acmBMg a>wWBrHi7irg»^w mir4z^i4mmmwm wmtgamaimmmtaaBasaaaBammiam l\fo NfEWTH Wej/oj^/?/^ <^«? 'r^^' -'■ ^'^im,, ,~ ^t^'aC- : .^- S- 't'^^^S^^:>.'f V- ;< ^. ^.- r-j / IS 25 Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2010 with funding from University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign http://www.archive.org/details/nonewthing01norr NO NEW THING NO NEW THING BY W. E. NORRIS AUTHOK OF ' HATRMOKY ' ' MADEMOISELLE DE IIERSAC ' ETC. IX THREE VOLUMES YOL. I. LONDON SMITH, ELDER, & CO., 15 WATERLOO PLACE 1883 {All rights reserved] ^Z3 f V. \ ) CONTENTS OF THE FIKST VOLUME. PAGE FRIENDSHIP I MRS. STANNIFOKTH S NEIGHEOURS .... 36 III. DISTRUST . . 59 IV. THE EISIKG AND THE SETTING SUN ... 83 V. THE YOUNG GENERATION 108 - YI. THE wanderer's RETURN 131 t YII. COLONEL KENYON LOOKS ON 153 ^^ VIII. COOMASSIE VILLA 178 IX, MISS BRUNE's PARTNER 205 •4 X. MR. STANNIFORTH MAKES FRIENDS . . .231 NI. COLONEL KENYON GOES TO CHURCH . , . . 255 ^ XII. PHILIP EXEMPLIFIES A THEORY .... 2S2 4 k- tsC i NO NEW THING. CHAPTER 1. ^ FRIENDSHIP. It is now close upon three thousand years since an old king in Jerusalem sat down in some weariness and bitterness of spirit to record his conviction that nothing new was discoverable by human wisdom : ' The thing that hath been, it is that which shall be ; and that which is done is that which shall be done ; and there is no new thing under the sun.' A later and less famous philosopher has added to this that there is nothing true, together with the comfortable conclusion that ' it don't signify.' To such extreme lengths not many of us will be pre- pared to go ; but it will be agreed on all hands that our common mortal nature remains much the same to-day as it was in King Solomon's time. Xow, as then, gardens and orchards, men-singers and women-singers, gold and silver, VOL. I. B Z NO NEW THING. and all the cleliglits of tlie sons of men can bestow nothing but satiety ; now, as then, the experience of all the past generations is of very little service to the passing one ; now, as then, the wise man's eyes are in his head, while the fool walketh in darkness, and one event hap- peneth to them all ; very much the same vices and virtues flourish, and meet with very much the same deo'ree of recoo^nition. And so, when a small novelist of the nineteenth century takes up his pen to describe, within the limits of his small capacity, that infinitesimal section of humanity which has come under his own observation, no one, surely — except a very unreasonable person — will expect his work to be novel in anything save the name. The following story, then, will professedly contain nothing new. The personages who are to figure in it will be, without exception, unre- markable personages. There will be good and bad folks among them ; but none of these will be very good or very bad, and the events of their several and joint lives will not be half so startling as many that may be read of in the newspapers every day. It is to be hoped, however, that readers will not allow themselves to be discouraged by the candour of this preliminary confession, but will plod cheerfully on ; and wlio knows but that, rPcIEXDSHIP. 3 before they reach the last words of the last chapter, they may light upon somethmg that •will be at any rate new to them ? — seeing that they will not be all of them Solomons. For, although there be nothing new in the planet which we inhabit, it by no means follows that phenomena calculated to fill us with the most profound astonishment are not daily occurring upon its surface. Are we not invariably aston- ished by some proof that our fellow-creatures are made of the same clay as ourselves ? Does not ingratitude, for instance, shock to the full as much as it angers us, especially when we suffer personally in consequence of it? When we are brou^rht face to face with selfishness, baseness, infidelity, are we not usually as much surprised at the sorry spectacle as if such fail- ings had never been heard of before, and as if we ourselves were wholly exempt from them? Does any man understand how his neighbour can be so utterly stupid as to fall a victim to self-deception ? All these qualities, and their opposites, will appear incidentally in the course of the ensuing pages; so that the fault will lie with the writer, not with the subject, if no interest is felt in the persons treated of; the first of whom shall, without further waste of words, be introduced upon the scene as he hurries along the platform B 2 4 NO NEW THING. of the Chai :ing Cross station on a bright summer's morning. ^ Guard/ says he, ' I want a smoking- carriage/ ' Yery good, sir/ * And — here you are, guard.' ' Thank you, sir.' ' Just lock the door, will you, till we're off ? I don't want anybody else in here.' ' I'll do the best I can, sir,' says the func- tionary, making nse of the time-honoured formula of his genus; and apparently his efforts to earn five shillings in defiance of the Com- pany's regulations are crowned with the success which honest labour merits, for presently the train glides out of the station with but one occupant of the carriage in question. The passenger who had displayed so great a love of privacy as to require an entire smoking- compartment for his own use lit a cigar, sighed heavily once or twice, and dropped into a brown study, which, judging by the frown on his brow and the worried expression of his face, must have had some intricate and perplexing matter for its starting-point. He was a tall, thin man, whom some people might have called fine-looking, but whom no one, probably, would have considered handsome. He had a pair of pleasant brown eyes, a nose which was decidedly too large for FRIENDSHIP. 5 beauty, and his mouth was concealed by a long moustache, which he twisted and tugged in the course of his meditations. He had in no way the appearance of a young man, although his age at this time could hardly have exceeded three-and -thirty. Some men, as the casual observer has doubtless noticed, preserve the ways and the air of youth up to the confines of middle age ; while others — and these are perhaps the majority — pass through a transition period which is neither the one thino^ nor the other. Our solitary passenger was of the latter class. The casual observer would scarcely have found any- thing sufficiently striking about him to excite curious speculations as to his identity ; but no observer, however casual, could have felt one instant's doubt as to what was his calling in life. He was a soldier from the crown of his closely- cropped head to the tips of his well-blacked boots : and observers with an eye for detail might even have formed a tolerably confident guess at the branch of the service to which he belonged. Had he been an officer of infantry he would not have had a clearly-defined diagonal line across his forehead, separating a corner of white skin from a larger expanse of red-brown ; a hussar or a lancer would have been more fashionably, and a plunger more loudly, dressed. There remain the two scientific corps ; and some b XO J7EW THING. trifling points about this gentleman, such as his attitude, as he sat slightly sideways, his right leg tucked under the seat and his left stretched out stifliy before him, seemed to harmonise with the addresses upon a packet of letters which he presently drew from his pocket — ' Captain Ken- yon, R.H.A., Aldershot.' He had read his letters before, for the envelopes were all torn open; but possibly he may have desired to refresh his memory by reading them again. He ran through the first two or three briskly enough ; they had a legal aspect, and evidently related to matters of busi- ness. But over the last he linoered for a lono; time, often referring back to words already perused, breaking off every now and again to gaze abstractedly out of the window, smiling faintly sometimes, yet sighing even while he smiled, and maintaining always the puzzled and anxious expression of one who has got into a situation of v/hich the full significance is not yet clear to him. This letter was written in a woman's firm, flowing hand, upon paper with a broad black border, and ran as follows : — 'LoxGBorRXE, IStli August. ' My dear Huge, — I ought to have written before this to thank vou for the kind letter which you sent me four months ago ; but I am sure that FRIENDSHIP. 7 I need not really apologise, and that you will know that I did not value your sympathy the less be- cause I could not acknowledge it just at once. If I could have written to anybody, it would have been to you. Xow I am quite able to write, and to talk to you too ; and you need not have any scruple about discussing the business matters which you say we must go into, because I want to hear about them, and to know what my duties are, and where I am to begin, and all the rest. ' And I do very much long to see you. The others mean to be kind, but they don't under- stand ; and of course they cannot, never having had to suffer in quite the same way that I do. It is only you who have the secret of putting yourself in everybody's place, and knowing things that you have never been told, and could not have been told. Do 3'ou remember how poor old nurse used to say, '' There's not a man or woman in Crayminster as can hold a candle to 'Ugh " ? And then the person whom she was addressing would simper, and look down with an air of modest deprecation, till she explained, ^' Bless your soul, I don't mean you ! I mean 'Ugh Kenyon." I reminded them of it yesterday, when we were talking of your coming down ; and I think they were a little shocked at my laughing. They think I ought not to be able to laugh, and at the same time 8 NO NEW THING. they talk of the necessity of my '' rousmg m}^- self," and are in a terrible fright lest I should ^' shut myself up and mope." My father reminds me that I have many duties and responsibilities to face, and a career of great usefulness open to me ; and Mr. Langley warns me to beware of the temptation of a selfish sorrow, and he is convinced that I should be better in mind and body if I went to confession. I don't think I will go to confession ; but of course I should like to be of use to others, if I can, and I do wish and intend to put my wretched self out of sight, and let my neighbours suppose that I have *' got over " my trouble, as everyone is expected to do after a tune. But, oh! dear old Hugh, you know, if nobody else does, that that is quite an impossibility, and that neither four months, nor four years, nor any number of years can make the smallest difference. It won't be the same Margaret whom you used to chase round the Precincts when she was a child, and whom you used to dance with at the county balls when she was a gawky girl — it won't be that Margaret who will meet you to-morrow, but another person altogether, who has somehow got into her skin, and would give anything to be out of it. I died when Jack died : that was the end of my happi- ness and the end of my life. Only someone, who is I, and yet not I, has got to live many FRIENDS HIP. y years longer in a world wliicli is the old world, and yet is a totally new one ; for, like auld Robin Gray's wife, "I'm no like to dee." And so it is all bewilderment and a puzzle ; and I think, if anyone can give the clue to it^ it will be you. You remember how I used to run to you in all my little troubles in the old days ; you were always my best friend. And then you were Jack's best friend too. I have got a few things of his to give you — his gun, and a trout -rod, and some other things. I don't know whether they are good of their kind ; but I thought you would like to have them, so I set them aside for vou. It has been such a comfort to me that he made you his executor. Old Mr. Stanniforth has ^vritten to me : but he seemed to think vou would tell me all that it was necessary for me to know — and I would very much rather have it so. I can't tell you what a relief it will be to me to be able to talk to someone just as I feel. 'I should never have ventured to inflict all this rambling egotism upon anyone but you, and perhaps, after now, I won't make even that exception ; but I know you will forgive it for this once. I have a great deal to tell you and ask you about ; but it will be better said than written. 'Ever your affectionate friend, ' Margaret Stanniforth.' 10 NO XEW THING. ' A comfort to her that Jack made me his executor ! ' muttered Captain Kenyon, as he restored this letter to his pocket, after having perused it often enough to have learnt its con- tents by heart. ' I hope it may be a comfort to her, poor thing ! I hope so, I'm sure, with all my heart. It ain't much of a comfort to me, I know.' He sighed, re -lighted his cigar, which had gone out, and shifted his place from one side of the carriage to the other and then back again. ' Kot that I grudge the trouble, mind you,' he added, apologetically addressing an imaginary hearer, ' nor the — the — awkwardness of it ; it isn't that. But ' He did not finish the sentence, but presently resumed, in a more decided and cheerful voice, ' Well, Lord knows how it will all end ! but for the present my duty is clear and simple enough; there's some con- solation in that.' So he gave his broad shoulders a shake, as though mental burdens could be cast off after that easy fashion, and, turning to the window, looked out at the woods and hills and pastures of the pleasant county where he had been born and bred, and through which the train was now rushing. It was a year since he had last gazed at those familiar scenes and landmarks. Barely twelve months before he had travelled down FEIEXDSHIP. 11 from Aldershot, on just such a sunny summer's morning, to be present at a gay wedding in Crayminster Cathedral. It had been his pleasing duty to act as best man on that occasion, and the bridegroom had been his old friend. Jack Stanniforth, and the bride his still older friend Margaret Winnington, the daughter of the Bishop. The ceremony had been a grand and largely attended one, and had created no small stir in the county, where Mrs. Winnington, whose eldest daughter had recently been led to the altar by no less a personage than Lord Travers, enjoyed that mixture of respect, envy, and detraction which commonly falls to the lot of mothers who marry their daughters well. Jack Stanniforth, to be sure, was hardly so big a fish as Lord Travers, being not only uncon- nected with the aristocracy, but devoid, to all intents and purposes, of so much as an authentic grandfather. But then, as everybody remarked, Kate had been a beauty, whereas Margaret was really almost what you might call a plain girl, and the riches of the Stanniforths were under- stood to be boundless. Big fish or little fish, Jack had, as a matter of fact, been landed by no skill on the part of his future mother-in-law, but simply by his own goodwill and pleasure. He had been brought down into those waters by Hugh Kenyon, who 12 NO NEW THING. was thus responsible, if anyone was, for his subsequent capture ; and it was therefore only right and proper that Hugh should have been present, in his best blue frock-coat and with a sprig of stephanotis in his buttonhole, to stand behind the bridegroom on the auspicious day. Of old Mr. Stanniforth, the wealthy Man- chester merchant, who dwelt in a palace near the city in which he had made his fortune, and who rarely stirred beyond his own park gates, Crayminster knew nothing and London very little; but his two sons had the privilege of a large acquaintance in the metropolis and beyond it, and were as popular as rich, well-mannered, and modest men are sure to be. Tom, the elder, had for some time sat as one of the members for a large manufacturing borough ; Jack, the younger, had entered a smart hussar regiment, and had disported himself therein, during the early years of his youth, to the satisfaction of himself and his brother-officers, and to the intense admiration of the opposite sex, until he had added to all his other charms the crowning one of inheriting unexpectedly a large fortune by the death of a maternal uncle. Upon this he had sent in his papers ; and almost immediately afterwards, having happened to go down to Crayminster with his friend Kenyon, had seen Margaret, had fallen in love with her, and, after FRIENDSHIP. 13 a very brief courtship, had proposed and been accepted. Little as Captain Kenyon had foreseen such a result of his introduction of the ex-hussar to the Bishop's family, his share in bringing it about was not the less gratefully and magnanimously acknowledged by Mrs. Winnington. ^ Dear Hugh,' she had said, in her most benign manner, ' I shall never forget, and I am sure Margaret will never forget, that her happiness has come to her through you.' And this compliment should have been the more agreeable to its recipient, inasmuch as Mrs. Winnington had not always been used to address him in so friendly a tone. Of course — as she would often explain to her intimates — she was devoted to dear old Hugh, and during the lifetime of his uncle the Dean, he had almost lived in the house, and had been quite like a son to herself and an elder brother to her daughters ; but now that Kate and Margaret were growing up, one really had to be a little more careful ; because people would talk, and there was no saying what preposterous no- tions men might not get into their heads if proper precautions were not taken to nip such notions in the bud. There had, therefore, been occasions upon which a sense of duty had led Mrs. Winnington to turn the cold shoulder to her dear old Hugh, and to point out to him with 14 NO NEW THING. somewhat unnecessary emphasis how great was the disparity of years been him and the young ladies to whom he had been ' quite like an elder brother.' Now a glance at Hart's Army List would have disclosed the fact that Jack Stanni- forth was only Captain Kenyon's junior by a year; but, as has been already remarked, some men are young up to the verge of middle age, while others have ceased to be so before they are out of the twenties ; and Jack certainly belonged to the former and Hugh to the latter category. He had, indeed, been so long accustomed to hear- ing himself addressed as ' old Hugh ' that he had ended by accepting the adjective in its literal sense and acquiescing in its propriety ; nor had he failed to join in the laughter which arose from all sides when the bridegroom, in return- ing thanks at the wedding-breakfast, had ex- pressed a hope that his best man would soon follow his bright example. Old Hugh was so evidently a predestined old bachelor. Immediately after the wedding the young couple had started for Switzerland and Italy, upon a tour which was prolonged flir beyond the limits of ordinary honeymoons, the excuse for their protracted absence being that their new home could not possibly be made ready to receive them in less than six months at earliest. This new home was that fine old place Long- FRIENDSHIP. 15 bourne, near Crayminster, for many generations the residence of the Brnne family. It had come into the market some years previously, owing to the necessitous circumstances of the owner, and had found a purchaser in Mr. Stanniforth of Manchester. What could have been Mr. Stanniforth's object in acquiring an estate which he had scarcely seen and showed no disposition to occupy was a puzzle to everybody, until the construction of the Crayminster and Craybridge branch line, which cut through an angle of the property, with satisfactory results to the pocket of its new owner, seemed to throw some light upon the mystery. Now, the old gentleman, in an easy and princely fashion, had offered Longbourne as a wedding gift to his second son, stipulating only that he should be allowed to put the place in order before the bride and bridegroom took possession of it. They, for their part, were nothing loth to consent to an arrangement which promised them a somewhat longer hohday under southern skies ; and so architects and artists, landscape-gardeners, stone- masons, and upholsterers, had come down from London in a small army, and had busied them- selves throughout the winter in beautifying the house and grounds, which were destined never to be enjoyed by those for whose sake all this ex- pense and trouble had been incurred. For, one 16 NO NEW THING. afternoon, Jack Stanniforth, a strong man, who had scarcely known what illness was in the course of his merry life, rode back to Eome feeling tired and chilled after hunting on the Campagna ; and the next day he took to his bed ; and before the week was out he was dead and buried. Under the shock of this sudden and terrible calamity the young Avidow had fallen into a sort of stupor, which at first caused considerable alarm both to her friends and to her medical advisers. The latter had enjoined absolute rest, change of scene, a bracing atmosphere, and what not — since doctors, when they are called in, must needs enjoin something — and Mrs. Winnington had hastened out to Italy, and had taken her daughter, passive and indifferent, to the Engadine. After a time Margaret had rallied, had returned, by her own desire, to England, and had taken up her residence at Longbourne, where it now became necessary that Hugh Kenyon should seek her out, in order to explain to her the provisions . of her husband's will, under which he and the dead man's father had been appointed executors and trustees. Such was the condensed tragedy of which the details passed quickly through Captain Kenyon's mind, as he sat looking out of the railway carriage window. And as he remembered it all, FRIENDSHIP. 17 and liow, only the other day, he had travelled over the same ground on his way down to the wedding, and how, but a few months before that, Margaret had not even seen the man who was to be her husband, he could not help saying to him- self that it was impossible that so brief an episode — however terrible it mio-ht be — should cast a permanent gloom over a young life. ' It isn't the same thing,' he mused, ' it can't be the same thing, as losing a husband or a wife after twenty years of married life. That would be like havins: an arm or a les: cut oif — there would be somethino^ o-one from one which one could never forget nor replace. But this — well, this is more like having a tooth out; a wrench and a howl, and all's over.' Then, repenting of having used so homely a metaphor, even in thought, he muttered sadly, ' Poor Jack — poor old fellow!' Presently the train drew up in Crayminster station, and a groom in mourning livery came to the door and touched his hat. The dog- cart was waiting outside, he said, and was there any luggage, please ? No ; Kenyon answered, there was no luggage ; he was going back that same evening. He climbed into the dog- cart, but declined to take the reins. With an odd sort of pang and feeling of compunction, he had recog- nised the cart as one that Jack used to drive, and VOL. I. c 18 NO NEW THING. the horse as one of his friend's old hunters. As the vehicle clattered through the narrow streets of the old town, more than one pedestrian nodded and waved his hand to its occupant ; but Hugh, who kept his eyes obstinately fixed upon his boots, sav/ none of these friendly signals. He knew that by no possibility could he traverse Crayminster on any day of the week without encountering at least a dozen acquaintances ; and he w^as afraid of being stopped and questioned. Therefore he would not look up, and was relieved w^hen he had left the town behind him and was well out into the open country. Half an hour's drive, at first -across broad water-meadows and then through woods and up a lono; gradual incline, brouoht him to the lodo-e gates of Longbourne — new" gates and a new lodo:e, as Huoii observed. He had known the place well in the late Mr. Brune's time, and was prepared to find it altered, not altogether for the better, by the touch of the Manchester mil- lionaire. It appeared, however, that Mr. Stan- niforth's taste, or the taste of those employed by him, had been better than Hugh had antici- pated ; for the alterations were not conspicuous, and such as there were were of a kind to which exception could not be taken. In the undu- lating park and in the long avenue of lime-trees which was the pride of Longbourne there was FRIENDSHIP. 19 no room for change ; only the gardens had been extended and improved ; new lawns and terraces had been laid ont, and brilliant masses and rib- bons of colour replaced the scanty and ill-tended ilower-beds of former years. The house itself, a red-brick structure, which, like most country- houses of its date, was said to have been built after designs of Inigo Jones, show^ed no traces of interference, except in so far as that its white stone facings had been renewed or cleaned ; no plate -glass had superseded the many panes of the large oblong windows, nor was the long flat facade disfigured by any modern bows or bays. But when once the hall- door was passed, Hugh found himself upon totally unknown gi'ound. Under the Brune regime the furni- ture of the mansion had been meagre and its servants few; now there was perhaps rather a superabundance of both. The entrance-hall was embellished with antlers, with old carved-oak chests and cabinets, with huge vases of Oriental china and with arm-chairs in stamped leather. The drawing-room, into which Hugh was ushered, had been despoiled of its tarnished gilding, its brocade and three-pile Axminster; and in lieu of these departed glories was a more sober style of decoration ; subdued colouring ; a few paintings by old Dutch masters ; chairs, sofas, and tables more valuable than resplendent. c 2 20 NO NEW THING. Everything was perfectly correct — a little too correct, Hugh thought ; for at the time with which we are concerned correctness of uphol- stery had not yefc become the chief aim and ob- ject of the British householder. The place looked a trifle cold and stiff and uninhabited ; and over the whole establishment there brooded the solemn hush of wealth. While Captain Kenyon was proceeding with his unspoken criticisms the door opened, and a tall, slim woman, dressed in widow's weeds, entered, and held out her hand to him saying, ' How do you do, Hugh ? ' in a low, quiet voice. Though he could hardly have been unprepared for the appearance of this lady, he started as violently as if he had seen a ghost, and, finding not a word to say, grasped her hand silently, while he looked into her face with an eager, questioning gaze. The face that he scanned so anxiously was not beautiful, nor even pretty. For one thing, it was extremely pale, with that grey pallor which comes only from illness or suffering ; and, as is often the case with fair-complexioned w^omen, the colourlessness was not confined to the cheeks, but seemed to have extended to the hair and eyes, the former of which ought to have been, but was not, golden, while the latter ought to have been, but were not, blue. An FRIENDSHIP. 21 old -fashioned passport would probably have summed up the remaming features tersely with ' forehead high, nose ordinary, mouth rather large.' It was, however, an honest, trust- worthy, and kind face — a face which all dogs and children, and some discriminating adults, understood and loved at the first glance. Mar- garet Stanniforth had never been accounted a beauty, yet she had never lacked admirers ; and, when in the glow of youth and health, she might even have passed for a pretty girl, had she not happened to be the plain one of a family somewhat notorious for good looks. For the rest, she had a good figure ; she carried her head well, as all the "Winningtons do, and she had, as they all have, a certain undefinable grace and air of good breeding. The sight of her in those deep mourning robes almost unmanned the soft-hearted Hugh ; and, instead of one of the brisk little cheerful speeches which he had rehearsed on his way from the station, he blurted out something awk- ward and incoherent, at last, about never having thought he should meet her again like this ; but she had the quiet ease of manner which belongs to unselfish people, and she gave him time to recover himself by talking about the proposed restoration of the cathedral, and her father's speech in the House of Lords, and other matters 22 NO NEW THING. which could be treated of without danger of dis- turbance to anyone's equanimity. ' Are you all alone here ? ' Hugh asked at length, ' I am now. I had two of the boys with me until yesterday ; but they have gone back to school.' She added after a pause, ' My mother is very kind, and would stay with me as long as I liked ; but of course she is wanted at home ; and, as I shall have to be a great deal by myself in future, I thought it was better to begin at once.' She spoke without a tremor in her voice, quite calmly and almost coldly ; and Hugh was just the least bit in the world disappointed and chilled. Her speech was so very unlike her letter, he thought. But then the speech of most people is unlike their letters. Presently luncheon was announced, and he had to seat himself opposite Mrs. Stanniforth in a dining- room, or rather dining-hall, which would have accommodated fifty guests comfortably. He had hoped that a cover might have been laid for him beside her, for he had an uncomfort- able feeling about occupying Jack's place ; but the butler had probably omitted to take this delicate scruple into account. The repast was prolonged and very dreary. The table, though narrowed to its smallest dimensions, was still a FRIENDSHIP. 23 long one ; and Hugh and Margaret laboriously kept up conversation in a high key across it, conscious all the time of being furtively watched by a discreet butler and two stealthy giants in mourning livery. Hugh thought to himself that, if he were Margaret, and if he were compelled to eat his meals every day with three respectful pairs of eyes G.xed upon him, he should infallibly go out of his senses in less than a week. Perhaps she guessed what was passing through his mind ; for, as soon as they were alone, she said, laughing a little, ' Those servants are a terrible ordeal to me. I found them here when I arrived : Mr. Stanniforth had supplied them, with the furniture and the carriages and all the rest. I am hoping tliat you will tell me I must dismiss at least two of them.' ' Oh, I don't think there will be any need for that,' answered Hugh. ' No ? So much the worse for me, then. Shall we o'o back to the drawin2:-room now, and get our business talk over ? ' Jack Stanniforth's will was a portentous document of the old-fashioned pattern, drawn up for him by his father's lawyers and signed by him on his wedding day. The effect of it — there beino; no child born of the marriag^e — was that, subject to the usual restrictions, his widow took a life -interest in all his property, real and 24 NO NEW THING. personal ; which, together with her settlements, would 2five her an income of from fourteen to fifteen thousand a year. But it took Captain Kenyon some little time to state this shnple fact. He was a man of an orderly and some- what slowly-moving mind ; and he thought it incumbent upon him to explain the will, clause by clause, going into many details which his hearer only half understood, and with which it is needless that the reader should be wearied. 'Fifteen thousand a year! ' ejaculated Mar- garet, with a sigh, when he had at last reached his conclusion ; ' that sounds an enormous sum of money.' ' Well, yes ; it is a large sum. Not so large as it might have been, if we had not been so tied down as to investments ; still ' ' Still, enough to live upon with strict economy,' interrupted Margaret, with a slight laugh. ' Hugh,' she added suddenly, ' do you know what I should like to do ? ' ' Yes ; you would like to give away the whole of it to somebody without loss of tune.' ' Not exactly that ; but I should like to give Longbourne away ; or at least to restore it to its proper owner.' ' To Mr. Stanniforth, do you mean ? ' 'No; to the Brunes. It really belongs to them, you know ; we have no right to the place. FRIENDSHIP. 25 Jack felt that very strongly, and he did not at all like the idea of coming to live here. He always used to say that Mr. Brune had been deprived of his property by an unfair bargain.' 'Hardly that, I think. Of course it was a bit of bad luck for him. If he had held on a little longer, the railway would have put him pretty nearly straight, I suppose ; but no one could have foreseen that at the time of the sale.' Margaret was silent. 'At all events,' she said presently, ' I want to let him have his own back now, if it can be managed.' ' But, my dear Margaret, it cannot possibly be managed.' ' Why not ? ' ' For many good reasons ; but one of them is final. The place is not yours to dispose of. I am afraid I must have explained matters very stupidly ; but the fact is that you are only a tenant for life.' ' It is I who was stupid ; I ought to have listened more attentively. And what becomes of Longbourne after my death ? ' ' Well, then it goes, with the rest of the property, to Tom Stanniforth or his heirs.' ' Tom Stanniforth will have more money than he will know what to do with,' observed Margaret. ' I am sure he would willingly sur- render his chance of inheriting Longbourne.' 26 NO NEW THING. ' I am not miicli of a lawyer ; but I almost doubt whether he could. In any case, Mr. Brune would not be very likely to accept a gift of an estate from a stranger; and he could not buy it back. I used to see the elder brother sometimes in years gone by : this one I hardly knew ; but from what I have heard of him, I should think he was about the last man in the world to whom one could venture to propose such a thino^.' Margaret rose, and walked to the window. ' Ah, well,' she said, ' it was only an idea of mine ; I scarcely expected to be able to carry it out. But, Hugh, I feel almost certain of one thing: I shall never be able to go on living here.' Hugh wrinkled up his forehead, and looked distressed. If he had felt free to speak out plainly the thought that was in his mind, he would have answered, ' I'm sure you won't. Flesh and blood couldn't stand it.'. But women are .so uncertain, and so prone to act upon impulse : and it is not always wise or kind to show all the sympathy that one may feel. Upon the whole, it seemed best to reply, ' I wouldn't do anything in a hurry, if I were you.' Margaret went on, as if she had not heard him. ' It isn't the solitude that I mind ; I TRIENDSHIP. 27 could be contented enouo^h in a little cottao-e, with a cook and a housemaid to look after me ; but I was never meant to rule over a large establishment. The small worries of it suffocate me. One would think that a great sorrow, like mine, ought to make one indifferent to small worries ; but somehow or other it doesn't. You would be amused if you knew how frightened I am of the servants. There is an old housekeeper, a Mrs. Prosser, who was here under Mr. Brune, and who took care of the house all the time that it stood empty, after Mr. Stanniforth bought it. I am obliged to have an interview with her every morning, and she is very respectful and deferential ; but of course she looks upon me as an interloper, and she has a way of standing with her hands clasped before her, turning one thumb slowly over the other and staring at me with her little black eyes, which makes me so nervous that I hardly know what I am saying to her.^ ' Give her the sack.' ' I don't think I should ever dare. And there would be no excuse for sending her away either; for, as far as I can judge, she is an admirable housekeeper. Besides, the butler and the coachman are quite as bad in their way. Sometimes I have thought of entering a sister- hood. Would that be very wrong, do you think?' 28 NO NEW THING. ' I don't think it would be wrong/ answered Hugh slowly ; ' but- ' ' Yes ; I know there are a great many buts ; too many for me to think, except in a vague sort of way, of doing such a thing as yet. I keep it as a last resource — in case I should find my life quite unbearable.' Captain Kenyon had risen, and was stand- ing beside her at the window now. ' Oh, Hugh,' she said suddenly, clasping her hands round his arm, ' what am I to do ? What am I to do with my life ? ' ' My dear,' he answered, greatly moved and full of pity, yet quite unable to express what he felt, ' how can I tell you ? You must have patience. When things go wrong with us, there is nothing for it but patience.' After all, it is seldom by speech that a sense of sympathy and friendship is conveyed. Perhaps no eloquence could have given Margaret more comfort than these few words from a friend who was himself always patient, always brave, and whose life had been full of petty troubles, arising for the most part out of the lack of that which she found so hea\y a burden. ' I will try,' she said, straightening herself up. ' Only it seems to me that it would be so much easier if I were not rich. Everybody keeps repeating to me that money is such a FRIENDSHIP. 29 blessing, and that I ought to be so thankful for it ; and yet what can it do for me ? Xothing — absolutely nothing I ' ' It is at least so far a blessing that it brings independence with it/ ' But if one does not want to be indepen- dent ? I am one of those weak people who are born to be subordinates and to be told their duty day by day. Is there no way in which I could rid myself of this enormous income ? ' ' I'm afraid not. You see, the will says — let me see ; where is it ? Oh, here — " Trusts." ' And Hugh began reading, in a hurried, mum- bling voice — ' ''To be received by her my said wife for her own use and benefit during her life or until she shall marry again or until she shall sell assign mortgage or charge or otherwise incumber the same or attempt so to do or shall do or suffer or become subject or liable to some act proceeding matter or thing whereby the same interest dividends and annual produce if payable to her absolutely for her life would become vested in or payable to some other person or persons Provided nevertheless and ' Oh, never mind,' interrupted Margaret, with a half laugh. 'I quite understand that there is no legal way out of the difficulty.' And she wondered why a slight flush had mounted 30 NO NEW THING. into Hugh's brown cheeks while he had been readmg, and why he looked so oddly, and was such a long thne in folding up the big document again. How could she tell that he had loved her almost from her childhood ? How could she tell that her marriage to his friend had shattered all his hopes and day-dreams ? How could she tell that that possibility of her re-marriage, con- templated as a mere formality by the will, was one that, despite poor Hugh's honest efforts to banish it from his mind, was forcing its way thither every day and every hour ? These were secrets which Captain Kenyon had hitherto successfully kept, and was likely to continue to keep, to himself If, in the depths of his heart, he had begun to look forward to some remote future time, at which Margaret, having read and re-read this dark page of her life, might find that the power was still in her to open a fresh one, and if he had heard with a certain inward exultation of her anxiety to be free, from that wealth which must needs be hers so loDo- as the bore the name of Stanniforth, he was sincerely ashamed of such thoughts, and did his best to stifle them. For he had been loved and trusted by the man who was dead ; he was trusted, and in a manner also loved, by the dead man's widow ; and to be guilty of an FRIENDSHIP. 31 unspoken treachery to either of them was what he could not bear without self-reproach. But if the tongue is an unruly member, the brain is a substance yet more unruly, and is wont to assert its independence after a specially vexatious fashion when it receives direct orders from the wilL Therefore this conscientious executor and compassionate friend was' ill at ease, and discharged himself of his double functions in an awkward, guilty, and half- hearted manner. He fancied, at least, that he was doing so ; as a fact, he could hardly have shown greater kindness to Margaret than by abstaining, as he did, from counsel or conso- lation, and by listening to her in silence while she told him of the incidents of her short wedded life and of the swift catastrophe which had closed it. She shed no tears ; she had a low, pleasantly-modulated voice ; she talked so calmly that it might almost have been the story of another woman's life that she w^as relating. Pacing by her side along the shady lawns, he heard her with a mixture of pleasure and pain and hoplessness. He knew — though she never said so — ^that he w^as the first person to whom she had spoken so openly since her husband's death ; he knew that she was treating him with a confidence which she would not have reposed in her father or mother; but this knowledge 32 NO NEW THING. made him neither more sanguine nor less remorseful. • You will come and see me again soon, won't you ? ' she asked, when the time came for him to bid her good-bye. And he answered hurriedly, ^ Yes ; as soon as I can — that is, as soon as you please. I can almost always get away for a day now ; and you know you can't give me greater pleasure than by sending for me whenever you want me.' Nevertheless, as he drove away, he hoped that no very speedy summons from her would reach him. Such advice or assistance as it was in his power to give her would be more easily and safely conveyed by letter than by word of mouth, he thought ; and it even occurred to him once or twice to regret that he had not effected an exchange to India which had been upon the point of arrangement when the news of Jack Stanniforth's death and his own ap- pointment as executor had caused him to abandon the project. On the platform he encountered the Bishop of Crayminster, who was on his way to hold a series of confirmations in neighbouring towns, and who hurried up to him with trembling hands outstretched. ' Ah, my dear Kenyon, my dear friend, this is a sad meeting ! You have been with our FRIEXDSIIir. 33 poor Margaret— poor dear I — poor dear I How little we anticipated this a year ago ! ' The Bishop of Crayminster was a tall, thin old gentleman, with a weak, handsome face, blue eyes, and white hair. He spoke habitually in tremulous lachrymose accents, addressed all men as ' my dear friend,' was greatly beloved by the clergy of his diocese and commiserat^sd by their wives, who asserted that i\Irs. Winnmgton ruled him with a rod of iron. ' I should like much to have a few minutes' conversation with you,' he said, casting an im- ploring glance at his chaplain, who discreetly got into a carriage lower down in the train, leaving Hugh to enter the empty compartment which had been reserved for the Bishop. ' And how did you find her ? ' asked the latter, when the train had begun to move. * Sadly altered, I fear : terribly shaken and bowed down ? ' ' AY ell, no,' answered Hugh, 'I can't say that she struck me as being exactly that. Of course she feels the loneHness of her position a good deal, and the — the weight of her wealth, you know.' ' All yes, dear me, yes ! Riches are indeed a doubtful blessing. But we must not repine. Poverty is perhaps a more severe trial.' ' Perhaps it is.' VOL. 1. D 34 NO XEAV THIXG. ' In some ways — in some ways. I don't know what she will do with herself, poor child/ ^ She spoke of entering a sisterhood,' Hugh remarked. The Bishop threw up his white hands in dis- may. ' A sisterhood ! Oh, my dear friend, I trust you dissuaded lier from taking so serious a step as that.' ' Oh, I don't think she contemplated it very seriously. In time, I dare say, she will learn to stand alone ; but it comes a little hard upon a woman just afc first.' ' It does — it does indeed. Her mother thinks — of course it is early days yet to speak of any- thing: of the kind : but mothers will look for- ward — she thinks that dear Margaret may eventually marry again. Perhaps we ought to hope that it may be so. I doubt whether our dear Margaret's shoulders are broad enough to bear the cares of life unaided.' ' If she does marry again, she will be de- livered from the cares of a large fortune,' said Hugh bluntly. 'Her interest in Stanniforth's estate terminates with her death or re-marriage.' ' Eh ?— really ? I don't think Mrs. Win- nino^ton — I — er — I did not understand that. Is it not rather an — unusual arrangement ? ' * I believe not at all.' ' Ah, well *, I am very ignorant of such FRIENDSHIP. 60 matters — very ignorant. Can this be Craybridge already ? AYell, my dear friend, I must bid you goodbye. I trust we shall see you in these parts again before Jong. Dear Margaret, I know, leans very much upon your help and advice ; and I am sure you will advise her wisely/ The Bishop had taken Hugh's big brown hand, and was patting it paternally. ' We must trust to time and Providence,' he said, ' and not try overmuch to rule the destinies of others. For my own part, I am disposed to be of St. Paul's mind with reo^ard to widows. Thev are happier if they so abide — happier if they so abide.' And with that, his lordship descended slowly to the platform, and shuffled away on his chap- lain's arm. D ti 36 XO NEW THING. CHAPTER II. MRS. STANNIFORTH's NEIGHBOURS. The venerable city of Craymiiister stands in a vast hollow. From the neighbournig heights its gabled roofs may be seen huddled together in a compact phalanx round the cathedral towers, having changed little in aspect or area in the course of the last hundred years or so, and hav- ing only thrown out here and there an outpost in the shape of a detached suburban villa. The slow-flowing Cray intersects the town and winds down the lono; vallev, throuo'h water-meadows where cattle crop the rich grass, and over which light mists usually hang in summer and cold fogs in winter. The valley of the Cray does not indeed bear a high character for salubrity, and the strangers who are attracted to Crayminster by the fame of its ancient cathedral seldom carry away with them a favourable impression of the surrounding district. For when, havino- dulv admired the Lady- chapel, descended into the crypt, and climbed the tower, they escape from MKS. stanniforth's xeighboues. 37 the hands of the verger into those of the flyman, the latter, whose generic instinct leads him to shirk up-hill work, commonly suggests to them a nice drive along one of the excellent turnpike roads which leave the town either by the eastern or western gate, and pass through mile after mile of flat, fertile, and monotonous country, where sleepy silence reigns, where there are but few habitations, and those of an unpretending and eminently unpicturesque order. But if, instead of follovvung these rather dreary thoroughfares, they were to strike off due north or dne south, they would And themselves almost immediately in a higher, healthier region, a region of low, rolling hills and leafy coverts, a region of hop-gardens and waving cornfields and frequent hamlets, diversified by glimpses of park lands and old timber — for properties do not run to any great size hereabouts, and the squirearchy rules in force — a region rich in pleasant man- sions and substantial, prosperous -lookmg farm- houses. Xear the high-road, some two miles beyond Longbourne, is a long, low edifice, which can hardly be said to come under either of the above denominations. The paddocks which surround it could not, by any stretch of courtesy, be made to do duty for a park; adjoining it are barns and ricks and a large strawyard, while the sunny 38 NO NEW THING. slope of the hill behind it is occupied by a well- filled orchard in the place of terraces and shrub- beries. These and other indications sufficiently show its tenant to be a farmer; but, on the other hand, the house itself has an air of comfort and refinement somewhat above the aspirations of an ordinary yeoman. This house, known as Broom Leas Court, had at the time with which we are concerned been for a good many years owned by Mr. Xeville Brune, and inhabited by him and his numerous family. It would be difficult to give an accurate description of it. It had been constructed bit by bit as occasion had seemed to require, and as funds to pay the builder had been forthcoming, and was a com- plete architectural jumble. Here was a fragment of the original structure, with gables, over- hanging upper storey, latticed casements and black beams upon plaster of a yellowish-white tinge ; there a modern bay, with French wmdows opening upon the lawn; every kind of building material seemed to have been employed, brick in one place, stone in another, stucco in a third; over all was a mantle of ivy, of swaying Yirginia-creeper and clematis. A great deal of money had been spent, first and last, upon the creation of this queer domicile, for Neville Brune had the family incapacity for doing anything cheaply, and the MRS. STAXNIFORTH's NEIGHBOURS. 39 family dislike to being worried by sraall econo- mical details. "With the fortune which, he had inherited from his father — a very respectable one for a younger son — he had purchased and stocked the Broom Leas farm; there he had dwelt ever since, and there, to all appearance, he was now likely to end his days. A o^entleman who adopts farmingr as a trade is, by common consent, only a step removed from the proverbial fool who chooses to be his own lawyer; and Xeville Bruno's friends and neighbours, who were acquainted with his hereditary failings, smiled and shook their heads when they heard after what fashion he proposed to make his livincc. A considerable time, how- ever, elapsed, during which he lived, not extravagantly, yet with a certain careless pro- fusion of expenditure, and if he did not make his fortune, neither did he figure in the Gazette. Then he married Miss Boulger, the daughter of a rich banker, and began those building opera- tions which were long the delight of his life, and which were renewed intermittently, year after year, to meet the recpirements of a rapidly increasing family. It was rumoured that Mr. Brune was getting into difficulties, when his elder brother and his father-in-law died suddenly within a few days of one another. Either of these events might have been expected 40 NO NEW THING. to convert him into a much richer man, but it so happened that neither of them did produce that desirable effect, for the old banker bequeathed to his daughter a thousand pounds, her mother's jewels, and nothing more; and Mr. Brune the elder, who had been a very eccentric and expensive personage, living much in foreign countries, and squandering money through every channel whereby money can be squandered, left his affairs in such inextricable confusion, and his estate so heavily encumbered, that Longbourne seemed likely to prove a white elephant to the heir. It was always Neville Brune's way to make up his mind quickl}^, after holding counsel with himself and with nobody else. He saw clearly that neither he nor his son would ever be able to live at Longbourne. To let it would be a mere protracting of misery and putting off of the evil day; moreover, he wanted ready money badly. He therefore determined to offer the place for sale, and it Avas immediately snapped up by Mr. Stanniforth. No sooner had this decisive act been accom- plished than there arose up to heaven such a weeping and wailing from the numerous colla- teral Brunes, to whom Longbourne had ever been as the Palladium to the Trojans, that the luckless head of the family was like to have been deafened by the din of it. L^ncle John and MRS. STANNIFORTh's NEIGHBOURS. 41 Uncle James, Aunt Harriet and Aunt Elizabethj not to mention a host of cousins far and near, all wrote to say that they could find no words adequate to express their horror of the sacrilege which had been committed. Sooner would they have starved, sooner w^ould they have united their own small means and purchased the estate between them, than that it should have passed into the hands of a stranger. x\nd, great as had been the wrath of these worthy people at the outset, it was naturally increased tenfold when that windfall of the Crayminster and Cray bridge railway went to swell the already overflowing money bags of the infamous Stanni- forth. Then it was that the insane — the indecent precipitancy of Neville's conduct cried aloud for denunciation. Then it was that Aunt Elizabeth, in an eloquent and breathless letter, drew a parallel between her nephew and Esau, and predicted that his ill-gotten gains would prosper no better than those of Ananias. Nor, unhappily, was it only by reproaches from with- out that the deUnquent was made to feel the heinousness of his guilt. Mrs. Brune, who had once been pretty and fond of society, who had always detested a rural life, and had consoled herself through long years of monotony with an undefined expectation of one day escaping from it, considered that she had a strong case 42 NO NEW THING. against destiny. Being blessed with high principles and a fine sense of duty, she could not breathe a word reflecting upon the memory of her father, and for the same unexceptionable reasons she refrained from bringing railing accusations against her husband ; but neither principle nor duty forbade her to sigh over the loss of Longbourne, and accordingly her life became, so to speak, one protracted sigh. She had long wanted a grievance, and now that she had got one, she did not stint herself in the indulgence of it. Xever a day passed without some reference being made by her to the fallen fortunes of the Brunes. Her children were taught to regard themselves as despoiled and the Stanniforths as their despoilers ; and her husband, who would fain have allowed the whole matter to pass into the category of those misfortunes which, being irreparable, are best not talked about, was soon driven to recognise the imprac- ticability of such a course. Mrs. Brune was a weak, plaintive, and disappointed woman, much given to religious exercises and to breakfasting in bed. Her health was bad, and so perhaps was her temper; but as the latter defect did not manifest itself in any of the recognised fashions, she passed pretty generally for a martyr, and was as much commiserated as she was respected by the entire parish. MRS. STANNIFORTh's NEIGHBOURS. 43 From all this it will be seen that the world had not gone altogether well with Neville Brmie, but he was not one of those who cry out when they are hurt, nor had anyone ever heard him complain of his luck. Acquaintance with dis- a]3pointment had net soured his strong and sweet nature, but had bred in him a disposition to make the best of things, an increased enjoy- ment of the woods and fields, and a kindly humour which was not always understood by those of his own household. It had not been without a sharp struggle that he had brought himself to part with the old home where he had been born, and where the happiest years of his life had been spent; but of this he had said nothing. Only — unlike Mrs. Brune, who, through the long period during which Long- bourne had remained untenanted, had loved to wander among its silent paths and gardens like a Peri at the gates of Paradise — he had never once set foot upon the property since it had ceased to be his. At the time when this story opens he was a small, spare, wiry man of forty or thereabouts, dark complexioned and a trifle stern of aspect, as his father had been before him, but by no means stern of character. He had a trick of looking straight into the face of any person whom he might be addressing, which sometimes gave offence, and which was certainly NO NEW THING. rather embarrassing, for liis grey eyes were as keen as a hawk's; but, in truth, he meant no offence by this practice. At people whom he dis- liked — there were not many such — he avoided looking at all. One day, shortly after that on whicli Hugh Kenyon had paid his first visit to Longbourne, Mr. Brune came in late for luncheon. This was a most unusual event, for at Broom Leas punc- tuality was a duty rigidly inculcated and prac- tised, and a number of small heads were turned inquisitively towards the master of the house as he took his seat at the end of the long table. ' I will give you all three shots apiece,' he said, ' and bet you a big apple that you don't guess where I have been this morning.' ^ Oh, i^eville,' murmured Mrs. Brune plain- tively, ' do let the children eat their dinner.' ' My dear, I feel sure that you need be under no apprehension of their failing to do that. But suspense is bad for digestion, I dare say. Will you make a guess yourself ? ' ' I am not curious,' said Mrs. Brune lan- guidly. ' Still, you are susceptible of astonishment, and I am confident that I shall astonish you when I say that I have been at Longbourne.' A slightly incredulous murmur ran round the table, starting with Walter the eldest boy, MRS. STANNIFORTH's NEIGHBOURS. 45 who was at home for the holidays, and ending with Geoffrey, a young gentleman in his third year, who cried ' Oh, oh ! ' from a precocious tendency to shout with the majority. Mrs. Brune straightened herself in her arm-chair, and gathered her shawl about her with a quick, ner- vous movement. ' Has that woman gone away then ? ' she asked. ^ On tlie contrary, that woman is making up her mind to settle down at Longbourne, and it was she who took me up to the house.' ' Upon what pretence ? ' ' I ought not to have said that she took me. I walked up with her of my own accord, and a very pleasant walk it was. To avoid future unpleasantness, Ellinor, I may as well confess at once that I have fallen in love with that woman.' Mrs. Brune laughed a little, in a forced, per- functory way. She had a notion that her hus- band often intended to be funny, and that, though he failed to amuse her, it was her duty to make some polite acknowledgment of his efforts. ' I met her,' Mr. Brune went on, ^ at the church door. I wanted to see Langiey this morning about some parish matters, and feeling- pretty sure that he would be reading complines or nones, or whatever it is ' 46 KO XEW THING. ' I suppose you mean matins ? ' ' I suppose I do. Feeling sure tliat some- thing of the kind would be going on, I went down to the church, and there, sure enough, I heard his voice murmuring melodiously within. So I sat in the porch till he came out in his cassock and biretta, accompanied by a tall lady in widow's weeds, who had one of the most interesting faces I have ever seen in my life. I stated my business while she stood reading the inscriptions on the tombstones, and then, as Langley didn't introduce me, I made bold to introduce myself.' ' Really, ^N^eville ! ' cried Mrs. Brune in a tone of great vexation, ' you are like nobody else in the world. How extraordinary she must have thought it of you ! ' ' Perhaps she did ; but, if so, she was well- bred enough to disguise her feelings, and to behave as though it gave her pleasure to meet me. We walked away together quite amicably, and were fast friends in less than ten minutes.'. ' But what induced you to go up to the house with her ? ' ' The pleasure of talking to her, I suppose. I daresay you would have been equally weak in my place.' ' I should certainly not have entered Long- bourne as the o^uest of that woman. I shall MRS. STANXIFORTn's NEIGHBOURS. 47 alwavs feel that Lono;bourne no more belonofs to the Stanniforths than — than Lorraine does to the Germans.^ ' You will be interested in hearins; that that is precisely her own view of the case. She told me so, blushing and looking as much ashamed of herself as if she had picked my pocket. Eeally, EUinor, she has strong claims of various kinds upon your sympathy.' Mrs. Brune shook her head decisively. ' I could never feel sympathy with any one bearing the name of Stanniforth,' she declared. 'Why not? Here is a woman who not only attends matins and sends down a cartload of flowers to decorate the altar, but confesses her sins mth every appearance of sincere remorse. Are we to be so inconsistent to all Christian principles as to refuse her forgiveness? Her sin, if you come to think of it, is not an unpar- donable one; it only consists in her being the daughter-in-law of a man who once bought some property of mine and paid me my own price for it. Seriously, Ellinor, I want you to be kind to this poor Mrs. Stanniforth. It made my heart ache to think of her living all alone in that great barrack, and trying to put a good face upon it too. It would be a real act of charity if you would call upon her. And, in point of fact, I have promised that you will do so.' 48 KO NEW THING. The silence that followed this announcement was broken by a small childish voice, which asked — ' Papa, does Longbourne belong to Mrs. Stanniforth ? ' ' To the best of my belief it does, Nellie. Anyhow it will be her home for the rest of her life, most likely.' ' Then 1 won't go and see her,' declared the young lady emphatically. And Walter, with his mouth full of tart, growled out, ' Hear, hear, Nellie!' ' Upon my word ! ' exclaimed Mr. Brune, ' you are a pretty set of young mutineers. I have a great mind to order the whole tribe of you up to I.ongbourne this very afternoon. After this I suppose I must expect nothing less than a flat refusal from your mother.' ' Of course, Neville,' said Mrs. Brune, ' if you tell me to leave cards I must obey you ; but I do think it will look very odd. You never con- sider what people will say.' ' Not very much, I confess.' '- 1 always thought,' Mrs. Brune continued, ' that you did not wish me to visit strangers. During all these years that the Bishop has been at Crayminster we have never called upon Mrs. Winnington, though everybod}^ else in the county has ; and to thrust ourselves upon their MRS. staxxiforth's xeigiibours. 49 daughter now — under the very peculiar circum- stances of the case too — does seem to me unne- cessary, to say the least of it. As to my being kind to her, that is nonsense. She has plenty of friends, and needs no kindness from me. Probably she thinks she would do me a kind- ness in receiving me.' ' I assure you she is not a born idiot.' ' 1 don't see how you can possibly tell what she may be. Besides I must say I should hardly have expected that she would wish for visitors yet, considering that her husband has not been dead a year.' ' My dear Ellinor, I am not asking you to pay a formal visit, still less to leave cards at the door. What I wanted you to do was to go in a neighbourly way, and try to be of some comfort to a fellow-creature, who perhaps has not so many friends as you credit her with. However, I have not the gift of persuasiveness, and I see I had better leave you to Langley, who is com- ing up to dinner, and who will probably use his ghostly authority over you in the matter. Come along, Miss Xell.' And Mr. Brune rose and left the table, Xellie, a sturdy little brown-haired maiden, toddling after him with the important air wliich beseemed her father's chosen companion and the only girl out of a family of ten. VOL. I. E 50 NO NEW THIXG. Mr. Brune had not erred in attributing to Mr. Langley an influence more powerful than he could hope to exercise. The rector of Long- bourne was a gentleman who took himself very seriously, and who, as a natural consequence, was accepted at his own valuation by the majo- rity of his flock. The female portion of it, iu particular, looked up to him with an unquestion- ing faith and devotion which may have been called forth in part by his pale, smooth-sha\^en face, his stooping figure and his reputation for asceticism, but which was doubtless also due to the blameless integrity of his life, and to the known fact that he spent three-fourths of his income upon his church and upon the poor. When he mentioned his new parishioner empha- tically as one whom it was a privilege to know, Mrs. Brune capitulated without a protest, mur- muring that it would give her great pleasure to make Mrs. Stanniforth's acquaintance. Accor- dingly she walked over to Longbourne the following day, accompanied by the recalcitrant NelHe, and confessed on her return that she had found her neighbour a very quiet and ladylike person, ' A little cold and reserved in manner perhaps, but that was far better than rushing into the opposite extreme, as I was half afraid from your description of her, Neville, that she would do. If she had begun about the question MRS. staxxifohth's xeighbours. 51 of her title to be where she is, I hardly know how I could have answered her ; but 1 am glad to say that she had the good taste not to refer to the subject.' It was in this somewhat unpromising fashion that the foundation was laid of an intimacy be- tween the houses of Longbourne and Broom Leas which lasted throughout the lives of their respec- tive occupants. Mrs. Brune did not, it is true, at once accord her friendship to the new-comer : she tolerated her ; and that, according to her lights, was of itself no small concession. But of the children Margaret made a prompt and facile conquest. It was agreed among these young people that the resentment which they were bound to harbour against the whole Stanniforth family should not be extended to this alien, who w^as not by birth one of the ^^roscribed race, and whose personal amiability took forms difficult to resist. They soon found out that they were welcome in her house at all hours of the day, and needed but little persuasion to convert her gardens into a playground. She let them come and go as they pleased, sometimes looking on at their games, sometimes taking part in them, and being always ready to act as arbitrator and referee in those disputes Vv'hich sports of all kinds are apt to engender, be the players young or old. And then no one could tell fairy-tales with so E 2 UBRARV UNIVERSITY QF lUlNOlb 52 NO NEW THING. leisurely, serious, and convincing an air as she did. One day Walter announced gravely that he had discovered a simple solution of certain family difficulties. 'When I am grown up,' he said, 'I shall marry Mrs. Stanniforth ; and then we will all live at Longbourne together.' ' That is such an admirable plan,' Mr. Brune remarked, ' that I cannot think how your mother has failed to hit uoon it before this. You have L obtained the lady's consent, I presume?' ' Oh, that'll be all right,' Walter replied con- fidently. 'I told her about it, and she said she would have to take a little time to consider of it. She'll have a good ten years, you see, to think it over in ; — or, perhaps, we might make it eight years. I don't want to marry before I leave Oxford, though.' ' Walter,' said Mrs. Brune, ' you ought not to talk nonsense upon such a subject as that to Mrs. Stanniforth ; it is very thoughtless of you. I don't know where you children get your want of consideration for the feelings of others from. I am sure you do not inherit it from me.' ' The inference,' remarked Mr. Brune, ' is unavoidable. Still, a capacity for better things will crop up occasionally even in the worst of us; and to prove it, I mean to go up to Longbourne this afternoon and meet Mrs. Win ni no ton at five MRS. STANXIFORTH S XEIGHBOURS. 06 o'clock tea ; and I shall make an excuse for yoo, Ellinor. I need not point out to you what that implies ; for you know how I love live o'clock tea — not to speak of Mrs. Winnington.' The truth is that Mrs. Winninoton had not contrived, and probably had not endeavoured, to make herself beloved by the Brunes. She waR a person of the fine-lady type, common enough twenty years or so ago, but now rapidly becom- ing extinct. Of a commanding presence, and with the remains of considerable beauty, she was always dressed handsomely and in bright, decided colours : she carried a ;estion to satisfy him till it came to the turn of a certain 60 NO NEW THING. dervish to be heard. ' Happiness, King,' said this holy man, ' belongs not to our world ; but I have Avith me a talisman which, if a man will but consent to wear it next his skin for a twelve- month, will assuredly confer upon him as near an approach thereto as is obtainable by mortals.* And so, permission having been asked and given, he proceeded to place this wondrous charm upon his master's person. It consisted of a collar and a waistband, loosely united by a strip of leather so arrano^ed as to follow the line of the wearer's backbone, and to the middle of this strip was affixed a good stout thorii; The thorn pierced his Majesty's august skin, and he smiled gra- ciously, for he thought he had divined the dervish's meaning. For a year he wore the talisman ; and it caused him all the suffering and inconvenience imaginable. He could not bow without receiving a sharp stab Avhich almost caused him to shriek aloud ; to lean back upon his throne was out of the question ; when he walked, the strip of leather swayed to and fro, leaving a horizontal scratch for every step, and when he rode, it flapped till his back was punctured like a pin -cushion. But all this he bore manfully, knowing that every hour brought him nearer to the end, and looking forward to the time wheiV he should taste the greatest of earthly joys, which is relief from pain. Besides, it pleased DISTRUST. 61 him to think how heroically he was supporting a torment of which only one man in his dominions suspected the existence. But, when the longed- for day of deliverance came, lo and behold ! the poor king was no better off than he had been at starting. Repose indeed he had gained ; but that he had had before ; and, on the other hand, he had lost a hundred small daily solaces, of which anticipation had not been the least. If the dervish had not prudently made himself scarce at the time, it is probable that he would have had his head cut off for his pains. The allegory has more than one moral; but the most direct of them hes upon the surface, and there are few men or women who have not had occasion, at one time or another of their lives, to recognise its force. ' Ah ! llieureux temps quand fefais si malheureux I ^ — one hears the cry every day in more or less articulate accents, and there are certain poets whose whole utterances amount to little else. Lookino; back, in after years, upon the few weeks which he had spent at Nice under the same roof with Margaret Stanniforth — upon their drives along the sunny Cornice, upon their long talks on the balcony, during warm southern evenings, after Mrs. AVinnington had gone out to the opera, or to a party given by some English friend — upon numberless incidents and speeches remembered 62 NO NEW THING. only by himself, Hugh Kenyon often sighed for his lost thorn. It is doubtful whether he would have consented to part with it even at the time, although it galled him cruelly ; and in truth his lot was not without compensations. Like the Eastern potentate, he wanted what he was very nearly sure that he could never obtain ; but, like him, he perhaps got as near an approach to it as was to be had. It was something to see Mar- garet growing better in health with every day; it was something to be always near her, and to possess her entire confidence. If that confidence usually showed itself after a fashion that made him wince, he accepted the punishment as a just and inevitable one, deriving such consolation as he could from conscious stoicism.. Nice was full of English, as it always used to be in the days when Cannes was as yet little frequented, and San Remo, Pegii, and other winter resorts all but undiscovered ; and among these were, as a matter of course, many of Mrs. Winnington's numerous acquaintances. That lady was per- suaded to exhibit her mauve and purple gowns, night after night, at various social gatherings, apologising a little for going into the world so soon after her daughter's loss ; and one, at least, of her fellow-travellers was only too ready to excuse her, and to keep Margaret company throuorh the lon^^ evenings. DISTKUST. 63 The intercourse of these two people was of that pleasant and easy kind which can only subsist between old friends who have many tastes and reminiscences in common, and it was but occasionally that Margaret referred to the subject which was always in her thoughts. Hugh noticed with pleasure that she did not shrink from receiving casual visitors, and was able to talk cheerfully ; and wliat pleased him still more was that her cough had almost left her, and that the danger which he had dreaded seemed to have passed away. He could not help tellino; her as much one evenino;; and her re- joinder disconcerted him a little. ' Why do you say that ? ' she asked quietly. 'I never thouojht I was o;oino^ to die; but if I had died, it would have been the best thing that could have happened to me. You know I have nothing to live for.' ^ You are too young to talk so; you will feel differently some day, I hope,' said Hugh, rather stupidly. But she went on, without heeding his inter- ruption : ' If we could only know a little more ! If I could feel quite sure that we should all be together again some day — you, and Jack, and I, and all of us — just as we used to be, it would be easy enough to live through the rest of my time. Do you think it is at all possible that we 64 NO NEW THING. should meet like that, and talk over old days, and ask one another heaps of questions, as we should do if we had been separated for a time here ? ' Hugh had not bestowed much reflection upon this problem. He considered it now for a brief space, pulling his moustache thoughtfully, and then said, ' Well, I always think, you know, that the less we bother ourselves about a future state the better.' At this Margaret had a little laugh, which ended in a sigh. ' Sometimes I feel quite hope- less,' she said ; ' and it seems to me that in reality everybody else is hopeless too. When people want to comfort me, they all say the same thing, though of course not in the same words: " You have no business to go on groaning over what can't be helped. Nothing is known about the next world ; and all that is certain is that you have lost what you can never by any possibility lind again here. The best thing that you can do is to forget all about it, and make a fresh start." ' This so very nearly expressed Captain Kenyon's own view of the subject that he could only remain silent. ' After all,' Margaret resumed, ^ it is un- reasonable, I suppose, to expect comfort from others. One must bear one's own burden, and DISTRUST. 65 fio-ht one's own fio-ht as best one can. I don't mean/ she added quickly, ' that it isn't the greatest possible comfort to have a friend like you; I am not so ungrateful as that. I often think that life can never become quite unen- durable to me so long as I can talk to you or write to you sometimes ; for 1 know I may tell you all my troubles and perplexities and every stupid notion that comes into my head. There can't be many people in the world fortunate enough to have such a friend.' Speeches of this kind went far towards con- soling Hugh for many an hour of dejection. There were moments when he almost felt as if the friendship of which she spoke might be sufficient to satisfy him ; but then again there were others when he was perfectly sure that friendship would not do at all, that it was dangerous to linger upon these sunny shores, and that prudence and duty alike pointed him northwards. At the end of a month this con- viction forced itself upon him so strongly that he struck while the iron was hot, and left for England rather abruptly. Before Christmas, Mrs. Winnington followed his example. Her daughter, whose health no longer gave cause for anxiety, had plenty of friends in Nice to cheer her solitude ; and there were other persons at home who had claims VOL. I. F 66 NO InEW thing. upon Mrs. Winnington's care and supervision The fact was that the Bishop, if left too long to himself, was apt to get into scrapes, accepting invitations which he ought not to have accepted, allowing his children to make acquaintances which thev ouo^ht not to have made, and other- wise usurping functions which he was ill qualified to exercise. Meanwhile the mistress of Longbourne was greatly missed by those who dwelt around her new home, and her movements were discussed as such matters only are discussed in country neighbourhoods. The winter passed away as usual, with gales and rains 'and frosts ; and, as usual, everybody said that there had not been so hard a season for twenty years. Then, when the customary easterly winds of spring had blown themselves out, Mrs. Stanniforth re- turned ; and a welcome stimulus was afforded to local conversation by the circumstance that she did not return alone. It was Mr. Brune's privilege to be the first to acquaint the parish with this bit of intelligence. Trudging across the fields, one sunshiny April morniug, he en- countered Margaret, accompanied by Hugh Ivenyon and by a pale-faced little boy with enormous dark brown eyes, whose hand she held. ' I have broudit this little man home with DISTRUST. 67 me,' said she. as soon as the usual o-reetmo's and inquiries had been interchanged, ' to make an Englishman cf him. Or rather, I have brought him to have an English education ; for his father was a countryman of ours, though he has lived all his life with his mother in Italy.' ' He looks as if he might have been left to his mother a little longer with advantage,' Mr. Brune remarked. ' His mother is dead.' answered Marsraret, gently. ' You are my little hov now, aren't you, Philip?' A dissentient growl from Hugh Kenyon died away unnoticed. '" And what is your name, my lad ? ' asked Mr. Brune. Margaret answered for him, after a moment- ary hesitation, ' His name is Eilippo Marescalchi. I am counting upon my friend Walter to take a little care of him just at first, till he learns to fio^ht his own battles.' ' I can say on Walter's behalf that he will be proud to obey any commands from Mrs. Stauniforth; and, physicall}^ speaking, Walter is all that a fond father could wish him to be. You intend to send this young gentleman to school, then? * * Yes ; at twelve years old it is time, is it not? And he wants to go to school, and he Y 2 68 KO NEW THIXG. isn't a bit afraid of English boys ; are you, Philip ? ' The child shrank closer to the side of his protectress with a movement which certainly did not convey the idea of any great natural intrepidity. He was frightened of the wiry little man whose keen grey eyes had been fixed upon him throughout this brief explanation, and if he had been hi a position to follow the bent of his own inclinations, he would probably have turned and run back to the house as fast as his legs could carry him. As he will play a principal part in the course of the succeeding narrative, and as the reader will be supposed to be interested in the progress of his career, it may be as well to state^ without further delay, so much of his origin and past life as was known to his present patroness. During the winter which was just over he had been frequently seen wandering all by him- self along the Promenade des Anglais at Nice ; and Margaret, who loved all children, had soon scraped acquaintance with this one. Through him she had come to know his mother, a certain Countess Marescalchi, who had come to the Riviera in the last stages of consumption, who had apparently neither kith nor kin to look ^fter her, and whose means were evidently of the narrowest. The poor woman was inordi- DISTRUST. 69 iiately grateful for such kindnesses as Margaret was able to show her, and, with the communica- tiveness of her nation, had ere long put this English Samaritan in possession of all the de- tails of a sufficiently sad history. She had, it appeared, been married, some twelve or thirteen years before, to a wealthy Englishman named Brown, who had assumed the title of Count Marescalchi on purchasing an estate in the dominions of King Bomba, which, as a matter of course, carried nobility with it. She had lived happily with him, she said, during the first year of their married life, more or less unhappily during the second, and before the third was at an end he had departed for his native land, and had never returned. She had received from his lawyers the title-deeds of the Italian estate, together with an intimation that she might now regard the same as her own, and that Mr. Brown did not desire to hold any further direct intercourse with her. After that she had had remittances at irregular intervals ; but these had soon ceased, and it was her belief that her husband was dead. By her own family she had not been treated over well. She had two brothers living ; but they had absolutely declined to do anything for her when her funds had begun to run low, alleging that the sale of her property should produce a sufficient income 70 NO NEW THING. for her to live upon, and declaring that, in any case, it was not their business to support one who had managed her affairs so badly. ' What would you have ? ' she said, with a shrug of her shoulders. ' They were terribly disappointed at the disappearance of my husband, whom they had counted upon to make them rich ; and in- deed I think it was as much they as I who drove him out of the country, poor man ! ' For her own part, she confessed that she had never had any wish to become reconciled with Mr. Brown, whose temper had been of a most trying kind. All the love that was in her had been lavished upon her bambino ; and when she thought that she must soon leave him utterly alone in the world, or at best under the care of two uncles from whom he could expect nothing but harsh treatment, she was tempted to take him down to the harbour some night, and let the sea put an end to the troubles of both of them at once. ' What could I say to the poor creature ? ' Margaret asked, relating all this to Hugh Ken- 3^on. ' Of course I told her to set her mind at rest, and that her boy should never want, and that I would do my best to take his mother's place as long as I lived.' ' I don't see any of course about it,' re- turned Hugh, who was by no means pleased DISTEUST. 71 with Margaret's impulsive behaviour in this matter. ' Well, at all events, I did tell her so ; and I am glad to think that she died more peacefully for knowing that the poor bambino would not be un cared for after she was gone. To me he will be the greatest possible blessing ; he has given me the very thing I needed — an object to live for. And he is a pretty child, isn't he ? ' ' Oh, I don't know ; a little white thing, all eyes. Yes ; I dare say he's pretty enough, if that's any advantage. The question is whether you haven't saddled yourself with a burden which nothing in the world compelled you to take upon your shoulders. I suppose you never thought of making any inquiries as to the truth of the mother's story. The chances are, you know, that she was never really married to the individual calling himself Brown — supposing that there ever was such a person.' ' I am not so imprudent as you would make me out. I wrote to the uncles ; and the elder of these Signori Cavestri came from Florence and saw me. He confirmed all that I had heard from his sister, and was quite willing that I should adopt the boy.' ' Xo doubt he was.' ' And we signed an agreement in the pre- sence of witnesses ; so you see everything was tZ NO NEW THING. quite business-like. My only fear is that Mr. Brown may turn up, some day, and claim his son.' ' That, I should think, is in the last degree improbable. By-the-by, what is the young gen- tleman to be called ? ' ' I hesitated a little about that at first ; but I came to the conclusion that it would be really too bad to call him Brown when he has a very fair right to the name of Marescalchi. I don't think we need say anything about the Count. Fortunately, he talks English as well as I do ; and he is a friendly little fellow. I do hope he will be happy at school.' ' I hope he will, I'm sure ; but I hope still more that he won't make you unhappy at home — which seems to be quite on the cards. Why did you never consult me about all this ?' ' Because, my dear Hugh, I knew you would make all sorts of objections, and, as I was deter- mined to have my own way, it was better to take it, without preliminary fuss. Isn't that a suffi- cient reason ? ' In truth Hugh Kenyon was not alone in raising objections to the ado23tion of this little waif and stray. Mrs. Stanniforth's relations, one and all, declared themselves against her in the matter. Old Mr. Stanniforth wrote from DISTRUST. 73 Manchester to say that charity was all very well, but that it was pushing charity beyond its legiti- mate limits to pick up small Italian boys from the gutter and seat them in your drawing-room. In his opinion, a barrel-organ and a couple of white mice would have met all the requirements of the present case. As for the Bishop, he almost shed tears over it ; while Mrs. Winning- ton was so angry that she reverted to a freedom of language with which her daughters had been familiar in their schooh'oom days, and roundly told Margaret that she was a fool. What was to be the future of this imp? she reasonably in- quired. Who was to support him, in case any- thing should happen to his present protectress ? Did Margaret remember that it would not be. in her power to make any permanent provision either for him or for any other chance object of benevo- lence ? And the good lady's wrath was by no means appeased when her daughter answered quietly that she hoped to be able to lay by several thousands a year, and that, for the rest, she pro- posed to insure her life in Philip's favour. If one came to talk of insurino; lives, Mrs. Winninof- ton thought, it should be the wants of one's own relations that one ought first to consider. She was, however, a woman of some practical good sense, and after her first natural outbreak of in- dignation, she wisely resolved not to quarrel with 74 NO NEW THING. accomplished facts and to make the best of a vexatious business. Nor was Maro-aret unreasonable. Havino; carried her point in the main matter of 23roviding herself with an adopted son, she was quite willing to listen to counsel as regarded his edu- cation and prospects, and even to follow it, when it coincided with her own views. And harmony was in no small degree promoted by the un- animity with which her advisers decided upon what was the first thing to be done. ' Send him to school,' cried each and all of them, without a moment's hesitation ; and to little Philip, listen- ing eagerly to the discussion, this sentence seemed to be delivered with a certain triumphant ring which was far from being reassuring. Many people imagine, or behave as if they imagined, that children are conveniently deaf, except when spoken to, and that of conversation held in their presence they understand only so much as it is desirable that they should understand. Philip Marescalchi heard and understood very well. He understood, for one thing, that all these strange ladies and gentlemen were inclined to be against him ; and, as he had never done any of them an injury, this struck him as an unjust predisposition, and one that reflected little credit upon the English as a nation. Mrs. Stanniforth he loved with all the demonstrative passion of a DISTRUST. 75 southern nature ; hut by the time that he met ^Ir. Brune iu the manner already described, he had learnt to look upon each fresh face with sus- picion, as upon that of a probable enemy ; and, as we have seen, Mr. Brune's greetmg had failed to inspire him with any confidence. Nevertheless, he felt a strong interest in this alarming personage ; for he had found out who Walter was, and that his own destiny was to be sent to WaUer's school after Easter ; and when it transpired tliat Mr. Brune was to dine at Longbourne that night, Philip guessed at once why the invitation had been given. He would orladlv, if he had dared, have concealed himself behind the window- curtains during dinner-time, and heard a few particulars as to the mysterious place of discipline whither he was to be despatched ; but this was for various reasons out of the question, and he was fain to console himself with the hope of gleaning some information at dessert. When the expected guest arrived, Master Philip was lurking on the top landing of the staircase, and, peering beneath the bannisters, saw the butler help him off with his coat, after which he was shown into the library. Then the servants went away ; and Philip, stealing down the broad, shallow stairs on tip-toe, ap- proached Mr. Brune's Inverness cape, and 76 NO NEW THING. began touching it and lifting up the corners of it with a half-frightened curiosity, much as you may see a little dog timidly poking his nose into the empty kennel of a big one. Growing bolder after a time, he proceeded to examine this garment (an altogether novel one to him) more closely, wondering at its weight and thick- ness, and at the multiplicity of its pockets. Presently it became almost a necessity to dis- cover whether these pockets contained anything, and, if so, what; and just as he had made up his mind to set these questions at rest, and was fully committed to an investigation, the library door was suddenly fluug open, and Mr. Brune himself suddenly strode out into the hall. * Hullo, youngster ! ' cried he, ' are you looking for oranges ? You won't find any in the pockets of my cqat, I'm afraid ; but if you'll come up and see me at Broom Leas, you shall have as many as you can eat ; though we don't pick them off the trees in our country. All I have got here is a letter from your future school- master, which I forgot to take in with me ; and you will soon see as much of his handwriting as you will care about, I daresay.' Mr. Brune did not appear to be angry at the liberty which had been taken with his property ; but the culprit was none the less terrified. He drew back, stammering out : — DISTRUST. 77 ^ I was not touching your coat, sir. I — I thought I had left my ball here.' ' Oh, indeed ! ' said Mr. Brune, curtly ; and, having found his letter, he returned to the library without another word. This unlucky encounter robbed Philip of any desire to face the company at dessert ; but in due time he was sent for as usual, and led into the dining-room, where he stationed him- self beside Margaret's chair — a picturesque little figure in his black velvet costume. There was nothing that should have excited apprehension in the aspect of the five guests who were seated round that well lighted and prettily decorated table. They were in good humour, as most people are after an excellent dinner, and when the Bishop called out, * Hey ! not in bed yet ? ' he meant to express nothing more than playful amiability. But Philip snuggled under Margaret's wing, and made no reply. To him these good folks were all enemies, and he answered their questions in monosyllables and with downcast eyes ; so that they all thought him shy (which he was not), and some of them set him down as sulky into the bargain. As soon as he had disposed of his grapes and biscuits he threw his arms round Margaret's neck, and kissed her on both cheeks ; after which, with a funny little old-fashioned 78 NO NEW THING. bow to the rest of the company, lie made liis escape. As he was in the act of shutting the door behind him, he heard Mr. Brune say, ' He is a pretty little fellow. Don't get too fond of him.' But Mrs. Stanniforth's answer, if she made any, was inaudible ; and the bo}' went away, wondering what Mr. Brune could have meant by that rather unkind piece of advice. Later iu the evening this enigma was ex- plained to him after a fashion confirmatory of the old adage that listeners hear no good of themselves. Being wide awake, and hearing a carriage drive up to the door and the sound of voices in the hall, he slipped out of bed and crept to his old post of observation at the top of the staircase, whence he could see the Bishop and Mrs. Winnington enveloping themselves in wraps, and could hear them remarking upon the loveliness of the evening to the others, who had come out to bid them good-night. Presently they took their departure, and were soon fol- lowed by Mr. Langley, who had got the good- natured Hugh by the button-hole, and was haranguing him upon the undue facilities afforded to the British private soldier for changing his religion, whenever it might suit the convenience of that ignorant and erratic creature to do so. ' It is a grave scandal,' Phihp heard him DISTRUST. 79 saying, ' and one to which the authorities do not seem to be properly alive. Good-night, Mrs. Stanniforth, good-night — most delightful evening — thank you so very much. Such a state of things is a disgrace to the country, Captain Kenyon. I understand that it is an absolute fact that these men will shift about from one denomination to another — Anglicans to-day, Romanists to-morrow. Dissenters next day — simply with a view to attending the place of worship in which they are likely to be de- tained for the shortest time. Xow, so long as the army chaplains are not backed up ' ' I think 111 just light a cigar and walk down as far as the gate with you,' Hugh said, resign- edly. And so Mr. Brune and his hostess were left alone in the hall, and the proceedings took a turn more interesting to the small watcher overhead. ' What made you tell me not to get too fond of the boy ? ' Margaret asked, rather abruptly. ' It is a mistake to get too fond of anybody or anything in a world of change,' answered Mr. Brune, sententiously. 'Yes ; but that was not what you meant. I wish you would tell me what you did meaa.' ' My dear Mrs. Stanniforth, if I were to answer your question honestly, you would only be angry with me, and I should not convince 80 NO NEW THING. you that I liad any good reason for my warning/ ' Having said that much, yoa must be per- fectly aware that I shall not let you go until you have explained yourself.' ' This is what one gets by allowing one's tongue too much freedom. Well, then, I recom- mended you not to grow too fond of him because I suspect that he is not likely to prove worth it. There ! ' ' I did not know it was so easy to foresee what a child of twelve years old was likely to prove worth.' ' It is less difficult than people are willing to allow. Anyone who has had as much to do with the breaking-in of young animals as I have will tell you that they all possess hereditary vices and defects, or the reverse ; and, humiliat- ing and puzzling as the fact may be, I fear that we mortals are subject to the same laws. Of course, if you or I were creating a world, we should give everybody a fair start, and little boys and girls would be little lumps of clay, to be moulded by the care and wisdom of their parents or guardians ; but even that system might be found open to objections, and it is pretty clear that that is not the system which actually prevails. Therefore, I say that there DISTRUST. 81 will always be specimens of the race for whom it is advisable not to care overmuch.' ' What defects and vices have you discovered in my poor little Philip ? ' ' I have discovered that he is a liar, and I am half afraid that he is a coward too ; but I won't insist upon the latter point. I told you I should make you angry. Come, it is only a question of words, after all. Let us say that he has a highly- strung nervous temperament, and that his intel- ligence is precocious. Plow much nicer that sounds ! And it means very nearly the same thing.' ' I don't think it means the same thing at all ; and I can't understand your being unjust and cruel enough to speak so of a child whom you have onlv seen for a fcAv minutes. You were certainly right in saying that }'our prejudice would not convince me. And even if he were what you pretend, I should not be the less fond of him, especially as, by your own showing, he would not be to blame for his faults.' ' But I didn't blame him, if you remember. Well, well ; don't say I never warned vou. that's all.' Mr. Brune had struggled into his Inverness cape by this time, and had got as far as the doorstep, whither he was followed by Margaret. ' I daresay I am unjust,' he said; 'that is VOL. I. G 82 XO NEW THING. likely enough, goodness knows ! — though I won't admit that I am cruel. It was only a little fib that he told me, Mrs. Stanniforth. I caught him with his arm thrust up to the elbow in the pocket of my coat, and he assured me that he had never touched my coat at all An accomplished liar would hardly have said that, would he ? So there's comfort for you. I sup- pose we have most of us told lies in our time. I am ready to confess that I have, and that if I had no worse sins on my conscience than your young rascal has been guilty of, I should be a happier man than I am. Let us shake hands, and acknowledge that we are all miserable sin- ners, and say no more about it.' But these last consolatory sentences did not reach the ears of Phihp, who stole back to his room, got into bed again, and cried himself to sleep. 83 CHAPTER IV. THE RISING AND THE SETTING SUN. Bad beginnings do not alsvays make bad end- ings. After the cold welcome which had greeted Philip's entrance into the land of his adoption, he was so fortunate as to earn speedily a general good-will which — if he had rightly understood the case — should have been especially gratifying to him, seeing that it was evidently due to his personal merits alone. As an institution Mrs. Stanniforth's relations and advisers had felt bound to object to him ; but as an individual they were quite willing to let him have a fair trial; and further acquaintance showed him to be an attrac- tive little individual enough. His manners, when he got a chance of displaying them, were acknowledged to be charming, albeit a trifle odd and old-fashioned ; bemg accustomed to shift for himself, he had none of the tiresome habits of a spoilt child, and required nobody to entertain him ; he was quick at picking up the tone and falling into the ways of those about him ; and a 84 NO NEW THING. select few were privileged to make the discovery that he was an excellent mimic. The guffaws that arose from the region of the servants' hall when he took off Mr. Langley's hurried gait and nasal intonation, caused the grooms in the stable- yard to pause in their work and grin at one another from the mere contagion of merriment ; he had caught the good Bishop's trick of mur- muring ' Oh, my dear friend, my dear friend ' so perfectly that a listener with his eyes shut would have been puzzled to distinguish the imitation from the original ; and even Mrs. Prosser, the sour-tempered housekeeper, condescended to smile when he sailed across the room, holding up invisible skirts with his left hand, peering here and there through imaginary eye-glasses, and ejaculating, ' My dearest Margaret, you ought really to insist upon your servants' doing their work properly ! ' For Mrs. Prosser did not love her mistress's mother. But these exhibitions were reserved for those who appreciated them, and were never indulged in in the presence of Mrs. Stanniforth ; for, young as he was. Master Philip knew that what is one man's meat is another man's poison, and had learned the important lesson of how to adapt his demeanour to his company. Mrs. Brune, for instance, thought him a sweet, gentle- mannered child, and wished, with a sigh, that THE RISING AND THE SETTING SUN. 85 her own rou2:h little mob were more like him ; while, if he had failed to ingratiate himself w^th her husband, it was only because he had made up his mind that any effort to do so would be hopeless, and because (pardonably enough) he entertained for that gentleman a deep-seated aversion, not unmixed with dread. As for the children at Broom Leas, they sat in judgment upon him, for a day or two, after the pitiless and uncompromising fashion of children, and finally pronounced a verdict in his favour. Probably they were influenced in no small degree by his independence and his assumption of certain airs of superiority to which his experience and knowledge of the world entitled him; but, be that as it may, their friendship, once accorded, was given without reserve, and he was imme- diately admitted into a ireemasonry w^hich no parental orders or entreaties could have thrown open to him. He, on his side, w^as greatly taken with these new companions, and especially with Nellie, to w^hom he made love so openly that Mrs. Brune actually began to speculate upon what might come to pass in ten or fifteen years' time, and asked her husband privately whether he supposed that Mrs. Stanniforth's protege had anything substantial in the way of expecta- tions. Philip was strolHng across the fields from 86 NO NEW THING. Longbourne to Broom Leas, one morning, when he was met by a broad-shouldered, fresh-coloured boy of about his own age and about twice his size, who left off whistling on catching sight of the stranger, and presently called out : ' I say ! is your name Marescalchi ! ' Philip said, ' Yes.' ^ Oh, all right ! You're going to school with me next half. I'm Brune — Walter, you know : you've heard of me from the young 'uns ? ' Philip smiled amiably, said, ' I am glad to see you,' and held out his hand, which the other took, staring and laughing a little. Walter was not accustomed to so much ceremony. ' I say,' he began again after a pause. ' can you play cricket ? ' Philip answered in the words of the gentle- man who was asked whether he could play the flute, that he didn't know, never having tried. ' Hum ! that's a pity. Football ? ' Philip had never even seen a football ; and his questioner was visibly depressed by this intelhgence. It was evidently in no sanguine spirit that he suggested ' Fives ? ' and a third disclaimer appeared to grieve rather than sur- prise him. ' Well,' he said, in a tone of gentle remonstrance, ' you'll have to learn, you know.' And then, ' You don't ride, I suppose.' THE RISING AND THE SETTING SUN. 87 This time Philip was able to nod affirm- atively. ' I have got a new pony,' he said. ' Have you though ? ' cried the other, bright- ening. ' Where is he ? Up at the Longbourne stables ? Come along, and let's have a look at him.' So Walter was taken to admire the purchase which Hugh Kenyon had made, a short time before, at Mrs. Stanniforth's desire; and after that, the two boys visited the other stalls and loose boxes together, and were very knowing upon the subject of horseflesh, and in that way made friends. Philip could stick to his saddle as well as most boys of his age ; for his mother had had him taught to ride, just as she had been careful to provide him with an English nurse, so long as that extravagance had been possible to her. Xo one could tell what might happen, she used to say to herself, when in a hopeful mood, and there was no harm in being prepared for all contingencies. In her heart she had always cherished a notion that, one day or another, Mr. Brown's relatives might claim their kinsman, and bear him away to wealth and honours in that far-off northern island which she well knew that she herself would never see. Her pains and forethought had their reward now; though not under such circumstances as she had anticipated. 88 NO NEW THING. ^ I think he'll do,' Walter announced confi- dentially to his father some days later. * I should not wonder if he was to get just a little bit kicked at first ' ' If you are quite sure that it will be only just a little bit, AValter, I should be inclined to doubt whether that would be an altogether unmixed evil.' ' Oh, there's no such thing as bullying nowa- days,' answered the boy, who was not himself made of the stufi" which is easily bullied ; ' he'll get on all right. The only danger is — • he's awfully clever, you know — the danger is that he may turn out a sap, and stick indoors all day.' ' I am convinced, my dear boy, that we may rely upon you to do your utmost, both by pre- cept and example, to avert such a calamity. Judging by the report which you were kind enough to hand to me on your return, the dis- grace of being known as a '' sap " is one which you are in no danger of incurring. Can you conjugate vapido, for instance?' 'Yes,' answered Walter, 'I can; but I'd rather not ; because ' ' Quite so. I respect your feelings, and have no desire to stir up painful memories during the holidays. But mind you, if this youngster is promoted over your head, there shall be no Eton THE RISING AND THE SETTING SUN. 89 for you. I can't afford to send more than one of you to the old school ; and if you won't learn, why Dick must take your place ; and I shall — well, I think I shall ship you off to the colonies, and make vou work your passage out as cabin- boy.' Walter grinned, knowing that there was no likelihood of this threat being carried into effect, though he considered it quite upon the cards that the supposition which had given rise to it might be fulfilled. For he had discovered, to his astonishment, that little Marescalchi could do Latin verses, not to speak of construing a page of Yirgil without the aid of a crib ; and he had the best reasons for thinking modestly of his own classical attainments. Meanwhile, it was indispensable that this benighted foreigner should gain some elementary knowledge of how to hit and how to throw up a ball, before being sent to school. Therefore Walter, who was the most good-natured soul alive, spent a large portion of his three weeks' holidays in bowling lobs to the stranger, while Nellie long-stopped ; and at the end of the time he was able to speak with qualified approbation of his pupil's progress. The last day was a trying one for Philip — and not for Philip alone — ^but it passed away without any unseemly exhibition; and if there were tears in anybody's 90 NO NEW THING. eyes wlien the momerxt of parting came, they were resolutely winked away. ^ Oh dear ! I almost wish he had been a girl,' sighed Margaret, as she stood looking after the carriage which was bearing away her adopted child and his juvenile protector. ' It would have been much better in all respects if he had been,' agreed Mr. Brune ; ^ but, my dear Mrs. Stanniforth, why didn't you think of that before ? Boys are a nuisance even when they come into one's possession in the ordinary course of nature ; but nothing compels one to adopt other people's boys. Considering the vast preponderance of the female over the male population, it does seem odd that, when you had made up your mind to relieve the destitute, you should have fixed upon one of the wrong sex.' ' The destitute females did not happen to come in my way, you see ; and Philip belongs to me now as much as your boys belong to you. I am sure I have no right to grumble. He has been a godsend to me already, and I don't doubt but that he will be the joy of my life and the prop of my old age.' ' Unless he comes to the gallows in the meantime. Now, Mrs. Stanniforth, don't look so reproachfully at me ; I did not really mean that. Set it down to jealousy of your boy, who THE EISIXG AND THE SETTING SUN. 91 is SO much better-looking and cleverer than mine, you know. I foresee how you will crow over me for the next three months, and I can't help feeling sore in anticipation.' It must be confessed that, if Margaret did not actually crow over Mr. Brune, she was very exultant when the first reports from Philip's school reached her, and that she talked about him and his triumphs a little too much for the patience of her mother, who was at that time spending a few days with her. ' Now I do think there are very few boys of twelve years old who could produce anything so good as that,' she exclaimed, one morning, throwing across the breakfast-table a letter which, in truth, was not ill written and was disfigured by no blots. Mrs. Winnington picked it up, and surveyed it through her glasses. ' My dearest Meg,' it began. ' Eeally,' cried Mrs. Winnington, laying down the sheet, ' I am surprised at your encouraging the boy to address you in that disrespectful way. '* Meg," indeed ! Why, I should never have allowed even your brothers and sisters to make use of such a vulgar nickname.' 'But ''Mrs. Stanniforth " would be so formal. He always used to call me Meg at 92 NO NEW THING. Nice, and I rather liked it. I don't think it sounds disrespectful.^ ' Oh, very well ! I suppose the young gentleman will be addressing me as Sukey next,' said Mrs. Winnington, whose christian name was Susan. And then she raised her eye-glasses again, and went on with the letter. ' My dearest Meg, — This is a half-holiday, so I am going to write to you as I promised. We have two half- holidays a week. I like it very much, only I want to go to Eton at Christmas when Walter goes. Please dear Meg let me go. Walter says he is sure I should take middle fourth, which is Upper School you know. I play cricket every day. I never cry, and I say my prayers as you told me. All the boys say their prayers here because one of the masters comes into the dormitry in the morning and then we have to do it while he is there and then we dress and then we go into school. We don't get much hutter with our bread at brekfast. Walter says all the boys at Eton have rooms of their own and buy what they like for brekfast. I should always buy sossiges. I wish I was there. But I am very happy here. Please send me ten shillings as I have got no money left. I must stop now for I have no more to say. Give my love to Prosser and Wilson and James THE RISI^^G AND THE SETTING SUN. 93 and Thomas and all the animals and Mrs. Winnington, and ' Believe me ' Ever your loving Philip.' '• There are a few mistakes in spelling/ Margaret observed in an apologetic tone. ' A few,' said Mrs. Winnington drily. ' It is a comfort to think that Philip is not likely to fail in life through any foolish feeling of delicacy as to asking for what he wants. I suppose you have already begun to make inquiries about a house at Eton.' ' Well, it would be a a'reat thinc^ if he and ' CO Walter could go there together, would it not? And you know, mother, it is one of your maxuns that those who won't ask don't deserve to receive.' Mrs. Winnington, who had consistently acted in accordance with this principle for many years, did not find it convenient to make any direct rejoinder, and merely remarked : ' Eton was thought too expensive a school for your brothers: but I dare say I had better not interfere. I hope you will thank your young prodigy for his polite mention of me when you write.' ' Oh, yes; I will certainly,' replied Margaret, quite seriously. And she despatched an answer 94 XO NEW THING. to Philip's letter that same afternoon, enclosing the ten shillings, as requested, and promising that if he continued to be good, and was careful about the orthography of ' dormitory ' and other recondite words, the propriety of sending him to Eton in eight months' time should be con- sidered. The boy had not told the truth in asserting that he was happy at school. But what boy ever does tell the truth in such . matters ? He was physically weak, nervous, and sensitive, and he experienced the inevitable fate of those who possess such organisations. This private school, which was neither better nor worse than other establishments of its kind, did him some good and some harm. It taught him a respect for discipline ; it gave him a rough notion of what commonly passes for justice in this world ; and it confirmed his previous impression that the English, with a few bright exceptions, were a thick-headed and hard-hearted race. Probably he would not have pulled through as well as he did had he not had a powerful friend in "Walter Brune. "With the help of that good-natured son of Anak, he just managed to hold his own among his companions, and, although he did not achieve popularity, he was not much tormented after the first few weeks. To set against this mediocre social success, he had the good word of THE EISIXG AXD THE SETTING SUX. 95 all his masters, and he returned to Longbourne at Midsummer with a pile of prizes under his arm and a highly eulogistic letter, addressed to Mrs. Stanniforth, in the pocket of his jacket. Perhaps, if Philip had known it, that first day of his first holidays was the happiest of his life. The joy of regained liberty; the joy of beino- surrounded by none but friendly faces ; and the iov of once more embracino^ his beloved Meo- — the only person in the world in ^vhom he had complete confidence : these would of themselves have satisfied him. But when to such delights was joined the supreme one of returnino- to them in the character of a conquering hero, the measure of his contentment was filled up to overflowing ; for it was a part of his nature to adore applause. Margaret was not alone when he arrived ; she had Captain Kenyon and two of her young brothers, schoolboys like himself, staying with her. But Hugh was so kind and complimentary that his presence could hardly be considered as a drawback; and the AYinnino-- ton boys had the pleasant, soft manners of their father's family, and did not look askance at Philip, as at an intruder, after the fashion of certain other people whom he had met at Lono-- bourne earlier in the year. In the afternoon Walter came up ; and then there were the stables to be visited, and various 96 NO NEW THING. plans for the employment of eight blissful weeks to be concocted; after which came late dinner, to which — the occasion being so auspicious a one — the juveniles sat down with their elders. But what pleased Philip more than all this, more even than the news that his hopes were to be fulfilled, and that he was to go to Eton after Christmas, was the footing upon which he felt himself to stand with regard to those about him. He was no longer the little Italian waif, picked up nobody knew whence, and eyed from every quarter with curiosity and suspicion ; he was a recognised member of the family, and one who was acknowled2;ed to have brought credit upon it in the shape of those gilded volumes which were lying in a conspicuous place upon the drawing-room table. Thus it was, in all respects, a day to be marked with a white stone ; but, somehow or other, Margaret's spirits did not seem to be as high as they ought to have been under the cir- cumstances ; and Philip, who was an observant little person, was not slow to detect this defi- ciency. He noticed also that Captain Kenyon was not himself. That ordinarily quiet and taciturn gentleman was so talkative and so laboriously jovial that a far less shrewd listener than Master Marescalchi must have suspected that somethino; was amiss. Takins: one thins: THE EISIXG AXD THE SETTING SUX. 97 with another, and remarking that no direct interchange of words took place between the head and the foot of the table, our young friend came to the conclusion that Captain Kenyon had been misbehaving himself in some way, and that Margaret was displeased with him ; and this impression was confirmed by what took place subsequently in the drawing-room. Hugh began talking about Eton, and, mentioning as a curious circumstance that he himself had never seen the place, added that he would now have a pretext for running down there occasionally. ' Have you ever seen Oxford P ' asked Margaret, looking up for an instant from her embroidery. ' Well, no ; oddly enough, I never have. Why do you ask ? ' ' Only because your pretext will most likely have moved there before you come back.' * Oh, I hope it will not be so bad as that,' answered Hugh, laughing in an uncomfortable, nervous sort of way. * I thought,' said Mrs. Stanniforth, risino- slowly, and gathering up her skeins and scissors and needles, 'that you told me you would not be in England again for another ^ve or six years at least.' And with that she walked to the other end of the room, and engaged one of her youno- brothers in a game of backgammon, disregard- VOL. I. H 98 NO NEW THING. ino* Hugh's confused murmurs about getting leave, he hoped, and distance being nothing in these days, and more to the like effect. Where- upon the latter thrust his hands into his pockets, stretched his long legs out before him, and became lost in frowning meditation. It was Margaret's custom to peep into Philip's room, before retiring to rest, for a last look at her boy, who was generally sound asleep at the hour of these visits. Upon this occasion, however, she found him sitting up in bed, and eager for conversation ; and one of the first things he asked was — ' Meg, is Captain Kenyon going away ? ' Margaret said yes ; Captain Kenyon was going to India very soon. ' What for ? ' PhiUp inquired. ' He is sent there, my dear. Soldiers are sent to India sometimes.' ' Is India a long way off? ' ' Yes ; a long way. I dare say you won't see Captain Kenyon again until you are almost a man. Aren't you sorry? ' Philip did not feel that the prospect was one which affected him very greatly; but he ex- pressed a proper amount of civil regret, and then went on with his inquiries. * Why are soldiers sent to India, Meg? For a punishment ? ' THE RISING AND THE SETTING SUN. 99 ^ Oh dear, no ! many of them don't thmk it a punishment at all. There are tigers to be shot in India, and pigs to be stuck, and other excite- ments which are not to be had in this country. Of course those who go leave their friends be- hind them, which some might consider a draw- back.' ' And are they obliged to go ? ' " Well, I believe they can generally arrange to remain at home if they wish it.' ' Captain Kenyon doesn't wish it, then? ' ' I suppose not. But we must not talk any more now ; it is high time for you to lie down and go to sleep.' So Margaret went away, leaving Philip still a victim to baffled curiosity. He perceived that Captain Kenyon' s departure was arousing no small amount of resentment ; but he did not clearly understand why that officer should not go and kill tigers, or be killed by them, if the current of his ambition set that way. If it had been a question of the Bishop's or of Mrs. Win- nington's incurring such perils, that- would of course have been another thing ; but what, after all, was Captain Kenyon to Margaret? Only a friend — and not a very interesting friend either, in his (the speculator's) opinion. It will be seen that Philip was not too young to be jealous. 100 NO NEW THING. Poor Hugh was innocent enough of any de- sire to quit his native shores, and not all the tigers in Bengal would have tempted him away, had he felt at liberty to consult his own incli- nations ; but there were more considerations than one which weighed with him when his bat- tery, somewhat unexpectedly, received orders to hold itself in readiness to proceed on foreign service. In the first place, he was a poor man, and could not well have afforded the expense of an exchange ; secondly, he had a mother and sisters whom he had accustomed to look for oc- casional remittances from him, and to whose comforts the double pay of the Indian establish- ment might be expected to minister consider- ably ; thirdly — and this, it must be confessed, was what he thought of most — he had convinced himself that it would be better for him to dwell no longer than was necessary in the same quarter of the globe as Margaret. The first two of these reasons were such as, in an ordinary man, might have been held to be sufficient, not to say creditable ; but those who choose habitually to study the convenience of others rather than their own must be prepared to pay the penalty which such an imprudent rule of conduct entails. Hugh, having cheer- fully served his fellow-creatures all his life long, had ceased, in the eyes of most of them, to be a THE KISIXG AND THE SETTING SUN. 101 free agent ; and Margaret, for one, though she was not unreasonable enough to desire that he should sacrifice his career in order that she might have an adviser and confidant always at her elbow, yet thought that friendship demanded of him some expression of regret and some ex- planation of the causes that were leading him to abandon her at a time when she stood so much in need of support. When, therefore, he an- nounced in a brisk, ofi"-hand manner that he was about to sail for India, and might be absent for a matter of half-a-dozen years or so, she felt that she had every right to be hurt and offended ; and so it was that she treated the delinquent with marked coldness, and made the sarcastic allusions above-mentioned to tigers and pigs. The next morning, Philip espied Hugh smoking his pipe pensively on the lawn before breakfast, and attacked him point-blank with — ' Captam Kenyon, why are yon going to India?' ' Why am I going, my boy ? ' echoed Hugh, looking down at the inquisitive little face which was turned up to his. ' Well, I am going be- cause it comes in the way of my duty to go, if you understand what that means.' ' But Meg said you could stay at home if you liked.' 'Did she say that?' exclaimed Hugh, in an 102 NO NEW THING. altered voice ; and for a moment Philip ex- perienced the uncomfortable sensation of one who has trodden upon a sleeping lion's tail. But it presently appeared that Captain Kenyon was not going to be angry. ' Ah,' said he, ' ladies won't understand that a man can't always do as he likes. Don't you let them put an}^ notion of that kind into your head, my young friend, or you'll come to grief one of these fine days. One of the first lessons that men and bo3^s have to learn is that they will very seldom be able to do as they like, and the next, that they may as well grin and bear it.' Hugh, however, was not allowed to beg the question in that way. ' But you can do as you like about going to India,' persisted his cross-examiner. ' Meg said so.' ' Perhaps neither you nor Margaret know much about that,' answered Hugh, good- humouredly. 'At all events, I am not going to be bulbed by any of you ; and you'll see me back sooner than you want me, I have no doubt. That's enough said about me. What you have to do is to grow into a big boy as soon as you can, and try to be some comfort to — to — to — the person to whom you owe pretty well every- thing. You have made a good start ; keep it up. And mind you, it isn't enough to get THE EISING AND THE SETTING SUN. 103 prizes, and be at the top of your class, and all that. Not that study isn't a fine thing in its way ; still, it's not all that's wanted. You are sent to school, I take it, not only to learn Latin and Greek and a smattering of mathematics, but to learn to be a gentleman and a good fel- low. At Eton you will fall in with companions of all ranks and fortunes, just as you will in the world later on, and the chances are that you will have as much pocket-money as any of them ; but don't let that make you forget that you will have to earn your own bread some day. Never pretend that you are anything but what you really are ; never shirk either your work or your play ; and never say a word behind a fel- low's back that you wouldn't dare say to his face. That isn't an impossible system to fol- low ; though it's a hard one, I grant you. You stick to it, and you'll have your reward in due time.' • In this strain Hugh went on, expounding his simple theory of ethics between the whiffs of his pipe, and the boy listened to him with about as much attention as boys usually vouch- safe to the wisdom of their elders. The speaker's words gained something in impressiveness, it is true, when it transpired that this was a valedic- tory address, and that Captain Kenyon proposed to leave for Aldershot within a few hours. He 104 NO NEW THING. would not actually sail for some time to come ; but the little leave that he could hope to obtain after this must, he explained, be spent with his own family, and it was unlikely that he would be able to visit Longbourne again. ' So you see,' he concluded, ' this will be my last oppor- tunity of lecturing all you good folks and telling you your duty ; and I am making the most of it; But, although Hugh could be fluent enough in the presence of this small member of the household, he became a changed man under the eye of its mistress, and his eloquence entirely deserted him when the time came for him to hold his farewell interview with her. They sat facing, but not looking at one another, in the library, she stitching at her embroidery, and he pulling his moustache and studying the pattern of the carpet ; and, like the sentimental couple in the ballad, They spoke of common things, But the tears were in their eyes. At leno^th Huo^h could stand this absurd constraint no longer, and broke out with — ' I hope you don't think I am going to India for my own amusement. The boy said something to me just now which — he told me you had said I need not go unless I liked.' ' I fancied,' said Margaret, ^ that exchanges THE RISING AND THE SETTING SUN. 105 were not difficult to obtain. But I don't know why you should not wish to go.' ' Ah, that is not like you ! that is not quite honestly said. You must know that it can be no pleasure to me to leave — all that I shall have to leave, and that I should not go, unless 1 had a good reason for doing so. 1 have a good reason — several good reasons.' He broke off, and looked at her half appre- hensively. He was undecided whether to hope that she would understand him or to hope that she would not. But she looked up with a plea- sant smile, and an evident unconsciousness of any deeper meaning than his words seemed to imply. ' Dear old Hugh,' she said, ' I know you have reasons, and I suppose I can guess what some of them are. I ought to know, if anyone does, that your own pleasure is about the last thing that you ever think of ; and I beg your pardon for having been so disagreeable to you. But I confess that the way you spoke yesterday made me unhappy, and vexed me. I thought you seemed glad to go.' ' No,' said Hugh, in a low voice ; ' I was not glad.' ' Of course you were not ; and even if you had been, one has not so many friends in the world that one can afford to quarrel with the best of them.' 106 NO NEW THING. ' Quarrel ! ' cried Hugh aghast. ' My dear Margaret! ' ' Well, I won't say anything about quarrels; it takes two to make one, doesn't it? But I dare say you don't know what a loss you will be to me. It seems as if 1 must lose everyone I cared for.' Hugh was perfectly well aware that if she had cared for him in the way that he wished her to do she would never have said that. ' You won't lose me, if I can help it,' he answered, cheerily; 'and you have the boy, remember. He will very soon take my place — and more than my place, I'm afraid. His sun is rising, and mine is setting ; and that is quite as it should be. Only don't let him put me altogether out of your memory.' From which it may be mferred that, if Philip was inclined to be jealous of Captain Kenyon, his sentiments were not far from being returned. 'I don't know why you should say that,' cried Margaret, with some warmth. * Is one only to care for one person in the world? You are not the less my friend because I have found a son in Philip. If Jack were alive, you don't think, do you, that I should care less to see you and hear from you ? ' ' Yes, I do,' answered Hugh. ' Why, it stands to reason that you would.' THE RISING AND THE SETTING SUN. 107 ' Then you don't know the meaning of friendship, that's all.' 'Don't I?' said Hugh, meekly. And then she begged his pardon again, and they both laughed, and Margaret cried a little; and before much more could be said, the butler came in to announce that the dog-cart was at the door. One of them was not sorry to have his adieux cut short. He promised to write often ; and they shook hands, saying that they would cer- tainly meet again soon. So they two parted; and did not meet again for many a long day. 108 NO NEW THING. CHAPTER Y. THE YOUNG GENERATION. Ten years make up a very respectable slice to take out of any man's life. Ten years advance tlie restless world so far in its eternal task of waste and renewal, bring such a vast accumula- tion of announcements to the first column of the Times^ and witness so much laughing and weeping, learning and forgetting, that they can- not but leave perceptible traces upon bodies which at best are only constructed to endure through six or seven of such periods. Yet when, after protracted wanderings, we revisit familiar scenes, it is seldom change so much as the lack of it, that astonishes us. The houses are where they were ; the church steeple main- tains its position, looking down upon the well- known tombstones, with but a few additions to their number ; everywhere are evidences of the mortifying fact that summer and winter, seed- time and harvest, have succeeded one another quite in the usual fashion, in spite of our THE YOUNG GEXERATIOX. 109 absence. It takes nothing less than an earth- quake, a conflagration, or a deluge, to give us the shock which we had half looked forward to. In individuals, too, as in places, the work of a twelvemonth is often more destructive than that of a dozen. We return, after ten years of not more than ordinary vicissitude, to find our friends a little greyer perhaps, a little stouter, a little less active, but otherwise scarcely altered. They are busied with the same employments as of yore ; they are absorbed in the same petty cares and amusements ; we recognise the old tricks of speech and gesture, the old virtues and failings, and too often, alas ! the old jokes. The only startling sensation we are likely to experi- ence is the discovery that those whom we left in the nursery have in some unaccountable manner been replaced by young men and women. The reader must now be asked to renew acquaintance, after a supposed interval of ten years, with the personages parted from at the end of the last chapter ; some of whom, as will be seen, have grown almost out of recognition in that lapse of time, while others have remained as nearly stationary as the laws of nature will permit, and two have quietly slipped off the stage altogether, and have already been all but for- gotten by the survivors. To Margaret this decade has given what, in 110 NO NEW THING. the common course of things, it could hardly fail to do — a less impatient acquiescence in her lot as a rich woman to whom money is no blessing and a lonely woman who is seldom allowed to be alone ; a clear understanding of the uses and drawbacks of wealth ; and, in addition to these advantages, a considerable in- crease of employment for body and mind in the shape of certain responsibilities which shall be more fully dwelt upon by-and-by. Upon Hugh Kenyon, earning distinction, unaccompanied by notoriety, in desultory frontier warfare, and groaning over uncongenial office work as holder of a staff appointment in the sweltering heat of Madras, it has bestowed a fine crop of grey hairs, a heartfelt detestation of the East, and a brevet- colonelcy. To Mrs. Winnington it has brought a change of circumstances which, anti- cipated and discounted as it might have been by so far-seeing a lady, has not the less contributed towards souring a temper which was never of the sweetest. The truth is that, after the poor old Bishop of Crayminster's death and burial, his savings were found to fall far short of the amount which he had always led his wife to imao-ine that she mig^ht trust to inheritins^ : and Mr. Brune declared that, in the first agony of so cruel an aggravation of her bereavement, the widow was for countermanding that handsome THE YOUNG GENERATION. Ill marble efiigj which adorns the north transept of the cathedral and keeps the virtues of Bishop Winnington before the eyes of a too forgetful public. Possibly, however, it was not Mrs. Winnington who defrayed the cost of the monument. When these lamentable events occurred, Mr. Brune had himself been for some time a widower. The fragile mistress of Broom Leas shivered out of the world one bitter January morning, and was regretted as much as, and missed perhaps rather more than, she deserved. Her place was supplied, so far as a mother's place can be supplied, by Margaret, w^ho took almost entire charge of little Nellie, saw that the boys had buttons on their shirts and jackets on their backs, and in numberless other ways proved herself of invaluable service to a dis- tressed elderly gentleman whose notions on the subject of household economy were of a most elementary kind. That Mrs. Winnington and her only un- married daughter Edith should take up their abode for a time with Mrs. Stanniforth, after circumstances obliged them to vacate the Palace, was but natural and proper. It was only a temporary arrangement, Mrs. Winnington was careful to explain. She herself disapproved on principle of joint establishments ; and, although 112 NO NEW THING. she was willing so far to comply with dear Mar- garet's wishes as to remain where she was until a suitable home could be found for her else- where, it must be clearly understood that she could never consent to inhabit Longbourne upon any other footing than that of a guest. Never- theless, time went on, and, somehow or other, the suitable home could not be discovered. Sometimes j\Irs. ^\^imiington took lodgings in London for a month or so, sometimes she al- lowed herself a brief period of rest and relaxa- tion at the sea-side, and her interviews with house-agents were constant ; but nothing came of it all ; and Mrs. Prosser, the housekeeper, respectfully begged to be informed whether she was expected to take her orders from visitors ; because, in that case, she should be wishful to give up the situation, not having been accus- tomed to serve two mistresses. Perhaps Mrs. Prosser was not the only person who would fain have sped the parting guest ; for in ten years' time there had sprung up a generation of young people, whose views were clear and decided, as the views of young people generally are, and who did not hesitate to give expression to them among themselves. It is with this younger generation that we shall henceforth principally have to deal ; and pro- bably the best day on which to bring them THE YOUXG GENERATION. 113 under the reader's notice will be that of the Oxford and Cambridge cricket match, a day memorable on various grounds — memorable in the annals of cricket as having witnessed the defeat of Cambridge in a single innings ; memor- able to the Brnnes and Stanniforths as being the crown and finish of their respective representa- tives' Oxford's career ; memorable, above all, as the day on which Walter carried out his bat, after having put together a score of 182, with- out giving a single chance from beginning to end. Of the many thousands who strolled round and round Lord's ground during the two days of the match, not a few stood still to stare at a remarkably pretty girl, who, perched upon the box of a carriage, with her eyes fixed intently upon the players, was evidently unconscious of the admiration which she was exciting. A very small proportion of them — one in a thousand, perhaps — knew her name ; for Miss Brune's visits to London were few and far between, and her acquaintance with fashionable society was confined to such members of it as dwelt within the limits of her own county. Nor, indeed, had she any present desire to eidarge that acquaint- ance, or to scrutinise the throng of celebrities and beauties collected in her neighbourhood, having little in common with the ladies who frequent VOL. I. I 114 NO NEW THING. Lord's rather with a view to be seen than to see. Everything at its proper time. Miss Brune had no objection to the pleasures of social intercourse as obtainable at the half-dozen or so of balls to wdiich she was taken in the course of the year, ■or at the garden-parties w^hich were the form of entertainment most in favour round Crayminster ; but she went to Lord's to look at cricket, and it is certain that she was as capable a judge of the game as any man in the Pavilion. It was not for nothing that she had had her shins bruised and her finger-nails cracked by the bowlmg of a succession of brothers, all of whom had sub- sequently achieved renown on better-known fields than that of Broom Leas ; and, although long skirts and conventional prejudices forbade her any longer to handle the bat and ball on her own account, there were few of the great annual contests in w^hich she did not take a vicarious part. This particular University match — the last in which Walter was to figure — had occupied all her thouofhts for weeks beforehand, and dur- ing the earlier part of it she had sat motionless upon her perch, her right hand supporting her chin and her left holding up her parasol, as in- attentive to the ceaseless babble of her younger brothers as she had been unconscious of the flattering remarks to which her small regular features, her abundant dark hair, and her blue THE YOUXG GEXERATIOX. 115 eyes were giving rise among the ranks of the bystanders. But now the first day .was past and gone, the morning of the second was wearing away ; Cambridge, having followed their innings, were making a bad fight of it ; the result of the game was a foregone conclusion, and Miss Brune was able to bestow some notice upon the outer world, and to nod in a friendly way to a strikingly handsome and well-dressed young man, who lounged up to the side of the carriage and took off his hat to her. ' Rather poor fun,' he remarked, ^ith a back- ward jerk of his head towards the field. ' Yes ; isn't it horrid ? I do hate a follow- on.' ' It is better than a draw, though, I suppose.* ^ Oh, of course ; but it's disappointing all the same. I wanted to see Walter go in again.' ' How inconsiderate of you to wish for such a thing on a blazing hot day like this! If I were Walter, I should be very well satisfied to rest upon my laurels.' ^ Ah, bub you don't care about cricket,' said Miss] Brune, looking down pityingly upon her interlocutor, who had drawn a mat over the top of the wheel to protect his coat-sleeves, and was resting his elbows upon it, while he contem- I 2 116 NO NEW THING. plated her with a sort of lazy complacency and approbation. ' I beg your pardon ; I like cricket very well — in a mild way. I don't think it quite the only thing in the world worth living for, I confess.' ' No more does Walter,' retorted Miss Brune, with quick resentment. 'Who said he did? Don't be so peppery, Nell ! Perhaps I wasn't thinkmg of Walter at all.' *You meant me, then, I suppose. Now, Philip, if you are going to say disagreeable things, you had better take yourself off.' ' I shall do nothing of the sort,' answered the other, climbing deliberately into the carriage, which was empty at that moment, and kneeling upon the seat, so that his face was close to Miss Brune' s elbow. ' I shall stay as long as I please, and say as many disagreeable things as I like.' ' You cannot force me to listen to you, at all events,' cried the girl, resolutely turning her back upon him. ' Very well ; I'll endeavour to be amiable. I think cricket a glorious national pastime ; and if I could play as well as Walter, I should think it more glorious still. Will that satisfy you? You'll allow that it isn't a game for a bad player.' THE YOUXG GENERATION. 117 ' You could play well enough, if you cliose to take the trouble,' answered Nellie, seriously ; ' it's no use attempting to do anything without practice. But, I suppose,' she added presently, ' you like private theatricals and dancing and flirtation, and all that sort of amusement better.' ' Who's saying disagreeable things now ? I never knew anybody so quarrelsome as you are. One would have tliought that you would have been on your good behaviour for the first two or three days after meeting an old friend whom you haven't seen for so many months — but no! However, I don't mean to quarrel with you. In the first place, it is too hot ; m the second place, we have the whole summer before us ; and in the third place, public wrangling is un- seemly.' Nellie turned her dark blue eyes upon the speaker with a look of some alarm and contrition. 'I didn't mean to be disagreeable really, Philip,' she said. ' 1 forgive you,' replied the other, gravely. * Try not to do it again, that's all. Now tell me all the Longbourne news. Between ourselves, I am sick of Oxford and sick of private theatricals ; and, as for dancing and flirtation, I should imagine you were more proficient in those arts than I can pretend to be.' But Miss Brune was not listening to him. 118 NO NEW THING. ^ Oh, wliat was that?' she exclaimed. 'Eight wickets down! How did he get out? I didn't see it at all, did you ? This comes of talking, instead of looking at the game.' ' Oh, bowled, or caught, or run out, or some- thing; / don't know. Anyhow, there's an end of him; and there will be an end of the whole business presently. Tell me about Long- bourne ! ' ' There is no Longbourne news to tell. Nothing ever happens in our part of the world, you know ; at least, nothing that you would care to hear about. Mrs. Stanniforth is looking tired and ill, I think. I wanted her to come up with us and see the match; but she said she could hardly manage it. Of course, if you had been in the eleven, it would have been another thing. How glad she will be to have you back again! ' ' Dear old Meg ! Any prospect of Mrs. Winnington's finding a house ? ' Nellie shook her head and sighed. 'Papa says the only chance of getting rid of her would be for Mrs. Stanniforth to let Longbourne, and go away until she was settled somewhere. But, unfortunately, Mrs. Stanniforth doesn't want to get rid of her.' ' I wonder now,' said Philip, musingly, ' whether somebody couldn't be found to marry Mrs. Wilmington ? ' THE YOUNG GENERATION. 119 ' Oh, I'm afraid not. Oh no; I should think there could not be the faintest shadow of a hope of that.' ' Well, one never can tell; a fool is born every hour. Do you know that Colonel Kenyon is expected home from India ? ' ' Yes; Mrs. Stanniforth told me. You are not thinking of him as a husband for Mrs. Winnington, are you ? ' ' No; hardly. Though, now you mention it, I don't know that he mightn't do. Perhaps it wouldn't be an altogether unsuitable match. He must be some years younger than the dear old lady, certainly ; but I should imagine him the sort of man who would look about twice his age, whereas our beloved Winnington is still quite blooming by candlelight; and, at all events, they would have one point of resemblance, they are both bores.' ' Why do you think Colonel Kenyon a bore? Mrs. Stanniforth says he is one of the best men that ever lived.' ' You give me question and answer in the same breath. However, I admit that I am prejudiced. I dare say he isn't a bad sort of old fogey, when you know him. I don't remember much about him myself; only I can answer for the fact that he writes uncommonly long-winded letters, and then he has been held up before me 120 NO NEW THING. all my life as a bright example. One can't feel very amiably towards people of that stamp. He is such a very, very white sheep, that I, who have a tuft or two of black on my fleece, have some difficulty in recognising him as a brother. Speaking honestly now, don't you think that, if it were literally true that the King could do no wrong, it would be about time to cut off the King's head, and despatch him into a world where he could feel himself more at home than in this one? ' But Xellie was spared the necessity of making an}" ^eply, for at this juncture one of the players hit the ball well up into the air, and the next moment a roar ran round the ground, to which Philip contributed his share by singing out, ' Well caught ! ' 'Well caught!' echoed Miss Brune, rather contemptuously; 'why, my dear Philip, how could he help himself! He might have caught it in his mouth.' ' Perhaps so; but I never saw the catch yet that did not fill me with admiration and amaze- ment. If I had been in that man's place, the ball would inevitably have slipped through my fingers, and you would be inwardly joining in the hooting at this moment. I tremble when I think of the number of times that I shall be disgraced in your eyes before the autumn.' THE YOUNG GENERATION. 121 ' I don't believe you will play in a single match, unless Walter absolutely drags you on to the ground/ said Nellie. And then Mr. Brune came up, followed by a small phalanx of young sons, and Philip descended from the carriage, and presently sauntered away. He met with mauy greetings, and had to remove his glossy hat over and over again, as he made his way through the crowd ; for Mr. Marescalchi was tolerably well known in London as one of the best amateur actors of the day, and his pleasant address had recommended him to the favour of a few great ladies, and conse- quently to that of numerous others who aspired to be great. At Oxford he had been in a good set ; that is to say, that he had associated princi- pally with youths of noble birth or noble fortunes; and as he had adapted himself to their manners and customs, had spent money freely and had always been cheery and in good spirits, he had ended by acquiring a popularity extending beyond University circles. Through the medium of his college acquaintances he had made his way into houses the portals of which Mrs. Winnington, for instance, with all her superior claims to recognition, had never succeeded in forcing : hence some severe observations about snobs and toadies were occasionally heard in the 122 NO NEW THING. vicinity of Longbourne. Mrs. Winnington did not love this upstart; but society at large, which naturally did not care a pin whether he were an upstart or no, liked him very well, and petted him as much as his heart could desire. He threaded his way among the carriage - wheels and luncheon-baskets and bright- coloured parasols and attendant flunkeys, basking in the moral and material sunshine, smiled upon by the world, and smiling back in return — a faultlessly appointed little figure, from the bouquet in his button-hole to the tips of his shiny boots ; and doubtless many of those who watched his progress thought him much to be envied. There is a certain combination of youth, health, prosperity, good looks, and fine clothes upon which even the sternest philosopher can hardly help casting just one longing, Imgering look. When the match and the shouting were over, and the released spectators were rushing towards the gates, jostling one another in accordance with the custom of all assemblages after a show, Mr. Marescalchi loitered on the ground^ and let the stream pass by. He himself was seldom in a hurry, and disliked being pushed about and elbowed. And while, half -sitting upon his stick, he surveyed with placid compassion the foolish people who were making themselves so unnecessarily hot, a tall, broad-shouldered young THE YOUNG GENERATION. 123 man came striding across the grass behind him, and clapped him on the shoulder, with — ' Hullo, Philip ! youVe the very fellow I wanted to see. What train are vou going down by?' Marescalchi turned round, rubbed his shoulder, and looked up reproachfully at the new-comer. ^ How you made me jump ! ' he exclaimed. The other burst into a ofreat lauo^h. ' Made you jump, indeed ! one would think you were an old woman. This comes of ruining your nerves by smoking all day and sitting up all night. Perhaps you thought I was going to serve a writ upon you, though ? ' he added, in a more sober tone. ^ My dear, good fellow, don't talk about such horrid things! So you never got a second innings, after all. Nellie was quite plaintive over it, and snubbed me savagely because I suggested that the weather was hardly suitable for athletics.' ' What a lazy little beggar you are ! Well, you haven't answered my question yet. Are you going down by the 3.45 or the 6.20 ? Nellie and the others have gone off to look at the pictures, so I don't suppose we shall catch the express.' Marescalchi had put a cigarette between his 124 NO NEW TPIING. lips, and was stooping down to scrape a match upon the sole of his boot. ' I don't think I can manage to get down to Longbourne this evening,' he said ; ' I've got a lot of things to do in town.' ' Oh bosh ! ' returned his friend ; ' what can you want to do in London at this time of the year? You had much better come down with us.' He added, after a momentary hesitation, ' It'll be an awful sell for Mrs. Stanniforth if you don't turn up.' Walter Brune the man was an enlarged duplicate of Walter the boy. Fair-haired, blue- eyed, fresh-complexioned, he bore no trace of resemblance to the Brunes, who were a small, dark, and wiry race. ' Walter is a Boulger from crown to heel,' his father used to say, ' and if I were not afraid of his giving me a thrashing, I'd disown him.' Walter, indeed, could have thrashed most men. He was not handsome, except in so far as he had the beauty of glowing health and a splendid physique ; but his face was the embodiment of honesty and good humour, and he was certainly pleasant to look at. Marescalchi, for reasons of his own, did not look at him now, but answered in an off-hand way : ' Oh, I shall turn up all right some time to-morrow. No ; not to-morrow, by-the-by, but THE YOUXG GEXERATIOX. 125 next day. I remember now that I promised to dine with Salford to-morrow.' Walter looked dissatisfied. ' Throw him over, then,' he said, curtly. ' He won't miss you, I'll be bound ; and Mrs. Stanniforth will.' ' My dear Walter,' began Marescalchi, still smilmg, but with eyebrows slightly raised, ' don't vou think ? ' 'Don't I think I had better mmd my o\\ti business, eh? Xo ; I don't. After drv-nursino- you for so many years, I have a right to lecture you occasionally ; and you can't say I claim it very often nowadays. I have never said a word against any other of your great swell friends — have I ? — though I don't think you have got much good from some of them ; but I do wish you would drop that fellow Salford. He's as thorough a blackguard as ever stepped.' ' Dear, dear I what has he been doin^ ? ' asked Philip, with an air of innocent wonder. ' You know well enough. For one thino-, he is never quite sober, and I hate a sot. But that's not the worst of him. I don't think I'm particularly straitlaced, but there are some things that I can't get over. I have never seen Salford without longing to break his neck since that poor little girl from the pastrycook's dis- appeared. She was a silly little gigghng thino-; but there wasn't a bit of harm in her till you 126 NO NEW THING. fellows chose to amuse yourselves by turning her empty head ; and now she is irretrievably ruined, poor wretch! If you or I had done such a thing, we should have been called infernal scoundrels ; but Salford is a marquis ; so he's a fine fellow, and Miss Fanny is a deuced lucky girl. That's the way you look at it, isn't it? ' ' There is one thing,' remarked Philip, imperturbably, 'that I have always noticed about people who go twice to church on Sunday ; they get so puffed up that they can't believe in their neighbours' possessing a comparative degree of virtue. It's a proud boast, I know, to be able to sit out two sermons in a week; I couldn't do it myself, and I look with awe and reverence upon those who can ; but it doesn't exactly confer upon you a monopoly of right- eousness. Where's your Christian charity, my dear Walter ? How do you know that Salford was the culprit ? For anything he has ever said to me about it, he may be as innocent of spiriting Fanny away as I am myself. I wish the man, whoever he was, could have made it convenient to wait a few months, I know ; for her successor was ugly enough to frighten one out of the shop.' ' I didn't think Salford made much of a secret of it,' said Walter. 'At all events, everybody put it down to him.' THE YOUNG GENERATIOX. 127 ^ And do you believe wliat everybody says ? ' ^ If you ask me, I do in the present instance. And I do not believe in Salford's possessing even what you call a comparative degree of virtue. And here he comes, blind drunk, as usual. Well ; I shall be off.' But Lord Salford had joined the two friends before Walter could effect his escape, and was offering civil congratulations to the latter, who received him as a badger receives a terrier. * Xever saw you in such form before, Brune ; you made their bowling look pretty foolish. That's what I call real cricket, you know.' ' Bo you ? ' * I do, upon my word — first class. I mean to say, it was the game you know.' Walter growled out something about hoping he always played the game. ' Oh Lord, yes, my dear fellow, I know you do ; but everybody gets careless and makes mis- takes sometimes — everybody, except you, that is. You never make mistakes, by George ! ' Lord Salford was certainly not blind drunk, nor perhaps was he what a policeman would have called drunk at all ; but it would be saying too much to assert that he had not been drunk the night before, and it is probable that he had been refreshino; himself with liberal drauo;hts of brandy and soda in the course of the morning. 128 NO NEW THING. He was a red young man — red as to his hair, his complexion, his eyes, and his hands ; and he was so singularly ugly that it must have required all the added halo of his marquisate to touch the heart of any pastrycook's assistant. As he stood talking, with his thumbs in his trousers' pockets, and his stick tucked under his arm, Walter looked him slowly all over, from head to foot, with an undisguised contempt which he could hardly have failed to notice, if he had been at all an observant person. But he was not very ob- servant. He went on, in blissful unconscious- ness of these withering glances : — ' Well, Marescalchi, what's going to become of you now ? Going down the country ? Devilish slow work down in the country at this time of the year. I'm off to Norway to-morrow morn- ing. Fishing, fresh air, early hours — all that sort of thing, you know. Doctor says I must go easy for a bit.' Oddly enough, it was not Philip, but Walter who looked confused by this embarrassing an- nouncement. That artless giant turned as red as Lord Salford himself, fidgeted, cast his eyes down, and altogether presented much more the appearance of a detected liar than of one who has detected his neighbour in a lie. Marescalchi's calm was not in the least disturbed. ' Going to Norway, are you ? ' said he ; ' I'm THE YOUXG GEXEPvATIOX. 129 very glad you mentioned it. When you came up, I was just telling Brune that I was going to dine with you to-morrow evening; and I should certainly have gone to your club at eight o'clock, if I hadn't happened to meet you now. Are you quite certain you didn't ask me ? ' Lord Salford stared. ' No, I ain't quite certain,' he answered. ' I don't remember any- thing about it ; but I wouldn't take my oath I didn't ask you. Beg your pardon if I did, I'm sure.' ' Oh, never mind,' said Philip magnanimously ; ' I dare say it was my mistake : I'm always getting my engagements all wrong.' And when Lord Salford had passed on, he added : ' I believe he did ask me, all the same ; but perhaps I haven't lost much. After all, Walter, I think you're not far wrong about him ; he is a drunken sort of sweep.' 'Anyhow,' remarked A\"alter, who had re- covered his cheerfulness, ' you have not got to dine with him now ; so you may as well come home with me.' But Philip explained that he really couldn't do that. Upon further reflection, he felt sure that he had some engagement or other for the following evening. If it wasn't Salford, it must have been somebody else who had asked him to dinner. He couldn't speak with any certainty VOL. I. K 130 NO NEW THING. upon the point until he should heave been to his hotel and glanced over his notes. ' Well, then, go back to your hotel,' persisted Walter, ' and if you find that you are free, you will have plenty of time to pack up and join us at the station.' Philip said, ' All right, old man ; ' and so Walter went away, knowing full well that he would search the platform in vain for his friend's figure, when the hour of departure arrived. As soon as he was quite out of sight, Philip heaved a sigh of relief and walked ofi", humming an air from an opera. 131 CHAPTER YI. THE wa:j^derer's return. That Colonel Kenyon should make for Long- bourne immediately after landing upon his native shores was quite natural and proper. Mrs. Winnington conceded as much, and Mrs. Win- nington was admitted to be an authority upon matters of propriety. ' I think, my dear,' said she, ^ that you ought to have Hugh here for a time, when he comes back. Now that his mother is dead, he has no home of his own to go to, and perhaps you owe it to him to show him a little civility. You might send a note to Ports- mouth to await his arrival, inviting him to come and stay with you for ten days or a fortnight. It would be as well just to mention the dates, because people who have been in India get such very queer notions of hospitality, and poor dear Hugh was always a little dense about knowing when to take himself off. I remember, in days gone by, when he used to call upon us at the Palace, how much help he required to get out of the room. Upon one occasion I actually had to 5:2 132 NO NEW THING. pick up his hat and umbrella, and thrust them into his hand. Quite in a friendly way, you know, making a sort of joke of it; but if I had not done somethino; of the kind he would never have moved at all. Yes; I think you should let him find an invitation waiting for him. He would feel it as a very kind piece of attention, I am sure.' And Margaret did not consider herself called upon to state that such an invitation, minus the time-limit, as her mother described, had been written and despatched to Madras some months before. Various circumstances had prevented Colonel Kenyon from breaking his long spell of foreign service by a return to England on leave. The battery of horse artillery to which he had been attached had been ordered home long ago, directly after the first of the little wars in which he had been engaged ; but he had not accom- panied it, as at that time he had had an opportunity of seeing some further service. Then had come in quick succession the marriage of his two sisters and the death of his mother, entailing a disruption of all direct home-ties ; and, although when the fighting was over, and he had gained a brevet-colonelcy, a C.B., and a bullet in his left shoulder as his share in the results of the same, he might have got away for a time from THE wanderer's RETURN. 133 a country that he hated, he chose rather, upon mature consideration, to accept the offer of a well-paid staff appointment, to serve out his five years, and then to turn his back upon India for good and all. To lay by money and provide himself with something like a competency was the chief object of his life ; for he had ever before him a distant, bright ideal, towards the realisation of which this prosaic achievement was a small, yet absolutely necessary, step. A journey from Madras to London and back is not to be performed without a considerable outlay ; there- fore he had stoutly resisted his own longings and Margaret's frequent entreaties, and had patiently bided his time, comforting himself in moments of depression with an altogether illogi- cal conviction that so much labour and self-denial must surely obtain their reward at last. A more ardent lover might perhaps have acted differently, but a more ardent lover might have been less consistently faithful. Fidelity to a dream would appear to be about the toughest sort of fidelity of which we mortals are capable ; and, accordino^ to enlio;htened students of human nature, all love, in the romantic acceptation of the term, partakes of the character of dreams. Nothing, say they, is so inevitably certain to dispel its illusions as daily intercourse with the adored creature ; and in those rare cases in Avhich 134 KO NEW THING. men have remained true to tlieir first love for a matter of ten years or more, it is almost in- variably absence that has kept them so. Be that as it may, Hugh Kenyon was as much in love with Margaret Stanniforth all through his Indian career as he had been at the beginning of it. His love, it is true, was of a sober kind, as became a grey-headed man whose acquaintance had been chiefly with the seamy side of life ; but it may have been to that very attribute that it owed its constancy. For the rest, nobody knew better than he did that his vision of happiness rested upon no more solid foundation than strength of will and a vague faith in poetical justice. Margaret's long letters, in which the cares and interests of her daily life were fully treated of, and most of the episodes of Philip Marescalchi's school and college career were duly set forth, had convinced him that time had passed a heahng hand over her wounds ; and he no longer feared, as he had once done, that in asking her to be his wife he might seem to outrage the memory of her husband and his friend. This was a comfort, so far as it went, but it did not go very far. He perceived that, if she was less forlorn, she stood in the less need of a protector ; nor could he disguise from himself that his prediction was in course of fulfilment, and that Marescalchi already stood, THE WANDERER S RETURN. 135 to some extent, in the position wliich he had once occupied. All this beino' so, it is scarcely to be won- dered at that Colonel Kenyon should have made few new friends during the lengthy period of his exile, nor that he should have passed for a rather dull and morose fellow in the Madras Presidency. He possessed a photograph of Margaret, taken years before by the one Cray- minster photographer, which, in the absence of its original, served him as companion and friend. This work of art represented a simpering girl of sixteen, standing beside a top-heavy table, and dragging a wreath of paper flowers out of a leather- work basket. It did not even remotely resemble Margaret Stanniforth ; but its owner considered it, npon the whole, a very satisfactory likeness — not conplimentary, to be sure, still quite pleasing. It accompanied him through all his campaigns, it was gazed at with religious fervour every morning and evening, and Hugh never sat down to indite one of his voluminous epistles to Longbourne without propping it up on the desk before him to lend inspiration to his ideas. Sometimes he even stopped writing to talk to it for a few minutes, for the wisest and most sober of men will do silly things when nobody is looking on. When at length the time came for our love- 136 NO NEW THING. lorn warrior to exchange letters for speech, and doubt for certamty, he was by no means so over- joyed as he had expected to be. In his patient, matter-of-course sort of way, he had been rather unhappy for ten years ; but his condition had not been so bad but that it might easily become worse, and at forty-five a man takes such possi- bilities into consideration. Perhaps he feared his fate too much : it cannot be said that his deserts were small. He did not rush home overland — there being really no need for hurry — but economically took passage in a troopship, and in due time disembarked at Portsmouth, ac- companied by a few comrades in arms who, like himself, had been away long enough to look for no very enthusiastic welcome on their return to the mother -country. Colonel Kenyon was so far more fortunate than they that he found at his club in London a very kind and cordial note, informing him that his Longbourne friends were anxiously expect- ing his arrival. Having despatched a postcard in answer to this, he took his ticket, on the following afternoon, for Crayminster, where a further and a wholly unanticipated compliment awaited him. For the first thing that he saw, when the train entered the station, was a tall lady, dressed all in black, who was eagerly scanning the carriages as they passed her, as THE wanderer's RETURN. 137 if ill search of some one whom she could not discover, and whose features and figure he would have recognised among a thousand. Hugh's heart came up into his mouth. He had never supposed that Margaret would think of coming down to Crayminster to meet him, and her havinsf done so filled him with an absurd delight and elation. When her eyes rested upon hun for a second, and then passed on, he was not hurt. ' No wonder she doesn't know my yellow cheeks and grey hair,' he thought to himself. Her own hair, as he noticed, in that momentary glimpse, had a streak of silver in it here and there ; but her face — that pleasant, kindly face, which was to him the most beautiful the world could show — was unaltered, or had altered only for the better. She had a bright colour, and had the appearance of being in good health and good spirits ; and he could not help being a little glad to see that her widow's cap had disappeared, though she still wore mourning. All these details he took in at one glance, and then the train glided on, and he lost sight of her. But, before it came to a standstill, Colonel Kenvon's head was thrust out of the window, his right hand was fumbling for the door-handle, and he was waving a greeting with his left, while he called out cheerily, ' This is really too good of you.' 138 NO NEW THING. The next instant he was tlianking Ms stars that Mrs. Stanniforth's back had been turned towards him, and that she had neither seen his signals nor heard his joyous haiL For lo and behold ! a very good-looking young man had jumped down on to the platform and was em- bracing her publicly, in total disregard of the customs of a self-restrained nation, and Hugh heard her cry, ' At last ! I am so glad ! I was afraid you were not coming after all.' Colonel Kenyon collected his coats and um- brellas with the saddened and humiliated feelings of a man who has answered when he has not been spoken to. Fain would he have sneaked out of the station without mal?:ing himself known ; but this was hardly practicable, so he advanced, putting as good a face upon things as he could assume ; and as soon as Margaret cauo^ht sio^ht of him she knew him, and bade him welcome with a warmth which left nothing to be desired. ^ Oh, Hugh ! ' she exclaimed, holding out both hands ; and with that brief ejaculation her hearer was satisfied, imderstanding by it all that he was intended to do. He himself could find no more striking rejoinder than, ' Here I am, you see.' ' Yes ; but why did you not tell us that you were coming by this train ? You only said you THE wanderer's RETURN. 139 would be down in time for dinner, and I was just thinking of asking Philip to wait in the town, so as to meet you. I needn't introduce you to Philip, need I ? ' Colonel Kenyon intimated that no such in- troduction was necessary ; and, as the two men shook hands, each inwardly passed a hasty judg- ment upon the other. Colonel Kenyon set Philip down as a swaggering young puppy; and Marescalchi said to himself that the new- comer was a solemn old bore, who looked as if he would be certain to make himself obnoxious in one way or another before very long. Of course, however, they smiled upon one another amicably, and said what the occasion appeared to call for; the younger man, who was the more at his ease, showing to greater advantage than the elder in this interchange of civilities. Marescalchi, indeed, prided himself upon al- ways knowing the proper thing to say and do, and presently he gave evidence of his nice perception by a truly magnanimous offer. ^ You two will have lots to talk about,' he re- marked, when the}^ had passed out of the station, and were standing beside the open carriage which was waiting for them. ' You had better drive up together, and I'll walk.' * But it is such a long walk, Philip, and it is so hot,' said Margaret irresolutely. 140 NO NEW THING. ' Never mind,' answered Philip, with a rather plaintive look at the long stretch of sunny land- scape that lay before him. And then a bright idea occurred to Margaret. ^ Suppose ice were to walk ? ' she suggested to Hugh. 'We might go across the fields, you know, and it would be quite like old times. Would it be too much for you ? ' Hugh said he should enjoy the walk of all things, and it certainly would not be too much for him, ' But will not you be tired yourself ? ' he asked. ' You said something about the heat just now, and it is a good three miles, as I well remember.' ' You must have fors^otten other thinsrs if vou think I am afraid of a three-mile walk. I like walking much better than driving ; and, besides, I mean to go very slowly, so as to have as long a time as possible to talk to you in.' Hugh could say no more ; and the arrange- ment evidently met the views of Mr. Marescalchi, who got into the carriage without more ado, and was speedily driven away, leaning back luxuri- ously, and blowing a cloud from the cigarette which he had just lighted. The two friends who were thus left to them- selves had, no doubt, a great deal to say to one another ; but they experienced the common difficulty of friends who have been long separated THE WANDERERS RETURX. 141 in not knowing exactly where to begin. During the first quarter of a mile of their walk, which led them across pasture-land and through hop- gardens, little passed between them save questions and answers referring to the productiveness of the soil and the chano;es which time had wrouo'ht in the ownership thereof, occasional allusions to bygone years, and comparisons between the climate of England and that of India. Mrs. Stanniforth led the way, and did most of the talking. Hugh was contented to listen, to steal furtive glances at his companion while she walked beside him, and to study her full-length figure when, as sometimes happened, the narrowness of the path forced them to advance in single file. But when they reached a certain stile, beyond which stretched sloping fields of oats and barley, Mrs. Stanniforth, instead of getting over it, wheeled round, and, resting her elbows upon its topmost bar, attacked Hugh point-blank with : — ' Well ; what do you think of him ? ' There was no need to particularise the indi- vidual to whom her question referred. Hugh laughed and said, ' I think he has a very pretty suit of clothes od, and his hair is nicely brushed, and his moustache promises well. Also, I am glad to observe that he does not sufi:er from shy- ness, and that he pronounces the English language after the most fashionable style.' 142 NO NEW THING. Margaret looked a little annoyed. ' You know that is not what I mean,' she said. ' What do you want me to say ? I only saw the young man for live minutes, and, considering that during those five minutes I was a great deal more anxious to examine you than him, I think I made a pretty good use of my opportunities. It seemed to me that I noticed all about him that there was to notice.' This was so undeniably true that Margaret was silenced for a few minutes. Presently, how- ever, she felt constrained to add, ' Some people attach a good deal of importance to first impres- sions. You don't, I dare say, because you are so sensible ; still, I suppose you do have them.' ' I seldom take to strangers,' answered Hugh evasively. ' Ah ! I know what you think ; you think him conceited. Well, perhaps, he may be a little conceited, but what of that ? Almost all young men are so, and it soon wears off. And Philip has — I won't say more reason, but certainly more excuse — for being conceited than most of them. You have no idea how he is run after. I wrote to you, you know, about his wonderful acting, and the quantity of engagements that he always has in consequence ; and latterly his acquaintance seems to have grown larger. He has only just managed to escape from London, though he THE wanderer's RETURN. 143 wanted very nincli to come down on the afternoon of the match. He has declined I don't know how many invitations for the next two months. It would not be very surprising if all that attention had turned his head just a little bit, would it ? ' Hugh admitted that such a result was only what might be expected. ' But it hasn't done so really ; to me he is just the same as he always was. You won't allow yourself to be prejudiced against poor Philip, will you, Hugh ? I can't tell you what a disappointment it will be to me if you do not like him. He has had to fight against so much prejudice ; and I sometimes think that, with the exception of myself and Walter Brune, he has no real friends in the world.' ' I thought you said he was so popular.' ' So he is ; but popularity of that kind is a poor substitute for the family affection which other young men have to fall back upon ; and, although you might not suppose it until you knew him well, Philip is very affectionate and very sensitive. I don't think I should ever have cared for him so much as I do if all my friends had not set their faces against him so in the beginning. He is my ugly duckling,' she added with a smile. ' Oh, I don't think you could call him ugly ! ' said Hugh generously. The truth is that esteem 144 NO NEW THING. was the measure of Colonel Kenyon's notion of comeliness. He honestly believed all the per- sons whom he was fond of to be well-looking, and could never be brought to acknowledge that there was anything to admire in those whom he disliked. Margaret laughed. ' Xo,' she said ; ' his worst enemies could hardly bring that accusa- tion against him. He isn't an ugly duckling any more now ; he is a full-grown swan, and I am not afraid of anyone's failing to do j ustice to his plumage. But after all, as good-natured people used to say to me in the days when I was a lanky girl and painfully conscious of my lankiness, beauty is only skin-deep.' ' Oh dear, yes! what does it signify whether a man's nose is straight or crooked ? So Philip has made up his mind to be called to the bar, has he ? ' ' Yes ; he is eating his dinners.' ' And working ? ' • I believe so. At least he is a pupil in a barrister's chambers ; of course he could not do much in that way while he was at Oxford. Shall we walk on ? ' They passed upwards, brushing their way against the whispering barley that clothed the hill-side. It was a lovely summer afternoon ; shadows of light clouds were creeping over the THE WANDEKER'S RETURN. 145 woods ; the pleasant EDgiish landscape was at its best. In the universal greenness, in the softness of the atmosphere, in the hazy blue distances, there was infinite refreshment for eyes that had ached under a tropical sun and had grown weary of gazing upon palms, and rice-fields, and parched yellow plains. Hugh soon ceased to think about Marescalchi and his prospects — a subject with which his correspond- ence for the past few years had dealt pretty exhaustively — and began building castles in the air on his own account. But his companion's thoughts, it appeared, were still running in the same channel. On the edge of the woods which bounded the Lono;bourne estate she halted ao-ain, and said abruptly : — ' Don't you think it is much the best and wisest plan to let a young man have perfect liberty of action ? ' Hugh considered for a moment, as his habit was, before replying, ' Well ; if I had a son of my own, I think I should be inclined to see what use he was likely to make of his liberty before I quite gave it up to him.' 'Yes, in theory that is all very well ; but practically there are difficulties in the way of setting limits, especially for a woman. I doubt whether it would be wise to tie your son to your apron -string, if you could ; but, as a VOL. I. L 146 KO NEW THING. matter of fact, you can't. Supposing you do establish a sort of surveillance over him, and make him understand that he must never absent himself for two or three days without some excuse, and ask him questions about where he has been and what he has been doing — what is the good ? You only make him dislike you, aud he takes his own way all the same.' Hugh said there was something in that certainly. ' Has anyone been advising you to establish a surveillance over Philip?' he asked. ' Oh, I am always being inundated with good advice ; that is the inevitable fate of a lone, lorn woman,' she answered laughing, and walked on into the wood. ' What a treat it is to see oaks and beeches again ! ' Hugh exclaimed. ' Dear old country ! I should like to go upon half- pay, and buy a cottage near Crayminster, and end my days there.' * Oh, how I wish you would ! Only of course you would hate it before a year was over. I have missed you so dreadfully, Hugh. Now that I have got you again, I intend to keep you for a long, long time. You do owe me a proper visit, don't you ? ' 'I'll stay as long as you'll keep me,' answered Hugh, smiling ; 'and look here, Margaret, don't you let yourself be worried THE wanderer's RETURN. 147 about Philip. We'll make a man of him be- tween us ; and if ever he should want a friend, he may count upon finding one in me — for your sake.' Her face lighted up with pleasure. ' How good you are ! ' she cried. ' But I need not have doubted you. I might have known that you would at least give him a fan* trial. Some people seem as if they could only see his faults. They might remember that we are not all faultless ourselves.' ' Tell them to mind their own business,' said Hugh. A natural association of ideas prompted him to add, after a short pause, ' Mrs. Winning- ton is still with you, I suppose.' Margaret turned her head quickly, and gave him a half- deprecatory, half-suspicious glance. ' Yes,' she answered ; ' and I hope to be able to induce her to remain with me permanently. At present she won't hear of it ; but I think, little by little, I may accustom her to the idea. Of course it is a great thing for me to have her and Edith in the house, instead of livmg quite alone, as I used to do.' ' I am sure it must be,' said Hugh in perfect o^ood faith. ' And in some ways it is an advantage to them too. There is really no house in this neighbourhood that would do for them ; and if L 2 148 NO NEW THING. tliey go iiway, there seems nothing for it but settling in London, which neither of them would like, or else in some watering-place or other. My mother, I know, dreads the society of a watering-place on Edith's account ; and she is always so anxious lo do the best she can for us all, that I quite hope she will come round to admitting that Longbourne is the only possible home for her,' ('Our dear Mrs. Stanniforth,' Mr. Brune remarked, on a subsequent occasion, to Hugh, ' expends an immense amount of wasted energy in the effort to persuade herself and others that her mother is not an infernally disagreeable old woman.') Colonel Kenyon, as the reader may have noticed, was not very quick at receiving ideas, and he pondered over Margaret's last observation for some minutes before he came out with the following brilliant discovery : * By Jove ! Mrs. Winnino^ton must be lookino; out for a husband for Edith. Dear, dear, how time does go on ! ' ' Well,' returned Margaret ; ' and if she does want her daughters to marry, and to marry well, do you suppose all mothers don't wish the same thing? I can't see what there is to be ashamed of in such a very natural anibition.' ' No, to be sure,' acquiesced Hugh hastily ; *in fact, she would be neglecting her duty if she THE wanderer's returx. 149 didn't look after lier daughter's prospects. Only I should have thought London would have been a better place than Longbourne. Seeing so few people as you do ' ' Ah, but I see more people nowadays ! The house is often full of visitors — friends of my mother's, you know — and I dare say it is very good for me to be obliged to come out of my shell. By-the-bye, I have a friend of my own coming down next week whom I particularly want you to meet — Tom Stanniforth. I think I wrote to you about him, did I not?' ' You told me in one of your letters that you had met him in London, and that you thought him a very ^^^ood fellow.' ' I don't think I used those words, but they describe him accurately enough. He is exactly that — a thoroughly good fellow. Isn't it odd that with all his riches, and amiability, and love of societv, he should have remained a bachelor for so many years ? ' This time Colonel Kenyon's mother-wit showed itself more acute. He assumed an air of extreme knowingness, and ejaculated, 'Oho!' And then Maro'aret lauo;hed a little, and said, ' Well, it would be a good thing ; don't vou think so now? But most likelv nothino: will come of it.' ' H'm ! I don't know,' said Hugh, meditatively ; 150 NO NEW THING. ^ I wouldn't give much for his chance if Mrs. AVinnington means ' ^What?' ' I say there is every chance of his faUing in love with Miss Winnington if she at all re- sembles her sisters. But what about young Marescalchi? Isn't he rather a dangerous sort of customer to have in the house ? ' ' Philip ? oh, no ! I am glad to say that there is no fear of any complication in that quarter. You will think I am becomiuo- a confirmed match-maker in my old age ; but, to tell you the truth, I have a plan in my head for Philip's future also. You remember jSTellie Brune — or perhaps you don't remember her, for she was a very small child when you went away. Well, she has grown up into quite the prettiest girl in the county; and I feel in a sort of way as if she were a child of my own, for, since her mother's death, she has lived almost as much with me as at home. And so, in the nature of things, she and Philip have been a good deal thrown together.' ' I see. But hadn't Philip better be earning an income for himself before he thinks about taking a wife ? ' ' Oh, of course ! They are both very young yet, and this is only a dream of mine, you must understand; I have never mentioned it to any- THE wanderer's RETURN. 151 one but you, and I don't even know that there is anything more than a brotherly and sisterly affection between them. Sometimes I have fancied that there might be. that is all ; and perhaps the wish was father to the thought.' By this time they had traversed the Long- bourne park, and were in sight of the gTeat house, rising square and red from among its surrounding lawns and flower-beds, its windows blazino' with the lio-ht of the sinkino' sun. ' What a fine old place it is ! ' said Hugh admiringly. ' After all, there is nothing in the world to beat an English country-house.' ' It is thrown away upon me,' said Margaret with a sigh. ' I want a roof of some kind to shelter me, but I had rather it had been any but this one. I have never become reconciled to the idea of livino- at Lono-bourne, and I never shall. Unfortunately, too, the Brunes feel quite as strongly upon the subject as I do. They don't object to me, because they know that it is by no fault of my own that I am here ; but they do object very much to my successor. I told Nellie, the other day, that we were expecting Tom Stanniforth, and she begged me at once not to ask her to come to the house until after he had gone. I only wish it were really my own pro- perty ; for then I should leave it to Walter.' 'No, you wouldn't,' said Hugh with a per- 152 NO NEW THIXG. spicuity which did him credit ; ' you would leave it to Philip, and that would make things worse than ever.' 'Perhaps I might; I don't know. While I am wishing, I might as well wish that I were a capitalist, instead of a pensioner. Nature never intended me to be a rich woman, but sometimes I am afraid that she did cut out Philip for a rich man.' And then they entered the house, and this prolonged dialogue came to an end. Colonel Kenyon thought it over while dressing for dinner, and made a mental note of two things : firstly, that Jack's name had not once been men- tioned in the course of it ; and secondly, that Mrs. Stanniforth no longer desired to be rid of her wealth, but, on the contrary, would gladly have gained a firmer grasp of it, had that been practicable. Balancing the one consideration against the other, he was forced to conclude that a ten years' sojourn in foreign parts had been rather prejudicial than favourable to his personal chances of happiness. 153 CHAPTER YII. COLONEL KEXYOX LOOKS ON Colonel Kenyon was not the only guest at Long- bourne. There were other people staying in the house : people with high-sounding names ; people whom he did not know, and for that matter — as he said to himself with a touch of ill-humour — did not want to know. He had caught sight of some of them playing lawn -tennis in the garden ; he had heard the voices of others in the library, whither he had declined to follow his hostess, alleging that he was too dirty and dusty after his journey to face an introduction to strangers. There was something in the discovery that he was only to be one in a crowd, which chilled and disappointed him a little. Xot that he had anything to urge in the abstract against Mrs. Stanniforth's filling her house with her friends, if she were so minded ; still, he wished she had not chosen to do so at this particular time ; and the contrast between her life as it appeared actually to be, and the secluded, charitable, un- 154 NO NEW THING. eventful sort of existence wliicli he had always pictured her to himself as leading, struck him somewhat disagreeably. He shut himself up in his room ; sat there, doing nothing, for an hour or more ; and was dressed for dinner long before eight o'clock. Mrs. Winnington was alone in the drawing- room when he went downstairs, and was very glad to see him, or, at all events, was kind enough to say that she was so. ^ You are looking very old,' she remarked at once, with the pleasing candour of a friend of many years' standing ; ' very old and worn out. I suppose India is quite fatal to health and appearance, especially in the case of officers, who always drink more than they ought to do in those hot climates, I believe. It must be a detestable country. I was talking about it this morning to Lady Laura Smythe, who is staying with ns for a few days. She spent a year out there, at the time when her brother was Viceroy, you know, and she describes the society of Calcutta as some- thing too dreadful. Isn't there a place called Simla, where everybody goes in the summer months? — I don't pretend to be well up in the geography of those regions. She told me some odd stories of the things that went on there — very amusing, but really very shocking. From all that I could make out, the vulgarity of those COLOXEL KEXYOX LOOKS ON. 155 people is only equalled by their immorality. No wonder you are such a wreck.' ' I don't think it is either drink or the vulgarity of Anglo-Indian society that has turned my hair grey,' Hugh said. ' You don't look a day older, Mrs. Winnington.' ' Oh, my dear Hugh ! ' cried Mrs. Winning- ton, not ill-pleased, ' that is absurd. After all that I have gone through, it would be strange indeed if I were not more wrinkled than I used to be ; and I have grandchildren growing up fast, as you know. Xow tell me, how did you think dear Margaret looking? Better than when you left her? Rather brighter and more cheer- ful? Ah ! I am very glad to hear you say that, for I take it as a compliment to myself.' ' She said it was a great comfort to her to have you with her,' Hugh remarked. ' Poor dear ! I do what I can, and I try to be with her as much as possible ; but I have other duties ; I cannot always be here, you understand.' ' I suppose not.' ' No ; and now I shall look to you to help me out in my task and to take my place some- times, when I am away,' said Mrs. Winnington very graciously. ' Between ourselves, dear Maro;aret ouo^ht never to be left Ions; without 156 NO NEW THING. some trustworthy adviser and protector at her elbow.' ' Why ? ' asked Hugh curtly. ' Oh ! you will soon find out why ; I had rather you made the discovery for yourself. You remember my old weakness ; I can't bear speaking against anybody who is absent. But you can easily imagine the sort of dangers to which a woman of her generous and unsuspect- ing nature is exposed. Her servants, of course, rob her right and left ; that I cannot help, for I make it a rule never to interfere in household matters. But, unfortunately, it is not only her servants who live upon her. Servants, one knows, have not very exalted ideas of honesty, and one is prepared to take them as one finds them ; but from people of one's own class one does expect a certain degree of pride and delicacy ; and when it comes to giving a girl literally all her dresses However, if Mr. Brune does not object, I am sure it is no business of mine. You met young Marescalchi at the station, I hear.' ' Yes ; I saw him for a few minutes.' Mrs. AVinnington shook her head and sighed so profoundly once or twice that all the garments in which her ample form was enveloped rustled and groaned, as in a soft chorus to their wearer's unspoken eloquence. Colonel Kenyon. however, COLONEL KEXYON LOOKS OX. 157 expressing no curiosity as to the signification of these portentous heavings, the good lady was constrained to express herself with more dis- tinctness. ' I greatly fear,' said she. ' that poor Margaret will have cause to rue the day when she set that beggar on horseback. One might have foreseen Avhat would happen ; in fact, I did foresee it ; but that is a poor consolation. He is going to the dogs as fast as he can.' ' I hope not,' said Hugh. ' Oh ! I don't ask you to take my word for it : use your own eyes and ears, and I have very little doubt as to what your conclusion will be. I should feel sorry for the young man, if he were not so absurdly self-satisfied. Nothing could have been more foolish and fatal than launchino; him into all the temptations of Oxford ; "but Margaret would take her own way.' ' Why, what would you have had her do ? ' asked Hugh. ' What alternative had you to suD-orest?' ' That is not the question,' answered Mrs. W^innington, employing a phrase which she had found very efi*ective in controversies with the late Bishop, and which still rose instinctively to her lips in moments of embarrassment ; ' that is not the question. And pray do not suppose that I am blaming poor Margaret for her infatu- 158 XO NEW THING. ation ; it has brought its own punishment, I am sorry to say. I happen to know,' she continued impressively — ' this is between ourselves, and you need not mention that I spoke to you about it — but I happen to know that Margaret has paid his debts upon three separate occasions. Heavy debts : and that notwithstanding the fact that he has a most unwisely liberal allowance.' ' You don't say so ! Well, that is very bad of course ; but such things have happened before now. I mean to say that it don't follow that, because a young fellow runs up bills at college, he must go to the dogs. Depend upon it, Philip will sow his wild oats, like other boys, and turn out no worse than the generality of them.' Mrs. Winnington, however, was not disposed to entertain this sanguine view of the case. ' Mark my words,' she was beginning solemnly ; but she had to withdraw the conclusion of her sentence under cover of a cough, for at this moment Marescalchi himself appeared upon the scene, and was closely followed by Margaret. Then the remainder of the house party began to drop in, singly and in couples : A fat countess, who was immediately engaged in confidential conversation by Mrs. Winnington; Lady Laura Smythe, a dowdy little woman married to a resplendent stockbroker ; a pompous COLONEL KENYON LOOKS OX. 159 colonial governor and his wife ; the senior partner of a well-known firm of solicitors ; and sundry Winningtons of both sexes — uncles, aunts, and cousins — whose faces Hugh dimly remembered to have seen round the Bishop's table at the Christmas gatherings of long ago. It was Mr. Marescalchi who was oblioino; enouoh to join the stranger on the ottoman wdiere he was sitting apart, and to classify for his benefit the people who were forming themselves into groups in different parts of the long room. ' A queer, incongruous sort of crew, are they not?' said he. ^ Mrs. Winnington asks them down here, and she doesn't understand mixinor her people any better than she understands mixing her colours, poor old thing ! However, her intentions are good, and she has a reason for inviting every one of them. Lady Flint- shire and Lady Laura S my the entertain a good deal in London ; they will be good for at least two balls apiece next season, and perhaps for an invitation to the country in the autumn. Sir Benjamin Wilkinson is here because Charley Winnington thinks he would like to be the old fellow's aide-de-camp when he goes back to the Cannibal Islands, or wherever it is that he hano-s out. Hobson, the solicitor, has been asked in order that he may help Harry out with a brief or two some day. That is a piece of hospitality 160 NO NEW THING. thrown away ; Hobson stays longer tlian he is wanted, contradicts everybody, makes a horrible noise over his soup, and will see Harry further before he'll bother himself about him. It is rather hard upon poor Meg, who has to make all these people talk to each other, and to keep them from quarrelling. Half of them are furious at having been asked to meet the other half ; and one and all are wondering what the dickens made them come here. Most likely they will grow mellow and make friends after dinner ; but then there is always just a hope of a free fight at one of these gatherings, and that enables one to bear up under the dreadful wearisomeness of it all.' Hugh hardly listened to his neighbour's easy flow of talk. He was watching Margaret, as she moved hither and thither in the fading light, discharging her duties after a quiet, perfunctory fashion ; and presently he rose unceremoniously and walked off to renew his acquaintance with Edith, whom he had recognised, not so much by anything about her that could remind him of the child whom he had once known, as by her remarkable resemblance to her eldest sister, Lady Travers. When he drew near enough to her to distinsfuish her features, he was still more struck with this family likeness, as well as with the girl's beauty, which quite surpassed what he COLONEL KEXYOX LOOKS OX. 161 had been led to expect. Edith Winnington — tall, slight, and extremely fair, with delicate, refined features, and eyes of a forget-me-not blue — represented the family type raised to its ultimate expression. Hugh, who remembered Lady Travers in the days of her youthful triumphs, and who remembered also that Lady Travers's marriage had turned out a notoriously unhappy one, felt a pang of pity for this victim unconscious of her doom. While he was shakino- hands with her, he was thinking to himself, ' Poor girl ! I wonder her- mother is satisfied with Tom Stanniforth. AYith such a face and figure as that, she might have been made to aim at something higher, I should have thought. 1 hope he'll marry her, though, for he is a decent sort of man, by all accounts, and at least he won't beat her.' ' You have been a long tinie away,' said Edith ; ' you must be very glad to be at home again ; I suppose it must be very hot in India. No ; I am afraid I do not quite know where Madras is. I could find it on the map, I think.' Her manner had a touch of shyness and hesitation which was not unbecoming ; her colour kept coming and going while she spoke, and her eyes wandered over the room. She seemed to lend an only half-attentive ear to Hugh's geographical information, and answered VOL. I. M 162 NO NEW THING. liis questions a little at random. From all of which signs that astute observer was led to conclude that the young woman was looking for somebody. Could it be Marescalchi, he wondered, whom she missed ? Presently Philip joined them, saying in a confidential undertone that all these old ladies and gentlemen frightened him. ' I daren't speak to them ; they are getting hungry ; they are snapping and growiing already ; and if dinner isn't announced in a few minutes they will begin devouring one another. Where is Walter, by-the-bye ? Meg said she had asked him to come up.' Edith said that there had been a cricket- match at Craybridge that day ; very likely Walter had not been able to get away in time. But at this moment the defaulter hurried in to answer for himself ; and after that, Miss Win- nington's eyes became perceptibly less restless. ' I wonder which of them it is,' Hugh specu- lated within himself. ' I would bet any money that it's one or the other. That's the way with your over-clever people, they never see what is going on under their noses, ^ow, if I were an ambitious old woman, I should take precious good care to keep my daughter out of the way of those youngsters ; but I suppose it comes to much the same thing in the long run. If there COLONEL KENYON LOOKS ON. 163 is a difference of opinion between that poor girl and her mother, it is easy to see who will go to the wall/ ' Will you take in Lady Wilkinson, please, and sit on the left side of the table ?' whispered Margaret, interrupting his meditations. He had ample leisure to resume and pursue them in the dining-room, for Lady Wilkinson was sulky, and did not choose to respond to his well-meant efforts at starting a conversation. Poor Lady Wilkinson had played at royalty for so many years, and had grown so accustomed to taking the chief place at feasts that it pained her to walk out of the room behind a Lady Laura Somebody, and to be herself escorted by a mere colonel of artillery. The treatment by the mother-country of its returned colonial governors seemed to her to be wanting in all propriety and decency ; and, by way of vindicating the slighted dignity of the class which she represented, she thought fit to reply to her neighbour's advances with haughty ' Ohs ' and ' Indeeds ' and a liberal display of the cold shoulder. Colonel Kenyon accepted his lot with fitting philosophy. He had no anxiety to talk or to be talked to. The scene and the personages affected him with a vague bewilderment, being so unlike those shadowy visions of Longbourne and its inmates which had haunted his fancy in the East, and he ii 2 164 NO NEW THING. wanted to familiarise himself with them. He ate his dinner (which was a very excellent and welh served one), and gazed about him at sur- rounding objects — at the oval table, with its load of flowers and old Chelsea china, upon which a flood of light was thrown down from the shaded hanging lamps ; at the servants, flitting noise- lessly to and fro in the vast space of semi- obscurity beyond ; at Margaret, leaning back in her chair between Lord Flhitshire and Sir Ben- jamin Wilkinson, with a look of cheerful resigna- tion upon her face ; at Mrs. AVinnington, voluble and smiling, playing the part of hostess rather too ostentatiously ; at Mr. Hobson, eating vora- ciously, with his head bent down over his plate and his elbows on a level with his red ears ; at Philip, making open and undisguised love to Edith ; and at Walter, watching this couple with an inexplicable broad grin upon his honest countenance. Times were changed indeed since Margaret had complained of the misery of soli- tary repasts. Here was company enough to satisfy anybody; company, too, which, if not wildly hilarious, appeared to an outsider quite sufficiently animated. As Marescalchi had pre- dicted would be the case, the guests were growing mellow under the influence of good cheer ; and, with the exception of Lady Wilkinson, who still maintained a proud reserve, and of Mr. Hobson, COLONEL KEXYON LOOKS ON. 165 who was otherwise engaged, everybody was con- tributing his or her share to the general buzz of speech. ' The island of Semolina,' Sir Benjamin was saying in a loud voice, ' requires only to be left to itself. All the troubles that have taken place there have arisen out of injudicious interference on the part of the home government. I was talking to the Secretary of State the other day, and I said to him, 'La Semolina far a da se,' Many men have found the island a difficult one to govern — my predecessor, as you know, made a sad hash of it — but I have always got on per- fectly well with the planters myself. The whole question is one of cheap labour, and is not at all understood in this country. You will recollect the agitation that was got up, a few years back, about the supposed wrongs of the coolies ?' Lord Flintshire, a mild-mannered little man, to whom these remarks were addressed, answered hazily, ' Oh, yes ; to be sure. Niggers — slave trade — that sort of thing, eh ? ' and had to be set right at some length. Lady Laura Smythe was shrilly advocating the claims of a Home for Adult Idiots which had lately been established under her patronage. ' We are terribly in need of funds to carry us on just now. No ; I don't want donations, I want annual subscriptions. Let me enter your name 166 NO NEW THING. amoDOf the ten-o:umea subscribers ; I am sure that won't rum you. Mr. liobson, I am going to put you down as a subscriber to my Home for Adult Idiots. You shall have a prospectus to-morrow.' ' Don't trouble yourself, Lady Laura,' says Mr. Hobson resolutely, with his mouth full. ' Yery sorry, but I must decline. I have never felt any interest in idiots. Don't like 'em. Don't sympathise with 'era.' ' How unnatural! ' ejaculates the lady in an audible aside. 'Oh! but you must sympathise with them, you know ; you must be made to sympathise with them. Mrs. AYinnington, your daughter has most kindly promised me a twenty- five guinea subscription ; I hope you'll allow me to put you down for a like sum.' ' Oh, no, dear Lady Laura ! ' cries Mrs. Winnington, with a piteous face. 'Five guineas, please ; I really cannot do more. You forget w^hat a wretched pauper I am, and there are so many calls that one cannot turn a deaf ear to. Where did you go for your drive to-day ? ' Mrs. Winnington was a trifle flushed, and exhibited symptoms of uneasiness and absence of mind. Every now and again her eye-glasses went up to her nose, and were furtively directed at the other side of the table, where Philip's dark head was in close proximity to Edith's blonde COLOXEL KEXYOX LOOKS ON. 167 one. At last she could keep silence no longer, and called out, in a sharp voice, ^ Edith, my dear, Lady Laura is very anxious to be shown the cathedral. Will you go with her to-morrow ? ' ' Quite out of the question, Mrs. Winnington,' answered Philip gravely. ' Your daughter has a previous engagement ; she has promised to ride with me.' Mrs. Winnington scowled so fiercely at this that the a'irl looked frioiitened, and exclaimed hastily : — ' Xonsense, Philip I you know I never pro- mised any such thing. Of course I can go, mamma.' 'Very well,' said Philip placidly; ' we'll all go. 'Mrs. Winnington, why shouldn't you come too ? You could sit down with Lady Laura and rest, while Edith dragged me to the topmost pinnacle of the temple. I have always meant to climb up there some day, but one wants a strongish inducement to overcome one's consti- tutional laziness.' ' \Ye will keep to our original plan, if you please,' answered Mrs. Winnington loftily. ' As for what you are pleased to caU your constitu- tional laziness, I suppose that if Dr. Goodford could not cure you of that, Edith is not very likely to be able to do so. In any case the task is not one which I should think it worth while to 1 68 NO NEW THING. confide to her. Your laziness would have been whipped out of you many years ago, if I had had anything to do with your education.' To this Philip only replied, ' Now, now, Mrs. Winnington,' in a soothing voice, which had the effect of causing that lady's cheeks to assume a fine rich hue, and of eliciting an abrupt and startling chuckle from AYalter, who looked very much abashed when everybody turned and stared at him. After this little passage of arms there was a hollow truce, which lasted up till the tune when the ladies left the dining-room ; but later in the evening hostilities were resumed, and several sharp encounters took place; the advantage remaining in every instance with the younger and cooler combatant. Philip had dropped into a reclining attitude upon the sofa where Edith was seated, and for a quarter of an hour or so he amused himself by baffling Mrs. Winnington's attempts to force him or her daughter from this position; but at length, growing weary, appa- rently, of that form of provocation, he volun- tarily changed his ground, strolled deliberately up to his enemy's arm-chair, and, leaning back against the wall with folded arms, struck into the middle of the conversation which she had been keeping up under difficulties with Lady Flintshire. Mrs. Winnino-ton at first endca- COLONEL KENYON LOOKS OX. 169 voured to ignore him altogether ; but he did not choose to be ignored, and very soon he had drawn upon himself as brisk and well-sustained an attack as he could have wished for. Hugh, who had vainly attempted to get near to Margaret, and who had now nothing to do and no one to talk to, listened with some entertainment to Mrs. Winnington's onset, which certainly did not lack vigour. He heard Philip accused by no obscure implication of being a coxcomb, an adventurer, a spendthrift, and a libertine, and he could not help admiring the perfect good humour with which the young fellow met these charges. Not for some time did he realise what was actually S^oino; on, and whvthe little knot of silent spectators who had gradually come together in the neighbourhood of the unconscious lady's chair were exchanging looks of keen appreciation and amusement. Philip was audaciously mimic- king Mrs. Winnington to her face. He had caught the exact pitch of her voice, the droop of her eyelids, the emphatic tapping of her left palm with the first and second fingers of her right hand, and the phrases with which she was in the habit of embellishino- her discourse. When he ejaculated, ' That is not the question,' any one whose back had been turned might have sworn that it was Mrs. Winnington herself who was speaking. It was undoubtedly a very 170 NO NEW THING. clever performance, and the more so because Mrs. Winnington's speech and demeanour did not, after all, afford any specially salient points for a caricaturist to seize upon. Philip's ren- dering of her was strictly faithful, free from any exaggeration, and, when taken in conjunction with the severe castigation which he was osten- sibly undergoing, inexpressibly ludicrous. Fat Lady Flintshire was quivering with suppressed laughter from head to foot ; Lady Laura Smythe was grinning sardonically ; Mr. Hobson at one moment was threatened with an apoplexy, and had to walk away hastily to recover himself in the background; and the victim herself never suspected from first to last that she was being made a fool of, but was only uneasily con- scious that she was not getting the best of it, when, by all rights, she ought to have been doing so. The exhibitor knew better than to fatigue his audience with too protracted an entertain- ment. He desisted in due time, and, as he moved away, Mrs. Winnington had the mortifi- cation of hearing Lady Flintshire say : — ' Oh, Mr. Marescalchi, I hope you will be able to come to us for a week in September. We shall have a good many of your friends with us, and we are thinking of getting up a little acting for the young people.' COLONEL KENYON LOOKS ON. 171 Philip civilly declined the invitation which his late antagonist had been angling for all day, excusing himself upon the plea of other engage- ments, and so his triumph was complete; and the initiated among those who had been listen- ing to him no doubt felt that talent had met with its just reward. Perhaps, however, they had missed the best part of the joke after all ; for it was only Hugh who had noticed that, under cover of the encounter above described, Walter Brune and Edith had quietly withdrawn into a secluded corner, and were enjoying a long and unmolested tete-a-tete. ' Sic vos non vobis^^ muttered Colonel Kenyon, whose stock of classical quotations was some- what limited. ' I suppose Walter must be the man; 1 knew it was one of them.' And he walked away, quite pleased with his penetra- tion. He strolled to one of the open windows, and looked out. The night was warm and still ; the silent lawns lay bathed in a soft and in- viting moonlight. The wainscot was not a high one, and nobody was looking. Hugh yielded to temptation, swung his legs over the sill, dropped on to the ground, and, walking round to the front door, got his hat and a cigar. Soon he had forgotten all about the little comedy vfhich was being enacted within, and 172 NO NEW THING. had reverted to the thought of his own love troubles. As he paced to and fro, he could hear the continuous murmur of talk rising and fall- ing in the drawing-room ; puffs of heated air escaped through the open windows ; somebody was singing French songs in an absurd, cracked voice. ' How she must hate all this ! ' Hugh thought. * How she must wish that she could give up her house to that confounded old mother of hers, and get away, and live her own life ! But she can't give it up to her mother, and she won't give it up in the only Avay that it can be given up. Her pleasure is to sacrifice herself for others ; no woman ever surrenders a pleasure of that kind. What is the good of my speaking ? I had better hold my tongue, and go on hoping against hope, like the superannuated ass that I am, to the end of the chapter. It isn't very delightful staying at Longbourne under existing circumstances, but it is just a shade better than being sent away with a flea in my ear.' * Si vous n\ivez rieii a me dire^ shrieked the invisible songstress ; '' pourquoi venir aupres de moi f ' ' Oh, you damned old screech-owl j ' mut- tered Hugh ; and with that profane and im- proper apostrophe he turned on his heel, and sought a more sequestered place for meditation. COLONEL KENYOX LOOKS ON. 173 After a time, two dark fio-ures came stridinsf down the drive, talking and laughing ; and one of them called out, • Hullo ! here's Colonel Kenyon ; I thought he wouldn't be able to stand those deHghtful people much longer. Are you inclined for a walk this fine night. Colonel Kenyon? I'm going to see Walter home.' When we are young, it flatters us to be asked to join our elders, but when we have reached middle age it flatters us a great deal more if our juniors express a wish for our company. Little as Hugh was disposed to like Marescalchi, he yet beo-an to think that there might be good points about that very self- satisfied young gentleman, as he walked beside him across the long stretches of moonlit grass. Walter he did like. Walter was a youth after his own heart ; a youth of thews and sinews, of fair averao^e intellio-ence — Colonel Ken von had no great love for very clever people — of obvious honesty and sincerity. He was a sportsman, too, and was deeply interested in hearing about the pursuit of the big game in India. It was a thousand pities that such another had not chanced to be stranded on the Riviera at the time when Margaret had taken it into her head to go in for orphans. Two out of the three men hit it off too-ethei' excellently well ; and as the third was of so 174 NO NEW THING. pliant a character that it came naturally to him to fall n with any one's and every one's humour, their conversation did not flag until they reached the confines of the Broom Leas paddocks, where, notwithstanding the lateness of the hour, Miss Brune was leaning over a fence, waiting for her brother. ' Whom have you got with you, Walter ? ' she called out, while they were still ander the shadow of a hedge and she was in the full light of the moon. ' Has Philip actually exerted himself to walk all this way with you ? What condescension ! How did you get on at dmner ? It was awfully heavy, I suppose. Did Colonel Kenyon turn up ? and what do you think of him ? ' ' Colonel Kenyon,' answered Philip, gently holding Hugh back in the shade, ' turned up, as per arrangement, and he is all that your fancy painted him.' ' Ah, he has been snubbing you ! I knew that at once by your voice. Come out of the dark, and tell me all about him. What sort of a looking person is he ? ' 'Well,' answered Philip, 4t's a matter of opinion. Here he is, so you can form yours as soon as you like.' Hugh stepped forward, taking off his hat and looking a little foolish ; while Nellie mur- COLONEL KENYON LOOKS ON. 175 mured, ' I beg your pardon,' and looked rather foolisli too. There was a spice of the monkey in Philip's composition. He was not ill-natured ; but he was himself a total stranger to false shame, and the spectacle of two full-grown fellow-creatures demeanino- themselves towards one another after the fashion of a couple of shy children was to him so queer and entertaining a one that he could seldom deny himself the pleasure of bringing it about, when a good opportunity offered. He did not get much amusement for his pains upon the present occasion ; for his indiscretion had the effect of causing Miss Brune to beat a hasty retreat, and in a very few minutes he and Colonel Kenyon were wending their way homewards. ^What a pretty girl Xellie — or perhaps I ought to say Miss Brune — has turned out ! ' the latter remarked. ' The prettiest girl in England,' said Mare- scalchi with decision. ' You couldn't judge of her properly just now ; but when you see her by daylight, you will understand at once why the whole county raves about her. She is the only woman I know who has really dark blue eyes. Edith is pretty, very pretty ; but she can't hold a candle to Xellie.' ' Upon my word,' cried Hugh, half amused, half angry at this dispassionate criticism, ' you 176 NO NEW THING. are a very lucky fellow. Many a man would fifive his ears to be allowed to call two such charming young ladies by their Christian names.' ' People are always telling me I am a lucky fellow,' Philip remarked. ' I gave up protesting against the accusation — for it is a sort of accusation, you know — long ago. But only the wearer knows where the shoe pinches.' Hugh made no rejoinder, for it flashed across him that there could hardly fail to be a dash of bitterness in the lot of a waif and stray ; and so the remainder of the walk was accomplished in silence. Philip, like many other persons -who shine in society, was subject to occasional fits of depression when off the stage. One of these fits fell upon him now, and Hugh was quite startled to see how pale and haggard he looked when he bade him good-night in the hall. ' Owes money, I expect,' the Colonel thought, as he went upstairs ; ' I wonder what Margaret allows him.' And then this good-natured and foolish gentleman actually began calculating the amount that stood to his credit in the hands of Messrs. Cox and Co. Hugh had felt the pinch of poverty so often himself that all his sympathies were stirred by a suspicion of embarrassed COLONEL KEXYON LOOKS ON. 177 circumstances in others, and he had never in his life been able to refuse a loan when asked for one. It was to this unfortunate weakness that he owed the loss of more than one old friend. VOL. I. N 178 XO NEW THING. CHAPTER YIIL COOMASSIE VILLA. OoLONEL Kenyon was not called upon to reduce his balance ; nor, so far as he could judge, had Ills surmise regarding Marescalchi been a correct one. The heavmess which had oppressed that lively youth endured but for a night, and his troubles — if indeed he had any — exercised no visible influence upon his spirits in the morning. He appeared to great advantage at breakfast, was loquacious and amusing, without being malicious, and exerted himself very creditably to help out Mrs. Stanniforth in the thankless task of entertaining a set of guests who showed no capacity for entertaining themselves. In answer to certain interrogatories,. Hugh was able honestly to assure Margaret that he thought her adopted son a great social success. ' There is not one young man in a hundred,' ^Colonel Kenyon declared, ' who could make the best of an awkward position as he does.' ' How an awkward position ? ' Margaret asked. COO:ux\SSlE VILLA. 179 ' AVell, it is aAvkward, you know ; it can't be otherwise. He is obliged, in a way, to do the duties of master of the house, and yet he is not the master of the house. If he were really your son, for instance, he would take old Lady What's-her-name in to dinner ; he would sit opposite to you J in the place which Mrs. "\Yin- nington ' ' I bought an oval table on purpose to avoid that difficulty,' interrupted Margaret. Hugh smiled. ' You saw that it existed, then. I say he comes out of it uncommonly well. He doesn't assert himself too much, and he doesn't keep ostentatiously in the back- ground. He looks the situation in the face, in short, and accepts it for what it is, as a sensible fellow and a gentleman should. At least, so it seems to me.' Considering that Colonel Kenyon was speaking of one whom he disliked, this was very handsome; but Margaret scarcely noticed the encomium. ^ Do you think he feels it?' she asked eagerly; 'do you think it distresses him?' * I can't tell. You ought to be a better judge of that than I. I know I should feel it, if I were in his shoes; and from one point of view I think it ATOuld be a pity if he didn't. He seems to lead a jolly life and enjoy it — smaL blame to him ! But he will be a happier man N 'A 180 KO NEW THING. when he has a profession of his own to work at, and rooms of his own to live in. I should im- press that upon him, were I you.' Margaret sighed, and answered rather irrele- vantly, ' I wish all these people would go away ; it is so much pleasanter when we are alone.' In a few days' time she had her wish. The Flint shires were the first to go ; and the re- mainder of the party with great promptitude and unanimity followed their leader. Long- bourne, if the truth must be told, was not quite the pleasantest house in England to stay at, nor was Margaret very successful as a hostess. To people who were poor, or sick, or in trouble, she was the kindest, the most unselfish, and the most unwearying of friends; but she had not the gift of small-talk, she could not always re- member what to say and what to leave unsaid, and she was unable to feign an interest where she felt none. And of these deficiencies she was fully conscious. ' If it were not for Philip,' she said, as the last carriage drove away from the door, ' I should never succeed in inducing anyone to come down here, and my mother and Edith would live in a howling wilderness.' ' Really, Margaret dear, that is a poor com- pliment to us,' cried Mrs. Winningtoii, who unfortunately overheard this remark. ' I hope COOMASSIE VILLA. 181 some of our friends find our society a sufficient attraction.' ' You've put your foot in it again as usual, Meg,' whispered Philip. 'When is the next batch due ? ' ' Oh, not for a long time, I hope,' she an- swered in the same subdued voice. ' Even Tom Stanniforth writes to say that he is obliged to postpone his visit for a fortnight ; and I don't know of any one else who is expected.' ' Then,' exclaimed Philip aloud, ' let's be happy for a fortnight ! ' And for a fortnight, or the best part of it, most of them were happy. In the absence of outsiders, the denizens of Longbourne and Broom Leas were habitually together morning, noon, and night. The younger people had been brought up as brothers and sisters ; and al- though, for obvious reasons, it had been found impossible to maintain this hction of relationship beyond a certain epoch in their lives, the out- ward forms and privileges pertaining thereto had not been suffered to fall altof>:ether into disuse. If Philip happened to find himself at Broom Leas towards one o'clock, he took his place at the luncheon-table as a matter of coui;se, and without anything being said upon the subject ; and neither Walter nor Xellie thought it necessary to wait for an in- 182 NO NEW THING. vitation before arranging to dine at Longbourne. To Hugh Kenyon the easy intimacy of this quiet life was like the realisation of a dream; and for ten days at least it seemed to him that he had reached the green oasis which had been ever before his eyes throughout those toilsome years spent upon the Indian plains. English oaks made a grateful shade for him ; soft Eng- lish clouds floated low overhead, tempering the heat of the summer sun ; English birds twittered for him on dewy mornings ; and although the blithe tinkling of the mower's scythe, like the thumping of the flails on the threshing-floor, had passed away during his time of exile, never to be heard any more, there was still an abun- dance of pleasant rural sights and sounds to refresh the heart of a returned wanderer. If Ken}' on was not happy, he ought to have been so. He and Margaret had many a long talk together, while the young folks played lawn- tennis or made excursions on horseback ; old friends came up from Crayminster to chat over old times ; the weather was glorious ; and, best of all, Mrs. Winnington was laid up with the gout. The poor lady had become subject of late years to periodical visits from that enemy of the human race, and suffered during their con- tinuance as much as her best friends could have COOMASSIE VILLA. 183 wished her to do. Stern Mrs. Prosser, who was cut out by nature for a Methodist, but whom the tendencies of the age had converted into an ardent disciple of Mr. Langley, attributed the present attack to an unholy indulgence in animal food on Fridays ; the sufferer herself made her exertions in the entertainment of her daughter's guests responsible for it ; but, what- ever its cause, it is to be feared that no one, except Margaret, offered up prayers for its speedy termination. It came to an end, after having run its course, without any extraneous aid of that kind ; and with it came an end of all harmless a'aietv and lauo-hter. With Mrs. Win- nington stretched upon the drawmg-room sofa in a quilted satin dressing-gown and a shocking bad temper, no one had the heart or the courage to be merry : even Philip vras upon his best behaviour, talked little, and refrained from any irritating speeches. He obtained small thanks for his forbearance. ' That young man has either get into some mischief, or he is meditating some,' Mrs. Win- nington took occasion to whisper impressively to Hugh. ' I always know that anything like self-effacement on his part bodes no good for poor Margaret's peace.' And when, in the course of the day, Philip announced casually that he was going away for 184 NO NEW THING. a week, the old lady threw a triumphant glance at her confidant, as who should say, ^ Didn't I tell you so ? ' ' Why, where are you off to?' asked Hugh innocently. ' I think,' said Philip in deliberate accents, ' that we must be going to have a change of weather. The glass has been falling all day.' The questioner felt very much snubbed and very naturally angry. It is not pleasant to be set down by a man of half your age, and it is still less pleasant to feel that the implied rebuke is merited. Of course one has no business to put direct questions, and Hugh remembered that Margaret had said something to him about letting young men go their own way. Still, distinctions ought to be drawn between intsn- tional and inadvertent solecisms, and Hugh said to himself in his wrath that this impertinent puppy might go to the devil for anything he cared. Nothing more was said upon the subject at the time ; but after dinner Mrs. Winnington, undeterred by the fate of her predecessor, chose to repeat the same query in a loud and authori- tative voice; and she, at all events, was rewarded by an answer. ' I have received her Majesty's command,' said Philip sweetly, ' to attend her at Balmoral. COOMASSIE VILLA. 185 I believe there is a probability of my being asked to form a fresh administration.' Upon this, Walter, who was easily moved to laughter, broke out into a treniendous guffaw, which was followed by a deep and awful silence. Margaret began to talk very quickly, and soon afterwards Mrs. Winnington, who had closed her eyes, not deigning to make any rejoinder, was assisted off to bed by her maid. Later in the evening, when the three men of the party were sitting in the smokmg-room, Philip condescended to give a sort of reason for his departure, unasked. ' Mrs. Winnington and I are like buckets in a well,' he said ; ' w^hen one comes into sight away goes the other. Perhaps the dear old creature may have started off on a round of visits before I come back. The fact is that I promised to go and stay with some people about this time.' ' Then why the dickens couldn't you say so ? ' blurted out Walter. ' What's the use of making mysteries ? ' Philip shrugged his shoulders. ' My dear fellow, I don't make mysteries ; but it isn't al- ways convenient to tell everybody where one has been and where one is going. If you an- swer in one case you must answer in all. Sup- pose I were to ask you what you and Edith were doing, when you marched off to the farm- 186 NO NEW THING. yard this afternoon, and left us without a vf ord of explanation ? I don't want to know ; but suppose I had the indiscretion to ask ? ' 'Well, I should tell you the truth. We were seeing the pigs fed. Xow then ! ' ' Ah, I give in. I admit the superiority of your method, and in future I shall always try to be equally candid. So you went to see the pigs fed, did you? And to-morrow I am going to see the Smiths, or the Brov^ais, or the Eobin- sons. Strictly true ; and at the same time conveniently vague.' On the following morn- ing, accordingly, Philip quitted Longbourne for some destination unknown, leaving behind him one trustful heart and several suspicious ones. Margaret made a rather lame apology to Hugh on his behalf. ' Philip is a little reticent sometimes ; cir- cum.stances have made him so. He does not always tell even me what his plans are and how he spends his time ; and I think it so much better not to force anyone's confidence. I know he will always come to me when he is in trouble.' ' I dare say he will,' answered Hugh drily. And immediately afterwards, fearing that he had said a terribly severe thing, he added, ' No one likes to be cross-examined. I don't like it myself I remember how strict my poor old COOMASSIE VILLA. 187 father used to be, and of course I concealed things from him. As for Philip, he will grow out of the habit of thinking his proceedings of such supreme importance to the world. Pro- bably he is no worse employed now than in rehearsing for play-acting at some country house in the next county.' At the moment when this generous conjec- ture was uttered, the subject of it was hailing a hansom at the Charing Cross station ; and if the adih'ess which he gave to the cabman had been heard at Longbourne, it might have occasioned some misoivino's there. ' Coomassie Yilla, Wolseley Road, West Brompton ' — it certainly had not an aristocratic, nor even a respectable ring, and it would have been difficult to give a satisfactory explanation of ]\Ir. Marescalchi's presence in such quarters in the month of August. Nobody, however, did hear it, except the cabman, and he didn't know where Wolseley Road was, and had to be guided thither by the umbrella of his fare. Coomassie Villa, when reached, proved to be a small detached house, situated in the very last street in London, and looking as if it had been built about the day before yesterday. To right and left of it were other dwellings of a similar size, but of great diversity of architecture, all surpassingly 188 NO NEW THING. hideous and most as yet untenanted ; the road which led to it was full of ruts and deep holes, and its windows looked upon a waste of cab- bao;e-ocardens and smokins; brick-fields. Philip caught up his portmanteau briskh', dismissed the hansom, and let himself in with a latch-key. No servant appeared to relieve him of his load, nor was there a sign of life about the place until he had shut the hall-door behind him with a bang. Then there came a sudden rushing and pattering sound from overhead, and an exceedingly pretty young woman flew down the narrow staircase, dragging her long silken skirts after her, and, throwing her arms round his neck, cried, ^ Oh, Philip, how late you are ! I had almost given you up.' Philip kissed her, held her away from him at arm's length, and inspected her from head to foot, laughing softly to himself. She was a delicate, fragile little creature, with pink and white cheeks, and an abundance of fair hair arrano:ed in little curls all over her head. She was absurdly over-dressed, and was evidently conscious of being so ; for she said, in a depre- cating, half-frightened voice, ' I thought, as you was coming, I might make myself smart, PhiUp, just for once. I did so long to put on this beautiful gown ; but it seemed a shame to be takino^ the wear out of it when there was no one COOMASSIE VILLA. 189 but Sarah and cook to see me.' She passed her hands over her well-fitting body and stroked her olive-green skirt lovingly. * Exquisite ! — ain't it? ' cried she, with childish glee. ' It is indeed,' Philip answered gravely. * So I am late, am I? You see, I have had to drive from Dan to Beersheba. Upon my word, Fan, I think I shall have to move you out of this into some place within the limits of civilisa- tion. I don't believe there would be any risk about it, and it would be a great deal more convenient.' They wxre now sitting in a tiny drawing- room, which was furnished with more luxury and in better taste than mio-ht have been expected from the outward appearance of the villa. ' Oh, I hope you won't ! ' cried the little woman. ' That is, you do wdiat you think best, dear; w^hat pleases you will please me; but Td rather be here than in a regular London street. I like the view, you see ; it sort of puts me in mind of the country.' Philip looked out at the dreary cabbage - gardens, the black, broken fences, and the brick-fields all simmering in a hot haze. ' Poor little Fan ! ' he said compassionately ; ' it's a horrid shame to keep you mewed up here all the summer ; but it can't be helped. Another 190 NO NEW THING. year we shall be able to manage better, I hope.' ^ Oh, I don't mind it ! ' she answered cheer- fully. ' I am very 'appy — happy, I mean — here ; and now that you've come, dear, I wouldn't change places with the Queen on her throne. There's days when it's a little lonesome ; but cook has given me a cat to keep me company, and what with my lessons and the planner and the 'ouse — Jwusekee^ing^ I get through the days wonderfully. Now don't you fret about me, Philip dear ; please don't fret — for my sake.' ' Well, if you put it upon that ground — I won't,' answered Philip, who sometimes in- dulged in a little mild sarcasm at his own expense, and found the sensation a rather re- freshing and bracing one. ' There are undeniable advantages in living in this back-of-beyond sort of place, apart from its charmingly rural situa- tion. Also I haven't paid for the furniture yet ; and the upholsterer might get nervous if he found us flitting so soon. You don't stay indoors too much, I hope ? ' ' Not now. At first I used to be afraid of meeting people ; but I've got over that ; and now Sarah and me go out every evening. Oh, and who do you think I came across in Kensington Gardens last week? — nearly ran into his arms. Why, Salford. It did give me such a start ! ' COOMASSIE VILLA. 191 ' Salford ! ' cried Philip, with a rather alarmed face ; ' I thought he was in Norway. Did he recognise you ? ' ' Xot he ; he didn't have the chance. I put down my parasol, so as to hide my face, and he passed almost as close to me as you are, walking with another gentleman. I heard him say something about '' beastly country — half starved — couldn't have stood it another week ; " and then he be^an usins: awful lan<]:uao[e, like he always used to, you know, and when T peeped out he was gone. I'd have given anything to have spoke to him — just for the sake of old times.' ' My dear Fanny, you must never think of doing anything of that kind. Good heavens ! it might be the ruin of us.' ' Oh, Philip ! of course I wouldn't have done it ; I should never disobey you. I didn't really care to talk to him either — not for himself. Don't you knov/ how I ahvays used to tell you I couldn't a-bear him ? ' ' Bear him, Fan. Xo ; I remember he wasn't a favourite of yours ; though I believe he thought you were desperately smitten with him. Did I tell you that all Oxford gave him the credit of eloping with you ? ' ' Him, indeed ! ' cried Fanny, with a toss of her head ; ' well, Pm sure ! They're very clever 192 NO NEW THING. people at Oxford, but they don't know so 'mucli as they think. Why, I'd no more have looked at him! — not if he'd offered to make me his Marchioness. And that's what he'd never have done.' ' Not such a fool, eh ? Fortunately or un- fortunately — which is it, do you think? — some other men are less prudent/ said Philip, looking at her and laughing. Mrs. Marescalchi, who had been holding up her left hand, the better to admire the wedding- ring which adorned it, flushed and then turned pale. ' Ah, my dear,' she sighed, ' the day will come when you'll repent of all your goodness to me. Maybe you're repenting of it just a little bit already.' Maybe he was. He did not like to acknow- ledge himself inferior in worldly wisdom to Lord Salford, a man whom he utterly despised; and as to the abstract wisdom of marrying a young woman from a pastry-cook's shop there could hardly be two opinions. He was not, and never had been, very deeply in love with poor little Fanny ; but he had married because he had fancied himself so, because he hated to deny himself anything that he had set his heart upon, and because, if the truth must be told, she would not have consented to occupy Coomassie Yilla upon any other terms. When he thought COOMASSIE VILLA. 193 seriously of the step that he had taken, and of its inevitable consequences, he felt very uncom- fortable : therefore he thought of it as seldom as possible. * You little goose ! ' he said ; ' I don't repent of anything.' She went on, without heeding him : * But when that day does come, you'll remember — won't you ? — that it wasn't all my fault. You'll remember what a long time I held out against you, and that I only gave in at last because I loved you so. I'm afraid I shall never get to be like a lady — not a real lady. I do my lessons every day, as you told me ; and when I'm alone I think I can beyave — well, behave then — as nice as any of them ; but if you was to introduce me to Mrs. Stanniforth to-morrow I should be that flustered — oh, dear ! You won't let any of your people know that we're married for a long time; will you, dear? ' Philip unhesitatingly promised that he would not. He told Fanny that she was a dear little sensible thing, and that there was not one woman in a thousand who would have seen the necessity for concealment, and submitted to it as cheerfully as she had done. At this com- mendation Fanny brightened up ; her pretty face broke out into smiles and dimples, and the VOL. I. • 19-1 NO NEW THING. tears which had been gathering in her eyes vanished. She did not mind concealment one bit, she declared. People might stare and gossip as much as they liked — and to be sure cook was very impertinent at times — but what did she care ? Let them chatter. ' You see/ she explained, ' it isn't with me as it might be with other girls. I've neither kitb nor kin, except Aunt Keziah ; and Aunt Keziah knows all about it, and saw us married with her own eyes. Bless you ! I'm as happy as the day is long. I don't want for anything, unless it's to see you a little oftener, Philip.' The vehemence of these protestations might have led some persons to suspect that the speaker was not quite as indifferent to the opinion of the world as she professed to be ; but Philip did not appear to doubt her sincerit}'. He patted her on the head, praised her good sense again, and assured her that her patience would have its reward all in good time. Then, having had enough of serious conversation, he sat down at the piano and began singing snatches of songs from the comic operas of the day, improvising an accompaniment for himself as he went on, while his wife listened in adorhig admiration. Philip had a remarkably sweet tenor voice, which he managed not unskilfully. It was one COO^^IASSIE VILLA. 195 of the many gifts which he possessed, and which he had cultivated for a time and then wearied of ; for there was no pertinacity in his nature, and of all things in the world he abhorred drudgery the most. He was fond of music, however, and would sing in a desultory sort of way for an hour at a time, when he had no more amusing occupation at hand. The round, liquid notes filled the little house, and floated out through the open window into the sultry atmosphere beyond, causing the few 23assers-by to pause and listen, and falhng grate- fully upon the ears of Fanny's music-master, who reached the doorstep in time to hear Catarina hella from befrinnins: to end. ' God bless my soul, sir ! ' cried the good man, bursting into the room with scant cere- mony, ' what a sad pity it is that you have not your daily bread to earn ! There are thousands a year in that voice of yours, Mr. Marescalchi, if you only knew it.' Philip laughed, and said he believed that his voice was destined to be utilised in other and less attractive quarters than the opera-house; and then, as he possessed an ear as well as a voice, and did not care about hearing poor Fanny worry her way through the ' Harmonious Blacksmith,' he took his hat, and strolled out 2 196 NO NEW THING. into the hideous wilderness that surrounded his wife's dwelling. The hopeless ugliness, the solitude, the heat and the bad smells of that shabby-genteel suburb did not depress his spirits. Philip was one of those happy people who, while loving all beau- tiful things, can do very well without them for a time ; and, after all, he didn't live at Coomassie Villa. He enjoyed his brief periods of residence there chiefly because they came in some sort under the head of forbidden pleasures. There was something that tickled his fancy, too, in the notion of being a married man and the owner of such a queer establishment ; and he contemplated the half-finished houses, the dirty children play- ino; in the middle of the road, and the clothes hanging out to dry in the back-yards with an amused smile, as part and parcel of the humours of the situation. He was in high good humour, lounging hither and thither in the midst of all that unsightliness and squalor ; and ever as he walked, the music-master's hasty exclamation kept measure with his steps in a pleasant, monotonous cadence of ' Thousands a year ! — thousands a year ! ' ' Why not ? ' Philip cried aloud, at last ; and echo returned no answer to this query. That day was an altogether delightful one for Mrs. Marescalchi. She w^as informed that, COOMASSIE VILLA. 197 subject to certain prudential restrictions, she might choose for herself in what way she would spend the latter half of it ; and, after due consideration, she decided for a row on the river, dinner at the Criterion, and a visit to the Promenade Concert at Covent Garden to finish up with. At this season of the year such a programme did not seem too risky to be sanc- tioned, and in pursuance of it the young couple found themselves, about an hour before sunset, drifting lazily down stream towards Hammer- smith. ' Fan,' said Philip suddenly, ' I have hit upon an entirely new scheme of life.' ' Have you, dear? ' responded Fanny, straight- ening herself up, and ceasing to dabble her fingers in the water ; for the tone of her lord and master's voice appeared to call for an attitude of respect and attention. * I have always thought,' Philip said gravely, ' that the finger of Fate pointed me rather towards spangles and tights than towards the woolsack. I am sure you will agree with me in thinking that I might easily become Lord Chancellor, if I were not above being at the trouble of earning that distinction/ Fanny signified that she felt no doubt whatever as to that. ' The Lord Chancellor gets 10,000/. a year, 198 NO NE^ THING. which is very pretty pay as times go ; but then one has to pass through a deuce of a lot of bother and worry, and to grow an ugly old man, before one has a chance of drawing the salary. All things considered, I am not sure that it would not be preferable to put up with a smaller income — say a couple of thousand a year, or so — and begin to earn it, while one is in the prime of one's youth and beauty, as a primo tenore at the Opera.' Fanny clapped her hands in delight. ' Oh, Philip, do you really mean it ? How glorious ! But I didn't know gentlemen ever went upon the stage.' ' In these enlightened days, my dear Fanny, a gentleman is allowed to exercise any trade that brings in a sufficient amount of money. I think I'll go and look up old Steinberger to- morrow and hear what he says. Supposing that he reports favourably — which he very likely won't do, mind you — I shall be much inclined to brave the home authorities, and go in for an independent career. There's a charm about independence — at least, I imagine that there is ; for I have no personal experience to guide me in speaking upon the point. In the sense of freedom from supervision, it might be attainable pretty early in the business : freedom from pecuniary obligations would have to be post- COOMASSIE VILLA. 199 polled until a little later. Oh, my dear Fan, what an unmitigated rascal you have got for a husband ! ' Fanny stared, shook her prett}^ head in be- wilderment, and exclaimed, ' Why, whatever do you mean ? ' ' It Vr^ould take rather too long to explain. How would you like to go to Italy for a couple of years ? ' 'Me? Go to Italy? Oh, laws!' ' Fanny, you shock me. You really should try to cure yourself of indulging in low ejacula- tions. You may say "Oh, lor'I " when you want to intimate delight and surprise ; I heard a duchess use the expression the other day, so it must be all right ; but you mustn't say " Oh, laws ! " — it's vulgar. Yes ; I suppose, if I do go in for this business, it will be a case of Italy to begin with. There is no reason why you shouldn't complete your education there, and we should certainly be able to see much more of one another in a foreign land than we can here.' That clinched the matter, so far as Mrs. Marescalchi was concerned. Visions of palms and orange-groves, of marble palaces and shady retreats, made for happy lovers, began forthwith to present themselves to her excited imagina- tion. She could hardly enjoy the unwonted dissipation of the evening for thinking of it all; 200 NO NEAV THING. and Philip was very good-natured in helping out her crude dreams with sundry pretty fancy sketches of their future life. No one knew better than he did how unlikely it was that fancy would in this instance prove the fore- runner of fact; but no one had a clearer con- viction than he of the harmlessness of fancy and the wisdom of indulging in it, upon occa- sion. It did not affect the future one way or the other, and it made the present agreeable. Philip's philosophy was of that practical kind which concerns itself chiefly with the present. Everybody who is at all in the musical world knows Herr Steinberger; and so, for the matter of that, do a few thousands of people who are not. Years ago he established his reputation by introducing to the Parisian stage a young singer whose fame is now world-wide. Shortly after this lucky hit, he took up his residence in London, where he soon became the singing- master par excellence of society, and where he is to be seen most nights during the season, playing raging accompaniments to the drawing-room performances of amateurs of both sexes. He is a man of much energy, perseverance, and good- will; his successes have been many; and as he charges the highest permissible price for his lessons, and is said to be in the habit of address- ing his pupils with the most cruel frankness, COOMASSIE VILLA. 201 his popularity is unbounded, and during nine months at least out of the year he is as hard- ^vorked and as well paid for his work as any toiler within the four seas. Philip, who had a slight acquaintance with Herr Steinberger, from having met him here and there at theatrical and operatic entertain- ments, went to call upon him on the morning after his arrival in London, and found him in the act of packing up in preparation for a well- earned holidav. Steinberojer, like a man of business as he was, wasted no time in pre- liminaries, and expressed no surprise at his visitor's choice of a profession, but proceeded to put him through his paces. His verdict was not particularly encouraging. ' Hah ! very pretty — very goot for a leetle concert in a leetle room ; but you know not how to sing at all — oh, not at all, not at all ! You must forget all what you have learnt; that is the first thing. How old are you? ' ' Twenty-four,' said Philip. ' So ! There is no great hurry, then. Come to me again in the autumn, if you do not change your mind meanwhile. You have a voice; but whether it is worth anything — that is more than I, or anyone else, can tell you yet. Work, work, work ; and in two years', three years' time — perhaps — we shall see.' 202 NO NEW THING. And before Pliilip could press tlie oracle for any more definite response he was gently pushed out of the room. Fanny, who had been pacing up and down the street outside during this interview, was a little disappointed when she heard the upshot of it. ^ I expect he's a silly sort of old man, after all/ she said. But Philip reassured her. ' Steinberger's always like that : it's his way. He doesn't choose to let his praise be easily earned; and quite right too : nobody cares for a cheap article. If he hadn't thought pretty well of my chances, he wouldn't have told me to come back.' Philip had taken it strongly into his head that he would like to become a second Mario; and that, according to the Italian proverb, was the surest means he could have adopted to- wards attaining his end. It had, at all events, the effect of making him very cheerful and sanguine for the time ; for when he wanted a thing very much, he always made up his mind that he was sure to get it, hating disappoint- ment, and being unable to bring himself to the contemplation of so disagreeable an eventu- ality. Prophesying smooth things, and enjoying COOMASSIE VILLA. 203 the glories of success in advance, lie strolled along the shady side of Piccadilly, while the happy Fanny hung upon his words; — which thing he would hardly have dared to do, even at that advanced season of the year, had he had all his wits about him. And before very long his neg- lect of ordinary precautions was brought home to him in a way which he did not like ; for as the couple turned into the Green Park, who should come striding out, and almost run up against them, but Colonel Kenyon? The encounter was over, and Colonel Kenyon round the corner and out of sight in an instant ; and Philip, who would have given a great deal to know whether the recognition had been mutual or not, continued his walk in a state of painful uncertainty. He comforted himself by reflecting that the old fellow was just that sort of duffer who would pull up and shake hands with a friend, no matter under what circumstances he might chance to meet him ; but for all that, he inwardly cursed his own thought- lessness, and resolved that no one should ever meet him in the streets of London with Fanny again. Two days afterwards he went down to stay with some friends in Gloucestershire, whence he immediately despatched a letter to Margaret, giving her a very entertaining description of a 204 KO NEW THING. ball at which he had not been present, and stating that he had been so busy with re- hearsals ever since his arrival that he really- had not been able to find a minute for writing before. 205 CHAPTER IX. MISS brune's partner. The great fire which consumed two -thirds of the Duke of Retford's historic mansion in York- shire, reducing to ashes about a quarter of a mile of indifferent pictures, together with much ancient and vakiable furniture and many curiosities and heirlooms impossible to replace, was an event deeply deplored by his Grace, still more deeply deplored by the insurance offices, and declared by the newspapers to be nothino- less than a public calamity. Still, as is the case with most calamities, public and private, there were not a few people who found their ^^rofit in it; and among these were persons of all ranks dwelling round about Crayminster. For, al- though the work of reconstruction was set on foot with all the speed which a magnate of the Duke of Retford's resources could command, it had barely been in full swing for two years, and was consequently very far indeed from ap- proaching completion, when the young Marquis 206 NO NEW THING. of Crayb ridge came of age ; and thus it became necessary that the festivities which ought to have gladdened the north of England upon that occasion should be held at Craybridge Hall, a residence little liked and seldom visited by the family. The festivities in question were, it was rumoured, to be celebrated upon a scale unprecedented in the annals of the county. They were to last through the best part of a week; they were to be marked not only by the ordinary features of triumphal arches, oxen roasted whole, bonfires, fireworks, and the like, but by a revival of sundry old English sports, intermingled with such modern ones as cricket, polo, and lawn-tennis, and they were to include a ball which a prince of the blood royal had promised to grace with his presence. All this enforced hospitality would have possessed little interest for our friends at Broom Leas — for Craybridge Hall was situated some fifteen miles away from them, and its inmates were not upon their visiting-list — had not the heir-apparent, who had been Walter's fag at Eton, happened to meet his old schoolfellow at a cricket-match on the Crayminster ground, and taken that opportunity for renewing acquaint- ance with him. This chance encounter had led to an introduction of both Walter and his sister to the Duchess, who had been very civil and MISS brune's partner, 207 friendly; and for some days afterwards Nellie had cherished a faint hope of being invited to the great ball. Nothing, however, came of it; and when Walter was asked to take part in the cricket-match, and to dine and sleep at Cray- bridge afterwards, she ceased to think about the matter, perceiving that her dream of dancing in the same room with royalty was not to be fulfilled upon that occasion. All the greater, therefore, was her delight when, at the eleventh hour. Lord Craybridge rode over to Broom Leas bearing a hastily -written, but kindly, note from his mother, in which Miss Brune was begged, if she would pardon the informality of the invitation, to stay at the Hall, not only for the night of the ball, but for the entire week. Every hole and corner in the house had had its occupant allotted to it weeks before, the young man explained; it was only that morning that one of the invited guests had sent an apology, and had left free the room which it was hoped that Miss Brune would consent to use. His mother would have called herself; only the truth was that she was in such a state of fuss and flurry that she hardly knew whether she was standing on her head or her heels. ' I don't suppose there is such another abominable house in England. Nothing could make it habitable ; and we have got to cram at 208 NO NEW THING. least twenty more people into it than it will hold. The whole business will be acute misery for us. But I dare say it won't be bad fun for the lookers-on, and we'll do the best we can to amuse you, Miss Brune, if you'll come.' Miss Brune required no persuasive speeches. She answered, with the frankness which was her habit, ' Thank you ; I should like of all things to go ; but I am afraid I mustn't give an answer until I have seen my father. Would it do if I wrote by to-night's post? ' Lord Craybridge intimated that a demand for instant decision had not formed part of his instructions; and after apologising once more, and declarino; that he should await the arrival of the post-bag the next morning with the greatest anxiety, took his leave. ' Undoubtedly you must go,' said Mr. Brune, when his sanction was requested later in the day. '\Ye will forgive the Duchess's want of ceremony, because much must be pardoned to duchesses. Moreover, Xell, it is quite clear to me that you are upon the threshold of a great opportunity. Only play your cards skilfully, and who knows whether you may not become a duchess yourself one of these days? I am o-rieved that you should not have had the presence of mind to press Lord Craybridge to stay to luncheon.' MISS bruxe's partner. 209 ' That boy ! ' cried Xellie. with line disdain ; ' why, he must be three years younger than Walter, at least. Besides, I would rather die than marry a man above me in rank. Fancy being like Lady Travers, who doesn't dare to ask her own relations into her own liouse ! If I thought anyone could suspect me of such pitiful desio-ns. I wouldn't g-o to Cravbridg;e at all.' ' Perhaps nobody will suspect you,' Mr. Brune answered gravely; 'indeed, there seems to be a very good cliance that nobody will. Pray don't refuse this invitation hastily. Con- sider what you owe to your family ; consider what will be the position of your poor father if there is another bad harvest, and the hops turn out a failure again ; and if that won't move you, picture to yourself the impotent wrath of Mrs. AYinning^ton when she hears that vou have ixone to stay a whole week with a duchess.' It must be acknowledged that this last con- sideration Avould have had some weiirht with Nellie, even if her mind had not already been made up ; for she had had many things to bear from Mrs. Winnington in the way of patronage and criticism, and hers was not a meek nature. But she had more than a sufficiency of other motives, less open to exception, to influence her decision ; and she went to bed that night with a heart so full of joyous anticipation that there VOL. I. p 210 NO NEW THING. was no room in it for malice or uncharitable- ness. Nellie Brune was fortunate enough and un- sophisticated enough to possess the faculty of enjoyment to its fullest extent. Her life had l3een so healthy and natural a one, she had •dwelt among such simple and honest people, that she had learnt nothing of that wearisome habit of introspection which is the curse of the present generation, and enjoyed the good things of this world without bothering herself to analyse her emotions. Margaret's care, and perhaps also a share of hereditary good breed- ing, had preserved her from growing up into a hoyden ; but at the age of eighteen she much resembled Horace's Lyde — Quae, yeliit latis equa trima campis Ludit exsultim. High spirits and the customs of a large family may have made her a little indiscreet at times, a little too prompt in forming judgments, and rash in giving utterance to them ; but these are faults which time seldom fails to soften down, and it is only sour-tempered people who would quarrel with them, when accompanied by all the physical and mental charms of youth. Nellie achieved a signal success at Cray- bridge Hall, where she speedily became a uni- versal favourite. Happily for her comfort, the MISS bruxe's partner. 211 young heir did not fall in love with her, his budding affections being engaged elsewhere at that tune ; but both he and his mother showed her every possible kindness and attention, and she rewarded them, on the last day, by declaring that she had never spent such a happy week before in her life. ' It has all gone off so splendidly, hasn't it ? ' she said. The Duchess smiled, and said, ' I am very glad you think so.' ' Oh ! everybody must think so ; there hasn't been a single failure. The cricket might have been better certainly ; but that was partly the fault of the ground. Xow there is only the ball to-night, and then there will be an end of everything. I should like to have it all over a^^ain from the beoinnino^.' ' I should not,' said the Duchess, laughing. ' I am glad, for your sake, that there is still the ball to look forward to ; but I shall be very thankful, for my own, when I can look back upon it. Out of all the host of people who have been asked, I believe scarcely a dozen have refused. You must not expect to be able to dance.' 'Oh! we shall manage,' answered JS^ellie, confidently. ' I mean to dance all night. That is, if I get partners enough,' she added, as a modest afterthought. p 2 212 NO NEW THING. If a sufficient supply of partners was all that was required, Miss Brune ran no risk of having a moment's repose until after sunrise. She made her appearance in the ball-room rather late, and was at once besieged by a multitude of acquaintances, old and new, insomuch that she speedily got out of her reckoning, and had en- gaged herself two or three times over for every dance upon the programme before she knew where she was. She was, in truth, a little dazzled by the brilliancy of the scene around her. Notwithstanding the Duchess's disparaging criticism of it, the picture-gallery, which had been made to do duty for a ball-room, was spacious enough to answer the required purpose, and with its beautiful old crystal chandeliers, its banks of hothouse plants, and its miniature fountains playing in every recess, was in Nellie's eyes something closely approaching an earthly paradise. Nearly the whole of the expected company was assembled ; for the invitations had been issued ' to have the honour of meeting their Royal Highnesses the Duke and Duchess of Middlesex,' and punctuality was consequently indispensable. All the diamonds of two counties were sparkling and twinkling upon the persons of their fortunate owners; and never before had Miss Brune been privileged to gaze upon so varied a collection of magnificent toilettes. MISS bruxe's partner. 213 Taking stock of these, one by one, she presently became aware of Mrs. Winnington and Edith, whom she had not expected to meet, and whose surprise at the encounter was evidently not less than her own. ' Oh ! how do you do? I did not know you were to be here,' said the former, not very graciously. • AYho brought you ? ' ' 1 have been staying here for a few days,' Xellie answered, with a demure enjoyment of her triumph ; and Walter, who was standing by, added explanatorily: — ' The Duchess was good-natured enough to ask Nell over for the week.' ' Oh, indeed ! ' said Mrs. Winnins^ton, look- ing very black. ' Your father did not mention it when I saw him yesterday. Rather odd not to have invited him too, was it not V She was scrutinisino^ Nellie from head to foot throuofh her eye-glasses, and now asked abruptly, ' Is that the dress Maro-aret srave vou ? ' ' Yes ; is it not lovely ? ' ' It fits atrociously in the back,' Mrs. Win- nington was beginning ; but this well-meant shot missed fire, for the opening words were droTvmed in the crash of the orchestra strikinor up ' God save the Queen,' and all eyes were instantly turned towards the doorway, through which a procession of august personages was 214 NO XEW THING. seen approaching. The Duke of Middlesex, who had a country-house in the neighbourhood, had arrived within five minutes of his time, and was leading his hostess up the room, followed by some German Serenities and a galaxy of minor stars whom he had brought with him. By the time that Xellie had recovered to some extent from the excitement into which she had been thrown by the passing of this little pageant, the throng had effectually separated her from her amiable old friend, and she had been taken charge of by her first partner, a stranger whose name she had failed to catch. He seemed to be a good deal amused by the girl's uncon- ventional talk and artless admiration of the big- wigs at the other end of the room. 'Is this your first ball, Miss Brune ?' he asked, smiling. ' Oh, dear no ! ' answered Xellie, much of- fended. ' What put that into your head ?' ' I beg your pardon, I'm sure. It is so many years since I was young myself that I have al- most forgotten what it feels like ; but I know there was a time when it used to make me very angry to be taken for less than my age. Nowa- days I often have to complain of exactly the opposite error; and I assure you it is a great deal more painful to be set down as an old man than as a very young one.^ MISS brune's partner. 215 Nellie looked up at him. He was a tall man, with a bright, good-humoured face, a fair mou- stache, and closely-cut reddish beard ; his eyes were clear, and his hair — what little there was of it — unmixed with grey. Decidedly he was not old ; but probably he was not far off middle age. Nellie was upon the point of saying, in a generous spirit, ' I should put you at about forty ; ^ but thought better of it. After all, these delicate subjects were best not meddled with, and some people, she knew, became bald early in life. ' I have been to plenty of balls before,' she said, reverting to the original topic ; ' but I never was at one of this kind until now. Nearly all the faces are new to me. I am not accustomed to associating with princes and princesses, either, as I dare say you are.' ' They are very much like the rest of the world, when you come to know them.* ' They may be. But I cannot possibly come to know them ; so they are not at all like the rest of the world to me. I shall be talking about this evening for years to come most likely, and I want to hear who everybody is. Are there many celebrities in the room, and do you know them all ? ' ' I know a good many of them by sight, at all events. The great majority of them are re- 216 NO NEW THING. lations or connections of the house — lords and ladies — celebrities in a certain sense. I don't think there is anyone present whom I should call exactly a distinguished person ; but then I'm a Radical, and my ideas of distinction are not likely to be the same as yours. That fine- looking old fellow, with the white hair, is Lord Aintree, the great racing man. He is immensely popular on the turf, and he deserves to be so ; for there isn't a more honourable or straight- forward man in England. The lady whom he is talking to is Lady Carlton, whom you may have heard of. She gives a great many big parties in London, and is supposed to render invaluable services to the Tory party.' ' She looks a very forbidding sort of old woman,' Nellie remarked. ' Do you think so ? Well, perhaps she is a little hard-featured ; but she is a good old soul, for all that. I happen to know that she gives away thousands a year in charity ; and there are not many people of whom that can be said.' He went on describing the guests, one after another, in this way ; and the odd thing was that, although he told some amusing stories and had some queer personal characteristics to point out, he did not make a single ill-natured obser- vation from beoinnino' to end. ' Why, according to you, they are all delight- MISS bruxe's partner. 217 fill! ' Nellie exclaimed at last ; ' you haven't a bad TTord for anybody.' 'Why should I use bad words? Most of these people have shown me kindness, at one time or another ; and what is the good of pick- ing one's neighbours to pieces ? It's a shocking bad habit. One may just as easily look at a man's good points as at his ugly ones; and, if the truth were known, I suspect it would be found that we are all tarred with much the same brush.' ' One must have likes and dislikes, though. I hate some people ; and so do you, I suppose.' ' Upon my word, I don't think I do. I don't even hate my own political chief, though he is always snubbing me, and invariably walks out of the House when I get upon my legs.' ' Are you in Parliament, then ? ' asked Nellie, with an increased respect for her partner ; ' and do you make speeches ? ' ' I do indeed,' he answered, laughing ; ^ only too many of them. But I am a man of hobbies, I must tell you ; I generally have some measure on hand that I want to force through, and unless I make a nuisance of myself there wouldn't be the least chance for me. So I go on pegging away, session after session, and sometimes, after a great deal of fighting and abuse, I carry my point.' 218 NO NEW THING. He looked so strong, so good-humoured and honest, that Nelhe felt irresistibly drawn to him. ' It is a great pity that you should be a Radical,' she said gravely. ' Oh ! but I assure you Eadicals are not so black as they are painted, and, as for me, I am a very mild specimen of the race. I don't want to abolish the Queen, or the House of Lords, or even the Church. In fact, at this present moment, I don't want to abohsh anything, except vivisection. That is my hobby just now. I want total abolition of vivisection ; and I hope I shall get it, too.' ' I am sure I hope you will ! ' cried Nellie warmly ; ' I am quite on your side there.' ' What ! are you for total abolition ? You won't be satisfied with a commission of inquiry, or with careful supervision of the practice? You don't think that headlong legislation is a thing to be deprecated upon all grounds, and that we may safely rely upon the evidence of men of science whose devotion to the welfare of the human race is notorious? ' 'I'm for total abolition,' answered Nellie firmly. ' The human race must shift ior itself ; we can't hear the dogs' evidence.' ' Ah! then you must be a Radical at heart. A Radical, you know, is an obnoxious person who insists upon going to the root of things, and MISS BEUNES PARTNER. 219 looks upon all compromises with suspicion. I hope, after this, you won't hate all Radicals.' ' You will allow me to hate vivisectionists, though.' ' No, I won't. You may hate their practice as much as you like. Take my advice, Miss Brune, and hate things ; don't hate people. But I'm keeping your next partner waiting, and he is throwing glances of unequivocal hatred at me. Will you give me another dance later on, and then you can tell me who the unfortunates are whom you detest ? ' Nellie nodded ; for her new acquaintance rather interested her, and as she was already so deeply engaged that it would be necessary for her to throw over somebody for every dance, she thought she might as well disappoint two people as one. She took advantage of a pause in the waltz to ask her present partner who the tall man with the beard and the bald head was ; and after a moment's hesitation, he answered boldly, ' John Bright.' ' That he certainly is not,' returned Nellie ; * even I know better than that. Why, John Bright is a Quaker.' ' So he is ; you're quite right. And Quakers don't dance, do they ? Dear me ! what on earth is that man's name ? I know it as well as I do 220 NO NEAV THING. my own ; but I can't get hold of it. If he isn't Bright, he's somebody of that kind. Plimsoll, or Sir Wilfrid Lawson, or somebody.' Trustworthy information was evidently not to be looked for from that vague person, and Nellie decided to reserve further inquiries for her next partner. But those inquiries were never made ; for now a most important and un- expected event took place : nothing less, namely, than an intimation that his Roval Hio;hness desired to dance with Miss Brune ; and in the perturbation consequent upon this announce- ment Nellie forgot for a time the existence of her new friend. She was a great deal more alarmed than pleased by the honour conferred upon her ; and, proud as the retrospect of having been whirled round the room by a live prince might prove to be in after years, the present sensation of dancing in a vast unoccupied space, while the rest of the assemblage stood still and stared, was far too embarrassing to be enjoyable. She passed through the ordeal, however, credit- ably enough. The Duke of Middlesex was very good-natured and not at all formidable, and he was so obliging as to mould his conversation in such a manner that an occasional ' Yes, sir,' was all that seemed requisite to support it. When Nellie w^as allowed to return to her native obscurity, she was almost immediately joined by MISS bruxe's partner. 221 tlie Unknown, who came up to claim his pro- mised dance, and who congratulated her upon her conquest of royalty. ' You will be glad to hear that you have produced a most favourable impression upon his Royal Highness. He was talking about you just now to the Duke of Retford, and I heard him say — no ; I Avon't tell you what he said ; but it was very complimentary. I hope the approbation was mutual.' ' I don't know,' said Nellie. ' I thouo^ht he was very nice ; but I couldn't tell you what he talked about if my life depended upon it. I managed to keep my wits about me just enough to dance my best and answer when I was spoken to ; but that was all. I never lifted my eyes from the ground. I hadn't even the satisfaction of seeing Mrs. Winnington turning green with jealousy at my triumph.' 'Mrs. Winnington? Is she one of the people whom you hate ? ' ' Yes ; she is,' answered Nellie emphatically. ' I have no hesitation in saying that I hate Mrs. Winnington. And so would j^ou, if you knew her.' ' But I do know her.' 'Well?' ' Well, our acquaintance is rather a recent one ; but I haven't discovered anything hateful 222 NO NEW THING. about her so far. She struck me as a very civil and amiable old lady.' ' Mrs. Wnmmg^ton civil and amiable ! Your acquaintance with her must be recent indeed ; or else you must be quite incorrigibly amiable yourself. I don't believe even her own daughters would call her that — at least, two of them wouldn't. I can't answer for the third ; because she is like you ; it isn't in her to hate anybody.' ' At any rate, she may be excused for not hating her own mother.' ' I don't know. We are told to love our enemies ; but do you think anyone really does ? ' ' The question is whether we have any. My own idea is that very few men or women have enemies, unless they have done something to deserve them.' ' Thank you very much.' ' Now I have put my foot in it. But 1 really did not mean to say that you deserved Mrs. Winnington's enmity ; I only meant to suggest that perhaps, after all, it didn't exist. How- ever, I know nothing about it ; so I can't judge. What is the next name on the black list ? ' Nellie considered for a short space. ' Now that I come to think of it,' she said slowly, ' I am not sure that I actually hate anyone, except MISS brune's partner. 223 Mrs. Winnington. There are the Stanniforths, father and son, of course.' ' Poor Stanniforths, father and son I What have they done ? and why are they to be hated as a matter of course ? ' ' Oh ! it is much too long a story to tell,' Nellie answered ; ' and, besides, it would not interest you.' The stranger, however, declared that it would interest him beyond everything ; and eventually Miss Brune was induced to give reasons for her bitter animosity against two men whom, as she confessed, she had never even set eyes upon. The whole history of the purchase of Longbourne, and of the subsequent ill-gotten gains derived from the railway company, was related ; the low cunning of the Manchester merchant, and the uncomplaining magnanimity of his dupe, were dilated upon in glowing language ; and Mrs. Stanniforth's avowed disapproval of the transac- tion which had placed her in her present home was not forgotten. The waltz, during which the first part of the above colloquy had taken place at intervals, was at an end ; and it was uj^on a balcony overlooking the Duchess's rose-garden that Miss Brune told the story of the family wrongs. Her hearer, meanwhile, resting his elbows upon the broad balustrade, looked out into the 224 XO NEW THING. night, and allowed her to finish her narrative without a word of interruption. Then he said : — ' Yon have run away with an altogether mis- taken notion, do you know. I have been ac- quainted with old Mr. Stanniforth all my life, and I can assure you that he is the last man in the world to drive a hard bargain or take an nnfair advantage. Vulgar he may be, according to your notions of vulgarity ; but no one has ever accused him of being dishonest. He is a man of business ; and a bargain, you know, is a baro-ain. If I go into the market to buy an estate, or a horse, or whatever it may be, I must use my own judgment as to the value of my purchase. If I didn't think it worth the price asked, I shouldn't give that price. In fact, the chances are that I shouldn't give the price un- less, in my opinion, it were worth a little more.' ' I once heard of a man,' said Nellie, ' who bought what appeared to be a glass bead from a pedlar for a few shillings, knowing it to be a valuable diamond. He was what you would call a man of business, I suppose. If Mr. Stan- niforth is a friend of yours, I am sorry I men- tioned his name ; but I am afraid I shall continue to dislike him nevertheless.' ' You would not dislike him, if you were to meet him.' MISS bruxe's partner. 225 ' I would not meet him for the world I ' cried Nellie. ' Luckily, there is not the least chance of my ever doing so ; and as for his son, Mr. Tom Stanniforth, who is coming to stay at Long- bourne very soon, I shall take good care to keep out of his way.' ' Isn't that rather hard lines upon poor Tom Stanniforth ? ' ' I dare say it won't distress him very much,' answered Xellie drily. ' But, indeed, if you carry out your threat, it will distress him extremely. I happen to be the Tom Stanniforth in question ; so I can speak with some authority as to his feelings.' Xellie blessed the friendly darkness which veiled her confusion. Every word that she had said about the elder Stanniforth's dishonesty and plebeian origin came back to her memory with horrible distinctness ; she was furious with her- self for her stupidity, and if the mischief had not seemed to be past all mending, she would have begged her companion's pardon in the hum- blest language she could command. L^nluckily, however, he broke out into a great jolly laugh ; and that was more than her pride could brook. ' It was all your fault ! ' she exclaimed. ' I know it was. I ought to have told j^ou my name long ago ; but the temptation to let VOL. I. Q 226 NO NEW THING. you go on was too strong for me. Will you forgive me, Miss Brune, and shall we shake hands upon it ? ' But Miss Brune was no longer in a mood either to accept or to offer apologies. ' I should like to go in now, please, Mr. Stanniforth,' she said, with much dignity. ' You can leave me beside Mrs. Winnington.' And as soon as they had re-entered the ball- room, she withdrew her hand from her late partner's arm and, with a little cold bow, gave him his dismissal. He lingered near her for a moment, as if he had something more to say ; but, as she turned her head resolutely away from him and began talking with great rapidity to a bystander, he moved off presently, with a half-amused, half- concerned look upon his face, w^hich Nellie saw out of the corner of her eye, and which did not serve to diminish her wrath. She watched his tall figure skirting the space reserved for the dancers ; presently she saw the Duke of Middlesex arrest his progress by a familiar tap on the shoulder ; she observed the easy deference with which he talked to the prince, and consoled herself with an inward sneer at the pliability of some people's Radicalism. Shortly afterwards she caught sight of his long legs extended beside Mrs. Winnington's ample skirts, MISS BRUXE S PARTNER. 227 and she thought to herself, ' Now he has crone over to the enemy.' All this was most unjust and unfair ; but those who amuse themselves by setting traps for their neighbours must not expect the entrapped ones to judge them with strict impartiality. If Nellie could have overheard what was passing between Mr. Stanniforth and the lady at whose side he had chosen to seat himself, she must have admitted that the second of her charges at least was an unfounded one. ' Yes ; that is the girl's brother dancing with Edith,' Mrs. AYinnington was saying. ' He is a shade less objectionable than his sister ; but that is not high praise. They are anything but a nice family. So shockingly brought up.' ' Oh, come ! ' cried Mr. Stanniforth, ^ I'm sure you don't mean that.' ' If I did not mean it, I should not say it,'' rejoined Mrs. Winnington tartly ; for several things had occurred to put her out of temper that evening, and under such circumstances she could not always retain command over her tongue. Eecollecting, however, that she was not yet this gentleman's mother-in-law, she made haste to add, in a more charitable spirit, ' One must not be too hard upon them ; a widowers children are much to be pitied, and Mr. Brune has allowed his to run wild all their Q. 2 228 NO NEW THING. lives. They are not well brought up — I cannot pretend to consider them so — but the fault is not altogether their own, perhaps.' ' You told me that they had been brought up almost entirely by Margaret,' Mr. Stanni- forth remarked ; ' otherwise I shouldn't have doubted your sincerity. For my own part, I think Miss Brune does Margaret infinite credit. I have not met such an honest, unaffected girl for a long time. She seems to me to have a good deal of character, too ; and as for her looks — well, one ought not to praise anybody for possessing good looks, I suppose, however much one may be under their influence. Beauty is a great power, nevertheless. Upon my word, Mrs. Winnington, if I were twenty years younger, I believe I should fall desperately in love with Miss Brune.' Mrs. AVinnington's eye-glasses fell from her hand. She turned, and stared at her neighbour, half horrified, half suspicious. Could he have guessed at the projects which she had formed for his future domestic bliss, and was he amusing himself at her expense with an un- seemly jest ? She almost hoped that it might be so. But no ; the broad smile that lighted up his good-humoured face had not a shade of malice in it ; it was obvious that he was express- ing his thoughts quite frankly ; and poor Mrs. MISS bruxe's paktxer. 229 Winnington was within an ace of losing her temper again as she looked at him. ' I can't congratulate you upon your taste, she said curtly. It really was enough to provoke a saint. At the cost of much pain, labour, and humiliation, she had obtained an invitation to this ball, simply and solely in order that Tom Stanniforth, who, as she had heard, was to be present at it, might dance with her daughter ; and here was her reward ! The wretched man had danced twice only in the course of the evening — only twice ; and both times with the girl whom of all others she would fain have kept out of his way. For of course he would meet her again at Longbourne, and of course she was pretty ; ]\Irs. Winnington was perfectly well aware of that. She was prettier even, perhaps, than Edith ; though surely less refined, less aristo- cratic. But what did a horrid Manchester man care about refinement ? Everythins^ was u'oinof wrong. He had not asked Edith for a dance ; he evidently did not now intend to do so ; and meanwhile Edith was spending a great deal too large a portion of the evening with Walter Brune. Alas I the world we live in is full of dis- appointment and discouragement; and what with straitened means, and the gout, and old 230 NO NEW THING. age creeping on apace, there are moments in which life itself seems but a doubtful blessing, and its prizes, such as they are, hardly worth the worry and weariness of struggling after. But Mrs. Winnington was not one to allow despondency to get the upper hand of her for long ; and, as she had plenty of obstinacy, she very generally got her own way in the end. She contrived, upon this occasion, to get Mr. Stanniforth to dance with Edith before the evening was over ; and that was something. Rome was not buiU in a day ; middle-aged bachelors were gamxC that required wary stalking ; a boy like Walter Brune could not be any serious obstacle in the way of well-laid plans ; ^N^ellie was clearly marked out by fate to marry that odious young Marescalchi, who would break her heart, and go to the dogs. Such were the reflections with which Mrs. Winnington comforted herself, in the intervals of slumber, during her fifteen-mile drive home. 231 CHAPTER X. MR. STANNIFORTH MAKES FRIENDS. At the age of tliree-and-forty, the member for Blackport was probably as contented a sample of humanity as could have been found from John o' Groat's to the Land's End. A man who possesses wealth, congenial occupation, a good digestion, and a clear conscience, must be a very extraordinary sort of man indeed if he be not happy; and Tom Stanniforth was by no means an extraordinary man. Some people thought him odd ; but his oddity had never taken the form of such base ingratitude to Fortune as dissatisfaction with his lot, nor was he niggardly of his smiles to a world which had treated him so well. He liked the world, and the world liked him ; and when he told Nellie that he had no enemies and hated nobody, he made a statement which was not only true, but which, considering the circumstances of the case, was almost a truism. He may not, perhaps, have deserved any great credit for being in love 232 NO NEW THING. and charity with all men ; but the fact that he was so was generally counted to his credit nevertheless : and this much may, at all events, be claimed for him, that he had not wasted his Ufe, and that he had used his money and his abilities without stint in the service of his fellow- creatures. What he called his hobbies had all been generous hobbies ; and if many of them had ended in failure and some had been ex- tinguished by a cold shower of not undeserved ridicule, a fair percentage at least had borne good fruit. His shrugged his shoulders over his failures, shook the ridicule off his broad back, and plodded on his way, to an accompani- ment of cheers and laughter. Had he been an ambitious man, a distinguished political career might have been open to him, for he had plenty of common sense ; he had had a long experience of the House of Commons, he loved hard work, and he had that patient diligence in mastering the details of a subject which is one of the rarest and most useful of qualities ; but he was not ambitious, and in truth cared not a jot for the game of politics. He called himself a Radical because, in a general way, he thought it was better to progress than to stand still ; and he was not so amenable to discipline as he ought to have been ; he had more than once taken upon him to play the enfant terrible ; and thus office MR. STANNIFORTH MAKES FRIENDS. 233 never bad been, and was now never likely to be, offered to liim. In private life he had hosts of friends, com- prising all classes of the community, from royalty down to the operatives, the chimney- sweeps, the discharged criminals, and others whose wrongs he had at different times under- taken to set to rights. Xo kind of society cam^e amiss to him ; and as his purse was always open, his good nature boundless, and his acquain- tance with social shibboleths all that could be desired, he was welcome wherever he went. Yet, after something like a quarter of a century of hospitality given and received, he was still a bachelor, and, as some of his friends feared, a confirmed one. It may be questioned, however, whether any bachelor of less than threescore and ten can be said to be confirmed in his bachelorhood ; and perhaps he is never more vulnerable than at that precise period of middle life when mothers commonly give him up in despair. For it is then that the blanks caused by the deatli or marriage of old friends begin to be felt, and domesticity acquires charms never thought of before, and a new sense of loneliness weighs upon a man's spirits. Tom Stanniforth (no one, by the way, ever called him anything but Tom) was entering upon this critical phase of 234 NO NEW THING. his career, and was experiencing the sensations incidental thereto, at the time when Mrs. Win- nington made up her mind to select another son-in-law from the ranks of the plutocracy. It is needless to say that many kind efforts had been made before then to render his existence a less solitary one ; but from one cause and an- other they had all proved abortive. With his great wealth, and with the knowledge of human nature which he had perforce acquired, it might not have been surprising if he had resolved to lead a smgle life, as modest heiresses are said to do, from a conviction of the impossibility of ever knowing certainly whether he was loved for his own sake ; but, as a matter of fact, he had formed no such determination. He had not married simply because he had never hap- pened to fall very much in love ; because acci- dents had prevented his following up a youthful fancy or two ; because, in fact, he had always had plenty of other things to think about. Now, for the first time in the course of his busy and joyous life, he was asking himself whether it was not advisable that he should settle down, and provide his huge, desolate mansion in the Midlands with a mistress ; and he was not unwilling to be vanquished by Mrs. Winnington, whose intentions he perfectly understood, and who, indeed, played her game after a fashion :ME. STAyyiFORTH MAKES FRIENDS. 235 which could hardly have deceived the least suspicious of men. He thought Edith might do verv welL She was of course by a great many years his junior, and he was not conscious of being at all in love with her ; but these draw- backs — if drawbacks they were — need not pre- vent her from making him an excellent wife, nor him from blessing her with the best of husbands. So, since Margaret pressed him to pay her a long visit, and since he had for the moment no other eno-ao-ements, save such as could be easily got rid of, he decided to make himself comfortable at Longbourne and wait upon events. He might, in the sequel, propose to Edith, or he might not ; and again, she might accept him, or she might not. Either way he had no great mental disturbance to dread. The popularity to which this fortunate man was accustomed did not fail to attend him in his new quarters. Philip — himself a popular per- son, though in a different way and from quite other causes — recognised in the new-comer a kindred spirit, and obtained without difficulty his co-operation in a project for private theatricals which Margaret had rather unwillingly con- sented to think about ; Mr. Brune, who had never shared his daughter's antipathy for the race of Stanniforth, took a great fancy to him, and was pleased to find that he was unaffectedly 236 NO NEW THING. interested in farming operations ; and Walter's prejudices, which, if less outspoken, were not less deep than his sister's, were overcome at once and for ever when he walked across the park to Longbourne one morning, and found the member for Blackport in his shirt-sleeves prac- tising cricket with the coachman and a couple of stable-helpers. As for the ladies, two at least of them were loud in their praises of him. ' He is so genuine,' said Mrs. Winnington, who was fond of a stock phrase. And for many a long day her intimates heard much of the genuine- ness of Tom Stanniforth. Nevertheless, there was one person who made up her mind that she would have nothing to do with the universal favourite, charm he never so wisely. For a whole week Nellie Brune held herself aloof, finding one excuse after another for absenting herself from Long- bourne, privately upbraiding her brother with his apostacy and listening to her father's pane- gyrics in eloquent silence ; and great was her disgust when, on the eighth day, Mr. Brune brought his friend and supplanter in to luncheon. To avoid speaking to him was hardly practicable, but she was determined not to be gracious ; and she was so far successful that her father, who rarely scolded her, took her to task somewhat severely afterwards for her want of hospitality. MR. STANNIFORTH MAKES FRIENDS. 237 But the provoking thing was that Mr. Stanni- forth did not seem to notice it at all. If he had looked conscious or embarrassed, or had shown any signs of being ashamed of himself, her heart might have been softened towards him ; but he did nothing of the kind. On the contrary, he totally ignored all previous passages of arms between them, alluded to the Duchess of Ret- ford's ball just as if nothing of a painful nature had occurred on that occasion, and ended by boldly asking Miss Brune to walk round the garden with him and show him her flowers. ' We have no flowers worth looking at,' she answered, in a very chilling tone ; but he de- clined to be chilled or to believe this assertion ; and the upshot of it was that Xellie had to comply with his request. She walked a few paces in advance of him, pointing out the various flower-beds with her sunshade, and showing by her manner that she was merely acquitting herself of a task, and of an uncongenial one. ' Petunias flourish very well here ; the cal- ceolarias are a failure this year. This is the rose-garden. It is small, as you see ; but the soil is considered good for roses, and my father has been very successful with them. He has taken a great many prizes. In fact, he could tell you all about them a great deal better than 238 NO NEW THING. I can. Quite at the end of that path there is a magnolia-tree which people say is the finest in the county. You can easily find your way, if you care to go and look at it.' Mr. Stanniforth laughed outright. 'I see you want to get rid of me,' said he ; ^ but I am too old and too thick-skinned to mind a snub- bino^. And I am determined to be friends with you before I have done with you, Miss Brune.' ' Then please consider that we have made friends, and that you have done with me,' cried Nellie, with sudden irritability. ' I am sure I am not quarrelsome ; nobody has ever accused me of being that. I don't think it was very kind or very polite of you to lead me on to make myself ridiculous the other night ; but that is all over now, and we need not say any more about it. Probably we shall not meet often again ; so it doesn't matter.' ' I don't call that making friends,' said Tom. Nellie made no rejoinder for some minutes, and then said, with great deliberation : ' I should have thought you might have been satisfied with having made friends v^^ith everybody in the house, except me. What can it possibly signify to you whether I like or dislike you ? I don't dislike you personally, if that matters : why should I, when I know nothing about you ? But we can never be really friends ; and you MR. STANNIFORTH MAKES FRIEXDS. 239 know why. We are hereditary enemies, as the English and French used to be.' ' Hereditary enemies ! — because my father bought an estate of yours ? ' ' No ; not because he bought it.' ' But because he chanced to make money out of it. I wish with all my heart that it had not so happened ; but a fair bargain is no robbery, for all that.' ' We won't argue the question,' said Xellie calmly. ' I have my notion of a fair bargain, and you have yours.' Mr. Stanniforth reddened a little. 'I can't allow that this is a case about which there can be two opinions/ he said. -Really you are very— very ' ' Wrono;headed ? ' suowsted Nellie, smihno:. Her equanimity began to return as her adver- sary's showed signs of disturbance. ' Well, I should not have ventured to use the word myself; but if you think it applic- able ' ' But of course I don't. I think that it is I who am right and you who are wrong. You are much cleverer than I am, and I dare say that, if we went on arguing you would get the best of It. Only that wouldn't make us any the more friends.' ' I suppose not. Very well, then, I will be 240 NO NEW THING. the friend and you shall be the foe. It will be uncomfortable ; but it can't be helped. In the meantime, I must go back to Margaret and tell her that I have failed ignominiously in my mission.' ' What mission ? ' Nellie asked . ' They want you to take a part in the play that young Marescalchi is getting up. Margaret maintained that you would never be persuaded to act on the same stage with me ; but I made bold to say that I could persuade you. I could not suppose, you see, that you would pay me the compliment of catting off your nose to spite your face.' Now, had this question of the theatricals been broached ten minutes earlier, it is certain that Nellie would have repudiated all connection with them ; but the wiliness of Tom's diplo- macy had its effect upon her. ' I don't know what you mean by " cutting off my nose to spite my face," ' she answered. ' I promised Philip ever so long ago that I would act when the time came ; and I always keep my eno-ao-ements.' So the envoy was enabled to state, at dinner that night, that no substitute for ]\liss Brune in the forthcoming entertainment need be sought for. Whereupon Mrs. Winnington remarked that in her young days it had not been cus- MR. STANXIFOKTII MAKES FRIENDS. 241 tomary to encourage school-girls to give theni- selves ridiculous and impertinent airs; and Philip, from the other side of the table, observed that one of the faults of the present system of education was the teaching of accomplishments which so many of the last generation had shown themselves capable of acquiring without any aid. This graceful sally Avas Philip's sole contri- bution to the harmony of the evening. He was silent and preoccupied and unlike himself; and Margaret, watching him furtively, feared that he must be ill. The fact was that Colonel Kenyon, who had been absent on a visit to some members of his own family, had returned that afternoon; and the sisfht of the Colonel's face put Philip disagreeably in mind of that en- counter at the corner of the Green Park which he had almost succeeded in banishins: from his memory. He was reminded of it in a still more direct and unpleasant manner in the smoking-room afterwards, when Hugh attacked him suddenly with — ' By the way, didn't I see you walking in Piccadilly the other da}^?' Philip shook his head. ^ I haven't been in London at all since I saw you last, except just to drive from one station to another. London in August is rather too hot for people who haven't lived in Madras.' VOL. I. R 242 NO NEW THING. ' Well, I could liave sworn it was yon/ persisted FT ugh. ^ In fact, I should have spoken to you, if you hadn't been walking Avith a — lady.' 'A lady! — and in August! For heaven's sake, Colonel Kenyon, don't make these awful accusations when Mrs. Winnington is present, or I shall have to write to Gloucestershire to prove an alibi.' Hugh said no more; but he looked rather oddly at the young man ; and then Philip knew that he had lied in vain. A moment's consideration, too, showed him that he had lied unnecessarily, which was worse. Why should he not at once have admitted the impeachment, accompanying his admission with a gentle insinuation that it is not always convenient to be recognised? Had he done so, Kenyon would have been convicted of a breach of good manners, and no slur would have been cast upon him.self, save that of being a young man, like other young men. But this sensible reflection came too late to be of any use, and from that day forth Colonel Kenyon's name was added to Philip's list of persons suspected and disliked. The compliment was in some degree recipro- •cated perhaps ; but Hugh was not a man who made up his mind hastily for or against any one ; moreover, he had promised to be a friend MR. STAXXIFOKTH MAKES FRIENDS. 243 to Marescalclii, and meant to keep his promise. After the latter had left the smoking-room, Tom Stanniforth said, in his brisk, quick way: ' That is a clever young fellow; something ouoiit to be made out of him. Mars'aret is doing her best to spoil him, though.' 'I don't know what more she could have done for him than she has done,' said Hugh, who, whatever his private opinion may have been, did not choose to hear Margaret criticised by others. ' I don't know what more any father could do for his son than to send him to Eton and Oxford, and allow him to choose his own profession.' 'But the difference between a father and Margaret is that a father would make his son understand that, when he has chosen a profes- sion, he must stick to it ; or at least that he must fix upon a profession of some kind.' • Well, he has chosen the law, I believe.' ' He has changed his mind, it seems. He informed us in a casual sort of way at luncheon yesterday that he didn't mean to be a lawyer ; and when somebodv asked him what he did mean to be, he said he hadn't the ghost of an idea. Xow, you know, that sort of thing will never do. I don't know Margaret well enough to interfere ; but you might say a word or two, R 2 244 NO NEW THING. might you not? Women don't understand the importance of time in these matters.' ' I will speak to the lad himself,' said Hugh, a good deal disturbed by this intelligence. And next day, accordingly, he did take an opportunity of expounding to Philip his simple notions of duty. He made his lecture as little didactic as he could ; but he knew that good advice is seldom palatable to youth, and was fully prepared to receive a civil hint to mind his own business. Philip, however, took his in- tervention in very good part, and disclaimed all intention of leading an idle life. * I should never make my fortune as a bar- rister,' he said ; ' it isn't my line at all. But there are many other excellent ways of earning one's bread. What should you think of the Church, now? ' ' The Church ! Well, really — if you ask me, I must confess I should hardly say you were fitted to be a parson,' answered Hugh, a little shocked ; for he had an immense reverence for the cloth, and was not very quick at taking up a joke. ' Oh, don't you think so? This is very dis- couraging. I have always been given to under- stand that, though I might be a little deficient in power of close reasoning, I had great ease of language and a good turn for paradox — just the MR. STAXXIFORTII MAKES FRIENDS. 245 sort of gifts that are calculated to make a man shine in the pulpit and come to howling grief in a court of law. And I can't help thinking that I should look very nice in a short surplice and a coloured stole. " The Reverend Philip Mare- scalchi " — it has a fine ecclesiastical ring. Or perhaps we might say '' Father Marescalchi/' for I should certainly go in for what old Lang- ley calls "advanced Church teaching." How pleased Meg would be ! But perhaps, after all, I haven't got a vocation ; and the Stock Exchange might be more suitable upon the whole.' ' You know best what you are fitted for,' said Hugh, who began to have a dim suspicion that he was being langhed at. ' Take up any trade or profession that you please, so that you take up one or another. All that I meant to impress upon you was that you ought not to give Margaret a moment's uneasiness, if you can help it.' ' There was no need to impress that upon me,' answered Philip. And Hugh, watching him, wondered why he sighed and became grave and sobered all of a sudden. The truth was that Philip's love for Mar- garet was the strono^est feelino: of his nature. It was not strong, certainly, in the cense of ex- ercising much influence over his conduct; but it 246 NO NEW THING. was strong enough to afflict him with occasional twinges of remorse and sometimes even with wakefuhiess at night. Some uneasiness he had caused her in the past, and what he had done and proposed to do must needs cause her something more than uneasiness in the future. It was his habit to enjoy the present, and to live for it alone ; but, every now and again, a chance re- mark or incident would bring his true position vividly before him ; and when that occurred, he would fall into sudden and deep despondency, as he did now. The two men had been to the stables, and were crossing the lawn towards the house. As they approached it, a carriage drove past, in which was seated a lady who bent forward to look at them. Marescalchi raised his hat, and Hugh mechanically did the same. ' Who is that? ' he inquired. * An old friend of yours,' answered Philip ; ' Lady Travers. She pays us a visit of a few hours about twice in the course of the year — when she gets leave from her husband.' ^ Dear me ! ' exclaimed Hugh ; ' so that was Kate Travers. I should never have known her again.' ' Ah, I daresay she doesn't look as young as she did ten years ago. Old Travers leads her a deuce of a life. They say he sends for her and MR. STANNIFORTH MAKES FRIENDS. 24:7 beats her whenever he feels one of his bad fits of gout coming on ; I don't know whether it's true or not. Anyhow, he won't let a single one of her relations enter his house. For some years. I believe, he devoted all his energies to picking a quarrel with Mrs. Winnington ; but she wouldn't be quarrelled with at any price, and the story is that at last, in despair, he offered her ^ve hundred a year upon condition that she would swear by all she held most sacred never to speak to him. again as loug as she lived. You ought to hear the dear old lady talk about him. ^' Poor George ! Such a constant suf- ferer, and yet such a marvellous constitution! The doctors say he may last for many years yet. I wish I were able to help poor Kate more in nursing him ; but with all my other duties, you know," &c., &c. The joke of it is that she doesn't know whether to wish for his death or not ; for he assuredly won't leave her anything in his will, and it isn't absolutely certain that she would manage to get ^ve hundred a year, or the value of it, out of the widow.' Philip's fits of dejection seldom lasted long. The incident of Lady Travers's appearance was quite sufficient to divert his thoughts and to enable him, subsequently, to take his full share in the entertainment of the new arrival. Mrs. Winnington was talkins: to her eldest 248 NO NEW THING. daughter when Hugh entered the drawing-room. ' And how did you leave poor George ? Xot any better ? How terribly trying it is for you ! I wish it were in my power — oh, yes, my dear, I quite luiderstand that he wouldn't like it ; I know what gout is, and how irritable it makes the best of us. Such a charming ball at the Duchess of Retford's the other night ; I half hoped you might have been there. Edith en- joyed herself immensely.' Lady Travers, tall, thin, and pale, with blue eyes half closed, like her mother's, but with none of that lady's grandeur of presence, got up and held out her hand, saying, with a faint smile and a little sigh, '^Yell ; what have you been doing all these years ? ' ' I have been growmg old,' answered Hugh, and then wished he had held his tongue ; for in truth time had been far more merciful to him than to his questioner, and the rejoinder which she made was almost an inevicable one. ' Like all of us. But you at least are re- coo:nisable, which it seems that I am not. I knew you at once, when I drove past you just now ; but you didn't know me.' ' You take no care of yourself whatever, Kate,' struck in Mrs. Winnington. ' A woman who neglects her personal appearance neglects her duty to society. If you go on as you have MK. STANNIFOKTH MAKES FRIEXDS. 249 been doing, you won't be fit to be seen by the time you are forty.' Lady Travers shrugged her shoulders slight!}', and sank back again upon the sofa from which she had risen. She was a faded woman, whose beauty^, once famous, was trace- able only in the perfect moukl of her brow and nose and in the classical ripple of her golden hair. The lips which Hugh remembered so full and red and constantly curved into smiles were thin now and nearly colourless ; the contour of the face was rounded no longer; the chin was sharp, and there were hollows in the cheeks. Huo^h's soft heart was touched by the sight of this melancholy wreck. He seated himself beside the friend of his youth, and began to chat familiarly about bygone days; but he failed to elicit any responsive cheerfulness from her. Perhaps the only privilege that Lady Travers had gained by her elevation in rank was that of not troubling herself to talk when she did not feel inclined; and apparently she did not feel inclined now. At luncheon she only roused herself from her apathy to snub Tom Stanniforth once or twice in a wholly uncalled-for and in- appropriate manner ; insomuch that Hugh's compassion became worn out at last, and he wondered whether she had driven twelve miles from the country-house where she was staying 250 NO NEW THING. with her gouty lord merely m order to act the part of a general kill-joy and to say disagreeable thino:s to the most inoffensive and o-ood-humoured of men. Before she went away, however, he heard from her own lips not only that her visit had had a purpose, but what that purpose was. It was late in the afternoon, and her carriage was waiting for her at the door, when she walked quickly across the lawn to the shady bench upon which he was lounging, and announced that she wanted to speak to him. There was a pink flush upon her cheeks, and her manner was as excited as it had hitherto been passionless. ' Hugh,' she said, ' I believe you might put a stop to this disgraceful business, if you chose to bestir yourself. I am powerless ; and unless you make an effort to save the poor girl, nobody will' 'What on earth are you talking about?' asked Hugh, staring. ' About Edith, of course ; you surely don't mean to pretend that you don't know what is going on. Do you mtend to sit still, with your hands folded, and see her married by force to that man Stanniforth, who is old enough to be her father, and whom she detests?' ' But, my dear Lady Travers, I don't think she does detest him. As far as I can judge, she :mk. staxxifokth makes teiends. 251 likes him very much ; and so does everyone else for that matter. As for his ao-e ' ' As for his age, Lord Travers is old enough to be mv o-randfather. Is that what you were going to say? I sliould have thought one such marriage was enough for the family.' ' It isn't exactly my business, you see.' said Hugh ; • but I am bound to say that I think Stanniforth is a capital fellow, and that his wife has every chance of being a happy woman.' • That is what Margaret keeps on repeating. Margaret doesn't care ; she is wrapped up in that theatrical boy of hers ; and so long as he gets evervthins: that he wants, she thinks the whole world ought to be contented. Besides, she is afraid of my mother, like the rest of us. Mr. Stanniforth may be a very decent sort of man ; I don't say he is not. But if Edith does not love him. she will be miserable with him all the same. I ought to know something about the consequences of a loveless marriage, if anybody does.' This was so undeniable that Hu^^h thouo^ht it wisest to ignore the observation. It also struck him that Lady Travers would have shown better taste if she had kept her domestic misfortunes to herself. ' Well,' he remarked, ' she has only to refuse him. Stanniforth isn't an oo^re, when all is said.' 252 KO NEW THING. ' Only to refuse him! ' echoed Lady Travers scornfully; 'that is so easy and simple, is it not? As if you did not know what we Winningtons are ! AYe are as weak as water, the whole of us, and my mother has always made us do exactly what she pleased. In my case it was not al- together her fault ; I wanted to be a countess ; I thought it would be a fine thing ; and I had my reward. Edith, poor child, is not so ambi- tious. All she wants is to be allowed to marrv the man of lier choice ; and if by any means I can save her from such a life as inine has been, I will do it.' 'The man of her choice? There is such a person, then ? ' ' Never mind about that,' answered Lady Travers, laughing a little. ' Indeed, I don't know myself whether there is or not. She "writes to me sometimes, and from different things that she has said, I fancied that there might be somebody. But that, after all, is not the important matter.' ' Well, I don't know,' said Hugh ; ' I think it is rather important. Because, if she didn't happen to care for anyone else, it seems to me that Tom Stanniforth ' ' Oh, bother Tom Stanniforth ! ' interrupted Lady Travers impatiently. ' I am sick of hear- ing of all his good qualities. I tell you that if MK. STANNIfORTH MAKES FRIENDS. 253 lie were an angel from heaven it would make no difference.' Hugh rubbed his nose in perplexity. ' But what would you have me do?' he asked. ' AVhy do you come to me ? ' ' Because people always do come to you when they are in trouble, and because there is nobody else,' answered Lady Travers con- clusively. ^ You can do a great deal to pre- vent it, if you will only try. You can get Margaret over to her side, for one thing, and that will be so much gained. You might speak to the man himself, too, if necessary; and you are not frightened of my mother, I suppose. I must not stay any longer. I am behind my time as it is, and I shall be made to suffer for it. Now remember, Hugh, I count upon you to do your best. Perhaps I may be able to help a little by-and-by ; but I can't be sure. Good- bye.' And with that she hastened away to her carriage, leaving Colonel Kenyon to sink down upon the bench again, muttering something that was not exactly a blessing upon womankind in general. ' It is time that I made a stand against this kind of thing, you know,' said he to himself. ' If one lot of these good people mean to continue *e£fo;inor me on to defeat the designs of the other lot, a day will certainly come when they will 254: NO NEW THING. fall upon me with one accord, and, after beating me to deatli, will shake hands over my prostrate body. Why am I to be singled out to do every- body's dirty work, I should like to know? Al- ready this morning I have been preaching to one of them, and have got sneered at for my pains ; and now, if you please, I am to interfere between mother and daughter, and, in all probability, to make myself offensive to the one person in the world whom I would cut off my hand sooner than offend. It's out of all reason to expect me to do it. At the same time, if it were in any way possible to out-manoeuvre that old harri- dan ' 'Has Kate been with you all this time?' asked Mrs. Winnington, appearing suddenly from behind a clump of evergreens at his back. ' We were wondering how it was that we did not hear the carriage drive away. What have you been talking about? ' And Hugh, with a guilty air, answered vaguely, ' Oh, about all sorts of things.' 255 CHAPTER XL COLONEL KEXYOX GOES TO CHURCH. The Reverend Ethelbert Lanoiey was one of the many clergymen of the Established Church of Great Britain who serenely defy the law every day, with no fear of aggrieved parishioners and the Court of Arches before their eyes. Mr. Langley's parishioners never dreamt of consider- ing themselves aggrieved, and would perhaps have been rather ungraceful had they so consid- ered themselves. For so many years had he been rector of Longbourne ; for so many years had he devoted himself, body and soul, to the welfare of his flock ; so unwearied ly had he visited the sick, and with so unstinting: a hand had he ministered to the necessities of the poor, that it would have been shabby indeed — so these illogical folks argued — to dispute his right to assume certain positions at certain times in his ovrn church, or to array himself, while in the performance of his sacred duties, in garments which varied in hue with the progress 256 NO NEW THING. of the seasons. A fine broad spirit of toleration prevailed in this rustic parish, where the benefit of possessing a spiritual guide at once well-to-do, open-handed, and a bachelor, was appreciated at its proper value, and where the looking of a gift horse in the mouth was justly held to be an unworthy and foolish action. Toleration, however (as Mr. Swainson, farmer and churchwarden, would often remark) was one thing, and IVigotry was another. He didn't himself see no virtue in turning away from roast mutton of a Friday and blowing of yourself out with jam-tarts and such-like ; but he hoped he knowed his duty to his weaker brethren, and if it made the missus feel better than her neighbours to let alone butcher's meat once a week, why what he said was, let her do it. Vestments agin was innercent kind of things as couldn't do no harm to no one, and incense was a beautiful smell, when once a body got his nose used to the tickling of it ; but drat them daily services ! How was a woman to get through her daily work and see to things like she oughter, if she was to be gadding olF to church every blessed morning, same as if 'twas a Sunday? Nunno! them ways of going on was well enough for quality, as had nothing better to ockipy them ; but farmers' wives had their home dooties to 'tend ter, and if Mrs. Swainson COLONEL KEXYON GOES TO CHURCH. 257 took to neglecting hers, him and parson should fall out, and that was all about it. Probably good Mrs. Swainson Tvas not very eager to attend matins at eight a.m. ; and, truth to tell, the quality, despite the leisure with which they were credited, were scarcely more zealous than she in this matter. For it is evident that church at eight implies rising before seven, and, deeply as Mr. Langley was revered by the ladies of the vicinity, there were few of them who deemed it incumbent upon them to perform such a feat as that for his sake. Hence it was that the daily congregation usually consisted of ]\rrs. Stanniforth, of the village schoolmistress of two or three old women who had an eye to tea and snuff, and of the gardener from the rectory, who rang the bell. The first of these was as regular an attendant as the rector himself. Summer and winter, fair weather and foul, Mrs. Stanniforth was sure to be seen kneeling in her place when the clock struck eight, unless by any chance she happened to be absent from home. She had formed and maintained the habit partly because it had been represented to her in the light of a duty, and partly because she parti- cularly disliked early rising ; for Margaret was a victim to that not uncommon form of relio-ious fervour which finds solace in the wearing of hair shirts. VOL. I. S 258 NO NEW THING. Not many of those who partook of the hospitahty of LoDgbourne suspected that then' hostess had been up and about three hours before she poured out then' coffee for them at break- fast ; but Hugh, whom a ten years' residence in the East had accustomed to ways which are said to ensure health, wealth, and wisdom, had seen her tall figure many a time flitting across the park on misty mornings, and had often longed to follow her. He had been withheld from gratifying this very harmless mclination by a dread of being thought intrusive, as well as by something of the same feeling which leads people to speak in a whisper on entering a church ; but, on the day succeeding that of Lady Travers's visit, he overcame his scruples and set off after Margaret, thinking to himself that the end justified the means. Since he had taken upon him to persuade her of the iniquity of mammon-worshijD, it seemed wisest to attack her at a time when worldly prudence might be presumed to occupy the lowest place in her thoughts. Through the sunny garden he followed in her track, under tbe branches of scented lime-trees, along a narrow footpath, and across the meadows where her feet had passed and had 'left the daisies rosy ; ' and it was characteristic of the man that, as he walked, he thought less of the COLONEL KEXYON GOES TO CHURCH. 259 opportunity of prosecuting his own love affairs than of lending a helping hand to those of a young woman who had not the courage to stand up for herself, and in whom — except in so far as that she was Margaret's sister — he felt no very lively interest. It was not a part of his plan to overtake Margaret before she reached the church door. He slipped in behind her unobserved, and dropped on his knees, as she did, w^hen the tinkling bell ceased, and Mr. Langley, after a few inaudible words of exhortation, proceeded, in a hurried, mumbling voice, with ' Wherefore I pray and beseech you,' &c. The service was soon over — too soon, even, for one of those who took part in it. The peace and gloom of the little, dark building soothed Hugh's senses ; he would fain have lingered within its quiet precincts ; he felt a nervous unwillim^ness to set about the delicate business which he had taken in hand, and to sow the seeds of discord in a community which had hitherto subsisted harmoniously enough. Full well he knew that whoever declared war upon Mrs. Win- nington must reckon with no mean foe ; ^ and what,' he thought, ' if Margaret herself should turn me the cold shoulder ? ' such a calamity appeared by no means beyond the range of calculation. Her face was grave and rather sad, as she 260 NO NEW THING. passed down the aisle ; but it broke out into smiles when she came upon Colonel Ken yon, standing, hat in hand, in the porch. ' You here ! ' she exclaimed. ' Did you come to meet me ? I hope you did, because I want very much to have a talk with you, and some- how or other I never see you alone now.' This was, at all events, a hopeful beginning. Hugh confessed that she had rightly divined the reason of his presence there. ' I came to meet you ; I didn't come to say my prayers,' he acknowledged, laughing. * There was nothing to prevent your doing both,' she rejoined. ' But perhaps the world is too much with you, as it is with Mrs. Prosser, who says she would be obliged to give up her situation if she had to forgive the housemaids their trespasses every morning before breakfast. Once a week, by making a good gulp, the thing may be done ; but to wipe off all scores once in the twenty-four hours would be simply to court anarchy. So Prosser remains in bed.' ' I am willinof to fors^ive because I want to be forgiven,' said Hugh. ' The fact is that I am going to do a little bit of trespassing myself. I haven't trespassed often upon your patience and good-nature during all this long time, have I, Margaret? I haven't interfered unwarrantably, COLONEL KENYON GOES TO CHURCH. 261 or offered my opinion without having been asked for it, even though I have been in a sort of way your guardian.' ' You have always been all that was most kind and considerate, and I don't know what you mean by talking about interference. Surely I need not tell you that you may say anything and everything that you like to me.' ^ Ah, yes : we all allow our friends that privilege until they make use of it. Interference is interference, call it what you will. I know you will think me meddling and officious ; but there's no help for it, I said I would speak to you, and now I've got to do it.' He looked so downcast at the prospect that Margaret war filled with surprise and compunc- tion. ' Why, Hugh,' she exclaimed, ' what a foolish old fellow you are I You used not to be troubled with so many scruples, and indeed there is no necessity for them. I am quite prepared for the scolding which no doubt I deserve. It is about Philip, of course.' Hugh shook his head ; but she either did not see or misunderstood this gesture of dissent. ' And it so happens,' she went on, ' that that is the very subject upon which I want to consult you. You mustn't think that his deciding to give up the Bar is not a great disappointment to me ; but what can I do ? 1 can't push him 262 XO NEW THING. by main force into a profession which he dishkes ; and surely it would not be wise to do so if I could.' * It strikes me that a little coercion would be a very wholesome thing for him,' replied Hugh, thankful for this diversion. ^ As for your not being able to force him, why, of course, you can force him into a profession of some kind. I mean to say you can simply stop the supplies. Are you quite sure that it is the Bar, and not work of any description, that he dislikes ?' ' No,' answered Margaret slowly ; * I am not sure : to you I don't mind saying that I am not sure. Some people feel pain more than others, and I fancy that some people, too, abhor drudgery more than others.' ' Oh, there are drones in every hive.' Margaret continued, without noticing this severe interpolation. ' I have always had that feeling about Philip. He is like the lilies of the held, beautiful but useless. That is not his fault,' she added, turning suddenly upon Hugh, with a slightly defiant ring in her voice. ^ It will be his misfortune, though ; and no small misfortune to a penniless man. If that is the view he takes of himself, I am very sorry for him. You ought not to encourage it, Margaret ; you ought not, indeed. It isn't a COLONEL KENYON GOES TO CHURCH. 263 question of whether an idle life is or is not a miserable thing in itself ; the fact of the matter is that some men can afford to be purely orna- mental, and others can't. Marescalchi should know that he is one of those who can't.' ' He does know it ; but there are so many things that one knows to be true and yet cannot always realise. We all know that we shall die some day ; but we don't behave as if we believed in the possibility of any such thing. When I die,' added Margaret with a sigh, ' poor Philip will be cast adrift upon the world with only a very small fortune to help him through it. That is what troubles me so ; for I haven't been able to save, Hugh, in spite of all my wise resolu- tions. I thought at first that I could easily lay by half my income ; but, as things have turned out, it has been quite the other way, and it is all that I can do to make both ends meet. You did not think I was such a spendthrift, did you?' ^ I know that your money is not spent upon yourself,' said Hugh, with a shade of indignation in his voice. 'It is spent in ways that please myself,' she returned, quietly. ' I can't claim any superiority over the people who pay thousands a year to their dressmakers, because I don't happen to care about dresses. Circumstances have obliged 264 NO NEW THING. me to find my pleasure in the pleasure of others, and that is how my money goes. It sounds unselfish ; but it is not so really ; and the proof is that, if I had thought a little more about Philip's happiness years ago, I should not have accustomed him to a luxurious stvle of livino:. Now it has come to this, that I may die any day, and leave him in what to him would seem almost like absolute want.' This affecting prospect failed to touch Hugh's feelings ; but he was greatly alarmed at the suggestion of Margaret's sudden de- cease. 'What makes you say that?' he asked quickly. ' Is anything the matter ? You are not looking at all well.' ' I never was better in my life,' she answered, laughing ; ' but one can't tell what may happen. My lungs are not all right, as you know; and we are a consumptive family ; and the insurance ofiices refuse to have anything to do with me, which is a great bore. In short ' ' In short, Marescalchi will have to work for his living, and give up lazy habits. And a very good thing too.' ' But really, Hugh, he is not laz}^ ; he doesn't mind putting himself to any amount of trouble about theatricals, for instance, or anything in which he is interested. What I doubt is his COLONEL KEXYOX GOES TO CHUKCH. 265 power of applying himself to work in which he is not interested. I often think that he is best suited for some kind of artistic career — some- thing independent, something exciting, some- thing that might bring quick successes.' ' Then he had better put on spangled tights, and tumble in the ring. After all, I believe the stage is more in his line than anything else,' said Hugh, who was growing a little weary of discussing Philip's aptitudes, and who was far from suspecting how nearly his notions corre- sponded with that young gentleman's own upon this point. ' Don't be ill-natured. Hugh,' said Margaret; and he apologised at once. ' I didn't mean to be ill-natured ; I am sure you know that. It slipped out. My bark is worse than my bite.' In truth Colonel Kenvon believed that he was capable of saying extremely sharp things upon occasion, and frequently took himself to task at nio'ht for havino: uttered some such withering sarcasm as the above. The two friends had left the church far behind them in the course of their conference, and were now walking across the short grass of the park, which the sun had already dried. The time seemed to have come for Lady Travers's envoy to dischara'e himself of his mission ; and he was 266 NO NEW THING. knittino' his brows and cudo'ellino; his brains in the effort to find some artful method of leading up to the subject when Margaret took up the conversation with — ^ Now I am going to inflict another of my troubles upon you. You remember what I told you, the day you arrived, about Tom Stanniforth and Edith?' ' Ah ! ' sighed Hugh, drawing a long breath of relief and satisfaction. She glanced at him interrogatively. ' Have you heard anything? Did Tom speak to you about it ? ' ' No, but Lady Travers did. She took me into her confidence yesterday afternoon, before she went away.' ' Did she ? ' exclaimed Margaret, in a tone of some vexation ; ' I wonder what made her do that.' ' I can't think. But she did ; and, to tell you the truth, I wish she hadn't. I told her it was none of my business, and all that ; but she had got it into her head that I could do what she couldn't ; and so — there it was. She said I might get you over to Edith's side perhaps. I don't know why she should have imagined so; but ' ^ Edith's side ! ' cried Margaret ; ' but I am on Edith's side ; and so, of course, is my mother, COLONEL IvENYOX GOES TO CHURCH. 267 if Kate would only see it. Slie made us very unhappy yesterday by the things she said. Is it likely that my mother would wish for anything that would make her daughter miserable ? ' Hugh was eloquently silent. * You don't understand my mother,' Margaret resumed, after waiting in vain for a reply. ' Be- cause she is anxious that Edith should marry well, you think her mercenary and scheming ; and yet, when a father tries to put his son in the way of becoming a rich man, you say he is only doing his duty. To a woman there is but one means open of obtaining riches, and every one allows that riches are desirable in them- selves.' ' You used not to think so.' ' Nor do I now — for myself ; but I am ex- ceptional. Generally speaking, parents wish their children to be spared the pinch of poverty; and if any woman told me that she would not prefer a rich son-in-law to a poor one, I shouldn't believe her. It seems to me that there can be no possible harm in giving a girl the chance of marrying a man who is not only rich but kind and good.' ' I quite agree with you ; but you wouldn't have the girl marry a man because he was rich, and kind, and good, if she didn't love him.' ' No ; only I think those would be very good 268 NO NEW THING. reasons for loving him ; and I am quite sure that it would be an excellent thing for Edith if she could care for Tom Stanniforth. He evi- dently admires her, and, to the best of my be- lief, she likes him. At all events, there is this to be said, that she does not like anybody else better.' Hugh began to laugh. 'None so blind as those who won't see,' he remarked. ' Why, my dear Margaret, where have your eyes been, and what do you think is likely to happen when boys and girls are together all day long? I don't pretend to be specially quick- sighted in such matters ; but even I could have told you and Mrs. Winnington that there was some risk in providing Edith with a good-looking young man for a constant companion.' Margaret stood still, and clasped her hands nervously. ' Oh ! what do you mean ?' she exclaimed. ' Surely it isn't Philip ! ' ' No, no, it isn't Philippe le Bel, Philip the Eternal and the Inevitable — it isn't Philip this time. There, I beg your pardon ; but really, you know, Philip is not the only good-looking young man in the world. There's no accounting for tastes ; and, for my own part, I confess that I think Walter Brune the handsomer of the two.' ' Walter Brune ! ' repeated Margaret, in- COLONEL KENYOX GOES TO CHURCH. 269 credulously ; ' he is only a boy. Walter cannot be thinking of marrying ; he has really no pros- pects whatever, poor fellow. Mr. Brune is not at all well off, as I daresay you know ; and he was telling me, the other day, that he very much regretted now that he had not brought Walter up for some profession. It has always been a sort of tradition with them that the eldest son should do nothing, and the idea was that Walter should remain at home and occupy himself with farming until, in due course, he succeeded his father as owner of Broom Leas ; but it seems that of late years the farm has not even paid its way, and, with all that family to be provided for, you may imagine what chance there is of poor Walter's being able to support a wife. I feel sure that you must be mistaken about him.' ' I may be — only somehow I don't think I am. Young people usually fall in love first, and turn their attention to ways and means afterwards. It is a pity that it should be so ; but we must take human nature as we find it.' Colonel Kenyon spoke a little drily ; for he was disappointed at finding that Margaret viewed this incipient romance from so commonplace and conventional a standpoint. It would have been more like her, and more womanly, he thought, to have at once espoused the cause of the needy lover j and, had she done so, he would have been 270 NO NEW THING. quite prepared to argue upon the other side, to expatiate upon the folly of long engagements, and to point out how impracticable it was to live upon love. As she said nothing, but walked on with her eyes fixed upon the ground, he felt bound to continue in the same strain as he had begun. ' Supposing that I am right in my conjecture, and that Mrs. Winnington discovers a hitch in her programme, I hope she vrill remember that she has only herself to thank for it.' Margaret shook her head sorrowfully. ' No,' she said ; ' it is my fault. If there is anything between Walter and Edith it is my stupidity that has brought it about. To you it must seem as if my stupidity had been very great indeed ; but you don't know how difficult it is to realise that a few years convert children into men and women. Philip is difi*erent ; he has always been old for his age, and he has seen so much of the world. But Walter is a big schoolboy in all his habits still. It was so much a matter of course that he should be continually in and out of the house that it never occurred to me to make any change when Edith and my mother came to live with me, or to suppose that he would think of Edith, or she of him, in that way. I knew it was essential that she should marry money, and I always expected to hear that some one had COLONEL KENYON GOES TO CHURCH. 271 been found for her in London. I had my own hopes about PhiHp ; I know — or, at least, I think I know — who will be his wife some day ; and Walter — well, I suppose I forgot that, as you say, people will fall in love, whether they can afford to marry or not. I am the one who is to blame.' ^ That is to say that you are the one who will be blamed — which is not quite the same thing,' remarked Hugh. ' Oh, as far as that goes, I shall never cease to blame myself. Nothing can come of this attachment, you know, if it exists — nothing good, that is ; nothing but tears and disappoint- ments, and perhaps quarrels. Even supposing, for the sake of argument, that my mother could be brought to consent to an engagement, Mr. Brune never would.' ' Well, I don't know about that. You seem to think that he will be willing enough to let his daughter engage herself to a young gentleman with extravagant tastes, no money, and no career. My own impression is that when once Mrs. Winnington's opposition is broken down the battle will be as good as won.' ' Do you really wish to make a battle of it, then ? and are you, of all men, going to proclaim yourself the champion of two silly lovers ? ' asked Margaret, laughing a little. ' I should 272 NO NEW THING. have thought lovers were the last people in the world to arouse your sympathy.' At this Hugh winced slightly, and probably she saw that her words had hurt him, for she made haste to add, ' I know you sympathise with everybody who is in tribulation, though ; you would like to make the whole human race happy, if you could. That is the difference be- tween you and me ; you serve others without thinking about yourself, while I do the same, or make a feeble effort at doing it, because it pleases myself But, Hugh, there would be no kindness in showing sympathy — active sympathy I mean — with these two. Just think of it. The utmost that they could hope for would be a vague prospect of being married some day ; and ' some day ' could only mean after Mr. Brune's death — nothmg else that I know of could put them into possession of a sufficient income. Don't you see what the end of it would be sure to be ? After a few years it would all be broken off ; and though that might not be an irreparable mis- fortune to Walter, I am afraid it might very easily be so to Edith. In such cases it is always the woman who suffers.' ' Ah ! ' said Hugh ; ' it's a crooked business, look at it which way you will.' 'Every business that I meddle with goes crooked ! ' cried Margaret, with a sudden burst of despondency. ' I don't know liow or why it is ; but so it is. I suppose I must deserve to fail, or I should hardly fail as invariably as I do.' ' Oh, but you must not reproach yourself so far as this afiair is concerned/ said Husrh, all his inclination towards sternness melting away at the sight of her distress. ^ After all, we know nothing. Lady Travers and I may have been too hasty in jumping to conclusions. Anyhow, you have done the best that you could do for the girl; you have given her a capital chance of establishing herself, and if she is so perverse as to like the poor man better than the rich one. it is no fault of yours.' ' I ought not to have allowed her the chance of liking the poor one,' Margaret sighed. ' How everything comes roimd to a question of money ! I used to think that the one o:reat blessincr of beino^ rich would be that one would not need to trouble one's self with that detestable subject ; but somehow it seems that there is no escape from it. My money has never done any good to me, and sometimes I am afraid that it has done no good to other people either.' ' You wanted to get rid of it once,' Hugh remarked, with a fliint smile. ' So I do still ; I have not chano-ed. And, indeed, I do get rid of it,' she added, glancing at her companion with a half- deprecatory laugh; VOL. I. T 274 NO NEW THING. ' only I am not sure that anybody is the better off. The older I grow the more plainly I see that wealth is the source of all evil. You told me long ago that it would at least give me independence ; but it has not done anything of the kind. Some people, you know, are not fit to be independent ; and evidently I am one of them. I want somebody to order me about, and to tell me when I make a fool of myself.' ' You want somebody to take care of you and protect you, perhaps,' said Hugh, with a slight tremor in his voice. ^ That is a prettier way of saying the same thing. However, no one seems inclined to undertake the task, except Mr. Langley; and Mr. Langley, unfortunately, won't do. At one time I thought I would try it ; but when I found that he would be satisfied with nothing short of unconditional submission, I had to beat a hasty retreat, and I don't think he has ever quite forgiven me. A director is a comfort in some ways; but then he must not be an absolute tyrant.' /Ah! I should not be so exacting,' mur- anured Hugh. She did not in the least guess his meaning ; T^ut, seeing how serious he looked, it occurred to her that he might fancy himself slighted by that bygone craving for priestly guidance. COLONEL KEXYOX GOES TO CHURCH. 275 * I don't mean to say that I ever tliought of consulting Mr. Langley as a friend or a man of the world/ she explained. ' You know that you are my one and only friend and adviser. But one is not obliged to take advice, you see; and when it is good advice one very seldom does take it. "What I want, in order to keep me from doing foolish things with my eyes open, is authority ; and if I could have brought myself to believe in Mr. Langley's claims to obedience, I daresay I should have been preserved from the commission of many injudicious actions ; but he tells me I have no right understanding of the apostolic succession. The upshot of it is that I must go bungling on in my own way.' Hugh was not listening to her. His sober brain was in a whirl ; he hardly knew how much he had said or implied. Accident — a sudden feeling of great compassion, an inward revolt against the falseness of his position — had led him to the very verge of the leap at which he had been craning for so long, and now he had lost his head a little, as timid riders will in such situations. He might have chosen his time and place ill ; calamity might be waiting with grinning jaws to swallow him up on the other side ; but the control of events had slipped out 'of his grasp, and the only thing clear to him was that jump he must. His com- T 2 276 KO NEW THIXG. panion and he had crossed the park, and had reached a gate which separated it from the garden. He had stepped forward to let her through ; but, instead of doing so, he wheeled round abruptly, and faced her. ' Margaret,' he began, in an odd, hurried voice, ' I have something to say to you, some- thing that I have been wanting to say any time these ten years. Ah! it is more than that — it is a great deal more than ten years since I first loved you. I don't know whether this is any news to you; but you need not give me an answer now. You can think it over. You won't decide in a minute, when you remember that it is all my life, past and future, that is standing up for judgment. Oh, I don't expect you to be in love with me — an old fellow like me ! I am not such an ass as that. And yet I am sure that I could make you happy. If I were not sure of that, I should never have dared to speak. I am asking you to give up a great deal ; but wealth is not what you care for, and I have saved a little — we should not be what is called exactly poor. And something I can give you : I can give you a home, and rest from all the worries that have troubled you, and — and a heart — a heart which ' He pulled up just in time to save himself from floundering into absolute bathos. Hugh COLONEL KEXYOX GOES TO CHUllCIL 277 had not the gift of unpremeditated eloquence. He had at least declared himself in a manner which could not be misunderstood, and in the eagerness of the moment the fashion of his declaration seemed a matter of minor impor tance. It is not until darkness has fallen, and we have our pillow for our confidant, that we recall the idiotic speeches of the day with groanings that cannot be uttered. As for Colonel Kenyon, his part in this scene might have been more impressive, but would assuredly not have been more successful, if he had re- hearsed it for weeks beforehand. His heart sank when he glanced at Margaret's face ; for he read there not only astonishment and pain, but something more, which looked terribly like disgust. ' I never would have believed this of you/ she said in a low voice. ' Will you let me pass, please? ' Hugh started back, and threw open the gate. He had failed, and his failure did not surprise him ; but he was not going to be spoken to as though he had done something to be ashamed of. Therefore, he said, with a o^reat show of determination, " You will oive me an answer, Maro-aret. It shall be