iK-THE-SaxtijiE 
 
 of ner YOL/TH 
 Beatrice Whitby
 
 L\ B RAR.Y 
 
 OF THL 
 
 U N IVERSITY 
 
 or ILLINOIS 
 
 823 
 W5Sl4i.
 
 IN THE SUNTUIE OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 NEW NOVELS AT ALL LIBRARIES. 
 
 A AVOMAN IN TEN THOUSAND. By Ferkol Vance. 
 
 3 vols. 
 
 AN ISHMAELITE INDEED. By Pamela Sneyd and 
 
 Beitiffe Skottowe. 2 vols. 
 
 FOILED. By the Hon. Mrs. Hennikek, author of 'Sir 
 
 George,' &c. 3 vols. 
 
 ALSTON CRUCIS. By Helen Shipton, author of 
 
 ' Dagmar,' ' The Last of the Fenwickes,' &c. 3 vols. 
 
 ONE WAY OF LOVE. By Constance Smith, author of 
 
 ' The Kepentance of Paul Wentworth,' &c. 3 vols. 
 
 LONDON: HURST & BLACKETT, LIMITED.
 
 m THE SUNTDIE OF HER YOUTH 
 
 BY 
 
 BEATRICE WHITBY 
 
 AUTHOE OF 
 
 THE AWAKENING OF MARY FENWICK,' ' ONE REASON WHY, 
 ' PART OF THE PROPERTY,' ETC., ETC. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. L 
 
 LONDON : 
 HUR8T AND BLACKETT, LIMITED, 
 
 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 
 1893. 
 
 All Risrhts Reserved,
 
 Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2010 with funding from 
 
 University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/insuntimeofheryo01whit
 
 I) 
 
 %X3 
 
 U3 5'8\A-i 
 
 ^ IX THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 
 § CHAPTER I. 
 
 All the courses of my life do show 
 I am not in the roll of common men. 
 
 Henry IV 
 
 ik Let still the woman take an elder than herself. 
 
 ^ Twelfth Night. 
 
 k 
 
 C ' I AM the kindest woman possible, I am 
 "^hard on no one, but I consider it my duty 
 
 ^to speak out. Your happiness is natur- 
 
 ^ ... 
 
 ^ ally dear to your sister, and if she sees it 
 
 ? in peril, if she sees you about to fling it 
 
 ^ VOL. L B
 
 2 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 recklessly from you, can you blame her if 
 she says a word in season ?' 
 
 ' I do not blame you, Maria.' 
 
 * No reasonable man could blame a 
 woman for frankness and caution.' 
 
 ' Certainly not.' 
 
 ' But a reasonable man, Mortimer, would 
 not dream of marriage in such a quarter. 
 I repeat that I am hard on no one, that 
 I do not refer to dear Jane, nor do I re- 
 mind you of your age — with its sundry 
 drawbacks. But at all cost truth should 
 be boldly spoken, and the truth about the 
 Trevors is obvious.' 
 
 ' To what obvious truth do you refer?' 
 
 Mrs. Dawson checked off the first obvi- 
 ous truth upon the thumb of her left 
 hand. 
 
 ' Poverty,' she said, ' and,' tapping the
 
 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 3 
 
 index finger with vigour, ' and reckless 
 extravagance.' 
 
 Mr. Hacket laughed, quite a natural, 
 easy laugh, and shook his head. 
 
 ' Come, come, Maria, you go too far. 
 That threadbare house, those shabby 
 youngsters, hardly speak of " reckless 
 extravagance." ' 
 
 ' Mr. Trevor is — I repeat my words, and 
 I repeat them emphatically — recklessly 
 extravagant, he is recklessly extravagant 
 of his time. What right has a man, with 
 a great hungry family like his, to spend 
 his life in pleasure ? If he was brought 
 up to no profession, then let him climb on 
 to an office stool and take to trade. Empty, 
 idle hours devour money as full and busy 
 hours make it. Look at his wife, poor 
 thing. There she sits from year's end to 
 
 B 2
 
 4 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 year's end with an aching head in her 
 work-basket, darning, mending, making, 
 contriving, wearing herself out in the eiFort 
 to make the yawning ends of an insuffi- 
 cient income join hands at Christmas. 
 Oh, yes, Mr. Trevor is a charming person, 
 but a charming person may be an unspeak- 
 able trial to his wife and family. I have 
 no respect for Mr. Trevor. You cannot 
 race and hunt, fish and shoot on a few 
 hundreds a-year even as a bachelor. You 
 may keep your family dressed in rags and 
 tags and fed on crusts, but even the rags 
 and tags and crusts must be paid for. 
 Paid for ^ Mortimer, j)aid for' 
 
 ' I have no reason to believe the Trevors' 
 circumstances are embarrassed.' 
 
 ' No one is so blind as he who won't 
 see. Deny everything, Mortimer, be-
 
 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 lieve nothing. Even deny their poverty.' 
 ' Why should I deny it,' said her brother, 
 pleasantly, ' when I know all about it ? 
 Trevor spends and his wife saves, — per- 
 haps both somewhat over-act their parts. 
 I do not insist that they are a practical 
 pair. I know that I am about to do what 
 the world may consider a foolish thing; 
 I do it with my eyes oj^en, having counted 
 the cost.' 
 
 ' If you would go away, go away for 
 a year, you would get over this mad- 
 ness.' 
 
 ' I do not wish to get over it, Maria.' 
 ' There is no fool,' she had meant to 
 say, ' like an old fool,' but she swallowed 
 these words, substituting, ' like a man in 
 love.' 
 
 It was no easy matter to put Mr. Hacket
 
 6 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 out of conceit either with himself or with 
 his projects. 
 
 He smiled complacently uj)on his agi- 
 tated companion, the ' foolish thing ' upon 
 which his heart was set was altogether 
 desirable. He was indulgent over this 
 tender weakness of his, it was a pretty 
 folly he admired, but he was not surprised 
 to find that his sister bitterly resented 
 it. 
 
 His sister was a widow who knowing 
 well the straits of jDoverty was justified in 
 laying down the law upon the subject, and 
 Mr. Hacket had, for the past eighteen 
 months, provided her with a charming 
 home under his roof. This he had done 
 from no special preference for her society, 
 but because he had felt the need of a com- 
 panion in his widowhood. His wife was
 
 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 7 
 
 dead, he was a rich and childless widower, 
 many distant connections and relations-in- 
 the-law had volunteered to share his soli- 
 tary period of mourning, but he had 
 selected the only near relative whom he 
 possessed, Mrs. Dawson, to fill the post of 
 comforter. 
 
 No wonder she was agitated, for he had 
 just explained that her position as mistress 
 of his house was likely to be a transitory 
 one : he had prepared her for the recep- 
 tion of a notice to quit. He was sorry 
 that she fretted, he regretted her annoy- 
 ance, he was not impatient with her, her 
 attitude was natural enough. Over and 
 above many worldly blessings, Mr. Hacket 
 possessed the spiritual blessing of an even 
 and contented temperament, he was quite 
 pleased with himself. Self-satisfaction
 
 8 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 mellowed the shrewdness of his eyes, 
 lurked in the fold of his lips, betrayed 
 itself in the portly graciousness of his 
 manner. Though he was far from comely, 
 yet he was content with the reflection of 
 which he caught full view in one of the 
 many mirrors around him ; for he was a 
 fine man, and fineness (in many forms, at 
 least) was an attribute which he particu- 
 larly admired. His forehead melted into 
 a bald, egg-shaped head, his ample whis- 
 kers Avere grizzled, his waistcoat was 
 liberally padded, he was tall, and broad, 
 and massive. He possessed that inesti- 
 mable benefit a thick skin, but the glory 
 of this possession had been born with him, 
 he did not appreciate it as he appreciated 
 those other possessions for which he had 
 toiled. Fortune had ever smiled upon
 
 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 9 
 
 him, he had been poor and now he was 
 rich, rich not by inheritance but by the 
 fruit of his own labour : he appreciated 
 his riches, enjoyed and husbanded them. 
 
 The Avife of his youth was dead. For 
 eighteen months Mr. Racket had grieved 
 — and truly grieved — a widower. Xow 
 the allotted time of mourning was over, it 
 was meet that he should make a second 
 Mrs. Racket as happy as the first. Some 
 years ago he had partially relinquished 
 his city business, he had left London, he 
 had built himself a monstrous-fine villa 
 without the village of Dorfold, he was 
 eminently domestic, and he had fallen in 
 love. The time was ripe — perhaps, a little 
 over-ripe — for the advent of the second 
 Mrs. Racket. 
 
 Mrs. Dawson refused to see thino-s as
 
 10 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 her brother saw them ; she was not to be 
 prevailed upon to alter her mind, though 
 he expostulated amiably with her. 
 
 ' I have worked hard all my life, Maria. 
 I have, perhaps, been fortunate. At any 
 rate, no project which I have, hitherto, 
 taken in hand has failed.' 
 
 ' You won't find a second woman like 
 poor Jane, Mortimer.' 
 
 He waved his hand rebukingly. 
 
 ' I know that it would be impossible to 
 do so.' 
 
 Some people wince if they find that 
 
 ' — every love is, of its kind, 
 A first love and a last ; 
 And every time we love we find 
 That love has had no past '; 
 
 and Mr. Hacket, though he did not wince, 
 ceased smiling.
 
 IN THE SUXTIME OF HER YOUTH. 11 
 
 ' Xo other woman will think you all 
 poor Jane thought you, Mortimer. She 
 spoilt you. She used to sit and look at 
 you and say nothing. Poor Jane ! What 
 would she have said had she guessed you 
 would elect to fill her place with a mere 
 child from out a harum-scarum houseful 
 of paupers !' 
 
 ' Maria, you allow your feelings to carry 
 you aAvay. Violent speech has no effect 
 upon me.' 
 
 ' I say nothing against the girl, she is 
 an inofiensive little thing ; but, Mortimer, 
 they are so poor, and there are so many of 
 them.' 
 
 ' If they are poor, then I am the more 
 likely to find favour in their eyes.' 
 
 ' Good heavens, Mortimer, you know 
 they ^\\\\jump at you.'
 
 12 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 Mr. Hacket caressed his whiskers and 
 smiled thoughtfully; it was pleasant to 
 hear his own opinion confirmed. 
 
 ' I am sorry that the disparity of years is 
 so great ; but I see no reason why I should 
 be incapable of making her happy here.' 
 
 ' Your money will do all that.' 
 
 ' I have no doubt it will aid me in my 
 endeavours.' 
 
 ' You put me out of patience, Mortimer. 
 I foresee how it will be, you will marry 
 the w^hole family, for they live at your 
 gates. This lovely house Avill be overrun 
 with those dirty boys, the tomboy sister, 
 that pert little girl, and the ugly lad who 
 lives with them. Yoii^ who have lived so 
 differently ; your home to be invaded by 
 young savages ; you — you don't know what 
 it will be ; it will kill you.'
 
 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 13 
 
 ' My dear Maria, you seem to think I 
 am insane. Don't you know me better 
 than this ?' 
 
 ' I know nothing ; I am capable of know- 
 ing nothing at such a time. But, there,— 
 I don't beheve she will marry you. She is 
 far too silly.'' 
 
 Mrs. Dawson's final tactic was odious to 
 the hearer. His smile died, his eyes fell 
 to the carpet — the soft, thick, velvet-pile 
 carpet — his mouth fell at the corners ; it 
 took him a moment to rally from the 
 shock of this impertinence. 
 
 ' I don't believe she will have you,' the 
 lady repeated, with fuller conviction, when 
 she saw the effect of her words ; ' they 
 are such happy-go-lucky people, Avho never 
 look beyond the passing moment.' 
 
 ' You contradict yourself, Maria,' he
 
 14 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 returned. ' In the lieat of argument you 
 invariably do so, consequently your argu- 
 ments are not convincing. I have done 
 my best to make you comfortable here 
 during the past months ; you are, of 
 course, privileged to advise me, but I can- 
 not be coerced. Whether I marry Miss 
 Trevor, or whether I do not, I must beg 
 that you return to Bays water in Sep- 
 tember.' 
 
 ' Mortimer, you are angry.' 
 
 He smiled serenely. 
 
 ' If anyone is angry, Maria, it is not I.' 
 
 Then Mrs. Dawson burst into tears. 
 She did not cry at all pitifully, nor in a 
 way to touch the feelings — she was a big 
 woman, with black eyes and high cheek- 
 bones ; her thin hair, which she wore 
 draped low on either side her high fore-
 
 IN THE SUNTI.ME OF HER YOUTH. 15 
 
 head so as to conceal her ears, was rough- 
 ened — she wept noisily. After fidgetting 
 for a moment, Mr. Hacket rose slowly 
 from his chair, and, picking up a basket of 
 cut flowers, which he had placed upon a 
 table, he walked towards the door. 
 
 ' Tears,' he said, with grave rebuke, ' are 
 the most unpleasant form of feminine 
 emotion. I very much dislike a scene, 
 Maria.' 
 
 ' Can T laugh, Mortimer, can I laugh at 
 a domestic misfortune ?' 
 
 ' I don't want you to laugh.' 
 
 ' If I do not cry I should — I must laugh.'' 
 
 ' I feared as much ; you are hysterical.' 
 
 ' Oh, Mortimer — reflect — can you pave 
 the way to a young girl's heart by a dish 
 of trout or a basket of roses ?' 
 
 ' I think it not impossible to do so.
 
 16 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 Maria. " She is a woman, therefore to be 
 won." ' 
 
 ' Yon qnote Shakespeare as though he 
 were your Bible — he is no inspired au- 
 thority, he is liable to make mistakes ; he 
 may lay down the laAv about women, but 
 he is not infallible. " A woman, therefore 
 to be won," — j^erhaps so ; for she's a pau- 
 per, therefore must be married.' 
 
 ' This discussion is not agreeable to me, 
 Maria;' and Mr. Hacket opened the door 
 as he spoke. ' If you insist upon pursuing 
 it, I must beg you to leave my house. I 
 have been patient and forbearing ; I have 
 allowed you your say : surely you see that 
 your words have not the effect which you 
 desire.' 
 
 ' That is because you are blind, Mor- 
 timer, blinded by your folly. To oj)en the
 
 IN THE SUXTIME OF HER YOUTH. 17 
 
 eyes of the physically blind is a miracle, 
 but to open the eyes of an infatuated 
 
 old ' 
 
 The sentence died unfinished, for Mr. 
 Hacket closed the door. Mrs. Dawson 
 dried her eyes ; it was not worth while to 
 go on weeping w^hen the cause of her grief 
 was out of sight, and, indeed, she was too 
 angry to cry. Well, she had Avarned her 
 brother, she had spoken out, she had given 
 utterance to words of wisdom which mio-ht, 
 
 o 
 
 crop U2> in his memory some day though 
 he disregarded them now. He, poor fool- 
 ish man, was at this moment, with a 
 basket of flowers in his hand, toilins; 
 through the summer sunshine to Miss 
 Trevor's home. A gleam of hope, involv- 
 ing immediate action, flashed into Mrs. 
 Dawson's despondent mind. Mortimer 
 VOL. I. c
 
 18 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 should not visit tliat dangerous haunt un- 
 guarded, he should not go thither alone ; 
 he might, in his present state of insanity, 
 fix his own fate that very evening. 
 
 Whether Miss Trevor would, in her 
 wisdom, accept, or would, in her folly, 
 decline the rare preferment which might 
 be offered to her, Mrs. Dawson could not 
 foretell ; hut, for Mortimer's sake, she 
 would put a spoke in his wheel so long 
 as the wheel revolved within her reach, and 
 delay, if she could not avert, the impend- 
 ing crisis. So she darted out of the draw- 
 ing-room, and, hurrying to her room, put 
 on her bonnet. Taking a short cut across 
 the pasture-land, through which an ag- 
 gressively yelloAV, newly -gravelled drive 
 meandered in extensive curves, she over- 
 took her brother just as he reached his 
 lodge-gates.
 
 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 19 
 
 ' I thought I would come too, Mortimer ; 
 I owe Mrs. Trevor a call,' she panted. ' It 
 is late, but she is not a formal person. It 
 is well to be on good terms, especially as 
 they live so extremely near us ] they are 
 a much attached family, perfectly absorbed 
 in one another.' 
 
 Mr. Hacket knew the meaning of Mrs. 
 Dawson's presence, and of her observa- 
 tions, but he smiled good-humouredly, 
 without speaking. 
 
 ' The position of an intruder in an ex- 
 ceedingly attached family, Mortimer, is a 
 difficult one.' 
 
 ' But, my dear, you volunteered this visit.' 
 
 ' Certainly ; it is my duty, under the 
 circumstances, to be polite. And — and I 
 alluded to a permanent, not a transitory, 
 intrusion.' 
 
 c2
 
 20 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 ^ A good daughter makes a good wife, 
 Maria. If I have my desire, my intrusion 
 will be excessively brief; I shall trans- 
 plant my — ahem ! — without delay.' 
 
 They turned through an open gate and 
 approached a house — the house, their des- 
 tination — as he spoke. 
 
 ' Transplant,' repeated Mrs. Dawson, 
 between her gasps, ' transplant. You are 
 no gardener, or, before you talk of trans- 
 planting, you would consider whether the 
 soil you have is likely to suit her. All 
 soils do not suit all flowers, Mortimer, the 
 soil may be rich enough, but a young 
 plant may not thrive upon it.' 
 
 ' Would you kindly move aside, Maria, 
 and give me room to ring the bell ?'
 
 21 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Perhaps you know what I would have you know — 
 I wish you for my wife. Think upon it : 
 For I am well-to-do. Xo kin, no care, 
 No burden, save my care for you. 
 
 Enoch Arden. 
 
 ' If it is among the cabbages, it will be 
 lost ball — and six !' 
 
 This was a breathless cry, for the speaker 
 was tearing to and fro on an uneven pitch 
 between wickets set on the sloping side of 
 a rough paddock. Bat in hand, she was 
 responding to importunate cries of ' Run 
 it out !' and she responded readily, be-
 
 22 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 cause it was she who had just made the 
 hit of the evening ; it was off her bat that 
 the ball had fioAvn over the thorn-hedge 
 and into the kitchen garden. The mingled 
 triumph and anxiety in her face showed 
 that her heart was in the game, and that 
 she ' played to win.' 
 
 ' Hurry up, Max,' roared the bowler to 
 a young man, whose legs were long enough 
 to do their duty, but who, with a resigned, 
 rather than an enthusiastic face, lagged 
 across the pitch. ' Hurry up ; you ain't 
 half running. It went miles past the 
 cabbages ; he will find it in a jiffy.' 
 
 ' If it went beyond the cabbages, it is 
 in the asparagus ; they won't find it for a 
 month.' 
 
 The phlegmatic cricketer spoke with
 
 IX THE SUNTBIE OF HER YOUTH. 23 
 
 such conviction that the girl modified her 
 speed. 
 
 ' It stands to reason that the ball is there ; 
 the asparagus is seeding and as thick as 
 thieves.' 
 
 When Maxwell St. Maur said ' it stands 
 to reason,' the Trevor family, who seldom 
 ' stood to reason,' were impressed, for ex- 
 perience told them his words were probably 
 words of wisdom. 
 
 The Trevors were a somewhat thought- 
 less crew, but he was Balliol scholar and 
 profoundly learned ; indeed, he was inter- 
 ested in many difficult and dull subjects 
 the very names of which made the teeth of 
 the frivolous to chatter in their jaws. His 
 ruddy head was popularly believed to be so 
 crammed with knowledge that no observant
 
 24 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 eye dare presume to cavil at its thick 
 thatch of hair for standing rough and on 
 end all over it. 
 
 In this unkempt casket he hoarded his 
 rich possessions, for he was chary of 
 speech, absent-minded, too, so that his 
 actions were not invariably to be praised for 
 the common sense which prompted them. 
 But when he did lay down the law the 
 Trevors treated his words with respect. 
 
 From his childhood their home had been 
 his home. As a schoolboy he had spent 
 his holidays with them, and now he came 
 to them for those vacations which seemed 
 so unnecessarily long to his studious spirit. 
 Their father and his father had been 
 friends, very dear and close friends in 
 their youth ; and when Mr. St. Maur's wife 
 died at the birth of her boy, the widower
 
 IX THE SUXTIME OF HER YOUTH. 25 
 
 returned to his work in India quite con- 
 tent to leave his only child in the Trevors' 
 keeping. 
 
 It s^Doke well for the Trevor hearts 
 (though not, perhaps, for the Trevor heads) 
 that when Maxwell was, in the following 
 year, wholly orphaned ])y his father's 
 death they had not parted with their small 
 charge. Again, much later on, when six 
 children well filled their house, and an- 
 xieties increased ^proportionately with the 
 increase of their family, there was still an 
 empty room for Max. They adopted him 
 both in heart and home. 
 
 Xot that there was any dearth of St. Maur 
 relations, the responsibility — never a light 
 one — of rearing a boy might have been 
 shunted off on his own kith and kin, but 
 Mr. St. Maur had made an unfortunate
 
 26 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 marriage, he had married unwisely, the 
 mere existence of Max was an outrage to 
 the sensibihties of the St. Maurs, and they 
 ignored him — the Trevors allowed them to 
 ignore him. 
 
 The St. Maurs made no sign over those 
 successes of his at which the Trevors re- 
 joiced and in which they gloried. Neither 
 the attainment of the Balliol scholarship, 
 nor a ' first in Mods,' elicited a word of 
 congratulation. But the Trevors were 
 enormously proud of his honours, he was 
 ' one of them,' and the only ' one of them ' 
 who cultivated brain in lieu of muscle and 
 sincAv; the young ones much admired him 
 though, personally, they avoided his walk 
 in life. 
 
 ' We don't grind,' the Trevor boys were 
 wont to say, with airy frankness. ' We've
 
 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 27 
 
 got our colours and pots enough to stock a 
 shop, but, bless you, we don't grind. Max 
 srrinds, he was head of the sixth from the 
 time he was quite a little chap, he works 
 like a nigger and he loves it.' 
 
 Their mother tried not to shudder at 
 such artless avowals. 
 
 ' Mine are no more idle than other boys,' 
 she would declare, even while she cast a 
 quaking thought ahead to the no distant 
 time when her sons must fight the battle 
 of life — the battle for board and lodging 
 added to moral warfare, poor boys, and for 
 which ' colours and pots ' did not seem so 
 very substantial a preparation . But her sons 
 were strong and handsome, while Max, 
 poor dear, industrious Max, was awkward 
 and ill-favoured, there was nothino; smart 
 about him save his name. His eyes were
 
 28 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 pale, pale as the sky at twilight, set far 
 back in his head, edged, moth-like, with 
 light lashes. His nose was a nondescript 
 failure, and speckled like a partridge's 
 egg. He stooped, too, and clothed his lean 
 body infamously, choosing startling neck- 
 ties and wondrous checks which he thought 
 were just what they should be, and just 
 such as were worn by his neighbours. 
 
 Against his will, this young man had 
 been dragged forth from the house to join 
 the family cricket. The boys had mag- 
 nanimously ' given ' him to their sisters, 
 against whom they played left-handed and 
 with broomsticks. 
 
 ' You can have him,' Harry had said, 
 sweetly, ' it won't make a bit of difference , 
 he's no good.' 
 
 The girls had accepted the gift, and so
 
 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 29 
 
 it happened that Max St. MaurancIElspeth 
 Trevor were crossing and recrossing the 
 rough pitch on that hot July evening at 
 the double. 
 
 An iron j^aling divided the improvised 
 cricket-field from a flower-garden where, 
 in the shade cast by a clump of tall shrubs, 
 an oldish woman, with a heap of work 
 upon the garden-seat beside her, sat sew- 
 ing. From time to time she glanced up 
 from her work, looking with tender, proud, 
 yet anxious eyes such as belong to mother- 
 hood, to motherhood exclusively, upon her 
 vigorous brood. They were so light-hearted 
 a company of youngsters, blessed, alas ! 
 but very scantily with the goods of this 
 world, though, to her mind, most bounti- 
 fully endowed with other graces. Such 
 choice specimens of humanity could not
 
 30 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 fail to prosper on their way, their joyous 
 upward way ; many good gifts, such as 
 had escaped their mother's hold, must be 
 in reserve for them. The echo of their 
 voices was sweet in her ears, she was filled 
 with many hopes and small ambitions, she 
 turned with a smile to her sewing. The 
 hole in Celia's stocking was the size of a 
 crown. Mrs. Trevor had little leisure 
 wherein to build those air-castles by the 
 erection of which the jaded maternal mind 
 refreshes itself, she must darn on adding 
 a foot or so to the miles of patient stitch- 
 ing her delicate hands had traversed of 
 late years. 
 
 The chasm in the heel was not half 
 bridged when Mrs. Trevor was disturbed. 
 A maid came through the open window of 
 the dining-room and absolutely ran across
 
 IX THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 31 
 
 the lawn towards her. Mrs. Trevor was 
 used to the ' if you please, m'm's," which 
 crop up at many inconvenient moments of 
 the day, she was acclimatized to interrup- 
 tion, she was ever at the beck and call of 
 her household. She looked up at the ser- 
 vant with the smile still lino'erins; on her 
 worn and beautiful face, but on seeing 
 Caroline's agitation it faded. 
 
 ^ What is the matter, Caroline?' 
 
 ' If you please, m'm, Mrs. Dawson and 
 Mr. Hacket have called to see you. I showed 
 them into the drawing-room, not knowing 
 Master Harry had left his ferret on the 
 mantel-piece.' 
 
 'Oh, Caroline! No, Caroline? That 
 ferret in the dramng-room ! How very 
 naughty.' 
 
 How to act in an emergency is an art
 
 32 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 perfected by practice by the mother of a 
 large family. Mrs. Trevor placed the 
 stocking in her work-basket and hurried 
 oiF towards the house. 
 
 The lawn was cut into flower-beds shap- 
 ed as hearts, horse-shoes, aitches and esses ; 
 they were ingenious devices, but rendered 
 indistinct by the tangled growth of flowers 
 overlapping their edges, — phloxis, ver- 
 benias, petunias, scabias, — many races 
 and many hues of flourishing plants filled 
 them. Picking her way through this 
 labyrinth of flower-beds their mistress 
 reached the house, Caroline following 
 her. 
 
 ' The sandy ferret bites everyone but 
 Master Harry,' said that Job's comforter. 
 
 ' You said it was on the mantel-piece, 
 Caroline.'
 
 m THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 33 
 
 ' Mr. Hacket went right over there and 
 looked in the glass. I came away as quick 
 as I could but I heard Mrs. Dawson cry 
 out.' 
 
 The hearer sighed, her sense of humour 
 had been blunted by the harassing environ- 
 ments of most humorous situations in her 
 household. How could she laugh when 
 on reaching the drawing-room she found 
 Mrs. Dawson standing on the sofa with an 
 open parasol lowered to protect her feet ? 
 Was there anything ludicrous in poor Mr. 
 Racket's face as he held a writhing animal 
 in an awkward grip ? Was it amusing to 
 find that his ponderous hand was streaked 
 with blood ? 
 
 Though Mrs. Trevor, in a calm moment, 
 was a little afraid of a ferret, just now she 
 forgot her nerves, and going close to Mr. 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 Hacket she laid her hand upon his arm. 
 
 ' I am so distressed,' she cried, ' it has 
 bitten you, it has bitten you badly. I am 
 afraid it will bite you again ; you are not 
 holding it safely.' 
 
 ' I never heard of a ferret in a drawing- 
 room,' Mrs. Dawson broke in. ' I never 
 heard of such a dangerous thing being 
 permitted. Take it away, if you please. 
 I begged Mortimer to throw it out of the 
 window, but he poohpoohed the idea. He 
 has been bitten. The bite of an animal is 
 a most alarming thing. Pray, Mrs. Trevor, 
 take it away.' 
 
 ' Maria begged me to catch it,' Mr. 
 Hacket explained. ' No doubt I was awk- 
 ward, I don't understand such thinofs. 
 "What shall I do with the animal, Mrs. 
 Trevor?'
 
 IN THE SUXTIME OF HER YOUTH. 35 
 
 ' Hold it a moment longer, if you will. 
 Oh, pray be careful. She belongs to my 
 boy, Harry. He is playing cricket in the 
 paddock. I will call him, I will fetch 
 him. I shall not be an instant gone.' 
 
 ' Go with Mrs. Trevor, Mortimer,' im- 
 plored his sister, still fencing her skirts 
 with the parasol. ' It will save time, it 
 will be far safer.' 
 
 So it would, — for Mrs. Dawson : and he 
 obeyed her. 
 
 By this time there was little hght in 
 the ferret, Mr. Hacket's heavy grasp had 
 subdued its struggles. Mrs. Trevor, de- 
 ploring and apologising on her way, con- 
 ducted her unfortunate visitor down the 
 long passage to the front door, and from 
 thence across the garden to the cricket- 
 field. 
 
 D 2
 
 36 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 It was an unlucky evening, a wholly 
 unlucky evening, for the cricket had come 
 to an abrupt and stormy end. Elspeth had 
 lost her temper — it was a possession she 
 often mislaid — and had disgraced herself 
 by disorderly conduct. 
 
 This foolish girl was an enthusiast. 
 Throwing her heart and soul into a game, 
 she took it earnestly, she took both work 
 and play with fiery earnestness ; it was 
 an uncomfortable way she had. Under 
 these conditions, it was no wonder if she 
 lost her temper more frequently than was 
 comfortable either for her easy-going com- 
 rades or for herself. On this occasion 
 there was the shadow of an excuse for her 
 frowardness. She had faith in Max, it 
 was her way to accept his theories, j)roven 
 or unproven, so in the centre of the pitch
 
 IX THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 37 
 
 she liacl stood at ease, tucking back her 
 rumpled hair with a sunburnt hand, for Max 
 had said that the ball was securely hidden 
 in asparagus. But it was not. A some- 
 thing, which, for one fleeting second, she 
 took for a swift, swooped past her ear, and 
 fell with a crash against her wickets. 
 
 ' Run out,' cried a cheery chorus of 
 voices ; each spectator — looking for his 
 innings — was pleased at this turn of the 
 tide. But Elsie was not pleased ; she 
 turned upon the culprit with indignation 
 and blazing eyes ; they were deep-set eyes, 
 blue like the cotton dress which she wore, 
 and they flashed. 
 
 ' That is so like you,' she told him, 
 stamping on the grass ; ' you spoil every- 
 thing. You are no good ; you are always 
 in the moon. I'd rather be a common idiot
 
 38 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 than a clever one ten thousand thousand 
 tmies.' 
 
 Young St. Maur smiled; he smiled 
 good-humouredly ; it would have shown 
 more tact had he sighed. Her Avrath 
 waxed ten times hotter at his smile. 
 
 'You run me out and then you laugh ; 
 you only laugh,' she cried, fiercely, and 
 lifting her bat she struck at him with that 
 formidable weapon; she was an athletic 
 young person, her muscles were well- 
 developed, and she struck with all her 
 might. Her blow caught him full on the 
 shoulder ; if he had been hitherto in the 
 moon, he Avas now brought down to terra 
 firma Avith alacrity, for he wrenched the 
 bat from her hand, throwing it twenty 
 yards off across the grass. He said no- 
 thing — audible — but his smile had vanish-
 
 IX THE SUNTIME OF HEK YOUTH. ' 39 
 
 ed, and his expression of lofty disgust was 
 hateful to the exasperated aggressor. 
 
 ' Steady, old chap,' said the bowler, 
 soothingly. ' Because you fight Elsie, 
 there is no reason why you should chuck 
 my bat about the field. If you can't keep 
 your tempers, keep the bat ; it is of some 
 value.' 
 
 ' I can't see why Max plays at all,' 
 spluttered the female offender. ' He knows 
 — we all know — everyone knows he can't 
 do anything on earth but loorh' 
 
 ' / cant think why you don't go back to 
 the nursery,' retorted the autocratic bowler, 
 ' and dance Avith rage in a corner, and 
 howl when you don't get your own way, 
 and generally and naturally enjoy your- 
 self without pretending to be seventeen 
 and a lady.'
 
 40 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 ' He ran me out, Nat ; he ran me out 
 with his horrid speculations.' 
 
 ' And you have pretty nearly broken 
 his arm, so you might cry quits.' 
 
 It was at this stage of the cricket-match 
 that a voice — a familiar voice — calling 
 upon ' Harry ' reached the players' ears ; 
 the voice was pitched severely. 
 
 ' Harry, Harry. I want you. Come 
 here at once ; your savage ferret has bitten 
 poor Mr. Hacket.' 
 
 The ' Harry ' whom she called was her 
 youngest son, a boy of fourteen or there- 
 abouts. Beneath an ingenuous and inno- 
 cent manner he concealed a capacity for 
 mischief which won the admiration of his 
 kind and the respect of his neighbours. 
 On hearing this summons he looked round
 
 IN THE SUXTIME OF HER YOUTH. 41 
 
 with mild interest, which turned suddenly 
 to keen concern. 
 
 ' By Jove, he's throttling the poor brute,' 
 he cried, and ran off full tilt to release the 
 sufferer. 
 
 His brothers and sisters followed ; troop- 
 ing across the field, they gathered round 
 Mr. Hacket, — the interruption to the dis- 
 orderly proceedings in the paddock was a 
 relief. 
 
 ' Oh, Harry, how could you leave Boa- 
 dicea in the drawing-room?' 
 
 ' I left her on the mantel-piece, it is so 
 stuffy in her box this hot weather. I didn't 
 like to put her in the school-room with 
 Gumbo, mother.' 
 
 ' Never do it again, Harry, never, never.' 
 
 ' If I had not attempted to touch it,' said
 
 42 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 Mr. Hacket, with magnanimity, ' no doubt 
 I should have escaped scot-free.' 
 
 ' She's most awfully savage with strang- 
 ers,' the boy said, tenderly, as he lifted 
 ' the warrior queen ' in his hands and laid 
 his cheek against her sandy coat ; ' no one 
 but I dare handle her without the gloves. 
 Poor old Boadicea ! by Jove, she is in a 
 rage.' 
 
 Mr. Hacket had put on his pince-nez 
 and was examining his wounds. 
 
 ' I am so distressed,' said poor Mrs. 
 Trevor, ' I am so grieved that you should 
 have been hurt, it was most unlucky. 
 Harry must never dream of leaving a ferret 
 in the house again. Come with me, and 
 let me bathe your fingers and bind them 
 up.' 
 
 Mr. Hacket looked from one to another
 
 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 43 
 
 of the fair, young faces around him, he was 
 reluctant to leave them. At his right hand 
 stood a serene maiden, the eldest and, to 
 his mind, the flower of the Trevor flock. 
 He addressed her in his most mellow tones. 
 
 ' I won't trouble your mother. Miss Ag- 
 nes, she has other duties in the drawing- 
 room, my sister will be glad of her com- 
 pany. Perhaps you will do what need be 
 done for me. If you have some vaseline 
 and a little warm water, nothing else is 
 required. I feel sure you are a skilled 
 nurse.' 
 
 ' I bind up the boy's bruises, Mr. Hacket, 
 but they grumble at me.' 
 
 ' Then take Mr. Hacket to the school- 
 room, Agnes, I will go back to Mrs. Daw- 
 son. Precautia will fetch the vaseline and 
 water. Harry, put your ferret back in her
 
 44 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 box at once. How pale you are, Elsie ! 
 come witli me and rest, you have been over- 
 running in the heat. You better come, 
 indeed, you had, you look so white.' 
 
 When the speaker had gone, the little 
 group melted away, the boys went back 
 to the field ; Mr. Hacket and Miss Trevor 
 walked towards the house. 
 
 She looked so young, such a mere child 
 beside that big, burly, middle-aged man. 
 She had outgrown her pink cotton dress, 
 the colour of which was pale through a 
 long course of tubbing. Under the broad 
 brim of her coarse straw hat her dove- 
 like eyes looked back at him ; they were 
 deep eyes though unconscious, untroubled, 
 the clear eyes of early girlhood, she had 
 reached her twentieth year but she hardly 
 looked so old.
 
 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 45 
 
 ' Come with me,' she said, leading the 
 way across the lawn. Her charming face was 
 a good deal sunburnt, it was a blemish 
 which he remarked but overlooked ; her 
 hands were not such as he would have de- 
 sired to see, they were tanned, weather- 
 worn, Avork-worn, they were strong, little, 
 country hands, bare and brown, but with 
 proper care how soon they might be 
 trained to lie listless and white on a silken 
 lap, hoAv soon bear nothing beyond the 
 pleasing burden of rings. ' Come with 
 me. I will do what I can, but Elsie is the 
 best nurse.' 
 
 ' I will trust myself to you,' he answered, 
 gallantly. 
 
 Affnes was o-racious and o;entle. She 
 seemed so ready to be pleased, so easy to 
 satisfy ; she had always a smile at her
 
 46 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 disposal for anyone who wanted it, slie 
 had ever evinced a proper gratitude for 
 Mr. Racket's trout and Mr. Racket's 
 floAvers — no Avonder he was hopeful. And, 
 though she was young in years, she had 
 none of the alarming and disconcerting 
 exuberance of youth such as her family 
 manifested. She never giggled or romped, 
 she was not aggressively frolicsome. In- 
 deed, she would sit by Mr. Racket's side 
 listening to his tales with gracious interest. 
 Elspeth promised to be lovely, with a 
 striking and undeniable beauty, but Agnes 
 was merely pretty ; she had no dangerous 
 — no fatal gift of beauty. Rowever, as 
 Mr. Racket told himself, she was fair in 
 his eyes, and he wanted nothing more 
 wherewith to crown his prosperous life 
 than to possess this gentle maiden for his
 
 IX THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 47 
 
 wife. He had made his intentions pretty 
 plain, lie did not doubt but that Mrs. Trevor 
 and her daughter guessed to what end 
 those trout and those roses paved the way, 
 and, knowing this, they smiled upon him. 
 Time Avas passing, the prime of life would 
 not last him for ever. Why should he 
 not speak now, and make matters safe ? 
 Dorfold was in the wilds of the country, 
 no ehgible bachelor j^i'owled, at present, 
 about the fold ; but, in these days of 
 change and travel, who could be sure that 
 no such wolf might descend upon the Dor- 
 fold fastnesses and cast an envious eye 
 upon Mr. Racket's lamb ? This possi- 
 bility must be averted, the lamb must be 
 guarded. 
 
 So Agnes walked across the lawn, and 
 he, with a sprightly and important air,
 
 48 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 followed at her heels. He was neither 
 diffident nor sensitive; he had, on the 
 contrary, great self-reliance, and he was 
 wont to pride himself upon a ready, nay, 
 more, an eloquent tongue. But he found 
 it hard to set this question of his, which 
 he intended to ask, in appropriate lan- 
 guage. He was busy forming and re- 
 forming sentences in which to clothe his 
 
 meannig. 
 
 Through a shabby hall, a disgracefully 
 shabby hall, where paper, paint, and par- 
 quet floor were in various stages of ad- 
 vanced decay, along an airy passage and 
 down two worn stej)s into the school-room, 
 Agnes pioneered the gentleman. 
 
 ' It is rather untidy, I am afraid,' she 
 said, with a deprecating little smile ; ' the 
 boys have been here.'
 
 IX THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 49 
 
 Mr. Racket looked round the room, 
 — love does not totally blind eyes which 
 have come to spectacle-period, — he saw 
 the room plainly, the sun streamed in 
 through the open windows, and it was 
 dreadful to behold. It was a small square 
 room, and it commanded a view of the 
 stable-yard, a rugged yard fringed with a 
 neglected shrubbery where laurels, with 
 bushy heads and long lean bodies, grew 
 undipped. Through the rough stones 
 rank grass and camomile sprang high ; the 
 whole was enclosed by a mouldering cob 
 wall, festooned with traveller's-joy. 
 
 The outlook was not prepossessing, but 
 the inlook was infinitely worse. Xo pic- 
 ture hung upon the dingy walls, though 
 family portraits and landscape scenes had 
 been sketched in here and there by the 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 50 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 bold hand of some artistic Trevor. The 
 book-case was no orthodox book-case, but 
 a bare row of shelves, the tattered occu- 
 pants of which lay littered higgledy- 
 piggledy, anyhow. The deal table was 
 ink-stained and hand-carved, but the hiero- 
 glyphics on its surface were partially con- 
 cealed by fishing-rods, tennis-rackets, an 
 open book, a pile of sewing, a half-empty 
 cup of tea, a slice of bread and jam (with 
 a bite out of it), a packet of sherbet, and 
 a tumbler of water. 
 
 There was no chair unoccupied. Agnes 
 cleared a doll off the window-seat, and 
 motioned Mr. Hacket to sit down. 
 
 '• The boys have this room in the holi- 
 days,' she explained, with unruffled seren- 
 ity. ' One can't attempt to keep it tidy. 
 If you ask them to put things away,
 
 IX THE SUXTIME OF HER YOUTH. 51 
 
 they don't do it, and it worries them- 
 
 ' I don't think I should mind worrying 
 them,' Mr. Hacket said, with conviction ; 
 it was not what he had intended to say, 
 but he could not help himself — truth will 
 out. ' How can you endure to sit in such 
 a room as this. Miss Trevor ?' 
 
 Agnes laughed. 
 
 ' I'm used to it,' she said, ' hut I am 
 sorry you have seen it. I will go myself 
 for the vaseline and water. I will be 
 quick, so that you shall soon return to 
 civilisation.' 
 
 She ignored his remonstrance and hur- 
 ried off, leaving him to his reflections, 
 which were altogether satisfactory. 
 
 What great advantages he possessed to 
 offer the lady of his love. He could take 
 her from this bear-garden, this squalid 
 
 E 2 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNlVfeftSlTY OF ILUNOM
 
 52 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 setting which so ill became the jewel ; he 
 could remove her to the midst of some- 
 thing very like magnificence. She could 
 walk in silk attire, and tread on Maple's 
 richest carpets in lieu of cocoa-nut mat- 
 ting, the fibrous nature of which set his 
 teeth on edge. She could be removed 
 from the fearful vicinity of boys, or noise 
 and bread-and-jam — ugh ! She could dine 
 excellently, and be excellently served. 
 She could drive in his brougham when 
 she wanted exercise — no more exhausting 
 and wild ' games upon the grass,' but she 
 might potter round his garden with him 
 morning after morning, evening after 
 evening, just as she pleased. 
 
 Miss Trevor came back presently with 
 the implements of healing. She certainly 
 seemed quite unconscious of any promo-
 
 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 53 
 
 tion in store for her, for, in a business-like, 
 deft way she bathed, anointed, and bound 
 up the injured hand, talking as she did 
 so, and without noticing how silent the 
 sufferer had become. How could she 
 dream that he was hunting his brain 
 for words which evaded him, as though 
 they knew their power and shirked the 
 business. 
 
 ' There,' she said, backing a step and 
 surveying her handiwork critically, ' there, 
 that is quite firm, it won't come undone. 
 I am afraid it must hurt you rather, 
 though it is only a scratch, after all. Will 
 you come to the drawing-room now ? You 
 don't look happy here.' 
 
 'Are you happy here?' in a strained, 
 unnatural voice. 
 
 ' Happy — where ?'
 
 54 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 ' Here, here in this — this — this pig- 
 sty?' 
 
 The question thus put was offensive in 
 the hearer's ears ; Mr. Racket's judgment 
 had erred. Agnes flushed a little, and, 
 looking round the room with a constrained 
 air, did not answer. 
 
 There was a momentary silence, during 
 which she recovered her serenity and 
 moved towards the door, while he fidget- 
 ed the seals that hung from his watch- 
 chain, and cleared his throat. 
 
 ' Do not leave me, for one moment re- 
 main here. Miss Trevor. I want to speak 
 to you.' 
 
 Agnes had brothers, brothers for whom 
 she had great partiality, but in whose 
 discretion she had no faith. When any 
 person wished to speak to her in a sober
 
 IX THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 55 
 
 and rigid style, she prepared herself to 
 hear evil of the boys — now her mind flew 
 to them. 
 
 ' Is anything the matter, Mr. Hacket?' 
 
 ' There is nothing the matter, nothing 
 beyond that which has existed for many 
 months. My dear Miss Trevor, yon are not 
 blind to my feeling for yon, you cannot be. 
 I have done my utmost to make it manifest 
 to you and to your family.' 
 
 She had lifted her eyes to his face ; she 
 was noted for her ' good manners,' for her 
 uniform politeness, but now she stared at 
 Mr. Hacket with eyebrows raised and parted 
 lips, she stared unblinking and interested. 
 
 ' You are very young,' he continued, ' un- 
 fortunately young in years, but I — I am not 
 a centenarian by any means. I do not 
 feel any of the drawbacks of approaching
 
 5Q IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 age. Further than this, I may confidently 
 say that it lies within my power to give 
 you a prosperous, an affluent home, to take 
 you from these — ahem ! — surroundings and 
 place you in a — a very suitable abode, and 
 such a step has been my dream of late. 
 Agnes, I do not think that I am disagree- 
 able to you. I have done my best to win 
 your aifection, I am extremely attached to 
 you. I can give you comfort, prosj^erity, 
 peace. I have already bestowed my love 
 upon you. — Will you marry me ?' 
 
 It was out at last, it had come out quite 
 fluently, he had not missed a j^oint, nor 
 lost his place, though a pair of clear eyes 
 had calmly searched his face the while he 
 spoke, their expression changing as their 
 owner heard his gracious proposition. 
 
 The memory of his youth had been
 
 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 57 
 
 blotted out from tlie speaker's memory by 
 many years of arduous, engrossing toil, 
 but he bad never relished the unprofitable 
 joys of youth, though he had, as long ago 
 as he could remember anything, appreciated 
 the advantages of money ; — now he could 
 afford to contemplate a love match, he 
 could afford to be disinterested in his 
 selection of a second wife. 
 
 With open hands he made his offer, no 
 wonder his words rolled richly from his 
 generous lips as he put out his uninjured 
 fingers and possessed himself of Miss Tre- 
 vor s hand. Agnes left it in his hold, for no 
 doubt he meant to be kind, and she tried 
 to feel nothing but pitiful wonder at him. 
 She treated him as though he was some 
 poor man who, having lost his wits, sat 
 himself down by her side and told her of
 
 58 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 his hallucination, which she, to humour 
 him, feigned to believe and treated serious- 
 ly (monstrous though it was) in compas- 
 sion for his infirmity. The eldest and 
 working members of large poverty-stricken 
 families have little time in which to day- 
 dream, Agnes had thought rarely and 
 briefly of the probabilities and possibilities 
 of ' lovering.' But of one thing she Avas 
 certain, she was convinced, as a young- 
 girl invariably is convinced, that grey 
 hairs, a well-padded waistcoat, and crows- 
 feet do not become sentiment, that love, save 
 in extreme youth, is a weakness, a ridicu- 
 lous, if not an intolerable, weakness. 
 
 Poor Mr. Hacket, so kind, of course ; but 
 so old and so dull. She had taken him off 
 her mother's tired hands time after time 
 and entertained him during his intermin-
 
 IN THE SUXTIME OF HER YOUTH. 59 
 
 able visits. Because she liad had such 
 excellent manners, it had come to this. And 
 this was an offer of marriage, this her first 
 offer, this her first lover ; there had been 
 nothino' beautiful, nothino; stirrino; about 
 the occurrence, and he had called the dear 
 old school-room a ' pigsty,' and had offered 
 her peace, peace. What girl of twenty 
 would give a fig for peace ? 
 
 Xo, she was not in the least stirred, 
 insanity of this kind could not distress 
 her, and yet — and yet she Avished he had 
 not spoken. 
 
 ' You are very kind,' she made reply, 
 trying to spare his feelings though she 
 was displeased with him, — unreasonable 
 though it was she felt displeasure, ' and I 
 am very sorry but I really couldn't leave 
 my home. You see, I teach Celia, there is
 
 60 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 SO much to be clone, my mother says the 
 whole house goes Avrong when I am lazy 
 — what would she do if I was to go away, 
 and leave her ? Indeed I did not know, 
 we none of us knew that you thought of 
 anything like that?' 
 
 She tried to speak lightly, but failed. 
 HoAV could she avoid being stiff in manner 
 when she was vexed ; vexed, for he had 
 fancied her a fit mate for himself, and he 
 had disparaged her home. He seemed 
 assured that she would gladly change 
 homes, that she would leave her present 
 comrades for the askins:, and share with 
 him, with him alone, the gloomy opulence 
 of the Oaks. If his dream liad not been 
 so preposterous it had been impertinent. 
 Agnes answered him gently, but mth a 
 slight accession of dignity which struck
 
 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 61 
 
 him as eminently suitable to the occasion. 
 
 ' If you didn't guess my intentions be- 
 fore, you kno^^ them now,' he answered, 
 unruffled. ' I have made them clear as 
 daylight; I conceal nothing, and I will 
 speak to your father at once. Do you 
 think Mrs. Trevor can't spare you ? Ah, 
 Agnes, there is no mother, in her position, 
 who would not spare a daughter if she 
 saw the straight way to prosperity and hap- 
 piness for her. You are useful here, but 
 you would be more useful as my wife. I 
 don't ask for my answer now, you must 
 have time to think it over, aye, and talk it 
 over too. There is no fear of my changing 
 my mind, though you keep me waiting a 
 while, — I'm not like a young fellow who 
 runs after every new face he sees.' 
 
 The small hand slipped out of the
 
 62 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 speaker's ample palm, and Agnes turned 
 towards the door. 
 
 'Don't you understand me?' she said, 
 '' there is nothing about which to think or 
 to talk. I give you your answer now — it 
 is the same — it will always be the same — 
 
 it is ?26>.' 
 
 Xever before had Agnes spoken to man, 
 woman, or child regardless of their feelings 
 and only careful of herself, instinct told 
 her to speak thus frankly now. The words 
 which seemed so fierce to the gentle speak- 
 er hardly ruffled the sleek plumage of Mr. 
 Hacket's comj^lacent mind; he was still 
 benign, still protesting when she, with a 
 sudden retrogade movement, reached the 
 door, and, in the midst of his pleading, pre- 
 cipitately left the room.
 
 63 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 * It is a lovely hour as yet 
 Before the golden sun shall set.' 
 
 Agnes flew up the stairs to the little bed- 
 room at the top of the house which she 
 shared with Elsie, and sitting down there 
 in the sunshine she shivered, she looked 
 at her hands and saw they trembled : she 
 had been composed enough downstairs, 
 this sort of thing was absurd and her laj)se 
 of politeness inexcusable. 
 
 Just at the moment of her escape she 
 had been frightened, for a moment she
 
 64 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 had felt a prisoner, witli Mr. Hacket as 
 her gaoler ; the door had been closed — 
 now any agitation was mere aiFectation. 
 She mastered hers ; it was absurd to feel 
 fear of so kind a person as Mr. Hacket. 
 Presently she heard footsteps on the drive, 
 and from her window she saw him walking 
 away from Hillsden with his sister ; he 
 was carrying an empty basket, and talk- 
 ing as he went. He planted his feet 
 slowly and deliberately ; he looked im- 
 portant and imposing. He did not hang 
 his head, as a rejected suitor should do, 
 and yet no suit was ever more emphatic- 
 ally hopeless than his. 
 
 The little interview had soon been over, 
 such a short scene could not leave behind 
 it a vivid or lasting impression. Agnes 
 would forget all about it ; she was very
 
 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 65 
 
 thankful not to be a girl with whom such 
 events were of constant occurrence — like 
 the girls of whom she read in books ; it 
 was a great advantage to live in the depths 
 of the country, Avith a dearth of suitors 
 around her. 
 
 No one should ever know of that con- 
 troversy. She shuddered for fear it should, 
 by some ill chance, reach the ears of the 
 boys, to whom it would provide fodder for 
 chaff, and become that tough, unquench- 
 able nuisance, a family joke. Xot that 
 Agnes was in the habit of finding the 
 family jokes dull ; no one aj^preciated 
 Trevor Avit more heartily than she. But 
 she had been reared in an old-fashioned 
 way, and she was an old-fashioned girl, 
 gentle, maidenly, reticent, and revering 
 much which it is not the modern method 
 
 VOL. I. r
 
 66 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 to revere. Her mind was centred in her 
 home ; it was a very merry, harum-scarum, 
 bustling home ; there was little leisure 
 wherein the most investigating spirit could 
 tour at Hillsden in the holidays. 
 
 How could Mr. Hacket have presumed 
 to judge for Mrs. Trevor? He had de- 
 clared that any mother would be glad to 
 spare a daughter, if by doing so the daugh- 
 ter should gain prosperity. Agnes was not 
 angry ; but she wondered how he cared to 
 say anything so foolish and untrue. 
 
 She wondered while she changed her 
 pink frock for a rusty grenadine in which 
 she nightly sacrificed to the Graces ; she 
 wondered while she smoothed her hair, 
 which was rusty black in hue, matching 
 her dress, and washed her hands. Then 
 she returned to the school-room.
 
 IX THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 67 
 
 Xo one was there, save a servant- airl, 
 who was spreading a promiscuous evening 
 meal, which, during the holidays, good- 
 naturedly shifted its hours to suit the 
 boys' convenience. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Trevor dined alone at a 
 quarter-to-eight ; their dinner was an anxi- 
 ous, daily ceremony. Flowers must be fresh , 
 damask spotless, glass and silver twinkling, 
 — for Mr. Trevor was particular. To gain 
 the credit of being particular is, individu- 
 ally, an excellent thing to gain. Mr. Trevor 
 was particular, and prided himself upon 
 that not personally arduous peculiarity. 
 Possessing a fastidious palate, he made it a 
 point of conscience to keep the cook up to 
 her work by never grudging to find fault. 
 The cook, with the weakness common to 
 women, dogs, and walnut-trees, shortened 
 
 F 2
 
 68 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 her life and her temper by prodigious 
 efforts to please the master who bullied 
 her. She concentrated all her talent in 
 hors-d'oeuvres, entrees, savouries, leaving 
 the mutton and milky pudding in the 
 school-room to shift for themselves : no 
 one grumbled there. 
 
 Mr. Trevor liked his dinner and his wife 
 to himself. Later on in the evening, while 
 he smoked, drank his coffee, and dozed 
 over his paper, he was very willing to see 
 his sons and daughters ; but they must be 
 in decent trim, in good looks and pleasant 
 ways, or he did not appreciate their com- 
 pany. Therefore, though their handsome 
 and genial father had been the god of their 
 childhood, and was still an object of ad- 
 miration, they shirked the evening hour of
 
 IX THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 69 
 
 best behaviour, preferring ease and free- 
 dom out of sight. 
 
 The school-room windows were wide 
 open still, the heavy warmth of the July 
 evening filled the room. Agnes looked 
 around her with a searching, critical 
 glance. Was this familiar sanctum a pig- 
 sty in the eyes of the Philistines ? She 
 felt as a mother feels whose child has been 
 condemned in her hearing, — a hot, vehe- 
 ment, increased tenderness towards the 
 maligned angel, and yet a pang for fear 
 her afi*ection blinds her, because, perhaps, 
 after all, the angel has not been maligned. 
 
 There were Fred's caricatures on the 
 wall. So extraordinarily clever and hu- 
 morous, and yet she fetched a damp 
 duster Avith which she rubbed them fur-
 
 70 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 tively — they paled and smudged under 
 this treatment, but they did not budge 
 from their tenement. 
 
 Then she tidied the room, — she tidied it 
 every evening of her life, but never had it 
 so obstinately refused to look neat. She 
 stuffed heterogeneous litter into a crowded 
 cupboard, and after a sharp struggle with 
 the resisting door closed it on chaos. 
 
 Jane, the undermaid, was cumbered 
 with so very much serving, that she was 
 apt, s£ive in her master's presence, to 
 scrimp ceremony, and now in a hugger- 
 mugger random sort of way she shovelled 
 knives, forks, tumblers, and dishes upon 
 the supper table. Nothing was quite 
 straight, nor precisely in its right ]30sition. 
 This evening Agnes followed in her train, 
 tweaking the things into their places, and
 
 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 71 
 
 concealing tlie stains upon the crumpled 
 table-clotli with vases of flowers. Mr. 
 Racket's flowers were withering in the 
 drawing-room meanwhile, she remembered 
 them. 
 
 Then the boys and girls came tramping 
 in, in answer to the bell ; no one noticed 
 that Agnes was a little flushed and ner- 
 vous, they Avere far too hungry to notice 
 anything and far too noisy to object to a 
 comrade's silence. There need be no dread 
 of an ' awful pause ' or any j^ause at ' the 
 feast of reason and flow of soul ' in the 
 Hillsden school-room. They were all 
 talkers, no listeners there. Max was the 
 exception to the rule, he could be silent, 
 he knew the way to hold his tongue. To- 
 night he sat at Agnes' right hand, his ever- 
 lasting eyeglass in his eye, and ate a great
 
 72 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 deal of cold beef, in a careless, absent sort 
 of way, while ever and anon lie indulged 
 his faculty for smart speech by snubbing 
 Elsie, who, no matter what she said, or 
 how she said it, failed to please his ear. 
 If bravado had a word to say for her rol- 
 licking spirits, he had not found out such 
 was the case. 
 
 Beyond young St. Maur, Celia, the 
 youngest, the spoilt child of the family, 
 was seated. She was a pretty, slender 
 little lady of eleven ; Avhen her neighbours 
 winced beneath the frank openness of her 
 unprejudiced observations, they looked 
 upon her tender-eyed innocent face and 
 forgave her for those too candid lips. 
 
 The three boys ranged in. age between 
 Elsie and Celia ; they were, to an unbiassed 
 eye, much alike, each belonged to the class
 
 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 73 
 
 of thouglitless, high-spirited, athletic boy- 
 hood, and were, to judge by the shortness 
 of their sleeves, through which inches of 
 scarred wrist gauntly protruded, grow- 
 ing as fast as tailor or shoemaker could 
 desire. 
 
 They were, in fact, growing alarmingly. 
 Nat, at sixteen, was verging on manhood. 
 Professions, examinations, increasing ex- 
 penses, formed substance for the constant 
 consideration of a mother who kept many 
 things (as mothers do, have done, and will 
 do), and pondered them in her heart, but 
 refrained from forming: her anxieties into 
 words lest such words should cast a o-loom 
 on those whom she loved. However, if 
 anyone fretted about the future of the 
 boys, the trio, personally, did not suffer 
 from premature uneasiness.
 
 74 IN THE SUNTIME OF HEK YOUTH. 
 
 ' Elsie, where did you get that ^' Allan 
 Richardson" ?' 
 
 ' In the drawing-room. Mr. Hacket 
 brought it.' 
 
 ' Poor old Hacket ! but why did he play 
 the fool with Boadicea ? Precautia could 
 handle a ferret better than that.' 
 
 Precautia was the familiar home-name 
 for Gelia. Years before it had come to her 
 in this wise. When a toddling child^ 
 hardly more than a baby, she had pushed 
 her little head round the open drawing- 
 room door and called out shrilly, 
 
 ' I heard what you said, dad.' 
 
 ' What did I say, you little eaves- 
 dropper ?' 
 
 ' You said I were precautious.'' 
 
 ' And so you are, Precautia.' 
 
 The nick-name caught on to her then and
 
 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 75 
 
 had stuck to her ever since ; ' Precautia ' 
 she was and ' Precautia ' she seemed de- 
 stined to remain, much as she resented the 
 pseudonym. 
 
 ' I don't handle ferrets,' she retorted. ' I 
 hate ferrets. Harry likes them, but they 
 would starve if it wasn't for me. Boys 
 take the pleasure of everything and the 
 trouble of nothing, that is boys.' 
 
 ' The trouble of preaching, Precautia, is 
 lost in the pleasure, eh ? You two, Elsie 
 and you, might publish '' A Guide to Man- 
 ners and Morals." Elsie likes to give dis- 
 reputable people good advice, but she 
 doesn't like to be seen with them.' 
 
 The attack drew no defence from Elspeth, 
 but Precautia expounded her views. 
 
 ' Advice is a cheap present. Max, what 
 we can give easily. And it's the only
 
 76 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 present the boys don't spoil or lose.' 
 
 ' I say, Agnes, was old Hacket much 
 bitten, was it dee]3 ?' 
 
 ' No, only a scratch.' 
 
 ' I met him as he was going away. I 
 said I was awfully sorry, but he seemed 
 pretty sulky and jawed a long while about 
 carefulness and all sorts. Halloa, who's 
 that?' 
 
 The speaker, Harry, having finished his 
 supper, had, unceremoniously, quitted the 
 table and was leaning out of the open win- 
 dow ; he started a little, for the door of the 
 stable-yard had opened and Mr. Hacket's 
 groom entered the precincts. The groom 
 was a Dorfold man, so Harry hailed him at 
 once. 
 
 '■ Good-evening, Jim. What is it ? What 
 do you want ?'
 
 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. i i 
 
 ' A note for Mr. Trevor from the Hoaks.^ 
 
 ' Bring it here.' 
 
 Agnes was changing colour like a 
 chameleon. 
 
 ' Xo, no, let him take it to the kitchen.' 
 
 No one was in the least afraid of Agnes, 
 submission to her authority was not the 
 custom in this family. 
 
 ' Gammon, Aggie. Here, Jim, give it to 
 me. I suppose the old sneak has written 
 to father about Boadicea.' 
 
 Jim grinned, handed the note to the 
 boy, touched his hat, and retired, while 
 Harry stared with uneasiness at the 
 envelope. 
 
 ' What on earth induced the old chap to 
 write Avhen he could whip in here any 
 moment and sj)eak out. Anything written 
 down in black and white looks simply
 
 78 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 beastly. My report always gives me the 
 blues. " Idle," " careless," " inattentive," 
 '' slovenly," sound nothing spoken, but 
 written tbey are grim. Think of writing 
 the moment he got home, before he had 
 his dinner. Phew !' 
 
 ' The note is for father,' Agnes urged, 
 getting up from the table and approaching 
 Harry. 
 
 ' Note, did you say ? It's as long as an 
 impot.' 
 
 ' Is it so very thick ?' inquired Precautia, 
 nervously. 
 
 ' Three sheets, at least, and extra cream- 
 laid.' 
 
 ' Harry, take it to father ; it is his. Take 
 it now.' 
 
 ' Nonsense ; spoil father's dinner — no
 
 IX THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 79 
 
 fear. He hates old Hacket, and he hates 
 a row.' 
 
 ' Go, Harry, please go ; it may open m 
 a moment if you fidget it like that. You 
 don't know what it is.' 
 
 ' Don't I, thouo'h ? Horrid old sneak ! 
 I have a pretty good mind to answer it 
 myself.' 
 
 Agnes did not accept this as the joke 
 for which it was intended, but, turning to 
 Max, she appealed to him. 
 
 ' Max, make him give that letter to 
 father ; he ought to have it, I'm sure he 
 ought.' 
 
 ' You hear what Agnes says,' that young- 
 gentleman said, sharply. ' Do as you are 
 asked, and hurry up about it.' 
 
 ' What in the world is the matter with
 
 80 m THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 her?' snapped the boy. ' One would think 
 old Hacket wasn't able to take care of 
 himself. Anyone can have his letter, I 
 don't grudge it them ;' and he threw it on 
 to the table. 
 
 ' It's fallen into the jDudding,' said Celia, 
 plaintively, rescuing the smeared envelope 
 and drying it hastily in her handkerchief. 
 
 ' Take it to the dining-room, Precautia, 
 and give it to father.' 
 
 ' And mind you see what is in it,' added 
 Harry. ' Hang about and keep your ears 
 open ; you know how it's done, my dear.' 
 
 Celia did not seem hurt by the insinua- 
 tion, she ignored it, and, coming out into 
 the room, she revolved slowly before her 
 eldest sister. There seemed a dearth of 
 material in the child's frock : it cluno: close 
 to her slim Httle body and barely reached
 
 IX THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 81 
 
 her knees. She had a long telescopic 
 throat, a cloud of fine dark hair wav- 
 ing about her face from which round 
 blue eyes looked up inquiringly at 
 Agnes, who said, answering her mute 
 question, 
 
 ' Yes, you will do ; you are looking 
 quite nice.' 
 
 The whole family understood that, if 
 they were not ' looking quite nice,' their 
 father would not care to look at them. 
 
 AVhen Celia had gone upon her errand, 
 Agnes vainly tried to disperse the assem- 
 bly before the messenger's return ; but the 
 assembly refused to be dispersed; even 
 Max, who, as a rule, went off to his own 
 quarters in the evening, now, balancing 
 himself on the A^ndow-sill and filling 
 his pipe, remained where he was not 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 wanted. Agnes was palpably nervous, 
 but this no one noticed ; unsuspicious 
 youtli is delightfully unobservant. 
 
 Before long Celia came back ; she was 
 important, but at first extremely reserved, 
 her disclosures were gradual, and made 
 with condescension. 
 
 ' Speak out, Precautia, if you have any- 
 thing worth saying. If you haven't, go ; 
 — it is your bed-time.' 
 
 ' They'd got to savouries,' hastily, ignor- 
 ino; the isrnoble threat. ' Father said I 
 mio^ht have some, but I don't like diso;ust- 
 ino' thino:s mixed.' 
 
 'What did Mr. Hacket want? And 
 what did father say?' 
 
 ' Leave your own personality alone when 
 you've got to tell a story,' from Max. 
 
 ' Father said, " What a iilthy letter.
 
 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 83 
 
 Celia." I said, " It is only pudding ;" so 
 he opened it.' 
 
 ' Did he read it aloud?' 
 
 ' Oh, no, he didn't.' 
 
 ' Was he angry ?' 
 
 ' He read a long time, staring — and then 
 he laughed.' 
 
 'He laughed, did he?' — with distinct 
 relief. 
 
 ' Well, 'twasn't exactly a laugli ; it was a 
 kind of company-laugh, not a real one.' 
 
 ' Oh. And then, Precautia ?' 
 
 ' After he laughed he got dreadful, 
 banged on the table with his hand, and 
 mother said, " Richard, send the child 
 away." So he sent me and I came. I 
 think there was something worse than 
 bites and ferrets, father's pretty used to 
 them sort of things.'
 
 84 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 Harry shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 ' What an awful row about nothing,' he 
 said, uneasily. ' Did father send for 
 me ?' 
 
 ' He never mentioned you. He said, 
 ^' My poor little Agnes," twice, he said it 
 after he had laughed and before he had 
 banged.' 
 
 Every eye in the room focussed itself 
 upon Agnes, everyone saw then what they 
 might have seen before, namely, that she 
 was pale and troubled. 
 
 ' If it is only Agnes, it's no harm. Old 
 Hacket's very fond of her. I say, Aggie, 
 you are not afraid of him ? You are quite 
 white.' 
 
 ' Of course I'm not afraid, — it's hot, I'm 
 tired, let us go out.' 
 
 Young St. Maur took his pipe out of his
 
 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 85 
 
 mouth and i3utting one hand on the win- 
 dow-sill he vaulted out into the yard. 
 
 ' Come along into the garden,' he sug- 
 gested. ' It is hot enough to roast an ox 
 in here.'
 
 86 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 I do not like ' hut yet,^ it does allay 
 The good precedence ; fie upon ' but yet /' 
 ' But yet ' is as a jailer to bring forth 
 Some monstrous malefactor. 
 
 Antony and Cleopatra. 
 
 ' The Oaks. 29th July. 
 
 ' My dear Mr. Trevor, 
 
 ' Before going 
 
 further in a matter which has been usurp- 
 ing my thoughtful attention for some time 
 past, I feel that it would be expedient to 
 state the facts of the case frankly, and 
 without reserve, to you ; as I find it diffi- 
 cult to progress without some acknowledg-
 
 IX THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 87 
 
 ment of my intentions on the part of the 
 family, at this somewhat advanced stao-e of 
 the proceedings. 
 
 ' That I am exceedingly attached to 
 vour eldest daughter is a circumstance 
 Avhich cannot have escaped the observa- 
 tion of your wife, for I have never at- 
 tempted to conceal the state of my feelings, 
 and have endeavoured, by every available 
 method, to win the affections of the young 
 lady. Her youth and my years may, at 
 hrst sight, be looked upon as possible 
 drawbacks to the union — but I do not 
 consider myself any less capable of mak- 
 ing my wife happy than I did upon my 
 hrst marriage, since when a very con- 
 siderable period of time has elapsed. In- 
 deed, if you judge that increased experi- 
 ence, and a largely-augmented income,
 
 «» IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 would be likely to improve my capabilities 
 of rendering the position of my wife a 
 pleasant one, then I may argue that both 
 these advantages are mine. 
 
 ' To-night, for the first time, I spoke to 
 your daughter without reserve. I cannot 
 say that she met my advance Avith favour. 
 So far as I could judge she hardly grasped 
 my full meaning, nor considered the pro- 
 position seriously. At her early age no 
 doubt she found it difficult to accept a 
 man of my years for a suitor when the 
 idea was, for the first time and without 
 preparation, presented to her mind. Her 
 reserve does not discourage me, but adds 
 to the fascination of her gentle and ami- 
 able qualities, which have already won my 
 deep afi'ection. If I may rely on your 
 support of my suit, I shall feel the more
 
 IX THE SUXTIME OF HER YOUTH. 89 
 
 encouraged to persevere. Knowing your 
 circumstances, your large family and in- 
 creasing expenses, I may assure you tliat 
 I sliall expect nothing witli your daugh- 
 ter — nothing, I mean, beyond the box of 
 bridal finery, the few personal trifles of 
 the bride. Hap2:)ily my position will per- 
 mit me to make an adequate settlement 
 upon my Avife — however, upon this topic, 
 it is premature to speak or write. I am 
 all impatience to be assured that I receive 
 your support and good wishes for the 
 furtherance of my desires. 
 
 ' I go to London to-morrow morning on 
 business, and may be detained there some 
 few days, but as soon as I return I shall 
 call at Hillsden, when I trust you will 
 accord me not only an interview with 
 yourself, but with your daughter.
 
 90 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 ' My kindest regards to Mrs. Trevor. 
 ' Yours most faithfully, 
 
 ' Mortimer Hacket.' 
 
 When Caroline and Celia had alike left 
 the dining-room, Mr. Trevor tossed the 
 letter across the table to his wife. 
 
 ' Hacket^ he cried. ' Hacket. He's a 
 dozen years older than I am myself. He 
 is mad ! Great heavens, does he think I'll 
 hand my little Agnes to him? Does he 
 think he can buy her with his money- 
 bags ? " Expects nothing but a box of 
 bridal finery;" he'll get neither bride nor 
 box from here. Upon my soul, I am 
 astounded at his impertinence.' 
 
 While Mrs. Trevor read this letter, Mr. 
 Trevor execrated and reviled his neigh- 
 bour for an impertinence which, to the
 
 IX THE SUXTIME OF HEK YOUTH. 91 
 
 harassed mind of his more cautious com- 
 panion, did not seem an acute insult. 
 She was not surprised that any man 
 should wish to possess himself of her 
 eldest daughter — it was natural that, see- 
 ing, he, or any man, should love her ; she 
 only deplored the barriers to the union. 
 Her first words electrified her husband, 
 so unexpected, so moderate were they. 
 
 " Poor man,' she sighed, ' ah, but I wish 
 he were thirty years younger.' 
 
 ' What.Marj?' 
 
 ' Had he been a suitable age and had 
 Agnes liked him it would haye been such 
 a good thing for her. He is too old, much 
 too old, but ' 
 
 ' You mean you would like to have a 
 married dauo;hter. You women are all 
 alike.'
 
 92 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 ' Oil, Ricliard, one must — sometimes — 
 look forward.' 
 
 ' I would ratlier sweep a crossing for 
 the girl's support than see her marry her 
 grandfather.' 
 
 Mr. Trevor often spoke of supporting 
 his family by his broom. If a question of 
 adopting a possible, but inconvenient, 
 economy arose, or if his wife mooted a 
 practical, but unambitious project for a 
 son or daughter, then Mr. Trevor would 
 negative the scheme impatiently, thus, 
 
 ' I would rather sweep a crossing, 
 Mary, than consent to anything of the 
 sort.' 
 
 So the matter always ended. Mr. 
 Trevor swept no crossing, nor was any 
 alteration made in the household ixovern- 
 ment.
 
 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 93 
 
 But, for once, Mrs. Trevor was not to 
 be silenced by the familiar formula ; usu- 
 ally she seemed to revere the finer feelings 
 of her husband, but it was impossible to 
 treat Agnes' first and only lover with com- 
 plete and airy disdain. She prayed for 
 her children's happiness night and day, 
 she laboured to obtain it : she was sure it 
 could not be procured on an empty larder ; 
 she was equally sure that she had no 
 wish for a mercenary marriage for her 
 gentle daughter, but she did wish to turn 
 the question over in her mind, to weigh 
 its pros and cons dispassionately and to 
 make her little plaint over the contrariness 
 of fate. 
 
 ' Girls have married men far older than 
 themselves, Richard, and have been quite 
 happy and content.'
 
 94 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 ' Do you mean to suggest that Hacket 
 is a proper liusband for Agnes ?' 
 
 ' I mean to suggest nothing. But why 
 condemn him so violently ? I do not see 
 much beyond a real aifection and a certain 
 self-reliance in his letter. He has worked 
 hard for his money, so he is inclined to 
 over-estimate its value on that account, 
 perhaps. But money is a help to happi- 
 ness, Richard, it smooths the difficulties, 
 rounds the sharp corners, oils all the jars 
 of life.' 
 
 She laughed when she had spoken, 
 laughed off her earnestness for fear her 
 husband might find an element of discon- 
 tent with her own lot in her words. 
 
 ^ My dear, what a string of truisms. 
 Who doubts the enormous blessing of 
 money ? Not I, who suffer from the want
 
 IX THE SUXTIME OF HER YOUTH. 95 
 
 of it every clay of my life. But don't be 
 impatient. Wait. Things settle them- 
 selves if you take life calmly. There is 
 no reason why Agnes should not do ex- 
 ceedingly well for herself — in time ; there 
 is no hurry to marry the poor child.' 
 
 ' There are no marriageable men within 
 a dozen miles of Dorfold.' 
 
 ' Then let the girls remain unmarried.' 
 
 ' Ah, Richard, you are so magnihcent. 
 The girls must not work, they need not 
 marry. What are they to do?' 
 
 ' I have told you, Mary, I would rather 
 sweep a crossing, than ' 
 
 ' A crossing is a jjoor living for four 
 people, dear,' his wife interrupted him; 
 she very rarely interrupted or contradicted 
 his remarks. 
 
 He paused in his walk — he had been
 
 96 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 pacing to and fro the room — and, laying 
 his hand on her thin shoulder, he ben^ 
 his handsome face doAvn close to hers and 
 laughed, a joyous, bantering, boyish 
 laugh. 
 
 ' Are you going to quarrel with me, 
 Mary ? Are you dying for a son-in-law ? 
 Great heavens, think of me as father-in- 
 law to Hacket?' 
 
 He was so tickled by this aspect of the 
 situation, that his wife was constrained to 
 join in, and to smile at his amusement. 
 How goodly to preserve the light-hearted- 
 ness of youth as he preserved it ; she had 
 long lost the trick, but then she was older 
 than her husband, older by some years 
 in time, — older by an eternity in many 
 ways. 
 
 ' I let you have all your own way with
 
 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 97 
 
 your cliildren, Mary ; give me my due. 
 But I do draw tlie line at Hacket for a 
 son-in-law. Ha — ha — ha !' 
 
 Mrs. Trevor Avas folding: the letter and 
 replacing it within the envelope ; in it she 
 enclosed some shreds of impatience at the 
 perversity of fortune. She did not want 
 Ames to make a loveless marriag;e. Xo, 
 no, a thousand times no. Let her marry 
 for love, as her mother had done; and if 
 the shoe she wore should ever pinch — 
 well, it was the legitimate pinch of a most 
 beautiful shoe. And yet Mrs. Trevor felt 
 a pang of regret even as she smiled at her 
 husband's diversion. 
 
 ' Mary, I have a suspicion that this is 
 your doing ; you have been match- 
 making.' 
 
 ' Xo, Richard, I never dreamed of such 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 a thing. Mr. Hacket has been here a 
 great deal; he has been very kind in 
 brining the ffirls fruit and flowers. But 
 they are children ; she is a mere child. 
 How could I guess ?' 
 
 ' You keep the girls too young, Mary. 
 Agnes is twenty.' 
 
 ' This will age her. I wish the Oaks 
 was twenty miles off. She will meet him 
 at every turn ; it will be so awkward.' 
 
 ' There will be another Mrs. Hacket 
 before long ; he's a business man, with a 
 long head ; if he wants a wife he will get 
 one. I am not going to allow you to con- 
 jure up and revel in a bleeding heart, 
 Mary. There goes Agnes with the young 
 
 ones. Listen to the lauofhter, — do 
 
 to' 
 
 you 
 
 think it is at that infatuated fellow's 
 expense?'
 
 IN THE SUXTIME OF HER YOUTH. 99 
 
 ' I know it is not,' hurriedly. 
 
 ' How do you know?' 
 
 ' Agnes would not understand it was 
 possible to laugh in public at Mr. Hacket 
 because of — of this.' 
 
 ' You lire up for your daughter ; no 
 doubt she is her mother's own child. I 
 wonder what she said to Hacket ? Call 
 her over here.' 
 
 ' Xo, no, Richard.' 
 
 But Mr. Trevor put his head through 
 the open window and called, 
 
 ' Agnes.' 
 
 As the girl obeyed his summons, wind- 
 ing her way through the flower-beds to- 
 wards him, he lit a cigarette and settled 
 himself in his arm-chair. He was smiling 
 with a good-humoured raillery into his 
 wife's care-worn face. It still possessed a 
 
 H 2
 
 100 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 shade of tlie great beauty which he had 
 loved in his early youth ; but she aged 
 fast. She was the best, the dearest of 
 women, but he wished, he often wished 
 that she were more easy-going. She was 
 over- anxious, apt to meet trouble half- 
 way, not a bit of a philosopher. 
 
 There was scarce a line to be seen on 
 his comely face, not a grey hair on his 
 erect head, he did not alter with the fleet- 
 ing years ; but she would toil at work 
 such as her servants or her children might 
 accomplish in her stead, she would fore- 
 cast and anticipate, she would not live in 
 the present. And yet she was always in 
 church, hand and glove with the rector. 
 Surely he, a parson, might teach her to 
 be satisfied with her lot, silence fore-_ 
 l)odings, and impress upon her the wisdom
 
 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 101 
 
 of Mr. Trevor's favourite text, ' Take no 
 tliought for the morrow,' with its con- 
 text. In truth, Mary was a lucky woman ; 
 what more could woman want than she 
 possessed ? 
 
 Here was a lovely summer evening ; a 
 bevy of healthy, hajDpy youngsters Avithin 
 hail, but not within earshot ; an unusually 
 attractive and unusually devoted husband 
 by her side ; a good dinner, just over ; an 
 interesting topic of conversation on hand. 
 All these advantages were hers. 
 
 Above the open French window sloped 
 a Avide verandah, which cast a broad shade 
 on the already-darkening light. There, in 
 the shadow, under clustering boughs of 
 roses, Agnes halted. Her hair was gath- 
 ered into a Psyche knot at the back of her 
 head, she wore no hat ; though she blushed
 
 102 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 beneath the scrutinizing eyes fixed upon 
 her, yet she was extremely grave and 
 serious. One pair of watching eyes brim- 
 med with tenderness, the other sparkled 
 with laughter, and yet were fond enough. 
 
 ' Aggie, you have been in mischief,' her 
 father said, chuckling. ' I have said hith- 
 erto that you were the saint of the family. 
 That you were a little puritan, your 
 mother's own child ; now I know better. 
 Still water runs deep.' 
 
 Agnes laughed; a nervous, half-hearted 
 laugh which went straight to her mother's 
 heart. 
 
 ' You mustn't mind being teased,' she 
 murmured; 'never mind, Agnes, you ought 
 to be used to it.' 
 
 ' You would rather be teased than mar- 
 ried to your great-grandfather — eh, dear?
 
 IX THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 103 
 
 Your motlier made a bad matcli herself, so 
 she wants a cliange for her daughter ; she 
 would like a Croesus in the family ; she 
 would like a careful, cautious, thoroua^h 
 man of business for you, Aggie. The age 
 doesn't matter, nothing matters so long as 
 the settlements are satisfactory, and the 
 bankers-book to her mind.' 
 
 Agnes looked at her mother with a 
 surprised, questioning gaze. 
 
 ' He is not speaking the truth ; I want 
 nothing on earth but your happiness, my 
 darling.' 
 
 ' Your mother says money means happi- 
 ness. Your face is your fortune, Agnes, 
 so your mother is inclined to think you 
 are fortunate to have found such a suitor ; 
 there are no eligible bachelors about us in 
 Dorfold, she tells me. Mr. Hacket has
 
 104 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 written to me ; it seems you did not know 
 what he meant when he offered you his 
 heart and his hearth this afternoon. I am 
 to explain his meaning to you, and then 
 you will proj^erly appreciate the magna- 
 nimity of his proposal. You did not un- 
 derstand, Agnes ; you had no parents to 
 advise you, or you would not have 
 declined so magnificent an offer.' 
 
 ' Hush, Richard, Agnes does not know 
 what you mean ; you are distressing her.' 
 
 For the girl, with a half-anxious, 
 wholly puzzled look, kept her eyes on 
 her mother's face, and the blushes had 
 faded from her cheeks. 
 
 ' My dear child, your father is angry 
 with Mr. Hacket because he has forgotten 
 his age, and imagines that we should con- 
 sent to your marrying him. Of course
 
 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 105 
 
 such a thing is out of the question, but 
 I see no reason for being offended with 
 the poor man, none at all. Your father 
 Avill write to him and tell him what 
 our decision is, and how it coincides with 
 yours. You shall have no more trouble 
 about it, I know it was not your fault — 
 no, no, you never guessed, who should 
 guess ! Don't worry, dear ; he will go 
 away for a time, and, when he comes 
 back, he will have forgotten his dreams.' 
 
 Agnes' brow cleared, she was to hear 
 no more of this unpalatable subject, such 
 was her desire. Her father's fun at her 
 exj^ense did not amuse, but confused her. 
 She did not see the fun, she did not com- 
 prehend in what the joke consisted, nor 
 how her mother could, even in jest, have 
 spoken a word in favour of Mr. Racket's
 
 106 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 Avishes. She wanted to go back to ' the 
 others ' Avho were in ignorance of her 
 honour, — the unsought honours thrust 
 upon her. 
 
 She was walking away, and having 
 crossed the paved walk beneath the 
 verandah had reached the dewy softness 
 of the lawn when Mr. Trevor called her 
 back. 
 
 'Agnes, one moment; have you told 
 anyone about this?' 
 
 ' Oh, no,' with a catch of her breath, 
 ' no one — never. Father, you won't, you 
 must not^ — promise!' 
 
 He promised laughing. When Agnes was 
 out of earshot his wife looked up at him 
 and said, ' There,' with a fine air of 
 triumph. He shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 ' Is it safe to bring up your girls like
 
 IX THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 107 
 
 that, Mary ? You rear tliem in an Arcadia 
 of your ovrn forming. They know no more 
 of the -Nvorld than my walking-stick. It is 
 all very well now ' 
 
 ' It is 710W with which we have to do.' 
 
 ' What a contradictory woman you are. 
 I thought you lived for the future.' 
 
 ' Let them be as they are, let them be 
 simple, let them be credulous as long as 
 they can,' she answered, ^Yith a great sigh. 
 ' The less they know of the real world the 
 happier for them. I love to keep them as 
 they are.' 
 
 Throughout the evening, Avhilst Mrs. 
 Trevor worked, diving from time to time 
 into her formidable work-basket and never 
 failing to bring out something which 
 required immediate stitching, Mr. Trevor 
 read the paper, dozed, and talked brokenly
 
 108 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 of liis daughters' brilliant prospects ; he 
 married them all to millionaires whose 
 fortunes were merely appendages to vast 
 personal attractions. His arrangements 
 gratified him immensely, he enjoyed his 
 evening, and was sorry when it drew to 
 its close. 
 
 It was late that night before Mrs. Trevor 
 folded her last piece of work and went 
 off to bed with the consoling reflection 
 that, 
 
 ' Something attempted, something done, 
 Had earned a night's repose.' 
 
 But she was not the latest watcher in 
 her household, a light was still burning 
 in a window on the basement, for, in a 
 little den, half- cupboard, half-lobby, sur- 
 rounded by books and scattered papers, 
 his brow crumpled Avith thought, his head
 
 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 109 
 
 upon his hand, Max^vell St. Maur sat 
 writing. 
 
 There was no ' oak to sport ' at Hillsden. 
 Until the half-dozen Trevors were in bed 
 and asleep, this zealous student's privacy 
 might be (and was) continually invaded. 
 The girls and boys were so sympathetic, so 
 sorry for him ; while the sun was shining 
 and the summer in full swing he should 
 not shut himself up with his dreary books, 
 they would not have it. On rainy days, on 
 Avinter days let him work — now he must 
 play — their play was very wearisome to 
 him occasionally. Sometimes, out of the 
 kindness of their idle hearts, they nearly 
 drove him wild. 
 
 With stolid patience he endured the 
 many hindrances of the day, anticipating 
 those quiet hours later on in which he
 
 110 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 nightly braced himself to meet the final 
 schools — the final honour schools. 
 
 These hours had come, these shining 
 hours which he improved with concentrated 
 energy of mind. Before him, on the table, 
 lay an open book, within him was one 
 mighty desire to master, in its full mean- 
 ing, an enigmatic clause therein Avhich 
 puzzled him. He knit his brow, shut his 
 eyes, set his teeth, racking his brain. 
 
 The window had been open, but he had 
 closed it, for the whit, whit, whit of a 
 nightingale vexed his ear, — he had closed 
 it though he had listened to the song for a 
 moment with pleased interest, not because 
 of its melody, but rather because it was 
 very late in the month to hear the full note 
 of the bird, and he knew something, and 
 meant to learn more, of ornithology.
 
 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. Ill 
 
 The ofFencIed musician had flown off, 
 but now a new sound broke the stillness 
 of the sleeping house. Light footsteps 
 came creeping stealthily down the passage, 
 a cautious hand fumbled with the handle of 
 the door, which opened to disclose Miss Els- 
 peth Trevor standing ujDon the threshold. 
 
 In dazed bewilderment the young man 
 stared at her — she knew the look well, it 
 was not a look of welcome, or approval, 
 far from it. Poor Max ! his mind had been 
 on the right track, it had approached the 
 heart of, and was grappling with, over- 
 throwing, the difficulty of the obscure 
 passage, but this exasperating intruder scat- 
 tered his thoughts to the muds. He made 
 one desperate effort to save some vestige 
 of an hour's work — and failed. Then he 
 twitched his eyebrows, his eyeglass fell
 
 112 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 dangling to the full tetlier of its string. 
 Max without his eyeglass meant Max hope- 
 less and desponding. 
 
 ' What do you want, Elsie ?' he demand- 
 ed, with a toleration which he felt to be 
 worthy of the century in which he lived. 
 
 ' Why didn't you say something ? I 
 couldn't go to sleep until you'd answered it.' 
 
 ' Answered what ?' 
 
 ' My note, I wrote it. I put it in a book, 
 in Aristotles' '' Ethics," here it is. You 
 didn't find it?' 
 
 ' No. What was in it, Elsie ?' 
 
 ' About this afternoon. I am ashamed 
 of myself^ — I said things which I did not 
 mean, I always do, — I am very sorry. 
 Max, I always am. — Forgive me. Max, 
 forgive me and I'll go away.' 
 
 'It's all riglit, my dear,' kindly, repine-
 
 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 113 
 
 ing his eyeglass — lie was as Avell-accus- 
 tomed to Elsie's penitence as lie was to 
 Elsie's anger; one affected him as little as 
 the other. ' You shouldn't have sat up to 
 the small hours to tell me this, which, as 
 you say, is always going on. I had clean 
 forgotten all about it.' 
 
 ' Max,' plaiting a bit of her dress and 
 hanging her dark head, ' I didn't hit you 
 very hard?' 
 
 ' Quite hard enough,' drily, ' as hard as 
 you could, I think.' 
 
 ' You are angry still?' 
 
 ' Not the least, if you would only believe 
 me and go away ; you have no idea how 
 late it is.' 
 
 He was looking wistfully at his papers. 
 
 ' Are you coming to-morrow. Max ? Do 
 come. I did not mean it.' 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 114 m THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 ' Of course I am coming, it is all right. 
 Good-niglit, Elsie.' 
 
 ' Good-night.' 
 
 He could not imagine what it was that 
 ' she had not meant,' but as her meaning 
 could in no way affect the tough propo- 
 sition in black and white before him, he 
 tore up her little note, unread, tossed it in 
 the waste-paper basket, and forgot her. 
 
 As long as Elsie was out of sight, he had 
 no sort of difficulty about keeping her out 
 of mind.
 
 115 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 And what's a life ? The flourishing array 
 Of the proud summer meadows, which to-day 
 Wears her green plush, and is, to-morrow, hay: 
 
 QUARLE 
 
 The 30th of July was kept a yearly festi- 
 val, a family thanks -giving day at Hills- 
 clen. For upon the 80th of July, many 
 years ago, a certain Richard Trevor had 
 taken one Mary Blane to wife. Their Aved- 
 ding made a great stir in the Irish village 
 whence the dowerless bride came, for she 
 was well loved and her bridegroom was as 
 handsome, as blithe, as civil of tongue, as 
 
 i2
 
 116 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 free of hand as heart of woman could 
 desire. 
 
 The bride was universally accounted a 
 fortunate person, and she, herself, no doubt 
 Avas of the same oj)inion, for the 30th of 
 July was a red-letter day with her still. It 
 was kept as a holiday, a day of luxuries, of 
 treats, of frivolity, of feasting in her house. 
 Upon it j^leasure, nothing but pleasure, 
 a vivid, out-of-door, picnic sort of youthful 
 pleasure was sought from dawn to dusk by 
 her family. The shortness of the July day 
 (and after all a fraction of the family did 
 not find it so very much too short) was 
 the only thing that the girls and boys 
 found to grumble about when it had 
 passed. 
 
 This 30th of July began gloriously. Soon 
 after sunrise Elsie j)attered across to the
 
 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 117 
 
 open window to see what the sun said for 
 for himself, and to note the forecasts of the 
 distant hills, — she was weather wise as a 
 jackdaw. 
 
 ' It is a perfect day, Agnes,' she cried, 
 unscrupulously rousing the sleeper. ' No 
 chance of rain, no chance of anything but 
 heat.' 
 
 An early shower had washed the white 
 dust off the trees, a faint haze veiled the 
 unblinking eye of the sun, a morning 
 breeze, fresh and fragrant, blew through 
 the open casement into the room. 
 
 ' Get up, Agnes, it is such a glorious 
 day.' 
 
 Agnes opened her blue eyes, giving the 
 speaker a sleepy and reproachful look. 
 
 ' A day may be very glorious, but you 
 may have too much of it. I'm not going
 
 118 IN THE SUXTIME OF HEK YOUTH. 
 
 to get up for hours. Xot if it were ten 
 wedding-days, or ten picnics.' 
 
 A picnic Avas the form of dissipation 
 selected for this annual festivity, a long- 
 day's picnic in a little bay upon the coast 
 six miles from Dorfold. Agnes knew what 
 a picnic meant, what the packing of the 
 ham^Ders meant, Avhat the drive in a jolting 
 vehicle over rough lanes meant, what the 
 tramping over shingle and the climbing 
 of cliffs and the blazing sun and the tired 
 boys meant. Her prophetic soul urged her 
 to reclose her eyes and rest while she 
 might. She had not slept quite so well as 
 her custom ; she had fallen asleep as soon 
 as her head touched the pillow, but she had 
 dreamed busy, bustling dreams of railway 
 stations and churches, of climbs on perilous 
 cliffs, of falls down precipices, and by her
 
 IX THE SUNTDIE OF HEK YOUTH. 119 
 
 side, liurr}'iiig her into trains, ushering 
 her into churches, leading her up steep 
 paths, catching her as she stumbled into 
 chasms, Mr. Hacket had remained, he had 
 never left her. 
 
 It was almost a relief to wake up and be 
 rid of him, but she was not refreshed, she 
 was weary still. 
 
 ' How old vou are ;zettinc>\ Acmes. So 
 dull and sleepy in the morning.* 
 
 • The difference between seventeen and 
 twenty is three years, Elspeth. Fm three 
 years more tired than you are. Good- 
 
 night.' 
 
 ' According to that calculation, when you 
 are thirty you won't get up at all, you Avill 
 be tired out. Agnes, I was late last night.' 
 
 ' What " — ^\'ith a yawn — ' were you 
 doing?'
 
 120 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 ' I was thinking ; I thought for hours. 
 I Avasn't wasting the candle. I blew it 
 out, and thought in the dark. Then 1 
 went down and told Max I was sorry.' 
 
 ' You ought to have been sorry ; you 
 hit him so hard.' 
 
 ' I wasn't sorry for that; he deserved it; 
 he ran me out. I was sorry because he 
 was angry. I thought he was angry ; but 
 he had forgotten all about it. It was odd 
 that I should be sitting here, miserable over 
 something that he had forgotten ; it seemed 
 such a waste. I couldn't have hurt him 
 much ; the bat is heavy and hard, but 
 there is no spring in it. Oh — Agnes, you 
 are asleep.' 
 
 She was indeed, or feigned to be. Elsie 
 did not finish her train of thought, but re- 
 turned to her couch, and, the force of
 
 IN THE SUXTIME OF IIEK YOUTH. 121 
 
 oxample being an almost almighty power, 
 ishe slept herself. 
 
 The day dawned pleasantly ; across the 
 little room the sunbeams stole and rested 
 lightly upon the girls. Agnes' hair had 
 broken out of its pigtail and lay rough on 
 the pillow, for she had tossed during her 
 busy dreams ; but her lips were red and 
 dewy, her cheeks rosy with health and 
 youth, her left arm was curved above and 
 around her head, her cheek pillowed on 
 her right hand. Elsie smiled in her sleep, 
 but Agnes sighed ; in truth, her morning 
 dreams were waking dreams, with closed 
 eyes she ruminated upon the occurrences 
 of the preceding day. It was disturbing 
 to find she could have a secret and a 
 memory unshared b}' Elsie ; it was strange 
 to find that she could deceive anyone ; it
 
 122 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 was odd to pretend to sleep and to be 
 believed in and copied. So Elspeth smiled, 
 and really slept, while Agnes simulated 
 sleep and sighed. It was a sigh, light as 
 a feather, for Agnes' was not a speculative, 
 self-tormenting, investigating mind. She 
 was merely a gentle, conscientious, sober- 
 spirited girl, attached alike to her family 
 and her duty, with no ambitions and few 
 affections outside the Hillsden gates, who 
 had received an offer of marriage and 
 declined it. 
 
 Girls who are reared for matrimony get 
 trained to the idea of being rooted out of 
 former habits, occupations, and affections 
 at a few months' notice. It is no shock to 
 them to be called upon to start a fresh 
 life in a fresh si)ot, when asked to do so. 
 They have been ' chosen '; to be left
 
 IN THE SUXTIME OF HER YOUTH. 123 
 
 stationary would have been a far greater 
 trial. 
 
 Mr. Hacket had evidently imagined that 
 Agnes Avould be ready to give up all she 
 had and all she loved for him ; this notion 
 sprung suddenly upon the unsuspecting 
 girl was a revelation. She hated to hurt 
 the feelings of a sparrow ; but she had 
 hurt his without a qualm. 
 
 Precisely at seven o'clock, Precautia 
 bounced into the room ; she was the 
 whipper-in and the whipper-up of the 
 family. She made a pilgrimage betimes 
 to the thresholds of her unwilling relatives 
 and thumped upon their doors her ener- 
 getic revelations. 
 
 ' It's seven o'clock ; Fm called ; I'm 
 getting up.' This Avas the reveille. Later, 
 ' I've had my bath and done my hair.'
 
 124 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 Then, last of all, ' You ouglit to be 
 ashamed ; I've said my prayers ; I'm going 
 down.' 
 
 When these persuasive confidences did 
 not jDrevail upon the lazy lads to break 
 their morning dozes, she would make a 
 personal raid upon them ; she usually suc- 
 ceeded in dispelling the delight of those 
 last sweet dozes — which were a delicacy 
 only to be enjoyed in the holidays — and 
 often brought them doAvn in time for 
 breakfast. They were, of course, pro- 
 portionally grateful to her for her pains. 
 
 ' The boys are up, Agnes,' she announced 
 this morning, crossing the room to the win- 
 dow, whence she leaned out. Gumbo, the 
 old retriever, was as usual at her heels. 
 ' They are going to bathe in the river 
 before breakfast; there will be no time
 
 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 125 
 
 later. I went in to see them, but Hany 
 has got Boadicea, and Fred threw his 
 boots at me, so I eame away. Get up, 
 Elsie ; how late you are. Max is down- 
 stairs.' 
 
 ' What is he doing?' 
 
 -' Work, I suppose. What else does Max 
 ever do ? I'm glad you aren't clever ; it's 
 so dull to be clever.' 
 
 ' You are talking nonsense. Go and 
 dress.' 
 
 ' I sha'n't go till you are up, and it is 
 dull to l)e clever : it spoils everything, it 
 never lets you rest ; it is always asking ; 
 it pulls fun to pieces getting at the bottom 
 of it. It is as bad as my botany lessons ; 
 when I have got the petals, stamin, calyx, 
 and all the rest of it, I have not got my 
 flower — that is spoilt.'
 
 126 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 If the little girl did not intend to leave 
 the room until her sisters rose, she was 
 permitted to stay awhile and chat. There 
 she sat on the window-sill, swinging her 
 bare feet, patting Gumbo's shaggy head, 
 and prattling on. Precautia Avas spoilt, 
 she was allowed great freedom of action 
 and license of speech unless she over- 
 stepped the bounds of propriety, then she 
 was drawn up sharply and put into her 
 place. She Avas very fond of ' news,' vil- 
 lage news chiefly ; nothing was too small 
 to interest Celia — she was a little pitcher 
 whose long ears carried water near and 
 far. 
 
 ' I'm glad you didn't ask Mr. Hacket to 
 the picnic. Cook said " she made sure he 
 was coming," and he'd bring the fruit, and 
 perhaps the cream : but he'd have spoilt
 
 IX THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 127 
 
 the picnic rather. I don't think he'd have 
 brought much, he's so ''near;" near means 
 stingy, not close — Caroline says so. 
 When his groom had 'fluenza he stopped 
 his wages all the time, and never sent him 
 beef-tea, or milky-pudding, or anything. 
 Caroline told me.' 
 
 ' What a horrid little gossip you are?' 
 
 ' I like gossip,' boldly ; ' so does Caro- 
 line. She says " it passes the time, and is 
 a cheap amusement for working peoj^le." ' 
 
 ' If it is an amusement it certainly isn't 
 cheap, it costs people very dear sometimes. 
 Xow go, Precautia.' 
 
 ' I am going : but, Elsie, is there a secret 
 about Mr. Hacket? Caroline laughs and 
 says " Xo," but I think there is.' 
 
 ' If there should be a secret,' said Agnes, 
 getting up hastily and pouring the water
 
 128 IN THE 8UNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 into her bath, ' you know what the word 
 secret means.' 
 
 ' If you don't know as much as that, 
 dunce, ask Max or look in the dictionary.' 
 
 Both the elder Miss Trevors had risen, so 
 Celia moved off, her mission accomplished. 
 
 ' I shall ask Max not what secret means 
 but Avhat the secret is^ he always tells me 
 every single thing I ask him.' 
 
 After breakfast poor Elspeth received a 
 shock, a bitter disappointment. She found 
 that she alone of all the goodly company 
 of i:)icnicers was to be left behind. She 
 was wanted at home, her father wanted 
 her ; this was in itself an honour, but an 
 honour with which, for once in her life, 
 she could have dispensed. Mr. Trevor 
 did not feel inclined to spend a blazing 
 hot day on the beach. He had nothing
 
 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 129 
 
 on hand, nothing to do, nowhere to go, 
 he really could not face a long day quite 
 alone, he wanted some one to give him his 
 lunch, some one to ride with him to the 
 cove when the great heat of the day should 
 be passed, — surely Elsie might stay at home 
 with him. 
 
 There was nothing to look dreary about : 
 she loved a ride, the rector would lend 
 her the pony. But if she was going to 
 make a martyr of herself, if she did not 
 want to do as he asked, by all means let 
 her go, he would far rather be alone 
 than be worried by a face as long as a 
 mile. 
 
 So Elsie not only forewent her pleasure, 
 but she had to look as if she liked it, 
 which was the unkindest cut of all ; for 
 when persons of her age endure pangs of 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 woe they prefer that the world should be 
 aware of the fact. 
 
 ' You have to pay for being father's 
 favourite,' Precautia philosophically ex- 
 plained. ' It was extremely lucky that he 
 didn't choose mother. And you'll ride 
 Tarquin over when it is cool, it will be 
 very nice.' 
 
 ' " I never knew any man in my life who 
 could not bear another's misfortunes per- 
 fectly like a Christian," ' Max quoted. 
 
 He was seated on a wooden shelf 
 hitched insecurely from side to side of 
 a rough two-wheel cart ; it was the Dor- 
 fold baker's second best cart which he 
 willingly lent to his customers for a 
 trifle. Precautia Avas beside Max, be- 
 hind him were a royal tumuli of baskets 
 and hampers. Elsie was stationed at the
 
 IN THE SUXTIME OF HER YOUTH. 131 
 
 pony's head, — needless precaution, for 
 the anhnal had no sort of objection to 
 standing. 
 
 There Avas a dreadful fuss going on in 
 the stable-yard, for the rest of the family 
 and the rest of the provender were being 
 packed into a waggonette. It was a won- 
 drous wao^aonette, older than the oldest 
 
 Co " 
 
 inhabitant of the village ; clumsy, shabby, 
 uneasy, it had lived a hard life at the ' Half 
 Moon.' The Trevors knew its capacities 
 and peculiarities, and had propped their 
 mother upon the box-seat with a cushion 
 at her back and a foot-stool for her feet to 
 give her some grip of the situation when 
 a steep descent should make the narrow 
 slipperiness of her perch untenable. 
 
 Everyone was talking at once, every- 
 one gave directions, the maids ran in and 
 
 k2
 
 132 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 out of the house like rabbits in a warren, 
 there was a babel of tongues, perpetual 
 laughter, the spirits of the throng were 
 inexhaustibly brilliant to match the 
 brilliance of the day — and so they set out. 
 
 Swallowing the lump in her throat, Els- 
 peth watched the cavalcade move off — it is 
 dreary for the mortal who is ' left behind,' 
 — the fate of the hindermost is never, pre- 
 sumably, an enviable one. Later on, not 
 very many hours hence, it would seem odd 
 to think that a disappointment, a mere dis- 
 appointment, could have felt so like a 
 genuine sorrow, strange to have sighed 
 over a thing so trivial. In the blackness 
 (jf night the clouds upon the sky are 
 blotted out. 
 
 Max was burdened with a tin of clotted 
 cream.
 
 IX THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 133 
 
 ' You had better hold it on your knee,' 
 Celia had advised. ' If it should shake 
 much it will be butter before we get there.' 
 
 The young man exercised all his talent 
 to prevent the cream from shaking in the 
 springless cart. Celia was what might be 
 called a painstaking driver, for she never 
 let the baker's pony, which could have 
 ' driven himself,' as the baker said, use his 
 own discretion. 
 
 She tweaked the reins, flipped the whip, 
 ' whoad ' and ' ck'd ' incessantly, so that 
 they covered the ground in a series of 
 jerks — the result of a conflict of wills, i.e.^ 
 Celia's and the pony's. 
 
 The air was hot and still, the breeze 
 had fainted in the glare, the shadows lay 
 sleeping, insects floated in the sunshine 
 filling the drowsy air with buzzing, the
 
 134 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 hedges were white with dust. Gumbo 
 huno; his head in the heat, and toiled on 
 wearily after his young mistress. 
 
 Child-like, Precautia was unaffected by 
 temperature, but was energetic and conver- 
 sational as usual ; she treated Max as an 
 encyclopedia of home and foreign news, 
 and plied him with many questions, — be- 
 tween his cream and his companion he had 
 a weary time of it. 
 
 ' I do wish my legs were longer,' she 
 said plaintively ; so did Max, for as her feet 
 did not reach the bottom of the cart she 
 slipped ever and anon off the plank, and had 
 to wriggle back to her seat with his aid. 
 ' This cart is not very comfortable. When 
 you have real whiskers. Max, and are Prime 
 Minister, or Pope, or Commander-in-Chief,
 
 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 135 
 
 (I know which I'd choose to be if I was you,) 
 you'll have carriages and be rich, and I will 
 drive you. This pony is tiresome. I wish 
 father would let me drive Paladin, he'd go 
 so very fast. Shall you keep many horses, 
 Max?' 
 
 ' I have made no plans, Precautia.' 
 
 ' Haven't you ? I often do. I plan lots of 
 frocks, and dogs, and chocolate ; Pm tired of 
 being poor. I never have a new frock, 
 never, only the other's cast-oiFs pieced up 
 for me. — Max, is Mr. Hacket rich?' 
 
 ' I have no notion.' 
 
 ' Do you know what the secret is about 
 him?' 
 
 ' Is there a secret?' 
 
 ' Well, I think so. You saw that letter 
 last night — there was something in it.'
 
 136 m THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 ' There is generally something of some 
 sort in a letter, my dear ; if it is a secret, I 
 am hardly likely to know it.' 
 
 ' There are lots of secrets which every- 
 one knows.' 
 
 ' A paradox, Precautia.' 
 
 ' Paradox ' was a word she could not 
 define, consequently, for one moment, she 
 was silent, rearranging her track. 
 
 ' Caroline says that he comes ' 
 
 ' For heaven's sake, Celia, don't tell me 
 what Caroline says. What you have to 
 say yourself is as much as I can stand 
 with this broiling sun on my head.' 
 
 Celia was offended; she looked round 
 into her companion's face, coldly. 
 
 ' The heat of the kitchen fire makes 
 cook very bad-tempered,' she said, loftily ;
 
 IX THE SUXTIME OF HER YOUTH. 137 
 
 ' but I su])pose you don't care to hear 
 about cook.' 
 
 For a few minutes she said no more, 
 devoting her undivided attention to the 
 pony. The waggonette-party came on 
 leisurely ; Agnes and the boys walked 
 down the hills out of consideration for 
 their mother's nerves, and they walked up 
 the hills in mercy to the horse ; the 
 country was all hills and vales, like a 
 ■switchback. The pace was not quick ; but 
 at length they reached the lonely little 
 bay upon the coast, their destination. 
 
 * O, summer day, beside the joyous sea ! 
 O, summer day, so wonderful and white, 
 So full of gladness and so full of pain, 
 For ever and for ever shalt thou be 
 To some the gravestone of a dead delight, 
 To some the landmark of a new domain.'
 
 138 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 It was, indeed, a lovely summer day, a 
 lovely picnic too ; but now, alas ! too 
 nearly at an end. 
 
 Close to the breaking waves, in tbe 
 black shadow cast by the cliff, Mrs. Trevor 
 was seated. Even on the fete-day of the 
 year she was not idle, she was knitting ; 
 the click, click of her needles did not 
 shame her idle offspring when they came, 
 from time to time, and lay at her feet, 
 while they renewed their strength for 
 fresh wanderings on the rocks, — it seemed 
 natural for their mother to work, as 
 natural for her to work as for them to 
 play. 
 
 Max had been peering along the shingle 
 and amongst the pools and seaweed, pick- 
 ing up desultory information on nautical 
 'ologies, searching for 'testaceous mollusk'
 
 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 139 
 
 and ' nodules,' and therefore well amused. 
 
 Agnes was tired, she said ; she idled by 
 her mother's side, basking in the heat ; 
 she talked of many things which ' trickled 
 through her head,' but of a preponderating 
 and permanent subject reigning there just 
 now she said nothing, — for, like the senti- 
 ments of Mr. Toots, the subject was ' of 
 no consequence.' 
 
 The day had worn to evening, the 
 shadows were lengthening, the fiery heat 
 was past, the 30th of July was drawing to 
 its close, and still neither Mr. Trevor nor 
 Elsie had come. The whole party had long 
 grown watchful, and were fast becoming 
 impatient ; they wanted the reinforcement, 
 but still more they wanted their cake and 
 fruit. The boys, grown desperate, went 
 back to forget their hunger on the rocks,
 
 140 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 but Max and the two girls lingered by 
 Mrs. Trevor and by the paraphernalia of 
 food which they had set ready a full hour 
 before. 
 
 ' It is seven o'clock,' Precautia said. 
 ' I'm so thirsty.' 
 
 Max was standing behind Agnes, his 
 hands in his pockets, his face freckled and 
 blistered from the combined action of sun 
 and sea, his pale eyes screwed up with the 
 effort to distinguish the bridle-path which 
 wound zigzag up the slope of the cliff, and 
 to which Mrs. Trevor's eyes constantly 
 wandered. 
 
 ' You drank two quarts of water ten 
 minutes ago.' 
 
 ' You will have to wait patiently till 
 your father comes, my Celia.' 
 
 ' We are all of us always waiting for
 
 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 141 
 
 fatlier,' she sighed. ' Elsie won't get any 
 picnic at all ; she generally has bad luck. 
 It is being father's favourite, I suppose — it 
 is such a tie to be a favourite.' 
 
 'Your father promised me to come early.' 
 
 ' His promises are — I mean, he forgets.' 
 
 ' Elsie will remind him.' 
 
 ' Imagine Elsie or Precautia allowing 
 us to forget anything which they choose to 
 remember.' 
 
 ' You are as bad as father. Max ; you 
 only remember things which are no good 
 to anyone but yourself and a few fogies. 
 Your memory is lopsided.' 
 
 ' You are pugnacious, Precautia.' 
 
 ' Yes, I'm hungry. We have waited an 
 hour and the flies are drinking the butter. 
 Lots and lots of wasps are in the rasp- 
 berry jam.'
 
 142 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 Maxwell's sense of liearing, like that of 
 many persons whose sight is defective, 
 was acute ; he silenced Celia. 
 
 ' Hush,' he said, ' what is that?' 
 
 They listened ; through the rhythmical 
 splash of the waves they heard a sound 
 of hoofs, the beat of hoofs on hard ground. 
 Celia clapped her hands and shouted, 
 
 ' Here they are, here they come ! I hear 
 them.' 
 
 Then Mrs. Trevor got up from her seat 
 on the rock and hastily began to rearrange 
 the plates and to uncover the fruit. She 
 was smiling happily and had turned her 
 back towards the cliff. But her three 
 companions stood where they were and 
 watched the path that led down the grass- 
 grown cliff. ItAvas a rugged path, narrow, 
 steep, slippery.
 
 IX THE SUXTIME OF HER YOUTH. 143 
 
 ^ How fast she is coming.' 
 
 * Elsie always rides like a lunatic.' 
 
 ' Look at her, she shaved that corner.' 
 
 ' She will be oiF.' 
 
 ' Where is father ?' 
 . ' Putting up at the farm. He won't 
 risk Paladin's legs down here.' 
 
 ' He would be angry if he saw her 
 now.' 
 
 ' She Avill come to grief in a inoment and 
 break her neck.' 
 
 Young St. Maur spoke impatiently and 
 frowned. Elspeth worried him, she was 
 headstrong and excitable, she never took 
 life quietly, she seemed bent on li\dng at 
 a strained tension of hot emotion. It 
 turiied him sick to see any woman clatter- 
 ing down a dangerous path, scattering stones
 
 144 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 right and left and riding as though she 
 rode for a wager. 
 
 There, she had reached the bottom now 
 with a whole skin, thanks to providence, 
 not to her common-sense. But still she 
 came on, still at the same reckless jDace. 
 The rectory cob Avhich she rode, the old 
 sleek cob, was flecked with foam and sweat; 
 she struck him — Max heard the swish of 
 the whi}) — urging him forAvard at the 
 gallop over the heavy sand. 
 
 Then it dawned upon the young man 
 that something was wrong, that Elsie was 
 white, white as wool, that her face was 
 full of fear and horror, that she did not 
 ride at that wild pace for nothing. 
 
 He was straining his eyes to see more 
 clearly, when Celia backed towards him 
 and caught hold of his hand. He looked
 
 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 145 
 
 at Agnes, she was pale and stood quite 
 still, staring fixedly at the approaching 
 figures. 
 
 The sand muffled the sound of the hoofs. 
 Mrs. Trevor, unconscious and placid, was 
 kneeling down before the tea-things set- 
 ting them straight and smiling to herself, 
 for it ' was not so very late after all — 
 though many years had passed, yet he had 
 not quite forgotten.' 
 
 ' Mother.' 
 
 At this call she started up and turned 
 round ; it was a low call, yet she had 
 started. Elsie was close by, she had 
 dismounted, the reins were over her arm, 
 she was alone. Mrs. Trevor looked be- 
 yond her daughter and up the cliff-path. 
 
 ' Your father has not come,' she said. 
 ' It is hot, too hot ; he was quite right. 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 But, Elsie, how fast you've ridden, Tar- 
 quin is so hot ; the rector won't forgive 
 you if you ride like this.' 
 
 She sighed. The three spectators never 
 took their eyes off Elspeth's face ; they 
 neither spoke nor moved. This white, 
 wild-eyed Elsie struck them dumb ; she 
 turned them to stone. Listen, she was 
 endeavouring to speak, her pale lips moved. 
 
 ' Mother, I am trying — to tell you — I 
 did not ride so fast — so fast — like this for 
 nothing.' 
 
 The hearer's expression changed ; she 
 saw her daughter's face, and was alarmed. 
 
 ' What is it, Elsie ? Quickly— tell me ! 
 What is it?' 
 
 ' I have brought bad news. You must 
 come home — mother darling — you must 
 come now. I told them at the farm — they
 
 IX THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 147 
 
 are getting ready — you must not lose a 
 moment — the doctor said so — quickly, he 
 said, come back quickly.' 
 
 Through the silence came the splash of 
 the waves, the shouts of the boys, and the 
 low roll of waters against the cliff. Mrs. 
 Trevor looked helplessly from one to 
 another of the scared faces, tried to speak, 
 failed, and could only whisper, 
 
 'Who is it?' 
 
 ' Father.' 
 
 'He is— hurt?' 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 ' How ?' 
 
 ' It was Paladin — he took fright.' Elsie 
 began to shudder, and put up her hand to 
 steady her lips so that they might articu- 
 late, and Celia burst out crying. ' He 
 took fright at the level crossing — by 
 
 l2
 
 148 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 the bridge — the train was j)^ssing. — 
 They both fell — fell over. Oh, mother, 
 mother, they fell over — I Avas close by, I 
 saw them fall upon the stones. Paladin 
 never moved — they carried father to the 
 cottage near — he could speak — he called 
 for you — he wants you. I came — they 
 sent me — there was no one else to 
 send.' 
 
 This was the message she brought, this 
 the ill news she rode so fast to bring, and 
 thus the light went out upon this summer 
 day. 
 
 The wondrous summer day was glory- 
 ing to sunset as they drove home ; there 
 is little glorying to sunset in the setting 
 of a human sun. 
 
 Here were the tangled hedges smothered 
 in white dust, here the same sleej^ing sha-
 
 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 149 
 
 dows only shifted upon the road. Myriads 
 of insects still glittered in the drowsy air. 
 Here were the groups of haystacks, the 
 way-side cottages, the majestic hills, and 
 verdant valleys. All here ; no change at all, 
 no difference save in the eyes which could 
 not see them for blinding pain. So they 
 drove home and yet not home, but to the 
 strange cottage whither their father had 
 been carried, and where he lay, and would 
 lie while he lived. 
 
 In all their former childish o-piefs their 
 
 a 
 
 mother had been her children's comforter, 
 and, now she had left them, they were 
 alone. They will never forget those long 
 hours whilst they sat huddled together in 
 a strange cottage kitchen waiting, holding 
 to each other's hands, staring* into each 
 other's eyes, waiting and hoping — they
 
 150 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 must hope ; they were young, they could 
 not choose but hope. 
 
 Much later, when the dreadful night was 
 gone and day daAvned, they were fetched, a 
 stranger came and told them to come quick- 
 ly and to step gently for their father had 
 asked to see them. 
 
 ' Then he is better.' 
 
 ' No, he will never be any better, he is 
 going fast.' 
 
 Death was new and fearful to them, 
 they clung to each other as they gathered 
 round the bed on which their father lay. 
 
 Their mother held his hand in hers, 
 tears distressed him — she was calm — she 
 should have time for mourning by and by. 
 She never looked up, her eyes were upon 
 him. His face was unblemished, but the 
 vigour of his eyes was quenched, there
 
 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 151 
 
 was a look upon him which was un- 
 familiar. 
 
 ' Come here, all of you,' he said, ' come a 
 little closer. Hush, Celia, don't cry, don't 
 cry, my little one, I'm not in pain — only a 
 little dazed — my back is hurt. It Avas a 
 long way to fall ; my poor old Paladin, he 
 and his master came to grief together. 
 Gome over in the light, boys, closer, I can- 
 not see. You three will have to work — 
 work harder than ever your father worked. 
 Your mother knows I never was much 
 good — she knows it. Elsie, kiss me, not 
 like that, — gently, my dear. Where is 
 Agnes, my saint? St. Agnes — just what 
 Mary was.' 
 
 Then he turned his head, he could only 
 move it a very little way, towards his 
 wife.
 
 152 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 ' Send them away, Mary, I cannot bear 
 to hear them cry. I want to be alone 
 with you — alone with you until the end.'
 
 153 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 The tongue which like a stream could run 
 Smooth music from the roughest stone, 
 And every morning with * Good-day ' 
 Make each day good, is hushed away. 
 
 Mrs. Browning. 
 
 Several Dorfold autliorities were severe 
 in their comments upon Mrs. Trevor's — 
 they called it morbid and exaggerated — 
 sorrow. 
 
 A little weeping with those that weep 
 goes a long way, or should do so. It is 
 usually considered selfish to show feeling, 
 it is considered more selfish to show pro-
 
 154 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 longed grief, but it is unpardonable not to 
 show at all. 
 
 Poor Mr. Trevor's tragic death elicited 
 enormous sympathy from all the country 
 round, everyone did what they could to 
 console the bereaved; letters, notes, 
 messages, callers besieged Hillsden for the 
 best part of a fortnight. But such sym- 
 pathy is not elastic, or rather it cannot be 
 elastic for long, its tension relaxes, con- 
 tracts, and when Mrs. Trevor shut herself 
 up, refused to see anyone, never left her 
 garden, nor went to church, nor answered 
 notes, her sorrow seemed overdone. It 
 almost seemed a rebuke to mourners who 
 did not overdo their sorrow, who were not 
 selfish, who made no parade of grief, who 
 were resigned to the decrees of Providence, 
 and convinced of the advantages of the dead.
 
 IN THE SUXTIME OF HER YOUTH. 155 
 
 Those mourners grieved only in private, 
 made efforts, completely successful efforts, 
 to be cheerful in society. Those mourners 
 sneered at the forms of outward mourning, 
 and shuddered at the hideousness of crape. 
 Those mourners resented Mrs. Trevor's 
 behaviour. 
 
 But when later on it was whispered that 
 the widow had other cause for grief beside 
 bereavement, that she had been left poor, 
 dismally poor, that this complication of 
 disasters weighed upon her, then every- 
 one could understand and pity her despair ; 
 there was no mute rebuke to her neigh- 
 bours, no contrast to anybody in a grief 
 such as this, everyone could spnpathise 
 with, and compassionate, such a compre- 
 hensible trouble. 
 
 If Mrs. Trevor was ashamed to show
 
 156 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 her face in the villao:e because of the lono^ 
 grown, and still growing, length of the 
 butcher's book, the butcher's Avife could 
 both understand and pity her — so could 
 the whole village. There was nothing 
 morbid in that sort of trouble — it was 
 altogether natural. 
 
 Little by little the truth Avas known, it 
 leaked out through the servants and oozed 
 through the village into the country 
 round. 
 
 No wonder Mrs. Trevor could not hold 
 up her head, no Avonder she shut herself 
 up ; poor Mr. Trevor's affairs Avere found 
 to be in a shocking condition, if anything 
 could be saved out of the Avreck of his for- 
 tune it Avas a bare pittance upon Avhich no 
 beggar could exist. Mrs. Trevor did not 
 knoAv Avhere to turn for a penny. This Avas
 
 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 157 
 
 the rumour wliicli was circulated, and there 
 was more truth in it than is to be found in 
 most popularly accepted reports. There 
 was a supplement to the statement which 
 added that the widow did not mention the 
 word money, nor did she seem conscious 
 of her altered circumstances ; no one heard 
 her allude to the prospect of changes, she 
 seemed stunned and unconscious of any- 
 thing but her loss — this additional news 
 was received with caution, it was hard to 
 credit. 
 
 And yet it was true, altogether true. 
 Mrs. Trevor did not know where to turn 
 for a i^enny ; nevertheless, had she known 
 exactly where to grasp a fortune, it is 
 doubtful whether just then she would 
 have exerted herself to appropriate it. 
 
 Her husband had been an only child, he
 
 158 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 had inlierited Hillsden from his father 
 together with an income bordering close 
 upon a thousand a year. He had married 
 young and had married for love, his wife 
 had no fortune beyond the fortune of her 
 fair face and fairer soul. 
 
 He had been wont to say that he was 
 an easy-going contented man, that he had 
 no extravagant tastes, he neither ' raced 
 much,' nor ' played high,' he did not 
 attempt to entertain, he wanted nothing. 
 But he went about a good deal, he was 
 welcome everywhere, he was capital com- 
 pany, a first-rate sportsman, a real ' good 
 fellow.' At first his wife had gone with 
 him, but as the children came and expenses 
 swelled she stayed at home and he went 
 by himself. 
 ' It did him good,' she said, ' Richard could
 
 IX THE SUXTIME OF HER YOUTH. 159 
 
 not vegetate at Dorfold all the year round ; 
 though he loved to be at home.' 
 
 When he had been at Hillsden he had 
 always seemed easy in mind, no one had 
 seen a frown of unexplained anxiety, nor 
 a line of brooding care upon his face. He 
 had never grumbled about his poverty, he 
 had been quite open-handed, he had pitied 
 those unfortunates who had to count their 
 eggs and had rallied his wife on her stingi- 
 ness, he was sliding down hill gracefully. 
 But his wife had suffered woeful pangs of 
 anxiety, she had saved, and worked, and 
 worried until she had felt old, ill, and 
 weary. Often she had shuddered, dread- 
 ing that she should be called upon to leave 
 him, to leave him and her children to face 
 approaching trouble, alone. 
 
 The sorrow for which we make readv is
 
 160 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 not the sorrow which comes to us ; it was 
 so with Mrs. Trevor. All and more than 
 the anticipated penury was upon her, but 
 for that she did not care, it was too late to 
 care. 
 
 Now she knew all, knew that things 
 were worse than her worst dreams had 
 foretold, knew that for years she had been 
 tottering down a swelling hill of debt to 
 total ruin, knew that her home was mort- 
 gaged to the hilt, knew that interest and 
 compound interest on money borrowed 
 drained the heart of her income, the in- 
 come of her small settlement which was 
 all, every penny, that she and her children 
 possessed. She knew it now. 
 
 And the strange and pitiful part of it 
 was that she did not care. 
 
 What is money or the want of money to
 
 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 161 
 
 those who stand hand in hand, face to face 
 with Death ? What was the future to her 
 now? ShoukI she hoj^e again, toil again? 
 Hope and toil ended alike in death. Am- 
 bition, too, was dead, there was no mean- 
 ing in the word, scooped of its pith and 
 hollow now. Pomp of riches, rags and 
 poverty, glory and beauty, toil and want 
 all pave alike a broad road to a swift 
 end. 
 
 Her doctor implored her to rouse her- 
 self, the shock she had sustained had phy- 
 si<ially weakened her. She must not give 
 w^ay, or he would not answer for the con- 
 sequences. Then she came downstairs 
 once more and mingled with the household, 
 but she liked best to be alone, alone pacing 
 in the garden, or alone staring upon the 
 distant hills. She' hardly spoke, starting 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 162 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 when she was addressed, and speaking 
 slowly as thougli her words were hard to 
 find, refusmg to see her friends, leaving 
 her letters unanswered, her work-basket 
 untouched. 
 
 She had been the prop of the house, the 
 mainstay of it all ; on her, the household, 
 children, and servants had leaned. Their 
 support had broken down, they must 
 stand alone now. 
 
 The news which all the county knew 
 was still unknown to those much con- 
 cerned — the Trevors had been told no- 
 thing. 
 
 The boys had gone back to school, gone 
 back with heavy hearts from the altered 
 home. They were almost glad to go, they 
 were so depressed and quiet, home was spoilt 
 and dreary, at school the shadows might
 
 IX THE SUXTIME OF HER YOUTH. 163 
 
 be shaken off, tliey were young and hungry 
 for happiness. 
 
 Their mother's farewell chilled them. 
 Those well-worn final words of warning, 
 which ahvays followed her good-bye, 
 ' Work hard and keep straight,' and for 
 which they listened, did not come this 
 time. For the first time there were no 
 final words, nothino; but a kiss and a o^ood- 
 bye. A hurried kiss, a short ' good-bye.' 
 
 Agnes and Elspeth packed their boxes, 
 Agnes and Elspeth lamented over and 
 prolonged the farewells, Celia gave them 
 advice, but Mrs. Trevor sat apart. It was 
 hard to have lost so much, father and 
 mother both ; to be wholly orphaned on 
 one summer day. 
 
 The silent sombreness of the house, 
 when the boys had gone, was heavier than 
 
 u 2
 
 164 IN THE SUNTIME OF HEE YOUTH. 
 
 before ; the inmates had returned to their 
 duties, Max worked in his den, the girls 
 tried to accomplish their mother's relin- 
 quished work, Elspeth sewed, and darned, 
 and taught Celia, Agnes followed Mrs. 
 Trevor like her shadow, and went drearily 
 about the house, pale, sad-eyed, and 
 dejected. 
 
 How easily a head, filled with sad 
 thoughts, sets to ache. Head and heart 
 are full of sympathy, they ache together. 
 Agnes' head ached ; she was in her room, 
 dressing to go out. It was a September 
 afternoon, cold and bright, the air would 
 do her good and make her fit to meet the 
 long evening. She sighed as she moved 
 slowly at her task, she was depressed. 
 How could she keep heart ? for she was 
 useless, powerless, all her untiring efforts
 
 IX THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 165 
 
 Avere of no avail, she could not help her 
 mother, she conlcl neither soothe nor con- 
 sole her. Her grief did not heal, the 
 Trevor sorrows did not mend. The storm 
 had broken npon them, and yet the clonds 
 had not dispersed, they were low in the 
 sky, threatening and black still. Elements 
 of disquietude brooded over the household, 
 Agnes felt it, struggling not to fear, and 
 yet sick with a presentiment of coming 
 misfortune. 
 
 She started at hearing a tap upon her 
 door, then jumped up eagerly, thinking 
 the comer was her mother who had folloAV- 
 ed her thither as she had been wont to do 
 in bygone days when they had ' held sAveet 
 counsel together ' and ' walked as friends.' 
 But Caroline stood there, not Mrs. Trevor. 
 
 Caroline had lived at Hillsden many
 
 166 m THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 years, and had, like other capable, managing 
 people have, distinct ideas on all matters, 
 and a complete faith in the wisdom of her 
 own judgment; but the woman seemed 
 nervous and stood fidgetting in the door- 
 way, looking at anything rather than her 
 young lady's face. 
 
 ' Do you want me, Caroline ?' 
 
 ' I want to have a word Avith you, miss. 
 It's a thing about Avhich I cannot bear to 
 speak, and, as for asking, if it wasn't for 
 my poor old mother who looks for my bit 
 of money to keep her out of the work- 
 house, no power would drag a word from 
 my lips.' 
 
 ' Do you mean you are going to leave 
 us, Caroline ?' 
 
 ' I've no thought of such a thing. Miss 
 Agnes,' angrily, ' it's with one thing and
 
 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 167 
 
 an other, parcels and fish to pay at the 
 door, and not a penny of wages for 
 eighteen months, I am pnt to such a 
 straight that it's either ask or take^ — not 
 for me, miss, but for my mother.' 
 ' Haven't you had your wages ?' 
 ' Not for eighteen months, miss.' 
 ' Why did you not ask my mother ?' 
 ' How coukl I ask her, knowing as I 
 knoAV how it is?' 
 ^What?' 
 
 ' Oh, Miss Agnes, she hasn't the heart 
 to talk, nor to think neither. She just 
 drags on from day to day. She won't 
 face what's coming and she won't prepare 
 no one else to face it. She is dazed with 
 trouble, — trouble upon trouble, — but it 
 Avon't mend matters to let things run on 
 till every penny has gone, and the bills
 
 168 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 stretch till tliey Avon't stretch them no 
 more, and the very house over your head 
 is taken by them who OAvns it.' 
 
 Caroline had not the courage to look 
 straight at Miss Trevor, she looked upon 
 the ground and took a glance at the young- 
 lady, but Agnes received her words Avith 
 such calmness and went on tying her 
 shoe-string so carefully that Caroline felt 
 outraged at her apathy, and proceeded to 
 pile on the agony, as her race love to pile 
 it and to hear it piled. 
 
 ' If you can't rouse my mistress and 
 give her a bit of interest in life, you will 
 lose her, too ; mark me. It is better to 
 worry her, any way, than let her sit on 
 day after day breaking her heart. It's 
 the suddenness stunned her; she's got 
 into a way of brooding that will wear her
 
 IN THE SUXTIME OF HER YOUTH. 169 
 
 out. She used to dote on the ground her 
 children trod on, and now she didn't as 
 much as look round Avhen the young 
 gentlemen left her. People don't break 
 their hearts and live on, Miss Agnes. She 
 is a rare sort is my mistress, and, like 
 everything that is choice, she's fragile and 
 delicate, breaking easier than the coarser 
 kinds. Handle a bit of t'he Sevres roughly, 
 and it chips off in a moment ; but you 
 may drop the Lyndhurst pottery, and it 
 takes no injury. It is the same all through 
 everything. Miss Agnes, Avare and women, 
 the better they are the easier damaged.' 
 
 Caroline felt that she had discharged a 
 duty, which she owed to the family ; she 
 had opened Miss Trevor's blind eyes. 
 Something must be done, Mrs. Trevor 
 must be roused : who Avas so gentle and
 
 170 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 SO full of tact as her eldest-born ? to her 
 Caroline had appealed. There was nothing 
 to be gained by beating about the bush ; 
 she plunged through the heart of the 
 thicket, dragging her lacerated listener 
 with her. 
 
 ' Give her a bit of interest in life, Miss 
 Agnes ; remind her that if she's lost one, 
 she's got six of his children by her still. 
 Talk to her, miss ; don't let her be. Better 
 hurt her than leave her like she is.' 
 
 Then Caroline went. She Avas rather 
 relieved at getting away ; she had done a 
 disagreeable task, and she did not like the 
 quiet way Miss Trevor took her advice. 
 Miss Trevor took everything so quietly ; 
 there was no chance of her breaking her 
 heart. Caroline was almost inclined to 
 think she had no heart to break.
 
 IN THE SUNTIME OF HEE YOUTH. 171 
 
 It was some time before Agnes left her 
 room ; then she went down straight to the 
 drawino'-room, where her mother was seat- 
 ed at the window. Mrs. Trevor made no 
 pretence of doing anything ; she sat, with 
 her hands idle on her lap, staring out upon 
 the distant hills. Ah, how ill she looked ! 
 Her hair was streaked with grey, her 
 faded eyes had lost all trace of youth, 
 there was a droop of the shoulders, a 
 weariness in her attitude which cut her 
 daughter's bleeding heart to the cjuick. 
 Agnes went close to her, and seating her- 
 self, all unbidden, on her lap, put both 
 arms round her neck, laying her cheek on 
 hers. 
 
 ' Mother, I am going out ; it is such a 
 lovely day. Come, too, just for a little 
 turn.'
 
 172 IX THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 'No, dear, I think not; I was out this 
 morning.' 
 
 ' Not this morning.' 
 
 ' No, yesterday, I mean. I Avas out 
 yesterday. I can't come now. I am 
 tired.' 
 
 ' You do nothing all day, mother, you 
 go nowhere, how can you be tired?' 
 
 ' I have worked a good deal in my 
 time, Agnes. The work has left me 
 tired.' 
 
 ' And you will work again. There are 
 so many of us, mother, and we all want 
 you, — there is so much to do. When you 
 sit and think, you forget things. Why, 
 you have forgotten to give Caroline her 
 wages ! She has no money to send her 
 mother, not a penny to keep her out of 
 the Avorkhouse.'
 
 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 173 
 
 Mrs. Trevor disengaged Agnes' en- 
 circling arms, and motioned her to rise. 
 
 ' HoAv much do I owe her ?' 
 
 ' She has had nothing for eighteen 
 ■months.' 
 
 Mrs. Trevor went over to her daven- 
 2)ort, and, opening it, began to rout 
 amongst a heap of papers it contained. 
 She sighed more than once, and then, 
 desisting from her search, Laid her head 
 on her hands. 
 
 ' If you cannot find your purse, mother, 
 draw a cheque ; I'm going into Dorfold, I 
 will change it.' 
 
 There never seems any difficulty about 
 drawing a cheque to the uninitiated. 
 Agnes thought a cheque grew money as a 
 larder grew bread-and-butter ; she could 
 not imaoine the one without the other.
 
 174 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 There was a clieque-book well in sight, 
 and plump with blank cheques. 
 
 Mrs. Trevor turned and looked at her 
 daughter with such a hopeless and de- 
 spondent air that Agnes shivered for a 
 moment before she smiled, a reassuring 
 smile. 
 
 ' Agnes, I don't know where to turn for 
 a penny. I have nothing in the bank, 
 nothing in the house ; we are the poorest 
 of the poor.' 
 
 It should have been consolation to the 
 despairing woman to feel warm arms cling- 
 ing about her, to hear a young voice, un- 
 broken, full of courage, bravely answer, 
 
 ' I know Ave are ; other people have been 
 poor and Avill be poor again ; there is no 
 disgrace in poverty. Look at this,' touch- 
 ing a silver inkstand, ' and that,' pointing
 
 IX THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 175 
 
 to a case of cameos, ' these will sell and 
 pay the wages. Oh, mother, we must 
 23kn, and pray, and think ; we must not, 
 we dare not despair. Mother, think; 
 there are the boys and Celia, we must 
 work for them, they are so young — all 
 their lives before them. Only love us 
 still, and we shall want nothing — we shall 
 be happy.' 
 
 ' I have no courage, Agnes ; I can't begin 
 again, I am too old. I put my children 
 before him. I did, God forgive me. I 
 cannot neglect his memory for them now.' 
 ' We are his children, mother.' 
 Then Mrs. Trevor broke into tears, crv- 
 ing with a great despondency, not with a 
 passion of grief such as exhausts sorrow 
 and softens it. By degrees, little by little, 
 as though she found it hard to clear her
 
 176 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 clouded brain sufficiently to answer Agnes' 
 gentle questionings, she told all she knew 
 of the miserable hopelessness of their 
 aiFairs, of all the appalling lack of money, 
 of all the load of debt and difficulty. 
 
 She wondered to find how little Agnes 
 was affected by the news, nothing seemed 
 to dismay her, her voice did not falter, nor 
 did her courage quail ; if that courage was 
 born of love, not hardihood, one sort of 
 courage serves its purpose as Avell as 
 another : as long as her mother was 
 roused, as long as Caroline's proj)hecies 
 were false, nothing else signified to Agnes. 
 Then Mrs. Trevor, drying her tears, re- 
 commenced her search amongst the papers 
 in her davenport, handing to her daughter 
 letters which she had laid aside, some un- 
 opened, others unheeded, all unanswered.
 
 IX THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 177 
 
 Amongst these they alighted upon an 
 envelope, directed in a familiar hand- 
 writing, with unbroken seal. Agnes took 
 it up and opened it. They read it to- 
 gether, Agnes with one arm about her 
 mother's neck. 
 
 It was a letter six weeks old, — a kind 
 and hopeful letter — a letter which had 
 asked a speedy answer, for it was filled 
 with questions, filled with ofi'ers of help, 
 replete ^yith. a desire to be of some use to 
 the family. The writer was aware of Mrs. 
 Trevor's great trouble, he would not now 
 refer to her irreparable loss, but to other 
 troubles of a less public character. His 
 sister had heard rumours of these second- 
 ary troubles and had repeated the rumours 
 to him, the report might not be true, he 
 trusted it was false, but on the other hand, 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 if it should be the fact, he hoped that Mrs. 
 Trevor would consider his advice, his 
 services at her disposal, that she would 
 remember that he, Mr. Hacket, was a 
 business man. He, fortunately, had a 
 large business connection, many friends 
 who at his recommendation had started 
 youths, quite unpromising lads, in life. 
 He, Mr. Hacket, was anxious to buy property 
 in the neighbourhood of Dorfold — as he 
 had mentioned to Mr. Trevor repeatedly 
 in past days. Should Hillsden fall into 
 the market, might he have an early notice 
 to that effect ? for he was ready to become 
 an immediate purchaser — should the price 
 asked be in any degree a reasonable one. 
 Of course he had no intention of living at 
 Hillsden himself, he trusted the present 
 occupiers would not object to him as a
 
 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 179 
 
 landlord. In confidence lie warned Mrs. 
 Trevor of the village lawyer's untrust- 
 wortliy incompetency. 
 
 The letter was a long one, and it seemed 
 to split the heavy clouds asunder, allow- 
 ing rays of light to strike down through 
 the gloom ; it was a self-reliant letter, full 
 of suggestions, laying the foundation of 
 new hopes, such as a perplexed, unbusiness- 
 like woman might seize as saviour for her 
 over-burdened soul. 
 
 But there was a postscript remarking 
 ' that he had received no reply to a former 
 communication of his, but, under the cir- 
 cumstances, he should, of course, waive 
 all reference to past matters — for the 
 present.' 
 
 ' Mother,' said Agnes, with her eyes 
 upon the flowing letters of the postscript, 
 
 n2
 
 180 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 ' you must send for Mr. Hacket, he will 
 help you.' 
 
 ' No, no ; don't you understand ? — It 
 would not do.' 
 
 Agnes was in thought, she was living 
 through a summer evening long ago. 
 Some forgotten words glanced back along 
 her memory and murmured at her ear, — 
 how practical they were. 
 
 ' You think they cannot spare you ? 
 You are useful here, but you would be a 
 great deal more useful as Mrs. Hacket. — 
 No mother would reject a straight road to 
 prosperity for her daughter.' 
 
 The speaker had been right. Agnes 
 was not shocked at his words. A con- 
 dition of inactive endurance of evil is a 
 most terrible thing to confront, any other 
 condition is preferable. Agnes smiled. She
 
 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 181 
 
 was St. Agnes ; a saint has a character to 
 maintain, a saint's first duty is self- 
 abnegation. 
 
 It seemed quite easy to marry Mr. 
 Hacket as she sat alone mth her mother. 
 She had not seen him, nor spoken to him, 
 for so long. She remembered his flowers, 
 his fish, and his kind words ; then she said 
 again, 
 
 ' You must send for Mr. Hacket, he will 
 help us.'
 
 182 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 ' Then came and looked him in the face 
 An angel beautiful and bright : 
 And that he thought it was a Fiend 
 This miserable Knight.' 
 
 Young St. Maur was going back to Oxford 
 on the succeeding day, and yet Elspeth 
 had quarrelled with him. Her temper was 
 not a strong point of hers, but of late it 
 had been mild, mellowed by grief ; Max had 
 begun to forget how violent she could be. 
 She was not a special favourite with him, 
 he disliked storms in tea-cups, home-truths 
 were odious to his ears. He stood facing
 
 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 183 
 
 her in the school-room, they were much 
 the same height, their eyes were on a level ; 
 hers, fiercely angry ; his, half-amusecl, half- 
 cynical ; hers, beautiful beyond compare ; 
 his, pale, keen, ugly. 
 
 Elsie's temper had not strayed from her 
 control without provocation. Max was 
 maddeningly careless, he knew that per- 
 fectly well. While he had searched the cup- 
 board for a mislaid Minchin's ' Uniplanar 
 Kinematics of Solids and Fluids,' (dream- 
 ing, in his folly, that a Trevor had pur- 
 loined the treasure from his shelf,) he had 
 put his lighted pipe down on a soft pile of 
 Elsie's needlework. He had put it there 
 and left it there, and it had heaved over, 
 burning a series of tan blots, perforating 
 layer after layer of muslin curtain which 
 the poor seamtress had hemmed, folded
 
 184 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 into a square, and laid upon the table. The 
 labour had been wasted, for the curtain was 
 ruined ; Elsie could have cried, then the 
 ofFended's heart would, doubtless, have 
 been touched, but instead of being Avisely 
 womanly she was natural and she lost her 
 temper. 
 
 Max had apologised bounteously, he had 
 relinquished his search for the book, he had 
 volunteered to go into Dorfold and buy 
 some more ' stuff' for curtains himself; he 
 had done all a careless young man could 
 do to atone for his crime and smooth her 
 down. She refused to be smoothed down, 
 but bristled with displeasure. Her ob- 
 duracy fast absorbed his repentance, he 
 grew impatient. 
 
 ' I was getting my things together, I was 
 busy. I never saw the beastly curtain.'
 
 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 185 
 
 ' You never see anything. Who wants 
 a. Kinematic Fluid ? Everyone Avants 
 curtains.' 
 
 ' For my own part I hate curtains, they 
 spoil light and view.' 
 
 ' Do take your hands out of your 
 pockets. A boy who sticks his hands in 
 his pockets makes a miserable confession 
 of incompetency.' 
 
 ' Are you quoting Mr. Hacket ? I am 
 not a boy, Elsie.' 
 
 ' You are ivorse than a boy, you are 
 
 a ' he whipj)ed one offending hand 
 
 out of his pocket and laid . it on her 
 lips. 
 
 ' Hush, Elsie. Say the alphabet back- 
 wards, as Precautia tells you, when you 
 feel annoyed, and then speak. What is 
 the use of saying all these rude, unpleasant
 
 186 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 things ? Long after I have forgotten them 
 you will be ashamed of yourself.' 
 
 ' What do you mean.' 
 
 ' Just what I said.' 
 
 ' You spoil my work and burn my cur- 
 tain, and 1 am the one to be ashamed ; that's 
 what you mean?' 
 
 ' Something like that.' 
 
 ^ Am I to be as poor as Job and as patient,, 
 too?' 
 
 ' I can't connect Job and you in my mind, 
 Elsie. Extremes do not always meet.' 
 
 ' Am I to say nothing when you drop 
 your pipes about ? When you break, and 
 burn, and ruin everything ? Am I to say 
 nothing but " thank you " ?' 
 
 ' Don't say too much. That's where you 
 fail, you always say too much, and go too 
 far.'
 
 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 187 
 
 ' I only wish I could say a hundredth 
 part of what I feel.' 
 
 He sighed — a martyr-like, annoying 
 sigh — and did not answer. He was look- 
 ing through the window at the bare bushes 
 in the stable-yard, not at her, and yet 
 she was worth looking at. She was 
 tall, and lost no fraction of her stature, for 
 she held herself erect, her head drawn 
 well up with a promise of dignity in the 
 years to come. Her eyes were blue, not 
 grey, nor green, nor slate, nor hazel, no 
 shade by courtesy styled blue, but eyes 
 ' blue as the fairy flax,' with large iris^ 
 dilated pupils. Her eyes were lovely, the 
 lids a trifle heavy, and thickly lashed. 
 She was angry now ; they looked hot and 
 gloomy, but they could twinkle with 
 laughter, gleam with mischief, and glow
 
 188 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 witli enthusiasm; they could even, on 
 somewhat rare occasions, melt with tender- 
 ness. Her mouth was small and flexile, 
 her nose was enough uptilted to shorten 
 the shortness of her upper hp and show 
 a row of small teeth — at this moment 
 clenched maliciously. Her hair 
 
 ' Was like the summer tresses of the trees 
 When twilight turns them brown,' 
 
 and fringed in thick curls above her broad 
 forehead. Her cheeks were west-country 
 cheeks, ' wild strawberries smothered in 
 cream.' She was a ' thing of beauty,' but 
 not to her companion's mind ' a joy for 
 ever.' Nevertheless, his eyes left the 
 stable-yard, and rested upon her. 
 
 'Elsie, don't quarrel,' he said, per- 
 suasively ; ' it is my last night. You know
 
 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 189 
 
 that when we are not friends you don't 
 
 like it; 
 
 Truth is a lovely thing, but not ahvays 
 to be admired. What made Max dream 
 that Elsie had any objection to being dead- 
 cuts with him for ever? Oh, for an eye 
 of Medusa's, or a tongue that could speak 
 Hamlet's daggers ; she would not have 
 spared the use of such weapons. But as 
 she was speechless with anger, and her 
 eyes were thickening with tears, she 
 thought her best j^olicy would be to quit 
 her enemy ; she would leave him. This 
 was not what Max desired ; when Elsie 
 calmed down he had important things to 
 tell her, so he intervened between her and 
 the door, barring her road. 
 
 ' Don't go, Elsie, I have something ' 
 
 ' I won't '
 
 190 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 ' Hush, don't trouble to be rude, then 
 you won't have to bother to apologise 
 — you know quite well that one is 
 certain to involve the other. I have 
 told you I am sorry ; I've said every 
 mortal thing I can. Aren't you going 
 to forgive me? — heaven knows when I 
 shall see you again. There — go and put 
 on your hat, and come down to the village 
 and choose the " stuff." I don't know 
 what to get, so I can't go alone.' 
 
 Elsie was shaken ; ' heaven knows when 
 I shall see you again,' was a sentence that 
 shook the bombast out of her. 
 
 ' If I open the door for you, will you get 
 your hat and come out?' 
 
 ' No. I shall go to the drawing-room.' 
 
 ' Mr. Hacket is there.' 
 
 ' How do you know ?'
 
 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 191 
 
 ' Isn't he always there T 
 
 Here followed a pause, during which 
 Max left guard of the door, and Elsie 
 forgot to take advantage of his absent- 
 mindedness. 
 
 ' You don't like Mr. Racket, Max?' 
 
 ' Not much.' 
 
 ' But he is kind, he understands every- 
 thing. He helps mother ; Agnes says she 
 is better since Mr. Hacket has been good 
 to her, she is more as she used to 
 be.' 
 
 ' I don't see her change, Elsie.' 
 
 Elsie was tractable enough now, sorrow 
 is a good disciplinarian. Sadness and 
 anger will not live together, they are direful 
 foes, it is duel to the death when they 
 meet. 
 
 ' Agnes says she is better,' wistfully.
 
 192 m THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 There was another pause here, during 
 which Elsie pondered and Max looked 
 keenly into her unconscious face. 
 
 ' Do you think,' he asked, speaking 
 quickly when at length he spoke, ' that 
 Mr. Racket does all this sort of thing for 
 nothing?' 
 
 ' You don't mean to suggest that he 
 expects to be paid T 
 
 'I do. Mr. Hacket is not trained to 
 work for nothing.' 
 
 ' Max, that is ridiculous. He knows 
 we can't pay, he knows how poor we are, 
 he knows everything. He has bought 
 the house, he has advanced money, he 
 has promised to put Nat into his own 
 office. Paid! you talk nonsense. How 
 could we pay him ?' 
 
 Max's eyeglass dangled on its string.
 
 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 193 
 
 tapping his waistcoat buttons, his eyes 
 were screwed into mere gleaming slits 
 between white lashes. He would not open 
 this simpleton's understanding — he liked 
 her the better for being a simpleton — but 
 he replied, 
 
 ' Mr. Hacket will expect to be paid, — be 
 paid a good price, a heavy percentage on 
 everything that he has done or will 
 do.' 
 
 ' AYhv do you alwavs run him down ?' 
 
 ' Because he runs himself up so mon- 
 strously high. Let him keep where he 
 ought to be, and has been all his life. 
 " Man," says Adam Smith, ''is of all sorts 
 of luggage the most difficult to be trans- 
 ported," Elsie.' 
 
 ' Does he say so ? Do you think he 
 knew?' absently. ' Max, if we can't pay 
 
 VOL. I. o
 
 194 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 the butcher, how on earth is Mr. Hacket 
 to be paid ^'' 
 
 ' Go and put on your hat, it's getting 
 dusk.' 
 
 As the ill-assorted pair presently passed 
 the yard gates, the cook — the new and 
 plainer cook — looked from the kitchen 
 window and spied them. 
 
 ' There goes Beauty and the Beast,' said 
 she. ' If ever there was a downright 
 beauty it's Miss Elsie, and he's the ugliest 
 of the ugly.' 
 
 ' He can't see beyond his nose,' Caroline 
 added, ' and he keeps it down in some 
 rubbishing book from week's end to week's 
 end. I never saw such a young gentle- 
 man to waste his time ; it is read, read, 
 read all day long.' 
 
 'There will be better bees after our
 
 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 195 
 
 honey, you'll see, and this lot will go to 
 the right-about.' 
 
 Dorfold was a straggling village ; the 
 grey church was on the hill, not a stone's 
 throw from Hillsden, but the cottages 
 spread down through the A^alleyto the wild 
 river Dor, half-a-mile aAvay. Max and Elsie 
 descended the steep and Avinding street in 
 silence. 
 
 As had been foretold, qualms of con- 
 science troubled her. Max liked sober, 
 sensible, phlegmatic people, not ladies with 
 tempers and no self-control ; she was 
 penitent. 
 
 Max had (this also had been prophesied) 
 forgotten Elsie's sins ; he was full of his 
 own affairs ; certain practical questions 
 had forced themselves upon his attention ; 
 he had grave matters to consider in which
 
 196 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 Elsie had little, if any, part. He was busy 
 maj)ping out a future for himself; his in- 
 come was very small, but it was sufficient to 
 keep him in some frugal fashion should he 
 decide to devote himself entirely to the 
 manifold studies of manifold subjects in 
 which he took interest. 
 
 The following Avas his final term at the 
 university ; under the altered circum- 
 stances he could not return, for any 
 lengthy period, to Hillsden. He must 
 rout out a new home for himself. He 
 had no (prospective) objection to living 
 in a hut, or in a garret, if only he should 
 have leisure therein to pursue learning 
 and multiply knowledge. 
 
 As he had no particular bent for any 
 special branch of learning or form of 
 science, it would be difficult for him to
 
 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 197 
 
 find lucrative and congenial work. He 
 was not practical, nor was he ambitious, 
 loving knowledge for its OAvn sake, not for 
 the distinction which it misrht brino^ him. 
 
 He saw that great things were expected 
 of him, the Trevors indulged themselves 
 in high-flying dreams concerning him, but 
 he felt that, if his final schools ' went well,' 
 he might enjoy himself, for a while at any 
 rate, in his ' garret,' with ' time ' at his 
 command. 
 
 But when he presently confided his 
 intentions to his ^companion; when he 
 told her that Hillsden would no lono'er 
 be his home, except in name ; when he 
 told her that, as soon as the autumn term 
 was over, he should take rooms in Lon- 
 don, and work at this, that, and the other 
 — all 'ologies and 'ics with deceptive names
 
 198 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 — she received the news with a bleak refu- 
 tation of its advantages. She thought less 
 than nothing of his scheme. 
 
 ' You are going to work at nothing 
 particular?' 
 
 ' At a great many particular things, my 
 dear;' hitching up the parcel of muslin 
 under his arm, a parcel which he, for once, 
 remembered it was his duty to carry. 
 
 ' A great many particular things,' she 
 repeated. ' Of course you are clever, 
 Max, but I thought you said " concen- 
 tration was the secret of success " ? When 
 you teach Precautia, you always say " con- 
 centrate." She didn't know what it meant ; 
 we looked it out in the dictionary because 
 I couldn't explain — no more did the dic- 
 tionary. Are you never going to do 
 anything ? '
 
 IN THE SUXTIME OF HER YOUTH. 199 
 
 ' You don't attend, Elsie. I have just 
 explained.' 
 
 ' I mean, are you never going to be of 
 any use to anyone ?' 
 
 ' If I could let a spark of light on ' 
 
 ' I hate ifs. Are you going away from 
 everyone, are you going to live alone for 
 an/fr 
 
 ' You don't understand.' 
 
 ' I do, I quite understand. You are 
 going away, you are going to live in a 
 poky little place, and cram your head with 
 things ; feeding your head, and nothing 
 but your head. You will care for no one, 
 and miss everything : you'll grow uglier, 
 and older, and more absent till you — die. 
 When you are ill, your books won't nurse 
 you ; when you are dead, they won't cry — 
 no one will cry. Your landlady will say.
 
 200 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 '• Dear me, there is the fifth-floor gone," 
 and will scrub out the rooms for the next 
 lodger.' 
 
 ' My dear Elsie, what an imagination 
 yours is. Over her fiery earnestness he 
 durst not laugh. ' I am not talking of 
 my death, but of my life.' 
 
 ' One is part of the other, and 1 don't 
 call learning life. Are you glad to be 
 alone. Max? Do you want no brothers, 
 nor sisters ? Do you want no home ? Are 
 you so self-sufiicient, so self-contained, so 
 selfish that you would rather he alone T 
 
 ^ I want all the etcs you mention — at 
 times ; but I work better when I am alone. 
 That is one reason why I have made these 
 arrangements.' 
 
 All the future, all the world around took 
 a dreary, neutral tint. In the silence fol-
 
 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 201 
 
 lowing this remark, Elsie smothered a sob ; 
 he heard it. 
 
 ' What is the matter, Elsie T Shifting his 
 parcel to his left hand he slipped his right 
 hand within her arm. She was extra- 
 ordinarily emotional, but she had had much 
 trouble of late ; he endeavoured to be sym- 
 pathetic and patient with her. 
 
 ' Everything alters, even home changes. 
 Xothing is the same,' she said, tremulous- 
 ly. ' Sometimes I feel afraid.' 
 
 'Afraid of what?' 
 
 ' Afraid to think.' 
 
 ' Take things as they come, don't think 
 too much, Elsie. I did not know you ever 
 thou2:ht.' 
 
 Her hand crept into his. He held it 
 tightly, a little anxious, meanwhile, as to 
 the fate of the parcel which was gliding
 
 202 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 from under the grip of liis left arm. But 
 lie held both hand and parcel until he 
 reached Hillsden. 
 
 Elspeth was a curious person, she per- 
 plexed the young man, perplexed and 
 annoyed him, for she was always in ex- 
 tremes. Intense eyes in an intense face 
 he admired, but an ' intense ' young person 
 was tiresome. 
 
 He meant to have taken Agnes into his 
 confidence, to have told her of his plans ; 
 she would have approved of, and sym- 
 pathised with, his intentions, arguments 
 convinced her, her mind was phable. But 
 Agnes was never at hand, she was for 
 ever with ]\Crs. Trevor, while Elsie's ear 
 was to be had for the asking. 
 
 So, in lieu of Agnes, he had intrusted 
 Elsie with his disclosures, and she had
 
 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 203 
 
 been unkind about tbem, she bad, in fact, 
 been thoroughly disagreeable ; then, sud- 
 denly, for no apparent reason, she had 
 broken down, and had clung to him as 
 thouo^h he was her best consoler. 
 
 He never knew how to please Elsie, her 
 temperament was most uncertain, he 
 thought a let-alone policy a good one 
 to adopt, so he held her hand and said 
 nothing. 
 
 When they reached home, he went into 
 his den and she followed him thither. She 
 was of some practical use, too, for she 
 found the ' Uniplanar Kinematics of Solids 
 and Fluids ' behind the book-case, and 
 gave it to its owner, but she was extreme- 
 ly quiet and subdued — he liked her none 
 the less on that account — and sat mute 
 on the table, out of the way, while he
 
 204 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER Y(3UTH. 
 
 made a final collection of his belongings. 
 
 It must have provoked an unbiassed 
 spectator to have seen the unmethodical 
 way in Avhich the young man set to work. 
 He lifted book after book, peering at their 
 title pages ; he discarded these to examine 
 their neighbours, he stacked them in rows 
 and unstacked them. He fingered his 
 papers tenderly, as he might have fingered 
 a butterfly on which the bloom must be 
 preserved, and then let them flutter — but- 
 terfly fashion, again, — about the room. 
 Finally he found a pamphlet which inter- 
 ested him mightily, and he sank down in 
 his arm-chair to read it. 
 
 Elsie was not provoked, she watched him 
 with a half smile, by and by he would call 
 upon her for help, he would want her, his 
 packing always came to that conclusion.
 
 IN THE SUXTIME OF HEE YOUTH. 205 
 
 When slie was a mere nursery child and 
 he in Eton jackets, she had been his will- 
 ing fag, she had ahvays collected his pro- 
 perties for him, there had ahvays been a 
 bewildered outcry for Elsie at the last. She 
 would not disturb him now ; she watched 
 him, his long lean hand through his red 
 hair, his light eyes gazing upon the pam- 
 phlet. Then her imagination soared off with 
 her. She pictured him sitting thus in a 
 lonely room, perfectly happy and content 
 though no one watched him, though no one 
 sat waitino' until her willino; hands should 
 be called to labour in his service. Then 
 Elsie smiled no more, the expression of 
 her face changed, a half rueful, half mis- 
 chievous light came into her eyes. 
 
 She leaned forward ; stretching out her 
 right hand, she took a matchbox off the
 
 206 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 further end of the table, and, without a 
 breath of warning, she threw it, excellently 
 aimed, at the absorbed student. It hit him 
 full in the face. The effect of this assault 
 was all, and just a little more than all, 
 its perpetrator designed. Max was not 
 startled ; but he laid his pamphlet down 
 upon the table, and ushered his visitor 
 from the room, not with ceremony but 
 Avith observations, couched in nervous 
 English, locking the door behind her Avhen 
 she had gone. 
 
 Seventeen was an odious age, let the 
 poets say what they would. Young St. Maur 
 picked up the scattered matches and re- 
 placed them in the box, wondering, mean- 
 while, why any sane man made any match 
 — except a ' Bryant and May,' — wondering 
 why flames other than those ' which ignite
 
 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 207 
 
 solely on the box ' were allowed to scorch 
 mankind. And then he wondered at his 
 train of thought. And then he packed, but 
 no one helped him.
 
 208 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 In the middays of Autumn, on their eves 
 The breath of Winter comes from far away, 
 And the sick west continually bereaves 
 Of some gold tinge, and plays a roundelay 
 Of death among the bushes and the leaves, 
 To make all bare before he dares to stray 
 From his north cavern. 
 
 Keats. 
 
 Max had gone. Long before his hour of 
 departure, Elsie had come to him with a 
 woeful face, and had sought, humbly, to 
 make peace. He had waved her aside with 
 a hasty, 
 
 ' All right, all right, I am busy ; I
 
 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 209 
 
 cannot bother now. Of course I am not 
 angry — you will grow out of those silly 
 tricks — it is just the sort of thing you 
 always do. I thought no more about it.' 
 
 He was on his way to the drawing-room 
 for a last talk with Agnes and her mother. 
 He did not wish to be hindered, he 
 wanted as much of their calm company 
 as he could fit into this final morning. 
 
 How sweetly sensible was Agnes as she 
 listened to his unfolded scheme, with what 
 wise s}anpathy she accepted his plans, 
 she understood him so well. She did not 
 scold him for not disclosing his intentions 
 earlier. She did not turn upon him and 
 cry, 
 
 ' Are you never going to do anything ? 
 Are you never going to be of any use to 
 anybody?' 
 
 VOL. I. p
 
 210 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 But she said, Avith a sisterly pride that 
 fed the hearer's vanity, 
 
 ' You are sure to succeed in what you 
 undertake, Max.' 
 
 Indifference is so easily satisfied, it is 
 such a soothing possession. 
 
 And yet Agnes was not usually indif- 
 ferent to the welfare of any member of the 
 household; but just then she was pre- 
 occupied, even while she listened to all 
 Max said, answering him gently and to 
 the point, her thoughts were far away; 
 she had much to think of in which he had 
 no part. 
 
 Mrs. Trevor sat beside them, she hardly 
 spoke except to acquiesce once and again 
 in Ames' words. However, when Max rose 
 to go, she rose too and went out into the
 
 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 211 
 
 hall, standing there to see the last of hhn 
 and to bid him good-bye. 
 
 'Is not mother better?' Agnes had 
 taken Max aside and tasked him with this 
 question on the drive. ' She did not come 
 out here when the boys went. Isn't she 
 wonderfully better?' 
 
 'Yes, she is — better. I must not wait, 
 I am late. Good-bye, Agnes.' 
 
 ' Good-bye, good-bye. Mother, the sun's 
 so warm, come here and feel it. Good-bye, 
 Max, the best of luck to you. Good-bye.' 
 
 These farewells were kind and comfort- 
 ing ; these ' godspeeds,' to his mind, better 
 worth having, better worth remembrance 
 than Elsie's unconstrained dismality, which 
 meant so little. 
 
 He was a httle ashamed of her at Dor- 
 
 p2
 
 212 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 fold Station, she gripped his hand so tight 
 and presented a face disfigured with traces 
 of old, middle-aged, and even now-return- 
 ing tears to the view of his felloAV-trav- 
 ellers. But he loathed a youth for laugh- 
 ing at her last words, which were these, 
 
 ' I won't forget it. Max, I will send it 
 on and put the beetle into spirits of wine ; 
 I will write every week, if you don't write 
 I shall understand you are too busy. 
 Good-bye, good-bye.' 
 
 He need neither write, nor remember, 
 nor put his beetle into spirits, she did 
 these things most willingly for this pam- 
 pered young gentleman. Had he repeated 
 his words of that morning, ' It is the sort 
 of thing you always do — I thought no 
 more about it,' they would have been ap- 
 propriate enough.
 
 IN THE SUXTIME OF HER YOUTH. 213 
 
 At present Elsie Avas in the wrong place, 
 no clonbt the tables would be turned some 
 day. A Beast cannot be always blind to 
 Beauty, however phlegmatic the Beast, 
 however unconscious the Beauty. 
 
 Precautia was missino: her morninof 
 lessons to her great gratification ; she had 
 gone with her elders to the station, she 
 was not inclined to envy the train which 
 whisked Max back to Oxford, but she was 
 much interestejd in every accessory of the 
 scene. 
 
 When Elsie had gulped down her 
 broken heart — the lump in her throat Avas 
 large and sharp enough for a splintered 
 heart, she thought, — when the train Avas 
 out of sight, and no one had endangered 
 his neck by taking a last look from his 
 carriage windoAV, she remembered the little
 
 214 IX THE SUXTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 girl, and on turning round found her 
 stationed before an automatic box of 
 sweetmeats in company with Mr. Wynd- 
 ham, the rector of Dorfold. 
 
 Mr. Wyndham had been a friend of 
 Elsie's father, and he was on most intimate 
 terms with the entire family ; now he 
 walked homewards with the girls, talking 
 of Dorfold news, of church news, of house- 
 hold news, as country neighbours talk, sure 
 of the interest of their hearers. 
 
 The rector Avas a widower, he seemed 
 very old to his present companions ; his 
 hair was silver white, his face ploughed 
 with lines and trellised with wrinkles, 
 they revered him as a patriarch as well as 
 their pastor. He lived alone ; his only 
 daughter had made a good match, so good 
 a match that in the forAvard stride of
 
 IN THE SUXTIME OF HER YOUTH. 215 
 
 matrimony she had left Dorfold and her 
 family far behind. Very rarely conld she 
 find spare time in which to visit her old 
 home. But when she did come excite- 
 ment spread far beyond the rectory, on 
 through the village and across the country 
 side. 
 
 Lady Lely was at once so simple and so 
 smart, her manner was so easy, her ap- 
 pearance so magnificent, her conversation 
 so extraordinarily frank. She wore such 
 dreams, such untold dreams of dresses, 
 that the country maidens, when they 
 beheld her, set to altering the fashion of 
 their gowns and the fashion of their 
 heads ; depressing themselves and morti- 
 fying the flesh by so doing, for no local 
 genius could achieve the perfection of Lady 
 Lely's personal fittings.
 
 216 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 Several years had passed since Lady 
 Lely's brother, Arthur Wyndham, had 
 been at Dorfold. The young Trevors 
 remembered him merely as a good-looking 
 nuisance, far older than they, who had 
 led the boys into dangerous and equivocal 
 situations and who had Avorried and har- 
 rowed the girls. They had not grieved 
 when he had been gazetted to a regiment 
 stationed in India and had thither pro- 
 ceeded, but his father, the rector, had 
 grieved. More so as time passed and the 
 lad grew to manhood, more so for rumours 
 of debt and difficulties came floating 
 homewards. These rumours were never 
 confirmed by the fountain head. No 
 complaints, no petitions for help reached 
 his father, but the young man's action 
 seemed to establish the truth of the re-
 
 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 217 
 
 2)orts, for he left his regiment, the 106th 
 Lancers, and entered the Indian Staff 
 Corps. 
 
 Then the rector had complained bit- 
 terly, ' that his son's pride was at fault, 
 that he would not ask for the help he 
 needed, but Avould help himself.' ' Thus 
 Arthur had banished himself for life, 
 makino; a lastino- misfortune of what 
 might have passed away as a summer 
 cloud.' 
 
 This was what Mr. Wyndham said, what 
 he thought was another story. He was 
 inordinately fond of talking about this 
 son of his. It seemed to the Trevors, who 
 heard all the tales, that Captain Wyndham 
 lived in a maze of big game and small 
 game, of polo and steeple-chasing, of sol- 
 diering and dancing; or still better, he was
 
 218 m THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 engaged in delightful Swiss-Family-Robin- 
 son adventures in the jungle — and they 
 envied him. 
 
 As the trio, Mr. Wyndham and the two 
 Miss Trevors, approached the Hillsden 
 gate, it opened wide and through it Mr. 
 Hacket emerged, walking briskly, swing- 
 ing his stick, and humming a low, tuneless 
 hum of satisfaction. He greeted these 
 neighbours of his with great warmth,, he 
 Avas extremely genial. Elsie tried not to 
 resent the familiar Avay in which their 
 benefactor laid his hand upon her shoul- 
 der. Precautia vouchsafed nought but 
 the shadow of a smile when he chucked 
 her beneath the chin ; they endeavoured 
 conscientiously to like Mr. Hacket as he 
 deserved to be liked, but the attempt was 
 often a failure.
 
 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 219 
 
 ' Are you going in ?' he asked the 
 rector, indicating Hillsden with a nod, — 
 and there was a proprietary air about him 
 with which no one had any sort of right to 
 caviL ' Mrs. Trevor is much more herself; 
 do go in and see her, Mr. Wyndham, it 
 will do her good to see you, it will divert 
 her mind.' 
 
 For more than a score of years the 
 rector had been a close and staunch friend 
 at Hillsden ; before Mr. Hacket had heard 
 of Hillsden, the rector had been adviser, 
 consoler, confidant of its inmates. He 
 felt as thouo;h some strano^er had invited 
 him to enter his own church, had called 
 his attention to the beauty of the east 
 window, and had alluded to the cobwebs 
 in the rafters. Though Mr. Hacket was
 
 220 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 unconscious, the girls kncAv that their 
 rector was displeased. 
 
 ' I know better than to disturb Mrs. 
 Trevor in the morning,' said he, turning 
 on his heel. ' My love to your mother, 
 Elsie. Don't forget you are coming to tea 
 with me this afternoon, Celia. Good-bye.' 
 
 ' As I am going your way,' said Mr. 
 Racket, releasing Elsie's shoulder, ' and 
 as I have a piece of news which I should 
 like to be the first to tell you, perhaps 
 you will allow me to accompany you ?' 
 
 ' I am going straight home,' said the 
 rector. 
 
 Accepting this remark as the desired 
 permission, Mr. Hacket joined him and 
 they walked off together. Precautia stood 
 stock-still and drew in the dust with the 
 toe of her boot.
 
 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 221 
 
 ' It ahvays seems unjust,' she said, 
 moralizing with a sort of sad pomposity, 
 ' to hate a person who, like Queen Eliza- 
 beth, is only nasty, not wicked.' 
 
 ' It seems worse than unjust, Precautia, 
 it is ungrateful to hate a person who is 
 kind to you.' 
 
 ' You should not let a beast be kind to 
 vou.' 
 
 ' Hush, Precautia. Come in and don't 
 
 argue. 
 
 ' Fm not arguing, I'm only thinking. 
 Elsie, wait one moment. Why does Mr. 
 Hacket pretend we all belong to him? 
 We don't, we hardly know him.' 
 
 ' Mr. Hacket has done a very great deal 
 for us.' 
 
 ' I have been trying not to hate him.'
 
 222 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 ' Then go on trying, and don't talk about 
 
 it; 
 
 ' Do you really think it is ever any good 
 to try?' 
 
 But Elsie was out of earshot, she was 
 already in the house and making her way 
 up the few shallow stairs of the short 
 staircase to her own room. 
 
 Our own rooms know so much, — so 
 much more than a human inquisitor knows 
 about us. Though no man is a hero to 
 his valet, yet no doubt a man has a chance, 
 a very fair chance of seeming heroic to his 
 own room. If the walls could speak, what 
 tales they might tell of ' being and suiFer- 
 ing, which are one.' At what dreary scenes 
 they have presided. To what groanings, 
 which could be, but happily are not, 
 publicly uttered, have they listened.
 
 IX THE SUNTOIE OF HER YOUTH. 223 
 
 We have a cowardly dread of tongue, 
 the presence of the owner of a tongue is a 
 bracing presence which gives a tightening 
 twist to the tournaquet of reserve which 
 we wear, which strengthens our grip of 
 silent endurance. 
 
 But when we are alone, when the dumb 
 walls enfold us, when we let ourselves go, 
 when we are so wrought upon that we must 
 let ourselves go, — little as we can afford 
 the luxury, — then the walls get a sight, 
 now and again, of a tragedy with no 
 artifice about it, for which they pay 
 nothing and at which there is no applause. 
 
 But the walls of the white chamber 
 which Elsie entered had encircled no trag- 
 edies at all. Shadow and shine had fallen 
 on the sheltered lives of which it knew so 
 much, but the shine was not such as
 
 224 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 dazzled nor the shadow more than a 
 passing shade. 
 
 It was a bright and breezy room, the 
 window was thrown wide open, the autumn 
 sunshine streamed in upon bare boards 
 intersected by a thread-bare lane of carpet, 
 upon the dimity-hung bed, upon those at- 
 tempts at decoration, those odds and ends 
 upon the walls, which had been added 
 upon birthdays and other prodigal occa- 
 sions, and which chronicled their date by 
 their degree of fading. 
 
 The room was not empty, Agnes was 
 there, Agnes standing by the window in 
 the sunshine, drumming with her hands 
 on the sill. When the door opened, she 
 glanced over her shoulder but did not 
 speak. 
 
 ' The train was in when we got to the
 
 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 225 
 
 Station ; we had hardly a moment there. 
 Why didn't you come down, Agnes ? You 
 always used to see Max off, he said so.' 
 
 ' I couldn't come,' still drumming her 
 chilly fingers on the sun-warmed wood, ' I 
 was wanted.' 
 
 ' You are always wanted noAV.' 
 
 ' Yes, it is time I was some good to 
 some one ; I am getting old.' 
 
 ' Old,' repeated Elsie. She had taken off 
 her hat and coat and now dropj)ed down 
 upon the floor to unbutton her boots in a 
 very youthful way. ' You, old. Mrs. Dawson 
 asked me if you were out last year. I look 
 as old as you.' 
 
 ' But you are three years younger. 
 Looks do not signify, twenty is not young. 
 Many girls have been married for years at 
 twenty.' 
 
 VOL. I. ' Q
 
 226 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 ' Not many ; and do you want to grow 
 old ? I don't, it's so dull to be old.' 
 
 ' Elsie, how can you laugh ? You must 
 not laugh — you don't know how poor we 
 are.' 
 
 ' I can guess.' 
 
 ' But you don't guess, you don't un- 
 derstand what it means, — it means we must 
 do something.' 
 
 ' I know, I know,' rapidly. ' I have 
 told mother. I am going to help, she 
 will not let me leave her. I am painting 
 every day, hours and hours of every 
 day. In time I shall be able to make 
 money : wait and see.' 
 
 Agnes did not throw cold water on this 
 scheme, neither did she seem cheered at 
 the prospect of having a successful artist 
 in i\Q family ; she did not say ' while the
 
 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 227 
 
 grass grows the steer starves,' but she 
 turned away from the window ; quitting 
 the sunshine, she seated herself on the 
 edge of the bed and looked at Elsie. Elsie, 
 who knew nothing, who suspected nothing, 
 who feared nothing, and yet Avho must 
 hear her secret. 
 
 ' But I,' said St. Agnes, ' I can do nothing, 
 nothing worth a sixpence. If I was to 
 leave home, if I went away, what could I 
 do ? I know nothing, I am not clever ; 
 people,' with a nervous laugh, ' would 
 pay to get rid of me. I should be no 
 good to anyone, no good at all.' 
 
 ' You are a great deal of good here. 
 Wait, I will help.' 
 
 ' We cannot afford to wait, waiting is 
 expensive. I am only a girl, but I must 
 do what I can.' 
 
 q2
 
 228 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 Elsie still sat on the floor at lier sister s 
 feet, she looked dispirited now. Agnes 
 was generally hopeful and even-spirited, 
 it was new to hear her gloating over the 
 family poverty instead of making the best 
 of it. Had Agnes followed her mother's 
 lead and lost heart ? If so, it was a dismal 
 outlook for Hills den. 
 
 ' But, Agnes, it's no worse, is it ? Mr. 
 Haeket has set us straight; we have 
 enough to live on. Now that we have 
 tided over this dreadful time, we shall 
 pick up again. You need not do anything. 
 Why, Aggie, you know we couldn't sj)are 
 you.' 
 
 'Oh, but you could,' suddenly wring- 
 ing her hands ; then unclasping them as 
 suddenly, she laid them quietly in her lap. 
 ' You could, you must, you will. You
 
 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 229 
 
 must spare your sister if she leaves you, 
 if she — marries. Don't you remember — 
 you have yourself said — that Mr. Hacket 
 set us straight ? Do you think he would 
 do that for nothing ? did you think that 
 people do such things as that for nothing ? 
 He said himself to me just now, " I have 
 done a great deal, but I hardly count it 
 enough because I did it all for — love." ' 
 
 Agnes trembled from head to foot as 
 she spoke ; she was agitated, it was not 
 like Agnes to be emotional. Elsie was 
 aghast — she had heard that sentence be- 
 fore, ' He does not do all that for nothing.' 
 Max had said it the very night before. 
 
 ' For — love ! Whose love ? What 
 love?' 
 
 ' Because he — would — like — me — to — 
 marry — him.'
 
 230 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 ' How can he be so silly ? He is 
 mad!' 
 
 ' Hush, Elsie, don't. I have pro- 
 mised.' 
 
 ' No, no. You haven't promised, I 
 don't believe you.' 
 
 ' You must believe me, it is true.' 
 
 Both the girls were pale, but Elsie was 
 the palest ; for a moment she could not 
 speak, she essayed and failed, then she 
 whispered, 
 
 ' You promised?' 
 
 ' Yes, an hour ago.' 
 
 ' How could you, could you, could you 
 be so — wicked?' 
 
 ' It is not Avicked. How can you say it's 
 wicked ? — it is good.' 
 
 Agnes was trembling more violently. 
 Elsie took her news hard, no one but
 
 IN THE SUNTIME OF HEB YOUTH. 231 
 
 Agnes herself had a right to feel a qualm, 
 was it not partly for this very sister that 
 the promise had been made ? 
 
 ' You don't like him, Agnes.' 
 
 ' I do. I am going to like him. I am 
 grateful, I must like him, he is very 
 kind.' 
 
 ' Kind,' Elsie repeated, ' kind, — kind 
 is nothing, it is not enough. You don't 
 think what it is to marry, what a long, 
 long thing it is, not for a week, or a 
 month, or a year, but always till you die. 
 Agnes, don't — think, only think. Be poor, 
 work, starve, die, anything would be better 
 than to marry him.' 
 
 Elsie was overdoing it, her violence 
 distressed, but did not convince, the 
 hearer. 
 
 ' What is the matter with him ' she said.
 
 232 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 with a quivering lip, ' he has been married 
 before.' 
 
 ' And she died,' gasped the other. 
 ' And I know that you will die. You 
 must not, shall not do it. I won't let you. 
 I will go to mother, I will tell her, I will 
 explain, she will stop it. A promise is 
 nothing if it is a mistake. It is not too 
 late.' 
 
 ' No, no, it is too late, you cannot go 
 to mother,' hurriedly, detaining Elsie for- 
 cibly, ' she thinks it is all right, she is 
 glad. At least, I think she was glad. 
 Don't make me wretched, help me, Elsie. 
 It is the only thing I can do, and he knows 
 why I do it, he is satisfied. You could 
 not expect him to give all and take no- 
 thing in return. You tell me to ihink^ — did 
 you imagine that I have not thought ?
 
 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 233 
 
 While you were sleeping I have been 
 awake and thinking, night after night. 
 It's no new thing, no sudden idea. 
 "When I asked him to help us, when he 
 came at first, I knew how it would end. 
 Long, long ago, last July,Avhen everything 
 was different with me, he was the same. 
 He knows why I do it, and I can make 
 him happy.' 
 
 ' No, you can't, it won't be you who 
 make him happy, it will be a person with 
 nothing true or real about her. Stay as 
 you are, whatever you are, you are free.' 
 
 ' Free, that is only a luord which means 
 nothing.' 
 
 ' It means everything.' 
 
 ' Not to me, Elsie. I don't know why 
 you look at me like that. I thought 
 you would be glad, — but you expect so
 
 234 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 mucli and you are so young, you have no 
 experience. Some young men, gloomy, 
 and grand, and romantic, don't make their 
 Avives so extra happy, one hears that, 
 often. Mr. Hacket will be very kind, and 
 I shall love being rich, think what it means 
 to be rich, think of mother, think of the 
 boys.' 
 
 ' I don't, I think of you.' 
 
 ^ Then think of me, I am such a 
 common-place, quiet sort of person. I 
 believe I am shallow, I am sure I have 
 no depth. I can't be wretched about a 
 trifle as you are. I'm so placid, Elsie, a 
 fine day makes me happy — that's all I 
 want.' 
 
 It Avas very hard that St. Agnes should 
 sacrifice herself for her family and yet
 
 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 235 
 
 not be reverenced for her devotion. Elsie 
 railed at her as though such a marriage 
 was unique, it was cruel of Elsie to treat 
 her so. Why should she not be helped 
 instead of hindered? Why should Elsie 
 wring her hands and cry ? The bride-elect 
 strove to be calm. Heaven knew it was 
 not for the attainment of ' fleshpots ' per- 
 sonally, but for the greatest good of the 
 greatest number that she had driven her- 
 self to accept Mr. Hacket. 
 
 It is easy enough to accept an unat- 
 tractive anybody prospectively when the 
 ' anybody ' is miles away and the scene is 
 merely imaginative, but when Agnes had 
 stood before her suitor that morning it 
 had not been easy to say ' yes.' 
 
 But she had said ' yes ' mthout falter-
 
 236 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 ing, it had been a bitterly hard thing to 
 say — was she to have no sympathy, no 
 praise, no help ? 
 
 Agnes was sorry for herself; she cov- 
 ered her face in her hands, and the quiet 
 tears came hot and thick upon her trem- 
 bling fingers. 
 
 ' Elsie, don't, if you are angry I cannot 
 bear it now. Be nice to me, help me. I 
 must do it. I have prayed, I have made 
 up my mind, it is right, there is nothing 
 else on earth that I can do.' 
 
 Then the younger girl put a tender arm 
 round her sister's neck. 
 
 ' It's doing evil for good to come, Aggie, 
 it is, it is. But, don't cry, I won't talk 
 any more, only it seems so dreadful,' with 
 a sob, 'so dreadful.'
 
 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 237 
 
 In each other's arms, wet cheek pressed 
 to wet cheek, side by side, the two girls 
 faced the impending and auspicious event 
 of the first wedding in the family.
 
 238 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 Now had the season returned, when the nights grow 
 colder and colder. 
 
 Evangeline. 
 
 So these were wed, 
 
 And merrily rang the bells. 
 
 Tennyson. 
 
 Elsie was as good as her word, she pro- 
 tested no more, but, with some feeling 
 akin to despair, accepted the inevitable. 
 No reference was made, by either actor, to 
 that one stormy scene which had been 
 enacted, by common consent it was ignored 
 as though it had never been. Together 
 they had stood ' where the brook and river
 
 IN THE SUXTIME UF HER YOUTH. 239 
 
 meet,' they had heard the gush of the 
 water, they had crossed the boundary, 
 childhood was a thing of the past and put 
 away for ever. 
 
 Agnes was pubhcly betrothed to Mr. 
 Hacket; it was a fact, as much as the 
 hump on the poor village cripple's shoulder 
 was a fact, and recos^nised as such. 
 
 A calamity faced and accej)ted loses, 
 after a while, its first overwhelming gloom 
 of aspect. You may grasp your nettle 
 and find it does not sting — the efibrt at 
 grasping knocks power out of you, the 
 risk shakes the nerve, for the nettle is in 
 your hand and must be grasped, — and 
 grasped continually. Yet attempts to 
 avoid the nettle, when it grows unpleasantly 
 near, when the gathering breeze blows it 
 our way, when it threatens to but does not
 
 240 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 actually touch us, are more harrowing to 
 our fingers than the full possession of the 
 nettle. We are so a(iaj)table a race that 
 we content ourselves and settle down with 
 anything, — nettle or what not — when we 
 are called upon to do so. 
 
 The long and short of the matter is, that 
 Elsie gradually grew accustomed to the 
 thought of Agnes' engagement. 
 
 ' It's an ill wind that blows no man 
 good ;' if matrimony fail to blow the 
 tAvo chiefs in the ceremony benefit, jeweller 
 and dress-maker reckon upon reaping a 
 harvest therefrom. But, in this latest 
 betrothal, it seemed likely that nobody, 
 but the affianced j)air, was to reap any 
 advantage at all. 
 
 The Oaks wanted no decoration for the 
 bride. It was new, only too new in all
 
 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 241 
 
 its stuffed and varnislied details. Mr. 
 Hacket was the fortunate possessor of 
 everything, (personally, and in his house- 
 hold) which the heart of woman could de- 
 sire, — this was inexpensive and satisfac- 
 tory, nay, ideal matrimony. 
 
 AVith a well-filled jewel-case in his strong 
 box there was no need for Mr. Hacket to 
 throw money away by adding superabun- 
 dance to what was already amply sufficient. 
 There was no object in leaving a certain 
 sapphire hoop idle in its faded case. He 
 brought a new case for the old ring and gave 
 it to the girl — it had been ' poor Jane's,' 
 it now marked his betrothal to ' dear 
 Agnes. '^And every day ' dear Agnes ' grew 
 still dearer, she belonged to him and there- 
 fore her value rose ; Mr. Hacket felt more 
 and more how fortunate a man he was, and 
 
 VOL. I. R
 
 242 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 how his choice proved, as it had ever 
 proved in all matters, business and domes- 
 tic, a wise and seemly one. 
 
 The congratulations which came to Hills- 
 den were not fervent. If Agnes did not 
 shiver beneath their coldness, Elsie burnt, 
 as though she was shamed by some dis- 
 grace, when the wedding was alluded to 
 by the neighbours, who were more candid 
 with the bride's sister than with the bride 
 herself. There were blunt neighbours 
 amongst the villagers, who spoke out, and 
 there were unfriendly people who sneered, 
 and there were thoughtless people who ' 
 laughed. There was no one who was 
 pleased, absolutely no one, though some 
 tried to be consolatory and argued the wis- 
 dom of the prudent step. 
 
 ' 'Tisn't many young ladies who'll look
 
 IX TPIE SUXTIME OF HER YOUTH. 243 
 
 ahead and see the worth of money, Miss 
 Elsie, and them as can get their reward. 
 Miss Agnes is a good daughter and she'll 
 make a good wife. What she's undertaken 
 that, no doubt, she'll carry through ; but, 
 there, doesn't seem but the other day that 
 she was toddling past this door in a white 
 frock holding up to your poor father's fin- 
 ger, and a picture they made. There, we 
 never thought, but then we never do think 
 — things go so contrary.' 
 
 These last remarks were the best things 
 that were done in congratulations. There 
 w^ere no warm words, no eulogies, no 
 public interest, no sweet betrothal ac- 
 cessories such as go to complete the whole 
 beauty of a bridal, — Agnes had missed all 
 these. 
 
 Neither had the tidings affected Mrs. 
 
 R 2
 
 244 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 Trevor, as Agnes had anticipated they would 
 do. Mrs. Trevor accepted the news, as she 
 accepted all things now, with resignation 
 but with little interest. Though she was 
 better, though she no longer brooded idle, 
 though her work-basket was once more be- 
 side her, her needle in her hand and her 
 work upon her knee, though she saw her 
 friends, and went to church, and smiled 
 again, yet she was not ' mother.' 
 
 Mrs. Trevor's past life had been one of 
 daily toil and daily anxiety; when the 
 carking cares had been swept off by the 
 blast of her bereavement, the long strain 
 preceding the sorrow of her widowhood 
 told upon her, she was physically and 
 mentally weakened. She could not rally 
 from the blow, she could not fight the battle 
 of life, she could never again be as she
 
 IN THE SUXTIME OF HER YOUTH. 245 
 
 had been, she could not Jive again, she must 
 exist, passively exist. She was like a 
 flower that had been trodden down in a 
 meadow, its blossom blurred and disfigured 
 but not destroyed, living out its allotted 
 time though the trampling foot has injured 
 and transformed it. 
 
 Her children hardly understood what 
 had befallen them. They did their best to 
 win her back to what she had been : when 
 they failed in their purpose, they blamed 
 themselves and tried again. How should 
 they know that they had lost their guide 
 and comforter for ever, that for her all 
 was over which for them had but just 
 begun ? That Mr. Hacket was in truth 
 the head of their household ; that if they 
 left their mother alone, she remained 
 alone, and did not call them back ; that
 
 246 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 nothing now conlcl touch her to the quick ; 
 that there was a film, such as desolation 
 encases, about her heart rendering it 
 impervious to fresh wounds ? 
 
 She accepted the tidings of her daugh- 
 ter's engagement Avith complaisance, lis- 
 tening to all propounded plans, and 
 consenting to all proposals made by her 
 son-in-law elect ; she acquiesced in every- 
 thing. 
 
 The boys did not take to the news 
 kindly, their letters were hastily destroyed, 
 for they were quite unshowable. Max 
 St. Maur wrote a few words of bleak good- 
 wishes to Agnes, to Elsie he poured out 
 his disapproval of the affair in several 
 sheets of thickly written condemnation. 
 
 Fortunately, Mr. Hacket was not inter-
 
 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 247 
 
 ested in what people said of him or of his 
 projects. Public opinion had no weight 
 with him, private opinion was not worth 
 hearing. He was one of those persons 
 whom vast self-rehance sustains in great 
 spiritual comfort. Should he decide on a 
 certain course of action, the decision was 
 sufficient guarantee for its wisdom. 
 
 Very few girls meet the unsettling 
 experiences of betrothal placidly. The 
 temper, though amiable enough hitherto, 
 of a bride elect, is not usually her greatest 
 attraction ; too often, alas, it becomes un- 
 certain, and unless Edwin is for ever at 
 Angelina's elboAv, unless her bridal 
 clothes come to her precisely as she has 
 dreamed, unless the course of settlements 
 run smooth as oil, everyone, most specially
 
 248 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 Angelina's relations, wish her married — 
 and a consequent return to sanity, and, 
 perchance, amiability. 
 
 But Agnes Avas not irritable ; she was 
 quiet, with a quietness which drove Elsie 
 half frantic, but which suited the taste of 
 her future husband exactly, — he was not 
 quiet himself but full of chat and elation. 
 
 Elsie found herself wishing — with a 
 shiver at the wish — that the eno^asrement 
 was over, that the irrevocable deed, now 
 that she recognised its irrevocability, was 
 done. For Agnes' sake she compelled 
 herself to be constantly genial, laboriously 
 polite towards her future brother-in-law, 
 she must recognise his authority, tolerate 
 his incessant company. Such a task Avas 
 galling in the extreme, a criss-cross fate 
 had impelled her to dislike Mr. Hacket,
 
 IX THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 249 
 
 an unreasonable Dr. Fell prejudice wliicli 
 she could not conquer. Precautia shared 
 Elsie's feelings, but she behaved wonder- 
 fully well, not from an angelic motive, but 
 sim2)ly because she dared not show her 
 cloven hoof. Elsie was swift of tongue, 
 Elsie could shoot and hit with hot words, 
 and when, once upon a time, Precautia 
 had sharpened her wits at Mr. Hacket's 
 expense, in Agnes' presence, the little 
 miscreant had, afterwards, undergone such 
 a scornful, pitiless jobation from Elsie, as 
 had reduced her first to forming excuses, 
 then to shedding tears. 
 
 ' She had not thouo;ht of Ao-nes ; she 
 had only thought of that old beast, and 
 she would never, never, never think of 
 him again.' 
 
 At any rate, she never again spoke of
 
 250 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 liim in depreciation. And so the weeks 
 rolled by until December, and tlie wedding- 
 day, drew near. 
 
 It was to l3e — for every reason under 
 the sun — a very quiet wedding. Twice 
 the Trevor girls had listened with stony 
 solemnity to the calling of the banns of 
 marriage betwixt Mortimer Hacket, widow- 
 er, and Agnes Mary Trevor, spinster, both 
 of this parish ; there had been no blush- 
 ings, no flutterings, no excitement in the 
 Hills den pew. 
 
 It seemed as though the rector made an 
 unusually long pause after the announce- 
 ment upon the third and final time it was 
 published, as though he entertained a hope 
 that one of his congregation might have 
 found a just cause or impediment why 
 those two, Mortimer Hacket and Agnes
 
 IN THE SUXTIME OF HER YOUTH. 251 
 
 Mary Trevor, should not be joined to- 
 gether in holy matrimony, — but none had 
 been found, and the Sunday morning 
 service proceeded. 
 
 Curious eyes scanned the bride-elect, — 
 many women, many young girls marry 
 their grandfathers, figuratively speaking, 
 and no one looks askance at them for 
 doing so ; but Mr. Hacket had not made 
 himself popular at Dorfold, he was a 
 stranger, and that, too, was against him, — 
 strangers in country districts are objects 
 of suspicion, — and the curious eyes which 
 scanned the bride-elect were cold. She 
 showed no symptoms of consciousness, 
 but, with grave eyes, kept glancing at 
 her mother, whose face was barely dis- 
 cernible through the gloom of her crape 
 veil.
 
 252 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 Mr. Hacket was in an adjacent pew; 
 the satisfaction on his burly countenance 
 WRS pleasant to behold, but neither Elsie 
 nor Precautia would behold it, they glued 
 their dreary eyes upon their books, they 
 were fiercely wretched, and decency bound 
 them to hide their feelings. Those hateful 
 banns made things so sure and near, on 
 the next Sunday morning there would be 
 no Agnes Trevor in the world. 
 
 Had the Prince Charming out of a fairy- 
 tale been about to annex their sister, 
 thieving her from amongst them, they would 
 openly have bewailed themselves, but now 
 an instinct bade them make some show of 
 moderate gladness. However, during the 
 privacy of the Litany, Elsie's hot tears 
 soaked her handkerchief and Celia's mut- 
 tered confessions were not those reponses
 
 IN THE SUXTIME OF HER YOUTH. 253 
 
 which are found in the authorised version 
 of the prayer-book. 
 
 The wedding Avas to take place on the 
 approaching Wednesday. Xo one was 
 coming to Hillsden for the event, the boys 
 were at school, Max was away, her mother 
 ]nust give the bride away. Mr. Hacket 
 had gathered together a few friends and 
 relations at the Oaks to be witnesses to 
 his felicity, therefore the Trevors were 
 constrained to make some preparations as 
 for a festivitv. 
 
 Last days had shrunk into last hours,, 
 and these were slipping rapidly away. 
 The trousseau, such as it was, had been 
 packed in those bran new trunks, on which 
 the unfamiliar initials A. M. H. glittered 
 white. 
 
 Downstairs several tables were spread
 
 254 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 with presents, lovely tilings, personal 
 luxuries, of whicli the girls had heard but 
 had not thought of owning, — they all be- 
 longed to Agnes. 
 
 Mrs. Trevor hovered about them, hand- 
 ling one thing after another thoughtfully. 
 She showed no symptom of breaking down, 
 she did not refer to the coming parting, but 
 often alluded to the 30th of July long 
 
 ago. 
 
 ' The people ])i\t up arches for ow wed- 
 ding, Agnes,' she said. ' There were 
 thousands of flowers, — it was the month 
 for flowers. In December, the gardens are 
 all bare, a winter wedding must be difl'erent, 
 dear.' 
 
 Agnes answered, ' That, of course, it 
 could not be the same,' and walked away. 
 
 St. Agnes was restless that day, and
 
 IN THE SUXTIME OF HER YOUTH. 255 
 
 though her smiles were many they were 
 faint. Elsie followed her like a shadow, as 
 silent, as constant as a shadow. Of the 
 many dreary days which lately had befallen 
 Hillsden, this last one crowned them 
 all. 
 
 Precautia was in a wild and wayward 
 mood. The servants talked to their visitors 
 in the kitchen and did nothing. The meals 
 were unpunctnal, a very plain cook al- 
 ways adds unpnnctuality to her plainness, 
 the fires were neglected and sank low ; it 
 was bleak and bitter winter weather, with 
 an east wind blowing keen as a knife. 
 
 When Mr. Hacket and his guests had 
 paid their final pre-nuptial visit, when 
 Agnes had bidden her lover farewell until 
 the hour she should meet him as his wife, 
 when there was nothing left to do within
 
 256 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 doors, the two girls, Elsie and the bride, 
 went out together into the garden. In the 
 dusk they stole out, on tiptoe, to bid good- 
 bye to their dear haunts, one was to leave 
 her home, the other would remain, and 
 yet it did not seem strange that they both 
 should say farewell on the same evening. 
 
 Linked arm in arm they walked through 
 the garden, between the aitches and esses, 
 the wheels and horseshoes, where the 
 summer flowers had been left to die ; it 
 would have cost money to bury them, and 
 their OAvners had none. The poor corpses, 
 thin as paper, dry as tinder, fluttered in 
 the icy air. The sharp tooth of the wind 
 was stinging, and it sobbed dismally about 
 the house. The girls were chilled to the 
 bone, they went on into the empty stable, 
 round the deserted court-yard, up the
 
 IN THE SUXTIME OF HER YOUTH. 257 
 
 frozen walks of tlie kitchen garden, and 
 the creaking door of the tool-honse they 
 €Ye])t in thither, shivering, for shelter. 
 
 On rnsty nails against the crazy wall of 
 planks a rake and fork, a spud and hoe, were 
 suspended. A spider had hung cobwebs 
 upon these, their rest had not been dis- 
 turbed for many months. Xo one had 
 touched them since ' that summer day be- 
 side the joyous sea.' 
 
 The dusky place reeked of moss and 
 dampness, pyramids of pots, all empty, 
 many broken, lay on the ricketty wooden 
 shelves, wood lice and spiders hurried 
 away out of sight, a mouse scuttled off 
 making good his escape, and yet here, of 
 all places in the world, the bride-elect, who 
 had been quite calm hitherto, broke down. 
 
 Loosening her bold of Elsie's arm, she 
 
 VOL. I. S
 
 258 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 picked up her mother's little gardening 
 fork which had fallen on to the ground 
 and over which she had stumbled in the 
 half light. 
 
 ' She has not touched it, she will never 
 touch it again,' she whispered, trying to 
 control the twitching of her lips. ' Elsie, 
 it is no good, none at all, it makes no 
 difference.' 
 
 These words affected Elsie as a lighted 
 match affects a keg of gunpowder. 
 
 ' No,' she cried, loudly. ' No difference, 
 no good. Agnes, don't cry, don't mind, it 
 shall be all right. It is not too late, there 
 is time now. I will go to him, I am not 
 afraid, he will understand.' 
 
 ' What do you mean ?' 
 
 ' You know what I mean. It is better 
 to speak out. You made a mistake — a
 
 IX THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 259 
 
 mistake ; there is no harm in a mistake. — 
 bnt you found out in time.' 
 
 ' You mustn't talk like this. Hush, 
 hush !' 
 
 I won't hush. Why should I ? You 
 
 have found out in time.' 
 
 ' It is not in time. It is too late.' 
 
 ' Agnes, don't be afraid. You can face 
 it, you can bear the fuss, other women 
 have done it.' 
 
 ' I can't, I daren't. Elsie, you hurt my 
 hand, you are so vehement, you make me 
 silly. I hardly know what I am saying.' 
 
 ' But you do, you do ; I have watched 
 you, Agnes, don't pretend things to me, I 
 knoAv you too well. Have done with it. 
 stop it — you might write and I will take 
 your letter. If mother understood, she 
 
 would tell what I tell you. Don't shake 
 
 s 2
 
 260 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 your head. It may be difficult to do, it 
 may be liard, but not so difficult, not so 
 hard, not so long ' 
 
 ' Hush, Elsie, I can't listen,' St. Agnes 
 Avas herself again, ' we were both a little 
 crazy, but you are only a bride's-maid and 
 have no right to lose your head.' 
 
 But Elsie would not have been silenced 
 then had not the pattering of quick feet 
 along the gravel walk outside the tool- 
 house reached her ear. It was startling 
 to see hoAv, with one accord, both sisters, 
 who in old days had scorned the very 
 word duplicity, swept their faces into 
 placidity, and, backing into the deepest 
 shadows of their retreat, began to talk 
 innocently and softly of the coldness of 
 the day and of the prospect of fine 
 weather.
 
 IX THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 261 
 
 The footsteps halted at the doorway, 
 the approacher steered her course thither 
 by the sound of murmuring voices, and 
 proved to be Celia, only Celia, looking 
 like a sprite with a black shawl thrown 
 over her head ; clouds of her hair blown 
 across her face veiled her woe-begone blue 
 eyes. Gumbo was, as usual, at her heels. 
 
 ' Here you are at last,' she cried, shiver- 
 ing Avith the cold and clutching the shawl 
 more closely round her with blue pinched 
 fingers. ' I've looked high and low every- 
 where for you. Oh, oh, oh ! Why did you 
 frighten me for nothing? You horrid 
 things.' 
 
 ' Frightened you. Who frightened you, 
 Precautia?' 
 
 ' Oh, oh, oh! I couldn't find you and I 
 thought you'd runned away.'
 
 262 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 ' You foolish child,' said Agnes, hur- 
 riedly. 
 
 ' How ridiculous you are, Precautia,' 
 said Elsie, severely. 
 
 ' There was young Lochinvar,' Celia 
 explained, her teeth chattering in her 
 head. ' I thought of that, she runned 
 away. And you weren't anywhere. I 
 screamed for you, and Caroline thought 
 you might be out, and Gumbo, when I 
 asked him, seemed to smell you; so we 
 came up here. The rector has come, 
 Agnes, and he wants to see you.' 
 
 ' What does he want ?' 
 
 Agnes asked this question wistfully. 
 For of late the rector had been on cold 
 and formal terms with his mercenary 
 young parishioner, and she understood his
 
 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 263 
 
 coldness ; unjust though it was, it hurt her 
 none the less for that. 
 
 ' It is not about to-morrow, it's only 
 about Arthur. He is telling mother every- 
 thing over and over again, and he wants 
 some one new to tell now ; he Avanted you 
 and Elsie.' 
 
 Agnes sighed, she manifested no interest 
 in the news, but Celia went on with sketchy 
 explanations. 
 
 ' The top-end blackies have been doing 
 what they shouldn't, and some-one has got 
 to punish them, so Government has sent 
 Arthur and some other soldiers, and the 
 rector says Arthur won't be careful, and 
 he will get himself killed for want of a 
 little precaution. He has forgotten about 
 the wedding, he has never asked a word,
 
 264 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 he is reading out the letter and mother is 
 listening.' 
 
 It seemed strange that anyone found it 
 possible to forget the wedding. The girls 
 went in to see their visitor, and talked of 
 India, and listened to the letter and heard 
 a great deal, which they had heard be- 
 fore, about Mr. Wyndham's son, and kneAV 
 no more of what they had been told, 
 than Gumbo knew, that slept upon the 
 
 rug. 
 
 Then the rector went away and the 
 evening rushed past, merging into the 
 night, and the night melted into dawn — 
 the dawn of the wedding-day. All went 
 well. The sun shone, there was no hitch 
 in the arrangements of the marriage ser- 
 vice, the church was thronged with spec- 
 tators, even a little less sympathetic, even
 
 IX THE SUXTIME OF HER YOUTH. 265 
 
 a little more critical, than tlic ordinary 
 spectators of such functions. It was a 
 dry-eyecl wedding, no tears, everyone 
 behaved with good sense, nothing could 
 have been less emotional than the cere- 
 mony. What a short business it seemed ! 
 in twenty minutes it was done with, and 
 Agnes was Agnes Trevor no more. 
 
 Over the parting of the bride from her 
 mother and sisters there was a momentary 
 scene, a little breakdown at the last. But 
 that was nothing, it was the duty of the 
 girl to evince some feeling over quitting 
 her home. Before Mrs. Hacket had 
 reached the station, she had composed 
 herself, and behaved with the good sense 
 which her bridegroom knew she possessed 
 and which he prized as one of her mani- 
 fold excellencies.
 
 266 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 To hide her cares her only art ; 
 Her pleasure, pleasures to impart. 
 
 Gray. 
 
 The wedding was a faded thing of the 
 past. The passing months had thoroughly 
 estabhshed the new Mrs. Racket's identity. 
 Into that gentle and quiet matron Agne& 
 Trevor had merged, that she should have 
 done so seemed a natural arrangement 
 enough now that it was an accomplished 
 fact. 
 
 Agnes had not changed — hardly at all
 
 IN THE SUXTIME OF HER YOUTH. 267 
 
 — perhaps she was a little less unreserved, 
 a little less demonstrative than formerly, 
 but Elsie and Celia were in the habit of 
 assurino; each other ' that Ao;nes was not 
 a bit changed.' 
 
 Max had fulfilled the family expectations 
 and had secured his ' first,' then, notwith- 
 standing all that Elsie could urge to the 
 contrary, (and she did urge it, personally 
 at Christmas and in black and white later 
 on,) he took rooms in London. Save for a 
 few short letters, written at long intervals 
 asunder, Hillsden heard nothing of him. 
 Nat, also, was established in London, work- 
 ing, and grumbling fiercely at his work, 
 in Mr. Hacket's house of business. In 
 every letter he suggested some change of 
 emj^loyment, showing a hankering for the 
 life of a cricket professional, of a billiard
 
 268 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 marker, of a private soldier, and managing 
 to keep an under-current of anxious ap- 
 prehension moving tlirougli the minds of 
 his relations. 
 
 Fred, at his brother-in-law's suggestion, 
 was learning business habits in a branch 
 bank in the adjacent country town, and 
 earning, to his satisfaction, a salary of sorts. 
 Harry was still at school. 
 
 Poverty is not one of those things which 
 improve with keeping. On the contrary, 
 the longer it clings to you, the tighter it 
 holds you ; the more you know of it, the 
 less you like it. 
 
 Elsie was extremely young and hopeful. 
 In a vigorous certainty of success she set 
 herself to beat out the family shillings into 
 crowns, hers was a tinkering, tedious, 
 io:noble trade, a thankless task — but it had
 
 IN TPIE SUXTIME OF HER YOUTH. 261^ 
 
 to be done by somebody, and she was that 
 somebody. Xothiiig daunted her, she per- 
 severed : Hillsden grew shabbier and 
 shabbier, its inmates greAV shabbier and 
 shabbier. 
 
 What would be the chmax to the present 
 state of the exchequer ? Mrs. Trevor's 
 small income, when pared by the payment 
 of debt and rent, was hardly sufficient to 
 provide bread and cheese for her family. 
 Small and shabby though the dear old place 
 was, yet Elsie turned cold as she guessed it 
 was too large and too smart for their purse. 
 Xever, she told herself, setting her teeth, 
 should her mother be turned out of the 
 home she loved, Elsie would stave off this 
 impending calamity, if it could be done she 
 would do it. 
 
 Thus Elsie was fired with plans for new
 
 270 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 economies which saved a penny here, a 
 farthing there, a stamp now and again. 
 Perhaps, she rather went into extremes for 
 cook gave notice, Caroline was glum, the 
 Chancellor of the Exchequer, herself, took 
 to stinting her healthy appetite and grew 
 ascetically thin, and, on one June day, 
 when she sat with Precautia in the school- 
 room, she spoke out a gloomy thought 
 which had long haunted her, but which 
 brought about a consequence that she 
 had not foreseen. . 
 
 The little girl was busy over her lesson 
 books and had risen to open the door, at 
 which Gumbo was scratching for admit- 
 tance. 
 
 ' You needn't frown, Elsie,' she said, 
 answering her sister's thoughtful face, for 
 she had said nothing. ' I should open the
 
 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 271 
 
 door for Gumbo if Dr. Jowett was teaching 
 me, if lie scratcliecl I should.' 
 
 ' I didn't mind your doing that. I was 
 only thinking.' 
 
 ' What about ?' 
 
 ' A dog,' she said, solemnly, ' is a luxury, 
 Precautia.' 
 
 ' Yes, Gumbo is a luxury, and a good 
 deal nicer luxury than oysters and the 
 sort of luxuries they used to have at 
 dinner.' 
 
 ' I am not sure that we ought to have 
 any sort of luxury, that is all, Celia. 
 Mortimer told me to cut down expenses at 
 every possible place. He asked me whether 
 Gumbo ate dog-biscuits ; he won't touch 
 them, but, of course, he eats scraps (I don't 
 quite know who would eat them if he 
 didn't). But there is the licence, seven-
 
 272 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 aiicl-sixpence a year, it is a lot of money, 
 it is easier to spend seven-and-sixpence 
 than to save it.' 
 
 Now, if there was anything on earth over 
 which Precautia was fond and foolish it 
 was that rusty old retriever. Gumbo. Elsie 
 had been thinking of seven-and-six, not of 
 feelings, — money and emotion rarely pull 
 in the same boat. She had had no inten- 
 tion of doing more tlian sigh over the 
 intruder's cost, and little knew how her 
 remark affected the child. 
 
 The miserly Miss Trevor was painting, 
 she was laboriously plying her brush which 
 was to sweep in golden stores in the fair 
 future . The languishing lady on her canvas , 
 with eyes like castles, tresses luxuriant 
 enough, but somewhat substantial, and an 
 almost imperceptible mouth, did not satisfy
 
 IN THE SUXTIME OF HEK YOUTH. 273 
 
 the artist's ideal of beauty, Elsie was ab- 
 sorbed by melanclioly misgivings. She did 
 not see Precautia sidle down on her knees 
 by old Gumbo's side, lay her little dab of a 
 nose against his black muzzle and clip his 
 neck round in a tender embrace, nor did 
 she attempt to follow out the train of 
 thought which led to the little girl's fol- 
 lowing remarks. 
 
 ' If I was to marry somebody rich,' she 
 began, in a severe, but mournful tone. ' I 
 would not keep the money all, all, all, 
 myself. I used to think we might be 
 given things, I used to think I might have 
 a present of a — hat — I love a new hat so^ 
 Elsie. But we have nothing, less and less, 
 nothing at all.' 
 
 ' Don't talk, Celia. Work, you can't 
 work and talk.' 
 
 VOL. I. T
 
 274 IN THE SUNTIME OF HE'r YOUTH. 
 
 ' I can always talk. You are cross. 
 You tell me dreadful things, and I must 
 listen dumb.' 
 
 ' That is what older, cleverer people have 
 to do, Precautia. Now, go on with your 
 sum.' 
 
 Celia had hinted at a fact which had 
 more than once struck her sister with a 
 vague wonder. Agnes, now that she had 
 left her home, had forgotten much; she had 
 plenty, her kith and kin lacked the very 
 necessities of existence. Elsie had not 
 dreamed as Celia had dreamed, but she 
 was surprised, only surprised that Agnes 
 had so soon forgotten, so soon lost interest 
 in the petty worries which they had shared 
 at Hills den. 
 
 No doubt she had no time to think. 
 No doubt more important matters usurped
 
 IX THE SUXTIME OF HER YOUTH. 275 
 
 her thoughts. Mr. Hacket wanted her 
 contiimally. 
 
 It was supposed that the Rackets would 
 entertain, it was known that they were 
 well off. All the neighbours, far and near, 
 had been on friendly terms with the 
 charming father of the bride. Years ago 
 they had known Mrs. Trevor, but she had 
 been so engrossed with babies and house- 
 hold affairs that she had dropped out of 
 society. Now people flocked to call upon 
 the bride. 
 
 But Mr. Hacket did not care for his 
 neighbours, he was not sociable. He had 
 added his Avife as a final decoration to 
 his home, she was merely a Hacket acces- 
 sory ; he had had an active life and a life 
 of hard work, he wished to live in peace 
 and quietness now, he couldn't learn a new 
 
 T 2
 
 276 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 jargon at his time of life, his home was 
 good enough for him, naturally his wife 
 would form her desires from his. 
 
 So Mrs. Hacket returned her calls, re- 
 fused invitations, and was very, very 
 domestic. There was little for a mistress 
 to do at the Oaks. The house was in 
 apple-pie order, everything was arranged 
 precisely in accordance with its owner's 
 taste. There might be no ' general post ' 
 with the furniture, no hammering in of 
 nails on the newly-paj)ered walls, no drap- 
 ing and playing at artistic house-decoration 
 such as delights the vacant female mind. 
 
 The housekeeping, certainly, was no 
 sinecure, there could be no sluring of 
 petty details in the larder. Mr. Hacket 
 liked a good dinner, as poor Mr. Trevor 
 had liked a 2:ood dinner, but he liked it
 
 IX THE SUXTBIE OF HER YOUTH. 277 
 
 cheap. Agnes soon learnt to scour tlie 
 country-side for cheap eggs, and cheap 
 butter, and cheap poultry, and became 
 intelligent about the rising or falling price 
 of commodities. 
 
 Then ao^ain there was the o-arden, but 
 the gardener had a temper, and domineered 
 over his mistress ; Mr. Hacket just knew a 
 cauliflower from another flower, but no 
 more, and was only quite sure — now that 
 the courting days were over — that flowers 
 had better not be picked : picking was a 
 form of waste not to be countenanced. 
 
 Days at the Oaks were long. Agnes 
 could catch a glance of the Hillsden chim- 
 neys, through the trees, from the window 
 of her room ; she would stand staring at 
 them till her eyes were weary, while she 
 wondered what ' the others ' were doing,
 
 278 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 whether they thought of her as she 
 thought of them. Agnes was so little used 
 to thinking, she knew nothing 
 
 ' Of that content, surpassing wealth, 
 The sage in meditation found.' 
 
 Hers was a very simple mind. The 
 great world outside was not forgotten, for 
 it had never been remembered ; she made 
 no speculations about Life, with a capital 
 ' 1.' People, whom she did not know; sen- 
 sations, which she had not felt ; know- 
 ledge, which did not affect those whom 
 she loved : she cared nothing concerning 
 any of them. She could not mend any 
 grief with a proverb, or a philosophic 
 reflection. She could endure sorrow be- 
 cause she knew all about the ' Road of the 
 Cross,' she had very clear ideas about 
 right and wrong, a tender conscience, and a
 
 IN THE SUNTIME OF HEE YOUTH. 279 
 
 warm heart. She had no ambitions of any 
 sort, she would have been content to live as 
 one of the violets lived on the sunny bank at 
 Hillsden, looking heavenwards from shel- 
 tering leaves, drinking the dew which fell 
 upon her, rejoicing in the sunshine, sweet- 
 ening the air about her brethren. Her 
 lines had fallen in other places. 
 
 " Violets plucked, the sweetest rain 
 Makes not fresh nor grow again.' 
 
 Once, every day, Mrs. Hacket paid her 
 home a visit. The brougham waited at 
 the door, Mr. Hacket seated ^vithin it ; he 
 had his watch in his hand when she 
 returned, if she, by some mischance, had 
 overstayed the given fifteen minutes. 
 
 Those flying moments she spent with 
 her mother and sisters ; how cruelly placid 
 the mother had become, who welcomed her
 
 280 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 daughter with the same smile as that with 
 which she bade her farewell. 
 
 On Sunday afternoon, Mrs. Hacket en- 
 tertained her relations at the Oaks. Her 
 husband had been bred to a life of routine, 
 and he liked a life of routine. He was not 
 a man who cared for a ' surprise party.' 
 Indeed, ' surprises ' and ' parties ' were dis- 
 tasteful to him, he preferred to make a 
 systematic arrangement of his own and his 
 wife's time. 
 
 He was accustomed to meditate on Sun- 
 day afternoon, to meditate alone in the 
 library. The meditation seemed to the 
 Trevors ridiculouvsly brief; before they had 
 settled down to a full enjoyment of the 
 situation, the situation was disturbed by 
 Mr. Hacket's return to the drawing-room. 
 His return was the signal for their depar-
 
 IX THE SUXTIME OF HER YOUTH. 281 
 
 ture ; he gave no hint that such was the 
 case, but they knew it. 
 
 Mr. Hacket prided himself on his toler- 
 ance of the Trevor family, for, as Mrs. Daw- 
 son had warned him, it was no advantage 
 to have a troop of relations-in-the-law liv- 
 ino; at his o-ates. Some men mig;ht behave 
 with far less hospitality and friendliness 
 in a like case than he had done, and yet 
 not overstep the bounds of due considera- 
 tion for the feelings of his wife. Mr. Hacket, 
 as usual, knew he was right. 
 
 This June day had been the counterpart 
 of its predecessor. There had been the 
 nine o'clock breakfast, a lengthy meal, 
 elongated with much morning paper. There 
 had been that momentous interview with 
 the cook. There had been an endless potter, 
 potter, potter about the grounds where all
 
 282 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 was trim as a public pleasure garden, and 
 where, so it seemed to Mrs. Trevor's home- 
 sick nose, the scent of roses was not sweet. 
 There had been the quiet hour or two while 
 Mr. Hacket wrote his letters and Agnes sat 
 in the house, thinking of nothing special 
 and longing for something special to do. 
 There had been lunch and another dreamy 
 hour while Mr. Hacket dozed. Then the 
 brougham had come round and there had 
 been that brief bitter-sweet fifteen minutes 
 at home, followed by a two hours' drive 
 with her husband. Agnes had come home 
 with a headache, for the sun had been 
 fierce and the brougham was hot, she was 
 glad to go into the dark draAving-room and 
 ring the bell for tea. 
 
 Mr. Hacket disapproved of afternoon 
 tea, it was an unnecessary, unhealthy inno-
 
 IN THE SUNTIME OF HEK YOUTH. 283 
 
 vation of late years, he would not coun- 
 tenance it by liis presence, therefore he 
 absented hhnself from the room when it 
 was introduced. 
 
 The drawing-room was, as its owner 
 often remarked, ' a very handsome room.' 
 Everything was ' handsome.' The gor- 
 geous curtains would have stood alone had 
 they not been suspended from massive 
 cornices of gilt. The damask coverings of 
 chairs and couches were rich of texture, 
 rich of hue. The carpet was soft as the 
 mossy carpeting of the Devon woods and 
 shaded like autumnal leaves. On the 
 white walls great pictures hung, quite in- 
 offensive landscapes of nothing in par- 
 ticular, in ' handsome ' frames. The 
 destructive sun was driven from the room,, 
 the sunbeams were not ' chased with
 
 284 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 newspapers,' but banished wholly by Vene- 
 tian blinds. It was a sombre room, its 
 young mistress looked as though she felt 
 its sobering influence. She sat, listlessly 
 enough, in one of the great chairs, she 
 had pushed her wide black hat off her 
 brow, her face was pale, her dove-like 
 eyes were pensive, her mouth was serious. 
 She was very slight and girlish, now that 
 the build of her heavy, black, silk dress 
 was artistic the lines of her figure, her 
 slim and graceful figure, were expressed, 
 not concealed. 
 
 A tinkle from the front door bell 
 sounded enlivening, her lips curled into 
 a smile. Some one was coming to see her. 
 She was used to being ' one ' of many, 
 she was used to a bustle of sisters and 
 brothers, to a busy life, she wanted some-
 
 IN THE SUNTIME OF HEE YOUTH. 285 
 
 body, anybody, anytliing, just to make a 
 change in the day's programme. Just for 
 a minute she wanted to be a girl who 
 laughed easily, and enjoyed everything, 
 and was happy over a mere nothing : she 
 felt a sudden hunger for the past. Then the 
 trim parlour-maid — who seemed to have 
 so good a time in the back premises, from 
 whence her mistress, tinctured with vague 
 envy, heard echoes of such hideous but 
 such hearty laughter — threw open the 
 door, and, in a reproachful voice, an- 
 nounced, 
 
 ' Miss Celia and the dog, m'm.' 
 Gumbo had none of the modesty of an 
 intruder ; white mth dust he preceded 
 Celia into the room, and rushing up to 
 Agnes, put his paws upon her shoulders, 
 licked her soft cheek tenderly, and wagged
 
 286 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 his dusty tail. Mrs. Hacket put her arm 
 round his neck and said, 
 
 ' Precautia darling, how nice of you to 
 come. How lovely to see you ! There is 
 nothing the matter at home, is there?' 
 
 ' Mother isn't any different. Elsie is all 
 right. Caroline is very cross,' Precautia 
 returned, kissing Agnes in a hard emotional 
 way, and looking intently at her sister out 
 of eyes which were swollen from crying, 
 and even now were dewy with unshed 
 tears. ' I've come because I want to see 
 you, Aggie, because Fve particular things 
 to say to you alone.' 
 
 Just then tea was brought in, and Mrs. 
 Hacket, mindful of the stigma ' pigsty ' 
 once applied to a Trevor haunt, sending 
 for a dust-pan and brush, set the maid 
 to sweep up those dusty hillocks from the
 
 IX THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 287 
 
 floor and spread a newspaper, on which 
 Gumbo, with threats and cajoles, was 
 induced to lie him down. 
 
 Celia watched these proceedings with 
 astonishment in her heart. 
 
 ' Marrying does make you rather an old 
 maid,' she said, when they were once more 
 alone. 'No, Agnes, I don't want any tea, I 
 couldn't eat cake, or — anything.' She sat 
 herself down on the floor by Gumbo's side. 
 Putting her arms round his neck, she laid 
 her wet face with a passionate tenderness 
 against his shaggy coat. ' I know you used 
 to like Gumbo, Aggie, didn't you ? He's 
 such a faithful dog,' with a trembling 
 voice. ' He growls at strangers, he never 
 breaks his trust. He can do " dead dog," 
 and " Gladstone." I love him better than 
 anything in all the world.'
 
 288 IN THE SUNTIME OF HEK YOUTH. 
 
 Agnes ceased pouring out the tea, the 
 little girl was puzzling her. 
 
 ' I know you are very fond of him, Pre- 
 cautia, but Mortimer doesn't like dogs in 
 the house — he has none of his own even, 
 they spoil things — they really do.' 
 
 ' Spoil things, Aggie ? Oh, dear. Oh, 
 dear, I thought youd be sure to take my 
 side.' 
 
 ' Precautia, aren't you very well, dear ? 
 Why are you crying so?' 
 
 Mrs. Racket, by this time, was kneeling 
 down beside the child, who still kept one 
 arm round Gumbo's neck, while, with her 
 free hand, she dabbed her eyes with a wisp 
 of a handkerchief 
 
 ' Lie down on the sofa, darling. There, 
 I will take off your hat and fetch you some 
 eau-de-Cologne. You have toiled up in
 
 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 289 
 
 the sun, Precautia, you are so hot, no 
 wonder you are tired out.' 
 
 ' But I'm not tired, and 'tisn't the sun, 
 Agnes, and lying down or scent won't 
 stop me. I feel all dreadful inside — it's 
 Gumbo and Elsie. She gets so fearful, 
 Agnes, up here you don't know how 
 fearful home is getting. There is no but- 
 ter now at breakfast except for mother, 
 and no sugar in my tea. I don't mind 
 that. I don't mind patches on my elbows 
 and my black frock gone quite green — 
 but I mind Gumbo. I wouldn't never 
 have told you 'cept for Gumbo.' 
 
 ' I don't understand — what is the mat- 
 ter with Gumbo ? He looks quite right.' 
 
 ' He is all right, but Elsie says he costs 
 a lot of money. It isn't so much what he 
 has to eat — sometimes he gets things at 
 
 VOL. I. u
 
 290 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 the butcher's, he's got friends with the 
 butcher — and he eats scraps. But it's the 
 seven-and-sixpence ; and Elsie wants to 
 cut down more expenses. Mortimer told 
 her to do it ; she says she must do it, and 
 she's going to cut Gumbo down, and if 
 she does he'll go, and I — I — shall never 
 see him again.' 
 
 There was a deadly long pause after 
 Celia had spoken. She was in fear that 
 Agnes still did not understand. That her 
 confession — made for her dog's sake — was 
 to avail him nothing. 
 
 ' We are poorer than poor,' the weeping 
 beggar faltered (as beggars should falter, 
 such supplications are criminal ; we may 
 starve, but we must hold our tongues 
 about it, that's the law!) trying to touch 
 her rich sister's hard heart, ' poorer than
 
 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 291 
 
 we have ever been in all our lives. It 
 was the weddino: and the weddinsr-clothes 
 cost such a lot. Cook is going — it's some- 
 thing to do with the pig- wash bucket ; I 
 didn't understand, but Elsie knows. Caro- 
 line is going to cook now, and do every- 
 thing. And Elsie dusts, and paints, and 
 teaches me. She doesn't eat so much as 
 I do, — and her waist is nineteen inches. 
 She misses you, and cries sometimes ; and, 
 sometimes, she ofets cross. You were a 
 comfort in the house ; I wish — I wish you'd 
 never gone. Elsie would be dreadfully 
 angry if she knew I'd told. I told because 
 of Gumbo, I never meant to tell, — but it 
 doesn't do much good to keep pretending 
 and pretending.' 
 
 Then Agnes answered; but she spoke 
 ^^ith such constraint, she looked so grave 
 
 u2
 
 292 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 and strange, that Celia was startled, 
 Agnes evidently took Gumbo's impending 
 fate to heart. 
 
 ' No, Celia, you are right, pretending 
 does no good — at least, not now. I will 
 try to explain, only you mustn't think 
 that I don't care, never fancy that I don't 
 care — you can't imagine how it hurts me 
 when you say that ; I mean, how it might 
 hurt me if I thought you meant it. I care 
 more than ever, a thousand times more 
 than ever ; but I am no richer than I was 
 before; I have nothing, not a penny. 
 From the day I married till this moment 
 I have had no money of my own, to do 
 with it Avhat I choose. It shall be diiFer- 
 ent now ; I will go to Mortimer. He will 
 make me an allowance ; he has not thought 
 of it, he had given me everything, much
 
 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 293 
 
 more than everything I want, but he has 
 given me no money. He did not think of 
 it, and I was foolish ; I did not like to ask 
 him. Don't cry, Celia, it will be all right. 
 I'll pay Gumbo's licence for you; of course 
 I will pay, you were quite right to ask me. 
 Get wp^ darling; the griddle cakes are 
 getting cold, let us have tea.' 
 
 Agnes ended her explanations very 
 cheerfully ; the recital of her own inten- 
 tion comforted the speaker as much as it 
 cheered the small mischief-maker who 
 heard it. 
 
 Now that Precautia's mind was at rest, 
 her appetite did not disgrace her. Gumbo 
 and she between them emptied several 
 plates of bread and butter. Pecuniary 
 cares, when they no longer involved the 
 loss of her dog, were lightly puffed away.
 
 294 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 ' It was queer,' she said, ' to feel so miser- 
 able and then so happy : Agnes was 
 the kindest, beautifullest person in the 
 world.' 
 
 Agnes smiled at the flattery, and plied 
 her little sister with sugared tea and hot 
 cakes, making a charming fuss over her, 
 such as Precautia loved ; her visit had 
 been a great success, she was glad she 
 had come. But when Mr. Hacket came 
 in, and screamed at Gumbo to ' go out,' and 
 seemed so amazed to find her there, she 
 hurriedly made her adieux : leaving a 
 lapful of crumbs under the tea-table, she 
 departed. 
 
 Agnes was alone with Mr. Hacket ; now 
 was the opportunity for fulfilling that 
 plan which had been so easily made and 
 so simply told an hour ago, but which
 
 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 295 
 
 meant mucli to the penniless woman who 
 had formed it. 
 
 Her pride was of no inordinate growth, 
 she was no prouder than the average 
 pauper, but she knew how her husband 
 prized his money, how often he counted 
 and re-counted costs of which she formed 
 no inconsiderable item. She, who had 
 mnced over receiving everything at his 
 hands, was now about to make a petition 
 for money. It was selfish to shrink from 
 the making of such a commonplace re- 
 quest. She made no doubt that her hus- 
 band would be glad to do as she asked 
 him — an allowance was almost a necessity 
 of existence — it was the asking which she 
 loathed, the words stuck in her throat, he 
 would not deny her petition : she did not 
 dream that he could refuse her ; that it
 
 296 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 was not forgetfulness alone which had 
 kept her pocket empty. But she found 
 out her mistake. 
 
 Mr. Hacket was very kind ; he kissed 
 her cheek, which had paled over her 
 petition, affectionately, he smiled indul- 
 gently upon her, but he had no intention 
 of altering his mode of procedure. 
 
 She would not be silenced, but pleaded 
 on, and was absolutely obstinate ; this 
 gentle, pliable girl would not accept a de- 
 nial — this was his doing, he had spoilt her. 
 Then he thought it no disgrace to point 
 out his practical reasons for his conduct ; 
 it was better to be frank with her at once, 
 and to have no nonsense. Agnes was 
 young, but she was no fool. She would 
 understand him and comprehend the just- 
 ness of his decision.
 
 IN THE SUXTIME OF HER YOUTH. 297 
 
 ' You see, my clear,' he said, ' if I pay 
 your bills myself, I know where my money 
 goes. I like you to have everything a 
 woman in your position can want. You 
 are denied nothing in reason. Your 
 jewel-case is not empty, eh ? I like to 
 see you handsomely dressed, but if you 
 had money in your purse, and a lot of 
 empty-pocketed youngsters within a couple 
 of hundred yards of you, my money would 
 filter down their way, and that's not as it 
 should be. Xay, Agnes, you must be 
 content to o-q on as we are.' 
 
 There was that in her face which hardly 
 looked like content ; he felt a momentary 
 qualm of uneasiness, then he put his great, 
 soft hand into his breeches-pocket and 
 chinked the loose money there. 
 
 ' Here is a sovereign, my pet,' he said, —
 
 298 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 a sovereign would not ruin liim, and he 
 wanted to please his wife. ' If you have 
 set your heart on wasting money, waste 
 that. Come to me when it's gone, and 
 you shall have another. I can refuse you 
 nothing — nothing but this allowance which 
 would place you in an awkward predica- 
 ment, you can't give what you haven't got. 
 Money always trickled through Trevor 
 iingers, none of that name ever got a grip 
 of money, as far as I have heard. It 
 would be unpleasant to you to have to re- 
 fuse a member of your own family a loan. 
 And that's what it would come to, if you'd 
 control of my money — mark my words.' 
 
 She had marked them, or, more justly 
 speaking, they had marked her, more deep- 
 ly than Mr. Hacket knew; but she took 
 the proffered sovereign and looked down
 
 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 299 
 
 at it lying in the palm of her small hand, 
 then she said ' thank yon ' slowly, and 
 carried her present np with her to her own 
 room. 
 
 Mrs. Hacket took off her wide-brimmed 
 hat and pnt it away, she smoothed her 
 dusky hair, and all the while she held her 
 money tightly. But presently, while she 
 stood at the window looking through the 
 trees at the Hillsden chimneys, the sove- 
 reign slipped through her relaxed iingers, 
 and rolled away upon the floor. While 
 she Avas groping for it on her hands and 
 knees, a housemaid came in. 
 
 ' You've lost something, m'm ?' 
 
 ' Yes, I have lost it — all I have. I can't 
 find it, Ellen, help me look for it.' 
 
 ' If it's money, m'm, there is a sove- 
 reign close to your hand, in the shadow.'
 
 300 IN THE SUNTIME OF HER YOUTH. 
 
 Ellen wondered what ailed her young 
 mistress ; this reserved and gentle mis- 
 tress was half-laughing, half-crying, as 
 she picked up her property. 
 
 ' Thank you — I couldn't see it,' she said. 
 ' I thought I had lost — everything.' 
 
 END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 LONDON : PRINTED BY DUNCAN MACDONALD, BLENHEIM HOUSE.