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 I N T E U S T 
 I.
 
 LONDON : I'ltlNTEU IJY 
 
 .SrOTTlSWOOOK AND CO., NKW-STREET SQUARE 
 
 AND PAULIAMRNT STREET
 
 IN TRUST 
 
 THE STORY OF A LADY AND HER LOVER 
 
 BY 
 
 M. 0. W. OLIPHANT 
 
 AUTHOR OF ' THE CHRONICLES OF CAULIXGFOUn " ETC. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON 
 LONGMANS, GREEN, AND CO. 
 
 1882 
 
 All rights reserved
 
 
 ,1 
 
 Cop 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 OF 
 
 THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 CHAPTEH PAGE 
 
 I. Father and Daughter. .... 1 
 
 II. The Rest of the Family. . ... 19 
 
 III. The 'Game' .38 
 
 IV. Under the Beeches . . . . . . . 59 
 
 v. Explanations 82 
 
 VI. Good-bye 104 
 
 VII. Cross-examination 124 
 
 VIII. The Meadowlands' Party . . . . 146 
 
 IX. Cosmo ......... 166 
 
 X. Family Counsels . . . . . . 191 
 
 XI. Projects of Marriage 213 
 
 XII. Mistress and Maid 235 
 
 Xni. Heathcote Mountford 257
 
 IN TEUST. 
 
 CHAPTEK I. 
 
 FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 
 
 ' My dear, the case is as plain as noonday ; you must 
 give this man up.' 
 
 'Tlie case is not plain to me, father — at least, not 
 in your sense.' 
 
 ' Anne, you are very positive and self-opinionated, 
 but you cannot — it is not possible — set up your 
 judgment against mine on such a point. You, an 
 inexperienced, prejudiced girl, a rustic with no 
 knowledge of the world ! What do you know about 
 the man ? Oh, I allow he is well enough to look at ; 
 he has had the usual amount of education, and so 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 2 IX TRUST. 
 
 forth ; but what do you hnoiv about him ? that is 
 what I ask»' 
 
 ' Not much, father,' said Anne, steadily ; 'but I 
 know Aim.' 
 
 ' Stuff ! you, a girl not much over twenty, know 
 a man ! Does he tell you, do you suppose, all the 
 adventures of his life ? Does he confess his sins to 
 you ? A young fellow that has been trained at a 
 public school, that has been at the university, that 
 has knocked about the world— is he going to confide 
 all that to you ? He would be unworthy the name 
 of gentleman if he did.' 
 
 ' Would he not be more unworthy the name of 
 gentleman if he had done things which he could not 
 confide to me ? ' said Anne ; then reddening suddenly, 
 she added, ' And even if it were so, father, if in those 
 days he had done things unfit for my ears, let him be 
 silent ; I will not ask any questions : I know what he 
 is now.' 
 
 ' Oh, stuff, I tell you ! stuff and nonsense, child ! 
 You know what he is noiv ! Yes, what he is when 
 his best coat is on, when he is going to church with
 
 PATIIER AND DAUGHTER. 3 
 
 liis hymn-book in his pocket and you on his arm ; 
 that is a very edifying aspect of him ; but if you think 
 that is all, or nearly all ' 
 
 Anne was silent. It was not that she was con- 
 vinced, but that her indignation took words from her. 
 She could not make any reply to such calumnies ; 
 and this was troublesome to her father, who preferred 
 an argument to a distinct and unsupported statement. 
 He looked at her for a moment, baffled, feeling him- 
 self cut short in the fidl flow of utterance — then 
 picked up the thread again, and resumed ; 
 
 « You would be a fool to trust in any man in that 
 unguarded way: and above all in a lawyer. They 
 are all rogues ; it is in tliem. When did you ever 
 liear a good word spoken for that class of men ? I 
 will not consent to any such nonsense : and if you act 
 without my consent, you know the consequence. I 
 will not give your mother's money to maintain in 
 luxury a man who is — who will be — never mind ! You 
 shall not have it. I will give it to Rose, as I have 
 the power.' 
 
 ' You would not be so unjust,' said Anne. 
 n 2
 
 4 IN TRUST. 
 
 ' Unjust ! I will do it if you defy me in this 
 way. Kose lias always been a better child to me than 
 you have been ; and she shall have the money if you 
 don't mind.' 
 
 Whoever had looked at Anne Monntford then 
 would not have given much for the chance of her 
 submission. She said nothing, but her upper lip 
 shut down upon the lower with an unrelenting, im- 
 movable determination. She would not even add a 
 word to her protest against the possibility of the 
 injustice with which she had been threatened. She 
 was too proud to repeat herself; she stood still, un- 
 bending, betraying no impatience, ready to receive 
 with calmness everything that might be said to hei-, 
 but firm as the house upon its foundations, or the 
 hills that are called everlasting. Her father knew 
 something of the character of his eldest child ; he 
 knew very well that no small argument would move 
 her, but perhaps he was not aware how far beyond his 
 power she was. He looked at her, however, with a 
 passionate annoyance very different from her calm, 
 and with something vindictive and almost spiteful in
 
 lATHER AND DAUGHTER. 5 
 
 his reddish-grey eyes. Most likely he had felt him- 
 self dashed aofainst the wall of lier stronof will before 
 now, and had been exasperated by the calm force of 
 opposition which he could make no head against. 
 
 ' You hear what I say,' he repeated roughly ; ' if 
 you insist, I shall exercise the right your mother gave 
 me ; I shall alter my will : and the fortune which is 
 no doubt your chief attraction in this man's eyes— 
 the fortune he has been calculating upon — I will give 
 to Eose. You liear what I say ? ' 
 
 ' Yes,' said Anne. She bowed her head gravely ; 
 no doubt that she understood him, and equally no 
 doubt that what he said had moved her as much as 
 a shower of rain might have done, and that she 
 was fully determined to take her own way. 
 
 ' On your own head be it then,' he cried. 
 
 She bowed again, and after waiting for a moment 
 to see if he had anything further to say to her, went 
 quietly out of the room. It was in the library of a 
 country house that this interview had taken place — 
 the commonplace business room of a country gentle- 
 man of no very great pretensions. I'he walls were lined
 
 6 IN TRUST. 
 
 with bookcases in whicli there was a tolerable 
 collection of books, but 3^et they did not tell for 
 much in the place. Tliey were furniture like the 
 curtains, which were rather shabby, and the old 
 Turkey carpet — most respectable furniture, yet a 
 little neglected, wanting renewal. Mr. Mountford's 
 writing-table was laden with papers ; he had plenty 
 of business to transact, though not of a strictly 
 intellectual kind. He was an old man, still hand- 
 some in his age, wdth picturesque snow-white hair in 
 masses, clearly-cut, fine features, and keen eyes of 
 that reddish hazel w^hich betokens temper. Those 
 eyes constantly burned under the somewhat project- 
 ing eyebrows. They threw a sort of angry lurid 
 light on his face. The name of the house was 
 Mount ; it had been in the ^Mountford family for many 
 generations ; but it was not a beautiful and dignified 
 liouse any more than he was a fine old English 
 gentleman. Both the place and the man had tra- 
 ditionary rights to popular respect, but neither man 
 nor place had enforced this claim by any individual 
 beauty or excellence. There was no doubt as to
 
 PATIIEE AND DAUGHTER. 7 
 
 the right of the Mountfoids to be ranked among the 
 gentry of the district, as good as the best, in so far 
 that the family had been settled there for centuries ; 
 but they were of that curiously commonplace strain 
 which is prevalent enough among the smaller gentry, 
 without any splendour of wealth to dazzle the 
 beholder, and which rouses in the mind of the 
 spectator a wonder as to what it is that makes the 
 squire superior to his neighbours. The Mountfords 
 from father to son had got on through the world 
 without any particular harm or good, uninteresting, 
 ordinary people, respectable enough, yet not even 
 very respectable. They were not rich, they were not 
 able ; they had nothing in themselves to distinguish 
 them from the rest of the world ; yet wherever the 
 name of ]Mountford appeared, throughout all the 
 southern counties at least, the claims of its possessor 
 to gentility were founded on his relationship to the 
 Mountfords of Mount. Most curious of all the 
 triumphs of the aristocratical principle ! Or rather 
 perhaps it is the more human principle of continu- 
 ance which is the foundation of this prejudice to
 
 8 IN TRUST. 
 
 which we are all more or less subject. A family 
 which has lasted, which has had obstinacy enough 
 to cling to its bit of soil, to its old house, must have 
 something in it worth respect. This principle, how- 
 ever, tells in favour of the respectable shopkeeper 
 quite as much as the squire, but it does not tell in 
 the same way. The Mountfords felt themselves of 
 an entirely different order from the shopkeeper — 
 why, heaven knows I but their estimate was accepted 
 by all the world. 
 
 Mount had the distinction of being entailed ; it 
 was not a large estate nor a valuable one, and it had 
 been deeply mortgaged when the present ]\Ir. ]Mount- 
 ford, St. John by name, came of age. But he had 
 married an heiress, who had liberated his acres and 
 added greatly to his social importance. The first Mrs. 
 Mountford had died early, leaving only one daughter, 
 and at the same time her entire fortune in the hands 
 of her husband, to do with it what he pleased. These 
 were the days when public opinion was very unanimous 
 as to the impropriety and unnecessariness of female 
 rights of any kind, and everybody applauded Mrs.
 
 rATlIER AND DAUGHTER. 9 
 
 Moimtford for resistiug all conditions, and putting 
 herself and her child unreservedly in her husband's 
 hands. He had re-married two years after her 
 death, but unfortunately had succeeded in obtaining 
 only another girl from unpropitious fate. His first 
 wife's daughter was Anne, universally considered as 
 the natural heiress of the considerable fortune which, 
 after clearing the estate, had remained of her 
 mothers money, and which her father had kept 
 scrupulously 'in a napkin,' like the churl in the 
 parable, neither increasing nor diminishing the 
 store. The other daughter was Rose. Such was 
 the household at Mount in the days when this 
 history begins. The reigning Mrs. iMountford was 
 a good sort of easy woman who did not count for 
 much. She was one of the Codringtons of Carrisford 
 — a ' very good family ' of the same class as the 
 Mountfords. Nothing could be better than the 
 connections on both sides- -or duller. But the girls 
 were different. It is very hard to say why the girls 
 should have been different — perhaps because the 
 present new wave of life has distinctly affected the
 
 10 IN TKUST. 
 
 girls more than any other cla«s of society. At all 
 events, the point was indisputable. Anne perhaps 
 might have taken after her mother, who was of an 
 entirely new stock, not a kind which had ever before 
 been ingrafted on the steady-going family tree. She 
 had come out of a race partly mercantile, partly 
 diplomatic ; her grandfather had been Spanish ; it 
 was even suspected that one of her ancestors had 
 been a Jew. All kinds of out-of-the-way sources 
 had furnished the blood which had been destined to 
 mix with the slow current in the Mountford veins ; 
 and probably Anne had inherited certain bizarre 
 qualities from this jumble. But Rose had no such 
 mixed antecedents. There was not a drop of blood 
 in her veins that did not belong to the county, and 
 it was difficult to see how she could have ' taken 
 after ' her sister Anne, as was sometimes suggested, 
 in respect to peculiarities which had come to Anne 
 from her mother ; but if she did not take after 
 Anne, who did she take after, as IVIrs. Mountford 
 often demanded ? 
 
 Rose was now eighteen and Anne just over one-
 
 FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 11 
 
 and-twcnty. They were considered in the neighbour- 
 liood to be attractive girls. A household possessing 
 two such daugliters is naturally supposed to have all 
 the elements of brightness within it ; and perhaps if 
 there had been brothers the girls would have taken 
 their natural place as harmonisers and peacemakers. 
 But there were no* brothers, and the girls embodied 
 all the confusing and disturbing influences natural to 
 boys in their own persons, with certain difficulties 
 appropriate to their natural character. It is true 
 they did not get into scrapes or into debt ; they 
 were not expelled from school or ' sent down * from 
 College. Duns did not follow them to the paternal 
 door, or roistering companions break the family 
 peace. But yet Anne and Rose contrived to give as 
 much trouble to Mr. and ]Mrs. IMountford as if they 
 had been Jack and Tom. These good people had 
 lived for about a dozen years in their rural mansion 
 like the cabbages in the kitchen garden. Nothing 
 had disturbed them. There had been no call 
 upon their reasoning faculties, no strain upon 
 their affections : everything had gone on quite
 
 12 IN TKUST. 
 
 tranquilly and comfortably, with that quiet per- 
 sistence of well-being which makes trouble seem 
 impossible. They had even said to themselves with 
 sighs, that to have only girls was after all good for 
 something. They could not be tormented as others 
 were, or even as the rector, one of whose boys had 
 gone ' to the bad.' The thing which had been was 
 that which should be. The shocks, the discoveries, 
 the commotions, which the restless elements involved 
 in male youth bring with them, could not trouble 
 their quiet existence. So they consoled themselves, 
 although not without a sigh. 
 
 Alas, good people I they had reckoned without 
 their girls. The first storm that arose in the house 
 was when Anne suddenly discovered that her gover- 
 ness never detected her false notes when she played, 
 and passed the mistakes which she made, on purpose 
 to test her, in her grammar. ' I want someone who 
 can teach me,' the girl said. She was only fifteen, 
 but she had already made a great deal more use of 
 that pernicious faculty of reading which works so 
 much mischief in the world than Mrs. Mountford
 
 FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 13 
 
 approved. Someone who could teach her ! That 
 meant a lady at seventy-five or a hundred pounds a 
 year, instead of thirty-five, which was what they had 
 hitherto given, Mrs. Mountford nearly cried over 
 this most unreasonable demand. Miss Montressor 
 was very nice. She was of a family which had seen 
 better days, and she was fully conscious of her good 
 fortune in having gained an entry into a county 
 family. After all, what did it matter about false 
 notes or mistakes in grammar ? It was a ladylike 
 person that was everything. But when Rose too 
 declared in her little treble that she wanted some- 
 body who could teach her. Miss Montressor had to 
 go ; and the troubles that followed ! To do them 
 justice, the Squire and his wife did their very best 
 to satisfy these unreasonable young people. They 
 got a German governess with all kinds of certificates, 
 who taught Rose to say 'pon chour;' they got a 
 French lady, who commended herself to the best 
 feelings of Mrs. Mountford's nature by making her 
 up the sweetest cap, but who taught the girls that 
 Charles I. was all but rescued from the Fcaffold by
 
 14 IN TRUST. 
 
 the generous exertions of a Grascon gentleman of the 
 name of D'Artagnan and three friends who were 
 devoted to him. Mrs. Mountford herself was much 
 pleased with this information, but Anne and her 
 father were of a different opinion. However, it 
 would be too long to follow them minutely through 
 all these troubles. At seventeen Anne wanted Greek 
 and to ' go in for ' examinations — which gave a still 
 more complete blow to the prejudices of the house. 
 ' The same as a young man ! ' It was improper in 
 the highest degree, almost wicked ; Mrs. Mountford 
 did not like to think of it. It seemed to her, as to 
 some of our ablest critics, that nothing but illicit 
 longings after evil could make a girl wish to pass 
 examinations and acquire knowledge. She must 
 want to read the naughty books whicli are written 
 in Greek and Latin, and which deprave the minds 
 of young men, the good woman thought. As for 
 the certificates and honours, they might be all very- 
 well for the governesses of whom !Mrs. Mountford 
 had such melancholy experience ; but a young lady 
 of a county family, what did she want with them ?
 
 FATHER AND DAUGHTER. 15 
 
 They would be thiDgs to be ashamed, not proud of. 
 And on this point Anne was vanquished. She was 
 allowed to learn Greek with many forebodings, but 
 not to be examined in her knowledge. However, 
 this decision was chiefly intended to prevent Rose 
 from following her sister, as she always did ; for to 
 refuse Grirton to Rose would have been more difficult 
 than to neglect Anne's entreaties. For, though 
 Anne was the eldest sister, it was Rose who was the 
 princess royal and reigned over the whole demesne. 
 
 This desire of the higher education on the part 
 of Rose, who still said ' pon chour,' and was not at 
 all certain that two and two always make four, 
 would have been enough to keep the house in com- 
 motion if there had not occurred just then one of 
 the family troubles appropriate to girls after so 
 many that could not be called feminine. It has 
 already been said that the rector of the parish had 
 a son who had ' gone to the bad.' He had two 
 other sons, rocks ahead for the young ladies at 
 Mount. Indeed these two young men were such 
 obvious dangers that Mrs. Mount ford had taken
 
 16 IN TRUST. 
 
 precautions against them while Rose was still in 
 her cradle. One was a curate, his father's probable 
 successor ; but as the living was in Mr. Mountford's 
 hands, and it was always possible that someone else 
 might be preferred to Charley, some Mountford 
 connection who had a nearer claim, that prospect 
 did not count for much. The other was nothing at 
 all, a young man at Oxford, not yet launched upon 
 life. But fortunately these young men, though very 
 familiar in the house, were not handsome nor 
 dangerously attractive, and this peril is one which 
 must always be encountered in the country, even by 
 people of much higher pretensions than the Mount- 
 fords. The first trouble, however, did not come 
 from this ob"^'ious quarter, though it came through 
 there. It was not one of the Ashleys ; but it was a 
 person still less satisfactory. One of the curate's 
 friends arrived suddenly on a visit in the late 
 summer — a young Mr. Douglas, a barrister, which 
 sounds well enough ; but not one of the Douglasses 
 who have ever been heard of. They did not find this 
 out for some time, imagining fondly that he be-
 
 FATHER AND DAUGHTER. ]7 
 
 longed, at a distance perhaps, to the Morton family, 
 or to the house of Queensberrj, or at least to 
 Douglasses in Scotland, of whom it could be said 
 that they were of Lanarkshire or Selkirkshire or 
 some other county. Indeed, it was not until tlie 
 whole household was thrown into commotion by 
 a morning- call from Mr. Douglas, who asked for 
 Mr. MouuLford, and boldly demanded from him the 
 hand of Anne, that it burst upon them that he was 
 a Douglas of nowhere at all. He had been very 
 well educated, and he was at the bar ; but when he 
 was asked what branch of the Douglasses lie belonged 
 to, he answered ' None,' with a smile. ' I have 
 no relations,' he said. Relations can be dispensed 
 with. There is no harm in being without them ; 
 but a family was indispensable, and he belonged to 
 nobody. It was just like Anne, however, not to 
 care. She did not in the least care, nor did she see 
 any harm in her lover's countyless condition. And 
 when ]Mr. ^Nlountford politely declined the honour of 
 an alliance with this Mr. Douglas of nowhere at all, 
 she did not hesitate to say that she entirely dis- 
 YOL. I. c 
 
 ^> —
 
 18 IN TRUST. 
 
 asfreed with her father. This was the state in which 
 things were at tlie time of the interview I have 
 recorded. Mr. Mountford was determined, and so 
 was his daughter. This struggle of wills had taken 
 place before, but never before had it gone so far. 
 In former cases Anne had given in, or she had been 
 given in to, the one as much as the other. J3ut now 
 there was no yielding on one side or the other. Tlie 
 father had declared himself inexorable ; the daughter 
 had said little, but her countenance had said much. 
 And the threat with which he wound up had intro- 
 duced an entirel}^ new element into the discussion. 
 What was to come of it ? But that was what at 
 this moment nobody could venture to say.
 
 19 
 
 CHAPTER U. 
 
 THE EEST OF THE FAMILY. 
 
 The old house of Mount was a commodious but 
 ugly house. It was not even so old as it ought to 
 have been. Only in one corner were there any 
 picturesque remains of antiquity, and that was in 
 the back of the house, and did not show. The only 
 thing in its favour was that it had once been a much 
 larger place than it was now, and a detached bit of 
 lime avenue — very fine trees, forming in the summer 
 two lovely walls of tender shade — was supposed in 
 the traditions of the place to indicate where once 
 the chief entrance and the best part of the mansion 
 had been. At the foot of the terrace on which 
 these trees stood, and at a considerably lower 
 altitude, was the flower-garden, very formally laid 
 out, and lying along the side of the house, which
 
 20 IN TEUST. 
 
 was of dull brick with very flat windows, and might 
 almost have been a factory, so uninteresting was it ; 
 but the lawns that spread around were green and 
 smooth as velvet, and the park, though not large, 
 was full of fine trees. Mr. Mountford's room was in 
 the back of the house, and Anne had to go from one 
 end to another to reach the common morning- room 
 of the family, which was the hall. This had been 
 nothing but a mere passage in former days, though 
 it was square and not badly proportioned ; but the 
 modern taste for antiquity had worked a great 
 change in this once commonplace vestibule. It had 
 been furnished with those remains which are always 
 to be found about an old house, relics of past 
 generations, curtains which had been rejected as too 
 dingy for wear a hundred years ago, but now were 
 found to be the perfection of tone and taste — old 
 folding screens, and chairs and tables dismissed as 
 too clumsy or too old-fashioned for the sitting rooms 
 of the family. All these together made a room which 
 strangers called picturesque, but which old neigh- 
 bours regarded with contempt, as a thing of shreds
 
 THE EEST OF THE FAMILY. 21 
 
 and patches. There was but one huge window 
 reaching from the ceiling almost to the floor, and an 
 equally large mantelpiece almost matching the 
 window and opposite to it. The large round table 
 before the fire was covered with an old Indian shawl 
 carefully darned and mended for this use — a use 
 which had revolted all the old ladies in the county — 
 and with books, magazines, and newspapers, carefully 
 arranged by old Saymore, the butler, in a kind of 
 pattern ; for Saymore followed his young ladies, and 
 took a gTeat interest in everything that was artistic, 
 A work-table in one corner overflowed with crewels ; 
 in another stood an easel. The place was full of the 
 occupations and fancies of the two girls who had 
 fashioned it into its present shape. While Anne 
 was having the conversation with her father which 
 has been recorded, Mrs. Mountford and Eose were 
 pursuing their different employments in this room. 
 Mrs. Mountford was a contradiction to everything 
 about her. She wore ribbons of the most pronounced 
 brightness, dresses of the old gay colours; and did 
 worsted work. She was a round plump woman,
 
 22 IN TEUST, 
 
 with rosy cheeks and a smiling mouth ; but she was 
 not quite so innocent and easy as her looks indicated. 
 She could stand very fast indeed where any point of 
 interest was concerned — and she was doubly immov- 
 able in consequence of the fact that her interests 
 were not her own but those of Eose, and therefore 
 she could not be made to feel guilty in respect to 
 them. She had a little table of her own in the 
 midst of all the properties — which she called rubbish 
 — accumulated by the girls, and there pursued her 
 placid way week after sveek and year after year, 
 working, as if she had been born a century earlier, 
 groups of roses and geraniums for cushions and 
 footstools, and strips of many coloured work for 
 curtains and rugs. Had she been permitted to have 
 her will, the house would have been furnished with 
 these from garret to basement ; but as Rose was 
 ' artistic,' poor Mrs. jMountford's Berlin wools were 
 rarely made any use of. They were given away as 
 presents, and disposed of at bazaars. There was a 
 closet in her own room which was full of them, and 
 a happy woman was she when any girl of her ac-
 
 TIIE KEST OF THE FAMILY. 23 
 
 quaintance married, or a fancy fair was announced 
 .for any charitable object, which reduced her stores. 
 A workbasket full of the most brilliant wools in the 
 tidiest bundles, a German pattern printed in squares, 
 a little pile of tradesmen's books in red covers, and 
 a small brown basket full of keys, were the signs of 
 her little settlement in the hall. These possessions 
 stood upon a small table with three legs, decorated 
 with a broad band of Mrs. Mountford's work. She 
 had said boldly that if she were not permitted to 
 put her own work upon her own table, she did not 
 know what the world would come to. And upon 
 hearing this protest Anne had interfered. Anne 
 was the only person who ever interfered to save her 
 stepmother from the tyranny exercised over her 
 by her own child ; but Mrs. Mountford was not 
 grateful enough to return this service by taking 
 Anne's part. 
 
 Rose was the presiding spirit of the hall. Though 
 she did not originate anything, but followed her 
 sister's lead, yet she carried out all the suggestions 
 that ever glanced across the surface of Anne's mind
 
 24 IN TRUST. 
 
 with an energy which often ended in making the 
 elder sister somewhpt ashamed of lier initiative. 
 Anne's fancies become stereotyped in Rose's execu- 
 tion, and nothing but a new idea from the elder 
 changed the current of the younger girl's enthusiasm. 
 When Anne took to ornamental design, Rose painted 
 all the panels of the doors and window shutters, and 
 even had begun a pattern of sunflowers round the 
 drawing-room (which had been newly decorated with 
 a dado and three kinds of wall-papers), when Anne 
 fortunately took to sketching from nature, and saved 
 the walls by directing her sister's thoughts in another 
 direction. The easel remained a substantial proof 
 of these studies, but a new impulse had changed the 
 aspect of affairs. In the course of the sketching it 
 had been discovered that some of the cottages on the 
 estate were in the most wretched condition, and 
 Anne, with the instinct of a budding squire and 
 philanthropist united, had set to work upon plans 
 for new houses. The consequence of which was that 
 Rose, with compasses and rulers and a box of freshly- 
 cut pencils, was deep in the question of sculleries
 
 THE EEST OF THE EAMILY. 25 
 
 and wash-house.^!, marking all the measurements 
 upon the plan, with her whole heart in the work. 
 
 ' Anne is a long time with papa,' said Mrs, 
 ^lountford ; ' I suppose she is trying to talk him 
 over ; she might just as well try to move the house. 
 You girls never will understand that it is of no use 
 arguing with papa.' 
 
 ' One never can help thinking that reason must 
 prevail,' said Rose, without raising her head, ' at the 
 end.' 
 
 ' Reason ! ' said Mrs. Mountford, lifting her hands 
 and her eyebrows ; ' but, even if it were always 
 reason, what would that matter ? As for Anne, she 
 has a great deal too much self-confidence ; she 
 always thinks she is right.' 
 
 ' And so she is — almost always,' said Rose, very 
 busy with her measuring. ' Do you happen to re- 
 member, mamma, whether it is ninety feet or a 
 hundred that the pigsty must be off the house ? ' 
 
 ' What should I know about pigsties ? I am 
 sure I often wonder papa takes all the trouble he 
 does when you are both so headstrong. Fortunately
 
 26 IN TRUST. 
 
 for him lie has me to talk to where yoiL are con- 
 cerned ; but Anne ! oh, here she is — don't say 
 
 anything, she may not like to have it talked about. 
 So here you are at last, Anne ; we thought you were 
 never coming. But I wish I had someone to do my 
 work for me when I am busy about something else, 
 as Eose does for you. She never takes so much 
 trouble on my account.' 
 
 ' It is not her work,' said Eose, offended, ' it is 
 my own. Mayn't I have something now and then 
 that is my own ? How many yards, Anne, do you 
 remember, must the pigsty be off the house ? ' 
 
 Anne did not remember this important piece of 
 knowledge. ' But,' she said, ' it is in that book of 
 specifications. It is dry to read, but it is a very 
 good book ; you should have it on the table to refer 
 to. You have made the living room too large in 
 comparison with the rest of the house.' 
 
 ' Because they are poor,' said Eose, indignantly, 
 ' is tliat to say that they are to have nothing pretty 
 in their lives ? ' 
 
 ' But tliere must be a good scullery,' said Anne.
 
 THE REST OF THE FAMILY. 27 
 
 She stood with a very grave face behind her sister, 
 looking over her shoulder at the drawings spread out 
 on the table. Whether it was the importance of the 
 scullery, or of the other matters concerning her own 
 happiness which she had in her head, it is certain 
 that Anne's countenance was very serious. The very 
 tone of her voice proved to those who knew her so 
 well that her mood was graver than usual. At other 
 times the importance of the scullery would have 
 brought a tone of laughter, an accent of fun into her 
 voice ; but her gravity was now quite real and un- 
 broken by any lighter sentiment. She was taller 
 than her sister, and of a different order altogether. 
 Anne was rather pale than otherwise, with but a 
 slight evanescent colour now and then ; her features 
 good, her face oval, her eyes dark grey, large and 
 lucid, and with long eyelashes curling upwards. But 
 Rose, though she had all that beaute de diable which 
 is the privilege of youth, was, like her mother, round 
 and rosy, though her pretty little face and figure had 
 not the solidity, nor her complexion the set and 
 rigid tone which placid middle age acquires. The
 
 28 IN TRUST. 
 
 one face over the other contrasted pleasantly ; the 
 elder serious, as if nothing in heaven or earth could 
 ever make her smile again ; the younger bent with 
 momentary gravity and importance over her work. 
 But they had no air of belonging to each other. 
 Nothing but an accident could have linked together 
 two beings so little resembling. The accident was 
 Mr. Mountford, whom neither of them was at all 
 like. They were not Mountfords at all, as every- 
 body in the neighbourhood allowed. They took 
 after their mothers, not the one and indivisible head 
 of the family ; but that did not really matter, for 
 these two girls, like their mothers, were no more 
 than accidents in the house. 
 
 The ancient estate was entailed, and knew 
 nothing of such slight things as girls. When their 
 father died they would have to give up Mount and 
 go away from it. It was true that there still would 
 be a great deal of land in the county belonging to 
 one of them at least, for Mr. Mountford had not 
 been able to resist the temptation of buying and 
 enlarging his estate at the time when he married his
 
 THE REST OE THE FAMILY. 29 
 
 first wife, and thought of no such misfortune as that 
 of leaving only a couple of girls behind him. A long 
 life and boys to succeed him were as certainties in 
 his thoughts when he bought all the lands about 
 Charwood and the estate of Lower Liiford. There 
 they lay now, embracing Mount on every side, Mount 
 which must go to Heathcote Mountford, the head of 
 tlie other family. It was grievous, but it could not 
 be helped. And the girls were not Mountfords, 
 either the one or the other. They betrayed, shall we 
 say, an inherent resentment against the law of entail 
 and all its harsh consequences, by resembling their 
 mothers, and declining to be like the race which thus 
 callously cast them forth. 
 
 Mrs. Mountford looked at them with very watcliful 
 eyes. She knew what it was which had made her 
 husband send for his eldest daughter into his study 
 after breakfast. It was a circumstance which often 
 galled Anne, a high-spirited girl, that her stepmother 
 should be in the secret of all her personal concerns ; 
 but still man and wife are one, and it could not be 
 helped. This fact, however, that everything was
 
 30 IN TRUST. 
 
 known about her, -whether she would or not, shut her 
 lips and her heart. Why should she be confidential 
 and open herself to their inspection when they knew 
 it all beforehand without her ? This stopped all 
 inclination to confide, and had its effect, no doubt, 
 as all repression has, on Anne's character. Her heart 
 was in a turmoil now, aching with anger and an- 
 noyance, and disappointment, and a sense of wrong. 
 But the only effect of this was to make her more 
 serious than ever. In such a mood to win a smile from 
 her, to strike her sense of humour, which was lively, 
 or to touch her heart, which was tender, was to open 
 the floodgates, and the girl resented and avoided this 
 risk with all the force of her nature. And, truth to 
 tell, there was little power, either in Mrs. Mountford 
 or her daughter, to undo the bonds with which Anne 
 had bound herself. It was seldom that the}^ appealed 
 to her feelings, and when they made her laugh it was 
 not in sympathy, but derision— an unamiable and 
 unsatisfactory kind of laughter. Therefore it 
 happened now that they knew she was in trouble, 
 and watched her keenly to see the traces of it ; and
 
 THE REST OF THE EAMILY. 31 
 
 she knew they knew, and sternly repressed any 
 symptom by which they might divine how much 
 moved she was. 
 
 * You build your cottages your way,' cried Kose, 
 * and I will build mine in mine. Papa will let me 
 have my choice as well as you, and just see which will 
 be liked best. 
 
 ' If Ileathcote should have to be consulted,' said 
 Anne, ' it will be the cheapest that he will like 
 best. 
 
 ' Anne ! I shouldn't have thought that even you 
 could be so unfeeling. To remind us that dear 
 papa — ' cried Mrs. Mountford ; ' dear papa ! Do 
 not speak of his life in that indifferent way, at least 
 before Eose.' 
 
 ' Oh, it would not matter,' said Eose, calmly, 
 ' whatever happens ; for they are for the Lilford 
 houses on our very own land. Heathcote hasn't an}'- 
 thing to do with them.' 
 
 ' Anne might say, " Nor you either," my Eosie,' 
 ?aid her mother ; ' for everybody knows that you are 
 cat off out of it in every way. Oh, I don't find any
 
 32 IN TRUST. 
 
 fault. I knew it when I married, and jou have 
 known it all your life. It is rather hard, however, 
 everything turning out against us, you and me, my 
 pet ; part of the property going away altogether to a 
 distant cousin, and the rest all tied up because one of 
 you is to be made an eldest son.' 
 
 ' Mamma ! ' said Eose, petulantly, giving a quick 
 glance up at her mother, and shrugging her shoulders 
 with the superiority of youth, as who would say, 
 Why speak of things you don't understand ? Then 
 she closed her compasses and put down her pencil. 
 ' Are we to have a game this afternoon ? ' she 
 said ; ' I mean, Anne, are you going to play ? 
 Charley and Willie are sure to come, but if you 
 go off as usual, it will be no good, for three can't 
 play.' 
 
 The colour came in a flood over Anne's pale face. 
 ' ]Mamma plays better than I do,' she said. ' I have 
 a headache. I don't think I shall do anything this 
 afternoon.' 
 
 ' Will Mr. Douijjlas have a headache too ? ' said 
 Ivose ; ' he generally has when you have. It is not
 
 THE EEST OF THE FAMILY. 33 
 
 much fun,' she added, with a little virtuous indigna- 
 tion, ' for Charley and Willie to play with mamma.' 
 
 Mrs. Mountford showed no resentment at this 
 frank speech. ' No,' she said, ' it is not much fun 
 for Charley and Willie. I don't think it has been 
 much fun for them since Mr. Douglas came. Anne 
 likes his talk ; he is a very fine talker. It is more 
 interesting to listen to him than to play.' 
 
 ' Sometimes it is,' said Anne gravely, though 
 with another blush ; and then the two others 
 laughed. 
 
 ' My dear, you bring it on yourself ; if we are not 
 to have your confidence, we must have our laugh. 
 We have eyes in our head as well as other people — 
 or, at least, I have eyes in my head,' said the mother. 
 Anne could not but acknowledge that there was reason 
 in what she said, but it was not said in a way to 
 soften the wounded and angry girl. 
 
 ' I do not ask you not to laugh,' she said. 
 
 ' You look more like crying,' said Eose ; and she 
 got up and threw her arms suddenly about her sister 
 being an impulsive little person whose sympathies 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 IN TEUST. 
 
 were not to be calculated upon. ' What is it, dear ? 
 tell 77^ e,' she cried, with her soft lips apon her sister's 
 cheek. 
 
 Anne's heart swelled as if it would burst out of 
 her breast. There are states of mind in which 
 everything can be borne but sympathy. The gates 
 so hastily rolled to and pushed close began to open. 
 The tears came to her eyes. But then she remembered 
 that the threat her father had made was not one to 
 be confided to them. 
 
 ' Never mind. I have been talking to my father, 
 and he and I don't see things in the same light. We 
 don't always — one can't help that,' said Anne, in a 
 subdued \'oice. 
 
 ' Come up to my room,' said Eose in her ear. 
 ' Never mmd mamma — oh, come up to my room, 
 Anne darling, and tell me all about it ! I never was 
 anyone's confidant before.' 
 
 But this was not a process which Anne, shy with 
 a fervour of feeling more profound than Rose could 
 understand, or she herself express, felt at all disposed 
 to go through. She put her younger sister gently
 
 THE EEST OF THE FAMILY. 35 
 
 aside, and brought her plans too to the table. ' We 
 had better settle about the pigsties,' she said, with a 
 little relaxation of her gravity. She laughed in spite 
 of herself. ' It is a safe subject. Show me, Rosie, 
 what you have done.' 
 
 Rose was still fresh to this pursuit, and easily 
 recalled to it, so she produced her drawings with 
 little hesitation, and after a while forgot the more 
 interesting matter. They sat with their heads 
 together over the plans, while Mrs. Mountford 
 pursued her worsted work. A moralist might have 
 found in the innocent-seeming group all that in- 
 scrutableness of human nature which it is so easy to 
 remark and so impossible to fathom. Rose, it was 
 true, had not mucli in her little mind except the 
 cottages, and the hope of producing a plan which 
 should be approved as the best, having in her heart 
 a childish desire to surpass Anne, which by no 
 means diminished her faithful allegiance to her as 
 the origin of all impulses and setter of every fashion. 
 But Anne's heart, underneath the fresh crispness of 
 her muslin dress, and the apparent interest witli 
 
 D 2
 
 36 IN TEUST. 
 
 which she pursued her work, and discussed her 
 sculleries, was beating high with much confused and 
 painful emotion. Indignation and a sense of wrong, 
 mingled with a certain contempt even for the threat 
 which had wounded her as an empty menace, never 
 to be carried out — a false and fictitious weapon meant 
 for no end but that of giving her pain ; and, on the 
 other hand, the disappointment of her hopes, and a 
 certainty of severance from the love which had been 
 a revelation to her of so much in heaven and earth 
 of which she was unaware before — filled her being. 
 She would not give him up, but she would be parted 
 from him. He would go away, and any intercourse 
 they might hereafter keep up must be maintained in 
 resistance to the authority under which she had 
 lived all her life. Thus what she had supposed to 
 be the crown and glory of existence was summarily 
 turned into bitterness and wrong. She was turning 
 it over and over in her mind, while she sat there 
 steadily com.paring her measurements with those of 
 her sister, and wondering how long she must go on 
 with this in order to confound her stepmother's
 
 THE REST or THE FAMILY. 37 
 
 suspicions, and prove that she was neither disconr- 
 aged nor rendered unhappy by what had happened. 
 Naturally, in her inexperience, Anne gave great im- 
 portance to this feat of baffling her stepmother's 
 observation, and looking 'just as usual ; ' and natu- 
 rally, also, she failed altogether in the attempt. 
 Mrs. ^lountford was an experienced woman. She 
 knew what it meant when a girl looked too much as 
 if nothing had happened. And she watched with 
 great vigilance, partly by simple instinct, partly 
 with a slight sense of gratification, that the elder 
 daughter, who was so much more important than her 
 own child, should feel that she was mortal. It was 
 not any active malevolence that was in Mrs. Mount- 
 ford's mind. She would have been horrified had it 
 been suggested to her that she wished Anne any 
 harm. She wished her no harm ; but only that she 
 might feel after all that life was not one triumph 
 and scene of unruffled success and blessedness — 
 which IS the best moral discipline for everybody, as is 
 well known.
 
 38 m TKUST. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE ' GAME.' 
 
 The name of the parish in which Mount was the 
 principal house was Moniton, by some supposed to 
 be a corruption of INIount-ton, the village being- 
 situated on the side of a circular hill looking more 
 like a military mound than a natural object, which 
 gave the name alike to the property and the dis- 
 trict. Mount Hill, as it was called with unnecessary 
 amplification, was just outside the park gates, and at 
 its foot lay the Rectory, the nearest neighbouring 
 house with which the Mountfords could exchange 
 civilities. When one comes to think of it, the very 
 existence of such ecclesiastical houses close by the 
 mansions of the English gentry and nobility is a 
 standing menace and danger to that nobler and 
 more elevated class — now that the family living is
 
 THE 'GAME.' 39 
 
 no longer a natural provision for a younger son. The 
 greatest grandee in the land has to receive the 
 clergyman's family as equals, whatever may be his 
 private opinion on the subject ; they are ladies and 
 gentlemen, however poor they may be, or little 
 eligible to be introduced into closer connection with 
 members of the aristocracy, titled or otherwise ; and, 
 as a matter of fact, they have to be so received, 
 whence great trouble sometimes arises, as everybody 
 knows. The young people at the Hall and the 
 parsonage grow up together, they meet continually, 
 and join in all each other's amusements, and if they 
 determine to spend their lives together afterwards, 
 notwithstanding all those social differences which 
 are politely ignored in society, until the moment 
 comes when they must be brought into prominence, 
 who can wonder at it ? The wonder is that on the 
 whole so little harm occurs. The young Ashleys 
 were the nearest neighbours of the Mountford girls. 
 They called each other by their Christian names; 
 they furnished each other with most of their amuse- 
 ments. Had the boys not been ready to their call
 
 40 IN TEUST. 
 
 for any scheme of pleasure or use, the girls would 
 have felt themselves aggrieved. But if Charley or 
 Willie had fallen in love with Anne or Eose, the 
 whole social economy would have been shaken by it, 
 and no earthquake would have made a greater com- 
 motion. Such catastrophes are constantly happen- 
 ing to the confusion of one district after another all 
 over the country ; but who can do anything to pre- 
 vent it ? That it had not happened (openly) in the 
 present case was due to no exceptional philosophy or 
 precaution on any side. And the chance which had 
 made Mr. Cosmo Douglas speak first instead of his 
 friend, the curate, was in no way a fortunate one, 
 except in so far, indeed, that, though it produced 
 great pain and sorrow, it, at least, preserved peace 
 between the two families. The Rector was as much 
 offended, as indignant as Mr. Mountford could be, 
 at the audacity of his son's friend. A stranger, a 
 chance visitor, an intruder in the parish, he, at least, 
 had no vested rights. 
 
 The facts of the case were as yet, however, but 
 imperfectly known. Douglas had not gone away,
 
 THE ' GAME.' 41 
 
 though it was known that his interview with jNIr. 
 Mountford had not been a successful one ; but that 
 was no reason why the Ashleys should not stroll up 
 to Mount on this summer afternoon, as was their very 
 general practice. There was always some business 
 to talk about— something about the schools, or the 
 savings bank, or other parochial affairs ; and both 
 of them were well aware that without them ' a game ' 
 was all but impossible. 
 
 ' Do you feel up to it, old fellow ? ' Willie said 
 to Charley, who was the curate. The elder brother 
 did not make any distinct reply. He said, ' There's 
 Douglas to be thought of,' with a somewhat lugu- 
 brious glance behind him where that conquering 
 hero lay on the grass idly puffing his cigar. 
 
 ' Confound Douglas ! ' said the younger brother, 
 who was a secular person and free to speak his mind. 
 Charley Ashley replied only with a stifled sigh. He 
 might not himself have had the courage to lay his 
 curacy and his hopes at Anne's feet, at least for a 
 long time to come, but it was not to be expected 
 that he could look with pleasure on the man who
 
 42 IN TEUST. 
 
 had rushed in where he feared to tread, his sup- 
 planter, the Jacob who had pushed him out of his 
 path. But yet he could not help in a certain sense 
 admiring his friend's valour. He could not help 
 taikmg of it as they took their way more slowly 
 than usual across the park, when Douglas, with a 
 conscious laugh, which went sharply, like a needle, 
 through the poor curate's heart, declined to join 
 them, but begged they ' would not mind ' leaving 
 him behind. 
 
 ' When a fellow has the pluck to do it, things 
 generally go well with him,' Charley said. 
 
 The two brothers were very good friends. The 
 subject of Anne was one which had never been 
 discussed between them, but Willie Ashley knew by 
 instinct what were his brother's sentiments, and 
 Charley was conscious that he knew. The little 
 roughness with which the one thrust his arm into 
 the other's spoke of itself a whole volume of sym- 
 pathy, and they walked through the sunshine and 
 under the flickering shadows of the trees, slowly and 
 heavily, the curate with his head bent, and his
 
 THE ' GAME." 43 
 
 brown beard, of which he was as proud as was 
 becoming to a young clergyman, lying on his breast. 
 ' Pluck carries everything before it,' he said, 
 with a sigh. ' I never was one of your plucky 
 ones.' 
 
 * If you call that pluck I ' cried the other, ' when 
 a fellow thinks of nothing but himself, and goes 
 straight before him, whatever happens.' 
 
 * The curate pressed his brother's arm with tacit 
 thanks, but he sighed even more. ' All the same it 
 was a plucky thing to do,' he said. 
 
 The young men were seen approaching for a 
 long time before they reached the house. ' I wonder 
 what has happened,' said Eose ; * they walk as if they 
 were going to a funeral ; but I suppose I had better 
 go and see that everything is ready for the game.* 
 After all this was the important matter, and the 
 Ashleys, though of no great consequence in them- 
 selves, were at least the only young men in the 
 parish; and if the Woodheads came, as Rose ex- 
 pected, it looked a poor sort of thing to have no 
 men. What the game was I can scarcely pretend
 
 44 IN TRUST. 
 
 "to say. It might be croquet, or it might be lawn 
 tennis. This is entirely a chronological question, 
 and one upon which, as the date of this commence- 
 ment is a little vague, I cannot take upon me to 
 decide. And just as Willie and Charley approached 
 slowly, in a solemn march, the familiar house to 
 which they had so often turned with steps and hearts 
 less weighted, the Woodheads appeared on the other 
 side. 
 
 ' I was sure they would come,' cried Kose ; ' here 
 are Grerty and Fanny.' These young ladies were 
 a clergyman's daughters, and might have paired off 
 most suitably with the Ashleys and no harm done ; 
 but perverse humanity may be so far trusted as to 
 make sure that none of the four thought of any such 
 sensible arrangement. 
 
 As for Anne, a sigh of satisfaction and relief 
 <5ame from her bosom, not like that deeper sigh 
 which breathed forth the curate's cares. As soon as 
 she had seen the game begun and all comfortable, 
 she would escape to her own business. Her heart beat 
 high with the thought of the meeting that awaited
 
 THE 'GAME. 45 
 
 her, and of the long, confiding, lover's talk, the 
 pouring out of all her cares into another heart which 
 was her own. Anne had not been accustomed to 
 much sympathy in her life. She had not wanted it 
 perhaps. She loved her little sister with her whole 
 heart ; but a high sense of honour had kept her, even 
 when a child, from confiding to Eose any of the 
 little jars and frets of which Kose's mother was the 
 chief cause ; and what other cares had Anne ? So 
 that the delight of saying everything that was in 
 her heart was as new to her as the love that made it 
 possible. And it was one of the elements of won- 
 dering happiness that filled her whole being to find 
 out how many things she had to tell. She had 
 thought herself reserved, unexpansive, sometimes 
 even cold and heartless, when she beheld the endless 
 confidential chatter of other girls, and wondered 
 why it was that she had nothing to confide. But 
 now she was half dismayed and half transported to 
 discover how much she too had to say. The deep 
 waters of her heart seemed to flow over from that 
 secret place, and pour out in an irrestrainable flood.
 
 46 IN TRUST. 
 
 It seemed to herself that she kept them in with 
 difficulty even to other people now. She had so 
 much to tell him that she could scarcely help pre- 
 luding even to those who were indifferent, betraying 
 to them the great tide of utterance that was in her. 
 As a matter of fact, she did not at all betray herself ; 
 the Woodheads and the Ashleys saw that Anne was 
 slightly flushed and feverish, justifying the com- 
 plaint she made of a headache, for the sake of which 
 she feared staying out in the sun ; and one of the 
 former, who was a medical young lady, accustomed 
 to manage all the lighter maladies of her father's 
 parish, immediately prescribed for the sufferer. 
 
 ' Don't stay out here,' Miss Fanny said ; ^ it is the 
 worst thing possible. Gro and lie down ; or, if you 
 don't like that, sit down in the shade and take a 
 quiet book. Have you got a novel ? — if it's not an 
 exciting one, that will do — but keep yourself per- 
 fectly quiet and never mind us. Her pulse is just a 
 little excited — nothing to be alarmed about — if she 
 will but go and lie down.' 
 
 The others, especially the two young men, ex-
 
 THE 'GA^IE.' 47 
 
 changed furtive glances. Willie pressed Charley's 
 ai*m with a whisper, ' Keep it up, old fellow ! ' 
 Poor cm-ate ! he looked piteously at the girl whom 
 he had not had the courage to try for. Would her 
 cheeks have taken that lovely flush, her eye got that 
 anxious, nervous brightness for him ? Was it all a 
 question of pluck, and who should be the first to 
 speak ? He watched her going back to the house, 
 across the flower garden, with his lips in an un- 
 conscious foolish gape of self-renunciation and tender 
 pity and regret. But happily that rich brown 
 beard of his hid the imbecility of this pathetic 
 simple gaze. And then he turned with sober resolu- 
 tion to the game. He cared for nothing any more 
 now that Anne had gone. But an Englishman 
 must play his game out whatever happens ; though 
 heaven and earth should melt away. 
 
 Nobody suspected her, nobody dreamt what 
 Anne was about to do. That she should do anything 
 that was not open and manifest entered into no 
 one's idea of her. She had always been mistress of 
 herself and all her ways, and had never quailel
 
 48 IX TRUST. 
 
 before the face of man. Did she feel guilty now 
 when she thus appeared to accept the advice offered 
 to her — appeared to consent to take shelter from the 
 sun, and went back to the house to lie down, or take 
 a quiet book, as was recommended? Anne was a 
 great deal too much occupied with her own thoughts 
 and plans to feel any of those little guilts yet. She 
 was scarcely conscious of what she herself felt and 
 thought. She had to carry the report of the morn- 
 ing to the other person, who was as much concerned 
 as she was in it ; to tell him everything, to know 
 what he had to say, to consult with him as to what 
 they were to do. With all this in her heart, a flood 
 of thought, rising and falling, like waves of the sea, 
 is it possible that she could think of what the others 
 would say, or even of the novel aspect of her subter- 
 fuge and evasion ? She could think of nothing 
 about them, but of how to get free, to be delivered 
 from her companions. To see him was necessary, 
 indispensable. She had never permitted it to be 
 supposed that she would not see him, or suffered 
 anything to be drawn from her which could imply
 
 THE ' GAME.' 49 
 
 an intention of giving him up. Her father had said 
 nothing on this subject. There had been neither 
 condition nor promise. But still it was no doubt 
 contrary to Anne's character, as it was to high 
 honom- and sincerity, that she should allow it to be 
 supposed that she was returning to the house on 
 account of her headache, when her intention was to 
 go out another way and meet her lover. When she 
 thouo^ht of it afterwards the flush of shame which 
 came over her ran from head to foot ; but at the 
 present moment she was entirely unmoved by it. 
 The idea did not so much as cross the threshold of 
 her mind. 
 
 She went softly into the cool and silent house. 
 There was nobody visible in the long passages, nor 
 in the hall through which she passed, not consciously 
 going with any precaution, yet making little sound 
 with her light foot. Even Mr. Mountford was out ; 
 the doors stood open, the sunshine streamed in here 
 and there at a window making a bar of blazing 
 whiteness across the corridor or stair. Old Say- 
 more was in the open vestibule, full of plants and 
 
 TOL. I. E
 
 50 IN TKUST. 
 
 flowers, into which the great door opened. He was 
 standing before a tall vase of white glass, almost as 
 high as himself, in which he was arranging with 
 great anxiety and interest a waving bouquet of tall 
 ferns and feathery branches. Old Saymore had a 
 soul for art, and the fancies of his young mistress 
 stood in place of all the canons and science of beauty 
 to his mind. He stood with his head on one side, 
 now and then walking a few steps backward to 
 consider the combination of his leaves like an artist 
 before a picture, pulling one forward, pushing one 
 back, pondering with the gravest countenance how 
 to prop up in the middle the waving plume of 
 sumach with which he intended to crown the edifice. 
 He was too much absorbed in his performance to 
 notice Anne, who for her part was too completely 
 preoccupied by hers to see him where he stood, em- 
 bowered in all that greenery, calculating and con- 
 sidering with the most serious countenance as if the 
 weight of an empire was on his shoulders. As she 
 ran down the steps he heard her for the first time, 
 and turned round hurriedly, moved by the hope of
 
 THE 'GA]ME.' 51 
 
 finding a critic and adviser. But his cry of ' ]Miss 
 Anne ! ' failed to reach her ear. Her heart was 
 beating high, her thoughts rushing at such a rapid 
 rate that they made a little atmosphere of sound 
 about her, and shut out all less ethereal appeals. 
 
 After the Ashleys had left the Rectory, Mr. 
 Cosmo Douglas for his part raised himself from the 
 grass where he had lain so luxuriously puffing his 
 cigar He was more amused than distressed by the 
 confusion he had brought among them. Charley 
 Ashley was his friend, but the affection had been 
 chiefly on one side. It had been, as the other very 
 well knew, a distinction for Ashley, who was not 
 distinguished in any other way, to be known as the 
 friend of a personage so much more brilliant and 
 popular than himself. Douglas had been accustomed 
 to smile when he was asked by his admirers 'what 
 lie could see ' in the good fellow who was neither 
 clever nor gay, nor rich, nor witty, and who had, 
 indeed, no particular recommendation except his 
 goodness. It pleased him to attach to himself this 
 useful, faithful, humble friend, who was always 
 
 £ 2 
 
 LIBRARY
 
 52 IN TRUST. 
 
 ready to stand up for him, and never likely to bring 
 him into any scrape or trouble. And he had always 
 been ready, he thought, to do anything for Charley 
 — to coach him for an examination, to write an essay 
 for him, to ' pull him through ' any of the crises of 
 a college career. But to go so far as to curb his 
 own fancy for a girl who pleased him because 
 Charley had set his affections in the same quarter, 
 was a thing entirely beyond Cosmo's perceptions of 
 the duties of friendship. And when he saw the 
 dismal looks of his friend — his lieavy dropping back 
 upon the sympathy of Willie, his younger brother, 
 who had never hitherto been his confidant, and the 
 suppressed indignation towards himself of that 
 younger and always jealous companion, he was more 
 tickled than grieved by it. The idea that he could 
 find a serious rival in Ashley never entered his 
 thoughts — or, indeed, that anyone should pay the 
 slightest regard to poor Charley while he was by. 
 Douglas had, indeed, so much confidence in the 
 humility of his friend that he felt his own preference 
 of any thing or person to be a quite sufficient reason
 
 THE 'GAIVIE.' 53 
 
 whj Charley should give it up. ' He likes to give 
 in to me,' was what he had said on many previous 
 occasions ; and he was unable to understand how any 
 other affection could be more deeply rooted in 
 Ashley's bosom than that which was directed to 
 himself. Therefore he only smiled at what he sup- 
 posed a momentary petulance. Grood simple soul . 
 perhaps Douglas respected his friend more that he 
 was capable of being so badly ' hit.' But yet he 
 could scarcely realise the possibility of it. Charley 
 in love had not presented itself to him as a credible 
 idea. It made him laugh in spite of himself. And 
 as for interfering with Charley ! — as if anyone 
 could suppose it possible that Charley was a man to 
 catch a lady's eye. 
 
 Cosmo's first visit had been at Christmas, when 
 all was new to him, and when the revelation of the 
 two girls at Mount, so full of life and movement 
 amid the gentle stagnation of the parish, had been 
 the most delightful surprise to the resigned visitor, 
 who had come as a matter of duty, determined to 
 endure anything, and make himself agreeable to
 
 54 IN TRUST. 
 
 Charley's friends. ' You never told me what sort of 
 neighbours you had,' he had said almost with indig- 
 nation. ' Neighbours ! I told you about the Mount- 
 fords and the Woodheads, and Lord Meadowlands, 
 who is our great gun,' said Charley tranquilly. ' You 
 speak as if they were all the same — Mountfords and 
 Woodheads and Smiths and Jones — whereas Miss 
 Mountford would be remarked in any society,' 
 Douglas had said. He remembered afterwards that 
 Charley had looked at him for a moment before he 
 replied, and had grown red ; but all he had said was, 
 ' I didn't know that you thought much about girls.' 
 All this passed through Douglas's mind as he stood 
 looking after the two brothers, watching the mourn- 
 fulness of their march with an irrepressible sense of 
 the ludicrous. To see that victim of fate leaning on 
 Ins brother's arm, dropping now and then a melan- 
 choly word or deep-heaved sigh, and walking 
 gloomily, as after a funeral, to the afternoon ' game,' 
 was a sight at which the most sympathetic looker-on 
 might have been excused for smiling. ' I didn't 
 know that you thought much about girls ! ' Was
 
 THE 'GAME.' 55 
 
 there ever a more stupid remark ? And how was I 
 to know he thought much about girls ? Douglas 
 asked himself with another laugh. His conscience 
 was easily satisfied on this point. And he had come 
 down at the beginning of the long vacation to see a 
 little more of the Ashleys' neighbours. He could 
 not but feel that it must be a relief to them also to 
 see a conversible being, an alive and awake human 
 creature amidst those scenes of rural life. 
 
 But now how far things had gone ! Douglas had 
 been a month at the Rectory, and as his eyes followed 
 the two Ashleys along the white sun-swept road and 
 away under the shadow of the park trees, the idea 
 came to him, with a curious sense of expansive and 
 enlarged being, that the masses of foliage sweeping 
 away towards the west, amid which the two solemn 
 wayfarers soon disappeared, would one day, in all 
 probability, be his own. ' No, by the bye, not that ; 
 that's the entailed part,' he said to himself; then 
 laughed again, this time partly in gentle self-ridicule, 
 partly in pleasure, and turned his face the other way, 
 towards Lower Lilford — for he had made himself
 
 56 IX TEUST. 
 
 master of the whole particulars Facing this way, 
 and with the laugh still on his lips, he suddenly 
 found himself in the presence of the Eector, who had 
 come out by his own study window at the sight of 
 the solitary figure on the lawn. Douglas felt him- 
 self taken in the act — though of what it would have 
 been hard to say. He grew red in spite of himself 
 under the gaze of the Rector's mild and dull eyes. 
 
 ' Have the boys left you alone ? I can't think 
 how they could be so rude,' Mr. Ashley said. 
 
 'Not rude at all, sir. It is I who am rude. I 
 was lazy, and promised to follow them when I had 
 finished my — novel.' Happily, he recollected in 
 time that he had been holding one in his hand. ' I 
 am going now,' he added. ^ I dare say I shall catch 
 them up before they get to the house.' 
 
 ' I was afraid they were leaving you to take care 
 of yourself — that is not our old-fashioned way,' said 
 the old clerg3^man. ' 1 wish you a pleasant walk. 
 It is a fine afternoon, but you will find the road 
 dusty. I advise you to go over the meadows and 
 round the lower way.'
 
 THE 'GAINIE.' 57 
 
 * That is just how I intended to go.' 
 
 * Very sensible. The boys always take the high 
 road. The other takes you round by the Beeches, 
 much the prettiest way ; but it is longer round, and 
 that is why they never use it. A pleasant walk to 
 you,' Mr. Ashley said, waving his hand as he went 
 back to the house. 
 
 Douglas laughed to himself as he took the path 
 through the meadows which Mr. Ashley had in- 
 dicated. The Rector had not as yet interested him- 
 self much in what was goiu'^- on, and the simplicity 
 with which he had suggested the way which the 
 lovers had chosen, and which led to their tryst ing- 
 place, amused the intruder still more. ' If he but 
 knew ! ' Douglas said to himself, transferring to the 
 old clergyman the thoughts that filled the mind of 
 his son, by a very natural heightening of his own im- 
 portance. And yet, to tell the truth, had Mr. Asliley 
 known, it would have been a great relief to his mind, 
 as releasing Charley from a great danger and the 
 parish from a possible convulsion. To know this, 
 however, might have lessened the extreme satisfac-
 
 58 IN TRUST. 
 
 tion with which Douglas set out for the meeting. 
 He went slowly on across the green fields, all bright 
 in the sunshine, across the little stream, and up the 
 leafy woodland road that led to the Beeches, his 
 heart pleasantly agitated, his mind full of delightful 
 anticipations. Anne herself was sweet to him, and 
 his conquest of her flattered him in every particular. 
 Happiness, importance, wealth, an established place 
 in the world, were all coming to him, linked hand 
 in hand with the loves and joys which surrounded 
 the girl's own image. He had no fear of the con- 
 sequences. Remorseless fathers were not of his time. 
 Such mediaeval furniture had been cleared out of the 
 world. He expected nothing from this meeting but 
 acceptance, reconciliation, love, and happiness.
 
 59 
 
 CHAPTEK IV. 
 
 VHDEU THE BEECHES. 
 
 The Beeches were a beautiful clump of trees on a 
 knoll in the middle of the park. They were 
 renowned through the county, and one of the glories 
 of Mount. When the family was absent — which 
 did not happen often — picnic parties were made up 
 to visit them. There was nothing like them in all 
 the country round. The soil was rich and heavy 
 round them with the shedding of their own leaves, 
 and when the sun got in through their big branches 
 and touched that brown carpet it shone like specks 
 of gold. Some of the branches were like trees in 
 themselves, and the great grey trunks like towers. 
 One of them had been called, from time immemorial, 
 the lover's tree. It was scrawled over with initials, 
 some of them half a century old, or more. From
 
 60 IN TEUST. 
 
 the elevation on which they stood the spectator 
 looked down upon the house lying below among its 
 gardens, on the green terrace and the limes, and 
 could watch what the group there was doing, while 
 himself safe from all observation. When Douglas 
 had informed Anne of her father's rejection of his 
 suit, she had bidden him come to this spot to hear 
 the issue of her own interview with Mr. Mountfoid. 
 He seated himself tranquilly enough under the lover's 
 tree to await her coming. He was not too much 
 agitated to smoke his cigar. Indeed, he was not 
 much agitated at all. He had no fear for the 
 eventual issue. True, it might not come immedi- 
 ately. He did not know that he wanted it to come 
 immediately. To love is one thing, to marry 
 another. So long as he was sure of Anne, he did 
 not mind waiting for a year or two. And he felt 
 that he was sure of Anne, and in that case, eventually, 
 of her father too. Consequently, he sat still and 
 waited, pleased,' in spite of himself, with the little 
 lawlessness. To be received in the ordinary way as 
 a son-in-law, to kiss the ladies of the house, and
 
 UNDEE THE BEECHES. 61 
 
 shake hands with the men, and be told in a trembling 
 voice that it was the choicest treasure of the family 
 that was being bestowed upon him, were all things 
 which a man of courage has to go through, and does 
 go through without flinching. But on the whole it 
 was more delightful to have Anne steal away to him 
 out of all commonplace surroundings and make him 
 sure of her supreme and unfailing love, whatever 
 anyone might say — with. Men entendu, the paternal 
 blessing in the background, to be won after a little 
 patience. Douglas was flattered in all his wishes 
 and fancies by this romantic beginning. He would 
 have the good, he thought, both of the old system of 
 love-making and the new — Anne by herself, without 
 any drawbacks, willing to dare any penalties for his 
 sake ; but at the end everything that was legitimate 
 and proper — settlements and civilities. He liked it 
 better so than if it had been necessary to wind up 
 everything "^in a few months, and marry and be 
 settled ; indeed it pleased him much, being so sure 
 as he was of all that was to follow, to have this little 
 .secret and clandestine intercourse. He liked it.
 
 62 IN TRUST. 
 
 To get Anne to do so much as this for bim was a 
 triumph ; his vanity overflowed while he sat and 
 waited for her, though vanity was but a small part 
 of his character. He reached that spot so soon that 
 he saw the beginning of the 'game,' and Anne's 
 white figure going back through the flower garden 
 all blazing with colour, to the house. What excuse 
 had she been able to find for leaving them ? She 
 must have invented some excuse. And he saw the 
 curate settling himself to that ' game,' with un- 
 speakable amusement. He took his cigar from 
 between his lips to laugh. Poor old Charley! his 
 heart was broken, but he did his duty like a man. 
 He watched him settling to his afternoon's work 
 with Gertrude Woodhead as his partner, and laughed, 
 feeling the full humour of the event, and enjoying 
 the tremendous seriousness with which that sacrifice 
 to duty was made. Then, while the game went on 
 in the bright foreground of the picture, he saw the 
 moving speck of that white figure re-issuing on the 
 other side of the house, and advancing towards him, 
 threading her way among the trees. It was for him
 
 UNDEE THE BEECHES. 63 
 
 that Anne did this, and he it was alone of all con- 
 cerned who could sit here calmly puffing the blue 
 smoke among the branches, and waiting for his 
 happiness to come to him. Never was man more 
 elated, more flattered, more perfectly contented with 
 himself. 
 
 He threw the cigar away when she was within a 
 short distance of the spot, and went to meet her 
 with triumphant pleasure. 
 
 ' My faithful Anne — my true love,' he said as he 
 met her. And Anne came to him ; her eyes shining, 
 her lips apart with eagerness. What a meeting it 
 was ! No tame domestic reception and hubbub of 
 family excitement could compare with it. How 
 glad and flattered he felt that it was a clandestine 
 indulgence, and that papa had not vulgarised every- 
 thing by giving his consent ! Then they sat down 
 upon the knoll, arm linked in arm, and clasping each 
 other's hands. There was the peaceful house within 
 sight, and the party on the green terrace absorbed 
 in their inferior amusement, in complete ignorance, 
 not knowing what romance was going on, scarcely
 
 64 IN TEUST. 
 
 out of their range of vision, under the trees. All 
 these experiences served to enhance the delight 
 of his position. For the first few minutes he 
 attached less importance to the words which Anne 
 said. 
 
 ' But you do not seem to understand me. My 
 father will not consent.' 
 
 ' If you consent, my darling, what do I want 
 more ? I am not afraid of your father.' 
 
 ' But Cosmo — listen ! you are not really paying 
 any attention ' 
 
 ' Every attention, to the real matter in question. 
 I am reading that in your eyes, in your hands, in 
 3^ou altogether. If I am too happy to take any 
 notice of those vulgarer symbols, words ' 
 
 ' But they are not vulgar symbols. Yes, I am 
 happy too. I am not afraid of any thing. But, Cosmo, 
 you must listen, and you must understand. My father 
 refuses his consent.' 
 
 ' For how long ? ' he said with a smile. ' I also 
 should like to refuse you something for the pleasure 
 of being persuaded to forswear myself. I think papa
 
 UNDER THE BEECHES. 65 
 
 is right. I should hold out as long as you would put 
 any faith in the delusion of my resistance/ 
 
 * It is no delusion,' said Anne, shaking her head. 
 * You must not think so. It is very serious. He has 
 threatened me. There was no make-believe in his 
 mind, Cosmo.' 
 
 ' Threatened you ? With what ? Ah ! so should 
 I if I thought you were going to desert me.' 
 
 ' You will not see how serious it is ! I do not 
 believe he will give in, Cosmo. He has threatened 
 me that if I persevere he will leave everything he 
 has to leave, away from me.' 
 
 ' Away from you ? But he has no power to do 
 that,' said the young man. ' It is skilful of him to 
 try your faithfulness — but he might have tried it by 
 less conventional means.' 
 
 ' Yes, he has the power,' said Anne, neglecting 
 the other part of this speech. ^ He has power over 
 everything, except, indeed, the entail ; and I believe 
 he will do what he says. My father is not a man at 
 all likely to try my faithfulness. He knows me, for 
 one thing.' 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 66 IN TKUST. 
 
 ' And knows you true as steel,' said Cosmo, looking 
 admiringly in her face and still quite unimpressed by 
 the news. 
 
 ' Knows that I am not one to give way. He 
 know-s that very well. So here is something for your 
 serious consideration. No, indeed, it is no joke. You 
 must not laugh. We must face what is before us,' 
 said Anne, endeavouring to withdraw her hand and 
 half offended by his unbelief. 
 
 ^ I cannot face your frown,' said Cosmo, ' that is 
 the only thing I am really afraid of. Wljat ! must it 
 really be so stern as this ? But these hard fathers, 
 my darling, belong to the fifteenth century. You 
 don't mean to tell me that rebellious daughters are 
 shut up in their rooms, and oaths insisted upon, and 
 paternal curses uttered now ! ' 
 
 ' I said nothing about being shut up in my room ; 
 but it is quite certain,' said Anne, with a little heat, 
 ' that if I oppose him in this point my father 
 will take all that ought to come to me and give it to 
 Eose.' 
 
 ' To Rose ! ' a shade of dismay stole over Cosmo's
 
 UNDEE THE BEECHES. 67 
 
 face. ' But I thought,' he said — showing an ac- 
 quaintance with the circumstances which after, when 
 she thought of it, surprised Anne — ' I thought your 
 fortune came from your mother, not from Mr. Mount- 
 ford at all.' 
 
 ' And so it does ; but it is all in his hands ; my 
 mother trusted in my father entirely, as she was of 
 com'se quite right to do.' 
 
 ' As it must have been the height of imprudence 
 to permit her to do ! ' cried Douglas, suddenly redden- 
 ing with anger. ' How could the trustees be such 
 fools ? So you, like the money, are entirely in Mr. 
 Mountford's hands ? ' 
 
 All at once the tone had ceased to be that of a 
 
 -Vr 
 
 lovers' interview. Anne, startled and offended, this 
 time succeeded in drawing her hand out of his. 
 
 ' Yes,' she said, with a chill of surprise in her 
 voice, ' entirely in his hands.' 
 
 What was going to follow? Under the great 
 beechen boughs, through the warm summer sunshine 
 there seemed all at once to breathe a wintry gale 
 which penetrated to the heart. 
 
 F 2
 
 68 IN TRUST. 
 
 This sudden cloud was dissipated in a moment 
 by another laugh, which rang almost too loudly 
 among the trees. ' Well,' he said, drawing her arm 
 through his again, and holding the reluctant hand 
 clasped fast, ' what of that ? Because you are in his 
 hands, Anne, my own, do you think I am going to 
 let you slip out of mine ? ' 
 
 The sun grew warm again, and the air delicious 
 as before. Two on one side, and all the world on 
 the other, is not that a perfectly fair division ? So 
 long as there are two — if there should come to be but 
 one, then the aspect of everything is changed. Anne's 
 hands clasped between two bigger ones all but dis- 
 appeared from view. It would be hard, very hard, 
 to slip out of that hold ; and it was a minute or two 
 before she regained possession of what Cosmo had 
 called the valgarer symbols, words. Without re- 
 currence to their aid between people who love each 
 other, how much can be said ! 
 
 ' That is all very well,' said Anne, at last ; 
 ' but whatever we may do or say we must come 
 back to this: My father has promised to disin-
 
 UNDER THE BEECHES. 69 
 
 herit me, Cosmo, and he will not go back from his 
 word.' 
 
 ' Disinherit ! the very word sounds romantic. 
 Are we in "a novel or are we not? I thought dis- 
 inherit was only a word for the stage.' 
 
 ' But you know this is mere levity,' said Anne. 
 She smiled in spite of herself. It pleased her to the 
 bottom of her heart that he should take it so lightly, 
 that he should refuse to be frightened by it. ' We 
 are not boy and girl,' she said, with delightful gravity 
 of reproof. 'We must think seriously of a thing 
 which affects our interests so much. The question is, 
 what is to be done ? ' 
 
 Had she but known how keenly under his levity 
 he was discussing that question within himself ! But 
 he went on, still half laughing as if it were the best 
 joke in the world. 
 
 ' The only thing, so far as I can see, that is not 
 to be done,' he said, ' is to obey papa and give 
 me up.' 
 
 ' Give up — I would not give up a dog ! ' cried 
 Anne, impetuously; ' and Cosmo, you ! '
 
 
 
 C-.r 
 
 70 IN TRUST. 
 
 ' I am not a dog ; and yet in one sense, in Mr. 
 
 Mountford's eyes What is it, Anne, that hedges 
 
 you round with such divinity, you landed people ? 
 Mountford of Mount : it sounds very well, I con- 
 fess. And why was I not Douglas of somewhere or 
 other ? It is very hard upon you, but yet it is not 
 my fault.' 
 
 ' I like you infinitely better,' cried Anne, with 
 proud fervour, ' that you are Douglas of nowhere, 
 but stand upon yourself — the father of your own 
 fortunes. That is the thing to be proud of — if one 
 has ever any right to be proud.' 
 
 ' I have not achieved much to be proud of as 
 yet,' he said, shaking his head ; and then there was 
 again a pause, perhaps not quite so ecstatic a pause, 
 for practical necessity and the urgent call for a 
 decision of one kind or other began to be felt, and 
 silenced them. It was easy to say that there was 
 one thing that was not to be done — but after? 
 Then for the first time in her life Anne felt the 
 disability of her womanhood. This tells for little so 
 long as the relations between men and women are
 
 UNDER THE BEECHES. 71 
 
 not in question. It is when these ties begin — and a 
 girl, who has perhaps taken the initiative all her 
 life, finds herself suddenly reduced to silence in face 
 of her lover — that the bond is felt. What could she 
 say or suggest? She had exhausted her powers 
 when she declared with such proud emphasis that 
 to give up was impossible. Then nature, which is 
 above all law, stepped in and silenced her. What 
 could she do further ? It was for him to speak. 
 The first sense of this compulsion was both sweet 
 and painful to her — painful, because her mind was 
 overflowing with active energy and purpose which 
 longed for utterance : sweet, as the sign and symbol 
 of a new condition, a union more rich and strange 
 than any individuality. Anne had hesitated little 
 in her life, and had not known what it was to wait. 
 Now she bent her head to the necessity in a curious 
 maze of feeling — bewildered, happy, a little impa- 
 tient, wondering and hoping, silent as she had never 
 in all her life before been tempted to be. 
 
 As for Douglas, he was silent too, with a much 
 less delightful consciousness. In such circumstances
 
 72 IN TEUST. 
 
 what are the natural things for a man to say ? 
 That what his love has is nothing to him, so long as 
 she brings him herself — that if there is only a 
 sacrifice of money in question, no money can be 
 allowed to stand in the way of happiness ; that he 
 has no fear, unless it might be for her; that to 
 labour for her, to make her independent of all the 
 fathers in the world, is his first privilege ; and that 
 the only thing to be considered is, when and how 
 she will make his happiness complete by trusting 
 herself to his care. These are, no doubt, the right 
 things for a man to say, especially if they happen to 
 be true, but even whether they are quite true or not, 
 as his natural role requires. Then, on the other 
 side, the woman (if she has any sense) will certainly 
 come in and impose conditions and limit the fulness 
 of the sacrifice ; so that, what by masculine boldness 
 of plan, and feminine caution of revisal, something 
 reasonable and practical is at last struck out. But 
 the caution, the repression, the prudence, ought not 
 to be on the man's side. Nothing can be more 
 distinct than this great law. It becomes the woman
 
 UNDER THE BEECHES. 73 
 
 to see all the drawbacks, to hold back, and to insist 
 upon every prudential condition, not to make herself 
 a burden upon him or permit him to be overwhelmed 
 by his devotion. But it is not from his side that 
 these suggestions of prudence can be allowed to 
 come, however strongly he may perceive them. 
 Perhaps it is as hard upon the man, who sees all 
 the difficulties, to be compelled to adopt this part, 
 as it is on the woman, accustomed to lead the way, 
 to be silent and hold back. Douglas was in this pre- 
 dicament, if Anne felt all the mingled penalties and 
 privileges of the other. He must do it, or else acknow- 
 ledge himself a poor creature. And Cosmo had not 
 the slightest inclination to appear a poor creature in 
 Anne's eyes. Yet at the same time he felt that 
 to propose to this impetuous girl — who was quite 
 capable of taking him at his word — that she should 
 marry him at once in face of her father's menace, was 
 madness. What was he to do ? He sat silent — for 
 more minutes than Anne's imagination approved. 
 Her heart began to sink, a wondering pang to make 
 itself felt in her breast, not for herself so much as
 
 74 IN TEUST. 
 
 for him. Was he about to fail to the emergency ? 
 to show himself unprepared to meet it ? Was he, 
 could it be possible, more concerned about the loss 
 of the money than herself ? 
 
 'Here am I in a nice predicament,' he burst 
 forth at last ; ' what am I to say to you ? Anne — you 
 who have been brought up to wealth, who have 
 known nothing but luxury — what am I to say to 
 you ? Is it to be my part to bring you down to 
 poverty, to limit your existence? I who have no 
 recommendation save that of loving you, which 
 heaven knows many a better man must share with 
 me ; I an intruder whom you did not know a year 
 ago — an interloper ' 
 
 There are some cases in which there is no policy 
 like the naked truth. Anne held up her hands to 
 stop him as he went on, exclaiming softly, ' Cosmo, 
 Cosmo ! ' in various tones of reproach and horror. 
 Then at last she stopped him practically, by putting 
 one of her hands upon his mouth — an action which 
 made her blush all over with tender agitation, plea- 
 sure, and shame.
 
 UNDER THE BEECHES. 75 
 
 ' How can you say such things ? Cosmo ! I will 
 not hear another word.' 
 
 ' Am I anything but an interloper ? How is 
 any man worth calling a man to let you sacrifice 
 yourself to him, Anne ? ' 
 
 ' I shall soon think it is you that want to throw 
 me over,' she said. 
 
 This shifted the tragic issue of the question and 
 put him more at ease. If it could but be brought 
 back to the general ground, on which mutual pro- 
 fessions of fidelity would sufiSce and time could be 
 gained ! So far as that went, Cosmo knew very well 
 what to say. It was only the practical result that 
 filled him with alarm. Why had he been so hasty 
 in declaring himself? The preliminaries of court- 
 ship may go on for years, but the moment an answer 
 has been asked and given, some conclusion must be 
 come to. However, it is always easy to answer a 
 girl when she utters such words as these. He 
 eluded the real difficulty, following her lead, and so 
 filled up the time with lovers' talk that the hour 
 flew by without any decision. They talked of the
 
 76 IN TRUST. 
 
 one subject in a hundred different tones — it was all 
 so new, and Anne was so easily transported into that 
 vag^e and beautiful fairyland where her steps were 
 treading for the first time. And she had so much 
 to say to him on her side ; and time has wings, and 
 can fly on some occasions though he is so slow on 
 others. It was she who at the end of many di- 
 gressions finally discovered that while they had 
 been talking the green terrace below had become 
 vacant, the company dispersed. She started up in 
 alarm. 
 
 ' They have all gone in. The game is over. 
 How long we must have been sitting here ! And 
 they will be looking for me. I was obliged to say I 
 had a headache. Indeed I had a headache,' said 
 Anne, suddenly waking to a sense of her subterfuge 
 and hanging her head — for he had laughed — which 
 was a failure of perception on his part and almost 
 roused her pride to arms. But Cosmo was quick- 
 sighted and perceived his mistake. 
 
 ' Dear Anne ! is this the first issue of faith to 
 me ? ' he said. ' What am I to do, my darling ?
 
 UNDER THE BEECHES. 77 
 
 Kill myself for having disturbed your life and made 
 your head ache, or ' 
 
 ' Do not talk nonsense, Cosmo ; but I must go 
 home.' 
 
 ' And we have been talking nonsense, and have 
 come to no settlement one way or another,' he said, 
 with a look of vexation. Naturally Anne took the 
 blame to herself. It could only be her fault. 
 
 ' The time has gone so fast,' she said, with a sigh. 
 ' But, perhaps, on the whole, it is best not to settle 
 anything. Let us take a little time to think. Is 
 there any hurry ? Nobody can separate us so long 
 as we are faithful to each other. There is no need 
 that I know for — any conclusion.' 
 
 Poor Cosmo ! there were points in which at this 
 moment his was a hard case. He was obliged to 
 look vexed and complain, though he was so fully 
 convinced of the wisdom of this utterance. 'You 
 forget,' he said tenderly, * that I have to go away, 
 to return to my life of loneliness — perhaps to ask 
 myself if Anne was only a heavenly dream, a 
 delusion, and to find myself waking '
 
 78 IN TEUST. 
 
 ' To what ? ' she replied, in her enthusiasm, half 
 angry, ' to what ? ' If you have my heart with you 
 and my thoughts, is not that the best part of me ? 
 The Anne that will be with you will be the true 
 Anne, not the outside of her which must stay 
 here.' 
 
 ' But I want the outside too. Ah, Anne, if I 
 were to stay here, if I could live at your gate like 
 Charley Ashley (poor fellow !). But you forget that 
 I must go away.' 
 
 ' I don't forget it. When must you go ? ' She 
 sank her voice a little and drew closer to him, and 
 looked at him with a cloud rising over her face. He 
 must go, there was no eluding that certainty, and to 
 think of it was like thinking of dying — yet of a 
 sweet death to be borne heroically for the sake each 
 of each, and with a speedy bright resurrection in 
 prospect ; but it would be an extinction of all the 
 delight of living so long as it lasted. Cosmo's mind 
 was not so elevated as Anne's, nor his imagination 
 so inspiring, but the look of visionary anguish and 
 courage went to his heart
 
 UNDER THE BEECHES. 70 
 
 *I don't deserve it,' be cried with a broken voice; 
 wbich was very true. Then recovering bimself, ' It 
 would not do for me to linger after wbat bas passed 
 between your fatber and me. It will be a terrible 
 wrencb, and without knowing when we are to meet 
 again. Love, it must be before Saturday,' he 
 said. 
 
 They were standing close, very close together, 
 clasping each other's hands. Two tears came into 
 Anne's eyes, great lakes of moisture not falling, 
 though brimming over. But she gave him such a 
 smile as was all the sweeter reflected in them, ' By 
 Friday, then — we must make up our minds what we 
 are to do.' 
 
 His fears and doubtfulness yielded for the 
 moment to an impulse of real emotion. ' How am 
 I to live without you, now that I know you ? ' he 
 said. 
 
 ' You will not be without me, Cosmo ! Did I not 
 tell you the best of me would be with you always ? 
 Let us both think witli all our might what will be 
 the right thing for us.'
 
 80 IN TEUST. 
 
 ' I know what I shall feel to be the best, Anne.' 
 He said this with a little fervour, suddenly coming 
 to see — as now and then a man does — by a sudden 
 inspiration, entirely contrary to his judgment, what 
 would be his only salvation. This answered his 
 purpose far better than any cleverness he could have 
 invented. She shook her head. 
 
 'We must not insist on choosing the happiest 
 way,' she said. ' We must wait — in every way, I 
 feel sure that to wait is the only thing we can 
 do.' 
 
 ' Certainly not the happiest,' he said, with em- 
 phasis. ' There is no reason because of that inter- 
 view with your father why I should not come to say 
 good-bye. I will come on Friday publicly; but 
 to-morrow, Anne, to-morrow, here ' 
 
 She gave him her promise without hesitation. 
 There had been no pledge against seeing him asked 
 or given, and it was indispensable that they should 
 settle their plans. And then they parted, he, in the 
 agitation and contagious enthusiasm of the moment, 
 drawn closer to the girl whom he loved, but did not
 
 UNDER THE BEECHES. 81 
 
 understand, nearer knowing her than he had ever 
 been before. The impulse kept him up as on 
 borrowed wings as far as the enclosure of the park. 
 Then Cosmo Douglas dropped down to earth, ceased 
 to reflect Anne Mountford, and became himself. 
 IShe on wings which were her own, and borrowed 
 from no one — wings of pure visionary passion, devo- 
 tion, faith — skimmed through the light air home- 
 ward, her heart wrung, her sweet imagination full of 
 visions, her courage and constancy strong as for life 
 or death. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 82 IN TKUST. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 EXPLANATIONS. 
 
 It is an awkward and a painful thing to quarrel 
 with a friend when he is staying under your roof; 
 though in that case it will no doubt make a breach, 
 and he will go away, which will relieve you, even if 
 you regret it afterwards. But if there is no quarrel, 
 yet you find out suddenly that you have a grievance 
 — a grievance profound and bitter, but not per- 
 mitting of explanation — the state of affairs is more 
 painful still ; especially if the friend is thrown into 
 your special society, and not taken from you by the 
 general courtesies of the house. It was in this un- 
 fortunate position that the young men at the Rectory 
 found themselves on the evening that followed. 
 There was nobody in the house to diminish the 
 pressure. Mrs Ashley had died some years before,
 
 EXPLANATIONS. 83 
 
 and the Rector, at that time left much alone, as both 
 his sons were absent at school and university, had 
 fallen into the natural unsocial habits of a solitary. 
 He had been obliged to make life bearable for him- 
 self by perpetual reading, and now he could do little 
 but read. He was very attentive to his duty, visit- 
 ing his sick parishioners with the regularity of clock- 
 work, and not much more warmth ; but when he 
 came in he went to his study, and even at table 
 would furtively bring a book with him, to be gone 
 on with if the occasion served. Charley and Willie 
 were resigned enough to this shutting out of their 
 father from the ordinary social intercourse. It 
 liberated them from the curb imposed by his grave 
 looks and silence. He had always been a silent man. 
 Now that he had not his wife to speak to, utterance 
 was a trouble to him. And even his meals were a 
 trouble to Mr. Ashley. He would have liked his 
 tray brought into his study among his books, which 
 was the doleful habit he had fallen into when he 
 was left to eat the bread of tears alone. He gave 
 up this gratification when the boys were at home, 
 
 G 2
 
 84 IN TEUST. 
 
 but it cost him something. And he painfully re- 
 frained even from a book when there were visitors, 
 and now and then during the course of a meal would 
 make a solemn remark to them. He was punctilious 
 altogether about strangers, keeping a somewhat 
 dismal watch to see that they were not neglected. 
 This it was which had brought him out of his study 
 when he saw Douglas alone upon the lawn. ' In 
 your mother's time,' he would say, 'this was con- 
 sidered a pleasant house to stay at. I have given 
 p asking people on my own account ; but when you 
 have friends I insist upon attention being paid 
 them.' This made the curate's position doubly 
 irksome ; he had to entertain the stranger who was 
 his own friend, yet had, he felt, betrayed him. There 
 was nothing to take Douglas even for an hour off 
 his hands. Willie, as the spectator and sympathiser, 
 was even more indignant than his brother, and 
 disposed to show his indignation ; and the curate 
 had to satisfy his father and soothe Willie, and go 
 through a semblance of intimate intercourse with 
 his friend all at the same time. His heart was very
 
 EXPLANATIONS. 85 
 
 heavy ; and, at the best of times, his conversation 
 was not of a lively description ; nor had he the power 
 of throwing off his troubles. The friend who had 
 proved a traitor to him had been his leader, the 
 first fiddle in every orchestra where Charley Ashley 
 had produced his solemn bass. All this made the 
 state of affairs more intolerable. In the evening 
 what could they do ? They had to smoke together 
 in the little den apportioned to this occupation, 
 which the Rector himself detested ; for it rained, to 
 wind up all those miseries. As long as it was fine, 
 talk could be eluded by strolling about the garden ; 
 but in a little room, twelve feet by eight, with their 
 pipes lit and everything calculated to make the 
 contrasts of the broken friendship seem stronger, 
 what could be done ? The three young men sat 
 solemnly, each in a corner, puffing forth clouds 
 of serious smoke. Willie had got a ' Graphic,' and 
 was turning it over, pretending to look at the 
 pictures. Charley sat at the open window, with his 
 elbow leaning upon the sill, gazing out into the 
 blackness of the rain. As for Douglas, he tilted his
 
 86 IN TRUST. 
 
 chair back on its hind legs, and looked just as usual 
 — a smile even hovered about his mouth. He was 
 the offender, but there was no sense of guilt in his 
 mind. The cloud which had fallen on their relation- 
 ship amused him instead of vexing him. It wrapped 
 Charley Ashley in the profoundest gloom, who was 
 innocent ; but it rather exhilarated the culprit. Ten 
 minutes had passed, and not a word had been said, 
 which was terrible to the sons of the house, but 
 agreeable enough to their guest. He had so much 
 to think of; and what talk could be so pleasant as 
 his own thoughts ? certainly not poor Ashley's prosy 
 talk. He swayed himself backward now and then 
 on his chair, and played a tune with his fingers on 
 the table ; and a smile hovered about his mouth. 
 He had passed another hour under the Beeches 
 before the rain came on, and everything had been 
 settled to his satisfaction. He had not required to 
 make any bold proposal, and yet he had been argued 
 with and sweetly persuaded as if he had suggested 
 the rashest instantaneous action. He could not but 
 feel that he had managed this very cleverly, and he
 
 EXPLANATIONS. 87 
 
 was pleased with himself, and happy. He did not 
 want to talk ; he had Anne to think about, and all 
 her tender confidences, and her looks and ways 
 altogether. She was a girl whose love any man 
 might have been proud of. And no doubt the 
 father's opposition would wear away. He saw no 
 reason to be uneasy about the issue. In these days 
 there is but one way in which such a thing can end, 
 if the young people hold out. And, with a smile of 
 happy assurance, he said to himself that Anne would 
 hold out. She was not a girl that was likely to 
 change. 
 
 Some trifling circumstance here attracted Cosmo's 
 attention to the very absurd aspect of affairs. A 
 big moth, tumbling in out of the rain, flew 
 straight at the candle, almost knocked the light 
 out, burned off its wings, poor imbecile, and fell 
 with a heavy thud, scorched and helpless ! upon 
 the floor. The curate, whose life was spent on 
 summer evenings in a perpetual crusade against those 
 self-destroying insects, was not even roused from his 
 gloom by this brief and rapidly-concluded tragedy.
 
 88 IN TRUST. 
 
 He turned half round, gave a kind of groan by 
 way of remark, and turned again to his gloomy 
 gaze into the rain. Upon this an impulse, almost 
 of laughter, seized Douglas in spite of himself. 
 ' Charley, old fellow, what are you so grumpy 
 about ? ' he said. 
 
 This observation from the culprit, whom they 
 were both trying their best not to fall upon and slay, 
 was as a thunderbolt falling between the two brothers. 
 The curate turned his pale countenance round with a 
 look of astonishment. But Willie jumped up from 
 his chair. ' I can't stand this,' he said, ' any longer. 
 Why should one be so frightened of the rain? I 
 don't know what you other fellows mean to do, but I 
 am going out.' 
 
 ' And we are going to have it out,' said Cosmo, as 
 the other hurried away. He touched the foot of the 
 curate, who had resumed his former attitude, with his 
 own. ' Look here, Charley, don't treat me like this ; 
 what have I done ? ' he said. 
 
 ' Done ? I don't know what you mean. No- 
 thing,' said the curate, turning his head round
 
 EXPLANATIONS. 89 
 
 once more, but still with his eyes fixed on the 
 rain. 
 
 ' Come in, then, and put it into words. You 
 should not condemn the greatest criminal without a 
 hearing. You think somehow — why shouldn't you 
 own it ? it shows in every look — you think I have 
 stood in your way.' 
 
 ' No,' said Ashley again. His under-lip went out 
 with a dogged resistance, his big eyelids drooped. 
 ' I haven't got much of a way — the parish, that's 
 about all — I don't see how you could do me any 
 damage there.' 
 
 ' Why are you so bitter, Charley ? If you had 
 ever taken me into your confidence you may be sure 
 I would not have interfered — whatever it might 
 have cost me.' 
 
 'I should like to know what you are talking 
 about,' the other said, diving his hands into the 
 depths of his pockets, and turning to the rain once 
 more. 
 
 ' Would you ? I don't think it ; and it's no good 
 naming names. Look here. Will you believe me
 
 90 IN TKUST. 
 
 if I say I never meant to interfere ? I never found 
 out what was in your mind till it was too late.' 
 
 * I don't know that there is anything in my mind,' 
 Charley said. He was holding out with all his might ; 
 but the fibres of his heart were giving way, and the 
 ice melting. To be sure, how should any one have 
 found out ? had it not been hidden away at the very 
 bottom of his heart ? Anne had never suspected it, 
 how should Cosmo? He would not even turn his 
 head to speak ; but he was going, going ! he felt it, 
 and Douglas saw it. The offender got up, and 
 laid his hand upon the shoulder of his wounded 
 friend. 
 
 ' I'd rather have cut off my hand, or tugged out 
 my heart, than wound you, Charley ; but I never 
 knew till it was too late.' 
 
 All this, perhaps, was not quite true ; but it was 
 true — enough. Douglas did not want to quarrel ; he 
 liked his faithful old retainer. A bird in the hand — 
 that is always worth something, though perhaps not 
 so much as is the worth of the two who are in the 
 bush ; and he is a foolish man who will turn away the
 
 EXPLANATIONS. 91 
 
 certain advantage of friendship for the chance of 
 love; anyhow, the address went entirely into the 
 simple, if wounded, heart. 
 
 ' I didn't mean to show I was vexed. I don't 
 know that I'm vexed — a man is not always in the 
 same disposition,' he said, but his voice was changing. 
 Douglas patted him on the shoulder, and went back 
 to his seat. 
 
 ' You needn't envy me — much,' said Douglas. 
 < We don't know what's to come of it; the father 
 won't hear of me. He would have had nothing to 
 say to you either, and think what a rumpus it would 
 have made in the parish ! And there's the Kector to 
 think of. Charley ' 
 
 ' Perhaps you are right,' Charley said, with a 
 great heave of his shoulders. His pipe had gone out. 
 As he spoke, he got up slowly, and came to the table 
 to look for the matches. Cosmo lighted one, and 
 held it out to him, looking on with interest while the 
 solemn process of rekindling was gone through. 
 Charley's face, lighted by the fitful flame as he puffed, 
 was still as solemn as if it had been a question of life
 
 92 IN TRUST. 
 
 and death ; and Cosmo, looking on, kept his gravity 
 too. When this act was accomplished, the curate in 
 silence gripped his friend's hand, and thus peace was 
 made. Poor faithful soul ; his heart was still as heavy 
 as lead — but pain was possible, though strife was not 
 possible. A load was taken off his honest breast. 
 
 ' I've seen it coming,' he said, puffing harder than 
 was needful. ' I oughtn't to have felt it so much. 
 After all, why should I grumble ? I never could 
 have been the man.' 
 
 * You are a far better fellow than I am,' cried the 
 other, with a little burst of real feeling. 
 
 Charley puffed and puffed, with much exertion. 
 The red gleam of the pipe got reflected under his 
 shaggy eyebrows in something liquid. Then he 
 burst into an unsteady laugh. 
 
 ' You might as well fire a damp haystack as light 
 a pipe that's gone out,' was the next sentimental 
 remark he made. 
 
 ' Have a cigar ? ' said Cosmo, tenderly, producing 
 a case out of his pocket, with eager benevolence. 
 And thus their peace was made. Anne's name was
 
 EXPLANATIONS. 93 
 
 not mentioned, neither was there anything said but 
 these vague allusions to the state of affairs generally. 
 Of all things in the world sentimental explanations 
 are most foreign to the intercourse of young English- 
 men with each other. But when Willie Ashley 
 returned, very wet, and with an incipient cold in his 
 head from the impatient flight he had made, he was 
 punished for his cowardly abandonment of an un- 
 pleasant position by finding his brother with the old 
 bonds refitted upon him, completely restored to his 
 old devotion and subjection to Cosmo. Willie 
 retired to bed soon after, kicking off his boots with 
 an energy which was full of wrath. ' The fool ! ' he 
 said to himself ; while the reconciled pair carried on 
 their tobacco and their reunion till far in the night. 
 They were not conversational, however, though they 
 were reconciled. Conversation was not necessary to 
 the curate's view of social happiness, and Cosmo was 
 glad enough to go back upon his own thoughts. 
 
 While this was going on at the Kectory, Anne 
 for her part was submitting to a still more severe 
 course of interrogation. Mrs. Mountford had dis-
 
 94 IN TKUST. 
 
 cussed the question with herself at some lengthy 
 whether she should take any notice or not of the 
 domestic convulsion which had occurred under her 
 very eye without having been brought openly to her 
 cognisance. Her husband had of course told her all 
 about it; but Anne had not said anything — had 
 neither consulted her stepmother nor sought her 
 sympathy. After a while, however, Mrs. Mountford 
 sensibly decided that to ignore a matter of such im- 
 portance, or to make-believe that she was not ac- 
 quainted with it, would be equally absurd. Accord- 
 ingly she arranged that Kose should be sent for after 
 dinner to have a dress tried on ; which was done, 
 to that young lady's great annoyance and wrath. 
 Mrs. Worth, Mrs. Mountford's maid, was not a 
 person who could be defied with impunity. She was 
 the goddess Fashion, La Mode imper sonified at 
 Mount. Under her orders she had a niece, who 
 served as maid to Anne and Rose ; and these two 
 together made the dresses of the family. It was a 
 ^reat economy, Mrs. Mountford said, and all the-
 
 EXPLANATIONS. 95 
 
 county knew how completely successful it was. But 
 to the girls it was a trouble, if an advantage. Mrs. 
 Worth studied their figures, their complexions, and 
 what she called their ' hidiousincrasies ' — but she 
 did not study the hours that were convenient for 
 them, or make allowance for their other occupations. 
 And she was a tyrant, if a beneficent one. So Rose 
 had to go, however loth. Lady Meadowlands was 
 about to give a fete, a great garden party, at which 
 all ' the best people ' were to be assembled. And a 
 new dress was absolutely necessary. ' Wouldn't it 
 do in the morning ? ' she pleaded. But Mrs. Worth 
 was inexorable. And so it happened that her mother 
 had a quiet half-hour in which to interrogate Anne. 
 The drawing-room was on the side of the house 
 overlooking the flower garden ; the windows, a great 
 row of them, flush with the wall outside and so 
 possessing each a little recess of its own within, were 
 all open, admitting more damp than air, and a chilly 
 freshness and smell of the earth instead of the scents 
 of the mignonette. There were two lamps at dif-
 
 96 IN TRUST. 
 
 ferent ends of the room, which did not light it very 
 well : but Mrs. Mountford was economical. Anne 
 had lit the candles on the writing-table for her own 
 use, and she was a long way off the sofa on which 
 her stepmother sat, with her usual tidy basket of 
 neatly-arranged wools beside her. A little time 
 passed in unbroken quiet, disturbed by nothing but 
 the soft steady downfall of the rain through the 
 great open space outside, and the more distant sound 
 of pattering upon the trees. When Mrs. Mountford 
 said 'Anne,' her stepdaughter did not hear her 
 at first. But there was a slight infraction of 
 the air, and she knew that something had been 
 said. 
 
 ' Did you speak, mamma ? ' 
 
 ' I want to speak to you, Anne. Yes, I think I 
 did say your name. Would you mind coming here 
 for a little ? I want to say something to you while 
 Kose is away.' 
 
 Anne divined at once what it must be. And she 
 was not unreasonable — it was right that Mrs. Mount-
 
 EXPLANATION. 97 
 
 ford should know: how could she help but know, 
 being the wife of one of the people most concerned ? 
 And the thing which Anne chiefly objected to was 
 that her stepmother knew everything about her by a 
 sort of back way, thus arriving at a clandestine 
 knowledge not honestly gained. It was not the 
 stepmother that was to blame, but the father and 
 fate. She rose and went forward slowly through the 
 partial light — reluctant to be questioned, yet not 
 denying that to ask was Mrs. Mountford's right. 
 
 ' I sent her away on purpose, Anne. She is too 
 young. I don't want her to know any more than 
 can be helped. My dear, I was very sorry to hear 
 from your father that you had got into that kind of 
 trouble so soon.' 
 
 ' I don't think I have got into any trouble.' said 
 Anne. 
 
 ^ No, of course I suppose you don't think so ; but 
 I have more experience than you have, and I am 
 sorry your mind should have been disturbed so soon.' 
 
 ' Do you call it so very soon ? ' said Anne. ' I 
 am twenty-one.' 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 IN TKUST. 
 
 ' So you are ; I forgot. Well ! but it is always 
 too soon when it is not suitable, my dear.' 
 
 ' It remains to be seen whether it is not suitable, 
 mamma.' 
 
 ' My love ! do you think so little of your father's 
 opinion ? That ought to count above everything 
 else, Anne. A gentleman is far better able to form 
 an opinion of another gentleman than we are. Mr, 
 Douglas, I allow, is good-looking and well-bred. 
 I liked him well enough myself; but that is 
 not all — you must acknowledge that is not half 
 enough.' 
 
 ' My father seems to want a great deal less,' said 
 Anne ; ' all that he asks is about his family and his 
 money.' 
 
 * Most important particulars, Anne, however 
 romantic you may be ; you must see that.' 
 
 ' I am not romantic,' said Anne, growing red, 
 and resenting the imputation, as was natural ; ' and 
 I do not €^ny they are important details ; but not 
 surely to be considered first as the only things worth 
 caring for — which is what my father does.'
 
 EXPLAXATIOX. 99 
 
 * What do you consider the things worth caring 
 for, dear ? Be reasonable. Looks ? ' said Mrs. 
 Mountford, laying down her work upon her lap with 
 a benevolent smile. ' Oh, Anne, my dear child, at 
 your age we are always told that beauty is skin- 
 deep, but we never believe it. And I am not one 
 that would say very much in that respect. I like 
 handsome people myself; but dear, dear, as life 
 goes on, if you have nothing but looks to trust 
 to !' 
 
 ' I assure you,' said Anne, vehemently, succeed- 
 iDg after two or three attempts to break in, ' I should 
 despise myself if I thought that beauty was any- 
 thing. It is almost as bad as money. Neither the 
 one nor the other is yourself.' 
 
 ' Oh, I would not go so far as that,' said Mrs. 
 Mountford, with indulgence. ' Beauty is a great 
 deal in my opinion, though perhaps it is gentlemen 
 that think most about it. But, my dear Anne, you 
 are a girl that has always thought of ,duty. I will 
 do you the justice to say that. You may have liked 
 
 H 2
 
 100 IN TRUST. 
 
 3^our own way, but even to me, that have not the 
 first claim upon you, you have always been very 
 good. I hope you are not going to be rebellious 
 now. You must remember that your father's judg- 
 ment is far more mature than yours. He knows the 
 world. He knows what men are.' 
 
 ' So long as he does not know — one thing,' said 
 Anne, indignantly, ' what can all that other informa- 
 tion matter to me ? ' 
 
 ' And what is the one thing, dear ? ' Mrs. Mount- 
 ford said. 
 
 Anne did not immediately reply. She went to 
 the nearest window and closed it, for sheer necessity 
 of doing something ; then lingered, looking out upon 
 the rain and the darkness of the night. 
 
 ' Thank you, that is quite right,' said her step- 
 mother. ' I did not know that window was open. 
 How damp it is, and how it rains ! Anne, what is 
 the one thing ? Perhaps I might be of some use if 
 you would tell me. What is it your father does not 
 know ? '
 
 EXPLANATION. 101 
 
 ' Me,' said Anne, coming slowly back to the light. 
 Her slight white figure had the pose of a tall lily, 
 so light, so firm, that its very fragility looked like 
 strength. And her face was full of the constancy 
 upon which, perhaps, she prided herself a little — 
 the loyalty that would not give up a dog, as she said. 
 Mrs. Mountford called it obstinacy, of course. ' But 
 what does tliat matter,' she added, with some 
 vehemence, ' when in every particular we are at 
 variance ? I do not think as he does in anything. 
 What he prizes I do not care for— and what I 
 prize ' 
 
 ' My dear, it is your father you are speaking of. 
 Of course he must know better than a young girl 
 like you ' 
 
 ' Mamma, it is not his happiness that is involved 
 — it is mine ! and I am not such a young girl — I 
 am of age. How can he judge for me in what is to 
 be the chief thing in my life ? ' 
 
 ' Anne,' said Mrs. Mountford kindly, ' this young 
 man is almost a stranger to you — you had never
 
 102 IN TEUST. 
 
 seen him a year ago. Is it really true, and are you 
 quite sure that this involves the happiness of your 
 life ? ' 
 
 Anne made no reply. How otherwise ? she said 
 indignantly in her heart. Was she a girl to deceive 
 herself in such a matter — was she one to make 
 protestations? She held hsr head high, erecting 
 her white throat more like a lily than ever. But 
 she said nothing. What was there to say ? She 
 could not speak or tell anyone but herself what 
 Cosmo was to her. The sensitive blood was ready 
 to mount into her cheeks at the mere breathing of 
 his name. 
 
 Mrs. Mountford shook her head. ' Oh, foolish 
 children,' she said, 'you are all the same. Don't 
 think you are the only one, Anne. When you are 
 as old as I am you will have learned that a father's 
 opinion is worth taking, and that your own is not so 
 infallible after all.' 
 
 ' I suppose,' said Anne softly, ' you are twice my 
 age, mamma — that would be a long time to wait to 
 see which of us was right.'
 
 EXPLANATION. 103 
 
 'I am more than twice yom* age,' said Mrs. 
 Mountford, with a little heat ; then suddenly 
 changing her tone, ' Well ! so this is the new fashion 
 we have been hearing so much of. Turn round 
 slowly that I may see if it suits you. Rose.'
 
 104 IN TBUST. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 GOOD-BYE. 
 
 Next day was one of those crowning days of summer 
 which seem the climax, and at the same time the 
 conclusion, of the perfect year. From morning till 
 night there was no shadow upon it, no threatening 
 of a cloud, no breath of unfriendly air. The flowers 
 in the Mount gardens blazed from the level beds in 
 their framework of greenness, the great masses of 
 summer foliage stood out against the soft yet 
 brilliant sky ; every outline was round and distinct, 
 detaching itself in ever-varying lines, one curve 
 upon another. Had the weather been less perfect 
 their distinctness would have been excessive and 
 marred the unity of the landscape, but the softness 
 of the summer air harmonised everything in sight 
 and sound alike. The voices on the terrace mingled
 
 GOOD-BYE. 105 
 
 in subtle musical tones at intervals ; and, though 
 every branch of the foliage was perfect in itself, yet 
 all were melodiously mingled, and belonged to each 
 other. On the sea-shore and among the hills 
 distance seemed annihilated, and every outline 
 pressed upon the eye, too bright, too near for 
 pleasure, alarming the weather- wise. But here, so 
 warmly inland, in a landscape so wealthy and so 
 soft, the atmosphere did not exaggerate, it only 
 brightened. It was the end of August, and changes 
 were preparing among the elements. Next day it 
 might be autumn with a frost-touch somewhere, the 
 first yellow leaf; but to-day it was full summer, a 
 meridian more rich than that of June, yet still 
 meridian, full noon of the seasons. 
 
 11 nous reste un gateau de fete ; 
 Demain nous aurons du pain noir : 
 
 Anne woke up this heavenly morning saying these 
 words to herself. It had rained half the night 
 through, and the morning had risen pale, exhausted 
 as with all this weeping : but after awhile had 
 thought better of it, and sworn to have, ere summer
 
 106 IN TEUST. 
 
 ended, one other resplendent day. Then the sun 
 had got up to his work like a bridegroom, eternal 
 image, in a flush of sacred pride and joy. People 
 said to each other ' What a lovely day ! ' Though it 
 had been a fine summer, and the harvest had been 
 got in with the help of many a lusty morning and 
 blazing afternoon, yet there was something in this 
 that touched the general heart ; perhaps because it 
 was after the rain, perhaps because something in the 
 air told that it was the last, that Nature had sur- 
 passed herself, and after this was capable of nothing 
 further. As a matter of fact, nobody could do any- 
 thing for the delight of the exquisite morning. 
 First one girl stole out, and then another, through 
 the garden, upon which the morning sun was shining ; 
 then Mrs. Mountford sailed forth under the shelter 
 of her parasol. Even she, though she was half 
 ashamed of herself, being plump, had put on, dazzled 
 by the morning, a white gown. ' Though I am too 
 old for white,' she said with a sigh. ' Not too old, 
 but a little too stout, 'm,' said Mrs. Worth, with 
 that ferocious frankness which we have all to submit
 
 GOOD BYE. 107 
 
 to from our maids. None of the three reappeared 
 again till the luncheon-bell rang, so demoralised 
 were they. Anne, if truth must be told, went 
 towards the Beeches : ' II nous reste un gateau de 
 fete,' she sang to herself under her breath, ' Demain 
 nous aurons du pain noir.' 
 
 The same thing happened at the Kectory : even 
 the rector himself came out, wandering, by way of 
 excusing himself for the idleness, about the flower- 
 beds. ' The bedding-out plants have done very well 
 this year,' he said ; but he was not thinking of the 
 bedding-out plants any more than the young men 
 were thinking of their cigars. In their minds there 
 was that same sense of the one bit of cake remaining 
 to eat which was in Anne's song. Charley, who had 
 not the cake, but was only to stand by and assist 
 while his friend eat it, was sympathetically excited, 
 yet felt a little forlorn satisfaction in the approach- 
 ing resumption of the pain noir. He was never to 
 get anything better, it appeared; but it would be 
 pleasanter fare when the munching of the gateau 
 was over. And Douglas stole off to consume that last
 
 108 IN TRUST. 
 
 morsel when the curate, reluctantly, out of the 
 sweetness of the morning, went off to his schools. 
 Under the Beeches the day was like a fresh bit out 
 of Paradise. If Adam and Eve are only a fable, as 
 the scientific gentlemen say, what a poet Moses was ! 
 Eden has never gone out of fashion to this day. 
 The two under the trees, but for her muslin and his 
 tweed, were, over again, the primaeval pair — and 
 perhaps the serpent was about too : but neither Eve 
 had seen it, nor Adam prepared that everlasting plea 
 of self-defence which has been handed down through 
 all his sons. This was how the charmed hours stole 
 on, and the perfection of summer passed through 
 the perfection of noon ; so many perfections touch- 
 ing each other ! a perfect orb of loveliness and 
 happiness, with that added grace which makes per- 
 fection more perfect, the sense of incompleteness — 
 the human crown of hope. All the time they were 
 thinking of the something better, something 
 sweeter, that was to come. ' Will there ever be 
 such another perfect day ? ' she said, in a wonder at 
 the new discovered bliss with which she was sur-
 
 GOOD-BYE. 109 
 
 rounded. 'Yes, the next,' he said, *on which we 
 shall not have to part.' To be sure : there was the 
 parting ; without that conclusion, perhaps, this hour 
 would not have been so exquisite : but it was still 
 some hours off, thank heaven ! 
 
 After luncheon the chairs were carried out to the 
 green terrace where the shadow of the limes fell. 
 The limes got in the way of the sun almost as soon 
 as he began to descend, and threw the most delicious 
 dancing shadow over the grass — a shadow that 
 was quite effectual, and kept the lawn as cool as in 
 the middle of a forest, but which was in itself a 
 lovely living thing, in soft perpetual motion, every 
 little twig and green silken leaf contributing its 
 particular canopy, and flinging down a succession of 
 little bobs and curtseys with every breath of air 
 that blew. ' Everybody will be out to-day, and I 
 daresay we shall have a great many visitors. Tell 
 Saymore he may bring out the big table,' said Mrs. 
 Mountford. She liked to feel that her house was the 
 chief house in the neighbourhood, the place to which 
 everybody came. Mrs. Mountford had regretfully
 
 110 IN TRUST. 
 
 relinquished by this time her white gown. We all 
 cling to our white gowns, but when you are stout, it 
 must be acknowledged the experiment is rash. She 
 had not been able to get Mrs. Worth's candid 
 criticism out of her mind all the morning. ' Do I 
 look very stout, Eose ? ' she had said, in an un- 
 consciously ingratiating tone. And Eose was still 
 more entirely impartial than Worth. She threw a 
 careless glance at her mother. 'You do look fat, 
 mamma ! ' she said. It was hard upon the poor 
 lady ; she changed it, with a sigh, for her darkest 
 silk. 'Not black. Worth,' she said faintly. 'If I 
 had my way, 'm,' said Worth, ' I'd dress you always 
 in black. There is nothing like it when one gets to 
 a certain time of life.' It was under the influence of 
 this sobering douche that Mrs. Mountford came out 
 again, accompanied by Saymore with her workbasket. 
 It was put down upon the table, a dazzling bit of 
 colour. ' But I really don't feel inclined to work. 
 It is too fine to work,' Mrs. Mountford said. ' What 
 is that you are singing for ever, Anne ? I have heard 
 you at it all day.'
 
 GOOD-BYE. Ill 
 
 II nous reste un gateau de fete ; 
 Demain nous aurons du pain noir. 
 
 Anne sang without changing colour, though her 
 heart was beating ; she had become too breathless 
 for conversation. When would he come for the 
 farewell, and what would her father say ? Would he 
 hear of it and come out? What was to happen? 
 She sat very still in her basket-chair, with all the 
 lime leaves waving over her, letting in stray gleams 
 of sunshine that ornamented her as with lines of 
 jewels here and there. 
 
 Then, after an interval, two dark figures were 
 seen upon the whiteness and unsheltered light of 
 the road through the park, ' There are the Ashley 
 boys,' said Eose. ' Anne, you will be obliged to play 
 to-day.' 
 
 ' The Ashley boys ! Now that Charley is ordained, 
 you should speak with more respect,' said Mrs. 
 Moimtford. Anne looked up, and her heart seemed 
 to stand still — only two of them ! But she soon 
 satisfied herself that it was not Cosmo that was the
 
 112 IN TEUST. 
 
 defaulter ; she sat, not saying anything, scarcely 
 daring to breathe. The moment had come. 
 
 Willie Ashley had not regarded with much satis- 
 faction the reconciliation which he found to his 
 great amazement had taken place while he was out 
 in the rain. Indeed the attitude of his mind had 
 been nothing less than one of disgust, and when he 
 found next day that Douglas was setting out arm-in- 
 arm with the curate, and almost more confidential 
 than before, to walk to Mount, his impatience rose 
 to such a point that he flung off altogether. ' Two 
 may be company, but three is none,' he said to his 
 brother. ' I thought you had a little more spirit ; 
 I'm not going to Mount : if you can see yourself cut 
 out like that, I can't. I'll walk up as far as the 
 Woodheads' ; I daresay they'll be very glad to get 
 up a game there.' This was how there were only 
 two figures on the road. They were very confiden- 
 tial, and perhaps the curate was supported more 
 than he himself was aware by the certainty that his 
 friend was going away that night. Henceforward 
 the field would be clear. It was not that he had
 
 GOOD-BYE. 113 
 
 any hope of supplanting Cosmo in his turn, as he 
 had been supplanted ; but still to have him away 
 would be somethinP'. The black bread is wholesome 
 
 o 
 
 fare enough when there is not some insolent happi- 
 ness in the foreground insisting upon devouring 
 before you its hunches of cake. 
 
 ' I declare,' said Mrs. Mountford, ' there is that 
 Mr. Douglas with Charley Ashley ! What am I to 
 do? I am sure it is not Willie — he is taller and 
 bigger, and has a different appearance altogether. 
 You cannot expect me, Anne, to meet anyone whom 
 papa disapproves. What shall I do ? Eun, Rose, 
 and tell Saymore ; but of course Charley will not 
 knock at the door like an ordinary visitor — he will 
 come straight here. I have always thought these 
 familiarities should not have been permitted. They 
 will come straight here, though they know he has 
 been sent away and forbidden the house.' 
 
 ' He has never been forbidden the house,' cried 
 Anne indignantly. ' I hope, mamma, you will not 
 be so uncivil as to refuse to say good-bye to Mr. 
 Douglas. He is going away.' 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 114 IN TRUST. 
 
 ' Forbidden the house ! ' cried Rose, her eyes 
 opening up like two great O's. ' Then it is true ! ' 
 
 ' You had better go away at least, if I must stay, 
 said Mrs. Mountford in despair. 'Rosie, run in- 
 doors and stay in the drawing-room till he is gone. 
 It would be in far better taste, Anne, and more 
 dutiful, if you were to go too.' 
 
 Anne did not say a word, partly, no doubt, in 
 determined resistance, but partly because just then 
 her voice had failed her, the light was swimming in 
 her eyes, and the air seemed to be full of pairs of 
 dark figures approaching from every different way. 
 
 ' Run indoors ! why should I ? ' said Rose. ' He 
 can't do any harm to me; besides I like Mr. 
 Douglas. Why shouldn't he come and say good- 
 bye ? It would be very uncivil of him if he didn't, 
 after being so much here.' 
 
 ' That is just what I am always saying ; you have 
 them constantly here, and then you are surprised 
 when things happen,' cried Mrs. Mountford, wringing 
 her hands. ' Anne, if you have any feeling you 
 ought to take your sister away.' •
 
 GOOD-BYE. 1 1 5 
 
 Rose's eyes grew rounder and rounder. ' Was it 
 me he was in love with, then ? ' she asked, not without 
 reason. But by this time it was too late for anyone 
 to run away, as the young men were already making 
 their way across the flower-garden, and could see 
 every movement the ladies made. 
 
 ' Sit down, sit down, if it must be so,' said Mrs. 
 Mountford, ' and for heaven's sake let us have no 
 scene ; look at least as if it were a common call and 
 meant nothing — that is the only thing to do now.' 
 ' How d'ye do, how d'ye do, Charley,' she said, wav- 
 ing her hand in friendly salutation ; ' was there ever 
 such a lovely day ? Come and sit down ; it is too 
 fine for a game. Is that Mr. Douglas you have with 
 you ? I was quite blinded with the sun this morn- 
 ing, I can't get it out of my eyes. How do you do ? 
 — you will excuse my looking surprised ; I thought I 
 heard that you had gone away.' 
 
 ' Not yet,' he said ; ' I hope you did not think 
 me so little grateful for all your kindness as not to 
 make my acknowledgments before leaving the parish. 
 
 1 2
 
 116 IN TRUST. 
 
 I have lingered longer than I ought to have done, 
 but every happiness must come to an end, and I am 
 bound for Beedon this afternoon to catch the Scotch 
 mail to-night.' 
 
 Mrs. Mountford made him a little bow, by way 
 of showing that her interest in this was no more 
 than politeness demanded, and returned to the 
 curate, to whom she was not geneidily so gracious. 
 ' I hope your father is well,' she said ; ' and Willie, 
 where is Willie ? It is not often he fails. When 
 we saw you crossing the park just now I made sure 
 it was Willie that was with you. I suppose we 
 shall not have him much longer. He should not 
 disappoint his friends like this.' 
 
 * T fear,' said Douglas (' thrusting himself in 
 again ; so ill-bred, when he could see I meant to 
 snub him,' Mrs. Mountford said), ' that Willie's 
 absence is my fault. He likes to have his brother 
 to himself, and I don't blame him. However, I am 
 so soon to leave the coast clear ! If anything could 
 have made it more hard to turn one's back upon 
 Mount it would de leaving it on such a day. Fancy
 
 GOOD-BYE. 117 
 
 going from this paradise of warmtli and sunshine to 
 the cold North ! ' 
 
 'To Scotland?' cried Koss; 'that's just what I 
 should like to do. You may call this paradise if 
 you like, but it's dull. Paradise would be dull 
 always, don't you think, with nothing happening. 
 To be sure, there's Lady Meadowlands' fete ; but 
 one knows exactly what that will be —at least, 
 almost exactly,' Eose added, brightening a little, 
 and feeling that a little opening was left for fate. 
 
 • Let us hope it will be as different as possible 
 from what you expect. I have known garden- 
 parties turn out so that one was not in the least 
 like another,' said Douglas smilingly, accepting the 
 transfer to Eose which Mrs. Mountford's too ap- 
 parent snub made necessary. Anne, for her part, 
 did not say a word ; she sat quite still in the low 
 basket-chair, scarcely venturing to look up, listening 
 to the tones of his voice and the smile which seemed 
 to pervade his words with that strange half-stunned, 
 half-happy sensation which precedes a parting. Yes, 
 it was happiness still to feel him there, and recog-
 
 118 IN TEUST. 
 
 nise every distinctive sound of the voice which had 
 awoke her heart. Was there no way of stopping 
 this flying moment, arresting it, so that it should 
 last, or coming to an end in it, which is the suggested 
 sentiment of all perfection ? She sat as in a dream, 
 longing to make it last, yet impatient that it should 
 be over ; wondering how it was to end, and whether 
 any words more important than these might pass 
 between them still. They had taken farewell of 
 each other under the Beeches. This postscript was 
 almost more than could be borne — intolerable, yet 
 sweet. The voices went on, while the scene turned 
 round and round with Anne, the background of the 
 flowers confusing her eyes, and the excitement 
 mounting to her head. At last, before they had 
 been a moment there, she thought — though it 
 was half an hour — the dark figures had risen up 
 again and hands were being held out. Then she 
 felt her dress twitched, and 'Let us walk to the end 
 of the garden with them,' said Kose. This made a 
 little commotion, and Anne in her dream felt Mrs. 
 Mountford's expostulation — ' Girls ! ' in a horrified
 
 GOODBYE. ;i9 
 
 undertone, ' what can you be thinking of? Rosie, 
 are you crazy ? Anne ! ' 
 
 This last was almost in a shriek of excitement. 
 But Kose was far too much used to her own way to 
 pay any attention. ' Come along,' she said, linking 
 her fingers in her sister's. Anne, who was the leader 
 in everything, followed for the first time in her life. 
 
 The garden was sweet with all manner of autumn 
 flowers, banks of mignonette and heliotrope perfum- 
 ing the air, and red geraniums blazing in the sun- 
 shine — all artificial in their formal beds, just as this 
 intercourse was artificial, restrained by the presence 
 of spectators and the character of the scene. By- 
 and-by, however. Rose untwined her hand from her 
 sister's. ' There is no room to walk so many abreast ; 
 go on with Mr. Douglas, Anne ; I have something to 
 say to Charley,' the girl cried. She was curious, 
 tingling to her fingers' ends with a desire to know 
 all about it. She turned her round eyes upon 
 Charley with an exciting look of interrogation as 
 soon as the other pair had gone on before. Poor 
 Ashley had drooped his big head ; he would have
 
 120 IN TKUST. 
 
 turned his back if he could to give them the benefit 
 of this last naoment, but he felt that he could not be 
 expected not to feel it. And as for satisfying the 
 curiosity of this inquisitive imp, whose eyes grew 
 bigger and bigger every moment ! he dropped his 
 nice brown beard upon his bosom, and sighed, and 
 slightly shook his head. ' Tell me what it means, or 
 I'll tell mamma ou're helping them,' whispered 
 Kose. ' Can't you see what it means ? ' said the 
 curate, with a glance, she thought, of contempt. 
 What did she know about it ? A blush of humilia- 
 tion at her own ignorance flew over Kose. 
 
 'I owe your little sister something for this,' said 
 Douglas, under his breath. ' Once more we two 
 against the world, Anne ! ' 
 
 'Not against the world; everything helps us, 
 Cosmo. I did not think I could even venture to 
 look at you, and now we can say good-bye again.' 
 
 His fingers twined into hers among the folds of 
 her gown, as Eose's had done a minute before. They 
 could say good-bye again, but they had no words. 
 They moved along together slowly, not walking that
 
 GOOD-BYE. 121 
 
 they knew of, carried softly as by a wave of supreme 
 eraotion ; then, after another moment, Anne felt the 
 landscape slowly settling, the earth and the sky get- 
 ting back into their places, and she herself coming down 
 by slow gyrations to earth again. She was standing 
 still at the corner of the garden, with once more two 
 dark figures upon the white road, but this time not 
 approaching — going away. 
 
 ' Tell me about it, tell me all about it, Anne. I 
 did it on purpose ; I wanted to see how you would 
 behave. You just behaved exactly like other 
 people, and shook hands with him the same as I did. 
 I will stand your friend with papa and everybody if 
 you will tell me all about it, Anne.' 
 
 Mrs. Mountford also was greatly excited ; she 
 came sailing down upon them with her parasol ex- 
 panded and fanning herself as she walked. ' I never 
 had such a thing to do,' she said ; ' I never had such 
 an awkward encounter in my life. It is not that I 
 have any dislike to the man, he has always been 
 very civil ; though I must say, Anne, that I think, 
 instead of coming, it would have been better taste
 
 122 IN TKUST. 
 
 if he had sent a note to say good-bye. And if you 
 consider that I had not an idea what to say to him ! 
 and that I was in a state of mind all the time, say- 
 ing to myself, " Groodness gracious ! if papa should 
 suddenly walk round the corner, what sliould we all 
 do ? " I looked for papa every moment all the time. 
 People always do come if there is any special reason 
 for not wanting them. However, I hope it is all 
 over now, and that you will not expose us to such 
 risks any more.' 
 
 Anne made no reply to either of her companions. 
 She stole away from them as soon as possible, to 
 subdue the high beating of her own heart, and come 
 down to the ordinary level. No, she was not likely 
 to encounter any such risks again ; the day was over 
 and with it the last cake of the feast : the black 
 bread of every day was all that now furnished forth 
 the tables. A kind of dull quiet fell upon Mount 
 and all the surrounding country. The clouds closed 
 round and hung low. People seemed to speak in 
 whispers. It was a quiet that whispered of fate, and 
 in which the elements of storm might be lurking.
 
 GOOD-BYE. 123 
 
 But still it cannot be &aid that the calm was unhappy. 
 The light had left the landscape, but only for the 
 moment. The banquet was over, but there were fresh 
 feasts to come. Everything fell back into the old con- 
 ditions, but nothing was as it had been. The world 
 was the same, yet changed in every particular. With- 
 out any convulsion, or indeed any great family dis- 
 tm'bance, bow did this happen unsuspected ? Every- 
 thing in heaven and earth was different, though all 
 things were the same.
 
 124 IN TEUST. 
 
 CHAPTEK VII. 
 
 CROSS-EXAMINATION. 
 
 The 'change that is made in a quiet house in the 
 country when the chief source of life and emotion is 
 closed for one or other of the inhabitants is such a 
 thing as ' was never said in rhyme.' There may be 
 nothing tragical, nothing final about it, but it pene- 
 trates through every hour and every occupation. 
 The whole scheme of living seems changed, although 
 there may be no change in any habit. It is, indeed, 
 the very sameness and unity of the life, the way in 
 which every little custom survives, in which the feet 
 follow the accustomed round, the eyes survey the 
 same things, the very same words come to the lips 
 that make the difference so palpable. This was 
 what Anne Mountford felt now. To outward seeming 
 her existence was absolutely as before. It was not an
 
 CROSS-EXAMINATION . 125 
 
 exciting life, but it had been a Imppy one. Her mind 
 was active and strong, and capable of sustaining 
 itself. Even in the warm and soft stagnation of her 
 home, her life had been like a running stream always 
 in movement, turning off at unexpected corners, 
 flowing now in one direction, now another, making 
 unexpected leaps and variations of its own. She 
 had the wholesome love of new things and employ- 
 ments which keeps life fresh ; and there had scarcely 
 been a week in which she had not had some new idea 
 or other, quickly copied and turned into matter-of- 
 fact prose by her little sister. This had made Mount 
 lively even when there was nothing going on. And 
 for months together nothing did go on at Mount. It 
 was not a great country house filled with fashionable 
 visitors in the autumn and winter, swept clean of 
 all its inhabitants in spring. The Mountfords stayed 
 at home all the year round, unless it were at the fall 
 of the leaf, when sometimes they would go to Brighton, 
 sometimes at the very deadest season to town. They 
 had nobody to visit them except an occasional old friend 
 belonging to some other county family, who understood
 
 J 26 IN TRUST. 
 
 the kind of life and lived the same at home. On these 
 occasions if the friend were a little superior they would 
 ask Lord and Lady Meadowlands to dinner, but if not 
 they would content themselves with the clergymen 
 of the two neighbouring parishes, and the Wood- 
 heads, whose house was not much more than a villa. 
 Lately, since the girls grew up, the ' game ' in the 
 afternoon which brought young visitors to the house 
 in summer had added to the mild amusements of this 
 life ; but the young people who came were always 
 the same, and so were the old people in the village, 
 who had to be visited, and to have flannels prepared 
 for them against Christmas, and their savings taken 
 care of. When a yoang man ' went wrong,' or a girl 
 got into trouble, it made the greatest excitement in 
 the parish. ' Did you hear that Sally Lawson came 
 home to her mother on Saturday, sent away from 
 her place at a moment's notice ? ' or : ' Old Grubbins's 
 boy has enlisted. Did you ever hear anything so sad 
 — the one the rector took so much pains with, and 
 helped on so in his education ? ' It was very sad for 
 the Grubbin«es and Lawsons, but it was a great god-
 
 CROSS-EXAMINATION. 127 
 
 send to the parish. And when Lady Meadowlands' 
 mother, old Lady Prayray Poule, went and married, 
 actually married at sixty, it did the very county, not 
 to speak of those parishes which had the best right 
 to the news, good. This was the way in which life 
 passed at Mount. And hitherto Anne had supple- 
 mented and made it lively with a hundred pursuits 
 of her own. Even up to the beginning of August, 
 when Mr. Douglas, who had left various reminiscences 
 behind him of his Christmas visit, came back — ha vino- 
 enjoyed himself so much on the previous occasion, as 
 he said — Anne had continued in full career of those 
 vigorous fancies which kept her always interested. 
 She had sketched indefatigably all the spring and 
 early summer, growing almost fanatical about the 
 tenderness of the shadows and the glory of the lights. 
 Then finding the cottages, which were so picturesque, 
 and figured in so many sl^ etches, to be too wretched 
 for habitation, though they were inhabited, she had 
 rushed into building, into plans, and elevations, and 
 measurements, which it was difficult to force Mr. 
 Mountford's attention to, but which were evidently a .
 
 128 IN TEUST. 
 
 step in the right direction. But on Douglas's second 
 arrival these occupations had been unconsciously 
 intermitted, they had been pushed aside by a hundred 
 little engagements which the Ashleys had managed 
 to make for the entertainment of their friend , There 
 had been several pic-nics, and a party at the rectory 
 — the first since Mrs. Ashley's death — and a party at 
 the Woodheads', the only other people in the parish 
 capable of entertaining. Then there had been an 
 expedition to the Castle, which the Meadowlands, on 
 being informed that Charley Ashley's friend was 
 anxious to see it, graciously combined with a luncheon 
 and a ' game ' in the afternoon. And then there 
 was the o^ame at Mount on all the other afternoons. 
 Who could wonder, as Mrs. Mountford said, that 
 something had come of it ? The young men had 
 been allowed to come continually about the house. 
 No questions had been asked, no conditions imposed 
 upon them. ' Thou shalt not make love to thy 
 entertainer's daughter ' had not been written up, as 
 it ought to have been, on the lodge. And now 
 all this was over. Like a scene at the theatre.
 
 CROSS-EXAMINATION . 129 
 
 opening up, gliding off with nothing but a little jar 
 of the carpentry, this momentous episode was con- 
 cluded and the magician gone. And Anne Mount- 
 ford returned to the existence — which was exactly as 
 it had been of old. 
 
 The other people did not see any difference in it ; 
 and to her the wonderful thing was that there was no 
 difference in it. She had been in paradise, caught 
 up, and had seen unspeakable things ; but now that 
 she had dropped down again, though for a moment 
 the earth seemed to jar and tingle under her feet 
 as they came in contact with it, there was no 
 difference. Her plans were there just the same, and 
 the question still to settle about how far the pig-sty 
 must be distant from the house ; and old Saymore 
 re-emerged to view making up his bouquets for the 
 vases, and holding his head on one side as he looked 
 at them, to see how they ' composed ; ' and Mrs. 
 Worth, who all this time had been making dresses and 
 trying different shades to find out what would best 
 set off Miss Eose's complexion. They had been 
 going on like the figures on the barrel-organ, doing 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 IN TEUST. 
 
 the same thing all the time— never varying or 
 changing. Anne looked at them all with a kind of 
 doleful amusement, gyrating just in the old way, 
 making the same little bobs and curtseys. They had 
 no want of interest or occupation, always moving 
 quite contentedly to the old tunes, turning round 
 and round. Mr. Mountford sat so many hours in 
 his business-room, walked one day, rode the next 
 for needful exercise, sat just so long in the drawing- 
 room in the evening. His wife occupied herself an 
 hour every morning with the cook, took her wool- 
 work at eleven, and her drive at half-past two, 
 except when the horses were wanted. Anne came 
 back to it all, with a little giddiness from her ex- 
 pedition to the empyrean, and looked at the routine 
 with a wondering amusement. She had never known 
 before how like clockwork it was. Now her own 
 machinery, always a little eccentric, declined to 
 acknowledge that key: some sort of new motive 
 power had got into her, which disturbed the action 
 of the other. She began again with a great many 
 jerks and jars, a great many times : and then would
 
 CEOSS-EXAMIN ATION . 131 
 
 stop and look at all the others in their unconscious 
 dance, moving round and round, and laugh to herself 
 with a little awe of her discovery. Was this what 
 the scientific people meant by the automatic theory, 
 she wondered, being a young woman who read every- 
 thing ; but then in a law which permitted no ex- 
 ceptions, how was it that she herself had got out of 
 gear ? 
 
 Eose, who followed her sister in everything, 
 wished very much to follow her in this too. She 
 had always managed to find out about every new 
 impulse before, and catch the way of it, though the 
 impulse itself was unknown to her. She gave Anne 
 no rest till she had ascertained about this too. ' Tell 
 us what it is like,' she said, with a hundred repeti- 
 tions. ' How did you first find out that he cared for 
 you ? What put it into your head ? Was it any- 
 thing he said that made you think that ? As it is 
 probably something that one time or another will 
 happen to me too, I think it is dreadful of you not 
 to tell me. Had you never found it out till he told 
 you ? and what did he say ? Did he ask you all at 
 
 K 2
 
 132 IN TEUST. 
 
 once if you would marry him ? or did it all come on 
 by degrees ? ' 
 
 ' How do you think I can tell ? ' said Anne ; ' it 
 is not a thing you can put into words. I think it all 
 came on by degrees.' 
 
 But this, though it was her own formula, did 
 not satisfy Eose. ' I am sure you could tell me a 
 great deal more if you only would,' she cried ; ' what 
 did he say ? Now, that you can't help remembering ; 
 you must know what he said. Did he tell you 
 he was in love with you, or ask you straight off to 
 marry him ? You can't have forgotten that — it is 
 not so very long ago.' 
 
 ' But, Eosie, I could not tell you. It is not the 
 words, it is not anything that could be repeated. A 
 woman should hear that for the first time,' said 
 Anne, with shy fervour, turning away her head to 
 hide the blush, ' when it is said to herself.' 
 
 ' A woman ! Then you call yourself a woman 
 now ? I am only a girl ; is that one of the things 
 that show ? ' asked Eose, gravely, in pursuit of her 
 inquiry. ' Well, then, you ought surely to let me
 
 CKOSS-EXAMINATION . 133 
 
 know what kind of a thing it is. Are you so very 
 fond of him as people say in books ? are you always 
 thinking about him ? Anne, it is dreadfully mean 
 of you to keep it all to yourself. Tell me one thing : 
 when he said it first, did he go down upon his 
 knees ? ' 
 
 ' What nonsense you are talking ! ' said Anne, 
 with a burst of laughter. Then there rose before 
 her in sweet confusion a recollection of various 
 moments in which Eose, always matter-of-fact, 
 might have described her lover as on his knees. 
 ^ You don't know anything about it,' she said, ' and I 
 can't tell you anything about it. I don't know 
 myself, Rosie ; it was all like a dream,' 
 
 ' It is you who are talking nonsense,' said Rose. 
 ' How could it be like a dream ? In a dream you 
 wake up and it is all over ; but it is not a bit over 
 with you. Well, then, after, how did it feel, Anne ? 
 Was he always telling you you were pretty ? Did 
 he call you " dear," and " love," and all that sort of 
 thing ? It would be so very easy to tell me — and I 
 do so want to know.'
 
 134 IN TRUST. 
 
 ' Do you remember. Rose,' said Anne, with a little 
 solemnity, ' how we used to wish for a brother ? We 
 thought we could tell him everything, and ask him 
 questions as we never could do to papa, and yet it 
 would be quite different from telling each other ^ 
 He would know better ; he would be able to tell us 
 quantities of things, and yet he would understand 
 what we meant too.' 
 
 ' I remember you used to wish for it,' said Rose, 
 honestly, ' and that it would have been such a very 
 good thing for the entail.' 
 
 ' Then,' said Anne, with fervour, it is a little like 
 that — like what we thought that would be. One 
 feels that one's heart is running over with things to 
 say. One wants to tell him everything, what 
 happened when one was a little girl, and all the 
 nonsense that has ever been in one's mind. I told 
 him even about that time I was shut up in the blue 
 room, and how frightened I was. Everything ! it 
 does not matter if it is a trifle. One knows he will 
 not think it a trifle. Exactly — at least almost exactly, 
 like what it would be to have a brother — but yet
 
 CKOSS-EXAMINATION. 135 
 
 with a difference too,' Anne added, after a pause, 
 blushing, she could scarcely tell why. 
 
 ' Ah ! ' said Eose, with great perspicacity, ' but 
 the difference is just what I want to know.' 
 
 The oracle, however, made no response, and in 
 despair the pertinacious questioner changed the 
 subject a little. ' If you will not tell me what he 
 said, nor what sort of a thing it is, you may at least 
 let me know one thing — what are you going to do ? ' 
 
 'Nothing,' said Anne, softly. She stood with 
 her hands clasped before her, looking with some 
 wistfulness into the blueness of the distant air, as if 
 into the future, shaking her head a little, acknow- 
 ledging to herself that she could not see into it. 
 ' Nothing — so far as I know.' 
 
 ' Nothing ! are you going to be in love, and 
 engaged, and all that, and yet do nothing f I know 
 papa will not consent — mamma told me. She said 
 you would have to give up everything if you married 
 him ; and that it would be a good thing for ' 
 
 Here Rose paused, gave her head a little shake 
 to banish the foolish words with which she had
 
 136 IN TEUST. 
 
 almost betrayed the coPifidence of her mother's com- 
 muDication, and reddened with alarm to think how 
 near she had been to letting it all out. 
 
 ' I am not going to marry,' said Anne, in 
 
 spite of herself, a little coldly, though she scarcely 
 knew why, ' if that is what you want to know.' 
 
 ' Then what,' said Kose, majestically, ' do you 
 mean to do ? ' 
 
 The elder sister laughed a little. It was at the 
 serious pertinacity of her questioner, who would not 
 take an answer. ' I never knew you so curious 
 before,' she said. ' One does not need to do anything 
 all at once ' 
 
 ' But what are you going to do ? ' said Eose. ' I 
 never knew you so dull, Anne. Dear me, there are 
 a great many things to do besides getting married. 
 Has he just gone away for good, and is there an end 
 of it ? Or is he coming back again, or going to 
 write to you, or what is going to happen ? I know 
 it can't be going to end like that ; or what was the 
 use of it at all ? ' the girl said, with some indigna- 
 tion. It was Rose's office to turn into prose all
 
 CROSS-EXAMINATION. 137 
 
 Anne's romancings. She stopped short as they were 
 walking, in the heat of indignant reason, and faced 
 her sister, with natural eloquence, as all oratorical 
 talkers do. 
 
 ' It is not going to end,' said Anne, a shade of 
 sternness coming over her face. She did not pause 
 even for a moment, but went on softly with her 
 abstracted look. Many a time before in the same 
 abstraction had she escaped from her sister's ques- 
 tions ; but Eose had never been so persistent as now. 
 
 ' If you are not going to do anything, and it is not 
 to end, I wonder what is going to happen,' said Eose. 
 ' If it were me, I should know what I was to do.' 
 
 They were walking up and down on the green 
 terrace where so many games had been played. It 
 was getting almost too dark for the lime avenue 
 when their talk had begun. The day had faded so 
 far that the red of the geraniums had almost gone 
 out; and light had come into the windows of the 
 drawing-room, and appeared here and there over the 
 house. The season had changed all in a day — a 
 touch of autumn was in the air, and mist hung in
 
 138 IN TRUST. 
 
 all the hollows. The glory of the year was over ; or 
 so at least Anne thought. 
 
 ' And another thing,' said Eose ; ' are you going 
 to tell anybody ? Mamma says I am not to tell ; 
 but do you think it is right to go to the Meadow- 
 lands' party, and go on talking and laughing with 
 everybody just the same, and you an engaged girl? 
 Somebody else might fall in love with you ! I don't 
 think it is a right thing to do.' 
 
 ' People have not been in such a hurry to fall in 
 love with me/ said Anne ; ' but. Rose, I don't think 
 this is a subject that mamma would think at all 
 suited for you.' 
 
 ' Oh, mamma talked to me about it herself; she 
 said she wished you would give it up, Anne. She 
 said it never could come to anything, for papa will 
 never consent.' 
 
 'Papa may never consent; but yet it will come 
 to something,' said Anne, with a gleam in her eyes. 
 ' That is enough, Rose ; that is enough. I am going 
 in, whatever you may do.' 
 
 ' But, Anne ! just one thing more ; if papa does
 
 CEOSS-EXAMINATION. 139 
 
 not consent, what can you do? Mamma says he 
 could never afford to marry if you had nothing, and 
 you would have nothing if papa refused. It is only 
 your money that you would have to marry on ; and 
 
 if you had no money So what could you do ? ' 
 
 ' I wish, when mamma speaks of my affairs, she 
 would speak to me,' said Anne, with natural indig- 
 nation. She was angry and indignant ; and the 
 words made, in spite of herself, a painful commotion 
 within her. Money ! what had money to do with 
 it ? She had felt the injustice, the wrong of her 
 father's threat ; but it had not occurred to her that 
 this could really have any effect upon her love ; and 
 though she had been annoyed to find that Cosmo 
 would not treat the subject with seriousness, or 
 believe in the gravity of Mr. Mountford's menace, 
 still she had been entirely satisfied that his apparent 
 carelessness was the right way for him to consider it. 
 He thought it of no importance, of course. He 
 made jokes about it; laughed at it; beguiled her 
 out of her gravity on the subject. Of course ! what 
 was it to him whether she was rich or poor ; what
 
 140 IN TRUST. 
 
 did Cosmo care ? So loDg as she loved him, was not 
 that all he was thinking of ? What would she have 
 minded had she been told that he had nothing ? 
 Not one straw — not one farthing ! But when this 
 little prose personage, with her more practical views 
 of the question, rubbed against Anne, there did come 
 to her, quite suddenly, a little enlightenment. It was 
 like one chill, but by no means depressing, ray of day- 
 light bursting in through a crevice into the land of 
 dreams. If he had no money, and she no money, 
 what then ? Then, notwithstanding all generosity 
 and nobleness of affection, money certainly would 
 have something to do with it. It would count 
 among the things to be taken into consideration ; 
 count dolefully, in so far as it would keep them 
 apart ; yet count with stimulating force as a diffi- 
 culty to be surmounted, an obstacle to be got the 
 better of. When Mrs. Mountford put her head out 
 of the window, and called them to come in out of the 
 falling dews, Anne went upstairs very seriously, and 
 shut the door of her room, and sat down in her 
 favourite chair to tliink it out. Fathers and mothers
 
 CEOSS-EXAMINATION. 141 
 
 are supposed to have an objection to long engage- 
 ments ; but girls, at all events at the outset of their 
 career, do not entertain the same objection. Anne 
 was still in the dreamy condition of youthful rap- 
 ture, transported out of herself by the new light 
 that had come into the world, so that the indispens- 
 able sequence of marriage did not present itself to 
 her as it does to the practical-minded. It was a 
 barrier of fact with which, in the meantime, she had 
 nothing to do. She was not disappointed or de- 
 pressed, because that was not the matter in question. 
 It would come in time, no doubt, as the afternoon 
 follows the morning, and autumn summer, but who 
 would change the delights of the morning for the 
 warmer, steady glory of three o'clock ? though that 
 also is very good in its way. She was quite resigned 
 to the necessity of waiting, and not being married 
 all at once. The contingency neither alarmed nor 
 distressed her. Its immediate result was one which, 
 indeed, most courses of thought produced in her 
 mind at the present moment. If I had but thought 
 of that, she said to herself, before he went away ! She
 
 142 IN TRUST. 
 
 would have liked to talk over the money question 
 with Cosmo ; to discuss it in all its bearings ; to 
 hear him say how little it mattered, and to plan 
 how they could do without it ; not absolutely with- 
 out it, of course ; but Anne's active mind leaped at 
 once at the thought of those systems of domestic 
 economy which would be something quite new to 
 study, which had not yet tempted her, but which 
 would now have an interest such as no study ever 
 had. And, on his side, there could be no doubt that 
 the effort would be similar ; in all likelihood even 
 now (if he had thought of it) ht was returning with 
 enthusiasm to his work, saying to himself, ' I have 
 Anne to work for; I have my happiness to win.' 
 He could never afford to marry if you had nothing. 
 It is only your money that you could marry on ; and 
 if you had no money, what could you do ? ' Anne 
 smiled to herself at Rose's wisdom ; nay, laughed 
 in the silence, in the dark, all by herself, with an 
 outburst of private mirth. Rose — prose, she said to 
 herself, as she had said often before. How little 
 tliat little thing knew I but how could she know any
 
 CROSS-EXAMINATION. 143 
 
 better, being so young, and with no experience ? 
 The thrill of high exhilaration which had come to 
 her o^vn breast at the thought of this unperceived 
 difficulty — the still higher impulse that no doubt 
 had been given to Cosmo, putting spurs to his intel- 
 lect, making impossibilities possible — a child like 
 Eose could not understand those mysteries. By- 
 and-by Anne reminded herself that, as the love of 
 money was the root of all evil, so the want of it had 
 been, not only no harm, bat the greatest good. 
 Painters, poets, people of genius of every kind had 
 been stimulated by this wholesome prick. Had 
 Shakespeare been rich ? She threw her head aloft 
 with a smile of conscious energy, and capacity, and 
 power. No money ! That would be the best way to 
 make a life worth living. She faced all heroisms, 
 all sacrifices, with a smile, and in a moment had 
 gone through all the labours and privations of years. 
 He, working so many hours at a stretch, bursting upon 
 the world with the eloquence which was inspired by 
 love and necessity ; she, making a shabby room into 
 a paradise of content, working for him with her own
 
 144 IN TEUST. 
 
 happy hands, carrying him through every despond- 
 ency and difficulty. Grood heavens ! could any little 
 idiot suppose that to settle down on a good income and 
 never have any trouble would be half so delightful 
 as this ? Anne used strong language in the swelling 
 of her breast. 
 
 It made her laugh with a little ridicule of her- 
 self, and a half sense that, if Eose's tendency was 
 prose, hers might perhaps be heroics, when it oc- 
 cured to her that Cosmo, instead of rushing back to 
 his work, had only intended to catch the Scotch 
 mail, and that he was going to the Highlands to 
 shoot ; while she herself was expected in Mrs. 
 Worth's room to have her dress tried on for the 
 Meadowlands' party. But, after all, what did that 
 matter ? There was no hurry ; it was still the Long 
 Vacation, in which no man can work, and in the 
 meantime there was no economy for her to begin 
 upon. 
 
 The maid whom she and Rose shared between 
 them, and whose name was Keziah, came to the door 
 to call her when she had reached this point.
 
 CEOSS-EXAIkllNATION. 145 
 
 ' Oh, I beg your pardon, Miss Anne,' she said, ' I 
 didn't know you had no lights.' 
 
 ' They were quite unnecessary, thank you,' said 
 Anne, rising up out of her meditations, calmed, yet 
 with all the force of this new stimulus to her 
 thoughts. 
 
 YOL. I.
 
 146 IN TRUST. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 THE MEADOWLANDS' PARTY. 
 
 It was a very large party — collected from all the 
 quarters of England, or even it may be said of the 
 globe, seeing there was a Russian princess and an 
 American literary gentleman among the lists of the 
 guests, as well as embracing the whole county, and 
 everybody that had any claim to be affiliated into 
 society there. Lady Meadowlands made a very 
 liberal estimate of what could be called the society 
 of the county — too liberal an estimate, many people 
 thought. The clergy, everyone knows, must be 
 present in force at every such function, and all their 
 belongings, down to the youngest daughter who is 
 out ; but such a rule surely ought not to apply to 
 country practitioners ; and even to the brewer at 
 Hunston, who, though he was rich, was nobodyc
 
 THE MEADOWLANDS' PAETY. 147 
 
 Upon that point almost everybody made a stand, and 
 it is to be feared that Mrs. and Miss Brewer did not 
 enjoy themselves at the Castle. But these were 
 drawbacks not fully realised till afterwards. The 
 people who were aggrieved by the presence of the 
 brewer's family were those who themselves were not 
 very sure of their standing, and who felt it was ' no 
 compliment ' to be asked when such persons were also 
 acknowledged as within the mystic ring. Dr. Pea- 
 cock's wife and Miss Woodhead were the ladies who 
 felt it most ; though poor Mr. Peacock himself was 
 considered by some to be quite as great a blot. All 
 the roads in the neighbourhood of the Castle were as 
 gay as if there had been a fair going on. The village 
 turned out bodily to see the carriages and horses of 
 the quality ; though these fine people themselves were 
 perhaps less admired by the rustics than the 
 beautiful tall footman in powder who had come from 
 town witli Lady Pray ray Poule. But as every new 
 arrival drove up, the excitement rose to a high 
 pitch ; even the soberest of people are moved by the 
 sensation of multitude, the feeling of forming part of 
 L 2
 
 148 IN TEUST. 
 
 a distinguished crowd. And the day was fine, with 
 a sunny haze hanging about the distance, reddening 
 the sun and giving a warm indistinctness to the sky. 
 The grounds at Meadowlands were fine, and the park 
 very extensive. The house was a modern and hand- 
 some house, and at some distance from it stood an 
 old castle in ruins, which was the greatest attraction 
 of the place. Upon the lawns a great many ' games ' 
 were going on. I have already said that I have no 
 certainty as to whether the games were croquet or 
 lawn-tennis, not knowing or remembering when the 
 one period ended and the other began. But they 
 were enough in either case to supply lively groups of 
 young persons in pretty dresses, and afford a little 
 gentle amusement to the lookers-on, especially when 
 those lookers-on were the parents or relations of the 
 performers. The Mountford party held a half-way 
 place in the hierarchy of Lady Meadowlands' guests. 
 They were, as has been said, a very old family, though 
 their want of wealth had for some time made them 
 less desirable neighbours than it is pleasant for 
 members of an old family to be. And though the
 
 THE ]MEADOWLAI^DS' PAETY. 149 
 
 girls might, as was geuerally said, now ' marry any 
 body,' and consequently rise to any distinction, Mr. 
 and Mrs. Mountford were not the kind of people 
 whom it would have afforded the Princess Comatosky 
 any pleasure to have presented to her, or who would 
 have been looked upon as fine types of the English 
 landed gentry by Mr. Grreenwood, the American. 
 But, on the other hand, they occupied a position 
 very different from that of the rank and file, the 
 people who, but for their professional position, would 
 have had no right to appear in the heaven of county 
 society at all. And Anne and Rose being pretty, and 
 having the hope, one of a very good fortune, the other 
 of a reasonable dot^ were really in the first rank of 
 young ladies without any drawbacks at all. Perhaps 
 the reader will like to know what they wore on this 
 interesting occasion. They were not dressed 
 alike, as sisters so often are, without regard to 
 individuality. After very serious thought, Mrs. 
 Worth had decided that the roses of Rose wanted 
 subduing, and had dressed her in Tussore silk, of the 
 warm natural grass colour ; while Anne, always much
 
 150 IN TRUST. 
 
 more easy to dress, as that artist said, was in an ivory- 
 tinted cashmere, very plain and simple, which did all 
 that was wanted for her slim and graceful figure. 
 Eose had flouncelets and puffings beyond mortal power 
 to record. Anne was better without the foreign aid 
 of ornament. I don't pretend to be so uninstructed 
 as to require to describe a lady's dress as only of 
 ' some soft white material.' It was cashmere, and 
 why shouldn't one say so ? For by this time a 
 little autumn chill had set in, and even in the 
 middle of the day it was no longer overpoweringly 
 warm. 
 
 It is needless to say that the Ashleys were also 
 there. These young men, though so constantly with 
 the girls at home, had to relinquish their place a 
 little when abroad, and especially when in more 
 exalted company. Then it became apparent that 
 Charley and Willie, though great friends, were not in 
 any way of the same importance as Anne and Eose. 
 They were not handsome, for one thing, or very clever 
 or amusing — but only Charley and Willie Ashley, 
 which was a title for friendship, but not for social
 
 THE IVIEADOWLANDS' PAETY. 151 
 
 advancement. And especially were they separated 
 from Anne, whose climax of social advancement 
 came when she was presented to the Princess Coma- 
 tosky, who admired her eyes and her dress, the latter 
 being a most unusual compliment. There was a 
 fashionable party assembled in the house besides all 
 the county people, and the Miss Mountfords were 
 swept away into this brilliant sphere and introduced 
 to everybody. Eose was a little abashed at first, and 
 looked back with anxious eyes at her mother, who 
 was seated on the edge of that higher circle, but not 
 within it ; but she soon got confidence. Anne, how- 
 ever, who was not so self-possessed, was excited by 
 the fine company. Her complexion, which was 
 generally pale, took a faint glow, her eyes became so 
 bright that the old Russian lady grew quite enthu- 
 siastic. ' I like a handsome girl,' she said ; ' bring 
 her back once more to speak to me.' Mr. Greenwood, 
 the American, was of the same opinion. He was not 
 at all like the American author of twenty years ago, 
 before we knew the species. He spoke as little 
 through his nose as the best of us, and his manners
 
 152 IN TEUST. 
 
 were admirable. He was more refinedly Englisli 
 than an Englishman, more fastidious in his opposition 
 to display and vulgarity, and his horror of loud tones 
 and talk ; and there was just a nuance of French 
 politeness in his look and air. He was as exquisitely 
 polite to the merest commoner as if he had been a 
 crowned head, but at the same time it was one of 
 the deepest certainties of his heart that he was only 
 quite at home among people of title and in a noble 
 house. Not all people of title : Mr. Grreenwood had 
 the finest discrimination and preferred at all times 
 the best.' But even he was pleased with Anne. 
 * Miss Mountford is very inexperienced,' he said, in 
 his gentle way ; ' she does not know how to drop into 
 a conversation or to drop out of it. Perhaps that is 
 too fine an art to learn at twenty : but she is more 
 like a lady than anyone else I see here.' Lady 
 Meadowlands, like most of the fashionable world, had 
 a great respect for Mr. Grreenwood's opinion. ' That 
 is so much from you ! ' she said gratefully ; ' and if 
 you give her the advantage of seeing a little of you, 
 it will do dear Anne the greatest good.' Mr. Grreen-
 
 THE IVIEADOWLANDS' PARTY. 153 
 
 wood shook his head modestly, deprecating the possi- 
 bility of conferring so much advantage, but he felt in 
 his heart that it was true. 
 
 Thus Anne, for the first time in her life, had 
 what may be called a veritable succes. We may 
 perhaps consider the word naturalised by this time 
 and call it a success. There was a certain expansion 
 and brightening of all her faculties consequent upon 
 the new step she had taken in life, of which no one 
 had been conscious before, and the state of opposi- 
 tion in which she found herself to her family had 
 given her just as much emancipation as became her, 
 and gave force to ail her attractions. She was not 
 beautiful perhaps, nor would she have satisfied a 
 critical examination ; but both her face and figure 
 had a certain nobility of line which impressed the 
 spectator. Tall and light, and straight and strong, 
 with nothing feeble or drooping about her, the 
 girlish shyness to which she had been subject was 
 not becoming to Anne. Rose, who was not shy, 
 might have drooped her head as much as she pleased, 
 but it did not suit her sister. And the fact that she
 
 154 IN TEUST. 
 
 had judged for herself, had chosen her own path, 
 and made up her own mind, and more or less defied 
 Fate and her father, had given just the inspiration 
 it wanted to her face. She was shy still, which gave 
 her a light and shade, an occasional gleam of timidity 
 and alarm, which pleased the imagination. ' I told 
 you Anne Mountford would come out if she had the 
 chance,' Lady Meadowlands said to her lord. ' What 
 is this nonsense I hear about an engagement? Is 
 there an engagement ? What folly ! before she has 
 seen anybody or had any chance, as you say,' said 
 Lord Meadowlands to his lady. They were interested 
 in Anne, and she was beyond question the girl who 
 did them most credit of all their country neighbours, 
 which also told for something in its way. 
 
 The Eev. Charles Ashley, in his most correct 
 clerical coat, and a general starch of propriety about 
 him altogether unlike the ease of his ordinary 
 appearance, looked on from afar at this brilliant 
 spectacle, but had not much share in it. Had there 
 been anybody there who could have been specially 
 • of use to Charley — the new bishop for instance, who
 
 THE MEADOWLANDS' PAETY. 155 
 
 did not yet know his clergy, or the patron of a good 
 living, or an official concerned with the Crown 
 patronage, anyone who could have lent him a helping 
 hand in his profession — no doubt Lady Meadowlands 
 would have taken care to introduce the curate and 
 speak a good word for him. But there being nobody 
 of the kind present, Charley was left with the mob 
 to get up a game on his own account and amuse the 
 young ladies who were unimportant, who made up 
 the mass of the assembly. And the young Ashleys 
 both accepted this natural post, and paid such 
 harmless attentions as were natural to the wives and 
 daughters of other clergymen, and the other people 
 whom they knew. They had no desire to be intro- 
 duced to the Princess, or the other great persons 
 who kept together, not knowing the county. But, 
 while Willie threw himself with zeal into the amuse- 
 ments and the company provided, the curate kept 
 his eyes upon the one figure, always at a distance, 
 "which was the chief point of interest for him. 
 
 ' I want to speak to Anne,' he said to Eose, who 
 ^as less inaccessible, who had not had so great a
 
 156 IN TEUST. 
 
 success ; ' if you see Anne, will you tell her I want 
 to speak to her ? ' 
 
 ' Anne, Charley wants to speak to you,' Eose 
 said, as soon as she had an opportunity, in the 
 hearing of everybody ; and Anne turned and nodded 
 with friendly assent over the chairs of the old ladies. 
 But she did not make any haste to ask what he 
 wanted. She took it with great ease, as not calling 
 for any special attention. There would be abundant 
 opportunities of hearing what Charley had to say. 
 On the way home she could ask him what he wanted * 
 or while they were waiting for the carriage ; or even 
 to-morrow, when he was sure to come to talk over 
 the party, would no doubt be time enough. It 
 would be something about the schools, or some girl 
 or boy who wanted a place, or some old woman who 
 was ill. ^ Anne, Charley says he must speak to you,* 
 said Eose again. But it was not till after she had 
 received a third message that Anne really gave any 
 attention to the call. ' Cannot he tell you what he 
 wants? — I will come as soon as I can,' she said. 
 Perhaps the curate was not so much distressed as he
 
 THE I^EEADOWLAJ^DS' PAETY. 157 
 
 thouglit he was by her inattention. He watched 
 her from a distance with his hands in his pockets. 
 When he was accosted by other clergymen and 
 country friends who were wandering about he replied 
 to them, and even carried on little conversations 
 with his eyes upon her. Something grim and 
 humorous, a kind of tender spitefulness, was in the 
 look with which he regarded her. If she only knew ! 
 But it was her own fault if she did not know, not 
 his. It gave him a kind of pleasure to see how she 
 lingered, to perceive that her mind was fully occu- 
 pied, and that she never divined the nature of his 
 business with her. So far as his own action went he 
 had done his duty, but he could not help a half 
 chuckle, quickly suppressed, when he imagined 
 within himself how Douglas would look if he saw 
 how impossible it was to gain Anne's attention. Did 
 that mean, he asked in spite of himself, that after 
 all she was not so much interested ? Charley had 
 felt sure that at the first word Anne would divine. 
 * / should divine if a note of hers was on its way to 
 me,' he said to himself — and it pleased him that she
 
 158 IN TKUST. 
 
 never guessed that a letter from Cosmo was lying 
 safe in the recesses of his pocket. When she came 
 hastily towards him at last, a little breathless and 
 hurried, and with only a moment to spare, there was 
 no consciousness in Anne's face. 
 
 ' What is it ? ' she said — before the Woodheads I 
 She would have said it before anybody, so entirely 
 unsuspicious was she. ' I must go back to the old 
 lady,' she added, with a little blush and smile, 
 pleased in spite of herself by the distinction ; ' but 
 Eose told me you wanted me. Tell me what it is.' 
 
 He made elaborate signs to her with his eye- 
 brows, and motions recommending precaution with 
 his lips — confounding Anne completely. For poor 
 Charley had heavy eyebrows, and thick lips, and his 
 gestures were not graceful. She stared at him in 
 unfeigned astonishment, and then, amused as well 
 as bewildered, laughed. He enjoyed it all, though 
 he pretended to be disconcerted. She looked as 
 bright as ever, he said to himself. There was no 
 appearance of trouble about her, or of longing un- 
 certainty. She laughed just as of old, with that
 
 THE MEADOWLANDS' PAETY. 159 
 
 pleasant ring in the laughter which had always 
 charmed him. The temptation crossed the curate's 
 mind, as she did not seem to want it, as she looked 
 so much like her old self, as she showed no percep- 
 tion of what he had for her, to put the letter down 
 a little deeper in his pocket, and not disturb her 
 calm at all. 
 
 ' Oh yes,' he said, as if he had suddenly recol- 
 lected, ' it was something I wanted to show you. 
 Come down this path a little. You seem to be 
 enjoying the party, Anne.' 
 
 'Yes, well enough. It is pretty,' she said, 
 glancing over the pretty lawns covered with gaily- 
 dressed groups. 'Are you not enjoying yourself? 
 I am so sorry. But you know everybody, or almost 
 everybody here.' 
 
 ' Except your grand people,' he said, with some 
 malice. 
 
 ' My grand people ! They are all nice whether 
 they are grand or not, and the old lady is very funny. 
 She has all kinds of strange old ornaments and 
 crosses and charms mixed together. What is it.
 
 160 IN TEUST. 
 
 Charley ? you are looking so serious, and I must go 
 back as soon as I am able. Tell me what it is.' 
 
 ' Can't you divine what it is ? ' he said, with an 
 air half reproachful, half triumphant. 
 
 She looked at him astonished ; and then, sud- 
 denly taking fire from his look, her face kindled 
 into colour and expectation and wondering eagerness. 
 Poor curate ! he had been pleased with her slowness 
 to perceive, but he was not so pleased now when her 
 whole countenance lighted under his eyes. He in 
 his own person could never have brought any such 
 light into her face. She opened her mouth as if to 
 speak, then stood eager, facing him with the words 
 arrested on her very lips. 
 
 ' Is it a message from ' She paused, and 
 
 a wave of scarlet came over her face up to her hair. 
 Poor Charley Ashley! There was no want of the 
 power to divine now. His little pleasant spiteful- 
 ness, and his elation over what he considered her 
 indifference, died in the twinkling of an eye. 
 
 * It is more than a message,' he said, thinking 
 ■what an ass he was to doubt her, and what a traitor
 
 THE MEADOWLANDS' PARTY. 161 
 
 to be delighted by that doubt. * It is — a letter, 
 Anne.' 
 
 She did not say anything — the colour grew 
 deeper and deeper upon her face, the breath came 
 quickly from her parted lips, and without a word 
 she put out her hand. 
 
 Yes, of course, that was all — to give it her, and 
 be done with it — what had he to do more with the 
 incident ? No honourable man would have wished 
 to know more. To give it to her and to withdraw. 
 It was nothing to him what was in the letter. He 
 had no right to criticise. In the little bitterness 
 which this feeling produced in him he wanted ta 
 say what, indeed, he had felt all along ; that though 
 he did not mind once^ it would not suit his office to 
 be the channel through which their communications 
 were to flow. He luanted to say this now, whereas 
 before he had only felt that he ought to say it ; but 
 in either case, under the look of Anne's eyes, poor 
 Charley could not say it. He put his hand in his 
 pocket to get the letter, and of course he forgot in 
 which [pocket he had put it, and then became red 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 162 IN TRUST. 
 
 and confused, as was natural. Anne for her part did 
 not change her attitude. She stood with that look 
 of sudden eagerness in her face — a blush that went 
 away, leaving her quite pale, and then came back 
 again —and her hand held out for the letter. How 
 hot, how wretched he got, as he plunged into one 
 pocket after another, with her eyes looking him 
 through ! ' Anne,' he stammered, when he found it 
 at last, * I beg your pardon — I am very glad — to be 
 of — any use. I like to do anything, anything for 
 
 you ! but — I am a clergyman ' 
 
 ' Oh, go away — please go away,' said Anne. She 
 had evidently paid no attention to what he said. 
 She put him away even, unconsciously, with her 
 hand. ' Don't let anyone come,' she said, walking 
 away from him round the next corner of the path. 
 Then he heard her tear open the envelope. She 
 had not paid any attention to his offer of service, 
 but she had made use of it all the same, taking it 
 for granted. The curate turned his back to her and 
 walked a few steps in the other direction. She had 
 told him not to let anyone come, and he would
 
 THE MKiDOWLANDS' PAETY. 163 
 
 not let anyone come. He would have walked any 
 intruders backward out of tlie sacred seclusion. Yet 
 there he stood dumbfoundered, wounded, wondering 
 why it was that Cosmo should have so much power 
 and he so little. Cosmo got everything he wanted. 
 To think that Anne's face should change like that at 
 his mere name, nay, at the merest suggestion of him ! 
 — it was wonderful. But it was hard too. 
 
 Anne's heart was in her mouth as she read the 
 letter. She did not take time to think about it, nor 
 how it came there, nor of any unsuitableness in the 
 way it reached her. It was to ask how they were to 
 correspond, whether he was to be permitted to write 
 to her. ' I cannot think why we did not settle this 
 before I left,' Cosmo said; 'I suppose the going 
 away looked so like dying that nothing beyond it, 
 except coming back again, seemed any alleviation.' 
 But this object of the letter did not strike Anne at 
 first. She was unconscious of everything except the 
 letter itself, and those words which she had never 
 seen on paper in handwriting before. She had read 
 something like it in books. Nothing but books 
 
 M 2
 
 164 IN TKUST. 
 
 could be the parallel of what was happening to her, 
 ' My dear and only love,' that was in a poem some- 
 where Anne was certain, but Cosmo did not quote 
 it out of ^any poem. It was the natural language ; 
 that was how she was to be addressed now, like 
 Juliet. She had come to that state and dignity all 
 at once, in a moment, without any doing of hers. 
 She stood alone, unseen, behind the great tuft of 
 bushes, while the curate kept watch lest anyone 
 should come to disturb her, and all the old people 
 sat round unseen, chatting and eating ices, while 
 the young ones fluttered about the lawns. Nobody 
 suspected with what a sudden, intense, and wonder- 
 ing perception of all the emotions she had fallen heir 
 to, she stood under the shadow of tne rhododendrons 
 reading her letter ; and nobody knew with what a 
 sore but faithful heart the curate stood, turning his 
 back to her, and protected her seclusion. It was a 
 scene that was laughable, comical, pathetic, but 
 pathetic mo^e than all. 
 
 This incident coloured the whole scene to Anne, 
 and gave it its character. She had almost forgotten
 
 THE MEADOWLAXDS* PARTY. 165 
 
 the very existence of tlie old Princess when she went 
 back. ' Bring me that girl,' the old lady said, in 
 her excellent English, ' bring me back that girl. 
 She is the one I prefer. All the others they are 
 demoiselles, but this is a woman.' But when Anne 
 was brought back at last the keen old lady saw the 
 diflference at once. ' Something has happened,' she 
 said : ' what has happened, my all-beautiful ? some- 
 one has been making you a proposal of marriage. 
 That comes of your English customs which you 
 approve so much. To me it is intolerable ; imagine 
 a man having the permission in society to startle 
 this child with an emotion like that.' She pro- 
 nounced emotion and all similar words as if they 
 had been in the French language. Anne protested 
 vainly that no such emotion had fallen to her share. 
 Mr. Greenwood agreed with the Princess, though he 
 did not express himself so frankly. Could it be the 
 curate? he thought, elevating his eyebrows. He 
 was a man of experience, and knew how the most 
 unlikely being is sometimes gifted to produce such 
 an emotion in the fairest bosom.
 
 166 IN TEUST. 
 
 CHAPTEK IX. 
 
 COSMO. 
 
 It is time to let the reader of this story know who 
 Cosmo Douglas was, whose appearance had made so 
 great a commotion at Mount. He was — nobody. 
 This was a fact that Mr. Mountford had very soon 
 elicited by his inquiries. He did not belong to any 
 known house of Douglasses under the sun. It may 
 be said that there was something fair in Cosmo's 
 frank confession on this point, put perhaps it would 
 be more true to say that it showed the good sense 
 which was certainly one of his characteristics ; for 
 any delusion that he might have encouraged or con- 
 sented to in this respect must have been found out 
 very shortly, and it would only have been to his 
 discredit to claim good connections which did not 
 belong to him. ' Honesty is the best policy ' he had
 
 COSMO. 167 
 
 said to himself, and therefore he had been honest 
 Nevertheless it was a standing mystery to Cosmo 
 that he was nobody. He could not understand it. 
 It had been a trouble to him all his life. How was 
 he inferior to the other people who had good con- 
 nections ? He had received the same kind of educa- 
 tion, he had the same kind of habits, he was as 
 much a ' gentleman,' that curious English distinc- 
 tion which means everything and nothing, as any of 
 them. He did not even feel within himself the 
 healthy thrill of opposition with which the lowly 
 born sometimes scorn the supposed superiority of 
 blue blood. He for his part had something in his 
 heart which entirely coincided with that superstition. 
 Instinctively he preferred for himself that his friends 
 should be well born. He had as natural a predilec- 
 tion that way as if his shield held ever so many 
 quart erings ; and it was terrible to know that he had 
 no right to any shield at all. In his boyhood he had 
 accepted the crest which his father wore at his watch- 
 chain, and had stamped upon his spoons and forks, 
 with undoubting faith, as if it had descended straight
 
 168 IN TRUST. 
 
 from the Crusaders ; and when he had read of the 
 ' dark grey man ' in early Scotch history, and of that 
 Lord James who carried Bruce's heart to the Holy 
 Land, there was a swell of pride within him, and he 
 had no doubt that they were his ancestors. But as 
 he grew older it dawned upon Cosmo that his father 
 had assumed the bleeding heart because he found it 
 represented in the old book of heraldry as the cog- 
 nisance of the Douglasses, and not because he had 
 any hereditary right to it — and, indeed, the fact was 
 that good Mr. Douglas knew no better. He thought 
 in all simplicity that his name entitled him to the 
 symbol which was connected with the name, and 
 that all those great people so far off from the present 
 day were ' no doubt ' his ancestors, though it was too 
 far back to be able to tell. 
 
 Mr. Douglas himself was a man of the highest 
 respectability. He was the managing clerk in a 
 solicitor's office, with a good salary, and the entire 
 confidence of his employers. Perhaps he might 
 even have been a partner had he been of a bolder 
 temper ; but he was afraid of responsibility, and had
 
 COSMO. 169 
 
 no desire, he said, to assume a different position, or 
 rise in the social scale. That would be for Cosmo, 
 he added, within himself. He had lost his wife at a 
 very early period, when Cosmo was still a child, and 
 upon the boy all his father's hopes were built. He 
 gave him * every advantage.' For himself he lived 
 very quietly in a house with a garden out Hampstead 
 way, a small house capable of being managed by one 
 respectable woman-servant, who had been with him 
 for years, and a young girl under her, or sometimes 
 a boy, when she could be persuaded to put up with 
 one of these more objectionable creatures. But 
 Cosmo had everything that was supposed to be best 
 for an English young man. He was at Westminster 
 School, and so received into the fraternity of ' public 
 school men,' which is a distinct class in England ; 
 and then he went to the University. When he took 
 his degree he studied for the bar. Both at Oxford 
 and Lincoln's Inn he was ' in for ' all his examina- 
 tions in company with the son of his father's em- 
 ployer ; but it was Cosmo who was the most promis- 
 ing student always, and the most popular man. He
 
 170 IN TEUST. 
 
 had the air and the bearing, the ' je ne spais quoi' 
 which is supposed to indicate ' family,' though he 
 was of no family. Nothing ever was more perplexing. 
 He could not understand it himself. What was it 
 that made this wonderful difference? When he 
 looked at Charley Ashley a smile would sometimes 
 steal over his countenance. In that point of view 
 the prejudice certainly showed its full absurdity. 
 Charley was his retainer, his faithful follower — his 
 dog, in a way. But Mr. Mountford, though he 
 would probably have thought Charley not a suitable 
 match for his daughter, would not have looked upon 
 him with the same puzzled air as on a creature of a 
 different species, with which he regarded the suitor 
 who was nobody. When this contrast struck him, no 
 doubt Cosmo smiled with a little bitterness. Charley 
 had connections among all the little squires of the 
 district. He had an uncle here and there whose 
 name was in some undistinguished list or other — the 
 ' Gentry of Great Britain ' or some other such bead- 
 roll. But Cosmo had no link at all to the classes who 
 consider themselves the nattiral masters of the world.
 
 COSMO. 171 
 
 If you will think of it, it was as troublesome and 
 unpleasant a position as could be conceived — to have 
 all that makes a gentleman and to be a gentleman, 
 fully considered and received as such, yet upon close 
 investigation to be found to be nobody, and have all 
 your other qualities ignored in consequence. It was 
 hard — it was a complicating, perplexing grievance, 
 such as could only occur in the most artificial state 
 of society. In the middle ages, if a man ' rose,' it 
 was by dint of hard blows, and people were afraid of 
 him. But ' rising in the world ' had a very different 
 meaning in Cosmo's case. He had always known 
 what it was to be carefully tended, daintily fed, 
 clothed with the best of clothes — as well as a duke's 
 son need have been. He had all the books to read 
 which any duke's son could have set his face to ; and 
 though the Hampstead rooms were small, and might 
 have looked poky had there been a family cooped 
 up in them, Cosmo and his father had felt no want 
 of space nor of comfort. Even that little Hamp- 
 stead house was now a thing of the past. Mr. 
 Douglas had died, though still not much beyond
 
 172 IN TRUST. 
 
 middle age, and Cosmo liad his chambers, like any 
 other young barrister, and several clubs, and all the 
 ' advantages ' which his father had sworn he should 
 have. He had a little money, and a little practice, 
 and was 'getting on.' If he was not in fashionable 
 society, he was yet in an excellent ' set ' — rising barris- 
 ters, literary people, all rising too, people of reputa- 
 tion, people who suppose themselves to sway the 
 world, and who certainly direct a great deal of its 
 public talk, and carry a large silent background 
 of its population with them. He was very well 
 thought of among this class, went out a great deal 
 into society, knew a great many people whom it is 
 supposed something to know — and yet he was no- 
 body. The merest clown could have confused him 
 at any time by asking, ' Which is your county, 
 Douglas ? ' Poor Cosmo had no county. He took 
 the deficiency admirably, it is needless to say, and 
 never shirked the truth when there was any need to 
 tell it. In the majority of cases it was not at all 
 necessary to tell it ; but yet his friends knew well 
 enough that he had no relations to give him shooting,
 
 COSMO. 173 
 
 or ask him during the hunting season ; no district had 
 any claim upon him, nor he upon it. A man may love 
 his home when it has never been anywhere but in 
 Hampstead. But it makes a great difference — even 
 when his friends make up the deficiencies of family 
 to him, and invite him, as he had this year been 
 invited, to share the delights of a Scotch moor — 
 still it makes a great difference. And when it is a 
 matter of matrimony, and of producing his proofs 
 of gentility, and of being a fit person to marry 
 Anne Mountford, then the difference shows most 
 of all 
 
 When Cosmo attained that perfect freedom from 
 all ties, and power of roaming wherever he pleased, 
 without any clog to draw him back, which was in- 
 volved in his father's death (though it may be said 
 for him that this was an event which he deeply 
 regretted) he made up his mind that he would not 
 marry, at least until he had reached sufficient dis- 
 tinction in his profession to make him somebody, 
 quite independent of connections. But then he had 
 not seen Anne Mountford. With her, without any
 
 174 IN TKUST. 
 
 secondary motives, he had fallen honestly and 
 heartily in love, a love which he would, however, have 
 managed to quench and get the better of, had it not 
 turned out upon inquiry that Anne was one whom it 
 was entirely permissible to love, and who could help 
 him, not hold him back in the career of success. 
 He had, however, many discussions with himself 
 before he permitted himself to indulge his inclina- 
 tions. He had felt that with people like the Mount- 
 fords the fact that he was nobody would tell with 
 double power ; and, indeed, if he had ever been 
 tempted to invent a family of Douglasses of Some- 
 where-or-other, it was now. He had almost been 
 led into doing this. He had even half-prepared a 
 little romance, which no doubt Mr. Mountford, he 
 thought, would have swallowed, of a ruined house 
 dwindled away to its last representative, which had 
 lost lands and even name in one of the rebellions. 
 He had not chosen which rebellion, but he had 
 made up the story otherwise with great enjoyment 
 and a fine sense of its fitness : when that modern 
 quality, which for want of a better name we call a
 
 COSMO. 175 
 
 sense of humour stopped him. For a man of his time, 
 a man of his enlightened opinions, a member of a 
 liberal profession, a high-bred (if not high-born) 
 Englishman to seek importance from a silly little 
 school-girl romance was too absurd. He could not 
 do it. He laughed aloud at himself with a little 
 flush of shame on his countenance, and tossed away 
 the fiction. But what a thing it would have been 
 for Cosmo if the tumbledown old house which he 
 had invented and the bit of school-girl fiction had 
 been true ! They became almost such to him, so 
 strongly did he feel that they would exactly fit his 
 case. ' They would have been as stupid probably 
 as — Mr. Mountford,' Cosmo said to himself, ' and 
 pig-headed into the bargain, or they never would 
 have thrown away everything for a gingerbread 
 adventurer like Prince Charley — rude Lowland 
 rustics talking broad Scotch, not even endowed 
 with the mystery of Gaelic. But to be sure I might 
 have made them Celts, and the Lord of Mount would 
 not have been a whit the wiser. I think I can see 
 a snuffy old laird in a blue bonnet, and a lumbering
 
 176 IN TRUST. 
 
 young lout scratching his red head. And these be your 
 gods, oh Israel! I don't think I should have been 
 niuch the better of such ancestors.' But neverthe- 
 less he felt in his heart that he would have been 
 much the better for them. Other men might despise 
 them, but Cosmo would have liked to believe in 
 those Douglasses who had never existed. However, 
 though he had invented them, he could not make 
 use of them. It would have been too absurd. He 
 laughed and reddened a little, and let them drop ; 
 and with a perfectly open and composed countenance 
 informed Mr. Mountford that he was nobody and 
 sprang from no known Douglasses at all. It was a 
 kind of heroism in its way, the heroism of good 
 sense, the influence of that wholesome horror of the 
 ridiculous which is one of the strongest agencies of 
 modern life. 
 
 After the interview with Mr. Mountford, and after 
 the still greater shock of Anne's intimation that her 
 father would not yield, Cosmo's mind had been much 
 exercised, and there had been a moment in which he 
 had not known what to do or say. Marriage with-
 
 COSMO. 177 
 
 out pecuniary advantage was impossible to him — he 
 could not, he dared not think of it. It meant 
 downfall of every kind, and a narrowing of all the 
 possibilities of life. It would be ruin to him and 
 also to the girl who should be his wife. It would be 
 impossible for him to keep her in the position she 
 belonged to, and he would have to relinquish the 
 position which belonged to him — two things not for 
 a moment to be thought of. The only thing possible, 
 evidently, was to wait. He was in love, but he was 
 not anxious to marry at once. In any case it would 
 be expedient to defer that event ; and the old man 
 might die — nay, most likely would die — and would 
 not certainly change his will if all things were kept 
 quiet and no demonstration made. He left Mount 
 full of suppressed excitement, yet glad to be able to 
 withdraw ; to go away without compromising Anne, 
 without being called upon to confront or defy the 
 harsh parent, or do anything to commit himself. 
 If Anne but held her tongue, there was no reason 
 wliy Mr. Mountford might not suppose that she had 
 given Cosmo up, and Cosmo was rather pleased than 
 70L. I. N
 
 178 ^ IN TKUST. 
 
 otherwise with the idea that she might do ,so. He 
 wanted no sentimental passion; no sacrifice of 
 everything for his sake. All for love and the world 
 well lost, was not in the least a sentiment which 
 commended itself to him. He would have much 
 preferred that she had dissembled altogether, and 
 put on an appearance of obeying her father; but 
 this was a thing that he could not recommend her to 
 do, any more than he could put forth his invented 
 story of the ruined Douglasses. The fashion of his 
 age and his kind and his education was so against 
 lying, that it could be practised only individually, 
 so to speak, and as it were accidentally. You might 
 be betrayed into it by the emergency of a moment, 
 but you could not, unless you were very sure indeed 
 of your ground and your coadjutor, venture to 
 suggest falsehood. The thing could not be done. 
 This, however, was what he would have thought the 
 safest thing — that all should fall back into its usual 
 state ; that Anne should go on as if she were still 
 simply Anne, without any difference in her life ; and 
 that, except for the fine but concealed bond between
 
 COSMO. 179 
 
 them, which should be avowed on the first possible 
 occasion, but never 'made any display of while things 
 were not ripe, everything should be exactly as before. 
 This was perfectly fair in love, according to all 
 known examples and rules. Something like it had 
 happened in the majority of similar cases, and 
 indeed, Cosmo said to himself with a half smile, a 
 lover might feel himself little flattered for whom 
 such a sacrifice would not be made. But all the 
 same he could not suggest it. He could not say to 
 Anne, ' Tell a lie for me — persuade your father that 
 all is over between us, though it is not all over 
 between us and never shall be till death parts us.' 
 A young man of the nineteenth century, brought up 
 at a public school and university, a member of the 
 bar, and in very good society, could not say that. It 
 would have been an anachronism. He might wish 
 it, and did do so fervently ; but to put it in words 
 was impossible. 
 
 It was with this view, however, that Cosmo had 
 emitted all mention of correspondence in his last 
 interviews with Anne. They were full of so much 
 
 N 2
 
 180 IN TRUST. 
 
 that was novel and exciting to her that she did not 
 notice the omission, nor in the hurry and rush of 
 new sensations in her mind had she that eager long- 
 ing for a letter which most girls would have felt on 
 parting with their lovers. She had no habit of 
 letters. She had never been at school or made any 
 friendships of the kind that need to be solaced by 
 continual outpourings upon paper. Almost all her 
 intimates were about her, seeing her often, not 
 standing in need of correspondence. She had not 
 even said in the hurry of parting, ' You will write.' 
 Perhaps she saw it like himself, but like himself was 
 unwilling to propose the absolute concealment which 
 was desirable. Cosmo's mind had been full of 
 nothing else on his way to Scotland to his friend's 
 moor. He had thought of her half the time, and 
 the other half of the time he had thought how to 
 manage, how to secure her without injuring her 
 (which was how he put it) ; the long night's journey 
 was made short to him by these thoughts. He did 
 not sleep, and he did not want to sleep ; the dark- 
 ness of the world through which he was rushing, the
 
 COSMO. 181 
 
 jumble of perpetual sound, wLich made a sort of 
 atmosphere about him, was as a hermitage to Cosmo, 
 as it has been to many before him. Railway trains, 
 indeed, are hermitages in life for the much-pondering 
 and careworn sons of the present age. There they 
 can shut themselves up and think at will. He 
 turned it all over and over in his mind. No 
 wild notion — such as had moved the inexperienced 
 mind of Anne with a thrill of delightful impulse — 
 of rushing back to work and instantly beginning the 
 toil which was to win her, occurred to Anne's lover. 
 To be sure it was the long vacation, which is a 
 thing girls do not take into account, and Cosmo 
 would have smiled at the notion of giving up his 
 shooting and going back to his chambers out of the 
 mere sentiment of losing no time, which probably 
 would have appeared to Anne a heroic and delightful 
 idea ; but he did what Anne could not have done ; 
 he went into the whole question, all the jpros and 
 C071S, and weighed them carefully. He had a long 
 journey, far up into the wilds, by the Highland 
 railway. Morning brought him into the land of
 
 182 IN TEUST. 
 
 hills and rivers, and noon to the bleaker mountains 
 and glens, wealthy only in grouse and deer. He 
 did nothing but think it over in the night and 
 through the day. Nevertheless, Cosmo, when he 
 reached Glentuan, was as little worn out as it 
 becomes an experienced young Englishman to be 
 after a long journey. He was quite fresh for dinner 
 after he had performed the customary rites — ready 
 to take his part in all the conversation and help in 
 the general amusement. 
 
 'Douglas — which of the Douglasses does he 
 belong to ? ' one of the guests asked after he had 
 withdrawn. 
 
 ' I've always known him as Douglas of Trinity,' 
 said the host. 
 
 * Trinity, Trinity,' answered the other, who was a 
 local personage, thinking of nothing but territorial 
 designation, ' I never heard of any Douglasses of 
 Trinity. Do you mean the place near Edinburgh 
 where all the seaside villas are ? ' 
 
 ' He means Cambridge,' said another, laugh- 
 ing.
 
 COSMO. 183 
 
 ' Douglas is the best fellow in the world, but be 
 is — nobody : at least so I've always beard.' 
 
 Cosmo did not overhear this conversation, but he 
 knew that it had taken place as well as if he had 
 heard it ; not that it did him the least harm with 
 his comrades of the moment, to whom he was a 
 very nice fellow, a capital companion, thoroughly 
 acquainted with all the habits and customs of their 
 kind, and though no great shot, yet good enough 
 for all that was necessary, good enough to enjoy the 
 sport, which nobody who is awkward and really 
 ignorant can do. But he knew that one time or 
 other this little conversation would take place, and 
 though he felt that he might do himself the credit 
 to say that he had no false shame, nor attached any 
 exaggerated importance to the subject, still it was 
 no doubt of more importance to him than it was to 
 those with whom it was only one out of many sub- 
 jects of a casual conversation. All the same, how- 
 ever, even these casual talkers did not forget it. 
 Strange superstition, strangest folly, he might well 
 say to himself with such a smile as was possible in
 
 184 IN TEUST. 
 
 the circumstances. Douglas of Trinity — Douglas of 
 Lincoln's Inn meant something — but to be one of 
 the Douglasses of some dilapidated old house, what 
 did that mean ? This question, however, had 
 nothing to do with the matter, and the smile had 
 not much pleasantness in it, as may easily be 
 perceived. 
 
 The fruit of Cosmo's cogitations, however, was 
 that he wrote to Anne, as has been seen, and sent 
 his letter to Charley Ashley to be delivered. This 
 was partly policy and partly uncertainty, a sort of 
 half measure to feel his way ; but, on the whole, was 
 most of all the necessity he felt to say something 
 to her, to seize upon her, not to let this beautiful 
 dream escape from him. 
 
 ' We said nothing about writing, and I don't know, 
 my dearest, what you wibh in this respect. Silence 
 seems impossible, but if you wish it, if you ask this 
 sacrifice, I will be content with my perfect trust in 
 my Anne, and do whatever she would have me do. 
 I know that it would be against your pride and your 
 delicacy, my darling, to keep up any correspondence
 
 COSMO. 185 
 
 which the severest parent could call clandestine, 
 and if I take advantage of a good fellow who is 
 devoted to us both, for once, it is not with the least 
 idea that you will like it, or will allow me to con- 
 tinue it. But what can I do ? I must know what 
 is your will in this matter, and I must allow myself 
 the luxury once, if only once, of telling you on paper 
 what I have tried to tell you so often in words — how 
 I love you, my love, and what it is to me to love you 
 — a new creation, an opening up both of earth and 
 heaven.' (We need not continue what Cosmo said 
 on this point because, to be sure, it has all been said 
 over and over again, sometimes no doubt worse, and 
 sometimes unquestionably a great deal better, than 
 he said it : and there is no advantage that we know 
 of to be got from making young persons prematurely 
 acquainted with every possil)le manner in which this 
 sentiment can be expressed.) At the end he re- 
 sumed, with generous sentiment, which was perfectly 
 genmne, and yet not any more free of calculation 
 and the idea of personal advantage than all the rest 
 was: —
 
 186 IN TKUST. 
 
 ' Charley Ashley is the truest friend that ever 
 man had ; he has loved you all his life {that is 
 nothing wonderful), and yet, though, at such a cost 
 as I do not like to try to estimate, he still loves me, 
 though he knows that I have come between him 
 and any possibility there was that he should ever 
 win any return from you. To do him full justice, I 
 do not think he ever looked for any return, but was 
 content to love you as in itself a happiness and an 
 elevation for which a man might well be grateful ; 
 but still it is hard upon him to see a man no better 
 than himself, nay, less wortliy in a hundred ways, 
 winning the unimaginable reward for which he, 
 poor Charley, had not so much as ventured to hope. 
 Yet with a generosity — how can I express it, how 
 could I ever have emulated it? — which is beyond 
 words, he has neither withdrawn his brotherly 
 kindness from me, nor refused to stand by me in my 
 struggle towards you and happiness. What can we 
 say to a friend like this? Trust him, my dearest, 
 as I do. I do not mean that he should be the 
 medium of communication between us, but there are
 
 COSMO. 187 
 
 ways in which he may be of help and comfort to us 
 l)oth ; and, in the meantime, you will at your dear 
 pleasure tell me yourself what you wish to do, or let 
 me know by him : if I may write, if I must be silent, 
 if you will make me a happy man now and then by 
 a word from your [hand, or if I am to wait for that 
 hand till I dare claim it as mine. Nay, but my 
 Anne, my darling, for once, if for once only, you 
 must send two or three words, a line or two, to give 
 me patience and hope.' 
 
 As he folded this up his whole heart longed for 
 the ' word or two ' he had asked for. Without that 
 it almost seemed to him that all that had passed 
 before might mean nothing, might roll away like the 
 mists, like the fabric of a vision. But at the same time 
 Cosmo felt in his heart that if Anne would send 
 him the consolation of this one letter through 
 Charley Ashley, and after that bid him be silent and 
 wait for chance opportunities or modes of communi- 
 cation, that she would do well. It was what he 
 would have advised her to do had he been free to 
 tell her exactly what he thought. But he was not
 
 188 IN TRUST. 
 
 free to advise such a proceeding. It was not in his 
 rdle; nor could he have proposed any clandestine 
 correspondence, though he would have liked it. It 
 was impssible. Anne would most probably have 
 thrown him off as altogether unworthy had he pro- 
 posed anything of the kind to her, or at least would 
 have regaided him with very different eyes from 
 those with which she looked upon him now. And 
 even independent of this he could not have done it : 
 the words would have failed him to make such a 
 proposal. It was contrary to all tradition, and to 
 the spirit of his class and time. 
 
 When he had despatched this letter Cosmo's 
 bosom's lord sat more lightly upon his throne. He 
 went out next morning very early and made a respect- 
 able, a very respectable, bag. Nobody could say that 
 he was a cockney sportsman not knowing how to aim or 
 hold a gun. In this as in everything else he had suc- 
 ceeded in mastering the rules of every fashion, and 
 lived as a man who was to the manner born. He 
 was indeed to the manner born, with nothing in him, 
 so far as he was aware, that went against the traditions
 
 COSMO. 189 
 
 of a gentleman : and yet similar conversations to that 
 one which occurred in the smoking-room, occurred oc- 
 casionally on the hills among the heather. ' Of what 
 Douglasses is your friend ? ' ' Oh, I don't know that 
 he is of any Douglasses,' the master of ihe moor 
 would say with impatience. ' He is a capital fellow, 
 and a rising man in the law — that's all I know- 
 about him ; ' or else, 'He is a college friend, a man 
 who took a very good degree, as clever a fellow as 
 you will meet with, and getting on like a house 
 on fire.' But all these recommendations, as they 
 all knew, were quite beside the question. He 
 was of nowhere in particular — he was nobody. 
 It was a mysterious dispensation, altogether un- 
 explainable, that such a man should have come 
 into the world without suitable ancestors who 
 could have responded for him. But he had done so. 
 And he could not even produce that fabulous house 
 which, as he had invented it, was a far prettier and 
 more truly gentle and creditable family than half the 
 families who would have satisfied every question. 
 Thus the very best quality of his age was against
 
 190 IN TEUST. 
 
 him as well as its superstitions. Had he been an 
 enriched grocer to whom it could have done no 
 possible good, he might easily have invented a 
 pedigree; but being himself he could not do it. 
 And thus the injury he had sustained at the hands 
 of Providence was beyond all remedy or hope of 
 amendment.
 
 191 
 
 CHAPTEE X. 
 
 FAMILY COUNSELS. 
 
 * Has Anne spoken to you all on the subject — what 
 does she intend to do : ' 
 
 Mr. Mountford was subjecting his wife to a cross- 
 examination as to the affairs of the household. It 
 was a practice he had. He felt it to be beneath his 
 dignity to inquire into these details in his own per- 
 son, but he found them out through her. He was 
 not a man who allowed his authority to be shared. 
 So far as ordering the dinnsr went and regulating 
 the household bills, he was content to allow that she 
 had a mission in the world ; but everything of 
 gTeater importance passed through his hands. Mrs. 
 Mountford was in the habit of expressing her ex- 
 treme satisfaction with this rule, especially in respect 
 to Anne. ' What could I have done with a stubborn
 
 192 IN TRUST. 
 
 girl like that ? she would have worn me out. The 
 relief tliat it is to feel that she is in her father's 
 hands and not in mine ! ' she was in the habit of 
 saying. But, though she was free of the respon- 
 sibility, she was not without trouble in the matter. 
 She had to submit to periodical questioning, and, if 
 she had been a woman of fine susceptibilities, would 
 have felt herself something like a spy upon Anne. 
 But her susceptibilities were not fine, and the dis- 
 cussion of other people which her husband's inqui- 
 sitions made necessary was not disagreeable to her. 
 Few people find it altogether disagreeable to sit in 
 a secret tribunal upon the merits and demerits of 
 those around them. Sometimes Mrs. Mountford 
 would rebel at the closeness of the examination to 
 which she was subjected, but on the whole she did 
 not dislike it. She was sitting with her husband 
 in that business-room of his which could scarcely 
 be diguified by the name of a library. She had her 
 usual worsted work in her hand, and a wisp of skeins 
 plaited together in various bright colours on a table 
 before her. Sometimes she would pause to count
 
 FAMILY COUNSELS. 193 
 
 one, two, three, of the stitches on her canvas ; her 
 head was bent over it, which often made it more 
 easy to say what she had got to say. A serious 
 truth may be admitted, or censure conveyed, in the 
 soft sentence which falls from a woman's lips with 
 an air of having nothing particular in it, when the 
 one, two, three, of the Berlin pattern, the exact shade 
 of the wool, is evidently the primary subject in her 
 mind. Mrs. Mountford felt and employed to the 
 utmost the shield of her work. It made everything 
 more easy, and took away all tedium from these pro- 
 longed conversations. As for Mr. Mountford, there 
 was always a gleam of expectation in his reddish 
 hazel eyes. Whether it was about a servant, or his 
 children, or even an indifferent person in the parish, 
 he seemed to be always on the verge of finding some- 
 thing out. ' What does she intend to do ? ' he re- 
 peated. ' She has never mentioned the subject 
 again, but I suppose she has talked it over with 
 you.' 
 
 ' Something has been said,' answered his wife ; 
 ' to say that she had talked it over with me would 
 VOL. I. o
 
 194 IN TRUST. "* 
 
 not be true, St. John. Anne is not one to talk over 
 anything with anybody, especially me. But some- 
 thing was said. I confess I thought it my duty, 
 standing in the place of a mother to her, to open 
 the subject.' 
 
 ' And what is she going to do ? ' 
 
 ' You must know very little about girls, St. John, 
 though you have two of your own (and one of them 
 as difficult to deal with as I ever encountered), if 
 you think that all that is wanted in order to know 
 what they are going to do is to talk it over with 
 them — it is not so easy as that.' 
 
 ' I suppose you heard something about it, how- 
 ever,' he said, with a little impatience. ' Does she 
 mean to give the fellow up ? that is the chief thing 
 I want to know.' 
 
 ' I never knew a girl yet that gave a fellow up, 
 as you call it, because her father told her,' said Mrs. 
 Mountford : and then she paused, hesitating between 
 two shades ; ' that blue is too blue, it will never 
 go with the others. I must drive into Hunston to- 
 day or to-morrow, and see if I cannot get a better
 
 FAMILY COUNSELS. 195 
 
 match. — As for giving up, that was not spoken of, 
 St. John. Nobody ever believes in it coming to 
 that. They think you will be angry ; but that of 
 course, if they stand out, you will come round at the 
 last.' 
 
 ' Does Anne think that ? She must know very 
 little of me if she thinks that I will come round at 
 the last.' 
 
 ' They all think it,' said Mrs. Mountford, calmly 
 counting the lines of the canvas with her needle : 
 ' I ^m not speaking only of Anne. I daresay she 
 A-^counts upon it less than most do, for it must be 
 allowed that she is very like you, St. John, and as 
 obstinate as a mule. You have to be very decided 
 indeed before a girl will think you mean it. Why, 
 there is Eose. What I say is not blaming Anne, for 
 I apa a great deal more sure what my own child 
 would think than what Anne would think. Rose 
 would no more believe that you would cross her 
 seriously in anything she wanted than she would 
 believe you could fly if you tried. She would cry 
 outwardly, I don't doubt, but she would smile in her 
 
 o 2
 
 196 IN TEUST. 
 
 heart She would say to herself, " Papa go against 
 me ' impossible ! " and the little puss would look 
 very pitiful and submissive, and steal her arms 
 round your neck and coax you, and impose upon you» 
 You would be more than mortal, St. John, if you 
 did not come round at the end.' 
 
 INIr. Mountford's countenance relaxed while this de- 
 scription was made — an almost imperceptible softening 
 crept about the corners of his mouth. He seemed to 
 feel the arms of the little puss creeping round his neck, 
 and her pretty little rosebud face close to his own. 
 But he shook oft* the fascination abruptly, and frowned 
 to make his wife think him insensible to it. ' I hope 
 I am not such a weak fool,' he said. ' And there is 
 not much chance that Anne would try that way,' he 
 added, with some bitterness. Eose was supposed to 
 be his favourite chilrl, but yet he resented the fact 
 that no such confession of his absolute authority and 
 homage to his power was to be looked for from Anne. 
 Mrs. Mountford had no deliberate intention of pre- 
 senting his eldest daughter to him under an un- 
 •avourable light, but if she wished him to perceive
 
 FAMILY COUNSELS. 197 
 
 the superior dutifulness and sweetness of her own 
 child, could anyone wonder ? Kose had been hardly 
 used by Nature. She ought to have been a boy and 
 the heir of entail, or, if not so, she ought to have had 
 a brother to take that position, and protect her 
 interests ; and neither of these things had happened. 
 That her father should love her best and do all in his 
 will that it was possible to do for her, was clearly 
 Rose's right as compensation for the other injustices 
 of fate. 
 
 * No,' said Mrs. Mountford, after a longer piece 
 of mental arithmetic than usual, ' that is not Anne's 
 way ; but still you must do Anne j ustice, St. John. 
 She will never believe, any more than Rose, that you 
 will go against her, I don't say this from anything 
 she has said to me. Indeed, I cannot say that she 
 has spoken to me at all on the subject. It was I that 
 introduced it ; I thought it my duty.' 
 
 ' And she gave you to understand that she would 
 go on with it, whatever I might say ; and that, like 
 an old fool, if she stuck to it, I would give in at the 
 end ? '
 
 198 IN TEUST. 
 
 ' St. John ! St John ! how you do run away witJn 
 an idea! I never said that, nor anything like it. I 
 told you what, judging from what I know of girls, I 
 felt sure Anne must feel. They never dream of any 
 serious opposition : as we have given in to them from 
 their childhood, they think we will continue to give 
 in to them to the end ; and I am sure it is quite 
 reasonable to think so ; only recollect how often we 
 have yielded, and done whatever they pleased.' 
 
 ' This time she will find that I will not yield,' 
 said Mr. Mountford, getting up angrily, and planting 
 himself in front of the polished fireplace, which was 
 innocent of any warmth. He set himself very firmly 
 upon his feet, which were wide apart, and put his 
 hands under his coat tails in the proverbial attitude 
 of an Englishman. To see him standing there you 
 would have thought him a man who never would 
 yield ; and yet he had, as his wife said, yielded to a 
 great many vagaries of the girls. She gave various 
 curious little glances of investigation at him from 
 over her wools. 
 
 * I should like to know,' she said, ' why you object
 
 FAIVIILY COUNSELS. 199 
 
 SO much to Mr. Douglas ? he seems a very gentle- 
 manly youug man. Do you know something more 
 of him than we know ? ' 
 
 'Nobody,' said Mr. Mountford, with solemnity, 
 ' knows any more of the young man than we know.' 
 
 * Then why should you be so determined against 
 him ? ' persisted his wife. 
 
 Mr. Mountford fixed his eyes severely upon her. 
 ' Letitia,' he said, ' there is one thing, above all 
 others, that I object to in a man ; it is when nobody 
 knows anything about him. You will not deny that 
 I have had some experience in life ; some experience 
 you must grant me, whatever my deficiencies may 
 be ; and the result of all I have observed is that a 
 man whom nobody knows is not a person to connect 
 yourself with. If he is a member of a well-known 
 family — like our own, for instance — there are his 
 people to answer for him. If, on the other hand, he 
 has made himself of consequence in the world, that 
 may answer the same purpose. But when a man is 
 nobody, you have nothing to trust to ; he may be a 
 very good sort of person ; there may be no harm in
 
 200 IN TEUST. 
 
 him ; but the chances are against him. At all times 
 the chances are heavily against a man whom nobody 
 knows.' 
 
 Mr. Mountford was not disinclined to lay down 
 the law, but he seldom did it on an abstract question ; 
 and his wife looked at him, murmuring ' one, two, 
 three ' with her lips, while her eyes expressed a 
 certain mild surprise. The feeling, however, was 
 scarcely so strong as surprise ; it was rather with a 
 sensation of unexpectedness that she listened. Surely 
 nobody had a better right to his opinion : but she 
 did not look for a general dogma when she had asked 
 a particular question. ' But,' she said, ' papa ! he 
 was known very well, I suppose, or they would not 
 have had him there — to the Ashley s, at least.' 
 
 * "VVTiat was known ? Nothing about him — 
 no thin o' whatever about him ! as Anne was so absurd 
 
 o 
 
 as to say they know Hm, or their own opinion of 
 him; but they know nothing about him — nobody 
 knows anything about him. Whatever you may 
 think, Letitia, that is quite enough for me.' 
 
 'Oh, my dear, I don't pretend to understand,
 
 FA3IILY COUNSELS. 201 
 
 "but we meet a great many people whom we don't 
 know anything of. In society we are meeting them 
 for ever.' 
 
 'Pardon me,' said Mr. Mountford, lifting an 
 emphatic finger ; ' lue may know nothing about 
 them, but somebody knows. Now, all I hear of 
 this man is that he is nobody ; he may be good or 
 he may be bad, much more likely the latter ; but, 
 this being the case, if he were an angel I will have 
 nothing to do with him ; neither shall anyone belong- 
 ing to me. We are well-known people ourselves, and 
 we must form connections with well-known people — 
 or none at all.' 
 
 ' None at all ; you would not keep her an old 
 maid, papa ? ' 
 
 ' Pshaw ! ' said Mr. Mountford, turning away. 
 Then he came back to add a last word. ' Understand 
 me, Letitia,' he said ; ' I think it's kind of you to do 
 3"our best for x\nne, for she is a girl who has given 
 you a great deal of trouble ; but it is of no use ; if 
 she is so determined to have her own way, she shall 
 not have anything else. I am not the weak idiot of
 
 202 IN TEUST. 
 
 a father you think me ; if I have given in to her 
 before, there was no such important matter in hand ; 
 but I have made up my mind now : and it may be 
 better for Kose and you, perhaps, if the worst comes 
 to the worst.' 
 
 Mrs. Mountford was completely roused now ; the 
 numbers, so to speak, dropped from her lips ; her 
 work fell on her knee. ' It is quite true what you 
 say,' she said, feeling herself on very doubtful 
 ground, and not knowing what to do, whether to 
 express gratitude or to make no reference to this 
 strange and dark saying ; ' she has given me a great 
 deal of trouble : but she is your child, St. John, and 
 that is enough for me.' 
 
 He did not make any reply ; nor did he repeat 
 the mysterious promise of advantage to follow upon 
 Anne's disobedience. He was not so frank with his 
 wife as he had been with his daughter. He went to 
 his writing-table once more, and sat down before it 
 with that air of having come to an end of the subject 
 under discussion which his wife knew so well. He 
 did not mean to throw any further light to her upon
 
 FAMILY COUNSELS. 203 
 
 the possible good that might result to Eose. To tell 
 the truth, this possibility was to himself too vague 
 to couDt for much. In the first place, he expected 
 Anne to be frightened, and to give in ; and, in the 
 second place, he fully intended to live long after both 
 his daughters had married and settled, and to be 
 able to make what dispositions he pleased for years 
 to come. He was not an old man ; he was still 
 under sixty, and as vigorous (he believed) as ever he 
 had been. In such a case a will is a very pretty 
 weapon to flourish in the air, but it does nobody 
 much harm. JNIr. Mountford thought a great deal 
 of this threat of his ; but he no more meant it to 
 have any speedy effect than he expected the world to 
 come to an end. Perhaps most of the injustices that 
 people do by will are done in the same way. It is 
 not comprehensible to any man that he should be 
 swept away and others reign in his stead ; therefore 
 he is more free to make use of that contingency than 
 if he believed in it. There would always be plenty 
 of time to set it right ; he had not the least inten- 
 tion of dying ; but for the moment it was something
 
 204 IN TRUST. 
 
 potent to conjure withal. He reseated himself at his 
 table, with a consciousness that he had the power 
 in his hands to turn his whole world topsy-turvy, and 
 yet that it would not do anybody any harm. Natu- 
 rally, this feeling was not shared either by Anne, to 
 whom he had made the original threat, nor by his 
 wife, to whom he held out the promise. We all know 
 Yery well that other people must die — it is only in 
 our own individual case that the event seems unlikely. 
 Mrs. Mountford's mind was filled with secret 
 excitement ; she was eager to know what her husband 
 meant, but she did not venture to ask for any 
 explanation. She watched him over her work with 
 a secret closeness of observation such as she had 
 never felt herself capable of before. What did he 
 mean ? what would he do ? She knew nothing 
 about the law of inheritance, except that entail kept 
 an estate from the daughters, which was a shame, 
 she thought. But in respect to everything else her 
 mind was confused, and she did not know what her 
 husband could do to benefit Kose at Anne's expense. 
 But the more she did not understand, the more eager
 
 FA3IILY COUNSELS. 205 
 
 she was to know. When you are possessed by an 
 eager desire for the enrichment of another, it does 
 not seem a bad or selfish object as it might do if the 
 person to be benefited was yourself ; and, least of all, 
 does it ever appear that to look out for the advan- 
 tage of your child can be wrong. But the poor lady 
 was in the imcomfortable position of not being able 
 to inquire f mother. She could not show herself too 
 anxious to know what was to happen after her 
 husband's death ; and even to take ' the worst ' for 
 granted was not a pleasant thing, for Mrs. Mount- 
 ford, though naturally anxious about Eose, was not a 
 hard woman who would wilfully hurt anyone. She 
 sat for some time in silence, her heart beating very 
 fast, her ears very alert for any word that might fall 
 from her husband's mouth. But no word came from 
 his mouth. He sat and turned over the papers on 
 the table ; he was pleased to have excited her interest, 
 her hopes and fears, but he did not half divine the 
 extent to which he had excited her, not feeling for 
 his own part that there was anything in it to warrant 
 immediate expectation ; while she, on the other hand,
 
 206 IN TRUST. 
 
 though she had a genuine affection for her husband, 
 could not help saying to herself, ' He may go any 
 day ; there is never a day that some one does not 
 die ; and if he died while he was on these terms with 
 Anne, what was it, what was it, that might perhaps 
 happen to Rose ? ' Mrs. Mountford turned over in 
 her mind every possible form of words she could 
 think of in which to pursue her inquiries; but it 
 was very difficult, nay, impossible, to do it ; and, 
 though she was not altogether without artifice, her 
 powers altogether failed her in presence of this diffi- 
 cult question. At length she ventured to ask, 
 clearing her throat with elaborate precaution, 
 
 ' Do you mean to say that if Anne sets her heart 
 upon her own way, and goes against you — all our 
 children do it more or less ; one gets accustomed 
 
 to it, St. John — do you mean to say that you 
 
 will change your will, and put her out of the succes- 
 sion ? ' Mrs. Mountford faltered over the end of 
 
 her sentence, not knowing what to say. 
 
 'There is no succession. What I have is my 
 own to do what I like with it,' he said sharply ; and
 
 FAMILY COUNSELS. 207 
 
 then he opened a big book which lay on the table, 
 and began to write. It was a well-known, if tacit, 
 signal between them, that his need of social inter- 
 course was over, and that his wife might go; but 
 she did not move for some time. She went on with 
 her work, with every appearance of calm ; but her 
 mind was full of commotion. As her needle went 
 through and through the canvas, she cast many a 
 furtive glance at her husband turning over the pages 
 of bis big book, writing here and there a note. 
 They had been as one for twenty years ; two people 
 who were, all the world said, most 'united' — a 
 couple devoted to each other. But neither did she 
 understand what her husband meant, nor could he 
 have believed the kind of feeling with which, across 
 her worsted work, she kept regarding him. She 
 had no wish but that he should live and thrive. 
 Her position, her personal interests, her importance 
 were all bound up in him ; nevertheless, she contem- 
 plated the contingency of his death with a compo- 
 sure that would have horrified him, and thought with 
 much more keen and earnest feeling of what would
 
 208 IN TEUST. 
 
 follow than any alarm of love as to the possibility of 
 the speedy ending of his life produced in her. Thus 
 the two sat within a few feet of each other, life-long 
 companions, knowing still so little of each other 
 — the man playing with the fears and hopes of hi^ 
 dependents, while smiling in his sleeve at the notion 
 of any real occasion for those fears and hopes ; the 
 woman much more intent upon the problematical 
 good fortune of her child than on the existence of 
 her own other half, her closest and nearest connection, 
 with whom her life had been so long identified. 
 Perhaps the revelation of this feeling in her would 
 have been the most cruel disclosure had both states 
 of mind been made apparent to the eye of day. 
 There was not much that was unnatural in his 
 thoughts, for many men like to tantalise their 
 successors, and few men realise with any warmth of 
 imagination their own complete withdrawal from the 
 pains and pleasures of life ; but to know that his 
 wife could look his death in the face without flinch- 
 in o- and think more of his will than of the event 
 which must precede any effect it could have, would
 
 FAMILY COUNSELS. 209 
 
 have penetrated through all his armour and opened 
 his eyes in the most dolorous way. But he never 
 suspected this ; he thought, with true human fatuity, 
 with a little gratified importance and vanity, of the 
 commotion he had produced — that Anne would be 
 * pulled up ' in her career by so serious a threat ; that 
 Rose would be kept ' up to the mark ' by a flutter of 
 hope as to the reward which might fall to her. All 
 this it pleased him to think of. He was complacent 
 as to the effect of his menaces and promises, but at 
 bottom he felt them to be of no great consequence 
 to himself — amusing rather than otherwise ; for he 
 did not in the least intend to die. 
 
 At last Mrs. Mountford felt that she could stay 
 no longer. She rose up from her chair, and gathered 
 her wools in one arm. ' The girls will be coming- 
 in from their ride,' she said. ' I must really go.' 
 
 The girls had all the machinery of life at Mount 
 in their hands ; in other houses it is ' the boys ' that 
 are put forward as influencing everything. The 
 engagements and occupations of the young people 
 map out the day, and give it diversity, though the 
 
 VOL. I. p
 
 210 IN TRUST. 
 
 elder ones move the springs of all that is most 
 important. It was generally when ' the girls ' were 
 busy in some special matter of their own that Mrs. 
 Mountford came to * sit with ' her husband in the 
 library, and furnished him with so much informa- 
 tion. But their positions had been changed to-day. 
 It was he who had been her informant, telling her 
 about things more essential to be known than any 
 of her gossip about Anne's intentions or Eose's 
 habits. She lingered even as she walked across the 
 floor, and dropped her little plaited sheaf of many 
 colours and stooped to pick it up, inviting further 
 confidence. But her husband did not respond. He 
 let her go without taking any notice of her pro- 
 ceedings or asking any question as to her unusual 
 reluctance to leave him. At last, when she had 
 fairly turned her back upon him, and had her hand 
 upon the handle of the door, his voice startled her, 
 and made her turn round with anxious expectation. 
 
 ' By the way,' he said, ' I forgot to tell you : I 
 have a letter to-day from Heathcote Mountford,
 
 FAMILY COUNSELS. 211 
 
 offering a visit. I suppose he wants to spy out the 
 nakedness of the land.' 
 
 ' Heathcote Mountford ! ' cried his wife, be- 
 wildered ; then added, after a little interval, ' I am 
 sure he is quite welcome to come when he pleases — 
 he or anyone. There is no nakedness in the land 
 that we need fear.' 
 
 ' He is coming next week,' said Mr. Mountford. 
 ' Of course, as you perceive, I could not refuse.' 
 
 Mrs. Mountford paused at the door, with a great 
 deal of visible interest and excitement. It was no 
 small relief to her to find a legitimate reason for it. 
 ' Of course you could not refuse : why should you 
 
 refuse ? I shall be very glad to see him ; and' 
 
 she added, after a momentary pause, which gave the 
 words significance, ' so will the girls.' 
 
 ' I wish I could think so ; the man is forty,' Mr. 
 jNIountford said. Then he gave a little wave of his 
 hand, dismissing his wife. Even the idea of a visit 
 from his heir did not excite him. He was not even 
 conscious, for the moment, of the hostile feeling with 
 which men are supposed to regard their heirs in 
 
 p 2
 
 212 IN TRUST. 
 
 general, and which, if legitimate in any case, is 
 certainly so in respect to an heir of entail. It is 
 true that he had looked upon Heatchcote Mountford 
 with a mild hatred all his life as his natural enemy ; 
 but at the present crisis the head of the house 
 regarded his successor with a kind of derisive com- 
 placency, as feeling that he himself Avas triumphantly 
 ' keeping the fellow out of it.' He had never been 
 so certain of living long, of cheating all who looked 
 for his death, as he was after he had made use of 
 that instrument of terrorism against his daughter. 
 Heathcote Mountford had not been at Mount for 
 nearly twenty' years. It pleased his kinsman 
 that he should offer to come now, just to be tanta- 
 lised, to have it proved to him that his inheritance 
 of the family honours was a long way off, and very 
 problematical in any sense. ' A poor sort of fellow ; 
 always ailing, always delicate ; my life is worth two 
 of his,' he was saying, with extreme satisfaction, in 
 his heart.
 
 213 
 
 CHAPTEK Xr. 
 
 PROJECTS OF MAEEIAGE. 
 
 The girls had just come in from their ride ; they 
 were in the hall awaiting that cup of tea which is 
 the universal restorative, when Mrs. Mountford with 
 her little sheaf of wools went to join them. They 
 heard her come softly along the passage which 
 traversed the house, from the library, in quite the 
 other end of it, to the hall, — a slight shuffle in one 
 foot making her step recognisable. Eose was very 
 clear-sighted in small matters, and it was she who 
 had remarked that, after having taken her work to 
 the library ' to sit with papa,' her mother had gene- 
 rally a much greater acquaintance with all that was 
 about to happen on the estate or in the family 
 affairs. She held up her finger to Anne as the step 
 was heard approaching. ' Now we shall hear the
 
 214 IN TKUST. 
 
 last particulars,' Eose said ; ' what is going to be 
 done with us all, and if we are to go to Brighton, 
 and all that is to happen.' Anne was much less 
 curious on these points. Whether the family went 
 to Brighton or not mattered little to her. She took 
 off her hat, and smoothed back her hair from her 
 forehead. It was October by this time, and no 
 longer warm ; but the sun was shining, and the 
 afternoon more like summer than autumn. Old 
 Saymore had brought in the tray with the tea. 
 There was something on his very lips to say, 
 but he did not desire the presence of his mistress, 
 which checked his confidences with the young ladies. 
 Anne, though supposed generally to be proud, was 
 known by the servants to be very gentle of access, 
 and ready to listen to anything that concerned them. 
 And as for Rose, old Saymore — who had, so to speak, 
 seen her born — did not feel himself restrained by 
 the presence of Rose. ' I had something to ask 
 Miss Anne,' he said, in a kind of undertone, as if 
 making a remark to himself. 
 ' What is it, Saymore ? '
 
 PROJECTS OF MARRIAGE. 215 
 
 'No, no,' said tlie old man, shaking his head. 
 * No, no ; I am not such a fool as I look. There is 
 no time now for my business. No, no. Miss Anne, 
 no, no,' he went on, shaking his head as he arranged 
 the cups and saucers. The sun, though it had 
 passed off that side of the house, had caught in some 
 glittering thing outside, and sent in a long ray of 
 reflection into the huge old dark mirror which filled 
 up one side of the room. Old Saymore, with his 
 white locks, was reflected in this from top to toe, 
 and the shaking of the white head produced a singu- 
 lar commotion in it like circles in water. He was 
 always very deliberate in his movements ; and as 
 Mrs. Mountford's step stayed in the passage, and a 
 sound of voices betrayed that she had been stopped 
 by some one on the way, Eose, with ideas of ' fun ' 
 in her mind, invited the arrested confidence. ' Make 
 haste and speak,' she said, ' Saymore ; mamma has 
 stopped to talk to Worth. There is no telling how 
 long it may be before she comes here.' 
 
 ' If it's Mrs. Worth, it may be with the same 
 object, miss,' said Saymore, with solemnity. And
 
 216 IN TRUST. 
 
 then he made a measured, yet sidelong step towards 
 Anne. ' I hope, Miss Anne, you'll not disapprove ? "^ 
 
 ' What do you want me to approve of, Saymore ? 
 I don't think it matters very much so long as mamma 
 is pleased.' 
 
 ' It matters to me. Miss Anne ; it would seem 
 unnatural to do a thing that was really an important 
 thing without the sanction of the family ; and I 
 come from my late lady's side. Miss Anne. I've 
 always held by you, miss, if I may make so bold as 
 to say it.' 
 
 Saymore made so bold as to say this often, and it 
 was perfectly understood in the house ; indeed it 
 was frequently supposed by new-comers into the 
 servants' hall that old Saymore was a humble relation 
 of the family on that side. 
 
 ' It is very kind of you to be so faithful ; tell 
 me quickly what it is, if you want to say it to me 
 privately, and not to mamma.' 
 
 'Miss Anne, I am an old man,' he said; 'you'll 
 perhaps think it unbecoming. I'm a widower, miss^ 
 and I've no children nor nobody belonging to me.'
 
 PROJECTS OF MARRIAaE. ^ 217 
 
 ' We've known all that,' cried Kose, breaking in, 
 * as long as we'v^e lived.' 
 
 Sajmore took no notice of the interruption ; he 
 did not even look at her, but proceeded with gravity, 
 though with a smile creeping to the corners of his 
 mouth. ' And some folks do say, Miss Anne, that, 
 though I'm old, I'm a young man of my years. 
 There is a deal of difference in people. Some folks is 
 older, some younger. Yourself, Miss Anne, if I might 
 make so bold as to say so, you're not a young lady 
 for yom- years.' 
 
 ' No, is she ? ' said Eose. ' I always tell you so, 
 Anne ! you've no imagination, and no feelings ; you 
 are as serious as the big trees. Quick, quick, Say- 
 more, mamma is coming.' 
 
 ' I've always been considered young-looking,' said 
 old Saymore, with a complacent smile, ' and many 
 and many a one has advised me to better my condi- 
 tion. That might be two words for themselves and 
 one for me, Miss Anne,' he continued, the smile 
 broadening into a smirk of consciousness. ' Ladies 
 is very pushing now-a-days ; but I think I've picked
 
 218 IN TKUST. 
 
 out one as will never deceive me, and, if the family 
 don't have any objections, I think I am going to get 
 married, always hoping. Miss Anne, as you don't 
 disapprove.' 
 
 'To get married?' said Anne, sitting upright 
 with sheer amazement. Anne's thoughts had not 
 been occupied on this subject as the thoughts of 
 girls often are ; but it had entered her imagination 
 suddenly, and Anne's imagination was of a superla- 
 tive kind, which shed a glory over everything that 
 occupied it. This strange, beautiful, terrible, con- 
 junction of two had- come to look to her the most 
 wonderful, mysterious, solemn thing in the world 
 since it came within her own possibilities. All the 
 comedy in it which is so apt to come uppermost had 
 disappeared when she felt herself walking with 
 Cosmo towards the verge of that unknown and awful 
 paradise. Life had not turned into a tragedy in- 
 deed, but into a noble, serious poem, full of awe, full 
 of wonder, entering in by those great mysterious 
 portals, which were guarded as by angels of love and 
 fate. She sat upright in her chair, and gazed with
 
 PEOJECTS OF MARRIAGE. 219 
 
 wide open eyes and lips apart at this caricature of 
 her fancy. Old Say more ? tlie peal of laughter with 
 which Kose received the announcement was the 
 natural sentiment ; but Anne had not only a deep 
 sense of horror at this desecration of an idea so 
 sacred, but was also moved by the secondary con- 
 sciousness that old Saymore too had feelings which 
 might be wounded, which added to her gravity. 
 Saymore, for his part, took Eose's laugh lightly 
 enough, but looked at her own grave countenance 
 with rising offence. 'You seem to think that I 
 haven't no right to please myself. Miss Anne,' he 
 said. 
 
 ' But who is the lady ? tell us who is the lady,' 
 cried Rose. 
 
 Saymore paused and held up a finger. The 
 voices in the corridor ceased. Some one was heard 
 to walk away in the opposite direction, and Mrs. 
 Mountford's soft shuffle advanced to the hall. 
 ^ Another time. Miss Anne, another time,' he said, in 
 a half whisper, shaking his finger in sign of secresy. 
 Then he walked towards the door, and held it open
 
 220 IN TEUST. 
 
 for his mistress with much solemnity. Mrs. Mount- 
 ford came in more quickly than usual ; she was halt 
 angry, half laughing. ' Saymore, I think you are 
 an old fool,' she said. 
 
 Saymore made a bow which would have done 
 credit to a courtier. ' There's a many, madam,' he 
 replied, ' as has been fools like me.' He did not 
 condescend to justify himself to Mrs. Mountford, 
 but went out without further explanation. He 
 belonged to the other side of the house ; not that he 
 was not perfectly civil to his master's second wife — 
 but she was always ^ the new mistress ' to Saymore, 
 though she had reigned at Mount for nearly twenty 
 years. 
 
 ' What does he mean, mamma ? ' cried Kose, with 
 eager curiosity. She was fond of gossip, about 
 county people if possible, but, if not, about village 
 people, or the servants in the house, it did not 
 matter. Her eyes shone with amazement and ex- 
 citement. ' Is it old Worth ? who is it ? What fun 
 to have a wedding in the house ! ' 
 
 ' He is an old fool,' said Mrs. Mountford, putting
 
 PKOJECTS OF MAREIAGE. 221 
 
 the wools out of her arm and placing herself in the 
 most comfortable chair. * Grive me a cup of tea, 
 Kose. I have been standing in the corridor till I'm 
 quite tired, and before that with papa.' 
 
 ' You were not standing when you were with 
 papa ? ' 
 
 ' Well, yes, part of the time ; he has a way — 
 Anne has it too, it is very tiresome — of keeping the 
 most important thing he has to say till the last 
 moment. Just when you have got up and got to the 
 door, and think you are free, then he tells you. It 
 is very tiresome — Anne is just the same — in many 
 things she is exceedingly like papa.' 
 
 ' Then he told you something important ? ' cried 
 Eose, easily diverted from the first subject. 'Are 
 we to go to Brighton ? What is going to happen ? 
 I told Anne you would have something to tell us 
 •when we heard you had been sitting with papa.' 
 
 ' Of course we consult over things when we get a 
 quiet hour together,' Mrs. Mountford said ; and then 
 she made a pause. Even Anne felt her heart beat. 
 It seemed natural that her own affairs should have
 
 222 IN TRUST. 
 
 been the subject of this conference ; for what was 
 there in the family that was half so interesting as 
 Anne's affairs ? A little colour came to her face^ 
 then fled again, leaving her more pale than usual. 
 
 ' If it was about me, I would rather not have my 
 affairs talked over,' she said. 
 
 ' My dear Anne,' said Mrs. Mountford, ' try not 
 to get into the way of thinking that everything that 
 is interesting in the family must come from you ; 
 this is a sort of way that girls get when they begin 
 to think of love and such nonsense ; but I should 
 have expected more sense from you.' 
 
 Love and such nonsense ! Anne's countenance 
 became crimson. Was this the way to characterise 
 that serious, almost solemn, mystery which had 
 taken possession of her life ? And then the girl, in 
 spite of herself, laughed. She felt herself suddenly 
 placed beside old Saymore in his grotesque senti- 
 ment, and between scorn and disgust and unwilling 
 amusement words failed her ; then the others 
 laughed, which made Anne more angry still. 
 
 ' I am glad to hear you laugh,' said Mrs. Mount-
 
 PKOJECTS Oi< MARRIAGE. 223 
 
 ford, ' for that shows you aie not so much on your 
 high horse as I fancied you were. And yours is such 
 a very high horse, my dear ! No, I don't mean to 
 say you were not referred to, for you would not 
 believe me ; there was some talk about you ; but 
 papa said he had spoken to you himself, and I never 
 make nor meddle between him and you, as you 
 know, Anne. It was something quite different. 
 We are not going to Brighton, Rosie ; some one is 
 coming here.' 
 
 ' Oh — h ! ' Rose's countenance fell. Brighton, 
 which was a break upon the monotony of the country, 
 was always welcome to her. 'And even Willie 
 Ashley gone away ! ' was the apparently irrelevant 
 observation she made, with a sudden drooping of the 
 corners of her mouth. 
 
 ' What is Willie Ashley to you ? you can't have 
 your game in winter,' said her mother, with 
 unconscious cynicism ; ' but there is somebody 
 coming who is really interesting. I don't know 
 that you have ever seen him ; I have seen him only 
 once in my life. I thought him the most interest-
 
 224 IN TRUST. 
 
 ing-looking man I ever saw ; he was like a hero on 
 the stage, tall and dark, with a natural curl in his 
 hair ; and such eyes ! ' 
 
 Eose's blue and inexperienced orbs grew round 
 and laro'e with excitement. ' Who is it ? No one 
 
 o 
 
 we ever saw ; oh, no, indeed, I never saw a man a 
 bit like that. Who is it, mamma ? ' 
 
 Mrs. Mountford liked to prolong the excitement. 
 It pleased her to have so interesting a piece of news 
 in hand. Besides, Anne remained perfectly un- 
 moved, and to excite Eose was too easy. ' He is a 
 man with a story too,' she said. * When he was 
 quite young he was in love with a lady, a very grand 
 personage, indeed, quite out of the reach of a poor 
 gentleman like — this gentleman. She was an 
 Italian, and I believe she was a princess or some- 
 thing. That does not mean the same as it does 
 here, you know ; but she was a great deal grander 
 than he was, and her friends would not let her marry 
 him.' 
 
 ' And what happened ? ' cried Eose breathless, as 
 her mother came to an artful pause. Anne did not
 
 TEOJECTS OF MARRIAGE. 225 
 
 say anything, but she leant forward, and her eyes 
 too had lighted up with interest. It was no part of 
 Mrs. Mountford's plan to interest Anne, but, once 
 entered upon her story, the desire of the artist for 
 appreciation seized upon her. 
 
 * What could happen, my dear ? ' she said, 
 pointedly adding a moral ; * they gave everybody a 
 great deal of trouble for a time, as young people 
 who are crossed in anything always do ; but people 
 abroad make very short work with these matters. 
 The lady was married, of course, to somebody in her 
 own rank of life.' 
 
 ' And the gentleman ? — it was the gentleman you 
 were telling us about.' 
 
 ' The gentleman — poor Heatlicote ! well, he has 
 got on well enough — I suppose as well as other 
 people. He has never married ; but then I don't 
 see how he could marry, for he has nothing to marry 
 upon.' 
 
 * Heathcote I do you mean Heathcote Mount- 
 ford ? ' 
 
 It was Anne v>'ho spoke ibis time — the story bed 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 IN TEUST. 
 
 grown more and more interesting to her as it went 
 on. Her voice trembled a little as she asked this 
 hasty question; it quivered with sympathy, with 
 wondering pain. The lady married somebody — in 
 her own rank in life — the man never married at all, 
 but probably could not because he had nothing to 
 marry on. Was that the end of it all — a dull matter- 
 of-fact little tragedy ? Slie remembered hearing 
 such words before often enough, but never had given 
 them any attention until now. 
 
 * Yes, I mean your cousin Heathcote JMountford. 
 He is coming next week to see papa.' 
 
 Eose had been looking from one to another with 
 her round eyes full of excitement. Now she drew a 
 long breath and said in a tone of awe, ' The heir of 
 the entail.' 
 
 ' Yes, the heir of the entail,' said Mrs. Mount- 
 ford solemnly. She looked at her daughter, and the 
 one pair of eyes seemed to take fire from the other. 
 * He is as poor — as poor as a mouse. Of course he 
 will have Mount when — anything happens to papa. 
 But papa's life is as good as his. He is thirty-five,
 
 PEOJECTS OF JkL^EEIAGE. 227 
 
 and he has never had much stamina. I don't mean 
 to say that it is so generall}^, but sometimes a man 
 is quite old at thirty-five.' 
 
 At this time very different reflections gleamed 
 across the minds of the gii'ls. 'Papa was nearly 
 forty when mamma married him,' Eose said to her- 
 self with great quickness, while the thought that 
 passed through Anne's mind was ' Thirt3^-five — five 
 years older than Cosmo.' Neither one thing nor tlie 
 other, it may be said, had much to do with Heath cote 
 Mountford ; and yet there was meaning in it, so far 
 as Rose at least was concerned. 
 
 She was thoughtful for the rest of the day, and 
 asked her mother several very pertinent questions 
 v.hen they were alone, as 'AVhere does Heathcote 
 Mountford live? Has he any money at all? or 
 does he do anything for his living? has ho any 
 brothers and sisters ? ' She was determined to have 
 a very clear understanding of all the circumstances 
 of his life. 
 
 ' Oh yes, my love, he has a little,' Mrs. Mount- 
 ford said ; * one says a man has nothing when he has 
 Q 2
 
 228 IN TRUST. 
 
 not c nongh to settle upon ; but most people have a 
 little. I suppose he lives in London in chambers, 
 like most unmarried men. No, he has no brothers 
 and sisters, — but, yes, I forgot there is one — a young 
 one — whom he is very much attached to, people 
 say.' 
 
 ' And he will have Mount when papa dies,' said 
 Eose. ' How strange that, though papa has two 
 children, it should go away to quite a different 
 person, not even a very near relation ! It is very 
 unjust; don't you think it is very unjust? I am 
 sure it is not a thing that ought to be.' 
 
 ' It is the entail, my dear. You must remember 
 the entail.' 
 
 ' But what is the good of an entail ? If we had 
 had a brother, it might have been a good thing to 
 keep it in the family ; but surely, when we have no 
 brother, we are the proper heirs. It would be more 
 right even, if one person were to have it all, that 
 Anne should be the person. She,^ said Rose, with a 
 little fervour, ' would be sure to take care of me.' 
 
 ' I think so too, Rosie,' said her mother ; ' but
 
 PROJECTS OF MAKHIAGE. 229 
 
 then Anne will not always just be Anne. She will 
 marry somebody, and she will not have a will of her 
 own — at least not such a will of her own. There is 
 one way,' Mrs. Mountford added with a laugh, ' in 
 which things are sometimes put right, Eose. Do 
 you remember Mr. Collins in Miss Austen's novel ? 
 He came to choose a wife among the Miss Bennetts 
 to make up for taking their home from them. I am 
 afraid that happens oftener in novels than in real 
 life. Perhaps,' she said, laughing again, but with 
 artificial mirth, ' your cousin Heathcote is coming to 
 look at you girls to see whether he would like one of 
 you for his wife.' 
 
 ' I daresay,' said Rose calmly ; ' that went through 
 my mind too. He would like Anne, of course, if he 
 could get her ; but then Anne — likes somebody 
 else.' 
 
 ' There are more people than Anne in the world,' 
 said the mother, with some indignation. ' Anne I 
 we all hear so much of Anne that we get to think 
 there is nobody like her. No, my pet, a man of 
 Heathcote Mountford's age — it is not anything like
 
 230 IN TEUST. 
 
 Anne he is tliinking of; thej don't want tragedy 
 queens at that age ; they want youth,' 
 
 ' You mean, mamma, said Rose, still quito 
 serious, ' that he would like me Lest.' 
 
 'My pet, we don't talk of such things. It is 
 quite time enough when they happen, if they ever 
 happen.' 
 
 'But I prefer to talk about them,' said Rose. 
 * It would be very nice to keep Mount ; but then , 
 if Anne had all the money, what would be the 
 good of 3Iount? We, I mean, could never keep 
 it up.' 
 
 ' This is going a very long way,' said her mother, 
 amused ; ' you must not talk of what most likely will 
 never happen. Besides, there is no telling what 
 changes may take place. Anne has not pleased papa, 
 and no one can say what money she may have and 
 what you may have. That is just what nobody can 
 tell till the time comes.' 
 
 ' You mean— till papa dies ? ' 
 
 * Oh, Rosie,' said Mrs. Mountford, alarmed, ^ don't 
 be so plain-spoken, dear ; don't let us think of such a
 
 PROJECTS OF MARRIAGE. 231 
 
 thin<j. What would become of us if anythiug 
 happened to dear papa ? ' 
 
 ' But it must happen some time,' said Eose, calmly, 
 * and it will not happen any sooner because we speak 
 of it. I hope he will live a long time, long after we 
 are both married and everything settled. But if one 
 of us was rich, it would not be worth her while to 
 marry Heathcote, unless she was very fond of Mount ; 
 and I don't think we arc so very fond of Mount. 
 And if one of us was poor, it would not be worth his 
 while, because he would not be able to keep it up.' 
 
 ' That is the very best conclusion to come to,' said 
 her mother ; ' since it would not be worth while either 
 for the rich one or the poor one, you may put that 
 oat of your head and meet him at your ease, as you 
 ought to meet an elderly cousin.' 
 
 'Thirty-five is not exactly elderly — for a man,' 
 said Eose, thoughtfully. She did not put the question 
 out of her mind so easily as her mother suggested. 
 *But I suppose it is time to go and dress,' she 
 added, with a little sigh. ' Xo Brighton, and 
 winter coming on, and nobody here, not even Willie
 
 232 IN TEUST. 
 
 Ashley. I hope he will be amusing at least,' she said, 
 sighing again, as she went away. 
 
 Mrs. Mountford followed slowly with a sniile 
 on her face. She was not sorry, on the whole, to 
 have put the idea into her child's head. Even when 
 the Mountfords of Mount had been poor, it was ' a 
 very nice position ' — and Heathcote had something 
 enough to live upon : and Rose would have something. 
 If they ' fancied ' each other, worse things might 
 happen. She did not feel inclined to oppose such a 
 consummation. It would be better than marrying 
 Willie Ashley, or — for of course that would be out of 
 the question — wanting to marry him. Mrs. Mount- 
 ford knew by experience what it was for a girl to 
 spend all her youth in the unbroken quiet of a house 
 in the country which was not really a great house. 
 She had been thirty when she married Mr. Mount- 
 ford, and before that time there had occurred sundry 
 passages, involving at least one ineligible young man, 
 which had not quite passed from her memory. How 
 was it possible to help it ? — a girl must do something 
 to amuse herself, to occupy the time that hangs so 
 heavily on her hands. And often, she reflected,
 
 PROJECTS OF MARRIAGE. 233 
 
 before you know what you are doing, it has become 
 serious, and there is no way out of it. As she looked 
 back she remembered many instances in which this 
 had happened. Better, far better, an elderly cousin 
 with an old though small estate, than the inevitable 
 clergyman or Willie Ashley. And thirty-five, for a 
 man, was not an age to make any objection to. 
 
 She went upstairs with her head full of such 
 thoughts, and there once more she found Mrs. Worth, 
 with whom she had held so earnest a colloquy in the 
 corridor, while Saymore opened his heart to his 
 young ladies. Mrs. Worth shook her head when her 
 mistress addressed a question to her. She pinned on 
 the lace pelerine with whicli it was Mrs. Mountford's 
 pride to make her old dresses look nice for the 
 evening, with many shakings of her head. 
 
 ' I don't know, ma'am, as I shall ever bring her 
 to hear reason,' Mrs. Worth said. ' I tell her as a 
 good worthy man, and a nice little bit of money, is 
 not for any girl to despise, and many that is her 
 betters would be glad of the chance. But " you can't 
 put an old head on young shoulders," as the saying is, 
 and I don't know as I shall ever bring her to hear
 
 234 IN TRUST. 
 
 reason. There's things as nothing will teach us but 
 experience ma'am,' Mrs. Worth said. 
 
 ' Well, he is old for such a girl, said Mrs. Mount- 
 ford, candidly ; ' we must not be too hard upon her, 
 Worth.' 
 
 * Old, ma'am ! well, in one way he may be called 
 old,' said the confidential maid ; ' but I don't call it 
 half so bad when they're that age as when they're 
 just betwixt and between, both old and young, as 
 you may say. Forty or so, that is a worry ; but 
 sixty-five you can do with. If I've told her that once 
 I've told her fifty times ; but she pays no attention. 
 And when you think what a nice little bit of money 
 he's put away since he's been here, and how respect- 
 able he is, and respected by the family ; and that she 
 has nothing, poor girl! and nobody but me to look 
 to ! I think, if Miss Anne were to speak a word to 
 her, ma'am, perhaps it would make a difference. 
 They think a deal more of what a young lady 
 says, like themselves, so to speak, than an old person 
 like me.'
 
 23o 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 MISTRESS AND MAID. 
 
 Anne had gone upstairs some time before. At this 
 time of her life she liked to be alone, and there were 
 many reasons why solitude should be dear to her. 
 For one thing, those who have just begun to thread 
 the flowery ways of early love have always a great 
 deal to think of. It is an occupation in itself to 
 retrace all that has been done and said, nay, even 
 looked and thought, and to carry this dream of 
 recollection on into the future, adding what shall be 
 to what has been. A girl does not require any other 
 business in life when she has this delightful maze 
 awaiting her, turning her room into a Vita nuova, 
 another life which she can enter at her pleasure, 
 shutting impenetrable doors upon all vulgar sights 
 and sounds. In addition to this, wliich needed no
 
 •236 IN TRUST. 
 
 addition, she had something active and positive to 
 occupy her. She had answered Cosmo's letter, thank- 
 ing him for his offer to deny himself, to be silent if she 
 wished him to be silent. But Anne declared that she 
 had no such wish. ' Do not let us make a folly of our 
 correspondence,' she had written ; ' but neither must we 
 deny ourselves this great happiness, dear Cosmo, for 
 the sake of my father. I have told my father that 
 in this point I cannot obey him. I should scorn 
 myself now if I made believe to obey him by giving 
 up such intercourse as we can have. He has not 
 asked this, and I think it would not be honest to 
 offer it. What he wanted was that we should part 
 altogether, and this we are not going to do. Write 
 to me then, not every day, nor even every week, to 
 make it common, but when your heart is full, and it 
 would be an injustice to keep it from me any longer. 
 And so will I to you.' The bargain, if somewhat 
 highflown, was very like Anne, and on this footing 
 the letters began. Anne very soon felt that her 
 heart was always full, that there was constantly 
 more to say than a sheet of paper could carry ; but
 
 MISTRESS AND MAID. 237 
 
 she lield by her own rule, and only broke silence 
 when she could not keep it any longer, which gave 
 to her letters a character of intensity and delicate 
 passion most rare and strange, which touched her 
 lover with an admiration which sometimes had a 
 little awe in it. His own letters were delightful to 
 Anne, but they were of a very different character. 
 They were full of genuine love ; for, so far as that 
 went, there was nothing fictitious in his sentiments ; 
 but they were steadygoing weekly letters, such as a 
 man pens on a certain day and sends by a certain 
 post, not only to the contentment of his own heart, 
 but in fulfilment of what is expected of him, of what 
 it is indeed his duty to do. This made a great 
 difference ; and Cosmo — who was full of intellectual 
 perceptions and saw more clearly than, being not so 
 complete in heart as in mind, it was to his own 
 comfort to see — perceived it very clearly, with an 
 uneasy consciousness of being 'not up to ' the lofty 
 strain which was required ot him. But Anne, in 
 her innocence and inexperience, perceived it not. 
 His letters were delightful to her. The words
 
 238 . IX TRUST. 
 
 seemed to glow and sliine before her eyes. If there 
 was a tame expression, a sentence that fell flat, she 
 set it down to that reticence of emotion, that 
 English incapacity for saying all that is felt and 
 tendency to depreciate itself, which we all believe 
 in, and which counts for so much in our estimates of 
 each other. These letters, as I have said, added an 
 actual something to be done to the entrancing occu- 
 pation of ' thinking over ' all that had happened and 
 was going to happen. Whenever she had a little 
 time to spare, Anne, with her heart beating, opened 
 the little desk in which she kept these two or three 
 precious performances. I think, indeed, she carried 
 the last always about her, to be re-read whenever an 
 occasion occurred : and it was with her heart intent 
 upon tliis gratification, this secret delight which 
 nobody knew of, that she went into her room, leav- 
 ing her sister and stepmother still talking over their 
 tea in the hall. More sweet to her than the best of 
 company was this pleasure of sitting alone. 
 
 But on this occasion she found herself not alone. 
 Though the dressing-bell would not ring for about
 
 MISTRESS AND MAID. 239 
 
 an hour, Keziah was already tliere preparing her 
 young lady's evening toilette. She was standing 
 with her back to the door laying out Anne's dress 
 upon the bed, and crying softly to herself. Keziah 
 was very near Anne's age, and they had been in a 
 manner brought up together, and had known every- 
 thing that had happened to each other all their 
 lives. This makes a bond between mistress and 
 maid, not common in the ordinary relationships 
 which we form and break so easily. To see Keziah 
 crying was not a matter of indifference to Anne ; 
 but neither was it a matter of alarm, for it was not 
 difficult to make Keziah cry. Some one, no doubt, 
 had been scolding the girl ; her aunt, who was very 
 strict with her, or the cook, who was half-house- 
 keeper and apt to find fault with the younger 
 servants. Anne stepped forward with her light 
 foot, which Keziah, in her agitation, did not hear, 
 and put her hand on the girl's shoulder. But this, 
 which was done in all kindness, had tragical results. 
 Keziah started violently, and a great big tear, as 
 large as half-a-crown, fell upon the airy skirts of
 
 240 IN TRUST. 
 
 the dress which she was opening out on the bed. 
 The poor girl uttered a shriek of dismay. 
 
 ' Oh, Miss Anne ! I didn't mean it, I didn't 
 mean it ! ' she cried. 
 
 ' What is it, Keziah ? There is no harm done ; 
 but why are you crying ? Has anything happened 
 at home ? Have you bad news ? or is it only Worth 
 that has been cross again ? ' 
 
 ' I'm silly, INIiss Anne, that's \vhat it is,' said 
 Keziah, drying her eyes. ' Oh, don't pity me, please, 
 or I'll only cry more ! Give me a good shaking ; 
 that's what I want, as aunt always says.' 
 
 ' Has she been scolding you ? ' said Anne. It 
 was not the first time that she had found Keziah in 
 tears ; it was not an alarming occurrence, nor did it 
 require a very serious cause. 
 
 *But to think,' cried the girl, 'that I should be 
 such a silly, me that ought to know better, as to go 
 and cry upon an Indian muslin, that oughtn't to go 
 to the wash not for ever so long ! Aunt would never 
 forgive me if she knew ; and oh, I'm bad enough 
 already without that ! If I coukl only tell you, Miss
 
 MISTRESS AND MAID. 241 
 
 Anne ! Morning or evening she never lets me be. 
 It's that as makes me so confused, I don't know what 
 I'm doing. Sometimes I think I'll just take and 
 marry him, to have done with him and her too. 
 
 ' Marry him ? is that what is the matter ? It 
 must be some one you don't like, or you wouldn't 
 cry so.' 
 
 'It isn't so much that I don't like him. If that 
 was all,' said Keziah, with philosopliy, ' I wouldn't 
 mind so much. Many a girl has had the same to 
 do. You have to take the bitter witli the sweet, as 
 aunt always says.' 
 
 'Keziah I ' exclaimed Anne, with consternation. 
 ' You wouldn't mind I then what are you crying for ? 
 And why do you try to cheat me into sympathy,' 
 cried the young lady, indignantly, ' if you don't 
 mind, as you say ? ' 
 
 Keziah by this time had mastered her tears. 
 She had dried the spot carefully and tenderly with 
 a handkerchief, pressing the muslin between two folds. 
 
 'Miss Anne,' she said, 'don't you say as I'm 
 cheating, or my heart will break. That is one 
 
 TOL. I. R
 
 242 IN TKUST. 
 
 thing nobody can say of me. I tell him honest that 
 I can't abide him, and if he will have me after that, 
 is it my fault ? No, it's not that,' she said shaking 
 her head with the melancholy gravity of superior 
 experience : ' I wasn't thinking just of what I'd like. 
 You ladies do what you please, and when you're 
 crossed, you think the world is coming to an end ; 
 but in our class of life, you're brought up to know 
 as you can't have your own way.' 
 
 ' It is not a question of having your own way. 
 How could you marry a man you did not — love?' 
 cried Anne, full of wrath and indignation, yet with 
 awe of the sacred word she used. Was it too fine a 
 word to be used to little Keziah ? The girl gazed 
 at her for a moment, half-roused, half- wondering ; 
 then shook her head again. 
 
 ' Oh, ]Miss Anne, love I a girl couldn't love an old 
 man like that ; and he don't look for it, aunt says. 
 And he'd think a deal of me, more than — than others 
 might. It's better to be an old man's darling than 
 a young man's slave. And he's got plenty of money 
 — I don't know how much — in the bank ; and mother
 
 MISTKESS AND MAID. 243 
 
 and all of us so poor. He would leave it to me, 
 every penny. You can't just hear that, Miss Anne, 
 can you, and take no notice ? There's a deal to be 
 said for him, I don't deny it ; and if it was only not 
 being fond of him, I shouldn't mind that.' 
 
 * Then you must not ask me to be sorry for you,' 
 said Anne, with stern severity, ' if you could sell 
 yourself for money, Keziah ! But, no, no, you could 
 not do it, it is not possible — you, a girl just my age, 
 and brought up with me. You could not do it, 
 Keziah. You have lived here with me almost all 
 your life.' 
 
 'Miss Anne, you don't understand. You've been 
 used to having your own way ; but the like of us 
 don't get our ovm way. And aunt says many a 
 lady does it and never minds. It's not that,' sajY 
 Keziah, with a fresh outburst of tears. ' I hoj^e sa'd 
 could do my duty by a man w^hether I was foEd of 
 him or whether I wasn't. Xo, it isn't that : it's — 
 it's the other one, Miss Anne.' 
 
 And here the little girl hid her face in her hands 
 and sobbed ; while Anne, her sternness molting in 
 II 2
 
 244 IN TKUST. 
 
 spite of lierself, stood looking on with the face of the 
 recording angel, horrified by this new admission and 
 reluctant to write it down. 
 
 ' Is there — another ? ' she asked in a whisper of 
 horror. 
 
 Keziah uncovered her face ; the tone in which 
 she was addressed curdled her blood ; she turned her 
 white, little, tear-stained countenance to her mistress 
 with an appalled look of guilt. She had not under- 
 stood before, poor little girl, how guilty she was. 
 She had not known that it was guilt at all. She was 
 herself standing at the bar, a poor little tremulous 
 criminal in the blaze of Anne's indignant eyes. 
 
 ' Yes, Miss Anne.' Keziah's voice was almost 
 inaudible ; but her eyes kept an astonished appeal 
 in them against the tremendous sentence that seemed 
 to await her. 
 
 ' Another whom you love. And you v^ould give 
 him up for this man who is rich, who can leave you 
 his money ? Keziah ! if this were true, do you know 
 what you would deserve ? But 1 cannot believe it is 
 true.'
 
 MISTRESS AND MAID. 245 
 
 * Miss Anne I ' The poor little culprit re^*ained 
 a little courage ; the offence of a mercenary marriage 
 did not touch her conscience, but to be supposed to 
 be laying claim without reason to a real lover went 
 to her heart. ' Miss Anne ; it's quite true. We 
 were always sweethearts, always since we were little 
 things. Him and me ; we've always kept company. 
 It's as true — as true ! Nobody can say different,' 
 cried the girl, with a fresh burst of angry tears. 
 ' You have seen him yourself, Miss Anne ; and all 
 the village knows. Ask aunt, if you don't believe 
 me ; ask anyone. We're as. well known to be keep- 
 ing company, as well known — as the Beeches on 
 Mount Hill.' 
 
 ' That is not what I mean, Keziah. What I 
 can't believe is that you could make up your mind 
 to — marry the man who is rich. What I leave the 
 other whom you love, and marry one whom you 
 don't love ! However rich he was, you would be 
 miserable ; and he, poor fellow ! would be miserable 
 too.' 
 
 'Oh, Miss Anne, that's what I am afraid of I
 
 243 IN TKUST. 
 
 cried the girl ; ^ that's what I'm always saying to 
 myself. I could face it if it were only me — (for it's a 
 great thing to be well off, Miss Anne, for us as have 
 been so poor all our lives) ; but Jim will be miser- 
 able ; that is what I always say. But what can I do ? 
 tell me what can I do.' 
 
 * I will tell you what you can do. Be faithful to 
 Jim, Keziah ; be faithful to Irim whatever anyone 
 says. Marry him, not the other. That is the only 
 thing to do.' 
 
 ' Marry him ? But how can I marry him when 
 he's enlisted and gone off for a soldier, and maybe 
 I'll never see him more ? ' 
 
 ' Enlisted ! ' said Anne, for the moment taken 
 aback ; but she recovered quickly, seeing the easiest 
 way out of it. ' Soldiers are allowed to buy them- 
 selves out. I would rather a great deal do without 
 a dress and give you the money for his discharge. 
 Anything would be better than to see you Eacrifice 
 yourself — sell yourself. Oh, you could not do it ! 
 You must not think of it any more.'
 
 MISTRESS AND MAID. 247 
 
 ' It's not me, IMiss Anne,' said Keziah, mourn- 
 fully ; ' it's Mr. Sa3'more and aunt.' 
 
 ' Old Saj^more ! is it old Saymore ? ' Anne did 
 not know how to speak with ordinary patience of 
 such a horrible transaction. 'Keziah, this cannot he 
 put up with for a moment. If they frighten you, I 
 will speak to them. Old Saymore ! No, Keziah ; 
 it is Jim you must marry, since you love him : and 
 no one else.' 
 
 'Yes, Miss Anne,' said Keziah, very doubtfully; 
 'but I don't know,' she added, ' whether Jim wanted 
 me — to marry him. You see he is young, and he 
 had nothing but his weekly wage, w^hen he was in 
 work ; and I don't even know if he wants to buy his 
 discharge. Men is very queer,' said the girl, shak- 
 ing her head with profound conviction, ' and keep- 
 ing company's not like marrying. Them that haven't 
 got you want you, and them that can have you for 
 the asking don't ask. It is a funny world and men 
 are queer ; things is not so straightforward before 
 you to do one or another as you think, Miss Anne.' 
 
 ' Then, at all events, there is one thing you can
 
 248 IN TRUST. 
 
 always dc — for it depends upon yourself alone. 
 jNIarry no one, but be faithful, Keziah ; faithful to 
 Jim if you love him ; and, you may be sure, things 
 will come right at the last.' 
 
 ' I don't know, Miss Anne,' said Keziah, shaking 
 her head ; ^ it seems as if it ought to ; but it don't 
 always, as far as I can see. There's ladies, and real 
 ladieF, aunt says, as has just the same before them ; 
 for if the man you like hasn't a penny. Miss Anne, 
 and other folks has plenty, what, even if you're a 
 lady, is a girl to do ? ' 
 
 ' You can always be faithful, whatever happens,' 
 cried Anne, holding her head high ; ' that depends 
 only on yourself.' 
 
 ' If your folks will let you alone. Miss Anne.' 
 Keziah had dried her tears, and Anne's confidence 
 liad given her a little courage ; but still she felt that 
 she had more experience of the world than her 
 mistress, and shook her little head. 
 
 * What can your " folks" do, Keziah ? You have 
 only to hold far.t and be true,' cried Anne. Her eyes 
 shone with the faith and constancy that were in her.
 
 MISTRESS AND MAID. 249 
 
 The very sight of her was inspiring. She looked 
 like a woman who might have rallied an army, 
 standing up with her head high, defying all danger. 
 'They may make you unhappy, they may take every- 
 thing from you ; but only yourself can change you. 
 The whole world cannot do anything to you if you 
 remain true, and stand fast ' 
 
 ' Oh, Miss Anne, if we was all like you ! ' said the 
 girl, admiring but despondent. But just then the 
 dressing-bell began to ring, and poor Keziah was 
 recalled to her duties. She flew to the drawers and 
 wardrobes to lay out the miscellaneous articles that 
 were needed — the evening shoes, the ribbons, and 
 little ornaments Anne was to wear. Then she 
 lingered for a moment before fulfilling the same 
 office for Rose. ' Don't you think, Miss Anne,' she 
 said, ' if it comes to that at the end : don't you think 
 I mind for myself. I hope as I'll do my duty, who- 
 ever the man may be. I'm not one to stick to my 
 own way when I see as I can't get it. It isn't that 
 I'm that bent on pleasing myself ' 
 
 *But Keziah, Keziah!' cried Anne, provoked,
 
 250 IN TEUST. 
 
 distressed, and disappointed, ' when this is what you 
 are tliinking of, it is your duty to please yourself.' 
 
 ' The Bible don't say so, JNIiss Anne,' said Keziah, 
 with a little air of superior wisdom as she went 
 away. 
 
 This discussion made the most curious break in 
 Anne's thoughts ; instead of spending the half-hour 
 in blessed solitude, reading over Cosmo's last letter 
 or thinking over some of his last words, how strange 
 it was to be thus plunged into the confused and 
 darkling ways of another world, so unlike her own ! 
 To the young lady it was an unalterable canon of 
 faith that marriage was only possible where love 
 existed first. Such was the dogma of the matter in 
 England, the first and most important proviso of the 
 creed of youth, contradicted sometimes in practice, 
 but never shaken in doctrine. It was this that justi- 
 fied and sanctified all the rest, excusing even a 
 hundred little departures from other codes, little 
 frauds and compromises which lost all their guilt 
 when done for the sake of love. But here was 
 another code which was very different, in which the
 
 MISTEESS AND INIAID. 251 
 
 poor little heroine was ashamed to have it thought 
 that, so far as concerned herself, love was the first 
 thing in question. Keziah felt tliat she could do her 
 duty whoever the man might be ; it was not any 
 wish to please herself that made her reluctant. 
 Anne's first impulse of impatience, and annoyance, 
 and disgust at such a view of the question, and at 
 the high ground on which it was held, transported 
 her for the moment out of all sympathy with Keziah, 
 No wonder, she thought, that there was so much trouble 
 and evil deep down below the surface when that was 
 how even an innocent girl considered the matter. 
 But by-and-by Anne's imagination got entangled 
 with the metaphysics of the question, and the clear 
 lines of the old undoubting dogmatism became less 
 clear. 'The Bible don't say so.' What did the 
 Bible say ? Nothing at all about it; nothing but a 
 rule of mutual duty on the part of husbands and 
 wives ; no guidance for those who were making the 
 first great decision, the choice that must mean 
 happiness or no happiness to their whole lives. But 
 the Bible did say that one was not to seek one's own
 
 252 IN TRUST. 
 
 way, nor care to please one's self, as Keziah said. 
 Was the little maid an unconscious sophist in her 
 literal adoption of these commands ? or was Anne 
 to blame, who, in this point of view, put aside the 
 Bible code altogether, without being aware that she 
 did so ? Deny yourself ! did that mean that you 
 were to consent to a mercenary union when your 
 heart was against it ? Did that mean that you 
 might profane and dishonour yourself for the sake of 
 pleasing others ? Keziah thought so, taking the 
 letter as her rule ; but how was Anne to think so ? 
 Their theories could not have been more different 
 had the width of the world been between them. 
 
 And then the story of Heathcote Mountford 
 glanced across her mind. This was what had 
 happened to him. His Italian princess, though 
 she loved him, had done her duty, had married 
 somebody of her own rank, had left the man she 
 loved to bear the desertion as he could. Was it the 
 women who did this, Anne asked herself, while the 
 men were true ? It was bitter to the girl to think
 
 MISTRESS AND MAID. 253 
 
 SO, for she was full of that visionary pride — born 
 both of the chivalrous worsliip and the ceaseless 
 jibes of which they have been the objects — which 
 makes women so sensitive to all that touches their 
 sex. A flush of shame as visionary swept over her. 
 If this cowardly weakness was common to women, 
 then no wonder that men despised them ; then, 
 indeed, they must be inferior creatures, incapable of 
 real nobleness, incapable of true understandino*. For 
 a moment Anne felt that she despised and hated her 
 own kind ; to l)e so poor, so weak, so miserable ; to 
 persuade the nobler, stronger being by their side 
 that they loved him, and then weakly to abandon 
 him ; to shrink away from him for fear of a parent's 
 scolding or the loss of money, or comfort, or luxury ! 
 What indignation Anne poured forth upon these 
 despicable creatures ! and to call it duty ! she cried 
 within herself. When you can decide that one side 
 is quite in the wrong, even though it be your own 
 side, there is consolation in it ; then all is plain 
 sailing in the moral element, and no complication
 
 254 IN TRUST. 
 
 disturbs you. Thougli she felt it bitter, and humi- 
 liating, and shameful, Anne clung to this point of 
 view. She was barely conscious, in the confused 
 panorama of that unknown world that spread around 
 her, of some doubtful points on which the light was 
 not quite so simple and easy to identify. ' Those that 
 can have you for the asking don't ask you,' Keziah 
 said : and she had not been sure that her lover wanted 
 her to marry him, though she believed he would be 
 miserable if she abandoned him. And Heathcote 
 Mountford, though he seemed to be so faithful, had 
 never been rich enough to make inconstancy possible. 
 These were the merest specks of shadow on the full 
 light in which one side of her picture was bathed. 
 But yet they were there. 
 
 This made an entire change in Anne's temper 
 and disposition for the evening. Her mind was full 
 of this question. When she went downstairs she 
 suffered a great many stories to be told in her pre- 
 sence to which, on previous occasions, slie would 
 have turned a deaf ear ; and it was astonishing how
 
 MISTRESS AND ]\LVID. 255 
 
 many corresponding cases seem to exist in society — 
 the women ' doing their duty ' -weakly, giving in to the 
 influence of some mercenary parent, abandoning love 
 and truth for money and luxury; the men withdrawing 
 embittered, disgusted, no doubt to jibe at women, per- 
 haps to hate them ; to sink out of constancy into mis- 
 anthropy, into the rusty loneliness of the old bachelor. 
 Her heart grew sad within her as she pondered. Was 
 it to be her fate to vindicate all women, to show what 
 a woman could do ? but for the moment she felt 
 herself too deeply disgusted with her sex to think of 
 defending them from any attack. To be sure, there 
 was that shadow in her picture, that fluctuation, 
 that uncomfortable balance of which she was just 
 conscious — Jim who, perhaps, would not have wanted 
 to marry Keziah, though he loved her ; and the 
 others who could not afford to commit any impru- 
 dence, who could marry only when there was a 
 fortune on what Mrs. Mountford would call * the 
 other side.' Anne felt herself cooped in, in the 
 narrowest space, not knowing where to turn ; * who
 
 256 IX TEUST. 
 
 could marry only when there was money on the 
 other side.' Why, this had been said of Cosmo ! 
 Anne laughed to lierself, with an indignation and 
 wrath, slightly, very slightly, tempered by amuse- 
 ment. Where Cosmo was concerned she could not 
 tolerate even a smile.
 
 25: 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 HEATHCOTE MOUNTFORD. 
 
 The visit of the unknown cousin had thus become a 
 very interesting event to the whole household, though 
 less, perhaps, to its head than to anyone else. Mr. 
 Mountford flattered himself that he had nothing of 
 a man's natural repugnance towards his heir. Had 
 that heir been five-and-twenty, full of the triumph 
 and confidence of youth, then indeed it might have 
 been difficult to treat him with the same easy toler- 
 ance ; for, whatever may be the chances in your own 
 favour, it would be difficult to believe that a young 
 man of twenty- five would not, one way or the other, 
 manage to outlive yourself at sixty. But Heathcote 
 Mountford had lived, his kinsman thought, very 
 nearly as long as himself ; he had not been a young 
 man for these dozen years. It was half a lifetime 
 
 VOL. I. s 
 
 %
 
 258 IN TEUST. 
 
 since there had been that silly story about the 
 Italian lady. Nothing can be more easy than to add 
 on a few years to the vague estimate of age which 
 we all form in respect to our neighbours ; the fellow 
 must be forty if he was a day ; and between forty 
 and sixty after all there is so little difference, espe- 
 cially when he of forty is an old bachelor of habits 
 perhaps not too regular or virtuous. Mr. Mountford 
 was one of the people who habitually disbelieve in 
 the virtue of their neighbours. He had never been 
 a man about town, a frequenter of the clubs, in his 
 own person ; and there was, perhaps, a spice of envy 
 in the very bad opinion which he entertained of such 
 persons. A man of forty used up by late hours and 
 doubtful habits is not younger — is as a matter of fact 
 older — than a respectable married man of sixty 
 taking every care of himself, and regular as clock- 
 work in all his ways. Therefore he looked with 
 good-humoured tolerance on Heathcote, at whose 
 rights under the entail he was almost inclined to 
 laugh. ' I shall see them all out,' he said to himself — 
 kuay he even permitted himself to say this to his wife,
 
 HEATHCOTE MOUNTFORT). 259 
 
 which was going perhaps too far. Heathcote, to be 
 sure, had a younger brother; but then he was well 
 known to be a delicate, consumptive boy. 
 
 To the ladies of the family he was more interest- 
 ing, for various reasons. Eose and her mother 
 regarded him with perfectly simple and uncompli- 
 cated views. If he should happen to prove agreeable, 
 if things fitted in and came right, why then — the 
 arrangement was one which might have its advan- 
 tages. The original estate of Mount which was 
 comprehended in the entail was not a large one, but 
 still it was not unworthy consideration, especially 
 when he had a little and she had a little besides. 
 Anne, it need not be said, took no such serious 
 contingency into her thoughts. But she too looked 
 for Heathcote's arrival with curiosity, almost with 
 anxiety. He was one who had been as she now was, 
 and who had fallen — fallen from that high estate. 
 He had been loved — as Anne felt herself to be loved ; 
 but he had been betrayed. She thought with awe of 
 the anguish, the horror of unwilling conviction, the 
 dying out of all beauty and glory from the world, 
 s 2
 
 260 IN TEUST. 
 
 which it must have been his to experience. And he 
 had lived long years since then, on this changed 
 earth, under these changed skies. She began to 
 long to see him with a fervour of curiosity which 
 was mingled with pity and sympathy, and yet a 
 certain touch of delicate scorn. How could he have 
 lived after, lived so long, sunk (no doubt) into a 
 dreamy routine of living, as if mere existence was 
 worth retaining without hope or love ? She was 
 more curious about him than she had ever been 
 about any visitor before, with perhaps a far-off 
 consciousness that all this might happen to herself, 
 mingling with the vehement conviction that it never 
 could happen, that she was as far above it and secure 
 from it as heaven is from the tempests and troubles 
 of earth. 
 
 The much-expected visitor arrived in the twilight 
 of an October evening just before dinner, and his 
 first introduction to the family was in the indistinct 
 light of the fire — one of the first fires of the season, 
 which lighted up the drawing-room with a fitful 
 ruddy blaze shining upon the white dresses of the
 
 HEATIICOTE MOUNTFOKD. 261 
 
 girls, but scarcely revealing the elder people in their 
 darker garments. A man in evening dress very 
 often looks his best : Ijut he does not look romantic 
 — he does not look like a hero — the details of his 
 appearance are too much like those of everybody else. 
 Anne, looking at him breathlessly, trying to get a 
 satisfactory/ impression of liim when the light leaped 
 up for a moment, found him too vigorous, too large, 
 too life-like for her fastidious fancy ; but Eose was 
 made perfectly happy by the appearance of a man 
 with whom it would not be at all necessary, she 
 thought, to be upon stilts. The sound of his voice 
 when he spoke dispersed ever so many visions. It 
 was not too serious, as the younger sister had feared. 
 It had not the lofty composure which the elder had 
 lioped. He gave his arm to Mrs. Mountford with 
 the air of a man not the least detached from his 
 fellow-creatures. ' There will be a frost to-night,' 
 he said ; ' it is very cold outside ; but it is worth 
 while being out in the cold to come into a cosy room 
 like this.' Charley Ashley would have said the very 
 same had it been he who had walked up to dinner
 
 262 IN TKUST. 
 
 from the rectory. Heathcote bad not beeu in the 
 house for years, not perhaps ever since all that had 
 happened, yet he spoke about the cosy room like any 
 chance visitor. It would not be too much to say 
 that there was a certain disgust in tlie revulsion 
 with which Anne turned from him, though no doubt 
 it was premature to pass judgment on him in the 
 first five minutes like this. 
 
 In the light of the dining-room all mystery de- 
 parted, and he was seen as he was. A tall man, 
 strong, and well developed, with dark and very curly 
 hair tinged all about his temples with grey ; his lips 
 smiling, his eyes somewhat serious, though kindling 
 now and then with a habit of turning quickly round 
 upon the person he was addressing. Four pairs of 
 eyes were turned upon him with great curiosity as 
 he took his seat at Mrs. Mountford's side ; two of 
 them were satisfied, two not so. This, Mr. Mount- 
 ford felt, was not the rusty and irregular man about 
 town, for whom he had felt a contempt ; still he was 
 turning grey, which shows a feeble constitution. At 
 sixty the master of Mount had not a grey hair in his
 
 HEATHCOTE MOUNTFORD. 263 
 
 head. As for Anne, this grey hair was the only 
 satisfactory thing about him. She was not foolish 
 enough to conclude that it must have turned so in a 
 single night. But she felt that this at least was 
 what might be expected. She was at the opposite 
 side of the table, and could not but give a great deal 
 of her attention to him. His hair curled in sheer 
 wantonness of life and vigour, though it was grey ; 
 his voice was round, and strong, and melodious. As 
 he sat opposite to her he smiled and talked, and 
 looked like a person who enjoyed his life. Anne for 
 for her own part scarcely took any part in the con- 
 versation at all. For the first time she threw back 
 her thoughts upon the Italian princess whom she had 
 so scorned and condemned. Perhaps, after all, it 
 was not she who had suffered the least. Anne con- 
 jured up a picture of that forlorn lady sitting some- 
 where in a dim solitary room in the heart of a great 
 silent palace, thinking over that episode of her 
 youth. Perhaps it was not she, after all, that was so 
 much in the wrong. 
 
 ' I started from Sandhurst only this morning,' he
 
 264 IN TRUST. 
 
 was saying, ' after committing all kinds of follies 
 ■with the hoys. Imagine a respectable person of my 
 years playing football ! I thought they would have 
 knocked all the breath out of me : yet you see I 
 have survived. The young fellows had a match with 
 men far too strong for them — and I used to have 
 some little reputation that way in old days ' 
 
 ' Oh, yes, you were a great athlete ; you played 
 for Oxford in University matches, and got ever so 
 many goals.' 
 
 ' This is startling,' Heathcote said ; ' I did not 
 know my reputation had travelled before me ; it is a 
 pity it is not something better worth remembering. 
 But what do you know about goals, Miss Mountford, 
 if I may make so bold ? ' 
 
 ' Eose,' said that little person, who was wreathed 
 in smiles ; ' that is Miss Mountford opposite. I am 
 only the youngest. Oh, I heard from Charley Ashley 
 all about it. We know about goals perfectly well, 
 for we used to play ourselves long ago in the holi- 
 days with Charley and Willie — till mamma put a 
 stop to it,' Rose added, with a sigh.
 
 HEATHCOTE MOUNTFOED. 265 
 
 * I should think I put a stop to it ! You played 
 once, I believe,' said Mrs. Mountford, with a slight 
 frown, feeling that this was a quite unnecessary con- 
 fidence. 
 
 ' Oh, much oftener ; don't you recollect, Anne, 
 you played football too, and you were capital, the 
 boys said ? ' 
 
 Now Anne was, in fact, much troubled by this 
 revelation. She, in lier present superlative condition, 
 walking about in a halo of higher things, to be 
 presented to a stranger who was not a stranger, and, 
 no doubt, would soon hear all about her, as a foot- 
 ball player, a girl who was athletic, a tom-boy, 
 neither less nor more ! She was about to reply with 
 annoyance, when the ludicrous aspect of it suddenly 
 struck her, and she burst into a laugh in spite of 
 herself. ' There is such a thing as an inconvenient 
 memory,' she said. ' I am not proud of playing 
 football now.' 
 
 ' I am not at all ashamed of it,' said Rose. ' I 
 never should have known what a goal was if I hadn't 
 played. Do you play tennis, too^ Mr. Heathcote ?
 
 266 IN TRUST. 
 
 It is not too cold if you are fond of it. Charley said 
 you were good at anything — good all round, he said.* 
 ' That is a very flattering reputation, and you 
 must let me thank Mr. Charley, whoever he is, for 
 sounding my trumpet. But all that was a hundred 
 years ago,' Heathcote said ; and this made up a 
 little lost ground for him with Anne, for she thought 
 she heard something like a sigh. 
 
 ' You will like to try the covers,' said Mr. 
 Mountford. ' I go out very little myself now-a-days, 
 and I daresay you begin to feel the damp, too. I 
 don't preserve so much as I should like to do ; these 
 girls are always interfering with their false notions ; 
 but, all the same, I can promise you a few days* 
 sport.' 
 
 ' Is it the partridges or the poachers that the 
 young ladies patronise ? ' Heathcote said. 
 
 ' My dear,' said Mrs. Mountford, ' what is the 
 use of calling attention to Anne's crotchets? She 
 has her own way of thinking, Mr. Heathcote. I 
 tell her she must never marry a sportsman. But, 
 indeed, she has a great deal to say for herself. It
 
 HEATHCOTE MOUNTFOED. 267 
 
 does not seem half so silly when you hear what she 
 has got to say.' 
 
 Anne presented a somewhat indignant counten- 
 ance to the laughing glance of the new cousin. She 
 would not be drawn into saying anything in her own 
 defence. 
 
 ' You will find a little sport, all the same,' said 
 Mr. Mountford ; ' but I go out very seldom myself ; 
 and I should think you must be beginning to feel 
 the damp, too.' 
 
 ' Not much,' said the younger man, with a laugh. 
 He was not only athletic and muscular, but conscious 
 of his strength, and somewhat proud of it. The 
 vigour in him seemed an alBfront to all Anne's pre- 
 conceived ideas, as it was to her father's comfortable 
 conviction of the heir's elderliness ; his very looks 
 seemed to cast defiance at these two discomfited 
 critics. That poor lady in the Italian palace ! it 
 could not have been she that was so much in the 
 wrong, after all. 
 
 ' I like him very much, mamma,' cried Eose, 
 when they got into the drawing-room ; ' I like him
 
 268 IN TRUST. 
 
 immensely : he is one of the very nicest men I ever 
 saw. Do let us make use of him now he is here. 
 Don't you know that dance you always promised us ? 
 — let us have the dance while Heathcote is here. 
 Old ! who said he was old ? he is delightful ; and so 
 nice-looking, and such pretty curly hair.' 
 
 ' Hush, my pet, do not be too rapturous ; he is 
 very nice, I don't deny ; but still, let us see how he 
 bears a longer inspection ; one hour at dinner is not 
 enough to form an opinion. How do you like your 
 cousin Heathcote, Anne ? ' 
 
 ' He is not at all what I expected,' Anne said. 
 
 ' She expected a Don Quixote ; she expected a 
 Lord Byron, with his collar turned down ; somebody 
 that talked nothing but poetry. I am so glad, said 
 Rose, ' he is not like that. I shall not mind Mount 
 going to Heathcote now. He is just my kind of 
 man, not Anne's at all.' 
 
 ' No, he is not Anne's kind,' said the mother. 
 
 Anne did not say anything. She agreed in their 
 verdict ; evidently Heathcote was one of those dis- 
 appointments of which before she met Cosmo the
 
 HEATHCOTE MOUNTFOKD. 269 
 
 world had been full. Many people had excited 
 generally her curiosity, if not in the same yet in a 
 similar way, and these had disappointed her alto- 
 gether. She did not blame Heathcote. If he was 
 unable to perceive his own position in the world, and 
 the attitude that was befitting to him, possibly it 
 was not his fault. Very likely it was not his fault ; 
 most probably he did not know any better. You 
 cannot expect a man to act contrary to his nature, 
 Anne said to herself; and she gave up Heathcote 
 with a little gentle disdain. This disdain is the very 
 soul of toleration. It is so much more easy to put 
 up with the differences, the discrepancies, of other 
 people's belief or practice, when you find them 
 inferior, not to be judged by your standards. This 
 was what Anne did. She was not angry with him 
 for not being the Heathcote she had looked for. 
 She was tolerant : he knew no better ; if you look 
 for gold in a pebble, it is not the pebble's fault if 
 you do not find it. This was the mistake she had 
 made. She went to tlie other end of the room 
 where candles were burning on a table and chairs set
 
 270 I^ TEUST. 
 
 out around. It was out of reacli of all the chatter 
 about Heathcote in which she did not agree. She 
 took a book, and set it up before her to make a screen 
 before her gaze, and, thus defended, went off at once 
 into her private sanctuary and thought of Cosmo. 
 Never was there a transformation scene more easily 
 managed. The walls of the Mount drawing-room 
 divided, they gave place to a group of the beeches, 
 with two figures seated underneath, or to a bit of the 
 commonplace road, but no longer commonplace — a 
 road that led to the Manor. What right had a girl 
 to grumble at her companions, or any of their ways, 
 when she could escape in the twinkling of an eye into 
 some such beautiful place, into some such heavenly 
 company, which was all her own ? But yet there 
 would come back occasionally, as through a glass, an 
 image of the Italian lady upon whom she had been 
 so hard a little while before. Poor Italian lady ! evi- 
 dently, after all, Heathcote's life had not been 
 blighted. Had she, perhaps, instead of injuring 
 him only blighted her own ? 
 
 The softly-lighted room, the interchange of soft
 
 HEATHCOTE MOUNTFOKT. 279 
 
 voices at one end, the figure at the other intent 
 upon a book, lighting up eyes full of dreams, seemed 
 a sort of enchanted vision of home to Heathcote 
 Mount ford when, after an interval, he came in alone, 
 hesitating a little as he crossed the threshold. He 
 was not used to home. A long time ago his own 
 house had been closed up at the death of his mother 
 — not so much closed up but that now and then he 
 went to it with a friend or two, establishing their 
 bachelorhood in the old faded library and drawing- 
 room, which could be smoked in, and had few asso- 
 ciations. Bat the woman's part of the place was all 
 shut up, and he was not used to any woman's part 
 in his life. This, however, was all feminine ; he 
 went in as to an enchanted castle. Even Mrs. 
 Mountford, who was commonplace enough, and little 
 Eose, who was a pretty little girl and no more, 
 seemed wonderful creatures to him who had dropped 
 out of acquaintance with such creatures; and the 
 elder daughter was something more. He felt a little 
 shy, middle-aged as he was, as he went in. And this 
 place had ^many associations ; one time or other it
 
 272 IN TRUST. 
 
 would be his own ; one time or other it might come 
 to pass that he, like his old kinsman, would pass by 
 the drawing-room, and prefer the ease of the library, 
 his own chair and his papers. At this idea he laughed 
 within himself, and went up to Mrs. Mountford on her 
 sofa, who stopped talking when she saw who it was. 
 
 ' Mr. Mountford has gone to his own room. I 
 was to tell you he has something to do.' 
 
 ' Oh, papa has always an excuse ! ' cried Rose ; 
 ' he never comes here in the evening. I am sure 
 this room is far nicer, and we are far nicer, than 
 sitting there all by himself among those musty 
 books. And he never reads them even ! he puts on 
 his dressing-gown and sits at his ease ' 
 
 ' Hush, you silly child ! When a gentleman comes 
 to be papa's age he can't be expected to care for the 
 company of girls, even when they are his own. I 
 will take my work and sit with him by-and-by. 
 You must not give your cousin reason to think that 
 you are undutiful to papa.' 
 
 ' Oh, never mind ! ' said Rose ; ' Mr. Heathcote, 
 come, and be on my side against mamma. It is so
 
 HEATHCOTE MOUNTFOBD. 273 
 
 seldom we have gentlemen staying here — indeed, 
 there are very few gentlemen in the county — there 
 are daughters, nothing but daughters, in most of the 
 houses. And mamma has promised us a dance when- 
 ever we could get enough men. I want her to give 
 it while you are here.* 
 
 * While I am here ; but you don't suppose I am 
 a dancing man ? ' 
 
 ' You can dance, I am sure,' said Eose. ' I can 
 see it in your face; and then you would make 
 acquaintance with all the neighbours. It would be 
 dreadful when you come to live here after our time 
 if you do not know a soul. You must make ac- 
 quaintance with everybody; and it would be far 
 more fun to have a ball than a quantity of dreary 
 dinner-parties. Do come here and be on my side 
 against mamma ! ' 
 
 ' How can I be against my kind kinswoman,' 
 he said laughing, ' who has taken me in and received 
 me so graciously, though I belong to the other 
 branch ? That would be ingratitude of the basest 
 sort.' 
 
 VOL. I. T
 
 274 IN TRUST. 
 
 ' Then you must be against me,' said Rose. 
 ' That would be impossible ! ' he said, with an- 
 other laugh ; and drew his chair close to the table 
 and threw himself into the discussion. Rose's bright 
 little countenance lighted up, her blue eyes shone, 
 her cheeks glowed. She got a piece of paper and a 
 pencil, and began to reckon up who could be invited. 
 ' The men first,' she said, with the deepest gravity, 
 furtively applying her pencil to her lips to make it 
 mark the blacker as in old school-room days ; ' the 
 men must go down first, for we are always sure of 
 plenty of girls — but you cannot have a dance with- 
 out men. First of all, I will put down you. You 
 are one to start with — Mr. Heathcote Mountford ; 
 how funny it is to have a gentleman of the same 
 name, who is not papa ! ' 
 
 ' Ah ! that is because you never had a brother ! ' 
 said Mrs. Mountford, with a sigh ; ' it never seemed 
 at all strange to us at home. I beg your pardon, I 
 am sure, Mr. Heathcote ; of course it would have 
 interfered with you ; but for girls not to have a
 
 HEATHCOTE MOUNTEOBD. 275 
 
 brother is sad for them, poor things! It always 
 makes a great deal of difference in a girl's life.' 
 
 ' What am I to say ? ' asked Heathcote. ' I am 
 very sorry, but — how can I be sorry when I have 
 just become conscious of my privileges ; it is an 
 extremely pleasant thing to step into this vacant 
 post.' 
 
 ' A second cousin is not like a brother,' said 
 Rose ; * but, anyhow, at a dance you would be the 
 man of the house. And you do dance ? if you don't 
 you must learn before the ball. We will teach you, 
 Anne and I.' 
 
 ' I can dance a little, but I have no doubt lessons 
 would do me good. Now go on ; I want to see my 
 comrades and coadjutors.' 
 
 Rose paused with her pencil in her hand. ' Mr. 
 Heathcote Mountford, that is one ; that is a great 
 thing to begin with. And then there is — then 
 there is — who shall I put down next ? who is there 
 else, mamma ? Of coiuse Charley Ashley ; but he is 
 a clergyman, he scarcely counts. That is why a 
 garden party is better than a dance in the country, 
 
 T 2
 
 276 IN TEU8T. 
 
 because the clergymen all count for that. I think 
 there is somebody staying with the Woodheads, and 
 there is sure to be half-a-dozen at Meadowlands ; 
 shall I put down six for Meadowlands ? They must 
 invite some one if they have not so many ; all our 
 friends must invite some one — we must insist upon 
 it,' Rose said. 
 
 ' My dear, that is always the difficulty ; you 
 know that is why we have had to give it up so often. 
 In the vacation there is Willie Ashley, he is always 
 somebody.' 
 
 ' He must come,' cried Rose, energetically, ' for 
 three days — that will be enough — for three days ; 
 Charley must write and tell him. And then there is 
 — who is there more, mamma ? Mr. Heath cote 
 Mountford, that is an excellent beginning, and he is 
 an excellent dancer, and will go on all the evening 
 through, and dance with everybody. Still, we can- 
 not give a ball with only one man.' 
 
 ' I will send for my brother and some more of 
 those young fellows from Sandhurst, Mrs. Mountford, 
 if you can put them up.'
 
 HEATHCOTE MOUNTFOED. 277 
 
 * If we can put them up ! ' Rose all but threw 
 herself into the arms of this new cousin, her eyes all 
 but filled with tears of gratitude. She gave a little 
 shriek of eagerness — ' Of course we can put them up ; 
 oh ! as many as ever you please, as many as you can 
 get : — shall I put down twenty for Sandhurst ? 
 Now we have a real ball in a moment,' said Rose, 
 with enthusiasm. It had been the object of her 
 desires all her life. 
 
 ' Does Miss Mountford take no interest in the 
 dance ? ' Heathcote asked. 
 
 ' Anne ? Oh, she will take it up when it comes 
 near the time. She will do a great deal ; she will 
 arrange everything ; but she does not take any plea- 
 sure in planning ; and then,' said Rose, dropping her 
 voice to a whisper — ' Hush ! don't look to make her 
 think we are talking of her ; she does not like to be 
 talked of — Mr. Heathcote ! Anne is — engaged.' 
 
 ' My dear child ! ' cried her mother. ' Mr. Heath- 
 cote, this is all nonsense ; you must not pay the 
 least attention to what this silly child says. En- 
 gaged ! — what folly. Rose ! you know your sister is
 
 278 IN TEUST. 
 
 nothing of the kind. It is nothing hut imagination ; 
 it is only your nonsense, it is ' 
 
 ' You wouldn't dare, mamma, to say that to 
 Anne,' said Eose, with a very solemn face. 
 
 ' Dare ! I hope I should dare to say anything to 
 Anne. Mr. Heathcote will think we are a strange 
 family when the mother wouldn't dare to say any- 
 thing to the daughter, and her own child taunts her 
 with it. I don't know what Mr. Heathcote would 
 think of us,' said Mrs Mountford, vehemently, ' if he 
 believed what you said.' 
 
 ' I do not think anything but what you tell me,' 
 said Heathcote, endeavouring to smooth the troubled 
 waters. ' I know there are family difficulties every- 
 where. Pray don't think of making explanations. 
 I am sure whatever you do will be kind, and what- 
 ever Miss Mountford does will spring from a gene- 
 rous heart. One needs only to look at her to see 
 that.' 
 
 Neither of the ladies thought he had paid any 
 attention to Anne, and they were surprised — for it 
 had not occurred to them that Anne, preoccupied as
 
 HEATHCQTE MOUNTFORD. 279 
 
 she was, could have any interest for the new comer. 
 They were startled by the quite unfounded confidence 
 in Anne which he thus took it upon him to profess. 
 They exchanged looks of surprise. ' Yes, Anne has 
 a generous heart — no one can deny that,' Mrs. 
 Mountford said. It was in the tone of a half-unwill- 
 ing admission, but it was all the more effective on 
 that account. Anne had listened to their voices, 
 half-pleased thus to escape^ interruption, half-dis- 
 gusted to have more and more proofs of the frivolity 
 of the new comer ; she had heard a sentence now and 
 then, an exclamation from Rose, and had been much 
 amused by them. She was more startled by the 
 cessation of the sounds, by the sudden fall, the 
 whispering, the undertones, than by the conversation. 
 What could they be talking of now, and why should 
 they whisper as if there were secrets in hand? 
 Next minute, however, when she was almost roused 
 to the point of getting up to see what it was, Mi'S. 
 Mountford's voice became audible again. 
 
 ' Do you sing now, Mr. Heathcote ? I remember 
 long ago you used to have a charming voice ! '
 
 280 IN TEUST. 
 
 ' I don't know that it was ever very charming ; 
 but such as it is I have the remains of it,' he said. 
 
 ' Then come and sing something,' said Mrs. 
 Mountford. What was it they had been saying 
 which broke off so suddenly, and occasioned this 
 jump to a different subject? But Anne composed 
 herself to her dreams. again, when she saw the group 
 moving towards the piano. He sang, too, then! 
 sang and danced and played football, after what had 
 happened to him ? Decidedly, the Italian princess 
 must have had much to be said on her side. 
 
 END OF THE FIRST VOLUIifE. 
 
 LONDON : FEINTED BY 
 
 SPOITISWOODE AND CO., NEW-STHEET SQTJABB 
 
 AJJD PAIILIAIIENT STKEET
 
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