it. 
 I tangled the line, and got the hook fast in 
 the bushes, and all sorts of disasters, and then 
 he got out of patience, and said it was not 
 worth the trouble of teaching me." 
 
 "I don't suppose it would be," returned the 
 Doctor gravely. "You were always a dull 
 child, Winny." 
 
 " I know it," she answered, dropping her 
 eyes with a demure pretence of humility. 
 " But it is not kind of you to remind me of 
 the fact. I never tell you disagreeable things. 
 For instance, how grey your hair is getting 
 just over your temples, like snow in fire, you 
 know. It would hurt your feelings, and I should 
 be so sorry to do that." 
 
 "Yes, yes. Well, we won't quarrel, little
 
 214 EacheF s Secret. 
 
 lady," said the Doctor. "We might not make 
 it up again, and that would be unfortunate. 
 And now come into the house, and let me see 
 whether you have practised your part well in 
 that duet of Mendelssohn's. You sang it very 
 badly the last time I heard you." 
 
 " Oh ! yes, I wanted to have done it better, 
 but it was not my fault, exactly. You see 
 Lewis had not been in the mood for singing, 
 and it is such wretched work hobbling through 
 a duet alone. However, I know it quite per- 
 fectly now — I do, indeed ! I could sing it all 
 through without my notes or anything. Eachel 
 Dallas came up to the Hall on Thursday, and 
 she tried it over and over with me until I 
 knew it by heart. And that reminds me of 
 something I had meant to tell you, only I am 
 so careless I might have gone away and said 
 nothing about it. She says old Mr. Gillespie is 
 very ill. He had a sort of fit, or something, 
 not long since, and they don't think he will get 
 over it."
 
 An English Girl. 215 
 
 " Poor old man !" said the Doctor. " I had 
 not heard of it. So they think he is dying, 
 do they? Well, one might almost be thankful 
 for it. Life must have been a sore burden to 
 him for a long time past. I have wondered, 
 sometimes, why he has been allowed to linger as 
 he has, unless it were to try the patience of 
 both himself and others. Rachel must have 
 had a hard task with him." 
 
 " She must, indeed," said Mrs. Kennedy, who, 
 with Dunstan, had been listening apart to what 
 was going on. " There are very few daughters 
 who would have behaved as admirably as she has 
 done. The verv sight f such incessant suffer- 
 ing must itself have been almost unendurable, 
 at times. But there always seems such an im- 
 movable passivity about that girl. She is a 
 perfect mystery to me. Nothing ever seems 
 to take the slightest effect upon her, either 
 in one way or another. And yet I can 
 hardly think it is because she is destitute of 
 feeling."
 
 216 Backers Secret. 
 
 "I am sure it is not," said the Doctor, 
 "only there is not spring enough in her to 
 cast off the weight of circumstances. Hers is a 
 nature which needs a more than common share 
 of happiness in order to develope it, and, in- 
 stead of that, she has always led a singularly 
 cheerless, saddened life." 
 
 "Rachel Dallas!" said Dunstan, who had been 
 listening with interest to the conversation. 
 "That is surely the young person who came 
 the other Sunday to the farm. She has a 
 rather romantic history, has she not?" 
 
 "'Very," replied the Doctor. And there he 
 seemed disposed to let the subject drop, for he 
 turned again to Winny, bidding her come into 
 the house. 
 
 "It begins to be rather chill," he said, 
 " standing about out of doors, and yon great 
 fire that I see shining through the parlour- 
 window, looks decidedly inviting. Come along, 
 Winny, and the others will follow." 
 
 But Winny drew back reluctantly.
 
 An English Girl. 217 
 
 " I should like to stay," she said ; " but I must 
 go home. I must, indeed !" 
 
 " Why ' must' ?" said Mrs. Kennedy, with a 
 smile. " Is there anything going on at Rook- 
 lands to make your presence such a matter of 
 necessity that you cannot spare us so much as 
 half an hour?" 
 
 " Oh ! no," answered Winny ; " only, if I 
 don't go back directly it will be quite dusk 
 before I get home. Don't ask me, please," she 
 went on, in a tone of pretty entreaty ; " I would 
 so much rather go, if you will allow me ! " 
 
 " If we will allow you ! — of course we will 
 allow you, if you have made up your mind to 
 go. You would be disagreeable otherwise, 
 probably, and spoil our evening," said the 
 Doctor; "but I don't see why you need be in 
 such a hurry to get away. It will be light for 
 an hour or two yet." 
 
 " I know what it is !" burst in Geordie, who 
 had been careering about the garden with 
 Ponto, Winny's dog. " She doesn't like going
 
 218 Rachels Secret. 
 
 down the Cedar Walk after sunset. They 
 have seen the ghost there again, and everybody 
 is talking about it. Fred Stacey told me that 
 old Stead, the tailor up at Edge-end, saw it 
 one night last week when he had been taking 
 home a coat for Michael, and it gave him 
 such a turn that he had to go into the 
 ' Chequers ' for a glass of something to bring 
 him round." 
 
 "I am afraid old Stead would find as bad 
 spirits at the ( Chequers ' as any he would 
 meet with in the Cedar Walk," said Mrs. 
 Kennedy. " But you need not try to frighten 
 Miss Gilmour, Geordie, with all the ghost-tales 
 you hear in the village." 
 
 "Oh! but I don't frighten her, mamma, she 
 was frightened before. Nobody likes to go 
 down the Cedar Walk now. Fred Stacey says 
 so. Not unless they have some one with them." 
 
 "Nonsense, Geordie," said Winny. "There 
 is no ghost, and I don't suppose I should meet 
 it if there were."
 
 An English Girl. 219 
 
 But though she tried to laugh away Geordie's 
 insinuation, a tell-tale blush, that rose unbidden 
 to her face, seemed to imply that Winny was 
 not quite proof against the fears inspired by the 
 weird frequenter of the Cedar , Walk. 
 
 u Nonsense, Geordie," echoed his mother. 
 "Little boys believe anything that is told 
 them." 
 
 "It isn't nonsense, though," persisted Geordie, 
 who was seldom to be dispossessed, except by main 
 force, of an idea that he had once acquired. 
 " You can ask anybody you like, and they will 
 tell you there is a ghost at Rooklands, and 
 has been for hundreds of years." 
 
 "That will do, Geordie, that will do," said 
 his father. " We don't want to hear anything 
 more about the ghost at present. Take Ponto 
 and have a race with him in the paddock. 
 Miss Gilmour won't want him just yet." 
 
 Geordie went off in silence with the dog. 
 No one ever disobeyed the Doctor. 
 
 " And now, Winny, come away into the house,
 
 220 Backers Secret. 
 
 and let us find something livelier to talk about 
 than this ghost of Geordie's. Why, child, you 
 are looking almost as scared as if you had seen 
 it yourself." 
 
 And so she did. For the sudden flush had 
 died away, and there was a dubious quiver on 
 the curved under-lip which might resolve itself 
 into a smile, but was just as likely to end in 
 something quite the reverse. For Winny's was 
 one of those guileless, transparent natures, too 
 innocent to hide by art anything by which she 
 was either distressed or pleased. And it was 
 evident just now that this passing cloud had 
 overcast the little soul, a moment ago so bright. 
 
 " Don't send Ponto away," she pleaded ; u I 
 want him to go back with me. I am sure it 
 will be dark in the plantation before I get 
 home." 
 
 . " In the Cedar Walk you mean," said the 
 Doctor. '" Now, Winny, listen to reason. You 
 come into the house with us, and take off your 
 hat and cloak, and behave yourself like a sen-
 
 An English Girl 221 
 
 sible girl, as you are, and Mr. Dayne shall take 
 you home after awhile ; and then if you should 
 chance to meet with anything on the way, you 
 can run away in company. That will be much 
 better than you and Ponto trotting off by your- 
 selves. Mr. Dayne will oblige me, I am sure." 
 Of course Mr. Dayne would be only too 
 happy to render such a pleasant service both to 
 Dr. Kennedy and to Miss Gilmour also, if the 
 young lady would do him the honour to accept 
 him as an escort. Indeed, though he did not 
 say so much as this, Dunstan thought that no- 
 thing in the world could have been more agree- 
 able to him just then than this proposal of the 
 Doctor's. For he had great confidence in his 
 powers of pleasing, and even while the little 
 colloquy was going on, had resolved within him- 
 self to make a better use of this opportunity than 
 of his former one, and, if possible, to commend 
 himself as effect nally to her good graces, as she 
 had already commended herself to his. A con- 
 sideration which made him reply so readily to
 
 222 Rochets Secret. 
 
 Dr. Kennedy's proposal, that Winny smilingly 
 withdrew her hesitating protest against troubling 
 him with so long a walk on her account ; and 
 the matter being settled to everybody's satisfac- 
 tion, the little party went indoors, where there 
 was a blazing fire rollicking in the parlour 
 grate, and all the means and appliances for 
 spending a choice and cozy hour. 
 
 " Now, Winny," said the Doctor, when the tea 
 urn had been sent out, and all were settled 
 down again, "look out your music from that 
 portfolio, and let us hear what you have been 
 doing." 
 
 " No, no," said Winny, shaking her head, 
 " please don't! I would much rather not. Let 
 us sit down here and talk ; it would be so much 
 nicer. And it has been so dull at Rooklands ; 
 I have had hardly anyone all day long to talk to 
 except Punch." 
 
 " And what have you been talking about ? " 
 asked Mrs. Kennedy with a laugh. 
 
 "Are you sure you don't tell him any
 
 An English Girl 223 
 
 secrets ?" said the Doctor. " He might not 
 keep them perhaps, and then he would get you 
 into trouble." 
 
 " He can't, for I haven't any to tell him," 
 said Winny ; " but if I had, 1 would trust him 
 with them as soon as anybody else. Punch is 
 a very good dog. You don't know him so well 
 as I do. And he is not at all bad company. 
 I am quite sure he understands what I say to 
 him ; indeed he does almost everything but talk 
 himself." 
 
 "Well, well, we won't depreciate Punch. 
 No doubt he is a dog of good average abili- 
 ties — but where is this music? We have got 
 company to-night, and Mr, Dayne expects, no 
 doubt, to be entertained. Come, we are wait- 
 ing." 
 
 "I can't to-night, I am not in the mood," 
 answered Winn}", with a look of entreaty, 
 half piteous, half perverse. "And, besides, I 
 don't like singing before " 
 
 "Finish your sentence, Miss Gihnour," said
 
 224 RacheVs Secret. 
 
 Dunstan, smiling in spite of himself. " You 
 were going to say, you don't like singing be- 
 fore strangers ; and I am afraid at present I 
 must plead guilty to being one, though I hope 
 I shall not continue so very long. But it would 
 be too cruel to punish me for what is no fault 
 of mine." 
 
 "Oh no," said Winny in some confusion. 
 " I did not mean that exactly ; but I really 
 don't feel like singing to-night. Pray ask Doc- 
 tor Kennedy not to make me. He is so tyran- 
 nical over me," and she glanced archly at 
 the Doctor, "perhaps he will attend to 
 you." 
 
 "Because I am a stranger?" asked Dun- 
 stan. 
 
 "I suppose so. But would it not be much 
 nicer for us all to sit and talk round this 
 charming fire than to drag you away to the 
 piano to admire my bad singing." 
 
 "Very much better," answered Dunstan, 
 bowing profoundly, and thinking in his heart
 
 An English Girl 225 
 
 that nothing could be more pleasant than listen- 
 ing to the merry badinage that was going 
 around him. Not that Winny ever said any- 
 thing specially striking or original, for she 
 was not at all what people would call a 
 "superior" girl, indeed, if anything, she was 
 rather the reverse, her faculties, what she had, 
 lying at present at least, much more in the 
 region of the heart than of tne head. But 
 everyone knows what a charm there often is 
 about the pretty nothings that fall from such 
 a pair of rosy lips as Winny's, especially when 
 accompanied by all the attendant witchery of 
 dimpling smiles, and bewildering little gestures, 
 and sweet, stray glances from laughter-loving 
 eyes. 
 
 "Very much better," he repeated. And 
 Winny, having gained her point at last, 
 clapped her little hands, and darted a trium- 
 phant glance across the fireplace at the Doctor, 
 who returned it by a gesture of mock sub- 
 mission, and then threw himself back resignedly 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 Backers Secret. 
 
 into the cushioned recesses of his chair, as if 
 he might as well, perhaps, make up his mind 
 to endure the infliction of small talk, which he 
 saw to be inevitable. 
 
 The Doctor was still a noble-looking man, 
 though he was on the verge of fifty, and as 
 Winny had said, was getting decidedly grey 
 upon the temples. He had the broad cogita- 
 tive nose of a man who thinks much, and 
 to the point ; the sensitive mouth and finely 
 moulded chin of one in whom the strength 
 of manhood is tempered with something of a 
 woman's tenderness and fineness ; the even brow 
 and luminous, deep-set eyes, which, when found 
 together, usually indicate a mind possessing 
 equally the power of self-control, and the faculty 
 of bringing others into relation with itself. 
 And now, as the firelight shone upon his head, 
 thrown out as it was into relief by the crim- 
 son cushion behind it, its aspect of content- 
 ment and repose seemed to bring out into 
 more vivid contrast the expression of abound-
 
 An English Girl 227 
 
 ing untried life that looked forth from the 
 faces of his young companions. Winny, so 
 full of buoyant grace, sparkling and changing 
 at every instant, and the other with that proud 
 tawny head, and the bright, somewhat defiant 
 face, which told plainly enough of a spirit not 
 yet broken in to obey reason rather than impulse, 
 one which would need some bruisings and fall- 
 ings in the mire before it had learned that 
 it is at times infinitely harder for a man to 
 get the mastery over himself than to overcome 
 any amount of adverse circumstances. 
 
 But this evening everything seemed just fitted 
 to bring into play all that was most bright 
 and kindly in the young man's disposition. For 
 certainly there was something in the very at- 
 mosphere of the Lodge that caused the fairest 
 self of everyone gathered there to blossom 
 out. Dull people found there that they had 
 something to say; shy ones felt themselves at 
 ease ; stiff ones found the backbone of self- 
 assertion begin to bend; in short, by some 
 
 Q2
 
 228 Backers Secret. 
 
 happy infection, the Doctors guests usually 
 became oblivious of themselves, and proportion- 
 ately alive to all that was pleasant in those 
 around them. 
 
 And to-night the Doctor was in one of his 
 most genial moods, and Mrs. Kennedy even 
 more gracious and bountiful than usual, and 
 Winny — but nothing, Dunstan thought, could 
 possibly be more delightful than to look at her 
 as she sat on a low seat by the side of Mrs. 
 Kennedy's chair, to watch that pretty girlish 
 face with its changing play of quietness and 
 mirth, and to listen for the dimpling laugh that 
 greeted each quaint sally of the Doctor's. 
 
 Some one has said, I do not know how truly, 
 that England is the only country in the world 
 where, on a summer's day, a man may enjoy 
 the luxury of lying out of doors in the sun- 
 shine. Everywhere else it is so hot that you 
 are nearly broiled, or so damp and cold that 
 you must do it at the risk of rheumatism or 
 catarrh. It may be so, I cannot tell, but this
 
 An English Girl. 229 
 
 may be received as an undoubted fact, that in 
 no other land can there be found anything 
 equivalent to a genuine English girl — such a 
 girl, for instance, as was Winifred Gilmour. 
 There are charming women, no doubt, and 
 lovely children elsewhere, but only here do we 
 meet with that delicious blending of woman- 
 hood and childhood, the dewy freshness of the 
 one lingering into the bloom and ripeness of 
 the other, which belongs to the maidens of this 
 sea-girt isle alone. 
 
 Winifred Gilmour was more than nineteen, 
 so that she could not by any accommodation of 
 the term be called a child. I have seen sober 
 matrons, wearing with dignity and discretion 
 the meek crown of wifehood and motherhood, 
 who had not counted more summers than 
 Winny. And yet there was really very little 
 of the woman about her beyond the sweet 
 rounded form, moulded as it was after the 
 most perfect pattern of feminine grace, and her 
 voice, which was singularly rich and soft, full
 
 230 RaclieTs Secret. 
 
 of cadences and vibrations that gave to even 
 her lightest chatter a certain air of sweetness 
 and repose; a voice which, when she spoke, 
 seemed to touch and surround you like a frag- 
 rant floating vapour; one, indeed, that seemed 
 hardly in keeping with everything else about 
 her, for tones like these are usually the index 
 to a nature at once intense and sensitive, capa- 
 ble of profound and passionate emotion ; and 
 looking into Winny's sunny face, it seemed 
 hardly possible to imagine that even a passing 
 cloud should ever have leave to cast its shadow 
 over it. 
 
 For a sunny face it was, with a pair of the 
 merriest blue eyes, through which the happy 
 little soul seemed to be always looking gladly 
 out, and a cunning dimple that appeared in 
 each rosy cheek every time she laughed, which 
 she did very often, showing all her white teeth, 
 so that her mouth became then almost as bright 
 as her eyes. 
 
 So Dunstan sat there, and looked and
 
 An English Girl 231 
 
 listened, and took his part in all that was 
 going on, with a zest that showed how keenly 
 he was relishing this blink of society; and felt, 
 on the whole, much as a tropical plant might 
 be supposed to feel, which has been raised in some 
 bleak unkindly atmosphere, and then is sud- 
 denly transported to its own native land, where 
 a richer life thrills through the balmy air, and 
 the lavish sunshine warms each pinched blossom 
 into beauty. 
 
 But while the fun was still flowing thick and 
 fast — for to-night the Doctor was in one of his 
 maddest, merriest moods, and, as was always 
 the case, brought everyone else into the same 
 humour as himself — the bronze timepiece on the 
 mantelshelf tinkled out the hour of nine, and 
 Winny started up, exclaiming that really she 
 must not stay any longer; they would be get- 
 ting uneasy at home about her, for she had not 
 even told them where she was going. It was of 
 no use trying now to persuade her to remain. 
 The little lady could be decided when she
 
 232 Rackets Secret. 
 
 pleased, only when Mrs. Kennedy said that it 
 would be taking Mr. Dayne away so very early, 
 she looked perplexed, as if this was a thought 
 that had not occurred to her before. 
 
 "Let her go — let her go," said the Doctor. 
 " They will be sending some one, perhaps, to 
 seek her;" and with that he rose and stretched 
 and shook himself, as if he had just escaped 
 from some tedious infliction. "She had better 
 go, if Mr. Dayne will excuse our dismissing 
 him so early." 
 
 So Winny got leave to depart, and then 
 Dunstan took her under his protection and set 
 off towards Eooklands, feeling, if the truth 
 were told, not altogether dissatisfied with the 
 way in which his evening at the Lodge had 
 been cut short.
 
 233 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 FOUR FEET ON THE FENDEE. 
 
 " T LIKE that young man exceedingly," said 
 -*- the Doctor, when they had settled down 
 again, after seeing their guests depart. "There is 
 the right sort of stuff in him, if I am not mis- 
 taken. Plenty of grit, and yet you can see at 
 a glance that his mother has been a woman to 
 be loved. Poor girl! How Dayne used to hold 
 forth to me at College about her, and I daresay 
 she was all he thought her, too. We will have 
 him down here pretty often, Hetty. It will do 
 us good to import a little young life among us, 
 I was feeling the other day as if I were beginn- 
 ing to get into years. There is nothing so good 
 for a middle-aged man like me as having young
 
 234 BacheFs Secret. 
 
 folks about him. It keeps the youth in him 
 better than anything else that I know of." 
 
 "We have Winny Gilmour here often 
 enough," observed Mrs. Kennedy, somewhat ab- 
 sently for her. 
 
 " Ah, yes ! Winny, poor child ! " said the Doc- 
 tor. " She is a good little thing as far as she goes. 
 But she is but a girl, and besides there is too 
 much of the saccharine element about her at pre- 
 sent. She wants just a little mixture of the 
 acid and the bitter. There is no such thing 
 as stirring her up to anything like having a will 
 or a way of her own. It spoils her completely. 
 A girl is good for nothing unless she has a 
 little resistance in her composition ; there is 
 nothing to lay hold of if she hasn't. You may 
 as well try to made a meal of the pink froth 
 on the top of a trifle. Pretty to look at, and 
 nothing more." 
 
 "It is very true," said his wife, who was still 
 seated gazing into the fire, as if she were seek- 
 ing something among the glowing coals.
 
 Four Feet on the Fender. 235 
 
 "1 don't feel at all satisfied, about it," pur- 
 sued the Doctor. "It is a bad thing for her, 
 I am sure it is, living shut up so constantly in 
 that gloomy old place. She never gets the least 
 glimpse of society anywhere but here. We must 
 try to bring her out a little more, Hester, and give 
 her more confidence in herself. She really 
 wants it. She is as much of a child now in 
 her ways, as most girls are at fifteen." 
 
 "So she is," answered Mrs. Kennedy. And 
 there the conversation dropped. The Doctor 
 reached himself a pamphlet that he had half 
 finished reading, and the lady relapsed into the 
 reverie which his remark had hardly interrupted. 
 
 Yes, as the Doctor had said, Winny was a 
 dear little thing, though there was almost too 
 much simplicity about her. No one could help 
 loving her. And as Mrs. Kennedy mused on, 
 the woman's heart within her went out tenderly 
 after the motherless girl. But yet — Cyril was 
 her eldest born, the very joy and glory of her 
 life, and a young man's success in life depended
 
 236 Backers Secret. 
 
 so much upon the sort of wife he got. Winny 
 would never have dignity enough to assist him 
 in maintaining anything like a position in society. 
 And portionless as well ! 
 
 And Mrs. Kennedy's thoughts ran back to her 
 own early married life, with its privations and 
 many cares, and she remembered how anxiety 
 and overwork and strife with poverty, had fur- 
 rowed her husband's brow, and bowed his head, 
 and fretted his nerves before he had even 
 reached his prime. Her brave bright Cyril! 
 No, it could not be ; and yet she trembled lest 
 what she hoped was fancy only might ripen in- 
 to love. Of one thing she was certain. Winny 
 had not lost her heart, at all events. But then 
 she was such a gentle little thing, she never 
 could bear to give pain to anything, not even 
 to a dog, and if Cyril were to urge his suit, 
 she would be sure not to deny it. 
 
 So Mrs. Kennedy felt assured. What mother 
 of a son like Cyril ever imagined it possible 
 that her boy should choose in vain ?
 
 Four Feet on the Fender. 237 
 
 And in August he was coming home. She 
 sighed, and the Doctor looked up and glanced 
 inquiringly at her for an instant ; then turned to 
 his book again. 
 
 But Mrs. Kennedy did not always tell her 
 husband what was passing in her mind. Women 
 seldom do. Perhaps too, after this stage, her 
 thoughts, if such they could be called, were 
 too vague and shadowy to be able exactly to 
 shape themselves in words. 
 
 Yes, it was better for Cyril that he should 
 bear the momentary pain of losing Winny than 
 be trammelled all his life by the results of an 
 imprudent marriage. And this Mr. Dayne was 
 all that could be wished for in a young man, 
 except of course that at present he was poor. 
 But then his prospects were good, and he was 
 one who would be sure to make his way in time. 
 And Winny was young, only nineteen. Four 
 or five years' time would still be soon enough 
 for her to marry. 
 
 But at this point in her meditations, Mrs.
 
 238 Rachel? 8 Secret. 
 
 Kennedy rose hastily, as if half-ashamed of 
 the direction in which her thoughts had wan- 
 dered, took the pamphlet out of her husband's 
 half-reluctant hands, and sat down beside him 
 to finish aloud the last chapters of a new novel 
 that they had been reading together the evening 
 before.
 
 239 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 THE SQUIRE OF ROOKLANDS. 
 
 OF course everyone knows, or if they do not, 
 they are hereby advised of the fact, that 
 a moonlight walk on a soft May evening, 
 with such a charming little companion as Winny 
 Gilmour, is a thing that may fairly be reckoned 
 among the luxuries of life. 
 
 So Dunstan thought, at all events, when 
 they had looked back to the open door where 
 Mrs. Kennedy and the Doctor stood nodding 
 them a bright farewell, and were fairly started, 
 side by side, on the road which led to Rook- 
 lands. 
 
 " Did you know Doctor Kennedy before you 
 came here?" said Winny, after a little scattered 
 talk had passed between them. »
 
 240 Rackets Secret. 
 
 " No," said Dunstan ; " I never even spoke 
 to him until to-day, though he was an old 
 friend of my father's. They were at college 
 together." 
 
 " Ah ! that must be a long time ago," said 
 Winny, softly. "Then is your father dead, 
 Mr. Dayne?" 
 
 "Yes, he died not long after I was born. I 
 don't remember him at all." 
 
 Winny was silent for an instant. 
 
 "And your mother?" she asked, in a half- 
 hesitating tone. 
 
 "She died too, not long after. I can only 
 just remember her." 
 
 "And have you no brothers or sisters?" 
 
 "No one," replied Dunstan; "nor aunt nor 
 cousin, nor anyone belonging to me, except an 
 old half-uncle, who, I daresay, hardly knows 
 whether I am alive or dead." 
 
 "That must feel very strange," said Winny 
 gravely, as if she were trying to realise the 
 situation, "to have no relations at all. What
 
 The Squire of Rooklands. 241 
 
 should you do if you were to be ill? I mean, 
 very ill indeed ? " 
 
 "I don't know," answered Dunstan, smiling 
 at the girl's simplicity; "I never thought about 
 it. I suppose I should die, or perhaps get 
 better." 
 
 It was not a particularly bright subject that 
 they had contrived to hit upon. 
 
 "But suppose you didn't get better," she 
 said, in a musing voice; "there would be no 
 one to be sorry for you if you died. That 
 must be very bad. I should not like it myself 
 at all." 
 
 " But what difference could it make to you ?" 
 said Dunstan. "You would not be here to know 
 anything about it." 
 
 " No, to be sure," she answered ; " still, I 
 should not like it." 
 
 And then for awhile both were silent, 
 and only the sound of Winny's tripping steps 
 and of her companion's firmer tread wore 
 to be heard. 4 
 
 VOL. I. R
 
 242 Rackets Secret. 
 
 But by-and-by the soft voice began again. 
 
 li Don't you like Doctor Kennedy very much?" 
 
 " Very much," answered Dunstan, " what 
 little I have seen of him. He is a fine man. 
 One does not often meet with his equal." 
 
 " And Mrs. Kennedy too," said Winny ; 
 " she is so bright and so kind. She always 
 makes you feel as if the sun were shining. 
 I don't think* anything in the world could 
 make her dull or still like some people. She 
 is always just the same as she was to-night. 
 And I have known her for a great many years 
 — ever since I was quite a little girl. Before 
 Lewis had his tutor, he and I used to go 
 to the Lodge to have our lessons with Ber- 
 tie — that is their second boy ; he is at Eton 
 now ; and afterwards Mrs. Kennedy was so 
 kind as to teach me to play and sing. You 
 know, there is not anyone in Glinton who 
 teaches music ; and she said it would be such 
 a pity for me not to learn. Was it not good 
 of her to take so much trouble ! And she
 
 The Squire of Rooklands. 243 
 
 sings so beautifully. Did you hear her sing to- 
 day r 
 
 "No," said Dunstan ; "I had no opportunity. 
 We were only just going into the house when 
 you came to us." 
 
 " Ah ! that is a pity. The next time you 
 go, you must ask her to let you hear her. 
 It was so nice when Cyril was at home. We 
 used all three to sing together." 
 
 ' 'Cyril — who is he?" asked Dunstan. 
 
 " Oh ! don't you know ? He is their eldest 
 son. But he is not at home now. He is 
 in London ; he is going to be a barrister, and 
 everybody thinks so much about him, he is so 
 very clever. Why, he got the Clifford medal 
 when there were nearly tw r o hundred candidates 
 trying for it besides himself." 
 
 " Indeed !" said Dunstan, who did not know 
 exactly what the Clifford medal was, though he 
 felt at the moment as if he had rather it had 
 been any other of the two hundred candidates 
 
 who had succeeded in obtaining it. 
 
 R 2
 
 244 Rachel! & Secret, 
 
 " But you know," she went on, " you would 
 never tell that he was so clever, for he is not 
 proud in the least, he is just as nice as if he 
 were only like other people. And when he is 
 at home he makes such fun for us. He is 
 always thinking of something to amuse us. 
 We acted a play last Christmas when he 
 was here ; we had it in the oak dining- 
 room at home, and we had proper dresses 
 and everything. It was so nice, }'ou can't 
 imagine !" 
 
 " And did you perform too ?" asked Dun- 
 stan. 
 
 " Oh ! yes, only I could not help laughing, 
 and spoiled my part But Cyril was very good. 
 He said it was not as if it had been real act- 
 ing, for we were only doing it for our own 
 amusement, and if we did but enjoy ourselves, 
 it was just the same as if we played ever so 
 well." 
 
 "But you had an audience, surely?" said 
 Dunstan.
 
 The Squire of Rooklands. 245 
 
 " Ah ! that was the worst of it. We had 
 papa and Lewis, and we let old Michael and 
 Phipps and Mrs. Bray come in — they are the 
 servants; but, you see, we never do have com- 
 pany at home, papa does not like it, and 
 there was nobody we knew in the village that 
 we could invite, except two or three whom 
 we wanted for actors. But we did just as 
 well without an audience, only that there was 
 no clapping. I suppose the servants did not 
 exactly like to clap, and papa and Lewis 
 scarcely ever do care for anything. It was very 
 good of them to look on." 
 
 This father of hers must be an uncomfort- 
 able sort of man, said Dunstan to himself, 
 and as he looked round in the dusk at 
 Winny's soft, bright face, and listened to her 
 innocent talk, he half wondered how so fair 
 a flower could have sprung up at all on such 
 an .unkindly soil as that Rooklands home of 
 hers. 
 
 " You know," she went on, " Lewis can't
 
 246 Rackets Secret. 
 
 enjoy himself like other people, because he is 
 not strong, and Doctor Hansford says that 
 exertion, perhaps, might injure him. The only 
 thin^ that he is reallv fond of is fishing- it 
 does not fatigue him at all ; but then he says 
 it is so dull going out by himself, and there 
 is no one that he can ask to join him, except 
 Cyril, when he is at home. That made me 
 so glad when you said you liked it too, be- 
 cause I thought if you could get to know 
 each other, you would be such nice company 
 for him." 
 
 " What an innocent little thing it is, to be 
 sure," thought Dunstan, with an inward smile, 
 though he was glad enough to hear her renew 
 the subject, which, in truth, he had almost for- 
 gotten till thus reminded of it. 
 
 For certainly it was a great piece of good- 
 fortune to have entered thus easily on a 
 privilege which he could hardly have ventured 
 awhile ago to have even hoped for. And 
 though possibly the young heir of Rooklands
 
 The Squire of Rooklands. 247 
 
 might not be quite so pleasant a companion as 
 his sister, they might have some very good 
 sport together nevertheless. 
 
 But by this time they had reached the tall 
 
 i 
 
 spiked fence which marked the boundary of the 
 grounds around the Hall. 
 
 "This is the gate," said Winny, when they 
 had gone on a little further. 
 
 It opened with a rusty groan, as Dunstan 
 pushed it back upon its hinges, and then they 
 found themselves in the Cedar Walk. And 
 certainly, any one given to superstitious fears 
 might have been almost pardoned for indulg- 
 ing them in this eerie solitude. Winny hushed 
 her chatter as the shadows of the tall sepul- 
 chral trees closed over them. Even Dunstan 
 felt oppressed by the unquiet silence that 
 reigned around, and chilled through by the 
 influence that seemed to distil from the gaunt 
 black trunks, and the fibrous foliage through 
 which the moonbeams were trickling sparsely 
 with a w T an, cold light.
 
 248 Rachels Secret. 
 
 Involuntarily they quickened their steps, till, 
 in a few moments, they emerged into the open 
 space, half lawn, half shrubbery, that lay before 
 the house. 
 
 The moon shone down here so sharp and 
 "bright, that Dunstan could perceive distinctly 
 even the details of the building. It was a 
 rambling, ragged-looking place, with that inde- 
 finable air about it which one may observe 
 in houses as in persons, of having once known 
 better days, but as if it had reached at last that 
 state of apathy in which it had ceased to be 
 any longer mindful of keeping up appearances. 
 The stonework was damp, decayed, and stained 
 in places with a greenish moss ; untidy creepers 
 straggled over the walls, and at one end several 
 of the windows had been rudely boarded up, 
 while the overgrown shrubbery, the shaggy lawn, 
 and the untended borders, seem to have been 
 long abandoned to neglect, though here and 
 there, amid the rank luxuriance of unpruned 
 roses, honeysuckles and flowering shrubs, a patch,
 
 The Squire of RooMands, 249 
 
 less untidy than the rest, seems to hint at some 
 feeble effort to subdue the prevalent disorder. 
 
 Winny passed by the front of the house, 
 where a broad weedy road led up to a large 
 recessed door surmounted by a crumbling coat 
 of arms, and went round by a more frequented 
 path to a smaller side entrance. A belt of im- 
 mense Portugal laurels, which must have been 
 a hundred years at least in attaining their pre- 
 sent unwieldy growth, flanked this side of the 
 house ; and on the gravel path beneath them, 
 half hidden in the shadow that they cast, a 
 dark figure was pacing slowly up and down. 
 
 " There is papa !" cried Winny, and leaving 
 Dunstan to follow, she ran up to him. 
 
 " I have been at the Lodge, papa. I was so 
 afraid you would be wondering where I was." 
 
 He stood still, and looked up at the sound of 
 her voice. 
 
 " Is that you, Winifred ? " he said. " I judged 
 where yon would be ; but you should not have 
 staid away so long without letting us know. I
 
 250 Rachels Secret. 
 
 have just sent Michael there to seek you." 
 
 " I am very sorry, but I could not help it," 
 said Winny. " They would make me stay, and 
 Dr. Kennedy said I should not come back 
 alone." 
 
 She turned to Dunstan, as if for the moment 
 she had forgotten him, and introduced him to 
 her father. 
 
 "This is Mr. Dayne, papa. It is the gentle- 
 man who saved poor little Punch from drown- 
 ing. He has been so kind as to bring me 
 home." 
 
 Mr. Gilmour bowed and gave his hand to 
 Dunstan, as he acknowledged, though without 
 the slightest touch of cordiality, the services of 
 his daughter's escort. 
 
 " We are much obliged to you," he said ; " but 
 I am afraid you have been brought some dis- 
 tance out of your way." 
 
 "I am not sure," said Dunstan, "for I am a 
 stranger in the neighbourhood and scarcely 
 know as yet how the roads lie ; but if I have.
 
 The Squire of Roohlands. 251 
 
 it is of no consequence. I am happy to have 
 had it in my power to render Miss Gilmour any 
 service." 
 
 And as he had now accomplished his ap- 
 pointed task of bringing the young lady safely 
 home, Dunstan was preparing, with these words, 
 to take his leave. But Winny interrupted him, 
 for drawing her father a little aside, she said 
 something to him in an undertone. 
 
 " Certainly," he replied aloud ; " if Mr. Dayne 
 is fond of fishing, he is perfectly welcome to 
 any sport which he may find in the stream 
 here; and if he will do Lewis the favour now 
 and then to accompany him, it will be a great 
 kindness, I am sure." 
 
 There was a stately indifference altogether in 
 the way in which the desired permission was 
 accorded, that jarred slightly on Dunstan, though 
 he was not disposed on that account to refuse 
 the proffered courtesy. 
 
 "I shall be glad to avail myself of your per- 
 mission," he said. "There is nothing which I
 
 252 Rachels Secret. 
 
 enjoy more than an hour's fishing now and 
 then, but I must not trespass too often on your 
 kindness." 
 
 "You will not do that," replied Mr. Gil- 
 mour. " I believe the stream is overstocked 
 already. Lewis was saying so this morning." 
 
 As he spoke, a casement in the mullioned 
 window behind them opened, and the same 
 slight, fair-haired lad looked out, whom Dunstan 
 had seen the other morning in the church. 
 
 " So you have come home at last, Win," he 
 said, in a thin, boyish voice. " Where have you 
 been hiding yourself all this time — we thought 
 you were lost?" 
 
 " I have only been at the Lodge," she 
 answered; "I could not get away sooner. .But 
 come out, Lewis, we have something to tell 
 you." 
 
 " Stay where you are, Lewis," said his 
 father. "What are you thinking of, Wini- 
 fred, to bring him out into the night air. 
 Mr. Dayne will, perhaps, go in with us."
 
 The Squire of Rooklands. 253 
 
 Dunstan hesitated, pleading the lateness 
 of the hour as an excuse for not intrud- 
 ing. 
 
 " You will not intrude," said Mr. Gilmour ; 
 " we shall be glad if you will go in." 
 
 And turning, he led the way into the 
 house, followed, not unwillingly, by Dun- 
 stan. 
 
 They went in, and crossing a wide hall, 
 entered what seemed to be a library, though it 
 was not easy to distinguish anything in it, 
 there being no light beyond that afforded by 
 a dull red fire and the slant moonbeams 
 which fell through the window across the 
 floor. 
 
 " How gloomy it is in here," cried Winny. 
 
 And going to the fire, she stirred it to a 
 dancing blaze which gleamed merrily on the 
 little group around it. 
 
 The lad's face looked pleasanter, Dunstan 
 fancied, than when he had seen it in the 
 pew at church. The restless, querulous expres-
 
 254 Rachel! s Secret, 
 
 sion was gone, and as they began to talk of 
 the fishing, which had brought about this un- 
 expected introduction, it lit up with an eager 
 delight that gave it at times a faint resem- 
 blance to the bright countenance of his 
 sister. 
 
 Even the stern features of Mr. Gilmour 
 seemed to relax, as he stood leaning with his 
 elbow on the mantel-shelf, listening to the 
 plans which already the two young men were 
 making for going out together the very next 
 evening ; and a gleam of strange tenderness stole 
 into his eye as it rested on the pale face of the 
 lad. 
 
 Dunstan, glancing aside for an instant, was 
 struck by that same expression of intense and 
 yearning fondness which he had noticed in the 
 church, as if, indeed, this passionate attachment 
 to his son were the one living spot in the dead 
 and frozen nature of the man. Which, in truth, 
 it was ; and the doors of Rooklands might have 
 been barred for ever against Dunstan, had it
 
 The Squire of Rooklauds. 255 
 
 not been for the thought that by admitting him 
 he might open the way to some gratification for 
 the lad. 
 
 Whether it was the idea of the fishing ex- 
 cursion that excited Lewis, or whether, as Mrs. 
 Doyle would say, that Mr. Dayne was such a 
 gracious young man, and perhaps more so than 
 usual to-night, but certainly during the ten 
 minutes that Dunstan staid, Lewis seemed to 
 have conceived already a liking for him, enough, 
 at all events, to make Mr. Gilmour second, 
 with something almost of warmth in his man- 
 ner, the parting request that Dunstan would 
 not forget the engagement, but appear as 
 early as might be on the following evening ; 
 a promise which he was in no wise loath to 
 make. 
 
 Another moment, and the door was closed 
 behind him, and Dunstan was out again under 
 the stars, hurrying on towards the Ghost's 
 Avenue, too well pleased both with himself and 
 his evenings adventures to cast more than a
 
 256 Rackets Secret. 
 
 passing glance towards the sombre front of the 
 house, on which now the moonlight gleamed 
 with a cold relentless stare, casting sharp 
 shadows under the eaves and within the re- 
 cess of the unused portico, towards which a 
 tall elm that stood not far away thrust down a 
 lank and leafless arm, as if for ever pointing 
 mutely to the spot where twenty years ago the 
 dead woman had sat through the winter night, 
 leaning against the oaken panels of the door, 
 which the master of Rooklands himself had 
 opened in the pale morning light to receive his 
 ghastly guest. 
 
 But of all this Dunstan thought nothing ; as 
 indeed, how should he, with the remembrance 
 of such an evening as he had just spent to 
 look back upon, and the prospect of others, 
 brighter still, perhaps, which stretched in inde- 
 finite succession before him. Yes, it seemed as 
 if life really was beginning now to be a very 
 pleasant thing.
 
 257 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 THE IVORY GATE 
 
 TT often happens that a common interest 
 ■*■ will rapidly bind quite opposite natures 
 into very intimate relations with each other, 
 and so it was, that after this somewhat odd 
 and unexpected introduction to the family at 
 Rooklands, Dunstan found himself a pretty con- 
 stant visitor at the house. For now that he 
 had met with a companion who pleased his 
 fancy, Lewis Gilmour had taken to fishing 
 with the wayward eagerness of a spoiled and 
 petted lad, who has been brought up in the 
 fixed idea that to please himself is' the sole 
 aim of life, and who not unfrequently finds 
 the task more irksome than agreeable. 
 
 The mornings might still hang heavily upon 
 VOL. I. S
 
 258 Backers Secret 
 
 his hands as he lounged idly through the 
 empty hours ; but when with the slant sunbeams 
 Dunstan came, and the two set off together to 
 the stream with rod and creel, there was no- 
 thing wanting to his enjoyment. And there 
 was really much that was very pleasant about 
 the lad, when, as now, there was nothing to 
 cross his humour; much too that was bright 
 and intelligent, even beyond his years, so that 
 despite the disparity between them, Dunstan 
 found himself wonderfully content with his young 
 companion. 
 
 Meanwhile, Mr. Gilmour looked on apart 
 in silent satisfaction. Lewis had got some- 
 thing at last in which he took an actual 
 interest. That was sufficient. So long as it 
 lasted, Mr. Dayne might come as often as he 
 pleased to Kooklands ; he would be always 
 sure of at least a tacit welcome from its 
 austere master. 
 
 And pressed by Lewis, Dunstan did come 
 often ; indeed, almost every evening, except
 
 The Ivory Gates. 259 
 
 when he went to the Lodge to spend it with 
 the Doctor and his wife. And after being on 
 the stretch all day — for though Dunstan en- 
 joyed his work, it was none the less a strain 
 at first upon him — he thoroughly enjoyed his 
 evenings, and set off with Lewis to try his 
 luck at angling, with as much zest as a school- 
 boy just released from grammar and the rule 
 of three, rushes off to taws or cricket. 
 
 And no wonder,* for to a lover of the 
 craft, what could be more delightful than to 
 loll upon a sunny bank beneath some droop- 
 ing ash or willow, and rod in hand, to watch 
 the sleepy ripple of the stream as it slipped 
 along over its pebbly bed, just rousing up from 
 time to time, as a tug at his line warns him 
 that some unlucky trout is nibbling at his 
 bait. 
 
 Still it was not altogether for the pleasure 
 of the sport, nor yet for the sake of Lewis's 
 society, nor even to be honoured by the grim 
 hospitality of the master of Kooklands, that 
 
 s2
 
 260 RacheTs Secret. 
 
 Dunstan bent his steps so often towards the 
 Hall, when the labours of the day were ended. 
 It was an' attraction more subtle and more 
 potent still that drew him there, for was 
 there not always the secret hope that Winny 
 might be somewhere near when he arrived ? 
 And ever, if he left without having had a 
 smile or a word from her, or at least with- 
 out having caught sight of her light figure 
 and fluttering dress amon^f the trees in the 
 shrubbery or garden, there would be a vague 
 sense of incompleteness in his mind, mar- 
 ring the remembrance of the evening he had 
 passed. 
 
 But sometimes the sum of his enjoyment 
 would be complete, for she would join them 
 when they went down to the river, and then 
 usually it was but little fish that found its 
 way into the basket that Dunstan took back 
 with him to empty upon Mrs. Doyles' kitchen 
 table ; for as they all sat chatting merrily to- 
 gether, he would so forget what lie was about,
 
 The Ivory Gates. 261 
 
 that his float would lie upon the water un- 
 noticed for half an hour together. 
 
 Or if she left them, as she often did, to 
 ramble down beside the stream, it would be 
 just the same, for his eye would keep following 
 her wherever she might go, alighting on her as 
 a bee upon the flowers. He could not help it. 
 It was so pleasant to watch her as she tripped 
 up and down the green slopes, stooping now 
 and then to gather the forget-me-nots and 
 grasses that grew beside the water, or calling 
 to them, her face all aglow, when she had 
 found some blossom of unusual size and beauty, 
 and then running up to show her treasures 
 and enjoy their admiration. 
 
 For there was nothing timid or constrained 
 in Winny's manner towards her brother's friend. 
 There was in it all the sweet fearlessness of 
 perfect innocence of heart and thought. And 
 though, as Dr. Kennedy had said, she was perhaps, 
 from the way in which she had been brought 
 up, too childlike for her years, yet it would
 
 262 EacheFs Secret. 
 
 have been hard for the most captious critic 
 to find fault seriously with the graceful, wild 
 abandon of her ways, or do other than smile 
 at the wayward vanities which sat so prettily 
 upon her. And surely, too, it must have been 
 a lovely soul that had sought so fair a home 
 in which to dwell. For Winny's was not the 
 mere waxen prettiness of form and feature. 
 There was something in every look and ges- 
 ture which made you feel instinctively that the 
 charming face belonged to a nature more 
 charming still. 
 
 At all events, Dunstan felt quite sure about 
 it, and one can hardly wonder either at his 
 arriving at the conclusion, for as anyone may 
 see, who has any experience in such matters, the 
 young man was breathing just now a very 
 dangerous atmosphere. For, as we have seen, 
 his nature, long frozen up by that chill Lon- 
 don life, had been warmed and softened by 
 his recent prosperity, by the wholesome in-
 
 The Ivory Gates. 263 
 
 fluence of work, still more by the homely 
 kindness that had surrounded him at the 
 farm-house, and by the friendliness of Dr. 
 Kennedy and his wife. And now, like 
 seed into a soil prepared for its reception, 
 there fell these bright looks of Winny's, the 
 merry laughter and the girlish talk, half shy, 
 half gay, which every time he saw her seemed 
 a thousand-fold more charming than before. 
 
 In short, he was admiring her too much not to 
 be loving her a little, though this was what he 
 no more thought of than he thought of the 
 heart that was beating in his breast. But, 
 indeed, a young man, if set down as Dun- 
 stan was now, where he has leave to put 
 himself forth on every side, pleased with him- 
 self, and, as a matter of course, disposed also to 
 be pleased with everybody else, is pretty sure, 
 as the phrase goes, to fall in love with some- 
 one or other. He may keep his secret to 
 himself, but always, through the lattice of his
 
 264 Rachels Secret, 
 
 thoughts, some woman's face will be looking 
 in upon him. Not a fair one, perhaps ; none 
 the less will he see a beauty in it there for 
 himself alone. He cannot help himself. He does 
 not often try. His fate carries him forwards, 
 almost without his will, to some end unknown. 
 Nay, it seems indeed sometimes as if the will 
 were passive altogether. 
 
 Winnj Gilmour was a dear little thing, 
 and a good little thing, as Dunstan said to 
 himself a hundred times a day; and well it 
 was that he could say so. But if that fair 
 face of hers had been like a draft on an 
 empty bank, a mere promise to pay, and no- 
 thing more, it would have been all the same 
 to him. He had felt its witchery ; and there 
 was nothing for him but to yield. And yield 
 he did, as, indeed, under the circumstances, 
 what better could he do? 
 
 There are, no doubt, sensible, practical, 
 matter-of-fact individuals, who ignore completely 
 any such weakness as that of "falling in
 
 The Ivory Gates. 265 
 
 love," and who, if the estate of matrimony be 
 one that commends itself to their approval, 
 will walk soberly into the great modern wo- 
 man-market of u society," and with a judici- 
 ous regard to pecuniary and other considera- 
 tions, select therefrom the article of which 
 they are in quest. But this prospective pru- 
 dence, which has an eye mainly to the wine- 
 cellar and the money-bags, and which requires 
 the aid of the lawyer as much as of the 
 priest, to tie the marriage knot, is no more 
 allied to the sweet madness of love than the 
 odour of a barber's shop resembles the fra- 
 grance of a bank of violets. For what does 
 the sensible, practical, matter-of-fact individual 
 know of that divine visitation to the heart and 
 soul which creates for him all things anew, 
 which makes this dull old earth all radiant 
 with purple light, which thrills him with such 
 mysterious delight if the fluttering hem of 
 the loved one's robe does but touch his feet? 
 Nothing at all. Indeed it may be questioned
 
 266 Rachel! s Secret. 
 
 if these things are even compatible with a 
 due appreciation of the three-per-cent Consols 
 and the rate of discount. Though, after all, 
 since our whole life is said to be but a selection, 
 and men must perforce, for the sake of some 
 things, go without others that they fain would 
 have, there is doubtless a wisdom of its own, 
 even in the conduct of such philosophers as 
 these. 
 
 But it was a wisdom to which our hero had 
 not attained. All he knew was, that this life 
 of his, which awhile ago had lain dead and 
 barren as a November field, had now become 
 all flushed with warmth and beauty. These 
 leafy blossoming June days held no harsh 
 realities for him. He walked through this 
 troublesome world as through an enchanted 
 land. Everything he set his hand to seemed 
 to prosper. Difficulties smoothed themselves 
 away before him. He went to and from his 
 office at the railway-yard, feeling as if it were 
 hardly possible for anything to go wrong. And
 
 The Ivory Gates. 267 
 
 surely there was some charm that kept them 
 from ever getting out of the right track, for so 
 prosperously did the works advance, so steadily 
 did each man plod on in his appointed groove, 
 that but for his presence and his eye, as Dun- 
 stan said sometimes to Dr. Kennedy, he 
 thought he hardly need be there at all, so 
 little did there seem to be for him to arrange 
 or interfere with. 
 
 There mio;ht be vexations connected with his 
 work. No doubt there were. With a set of untu- 
 tored " navvies " to be dealt with, not to speak of 
 various under-clerks and overlookers, besides 
 the Local Committee and London Board of 
 Direction ; and with occasional small bogs to 
 fill up, and embankments to be made, and a 
 plaguy stream that ran into the river just 
 below Glinton, over which a bridge had to be 
 carried, it was hardly to be expected that 
 vexations of some kind should not at times 
 occur. 
 
 But Dunstan was never disturbed by them.
 
 268 Rackets Secret. 
 
 They slipped from him without his perceiving 
 them, like water off a duck's back. It was a 
 time to which, in after years, when the cares 
 of middle life had begun to repeat in them- 
 selves some of the troubles of his youth, 
 Dunstan looked back, as we look back amid 
 the heat and flush of summer, to some first 
 glad burst of sunny days, when, after a bleak 
 and clouded March, the sweet spring comes 
 upon us at unawares, and, almost before the 
 last grey streak of drifted snow is melted 
 in the hollows, has slipped over the bare brown 
 hedges her robe of tender green, and spangled 
 every bank and meadow with primroses and 
 daisies. 
 
 For around him and within him the winter 
 was past and the rain was over and gone, the 
 flowers had appeared on the earth, and the 
 time of the sinking of birds was come. And 
 all day long, and even in his dreams, there 
 sang on within his breast a low mysterious 
 song, unheard before, with strange cadences
 
 The Ivory Gates. 269 
 
 that blent in subtle unison with the manifold 
 sweet sounds of nature. The whispering of 
 the wind among the poplar leaves, the twitter- 
 ing of the swallows that had built under the 
 eaves above his window, the low call of the 
 cushat-dove, the clear carol of the lark, the 
 plash of the river swirling round its stones, 
 seemed now to him but as parts of a soft full 
 chorus, of which the thought of Winny Gil- 
 mour supplied the constant theme. 
 
 For though as yet Dunstan was hardly con- 
 scious of the fact, yet this thought of Wini- 
 fred was gradually creeping into his breast, a 
 vague, impalpable presence, unfelt often and 
 unseen, yet filling all the trembling air with 
 a new strange secret of delight. Through his 
 whole life there streamed a mild auroral light, 
 not as yet dazzling enough to blind him to 
 everything save its own exceeding splendour; 
 but like the rosy flush of dawn stealing 
 gently from out the dusk, and warming into 
 beauty all it touched.
 
 270 Rachel 's Secret. 
 
 But of anything like "intentions" towards 
 Winny, Dunstan was guiltless altogether. The 
 idea of marrying and settling, the prose de- 
 tails of house-rent and furnishing, the vexed 
 question of supplies, and the calculation of how 
 little it may be possible for two people to 
 keep body and soul together upon, had never 
 entered his mind in connection with the thought 
 of her. If they had, he would probably have 
 at once dismissed them. For Dunstan was 
 proud as well as poor, and though good 
 blood and good prospects are very well in 
 their way, still a young man cannot exactly 
 make use of them to pay his tradesmen's bills ; 
 and to ask a woman to share his home until 
 he had one to offer her, was a meanness of 
 which Dunstan, for one, never would be 
 guilty. 
 
 So he thought, or so at least he would have 
 thought, though, as everyone knows, complica- 
 tions in the sequence of events do at times
 
 The Ivory Gates. 271 
 
 arise, which make it not easy for a man to 
 answer for the course which, under certain cir- 
 cumstances, he may pursue.
 
 272 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 IN WHICH MRS. MALLINSON ENTERTAIN- 
 QUALITY. 
 
 TT was one evening towards the close of July, 
 -*- just late enough for the sunlight to lie in 
 long golden streaks among the reeds and wil- 
 lows that fringed the bank of the river where 
 Lewis and Dunstan sat with their fishing tackle. 
 Lewis's little green float lay uselessly enough 
 on the surface of the water, for the trout were 
 either too idle or too discreet to venture on 
 more than a passing nibble. His ill-success did 
 not trouble the angler, though. He was in a 
 lazy mood to-day, and to lie on that green 
 bank amongst the fern and moss, watching the 
 float quiver up and down with the gentle mo- 
 tion of the current, and listening to the cool
 
 Mrs. Mallinson Entertains Quality. 273 
 
 plash of the water round the boulders which 
 here and there vexed its course, was enjoyment 
 enough for him. 
 
 Neither did Dunstan care very much whether 
 the basket by his side returned full or empty 
 to the farm, for was not Winifred Gilmour 
 sitting by them, amusing herself by pulling off 
 little bits of bark from the old willow stump, 
 and sending them down the stream ? And did 
 not her girlish voice keep breaking in like 
 merry music upon their long spells of silence ? 
 And where Winifred's voice and Winifred's 
 presence came, there for Dunstan, neither weari- 
 ness nor dulness could ever be. 
 
 "Winifred," said Lewis; and there the lad 
 stopped, for the float dipped beneath the water. 
 It was only one of Winifred's bits of bark, 
 though, that had hit it. 
 
 a Well V inquired his sister, for having paused, 
 it seemed as if Lewis were meaning not to go 
 on again at all. 
 
 "I was thinking we might have that evening 
 
 VOL. I. T
 
 274 Backers Secret. 
 
 at Strensall that we have been talking about so 
 long. Mrs. Kennedy says the heather is just in 
 its beauty now. Mr. Dayne, will you go, if we 
 can manage it, next week? We always go for 
 an evening every July. Doctor and Mrs. Ken- 
 nedy will go with us, but I shall take Prince, 
 I like riding so much better than walking, and 
 so there will just be room for you, and Geordie 
 can be packed in somewhere, though he does 
 get bigger now than he used to be." 
 
 Dun stan looked for his invitation in Winny's 
 face, and found it, too for she brightened up 
 as she said, 
 
 " Yes, Lewis likes riding by himself, because 
 then he is not obliged to talk unless he likes ; 
 and if you could enjoy it, Mr. Dayne, it would 
 be very nice for us all to go together. Stren- 
 sall is such a pleasant place to go to, and the 
 kindest old woman in the world gives us our 
 tea, or whatever else we choose to have. And 
 then we go rambling over the moor, and try to 
 fancy ourselves in Scotland. Some people say
 
 Mrs. Mallinson Entertains Quality. 275 
 
 it is rather like Scottish scenery, except the 
 mountains and the lakes." 
 
 Dunstan thought that was rather an impor- 
 tant exception, but he did not say so, for a day 
 with Winny would be worth all the lakes and 
 mountains in the British islands, and gladly 
 enough he accepted the invitation she had so 
 frankly seconded. 
 
 So it was all settled. Winny went next 
 morning to the Lodge, and fixed a day for the 
 expedition ; a day when, as the Doctor said that 
 he expected to be about knocked up by a tough 
 article for the "Home and Foreign Quarterly," 
 on which he was writing now from dawn to 
 sunset, he would have no scruples about 
 devoting to enjoyment time that could not be 
 used »for work. And Mrs. Burd, the house- 
 keeper at Kooklands, was directed to make 
 half a dozen little savoury pies such as the 
 Doctor delighted in, and as many apoplectic 
 puffs in Geordie's behalf, and Mrs. Kennedy 
 came forward with a handsome contribution of 
 
 T 2
 
 276 ' Rackets Secret. 
 
 Winny's favourite sweet biscuits ; and Winny 
 had her braided pink gingham suit got up for 
 the occasion, and finally a letter was sent to 
 Nancy Mallinson, bidding her have the kettle 
 boiling at five of the clock on Saturday after- 
 noon, Dr. Kennedy's useless day. 
 
 Which epistle, written by Winny's hand on 
 the daintiest of creamdaid note, and sealed with 
 a tiny seal bearing the crest of Rooklands, was 
 read and inwardly digested* by the worthy wo- 
 man to whom it was addressed, with feelings in 
 which it would be hard to say whether exulta- 
 tion or affection most largely mingled. For if 
 there w;as one day in all the year whose re- 
 cord was inscribed in golden characters on the 
 tablets of her honest old heart, it was this, on 
 which the " quality from Glinton " came to pay 
 her their annual visit. As her husband used to 
 say, with a curious mixture of pity and fond- 
 ness, 
 
 " She's nobbut a woman, isn't Nancy, bless 
 her!"
 
 Mrs. Mallinson Entertains Quality. 211 
 
 And she had a woman's innocent love of distinc- 
 tion and admiration. No duchess, standing velvet- 
 robed in her ancestral halls to welcome a visit 
 from Royalty itself, could have felt her bosom 
 swell with prouder emotion than that which 
 caused Nancy Mallinson's lilac kerchief to 
 tremble over the womanly heart which it 
 covered, when Mr. Gilmour's four-wheel drew 
 up before her cottage door, and Winny, who, 
 in consideration of the old woman's little weak- 
 ness, always came in a carefully-prepared costume, 
 fluttered the pretty draperies in the flagged 
 kitchen, or walked side by side with her de- 
 lighted hostess over the six-acre farm, admiring 
 the poultry, inquiring after the welfare of the 
 pigs, or praising the brindled cow who stared so 
 patiently at them from under the great elm- 
 tree at the bottom of the willow pasture. 
 
 But Nancy's greatest triumph, the time at 
 which her honest pride reached its culmi- 
 nating point, was towards the close of the even- 
 ing, when the anxiety consequent on hospit-
 
 278 RacheVs Secret. 
 
 able cares having subsided, she used to put 
 on her best bonnet and cloak, and take her 
 company round the village, professedly to show 
 them some remarkably resplendent garden be- 
 longing to one of the cottages, or to see some 
 little alterations which had been made since 
 their last visit, but in reality to exhibit to the 
 awe-stricken gaze of the rustic population Mrs. 
 Kennedy's real silk gown with trimming half-a- 
 yard up the bottom, and Miss Winifred's Leg- 
 horn hat, "all the way from London, an' the 
 beautifullest feather ever was see'd, hiding itself 
 among her bonny brown curls." 
 
 Oh ! how proud Nancy felt then. How the 
 bow on her time-worn black bonnet quivered in 
 triumph as the dirty children scampered off one 
 after another to their mothers, with the intelli- 
 gence that "old Mrs. Mallinson were bringing 
 the quality from Glinton up the street." Which 
 intelligence was always followed by much sub- 
 dued peeping out of half-closed doors, and whis- 
 pered exclamations of,
 
 Mrs. Mallinson Entertains Quality. 279 
 
 " Laws now ! But don't they look beau- 
 tiful." 
 
 Poor Nancy Mallinson ! " Nobbut a woman," 
 truly, but one of the simplest, honestest of the 
 sisterhood that was ever looked down upon from 
 man's superior attitude. 
 
 " Ye ought to ha' corned to your dinners," 
 she said, as the Doctor and Mrs. Kennedy, 
 with Winny, Lewis, and Dunstan, having 
 sauntered over the farm, and duly admired 
 the stock, had seated themselves round the 
 table in Nancy's clean little kitchen, where 
 a nondescript meal, half-dinner, half-tea, was 
 spread out on a table covered by a spotless 
 " huckaback" cloth. "Ye ought to ha' corned 
 to your dinners, an' me fettling up such a rare 
 un' as I'd done. A fowl as my master and me's 
 been feeding of this month back for Bedesby 
 market, an' a bit o' salt beef, an' a batter 
 pudden as you never set eyes on such a one 
 for lightness, and then to go an' put one off 
 wi' naught but coming to your teas, an' bring-
 
 280 Rackets Secret. 
 
 ing your own stuff with you, as if you wasn't 
 sure of a welcome to the best my master and 
 me could get." 
 
 "But, Nancy, we told you only to have the 
 kettle boiling, you know. Nothing else but 
 that," said Winny, who had noticed Nancy's 
 grieved look as the savoury pies, the puffs, and 
 the biscuits made their exit from the basket 
 in which Mrs. Burd had packed them. "Just 
 the kettle boiling, you know — we didn't mean to 
 come to dinner, or we would have sent you 
 word." 
 
 u Whisht, whisht, honey! Folks can't live 
 on kettles of boiling water as I ever heerd tell 
 on, and I looked for it as you'd be here by 
 noon, and I'd gathered up all the knives as I 
 could find, for you know, Miss Winifred, you 
 never corned no more nor five of you afore, 
 and I'd just knives enough to fix you then." 
 
 And Nancy, whose greatest earthly wish was 
 to see her pet comfortably married, cast a scru- 
 tinizing glance towards Dunstan, balancing,
 
 Mrs. Mallinson Entertains Quality. 281 
 
 doubtless, in her own mind between him and 
 Mr. Cyril Kennedy. For Mrs. Kennedy was 
 not the only person in the world to whose mind 
 certain contingencies respecting her son had 
 suggested themselves. Dunstan, however, did not 
 see Nancy's glance, for he was caressing a big 
 sheep-dog who had just come in to pay his 
 respects to the "quality from Glinton," but 
 Mrs. Kennedy did, and, with a woman's free- 
 masonry, she no doubt comprehended it. 
 
 " And I borrowed two or three platters o' 
 Mrs. Wiggins," continued Nancy ; u not as I'd 
 go for to tell her I hadn't plenty, an' her the 
 proudest woman in all the parish o' Strensall, 
 as I should never have heard the last on it, if 
 she thought I hadn't as much of everything as 
 herself. But I telled her I'd got some o' the 
 Glinton gentlefolks a-coming to see me, as I'd 
 promised to let them see that old delf of hers 
 she sets such store by. And law ! she fetched 
 it out as pleased as pleased, for if there's a 
 woman more nor another in this parish as likes
 
 282 Racked Secret. 
 
 to creep up quality's sleeve, it's Mrs. Wiggins." 
 
 And Nancy, who prided herself on never 
 creeping up quality's sleeve, or, indeed, being in 
 any way affected by their influence, looked dis- 
 dainful. 
 
 " I didn't need to borrow for spoons, though," 
 she said, after a little interval, during which she 
 had been into the back kitchen to fetch the 
 tea-pot. "Them spoons as you're a-supping 
 with, Miss Winifred, is real silver, none of your 
 'lectry plate, as folks calls it, just a bit of sum- 
 mut good on t' outside, like folks' manners as 
 hasn't good blood in their veins. I had them there 
 spoons in a present, Miss Winifred, when I lived 
 maid with your father's own aunt, forty year ago 
 an' more. She give 'em me herself for house- 
 keeping as soon as she knew I'd gotten a young 
 man as was likely. They was old-fashioned 
 even then, for she'd had 'em laid by a good bit, 
 but they're the real thing, good through an' 
 through. I allays feels myself sort o' respect- 
 able when I looks at them there spoons. It's a
 
 Mrs. Mallinson Entertains Quality. 283 
 
 fine thing is old plate, for giving a family a 
 good look." 
 
 And then Nancy bustled away to fill the tea- 
 pot, coming back again to the spoons, however, 
 as soon as she returned. 
 
 "I cleans 'em reg'lar of a Saturday, though 
 1 don't never use 'em, let alone when the 
 quality comes to see me once a year. And 
 then, when they're polished up I lays 'em down 
 in a row, an' I looks at 'em, an' sometimes, 
 when I sees Mrs. Wiggins a-coming up the 
 town, I nips 'em out and begins rubbing of 'em 
 at the window, so as she can see 'em going by. 
 For Mrs. Wiggins hasn't got no plate, for all 
 she's as proud as there isn't another woman in 
 the parish prouder. And I allays thinks it 
 keeps her a bit humble to see other folk's 
 things as she hasn't got so good. Folks had 
 ought to be kep' humble, as our clergyman 
 allays says." 
 
 "But what shall you do with them when 
 you die*?" asked Winny, as she listened to the
 
 284 RacheFs Secret. 
 
 honest woman's discourse upon her spoons ; those 
 quaint, old-fashioned spoons, which fingers long 
 ago mouldered in the Eookland vault at Glinton 
 Church, had once played with, as hers played 
 with them now. 
 
 "Ay, Miss!" and a somewhat perplexed look 
 came over Nancy's face. "That's what's laid 
 hard upon my mind this good bit past. There's 
 a niece of mine lives out in place as I didn't 
 know but what I should let her have them, seeing 
 she's all the kin I have left, and a likely young 
 woman too, and one as would pay a proper re- 
 spect to having of 'em cleaned and waited on as 
 old plate has a right to. An' I telled her last 
 back-end as I'd about fixed 'em to her. But 
 she's got a young man as isn't to my way o' 
 thinking, an' I says to her last time she was 
 here — you see, knowing as the spoons is to be 
 left, she comes pretty oft — ' Bessy,' says I, 'if 
 you get that there young man you don't get no 
 spoons o' mine.' Because you see, Miss Winny, 
 though there was naught about him to take
 
 Mrs. Mallinson Entertains Quality. 285 
 
 hold on, yet it lay strong on my mind as he 
 was the sort to take to liquor, and then the 
 spoons 'ud be melted up in no time, for it's a 
 terrible thing is drink for melting up plate, let 
 alone the respectability as belongs to it. So 
 says I to her, i Bessy,' says I, 'the spoons goes, 
 or the young man goes, which you like, but 
 you don't get 'em both.' " 
 
 " And which did she keep, Nancy ?" asked 
 Dunstan with a smile. 
 
 "The young man, sir, an' more to blame 
 she, for saving your presence, sir, men is 
 plentiful enough for any young woman who 
 bides her time an' behaves respectful; but it 
 isn't everyone who has a chance of six real 
 silver spoons to set themselves up with. And 
 so there the spoons is, and I don't know, Miss 
 Winifred, but what you've a chance to get 
 'em yourself." 
 
 At last Mrs. Kennedy said they must set 
 off to the moor, or sunset would be over. 
 Even now the queer old Dutch clock that
 
 286 BacheV s Secret, 
 
 stood by the chimney-corner was upon the 
 stroke of six, and it was a long way to the 
 moor, not less than a mile, to take the nearest 
 path across the fields. 
 
 Nancy looked disappointed as the little 
 party began to prepare for setting out. She 
 dearly loved to talk to the quality, to have 
 them sitting in that comfortable front kitchen 
 of hers, with the door just open that stray 
 passers-by might see the sheen of silken rai- 
 ment, and catch the dainty accents of high- 
 born voices in speech so different from their 
 rustic tongue. 
 
 "You'll come back soon," she said, as Winny 
 tied on her hat. "You'll come back soon, 
 leddies. Mrs. Kennedy will none think of 
 your going home without seeing the new 
 cottages at the top of the village, and there's 
 Mrs. Wiggins has the beautifullest lot of 
 young chickens come off night afore last, as 
 she'd be proud to show 'em to Miss Wini- 
 fred, an' give her t' pick of 'em if she fancied
 
 Mrs. Mallinson Entertains Quality. 287 
 
 one. You're like to see 'em, Miss, afore you 
 go, an' it's a good step to Mrs. Wiggins'." 
 
 Certainly it was, and Nancy, innocent dip- 
 lomatist, was in nowise disposed to lose the 
 opportunity of walking with her " quality" down 
 the village. So Mrs. Kennedy promised to be 
 back in time, and then they all set off to the 
 moor.
 
 288 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 OUT ON THE MOOR. 
 
 HTRENSALL MOOR was a rugged un- 
 U claimed tract of land, which stretched 
 away northward of the village until it skirted 
 the rugged sides of the Blackstone hills. It was 
 not beautiful, save when, as now, the heather 
 bloomed upon it, and the July sunset warmed 
 into a purple glow those great sweeps of 
 furzy common which in spring and winter 
 looked so desolate and defiant. There were 
 no leafy glens, or primrose-covered banks, or 
 streams on whose quiet waters lilies swayed 
 in rest, and blue forget-me-nots bloomed upon 
 the brink. Instead, there was ridge after 
 ridge of billowy hillocks covered with long 
 wiry grass, or purpled, as now, by the hea-
 
 Out on the Moor. 289 
 
 ther ; tall clumps of yellow gorse, and ferny 
 hollows where you might lie for hours, hear- 
 ing no sound of life beyond the plover's 
 scream, or the drowsy humming of the bees. 
 
 This was what the little party saw as they 
 wandered on and on, till at last Lewis threw 
 himself down on a bed of fern, declaring 
 himself too tired to go any further; and Mrs. 
 Kennedy followed his example, saying that the 
 others, if they liked, could ramble on together, 
 leaving her and Lewis to return by themselves. 
 So, with some little demur from Winny, they 
 agreed to separate, and, with the understanding 
 that by eight o'clock they were all to be at 
 Nancy's cottage again, she and the Doctor, 
 with Dunstan, set off to explore a little on 
 their own account. 
 
 But they had not gone far before Winny 
 began to wish that she had stayed behind 
 with Mrs. Kennedy and her brother. The 
 Doctor, as we have already hinted, was not 
 without some little peculiarities of his own, 
 VOL. I, U
 
 290 Backers Secret. 
 
 one of which was an innocent and perfectly- 
 natural aversion to finding himself, under any 
 circumstances, a person of secondary considera- 
 tion in whatever company he might chance to 
 be. It disturbed his equanimity, if so much 
 as a dog indicated a preference for being 
 patted by any other hand than his. A gra- 
 cious weakness, over which the mantle of 
 charity may lovingly be cast, seeing that in 
 his case it sprang, not from vanity or self- 
 display, but from an almost womanly delight 
 in sunning himself in the favour and good- 
 will of those about him. Still it was a weak- 
 ness, and one which, on the present occasion, 
 Dunstan unwittingly called into play. 
 
 For how could he be expected to be chiefly, 
 not to say entirely, engrossed by the conver- 
 sation of a middle-aged gentleman who was 
 getting gray upon the temples, even if the 
 middle-aged gentleman was Doctor Kennedy 
 himself, when by the Doctors side Winifred 
 Gilmour was tripping along in that pretty
 
 Out on the Moor. 291 
 
 pink gingham which she had put on to please 
 old Nancy Mallinson, dancing off every now 
 and then to pluck some noble fox-glove spire, 
 or to get such a dear little spray of heath, 
 with the loveliest cluster of purple bells, that 
 might do to ring for a fairy's wedding, or 
 stepping cautiously down some ferny bank to 
 reach a tuft of emerald-tinted moss, a stray 
 breeze the while fluttering away the braided 
 gingham, and discovering a foot so dainty that 
 it seemed almost to caress the flowers it trod 
 upon. 
 
 But the Doctor, having his head still full 
 of the article on the Crimean war which was 
 even then passing through the post on its 
 way to the London editor, was a little put 
 out at the intermitting attention paid by Dun- 
 stan to a somewhat detailed exposition of the 
 views therein propounded, and perceiving its 
 cause, was minded, with a touch of perversity, 
 to visit his companion's absent mood on Wini- 
 fred's unconscious head. 
 
 U 2
 
 292 Rackets Secret. 
 
 So the girl, finding that he said only 
 " Pish !" and " Pshaw !" when she interrupted 
 them with her little appeals for admiration of 
 her treasures — Winny was such a warm- 
 hearted, sociable little thing that she never 
 could properly enjoy anything, even the find- 
 ing of a blue-bell, unless she could share 
 her pleasure with some one else — began to sub- 
 side a little from her joyous mood, and walked 
 along more soberly beside the Doctor, carry- 
 ing her bunch of heath and fox-glove in her 
 hand. 
 
 But she did not understand at all the sub- 
 ject of their conversation. As I think I have 
 said before, Winny was not at all "superior," 
 and " tactics " and " foreign policy " and the 
 like, did not sound half so nice, she was sure, 
 as even Nancy's discourse about her spoons. 
 She almost wished she had stayed behind, for 
 neither of them took any notice of her, and it 
 felt even duller than if she had been quite alone. 
 
 It was the " article " about which the Doc-
 
 Out on the Moor. 293 
 
 tor was talking so confidentially to Dunstan ; 
 she knew that, and fancying from his subdued 
 tone that she was not meant to hear what 
 was going on, she took the hint — for Winny 
 was very sensitive about intruding herself where 
 her company was not desired — and fell a little 
 in the rear. Dunstan would have liked to 
 have fallen behind too, but the Doctor had 
 got him, figuratively speaking, by the button- 
 hole, so that there was no release. He could 
 only submit to his fate with the best grace 
 he could, and mentally wish the Doctor in his 
 study at home, working still upon this un- 
 palatable article. 
 
 But Winny soon consoled herself, for pre- 
 sently she spied, upon a spray of fern, a splen- 
 did blue butterfly, of a kind that was to be 
 met with only on the moor. Such a beauty, 
 with his wings outspread, and Lewis had been 
 wanting so to see one of these blue butter- 
 flies. It would be so easy to catch it, for 
 it seemed to be asleep upon the fern. She
 
 294 Rachels Secret. 
 
 took her little cambric handkerchief and dropped 
 it lightly over the leaf. Her eves sparkled with 
 delight. She had it safe ! And now, how to 
 carry it away, for if she took it in the hand- 
 kerchief, it would get its wings, poor thing, 
 so crushed and spoiled? She remembered that 
 she had Mrs. Kennedy's note in the pocket 
 of her frock. She took it out, and sitting 
 down upon the bank, in a moment or two 
 she had a little paper box, such as the chil- 
 dren call a "fly-cage," cleverly constructed. She 
 could carry her prize safe enough in that, if 
 she could but get it nicely in. Yes, there it 
 was, so comfortably shut up inside, with a 
 little bit of heath and fern as well. And now 
 she must get up and follow her companions, 
 who must be some way ahead of her by this 
 time. 
 
 They were indeed ahead of her. She had 
 sat longer than she had imagined, and when 
 she looked up they were nowhere to be seen. 
 They must be beyond some of those furzy
 
 Out on the Moor. 295 
 
 mounds, she thought. It was so easy to lose 
 sight of one another among the hills and 
 hollows on the moor, and, carrying her box 
 very carefully, she ran on as fast as she could, 
 hoping to find them soon again. 
 
 But she passed one after another of the tall 
 clumps of heath and furze, and still no Doctor 
 Kennedy or Mr. Dayne appeared in view. 
 They could not be very far away, however, 
 and seeing, a little further on, a bit of high 
 craggy ground, whence she could command a 
 prospect for some distance round, she made her 
 way to it, sure that then she should discover 
 them. 
 
 But the bit of crag was not so near as she 
 supposed. It seemed almost to recede as she 
 advanced, and even when, at last, she reached 
 it, tired and out of breath, she was as far as 
 ever from success. And now she began to 
 feel a little perplexed. She stood still and 
 called aloud. No answer came. She should 
 have done that sooner ; thev were out of
 
 296 Rachels Secret. 
 
 hearing now, as well as out of sight. The 
 only thing would be to go back alone ; but 
 then, doubtless, they also would be seeking her. 
 She would go just a little further, and then, 
 if she did not see them, she must return alone, 
 or it would be too late to go down the village 
 with Nancy, and it would be such a pity to 
 disappoint the old woman of her walk. 
 
 But there was little chance now, in that 
 furzy wilderness, of finding her companions. 
 She walked on a little while, feeling rather 
 uncomfortable. It was so careless of her to 
 have let them get out of sight before she went 
 after them. But then Lewis would be so 
 pleased with the blue butterfly. And Winny 
 opened her box a little, and peeped in very 
 cautiously, and then, with one final look of 
 survey, she turned and set off by herself again 
 towards Nancy's cottage.
 
 297 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 EUPHRASY. 
 
 TI7INNY went back a few steps, and then 
 ' * came to a stand in some little per- 
 plexity. For, to reach that bit of crag, she 
 had gone out of the narrow track that 
 threaded the moor, and now she was not quite 
 sure which way to turn in order to get into 
 it again. She paused a moment, considering, 
 and then, plunging through a sea of billowing 
 fern, found herself presently in a path, though 
 whether, after all, it was the right one or 
 not, she could not quite determine. It seemed, 
 iiowever, to lead towards the sunsetting, and 
 Nancy's cottage, she remembered, was some- 
 where in that direction. She would try it, at 
 all events.
 
 298 Rackets Secret. 
 
 But as she went on it seemed unfamiliar 
 to her, and by-and-by it took a bend, and 
 then she came to a little pool that lay beside 
 it, its banks feathered by bracken and fox- 
 glove. Certainly she had not passed this pool 
 before. She must be wrong somehow, and 
 yet how to get right she could not tell. She 
 wandered on awhile, but there seemed to be 
 no other path leading out of it. And it 
 was so long, much longer, she was sure, than 
 that by which they had come. She began to 
 feel uneasy. It must be growing late too, 
 past eight o'clock, she was sure, for the red 
 glow of sunset was fading from the western 
 skjr, and the distant clumps of gorse and 
 heather had begun already to blacken in the 
 twilight. 
 
 She grew more than uneasy now. Suppose 
 she should lose her way ! And with the thought 
 she hurried on more rapidly, in the vague 
 hope of meeting with something or some one 
 that should guide her steps aright. But she
 
 Eupltrasy. 299 
 
 only seemed to get further and further wrong. 
 The mists, too, began to rise, filling the hollows 
 with a dense white vapour, above which rose 
 the dark knolls of furze and heather. And 
 every moment it grew more dusk and damp, 
 though still she toiled on, trembling now with 
 weariness and excitement, and not knowing 
 whether each step she took might not in 
 reality be leading her only further away from 
 where she wished to be. 
 
 She sat down at last on a bit of stone, too 
 spent to go on any further. And now she 
 began to feel herself chill as well as tired, 
 for the long grass was wet with dew, and the 
 air damp with the mists that were fast 
 thickening over the moor, and blotting out 
 every landmark by which she might steer her 
 doubtful way. 
 
 She rested for a moment or two, and then 
 got up and pushed on desperately for awhile. 
 But again her forces failed her. She had been 
 wandering about now for nearly two hours
 
 300 Backers Secret. 
 
 since the sun had gone down behind the 
 distant hills, and both her strength and courage 
 were exhausted. She sank down on a knoll of 
 heath, wearied and footsore, but shrinking, 
 above all, from the thought that she might 
 have to spend the whole long night alone out 
 on that desolate moor. 
 
 Where were they all % Surely some one would 
 find her before it got quite dark! And if 
 they did not? She set her face and listened. 
 Perhaps they might be somewhere calling her. 
 She felt too faint and frightened now to call 
 out again very loudly herself. But she heard 
 nothing, save the whistle of the night wind 
 through the crisp heather stalks. Oh ! what 
 should she do % It was getting so cold, too, 
 and her thin gingham frock was all limp 
 with damp. She pulled her little cloak shud- 
 deringly over her shoulders, and crouching back 
 against a rough furze bush that grew up 
 behind her, she leaned down her face into her 
 hands, and began to cry.
 
 Euphrasy. 301 
 
 She thought nothing, poor child, of the 
 actual danger of her position. All she was 
 longing for was to be warm, just to be warm, 
 and to have some one near her in this terrible 
 gloom. For now eerie fancies came swarming 
 round her like ghosts in the pale glimmering 
 light. She thought of the story of the dead 
 woman and her baby; of the White Lady 
 that was said to walk the Cedar Avenue ; 
 and the tall black whins and creeping mists 
 seemed to her excited imagination to change 
 themselves into shadowy half-human forms, as 
 she glanced fearfully around her. 
 
 She moaned aloud ; but the sound of her 
 own voice through the silence frightened her. 
 She dare not move. Oh, for some one to be 
 with her ! even the dog ; something living 
 and familiar, that she should not be afraid to 
 touch ; anything, no matter what, to save 
 her from this terrible sensation of being 
 alone, yet not alone, on that dark desolate 
 moor.
 
 302 Rachels Secret. 
 
 Look where she would, that spectral figure 
 seemed to loom before her with the moon- 
 light shimmering on its ghastly face. She shut 
 her eyes, but the tormenting vision still was there. 
 With a kind of wild longing, she thought of 
 the blazing fire in Nancy's cottage, and of the 
 warm seat within the chimney corner. But 
 always opposite to her there sat the stark 
 figure with the baby in its arms. She shriek- 
 ed out, and then hushed herself, as again her 
 voice sounded strangely amid the low hissing 
 of the wind. She could feel the blood curd- 
 ling round her heart — creeping coldly through 
 her veins. Her forces left her, the life was 
 shuddering within her, strange weird sounds 
 seemed hissing round her through the dusk, 
 and then suddenly a ruddy light gleamed 
 across her eyes, a voice near at hand pro- 
 nounced her name ; she looked up, and Dun- 
 stan Dayne stood before her, with a lantern 
 in his hand, whose light he had just cast full 
 upon her face.
 
 Euphrasy. 303 
 
 That dreadful shape was gone. Some one 
 was near her — who it mattered not — but she was 
 no longer alone there in the night. She closed 
 her eyes, and with a sobbing sigh leaned back 
 against the bush of furze. The spent forces 
 could do no more. She was safe, and that 
 was enough. 
 
 It was Dunstan who was frightened now. 
 Close upon the quick thrill that ran through 
 him as he caught sight of her sitting there 
 upon the ground, was alarm at her pale and 
 languid ' look. He sought hurriedly for the 
 flask with which Mrs. Kennedy had provided 
 him. But to his dismay the pocket he had 
 put it in was empty ! It must have fallen 
 out as he was clambering some of those steep 
 crags. 
 
 "Miss Gilmour! — Miss Gilmour!" he cried, 
 for she looked as if she was just ready to 
 faint. 
 
 But Winny seemed not to hear. Her eyes 
 were closed, her head fallen back, her arms
 
 304 Rackets Secret. 
 
 dropped heavily by her side. But she was not 
 fainting, however, though she looked as if she were. 
 She was simply overcome by that sudden shock 
 of relief, in which, for the moment, everything 
 resolved itself into the one intense consciousness 
 that she was safe at last. 
 
 Dunstan was rather perplexed. To the 
 best of his knowledge, when ladies fainted, it 
 was generally in church, and then they had to 
 be carried out. That was about the extent of 
 his experience. But though they were not 
 much more than a mile from Nancy's cottage — 
 for Winny had wandered, unconscious of the 
 fact, almost to the edge of the moor — yet 
 he could not very well take her up and carry 
 her there himself. People seldom do that sort 
 of thing except in story-books, and Dunstan was 
 not in a story book, but standing out there 
 among the whin bushes on the moor, with a 
 lantern in his hand. 
 
 But while he stood looking doubtfully upon 
 her, uncertain what he had better do, she opened
 
 Euphrasy. 305 
 
 her eyes, and then slowly, recollection seemed to 
 return. 
 
 " I was so frightened," she said, in a sobbing, 
 trembling voice, " I was so frightened, and it got 
 so cold!" 
 
 There was something, at all events, to do. 
 Dunstan pulled off his light overcoat, and 
 wrapped it round her as well as he could. It 
 hung rather awkwardly, to be sure, with the empty 
 sleeves dangling outside, but it felt warm round 
 the little starved shoulders, and it seemed to 
 shake her back to life, for she smiled, and said 
 in a tone more like herself, 
 
 " I had lost myself. Where are we ? It must 
 be very late." 
 
 " Past ten, I should think," said Dunstan ; 
 " but you are not far from home. We are 
 just at the edge of the moor. Only I am 
 afraid you are hardly able to walk just yet." 
 
 "Oh! yes, I am," she answered, rousing up 
 now, as her spirits returned with the feeling of 
 security ; " let us go." 
 
 VOL. I. X
 
 306 Rackets Secret. 
 
 And she rose, but not very steadily, and 
 took a step or two as if anxious to be 
 gone. 
 
 Dunstan offered her his arm. 
 
 " It will help you a little," he said ; " you must 
 be dreadfully tired." 
 
 Winny took it. Indeed, she could not have 
 gone many steps without assistance, for she was 
 still faint and weary, and her little feet were 
 sore with walking so long over the slippery 
 heather. But Dunstan's strength was sufficient 
 for them both. He did not talk to her, or in- 
 quire how it was that she had missed them. 
 He saw she was too tired for that, and that the 
 greatest kindness would be to let her be still ; 
 but he made her lean upon him, and when her 
 footsteps flagged, he helped her on — and so, 
 half-walking, half-carried, poor Winny found 
 herself at last safe at the door of Nancy's cot- 
 tage, to the infinite relief of the old woman 
 and of Mrs. Kennedy. 
 
 Dr. Kennedy was not there to welcome them.
 
 Euphrasy. 307 
 
 He was out on the moor with Robin, Nancy's 
 husband, and several people from the village 
 who had gone to help them in their search. 
 Lewis, too, had returned to Glinton on his 
 pony; for Mrs. Kennedy, who was a woman of 
 great tact and presence of mind, and always 
 knew exactly what to do on an emergency, had 
 dispatched him for Mr. Strangways, the surgeon, 
 so that, if need be, his services might be forth- 
 coming. 
 
 Happily Winny did not require them, and 
 when she had drunk the hot mulled wine which 
 had been prepared in readiness for her, and had 
 had something to eat, she brightened up and 
 declared herself quite fresh again, and would by 
 no means listen to Mrs. Kennedy's proposal 
 that she should be put at once into Nancy's 
 own bed, to sleep off there the effects of her 
 nocturnal ramble. 
 
 So the phaeton, which had been standing 
 ready to start for the last hour and a half, was 
 brought round to the door. Mrs. Kennedy
 
 308 RacheTs Secret. 
 
 said they had better not wait until Dr. Kennedy 
 came in, but leave him to return with Mr. 
 Strangways in his gig. And Winny, after much 
 protestation on her part, was settled as com- 
 fortably as possible in the roomy front seat, 
 and Mrs. Kennedy took her place behind, and 
 with Dunstan to drive, they set off home, while 
 old Nancy, with tears in her eyes, stood at her 
 door, and watched her darling away. 
 
 They drove on quickly, but whether from the 
 effects of the hot mulled wine, or from having 
 been so thoroughly wearied out, Winny, long 
 before they reached the gates of Rooklands, 
 was leaning back with her head against the 
 cushion of the carriage, fast asleep. Again and 
 again Dunstan looked round at the fair young 
 face so clear and still as it lay with the glow 
 of the carriage lamp falling on it, and as he 
 looked, there crept into his soul a feeling of 
 yearning tenderness for the little helpless crea- 
 ture beside him, a feeling touched for the mo- 
 ment by no thought of her beauty, pure as that
 
 Euphrasy, 309 
 
 of the mother for the infant sleeping on her 
 breast ; one that he had felt for no other wo- 
 man in his life before. It was just a great 
 longing, unknown till now, to take that little 
 fragile form once and for ever into his own 
 safe keeping, and cover that fair head with the 
 shield of a love strong enough to defend it 
 from everything that might harm. For Dunstan 
 knew now, what he had never known before, 
 that if he ever married, it was Winifred Gil- 
 mour whom he would choose out of all the 
 world to be his wife. 
 
 END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 LONDON : PRINTED BY MACDONALD AND TUGWELL, BLENHEEVI HOUSK.
 
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