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 I L161— O-1096
 
 ME. WYNYARD'S WARD 
 
 HOLME LEE, 
 
 AUTHOR OF '' SYLVAN HOLT's DAUGHTER," '' ANNTS 
 
 warleigh's fortunes," etc. etc. 
 
 L\ TWO VOLUMES. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 TD C 
 
 1867. 
 
 SMITH, ELDER AND CO., C5, CORNPIILL,
 
 [ The Biyht of Tranalation is reserved.']
 
 8£3 
 
 CONTENTS OF VOL, I. 
 
 p A ir r I . 
 
 CHAP. PAGE 
 
 I. Mistletoe and Holly-berries 3 
 
 n. Eastwold House in Decay * 35 
 
 III. Fenelope at Mayfield 67 
 
 IV. A Party at Rood Grange 97 
 
 V. An Uninvited Guest 118 
 
 VI. A Thorn and Flower Piece 130 
 
 VII. Round about Rood Abbey 157 
 
 VIII. Disappointment 185 
 
 IX. About Rings 202 
 
 X. Dr. Grey begins to see his Duty 217 
 
 XI. A Visitor at Rood 225 
 
 XII. A Farewell 246 
 
 PART II. 
 
 I. Pennie has a Glijipse of the World 267 
 
 II. Eastward Ho I 306
 
 Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2010 with funding from 
 
 University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/mrwynyardsward01leeh
 
 MR. Wl-XYAED'S WAED. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 MK. WYNYARD'S AVARD. 
 
 MISTLETOE AND HOLLY-BERRIES. 
 
 Whenever the Wynyards indulged in a sentimental 
 retrospect during the period of their adversity, they 
 always dated the beginning of the end from that 
 merry Christmas which they spent at Brackenfield 
 just before their Aunt Millicent was married. Life 
 at Eastwold was narrow and monotonous ; but they 
 were young then, and the advancing shadow had not 
 yet grown palpable enough to eclipse their natural 
 sunshine. " Let all the children come," wrote dear 
 old grandmamma Hutton ; and they all went — 
 Francis, Anna, Geoffrey, Maurice, Lois, and Penelope 
 Croft, their father's ward. 
 
 1—2
 
 4 MK. WYNYARD'S WARD. 
 
 Tliey often thouglit afterwards how selfish they 
 had been, how craving of a httle pleasure. The 
 question of expense, debated with grave animation 
 upstairs and down, and other questions, less prosaic 
 but not more serious, touched them scarcely at all. 
 Some experience and a vast deal of imagination had 
 exalted grandpapa's house into a place of paradisaical 
 delights, in contrast with which home appeared a 
 dreary, desolate waste where dulness brooded in 
 season and out of season. " Let us go, do let us 
 go !" was their cry, morning, noon, and night, and 
 they heard nothing pathetic in nurse's ironical 
 rejoinder : " Ay, go, go ; leave us. Leave father 
 and mother to keep Christmas alone. Go your 
 ways, an' be happy. You're like young bears — you've 
 got all your troubles before you." 
 
 On the day of their departure, Eastwold was 
 awake and up early, and the noise of children's feet 
 and voices, to and fro the house in ecstasy, never 
 ceased until they were warmly packed into the old 
 yellow chariot, and ready for a start. Papa and 
 mamma waited on the steps to see them off, and as 
 the lank posters trotted down the avenue, the sun
 
 MISTLETOE AND HOLLY-BERRIES. 5 
 
 S'lione upon a bunch of rosy faces pressed to tlie 
 window, wagging and shouting joyous good-byes 
 until they were out of sight. No sense of uneasiness 
 smote any of them, even at that last moment, except 
 Penelope, who had chosen to ensconce herself all 
 alone in the rumble. She was a queer little sensitive 
 creature, pathetically ugly, and older by a year or two 
 than any of her guardian's family. Her short nose 
 reddened, and a few tears winked furtively in her large 
 brown eyes, but before they had gone a mile on the 
 road, the impression of pain she had caught from 
 those figures standing on the threshold forsaken, 
 yielded to the consolation of leafless branches, clear 
 traced against the pale blue sky, and to the tenderness 
 of frostwork on reed and fern under the glittering 
 hedges. It recurred now and then throughout the 
 journey, like the sad refrain of an old ballad, but the 
 story-part between the echoes was romantic and 
 fanciful, and that mysterious undertone haunted her 
 to no ill-purpose. 
 
 Over hill and dale, over moor and windy scaur for 
 two and twenty miles rattled the happy children, 
 laughing, chattering, quarrelling like a nest of pies ;
 
 6 MK. WYNYARD'S WARD. 
 
 and when the sun began to sink behind the sombre 
 Brackenwood, they caught a glimpse of grandpapa's 
 chimneys amongst the cedars. Ten minutes after, 
 they were all being kissed and cuddled and danced 
 up and down in the great hall, with no flaw" in their 
 welcome, save a low- spoken regret from grand- 
 mamma that they had not brought her *' Mary " wdth 
 them, and " poor papa." 
 
 They talked about that visit to Brackenfield for 
 long and long after — it was a bit of such genuine 
 good cheer. A sketch that Francis made from the 
 garden, went with them in all their subsequent 
 wanderings. It was the merest scratch, but they 
 knew it. Some of the windows were indicated only 
 by a single stroke, others were omitted altogether, 
 none made any effectual pretence at seeming what 
 they really w^ere — heavily mullioned, and with little 
 leaded hexagonal panes, emblazoned in the topmost 
 compartments with the armorial bearings of all the 
 family connexions for a score of generations back. It 
 was an ancient house, but there were not the gaps in 
 the waUs that occurred in Francis's handiwork ; neither
 
 MISTLETOE AND HOLLY-BERRIES. 7 
 
 were the trees that overgrew it, such flourishes of 
 exotic foliage, hut massive firs and cedars, and dark 
 ranks of yews, old almost as the hills for which one 
 sinuous line in the background had to stand. An 
 out-of-the-world place it was, and, in time of snow, 
 cut ofl' inexorably from neighbours ; but, filled mth 
 those who were kind as well as kin, it was as cheerful 
 a house as heart could desire to spend a Christmas 
 season in. 
 
 First, there was Squire Hutton himself — gouty, 
 good-humoured, and generous ; then there was the 
 dame, comely and mirthful at sixty as at sixteen ; 
 there was the eldest son John, with his wife Theodora, 
 and their leash of riotous boys ; there was Ellen and 
 Grace, -uith their rival girl-babies and respective 
 husbands, Captain Blake and Sir Andrew Goodwin ; 
 there was old Uncle Christopher who had seen the 
 world, and lived now at free-quarters, a pensioner in 
 the house where he was born ; there was Tom Mar- 
 tineau, a sort of cousin, who had travelled east and 
 travelled west from youth to grey hairs, and alw^ays 
 stayed his weary feet at Brackenfield between his 
 wandering journeys ; and lastly there was Millicent,
 
 8 MR. WYNYARD'S WAED. 
 
 the youngest daiigiiter, very fair in her unwedcled 
 summer beauty, ^^dth a love-story to point a moral for 
 the behoof of any fantastical maiden tempted to throw 
 happiness away in a fit of caprice or pride, as she had 
 done. 
 
 At eighteen, Millicent had been a lovely, spoilt 
 girl, but rich in the charm that wins love. And 
 many loved her — most of all Michael Forester, the 
 3'ounger son of Sir Gilbert Forester, her father's best 
 .friend and nearest neighbour, and after a breezy 
 wooing they became engaged. Michael was frank, 
 free and easy ; it was a triumph for him to have won 
 her, but having won her, he rested and was thankful. 
 Perhaps he trusted her too well, who was by nature 
 exacting ; for his cheerful assurance she construed, 
 first, into indifterence, and then into neglect. Pride 
 sealed her lips, but every change it made her heart 
 ice to think of she assumed as come. When the 
 time drew near for the fulfilment of her promise, she 
 broke it. Michael was mortified beyond expression, 
 and all the world of their acquaintance declared that 
 Millicent Hutton had behaved extremely ill. Her 
 punishment was not light. Stings of love, shame,
 
 y/ MISTLETOE AND HOLLY-BERRIES. 9 
 
 pride, regret, each in turn pierced her to the quick. 
 Michael acquiesced in her decision, and went his way ; 
 north, south — what was it to her ? Yet wherever he 
 went, he carried her heart with him, and that perhaps 
 everybody knew but himself. 
 
 The lapse of time had brought many clmnges in 
 and about Brackenfield since then. Mary, the eldest 
 daughter, married eight years before to Mr. Wynyard 
 of Eastwold, had entered on a course of suffering 
 such as was but very imperfectly understood in her 
 father's house. John had married, not ambitiously, 
 but much to his liking ; and the only other son had 
 laid down his life in India. Helen and Grace had 
 gone to homes of their own, and Millicent alone was 
 left of all their children with the Squire and the 
 dame. At the Grange old Sir Gilbert Forester had 
 died, and another Sir Gilbert reigned in his stead, but 
 Michael never came back. Tom Martineau met him 
 once in a remote callage of Algeria, where they joined 
 in a hon hunt with a vagrant Scotch laird, and after- 
 wards parted and went their several ways, but other 
 tidings Millicent had none. 
 
 As her fitful pride wore down, her character
 
 10 MR. WYNYARD'S WARD, 
 
 ripened to a rich maturity. To have taken her from 
 Brackenfield now, would have been to take away its 
 sunshine, and the Squire looked with discouragement 
 on any amorous swain who was tempted to cast a hope 
 towards her. Uncle Christopher quizzed her as a 
 paradox •of constancy, and said often that she was 
 saving up for Michael Forester yet ; but, ah, well-a- 
 day, just three years after she had sent him from 
 her, his letters home ceased. From that time till 
 now — an interval of seven years — rumour had brought 
 no news of him. Sir Gilbert Forester had entered 
 into possession of his brother's lands, and had put up 
 in the chancel of Brackenfield Church, a marble shield 
 inscribed to his memory. He was counted amongst 
 the dead, but all else was mystery ; and her friends 
 spoke low before Millicent, when they speculated 
 on how he had probably perished in some far-away 
 torrid wild — unwept, unpitied, by strangers tended 
 and buried. 
 
 It was not so in reality, and as his return home 
 took place during the memorable visit of the East- 
 wold children to grandpapa's house, and made a 
 permanently happy and hopeful impression on Mr.
 
 MISTLETOE AND HOLLY-BERRIES. 11 
 
 Wynyard's ward, the joyous s-tory shall be set forth 
 as a prelude to her own longer and more varied 
 chronicle. 
 
 When the children and gi*andchildren were at 
 Brackenfield for Christmas, the great hall was the 
 favourite gathering-place of the family, and the 
 fittest place, with its portraits in every panel, and its 
 fires of Yule-logs blazing at either end. On Christmas 
 Eve, in the afternoon, they were all there, — Francis, 
 Geofi'rey and Maurice, Philip, Jimmy and Jack, Anna 
 and Lois, tiny Poppie and toddling Nell — six boys 
 under fifteen, and four girls under twelve. Oh, 
 Babel ! oh, glorious confusion ! and their elders all 
 enjoying it. In the midst of the floor was a heap 
 of green boughs, amongst which the merry little 
 folks were culling the richest in scarlet berries, and 
 handing them up to Robin, the gardener, who was 
 decking the walls. The work went on until twilight, 
 when it was nearly done, and there arose a question 
 about hanging up the mistletoe ; but behold, when 
 the young ones looked out for the mistletoe, there 
 was none to be found. No mistletoe ? Christmas
 
 12 MR. WYNYARD'S WARD. 
 
 Eve, and no mistletoe ! By all means, let Robin 
 go and cut some before tlie dark falls ! 
 
 Eobin protested that be had put more than ^ 
 enough into the cart, and unless the kitchen wenches 
 had stolen it, there it must be still ; so the big boys 
 rushed away through intricate passages to the back- 
 door, Aunt Millicent and Penelope Croft following 
 with Lois, a little grace of a girl who was in im- 
 mense excitement about the absent mistletoe. There 
 they found the cart waiting, with a smoky lantern 
 dangling at the shaft, and a stiff- set lad, at the 
 horse's head, thrashing himself with long, dail-like 
 arms to keep up his vital heat. There was a mndy 
 gloom on that north quarter of the house, and the girls 
 stayed within the porch while gardener's Jack threw out 
 to the boys the last green branches of yew and holly. 
 
 ''Here it is, here's mistletoe!" cried Francis, 
 and dashed off with all the other youngsters pur- 
 suing. But Millicent and Penelope stood transfixed 
 at the apparition of a frozen white face which peered 
 up at them from the darkness beyond the cart — 
 such a face as Pennie had never seen either in the 
 body or out of the body in her short life before.
 
 MISTLETOE AXD HOLLY-BERRIES. 13 
 
 It seemed to gaze at them with unseeing, stony 
 eyes, and then to turn and turn away, and recede 
 into the purple gloom, but -^ith never a sound of 
 footstep or rustle of raiment, and so was lost in the 
 blackness of the thick-clipt yews by the wall. Milli- 
 cent's hand closed on Pennie's with a clutch that 
 almost made her cry out for pain, and drawing her 
 breath with a sob she whispered : ''It was Michael 
 Forester's face ! " Pennie did not exactly believe in 
 ghosts, but she was mortally afraid of them, and 
 her heart beat loud and thick as they hurried through 
 the dark passages back to the ruddy fire-shine of 
 the hall. Their rushing entrance was greeted by a 
 general outcry. 
 
 " ^Tiat's amiss? You look as if you had seen 
 a ghost," said Captain Blake, Helen's sailor-spouse. 
 '•'If vou have a varn to tell us, now's the witchinor 
 time o' night. Come, Quixote, let us hear it." 
 
 " ^Ve have no yarn," said Pennie, answering 
 ^"ith teeth a-chatter to one of the many names her 
 grotesque Httle phiz had earned her. '' But it is 
 a night bitter enough to bleach the red out of even 
 your face, sir."
 
 14 MR. WYNYARD'S ward. 
 
 '' That's right, Pennie, give it him. He grows 
 more Hke beet-root every day," cried the Squire, and 
 made room for her in the midst of the circle. Robin the 
 gardener observed that there would be a fall of snow 
 before morning. Everybody echoed his prediction, 
 and said it was lucky it had held off over Christmas 
 Eve, or else Brackenfield must have lacked many 
 guests, now doubtless set off upon their dark and 
 T\indy way to join in the revels with which Squire 
 Hutton always kept that festival. 
 
 At half-past five rang the dressing-bell, and away 
 trooped young and old to make themselves gay for 
 the dance that was to follow the dinner. Penelope 
 was one of Millicent's most enthusiastic admirers, 
 and her adoration pleased even while it amused the 
 woman of sorrowful experiences. They had agreed 
 to occupy one room, and this arrangement was now 
 felt to be very consolatoiy. Millicent looked little in 
 the mood for Christmas fun, and Pennie, to cheer her, 
 vented a few orthodox reflections on the tricks of fancy. 
 
 "Ever since Michael Forester ceased to wiite 
 home, I have believed him dead," was Millicent's 
 reply. " I have felt, too, that if he came to me.
 
 MISTLETOE AND HOLLY-BERRIES. 15 
 
 I should not fear him." Not fear him! Yet she 
 clung close to Pennie as they went downstairs to the 
 guests who were already assembling. 
 
 Throughout the dinner the dismal shadow haunted 
 Pennie's mind. Mirth, laughter, turkey, plum pud- 
 ding, were all thro^Ti away upon her. Uncle Chris- 
 topher rallied her in vain. Was she in love ? Was 
 she in debt, or any other difficulty? She had not 
 a single retort left in her quiver, and Millicent was 
 in the same silent case. It was easier in the hall 
 afterwards. There, there were so many, the children 
 were so tumultuous, that a seceder or two from 
 the universal din was not missed. When the first 
 country-dance was set with thirty couples, they were 
 left out, and ensconced themselves in one of the 
 deep window secesses. It was an old custom at 
 Brackenfield, when any merrymaking was going on, 
 to leave the curtains undrawn, that the village-folk 
 might look in at the dancing. They had availed them- 
 selves of the chilly privilege on this occasion, and 
 when the two girls entered the recess, several rustic 
 visages drew back, and retreated to another window, 
 where there were no sitters-out to intercept their \dew.
 
 16 
 
 For ever so long Millicent and Pennie watched 
 tlie brisk evolutions of the maze ; admiring how the 
 Squire went down the figure, as actively as if he 
 were twenty, with sweet little granddaughter Lois, 
 and how his dear dame threaded the needle with 
 frisky Phil, her eldest son's eldest hope. This was 
 the children's dance — rare fun, too ; and when it 
 was done, they all kissed their partners under the 
 mistletoe, and were then hustled off to supper of 
 custard and cake, and so to bed; while the an- 
 cients, having gallantly accomplished an annual 
 duty, were permitted to retire to whist, and the 
 multitude, who were children grown-up, kept the 
 night alive with reels, cotillons, and more formal 
 quadrilles. 
 
 What a pretty, happy picture it was ! The 
 panelled walls blazing with light ; the solemn 
 ancestry looking down from their garlanded frames, 
 dignified, demure, and prim — as if there were no 
 country-dances in their day, no Hunt the Slipper, 
 or Ladies' Toilet, or Kiss-in-the-ring, or cakes and 
 ale at Christmas-time, when they were lads and 
 lasses. Ah, the old generation shows wonderfully
 
 MISTLETOE AND HOLLY-BEREIES. 17 
 
 wise when it lives only in effigy ! Those airy figures 
 that flitted in gossamer to and fro in the shining 
 hall are sober enough now, and their agile partners 
 are considerably heavier on the wing. But they 
 were merry under the mistletoe that Christmas 
 night, and if they have given way to another gene- 
 ration, turn-about is but fair play — us to-day, you 
 to-morrow, all of us very soon yesterday ! 
 
 Millicent and Penelope bore their part in the 
 dance again and again ; but just before supper they 
 found themselves once more in the window^ recess. 
 They talked a little, and then looked out into the 
 night, to see if it had kept its promise of snow, 
 when again that spectral visage met them, eyes to 
 eyes. For an instant only— they saw it, and it 
 was gone ! They both started away to the hearth, 
 which Pennie left no more until she went in to supper. 
 Her escort was Tom Martineau, who said, inquisi- 
 tively, " There is something up between you and 
 Milly— what is it ? " 
 
 Pennie answered : " Nothing." 
 
 " Greeting over spilt milk — ^just like women," 
 
 rejoined he. ^ 
 
 VOL. I. ^ ^ 2
 
 18 MR. WYN yard's WARD. 
 
 Millicent sat oi^posite to tliem, her face as white 
 as her white dress, hut talking nervously fast, and 
 laughing far more than was her wont, under the 
 surprised observation of others besides Tom Mar- 
 tineau. 
 
 It seemed as if the great Christmas pasty and 
 the boar's head never would be cut up and eaten ; 
 as if the toasts and speeches never would be done. 
 But there is an end to everything under the moon 
 as well as under the sun, and that famous supper 
 came to a close at last, and with it the night's 
 chequered festivities. 
 
 Millicent and Pennie were amongst the earliest 
 to beat a retreat to their room. For an hour they sat 
 talking by the fire ; but as soon as they got into bed 
 Pennie fell into the sleep of healthful weariness. 
 She had not slept long, however, before she was re- 
 awakened by the sound of voices on the terrace under 
 the window, and then the stilly darkness of the 
 Christmas morning was broken by a loud- sung carol. 
 Both she and Millicent rose to peep out at the waits, 
 who stood in a ring on the lawn. Snow was falling, 
 and the stable lantern they carried gave a light so
 
 MISTLETOE AND HOLLY-BERRIES. 19 
 
 dim, that to Pennie not a face was discernible. But 
 when they had watched about a minute, Millicent 
 dropped the curtain with a shuddering cry that 
 Michael Forester was amongst the singers. 
 
 The night got over somehow — Pennie even slept 
 — but when they made their appearance at breakfast, 
 and everybody was \\dshing everybody else a happy 
 Christmas, Millicent's pale cheek and nervous eye 
 could not escape anxious remark from the Dame ; 
 but as she persisted that nothing ailed her, save the 
 drowsy consequences of a disturbed night, she was 
 let alone. Only Uncle Christopher quizzed her a 
 little, and prophesied that Bracken field would hear of 
 something to astonish it by-and-by, — a new lover 
 perhape — who could tell? During the prayers in 
 church, he regarded her too with a mischievous 
 intelligence. Pennie walked home with him after 
 service, in stern, silent displeasure, and- was not 
 propitiated when he bade her smoothe down her 
 prickles for a little fretful porcupine. She would 
 have liked to consult him about the ghost, but there 
 was no encouragement in his rallying tone to enter 
 on so serious a theme. 
 
 2-2
 
 20 MR. WYNYARD'S ward. 
 
 Round the blazing Yule-logs, after dinner, some- 
 body proposed stories ; and nerve-thrilling legends, 
 new and old, were recounted until Pennie's turn 
 came, and found her dumb. Tom Martineau asked 
 if she had no spiritual reminiscences to narrate, 
 when Uncle Christopher answered for her : " Not 
 she, the little infidel, she believes in nothing ! " on 
 which she looked guilty, and quavered out. No, she 
 did not — expecting the phantom-face to confront her 
 v»-ith the wicked equivocation on her lips. She 
 wished bed-time were twenty years ofi", yet when it 
 came to good-night, Uncle Christopher, as if he 
 uncannily divined her thoughts, whispered: *' Don't 
 be afraid, Pennie, the ghost is shut up in the 
 kitchen-clock, and won't molest you if j'ou say your 
 prayers." He had some equally irreverent speech to 
 make to Millicent, who had a sad sleepless night of 
 it. Pennie dropped her head on the pillow, and 
 knew nothing more till morning, when she woke so 
 hale and sprightly that she was half in a mind to 
 deride the \-ision, while Millicent's wearied nerves 
 were more than ever sensitive to impressions of pain 
 and terror.
 
 MISTLETOE AND HOLLY-BERRIES. 21 
 
 There was a beautiful walk in summer down one 
 of the rides through the wood which skirted the 
 Forester estates, but in winter, it was commonly 
 avoided as damp and dismal. After luncheon, 
 however, when Millicent invited Pennie to turn 
 out with her, she proposed going in that direction. 
 Pennie consented, but not cheerfully. The open 
 expanse of the park would have been pleasanter, — 
 looking forward to the haunted hours that would soon 
 be upon them in the short December day. Under 
 the firs, ladened with their frozen white Christmas 
 fruitage, the gi'ound was clear, but the wind whistled 
 with a shrill music such as it is far more agreeable to 
 hear, sitting in a cosy chimney-corner, than when it 
 meets you in the teeth. AVith their cloaks drawn 
 close, and their heads bent down, they battled 
 against it to the end of the ride, and across a 
 meadow dotted with fine park timber. Park in a 
 fashion it was still, being only divided by a sunk 
 fence, from the neglected gardens of the Lodge — the 
 place that would have been Millicent Hutton's home 
 had she married Michael Forester. It was un- 
 inhabited now, and had been so ever since he left
 
 22 IMR. WYNYARD'S WAKD. 
 
 England, except by the bailiif and Lis wife. Sir 
 Gilbert, it was reported, meant now to destroy the 
 pretty pleasure-grounds, and to turn the place into a 
 farmstead. The change had been spoken of at 
 dinner the night before, as likely to be taken in hand 
 when the frost broke up, and Millicent wished to see 
 the gardens again before the desecration began. 
 They entered by a rustic gate and bridge across the 
 sunk-fence, and coming round from the back of the 
 house, strayed along a broad walk below the windows 
 of the principal rooms, now all silent, shuttered and 
 dark. 
 
 "What a melancholy place is a deserted house ! 
 The dead leaves had apparently been allowed to 
 gather the autumn through, and the snow now covered 
 them where they lay in drifts along the foot of the 
 wall. The wind had torn away the ivy from the 
 south-west corner of the house, where it had been left 
 hanging and flapping in the wild gusts like a flag of 
 distress. It was not until they turned round by the 
 east end that they came on any cheerful signs of 
 habitation. Then from a wide, unscreened window, 
 belonging to what was Michael - Forester's study in
 
 ]\IISTLETOE AND HOLLY-BEKRIES. 23 
 
 his early days of possession, they saw a ruddy glow 
 streaming abroad into the winter's cold. Pennie 
 would have avoided the room, supposing it to be 
 occupied by some of the bailijff's family, but Millicent 
 wanted to see his wife, and passing close by the 
 window, they involuntarily glanced in— glanced in to 
 see the tall figure of a man reading by the fire, and 
 to see that awful grey face, more like death than 
 ever, lift itself up and slowly turn to look who came 
 between him and the fast fading light of the 
 afternoon. They got away from the place in haste, 
 and never word uttered they, until they were T\ithin 
 sight and sound of home. Uncle Christopher was 
 the only person in the hall when they entered. He 
 asked where they had been, and when Pennie told 
 him, Millicent bm-st into tears. 
 
 "Tut, tut, what's all this about?" cried the old 
 worldling, in an}i:hing but a s}-mpathizing tone, and 
 then, in the words of the old song, reminded her 
 that, — 
 
 Violets plucked, the sweetest showers will ne'er make grow again. 
 They left him, and retreated to their room, which
 
 24: MR. WYNYARD'S WARD. 
 
 Millicent quitted no more tliat clay. She would have 
 no one to keep her company but the ancient family 
 nurse, who believed in many things but imperfectly 
 known in our philosophy, and whose talk was not 
 calculated to settle startled nerves. She gave it as 
 her opinion that Michael Forester had died with 
 something on his mind, which he now sought to 
 communicate to his capricious mistress — '' for capri- 
 cious you was, Miss Milly, and used him very hard, 
 there's no gainsaying," was her ultimatum. 
 
 That some mystery was afloat had now become 
 plain to all the world at Brackenfield. "What is 
 it ? " asked Captain Blake next morning, almost 
 testily. " The house seems to be standing on tiptoe 
 ^^ith expectant alarm. There's Millicent taking her 
 cup of tea in bed, there's Pennie as solemn as an 
 owl, there's nurse going about upstairs in shoes of 
 silence bidding the children Whisht! If anybody 
 has seen a ghost, as rumour whispers, pray confess 
 it, and let us hunt the shabby rascals who frighten 
 ladies, out of their lair. For as for ghosts, bless j^ou, 
 they're knaves ingrain, no more bullet proof than 
 you or I. Show me your ghost, and I'll abolish him.
 
 MISTLETOE AND HOLLY-BERRIES. 25 
 
 I'll cause him to efface himself. Now, Quixote, I 
 shall begin with you — look me straight in the face, 
 and don't prevaricate, but be pleased to tell what 
 makes your droll little phiz as grave as a mustard- 
 pot ? " 
 
 Thus adjured, Pennie eclipsed herself in her 
 coffee-cup, and Uncle Christopher interposed with — 
 " Say nothing, Pennie, it is grand to keep a secret." 
 
 " There is a ghost, depend upon it," added the 
 Captain. "Let us all open our eyes, and be on the 
 look-out for him." 
 
 Here the dame considerately said, she wished 
 they would remember there were children in the 
 room. There 2vere children in the room, listening 
 with ears on the stretch. Little Lois, indeed, began 
 to lisp an account of a ghost she had seen, but when 
 comically requested to be precise in her description of 
 him, she could only put up her hands and gasp, until 
 Geoffi-ey cut her short by saying that she meant bo- 
 peep behind the curtains. Playing at ghosts was the 
 favourite game that day, and when Pennie took a 
 walk with the youngsters, she was impressed for the 
 chief character, and required to march with stiff
 
 26 MK. wynyard's ward. 
 
 legs, and solemn features to the roll of Geoffrey's 
 drum. 
 
 They wandered a long way, and returned by the 
 woods, which were pleasant in the frosty sunshine 
 since the wind had sunk. Pennie gathered the first 
 snow-drops of the season, peeping up amidst pale 
 green leaves at the sheltered roots of the trees. 
 Anna and Lois kept her company while the boys 
 made wider excursions on their own account. After 
 one prolonged absence, they returned to the girls 
 proclaiming that they had seen such a strange- 
 looking man, with a face the colour of stone, a hat 
 like Eobinson Crusoe, and a bear's cloak on his 
 shoulders. He was leaning over the gate into the 
 meadow, and stared at them very hard, but did not 
 speak. 
 
 " Perhaps he is the new farmer who is coming 
 to the Lodge," suggested Francis. 
 
 " Perhaps he is the ghost,'' said Maurice, and 
 then they scampered off again, laughing and fearless. 
 
 But Pennie was not laughing. She was chilled 
 to the very marrow of her bones ; for she perceived 
 that to these unromantic, unimaginative boys also
 
 MISTLETOE AND HOLLY-BERRIES. 27 
 
 had been revealed the dreadful phantom -shape of 
 Michael Forester. But stay, phantom- shape ! Could 
 it possibly be Michael in the body, the very Michael 
 himself that was never dead ? 
 
 The idea made her heart jump, and off home she 
 started with joyful hurry to communicate it to Mil- 
 licent. But when she saw Milhcent's forlorn face, 
 somehow her own buoyant hope collapsed. The 
 dame and Theodora were with her trying, without 
 seeming to tiy, to entice her into cheerfulness. It 
 was too bad, everybody said, to have dear. Aunt Milly 
 in the dumps at Christmas time. Only Uncle Chris- 
 topher chuckled, and did not care. Before lunch 
 Pennie being left with her a minute alone, proposed 
 that if they were bantered any more, they should 
 make a clean breast of the whole affair, and Millicent 
 consented, only stipulating that Pennie should be 
 spokeswoman. 
 
 In the afternoon snow fell again, and games in 
 the hall were the order of the day for the children. 
 The elders, who could endure the clamour, congre- 
 gated there as well ; some of them even taking part 
 in the sports. The younger ladies made belief at
 
 28 MR. wynyard's ward. 
 
 work and conversation round the fire, until Uncle 
 Christopher, who was playing chess with Sir Andrew, 
 exclaimed — " The sky will fall next : I heard Quixote 
 sigh ! " At that provocation, there bubbled up in 
 her a spirit of defiance, and wagging her head, she 
 retorted — " You would sigh too, sir, and perhaps 
 have a fit, if you had seen what Milly and I have 
 seen four times since Christmas Eve ! Either 
 Michael Forester's spirit is haunting Brackenfield, 
 or Michael Forester himself, no more dead than 
 we are." 
 
 They all looked serious enough now, except Uncle 
 Christopher, who said in his quizzical way, " Quixote, 
 your wickedness passes conception ! How dare you 
 insinuate that a man may be alive whose monument 
 is on the Church wall ? I should like to know where 
 you expect to go to ? " 
 
 " It would be awkward for a fellow to turn up 
 after the heir had taken possession," observed Sir 
 Andrew. 
 
 " Don't talk so lightly," interposed the dame ; 
 " there is no chance that poor Michael will return 
 now."
 
 MISTLETOE AND HOLLY-BERRIES. 29 
 
 " More unlikely events have occurred in families 
 than the re-appearance of a member supposed to be 
 dead. I could give 3-ou an authentic instance 
 myself," began Sir Andrew. But his anecdote was 
 not encouraged, for all were eager to hear Pennie's 
 story. When she came to the glimpse of the spectre 
 they had had at the lodge, Uncle Christopher's 
 patience gave way. He declared he could not stand 
 such nonsense any longer, and demanded that Tom 
 Martineau should come out \\ith him even in the 
 wind and the snow to blow away the cobwebs that 
 little spider (meaning Pennie,) was trying to weave 
 over theii- wits. After that, all the gentlemen dropt 
 off rapidly, and the womenkind were left alone to the 
 discussion of Pennie's narrative, until the childi-en 
 fell tired of their romps, and insisted on fairy-tales 
 and riddles in the t-^ilight until the dressing-bell 
 rang, when young and old trooped upstairs to- 
 gether. 
 
 Millicent and Pennie were the last to descend to 
 the di-awing-room, and it struck Pennie oddly that 
 her companion had become the centre of most 
 demonstrative caresses. Theodora kissed her ;
 
 30 MR. WYNYARD'S WARD. 
 
 Helen wreathed an arm round her waist ; Grace 
 cooed at her with sweet words. The dame com- 
 placently predicted that she would soon he herself 
 again, and Uncle Christopher, vdih. an unwonted 
 touch of sentiment, tucked her hand under his arm, 
 and patting it, hade her look more sprightly for a 
 picture of mnter in her all-white rohes, with the 
 ruhy-dropt holly spray in her hair. Theodora, the 
 most tender-hearted of women, had tears in her eyes 
 through dinner ; and of the rest, those who did not 
 look joyous, looked mysteriously important. Pennie 
 might have asked now if thei/ had seen a ghost ; and 
 she did at last intimate to Captain Blake that if 
 anything was going to happen, she should like to 
 know ; hut he only whispered with a tantalizing 
 air — "I shall not tell you, little quiz. When j'ou 
 had a secret you kept it four days ; now it is our 
 turn, and we can keep one too." 
 
 When the ladies rose to leave the tahle the dame 
 took Millicent's arm to cross the hall. For a miracle 
 none of the children were downstairs ; hut Helen 
 and Grace were in and out of the drawing-room half- 
 a-dozen times, though hoth their bahies were safe
 
 MISTLETOE AND HOLLY-BERRIES.' 31 
 
 abed. Even grandmamma, so drowsy after dinner 
 on ordinary occasions, was now perfectly wide awake, 
 and trotted twice to the door, and opened it to listen 
 to the voices and laughter that issued from the 
 dining-room. Their restlessness communicated itself 
 to Millicent, and when she heard Uncle Christopher's 
 deep bass approaching, supported by a hum of lower 
 tones, she could not help quaking with a vague 
 expectancy of she knew not what. Instantly Helen 
 and Grace ran out, and the dame, holding Milly's 
 hand, followed. Pennie pursued them, of course ; 
 when, behold, there, in the middle of the half-gloom 
 of the hall, stood the ghost — no ghost at all, but a 
 man enveloped in a cavahy-cloak powdered with 
 snow, and on his head a Panama hat which he was 
 just in the act of plucking off. 
 
 "Who's this, Milly?" cried the Squire; and 
 Millicent, tall, pale, in her white robes spectral, 
 melted, vanished, disappeared somehow amongst the 
 gi'eat folds of Michael's cloak, and never again quite 
 emerged into a distinct identity. It was a recon- 
 ciliation by surprise, and no after-thought could 
 undo it.
 
 32 MR. wynyard's ward. 
 
 " Forgive and forget," said Uncle Cln-istoplier. 
 " Kiss and make friends ; you are under the mistletoe, 
 and it is Christmas time, Milly. Eare fun, Quixote, 
 isn't it? Get away, you round-eyed little elf, and 
 don't talk of seeing ghosts. Is he behaving like a 
 ghost ? Milly never would have been caught -without 
 a stratagem ; but now it is done, I hope you like the 
 dramatic conclusion ? " 
 
 Dramatic conclusion, indeed ! It was lucky Mil- 
 licent was past hearing the triumphant boast. It was 
 Pennie's firm belief that Uncle Christopher knew 
 from the beginning of their terrors that Michael 
 Forester uris, and was no ghost, and that it had 
 pleased his perversity to study MiUicent's pains and 
 repentance, before he told anybody the secret of her 
 lover's return. But he never would confess it — never. 
 
 The children laughed and were glad over the 
 event of this reunion without well knowing why, but 
 Penelope Croft, who was already somewhat of a 
 philosopher, cried with Millicent for sympathy, and 
 said, now she should always have faith in the happy 
 possibilities of life, let it look ever so blank, since 
 even sometimes the long dead came back.
 
 MISTLETOE AND HOLLY-BERRIES. 33 
 
 " Oh, the lost years, the lost years, Pennie," 
 sobbed her sweet companion ; "the lost years and 
 the change ! " That was the burthen of her regi-et and 
 her complaint. Pennie sighed and said nothing, and 
 presently fell asleep. 
 
 The morrow came — such a strange new morrow 
 to Millicent, who had a bewildered air of walking 
 amongst shadows ; and a yet stranger new mor- 
 row to the Eastwold childi'en, who were to return 
 home that day, packed in the old yellow chariot. 
 
 They had rejoiced to come to merry Christmas 
 Brackenfield ; they now equally rejoiced to go. A 
 week's distance lent enchantment to the view of the 
 dreary house on the hill, where they had left papa 
 and mamma. The little ones watched for an hour 
 from the hal]-\\indow, before the lean posters that 
 were to carry them away, came with a shambling 
 trot to grandpapa's door. " Good-by ! Good-by ! 
 Good-by ! " rang from all tongues in chorus. Then 
 were the last kisses, and the tumbhngs into the 
 chariot, so musty and fusty, and anxious final inves- 
 tigations by Theodora into the warmth of WTaps, and 
 a futile warning to Penelope Croft not to achieve 
 
 VOL. I. 3
 
 34 MR. WYN yard's WARD. 
 
 the windy, cold solitude of the rumble ; then a 
 quick, ''Are you all right?" from Uncle John, and 
 an, " Off with you ! " from Uncle Christopher, and 
 away they whirled in the clear blue morning, as 
 laughing and jubilant as when papa and mamma, 
 standing on the steps at Eastwold, had seen their 
 sunny faces fade in a mist of tears — sunny faces 
 that as little children's faces, papa was to see never 
 more — never more.
 
 35 
 
 II. 
 
 EASTWOLD HOUSE IN DECAY. 
 
 Penelope Croft had the best of it in the rumble. 
 There Wiis an immense confusion of tongues within 
 the chariot. That peculiar j^oung -woman in certain 
 peculiar moods much affected her own society. The 
 blast blew with a capricious keenness, and swayed 
 hea\ily in the tall firs of the Brackenwood. Soon 
 that was out of sight. A gi-adual ascent lay long in 
 front, with round white hills swelling up on either 
 hand. Glimpses of life peeped out here and there 
 from the sheltered hollows, where the golden-brown 
 stacks of last harvest, now all hooded with snow, 
 were ranged in goodly ranks about the farmsteads. 
 Penelope's heart warmed to their look of homely 
 comfort ; for her earliest and pleasantest reminiscences 
 were of child-life in a farm. What set her musing 
 
 3—2
 
 36 iMR. wynyard's ward. 
 
 of it now, when there was Millicent Hutton to think 
 of, and her wedding, that was no doubt to be soon ? 
 She did not know. But her fancy would fly over hill 
 and dale far faster than the posters, and drop her in 
 the midst now of a noisy sheep-washing at the beck ; 
 then perch her a-top of a hay- wain rolling sluggishly 
 home from the water-meads ; and again, set her in a 
 low, old-fashioned parlour at the knees of a comely, 
 cherry-cheeked dame, who was her mother. Then 
 Pennie wished herself going home to the dear old 
 Crofts of Craven, who were of her own blood, instead 
 of to the gentlefolks at Eastwold, who were kind 
 enough, but not kin. 
 
 Had fortune used the little woman considerately 
 in making her a rich heiress, and setting her in a 
 place to which she was not born ? Pennie thought 
 not. She felt often lonely. If only she had been 
 pretty, or graceful, or engaging ! But she was none 
 of these things. She was only queer. Her face 
 provoked many a furtive smile — there was nothing in 
 nature more grotesque than Pennie's face when she 
 was pathetic. She knew^ fortune was not in the habit 
 of consulting her clients as to what lot she should
 
 EAST WOLD HOUSE IX DECAY. 37 
 
 give them, but if she could have chosen hers, she 
 would have been interesting and jwor. She was 
 already more interesting than she knew. A woman 
 always is interesting who has heaps of money, let her 
 be as ugly as she may. Even her guardian had 
 many a time privately wished his son Francis were 
 of an age to go a-wooing to his ward. But Francis 
 was only a rough, hungry schoolboy, with his heart 
 in his stomach yet, and Pennie was just eighteen 
 and sentimental. ' 
 
 How had Pennie come by her heiress- ship ? That 
 is soon told. Her father, Jonathan Croft, tenant- 
 farmer at Mayfield, had followed the plough in peace, 
 prosperity, and contentment for a score of years. 
 The railway mania set in. He was smitten with the 
 gold-fever ; he thirsted to become rich, drew his 
 thrifty savings out of the Xorminster Bank, invested 
 them in scrip, bought and sold, and bought and sold 
 again, and in a few months achieved a wonderful 
 great fortune. He did not live to lose it again, but 
 died hterally of amazement at his good-luck ; never 
 having seemed to realize it in any comfortable form, 
 but only as a means of buying up Wynyard of East-
 
 38 MR. wynyaed's ward. 
 
 wold — Wynyard of Eastwold being the name most 
 honoured in those parts since feudal days. 
 
 Another idea that possessed his half-paralysed 
 brain was that his daughter Pen must be a lady. 
 He sent for the Squire, and begged him to accept her 
 as his ward. The Squire was astonished and a little 
 vexed. He was not a man who loved business. He 
 said he would consult Hargrove — Hargrove was his 
 factotum. Hargrove suggested that it might be an 
 excellent thing. He went over to Mayfield, talked 
 with Croft and his wife, and found that it might be 
 even a better thing than he had thought. He wrote 
 the old man's will, and when it came to be read after 
 his death, the charge of Penelope was coupled with a 
 bequest of two thousand pounds to the Squire and 
 five hundred to the lawyer. There was plenty of 
 gossip about it over pipes and at market dinners as a 
 very queer vA^ill, which left the money too free to the 
 handling even of trustees so honourable as Wynyard 
 of Eastwold and Doctor Grey; but Hargrove was a 
 cunning old file, bless you, and knew what he knew. 
 Grey would never act, and he would have it all his 
 ov;n way ; for the Squire did nothing "wdthout him.
 
 EASTWOLD HOUSE IN DECAY. 39 
 
 Seventy thousand pounds ! The Httie lass had 
 seventy thousand pounds — not a penny less. And 
 how that would grow before she came of age. 
 Seventy thousand pounds ! And the widow well 
 left too ; but tied up not to marry again. Jonathan 
 Croft was a bit jealous, but not so far north as his 
 neighbours would have expected — not nearly so far 
 north. Trust, ay, trust — only let a man make sure 
 where he trusts. ^Miy wasn't his wife given any 
 care over the lass ? She came of a good family ; she 
 v\'as a woman of sense. Ay, marry was she, and a 
 downright hand at business. And her brother, 
 Lister of Kood, would have made as honest a guar- 
 dian for the lass as any squire in Craven. But 
 where was the use of talking ? Jonathan Croft had 
 put a sHght on his own folks and his wife's ; but he 
 had \silled as he had willed, and Penelope was to be 
 a lady. 
 
 Penelope was to be a lady. Her mother gave her 
 up Tvith a half sad, half proud reluctance, and the 
 ugly httle woman was carried away to Eastwold in 
 the yellow chariot — a much more pompous and 
 shining chariot then than now ; for seven years' wear
 
 40 MR. WYN YARD'S WARD. 
 
 and tear make a mighty difference in chariots, though 
 they may leave ugly little women much the same for 
 ugliness. And during those seven years there had 
 been a gradual decay and blight creeping over the 
 splendours of Eastwold, such as dim the glossy 
 lacquer of chariots yellow or various, and the lacquer 
 of all other things that need frequent gold-wash to 
 keep them spruce. In fact, the mining property 
 which had enriched the ancient house for genera- 
 tions was working out, and the Wynyards were going 
 down in the world — doivn. 
 
 The children had not yet much character; but 
 they had the germs of character. On the outside 
 they were — the boys, noisy, domineering, fearless, 
 generous ; the girls, loving, obedient, prone to serve 
 what they loved — all given to enjoy, and without the 
 faintest, remotest idea of what signified self-denial, 
 self-renunciation, or world's work of any sort. For 
 were they not come of a master-race ? The tradi- 
 tions of Eastwold were long and honourable. The 
 children had been nurtured on them. It was as 
 much an article of their faith as anything in the 
 catechism that a Wynyard never had been and never
 
 EASTWOLD HOUSE IN DECAY. 41 
 
 could be disloyal to king or cliurcli, to kindred or 
 friend. They had commonly been found ranged on 
 the losing side, and had shed their blood in many an 
 historical quarrel on the field and on the scafi"old; 
 but their name remained to their posterity without 
 spot and blameless. Not a bit of rusty old armour 
 that hung about the old hall and on the old staircase 
 but had been in its day the defence of a good man 
 and true. Francis had already made up his mind 
 that he was to be a soldier, and to tread in their 
 steps ; and Anna already looked to him as the hero 
 who would perpetuate the glory of a long line. 
 
 In these hopeful visions of their fresh youth they 
 almost lost sight of the cloud impending over the 
 fortunes of Eastwold. There had been year by year 
 a curtailing of their pleasures, but no complaining. 
 Papa and mamma wrapt their robes of pride about 
 them, and dechned quietly from past prosperity. 
 The children imitated the dignified example. When 
 papa looked jaded and despondent, when mamma 
 was tired and tearful, could they be grumbling and 
 dissatisfied ? Francis and Anna, at all events, were 
 old enough to see and know better, and they did the
 
 42 MR. WY^YARD'S WARD. 
 
 best they Imew. The troubles that were coming on 
 them would not be embittered by the worst of all 
 wants — the want of love. 
 
 The January afternoon was trenching on twilight 
 when the yellow chariot rattled up the white avenue 
 to Eastwold door. For a marvel nobody was waiting 
 to welcome the children — not even nurse. But before 
 they could disentangle themselves and tumble out, it 
 was Oldened by mamma in person — by mamma nicely 
 dressed, and smiling, as if she had just come down 
 from her room. She was smiling, but it was a smile 
 so forced that Francis immediately said, *'What is 
 the matter, mamma ? Where is papa ? " 
 
 "He has gone on a journey, dear; I will tell 
 you about it by-and-by. Come in now — tea will 
 soon be ready, with ham and eggs, in the drawdng- 
 room. I am sure you are hungry;" and then 
 Mrs. Wynyard broke off suddenly, with a quiver 
 in her voice, looking round upon them all half 
 bewildered. 
 
 " Tea in the drawing-room, mamma; shall we 
 have it with you ? " cried Lois, delighted.
 
 EASTWOLD HOUSE IN DECAY. 43 
 
 " Witli me, my vrinter blossom," responded Mrs. 
 Wynyard, and took her youngest child in her arms. 
 It seemed to Lois, Maurice, and Geoffrey that 
 mamma was gay; but Francis and Anna looked 
 at her and at each other, and felt that it was only 
 fair-seeming to hide sharp suffering. 
 
 Nurse now came on the scene — nurse without 
 any pretence at jollity. *' You've gotten home, 
 bairns," was her address; "you've had your bit 
 of pleasure, and it's over." 
 
 " It is over, but we have had it," rejoined Geoffrey, 
 mimicking her lugubrious tone. 
 
 Then there came inquuies about grandpapa and 
 grandmamma, and the uncles, aunts, and cousins, 
 which loosed all the 3'oung tongues, and set them 
 going together on the eloquent theme of Bracken- 
 field and its festivities. In the full midst of the 
 gossip, nurse swept the chatterers off impatiently 
 upstairs, to change their travelling garb for some- 
 thing more suitable to sit at tea in the dra\\ing- 
 room — in its way a treat worthy even to compare 
 with those enjoyed in the hospitable Christmas 
 Eden whence they were just returned. But tbe
 
 44 MR. wynyard's ward. 
 
 check only invigorated their powers of speech. When 
 they were re-collected round the tahle, with mamma 
 presiding at the tea-board, and Anna dispensing 
 fragrant collops, the loudness and fluency of Geofii'ey 
 and Maurice became quite stunning, deafening. 
 Francis said little, but he thought the more. The 
 irrepressible loquacity of his brothers annoyed him, 
 because he saw the effort his mother had to make 
 to bear it. She listened with a sweet patience ; 
 with a careful, self- watchful attention, dropping a 
 question here, a word of wonder there, a note of 
 admiration everywhere, as if fearing lest her chil- 
 dren should detect some want, some loss. 
 
 *' Oh, dear mamma, I love you ; I am so happy," 
 gushed Lois, presently, leaning a soft little cheek 
 towards her, courting the caress which Mrs. Wyn- 
 yard never withheld from her expectations. She 
 took the darling into her lap now, and poured 
 out second cups of tea with inconvenient satisfac- 
 tion to them both. 
 
 Penelope Croft sat in her accustomed place, where 
 she could turn on the water from the urn to replenish 
 the pot, and cut fresh wedges of bread to appease.
 
 EASTWOLD HOUSE IN DECAY. 45 
 
 if possible, those unappeasable young appetites. 
 She had felt the atmosphere of restraint and pain 
 the moment she came into the house. Nobod}^ 
 more sensitive to atmospheres and currents, whether 
 literal or metaphorical, than Pennie. The result 
 was perfect silence on her part. Millicent Hutton, 
 Mayfield, every romantic or pathetic fancy that had 
 kept her sweet company through the day's journey 
 vanished now — out of sight, out of mind — under 
 the influence of a very present but imisible disaster. 
 All the Eastwold children had acquired that discre- 
 tion of speech which lies in asking few questions. 
 Allien they asked one, and were not directly an- 
 swered, they never repeated or pressed it. Francis 
 was exceedingly impatient to be alone with his 
 mother, but his impatience sought no manifestation 
 beyond an occasional reminder to Maurice that, 
 while he talked so fast, he did not eat, and when all 
 the rest had finished, he would be to wait for. 
 That papa was gone on a journey was very new news 
 to all of them ; for Mr. AYynyard's travels had of 
 late years never extended beyond the county town. 
 But not one was tempted to inquire whither he
 
 46 MR. WYNYARD'S WARD. 
 
 had gone after they had heard mamma promise to 
 tell Francis by-and-hy. Tea and talk over, they all 
 gathered round the fire for a few minutes' longer 
 realization of real home ; then said good-night, 
 Lois adding, with wistful entreaty, that she wanted 
 to kiss papa. 
 
 " Kiss mamma for both, and I'll give you a ride 
 upstairs pickaback," suggested Francis, and the 
 little whimperer went off, exalted and exultant, 
 her brief trouble forgotten in her big brother's 
 wonderful condescension. Geoffrey and Maurice 
 decamped also, but Pennie and Anna lingered, 
 doubtful whether to go or stay. When Francis 
 returned, shaking his locks into order after Lois's 
 merciless tugging, Anna rose from the rug at her 
 mother's feet, and decided to go. Pennie went 
 ■^dth her, their consideration silently but signifi- 
 cantly acknowledged. 
 
 Francis Wynyard had the privileges of an eldest 
 son at Eastwold already. A very strong bond of 
 affection and confidence subsisted between himself 
 and his inother. If his father had talked with him 
 less and less openly, it was from the natural
 
 EASTWOLD HOUSE IX DECAY. 47 
 
 shrinking any man might feel at telling his heir 
 that his inheritance was dwindling down to nothing ; 
 that the name vrhich had descended to him, rich 
 in honour, would pass from him, if not tarnished, 
 at all events, lowered in the pride and pomp of 
 circumstance, denuded of all the outward and visible 
 appliances of rank. Francis understood the facts 
 by inference, and through his mother's often en- 
 couragement to vigour of purpose and active self- 
 reliance. That was why he had fixed his future 
 hopes on the life of a soldier, instead of on the 
 beatific visions of squiredom, which, under a con- 
 tinuance of the former order of things, would have 
 been his easy, uneventful destiny. And he had 
 just that amount of ardent, adventurous spirit which 
 enabled him to see beforehand how there would be 
 compensations in the change of estate. 
 
 " What has happened, mammy darling ? " was his 
 first address to his mother when they were left alone. 
 
 The answer was given with tears in her eyes 
 and in her voice : " What I have long dreaded, 
 Francis — your father has been obliged to go abroad. 
 When we may see him again, God only knows."
 
 48 MR. WYN yard's WARD. 
 
 Francis was silent for a minute or two, staring 
 stoically into tlie -fire. " I wish I were a man," 
 said he. 
 
 " Six years to wait, my hoy, but I can trust you 
 when the time comes." 
 
 "1 hope you can, mother. Eastwold may go, 
 but ' honour shall bide,' as our motto says." 
 
 There was another long pause. Then Mrs. Wyn- 
 yard — " Hargrove advised your father to go. He 
 started at less than an hour's warning. Hargrove 
 went with him." 
 
 " And you have been four days quite by yourself, 
 mamma ? " 
 
 "It is not known in the house yet that he 
 may not return. Nurse guesses, perhaps, but of 
 course " She ceased. 
 
 There is always a feeling of shame, pain, dis- 
 grace, humiliation, in flight. Francis thought for 
 a moment he would have rather stood the difficulty 
 out. But he did not comprehend the difficulty. 
 Nor could he tell by intuition what a tedious im- 
 prisonment within four walls is. Better any exile 
 than that.
 
 EASTWOLD HOUSE IN DECAY. 49 
 
 "xlnd you have not sent word to gi-andpapa or 
 Uncle Raymond, at Eskford ? " he asked. 
 
 " No, I have done nothing. They cannot help 
 us — nobody can help us but ourselves. I have 
 been trying to see how we may do it best. And I 
 think, if you agree with me, Francis, that the home- 
 farm shall be let at Lady-day, and the park and 
 gardens, and all the west-end of the house, as Har- 
 gTove proposed a year since. There would still be 
 room enough left for us, and Pennie's pony must 
 be kept." 
 
 " Then you do not think of our all going abroad 
 to poor papa?" 
 
 " No, nor does he wish it. He would not like 
 his boys or girls either to grow up half-vagabond 
 English. We shall stay at Eastwold to the end ; 
 but if any accommodation can be made for his 
 return before, Hargrove will not neglect it. I must 
 think of my children now." In the last sentence 
 there was a slight tone of resentment and injury 
 which Francis did not fail to detect. Mrs. Wynyard 
 had, in fact, been kept in the dark more than was 
 either wise or just. She believed that had she 
 VOL. I. 4
 
 50 MR. wynyard's ^yARD. 
 
 been trusted she might have averted some of their 
 calamities, and it is very possible that she was right. 
 
 ''No one can sj^eak ill of papa as if our mis- 
 fortunes were his fault, can they ? " asked her son. 
 She did not immediately reply. "No wrong has 
 been done? tell me, mamma?" added Francis, 
 more urgently and anxiously. 
 
 ''It is hard to know beforehand what the world 
 will think, or whom the world will blame. Men to 
 whom large sums of money are owing will not be 
 lenient judges. Hargrove was so sanguine about the 
 yield of that new mine in Arkindale, that your 
 father was entirely guided by him, and went to vast 
 expense. There has been a fortune sunk in it, and 
 lost ; for the ore is inferior, and will never pay the 
 cost of working. So Dixon, the foreman, says, yet 
 Hargrove obstinately maintains his first opinictn, 
 and will not hear of shutting it up. The money 
 borrowed to set it going is the present difficulty. 
 The interest has not been regularly paid, and the 
 lender dropt some threat at Norminster market, 
 which came to Hargrove's ears. He drove over on 
 Tuesday afternoon, and he and your father went off
 
 EAST WOLD HOUSE IN DECAY. 51 
 
 to Kirkgate Station to catch the mail-train for 
 London." 
 
 '' You have a mighty strong faith in Hargrove, 
 mamma," said Francis, with an impulse of youthful 
 distrust. 
 
 " No, dear, less than you suppose. I did depend 
 on him, but I see now where he has misled your 
 father so often, that, though I hope and trust he 
 is honest, I have no reliance on his judgment." 
 
 *' ^\liy did not papa see more to his own busi- 
 ness ? He could have understood it if he had tried." 
 
 " I used to urge it, Francis, but he had not been 
 brought up to take trouble, and he avoided it. That 
 is how it was ; and Hargrove did as he liked. We 
 had a large nominal income when we married, and 
 I had a handsome settlement ; but my trustees 
 allowed the money to be put in the Arkindale work- 
 ing, when it looked a hopeful speculation, and it is 
 as good as gone with the rest. Oh ! my boy, that I 
 must make you share my anxieties." 
 
 Francis put out his hand to his mother, and his 
 eyes filled with tears. ''It seems the saddest for 
 poor papa. Do you know where he is ? " 
 
 4—2
 
 52 MR. wynyard's ward. 
 
 She sliook her head. '' We shall not hear until 
 Hargrove comes home." 
 
 It was nine o'clock in the Eastwold drawing- 
 room, and it was nine o'clock in the dreary little 
 cabinet of the hotel at Dieppe, where Mr. Wjnyard 
 and Mr. Hargrove sat talking after a meagre dinner. 
 Mr. Wynyard was a man who unconsciously owed 
 much to his surroundings. In the faded elegance 
 of his own house he looked the indolent, refined, 
 anxious, helpless gentleman without any of the 
 degradation of the character. He had drifted out 
 of that atmosphere of repose now; he was in 
 very different quarters, and he looked a different 
 person. He felt it, and Hargrove felt it, and betrayed 
 it too, by being more at his ease, and less deferential 
 than was his wont towards Wynyard of Eastwold. 
 
 It snowed and it blew over the town in a whirlwind, 
 and every now and then the gusts came hurling and 
 skirlinfy down the narrow street, like a legion of 
 spirits driven from the sea by tormentors. There 
 was no heartiness of warmth in the tiny porcelain 
 stove, and Mr. Wynyard sat with a plaid about his 
 shoulders, a picture of misery and dejection : his
 
 EAST WOLD HOUSE IN DECAY. 53 
 
 cheeks blue, his nose red, his lips pinched and 
 parched. His sudden flight — never contemplated 
 before — had completely unnerved him. He knew it had 
 opened a gulf in his life which could never be closed. 
 
 '* I would rather have been carried to Eastwold 
 Church : I would rather a thousand times have been 
 carried to Eastwold Church," he had reiterated in 
 monotonous soliloquy every hour since he had 
 crossed the Channel. He was harping on the same 
 string to-night, and talking of his poor "^ife and 
 chikben as lost to him, until Hargrove, who had 
 no wife or children, was aweary of the theme. 
 
 The lawyer was a tall, burly man with a red face, 
 large features, and a big voice ; a man to overbear 
 opposition, and to get his own way in the world as 
 much as any. He was making the best of circum- 
 stances now with brandy-and-water — not that there 
 was anything oppressive in the circumstances to him. 
 Indeed they were acceptable to him, and he said 
 so. "It is a positive relief to me to know you are 
 safe out of the way, sir. Jacques was growing 
 troublesome : very troublesome indeed." Mr. Wyn- 
 yard groaned.
 
 54 MR. WYNYARD'S WARD. 
 
 "There is only one consolation — Penelope Croft's 
 money is all safe," said he. Hargrove sipped his 
 brandy-and-water. " That is safe, and not a shilling 
 of it shall ever be risked. I wish she were of age, 
 and I w^ere quit of the burthen. It has been a care 
 and a temptation to me from the beginning ; but I 
 am thankful now I listened to Mary — w^hat tc'ill she 
 do, what will she do, poor Mary ! " 
 
 Two things Mr. Hargrove never did. He never 
 used conventional phrases of piety, and he never told 
 a lie to no j^urpose. Had he been inclined to put 
 a gloss on untoward events, he might have reminded 
 Mr. Wynyard how the wind is tempered to shorn 
 lambs ; but that was not his present object. He had 
 brought him abroad, and it was his business to 
 impress on him the necessity of staying there until 
 the inclement wind changed into a milder quarter. 
 Perhaps he had interests of his own to serve in that, 
 as well as interests of his employer's. 
 
 He recurred to the subject of Mr. "Wynyard' s 
 ward. "Jonathan Croft gave his daughter a long 
 day to wait for her coming-of-age — five-and-twenty." 
 
 " But she may marry before, and that would
 
 EASTWOLD HOUSE IN DECAY. 55 
 
 release me. At five-and-twenty, if she remain single, 
 she is her own mistress, to set up an independent 
 establishment, and to live where she likes. I hope 
 she will marry." 
 
 ' " She is well weighted. I am not sure, though, 
 that some of her money is not worse invested than it 
 would be in Arkindale. Those West Lancashire 
 railway- shares, for instance ? " 
 
 " They are good shares enough. As for Arkin- 
 dale, I wish it were at the bottom of the sea. That 
 has been my misfortune. Arkindale will drag down 
 Eastwold." 
 
 " You are wrong, sir, you are wrong there. I'll 
 back Arkindale to do as well or better yet than ever 
 the old Crosfell pits did. And you are wrong, too, 
 in not employing your ward's money to better advan- 
 tage for her." 
 
 " Her money is where her father mshed it to be, 
 chiefly in the three per, cents., and there it shall 
 remain. Mind, Hargrove, I wdll not have it meddled 
 with, whatever might be rescued by it. My own and 
 my children's — that is wreck enough. If her fortune 
 were in it, too, that would be dishonour : that would
 
 5Q ME. WYNYARD'S WARD. 
 
 be roguery." Mr. Wynyard spoke with excitement, 
 the laAvyer sipped his brandy-and-water ; the clock 
 ticked, the stove hummed ; the wind whistled and 
 rattled the casement. " Roguery, I say. If they must 
 weep, they need not blush. Poor souls, poor souls." 
 
 Mr. Hargrove left Mr. W^myard at Dieppe, and 
 returned to England by the Newhaven boat on the 
 morrow. He transacted some business in London, 
 and the same evening departed for Norminster ; slept 
 there, and reached the Kirkgate Station in the morn- 
 ing by eleven. Francis Wynyard, at his mother's 
 suggestion, had walked thither each day, to intercept 
 him, and ask him to take Eastwold in his way round 
 to his own house at Allan Bridge. As the lawyer got 
 out of the carriage, he saw Francis, and hailed him. 
 The lad came forward, and colouring as he shook 
 hands, said : " Your gig is waiting outside — will you 
 drive by Eastwold, and see my mother ? " 
 
 ''To be sure — that was my intention. She is 
 anxious, of course. Jack, put my bag and this 
 hamper into the trap. She must not take it too 
 much to heart. You'll ride, Francis ? "
 
 EAST WOLD HOUSE IN DECAY. 57 
 
 " No, I will walk back across the fell as I came. 
 r shall be there almost as soon as you." 
 
 '* The roads are bad, I dare say. Got the mare 
 sharped. Jack ? All right — ^jump in. It's a biting 
 wind. Phew ! " 
 
 Francis was gone before Mr. Hargrove had settled 
 himself in his seat, and when the gig turned in at 
 the lodge-gates, there he was in the porch talking 
 with Crabtree, the tough old man who had been now 
 for several months past the only gardener, gi*oom, 
 gamekeeper, and general helper out of doors that 
 Eastwold retained. A shrewd and bitter character 
 he was, ^dth a snap and a snarl at the ser^dce of all 
 the world except his master, his master's wife, and 
 his master's children — amongst whom he reckoned 
 Penelope Croft. Mr. Wynyard's hasty and unex- 
 plained departure had annoyed him beyond measure 
 — it was not like the ways of the house to do any- 
 thing without a reason. Mr. Hargrove passed 
 through the gate, his loud gi-eeting acknowledged 
 only by a grunt, and as he drove slowly up the 
 avenue, with Francis walking alongside the gig, 
 Crabtree sohloquized after him : " ThoiCs at the
 
 58 MR. wynyard's ward. 
 
 bottom o' all the trouble that's coming upon 'em. 
 Ay, my lad, if I only had thee where I could squeeze 
 a secret or too out o' thy lieing throat ! Boy and 
 man, I ha' been on the place a good forty year, an' 
 niver heerd tell o' any mystery about it before. 
 Speak truth, an' shame the divil— that's my motto. 
 Where there's a mystery there's mischief, an' I'll 
 rout it out, if I be smothered wi' t' smoak." 
 
 Francis sought his mother in the drawing-room : 
 " He is coming/' said he, and they entered the 
 library together at one door as Mr. Hargrove 
 presented himself at the other. He was prepared 
 to be sympathetic and cordial, but Mrs. Wynj^ard 
 was concisely calm, and gave him no opportunity. 
 
 " Take a chair near the fire, Mr. Hargrove, and 
 let me hear how and where you left my husband." 
 
 '' I left him at Dieppe, and well," was the 
 answer following her cue. "At the Hotel Sauvage." 
 
 " Mamma^ here's uncle John," suddenly cried 
 Francis, who commanded a window with a view of the 
 avenue* *' He has ridden Malek over, the beauty ! " 
 
 " Mr. John Hutton ? " asked the la^jer, with a 
 perceptible inflection of alarm in his voice.
 
 EASTWOLD HOUSE IN DECAY. 59 
 
 " Nothing could have haj)pened more oppor- 
 tunely," said Mrs. Wynyard. " Go, Francis, and 
 bring your uncle in." 
 
 Francis was already going, and in a minute or 
 two, the opportune visitor appeared. 
 
 " I am sorry to hear your news, Mary," said he, 
 kissing her; " and I am hound to tell you, Mr. Har- 
 grove, that you have ad\dsed Wynyard very ill. He 
 could not have taken a more unfortunate step than to 
 go abroad at this moment." 
 
 *' If you think so, he is not a prisoner ; he can 
 come back," replied the lawyer, promptly, at the same 
 time resolving that it should be his first business to 
 make such a coming back impossible, except under 
 risks that he knew Mr. Wynyard would not encounter. 
 In that brief passage of arms the men had measured 
 each other's strength, and Mr. John Hutton retreated 
 a little. 
 
 *' You ought to know best how the land lies ; but 
 if he had come to Brackenfield for ad^dce, he would 
 not have found one of us to bid him leave home, 
 much less leave it secretly." 
 
 '' He had not the chance of consulting am^body.
 
 60 MR. wynyard's wakd. 
 
 I gave him certain information, and lie acted on it as 
 we both judged best in the emergency. The other 
 side of the water is better than the inside of Nor- 
 minster jail." The last sentence was uttered roughly 
 and sullenly. The la^vyer had determined on his 
 line. Mr. John Hutton had not received any invita- 
 tion to interfere in the affairs of his brother-in-law, 
 and he would not encourage him to interfere by using 
 a humble propitiatory tone. 
 
 A bell rang in the hall. Mrs. Wynj-ard rose, 
 saying it was for the children's dinner ; would they 
 go into the room, and have some luncheon. Mr. 
 Hargrove excused himself; he was within a couple 
 of miles of home, and would drive on, he thanked 
 her. 
 
 " Surly dog, that Hargrove," said Mr. John 
 Hutton, as he accompanied his sister to the dining- 
 room. 
 
 " I would rather not have him offended," was 
 Mrs. Wynyard's reply. ** You do not know how 
 much he has in his power — I do not know myself, 
 but I fear." 
 
 At present he had it in his povrer to disseminate
 
 EASTWOLD HOUSE IN DECAY. 61 
 
 the news of Mr. Wynyard's journey to France, and 
 to colour it with that tint of nefarious evasion which 
 is most damaging to a man's good name. As he 
 mounted into his gig, he only shook his head as 
 if involuntarily, hut Jack saw and understood, 
 talked, and exaggerated, when he went to the 
 " Wynyard Ai-ms " at night for his pipe and pot 
 of beer. The next morning a neighbour dropped 
 into his office early, and after a few inconsequential 
 remarks, came to the point. 
 
 " So Mr. Wynyard has gone on a trip to France, 
 I hear? Bad time of year for a jaunt, eh, 
 Hargi'ove?" 
 
 " That depends on what you go for. Some 
 business won't wait. When did you see Jacques 
 last ? " 
 
 "At Norminster market on Saturday." 
 The neighbour put the lawyer's words, tone, and 
 look together ; deduced therefi-om that Mr. Wynyard 
 had found it advisable to go out of the way for a time, 
 and circulated his intelhgence in that form. Before 
 noon, it came round again to Eastwold still further 
 simplified.
 
 62 UR. wynyard's ward. 
 
 " So t' Squire's rinned away fra' his debts," said 
 a lurching fellow, the poacher and pest of the dale, to 
 old Crabtree, whom he met on the road to Allan 
 Bridge. 
 
 " Yo' tak' thot," retorted Crabtree, and straight- 
 way knocked him down, and marched on. 
 
 It was soon no secret anywhere, or in any com- 
 pany, that Squire Wynyard had gone to France, and 
 that no definite time was fixed for his return. Mr. 
 Hargrove had to hear fifty hard and sharp inquiries 
 during the ensuing fortnight, and to answer them or 
 evade them as he could. Jacques was more trouble- 
 some than ever. 
 
 " Look you here, Hargrove, didn't you swear 
 when I give notice, that my brass was as safe as 
 if it ha' been in the Bank of England. Mind you, 
 I mun have it as t' first of last November six months. 
 Them was the terms — six per cent, and six months' 
 notice to pay." 
 
 "You can have it, but I ad\dse you to leave it 
 where it is," was the lawyer's cool rejoinder. 
 
 " I don't heed what you advise — you'd advise a 
 fellow to put his cargo aboord a leaky ship if t' was
 
 EASTWOLD HOUSE IN DECAY. 63 
 
 your own. If Mr. Wynyard means fair, what has 
 he taken himself off to France for ? Who was going 
 to touch him ? " 
 
 " Come, Jacques, you're a man of business, you 
 are, and should know better than to ask questions of 
 that sort." 
 
 " You won't bamboozle 7ne. I ask questions 
 because I heerd at Norminster market o' Thursday 
 that Z'fZ threatened to put the screw on Mr. Wynyard. 
 I never threatened nothing o' t' sort. I couldn't put 
 t' screw on him until notice is up. There is agents 
 shifty enough to befool both lenders an' borrerers. 
 There is one in this parish who'd make a rogue 
 the less if he was out of it. I've said my say, 
 Mr. Hargrove, an' if you like, you can charge it 
 as a consultation in the bill." 
 
 Thus far Jacques in a cold fury, and then forth 
 he lurched, the stumpy grazier, out of the office into 
 the town-street of Allan Bridge. A hundred yards 
 or so from Hargrove's door, he met Morris, landlord 
 of the " Wynyard Arms." 
 
 " Can you tell a fellow what the damage 'ud be to 
 kick a 'torney ? " chuckled he, indicating with his
 
 64 MR. WYNYARD'S WARD. 
 
 thumb pointed over his shoulder what Homey he 
 meant. 
 
 " Maybe thirty shilhngs," grinned Morris. 
 
 " And very cheap at the money." 
 
 " The North Riding man had however too shrewd 
 an eye to the main chance to waste cash on the 
 indulgence of a whim, and having relieved his 
 feelings by mentioning it, he began to talk of fat 
 cattle at the London Christmas Show, and the land- 
 lord being interested to hear, they adjourned to the 
 bar-parlour to have a comfortable glass and pipe with 
 their gossip. 
 
 At Eastwold Rectory, between Doctor and Mrs. 
 BroTVTi, in half the drawing-rooms of Craven, in 
 every hunting-field, Mr. Wynyard's travels and their 
 motive were a nine days' talk and wonder. His 
 half-brothers, Mr. Raymond, of Eskford, and Dr. 
 Raymond, \icar of St. Jude's, and master of 
 Chassell's School at Norminster, came over to 
 Eastwold in consternation, and found Mrs. Wynyard 
 and the children almost as much resigned to their 
 abandonment as if they were widowed and fatherless. 
 "It is done," said the mother; "and for the
 
 EAST WOLD HOUSE IN DECAY. 65 
 
 present it must remain. It does not appear tliat it 
 would be safe for liim to retui-n." 
 
 ''Perhaps not, just when people are alarmed, 
 but why did he ever go?" said Mr. Raymond. '* I 
 shall start for Dieppe myself and see Robert. I have 
 had an intemew with Hargrove, but he is so close 
 there is no getting an accm-ate notion of anything 
 from him. I -^-ish Robert would consent to a 
 thorough overhauling of Hargi'ove's books. He was 
 always muddle-headed about business himself, and 
 has been quite at his agent's mercy all along." 
 
 Mrs. Wynyard shook her head: '"I do not 
 think you will prevail on him to do anything that 
 might vex Hargi'ove. He has the most bigoted 
 confidence in him." She was right. Mr. Raymond 
 took his journey, but it was to no pm-pose. 
 
 " Hargi'ove is the only man who understands 
 the mining property thoroughly," the expatriated 
 gentleman declared. "He has been engaged in it 
 since my father's time. He has sunk money of his 
 own in Arkindale, and if anything can be made out 
 of it, he is the person to make it. He has his ot\ii 
 way of going on, and I cannot at this moment see 
 
 vol. I. 5
 
 66 MR. WYNYARD'S WARD. 
 
 how any of you can do more than be civil to him, 
 and let him try his best. There is a great deal 
 owing, and I feel as if he were the only bar that 
 stands between us and ruin — ruin complete and 
 irrevocable." Thus Mr. \Yynyard sj^oke to his 
 brother, thus he ^^Tote to his wife, to the old Squire 
 at Brackenfield, to every one who had a right to 
 address him on the subject of his embarrassments. 
 
 On his return from Dieppe, Mr. Kaymond went 
 over again to Eastwold, and told Mrs. Wynyard 
 what he had seen and heard. *' There is nothing 
 for it but patience and submission, Mary. You and 
 the children must live quietly on here, and Robert will 
 stay about in Normandy until a way is opened for his 
 return, or until Francis is of age, and can join him 
 in breaking the entail, and selling the property. I 
 am truly glad to know, for everybody's sake, that not 
 a sixpence of your little ward's fortune has been 
 risked in Robert's affairs. He has proved a wiser trus- 
 tee for her than John Hutton and I for your marriage- 
 settlement. If that money be finally lost, we shall 
 make it up to you amongst us." And there, for the 
 present, was a pause in the Eastwold family affairs.
 
 ( 67 ) 
 
 III. 
 
 PENELOPE AT MAYPIELD. 
 
 Mr. Wynyard stayed about in Normandy, and by- 
 and-by bis bousebold settled into its new routine. 
 The Christmas holidays came to an end. Francis, 
 Geoffrey, and Maurice went back to school — the 
 Grammar School at Allan Bridge, where they 
 boarded wdth the head-master, Dr. Tasker. Miss 
 Eosslyn, the girls' governess, did not return, Mrs. 
 Wynyard having decided that she must teach Anna 
 and Lois herself henceforward. As for Penelope 
 Croft, her elementary education might be considered 
 as finished, and any learning she wanted further it 
 w^as in her owd. power to acquire from books, of 
 which there was no lack in her guardian's house. 
 
 Pennie had none of the polite accomplishments. 
 She played on the piano with a wooden finger, her 
 
 5—2
 
 68 MR. WYNYARD'S WARD. 
 
 voice was untuneable, she had no eye for perspective 
 on paper, and her dancing was as queer as her coun- 
 tenance. Miss Rosslyn had laboured at her in vain. 
 
 " She is a good girl, and a clever girl in her wa}", 
 hut she knows nothing beyond the three R's — 
 reading, 'riting, and 'rithmetic," said the painstaking, 
 disappointed woman, feebly joking. 
 
 " Say the four IVs, and add riding — I can do 
 almost anything with a horse," cried Pennie, who 
 overheard her. 
 
 Do almost anything with a horse ! She might 
 have said, too, that she could do almost anything 
 with a tree, a wall, a hurdle to climb, a race to run, 
 a boat to row, a bird to shoot, a dog to break. 
 These things came natural to her. It was a 
 thousand pities she was not a boy, for she never 
 would be a lady. It was, however, within the 
 limits of possibility that she might be a straight- 
 forward, practical, honest little gentlewoman ; and 
 as she grew up, it became more and more certain 
 every day that this was what she would be. Small, 
 plain, outspoken, romantic, generous, simple, coura- 
 geous, dutiful — those were the outlines of Mr.
 
 PENELOPE AT MAYFIELD. 69 
 
 Wynyard's ward, when his circumstances and 
 Mr. Hargrove's alarm di'ove him into exile. 
 
 Pennie was likely to feel his absence less than 
 anybody at Eastwold. She was out. That had been 
 accomplished the previous October, at the Nor- 
 minster Hunt Ball, when she was j)i'oiiC)uiiced by 
 a high provincial authority, the ugliest three-year- 
 old he had ever seen, but with a pot of money, 
 and no end of fun in her. Her mother, who still 
 presided in rosy widowhood and prosperity over 
 Mayfield Farm, was kept well informed of every 
 event that transpired at Eastwold. News of Mr. 
 Wynyard's journey reached her through the usual 
 channel — the weekly letter from her daughter — and 
 common fame told her the rest. She was not dis- 
 posed to be anxious about Pennie's fortune, but 
 she was very much disposed to bewail her pro- 
 spects. 
 
 *' Why, the house' 11 be ever so dull ; there'll 
 be no company for her, poor thing, no beaux, nor 
 nothing." Thus she opened her mind to her con- 
 fidential gossip, Mrs. Jones, of Beckby Farm. She 
 had set her heart on Pennie's marrying early.
 
 70 MR. wynyard's ward. 
 
 " Then I shall, maybe, get her more to myself," was 
 her wily expectation. 
 
 " It wasn't fair of Jonathan, w^as it, Mrs. Jones, 
 to take the bairn away from us all, for her to grow 
 up a stranger to her own mother and kin ? Not that 
 she's proud, bless her, not a bit of it ! She's the 
 same with one as with another, for she has got a real 
 sensy head of her own, just like her father. If she 
 were only bonny ! She'd better have taken after 
 Listers than after Crofts. Listers has all clean 
 skins, and wears well ; Crofts is sallow, and ages 
 soon. I don't want her to marry high — ^there'd be 
 no comfort if she married high. I should like to 
 see her take up with Mr. Tom Boothby now, or her 
 cousin, Dick Lister. I could go to their houses, 
 and feel at home with my own child. But if she 
 was to take up with a dandy fellow, such as young 
 Eaymond at Eskford, ov Captain Bangham, with his 
 gi-eat red beard, she'd be further off nor ever.' 
 
 " Get her over to Mayfield for a week or two," 
 suggested Mrs. Jones, entering cordially into her 
 neighbour's feelings. " I'll give the young folks a 
 dance and a supper, and I'm sure her Aunt Lister'll
 
 PENELOPE AT MAYFIELD. 71 
 
 do the same. If it was me was her mother, I 
 should he all for keeping the money in the family. 
 Dick Lister's a ra'el fine fellow, and good-looking ; 
 Tom Boothhy tosses a glass overmuch sometimes, 
 and he's a dreadful temper." 
 
 *' Then I'd rather see her in her coffin than tied 
 to him ; for had temper in a man is what I can't 
 abide. Jonathan had his faults — who's without ? 
 hut grumbling and nattering was never one of 'em. 
 He was the satisfiedest man at home that you'd wish 
 to see. Penelope has just his easy way — so con- 
 siderate she always is." 
 
 " She is a nice little lass. It is only a pity she 
 does not favour more of your fam'ly, Mrs. Croft; 
 though she hasn't to sing like a many gels, ' my 
 face is my fortune, sir, she said.' " 
 
 *' \Ye got churning over'd to-day. If weather 
 holds up, I'll take a drive to Eastwold to-morrow, 
 and bring her hack." 
 
 '' Do. You'll not repent it." 
 
 The weather did hold up, and in the morning at 
 eleven o'clock, Mrs. Croft mounted into the high 
 phaeton which it was her custom to drive herself, and.
 
 72; MR. WYNYARD S WARD. 
 
 with a lad in tlie back-seat to open tlie gates, set 
 forth on her mission. She was in full visiting 
 costume — velvet bonnet and feather, scarlet Paisley 
 shawl, ruby satinette gown, " stiff enough to stand 
 of itself," and new, pale driving-gloves. The mare 
 was a beaut}' ; the harness silver-plated ; the whole 
 turn-out well-to-do and well kept. Everybody who 
 met the comfortable widow on her way greeted her 
 cordially and respectfully. She had her half-crown 
 ready for Crabtree, in case he was at the lodge, and 
 even that cranky personage abated his asperity under 
 the glow of her broad and beaming countenance. 
 He condescended to touch his hat as he accepted the 
 fee, and to add for information that Miss Pennie 
 and Miss Anna were about in the park " a-gathering 
 of snow-drops." 
 
 *' I shall meet them, I dessay ; " and nodding 
 her thanks, Mrs. Croft drove gently on, keeping a 
 look-out on either side between the trees for her 
 daughter. 
 
 Pennie espied her first. " Oh, Anna, there's my 
 mother ! " and away she ran, dropping the flowers 
 from her basket as she went, and jumped up into the
 
 PE^^:LOPE at mayfield. 73 
 
 pliaeton with a spring, almost knocking the velvet 
 bonnet from its propriety in the ardom- of her 
 embrace. 
 
 " Eh, Pennie, my darling, bless thee ! " gasped 
 the \N-idow. " There now — easy, easy, whoa, easy, I 
 say," to the mare. '' Sit down, Pennie. How d'ye 
 do. Miss Anna "? She's fresh : easy, easy — she hasn't 
 been out of stable three or fower days. And how 
 are you, honey, and how are they all '? " 
 
 " She'll be off again, mother, mind her." The 
 mare gave her diiver enough to do for the next 
 mmute or two, and then they were at the door. 
 The lad held her head while his mistress alertly 
 extracted herself from her \M'aps and descended, and 
 then he led her away to the stables, tossing and 
 prancing, and ready for anything in the way of 
 high jinks. 
 
 " She has a hard mouth, that's the worst of her," 
 observed the ^idow, watching soHcitously. '*' It isn't 
 temper, she has no ^*ice, and Ned's steady enough. 
 Well, Pennie, my love, I'm come to beg a holiday for 
 you. I want you at Mayfield a bit. Will Mrs. W^ti- 
 yard spare you, d'ye think ? "
 
 74 ]vrR. wynyard's ward. 
 
 " Oh, yes. Come into the house ; it is so different 
 now." The last sentence was whispered sadly and 
 confidentially, and w^as acknowledged hy a pathetic 
 closing of the widow's e3'es, and shaking of her head. 
 
 ^' I've heard all, Pennie. It can't help hut he 
 different. What's doing here ? " They were now in 
 the hall, where a man was at work with lath and 
 plaster, closing up the dining-room door. 
 
 " That side of the house is to he let with the 
 farm to Mr. Dykes, and so it is to be quite shut off 
 from our part." Mrs. Crofts shook her head again, 
 and sighed, hut said no more. Pennie entered the 
 drawing-room, and announced her mother, who dropt 
 a little curtsey as she advanced to meet Mrs. Wyn- 
 yard's outstretched hand. 
 
 *' I am glad to see you, Mrs. Croft, and so, from 
 her face, is Pennie. Take your mother's shawl, 
 Pennie dear, and give her a stool for her feet. You 
 must have had a cold drive, I'm afraid : the wind is 
 rather high ; " thus IMrs. Wynyard in her usual kind 
 way, only perhaps in a voice somewhat strained, as 
 of a woman fretting inwardly. 
 
 " It was not unpleasant ; the sun warmed the air.
 
 PENELOPE AT MAYFIELD. 75 
 
 "We are going to have fine, open weather after the 
 frost, I hope. It is needed. And how are you, 
 ma'am, and the children, and Mr. Wynyard when 
 you heard from him ? " 
 
 " All well in health, thank you, Mrs. Croft ; quite 
 well in health. Lois, you have not shaken hands 
 with Mrs. Croft." As Mrs. Wynyard spoke, she 
 glanced aside at the child, standing by the table with 
 a slate, her hair ruffled up into a golden mop, and 
 her face set determinedly over a line of figures which 
 she was multiplying by seven. Lois half abstractedly 
 laid her task down, crossed the rug to the visitor, 
 and pouted her rosy lips to be kissed. 
 
 " She is a good little busy gM, I'm sure," said 
 Mrs. Croft. " She loves her book, don't you, dear ? " 
 
 " Not without Maurice," and Lois sighed, as she 
 shook her mop, and resumed the slate. 
 
 Pennie sat unobtrusively on a low chair in the 
 fireside corner by her mother, until the conversation 
 wound round to her, and leave was asked and given 
 for her to go to Mayfield. " Eastwold '11 spare you 
 for a month, I dessay," added Mrs. Croft, with amiable 
 insinuation.
 
 76 MR. wynyard's ward. 
 
 Mrs. Wynyard assented. " Yes, we will spare 
 her for a montli, and then I think her services will 
 be wanted at Brackenfield. My youngest sister is 
 about to be married, and Pennie has been bespoken 
 for one of her bridesmaids." 
 
 " Won't it be charming, mother ? I have been 
 longing to go to a wedding," cried Pennie, exuberant. 
 
 " I heerd of Mr. Michael Forester's arrival. And 
 he's to marry Miss Hutton, is he ? I'm right glad 
 of it. • Foresters is a good sort. But is it true, 
 ma'am, that he's got a fam'ly by a black wife ? " 
 
 '' I hope not— I have not heard of it." Mrs. Wyn- 
 yard could hardly forbear smiling, and Pennie looked 
 amazed with wrath. 
 
 " How folks will talk ! Why, they'd got black 
 wife and bairns quite pat at Saturday's market-table, 
 I was told." 
 
 It was decided that Pennie should ride her own 
 pony over to Mayfield, and after the early dinner 
 which Mrs. Wynyard, in her diminished household, 
 now shared with the children, she went immediately 
 to equip. Pennie ought never to have been seen out 
 of her riding-habit and hat. Her figure was so
 
 PENELOPE AT MAYFIELD. 77 
 
 shapely, firm, spirited, and well set-up in her saddle, 
 that she looked better on horseback than many quite 
 handsome women. 
 
 " Yon's something like riding," reflected her 
 mother with pardonable pride, as Pennie took a gallop 
 across the sward to the park-gate, while she steered 
 the mare, always fidgety at starting, slowly down the 
 avenue. On the high-road, Pennie reined in, and 
 kept pace with the phaeton, chattering all the way, 
 and delighting her mother. 
 
 It was a five-mile ride by a way that was beautiful 
 all the year round. The road lay along the fell side, 
 the narrow sinuous valley of the Esk below, and steep 
 slopes of meadow and moorland above. The February 
 sun shone high and clear in the pale blue sky, and 
 the tiny becks, full-flooded with melting snows, rushed 
 singing and laughing over their pebbly-beds. 
 
 " It feels almost like spring," said Pennie, snuff"- 
 ing up the aromatic scent of the fir-wood near Rood 
 Abbey ; of which was left only a gateway, and a few 
 arches built into the wall of a long, low, retired 
 house, with a neglected garden running down to the 
 river. The o^NTier was just issuing forth as they
 
 78 MR. WYNYARDS WARD. 
 
 passed ; a gentleman of middle stature and dark 
 visage, who recognized Mrs. Croft with a friendly 
 touch of his hat, took a rapid survey of the figure on 
 horseback, and passed on smiling to himself. Pennie 
 asked who he was. 
 
 " Mr. Tindal, my landlord and your uncle Lister's. 
 He's in a hurry to-day, it seems, unless you've 
 frightened him, Pennie," replied her mother. " He 
 has been touring it for five or six years, poor fellow, 
 and notv he's come home to live. It is a pretty place 
 in summer-time, is Rood Abbey, but it is let go to 
 waste shameful." 
 
 Another half mile or so brought them to May- 
 field, with its familiar trimmed yews over-topping the 
 wall, which screened the garden from the road ; and 
 the old door for those to enter at, who had no business 
 at the farmyard beyond. Pennie passed it, telling 
 her mother she would come in by the other way, 
 and rode on to the stables where an old lame man 
 w^elcomed her with an assurance that she looked 
 as fresh as paint, and he hoped he see'd her 
 well. 
 
 '* I'm thriving, thank ye, Jacob, and how's your-
 
 PENELOPE AT MAYFIELD. 79 
 
 self ? " said Pennie, who slipped now and then into 
 the native idiom. 
 
 *' I frames to get ahout, but I'se racked wi' rheu- 
 matiz terrible — terrible.'* 
 
 Pennie di'opt lightly from her saddle, gathered 
 her skirt over her arm, and glancing round at the 
 busy hens pecking between the stones, at the cows 
 crowding to the fold-yard gate, at a team of tired 
 plough-horses going down to water at the pond, made 
 her way to the back-door, and into the glowing kitchen 
 whither her mother had preceded her. 
 
 " Home's home be it ever so homely, Pennie, 
 isn't it, now ? " said the widow, warmly. 
 
 " Yes, mother, it is." No mistake about Pennie's 
 sense of satisfaction. She was at her ease at May- 
 field, and happy. 
 
 It was a substantial house with double doors and 
 no draughts ; crooked stairs in a corner, carpeted 
 with red, a square hall, tile-paved, long, low, sunny 
 rooms, with broad windows, cushioned seats, and little 
 panes ; solid old furniture kept at a wonderful polish, 
 and in the best parlour, pretty pale chintz curtains 
 and covers, chosen in deference to Pennie's wishes ;
 
 80 MR. WYNYARD'S WARD. 
 
 a piano, and a book-case with glass -doors. Mrs. Croft 
 preferred the stuffy crimson comfort of the little 
 dining-room, where she and her husband had always 
 sat, except on Sunday afternoons, wdien they dozed 
 in state over good books in the best parlour, to keep 
 it aired. But during Pennie's visits, the best parlour 
 was opened for daily use, and as she went upstairs to 
 the cleanest and sweetest of white dimity bed-rooms, 
 she saw the gleam of the fire through the door ajar, 
 and felt how nice it was, for a change, to be more 
 made of than anybody. 
 
 The first evening was not to get over without a 
 visitor. Pennie had come downstairs, had ensconced 
 herself before the fire in a chair, especially dedicated 
 to her service, and was cosily contemplating the red 
 play of the flames in the half light, and listening to 
 her mother's voice in high debate with Bessie, when 
 the garden door banged, somebody tapped at the 
 window in passing, and Mr. Richard Lister marched 
 in — a very loud young man, of whom the whole house 
 became aware the instant he entered it. " There is 
 no need to ask if that is Dick," said Mrs. Croft, 
 bustling into the hall. '' You are come to stay ? "
 
 PENELOPE AT MAYFIELD. 81 
 
 *' I'll have my tea, aunt. Nothing would serve 
 my mother but I must walk over, and see if you had 
 brought Pennie." 
 
 " Yes, she's there in the best parlour. Pennie 
 love, here's your cousin Dick." 
 
 Pennie rose and presented her small paw, w4iich 
 the young giant clapt between his two big ones 
 sonorously : — 
 
 "What a mite it is; she doesn't grow a bit," 
 said he, and chucked her under the chin, and bade 
 her look taller. 
 
 Poor Pennie hardly knew vv^hether to laugh or 
 to be angry, and while she was making up her mind, 
 Dick pulled a chair close along side of hers, and took 
 possession of her in a masterful, manly sort of way 
 that there was no getting rid of without being dis- 
 agreeable. Dick knew he was doing the cousinly to 
 admiration (as the cousinly was done in those parts), 
 and if Pennie had given herself airs of dignity, he 
 would only have teased her. She had wisdom 
 enough to understand that, and after a momentary 
 qualm, to take his assiduities in good part. He 
 helped her at tea to the daintiest messes, he made 
 
 VOL. I. 6
 
 82 MR. WYNYARD'S WARD. 
 
 lier play, and tried to make lier sing for him ; lie 
 asked if she could sew worsted work, and promised 
 to ride with her to the meet of the hounds ; and 
 before he took himself away, he insisted on a pledge 
 that she would dance the first dance with him when- 
 ever the party that was to be at Eood, came off. 
 
 "It is to be some day early next week, that's 
 all I know. But you'll come to-morrow, and see 
 my mother. Good-night, aunt, good-night, cousin 
 Pennie. Thafs to be all, is it ? " and touching her 
 fingers delicately, he made her a formal bow, and 
 walked with a mock majestic air into the hall. 
 
 " Did cousin Dick expect me to give him a kiss, 
 mother ? " asked Pennie, affronted, when he was gone. 
 
 " I daresay he did, love; it's Dick's way. The 
 gels at home spoil him. But never you heed his 
 
 nonsense." 
 
 ■» 
 
 Kood Grange lay in the fields about a quarter of 
 a mile wide of the abbey. It was mthin a moderate 
 walk of Mayfield, but Pennie rode and her mother 
 drove, as on the day before, it being Mrs. Croft's 
 intention, after showing her daughter at her brother's
 
 PENELOPE AT MAYPIELD. 83 
 
 house, to go round by Beckby to \'isit Mrs. Jones. 
 Pennie felt a shy reluctance to encounter again the 
 boisterous courtesies of her cousin Dick, but she 
 braced up her mind to bear them with complacency 
 rather than vex her mother, or make any of her 
 kinsfolk think she was '' above them " — a tendency 
 which she had seen and sufiered from on former 
 occasions. It could therefore be no disappointment 
 when they got to the Grange to hear that Dick was 
 gone to Xorminster with his father, and that only 
 aunt Lister and the girls were at home, with a fire 
 in their best parlour in expectation of the visit. 
 
 Mrs. Lister was a tall, handsome woman of six 
 or seven and forty, rather austere in her notions, 
 and veiy proud of her family, whose gravestones for 
 three hundred years back were to be seen in Eskdale 
 churchyard. Her daughters, Joanna and Lucy, 
 were shorter and homelier; without their mother's 
 beauty, but not v»-ithout her pride. They kissed 
 Pennie, and sat formally down again in their chairs, 
 and looked her over while tJic'ir mother and Jicr 
 mother talked about her in the frankest wa}'. 
 
 " She is the moral of Croft, the very moral of 
 
 6—2
 
 84 MR. WYN yard's WARD. 
 
 her father, she is," said her aunt, considering her 
 visage critically. " But never mind, Pennie, beauty's 
 but skin deep, and handsome is that handsome 
 does." 
 
 "I don't care for being ugly; I never think of 
 it unless I am reminded," replied Pennie quickly. 
 
 " Aunt Lister didn't mean to remind joii of it, 
 Pennie love ; she's better manners," said her mother, 
 patting her arm. 
 
 " I don't know what sort of manners Miss 
 Pennie's used to among th' Wynyards an' Huttons, 
 an' Raymonds, but I dessay they're much t' same as 
 our own," rejoined Mrs. Lister, who was piqued at 
 the allusion to her manners. " My fam'ly's as 
 good as theirs. Dobbies was in Eskdale before 
 any of 'em." 
 
 The challenge was not taken up. Everybody 
 who was neighbour to Rood knew Mrs. Lister's pet 
 theme, and avoided it as judicious people always do 
 avoid a crotchet and a bore. Joanna turned the 
 conversation adroitly by asking her mother if she 
 did not think Pennie's habit a lovely fit. Joanna 
 wanted a new habit herself.
 
 PENELOPE AT MAYFIELD. 85 
 
 " Yes, it sets very nice to the figure : I dessay 
 it's London cut." Mrs. Lister was not mollified in 
 a moment. 
 
 " No, it was made by Eobinson, the tailor at 
 Norminster," said Pennie. 
 
 *' Then, mother, I'll have mine made at Robin- 
 son's," cried Joanna. Joanna was rather high in 
 the shoulder, and flat in the waist, but nobody 
 suggested that there was something in the figure as 
 well as in the tailor, because nobody present felt 
 envious of her, or wanted to inflict a mortification 
 on either mother or dau^ter. 
 
 Mrs. Lister's feelings towards Pennie were com- 
 plex. She thought her as ordinary a little body as 
 ever stept, and yet she felt jealous of her. She was 
 aware that her sister-in-law had in her mind that 
 project about her handsome son, and she was ready 
 to forward it by evei-y means in her power, and to 
 hate Pennie, if Dick married her, with a teasing 
 querulous hatred such as women never indulge in 
 except to their sons' wives. Pennie was sensible of 
 her aunt's contemptuous antipathy, which dated from 
 several years ago, probably from the day when
 
 8() MR. WYNYARD'S WARD. 
 
 Jonathan Croft's will was read, and that public 
 slight of omission put upon his wife's family which 
 Lister of Kood had never forgiven, and which his 
 helpmeet had adopted as a reflection on the Dobbies 
 also. But she was a Christian woman who knew 
 her duty as a connection, a relative, and a neighbour, 
 and who plumed herself on fulfilling it in every 
 contingency. She therefore now stated her hos- 
 pitable intentions of giving Pennie a party, and said 
 Thursday in next week would suit her if it would 
 suit her sister Crofts. The widow was gratified and 
 showed it. 
 
 "A party at Eood, Pennie; what do you think 
 of that ? Rood's famous for parties and suppers ; 
 but it's the games and dancing you young 'uns cares 
 for. Eh, Joanna ? " Joanna laughed, and Pennie 
 said it would be very nice. 
 
 At mention of the games even Lucy, who was of 
 a sluggish temperament, grew animated. " We want 
 mother to ask Mr. Tindal, but she says it wouldn't do. 
 I wonder why it wouldn't do ? " cried she noisily. 
 
 " He is as free-spoken as can be," added Joanna ; 
 ^' and I dessay he'd like to come. People is not so
 
 PENELOPE AT MAYPIELD. 87 
 
 stiff as we are that has lived iu France ; and I'm 
 sui-e he must find it dull enough at home." 
 
 Mrs. Lister looked annoyed. " Mr. Tindal 
 makes himself verv friendly, talking to the gels, 
 but he's laughing at 'em half the time. I sha'n't 
 ask him any more than I shall ask young Squire 
 Raymond. It is the same thing exac'ly. Let folks 
 keep to their o'^ii kind. There's more sociability 
 and comfort \\ithout any of your grandees. No 
 offence to you, Pennie, you didn't choose where 
 you'd go live." 
 
 " They've not spoilt her, if they have made a lady 
 of her," said Mrs. Croft, who did not want for spirit. 
 
 " I'm not saying they have. But about Mr. 
 Tindal, gels, your father wouldn't allow of it, if I 
 would ; and there's things we needn't talk on be- 
 sides, and so let it rest. You'll have beaux in plenty 
 without him." Lucy relapsed into silence, aware 
 that it was useless to dispute when her mother had 
 spoken ; and Mrs. Croft reminded Pennie that it 
 was time they were going on to Beckb3\ 
 
 Pennie was glad to be in her saddle again ; the 
 social atmosphere at Ptood was not pleasant that
 
 88 MR. WYNYAIID'S WARD. 
 
 afternoon ; it would liave been pleasanter had Dick 
 been there. The visit to Beckby was more of a 
 success. Mrs. Jones was hearty and jovial. She 
 was all things to all men, and all women too. She 
 declared Pennie w^as as tall as her cousin Joanna, 
 and of a deal smarter make ; she admired her pony, 
 her hat, her whip, the way she did up her curly hair, 
 her habit, and even her boots. *' A neat foot and 
 ankle is my weakness," said she. " I was one gel 
 brought up with five brothers. Miss Pennie, and I 
 look always at a woman from a man's point of view." 
 " And I think that's the best and the kindest," 
 replied Pennie laughing ; and she told her mother 
 afterwards that she liked that fat Mrs. Jones who 
 did not make a stranger of her, much better than her 
 Aunt Lister. 
 
 Mrs. Croft was one of those robust women who 
 place enjoyment in activity. "Wlien she was alone at 
 Mayfield she minded her farm, her flocks and herds, 
 her kitchen, dairy, and poultry-yard ; but when 
 Pennie was with her, she felt a necessity for doing a 
 gi'eat deal more. Every day was dull and wasted in
 
 PENELOPE AT MAYFIELD. 89 
 
 which some excursion had not heen taken or some 
 visit paid. The weather continued bright and open, 
 and favoured her roving propensity. Pennie was 
 carried to see friends who were not seen once a year, 
 kinsfolk who Uved ten, twelve, fourteen miles off; 
 and one afternoon even up into bleak, wild, barren 
 Arkindale, where the clergyman's wife was her 
 mother's second cousin. 
 
 A little church, shingle-roofed, with a square 
 tower, stood side by side with a little house, also 
 sliingle-roofed, about which there was not a tree or a 
 bush, — only a wall with a narrow border under it, 
 and a grass-plot with a paved path running up from 
 the gate to the porch. A cluster of cottages hung 
 on the hill-side, five hundred yards or so to the left, 
 and some distance beyond them again, over a sharp 
 ridge, rose a faint cloud of smoke, which came from 
 the smelting-works at the lead mines. It was a 
 sunny day, and the bare expanse of fell did not look 
 so veiy di'eary as Pennie had been told it was. 
 
 The Kev. James Burton, in an old coat, with the 
 collar turned up to protect his ears, and a black felt 
 wideawake pressed down on his head to meet it, was
 
 90 MR. WYNYARD'S WARD. 
 
 digging in a patch of kitclien-garden at the windy 
 east end of his house, and putting in early peas — too 
 early, Mrs. Croft warned him. He was a J^oung 
 man, with abundance of rough energy, and his wife 
 was like unto him. The visitors found her rocking 
 her baby's cradle with her foot, and making new 
 flannel shirts for her husband with her fingers. She 
 was nice and bright looking, in radiant health, and 
 possessed of an equable temper. The baby was a 
 chubby specimen, worthy of its parents. 
 
 " We get on here capitally," said the wife, eager 
 to give a good account of herself. " Dull f We 
 have never been dull yet ! You can't think how 
 beautiful the fell was in the snow. And last autumn, 
 when the moors were in bloom — oh, I cannot describe 
 them ! I used to carry baby and my work out of 
 doors, and stay for hours in the sun. The parish is 
 scattered ? Yes ; there are some of the people up at 
 Dale-head, and one or two families right over the 
 hill. But only think if James had gone to Eupert's 
 Land, as he used to talk. Why then I suppose he 
 might have had to travel a hundred miles over the 
 snow when he wanted letters from home. I am sure
 
 PE^s^ELOPE AT MAYEIELD. 91 
 
 when Mr. Wynjard offered him this httle Hving, we 
 were as happy as happy could he. "What was the 
 good of waiting till we lost heart ? He is content, 
 and so am I. Even-thing is cheap, and coals are a 
 mere nothing — lucky, when we hurn so many." 
 
 "It is a real pleasm-e to see you take to your 
 lot so kindly, Elizabeth. Some young women would 
 feel here as if they was quite cut off" from the 
 world. But you never was one that cared much for 
 company. Pennie has a fancy to see the works ; 
 can Mr. Burton spare time, do you think, to walk 
 do^^Ti with her ? " 
 
 Elizabeth was sure he could, and summoned him 
 by a tap at the window to receive Pennie into his 
 charge. 
 
 ^lien Pennie saw Ai'kindale that winter after- 
 noon, it looked in its main features much as it must 
 have looked for hundreds of years ; but the mining 
 tillage was recent. Ten summers ago, a wandering 
 archaeologist had discovered some traces of an ancient 
 encampment, which, taken in connection with the 
 metallic indications in the hills, and the military 
 road that ran near, led him to believe that there had
 
 92 MR. WYNYARD'S WARD. 
 
 been a great Eoman mining station in the valley 
 once. The old pits in Colsterdale, which had been 
 worked for three centuries at least, if not for more, 
 had been long failing, and Mr. Hargrove caught at 
 the learned stranger's story, as at a new lease of 
 fortune ; carried it to Mr. Wynyard, and succeeded 
 in infecting him with his own sanguine expectations. 
 A colony of miners was transplanted from Colster- 
 dale, a hive of cottages, thatched with heather, grew 
 up, and the works, built on an extensive scale, were 
 set a-going — thus far only to their proprietor's loss. 
 
 Mr. Burton made Pennie observe how neatly the 
 village had been planned, and how it lay so that the 
 smoke from the tower-like chimney of the furnace 
 blew away from it except in one rare quarter of the 
 wind. A hundred or more acres of cultivated soil 
 had been rescued from the moor about it, which were 
 divided into portions belonging one to each dwelling. 
 Altogether it had the aspect of a place that had 
 started hopefully, that was very, very poor, but not 
 yet despairing. The cottage doors were shut that 
 winter day ; but school was just loosing, and some 
 thirty boys and girls, ruddy and stout enough, came
 
 PENELOPE AT MAYFIELD. 93 
 
 rushing noisily out of a building which served every 
 public purpose in the parish. The master, a hard- 
 featured man, with a humorous eye, followed, accom- 
 panied by his wife, carrying a large piece of 
 needlework over her arm, and her thimble still on 
 her finger. 
 
 " It is four o'clock; we must make haste, or the 
 smelting-house will be closed," said Mr. Burton, with 
 a pleasant recognition of his parish helpers as he 
 passed. Pennie quickened her pace, and in ten 
 minutes more they were at the works. From plat- 
 form to platform, where the bruised ore was washed 
 till it was almost pure dust of lead, they descended, 
 and looked into a vault where a vast water-wheel was 
 whirling with incessant mighty creak and splash. In 
 the smelting-house, bare-armed men, swart and 
 sweaty, were piling lumps of glowing coal on the 
 furnace, from beneath which the molten lead ran into 
 its reservoir. A mould stood by, into which one 
 Vulcan ladled the fluid metal like broth, while 
 another, with two pieces of wood, skimmed off the 
 scum and ashes. Pennie was glad to escape out of 
 the intense heat and roaring blast, and to look from
 
 94 MR. wynyard's ward. 
 
 a distance at the gallows-like apparatus erected over 
 the shafts of the mines, where the men went down 
 fathoms and fathoms deep into the bowels of the 
 earth, and in darkness and danger toiled six hours 
 daily at hewing the slender vein of ore, for a wage 
 and a tribute small in proportion to its small 
 produce. 
 
 Dixon, the foreman of the works, was in his 
 dingy little office ; himself a dingy little man, who 
 had not much satisfaction in his life. The incumbent 
 entered with Pennie, and asked him what news. 
 "None, sir; none at all. We're labouring away at 
 Vain Hope yet. But master says, ' Keep on ; keep 
 on,' and so, I suppose we shall keep on until he bids 
 hold. Look here, sir, what's this — gowld ? " He 
 brought out of his desk a physic bottle full of water, 
 in which, as he placed it against his dark coat sleeve, 
 Pennie saw a few bright yellow sparks of metal. 
 
 *' It is gold, sure enough," replied Mr. Burton. 
 
 "Eh, they declared it was. Job Eyder washed 
 it out yesterday. Master '11 be ranty again. We 
 once afore got as much gowld as was worth a pound 
 or two, and you'd have thought we'd found a
 
 PENELOPE AT MAYFIELD. 95 
 
 Californy to hear him talk. The missis and babbv 
 well, sir ? I say now w^e have got you and her, sir, 
 we only want a bit better luck here to be a flourish- 
 ing community ; but better luck don't seem like to 
 come." 
 
 Mr. Burton did not deliver himself of any oracular 
 hopeful predictions. He had said to Mr. Hargrove 
 more than once, that he thought the sooner the mine 
 was closed, the less loss there would be to all con- 
 cerned in it. 
 
 When Pennie and the incumbent reached his 
 house again, they found Mrs. Croft impatiently look- 
 ing out for them, and the pony and phaeton at the 
 gate. Good-byes were exchanged in haste, and away 
 the visitors went at speed. " Only daylight last 
 until we're down Gallows Hill, and I don't care," 
 said the widow. " I never like passing that, nor yet 
 Pedlar's Bones, after dark." 
 
 It was then five o'clock and glooming fast ; but 
 by keeping at a brisk trot for the next half hour, the 
 peril at Pedlar's Bones was escaped— the said peril 
 being a ghost popularly believed to haunt a spot on 
 the moor where fifty years ago a pedlar, who had
 
 96 MR. wynyard's ward. 
 
 been missing tlirough a long and terrible winter, was 
 found " in his bones only," and with his pack beside 
 him. The other and more real peril at Gallows 
 Hill, a steep, straight descent, which the rain kept 
 washed down to its stony foundations, was also passed 
 in safety, and Mayfield was reached soon after seven ; 
 but not until it was so dark that Jacob declared he 
 was just thinking of setting out with a lantern in 
 search of them.
 
 ( 97 ) 
 
 IV. 
 
 A TARTY AT ROOD GRANGE. 
 
 If anybody could have wandered invisible about tlie 
 kitchen-offices at Rood Grange on the two or three 
 days preceding Mrs. Lister's party, they would have 
 witnessed a stir of preparation that promised well 
 for the event. "\Miatever could be accomplished in 
 the way of things good to eat, with unlimited sup- 
 plies at command, Mrs. Lister and her daughters 
 manufactm*ed. Custards, creams, cakes, puffs, pies, 
 pasties, chickens roast and chickens boiled, with 
 rich white sauce frozen over their plump breasts, 
 ham, tongue, spiced beef, lamb, salad; queer knick- 
 knackeries, sweet and savoury, very delicious, of 
 which the Dobbies kept the receipts a secret and a 
 heirloom. A large order had been sent to the 
 confectioner at Xorminster for fruits, dried and 
 VOL. I. 7
 
 98 MR. WYN yard's WARD. 
 
 iced, crackers and other bou-bons ; and Mr. Lister, 
 on the morning of the great day, brought up from 
 the crj^t under the Grange a regiment of cobwebby 
 bottles, than which, he said, Wynyard of Eastwokl, 
 he was sure, had none older nor better in his cellar. 
 The fine linen, the dainty china, the glittering glass, 
 the old silver that belonged to the house, and the 
 silver that intimate friends had lent for the occasion, 
 had all been seen to by the mistress's own eye, and 
 when the afternoon began to draw in, she and her 
 girls could retire upstairs to dress for the evening, 
 without any fidgety anxiety as to how it would 
 go oif. 
 
 "When there is plenty to eat and plenty to 
 drink, a clean swept floor and a fiddle, I'm not afraid 
 of folks going away discontented, whether they be 
 young or old," said the hostess as her final orders 
 were given, and her final survey made. " And now, 
 gels, you'd best make haste, and put on your white 
 frocks to be ready when they come ; Mrs. Jones is 
 always early." 
 
 Eood Grange had a hospitable heart, and was 
 never in better humour than when entertaining its
 
 A PARTY AT ROOD GRANGE. 99 
 
 friends. Every guest- cliamLer was prepared — for a 
 party at the Listers' meant to several staying all 
 night. The best parlour had been festively adorned 
 with bowls of moss, crocuses, and snow-drops, and two 
 card-tables set out for those ancients who would not 
 do more than peep now and then into the room 
 where the dance was to be — a long room ^ith white- 
 washed walls and raftered roof, about which Dick and 
 a carpenter had made green boughs do tapestry 
 right handsomely. Benches borrowed from the 
 school-house were ran^-ed alon^r the walls, and a 
 kitchen table, with three chairs on it, was to serve as 
 orchestra. Already, before it was dark, the two 
 fiddles, one blind and the other lame, had arrived, 
 and had partaken of refreshment. A cornet had 
 been eno^ao^ed also, but did not come until well on in 
 the night, when he was announced by the master of 
 the ceremonies as slewed, and incapable of per- 
 formance. There was a long stone passage, not 
 well lighted, from the hall down to the dancing- 
 room, which had capabilities as a promenade, and as 
 a place for sitting out in the cool. Joanna saw for 
 herself that a seat was placed there. 
 
 7—2
 
 100 MK. WYNYARD'S ward. 
 
 The girls had the best parlour to themselves for 
 ten minutes after they were attired, — an interval they 
 spent complacently in admiring each other, and in 
 wondering how their young friends and especially 
 how their cousin Pennie would be dressed. Poor 
 Pennie ! she was dressed a great deal too much, as 
 she uneasily assured her mother. She had brought 
 nothing from Eastwold but warm woollen dresses ; 
 she never considered, nor did her mother think to 
 ask, what she was going to wear until the morning, 
 when the widow's dismay was painful to hear and see, 
 as the facts da^Mied upon her. Pennie suggested 
 that she must wear her Sunday blue merino. 
 
 " Nay, Pennie, you shall go fit to be seen, or you 
 shall not go at all ! " cried her mother. " I should 
 never hear the last of it from your Aunt Lister, if I 
 took you to her party in a high stuff frock. Joanna 
 and Lucy will be dressed out like May-day — artificials 
 in their heads as like as not. Bessie, Bessie," 
 calling impetuously from the top of the stairs. Bessie 
 came running up, wiping the soap-suds from her 
 arms. " Never heed your arms, my lass, but find 
 Ned, and tell him to saddle old Darby this minute.
 
 A PARTY AT ROOD GRANGE. 101 
 
 to go to Eastwold "v\ith a note from Miss Penelope, 
 and wait for an answer." Bessie rushed away. 
 " Now, Pennie love, you write off to Mrs. Wynyard 
 or nui'se to send you a white frock — that you w^ore to 
 Norminster Ball. Let us have you smart." 
 
 " It is silk and crape with bunches of lilies about 
 it, mother," remonstrated Pennie. 
 
 "All the prettier. I choose to have my little gel 
 as nice as other folks' little gels. Is there anything 
 for your hair? " 
 
 " Yes, there is a wreath to correspond." 
 
 " Then tell 'em to send that too, and all the 
 other trinkum-trankums you wore." 
 
 The note was ruefully written and despatched, 
 and about four o'clock of the afternoon, arrived Ned 
 back again, with a light deal box containing Pennie' s 
 finer}^ Mrs. Wynyard had caused a simple spotted 
 muslin to be sent with the gayer dress, but Mrs. 
 Croft would not hear of its being worn instead ; and 
 about half-past six, when the best parlour at Eood 
 was beginning to get full and hot, behold poor 
 Pennie enter, on her mother's proud ruby satinette 
 arm, her curly brown hair surmounted by a garland
 
 10-2 MR. WYNYARD'S WARD. 
 
 of lilies and leaves, crisp, rustling, airy skii-ts, white 
 satin shoes, white gloves, gold necklet, gold bracelets, 
 featheiy fan, and all complete. 
 
 '' What a picter ! " ejaculated Mrs. Jones, who 
 was sitting near the door. 
 
 " Eh, Cousin Pennie, you look like a bit o' froth ! 
 we must mind, and not blow yoa awa}^," roared Dick. 
 
 Mr. Wyn yard's ward, Mrs. Croft's rich daughter, 
 would have been an object of interest to the present 
 company whatever she might have been pleased to 
 put on, but in her elegant out-of-place costume, she 
 was an object of curiosity as w^ell, and of admiration 
 to not a few. Her Uncle Lister, who had not 3'et seen 
 her, came forward and kissed her sonorously, and her 
 cousins w^hispered, "^Yasn't she laid out! but how 
 brown her skin showed against all that white silk and 
 puffy crape ! " It was a great comfort that her skin 
 was brown under the circumstances. Pennie was 
 sensible of forty pairs of eyes settling upon her all 
 at once, but after a momentary spasm of shyness, the 
 absurdity of her feelings and her situation struck her 
 so keenly that she laughed up in Dick's face with a 
 merry confidence that amazed him.
 
 A PARTY AT ROOD GRANGE. 103 
 
 *' You are a wick'un, Cousin Pennie, I see what 
 you are," said he, and came to a full stop in his 
 obtrusive assiduities. He fancied she was making fun 
 of him, and Dick did not quite understand it. She 
 was not half so nice as Jessie Briggs, he thought, 
 staring across the crowded room in search of a couple 
 of bright hazel eyes, whose every glance he felt was a 
 compliment and a caress. But the bright hazel eyes 
 were engaged at the moment in scrutinizing Pennie, 
 and did not respond to his gaze. Their owner had a 
 face white as milk and red as roses, hair more tawnv 
 than auburn, a plump neck and arms, and dimples in 
 cheek, chin, shoulders, elbow^s and hands — she was 
 all dimples and softness, and lazy, sunny, good- 
 humoured vanity. 
 
 There w^as soon a movement towards tea, and 
 Dick, as he had been ordered, led oif Pennie, not 
 without a glance over his shoulder to see who was so 
 lucky as to be mated with Jessie. It was his friend, 
 Mr. Tom Boothby, and he was gratified to observe that 
 she did not seem over well pleased. Dick remained 
 standing until they had crushed in at the dining- 
 room door, when he signed to Tom to bring his
 
 104 MR. AYYNYAED'S WARD. 
 
 partner round opposite to him. He then took his 
 own seat with resignation beside Pennie, muttering, 
 '' That will do." 
 
 His mother observed the arrangement over the 
 tea-urn, so also did Mrs. Croft, and both disapproved. 
 Jessie was the helle of Eskdale, but she was one 
 amongst so many children that she was not likely to 
 have a penny to her fortune, nor was her family of 
 old enough standing to match with either Dobbies or 
 Listers. Dick had been " sweet on her " for a year 
 or two, but his own people were very discouraging, 
 and had looked to the advent of Pennie and her 
 money-bags as the time to make a breach and a fresh 
 start. And only see how badly he was beginning ! 
 Pennie formed a swift and shrewd estimate of the 
 case, and made herself very pleasant in whispers. 
 
 "Dick, give me some preserved apricots, and 
 tell me who that is opposite with the pretty bush 
 of waved hair." 
 
 " Jessie, here's my cousin Pennie asking after 
 you," said Dick, across the table. There was such 
 a clatter and chatter all round it now that any com- 
 munication was safe.
 
 A PARTY AT ROOD GRANGE. 105 
 
 Jessie smiled and nodded. " I'm proud to know 
 your cousin, Mr. Eichard : it's the first time we've 
 met." Pennie smiled and nodded also, but what 
 she replied was lost in the roar of a stout youujt^ 
 veomau on her left, who had a noisy habit of openint^ 
 his mouth with a guffaw whenever he spoke. 
 
 ''I'm afraid your lungs is bad, Gaskill ; you 
 should talk to Doctor," said Dick, drily. 
 
 "Who's to talk to Doctor? " inquired that busy 
 parish personage who had arrived late in top-boots, 
 and announced that he couldn't stay over an hour. 
 "Is it Gaskill "? I have been ad^-ising him to go to 
 My deary this ever so long. Try you at persuading 
 him, Miss Joanna." 
 
 "Nay, I'll have nothing to do with persuading 
 anybody, not I," responded the damsel. 
 
 The scrape of a fiddle had made itself heard 
 each time the door opened to admit a fi-esh relay of 
 hot buttered cakes, and signs of impatience began at 
 length to manifest themselves amongst the young 
 people. Dick looked at his mother entreatingly, 
 twice or thrice before she said : " Yes, be off with 
 you ! " when immediately chaii-s were pushed back,
 
 106 Mil. WYNYARD'S WARD. 
 
 and all who meant to dance crowded out into the 
 hall, and down the dim passage to the long room, 
 where a multitude of little oil lamps, dexterously 
 fixed amongst the evergreens, made it quite brilliant 
 with light. 
 
 " How pretty ! " " Well, I declare, and it is the 
 cheese-room ! " " What a nice floor ! " As these 
 exclamations flew about, one or two couples took an 
 impromptu galop to try it. 
 
 '' A^liat are we to have first ? " cried somebody. 
 
 " Sir Roger de Coyerley, of course ! " cried 
 another somebody — an old bachelor in a green coat 
 and gilt buttons, a dandy in his day, who had never 
 been able to make up his mind whom to marry, and 
 was now reduced to a wig, and to playing master 
 of the ceremonies, where a generation ago he had 
 played general admirer and heart-breaker. Bobby 
 Clough was his name, and his vanity was as exacting 
 and invincible now that he was '' poor old Bobby " as 
 it had b'een when he was " Bobby the Beau." 
 
 " I must take care and not put my hoof through 
 your smart frock, Cousin Pennie," said Dick, as he 
 whirled her to her place at the top of the set.
 
 A PARTY AT ROOD GRANGE. 107 
 
 " Never mind my frock, but let me enjoy myself. 
 It is such fun ! " replied she. 
 
 Fun it was, much louder and less restrained than 
 the fun at Brackenfield ; and quite a novelty too. 
 What voices had the young men ! what voices too the 
 girls — even Jessie. There was not much trace of the 
 dancing-master ahout any of them. They were accu- 
 rate in the figures, but what high capers some of the 
 heaux did cut ! Young Gaskill, for instance, though 
 his weight could have been nothing short of sixteen 
 stone, was light and buoyant as a feather on his toes ; 
 and Tom Boothby performed with as much agility 
 and precision as a clown at a country circus, showing 
 off the ancient style of dancing against the modern 
 lounge and wriggle. 
 
 While Sir Roger was in full career, Mrs. Croft 
 and Mrs. Jones came to look on and admire. " How 
 bonny that Jessie is," whispered the widow to her 
 fi-iend. " Dick's smitten awful — anybody can see it." 
 
 " They'll never be let put up their horses 
 together. Her mother was in service, and she's got 
 no money. Dobbies is all for money." 
 
 Bobby Clough sidled up to them. *' You'll take
 
 108 
 
 a turn presently, ladies, I dessay. I mean to cut in 
 myself. Sound of a fiddle to me is like sound of a 
 horn to my blind old horse in the paddock, that has 
 carried me through many a long day's run with the 
 Berrythorpe hounds." 
 
 "You're as young as ever you was, Mr. Clough. 
 Nobody wears like you. I was sapng so only yester- 
 day to Jones, who complains sadly of his rheu- 
 maticks, the ill-naturedest pain that is." 
 
 " Jones is a lucky fellow that has a good nuss to 
 see after him," said the bachelor -with a significant sigh. 
 
 ''And whose fault is it, you hav'n't a good nuss 
 to see after you, Mr. Clough ? " asked the T\idow. 
 Bobby cast a sheepish look at her — but for that 
 shabby will of Croft's he didn't know icliat might 
 have happened. 
 
 A loud clapping of hands apprised the orchestra 
 when to change the tune, and three sets of dancers 
 were next formed, in one of which Pennie figured 
 away with Mr. Tom Boothb}^ 
 
 "Your little gel has a sperrity air with her, 
 Mrs. Croft," observed her friend. " Tom Boothby's 
 fortun'et in his partner. It isn't many knows the
 
 A PARTY AT ROOD GRANGE. 109 
 
 Lancers right througli. Tom's steady now— he'll be 
 good for nothing after supper. Pity it is, to be sui'e, 
 that he's getting so fond of his glass." 
 
 " A beautiful voice leads a man direct in the way 
 of drink," said Bobbie Clough. " What a song Tom 
 sings. I'd rather by half listen to him than to any 
 of your sky-high quaverers at London Christmas 
 concerts and Canterbury 'alls. It is a real pleasure 
 to hear Tom. Is your daughter anything of a' 
 ainatour — of a musicianer, Mrs. Croft ?" 
 
 " She plays the pianer, Mr. Clough, but she 
 don't sing." 
 
 After the Lancers, Pennie came and sat down by 
 her mother for a minute, when Bobby Clough 
 instantly improved his opportunity, and with an old- 
 fashioned bow hoped he might have the honour of a 
 set with her. " Very happy," said Pennie, beaming 
 at him. '' Let it be a quadrille." 
 
 " The conceited old fellow, to ask her ! " ejacu- 
 lated Mrs. Jones, as Bobby handed his partner off. 
 
 *' Edinburgh Quadrilles," cried he to the orches- 
 tra. '' Tune up. Gaskill, will you be our vis-a-vis 
 with Miss Joanna ? "
 
 110 MR. WYNYAKD'S ward. 
 
 Three more sets were formed in a trice. 
 ''Pennie's very good tempered," said her mother; 
 " she don't much heed who she stands up with yet. 
 Who is Dick going to dance with? — Jessie again. 
 I'll go and take a hand at whist, now, Mrs. Jones. 
 I dessay you'll he for coming too." 
 
 The two matrons went off in company, and when 
 Pennie had concluded her set with the old heau, she 
 perceived that her mother's place had heen taken hy 
 her Aunt Lister, who was holding conversation with 
 no less a person than Mr. Hargrove. Lawyer 
 Hargrove was a favourite at Rood — " so much the 
 o-entleman," the girls said he was. Pennie for her 
 part never liked him, and she responded to his 
 respectful, "How d' ye do. Miss Croft?" with a 
 distant courtesy that made her aunt feel she had not 
 heen bred amongst gentlefolks for nothing. Mr. 
 Hargrove said not another word, hni he kept his 
 eye on her as she went revolving about the room 
 with her Cousin Dick in the mazes of the Sarabande, 
 which still survived here, a pretty and fashionable 
 dance, long after it had ceased to be the mode in 
 more dignified circles. Mrs. Lister called Pennie to
 
 A PARTY AT ROOD GRANGE. Ill 
 
 her when it was finished, and bade her rest a turn, 
 for she seemed heated. Lucy, with her face flushed 
 and hair flying, followed her to suggest that a game 
 should come next. 
 
 "Lady's Toilet," she whispered. 
 
 "Mr. Hargrove grinned: "And forfeits, Miss 
 Lucy ? " 
 
 " What is a game good for without forfeits ? " 
 retorted Lucy. "Will you play, sir? Will you 
 pla}'. Cousin Pennie ? " 
 
 Pennie said she would rather not, but such an 
 amazed remonstrance began, that she stopt it at 
 once by consenting to anything, and promptly taking 
 her place in the circle. Lucy pro^'ided a wooden 
 trencher, and handed it to Dick to spin first, while 
 everybody was fixing on his or her article of dress to 
 be called by. "Til be fan," and "I'll be slipper," 
 " I'll be comb, glove, sash," and so forth ; and when 
 all were settled and seated, swift went the trencher, 
 while Dick sang out, " My lady calls, my lady calls — 
 what shall I say my lady calls for. Cousin Pennie *? 
 her Petticoat ! " But before the ponderous Gaskill, 
 who had adopted that garment, could jump up and
 
 112 MR. wynyard's ward. 
 
 catch the trencher, it had twirled its twirl out, and 
 hummed down flat on the floor. 
 
 *'A forfeit, a forfeit!" cried Joanna, and then 
 giggled, blushed, and hid her face for a moment by 
 turning to whisper to her neighbour. 
 
 Gaskill, poor heavy wight, gave up his pipe- 
 stopper, and then did his devoir in the game, giving 
 the trencher a strong impetus and roaring for his 
 lady's hat, w^hen in dashed Pennie, seized the tee- 
 totum in mid-career, sent it ofi" anew, and screamed for 
 her lady's slipper. This brought pretty Jessie out of 
 her corner, but not quickly enough to escape a forfeit. 
 She gave a blue bow from her dress, and looking 
 round with a sweet helplessness, said, — " I don't know 
 what anybody is. What are you, Mr. Richard ? " 
 
 " He is Green Garters," said a very tall, lean- 
 visaged young man, all in black, and with black lank 
 hair, 
 
 Jessie spun the trencher, and called for green 
 garters. Everybody tittered and nobody stirred. 
 " He's playing you a trick, Jessie. None of us is 
 called that," said Lucy. *' Spin it again and cit, 
 feather, or fan, or something."
 
 A PARTY AT ROOD GRANGE. 113 
 
 *' That's just like you, Timothy, but I'll be even 
 with 3'ou some day," said Jessie, menacing the lean 
 young man, with all her dimples. He -fished she 
 would, and as she set the trencher going again, and 
 cried for her lady's fan, Lucy herself rose, and 
 cleverly contrived to knock it flat in attempting to 
 catch it. 
 
 *' That is a forfeit, Miss Lucy," said Lawyer 
 Hargrove. 
 
 " I know it is," returned she, and threw her 
 handkerchief on the heap with an air. 
 
 And so the game went on for half-an-hour or 
 more, when Bobby Clough suggested that the forfeits 
 must be redeemed, or there would not be time 
 enough to make an end before supper. The forfeits 
 were redeemed accordingly, not without a vast 
 amount of noise and laugljter. Bobby Clough 
 himself, with his eyes bound, was oracle. " Here 
 is a thing, and a very pretty thing, what shall be 
 done with this pretty thing ? " demanded Dick, 
 dangling the blue bow openly, and whispering aside 
 to Bobb}^, *'It is Jessie's?" Jessie was bidden to 
 whistle a stave from Garryowen, which, as she 
 
 VOL. I. 8
 
 114 MR. WYN yard's ^YARD. 
 
 could not, was compromised by a tribute to Dick. 
 Pennie had nothing to pay for, so she escaped from 
 the shrill clamour into the parlour to hear Tom 
 Boothby sing. Ah ! how he sang ! a rich, mellow, 
 pathetic troll that made hearts throb and eyes fill, 
 when he, and that most unpromising lean, black 
 young man, who was really the doctor's assistant, 
 joined with Gaskill and the host in a merry catch, 
 which made the eyes run over with laughter, and 
 before sides had ceased aching after that, there was a 
 cry raised, *' Come to supper." 
 
 The supper was Mrs. Lister's triumj^hant hour 
 of the night. 
 
 '' You mustn't expect to see am-thing as gi-and 
 as this at Beckby, Miss Pennie," Mrs. Jones warned 
 her. 
 
 Pennie was sure, in return, that Beckby would be 
 very pleasant. 
 
 If there had been hitherto any silent tongues 
 amongst the guests, they must now surely have been 
 all unloosed ; for the hum and roar were continuous, 
 with a running fire of crackers amongst the young 
 people. It was not until the supper was half over
 
 A PARTY AT ROOD GRANGE. 115 
 
 that Mrs. Lister was sufficiently disengaged from her 
 hospitable cares to notice how hers were placed ; and 
 then she saw that Dick had paired with Jessie, 
 Joanna with Gaskill, Lucy with the lawyer, and 
 Pennie — Pennie, for whom the party was given — 
 with the doctor's assistant ! She seemed to be 
 capitally entertained too, for her quaint little phiz 
 was all one laugh, and the lean, black-a-vised medico 
 never ceased talking, except to hear her response. 
 Buckhurst was a notorious wag, and at this moment 
 he was imposing on Pennie's credulity tremendously, 
 with an anecdote of how, when he was in Australia 
 (where he had never been) with Dr. Scoresby (whom 
 he had never seen), they had, on a very frosty day, 
 a hand-to-hand fight with a wild cat, as big as a 
 mastiff, whose coat was so electrical that when they 
 struck at her it gave out sparks that set his hair 
 on fire. 
 
 ** I should have expected it to grow crisp and 
 frizzy ever after," said Pennie, with demure in- 
 sinuation. 
 
 " So would anybody who did not understand the 
 philosophy of the thing," replied he, in a confident 
 
 8—2
 
 116 MR. WYNYARD'S ward. 
 
 tone. " Did you ever hear of tlie roan in America 
 that the alHgator played Jonah with ? No ; then 
 you don't read your newspaper. It is too long a 
 story to tell you now, but remind me of it the next 
 time we sit together at supper." 
 
 There was more dancing afterwards, until two or 
 three o'clock in the morning, when the company was 
 visibly thinning, and the blind fiddler had fallen 
 asleep. Soon after two, Mrs. Croft asked Pennie 
 what she thought about going home. Pennie was 
 quite ready, and Dick, again prompted by his mother, 
 helped her to wi-ap up, and was as coaxing and 
 teasing with her as he might have been with Jessie. 
 
 " Dick, I shall like you as well if you'll behave 
 to me as you do to your sisters," said she, dispensing 
 gently with some of his attentions. " We should be 
 better friends, I know." 
 
 " ^Miat a little odd thing you are, Pennie. They 
 give me a kiss at good-night, so it is only fair. 
 
 if 
 
 " Yes, she's coming, Aunt Croft ! I shall see you 
 safe into the phaeton." 
 
 There was a fine moon, and no wind, and the 
 short drive home was not disagreeable. "You
 
 A PARTY AT ROOD GRANGE. 117 
 
 enjo;yed yourself, Pennie, love ? " inquired her 
 mother. " Dick is the best-natured fellow that ever 
 was, but he tries to please too many." 
 
 " I should cleave to Jessie, were I in his shoes," 
 responded Pennie. 
 
 *' You don't know what's what. There's a many 
 things belongs to all things in this world. When 
 folks marries it is mostly for life." 
 
 " x^nd so it ought to be for love. That is my 
 view, mother."
 
 118 MR. WYNYARD'S ward. 
 
 V. 
 
 AN UNINVITED GUEST. 
 
 Pennie had been three weeks at Majfield. The 
 party at Beckby was over, and so also was Mrs. Croft's 
 return entertainment. Pennie had seen her kinsfolk 
 in the familiarity of their homes, had made acquaint- 
 ance with her mother's friends, and had left a kindly 
 impression on nearly all. And what impression had 
 they left on her ? 
 
 It was gi'owing dusk in the parlour. Mrs. Croft 
 had gone out by herself for a gossip, Pennie did not 
 know where, and she was alone. She had ensconced 
 herself in the window-seat with an old novel from the 
 bookcase, wi'itten in letters, but the story had not 
 proved interesting, and was now thrown aside. The 
 garden trees shook tempestuously in the wild March 
 afternoon, and ever and anon a blast of sleet whirled
 
 AN UNINVITED GUEST. 119 
 
 across the panes, foretelling of snow. Pennie had on 
 her pathetic face. She was thinking — " I hope I am 
 not unnatural, but I could not lead this life alwa^'s. 
 If I had never left them I should be happy enough 
 amongst them. I should feel as they feel, and think 
 as they think, but now I cannot. How tired I get 
 of their talk — beaux and butter, money and mice, 
 markets and marrying, and lambing ! Bessie in the 
 kitchen is better off than I should be here, for I have 
 no interest in anything. Dear mother, how good 
 and kind she is ! It would weary her to live ^y life 
 as much as it wearies me to live hers. She would 
 not know how to get through the day without her 
 farm and her farming frieuds. No, I must stay at 
 Eastwold ; and I can come over oftener now Miss 
 Rosslyn has left. It is only a morning's ride after 
 all. Yet it must be sad for her alone in these lono- 
 
 o 
 winter days and nights." 
 
 So her mother had told her, suggesting that she 
 
 should come home to Mayfield altogether. Pennie 
 
 was in infinite perplexity and distress about it. She 
 
 wanted to do what was right, and for a vexed moment 
 
 she felt as if her mother ought not to have put her
 
 120 MR. WYN yard's WARD. 
 
 on making such a sacrifice, nor yet on refusing to 
 make it. For a sacrifice in a large sense it would 
 assuredly be. Pennie had cultivated her intelligence, 
 her taste, her fancy ; she was not at all fine, but she 
 liked the friction of good company, and would like it 
 still better as she gi-ew more mature in mind. At 
 Mayfield she must either change her j^nrsuits or be 
 without one associate, one sympathizer in them. 
 Her most frequent T\ish was, that she had never left 
 home, but close upon it followed always a confession 
 to herself that Eastwold suited her now better than 
 home — Eastwold, with its faded refinements, its 
 sorrows and many cares, suited her better than the 
 rough jollity of her kinsfolk and her mother's 
 friends. Distance lent enchantment to Xhe view of 
 Mayfield, as of other places ; absence made Pennie's 
 heart grow fonder of the old barnyard and the 
 chickens. Since she saw them last, womanly senti- 
 ments had begun to bud in her, which were proving 
 not of the native briar, but of the foreign graft. 
 There had been a little aching sense of disappoint- 
 ment with her at odd moments ever since she came, 
 and when her mother spoke of her staying on for
 
 AN UNINVITED GUEST. 121 
 
 always, she only felt what an effort it had been 
 sometimes to behave as she was expected to behave. 
 
 She was going over it all in her own mind to no 
 profit when an event came to pass — an event of small 
 importance as it seemed, but which had its great 
 consequences nevertheless. 
 
 " Oh, dear ! oh, dear ! Whatever' s happened ? 
 the voice was Bessie's rushing to the back-door. 
 Pennie was off the window-seat, and out of the room 
 in a twinlding. " What's happened to you, sir ? " 
 
 *' Nothing worse than a sprained ankle, my girl. 
 Let me come in, and sit down a minute." It was 
 Mr. Tindal who spoke, as he limped with painfal 
 difficulty up the steps, supporting himself by the 
 wall. 
 
 " Take my shoulder, sir, — lean on me. Kitchen 
 is not redd up yet, it's only a step farther to best 
 parlour, sir, and there's a sofy there. Miss Penelope, 
 just run up to your mother's room, and bring down 
 that old leg-rest that was your father's. It's in 
 comer by clock." Pennie went and came quickly, 
 and Mr. Tindal was accommodated as well as could 
 be. He appeared to suffer acutely, for he held his
 
 122 MR. WYNYARD'S ward. 
 
 leg with both hands, and frowned under his hat 
 tremendously. 
 
 " What is good for a sprain ? I'm sure if I know ! " 
 ejaculated Bessie. "Do you know, Miss Penelope ? " 
 Pennie shook her head, and Mr. Tindal, looking at 
 her, applied one hand to the removal of his hat. 
 
 " I bear pain very ill," said he, apologetically. 
 So it appeared, for his face was grey to the lips. 
 Pennie got him some brandy, and wished her mother 
 would come home. Bessie proposed sending Ned off 
 to Allan Bridge for the doctor. ' ' I wish you would, and 
 if he is out, let Buckhurst attend," added the patient. 
 " Pray, don't stand. Miss Croft, or I shall feel less at 
 my ease still." As Ned clattered out of the yard on 
 Darby, Bessie returned to the parlour with candles ; 
 drew the curtains, stirred the fire, and said missis 
 would not surely be long now. She then went out 
 and shut the door> leaving Pennie to keep the acci- 
 dental guest company. 
 
 Who could be sociable in the first agony of a 
 sprain ? Mr. Tindal rejected Pennie's potion, and 
 sat glooming, now at his disabled limb, and then at 
 the fire. *' I shall not get back to Eood to-night.
 
 AN UNINVITED GUEST. 123 
 
 Will that lad of yours think to tell them as he passes 
 that I am here ? " he inquired presently. 
 
 Pennie knew little of Xed's ways, but arguing 
 from one boy to another — from Francis, Geoffrey or 
 Maurice, to him — she feared that he would not think 
 to do anything sensible that he was not bidden to do. 
 " But, you know, the doctor could leave a message as 
 he returns," added she, " or if there is likely to be 
 any anxiety about your absence, old Jacob shall go 
 now — at once." Mr. Tindal said there was no need 
 to trouble old Jacob, and then he relapsed into silence. 
 Pennie remembered her cousin's panegyric on him, 
 and thought he must be a very different person at 
 different times. 
 
 He was a man of one or two and thirty, and had 
 a fine sensible face, vdih. a cuiwe of healthy sarcasm 
 about the lips ; evidently not a man to be known in 
 an hom-'s idle society, though he could be free and 
 familiar enough on occasion to delight the fluttering 
 souls of Lucy and Joanna. At this moment, though 
 his features were contorted with pain, his countenance 
 was one to inspire liking and confidence. Uncon- 
 sciously he appealed to the kindness and forbearance
 
 124 MR. WYNYARD'S WARD. 
 
 of strangers wherever lie went, and Pennie's senti- 
 mental heart was peculiarly open to such an appeal. 
 She wished the doctor would come, she wished her 
 mother would come, hut most ardently she wished 
 she could do something for the sufferer herself. 
 
 Mrs. Croft was the first to arrive. *' Oh, dear ! 
 that I should have been out, Mr. Tindal, and that a gel 
 of mine should be so helpless as not to know what to 
 do for a sprain ! " was her cry. ^'Pennie, love, take 
 my bonnet and gloves, and go to my cupboard, 
 and, straight in front of you, you'll see a bottle 
 labled. " 
 
 " I'll wait for the doctor or Buckhurst, Mrs. 
 Croft, thank ye," interposed her reluctant visitor, in 
 alarm. " Perhaps it is more than a sprain. If my 
 boot were only off — it will have to be cut. Ah, no, 
 let it be — let it be ! " he remonstrated, before the 
 widow had touched his foot, and she was glad to leave 
 him to himself. His extreme sensitiveness shook 
 her nerves, and made Pennie run to ask Bessie if she 
 thought the doctor would be long. 
 
 "No, — listen. That's him riding into t'yard now." 
 Bessie went to open the door, and Pennie standing by
 
 AN UNINVITED GUEST. 125 
 
 the kitchen fire, recognized the voice of Mr. Buckhurst 
 entering with a joke. He turned in there first, put 
 down his hat and whip, and chafing his hands for a 
 brisk minute, nodded, and followed Bessie into the 
 parlour. 
 
 In less than five minutes he was out again, in a 
 cool hurry : " You'll have Mr. Tindal's company for a 
 month to come. It is a broken leg — just above the 
 ankle ; a slip on a loose stone, and a fall," said he, 
 and was gone. 
 
 Dr. Grey returned with his assistant, and Mr. 
 Tindal's man, shortly. The limb was set, and by 
 Mrs. Croft wept over. " Oh, how he bore it ! " sobbed 
 she, telling the story to her daughter and Bessie. 
 ^* Beautiful. He's resting now, j^oor fellow. There 
 goes your parlour, Pennie ; he says he won't stir till 
 he's well. Put supper in the dining-room, lass ; the 
 doctor and Buckhurst will be glad of something before 
 they go. Mr. Tindal's man'll sit up with him, and 
 I'll make his gruel myself. He's to get nothing else 
 to-night. I've a true pity for him," added she to 
 Pennie aside, "but I'd as lief he'd fallen before some- 
 body else's door. There never was a man that ill-
 
 1-26 MR. wyxyakd's ward. 
 
 luck dogged as it dogs him. One might fancy there 
 was a curse upon him." 
 
 Mayfield hardly knew itself on the morrow. An 
 uninvited guest (especially an uninvited male guest 
 with a broken leg) upsets the routine of small house- 
 holds completely. Pennie had no dulness or inoc- 
 cupation to complain of now. Her mother was 
 obliged to make her useful in all manner of ways, 
 and she complacently accepted the duties with which 
 she was charged, to relieve others for service in the 
 parlour. Dr. Grey congratulated her on getting into 
 training for a farmer's wife, and promised to tell her 
 cousin Dick what a clever, handy little body she was 
 — compliments Pennie did not appreciate from her 
 negligent co-trustee. Her leave of absence from 
 Eastwold was extended, and she no longer felt any 
 particular anxiety to return. She conceived a deep 
 interest in the tenant of her pretty parlour, from 
 which she was exiled for many days, while moans 
 and groans of pain smote her with yearning and pity 
 as she listened helpless at the door. The coming 
 and going of the doctor, of the housekeeper at the 
 Abbey, of Pierce, Mr. Tindal's man, and of other
 
 AX UXINVITED GUEST. 127 
 
 persons to help, to hinder, or to inquire, created a 
 pei-petual bustle and variety. The first hour of rest 
 in the daytime that Pennie enjoyed was one after- 
 noon when her mother slipped out of the parlour to 
 get a taste of fresh air in the garden (and of gossip 
 with Mrs. Jones), when she was bidden to slip in, 
 quietly sit her do\^Ti, and, if Mr. Tindal asked for 
 drink, to give it him, but not let him talk. 
 
 Pennie did as she was told with a gi-eat awe upon 
 her. Mr. Tindal had been at death's-door ; he was 
 as weak as water yet, and it was much if he got 
 better — so Bessie, and the strange nurse Dr. Grey 
 had provided for him at the worst, had talked 
 before her. Pennie had never be^n in the presence 
 of any one hovering on the confines of the other 
 world ; and when she entered the parlour, she felt 
 Hke going to chm-ch in Lent, when the pulpit was 
 draped in black cloth, and the choir pitched all their 
 tunes in a minor key. A low hon camp-bed had 
 been set up between the window and the fire, and 
 there lay the sick man, white, worn, pathetic, with 
 shut, sunken eyes, and close-cHpt hair. He was so 
 still that she thought he slept, but presently he
 
 128 MR. wykyard's ward. 
 
 muttered a wish to know what o'clock it was. Pennie 
 drew a Httle nearer, and said it was half-past three. 
 At the sound of a fresh voice he opened his eyes, 
 looked at her, and then at the table, where stood a 
 pitcher of refreshing drink, a glass, and a spoon. 
 She interpreted the glance into a thirsty desire, 
 poured some out, and offered it to his lips. 
 
 "Is Pierce here?" he asked. Pennie said he 
 was not. " Nor your mother ? Then try if you can 
 raise my head a little, so that I can get a convenient 
 sip." Pennie proposed the spoon. " That is right 
 — you will soon learn." His face took on another 
 expression altogether. " I feel that I have got a good 
 turn at last," said he. 
 
 " Yes, hut 3'ou must not talk," replied his new^ 
 nurse, with decision. " If you do, 3'ou will fall off 
 again." 
 
 "No, I shall not." This flat contradiction put 
 to flight Pennie's awe, and she felt no more solemn 
 than she had done when helping to wait on the 
 WjTiyard hoys once, all three convalescent and 
 fractious together after the measles. While she was 
 still presiding in the parlour, her mother returned,
 
 AN UNINVITED GUEST. 129 
 
 bringing in Dr. Grev, and, in reply to the usual 
 inquiries, the patient said he thought he might enter 
 on a course of amusement now. 
 
 " Is he off his head again ? A course of amuse- 
 ment when he can't lift his hand to his mouth ! " 
 whispered the vridow. 
 
 " Glad to see you in spirits, sir," said the doctor. 
 *' "We will put Miss Penelope in charge of you again. 
 She has stirred you up." Pennie remonstrated that 
 indeed she had only told him what o'clock it was, 
 and giyen him drink "v^'ith a spoon. " It is all right, 
 my dear, you shall giye it him again. A bit of 
 diYersion with his tonics will help him on." 
 
 YOL. I.
 
 130 MR. WYNYAKD'S WARD. 
 
 \t:. 
 
 A THORN AND FLOWER PIECE. 
 
 Penelope was still at Mayfield when the hlackthorn 
 winter was over. Mr. Tindal was still there, too, 
 but in a fair way, at last, towards recovery. He had 
 made himself very much at home in Mrs. Croft's 
 best parlour, like a man accustomed to frequent 
 change of quarters. Its pretty pale chintz furniture 
 was none the fresher for his seven weeks' occupancy, 
 and none the sweeter for his convalescent pipes. He 
 was not a docile patient, and the consequence had 
 been a bad bout of fever, and a hospital nurse from 
 Norminster, who frightened him into good beha\dour, 
 and brought him round. She was departed again 
 now, and he was left to the tendance chiefly of 
 Pennie, which also must shortly cease ; for the wed- 
 ding- at Brackenfield was drawing nigh, and she would
 
 A THORN AND FLOWER PIECE. 131 
 
 have to go. He really might have gone himself a 
 week ago, and Dr. Grey had suggested a removal ; 
 but Mr. Tindal then began to profess a concern for 
 the stability of his cure which he had not previously 
 evinced, and the result was that he stayed on. 
 
 It was now mid-April, a sunny bright morning, 
 and the parlour-window stood wide open to let in the 
 air. Mr. Tindal lay recumbent on the sofa, a cigar 
 between his lips, lazily watching the lazy motion of 
 the smoke as he puffed it away. Pennie was gone 
 into the garden to gather a few sweet violets, white 
 and purple, to offer to her mother's guest — a morn- 
 ing gift that had regularly accompanied her morning 
 inquiries since she had been admitted to do her part 
 in waiting on him. He espied her in the distance, 
 stooping over the violet beds, and raised himself 
 a degree or two that he might command her move- 
 ments, which he followed with as much interest as if 
 he were her lover. They had, in fact, struck up 
 a cordial friendship, and Pennie went and came 
 about him with the quiet assurance of a woman who 
 knows that her comings and goings are noted with 
 satisfaction. He did not care what trouble he gave 
 
 9—2
 
 132 MR. wynyard's ward. 
 
 lier. It was Pennie here, Pennie there ; I want 
 this, give me that ; read to me, sit where I can see 
 you, child, and so forth ; and Pennie was all cheerful 
 obedience. He had ceased to think of her as either 
 plain or queer ; he only felt that she liked him, 
 studied him, and was necessary to him. As for 
 Pennie, if the present life could have gone on for 
 ever, she would not have wearied of it. 
 
 By and by she turned towards the house, walldng 
 slowly, and stopping now and then to arrange her 
 posy. Mr. Tindal called to her : " Pennie ! " She 
 looked up at the window, and stept that way. " I am 
 brisker this morning, Pennie, ever so much. Grey 
 told me again yesterday, that I might go home — 
 must I?" 
 
 " There are your violets," tossing him lightly the 
 fragrant tuft, tied with a green silk thread. He 
 caught it, and said, " Was that the way she answei-ed 
 him ? " Pennie smiled a little ruefully. Her mother 
 had been tired of her guest from the beginning, and 
 now most heartily wished he would take himself off — 
 it was on a hint from her that the doctor had twice 
 spoken.
 
 A THORN AND FLOWER PIECE. 133 
 
 " I shall bid Pierce bring tlie drag over for me 
 this afternoon, Pennie, since you do not care." 
 
 *' I am going back to Eastwold myself on Monday." 
 It was now Thursday. 
 
 " Come in, and let us go on with our book. "We 
 shall not finish it now, but we will finish it some 
 day." Pennie moved away from the window, and 
 presented herself in the parlour. " Sit against the 
 light, child. What is that pretty red-leaved thing 
 just coming out by the glass ? An American trailer 
 — I thought so." 
 
 Pennie took up their book, placed herself where 
 she was told, and began to read. It was an Italian 
 story of Manzoni's, by means of which Mr. Tindal 
 had undertaken to improve her accent. The passage 
 was a description of wild mountain scenery at sunset. 
 She went through a page or more without interrup- 
 tion, and then, glancing off her book towards her 
 master, said: "You are not attending." He was 
 gazing at her nevertheless, meditatively, through the 
 fumes of his cigar, and he heard her voice, though 
 not her words. He asked why she did not go on, 
 and she proceeded, always aware that he was, as
 
 134 MR. wynyard's ward. 
 
 she said, " not attending " to lier pronunciation. 
 Presently she paused again, and Mr. Tindal emerged 
 from his abstraction. 
 
 "It is not interesting to-day, is it ? Put it by, 
 and let us talk," said he. *'You are sorry — I see 
 you are, and so am I." 
 
 Yes. There were tears in Pennie's eyes — foolish 
 tears. ''I don't know why," said she, and tried to 
 laugh, and shake them away. 
 
 " So end all pleasant things ! Come here, my 
 child," he held out his hand to her, and she gave 
 her own, looking away out of the window to hide 
 her face. Poor Pennie, tears were not becoming to 
 her, but she never thought of that. Her heart was 
 very full ; its pang quite as acute as that which 
 wrings the bosom of fair women in the like case. 
 She was j-oung, and hardly comprehended her own 
 distress. It was something much more poignant 
 than the parting pain ; something sprung of odd 
 mysterious words heard here and there, whose mean- 
 ing in her new self-consciousness she had never dared 
 to ask. She was feeling after it, when Mr. Tindal 
 spoke again.
 
 A THORN AND FLOWER PIECE. 135 
 
 " Pennie, I am a venerable i)erson in comparison 
 wdtli you, and have seen a deal of the world. I want 
 to keep you for my friend, dating from the night 
 when I limped broken-legged into this house. I used 
 to have plenty of friends. I have none now, — only 
 acquaintances. If you wish to know why, your 
 mother, or anj'body in Eskdale can tell you, who 
 remembers the events of seven or eight years ago. 
 Why do you look at me as if you were afraid ? " 
 She had turned with eyes of startled, troubled in- 
 quiry. He went on with more vehemence : " Pennie, 
 I was watching your mouth as you read, and I made 
 up my mind that you liked me, and would stick fast 
 by me; that you would hear that terrible story — 
 without being stirred from your kind opinion. I was 
 going to ask a pledge of you." 
 
 "Ask it — I believe in you — I shall always believe 
 in you," said Pennie in eager, tender haste to dis- 
 sipate the pain and distrust she perceived she had 
 caused. " I will not hear that story." 
 
 *' Hear it, Pennie, but hear me first. I am as 
 clear of that guilt as you, so help me heaven in my 
 extremity ! "
 
 136 MR. WYN yard's WARD. 
 
 How had they travelled to this view down a dark 
 vista from the violets, and the Alpine sunsets ? 
 
 He was dreadfully excited, half mad for a moment. 
 His mouth writhed and quivered, then his eyes filled, 
 and tears quenched that ominous spark of the devil. 
 His passion overawed Pennie, though it endured but 
 a few seconds. She saw it, and it was gone ; but 
 it was never forgotten. There was silence in the 
 air for a little while after, both wrestling for 
 composure. 
 
 Presently Mr. Tindal said : ''I have vowed to 
 myself again and again, that recollection shall not 
 master me — but it does, it does yet ! Mine is no 
 better than a dead life, Pennie, and I began it with 
 all manner of high hopes. Don't you forsake me, 
 child. See here — I made Pierce bring it from Rood 
 a day or two since — it is a ring my mother wore. 
 She told me on her death -bed to give it to the woman 
 I married. No woman would venture to be my wife 
 now, so I will give it you — a thank-offering for the 
 only genuine bit of love and faith I have found since 
 I lost her." He put it on a finger of her small brown 
 right hand, wrung it, and let it go.
 
 A THORN AND FLOWER PIECE. 137 
 
 Tlie April morning went on shining, the hirds 
 went on singing, and those two, suddenly and sin- 
 gularly allied, went on talking. A new and solemn 
 interest had entered into Pennie's life. She was 
 excited still, and did not see all its bearings, hut she 
 felt that something had come which she would not 
 for the world have had pass her by, though there was 
 such a strong under-current of trouble and mystery 
 in it. Mr. Tindal reposed himself T\ith watching her. 
 It was not love, like his passionate young love, that he 
 felt for Pennie, but only a longing for what would love 
 him, and give him rest ; be a medium through which, 
 perhaps, he might return to the common pleasures, 
 joys and cares of common life. For " that cottage- 
 smoke, that confounded inclination towards sitting- 
 still comfort," which Piichter says, gnaw at a man's 
 heart, had gnawed keenly at his for the last year or 
 two of his vagabondage. He had been made origin- 
 ally of good metal that bends without breaking ; and 
 there was spring in him yet, though the weight that 
 held him down had hung about his neck, until the 
 best and hopefulest of the years of his life had 
 drifted away, and he could even now, for the aching
 
 138 MR. wynyard's ward. 
 
 weariness of it, only lift his eyes at distant moments 
 to the sky. Since he had been at Mayfield he had 
 won a little ease by grace of Pennie ; had indulged a 
 dream of entire freedom for an hour, but had lost it 
 again in her frightened gaze. He could meditate 
 calmly now. 
 
 " I have no right to ask her to share my burthen; 
 but if the day should ever come that it falls off, and 
 she is free, I will ask her to share my rest." 
 
 It was the first bit of planning and promising 
 that he had made to himself during eight years that 
 he had lain in bondage to an accusation of which 
 there was neither proof nor disproof to be had. The 
 world did not give him the benefit of the doubt, 
 however. Pennie had dimly discerned in many 
 speeches of her mother that some great peril hung 
 suspended above his head, which might at any 
 moment fall and crush him ; but since he had spoken 
 of it, and had given her that passionate asseveration 
 of his innocence, the sense of unrest and perplexity 
 had left her. She gave her mind now consciously to 
 lo\-ing and trusting him ; and if there seemed in her 
 devotion something of sacrifice, to Pennie's temper
 
 A THORN AND FLOWER PIECE. 139 
 
 that was only a reason the more for persevering and 
 being staunch. 
 
 The clock on the stairs struck twelve, and a 
 minute or two later, Pierce, Mr. Tindal's man, came 
 to the door, and Pennie left him with his master. 
 The servant was worn and anxious-looking to a degree 
 that pained kind folks to see him ; as if at some time 
 or other of his life he had had a blow that had broken 
 him down, body, soul, and spirit. And that was the 
 fact. He had been born and bred about Eood Abbe}', 
 had served Mr. Tindal's father and mother, had made 
 the honour and fortunes of the house his own, as 
 hereditary retainers of old families occasionally will. 
 The calamity that had destroyed his young master's 
 happiness had crushed him to the earth, and he had 
 never risen from it since. He entered the parlour 
 with his accustomed face of woeful astonishment, 
 bovred respectfully to Pennie as he held the door 
 open for her to pass, and then turned to the occupant 
 of the sofa. 
 
 "How do you find yourself, sir?" said he ten- 
 derly, as one might addi-ess a friend lying in the 
 shadow of death.
 
 14:0 MR. WYN yard's WARD. 
 
 " Keady to go home. I want you to bring the 
 drag over at four o'clock for me." Mr. Tindal spoke 
 firmly and cheerfully : he never fell into his servant's 
 despondent tone. 
 
 " You must take another turn abroad, sir, to set you 
 up. Change of air and scene is good after an illness." 
 
 " I don't intend to go abroad again at present, 
 Pierce. I shall do very well at Eood this summer." 
 Pierce sighed unconsciously, and after a few more 
 mournful words retired. 
 
 " I have eaten your salt a long while, Mrs. Croft ; 
 will you stop and break bread with me on Monday as 
 you take Pennie back to Eastwold?" asked Mr. 
 Tindal, when all else was said, and he was getting 
 into the drag. 
 
 " Well, sir, we will if you wish it," replied the 
 widow, not altogether graciously. Pennie stood with 
 her at the garden- door, watching their guest's de- 
 parture. 
 
 " Thank you very much," replied he, and smiled 
 at Pennie. This had been agreed on between them 
 previously.
 
 A THORN AND FLOWER PIECE. 141 
 
 The horses began to move, and Mrs. Croft at once 
 drew Pennie back and shut the door. " Come in, 
 my girl," said she. '' How cold the east wind do 
 blow, to be sure, for all it is so sunny ! I wish 
 Mr. Tindal hadn't asked us to go to Kood. I doubt 
 we shall be the first that has been there since he fell 
 into his trouble. It would ha' sounded unchristian 
 to say him nay as he put it ; but it isn't much 
 appetite I shall have under his roof." 
 
 They went into the house, the mistress thereof 
 snuffing up disconsolately the odour of tobacco that 
 infected Pennie's parlour. " It must have a good 
 clean down, and the curtains and things must be 
 hanged out to sweeten for a day or two ; but we won't 
 begin on it till you're gone," said she, settling herself 
 by the fire-side for a chat, and feeling more relieved 
 to have her house to herself again than she knew how 
 to express. Pennie placed herself on the opposite 
 side of the hearth, and heard her mother recite what 
 a bonny deal of extra work she had had since Mr. 
 Tindal came, and what a bonny deal more there 
 would be to do in getting things to rights now he 
 was gone. "Not that I begrudge my trouble," said
 
 142 MR. wynyard's ward. 
 
 she; ''nobodj^ that knows me 'ull think that; but 
 I'd a fear and a terror upon me all the time lest 
 something should be found out, and him taken while 
 he was here." 
 
 "I am quite in the dark, mother," replied Pennie. 
 *' What is it makes the mystery about a man, whose 
 nature it is to be easy and generous, open and kind ?" 
 He had bidden her hear the story ; and she felt that 
 it was not possible to live at peace with herself much 
 longer in ignorance of it. 
 
 "What is it? Ay, 3'ou were too little to be 
 tolled, of course you were ; but since you've made 
 friends, it is good 3'ou should know, that you may 
 take heed, and say nothing before him you shouldn't. 
 I'm sure, poor fellow, I pitied him for one, and it 
 laid his mother low. She never held up her head 
 after, and Pierce was a'most as bad. Your Aunt 
 Lister saved the Xorminster Gazettes that had it all 
 in. I dessay she'll lend 'em you to read." 
 
 " He gave me this ring for a keepsake," said 
 Pennie, with a sudden impulse of confidence towards 
 her mother, extending her hand with the old-fash- 
 ioned diamond hoop upon it. Mrs. Croft drew it off
 
 A THORN AND FLOWER PIECE. 143 
 
 to look at it closer, and asked what were the words 
 engraven inside — she could not see them without her 
 glasses. " ' Grod send me well to keep;'" that is 
 what they are," replied Pennie. " * God send me 
 well to keep.' " 
 
 *' There's need He should keep us all," said the 
 T\idow, staring thoughtfully into the fire. " There's 
 a many unaccountable events happens in this world 
 that never gets cleared up. We want to trust some 
 one out and beyond of ourselves and of what's befallen 
 us, that we do. We're poor weak creturs, here to-day 
 and gone to-morrow." Mrs. Croft paused for a 
 minute or two in pious meditation, and then began 
 her story. 
 
 " I was at Rood when it was done, but who did 
 it is the mystery that isn't bottomed yet, and never 
 may be. We were all out in the gardens (and pretty 
 gardens they were when Mrs. Tindal was alive) after 
 lunch was over in the tent. Everybody had a story 
 after, no two of 'em alike, so I'll only say what I 
 saw myself. I was standing as it might be here," 
 laying a hand on the table, *' talking to Mrs. Ray- 
 mond of Eskford (I should tell you it was at a
 
 144 MR. WYNYARD'S WARD. 
 
 picnic at the Abbey, that Mrs. Tindal gave every 
 summer to her friends, and the big tenants), talking 
 to Mrs. Raymond in the shadow of some yew-trees, 
 that stands yet on the slope near the river. There 
 was a lot of low thick bushes behind us, and the 
 shrubbery, near a couple of acres of it laid out in 
 l^aths, and there the comj)any chiefly was, for the 
 day was August and melting. Not twenty steps off, 
 higher up on the grass, there was three gentlemen in 
 a group ; one was Mr. Wynyard of Eastwold, one 
 was Mr. Oxenden, parson at Berrythorpe, and the 
 other was Mr. Tindal' s brother, Hugh was his name, 
 and he was a year a two older than Arthur — him you 
 know. They was very merry all of 'em, talking as 
 I could hear by chance words, of Norminster races 
 that was to be the week after, and Hugh Tindal, 
 with a braggadocio way he had, was just giving a 
 toss with his left hand, when a gun was fired ofi" in 
 the bushes at the back of me. Hugh Tindal sprang 
 straight up, a foot or two into the air, and fell 
 forward, flat on his face — dead — shot through the 
 heart. Before one could breathe, Arthur ran out 
 from among the trees, and brushed by us, white and
 
 A THORN AND FLOWER PIECE. 145 
 
 staring, to where liis brother hiy. It was, you may 
 believe, a terror and confusion. Some cried to keep 
 off the ladies, some to fetch a doctor, some to search 
 the plantations : everybody giving orders and nobody 
 doing anything to a purpose, till Pierce came totter- 
 ing down the lawn, and gave him one look. ' Cover 
 his face,' says he, 'he's gone before his Maker that 
 equally judges all.' I remember the words as if I'd 
 heard 'em yesterday. Arthur helped to carry him 
 in and lay him in his chamber. A fine-looking man 
 he'd been as all the Tindals were, but a grief to the 
 mother that bore him, and if he wasn't much belied, 
 a shame and sorrow to other women as well as her." 
 
 "And they sought through the plantations, 
 mother?" said Pennie with pulses almost at a 
 stand." 
 
 " They sought 'em through and through for 
 days, they raised a hue and cry all over the country. 
 Who was at odds with Hugh Tindal ? Who was to 
 gain by his death ? No one could ever tell whero 
 the first whisper came from that said his brother 
 Arthur was the man ; but before he was buried it 
 was loud enough. Folka caught it up like wild-fire. 
 VOL. I. 10
 
 146 MR. WYN yard's WARD. 
 
 I won't deny, Pennie, that his look had struck me 
 at the time, and had haunted me after, for all I said 
 nothing. I won't deny either that I felt a prejudice 
 against him then, or that I have any douhts still." 
 
 It was growing gloomy in the parlour ; Mrs. Croft 
 stirred the fire, threw on more w^ood, and made a 
 blaze, while Pennie took up a newspaper, and held 
 it for a screen betwixt her face and the light. 
 
 " It was murder," said the widow, re-seating her- 
 self, " as black a murder as was ever done. If Ai'thur 
 Tindal did it, he has the devil's own fron,t to brazen 
 it out ; if he didn't, he's sufi'ered a world o' misery 
 for another man's crime. Dr. Grey said he won- 
 dered the lad didn't curse God and die ; for the 
 doctor never would hear a w^ord of Arthur's being 
 the villain. They had him up on a warrant before 
 the magistrates at Allan Bridge; every tittle they 
 could swear against him was sw^orn, and he was 
 committed to Norminster 'sizes. But w4ien the 
 'sizes came on, the grand jury found no evidence in 
 the bill likely to bring it home to him, and he was 
 let out of gaol ; for they said that if he was put on 
 his trial then, he was sure to be acquitted, and the
 
 A THORN AND FLOWER PIECE. 147 
 
 law could never touch him after, though the best of 
 proofs might turn up. And that's how he stands to 
 this day, neither cleared nor condemned." 
 
 ''It is a cruel case, mother. What cause was 
 there for his being suspected ? " 
 
 "Both he and Hugh were sweet on Miss Sylvia, 
 Squire Curtis's daughter at Methley Towers, and 
 though she was for Arthur, her family were all for 
 the elder brother who had the property. Here was 
 a sort of motive, if there had been enough to back 
 it. But though some folks said the brothers had 
 had words about her, it could not be made out that 
 they had ever really quarrelled in their lives. The 
 only stranger that had been seen about the place was 
 a woman with a bairn at her back : a poor lost 
 cretur who came, most likely, seeking harvest work. 
 There's a short cut through the Rood plantations 
 that leads to the Grange, and she was up and down, 
 and hanging about for a bit of victual, I daresay. 
 One of the lasses at the Abbey said she went to the 
 back-door to beg, and Pierce di-ove her off with bad 
 words. Then all of a sudden came the noise of 
 what had happened in the garden, and when she was 
 
 10—2
 
 148 MR. WYNYAED'S WAED. 
 
 hunted for, she wasn't anywhere to be found. But 
 what could she have had to do with shooting Hugh 
 Tindal, if they'd found her ever so, as people said ? 
 — a tramp with a baby. We may talk and talk, but 
 we know nothing for certain, except that a deal of 
 folks held to their hard thoughts of Mr. Arthur 
 when all was said and done — ay, and holds to 'em 
 still." 
 
 "What did Miss Syhia do, and his mother? 
 
 What did he do himself afterwards ? " Pennie asked. 
 
 " His mother, poor thing, she died, a week or 
 
 two before he came back from Norminster. Miss 
 
 Sylvia believed what she was told, and that was the 
 
 worst. He took it all in a proud bitter way, and 
 
 stood his ground a goodish while at the Abbey before 
 
 he gave up. I've heard Dr. Grey tell of his riding 
 
 to the meet the Tsinter after, and finding never a man 
 
 but himself in the field to shake him by the hand. 
 
 Folks said he'd taken to the property as if he was 
 
 glad to get hold of it, and they kept him off" hke the 
 
 Dlague. He's been a capital landlord, I must say, 
 
 and has neglected nothing but his own place. He 
 
 stayed there through the spring and summer by
 
 A THORN AND 1X0 WER PIECE. 149 
 
 himself, when it was newsed about that Miss Sylvia 
 was going to be married to a Sir Thomas Brooke, 
 a gentleman she'd met in London, and before the 
 wedding was, he took himself off to France. It 
 was only just before Christmas that he came back. 
 Some people pities him in their hearts, I do believe, 
 seeing him so forsaken, and yet holding his head up, 
 and looking 'em in the face, like a man that won't 
 let himself be killed by a lie if he can help it." 
 
 ^' It is a lie, mother; nothing else. Be sure 
 of it. I am ! " cried Pennie with tears in her 
 voice. 
 
 " I wish I could be sure of it, joy ; I've ever spoke 
 him kindly for fear I was wronging him in my 
 thoughts ; but it is a real relief to my mind that 
 he's gone to his own house again, and left me mine 
 to myself. I wonder when Bessie's going to let 
 us have any tea. I must be seeing after her. 
 Pennie, love, if I was you I should say nothing 
 to your cousins or Aunt Lister about that ring Mr. 
 Tindal's given you ; it will be better not. It is 
 enough you've told me." 
 
 Pennie acquiesced, adding that she intended to
 
 150 MR, WYNYARD'S AVARD. 
 
 solicit silence on her mother's part had she not 
 counselled it herself. 
 
 When Mrs. Croft rose the next morning Bessie 
 had news for her. The loveliest of Alderney cows 
 had just been led into the yard by Jacques, who was 
 in the kitchen waiting to see her. 
 
 " If Jacques expects me to ware money on his 
 lovely Alderney coo, he'll be disappointed," said the 
 widow. " What has he brought her here for ? I 
 may ha' wished for a Alderney coo, but I've no 
 thoughts o' buying one. Give him his breakfast, 
 and I'll speak to him when I come down." 
 
 After a brief interview with the grazier, Mrs. 
 Croft sought Pennie, her comely countenance all 
 a-glow with satisfaction and surprise. 
 
 "It is very handsome of Mr. Tiudal, I'm sure ; 
 and I never expected no return ! What do you 
 think, Pennie, love ? He's sent me a present of 
 a Alderney coo, a perfect picture she is ! Come 
 out and look at her — such a downright beauty as '11 
 make your Aunt Lister a'most jealous o' Mayfield 
 dairy." 
 
 Pennie did not need twice bidding. She seized
 
 A THORX AND FLOWER PIECE. 151 
 
 her straw hat, and followed her raother across the 
 barnyard to the daisied pasture, into which Jacques 
 and old Jacob were inducting the Alderney. 
 
 " See ye here. Miss Penelope ! " cried Jacob, 
 *' see ye here, this pritty, sweet, dossil cretm-, you'll 
 ha' to larn milking, that you will." 
 
 " If Miss hasn't larnt milking yet, it's time she 
 did, and here's a rael coo that a queen might milk," 
 added Jacques. 
 
 Pennie stepped into the deep dewy gi*ass to caress 
 the beautiful animah 
 
 "Let us call her Daisy, mother, the dainty, 
 prim thing," said she. " Oh, what soft, gentle eyes, 
 and a skin like satin ! " 
 
 " She'U tek to her : she'll larn milking uoo, she 
 will," chuckled Jacob ; Pennie's reluctance to " larn 
 milking " being a standing theme of argument 
 between him and the " young missis." 
 
 Second only to the pleasure of receiving Mr. 
 Tindal's munificent gift was the pleasure of telhng 
 about it. Pennie was in nowise astonished to hear 
 her mother propose that after dinner they should 
 take a walk over to the Grange to see her Aunt Lister.
 
 l/:2 MR. WYN yard's WARD. 
 
 '' You'll fall to bid her good-by before you go, 
 and tins may be the last chance you'll have. But 
 you'll come for a week or so hi ha^dng time, Pennie, 
 love, won't you ? " 
 
 Pennie replied that she certainly would if it 
 depended only on herself to arrange it. 
 
 The report of the Alderney cow had flown to the 
 Grange before them, and Mrs. Lister was full primed 
 with congratulations. 
 
 " We have heard of your fine present, sister, and 
 I'm sure you're in luck," said she. " Jacques tells 
 Dick she's the very beautifulest young coo ever he 
 bought. His orders was not to stick at price, and I 
 dessay it is worth every penny he paid for it; for 
 Jacques is a judge of a coo. I shall step down to 
 Mayfield some day next week, and look at her. I've 
 always wanted a Alderney, though master likes his own 
 breed best ; Alderneys is such good uns for cream 
 and butter." 
 
 " They are. I'm right pleased, I can tell 3'ou. 
 But I never looked for no such return." 
 
 *' It is no more than right though, sister, that he 
 should make one. You must have had a sight 0'
 
 A THORN AND FLOWER PIECE. 153 
 
 extry work — bad as a month's wash going on for six 
 or seven weeks." 
 
 " Naj^, nay, not such a harass as that. Since he 
 took the turn to mend, Pennie's had most o' the 
 watching, and keeping him quiet wi' reading. It 
 was sitting still got over me. But now, God he 
 thanked, he's all right, and is gone home to the 
 Abbey again." 
 
 " I'm sorry your cousins is out, Pennie," said her 
 aunt, turning to her with a little stiffness. " They've 
 rode over all three of 'em to Litherby Force. If 
 they'd known you was free, they'd ha' been glad o' 
 your company, I dessay. We have seen nothing 
 of you for a month an' better." 
 
 '' Poor gel, she's been tied pretty close," said the 
 widow, rallying to the defence of her daughter whom 
 she felt that her Aunt Lister rather pecked at. 
 " When she's gone out, it has only been into th' 
 garden of a morning, or for a canter on the moor 
 of an afternoon, when I can best bear sitting still 
 myself. It hasn't been gay visiting at Mayfield this 
 time — always excepting your beautiful party and Mrs. 
 Jones's — but she's been a good lass, and a comfort
 
 154 MR. wynyard's ward. 
 
 to lier mother, that she has, and I don't care who 
 knows it." 
 
 *' If I was to praise my Lucy to her face i' that 
 way, she'd be so set-up as never was. But I dessay 
 Pennie's got more sense. You'll stop and have a 
 cup o' tea, sister, w^on't you ? The master's gone 
 to Norminster for to-morrow's market, but Dick and 
 the gels 'uU be back by three." 
 
 Pennie was rather sorry to hear her mother con- 
 sent, but she did not show it ; and when she w^ent 
 upstairs to take off her bonnet, she put on her best 
 behaviour. And she had her reward. Dick and his 
 sisters came home in high good-humour, all more or 
 less tired, and pre-disposed to be quiet, and just as 
 tea w^as set on the table, in dropped a little brisk 
 gentleman with grizzled hair and whiskers — the new 
 vicar of Eood, whose predecessor had lately been pro- 
 moted to a parish and a canon's stall at Norminster. 
 
 The Rev. Harry Featherston was making his 
 first round of visits to his flock, and when he was 
 warmly invited to share the evening meal at the 
 Grange, he did not excuse himself by reason of 
 his dinner with his wife being at seven, but sat
 
 A THORN AND FLOWER PIECE. 155 
 
 down like a man of the world, took a cup of tea, and 
 laid a good foundation of opinion in liis two leading 
 female parishioners' minds at once. He was already- 
 well up in the annals of his cure. When Mr. Tindal's 
 name was mentioned, he looked grave and passed no 
 remark; when Mrs. Lister caused him to discrimi- 
 nate between her owti daughters and her niece, he 
 showed his knowledge of Pennie's wardship, by 
 inquiring how Dr. Brown at Eastwold was, adding 
 that Eastwold had been his own first curacy. Half- 
 an-hour passed pleasantly and swiftly ; and when 
 Mrs. Croft intimated, as the yicar took his leave, 
 that she was losing her daughter on Monday, he 
 said : " Then I will bring my wife to see her to- 
 morrow. They ought to be acquainted." Pennie 
 was glad, thinldng how much more agreeable it 
 would be for her at Mayfield, if she had a friend 
 in the clergj^man's wife, than it was with only her 
 cousins and Mrs. Jones. 
 
 She and her mother did not stay long after Mr. 
 Featherston was gone, for the daylight was ah-eady 
 waning, and neither of them had any fancy for a walk 
 home in the dark. When they were ready to go,
 
 156 MR. wynyard's ward. 
 
 Mrs. Lister called to her son : " Dick, j^ou'll set your 
 aunt and cousin Pennie, a piece of the way home, 
 won't you ? " 
 
 Of course he would, and his hat was on his good- 
 natured curly head in a minute. Pennie had kissed 
 her aunt and cousins good-by, and had gone a few 
 paces down the path towards the garden-gate, when 
 Dick issuing from the porch, said : " Not that way, 
 Pennie. We'll cut off a bit of the road by going 
 through the Abbey woods. It isn't dark yet, and I 
 dessay none of us is afraid o' ghosts." 
 
 " Not us ! " responded Mrs. Croft cheerfully. 
 " And we'll just ask at the lodge as we pass what 
 sort of day Mr. Tindal's had. You've heard of the 
 beautiful Alderney coo, he's given me, Dick ? " The 
 key-note of their conversation thus struck, Pennie let 
 her mother and cousin walk on before ; and thinking 
 her own thoughts, followed up the gloaming meadows 
 that lay between the Grange and the Abbey woods.
 
 ( 157 ) 
 
 VII. 
 
 EOUND ABOUT KOOD ABBEY. 
 
 The way was not long. In rising the gradual ascent 
 from tlie river, Pennie could discern the front of the 
 Abbey, all the windows blank except one on the 
 ground floor, which shone with a red glow through the 
 twilight. She said to herself that there Mr. Tindal 
 was, and when she lost it again at the entering mto 
 the woods, she felt that the night had fallen dark all 
 at once. Under the fir-trees it was very gloomy, but 
 up near the Abbey, the plantations opened into glades, 
 and winding paths of shrubbery, through which 
 again were glimpses of the grey walls, the bright 
 window, and the shadowy gardens. At a certain 
 point, Mrs. Croft waited until Pennie came up, and 
 while professing to take breath, managed to intimate, 
 without calling Dick's attention, that hereabouts was
 
 158 MK. WYN yard's WARD. 
 
 the place from whence had come the shot that killed 
 Hugh Tindal. Pemiie shivered irrepressibly as she 
 glanced round on the undistinguishable bushes 
 growing close to the ground, with the boles of tall 
 trees springing up amongst them, and the black 
 clump of yews not ten paces oif on the open slope of 
 the lawn. 
 
 Five minutes more brought them to the lodge, on 
 the steps of which stood Pierce. In answer to Mrs. 
 Croft's inquiries, he said his master had passed a 
 favourable day, and had been out a little while in the 
 garden. Dick went no further than the old Abbey 
 gateway, and once on the high-road, Pennie and her 
 mother stept out fast. It was a dry, sharp night with 
 an eerie east wind whispering in the rookery trees 
 which spread their broad boughs over the garden wall, 
 and darkened the path. The church and the vicarage 
 stood about mid-way between Rood and Mayfield, and 
 they had just crossed the grave-yard, which cut off an 
 angle, and shortened their walk, when Pennie said she 
 was sure she heard a child crying, and stopt to listen. 
 Her mother urged her to come on, but the pitiful little 
 voice rose shrill and terrified, and she could not resist
 
 ROUND ABOUT ROOD ABBEY. 159 
 
 tlie impulse to run back along the road to see if the 
 child were alone. No, l3'ing on the path under the 
 churchyard wall was a woman, fallen insensible, so 
 far as Pennie could judge — at all events, fallen help- 
 less ; and running to and fro, equally helpless, making 
 the night echo with her cries, was a little girl, bare- 
 footed, bare-headed, all one flutter of ragged clothing 
 and ragged hair. Her loud complaint had been 
 heard at the vicarage also, and as Mrs. Croft reached 
 the spot, a female servant appeared hurrying down 
 from the house. 
 
 " She's di-unk, I dessay. Whisht, bairn, whisht, 
 you're enew to deave a body ! " gi-umbled the last 
 comer. " Oh, Mrs. Croft, ma'am, is that you ? It's 
 so dusk, I didn't know you at the moment, I'm sure." 
 
 Apologies and compliments were abbreviated by 
 the arrival first of the vicar, and then of the vicar's 
 man. By this time Pennie and her mother had con- 
 trived to raise the forlorn wayfarer's head, and to 
 discern that it was probably famine, and not drink, 
 that had overtaken her on her journey. The xicuT 
 ordered her to be carried into his kitchen, and while 
 this was being done, Pennie tried her best to still the
 
 160 :mr. wynyakd's wakd. 
 
 child. It was food and warmth she craved rather 
 than caresses, and though her keen cry sank to a wail 
 at the sight of the fire and the strange faces, it 
 sounded even more distressing. As soon as they had 
 seen the poor waifs taken under shelter, Mrs. Croft 
 whispered to Pennie, that they were in good hands, 
 and she had better leave them, and come away ; for 
 she could be of no use, but only in the road. 
 
 The stranger had been set down in a chair by the 
 hearth, and divested of a tattered shawl that covered 
 her head. While Mrs. Featherston administered 
 strong stimulants to restore her to consciousness, the 
 child crouched beside her, quiet now, devouring a 
 cake that the cook had given her. She appeared 
 about seven or eight years old, but she either could 
 not, or would not answer the questions put to her, 
 except only that her name was Alice, and the woman 
 was her mother. Presently^ like a little tired dog, she 
 coiled herself up and went to sleep^ It was so long 
 before the woman showed any sign of returning 
 sensibility that Mrs. Featherston gi-ew alarmed, and 
 would have Doctor Grey sent for; but before he could 
 arrive, she had rallied, had taken some food, and had
 
 ROUND ABOUT ROOD ABBEY. IGl 
 
 risen to be go"ie. This, however, the ^icar would not 
 jiermit, and when she saw he was peremptory, she 
 resigned herself, and sat passively staring into the fire. 
 
 Oh ! the wan, wasted, dreadful face ! Mrs. 
 Featherston, who was a round little rosy button of a 
 woman, and knew nothing of the -v^-icked world but 
 what she read in good books, looked at it like a 
 revelation. This was the manner of fa^e that 
 haunted the ghastly London lanes where the Bible- 
 women went to seek out souls that were perishing. 
 This was the mask tliat womanly beauty took on 
 when guilt and misery had drenched the womanly 
 nature through and through. What did sh^ here — ■ 
 offscouring of some foul city streets in the green 
 lanes of Eskdale ? 
 
 Dr. Grey arrived in a fuss — it was much, the 
 messenger had told him, if he found the woman alive 
 when he got to the vicarage. As he came into the 
 kitchen she turned her head to the door, and he 
 stood with the latch in his hand for a minute facing 
 her — evidently recog-nizing her, and she as evidently 
 recognizing him. She began to fumble at her shawl 
 to put it on, and roughly shook the child awake. 
 VOL. I. 11
 
 16-2 MR. wynyard's ward. 
 
 " Get up, Alice, let us be going," whispered she, 
 always with her eyes on the doctor. 
 
 " Stop a bit, there's no hurry," said he kindly. 
 *' I don't like to have a ride by night for nothing." 
 
 Cook and the other servants were about their 
 business again. No one witnessed this unexpected 
 meeting but Mrs. Featherston, and she was discretion 
 itself. She could see all without seeming to see 
 anything. The doctor soon told her what she had 
 already discovered, that want and misery were the 
 sickness he had been called to heal ; and then again 
 the desolate woman said she would be going; she 
 wanted to get to Allan Bridge, to the poor-house 
 where they would take her in. 
 
 *' She might as well," said the doctor, addressing 
 the vicar's vdie. " She would be in the way of your 
 servants here. I'll give her a cast in my gig, and 
 drop her at the door." 
 
 Almost before the words were out of his mouth, 
 she was ready ; the child was on its feet, and the old 
 rag of a shawl that had covered her own head, was 
 cast over its elf locks. Mrs. Featherston quickly 
 brouiiht from her clothes store, a coarse hooded
 
 ROUND ABOUT ROOD ABBEY. 163 
 
 duffel cloak, which she gave to her — to keep, said the 
 little rosy woman chokingly, in reply to an eager 
 question. The doctor helped her into his gig, lifted 
 the child into her lap, and drove off through the now 
 murk night, while the vicar's wife sought her 
 husband in his study, and announced with an air of 
 discovery, " She is an Eskdale woman, John. 
 Doctor G-rey knew her, though he did not choose to 
 say anything." 
 
 *'Is this Hugh Tindal's child, Alice Pierce?" 
 asked Doctor Grey when he had driven on in silence 
 for a few minutes. 
 
 " Yes, doctor. My father's at the Abbey now, 
 isn't he, sir?" The doctor replied in the affirmative. 
 They were just passing the gateway. The lodge 
 within was all dark ; the house thi'ough the trees 
 invisible. 
 
 "Have you been in Eskdale since you went 
 away mth him ?" 
 
 " Once — only once. I was here that day he was 
 shot, doctor. I saw it done. I wish I was dead ! " 
 
 " It is a keen night : wrap your cloak over 3-our 
 
 11— :i
 
 164 MR. wynyahd's ward. 
 
 breast. You saw it done, did you, Alice ? You 
 know that it has always been laid to his brother 
 Arthur?" 
 
 "No, I know nothing. I saw him drop, struck 
 through his bad heart, and I went my way. I'd no 
 call to cry for him. My father sent a curse after me, 
 and refused me a bit to eat. Oh, if she was only 
 dead, and I was dead ! " 
 
 There was another silence which lasted until they 
 were nearly at their journey's end. As the gig 
 crossed the old steep bridge of a single arch over the 
 little river Allan, which gave the country town its 
 name, the doctor said : " The master and matron at 
 the house are man and wife, strangers here ; they 
 come from Liverpool w^ay. They will not recognize 
 you, if nobody else does. I should advise you to 
 stay quietly there until you have recovered your 
 strength, and then to try if your father will foi-give 
 vou, and put jon in the ■ way of earning a decent 
 living. I suppose that was your object in coming, 
 Alice ? " 
 
 " I don't know what was my object, doctor ; it 
 was like as if I could not help it. And now I'd fain
 
 ROUND ABOUT ROOD ABBEY. 165 
 
 be back where I came from. I've no ho2:)e, and I cau 
 get no rest. It is all just judgment — the scourge 
 that's di-mng me, I t\sined and knotted it myself." 
 
 The doctor did not gainsay her. The gig 
 stopped opposite a high wall with a white door in it, 
 at which he got out and rang, the rickety-rackety 
 jangle of a broken bell answering his energetic pull, 
 and waking up all the echoes and sleeping dogs in 
 the bleak market-place. After the lapse of a minute 
 or two the master appeared at the door with a 
 lantern. 
 
 '' Jefferson, here's a woman and child the parson 
 at Eood picked up starving by the way-side. The 
 woman must go into the infirmary. I'll drop in 
 early to-morrow and see her." 
 
 ''Very good, Doctor Grey. Old Sainsbury's 
 gone dead this afternoon, sir ; he went off quite quiet 
 at last." 
 
 " Ah, well, it's a release. You'll look weU to the 
 woman ; she may want an eye on her, you under- 
 stand •? " 
 
 This confidential communication made and 
 responded to, the doctor helped Alice out of
 
 166 MR. WYNYARD'S WARD. 
 
 the gig, saw her and the child pass into the poor- 
 house yard, and then drove slowly across the market- 
 place to his own door, cogitating very seriously on 
 the night's adventure. If it had not been so late he 
 would have turned his horse's head back agarin to 
 Eood there and then ; for here was a difficulty to 
 unravel harder than a tom-fool's knot to untie. 
 
 The doctor was not a man of energy except in 
 the way of his business, but he was a man of heart 
 and probity. He could know a thing about which all 
 the world was curious without yearning to achieve 
 a cheap notoriety by talking of it. His morning 
 thoughts were not less grave than his night thoughts, 
 but they were more cautious and reserved, and when 
 he saw Alice again, he was glad he had not gone to 
 Rood on the spur of the event. She shared the sick 
 ward with two women so ancient that they were past 
 minding anything but gruel, tea, snuff, and the fire. 
 Her bed was next the window, and there she la}-, 
 wakeful and anxious, when he entered. 
 
 " Give me something to make me sleep, doctor; 
 the longer the better," said she. " I've had no rest 
 all night. I should like to shut my eyes, and never
 
 EOUND ABOUT ROOD ABBEY. 1G7 
 
 open 'em no more." She did not mention her child, 
 nor did the doctor tell her that the little creature was 
 fretful, sickening, he feared, for the scarlet fever. 
 Misery is selfish, and her own sensations absorbed 
 her. The matron was within earshot, and the 
 rheumy, mazy eyes of the ancient women were 
 looking that way. The doctor could only speak his 
 common formula of question, counsel and comfort, 
 and go ; but he contrived to convey to Alice an 
 intimation that the secret of her being there would 
 not be noised abroad by him. 
 
 After his visit to the poor-house. Dr. Grey set 
 forth on his daily round, leaving Buckhurst at home 
 to answer casual comers. He took Rood Abbey 
 nearly the last, arriving on his visit to Mr. Tindal 
 about the middle of the afternoon. Pierce ushered 
 him into the library where his master ■s\as, and left 
 them together. Mr. Tindal had been employed in 
 looking over a file of old newspapers when he was 
 interrupted. He was tired and dispirited — had been 
 doing too much, as the doctor plainly told him. 
 
 " I want my little nurse to amuse me. You are
 
 168 MR. WYi^ yard's ward. 
 
 her guardian, Grey, along with Wynyard of Eastwold, 
 are you not ? ' ' 
 
 "Yes, I believe I am; but she has nothing to 
 thank me for in the way of care," replied the doctor, 
 awakening all of a sudden to an embarrassing case, 
 which had grown up under his nose quite unobserved 
 and unsuspected. He shirked away from it, for the 
 moment, by inquiring what his patient had been 
 doing to get so weary and excited. 
 
 " Trying to find a way out of the wood," said 
 ^Ir. Tindal, pointing to the newspapers stream on the 
 floor and table. " I will rest no more until I do. 
 There is a way, and I think I descry the guide-post." 
 "Ha! I \\dsh you luck, that I do. What track 
 are you on ? " 
 
 " You remember the whole dreadful business ? " 
 " As well as if it liad only happened yesterday." 
 '' There is a story in Monday's Times of a girl 
 shooting a soldier in the park — shooting him dead : 
 for jealousy and revenge, of course. My brother 
 Hugh had given more than one woman the same 
 reason to change love for hatred, and sweet for 
 bitter : notably, Alice Pierce and Aimee Yibert.
 
 BOUND ABOUT ROOD ABBEY. 1G9 
 
 Could that dark gipsj-coloured woman who was 
 sought after — but not half sharply enough — have 
 been Aimee? Alice was light-corn plexioned." 
 
 "Yes, Alice was fair," repeated the doctor. 
 " Grey eyes, clear pale skm, not much colour, and 
 nut-brown hair. A proud lass in her innocent days, 
 but not one to stop half-way to the devil when she 
 had started." 
 
 "Her father assures me he has never seen or 
 heard word of her since she left her home. She 
 may be living or she may be dead, for anything he 
 knows — or wants to know." 
 
 " Ha ! " ejaculated the doctor, thinking to himself 
 how shrewdly the old fox had kept her secret, and 
 confirmed in some pre-conceived strong suspicions 
 by Pierce's falsehood. There had always been a 
 misty crooked notion in his mind that the woman 
 in the wood was the ass'assin, and that Hugh Tindal 
 got only right served for his sins. After a brief 
 pause he asked his patient : " Could you ever guess 
 where the first whisper rose from against you? " 
 
 " Never. I had not an enemy in the world that I 
 was aware of. I had done no man wrong, and no
 
 170 MR. wynyakd's ward. 
 
 woman either. My only rival was Hugli himself — 
 in whose good graces was shouted out on the house- 
 tops. I hear she is very happy -^ith Sir Thomas 
 Brooke, and thrives amazingly." 
 
 " Yes, she is fat and well-liking, and either takes 
 troubles lightly to heart, or has a light heart to take 
 'em to. She has bm*ied three children, and keeps 
 one — a son." 
 
 Mr. Tindal took a cigar. '* You don't smoke, 
 Grey, I know." He enjoyed his own pleasure for 
 some minutes in brooding silence, but just as the 
 doctor was beginning to feel his company superfluous, 
 he brought forth his thought." You are the one 
 friend that never had a doubt of me, and therefore I 
 can talk to you face to face. Has it ever occurred to 
 you as an interpretation of Pierce's most remarkable 
 dolour that he could tell the truth about Hugh's 
 murder if he would ? " 
 
 "I'll tell you what has occurred to me — that his 
 behaviour and manner of speaking to and of you, 
 have done more than anything else to keep alive the 
 suspicion that was bred nobody knows how, and 
 nobody knows where. He is so confoundedly pro-
 
 ROUXD ABOUT ROOD ABBEY. 171 
 
 tective and guarded, both in your presence and 
 behind your back, that he suggests to sentimental 
 minds the notion that he is standing always between 
 you and a dreadful fate." 
 
 " So said my deft little nurse at Mayfield. 
 Pennie declares that Pierce provokes her past her 
 patience. I hare entreated him to put off his 
 mourning, and go less like a ghost, but to no 
 purpose. And the man's anguish is real enough, 
 Grey — there's no feigning there. If his Alice had 
 Ix-en swarthy, I think I coold haTe unriddled the 
 rid<lle. I mean to try hard as it is — I have a reason 
 more than I had for wishing to be cleared." 
 
 " I can read your reason ; well — you shall have 
 my consent ; Pennie is a worthy little laxly. But let 
 the clearing go before the declaration, Tindal. She 
 is Tery young, she has a great fortune, and we live iu 
 a censorious age;" 
 
 ' ■ I wish she had not a sixpence ! I don't want 
 her money, but herself — she understands me." 
 
 " Not a doubt of it, and I daresay she likes you 
 the better for being an IQ-used man." 
 
 '' I am not sure of that. Pennie hates a mystery.
 
 172 MR. wynyard's ward. 
 
 She is as eager as I am that the cloud should 
 break.*' 
 
 *' Should you know Aimee Yibert if you saw her, 
 or Alice Pierce ?" 
 
 " Not Aimee — I never saw her, but amongst 
 Hugh's things there were some miniatures — I'll show 
 you them. I have devised no plan of proceedings 
 yet ; a blood-hunt is not after my heart, but I think 
 I shall set a search on foot after Aimee." As Mr. 
 Tindal spoke, he unlocked a drawer in a cabinet by 
 the fire-place, and brought out several small cases 
 which he opened, and handed in succession to the 
 doctor. 
 
 " Ah, poor Alice, this is very like her, — and this 
 is Aimee? A dark skin, Tindal, but not a bad 
 countenance," 
 
 " No ; tender, touching. There is more of the 
 Magdalen repentant about her than about Alice. 
 That is Lady Brooke." 
 
 '' 'Umph — time has increased her charms. Pretty 
 sylph here — she is almost overwhelming for figure 
 now." 
 
 At this moment Pierce threw open the door, and
 
 ROUND ABOUT ROOD ABBEY. 173 
 
 announced Mr. Featlierston. While Mr. Tindal 
 received liim, the doctor closed the cases, and laid 
 them in a pile together. After a minute or two of 
 general talk he rose to leave. 
 
 " One moment, Grey ; how is that poor woman?" 
 said the vicar, arresting his departure. " Is she at 
 the poor-house?" 
 
 '' Yes ; I saw her this morning. She wants rest 
 and nourishment ; nothing more." 
 
 "You don't know where she came from? My 
 vrde is interested in her." 
 
 *' No, I do not," answered the doctor, point- 
 blank. In fact, he did not know where Alice had 
 come from ; and leaving the clergj^man under the 
 impression that his shrewd little wife was mistaken, 
 he made his escape. 
 
 Pierce attended him to his gig with his usual 
 soft-going mournfulness. The doctor compassionated 
 him from his soul ; hut there was irritation mingled 
 with his pity. He eyed the old servant keenly, and 
 asked with some abruptness, *' Have you any intelli- 
 gence of Alice yet, Pierce ? " 
 
 " That is what my master has been asking me
 
 174 MR. wynyard's ward. 
 
 this very morning, sir. Have I any intelligence of 
 Alice yet?" said lie, giving no direct reply, but 
 looking up in liis questioner's face with tremulous 
 agitation. 
 
 *' Well, have you? God knows, Pierce, that I 
 am not the man to be hard on you or on her, but 
 don't you think, honestly now, that the innocent has 
 suffered for the guilty long enough ? Look what his 
 life has been. Wasn't it you that breathed the blight 
 on it to screen the woman in the wood ; and wasn't 
 the woman your Alice ? Perhaps Hugh Tindal did 
 not get much beyond his deserts ; but that sort of 
 wild justice has ceased to be appreciated in these 
 days. If you knew where Alice was, would you help 
 her out of the country, and then would you let in 
 what daylight you can upon that tragedy ? It must 
 dawn sooner or later." 
 
 " But I don't know where she is, sir. I hope 
 she's gone where the weary are at rest." 
 
 " No, Pierce, she is in the poor-house at Allan 
 Bridge — she and her child. She has told me that 
 she was here that afternoon, and saw it done. It is 
 all coming out plain enough to me."
 
 KOUND ABOUT ROOD ABBEY. 175 
 
 " She is my daughter, sir, — what would you have 
 me to do ? " asked the okl man, in an agony of 
 appeahng misery. 
 
 *' I would have you tell your master all you know, 
 and without delay." There was no suggestion of 
 compromise in Doctor Grey's aspect, and his tone 
 intimated that if Pierce did not follow his ad^ice, he 
 would certainly speak himself. 
 
 " Give me a little time, sir ! Oh! if you knew 
 the winsome thing she was — the pretty winsome 
 thing. No one rememhers that but me. They could 
 never have proved it against Mr. Arthur. I was 
 well aware of that, sir." 
 
 " A man might as well be dead as carry Cain's 
 mark upon him. It will be safer to confess now than 
 to keep silence, for he will not bear it any longer in 
 peace." The doctor gently shook the reins, and 
 turned out through the old Abbey gateway, in the 
 open court within which, secure from listeners, this 
 conversation had taken place. 
 
 The church bells were ringing for morning service 
 at Allan Bridge, and all the respectable population of
 
 176 MR. WYNYARD'S WARD. 
 
 tlie little town were trooping across the market-place 
 to the wide open doors, when Doctor Grey set forth 
 on his Sunday round. He was sprucer in his dress, 
 as became the better day, but working, with him, had 
 often to stand for prajdng, and it was rarely he saw^ 
 the inside of a church. His district extended far and 
 wide amongst the hills, and he went on his mission 
 of healing as sedulously to the crippled broom-maker, 
 who lived high upon the moor near Pedlar's Bones, 
 as he did to the well-paying squirearchy and yeomanry 
 who had their comfortable being in the rich lowlands 
 of the dale. His first visit was, as usual, to the 
 poor-house. 
 
 The matron brought him, to begin with, into a 
 faint, chill room, where Alice's child was the solitary 
 occupant. The little creature was unconscious, toss- 
 ing, fretting, and moaning in a burning fever. ''I 
 don't think she'll pull through it, Doctor Grey," said 
 the woman. '' They rarely do when they are like 
 this." The doctor asked if her mother had been 
 told. " No, sir ; master judged it better not. She 
 is as flighty herself as ever she can be. She has got 
 a sleepless fit on her like that young woman we had
 
 KOUND ABOUT ROOD ABBEY. 177 
 
 to move to Xormiuster Asylum last autumu. I 
 shouldn't wonder if she ended there too ; it is horrid 
 to hear her grinding her teeth, and raging, as if she 
 had something bad on her mind." 
 
 "Does she talk much ? " 
 
 " Nothing to be understood, sir ; only wishing 
 herself dead, and that. Mr. Clewer was here yester- 
 day afternoon, but she was sullen then, and took no 
 notice ; though I do think if ever there was a young 
 minister that had the right way with him in deaUng 
 with such as come here, it is surely him." 
 
 " I'll go u^) to her, and just you call old Hannah 
 and Sally Perkins out of the way. If she is low, 
 you must watch her." 
 
 "^Mien Doctor Grey entered the sick ward, Alice 
 was sitting up in her bed, her face bowed down upon 
 her knees, rocking her body to and fro, and moaning 
 in the miseiy of her heart. He called her twice 
 before she heard, and raised her haggard eyes ; and 
 then, after staring vacantly at him for a moment, she 
 droj^ped her head once more into its former position. 
 '•' I will come in again later," said the doctor, as he 
 passed the matron on the stairs. ''You can only 
 VOL. I. 12
 
 178 MR. WYNYARD'S WARD. 
 
 take care at present that she does herself no mischief. 
 Her wits are going." The matron fancied the doctor 
 was very short, and not so feeling as he generally 
 was. She could not guess what a relief he was 
 experiencing to think that perhaps God might be 
 pleased to call this poor soul to His mercy, and 
 thus to simplify a task that he felt to be cruelly 
 difficult. 
 
 He took Kood first in his round this morning. 
 Mr. Tindal had gone out into the sun, and was 
 making a tour of the lawn, with the aid of Pierce's 
 arm and a stick. He looked delicate, but fresh and 
 almost gay. Pierce was as usual desolate and re- 
 spectful. '' This is a good move," said the doctor. 
 "You will soon colour again in the air; your skin 
 takes kindly to the tan. Exchange Pierce's arm for 
 mine a few minutes." 
 
 The servant resigned his office and retired, his 
 master looking after him with a countenance almost 
 of compunction. " He has told me, Grey. Poor 
 old Pierce, I've known him from a lad ! I had not 
 the heart to be righteously indignant when I heard 
 that it was perhaps to save his own daughter, I had
 
 EOUND ABOUT ROOD ABBEY. 179 
 
 been sacrificed. The sudden sense of release at last 
 was too great happiness to be spoilt by crucifying 
 liim anew. What a life he must have led — for he 
 has loved me after a manner, and has felt every pang, 
 every humiliation, every loss that came on me like a 
 fresh sin added to his burthen — he says so ; I declare 
 I gave him not one reproach ; I could not." 
 
 '' It must have been a deliberate deed — if she did 
 it. A journey — a disguise ; and what do you propose 
 to do in the matter, Tindal ? Vengeance for Hugh's 
 murder is evidently not in your thoughts." 
 
 " I have given Pierce a promise to bear my yoke, 
 and not to publish the fact of Alice being here that 
 miserable day, until she is out of the road. Pray, 
 therefore, that it may be soon." 
 
 " I daresay it will." The doctor then gave 
 Mr. Tindal an account of how he had found Alice 
 that morning. He listened, but his inclination was 
 rather to expatiate on his own feeling of freedom and 
 buoyant life, than to hear any mournful history. He 
 said his first impulse had been to go to Church to 
 give thanks, but Pierce had suggested that it would 
 be so strange to see him there, the people might 
 
 12—2
 
 180 MR. WYNYAED'S WAED. 
 
 wonder ; so he liad come out under the open heaven 
 instead. 
 
 " I only long to tell Pennie, but I shall refrain ; 
 when I tell her that, I shall tell her more besides. 
 You have vouchsafed me your consent, Grey," he 
 added pleasantly. 
 
 " Yes." The doctor had not leisure to stay long 
 at this time of the day, and soon Mr. Tindal had his 
 garden and his contented thoughts to himself. As 
 he sat in a sunny south-sheltered corner, near the 
 house, he could hear floating across the still Sunday 
 fields the sweet singing in church, and his own soul 
 swelled with gratitude to the Almighty power that, 
 after all his straying in the Tvilderness, had set his 
 feet once more in a straight and open path. 
 
 Amongst the many sad and painful things he 
 had to remember, he had perhaps fewer to regret 
 than most men of his age. Originally of the better 
 end of human kind, even his terrible calamity had 
 not been able to pervert his sense of the right and 
 the good. He had taken the lot that had fallen to 
 him, never willingly indeed, but at length submis- 
 sively, and when he could no longer endure the
 
 ROUND ABOUT ROOD ABBEY. 181 
 
 averted faces, and suspicious regards tliat met him 
 everywhere about home, he had betaken himself to 
 the wider world, w^here men come and go, and no one 
 asks whence or whither. Thus he had lived by 
 necessity, as hundreds live by choice — without 
 friends or intimates — hanging only on the acquaint- 
 ances of a week or a day. 
 
 Who knew the streets of the world more wisely 
 than Arthur Tindal ? or the churches, the theatres, 
 the prisons, the antiquities, the pictures, the things old 
 or the things new that are to be seen for a silver fee ? 
 He was not drawn to the deserts and solitudes of the 
 earth. If he must be alone, still let it be in a crowd. 
 He liked to move amongst his kind, to hear voices, 
 to watch the little dramas that are perpetually enact- 
 ing on the stage of life. Pierce travelled with him 
 everywhere — a lugubrious shadow projected out of 
 the dismal past, a memento mori that never ceased 
 its sighing. Yet neither shadow nor sighing could 
 get their cold chill into his bones. He raged now 
 and then indeed furiously. What a capacity for 
 happiness he had — what a keen sense of appreciation 
 for the feast of earthly good things, at which he
 
 182 MR. wynyard's wakd. 
 
 miglit never sit down ! — for who sits and eats in 
 peace with Damocles' sword hanging by a hair above 
 his head, and with his convives eyeing him askance 
 as if his presence were poison in the dish ? He 
 looked on, thinking no more to taste the sweet and 
 the savoury, mingled for most mortals so ingeniously 
 with the bitter of life. He looked on, sarcastically, 
 sadly, yearningly, hungi'ily for nearly seven 3- ears. 
 He had a taste and a palate still undulled, and an 
 appetite that, instead of turning away sick, grew only 
 more and more craving, until he declared at last he 
 must eat or die. 
 
 So it came to pass one morning shortly before 
 Christmas, being then at Avignon, he announced to 
 Pierce his determination to return to England. The 
 servant exerted his utmost efforts at dissuasion in 
 vain. His master would go. He had been long 
 enough a stranger and pilgrim, and he would return 
 to the house of his fathers. Who could tell whether 
 the Eskdale families might not have repented their 
 harsh behaviour, and be willing now to give him 
 again the hand of fellowship ? He had reached 
 home. Rood Abbey received him without a welcome.
 
 ROUND ABOUT ROOD ABBEY. 183 
 
 A week — a fortnight — a month elapsed. Not a man 
 sought him out. He mounted his horse and rode to 
 the meet at Bernihorpe ; he followed the field all 
 day ; he was in at the death, but nobody appeared to 
 recognize him as one of their company. He had 
 gone away, a rustic young fellow, under an awful 
 cloud ; he had returned, a man "vsith the air of travel, 
 experience, cultivation, and world-weariness. Spring 
 and summer, autumn and winter, the times and the 
 seasons had gone their round, but the bovine fixity 
 of Eskdale opinion had stirred not a whit. Here 
 was the Cain who had killed his brother ; the mark 
 had been plainly set ; let him be outcast still. 
 
 A feeling akin to despair had descended on him 
 when he saw there was no repentance and no change. 
 He went about glooming, and trying to fight it oft'. 
 It was during one of his dark days that he met 
 Penelope Croft riding to Mayfield with her mother. 
 It vras during another that he fell before their 
 hospitable door, was taken in, was taken care of, and 
 had his wounds bound up with tender Christian 
 charity. Whether he would have seen love in 
 Pennie's eyes had they met, where all was gay and
 
 184 MK. WYNYxVRD'S WARD. 
 
 all serene, is a doubtful question. Perhaps lie would 
 not have taken patience to consider the face that was 
 more pathetic than pretty, that had no regularity of 
 feature or beautiful bloom of colour. But shut up 
 with it so often alone, he had learnt to see that 
 the countenance was womanly and thoughtful, that 
 the eyes were now sparkling with mischief, now soft 
 with an inexpressible tenderness, that the mouth 
 was delicately firm, the skin clear and smooth as 
 satin, and susceptible of a rosy flush under provoca- 
 tion. Pennie was fastidiously dainty and neat in all 
 her belongings. She satisfied the most critical taste 
 by her exquisite personal cultivation, and Mr. Tindal 
 had not much to do beyond criticizing and observing 
 her for ever so long. She gained by this close scrutiny ; 
 person, temper, mind — all stood the test ; and when 
 the time came for him to leave this little lady, he 
 discovered that he loved her with all his heart. 
 
 He was dreaming of her, painting the scenery for 
 the second act in his life, all through the service- 
 time in Church ; and when loudly, through the open 
 doors, the organ sounded the dismissal, he was still 
 busy with his air- drawn pictures.
 
 ( 185 ) 
 
 VIII. 
 
 DISAPPOINTMENT. 
 
 Penelope Croft walked from the church to the 
 vicarage gate with her new friend, Mrs. Featherston. 
 They talked of good things like good hopeful women, 
 but only a word or two of importance to this chronicle 
 passed between them. '' The Abbey pew was empty," 
 said the vicar's wife. 
 
 *' Mr. Tindal would hardly be able to walk to 
 church yet," replied Pennie. 
 
 " Ah, no ! When he is well, I hope he will 
 come regularly, if it be only for the example's sake. 
 As for that sad story about him, I don't believe a 
 word of it, neither does Harry. We intend to do all 
 our possible to rehabilitate him." 
 
 Pennie's eyes lightened. She could have kissed 
 that rosy little woman for her French idiom on the
 
 186 MR. wynyakd's ward. 
 
 spot, tliongli it was not lier wont to express her 
 feelings in that embracive fashion. 
 
 Her mother and Mrs. Jones were following close 
 behind, and a thin stream of cottagers and farm- 
 servants was oozing on before. When Pennie parted 
 with the vicar's wife she held on her way by herself. 
 It was a very sunshiny day, warm for the season, 
 and the spring was appearing in verdant touches 
 here and there amongst the earlier budding trees. 
 She felt happy — so happy and tranquil after her 
 prayers, and her quiet, loving, trusting thoughts. 
 Pennie's was a genial religion. It never occurred to 
 her that joy and gladness amongst His creatures 
 could be offensive to the great giver of all good ; and 
 because she was happy, she was thankful. She kept 
 time with her step to the singing in her heart, and 
 when she came to the old garden-door, and waited 
 to bid Mrs. Jones good-day, that generous soul 
 exclaimed in a gush of admiration, — "Why, Miss 
 Pennie, you've got quite a colour ! You 11 come out 
 a'most bonny enow." Love and pious thoughts are 
 indeed rare and delicate painters, and they and April 
 together had been giving, for the last few days.
 
 DISAPPOINTMENT. 187 
 
 some very tender and elevating toiiciies to lier ugly, 
 pathetic, young face. 
 
 One of Pennie's distresses at Mayfield was the 
 Sunday afternoon. Her father and mother had 
 always felt their religious devoir well done when the 
 morning service was over, and though the church- 
 bells chimed again for evening prayers at three o'clock, 
 the worshippers they drew from the rich farm-houses 
 were very few. To hold a levee of friends during 
 those long hours when best clothes must be worn out 
 of respect for the day, was Mrs. Croft's dehght, as it 
 had been her husband's ; and it was only heavy rain 
 or snow that balked her of her weekly treat. Mr. 
 Hargrove, Mr. Buckhurst, Mr. Briggs and his vdfe, or 
 Jessie, would walk over from Allan Bridge, and drop 
 in for a gossip, which, when the days were long, 
 ended always in their stopping tea. Tom Boothby, 
 Mr. Gaskill, and old Bobby Clough would turn up 
 about once in three months, and more frequently Mr. 
 Lister and Dick, and Mr. and Mrs. Jones. There were 
 many others besides these to whom the hospitable 
 widow gave entertainment as they listed — pipes and 
 hollands, or toast and tea.
 
 188 MR. wynyard's ward. 
 
 From this noisy Sunday society Pennie recoiled 
 witli tlie keenest repulsion. It had been intermitted 
 during Mr. Tindal's residence in the house, but she 
 foresaw that on this afternoon it would arrive in great 
 force, and as soon as dinner was over, she put on her 
 bonnet to go to church to avoid it as long as possible. 
 Her mother remonstrated faintly, but Pennie kissed 
 her, and went her way with gentle determination. 
 
 Piood Church was still unrestored. Frequent 
 whitewashing had blunted the sharpness of arch and 
 capital, and the wood-work throughout, wherever it 
 was not patched with a ^^iece of deal board, was 
 fretted and decayed. Pennie took her seat in the 
 Grange pew which faced the Tindal pew, one on either 
 side of the chancel, and she had not been many 
 minutes in her place, before the service began, and 
 she became aware of an opposite neighbour in Mr. 
 Tindal. He had no book, and he gazed about him 
 without reserve until he espied her, when he grew a 
 shade more decorous in his behaviour, and graduated 
 gently into perfect propriety. He had not been 
 within the doors of an English church for seven 
 years, and the cold, bald unsightliness of this struck
 
 DISAPPOINTMENT. 189 
 
 liim witli surprise and discomfoi-t ; for it was his 
 own. Schemes of re-edification immediately suggested 
 themselves to him, and he resolved to consult Pennie 
 about it on the moiTow ; Pennie was sure to be in- 
 terested in such a work. He could not keep his 
 thoughts fi'om straying during either the prayers or 
 the sermon, but he felt the better for being where he 
 was, and when he spoke a few words to Pennie in the 
 churchyard afterwards, she knevr that he was a world 
 easier in his heart than when he left Mayfield. She 
 wondered what had happened, but there was no 
 opportunity of asking, for Mrs. Featherston came up 
 •w-ith kind inquiries and congratulations on his 
 recovery, and Pierce was waiting for him -^ith the 
 drag at the gate. " To-morrow," was all he said after, 
 but it was quite enough to send Pennie home content. 
 When she arrived there the parlour was very loud. 
 She heard Bobby Clough's voice first, and then Mr. 
 Hargrove's, and she made her stay upstairs as long 
 as she dared. She had the satisfaction of seeing the 
 old beau-bachelor depart ; and with him an unknown 
 farmer person who was Mr. Briggs ; but when Bessie 
 came to tell her she had taken in tea, Mr. Hargi'ove
 
 190 MR. WYN yard's WARD. 
 
 was still there, and lie remained. Some confidential 
 talk was passing between liim and the widow, which 
 ceased abruptly as Pennie entered the room, and she 
 felt sure the subject of it was herself. Her mother's 
 heart was easily unlocked and robbed of its secrets, 
 and when Pennie saw the lawj^er's eyes fixed on the 
 ring with which Mr. Tindal had adorned her hand, 
 she was convinced that he had been made the deposi- 
 tary of her confidence. Mrs. Croft thought highly of 
 him as a gentleman, a professional man, and the real 
 acting trustee for her daughter ; and though, when 
 they began their gossip, it had not been in her mind 
 to speak of the gift Mr. Tindal had made to Pennie, it 
 slipped out along with other details of his residence 
 at Mayfield ; and to Mr. Hargrove's understanding, it 
 appeared the most important and significant of all. 
 He put on it, in fact, the intei-pretation that Mr. 
 Tindal meant to secure Mr. AYynyard's wealthy ward 
 for his viife, but so far was he from assigning the 
 desire to its true cause, that he attributed it entirely 
 to her money, and said to himself that it must be his 
 business to circumvent it. 
 
 He began at once by cautiously and skilfully
 
 DISAPPOINTMENT. 191 
 
 undermining that slight little structure of revised 
 opinion which Pennie had prevailed wdth her mother 
 to build up on the old storied foundation of Mr. 
 Tindal's life. He reverted to his brother's mysterious 
 death, and declared that he was as certain Ai-thur 
 Tindal was the assassin as if he had seen him point 
 the gun that killed him. He dipt into the well of 
 stagnant gossip and lies about that tragedy, and 
 brought up a bucketful of slimy weeds and rottenness, 
 which he poured out slowly before Mrs. Croft's 
 memoiy, until she was ready to affirm, like him, that 
 there must be some truth at the bottom of this foul 
 deposit, if only they could fish it up. 
 
 " I'll not go to Rood to-morrow, nor I won't let 
 her go," was the conclusion she promptly brought 
 her fears to ; and then she confessed to Mr. Hargrove 
 how she had promised to stay and lunch at the Abbey 
 with her daughter as she carried her back to Eastwold. 
 
 " Stay and lunch at the Abbey ! " echoed the 
 lawyer softly and awfully; "why, my good friend, it 
 would be the dale's talk. You did your Samaritan's 
 duty in taking him in here, and taking care of him 
 until he was well, and he has endeavoured to acquit
 
 192 MR. WYNYARD'S WARD. 
 
 himself of the obhgation, and there I should advise 
 you to let the intimacy drop. As for associating 
 with him familiarly, while he lies under such a ban as 
 that of imputed murder, you really must not think 
 of it." 
 
 Mr. Hargrove appeared so shocked at the notion 
 that for several minutes he could speak of nothing 
 else ; and this was the theme he and the widow were 
 upon, when Pennie — all unwitting of the disappoint- 
 ment in store for her — presented herself at tea. Her 
 mother looked conscious, the lawyer very serious. 
 Conversation was at a halt for some time, but the clink 
 of the urn, the teapot, and cups, covered the silence 
 until Mrs. Croft inquired who was at church. "■ Only 
 the school-children, a few old people, Mrs. Featherston 
 and Mr. Tindal," Pennie replied. 
 
 " Mr. Tindal at church ! " cried Mr. Hargi-ove, 
 in mocking amazement. " Trying the devotional 
 dodge — very astute, very clever, I must say." 
 
 Pennie set a watch on her lips ; it was not for 
 her to undertake Mr. Tindal's defence against this 
 odious maUf as in her own mind she called the agent, 
 but she could not control the indignant wave of
 
 DISAPPOIX'niENT. 193 
 
 colour that flushed into her face. It was not lost on 
 him ; it gave him the measure of her sentiments, 
 but by no means of her character and her powers. 
 These he underrated, having a general contempt for 
 all women. He tried her with a little rallpng next. 
 
 " You are like your cousin Lucy, Miss Penelope : 
 because Mr. Tindal's a fine-looking gentleman, and 
 has a pleasant way with him, when he gets black 
 dog Care off his back for an hour, she takes him for 
 a persecuted saint, and would fall down and worship 
 him, if he'd only show that it would be agreeable." 
 Pennie did not like the implication, but she still held 
 her peace. Mr. Hargrove threw a strain of malig- 
 nity into his probing speech to finish with. " Fools 
 fancy a rogue with a slink, a furtive eye, and a 
 wheedling whine, but the real rogues that carry a 
 real fox gnawing at 'em under their cloaks, put on 
 a jolly grin, and have a jest at their tongue's end. 
 It is the rogue who is best at shamming innocence 
 we should be most on our guard against, Miss 
 Penelope, or we are robbed before we know where we 
 are." 
 
 " Are 3-0U quoting Jacques the gi-azier ? " said 
 VOL. I. 13
 
 194 iME. wynyard's ward. 
 
 Penelope — not without point. She had heard that 
 burly personage deliver himself of a similar senti- 
 ment to her mother, and it was to Hargrove, on 
 Mr. Wynyard's affairs, he was covertly alluding. 
 
 The laysyer stared uneasily : " What do you 
 know of Jacques the grazier ? " asked he. 
 
 " Poor fellow, he was opening up his troubles 
 about his money to me when he brought over the 
 Alderney," interposed Mrs. Croft. *' Set a man 
 talking of his troubles, and he'll go on for all evers. 
 How is business prospering in Aikindale, sir, if it 
 isn't a liberty to ask ? Is there a prospect of Mr. 
 Wynyard's coming back to Eastwold '? " 
 
 "Not at present, I fear, not at present : " the lawyer 
 took refuge in a solicitous air, and refrained from pro- 
 voking anymore double-edged questions fromPennie. 
 He discerned in that one with which she had favoured 
 him a shrewdness, fearlessness, and directness of cha- 
 racter extremely hard to deceive or to manage. He 
 discerned also that she had got a theory of himself 
 into her mind, possibly truer to the fact than was 
 convenient, which she was endeavouring to match 
 with his moralities, and his popular repute as
 
 DISAPPOINTMENT. 195 
 
 gathered from Jacques the grazier. He relished 
 neither her scrutiny nor her sarcasm, but he felt it 
 was good he should be aware — however unwelcome 
 the discovery — that there lived at Eastwold a familiar 
 who distrusted him, and who would not be afraid 
 of showing her distrust. The subject of Arldndale 
 was evaded, and shortly after tea he took his de- 
 parture, to Pennie's exceeding relief. 
 
 Mrs. Croft did not announce that she had 
 changed her mind about stapng to lunch at Rood 
 Abbey until the following morning at breakfast, and 
 the shock was so wholly unexpected that Pennie 
 could not conceal her -^Tath and disappointment. 
 Angry tears flashed into her e^^es, and she said 
 almost with a sob that it was very unkind, and what 
 right had Mr. Hargrove to speak of Mr. Tindal as 
 he did ? She was sure he had influenced her 
 mother to refuse her this last pleasure of her visit. 
 Mrs. Croft could be irate as well as her daughter. 
 
 " Is that the way to talk to me, Penelope ? 
 You're not to judge of what's proper and what's not 
 proper. I won't have you get no friendlier with 
 
 13— i
 
 196 
 
 Mr. Tindal ; and if you say another word, I'll make 
 you send back that keepsake-ring he gave you." 
 
 Admonished in this strain, Pennie did not say 
 another word. Love and confidence shrunk up 
 wounded into a corner of her heart, and the \^ddow, 
 as soon as her passion was past, discerned with com- 
 punction that she had done more harm than good. 
 Yet her next w^ords did not mend matters. " If Mr. 
 Hargrove did give me a warning, it is no more than 
 what he's bound to do. Where is Mr. Wynyard 
 that your father put you under care of, and v\'hat 
 heed does Dr. Grey pay to your bringing-up ? If 
 you'd been left to me and your uncle Lister to 
 manage, there'd ha' been far more sense in it, and 
 you'd not be setting yourself up now to know what's 
 right better nor your mother." 
 
 This was the style in which Mrs. Lister rated 
 J oanna and Lucy ; it is needless to say that Pennie 
 was not used to it, and that she cowered under it 
 with as much shame and dismay as if she had been 
 threatened with physical chastisement. The widow 
 was hardly aware of the extent of the mischief she 
 was doing with her rough words, which she would
 
 DISAPP01NT:\rENT. 197 
 
 forget before the morniDg was over, but which Pennie 
 would feel sorely for many a long day. The mother 
 even fancied that she was performing a maternal 
 duty — '' teaching her gel to know herself," as she 
 would have expressed it, but, in fact, she was only 
 teaching her reserve. The tears stole down Pennie's 
 cheeks, and she rubbed them off furtively, quivering 
 through all her body, but saying nothing ; and, when 
 breakfast was over, she went out into the garden, 
 and had a good cry by herself. 
 
 She wished this had not happened on her last 
 day at home. She knew her mother's warm temper 
 was apt to break out now and again on the offending 
 head of Bessie or of Ned, but she never recollected 
 being called on herself to bear the brunt of it before. 
 And then the disappointment about going to the 
 Abbey, which she knew would be as gi-eat to Mr. 
 Tindal as to her — and it might be ever so long 
 before she saw him again. At this thouglit her 
 tears grnshed anew. Mrs. Croft was not much less 
 miserable than she had made her daughter. To be 
 sure, she had no tender reasons for wishing to eat 
 her luncheon at Piood Abbey instead of at home, but
 
 198 MR. wynyard's ward. 
 
 slie was Text at herself for liaviug grieved Pennie, 
 aud she was afraid it might affect their future inter- 
 course. Pennie, as she remembered of old, had 
 alwaj's taken a small reproach acutely to heart, and 
 as a child had been shy and timid for a week after 
 the lightest scufting. If she turned shy and timid 
 now, it might end in her not coming to Mayfield 
 again in ha\dug-time. Indeed, without intending, 
 without knowing it, her mother had taken away in 
 an instant from Mayfield its chiefest charm. And 
 regret would not restore it. 
 
 Pennie made the first advance towards peace. She 
 came to the kitchen door where her mother was, and 
 asked if a note ought not to be sent to Mr. Tindal 
 to tell him they were not going to the Abbey. * 
 
 " What a fuss you do make about it, Pennie," 
 said her mother who stuck to her main resolution, 
 and thought it due to herself to maintain her 
 dignity. " He'll expect no note, not he ; it isn't 
 like as if it was a party. I'll not have any writing 
 backwards and forwards between you. That would 
 be worse than the other." Almost before she had 
 done speaking, Pennie had withdrawn herself to the
 
 DISAPPOINTMENT. 199 
 
 parlour, and was crj-ing again more bitterly than 
 ever. She did not wear tears near her eyes, but 
 when the deep fountains were opened, they flowed 
 copiously. 
 
 AYhile Pennie was bewailing herself thus at 
 Mayneld, Mr. Tindal, in anticipation of her speedy 
 arrival, was going about with a cheerful countenance, 
 putting the final touches of embellishment to his 
 sanctum in which he proposed to receive her. How 
 often had she gathered violets and garnished her 
 rustic parlour for him ! He remembered with 
 gi'ateful tenderness, her thousand delicate little 
 efforts to please his eye, and lighten the tedium 
 of his confinement, and he thought that she should 
 see he had not been unobservant of her whims and 
 her tastes. With his own fingers, less deft than 
 hers, but far from incapable, he filled a cup on his 
 writing-table with wet long - fronded moss, and 
 stuck it thick with double violets. From the 
 neglected green-house, Pierce brought in a stand of 
 plants in blossom, cinerarias of every shade of 
 purple, heaths, rosy pink and white, and a tall
 
 200 MR. wynyard's ward. 
 
 full-flowered crimson camellia in the centre, wliicli 
 made a rich glowing mass of colour in the vnde, 
 deep window. 
 
 The room had the morning sun, and was spacious 
 and airy, with a soft, many-hued Persian carpet, 
 green silk draperies, and antique furniture of dark 
 walnut wood, wrought all of it, according to the tra- 
 ditions of the house, from the original car\dngs, 
 panellings, and plenishing of the Ahhey. The 
 pictures on the walls were landscapes, every one, 
 and most of them were sunny scenes. Over the 
 mantel-piece, which was lofty and sculptured of 
 w^ood like the book-cases and cabinets, there was 
 an Italian view of a lake and mountains — blue, 
 golden and glorious. Mr. Tindal had chosen this 
 room for his own on his return, feeling his need of 
 all things bright; and as he made it festive for his 
 expected guest, he glanced round it approvingly, and 
 said to himself — Yes, she would like it. It had been 
 his mother's drawing-room, and should be hers. So 
 confident was he of the balance of that cup to which 
 he was approaching his thirsty lips. 
 
 The clock went round to three quarters of an
 
 DISAPPOIXTMEXT. 201 
 
 Lour past noon, and then he began to count the 
 minutes until she came. He had to count them a 
 long while, but he did not give up expecting until 
 Pierce entered and said, Miss Croft had ridden by 
 with her mother. Then there was an end of it. 
 The afternoon was half over, the sun had faded out 
 of the room, and he went to his savourless meal 
 alone. It was not her fault, he was sure, but he 
 experienced a sense of pain and dejection far beyond 
 the ordinary sense of disappointment ; and for the 
 whole of that day he could not raise himself above it. 
 He tried \^Titing, he tried a book, he tried his pipe — 
 that consoled him best ; his familiar friend that 
 moraHzed ill smoke, and was never weariful.
 
 202 MR. wynyard's ward. 
 
 IX. 
 
 ABOUT RINGS. 
 
 It was the Easter holidays when Penelope Croft 
 returned to Eastwold, and the Wynyard boys were all 
 at home. The household were glad to see her back, 
 for she was wont to be a merry little soul, and they 
 had need of all the life and gaiety and hopefulness 
 that she could bring. For Pennie to look sad was, 
 therefore, nothing short of a calamity ; and sad she 
 did look, with traces of tears and temper on her face 
 that did not vanish until she had enjoyed a sound 
 night's rest in her own room. Her trouble was not 
 precisely of that sort w^hich murders sleep, and in 
 the morning its propoiiiions were so far diminished 
 that it slipped every now and then out of the gi'ip of 
 her imagination, and left her to think of something 
 else. She was more like herself again, though still 
 not quite right.
 
 ABOUT RINGS. 203 
 
 During the weeks of her absence, Farmer Dykes, 
 his ^ife and family, had taken possession of the 
 portion of the house assigned to them, and Mrs. 
 W}Tiyard and her children had vrorn down to the 
 tranquil level of their daily life. Nobody came to 
 visit — that was the first fact that impressed itself on 
 Pennie's mind. The gardens were left to grow into 
 wilderness. Sheep and cattle pastured in the park. 
 The few fine trees that had hitherto been spared for 
 beauty's sake, were now marked for the axe. The 
 faded splendour of the drawing-room, and the learned 
 luxury of the library remained to keep tastes and 
 traditions alive in the children's minds ; but the 
 regular expenditure of the household was reduced to 
 the narrowest limits, and besides old Jenny the 
 nurse, one maid and a woman in the kitchen, were 
 all that remained of the former establishment. 
 
 Mrs. Wynyard had many disquieting thoughts 
 about her husband's ward under these circumstances. 
 It was not to such a dull, restrained life as was now 
 led at Eastwold that her father had meant to con- 
 sign her ; and her fortune certainly entitled her to 
 taste something of the pleasures of the world while
 
 204 MR. wynyard's ward. 
 
 her mind was fresli. A season in London, a conti- 
 nental tour were her due ; but how were they to be 
 obtained for her ? Her allowance was ample for all 
 expenses ; but where was the chaperone to escort 
 her? Mrs. "VYj^nyard caught herself wishing that 
 poor Pennie were well married and off her hands ; 
 and then thinking that perhaps she might meet with 
 an eligible somebody at Brackenfield, during the 
 wedding festivities of Millicent and Mr. Forester. 
 This marriage, long deferred, was to be celebrated on 
 the last day of April. 
 
 Meantime, Pennie took up the threads of her own 
 life quietly and contentedly enough. She walked 
 with Anna and Lois about the park, the fields, the 
 woods ; she rode a few miles every day with Francis 
 or Geoffrey, who borrowed a shaggy half-broken colt 
 from Farmer Dykes to accompany her; and she 
 spent a great many hours in the library, browsing at 
 will amongst the literary gleanings of a dozen 
 generations. She was blessed with an adaptable 
 mind, and she did not find this uneventful existence 
 insupportably heavy. Perhaps her patience was 
 increased by the reflection that Rood Abbey was not
 
 ABOUT RINGS. 205 
 
 much more than four miles off, and that she might 
 happen some fortunate day to meet Mr. Tindal. 
 This fortunate day did not, however, arrive, and she 
 departed to Brackenfield T\-ithout an opportunity of 
 explanation. Penuie respected her mother's veto so 
 far that she did not dream of making an opportunity. 
 She had meditated once or t^ice on the expediency of 
 opening her counsel to Mrs. Wynyard, but recollect- 
 ing what had come of her confidence at Mayfield, 
 she was afraid, and finally determined to keep it to 
 herself. Besides what was there to tell, except that 
 Mr. Tindal had given her that ring ? 
 
 Pennie arrived at Brackenfield two days before 
 the great event by Millicent Hutton's express desire. 
 No other guest had then come, but on the morrow 
 appeared Sir Thomas and Lady Brooke, and Pennie 
 found herself brought into close and intimate com- 
 munion T^ith Mr. Tindal's faithless love, who was, in 
 fact, a niece of the dame — herself, before marriage, 
 a Curtis of Methley Towers. Pennie was not shy in 
 company ; she felt her personal insignificance as a 
 shield, and under its shelter, she gleaned from society
 
 206 
 
 a vast deal of quiet enjoyment. Lady Brooke, who 
 fastened a character on all her acquaintance, told her 
 on the evening of their meeting that she was a quizj 
 and to the other familiar names by which she was 
 known at Brackenfield this was now added. Pennie 
 felt inclined to resent it, but did not ; Uncle Chris- 
 topher was there with his merry mockery, and her 
 new weapon might be turned to account. 
 
 It was in the drawing-room after dinner that this 
 occurred. Millicent and Michael Forester were con- 
 versing apart ; the rest of the circle were assembled 
 about the hearth drinking their cups of coffee. Lady 
 Brooke covered the central ottoman with her flowing 
 skirts, and was as useful as a second lamp for lighting 
 up the room with her glowing complexion and moun- 
 tainous white figure. Anything so fat, or anything 
 so fair, Pennie had never seen, and her great eyes 
 lightened with appreciative fun as she contemplated 
 this heroine of a story, seated solid under the 
 nimbus of airs, graces and affectations with which she 
 was always pleased to crown herself in compan3\ 
 Pennie tried mentally to reduce her shape to girlish 
 proportions, and her visage to the tender roundness
 
 ABOUT RINGS. 207 
 
 and bloom of youth, but all to no purpose. Fancy 
 can expand more easily than she can compress, and a 
 faint sentiment of wonder, unleavened by admiration, 
 was all she felt towards this once paragon of beauty 
 that Mr. Tindal had loved. 
 
 Pennie was reposing in a low chair very com- 
 fortably, sipping her coffee and thinking her thoughts, 
 when Mrs. Blake who was close by on a couch with 
 the dame, suddenly bent forward, and said aloud : 
 "What an exquisite old diamond ring you have on, 
 Pennie ! " Pennie coloured, murmured yes, and 
 w^ent on sipping her coffee. 
 
 "Pray let me look at it; I do so admire dia- 
 monds," cried Lady Brooke eagerly. Pennie had 
 nothing for it but to extend her hand ; the ring was 
 rather large for her finger, and in an instant the 
 admirer of diamonds had drawn it off, had shrieked 
 for love of the precious stones, had read the "posie" 
 engraved inside, and had said in a voice that made 
 everybody stare, she did not think there had been 
 more than one ring like that in the world ! Pennie 
 put out her hand to receive it again, but somebody 
 else had asked to look at it, and it was being passed
 
 208 ]Vm. WYNYARD'S WARD. 
 
 from one to another, and commented on as curious, 
 costly, quaint, lovely, antique. When it came back 
 to her she put it on without a word, and proceeded 
 to finish her coffee, but the hand that carried the 
 cup to her lips shook visibly, the lips themselves 
 quivered, and a burning glow, enough to melt ice, 
 covered her face, her neck, her arms. Poor Pennie, 
 she could not have looked guiltier if she had stolen 
 the ring ! 
 
 Mr. Tindal's accident, and his nursing at Mayfield 
 during Pennie's visit to her mother, were well-known 
 here, for they had been the chief theme of Pennie's 
 
 •4 
 
 recent letters to her friend Millicent. Blushes so 
 fiery must, of course, have an interpretation. The 
 women longed to know what ; the men had no doubt. 
 They retreated very slowh', and Pennie writhed under 
 the sensation of being a mark, and a wonder to all 
 eyes. She quite loved Uncle Christopher when, after 
 turning over the leaves of a volume of Cuitt's beau- 
 tiful etchings, he wheeled his chair half round to 
 hers, and bade her come and look at them too ; 
 which gave her a chance of moving from under 
 Lady Brooke's discontented watchfulness, and of
 
 ABOUT RINGS. • 209 
 
 concealing her treacherous face. She did not discern 
 the pictures very distinctly until they came to one 
 of the gateway at Eood Abbey ; and then rallying 
 her wits with determination, she remarked that it 
 was a fine fragment, but that it appeared in better 
 preservation in the etching than in reality. After 
 she had managed her own voice once more, she got 
 on better, and really finished the evening creditably. 
 But, oh, what would she not have given for one of 
 those faces, good as masks, which never betray their 
 owners ! 
 
 Millicent Hutton's wedding was not very gay, but 
 it w-ent ofi" in a highly satisfactory manner. She 
 was a handsome, happy bride, and Michael Forester 
 had recovered to some extent the natural colour 
 and air of a wholesome English gentleman. During 
 his long absence he had gone through a century of 
 adventures ; had been a hunter in the wild woods, a 
 prisoner, a fugitive, a slave, where the voices around 
 him had no more significance than the cry of 
 animals, and the manners and customs were worse 
 than those of animals. So many days, so many 
 
 VOL. I. 14
 
 210 MR. wynyard's ward. 
 
 weeks, so many months, so many years wandering 
 amongst the savage tribes of central Africa, until he 
 lost all reckoning of time, and was found by two 
 adventurous travellers — pioneers of commerce and 
 Christianity — so levelled to his lonely existence, that 
 he had not energy left to endeavour an escape from 
 it. They took him away with them, nursed him at 
 the mission-house on the coast, and shipped him 
 home to England — to take up again the broken 
 strands of his life and his love, and to weave them 
 into the orthodox, every-day pattern. That was the 
 conclusion of Millicent's caprice. 
 
 The breakfast, the tedious afternoon, the dinner 
 and the dance in the evening, were all according to 
 rule, — pleasant, natural, proper, and pretty. The 
 Squire and the dame bore the parting bravely ; in the 
 first place because Millicent was to live at the Lodge, 
 and in the second, because John, Theodora, and the 
 three boys were going now to take up their abode 
 at BrackenfieLl, that grandpapa and grandmamma 
 might not feel lonely and forsaken in their old age. 
 
 Nobody had come- to the wedding from Eastwold 
 but Pennie, and the next dav but one after it was
 
 ABOUT KINGS. 211 
 
 over, she left to return home, still in possession 
 of her secret about the ring, notwithstanding the 
 many attacks made upon her b}^ Lady Brooke's 
 curiosity to learn under what circumstances it had 
 been given to her. None of the other witnesses 
 of her confasion had asked or even hinted a single 
 inquiry, for Lady Brooke had whispered it through 
 the house that this wonderful ring had certainly 
 been worn by Mr. Tindal's mother ; that she had 
 seen it often on her hand, and that the unhappy 
 lady had said to her once (before the shocking family 
 tragedy occurred), that it might come to be her own ; 
 for it had been the betrothal gift of the heir of Rood 
 Abbey to his mistress for generations. Pennie had 
 dreaded lest she might be made the object of Uncle 
 Christopher's teasing; but he showed no sign of 
 remembering her rosy confession w^hen it was past, 
 neither did any one else. On the contrary, she w^as 
 treated with more observance and respect, and she 
 liked the change : for she had gi'own shy of comments 
 on her peculiarities since she had taken on her the 
 status of a come-out young woman. Besides, she 
 was beginning now to consider and cultivate them, 
 
 14-2
 
 212 ]MK. wynyakd's ward. 
 
 and even to turn them to account as attractions ; 
 in which study she had that wise guide, Love. 
 
 But though nothing was said to Pennie, there 
 was a good deal said over dressing-room fires about 
 the ring, and in other seckided corners for gossip. 
 The dame trusted that her Mary knew, and that 
 Pennie put confidence in her ; and in a letter she 
 wrote to her daughter at Eastwold the day after the 
 wedding, she made distinct allusion to her ward's 
 intimacy with the unfortunate master of Rood. This 
 letter only preceded Pennie's arrival by a few hours, 
 and by the same post had come another on the same 
 subject from Mr. Wynyard in Normandy, to whom 
 Mr. Hargrove had sent a curiously exaggerated 
 statement of the late events at Mayfield. Mrs. 
 Wynyard felt hurt that Pennie had told her nothing, 
 and that such intelligence should have been left to 
 find its way to her from two such distant quarters, 
 but she carefully dissembled her annoyance ; for she 
 had knowledge enough of Pennie's character to be 
 aware that though her confidence might be won, it 
 never could be commanded. 
 
 It was to this position of her little afiairs that
 
 ABOUT RINGS. 213 
 
 Pennie came home — far from sorry to come ; for how 
 much nearer to Eood was Eastwold than Bracken- 
 field ? As she sat at tea with the children, giving 
 them a detailed account of the late festivities at 
 grandpapa's house, Mrs. Wynyard observed that the 
 ring which had been reported to her was not on her 
 hand. Pennie had, in fact, resolved not to risk any 
 more abrupt questions thereanent, and so she had 
 strung it on a ribbon round her neck, and hidden it 
 underneath her dress. i 
 
 It was not thus, however, that she could escape 
 Mrs. Wynyard's dutiful anxiety. When the children 
 were gone to bed, she was left alone with their 
 mother, who plunged at once in medias res, and 
 asked, — " Pennie, what is this that I hear about your 
 having accepted fi'om Mr. Tindal a diamond ring — 
 the ring that all the world of hereabouts knows as 
 the bride-ring of Eood ? " 
 
 " I told my mother, and she told it again to Mr. 
 Hargrove," replied Pennie, in a defensive tone, as 
 much as to say, " If my own mother cannot keep my 
 counsel, to whom then shall I entrust it ? " 
 
 " Mr. Hargi-ove has made it his business to write
 
 214 MR. wynyard's ward. 
 
 about it to Normandy. Of course, on such a gift, 
 men j^lace only one construction." Mrs. Wynyard 
 waited a moment for confession, but none was fortli- 
 coming. She continued : ''If all were straight and 
 fair in Mr. Tindal's history, there could be no objec- 
 tion, unless it were on the score of age — he must be 
 fourteen or fifteen years your elder — but there are 
 circumstances which would make us very, very re- 
 luctant to consent." 
 
 '' No one is required to consent to anything," 
 interrupted Pennie, in some heat. '' I know the 
 circumstances you allude to, and they will never 
 influence the opinion I had formed of Mr. Tindal 
 before I knew them. I will not pretend to mis- 
 understand you. When he gave me this ring," 
 touching the bosom of her dress, " he told me that 
 he had received it from his mother, to give to the 
 woman he married ; but as he could not ask any 
 woman to be his wife, tied and bound as he is, he 
 would give it to me — the only creature who had 
 shown him genuine faith and love since he lost 
 her." 
 
 " It comes all to the same thing, Pennie. He
 
 ABOUT RINGS. t^lo 
 
 will look that you should redeem the pledge you have 
 accepted." 
 
 Pennie did not appear so distressed as she ought 
 to have done. She was thinking, '' Well, and if he 
 does, what then ? " 
 
 " This is where it is, dear; wc slvo responsible for 
 you," Mrs. Wynyard went on. " We should like to 
 marry you honourably and happily, as if you were a 
 daughter of our own ; and I would rather lay my 
 girls in their coffins than give them to men of vviiom 
 such words have been spoken as have been spoken of 
 i^-thur Tindal. "WQiile you keep that ring, you are 
 virtually bound to him, and cannot honestly listen to 
 the addresses of any one besides." 
 
 Pennie's face flamed now. '^ I don't want to 
 listen to any one besides," said she. 
 
 " I must understand you plainly. Do you mean 
 to tell me that you have conceived a regard for 
 Mr. Tindal, which would be a bar against any other 
 attachment ? " 
 
 " That is the truth." 
 
 " Then I am sorry to hear it, Pennie ; for I am 
 afraid there is trouble before you."
 
 216 MR. WYNYARD'S ward. 
 
 For all that prediction, Pennie went to her pillow 
 comforted rather than dejected. If the ring was a 
 fetter, it was a fetter from which she had no wish to 
 be free. She did not regret that Mrs. Wynyard 
 knew her heart ; there was no fear that the itch for 
 gossip would tempt her to a betrayal of confidence ; 
 and since Mr. Hargrove had taken upon him to write 
 to Normandy about her, it was better that her guar- 
 dian should learn the precise truth from his wife, 
 than that he should accept a garbled story from the 
 person who had been able already to make her taste 
 one sharp disappointment. It was curious thax, 
 whenever from that day Pennie fell into a muse on 
 her private affairs, the burly agent invariably intruded 
 as a meddler, a mischief-maker, a stone of offence in 
 her way — yet why should he ? What was it to him 
 ivho or hoiv she married, or 2vhen or ivhere ? 
 
 If Mr. Hargrove had not entertained so profoundly 
 careless a contempt for women, he would have been 
 very uneasy to know that Mr. Wynyard's Ward had 
 begun to ask herself, what her marriage could be 
 to him ?
 
 ( 217 ) 
 
 DOCTOR GREY BEGINS TO SEE HIS DUTY. 
 
 Every day and often tvn.ce a day Dr. Grey visited 
 his patients in the parish poor-house. The child 
 died, and was buried. The mother continued much 
 the same ; now h igli — prating, laughing, babbling ; 
 now loic — weeping, silent, dejected. Each morning 
 new^s of her was carried to Rood, to her father and 
 Mr. Tindal. The latter was growing hourly more 
 impatient for the disclosures that he looked to, to 
 deliver himself, while Pierce with a strange fatuity 
 was retiring on his old doubts and dreads, and 
 repeating over and over again to himself, to the 
 doctor, and even to his master, that it was not a 
 certain thing his Alice was the guilty person. He 
 did not know she was. He might have feared ; he 
 would not denv anv lonirer that she was at Rood that
 
 218 MR. WYNYAKD'S WARD. 
 
 fatal day, but more lie could not say. Was it 
 for liim to condemn his own flesh and blood ? If 
 they put it to him on his conscience, he did not 
 believe that it was in her ever to do such a deed ; no, 
 not for jealousy, nor for revenge. 
 
 '' Don't talk to me, Pierce, there is a moral 
 certainty that she did it," cried the doctor, in a rage. 
 
 " People said there was a moral certainty Mr. 
 Arthur did it ; but moral certainties don't stand 
 for proofs. I go back to my former ground, sir — I 
 don't know idio murdered Mr. Hugh Tindal, and I 
 don't leant to know." 
 
 " You have been taking counsel with somebody 
 besides yourself — that is the way in which you 
 damned your master.'' 
 
 " I won't deceive you, sir; I have been consulting 
 Mr. Hargi'ove. He knows the law, he knows w^hat is 
 evidence, and w^hat isn't evidence, and he says he 
 sees no sound reason at present for reversing the 
 popular verdict." 
 
 " Mr. Hargi'ove ought to have more sense than to 
 talk about popular verdicts. However, if you have 
 opened the business to him, it might as well be
 
 DOCTOR GREY BEGINS TO SEE HIS DUTY. 219 
 
 opened to all the world. You had better go and see 
 Alice ; I shall name her to the matron. The 
 guardians meet to-morrow, and you will hare to 
 remove her." 
 
 With that the doctor drove off, saying to himself 
 that whatever chance publicity would give Mr. Tindal, 
 he should not lack it. He went straight to the poor- 
 house, and saw Alice, who was, as he beheved, 
 drifting into the outer darkness of insanity, where 
 anguish could no more reach her. To screen her 
 longer, would be a sacrificing of the living to the 
 dead. The matron came at his call. 
 
 " This woman belongs to Eood, to decent people 
 there," said he. " I have let her father know the 
 state in which she is — Mr. Pierce, a servant at the 
 Abbey. In all probability you will have him over. 
 If he wishes to take her away — which most likely he 
 will — it ought to be only to an asylum. I will sign 
 her certificate, and so will Jackson, but he had better 
 not be in any hurry." 
 
 In crossing the market-place, the doctor met the 
 curate who had the spiritual care of the paupers at 
 Allan Bridge, and to him also he made his statement.
 
 220 MR. WYNYARD'S WARD. 
 
 " There is small hope of her recovery," he added, 
 "if, indeed, it would be anything to hope for. It is 
 a miserable story — that child you buried was Hugh 
 Tindal's, and she was the undiscovered woman in the 
 wood that day he was shot. Her father has known 
 it from the first." 
 
 " You don't mean that she — I have always heard 
 it charged on his brother," stammered the clergyman. 
 
 *'Very unjustly, as I think." The doctor 
 nodded, and went on his way, left his gig at his 
 own door, and proceeded to the law^-er's office. Mr. 
 Hargrove was engaged at the moment, but would be 
 with him shortly, said his clerk ; and the doctor, 
 who had no patient watching for him, that he was 
 aware of, sat down to wait. 
 
 " Well, Grey, is it your will, this time ? " cried 
 the lawyer boisterously, as he appeared after the lapse 
 of about five minutes. 
 
 '' No, Hargrove, it is not my wdll A'et; it is that 
 old story Pierce has been to you about from Eood." 
 The lawyer immediately became serious, got behind 
 his desk, took up a paper-knife, and composed 
 himself to listen. A closer observer than Doctor
 
 DOCTOR GREY BEGINS TO SEE HIS DUTY. 221 
 
 Grey might have discerned anxiety as well as 
 attention in his countenance. " Did Pierce tell you 
 his daughter is here, in the poor-house ? No ! I 
 thought as much. Crafty old knave, that can't 
 understand it is as necessary to he open with his man 
 of law as his man of physic. She is here, at all 
 events, and for what I can see, is likely to go to a 
 worse place — Norminster Asylum, most prohably." 
 
 Mr. Hargrove made an inarticulate noise expres- 
 sive of sui-prise and commiseration. 
 
 " If Pierce did not tell you she was here, what 
 case did he bring you ? This is what mine turns 
 on — she can't keep awa}^ from Eood. She has 
 confessed to me that she saw Hugh Tindal shot ; 
 she was, therefore, that woman who was lurking 
 about betw^een the Grange and the Abbey, of whom 
 there was some suspicion that she might have done 
 it — now I'll undertake to say that if it had been 
 known the woman was Alice Pierce, with her bundle 
 of wrongs and miseries on her back, the suspicion 
 would have become con^dction in the common mind." 
 
 The la-^Ter thoughtfully put up his lip, and 
 allowed that it might have become conviction in the
 
 222 MR. wynyard's ward. 
 
 common mind, but protested that it would not have 
 become conviction in his. ''In fact," added he, with 
 an air of candour, " my prejudice went from the first 
 against Arthur Tindal, and it was very strong." 
 
 '' I never heard you say so before," answered the 
 doctor, aghast. " Never, and we have talked it over 
 a score of times." 
 
 " And may talk of it a score to that again," said 
 Hargrove. 
 
 " But my impression was that your opinion went 
 all the other way ! " persisted the doctor. 
 
 *' Then your impression was mistaken." The 
 lawyer was rather short, as if he disliked this 
 insistance, and would put a stop to it ; but his 
 present client had an excellent memory, and declined 
 to be stopped. He went on to quote instances in 
 which Hargrove had agreed with him in the confi- 
 dence of after-dinner chat, and had wished a happy 
 release to the falsely accused, and a swift despatch to 
 the assassin. " Ha ! ha ! after dinner over a bottle 
 of your excellent port, Grey ! " cried the lawj^er, with 
 a significant laugh — or a laugh meant to be 
 sicrnificant.
 
 DOCTOR GREY BEGINS TO SEE HIS DUTY. 223 
 
 *' If a man tells lies in his wine, when does he 
 tell truth ? " growled the doctor, and got up to go. 
 
 Hargi'ove felt that he had blundered. He ought 
 to have known his man better, and he did know him 
 better; therefore that la,pse was as unpardonable as 
 it was unlucky ; and Grrey was not the man to forget 
 it, as he was well aware. Already from the glance of 
 his eye, and the knitting of his brow, he appeared to 
 be speculating on its origin or its motive ; and his 
 speculations were apt to be shrewd, and to hit home. 
 The lawyer endeavoured to detain him, and bring him 
 back to the point, but in vain ; the doctor was both 
 angry and dismayed at the turn the consultation had 
 taken, and he was not easily appeased. He walked 
 out of the office, and across to his own house in a 
 maze, and as he shut himself up in his study to 
 think the matter over, he ejaculated under his 
 breath, " He shall not put his legs under my table 
 again in a hurry ; I half think he may be the knave 
 Jacques declares he is. He was lying when he 
 talked about his prejudice, confound him ! " 
 
 The doctor's discomfited meditations carried him 
 about and about the subject, but not to the core of
 
 224 MR. wynyard's ward. 
 
 it. He could not conjecture why Mr. Hargrove 
 should desire — as he evidently did — to perpetuate 
 the social outlawry of Mr. Tindal. Buckhurst was in 
 at dinner-time, and he went over all the history with 
 that young man, to take the benefit of his views. 
 
 " Never look deep for a rogue's motives — some- 
 thing personal, probably pecuniary, they'll be," 
 moralized the assistant. '' The least subtle explana- 
 tion of men's ways generally comes nearest the 
 truth." This oracular guide-post, though it only 
 pointed, yet i)ointed decisively, and Doctor Grey, 
 brightening up, said he thought he saw it. 
 
 " I'll turn over a new leaf of my trusteeship for 
 little Penelope Croft," was the resolution that 
 followed close on the thought. Suspicion, once 
 generated in an unsuspicious mind, breeds fast. 
 Last night Doctor Grey would have put his dearest 
 interests with implicit faith in Hargrove's hands ; 
 to-night he revoked all his former confidence, and 
 declared to himself that his old convive was a shifty, 
 crafty, double-faced pettifogger of an attorney, who 
 ought to be very sharply looked after. The pity was 
 he had not discovered it before.
 
 ( 225 ) 
 
 XI. 
 
 A VISITOR AT ROOD. 
 
 To such a place as Allan Bridge any little event is a 
 godsend ; but tlie re-opening of the famous Rood 
 Abbey tragedy furnished talk for the whole county 
 and country. The London papers reverted to it with 
 tantalizing brevity, and it got into the Xorminster 
 Gazette at full length again. The Eskdale readers 
 of that news followed the case with gi-eedy interest. 
 They heard the story of Alice Pierce from the days 
 when she was " so TNinsome, so bonny," do-^n to the 
 hour when, the magistrates having seen her, and the 
 doctors having certified to her insanity, she was 
 removed by her afflicted father and a female keeper 
 from the sick ward of Allan Bridge poor-house to the 
 pauper lunatic asylum at Xorminster. After occupy- 
 ing a column or two for seven or eight weeks, the 
 VOL. I. 15
 
 226 MR. wynyard's ward. 
 
 mystery was pronounced to be still unfathomed and 
 unfathomable, and it subsided once more into uneasy 
 oblivion. 
 
 In the magniloquent editorials, which furnished 
 the patrons of the Norminster Gazette with opinions 
 on its facts, Mr. Tindal had been very smartly 
 handled. Forcible allusions were made to the 
 cowardice, the unmanliness, of attempting to fix the 
 barbarous crime on a woman, who w^as as incapable 
 of defending herself as the dead. " The time was 
 cunningly chosen," said the leader, '' but truth had 
 prevailed over cunning ; the base plot had been 
 defeated ; and the burthen of suspicion lay where it 
 had originally fallen — where it must continue to lie 
 until some fuller disproof were offered than what had 
 lately been brought under the investigation of the 
 Allan Bridge board of magistrates." 
 
 The Gazette containing this article came to Rood 
 Abbey on a Sunday morning in June, as it came to 
 every other well-to-do house in Eskdale. Mr. Tindal 
 read his condemnation in it, and a present end to all 
 his dreams. He read it in the garden, and while he 
 read it, he let his pipe go out. '' That is over,"
 
 A VISITOR AT ROOD. 227 
 
 said he, and di'opped the paper on the grass ; and 
 for the first time a chill of utter despondency crept 
 over him. 
 
 He had recovered his strength now, and his 
 natural colour ; but the torturing anxiety of the 
 recent inquiries had not passed over him without 
 making its mark. The sun shone with midsummer 
 glow, but he felt no warmth in its shining. While 
 hope was with him he had caused his house and 
 gardens to be swept and garnished, and now on the 
 soft turf there was spread a luxury of blossom and 
 beauty that mocked him with a reminder of his 
 short-lived joy. He had seen no friendly soul to 
 speak to, except Doctor Grey, since the turn the 
 investigation about Alice Pierce would take became 
 apparent. While it was doubtful, here and there a 
 man had drawn near to him, who had since di'awn 
 back again. Even Pierce had left him ; not in anger 
 on either side, but with mutual concession and 
 sorrow. Early on in the inquiry he had spoken to 
 the Vicar of his desire to restore the dreary, neglected 
 old church, and had been checked, and bidden to 
 stay until he was clear of the imputed guilt of 
 
 15—2
 
 228 MR. WYNYARD'S WARD. 
 
 murder ; for Mr. Featherston and liis rosy wife were 
 not found impenetrable to the subtle influence of 
 public opinion, and each to the other had confessed 
 a doubt, a dread — had whispered awfully that it was 
 not fit a man with unrepented blood on his hands 
 should bring any gift to the altar. He had felt the 
 recoil in their promising acquaintance, and had come 
 no more in their way. With many besides them, 
 the stirring up of the stagnant pool had done him 
 more harm than good. The lively girls at the 
 Grange took heed not to cross his path ; men meet- 
 ing him in the road made only half obeisance : the 
 servants under his ow^n roof did him shy and 
 grudging service. 
 
 He thought often of Pennie, and wondered, did 
 she think of him ? and if she thought, hoiv did she 
 think ? It could only be with pain, at the best, he 
 knew, even if her faith had escaped the common 
 taint. Trust in her was the last stay left him. 
 After perusing that oracular denunciation, he could 
 not bring his mind into any sort of tune. He felt 
 like a prisoner w^ho, in trying to escape, falls and 
 wounds himself cruelly, or who is crippled by a shot
 
 A VISITOR AT ROOD. 229 
 
 from the sentry just as he gets a ghmpse of freedom. 
 He heard the solemn roll of the organ and ' the 
 singing in church, as he had heard them in the 
 spring, but with dull ears now, and an unresponsive 
 soul, to which nothing spake peace. It seemed im- 
 possible that he could return to the vague, wandering 
 life of the last seven years ; it seemed equally im- 
 possible that he could remain at Eood, banned from 
 society, friendless, and alone. He had not even 
 Pierce to open his heart to now ; and Doctor Grey's 
 daily visits had been intermitted for some weeks. 
 He rose in the morning without expectation, and he 
 went to his restless rest at night weary of the tedium 
 of the day, in which a newspaper, a book, and a pipe 
 had been his sole company. Beyond this, he could 
 discern no hope, unless in Pennie. Would she hold 
 out to him a helping hand, or would she, like all the 
 rest, avert her eyes, and pass him by on the other 
 side. 
 
 What a long, blank day it was, that golden day 
 of June, on which the Norminster Gazette announced 
 to Eskdale the solemn renewal of the old fiat on his 
 case. "Sullen the afternoon melted into evening,
 
 230 MR. WYNYARD'S WARD. 
 
 and the evening mellowed into soft summer night, 
 he thanked God that it was done, and groping in the 
 darkness of his destiny, prayed that he might see 
 light soon or die. 
 
 As that day was, so was the morrow, only so 
 much the heavier as the chain dragged longer, and 
 wore down his strength. He felt to have no power, 
 no nerve left. He could not sleep or eat ; wine could 
 not warm, nor smoke solace him. He opened no 
 book ; he made no more effort to relieve the oppres- 
 sion of his misery. When Dr. Grey called, he could 
 scarcely get from him a word. He avoided the face 
 of his servants, and ceased to answer when they 
 spoke. He sat indoors, and shut out the brightness 
 of the day. It was as if there were death in the 
 house. 
 
 The next morning it rained at intervals, but the 
 merry splash and patter of the sudden showers on 
 the thick leaves, and the fragrance of the sunshiny 
 gleams between did not win him one moment from 
 his brooding melancholy. After noon it cleared for 
 good, but the tenderness of tears was in the sky, and 
 the cool freshness of them was over all the fields.
 
 A VISITOR AT ROOD. 231 
 
 He had seated himself mechanically before his 
 '^Titing-table 'in the window, but during all the hours 
 of the day he had done nothing, and had attempted 
 nothing. He had, in fact, no correspondence like 
 other men, to while away time. Still he sat in the 
 same place, vacant, nerveless, helpless, when about 
 four o'clock, the man who had replaced Pierce 
 opened the door and looked in. His master took no 
 notice. It did not appear that he even heard, for he 
 never moved. His arms were stretched across the 
 table, his hands clasped, his head bent down on 
 them, and his face hidden. He started however, and 
 \isibly, when a familiar voice, only a pace or two off, 
 said shyly; "Mr. Tindal, I have come to see you." 
 
 It was Pennie — Pennie in splashed habit, with 
 the soft glow rapid riding brought always into her 
 cheeks, and the deep swimming lustre that air and 
 exercise put into dark eyes quite as often as sentiment 
 or emotion. She looked almost pretty under her 
 hat — he thought she looked lovely. She did not 
 speak again after those first words, nor did he for a 
 minute, while he held her hands ; both of them 
 trembling, both of them with mist in their \ision.
 
 282 MR. wynyard's waed. 
 
 "You are my salvation, Pennie," lie said at 
 last, in a voice that lie could not trust above his 
 breath. 
 
 She was bewildered and confused by the strength 
 of her own feelings ; she had meant to say so many 
 comforting, loving things, and behold she was dumb. 
 After all it was the sight of her that was the con- 
 solation, and Mr. Tindal came to a command of 
 himself first. He said something (she was never 
 quite sure what) and she replied to it by explaining 
 her \dsit : " Doctor Grey brought me, and he will 
 call for me in about an hour on his way back from 
 Beckby — Mr. Jones is ill of his rheumatic gout.'' 
 Prosaic this, but a convenient bridge over the gulf 
 of emotion that had almost swallowed up their power 
 of speech. Mr. Tindal blessed Doctor Grey in his 
 heart, and then they began to talk, not very fluently, 
 as regarded Pennie, for her sensations of shyness, 
 sorrow, and sympathy were perpetually in her way, 
 but very effectively as regarded him she came to 
 comfort. 
 
 "You still keep your faith in me, Pennie?" 
 said he.
 
 A VISITOR AT ROOD. 233 
 
 " Yes ; and I shall keep it always, though nothing 
 should ever be made clearer than it is to-day." 
 
 '' Then I shall Hve and not die ! — my good little 
 nurse ! my good Kttle nurse that I love, and who 
 loves me — it is so, Pennie. I know it is, but I 
 want to hear it from your lips, one sweet, one tender 
 word after so many hard blows." 
 
 She gave it him, and a few tears with it — for his 
 passion frightened her — and then a bit of counsel. 
 
 " You should not stay here alone. Look up as 
 you did before, and hope for good days by- 
 and-by." 
 
 "Ah! Pennie, these things take the strength 
 out of a man at last, and leave him without energy or 
 power to hope." 
 
 "Don't let them beat you, don't." 
 
 There was short silence. Pennie was a child in 
 experience, if she was a woman in sympathy. She 
 could not conceive of what his life really was— how 
 dull, how bare, how utterly denuded of the interests, 
 occupations, pleasures, and cares of common hu- 
 manity. Her idea of him was of a virtuous man 
 persecuted, whose innocent conscience ought to set
 
 234 MR. WYNYARD'S WARD. 
 
 liim above the clamour and unjust condemnation of 
 a cruel world. She loved him, and she would have 
 liked to show the world how little she valued its 
 opinion by standing by him in his isolation. That 
 sort of sacrifice at which her soul would have kindled 
 had she read it recorded as a golden deed in story, 
 she was herself capable of making and of esteeming 
 no sacrifice at all. 
 
 " I meant to stay at Eood, though it were in 
 hermit fashion. I had begun to lay plans of re- 
 storing the church, building a school, and some new 
 cottages — all in the air. I had almost persuaded 
 myself into a belief that I might live down my bad 
 name, and make it fragrant by good deeds." Mr. 
 Tindal spoke with a sad, wistful smile. " For a 
 few days past I have been asking, is there a just 
 God that judges the earth, or is there only a random 
 providence that lets its machinery get out of gear, 
 and fall upon mischief, as our governing powers do 
 here below? " 
 
 Pennie sighed. ^'If you do stay at Eood I shall 
 see you sometimes, and Dr. Grey is your friend ; but 
 it would not be the best plan. You must break
 
 A VISITOR AT ROOD. 235 
 
 away from yourself when you are mo\dng about, 
 seeing fresh places and faces." 
 
 " If I could only carry you with me, Pennie, then 
 I should be glad to go ! " 
 
 *' I should like it too, but I am not my own 
 mistress," said she naively. 
 
 " My dear little Pennie, that you never will be ! 
 Have not I a lien on your love, when your guardian 
 gives you your release ? Do you wear my ring ? " 
 Mrs. Wynyard was right then ! 
 
 " Here. Not on my hand, where you put it, 
 because it is so curious and beautiful that at Bracken- 
 field it was recognized. But if you would like me to 
 wear it openly, I will." 
 
 "Have the courage, my darling. lam disposed 
 to think, Pennie, you may infect others with your 
 own faith, and that I may win back peace and honour 
 by means of you ; though I know the common 
 sentiment will be that I have done wickedly and 
 selfishly in binding you to me while I am w^hat I 
 am. You will have to hear stinging things said 
 of me." 
 
 " I shall not listen to them. No one will speak
 
 236 MR. wynyard's ward. 
 
 to me unkindly of you twice." As Pennie said this 
 her mouth closed with the unconscious resolution 
 that characterized her, and the softness of her eyes 
 became a cold brightness. Both coldness and firm- 
 ness vanished the next moment, there being no 
 present need of them, and she spake comfortably 
 again. *' If you go away, you will write me a long, 
 long letter — and first you will come to Eastwold to 
 say good-by." 
 
 " May I come to Eastwold ? — doors don't open 
 hospitably for me, Pennie. Ah ! child, you don't 
 know ! " 
 
 '' If you may not come to Eastwold, Doctor Grey 
 will bring me again to Kood. He and I believe in 
 you, and we shall not follow any one's lead who doubts. 
 It would be worse to know you innocent, and act as if 
 we thought you guilty, than to condemn you outright 
 — it would be cowardly too, and I hate a coward ! " 
 Pennie grew quite vehement. She did hate a coward. 
 She had a strong natural repulsion for meanness, 
 baseness. If the choice had been put before her, she 
 would rather have been stoned by the whole of her 
 little world for sticking to Mr. Tindal, than she would
 
 A VISITOR AT ROOD. 237 
 
 have endured an hour of her own self- contempt for 
 denying and forsaking her love. 
 
 It seemed but a very short hour before Doctor 
 Grey appeared. " I trust you will never say again 
 that my advice does you no good, Tindal," said he, 
 coming forward to the window in which the host and 
 guest were. He then without waiting for reply, 
 glanced from table to table, and added, — '' Have you 
 not given her a cup of tea or coffee after her ride ? 
 Have you entertained her with dry conversation all 
 this while ? See if I bring my ward to this house 
 again of an afternoon ! " Mr. Tindal rang the bell, 
 asking Pennie which it should be — tea or coffee ? 
 
 " Dr. Grey speaks more for himself than for me. 
 He likes kettle-drum — coffee, please, we both prefer 
 it," said Pennie. 
 
 For twenty minutes longer they were quite a 
 pleasant, cheerful little group in the beautiful Abbey 
 di'a wing-room. A stranger entering unawares would 
 not have discerned amongst them the shadow of any 
 special trouble. Pennie already knew Mr. Tindal's 
 turn for the minor social amenities, she thought 
 again now that he would be very happy to live with, for
 
 238 MR. wynyakd's ward. 
 
 though his face was haggard and lean, his countenance 
 had cleared, and the dull despondency had left his 
 voice. Misery had not effected a permanent settle- 
 ment on him ; despair had taken no firm grip of his 
 heart and hrain. If the outer wall of his prison were 
 breached speedily, he would come forth of it able and 
 eager to enjoy the sun, and do a fair day's work in the 
 world still. At last, the doctor said it was time to go, 
 and on the plea of seeing that Pennie's pony was all 
 right and ready for her, he left them to make their 
 farewells alone. 
 
 "You will answer me when I write, Pennie?" 
 said Mr. Tindal holding her hands as she stood up to 
 depart. 
 
 '' Surely I will. No one need forbid me. I shall 
 tell Mrs. Wynward, of course." 
 
 " That is right. Give her your confidence— live 
 openly. Must you go, Pennie 7 " She only answered 
 him with her eyes, and he answered her again as the 
 happiest of lovers might. Doctor Grey inquired 
 from a remote part of the hall if Pennie was not 
 coming, and the next moment she came, and Mr. 
 Tindal with her.
 
 A VISITOR AT ROOD. 239 
 
 He gave her a hand up on her pony, straightened 
 her hahit, and was rather long ; but even these little 
 cares could not be spun out beyond a minute or two 
 under the wooden regard of Pierce's successor, and the 
 impatience of the doctor's horse. He walked beside 
 her, his hand on the bridle, to the great gateway, and 
 then let her go ; waiting to see if she would look back, 
 at a turn the road made twenty paces off or so. Yes, 
 she looked back ; and then he went round to the garden, 
 and lit a cigar to help him to enjoy the recollection 
 and the wholesome immediate results of her ^isit. 
 
 Doctor Grey provoked Pennie to a gallop as soon 
 as they were out of sight of the Abbey. "Come, Miss 
 Penelope, I have given you more time than was your 
 due ; you did not use it ill, but you must make up 
 for it by riding fast. I hope you are contented now 
 
 that you have had your own way, and have seen Mr. 
 Tindal for yourself ! " Pennie expressed herself as 
 entirely satisfied, and as very grateful to her second 
 guardian, whom hitherto she had hardly kno\^Ti 
 except as a purveyor of draughts, powders, and other 
 detestable compounds.
 
 240 MR. wynyard's ward. 
 
 It was a lovely ride to Allan Bridge, where the 
 doctor made her over to Francis Wynyard, who had 
 come thus far to meet her ; and while waiting at the 
 surgery had heen entertained by Mr. Buckhurst with 
 some serious jokes on natural histor}^, which had 
 profoundly puzzled his young wits. His musing over 
 these novelties, presented to him as interesting facts 
 not generally known, kept him silent, which Pennie 
 could not regret ; for she, too, wished to think over 
 the event of the afternoon, and to consider its possible 
 consequences. 
 
 It had been made with the knowledge, but hardly 
 with the consent of Mrs. Wynyard. Indeed that poor 
 lady, whose decision of manner much trouble had 
 weakened, was becoming sorely perplexed and dis- 
 tressed by the dif&culty of managing her husband's 
 young ward. Mild ad-vice and gentle reasoning had 
 failed to convince Pennie of her folly, and Mrs. 
 Wynyard was not prepared to appeal to severe argu- 
 ment or to authority. During Pennie's absence that 
 afternoon Mr. Hargrove had been at Eastwold on 
 business, and when told whither she was gone, and 
 with whom, had expressed the strongest disapproval,
 
 A VISITOR AT ROOD. 241 
 
 and had designated Dr. Grey, '' a pretty trustee, 
 indeed, for an heiress." At these words Mrs. Wyn- 
 yard felt, for a moment, as if her cares were becoming 
 a burden too heavy to be borne. She had received a 
 dismal melancholy letter from Normandy in the 
 morning ; it was the Midsummer holidays, and the 
 two younger boys were distracting for noise and 
 tearing their clothes ; Anna was out-growing her 
 strength ; Lois was wilful and passionate by fits ; old 
 Jenny was over-worked ; and here was Penelope Croft, 
 worse than all, obstinately running counter to every 
 propriety, and, backed by one guardian, setting herself 
 in steady opposition to the opinion of the other, and of 
 all the rest of the world. 
 
 To Mrs. Wynyard thus depressed, Pennie came 
 home, herself in chastened mood, fitter for cheering 
 than aught else. Notwithstanding her romance, she 
 felt the roads of life thorny to her feet, and saw the 
 roses promised to bloom but sparsely. " I'm very 
 tired," said she to Anna at the door, and went 
 straight up to her room. She was more of a woman, 
 more serious, reflective, and sad, away from Mr. 
 Tindal, than it was possible for her to be in the 
 VOL. I. 16
 
 242 MR. wynyard's ward. 
 
 half confusion, half exaltation, of feeling occasioned 
 by his presence. When she had taken off her habit, 
 she took off also the ribbon round her neck, by which 
 his ring was suspended, and put it on her hand 
 again, murmuring over to herself in prayerful spirit 
 as she did so, its quaint posy — " God send me well 
 to keep ! God send me well to keep ! " 
 
 Lois came presently to call her down to tea, and 
 after the healthy racket of it, while the children 
 went out to play, Mrs. Wynyard invited her to speak 
 of her visit by silently taking up her hand, and 
 looking at the ring. 
 
 " You understand what it means ? " said Pennie, 
 softly. " It means that I don't care who knows now 
 that I love Mr. Tindal, and that I shall be his wife 
 some day — if I were my own mistress it should be 
 now." 
 
 " You speak out, Pennie. Perhaps it is happy 
 for you that you cannot carry your pity at once into 
 practice. I do not doubt that you have a strong 
 feeling for Mr. Tindal, for the circumstances of your 
 acquaintance were quite such as favour the growth 
 of a youthful passion ; but, when you see a httle
 
 A VISITOE AT ROOD. 243 
 
 more of men and of society, you will find there are 
 others pleasant as well as he, though they may lack 
 the charm of a gi-eat calamity." 
 
 Mrs. Wynyard did not mean to he sarcastic. 
 She hit on that vein unawares, hut Pennie winced at 
 the touch of irony, and made no answer. She had 
 resolved that the fact of her wearing that ring must 
 he testimony enough of sentiment that deserved to 
 he respected, and that as far as mortal patience 
 would endure, she ought to hear -^-ithout retort every 
 insinuation and every attack made on her hecause of 
 the giver. She hegan hy airing her little stern 
 dignity on anxious, heart-aching Mrs. Wynyard, and 
 it proved quite effectual. That distressed lady had 
 no desire to wound her, no desire in the world, on 
 her hehalf, but that she might be good and happy. 
 Perceiving that she had somehow spoken amiss, she 
 judged it -wdse to let the subject drop, and only said 
 further, " You shall write to Mr. Wynyard yourself, 
 Pennie dear. You will be able to put your views in 
 a fairer light than I could possibly do ; " and then 
 she left her, and went out on the terrace before the 
 house where her own children were at i^lay. 
 
 16—2
 
 244 MK. WYNYARD'S WARD. 
 
 Pennie had no fear of her absent guardian, but 
 when she thought of the revelation that must be 
 made to her mother, her heart was like to fail her. 
 It was already made if she had but known. Mr. 
 Hargrove had carried the intelligence he had gleaned 
 at Eastwold straight to Mayfield ; and the widow, 
 amidst her anger, had melted into tears to think that 
 her daughter could have ridden to Eood, within a 
 mile of home, without coming on to see her. She 
 ascribed the neglect, not to the difficulty Pennie 
 must have had in cutting short her visit of Christian 
 consolation to one in misery, but to the few words 
 they had had in the spring ; and, full of this fear, as 
 soon as the lawyer was gone, she took her pen and 
 paper, and wrote off a letter to Eastwold, very tender, 
 remorseful, and slightly incoherent, which she sent 
 t)ver in the morning by a special messenger. 
 
 It came to Pennie 's hand before breakfast, and 
 drew a few tears to her eyes. They had begun to 
 cut the grass in the low meadows, it said, and was 
 she not going over for a week ? She was not to 
 think any more of those sharp words about her ring 
 — it was only her mother's way, and who loved her
 
 A VISITOR AT EOOD. 245 
 
 better ? She had heard of her being at the Abbey, 
 and thought it strange. Pennie must remember she 
 was her mother, and a duty was laid on her to speak, 
 if she saw her going wrong. Finally she was to 
 "WTite by the messenger when she would go to May- 
 field — the sooner the better. 
 
 Pennie appeared at the breakfast-table with this 
 document in her hand, and laid it before Mrs. Wyn- 
 yard, who asked her what she wished to do. Pennie 
 said she wished to go. That was conclusive. Mrs. 
 Wynyard had taken counsel with herself, and had 
 decided that it would be safest not to thwart Pennie, 
 at present, with any obvious contradiction, lest she 
 should be driven to some sudden and irretrievable 
 step. She went to Mayfield the next day.
 
 '24:6 MK. WYNYARD'S WARD. 
 
 XII. 
 
 A FAREWELL. 
 
 When Doctor Grey bethought him that it was his 
 duty to take an active interest in the affairs of 
 Penelope Croft, he was rather puzzled where to 
 begin. While the renewed investigation into the 
 Rood tragedy was in progress he remained passive ; 
 but when it was over he wrote to his co-trustee, 
 Mr. Wynyard, and gave his version of the attach- 
 ment that had arisen between Mr. Tindal and their 
 ward, ending with a notice that, believing Mr. Tindal 
 a cruelJy injured man, as free of the crime imputed 
 to him as either of themselves, he had not hesitated 
 to sanction it. His letter reached Mr. Wynyard by 
 the same post, as a second from Mr. Hargrove on 
 the same topic ; and the next day arrived two more —
 
 A FAREWELL. 247 
 
 one from Mr. Tindal, and the other from Peunie 
 herself. 
 
 The poor expatriated gentleman was bothered 
 exceedingly by this awkward love-story of his ward's. 
 He would have liked to write back, " Give her her 
 head ; let her marry the first man that asks her, 
 only I am quit of her, and of Hargrove's perpetual 
 suggestions to bolster up my own miserable fortunes 
 by helping myself to hers ! " To his agent he did 
 write almost as bluntly as this ; but when he had 
 taken thought during an hour or two's sultry moon- 
 ing country-wards from Dieppe, he penned a con- 
 siderate letter to Pennie, recommending patience, 
 and a glimpse of the world beyond Eskdale before 
 she set a seal to her life that must stamp it to the 
 close ; a manly letter to Mr. Tindal, decHning to 
 recognize any bond that he might have made with 
 his ward until she had had time and opportunity 
 given her to understand her own. and his position 
 better than she could possibly do now ; and a short 
 letter to Dr. Grey, conveying in rather more decorous 
 phrase Mr. Hargrove's opinion, that " he was a pretty 
 trustee for an heiress."
 
 248 MR. wynyard's ward. 
 
 " So I am," confessed the doctor, with shame and 
 confusion of face ; " but it is never too late to mend." 
 
 He went over to the lawyer's office one unoccu- 
 pied morning, when Buckhurst had taken his country 
 round, intent on acquiring some information respect- 
 ing Pennie's monetary business. Hargrove received 
 him with a cynical laugh. " You have some lee-way 
 to make up, Grey, I can tell you," said he, glancing 
 at one of a row of japanned boxes shelved in his 
 private room, on which the words *' Croft- Ward " 
 were painted in white letters. 
 
 Dr. Grey was not a rich man, nor a knowing 
 man. He had never been in the way of handling 
 much money, and he was almost ignorant of the 
 details of business ; but his newspaper had made 
 him acquainted with the pet rogueries of trustees, 
 agents, bankers, and so forth, and he asked to see 
 for himself that the securities for Pennie's property 
 were all safe. He did not care a chip for affronting 
 Mr. Hargrove ; he was indeed rather glad than other- 
 wise to show that he did suspect his honesty, and 
 that he had an inkling of what knavish lawyers 
 might do with their clients' papers if they pleased.
 
 A FAREWELL. 249 
 
 Mr. Hargrove, with the liveHest good-humour, reached 
 down the box, unlocked it, and tumbled out a mass 
 of parchments, of every shade of antiquity ; some 
 single, some tied in thick bundles, and other docu- 
 ments besides. 
 
 " ^liat will you start with?" asked he, airily. 
 "Do you propose to read 'm all through? These 
 are the deeds relating to Haggerston Mills ; and 
 these again belong to the little farm at Appley. 
 That's the last mortgage raised on Methley Towers 
 — and that's another. These are railway debentures 
 and preference shares ; and these bits of spotty paper 
 represent a large sum in the 'sweet simplicity,' as 
 somebody calls it, of the three per cents." 
 
 '' I tell you what, Hargrove, I don't understand 
 you just at present — you have a game, but I don't 
 quite see it," interposed the doctor. " Perhaps the 
 things are all there." 
 
 " Confound you and your fancies. Grey; perhaps 
 you have not got a bee in your bonnet this morning ! " 
 roared the la^swer all of a sudden, bursting out in his 
 big bullying tone. The clerk opened the door of the 
 outer room, peeped in, and shut it again.
 
 250 
 
 Dr. Grey's nerves were too tough to be shaken 
 by a voice ever so loud. " Come, come, Hargrove, 
 bullying won't do with me," he said, with con- 
 temptuous coolness. " As long as Mr. Wynyard 
 was on the spot he was check enough. I had no fear 
 but that all would go right, but now that he has gone 
 out of the way under such awkward circumstances, 
 I am not so sure. I'll trouble you to send me a 
 detailed list of all these things — I should like to be 
 on the safe side when Miss Croft calls on us to 
 render an account of our trusteeship. You under- 
 stand, Hargrove?" 
 
 *' I understand. You shall have the list written 
 out plain, as if it was for a lady ; and you can have 
 the box do^vTi once a week, and compare it with the 
 contents, if you like." The doctor pocketed the sneer, 
 and went out. The suggestion was not bad — once a 
 week would be too much of a good thing, but once 
 a year would be practical and sensible, and no gi-eat 
 trouble either ; and he made a resolution that he 
 would not neglect it. 
 
 Peunie met a hearty welcome from her mother
 
 A FAREWELL. 251 
 
 on her arrival at Mayfield, and found her parlour 
 fragrant with fresh-cut roses. A pile of new enter- 
 taining books was on the table. 
 
 *' Them's from the Abbey, Pennie, love," said 
 Mrs. Croft, as her daughter noticed them. " When 
 I heard you were to be here as to-day, I walked up 
 to see Mr. Tindal, and get an understanding of 
 things, which it is no more than proper I should. 
 And this morning he sent the books with a note. 
 Here it is." 
 
 Pennie opened the note and read, — *' My dear 
 child, your mother has told me that you are coming 
 to Mayfield for a week's hay-making. I have her 
 permission to send you some books, and to see you, 
 my pet ; but not every day." Pennie turned suddenly 
 about, and rewarded her mother with another kiss, 
 and another to that. 
 
 " When gels falls in love they is so afiectionate," 
 said the widow, and refrained herself for the present 
 from anything more. 
 
 There was a good deal in the note, besides what 
 has been quoted above, but as it was meant only for 
 Pennie's private delectation, and was not all sense, it
 
 252 MR. wynyard's ward. 
 
 need not be given in full. The pith was in the first 
 lines, and the rest was a variation on the eternal 
 sweet rondo of lovers, pitched in a plaintive minor 
 key. 
 
 As early on the morrow as a lady might be pre- 
 sumed to be at liberty to receive a visitor, Mr. Tindal 
 presented himself at Mayfield, and Pennie and he 
 had a long, open-hearted talk over their common 
 interests. It is not often that so dark a -wTong side 
 to their loves falls to the lot of mortals. Pennie was 
 much, much happier than he, because she was 
 ignorant, and had a more hopeful temperament. 
 
 *' Think of MiUicent and Michael Forester," said 
 she ; and harped on that string of good augury until 
 she had almost persuaded Mr. Tindal into her own 
 frame of mind. But the good effect was transient. 
 Her love was a rest and stay to him, but he was past 
 exhilarating for longer than an hour. After thirty, 
 the world claims its share in a man's interests, and 
 love is no more the be-all and end-all of existence, 
 as at twenty it appears. On the whole, he was sad 
 that day. 
 
 On the next he was more melancholv still. He
 
 A FAREWELL. 253 
 
 had received a letter from Xormandv, and must 
 needs go to Mayfield early to communicate it. He 
 found Pennie pondering over hers. Her mother had 
 warned her last night that if she married Mr. Tindal, 
 she would be only marrying herself to misery, and 
 she was intent on feeling and proving that she had 
 no manner of dread of being anything but blessed 
 in her choice. She exchanged her letter with Mr. 
 TindaFs to read. Both were filled with very sound, 
 vexatious common-sense. 
 
 Mr. Tindal smiled sarcastic over the document 
 offered for his perusal, and when he had finished it, 
 said, " Why are you that important thing, a great 
 heiress, Pennie ? If you could divest yourself of 
 yom- money, I might take you now, when I have sore 
 need of you — as it is, I must wait until you have 
 seen the world, or have it all crying out on me, not 
 only as an assassin, but as a robber of the bank. 
 Mr. Wynyard thinks it is not an honourable course 
 I have taken — perhaps I ought to leave you fi-ee ? " 
 — this interrogatively. 
 
 "^Tiat if I like my bondage better? They 
 think I shall change, but they don't know me ! "
 
 254 MR. wynyard's ward. 
 
 Pennie was always more attractive for a touch of 
 enthusiasm, that kindled her eyes, and made her 
 breathe short. 
 
 " I cannot let you go of myself, child. Wliile 
 you stick to me, I will try to rest, and be thankful. 
 I dare not tempt you to break with others for the 
 sake of me ; but let us pray, both of us, for a short 
 day of probation. I have a positive terror of setting 
 forth again on my solitary travels. I hate to be 
 alone. I dread my own vacancy more than ever. 
 And yet, can I stay at Rood with you away?" 
 
 Pennie endeavoured her utmost to cheer him ; 
 and she did succeed a little, though he heard and 
 felt in every word and tone and look that she knew 
 no more of the horror of great darkness that had 
 compassed his solitude about, during the last few 
 weeks, than a baby knows of the cares that may be 
 crooning in its mother's heart while it is babbling 
 and laughing in her face. Pennie imagined that her 
 sympathy fathomed the depths of his sufferings ; but 
 indeed it fell short by many and many a line. It is 
 not conceivable, in fact, that a girl should under- 
 stand the recurrent pangs of such a life as lay behind
 
 A FAREWELL. 255 
 
 him, or such a dreary waste as he saw stretching out 
 long before. Nevertheless, her present love was an 
 interlude of sheenland, the remembrance of which 
 might go with him into the wilderness. Other men 
 had broken down, and had fled fi'om the glare of 
 society into the very shadow of death, to escape from 
 much lighter calamities than had been laid on him ; 
 but he had walked long under his load erect, and if 
 he began now to faint and weary, was it a marvel, 
 when, after seeing it for a moment unloosed, it had 
 been bound on his aching shoulders faster than 
 ever *? 
 
 '' "VMien the days come to an end, and I lie down 
 at night, I feel that I should just like to stretch 
 myself out and die," he said to Pennie ; and Pennie, 
 with shining eyes, answered that he must not give 
 way to thinking so. If he had given way to thinking 
 so, perhaps the dying might have been accomplished 
 ere now. 
 
 The next day was Sunday. Both morning and 
 afternoon the Tindal pew at church was empty. 
 Pennie felt sorry ; and not being apt at hiding her
 
 256 MR. WYNYARD'S WARD. 
 
 sorrow, she let Mrs. Featherston see that she thought 
 the vicar had done unwisely and unkindly in allow- 
 ing it to be known that he had taken the vulgar side 
 against his patron. 
 
 *' But, my dear ! '' remonstrated the clergyman's 
 wife, w^ho, though much given to mending the erro- 
 neous ways of others, was quite unused to being 
 taken to task herself. 
 
 Pennie did not weaken the impression she had 
 made by mere words. Mrs. Featherston parted from 
 her with inward disturbance, and a doubt of her own 
 perfection, such as had not often troubled her before. 
 Perhaps she and the vicar had been hasty. It was 
 easy to follow a multitude to do evil, as Pennie said. 
 Perhaps they ought to have made a firmer stand ; to 
 have been more cautious how they dealt with an 
 unhappy man, whose fate w^ould have urged some to 
 despair. They had acted the part of the priest and 
 Levite of old, and had passed by on the other side, 
 leaving him to bleed to death of his wounds, unless 
 some chance Samaritan should come that way. 
 What a caustic tongue that little, sad-faced girl 
 possessed ! She made no scruple of applying Holy
 
 A FAKEWELL. 257 
 
 Writ to common life : the vicar's wife had not 
 thought it of her. 
 
 The only visitors to Mayfield that afternoon 
 were Mr. Lister and Dick. The latter had quite 
 dropped his cousinly freedoms, and treated Pennie 
 with a frank and friendly respect. She liked the 
 change, and was easy and cordial with him. Her 
 uncle shook hands more Avarmly than was his wont ; 
 and immediately said, without any affectation of 
 delicacy. 
 
 " Well, niece, I, for one, am not going to hlame 
 you. There's a deal to be said about what's lately 
 turned up that hasn't been said yet — not in t' papers 
 anyhow. If I'd ever had an opinion one way or t' other, 
 which I can't rightlings say as I ever had, I should 
 be for clearing Mr. Tindal, when I see a young lass, 
 that's no fool, willing to take him for better, for 
 worse." 
 
 Mrs. Croft groaned, shook her head doubtingly, 
 and said, " Ah ! but he should hear Hargi'ove 
 talk." 
 
 " Hargrove's a rare deep file — clever family the 
 Hargroves, all of 'em. Was it our man or his 
 VOL. I. 17
 
 258 MR. wynyard's ward. 
 
 brother, the editor, wrote tliem stunning pieces in 
 Norminster Gazette, I should like to know. Lawyer's 
 a goodish penman." 
 
 Pennie started when she heard this significant 
 fact, and laid it to heart. She could have no more 
 doubt now whence issued the inspiration of that last 
 cruel article which had closed the account of the 
 Rood tragedy in the favourite Eskdale news. She 
 was confirmed in a suspicion that, for some motive 
 unknown, Mr. Hargrove sought to keep her apart 
 from Mr. Tindal, and that the way he took to his 
 object was by insisting on Mr. Tindal's guilt. This 
 suspicion Doctor Grey shared with his ward ; but he 
 explained the agent's behaviour into an anxiety to 
 retain the management of Pennie' s afiairs, and the 
 profits therefrom arising, of which her marriage, 
 whether with Mr. Tindal or anybody else, would 
 possibly deprive him. He was not thoroughly at 
 ease in his mind whether there might not also be 
 something nefarious to hide, which must come to 
 light when she changed her estate. Mr. Hargi'ove's 
 violence had given him this impression, but he did 
 not know where to turn for its proof. The lawyer
 
 A FAREWELL. 259 
 
 had a very general reputation for integrity — at least, 
 no public slur had yet been cast upon it. 
 
 It was not a joyous haymaking to Pennie that 
 summer. She outstayed her week at Mayfield, as 
 she alY\ays did outstay her leave at home ; but the 
 simple, old-fashioned ways of it, which needed a 
 peaceful soul to enjoy them, had lost their savour. 
 Several more letters passed between Mr. AYynyard 
 and Mr. Tindal, and Mr. AYynyard and his ward, 
 ending in an accepted fiat that, until Pennie was of 
 age, the lovers must submit to a total separation. 
 Neither would consent to this except under pressure ; 
 and when Pennie showed signs of rebellion, that 
 pressm-e was applied without sparing. Doctor Grey, 
 much against his will, was deputed by her co-trustee 
 to intimate to her seriously that if she did not pay 
 due and lawful obedience to her guardians and her 
 mother in this most important matter, she would be 
 handed to the Lord Chancellor as an intractable 
 heiress, over whom her natural friends were unable 
 to keep ward. The indenniteness of this menace 
 subdued Pennie. Doctor Grey declined to counte- 
 
 17—2
 
 260 MR. wynyard's ward. 
 
 nance her in any immediate revolt against the 
 judgment of Mr. Wynyard and her mother, and Mr. 
 Tindal, seeing no help for it, reluctantly acquiesced 
 in the decree. Their engagement, however, hoth 
 were determined to hold sacred. 
 
 Mrs. Croft's heart ached often to give Pennie her 
 way when she saw her little distressed air, hut a 
 stern sense of duty prevailed over her capricious 
 affectionateness, and she ended hy persuading herself 
 that she was certainly acting for the hest. 
 
 *^You may well afford to wait, you are not 
 nineteen, Pennie, love," argued she soothingly. "It 
 is not many gels that many hefore they're nineteen. 
 I shouldn't wonder yet if you got off hefore your 
 cousins." 
 
 " I am not thinking of it in that way," said 
 Pennie, plaintively. "But he is so lonely and for- 
 saken. If we might only write to each other — it is 
 very hard to forhid me that." 
 
 " I could not give you leave, even if I thought it 
 wise, which I don't, Pennie," rej^lied her mother, 
 retreating into austerity. "I've heen too easy in 
 letting him come here as it is. You may see him
 
 A FAREWELL. 261 
 
 just once more to bid good-bv, and I won't listen to a 
 word beyond that. If your love is worth ought, it 
 will keep till you're your own mistress ; and if it 
 won't keep till then, the sooner you forget it the 
 better." 
 
 Pennie wept herself to sleep that night, and the 
 next evening — the evening before she was to return 
 to Eastwold, Mr. Tindal came to Maj^eld to take his 
 farewell of her. They said their disconsolate good- 
 byes in the garden amongst the yew-trees. 
 
 ''It is very cruel," murmured Pennie, tears in 
 her eyes and in her voice, "very cruel and unkind. 
 They might have allowed us to correspond. How 
 shall I know where you are '? How will you know 
 where I am ? Two years and a half must j)ass 
 before I may see you or hear of you again." 
 
 " It \sill not seem so long to you, darling, as it 
 will to me," was the most comforting thing he could 
 find to say. He knew very well that the design of 
 this long and severe probation was that she should 
 see something of the world, and perhaps somebody 
 who would teach her to forget him. But he had 
 faith in her constancy, and after a pause, he added :
 
 262 MR. wynyard's ward. 
 
 " Don't give way to fretting, Pennie ; we are sure to 
 meet now and then by chance, or to have news of 
 each other. Be as gay and happy as you can mean- 
 while. I cannot promise you that I will be gay, but 
 I will try to make myself busy." 
 
 Pennie sighed. Two years and a half looked like 
 a lifetime to her. 
 
 " We may meet and hear, but irhen ? but hoic 1 " 
 said she. 
 
 Mr. Tindal's experience had not been such as 
 makes a man hopefully prophetic. '' God knows ! " 
 responded he. 
 
 The twilight and the dew were now falling. 
 Twice Mrs. Croft had shown herself in the porch, 
 impatient for her daughter's going in. The second 
 time the lovers saw her, they were warned that it 
 was time to part. Pennie's tears were overflowing 
 now, instead of giving comfort, she wanted it 
 herself. 
 
 Mr. Tindal drew her to him, and kissed her 
 tenderly. " My dear child, my darling little Pennie, 
 if God will only spare me, I will pay you for this 
 sorrow some day ! "
 
 A FAREWELL. 263 
 
 She laid her head against his breast, sobbing as if 
 her heart would break. 
 
 Mrs. Croft came into the porch again, — came 
 down the garden walk. When she saw the state of 
 affairs she was touched, but she said crossly, *' you 
 had better go your way now, Mr. Tindal, and leave 
 her to me." And after a few more expressive fare- 
 wells at the garden-door, he gave Pennie up to her 
 mother, and went. His own grief was the less, 
 because hers was so gi*eat, and promised permanence 
 of love. Nevertheless he wished ardently that it was 
 the end, and not the beginning of their ordeal. 
 
 END OF PART I.
 
 MR. WYN SARD'S WARD. 
 
 PART II
 
 ( 267 ) 
 
 PENNIE HAS A GLDIPSE OF THE WORLD. 
 
 A NEW era opened in the life of Mr. Wynvard's ward 
 wlien she parted with Mr. Tindal at Mayfield garden- 
 door. There was a long probation before her, which 
 found her a girl, and made her a woman. She 
 moped at first, and her friends were uniyersaUy of 
 opinion that the time was come to give her a glimpse 
 of the world. 
 
 " Get her away from Eastwold, and let her have 
 a bit of touring and pleasuring," said her mother. 
 *' La ! bless you, shut a lass up, and she'll eat her 
 heart out, but she'll fall in love with somebody." 
 
 In finer phrase Mrs. Wynyard expressed the 
 same sentiment. So also did the dame at Brac- 
 kenfield, and the dame's married daughters. Even 
 Millicent Forester, who knew Pennie best, was in-
 
 268 MR. WYNYARD'S WARD. 
 
 clined to think Pen might forget her girlish idyll, 
 when she was a year or two wiser in the world's 
 wisdom. At all events, let her have leisure for 
 second thoughts, the opportunity of wider choice ; no 
 fear that with her fortune, notwithstanding her plain 
 face, but she would have suitors enough. 
 
 But who was to take charge of her ? Who was 
 to give her her glimpse of the world. Mrs. W}Tiyard 
 had too many ties at home. Mrs. Croft had no entrie 
 in polite society. Pennie got dreadfully impatient 
 when she heard herself and her prospects, day after 
 day, under discussion. For a full fortnight she was 
 bent on leading a nun's life, until she and her lover 
 could be happily re-united, beyond the power of 
 stony-hearted guardians to separate them any more : 
 for a whole fortnight, the longest in her life, during 
 which no whisper of Mr. Tindal reached her. At the 
 end of those fourteen weary days came two letters : 
 her mother's periodical gossip, in which the Abbey 
 was casually mentioned as being left to itself ; and 
 a kind epistle from Lady Goodwin, who wrote to 
 say that she and Sir Andrew were going abroad in 
 September for Sir Andrew's health, and that if
 
 PEXNIE HAS A GLIMPSE OF THE WORLD. 269 
 
 Pennie were pleased to trayel in their company, they 
 should be happy to afford her their escort. 
 
 Pennie could not have believed there was spring 
 enough left in her heavy heart to make such a bound 
 as it made at this reading. She coloured unconsci- 
 ously, and Mrs. Wynyard, under whose consideration 
 the proposal had been brought, in a long previous 
 correspondence with her sister, was at no loss to 
 interpret these signs of emotion. Pennie handed her 
 the letter. She perused it, and then said, — "Well, 
 Pennie, what do you think of it ? I think you cannot 
 do better than accept Lady Goodwin's offer." 
 
 Pennie was clearly of the same opinion, but she 
 had a little struggle with her inclination. Was it 
 faithful to give up being miserable ? ^VTiether it was 
 faithful or not, something within her protested that 
 it would soon be a physical impossibility to remain 
 so. She ate well, she slept well, she had her health 
 in perfection — prosaic facts to record of a young 
 woman in her bereaved condition, but youth be her 
 excuse, and youthful confidence in her life all coming 
 right by-and-by. 
 
 It was settled, of course, that Pennie should go
 
 270 MR. wynyard's ward. 
 
 abroad. Sir Andrew Goodwin, worthy man, grumbled 
 a little. He didn't see why they should encumber 
 themselves with the responsibility of an heiress. 
 *' We shall have a pack of foreign fortune-hunters 
 after her — that is where it will be," he told his 
 wife. 
 
 " Who need know that she has a fortune ? " 
 replied she, and pacified his fears. 
 
 There were yet some weeks to elapse before 
 Pennie set forth to see the world. She contrived to 
 pass them not unhappily. She had quite made up 
 her mind. " If we both live, as soon as I am free, I 
 know what I shall do ; " and once thus resolved, 
 present times and things came easier to her. Or, if 
 sorrowful reminiscence and anticipation got now and 
 then the better of her philosophy, she ordered out 
 her pony, enjoyed a canter over the airy, blossomy 
 moor, and came back refreshed in heart and hope. 
 Pennie was, in fact, herself again. 
 
 There were rumours of war in the world at this 
 time ; Russians and Turks fighting on the Danube — 
 battle of Oltenitza, massacre of Sinope on the old, im-
 
 TENNIE HAS A GLIMPSE OF THE WORLD. 271 
 
 memorial j^attern of war : English and French fleets 
 sailing round to Sebastopol, and blockading Eussia 
 in her Black Sea fortress, to know the reason why. 
 
 It was a lovely September afternoon when the 
 Goodwins and Pennie crossed from Folkestone to 
 Boulogne — a mere pleasure trip. Su- Andrew had 
 his Times, over which he fell into conversation 
 ^-ith a tall, ancient personage, white -bearded and 
 soldierly. The probability of England entering into 
 the quarrel was their topic. Pennie heard their talk 
 without much heeding it. Peace and war — they were 
 only sounds to her, echoes of pages in school-books, 
 unreal, unrealized. She had not yet committed her- 
 self to a daily perusal of newspapers. She knew 
 nothing of the evils and sins, and miseries and 
 tragedies, that are in the world, except by deduction 
 from the one tragedy that influenced her own life. 
 Therefore when the white-bearded gentleman said to 
 Sir Andrew authoritatively, — " We shall certainly 
 have war; we must have war; and not a little war 
 either," the words drifted by her ears with the 
 very slightest significance. 
 
 A sentence in the next letter she received fi-om
 
 272 MR. WYNYARD'S WARD. 
 
 her mother put meaning into them. Mrs. Croft 
 wrote, — " The Abbey is likely to be left to itself a 
 long while. The master is gone to the East. They 
 say here that he has volunteered to help the Turks, 
 who have been getting up a quarrel with the Christians. 
 But surely he could never be such a heathen as that. 
 A Turk is a Turk, and knows no better, poor creature, 
 but Mr. Tindal was taught at school and church, and 
 his mother was a pious woman as ever stepped. If 
 what I hear is true, I shall begin to think worse of 
 him than ever I thought yet. And I hope you are 
 getting him out of your head." 
 
 Pennie was doing anything but getting him out 
 of her head. When they reached Paris, her first 
 expedition was to Hachette's, to buy all the books, 
 pamphlets and papers that would explain to her the 
 rise and progress of the war-cloud in the East. Mr. 
 Tindal was there ; she had not a doubt of it. And if 
 he was there, it was for some noble pui-pose, she felt 
 sure. Perhajjs he was gone to seek the opportunity 
 of honourable fame : to redeem his wasted life by 
 some gi-and act which would compel all true men to 
 accord him their trust again. In Pennie's imagina-
 
 PENNIE HAS A GLIMPSE OF THE WOKLD. 273 
 
 tion he was already exalted into a warrior and a hero. 
 She had no heart-aching fears for his safety. Indeed, 
 to herself she avowed it, she would have had a proud 
 consolation in his making a glorious end, if he left 
 a glorious name, in the light of which the black 
 calumny that eclipsed it now, might be overpowered 
 and done away. Her sentiment was a new reading 
 of the old lyric : she could not have loved her lover 
 so much, had she not loved his honour more than 
 himself. If Providence had made her the oppor- 
 tunity, she would have told him so. 
 
 To come down from aspirations to realities. 
 Lady Goodwin was pleased with Pennie. She dis- 
 cerned large capabilities of improvement in her. 
 "You call her ugly — in my opinion her face is 
 twenty times more striking and attractive than half 
 the pretty insipidities one sees," was her dictum 
 delivered to a fashionable matron of her acquain- 
 tance — no other, indeed, than Lady Brooke, who 
 was also in Paris ^^ith her husband. 
 
 " Yes, I call her hopelessly ugly — impracticably 
 ugly," replied the fat, fair dame. 
 
 VOL. I. 18
 
 274 MR. wynyard's ward. 
 
 " With her nice eyes, cleau-cut mouth and chin, 
 and soft, spotless complexion ? " 
 
 *' Complexion — she has no complexion. Her 
 skin is smooth enough, but it is only one tint lighter 
 than a gipsy." 
 
 " In two or three years, when she is a woman 
 and not a girl, I do not hesitate to predict that she 
 will he very much admired. She has not done 
 growing yet. I shall put her into the hands of a 
 good dressmaker and a good milliner, and they will 
 do her justice." 
 
 Lady Goodwin developed excellent qualities as a 
 chaperone. She had not been very enthusiastic 
 about Pennie to begin with ; but a few weeks' inti- 
 mate acquaintance brought her to a thorough en- 
 joyment of her office. Mr. Wynyard's ward began 
 now to be made the most of. A splendid madame, 
 from the Rue de la Paix, instructed her in the 
 artistic powers of dress, and, as Pennie was gifted 
 with a fine sense of the fitness of things, she learnt 
 aptly and appreciated the lesson. About shapes and 
 fashions, said the Frenchwoman, she had no ground 
 for anxiety ; a sack would not disguise the svelte
 
 PENNIE HAS A GLIMPSE OF THE WORLD. 275 
 
 elegance of her figure ; colour would be her Scylla, 
 ornament her Charybdis. Let her therefore study 
 colour and ornament. Pennie, though willing to 
 be well-dressed, laughed and moralized over the 
 serious business made of it. But the Frenchwoman 
 was far too conscientious, far too deeply impressed 
 with the dignities and responsibilities of her pro- 
 fession to laugh — she moralized, in fact, more 
 soundly than Pennie. 
 
 " Who affects to despise clothing is foolish," said 
 she. " Clothing, it is the outward expression of the 
 inward sentiment. A woman ill-dressed is a mind 
 ill-cultivated, is a soul dead of feeling. The perfect 
 dress is suitable, is neat, is of consequence charm- 
 ing. It is impossible to love the woman who 
 goes all so," a gesture of the hands exj)ressive of 
 tawdry slip-sloppiness completed madame's little 
 oration. 
 
 "A ball at the British Embassy was to be the 
 scene of Pennie's debut in Paris — her first glimpse 
 of the gi-eat world. Lady Goodwin assured her 
 before they set out that she could not possibly look 
 nicer. Her own glass had told her the same. She 
 
 18—2
 
 276 MR. wynyaed's ward. 
 
 did not like yellow in the abstract, but she could not 
 deny that the yellow silk, white tulle, and golden 
 wheat-ears that composed and embellished her attire, 
 added a quite novel lustre to her polished neck, her 
 arms, her dusky visage ; that, though as far as ever 
 from being pretty, madame's genius had brought out 
 all her latent powers of being picturesque. The fame 
 of her great fortune had gone before her, and was 
 generally known in the English society of Paris. 
 Lady Brooke had proclaimed her ugliness as a heavy 
 drawback on her more solid attractions, but Pennie 
 did not strike strangers as being at all unreasonably 
 ugly. Several persons of taste and distinction re- 
 quested an introduction to her — for dancing purposes, 
 of course. And then it came out that Pennie would 
 not dance — could not dance, as ladies dance in Paris. 
 Lady Goodwin was positively distressed. 
 
 *' You ought to have begun to take lessons the 
 day we arrived," whispered she. " I take blame to 
 myself for my forgetfulness. Yes — I quite recollect 
 your little style at Brackenfield and Norminster 
 Ball, your little capers and twirls that made Uncle 
 Christopher laugh. That was the fashion fifty
 
 PEIST^IE HAS A GLIMPSE 0¥ THE WOKLD. 277 
 
 years ago — I am quite gTieved : but we will not 
 have you make an exhibition of yourself. Better 
 sit still than do that." 
 
 So Pennie sat still, not at all disconsolately. 
 Her only dancing-master had been a wizened, very 
 old Swiss, originally a valet, married to an English 
 cook, who lived at Allan Bridge, and combined in- 
 struction in fencing, in dancing, and in the French 
 language, with the trade of hairdresser, barber, and 
 perfumer. Eskdale availed itself of his services in 
 every caipacitj, and was perfectly satisfied with the 
 result so long as it stayed at home. Pennie looked 
 so new, primitive, and pleased with all she saw, that 
 when she offered this rustic fact to Mr. Clifford, 
 a very serene Englishman, in explanation of her 
 second refusal to raise with him, he pronounced her 
 simplicity delicious. He would not have appreciated 
 it so highly, if he had not been assured that she 
 was worth more than her weight in gold — literaUy 
 speaking, worth more than her weight in gold. 
 Pennie had been so described, and the description 
 clung to her. 
 
 *' Yitz is de littel Englis gel dat is worse more
 
 278 MR. wynyakd's ward. 
 
 zan her weight in gold ? " was asked in a shrill 
 whisper behind her, while the serene Englishman 
 in front was holding her in light ball-room conver- 
 sation. Penni6 laughed silently, thoroughly appre- 
 ciating the fun of the inquiry. Another voice — the 
 unmistakable growl of a Briton — made answer that 
 all little English girls were vv'orth more than their 
 weight in gold, and Pennie's acquaintance, glancing 
 quickly round, said, "What, Bangham, are you 
 here ? " 
 
 " I wish I was anywhere else. Paris is con- 
 foundedly like an oven, and this is the hottest 
 corner of it. How d'ye do ? " Captain Bangham 
 held out his hand, and the countrymen exchanged 
 the national greeting. 
 
 "Well, d'ye think we shall go to war? " was the 
 next question. 
 
 " Not a doubt of it. Can't understand what the 
 Government means, shilly-shallying like this. Much 
 better show 'em we mean it, and give 'em it hot and 
 strong at once. That is what I say." 
 
 " That is what everybody says, both here and in 
 London. There are not two opinions about it." The
 
 PENNIE HAS A GLBIPSE OF THE WOKLD. 279 
 
 friends moved off, and Lad}^ Brooke sailed, a great 
 white luminous cloud, into the space Mr. Clifford had 
 vacated. She loomed largely benignant over Pennie, 
 hoped she was enjoying her first Paris hall, and 
 regi-etted not to see her better engaged than sitting 
 still. She offered to try to find her a partner — she 
 had no doubt she could. 
 
 " Thank you," said Pennie ; *' but it would be 
 of no use, for I cannot dance." Then she had to 
 explain. Lady Brooke was amazed ; urged her to 
 try — anything passed for dancing now-a-days ; her 
 friends would make allowance. 
 
 "I am very well entertained. The music iw 
 lovely. I do not at all care for sitting still," replied 
 Pennie, confused by the tone of compassionate 
 patronage with which it was Lady Brooke's whim to 
 address her. 
 
 '' T\Tiat an odd little creature you are ! I suppose 
 it would be impossible to make you look or think 
 like other people. I should so much like to ask you 
 a question. I can see through your glove that you 
 still wear the bride-ring of Piood." Pennie coloured 
 slightly, and her air betrayed that she did not like
 
 280 MR. wynyard's ward. 
 
 the turn of the conversation. Lady Brooke became 
 only the more inquisitive. *' Tell me," whispered 
 she, " do you hold to your pledge ? I know your 
 guardians have refused to recognize any sort of en- 
 gagement between you and Mr. Tindal ; but do you 
 adhere to it yourselves ? " 
 
 " I shall not deny it ; but I do not acknowledge 
 your right to catechize me," said Pennie, flushing 
 deeper and deeper. 
 
 Lady Brooke only smiled superior at the little 
 country girl's rebufl". She had learned all she wished 
 to know, and within five minutes she had apprised 
 a dear, deeply-indebted friend, on the look-out for a 
 good match to retrieve his fortunes, that in her 
 judgment it would be only love's labour lost to pay 
 court to Penelope Croft. 
 
 Lady Goodwin had a chaperone's eye on her 
 charge the whole night ; but she had too many 
 friends and acquaintances to greet and chat with for 
 more than this. It was certainly tiresome to bring 
 a girl to a ball who could not dance, especially a girl 
 whom twenty people wanted to dance with. 
 
 " If you could have danced, Pennie, your debut
 
 PENNIE HAS A GLIMPSE OF THE WORLD. 281 
 
 might have been quite a success," she said to her 
 just before supper. " Instead of that, it is almost a 
 failure, and Lady Brooke is going about pitying 
 
 YOU." 
 
 " I don't care," said Pennie. '' There is nobody 
 here I should like to dance with — nobody I mind 
 ever meeting again." 
 
 She was not sorry, however, when Mr. Clifibrd 
 re-appeared, and after a word or two with Lady 
 Good-uin, proposed to conduct her charge to the 
 supper-room. He had a veiy agreeable manner — 
 quiet, easy, kind. She was not afi-aid of him. He 
 was not young, and he looked rather fatigued and 
 tired of everything but the little pleasure he took in 
 her freshness. This was obvious. It set Pennie 
 free to enjoy in her own fashion. He led her to 
 supper, fed her with dainties such as girls love, then 
 escorted her through the long suite of rooms, the 
 conservatories, the lamp-lit gardens, and back again 
 to Lady Goodwin's sheltering wing. As Pennie 
 resumed her seat, Mr. Clifford whispered an aside 
 to her chaperone : "Lady Goodwin, she is charm- 
 inr/.'' Pennie's first sip of flattery — she found it
 
 232 MR. wynyard's ward. 
 
 sweet. When Mr. Clifford assisted her presently to 
 the carriage, the conscious intoxication of it was in 
 her eyes and in her voice. She responded to his 
 calm " Good-night " with a gentle flutter of the 
 nerves. Come to herself again, she thought what a 
 little, silly fool she was : the fact being that she knew 
 nothing yet of the world, and very little of herself. 
 
 The next day Mr. Clifibrd called upon Sir Andrew 
 and Lady Goodwin at their hotel. The carriage had 
 just been brought round to take them for a drive 
 with Pennie to St. Cloud. They proposed that he 
 should fill the vacant seat, and come with them. 
 He consented — he had no engagement that he could 
 remember. All very listlessly, he said it. Pennie 
 felt what an interesting person he was : he must 
 have a history with that manner certainly. Sir 
 Andrew Goodwin was sometimes rather sarcastic in 
 his sententious speeches, and as the conversation 
 engaged and grew animated between Mr. Clifford and 
 his wife, Pennie divined that the Yorkshire squire 
 did not admire — did not quite believe in the hlase 
 citizen of the world ; that if good manners had not
 
 PENNIE HAS A GLIMPSE OF THE WOULD. 283 
 
 forbidden, he would more than once have cried 
 ^' Fudge / " to his sentiments. They were old ac- 
 quaintances : the men had indeed been boys together 
 at Eton, and had a score of reminiscences in common 
 to recal, in many of which Lady Goodwin held her 
 place. Mr. Cliiford had visited at Brackenfield some 
 years before. He had also been in Eskdale — at 
 Eood Abbey, as it presently revealed itself to Pennie. 
 He spoke of himself, in fact, as Hugh Tindal's 
 friend. For obvious reasons. Sir Andrew tried to 
 turn the conversation ; Mr. Clifford, unaware of 
 them, persevered. 
 
 *' Dreadful fate to be cut off in that sudden way. 
 It has never been cleared up yet, has it?" He was 
 told it had not. ''I see a woman's hand in it — 
 always did. Scandalous thing to lay it to his 
 brother." Pennie experienced a fresh movement of 
 sympathy towards Mr. Clifford. Lady Goodwin in- 
 terposed with some inquiry about the lady whom the 
 Emperor had just exalted from a private station to 
 share his throne. There was ten minutes good talk 
 on that topic, and then the carriage was at the park- 
 jzate of St. Cloud.
 
 284 MR. wynyard's ward. 
 
 They did not go over the palace, but the}^ walked 
 for an hour in the park and in the formal gardens, 
 and thten drove back to Paris as they had come. 
 There was no second allusion to the Rood Abbey 
 tragedy ; and when they arrived in the courtyard of 
 the hotel, Mr. Clifford took his leave, and went 
 his way. 
 
 He went his way then, but he came back several 
 times again. Sir Andrew asked his Avife what he 
 meant by it, the inveterate dangler. *'I'm sure," 
 said the Squire, "it is not for love of my company, 
 and I do not think it is for love of yours." Lady 
 Goodwin suggested that it might be for love of 
 Pennie's. 
 
 " Don't encourage that — he'll never marry her. 
 There is not a prouder man on the face of the earth. 
 A word of her kith and kin would rout all your 
 schemes. And for the fellow himself, he is so con- 
 sequential, though he is nothing and has nothing, 
 that a woman of at all inferior rank would be cursed 
 with such a companion. Let us have no match- 
 making, my dear, whatever w^e have. I shall tell 
 him hers is a railway-mania fortune."
 
 PENNIE HAS A GLIMPSE OF THE WORLD. 285 
 
 Lady Goodwin felt slight!}- disappointed. She 
 fancied her prosperous mate was rather hard on 
 Mr. Clifford, who began life with his way to make, 
 and thus far had made it by no means effectually. 
 He was a lover of pleasure, a lover of ease ; his 
 fine person was a little decaying, his moderate for- 
 tune was long since mortgaged. Even to men of 
 the world the most knowing, it was a myster}^ how 
 he kept up the game — dined well, lodged well, 
 dressed well; had admission to desirable houses, 
 and napoleons always in his pocket. It must be 
 play — he must know a trick or two on the cards, 
 was the common explanation. Perhaps he did. 
 But he staved off the desperate air of those who 
 have only luck to depend on. He might more than 
 once have established himself by a monej^ed match, 
 but he formed a mistaken estimate of his deserts. 
 He wanted nothing less than all — birth, youth, 
 breeding, beauty, and fortune. He was not even 
 yet — after several failures — disabused of the ex- 
 pectation that he should get them. Pennie pos- 
 sessed three of his essentials — j^outh, breeding, and 
 fortune, and enough of attraction to stand in the
 
 286 MK. WYNYARD'S WARD. 
 
 place of beauty, but he knew nothing of her origin. 
 For that, however, he thought her association with 
 the respectable Goodwins voucher sufficient ; and he 
 had it seriously in contemplation, after he had been 
 twice or thrice in her company, to pay her a little 
 court, with such ultimate views as circumstances 
 might decide on. This business, very cautiously 
 conducted, brought him often to the hotel at an 
 hour when the ladies were in ; took him of an 
 evening to their resorts, to theatre and opera ; and 
 caused him to make his diurnal ride in the same 
 direction as they made their drive. Pennie was 
 always pleasant, always gratified when he ap- 
 peared. 
 
 ^' The httle jade," said Sir Andrew; '' I do 
 believe she is encouraging him ! " For though the 
 object of showing her the world was to detach her 
 mind from Mr. Tindal, men approve a constant 
 woman. And Pennie was faithful at heart ; — but 
 there is an influence in agreeable, delicately flatter- 
 ing assiduity. Mr. Chfi'ord made Paris a much 
 more charming abode to her than it would have 
 been in his absence.
 
 PENNIE HAS A GLIMPSE OF THE WORLD. 287 
 
 There was no sort of explanation, nor was there 
 any abrupt break in their intimacy. Sir Andrew 
 mentioned one day, incidentally, how and when 
 Pennie's money-bags were filled; and Mr. Clifford, 
 without surprise or emotion, detailed an unhappy 
 venture of his own at that epoch. There was an 
 end of all serious speculation on the heiress's future, 
 but he continued to be kind and cordial ; for he 
 thought her a nice little girl — a nice little girl, 
 moreover, with a very promising leaning towards 
 admiration of himself. Pennie never guessed what 
 her yeoman-blood had caused her to miss. She 
 knew what it was to love and be loved. She thought 
 Mr. Clifford had helped to make Paris pleasant; 
 but she was quite ready to have Florence and Eome 
 made pleasant in the same way by somebody else. 
 Sir Andrew, when he found this out, declared to 
 his wife that Pennie was a flirt. Lady Goodwin 
 knew better. Society exhilarated the country-bred 
 girl ; she liked it, though she was a little off her 
 balance in it. But she looked the best and the 
 happiest in those quiet hours of scenery-mooning, 
 when she could escape every-day talk, and let her
 
 288 MR. wynyard's ward. 
 
 roving imagination loose after Mr. Tindal. She 
 did a great deal of day-dreaming in this fashion ; 
 but she always returned from her flights at call, 
 and entered into every traveller's scheme with girlish 
 satisfaction and energy. Just before they left Paris 
 for Italy, in October, Lady Goodwin wrote to Mrs. 
 Wynyard: " Pennie does not worry us by parading 
 any vddow's airs ; but I do not think she has swerved 
 a straw's breadth from her resolve to be Mr. Tindal' s 
 wife." 
 
 This communication came circuitously about to 
 Mr, Hargrove's ears. He received it with much 
 complacency. "We must give her time. Two 
 years more will try her," said he to Mrs. Croft. 
 " There is no haste for her to marry at all yet — 
 she is only a child." The widow, in a sense agreed 
 with him, — but she did hope Pennie would marry — 
 and young. 
 
 *' Of course she will — why should she not?" 
 said the lawyer, encouragingly. But at the same 
 time he entertained a lively hope that Mr. Wynyard' s 
 ward w^ould prove long and obstinately rebellious. 
 He had not quite liked the going abroad scheme ;
 
 PENNIE HAS A GLIMPSE OF THE WORLD. 289 
 
 lie professed to think such a rich heiress would run 
 a thousand dangers from the pursuit of English 
 ne'er-do-weels and foreign sharpers. Lady Good- 
 win's information was of a kind to relieve his fears, 
 and they were relieved accordingly. Dr. Grey also 
 was pleased by it, but for other reasons. He was glad 
 Pennie was staunch to his unfortunate friend. "And 
 she will be if she is worth a chip," was his bold reply 
 to Mrs. Wynyard when she apprised him of the fact. 
 
 The Goodwins' next move was to Nice. Here 
 Sir Andrew felt or fancied himself not so well 
 as he ought to be, and after three days' rest he 
 took passage for his party from Marseilles to 
 Leghorn, for Florence. In the beautiful Tuscan 
 city he was better, and better amused. He found 
 there some English acquaintance of his own kind 
 — ^hard- worked, prosy people, travelling for health 
 of brain and body like himself. Pennie was also 
 well contented. It had been the desire of her heart 
 to see Italy — but then she desired to see it in certain 
 company. She, however, consoled herself with the 
 hope that she might some day revisit it — and mean- 
 time she took her pleasure as it came. 
 
 VOL. I. 19
 
 290 ME. WYNYARD'S WARD. 
 
 Lady Goodwin had been twice before on this 
 well-gleaned track of tourists, and so it came to 
 pass that Pennie wandered often Tvitli no other 
 companion than her maid through the dim splen- 
 dour of the churches, and amongst the priceless 
 gems of art in the palaces and galleries. Keturning 
 from one of these solitary expeditions towards dusk, 
 about a week after their arrival in Florence, she 
 found the entrance of the Jwtel in some disturbance. 
 Two strangers had just dismounted in the courtyard, 
 and wanted rooms. The host declared that his inn 
 was full. To this the stouter of the new-comers 
 replied, shortly : " Bosh ! " and Pennie recognized 
 Captain Bangham — the propounder, to the inquiring 
 Frenchman at the Embassy ball, of the very loyal 
 opinion that all little English girls were worth more 
 than their weight in gold. His companion was 
 younger, very ruddy of hair and complexion, of 
 giraffe-hke tallness, and of mihtary air and gait. 
 Pennie made her way upstairs, and lost sight and 
 hearing of the T\Tangle. 
 
 The little party was sitting at dinner in quiet 
 state about two hours later, when the door opened,
 
 PENNIE HAS A GLIMPSE OF THE WORLD. 291 
 
 and in marched the slim, florid stranger. '' You 
 here, George!" cried Lady Goodwin, who faced the 
 entrance. 
 
 " Just come. Two months' leave. Andrew, old 
 fellow, how d'ye do ? This is better luck than I 
 expected." 
 
 Sir Andrew gave his young brother a cordial 
 shake of the hand, commanded back the soup, and 
 made him sit down. ''Better luck than I expected 
 either, George," said he. There was a rapid passage 
 of question and answer for a few minutes, and then 
 Lady Goodwin asked her brother-in-law if he remem- 
 bered Penelope Croft, adding that she thought they 
 must have met at Brackenfield, 
 
 " If I remember her! she gave me good cause. 
 Happy to see you again, Miss Pennie ; that is, if you 
 have given up pulling hair," was his amazing reply. 
 Pennie, who had recognized him the moment he 
 entered the room without his hat, replied demurely 
 that she had — except under the same circumstances 
 of provocation. 
 
 "Did she ever pull yours, George? I hope you 
 punished her," said Sir Andrew, enjoying the joke. 
 
 19-2
 
 292 MR. WYNYAKD'S WAED. 
 
 " Didn't I ? Ask her ? under the mistletoe. 
 Do they have mistletoe at Brackenfield still ? " 
 
 " At Christmas ; oh, yes ! That old custom will 
 see this generation out, and many another." 
 
 *' I should like to go there again. Andrew, we 
 are safe to have war in the spring ; there is nothing 
 else talked of in London. We shall go out, of 
 course. What maundering old fogies the Government 
 are, to let the Czar get so much start of us. That 
 fleet at Sebastopol means more mischief — and the 
 men he is sending south ! " 
 
 "You Guards and Grenadiers will he enough for 
 them," replied Sir Andrew, soberly. 
 
 " Queer start of the Quakers, wasn't it ? tra- 
 velling off to Petersburg to preach peace to old 
 Nick." 
 
 *' I am sure I wish they had succeeded," said 
 Lady Goodwin with a sigh. " War is a dreadful 
 thing." She remembered her younger brother, dead 
 in India, and all the horrors of that desperate retreat 
 from Cabool, in which he perished, with thousands 
 of men besides, as brave and as good as he. 
 Perished in a lost expedition — not even with the halo
 
 PENNIE HAS A GLIMPSE OF THE WORLD. 293 
 
 of glory. Sir Andrew knew whither his wife's 
 thouofhts had flown, and chanored the conversation. 
 Who was in Florence, whence they came, how long 
 they were going to stay, and so forth. 
 
 George Goodmn talked fast and fluently, mth 
 now and then a sort of half-shy curb upon him. A 
 most impressionable young man he was — yery young, 
 good-natured, honourable, and brave. The chapter 
 of his love-fancies was long and varied, and before 
 the evening was spent, by the natural laws of human 
 attraction, the lean, red-headed grenadier had fallen 
 into captivity to little nut-brown Pennie, whose dark 
 head reached up scarcely to his elbow. The first 
 result was shame that he had reverted to his disasters 
 of former years, and dread lest he might have 
 frightened or afi'ronted her by recalling her vixenish 
 exploit. 
 
 *' She is very clever, isn't she '? " he asked his 
 sister-in-law confidentially w^hen Pennie had retired. 
 " She looks as wise as " — he was going to say as afi 
 owl, but he recollected in time that the bird was not 
 complimentary, viewed in the light of a comparison. 
 
 Lady Goodwin gave her charge a good character
 
 294 MR. wynyard's ward. 
 
 for sense, discretion, amiability, and companionable - 
 ness ; and while dilating on her merits, there sud- 
 denly flashed into her own mind a thought of what a 
 nice thing it would be if George, who was really a good, 
 kind, upright fellow — in fact, she fell into a specula- 
 tion on the propriety and possibility of engaging 
 those two young people in the holy bonds of matri- 
 mony. She would not have fulfilled her mission in 
 giving Pennie a glimpse of the world, if she did not 
 succeed in detaching her affections from Mr. Tindal ; 
 and what means more likely to be effective than 
 bringing her within range of a counter-attraction ? 
 It would not only be a justifiable, but a positively 
 laudable act. Lady Goodwin went to her pillow 
 wdth a new interest in life. The seriousness of 
 it did not prevent her laughing inwardly at the 
 queer contrast the pair she sought to couple would 
 present. 
 
 George Goodwin proved himself a very tractable, 
 teachable swain. Pennie had been longing for some 
 rides through the autumnal beauties of the wooded 
 hills and country places about Florence ; but for lack 
 of an enterprising escort, she had been restricted to
 
 PEN]S'IE HAS A GLIMPSE OE THE WORLD. 295 
 
 an occasional amble with Sir Andrew in the fashion- 
 able promenade. Who now, therefore, so useful and 
 agreeable as George ? The very morning after his 
 arrival, Lady Goodwin had the satisfaction of seeing 
 them ride out in company, and the still higher satis- 
 faction of seeing them return in excellent humour 
 with their excm-sion and each other. Till then she 
 had kept her scheme locked in the secret of her own 
 bosom, but she now resolved that she ought to 
 confide it to Sir Andrew. 
 
 At the first blush of his wife's proposal. Sir 
 Andrew was strongly inclined to confound the 
 meddlesomeness of women, but his second thoughts 
 sent him off in a long, low fit of merriment. " My 
 dear soul, they would be a world's laughing-stock," 
 said he, as soon as he could speak. " George is six 
 foot five — Pennie is about four foot, is she not ? " 
 
 " Four foot, Andrew, nonsense ! She is over 
 five — five foot three, at least ; quite tall enough for 
 anything, in my opinion." Again Sir Andrew 
 launched into his provoking chuckle. Lady Good- 
 win begged he would look at the case reasonably, and 
 not turn it into fun. George has position and little
 
 296 MR. wynyard's ward. 
 
 money, Pennie has money and little position," urged 
 she. '^ Neither can afford to reproach the other with 
 the absence of beauty ; they are both young, both 
 well-disposed and well brought up. And what is 
 more than all, I believe George is smitten.''' 
 
 This grave assurance only served to increase Sir 
 Andrew's inopportune mirth. Lady Goodwin stept 
 to and fro the room as Lady Goodwin stept in her 
 rare moods of conjugal irritation. She said nothing, 
 but she looked the more. Sir Andrew, as it behoved 
 a wise man to do under the circumstances, grew 
 suddenly serious, and replied to her last remark : 
 " George's normal condition is to be smitten, to have 
 a smart attack of fever, and a rapid recovery. Let 
 the lad alone. He ought not to marry for a dozen 
 years, and while Pennie is under our care, it would 
 not be the right thing to throw her in the way of a 
 brother of my own, who is without adequate fortune." 
 
 Lady Goodwin held her peace, but she was not 
 convinced. If she might not help, she was deter- 
 mined not to hinder the two young people of their 
 amusement, whatever the result. But she hoped, 
 she anticipated a good result. She saw Pennie free
 
 PENNIE HAS A GLIMPSE OF THE WOULD. 297 
 
 as air with George ; teasing, patronizing, and dic- 
 tatorial by turns, and slie thought it a most promis- 
 ing beginning. George, with leisure and a heart 
 on his hands to let, was in some positive danger, 
 but Pennie was as far from thinking sentiment of 
 him as a woman could be. George placed himself 
 at her service, and was so anxious to serve her 
 that she made as much use of him, and the same 
 use, as she would have made of Francis Wynyard 
 had he been there. That was the mischief. Pennie 
 being safe, and feeling safe, allowed herself a little 
 liberty, and George, not being very wise, took it 
 for encouragement. Lady Goodwin strengthened 
 him in his misapprehension when he revealed to 
 her his nascent passion. He was not of the re- 
 served nature that loves to treasure such secrets 
 in silence. He stayed on at Florence in the same 
 hotel as his brother, and his meetings with Pennie 
 were daily and more than daily. They almost lived 
 together, in fact, and this was the position in which 
 Pennie showed to best advantage. She was such 
 a cheerful little soul, morning, noon, and night ; 
 so free from captious caprices, tempers, and discon-
 
 298 MR. wynyard's ward. 
 
 tents, that people were never unsure of her. One 
 day George was caught in the act of purloining 
 her photograph, done at Allan Bridge, from Lady 
 Goodwin's gallery of her friends. Pennie good- 
 humouredly said, " Don't take that, it is so very 
 bad." 
 
 " Will you give me a better then ? " asked George. 
 
 *' Yes ; I mil be taken here in my riding-habit, 
 and you must give me one of yours in exchange — 
 one in uniform. I like varieties of costume in my 
 book ; the figures will look all so queer as fashions 
 change." 
 
 A few days after this bargain had been concluded, 
 Sir Andrew gave notice that if they meant to go 
 to Rome, they must go at once ; Parliament was 
 to meet earlier than usual on account of the increas- 
 ing difficulty of foreign affairs, and they might be 
 obliged to return to England a month sooner than 
 they had j)lanned. Lady Goodwin and Pennie were 
 equally reluctant to lose their promised visit to Eome, 
 and George, though he was even then living in 
 anticipation of a sudden recall and curtailing of his 
 leave, prepared to follow them. When he apprised
 
 PENNIE HAS A GLIMPSE OF THE WORLD. 299 
 
 his travelling friend, Captain Bangham, of his in- 
 tention, he was obliged to let in a little light on 
 his motive. 
 
 *' What, affaln, George ? In love with Mr. Wyn- 
 yard's ward ? ^^Tiy, that is beyond a joke, man ! " 
 cried his auditor, with a jolly laugh. " She has 
 a great pot of money — half-a-million, I've been told. 
 And is it quite fair to interfere with poor Tindal's 
 game? Have you never heard the story?" And 
 then he told George all that was common report 
 in Eskdale. 
 
 " You don't mean to say she is fond of him ? " 
 gasped the j'oung grenadier. " I tell you what, 
 Bangham, I never was so hard hit before." He looked 
 so comically disconsolate that Bangham roared again. 
 
 " You wi]l get over it ; I think I have seen you 
 worse." 
 
 " Never. I am in earnest tliis time ; downright 
 serious. And Bangham, Lady Goodwin thinks I 
 have a chance — she does, indeed. If the guardians 
 won't consent to her having the other, why should 
 not a fellow cut in and win. It is not her money 
 I am after ; yon know me better than that."
 
 300 MR. wynyard's ward. 
 
 "I did not suppose it was the money, but still, 
 I don't think you are well advised to try it. Lady 
 Brooke was talldng about her in Paris, and Lady 
 Brooke is a shrewder woman than Lady Goodwin, 
 though she may not be so excellent. Her view of 
 Mr. Wynyard's ward was, that she would beat them 
 all with her stolid, cheerful obstinacy, and take 
 her own way as soon as she is her own mistress. 
 She looks like it to me — just as if she had said, 
 * I won't cry or make a fuss, but nobody shall 
 master me.' " 
 
 George produced Pennie's photograph from a 
 case that he carried in his pocket, and contemplated 
 it critically. Captain Bangham declared it was " as 
 hard as nails ; " the owner protested that it was 
 nothing of the sort — it was a dear little phiz, that 
 brightened and varied in expression more than any 
 other he ever knew. *' And she is so kind and pleasant 
 to a fellow," pleaded he; ''as nice as a jolly little 
 sister." 
 
 *' Of course she is ; why not ? So she would 
 be to anybody who was kind and pleasant to her. 
 It is her nature. She has a turn to be friendly to
 
 PENNIE HAS A GLIMPSE OF THE WOULD, 301 
 
 friendly people. If I were to come to Kome, and 
 to trudge attendance on her to whatever she wanted 
 to see, she would be quite grateful and thankful, 
 and she would show it. She is not like some girls, 
 who accept everj^thing as mere bounden service. 
 She has a humble opinion of her deserts, not-^dth- 
 standing the value she must know is attached to 
 money. I heard a great deal of her the last time 
 I was down in Eskdale ; and though I dare not 
 decide one way or another on Tindal's guilt, I shall 
 honour the little woman if she sticks to him. I 
 don't mind telHng you, George, that I had once 
 some notion of putting up for her myself, but Lady 
 Brooke warned me not to waste my pains. I am 
 dipped awfully, you know — perhaps a lucky bullet 
 or thrust in the spring may clear off all scores." 
 
 *' Don't talk in that way, Bangham ; I can't 
 stand it. I shall follow them to Eome in spite of 
 what you say." 
 
 " I know you will. We shall meet again in 
 London — or if not, well then, my boy, at Philippi." 
 
 It was during the first week of December that 
 the Goodwins journeyed to Rome, and that George
 
 302 MR. WYNYARD'S WARD. 
 
 followed in pursuit of Pennie. Sir Andrew was 
 perplexed ; Lady Goodwin was triumphant. Pennie 
 herself was happily unconscious. George had been 
 most convenient at Florence. She missed him 
 during the two days they stopped at Verona, but at 
 Rome he was very convenient again. 
 
 *'I do not know how I should get about to see 
 all that I have a longing to see if it were not for 
 you," she said to him. "It is very kind of you, 
 but are you sure you like it yourself?" George 
 was incoherently sure that he liked it ; she could 
 not ask him to do anything for her that it would 
 not be a pleasure to him to do. 
 
 Sir Andrew refrained from interference until he 
 began to see that his brother really meant some- 
 thing beyond passing away his leave pleasantly ; 
 and then, when it was just too late to save him 
 mortification, he spoke, almost forbidding him 
 Pennie's presence. George pleaded hard for a little 
 longer liberty of courtship, but when he found Sir 
 Andrew was inexorably bent on discouraging the 
 further prosecution of his suit while Pennie was 
 under his own and his wife's care, the young man
 
 PENNIE HAS A GLIMPSE OF THE WORLD. 303 
 
 said, then he might as well return to London at 
 
 once — he was meditating a request for extension 
 
 of his leave, but, of course, what had passed put 
 
 an end to it. 
 
 " This is not quite the time to ask extension 
 
 of leave, George ; nor, if you will allow me to 
 
 suggest as much, is it the time for a soldier to be 
 
 seeking pledges of any girl — much less of a girl whom 
 
 he has knoTMi only a few weeks. Besides, I see no 
 
 trustworthy tokens of preference in Pennie to justify 
 
 your hopes. She wears the Eood betrothal ring on 
 
 her hand still, and while that is the case, she cannot 
 
 expect to be persecuted ^ith suitors. You are fairly 
 
 « 
 warned off." 
 
 George opened his grievances to his sister-in-law, 
 who was deeply sympathetic. 
 
 " Never mind, George, you will see her in 
 London. She shall stay with us in Harley Street 
 when we return," said the match-maker, anxious for 
 the success of her plans. " Sir Andrew really knows 
 nothing about these things. I have far more hope 
 of a change in Pennie than I had a month ago — than 
 I had before you came to Florence."
 
 304 MR. WYNYARD'S WARD. 
 
 George was only too willing to believe her, and 
 his leave-taking of Pennie from his point of view 
 was not discouraging. 
 
 " Going ! " cried she. '' Going to-morrow morn- 
 ing ? Is not that very sudden and unexpected ? " 
 She looked quite grieved, and George stammered out 
 some explanation, not very clear and not quite correct. 
 " I thought you had nearly a fortnight's longer leave. 
 I am so sorry ! We were to have seen the Colosseum 
 some night when the moon is at full." 
 
 But for all her expressions of regret, the pre- 
 occupied little lady found ample entertainment at 
 a gi*and church festival on the very day of his depar- 
 ture ; and Lady Goodwin was diiven to confess that 
 her sentiments were merely friendly towards him as a 
 pleasant companion, or selfish as towards a useful 
 escort whose loss she could not at once supply. 
 
 Sir Andrew and his party remained at Kome over 
 Christmas. Every post, every telegram, was then 
 bringing news that boded war. Sir Andrew grew 
 fidgety. Parliament was to open on the last day 
 of January, and he must be in his place. Nor- 
 minster, which he represented in the House of
 
 PENNIE HAS A GLIMPSE OF THE WORLD. 305 
 
 Commons, would certainly expect it from him at 
 such an important crisis. Their stay abroad was 
 consequently abridged, and in the first week of the 
 new year they set forward on their journey home. 
 Pennie, in view of her return to East wold, could not 
 but acknowledge that the winter had passed delight- 
 fully. She and Lady Groodwin, if not perfectly 
 intimate, were yet very cordial friends ; and when 
 Lady Goodwin suggested that a few months in 
 London society might profitably conclude Pennie's 
 glimpse of the world, neither she nor any other 
 person who had a voice in the matter, was found 
 to gainsay it. So it was arranged that Mr. Wynyard's 
 ward should have a season in town. 
 
 VOL. I. 20
 
 306 . MR. WYNYARD'S WARD. 
 
 II. 
 
 EASTWARD PIO ! 
 
 The Goodwins had a house in Harley Street which 
 they always occupied during the session of Parhament, 
 and there one dark, thorough wet London night they 
 arrived from Dover, and found their httle daughter 
 and her nurse had come up from Brackenfiekl the day 
 before with the Squire and the dame, in whose charge 
 the child had been left while her parents were making 
 their successful restorative trip. Sir Andrew and 
 Sir Andrew's doctor declared it had probably saved 
 his life. 
 
 Pennie had a spacious, comfortable room assigned 
 to her looking out on a grimy garden. It was suffi- 
 ciently quiet, and her heart warmed to the domestic, 
 homely English air of it. For her own sake, and 
 also that she might leave her friends to an unre-
 
 EASTWARD HO ! 807 
 
 strained family talk, she beat an early retreat to bed, 
 and enjoyed an hour's undisturbed meditation by the 
 pleasant sea-coal fire preparatory to closing her sleepy 
 eyes. 
 
 Four months she had been away from England ; 
 four months unbroken by a single striking episode 
 that she could recall ; four months of level, easy- 
 flowing, innocent amusement, diversified by frequent 
 change of scene, and passed in kind and cultivated 
 society. She smiled as she thought to herself how 
 little had come of her seeing the world wiiich her 
 well-wishers had hoped to see come of it. Nowhere 
 had she met Mr. Tindal's equal. To her mind he 
 was still be^^ond all comparison the most excellent, 
 the most interesting, the most lovable of human 
 creatures. She had enjoyed her travels very much, 
 but she felt, nevertheless, that after a few weeks in 
 London there would be a pleasure in going back to 
 Eskdale. Though he was not there, it would seem 
 to bring her nearer to him, if she had now and then 
 a glimpse of his house in her rides. She had heard 
 nothing of him for a long while ; nothing at all since 
 they parted, beyond that vague scrap of information, 
 
 20—2
 
 308 MR. WYNYARD'S WARD. 
 
 gleaned from her mother, that he was gone to the 
 East. 
 
 To the East was now turning all the world's 
 anxiety. Every arsenal echoed with the clang of 
 armaments, and the nation was rousing up, fierce as 
 an old lion, from the long torpor of a forty years' 
 peace. George Goodwin came to luncheon the day 
 after his brother's arrival in Harley Street. He was 
 very happy to see Pennie again, but a blushing 
 embarrassment mingled with his delight, and he 
 appeared to his sister-in-law to have some difficulty 
 in remembering the precise terms on which they 
 had said good-by at Rome. She thought what a 
 mercy it was Sir Andrew had discouraged him from 
 making a declaration ! Some rival mistress had 
 evidently seized possession of his fickle soul. He 
 was, in fact, prime full of the war, and visions of 
 glory had almost outblazed his little passion for 
 Pennie. George had never smelt powder yet except 
 on a field-day. He had never been at the killing 
 of anything bigger than moor-game. He lived in 
 dreamland where there was no '' day after the battle" 
 — nothing but trumpets sounding, banners waving.
 
 EASTWAKD HO ! 309 
 
 cavalry thundering over the plain, and men shouting 
 " Victory ! " with their blood at boiling point. 
 
 '' Next month," said he in an exultant voice, 
 " we shall be all on the move. Eastward Ho ! " 
 
 Pennie raised her eyes softly to his eager boyish 
 face, and asked if he should be proud to go. He 
 replied with enthusiasm, taking the wistful, pathetic 
 interest of the inquiry all to himself, and feeling 
 entranced again. Lady Goodwin misinterpreted it 
 too. If Pennie had conceived an affection for him, 
 after all ! He was invited to stay to dinner, but duty 
 prevented that ; he promised, however, to come the 
 next day. And early the next day he came. As 
 luck would have it, Sir Andrew and the Squire had 
 gone out, and the dame was inclined for a chat 
 alone with her daughter. It was a beautiful sunny 
 day, and Lady Goodwin asked Pennie if she would 
 not like a ride in the park. Pennie said she should 
 like it above all things — she was quite impatient to 
 try the horse that had been bespoken for her. George 
 had ridden from the Tower, where his regiment was 
 stationed, so that there was no difficulty in setting 
 the pair off together; and when she had done it,
 
 310 MR. wynyard's ward. 
 
 Lady Goodwin felt satisfied that she had done a 
 kind and virtuous deed. 
 
 Hyde Park even in its winter dress was beautiful 
 to Pennie. Her horse proved just agreeably spirited, 
 and the air was not too sharp for comfort. George 
 gave her a forecast of what she would see there in the 
 spring, when the gay world came to town, and as 
 she encouraged him to go on, he gave her further 
 some society sketches, which she found amusing. 
 She wished frankly that he were not going away, 
 alleging that it would be dull to visit about where 
 she never saw any one she knew, and opining that 
 people did not make friends in London. George said 
 something rather eloquent about marching where duty 
 and honour called, and hoped that she would vouch- 
 safe him a thought now and then when he was far 
 away. Pennie warmly promised that indeed, indeed 
 she would. 
 
 What he might have answered remains a mystery ; 
 for just at that moment came in view, walking and 
 talking under the trees. Sir Andrew and the Squire. 
 Pennie espied them first, and said she was glad, 
 because she could tell Sir Andrew she approved his
 
 EASTWAED HO ! 311 
 
 choice of a horse for her riding ; but George felt 
 rather guilty towards his brother, recollecting the 
 conversation they had had together at Rome. 
 
 Sir Andi-ew's displeasure fell not on him, how- 
 ever, but on his vdfe, who was undoubtedly more to 
 blame. He told her he did not understand how she 
 could be so foolish. George, she knew% was unstable 
 as the winds, was always under the influence of the 
 last face that pleased his fickle fancy. It would be 
 a real calamity if Pennie set her heart on him, 
 with whom to be out of sight was as certainly to be 
 out of mind. Lady Goodwin said it would be 
 different, she thought, if they were positively en- 
 gaged. At that suggestion Sir Andrew grew down- 
 right angry. Engaged ! he would hear of no such 
 thing as an engagement. If his wife did not give 
 him her word to refrain from encouraging George's 
 nonsense, he would either send Pennie home, or else 
 forbid his brother the house, — which he should be 
 very unwilling to do when the lad was leaving him 
 so soon, whether ever to return God only knew. 
 There was no alternative then but for Lady 
 Goodwin to yield ; her husband was a man of his
 
 812 ME. WY^YARD'S WARD. 
 
 word, and not accustomed to threaten except in 
 earnest. 
 
 George continued to come to Harley Street, but 
 lie never again had the opportunity of private speech 
 with Pennie. She did not observe any restraint ; 
 and if he felt any, he dissembled it with admirable 
 success. He was soon very busily emplo^-ed in 
 sterner matters than love-making, and he seemed 
 quite happy and at ease in his mind when he dropped 
 in for a talk over what was at hand. Pennie listened 
 to him with kind, visible interest ; and spoke of him 
 occasionally to Lady Goodwin when he was not 
 there. At these times Lady Goodwin thought with 
 regret what a hopeful little attachment Sir Andrew 
 was nipping in the bud ! She told the dame, and 
 the dame was sympathetic too. But still she agreed 
 with her son-in-law that on the verge of war, of long 
 absence, and of possible final separation, it was wisest 
 not to form any engagement. Lady Goodwin could 
 not see it in that light. She thought it, indeed, 
 the very hour of all others when true lovers should 
 plight their troth. The dame again demurred, — 
 she did not quite believe that George and Pennie
 
 EASTWARD HO ! 313 
 
 were lovers in that sense ; both were too cheerful, 
 too open, too easy and friendly before all the world, 
 to in\'ite that suspicion. She was sure they would 
 not break their hearts at parting, either of them ; 
 though if time and opportunity had favoured them, 
 she did not consider it improbable but that they 
 might have grown into a sensible and permanent 
 affection. Lady Goodwin liked to indulge a more 
 romantic view of her young friends, and this view 
 of the dame's did not satisfy her as being just. She 
 assured her mother that Pennie, though she was 
 plain, was far from commonplace ; and that George 
 was full of spirit, enthusiasm, and ardour. The 
 dear old dame laughed : she could not for the life of 
 her make a hero and heroine of a pair so oddly 
 contrasted and so deficient in beauty. 
 
 " My dear," said she, " I think you are the 
 only person who wishes them to marry. The notion 
 has not entered Pennie's head, and if it has entered 
 George's, it is only in a vagrant sort of way, and will 
 be better gone again." 
 
 " We shall see," replied Lady Goodwin, and with 
 that safe prediction dropped the subject.
 
 314 MR. wynyard's ward. 
 
 The Queen's speecli at the opening of Parliament 
 prepared the nation for active hostiHties, and though 
 the ministry still talked of preserving peace, February, 
 as George had said, saw the Guards all on the move, 
 and London all astir in sympathy with them. It was 
 in the thick dark of a very winterly morning that 
 George himself marched away — one of a thousand 
 Grenadiers, few of whom returned to be greeted again 
 by the enthusiastic London mob that gathered to see 
 them off. The Squire and Sir Andrew trudged 
 alongside the lad down the Strand and over Water- 
 loo-bridge to the station. They journeyed to South- 
 ampton with him, and only shook hands at last when 
 he was embarked with his company on board the 
 Bipon. They watched the ships steam down South- 
 ampton Water, and then carried home the news that 
 the Guard's were fairly under weigh for the East. 
 Lady Goodwin heard the announcement with tears. 
 Pennie's eyes glittered too, but her heart bounded. 
 " I wish, I wish, I wish, he were one of them ! " was 
 her vehement, silent cry. She was thinking of Mr. 
 Tindal, but both Sir Andrew and his wife fancied she 
 was sending a prayer after George.
 
 EAST\YAED HO ! 315 
 
 The next event that happened in Harley Street 
 was the arriyal from the north of Captain and Mrs. 
 Blake. Captain Blake had been appointed to a ship 
 in the fleet that was to sail to the Baltic, and he 
 stayed a few days there with his wife on his road to 
 joia at Portsmouth. Everybody did his and her best 
 to be cheerful, but Pennie discerned now, what she 
 had not discerned in George's case, that war meant 
 something else besides honour and glory. Mrs. Blake 
 had two little children, and expected a third in the 
 summer. She was dispirited and anxious, delicate 
 moreover, and a cause of anxiety to all who loved her. 
 The dame would fain have had her go back to 
 Brackenfield to be taken care of in her husband's 
 absence, but she would hear of nothing but going into 
 lodgings at Southsea, and there awaiting his return. 
 She was suffered to have her own way, and the Squire 
 and the dame accompanied her, to stay with her over 
 the parting. 
 
 On the 28th of March came the formal Declaration 
 of War with Russia in the London Gazette ; then on 
 the 26th of April a National Fast-Day, and after that 
 many another day of national humiliation and sorrow.
 
 316 MR. WYNYARD'S WARD. 
 
 Pennie became a zealous reader of TJie Times. She 
 had her own copy ; for Sir Andrew's reading of it 
 interfered with hers, and she had not patience to 
 wait until it came to her hands after he had done 
 with it. Lady Goodwin speculated often whether it 
 was interest in George held her so long every morning 
 over the broadsheet, but she did not ask ; only when- 
 ever news of him came in a letter, she took the first 
 quiet opportunity of telling her. And Pennie always 
 received the intelligence with rapt attention. In fact, 
 she lent patient ears to anybody w^ho would talk about 
 the war ; hoping against hope that some day, by 
 chance, she should hear tidings of Mr. Tindal. 
 There was a systematic avoidance of his name in all 
 the letters she received at this period from her mother 
 and Mrs. Wynyard. No question she asked was 
 answered ; no wish she expressed was responded to. 
 But this very carefulness defeated its own end by 
 filling her with vague alarms, and making her anxiety 
 to learn something of his whereabouts more restless 
 and distressing. 
 
 April and May passed with alternate dull days 
 and days when she was forced to exert herself in
 
 EASTWARD HO ! 317 
 
 society. The rumours of neglect, mismanagement, 
 and misery that began to agitate the public soon after 
 the landing of the expeditionary army at Gallipoli 
 took their effect upon her mind. Lady Goodwin, ob- 
 serving her one morning much out of spirits, used a sly 
 little moral probe, and said : " No doubt, George, poor 
 fellow ! was as well off as anybody." Pennie gave her 
 no answer. She was not thinking of George, but she 
 could hardly say so without telhng of whom she was 
 thinking, and Lady Goodwin had never encouraged 
 her to speak of Mr. Tindal. She therefore nursed her 
 fears in silence. There was no loud talk of glory yet 
 to inspire her with lofty visions. Mr. Tindal had 
 probably been enduring for months the mean priva- 
 tions there was so much fuss about — getting wet, 
 sleeping ■vsithout shelter, and not having enough to 
 eat, or nice things ; that was all, of course, and might 
 do him no harm. But perhaps he had run greater 
 dangers ; perhaps he had rushed into the thick of the 
 campaign on the Danube ! Perhaps he had even 
 fallen, an unkno^^Tl volunteer in the army of Omar 
 Pasha ! Nothing was too extreme for her imagining 
 when once her fancv had taken wings. Perhaps he
 
 318 MR. WYNYARD'S WARD. 
 
 was dead, and they were afraid to tell her ! The day 
 that gloomy possibility effected a lodgment in her 
 brain, she aggrieved Lady Goodwin by declining to 
 go to a garden fete at Richmond. 
 
 The next morning she bethought her of writing to 
 Dr. Grey — he would not deceive her, she was sure. 
 After nearly a week's delay, the answer came in an 
 unfamiliar hand, and proved to be from Mr. Buck- 
 hurst. Of Mr. Tindal he said he could hear nothing 
 but that he was still in the East — alive and well for 
 anything they knew to the contrary at the Abbey. 
 Of her guardian, however, he gave her* the sad, unex- 
 pected news, that the good old doctor had only a few 
 days before suffered a paralytic seizure, and that it 
 was much to be feared he would never resume the 
 exercise of his profession. Pennie formed a prompt 
 resolve to return to Eastwold, and without loss of 
 time announced it to Lady Goodwin. 
 
 *' But, my dear Pennie, jon were to be presented 
 at the drawing-room," remonstrated her amazed 
 chaperone. " You have not seen the pictures at 
 the Royal Academy. The season is hardly begun, 
 and you have been nowhere. Can it be possible
 
 EASTWARD HO ! 319 
 
 that you do not care for the pleasures jou might 
 enjoy?" 
 
 " I could care for them heartily enough if I had 
 a mind at ease," replied Pennie. "As it is, I think 
 I shall be happier at Eastwold." 
 
 Lady Goodwin knew then that all her dreams and 
 schemes for George and Pennie had been labour in 
 vain. She wrote to that effect to her sister. *' You 
 will find your headstrong w^ard still clinging with all 
 her heart to Mr. Tindal." Mrs. Wynyard sighed 
 over the abortive result of Pennie's glimpse of the 
 world, and wrote her a few lines by return of post to 
 bid her w^elcome to Eastwold whenever she vras 
 pleased to come. 
 
 The next day Mr. Wynyard's ward set out on her 
 return to Eskdale. 
 
 END OF VOL. I.
 
 LONDON : 
 
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