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BROW N LOWS 
 
BR()WNL0W8 
 
 BY 
 
 MKS OLIPHANT 
 
 AUTHOR OF 'chronicles OF CARLISGFORD,' ETC. 
 
 IN THREK VOLUMES 
 VOL. I. 
 
 WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS 
 EDINBURGH AND LONDON 
 
 MDCCCLXVIII 
 
 The Right oj Traiiilation it reserved 
 
ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED IN BLACKWOOD S MAGAZINE 
 

 V, 
 
 CONTENTS OF THE FIEST YOLUJIE, 
 
 >- 
 
 KC 
 
 in 
 
 CHAr 
 
 I. 
 
 MR BROWNLOVs MONEY, 
 
 
 
 PAGE 
 
 1 
 
 es^ 
 
 II. 
 
 SARA, 
 
 
 
 . 14 
 
 > 
 
 III. 
 
 A SUDDEN ALARM, 
 
 
 
 37 
 
 
 IV. 
 
 A LITTLE DINNER, 
 
 
 
 50 
 
 
 \. 
 
 Sara's speculations, . 
 
 
 
 64 
 
 
 VI. 
 
 AN ADVENTURE, .... 
 
 
 
 81 
 
 
 VII. 
 
 THE father's day AT THE OFFICE, 
 
 
 
 97 
 
 
 vin. 
 
 YOUNG P0WY3, , . . . 
 
 
 
 117 
 
 \ 
 
 IX. 
 
 NEW NEIGHBOURS, 
 
 
 
 133 
 
 X. 
 
 AT THE GATE, 
 
 
 
 151 
 
 ^s 
 
 XI. 
 
 THE YOUNG PEOPLE, 
 
 
 
 172 
 
 •v 
 
 XII. 
 
 NEWS OF FRIENDS, 
 
 
 
 197 
 
 
 XIII. 
 
 A CRISIS, 
 
 
 
 216 
 
 CJ 
 
 XIV. 
 
 . 
 
 
 
 238 
 
 ■r 
 
 XV. 
 XVI. 
 
 LUNCHEON, 
 
 A PROMISE, 
 
 
 
 261 
 280 
 
 4^ 
 
BEOWNLOWS. 
 
 CHAPTEK I. 
 
 MR BROWXLOW S MO^^EY 
 
 Everybody in the neighbourhood was perfectly 
 aware what was the origin of John Bro willow's 
 fortune. There was no possibility of any mistake 
 about it. When people are very well known and 
 respectable, and inspire their neighbours with a 
 hearty interest, some little penalty must be paid for 
 that pleasant state of affairs. It is only when no- 
 body cares for you, when you are of no importance 
 to the world in general, that you can shroud your 
 concerns in mystery ; but the Brownlows were very 
 well known, much respected, and quite unable to 
 hide themselves in a corner. In all Dartfordshire 
 there was no family better known; not that they 
 were county people, or had any pretensions to high 
 VOL. I. A 
 
2 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 connection, but then there was not one family in the 
 comity of whom John Brownlow did not know more 
 than they knew themselves, and in his hands, and in 
 the hands of his fathers before him, had reposed the 
 papers and affairs of all the squires about, titled or 
 otherwise, for more years than could be counted. It 
 was clever of the Brownlows to have had so much 
 business in their hands and yet not to be rich ; but 
 virtue, when it is exceptional, is perhaps always a 
 little extreme, and so it is probable that an honest 
 lawyer is honester than most honest men who have 
 no particular temptation. They were not rich, and 
 yet, of course, they were far from being poor. They 
 had the kind of substantial old brick house, standing 
 close up to the pavement in the best end of the High 
 Street of Masterton, which would be described as a 
 mansion in an auctioneer's advertisement. It was 
 very red and infinitely clean, and had a multitude of 
 windows aU blinking in the sun, and lighting up in- 
 to impromptu illuminations every winter afternoon, 
 when that blazing red luminary went down, not over 
 the river and the open country, as he ought to have 
 done, but into the Eectory garden, which happened 
 to lie in his way as he halted along towards the west. 
 The Brownlows for generations back had lived very 
 comfortably in this red house. It had a great, rich, 
 luxuriant, warm garden behind, with all sorts of 
 
BROWKLOWS. 3 
 
 comforts attached to it, and the rooms were hand- 
 some and old-fashioned, as became a house that had 
 served generations; and once upon a time many 
 good dinners, and much good wine, and the most 
 beautiful stores of fine linen, and crystal, and silver 
 were in the house, for comfort, and not for show. 
 All this was very well, and John Brownlow was 
 bom to the possession of it ; but there can be no 
 doubt that the house in the High Street was very 
 different from the house he now inhabited and the 
 establishment he kept up in the country. Even the 
 house in the High Street had been more burdened 
 than was usual in the family when it came to his 
 turn to be its master. Arthur, the younger brother, 
 who was never good for much, had just had his debts 
 paid for the second time before his father died. It 
 was not considered by many people as quite fair to 
 John, though some did say that it was he above all 
 who urged the step upon old Mr Brownlow. Persons 
 who professed to know, even asserted that the elder 
 son, in his generosity, had quite a struggle with his 
 father, and that his argument was always " for my 
 mother's sake." If this was true, it was all the 
 more generous of him, because his mother was weU 
 known to have thought nothing of John in compari- 
 son with the handsome Arthur, whom she spoiled 
 as long as she lived. Anyhow, the result was that 
 
4 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 John inherited the house and the business, the fur- 
 niture and old crystal and silver, and a very com- 
 fortable income, but nothing that could be called 
 a fortune, or that would in any way have justified 
 him in launching out into a more expensive descrip- 
 tion of life. 
 
 At this time he was thirty at least, and not of a 
 speculative turn of mind ; and when old Mrs Thom- 
 son's will — a will not even drawn up in his of&ce, 
 which would have been a kind of preparation — was 
 read to him, it is said that he lost his temper on the 
 occasion, and used very unbecoming language to the 
 poor woman in her coffin. "What had he to do with 
 the old hag ? What did she mean by bothering him 
 with her filthy money ? " he said, and did not show 
 at all the frame of mind that might have been ex- 
 pected under the circumstances. Mrs Thomson was 
 an old woman, who had lived in a very miserly sort 
 of way, with an old servant, in a little house in the 
 outskirts of the town. Nobody could ever tell what 
 attracted her towards John Brownlow, who never, as 
 he himself said, had anything to do with her ; and 
 she had relations of her own in Masterton, the Fen- 
 nells, who always knew she had money, and counted 
 upon being her heirs. But they were distant rela- 
 tions, and perhaps they did not know all her story. 
 What petrified the to^v^l, however, was, when it was 
 
BROWNLOWS. 5 
 
 found out that old Mrs Thomson had left a fortune, 
 not of a few hundreds, as people supposed, but of 
 more than fifty thousand pounds, behind her, and 
 that it was all left in a way to John Brownlow. It 
 was left to him in trust for Mrs Thomson's daughter 
 Phoebe, a person whose existence no one in Master- 
 ton had ever dreamt of, but who, it appeared, had 
 married a common soldier, and gone off with him 
 ages before, and had been cursed and cast off by her 
 hard-hearted mother. That was long, long ago, and 
 perhaps the solitary old creature's heart, if she had 
 a heart, had relented to her only child ; perhaps, as 
 John Brownlow thought, it was a mere suggestion of 
 Satan to trouble and annoy him, a man who had 
 nothing to do with Phcebe Thomson. Anyhow, this 
 -was the substance of the will. The money was all 
 left to John Brownlow in trust for this woman, who 
 had gone nobody knew where, and whose very name 
 by marriage her mother did not state, and nobody 
 could tell. If Phoebe Thomson did not make her 
 appearance within the next twenty-five years, then 
 the money was to pass to John Brownlow and his 
 heirs in perpetuity beyond all power of reclamation. 
 This was the strange event which fell like a shell 
 into the young lawyer's quiet life, and brought re- 
 volution and change to everything around. 
 
 He was very much annoyed and put out about it 
 
6 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 at first ; aud the Fennells, who had expected to be 
 Mrs Thomson's heirs, were furious, and not disin- 
 clined to turn upon him, blameless as he was. To 
 tell the truth, theirs was a very hard case. They 
 were very poor. Good-for-nothing sons are not ex- 
 clusively reserved for the well-to-do portion of the 
 community; and poor Mrs Fennell, as well as the 
 Brownlow family, had a good-for-nothing son, upon 
 whom she had spent all her living. He had disap- 
 peared at this time into the darkness, as such people 
 do by times, but of course it was always on the cards 
 that he might come back and be a burden upon his 
 people again. And the father was paralytic and 
 helpless, not only incapable of doing anything, but 
 requiring to have everything done for him, that last 
 aggravation of poverty. j\Irs Fennell herself was 
 not a prepossessing woman. She had a high temper 
 and an eloquent tongue, and her disappointment was 
 tragic and desperate. Poor soul ! it was not much 
 to be wondered at — she was so poor and so helpless 
 and burdened; and tliis money would have made 
 them all so comfortable. It was not that she thought 
 of herself, the poor woman said, but there was Fen- 
 nell, who was cousin to the Thomsons, and there was 
 Tom out in the world toiling for his bread, and kill- 
 ing himself with work. And then tliere was Bessie 
 aud her prospects. When she had talked it all over 
 
BROWNLOWS. 7 
 
 at the liigliest pitch of her voice, and stormed at 
 everybody, and made poor Fennell shake worse than 
 ever in his paralytic chair, and overwhehned Bessie 
 with confusion and misery, the poor woman would 
 sit down and cry. Only one thousand pounds of it 
 would have done them such a great deal of good ; 
 and there was fifty thousand, and it was all going to 
 be tied up and given to John Brownlow. It was hard 
 upon a woman with a hot head and a warm heart, 
 and no temper or sense to speak of; and to storm at 
 it was the only thing she took any comfort from, or 
 that did her any good. 
 
 This money which Mrs Fennell regretted so bit- 
 terly for a long time was nothing but a nuisance 
 to John Brownlow. He advertised and employed 
 detectives, and did everything a man could do to 
 find Phoebe Thomson and relieve himself of the 
 burden. But Phoebe Thomson was not to be found. 
 He sought her far and near, but no such person 
 was to be heard of — for, to be sure, a x^oor soldier's 
 wife was not very likely to be in the way of seeing 
 the second column of the ' Times ; ' and if she should 
 happen to be Mrs Smith or ^Irs Doherty by marriage, 
 nobody but herself and her husband might be aware 
 that she had ever been Phoebe Thomson. Anyhow, 
 all the advertisements and all the detectives failed ; 
 and after working very hard at it for a year or more, 
 
8 BI^OWNLOWS. 
 
 John Brownlow very quietly, and to his own con- 
 sciousness alone, d — d Phoebe Thomson, and gave 
 up the useless investigation. 
 
 But he was a man who had eyes, and a strong 
 sense of justice. When he thought of the poor 
 Fennells, his anger rose against the wretched old 
 woman who had laid on him the burden of her 
 money. Poor Mrs Fennell's son was good for 
 nothing, but she had a daughter who was good 
 for much ; and Bessie had a lover who would gladly 
 have married her, had that wicked old miser, as 
 John Brow nlow in his indignation said, left only a 
 thousand pounds out of her fifty to help the paralytic 
 father and passionate mother. Bessie's lover was 
 not mercenary — he was not covetous of a fortune 
 with his wife ; but he could not marry all the family, 
 or work for the old people, as their daughter had 
 to do. This was what Mrs Fennell meant when 
 she raved of poor Bessie and her prospects. But 
 Bessie herself said nothing. The lover went very 
 sorrowfully away, and Bessie was silent and went 
 on with her work, and made no show of her trouble* 
 John Brownlow, without knowing it, got to watch 
 her. He was not aware for a long time why it 
 was that, though he always had so much to do, 
 he never missed seeing Bessie when by chance she 
 passed his windows. As luck would have it, it 
 
BROWXLOWS. 9 
 
 was always at that moment lie raised his eyes ; 
 and he did his best to get pupils for her, ''taking 
 an interest" in her which was quite unusual in 
 so quiet a man. But it was not probable that 
 Bessie could have had much of an education herself, 
 much less was qualified to give it to others. And 
 whether it was her want of skill, or the poverty 
 of her surroundings, her poor dress, or her mother's 
 aspect and temper, it is certain that, diligent and 
 patient and "nice" as she was, pupils failed her. 
 She did not get on ; yet she kept struggling on, 
 and toiling, keeping a smile in her eyes for every- 
 body that looked friendly on her, whatever sinking 
 there might be in her heart. And she was a 
 slight fragile little creature to bear all that weight 
 on her shoulders. John Brownlow, without knowing 
 it, watched her little figure about the streets all the 
 year through, marvelling at that " soft invincibility," 
 that steady standing up against defeat and every 
 kind of ill which the gentle soul was capable of 
 And as he watched her, he had many thoughts in his 
 mind. He was not rich, as we have said ; on the 
 contrary, it would have been his bounden duty, had 
 he done his duty, to have married somebody with 
 a modest little fortune, who would have helped him 
 to keep up the house in the High Street, and give 
 the traditionary dinners ; and to mamtain his wife's 
 
10 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 family, if he ^vere to marry, was something out of 
 the question. But then that fifty thousand pounds 
 — this money which did not "belong to him, but to 
 Phoebe Thomson, whosoever she was, and where- 
 soever she might be. All this produced a confusion 
 of thought which was of very strange occurrence in 
 Mr Brownlow's office, where his ancestors for gen- 
 erations had pondered over other people's difficulties 
 — a more pleasing operation than attending to one's 
 own. Gradually, as time wore on, Phoebe Thomson 
 gi'ew into a more and more m}i;hical figure to Mr 
 Brownlow's mind, and Bessie Fennell became more 
 and more real, ^^^len he looked up one winter's 
 afternoon and saw her passing the office window in 
 the glow of the frosty sunset, which pointed at her 
 in its clear-sighted way, and made thrice \dsible the 
 thinness of her cheek and the shabbiness of her 
 dress, Mr Brownlow's pen fell from his fingers in 
 amaze and self-reproach. She was wearing herself 
 out, and he had permitted her to do so, and liad 
 sat at his window thinking about it for two whole 
 years. Two years had passed since Mrs Thomson's 
 death. All the investigations in the world had 
 not been able to find Phoebe; and John Brownlow 
 was master of the old woman's fifty thousand pounds; 
 and the Fennells might be starving for anything he 
 could tell. The result was, that he proposed to 
 
BROWXLOWS. 1 1 
 
 Bessie, to the unbounded amazement not only of 
 the town of Masterton, but even of the county 
 people, who all knew ]Mr Brownlow. Probably 
 Bessie was as much surprised as anybody ; but she 
 married him after a while, and made him a very 
 good wife. And he pensioned her father and mother 
 in the most liberal way, and saw as little of them 
 as possible. And for a few years, though they did 
 not give many dinners, everything went on very well 
 in the brick house. 
 
 I tell the story thus briefly, instead of introducing 
 these people to show their existence for themselves, 
 because all this is much prior to the real date of this 
 history. Mrs Brownlow made a very good and sweet 
 wife ; and my own opinion is that she was fond of 
 her husband in a quiet way. But, of course, people 
 said she had married him for his money, and Bessie 
 was one of those veiled souls who go through the 
 world without much faculty of revealing themselves 
 even to their nearest and dearest. AMien she died, 
 nobody could make quite sure whether she had en- 
 joyed her life or merely supported it. She had ful- 
 filled all her duties, been very kind to eveiybody, 
 very faithful and tender to her husband, very devoted 
 to her family ; but she died, and carried away a heart 
 within her of which no man seemed ever to have 
 found the key. Sara and Jack were very little at 
 
12 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 the time of her death — so little, that they scarcely 
 remembered their mother. And they \Yere not like 
 her. Little Jack, for his part, was like big John, as 
 he had a right to be ; and Sara was like nobody else 
 that ever had been seen in Masterton. But that is a 
 subject ^vhich demands fuller exposition. Mr Brown- 
 low lived very quietly for some years after he lost his 
 wife ; but then, as was natural, the ordinary course 
 of affairs was resumed. And then it was that the 
 change in his fortunes became fully evident. His 
 little daughter was delicate, and he got a carriage for 
 her. He got ponies for her, and costly governesses, 
 and masters down from town at the wildest expense ; 
 and then he bought that place in the country which 
 had once been Something Hall or Manor, but which 
 Dartfordshire, in its consternation, henceforward 
 called Brownlow's. Brownlow's it was, without a 
 doubt; and Brownlows it became — without the apos- 
 trophe — in the most natural way, when things settled 
 down. It was, as old Lady Motherwell said, "quite 
 a place, my dear ; not one of your little bits of villas, 
 you know." And though it was so near Masterton 
 that Mr Brownlow drove or rode in every day to his 
 office, its grounds and gardens and park were equal 
 to those of any nobleman in the county. Old Mrs 
 Thomson's fifty thousand pounds had doubled them- 
 selves, as money skilfully managed has a way of 
 
BROWXLOWS. 13 
 
 doing. It liad got for lier executor everything a man 
 could desire. First, the wife of his choice — thoiigli 
 that gift had been taken from him — and every other 
 worldly good which the man wdshed or could wish for. 
 He was able to surround the daughter, who was 
 everything to him — who was more to him, perhaps, 
 than even his wife had ever been — with every kind 
 of delightsome thing ; and to provide for his son, and 
 establish him in the world according to his inchna- 
 tions ; and to assume, without departing from his 
 own place, such a position as no former Brownlow 
 had ever occupied in the county. All this came to 
 John Brownlow^ through old Mrs Thomson; and 
 Plicebe Thomson, to whom the money in reality 
 belonged, had never turned up to claim it ; and now 
 there was but one year to run of the five-and-twenty 
 which limited his responsibilities. All this being 
 made apparent, it is the history of this one year that 
 I have now to tell. 
 
CHAPTEE 11. 
 
 SAKA. 
 
 Mr Beownlow had one son and one daughter — the 
 boy, a very good-natured, easy-minded, honest sort 
 of young fellow, approaching twenty-one, and not 
 made much account of either at home or abroad. 
 The daughter was Sara. For people who know her, 
 or indeed who are at all acquainted with society 
 in Dartfordshire, it is unnecessary to say more ; 
 but perhaps the general public may prefer a clearer 
 description. She was the queen of John Brown- 
 low's house, and the apple of his eye. At the 
 period of which we speak she was between nine- 
 teen and twenty, just emerging from what had 
 always been considered a delicate girlhood, into 
 the full early bloom of woman. She had too much 
 character, too much nonsense, too many wiles, and 
 too much simplicity in her, to be, strictly speaking, 
 beautiful; and she was not good enough or gentle 
 
BROWNLOWS. 15 
 
 enough to be lovely. And neither was she beloved 
 by all, as a heroine ought to be. There were some 
 people who did not like her, as well as some who 
 did, and there were a great many who fluctuated 
 between love and dislike, and were sometimes fond 
 of her, and sometimes affronted with her; which, 
 indeed, was a very common state of mind with 
 herself. Sara was so much a girl of her age that 
 she had even the hair of the period, as the spring- 
 flowers have the colours of spring. It was light- 
 brown, with a golden tint, and abundant as locks of 
 that colour generally are ; but it cannot be denied 
 that it was darker than the fashionable shade, and 
 that Sara was not above being annoyed by this fact, 
 nor even above a vague and shadowy idea of doing 
 something to it to bring it to the correct tint ; which 
 may rank as one of the constantly recurring proofs 
 that young women are in fact the least vain portion 
 of the creation, and have less faith in the efiicacy 
 of their natural charms than any other section of 
 the race. She had a little rosebud mouth, dewy 
 and pearly, and full eyes, which were blue, or grey, 
 or hazel, according as you looked at them, and ac- 
 cording to the sentiment which they might happen 
 to express. She was very tall, very slight and flex- 
 ible, and wa\y like a tall lily, with the slightest 
 variable stoop in her pretty shoulders, for wliich 
 
16 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 lier life had been rendered miserable by many well- 
 meaning persons, but wliich, in reality, was one of 
 her charms. To say that she stooped, is an ugly 
 expression, and there was nothing iigly about Sara. 
 It was rather that by times her head drooped a 
 little, like the aforesaid lily swayed by the softest 
 of visionary breezes. This, however, was the only 
 thing lily-like or angelic about her. She was not a 
 model of anything, nor noted for any special virtues. 
 She was Sara. That was about all that could be 
 said for her; and it is to be hoped that she may 
 be able to e\idence what little bits of good there 
 were in her during the course of this history, for 
 herself. 
 
 " Papa," she said, as they sat together at the 
 breakfast-table, " I will call for you this afternoon, 
 and bring you home. I have something to do in 
 Masterton." 
 
 " Something to do in ]\Iasterton ? " said Mr Brown- 
 low ; " I thought you had got everything you could 
 possibly want for three months at least when you 
 were in town." 
 
 " Yes," said Sara, " everything one wants for one's 
 bodily necessities — pins and needles and music, and 
 all that sort of thinsj — but one has a heart, thous^h 
 you might not think it, papa ; and I have an idea 
 that one has a soul." 
 
BROWNLOWS. 17 
 
 " Do you think so ? " said her father, with a smile ; 
 " but I can't imagine what your soul can have to do 
 in Masterton. We don't cultivate such superfluities 
 there." 
 
 " I am going to see grandmamma," said Sara. " I 
 think it is my duty. I am not fond of her, and I 
 ought to be. I think if I went to see her oftener 
 perhaps it might do me good." 
 
 " Oh ! if it's only for grandmamma," said young 
 John, " I go to see her often enough. I don't think 
 you need take any particular trouble to do her 
 good.'' 
 
 Upon which Sara sighed, and drooped a little 
 upon its long stem her lily head. " I hope I am 
 not so stupid and conceited as to think I can do 
 anybody good," she said. " I may be silly enough, 
 but I am not like that ; but I am going to see grand- 
 mamma. It is my duty to be fond of her, and see 
 after her ; and I know I never go except when I 
 can't help it. I am going to turn over a new leaf." 
 
 Mr Brownlow's face had been overshadowed at 
 the first mention of the grandmother, as by a faint 
 mist of annoyance. It did not go so far as to be a 
 cloud. It was not positive displeasure or dislike, 
 but only a shade of dissatisfaction, which he ex- 
 pressed by his silence. Sara's resolutions to turn 
 over a new leaf were not rare, and her father was 
 VOL. I. B 
 
18 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 generally much amused and interested by her good 
 intentions ; but at present he only went on with his 
 breakfast and said nothintr. Like his dau^rhter, he 
 was not fond of the grandmamma, and perhaps her 
 S}Tnpathy with his own sentiments in this respect 
 was satisfactory to him at the bottom of his heart ; 
 but it was not a thing he could talk about. 
 
 " There is a crreat deal in habit," said Sara, in that 
 experienced way wliich belongs to the speculatist of 
 nineteen. *' I believe you can train yourself to any- 
 thing, even to love people whom you don't love by 
 nature. I think one could get to do even that if one 
 was to try." 
 
 " I should not care much for your love if that was 
 how it came," said young John. 
 
 " That would only show you did not understand," 
 said Sara, mildly. " To like people for a good 
 reason, is not that better than liking them merely 
 because you can't help it ? If there was anybody 
 that it suited papa, for instance, to make me marry, 
 don't you think I would be very foolish if I could 
 not make myself fond of him ? — and ungrateful too." 
 " Would you really .do as much for me as that ? " 
 said Mr Brownlow, looking up at her with a ghm- 
 mer of weakness in his eyes, half amused, and yet 
 flattered ; " but I hope I shall never require to put 
 you to the test." 
 
BROWNLOWS. 19 
 
 " Why not, papa ? " said Sara, cheerfully. " I am 
 sure it would be a much more sensible reason for 
 being fond of anybody that you wished it, than just 
 my own fancy. I should do it, and I would never 
 hesitate about it," said the confident young woman ; 
 and the father, though he was a man of some experi- 
 ence, felt his heart melt and glow over this rash 
 statement with a fond gratification, and really be- 
 lieved it, foolish as it was. 
 
 " And I shall drive down," said Sara, " and look 
 as fine as possible; though, of course, I would far 
 rather have Meg out, and ride home with you in 
 the afternoon. And it would do Meg a world of 
 good," she added, pathetically. "But you know if 
 one goes in for pleasing one's grandmamma, one 
 ought to be content to please her in her own way. 
 She likes to see the carriage and the greys, and a 
 great noise and fuss. If it is worth taking the 
 trouble for at all, it is worth doing it in her own 
 ^vay." 
 
 " I walk, and she is always very glad to see me," 
 said John, in what it must be allowed was an un- 
 pleasant manner. 
 
 " Ah ! you are different," said Sara, with a mo- 
 mentary bend of her graceful head. And, of course, 
 he was very different. He was a mere man or boy 
 — whichever you prefer — not in the least ornamen- 
 
20 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 tal, nor of very much use to anybody — whereas 
 
 Sara ! But it is not a difference that could be 
 
 described or argued about ; it was a thing which 
 could be perceived with half an eye. When break- 
 fast was over, the two gentlemen went off to Master- 
 ton to their business ; for young John had gone into 
 his father's office, and was preparing to take up in 
 his turn the hereditary profession. Indeed, it is 
 not clear that Mr Brownlow ever intended poor 
 Jack to profit at all by his wealth, or the additional 
 state and grandeur the family had taken upon itself. 
 To his eyes, so far as it appeared, Sara alone was 
 the centre of all his magnificence; whereas Jack 
 was simply the heir and successor of the Brownlows, 
 who had been time out of mind the solicitors of 
 Masterton. For Jack, the brick house in the High 
 Street waited with all its old stores ; and the fairy 
 accessories of their present existence, all the luxury 
 and grace and beauty — the greys — the conservatories 
 — the park — the place in the country — seemed a 
 kind of natural appanage to the fair creature in 
 whom the race of Brownlow had come to flower, the 
 father could not tell how ; for it seemed strange to 
 think that he himself, who was but a homely indi- 
 vidual, should have been the means of bringing any- 
 thing so fair and fine into the world. Probably Mr 
 Brownlow, when it came to making his will, would 
 
BROWNLOWS. 21 
 
 be strictly just to his two children ; but in the mean 
 time, in his thoughts, that was, no doubt, how things 
 stood ; and Jack accordingly was brought up as he 
 himself had been, rather as the heir of the Brown- 
 lows' business, their excellent connection and long- 
 established practice, than as the heir of Brownlows 
 — two very different things, as will be perceived. 
 
 When they went away Sara betook herself to her 
 own business. She saw the cook in the most correct 
 and exemplary way. Fortunately the cook was also 
 the housekeeper, and a very good-tempered woman, 
 who received all her young mistress's suggestions 
 with amiability, and only complained sometimes 
 tliat ]^Iiss Brownlow would order everything that 
 was out of season. " Xot for the sake of extrava- 
 gance," Mrs Stock said, in answer to Sara's maid, 
 who had made that impertinent suggestion ; " oh, 
 no, nothin' of the sort — only out of always forget- 
 tin', poor dear, and always wantin' me to believe as 
 she knows." But as Sara fortunately paid but little 
 attention to the dinner when produced, making no 
 particular criticism — not for want of will, but for 
 want of knowledge — her interview with the cook at 
 least did no harm. And then she went into many 
 small matters which she thought were of importance. 
 She had an hour's talk, for instance, with the gar- 
 dener, who was, like most gardeners, a little pig- 
 
22 BEOWNLOWS. 
 
 headed, and fond of having liis own way ; and Sara 
 was rather of opinion that some of her hints had 
 done him good ; and she made him, very unwillingly, 
 cut some flowers for her to take to her grandmother. 
 ]\Irs Fennell was not a woman to care for flowers if 
 she could have got them for the plucking ; but ex- 
 pensive hothouse flowers in the depth of mnter 
 were a different matter. Thus Sara reasoned as she 
 carried them in her basket, with a groundwork of 
 moss, beneath to keep them fresh, and left them in 
 the hall till the carriage should come round. And 
 she went to the stables, and looked at everything in 
 a dainty way — not like your true enthusiast in such 
 matters, but with a certain gentle grandeur, as of a 
 creature to whom satin -skinned cattle and busy 
 grooms were vulgar essentials of Kfe, equally neces- 
 sary, but equally far off from her supreme altitude. 
 She cared no more for the greys in themselves than 
 she did for Dick and Tom, which will be sufficient 
 to prove to anybody learned in such matters how im- 
 perfect her development was in this respect. All 
 these little occupations were very different from 
 the occupations of her father and brother, who were 
 both of them in the office all day busy with other 
 people's wills and marriage-settlements and convey- 
 ances. Thus it would have been as evident to any 
 impartial looker-on as it was to Mr Brownlow, that 
 
BROWNLOWS. 23 
 
 the fortune wliich had so much changed Ms position 
 in the county, and given him such very different 
 surroundings, all centred in, and was appropriated 
 to, his daughter, while his old life, his hereditary 
 business, the prose and plain part of his existence, 
 was to be carried out in his son. 
 
 When all the varieties of occupation in this use- 
 ful day were about exhausted, Sara prepared for her 
 drive. She wrapped herself up in fur and velvet, 
 and everything that was warmest and softest and 
 most luxurious ; and with her basket of flowers and 
 another little basket of game, w^hich she did not take 
 any personal charge of, rolled away out of the park- 
 gates to Masterton. Brownlows had belonged to a 
 very unsuccessful race before it came to be Brown- 
 low's. It had been in the hands of poor, failing, 
 incompetent people, which was, perhaps, the reason 
 why its original name had dropped so completely 
 out of recollection. Now, for the first time in its 
 existence, it looked really like " a gentleman's 
 place." But yet there were eyesores about. One 
 of these was a block of red brick, which stood 
 exactly opposite the park-gates, opposite the lodge 
 which Mr Brownlow had made so pretty. There 
 were only two cottages in the block, and they were 
 very unpretending and very clean, and made the 
 life of the woman in the lodge twice as lightsome 
 
24 BRO^VNLOWS. 
 
 and agreeable ; but to Sara's eyes at least, Swayne's 
 Cottages, as they were called, were very objection- 
 able. They were two-storeyed houses, with windows 
 and doors very flush with the walls ; as if, which 
 indeed was the case, the walls themselves were of 
 the slightest construction possible ; and Swayne 
 himself, or rather Mrs Swayne, who was the true 
 head of the house, let a parlour and bedroom to 
 lodgers who wanted country air and quiet at a cheap 
 rate. "Anybody might come," Sara was in the 
 habit of saying ; " your worst enemy might come 
 and sit down there at your very door, and spy upon 
 ever^^thing you were doing. It makes me shudder 
 when I think of it." Thus she had spoken ever since 
 her father's entrance upon the glories of his " place," 
 egging him up with all her might to attack this 
 little Kaboth's Vineyard. But there never was a 
 Naboth more obstinate in his rights than Mr Swayne, 
 who was a carpenter and builder, and had put the 
 two houses together himself, and was proud of 
 them ; and Sara was then too young and too much 
 under the sway of her feelings to take upon her in 
 cold blood Jezebel's decisive part. 
 
 She could not help looking at them to-day as she 
 swept out, with the two greys spurning the gravel 
 under foot, and the lodge-woman at the gate looking 
 up with awe while she made her curtsy as if to the 
 
BROWNLOWS. 25 
 
 Queen. Mrs Swayne, too, was standing at lier door, 
 but she did not curtsy to Sara. She stood and 
 looked as if she did not care — the splendour and the 
 luxury were nothing to her. She looked out in a 
 calm sort of indifferent way, which was to Sara what, 
 to continue a scriptural symbolism, Mordecai was to 
 another less fortunate personage. And Mrs Swayne 
 had a ticket of " Lodgings " in her window. It could 
 do her no good, for nobody ever passed along that 
 road who could be desirous of countr}' lodgings at a 
 cheap rate, and this advertisement looked to Sara 
 like an intentional insult. The wretched woman 
 might get about eight shillings a -week for her lodg- 
 ings, and for that paltry sum she could allow herself 
 to post up bills opposite the very gate of Brownlows ; 
 but then some people have so little feeling. This 
 trifling incident occupied Sara's mind during at least 
 half her drive. The last lodger had been a consump- 
 tive patient, whose pale looks had filled her with 
 compassionate impulses, against which her dislike 
 of Mrs Swayne contended vainly. ^Tio would it 
 be next? Some other invalid most likely, as pale 
 and as poor, to make one discontented with the world 
 and ashamed of one's self the moment one issued 
 forth from the park-gates, and all because of the 
 determination of the Swaynes to annoy their wealthy 
 neighbours. The thought made Sara angry as she 
 
26 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 drove along; but it was a brisk winter afternoon, 
 witb frost in the air, and the hoofs of the greys rang 
 on the road, and even the country waggons seemed 
 to move along at an exhilarated pace. So Sara 
 thought, who was young, and whose blood ran quickly 
 in her veins, and who was wrapped up to tlie throat 
 in velvet and fur. Kow and then another carriage 
 would roll past, in which there were people who 
 nodded or kissed their hands to Sara as they rushed 
 — with all that clang of hoofs and sweep of motion, 
 merrily on over the hard road beneath the naked 
 trees. And the people who were walking walked 
 briskly, as if the blood was racing in their veins too, 
 and rushing warm and vigorous to healthy cheeks. 
 If any cheeks were blue rather than red, if any hearts 
 were sick with the cold and the weary way, if any- 
 body she met chanced to be going heavily home to 
 a hearth where there was no fire, or a house from 
 which love and light had gone, Sara, glowing to the 
 wind, knew nothing of that ; and that the thought 
 never entered her mind was no fault of hers. 
 
 The winter sky was beginning to dress itself in all 
 the glories of sunset when she got to Masterton. It 
 had come to be the time of the year when the sun 
 set in the Eectory garden, and John Browidow's 
 windows in the High Street got all aglow. Perhaps 
 it brought associations to his mind as the dazzling 
 
BROWNLOWS. 27 
 
 red radiance flashed in at the office window, and he 
 laid down his pen. But the fact was that this pause 
 was caused by a sound of wheels echoing along the 
 market-place, which was close by. That must be 
 Sara. Such was the thought that passed through 
 Mr Brownlow's mind. He did not think, as the last 
 gleam came over him, how he used to look up and 
 see Bessie passing — that Bessie who had come to be 
 his wife — nor of any otlier moving event that had 
 happened to him when the sun was comiug in at his 
 windows aslant in that undeniable way. Xo ; all 
 that he thought was. There goes Sara ; and his face 
 softened, and he began to put his jDapers together. 
 The child in her liA'ing importance, little lady and 
 sovereign of all that surrounded her, triumphed thus 
 even over the past and the dead. 
 
 Mrs Tennell had lodgings in a street wliich was 
 very genteel, and opened off the market-place. The 
 houses were not very large, but they had pillars to 
 the doors and balconies to all the first-floor windows ; 
 and some very nice people lived there. Mrs Fennell 
 was very old, and not able to manage a house for 
 herself, so she had apartments, she and her maid — 
 one of the first-floors with the balconies, — a very 
 comfortable little drawing-room, which the care of 
 her friends had filled with every description of com- 
 fortable articles. Her paralytic husband was dead 
 
28 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 ages ago, and her daughter Bessie was dead, and her 
 beloved "but good-for-nothing son — and yet the old 
 woman had lived on. Sometimes, when anything 
 touched her heart, she would mourn over this, and 
 ask why she had been left when everything was 
 gone that made life sweet to her ; but still she 
 lived on ; and at other times it must be confessed 
 that she was not an amiable old woman. It is 
 astonishing how often it happens that the sweet 
 domestic qualities do not descend from mother to 
 daughter, but leap a generation, as it were, interject- 
 ing a passionate, peevish mother to bring out in full 
 relief the devotion of her child — or a selfish exacting 
 child to show the mother's magnanimity. Such con- 
 trasts are very usual among women — I don't know 
 if they are visible to the same extent as between 
 father and son. Mrs Fennell was not amiable. She 
 was proud and quarrelsome and bitter — exacting of 
 every profit and every honour, and never contented. 
 She was proud to think of her son-in-law's fine house 
 and her granddaughter's girlish splendour ; and yet 
 it was the temptation of her life to rail at them, to 
 tell how little he had done for her, and to reckon up 
 all he ought to have done, and to declare if it had 
 not been for the Fennells and their friends, it was 
 little anybody would ever have heard of John Brown- 
 low. All this gave her a certain pleasure; and at 
 
BROWXLOWS. 29 
 
 the same time Sara's visit with the greys and the 
 state equipage and the tall footman, and her entrance 
 in her rich dress with her sables, which had cost 
 nobody conld tell how much, and her basket of 
 flowers which could not have been bought in Dart- 
 fordshire for their weight in gold, was the triumph 
 of her life. As soon as she heard the sound of the 
 wheels in the street — which was not visited by many 
 carriages — she would steal out into her bedroom and 
 change her cap with her trembling hands. She 
 never changed her cap for Jack, who came on foot, 
 and brought every kind of homely present to please 
 her and make her comfortable. But Sara was dif- 
 ferent — and Sara's presents added not to her com- 
 fort, but to her glory, which was quite another 
 affair. 
 
 "Well, my dear," she said, with a mixture of 
 peevishness and pleasure, as the girl came in, "so 
 this is you. I thought you were never coming to 
 see me any more." 
 
 "I beg your pardon, grandmamma," said Sara. 
 " I know^ I have been neglecting my duty, but I 
 mean to turn over a new leaf There is some game 
 down below that I thought you would like, and I 
 have brought you some flowers. I will put them 
 in your little vases if I may ring for Xancy to bring 
 water. I made Pitt cut me this daphne, though I 
 
30 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 think he would rather have cut off my head. It 
 will perfume the whole room." 
 
 " My dear, you know I don't like strong smells/' 
 said Mrs Fennell. "I never could bear scents — a 
 little whiff of musk, and that was all I ever cared 
 for — though your poor mamma was such a one for 
 violets and trash. And I haven't got servants to be 
 running up and down stairs as you have at your 
 fine place. One maid for everything is considered 
 quite enough for me." 
 
 " Well, grandmamma," said Sara, " you have not 
 very much to do, you know. If I were you, I would 
 have a nice young maid that would look pleasant 
 and cheerful instead of that cross old Nancy, who 
 never looks pleased at anything." 
 
 "What good do you think I could have of a 
 young maid ? " said Mrs Fennell — " nasty gossiping 
 tittering things, that are twenty times more bother 
 than they're worth. I have ISTancy because she suits 
 me, and because she was poor old Mrs Thoinson's 
 maid, as ever^^body has forgotten but her and me. 
 Tlie dead are soon out of mind, especially when 
 they've got a claim on living folks' gratitude. If it 
 wasn't for poor Mrs Thomson where would your 
 grand carriage have been, and your daphnes, and 
 your tall footmen, and all your papa's grandeur? 
 But there's nobody that thinks on her but me." 
 
BROWNLOWS. 31 
 
 " I am sure I have not forgotten her," said Sara. 
 " I wish I could. She must have been a horrible old 
 \^Tetch, and I wish she had left papa alone. I'd 
 rather not have Brownlows if I am always to hear 
 of that wretched old woman. I suppose Nancy is 
 her ghost, and haunts you. T hate to hear her hor- 
 rid old name." 
 
 " You are just like all the rest/' said the grand- 
 mother — " ashamed of your relations because you 
 are so fine ; and if it had not been for your relations 
 — she was your poor mamma's cousin, Miss Sairah — 
 if it was only that, and out of respect to me " 
 
 " Don't call me Sairah, please," said the indignant 
 little visitor. " I do hate it so ; and I have not 
 done anything that I know of to be called Miss for. 
 "What is the use of quarrelling, grandmamma ? Do 
 let us be comfortable a little. You can't think how 
 cold it is out of doors. Don't you think it is rather 
 nice to be an old lady and sit by the fire and have 
 everybody come to see you, and no need to take any 
 trouble Avith making calls or anything ? I think it 
 must be one of the nicest things in the world." 
 
 "Do you think you would like it?" the old woman 
 said grimly from the other side of the fire. 
 
 "It is different, you know," said Sara, drooping 
 her pretty head as she sat before the fire with the 
 red light gleaming in her hair. " You were once as 
 
32 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 young as me, and you can go back to that in your 
 mind ; and then mamma was once as young as me, 
 and you can go back to that. I should think it 
 must feel like walking out in a garden all your own, 
 that nobody else has any right to ; while the rest of 
 us, you know " 
 
 "Ah!" said the old woman with a cry; ''but a 
 garden that you once tripped about, and once saw 
 your children tripping about, and now you have to 
 hobble through it all alone. Oh child, child! and 
 never a sound in it, but all the voices gone and 
 aU the steps that you would give the w^orld to 
 hear !" 
 
 Sara roused herself up out of her meditation, and 
 save a startled astonished look into the corner w^here 
 the cross old grandmother was sobbing in the dark- 
 ness. The child stumbled to her feet, startled and 
 frightened and ashamed of what she had done, and 
 went and threw herself upon the old woman's neck. 
 And poor old Mrs Fennell sobbed and pushed her 
 granddaughter away, and then hugged and kissed 
 her, and stroked her pretty hair and the feather in 
 her hat and her soft velvet and fur. The thought- 
 less girl had given her a stab, and yet it was such a 
 stab as soothes while it wounds. She sobbed, but a 
 touch of sweetness came along with the pain, and 
 for tlie moment she loved again, and grew human 
 
BROWNLOWS. 33 
 
 and motheiiike, warming out of the chills of her 
 hard old age. 
 
 " You need not talk of cold, at least," she said 
 when the little acces was o^'er, and when Sara, hav- 
 ing bestowed upon her the first real affectionate kiss 
 she had given her since she came to woman's estate, 
 had dropped again into the low chair before the fire, 
 feeling a little astonished, yet rather pleased with 
 herself for having proved equal to the occasion — 
 ''You need not talk of cold with all that beautiful 
 fur. It must have cost a fortune. Mrs Lyon next 
 door will come to see me to-morrow, and she will 
 take you all to pieces, and say it isn't real. And 
 such a pretty feather ! I like you in that kind of 
 hat — it is very becoming ; and you look like a little 
 princess just now as you sit before the fire." 
 
 ''Do I ? " said Sara. " I am very glad you are 
 pleased, grandmamma. I put on my very best to 
 please you. Do you remember the little cape you 
 made for me, when I was a tiny baby, out of your 
 great old muff ? I have got it still. But oh listen 
 to that daphne how it tells it is here 1 It is all 
 through the room, as I said it would be. I must 
 ring for some water, and your people, when they 
 come to call, will never say the daphne is not real. 
 It will contradict them to their face. Please, Xancy, 
 some water for the flowers." 
 
 VOL. I. C 
 
34 BROVmLOWS. 
 
 " Thomas says it's time for you to be agoing, Miss," 
 said Nancy, grimly. 
 
 " Oh, Thomas can say what he pleases ; papa will 
 wait for me," cried Sara ; " and grandmamma and I 
 are such friends this time. There is some cream in 
 the basket, Nancy, for tea ; for you know our coun- 
 try cream is the best ; and some of the grapes of my 
 pet vine ; don't look sulky, there's an old dear. I 
 am coming every week. And grandmamma and I 
 are such friends " 
 
 " Anyhow, she's my poor Bessie's own child," said 
 Mrs Fennell, with a little deprecation ; for Nancy, 
 who had been old Mrs Thomson's serv-ant, was 
 stronger even than herself upon the presumption of 
 Brownlows, and how, but for them as was dead and 
 gone and forgotten, such splendour could never have 
 been. 
 
 " Sure enough," said Nancy, '' and more people's 
 child as well," which was the sole but pregnant 
 comment she permitted herself to make. Sara, how- 
 ever, got her will, as she usually did. She took off 
 her warm cloak, which the two old women examined 
 curiously, and scorned Thomas's recommendations, 
 and made and shared her grandmother's tea, while 
 the greys drove up and down the narrow street, 
 dazzling the entire neighbourhood, and driving the 
 coachman desperate. Mr Brownlow, too, sat waiting 
 
BROWNLOWS. 35 
 
 and wondering in his office, thinking weakly that 
 every cab that passed must be Sara's carriage. The 
 young lady did not huiTy herself. " It was to please 
 grandmamma," as she said ; certainly it was not to 
 please herself, for there could not be much pleasure 
 for Sara in the society of those two old women, who 
 were not sweet-tempered, and who were quite as 
 like, according to the mood they might happen to be 
 in, to take the presents for insults as for tokens of 
 love. But, then, there was always a pleasure in 
 having her own way, and one of which Sara was 
 keenly susceptible. Wlien she called for her father 
 eventually, she complained to him that her head ached 
 a little, and that she felt very tired. " The daphne 
 got to be a little overpowering in grandmamma's 
 small room," she said ; " I daresay they w^ould put it 
 out of window as soon as I was gone ; and, besides, it 
 is a little tiring, to tell the truth. But grandmamma 
 was quite pleased," said the disinterested girl. And 
 John Brownlow took great care of his Sara as they 
 drove out together, and felt his heart grow lighter 
 in his breast when she recovered from her momen- 
 tary languor, and looked up at the frosty twinkling 
 in the skies above, and chattered and laughed as the 
 carriage rolled along, lighting up the road with its 
 two lamps, and dispersing the silence wdth a brisk 
 commotion. He was prouder of his child than if 
 
36 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 she had been his bride — more happy in the posses- 
 sion of her than a young man with his love. And 
 yet John Brownlow was becoming an old man, and 
 had not been without cares and uncomfortable sug- 
 gestions even on that very day. 
 
CHAPTEE III. 
 
 A SUDDEN ALARM. 
 
 The unpleasant suggestion which had been brought 
 before Mr Brownlow's mind that day, while Sara 
 accomplished her visit to her grandmother, came 
 after this wise : — 
 
 His mind had been going leisurely over his affairs 
 in general, as he went down to his office ; for natu- 
 rally, now that he was so rich, he had many con- 
 cerns of his own beside that placid attention to other 
 people's affairs which was his actual trade ; and it 
 had occurred to him that at one point there was a 
 weakness in his armour. One of his investments 
 had not been so skilful or so prudent as the rest, 
 and it looked as if it might call for further and 
 further outlay before it could be made profitable, if 
 indeed it were ever made profitable. When he got 
 to the office, Mr Brownlow, like a prudent man, 
 looked into the papers connected with this affair, 
 
38 BEOWNLOWS. 
 
 and took pains to understand exactly liow lie stood, 
 and what further claims might be made upon him. 
 And while he was doing this, certain questions of 
 date arose which set clearly before him, what he 
 had for the moment forgotten, that the time of his 
 responsibility to Phoebe Thomson was very nearly 
 over, and that in a year no claim could be made 
 against him for Mrs Thomson's fifty thousand pounds. 
 The mere realisation of this fact gave him a certain 
 thrill of uncertainty and agitation. He had not 
 troubled himself about it for years, and during that 
 time he had felt perfectly safe and comfortable in 
 his possessions ; but to look upon it in actual black 
 and white, and to see how near he was to complete 
 freedom, gave him a sudden sense of his present 
 risk, such as he had never felt before. To repay the 
 fifty thousand pounds w^ould have been no such 
 difficult matter, for Mrs Thomson's money had been 
 lucky money, and had, as we have said, doubled and 
 trebled itself; but there was interest for five-and- 
 twenty years to be reckoned ; and there was no 
 telling what other claims the heir, if an heir should 
 yet turn up, might bring against the old woman's 
 executor. Mr Brownlow^ felt for one sharp moment 
 as if Sara's splendour and her happiness were at the 
 power of some unknown vagabond who might make 
 a sudden claim any moment when he was unprepared 
 
BROWNLOWS. 39 
 
 upon the iulieritance which for all these years had 
 appeared to him as his own. It was a sort of danger 
 which could not be guarded against, but rather, in- 
 deed, ought to be invited ; though it would be hard 
 — no doubt it would be hard, after all this interval 
 — to give up the fortune which he had accepted with 
 reluctance, and which had cost him, as he felt, a 
 hundred times more trouble than it had ever given 
 him pleasure. Now that he had begun to get a 
 little good out of it, to think of some stealthy vagrant 
 coming in and calling suddenly for his rights, and 
 laying claim perhaps to all the increase which Mr 
 Brownlow's careful management had made of the 
 original, was an irritating idea. He tried to put it 
 away, and perhaps he might have been successful 
 in banisliing it from his mind, but for another cir- 
 cumstance that fixed it there, and gave, as it seemed, 
 consistency and force to the thought. 
 
 The height of the day was over, and the sun was 
 veering towards that point of the compass from which 
 its rays shone in at John Brownlow's windows, when 
 he was asked if he would see a young man who came 
 about the junior clerk's place. Mr Brownlow had 
 very nearly made up his mind as to who should fill 
 this junior clerk's place ; but he was kind-hearted, 
 and sent no one disconsolate away if it was possible 
 to help it. After a moment's hesitation, he gave 
 
40 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 orders for the admission of the young man. "If 
 he does not do for that, he may be good for some- 
 thing else," "was what John Brownlow said ; for it 
 was one of his crotchets, that to help men to work 
 was better than almsgiving. The young man in 
 question had nothing very remarkable in his appear- 
 ance. He had a frank, straightforward, simple sort 
 of air, which partly, perhaps, arose from the great 
 defect in his face — the projection of the upper jaw, 
 which was well garnished with large white teeth. 
 He had, however, merry eyes, of the kind that smile 
 without knowing it whenever they accost another 
 countenance ; but his other features were all homely 
 — expressive, but not remarkable. He came in 
 modestly, but he was not afraid ; and he stood 
 respectfully and listened to Mr Brownlow, but there 
 was no servility in his attitude. He had come 
 about the clerk's place, and he was quite ready 
 to give an account of himself. His father had been 
 a non-commissioned ofi&cer, but was dead ; and his 
 mother wanted his help badly enough. 
 
 " But you are strangers in Masterton," said Mr 
 Brownlow, attracted by his frank looks. "Had 
 you any special inducement to come here ? " 
 
 " Nothing of any importance," said the youth, 
 and he coloured a little. "The fact is, sir, my 
 mother came of richer people than we are now. 
 
BROWXLOWS. 41 
 
 and they cast her off; and some of them once lived 
 in Masterton. She came to see if she could hear 
 anything of her friends." 
 
 " And did she ? " said John Brownlow, feeling his 
 breath come a little quick. 
 
 " They are all dead long ago/' said the young man. 
 " We have all been born in Canada, and we never 
 heard what had happened. Her moth — I mean her 
 friends, are all dead, I suppose ; and Masterton is just 
 as good as any other place to make a beginning in. 
 I should not be afraid if I could get anything to do." 
 
 " Clerks' salaries are very small/' said Mr Brown- 
 low, without knowing what it was he said. 
 
 " Yes, but they improve," said his visitor, cheer- 
 fully ; " and I don't mind what I do. I could make 
 up books or do anything at night, or even have 
 pupils — I have done that before. But I beg your 
 pardon for troubling you with all this. If the place 
 is filled up " 
 
 " Nay, stop — sit down — you interest me," said Mr 
 Brownlow. " I like a young fellow who is not easily 
 cast down. Your mother — belongs — to jNIasterton, 
 I suppose," he added, with a little hesitation; he, 
 that gave way to no man in Dartfordshire for cour- 
 age and coolness, he was afraid. He confessed it to 
 himself, and felt all the shame of the new sensation, 
 but it had possession of him all the same. 
 
42 BEOWNLOWS. 
 
 " She belongs to the Isle of Man/' said the young 
 man, with liis frank straightforward look and the 
 smile in his eyes. He answered quite simply and 
 point-blank, having no thought that there was any 
 second meaning in his words ; but it was otherwise 
 with him who heard. John Brownlow sat silent, 
 utterly confounded. He stared at the young stranger 
 in a blank way, not knowing how to answer or how 
 to conceal or account for the tremendous impression 
 which these simple words made on him. He sat 
 and stared, and his lower lip fell a little, and his 
 eyes grew fixed, so that the youth was terrified, 
 and did not know what to make of it. Of course 
 he seized upon the usual resource of the disconcerted 
 — " I beg your pardon," he said, " but .1 am afraid 
 you are ill." 
 
 *' No, no ; it is nothing," said Mr Brownlow. " I 
 knew some people once who came from the Isle of 
 Man. But that is a long time ago. I am sorry she 
 has not found the people she sought for. But, as you 
 say, there is nothing like work. If you can engross 
 well — though how you should know how to engross 
 after taking pupils and keeping books " 
 
 " We have to do a great many things in the colony," 
 said his young visitor. " If a man wants to live, he 
 must not be particular about what he does. I was 
 two years in a lawyer's office in Paris— 7 — " 
 
BROWNLOWS. 4i 
 
 "In Paris?" said Mr Brownlow, with amazement. 
 
 " I mean in Paris, Canada West," said tlie youth, 
 with a touch of momentary defiance, as who would 
 say, "And a very much better Paris than any you can 
 boast of here ! " 
 
 This little accident did so much good that it 
 enabled ^Ir Brownlow to smile, and to shake off the 
 oppression that weighed upon him. It was a relief 
 to be able to question the applicant as to his capa- 
 bilities, while secretly and rapidly in his own mind 
 he turned over the matter, and asked himself what he 
 should do. Discourage the young man and direct 
 him elsewhere, and gently push him out of Master- 
 ton — or take him in and be kind to him, and trust in 
 Providence ? The panic of the moment suggested 
 the first course, but a better impulse followed. In 
 the first place, it was not easy to discourage a young 
 fellow w^ith those sanguine brown eyes, and blood 
 that ran so quickly in his veins ; and if any danger 
 was at hand, it was best to have it near, and be able 
 to study it, and be warned at once how and w^hen it 
 might approach. All this passed rapidly, like an 
 under-current, through John Brownlow's mind, as he 
 sat and asked iimumerable questions about the young 
 applicant's capabilities and antecedents. He did it 
 to gain time, though all young Powys thought was 
 that he had never f^one throufjh so severe an examin- 
 
44 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 ation. The young fellow smiled within himself at 
 the wonderful precision and caution of the oi,d man, 
 with a kind of transatlantic freedom — not that he was 
 republican, but only colonial; not irritated by his 
 employer's superiority, but regarding it as an affair 
 of perhaps only a few days or years. 
 
 " I will think it over," said Mr Brownlow at last. 
 " I cannot decide upon anything all at once. If you 
 settle quietly down and get a situation, I think you 
 may do very well here. It is not a dear place, and 
 if your mother has friends " 
 
 " But she has no friends now that we know of," 
 said the young man, with the unnecessary and per- 
 sistent explanatoriness of youth. 
 
 " If she has friends here," persisted Mr Brownlow, 
 ''you may be sure they will turn up. Come back to 
 me to-morrow. I will think it all over in the mean 
 time, and give you my answer then. Powys — that 
 is a very good name — there was a Lady Powys here 
 some time ago, who was a very odd sort of woman. 
 Perhaps it was she whom you sought — • — " 
 
 " Oh, no," said the young man, eagerly ; " it was my 
 mother's people — a family called " 
 
 " I am afraid I have an engagement now," said Mr 
 Brownlow ; and then young Pow}^s withdrew, with 
 that quick sense of shame and compunction which 
 belongs only to his years. He, of course, as was 
 
BROWNLOWS. 46 
 
 natural, could see nothing of the tragic under-current. 
 It appeared to him only that he was intruding his 
 private affairs, in an unjustifiable way, on his prob- 
 able patron — on the man who had been kind to him, 
 and given him hope. " What an ass I am ! " he 
 said to himself, as he went away — " as if he could 
 take any interest in my mother's friends." And it 
 troubled the youth all day to think that he had 
 possibly wearied Mr Brownlow by his explanations 
 and iteration — an idea as mistaken as it was pos- 
 sible to conceive. 
 
 When he had left the office, the lawyer fell back 
 in his chair, and for a long time neither moved nor 
 spoke. Probably it was the nature of his previous 
 reflections which gave this strange visit so over- 
 whelming an effect. He sat in a kind of stupor, 
 seeing before him, as it appeared in actual bodily 
 presence, the danger which it had startled him this 
 same morning to realise as merely possible. If it 
 had been any other day, he might have heard, with- 
 out much remarking, all those singular coincidences 
 which now appeared so startling ; but they chimed 
 in so naturally, or rather so unnaturally, with the 
 tenor of his thoughts, that his panic was supersti- 
 tious and overAvhelming. He sat a long time without 
 moving, almost without breathing, feeling as if it 
 was some kind of fate that approached him. After 
 
46 BROWN LOWS. 
 
 SO many years that he had not thought of this dan- 
 ger, it seemed to him at last that the thoughts 
 which had entered his mind in the mornincr must 
 have "been premonitions sent by Providence ; and at 
 a glance he went over the whole position — the new 
 claimant, the gradually-expanding claim, the conflict 
 over it, the money he had locked up in that one 
 doubtful speculation, the sudden diminution of his 
 resources, perhaps the necessity of selling Brown- 
 lows and bringing Sara back to the old house in the 
 High Street where she was born. Such a downfall 
 would have been nothing for himself: for him the 
 old wainscot dining-parlour and all the well-known 
 rooms were agreeable and full of pleasant associations ; 
 
 but Sara Then John Brownlow gave another 
 
 wide glance over his social firmament, asking him- 
 self if there was any one whom, between this time 
 and that, Sara's heart might perhaps incline to, 
 whom she might marry, and solve the difficulty. A 
 few days before he used to dread and avoid the idea 
 of her marriage. Now all this rushed upon him in 
 a moment, with the violent impulse of his awakened 
 fears. By-and-by, however, he came to himself A 
 woman might be a soldier's wife, and might come 
 from the Isle of Man, and might have had friends in 
 Masterton who were dead, without being Phoebe 
 Thomson. Perhaps if he had been bold, and listened 
 
BROWNLOWS. 47 
 
 to the name which was on his young visitor's lips, 
 it might have reassured him, and settled the ques- 
 tion ; but he had been afraid to do it. At this early 
 stage of the question he had not a moment's doubt 
 as to what he would do — what he must do — at once 
 and without delay, if Phoebe Thomson really pre- 
 sented herself before him. But it was not his busi- 
 ness to seek her out. And who could say that this 
 was she? The Isle of Man, after all, was not so 
 small a place, and any one wdio had come to Master- 
 ton to ask after old Mrs Thomson would have been 
 referred at once to her executor. This conviction 
 came slowly upon Mr Brownlow's mind as he got 
 over the first wild thrill of fear. He put his terror 
 aw^ay from him gradually and slowly. When a 
 thought has burst upon the mind at once, and taken 
 possession of it at a stroke, it is seldom dislodged in 
 the same complete way. It may cease to be a con- 
 viction, but it never ceases to be an impression. 
 To this state, by degrees, his panic subsided. He 
 no longer thought it certain that young Powys was 
 Phoebe Thomson's representative ; but only that 
 such a thing was possible — that he had something 
 tangible to guard against and w^atch over. In place 
 of his quiet everyday life, with all its comforts, an 
 exciting future, a sudden wdiirl of possibilities, 
 opened before him. But in one year all this w^ould 
 
48 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 be over. One year would see him, would see his 
 children, safe in the fortune they had grown used to, 
 and come to feel their own. Only one year ! There 
 are moments when men are fain to clog the wheels 
 of time and retard its progress ; but there are also 
 moments when, to set the great clock forward arbi- 
 trarily and to hasten the measured beating of that 
 ceaseless leisurely pendulum, is the desire that goes 
 nearest the heart. Thus it came to appear to Mr 
 Brownlow as if it was now a kind of race between 
 time and fate ; for as yet it had not occurred to him 
 to think of abstract justice nor of natural rights 
 higher than those of any legal testament. He was 
 thinking only of the letter, of the stipulated year. He 
 was thinking if that time were past that he would feel 
 himself his own master. And this sentiment grew 
 and settled in his mind as he sat alone, and waited 
 for Sara's carriage — for his child, whom in all this 
 matter he thought of the most. He was disturbed 
 in the present, and eager with the eagerness of a boy 
 for the future. It did not even occur to him that 
 ghosts would arise in that future even more difficult 
 to exorcise. All his desire in the mean time was. 
 If only this year were over ! — if only anyhow a leap 
 could be made through this one interval of danger. 
 And the sharp and sudden pain he had come through 
 gave him at the same time a sense of lassitude and 
 
BROWNLOWS. 49 
 
 exhaustion. Thus Sara's headache and her fatigue 
 and fanciful little indisposition were very lucky- 
 accidents for her father. They gave him an excuse 
 for the deeper compunctious tenderness with which 
 he longed to make up to her for a possible loss, and 
 occupied both of them, and hid his disturbed air, 
 and gave him a little stimulus of pleasure when 
 she mended and resumed her natural chatter. Thus 
 reflection and the fresh evening air, and Sara's head- 
 ache and company, ended by almost curing Mr 
 Brownlow before he reached home. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
CHAPTEK IV. 
 
 A LITTLE DINlsTlR. 
 
 There was a very pleasant party that evening at 
 Brownlows — the sort of thing of which people say, 
 that it is not a party at all, you know, only our- 
 selves and the Hardcastles, or whoever else it may 
 happen to be. There was the clergyman of the 
 parish, of course— who is always, if he happens to be 
 at all agreeable, the very man for such little friendly 
 dinners ; and there was his daughter ; for he was a 
 widower, like Mr Brownlow — and his Fanny was 
 half as much to him, to say the least, as Sara was to 
 her admiring father. And there was just one guest 
 besides — young Keppel to wit, the son of old Keppel 
 of Eidley, and brother of the present Mr Keppel — 
 a young fellow who was not just precisely what is 
 called eligible, so far as the young ladies were con- 
 cerned, but who did very well for all secondary 
 purposes, and was a barrister with hopes of briefs. 
 
BROWNLOWS. 61 
 
 and a flying connection with literature, which helped 
 him to keep his affairs in order, and was rather of 
 service to him than otherwise in society, as it some- 
 times is to a perfectly well-connected young man. 
 Thus there were two girls and two young men, and 
 two seniors to keep each other company ; and there 
 was a great deal of talk and very pleasant intercourse, 
 enough to justify the Eector in the enthusiastic 
 utterance of his favourite sentiment, that this was 
 true society, and that he did not know what people 
 meant by giving dinners at which there were more 
 than six. Mr Hardcastle occasionally, it is true, 
 expressed under other circumstances opinions which 
 might be supposed a little at variance with this one ; 
 but then a man cannot always be in the same mind, 
 and no doubt he was quite sincere in what he said. 
 He was a sort of man that exists, but is not produced 
 nowadays. He was neither High Church nor Low 
 Church, so to speak. If you had offered to confess 
 your sins to him he would have regarded you with 
 as much terror and alarm as if you had presented a 
 pistol at his head ; and if you had attempted to con- 
 fess your virtues under the form of spiritual experi- 
 ence, he would have turned from you with disgust. 
 Neither was he in the least freethinking, but a most 
 correct orthodox clergyman — a kind of man, as I have 
 said, not much produced in these times. Besides 
 
 U, OF ILL U«i. 
 
52 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 this indefinite clerical character he had a character 
 of his own, which was not at all indefinite. He 
 was a little red-faced, and sometimes almost jovial 
 in Ids gaiety, and at the same time he was in pos- 
 session of a large stock of personal griefs and losses, 
 which had cost him many true tears and heartaches, 
 poor man, but which were very useful to him in the 
 way of his profession. And he had an easy way of 
 turning from the one phase of life to the other, which 
 had a curious effect sometimes upon impartial spec- 
 tators. But all the same it was perfectly true and 
 genuine. He made himself very agreeable that 
 night at Brownlows, and was full of jest and frolic ; 
 but if he had been called to see somebody in trouble 
 as he went home, he would have gone in and drawn 
 forth from his own private stores of past pain, and 
 manifested plainly to the present sufferer that he 
 himself had suffered more bitterly still. He had 
 " come through " all the pangs that a man can suffer 
 in this world. He had lost his wife and his children, 
 till nothing was left to him but this one little Fanny 
 — and he loved to open his closed-up chambers to 
 your eyes, and to meet your pitiful looks and falter- 
 ing attempt at consolation ; and yet at the same time 
 you would find him very jolly in the evening at Mr 
 Brownlow's, which hurt the feelings of some sensi- 
 tive people. His daughter, little Fanny, was pretty 
 
BROWNLOWS. 53 
 
 and nice, and nothing particular, which suited her 
 position and prospects perfectly well. These were 
 the two principal guests, young Keppel being only 
 .a man, as ladies who are in the habit of giving 
 dinners are wont to describe such floating members 
 of the community. And they all talked and made 
 themselves pleasant, and it was as pretty and as 
 lively a little party as you could well have seen. 
 Quantities of flowers and lights, two very pretty 
 girls, and two good-looking young men, were enough 
 to guarantee its being a very pretty scene ; and 
 nobody was afraid of anybody, and everybody could 
 talk, and did so, which answered for the latter part 
 of the description. Such little parties were very fre- 
 quent at Brownlows. 
 
 After dinner the two girls had a little talk by 
 themselves. They came floating into the great draw- 
 ing-room with those heaps of white drapery about 
 them which made up for anything that might be 
 intrinsically unamiable in crinoline. Before they 
 went up-stairs, making it ready for them, a noble 
 fire, all red, clear, and glowing, was in the room, 
 and made it glorious ; and the pretty things which 
 glittered and reddened and softened in the bright 
 warm atmosphere were countless. There was a 
 bouquet of violets on the table, which was Mr 
 Pitt the gardener's daily quit -rent to Sara for all 
 
64 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 the honours and emoluments of his situation, so 
 that every kind of ethereal sense was satisfied. 
 Fanny Hardcastle dropped into a very low chair 
 at one side, where she sat like a swan with her 
 head and throat rising out of the white billowy 
 waves which covered yards of space round about 
 her. Sara, who was at home, drew a stool in front 
 of the fire, and sat down there, heaping up in her 
 turn snow-wreaths upon the rosy hearth. A sud- 
 den spark might have swallowed them both in fiery 
 destruction. But the spark happily did not come ; 
 and they had their talk in great comfort and content. 
 They touched upon a great many topics, skimming 
 over them, and paying very little heed to logical 
 sequences. And at last they stumbled into meta- 
 physics, and had a curious little dive into the sub- 
 ject of love and love-making, as was not unnatural. 
 It is to be regretted, however, that neither of these 
 young women had very exalted ideas on this point. 
 They were both girls of their period, who recognised 
 the necessity of marriage, and that it was something 
 likely to befall both of them, but had no exaggerated 
 notions of its importance; and, indeed, so far from 
 being utterly absorbed in the anticipation of it, were 
 both far from clear whether they believed in such a 
 thing as love. 
 
 " I don't think one ever could be so silly as they 
 
BEOW^•LOWS. 55 
 
 say in books," said Fanny Hardcastle, ''unless one 
 was a great fool — feeling as if everything was 
 changed, you know, as soon as he was out of the 
 room, and feeling one's heart beat when he was 
 coming, and all that stuff ; I don't believe it, Sara ; 
 do you ? " 
 
 '* I don't know," said Sara, making a screen of 
 her pretty laced handkerchief to protect her face 
 from the firelight; "perhaps it is because one has 
 never seen the right sort of man. The only man 
 I have ever seen whom one could really love is 
 papa." 
 
 " Papa ! " echoed Fanny, faintly, and with sur- 
 prise. Perhaps, after all, she had a lingering faith 
 in ordinary delusions ; at all events, there was no- 
 thing heroic connected in her mind with papas in 
 general ; and she could but sit still and gaze and 
 wonder what next the spoiled child would say. 
 
 " I wonder if mamma was very fond of him," 
 said Sara, meditatively. " She ought to have been, 
 but I daresay she never knew him half as well 
 as I do. That is the dreadful thing. You have to 
 marry them before you know." 
 
 "Oh, Sara, don't you believe in love at first sight?" 
 said Fanny, forgetting her previously expressed senti- 
 ments. " I do." 
 
 Sara threw up her drooping head into the air with 
 
56 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 a little impatient motion. •' I don't think I believe 
 anything about it," she said. 
 
 " And yet there was once somebody that was fond 
 of you/' said little Fanny, breathlessly. " Poor 
 Harry Mansfield, who was so nice — everybody knows 
 about that — and, I do think, IMr Keppel, if you would 
 not be so saucy to him " 
 
 " Mr Keppel ! " exclaimed Sara, with some scorn. 
 " But I will tell you plainly what I mean to do. 
 Mind it is in confidence between us two. You must 
 never tell it to anybody. I have made up my mind 
 to marry whoever papa wishes me to marry — I don't 
 mind who it is. I shall do whatever he says." 
 
 " Oh. Sara ! " said her young companion, with 
 open eyes and mouth, " you will never go so far as 
 that." 
 
 " Oh yes, I will," said Sara, with calm assurance. 
 " He would not ask me to have anybody very old or 
 very hideous ; and if he lets it alone I shall never 
 leave him at all, but stay still here." 
 
 " That might be all very well for a time," said the 
 prudent Fanny ; " but you woidd get old, and you 
 couldn't stay here for ever. That is what I am afraid 
 of. Things get so dull when one is old." 
 
 " Do you think so ? " said Sara. " I don't think 
 I should be dull — I have so many things to do." 
 
 " Oh, you are the luckiest girl in the whole world," 
 
BROWNLOWS. 57 
 
 said Fanny Hardcastle, with a little sigh. She, for 
 her own part, would not have despised the reversion 
 of Mr Keppel, and would have been charmed with 
 Jack Brownlow. But such blessings were not for 
 her. She was in no hurry about it; but still, as 
 even now it was dull occasionally at the Kectory, 
 she could not but feel that when she was old — say, 
 seven-and-tw enty or so — it would be duller still ; and 
 if accordingly, in the mean time, somebody " nice " 
 
 would turn up Fanny's thoughts went no 
 
 further than this. And as for Sara, she has already 
 laid her own views on the subject before her friends. 
 
 It was just then that Jack Brownlow, leaving the 
 dining-room, invited young Keppel to the great hall 
 door to see what sort of a night it was. " It looked 
 awfully like frost," Jack said ; and they both went 
 with serious countenances to look out, for the hounds 
 were to meet next day. 
 
 " Smoke ! not when we are going back to the 
 ladies," said Keppel, with a reluctance which went 
 far to prove the inclination which Fanny Hardcastle 
 had read in his eyes. 
 
 " Put yourself into this overcoat," said Jack, " and 
 I'LL take you to my room, and perfume you after. 
 The girls don't mind." 
 
 " Your sister must mind, I am sure," said Keppel. 
 '* One can't tliink of any coarse sort of gratification 
 
58 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 like this — I suppose it is a gratification — in her 
 presence." 
 
 "Hum/' said Jack; "I have her presence every 
 day, you know, and it does not fill me with awe." 
 
 " It is all very easy for you," said Keppel, as they 
 went down the steps into the cold and darkness. 
 Poor fellow ! he had been a little thrown off his 
 balance by the semi-intimacy and close contact of 
 the little dinner. He had sat by Sara's side, and he 
 had lost his head. He went along by Jack's side 
 rather disconsolate, and not even attempting to light 
 his cigar. " You don't know how well off you are," 
 he said, in touching tones, " whereas another fellow 
 would give his head " 
 
 " Most fellows I know want their heads for their 
 own affairs," said the unfeehng Jack. " Don't be an 
 ass ; you may talk nonsense as much as you hke, 
 but you know you never could be such an idiot as 
 to marry at your age." 
 
 " Marry ! " said Keppel, a little startled, and then 
 he breathed forth a profound sigh. " If I had the 
 ghost of a chance," he said, and stopped short, as 
 if despair choked further utterance. As for Jack 
 Brownlow, he was destitute of sensibility, as indeed 
 was suitable to his trade. 
 
 " I shouldn't say you had in this case," he said, in 
 his imperturbable way ; " and all the better for you. 
 
BROWNLOWS. 59 
 
 You've got to make your way iu the world like the 
 rest of us, and I don't think you're the sort of fellow 
 to hang on to a girl with money. It's all veiy well 
 after a bit, when you've made your way ; but no fel- 
 low with the least respect for himself should think of 
 such a thing before, say, five-and-thirty ; unless, of 
 course, he is a duke, and has a great family to keep 
 up." 
 
 " I hope you'll keep to your own standard," said 
 Keppel, with a little bitterness, " unless you think an 
 only son and a duke on equal ground." 
 
 " Don't sneer," said Jack ; " I'm young Brownlow 
 the attorney; you know that as well as I do. I 
 can't go visiting all over the country at my imcle's 
 place, and my cousin's place, like you. Brownlows 
 is a sort of a joke to most people, you know. Xot 
 that I haven't as much respect for my father and my 
 family as if we were all princes ; and I mean to stand 
 by my order. If I ever marry it will be twenty 
 years hence, when I can afford it; and you can't 
 afford it any more than I can. A fellow might love 
 a woman, and give up a great deal for her," Jack 
 added, with a little excitement ; " but, by Jove ! I 
 don't think he would be justified in giving up his 
 life." 
 
 " It depends on wdiat you call life," said Keppel. 
 " I suppose you mean society, and that sort of 
 
60 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 thing — a few stupid parties and club gossip, and 
 worse." . 
 
 "I don't mean anything of the sort," said Jack, 
 tossing away his cigar ; " I mean working out your 
 own career, and making your way. When a fellow 
 ijoes and marries and settles down, and cuts off all 
 his chances, what use is his youth and his strength 
 to him ? It would be hard upon a poor girl to be 
 expected to make up for all that." 
 
 " I did not know you were such a philosopher, 
 Jack," said his companion, " nor so ambitious ; but I 
 suppose you're right, in a cold-blooded sort of way. 
 Anyhow, if I were that duke " 
 
 "You'd make an ass of yourself," said young 
 Brownlow; and then the two congratulated each 
 other that the skies were clouding over, and the 
 dreaded frost dispersing into drizzle, and went in 
 andtook off their smoking-coats, and wasted a flask 
 of eaii-de-cologne, and went up-stairs ; where there 
 was an end of all philosophy, at least for that 
 night. 
 
 And the seniors sat over their wine, drinking little, 
 notwithstanding Mr Hardcastle's ruddy countenance, 
 which was due rather to fresh air, taken in large and 
 sometimes boisterous draughts, than to any stronger 
 beverage. But they liked their talk, and they were, 
 in a friendly way, opposed to each other on a great 
 
BROWNLOWS. 61 
 
 many questions ; the Eector, as in duty bound, being 
 steadily Conservative, while the lawyer had crotchets 
 in political matters. They were discussing the repre- 
 sentatives of the county, and also those of some of 
 the neighbouring boroughs, which was probably the 
 reason why Mr Hardcastle gave a personal turn to 
 the conversation as he suddenly did. 
 
 " If you will not stand for the borough yourself, 
 you ought to put forward Jack," said the Eector. 
 " I think he is sounder than you are. The best sign 
 I know of the country is that all the young fellows 
 are Tories, Brownlow. Ah ! you may shake your 
 head, but I have it on the best authority. Sir 
 Eobert would support him, of course ; and with your 
 influence at Masterton " 
 
 " Jack must stick to his business," said Mr Brown- 
 low ; " neither he nor I have time for politics. Be- 
 sides, we are not the sort of people — county families, 
 you know " 
 
 " Oh, bother county families !" said Mr Hard- 
 castle. "You know there is not another place in 
 the county kept up like Brownlows. If you will 
 not stand yourself, you ought to push forward your 
 boy." 
 
 " It is out of my way," said Mr Brownlow, shaking 
 his head, and then a momentary smile passed over his 
 face. It had occurred to him, by means of a trick of 
 
62 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 thought he had got into -uiiawares — if Sara could but 
 do it ! and then he smiled at himself. Even while 
 he did so, the recollection of his disturbed day 
 returned to him ; and though he was a lawyer and 
 a self-contained man, and not given to confidences, 
 still something moved in his heart and compelled 
 him, as it were, to speak. 
 
 "Besides," he went on, "we are only here on 
 sufferance. You know all about my circumstances 
 — everybody in Dartfordshire does, I believe; and 
 Phoebe Thomson may turn up any day and make 
 her claim." 
 
 "Nonsense," said the Eector; but there was 
 something in John Brownlow's look which made him 
 feel that it was not altogether nonsense. " But even 
 if she were to turn up," he added, after a pause, " I 
 suppose it would not ruin you to pay her her fifty 
 thousand pounds." 
 
 " No, that is true enough," said Mr Brownlow. It 
 was a kind of ease to him to give this hint that he 
 was still human and fallible, and might have losses 
 to undergo ; but the same instinct which made him 
 speak closed his lips as to any more disastrous con- 
 sequences than the loss of the original legacy. " Sara 
 will have some tea for us up-stairs," he said, after a 
 pause. And then the two fathers went up to the 
 
BKOWNLOWS. 63 
 
 drawing-room in their turn, and nothing could be 
 more clieerful than the rest of the evening:, though 
 there were a good many thoughts and speculations 
 of various kinds going on under this lively flood of 
 talk, as may be perceived. 
 
CHAPTEE V. 
 
 SARA S SPECULATIONS. 
 
 The next morning the frost had set in harder than 
 before, contrary to all prognostications, to the great 
 discomfiture of Jack Brownlow and of the Dartford- 
 shire hounds. The world was white, glassy, and 
 sparkling, when they all looked out upon it from 
 the windows of the breakfast-room — another kind 
 of world altogether from that dim and cloudy sphere 
 upon which Jack and his companion had looked 
 with hopes of thaw and an open country. These 
 hopes being all abandoned, the only thing that 
 remained to be thought of was, whether Dewsbury 
 Mere might be "bearing," or when the ice would 
 be thick enough for skaters — which were questions 
 in which Sara, too, took a certain interest. It was 
 the parish of Dewsbury in which Brownlows was 
 situated, and of which Mr Hardcastle was the parish 
 priest; and young Keppel, along with his brother 
 
BROWNLOWS. 65 
 
 Mr Keppel of Eidley, and all the visitors he might 
 happen to have, and Sir Charles Motherwell, from 
 the other side, with anybody who might be staying 
 in his house — not to speak of the curate and the 
 doctor, and Captain Stanmore, who lived in the great 
 house in Dewsbury village, and a number of other 
 persons less known in the upper circles of the place, 
 would crowd to the ]\Iere as soon as it was kno^^ii 
 that it might yield some diversion, which was a 
 scant commodity in the neighbourhood. Mr Brown- 
 low scarcely listened to the talk of the young people 
 as he ate his egg sedately. He was not thinking 
 of the ice for one. He was thinking of something 
 quite different — of what might be waiting him at 
 his office, and of the changes which any moment, 
 as he said to himself, might produce. He was not 
 afraid, for daylight disperses many ghosts that are 
 terrible by night ; but still his fright seemed to have 
 opened his eyes to all the advantages of his present 
 position, and the vast difference there was between 
 John Brownlow the attorney's children, and the two 
 young people from Brownlows. If that change were 
 ever to occur, it would make a mighty alteration. 
 Lady Motherwell would still know Sara, no doubt, 
 but in how different a way 1 and their presence at 
 Dewsbury then would be of no more impoi-tance 
 than that of Fanny Hardcastle or young Stanmore 
 VOL. I. E 
 
66 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 in the village — whereas, now This was what 
 
 their father was reflecting, not distinctly, but in a 
 vague sort of way, as he ate his egg. He had once 
 been fond of the ice himself, and was not so old but 
 that he felt the wonted fires burn in his ashes ; but 
 the office had an attraction for him which it had 
 never had before, and he drove down by himself 
 in the dogcart with the vigour and eagerness of a 
 young man, while his son got out his skates and 
 set off to ascertain the prospects of the Mere. In 
 short, at that moment Mr Brownlow rather preferred 
 to go off to business alone. 
 
 As for Sara, she did not allow her head to be 
 turned by the prospect of the new amusement ; she 
 went through her duties, as usual, with serene 
 propriety — and then she put all sorts of coverings 
 on her feet and her hands, and her person generally, 
 and set out with a little basket to visit her "poor 
 people." I cannot quite tell why she chose the 
 worst weather to visit her poor people — perhaps it 
 was for their sakes, to find out their wants at the 
 worst ; perhaps for her own, to feel a little meri- 
 torious. I do not pretend to be able to fathom 
 Sara's motives ; but this is undeniably what she 
 did. When it rained torrents, she put on a large 
 waterproof, which covered her from head to foot, 
 and went off with drops of rain blown upon her 
 
BROWNLOWS. 67 
 
 fair cheeks under her hood, on the same charitable 
 mission. This time it was in a fur-trimmed mantle, 
 which was the envy of half the parish. Her father 
 spoiled her, it was easy to see, and gave her 
 everytliing she could desire; but her poor people 
 liked to see her in her expensive apparel, and 
 admired and wondered what it might cost, and 
 were all the better pleased with the tea and sugar. 
 They were pleased that she should wear her fine 
 tilings for them as well as for the fine people she 
 went to visit. I do not attempt to state the reason 
 svhy. 
 
 ^\Tien she went out at the park-gates, Mrs Swayne 
 was the first person who met Sara's eyes, standing 
 at her door. The lines of the road were so lost in 
 snow that it seemed an expanse of level white from 
 the gate of Brownlows to the door-step, cleared and 
 showing black over the whiteness, upon which Mrs 
 Swayne stood. She was a stout woman, and the 
 cold did not seem to affect her. She had a black 
 gown on and a little scarlet shawl, as if she meant 
 to make herself unusually apparent ; and there she 
 stood defiant as the young lady came out. Sara was 
 courageous, and her spirit was roused by this visible 
 opponent. She gave herself a little shake, and then 
 she went straight over the road and offered battle. 
 "Are you not afraid of freezing up," she said to 
 
68 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 Mrs Swayne, vnth an abruptness whicli might have 
 taken away anybody's breath — " or turning into 
 Lot's wife, standing there at the open door?" 
 
 Mrs Swayne was a woman of strong nerves, and 
 she was not frightened. She gave a little laugh 
 to gain time, and then she retorted briskly, " No, 
 Miss, no more nor you in all your wraps ; poor 
 folks can stand a deal that rich folks couldn't bear." 
 
 " It must be much better to be poor than to be 
 rich, then," said Sara ; " but I don't believe that, 
 — your husband, for instance, is not half so strong 
 
 as ; but I beg your pardon — I forgot he was 
 
 ill," she cried with a compunction which covered 
 her face with crimson, " I did not mean to say that ; 
 when one speaks without thinking, one says things 
 one doesn't mean." 
 
 " It's a pity to speak without thinking," said Mrs 
 Swayne ; " if I did, I'd say a deal of unpleasant 
 things ; but, to be sure, you're but a bit of a girl. 
 My man is independent, and it don't matter to 
 nobody whether he is weakly or whether he is 
 strong." 
 
 " I beg your pardon," said Sara, meekly ; " I am 
 very sorry he is not strong." 
 
 " My man," continued Mrs Swayne, " is well-to-do 
 and comfortable, and don't want no pity : there's a 
 plenty in the village to be sorry for — not them as 
 
BROWN LOWS. 69 
 
 the ladies visit and get imposed upon. Poor folks 
 understands poor folks — not as I mean to say we're 
 poor." 
 
 " Then, if you are not poor you can't understand 
 tliem any better than I do," said Sara, with return- 
 ing courage. " I don't think they like well-to-do 
 people like you ; you are always the most hard 
 upon them. If ive were never to get anything we 
 did not deserve, I wonder what would become of 
 us ; and besides, I am sure they don't impose upon 
 me." 
 
 " They'd impose upon the Apostle Paul," said ^Irs 
 Swayne ; '* and as for the Eector — not as he is much 
 like one of the apostles ; he is one as thinks his 
 troubles worse than other folks' — it ain't no good 
 complaining to him. You may come through every- 
 thing as a woman can come through ; but the par- 
 son'll find as he's come through more. That's just 
 ^Ir Hardcastle. If a poor man is left with a young 
 family, it's the Picctor as has lost two wives ; and 
 as for children and money — though I don't believe 
 for one as he ever had any money — your parsons 
 as come through so much never has " 
 
 "You are a Dissenter, Mrs Swayne," said Sara, 
 with calm superiority. 
 
 " Bred and born and brought up in the Church, 
 Miss," said Mrs Swayne, indignantly, "but di'uve 
 
70 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 to the Chapel along of Swayne, and the parson being 
 so aggravatin'. I'm one as likes a bit of sympathy, 
 for my part ; but it ain't general in this world," said 
 the large woman, with a sigh. 
 
 Sara looked at her curiously, with her head a little 
 on one side. She was old enough to know that one 
 liked a little sympathy, and to feel too that it was 
 not general in this w^orld ; but it seemed mighty 
 strange to her that such an ethereal want should 
 exist in the bosom of Mrs Swayne. " S}Tiipathy ? " 
 she said, with a curious tone of wonder and inquiry. 
 She was candid enough, notwithstanding a certain 
 comic aspect which the conversation began to take 
 to her, to want to know what it meant. 
 
 "Yes," said Mrs Swayne, "just sympathy, Miss. 
 I'm one as has had my troubles, and as don't like to 
 be told that they ain't troubles at all. The minister 
 at the Chapel is 'most as bad, for he says they're 
 blessins in disguise — as if Swayne being weakly and 
 awful worritin' when his rheumatism's bad, could 
 ever be a blessin'. And as for speaking to the 
 Eector, you might as well speak to the Mere, and 
 better too, for that's got no answer ready. AVhen 
 a poor body sees a clergyman, it's their comfort to 
 talk a bit and to tell all as they're going through. 
 You can tell Mr Hardcastle I said it, if you please. 
 Lord bless us ! I don't need to go so far if it's only 
 
BROWNLOWS. 71 
 
 to hear as other folks is worse off. There's old Betty 
 at the lodge, and there's them poor creatures next 
 door, and most all in the village, I'm thankful to 
 say, is worse off nor w^e are ; but I would like to 
 know what's the good of a clergyman if he w^on't 
 listen to you rational, and show a bit of sympathy 
 for what you've com'd through." 
 
 Perhaps Sara's attention had wandered during 
 this speech, or perhaps she was tired of the sub- 
 ject; at all events, looking round her with a little 
 impatience as she listened, her eye was caught by 
 the little card with " Lodgings " printed thereon 
 which hung in Mrs Swayne's parlour window. It 
 recalled her standing grievance, and she took action 
 accordingly at once, as was her wont. 
 
 " AVhat is the good of that ? " she said, pointing 
 to it suddenly. " I think you ought to keep your 
 parlour to sit in, you who are so well off ; but, at 
 least, it can't do you any good to hang it up there, 
 — nobody can see it but people who come to us 
 at Brownlows ; and you don't expect them to take 
 lodgings here." 
 
 "Begging your pardon, Miss," said Mrs Swayne, 
 solemnly, " it's been that good to me that the lodg- 
 ings is took." 
 
 " Then why do you keep it up to aggravate 
 people ? " said Sara ; " it makes me wild always 
 
72 BEOWNLOWS. 
 
 when I pass the door. AVhy do you keep it 
 there ? " 
 
 " Lodgers is but men," said Mrs Swayne, " or 
 women, to be more particular. I can't never be sure 
 as I'll like 'em ; and they're folks as never sees their 
 own advantages. It might be as we didn't suit, or 
 they wasn't satisfied, or objected to Swayne a-smoking 
 when he's bad with the rheumatism, which is a thing 
 I wouldn't put a stop to not for forty lodgers ; for it's 
 the only thing as keeps him from worritin'. So I al- 
 ways keeps the card up ; it's the safest way in the end." 
 
 '* I think it is a wretched sort of way," cried Sara, 
 impetuously. " I wonder how you can confess that 
 you have so little faith in people ; instead of trying 
 to like them and getting friends, to be always ready 
 to see them go off. I couldn't have servants in the 
 house like that : they might just as well go to lodge 
 in a cotton-mill or the w^orkhouse. There can't be 
 any human relations between you." 
 
 " Eelations ! " said Mrs Swayne, with a risiug 
 colour. " If you think my relations are folks as go 
 and live in lodgings, you're far mistaken, Miss. It's 
 well known as we come of comforable families, both 
 me and Swayne — folks as keeps a good house over 
 their heads. That's our sort. As for taking 'em in, 
 it's mostly for charity as I lets my lodgings — for the 
 sake of poor folks as wants a little fresh air. You 
 
BRO^\^^LO^vs. 73 
 
 was a different-looking creature when you come out 
 of that stuffy bit of a town. I've a real good 
 memory, and I don't forget. I remember when your 
 papa come and bought the place of the old family ; 
 and vexed we all was — but I don't make no doubt as 
 it was all for the best." 
 
 " I don't think the old family, as you call them, 
 were much use to anybody in Dewsbury," said 
 Sara, injudiciously, with a thrill of indignation 
 and offended pride. 
 
 " Maybe not, Miss," said Mrs Swa^me, meekly ; 
 "they was the old Squires, and come natural. I 
 don't say no more, not to give offence ; but you was 
 a pale little thing then, and not much wonder 
 neither, coming out of a house in a close street as 
 is most fit for a mill, as you was saying. It made 
 a fine difference in you," 
 
 "Our house in Masterton is the nicest house I 
 know," said Sara, who was privately furious. " I 
 always want papa to take me back in the winter. 
 Brownlows is very nice, but it is not so much of a 
 house after all." 
 
 " It was a different name then," said Mrs Swayne, 
 significantly ; " some on us never can think on the 
 new name ; and I don't think as you'd like living in 
 a bit of a poky town after this, if your papa was to 
 let you try." 
 
74 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 " On the contrary, I should like it excessively," 
 said Sara, with much haughtiness; and then she gave 
 Mrs Swayne a condescending little nod, and drew up 
 a corner of her dress, which had drooped upon the 
 snow. " I hope your lodgers will be nice, and that 
 you will take down your ticket," she said ; " but I 
 must go now to see my poor people." Mrs Swayne 
 was so startled by the sudden but affable majesty 
 with which the young lady turned away, that she 
 almost dropped her a curtsy in her surprise. But in 
 fact she only dropped her handkerchief, which was as 
 large as a towel, and which she had a way of holding 
 rolled up like a ball in her hand. It was quite true 
 that the old family had been of little use to anybody 
 at Dewsbury; and that they were almost squalid in 
 their poverty and pretensions and unrespected mis- 
 fortune before they went away; and that all the 
 little jobs in carpentry which kept Mr Swayne in 
 employment had been wanting during the old regime ; 
 in short, it was on Brownlows, so to speak — on the 
 shelfs and stands, and pegs and bits of cupboard, 
 and countless repairs which were always wanting in 
 the now prosperous house — tliat Swayne's Cottages 
 had been built. This, however, did not make his 
 wife compunctious. She watched Sara's active foot- 
 steps over the snow, and saw her pretty figure dis- 
 appear into the white waste, and was glad she had 
 
BROWNLOWS. 75 
 
 given lier that sting. To keep this old family bottled 
 up, and give the new people a little dose from time 
 to time of the nauseous residue, was one of her pleas- 
 ures. She went in and arranged the card more 
 prominently in her parlour window, and felt glad 
 that she had put it there ; and then she went and 
 sat with her poor neighbour next door, and railed at 
 the impudent little thing in her furs and velvets, 
 whom the foolish father made such an idol of. But 
 she made her poor neighbour's tea all the same, and 
 frightened away the children, and did the woman 
 good, not being bad any more than most jjeople are 
 who cherish a little comfortable animosity against 
 the nearest great folks. Mrs Swayne, however, not 
 being democratic, was chiefly affected by the fact 
 that the Masterton la\vyer's family had no right to 
 be great folks, which was a reasonable grievance in 
 its way. 
 
 As for Sara, she went off through the snow, feeling 
 hot at heart with this little encounter, though her 
 feet were cold with standing still. AVhy had she 
 stood still to be insulted ? this was what Sara asked 
 herself; for, after all, Mrs Swayne was nothing to 
 her, and what could it matter to Brownlows whether 
 or not she had a bill in her window ? But yet un- 
 consciously it led her thoughts to a consideration of 
 her present home — to the difference between it and 
 
-76 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 her father's house at Masterton, to all the fairy 
 change which, within the bounds of her own recol- 
 lection, had passed upon her life. Supposing any- 
 thing was to happen, as things continually happened 
 to men in business — supposing some bank was to 
 fail, or some railway to break down — a thing which 
 occurred every day — and her papa should lose all 
 his money ? Would she really be quite content to 
 go back to the brick house in which she was born ? 
 Sara thought it over with a great deal of gravity. 
 In case of such an event happening (and, to be sure, 
 nothing was more likely), she felt that she would 
 greatly prefer total ruin. Total ruin meant instant 
 retirement to a cottage with or without roses — with 
 only two, or perhaps only one, servant — where she 
 would be obliged, with her own hands, to make 
 little dishes for poor papa, and sew the buttons 
 on his shirts, and perhaps milk a very pretty little 
 Alderney cow, and make beautiful little pats of 
 butter for his delectation. This Sara felt that 
 she was equal to. Let the bank or the railway 
 break down to-morrow, and the devoted daughter 
 was ready to go forth with her beloved parent. 
 She smiled to herself at the thought that such a 
 misfortune could alarm her. What was money? 
 she said to herself; and Sara could not but feel 
 that it was quite necessary to take this plan into 
 
BEOWXLO^yS. 77 . 
 
 full consideration in all its details, for nobody could 
 tell at ^vhat moment it might be necessary to put it 
 in practice. 
 
 As for the house at ]\Iasterton, that was quite a 
 different matter, which she did not see any occasion 
 for considering. If papa was ruined, of course he 
 would have to give up everything, and the Masterton 
 house would be as impossible as Brownlows; and 
 so long as he was not ruined, of course everything 
 would go on as usual. Thus Sara pursued her way 
 cheerfully, feeling that a possible new future had 
 opened upon her, and that she had perceived and 
 accepted her duty in it, and was prepared for what- 
 ever might happen. If Mr Brownlow returned that 
 very night, and said, " I am a ruined man," Sara felt 
 that she was able to go up to him, and say, ''Papa, 
 you have still your children ; " and the thought was 
 so far from depressing her that she went on very 
 cheerfully, and held her head high, and looked at 
 everybody she met ^Wth a certain affability, as if 
 she were the queen of that country. And, to tell 
 the truth, such people as she met were not unwilling 
 to acknowledge her claims. There were many who 
 thought her the prettiest girl in Dewsbury parish, 
 and there could be no doubt that she was the richest 
 and most magnificent. If it had been known what 
 heroic sentiments were in her heart, no doubt it 
 
78 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 would have deepened the general admiration; but 
 at least she knew them herself, and that is always 
 a great matter. . To have your mind made up as to 
 what you must and will do in case of a sudden 
 and at present uncertain, but on the whole quite 
 possible, change of fortune, is a thing to be very 
 thankful for. Sara felt that, considering this sud- 
 denly revealed prospect of ruin, it perhaps was not 
 quite prudent to promise future bounties to her poor 
 pensioners ; but she did it all the same, thinking 
 that surely somehow she could manage to get her 
 promises fulfilled, through the means of admiring 
 friends or such faithful retainers as might be called 
 forth by the occasion — true knights, who would do 
 anything or everything for her. Thus her course 
 of visits ended quite pleasantly to everybody con- 
 cerned, and that glow of generosity and magnanimity 
 about her heart made her even more liberal than 
 usual, which was very satisfactory to the poor people. 
 When she had turned bac^k and was on her way 
 home, she encountered the carrier's cart on its way 
 from Masterton. It was a covered waggon, and 
 sometimes, though very rarely, it was used as a 
 means of travelling from one place in the neigh- 
 bourhood to another by people who could not afford 
 more expensive conveyances. There were two such 
 
BKOWNLOWS. 79 
 
 people in it now who attracted Sara's attention — 
 one an elderly woman, tall and dark, and somewhat 
 gaunt in her appearance ; the other a girl about 
 Sara's own age, with very dark brown hair cut 
 short and lying in rings upon her forehead like a 
 boy's. She had eyes as dark as her hair, and was 
 closely wrapped in a red cloak, and regarded by 
 her companion with tender and anxious looks, to 
 which her paleness and fragile appearance gave a 
 ready explanation. " It ain't the speediest way of 
 travelling, for I've a long round to make, Miss, 
 afore I gets where they're a-going," said the carrier ; 
 "they'd a'most done better to walk, and so I told 'em. 
 But I reckon the young un ain't lit, and they're 
 tired like, and it's mortal cold." Sara walked on 
 remorseful after this encounter, half ashamed of her 
 furs, which she did not want — she, whose blood 
 danced in her veins, and w^ho was warm all over 
 with health and comfort, and happiness and pleasant 
 thoughts. And then it occurred to her to wonder 
 whether, if papa were ruined, he and his devoted 
 child would ever have to travel in a carrier's cart, 
 and go round and round a whole parish in the cold 
 before they came to their destination. " But then 
 we could walk," Sara said to herself as she went 
 briskly up the avenue, and saw the bright fire blink- 
 
80 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 ing in her own window, where her maid was laying 
 out her evening dress. This, after all, felt a great 
 deal more natural even than the cottage with the 
 roses, and put out of her mind all thought of a 
 dreary journey in the carrier's cart. 
 
CHAPTER VI. 
 
 AX ADVENTURE. 
 
 Jack in the mean time was on the ice. 
 
 Dewsbury Mere was bearing, which was a wonder, 
 considering how lately the frost had set in ; and a 
 pretty scene it was, though as yet some of the other 
 magnates of the parish, as well as Sara, were absent. 
 It was a round bit of ornamental water, partly 
 natural, partly artificial, touching upon the village 
 green at one side, and on the other side bordered by 
 some fine elm-trees, underneath which in summer 
 much of the lovemaking of the parish was per- 
 formed. The church with its pretty spire was 
 visible through the bare branches of the plantation, 
 which backed the elm-trees like a little host of 
 retainers ; and on the other side — the village side 
 — glittering over the green in the centre of all the 
 lower and humbler dwellings, you could see the 
 Stanmores' house, which was very tall and very 
 
 VOL. I. F 
 
82 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 red, and glistened all over with reflections from the 
 brass nobs on the door, and the twinkling glass of 
 the windows, and even from the polished holly 
 leaves which all but blocked up the entrance. The 
 village people were in full possession of the Mere 
 without the gene imposed by the presence of Lady 
 ]\Iotherwell or Mrs Keppel. Fanny Hardcastle, who, 
 if the gi^eat people had been there, would have 
 pinned herself on tremblingly to their skirts and 
 lost the fun, was now in the heart of it, not despis- 
 ing young Stanmore's attentions, nor feeling herself 
 painfully above the doctor's wife; and thus rosy and 
 blooming and gay, looked a very different creature 
 from the blue little Fanny whom old Lady Mother- 
 well, had she been there, would have awed into cold 
 and propriety. And the doctor's wife, though she 
 was not exactly in society, was a piquant little 
 woman, and the curate was stalwart, if not interest- 
 ing, very muscular, and slow to commit himself in 
 the way of speech. Besides, there were many people 
 of whom no account was made in Dewsbury, who 
 enjoyed the ice, and knew how to conduct them- 
 selves upon it, and looked just as well as if they had 
 been young squires and squiresses. Jack Brownlow 
 came into the midst of them cordially, and thought 
 there were many more pretty faces visible than were 
 to be seen in more select circles, and was not in the 
 
BROWNLOWS. 83 
 
 least appalled by the discovery tliat the prettiest of 
 all was the corn-factor's daughter in the village. 
 When little Polly Huntly from the baker's wavered 
 on her slide, and was near falling, it was Jack who 
 caught her, and his friendliness put some very silly 
 thoughts into the poor little girl's head ; but Jack 
 was thinking of no such vanity. He was as pleased 
 to see the pretty faces about as a right-thinking 
 young man ought to be, but he felt that he had a 
 great many other things to think of for his part, and 
 gave very sensible advice, as has been already seen, 
 to other young fellows of less thoroughly established 
 principles. Jack was not only fancy free, but in 
 principle he was opposed to all that sort of thing. 
 His opinion was, that for anybody less than a young 
 duke or more than an artisan to marry under thirty, 
 was a kind of social and moral suicide. I do not 
 pretend to justify or defend his opinions, but such 
 were his opinions, and he made no secret of them. 
 He was a young fellow with a great many things to 
 do in this world, or at least so he thought. Though 
 he was only a country solicitor's son, he had notions 
 in his head, and there was no saying what he did 
 not aspire to ; and to throw everything away for the 
 sake of a girl's pretty face, seemed to him a proceed- 
 ing little short of idiocy. All this he had expounded 
 to many persons of a different way of thinking ; and 
 
84 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 indeed the only moments in which he felt inclined 
 to cast aside his creed were when he found it taken 
 up and advocated by other men of the same opinion, 
 but probably less sense of delicacy than himself. 
 
 "Where is your father?" said Mr Hardcastle; 
 " he used to be as fond as any one of the ice. Gone 
 to business ! — he'll kill himself if he goes on going 
 to business like this all the year round, every day." 
 
 "Oh, no/' said Jack, "he'll not kill himself; all 
 the same, he might have come, and so would Sara, 
 had we known the Mere was bearing. I did not 
 think it possible there could have been such good ice 
 to-day." 
 
 " Not Sara," said the Eector ; " this sort of thing 
 is not the thing for her. The village folks are all 
 very well, and in the exercise of my profession I see 
 a great deal of them. But not for Sara, my dear boy 
 — this sort of thing is not in her way." 
 
 "Why, Fanny is here," said Jack, opening his 
 eyes. 
 
 " Fanny is different," said Mr Hardcastle ; " clergy- 
 women have got to be friendly with their poor neigh- 
 bours — but Sara, who will be an heiress " 
 
 " Is she to be an heiress ? " said Jack, with a laugh 
 which could not but sound a little peculiar. " I am 
 sure I don't mind if she is ; but I think we may let 
 the future take care of itself. The presence of the 
 
BKOWNLOWS. 85 
 
 cads would not hurt her any more than they hurt 
 me." 
 
 " Don't speak of cads," said the Eector, " to me ; 
 they are all my equals — human beings among whom 
 I have lived and laboured. Of course it is natural 
 that you should look on them differently. Jack, can 
 you tell me what it is that keeps young Keppel so 
 long about Eidley ? What interest has he in re- 
 maining here ? " 
 
 "The hounds, I suppose," said Jack, curtly, not 
 caring to be questioned. 
 
 " Oh, the hounds I " repeated Mr Hardcastle, with 
 a dubious tone. "I suppose it must be that — and 
 nothing particular to do in town. You were quite 
 right, Jack, to stick to your father's business. A 
 briefless barrister is one of the most hopeless WTetches 
 in the world." 
 
 *'I don't think you always thought so, sir," said 
 Jack; ''but here is an opening, and I'll see you 
 again." He had not come there to talk to the parson. 
 When he had gone flying across the Mere, thinking 
 of nothing at all but the pleasure of the motion, and 
 had skirted it round and round, and made figures of 
 8, and done all the gambols common to a first out- 
 break, he stopped himself at a corner where Fanny 
 Hardcastle, whom her father had been leading about, 
 was standing with young Keppel, looking very pretty, 
 
86 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 with her rose cheeks and downcast eyes. Keppel had 
 been mooning about Sara the night before, was the 
 thought that passed through Jack's mind ; and what 
 right had he to give Fanny Hard castle occasion to 
 cast down her eyes ? Perhaps it was purely on his 
 friend's account; perhaps because he thought that 
 girls were very hardly dealt with in never being left 
 alone to think of anything but that confounded love- 
 making; but the fact was that he disturbed them 
 rather ruthlessly, and stood before them, balancing 
 himself on his skates. " Get into this chair, Fanny, 
 and I'll give you a turn of the Mere," he said ; 
 and the downcast eyes were immediately raised, and 
 their fullest attention conferred upon him. All the 
 humble maidens of Dewsbury at that moment cast 
 glances of envy and yet awe at Fanny. Alice Stan- 
 more, who was growing up, and thought herself quite 
 old enough to receive attention in her own person, 
 glowered at the Eector's daughter with horrible 
 thoughts. The two young gentlemen, the envied of 
 all observers, seemed for the moment, to the female 
 population of the village, to have put themselves at 
 Fanny's feet. Even Mrs Brightbank, the doctor's 
 little clever wife, was taken in for the moment. For 
 the instant that energetic personage balanced in her 
 mind the respective merits of the two candidates, 
 and considered which it would be best for Fanny to 
 
BROWNLOWS. 87 
 
 many; never tliinking that the whole matter in- 
 volved was half-a-dozen words of nonsense on Mr 
 Keppel's part, and on Jack Brownlow's one turn on 
 the ice in the skater's chair. 
 
 For it was not until Fanny was seated, and being 
 driven over the Mere, that she looked back with that 
 little smile and saucy glance, and asked demurely, 
 "Are you sure it is quite proper, Mr John?" 
 
 " Not proper at all," said Jack ; " for we have no- 
 body to take care of us — neither I nor you. My 
 papa is in Masterton at the office, and yours is busy 
 talking to the old women. But quite as proper as 
 listening to all the nonsense Joe Keppel may please 
 to say." 
 
 "I listening to his nonsense!" said Fanny, as a 
 pause occurred in their progress. " I don't know why 
 you should think so. He said nothing that every- 
 body might not hear. And besides, I don't listen to 
 anybody's nonsense, nor ever did since I was born," 
 added Fanny, with another little soft glance round 
 into her companion's face. 
 
 "Never do," said Jack, seizing the chair with 
 renewed vehemence, and rushing all round the Mere 
 with it at a pace which took away Fanny's breath. 
 When they had reached the same spot again, he came 
 to a standstill to recover his own, and stood leaning 
 upon the chair in which the girl sat, smiling and 
 
88 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 glowing with the imwonted whirl. "Just like a 
 pair of lovers," the people said on the Mere, though 
 they were far enough from being lovers. Just at 
 that moment the carrier's cart came lumbering along 
 noisily upon the hard frosty path. It was on its way 
 then to the place where Sara met it on the road. 
 Inside, under the arched cover, were to be seen the 
 same two faces which Sara afterwards saw — the 
 mother's, elderly and gaunt, and full of lines and 
 wrinkles ; the sweet face of the girl, withits red lips, 
 and pale cheeks, and lovely eyes. The hood of the 
 red cloak had fallen back a little, and showed the 
 short, curling, almost black hair. A little light came 
 into the young face at sight of all the people on the 
 ice. As was natural, her eyes fixed first on the group 
 so near the edge— pretty Fanny Hardcastle, and Jack, 
 resting from his fatigue, leaning over her chair. The 
 red lips oj)ened with an innocent smile, and the girl 
 pointed out the scene to her mother, whose face 
 relaxed, too, into that momentary look of feigned in- 
 terest with which an anxious watcher rewards every 
 exertion or stir of reviving life. "^Tiat a pretty, 
 pretty creature ! " said Fanny Hardcastle, generously, 
 yet with a little passing pang of annoyance at the 
 interruption. Jack did not make any response. He 
 gazed at the little traveller, without knowing it, as 
 if she had been a creature out of another sphere. 
 
BROWNLOWS. 89 
 
 Pretty ! lie did not know whether she was pretty or 
 not. What he thought was that he had never before 
 seen such a face; and all the while the waggon 
 lumbered on, and kept going off, until the Mere and 
 its groups of people were left behind. And Jack 
 Brownlow got to his post again, as if nothing had 
 happened. He drove Fanny round and round until 
 she grew dizzy, and then he rushed back to the field 
 and cut all kind of figures, and executed every pos- 
 sible gambol that skates will lend themselves to. 
 But, oddly enough, all the while he could not get 
 it out of his head how strange it must look to go 
 through the world like that in a carrier's cart. It 
 seemed a sort of new view of life to Jack altogether, 
 and no doubt that was why it attracted him. People 
 who had so little sense of the importance of time, 
 and so great a sense of the importance of money, as 
 to jog along over the whole breadth of the parish in 
 a frosty winter afternoon, by way of saving a few 
 shillings — and one of them so delicate and fragile, 
 with such a face, such soft little rings of dark hair 
 on the forehead, such sweet eyes, such a soft little 
 smile ! Jack did not think he had much imagination, 
 yet he could not help picturing to himself how the 
 country must look as they passed through ; all the 
 long bare stretches of wood, and the houses here and 
 there, and how the ^Mere must have flashed upon 
 
90 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 tliem to brighten up the tedious panorama ; and then 
 the ring of the horses' hoofs on the road, and their 
 breath steaming up into the air, and the crack of the 
 carrier's whip as he walked beside them. Jack, who 
 dashed along in his dogcart the quickest way, or rode 
 his horse still faster through the well-known lanes, 
 could not but linger on this imagination with the 
 most curious sense of interest and novelty. " It 
 must be poverty," he said to himself ; and it was all 
 he could do to keep the words from being spoken 
 out loud. 
 
 As for Fanny, I am afraid she never thought again 
 of the poor travellers in the carrier's cart. When 
 the red sunset clouds were gathering in the sky, 
 her father, who was very tender of her, drew her 
 hand within his arm, and took her home. "You 
 have had enough of it," he said, though she did 
 not think so ; and when they turned their backs 
 on the village, and took the x^ath towards the Eectoiy 
 under the bare elm-trees, which stood like pillars of 
 ebony in a golden palace against the setting sun, 
 Mr Hardcastle added a little word of warning. 
 " My love," he said — for he too, like Mr Brown- 
 low, thought there was nobody like his child — 
 " you must not put nonsense into these young 
 fellows' heads." 
 
 "/ put nonsense into their heads!" cried Fanny, 
 
BEOWNLOWS. 91 
 
 feeling, witli a slight thrill of self-abasement, that 
 probably it was quite the other way. 
 
 " Not a doubt about it," said the Eector ; " and 
 so far as Jack Brow^nlow is concerned, I don't know 
 that 1 should object much ; but I don't w^ant to 
 lose my little girl yet awhile; I don't know what 
 I should do all alone in the house." 
 
 " Oh papa, I wdll never leave you,'' cried Fann}^ 
 She meant it, and even, which is more, believed 
 it for the moment. Was he not more to her than 
 all the yoimg men that had ever been dreamed of? 
 But yet it icas rather agreeable to Fanny to think 
 that she was suspected of putting nonsense into 
 their heads. She liked the imputation, as indeed 
 most people do, both men and women ; and she 
 liked the position — the only lady, with all that was 
 most attractive in the parish at her feet; for Sir 
 Charles was considered by most people as very 
 far from bright. And then the recollection of her 
 rapid whirl across the ice came over her like a 
 warm glow of pleasant recollection as she dressed 
 for the evening. It would be nice to have them 
 come in, to talk it all over after dinner — very nice 
 to have little parties, like the last night's party at 
 Brownlows ; and notwithstanding her devotion to 
 her father, after they had dined, and she had gone 
 alone into the drawing-room, Fanny could not but 
 
92 BEOWNLOWS. 
 
 find it dull. There was neither girl to gossip with, 
 nor man into whose head it would be any satis- 
 faction to put nonsense, near the Eectory, from 
 whom a familiar visit might be expected ; and, 
 after the day's amusement, the silent evening, with 
 papa down-stairs enjoying his after-dinner doze in 
 his chair, was far from lively. But it did not occur 
 to Fanny to frame any conjectures upon the two 
 travellers who had looked momentarily out upon 
 her from the carrier's cart. 
 
 As for Jack Brownlow, he had a tolerably long 
 walk before him. In summer he would have crossed 
 the park, which much reduced the distance, but, 
 in the dark and through the snow, he thought it 
 expedient to keep the highroad, which was a long 
 way round. He went off very briskly, with the 
 straps of his skates over his shoulder, whistling 
 occasionally, but not from want of thought. In- 
 deed, he had a great many things to think of — 
 the ice itself for one thing, and the pleasant run 
 he had given little Fanny, and the contemptible 
 vacillations of that fellow Keppel from one pretty 
 girl to another, and the office and his work, and a 
 rather curious case which had lately come under 
 his hands. All this occupied him as he went home, 
 while the sunset skies gradually faded. He passed 
 from one thing to another with an unfettered mind, 
 
BROWNLOWS. 93 
 
 and more than once there just glanced across his 
 thoughts, a momentary wonder, where would the 
 carrier's cart be now? Had it got home yet, de- 
 livered all its parcels, and deposited its passengers ? 
 Had it called at Brownlows to leave his cigars, 
 which ought to have arrived a week ago ? That 
 poor little pale face — how tired the little creature 
 must be ! and how cold ! and then the mother. 
 He would never have thought of them again but 
 for that curious way of moving about, of all ways 
 in the world, among the parcels in the carrier's 
 cart. 
 
 This speculation had returned to his mind as he 
 came in sight of the park-gates. It was quite dark 
 by this time, but the moon was up overhead, and 
 •the road was very visible on either side of that 
 little black block of Swayne's Cottages, which threw 
 a shadow across almost to the frosted silver gates. 
 Something, however, was going on in this bit of 
 shadow. A large black movable object stood in 
 the midst of it ; and from Mrs Swayne's door a 
 lively ray of red light fell across the snow. Then 
 by degrees Jack identified the horses, with their 
 steaming breath, and the waggon-wheel upon which 
 the light fell. He said " by Jove " loud out as he 
 stood at the gate and found out what it was. It 
 was the very carrier's cart of which he had been 
 
94 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 thinking, and some mysterious transaction was going 
 on in the darkness which he could only guess at 
 vaguely. Something or somebody was being made 
 to descend from the waggon, which a sudden sway- 
 ing of the horses made difi&cult. Jack took his cigar 
 from his lips to hear and see the better, and stood 
 and gazed with the vulgarest curiosity. Even the 
 carrier's cart was something to take note of on the 
 road at Brownlows. But when that sudden cry fol- 
 lowed, he tossed his cigar away and his skates along 
 with it, and crossed the road in two long steps, to the 
 peril of his equilibrium. Somehow he had divined 
 what was happening. He made a stride into the 
 thick of it, and it was he who lifted up the little 
 figure in the red cloak which had slipped and fallen 
 on the snow. It was natural, for he was the only 
 man about. The carrier was at his horses' heads to 
 keep them steady; Mrs Swayne stood on the steps, 
 afraid to move lest she too should slip ; and as for 
 the girl's mother, she was benumbed and stupefied, 
 and could only raise her child up half-way from the 
 ground, and beg somebody to help. Jack got her up 
 in his arms, and pushed Mrs Swayne out of his way, 
 and carried her in. " Is it here she is to go ? " he 
 cried over his shoulder as he took her into the 
 parlour, where the card hung in the window, and the 
 fire was burning. There was nothing in it but fire- 
 
BROWNLOWS. 96 
 
 light, which cast a hue of life upon the poor little 
 traveller's face. And then she had not fainted, but 
 blushed and gasped .with pain and confusion. " Oh, 
 thank you, that will do," she cried — " that will do." 
 And then the others fell upon her, who had come in 
 a procession behind, when he set her down. He was 
 so startled himself that he remained where he was, 
 and looked over their heads and gaped at her. He 
 had put her down in a kind of easy-chair, and there 
 she lay, her face changing from red to pale. Pale 
 enough it was now, while Jack, made by his astonish- 
 ment into a mere wondering, curious boy, stood with 
 his mouth open and watched. He was not con- 
 sciously thinking how pretty she was ; he was 
 wondering if she had hurt herself, which was a much 
 more sensible thought ; but still, of course, he per- 
 ceived it, though he was not thinking of it. Curls 
 are common enough, you know, but it is not often 
 you see those soft rings, which are so much longer 
 than they look ; and the eyes so limpid and liquid 
 all through, yet strained, and pathetic, and weary — 
 a great deal too limpid, as anybody who knew any- 
 thing about it might have known at a glance. She 
 made a little movement, and gave a cry, and grew 
 red once more, this time with pain, and then as 
 white as the snow. " Oh, my foot, my foot 1 " she 
 cried, in a piteous voice. The sound of words 
 
96 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 brought Jack to himself. "I'll wait outside, Mrs 
 Swayne," he said, "and if the doctor's wanted I'll 
 fetch him ; let me know." And then he went out 
 and had a talk with the carrier, and waited. The 
 carrier knew very little about his passenger. He 
 reckoned the young un was delicate — it was along of 
 this here brute swerving when he hadn't ought to — 
 but it couldn't be no more than a sprain. Such was 
 Hobson's opinion. Jack waited, however, a little 
 bewildered in his intellects, till Mrs Swayne came 
 out to say his services were not needed, and that 
 it was a sprain, and could be mended by ordinary 
 female remedies. Then young Mr Brownlow got 
 Hobson's lantern, and searched for his skates, and 
 flung them over his shoulder. How queer they 
 should have come here — how odd to think of that 
 little face peeping out at Mrs Swayne's window — 
 how droll that he should have been on the spot just 
 at that moment ! And yet it was neither queer nor 
 droll to Jack, but confused his head somehow, and 
 c^ave him a stran<Te sort of half-commotion in the 
 region of his heart. It is all very well to be sen- 
 sible, but yet there is certainly something in it when 
 an adventure like this happens, not to Keppel, or 
 that sort of fellow, but actually to yourself. 
 
CHAPTER Yll. 
 
 THE father's day AT THE OFFICE. 
 
 AVhile Sara and Jack were thus enjoying them- 
 selves, Mr Brownlow went quietly in to his business 
 — very quietly, in the dogcart, with his man driving, 
 who was very steady, and looked as comfortable as 
 his master. Mr Brownlow was rather pleased not 
 to have his son's company that morning; he had 
 something to do which he could scarcely have done 
 had Jack been there — business which was quite 
 justifiable, and indeed right, but which it would 
 have been a disagreeable matter to have explained 
 to Jack. His mind was much more intent upon his 
 own affairs than were those of either of his children 
 on theirs. They had so much time in life to do all 
 they meant to do, that they could afford to set out 
 leisurely, and go forth upon the world with a sweet 
 vacancy in their minds, ready for anything that 
 might turn up ; but with Mr Brownlow it was not 
 VOL. I. G 
 
98 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 SO : his objects liad grown to be very clear before 
 liim. He was not so old as to feel the pains or 
 weariness or languor of age. He was almost as able 
 to enjoy, and perhaps better able to do, in the way 
 of his profession at least, than was young Jack. The 
 difference was, that Mr Brownlow lived only in the 
 present ; the future had gradually been cut off, as it 
 were, before him. There was one certainty in his 
 path somewhere a little in advance, but nothing else 
 that could be counted upon, so that whatever he 
 had to do, and anything he might have to enjoy, 
 presented themselves with double clearness in the 
 limited perspective. It was the only time in his life 
 that he had felt the full meaning of the word " Now." 
 The present was his possession, his day in which he 
 lived and worked, with plenty of space behind to go 
 back upon, but nothing reliable before. This gave 
 not only a vividness and distinct character, but also 
 a promptitude, to his actions, scarcely possible to a 
 younger man. To-day was his, but not to-morrow; 
 whereas to Jack and his contemporaries to-morrow 
 was always the real day, never the moment in which 
 they lived. 
 
 When Mr Brownlow reached his office, the first 
 thing he did was to send for a man who was a 
 character in Masterton. He was known by various 
 names, and it \Vas not very certain which belonged 
 
BROWNLOWS. 99 
 
 to liim, or indeed if any belonged to liim. lie was 
 called Inspector Pollaky by many people who were 
 in the habit of reading the papers ; but of course he 
 was not that distinguished man. He was called 
 detective and thief-taker, and many other injurious 
 epithets, and he was a man whom John Brownlow 
 had had occasion to consult before now on matters 
 of business. Mr Brownlow had a long conversation 
 \vith this personage in his private room. He was 
 the sort of man that understands what people. mean 
 even when they do not speak very plainly, and 
 naturally he took up at once the lawyer's object and 
 pledged himself to pursue it. " You shall have some 
 information on the subject probably this afternoon, 
 sir," he said as he went away. After this visit Mr 
 Brownlow went about his own business with great 
 steadiness and precision, and cast his eyes over his 
 son's work, and was very particular with the clerks 
 — more than ordinarily particular. It was his way, 
 for he was an admirable business man at all times ; 
 but still he was unusually energetic that day. And 
 they were all a little excited about Pollaky, as they 
 called him, what commission he might have re- 
 ceived, and which case he might be wanted about. 
 At the time when he usually had his glass of sherry, 
 Mr Brownlow went out ; he did not want his mid- 
 day biscuit. He was a little out of sorts, and he 
 
100 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 tlionglit a walk would do him good ; but instead of 
 going down to Barnes's Pool or across the river to 
 the Meadows, which had been lately flooded, and 
 now were one sheet of ice, places which all the 
 clerks supposed to be the most attractive spots for 
 twenty miles round, he took the way of the town 
 and w^ent up into Masterton. He was going to pay 
 a visit, and it was a most unusual one. He w^as 
 going to see his wife's mother, old Mrs Fennell, for 
 whom he had no love. It was a thing he did not 
 do for vears to'T^ether, but havino; been somehow in 
 his own mind thoroughly worked up to it, he took 
 the occasion of Jack's absence and went that day. 
 
 Mrs Fennell was sitting in her drawing-room 
 with only her second-best cap on, and with less than 
 her second-best temper. If she had known he was 
 coming she would have received him with a very 
 different state, and she was mortified by her unpre- 
 paredness. Also her dinner was ready. As for Mr 
 Brownlow, he was not thinking of dinners. He had 
 something on his mind, and it was his object to con- 
 ceal that he had anything on his mind — a matter 
 less difficult to a man of his profession than to 
 ordinary mortals. But what he said was that he 
 was anxious chiefly to know if his mother-in-law 
 w^as comfortable, and if she had everything accord- 
 insr to her desires. 
 
BROWNLOWS. 101 
 
 Mrs Fennell smiled at this inquiry. She smiled, 
 but she rushed into a thousand grievances. Her 
 lodgings were not to her mind, nor her position. 
 Sara, the little puss, had carriages when she pleased, 
 but her grandmamma never had any conveyance 
 at her disposal to take the air in. And the people 
 
 of the house were very inattentive, and Xancy 
 
 but here the old woman, who was clever, put a sud- 
 den stop to herself and drew up and said no more. 
 She knew that to complain of Xancy would be of 
 no particular advantage to her, for Mr Brownlow 
 was not fond of old ]\Irs Thomson's maid, and was 
 as likely as not to propose that she should be pen- 
 sioned and sent away. 
 
 " I have told you before," said ^Ir Brownlow, 
 " that the brougham should be sent down for you 
 when you want to go out, if you will only let me 
 know in time. "What Sara has is nothing — or you 
 can have a fly ; but it is not fit weather for you to 
 go out at your age." 
 
 " You are not so very young yourself, John Brown- 
 low," said the old lady, with a little offence, 
 
 " No indeed — far from it — and that is what makes 
 me think," he said abruptly ; and then made a pause 
 which she did not understand, referring evidently to 
 something in his own mind. '' Did you ever know 
 anybody of the name of Powys in the Isle of Man ? " 
 
102 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 he resumed, with a certain nervous haste, and an 
 effort which brought heat and colour to his face. 
 
 "Powysi" said Mrs Fennell. 'Tve heard the 
 name ; but I think it was Liverpool-ways and not 
 in the Isle of Man. It's a Welsh name. No ; I 
 never knew any Powyses. Do you ? " 
 
 " It was only some one I met," said Mr Brownlow, 
 " who had relations in the Isle of Man. Do you 
 know of anybody who married there and left ? 
 Knowing that you came from that quarter, some- 
 body was asking me " 
 
 " I don't know of nobody but one," said the old 
 woman — " one that would make a deal of difference 
 if she were to come back now." 
 
 "You mean the woman Phoebe Thomson?" said 
 Mr Brownlow, sternly. " It is a very strange thing 
 to me that her relatives should know nothing about 
 that woman — not even whom she married or what 
 was her name." 
 
 " She married a soldier," said Mrs Fennell, " as I 
 always heard. She wasn't my relation — it was poor 
 Fennell that was her cousin. As for us, we come of 
 very different folks ; and I don't doubt as her name 
 misht have been found out," said the old woman, 
 nodding her spiteful old head. Mr Brownlow kept 
 his temper, but it was by a kind of miracle. This 
 was the sort of thing which he was always subject to 
 
BROWN LOWS. 103 
 
 ou his rare visits to his mother-in-law. '' It's for 
 some folks' good that her name couldn't be found 
 out," added the old woman, with another significant 
 nod. 
 
 " It would have been for some folks' good if they 
 had never heard of her," said Mr Brownlow. " I 
 wish a hundred times in a year that I had never 
 administered or taken any notice of the old hag's 
 bequest. Then it would have gone to the Crown, 
 I suppose, and all this trouble would have been 
 spared." 
 
 " Other things would have had to be spared as 
 well," said Mrs Fennell, in her taunting voice. 
 
 "I should have known what was my own and 
 what was not, and my children would have been in 
 no false position," said 'Mv Brownlow, with energy ; 
 
 "but now " Here he stopped short, and his looks 
 
 alarmed his companion, unsympathetic as she was. 
 She loved to have this means of taunting and keep- 
 ing down his pride, as she said ; but her grandchil- 
 dren's advantage was to a certain extent her own, 
 and the thought of injury to them was alarming, 
 and turned her thoughts into another channel. She 
 took fright at the idea of Phoebe Thomson when 
 she saw Mr Brownlow's face. It was the first time 
 it had ever occurred to her as possible that he, a 
 gentleman, a lawyer, and a clever man, might pos- 
 
104 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 sibly have after all to give up to Phoebe Thomson 
 should that poor aud despised woman ever appear. 
 
 "But she couldn't take the law of you?" Mrs 
 Fennell said, with a gasp. " She wouldn't know 
 anything about it. I may talk disagreeable by 
 times, and I own that we never were fond of each 
 other, you and I, John Brownlow ; but I'm not the 
 woman that would ever let on to her, to harm my 
 poor Bessie's children — not I — not if she was to 
 come back this very day." 
 
 It is useless to deny that Mr Brownlow's face at 
 that moment looked as if he would have liked to 
 strangle the old woman ; but he only made an 
 indiornant movement, and looked at her with racie 
 and indignation, which did her no harm. And, poor 
 man, in his excitement perhaps it was not quite 
 true what he himself said — 
 
 " If she should come back this very day, it would 
 be your duty to send her to me instantly, that I 
 might give up her mother's trust into her hands," he 
 said. " You may be sure I will never permit poor 
 Bessie's children to enjoy what belougs to another." 
 And then he made a pause and his voice changed. 
 " After aU, I suppose you know just as little of her 
 as I do. Did you ever see her?" he said. 
 
 " AVell, no ; I can't say I ever did," said ^Irs 
 Fennell, cowed for the moment. 
 
BROWNLOWS. 105 
 
 "Nor Nancy?" said Mr Brownlow ; "you two 
 would be safe guides, certainly. And you know of 
 nobody else who left the Isle of Man and married — 
 no relation of Fennell's, or of yours ?" 
 
 " Nobody I know of," said the old woman, peev- 
 ishly, after a pause. " There might be dozens ; but 
 us and the Thomsons and all belonging to us, we've 
 been out of the Isle of Man for nigh upon fifty years." 
 
 After that ]\Ir Brownlow went away. He had got 
 no information, no satisfaction, and yet he had made 
 no discovery, wdiich was a kind of negative comfort 
 in its way; but it'w^as clear that his mother-in-law, 
 though she made so much use of Phcebe Thomson's 
 name, was utterly unable to give him any assistance 
 either in discovering the real Phcebe Thomson or in 
 exposing any false pretender. He went across the 
 market-place over the crisp snow in the sunshine 
 with all his faculties, as it were, crisped and sharp- 
 ened like the air he breathed. This was all the 
 effect as yet wdiich the frpsts of age had upon him. 
 He had all his powers unimpaired, and more entirely 
 serviceable and under command than ever they were. 
 He could trust himself not to betray himself, to keep 
 counsel, and act with deliberation, and do nothing 
 hastily. Thus, though his enemies were as yet un- 
 known and unrecognised, and consequently all the 
 more dangerous, he had confidence in his own army 
 
106 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 of defence, which was a great matter. He returned 
 to his office, and to his business, and was as clear- 
 headed and self-possessed, and capable of paying 
 attention to the affairs of his clients, as if he had 
 nothing particular in his own to occupy him. And 
 the only help he got from circumstances was that 
 which was given him by the frost, which had hap- 
 pily interfered this day of all others to detain Jack. 
 Jack was not his father's favourite child; he was 
 not, as Sara was, the apple of John Brownlow's eye ; 
 and yet the lawyer appreciated, and did justice to, as 
 well as loved, his son, in a just and natural way. 
 He felt that Jack's quick eye would have found out 
 that there was something more than usual going on. 
 He knew that his visit to Mrs Fennell and liis un- 
 explained conference with the man of mystery 
 would not have been passed over by Jack without 
 notice ; and at the young man's hasty, impetuous 
 time of life, prudence was not to be expected or even 
 desired. If Jack thought it possible that Phoebe 
 Thomson was to be found within a hundred miles, 
 no doubt he would rush off without a moment's 
 thought and hunt her up, and put his own fortune, 
 and, what was more, Sara's, eagerly into her hands. 
 This was what Jack would do, and Mr Brownlow 
 was glad in his heart that Jack would be sure to 
 do it ; but yet it would probably be a very different 
 
BROWNLOWS. 107 
 
 course which he himself, after much thought and 
 consideration, might tliink it best to take. 
 
 He was long in his office that night, and worked 
 very hard — indeed he would have been almost alone 
 before he left but that one of the clerks had some 
 extra work to do, and another had stayed to keep him 
 company ; so that two of them were still there when 
 Inspector Pollaky, as they called him, came back. 
 It was quite late, too late for the ice, or the young 
 men would not have waited — half an hour later at 
 least than the usual time at which Mr Brownlow left 
 the office. And he closed his door carefully behind 
 his mysterious visitor, and made sure that it was 
 securely shut before he began to talk to him, wliich 
 naturally was a thing that excited much wondering 
 between the young men. 
 
 " Young Jack been a naughty boy ? " said one to 
 the other; then they listened, but heard nothing. 
 '' More likely some fellow going in for Miss Brown- 
 low, and he wants to pick holes in him," said 
 the second. But when half an hour passed and 
 ever}'thing continued very undisturbed, they betook 
 themselves to their usual talk. " I suppose it's 
 about the Worsley case," they said, and straightway 
 Inspector Pollaky lost interest in their eyes. So 
 long as it was only a client's business it did not 
 matter. Xot for such commonplace concerns would 
 
108 BKOWNLOWS. 
 
 the young heroes of John Brownlow's office interrupt 
 the even tenor of then* way. 
 
 " I suppose you have brought me some news," 
 said Mr Brownlow ; " come near the fire. Take a 
 chair, it is bitterly cold. I scarcely expected you so 
 soon as to-day." 
 
 " Bless you, sir, it's as easy as easy," said the 
 mysterious man — " disgusting easy. If there's any- 
 body that I despise in this world, it's folks that have 
 nothing to conceal. They're all on the surface, 
 them folks are. You can take and read them clear 
 off, through and through." 
 
 " Well ? " said Mr Brownlow. He turned his face 
 a little away from the light that he might not be spied 
 too closely, though there was not in reality any self- 
 betrayal in his face. His lips were a little white and 
 more compressed than usual, that was all. 
 
 " Well, sir, for the first thing, it's all quite true," 
 said the man. " There's four of a family — the mother 
 comely-like still, but older nor might be expected. 
 Poor, awful poor, but making the best of it — keeping 
 their hearts up as far as I could see. The young 
 fellow helping too, and striving his best. I shouldn't 
 say as they had much of a dinner to-day; but as 
 cheerful as cheerful, and as far as I could see " 
 
 " Was this all you discovered ? " said Mr Brownlow, 
 severely. 
 
BROWXLOWS. 109 
 
 " I am coming to the rest, sir," said the detective, 
 " and you'll say as I've forgotten nothing. The father, 
 which is dead, was once in the Life Guards. He was 
 one of them sprigs as is to be met with there — run 
 away out of a good family. He come from London 
 first as far as she knows ; and then they were ordered 
 to Windsor, and then they went to Canada ; but I've 
 got the thread, ^Ir Brownlow — I've got the thread. 
 This poor fellow of a soldier got letters regular for a 
 long time from Wales, she says — post-mark was St 
 Asaphs. Often and often she said as she'd go with 
 him, and see who it was as \^Tote to him so often. 
 I've been thereabouts myself in the way of my busi- 
 ness, and I know there's Powyses as thick as black- 
 berries — that's point number one. Second point was, 
 he always called himself a Welshman, and kept St 
 David's Day. If he'd lived longer he'd have been 
 sent up for promotion, and gone out of the ranks." 
 
 " And then ? — but go on in your own way, I want 
 to hear it all," said Mr Brownlow. He was getting 
 more and more excited ; and yet somehow it was a 
 kind of pleasure to him to feel that his informant 
 was wasting time upon utterly insignificant details. 
 Surely if the detective suspected nothing, it must be 
 tliat there was nothing to suspect. 
 
 " Yes, sir," he said, " tliat's about where it is ; he 
 was one of the Powyses ; naturally the cliildren is 
 
110 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 Powyses too. But lie died afore he went up for 
 promotion ; and now they're come a-seeking of their 
 friends. It ain't no credit to me to be employed on 
 such an easy case. The only thing that would put a 
 little credit in it would be, if you'd give me just a 
 bit of a hint what was wanted. If their friends want 
 'em I'll engage to put 'em on the scent. If their 
 friends don't want 'em — as wouldn't be no wonder ; 
 for folks may have a kindness for a brother or a son 
 as is wild, and yet they mightn't be best pleased to 
 hear of a widow a-coming with four children — if they 
 ain't wanted a word will do it, and no questions asked." 
 
 John Brownlow gave the man a sharp glance, 
 and then he fell a-musing, as if he was considering 
 whether to give him this hint or not. In reality, he 
 was contemplating, with a mixture of impatience and 
 vexation and content, the total misconception of his 
 object which his emissary had taken up. He was 
 exasperated by his stupidity, and yet he felt a kind 
 of gratitude to him, and relief, as if a danger had 
 been escaped. 
 
 " And what of the woman herself? " he said, in a 
 tone which, in spite of him, trembled a little. 
 
 " Oh, the woman," said the detective, carelessly ; 
 " some bit of a girl as he manied, and as was pretty, 
 I don't doubt, in her day. There's nothin' particular 
 about her. She's very fond of her children, and very 
 
BKOWNLOWS. Ill 
 
 free in lier talk, like most women when you take 'era 
 the right way. Bless you, sir, when I started her 
 talking of her husband, it was all that I could do to 
 get her to leave off. She don't think she's got any- 
 thing to hide. He was a gentleman, that's clear. He 
 wouldn't have been near so frank about himself, I'll 
 be bound. She ain't a lady exactly, but there's some- 
 thiug about her — and awful open in her way, with 
 them front teeth " 
 
 "Has she got front teeth?" said Mr Brownlow, 
 with some eagerness. He pitched upon it as the 
 first personal attribute he had yet heard of, and then 
 he added, with a little confusion, " like the boy " 
 
 '' Yes, sir — exactly like the young fellow^," said his 
 companion ; " but there ain't nothing about her to 
 interest us. She told me as she once had friends as 
 lived in ^lasterton ; but she's the sort of woman as 
 don't mind much about friends as long as her children 
 is well off; and I judge she was of well-to-do folks, 
 that was awful put out about her marriage. A man 
 like that, sir, might be far above her, and have friends 
 that was far above her, and yet it ain't the kind of 
 marriage as would satisfy well-to-do folks." 
 
 " I thought she came from the Isle of Man," said 
 Mr Brownlow, in what he meant to be an indifferent 
 tone. 
 
 " As a child, sir — as a child," said the detective, 
 
112 BEOWNLOWS. 
 
 with easy carelessness. " Her friends left there 
 when she was but a child, and then they went 
 where there was a garrison, w^here she met with 
 her good gentleman. She was never in Masterton 
 herself. It was after she was married and gone, 
 and, I rather think, cast off by all belonging to her, 
 that they came to live here." 
 
 Mr Brownlow sat leaning over the fire, and a 
 heavy moisture began to rise on his forehead. The 
 speaker was so careless, and yet these calm details 
 seemed to him so terrible. Could it be that he was 
 making terrors for himself — that the man ex- 
 perienced in mystery was right in being so certain 
 that there was no mystery here — or must he accept 
 the awful circumstantial evidence of these simple 
 particulars ? Could there be more than one family 
 which had left the Isle of ]\Ian so long ago, and 
 gone to live where there was a garrison, and aban- 
 doned its silly daughter when she married her 
 soldier ? Mr Brownlow was stupefied, and did not 
 know what to think. He sat and listened while 
 this man whom he had called to his assistance went 
 over again all the facts which seemed to make it 
 evident that the connection of the family with the 
 Powyses of North "Wales was the one thing either 
 to be brought forward or got rid of. This was how 
 he had understood his instructions, and he had car- 
 
BROWNLOWS. 113 
 
 ried them out so fully that liis employer, fully occu- 
 pied with the incidental information which seemed 
 to prove all he feared, heard his voice run on with- 
 out remarking it, and would have told him to stop 
 the babble to which he was giving vent, had his 
 thoughts been sufficiently at leisure to care for what 
 he was saying. When he fully perceived the mis- 
 take, JMr Brownlow looked upon it as " provi- 
 dential," as people say. He let his detective talk, 
 and then he let him go, but half satisfied, and in- 
 clined to think that no confidence was reposed in 
 him. And though it was so late, and the brougham 
 was at the door, and the servants very tired of their 
 unusual detention, ^Ir Brownlow went back again to 
 the fire, and bent over it, and stretched out his 
 hands to the blaze, and again tried to think. He 
 went over the same ideas a hundred times, and yet 
 they did not seem to grow any clearer to him. He 
 tried to ask himself what was his duty, but duty 
 slunk away, as it were, to the very recesses of his 
 soul, and gave no impulse to his mind, nor so much 
 as showed itself in the darkness. If this should 
 turn out to be true, no doubt there were certain 
 things which he ought to do ; and yet, if all this 
 could but be banished for a while, and the year got 
 
 over which would bring safety Mr Brownlow 
 
 had never in all his life before done what he knew 
 VOL. L H 
 
114 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 to be a dishonourable action. He was not openly 
 contemplating such a thing now ; only somehow 
 his possessions seemed so much more his than 
 anybody else's ; it seemed as if he had so much 
 better right to the good things he had been enjoy- 
 ing for four-and-twenty years than any woman 
 coidd have who had never possessed them — who 
 knew nothing about them. And then he did not 
 know that it was this woman. He said to himself 
 that he had really no reason to think so. The 
 young man had said nothing about old Mrs Thom- 
 son. The detective had never even suspected any 
 mystery in that quarter, though he was a man of 
 mystery, and it was his business to suspect every- 
 thing. This was what he was thinking when he 
 went back to the fire in his office, and stretched his 
 hands over the blaze. Emotion of any kind some- 
 how chills the physical frame ; but when one of 
 the detained clerks came to inform him of the 
 patient brougham which waited outside, and which 
 Sara, by reason of the cold, had sent for him, it was 
 the opinion of the young man that Mr Brownlow 
 was beginning to age rapidly, and that he looked 
 quite old that evening. But he did not look old ; 
 he looked, if any one had been there with eyes to see 
 it, like a man for the first time in his life driven to 
 bay. Some men come to that moment in their lives 
 
BROWXLOWS. 1 15 
 
 sooner, some later, some never at all. John Brown- 
 low had been more than five-and-fifty years in the 
 world, and yet he had never been driven to bay be- 
 fore. And he was so now ; and except to stand out 
 and resist, and keep his face to his enemies, he did 
 not, in the suddenness of the occurrence, see as yet 
 what he w^as to do'. 
 
 In the mean time, however, he had to stoop to 
 ordinary necessities and get into his carriage and be 
 driven home, through the white gleaming country 
 which shone under the moonlight, carrying with 
 him a curious perception of how different it would 
 have been had the house in the High Street been 
 home — had he had nothing more to do than to go 
 up to the old drawdng-room, his mother's drawing- 
 room, and find Sara there, and eat his dinner w^here 
 his father had eaten his, instead of this long drive to 
 the great country-house, which w^as so much more 
 costly and magnificent than anything his forefathers 
 knew ; but then his father, wdiat would he have 
 thought of this complication ? What would he have 
 advised, had it been any client of his ; nay, what, if 
 it was a client, w^ould Mr Brownlow himself advise ? 
 These thoughts kept turning over in his mind half 
 against his will as he lay back in the corner of the 
 carriage and saw^ the ghostly trees glimmer past in 
 their coating of snow. He was very late, and Sara 
 
116 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 was anxious about him ; nay, even Jack was anxious, 
 and had come down to the park-gates to look out for 
 the carriage, and also to ask how the little invalid 
 was at Mrs Swayne's. Jack, having this curiosity 
 in his mind, did not pay much attention to his 
 father's looks ; but Sara, w^ith a girl's quick percep- 
 tion, saw there was something unusual in his face ; 
 and with her usual rapidity she leaped to the con- 
 clusion that the bank must have broken or the rail- 
 way gone wrong, of which she had dreamt in the 
 morning. Thus, they all met at table with a great 
 deal on their minds ; and this day, which I have 
 recorded with painstaking minuteness, in order that 
 there may be no future doubt as to its importance in 
 the history, came to an end with outward placidity 
 but much internal perturbation — at least came to an 
 end as much as any day can be said to come to an 
 end whicli rises upon an unsuspecting family big 
 with undeveloped fate. 
 
CHAPTEK VIII. 
 
 YOUNG POWYS. 
 
 Mr Browxlow took his new clerk into his employ- 
 ment next morning. It is true that this was done 
 to fill lip a legitimate vacancy, but yet it took every- 
 hody in the office a little by surprise. The junior 
 clerk had generally been a very junior, taken in 
 rather by way of training than for any positive use. 
 The last one, indeed, whom this new-comer replaced, 
 was an overgrown boy in jackets, very different, 
 indeed, from the tall, well-developed Canadian whose 
 appearance filled all Mr Brownlow's clerks witli 
 amazement. All sorts of conjectures about him 
 filled the minds of these young gentlemen. They 
 all spied some unknown motive underneath, and 
 their guesses at it were ludicrously far from the 
 real case. The conveyancing clerk suggested that 
 the young fellow was somebody's son " that old 
 Brownlow has ruined, you know, in tlie way of 
 
118 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 business." Other suppositions fixed on the fact that 
 he was the son of a widow by whom, perhaps, the 
 governor might have been bewitched, an idea which 
 was speedily adopted as the favourite and most pro- 
 bable explanation, and caused unbounded amuse- 
 ment in the office. They made so merry over it 
 that once or twice awkward consequences had nearly 
 ensued ; for the new clerk had quick ears, and was 
 b}^ no means destitute of intelligence, and decidedly 
 more than a match, physically, for the most of his 
 fellows. As for the real circumstances of his en- 
 gagement, they were on this wise. 
 
 At the hour which Mr Brownlow had appointed 
 to see iiim again, young Powys presented himself 
 punctually in the outer office, where he was made to 
 wait a little, and heard some '•' chaffing " about the 
 governor's singular proceedings on the previous day 
 and his interviews with Inspector PoUaky, which 
 probably conveyed a certain amount of information 
 to the young man. When he was ushered into Mr 
 Brownlow's room, there was, notwithstanding his 
 frank and open countenance, a certain cloud on his 
 brow. He stood stiffly before his future employer, 
 and heard with only a half-satisfied look that the 
 lawyer, having made inquiries, was disposed to take 
 advantage of his services. To this the young back- 
 woodsman assented in a stilted way, very different 
 
BROWNLOWS. 119 
 
 from his previous frankness ; and ^vhen all was con- 
 cluded, he still stood doubtful, with the look upon 
 his face of having something to say. 
 
 " I don't know what more there is to settle, except 
 the time when you enter upon your duties," said 
 Mr Brownlow, a little surprised. "You need not 
 begin to-day. Mr Wrinkell, the head-clerk, will 
 give you all the necessary information about hours, 
 
 and show you all you will have to do Is there 
 
 anything more you would like to say ? " 
 
 " Why, yes, sir," said the youth abruptly, with a 
 mixture of irritation and compunction. " Perhaps 
 
 what I say may look very ungrateful ; but why 
 
 did you send a policeman to my mother ? That is 
 not the way to inquire about a man if you mean to 
 trust him. I don't say you have any call to trust 
 me " 
 
 " A policeman ! " said Mr Brownlow, in conster- 
 nation. 
 
 " Well, sir, the fellows there," cried the energetic 
 young savage, pointing behind him, " call liim In- 
 spector. I don't mean to say you were to take me 
 on my own word ; any inquiries you liked to make 
 we were ready to answer ; but a policeman — and to 
 my mother ! " 
 
 Mr Brownlow laughed, but yet this explosion gave 
 him a certain uneasiness. " Compose yourself," he 
 
120 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 said, " the man is not a policeman, but he is a con- 
 fidential agent, whom wlien I can't examine for my- 
 self but I hope he did not say or ask anything 
 
 that annoyed Mrs — your mother?" Mr Brownlow 
 added, hurriedly; and if the jocular youths in the 
 office had seen something like a shade of additional 
 colour rise on his elderly cheek, their amusement and 
 their suspicions would have been equally confirmed. 
 
 "Well, no," said young Powys, the compunction 
 gaining ground ; " I beg your pardon, sir ; you are 
 very kind. I am sure you must think me ungrateful 
 —but " 
 
 "Nonsense!" said Mr Brownlow; "it is quite 
 right you should stand up for your mother. The 
 man is not a policeman, — and I never — intended him 
 — to trouble — your mother," he added, with hesita- 
 tion. " He went to make inquiries, and these sort 
 of people take their own way. He did not annoy 
 her, I hope?" 
 
 "Oh, no !" said the youth, recovering his temper 
 altogether. " She took it up as being some inquiry 
 about my father, and she was a little excited, think- 
 ing perhaps that his friends — but never mind. I 
 told her it was best we should depend only on our- 
 selves, and I am sure I am right. Thank you; I 
 shall have good news to tell her to-day." 
 
 " Stop a little," said Mr Brownlow, feeling a 
 
BROWNLOWS. 121 
 
 reaction upon himself of the compunction which had 
 passed over his young companion. " She thought it 
 was something about your father ? Is there any- 
 thing mysterious, then, about your father ? I told 
 you there was a Lady Powys who had lived here." 
 
 " I don't think there is anything mysterious about 
 him," said the young man. " I scarcely remember 
 him, though I am the eldest. He died quite young 
 — and my poor mother has always thought that his 
 
 friends But I never encouraged her in that 
 
 idea, for my part." 
 
 "That his friends could do something for you?" 
 said Mr Brownlow. 
 
 "Yes, that is what she thought. I don't think 
 myself there is any foundation for it ; and seeing 
 they have never found us out all these years — five- 
 and-twenty years " 
 
 " Five-and-tw^enty years 1" ^Ir Brownlow repeated, 
 with a start — not that the coincidence was anything, 
 but only that the mere sound of the words startled 
 him, excited as he was. 
 
 " Yes, I am as old as that," said young Powys, with 
 a smile, and then he recollected himself " I beg 
 your pardon, sir ; I am taking up your time, and I 
 hope you don't think I am ungrateful. Getting this 
 situation so soon is everything in the world to us." 
 
 " I am glad to hear it," said Mr Brownlow ; and 
 
122 BROWXLOWS. 
 
 yet lie could not but ask himself whether his young 
 visitor laid an emphasis upon this situation. Wliat 
 was this situation more than another? "But the 
 salary is not very large, you know — do you mean to 
 take your mother and her family on your shoulders 
 with sixty pounds a-year ? " 
 
 "It is my family," said the young man, growing 
 red. " I have no interest separate from theirs." 
 Then he paused for a moment, feeling affronted ; but 
 he could not bear malice. Next minute he relapsed 
 into the frank and confidential tone that was natural 
 to him. " There are only five of us after all," he 
 said — "five altogether, and the little sisters don't 
 cost much ; and we have a little money — I think 
 we shall do very well." 
 
 " I hope so," said Mr Brownlow ; and somehow, 
 notwithstanding that he intended in his heart to do 
 this young fellow a deadly injury, a certain affection- 
 ate interest in the lad sprang up within him. He 
 was so honest and open, and had such an innocent 
 confidence in the interest of others. None of his 
 ordinary clerks were thus garrulous to ]\Ir Brownlow. 
 It never would have occurred to them to confide in 
 the " guv'nor." He knew them as they came and 
 w^ent, and had a certain knowled^i^e of their belong:- 
 ings — which it was that would have old Eobinson's 
 money, and which that had given his father so much 
 
BROWNLOWS. . 123 
 
 uneasiness ; but that was very different from a young 
 fellow that would look into your face and make a 
 confidant of you as to liis way of spending his sixty 
 pounds a-year. John Brownlow had possessed a 
 heart ever since he was aware of his own individual- 
 ity; and influenced by this organ, which had no 
 particular business in the breast of a man of his 
 profession at his years, he looked with eyes that were 
 almost tender upon the young man whom he had 
 just taken into his employment — notwithstanding 
 that, to tell the truth, he meant badly by him, and 
 in one particular at least was far from intending to 
 be his friend. 
 
 " I hope so," he said ; " and if you are steady and 
 suit us, there may be means found of increasing a 
 little. I don't pledge myself to anything, you know ; 
 but we shall see how you get on ; and if you have 
 any papers or anything that may give a clue to your 
 father's family," he continued, as he took up his pen, 
 " bring them to me some day and I'll look over them. 
 Tliat's all in the way of business to us. AVe might 
 satisfy your mother after all, and perhaps be of some 
 use to you." 
 
 This he said with an almost paternal smile, dis- 
 missing his new clerk, who went away in an enthu- 
 siasm of gratitude and satisfaction. It is so pleasant 
 to be kindly used, especially to young people who 
 
124 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 know no better. It throws a glow of comfort through 
 the internal consciousness. It is so very, very good 
 of your patron, and, in a smaller way, it is good of 
 you too, who are patronised. You are understood, 
 you are appreciated, you are liked. This was the 
 feeling young Powys had. To think that Mr Brown- 
 low would have been as good to any one else would 
 not have been half so satisfactory ; and he went off 
 with ringing hasty steps, which in themselves were 
 beating a measure of exhilaration, to tell his mother, 
 who, though ready on the spot to worship Mr Brown- 
 low, would naturally set this wonderful success down 
 to the score of her boy's excellences. As for the 
 lawyer himself, he took his pen in his hand and 
 wrote a few words of the letter which lay unfinished 
 before him while the young man was going out, as if 
 anxious to make up for the time lost in this inter- 
 view; but as soon as the door was closed, John 
 Brownlow laid down his pen and leaned back in his 
 chair. What was it he had done ? — taken in a viper 
 to his bosom that would sting him? or received a 
 generous, open, confiding youth, in order to blind 
 and hoodwink and rob him ? These were strong — 
 nay, rude and harsh words, and he did not say them 
 even to himself ; but a kind of shadow of them rolled 
 through his mind, and gave him a momentary panic. 
 AVas this what he was about to do ? With a pretence 
 
BROWNLOWS. 125 
 
 of kindness, even generosity, to take this open-liearted 
 young fellow into his employment, in order to keep 
 him in the dark, and prevent him from finding out 
 that the fortune was his upon which Brownlows and 
 all its jTjrandeur was founded? Was this what he 
 was doimr ? It seemed to John Brownlow for the 
 moment as if the air of his room was suffocating, or 
 rather as if there was no air at all to breathe, and he 
 plucked at his cravat in the horror of the sensation. 
 But then he came to himself. Perhaps, on the other 
 hand, just as likely, he was taking into his house a 
 secret enemy, who, once posted there, would search 
 and find out everything. Quite likely, very likely ; 
 for what did he mean by the emphasis with which 
 he said this situation, and all that about his father, 
 which was throwing dust into Mr Brownlow's cautious 
 eyes ? Perhaps his mind was a little biassed by his 
 profession — perhaps he was moved by something of 
 the curious legal uncertainty which teaches a man to 
 plead " never indebted " in the same breath with 
 " already paid;" for amid the hurry and tumult of 
 these thoughts came another which was of a more 
 comforting tendency. After all, he had no evidence 
 that the boy was that woman's son. No evidence 
 whatever — not a shadow. And it was not his duty 
 to go out and hunt for her or her son over all the 
 world. Nobody could expect it of him. He had 
 
126 BROWXLOWS. 
 
 done it once, but to do it over again would be simply 
 absurd. Let them come and make their claim. 
 
 Thus the matter was decided, and there could be 
 no doubt that it was with a thrill of very strange and 
 mingled interest that Mr Brownlow watched young 
 Powy^s enter ujoon his duties. He had thought this 
 would be a trouble to him — a constant shadow upon 
 him — a kind of silent threat of misery to come ; but 
 the fact was that it did not turn out so. The young 
 fellow was so frank and honest, so far at least as 
 physiognomy went — his very step was so cheerful 
 and active, and rang so lightly on the stones — he 
 was so ready to do anything, so quick and cordial 
 and workmanlike about his work — came in with 
 such a bright face, spoke with such a pleasant 
 respectful confidence, as knowing that some special 
 link existed between his employer and himself ; Mr 
 Brownlow grew absolutely attached to the new clerk, 
 for whom he had so little use, to whom he was so 
 kind and fatherly, and against whom — good heavens ! 
 was it possible? — he was harbouring such dark 
 designs. 
 
 As for young Jack, when he came back to the 
 office after a few days on the ice, there being nothing 
 very important in the way of business going on just 
 then, the sight of this new figure took him very 
 much by surprise. He was not very friendly with 
 
BKOWNLOWS. 127 
 
 liis father's clerks on the whole — perhaps because 
 tliey were too near himself to be looked upon with 
 charitable eyes ; too near, and yet as far off, he 
 thought to himself, as if he had been a duke. Xot 
 that Jack had those attributes which distimruished 
 the great family of snobs. When he was among 
 educated men he was as unassuming as it is in the 
 nature of a young man to be, and never dreamed 
 of asking what their pedigree was, or what their 
 balance at their bankers'. But the clerks were 
 different — they were natural enemies — fellows that 
 might set themselves up for being as good as he, and 
 yet were not as good ^s he, however you chose to 
 look at the question. In short, they were cads. 
 This was the all-expressive word in which Jack 
 developed his sentiments. Any addition to the cads 
 was irksome to him ; and then he, the young prince, 
 knew nothing about it, which was more irksome still. 
 
 "Who is that tall fellow?" he said to Mr Wr ink- 
 ell, who was his father's vizier. "What is he doing 
 here ? You don't mean to say he's en ijermanencc ? 
 Who is he, and what is he doing there ?" 
 
 "That's MrPowys, Mr John," said Mr Wrinkell, 
 calmly, and with a complacent little nod. The 
 vizier rather liked to snub the heir-apparent when he 
 could, and somehow the Canadian had crept into his 
 good graces too. 
 
128 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 "By Jove! and who the deuce is MrPowys?" 
 said Jack, with unbecoming impatience, ahnost loud 
 enough to reach the stranger's ear. 
 
 " Hush," said Mr Wrinkell, " he has come in 
 young Jones's place, who left at Michaelmas, you 
 know. I should say he was a decided acquisition ; 
 steady, very steady — punctual in the morning — 
 clever at his work — always up to his hours " 
 
 " Oh, I see, a piece of perfection," said Jack, with, 
 it must be confessed, a slight sneer. " But I don't 
 see that he was wanted. Brown was quite able for 
 all the work. I should like to know where you 
 picked that fellow up. It's very odd that something 
 always happens when I am absent for a single day." 
 
 " The frost has lasted for ten days," said Mr 
 Wrinkell, with serious but mild reproof — " not that 
 I think there is anything in that. We are only 
 young once in this life; and there is nothing par- 
 ticular doing. I am very glad you took advantage 
 of it, Mr John." 
 
 Now, it was one of Jack's weak points that he 
 hated being called Mr John, and could not bear to 
 be approved of — two peculiarities of which Mr 
 Wrinkell was very thoroughly aware. But the vizier 
 had many privileges. He was serious and substan- 
 tial, and not a man who could be called a cad, as 
 Jack called his own contemporaries in the office. 
 
BROWNLOWS. I2d 
 
 Howsoever tiresome or acrj^ravatin^ he might be, he 
 liaci to be borne with ; and he knew his advantages, 
 and was not always generous in the use he made 
 of them. When the young man went off into his 
 own little private room, Mr Wrinkell was tempted 
 to give a little inward chuckle. He was a Dissenter, 
 and he rather liked to put the young autocrat down. 
 " He has too much of his own way — too much of his 
 own way," he said to himself, and went against Jack 
 on principle, and for his good, w^hich is a kind of 
 conduct not always appreciated by those for whose 
 good it is kept up. 
 
 And from that moment a kind of opposition, not 
 to say enmity, crept up between Jack and the new 
 clerk — a sort of feeling that they were rather too 
 like each other, and were not practicable in the same 
 hemisphere. Jack tried, but found it did not answer, 
 to call the new-comer a cad. He did not, like the 
 others, follow Jack's own ways at a woeful distance, 
 and copy those things for which Jack rather despised 
 himself, as all cads have a way of doing ; but had 
 liis own way, and was himself, Powys, not the least 
 like the Browns and Eobinsons. The very first even- 
 ing, as they were driving home together. Jack having 
 spent the day in a close examination of the new- 
 comer, thought it as well to let his father know his 
 opinion on the subject, which he did as they flew 
 
 VOL. I. I 
 
13(5 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 along in their dogcart, with the wicked mare which 
 Jack could scarcely hold in, and the sharp wind 
 whizzing past their ears, that were icy cold with speed. 
 
 " I see you have got a new fellow in the office," 
 said Jack. " I hope it's not my idleness that made 
 it necessary. I should have gone back on Monday ; 
 but I thought you said " 
 
 " I am glad you didn't come," said Mr Brownlow, 
 quietly. " I should have told you had there been 
 any occasion. !N'o, it was not for that. You know 
 he came in young Jones's place." 
 
 " He's not very much like young Jones," said 
 Jack — '' as old as I am, I should think. How she 
 pulls, to be sure ! One would think, to see her go, 
 she hadn't been out for a week." 
 
 " Older than you are," said Mr Brownlow — " five- 
 and-twenty;" and he gave an unconscious sigh — 
 for it was dark, and the wind was sharp, and the 
 mare very fresh ; and under such circumstances a 
 man may relieve his mind, at least to the extent of 
 a sigh, without being obliged to render a reason. So, 
 at least, Mr Brownlow thought. 
 
 But Jack heard it, somehow, notwithstanding the 
 ring of the mare's lioofs and the rush of the wind, 
 and was confounded — as much confounded as he 
 durst venture on being with such a slippery animal 
 to deal with. 
 
BROWNLOWS. 131 
 
 " Beg your pardon, sir/' said the groom, " keep lier 
 steady, sir; this here is the gate she's always a- shy- 
 ing at." 
 
 " Oh, confound her ! " said Jack — or perhaps it 
 was " confound you " — which woukl have been more 
 natural ; but the little waltz performed by Mrs Bess 
 at that moment, and the sharp crack of the whip, 
 and the wind that whistled through all, made his 
 adjuration less distinct than it might have been. 
 When, however, the dangerous gate was past, and 
 they were going on again with great speed and 
 moderate steadiness, he resumed — 
 
 " I thought you did not mean to have another in 
 young Jones's place. I should have said Brown 
 could do all the work. AVhen these fellows have 
 too little to do they get into all sorts of mischief" 
 
 " Most fellows do," said Mr Brownlow, calmly. 
 " I may as well tell you, Jack, that I wanted young 
 Powys — I know his people; that is to say," he added 
 hastily, " I don't know his people ; but still I've 
 heard something about them — in a kind of a way; 
 and it's my special desire to liave him there." 
 
 " T said nothin!:^ aj^ainst it, sir," said Jack, dis- 
 X)leased. "You are the head, to do whatever you 
 like. I only asked, you know." 
 
 " Yes, I know you only asked," said Mr Brownlow, 
 with quiet decision. " Tliat is my business ; but I'd 
 
132 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 rather you were civil to him, if it is the same to 
 you." 
 
 " By Jove, I believe she'll break our necks some 
 day," said Jack, in his irritation, though the mare 
 was doing nothing particular. " Going as quiet as 
 a lamb," the groom said afterwards in amazement, 
 " when he let out at her enough to make a saint 
 contrairy." And "contrairy" she was up to the very 
 door of the house, which perhaps, under the circum- 
 stances, was just as well. 
 
CHAPTER IX. 
 
 NEW NEIGHBOUES. 
 
 Peobaf.ly one of the reasons why Jack was out 
 of temper at this particular moment was that Mrs 
 Swayne had been impertinent to him. Xot that he 
 cared in the least for Mrs Swayne ; but naturally he 
 took a little interest in the — child, — he supposed she 
 was only a child, — a little light thing that felt like a 
 feather when he carried her in out of the snow. He 
 had carried her in, and he ''took an interest" in her; 
 and why he should be met with impertinence when 
 he asked how the little creature was, was more than 
 Jack could understand. The very morning of the 
 day on which he saw young Powys first, he had 
 been answered by Mrs Swayne standing in front of 
 her door, and pulling it close behind her, as if she 
 was afraid of thieves. " She's a-going on as nicely 
 as could be, and there ain't no cause for anxiety, 
 
134 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 sir/' ^Ii's Swayne said, which was not a very imper- 
 tinent speech after all. 
 
 " Oh, I did not suppose there was," said Jack. 
 " It was only a sprain, I su^Dpose ; but she looked 
 such a delicate little thing. That old woman with 
 her was her mother, eh? What did she mean travel- 
 ling with a fragile little creature like that in the 
 carrier's cart ? " 
 
 " I don't know about no old woman," said Mrs 
 Swayne ; " the good lady as has my front parlour is 
 the only female as is here, and they've come for 
 quiet, Mr John, not meaning no offence ; and when 
 you're a bit nervish, as I knows myself by experience, 
 it goes to your heart every time as there comes a 
 knock at the door." 
 
 " You can't have many knocks at the door here," 
 said Jack ; " as for me, I only wanted to know how 
 the little thing was." 
 
 "Miss is a -doing nicely, sir," Mrs Swayne 
 answered, with solemnity; and this was what Jack 
 considered a very impertinent reception of his kind 
 inquiries. He was amused by it, and yet it put him 
 a little out of temper too. " As if I could possibly 
 mean the child any harm," he said to himself, with a 
 laugh ; rather, indeed, insisting on the point that she 
 was a child in all his thoughts on the subject ; and 
 then as has been seen, the sudden introduction of 
 
BROWNLOWS. 135 
 
 young Po\vys and ^Ir Brownlow's calm adoption of 
 the sentiment that it was his business to decide who 
 was to be in the ofiice, came a little hard upon Jack, 
 who, after all, notwithstanding his philosophical in- 
 difierence as to his sister's heiress-ship, liked to be 
 consulted about matters of business, and did not 
 approve of being put back into a secondary place. 
 
 Thus it was with a sense of having done her duty 
 by her new lodgers, that ]Mvs Swayne paid her 
 periodical \dsit in the afternoon to the inmates of 
 tlie parlour, w^here the object of Jack Brownlow's 
 inquiries lay very much covered up on the little 
 liorsehair sofa. She was still suffering from her 
 sprain, and was lying asleep on the narrow and 
 uneasy couch, wrapped in all the shawls her mother 
 possessed, and with her own pretty red cloak thrown 
 over the heap. It was rather a grim little apart- 
 ment, with dark-green painted walls, and coarse 
 white curtains drawn over the single window. But 
 the inmates probably were used to no better, and 
 certainly were quite content with their quarters. 
 The girl lay asleep with a flush upon her cheeks, which 
 tlie long eyelashes seemed to overshadow, and her 
 soft rings of dark hair pushed back in pretty dis- 
 order off her soft, full, childlike forehead. She was 
 sleeping that grateful sleep of convalescence, in 
 which life itself seems to come back — a sleep deep 
 
136 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 and sound and dreamless, and quite undisturbed by 
 the little murmur of voices which went on over the 
 fire. Her mother was a tall meagre woman, older 
 than the mother of such a girl ought to have been. 
 Save that subtle, indefinable resemblance which is 
 called family likeness, the two did not resemble each 
 other. The elder woman now sitting in the horse- 
 hair easy-chair over the fire, was very tall, with long 
 features, and grey cheeks which had never known 
 any roses. She had keen black passionate eyes, 
 looking as young and full of life as if she had been 
 sixteen instead of nearly sixty; and her hair was 
 still as black as it had been in her youth. But 
 somehow the dead darkness of the hair made the 
 grey face underneath look older than if it had been 
 softened by the silvery tones of white that belong to 
 the aged. She was dressed as poor women, who 
 have ceased to care about their appearance, and 
 have no natural instinct that way, so often dress, in 
 everything most suited to increase her personal de- 
 ficiencies. She had a little black lace cap over her 
 black hair, and a black gown with a rim of greyish 
 white round the neck, badly made, and which took 
 away any shape that might ever have been in her 
 tall figure. Her hands were hard, and red, and thin, 
 with no sort of softening between them and the 
 harsh black sleeve which chapsed her wrists. She 
 
BROWN LOAVS. 137 
 
 was not a lady, that was evident; and yet you would 
 not have said she was a common woman after you 
 had looked into her eyes. 
 
 It was very cold, though the thaw had set in, and 
 the snow was gone — raw and damp with a pene- 
 trating cliill, which is as bad as frost, — or worse, 
 some people think. And the new-comer sat over 
 the fire, leaning forward in the high-backed horse- 
 hair chair, and spreading out her hands to the 
 warmth. She had given ^Mrs Swayne a general 
 invitation to come in for a chat in the afternoon, not 
 knowing as yet how serious a business that was; 
 and was now making the best of it, interposing a 
 few words now and then, and yet not altogether 
 without comfort in the companionship, the very 
 hum of human speech having something consolatory 
 in it. 
 
 " If it's been a fever, that's a thing as wiU mend," 
 said Mrs Swayne, " and well over too ; and a thing 
 as you don't have more nor once. AVhen it's here, 
 
 and there's decline in the family " she added, 
 
 putting her hand significantly to her breast. 
 
 " There's no decline in my family," said the lodger, 
 quickly. " It was downright sickness always. Ko, 
 she's quite strong in her chest. I've always said it 
 was a great blessing that they were all strong in 
 their chests." 
 
138 BROWXLOWS. 
 
 " And yet you have but this one left/' said Mrs 
 Swayne. " Dear, dear 1 — when it's decline, it comes 
 kind of natural, and you get used to it like. An 
 aunt o' mine had nine, all took one after the other, 
 and she got that used to it, she'd tell you how it 
 would be as soon as e'er a one o' them began to 
 droop ; but when it's them sort of masterful sick- 
 nesses as you can't do nothing for Deary me ! 
 
 all strong in their chests, and you to have had so 
 many and but this one left." 
 
 "Ay," said the mother, wringing her thin hands 
 ^\iih a momentary yet habitual action, " it's hard 
 when you've reared them so far ; but you said it was 
 good air here ? " 
 
 "Beautiful air, that's what it is," said Mrs 
 Swayne, enthusiastically ; " and when she gets a bit 
 stronger, and the weather gets milder, and he mends 
 of his rheumatics, Swayne shall drive her out in his 
 spring-cart. It's a fine way of seeing the country — 
 a deal finer, / think, than the gentry in their car- 
 riages with a coachman on his box perched up afore 
 them. I ain't one as holds by much doctoring. 
 Doctors and parsons, they're all alike ; and I don't 
 care if I never saw one o' them more." 
 
 "Isn't there a nice clergyman?" said the lodger — 
 " it's a nice church, for we saw it, passing in the 
 cart, and the child took a fancy to it. In the coun- 
 
BKOAVXLOWS. 139 
 
 tiy like tins, it's nice to have a nice clergyman-^ 
 that's to say, if you're Church folks." 
 
 " There was nothing but Church folks heard tell 
 of where I came from," said Mrs Swayne, with a 
 little heat. " Them as says I wasn't born and bred 
 and confirmed in the Church don't know what 
 they're talking of; but since we come here, you 
 know, along of Swayne being a Dissenter, and the 
 Eector a man as has no sympathy, I've give up. It's 
 the same wdth the doctors. There ain't one as I 
 haven't tried, exceptin' the homepathetic ; and I was 
 turning it over in my mind as soon as Swayne had 
 another bad turn to send for him." 
 
 " I hope we shan't want any more doctors," said 
 the mother, once more softly WTinging her hands. 
 " But for Pamela's sake ' 
 
 "Is that her name?" said Mrs Swayne; "I never 
 knew no one of that name afore ; but folks is all for 
 new-fashioned names nowadays. The Pollys and 
 the Betsys as used to be in my young days, I never 
 hoar tell of them now ; but the girls ain't no nicer 
 nor no better behaved as I can see. It's along o' 
 the story-books and things. There's Miss Sairah as 
 is always a-lending books " 
 
 " Is Miss Sairah the young lady in the great 
 house?" asked the stranger, looking up. 
 
 Mrs Swayne assented with a little reluctance. 
 
140 BROWXLOWS. 
 
 " Oil ! yes, sure enough ; but tliey ain't the real old 
 Squires. Xot as the old Squires was much to brag 
 of; they was awful poor, and there never was no- 
 thing to be made out of them, neither by honest 
 trades-folks nor cottagers, nor nobody; but him as 
 has it now is nothing but a lawyer out of Masterton. 
 He's made it all, I shouldn't wonder, by cheating poor 
 folks out of their own ; but there he is as grand as a 
 prince, and Miss Sairah dressed up like a little pea- 
 cock, and her carriage and her riding-horse, and her 
 school, as if she was real old gentry. It was Mr 
 John as carried your girl indoors that time when she 
 fell ; and a rare troublesome one he can be when he 
 gets it in his head, a-calling at my house, and 
 knocking at the knocker when, for anything he 
 could tell, Swayne might ha' been in one of his bad 
 turns, or your little maid a-snatching a bit of sleep." 
 
 "But why does he come?" said the lodger, once 
 more looking up ; " is it to ask after Mr Swayne ?" 
 
 Mr Swayne's spouse gave a gxeat many shakes 
 of her head over this question. " To tell you the 
 truth," she said, " there's a deal of folks thinks if 
 Swayne hadn't a good wife behind him as kept all 
 straidit, his bad turns would come very different. 
 That's all as a woman gets for slaving and toiling 
 and understanding the business as well as e'er a 
 man. Xo ; it was not for my husband. I haven't 
 
BROWXLOWS. 141 
 
 got nothing to say against ^Ir Jolm. He's not one 
 of the sort as leads poor girls astray and breaks their 
 hearts ; but 1 wouldn't liave him about here, not too 
 often, if I was you. He was a-asking after your 
 girl." 
 
 "Pamela?" said the mother, witli surprise and 
 almost amusement in her tone, and she looked back 
 to the sofa where her daughter was lying with a 
 flush too pink and roselike for health upon her 
 cheek. " Poor little thing ; it is too early for that 
 — she is only a child." 
 
 "I don't put no faith in them being only chil- 
 dren," said Mrs Swayne. "It comes terrible soon, 
 does that sort of thing; and a gentleman has nice 
 ways with him. AVhen she's once had one of that 
 sort a-runniug after her, a girl don't take to an 
 honest man as talks plain and straightfor^-ard. 
 That's my opinion ; and, thank Providence, I've been 
 in the way of temptation myself, and I know what 
 it all means." 
 
 ]\Irs Swayne's lodger did not seem at all delighted 
 by these commentaries. A little flush of pride or ' 
 pain came over her colourless cheek ; and she kept 
 glancing back at the sofa on which her daughter lay. 
 "My Pamela is a little lady, if ever there was a 
 lady," she said, in a nervous undertone ; but it was 
 evidently a question she did not mean to discuss 
 
Ji42 BEOWXLOWS. 
 
 Avitli lier landlady ; and thus tlie conversation came 
 to a pause. 
 
 Mrs Swa}'ne, however, was not easily subdued ; 
 and curiosity urged her even beyond her wont. " I 
 think you said as you had friends here?" she said, 
 making a new start. 
 
 " No, no friends. AVe're alone in the world, she 
 and I," said the woman, hastily. " We've been long 
 away, and everybody is dead that ever belonged to 
 us. She hasn't a soul but me, poor dear, and I'm 
 old. It's dreadful to be old and have a young child. 
 If I was to die but we're not badly off," she con- 
 tinued, with a faint smile, in answer to an alarmed 
 glance all round the room from Mrs Swayne, '' and 
 I'm saving up every penny for her. If I could only 
 see her as well and rosy as she used to be !" 
 
 "That will come in time," said the landlady. 
 " Don't you be afeard. It's beautiful air ; and what 
 with fresh milk and new-laid eggs, she'll come round 
 as fast as the grass grows. You'll see she will — they 
 always does here. Miss Sairah herself was as iDuny 
 a bit of a child as ever you set eyes on, and she's a 
 line tall lass with a colour like a rose — I will say 
 that for her — now." 
 
 " And I think you said she was about my child's 
 age," said the mother, with a certain wistful glance 
 out of the window. " Perhaps she and my Pamela 
 
BROWXLOWS. 143 
 
 But of course a young lady like that has plenty of 
 friends. Pamela will never be tall — she's done grow- 
 ing. She takes after her fatlier's side, you see," the 
 poor woman added, with a sigh, looking round once 
 more to tlie sofa where her child lay. 
 
 " And it ain't long, perhaps, since you lost your 
 good gentleman?" said Mrs Swayne, curiosity giving 
 a certain brevity to her speech. 
 
 "He was in the army," said the lodger, passing by 
 the direct question, " and it's a wandering sort of life. 
 Xow I've come back, all are fjone that ever belon^^ed 
 to me, or so much as knew me. It feels dreary like. 
 I don't mind for myself, if I could but find some kind 
 friends for my child." 
 
 " Don't you fret," said Mrs Swayne, rising. " She'll 
 find friends, no fear; and it's ridiklus to hear you 
 talk like an old woman, and not a grey hair on your 
 
 head But I hear Swayne a-grumbling, ^Irs 
 
 Preston. He's no better nor an old washerwoman, 
 that man isn't, for his tea." 
 
 When the conversation ended thus, the lodc^er rose, 
 partly in civility, and stood before the fire, looking 
 into the dark little mirror over the mantelshelf when 
 her visitor was gone. It was not vanity that moved 
 her to look at herself. "Threescore and tenV she 
 was saying softly — " threescore and ten ! She'd be 
 near thirty by then, and able to take care of herself." 
 
144 BROWXLOWS. 
 
 It was a sombre calculation enough, but it was all the 
 comfort she could take. " The child" all this time 
 had to all appearance lain fast asleep under her wraps, 
 with the red cloak laid over her, a childlike, fragile 
 creature. She began to stir at this moment, and her 
 mother's face cleared as if by magic. She went up 
 to the little hard couch, and murmured her inquiries 
 over it with that indescribable voice which belongs 
 only to doves, and mothers croodling over their sick 
 children. Pamela considered it the most ordinary 
 utterance in the world, and never found out that it 
 was totally unlike the usually almost harsh tones of 
 the same voice when addressing other people. The 
 girl threw off her coverings with a little impatience, 
 and came with tottering steps to the big black easy- 
 chair. The limpid eyes which had struck Jack 
 Brownlow when they gazed wistfully out of the 
 carrier's cart, were almost too bright, as her colour 
 was almost too warm, for the moment ; but it was 
 the flush of weakness and sleep, not of fever. She 
 too, like her motlier, wore rusty black ; but neither 
 that poor and melancholy garb, nor any other disad- 
 vantageous circumstance, could impair the sweetness 
 of the young tender face. It was lovely with the 
 sweetness of spring as are the primroses and ane- 
 mones ; — dew, and fragrance, and growth, and all the 
 possibilities of expansion, were in her lovely looks. 
 
BROWNLOWS. 145 
 
 You could not have told what she might not grow to. 
 Seeing her, it was possible to understand the eager- 
 ness with which the poor old mother, verging on 
 threescore, counted her chances of a dozen years 
 longer in this life. These dozen years might make 
 all the difference to Pamela; and Pamela was all 
 that she had in the world. 
 
 " You have had a long sleep, my darling. I am 
 sure you feel better," she said. 
 
 " I feel quite well, mamma," said the girl ; and she 
 sat down and held out her hands to the fire. Then 
 the mother began to talk, and give an account of the 
 conversation she liad been holding. She altered it 
 a little, it must be acknowledged. She omitted all 
 ^Irs Swayne's anxieties about Jack Brownlow, and 
 put various orthodox sentiments into her mouth 
 instead. When she had gone on so for some ten 
 minutes, Pamela, who had been making evident efforts 
 to restrain herself, suddenly opened her red lips with 
 a burst of soft ringing laughter, so that the mother 
 stopped confused. 
 
 " I am afraid it was very naughty," said the girl ; 
 " but I woke up, and I did not want to disturb you, 
 and I could not help listening. Oh, mamma, how 
 clever you are to make up conversation like that 
 when you know ^Irs Swayne was talking of ^Ir John, 
 and was such fun ! Why shouldn't I liear about ^Ir 
 
 VOL. I. K 
 
146 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 John? Because one lias been ill, is one never to 
 have any more fun? You don't expect me to die 
 now?" 
 
 "God forbid!" said the mother. "But what do 
 you know about Mr John? Mrs Swayne said no- 
 thing " 
 
 " She said he came a-knocking at the knocker/' 
 Pamela said, with a merry little conscious laugh ; 
 " and you asked if he came to ask for Mr Swayne. 
 I thought I should have laughed out and betrayed 
 myself then." 
 
 " But, my dear," said Mrs Preston, steadily, " w^hy 
 shouldn't he have come to ask for Mr Swayne ? " 
 
 "Yes, why indeed?" said Pamela, with another 
 merry peal of laughter, which made her mother's 
 face relax, though she was not herself very sensible 
 w^herein the joke lay. 
 
 " Well," she said, " if he did, or if he didn't, it 
 does not matter very much to us. We know nothing 
 about Mr John." 
 
 " Oh, but I do," said Pamela ; " it w^as he that 
 was standing by that lady's chair on the ice — I saw 
 him as plain as possible. I knew him in a minute 
 Avhen he carried me in. Wasn't it nice and kind 
 of him ? and he knew — us ; — I am sure he did. 
 Why shouldn't he come and ask for me ? I think 
 it is the most natural thing in the world." 
 
BEO^v^'LO^vs. 147 
 
 " How could lie know us ?" said Mrs I'reston, 
 wondering. " !My darling, now you are growing 
 older you must not think so much about fun. I 
 
 don't say it is wrong, but For you see, you 
 
 have grown quite a woman now. It would be nice 
 if you could know Miss Sara," she added, melting ; 
 " but she is a little great lady, and you are but a 
 j)Oor little girl " 
 
 " I must know Miss Sara," cried Pamela. " We 
 shall see her every day. I want to know them both. 
 We shall be always seeing them every time they go 
 out. I wonder if she is pretty. The lady was, that 
 was in the chair." 
 
 " How can you see everything like that, Pamela?" 
 said her mother, with mild reproof. '' I don't re- 
 member any lady in a chair." 
 
 " But I've got a pair of eyes," said Pamela, with a 
 laugh. She was not thinking that they were pretty 
 eyes, but she certainly had a pleasant feeling that 
 they were clear and sharp, and saw everything and 
 everybody within her range of vision. " I like 
 travelling in that cart," she said, after a moment, " if 
 it were not so cold. It would be pleasant in summer 
 to go jogging along and see everything— but then, to 
 be sure, in summer there is no ice, and no nice 
 bright fires shining through the Avindows. But, 
 mamma, please," the little thing added, with a doubt- 
 
]48 BROWN LOWS. 
 
 lul look that might be saucy or sad as occasion re- 
 quired, " why are you so dreadfully anxious to find 
 me kind friends?" 
 
 This was said with a little laugh, though her eyes 
 were not laughing; but when she saw the serious 
 look her mother cast upon her, she got up hastily 
 and threw herself down, weak as she was, at the old 
 woman's knee. 
 
 " Don't you think if we were to live both as long 
 as we could and then to die both together !" cried 
 the changeable girl, with a sudden sob. " Oh, 
 mamma, why didn't you have me when you were 
 young, when you had Florry, that we might have 
 lived ever so long, ever so long together ? Would it 
 be wrong for me to die when you die ? why should it 
 be wrong ? God would know what we meant by it. 
 He would know it wasn't for wickedness. And it 
 would make your mind easy whatever should 
 happen," cried the child, burying her pretty face in 
 her mother's lap. Thus the two desolate creatures 
 clung together, the old woman yearning to live, the 
 young creature quite ready at any word of command 
 that might reach her to give up her short existence. 
 They had nobody in the world belonging to them 
 that they knew of, and in the course of nature their 
 companionship could only be so short, so short ! 
 And it was not as if God saw only the outside like 
 
BROWXLOWS. 149 
 
 men. He would know what they meant by it ; that 
 was what poor little Pamela thought. 
 
 But she was as lively as a little bird half an hour 
 after, being a creature of a variable mind. Not a 
 magnificent little princess, self-possessed and re- 
 flective, like Sara over the w^ay ; a little soul full of 
 fancies, and passions, and sudden impulses of every 
 kind — a kitten for fun, a heroine for anything tragic, 
 such as she, not feared, but hoped, might perhaps 
 fall in her way. And the mother, who understood 
 the passion, did not know very much about either 
 the fun or the fancy, and was puzzled by times, and 
 even vexed when she had no need to be vexed. ^Irs 
 Preston was greatly perplexed even that night, after 
 this embrace and the wild suggestion that accom- 
 panied it, to see how swiftly and fully Pamela's light 
 heart came back to her. She could comprehend such 
 a proposal of despair ; but how the despair should 
 suddenly flit off and leave the sweetest fair skies 
 of delight and hope below was more than the poor 
 woman could understand. However, the fact was 
 that hope and despair were quite capable of living 
 next door in Pamela's fully occupied mind, and that 
 despair itself was but another kind of hope when it 
 got into those soft quarters where the air was full 
 of the chirping of birds and the odours of the spring. 
 She could not sing, to call singing, but vet she went 
 
150 BROWXLOWS. 
 
 on singing all the evening long over her bits of work, 
 and planned drives in Mr Swayne's spring-cart, and 
 even in the earner's waggon, much more joyfully 
 than Sara ever anticipated the use of her greys. Yet 
 she had but one life, one worn existence, old and 
 shattered by much suffering, between her and utter 
 solitude and destitution. No wonder her mother 
 looked at her with silent wonder, she who could 
 never get this woeful possibility out of her mind. 
 
CHAPTER X. 
 
 AT THE GATE. 
 
 It was not to be expected that Sara could be long 
 unconscious of her new humble neighbours. She, 
 too, as well as Jack, had seen them in the carrier's 
 cart ; and though Jack had kept his little adventure 
 to himself, Sara had no reason to omit due notice of 
 lier encounter. It was quite a new sensation to her 
 when she saw for the first time the little face with 
 its dewy eyes peeping out at Mrs Swayne's window. 
 And the ticket which offended Sara's sight had been 
 promptly taken down, not by Mrs Swayne, but by 
 her lodgers themselves. Sara's impulse was to go 
 over immediately and thank them for this good 
 office ; but, on second thoughts, she decided to wait 
 another opportunity. They might not be " nice," — 
 or they might be ladies, and require more cere- 
 monious treatment, notwithstanding the carrier's 
 waggon. The face that peeped from Mrs Swayne's 
 
152 BROWXLOWS. 
 
 ^vindow might have belonged to a little princess in 
 disguise for anything that could be said to the 
 contrary. And Sara was still of the age which 
 believes in disguised princesses, at least in theory. 
 She talked about them, however, continually ; put- 
 ting Jack to many hypocritical devices to conceal 
 that he too had seen the little stranger. Though 
 why he should keep that fact secret, nobod}^, not 
 even himself, could tell. And he had confided it to 
 young Keppel, though he did not think of telling 
 the story at home. " I don't know if you would call 
 her pretty, but her eyes are like two stars," was what 
 Jack said; and he was more angry at Keppel's 
 jocular response than was at all needful. But as 
 for Sara, she was far more eloquent. " She is not 
 pretty," that authority said ; " all girls are pretty, I 
 suppose, in a kind of w^ay — I and Fanny Hardcastle 
 and everybody — I despise that. She's lovely ; one 
 would like to take and kiss her. I don't in the 
 least care whether I am speaking grammar or not; 
 but I want to know her, and I've made up my mind 
 I'll have her here." 
 
 " Softly, Sara," said Mr Brownlow, with that 
 indulgent look which Sara alone called into his 
 eyes. 
 
 " Oh yes, papa, as softly as you please ; but I shall 
 never be like her if I were to live a hundred years. 
 
BROWXLOWS. 153 
 
 I'd like to cut all my hair off, and wear it like that ; 
 but what's the use, with this odious light hair ?" 
 
 " I thought it was golden and Titianesque, and 
 all sorts of fine things," said Jack, " besides being 
 fashionable. IVe heard Keppel say " 
 
 " Don't, please ; Mr Keppel is so stupid," said 
 Sara ; and she took in her hand a certain curl she 
 had, which was her favourite curl in a general way, 
 and looked at it with something like disgust. "It 
 isn't even the right colour for the fashion," she said, 
 contemptuously. This was at breakfast, before the 
 gentlemen went to business, which was a favourite 
 liour with all of them, when their minds were free, 
 and the day had not as '}'et produced its vexations. 
 Mr Brownlow, for his part, had quite got over any 
 symptoms of discomposure that his children might 
 have perceived on his face. Everything v»^as going 
 on well again. Young Po^a^'s was safely settled in 
 the office, and liis employer already had got used to 
 liim, and nothing seemed to be coming of it ; and 
 every day was helping on the year, the one remain- 
 ing year of uncertainty. He was very anxious, but 
 still he was not such a novice in life but that he 
 could keep his anxiety to himself 
 
 " Don't fori^ret to make evervtliin<? comfortable for 
 your visitors," was what he said, as he drove away ; 
 and the fact was, that even ]\Ir Brownlow cast a 
 
154 BROWXLOWS. 
 
 glance over at Mrs Swayne's windows ; and that 
 Jack brought the mare almost on her haunches, by 
 way of showing his skill, as she dashed out at the 
 gates. And poor little Pamela had limped to the 
 window, for she had not much to amuse her, and the 
 passing of Mr Brownlow's dogcart was an event. 
 "Is that the girl?" said Mr Brownlow ; " why, she 
 is like your sister, Jack." 
 
 " Like Sara ! " Jack gasped in dismay. He was 
 so amazed that he could say nothing more for a full 
 minute. " I suppose you think everything that's 
 pretty is like Sara," he said, when he had recovered 
 his breath. 
 
 " Well, perhaps," said the father ; " but there's 
 something more there — and yet she's not like Sara 
 either for the matter of that." 
 
 " Not the least bit in the world," said Jack, 
 decisively ; at which ]\Ir Brownlow only smiled, 
 making no other reply. 
 
 Sara, of course, knew nothing of this ; and not- 
 withstanding her admiration for the stranger, it is 
 doubtful whether she would have been flattered by 
 the suggestion. She made great preparations for her 
 visitors. There was to be a dinner-party, and old 
 Lady Motherwell and her son Sir Charles were to 
 stay for a day or two — partly because it was too far 
 for the old lady to drive back that night, and partly 
 
BROWXLOWS. 155 
 
 perhaps, for other reasons, which nobody was sup- 
 posed to know anything about. In her own mind, 
 however, Sara was not quite unaware of these other 
 reasons. The girl was so unfortunate as to be aware 
 that slie was considered a good match in the county, 
 and she knew very well what Sir Charles meant 
 when he came and mounted guard over her at county 
 gatherings. It was commonly reported of Sir Charles 
 Motherwell that he was not briglit — but he was 
 utterly opaque to Sara when he came and stood over 
 her and shut out other people who might have been 
 amusing ; though, to tell the truth, Miss Brownlow 
 was in a cynical state of mind altogether about 
 amusing people. She thought they were an extinct 
 species, like mastodons, and the other sort of brutes 
 that lived before the creation. Fanny Hardcastle 
 began to unfold her dress as soon as breakfast was 
 over, and to look out her gloves and her shoes and 
 all her little ornaments, and was in a flutter all day 
 about the dinner at Brownlows. But as for Sara, 
 she was not excited. By way of making up to her- 
 self for what she might have to suffer in the evening, 
 she went out for a ride, a pleasure of which she had 
 been debarred for some time by the frost ; and little 
 Pamela came again to the window and watched — oli, 
 witli what deliglit and envy and admiration : — the 
 slender-limbed chestnut and the pretty creature he 
 
156 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 carried, as they came down all the length of the 
 avenue. 
 
 " Oh, mamma, make haste — make haste ! it is a 
 prettier sight than Mr John," cried the little girl at 
 Mrs Swayne's window, her cheeks glo-wdng and her 
 eyes shining ; " what fun it is to live here and see 
 them all passing \" Probably she enjoyed it quite as 
 much as Sara did. AVhen she had watched the pretty 
 rider as far as that was possible, she sat down by the 
 window to wait till she came back — wondering where 
 she was going — following her as she went cantering 
 along the sunny long stretches of road which Pamela 
 remembered watching from the carrier's cart. What 
 a strange kind of celestial life it must be to be always 
 riding down stately avenues and pla}^ng golden- 
 stringed harps, and walking about in glorious silken 
 robes tliat swept the ground ! Pamela laughed to 
 herself at those splendid images — she enjoyed it 
 more than Sara did, though Sara foimd all these good 
 things wonderfully pleasant too. 
 
 " What are you laughing at?" said her mother, who 
 was working at a table at the other end of the room. 
 
 " Wliat fun it is to live here 1" repeated Pamela. 
 " It is as good as a play ; don't you like to see them 
 all riding out and in, and the horses prancing, and 
 the shadows coming down the avenue ? — it was the 
 greatest luck in the world to come here." 
 
BROWNLOWS. 157 
 
 " Put up your foot, iny dear," said her mother, 
 " and don't catch cold at that wiiid(jw. I've seen 
 somebody very like that young lady, but I can't 
 remember where." 
 
 " That was Miss Sara, I suppose," said Pamela, with 
 a little awe ; and she put up her weak foot, and kept 
 her post till the chestnut and his mistress came back, 
 when the excitement was renewed ; and ^Irs Pres- 
 ton herself took another look, and wondered where 
 she had seen some one like that. Thus the life of 
 Brownlows became entangled, as it were, in that of 
 the humble dwellers at their gate, before either were 
 aware. 
 
 Lady Motherwell arrived in a very solid family 
 coach, just as the winter twilight set in ; and undoubt- 
 edly, on this occasion at least, it was Pamela w^ho had 
 the best of it. Sara awaited the old lady in the 
 drawing-room, ready to administer to her the indis- 
 pensable cup of tea ; and Sir Charles followed his 
 mother, a tall fellow with a mustache which looked 
 like a respirator. As for Lady Motherwell, she was 
 not a pleasant visitor to Sara ; but that was for rea- 
 sons which I have already stated. In herself she was 
 not a disagreeable old woman. She had even a cer- 
 tain esprit du corps which made it evident to her 
 that thus to come in force upon a girl who was alone, 
 was a violent proceeding, and apt to drive the quarry 
 
158 BROWXLOWS. 
 
 ]3rematurely to bay. So she did her best to conciliate 
 the young mistress of the house, even before she had 
 received her cup of tea. 
 
 " Charley doesn't take tea/' she said. " I think 
 we'll send him off, my dear, to look at the stables, or 
 something. I hate to have a man poking about the 
 room when I want a comfortable chat ; and in this 
 nice cozy firelight, too, when they look like tall ghosts 
 about a place. You may go and have your cigar, 
 Charley. Sara and I have a hundred things to 
 say." 
 
 Sir Charles was understood to murmur through his 
 respirator that it was awful hard upon a fellow to be 
 banished like this ; but nevertheless, being in excel- 
 lent training, and knowing it to be for his good, he 
 went. Then Lady Motherwell took Sara in her arms 
 for the second time, and gave her a maternal kiss. 
 
 " My love, you're looking lovely," she said. " I'm 
 sorry for poor Charley, to tell the truth ; but I knew 
 vou'd have enough of him to-niqht. Now tell me 
 how you are, and all about yourself. I have not seen 
 you for an age." 
 
 " Oh, thank you, I'm just as well as ever," said 
 Sara. " Sit down in this nice low chair, and let me 
 give you some tea." 
 
 " Thank you," said Lady Motherwell. " And how 
 is Jack and the good papa ? Jack is a gay deceiver ; 
 
BROWNLOWS. 159 
 
 he is not like my boy. You should have seen him 
 driving the girls about the ice in that chair. I am 
 not sure that I think it very nice, do you know, 
 unless it was a very old friend or — somebody xery 
 particular. I was so sorry I could not come for 
 you " 
 
 " Oh, it did not matter," said Sara ; " I was there 
 three days. I got on very well; and then I have 
 more things to do than most girls have. I don't care 
 so very much for amusements. I have a great many 
 things to do." 
 
 " Quite a little housekeeper," said Lady Motherwell. 
 " You girls don't like to have such things said to you 
 nowadays ; but I'm an old-fashioned old woman, and 
 I must say what I think. What a nice little wife 
 you will make one of these days 1 That used to be 
 the highest compliment that could be paid to us when 
 I was your age." 
 
 " Oh, I don't mind it at all," said Sara ; " I suppose 
 that is what one must come to. It is no good worry- 
 ing one's self about it. I am rather fond of house- 
 keeping. Are you going to be one of the patronesses 
 for the Masterton ball, Lady Motherwell ? Do you 
 think one should go?" 
 
 " Xo, I don't think one should go," said the old 
 lady, not without a very clear recollection that she 
 was speaking to John Brownlow the solicitor's 
 
160 BROWXLOWS. 
 
 daughter ; " but I think a dozen may go, and you 
 shall come with me. I am going to make up a party 
 — yourself and the two Keppels " 
 
 " No," said Sara, '' I am a Masterton girl, and I 
 ought not to go with you grand county folks — oh no, 
 papa must take me ; but thank you very much all 
 the same." 
 
 " You are an odd girl," said Lady Motherwell. 
 *' You forget your papa is one of the very richest of 
 the county folks, as you call us. I think Brownlows 
 is the finest place within twenty miles, and you that 
 are the mistress of it " 
 
 "Don't laugh at me, please — I don't like being 
 laughed at. It makes me feel like a cat," said Sara ; 
 and she clasped her soft hands together, and sat back 
 in her soft velvet chair out of the firelight, and 
 sheathed her claws as it were ; not feeling sure any 
 moment that she might not be tempted to make a 
 spring upon her flattering foe. 
 
 " Well, my dear, if you want to spit and scratch, 
 let Charley be the victim, please," said the old lady. 
 " I think he would rather like it. And I am not 
 laushing^ in the least, I assure you. We used to be 
 brought up to see after everything when I was 
 young; and really, you know, when you have a large 
 establishment, and feel that your husband looks to 
 you for everything " 
 
BROWXLOWS. 161 
 
 " AVe have not all husbands, thank heaven," said 
 Sara, spitefully; "and I am sure I don't ^vant a 
 situation as a man's housekeeper. It is all very 
 well when it's papa." 
 
 "You will not always think so," said Lady 
 Motherwell, laughing ; " that is a thing a girl 
 changes her mind about. Of course you will 
 marry some day, as everybody does." 
 
 " I don't see," said Sara, very decidedly, " why it 
 should be of course. If there was anybody that 
 paj)a had set his heart on, and wanted me to marry 
 — or any good reason — of course I would do what- 
 ever was my duty. But I don't think papa is a 
 likely sort of man to stake me at cards, or get into 
 anybody's power, or anything of that sort." 
 
 "Sara, you are the most frightful little cynic," 
 cried Lady Motherwell, laughing; "don't you be- 
 lieve that girls sometimes fall in love?" 
 
 " Oh yes, all the silly ones," said Sara, calmly, out 
 of her corner. She was not saying anything that 
 she did not to a certain extent feel ; but there is no 
 doubt that she had a special intention at the moment 
 in what she said. 
 
 Lady Motherwell had another laugh, for she was 
 amused, and not nearly so much alarmed for the con- 
 sequences as the young speaker intended she should 
 be. " If all girls had such sentiments, what would 
 
 VOL. I. L 
 
162 BROAVNLOAVS. 
 
 become of the world?" she said. "The world 
 would come to an end." 
 
 " I wish it would," said Sara. "Why shouldn't it 
 come to an end ? It would be easy to make a nicer 
 world. People are very aggravating in this one. I 
 am sure I don't see why we should make ourselves 
 unhappy about its coming to an end. It would 
 always be a change if it did. And some of the poor 
 people might have better luck. Do you think it is 
 such a very nice world ? " 
 
 " My dear, don't be profane," said Lady Mother- 
 well. " I never did think Mr Hardcastle was very 
 settled in his principles. I declare you frighten 
 me, Sara, sitting and talking in that sceptical way, 
 in the dark." 
 
 " Oh, I can ring for lights," said Sara ; "but that 
 isn't sceptical. It's sceptical to go on wishing to 
 live for ever, and to make the world last for ever, as 
 if we mightn't have something better. At least so I 
 think. And as for Mr Hardcastle, I don't know 
 what he has to do with it — he never said a word on 
 the subject to me." 
 
 "Yes, my dear, but there is a general looseness," 
 said the old lady. " I know the sort of thing. He 
 lets you think whatever you like, and never impres- 
 ses any doctrines on you as he ought. We are not 
 in Dewsbury parish, you know, and I feel I ought to 
 
BROWNLOWS. 163 
 
 speak. There are siicli differences in clerg}'men. 
 Our vicar is very pointed, and makes you really feel 
 as if you knew what you believed. And that is such 
 a comfort, my dear. Tliough, to be sure, you are 
 very young, and you don't feel it now." 
 
 " No, 1 don't feel it at all," said Sara ; " but, Lady 
 Motherwell, perhaps you would like to go to your 
 room. I think I hear papa's cart coming up the 
 avenue — will you wait and see him before you go ?" 
 
 Thus the conversation came to an end, though 
 Lady Motherwell elected to wait, and was as 
 gracious to Mr Brownlow as if he had been twenty 
 county people. Even if Sara did not have Brown- 
 lows, as everybody supposed, still she would be ricli 
 and bring money enough with her to do a vast deal 
 of good at Motherwell, where the family for a long 
 time had not been rich. Sir Charles's father, old Sir 
 Charles, had not done his duty by the property. 
 Instead of marrying somebody with a fortune, which 
 was clearly the object for which he had been brought 
 into the world, he had married to please a fancy of 
 his own in a very reprehensible way. His wife her- 
 self felt that he had failed to do his duty, though it 
 was for her sake; and she was naturally all the 
 more anxious that her son should fulfil tliis natural 
 responsibility. Sir Charles was not handsome, nor 
 was he bright, nor even so young as he might have 
 
164 BROAVXLOAVS. 
 
 been ; but all tliis, if it made the sacrifice less, made 
 the necessity more, and accordingly Lady Mother- 
 well was extremely friendly to j\Ir Brownlow. 
 AYhen she came down for dinner she took a sort of 
 natural protecting place, as if she had been Sara's 
 aunt, or bland, flattering, uninterfering mother-in- 
 law. She called the young mistress of the house 
 to her side, and held her hand, and patted it and 
 caressed it. She told Mr Brownlow how pleased she 
 ^vas to see how the dear child had developed. " You 
 will not be allowed to keep her long," she said, with 
 tender meaning; " I think if she were mine I would 
 go and hide her up so that nobody might see her. 
 But one has to make up one's mind to part with 
 them all the same." 
 
 " Not sooner than one can help/' said Mr Brown- 
 low, looking not at Lady Motherwell, but at his 
 child, who was the subject of discourse. He knew 
 what the old lady meant as well as Sara did, and he 
 had been in the way of smiling at it, wondering 
 how anybody could imagine he would give his child 
 to a good-tempered idiot; but this night another 
 kind of idea came into his mind. The man was 
 stupid, but he was a gentleman of long established 
 lineage, and he could secure to Sara all the advan- 
 tages of which she had so precarious a tenure here. 
 He could give her even a kind of title, so far as that 
 
BROWNLOWS. 165 
 
 went, thougli ^Ir Brownlow was not mucli moved by 
 a baronet's title ; and if anything should happen to 
 endanger Brownlows, it would not matter much to 
 Jack or himself. They could return to the house in 
 Masterton, and make themselves as comfortable as 
 life, without Sara, could be anywhere. This was the 
 thought that was passing through Mr Brownlow's 
 mind when he said, " Not sooner than one can help." 
 He was thinking for the first time that such a be- 
 stowal of his child might not be so impossible after all. 
 Beside her, in the seat she had taken when she 
 escaped from Lady Motherwell, Sir Charles had 
 already taken up his position. He was talking to 
 her through his hard little black mustache — not that 
 he said a great deal He was a tall man, and she 
 was seated in a low chair, with the usual billows of 
 white on the carpet all round her, so that he could 
 not even approach very near ; and she had to look 
 up at him and strain her ear when he spoke, if she 
 wanted to hear — whicli was a trouble Sara did not 
 choose to take. So she said, "What?" in her in- 
 different way, playing with her fan, and secretly 
 doing all she could to extend the white billows 
 round her ; while he, poor man, bent forward at a 
 right angle till he was extremely uncomfortable, and 
 repeated his very trivial observations with a" vain 
 attempt to reach her ear. 
 
166 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 " I think I am growing deaf," said Sara ; "perhaps 
 it was that dreadful frost — I don't think 1 have ever 
 got quite thawed yet. AMien I do, all you have been 
 saying will peal out of the trumpet like Baron 
 Munchausen, you know. So you didn't go to the 
 stables ? Wasn't that rather naughty ? I am sure it 
 was to the stables your mamma sent you when you 
 went away." 
 
 " Tell you what, Miss Brownlow/' said Sir Charles ; 
 " you are making game of me." 
 
 "Oh, no," said Sara; "or did you go to the gate 
 and see such a pretty girl in the cottage opposite ? I 
 don't know whether you would fall in love with her, 
 but I have ; I never saw any one look so sweet. She 
 has such pretty dark little curls, and yet not curls — 
 something prettier ; — and such eyes " 
 
 " Little women with black hair are frights," said 
 Sir Charles — "always thought so, and more than 
 ever now." 
 
 "Why more than ever now ?" said Sara, with the 
 precision of contempt ; and then she went on — '' If 
 you don't care either for pretty horses or pretty girls, 
 we shan't know how to amuse you. Perhaps you are 
 fond of reading ; I think we have a good many nice 
 books." 
 
 Sir Charles said something to his mustache, which 
 was evidently an expletive of some kind. He was 
 
BROWXLOWS. 167 
 
 not the sort of man to swear by Jove, or even by 
 George, much less by anything more tangible ; but 
 still he did utter something in an inarticulate ex- 
 clamatory way. '' A man would be difficult to please 
 if he didn't get plenty to amuse him here," was how 
 
 it ended. " I'm not afraid " 
 
 " It is very kind of you to say so," said Sara, so 
 very politely that Sir Charles did not venture upon 
 any more efforts, but stood bending down uneasily, 
 looking at her, and pulling at his respirator in an 
 embarrassed way ; not that he was remarkable in 
 this, for certainly the moment before dinner is not 
 favourable to animated or genial conversation. And 
 it was not much better at dinner. Sara had Mr 
 Keppel of Piidley, the eldest brother, at her other 
 side, who talked better than Sir Charles did. His 
 mother kept her eye upon them as well as that was 
 possible from the other end of the table, and she 
 was rather hard upon him afterwards for the small 
 share he had taken in the conversation. "You 
 should have amused her and made her talk, and 
 drawn lifer out," said the old lady. " Oh, she talked 
 plenty," Sir Charles said, in a discomfited tone ; and 
 he did not make much more of it in the evening, 
 when young Mrs Keppel and her sister-in-law, and 
 Fanny Hardcastle, all gathered in a knot round the 
 young mistress of the house. It was a pretty group, 
 
168 BROWXLOWS. 
 
 and the hum of talk that issued from it attracted 
 even the old people to linger and listen, though 
 doubtless their own conversation would have been 
 much more worth listening to. There was Sara re- 
 clining upon the cushions of a great round ottoman, 
 with Fanny Hardcastle by her, making one mass of 
 the white billows ; and opposite, Mrs Keppel, who 
 was a pretty little woman, lay back in a low deep 
 round chair, and j\Iary Keppel, who was a little 
 fond of attitudes, sat on a stool, leaning her head 
 upon her hands, in the centre. Sometimes they 
 talked all together, so that you could not tell what 
 they said ; and they discussed everything that ought 
 to be discussed in heaven and earth, and occasionally 
 something that ought not ; and there was a dark 
 fringe of men round about them, joining in the 
 babble. But as for Sir Charles, he knew his consigne, 
 and stood at his post, and did not attempt to talk. 
 It was an exercise that was seldom delightful to 
 him ; and then he was puzzled, and could not make 
 out whether, as he himself said, it was chaff or 
 serious. But he could always stand over -^he mis- 
 tress of his affections, and do a sentinel's duty, and 
 keep other people away from her. That was an 
 occupation he understood. 
 
 " Has it been a pleasant evening, Sara ? " said Mr 
 Brownlow when the guests had all gone, and Sir 
 
BROWNLOWS. 1C9 
 
 Charles had disappeared with Jack, and Lady 
 Motherwell had retired to think it all over and in- 
 vent some way of pushing her son on. The father 
 and daughter were left alone in the room, which 
 was still very bright with lights and fire, and did 
 not suggest any of the taw^dry ideas supposed to 
 hang about in the air after an entertainment is over. 
 They were both standing by the fire, lingering before 
 they said Good-night. 
 
 " Oh yes," said Sara, " if that odious man would 
 not mount guard over me. What have I done that 
 he should always stand at my elbow like that, with 
 his hideous mustache ?" 
 
 "You mean Sir Charles?" said Mr Bro^^^llow. 
 " I thought girls liked that sort of thing. He means 
 it for a great compliment to you." 
 
 " Then I wish he would compKment somebody 
 else," said Sara ; " I think it is very hard, papa. A 
 girl lives at home with her father, and is very happy 
 and doesn't want any change ; but any man that 
 pleases — any tall creature with neither brains nor 
 sense, nor anything but a mustache — thinks he has 
 a right to come and worry her ; and people think she 
 should be pleased. It is awfully hard. No woman 
 ever attempts to treat Jack like that." 
 
 Mr Brownlow smiled, but it was not so frankly 
 as usual. "Are you really quite sure about this 
 
170 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 matter?" lie said. " I wish you would tliink it over, 
 my darling. He is not bright — but he's a very good 
 fellow in his way ; stop a little. And you know I 
 am only Brownlow the solicitor, and if anything 
 should happen to our money, all this position, of 
 ours in the county would be lost. Now Sir Charles 
 could give you a better position " 
 
 '' Oh, papa ! could you ever bear to hear me called 
 Lady Motherwell ? " cried Sara — ''young Lady Mo- 
 therwell ! I should hate myself and everybody 
 belonging to me. But look here ; I have wanted to 
 speak to you for a long time. If you were to lose 
 your money I don't see why you should mind so 
 very much. / should not mind. "We would go 
 away to the country, and get a cottage somewhere, 
 and be very comfortable. After all, money don't 
 matter so much. We could walk instead of driv- 
 ing, which is often far pleasanter, and do things for 
 ourselves." 
 
 "What do you know about my money?" said Mr 
 Brownlow, with a bitter momentary pang. He 
 thought something must have betrayed the true state 
 of affairs to Sara, which would be an almost incred- 
 ible addition to the calamity. 
 
 " Well, not much," said Sara, lightly ; '' but I know 
 merchants and people are often losing money, and 
 you have an office like a merchant. I should not 
 
BROWXLOWS. 171 
 
 mind that ; but I do mind never being able to turn 
 my head even at home in our very own house, with- 
 out seeing that man with his liorrid mustache." 
 
 " Poor Sir Charles ! " said Mr Brownlow, and the 
 anxiety on his face lightened a little. She could not 
 know anything about it. Then he lighted her candle 
 for her, and kissed her soft cheek. " You said you 
 would marry any one I asked you to marry," he said, 
 with a smile ; but it was not a smile that went 
 deep. Strangely enough he was a little anxious 
 about the answer, as if he had really some plan in 
 his mind. 
 
 " And so I should, and never would hesitate," said 
 
 Sara, promptly, holding his hand, '' but not Sir 
 
 Charles, please, papa." 
 
 This was the easy way in which the girl played, 
 on what might possibly turn out to be the very 
 verge of the precipice. 
 
CHAPTER XL 
 
 THE YOUNG PEOPLE. 
 
 After all, no doubt, it is the young people who are 
 the kings and queens of this world. They don't have 
 it in their own hands, nor their own way in it, which 
 would not be good for them, but all our plots and 
 plans are for their advantage whether they know it 
 or not. For their sakes a great deal of harm is done 
 in this world, which the doers hold excused, some- 
 times sanctified, by its motive, and the young crea- 
 tures themselves have a great many things to bear 
 which, no doubt, is for their advantage too. It is the 
 least invidious title of rank which can exist in any 
 community, for we have all been young — all had a 
 great many things done for us which we would much 
 rather had been let alone — and all suffered or profited 
 by the plans of our progenitors. But if they are 
 important in the actual universe, they are still more 
 important in the world of fiction. Here we cannot do 
 
BROWNLOWS. 173 
 
 witliout these young heroes and heroines. To make 
 a midcQe-aged man or woman interesting demands 
 genius, the highest concentration of human power 
 and skill ; whereas almost any of us can frame our 
 innocent little tale about Edwin and Angelina, and 
 tempt a little circle to listen notwithstanding the 
 familiarity of the subject. Such is the fact, let 
 us account for it as we may. The youths and 
 maidens, and their encounters, and their quarrels, 
 and their makings-up, their walks and talks and 
 simple doings, are the one subject that never fails ; 
 so, though it is a wonder how it should be so, let 
 us go back to them and consider their young pros- 
 pects and their relations to each other before we go 
 further on in the real progress of our tale. 
 
 The way that Sara made acquaintance with the 
 little dweller at her gate was in this wise. It was the 
 day after the dinner-party, when the Motherwells 
 were still at Brownlows. Sara had crone out to convev 
 some consolation to old Betty at the gate, who was a 
 rheumatical old woman. And she thought she had 
 managed to escape very cleverly out of Lady Mother- 
 well's clutches, when, to her horror. Sir Charles over- 
 took her in the avenue. He carried in his manner 
 and appearance all the dignity of a man whose mind 
 is made up. He talked very little, certainly, to begin 
 with — but that was his wav : and he caressed his 
 
174 BEOWXLOAVS. 
 
 abrupt little black mustache as men do caress any 
 physical adjunct which is a comfort to them in a 
 crisis. Sara could not conceal it from herself that 
 something was coming, and there was no apparent 
 escape for her. The avenue was long; there was 
 nobody visible coming or going. Had the two been 
 on a desert island, Sir Charles could scarcely have 
 had less fear of interruption. I do not pretend to say 
 that Sara was entirely inexperienced in this sort of 
 thing, and did not know how to snub an incipient 
 lover or get out of such a dilemma in ordinary cases ; 
 but Sir Charles Motherwell's was not an ordinary 
 case. In the first place, he was staying in the house, 
 and would have to continue there till to-morrow at 
 least, whatever might happen to him now ; and in 
 the second, he was obtuse, and might not understand 
 what anything short of absolute refusal meant. He 
 was not a man to be snubbed graciously or ungra- 
 ciously, and made to comprehend without words that 
 his suit was not to be offered. Such a point of under- 
 standing was too high for him. He was meditating 
 between himself and his mustache what he had to 
 say, and he was impervious to all Sara's delicate 
 indications of an indisposition to listen. How could 
 he tell what people meant unless they said it ? Thus 
 he was a man with whom only such solid weapons as 
 Yes and No were of any use ; and it would have been 
 
BROAVNLOWS. 175 
 
 very embarrassing if Sara, witli at least twenty-four 
 hours of his society to look forward to, had been 
 obliged to say No. She did the very best she could 
 under the emergency. She talked with all her might 
 and tried to amuse him, and if possible lead him off 
 his grand intention. She chatted incessantly with 
 something of the same feelings that inspired Schera- 
 zade, speaking against time, though not precisely for 
 her life, and altogether unaware that, in so far as her 
 companion could abstract his thought from the words 
 he was about to say, when he could find them, his 
 complacent consciousness of the trouble she took to 
 please him was rising higher and higher. Poor dear 
 little thing ! he was saying to himself, how pleased 
 she will be ! But yet, notwithstanding this comfort- 
 able thought, it was a difficult matter to Sir Charles 
 in broad daylight, and with the eyes of the world, as 
 it were, upon him, to prevail upon the right words 
 to come. 
 
 They were only half-way down the avenue w^hen 
 he cleared his throat. Sara was in despair. She 
 knew by that sound and by the last convulsive 
 twitch of his mustache that it was just coming. 
 A pause of awful suspense ensued. She was so 
 frightened that even her own endeavour to ward off 
 extremities failed her. She could not go on talking 
 in the horror of the moment. Should she pretend to 
 
176 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 have forgotten something in the house and rush 
 back ? or should she make believe somebody was 
 calling her, and fly forward ? She had thrown her- 
 self forward on one foot, ready for a run, when that 
 blessed diversion came for which she could never be 
 sufficiently thankful. She gave a start of delightful 
 relief when they came to the first break in the trees. 
 " Who can that be ?" she said, much as, had she 
 been a man, she would have uttered a cheer. It 
 would not have done for Miss Brownlow to burst 
 forth into an unlooked-for hurrah, so she gave vent 
 to this question instead, and made a little rush on to 
 the grass where the unknown figure was visible. It 
 was a pretty little figure in a red cloak ; and it was 
 bending forward, anxiously examining some herbage 
 about the root of a tree. At the sound of Sara's 
 exclamation the stranger raised herself hurriedly, 
 blushed, looked confused, and finally, with a certain 
 shy promptitude, came forward, as if, Sara said 
 afterwards, she was a perfect little angel out of 
 heaven. 
 
 " I beg your pardon," she said ; " perhaps I ought 
 not to be here. I am so sorry ; but — it was for old 
 Betty I came." 
 
 " You are very welcome to come," said Sara, 
 eagerly — " if you don't mind the damp grass. It is 
 you who live at !Mrs Swayne's? Oh, yes, I know 
 
BROAVXLOWS. 177 
 
 you quite well. Pray, come -syhenever you please. 
 There are a great many pretty walks in the park." 
 
 " Oh, thank you ! " said little Pamela. It was the 
 first time she had seen the young great lady so near ; 
 and she took a mental inventory of her, all that she 
 was like, and all that she had on. Seeincj !Miss Sara 
 on foot, like any other human creature, was not a 
 thing that occurred every day; and she took to 
 examining her with a double, or rather triple inter- 
 est — first, because it vms Miss Sara, and something 
 very new; second, to be able to describe minutely 
 the glorious vision to her mother ; and thirdly, out 
 of genuine admiration. How beautiful she was 1 and 
 how beautifully dressed! and then the tall gentle- 
 man by her side, so unlike anything Pamela ever 
 saw, who took off" his hat to her — actually to lierl 
 No doubt, though he was not so handsome as might 
 have been desired, they were going to be married. 
 He must be very good, gallant, and noble, as he was 
 not so xcry good-looking. Pamela's bright eyes 
 danced with eagerness and excitement as she looked 
 at them. It was as good as a play or a story-book. 
 It was a romance being performed for her benefit, 
 actually occumng under her very eyes. 
 
 " I know what j^ou were doing," said Sara, " but it 
 is too early yet. * Piound the ashen roots the violets 
 blow' — I know that is what you were thinking of." 
 
 VOL. I. M 
 
178 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 Pamela, who knew very little about violets, and 
 nothing about poetry, opened her eyes very wide. 
 " Indeed," she said, anxiously, " I w^as only looking 
 for some plantain for Betty's bird — that was all. I 
 did not mean to take any — flowers. I would not do 
 anything so — so — ungrateful." 
 
 " But you shall have as many violets as ever you 
 like," said Sara, who was eager to find au}^ pretence 
 for prolonging the conversation. " Do come and 
 walk here by me. I am going to see old Betty. Do 
 you know how she is to-day ? Don't you think she 
 is a nice old woman? I am going to tell her she 
 ought to have her grandchild to live with her, and 
 open the gate, now that her rheumatism has come 
 on. It always lasts three months when it comes on. 
 Your Mr Swayne's, you know, goes on and off. I 
 I always hear all about it from my maid." 
 
 When she paused for breath, Pamela felt that as 
 the tall gentleman took no part in the conversation it 
 was incumbent upon her to say something. She was 
 much flattered by the unexpected grandeur of walk- 
 ing by Miss Brownlow's side, and being taken into 
 her confidence ; but the emergency drove every idea 
 out of her head, as was natural. She could not think 
 of anything that it would be nice to say, and in 
 desperation hazarded a question. "Is there much 
 rheumatism about here ?" poor Pamela said, looking 
 
BROWNLOWS. IT'J 
 
 up as if lier life depended on the answer she received; 
 and then she c^ve^v burnini^ red, and hot all over, and 
 felt as if life itself was no longer worth having, after 
 thus making a fool of herself. As if ]\Iiss Brownlow 
 knew anything about the rheumatism here ? " What 
 an idiot she will think me!'' said she to herself, 
 longing that the earth would open and swallow her 
 up. But ^liss Brownlow was by no means critical. 
 On the contrary, Sara rushed into the subject with 
 enthusiasm. 
 
 " There is always rheumatism where there are so 
 many trees," she said, with decision — " from the 
 damp, you know. Don't you find it so, at Mother- 
 well, Sir Charles ? You have such heaps of trees in 
 that part of the county. Half my poor people have 
 it here. And the dreadful thing is that one doesn't 
 know any cure for it, except flannel. You never can 
 give them too much flannel," said Sara, raising her 
 eyes gravely to her tall companion. " They think 
 flannel is good for everything under the skies." 
 
 " Don't know, I'm sure," said Sir Charles. " Can 
 see it's very good of you. Don't know much about 
 rheumatism myself. Always see lots about in our 
 place — flannel pettic — hem — oh — beg your pardon. 
 I'm sure " 
 
 AVhen he uttered that unfortunate remark, poor 
 Sir Charles brought himself up with a sudden start. 
 
180 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 and turned very red. It was his horror and embar- 
 rassment, poor man, and fear of having shocked his 
 companion's delicacy. But Sara took the meanest 
 advantage of him. She held out her hand, with a 
 sweet smile, "Are you going?" she said; "it is so 
 kind of you to have come so far with me. I hope 
 you will have a 2:)leasant ride. Please make Jack call 
 at the Eectory, and ask if Fanny's cold is better. 
 Shall you be back to luncheon ? But you never are, 
 you gentlemen. Till dinner, then," she said, waving 
 her hand. Perhaps there was something mesmeric 
 in it. The disappointed wooer was so startled that 
 he stood still as under a spell. 
 
 " Didn't mean to leave you," he said ; " don't care 
 for riding. I'd like to see old Betty too." 
 
 " Oh, but that would be much too polite," cried 
 Sara. " Please, never mind me. It is so kind of 
 you to have come so far. Good-bye just now. I 
 hope you will have a pleasant ride." She was gone 
 before he could move or recover from his consterna- 
 tion. He stood in dumb amaze for a full minute 
 looking after her ; and then poor Sir Charles turned 
 away with the obedience of despair. He had been 
 too well brought up on the whole. His mother had 
 brought him to such a pitch of discipline that he 
 could not choose but obey the helm, whosesoever 
 hand miiiht touch it. " It was all those confounded 
 
BROWNLOWS. 181 
 
 petticoats," he said to himself. " How could I he 
 such an ass ? " which was the most vigorous speech 
 he had luade even to himself for ages. As for Sara, 
 she relaxed from her usual dignity, and went along 
 skipping and tripping in the exhilaration of her 
 heart. " Oh, what a blessing he is gone ! — oh, what 
 a little angel you were to appear just when you did!" 
 said Sara ; and then she gave a glance at her new 
 companion's bewildered face, and composed herself. 
 " But don't let us think of him any more," she con- 
 tinued. " Tell me about yourself — I want to know 
 all about yourself. Wasn't it lucky we met ? Please 
 tell me your name, and how old you are, and how 
 you like living here. Of course, you know I am Sara 
 Brownlow. And oh, to be sure, first of all, why did 
 you say ungrateful? Have I ever done anything 
 to make you grateful to me ? " 
 
 " Oh yes, please," said Pamela. " It is so pretty to 
 see you always when you ride, and when you drive 
 out. I am not quite strong yet, and I don't know 
 anybody here ; but I have only to sit down at the 
 window, and there is always something going on. 
 Last night you can't think how pretty it was. The 
 carriage-lamps kept walking up and down like giants 
 with two big eyes. And I can see all up the avenue 
 from my window; and when I looked very close, just 
 as they passed Betty's door, I coidd see a little ghmpse 
 
182 BKOWXLOWS. 
 
 of the ladies inside. T saw one lovely pink dress ; and 
 then in the next, there was a scarlet cloak all trim- 
 med witli swansdown. I conld tell it was swans- 
 down, it was so fluffy. Oh, I beg your pardon, I 
 didn't mean to talk so much ; but it is such fun 
 living there, just opposite the gate. And that is 
 why I am so grateful to you." 
 
 Sara, it was impossible to deny, was much stag- 
 gered by this speech. Its frankness amazed and 
 yet attracted her. It drove her into deep bewilder- 
 ment as to the "rank of her little companion. Was 
 she a lady ? She would scarcely have taken so 
 much pleasure in the sight, had it been within the 
 range of possibility that she could herself join such 
 a party; but then her voice was a refined voice, and 
 her lovely looks might, as Sara had thought before, 
 have belonged to a princess. The young mistress of 
 Brownlows looked very curiously at Pamela, but she 
 could not fathom her. The red cloak was a little 
 the worse for wear, but still it was such a garb as 
 any one miglit have worn. There was no sort of 
 finery, no sort of pretension, about the little person- 
 age. And then Sara had already made up her mind 
 in any case" to take her pretty neighbour under her 
 protection. And -she was not stupid, or she would 
 not have been so easily amused. Her spectatorship 
 threw an odd new liglit upon the accessories of Sara's 
 
BKOWNLOWS. 1S3 
 
 own life. While the awful moment before dinner 
 was being got through at the great house, this little 
 creature at the gate was clapping her hands over the 
 sounds and sights out of doors. To her, it was not 
 lieaAy people coming to dinner, to be entertained in 
 body and mind for three or four mortal hours ; but 
 prancing horses and rolling wheels, and the lamps 
 making their shining progress two and two, and all 
 the cheerful commotion. She must be an original 
 little thing to see so tedious a business in such a 
 novel light. 
 
 " It is very odd," said Sara, " that I never thought 
 of that before. I almost think I shouldn't mind 
 having stupid people now and then if I had thought 
 of that. And so you think it fun? You wouldn't 
 think it fun if you had to watch them eating their 
 dinner, and amuse them all the evening. It is such 
 hard work ; and then to ask them to sing when you 
 know they can't sing, no more than peacocks, and 
 to stand and say Thank you when it is all over ! 
 I wonder what made you tliink of looking at the 
 lamps. It is very clever of you, you know, to 
 describe them like that. Do you read a great deal ? 
 Are you fond of it ? Do you play, or do you draw, 
 or what do you like best ? " 
 
 This question staggered Pamela as much as her 
 description had done Sara. She grew pale, and then 
 
184 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 she grew red. " I am — not in the least clever," she 
 said, '' nor — nor accomplished — nor — I am not a 
 great lady like you. Miss Brownlow," the little girl 
 added, with a sudden pang of mortification. She had 
 not been in the least envious of Sara, nor desirous of 
 claiming equality with her. And yet when she thus 
 suddenly perceived the difference, it went to her 
 heart so sharply that she had hard ado not to cry. 
 
 As for Sara, she laughed softly, not knowing of 
 any bitterness beneath that reply. She laughed, 
 knowing she was not a great lady, and yet a little 
 disposed to think she was, and pleased to appear so 
 in her companion's eyes. " If you were to speak 
 like that to Lady Motherwell, I wonder what she 
 would say," said Sara ; " but I don't want you to be a 
 great lady. I think you are the prettiest little thing 
 T ever saw in my life. There now, I suppose it is 
 wTong to say it — but it is quite true. It is a pleas- 
 ure just to look at you. If you are not nice and 
 good, it is a great shame, and very ungrateful of you, 
 when God has made you so pretty ; but I think you 
 must be nice. Don't blush and tremble like that, 
 as if I were a gentleman. I am just nineteen. How 
 old are you ?" 
 
 " Seventeen last midsummer," said Pamela, under 
 her breath. 
 
 " I knew you were quite a child," said Sara, with 
 
BROWN LOWS. 185 
 
 dignity. "Don't look so frightened. I mean to 
 come and see you almost every day. And you shall 
 come home with me, and see the flowers, and the 
 pictures, and all my pretty things. I have quantities 
 of pretty things. Papa is so very kind. / have no 
 mother ; but that — that — old — lady — is your mother, 
 is she ? or your grandmother ? Look, there is old 
 Betty at the door. AVicked old woman ! what busi- 
 ness has she to come out to tlie door and make her 
 rheumatism worse ? Come along a little quicker ; 
 but you, poor little dear, what is the matter ? Can't 
 you run?" 
 
 " I sprained my ankle," said Pamela, blusliing 
 more and more, and wondering if Mr John had per- 
 haps kept that little incident to himself. 
 
 " And I trying to make you run ! " cried the peni- 
 tent Sara. " Never mind, take my arm. 1 am not 
 in the least in a hurry. Lean upon me — there's a 
 good child. They should not let you come so far 
 alone." 
 
 Thus it was that the two arrived at Betty's cottage, 
 to the old woman's intense amazement. Pamela 
 herself was flattered by the kind help afforded her, 
 but it is doubtful whether she enjoyed it ; and in the 
 exciting novelty of the position, she was glad to sit 
 down in a comer and collect herself while her bril- 
 liant young patroness fulfilled her benevolent mis- 
 
186 BROWXLOWS. 
 
 sion. Betty's lodge was a creation of Miss Brown- 
 low's from beginning to end. It was Sara's design, 
 and Sara had furnished it, up to the pictures on the 
 wall, which were carefully chosen in accordance with 
 what might be supposed to be an old woman's taste, 
 and the little book-shelf which was filled on the 
 same principles. The fact was, however, that Betty 
 had somewhat mortified Sara by pinning up a 
 glorious coloured picture out of the ' Illustrated 
 News,' and by taking in a tale of love and mystery 
 in penny numbers, showing illegitimate tastes both 
 in literature and art. But she w^as suffering, and at 
 such a moment her offences ought to be forgiven. 
 
 " You should not stand at the door like that, and 
 go on opening the gate in such weather," said Sara. 
 "I came to say you must have one of your son's 
 children to help you, — that one you had last year." 
 
 " She's gone to service. Miss," said Betty, with a 
 bob. 
 
 " Then one of your daughter's, — the daughter you 
 have at Masterton — she has dozens and dozens of 
 children. Why cannot one of them come out and 
 take care of you ? " 
 
 " Please, Miss," said Betty, " a poor man's childer 
 is his fortune — leastways in a place where there's 
 mills and things. They're all a-doing of something, 
 them little things. I'm awful comfortable. Miss, 
 
BKOWXLOWS. 187 
 
 thanks to you and your good papa " — at this and all 
 other intervals of her speech, Betty made a curtsy — 
 " but I ain't got money like to pay 'em wages, and 
 except when one's a bit delicate " 
 
 " Betty, sit down, please, and don't make so many 
 curtsies. I don't understand that. If I had a nice 
 
 old grandmother like you " said Sara ; and then 
 
 she paused and blushed, and bethought herself — 
 perhaps it might be as well not to enter upon that 
 question. "Anyhow^ it is very easy to pay them 
 something," she said. "I will pay it for you till 
 your rheumatism is better. And then there is your 
 other son, who was a tailor or something — where 
 is he?" 
 
 " Oh, if I could but tell I " said Betty. " Oh, Miss, 
 he's one o' them as brings down gi'ey hairs wi' sor- 
 row — not as I have a many to lose, though when I 
 was a young lass, the likes o' me for a 'ead of 'air 
 wasn't in all Dewsbury. But Tom, I'm afeard, I'm 
 afeard, has tooken to terrible bad ways." 
 
 "Drinking or something?" asked Sara, in the 
 tone of a woman experienced in such inevitable 
 miseries. 
 
 " Worse than that, ^liss. I don't say as it ain't 
 bad enough when a man takes to drinking. ^lany 
 a sore heart it's giv' me, but it allays comes kind o' 
 natural like," said Betty, with her apron at her eyes. 
 
188 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 " But poor Tom, he's gone and come out for a Eadi- 
 cal, Miss, and sets liisself up a-makiug speeches 
 and things. It's that as brought it on me so bad. 
 I've not been so bad before, not sin' his poor father 
 died." 
 
 " Then don't stand and curtsy like that, please," 
 said Sara. " A Eadical — is that all ? I am a little 
 of a Eadical myself, and so is papa." 
 
 "Ah, the like of you don't know," said Betty. 
 "Mr John wouldn't say nothing for him. He said, 
 * That's very bad, very bad, Betty,' when I went and 
 told him ; and a young gentleman like that is the 
 one to know." 
 
 " He knows nothing about it," said Sara ; " he's a 
 University man, and Eton, you know ; he is all in 
 the old-world way ; but papa and I are Eadicals, 
 like Tom. Are you? — but I suppose you are too 
 young to know. And oh, here it is just time for 
 luncheon, and you have never told me your name. 
 Betty, make haste and send for Tom or somebody to 
 help you. And there's something coming in a basket ; 
 and if you want anything else you must send up to 
 the house." 
 
 "You're very kind. Miss," said Betty, "and the 
 neighbours is real kind, and ]\Irs Swayne, though 
 
 she has queer ways And as for Miss Pammly 
 
 here " 
 
BROWNLOWS. 189 
 
 "Pamela," said the little girl, softly, from her 
 chair. 
 
 "Is that your name?" said Sara. "Pamela — I 
 never knew any one called Pamela before. What a 
 pretty name ! Sara is horrible. Every soul calls me 
 Sairah. Look here, you are a little darling ; and 
 you don't know what you saved me from this morn- 
 ing ; and I'll come to see you the moment Lady 
 Motherwell goes away." 
 
 Upon which Sara dropped a rapid kiss upon her 
 new friend's cheek and rushed forth, passing the 
 window like an arrow, rushing up the long avenue 
 like a winged creature, with the wind in her hair and 
 in her dress. The little lodge grew darker to Pamela's 
 dazzled eyes when she was gone. 
 
 " Is that really Miss Brownlow, Betty ?" she said, 
 after the first pause. 
 
 "Who could it be else, I would like to know?" 
 said Betty ; " a-leaving her orders like that, and never 
 giving no time to answer or nothing. I wonder 
 what's coming in the basket. Xot as I'm one o' the 
 greedy ones as is always looking for something ; but 
 what's the good o' serving them rich common folks 
 if you don't get no good out of them ? Oh for certain 
 sure it's Miss Sara; and she's taken a fancy to you." 
 
 "What do you mean by common folks?" asked 
 Pamela, already disposed, as was natural, to take up 
 
190 BROWNLOAVS. 
 
 the cudgels for her new friend. " She is a lady, oh, 
 all down to the very tips of her shoes." 
 
 " Maybe as far as you knows," said Betty, " but I've 
 been here off and on for forty years, and I mind the 
 old Squires ; not saying no harm of IMiss Sara, as is 
 very open-handed; but you mind my words, you'll 
 see plenty of her for a bit — she's took a fancy to 
 you." 
 
 ''Do you think so, really, Betty?" said Pamela, 
 with brightening eyes. 
 
 "What I says is for a bit," said Betty; ''don't 
 you take up as I'm meaning more — for a bit, Miss 
 Pammly ; that's how tliem sort does. She's one as 
 'ill come every day, and then, when she's other things 
 in hand like, or other folks, or feels a bit tired " 
 
 " Yes, perhaps," said Pamela, who had grown very 
 red ; " but that need not have any effect on me. If 
 I was fond of any one, I would never, never change, 
 whatever they might do — not if they were to be cruel 
 and unkind — not if they were to forget me " 
 
 Here the little girl started, and became very silent 
 all in a moment. The blush of indignation on her 
 cheek passed, and was followed by a softer sweeter 
 colour, and her words died away on her lips. And 
 her eyes, which had been shining on old Betty with 
 all the magnanimity of youth, went down, and were 
 covered up under the blue-veined, long-fringed eye- 
 
BROWXLOWS. 191 
 
 lids. The fact Avas, some one else had come into the 
 lodge — had come without knocking, in a very noise- 
 less, stealthy sort of way — " as if he meant it." And 
 this new-comer was no less a person than !Mr John. 
 
 *' My sister says you are ill, Betty," said Jack ; 
 " what do you mean by being ill ? I am to send in 
 one of your grandchildren from ^lasterton. What do 
 you say? Shall I? or should you rather be alone?" 
 
 " It's allays you for the thoughtful one, Mr John," 
 said Betty, gratefully ; " though you're a gentleman, 
 and it don't stand to reason. But Miss Sara's a-going 
 to pay ; and if there's a little as is to be arned honest, 
 I'm not one as would send it past my own. There's 
 little Betsy, as is a tidy bit of a thing. But I ain't 
 ill, not to say ill, no more nor Miss Pammly here is 
 ill — her as had her ankle sprained in that awful 
 snow." 
 
 ^Ir John made what Pamela thought a very grand 
 bow at this point of Betty's speech. He had taken 
 his hat off when he came in. Betty's doctor, when 
 he came to see her, did not take off his hat, not even 
 when Pamela was present. The little girl had very 
 quick eyes, and she did not fail to mark the differ- 
 ence. After he had made his bow, Mr John somehow 
 seemed to forget Betty. It was to the little stranger 
 his words, his eyes, his looks, were addressed. " I 
 hope you are better ?" he said. " I took the liberty 
 
192 BROWNLOAVS. 
 
 of going to your house to ask, but Mrs Swayne used 
 to turn me away." 
 
 *' Oh, thank you ; you are very kind," said Pamela ; 
 and then she added, " Mrs Swayne is very funny. 
 Mamma would have liked to have thanked you, I 
 am sure." 
 
 " And I am sure I did not want any thanks," said 
 Jack ; " only to know. You are sure you are better 
 now?" 
 
 " Oh, much better," said Pamela; and then there 
 came a pause. It was more than a pause. It 
 was a dead stop, with no apparent possibility of re- 
 vival. Pamela, for her part, like an inexperienced 
 little girl, fidgeted on her chair, and wrapped her- 
 self close in her cloak. Was that all ? His sister 
 had a great deal more to say. Jack, though he 
 was not inexperienced, was almost for the moment 
 as awkward as Pamela. He went across the room 
 to look at the picture out of the ' Illustrated News ;' 
 and he spoke to Betty's bird, which had just been 
 regaled with the bit of plantain Pamela had brought; 
 and, at last, when all those little exercises had been 
 gone through, he came back. 
 
 " I hope you like living here," he said. "It is 
 cold and bleak now, but in summer it is very pretty. 
 You came at the worst time of the year ; but I hope 
 you mean to stay?" 
 
BROWNLOWS. 103 
 
 " Oh yes, we like it," said Pamela; and then there 
 came another pause. 
 
 " My sister is quite pleased to think of having 
 you for a neighbour," said Jack. It was quite extra- 
 ordinary how stupid he was. He could talk well 
 enough sometimes ; but at this present moment he 
 had not a syllable to say. " Except ^liss Hardcastle 
 at the Eectory, she has nobody near, and my father 
 and I are so much away." 
 
 Pamela looked up at him with a certain sweet 
 surprise in her eyes. Could he too really think her 
 a fit friend for his sister ? " It is very kind of ^liss 
 Brownlow," she said, " but I am only — I mean I 
 don't think I am — I — I am always with my mother." 
 
 " But your mother would not like you to be shut 
 up," said Jack, coming a little nearer. " I always 
 look over the way now when I pass. To see bright 
 faces instead of blank windows is quite pleasant. I 
 daresay you never notice us." 
 
 " Oh yes," cried Pamela. " And that pretty horse ! 
 It is such fun to live there and see you aU passing." 
 She said this forgetting herself, and then she met old 
 Betty's gaze and grew conscious again. " I mean we 
 are always so quiet," she said, and began once more 
 to examine the binding of her cloak. 
 
 At this moment the bell from the great house 
 began to tinkle pleasantly in the wintry air : it was 
 
 VOL. I. N 
 
194 BEOWNLOWS. 
 
 another of Pamela's amusements. And it marked 
 the dinner-hour at which her mother would look for 
 her; hut how was she to move with this young 
 man behind her chair ? Betty, however, was not so 
 delicate. " I always sets my clock by the luncheon- 
 bell,'' said old Betty. " There it's a-going, bless it ! 
 I has my dinner by it regular, and I sets my clock. 
 Don't you go for to stir, ]\Iiss Pammly. Bless you, 
 I don't mind you ! And Mr John, he's a-going to 
 his lunch. Don't you mind. I'll set my little bit 
 of a table ready ; but I has it afore the fire in this 
 cold weather, and it don't come a-nigh of you." 
 
 " Oh, mamma will want me," said Pamela. " I 
 shall come back another time and see you." She 
 made Jack a little curtsy as she got up, but to her 
 confusion he came out with her and opened the gate 
 for her, and sauntered across the road by her side. 
 
 " I am not going to lunch — I am going to ride. 
 So you have noticed the mare ?" said Jack. " I am 
 rather proud of her. She is a beauty. You should 
 see how she goes when the road is clear. I suppose 
 I shall have to go now, for here come the horses 
 and Motherwell. He is one of those men who 
 always turn up just when they're not wanted," Jack 
 continued, opening the gate of Mrs Swayne's little 
 garden for Pamela. ]\Irs Swayne herself was at the 
 window up-stairs, and Mrs Preston was at the par- 
 
BROWNLOWS. 195 
 
 lour window looking out for lier child. They both 
 saw that wonderful sight. Young !Mr Brownlow 
 with his hat off holding open the little gate, and 
 looking down into the little face, which was so 
 flushed with pleasure and pride, and embarrassment 
 and innocent shame. As for Pamela herself, she did 
 not know if she were Avalking on solid ground or on 
 air. ^Yllen the door closed behind her, and she 
 found herself in the dingy little passage with no- 
 thing but her dinner before her, and the dusky after- 
 noon, and her work, her heart gave a little cry of 
 impatience. But she was in the parlour time enough 
 to see Jack spring on his horse and trot off into the 
 simshine with his tall companion. They went off 
 into the sunshine, but in the parlour it was deepest 
 shade, for Mr Swayne had so cleverly contrived his 
 house that the sunshine never entered. Its shadow 
 hung across the road stretching to the gate of 
 Brownlows, almost the whole day, which made 
 everything dingier than it was naturally. This was 
 what Pamela experienced when she came in out of 
 the bright air, out of sight of those young faces and 
 young voices. Could she ever have anything to do 
 with them? Or was it only a kind of dream, too 
 pleasant, too sweet to come to anything ? It was 
 her very first outset in life, and she was aware that 
 she was not much of a heroine. Perhaps it was 
 
I 
 
 196 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 only the accident of an hour ; but even that was 
 pleasant if it should be no more. This, when she 
 had told all about it, and filled the afternoon with 
 the reflected glory, was the philosophical conclusion 
 to which Pamela came at last. 
 
CHAPTEE XII. 
 
 NEWS OF FRIENDS. 
 
 " But you must not set your heart upon it, my dar- 
 ling," said Mrs Preston. " It may be or it mayn't be 
 — nobody can say. And you must not get to blame 
 the young lady if she thinks better of it. They are 
 very rich, and they have all the best people in the 
 county coming and going. And you are but my poor 
 little girl, with no grand friends ; and you mustn't 
 take it to heart and be disappointed. If you were 
 doing that, though it's such good air and so quiet, 
 I'd have to take my darling away." 
 
 " I won't, mamma," said Pamela ; " I'll be good. 
 But you say yourself that it may be " 
 
 " Yes," said the mother ; " young creatures like 
 that are not so worldly-minded — at least, sometimes 
 they're not. She might take a fancy to you ; but 
 you mustn't build on it, Pamela. That's all, my 
 dear. We're humble folks, and the like of us don't 
 
198 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 go visiting at great houses. And even you've not 
 got the education, my darling ; and nothing but your 
 black frocks " 
 
 " Oh, mamma, do you think I want to visit at 
 great houses ? " cried Pamela. " I should not know 
 what to say nor how to behave. AMiat I should like 
 would be to go and see her in the mornings when 
 nobody was there, and be her little companion, and 
 listen to her talking, and to see her dressed when she 
 was going out. 1 know we are poor ; but she might 
 get fond of me for all that " 
 
 " Yes, dear," said Mrs Preston, " I think she is a 
 very nice young lady. I wish her mamma had been 
 living, Pamela. If there had been a good woman 
 that had children of her own, living at that great 
 house, I think it would have been a comfort to me." 
 
 " Mamma, I can't think why you should always 
 be speaking like that," said Pamela, with a cloud on 
 her brow. 
 
 " You would soon know why if you were as old as 
 me," said the mother. " I can't forget I'm old, and 
 how little strength I've got left. And I shouldn't 
 like my pet to be disappointed," she said, rising and 
 drawing Pamela's pretty head to her, as she stood 
 behind her chair ; '' don't you build upon it, dear. 
 And now I'm oroinir into the kitchen for five minutes 
 to ask for poor Mr Swayne." 
 
BROWNLOWS. 199 
 
 It was a tiling she did almost every night, and 
 Pamela was not surprised ; perhaps it was even a 
 relief to her to have a few minutes all to herself to 
 think over the wonderful events of the day. To be 
 sure, it had been about Sara alone, and her overtures 
 of friendship, that the mother and daughter had been 
 talking. But when Pamela was by herself, she re- 
 collected, naturally, that there had been another 
 actor on the scene. She did not think of asking her 
 mother, or even herself, if ^Ir John was to be de- 
 pended on, or if there was any danger of disappoint- 
 ment in respect to him. Indeed, Pamela was so 
 wise that she did not, as she said to herself, think at 
 all about this branch of the subject ; for, of course, 
 it was not likely she would ever make great friends 
 with a young gentleman. The peculiarity of the 
 matter was that, though she was not thinking of Mr 
 John, she seemed to see him standing before her, hold- 
 ing the gate open, looking into her face, and saying 
 that Motherwell was one of the men that always turn- 
 ed up when they were least wanted. She was not 
 thinking of Jack ; and was it her fault if this picture 
 had fixed itself on her retina, if that is the name of 
 it ? She went and sat down on the rug before the 
 fire, and gazed into the glow, and thought it all over. 
 After a while she even put her hands over her eyes, 
 that she might think it over the more perfectly. 
 
200 BEOWXLOWS. 
 
 And it is astonishing how often this picture came 
 between her and her thoughts ; but, thank heaven, it 
 was only a picture ! Whatever Pamela might be 
 thinking of, it was certainly not of Mr John. 
 
 Mrs Swayne's kitchen was by far the most cheer- 
 ful place in the house. It had a brick floor, which 
 Avas as red as the hearth was white, and a great array 
 of shining things about the walls. There was a 
 comfortable cat dozing and blinking before the fire, 
 which was reflected out of so many glowing surfaces, 
 copper, pewter, and tin, that the walls were hung 
 wdth a perfect gallery of cats. Mrs Swayne herself 
 had a wickerwork chair at one side, which she very 
 seldom occupied ; for there was a great multiplicity of 
 meals in the house, and there was always sometliing 
 just coming to perfection in the oven or on the fire. 
 But opposite, in a high-backed chair covered with 
 blue and wdiite checked linen, was Mr Swayne, who 
 was the object of so much care, and was subject to 
 the rheumatics, like Betty. The difference of his 
 rheumatics was, that they went off and on. One day 
 he would be well — so well as to go out and see after 
 his business ; and the next day he would be fixed in 
 his easy-chair. Perhaps, on the whole, it was more 
 aggravating than if he had gone in steadily for a good 
 long bout when he was at it, and saved his wife's 
 time. But then that was the nature of the man. 
 
BROWNLOWS. 201 
 
 Tliere was a visitor in the kitchen when Mrs Preston 
 went in — no less a personage than old Betty, who, 
 with a daring disregard for her rlieumatics, had come 
 across the road, wrapped in an old cloak, to talk 
 over the news of the day. It was a rash proceeding, 
 no doubt ; but yet rheumatics were very ordinary 
 affairs, and it was seldom — very seldom — that any- 
 tliing so exciting came in Betty's way. Mrs Swayne, 
 for her part, had been very eloquent about it before 
 her lodger appeared. 
 
 "/'d make short work with him," she said, " if it 
 was me. J'd send him about his business, you take 
 my word. It ain't me as would trust one of 'em 
 a step further than I could see 'em. Coming a- 
 raging and a-roaring round of a house, as soon as 
 they found out as there was a poor little tender bit 
 of a lamb to devour." 
 
 "What is that you say about a bit o' lamb, 
 Kancy ?" cried Mr Swayne ; " that's an awful treat, 
 that is, at this time of the year. I reckon it's for 
 the new lodgers and not for us. I'll devour it, and 
 welcome, my lass, if you'll set it afore me." 
 
 Mrs Swayne gave no direct answer to this 
 question. She cast a glance of mild despair at 
 Betty, who answered by lifting up her hands in 
 sympathy and commiseration. " That's just like 
 the men," said Mrs Swavne. " Talk o' something to 
 
202 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 put into them, and that's all as they care for. It's 
 what a poor woman has to put up with late and 
 early. Always a-craving and a -craving, and you 
 ne'er out of a mess, dinner and supper — dinner and 
 supper. But as I was a-saying, if it Avas me, he 
 should never have the chance of a word in her ear 
 again." 
 
 " It's my opinion, ]\Irs Swayne," said Betty, 
 unwinding her cloak a little, " as in those sort of 
 cases it's mostly the mother's fault." 
 
 "I don't know what you mean by the mother's 
 fault," said Mrs Swayne, who was contradictory, and 
 liked to take the initiative. '' She never set eyes on 
 him, as I can tell, poor soul. And how was she to 
 know as they were all about in the avenue ? It's 
 none o' the mother's fault; but if it was me, now 
 as they've took the first step " 
 
 " That was all as I meant," said Betty, humbly ; 
 " now as it's come to that, I would take her off, as it 
 were, this very day." 
 
 "And a deal of good you'd do with that," said 
 Mrs Swayne, with natural indignation ; " take her 
 off! and leave my parlour empty, and have him 
 a-running after her from one place to another. I 
 thought you was one as knew better; I'd brave it 
 out if it was me — he shouldn't get no advantages in 
 my way o' working. Husht both of you, and hold 
 
BROWNLOWS. 203 
 
 your tongues ; I never see the like of you f(jr talk, 
 Swayne — when here's the poor lady out o' tlie 
 parlour as can't abide a noise. Better? ay, a deal 
 better, ^Mrs Preston : if he wasn't one as adored a 
 good easy-chair afore the fire " 
 
 " And a very good place, too, this cold weather," 
 said Mr Swayne, with a feeble chuckle. "Xancy, 
 you tell the lady about the lamb." 
 
 Mrs Swayne and Betty once more exchanged 
 looks of plaintive comment. " That's him all over," 
 she said ; " but you're one as understands what men 
 is, Mrs Preston, and I've no need to explain. I 
 hear as Miss Sara took awful to our young Miss, 
 meeting of her promiscuous in the avenue. Betty 
 here, she says as it was wonderful; but I always 
 thought myself as that was how it would be." 
 
 " Yes," said the gratified mother ; " not that I 
 would have my Pamela build upon it. A young 
 lady like that might change her mind ; but I don't 
 deny that it would be very nice. Whatever is a 
 pleasure to Pamela is twice a pleasure to me." 
 
 " And a sweet young lady as ever I set eyes on," 
 said Betty, seizing the opportunity, and making 
 Mrs Preston one of her usual bobs. 
 
 Pamela's mother was not a lady born ; the two 
 women, who were in their way respectful to her, saw 
 this with lynx eyes. She was not even rich enough. 
 
204 BIIOWNLOWS. 
 
 poor sold, to have the appearance of a lady ; and it 
 would have been a little difficult for them to have 
 explained why they were so civil. No doubt prin- 
 cipally it was because they knew so little of her, and 
 her appearance had the semi-dignity of preoccupation 
 — a thing very difficult to be comprehended in that 
 region of society which is wont to express all its 
 sentiments freely. She had something on her mind, 
 and she did not relieve herself by talking, and she 
 lived in the parlour, while Mrs Swayne contented 
 herself with the kitchen. That was about the extent 
 of her claim on their respect. 
 
 " I suppose you are all very fond of Miss Sara, 
 knowing her all her life," Mrs Preston said, after she 
 had received very graciously Betty's tribute to her 
 own child. Though she warned Pamela against 
 building on it, it would be hard to describe the fairy 
 structures which had already sprung in her own 
 mind on these slight foundations ; and though she 
 would not have breathed his name for worlds, it is 
 possible that Pamela's mother, in her visions, found 
 a place for Mr John too. 
 
 " Fond ! I don't know as we're so fond of her 
 neither," said ]\Irs Swayne. " She's well, and well 
 enough, but I can't say as she's my sort. She's too 
 kind of familiar like — and it ain't like a real county 
 lady neither. But it's Betty as sees her most. And 
 
BROWXLOWS. 205 
 
 awful good they are, I will say that for them, to 
 every creature about the place." 
 
 "Ah, mum, they ain't the real old gentry," said 
 Betty, with a touch of pathos. " If I was one as 
 
 had come with 'em, or that but I'm real old 
 
 Dewsbury, me, and was at the Hall, coming and 
 going, for twenty years afore their time. I ain't got 
 nothing to say again' Miss Sara. She comed there, 
 that's all — she wasn't horn. It makes a difference 
 when folks have been forty years and more about a 
 place. To see them pass away as has the right," 
 said Betty, growing sentimental, " and them come in 
 as has only a bag o' money 1 " 
 
 "Little enough money the old Squire had," said 
 Mrs Swayne, tossing her head, " nor manners neither. 
 Don't you be ungrateful, Betty Caley. You was as 
 poor as a church-mouse all along o' your old Squires, 
 and got as fat as fat when the new folks come and 
 put you all comfortable. Deny it, if you can. I 
 would worship the very ground Miss Sara sets foot 
 on, if I was you." 
 
 "Ah, she ain't the real old gentry," said Betty, 
 with a sigh. 
 
 Perhaps Mrs Preston had a weakness for real old 
 gentry too, and she had a dull life, poor woman, and 
 was glad of a little gossip. She had heard the story 
 before, but she asked to hear it again, hoping for a 
 
206 BEOWXLOWS. 
 
 little amusement; for a woman, however bowed 
 down to the level of her fortune, gets tired some- 
 times, even of such a resource as needlework. She 
 w^ould not sit down, for she felt that might be con- 
 sidered lowering herself to their level. But she stood 
 with her hand upon the back of an old high wooden 
 chair, and asked questions. If they were not the 
 real old gentry, and were such upstarts, why was it 
 that the place was called l)y their name, and how did 
 they come there ? 
 
 " Some say as it was a poor old creature in Mas- 
 terton as give him the money," said Mrs Swayne, 
 " away from her own child, as was gone off a-soldier- 
 ing. I wouldn't say it was money that would thrive. 
 He was called to make the will for her, or some- 
 thing; an old miser, that was what she was; and 
 with that he bought the place. And the folks 
 laughed, and said it was Brownlow's. But he ain't 
 a man to laugh at, ain't Islv Brownlow hisself. A 
 body may have their opinion about the young folks. 
 Young folks ain't nothing much to build upon, as 
 you was a-saying, Mrs Preston, at their best ; but I 
 wouldn't be the one as would cross him hisself. 
 He's terrible deep, and terrible close, like all them 
 lawyers. And he has a way of talking as is dreadful 
 deceiving. Them as tries to fight honest and open 
 with the likes of him hasn't no chance. He ain't a 
 
BROAVXLOWS. 207 
 
 hard neighbour like, nor unkind to poor folk ; but I 
 wouldn't go again' him, not for all tlie world, if it 
 was me." 
 
 " That's all you know, you women," said Mr 
 Swayne ; " he's the easiest-minded gentleman going, 
 is Mr Brownlow. He's one as pays your little bits 
 o' bills like a prince, and don't ask no bothering 
 questions — what's this for, and what's that for, and 
 all them ni<Tf::le - na^jcrles. He's as free with his 
 
 OO CO 
 
 money "What are you two women a-shaking 
 
 of your heads off for, as if I was a-saying what 
 isn't true?" 
 
 " It's true, and it ain't true," said Mrs Swayne ; 
 " and if you ever was anyway in trouble along of the 
 young folks, Mrs Preston, or had him to do with, I 
 gdve you my warning you'll have to mind." 
 
 " I shall never have anything to do with Mr 
 Brownlow," said the lodger, with a half-frightened 
 smile. " I'm independent. He can't have anything 
 to say to me." 
 
 Mrs Swayne shook her head, and so did Betty, 
 following her lead. The landlady did not very well 
 know why, and neither did the old woman. It was 
 always a practicable way of holding up the beacon 
 before the eyes of Pamela's mother. And that poor 
 soul, who was not veiy courageous, grew frightened, 
 she could not tell why. 
 
208 BllOWXLOWS. 
 
 " But tliere was something to-day as made me 
 laugh," said old Betty — " not as I was in spirits for 
 laughing — what with my back, as was like to split, 
 and my bad knee, and tliem noises in my ears. But 
 just to see how folks forget ! Miss Sara she came 
 in. She was along of your young !Miss, mum, and 
 a-making a fuss over her ; and she says, ' Betty,' 
 says she, ' we ain't a-going to let you open the gate, 
 and your rheumatics so bad ; send for one of them 
 grandchildren o' yours.' Atween oursels, I was just 
 a-thinking o' that; for what's enough for one is 
 enough for two, and it's allays a saving for Polly. 
 My Polly has seven on 'em, mum, and hard work 
 a-keeping all straight. So I up and says, ' A poor 
 man's children is his fortin. Miss,' says I ; ' they're 
 all on em' a-working at summat, ^nd I can't have 
 em without paying.' And no more I oughtn't to, 
 serving rich folks. ' What ! not for their grand- 
 mother?' says she; 'if I had a nice old grand- 
 mother like you ' " 
 
 " Law ! " said Mrs Swayne, " and her own grand- 
 mother living in a poky bit of a place in Masterton, 
 as everybody knows — never brought out here for a 
 breath of fresh air, nor none of them going a-nigh of 
 her 1 To think how little folks is sensible when it's 
 themselves as is to blame ! " 
 
 " That's what it is," said the triumphant Betty. 
 
BROWXLOWS. 201) 
 
 " When she said that, it was her conscience as spoke. 
 She went as red as red, and stopped there and tlien. 
 It was along of old Mrs Fennell, poor old soul ! 
 Why ain't she a-living out here, and her own flesh 
 and blood to make her comfortable ? It was on my 
 lips to say, * Law ! !Miss, there's old Mrs Fennell is 
 older nor me.' " 
 
 " Fennell ? " said Mrs Preston ; '' I ought to know 
 that name." 
 
 " It was her own mamma's name," said Betty. 
 " Hobson, the carrier, he goes and sees her regular 
 with game and things ; but what's game in com- 
 parison with your own flesh and blood ? " 
 
 "Perhaps the mother died young," said Mrs 
 Preston, with some anxiety — " that breaks the link, 
 like. Fennell? I wonder what Fennells she be- 
 longs to. I once knew that name well. I wish the 
 old lady was li^dng here." 
 
 " You take my word, she'll never live here," said 
 [Mrs Swayne. " She ain't grand enough. Old grand- 
 mothers is in the way when young folks sets up for 
 lords and ladies. And it ain't that far to Masterton 
 but you could go and see her. There's Hobson, he 
 knows ; he'd take you safe, never fear." 
 
 Mrs Preston shrank back a little from the sug- 
 gestion. " I'm not one to pay visits," she said. 
 " But I'll say gO(xl-night to you all, now. I hope 
 
 VOL. 1. 
 
210 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 you'll soon be better, Mr Swayne. And, Betty, you 
 should not be out of doors on such a cold night. 
 My child will be dull, all by herself." So saying, 
 she left them ; but she did not that moment return 
 to Pamela. She went up-stairs by herself in the 
 dark, with her heart beating quick in her ears. 
 " Fennell ! " she was savinc^ to herself — " I oudit 
 
 I/O o 
 
 to know that name." It was very dark on the road, 
 and there was nothing visible from the window but 
 the red glow from Betty's lodge, where the door 
 stood innocently open ; but notwithstanding Mrs 
 Preston went and looked out, as if the scene could 
 have thrown any enlightenment upon her thoughts. 
 She was excited about it, unimportant though the 
 matter seemed. What if perhaps she might be on 
 the trace of friends — people who would be good to 
 Pamela ? There was once a Fennell — Tom Fennell 
 
 — who ages ago No doubt he was dead and 
 
 gone, with everybody who had belonged to her far- 
 off early life. But standing there in the darkness, 
 pressing her withered cheek close to the window, 
 as if there was something to be seen outside, it 
 went through the old woman's mind how, perhaps, 
 if she had chosen Tom Fennell instead of the other 
 one, things might have been different. If any life 
 could ever have been real to the liver of it, surely 
 her hard life, her many toils and sufferings, must 
 
BROWNLOWS. 211 
 
 have been such sure fact as to leave no room for 
 fancy. Yet so truly, even to an unimaginative 
 woman, was this fantastic existence such stuff as 
 dreams are made of, that she stopped to think what 
 
 the difference might have been if She was 
 
 nearly sixty, worn even beyond her years, incapable 
 of very much thinking ; and yet she took a moment 
 to herself ere she could join her child, and permitted 
 herself this strange indulgence. AMien she descend- 
 ed the stairs again, still in the dark, going softly, 
 and with a certain thrill of excitement, Mrs Pres- 
 ton's mind was full of dreams more unreal than 
 those which Pamela pondered before the fire. She 
 was forming visions of a sweet, kind, fair old lady 
 who would be good to Pamela. Already her heart 
 was lighter for the thought. If she should be ill 
 or feel any signs of breaking up, what a comfort to 
 mount into the carrier's cart and go and commend 
 her child to such a protector ! If she had conceived 
 at once the plan of marr}^ing Pamela to Mr John, 
 and making her at one sweep mistress of Brownlows, 
 the idea would have been wisdom itself in com- 
 parison ; but she did not know that, poor soul ! 
 
 She came down with a visionary glow about her 
 heart, the secret of which she told to no one, and 
 roused up Pamela, who looked half dazed and 
 dazzled as she drew her hands from before her 
 
212 BEOWXLOWS. 
 
 face and rose from the rug she had been seated 
 on. Pamela had been dreaming, but not more than 
 her mother. She almost looked as if she had been 
 sleeping as she opened her dazzled eyes. There 
 are times when one sees clearer with one's eyes 
 closed. The child had been looking at that picture 
 of hers so long that she felt guilty when her mother 
 woke her up. She had a kind of shamefaced con- 
 sciousness, Mr John having been so long about, 
 that her mother must find his presence out — not 
 knomng that her mother was preoccupied and full 
 of her own imaginations too. But they did not 
 say anything to each other about their dreams. 
 They dropped into silence, each over her work, as 
 people are so ready to do who have something to 
 think of Pamela's little field of imagination was 
 limited, and did not carry her much beyond the 
 encounters of to-day ; but Mrs Preston bent her 
 head over her sewing with many an old scene 
 coming up in her mind. She remembered the day 
 when Tom Fennell "spoke" to her first, as vividly 
 in all its particulars as Pamela recollected Jack 
 Brownlow's looks as he stood at the door. How 
 strange if it should be the same Fennells ! if Pa- 
 mela's new friends should be related to her old 
 one — if this lady at Masterton should be the woman 
 in all the world pointed out by Providence to 
 
BROWXLOWS. 213 
 
 succour her darling. Poor ^Irs Preston uttered 
 praises to Providence unawares — she seemed to see 
 the blessed, yet crooked, ways by which she had 
 been drawn to such a discovery. Her heart accepted 
 it as a plan long ago concerted in heaven for her 
 help when she was most helpless, to surprise her, 
 as it were, with the infinite thought taken for her, 
 and tender kindness. These were the feelings that 
 rose and swelled in her mind and went on from 
 step to step of further certainty. One thing was 
 very confusing, it is true ; but still when a woman 
 is in such a state of mind, she can swallow a 
 good many confusing particulars. It was to make 
 out what could be the special relationship (taking 
 it for granted that there was a relationship) be- 
 tween Tom Fennell and this old lady. She could 
 not well have been his mother ; perhaps his wife — 
 his widow! Tliis was scarcely a palatable thought, 
 but still she swallowed it — swallowed it, and pre- 
 ferred to think of something else, and permitted the 
 matter to fall back into its former uncertainty. AVbat 
 did it matter about particulars when Providence had 
 been so good to her ? Dying itself would be little if 
 she could but make sure of friends for Pamela. She 
 sang, as it were, a " Xunc dimittis " in her soul. 
 
 Thus the acquaintance began between the young 
 people at the great house and little Pamela in ^Irs 
 
214 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 Swayne's cottage. It was not an acquaintance wliicli 
 was likely to arise in tlie ordinary course of affairs, 
 and naturally it called forth a little comment. Pro- 
 bably, had the mother been living, as Mrs Preston 
 wished, Sara would never have formed so unequal a 
 friendship ; but it was immaterial to Mr Brownlow, 
 who heard his child talk of her companion, and was 
 pleased to think she was pleased ; and, prepossessed 
 by the pretty face at the window which so often 
 gleamed out upon him, he himself, though he scarcely 
 saw any more of her than that passing glimpse in the 
 morning, was taken with a certain fondness for the 
 lovely little girl. He no longer said she was like 
 Sara ; she was like a face he had seen somewhere, 
 he said, and he never failed to look out for her, and 
 after a while gave her a friendly nod as he passed. 
 It was more difficult to find out what were Jack's 
 sentiments. He too saw a great deal of the little 
 stranger, but it was in, of course, an accidental way. 
 He used to happen to be in the avenue when she was 
 coming or going. He happened to be in the park 
 now and then when the spring brightened, and Pamela 
 was able to take long walks. These things, of course, 
 were pure accident, and he made no particular men- 
 tion of them. As for Pamela herself, she would say, 
 " I met Mr John," in her innocent way, but that was 
 about aU. It is true that Mrs Swayne in the cottage 
 
BROWN LOWS. 215 
 
 and Betty at the lodge both kept very close watch 
 on the young people's proceedings. If these two had 
 met at the other end of the parish, Betty, notwith- 
 standing her rheumatics, would have managed to 
 know it. But the only one who was aware of this 
 scrutiny was Jack. Thus the spring came on, and 
 the days grew pleasant. It was pleasant for them 
 all, as the buds opened and the great chestnut-blos- 
 soms began to rise in milky spires among the big 
 half-folded leaves. Even Mrs Preston opened and 
 smoothed out, and took to white caps and collars, 
 and felt as if she might live till Pamela was five-and- 
 twenty. Five-and-twenty is not a great age, but it is 
 less helpless than seventeen, and in a last extremity 
 there was always Mrs Fennell in Masterton who 
 could be appealed to. Sometimes even the two 
 homely sentinels who watched over Pamela would 
 relax in those lingering spring nights. Old Betty, 
 though she was worldly-minded, was yet a motherly 
 kind of old woman ; her heart smote her when she 
 looked in Pamela's face. " And why shouldn't he be 
 honest and true, and marry a pretty lass if it was his 
 fancy ?" Betty would say. But as for Mrs Swayne, 
 she thanked Providence she had been in temptation 
 herself, and knew what that sort meant ; which was 
 much more than any of the others did, up to this 
 moment — Jack, probably, least of all. 
 
CHAPTEE XIII. 
 
 A CRISIS. 
 
 All this time affairs had been going on very quietly 
 in the office. Mr Bro\A'nlow came and went every 
 day, and Jack when it suited him, and business 
 went on as usual. As for young Powys, he had 
 turned out an admirable clerk. Nothing could be 
 more punctual, more painstaking than he was. Mr 
 AVrinkell the head-clerk was so pleased that he 
 invited him to tea and chapel on Sunday, which was 
 an offer the stranger had not despised. And it was 
 known that he had taken a little tiny house in the 
 outskirts, not the Dewsbury way, but at the other 
 side of the town — a little house with a garden, where 
 he had been seen j^lanting primroses, to the great 
 amusement of the other clerks. They had tried jeers, 
 but the jeers were not witty, and Powys's patience 
 was found to have limits. And he was so big and 
 strong, and looked so completely as if he meant it. 
 
BROWXLOWS. 217 
 
 that the merriment soon came to an end, and he was 
 allowed to take his own way. They said he was 
 currying favour with old AVrinkell; they said he 
 Avas trying to humbug the governor ; they said he 
 had his pleasures his own way, and kept close about 
 them. But all these arrows did not touch the junior 
 clerk. Mr Brownlow watched the young man out of 
 his private office with the most anxious mixture of 
 feelings. Wrinkell himself, though he was of thirty 
 years' standing in the office, and his employer and 
 he had been youths together, did not occupy nearly 
 so much room in Mr Brownlow's favour as this 
 " new fellow." He took a livelier interest even in 
 the papers that had come through his protege s 
 hands. " This is Powys's work, is it ? " he would 
 say, as he looked at the fair sheets which cost other 
 people so much trouble. Powys did his work very 
 well for one thing, but that did not explain it. IMr 
 Brownlow got into a way of drawing back the cur- 
 tain which covered the glass partition between his 
 own room and the outer office. He would draw 
 back this curtain, accidentally as it were, the least 
 in the world, and cast his eyes now and then on the 
 desk at which the young man sat. He thought 
 sometimes it was a pity to keep him there, a broad- 
 shouldered, deep-chested fellow like tliat, at a desk, 
 and consulted with himself wliether he could not 
 
218 BROAVXLOWS. 
 
 make some partial explanation to him, and advance 
 liim money and send him off to a farm in his native 
 Canada. It would be better for Powys, and it would 
 be better for Brownlows. But he had not the cour- 
 age to take such a direct step. Many a thought was 
 in his mind as he sat glancing by times from the side 
 of the curtain — compunctions and self-reproaches 
 now and then, but chiefly, it must be confessed, more 
 selfish thoughts. Business went on just the same, 
 but yet it cannot be denied that an occasional terror 
 seized Mr WrinkelFs spirit that his principal's mind 
 was "beginning to go." "And young John never 
 was fit to hold the candle to him," Mr Wrinkell said, 
 in those moments of privacy when he confided his 
 cares to tlie wife of his bosom. " When our Mr 
 Brownlow goes, the business will go, you'll see that. 
 His opinion on that Waterworks case was not so clear 
 as it used to be — not near so clear as it used to be ; 
 he'll sit for an hour at a time and never put pen to 
 paper. He is but a young man yet, for his time of 
 life, but I'm afraid he's beginning to go ; and when 
 he goes, the business will go. You'll see young John, 
 with his fine notions, will never keep it up for a year." 
 
 " AVell, Thomas, never mind," said Mrs WrinkeU ; 
 '' it's sure to last out our time." 
 
 " Ah ! that's just like women," said her husband 
 — " after me the Deluge ; but I can tell you I do 
 
BROWXLOWS. 219 
 
 mind." He had the same opinion of women as ^Irs 
 Swayne had of men, and it sprang* from personal 
 superiority in both cases, which is stronger than 
 theory. But still he did let himself be comforted 
 by the feminine suggestion. " There will be peace 
 in my time;" this was the judgment formed by his 
 head-clerk who knew so well of Mr Brownlow's 
 altered ways. 
 
 All this went on for some months after the 
 admission of young Powys, and then all at once 
 there was a change. The change made itself ap- 
 parent in the Canadian to begin with. At first it 
 was only like a shadow creeping over the young 
 man ; then by degrees the difference grew more 
 and more marked. He ceased to be held up as a 
 model by the sorrowing Wrinkell ; he ceased to be 
 an example of the punctual and accurate. His eyes 
 began to be red and bloodshot in the mornings ; he 
 looked weary, heavy, languid — sick of work, and 
 sick of everything. Evidently he had taken to bad 
 ways. So all his companions in the office con- 
 cluded, not without satisfaction. Mr Wrinkell made 
 up his mind to it sorrowing. " I've seen many go, 
 but I thought the root of the matter was in him," 
 he said to his domestic counsellor. " WeU, Thomas, 
 we did our best for him," that sympathetic woman 
 replied. It was not everybody that Mr Wrinkell 
 
220 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 would have asked to chapel and tea. And this was 
 how his kindness was to be rewarded. As for Mr 
 Browulow, when he awoke to a sense of the change, 
 it had a very strange effect iipoh him. He had a 
 distinct impression of pain, for he liked the lad, 
 about whom he knew so much more than anybody 
 else knew. And in the midst of his pain there 
 came a G;uiltv throb of satisfaction, which woke 
 him thoroughly up, and made him ask himself 
 sternly what this all meant. AVas he glad to see 
 the young man go wrong because he stood in his 
 own miserable selfish way \ This was what a few 
 months of such a secret had brought him to. It 
 was now April, and in October the year would be 
 out, and all the danger over. Once more, and 
 always with a deeper impatience, he longed for this 
 moment. It seemed to him, notwithstanding his 
 matured and steady intellect, that if that day had 
 but come, if that hour were but attained, his natural 
 freedom would come back to him. If he had been 
 consulted about his own case, he would have seen 
 through this vain supposition; but it was his own 
 case, and he did not see througli it. ]\Ieanwhile, in 
 the interval, what was he to do ? He drew his 
 curtain aside, and sat and watched the changed 
 looks of this unfortunate boy. He had begun so 
 innocently and well, was he to be allowed to end 
 
BKOWNLOWS. 221 
 
 badly, like so many? Had not he himself, in re- 
 ceiving the lad, and trading as it were on his 
 ignorance, taken on himself something of the re- 
 sponsibility? He sat thinking of this when he 
 ought to have been thinking of other people's busi- 
 ness. There was not one of all his clients wdiose 
 affairs w^re so complicated and engrossing as his 
 own. He was more perplexed and beaten about 
 in his own mind than any of the people who came 
 to ask him for his advice. Oh, the sounding no- 
 things they would bring before him ; he who was 
 engaged in personal conflict with the very first 
 principles of honour and rectitude. Was he to let 
 the lad perish ? was he to interfere ? ^Yhat was he 
 to do? 
 
 At the very height of his perplexity, one of those 
 April days, Mr Brownlow w^as very late at the office. 
 [Rot exactly on account of the confusion of mind he 
 was in, and yet because the intrusion of this personal 
 subject had retarded him in his business. He was 
 there after all the clerks were gone — even ^Ir 
 Wrinkell. He had watched young Powys go away 
 from that very window wliere he had once watched 
 Bessie Fennell passing in her thin cloak. The 
 young man went off by liimself, taking the contrary 
 road, as Mr Brownlow knew, from that which led 
 to his home. He looked ill — he looked unhappy ; 
 
222 BKOWNLOWS. 
 
 and his employer watched him with a sickening 
 at his heart. Was it his fault ? and could he mend 
 it or stop the evil, even were he to make up his 
 mind to try? After that he had more than an 
 hour's work, and sent off the dogcart to wait for him 
 at the Green Man in the market-place. It was very 
 quiet in the office when all his people were gone. 
 As he sat working, there came over him memories 
 of other times when he had worked like this, when 
 his mother would come stealing down to him from 
 the rooms above ; when Bessie would come with her 
 work to sit by him as he finished his. Strange to 
 think that neither Bessie nor his mother were up- 
 stairs now; strange to believe, when you came to 
 think of it, that there was nobody there — that the 
 house was vacant, and his home elsewhere, and all 
 his own generation, his own contemporaries, cut oflP 
 from his side. These ideas floated through his mind 
 as he worked, but they did not impair the sound- 
 ness of the work, as some other thoughts did. His 
 mind was not beginning to go, though Mr Wrinkell 
 thought so. It was even a wonder to himself how 
 quickly, how clearly he got through it; and how 
 fit he was for work yet, though the world was 
 so changed. 
 
 He had finished while it was still good daylight, 
 and put away his papers and buttoned his coat, and 
 
BKO^VNLO^VS. 223 
 
 prepared to set out in an easy way. There was 
 nothing particular to hurry liim. There was Jack's 
 mare, which flew rather than trotted, to take him 
 home. Thus thinking, he went out, drawing on his 
 gloves. Opposite him, as he opened the door, the 
 sky was glowing in the west after the sunset, and he 
 could see a woman's figure against it passing slowly, 
 as if waiting for some one. Before he could shut the 
 door, it became evident that it was for himself she 
 was waiting. Somehow he divined who she was 
 before she said a word. A comely, elderly, motherly 
 woman, dressed like a farmer's or a shopkeeper's 
 wife, in the days when people dressed like their con- 
 dition. She had a large figured shawl on, and a 
 bonnet with black ribbons. And he knew she was 
 Powys's mother — the woman on earth he most 
 dreaded — come to speak to him about her son. 
 
 " Mr Brownlow," she said, coming up to him with 
 a nervous movement of her hand, " I've been wait- 
 ing about this hour not to be troublesome. Oh ! 
 could you let me speak to you ten minutes ? I won't 
 keep you. Oh please, if I might speak to you five 
 minutes now" 
 
 " Surely," he said ; he was not quite sure if it was 
 audible, but he said it with his lips. And he went 
 in and held tlie door open for her. Then, though he 
 never could tell why, he took her up-stairs — not to 
 
224 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 the office which he had just closed, but up to the 
 long-silent drawing-room which he had not entered 
 for years. There came upon his mind an impression 
 that Bessie was surely about somewhere, to come and 
 stand by him, if he could only call her. But in the 
 first place he had to do with his guest. He gave her 
 a chair, and made her sit down, and stood before her. 
 " Tell me how I can serve you," he said. It seemed 
 to him like a dream, and he could not understand it. 
 Would she tell her fatal name, and make her claim, 
 and end it all at once ? That was folly. But still it 
 seemed somehow natural to think that this was why 
 she had come. The woman he had hunted for far 
 and wide — whom he had then neglected and thought 
 no more of — whom lately he had woke up to such 
 horror and fear of, his greatest danger, his worst 
 enemy, — was it she who was sitting so humbly before 
 him now ? 
 
 " I have no right to trouble you, ^Ir Brownlow," 
 she said ; " it's because you were so kind to my boy. 
 Many a time I wanted to come and thank you ; and 
 now — oh, it's a different thing now ! " 
 
 " Your son is young Powys," said Mr Brownlow — 
 " yes ; I knew by — by the face. He has gone home 
 some time ago. I wonder you did not meet him in 
 the street." 
 
 " Gone away from the office — not gone home," said 
 
BROWXLO^VS. 225 
 
 Mrs Powys. " Oli, ^Ir P^rownlow, I want to speak 
 to you about liim. He is as good as gold. He never 
 had another thought in his mind but his sisters and 
 me. He'd come and spend all his time with us when 
 other young men were going about their pleasure. 
 There never was such a son as he was — nor a bro- 
 ther. And oh, ^Ir Brownlow, now it's come to this ! 
 I feel as if it would break my heart." 
 
 " What has it come to ? " said Mr Brownlow. He 
 drew forward a chair and sat down facing her, and 
 the noise he made in doing so seemed to wake thun- 
 ders in the empty house. He had got over his agi- 
 tation by this time, and was as calm as he always 
 was. And his profession came to his help, and 
 opened his eyes and ears to everything that might 
 be of use to him, notwithstanding the effect the 
 house had upon him in its stillness, and this meeting 
 which he had so much reason to fear. 
 
 " Oh, sir, it's come to grief and trouble," said the 
 poor woman. " Something has come between my 
 boy and me. We are parted as far as if the Atlan- 
 tic was between us. I don't know what is in his 
 heart. Oh, sir, it's for your influence I've come. He'll 
 do anything for you. It'6 hard to ask a stranger to 
 help me with my own son, and him so good and so 
 kind ; but if it goes on like this, it will break my 
 heart." 
 
 VOL. I. P 
 
226 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 " I feared there was something wrong," said Mr 
 Brownlow ; '' I feared it, though I never thought it 
 could have gone so far, I'll do what I can, but I 
 fear it is little I can do. If he has taken to bad 
 ways " 
 
 But here the stranger gave a cry of denial which 
 rang through the room. " Bad ways ! — my boy ! " 
 said the mother. " Mr Brownlow, you know a great 
 deal more than I do, but you don't know my son. 
 He taken to bad ways ! I would sooner believe I 
 was wicked myself. I am wicked, to come and com- 
 plain of him to them that don't know." 
 
 " Then what in the name of goodness is it ? " said 
 the lawyer, startled out of his seriousness. He began 
 to lose the tragic sense of a dangerous presence. It 
 might be the woman he feared ; but it was a homely, 
 incoherent, inconsequent personage all the same. 
 
 Mrs Powys drew herself up solemnly. She too 
 was less respectful of the man who did not under- 
 stand. " What it is, sir," she said, slowly, and with 
 a certain pomp, " is, that my boy has something on 
 his mind." 
 
 Something on his mind 1 John Brownlow sank 
 again, into a strange fever of suspense and curiosity 
 and unreasonable panic. Could it be so ? Could the 
 youth have found out something, and be sifting it to 
 get at the truth ? The room seemed to take life and 
 
BROWXLOAVS. 227 
 
 become a conscious spectator, looking at him, to see 
 how he would act in tliis emergency. But yet he 
 persevered in the course he had decided on, not 
 giving in to his own feelings. " What can he have 
 on his mind ?" he asked. His pretended ignorance 
 sounded in his own ears like a lie ; but nevertheless 
 he went on all the same. 
 
 " That's what I don't know, sir," said Mrs Powys, 
 putting her handkerchief to lier eyes. " He's been 
 rummaging among my papers, and he's maybe found 
 something, or he's heard some talk that has put 
 things in his head. I know he has heard things in 
 this very house — people talking about families, and 
 wills, and all that. His father was of a very good 
 family, Mr Brownlow. I don't know them, but T 
 know they're rich people. Maybe it's that, or per- 
 haps but I don't know how to account for it. 
 
 It's something that is eating into his heart. And 
 he has such a confidence in you ! It was you that 
 took him up when we were strangers, and had no- 
 body to look to us. I have a little that my poor 
 husband left me ; but it's very little to keep four 
 upon ; and I may say it's you that gave us bread, for 
 that matter. There's nothing in this world my boy 
 wouldn't do for you." 
 
 Then there was a pause. The poor woman had 
 exhausted her words and her self-command and her 
 
228 BROWNLO^VS. 
 
 breath, and stopped perforce, and Mr Brownlow did 
 not know how to reply. What could he say to her ? 
 It was a matter of death and life between him and 
 her boy, instead of the indifferent question she 
 thought. "Would you like me to speak to him?" 
 he said at last, with a little difficulty of utterance ; 
 '' should I ask him what is occupying his mind ? 
 But he might not choose to tell me. What would 
 you wish me to do?" 
 
 " Oh, sir, you're very good," said Mrs Powys, melt- 
 ing into gratitude. " I never can thank God enough 
 that my poor boy has met with such a kind friend." 
 
 "Hush!" said Mr Brownlow, rising from his 
 chair. He could not bear this ; thanking God, as if 
 God did not know well enough, too well, how the 
 real state of the matter was ! He was not a man 
 used to deception, or who could adapt himself to it 
 readily. He had all the habits of an honest life 
 against him, and that impidse to speak truth and do 
 right which he struggled with as if it were a tempta- 
 tion. Thus his position was awfully the reverse of 
 that of a man tempting and falling. He was doing 
 ^\Tong with all the force of his will, and striving 
 against his own inclination and instinct of upright- 
 ness ; but here was one thing beyond liis strength. 
 To bring God in, and render Him, as it were, a party, 
 was more than he could bear. " I am not so kind as 
 
BROWNLOWS. 229 
 
 you think," he said, hoarsely. " I am not — I mean 
 your son deserves all that I can do." 
 
 " Oh, sir, that's kind — that's kindness itself to 
 say so,'' cried the poor mother. " Nothing that could 
 be said is so kind as that — and me, that was be- 
 ginning to lose faith in him ! It was to ask you to 
 speak to him, ^Ir Brownlow. If you were to ask 
 him, he might open his heart to you. A gentleman 
 is different from a poor woman. Xot that anybody 
 could feel for him like me, but he would think such 
 a deal of your advice. If you would speak and get 
 him to open his heart. That was what I wanted to 
 ask you, if ifs not too much. If you would be so 
 kind — and God knows, if ever it was in my power 
 or my children's, though I'm but a poor creature, to 
 do anything in this world that would be of service 
 to you " 
 
 God again. What did the woman mean ? And 
 she was a widow, one of those that God was said to 
 take special charge of. It was bad enough before 
 without that. John Brownlow had gone to the fire- 
 less hearth, and was standing by it leaning his head 
 against the high carved wooden mantelpiece, and 
 looking down upon the cold vacancy where for so 
 many years the fire that warmed his inmost life had 
 blazed and sparkled. He stood thus and listened, 
 and within him the void seemed as cold, and the 
 
230 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 emptiness as profound. It was his moment of fate. 
 He was going to cast himself off from the life he had 
 lived at that hearth — to make a separation for ever 
 and ever between the John Brownlow, honest and 
 generous, who had been trained to manhood within 
 these walls, and had loved and married, and brought 
 his bride to this fireside — and the country gentleman 
 who, in all his great house, would never more find 
 the easy heart and clear conscience which were 
 natural to this atmosphere. He stood there, and 
 looked down on the old domestic centre, and asked 
 himself if it was worth the terrible sacrifice ; honour 
 and honesty and truth — and all to keep Brownlows 
 for Sara, to preserve the greys, and the flowers, and 
 the park, and Jack's wonderful mare, and all the 
 superfluities that these young creatures treated so 
 lightly? AVas it worth the price? This was the 
 question he was asking himself, wdiile his visitor, 
 in her chair between him and the window, spoke of 
 her gratitude. But there w^as no trace in his face, 
 even if she could have seen it, that he had descended 
 into the very depths, and was debating with himself 
 a matter of life and death. "When her voice ceased, 
 Mr Brownlow's self-debate ceased too, coming to a 
 sharp and sudden end, as if it was only under cover 
 of her words that it could pass unnoted. Then he 
 came towards her slowly, and took the chair opposite 
 
BROWXLOWS. 231 
 
 to her, and met her eve. The colour had gone out 
 of his face, but he was too self-possessed and expe- 
 rienced a man to show what the struggle was through 
 •which he had just come. And the poor woman 
 thought it so natural that he should be full of 
 thought. "Was he not considering, in his wonderful 
 kindness, what he could do for her boy ? 
 
 " I will do what you ask me," he said. " It may 
 be difficult, but I will try. Don't thank me, for 
 you don't know whether I shall succeed. I will do 
 — what I can. I will speak to your son, perhaps 
 to-morrow — the earliest opportunity I have. You 
 were quite right to come. And — }'ou may — trust 
 liim — to me," said Mr Brownlow. He did not mean 
 to say these last words. What was it that drew 
 them — dragged them from his lips ? '' You may 
 trust him to me." He even repeated it twice, won- 
 derincr at himself all the while, and not knowing 
 what he meant. As for poor Mrs Powys, she was 
 overwhelmed by her gratitude. 
 
 "Oh, sir, with all my heart," she cried, — "him, 
 and all my hopes in this world!" And then she 
 bade God bless him, who was so good to her and her 
 boy. Yes, that was the worst of it. John Brownlow 
 felt that but too clearly all through. It was hard 
 enough to struggle with himself, with his own con- 
 science and instincts ; but behind all there was 
 
232 BEOWNLOWS. 
 
 anotlier struggle which would be harder still — the 
 struggle ^vii\l God, to whom this woman would 
 appeal, and who, he was but too clearly aware, knew 
 all about it. But sufficient unto the moment w^as its 
 own conflict. He took his hat, and took his visitor 
 dowm-stairs, and answered tlie amazed looks of the 
 housekeeper, who came to see wdiat this unusual 
 disturbance meant, with a few w^ords of explanation, 
 and shook hands with Mrs Powys at the door. The 
 sunset glow had only just gone, so short a time had 
 this conversation really occupied, though it involved 
 so much, and the first magical tone of twilight had 
 fallen into the evening air. When Mr Brownlow 
 left the office door he went straight on, and did not 
 remember the carriage that was waiting for him. 
 He was so much absorbed by his own affairs, and 
 had so many things to think of, that even the 
 strength of habit failed him. Without knowing, 
 he set out walking upon the well-known way. Pro- 
 bably the mere fact of movement was a solace to 
 him. He went along steadily by the budding hedge- 
 rows and the little gardens and the cottage doors, 
 and did not know it. What he was really doing 
 was holding conversation with young Powys, con- 
 versations with his children, all mingled and pene- 
 trated with one long never-ending conflict wdth him- 
 self. He had been passive hitherto, now he would 
 
BROWXLOWS. 233 
 
 have to be active. He had contented himself simply 
 with keeping back the knowledge which after all it 
 was not his business to communicate. Now, if he 
 was to gain his object, he must do positively what 
 he had hitherto done negatively. He must inislead 
 — he must contradict — he must lie. The young 
 man's knowledge of his rights, if they were his 
 rights, must be very imperfect. To confuse him, to 
 deceive him, to destroy all possible evidence, to use 
 every device to lose his time and blind his eyes, was 
 what Mr Brownlow had now to do. 
 
 And there can be no doubt that, but for the inter- 
 vention of personal feelings, it would have been 
 an easy thing enough to do. If there had been no 
 right and wrong involved, no personal advantage or 
 loss, how very simple a matter to make this youth, 
 wdio had such perfect confidence in him, believe as 
 he pleased; and how easy after to make much of 
 young Powys, to advance him, to provide for him — 
 to do a great deal better for him, in short, than he 
 could do for himself with old Mrs Thomson's fifty 
 thousand pounds ! If there was no right and wrong 
 involved ! Mr Brownlow walked on and on as he 
 thought, and never once observed the length of the 
 way. One thing in the world he could not do — that 
 was, to take away all the sweet indulgences with 
 which he had surrounded her, the delights, the 
 
234 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 luxuries, the position, from his child. He could not 
 reduce Sara to be Brownlow the solicitor's daughter 
 in the dark old-fashioned house at Masterton. He 
 went over all her pretty ways to himself as he went 
 on. He saw her gliding about the great house which 
 seemed her natural sphere. He saw her receiving 
 his guests, people who would not have known her, 
 or would at least have patronised her from a very 
 lofty distance, had she been in that house at Master- 
 ton ; he saw her rolling forth in her pretty carriage 
 with the greys, which were the envy of the county. 
 All these matters were things for which, in his own 
 person, John Brownlow cared not a straw. He did 
 not care even to secure them for his son, who was 
 a man and had his profession, and was no better 
 
 than himself; but Sara And then the superb 
 
 little princess she was to the rest of the world ! the 
 devoted little daughter she was to him ! Words of 
 hers came somehow dropping into his ears as the 
 twilight breathed around him. How she had once 
 
 said Good heavens 1 what was that she had 
 
 said ? 
 
 All at once Mr Brownlow awoke. He found him- 
 seK walking on the Dewsbury road, instead of driving, 
 as he ouGfht to have been. He remembered that the 
 dogcart was waiting for him in the market-place. He 
 became aware that he had forgotten himself, forgot- 
 
BROWNLOWS. 235 
 
 ten everytliing, in the stress and urgency of his 
 thoughts. AVhat was the galvanic touch that brought 
 him back to consciousness ? The recollection of half- 
 a-dozen words once spoken by his child — girlish 
 words,- perhaps forgotten as soon as uttered ; yet 
 when -he stopped, and turned round to see how far 
 he had come, though he had been walking very 
 moderately and the evening was not warm, a sudden 
 rush of colour, like a girl's blush, had come to his 
 face. If the mare had been in sight, in her wildest 
 mood, it would have been a relief to him to seize the 
 reins, and fight it out with her, and fly on, at any 
 risk, away from that spot, away from that thought, 
 away from the suggestion so humbling, so saving, so 
 merciful and cruel, which had suddenly entered his 
 mind. But the mare was making everybody very 
 uncomfortable in the market-place at Masterton, and 
 could not aid her master to escape from himself 
 Then he turned again, and went on. It was a seven- 
 miles' walk, and he had come three parts of the way ; 
 but even the distance that remained was long to a 
 man who had suddenly fallen into company with a 
 new idea wdiicli he w^ould rather not entertain. He 
 felt the jar in all his limbs from this sudden electric 
 shock. Sara had said it, it was true — she had meant 
 it. He had her young life in his hands, and lie could 
 save Brownlows to her, and yet save his soul. AVhich 
 
236 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 was tlie most to be thought of, his soul or her happi- 
 ness ? — that was the question. Such was the sudden 
 tumult that ran through John Brownlow's veins. He 
 seemed to be left there alone in the country quiet, 
 in the soft twilight, under the dropping dew, to con- 
 sider it, shut out from all counsel or succour of God 
 or man. Man he himself shut out, locking his secret 
 in his own breast — God ! whom he knew his last 
 struggle was to be with, whom that woman had in- 
 sisted on bringing in, a party to the whole matter — 
 was not He standing aside, in a terrible stillness, a 
 spectator, waiting to see what would come of it, re- 
 fusing all participation ? Would God any more than 
 man approve of this way of saving John Brownlow's 
 soul ? But the more he tried to escape from it the 
 more it came back. She had said it, and she had 
 meant it, with a certain sweet scorn of life's darker 
 chances, and faith unbounded in her father, of all 
 men, who was God's deputy to the child. Mr Brown- 
 low quickened his pace, walked faster and faster, till 
 his heart thumped against his breast, and his breath 
 came in gasps ; but he could not go so fast as his 
 thouGjhts, which went on before. 
 
 Thus he came to the gate of Brownlows before he 
 knew. It was the prettiest evening scene. Twilight 
 had settled down to the softest night ; big stars, lam- 
 bent and dilating, were coming softly out, as if to 
 
BROWNLOWS. 237 
 
 look at something, out of the sweet blue. And it 
 was no more dark than it was light. Old Betty, 
 on her step, was sitting crooning, with many quavers, 
 one of her old songs. And Pamela, who had just 
 watered her flowers, leant over the gate, smiling, and 
 listening with eyes that were very like the stars. 
 Somehow this picture went to 'My Brownlow's heart. 
 He went up to the child as he passed, and laid a 
 kind hand upon her pretty head, on the soft rings of 
 her dark hair. " Good-night, little one/' he said, 
 quite softly, with that half-shame which a man feels 
 when he betrays that he has a heart in him. He had 
 never taken so much notice of her before. It was 
 partly because anything associated with Sara touched 
 him to the quick at this moment ; partly for her own 
 sake, and for the sake of the dews and stars ; and 
 partly that his mind was overstrained and tottering. 
 " Poor little thing," he said to himself, as he went up 
 the avenue, " she is nobody, and she is happy." 
 AVith this passing thought, ]\Ir Brownlow fell once 
 more into the hands of his demon, and, thus agitated 
 and struggling, reached his home. 
 
CHAPTEK XIY. 
 
 Next morning Mr Brownlow was not well enough 
 to go to business. He was not ill. He repeated the 
 assurance a score of times to himself and to his 
 children. He had not slept well, that was all — and 
 perhaps a day's rest, a little quiet and tranquillity, 
 Avould do him good. He had got up at his usual 
 hour, and was down to breakfast, and read his paper, 
 and everything went on in its ordinary way ; but yet 
 he was indisposed — and a day's rest would do him 
 good. Young John assented heartily, and was very 
 willing to take his father's place for the day and 
 manage all his business. It was a bright morning, 
 and the room was full of flowers, and the young 
 leaves fluttered at the windows in the earliest green 
 of spring. It was exhilarating to stand in the great 
 recesses of the windows and look out upon the park, 
 all green and budding, and think it was all yours 
 and your children's — a sort of feeling which had 
 
BROWNLOWS. 239 
 
 little effect upon the young people, but was sweet 
 yet overwhelming to their father as he stood and 
 looked out in the quiet of the morning. All his — 
 aU theirs ; yet perhaps 
 
 " I don't think I shall go down to-day," he said. 
 " You can tell Wrinkell to send me up the papers in 
 the Wardell case. He knows what I want. He can 
 send the — the new clerk up with them — Powys I 
 mean." 
 
 "Powys?" said Jack. 
 
 " Well, yes, Powys. Is there any reason why he 
 should not send Powys?" said Mr Brownlow, per- 
 emptorily, feeling hot and conscious, and ready to 
 take offence. 
 
 "Xo, certainly," said Jack, with some surprise. 
 He did not take to Powys, that was unquestionable ; 
 yet the chances are he would never have remarked 
 upon Mr Brownlow's choice of him but for the curi- 
 ous impatience and peremptoriness in his father's 
 tone. 
 
 "I like him," said Mr Brownlow — "he knows 
 what he has to do, and — he does it. I like a man 
 who does that — it gives one confidence for the time 
 to come." 
 
 " Yes," said Jack. " I never cared for him, sir, as 
 you know. He is not my ideal of a clerk — but that 
 don't matter; only I rather think Wrinkell has 
 
240 BROWXLOWS. 
 
 changed his opinion lately. The young fellow gets 
 on well enough — but there is a difference. I sup- 
 pose that sort of extra punctuality and virtue can 
 only last a certain time." 
 
 " I daresay these are very fine notions, Jack," said 
 his father; "but I am not quite such an accom- 
 plished man of the world, I suppose, as if I had been 
 brought up at Eton. I believe in virtue lasting 
 a long time. You must bear with my old-fashioned 
 prejudices." This Mr Brownlow said in a way 
 which puzzled Jack, for he was not a man given 
 to sneers. 
 
 " Of course, if you take it like that, sir, I have not 
 anotlier word to say," said the young man, and he 
 went away feeling bitterly hostile to Powys, who 
 seemed to be the cause of it all. He said to himself 
 that to be snubbed on account of a clerk was a new 
 experience, and lost himself in conjectures as to the 
 cause of this unexplained partiality — " a fellow who 
 is going to the bad and all," Jack said to himself; 
 and his feelincj was somewhat vindictive, and he did 
 not feel so sorry as he ought to have done that Po^vys 
 was going to the bad. It seemed on the whole a 
 kind of retribution. ]\Ir Wrinkell himself had been 
 sent for to Brownlows on various occasions, but it 
 was not an honour that had been accorded to any of 
 the clerks ; and now this young fellow, whose appear- 
 
BROWN LOWS. 241 
 
 ance and conduct had both begun to be doubtful, was 
 to have the privilege. Jack did not comprehend it ; 
 uneasy unexpressed suspicions came into his mind, 
 all utterly wide of the mark, yet not the less uncom- 
 fortable. The mare was a comfort to him as she went 
 off in one of her long dashes, without ever taking 
 breath, like an arrow down the avenue ; and so was 
 the momentary glimpse of a little face at the window, 
 to which he took off his hat ; but notwithstanding 
 these consolations, he was irritated and somewhat 
 disturbed. On account of a cad ! He had no right 
 to give such a title to his father's favourite ; but still 
 it must be allowed that it was a little hard. 
 
 " Who is Powys?" said Sara, when her brother was 
 gone. " And why are you angry, papa ? You are 
 cross, you know, and that is not like you. I am 
 afraid you must be ill." 
 
 " Cross, am I ? " said Mr Brownlow. " I suppose 
 I am not quite well — I told you I had a bad 
 night." 
 
 " Yes but what has Powys to do with it ? — and 
 
 who is he ? " said Sara, looking into his face. 
 
 Then various possibilities rushed into her father's 
 mind; should he tell her what he was going to 
 ask of her ? Should he claim her promise and hold 
 her to her word ? Should he make an attempt, the 
 only one possible, to secure for himself a confidant 
 
 VOL. 1. Q 
 
242 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 and counsellor ? Ah, no ! that was out of the ques- 
 tion. He might sully his own honour, but never, 
 never his child's. And he felt, even with a certain 
 exultation, that his child would not have yielded to 
 the temptation — that she would balk him instead of 
 obeying him, did she know wliy. He felt this in his 
 inmost mmd, and he was glad. She would do what 
 he asked her, trusting in him,* and in her it would be 
 a virtue — only his should be the sin. 
 
 " Who is he ? " he said, with a doubtful smile 
 which resulted from his own thoughts and not from 
 her question. " You will know who he is before 
 lono-. I want to be civil to him, Sara. He is not 
 just like any other clerk. I would bring him, if 
 you would not be shocked — to lunch " 
 
 " Shocked ! " said Sara, with one of her princess 
 airs — " I am not a great lady. You are Mr Brownlow 
 the solicitor, papa — I hope I know my proper place." 
 
 " Yes," said John Brownlow ; but the words 
 brought an uneasy colour to his face, and confounded 
 him in the midst of his projects. To keep her from 
 being merely Mr Brownlow the solicitor's daughter, 
 he was going to soil his own honour and risk her 
 happiness ; and yet it was thus that she asserted her 
 condition whenever she had a chance. He left her 
 as soon as he could, taking no such advantage of his 
 unusual holiday as Sara supposed he would. He left 
 
BROWNLOWS. 243 
 
 the breakfast-room which was so bright, and wan- 
 dered away into the library, a room which, busy man 
 as he was, he occupied very seklom. It was of all 
 the rooms in Brownlows the one which liad most 
 appearance of having been made by a new proprietor. 
 There were books in it, to be sure, which had belonged 
 to the Brownlows, the solicitors, for generations ; but 
 these were not half or quarter part enough to fill the 
 room, which was larger than any two rooms in the 
 High Street — and consequently it had been necessary 
 to fill the vacant space with ranges upon ranges of 
 literature out of the bookseller's, which had not mel- 
 lowed on the shelves, nor come to belong to them by 
 nature. Mr Brownlow did not think of this, but yet 
 he was somehow conscious of it when, with the pro- 
 spect of a long unoccupied day before him, he went 
 into this room. It was on the other side of the 
 house, turned away from the sunshine, and looking 
 out upon nothing but evergreens, sombre corners of 
 shrubberies, and the paths which led to the kitchen 
 and stables. He went in and sat down by the table, 
 and looked round at all the shelves, and drew a blot- 
 ting-book towards him mechanically. AVliat did he 
 want with it ? he had no letters to write there — no- 
 thing to do that belonged to that luxurious leisurely 
 j)lace. If there was work to be done, it was at the 
 ofi&ce that he ought to do it. He had not the habit 
 
24 i BEOWXLOWS. 
 
 of writing here — nor even of reading. Tlie handsome 
 library liad nothing to do with his life. This, per- 
 haps, was why he established himself in it on the 
 special day of which we speak. It seemed to him as if 
 any moment his fine house might topple down about 
 his ears like a house of cards. He had thought over 
 it in the High Street till he was sick and his head 
 swam; perhaps some new light might fall on the 
 subject if he were to think of it here. This was why 
 he established himself at the table, making in his 
 leisure a pretence to himself of having something to 
 do. If he had been used to any sort of guile or dis- 
 honourable dealing, the chances are it would have 
 been easier for him ; but it is hard upon a man to 
 change the habits of his life. John Brownlow had 
 to maintain with himself a fight harder than that 
 which a man ordinarily has to fight against tempta- 
 tion ; for the fact was that this was far, very far from 
 being his case. He was not tempted to do wrong. It 
 was the good impulse which in his mind had come 
 to be the thing to be struggled against. What he 
 wanted was to do what was right'; but with all the 
 steadiness of a virtuous resolution he had set himself 
 to struggle against his impulse and to do wrong. 
 
 Here was the state of the case : He had found, 
 as he undoubtedly believed, the woman whom 
 more than twenty years ago he had given him- 
 
BROWXLOWS. 245 
 
 self yo nuicli trouble to find. She was here, a poor 
 woman — to wh(jni old ^Irs Thomson's fifty thousand 
 pounds would be equal to as many millions — witli 
 a son, whose every ]Drospect would be changed, whose 
 life would begin on a totally diff'erent level, if his 
 legitimate inheritance came to him as it ouglit : this 
 was all very distinct and clear. But, on the other 
 hand, to withdraw that fifty thousand pounds from 
 his own affairs at this moment, would be next to 
 ruin to John Brownlow. It would be a loss to him 
 of almost as much more. It would reduce him again 
 hopelessly to the character of the country solicitor — 
 a character wliich he had not abandoned, which he 
 had, in short, rather prided himself in keeping up, but 
 which was very different, in conjunction with his 
 present standing in the county, from what it would 
 be were he Brownlow the solicitor alone. And then 
 there was the awful question of interest, whicli 
 ought to have been accumulating all these five-and- 
 twenty years. He thouglit to himself, as he reflected, 
 that his best course would have been to reject young 
 Powys's application at the \evy first, and throw him 
 off, and leave him to find occupation where he could. 
 Then, if the young man had discovered anything, it 
 Avould at least have been a fair fight. But he had of 
 his own will entered into relations with him ; he had 
 him under his eyes day by day, a standing temptation 
 
246 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 a standing reproach ; lie liacj kept his enemy close 
 by him to make discoveries that otherwise he pro- 
 bably never would have made; and Powys had made 
 discoveries. At any moment the demand might 
 come which should change the character of the 
 position altogether. All this was old ground over 
 which he had gone time after time. There was 
 nothing new in it but the sudden remedy which 
 had occurred to him on the previous night as he 
 walked home. He had not as yet confessed to him- 
 self that he had accepted that suggestion, and yet 
 only half voluntarily he had taken the first steps to 
 bring it about. It was a remedy almost as bad as 
 the original danger — very unpalatable, very morti- 
 fying — but it was better than utter downfall. By 
 moments Mr Brownlow's heart revolted altogether 
 against it. It was selling his child, even thouoh 
 it was for her own sake — it was taking advantage 
 of her best instincts, and of her rash girlish readi- 
 ness to put her future into his hands. 
 
 And there were also other questions involved. 
 When it came to the point, would Sara hold by her 
 promise — had she meant it, in earnest, as a real 
 promise when she made it ? She was a girl who 
 would do anything, everything for her father's 
 sake, in the way of self-sacrifice; but would she 
 understand sacrificing herself to save, not her father, 
 
BEOWNLOWS. 247 
 
 but Brownlows ? All these were very doubtful 
 questions. ]\Ir Browulow, who had never before 
 been in anybody's power, who knew nothing about 
 mysteries, found himself now, as it were, in every- 
 body's power, threading a darkling way, from which 
 his own efforts could never deliver him. He was 
 in the power of young Powys, who any day cou.ld 
 come to his door and demand — how much ? any simi 
 almost — his whole fortune — with no alternative but 
 that of a lawsuit, which would take his good name 
 as well. He was in the power of his son, who, if 
 he heard of it, might simplify matters very sum- 
 marily, and the chances were would do so ; and he 
 was in the power of Sara, who could save him if 
 she would — save him not only from the conse- 
 quences but from the sin — save his conscience and 
 his credit, and her own position. AYhy should not 
 she do it? Young Powys was poor, and perhaps 
 not highly educated ; but he was pleasanter to 
 look at, more worth talking to, than Sir Charles 
 Motherwell. If he gave his daughter to this youth, 
 John Brownlow felt that he would do more than 
 merely make him amends for having taken his in- 
 heritance. It w^ould be restoring the inheritance 
 to him, and giving him over and above it something 
 that was worth more than compound interest — worth 
 more than any fortune under the sun. 
 
248 BKOWNLOWS. 
 
 AMien he had come to this point, however, a revul- 
 sion occurred in his thoughts. How could he think 
 of marrying his child, his Sara, she of whom he 
 had made a kind of princess, who might marry 
 anyhody, as people say — how could he give her to 
 a nameless young man in his office ? What would 
 the world say? "What inquiries, what suspicions 
 would arise, if he gave up his house and all its 
 advantages to a young fellow without a penny? 
 And then Sara herself, so delicate in all her tastes, 
 so daintily brought up, so difficult to please ! If 
 she were so little fastidious at the end, what would 
 be thought of it? She had refused Sir Charles 
 Motherwell, if not actually yet tacitly — and Sir 
 Charles had many advantages, and was very nearly 
 the gi^eatest man in the county — refused him, and 
 now was going to take her father's uncultivated 
 clerk. Would she, could she do it ? was it a thing 
 he ought to ask of her ? or was it not better that he 
 should take it upon his conscience boldly to deceive 
 and wrong the stranger than to put such a burden 
 on the delicate shoulders of his child ? 
 
 Thus he passed the morning, driven about from 
 one idea to another and feeling little comfort in any, 
 longing for Powys's arrival, that he miglit read in 
 his eyes how much he knew, and yet fearing it, 
 lest he might know too much. If any of his clients 
 
BROWNLOWS. 249 
 
 had come to him iu such a state of mind, John 
 Brownlow would have looked upon that man with 
 a certain pity mingled with contempt, and while 
 ad^dsing him to his best would have said to himself, 
 How weak all this shilly-shally is ! one way or 
 other let something be decided. But it is a very 
 different matter deciding on one's own affairs and 
 on the affairs of other people. Even at that mo- 
 ment, notwithstanding his own agitation and mental 
 distress, had he been suddenly called upon for 
 counsel he could have given it clearly and fully 
 — the thing was, that he could not advise himself. 
 
 And to aggTavate matters, while he sat thus 
 thinking it all over and waiting for Powys, and 
 working himself up almost to the point of prepar- 
 ing for a personal contest with him, the Rector 
 chanced to call, and was brought triumphantly into 
 the library. " Papa is so seldom at home," Sara 
 had said, with a certain exultation; "come and 
 see him." And ^Ir Hardcastle was exultant too. 
 " How lucky that I should have come to-day of all 
 others," he said. " One never sees you by daylight." 
 
 " "Well, yes," said 'Mr Bro^^^llow, who was cross 
 and out of temper in spite of himself; ''I am 
 visible by daylight to everybody on the road 
 between this and Masterton. J don't think I shut 
 myself up." 
 
250 BROWXLOWS. 
 
 " That's exactly what I mean," said the Rector ; 
 " but you have been overdoing it, Brownlow. You're 
 ill. I always told you you ought to give yourself 
 more leisure. A man at your time of life is not 
 like a young fellow. We can't do it, my dear sir 
 — we can't do it. I am up to as much as most men 
 of my age ; but it won't do both morning and night 
 — I have found that out." 
 
 " It suits me very well," said Mr Brownlow. "I am 
 not ill, thank you. I had a restless night — rather " 
 
 "Ah, that's just it," said Mr Hardcastle. "The 
 brain is fatigued — that is what it is. And you 
 ought to take warning. It is the beginning of so 
 many things. For instance, last year when my head 
 was so bad " 
 
 " Don't speak of it," said Mr Brownlow. " My 
 head is not bad ; I am all right. I have a — a clerk 
 coming with some papers : that is what I am wait- 
 ing for. Is Fanny with you to-day ?" 
 
 " No," said Mr Hardcastle. " They have begun to 
 have her up at Eidley more than I care to see her. 
 And there is that young Keppel, you know. Xot 
 that he means anything, I suppose. Indeed, I 
 thought he was devoted to Sara a short time ago. 
 Ah, my dear Brownlow, it is a difficult matter for 
 us, left as we both are with young girls. who have 
 never known maternal care " 
 
BROWN LOWS. 261 
 
 It was not a moment when ^Ir Brownlow could 
 enter upon sucli a subject. But he instinctively 
 changed his expression, and looked solenni and 
 serious, as the occasion demanded. Poor Bessie ! 
 — he had probably been a truer lover to her than 
 the Eector had been to the two Mrs Hardcastles, 
 though she had not been in his mind just then ; 
 but he felt bound to put on the necessary melan- 
 choly look. 
 
 ''Yes," he said; "no doubt it is difficult. 'My 
 clerk is very late. He ought to have been here 
 at twelve. I have a good many pressing matters 
 of business just now " 
 
 " I see, I see ; you have no time for private con- 
 siderations," said the Eector. " Don't overdo it, 
 don't overdo it, — that is all I have got to say. 
 Eemember what a condition I was in only two 
 years since — took no pleasure in anything. Man 
 delighted me not, nor woman either — not even my 
 little Fanny. If ever there was a miserable state 
 on earth, it is that. I see a fine tall young feUow 
 straying about there among the shrubberies. Is 
 that your clerk?" 
 
 Mr Brownlow got up hastily and came to the 
 window, and there beyond all question was Powys, 
 who had lost his way, and had got involved in 
 the maze of paths which divided the evergreens. 
 
252 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 It was a curious way for liim to approach the 
 house, and he was not the man to seek a back en- 
 trance, however humble his circumstances had been. 
 But anyhow it was he, and he had got confused, 
 and stood imder one of the great laurels, looking 
 at the way to tlie stables, and the way to the 
 kitchen, feeling that neither way was his way, and 
 not knowing where to turn. Mr Brownlow^ opened 
 the window and called to him. Many a day after 
 he thought of it, with that vague wonder which 
 such symbolical circumstances naturally excite. It 
 did not seem important enough to be part of the 
 symbolism of Providence at the moment. Yet it 
 was strange to remember that it was thus the young 
 man was brought into the house. Mr Brownlow 
 set the window open, and watched him as he 
 came forward, undeniably a fine tall young fellow, 
 as Mr Hardcastle said. Somehow a kind of pride 
 in his good looks, such as a father might have 
 felt, came into John Brownlow's mind. Sir Charles, 
 with his black respirator, was not to be named in 
 the same day with young Po^vys, so far as appear- 
 ance w^ent. He was looking as he did when he 
 first came to the ofiice, fresh, and frank, and open- 
 hearted. Those appearances which had so troubled 
 the mind of ]\Ir Wrinkell and alarmed Mr Brown- 
 luw himself, were not visible in his open counte- 
 
BROWNLOWS. 253 
 
 nance. He came forward with his firm and rapid 
 step, not tlie step of a dweller in streets. And 
 Mr Hardcastle, who had a slight infusion of mus- 
 cular Christianity in his creed, could not refrain 
 from admiration. 
 
 " That is not much like what one looks for in 
 a lawyer's clerk," said the Eector. "What a chest 
 that young fellow has got ! "Who is he, Brownlow ? 
 — not a Masterton man, I should think." 
 
 " He is a Canadian," said Mr Brownlow, ''not very 
 long in the office, but very promising. He has 
 brought me some papers that I must attend to " 
 
 "Yes, yes, I understand," said Mr Hardcastle — 
 " always business ; but I shall stay to luncheon as 
 you are at home. I suj^pose you mean to allow 
 yourself some lunch?" 
 
 " Surely," said Mr Brownlow ; but it w^as im- 
 possible to reply otherwise than coldly. He had 
 wanted no spy upon his actions, nobody to specu- 
 late on what he meant in the strange step he was 
 about to take. He could not send his neighbour 
 away; but at the same time he could not be cordial 
 to him as if he desired his company. And then he 
 turned to speak to his clerk, leaving the Eector, who 
 went away in a puzzled state of mind, wondering 
 whether ]\Ir Brownlow meant to be rude to him. 
 As for young Powys, he came in by the window, 
 
254 BKOWXLOWS. 
 
 taking off his hat, and looking at his employer with 
 an honest mixture of amusement and embarrass- 
 ment. "I beg your pardon, sir," he said; "I had 
 lost my way; I don't know where 1 was going " 
 
 " You w^ere going to the stables," said Mr Brownlow, 
 " where I daresay you would have found something 
 much more amusing than with me. Come in. You 
 are later tlian I expected. How is it you did not 
 come up in the dogcart ? My son should have 
 thought of that." 
 
 " He did not say anything about it," said Powys, 
 " but I liked the walk. Mr Wrinkell told me to bring 
 you these, sir. They are the papers in the Wardell 
 case; and he gave me some explanations which I 
 was to repeat to you — some new facts that have just 
 come out " 
 
 " Sit down," said Mr Brownlow. He gave the 
 young man a seat at his table, and resumed his own, 
 and drew the papers to him. But he was not think- 
 ing of the papers or of the Wardell case. His atten- 
 tion was fixed upon his young companion. Perhaps 
 it was the walk, perhaps some new discovery, per- 
 haps because he began to see his way to the recovery 
 of that which John Brownlow was determined not 
 to give up, but certainly his eye Avas as bright and 
 his colour as fresh as when he had first come to the 
 office innocent and unsuspecting. He sat down with 
 
BROWNLOWS. 255 
 
 none of the affectation either of humility or of equal- 
 ity which a Masterton youth of his position would 
 have shown. He was not afraid of his employer, who 
 had been kind to him, and his transatlantic ideas made 
 him feel the difference between them, though great in 
 the mean time, to be rather a difference of time than of 
 class. Such at least was the unconscious feeling in 
 his mind. It is true that he had begun to learn that 
 more things than time, or even industry and brains, 
 are necessary in an old and long-constituted social 
 system, but his new knowledge had not affected his 
 instincts. He was respectful, but he did not feel 
 himself out of place in ^Ir Brownlow's library. He 
 took his seat, and looked round him with the interest 
 of a man free to observe or even comment, which, con- 
 sidering that even Mr Wrinkell was rather disposed 
 at Brownlows to sit on the edge of his chair, was a 
 jjleasant variety. Mr Brownlow drew the papers to 
 him, and bent over them, leaning his head on both 
 his hands ; but the fact was, he was looking at 
 Po^v}^s from under that cover, fixing his anxious 
 gaze upon him, reading what was in the unsus- 
 picious face — what was in it, and most likely a great 
 deal which was not in it. AVhen he had done this 
 for some minutes he suddenly raised his head, re- 
 moved his hands from his forehead to his chin, and 
 looked steadily at his young companion. 
 
256 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 "I will attend to these by -and -by/' lie said, 
 abruptly ; " in the mean time, my young friend, I 
 have something to say to you." 
 
 Then Powys, whose eyes had been fixed upon a 
 dark picture over and beyond, at some distance, Mr 
 Brownlow's head, came to himself suddenly, and met 
 the look fixed upon him. The elder man thought 
 there was a little defiance in the glance which the 
 younger cast upon him ; but this is one of the things 
 in which one sees always what one is prepared to 
 see. Powys, for his jDart, was not in the least de- 
 fiant ; he was a little surprised, a little curious, eager 
 to hear and reply, but he was utterly unconscious of 
 the sentiments wliich the other read in his eyes. 
 
 " I thought a little while ago," said Mr Brownlow, 
 in his excitement going further than he meant to go, 
 " that I had found in you one of the best clerks that 
 ever I had." 
 
 Here he stopped for a moment, and Powys re- 
 garded him open-mouthed, waiting for more. His 
 frank face clouded over a little when he saw that 
 Mr Brownlow made a pause. " I was going to say, 
 Thank you, sir," said the young man ; " and indeed 
 I do say. Thank you ; but am 1 to understand that 
 you don't think so now?" 
 
 " I don't know what to think," said ]\Ir Brownlow. 
 " I take more interest in you than — than I am in 
 
BROWXLOWS. 
 
 the liabit of taking in a — in a stranger; but they tell 
 me at the office there is a change, and I see there is 
 
 'o^> 
 
 a change. It has been suggested to me that you 
 were going to the bad, which I don't believe ; and it 
 has been suggested to me that you had something 
 
 on your mind " 
 
 The young man had changed colour, as indeed he 
 could scarcely help doing ; his amour 2^1'oprc was 
 still as lively and as easily excited as is natural to 
 his age. " If you are speaking of my duties in the 
 office, sir," he said, " you have a perfect right to 
 speak ; but I don't suppose they could be influenced 
 one way or another by the fact that I had something 
 on my mind " 
 
 " I am not speaking to you so much as your 
 employer as — as your friend," said Mr Brownlow. 
 ** You know the change has been visible. People 
 have spoken about it to me — not perhaps the people 
 you would imagine to liave interfered. And I 
 want to speak to you as an old man may speak to a 
 young man — as I should wish, if the circumstances 
 made it needful, any one would speak to my son. 
 Why do you smile ? " 
 
 *' I beg your pardon, sir ; but I could not but 
 smile at the thought of Mr John " 
 
 " Never mind Mr John," said Mr Brownlow, dis- 
 comfited. " He has his way, and we have ours. 
 
 VOL. I. K 
 
258 BKOWNLOWS. 
 
 don't set up my son as an example. The thing is, 
 that I should be glad if you would take me into 
 your confidence. If anything is wrong I might be 
 able to help you ; and if you have something on 
 your mind " 
 
 " Mr Brownlow," said young Po^^s, with a deep 
 blush, " I am very sorry to seem ungrateful, but a 
 man, if he is good for anything, must have some- 
 thing he keeps to himself. If it is about my work, 
 I will hear whatever you please to say to me, and 
 make whatever explanations you require. I am not 
 going to the bad ; but for anything else, I think I 
 have a right to my own mind." 
 
 "I don't deny it — I don't deny it," said Mr 
 Brownlow, anxiously. " Don't think I want to 
 thrust myself into your affairs ; but if either advice 
 or help "' 
 
 "Thank you," said the young man. He smiled, 
 and once more Mr Brownlow, though not imagina- 
 tive, put a thousand meanings into the smile. "I 
 will be more attentive to my work," he said ; " per- 
 haps I have suffered my own thoughts to interfere 
 with me. Thank you, sir, for your kindness. I am 
 very glad that you have given me this warning." 
 
 " But it does not tempt you to open your heart," 
 said Mr Brownlow, smiling too, though not with 
 very pleasurable feelings. 
 
BUOWXLOWS. 259 
 
 " There is notliiug in my heart that is worth 
 opening," said Powys ; " nothing but my own small 
 affairs — thank you heartily all the same." 
 
 This is how Mr Brownlow was baffled notwith- 
 standing his superior age and prudence and skill. 
 He sat silent for a time with that curious feeling of 
 humiliation and displeasure which attends a defeat 
 even when nobody is to be blamed for it. Then by 
 way of saving his dignity he drew once more towards 
 him the AVardell papers and studied them in silence. 
 As for the young man, he resumed, but with a 
 troubled mind, his examination of the dark old pic- 
 ture. Perhaps his refusal to open his heart arose as 
 much from the fact that he had next to nothing to 
 tell as from any other reason, and the moment that 
 the conversation ceased his heart misgave him. 
 Young Powys was not one of the people possessed 
 by a blessed certainty that the course they them- 
 selves take is the best. As soon as he had closed 
 his mouth a revulsion of feeling came upon him. 
 He seemed to himself hard-hearted, ungrateful, odi- 
 ous, and sat thinking over all Mr Brownlow's kind- 
 ness to him, and his detestable requital of that 
 kindness, and asking himself how he could recom- 
 mence the interrupted talk. What could he say to 
 show that he was very grateful, and a devoted ser- 
 vant, notwithstanding that there was a corner of his 
 
260 BKOWXLOWS. 
 
 heart which he could not oj^en up ? or must he con- 
 tinue to lie under this sense of ha^'ing disappointed 
 and refused to confide in so kind a friend ? A spec- 
 tator would have supposed 'the circumstances un- 
 changed had he seen the lawyer seated calmly at 
 the table looking over his papers, and his clerk at 
 a little distance respectfully waiting his employer's 
 pleasure ; but in the breast of the young man, who 
 was much too young to be sure of himself, there was 
 a wonderful change. He seemed to himself to have 
 made a friend into an enemy — to have lost his van- 
 tage-ground in ]Mr Brownlow's good opinion, and 
 above all to have been ungrateful and unkind. Thus 
 they sat in dead silence till the bell for luncheon 
 — the great bell which amused Pamela, bringing a 
 lively picture before her of all that was going on at 
 the great house — began to sound into the stillness. 
 Then Mr Brownlow stirred, gathered his papers to- 
 gether, and rose from his chair. Powys sat still, not 
 knowing what to do ; and it may be imagined what 
 his feelings were when his employer spoke. 
 
 " Come along, Powys," said Mr Brownlow — " you 
 have had a long walk, and you must be hungry — 
 come and have some lunch." 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 LUNCHEON. 
 
 It was like a dream to the young Canadian when he 
 followed the master of the house into the dininfj- 
 room ; — not that that, or any other social privilege, 
 would have struck the youth with astonishment or 
 exultation as it would have done a young man from 
 Masterton ; but because he had just behaved so un- 
 gratefully and ungraciously, and had no right to any 
 such recompense. He had heard enough in the 
 office about Brownlows to know that it was an un- 
 precedented honour that was being paid him; but 
 it was the coals of fire thus heaped upon his head 
 which he principally felt. Sara was already at the 
 head of the table in all that perfection of dainty 
 apparel which dazzles the eyes of people unused to 
 it. Naturally the stranger knew nothing about an}- 
 one particular of her dress, but ho felt, without 
 knowing how, the difference between that costly 
 
262 BROWXLOWS. 
 
 simplicity and all the finery of the women he was 
 accustomed to see. It was a different sphere and 
 atmosphere altogether from any he had ever entered ; 
 and the only advantage he had over any of his 
 fellow-clerks who micjht have been introduced in 
 the same way was, that he had mastered the first 
 grand rule of good-breeding, and had forgotten him- 
 self He had no time to think how he ought to 
 behave in his own person. His mind was too much 
 occupied by the novelty of the sphere into which he 
 was thus suddenly brought. Sara inclined her head 
 graciously as he was brought in, and was not sur- 
 prised ; but as for ^Ir Hardcastle, whose seat was 
 just opposite that of young Po"u^'s, words could not 
 express his consternation. One of the clerks ! Mr 
 Brownlow the solicitor was not such a great man 
 himself that he should feel justified in introducing 
 his clerks at his table; and after that, what next? 
 A rapid calculation passed through Mr Hardcastle's 
 mind as he stared at the new-comer. If this sort of 
 thing was to go on, it would have to be looked to. 
 If ]\Ir Brownlow thought it right for Sara, he cer- 
 tainly should not think it right for his Fanny. Jack 
 Brownlow himself, with Brownlows perhaps, and at 
 least a large share of his father's fortune, was not to 
 be despised ; but the clerks ! The Ptector even felt 
 himself injured — though, to be sure, young Powys or 
 
BROAVNLOWS. 263 
 
 any other clerk could not have dreamed of paying 
 addresses to him. And it must be admitted that the 
 conversation was not lively at table. Mr Brownlow 
 was embarrassed as knowing his own intentions, 
 which, of course, nobody else did. Mr Hardcastle 
 was astonished and partially affronted. And Powys 
 kept silence. Thus there was only Sara to keep up 
 a little appearance of animation at the table. It is 
 at such moments that the true superiority of woman- 
 kind really shows itself. She was not embarrassed 
 — the social difference which, as she thought, existed 
 between her and her father's clerk was so great and 
 complete that Sara felt herself as fully at liberty to 
 be gracious to him, as if he had been his own mother 
 or sister. " If ]Mr Powys walked aU the way he 
 must want his luncheon, papa," she said. " Don't 
 you think it is a pretty road ? Of course it is not 
 grand like your scenery in Canada. We don't have 
 any Niagaras in England ; but it is pleasant, don't 
 you think?" 
 
 " It is very pleasant," said young Po^v}^s ; " but 
 there are more things in Canada than Niagara." 
 
 " I suppose so," said Sara, who was rather of opin- 
 ion that he ought to have been much flattered by her 
 allusion to Canada ; " and there are prettier places 
 in England than Dewsbury — but still people who 
 belong to it are fond of it all the same. ^Mr Hard- 
 
264 BEOWXLOWS. 
 
 castle, this is the dish you are so fond of — are you 
 ill, like papa, that you don't eat to-day ? " 
 
 " Kot ill, my dear," said the Eector, with meaning 
 — '' only like your papa, a little out of sorts." 
 
 " I don't know why people should be out of sorts 
 who have everything they can possibly want," said 
 Sara. *' I think it is wicked both of papa and you. 
 If you were poor men in the village, with not enough 
 for your children to eat, you would know better than 
 to be out of sorts. I am sure it would do us all a 
 great deal of good if we were suddenly ruined," the 
 young woman continued, looking her father, as it 
 happened, full in the face. Of course she did not 
 mean anything. It came into her head all at once 
 to say this, and she said it ; but equally of course it 
 fell with a very different significance on her father's 
 ears. He changed colour in spite of himself — he 
 dropped on his plate a morsel he was carrying to his 
 mouth. A sick sensation came over him. Sara did 
 not know very much about the foundation of his 
 fortune, but still she knew something ; and she was 
 just as likely as not to let fall some word which 
 would throw final illumination upon the mind of the 
 young stranger. Mr Brownlow smiled a sickly sort 
 of smile at her from the other end of the table. 
 
 " Don't use such strong language," he said. 
 " Being ruined means with Sara going to live in a 
 
BEOWXLOWS. 265 
 
 cottage covered with roses, and taking care of one's 
 aged father ; but, my darling, your father is not yet 
 old enough to give in to being ruined, even should 
 such a chance happen to us. So you must make up 
 your mind to do without the cottage. The roses you 
 can have, as many as you like." 
 
 "Sara means by ruin, that is to say," said the 
 Eector, " something rather better than the best 
 that I have been able to stru(Tf;ie into, and nothin<:c 
 to do for it. I should accej^t her ruin with all 
 my heart." 
 
 " You are laughing at me," said Sara, " both of 
 you. Fanny would know^ if she were here. You 
 understand, don't you, ^Ir Powys ? AVhat do I care 
 for cottages or roses ? but if one were suddenly 
 brought face to face with the realities of life " 
 
 " You have got that out of a book, Sara," said the 
 Eector. 
 
 " And if I liave, ^Ir Hardcastle ? " said Sara. " I 
 hope some books are true. I know what I mean, 
 whether you know it or not. And so does ]\Ir 
 Powys," she added, suddenly meeting the stranger's 
 eye. 
 
 This appeal was unlucky, for it neutralised the 
 amusement of the two elder gentlemen, and brought 
 them back to their starting-point. It was a mistake 
 in every way, for Powys, though he was looking on 
 
266 BKOWXLOWS. 
 
 with interest and wonder, did not understand what 
 Sara meant. He looked at her when she spoke, and 
 reddened, and faltered something, and then betook 
 himself to his plate with great assiduity, to hide his 
 perj)lexity. He had never known anything but the 
 realities of life. He had known them in their most 
 primitive shape, and he was beginning to become 
 acquainted with them still more bitterly in the shape 
 they take in the midst of civilisation, when poverty 
 has to contend with more than the primitive neces- 
 sities. And to think of this dainty creature, whose 
 very air that she breathed seemed different from that 
 of his world, desiring to be brought face to face with 
 such realities 1 He had been looking at her with 
 great reverence, but now there mingled with his 
 reverence just that shade of conscious superiority 
 which a man likes to feel He was not good, sweet, 
 delightsome, celestial, as she was, but he knew better 
 — precious distinction between the woman and the 
 man. 
 
 But Sara, always thinking of him as so different 
 from herself that she could use freedom with him, 
 was not satisfied. " Yoic understand me?" she said, 
 repeating her appeal. 
 
 " No," said young Powys ; " at least if it is real 
 poverty she speaks of, I don't think Miss Brownlow 
 can know what it means." He turned to her father 
 
BEOWXLOWS. 2G7 
 
 as he spoke with the instinct of natural good-breeding. 
 And thereupon there occurred a curious change. The 
 two gentlemen began to approve of the stranger. 
 Sara, who up to this moment had been so gracious, 
 approved of him no more. 
 
 "You are quite right," said the Eector; "what 
 Miss Brownlow is thinking of is an imaginary poverty 
 which exists no longer — if it ever existed. If your 
 father had ever been a poor curate, my dear Sara, 
 like myself, for instance " 
 
 " Oh, if you are all going to turn against me " 
 
 said Sara, with a little shrug of her shoulders. And 
 she turned away as much as she could do it withr)ut 
 rudeness from the side of the table at which young 
 Pow>'S sat, and began in revenge to talk society. 
 " So Fanny is at Eidley," she said ; " what does she 
 mean by always being at Pddley ? The Keppels are 
 A'ery well, but they are not so charming as that 
 comes to. Is there any one nice staying there just 
 now?" 
 
 " Perhaps you and I should not agree about nice- 
 ness," said the Ptector. "There are several people 
 down for Easter. There is Sir Joseph Scrape, for 
 instance, who was Chancellor of the Exchequer once, 
 before you were born. I am very fond of him, but 
 you would prefer his grandson, Sara, if he happened 
 to have a grandson." 
 
268 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 " On the contrary, I like old gentlemen," said Sara. 
 " I never see anything else, for one thing. There is 
 yourself, Mr Hardcastle, and papa " 
 
 " Well, I suppose I am an old gentleman," said the 
 Rector, ruefully ; " at least to babies like you. This 
 is how things go in this world — one shifts the burden 
 on to one's neighbour. Probably Sir Joseph is of 
 my mind, and thinks somebody else old. And then, 
 in revenge, we have nothing to do but to call you 
 young creatures babies, though you have the world 
 in your hands," Mr Hardcastle added, with a sigh ; 
 for he was a vigorous man, and a widower, and had 
 been already twice married, and saw no reason why 
 he should not take that step again. And it was hard 
 upon him to be called an old gentleman in this 
 unabashed and open way. 
 
 "Well, they have the world before them," said 
 Mr Brownlow ; ''but I am not so sure that they 
 have it in their hands." 
 
 "We have nothing in our hands," said Sara, in- 
 dignantly — " even I, though papa is awfully good to 
 me. I don't mean to speak slang, but he is awfully 
 good, you know ; but what does it matter ? I daren't 
 go anywhere by myself, or do anything that every- 
 body else doesn't do. And as for Fanny, she would 
 not so much as take a walk if she thought you did 
 not like it." 
 
BROWN LOWS. 2(59 
 
 " Fanny is a very good girl/' said Mr Hardcastle, 
 with a certain melting in his voice. 
 
 "We are all very good girls," said Sara; "but 
 what is the use of it ? We have to do everything 
 we are told just the same ; and have old Lady 
 Motherwell, for example, sitting upon one, when- 
 ever she has a chance. And then you say we have 
 the world in our hands ! If you were to let us do a 
 little as Ave pleased, and be happy our own way " 
 
 " Then you have changed your mind/' said Mr 
 Brownlow. He was smiling, but yet underneath 
 that he was very serious, not able to refrain from 
 giving in his mind a thousand times more weight 
 than they deserved to his daughter's light and random 
 words, though he knew Avell enough they were ran- 
 dom and light. " I thought you were a dutiful child, 
 who would do wdiat I asked you, even in the most 
 important transaction of your life— so you said once, 
 at least." 
 
 " Anything you asked me, papa?" cried Sara, witli 
 a sudden change of countenance. " Yes, to be sure ! 
 anything ! Not because I am dutiful, but because — 
 
 you are surely all very stupid to-day — because 
 
 Don't you know what I mean ?" 
 
 " Yes/' said young Powys, who all this time had 
 not spoken a word. Perhaps in her impatience her 
 eye had fallen upon him ; perhaps it was because he 
 
270 BROWN LOWS. 
 
 could not help it ; but however that might be, the 
 monosyllable sent a little electric shock round the 
 table. As for the speaker himself, he had no sooner 
 uttered it than he reddened like a girl up to his very 
 hair. Sara started a little, and became suddenly 
 silent, looking at the unexpected interpreter she had 
 got ; and as for the Eector, he stared with the air of 
 a man who asks himself, What next ? 
 
 The sudden pause thus made in the conversation 
 by his inadvertent reply, confused the young man 
 most of alL He felt it down to the very tips of his 
 fingers. It went tingling through and through him, 
 as if he were the centre of the electricity — as indeed 
 he was. His first impulse, to get up and run away, 
 of course could not be yielded to ; and as luncheon 
 was over by this time, and the servants gone, and 
 the business of the meal over, it was harder than 
 ever to find any shelter to retire behind. Despair 
 at last, however, gave him a little courage. " I think, 
 sir," he said, turning to Mr Brownlow, "if you have 
 no commands for me that I had better go. Mr 
 Wrinkell will want to know your opinion ; unless, 
 indeed " 
 
 " I am not well enough for work," said Mr Brown- 
 low, " and you may as well take a holiday as you are 
 liere. It will do you good. Go and look at the 
 horses, and take a stroll in the park. Of course you 
 
BROWNLOWS. 271 
 
 are fond of the country. I don't think there is much 
 
 to see in the house "' 
 
 " If Mr Powys would like to see the Claude, I will 
 take him into the drawing-room," said Sara, with all 
 her originalbenignity. Powys, to tell the truth, did 
 not very well know whether he was standing on his 
 head, or on the other and more ordinary extremity. 
 He was confounded by the grace showed to him. 
 And being a backwoodsman by nature, and knowing 
 not much more tlian Masterton in the civilised 
 world, the fact is that at first, before he considered 
 the matter, he had not an idea what a Claude was. 
 But that made no difference ; he was ready to have 
 gone to Pandemonium if the same offer had been 
 made to show the way. Xot that he had fallen in 
 love at first sight with the young mistress of Brown- 
 lows. He was too much dazzled, too much surprised 
 for that ; but he had understood what she meant, 
 and the finest little delicate thread of rapport had 
 come into existence between them. As for Sara's 
 condescension and benignity, he liked it. Her 
 brother would have driven him frantic with a tithe 
 of the affability which Sara thought her duty under 
 the circumstances ; but from her it was what it 
 ought to be. The young man did not think it was 
 possible that such a privilege was to be accorded to 
 him, but he looked at her gratefully, thanking her 
 
272 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 with his eyes. And Sara looked at him, and for an 
 instant saw into those eyes, and became suddenly 
 sensible that it was not her father's clerk, but a man, 
 a young man, to whom she had made this obliging 
 offer. It was not an idea that had entered her head 
 before ; he was a clerk whom Mr Brownlow chose 
 to bring in to luncheon. He might have been a 
 hundred for anything Sara cared. Now, all at once 
 it dawned upon her that the clerk was a man, and 
 young, and also well-looking; a discovery which 
 filled her with a certain mixture of horror and 
 amusement. " Well, how was I to know?" she said 
 to herself; although, to be sure, she had been sit- 
 ting at the same table with him for about an 
 hour. 
 
 " Certainly, if Powys likes, let him see the Claude; 
 but I should think he would prefer the horses," said 
 Mr Brownlow ; and then Sara rose and shook out 
 her long skirt, and made a little sign to the stranger 
 to follow her. When the two young creatures dis- 
 appeared, Mr Hardcastle, who had been staring at 
 them, open-mouthed, turned round aghast and pale 
 with consternation upon his friend. 
 
 "Brownlow, are you mad?" he said; "good 
 heavens ! if it was anybody but you I should think 
 it was softening of the brain." 
 
 " It may be softening of the braiiij" said Mr 
 
BROWNLOWS. 273 
 
 Brownlow, cheerfully ; " I don't know what the 
 symptoms are. What's wrong?" 
 
 " AVhat's wrong?" said the Rector — he had to stop 
 and pour himself out a glass of wine to collect his 
 faculties — " why, it looks as if you meant it. Send 
 your clerk off with your child, a young fellow like 
 that, as if they were equals ! Your clerh ! I should 
 not permit it with my Fanny, I can tell you that." 
 
 " Do you think Sara will run away with him ? " 
 said Mr Brownlow, smiling. " I feel sure I can 
 trust him not to do it. "^Vhy, what nonsense you 
 are speaking 1 If you have no more confidence in 
 my little friend Fanny, I have. She would be in no 
 danger from my clerk if she were to see him every 
 day, and show him all the pictures in the world." 
 
 " Oh, Fanny, — that is not the question," said the 
 Eector, half suspicious of the praise, and half 
 pleased. " It was Sara we were talking of I don't 
 believe she would care if a man was a chimney- 
 sweep. You have inoculated her .with your dread- 
 ful Radical ideas " 
 
 " I ? I am not a Radical," said Mr Brownlow ; 
 and he stiU smiled, though he entered into no further 
 explanation. As for the Rector, he gulped down his 
 wine, and subsided into his neckcloth, as he did 
 when he was disturbed in his mind. He had no 
 parallel in his experience to this amazing indiscre- 
 
 VOL. I. s 
 
274 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 tion. Fanny? — no; to be sure Fanny was a veiy good 
 girl, and knew her place better — slie would not have 
 offered to show the Claude, though it had been the 
 finest Claude in the world, even to a curate, much 
 less to a clerk. And then it seemed to Mr Hardcastle 
 that Mr Brownlow's eyes looked very heavy, and that 
 there were many tokens haK visible about him of 
 softening of the brain. 
 
 Meanwhile Sara went sweeping along the great 
 wide fresh airy passages, and through the hall, and 
 up the grand staircase. Her dress was of silk, and 
 rustled — not a vulgar rustle, like that which an- 
 nounces some women offensively wherever they go, 
 but a soft satiny silvery ripple of sound, which har- 
 monised her going like a low accompaniment. Young 
 PoA^ys had only seen her for the first time that day, 
 and he was a reasonable young fellow, and had not a 
 thought of love or love-making in his mind. Love ! 
 as if anything so preposterous could ever arise be- 
 tween this young princess and a poor lawyer's clerk, 
 maintaining his mother and his little sisters on sixty 
 pounds a-year. But yet, he was a young man, and 
 she was a girl ; and following after her as he did, it 
 was not in human nature not to behold and note the 
 fair creature, with her glistening robes and her shin- 
 ing hair. Now and then, when she passed through 
 a patch of sunshine from one of the windows, she 
 
BROWNLOWS. 275 
 
 seemed to light up all over, and reflect it back again, 
 and send forth soft rays of responsive light. Though 
 she was so slender and slight, her step was as steady 
 and free as his own, Canadian and backwoodsman 
 as he was ; and yet, as she moved, her pretty head 
 swayed by times like the head of a tall lily upon the 
 breeze, not with weakness, but with the flexile grace 
 that belonged to her nature. Powys saw all this, 
 and it bewitched him, though she was altogether out 
 of his sphere. Something in the atmosphere about 
 her went to his head. It was the most delicate intoxi- 
 cation that ever man felt, and yet it was intoxication 
 in a way. He went up-stairs after her, feeling like 
 a man in a dream, not knowing what fairy palace, 
 what new event she might be leading him to ; but 
 quite willing and ready, under her guidance, to meet 
 any destiny that might await him. The Claude was 
 so placed in the great drawing-room that the actual 
 landscape, so far as the mild greenness of the park 
 could be called landscape, met your eye as you turned 
 from the immortal landscape of the picture. Sara 
 went straight up to it without a pause, and showed 
 her companion where he was to stand " This is the 
 Claude," she said, with a majestic little wave of her 
 hand by way of introduction. And the young man 
 stood and looked at the picture, with her dress almost 
 touching him. If he did not know much about the 
 
276 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 Claude at the commencement, he knew still less now. 
 But he looked into the clear depths of the picture 
 with the most devout attention. There was a ripple 
 of water, and a straight line of light gleaming down 
 into it, penetrating the stream, and casting up all the 
 crisp cool glistening wavelets against its own glow. 
 But as for the young spectator, who was not a con- 
 noisseur, his head got confused somehow between the 
 sun on Claude's ripples of water, and the sun as it 
 had fallen in the hall upon Sara's hair and her dress. 
 
 " It is very lovely," he said, rather more because 
 he thought it was the thing he ought to say than from 
 any other cause. 
 
 " Yes," said Sara ; " we are very proud of our 
 Claude ; but I should like to know why active men 
 like papa should like those sort of pictures ; he pre- 
 fers landscapes to everything else — whereas they 
 make me impatient. I want something that lives 
 and breathes. I like pictures of life — not that one 
 everlasting line of light fixed down upon the canvass 
 with no possibility of change." 
 
 " I don't know much about pictures," said Powys 
 — " but yet — don't you think it is less natural still to 
 see one everlasting attitude — like that, for instance, 
 on the other wall? People don't keep doing one 
 particular thing all their lives." 
 
 " I should like to be a policeman and tell them to 
 
BKOWXLOWS. 277 
 
 move on," said Sara. " That woman there, who is 
 giving the bread to the beggar — she has been the 
 vexation of my life ; why can't she give it and have 
 done with it ? I think I hate pictures — I don't see 
 what we want with tliem. I always want to know 
 what happened next." 
 
 "But nothing need happen at all here," said 
 Po\v}'s, with unconscious comprehension, turning to 
 the Claude again. He was a little out of his depth, 
 and not used to this kind of talk, but more and 
 more it was going to his head, and that intoxication 
 carried him on. 
 
 ''That is the worst of all/' said Sara. "Why 
 doesn't there come a storm? — what is the good of 
 everything always being the same ? That was what 
 I meant down-stairs when 3'ou pretended you did 
 not understand." 
 
 What was the poor young fellow to say? He 
 was penetrated to his very heart by the sweet 
 poison of this unprecedented flattery — for it was 
 flattery, though Sara meant nothing more than the 
 freemasonry of youth. She had forgotten he w^as a 
 clerk, standing there before the Claude ; she had even 
 forgotten her own horror at the discovery that he 
 was a man. He was young like herself, willing to 
 follow her lead, and he " understood ; " which after 
 all, though Sara was not particularly wise, is the 
 
278 BROAVNLOWS. 
 
 true test of social capabilities. He did know what 
 she meant, though in that one case he had not 
 responded; and Sara, like everybody else of quick 
 intelligence and rapid mind, met with a great many 
 people who stared and did not know what she 
 meant. This was why she did the stranger the 
 honour of a half reproach. It brought the poor 
 youth's intoxication to its height. 
 
 "But I don't think you understand," he said, 
 ruefully, apologetically, pathetically, laying himself 
 down at her feet, as it were, to be trod upon if she 
 pleased — "you don't know how hard it is to be 
 poor; so long as it is only one's self, perhaps, or 
 so long as it is mere hardship, one can bear it ; but 
 there is worse than that ; you have to feel yourself 
 mean and sordid — you have to do shabby things. 
 You have to put yourself under galling obligations ; 
 but I ought not to speak to you like this — that is 
 what it really is to be poor." 
 
 Sara stood and looked at him, opening her eyes 
 wider and wider. This was not in the least like 
 the cottage with the roses: but she had forgotten 
 her dream ; wdiat she was thinking of now was 
 whether he was referring to his own case — whether 
 his life was like that — whether her father could not 
 do something for him; but for the natural grace 
 of sympathy which restrained her, she would have 
 
BROWNLOWS. 279 
 
 said so right out ; but in her simplicity she said 
 something wery near as bad. " ^Ir Powys/' she 
 said, quite earnestly, " do you live in !Masterton all 
 alone ? " 
 
 Then he woke up and came to himself. It was 
 like falling from a great height, and finding one's 
 feet, in a very confused, sheepish sort of way, on 
 the common ground. And the thought crossed his 
 mind, also, that she might think he was referring 
 to himself, and made him still more sheepish and 
 confused. But yet, now that he was roused, he 
 was able to answer for himself. " 'No, Miss Brown- 
 low," he said; "my mother and my little sisters 
 are with me. I don't live alone." 
 
 " Oh, I beg your pardon," said Sara, whose turn 
 it now was to blush. " I hope you like Masterton ? " 
 This very faltering and uncomfortable question was 
 the end of the interview ; for it was very clear no 
 answer was required. And then she showed him 
 the way down-stairs, and he went his way by him- 
 self, retracing the very steps which he had taken 
 when he was following her. He felt, poor fellow, 
 as if he had made a mistake somehow, and done 
 something wrong, and went out very rueful into 
 the park, as he would have gone to his desk, in 
 strict obedience to his employer's commands. 
 
CHAPTER XYI. 
 
 A PROMISE. 
 
 Late in the afternoon ]\Ir BroAvnIow did really 
 look as if lie were taking a holiday. He came 
 fortli into the avenue as Sara was going out, and 
 joined her, and she seized her opportunity, and 
 took his arm, and led him up and down in the 
 afternoon sunshine. It is a pretty sight to see a 
 girl clinging to her father, pouring all her guesses 
 and philosophies into his ears, and claiming his 
 confidence. It is a different land of intercourse, 
 more picturesque, more amusing, in some ways even 
 more touching, than the intercourse of a mother 
 and daughter, especially when there is, as with 
 these two, no mother in the case, and the one sole 
 parent has both offices to fulfil. Sara clung to her 
 father's arm, and congratulated herself upon having 
 got him out, and promised herself a good long talk. 
 " For I never see you, papa," she said ; " you know 
 
BROWNLOWS. 281 
 
 I never see you. You are at that liorrid office the 
 whole long day." 
 
 "Only all the mornings and all the evenings," 
 said Mr Brownlow, "which is a pretty good pro- 
 portion, I think, of life." 
 
 "Oh, but there is always Jack or somebody," 
 said Sara, tightening her clasp of his arm; "and 
 sometimes one wants only you." 
 
 " Have you something to say to me then ? " said 
 her father, with a little curiosity, even anxiety, — 
 for of course his own disturbed thoughts accom- 
 panied him everywhere, and put meanings into 
 every word that was said. 
 
 " Something I" said Sara, with indignation ; "heaps 
 of things. I want to tell you, and I want to ask 
 you; — but, by the by, answer me first, before I 
 forget, is this Mr Powys very poor?" 
 
 " Powys 1 " said Mr Brownlow, with a suppressed 
 thrill of excitement. "What of Powys? It seems 
 to me I hear of nothing else. AVliere has the young 
 fellow gone?" 
 
 "/ did not do anything to him," said Sara, turn- 
 ing her large eyes full of mock reproach upon her 
 father's face. "You need not ask him from me 
 in that way. I suppose he has gone home — to his 
 mother and his little sisters," she added, dropping 
 her voice. 
 
282 BEOWNLOWS. 
 
 "And ^vliat do yoii know about his mother and 
 his little sisters?" said Mr Bro^Ynlow, startled yet 
 amused by her tone. 
 
 " Well, he told me he had such people belonging 
 to him, papa," said Sara ; " and he gave me a very 
 grand description before that of what it is to be 
 poor. I want to know if he is ver}^ poor? and 
 could I send anything to them, or do anything? 
 or are they too grand for that? or couldn't you 
 raise his salary, or something ? You ought to do 
 something, since he is a favourite of your own." 
 
 "Did he complain to you?" said Mr Brownlow, 
 in consternation; "and I trust in goodness, Sara, 
 you did not propose to do an}i;hing for them, as 
 you say?" 
 
 " 'No, indeed ; I had not the courage," said Sara. 
 " I never have sense enough to do such things. Com- 
 plain ! oh, dear no ; he did not complain. But he 
 was so much in earnest about it, you know, apro]pos 
 of that silly speech I made at luncheon, that he 
 made me quite uncomfortable. Is he a — a gen- 
 tleman, papa?" 
 
 " He is my clerk," said ^Ir Brownlow, shortly ; 
 and then the conversation dropped. Sara was not a 
 young woman to be stopped in this way in ordinary 
 cases, though she did stop this time, seeing her father 
 fully meant it ; but all the same she did not stop 
 
BROWNLOWS. 283 
 
 thinking, wliicli indeed, in her case, \\'as a thing very 
 difficult to do. 
 
 Tlien Mr Brownlow began to nerv^e himself for a 
 great effort. It excited him as nothing had excited 
 him for many a long year. He drew his child's arm 
 more closely through his own, and drew, her nearer 
 to him. They were going slowly down the avenue, 
 upon which the afternoon sunshine lay warm, all 
 marked and lined across by columns of trees, and the 
 light shadows of the half-developed foliage. "Do 
 you know," he said, " I have been thinking a gi^eat 
 deal lately about a thing you once said to me. I 
 don't know whether you meant it " 
 
 " I never say an}i:hing I don't mean," said Sara, 
 interrupting him ; but she too felt that something 
 more than usual was coming, and did not enlarge 
 upon the subject. "TVHiat was it, papa?" she said, 
 clinging still closer to his arm. 
 
 "You refused Mothen\'ell," said Mr Brownlow, 
 " though he could have given you an excellent jiosi- 
 tion, and is, they tell me, a very honest fellow. I 
 told you to consider it, but you refused him, Sara." 
 
 " Well, no," said Sara, candidly ; " refusing people 
 is very clumsy sort of work, unless you want to tell 
 of it after, and that is mean. I did not refuse 
 him. I only contrived, you know, that he should 
 not speak." 
 
2S4 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 "Well, I suppose it comes to about the same 
 thing," said Mr Brownlow. " What I am going to 
 say now is very serious. You once told me you 
 would marry the man I asked you to marry. Hush, 
 my darling, don't speak yet. I daresay you never 
 thought I would ask such a proof of confidence from 
 you ; but there are strange turns in circumstances. 
 I am not going to be cruel, like a tyrannical father 
 in a book ; but if I were to ask you to do such a 
 great thing for me — to do it blindly without asking 
 questions, to try to love and to maiTy a man, not of 
 your own choice, but mine — Sara, would you do it ? 
 Don't speak yet. I would not bind you. At the 
 last moment you should be free to withdraw from 
 the bargain " 
 
 " Let me speak, papa ! " cried Sara. " Do you mean 
 to say that you need this — that you really luant it ? 
 Is it something that can't be done any other way ? 
 first tell me that." 
 
 " I don't think it can be done any other way," said 
 ;Mr Brownlow, sadly, with a sigh. 
 
 " Then, of course, I will do it," said Sara. She 
 turned to him as she spoke, and fixed her eyes 
 intently on his face. Her levity, her lightness, her 
 careless freedom, were all gone. No doubt she had 
 meant the original promise, as she said, but she had 
 made it with a certain gay bravado, little dreaming 
 
BROWN LOWS. 285 
 
 of anything to follow. Xow she was suddenly sobered 
 and silenced. There was no mistaking the reality in 
 Mr Brownlow's face. Sara was not a careful, thouglit- 
 ful woman : she w^as a creature who leapt at conclu- 
 sions, and would not linger over the most solemn 
 decision. And then she v/as not old enough to see 
 both sides of a question. She jumped at it, and gave 
 her pledge, and fixed her fate more quickl}' than a 
 girl of another temperament would have chosen a 
 pair of gloves. But for all that she was very grave. 
 She looked up in her father's face, questioning him 
 with her eyes. She was ready to put her life in his 
 hands, to give him her future, her happiness, as if it 
 had been a flower for his coat. But yet she was 
 sufficiently roused to see that this was no laughing 
 matter. " Of course I will do it," she repeated, 
 without any grandeur of expression ; but she never 
 looked so gn^ave, or had been so serious all her life. 
 
 As for her father, he looked at her mth a gaze that 
 seemed to devour her. He was so intent that he did 
 not even perceive at the first minute that she had 
 consented. Then the words caught his ear and went 
 to his heart — " Of course I will do it." When he 
 caught the meaning, strangely enough his object 
 went altogether out of his mind, and he thought of 
 nothing but of the half-pathetic, unhesitating, mag- 
 nificent generosity of his child. She had not asked 
 
286 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 a question, why or wherefore, but had given herself 
 up at once with a kind of prodigal readiness. A 
 sudden gush of tears, such as had not refreshed them 
 for years, came into Mr Brownlow's eyes. !N'ot that 
 they ran over, or fell, or displayed themselves in any 
 way, but they came up under the bushy eyebrows 
 like water under reeds, making a certain glimmer in 
 tlie shade. He gathered up her two little hands into 
 his, and pressed them together, holding her fast to 
 him. He was so touched that his impulse was to 
 give her back her word, not to take advantage of it ; 
 to let everything go to ruin if it would, and keep 
 his child safe. But was it not for herself? Then he 
 bent over her and kissed her on the forehead. He 
 could not say anything, but there are many occasions, 
 besides those proper to lovers, when that which is 
 inexpressible may be put into a kiss. The touch of 
 her father's lips on Sara's forehead told her a hundred 
 things; love, sorrow, pain, and a certain poignant 
 mixture of joy and humiliation. He could not have 
 uttered a word to save his life. She was willing to 
 do it, with a lavish youthful promptitude ; and he, 
 was he to accept the sacrifice ? This was what John 
 Brownlow was thinking when he stooped over her 
 and pressed his lips on his child's brow. She had 
 taken from him the power of speech. 
 
 Such a supreme moment cannot last. Sara, too, 
 
BROWXLOWS. 287 
 
 not knowing why, had felt that serrement dc cceur. 
 But she knew little reason for it, and none in par- 
 ticular why her father should be so moved, and her 
 spirits came back to her long before his did. She 
 walked along by his side in silence, feeling by the 
 close pressure of her hands that he had not quite 
 come to himself, for some time after she had come 
 back to herself. "With every step she took the im- 
 pression glided off Sara's mind ; her natural light- 
 heartedness returned to her. Moreover, she was not 
 to be compelled to marry that very day, so there was 
 no need for being miserable about it just yet at least. 
 She was about to speak half-a-dozen times before she 
 really ventured on utterance ; and when at last she 
 took her step out of the solemnity and sublinnty of 
 the situation, this was how Sara plunged into it, 
 without any interval of repose. 
 
 '* I beg your pardon, papa; I would not trouble 
 you if I could help it. But j)lease, now it is all 
 decided, will you just tell me — am I to marry any- 
 body that turns up ? or is there any one in particular ? 
 I beg your pardon, but one likes to know." 
 
 This question affected Mr Brownlow's nerves, 
 though nobody had been aware that he had any 
 nerves. He gave an abrupt, short laugh, which was 
 not very merry, and clasped her hands tighter than 
 ever in his. 
 
288 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 "Sara," he said, "this is not a joke. Do you 
 know there is scarcely anything I would not have 
 done rather than ask this of you ? It is a very 
 serious matter to me." 
 
 " I am sure I am treating it very seriously," said 
 Sara. " I don't take it for a joke ; but you see, papa, 
 there is a difference. ^Yhat you care for is that it 
 should be settled. It is not you that have the mar- 
 rying to do ; but for my part it is that that is of the 
 most importance. I should rather like to know who 
 it was, if it would be the same to you." 
 
 Once more Mr Brownlow pressed in his own the 
 soft, slender hands he held. "You shall know in 
 time — you shall know in good time," he said, "if it 
 is inevitable ;" and he gave a sort of moan over her 
 as a woman might have done. His beautiful* child ! 
 who was fit for a prince's bride, if any prince were 
 good enough. Perhaps even yet the necessity might 
 be escaped. 
 
 " But I should like to know now," said Sara ; and 
 then she gave a little start, and coloured suddenly, 
 and looked him quickly, keenly in the face. " Papa !" 
 slie said, — " you don't mean — do you mean — this Mr 
 Powys, perhaps ? " 
 
 * The fact was, Sara Avas not beautiful. There was not the least 
 trace of perfection about licr ; but her father had prepossessions 
 and prejudices, such as parents are apt to have, un philosophical as 
 it may be. 
 
BROWNLOWS. 289 
 
 Mr Brownlow actually shrank from her eye. He 
 grew pale, almost green ; faltered, dropped her hands 
 — " My darling ! " he said feebly. He had not once 
 dreamt of making any revelation on this subject. He 
 had not even intended to put it to her at all, had it 
 not come to him, as it were, by necessity ; and con- 
 sequently he was quite unprepared to defend himself. 
 As for Sara, she cluni^ to him closer, and looked him 
 still more keenly in the eyes. 
 
 " Tell me," she said ; " I will keep my word all the 
 same. It will make no difference to me. Papa, tell 
 me ! it is better I should know at once." 
 
 " You ought not to have asked me such a question, 
 Sara," said Mr Brownlow, recovering himself ; " if I 
 ask this sacrifice of you, you shall know all about it 
 in good time. I can't tell ; my own scheme does not 
 look so reasonable to me as it did — I may give it up 
 altogether. But in the mean time don't ask me any 
 more questions. And if you should repent, even at 
 the last moment " 
 
 " But if it is necessary to you, papa ? "' said Sara, 
 opening her eyes — " if it has to be done, what does 
 it matter whether I repent or not ? " 
 
 " Nothing is necessary to me that would cost your 
 happiness," said Mr Brownlow. And then they went 
 on again for some time in silence. As for Sara, she 
 had no inclination to have the magnificence of her 
 
 VOL. I. T 
 
290 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 sacrifice thus interfered with. For the moment her 
 feeling was that, on the whole, it would even be 
 better that the marriage to which she devoted herself 
 should be an unhappy and unfit one. If it were 
 happy it would not be a sacrifice ; and to be able 
 to repent at the last, like any commonplace young 
 woman following her own inclinations, was not at 
 all according to Sara's estimation of the contract. 
 She went on by her father's side, thinking of that 
 and of some other things in silence. Her thoughts 
 were of a very different tenor from his. She was 
 not taking the matter tragically as he supposed — 
 no blank veil had been thrown over Sara's future 
 by tliis intimation, though Mr Brownlow, walking 
 absorbed by her side, was inclined to think so. On 
 the contrary, her imagination had begun to jjlay with 
 the idea lightly, as with a far-off possibility in which 
 there was some excitement, and even some amuse- 
 ment possible. While her father relapsed into pain- 
 ful consideration of the whole subject, Sara went on 
 demurely by his side, not without the dawnings of a 
 smile about the corners of her mouth. There was 
 nothing said between them for a long time. It 
 seemed to Mr Brownlow as if the conversation had 
 broken off at such a point that it would be hard to 
 recommence it. He seemed to have committed and 
 betrayed himself without doing any good whatever by 
 
BROWNLOWS. 291 
 
 it; and he was wroth at his own weakness. Softening 
 of the brain ! there might be something in what the 
 Eector said. Perhaps it was disease, and not the pres- 
 sure of circumstances, w^hich had made liim take so 
 seriously the first note of alarm. Perhaps his whole 
 scheme to secure Brownlows and his fortune to his 
 daughter w^as premature, if not unnecessary. It was 
 while he was thus opening up anew the wdiole mat-. 
 ter, that Sara at last ventured to betray the tenor of 
 her thoughts. 
 
 "Papa," she said, "I asked you a question just 
 now, and you did not answer me ; but answer me 
 now, for I want to know. This — this — gentleman — 
 Mr Powys. Is he — a gentleman, papa ? " 
 
 " I told you he was my clerk, Sara," said ^Ir 
 Brow^nlow, much annoyed by the question. 
 
 " I know you did, but that is not quite enough. A 
 man may be a gentleman though he is a clerk. I 
 want a plain answer," said Sara, looking up again 
 into her father's face. 
 
 And he was not w^ithout the common weakness of 
 Englishmen for good connections — very far from 
 that. He would not have minded, to tell the truth, 
 giving a thousand pounds or so on tlie spot to any 
 known family called Pow^ys which would have 
 adopted the young Canadian into its bosom. " I 
 don't know what Powys has to do with the matter," 
 
292 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 he said ; and then unconsciously his tone changed. 
 " It is a good name ; and I think — I imagine — he 
 must belong somehow to the Lady Powys who onCe 
 lived near Masterton. His father was well born ; 
 but, I believe," added Mr Brownlow, with a slight 
 shiver, " that he married — beneath him. I think so. 
 I can't say I am quite sure." 
 
 " I should have thought you would have known 
 everything," said Sara. " Of course, papa, you know 
 I am dying to ask you a hundred questions ; but I 
 won't, if you will only just tell me one thing. A 
 girl may promise to accept any one — whom — whom 
 her people wish her to have ; but is it as certain," 
 said Sara, solemnly, " that he — will have me ? " 
 
 Then ]\Ir Brownlow stood still for a moment, 
 looking with wonder, incomprehension, and a certain 
 mixture of awe and dismay upon his child. Sara, 
 obeying his movement, stood still also with her 
 eyes cast down, and just showing a glimmer of 
 malice under their lids, with the colour glowing 
 softly in her cheeks, with the ghost of a smile com- 
 ing and going round her pretty mouth. " Oh child, 
 child ! " was all Mr Brownlow said. He was moved 
 to smile in spite of himself, but he was more moved 
 to wonder. After all, she was making a joke of it — 
 or was it really possible that, in this careless smiling 
 way, the young creature, who had thrust her life 
 
BROWNLOWS. 293 
 
 into his hands like a flower, to be disposed of as he 
 woiikl, was going forward to meet all unknown evils 
 and dangers? The sober, steady, calcnlating man 
 could understand a great many things more ab- 
 struse, but he could not understand this. 
 
 Their conference, however, ended here; for they 
 had reached old Betty's cottage by this time, who 
 came out, ungratefid. old woman as she was, to 
 curtsy as humbly to Mr Brownlow as if he had been 
 twenty old squires, and to ask after his health. And 
 Sara had occasion to speak to her friend Pamela on 
 the other side of the way. It was not consistent 
 wdth the father's dignity, of course, to go with her to 
 visit those humble neighbours, but he stood at the 
 gate with old Betty behind in a whirl of curtsies, 
 w^atching while Sara's tall, straight, graceful figure 
 went across the road, and Pamela, with her little, 
 fresh, bright, dewy face, like an April morning, came 
 running out to meet her. "Poor little thing!" Mr 
 Brownlow said to himself — though he could not 
 have explained why he w^as sorry for Pamela; and 
 then he turned back slowly and went home, crossing 
 the long shadows of the trees. He was not satisfied 
 with himself or with his day's work. He was like a 
 doctor accustomed to regard with a cool and impar- 
 tial eye the diseases of others, but much at a loss 
 when he had his own personal pains in liand. He 
 
294 ' BROWNLOWS. 
 
 was uneasy and ashamed when he was alone and 
 reminded himself that he had managed very badl)\ 
 What was he to do ? Was he to act as a doctor 
 would, and put his domestic malady into the hands 
 of a brother practitioner ? But this was a suggestion 
 at which he shuddered. Was he to take Jack into 
 his counsel and get the aid of his judgment? — but 
 Jack was worse, a thousand times worse, than a 
 stranger. He had all his life been considered a very 
 clever lawyer, and he knew it ; he had got scores of 
 people out of scrapes, and, one way or other, half 
 the county was beholden to him ; and he could do 
 nothing but get himself deeper and deeper into his 
 own miserable scrape. Faint thoughts of making it 
 into " a case " and taking opinions on it — taking 
 Wrinkell's opinion, for instance, quietly, his old 
 friend who had a clear head and a great deal of ex- 
 perience — came into his mind. He had made a 
 muddle of it himself. And then the Eector's ques- 
 tion recurred to him with still greater force — could 
 it be softening of the brain ? Perhaps it would be 
 best to speak to the doctor first of all. 
 
 Meanwhile Sara had gone into Mrs Swayne's little 
 dark parlour, out of the sunshine, and had seated 
 herself at Pamela's post in the window, very dreamy 
 and full of thought. She did not even speak for a 
 long time, but let her little friend prattle to her. " I 
 
BROWNLOWS. 295 
 
 saw you and ^Ir Brownlow coming down tlie 
 avenue," said Pamela ; " what a long time you were, 
 and how strange it looked ! Sometimes you had a 
 great deal to say, and then for a long time you 
 would walk on and on, and never look at each 
 other. Was he scolding you ? Sometimes I thought 
 he was." 
 
 Sara made no answer to this question ; she only 
 uttered a long, somewhat demonstrative sigh, and 
 then went off upon a way of her own. " I wonder 
 how it would have felt to have had a mother ?" she 
 said, and sighed again, to her companion's great 
 dismay. 
 
 *'How it would have felt!" said Pamela; ''that 
 is just the one thing that makes me feel I don't 
 envy you. You have quantities and quantities of 
 fine things, but I have mamma." 
 
 "And I have papa," said Sara, quickly, not dis- 
 posed to be set at a disadvantage ; " that was not what 
 I meant. Sometimes, though you may think it very 
 wicked, I feel as if I was rather glad ; for, of course, 
 if mamma had been living it would have been very 
 different for me; and then sometimes I think I 
 
 would give a great deal Look here. I don't 
 
 like talking of such things ; but did you ever think 
 what you would do if you were married ? It is one 
 of the subjects Fanny Hardcastle likes. How do 
 
296 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 you think yon should feel? to the— to the gentle- 
 man, you know?" 
 
 " Think ! " said Pamela ; " does one need to think 
 about it ? love him, to be sure." And this she said 
 with a rising colour, and with two rays of new light 
 waking up in her eyes. 
 
 "Ah, love him," said Sara; "it is very easy to 
 talk ; but how are you to love him ? that does not 
 come of itself just when it is told, you know ; at 
 least I suppose it doesn't — I am sure I never tried." 
 
 " But if you did not love him, of course you would 
 not marry him," said Pamela, getting confused. ^ 
 
 " Yes — that is just one of the things it is so easy 
 to say," said Sara ; " and I suppose at your age you 
 don't know any better. Don't you know that people 
 have to marry whether they like it or not ? and when 
 they never, never would have thought of it them- 
 selves? I suppose," said Sara, in the strength of 
 her superior knowledge, "that most of us are mar- 
 ried like that. Because it suits our people, or be- 
 cause — I don't know what — anything but one's own 
 will." And this little speech the young martyr 
 again rounded with a sigh. 
 
 ''Are you going to be married?" said Pamela, 
 drawing a footstool close to her friend's feet, and 
 looking up with awe into her face. "I wish you 
 would tell me. Mamma has gone to Dewsbury, and 
 
BROWNLOWS. 297 
 
 she will not be back for an liour. Oh, do tell me — I 
 will never repeat it to anybody. And, dear Miss 
 Brownlow, if you don't love him " 
 
 " Hush," said Sara, " I never said anything about 
 a him. It is you who are such a romantic little girl. 
 What I was speaking of was one's duty ; one has to 
 do one's duty whether one likes it or not." 
 
 This oracular speech was very disappointing to 
 Pamela. She looked up eagerly with her bright 
 eyes, trying to make out the romance which she had 
 no doubt existed. *' I can fancy," she said, softly, 
 "why you wanted your mother;" and her little 
 hand stole into Sara's, which lay on her knee. Sara 
 did not resist the soft caress. She took the hand 
 and pressed.it close between her own, which were 
 longer, and not so rounded and childlike ; and then, 
 being a girl of uncertain disposition, she laughed, to 
 Pamela's great surprise and dismay. 
 
 " I think, perhaps, I like to be my own mistress 
 best," she said ; " if mamma had lived she never 
 would have let me do anything I wanted to do — and 
 then most likely she would not have known what I 
 meant. It is Jack, you know, who is most like 
 mamma." 
 
 " But he is very nice," said Pamela, quickly ; and 
 then she bent down her head as quickly, feeling the 
 hot crimson rushinff to her face, thoujih she did not 
 
298 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 well know why. Sara took no notice of it — never 
 observed it, indeed — and kept smoothing down in 
 her own lier little neighbour's soft small hand. 
 
 " Oh, yes," she said, " and I am very fond of my 
 brother ; only he and I are not alike, you know. I 
 wonder who Jack will marry, if he ever marries ; 
 but it is very fine to hear him talk of that — perhaps 
 he never did to you. He is so scornful of everybody 
 who falls in love, and calls them asses, and all sorts 
 of things. I should just like to see him fall in love 
 himself. If he were to make a very foolish mar- 
 riage it would be fun. They say those dreadfully 
 wise people always do." 
 
 ''Do they?" said Pamela ; and she bent down to 
 look at the border of her little black silk apron, and 
 to set it to rights, very energetically, with her unoc- 
 cupied hand. But she did not ask any further ques- 
 tion ; and so the two girls sat together for a few 
 minutes, hand clasped in hand, the head of the one 
 almost touching the other, yet each far afield in her 
 own thoughts ; of which, to tell the truth, though she 
 was so much the elder and the wiser, Sara's thoughts 
 were the least painful, the least heavy, of the two. 
 
 ** You don't give me any advice, Pamela," she said 
 at last. '' Come up the avenue with me at least. 
 Papa has gone home, and it is quite dark here out 
 of the sun. Put on your hat and come with me. 
 
BROWNLOWS. 299 
 
 I like the light wlien it slants so, and falls in long- 
 lines. I think you have a headache to-day, and a 
 walk will do you good." 
 
 " Yes, I think I have a little headache," said 
 Pamela, softly ; and she put on lier liat and followed 
 her companion out. The sunshine had passed beyond 
 Betty's cottage, and cut the avenue obliquely in two 
 — the one end all light, the other all gloom. The 
 two young creatures ran lightly across the shady 
 end, Sara, as always, leading the way. Her mind, it 
 is true, was as full as it could be of her father's com- 
 munication, but the burden sat lightly on her. Now 
 and then a word or two would tingle, as it were, in 
 her ears ; now and then it would occur to her that 
 her fate was sealed, as she said, and a sigh, half false 
 half true, would come to her lips ; but, in the mean 
 time, she was more amused by the novelty of the 
 position than discouraged by the approach of 
 fate. 
 
 " What are you thinking of?" she said, when they 
 came into the tender light in the further part of the 
 avenue; for the two, by this time, had slackened 
 their pace, and drawn close together, as is the wont 
 of girls, though they did not speak. 
 
 " I was only looking at our shadows going before 
 us," said Pamela, and this time the little girl echoed 
 very softly Sara's sigh. 
 
300 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 " They are not at all beautiful to look at ; they 
 are shadows on stilts," said Sara ; " you might think 
 of something more interesting than that." 
 
 " But I wish something did go before us like that 
 to show the way," said Pamela. "I wish it was 
 true about guardian angels — if we could only see 
 them, that is to say; and then it is so difficult to 
 know " 
 
 " What ? " said Sara ; " you are too young to want 
 a guardian angel; you are not much more than a 
 little angel yourself. When one has begun to go 
 daily further from the east, one knows the good of 
 being quite a child." 
 
 " But I am not quite a child," said Pamela, under 
 her breath. 
 
 " Oh yes, you are. But look here, Jack must be 
 coming ; don't you hear the wheels ? I did not 
 know it was so late. Shall you mind going back 
 alone, for I must run and dress ? And please come 
 to me in the morning as soon as ever they are gone, 
 I have such heaps of things to say." 
 
 Saying this, Sara ran off, flying along under the 
 trees, she and her shadow ; and poor little Pamela, 
 not so much distressed as perhaps she ought to have 
 been to be left alone, turned back towards the house. 
 The dogcart was audible before it dashed through 
 the gate, and Pamela's heart beat, keeping time with 
 
BROWNLOWS. 301 
 
 the ringing of the mare's feet and the sound of the 
 wheels. But it stopped before Betty's door, and 
 some one jumped down, and the mare and the dog- 
 cart and the groom dashed past Pamela in a kind of 
 whirlwind. Mr John had keen eyes, and saw some- 
 thing before him in the avenue ; and he was quick- 
 witted, and timed his inquiries after Betty in the 
 most prudent way. Before Pamela, whose heart 
 beat louder than ever, was half-way down the avenue, 
 he had joined her, evidently, whatever Betty or Mrs 
 Swayne might say to the contrary, in the most pureh* 
 accidental way. 
 
 '' Tliis is luck," said Jack ; " I have not seen you 
 for two whole days, except at the window, which 
 doesn't count. I don't know how we managed to 
 endure the dulness before that window came to be 
 inhabited. Come this way a little under the chest- 
 nuts — you have the sun in your eyes." 
 
 " Oh, I don't mind," said Pamela, " and I must 
 not wait ; I am going home." 
 
 " I suppose you have been walking with Sara, and 
 she has left you to go home alone," said Jack ; " it 
 is like her. She never thinks of anything. But tell 
 me what you have been doing these two frightfully 
 long days ? " 
 
 From which it will be seen that Mr John, as well 
 as his sister, had made a little progress towards in- 
 
302 BROWXLOWS. 
 
 timacy since lie became first acquainted with tlie 
 lodgers at Mrs Swayne's. 
 
 " I don't think they have been frightfully long 
 days," said Pamela, making the least little timid re- 
 sponse to his emphasis and to his eyes — wrong, no 
 doubt, but almost inevitable. " I have been doing 
 nothing more than usual ; mamma has wanted me, 
 that is all." 
 
 " Then it is too bad of mamma," said Jack ; '' you 
 know you ought to be out every day. I must come 
 and talk to her about it — air and exercise, you know^" 
 
 " But you are not a doctor," said Pamela, wdth a 
 soft ring of laughter — not that he was witty, but that 
 the poor child \vas happy, and showed it in spite of 
 herself; for Mr John had turned, and w^as walking 
 down the avenue, very slowly, pausing almost every 
 mmute, and not at all like a man who was going 
 home to dinner. He was still young. I suppose 
 that was why he preferred Pamela to the more mo- 
 mentous fact which was in course of preparation at 
 the great house. 
 
 " I am a little of everything," he said ; " I should 
 like to go out to Australia, and get a farm, and keep 
 sheep. Don't you like the old stories and the old 
 pictures with the shepherdesses? If you had a 
 little hat all covered with flowers, and a crook with 
 ribbons " 
 
BROWNLOWS. 303 
 
 " Oh, but I should not like to be a shepherdess," 
 cried Pamela, in haste. 
 
 " Shouldn't you ? Well, I did not mean that ; but 
 to go out into the bush, or the backwoods, or what- 
 ever they call it, and do ever^'thing and get every- 
 thing for one's self. Shouldn't you like that ? Better 
 than all the nonsense and all the ceremony here," 
 said Jack, bending down to see under the shade of 
 her hat, which, as it happened, was difficult enough. 
 
 " We don't have much ceremony," said Pamela, 
 " but if I was a lady like your sister " 
 
 *' Like Sara !" said Jack ; and he nodded his head 
 with a little brotherly contempt. "Don't be any- 
 thing different from what you are. I should like 
 people to wear always the same dress, and keep ex- 
 actly as they were when — the first time, you know. 
 I like you, for instance, in your red cloak. I never 
 see a red cloak without thinking of you. I hope you 
 will keep that one for ever and ever," said the philo- 
 sophical youth. As for Pamela, she could not but 
 feel a little confused, wondering whether this, or 
 Sara's description of her brother, was the reality. 
 And she should not have known what to answer but 
 that the bell at the house interfered in her behalf, 
 and began to sound forth its touching call — a sound 
 which could not be gainsaid. 
 
 " There is the bell," she cried ; " you will be too late 
 
304 BROWNLOWS. 
 
 for dinner. Oli, please, don't come any further. 
 There is old Betty looking out." 
 
 " Bother dinner," said Mr John, " and old Betty 
 too," he added, under his breath. He had taken her 
 hand, the same hand which Sara had been holding, 
 to bid her good-bye, no doubt in the ordinary way. 
 At all events, old Betty's vicinity made the farewell 
 all that politeness required. But he did not leave 
 her until he had opened the gate for her, and watched 
 her enter at her own door. " When my sister leaves 
 Miss Preston in the avenue," he said, turning gravely 
 to Betty, with that severe propriety for which he was 
 distinguished, " be sure you always see her safely 
 home ; she is too young to walk about alone." And 
 with these dignified words Mr John walked on, 
 having seen the last of her, leaving Betty speechless 
 with amazement. *'As if I done it!" Betty said. 
 And then he went home to dinner. Thus both Mr 
 Brownlow's children, though he did not know it, had 
 begun to make little speculations for themselves in 
 undiscovered wavs. 
 
 END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 PRINTED BY WILLIAM BLACKWOOD AND SONS, EDINBUKGH. 
 
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