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 Ai
 
 AGGESDEN VICARAGE 
 
 OS 
 
 BRIDGET STORETS FIRST CHARGE 
 
 A TALE FOE THE lOUNa 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON 
 
 JOHN W. PARKER AND SON, WEST STRAND. 
 
 1859. 
 
 iThe Author reserves the r{ght of Translation.}
 
 853 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 CHAP. PAGE 
 
 I. EXPECTATIONS I 
 
 II. eealitieS 17 
 
 III. A COUNTEY SUNDAY 3I 
 
 IV. THE CBICKET MATCH 46 
 
 V. FIEST THORNS 58 
 
 ^ VI. TEA AND TEOUBLE 76 
 
 . VII. THE COUSINS 9I 
 
 Vl.y. ANTOINETTE IO4 
 
 I\. THE POETBAIT GALLEEY . . . . . . II9 
 
 X. * OUE MAEGAEET * I30 
 
 XI. HOPES 141 
 
 fNJ XII. EOBEET 159 
 
 ' XIII. VAIN EEGEETS 1 74 
 
 pV. JOY 186 
 
 JXV. A STOEM 197 
 
 XVI. EEPENTANCE ... * 209 
 
 XVII. THE CHEISTMAS PAETY 220 
 
 XVIII. PAEISH WOEK 233 
 
 XIX. A WEDDING 249 
 
 XX. JOHN AND SUNSHINE 261 
 
 XXI. THE COUNTESS DUTHOYTE 274
 
 AGGESDEN VICARAGE, 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 EXPECTATIONS. 
 
 For manners are not idle, but the fruit 
 Of loyal nature and of noble mind. 
 
 Idylls of the King. 
 
 * "|\/rAMMA, this seems the very thing;' and 
 -L'-L Bridget Storey looked up with sparkling 
 eyes from the advertisement-sheet of the Guardian, 
 which she had been' slowly but regularly perusing 
 in search of what she had now found. 
 
 ' What, my dear V 
 
 * This. ^ Wanted immediately, in a clergyman's 
 fam'ly in the country, a governess to superintend the 
 education of three little girls from fourteen to eight, 
 also of one boy aged five. Salary fifty pounds a-year. 
 Thorough acquaintance with English, French, and 
 music indispensable requisites. For further par- 
 ticulars, address A. G., Post-ofiice, Massing, Wor- 
 cestershire.' Quite in the country, mamma, and a 
 clergyman's family, too ; just what I should like.' 
 
 The speaker, a girl of one-and-twenty, with 
 nothing remarkable about her in shape, feature, or 
 colouring, seldom had been so animated as now. 
 
 ' Only fifty pounds a-year,' repeated Mrs. Storey. 
 
 VOL. I. B 
 
 /
 
 a AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 * Quite as mucli as I'm worth, mamma ; and a 
 first situation and all. Do let me answer it.' 
 
 * We must ask your father.' 
 
 * But answering the advertisement does not 
 commit me, and we should lose one whole day's 
 post. Some one may get before me. Clergyman's 
 family, country, and a boy, mamma ; I am sure 
 it would do. I am so glad there is that boy. 
 I wish they were all boys.' 
 
 Few would have shared Bridget Storey's wish, 
 certainly not the pale, harassed-looking lady who 
 two streets off had that very morning been ponder- 
 ing long over that same advertisement, and against 
 whose experience Bridget would have had but poor 
 chance. ' Wanted immediately' — ' country air is all 
 I want ; but that boy — no, I am in no state to 
 undertake boys, and I must run no risk of being 
 sent home ill again.' 
 
 And so Miss Kobinson, with a sigh, gave up her 
 first thought of applying for the situation on which 
 Bridget had now set her heart. 
 
 And don't begin by pitying a girl of one-and- 
 twenty for setting her heart on an advertisement that 
 neither you nor I can think very promising. At 
 her own desire most of what her father could have 
 saved for her future provision liad been expended as 
 earned on her education, Bridget preferring to be a 
 governess and well-educated rather than a clerk's 
 idle daughter and uneducated ; she was now long- 
 ing to make use (as she had always been told, if the 
 capital of her little provision were spent, she must 
 do) of her powers, such as they were : she would 
 work for herself by-and-bye, but just now she had
 
 EXPECTATIONS. 3 
 
 another incentive to immediate action far dearer, 
 that of enabling her father to continue her second 
 brother, John, at King's College, a matter that 
 income-tax and other expenses and vicissitudes 
 made daily a more perplexing problem ; and to her 
 mind, going out as a governess, in her line of life, in- 
 volved no loss of caste ; would keep her own talents 
 bright and in use, and give her an insight into new 
 modes of life and thought ; open wider interests to 
 one who began to find those surrounding No. 6, 
 Laurel-terrace, Islington, rather narrow and irri- 
 tating. 
 
 She did write to ' A. G., Worcester,' and awaited 
 in a fever of impatience the answer she never 
 doubted Thursday's post would bring. * Only 
 twelve hours more,' she thought, as she sat over her 
 work as it struck eight on Wednesday evening. 
 But Thursday brought no answer, nor Friday, nor 
 Saturday. Sunday in London is a blank letter day, 
 and by that time Bridget felt very cross, very much 
 disappointed, telling her mother they must have 
 thought her too young, or not liked her hand- 
 writing, and rejected her at once, and that she did 
 not expect to hear now. Thinking secretly Monday 
 with its rather late-delivered letters would never 
 come, meanwhile could she in her excitement have 
 misdirected her letter, or had she indeed been too 
 late 1 too truly, now she thought of it, the paper 
 had been all but a week old. 
 
 Monday morning came, and about ten minutes 
 
 before the postman could be expected, Mrs. Storey 
 
 wanted some buttons for John's shirts, and Bridget 
 
 offered at once to go out for them. Anything 
 
 B 2
 
 4 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 for action till those minutes of suspense were over, 
 even to escape the moment when the letters came. 
 
 She was very young, reader ; forgive her ! 
 
 ' Here, Bridget,' said her mother, as she entered 
 with a beating heart under an externally calm 
 manner, * the Worcester post-mark.' 
 
 Bridget threw down the buttons, seized the 
 letter, rushed upstairs, and bolted the door to meet 
 her joy or disappointment alone. 
 
 ' Madam, — I regret that your letter of the 9th 
 has remained so long unanswered. You request 
 further particulars. The three girls who would be 
 entirely under your charge are Mary, Anna, and 
 Caroline Arnold, aged fourteen, eleven, and eight. 
 Little Master Robert was five last April, and has 
 a temper of his own, I must warn you, for you 
 seem to Mrs. (this was scratched out) me young for 
 so numerous a charge. In every other particular I 
 think you would suit us extremely well, and should 
 my little son not be an insuperable objection, I 
 shall be glad to hear from you again. We would 
 do our best to make you happy, but, remember, 
 you would be more than a hundred miles from town. 
 ^ Yours, very truly, 
 
 ' Anna G. Aknold.' 
 
 * No,' said Bridget at once, for she possessed a 
 little keen-sightedness of her own, ' this is a gentle- 
 man's hand and a gentleman's note, I am sure. I 
 wonder if Mrs. Arnold is an invalid. But it is 
 very kind, and as for the boy, and its being so far 
 from Islington, why those are just the very things 
 that make me so much want to go.'
 
 EXPECTATIONS. 5- 
 
 And on a bright October afternoon, just three 
 weeks later, Bridget Storey alighted at the little 
 Massing Station, a new page of life lying yet un- 
 turned before her. 
 
 Then she first felt some of the trials of the lot 
 that choice and necessity combined had made hers. 
 She had to see after luggage, and then look round 
 for the trace of any one likely hereafter to be a 
 friend, or at least better known. 
 
 * For Aggesden Vicarage, miss V asked the 
 country stationmaster, seeing her thus look round. 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 * One of the young gentlemen's waiting for you 
 outside — couldn't leave the pony, or he'd have 
 come on the platform ;' and the master led the 
 "way through the little station to the newly-made 
 and stony station road. 
 
 Here was one solitary vehicle, a pony carriage, 
 and in the front seat a boy of twelve or so whist- 
 ling ' There is nae luck about the house;' on 
 hearing footsteps he turned round, sprang down, 
 and approached Bridget, frankly touching his cap 
 like a little gentleman. 
 
 ' Miss Storey ? papa was sorry he was busy and 
 could not come; let me help you in, and I and 
 Baines will see to your luggage. I am afraid I 
 must ask you to ride in the back seat.' He held 
 out his hand, and Bridget instinctively obeyed and 
 mounted. 
 
 Certainly her view of this young Arnold, as he 
 and Baines (rather Baines and he) tried first one 
 means, then another, of inducing her large box to 
 occupy part only of the box-seat, was not such as
 
 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 to diminisli her love for the whole race of boys. 
 He was tall, slight, and straight, his hair fair, his 
 face frank and good-humoured, his manner — and 
 not to Bridget alone so appearing — particularly 
 pleasant and open. * If all my pupils are . like 
 this,' thought Bridget, and wished more than ever 
 that her future charges were to have been the boys 
 of the family. 
 
 At last the great box was settled, young Arnold 
 thanked Baines for his help, turned round to hope 
 Miss Storey was not inconvenienced by the carpet- 
 bag, and was so sorry it had been quite impossible 
 to put the box in the back seat ; and then cracked 
 his whip, and they were off. 
 
 It was a lovely evening of a month which boasts 
 of the sweetest and loveliest mornings, noons, and 
 evenings of the whole year. How fresh, pure, and 
 still the air was, how softly it fanned Bridget's hot 
 cheeks, and how calmly the pale sun slanted its level 
 beams from out the ' daffodil sky' straight into her 
 young eyes. On either side, the hedges full of 
 straggling boughs of fruit-laden blackberries and 
 feathery clematis j beyond, the Malvern Hills, blue 
 and dark. 
 
 * There is Aggesden Church,' said her companion, 
 at last, ' that low, square tower in the woods.' 
 
 * Where 1 Ah ! I see,' and Bridget strained her 
 eyes in trying to make out the vicarage near it j 
 * how far off is it still V 
 
 ' Three miles by the road, two in a straight line ; 
 we can't see the house till we get a mile nearer. 
 Sir Hector's plantations hide it.' 
 
 ' Who is Sir Hector V Bridget ventured to ask.
 
 EXPECTATIONS.' JT 
 
 * The lord of tlie manor ; they'll be coming down 
 soon now. Ah ! did you see that pheasant V 
 
 * No, where V 
 
 'It's off.' A little pause. 'Do you like the 
 country, Miss Storey V 
 
 * I don't know anything of it, but I feel sure I 
 shall.' 
 
 * It's rather dull on wet days, though,' remarked 
 young Arnold, and then finding old Daisy had 
 taken advantage of his master's distracted attention 
 to drop even his usual jog-trot for a lazy walk, gave 
 his future energies to his driving, and they sped on 
 nearly in silence till they turned from the lonely 
 country lanes into a straggling village. ' Home at 
 last,' said the boy. 
 
 Home ? no, just then Bridget felt how truly she 
 was a stranger in a strange place ; her home, the 
 little, unpretending, suburban, London-smoked 
 house in Laurel-terrace. 
 
 * There's our house ! That's right. Bill, open the 
 gate,' as a little chubby boy of four, with a sun- 
 bleached head, started off from his cottage-door to 
 fulfil young Master Arnold's commands. 
 
 They drove in upon rather a narrow drive, hedged 
 in on either side with evergreens, till within a few 
 yards of a long, low, white house, with a slate roof, 
 tall chimneys, and two small windows on either 
 side of the door. 
 
 Bridget felt rather disappointed : this was not 
 the gabled, latticed, porched, creeper-covered build- 
 ing she had been ready to fancy every country 
 parsonage. In tinith, such an one as she had ima- 
 gined had existed till about thirty years ago, when
 
 8 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 Dr. Pettigrew, and Queen Anne's bounty combined, 
 had substituted the present more weatherproof and 
 convenient, but far less picturesque frontage in its 
 place. 
 
 Three little children standing at the door, appa- 
 rently on the watch for the pony-carriage, were 
 seized with a sudden fit of rather boisterous shyness, 
 as it drew up, and disappeared into the recesses of 
 the house, where above their tittering laughter was 
 heard a grave 'hush.' Bridget felt herself colour, 
 and saw her companion do the same ; however, he 
 jumped down, helped her out, and showed her into 
 the drawing-room, politely enough to make good 
 amends. 
 
 * I will tell mamma you are come ;' he said, and 
 disappeared also. 
 
 Then Bridget felt her heart beat very fast, and 
 her voice grow very thick. How was she to com- 
 port herself in the new sphere of life into which 
 she was willing to believe now she had rushed pre- 
 cipitately ? How could she pass that long evening, 
 four whole hours, in public amongst a whole family 
 of strangers ? 
 
 She waited and waited, and was just growing 
 calm again, when a mass of dark hair, a low, broad, 
 little forehead, and a pair of bright eyes appeared 
 suddenly over the sill of one of the two open win- 
 dows, then it popped down, and there was a titter. 
 How hard a titter is to bear in a dependent situa- 
 tion ! 
 
 * Come, children, clear away !' said a bright, good- 
 natured voice, and a great pattering of little feet 
 into the house and upstairs preceded the entrance
 
 EXPECTATIONS. 9 
 
 of a gentleman of about seven-and-forty, of middle 
 height, and good but rather stout figure. 
 
 ' How do you do, Miss Storey V and he held out 
 his hand frankly, * waiting for mamma, eh 1 but 
 you would be glad to get off your bonnet and have 
 some tea ; I will send one of the girls to show 
 you your room. You had a pleasant journey, I 
 hope V 
 
 ' Very, thank you, sir.' 
 
 * And I hope Johnnie proved a good chaperone, 
 and showed off the beauties of the Massing-road. 
 We think this a pretty neighbourhood.' 
 
 ' Oh yes, sir, it is beautiful.' 
 
 ' But its beauties mustn't make us forget hovr 
 hungry you must be. We shall be having tea 
 directly — ah !' as Bridget's old friend entered, 
 * send in some of the girls to show Miss Storey the 
 way to her room.' 
 
 John disappeared again, and presently in his 
 stead came a sturdy, thickset, bright-eyed girl of 
 eleven, 'Ah. ! Anna, I must introduce you — your 
 second pupil. Miss Storey.' 
 
 Bridget held out her hand, wondering no such 
 pleasant and setting-at-ease sentence as would have 
 occurred at once to any governess in her place in 
 fiction, came not to her — that instead, she felt 
 nearly as shy and awkward as the abashed child 
 before her. 
 
 * Well, and now, Anna, show Miss Storey her 
 room, and be her little maid,' interrupted Mr. Ar- 
 nold, with opportune good nature, ' and then tell 
 mamma we're all dying for tea.' 
 
 * Mamma's out, papa.'
 
 10 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 * Oh, is she 1 Well, then, you must tell Mary to 
 make tea in her place, but don't forget to see Miss 
 Storey has all she wants.' 
 
 Anna showed the way up the narrow, shabby, 
 modern stairs with great discreetness, but once 
 safely within Miss Storey's room, her silence re- 
 laxed. ' It's very small, you see,' she said, a little 
 bluntly, ' but mamma was sure you'd like it best, 
 because you need never be turned out ; and if you 
 hear anything strange at nights, it's only the mice, 
 they do make such a row in this old part of the house.' 
 
 Yes, here was a latticed window at last, and the 
 low ceiling and panelled walls Bridget would have 
 desired. What mattered it, therefore, that even the 
 soft western wind, then blowing, created sufficient 
 draught under the door to flap the drugget up and 
 down in little gusts 1 and that the ivy surround- 
 ing those latticed panes was very suggestive of ear- 
 wigs and spiders 1 Upon going to the window no 
 wonder such a remembrance never suggested itself, 
 for the view from it was that of the vicarage gar- 
 den, beyond this one corner of the village church- 
 yard, further still, the Malvern Hills, still, dark, 
 and blue. 
 
 ' How lovely !' said Bridget, unconsciously. 
 
 ' Yes, I suppose it is, but we are used to it. Can 
 I help you. Miss Storey V 
 
 Anna proved more willing than handy as a lady's 
 maid, but that mattered little to Bridget, not 
 used to any maid at all, and only keeping the child 
 to know her a little better, and thus have another 
 friend out of the crowd of unknown faces still 
 awaiting her.
 
 EXPECTATIONS. 1 1 
 
 ' You will come and tell me, please, when tea is 
 ready V she said, in dismissing her. 
 
 * Oh, yes — or you'll hear the bell ring.' 
 
 Bridget would willingly have employed the inter- 
 vening time in unpacking, but only the carpet-bag 
 was as yet in her room, and that was soon emptied. 
 Little did she then guess whose young hands had 
 carried this upstairs. So this done, she turned 
 to the windows, and sat watching the grey mist 
 stealing over garden and field, and threatening to 
 shut out hills and woods all too soon in damp twi- 
 light, when a loud bell broke her reverie, and up 
 she started. 
 
 The door opened upon a passage, at noon-day 
 dim, and now quite dark, and Bridget felt about, 
 till miserable and nervous, for the two steep steps 
 she remembered led to the door opening on the 
 modern staircase. It was found at last, and down 
 she hurried, vexed and uncomfortable. 
 
 She was soon relieved, however, for only Mr. 
 Arnold and some of the children were as yet in 
 the dining-room. 
 
 ' Mrs. Arnold will be down in a moment ; mean- 
 while you must make acquaintance with this juvenile 
 host. Let's see — this is Mary, the eldest ; there's 
 Frank, the eldest boy — come, Frank, shake hands — 
 Johnnie you know already, and Anna, too, — now 
 then, Carry, Harry, and Bobert, come up in a body 
 — ah ! here's mamma herself 
 
 Bridget turned round, and in the doorway was 
 already a tall, still elegant woman, from whom, it 
 was easy to see, John inherited his straight, well- 
 built figure, although years and cares were destroy-
 
 12, AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 ing the youthful uprightness of his mother s, and 
 had given an indolent stoop to the low, graceful 
 shoulders. The indescribable air of easy good- 
 breeding pervading Mrs. Arnold's very aspect filled 
 Bridget with vague awe and admiration. 
 
 *I was so sorry I was out when you arrived, 
 Miss Storey j but I trust my little girls saw you 
 had all you wanted. Pray, sit down ; I am afraid 
 you must be very tired after so long a journey.' 
 
 Bridget answered, ' Thank you/ and sat down, 
 gladly, in the seat nearest, her eyes fixed on the 
 little child of four whom Mrs. Arnold was holding 
 by the hand. 
 
 *Ah ! still one introduction not made, — little 
 Amabel. Why, my little beauty, not shy V 
 
 Amabel Arnold well deserved the name of a 
 ' little beauty,' being just such a graceful, sweet- 
 looking thing as her mother must have been at her 
 age. There she stood now, her sweet, delicately- 
 socked -an d-shoed little legs thoughtfully crossed, 
 her blue eyes wistful and shy, her long, fair curls 
 hanging on either side of the prettiest little face in 
 the world. 
 
 ' You will let me shake hands V said Bridget, 
 finding herself expected to speak. 
 
 Out was held a tiny, slender, plump little hand, 
 and then the blue eyes fixed on Bridget's face, 
 
 * I have got such a pretty doll !' 
 
 ' Have you, you darling,' Bridget could not help 
 bursting out, in the midst of all the preceding 
 formality ; * will you show it me after tea V 
 
 * Yes !' and the little face was held up for a kiss 
 to seal the compact.
 
 EXPECTATIONS. I3 
 
 Bridget thought of St. Clair's ' after all, your 
 little child is the only true democrat/ whilst Mr. 
 Arnold thought aloud, — 
 
 ^ Yes, you are a true little * Amabel,' aren't you? 
 See how seven children carry common-sense names 
 before them — ah, little sweet !' and he took her up 
 in his arms — ' as if we could not have hunted up a 
 Mary Anne or Eliza for you !' 
 
 ' I'm sure, papa, Amabel is much prettier.' 
 
 * Well, yes ; and she bears the honour very well. 
 Well now, we mustn't forget tea ; let me give you 
 some beef. Miss Storey,' and the business of the 
 meal began. 
 
 Bridget was happily able to make a very good 
 one, under cover of a long conversation between 
 Mr. and Mrs. Arnold, concerning the sick child 
 whom Mrs. Arnold had been visiting when she 
 arrived. The children, still shy before a stranger, 
 were mostly quiet, Johnnie offering her, as need 
 was, bread, salt, and butter ; Frank being told once, 
 rather sharply, ' to be quiet,' when Carry com- 
 plained of his teasing, whereupon the scowl that 
 passed over the boy's face did not escape Bridget, 
 who, indeed, had nothing better to do than watch 
 her betters. The ' eldest son' — and yet Johnnie 
 seemed to her so completely such, so much more 
 polished for one thing, but, besides, quite as tall, if 
 not taller, and moreover looking so much more like 
 the pride and hope of the family. It was not till 
 the next morning the truth dawned upon the little 
 governess that the two brothers were twins. 
 
 Tea over, Mr. Arnold, who with good reason 
 seemed to think he had quite done his duty by the
 
 14 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 stranger, settled himself into a newspaper three 
 days old, Bridget still Londoner enough to feel 
 astonished at a newspaper of that date possessing 
 the slightest charm for any one, far more the master 
 of a house. The children congregated round the 
 table, some reading, some playing at cribbage or 
 chess, and Mrs. Arnold talked to Bridget pleasantly, 
 but languidly, of her journey — Malvern, Worcester- 
 shire in general, etc. — for the first quarter of an 
 hour, and then despatched Amabel for her doll, 
 upon the arrival of which she leant back in her 
 chair, and knitted more languidly even than she 
 had talked, as if thankful to be quiet, and glad to 
 be idle. 
 
 Meanwhile the children becoming used to a 
 stranger, remarks, laughs, and retorts, grew of more 
 and more frequent recurrence, as also, ' don't Frank,' 
 * do leave me alone, Frank' — phrases, in a very few 
 days, as familiar in Bridget's ears as household words. 
 
 Suddenly arose a loud ' Now, Frank, that is too 
 bad ;' ' Frank, you shan't. Mamma !' 
 
 ^ What's all this V asked Mr. Arnold, looking up 
 from his paper. 
 
 * Frank will,' began one. 
 
 * Frank wont,' began another. 
 
 * Now, Frank, are your lessons ready for to- 
 morrow?' interposed Mr. Arnold. 
 
 'No.' 
 
 * Then just go into the study and do them.' 
 
 * I don't see why I should if Johnnie doesn't.' 
 
 * Johnnie always knows his lessons without being 
 looked after ; you do not,' answered Mr. Arnold, 
 calmly, and resumed his paper.
 
 EXPECTATIONS. 1 5 
 
 Frank got up, scowled at Anna, shoved against 
 Amabel on his way out, and nearly knocked her 
 oif Bridget's knee. Mrs. Arnold said, languidly, 
 * Frank, how rude you are,' and he was gone. Justly 
 or not, Bridget was wise enough to feel she could 
 not decide till she knew more of all the parties 
 concerned. She could not help glancing up to see 
 if Johnnie's face bore the slightest symptom of 
 triumph ; but it did not, and she turned back to 
 Amabel a little baffled and perplexed. 
 
 Presently, Amabel, Robert, and Carry, went off 
 to bed ; in half-an-hour or so, Harry and Anna ; 
 and, in another half-hour, the three eldest children 
 themselves. 
 
 ^ Ah, Miss Storey,' said Mr. Arnold, with a little sigh 
 of relief when they were gone, ' you will soon dis- 
 cover this is the only peaceful time of the day, and 
 be glad to make the most of it, appreciating it ac- 
 cordingly. Are you too tired, Nancy,' to his wife, 
 * to give us a little music V 
 
 * Oh no, I dare say not ; I will try ;' and she 
 ,rose, whilst he lighted the candles of the old- 
 fashioned, blug-silk fronted piano, opened it for her, 
 and then returned to his arm-chair to enjoy the 
 music in peace. Mrs. Arnold played with taste and 
 feeling, and yet with a little uncertainty, as one 
 who either lacked time or inclination to keep up an 
 accomplishment acquired some sixteen years back. 
 Bridget, however, was far too much afraid her turn 
 would come next to criticise the playing of her 
 hostess, or mistress ; she knew not yet in which 
 light to regard her. 
 
 But Mrs. Arnold played on uninterruptedly till
 
 1 6 • AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 the clock struck nine, then rose, said she was very 
 tired, and was meaning to go to bed, and felt quite 
 sure Miss Storey must be longing to do the same ; 
 gave Bridget one bed-candlestick, looked round for 
 another, and not finding it, contentedly took one of 
 the heavy silver candlesticks off the large table ; 
 and showing her young governess to her bedroom, 
 and hoping she had everything she wanted, wished 
 her good night, and left Bridget to her own medi- 
 tations. 
 
 She had meant them to be many and deep, but 
 they were neither one nor the other ; in spite of 
 three several severe attempts to shake off incipient 
 drowsiness, and think well over all that she had 
 seen and heard, before the church-clock struck 
 ten Bridget Storey was fast asleep. 
 
 r
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 REALITIES. 
 
 Come to me, ye cliildren t 
 
 For I hear you at your play, 
 And the questions that perplexed me 
 
 Have vanished quite away. 
 
 Ah ! what would the world be to us, 
 
 If the children were no more ? 
 We should dread the desert behind us 
 
 Worse than the dark before. 
 
 Longfellow. 
 
 THE next morning Bridget did not awake till the 
 noise of some one pulling up her blind aroused 
 her. 
 
 *What time is it?' she asked, springing up at 
 once. 
 
 ' Half-past seven, miss ;' and the maid was 
 whisking out of the room full speed. 
 
 * Half-past seven, and breakfast at eight V 
 
 'Yes, miss,' answered the girl, still intent on 
 flight. 
 
 ' But, my box,' pursued Bridget, looking round ; 
 * will you be so good as to bring it up V 
 
 ' Yes, miss, when cook can help me ;' and Ma- 
 rianne succeeded in effecting her escape. 
 
 Bridget sprang out, and dressed with all possible 
 speed, all manner of fears tormenting her. Would 
 she be expected to go down when the clock struck? 
 or wait for the bell 1 Moreover, would her box be 
 brought up in time for her to get out and put on 
 
 VOL. I. c
 
 1 8 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 something fresher and cooler than the tumbled dress 
 in which she had travelled yesterday 1 This last 
 point settled itself; no box came, and she was 
 obliged to trust to collar and cuflfs for neatness and 
 cleanliness. 
 
 The clock struck, and, after a moment's thought, 
 Bridget opened her door, and ventured down stairs j 
 but no one beyond Marianne, laying the cloth, was 
 in the dining-room ; and she turned round as if 
 surprised at being thus disturbed. 
 
 * Oh you, miss. I am very sorry about your 
 box, but you see we overslept ourselves, and really 
 I never gave it another thought.' 
 
 * Never mind, if you will bring it up as soon 
 after breakfast as you can. Is there any breakfast- 
 bell?' 
 
 * Oh yes, as soon as mistress is down.' 
 
 Bridget went up stairs again, and was not sorry 
 to have quiet possession of the good fifteen minutes 
 which intervened before the bell did ring ; and 
 then hastened down stairs to find all assembled. 
 
 Mr. Arnold read the second lesson for the day, 
 then the confession, and the collect for the week, 
 concluding with the Lord's prayer, and the blessing, 
 Bridget felt, when she rose from her knees, as if 
 she had but just knelt down ; but, before long, she 
 saw how wise such a course was in a household of 
 vhich so large a proportion were mere children. 
 
 * Half-past eight, no time to lose,' said Mr. 
 Arnold, seating himself. ' Come, children, no 
 dawdling. What are you about there, Frank V 
 
 * Only reading my letter.' 
 
 * Well, put it by till after breakfast — well, read
 
 REALITIES. 19 
 
 it, never mind — only sit down, and get into order. 
 Miss Storey, may I ask you to cut up that loaf f 
 
 Bridget complied ; whilst Mary asked Frank 
 from which of the Meri vales his letter was. 
 
 * What's that to you V returned Frank ; and 
 went on with it himself. 
 
 * No letters for any one else V asked Mr. Arnold. 
 
 * No, Frank is the only favoured one.' 
 
 ' And what's your news f asked Frank's father. 
 ' Oh, nothing.' 
 
 ' From one of the Merivale's, eh ? When's Sir 
 Hector coming down V 
 
 * Hector doesn't say,' answered Frank, usually 
 not very communicative, and now greatly affronted. 
 
 ' I met Lady Merivale yesterday. She said she 
 was expecting him the end of this week, only for a 
 night or so,' said Mrs. Arnold. 
 
 ' Sad absenteeism,' remarked her husband, but 
 not as if this much affected him ; and having pro- 
 vided one half of his children with breakfast, began 
 his own ; and the meal went on quietly till it was 
 over. 
 
 * Well, I am just going to see poor little Patty,' 
 said Mr. Arnold, as he rose. * Now mind, Frank, 
 you are in the way at the half hour ;' and in a 
 minute he trod vigorously past the window on his 
 way to the village. 
 
 * You will like to see the schoolroom, Miss 
 Storey 1 I will leave your little pupils to introduce 
 and make friends. Perhaps you will like best 
 only to see what they can do now, and not begin 
 lessons regularly till to-morrow. You will wish to 
 unpack, and write home, too, this morning, I dare 
 
 c 2
 
 30 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 say. The post leaves Massing at four, rather in- 
 conveniently early. Watkins generally takes our 
 letters.' 
 
 * Thank you, ma'am,' answered Bridget ; and fol- 
 lowed her future charges. 
 
 * This way, Miss Storey ; take care, there are 
 two steps j' and Mary led the way into the school- 
 room — the room, in fact, immediately under the 
 governess' own bed-room. 
 
 It was scrupulously neat ; and though the carpet 
 was well worn, the furniture very old-fashioned and 
 shabby, it looked cheerful and pleasant now, the 
 garden lying bright and sunny outside, and two 
 stately claret-coloured hollyhocks looking in at the 
 window. 
 
 ' These are our books, Miss Storey ;' and Mary 
 went to the shelves hanging over a veritable old 
 harpsichord. 
 
 Bridget, happily alive to the perils of such a book- 
 case, from home use and personal painful experience, 
 took out one or two of its old-fashioned, well (or, at 
 any rate, hardly) used volumes ; but so as in no 
 way to imperil its equilibrium. 
 
 * You have been used to learning lessons V she 
 asked, more from wishing to say something than 
 from any doubt of the answer. 
 
 '■ Oh, yes,' answered Mary. 
 
 ' No, not always, not for a long time,' whispered 
 Anna, loudly and anxiously, to her elder sister. 
 
 'Because mamma has been unwell, and we 
 had no one to teach us,' said Mary, a little 
 despondingly.
 
 EEALITIES. ZI 
 
 Slie was a tall girl of her age, upright and stiff 
 in figure, although looking sadly as if outgrowing 
 her strength, very neat in hair and dress, and in 
 most things a thorough contrast to bluff, hearty- 
 looking Anna ; a little like her mother in feature, 
 but lacking all her grace ; and while Mrs. Arnold's 
 delicacy made her appearance only the more inte- 
 resting, her young daughter's face was as yet 
 rendered simply peaking and formal by it. 
 
 ' And you like being taught?' asked Bridget. 
 
 *I want very much to get on,' was the honest 
 answer. 
 
 * Then we shall do very well. Now, will you let 
 me hear you read a little French V 
 
 In this language Mary proved to be rather 
 forward; whilst Anna was essentially backward, 
 after every allowance being made for the three 
 years' difference in age. Music and history brought 
 to light much the same result ; although Bridget 
 saw Anna had plenty of sturdy common sense of 
 her own, and meant, before she had done with her, 
 to succeed in turning it on her lessons. 
 
 ' Shall we learn any lessons for to-morrow V asked 
 Mary, as Bridget was leaving them to go upstaii-s 
 to write, and then unpack. 
 
 ' If you wish it. Will you show me what you 
 learnt last? Don't be afraid, Anna' — seeing the 
 intense dread and dissatisfaction this little girl was 
 undergoing at the very prospect of such an infliction 
 on herself — ' You and I will wait for lessons till 
 to-morrow.' 
 
 ' Thank you,' most heartily j ' then I may go V
 
 2% AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 ' Yes/ 
 
 ' Now, Anna, mind you don't go near the pond 
 in that frock,' said Mary, very elder-sisterly. 
 
 * Oh j well, I can take it off now Miss Storey's seen 
 me clean and decent for once. You know, Mary,' 
 persuasively, 'whether I went near the pond or 
 not, it would be quite dirty before dinner ; it's 
 only you who can make one last clean a whole 
 week.' 
 
 Mary smiled a little complacently ; Bridget was 
 afraid, but agreed to all Anna's propositions ; and 
 the child went off happy and content. 
 
 Bridget went up and wrote her letter home, 
 three long sheets, and wondered if her mother were 
 writing her promised letter to herself at the same 
 time ; and then going to the window to enjoy one 
 more good view of the lovely country prospect 
 before unpacking, beheld Anna very busy on the 
 banks of the pond, which she had not noticed the 
 evening before divided the churchyard and garden. 
 
 There she was ! shoes and stockings off, dabbling 
 about as happy as a queen, and at last, turning 
 round eagerly, caught sight of Miss Storey at the 
 window. 
 
 'Oh, Miss Storey,' she cried, joyfully, 'I have 
 got such a great beauty. I do wish Frank were 
 out of school, I do wish you could see it, but it 
 does hop so ; there, sir, go down there.' And a great 
 frog splashed from her hand into a great tin can by 
 her side. 
 
 Bridget was quite London-bred enough to have 
 no desire to make nearer acquaintance with Anna's 
 prize; but who can wonder that the little girl's
 
 REALITIES. 23 
 
 undoubting demand upon her sympathy made the 
 young governess's heart warm and her eyes full 1 
 She could never help regarding Anna as her first 
 true friend. 
 
 She unpacked and arranged her goods carefully, 
 and had but just tidied herself afterwards, when 
 the dinner bell rang. She ran down at once, but 
 for some five minutes found herself the only occu- 
 pant of the dining-room except Maiy, who had 
 taken the precaution to bring her work with her, 
 and was stitching diligently at a child's frock. 
 
 * Is it for one of your little sisters V Bridget 
 ventured to ask. 
 
 * Yes, Amabel ; she does grow so fast,' proudly ; 
 *all those I made in the spring are too short.' 
 
 * Is she a great favourite V 
 
 , * Oh yes, I wish I could do everything for her.' 
 'Who? little Miss Amabel?' asked a blithe 
 
 voice. ' Why you do pretty nearly, little woman ; 
 
 you deck her out as you first-born instead of 
 
 eighth-born, never were yourself. I think if you 
 
 worked a little less, and ran about a little more, we 
 
 should have a little more colour in these pale 
 
 cheeks. Eh, Molly ?' 
 
 It did Bridget's heart good to hear Mr. Arnold's 
 
 kind, hearty tones towards his little daughters. 
 
 She herself had been brought up in a far stifier, 
 
 sterner school. 
 
 *We can't all be as rosy as Frank and Anna, 
 
 papa,' answered Mary, freely. 
 
 * I wish you could ; you and Johnnie don't look 
 half strong enough to please me ; how white that 
 boy is to-day, but he declares he's quite well.'
 
 24 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 ' Johnnie's never strong,' said Mary, sighing. 
 
 * Better than you, Molly, you must allow that. 
 Oh, he does well enough ; you've both of you out- 
 grown your strength, that's all ; mean to be as tall 
 as Merivales both of you, I suppose. Ah, here's 
 mamma herself, and a tribe of little ones, so there's 
 some hopes of dinner.' 
 
 Large as the tribe looked in a mass, when seated, 
 it was found to have consisted of five instead of 
 seven, and Anna and Frank were still missing. 
 
 * I dare sa^ they're at the pond, mamma,' said 
 Carry ; 'they were when we came in.' 
 
 * How tiresome they are,' sighed Mrs. Arnold ; 
 * they must have heard the bell if you did. Go and 
 tell them to come in at once.' 
 
 Out Carry ran, was back herself again in two 
 minutes, and Frank and Anna followed in three 
 more. 
 
 ' What have you been about, children V 
 
 * Cleaning ourselves,' answered Anna with every 
 intention of honesty, nevertheless propounding a 
 proposition so hard of belief, judging by external 
 appearances, that Mr. Arnold laughed instead of 
 lecturing. 
 
 ' I did not know, ma'am, what I had better do 
 with my letter,' Bridget ventured to say as the 
 dinner-party broke up. She had looked on the 
 hall table, the mantelpiece, any place likely to be a 
 rendezvous of the family letters to add her own to 
 it, but seeing no trace of a letter anywhere, had put 
 hers in her pocket, and was now emboldened by 
 fear of losing the post altogether to ask in- 
 formation.
 
 REALITIES. 25 
 
 ' Oil, your letter — I am so sorry ; I ought to have 
 told Marianne to ask for it when the butcher came, 
 we have no post-office within three miles. I am so 
 vexed ;' and Mrs. Arnold looked so. 
 
 ' If you would let me walk, and there is time, I 
 could take it myself.* 
 
 ' Oh, it's too far for Miss Storey this hot day,' 
 put in Mr. Arnold ; ' one of the boys shall go. 
 Come, Frank, it will be something for you to do 
 this long afternoon.' 
 
 * Oh no, thank you, sir, I could not think of giving 
 any one so much trouble ; I would much rather go 
 myself 
 
 * But you don't know the way.' 
 
 * I came along the Massing road last night, sir.' 
 
 * Ah, but a good mile is saved by the fields.' 
 
 * Let me take it down to Billy Stokes, at the 
 gate,' said Anna, as the idea struck her ; ' he'll go 
 at once.' 
 
 ' Which is more than my own son seems in- 
 clined to do,' said Mr. Arnold, a little vexed ; ' so 
 it's the best plan, Anna.' 
 
 Johnnie's cheek flushed; he looked at Frank. 
 Frank remained silent, so he spoke out. 
 
 * Papa, indeed I can take it ; it is not a bit 
 too hot.' 
 
 ' No, it's too long a walk for you — it's the old 
 story, most able, least willing — there ; Miss Storey, 
 let Anna take it to the gate for you, and, as she 
 says, Billi/ Stokes will go at once.' 
 
 Mr. Arnold walked away ; Bridget felt sorry and 
 uncomfortable, and, very anxious the children 
 should not think she meant to put upon them, de-r
 
 26 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 clined Anna's outstretched hand, and said, *she 
 would take it herself to the gate — it would not take 
 a minute.' 
 
 * Offended, I suppose,' she had the pleasure of 
 hearing Frank say as she left the room ; * but I'm 
 not going to run her errands, I can tell her.' 
 
 Poor Bridget, but you must expect many a 
 wilful misapprehension yet. 
 
 When she came back, the party had broken up, 
 Frank and Johnnie gone fishing, Anna with them. 
 * Carry and the little boys are gone for a walk with 
 nurse and Mabel. I thought. Miss Storey, you 
 would like a quiet afternoon after your long 
 journey yesterday,' said Mrs. Arnold, as Bridget 
 ventured into the drawing-room, having taken off 
 her bonnet. 
 
 * Thank you, ma'am j I am quite rested, and if I 
 could do .' 
 
 * No, there is nothing for you to do, thank you ; 
 on Monday you shall begin in good earnest, better 
 till then learn your pupils' characters a little. Yes, 
 bring your work and sit with me ; we shall have 
 quite a quiet afternoon.' 
 
 Bridget felt how very kindly this was meant and 
 said, however much more formidable such an after- 
 noon appeared to her than one with all the children 
 collectively. 
 
 * You will have rather a tiresome charge, I am 
 afraid,' Mrs. Arnold continued, leaning back in her 
 easy chair, and mending a child's frock, languidly, 
 as she spoke ; ' they have been sadly neglected since 
 Miss Marshall left us at Midsummer, and Anna 
 has grown sadly wild and tom-boyish j indeed I
 
 REALITIES. 27 
 
 must ask you to keep her as much away from Frank 
 as possible : he is teaching her to be as rough and 
 unpolished as himself. They are both quite too 
 much for me.' 
 
 ' I am afraid you are not very strong,' Bridget 
 ventured to say, finding herself expected to speak. 
 
 ' Oh, no ; I have not known a day's real health 
 for years. I was once strong enough — years ago, 
 when I was as young as you,' and Mrs. x^rnold 
 smiled her particularly pleasant, graceful smile ; 
 ' they tell me, and I dare say rightly, I abused the 
 gift while I had it. It is such a comfort to me to 
 think I have now one I can so thoroughly trust to 
 rest upon.' 
 
 Bridget had never had so graceful a compliment 
 paid her before, and blushed and looked down. 
 
 ' Perhaps you would be so good as to tell me 
 what you would like me to teach them, and how 
 much I am to do with them,' she was emboldened 
 to ask ; this being a question very near her heart, 
 and one which mentally had been far better turned 
 than put. 
 
 ' Oh, I am sure you will be a much better judge 
 of their capacity than I am ; pray see that Mary 
 holds up her head and Anna does not sit cross- 
 legged kicking her chair ; otherwise, I am sure I 
 may leave all to you.' 
 
 * I have had no experience,' said Bridget, too 
 young yet to know the folly of depreciating 
 herself. 
 
 * No, but you will soon gain it ; besides, all your 
 accomplishments are fresh, mine sixteen years old ;* 
 and Mrs. Arnold sighed.
 
 28 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 Still, what Bridget most wanted to know re- 
 mained unanswered, whether she were the respon- 
 sible person for Mary, Anna, Carry, and Robert 
 out of school as well as in ; whether, for instance, 
 Anna's being in time for meals and appearing at 
 them clean and neat came within her province or 
 not, and, after three minutes' shy silence, she took 
 courage, and said again — 
 
 ' And I suppose, ma'am, I am to look after the 
 young ladies out of school hours V 
 
 * Oh, yes, as much as you can, but don't trouble 
 yourself, they are accustomed to take care of them- 
 selves, and to be with children all day is such a 
 tax. I hope we shall often enjoy such quiet after- 
 noons as this.' 
 
 Bridget felt very grateful : the question was not 
 very clearly answered, but she should soon see what 
 was expected from her, and do it. 
 
 Presently Mr. Arnold came in with a book. 
 * Don't go, Miss Storey,' as Bridget rose ; ' I have 
 been up to the Hall and brought down The Angel 
 in the House, Nancy, and came to see if you would 
 like to hear any of it.' 
 
 ' Very much, thank you. Did you hear Sir 
 Hector's movements V 
 
 ' Yes ; he comes down to-morrow, Hector and 
 Harry with him, just for a couple of days : a sad 
 pity to have taken those boys to the north deer- 
 stalking when they ought to have been at Latin 
 and Greek, and I shall tell him so. Lady Merivale 
 quite agrees with me.' 
 
 Demurely bent as Bridget's eyes were upon 
 her work, her heart beat with no little interest at
 
 REALITIES. 29 
 
 hearing a ' Sir ' and ' Ladj ' thus quietly dis- 
 cussed ; neither one nor the other had as yet come 
 within her ken. 
 
 ' I am sure Lady Merivale must have been glad 
 he did not leave them with her ; they ought to have 
 been at school long ago. — But Coventry Patmore — - 
 yes, sit close to the window, the China roses are so 
 sweet to-day, and we shall hear quite well.' 
 
 A most pleasant hour followed, and then came 
 in Frank and Johnnie. ' Ah, my time's up,' said 
 Mr. Arnold, rising ; ' I told Frank if he was un- 
 punctual again I'd keep him in till tea-time, so I 
 mustn't keep him now — it's barely four, though ;' 
 but off he went. 
 
 Anna came in next, holding wet dangling petti- 
 coats very high, her cheek bonnie and red, her eyes 
 bright with eagerness, the identical tin-can in her 
 hand. 
 
 ' Oh, mamma, Miss Storey, do look, do just see !* 
 
 * My dear Anna, do pray go and tidy yourself; 
 I cannot have those shoes in here. I really must 
 ask Miss Storey to forbid this going out with the 
 boys. You are not fit to be seen.' 
 
 Anna retreated, and their next visitors were the 
 little walkers collectively, their hands full of wild 
 flowers. 
 
 * Smell, * tory,' smell,' said little Amabel, putting 
 her bunch with her sweet childish laugh and smile 
 into Bridget's face. 
 
 * Miss Storey, Mabel ; say it after me, Miss 
 Storey.' 
 
 * M — mif Torey,' heaved Amabel with two se- 
 parate terrible efforts ; * so sweet ! old Mrs. Motts
 
 30 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 gave me that wallflower, and Jenny Smiff that 
 r — rose.' 
 
 ' And wouldn't give me nothink/ said E-obert, 
 looking greatly offended still. 
 
 Mrs. Arnold looked at Bridget and smiled. 
 * Two negatives equal an affirmative — no, what is 
 it that I used to learn in the school-room at the 
 Hall ? I wonder Robert does not raise Lindley 
 Murray's ghost.' 
 
 The evening passed away pleasantly, one hour 
 of it being spent in blind-man's buff with the seven 
 elder children in the school-room. Mr. Arnold 
 had pooh-poohed Anna's entreaty, but Bridget 
 could honestly say she should like it, and she did like 
 it, for she had had no walk for two whole days, 
 and exercise, from habit, had grown essential to her, 
 and now raised her spirits higher than they had been 
 since she left home. 
 
 "When the children went up to bed she was tho- 
 roughly discussed. 
 
 ' Well,' Anna said, ' she did play capitally at 
 blind-man's buff, and Miss Marshall never played 
 once.' 
 
 ' It's early times yet,' concluded Frank ; ' see :f 
 she's as goodnatured one month on.' 
 
 r
 
 3^ 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 A COUNTRY SUNDAY. 
 
 Those who are in the habit of remarking such matters 
 must have noticed the passive quiet of an English landscape 
 on Sunday. For my part, there are feelings that visit me 
 in a country church, amid the beautiful serenity of nature, 
 which I experience nowhere else. — Sketch-hook. 
 
 THE first sound Bridget heard the next morning 
 was that of the passing bell. Strange and 
 solemn it sounded in the sweet country stillness ; 
 how different from the same sound mid the clatter, 
 dust, and ceaseless traflolc of a London home. 
 
 ' Gone,' said Mr. Arnold, quietly, as his wife and 
 youngest child entered the breakfast room ; 'ah, my 
 little sweet,' as he kissed his little daughter, *a 
 Christian younger than yourself gone to claim her 
 ixiheritance.' 
 
 Little else but little Patty and her widowed 
 mother and brothers and sisters was talked of 
 di^ring breakfast. Bridget had never yet felt so 
 fully that she was now more or less a member of 
 a clergyman's family. 
 
 * I don't mind if Lucy doesn't catch it,' said Anna, 
 in a little pause. 
 
 ' There is nothing to catch, Anna,' said Mr. Ar- 
 nold, at once; 'you must go down and see little 
 Lucy, and comfort her ; she was crying sadly when 
 I was there an hour ago.' 
 
 Breakfast over, Bridget and her three elder
 
 3 a AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 pupils this time retired to the school-room, and to 
 two good hours' work ; Bridget could not bear to 
 be longer idle, and, to Anna's dismay, set lessons 
 for Monday, that then they might begin quite 
 steadily, Mary having said those learnt the day 
 before with a careful fluency that promised to make 
 tuition so far an easy task to the teacher. 
 
 In the afternoon the children did not seem in- 
 clined to amuse themselves, and so, when Mr. Ar- 
 nold came in, book in hand, they were loitering 
 about, teasing their mother and each other alter- 
 nately. ^ Come, clear off,' he said, good-humouredly, 
 *I and mamma want a little peace — and Miss 
 Storey, too, if the truth be told, I dare say ; don't 
 trouble her any more, Carry, with that decrepit 
 old doll.' 
 
 The children turned out rather disconsolately, 
 Carry looking wistfully at Bridget, who could not 
 endure not to fulfil the duties of her situation more 
 than she had yet done, and so took courage to rise 
 and follow them, and as Mr. Arnold did not call 
 her back, hoped he had not thought her rude in 
 losing the rest of the poem in this way. 
 
 She proposed a walk, a proposition happily 
 acceptable to three out of the four, and so the 
 majority carried the day, though which favourite 
 walk they should take Miss Storey was a puzzle, 
 which threatened to degenerate into a dispute, 
 until Mary reminded Anna, ' Papa had told her 
 to go and see Lucy Kebbs.' 
 
 ' Oh, yes, and I do so want to go — Miss Storey, 
 you will wait whilst I gather my apples !' 
 
 ' But are they ripe, Anna V asked Mary.
 
 A COUNTRY SUNDAY. 33 
 
 * Yes, quite, and three such beauties;' and away 
 Anna ran. 
 
 They were off at last ; though how long a busi- 
 ness it is for four children to prepare or be prepared 
 for a walk, Bridget began to learn to her cost; 
 however, she forgot Carry's plaintiveness and 
 Robert's fidget tiness when they emerged from the 
 rather dark drive into the little village, with its 
 green hedges, dotted, whitewashed cottages, red and 
 golden autumn-tinted trees, and sped on, her step 
 and heart as blithe and free as those of any of her 
 charges. 
 
 Through some of the Hall woods they brought 
 her home ; through an intentional cut in one of 
 which she caught a circumscribed view of the Hall 
 itself. 
 
 ^ Why, there's the dog-cart,' cried Anna ; ' yes, 
 Sir Hector was coming home to-day, and isn't that 
 Hany still on the box V 
 
 Bridget strained her eyes to see man or boy,' but 
 only Anna's and Robert's long-seeing eyes could 
 make out more than a dark-looking little mass 
 standing in front of the house. 
 
 Bridget longed to ask how old Sir Hector was 1 
 whether Hector and Harry were his sons ? whether 
 Lady Merivale were his wife ? and a world of ques- 
 tions besides, but conscience-stricken that the great 
 interest she felt in the Merivales arose from their 
 rank and position, was ashamed to ask even those she 
 would have liked, and not hesitated to ask, had the 
 object of the children's excitement been one in her 
 own sphere of life. 
 
 ' Well, I am so glad he's come,' concluded Anna. 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 'Why, you wont see him, Anna,' said Mary, 
 quietly. 
 
 ' Yes, I shall, after church,' answered Anna, in- 
 dignantly. 'And he's always so good-natured, and 
 then Lady Merivale puts on her best bonnet when 
 he's here, and they all look so nice.' 
 
 * You shouldn't look about you in church,' said 
 Mary, gravely. 
 
 ' I can't help it ; besides, I see them outside, too, 
 when they're waiting for the carriage. I wonder 
 whether they'll have the carriage to-morrow; papa 
 told Sir Hector last spring he ought to be ashamed 
 to bring it out when he's good legs of his own, and 
 he laughed, and half promised he wouldn't next time.* 
 
 ' Lady Merivale wasn't here then ; that was what 
 papa meant.' 
 
 ' Well, I'm so glad,' persisted Anna ; ' and I do 
 hope he is going to leave Hector and Harry 
 behind.' 
 
 ' Sir Hector has another seat, Pollerton,' ex- 
 plained Mary, turning like a little woman to Miss 
 Storey ; ' and he generally lives there ; that is, when 
 he's not abroad, or in Scotland, or here. But they 
 all, Lady Agnes and — our cousins, come here for 
 Christmas always.' 
 
 ' Lady Agnes is your aunt, then V 
 
 * No ; Sir Hector is mamma's second cousin. Papa 
 was his tutor, and met mamma at the Hall first.' 
 
 Mary's matter-of-fact explanation cleared up a 
 host of perplexities and seeming contradictions, and 
 threw light on all others ; Lady Merivale must be 
 Sir Hector's mother. Lady Agnes his wife. 
 
 ' Sir Hector and Lady A gnes Merivale,' thought
 
 A COUNTRY SUNDAY. 3^ 
 
 Bridget, ^ what pretty names ;' nor can we think 
 her very far wrong. 
 
 Then the children, and Bridget too, fell to nutting, 
 and so enjoyed themselves, that it was five when 
 Bridget looked at the watch her mother had lent 
 her, and she hurried her charges home, sadly afraid 
 that not only Anna but she herself should scarcely 
 be ready for the six o'clock tea ; and in reality, 
 what with the delays of Carry's shoes filling with 
 stones every thirty yards, and Robert dropping 
 behind and saying he was so tired he could not get 
 on, it struck six just as they turned into the garden 
 from the fields. 
 
 Mary looked at Bridget, it seemed to her a little 
 reproachfully; Bridget's cheek and heart, both vexed 
 and hot enough before, grew hotter. However, neither 
 said a word, but the young governess never felt so 
 relieved in her life as to see no token of tea, not a 
 cloth even, upon the dining-table as they passed 
 upstairs, and all were down before tea itself was 
 made, and then Frank was missing. 
 
 ' That boy's always late for everything,' said Mr. 
 Arnold, impatiently ; ' late for prayers, late for 
 lessons, late for tea ; where did you part with him, 
 Johnnie V 
 
 ' At the farm, at three ; I stayed to practise with 
 the club.' 
 
 ' So you mean to distinguish yourself at the last 
 match of the season, eh 1 so I thought did Frank ; 
 really he bowls uncommonly well.' 
 
 ' I wish Sir Hector would stay over Tuesday,' 
 said Anna. 
 
 * Do you 1 we'll try and persuade him ; he's a 
 
 D 2
 
 36 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 host in himself, and really I tremble for our credit 
 if we let Tom Stokes make up our eleven. You 
 have brothers I dare say, Miss Storey, whose hearts 
 are as much given to cricket as my two boys' here.' 
 ' And your own and ours too, papa,' put in Anna, 
 almost anxiously. 
 
 ' Yes, I believe your second pupil longs to be the 
 eleventh herself.' 
 
 ' Well, really, papa, I should do better than Tom 
 Stokes.' 
 
 'Ah, but what would Lady Agnes say, if Sir 
 Hector told of you V 
 
 * I don't care what she says ; he wouldn't mind.' 
 'Well, unfortunately your parents could not 
 agree with him. Ah ! here comes Frank ; now 
 what makes you so late sir V 
 ' I don't know.' 
 
 ' Now, next time, mind, you go without the meal 
 whichever it is you're late for ; now, sit down, and 
 make up for lost time.' 
 
 Frank obeyed ; indeed, seemed to Bridget to eat, 
 having the possibility of no breakfast on the mor- 
 row ever before his eyes. 
 
 After tea came a whisper of blind-man's buff. 
 * Do come. Miss Storey.' 
 
 ' No,' said Mr. Arnold at once, as Bridget seemed 
 half ready to comply ; ' there must be some limit 
 set to Miss Storey's goodnature — once a month, or 
 once a week, as she pleases, I will allow you to 
 martyrize her ; no oftener.' 
 ' Oh, papa, but she liked it.' 
 ' Enough is as good as a feast,' returned the 
 Vicar ; ' no, once a week if she pleases, and will so
 
 A COUNTRY SUNDAY. 37 
 
 do penance, but not oftener. Come, get off with 
 you;' and they went, not, however, to a very 
 amicable game. Without an elder to guide and in- 
 spirit them, children's games seem always apt to flag 
 or grow quarrelsome; and now, before one half-hour 
 was up, Frank had knocked down Kobert, trodden 
 on CaiTy's toes, and torn Mary's frock, whereupon 
 she immediately deserted to mend it; and every 
 one else found the game stupid work, and followed 
 her example. Thus, some time short of an hour, 
 they were all in the drawing-room again. 
 
 Amabel and Robert were sent off to bed at once, 
 Mary began to work, Anna and Cany to play at 
 tactics, Johnnie to read ; whilst Frank looked first 
 over one, then another, sometimes tormenting Carry 
 by pulling out her hindmost pegs to spin as tee- 
 totums, sometimes Johnnie, by suddenly putting 
 his hands over his eyes or over his book — persecu- 
 tion borne in patient silence for a longer time than 
 even Bridget's experience of a thoroughly good- 
 natured brother made her believe possible ; at last, 
 however, John got up and took the precaution of 
 settling nearer Sis father. CaiTy, having the tor- 
 mentor all to herself, also lost all forbearance in the 
 sense of wrong, and ' don't, Frank,' ' pray leave me 
 alone, Frank,' became as common words as they had 
 been last night. 
 
 * Kow, Frank, get something to do,' said Mr. 
 Arnold at last. 
 
 ' I've got nothing to do.' 
 
 * Find something, then. Why can't you be quiet 
 as well as Johnnie V 
 
 Frank made no answer, but, sullenly enough
 
 38 AGGESDEN VICAEAGE. 
 
 took up a book, and for a few minutes pretended to 
 read, then recommenced his teasing, and went on 
 with it till it was summarily put an end to by Mr. 
 Arnold boxing his ears and sending him out of the 
 room. Poor Frank was evidently the scapegrace 
 of the family, and even as such, Bridget was inclined 
 to think, hardly used. However, now he was gone, 
 peace reigned once more. 
 
 Bridget came in for the end of Mr. Patmore's 
 poem after all the children were sent off, and duly 
 admired and sympathized with Cousin Frederick, 
 scarcely believing Mr. Felix could have been so 
 noble, or at least so nohly noble, in the sailor's place ; 
 though throughout the reading her pleasure was 
 ever alloyed by the fear of a request for music. 
 Kone, however, came, for the poem was not ended 
 till half-past nine, and then Mrs. Arnold made the 
 move at once. 
 
 * Perhaps,' she said, as she wished Bridget good- 
 night, ' you will not wish always to be so early; and 
 you must remember you can always have lights in 
 the schoolroom, and sit up as Igng as you like 
 there.' 
 
 * Thank you, ma'am,' answered Bridget, heartily ; 
 and she fell asleep, wondering why the situation of 
 governess was regarded with such universal pity. 
 
 The next day, when she awoke, rain was pouring, 
 the ivy round her window laden with wet, the little 
 pond greatly swollen, and the whole prospect damp 
 and dismal enough. However, before she was 
 dressed, one ray of sunlight had streamed tremu- 
 lously across the drenched lawn ; and before prayers 
 were over, the sun was flooding drive, tree, and
 
 A COUNTRY SUNDAY. 39 
 
 parlour, as if it had never suffered eclipse for a 
 moment. 
 
 Bridget's spirits, an hour ago depressed, rose at 
 once. A wet Sunday is, in London, a double mis- 
 fortune ; the day seemed specially to bring home to 
 her all the feelings and doings of those in Laurel- 
 terrace j and she could not have borne to picture 
 John not only walking his country walk alone, as 
 they had pictured together, rather tearfully, when 
 arm-in-arm climbing Highgate Hill the Sunday 
 before, but actually losing his walk altogether, and 
 with no music even to cheer him. 
 
 ' Now, Miss Storey, I want to know if you have 
 any great objection to Sunday-school teaching?' 
 asked Mr. Arnold, as, the urn in, he began rapidly 
 cutting large slices of bread. 
 
 ' Oh no, sir ; I like it so much.' 
 
 * In imagination, I suppose you mean ? 
 
 ' No, sir j I have taught nearly three years now 
 at Islington.' 
 
 ' Have you, indeed ? Well, I shall hope great 
 things, then, from your experience, and make over 
 the first-class girls to you at once. I am sure, 
 mamma, you will be very glad to give it up en- 
 tirely V 
 
 ' Oh yes, Frank ; in reality I gave it up a year 
 ago.' 
 
 ' Yes, Mary has generally been her mother's sub- 
 stitute, and a very good, steady one she has made,' 
 added Mr. Arnold, kindly, seeing Mary looked 
 rather grieved and blank ; * but it is not a good 
 arrangement, either for herself or them, and Mary 
 will be invaluable in a younger class, she has so
 
 40 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 much patience ; and, after all, patience is the chief 
 requisite in any teacher, as poor Frank — why, 
 where is Frank ? Wasn't he at prayers, mamma V 
 ' No, I think not ; was he, Mary V 
 
 * No, mamma.' 
 
 ' Go up, Johnnie, and see what's become of him,' 
 said Mr. Arnold. 
 
 John presently came down again, and took his 
 seat without a word. 
 
 'Well?' 
 
 ' He says he couldn't be in time ; and as he's to 
 have no breakfast, he thought he needn't come in.' 
 
 * A message made none the less polite for coming 
 through you, I expect, Johnnie,' said Mr. Arnold, 
 good-humouredly. ' Never mind' — as Johnnie's 
 ready blush rushed into his fair, frank face — ' we 
 know what a fight truth and courtesy must have 
 had before you softened one word ; and I dare say 
 you've scarcely done more, for it isn't yet very like 
 a speech of your own. Well, then, Harry, take 
 Frank's bread — what ! you, Bobby, want more, too ? 
 What a voracious little vagabond you are !' 
 
 ' Then we'll start at ten minutes to ten,' said 
 Mr. Arnold, as the party broke up ; ' you'll find me 
 in the study if you will knock. Mary, Anna, and 
 Johnnie go too, so there will be no formidable 
 tete-cb-tete ; and he laughed at Bridget's first uncon- 
 scious look of dismay. 
 
 Punctual to a minute, Bridget was in the hall, 
 but was spared the knock, for Mr. Arnold appeared, 
 followed by Mary and Anna, Johnnie and Frank; 
 and all but the latter started at once. 
 
 Across the still sparkling lawn and a little green
 
 A COUNTRY SUNDAY. 41 
 
 lane their way lay, and then they were in the 
 churchyard, its tombstones, moss-grown and slant- 
 ing as many were, glittering white in the bright sun. 
 Another minute, and they were in the church it- 
 self, where, not a little to Bridget's surprise, and 
 pain, too, she found the school was held. 
 
 To Mr. Arnold, however, fifteen years' use had 
 made what he, too, had at first regarded as a great 
 evil, quite natural ; and he introduced Bridget to 
 her class, wishing she had brightened and returned 
 his first-class girls' shy smiles instead of looking so 
 imperturbably gi-ave. 
 
 Then he read prayers, and an hour's schooling 
 followed, during which Bridget's girls repeated the 
 Collect and Gospel, and read and answered ques- 
 tions on these very clearly and reverently, while 
 their broad, curious dialect, broad, sunburnt faces, 
 antiquated bonnets, and short petticoats, filled 
 Bridget with an amazement she could not drive 
 away. How strangely different were these scholars 
 from the delicate-complexioned, fashionably-dressed 
 girls of their age who composed the first class at 
 St. Paul's, Islington ! 
 
 The signal for dispersion was given by Mr. 
 Arnold's rather loud voice ceasing, and his boys 
 being sent out ; then followed those Johnnie un- 
 dertook ; then Mary's and Anna's girls ; lastly, 
 Bridget's own, their nail-heeled boots clumping 
 nearly as heavily as their brothers' as they went out, 
 the vicarage party finding boys and girls alike in 
 the lane as they crossed it on their way home. 
 
 Mary ran up stairs at once ; and when Mr. Ar- 
 nold called up that it was time to start, came down
 
 43 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 Amabel and Kobert on either side, the little girl's 
 fair, sweet face, a pretty contrast to Robert's sturdy 
 build and ruddy, sunburnt cheeks ; the others, and 
 their mother, came some few minutes after. Mr. 
 Arnold gave his arm to his wife, and the long pro- 
 cession started. 
 
 ^ They entered at the low chancel-door, and took 
 their seats in a square pew, filling the south side of 
 the little chancel. When Bridget raised her eyes, 
 on rising from her knees, she first took in how 
 strangely different this was from any church she 
 had been in yet ; a decorated window, with heavy, 
 almost clumsy, mullions, was above her, blocked up 
 half way, however, to shut out the sunlight ; the 
 floor of the pew was slanting ; the atmosphere of 
 the church antiquated and musty ; the western 
 window almost overgrown with ivy ; the pew oppo- 
 site to, and as large as their own, adorned with 
 brass rods and curtains j and above it were ranged 
 endless tablets and monuments, some handsome, 
 some insignificant, some old, some modern, but 
 all bearing one name, ^Merivale.' This was all 
 Bridget, where she sat, could see. 
 
 Presently Mr. Arnold, followed by the old clerk, 
 passed up to the reading-desk ; and then was struck 
 up the morning hymn in a tone and key that first 
 almost startled her into a scream of horror, and then 
 into a laugh. It was a great help to see the grave 
 and reverent faces of those to whom life-long use 
 made the hymn all the dearer, and nought the less 
 impressive, for the manner in which it was sung. 
 And Bridget found nothing so restored her own
 
 A COUNTRY SUNDAY. 43 
 
 self-possession as joining in it with all lier heart, as 
 those around her were doing. 
 
 Just as the last line was bein^? suno^, there was 
 a rustling of silk, and a quick strong step behind 
 it ; and Bridget's eyes did but follow those of all 
 others in the church in watching the Hall party 
 into their pew ; and although, on remembering 
 herself, she fixed them steadily on her prayer-book, 
 they unconsciously wandered again before long to 
 her opposite neighbours. In one corner was a little 
 old lady, a black silk bonnet shading a sweet, but 
 withered face ; leaning over the rails of the other 
 lolled a tall, fine-looking man, with a handsome, 
 good-natured face, gazing idly into the body of the 
 church, twisting his bright yellow-brown moustache 
 with his fingers. His idle gaze recalled Bridget to 
 a sense that hers was idler ; and she turned her 
 eyes steadily to her book again, resisting a strong 
 inclination to glance first at the two boys' heads, of 
 which she had just caught sight, between Lady 
 Merivale and her son. 
 
 It was but just half-past twelve when they fol- 
 lowed the Hall party out of the chancel door. Sir 
 Hector turned round at once. 
 
 ' Ah, cousin Anna,' he said, gaily, ' you must un- 
 dertake to make my peace with Arnold, or I can't 
 undertake to stay and face him. Shocking bad 
 example, I know, and am quite properly penitent, 
 indeed. Ah, Master John' — and he laid his hand 
 heartily on John's shoulder — ' and how are you ; 
 all right again V 
 
 ' Oh yes, uncle, long ago.'
 
 44 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 ' Ah, and there's my little wife, as lovely as ever. 
 Why, Amabel ! — not shy of me 1 Am I so very 
 alarming 1- Ah well, never mind ! well so — I beg 
 your pardon,' as he brushed against Bridget, in 
 turning back to Mrs. Arnold. 
 
 ' ' Miss Storey, Sir Hector Merivale,' said Mrs. 
 Arnold. 
 
 Sir Hector bowed, and lifted his hat to the poor 
 little governess with a manly grace and ease of 
 which Bridget hitherto had only read ; but he re- 
 lieved her by immediately continuing his sentence 
 to Mrs. Arnold ; and whilst his mother talked to 
 Mary and Anna, she had time, at last, to look at 
 the boys. 
 
 Strong, bright-eyed, good-looking fellows of 
 twelve and eleven they looked ; though Bridget 
 could hardly believe Sir Hector old enough to be 
 the father of a son of twelve. She little thought 
 he was the father of a daughter of eighteen. Frank 
 seemed amazingly friendly with the eldest ; and all 
 manner of plans were being already made for the 
 morrow. How they were to be combined with 
 Frank's morning lessons Bridget could not divine ; 
 till Hector interrupted his father, as Mr. Arnold 
 appeared in sight, by saying — 
 
 ' Papa, you must get Mr. Arnold to give Frank 
 and Johnnie a holiday to-morrow, our only day, 
 you know.' 
 
 .' Oh, yes, of course. I say, Arnold' — but Mr. 
 Arnold passed by the proffered hand to Lady 
 Merivale, saying, and trying to make his tone 
 morose and reproachful — ' No, I am not going to 
 shake hands with you.' *
 
 A COUNTEY SUNDAY. 45 
 
 ' My dear Arnold ! how can I expect respect 
 from my sons if you treat me so before them 1 
 Come, I ' 'fess, and am sorry ;' so just listen to me — - 
 you must give your boys a holiday, and let them 
 spend it at the Hall to-morrow.' 
 
 ' No, no.' 
 
 'Why not? Don't you always tell me my 
 mission here is to spread confusion wherever I go ? 
 That's what I want to do now ; and if Nancy 
 will let Anna come and shoot too, so much the 
 better.' 
 
 ' Shoot,' said Johnnie, eagerly ; ' will you really 
 take us with you V 
 
 ' Of course. Come, Arnold, you must say yes.' 
 
 ' Well, it seems I must. Now, Lady Merivale, 
 let me give you an arm to the carriage ; you, I 
 know, do not wish to throw the servants' dinner 
 late, however indifferent to the consequences of tliis 
 delay on the punctuality of my afternoon congre- 
 gation Sir Hector is.' 
 
 Mr. Arnold was evidently vexed. Sir Hector 
 looked after him, and whistled a little discon- 
 tentedly as his old tutor conducted his mother to 
 the pony carriage at the gate. ' Well, I must be 
 off, or I shall be in another scrape, I fear. Good- 
 bye all. Come, boys, you must ride too, then ;' 
 and off he walked, sprang in, and was off, leaving 
 his sons to scramble in behind where and how they 
 could. 
 
 Not a little did Sir Hector and Lady Merivale 
 figure in the long letter that Bridget wrote home 
 the next day.
 
 46 
 
 CHAPTER lY. 
 
 THE CRICKET MATCH. 
 
 Cold grew the foggy morn, the day was brief 
 Loose on the cherry hung the crimson leaf, 
 The dew dwelt ever on the herb ; the wood 
 Hoard with strong blasts, with mighty shower the flood. 
 
 Crabbe. 
 
 FE-ANK and Johnnie returned on Monday 
 evening in the highest spirits. 
 
 ' As soon as ever Sir Hector heard of the match, 
 he said he must stay for it/ cried John. 
 
 * And Harry and Hector leave to-mori'ow all the 
 same V 
 
 ' Oh, no ; they're to stay and see.' 
 
 ' You had better give up your place to one ot 
 them, Johnnie,' said Mrs. Arnold. 
 
 ' We did propose it, — it was arranged so once,' 
 said Johnnie ; ' but Sir Hector would not hear of 
 it.' 
 
 ' Because you were so stupid as to show how it 
 was to be, before him,' said Frank. 
 
 ' Show what 1 — that you were going to give way 
 to the heir of the Hall V asked Mr. Arnold, drily. 
 
 ' Of course not.' 
 
 ' No ; I thought I knew you better. Well, 
 Johnnie, for my part I am heartily glad Sir Hector 
 would not hear of it. I don't see what right the 
 Prince of Wales himself would have to come and 
 cut you out of the Aggesden Club.'
 
 THE CRICKET MATCH. 47 
 
 The next day was so bright and fine that, when 
 Mr. Arnold announced at dinner-time Miss Storey 
 must give a half-holiday, that all the girls, and her- 
 self too, might go to the field and watch the match, 
 Bridget, in spite of the wish to be thoroughly in 
 work, could not but feel glad. Perhaps one whole 
 day and a half of the lessons of the four children 
 had done something to dispel the brightness of her 
 first imaginings. 
 
 The vicarage party took up their position under 
 a spreading old oak in Farmer Maye's famous level 
 field, and talked and laughed till all were assembled 
 and ready for a game almost unknown to Bridget 
 except by name. Just before the wickets were 
 pitched, Sir Hector and his two sons came in sight 
 on horse and pony back ; and whilst the two boys 
 joined company with Frank and John, Sir Hector 
 rode on till he reached the Arnold party, and then 
 dismounted, tied his horse to a gate, and shook 
 hands all round. 
 
 * Well, Anna, a capital day you've secured for 
 your match,' he said, leaning his hand on Anna's 
 shoulder. 
 
 ' My match, uncle V 
 
 ' Yes, T always consider the Aggesden Club 
 under the especial patronage of Miss Anna Maria 
 Arnold : I am sure she watched its infant strugorles 
 with a mother's care, and taught her brothers to be 
 cricketers. I can assure you I stayed on purpose 
 to please you, and rode on purpose to prepare for 
 the fabulous number of runs I mean to be mine 
 before the day is out.' 
 
 * Yes, I know we shall win now, uncle; and now — *
 
 48 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 'You want a ride on Ajax before the malcli 
 begins.' 
 
 * Oh, may I ? — no, I don't think, Miss Storey — ' 
 ' Anna, how can you think of such a thing V said 
 
 Mary, much shocked ; ' Sir Hector was only joking.' 
 
 * Sir Hector was quite in earnest, so here goes.' 
 And he had the little girl on the saddle before she 
 knew the least what he was about, and so she felt at 
 liberty to enjoy herself now she was there ; and 
 whilst Bridget trembled for her safety, and yet 
 dared not interfere, felt quite secure and happy, 
 and cantered about to her heart's content. 
 
 When Mrs. Arnold appeared in sight. Sir Hector 
 jumped her down in a moment, retied the bridle, 
 and greeted his cousin with all the empressement of 
 yesterday. 
 
 ' Ah, and here's my little wife, too ; come, I will 
 have you ;' and he unlocked the little hand tight 
 clasped round her mother s gown, and lifted Amabel 
 up in his arms. ' Now, kiss me.' 
 
 ' No, I wont.' 
 
 ' You shall ! — No, I wont let you go to Hector,' 
 as his son appeared in sight, and Amabel cast a 
 wistful glance at him far below her present level, 
 for Sir Hector was six feet four. ' My little wife 
 must give me a kiss first.' 
 
 < I wont.' 
 
 ' Why not V 
 
 ' Because you knockit Hector once.' 
 
 'Knockif? ah! — knockit once! a hundred and 
 once you mean ; but never once in a lady's presence, 
 I'm sure.' 
 
 ' You did knock him.'
 
 THE CEICKET MATCH. 49 
 
 * Not before my little wife.' 
 ^ I'm not your little wife.' 
 
 * And I did not do what you accuse me of,' said 
 Sir Hector, plaintively ; ' and if you persist that I 
 did, I shall be obliged to borrow my little wife's 
 handkerchief to wipe away the tears her cruelty has 
 caused.' 
 
 Amabel looked up half smiling, half perplexed, 'a 
 little anxious to see that she had not made Sir Hector 
 cry, though nearly sure he was laughing at her. 
 
 ' But 00 did V 
 
 ' Hector must have been very naughty indeed, 
 then,' he said gravely. 
 
 ' No, it was 00 ouself that was very naughty ; 
 you went into great rage, would not let him speak. 
 Hector's never naughty.' 
 
 ' Wheugh, wheugh ! more than I ever heard say ; 
 however, your description of my proceedings is so 
 like truth, I incline to think your charge is 
 founded, so I 'fess and am sorry. Now, kiss me.' 
 
 * You promise never do it again V 
 
 ' Oh, you cunning little sweet ! No, I promise 
 something better, — if you and Hector are of this 
 mind twelve years hence that his father shall not 
 come between you.' 
 
 There was a bitter earnest in his tone that amazed 
 Bridget, from one whose whole previous talk and 
 tone toward the little child had been so gay and 
 careless. 
 
 ' Zoo funny man '.' said Amabel, after a moment's 
 thought and puzzle, looking wistful and straight 
 into his handsome face. 
 
 * Am 1 1 — there, seal the compact with a kiss 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 60 
 
 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 at any rate. Oh, my little sweet, I'd give every 
 daughter I have to have yon. Will you come ? 
 eat apricots and ride ponies, and be with Hector all 
 day V 
 
 ' Zoo funny man !' repeated Amabel, patting his 
 face. 
 
 * Then, you wont kiss me V 
 
 'Yes — only you hairs do tickle so,' and she 
 pushed aside his thick moustache with her fair 
 plump little hand, as she gave in all simplicity the 
 kiss about which so much innocent coquetry had 
 been expended. 
 
 ' There, then ; I'll part with them to-morrow, if 
 that will make you let me take you home with me 
 to-morrow.' 
 
 * No, no, put me down !' said Amabel, looking 
 much afraid of his riding off with her at once. 
 
 Bridget was quite glad to see the little girl by 
 her mother's side once more ; she felt as if such 
 evident admiration, such coquetry, however inno- 
 cent to herself and amusing to spectators, must 
 spoil her more or less. 
 
 ' Now, Sir Hector, I believe they are waiting for 
 you,' said Mrs. Arnold herself ; ' ah, there's Frank 
 coming for you.' 
 
 ' Then I'm off ; ' late for cricket ' would be only 
 one degree better than 'late for church ;' so good-bye, 
 then. Come Hector, out of the way ! There now, 
 Anna, watch my glorious career, and cheer me on 
 to fresh glory.' 
 
 He walked off with a bright, light step, and was 
 soon the heart and soul of the match, playing a 
 game the audacity of which spread dismay amongst
 
 THE CRICKET MATCH. 
 
 51 
 
 tlie ' sober clodlioppers of Pol worth,' as lie discour- 
 teously termed his opponents, making Anna clap 
 her hands with delight, Mrs. Arnold look excited, 
 and Bridget think him the best runner she had ever 
 seen. 
 
 ' Too rash !' said Mr. Arnold once when he was 
 standing near them for a few minutes ; ' no, he's 
 done it ; what a boy he is still, and then pretends 
 to talk cynicism to me !' 
 
 ' The greatest proof of his being still a boy is 
 being young enough to think melancholy grand,' 
 said Mrs. Arnold. ' Ah ! how capitally he hit that ; 
 really he'll be down if he will i-un in that headlong 
 manner. Why, surely that's the Hall pony-carriage 
 coming down the lane 1' 
 
 ' Yes, and that's Lady Meri vale's bonnet over the 
 hedge. Ah, she's come down to see the match ;' 
 and off Mr. Arnold ran himself to open the gate 
 for her. 
 
 Lady Merivale soon drove up to them, made 
 Mrs. Arnold sit beside her, and had little Amabel 
 between them, speaking ia so feeble and gentle a 
 voice, neither Bridget nor her charges heard a word 
 that she said, although her coming threw an air of 
 company around her that seemed a little to chill 
 the children's previous hearty enjoyment of the 
 scene, and to confine their remarks and admiration 
 to whispered communications. Her ladyship, how- 
 ever, did not stay long, but drove on, taking Mrs. 
 Arnold away with her to call on Mrs. Kebbs. 
 
 Bridget began to grow weary of the game long 
 before any of her charges wanted their tea, which 
 want, however, came to Harry, Carry, Bobert; and 
 
 E 2 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF
 
 52 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 Amabel in due time ; and so Bridget took them 
 home, leaving Mary and Anna to take care of each 
 other ; and found, when she returned an hour later, 
 they had done so very effectually, having at least 
 come to no mishap, which was more than all 
 the cricketers could say ; Mr. Arnold coming up 
 shaking his thumb wofuUy from an antagonist's 
 ball. 
 
 The Aggesden eleven were, however, victorious ; 
 and the Vicarage party turned homewards proud 
 and happy. At the gate Sir Hector held out his 
 hand. 
 
 * Oh, you'll come in and have some supper f said 
 Mr. Arnold. 
 
 ' No, thank you ; — well, I don't care ; — no, my 
 mother will be expecting me, I must be off. Say 
 goodbye to Mrs. Arnold for me, and to my little 
 wife ; and tell her next time I go away I mean 
 seriously to carry her off, to show my own girls 
 what beauty really is. Come boys, cut short those 
 adieus 1' 
 
 He shook his old tutor's baud heartily, did the 
 same by Mary, kissed Anna to shock the latter, 
 touched his hat to Miss Storey, and strode off 
 whistling as he went. 
 
 This was the last Bridget saw for a long time of 
 any of the Merivales, further than old Lady Meri- 
 vale's bonnet over the high pew every Sunday 
 morning. 
 
 Work within doors now began in good earnest, 
 and very wearisome it often was. How to keep 
 four children, of such different ages, profitably em- 
 ployed, would have puzzled a far more experienced
 
 THE CRICKET MATCH. 53 
 
 teaclier — ratlier three, for Mary, Bridget soon found, 
 could be always trusted.' But say Mary was thus 
 left to the earliest of Tiark's exercises, Anna set to 
 practise, Carry to write, Kobert to read, Mary 
 would knit her brows and trouble no one, nor 
 Anna consciously do so ; she could play through a 
 passage twenty times running with the same mis- 
 take without minding, a philosojDhy Bridget could 
 not attain, and so was fretted all through Robert's 
 deliberate c-a-t cat, as much by Anna's contented 
 silence as by Carry's incessant * Miss Storey, do mend 
 my pen ;' ' Haven't I written enough. Miss Storey?' 
 ' Oh, my hand does ache so, Miss Storey,' &c. ; set- 
 ting aside times when Anna was employed at the 
 table, and so could laugh at Bobert's mistakes, and 
 kick the little feet dangling under the table. 
 
 If Mrs. Kendal did not find Gilbert and Lucy a 
 
 * heavy handful,' Bridget so found her four charges. 
 
 * If they had only been of more congenial ages,' she 
 thought daily ; * or, if only Robert were not upon 
 her hands at all :' and yet, with her love of boys, 
 this was nearly high treason. 
 
 Treason, however, only regarding this one speci- 
 men of the race, Frank, John, and Harry she re- 
 garded with all the interest and love she had anti- 
 cipated, at least the first and last ; the first, because 
 she thought him very ill-used and abused by all 
 young and old around him j the last, because he 
 was a bold, manly little fellow no one could help 
 loving. Johnnie she did not regard with quite her 
 first favour ; it was true he was always pleasant 
 to herself and all others aroimd him (which was 
 more than even she could think of Frank) ; but
 
 54 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 she did not see wlij Frank should be sent out of 
 the room, have gone breakfastless, etc., when John 
 had not been yet subjected to one of these penal- 
 ties. True, she could not say he had deserved any 
 one of them, still somehow it did not seem fair. 
 If he had not deserved such penalties, in a family 
 where such penalties were to be incurred he ought 
 to have done so. 
 
 The end of the first week of tuition was wet and 
 dull, the yellow leaves were beaten down and lay 
 in a sodden mass upon the dreary drive ; and per- 
 haps the aspect of nature accounted more for the 
 kind of depression which seized Bridget on the 
 second Saturday of her duties at Aggesden, than 
 any troubles or grievances encountered within the 
 Vicarage itself 
 
 It was this evening, however, which first brought 
 her feelings regarding Frank into full play. Satur- 
 day was a half-holiday, both to girls and boys, and 
 Bridget had rejoiced that about one the rain cleared 
 off, the sun shone, and it was decided all could go 
 out who chose to do so. Bridget herself did not 
 choose, further than taking four brisk turns for 
 duty's sake up and down the drive, and then went 
 up stairs to read and work and enjoy herself, and 
 greatly she did so j alone, and her window open, 
 the Malvern Hills once more visible, life seemed 
 quite bright again till tea, the last hour being 
 diversified and enlivened by a visit from Amabel 
 and her doll. 
 
 When, however, Bridget and her little companion 
 went down to tea matters were not quite so bright ; 
 Mrs. Arnold seemed out of sorts, Mr. Arnold as
 
 THE CRICKET MATCH. 55 
 
 mucli so. The cook had just given the mistress 
 ■warning, the master had just discovered that through 
 the negligence of his out-of-door man the late rain 
 had damaged his hay ; it was now pouring again, 
 and nothing effectual to remedy the evil could be 
 done before Monday. The dining-room looked 
 untidy and uncomfortable ; Mrs. Arnold's hair was 
 rough, her face listless and worried ; Mary seemed 
 depressed, Carry was whiny, and as they were sitting 
 down to tea revived an old quarrel with Robert as to 
 the right of seat next mamma. Frank was missing. 
 
 Bridget was beginning to find that days could be 
 dark and dreary and uncomfortable, without any one 
 exactly knowing why, in a little far-away country 
 parsonage as well as in the confined rooms and 
 atmosphere of Laurel-terrace. 
 
 Anna seemed by far the brightest and most at 
 ease of the party ; but on beginning to give a loud 
 detail of her afternoon adventures across the table 
 to Bridget, was told ' not to make so much noise.' 
 
 Anna looked a little surprised, but desisted at 
 once, and the silence was almost unbroken till 
 Frank burst into the room bright, fresh, and 
 dripping. 
 
 ' Oh ! at tea already ?' he began. ' I hadn't an 
 idea 
 
 ' Six was the tea hour,' interrupted his father, 
 drily ; ' it seems not as it is half-past now.' 
 
 ' I really ' 
 
 ' Now I tell you what, Frank,' said Mr. Arnold, 
 it seemed to Bridget almost fiercely, ' I will put an 
 end to this. I consider it sheer impertinence in 
 you to be late for tea after what passed only on
 
 55 AGGESDEN VICARAGE/ 
 
 Sunday. If missing the meal has no* more weight 
 with you than my known wishes had, before, I 
 shall find other means. Every time you are late 
 for a meal, you shall not only miss it, but spend 
 the time on an imposition ; so you may go to the 
 study now, and learn Hamlet's Soliloquy.' 
 
 Frank went out banging the door. Mrs. Arnold 
 sighed, * Really Frank is the most tiresome boy I 
 ever knew; only to-day I begged him to be in 
 time.' 
 
 Mr. Arnold said, shortly and rather triumphantly, 
 * I believe he thinks to weary me out, but he will 
 find himself mistaken,' and resumed his tea. 
 
 This seemed to Bridget such hard measure that 
 at the moment she felt that in Frank's place she 
 would have determined never to be in time for a 
 meal again. He had not been late since that 
 Sunday breakfast ; surely he might at least have 
 been asked (especially considering the last hour's 
 steady fall of rain) whether this impunctuality 
 were not accidental 1 ^Besides, in a household so 
 radically unpunctual, and where tea itself often was 
 not till nearly half-past six, what good was a reform 
 that did not begin higher 1 Moreover — which was 
 the real rankling thought, when Johnnie had been 
 late only the evening before, not only was no excuse 
 even demanded, but that one he ofiered, internipted 
 with almost a laugh at his giving one at all, and 
 his wants of tea and bread only the more quickly 
 supplied. 
 
 Tea was now by candlelight, and after it was 
 cleared away, work, reading, and games began as 
 usual. Mr. Arnold took up the Guardian, which
 
 THE CRICKET MATCH. ^'] 
 
 reached Aggesden when thus four days old, and 
 read it nearly through before he remembered his 
 eldest son and his task. 
 
 * Oh, Frank ! I forgot him/ he said, as he laid it 
 down j * tell him to come in and say his lesson, 
 Johnnie, if he knows it.' 
 
 Bridget could hardly help crying out for mercy ; 
 she could imagine no situation more disagreeable 
 and appalling than that in which Frank would be 
 if he obeyed. Secretly she scarcely believed he 
 could or would. 
 
 However he did, repeated the rather long im- 
 position in a mumbling tone, but with no stammer- 
 ing nor hesitation, received no word of commenda- 
 tion, was told again such would always hereafter in 
 like case be his fate, took the book back, and in 
 about ten minutes came in again, Frank Fairleigh in 
 his hand. 
 
 The table was already rather full, but Bridget 
 made room for him by pushing her own chair nearer 
 Anna's, whilst (rather late in the day, she thought) 
 Johnnie made room on the other side by drawing 
 nearer his mother. The brothers' eyes met. Oh ! 
 what a world of smouldering anger there was in 
 that one flash from Frank's steady brown eyes. 
 Bridget was really rather glad to see it. She saw 
 no more than Frank why one brother should be 
 treated as if not only could he, like the Majesty of 
 England, do no wrong, but far more must do all 
 right, while all the other did seemed as necessarily 
 to be wrong.
 
 58 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 FIRST THORNS. 
 
 There is no principle in education and in life more sure than 
 this — to stigmatize is to ruin : to take away character is to 
 take away all. — Eev. F. W. Robeetson. 
 
 TIME passed on, and the ways and doings of 
 Aggesden Vicarage lost all novelty and became 
 as matter-of-fact realities in most ways as those of 
 Laurel Terrace. Bridget was beginning to feel 
 that one day amid the tawdry shops and rattling 
 clatter of Islington would be an agreeable variety, 
 when, what she found was considered a great event 
 arrived — an invitation to dinner at a rectory five 
 miles oK 
 
 ' The twentieth,' repeated Mr. Arnold, as his wife 
 finished Mrs. Wills' note ; ' of course we are disen- 
 gaged, my dear. Well, so we go.' 
 
 ' I suppose so,' sighed Mrs. Arnold. 
 
 ' Oh yes, they're nice, pleasant people, and really 
 one must meet one's neighbours sometimes, or 
 become mere Aggesden vegetables. Ah ! and per- 
 haps the bride will be there.' 
 
 *Mrs. Hughes? Oh yes, I shall like to meet 
 her ; a new face in these parts is a great pleasure.' 
 
 * And such a pretty one — shy, pretty little thing ! 
 Marshland Eectory has given its new mistress 
 rather a dreaiy reception, I fear ! We must ask 
 them to come here, my dear.'
 
 FIRST THORNS. 59 
 
 ' You forget we keep no dinner company/ said 
 Mrs. Arnold, with almost the only tone of sharp- 
 ness that Bridget had ever heard in her voice. 
 
 * No, but I dare say she will come to tea.' 
 'Marshland is worth Sool. a year. She is a 
 
 London lady, and wont care to take out carriage 
 and horses to drink tea and eat bread and butter in 
 our shabby rooms.' 
 
 ' We will try her, at any rate ; indeed, I fancy 
 you are the only woman to her taste she will find 
 about here, and she will want a friend.' 
 
 ' Netta and Sophy, when they come at Christmas, 
 will suit her better than an old married woman 
 like myself,' said Mrs. Arnold, with a little sigh ; 
 * but at any rate,' brightening, ' we shall meet her 
 at the Wills', and if she is no more formidable than 
 she looks, we will, as you say, try her.' 
 
 ' Yes, get her and Hughes by themselves and 
 enjoy oiirselves. I feel ten years younger after 
 contact with such modern Cambridge learning.' 
 
 ' And I ten years older by her pretty young face. 
 Yes, if they will be sociable neighbours, it will be 
 very pleasant.' 
 
 And so with the half regi-et at losing a pleasant 
 evening at one's own fireside, and the half jDleasure 
 of seeing comparatively new scenes and faces with 
 which most invitations are accepted, was that of 
 Mrs. Wills answered in the affirmative. 
 
 ' I am so glad they are going ; what fun we shall 
 have,' said Anna, a little later in the day, to Frank, 
 
 * But she's here to spoil it all.' 
 
 'She' meant, in Aggesden Yicarage parlance, 
 Bridget Storey, and Bridget heard these words —
 
 6o AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 very ungrateful words, for slie had done Frank 
 many a good turn by this time — mended his balls, 
 heard his lessons, and saved him for two whole days 
 from coming within the shadow of grief, by inducing 
 him to let her teach him cribbage. In fact, Bridget 
 regarded him unconsciously as her protege, her 
 especial charge, and meant to find him a good and 
 pleasant boy at the bottom yet. 
 
 Thus his uncourteous speech rather exhilarated 
 than depressed her. She would make the evening 
 of that 2oth of November so pleasant to him (as 
 well as the others), he would never wish her away 
 on such occasions again. Thus his speech found 
 more favour in her eyes than Johnnie's rejoinder, 
 as he went whistling up the stairs, ' Oh, but really 
 she never has spoilt anything yet.' It was much 
 more natural to a boy of their age to dislike than 
 like their sisters' governess, and therefore Bridget 
 preferred Fi'ank's speech to John's. 
 
 That very ev^ening came a grand to-do. Frank 
 surlily refused to play at cribbage (because his 
 father had noticed his stretching across Bridget for 
 some bread at tea, she firmly believed), and finding 
 nothing else to do in its place, began as usual to 
 tease and pester those around him. To-night, at 
 the very first * Don't Frank,' Mr. Arnold looked 
 up, 
 
 ' Frank !' 
 
 *Yes,' answered Frank, sullenly, finding an 
 answer expected. 
 
 * Now mind, the next time I hear that wearisome 
 * Don't Frank !' you go up to bed that minute.' 
 
 For ten minutes it did not come, then it did, and
 
 FIRST THORNS. 6l 
 
 from Johnnie ; now CaiTy or Robert might have 
 been forgiven for letting it escape them, but 
 Johnnie was old enough to have his tongue under 
 control. Perhaps Bridget forgot Frank was equally 
 old, and so might have expended his wits on some- 
 thing better than in every possible way interfering 
 with his quieter-minded brother's reading. 
 
 * Now, sir, upstairs this minute ;' and up Frank 
 went, whilst Mr. Arnold rose himself and poked the 
 fire with no little vehemence. 
 
 ' RealJy, I don't know what to do with the boy ; 
 vexatious, tiresome fellow ! why cannot he be quiet 
 for one hour in the day, like the others V 
 
 ' Why does not some one find some employment 
 for him?' was Bridget's question to herself) as 
 Mr. Arnold, with his own unanswered, sat down 
 again. 'Who can be quiet with nothing to dof 
 And she glanced rather indignantly at Mrs. Arnold, 
 who was reading as quietly as if nothing whatever 
 had befallen her eldest son, or she herself were 
 responsible in any way for any idleness which 
 had preceded it. After all, woman-like, Bridget 
 was more ready to blame the mother than the father ; 
 it might be the father's duty to repress and punish, 
 harshly as she thought Mr. Arnold did this duty, 
 and she certainly honoured and esteemed him more 
 and more as she found how invariably his least 
 word met with obedience, but surely Frank's mother 
 might have taken a little pains to prevent such 
 collisions ; might have felt for him a little when they 
 did take place. What consternation there would 
 have been if Johnnie had been thus sent ofi" ! but as 
 it was ' only Frank,' no one cared about it. No
 
 62, AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 doubt Johnnie had the best disposition, but, surelj, 
 to a mother, the very fact of Frank's being a less 
 pleasant and happy one should have made him 
 doubly dear. 
 
 And thus Bridget first began to find any positive 
 fault with the Yicar and his wife, whilst they 
 innocently went their own way, little thinking she 
 so curiously scanned their words and ways, never re- 
 membering that any stranger thrust into the midst 
 of a large family party could not fail to watch the 
 development of each character with interest. 
 
 The evening of the twentieth arrived, and the 
 moon was already rising behind the churchyard, 
 when Mrs. Arnold left the comfortable parlour fire 
 to prepare for Mrs. Wills' dinner-party. Had six- 
 teen people that morning arisen feeling something 
 disagreeable was to be got through before they 
 could go to bed again ? No ; not quite so many 
 had done this, though sixteen was tlie number Mrs. 
 Wills' table held, for Mr. Arnold, at least, was 
 looking forward to meeting fresh minds with real 
 and amused pleasure. 
 
 With Mrs. Arnold it was different ; all the ex- 
 ertion to be gone through before she was at rest 
 again is to those of her temperament far more 
 fatiguing and disagreeable in imagination than in 
 reality ; and thus she crept up to dress very re- 
 luctantly'-, and not till her husband had four times 
 said, ' My dear, you will never be in time if you 
 are not getting on.' 
 
 Mary went up to help her mother, and through 
 her contrivance Mrs. Arnold returned to the parlour 
 before the pony-carriage had come round, and also
 
 FIRST THORNS. 63 
 
 un-shawled and un-bonnetted. Mary wanted Miss 
 Storey to see her motlaer dressed, and Bridget's shy 
 but honest looks of admiration delighted the girl's 
 heart greatly, secretly ; secretly, for nothing could 
 be more quiet and indifferent than the demeanour 
 she assumed. 
 
 It was indeed strange to look down on the worn 
 carpets and up to the faded walls, and think this 
 elegant, high-bred, unconscious woman boasted no 
 better drawing-room, when, to Bridget's eyes, she 
 would have become a palace, would have filled the 
 part of royalty as easily as that of wife to a country 
 vicar. 
 
 Mr. Arnold eyed her with open pleasure and 
 admiration. 
 
 'Ah, Nancy, never you talk of being an old 
 woman yet ! Who would think you were mother 
 of that tall, over-grown gii4 there, or of those 
 great boys either V 
 
 ' What, don't I look a matron yet ]' 
 
 ' Scarcely mother of eight children, as you are. 
 No, Nancy, we shall pass for quite a young couple 
 for a year or two, even now. Well ! there's the 
 caiTiage ; you're well wrapped up 1 That's right, 
 Mary,' as Mary laid the warm wrapping shawl she 
 had been holding on her arm over her mother's 
 fair, sloping shoulders, and pinned it tight and 
 carefully. 
 
 ' I hope you'll all have a pleasant evening : 
 where's Frank V 
 
 ' In the hall, papa.' 
 
 ' Ah, yes ! Now, Frank, mind, I put you on 
 your good behavioui*. I hope you wont find him
 
 54 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 very troublesome, Miss Storey ; if you do send liim 
 off. Good night, Mary, good night, my little sweet, 
 some day I shall be taking you out as proudly as I 
 do mamma.' 
 
 * In the carriage and all V 
 
 * Carriage and all, if my four sons have not run 
 away with it long before ; if so, in galoshes instead. 
 Good night, my own darling.' Amabel was s^t 
 down, the Yicar handed his wife into the carriage, 
 wrapped her up carefully before mounting by her 
 side, and drovj off. 
 
 Poor Frank ! Poor Bridget ! They seemed at 
 once left at daggers drawn, never had any speech 
 seemed so mal-a-propos, and Bridget took Frank's 
 ungracious shove before her into the drawing-room 
 as an amends to his wounded pride. 
 
 ' Let's sit round and be jolly till tea,' said 
 J ohnnie, sitting down himself with his back against 
 the mantelpiece. 
 
 ' Mabel, come to me ;' and the little girl was soon 
 supremely happy on his knees. 
 
 ' I don't see why we shouldn't have tea at once,' 
 said Frank. 
 
 'It's only half-past five,' said Mary. 
 
 ' Well, but we can do as we like, I suppose, and 
 I want mine now.' 
 
 ' Oh, we'd better wait till the right time !' said 
 Johnnie ; ' besides, this time before candles is so 
 pleasant.' 
 
 ' I don't see anything pleasant in it.' 
 
 ' But you know, Frank, you do nothing when 
 candles do come, so it can't signify to you,' said 
 Mary, in a vexed tone.
 
 FIRST THORNS. 65 
 
 'But it does; and if I choose to liave tea now, 
 why shouldn't we 1 I'm eldest.' 
 
 ' No,' said Mary, conclusively, while Bridget felt 
 very uncomfortable. 
 
 * Oh, you re nothing ; only a girl.' 
 
 ' But it is for Miss Storey to say when we shall 
 have tea,' said Mary, with dignity, and very good 
 feeling too. 
 
 ' She 1 — only a governess !' 
 
 ' For shame, Frank !' cried Anna ; 'how can you?' 
 while Johnnie, little man of the world as he was, 
 even whilst the words were being uttered turned to 
 Bridget and asked a question that demanded an 
 answer, hoping thus to divert her attention and 
 let the rudeness at least pass unperceived, hot as it 
 made his own cheek. 
 
 * Now, Frank, don't go and make everything dis- 
 agreeable,' cried Caroline, piteous and plaintive. 
 
 ' I don't see why tea should make any one dis- 
 agreeable, so I shall ring for it.' 
 
 This was too much. One moment Bridget 
 hesitated, insecure of her position and its rights, but 
 only one ; if Mr. Arnold had left her power to send 
 his son out of the room, he had certainly justified 
 her in stopping this impertinence, and so, hot at 
 heart and cool outwardly, to Frank's and every one's 
 surprise, Bridget rose, laid her hand on his arm, and 
 said firmly, though her voice trembled, ' Frank, I 
 forbid your ringing.' 
 
 'Forbid? What have you got to do with me?' 
 said Frank, disdainfully. 
 
 ' Nothing whatever when your father is at h<?me,* 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 66 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 answered Bridget, quietly; 'but wlien he and your 
 mother are both out, I have the right to pre- 
 vent ' 
 
 * Right V interrupted Frank, contemptuously, 
 but desisting from his design, 'if you mean to make 
 yourself so disagreeable we'll soon ' 
 
 ' I have no wish to argue,' said Bridget, good- 
 humouredly ; ' as Mary says it is for me to order 
 tea, I will willingly do so, if the others do not care 
 about it. I would have offered at once to do so, 
 had I not thought Mary had been accustomed to 
 take Mrs. Arnold's place. Shall you mind my 
 ringing for tea ?' she ended, looking round. 
 
 No one answered, so she took silence for consent 
 and rang, thinking all pleasantness and comfort, 
 before some change had been given to the thoughts 
 of all, was impossible. 
 
 Tea came in after some delay ; the water had not 
 boiled, Marianne grumbled in the kitchen at the 
 governess altering hours, the cook would not go to 
 the outhouse in the cold to bring in more wood to 
 quicken the kettle's boiling, and so the clock had 
 struck six before the party at Aggesden Vicarage, 
 after all, sat down to tea. Let us hope the faces 
 round Mrs. Wills' dining table were rather blither 
 and happier than those round the Yicarage tea-table 
 just then. 
 
 Tea, however, did, as Bridget hoped, soon 
 brighten all. Anna was very happy and busy 
 dividing an apple pasty she had coaxed the cook 
 into letting her make for tea ; Harry, Robert, and 
 Carry greatly approved of the jam that always 
 celebrated papa's and mamma's being out; and
 
 FIRST THORXS. 67 
 
 Jolinnie willingly responded to Bridget's efforts to 
 be bright and sociable. Indeed, but for Mary's 
 grave face and Frank's sullen one, all soon would 
 have been perfectly natural and happy. 
 
 After tea, Annie petitioned for blind-man's buff, 
 and Bridget willingly assenting, up they went to 
 the nursery, and had an hour's game, which the 
 governess was happily young enough to enjoy as 
 much as her pupils, and thus, by the time it was over, 
 the little sore rankling in her heart at Frank's rude 
 speeches, the worst of which, in spite of Johnnie's 
 politeness, she had heard (do such speeches ever 
 escape unheard T) had happily evaporated. 
 
 Frank, however, had not had the same excite- 
 ment and wiping out of wrongs ; he had been asked 
 to play by Anna, but would not come, and when 
 they returned to the drawing-room his solitary 
 hour had not improved his temper ; the only out- 
 ward fruit of it was that he had harnessed Carry's 
 kitten to an old wooden cart of Robert's, so it 
 assailed its mistress with a repetition of the piteous 
 mews which had fallen quite unheeded on Frank's 
 own ear. 
 
 ' Oh, Frank ! how can you % Frank, how cruel 
 you are ! do give it me ! you shall ! I will tell 
 papa. ' 
 
 * You'd better tell Miss Storey, as she says she's 
 in papa's place to-night,' retorted Frank, disdainfully, 
 still hissing the little thing on, and laughing alike 
 at its tumbles and its mews. 
 
 * Miss Storey will be very much obliged if you 
 will act like a sensible good-natured boy,' said 
 Bridget, trying to stop the warfare at once, ' and 
 
 F 2
 
 68 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 help lier to make tlie evening pleasant to the little 
 ones.' 
 
 * Little plagues/ answered Frank. 
 *Now, Frank,' she said, venturing to lay her 
 hand on his shoulder, ' you can't look me. in the 
 face and tell me you wish to spoil every one's 
 pleasure to-night. No, I knew you couldn't ; so 
 mind, henceforth I shall expect you not to treat me 
 as an enemy.' 
 
 This was the best way of meeting such a temper 
 as Frank's, and j^erhaps would have succeeded, if 
 Carry had not cried out, 'There, you hear. Miss 
 Storey says you're not to spoil our pleasure, so you 
 must let my kitten go.' 
 
 Frank turned round, doubtful what to do or say, 
 
 and found John had already unloosed the kitten. 
 
 ' You've no business to interfere,' said he, fiercely. 
 
 ' I haven't interfered. The cat was Carry's, the 
 
 cart Eobert's, and the string my own ;' and Johnnie 
 
 quietly put the last into his pocket. 
 
 Frank glared at him, and unfortunately Bridget 
 was so amused and surprised at Johnnie's cool 
 promptness as to smile; and from that moment 
 Frank was determined to make her repent laughing 
 at his discomfiture. And he succeeded, or at any 
 rate vexed her to the heart, and made her more 
 -wretched than she had ever been in her life. 
 
 One rude or defiant speech, borne patiently and 
 in silence, followed another, till suddenly, to every 
 one's consternation, Bridget burst into tears and 
 ran out of the room. The governess was but flesh 
 and blood and only a novice in her profession, or 
 she would not have behaved with so little dignity.
 
 FIRST THORNS. 69 
 
 * You great brute,' said John, looking very fierce. 
 *I shall tell papa the first thing to-morrow/ said 
 
 Mary, white with indignation and looking very- 
 determined. 
 
 ' Oh, Frank ! how can you be so unkind to her 
 when she's always been so good to you V cried 
 Anna, ready to cry herself. To all which Frank 
 returned nothing. He had beaten his enemy ofi" the 
 ground she had declared her own, and was content. 
 
 Anna went after her ' dear Miss Storey,' as she 
 called Bridget again and again, with her arms round 
 her governess's neck, but Bridget was ashamed to 
 return and face her foe with red eyes and swollen 
 features. Oh, how angry she was at each of those 
 hot, bitter tears ! It was nearly nine ; Anna finding 
 Bridget not to be persuaded, wished her good-night, 
 and when she returned and told her ill success, she, 
 Mary, and Johnnie prepared to go up to bed at 
 once. 
 
 ' I knew she'd spoil our whole evening,' said 
 Frank. 
 
 ' We all know who has spoiled this evening, and 
 every other,' sighed Mary, taking up her candle. 
 
 ' Little sneak ! to give up with a cry, dear 
 baby !' 
 
 ' We shall see to-morrow whether papa will allow 
 a lady to be so treated in his house,' retorted Mary. 
 
 * A lady 1 Some candlestick-maker's daughter, I 
 daresay. Just see her beside mother 1' 
 
 * I should be sorry to see any one like mamma a 
 governess.' 
 
 * There, you can't pretend she is a lady.' 
 
 * At any rate,' said Johnnie, * she is a woman, and
 
 70 AGGESDEN VTCAKAGE. 
 
 if you'd been a gentleman, you would not have 
 spoken to a kitchen-maid so.' 
 
 ' Well, she should have minded her own business.' 
 This was the last word, for here Mary and Johnnie 
 left the room together, not caring to argue the point 
 further. 
 
 Bridget came down the next morning with only 
 one happy thought, that neither Mr. Arnold nor 
 his wife would ever hear of her childish behaviour 
 the night before. She little thought what line of 
 conduct Frank had prescribed for her, or the line 
 Mary fully meant to take, and did take, in spite of 
 Anna's piteous entreaties, as soon as ever breakfest 
 was over. 
 
 'No, Anna, I shall tell. Frank thinks Miss 
 Storey will, but she will not, I feel sure ; and do you 
 think she is to be so treated, poor thing, the instant 
 papa and mamma are out V 
 
 ' But I will make him promise never to behave 
 so again.' 
 
 ' Promise ! whether he promises or not, you must 
 know he will only behave ten times worse next 
 time if he escapes scot free this.' 
 
 * But papa will be so angry.' 
 
 * I hope he will. I used to be rather glad when 
 Frank affronted Miss Marshall, she was always so 
 uppish and on the look-out for affronts, but Miss 
 Storey has no such airs, and I won't let her kind- 
 ness be so imposed upon.' 
 
 And so Mary told, and very angry Mr. Arnold 
 was. Frank had the alternative of an apology or a 
 severe imposition, and we need not say which he
 
 FIRST THORNS. 7 1 
 
 chose to incur, especially • after the sharp lecture 
 already administered. And thus henceforth Frank 
 hated the governess, and thus was Bridget cured of 
 her liking for him. She found, as many have done 
 before her, that unnecessarily depreciated and ill- 
 used as one member of a family may seem to the 
 eye of a stranger, his own family know him far 
 better than any stranger can, and it is very seldom 
 he has not found his own level, does not meet with 
 what the acquaintance of years has proved his 
 desert, hard as that desert may be. Frank never 
 apologized by word or look, and Bridget never again 
 regarded him as her protege ; nevertheless she tried 
 hard to be, and soon was, as willing to help and 
 oblige him as if the rudeness of November the 20th 
 had never occurred. 
 
 Not but that the entrance of some new member 
 into a family where such a person as a Frank exists 
 is the best chance ever given him of brightening 
 and reformation. To have some one about willing 
 as yet to believe them at least well-intentioned and 
 only wanting opportunity to appear in a pleasanter 
 light, is a great help towards being well-intentioned, 
 and a great incitement to wish to be pleasant ; things 
 almost impossible so long as the whole of those 
 surrounding him have given up all hope of such im- 
 provement long ago, and so even if a step in the 
 right direction were made, would almost feel, coming 
 from him, that it must be wrong. 
 
 If Bridget had been a cousin or sister-in-law, any- 
 thing but a governess, Frank could not, after a time, 
 have helped being grateful to her, and gradually
 
 72^ AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 attaching himself to one wishing to believe him right 
 till proved wrong; but unfortunately she was, instead, 
 only his sisters' governess. 
 
 Bridget would not have been much comforted 
 if she could have heard the short conversation which 
 took place between Mr. and Mrs, Arnold "on the 
 subject after the boys' lessons were over. 
 
 ' Keally,' said the Yicar, when he had concluded 
 his narration, ' I never suspected even Frank of 
 being half as unkind, setting aside the ill-breeding, 
 sending the poor thing out of the room in tears.' 
 
 ' But some women cry at nothing — you know 
 tears are "women's weapons;"' and Mrs. Arnold 
 smiled. 
 
 ' Ah, but Miss Storey is not given to tears or to 
 complaints. I believe I should never have heard a 
 word of the business if Mary had not told me.' 
 
 ' Well, I am glad she did tell, for really Frank 
 seems to grow ruder every day ; but Miss Storey 
 ought to have had spirit enough not to have let 
 herself be sent off in tears.' 
 
 * Certainly Miss Marshall would never have 
 beaten such a retreat ;' and the Vicar smiled this 
 time ; ' but poor Bridget Storey is so very young 
 and inexperienced.' 
 
 * Well, but when you had left her power to send 
 Frank out of the room, she ought to have used it 
 the first time he offered her any rudeness at all, and 
 then all the fatal after-occurrences would have been 
 spared herself and Frank.' 
 
 * Yes, it would have been much better ; immediate 
 firmness is the only thing that tells with Frank, 
 and she will find it out very soon, if this have not
 
 FIEST THOENS. 73 
 
 taught it her ah-eady. I wish that boy could go to 
 school.' 
 
 ' If either could, it should be Johnuie,' said Mrs. 
 Arnold, her cheek flushing with eagerness, ' so fitted 
 as he is to distinguish himself, and to make friends 
 and get on, wherever placed. It is so hard to be 
 kept at home, as he is.' 
 
 * Yes ;' and the Vicar uttered one of his rare deep 
 sighs ; ' but Frank is the eldest, and I think going to 
 school is even more essential to him than Johnnie, 
 — would do him a world of good, if only in making 
 him love his home. Ah, Nancy, I ought to have 
 remembered the possibility of having eight children, 
 four of them sons, before I asked you to marry me 
 on a living of 400I. a-year !' 
 
 ' Frank !' cried his wife, rising quickly and stand- 
 ing by him, so radiant with afiection that she looked 
 far lovelier than when Bridget had so admired her 
 the night before, ' how can you say such things % 
 You know if you had not married me on 400?. 
 a-year, you would have broken my heart, and you 
 know how broken hearts end in our family.' 
 
 ' Poor Emily !' 
 
 ' Poor Emily !' repeated Mrs. Arnold, her eyes 
 bright too with something sadder than love ; 'yet 
 Sir John was right, I still say so, I can indeed ; but 
 why did they have us there at all V 
 
 ' Sir Hector cannot say so yet.' 
 
 ' No, I don't want him to say so. But — oh, dear ! 
 there is no use in raking up old troubles of twenty 
 years ago.' 
 
 * Except that our own grow little by com- 
 parison.'
 
 74 AGGESDEN VICARAGE, 
 
 ' Yes, you are bright again. Dear Frank, I would 
 give anything to have your cheerful temper. I'm 
 sure if I were Frank, I'd rather be beaten by you 
 than looked at by one so fretful and peevish as I 
 let troubles make me.' 
 
 ' It is that incessant scolding and punishing so 
 vexes me. How can I expect the boy to love me 
 or to be open to me, whilst Johnnie ' 
 
 * Was born to be our pride and glory, Frank.' 
 
 * A comfort for every vexation, I often think ; 
 the very sight of his frank, bright face, or the 
 sound of his merry whistle, seems to make the 
 house another thing. Ah, there he goes, gun in 
 hand !' as the boy passed the window. 
 
 ' Don't you think he is a little young to be trusted 
 so entirely by himself with it ? Sir Hector, I re- 
 member, was not allowed to go out without ' 
 
 ' Ah, but Sir Hector was eldest son and heir, and 
 had endless gamekeepers at his beck and call. No ; 
 I like to see the dear fellow so bold and manly. 
 God bless him !' 
 
 And as Mary entered the dining-room, Mr. 
 Arnold left it to cross to the study, where he had 
 left Frank over a returned exercise. Not that 
 Frank was at all wanting in ability or in tolerable 
 industry, simply in all care of pleasing. He did 
 not raise his eyes now when his father entered, but 
 Mr. Arnold went up to him and laid his hand 
 kindly on his shoulder. 
 
 ' Look here, Frank, I've punished you enough for 
 to-day ; put by those books and go out to John ; 
 he's off shooting. Yes, put them all away — and 
 now one word. My dear boy, if you would conquer
 
 FIRST THORNS. 75 
 
 your pride enough to apologize to Miss Storey, 
 surely it would be a starting-point for good in your 
 whole life, and one from which you and I might 
 make a new start ourselves.' 
 
 Frank had shut up his books and risen, but made 
 no answer. 
 
 *Well, I wish you would; it is indeed no more 
 than your duty. But I did not come to lecture you 
 again, so there, I will say no more about it.' 
 
 And Frank went, and Mr. Arnold was left sad 
 and heavy-hearted. 
 
 r
 
 76 
 
 CHAPTER YI. 
 
 TEA AND TROUBLE. 
 
 'There dined with me Sir William Batton and his lady 
 and daughter, . . . the first dinner I have made since I came 
 hither. This cost me above 5^. ; and merry we were, only my 
 chimney smokes. To bed, being glad that the trouble is 
 over.' — Pepys' Diary, 1 660-1. 
 
 A WEEK'S sharp frost followed, reminding all 
 that winter was near, and on one of these days 
 Mary went with Mr. and Mrs. Arnold into Wor- 
 cester, to buy winter frocks for herself and three 
 younger sisters. They were absent from ten to four, 
 but this time Bridget and her young charges went 
 on very amicably. 
 
 The next day, the governess, Mary, and Anna 
 walked into the outskirts of Massing, to tell a work- 
 woman to come and make up the new purchases, 
 and in the dusk, as Bridget was still trying to read 
 by the fading light, Mary came in with a request 
 which she was evidently rather shy of making. 
 
 * Can I do anythiug for you, Mary T 
 
 * I was wondering — I suppose. Miss Storey, you 
 do not know anything of dress-making ?' 
 
 * Yes, I know something. At least enough to 
 make my own and my mother's dresses.' 
 
 * Do you ? then you could help me,' said Mary, 
 brightening. * I do so want to cut out my own and 
 Anna's dresses before Mrs. Wilkins comes ; she
 
 TEA AXD TROUBLE, 77 
 
 does do them so carelessly, and last summer put 
 one of the backs upside down in each. I have cut 
 a pattern from our cotton frocks, but I was afraid 
 to cut the check out by it without knowing whether 
 it would come right.' 
 
 ' Have you cut a front too ? Will you let me try 
 it on?' 
 
 * Oh, if you would.' 
 
 * Directly,' said Bridget, laying down her book, 
 always glad to have an opportunity, which was 
 very seldom the case, of helping Mary, her burden 
 of life seemed so heavy, or at least so heavily borne 
 for so young a gii'l. 
 
 ' Oh, thank you, then I will bring a candle and 
 my patterns.' 
 
 ' Or cannot I come to you V 
 
 * I am in the nursery, and the table is so small, I 
 could hardly manage. I will bring it all here 
 directly.' 
 
 And Mary did, and very skilful Bridget found 
 her first essay in pattern-cutting had been. Slie 
 had borne in mind how constant washing had 
 stretched the print from its original straightness, 
 and only forgotten the need of future turnings-in. 
 
 Mary watched Bridget's movements and cuttings 
 narrowly, and when the pattern the governess cut 
 was fitted on the girl, and taken in here and let 
 out there till it fitted ten times better than any 
 Mrs. Wilkins had ever made, Mary was quite 
 delighted. 
 
 * Then I may cut out the check just like that V 
 *Yes, only I shall cut a paper pattern for you 
 
 from it first, so that you may have it always ready,
 
 78 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 though I am afraid you grow too fast for auy 
 pattern to be of use to you long.' 
 
 ' I don't think I grow much now,' said Mary, a 
 little dejectedly. 
 
 ' Well, you are nearly tall enough, taller than I 
 am.' 
 
 ' Ah, but I want to be as tall as Cousin Netta, or 
 at least as mamma — all the Meri vales are tall,' 
 with a little premature dignity that Bridget had 
 observed once or twice before ; ' but you want some 
 more pins,' and she ran away, a child, or perhaps a 
 woman again. 
 
 That same evening brought the question of asking 
 Mr. and Mrs. Hughes forward once more, and after 
 some debating, half-proud, half-indolent reluctance 
 on Mrs. Arnold's part, and good-humoured over- 
 bearance on her husband's, a note was written, ask- 
 ing them to spend the evening at Aggesden Yicarage 
 on that day week. 
 
 ' I can't think, Frank, why you want to bring 
 poor Mr. Hughes and his wife five miles to meet no 
 one but ourselves,' said Mrs. Arnold, even when 
 sealing her note. 
 
 ' First, my love, they are not poor at all, and have a 
 carriage they can close if they please ; secondly, I want 
 to show my wife to Hughes, and think he may like 
 to show his to me; thirdly, if we don't have people 
 to meet them, it is not my fault, I am willing.' 
 
 ' We've no one fit to meet them.' 
 
 * Oh, is that all ? I thought it was want of maids 
 and best teacups ; then have the Merivales, they 
 come down next Friday.' 
 
 'Thank you.'
 
 TEA AND TKOUBLE. 79 
 
 * Why 1 not good enough ? or what's the matter V 
 Mr. Arnold eyed his wife a little keenly and 
 
 mischievously, his wife him a little reproachfully, 
 till she broke into a smile and answered, 
 
 ' Surely Lady Agnes may patronize us by having 
 us to the Hall at least six weeks before we need 
 trouble ourselves to think of asking them in return 
 — no, we need not think of the Meri vales till Febru- 
 ary ; I daresay we can get through the Hughes 
 evening pretty well ; Miss Storey will be good 
 enough to sing, and Mary can play, I sujDpose, by 
 this time.' 
 
 * And perhaps Mrs. Arnold may be induced to 
 favour us with a song before the evening is over.' 
 
 * She must feel very differently then to what 
 she does now. Well, who's to take the note; can 
 Thomas be spared to-morrow?' 
 
 * Oh no, impossible ; he's as busy on the farm as 
 can be. Johnnie will walk over with it, I daresay.' 
 
 * Yes, papa,' and the note was consigned to his 
 care. 
 
 < No need to tell you not to forget it, is there, my 
 boy?' said Mr. Arnold, just looking up from his 
 ■writing, and laying his hand with the confiding, 
 affectionate gesture which he often used towards 
 this son for one moment upon the boy's shoulder. 
 
 Bridget still pitied Frank's scowl, but did not 
 now forget how much more sullen it would have 
 been, had he been told to take the note instead of 
 his brother. 
 
 The next day it was pouring again, but a half 
 holiday, and very soon after dinner Johnnie ap- 
 peared cap in hand at the drawing-room door to
 
 8o AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 know if lie could do anything for any one at Massing 
 on his way. 
 
 ' Johnnie, you are not going such a day as this V 
 said his mother. 
 
 * Oh yes, mamma, it won't hurt, I've got papa's 
 waterproof.' 
 
 ' Still, you'll get very wet.' 
 
 *0h, mamma, papa made no objection, and I was 
 glad to have something to oblige me to go out.' 
 
 * Come here, let me see;' as he obeyed, ' yes, you 
 have good boots, but I am sure the note might just 
 as well go by post.' 
 
 ' It would be two days on the road, mother.' 
 
 * Well, so you want to go 1 give me a kiss then. 
 There, you're a silly fellow, but if papa doesn't mind, 
 I mustn't.' 
 
 *Why should you, mamma? — you don't really?' 
 turning back. 
 
 ^ No, no, go off and be happy ; only don't ask me 
 to go with you, there good-bye.' 
 
 ^ But ' 
 
 * No, papa likes you to be hardy, and would be 
 quite vexed if he knew I had thrown a shadow of 
 doubt in the way. Sometimes I think he won't be 
 satisfied till he's let you kill yourself.' 
 
 ' Not with getting wet through, for I really shan't ; 
 but I'll take an umbrella to satisfy you, mother. 
 Good bye, I shall be back before tea. I want 
 to see if I can't do it in two hours ;' and he was off, 
 trudging by the window the next minute as merrily 
 as if he wished for no better lot than carrying a 
 note five miles in pouring rain. 
 
 Truly such a temper must be innate — can hardly
 
 TEA AND TROUBLE. 8 1 
 
 be attaiued. Frank watched him rejoicing he was 
 not in his place, but by the fire, — yet envying the 
 spirit John carried with him sufficiently to make 
 him cross and snappish to the little ones when they 
 next came in his way. 
 
 John did not, however, come in till half-past five, 
 for he had met Mr. Hughes in the churchyard re- 
 turning from a funeral, and he had insisted on bring- 
 ing him to see his wife and his dog, and have some 
 cake and wine. 
 
 ' Did they take you for a baby ? ' asked Frank, 
 more amused than ill-natured. , 
 
 'Took me, perhaps, for being rather cold and 
 hungry, as I was ; and they looked so comfortable, 
 mother, a great blazing fire, and such a j oily room, 
 with oak walls and full of pictures, and Mrs. Hughes 
 sitting reading, with the great Newfoundland at 
 her feet. He is such a beauty ; and do you know 
 Mrs. Hughes promised me one of the puppies, and 
 asked us to come over and see them as often as we 
 Hke.' 
 
 ' Who 1 you and your mother 1 ' 
 
 ' No, no, papa, Frank ; and he said something 
 about there having been such first-rate skating on 
 the river between them and Massing, and when I 
 told him we had skated up to his hedge last Satur- 
 day, he said next time we must come in and have 
 luncheon, and he'd skate back with us to tea.' 
 
 ' But what will your company-hating mother 
 sayr 
 
 ' That all John's friends are welcome,' said Mrs. 
 Arnold laughing, and graciously bowing ; ' so you. 
 have become great friends 1 ' 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 * Yes, one could not help it, he seemed a friend 
 in a minute, he shook my hand so, and would have 
 me come in, and Mrs. Hughes is so pretty and little, 
 he seemed like a great lion beside her, and he 
 crickets, and skates, and everything.' 
 
 ' Eton and King's all over. Well he has as good a 
 river as the Cam here. But come, John, you don't 
 think you're going to sit down to tea in those wet 
 things, do you ? up with you, and be quick too, for 
 we stay-at-homes have grown prematurely weary, 
 and want our teas already.' 
 
 John gaye his mother the answer and hastened 
 away. 
 
 *Do they come?' 
 
 'Yes. Well I am quite glad. Johnnie makes 
 them out such charming people. It is a very friendly 
 note,' and Mrs. Arnold passed it to her husband. 
 
 ' Ah ! Mrs. Hughes has won your heart by her 
 hopes that your son will not suffer from braving 
 such rain on their account. — Pooh ! a ducking now 
 and then does a boy good.' 
 
 'Well we wont argue the point again. But it's 
 a good note, and a good hand too, more character 
 in it than T expected from so quiet, shy a woman.' 
 
 ' And now really, my dear, don't you think we 
 might as well have the Hiltons to meet them T 
 
 'Oh Frank!' 
 
 ' Well, I'm sure we were there last, and Mr. 
 Hilton enjoys a little life, and his daughters must 
 be sadly moped, poor things.' 
 
 ' Oh, no indeed. Have them some other time, if 
 you please. We need not present the Hiltons as 
 specimens of our friends, for they are not.'
 
 TEA AND TEOUBLE. 83 
 
 * Well, have some one — leave Lady Agnes alone 
 if you like, but ask Sir Hector and ISTetta, they will 
 certainly be the finest specimens of friends we can 
 produce.' 
 
 ' My dear Frank, do you think Miss Merivale 
 will thank us for bringing her to our little rooms 
 and dull societv after all her London and Brighton 
 gaieties V 
 
 ' Oh I don't know anything about Miss Merivale, 
 I don't want any such formidable person any more 
 than yourself, but Netta will sing, and look charm- 
 ing, and be invaluable.' 
 
 ' Not in such an evening as ours will be.' 
 
 ' Yes she will ; she is the most good-natured of 
 beauties ; and even if she were not, could not help 
 looking charming.' 
 
 ' Well, but Frank, what does settle it is, that I 
 told Mrs. Hughes we asked them to meet only a 
 family party.' 
 
 ^ Well — and so it would be.' 
 
 'Not at all ; do please let it be.' 
 
 And it was let be, rather to Bridget's disappoint- 
 ment, if no one else's. 
 
 The day arrived at last. It was bright and fine, 
 and a half-holiday. Yery busily did Mary employ 
 it. Sewing new stiiugs in her mother's cap, mend- 
 ing her bracelet, taking a grease spot out of her 
 grey silk — all this done unseen, almost unknown, 
 even to her mother, upstairs in the cold. Then, ou 
 went her hat, shawl, and galoshes, and she searched 
 the garden for lingering roses and geraniums, and 
 found red and pink enough to contrast very prettily 
 with the white laurestinus just bursting into bios? 
 G 2
 
 84 AGGESDEN VICARAGE, 
 
 som. It was now four, and nearly dark ; slie 
 watched Bridget safely settled in the dining-room, 
 telling stories to the little ones round the fire, and 
 then diving into the low, damp, old-fashioned 
 kitchen, found a tea-tray, with cups, saucers, plates, 
 and spoons, and carried it into the schoolroom, and 
 laid, with her slender, Merivale hands, the school- 
 room tea. Why ? may those uninitiated in poor 
 households, or worse, ill-servanted households, ask ; 
 because if thus all were not placed tidily and neatly 
 by herself, she knew by painful experience how 
 flurried and hurried Marianne, on even the simple 
 occasion of one gentleman and lady coming to tea, 
 would become — how anything would be thought 
 good enough for the schoolroom — cracked plates, 
 dusty cups, a knife or two short — and how awry 
 and crooked these insufficient paraphernalia would 
 be placed. Mary might well survey her own tidy 
 handiwork with satisfaction ; yet her whole object 
 was not attained ; the whole appearance of the 
 table was too tasteful and symmetrical for Miss 
 Storey not to suspect that some other hands had 
 been about it than Marianne's ; and so the little vase 
 of the superfluous drawing-room flowers was moved 
 off into a dark corner. 
 
 Then she just crossed to the drawing-room to 
 make sure that Marianne had lighted the fire. She 
 had not only remembered to do so, but had done 
 her work so well, that it was roaring and blazing 
 famously ; even the shutters were shut, but the 
 curtains undrawn, and as Mary advanced to rectify 
 this one neglect, her satisfaction was marred by 
 discovering Frank on the hearthrug, writing an
 
 TEA AND TROUBLE. 8^ 
 
 exercise at full length by the firelight, his ink not 
 even on the ground, but on a worked footstool 
 which Mary had uncovered for this one evening. 
 
 * Frank, what are you about V asked the girl, 
 fretfully. 
 
 ' Writing, Mistress Poll' 
 
 ' On the carpet. You must not. Go to the 
 study,' imperatively. 
 
 ' Can't,' answered Frank, laconically, but becoming 
 the more carelessly good-humoured as Mary's annoy- 
 ance increased. 
 
 ' You shall. Now get up.' 
 
 ' Wont,' whistled Frank. 
 
 ' You shall. I'm in earnest.' 
 
 ' Nonsense.' 
 
 ' Frank, you know you must.' 
 
 ' Indeed, ma'am, I know no such thing.' 
 
 ' I shall tell papa.' 
 
 ' Pray do.' 
 
 * Now, Frank, you must go ;' and Mary's tone 
 was so resolute, and she set her foot so firmly on 
 the floor, that Frank yielded, took up his ink, 
 brushed by her, and went upstairs to finish his 
 work in the cold. Why? might be asked again. 
 Because Mary was not so useful and blameless with- 
 out some reward. Her father always backed her, and 
 in point of fact she ruled 'the boys' and 'children' 
 as efiectually as many a mother could have done. 
 
 Was this power good for a girl not yet fifteen ? 
 One in a thousand, useful, sturdy, simple-minded, 
 sterling-hearted, might have escaped the dangers of 
 such premature trust and authority ; but not the 
 many, and amongst the many not Mary Arnold.
 
 8.5 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 She raised her head with a little unconscious jerk 
 of self-satisfaction as Frank departed. Had her 
 mother remonstrated with him, he would have 
 turned sullen and stayed as long as he chose, or 
 stayed as long as he chose without even becoming 
 sullen, but she had only ordered and been oheyed. 
 
 * It is a good thing that I came in, not mamma,' 
 thought Mary, complacently, ' Frank is so careless ; 
 the ink would have been sure to be over before he 
 had done, and that shabby old rug made more un- 
 presentable than ever. Oh dear ! how faded and • 
 shabby the whole room is ; how different from the 
 Hall.' 
 
 Still she left the drawing-room happily, but in 
 the hall met Marianne, bare-armed, dirty-capped, 
 and torn gowned ; carrying a coal-scuttle to the 
 dining-room. 
 
 * Not dressed yet V indignant and despairing. 
 
 * I can't do everything at once, miss,' answered 
 Marianne, rather pertly. 
 
 Mary's head fell again, and she went to the 
 schoolroom, and sitting down by the fire, laid her 
 young head on a chair, and sighed too long too 
 unhappy a sigh for one who brought up as she had 
 been should have been still a child. Tears came 
 into her eyes, and she said, half aloud, ' Ob, why 
 should things be so wretched V 
 
 It struck the half hour, and Mary started up 
 again, and went into the dining-room. ' Mamma, 
 are you going up to dress V 
 
 ' Not quite yet, Mary. Come and sit down and 
 warm yourself. How cold your hands are, dear,' 
 caressing the hands on the back of the chair.
 
 TEA AND TROUBLE. 87 
 
 'But tlie Huglies's are asked for six, mamma.' 
 
 ' Yes ; but I need not be half-an-hour dressing, 
 and Miss Storey is amusing us all with her wonder- 
 ful tales. Come and sit down amongst us, and 
 enjoy yourself.' 
 
 Mary did sit down, but scarcely enjoyed herself 
 in the ten minutes which she suffered to elapse 
 before she again proposed the dressing, to which 
 Mrs. Arnold, though wearily, did agree. Years of 
 use had made Mary's young fingers quick and clever, 
 and her mother's kiss and even more innate grace 
 of motion, smile, and air, fully compensated the 
 little daughter for all her care. 
 
 ' There is a ring, mamma ! do run down j do let 
 them find you in the di'a wing-room.' 
 
 Mrs. Arnold complied, and went, and Mary was 
 hanging up the discarded shabby merino and putting 
 by stray articles of dress, when a cry arose — a cry 
 in the hall. Mary rushed down, brushed by Mari- 
 anne, picked up Robert, and ran with him into the 
 schoolroom, shut the door, and had the satisfaction 
 of hearing Mr. and Mrs. Hughes ushered into the 
 drawing-room amid most decorous silence ; for her 
 unexpected appearance and prompt elopement had 
 for three whole minutes suspended the next sob. 
 
 Little did she guess that Mr. and Mrs. Hughes 
 were being ushered into a dark room. Mrs. Arnold, 
 who was trying to light a damp spill, was not at all 
 disconcerted, laid down the spill, advanced, shook 
 hands, made a very simple apology, ending by 
 looking round for Marianne, but finding she had 
 escaped, turned to Mr. Hughes again and said, with 
 her peculiarly graceful graciousness of manner, ' I
 
 88 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 am sure you will be kind enough to light the 
 candles,' put the refractory spill into the hand of 
 the former wrangler, then turning back to his wife, 
 begged her to sit on the sofa, was afraid they must 
 have found the drive very cold, and did feel it was 
 so very kind of them to have come so far such a 
 very cold evening. 
 
 Before the second candle was lighted, Mr. Arnold 
 entered, blithe, courteous, and hearty, laughed good- 
 humouredly at Mr. Hughes' futile attempts at the 
 refractory candle, lighted it himself in a minute, 
 and brought with liim an air of kindliness and per- 
 fect freedom from inauvaise honte, that most rare 
 and invaluable quality in a host. Very lively and 
 animated the conversation soon became ; Mrs. 
 Hughes smiling her shy, soft smile at her host's 
 description of their own arrival sixteen years ago 
 at Aggesden Yicarage in the depth of winter, and 
 then with more demonstrative Mr. Hughes, branch- 
 ing off to Sydney Smith's arrival at Foston le Clay, 
 and from Sydney Smith to humourists in general. 
 
 When Mary, Miss Storey, and John came 
 in after tea, the room was so warm and bright, 
 the sound of Mr. Hughes's loud musical voice so 
 cheery and pleasant, that the secret fear of a dull 
 evening vanished from all. Mr. Hughes quite won 
 Mrs. Arnold's heart for ever by his cordial greeting 
 to her boy and instant originating of a subject in 
 which he could join. 
 
 Then Mary was sent to play, and acquitted herself 
 very creditably, and Mrs. Hughes, after a great deal 
 of pressing and a great many shy appealing glances 
 at her husband, who would not give her any aid,
 
 TEA AND TROUBLE. 59 
 
 not only suggesting no cold, but declaring she often 
 sung to him without notes, was induced to try ' Auld 
 Lang Syne,' in as sweet a voice as need be, but so ner- 
 vously and tremulously that Mr. Hughes said, 'You 
 little goose,' and laughed at her till her young face 
 was covered with the prettiest blushes in the world. 
 
 ' Do redeem your credit, Emmie, and let me play 
 * My mother bids me bind my hair,' you would not 
 mind then.' 
 
 ' I don't remember the words, John.' 
 
 * Then you ought, and must learn them the first 
 thino^ to-morrow morninof. Well then — ' 
 
 But his host interrupted him, * No, Mrs. Hughes 
 shall not be teased any more ; but you own to play- 
 ing, Hughes, so must offer to take her place.' 
 
 '11 oh, just an accompaniment,' answered Mr. 
 Hughes, looking caught out and shrugging up his 
 broad shoulders deprecatingly. 
 
 'Oh, John!' 
 
 ' There, you see, Mrs. Hughes knows better.* 
 
 ' But — / can't play without notes.' 
 
 * We can supply them, no doubt.' 
 
 * No, all yours will be far too modern for me.' 
 
 ' What, Corelli and Purcell 1 We can give you 
 either.' 
 
 'No, nonsense, wont your little girl favour us 
 again V 
 
 ' Little' Mary truly was, compared with the large- 
 built figure retreating like a girl behind the sofa, as 
 if so to escape his host's further pressings. But Mr. 
 Arnold had thought Mr. Hughes had laughed at 
 his pretty young wife far too much, and had no in- 
 tention of letting him escape thus.
 
 90 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 * No, you shall play ; come out ! Now come 
 and see,' and he half led, half dragged, reluctant, 
 genuinely bashful Mr. Hughes to the music stand, 
 where, dusty but entire, stood a store of music of 
 all dates. 
 
 ^ Well, if I must, I must, but I think I can 
 remember something, after all, without attacking 
 that formidable pile.' 
 
 And, sitting down, he played ' Adelaida' as only 
 a man can play — as, happily, year after year, more 
 and more men do play. Why was honest Mr. 
 Hughes — why are they all — more difficult and tire- 
 some to induce to sit down to a piano than a young 
 lady of eighteen? But once having begun, Mr. 
 Hughes was too happy and at ease to leave off, and 
 concluded only after for nearly an hour playing any 
 piece set before him ; his little wife's eyes bright 
 and glistening with pleasure at the appreciation 
 and admiration of her husband's talent written on 
 every face. 
 
 A little more general conversation, wine, sand- 
 wiches, and biscuits, and the carriage came round, 
 Mr. Arnold put on Mrs. Hughes' shawl, handed 
 her into her carriage, wished her good-night, Mr. 
 Hughes wrung his host's hand, and the two for- 
 midable guests were off. However, Mrs. Arnold, 
 instead of leaning back, smothering a yawn, and 
 remarking, ' What a comfort it is over,' said, erect 
 and bright, 
 
 'What pleasant people they are, Frank!' and 
 only then added, with a satisfaction that most host- 
 esses would have shared, 'Well, I am very glad 
 they are done with, nevertheless.'
 
 91 
 
 CHAPTER YIl. 
 
 THE COUSINS. 
 
 Their whole demeanour was easy and natural, with that 
 lofty grace and noble frankness which bespeak freeboni souls 
 that have never been checked in their growth by feelings of 
 infei'iority. — Sketch-hook. 
 
 THE Merivales' arrival had been postponed for 
 another week, and thus they could not, if they 
 ■would, have met the Hughes's at the Vicarage ; but 
 the next Sunday saw them all in the Hall pew. 
 Many eyes wandered off their books that morning, 
 for in a village so quiet, retired and devoid of gentry 
 as Aggesden, the arrival of the family at the Hall 
 was an event of pleasurable moment. Indeed, where 
 is there not 1 — at least where the tenantry are true 
 English men and women, where the squire is but 
 passably affable, or, most of all, where there is a 
 large family, who have been growing more and 
 more of men and women every day since they had 
 last been seen, leaving old charms of rosy cheeks 
 and fat plump hands behind them, and developing 
 in their place others of maturer age. 
 
 And a fine family the Merivales were; the present 
 squire all that his tenantry desired, frank, manly, a 
 good shot, and a kind-hearted landlord, with a free 
 word for the husband, a gallant touch of his hat for 
 the w ife, and a penny or pat on the head for their 
 little daughter. So not without reason was all Ag-
 
 ^% AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 gesden interested in the annual universal arrival 
 of the Hall family for the three winter months. 
 
 There towered Sir Hector, gay and careless as of 
 old, twisting his thick yellow-brown moustache, and 
 many an old dame, who had watched with almost a 
 mother's fondness his growth from babyhood to his 
 present verge of middle manhood, whispered with 
 full eyes a hearty ' God bless him,' as she feasted 
 her eyes on his handsome face and figure. Next to 
 him, as tall for a woman as was her father for a 
 man, stood Mrs. Arnold's * Miss Merivale,' the 
 Yicar's ^ Netta,' fair-haired, sleepy blue-eyed, deli- 
 cately complexioned was her face, but her carriage 
 full of that defiant, courteous fearlessness which 
 gives such piquancy to one portion of our English 
 aristocracy ; graceful and stately alike. Next came 
 the mother. Lady Agnes, a dwarf among such giants, 
 but erect, quick-eyed, firm-mouthed, and, happily 
 for her own peace, a match in spirit to any Merivale 
 of them all. There were the boys Hector and Harry, 
 threatening to rival their father in height and good 
 looks before so very long, and beyond, Sophy, their 
 elder sister, a plump, good-humoured, firmly-built 
 maiden of sixteen, in whom Netta need never fear 
 a rival in good looks. A tall, thin, refined-looking 
 girl of twelve, two rosy, bright-eyed boys, and a 
 pair of pale, rather sickly-looking girls of five and 
 six, their eyes looking disproportionately brown and 
 large under their straw hats, a governess in mourn- 
 ing, and a little, fair, simple Swiss bonne and go- 
 verness combined, completed the large pew-full. 
 
 Coming out of church, the Yicarage and Hall 
 party stopped to exchange greetings, Lady Agnes,
 
 THE COUSINS. 93 
 
 in a brisk, but rather discontented, voice, inquiring 
 of the Yicar's wife after old parish friends. Bridget 
 soon turned to listen to the daughter's bright, merry, 
 animated talk to Johnnie, and a very pretty picture 
 Antoinette Merivale made as she stood there, her 
 rich silk dress held high enough to discover the 
 slender, thick-booted feet and scarlet petticoat (then 
 quite a new fashion), the long, flowing, grey cloak 
 making her quite a picturesque figure. Bridget 
 looked to see whether the little country boy were 
 not abashed by so fashionable an accoster, but no, 
 not a bit ! and John Arnold looked at least quite 
 as much a gentleman's son as Miss Merivale a gen- 
 tleman's daughter, and little more could be said. 
 
 Mrs. Arnold, on the contrary, was stiff and formal 
 for her, neither the Yicaress nor the lady seemed 
 quite at their ease, and Lady Agnes was already 
 making the move to the carriage when Sir Hector 
 (who had been speaking to old Master Blogg, a 
 groom of former days) came up. 
 
 ' Nonsense ! not going yet, Agnes ; I have not 
 seen one of them. How do you do, Anna V to Mrs. 
 Arnold. ' How are you, Mary, and all of you 1 
 Ah, my little beauty, come, Mabel, you'll give me 
 a kiss now T 
 
 ' Zoo kept zous promise V asked wary Amabel, 
 who had no intention of bestowing unmerited 
 favour. 
 
 ' Ye>, on my honour,' holding out his hands to 
 take her up. 
 
 ' To-morrow — not in churchyard,' said Mabel, 
 retreating backwards. 
 
 * You little treacherous — '
 
 94 AGGESDEX VICARAGE. 
 
 ' Come Hector, we must be going, we shall meet 
 soon, I daresay, Mrs. Arnold,' and Lady Agnes 
 looked round for her husband's arm. 
 
 * Oh, I shall walk ; you can go if you like. Can't 
 you walk down the church-path without an arm ? 
 Well, then, I'll tell you what. Cousin Anna, I'll just 
 hand my wife into the carriage, and see Arnold by 
 coming in to luncheon, if I may.' 
 
 'Eh, what?' said Mr. Arnold, coming up and 
 shaking warmly Lady Agnes' passive hand, 'come 
 in to luncheon. Sir Hector, any other day in the 
 week you like, but not to-day ; we keep no Sunday 
 company.' 
 
 ' Come, Hector, we must be going ; your mother 
 will be waiting luncheon.' 
 
 ' Well, then, we must be off ; good-bye — au revoir. 
 Come, Netta ; where are the children f 
 
 ' Walking home with Miss Campbell, I suppose,' 
 answered his wife ; and with a general goodbye they 
 started on the long path leading to the Hall road, 
 while the Yicarage party hastened home. 
 
 Mr. Arnold, however, was but just shutting out 
 the wintry wind, when Sir Hector appeared at the 
 door. 
 
 ' What do you want V asked the former tutor. 
 
 ' Want 1 a luncheon to be sure with old friends ; 
 you can't refuse me V 
 
 ' I can indeed. No, go home and — ' 
 
 * Be hanged V 
 
 'Nonsense! Merivale,' with evident displea- 
 sure. 
 
 ' Oh, the tutor coming out, but I am not so
 
 THE COUSINS. 95 
 
 tractable as I used to be. I really am come, and 
 mean to have luncheon too.' 
 
 ' You certainly are come, but I am sorry that 
 you oblige me to shut the door in my patron's 
 face ;' and Mr. Arnold was as good as his word. 
 
 Bridget was much surprised. Why Sir Hector 
 might not, if he chose, lunch at the Yicarage on a 
 Sunday she could not see. Nor would the squire 
 himself ; he looked hot and angry a minute through 
 the glass-door, and then turned on his heel and 
 departed. 
 
 Mr. Arnold knew better, and laughed, '^ow 
 be quick, children, we're very late,' he said to those 
 loitering in the hall, and turned into his study. 
 
 The whole party entered the dining-room toge- 
 ther, and Mr. Arnold had said grace before they 
 discovered simultaneously what sent all alike into 
 fits of laughter. Outside the window, on a ricketty 
 garden-chair, sat Sir Hector, hat in hand, most 
 lamentable-visaged, looking longingly on the cold 
 beef and smoking potatoes within. 
 
 Mr. Arnold leant back in his chair and laughed 
 like a boy, till the maid entering, he remembered 
 the proprieties of life, and sat up erect, shaking his 
 head unrelentingly at the noble beggar, who sat on, 
 notwithstanding the neglect with which he met, 
 every now and then pulling his forelock, but other- 
 wise immovable, and keeping his longing eyes fast 
 on the viands, now beginning to be dispensed 
 within. 
 
 Mr. Arnold helped round — no short process, 
 quick-handed as he was, before glancing again out
 
 96 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 of tlie window, and tlien, seeing Sir Hector still 
 there, rose and went out to him, dragging his 
 former pupil up by main force, and walking him 
 down to the road. 
 
 ' Now, Hector, how can you be so absurd 1 — Go 
 home to your wife and mother.' 
 
 ' Why should I f 
 
 * Because you ought.' 
 
 * Ought 1 I am sure my wife at least ought to be 
 very glad to be rid of me, for she does nothing but 
 srumble at me when she has me.' -^ 
 
 ' Because you are so trying.' 
 
 ' Well, we took each other for better and worse ; 
 and I'm sure I've had the worse of — ' 
 
 ' Come Hector, have done ! — Just tell me how 
 poor Eobert is, and then be off.' 
 
 ' Kobert ? — Just the same, poor fellow !' and Sir 
 Hector sighed ; ' send your boy up to him after 
 dinner, will you 1 I'm sure he'll do more good at 
 the Hall than at church.' 
 
 ' Yes, I agree with you there ; he will be sure to 
 come, and let E-obert keep him till he's tired of 
 him ; we shan't be frightened even if he does not 
 come in till bedtime.' 
 
 ' I may give hion a meal, then ? let us be clear on 
 that point ; if I may not I had better send him 
 home to tea.' 
 
 * Oh, Merivale, never serious !' 
 
 ' Often enough, Sir, when I'm away from my 
 Mentor. Why you wont give me a meal, I can't 
 diskiver ; I'd have washed my own plate and spoon, 
 if that's all.' 
 
 < There, go away,' said the Yicar, smiling in spite
 
 THE COUSINS. 97 
 
 of himself, * or you'll come in for no luncheon at 
 all.' 
 
 * Your fault, not mine, and 'twill be your fault 
 too if I am late for service, taking a poor fellow in, 
 or rather, turning him out, like this.' 
 
 Mr. Arnold hesitated a minute, and then said 
 frankly, ' Merivale, you must feel why it is ; and if 
 you wish us to be free and happy together, why 
 cause needless vexation V 
 
 ' Pooh !' said Sir Hector, a little contemptuously ; 
 * if Agn<^s will have such whims, it shall be at her 
 own cost,* not mine. I shan't give in to her foolish 
 prejudices, I can tell you.' 
 
 * But you will accommodate yourself to her wishes, 
 I am sure. Good-bye, my eight will be wanting 
 their second helps as much as your wife her hus- 
 band. Good-bye, and God bless you Merivale.' 
 
 The Squire wrung his old tutor's hand heartily, 
 and Mr. Arnold, his old pupil's not less so, and so 
 they parted, as they always did at heart, the best of 
 friends. 
 
 ' Johnnie, I have brought back an invitation for 
 you : Sir Hector hopes you will go up and see poor 
 Kobert, and 1 answered for you that you would, and 
 stay all the evening if he liked it.' 
 
 Johnnie assented rather gravely for him, but 
 started as soon as the meal was over, and walked 
 the mile and a-half cheerily enough when once off. 
 
 He rang the hall-bell, and was consigned by 
 the footman to Mr. Harris, the butler, and by him 
 solemnly ushered as ' Mr. John Arnold ' into the 
 library, a long, low, dark room, with a pleasant re- 
 cessed bay at one end, in which in the pale wintry 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 AGGESDEN VICAEAGE. 
 
 sunliglit lay a boy of seventeen, a Merivale in 
 length of limb, but in little else, so pale, sickly, and 
 worn was his whole bearing. Sophy was on a stool 
 near him, reading. 
 
 ' So you've come at last !' said Robert, half fret- 
 fully, half reproachfully, as he held out his thin, 
 chilly fingers to meet his cousin's glowing young 
 hand. 
 
 * Have you been waiting for me 1 — We were 
 rather late at dinner, but I walked so quickly I'd 
 hoped I had made up.' 
 
 'Yes, you must have been quick,' said Sophy, 
 in a brisk, blithe voice, which it did one's heart 
 good to hear. ' Papa has not been in ten minutes, 
 and he said you had only just sat down to dinner 
 when he left. And now I must be oflf in five 
 minutes to dress for church ; but do just tell me 
 all about Miss Storey, and how you like her. Ma- 
 demoiselle has fallen in love at first sight, and is 
 longing to know all about her.' 
 
 * Is she so pretty, then V asked Kobert, roused to 
 interest. 
 
 ' No, — at least, perhaps a little ; she has rather 
 pretty eyes and figure, but the rest rather so-so. 
 Am I right, Johnnie V 
 
 ' Yes, I dare say. But she's straightforward, and 
 has no airs, E-obert, and that's what we like.' And 
 in such conversation they went on even after Sophy 
 had left them ; and, indeed, of what could they 
 talk 1 for the poor crippled heir could not bear to 
 hear of the boyish sports and pastimes into which 
 he could never hope to enter. 
 
 Then Kobert detailed how Lady Agnes had quar-
 
 THE COUSINS. 99 
 
 relied witL. tlie coaclimaii, and he was going; and 
 how vexed was Sir Hector, who hated to see new 
 faces about ; and in such family gossip the time 
 passed till the church bells ceased. Then there was 
 a little pause, and Johnnie said straightforwardly, 
 * Shall I read you the lessons, Robert V 
 
 'Oh, yes, if you like,' in an uninterested, un- 
 gracious voice. 
 
 Johnnie read ; there was a few minutes' silence 
 when the boy finished, first broken by his asking 
 Kobert rather abruptly, 'How he had liked Brigh- 
 ton V 
 
 ' Oh, I did not go ; I am rather too old to be 
 wheeled up and down the Parade for the amusement 
 of a polite crowd now. Papa took me down to his 
 little farm in Essex, and the time passed somehow;' 
 and the lad sighed heavily. 
 
 ' Was it a pretty part, — anything near you cared 
 to see ]' 
 
 ' An old Roman encampment to be seen by the 
 eyes of the faithful alone, a moat covered with duck- 
 weed in which papa's great-uncle had been drowned, 
 and a frightful old woman to keep the house and 
 cook our meals.' 
 
 ' Then you would have been better at Brighton,' 
 said Johnnie, uncompromisingly. 
 
 ' Oh, no ! Papa was very good to me, he always 
 is ; he drove me about everywhere, read to me, and 
 even made me take lessons in sketching; had a'man 
 down from town at two guineas a day. See what 
 it is to be eldest son and heir !' with momentary 
 brightness ; ' without a leg to stand upon,' he ended 
 bitterly. 
 
 H 2
 
 lOO AGGESDEN VICAEAGE. 
 
 ' What have you been sketching 1 Sophy was 
 teaching you perspective last winter, I remember. 
 Did you succeed 1 Where are they V 
 
 * Oh, upstairs !' answered the lad, wearily. 
 
 * I can find them, I daresay, in your bookcase ? 
 All right, I'll be down in a minute.' 
 
 ' No, don't go — ring for Alston, will you — twice. 
 He will know where he has put them ; he used to 
 hold the water for me, poor fellow, so he knows 
 them well enough, and I really believe learnt more 
 from Mr. Eastworth than myself. Papa came upon 
 him sketching the old farm, four miles off, with my 
 colours, one day, but the boldness of the attempt in 
 every sense was so admirable that we never taxed 
 him with it. My clouds used especially to try him ; 
 I don't know how often he has touched his cap and 
 said, in his most deferential of voices, ' I beg your 
 pardon, Mr, Merivale, but I do think you are lay- 
 ing hon that laylock too heavy.' ' 
 
 Here Alston himself appeared, demure and 
 respectful as a body-servant could be, and a very 
 faithful servant he was, in all essentials, to his 
 young master. 
 
 * Yes, we have quite high arts below stairs here,' 
 Kobert continued, as Alston closed the door behind 
 him ; ' Mr. Harris plays the flute, and the school- 
 room maid has made the most of her opportunities 
 and picked up enough French to excuse Miss 
 Campbell's driving the poor girls into speaking 
 German. Oh dear, these modern accomplishments 1' 
 
 ' But they don't hurt you.' 
 
 * Yes, they do,' retorted Robert, with some fret- 
 fulness j ' if I get Sophy for one half-hour between
 
 THE COUSIXS. lOI 
 
 breakfast and seven it is all she or I can do, and 
 here am I, a great useless log, keeping papa in 
 when he wants to be out and about, or Netta away 
 from the company she delights in. She's grown a 
 pretty woman, eh V 
 
 ' Very ; and so good-natured.' 
 
 'Yes, she is that. She reads a dry book to me 
 every day, the last thing before luncheon j but, poor 
 thing, how she yawns all the time.' 
 
 ' Perhaps she wants something to eat,' suggested 
 Johnnie ; ' you should provide her with an ante- 
 luncheon before she begins.' 
 
 Kobert laughed. ' Ah ! I never thought of that ; 
 but the half-hour Sophy gives me afterwards is 
 rather different. We are in full track after the 
 Egyptians now, and I tell Miss Campbell she ought 
 to consider it lesson time, and cut it off in the 
 evening. Ah ! here come my daubs.' 
 
 The sketches proved to be little more, but with 
 a vein of originality throughout them which made 
 each striking as a general effect, although too 
 careless and incorrect to present a faithful picture 
 of the subject taken. But the very sight of them 
 roused Robert to sit up, and in detailing Mr. East- 
 worth's politely severe criticisms upon one, the ad- 
 ventures of the day on which another had been 
 taken, the calm loveliness of the scenery of a third, 
 which,' transcribed by Robert, looked uncommonly 
 stormy and muddy, gave rise to a flow of lively talk 
 which lasted till the home-paioy returned from the 
 afternoon service. 
 
 Nearly all turned into the library and sat talking 
 all at once, till Robert, being in full conversation
 
 TOZ AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 ■witli !N"etta and Sophy, Sir Hector slipped out, 
 beckoning to Johnnie to follow. 
 
 * What do you think of my boy V he asked. 
 
 ' I, uncle ? He does not seem any worse, I think ; 
 he has not complained of any pain all the afternoon.' 
 
 ' That's thanks to you. He was full of aches and 
 pains, poor fellow, in the morning, but I knew you 
 would set him to rights. Thank you, my boy, for 
 keej)ing cooped up by my poor son all this afternoon.' 
 
 ' Oh, uncle ! who wouldn't V said Johnnie, with 
 a heartiness of pity he was, in more guarded mo- 
 ments, already learning to moderate before Sir 
 Hector, so sore a subject was his son's helpless state 
 with the father. 
 
 ' You don't think you could bear it, then, any 
 better V 
 
 ' Oh, no !' cried the tall, brisk, active boy in 
 horror at the bare idea, as if such a possibility had 
 never before suggested itself, and now startled and 
 chilled him. 
 
 ' Little chance of an Arnold coming to such a 
 state, my lad ; it's only amongst us upper classes 
 that mothers leave their poor babes to servants. Oh, 
 that woman ! I never will forgive her !' 
 
 Johnnie answered nothing, and it was well he 
 was silent. Any word, whether of assent or re- 
 monstrance, would have sufficed to rouse into fa 
 flame Sir Hector's ever-smouldering resentment 
 against the nurse, who had concealed till the last 
 moment a fall which had made his son a cripple for 
 life — a constant and hopeless sufferer. In vain 
 had his brother and Mr. Arnold represented that 
 all the physicians agreed that Robert's constitution
 
 THE COUSINS. 103 
 
 "was naturally weak, that many of the Merivales 
 were sickly, that any other blow or fall might have 
 brought into activity the disease latent in him and 
 too many of his race ; that even a school-fight, a 
 blow at cricket, or any other such accident, to 
 which he would in boyhood have been hourly ex- 
 posed, would have suflBced to bring the latent evil 
 out ; Sir Hector only vowed the fiercer that he never 
 could, never would, forgive her who had entailed 
 such ceaseless trouble, mortification, and pain on 
 any child of his. And in this 'her' he sometimes 
 included his wife. 
 
 'My poor boy !' he said, now brushing his hand 
 across his eyes ; ' there, I wont keep you from him. 
 I'm afraid he's sometimes fretful, even with you, 
 but you'll bear with him, I know.' 
 
 And Sir Hector turned off as if to his study, 
 then changing his mind, mounted the stairs four at 
 a time, and going to the nursery spent the next 
 hour in a game of romps with Arthur, Willie, Anna, 
 and Emma, his four youngest children, as full of 
 spirits as any one of them ; and well might their 
 shout of delight at papa's appearance cheer his kind 
 heart at once.
 
 104 
 
 CHAPTEE VIII. 
 
 ANTOINETTE. 
 
 If it be possible, my Father, GoD, 
 Kemove, remove this heavy shade of woe 
 That whelms in black eclipse my sun of health 
 In zenith power ; but if that dreadful shade 
 Depai't not, till the orb th' horizon touch — 
 This darkened life go down in outer night 
 Without another ray of joyous health — 
 Thy will be done ! 
 
 John Collett. 
 
 IT was just ten days later that Sir Hector said 
 to his wife, as they were leaving the breakfast 
 table, ' My dear, I wish yon would ask the 
 Arnolds here for Thursday.' 
 
 ' Thursday ! what is Thursday f 
 
 * Sophy's birthday ; and she would like to have 
 them, I know.' 
 
 ' But I can't have her lessons interfered with.' 
 
 ' My dear, surely her late campaign of masters 
 might win her a holiday now and then. Have the 
 children to dinner at our luncheon, and Arnold 
 and his wife to our late dinner.' 
 
 ' Oh ! if you want Mr. and Mrs. Arnold, we can 
 slip them into the party next week ; I dare say, some 
 one will be sure to have colds and decline.' 
 
 ' Thank you ; but I don't choose such superior 
 people to be made a convenience of; have them to 
 the next large party and welcome, but meanwhile 
 I want to enjoy them, and we'll have the whole 
 school-room party up in the evening, and enjoy our- 
 selves together.'
 
 ANTOINETTE. I05 
 
 'Enjoy ourselves with those loud, uncouth 
 children'?' 
 
 ' No more uncouth than our own, ' answered 
 Sir Hector, sharply ; ' and I can tell you, you have 
 not a son that can bear comparison with Johnnie, 
 nor a daughter with little Mabel, a moment.' 
 
 ' Opinions vary,' answered Lady Agnes, calmly. 
 
 ' Ours certainly seem fated to do so/ returned 
 Sir Hector, with the first sullen cloud we have seen 
 on his brow. 
 
 ' You can have the cJdldreni, if you like,' said his 
 wife a little conciliatorily, after a minute's mutual 
 silence. 
 
 ' You are very good,' he answered with a sneer ; 
 then recovering hirnself, laughed, and said apolo- 
 getically and kindly, ' Come, Agnes, let the Vicar- 
 age feud cease both on your side and mine. We 
 are here but three months in the year, and if my 
 little cousins were as uncouth as bears, how could 
 they contaminate children fenced in with gover- 
 nesses and decorum like ours ?' 
 
 * No — ^but it is an undesirable connexion.' 
 
 'Come, Agnes, if Frank were a great hulking 
 fellow of twenty, I could forgive your keeping at 
 a distance with such a daughter as Netta, but as it 
 is, I really can't see what the Arnolds can do us 
 but good; to me there is such a charm in that 
 bright, helpful spirit, which pervades a large strug- 
 gling family like theii-s, especially when the head 
 of it is such a clever, honest-hearted man as Arnold, 
 who never seems to see how hard fortune has been 
 to him and his, for what much better things he was 
 made.'
 
 T05 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 * Yes, I have no objection to the Yicar.' 
 
 * Ah, Agnes, why will you women be so mean, 
 jealous, and spiteful 1 With Anna Arnold, you can 
 find no failing in gentility; I know no woman to 
 compare with her in grace and breeding, except, 
 perhaps, the Marchioness of Cardale, and my poor 
 father, with all his fastidiousness, thought the same.' 
 
 'Why doesn't she keep her children tidier and 
 cleaner 1 there was Anna such a dirty little object 
 at the pond when we drove up the other day.' 
 
 * Why doesn't she ? because she has three maids 
 in the place of our score, and was brought up to 
 better things.' 
 
 ' A great mistake.' 
 
 * I beg your pardon, I cannot think any system 
 which produced Anna Arnold a mistake.' 
 
 * And those shabby dirty rooms, a pane broken 
 in the window, one of the children's old dolls on 
 the floor.' 
 
 'Give Mrs. Arnold your maids, rooms, means, 
 and governesses, and I've little doubt that her 
 household would rival your own. ISTo, they are poor, 
 I don't deny it, but it is to our shame. Why did I 
 leave my old tutor, my kindest, best of friends in a 
 living of 400^. a year, and give Elton Merivale to 
 that idle dog of a brother of mine 1 and did the in- 
 justice sour him one moment 1 never ! Agnes. I 
 would give something to carry that man's conscience 
 about with me.' 
 
 ' Hector, you are perfectly infatuated. Why was 
 Harry brought up to the Church, if not that Elton 
 Merivale has from time immemorial been the pro- 
 vision for the younger sou 1 '
 
 ANTOINETTE. I07 
 
 ' Oh yes, yes, but I'll tell yoii what, I'll put no 
 son of ours into orders for any such reason.' 
 
 ' Well, pray don't if you don't like it, but I 
 think you will change your mind when your five 
 are young men about you. You'll find the Army 
 and Navy rather expensive for so many.' 
 
 Whereupon Sir Hector whistled and walked out 
 of the room ; not that he gave up his point, but as a 
 gentleman he objected to such disputes between 
 husband and wife. 
 
 Therefore, not having abandoned his object, nor 
 meaning to let Lady Agnes think he had done so, 
 he said after dessert, when the servants were gone, 
 
 * Well, Agnes, have you written to Anna yet V 
 
 * Anna? oh, Mrs. Arnold, no; we will talk it 
 over first,' a little mysteriously. 
 
 Of course Hector and Harry were all attention, 
 at the idea of a secret, whilst Antoinette said at 
 once, ' Oh, are you going to ask them, mamma 1 I 
 was wondering only to-day, how it was we had seen 
 so little of them.' 
 
 ' Then you don't think them an infliction 1 ' 
 
 ' I, papa 1 no, I like them all very much, the boys 
 especially. Yes, mamma, give Sophy and Agnes a 
 holiday, and have them to the early dinner, and 
 Miss Storey to keep Mademoiselle company in the 
 afternoon ; she is bent on making a friend of the 
 Vicarage governess, Sophy tells me.' 
 
 ' Miss Storey V my dear, ' I don't even know who 
 she is.' 
 
 ' A woman, my dear, like my own wife and 
 daughter,' answered Sir Hector, who feeling per- 
 fectly good-humoured and happy himself, could not
 
 108 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 forbear being aggravating; 'Anna's Miss Campbell 
 — a perfect encyclopaedia of accomplisliments, no 
 doubt.' 
 
 * And have Frank and Johnnie too, papa,' put in 
 the boys. 
 
 ' Oh yes, we're going to have all, at least all who 
 can manage their own knives and forks. Just write 
 the iiote when you go to the drawing-room, Agnes, and 
 Jervis can take it when he goes to the post in the 
 morning. And tell Arnold we shall dine at six on 
 Thursday, to insure a good evening, knowing how 
 early he will go away when the children are here.' 
 
 * Yery well,' answered poor Lady Agnes, savage 
 at heart, but already meditating a little revenge — 
 a revenge Sir Hector might justly have termed 
 mean and spiteful, being no other than saying to 
 her daughter as they reached the drawing-room, 
 * Netta dear, will you write the note 1 I am so 
 sleepy, I am sure I should forget one half of the 
 tribe we are to ask.' 
 
 Consequently, on the Vicai*age breakfast table the 
 next morning lay the following note. 
 
 * Dear Mrs. Arnold, 
 
 * Papa and mamma hope very much that you 
 and Mr. Arnold will dine with us on Thursday at 
 six, so that we may have a nice long evening, even 
 should you wish to leave rather early on account of 
 my cousins, whom we hope you will allow to join 
 the early dinner, and spend the afternoon with us. 
 Mademoiselle is longing to make Miss Storey's 
 acquaintance, and I am sure she will like the dear 
 little thing, and not feel her a stranger a minute.
 
 ANTOINETTE. IO9 
 
 If this cold weather last, the boys will have some 
 good skating, I hope. Mamma is sure you will ex- 
 cuse my writing in her stead ; we have been a long 
 drive, and the cold has made her sleepy ! Best love 
 to yourself, Mary, and all, and believe me, 
 ' Ever yours affectionately, 
 
 'Marie Antoinette Merivale.' 
 
 Certainly Miss Merivale did her best to atone for 
 Lady Agnes' intentional slight ; the young lady's note 
 was so affectionate and free that Mrs. Arnold really 
 forgot it was the mother who ought to have written, 
 which oblivion Lady Agnes was far from desiring. 
 If Mrs. Arnold had been struck by it, she knew 
 well enough she would have endeavoured to find 
 some excuse for staying at home, at least herself, 
 and thus after all, Sir Hector would not have been so 
 overbearing without suffering for it in some degree 
 himself. 
 
 Oh the littleness of women ! 
 
 As it was, no one hesitated about the invitation. 
 Mrs. Arnold thought they must dine \vith the 
 Merivales some time or other, and so, the sooner done, 
 the sooner it would be over. Her husband always 
 liked going to the Hall, meeting congenial minds, 
 and seeing his old pupil in his happiest light, that 
 in which he always appeared to the greatest ad- 
 vantage, a host. He himself always got on well 
 with Lady Agnes, and so at first had his wife, 
 and if they now took to chilling formalities, why 
 should he take part in grievances which he could 
 not understand and had found long ago neither of 
 the ladies at heart wished redressed 1 Truth to say
 
 no AGGESDEN VICAEAGE. 
 
 he loved Sir Hector as his own son, and never 
 would, and never could abate one atom of his 
 friendship for him. 
 
 So, at one on Thursday, Miss Storey, in her best 
 dress, cloak, and bonnet, not a little shy and pleased, 
 escorted the four elder Arnolds to the Hall, where 
 they were shown into the schoolroom, and by 
 Sophy taken upstairs to get rid of their outdoor 
 dress, Mademoiselle, with a pretty mixture of grace 
 and shyness, performing the same office for Bridget. 
 Then came luncheon, rather a constrained meal, for 
 Lady Agnes was not a woman to set children at 
 ease, and Sir Hector was out of spirits himself, 
 Bobert being unusually depressed and out of sorts. 
 
 After dinner, however, things brightened. Sophy 
 took her friends back to the schoolroom, as bright 
 and cheerful again as the eastern dining-room, the 
 southern sun streaming on its oaken-i)anelled walls, 
 and threatening to extinguish the fire, bitterly frosty 
 as the day really was. Sophy proposed they should 
 sit round the fire and play at proverbs and other 
 verbal games till the carriage came round which at 
 half-past two was to take Mary, Anna, Miss Camp- 
 bell, and her second pupil, Agnes, to Worcester to 
 see a travelling panorama of the Mississippi, which 
 happened then to be in the cathedral town ; and 
 the half-hour after the first stiff uneasy minutes 
 passed merrily away. 
 
 Punctually at the half-hour the three girls drove 
 off, all very happy, and two very proud of being so 
 deferentially handed into so grand an equipage by 
 the tall footmen ; and thus the two junior gover- 
 nesses were left to amuse one another, not a very
 
 ANTOINETTE. Ill 
 
 difficult matter, for Mademoiselle was very voluble 
 and sociable, and Bridget was quite young enough 
 to make friends easily. 
 
 They had not been alone very long, however, 
 before there was a slight knock, the door opened, 
 and Miss Merivale entered. She bowed slightly to 
 Bridget who, with fair, gentle-faced Mademoiselle, 
 rose at her appearance, and then said, in a bright, 
 easy tone, so pleasant an one that the little touch of 
 condescension could hardly mar its kindliness — 
 
 * Oh, Mademoiselle, don't let me disturb you. I 
 only came to beg that if Miss Storey would like to 
 see the house or the picture-gallery, you will take 
 her everywhere. And if you are not afi^aid of the 
 cold, Mr. Sanderson will be delighted if you will 
 walk round the winter-garden, he is so proud of 
 his autumn crocuses and leafless jessamines. I've 
 promised to go with Sophy myself to see his won- 
 ders, before going to the lake, so I must not stop. 
 Good-bye ; and she ran off. 
 
 Meanwhile Mr. Arnold himself had walked up 
 to the Hall to prepossess Sir Hector in favour of a 
 young man to be brought up on the morrow for 
 poaching, and after the business interview with his 
 squire in the study, was easily persuaded to spend 
 the rest of the afternoon with Sir Hector and the 
 boys, who, with Antoinette and Sophy, were found 
 in the library just starting for the lake. 
 
 * Oh, just off, are you 1 We'll come with you, 
 
 eh, Arnold ? not grown too old for skating, are you V 
 
 ' Rather, I'm afraid ; but I will come down and 
 
 look on, if you'll allow me a quiet corner to slide 
 
 on occasionally to restore animation.'
 
 113 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 * All, yes, you and Eobert can keep together then. 
 Have you rung for Alston to wheel you down, my 
 boy?' 
 
 * I'm not going.' 
 
 * Oh, do ; you said you would, and it's quite warm 
 in the sunshine; you have not been out since 
 Tuesday.' 
 
 ' Going out is no good to me.' 
 
 * A little, isn't it ? You needn't stay a minute 
 longer than you like ; I'll walk on with you to old 
 Brooks afterwards, he was inquiring after you the 
 other day.' 
 
 ' Old Brooks ! I don't see why I should be dragged 
 out to please a dirty old man.' 
 
 ' No, not if you would rather stay in,' said Sir 
 Hector, sadly. ' Well, then,' more brightly, ' I'll 
 stay in with you, and we'll fight our conqueror 
 game at chess ; we shall hardly do so to-night.' 
 
 * No, thank you, I don't want any one.' 
 
 * But I would rather be with you ; I will join 
 the skaters later.' 
 
 ' I don't see why I'm always to be watched, as 
 if I could not be trusted out of your sight a 
 minute.' 
 
 ' Very well then, my boy, I'll go ;' and so the 
 party took the poor invalid at his word and left 
 him. 
 
 ' Poor fellow !' said the father, as he and the 
 Vicar walked down to the lake together, his daughters 
 and the boys far away in front. Robert's fretful 
 iingraciousness never excited more than pity even 
 in Sir Hector, free as he was from all such failings 
 himself.
 
 ANTOINETTE. 1 13 
 
 * Has liis general healtli been worse lately V asked 
 tlie Vicar, who each time, and these were many, that 
 he had been up to the Hall since the Meri vales' 
 return, had been struck more and more by Robert's 
 increased unjust petulance, especially towards his 
 two kindest friends. Sir Hector and Sophy. 
 
 ' No ; at least so Brodie says. No, poor fellow, 
 it is that he is only now learning the full bitterness 
 of his lot, now that he is at an age when most boys 
 would be entering on the pleasures and dignity of 
 manhood. Don't smile, Arnold, there is a dignity 
 even about a boy of seventeen, that is, if lie has within 
 him the stuff to form a true man hereafter. Yes, 
 there are just thirteen years of ceaseless vexation, 
 mortification, and loss of all that makes life precious 
 and pleasant, before my poor boy ! I do hope that 
 perhaps by thirty he may have grown used to his 
 lot, and find there are some duties left. Infirm as 
 he is, he may look after the property and tenantry 
 as his father has never done before him.' 
 
 Mr. Arnold pressed his old pupil's arm tight, but 
 did not answer, although rejoicing to see that in 
 his serious moments Sir Hector was at last learning 
 to make duty and pleasure synonymous. 
 
 Mr. Arnold did not stay long by the skaters, just 
 long enough to admire and be amused by Netta's so 
 gracefully treating the ice as a well-known element, 
 to watch his own two boys' evolutions proudly, and 
 take two or three solitary slides himself; then, after 
 taking three or four brisk turns on the sunny gravel 
 walk, retraced his steps to the house. 
 
 Once here he knocked at the library door, and, 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 TI4 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 entering, found Robert at his old place, lying in the 
 bay window. 
 
 *Ah — I thought Alston might be reading to 
 you.' 
 
 ' No/ answered Robert, sullenly. 
 
 * You are not inclined for reading, then V 
 
 * No — I'm tired of the sight of books,' vehemently. 
 Mr. Arnold saw that everything that might be 
 
 proposed would still be distasteful, and so, as he gene- 
 rally did, seizing the present opportunity, he sat down 
 beside the boy's sofa, and said, 'Then I shall not 
 be disturbing you if I ask you to let me say a few 
 words to you V 
 
 Blunt to the point as ever, Mr. Arnold could 
 never approach a subject gradually, even to a fretful 
 invalid. But, though Robert's pale cheek flushed 
 crimson in a moment, perhaps like his father, he 
 would rather have a good scolding spoken out at 
 once than a rebuke coming on in such gentle ap- 
 proaches that he would have been aggravated beyond 
 endurance before the matter was fairly afloat. 
 
 ' Forgive me, I am too abrupt,' said the Yicar, 
 kindly, instantly distressed at having given pain to 
 one so helpless. 
 
 ' Never mind — go on. But I know it all, sir, 
 already.' 
 
 ' Do you 1 — scarcely, I think. How your melan- 
 choly — no, truth does no harm — your determination 
 not to be pleased, grieves and depresses your father ! 
 I never see him so sad as when you have been bent, 
 as this afternoon, on taking part in nothing.' 
 
 * If I must lie down all my life, mayn't I even 
 lie still Y asked Robert, despairingly.
 
 ANTOINETTE. II5 
 
 * No,' answered the Yicar, brightly ; ' life has 
 still its object even for one so tried as yourself.' 
 
 ' I can't see one, except ' the lad's eyes filled. 
 
 ' Can't you, my dear boy 1 One is so simple — to 
 take the kindnesses of those around as kindnesses, 
 not insults.' 
 
 ' No other boy of my age needs such kindnesses. 
 
 * Not many, I own. But think of the temjDta- 
 tions to which as such a son and heir as either of 
 your brothers might have been, you would now be 
 beginning to be exposed; the headstrongness, the 
 folly, the temptation to dissimulation to conceal 
 folly's consequences, all the flush and excitement of 
 first manhood.' 
 
 * Oh if I could be a man but one hour,' cried the 
 boy, passionately. 
 
 ' Robert, it is a noble thing to be a man, I don't 
 deny it ; to be a strong, fearless, brave-hearted man. 
 But it is still left for every one of us to be some- 
 thing better, grander still — I heartily mean it, a 
 good, earnest, pious Christian ; to be able to feel 
 
 O Lord, my God, do Thou Thy holy will, 
 I will lie stUl.' 
 
 * A woman may feel that, but a man — a boy as I 
 am — oh, sir, never !' 
 
 ' You will know better in time. Do you remem- 
 ber the saying — 
 
 My son's my son till he gets him a wife, 
 But my daughter's my daughter all my life. 
 
 And most parents feel the truth of it with their 
 
 sons deeply. But you — why long after every other 
 
 son and daughter has married or left them, will be 
 
 I 2
 
 Il6 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 still with them. Yes, face the truth,' as Koberfc 
 winced and turned unconsciously away, ' and think 
 what a blessing, a comfort, a brightness in the house 
 you in those dull, quiet days may be, something for 
 them still to love and care and plan for ; and as 
 years pass on, for them to let not only love and 
 care and plan for them, but lean and rest upon 
 themselves. If you are a cheerful, sunny-hearted, 
 middle-aged man yourself, think what a blessing 
 you will be to your father and mother, who will 
 then be going down the hill of life themselves. But 
 if a fretful, peevish, hardly-pleased one, still a source 
 (as you will have been for thirty years and more) of 
 endless anxiety and disappointment.' 
 
 ' Oh, Mr. Arnold, do you think I shall live thirty 
 years longer V 
 
 * As likely as any of your brothers ; but think 
 what a comfort you may have been in those thirty 
 years to all around you.' 
 
 ' Seven-and-forty !' repeated Robert with a sigh, 
 half of oppression, half of newly awakened interest; 
 ' growing an old man myself — ' 
 
 ^ With hosts of nephews and nieces expecting 
 Uncle Robert always to have a hand and purse 
 ready to help them.' 
 ' Horrid little bores !' 
 
 ' No, you wont think so then, at least / don't, 
 and I am just entering the age you pronounce to be 
 so near old manhood.' 
 
 * Are you 1 Mr. Arnold, do you wish to go on 
 living V 
 
 ' Yery much,' said the Yicar, earnestly and reve- 
 rently. ' I long to see my sons and daughters grown
 
 ANTOINETTE. ' II7 
 
 into men and women, my work here bearing a little 
 fruit — yes, and yourself content with your lot, and, 
 if it pleases God, the comfort and light of this old 
 Hall, when else it might have been childless — before 
 it pleases Him that 1 should die.' 
 
 Robert did not answer. Strange and perplexing 
 thoughts and contradictory wishes were working 
 with him. At last he broke out, 
 
 ' If I could only see any hope of a change !' 
 
 ' My lad, I think the contrary is a blessing. If 
 Sir Benjamin held out any hopes that in one or 
 two, or even five or ten years, your state would be 
 different, then the consequent uncertain endurance 
 might well keep you in constant worry and longing 
 impatience ; it might not seem worth while to con- 
 quer the low spirits and petulance assailing you but 
 for a season. But now that you know that exactly 
 the state in which you are now is that to which it has 
 pleased God to call you for life, then it is indeed a 
 matter of vital importance to conquer its tempta- 
 tions, to cherish its duties, and to do your best 
 therewith to be content.' 
 
 There were four or five minutes' silence, and then 
 Mr. Arnold rose to return home to finish his sermon 
 and fetch his wife, adding only, as he shook 
 hands, 
 
 ' My boy, forgive me if I have been too hard or 
 harsh. No one can know your trials but yourself, 
 and He who alone can help you to face them only 
 knows if, middle-aged man as I am myself, I could 
 bear your lot as well as you do yourself. But this 
 you know that you have promised to be His faithful 
 soldier and servant to your life's end j and faithful,
 
 Il8 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 submissive as a soldier should be even to an earthly 
 master you cannot call yourself now.' 
 
 Kobert looked up with a wild, troubled look, his 
 mouth quivering, as if indeed his lot were harder 
 than he could bear, but only answered, ' Thank 
 you ;' and then, with a little smile, ' I am sorry I 
 can't let you out myself; will you ring, please, and 
 tell Harris to send Alston in half an hour V 
 
 And so they parted ; but Mr. Arnold saw no 
 cause for despairing. He had not despaired of Sir 
 Hector for pretty nearly thirty years, why should 
 he any sooner despair of his son 1 
 
 r
 
 139 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE PORTRAIT GALLERY. 
 
 She took the cup of life to sip — 
 
 Too bitter 'twas to drain ; 
 She raised it meekly to her lip, 
 
 Then put it back again. 
 
 MEANWHILE, as Miss Merivale left the school- 
 room, Mademoiselle watched her till the door 
 was closed, and then, turning to her guest, said 
 eagerlj, ' Is she not lovely ?' 
 
 * Very,' answered Bridget, whose eyes had never 
 yet feasted on beauty of so refined and high-bred an 
 order. 
 
 ' Charmante, charmante ! Ah, I heard so much 
 of you English women before I came, but not one 
 word too much ; no beauty like yours, so high, so 
 fair, so grand. But you will like to take advantage 
 and see the house V 
 
 * So very much !' 
 
 * Ah, and 'tis so like Miss Merivale to think of 
 it ; she is so good to me and all ; she comes in here 
 and talks, sits there, puts her feet on the fender, 
 draws up her skirt, shows her pretty little slender 
 feet and silk stockings, and then tells me about all 
 her balls and drawing-rooms. Some are afraid of 
 her, but I, I just say what I think, and she always 
 takes it well. Ah, the funny, frank demoiselle T
 
 130 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 'What?' asked Bridget, seeing Mademoiselle much 
 amuHed at the recollection of some past event. 
 
 ' Ah, she was telling me all about her first ball 
 and all that, and I said, ^ Now, Miss Merivale, come 
 tell me, were you not the belle of them all?' and 
 she just opened her blue eyes and answered, 'As- 
 surement. Mademoiselle, et c'est ce que je serai 
 toujours.' Oh, how she made me laugh !' 
 
 ' Then she knows she is beautiful V asked Bridget, 
 a little disappointed. 
 
 ' Oh, yes, how can she help it ? but she just takes 
 it as a matter of course — sbe is admired and she 
 likes it. Ah, but let one come a little too near, 'ma 
 foi I her ladyship is all cold and hoity-toity in a 
 moment. Ah, I wouldn't be that poor person ! 
 But, now, will we go V and Mademoiselle rose and 
 began the survey of the house by taking Bridget 
 to the state dining and drawing-rooms. So much 
 carved oak, and so many feet of Turkey carpet in 
 the one, so many costly hangings and glittering 
 mirrors in the other, might well astonish the little 
 governess, and awaken her mind to some perception 
 of the vastness of the social gulf stretching between 
 the daughter of a London clerk and the daughter of 
 its owners. But all was too far above any need or 
 desire of hers to excite envy or more than awed 
 admiration. No ; a house at the top of Highgate 
 Hill, instead of its clayey foot, with a bright garden 
 before and behind, and plenty of fresh air around, 
 was still the climax of Bridget Storey's desires. 
 
 ' The every-day sitting-rooms — ah, yes, my lady 
 is out, but we will only just look in, she does not 
 like any one peeping, only Miss Antoinette does
 
 THE PORTRAIT GALLERY. 121 
 
 what she likes, — see, this is where we shall perhaps 
 be to-night — harp, piano — full of water-colours, my 
 lady's and Miss Netta's drawings — pretty, but we 
 had better come. And the dining-room, ah, that 
 we have seen — well, then, upstairs, the state bed- 
 rooms ;' and Mademoiselle led the way. 
 
 ' This is the room where your King Charles the 
 First slept. Ah, I do think so many English rooms 
 say he slept in them, the poor man can never once 
 have slept at home. See, here is his potrait, and 
 here his children ; is not your ' merry monarch' a 
 grave, nice-looking little boy there 1 And see the 
 hangings, how tattered ! I think it is the velvet's 
 own weight drags it off the silk. Ah, and here is 
 another curiosity, a fan your Queen Elizabeth left 
 behind her when she had nearly ruined Sir Robert 
 Merivale, so Sir Hector says, with lodging with 
 him, with all her people, just two days.' 
 
 So Mademoiselle went on, Bridget taking in as 
 much as she could, till they reached the picture- 
 gallery. 
 
 ' Ah, you should have her old ladyship here, she 
 knows it all. Yoyons — yes, that is the very Sir 
 Robert, look at his pointed beard and ruff; and 
 there his wife, poor lady ! with long pointed waist, 
 just like an extinguisher topsy-turvy, you call it 1 
 Ah, but this is my favourite. Sir Hector. Yes, 
 James the First had made him a baronet — cost him 
 looo?. I think I heard my Sir Hector say. Look 
 at his buff coat and love-lock, and his nice, good- 
 looking face. Well, he fell at Worcester, and his 
 lady and two little sons had to run to Flanders, and 
 there I do fear they became very bad men^ for it
 
 12% AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 was then — no, when they came back and got the es- 
 tate back and went to court — that Sir Hector always 
 says it would have been all up with the Merivales 
 if they hadn't both died of small-pox the second year 
 of the restoration, and left but one child between 
 them. Sir Kobert, his great- great-grandfather, who, 
 when he came of age, being still but poor, married 
 the only daughter of a great pinmaker, and became 
 monstrous rich. Oh, how Sir Hector teases my lady, 
 about that match, and will call every pinmaker his 
 cousin, and says they ought to put on their pa^Ders 
 ' Pin-and-Merivale-makers.' ' 
 
 'But is there no likeness of him, this Sir 
 Eobert V 
 
 « 'Ah, yes, there, with my lady the pinmaker, 
 Sophia Bisset was her name, and my lady always 
 says she was of as good family as the Merivales, but 
 must have fallen during the Civil Wars, only had 
 no one to pick her up again. Yes, there they are, 
 nice, quiet looking, home folks — see, the date is 
 17 TO, so they were getting old, but I like them. 
 They look so happy, she in her great Mechlin head, 
 he in his flowing wig ; and Sir Hector says they 
 must have been very prudent, clever people, for 
 they had sixteen children and matched them all 
 far better than he can ever hope to do his ten.' 
 
 Bridget laughed. 
 
 ' Ah, you would laugh if you could hear him. I 
 did, last Christmas, when my Lady Agnes' sister, 
 the Countess, and her son the young Earl were here. 
 Ah, I do sometimes think' — and Mademoiselle's 
 shrug of the shoulders and merry glance expressed 
 all she left unsaid. ' But you will like to see Sir
 
 THE PORTRAIT GALLERY. 1 23 
 
 Hector himself there, taken sitting by the sea-shore ; 
 he dislikes it so much he offers a reward of ten 
 pounds to whoever will burn or steal it. Why I is 
 that four ? we must hurry ; Lady Agnes, and Miss 
 Annie will be in at the quarter, but you must see 
 Miss Merivale herself,' and she led Bridget on past 
 many pictures, over which she would have liked to 
 linger, to show her that of a girl in every-day out- 
 of-door attire. 'Yes, look on — look at her dear 
 little hands in the warm great gloves, her proud, 
 simple, insouciante pose ; ah, Sir Hector only boasts 
 of one thing — no one walks or moves like a Meri- 
 vale, and that is just it. But you must not stay 
 too long, for here she is again. What ! don't you 
 know her?' 
 
 Not at the first glance. The black-hatted, red- 
 petticoated, grey-cloaked maiden, was very like the 
 picturesque figure that had that afternoon visited 
 Mademoiselle's schoolroom ; but Bridget had not 
 yet seen Miss Merivale in silk and lace, and now 
 the full-length figure standing in a white flowing 
 transparent dress, her arms bare, her slender hands 
 simply laid one upon the other, a pink rose hang- 
 ing from one the only positive colour in her dress, 
 for a moment perplexed her. 
 
 'Ah, that is only just put up. So proud my lady 
 is of it, but I think Sir Hector still likes the other 
 the best. He likes a daughter of his, he says, in 
 clothes that rain wont hurt ; but, oh ! her throat 
 and arms are so fair, so sweet, I think it a shame 
 they should be all muffled up there, if that was her 
 only portrait. And now we must be going. Ah ! 
 but you will like to see your Mrs. Arnold's sister.'
 
 124 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 ' Is that Mrs. Arnold's sister ? Had slie one ?' 
 ' Yes, this one, see, died 1832 ; she was just eigh- 
 teen. Such a pretty girl old Lady Merivale says 
 she was, and so one sees, though that short- waisted 
 white dress is so trying and unbecoming, — so tall, 
 so straight, so slim.' 
 
 ' And did Lady Merivale bring her up V 
 ' Yes, for three, no, four years, the young ladies 
 were both brought up with Sir Hector's sister. In 
 India she is now. Their father, Captain Merivale, 
 died very young, and his wife, too, and old Sir John 
 was their guardian. Lady Merivale never talks of 
 them much, and I notice Sir Hector passes this by 
 without notice, or any jest or joke, and sometimes 
 I think there is something sad and mysterious 
 about it ; I think Sir Hector would have married 
 her, poor thing, if she had not died so young. See, 
 he would be himself only just twenty then, too 
 young for your Englishmen to marry, n'est-ce pas V 
 Mademoiselle's sunny face and open grey eyes 
 were serious and sad, and so were Bridget's too. 
 There was in the expression of the young features 
 before her something so touching, so sweet ; some- 
 thing so appealing, as if, young as she had died, life 
 were too dear to part with, — as if Mademoiselle's 
 story might well be true. 
 
 And so it was, but there was a deeper sorrow be- 
 hind it, one into which no casual observer could 
 pry. Emily Merivale had died not appealing against 
 the decree that so young she must die, but against 
 the decree which had broken and crushed the young 
 life within her, — Sir John's obstinate refusal to 
 allow his young heir to wed his ward. Not only
 
 THE PORTRAIT GALLERY. 1 25 
 
 because she was penniless, but because, though he 
 forbore to tell the young girl this, consumption had 
 already made such ravages in both their families 
 that he dreaded intermarriages. 
 
 And when but one year later Emily Merivale, 
 though watched and guarded with every care that 
 wealth and affection could supply, died at Marseilles, 
 the kind hearted old man might well feel he had 
 been more than justified in a refusal which had 
 cost him so dearly ; but not so his son. And the 
 last pang of Sir John Merivale's life had been, that 
 his son still thought his hard-heartedness alone had 
 caused his cousin's death. 
 
 And yet in two years Sir Hector married as 
 great a contrast as he could find, a woman two 
 years older than himself. And here lay the great 
 bitterness of his life ; had he thus escaped the evils 
 his father had predicted for himself and children, if 
 he married his first love 1 No ! he looked at poor 
 Kobert, and his heart rebelled as much as ever 
 against the cold prudence which had, as he consi- 
 dered, marred the whole happiness of his life. 
 
 * Ah ! that is the hall-door !' as in fact the door 
 closed behind the Vicar ; ' can it be my lady 1 Ah, 
 no, your pastor ; but I think, please, we had better 
 be going downstairs.' 
 
 Bridget delayed one minute, now first catching 
 sight of the party on the lake and watching Sir 
 Hector, who had given up skating, run across the 
 park, catch up Mr. Arnold, and putting his arm 
 through the Vicar's, walk on briskly with 
 him. 
 
 'Arnold, do you know I am going to consult
 
 126 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 you V began tlie Squire. ' I am beginning to awaken 
 to the fact that my boys are growing up around me ; 
 it makes me quite aged to be thinking of their 
 future. But I have been, and the result is Hector 
 is for the army, and Harry has no wish to change 
 his present easy mode of life, but I think he'll do 
 for the navy, eh V 
 
 ' If he has a taste that way.' 
 * Why, he's a taste no way, I believe, but for a gun 
 or a pair of skates, just now at least. But he has 
 plenty of fun and love of adventure in him, and has 
 no taste for learning, certainly; so really school and 
 college would be but thrown away on him. And 
 I'm not going to put any son of mine in orders for 
 Elton Merivale itself, I can tell you.' 
 < I am very glad to hear it.' 
 
 'Yes* well then, the next, George, you know ; 
 why, Agnes tells me he's eleven, and ought to be at 
 school ; and so he ought. You know Mr, Wyatt 
 has left us, got a government clerkship, and I find 
 three loose sons rather more than I can manage with 
 temper. Eton or Harrow, which do you say for 
 
 him V 
 
 ' Oh, of course, all my prejudices are in favour of 
 
 Harrow.' 
 
 ' So are mine ; but I believe Agnes will never let 
 me rest till I decide for Eton. All her brothers 
 are Etonians, you see, and she thinks it more aris- 
 tocratic. Tor my part, I'm rather like the Ameri- 
 can ambassador, Eufus King, who sent his sons to 
 Harrow, jnst because it's the only school where no 
 distinction is shown to rank.'
 
 THE POETRAIT GALLERY. 1 27 
 
 •Well, you are surrouDcled by relations formerly 
 at one or the other, and are therefore the best 
 judge.' 
 
 ' And I say Harrow ; but for all that I'm a very 
 hen-pecked man in secret ; so if it's Eton after all, 
 don't betray me.' 
 
 ' Oh, no !' 
 
 ' It will be a horrible break up.* 
 
 ' Yes ; but I'm very glad. Much better they 
 should be away from home and have an object in 
 life.' 
 
 ' Yes, it is time they were away. But — I don't 
 like turning Dicksy, Pecksy, and Flapsy out of the 
 nest, I can tell you.' 
 
 ' Boys get spoilt at home !' 
 
 ' Ah, but a public school is such a world of ini- 
 quity ;' and Sir Hector sighed. 
 
 ' Yet most wonderfully improved since you and I 
 were afc one. Besides, does private tuition ever 
 answer? Do boys brought up at home turn out a 
 bit better, even on an average equally good and 
 useful men, with those who have gone through the 
 ordeal of public school life V 
 
 ' If you are thinking of myself, modesty compels 
 me to answer, no !' answered Sir Hector, demurely. 
 
 ' No ; at the moment I forgot,' said the Vicar, 
 heartily j * but I am not sure that I do not include 
 you as one of the proofs that home education wants 
 at least the emulation, the inspiriting spur, and 
 competition of a public school.' 
 
 * Forgive me, there ; I didn't choose my own 
 method of instruction, nor even my tutor ; perhaps
 
 128 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 if my father had been hapj^ier in his selection, I 
 might have been a very different man/ with dry 
 solemnity. 
 
 ' Perhaps so,' answered Mr. Arnold, more gravely 
 than Sir Hector liked. 
 
 * I know better,' he cried warmly ; ' you did all 
 for me man could do ; I may have faults in plenty, I 
 don't deny it, but without you, Heaven only knows 
 what folly and sin would by this time have lain at 
 my door. You think me very thoughtless, but 
 surely I am far-seeing enough here about my sons. 
 Indeed Hector's going to some preparatory school 
 for the army after Christmas is quite settled, the 
 school itself all but, — and Harry must be going to 
 Portsmouth and learn to rough it before much 
 longer. Poor fellows ! I hate it, but I hope it's 
 for their good. I tell you what it is, Arnold, I 
 think they are growing tall and strong enough to 
 be a great trial to poor Pobert.' 
 
 Tears almost started to the Yicar's eyes, so 
 touched was he by this sacrifice of all Sir Hector's 
 cherished prejudices and pleasures for the sake of 
 his invalid son. 
 
 ' But never let him have an idea of it,' added the 
 Squire eagerly, 'only — I tell you everything, Arnold, 
 and do you know once or twice it has struck me that 
 the sight of them so full of spirit and strength has 
 been more than the poor fellow could bear — that 
 he was growing jealous of them ; an ugly word, but 
 who can wonder at it 1 We have never had any 
 family quarrels, I can't bear them, and to save my 
 children from the shadow of them, I'd sacrifice any- 
 thing else ; send both the boys off to India after
 
 THE PORTRAIT GALLERY. 1 29 
 
 poor Mary, rather than risk any soreness and 
 jealousy amongst them all here.' 
 
 They had reached the park-gate. ' Well, I wont 
 come any further ; you'll be punctual to six, Arnold? 
 I'm glad y oil re for Harrow ; if I have any voice in the 
 education of my own sons, Harrow it shall be ; if 
 not, you'll keep my secret, and not expose my 
 humiliation to the world. Good-bye.' 
 
 r 
 
 VOL. r.
 
 130 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 ' OUR MARGARET.' 
 
 He that hath a wife and children, hath given hostages to 
 fortune, for they are impediments to great enterprises. — • 
 Bacon. 
 
 SIR HECTOR strode briskly back to tlie Hall ; the 
 Vicar walked rather slowly to the Yicarage, and 
 when he entered, went to his study, and sat thought- 
 fully, a little despairingly over the low embers, instead 
 of finishing his sermon as he had said he should do, 
 and had meant to do, when parting with Robert. 
 What were his meditations ? Such as these, reader ; 
 and how many they beset ! 
 
 ' How easily Sir Hector talks of setting first one 
 boy, then another afloat, no matter where, no matter 
 at what cost ! And 1 1 what can I do for my poor 
 boys ? Oh, if Frank could but go to a public school, 
 all might be well with him yet. He has abilities, 
 plenty of good sense — with competition to rouse 
 him, school-fellows to knock him into sociability, 
 plenty of out-of-door games to enliven him, and a 
 home that it was a treat to come back to twice a 
 year, he might grow up a happy man yet. And I 
 am compelled to keep him at home and see his 
 talents unused, his temper souring — making my- 
 self hateful to my own son ! ' Here the Yicar 
 almost groaned.
 
 'OUR MARGARET. I31 
 
 * Ought I to sacrifice everything to save him 1 
 Poor Mary and all ? Give up Miss Storey and the 
 pony carriage, and pinch ourselves still tighter 1 
 I always have doubted about Miss Storey — and yet 
 with Mary so eager to learn, poor thing ! and the 
 younger ones in spite of all her care running to 
 waste ; I don't see how it could have been right not 
 to have her. And the carriage, who would buy it, 
 or poor Daisy 1 What would Anna do without 
 them 1 And then Johnnie, oh ! if he could but 
 have scope anywhere, any opportunity, how he 
 would fight his way up. There's Harry Merivale 
 doesn't know what to choose ; whilst my boy has 
 been longing for the army these two years — army ! 
 might as well long for the moon ! ' And in his 
 vehemence the Yicar upset the fire-irons. 
 
 This roused him : he rose, put the dying coals 
 together, fanned them into a flame, lighted his 
 candle, and then stood a minute in thought, his 
 arms tight-folded across him, heaved a deep, heavy 
 sigh, stood a few minutes longer battling hard with 
 himself, and then, not standing, prayed, 
 
 ' Oh God, help me. Give me strength to resist 
 jealousy and envy, to battle on cheerfully, to be 
 content, as it is Thy will, to see my family growing 
 up very differently from what I could have wished 
 — for Jesus Christ's sake. Amen.' 
 
 He rose, sighed again, then took up his candle, 
 and going resolutely to the cupboard by the man- 
 telpiece, took out a box of old sermons,' and be- 
 gan looking them through rapidly for the one he 
 wanted. 
 
 ' I am quite sure I have that quotation some- 
 K 2
 
 13 2 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 where, in one of these old boxes. I remember 
 writing it out in full on the flyleaf for the chance of 
 my ever wishing to quote it all. I might finish my 
 sermon without it, to be sure — just state its sense ; 
 but a man's own words are far more telling;' and 
 he continued his search. 
 
 ' Poetry ! this must be it ! Why, no — what is 
 it 1 oh, ' Our Margaret,' — dear me, dear me, to think 
 Frank Arnold was ever young enough to write a 
 tale ! to think that what I was once so proud of, 
 should have been smuggled in here and have lain 
 hidden so many years. Poor old thing ! how fusty 
 and old-fashioned it looks. Ah ! that motto ; poor 
 Emily hunted it out for me at the Hall, little guess- 
 ing it was meant to head a tale. I was far too shy 
 both of her and Anna then to give the slightest 
 suspicion. Let me see ; the opening scene, I really 
 think, was rather good.' 
 
 He turned the flyleaf over and read. After 
 twenty years the tale read as another's, and so he 
 smiled and said, ' That's well put,' forgetting it was 
 his own ; then laughed at this self-approbation, and 
 read on. Old scenes, old days, very pleasant days, 
 revived within him as he read. A remark of poor 
 Emily Merivale's had suggested that conversation ; 
 this description of the heroine was no other than 
 his then conception of his present wife. How lovely, 
 how unapproachable she had seemed then ! How 
 faded, how inexpressibly dear she was now ! 
 
 ' I wonder where she is,' said the Vicar, pausing. 
 * I will read it to her, and see how it strikes a fresh 
 ear. No one will publish my sermons — one hope 
 gone ; but this seems to me full at least of life
 
 OUR MARGARET/ 
 
 ^33 
 
 and freslmess, veiy different from anything I could 
 do now.' 
 
 Candle in hand he walked across to the dining- 
 room, in his eagerness opening the door rather 
 roughly, and arousing Mrs. Arnold, who was half 
 asleep on the sofa. 
 
 ' You, Frank ! Oh, it's not time to dress.' 
 
 ' No, only half -past four. Did I wake you V 
 
 ' No, never mind. So you have left them all . I 
 thought I heard you come in a quarter of an hour 
 ago, but was too lazy to come and see ; but I am 
 glad it must have been only one of the children.' 
 
 ' Ah, it was I, I dare say ; but I went straight 
 to the study, for I wanted to finish my sermon, and 
 — was rather cross.' 
 
 ' Have you done it 1 Can't you bring it here ? 
 Ah, perhaps, that is it.' 
 
 ' Why, no,' answered the Yicar, a little faltering 
 in his purpose, now brought face to face with it, 
 and even finding his cheeks still young enough to 
 colour at the prospect of the first public reading of 
 his work — ' No, not a sermon, but a story. Do 
 you know, twenty years ago, Annie, I was rather 
 given to writing tales, but really had forgotten all 
 about them till this evening : in looking for an old 
 sermon, I stumbled on this.' 
 
 ' A tale ! You write stories ! When V cried Mrs. 
 Arnold, full of eager interest. 
 
 'When I was the demure tutor at the Hall. Before 
 Lady Merivale took to having me in the drawing- 
 room every evening, when I found solitary evenings 
 very dull ; in short, had nothing better to do. 
 Could you stand one V
 
 134 AGGESDEN VICAEAGE. 
 
 * Stand it? Oh, Frank, like it so very much. 
 Why did you never tell me before 1 Where are the 
 others 1 Only we must have more light ; and she 
 sprang up, lighted another candle, and placed it on a 
 little table beside her husband. 
 
 'And you must lie down again ; and let me sit 
 so. Is the light out of your eyes V 
 
 * Yes ; but I want to see you.' 
 
 ' Yery well. If I am ashamed of it, you must 
 remember it was written before I had a wife or 
 child, was scarcely even on the verge of love, and 
 so knew next to nothing of real life ;' nevertheless, 
 middle-aged man as he was, the Yicar hemmed a 
 little before beginning, and at the first touch of 
 sentiment, felt the blood tingle in his cheeks, and 
 glanced up to see if his wife were not laughing, 
 and he had not better lay the trash aside. 
 
 No, she was not laughing, nor asleep, only gazing 
 at him with those sweet blue eyes, which to the 
 Yicar had but grown lovelier with age. 
 
 And so he went on, and once more forgot as it 
 were the tale were his. It was a record of fancies 
 and feelings and aspirations so long ago discarded, 
 sobered down, or unravelled one way or another, as 
 to seem like records of another being. And so his 
 voice became steady and earnest, and did full justice 
 to the fresh, strong simplicity of ' Our Margaret.' 
 
 The plot was very slight, but on it woven touches 
 of natural feelings — simple, quiet, home love, that 
 made the wife's eyes glisten. Glimpses of a keen- 
 ness of thought and intellect far beyond her still, 
 though now she remembered thinking that when she 
 married Frank Arnold all such themes would soon
 
 'OUR MARGARET.' 1 35 
 
 "become familiar and comprehensible. But no ; the 
 hard battle of life had driven all such questions tar, 
 far away; and now they rose again as shadowy, bodi- 
 less phantoms, yet as ghosts of very, very happy 
 days. 
 
 The whole tale did not take more than half-an- 
 hour to read, a happy chance, for both forgot all 
 about time as it went on. 
 
 'Well!' answered Mr. Arnold at last, after two 
 whole minutes' silence. 
 
 * Oh, Frank, what can I say 1 — no one but you 
 could have written it.' 
 
 ' Annie !' 
 
 ' I mean it ; it is so pretty — seems so true. I 
 do not like to criticise it — to remember it is only 
 a story.' 
 
 ' Ah, but do treat it as if you did not know the 
 author, as you did poor ' Cecily' the other day.' 
 
 ' Don't, Frank !' 
 
 ' Well, make some remark, something to help me 
 to improve it.' 
 
 * Frank, I would not have it touched, it is all 
 so simple and straightforward and vraisemhlant ; 
 alter but one sentence, and you would make it 
 patchy. One's whole being seems changed in these 
 twenty years. Oh, how I wish dear Emily could 
 have heard it. She would have criticised it ; she 
 would have known what to say.' 
 
 Emily always reminded Mr. Arnold of Sir Hector ; 
 and now the remembrance of Sir Hector happily 
 aroused him to present life, and with it the con- 
 sciousness that they were to dine at six at the Hall. 
 
 ' My dear Anna, we are to be at the Merivales' at
 
 135 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 six, and I declare it's twenty minutes past five and 
 more now.' 
 
 Up Mrs. Arnold sprang and rang the bell for Mari- 
 anne j deploring Mary's absence, scarcely knowing 
 where to lay her hand on a single article of evening 
 dress, and knowing how long Marianne w^ould be 
 in finding those to which her mistress, whilst dress- 
 ing her hair, could direct her. 
 
 But when she hurried into her cold, chilly room, 
 its blind still up and window open, showing as far 
 as twilight could show the bitter cold without, on 
 her sofa she saw her dress, and upon it gloves, scarf, 
 bracelets, shoes — all she needed. She could not 
 help calling in ' Frank,' to say, with glistening eyes, 
 
 * You must just see, ' our Mary's' forethought.' 
 Mr. Arnold came, saw, admired, and went away, 
 
 determined that Mary should not be sacrificed to 
 
 Frank — that Miss Storey should be kept at all 
 
 hazards. 
 
 Both dressed as rapidly as possible, and Mrs. 
 
 Arnold was only just so long after her husband in 
 
 the hall as to hear him say, — 
 
 ' What, the pony-carriage not round yet V 
 Mrs. Arnold's cheek really grew pale. 
 
 * Oh, Frank !' she said, ' what will you say ? I 
 quite forgot to order it.' 
 
 'My dear! when I told you the last thing! 
 when Lady Agnes is so particular ! when they have 
 altered their dinner-hour on purpose to suit us ! 
 
 Really, I did think ' continued the Yicar, 
 
 more angrily than he once in a year spoke to his 
 wife. 
 
 'Frank, I am so sorry; do walk on. Say I have
 
 'OUR MARGARET. 137 
 
 a cold — "headache— can't come. No, tell tlie truth ; 
 say, knowing how I should delay you, I persuaded 
 you to walk on alone. Lady Agnes will not find it 
 very hard to forgive my absence.' 
 
 ' Nonsense, my dear ; you accepted the invitation, 
 and go you must somehow. Well, if you want a 
 thing done, do it yourself.' 
 
 Mrs. Arnold was quite roused, and instead of 
 sitting down and waiting patiently by the fire, as 
 she would have done if herself only had been con- 
 cerned, hurried towards the kitchen to send some 
 one to hasten Thomas. 
 
 * Never mind, love ; don't go into the cold,' cried 
 Mr. Arnold after her ; ' Thomas will be sure to 
 be as quick as he can ; come and warm yourself 
 by the fire before we start. Why, here he is, I de- 
 clare ; really that man is worth his w^eight in 
 gold !' 
 
 The wheels came nearer, Mr. Arnold opened the 
 door, not to his own shabby pony-carriage and 
 Thomas, but to a close carriage and pair and two 
 servants, one of whom sprang down, touched his hat 
 respectfully, and said his master had sent the 
 carriage for Mrs. Arnold. 
 
 The Yicar found his wife, handed her in, the door 
 was shut, and ofi" they drove, at rather a difierent 
 pace to poor Daisy's. 
 
 " Well, Sir Hector never did us so good a turn !' 
 he cried, so relieved as to be almost exultant. 
 
 * No ; it's very comfortable,' answered his wife, 
 leaning back comfortably and composedly. 
 
 The clock was striking six as they were ushered 
 into a blaze of lisfht in the lesser drawing-room.
 
 138 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 There is no need to say how hearty were Sir 
 Hector's greetings, how cliarming Miss Merivale 
 looked in her pale blue silk, how Hector and Harry 
 at once claimed the Vicar as their friend, nor how 
 good and well ordered a dinner awaited them in 
 the dining-room. And the Vicar, though he never 
 grumbled at the chilled gravy and cold vegetables 
 at home, enjoyed the contrary as much as any other 
 man would have done. 
 
 The four boys, who had taken to a second dinner 
 very kindly, soon followed the ladies, leaving the 
 Squire and the Vicar sitting on either side of the 
 fire perfectly happy. Really the smaller drawing- 
 room seemed quite full when they returned to it for 
 tea, with the three governesses, their eight pupils, 
 the four boys, and Robert, to whom Johnnie, on the 
 floor beside him, was talking eagerly. 
 
 A merry evening followed ; a game of magic 
 music, at Emma Merivale's request, which the boys 
 had tried to pooh-pooh down, but which Sir Hector 
 made as amusing as an evening at Astley's; another 
 at Pope Joan, by which he did the same, somehow 
 contriving at the end that every boy and girl found 
 him or herself enriched by two shillings. 
 
 * What, no one lostf asked little timid Emma, 
 opening her brown eyes. To her neat mind the 
 money had been flying about in reckless and appal- 
 ling confusion. 
 
 •' Papa, of course,' answered George, old enough to 
 be acute, not quite old enough not to be proud of 
 showing that he was so. 
 
 'Ill deny it 1' cried Sir Hector, shaking a purse 
 so laden with shillings and sixpences it was indeed
 
 'OUR MARGARET. 139 
 
 hard to believe that one of either of such coins had 
 been abstracted. ' Now, Netta, let us get the table 
 out of the way and have a dance.' 
 
 * My dear Hector/ began Lady Agnes. 
 
 'You think the boys could do it better than 
 Netta. Well, yes, that's right, put your shoulder to 
 the wheel, boys ; now, Netta, give us a tune.' 
 
 ' Miss Campbell will play what you wish, I dare 
 say,' said Lady Agnes, slightly inclining towards 
 that lady. 
 
 'And Netta also, I've no doubt;' and it was 
 Miss Merivale who opened the piano and sat down, 
 j una ping up, however, in a minute or two to 
 arrange the little couples. 
 
 Sir Hector surprised and abashed IMary by com- 
 ing up and offering her his arm, with a request 
 for her hand. But Sir Hector's par^?^er was never 
 the conspicuous person, and all danced with as 
 much spirit as Antoinette played. 
 
 Then followed a polka, which Sir Hector and his 
 daughter started, and made such a pretty sight that 
 even the little ones behind were scarcely noticed 3 
 and when Miss Campbell turned the polka into a 
 waltz, the celerity with which the father and 
 daughter darted round and round the room de- 
 lighted some country eyes and greatly enlightened 
 others. 
 
 ' You call that a waltz, now T asked the Yicar, as 
 they ceased. 
 
 ' Yes : more fun, but none of the grace of the old 
 one, two, three, I allow. Miss Campbell, if you 
 are not tired, will you just play us one of the old 
 Elizabethan ?'
 
 [40 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 Miss Campbell complied, and no one could do less 
 than allow what an incomparably more elegant 
 dance it was. 
 
 ' Ah, Netta ! if I were you,' said Mr. Arnold, 
 admiringly, ' I'd never dance the other. One is a 
 dance, the other a race, very wonderful, but not 
 very well suited for public exhibition.' 
 
 ' jSf o ?' asked Netta, opening her blue eyes ; 
 sorry to differ from Mr. Arnold, but most decidedly 
 doing so ; ' oh ! I expect our grand- daughters will 
 beat our valse a deux temps as completely as we do 
 our grandmothers' old slow minuets.' 
 
 Somehow, the evening had already sped away. 
 It struck ten as Netta was speaking, and the Vicar, 
 with a smile, left the discussion, collected and 
 carried off his large party as quickly as he could, 
 and went home very happy, and much pleased that 
 Robert, instead of keeping in the Library by him- 
 self, or in a corner with Sophy by his side, had 
 stayed in the full brunt of the merriment, and 
 laughed as heartily as any one at his father's absurd 
 antics and performances. 
 
 r
 
 T4I 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 HOPES. 
 
 I must be cruel only to be kind. 
 
 There is nothing like love ; 
 
 And when the heart doth ache, 
 And is nigh to break, 
 Nothing like love ! 
 
 In our most sad distress. 
 
 What like the tenderness 
 
 Of a little hand that glides 
 
 Into ours ? — though nought besides, 
 
 Not e'en a word. 
 
 Words are all vain ; 
 
 Words too often give 
 
 Pain, only pain ; — 
 But the pressure of a hand 
 What mourning spirit can withstand ? — 
 
 H. M. Rathbonf. 
 
 MK. ARNOLD lay down to rest that night with 
 a busy brain. Could it be that a new source of 
 income was being opened to him, just when so much 
 needed ? That he might be exempt yet from the 
 hardships of an English clergyman's lot ; that, let 
 the numbers of his family increase, their needs and 
 wants double, or their health fail and luxuries 
 become necessities, nothing that he can do can 
 increase his income ; if he work from dawn to 
 night, if he put every power of intellect in motion, 
 he cannot augment his annual income one penny.
 
 14^ AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 The clergyman alone cannot marry on tlie hope 
 of working his way up in his profession, and thus 
 being enabled to meet fresh calls as they arise ; or, 
 if he do so, how bitterly is he taught his error ! 
 
 But now the Yicar began to hope a way might be 
 opening to him, and truly it was time that it should 
 do so ; he had dreaded for years to think of the 
 scanty provision which his wife and children would 
 inherit whenever his own life ended, and yet the 
 increasing wants of his family were already making 
 the payment of this very insurance a sore struggle. 
 And his sons, how could they get on and help their 
 mother and sisters, with no advantages of education, 
 with no likelihood of a fair opening being offered to 
 any one of them ? 
 
 Long ago, Mr. Arnold had met all these miserable 
 anxieties, faced them through, and decided that, 
 helpless as he was against them, dwelling upon them 
 would but make him sour and sad, and that, there- 
 fore, he would never dwell on them, but be content 
 in making the children's home as happy as he could 
 to all whilst it lasted, and in trying to do his duty 
 not a whit the less faithfully because he had no 
 earthly goal of reward set before him. Such had 
 been his principle for years, but to-night he thought 
 his troubles through again with some latent pleasure, 
 for might not he now at last be about to conquer 
 some of those evils which had so long conquered 
 him ? 
 
 * No doubt Annie is prejudiced,' he thought ; 
 ' but I do think, as she says, there is a certain origi- 
 nality about the tale, and my poor mother, the only 
 other woman who ever heard it, clever and sar-
 
 HOPES. 143 
 
 castic as she could be, said the same. I don't like 
 it all — too much meditation, too little action — but, 
 dear me, surely it must have more sense in it than 
 that trash I was reading the other night. I will 
 — yes, I will make the venture, and send it to 
 Blackwood. A high shot, but, as has been said in 
 a more serious matter, he who aims at the sun, 
 though he does not reach it, will hit a higher mark 
 than he who aims at a tree.' 
 
 The Yicar was up early the next morning, carried 
 his candle into the study when the passages were 
 still chilly and dark, took out his tale and a quire 
 of sermon paper, and began a fair copy of ' Our 
 Margaret.' He wrote vigorously for about ten 
 minutes, then his fingers grew very cold, his eyes 
 very weary of the endless looking up and down, but 
 he persevered till half-past eight (now the nominal 
 breakfast hour), hid his manuscript out of sight, 
 turned out into the drive, and walked up and down 
 it rejoicing that half his task was over, doubting 
 whether, if it had been otherwise, he should have 
 had courage to face more than one other morning 
 of such uninteresting monotony. 
 
 The next morning, either he was up a little 
 earlier or worked a little harder, for by half-past 
 eight ' Our ISIargaret' was not only finished, but 
 rolled up, sealed, and directed, and the short note to 
 the editor written, before Mary came to say they 
 were ready for prayers. 
 
 Mr. Arnold walked in to Massing by himself that 
 afternoon, posted his MS. and letter, and walked 
 home so blithe and light-hearted, feeling so young 
 with the daring and secrecy of his venture, that he
 
 144 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 found himself whistling as he entered his own 
 village. 
 
 With a light heart, a heart made light by hope, 
 he entered his own house, and it was well he carried 
 some brightness within him. The dining-room door 
 was open, and the first sound that reached him was 
 some complaint, quite loud and angry, from his 
 wife, and a fierce ' I tell you I didn't, mother,' from 
 Frank ; and when Mr. Arnold entered the room, he 
 found his wife vexed and flushed, holding sobbing 
 Amabel on her lap, and Frank standing up against 
 the wall, hot, fierce, and resolute enough to defy the 
 Inquisition itself 
 
 * Oh, Frank, I am glad indeed you are come 
 in!' began Mrs. Arnold, indignantly; 'Frank has 
 knocked Amabel against the table only because 
 she came near him ; and look at her poor little 
 
 arm 
 
 It was a piteous sight, at least to so fond a father. 
 The little elbow bruised and bleeding, and the sweet, 
 scared little face above, beholding her injuries so 
 sadly and ruefully. 
 
 Frank felt how everything was against him — the 
 darling of every one the injured party, his mother 
 answered impertinently, himself, the general scape- 
 grace, the aggressor — and just to defy it all an- 
 swered again, ' I tell you, mother, I did not do it on 
 purpose.' 
 
 He fully expected a sharp blow and to be imme- 
 diately sent out of the room ; but, instead of his 
 usual summary treatment, Mr. Arnold turned round 
 and said, gravely but far from unkindly, * Frank, if 
 you cannot let me hear what your mother has to
 
 HOPES. 145 
 
 say without inteiTupting her in such an unbecomicg 
 manner, you had better go across to the study.' 
 
 Frank stood astonished one minute, then followed 
 his father's advice. 
 
 * And now we must bind up this dear little arm 
 before we hear mamma even, mustn't we V said the 
 Yicar, kneeling down by his wife and child and 
 examining the injuries. ' Shall I hold you while 
 mamma fetches some warm water and rag, my pre- 
 cious child V 
 
 ' No, zoo get them, papa;' and papa did, and then 
 it was, ' zoo bathe it, papa, zoo put it on ;' and 
 when the bandage was on and the injury so fright- 
 ening to a child safe out of sight, the other whole 
 little arm was put tight round the Yicar's neck, 
 a soft, still wet cheek, close to his, and his little 
 daughter said, caressingly, • zoo dear doctor !' 
 
 Did Mr. Arnold repent, then, that he was the 
 father of eight children 1 Oh, no. 
 
 * I did not hurt my sweet much T 
 
 'I knew zoo could not help it,' answered 
 Amabel, simply. 
 
 'There, now lie back in mamma's arms, like her 
 great baby, that you are, and go to sleep.' A nd by 
 the time the Vicar had carried out basin and 
 sponge, Amabel had very nearly obeyed his com- 
 mands. 
 
 * And now, Anna, what does it all mean V he 
 asked. 
 
 ' Indeed what Frank meant I can't say,' answered 
 his wife, still roused and angry ; * he has been sit- 
 ting here carpentering most of the afternoon, the 
 other children have been out with Miss Storey; 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 146 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 and just before you came in, Amabel, very eager to 
 show the new cloak nurse had been making her 
 doll, ran in, and as she passed he pushed her off, 
 and her poor little elbow hit against the table.* 
 ' She had not teased him V 
 
 * No, poor little dear ; nor said nor done anything 
 except pass his side of the room.' 
 
 * And what passed when she fell V 
 
 '■ I called out indignantly, ' Frank, you are always 
 hurting the children !' and he answered, * If they 
 will come in the way, they must expect to be 
 hurt ;' and then I said, I wondered he was not 
 ashamed to own he had hurt her on purpose ; and 
 so it went on till you came in, Frank as rude as 
 could be.' 
 
 ' I was afraid so from what I heard. Well, I 
 did hope these troubles were ceasing ;' and the 
 Vicar crossed over to the study. 
 
 Here the delinquent was sitting on the window- 
 seat looking out of window. The Vicar rejoiced 
 that a quarter of an hour had perforce passed before 
 he need attack him. 
 
 * Well, Frank,' he quietly began, determined, God 
 helping him, no suUenness nor fierceness of his son's 
 should excite himself to sharpness, ' it seems a bad 
 business, but I have not heard what you have to 
 say for yourself.' 
 
 ' That I did not do it on purpose,' retorted Frank, 
 stoutly. 
 
 ^ I quite believe you ; no one would have hurt 
 such a little child purposely ; only you see, Frank, 
 such an accident proves the wrongness and danger 
 of your ordinary rough petulance towards the little
 
 HOPES. 147 
 
 ones : twenty times you may push them off and 
 hurt no one, the twenty-first this or worse 
 occurs.' 
 
 Frank made no answer. He had had no idea 
 that his one protestation would have been so imme- 
 diately received, and so had prepared for nothing 
 but a reiteration of this declaration, cost him what 
 it might. 
 
 ' And,' continued the Yicar, ' I believe that you 
 not only did not do it on purpose, but that in your 
 heart you are very sorry for having done it at all.' 
 
 There was a minute's silence, then Frank said 
 gruffly, ' She isn't much hurt.' 
 
 ' I think you should have added ' I hope ' to 
 that sentence, and made it a question. No, not 
 very much, though I am afraid her arm will pain 
 her a little for some days.' 
 
 ' I'm sorry for that.' 
 
 * That's right. But you know, Frank, there is 
 something for which you have more need to be 
 sorry, — the tone in which you answered your 
 mother.' 
 
 * She said I did it on purpose,' answered Frank, 
 fiercely. 
 
 ' Your general unkindness to the little ones — I 
 don't mean to mince matters, — made her think so. 
 I believe she was mistaken, but if you want to 
 escape misapprehension throughout life, Frank, 
 your general conduct must be a good deal gentler, 
 and more certain than it is now.' 
 
 ' They are such bothers 1' 
 
 ' I don't mean to branch off into the general sub- 
 ject, the only thing under discussion is your present 
 L 2
 
 148 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 duty, and that is to beg your motlier's pardon for 
 your disrespect to her.' 
 
 ' And that I wont do !' cried Frank, fiercely ; 
 quite glad to have something at last to resist with 
 all his might. 
 
 * I shall not try to force you to it,' answered Mr. 
 Arnold, gravely and sadly ; ' I do not wish to make 
 my son a hypocrite simply to do his duty, and even 
 here, with such a temper as yours — so fierce, so re- 
 sentful, I really fear so glad to excite me to severity 
 — I have little hope of making you apologize, be- 
 cause it is right to do so. Don't glory in so brave a 
 temper, at least as you have hitherto shown it,' 
 ended the Yicar, sternly, seeing a flash of triumph 
 in Frank's steady brown eyes. ' It is the great 
 handle the devil has against you j by means of it he 
 makes you ashamed of doing right, and pride your- 
 self upon enduring anything rather than own your- 
 self wrong.' 
 
 ' She shouldn't ' — began Frank, rather awed and 
 frightened, in spite of himself, — ' have — ' 
 
 ' I am not going to discuss the point with you, 
 Frank ; your mother misjudged you I allow, but I 
 cannot allow that this, or anything else, justifies her 
 son in using the insolent tone you did towards her, 
 nor can I ever think well of you till you repent it, 
 and own that you repent it. I leave you to think 
 it over, — to think better of it, I hope ; but this you 
 will never do unless you ask the help of Him who 
 alone is stronger than the evil temper within you.' 
 
 Mr. Arnold went out, and shutting the door be- 
 hind him, went upstairs. He did not wish to 
 encounter even his little daughter. He felt as if
 
 HOPES. 149 
 
 the struggle that would decide Frank's ^vhole after- 
 life, might be even now being fought j could he hope 
 with the right success 1 
 
 Frank, left alone, could not but feel his father's 
 generous justice and marvellous patience, neverthe- 
 less at first tried to dwell on his wrongs, to glory in 
 being ready to brave the extremity of his father's 
 displeasure rather than give way ; but as minute 
 after minute passed by, he began to perceive, then, 
 in spite of his endeavours to drive the glimmering 
 perception away — saw clearly how slight his wrongs 
 w ere, how little he had to brave. His father had 
 issued no command, no threat, so it could not be 
 the consequences of obstinate disobedience that he 
 was defying. What was he then braving ? He re- 
 membered his father's words, and trembled, as he 
 felt it was no less than the voice of his own con- 
 science. 
 
 He had never before thus viewed any collision 
 with his father. As years jjassed on he had found 
 himself in frequent disgrace, and had come to the 
 determination, almost unconsciously, that as he 
 found he could bear disgrace and punishment 
 bravely enough for his own peace, he would quietly 
 go his own way, and if this way brought either 
 upon him, put up with the inconvenience, but let it 
 not in the least hinder him fi'om going his own way 
 next time. And how well he had abided by this 
 miserable, headstrong determination, both himself 
 and his father knew to like cost. 
 
 Why could he not abide by it now 1 He had 
 meant to do so, unconsciously, for habit had made 
 such conduct almost nature without ever brinadug
 
 150 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 its purpose before the boy in actual words. Oh, 
 how he wished his father had not been so quiet 
 — so forbearing. Why had he not scolded him 
 sharply, ordered him to beg his mother's pardon, 
 threatened him, spoken so that he could have an- 
 swered impertinently ; done anything but treat him 
 as he had done ; have left him with nothing to do, 
 nor to brave nor dare but his God, and the con- 
 science his God had given him 1 
 
 He tried to shake off such feelings, to determine 
 to stand by his first resolve not to beg his mother's 
 pardon. It seemed all he had left to stand by, and 
 he certainly did feel very angry at her thinking he 
 could have meant so to hurt little Mabel. Poor 
 fellow, he had that comfort left, and he made the 
 most of it, and nursed his anger as he best could, 
 for in spite of all his care it would grow fainter and 
 fainter. Oh ! if his father did not come quickly, it 
 would be quite gone altogether, and he would have 
 only a shadow to cling to after all. 
 
 Just as he thought this, there was a little knock ; 
 Frank did not answer : then the handle, with great 
 effort, turned, and a little fair face peeped in, half 
 frightened. ' Papa !' 
 
 No answer. 
 
 ' No one here f timidly advancing. 
 
 ' No one ; at least not who you want,' said Frank, 
 crossly. 
 
 * Oh / and Amabel was hurrying away. Then the 
 little feet pattered back again, and coming up to 
 her brother, who was still on the window-seat, 
 ' Frank, don't mind for me ; don't let papa mind 
 for me ; I'm not hurt.'
 
 HOPES. I^I 
 
 Frank could not tell how nor why, was very 
 angiy with himself the next minute for doing it, 
 he bent down suddenly and kissed the little cheek, 
 roughly, it is true, but with all his heart, and, poor 
 boy ! his heart was a heavier and sadder burden 
 just then than he well knew how to bear. 
 
 ' Zoo didn't mean it, did oo ? and look, papa 
 has done it up nice and safe ! He wasn't angry, 
 Frank, was he 1 Why do you stay here V 
 
 ' Not because he was angry about that,' answered 
 Frank, sighing. He could give way before his 
 little sister ; she would be none the wiser for what 
 he said or did, and it was a great comfort to give 
 way. 
 
 * Then why was he angry f 
 
 ' He was not angry,' Frank was forced to own. 
 
 ' And yet zoo sorry ? Let me come and sit by 
 zoo, if 00 will stay away ;' and Amabel, clambering 
 up the seat, squeezed herself in between Frank and 
 the window. Frank did not help, did not hinder 
 her. ' Sorry,' no ; he was not staying there because 
 he was ' sorry,' but because he was not sorry. And 
 yet, was he not ? If not, why was he so wretched, 
 so miserable, as if he longed to run away from every 
 one, and cry his great burden away in tears, he 
 who had never let a tear escape him these five years. 
 
 So the two stayed about ten minutes, Amabel's 
 little head falling more and more heavily against 
 Frank's shoulder, till when Mr. Arnold came in she 
 was fast asleep. 
 
 ' Hush — don't wake her,' said Frank, tenderly, 
 really forgetting who the new comer was likely to 
 be, and why he would be coming.
 
 152 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 The noise and light, however, had already startled 
 and roused her. 
 
 ' Why, my little sweet !' said the Yicar. 
 
 Mabel sat up bewildered, rubbing her blue eyes 
 as if to unravel a great perplexity. 
 
 ' You, papa 1 Why, I've been asleep. Did I 
 tire you, Frank f turning with her miniature Meri- 
 vale considerate graciousness towards the boy, now 
 hastily withdrawing his supporting arm. 
 
 ' No, not at all,' answered Frank, in an undertone. 
 He could not make up his mind even to speak 
 roughly to her now, but he did not want his father 
 to note the difference. 
 
 ' Awake now ? Well, then, I must carry you 
 off to Miss Storey ; she is telling fairy tales in the 
 schoolroom,' and the Yicar took his little daughter 
 in his arms, and carried her away, her eyes to 
 the last minute fixed wistfully over his shoulder 
 on poor Frank. 
 
 When the door was shut, 'Papa, stop one moment.' 
 
 * Am I hurting you, sweet V 
 
 ' No — but zoo promise me something,' laying her 
 head, with an innocent mixture of caressing shyness 
 and coquetry upon his shoulder. 
 
 ' What V 
 
 ' You mustn't know,' with her little saucy laugh. 
 
 Ah, Yicar ! you must take care you do not make 
 your sweet your tyrant. 
 
 ' No, papa cannot promise anything, even to his 
 little Mabel, without knowing what it is she wants.' 
 
 ' Can't you ? But you will do it, wont you 1 
 Make poor Frank happy again. Oo know I'm not 
 hurt, and he says you weren't angrj^, and yet he is
 
 HOPES. 153 
 
 so sad,' with an accent of childish, pitying piteous- 
 ness in the last three words. 
 
 ' And so you have been comforting him ? Well, 
 that is just what papa would like to do, if he could ; 
 and it is nearly tea-time, so I mustn't wait about it. 
 Good-bye, my precious,' and he opened the school- 
 room door, and, setting her inside, went back again 
 himself. 
 
 ' Well, my boy,' he said, kindly, as Frank kept 
 his face perversely away from him. 
 
 Frank made no answer, indeed could not trust 
 himself to answer. 
 
 'You cannot quite resolve to humble yourself; 
 it will indeed be a humiliation in your own eyes, 
 but one which would do you infinite good ; and in 
 the eyes of God and His angels a most blessed vic- 
 tory over your worst enemy — self.' 
 
 Still Frank did not say one word. 
 
 ' Well, then, I can but leave you — you know 
 your duty ; it is only the strength to do, which 
 you need, and that / cannot give. God help you, 
 my poor boy ; God grant that you do not let the 
 devil have the victory over you ;' and Mr. Arnold 
 went away almost sadder-hearted than his son. 
 
 ' Papa,' cried Frank after him, but his lips made 
 no sound, great choking sobs stopped all utterance, 
 and he did not try again . He drove the tears back 
 resolutely, and then sat down by the fire, his face 
 in his hands — deserted, oh ! if it should be by more 
 than his earthly father. 
 
 Suddenly he rose, opened the study door, hurried 
 across the passage, saw his mother was alone, hesi- 
 tated, went in, went up to her, and said, in a voice
 
 154 AGGESDEN VICABAGE. 
 
 at once firm and faltering, 'Mamma, I beg your 
 pardon for speaking as I did.' 
 
 'My dear Frank/ cried Mrs. Arnold, scarcely 
 having heard him come in, and now alarmed by his 
 voice and manner, which seemed as if he were 
 putting a force on himself that nearly broke his 
 heart, ' Why — never mind, Frank — never mind ; 
 I did not know then Mabel was so little hurt. Stay 
 a minute, Frank ;' — but Frank was off, hurried 
 through the hall, rushed up the stairs, and in a 
 minute more his door slammed behind him, and 
 the boy flung himself on his bed, and buried his 
 head in his pillow to smother his sobs. 
 Sobs that he had yielded. Poor Frank ! 
 Mr. Arnold heard that slam, and it told him all, 
 that Right had conquered, but not without almost a 
 fiercer struggle than the boy could b^ar. 
 
 He went to the dining-room, and there found his 
 wife looking anxious and uneasy. 
 
 ' Frank,' she began, ' I hope you have not been 
 forcing that poor boy to beg my pardon ; he came 
 in here just now so odd, I am quite frightened 
 about him.' 
 
 * Thank God,' said the Yicar, from the bottom of 
 his heart. ' No, I have not forced him, except by 
 treating him as a Christian, a responsible being, 
 old enough to choose good rather than evil, poor 
 fellow ! but I do hope, Annie, bitter as it has been 
 to him, he will hereafter feel my cruelty was mercy.' 
 Yery soon the little ones came in clamorous for 
 tea ; but when they were seated that there was no 
 Frank did not surprise his father. 
 
 ' I'll run and tell him,' said Anna, starting up*
 
 HOPES. 155 
 
 ' No, Anna, stop a minute,' said Mr. Arnold at 
 once. ' I don't think Frank will wish to come. He 
 is in no disgrace,' seeing Anna's consternation and 
 the glances round, ' but has been a good deal upset, 
 and we must all be the kinder to him.' 
 
 It was evident Mr. Arnold meant to explain no 
 further. No one said a word more. 
 
 * Upset ; her dear Frank upset,' thought Anna, 
 thoroughly perplexed. ' What could papa mean ? 
 When Mary was 'upset' she cried, but Frank had 
 never cried in his life.' 
 
 Nevertheless, Frank was crying now, deep, pas- 
 sionate sobs, hot scalding tears, beating about his 
 bed in his misery, trying in vain to restrain one 
 single cry. 
 
 Not till the little ones had gone up to bed did 
 Mr. Arnold c^sturb or molest him. The devil had 
 gone out of him, but was rending him before depart- 
 ing entirely, and, alas ! even then, in this mortal 
 life, it would be but 'for a season.' But as the 
 clock struck eight, and all but Mary, Johnnie, and 
 Anna were sent off, the Vicar went up to his son's 
 door and knocked. 
 
 Frank made no answer ; so, after waiting a few 
 minutes, Mr. Arnold entered. Frank was sitting 
 beside his bed, which he had tried hastily to smooth, 
 so worn, so dejected, so heavy-eyed and mannered, 
 his father's kind heart bled for him. 
 
 * My poor boy,' he said, tenderly, ' I can't bear 
 your staying up here in the cold. If you don't like 
 to come down to the dining-room, there's the 
 study ; I've kept up the fire, thinking you might 
 like it.'
 
 155 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 * I don't mind the cold, thank you,' in a voice 
 vainly struggling to be even and indifferent. 
 
 ^ But I do for you. We shall have you quite ill. 
 I wish you would come down.' 
 
 * It does not matter ;' but Frank turned his head 
 to the wall, and burst into tears. 
 
 Mr. Arnold stood irresolute one moment. *A 
 boy cannot bear to be seen in tears,' he thought, but 
 warm kindness overcame cold prudence, and he went 
 up to his son, turned his passi\ e face towards him, 
 and kissed him as a mother might have done. Why 
 had not his mother been with him long ago 1 
 
 * Oh, papa, don't !' 
 ' Why not V 
 
 ' I can't bear you to be so kind to me. It — it 
 made me give way before — beg her pardon.' 
 
 * And surely you are very glad you did V 
 
 * No — yes — no. I thought it would take the 
 weight away, make me happier again, but it 
 only ' 
 
 ' Seems to make it heavier. Ah, Frank ! I know 
 that feeling. When I was a little boy, I told my 
 mother a lie ; it made me unhappy at the time, but 
 I was little and forgot it. Four years after, when 
 I was home for the holidays, it suddenly flashed 
 across me as I was saying my prayers. I thought 
 I would go and confess it that minute, but I was a 
 coward and afraid, and could not bear to bring such 
 shame upon myself. How wretched I was all that 
 night, knowing I ought to tell her ; once in the 
 middle of the night going to her door, but I could 
 not. And — I never told her till the next night 
 had come round again. I thought then I should be
 
 HOPES. 157 
 
 ♦ 
 quite happy again ; but no, I was almost more 
 wretched — a different kind of wretchedness, mind — 
 than the night before.' 
 
 ' I can't see why ' 
 
 ' Nor could I then ; but now I think it was, in- 
 deed feel sure it was, this. An earthly illness is not 
 cured the first minute the patient consents to use 
 the right medicine — may often for the time seem 
 aggravated. And with our minds, God's reward to 
 us for confessing a sin is one very bitter to taste — 
 it is a more scrupulous conscience, a clearer sense 
 of sin, an opening of our eyes especially to the 
 greatness of that very sin we have acknowledged 
 and repented of.' 
 
 Frank did not answer, nor did his father try to 
 make him do so. There was a few minutes' silence, 
 then Mr. Arnold took up his candle and said, ' Well, 
 I think, perhaps, you would rather not come down, 
 but you must have something to eat ; mamma shall 
 bring you up some tea.' 
 ' No, don't.' 
 
 ' But I shall. We have no business to let bodily 
 discomfort increase our mental ; so either come 
 down to the study and have it by the fire, or else 
 get into bed and have it there. Cold and hunger 
 will make you quite ill. Which do you say V 
 ' Oh, here !' 
 ' Good night, then.' 
 ' Good night, papa.' 
 
 But Mr. Arnold did not let his son's hand go so 
 quickly. 
 
 ' What, can't you give me one word more V with 
 a kindly smile.
 
 158 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 # 
 * What's the use V said Frank, dejectedly. * I 
 know you are very kind, but I shall only go and 
 vex you another time just as much, and most likely 
 not be sorry after it at all. And, whatever I am, I 
 wont say ^ thank you/ and then be a hypocrite.' 
 
 !■
 
 ^59 
 
 CHAPTEE XII. 
 
 ROBERT. 
 
 Largely Thou givest, gracious Lord, 
 Largely Thy gifts should be restored. 
 Freely Thou givest, and thy word 
 
 Is ' Freely give. ' 
 He only who forgets to hoard 
 
 Has learnt to live. 
 
 Keble. 
 
 FRANK awoke the next morning rather earlier 
 than usual, and then, as the events of yesterday 
 rushed upon him, remembered that he had never 
 learnt his lessons. 
 
 His first impulse was to spring out and learn 
 them at once. His second that bed was so comfort- 
 able he must stay a little loDger in it. Besides, his 
 father would know how it was, and could not be 
 angiy after all that had passed last night. 
 
 But still Frank lay uneasily; it seemed imposing 
 on his father's kindness not to get up and learn his 
 lessons when he had remembered them in time to 
 do so, and was most thoroughly awake ; and yet, 
 who can bear to leave their warm bed on a bitter 
 winter's morning ? if even on any other morning 
 they can face such a proceeding with fortitude and 
 composure. 
 
 ' Half-past seven,' thought Frank, whose bed
 
 l6o AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 stood just opposite the window whence the church 
 clock was becoming dimly visible as the dark 
 December morning dawned ; ' Oh ! I should have 
 more than time if I got up now. I'll get up at the 
 quarter, and if I'm quick shall manage very well 
 then.' 
 
 And so he lay watching the hand round to the 
 quarter, not quite happily, but when it did reach 
 it sprang out at once, dressed, as only a boy can, 
 and, running down, found his books and betook 
 himself to the dining-room rug. But breakfast was 
 rather more punctual than usual, and Maiy's 
 fidgettiness to make it so angered Frank not a 
 little. 
 
 'Why can't you let things be?' he asked, crossly, 
 as after making tea she put the kettle on the stand 
 across him ; ' mamma wont be down yet.' 
 
 ' She's just ready, and it's five minutes after the 
 half-hour now.' 
 
 ' Well, what does it signify V 
 
 *It does signify,' answered Mary, resolutely, 
 evidently determined to argue the point out; 
 'if ' 
 
 ' Oh, pray don't argufy !' cried Frank, stopping 
 his ears at once. ' I have no time to listen to all 
 your grand genteel reasons / and he turned back to 
 his books. 
 
 However, his mother entered almost the same 
 minute ; prayers quickly followed, then breakfast, 
 and now Mr. Arnold Avas ready for the lessons 
 almost as soon as it was over. Therefore Frank 
 went into the study with one he had but twice 
 read over.
 
 EGBERT. l6l 
 
 The first two, however, he said so remarkably 
 well that the Yicar was astonished, and hoped 
 yesterday might have proved the beginning of 
 better things in more ways than he had dared hope. 
 After the first sentence of the last, however, poor 
 Frank stuck inexplicably. 
 
 ' Why, how's this V 
 
 'I quite forgot them last night,' said Frank, 
 colouring. 
 
 ' Oh, well ! never mind ; then it had better be 
 left altogether,' and Mr. Arnold turned to other 
 things. 
 
 But when twelve came and he was free, Frank 
 did not feel quite content ; and, unfortunately, the 
 first consequence was giving a very surly answer 
 to John's proposal that they should go up to the 
 Merivales' and see if they could not arrange a 
 common skating party for the afternoon ; the 
 second, happily, that he took the book upstairs, and 
 out of the noise of the dining-room soon learnt the 
 lesson thoroughly, for he had always plenty of 
 ability and a very good memory, and when the will 
 was not wanting, soon mastered any task. 
 
 Then he ran down, knocked at the study door 
 found his father in, and saying bluntly, ' I know 
 it now,' laid the book before Mr. Arnold, to 
 whom the lesson came as a very matter of fact 
 reaUty in the midst of his first survey of another 
 old tale which he had routed out from amongst 
 its forgotten and discoloured fellows. 
 
 Frank, however, claimed his attention for only a 
 few minutes, as he repeated with perfect fluency 
 an equal quantity with that which only two days 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 l62 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 before he had said so imperfectly as to make his 
 father close the book with indignant impatience 
 and give him so severe a lecture on his idleness, that 
 Frank had been somewhat alarmed for the conse- 
 quences of a returned lesson not a good deal better 
 said, and therefore had taken care to know it 
 tolerably well before bringing it forward again, 
 stolidly indifferent as he had outwardly appeared. 
 
 ' That's something like a lesson,' said Mr. Arnold 
 now, giving back the book ; 'but don't think it an 
 unfair advantage, Frank, knowing how you can 
 learn when you have the will ; I can never take 
 again many such as I have thought myself obliged 
 to put up with before now.' 
 
 Frank did not quite like this ; however, he did 
 not know how to object to it ; so took the book and 
 went his way, still with a clearer heart than he had 
 often left the study. 
 
 The next day was Sunday. I cannot say but 
 that the Yicar looked forward to the morning's 
 post with almost as much impatience and eager- 
 ness as his governess had three months ago to his 
 own long-coming answer. Was * Our Margaret' 
 really so superior to the ordinary run of periodical 
 literature as to win instant attention and imme- 
 diate acceptance 1 or might it to impartial eyes have 
 appeared so deficient in incident, so far from pos- 
 sessing interest for the present generation of readers 
 of fiction, that it had been cast aside after the first 
 cursory glance, and would be at once returned on 
 his hands ? or, almost worse than all, might not the 
 editor of such a periodical be so overwhelmed with 
 contributions from writers already more or less
 
 ROBERT. 163 
 
 known, that ' Our Margaret' might, with many other 
 equally neglected companions, have been thrown 
 into the waste-paper basket to await a leisure day 
 that would never come 1 
 
 As usual, the Vicar was the first down-stairs on 
 Sunday morning, and on the hall table already lay 
 the post-bag. He took it up, delayed a minute, 
 opened it, saying how silly he was to expect he 
 could hear good or ill by return of post — but yes, 
 there lay a solitary letter, and — his manuscript ! 
 
 Poor Mr. Arnold ! he tore open the letter, the 
 politely worded, printed refusal, flung it into the 
 dining-room fire, and felt sorely inclined to fling ' Our 
 Margaret' after it. It may do a young writer good 
 to go through the ordeal of a round of disappoint- 
 ments, but to a middle-aged man such a refusal 
 is much more trying, is a very diflferent matter. 
 One feeling now possessed the Yicar. How could 
 he have laid bare thoughts and feelings, so precious 
 as almost to be sacred, to another man, one who had 
 not thought them worthy of even one word of com- 
 ment. He would never go through such an ordeal 
 of shame and mortification again, yet — he would 
 not burn it, felt already ashamed that he should 
 ever have thought of finding so childish a vent to 
 his vexation and disappointment. 
 
 The rush of little feet was heard on the staircase, 
 and crossing to the study, Mr. Arnold put his manu- 
 script out of his own sight, as well as that of others, 
 and then came forth again to face the battle of life 
 as he could. 
 
 Poor man ! he did not succeed very well. It was 
 a dull, rainy morning, and used as Englishmen and 
 
 M 2
 
 1 54 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 children ought to be to all the changes of climate 
 to which their country so constantly treats them, 
 a cold foggy thaw is depressing enough to most 
 peoniC' without any mental trouble to increase such 
 deprelpion. Frank was the last ; Mr. Arnold spoke 
 sharply to him and brought up the old scowl ; Carry 
 was whining, and her father silenced her complaints 
 so roughly, that a flood of tears was narrowly 
 averted. He made the home party dull, and then 
 felt ready to quarrel with them for being as little 
 inclined to be cheerful as himself. 
 
 After the unpunctual breakfast came the elder 
 children's catechism, and then the school, and then 
 the service, and then the dinner ; and then at last 
 could Mr. Arnold get a few minutes alone to mourn 
 over his past ill-temper, to gather strength to try to 
 remove the cloudiness he himself had caused, to ask 
 for courage to bear such disappointment as a man 
 and a Christian should bear it. And then he came 
 forth again, very humbled in his own sight, yet 
 thinking he was but tasting of the cup he had 
 morally forced his own sou to drain but two days 
 before ; and that it was well that a father should 
 be compelled to know himself what such humiliation 
 in one's own sight really cost. 
 
 Yet after all, his wife at the end of the day, 
 when the children were asleep, or at least in bed, 
 said, 
 
 ' Frank, you are not well V 
 
 * Quite well, dear, thank you,' tenderly and sadly. 
 ' But something has vexed you — not Frank 
 
 again ? ' 
 
 * No, no j if I am vexed with any one, it is with
 
 ROBERT. 165 
 
 myself. Nothing's the matter, love — nothing for 
 you to worry about. Now let us get to our own 
 quiet reading.' 
 
 The next day, Johnnie as usual went up to the 
 Hall, finding the boys not disposed to go iput, 
 but talking eagerly round Robert's sofa. * I say, 
 Johnnie,' was Hector's greeting, ' do you know it's 
 all settled 1 I'm going to some place at Eltham — a 
 Mr. Smith, Brown, or Jones. Jolly ! don't you 
 
 envy me 
 
 'Yes,' answered John, with a deeper meaning 
 than any one thought. ' Mr. who 1 are there many 
 boys?' 
 
 * About thirty, but not one T know ; that's the only 
 bother ; Cousin James has just left. I say, Johnnie, 
 how jolly it would be if you went too. You used to 
 say you should be a soldier.' 
 
 * Did I ]' asked Johnnie, as if it must have been 
 very long ago, then. 
 
 * Yes ; don't you remember it was Uncle John 
 who first fired us both. I've kept firm to it ever 
 since, whatever you have.' 
 
 ' John means to be a man of peace, perhaps,' said 
 Robert, now first taking part in the conversation. 
 He had hitherto lain with his face away from the 
 others, as if, which was the truth, the subject pained 
 and tried him, and yet he could not escape it. 
 
 ' Oh, a clergyman,' said Hector, looking disap- 
 pointed ; ' no, you don't mean it, Johnnie V 
 
 ' No, I don't think I shall be a clergyman, but a 
 man of peace of some kind or other, I suppose, 
 answered Johnnie, with an effort at ease and cheer- 
 fulness.
 
 l65 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 ' How 1 what V asked Hector, impatiently. 
 
 ' I think Mr. Rogers is going to take me into his 
 office when I am old enough.' 
 
 ' Mr. Rogers ! who ? what 1 What Rogers ?— ' the 
 old rascally attorney/ as papa calls him f 
 
 ' I don't think he's a rascal, or my father Wouldn't 
 let me go to him,' said Johnnie, stoutly and colour- 
 ing high. 
 
 ' Oh, well, do you know, Johnnie, it's very vexa- 
 tious, for I have been thinking the whole morning, 
 perhaps papa could persuade Mr. Arnold to let you 
 go with me, and we'd keep together everywhere, 
 artillery and all.' 
 
 John smiled, or attempted to smile, and turning 
 to Robert, asked what he had been doing all day. 
 
 ' Reading — just as usual,' answered Robert, put- 
 ting his arm affectionately round the little fellow's 
 neck. ' I am very glad you have come in to make a 
 change, and I want you to look at my last grand 
 water-colour attempt from Sophy's sketch of the 
 house — out there it is, if you don't mind getting it. 
 Thank you — ^you see I've got into an awful mess 
 trying to work on on Saturday, when mamma took 
 Sophy into Worcester.' 
 
 * It isn't so very bad.' 
 
 * No ; but it has been a good deal worse, and I 
 called in Alston, and he made one or two very 
 happy suggestions, — in fact, the washing out nearly 
 all I had put in. But I have made mamma pro- 
 mise I shall have Sophy for an hour after luncheon. 
 I am afraid Miss Campbell's keeping her in, to 
 make up for it ; she generally looks in for a 
 minute or two about now. Ah ! here she is— no, 
 Netta.'
 
 ROBERT. 167 
 
 * Ah, Johnnie here !' said Netta ; ' that's right ; 
 then, Robert, we wont read, but sit down and talk 
 comfortably — it's a horribly dry lot we are coming 
 to j I'll read it to you after dinner instead.' 
 
 Robert smiled as if this were a good time that 
 would not come, but made no objection, and lay till 
 luncheon silent but amused by the animated con- 
 versation Antoinette kept up till the bell rang. 
 
 Johnnie stayed luncheon, and then ran back 
 quickly to the Vicarage, to be home in time for 
 lessons. 
 
 The afternoon lessons, as far as Mr. Arnold was 
 concerned, lasted only till three, and then what did the 
 Yicar do 1 Why, after much thought and a consider- 
 able struggle with his vanity and pride, once more 
 walked over to Massing, and posted ' Our Margaret,' 
 directed this time to Fraser. 
 
 * A forlorn hope,' he thought, as he dropped the 
 tale into the waste of letters, and the act became 
 beyond control ; * but, after all, I am glad I have tried 
 it. Thanks to this new postage — each trial does 
 but cost a penny, and I am rich enough to afford 
 that at present,' and he walked home again, not 
 hopefully as on Friday, but cheerfully enough. He 
 had first been too sanguine, next too depressed, but 
 now was attaining the medium which he had 
 ahready learnt to attain in most other matters. 
 
 He walked home little thinking what was passing 
 at the Hall. 
 
 Sophy had come into the library punctually at 
 half-past two, brisk and blithe as ever. ' Why, 
 Robert, haven't you got the things ready ? What 
 has Alston been about 1 Shall I ring V
 
 1 68 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 ' Oh, I beg your pardon, Sopty ; I did not know 
 it was so late. Yes, please ring — we oughtn't to 
 lose time ; I don't know what I've been about.' 
 
 Sophy brought forward table, drawing, <fec., so 
 quickly, that prompt as Alston was in answering 
 the bell, his work had been nearly done for him 
 before he arrived. 
 
 * You see I had got into a horrible mess,' began 
 Robert, when they were comfortably settled and 
 alone again. 
 
 * Yes, you must give it over to me ; I must tone 
 down that fiery tree a little. There, do you think 
 that's better V No answer. ' And that sunset is 
 rather too fiery, too — too much burnt sienna about 
 it. Shall you mind my trying to mitigate it V 
 
 ' Oh, no.' 
 
 Sophy worked on with a brisk, certain hand, 
 every now and then asking a question or making a 
 remark, too busy to notice that E-obert seldom 
 answered, or if he did so, answered abstractedly. 
 At last she said, * There, I must not touch it more, 
 or it wont be yours. But do, Eobert, put in that 
 bit of distance next — almost pure French blue, it 
 will be such a relief And she moved the sketch- 
 book to the purposely-constructed table, and placed 
 the flap over her brother's knees. 
 
 * Oh, thank you, that's much better. French 
 what did you say? I tell you what, Sophy— 7I 
 want to speak to you.' 
 
 * Yes?' said Sophy, inquiringly. 
 
 * Johnnie was up here this morning, you know.' 
 
 * Oh, yes ; he stayed to luncheon.' 
 
 'Oh, of course! I forgot. Well, Hector was
 
 ROBERT. 169 
 
 full of this going to Eltham, and, do you know, I 
 think Johnnie would like, of all things, to go 
 too.' 
 
 ' Would he ? How pleased Hector would be.' 
 
 ' Yes ; but what do you think he says he is to be 1 
 — Hector says he did wish to be a soldier, but that 
 I know nothing about — a clerk, or whatever it is, 
 in Mr. Rogers' office. 
 
 'Johnnie ! In Mr. Rogers' office !' repeated Sophy, 
 consternated. 
 
 * Yesj he said that was what Mr. Arnold meant 
 to do with him.' 
 
 ' What a shame !' cried Sophy, energetically ; 
 ' such a dear, good-looking, clever little fellow as he 
 is. I always thought he was such a favourite at 
 home, he would be sure to be put in the way of 
 something great. I've always fancied him either 
 Admiral of the White or Archbishop of Canterbury, 
 I really believe ; I felt so sure he would get on. 
 What can Mr. Arnold be thinking about f 
 
 ' I'm sure it is not that he does not appreciate 
 Johnnie,' said Robert. ' I tell you what I believe 
 it is — he can't afford to do better for him, or else — 
 it only struck me whilst you were at luncheon — why 
 does he keep Frank and Johnnie at home, when he 
 has always been at papa for not sending Hector and 
 Harry to school V 
 
 ' Can it be that ? Why, I thought every clergy- 
 man had enough to send his boys to school.' 
 
 ' I tell you what, Sophy ; I don't think we rich 
 people know what the want of money is — are not 
 much better than the French princess, who, on 
 hearing the people were starving, said — rather more
 
 170 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 politely, I believe — ^ What fools tliey were not to 
 eat bread and cheeise.' ' 
 
 * Oh, but ' began Sophy. 
 
 'What?' 
 
 ' Why, I have wondered sometimes, but thought 
 Mr. Arnold must keep John and Frank at home 
 because he was so clever a man he thought no one 
 could teach them as well. But I may have been 
 wrong.' 
 
 ' I am sure you have. Do you know, it makes 
 me hate it all — all this eating, and drinking, and 
 riding, and shooting, and heaps of servants and 
 governesses. What have we done to deserve it V 
 And Robert's voice grew loud and firm, and his 
 eyes bright. 
 
 * But, Robert,' said Sophy, thoughtfully, * you 
 know it is ordered that some should be richer than 
 others. We are told, the poor shall never cease out 
 of the land.' 
 
 'Yes; but why?' 
 
 * That the rich may help them, I suppose.' 
 'And do we? I don't mean blanket-giving and 
 
 soup-giving, and sending ten pounds to the Irish 
 and twenty to the Otaheitans, or anything of that. 
 I tell you, we all forget those who need it most — 
 gentlemen like ourselves, who have not enough to 
 live on.' 
 
 ' Oh, but, Robert, they would not take it.' 
 ' You think not?' And Robert lay back thought- 
 fully and quietly again. ' Sophy,' he said, at last, 
 * you have knocked my idea on the head ; but I 
 must tell you, and see if you can't think better of 
 it. Here am I with money I don't know what to
 
 ROBERT. 171 
 
 do with, which it only makes me peevish and angry 
 to have to spend so differently from any other young 
 man. I was wondering whether — whether some- 
 how I could not send Johnnie to school on it.' 
 
 * Oh, Kobert !' 
 
 * You think it couldn't be managed without 
 hurting and annoying them 1 I tell you what I'll 
 do, Sophy — send Mr. Arnold a hundred pound note, 
 and put in the envelope, ' An act of simple justice.' 
 Then he will only think it some of his old debts 
 come in — that one of his old college pupils had 
 thought better of it, and paid his bill at last.' 
 
 * Ah, but that would not be true, Robert,' said 
 unromantic, truth-loving Sophy. 
 
 ' A good deal of it would. It would be but an 
 act of simple justice — we rich, he poor; we idle 
 and selfish, he hard-working and never sparing 
 himself.' 
 
 * But he would not like it, I am sure.' 
 
 * Sophy, you said just now the poor shall never 
 cease out of the land. Now I tell you, we are told 
 it is more blessed to give than to receive. Now, 
 how angry Mr. Arnold would be if the poor here 
 were too proud to take his broth or coals. Well, 
 that's just what I should be if he didn't take my 
 offer. He would have no right to deprive me of 
 the blessing and comfort of at length doing some 
 good with my money.' 
 
 ' But, Robert, you don't possess a hundred pounds.' 
 
 * No j but my father would give it me if I asked 
 him, and I could pinch it out of next year. How 
 I've got through all I have this last year, Heaven 
 knows; and yet he would give me twice as much
 
 17^ AGGESDEN VICAEAGE. 
 
 next year, if I asked him, squandered and wasted 
 as every penny of this has been.' 
 
 'No, Robert, not that; think of the bracelet 
 you gave Netta, the twenty pounds you sent to that 
 poor East-end advertisement, all you give the chil- 
 dren, and ' 
 
 ' Yes ; people who don't want it.' 
 
 * But you can't say you've spent it on yourself.' 
 
 * Well, Sophy,' he cried, crossly, after a moment's 
 pause, ' I wonder why you are so dead against it.' 
 
 * Dead against it 1 am 1 1 No, I did not mean to 
 be. Anything to save Johnnie from Mr. Rogers' 
 office. Yes, as you say, it can only be because he 
 cannot afford to do better for him. Oh, how sorry 
 I am !' 
 
 ' So am I, and most because papa ought to have 
 thought of it and done it long ago. Mr. Arnold 
 could not have hesitated then.' 
 
 * Could he propose it now V 
 
 * Ah, perhaps so — and yet, Sophy, I should like 
 so to do it. It would be such a comfort to me. I 
 should just have fifty pounds to dress upon and buy 
 birthday presents — don't you think I could manage ? 
 and the scraping and saving would be much better 
 fun than squandering my money about, keeping no 
 accounts, and coming to papa for another twenty 
 pounds whenever I want it.' 
 
 Sophy looked at him with her soft, earnest, 
 thoughtful gaze. ' Robert, I believe you are right — 
 I don't think Mr. Arnold could refuse — I mean, he 
 is too. good. He might feel very sorry and very 
 much hurt to be forced to take it ; and yet he would
 
 ROBERT. 173 
 
 be too good to deprive you of the blessing of giving 
 at some cost to yoiu-self.' 
 
 * Ah, you see, the hundred pounds sent as I pro- 
 posed would save all risk of mortification and obli- 
 gation. Think what a resource Johnnie has always 
 been to me, and he is my cousin. Nonsense; Mr. 
 Arnold may be too polite to tell me so, but what he 
 must really think is, why did we not think of it 
 years ago V 
 
 ' How glad I shall be, Robert, if you can manage 
 it.' 
 
 * I will manage it, Sophy,' said Robert, quietly. 
 And what did he tell me only the other day? — that, 
 helpless as I am, I still had responsibilities ; and I 
 am sure the chief is, to take care I don't waste all 
 the money that I don't spend selfishly. It's about 
 the only ' talent' I have to use.' 
 
 Sophy did not answer, but after two or three 
 minutes' pause, said, ' It is all but the half-hour, I 
 must be going ;' and bending over his sofa and kissing 
 him, ' Dear Robert, I am so glad you thought and 
 mean to do it, only — will you mind not quite doing 
 it all, letting me try to give one five pounds ? I 
 think you are quite right ; we do overlook those we 
 are far more bound to help than even the poor 
 people.' And so she left him. 
 
 r
 
 ^74 
 
 CHAPTER X^II. 
 
 VAIN REGEETS. 
 
 From grief exempt, I never had dreamt 
 
 Of such a world of woe. 
 
 ***** 
 Of the hearts that hourly break. 
 
 Of the tears that hourly fall, 
 Of the many, many troubles of life 
 
 That grieve this earthly ball — 
 Disease and hunger, and pain and want, 
 
 But now I dreamt of them all. 
 ***** 
 The wounds I might have healed. 
 
 The human sorrow and smart ! 
 And yet it never was in my soul 
 
 To play so ill a part. 
 But evil is wrought by want of thought 
 
 As well as want of heart ! 
 
 Hood. 
 
 ROBERT, left to himself, lay back in thought, 
 and not till the first shade of twilight came 
 across him remembered his sketch again. It was 
 too late to do anything to it now ; besides, Sophy 
 had not left many instructions behind her, and so 
 he lay back once more. 
 
 Sophy ran into the library in the evening, before 
 going to the drawing-room, looking quite a pretty 
 girl in her low, pale blue merino, a bright pink in 
 her cheek from the haste she had made. 
 
 * Robert, I have been so wanting to get to you
 
 VAIN REGRETS. 1 75 
 
 again ; I cannot think how it was I kept throwing 
 cold water on your plan this afternoon — because 
 you would keep trying to make yourself out such a 
 selfish wretch, I believe. I do hope my arguments 
 have not been influencing you all this time I have 
 been away.' 
 
 Robert smiled quietly. 'Why, no,' he began 
 slowly 
 
 ' Only don't lose any time. But how can you do 
 it 1 Shall I write a note for you to Mr. Arnold, 
 and ask him to come and see you, or will you ' 
 
 * Well, Sophy, do you know, it's all done ; I 
 have been bold enough to act for myself; I have 
 written to Mr. Arnold proposing it, thinking that 
 if he did not like it, he could refuse by writing, and 
 there would be an end of the matter ; no word need 
 ever pass about it between us.' 
 
 * Oh, yes ; how much better than asking him to 
 come. How much better a man's head is than a 
 woman's.' 
 
 ' Only one thing I have not done, Sophy — said 
 anything about you. I thought two joining made it 
 disagreeable, and I have plenty.' 
 
 * Oh,' said Sophy, her bonnie face falling. 
 
 * 1 was afraid you would be sorry. Of course, I 
 don't mean disagreeable to myself, but perhaps to 
 Mr. Arnold. I am sorry you are vexed.' 
 
 ' Oh, never mind. Yes, I see what you mean. 
 Oh, I do wonder what he will answer ! Robert, do 
 let me see the note as soon as you can, if it comes 
 when I am in lessons.' 
 
 ' Yes, I will. I'll send in a slip of paper, ' yes' or 
 * no,' whenever it may be. Oh, Sophy, I feel so im-
 
 176 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 patient ! just like Hector before a day's shooting, 
 I should think. Really, after all, life has some 
 pleasure and excitement for me, I believe.' 
 
 However, no answer came that evening, nor the 
 next morning, but about half-past twelve the library 
 door was thrown open and Mr. Arnold shown in. 
 
 Netta, however, had just come to read, and, 
 though she laid down her book very willingly, did 
 not offer to go ; and then came Sir Hector and 
 made the Vicar promise to stay luncheon, and sat 
 down to talk till luncheon itself came, until Robert 
 was so fretted as to grow perfectly silent and cross, 
 and more sullen than he had allowed himself to be 
 since Mr. Arnold's conversation with him a week ago. 
 
 At last one o'clock came, and the whole party left 
 him, but he had only just finished his own dinner 
 when there was a knock and Mr. Arnold entered. 
 
 'I have said good-bye to the others, because I 
 must be home by half-past two, and wanted to have 
 a few minutes alone with you, Robert, to thank you 
 for your kind note.' 
 
 ' Oh, sir !' 
 
 * I do thank you most heartily, my dear boy ; 
 but -' 
 
 ' Oh, you wont refuse me such a comfort,' inter- 
 rupted Robert, eagerly, his eyes fixed almost as wist- 
 fully and piteously as a child's upon the Vicar's face. 
 
 * ISTo, no — at least, I have no wish to do so — only, 
 from what you say, I don't think you have spoken 
 to your father about it, and I could not allow you 
 to spend so much of your allowance on a son of mine 
 without his knowledge and approval.' 
 
 * Oh, Mr. Arnold, you don't know how generous
 
 VAIN REGRETS. 1 77 
 
 he is to me. I am ashamed to tell you how much I 
 have run through this very last year, but he has 
 never enquired how I have spent a farthing of it, 
 and if I were to ask him for twenty pounds this 
 minute, would give it me without a moment's hesi- 
 tation. 
 
 * Yes, I know how generous Sir Hector is, but 
 indeed I cannot accept your offer otherwise.' 
 
 ' Oh, Mr. Arnold, I did not want any one to 
 know — I don't want any fuss or parade. I thought 
 here I could deny myself a little quietly without 
 any one knowing, except Sophy ; she is like myself, 
 I could not help asking her.' 
 
 ' I do not want any one told but Sir Hector ; he 
 would keep your secret.' 
 
 Robert was silent a minute. ' Then I am right ; 
 Johnnie would like it f he said. 
 
 ' How much you can little tell,' answered Mr. 
 Arnold, walking to the window ; ' for a whole year 
 his heart was set on it, and then, when I found the 
 determination to be a soldier did not, as I had 
 hoped, die out, I was obliged to treat my poor boy 
 as a man, and tell him how I was circumstanced, 
 and that it could never be.' 
 
 ' But surely, sir, you did not tell him he was to 
 go to Mr. Kogers V 
 
 ' Not then ; I then had no opening at all for him 
 in view. But, a few months later, I happened to 
 take him to Worcester with me, and Mr. Bogers 
 saw him and was so pleased with him that he told 
 me if ever I thought of the law for him, there was 
 no one he would like better to take into his office. 
 
 YOL. I. N
 
 178 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 He is a kind old man at heart, rough as is his 
 exterior.' 
 
 Robert almost groaned. To think how all this 
 time they themselves have been rolling with selfish, 
 good-natured, thoughtless ease in every superfluity 
 of life. 
 
 ' Johnnie heard him say so then V 
 
 * Yes, and my half acceptance. We have never 
 said a word more about it, but I was afraid my poor 
 boy took it very much to heart.' 
 
 * Oh, Mr. Arnold, what selfish, heartless brutes you 
 must have thought us all this time, and I lying 
 here with nothing to do but think !' 
 
 * Well, to begin at seventeen to think of others 
 to such good purpose is more than most men do. 
 I am afraid I never should have done so in your 
 place.' 
 
 ' But you really wish me to tell my father f 
 ' I must indeed make it a condition.' 
 
 * I am very sorry.' 
 
 ' So am I, for a reason perhaps you will not guess ; 
 but indeed it must be so.' 
 
 ' Could you wait now, sir, if I asked him to come 
 in at once f 
 
 ' Yes, if you would rather it should be so ; or 
 you might send me a line down in the evening.' 
 
 ' Oh, no ; I want it all settled. Might I ask you 
 then to see if papa's in his study, and if so, ask him 
 to come here one minute V 
 
 Mr. Arnold complied, found Sir Hector, who went 
 across to his son rather uneasily. ' Arnold means 
 to be all that is kind to that boy,' he thought ; ' but 
 I do think he's a little hard on him. Poor fellow !
 
 VAIN REGRETS. 1 79 
 
 what's the good of making him as tender-conscienced 
 as my good little Sophy there V 
 
 * Oh, pa])a, thank you,' said Kobert, not looking 
 particularly as if any apology or confession were 
 coming. ' You know you nominally allow me a 
 hundred and fifty a year — a great deal more than I 
 ever want — no wonder you smile, when I generally 
 ask for so much more ; but I don't mean to do so 
 any more ; I mean to make the hundi-ed and fifty 
 do.' 
 
 * Oh ! so Mr. Arnold has been lecturing you on 
 extravagance V 
 
 * Oh dear no,' answered Robert, eagerly ; ' but I 
 have grown heartily ashamed of it myself 
 
 ' Oh, nonsense ; I wont let you get such fancies 
 into your head. Why, if you were up and about, 
 I've no doubt you would be costing me, one way or 
 another, four times as much as you do now.' 
 
 ' But you see I am not up and about, and so a 
 hundred and fifty is a great deal more than I want 
 for clothes and nonsense. I mean to make fifty 
 do next year. You don't believe me, father. Well, 
 I can hardly tell without trying ; but I mean to 
 try, and with your Christmas present, I'm sure I 
 shall manage.' 
 
 'Well — but what's the great object of saving a 
 hundred a year ? You don't want to grow into a 
 miser, I hope V 
 
 ' Oh no, father ; it was very stupid of me not to 
 speak out at once, only I hate it so. But, Mr. 
 Arnold will have me tell you.' 
 
 ' Come, I wont have it going to ragged schools 
 and reformatories, and all that modern cant.' 
 
 N 2
 
 l8o AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 *No, simply this. Johnnie Arnold has set his 
 heart on the army even more than Hector, and 
 actually Mr. Arnold had been obliged to let him 
 know he must go into Mr. Eogers' office instead, 
 because he could not afford it. And, papa, / can 
 afford it, so I am going to do it.' 
 
 ' Did Johnnie ask you V said Sir Hector, rather 
 slowly. 
 
 ' Oh dear no ; but it struck me that he looked 
 very down-hearted all the time Hector was talkmg 
 so eagerly about going to Eltham, before luncheon 
 yesterday, and when Hector would know what he 
 was going to be if not a soldier, I thought going 
 into Mr. Rogers' office came out with a great gulp, 
 and then he turned it off by talking to me.' 
 
 Sir Hector made no answer. 
 
 ' I spoke to Sophy about it yesterday, and she 
 was against it at first, but soon quite came round, 
 and feels what I do, that we rich people are the 
 
 most heartless, selfish, dull-seeing ' Robert 
 
 stopped, the flash suddenly dying from his eyes. 
 
 ' Well, and why did you tell me T 
 
 * Because, though I wrote yesterday about it, 
 Mr. Arnold says he cannot let me use so much of 
 my allowance upon a son of his without your know- 
 ledge and approval.' 
 
 * That he may shame me with my own selfish- 
 ness,' said Sir Hector, bitterly. 
 
 ' Oh no, father ; but you don't really think it ? 
 Ah, I see now what made Mr. Arnold say he was 
 as sorry to make me tell as I could be to tell. But 
 you know that was not why he would have me 
 speak out.' 
 
 <^
 
 VAIIs" REGRETS. l8l 
 
 * Yes, I do know it, or if I didn't T should be less 
 worthy than ever to have such a man for my 
 friend,' said Sir Hector, dejectedly. 
 
 * Then, papa, may I do it V 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 ' And you wont tell any one V 
 ^No.' 
 
 ' Papa, I have managed badly somehow,' said 
 Bobert, sadly. 
 
 * Only shamed your father,' answered Sir Hector, 
 shortly. * Most people do that ; so he ought to be 
 accustomed to it by this time, frank, kind-hearted 
 man as he thinks himself.' 
 
 ' Oh, papa, how can you ! If you weren't so 
 very kind to me, I could never even have thought 
 of this gi-eat pleasure. It seems worth living for, 
 worth lying here, to save that dear little fellow from 
 a country attorney's office. Perhaps if I had not 
 lain here I should not have thought of it.' 
 
 The first time Robert had ever recognised the 
 slightest mercy in his lot. Sir Hector stood with 
 averted face, biting his lip fiercely a minute or two, 
 then turning round, said, quietly — 
 
 * You may tell Mr. Arnold that your plan has my 
 fullest sanction, and that I do not ask you to let 
 me take it off your hands, simply because I have 
 no right so easily to rid myself of the burden of 
 selfishness and shame you've laid on me.' 
 
 ' Oh, father, don't talk so ; T will never say such 
 untruths : and if you had asked me to give it up, 
 indeed I couldn't ; my life would seem all a useless 
 blank again, and the sooner I died the better, as it 
 used to do. Only, papa, you will promise me
 
 1 82 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 if I should die before it is done, you will keep 
 it up.' 
 
 ' I do promise it ; and I tell you what, my boy, 
 wise as you are, youVe forgotten the commission 
 and regimentals, and various other expenses ; and 
 mind, those, when the time comes, you must let me 
 bear.' 
 
 ' Thank you,' answered Kobert, as heartily as he 
 could ; not so very heartily after all, for he had 
 thought of them, and that they were beyond his 
 present means, but that his majority would then be 
 near, and he would be able to manage somehow. 
 However, he loved and understood his father too 
 well to claim Johnnie's whole launch into life as his 
 own rightful pleasure. He was much less selfish 
 at heart than even Mr. Arnold gave him credit 
 for. 
 
 ' Then, father, will you tell Mr. Arnold you have 
 no objection? He said he wanted to be home 
 before half-past two.' 
 
 Sir Hector crossed over his spacious, oak-floored 
 hall to the study, where he had left and now found 
 his old tutor. It was a moment of awkwardness 
 neither ever forgot. 
 
 ' Oh, I am sorry you referred Robert to me,' the 
 Squire began, trying to assume his usual frank, care- 
 less tone. 'What objection could I find, so much 
 as we owe to you, so fond as we all are of Johnnie ? 
 You will like to see Mr. Smith's letter ; there it 
 is. Thirty boys, you see. How delighted Hector 
 will be !' 
 
 * Thank you. May 1 take the note home ? My
 
 VAIN REGRETS. 1 83 
 
 wife will like to see it. If Hector will be delighted, 
 what will my own boj be ! Robert can never know 
 
 half the relief, the comfort ' The Yicar stoj^ped 
 
 short. 
 
 ' Go on,' said Sir Hector, laying his head on his 
 hands ; * go on. Shame me more ! I deserve it all I' 
 
 ' Oh, Hector, how can you take it so V 
 
 ' You know you did stop short simply because 
 you were too generous to heap more hot coals upon 
 my head.' 
 
 ' Nonsense — nonsense. I stopped short because 
 I was afraid you miglit take my pleasure to be such, 
 I allow. But you know, Hector, you always had a 
 way of perverting my words and twisting them 
 from their right meaning, so I have learnt to be 
 wary^' 
 
 ' You have, indeed ! Why did you not tell me 
 my duty ? How could you let me run on with such 
 an insolent parade of wealth and hypocritical parade 
 of affection, the other night ! To pride myself uf)on 
 remembering to send the carriage for your wife, and 
 to have left you with this burden and trial all these 
 years !' 
 
 * If a man chooses to run the risk of marrying 
 on four hundred a year, he must expect some trials 
 and burdens j and Hector, don't forget that you 
 gave me the means of marrying at all, Aggesden 
 itself; — and I have had some trials, I don't deny ; 
 but, Hector, lots are balanced more nearly than 
 you think. If I have many cares and anxieties 
 which never come near the wealthy, I do think I 
 have also pleasures which are scarcely ever theirs.
 
 184 AGGESDEN VICAEAGE. 
 
 How my little Mabel pets me ! — my Johnnie loves 
 me ! So don't make yourself so very unhappy ; 
 Johnnie's future was my greatest trial, one to which 
 I was finding it very hard to submit ; but see now 
 all at once it is removed. There is more truth in 
 that triumphant ' The Lord will provide,' than his 
 own ministers have often faith to see.' 
 
 Sir Hector made no answer. 
 
 ' I should like just to go across to Robert for a 
 minute, so I ought to say good-bye here, I am 
 afraid. If I am unpunctual to half-past two, my 
 boys will be as triumphant as you used to be when 
 you caught me out years ago. Good-bye.' 
 
 * Good-bye,' answered Sir Hector, submitting list- 
 lessly to Mr. Arnold's warm grasp. ' You know 
 there's one comfort — there will be regimentals, &c. 
 coming on in time, and those I have made Robert 
 promise shall be my care.' 
 
 ' Thank you very much,' said the Yicar, too kind- 
 hearted to add, what he still hoped, that perhaps 
 some way or another, by the time such expenses 
 must be incurred, he himself might be a freer man, 
 and need incur no further obligation. 
 
 Yes, he was a good man, but not perfect. Oh ! 
 why could he not with his own strong right arm 
 find bread and provision for his children ? Why 
 must he accept their provision in part from a boy 
 who could never earn a penny, nor would ever 
 think of doing so in his whole life % 
 
 But as he walked home again, the answer came, 
 partly in Robert's words, * It is more blessed to give 
 than to receive,' and all could not always claim the 
 higher blessing, partly that it was God's will in this
 
 VAIN EEGKETS. 1 85 
 
 case that his late hope, as every other such, had 
 come to nought, and His mercy that now made his 
 literary disappointment sink into comparative in- 
 significance, only comparative after all. If by his 
 pen he himself could set Frank fairly forth in life, 
 what happiness and pleasure would it still win him !
 
 j85 
 CHAPTER Xiy. 
 
 JOY ! 
 
 Hope on, hope ever ! though to-day be dark, 
 
 The sweet sunburst may smile on thee to-morrow ; 
 Though thou art lonely, there's an Eye will mark 
 Thy loneliness, and guerdon all thy sorrow ! 
 Hope on, hope ever. 
 
 Geeald Masset. 
 
 MR. ARNOLD reached his study by a quarter 
 to two, only by very brisk walking ; but, oh ! 
 what a comfort a brisk walk, whether obligatory or 
 voluntary, is ! cares, vexations, and mortifications, 
 irritability, vanity, and depression, flee before it, 
 and so, by the time the Yicar need face his boys, 
 his heart and brow were light again, the rebellious, 
 sturdy independence of his nature all but allayed, 
 and the first sight of ijs homs, and the remem- 
 brance of th^ happiness that the mortification of 
 l^is pride would bring his wife and son, chased it 
 away for ever. 
 
 Frank and Johnnie were waiting for him, and 
 the three-quarters of an hour passed pleasantly, 
 for both had prepared their lesson well. And as 
 soon as it was over, the Yicar pushed away the 
 books, and told John if he were not in a great 
 hurry to be off, he wanted to speak to him. 
 
 ' Oh, yes, father, only ' 
 
 ^Whatr 
 
 ' We were but it doesn't signify if you want 
 
 jne.'
 
 JOY. 187 
 
 * Well, I do want you ; but I shall not keep 
 you many minutes — and it is good news, Johnnie. 
 My boy,' layiug his hand on John's shoulder, and 
 looking full into his up-turned, half-frightened, 
 half-expectant face, 'thank God, we need never 
 think again of Mr. Rogers' office for you.' 
 
 ' Oh, papa !' cried the boy, with more of a sob 
 than a smile, such a heavy burden these few words had 
 lifted from his buoyant, aspiring nature. 
 
 ' Yes, a very kind friend — I am not to tell the 
 name, Johnnie, so you will never ask, nor guess, nor 
 spread suspicions — wishes to undertake the charge 
 of preparing you for the profession for which you 
 have always longed — the army. I am not wrong 
 in feeling you still desire it as much as ever V 
 
 ' Oh, no, papa !' 
 
 ' Well, then, my boy, your heart's desire is ful- 
 filled. And now I must thank you for the patience 
 and cheerfulness with which, after the first few 
 days, you bore a prospect so distasteful to a boy of 
 any spirit or ambition.' 
 
 ' Oh, papa ! I knew ' 
 
 ' Tliat it was as distasteful to myself as my son 1 
 It was, indeed, Johnnie ; still, as you have borne 
 adversity — it was adversity for a boy — so well, I 
 hope you will meet prosperity equally bravely. 
 School will be a new life, have unknown trials ; you 
 are a home boy, and will get well bullied and 
 fagged, and misunderstood, I daresay,' said the 
 "Vicar, smiling to hide his emotion. 
 
 * That will all be preparation, papa.' 
 
 * Yes, and very good for you. In the battle of 
 life, as that of Worcester, right must learn to bear
 
 1 88 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 "being beaten. There, I have not kept you many 
 minutes. Only you are not a soldier yet, Johnnie, 
 so one kiss, my boy.' 
 
 Oh ! how tight the lad's arms were thrown round 
 the Yicar's neck. Could any mother's and daugh- 
 ter's clasp have been more true, more tender 1 Do 
 you despise such conduct in father and son 1 Let 
 those laugh who win. 
 
 * There, now go and tell your mother.' 
 ' Papa, you would like ' 
 
 * No, no, my boy. I want to get out into the 
 parish, and it is your news.' 
 
 * Papa,' said Johnnie, hesitatingly. 
 *Yes.' 
 
 * Will you say, ' God bless you V ' 
 
 * God bless and protect my boy for ever, for the 
 sake of that Son who Himself knows the trials of 
 youth and boyhood,' said the Vicar, earnestly, and 
 so went out. 
 
 Johnnie stood still a few minutes. It was all so 
 strange and new ; could it really be true ? — then 
 dashed across the hall to the dining-room to find 
 his mother, whom, after all, he met on the stairs. 
 
 *0h, mother, mother!' he cried, joyfully, 'what 
 do you think ? I am going to be a soldier after 
 alll' 
 
 * You are 1 Who says so V 
 
 * Papa ; some one has offered to do it for him. 
 Mamma, only think !' and Johnnie threw back his 
 head, and assumed a military air to the best of his 
 power, *how I will fight for Old England and 
 you !' 
 
 * Why, Johnnie,' smoothing back the curly yellow
 
 JOY. 189 
 
 hair, and kissing tlie fair smooth forehead, with 
 trembling fingers and misty eyes, * you are like old 
 Mrs. Blogg, who said she was sure if there was a 
 war she always prayed it might be a civil one.' 
 
 ' No, mamma, I don't mean that ; but I do wish 
 I was old enough to go and fight those Russians ! 
 That's the only thing. I must wait so long to be a 
 man.' 
 
 * But you will enjoy the school-life meanwhile.' 
 
 ' Oh, so much ! Mamma, are you not pleased V 
 ' Anything that pleases my boy pleases me ; and 
 anything to keep you out of Mr. Rogers' office !' 
 ' Oh, mamma, don't talk of that again !' 
 ' I am sure I never wish to do so, Johnnie. I 
 can't think what made papa ever think of it 
 seriously. However, he will never think of it 
 again now.' 
 
 'No ; and, mamma, he is as glad as I am. Mother,' 
 and he suddenly laid his fair young head upon her 
 shoulder, ' I will make you so proud of me !' 
 
 * I am sure you will. Well, dear Johnnie, I do 
 congratulate you ! I know you will get on. Does 
 Mary know V 
 
 'No.' 
 
 ' Then run and tell her. She, poor child, will be 
 more delighted than anybody. I must come with 
 you. I should like to see her pale face brighten, 
 dear child.' 
 
 ' John ran off" to the schoolroom, burst in without 
 waiting for an answer to his hasty knock, and cried 
 eagerly — 
 
 ' Mary, I must tell you, I'm going into the army 
 after all.'
 
 190 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 'What ! Johnnie?' asked Maiy, looking up with 
 almost breathless eagerness from her exercise. 
 
 ' I am to be a soldier after all ! Only think ! 
 Hurrah !' 
 
 *0h, Johnnie, I am so glad, so very glad,' said 
 poor Mary, with bright eyes and broken voice. 
 
 ' Why, Mary dear ! — so am I. Just think of me in 
 a red coat and a sword by my side ; Kobert, wont 
 you envy me V 
 
 ' You wont be killed, then, like Sir John Moore T 
 asked Robert, upon whom Anna's repetition of 
 Wolfe's Burial of this officer had made a deep im- 
 pression. 
 
 ' No — at least I hope not ; or, if I am, that I 
 shall have won as good a name. I beg your pardon, 
 Miss Storey,' with a little blush of embarrassment 
 and shame, now first remembering the governess ; 
 * but I could not help coming — mamma gave me 
 leave to come and tell.' 
 
 ' I am so glad you did,' said Bridget, simply; 
 ' you must let me congratulate you, too,' and she 
 held out her hand, which the boy shook warmly, 
 and then went away to think over and take in, if 
 he could, this sudden realization of his brightest 
 dreams, and to do this he retreated to the study. 
 
 Here Frank, after waiting a quarter of an hour 
 for his walking companion, came to seek him, having 
 looked in vain elsewhere. 
 
 * Why, Johnnie, you don't mean you re in trouble?' 
 asked the boy, incredulously, seeing John thought- 
 ful and grave on the window-seat, his own usual 
 resort in such case. 
 
 ' Oh no ! only so glad. Frank, do you know I'm 
 
 i
 
 JOY. 19 J 
 
 not to go to Mr. Rogers ? I am going into the army- 
 after all.' 
 
 ' You are V 
 
 ' Yes ; some one is going to pay for it ; but I'm 
 not to ask wlio. Oh, Frank, I can't believe it ; it 
 seems too good to be true.' 
 
 Now, since he had left the house, another thought 
 had arisen to mar the Yicar's pleasure at this unex- 
 pected opening for his boy, — a fear that, consti- 
 tuted as Frank's temper was, he might regard 
 John's happiness with an evil eye, might with some 
 justice feel aggrieved that whilst his younger 
 brother was so well provided for, he himself was 
 left as little so as ever ; that his jealousy of John's 
 priority in the affections and favour of all about 
 them might now, alas ! burst into a flame never to 
 be extinguished. It was a far more bitter drop in 
 the cup of happiness than his own mortified inde- 
 pendence had ever been, which, indeed, was as 
 nothing by the side of such an evil as such jealousy 
 between two brothers. 
 
 But he was even yet too hard on Frank, and did 
 him injustice. He might be proud, self-willed, un- 
 gracious, and cold-mannered outwardly ; very easy 
 to offend and aggrieve, very hard to appease or win, 
 but he was not so bad-hearted as, alas ! he had made 
 his own father think him. So now his first thought 
 was not of himself, nor of any slight put on himself, 
 nor of favour shown to his brother ; his eyes bright- 
 ened, and he said, heartily, 
 
 ' Hurrah ! I always did think it was a horrid 
 shame they ever should think of Mr. Rogers' office 
 for you. Well, that is a comfort,' and he seized
 
 igZ AGGESDEN YICARAGE. 
 
 Johnnie's hand and shook it heartily, * and here's 
 another, you wont be so down-hearted about Hector 
 Merivale now, and be up to a little fun again.' 
 
 * What you never guessed — ' 
 
 ' I should think I was deaf and blind if I didn't,' 
 retorted Frank at once. ' Well, now then, come on, 
 or we shall never get home by tea-time and then I 
 shall get rowed, and I'm trying for fun to see if I 
 can get through one week without ;' and the two 
 brothers started arm-in-arm, talking eagerly, and 
 thusthe Vicar saw them from a cottage window, and 
 his heart rejoiced within him. 
 
 It was then Johnnie discovered how very little 
 he had in his eagerness learned, — nothing but 
 the bare fact that some one was going to take 
 upon himself his preparation for the army. But 
 to whom he was to go to be prepared, or for what 
 branch of the service he was to be prepared, he knew 
 no more than Frank, who, in consequence, thought 
 him the stupidest fellow on earth, and did not at all 
 scruple to tell him so ; but such open speaking did 
 not damp the spirits or happiness of either, and both 
 boys raced into Massing, bought the gunpowder 
 Frank wanted, and raced back again within the two 
 hours. They came in then, happy and breathless, to 
 the dining-room, by the fire of which Mr. and Mrs. 
 Arnold were sitting, and, after detailing their rapid 
 proceedings, asked eagerly all the particulars that 
 John had neglected to learn from his father a few hours 
 earlier. Frank asked quite as eagerly as Johnnie, 
 and Mr. Arnold gave up an idea, the advisability of 
 which had at one time seemed great, — that of tell- 
 ing Frank that John's launch into life being taken
 
 JOY. 193 
 
 off his shoulders, he should consider that of his 
 eldest son his own special charge. He would not 
 cease so to consider it, but he would not speak of 
 any such determination to Frank. His father's 
 sliould not be the hand to give any opening for 
 the inlet of jealousy. 
 
 The next morning there were three letters for 
 the Yicar and — his MS. He put it by with a brave 
 smile, and, just glancing at the second printed re- 
 fusal, burnt it, pitying the poor worried editor or 
 reader for simply liaving had to date it, and then 
 opened the firsb of his other letters which came to 
 hand, which was as follows : — 
 
 ' Marhet Rayston, Hereford. 
 
 ' Dear Sir, — In all probability you have for- 
 gotten me even by name, for it's ten years now since 
 I left Worcester ; but if not, may have noticed in the 
 papers the appointment of David Kelme, Fellow of 
 Trinity, to the mastership of Market E,ayston 
 Grammar School ; perhaps even, as the salary is 
 good and a fixed one, have thought the old curate 
 of St. Agatha's a very lucky fellow. No such 
 thing ! the school is in a detestable condition in 
 every way, possessing fifty scholars indeed, but of 
 these barely fifteen are gentlemen, and an under- 
 bred second master of whom / cannot get rid. 
 
 * You will at least own all this is candid, when 
 I tell you my object in writing is to ask if you can- 
 not send me a gentlemanly boy or two to cheer me 
 up a bit, and help raise the character of the school? 
 The foundation of good old Sir Adam for the free 
 education of thirty of the natives of Herefordshire, 
 Worcestershire, and Gloucester is full now, but of 
 
 VOL. I. O
 
 194 AGGESDEN VIC AE AGE. 
 
 course there will be vacancies in time, and there are 
 also three foundations of X50 a-year each to Queen's, 
 Oxford. It would be a real charity if yourself or 
 any of your clerical neighbours could and would 
 send me three or four gentlemanly boys at the bare 
 cost of board and books. 
 
 ' But enough of this grumbling. At any rate 
 this mastership has taken me from the clodhoppers 
 of Bucks and enabled me to marry a dear little 
 woman named Janet Kirkby, who waited five years 
 for me without fading or souring. I don't think 
 those weary years agreed so well with her husband, 
 or else five-and-thirty snobs are enough to make any 
 man mad and irascible. I know I am often both. 
 
 ' Kind regards to Mrs. Arnold and all the wishes 
 of the season to yourself. Where is that little yel- 
 low-haired fellow you always spoilt so atrociously ? 
 Could not you spare him to me for a year or two 
 to be licked into shape 1 
 
 * Yours sincerely, 
 
 ' D. Kelme.' 
 
 The Vicar sometimes smiled, oftener sighed as he 
 read. * Ah, if I could but send Frank,' he almost 
 groaned, ' what might not school do for him ? 
 Kelme may be rather irascible. I dare say he is, 
 — he always was a little too sharp and sarcastic 
 on his fellow-creatures even at Worcester, — but he 
 is a good clever man, would work a school well, and 
 a few years of school discipline and companionship 
 would do Frank a world of good. Well, never 
 mind ! — Now, what does William say V 
 
 Mr. William Arnold's letter ran as follows : —
 
 JOY. 195 
 
 * A rundel Villa, Clapham. 
 
 * Dear Fkank, — I don't know how it is we 
 never seem to meet now and know so little of each 
 other's families. The fault lies with our homes 
 being so far apart ; nowhere else I believe. I sup- 
 pose your children must be growing up ; mine are, I 
 find, for I am writing to announce a piece of family 
 news. Mary Louisa is engaged to young Hawkins, 
 of the firm of Hawkins, Brett, and Co., good old 
 house, and a capital match ; but the young people 
 must wait, and seem so happy in waiting I think 
 early marriage would have cut their serene court- 
 ship rather unpleasantly short. Honestly, I think 
 my Mary will not become Mrs. Charles Hawkins 
 till quite the end of next year, when the young 
 man (all I could wish) will be five-and-twenty, and 
 herself little more than nineteen, so you see they 
 can afibrd to wait. But writing to tell you all this, 
 reminds me very disagreeably how neither do I 
 know your family nor you mine. The first evil I 
 hope you will help me to mend. Let your eldest 
 boy Francis (?) come up and spend his holidays with 
 my Willie, see a little life and become acquainted 
 with all his unknown cousins. My wife desires her 
 compliments to Mrs. Francis Arnold, and joins 
 heartily in my request. I think the lads are about 
 the same age. Willie is thirteen j four daughters 
 before ever a son, you may remember, but now I 
 can complain as little of lack of one as the other, 
 having now five of each. Ah, Frank ! I should 
 have been a rich man long ago but for all these tiea 
 to mediocrity. 
 
 o 2
 
 1^6 AGGESDEN tiCARAGE. 
 
 ' Little hats, little shoes for the dear little pets. 
 Are rather expensive when purchased in sets.' 
 
 Don't you agree with me? Still, thank God 
 means always grow with needs, and we can do a 
 good deal more than keep the wolf from the door. 
 Mary is grown quite a pretty girl since the days 
 you knew her, and sings as sweetly as my poor 
 sister Ellen ; you must come to the wedding and see 
 her — no, come and marry her, that will be far better. 
 This is about the longest letter I have ever written 
 in my life, so you will excuse my saying I am 
 heartily tired of it, if you are not, and signing myself 
 without further ado, 
 
 * Your affectionate cousin, 
 
 *W. G. Arnold.' 
 
 ' Ah, he shall go,' said the Yicar, resolutely, as he 
 refolded the letter with a smile ; * he will see Lon- 
 don before Johnnie, yet. An expensive journey — 
 terrible — but I will manage it. Ah, why didn't 
 ' Our Margaret ' bring the wherewithal this morn- 
 ing ; but — never mind, two blessings promise to be 
 mine which, when I first sent her on her travels, I 
 scarcely ever hoped to see. Frank has owned a 
 fault and certainly for four whole days tried more 
 or less to please me, and my dear John is saved from 
 Mr. Rogers' office ! Well, my pen has no hand in 
 working either blessing, but they are mine without 
 it : so there ' Our Margaret ' may lie and rest in 
 peace for a season. Who knows but she may serve 
 me in some stead yetf
 
 197 
 
 CHAPTER XY. 
 
 A STORM. 
 
 Amid the rushes green and slight, 
 Beneath the willows tall and strong. 
 
 Wave after wave, so fast and bright, 
 The river runs along. 
 
 And every virtue, every crime, 
 
 Our thoughts, our deeds, our feelings cast 
 
 A shadow on the stream of time 
 As it goes rushing past. 
 
 'Twas good or bad, 'twas right or wrong ; 
 
 And He who notes our every deed 
 Has caught it as it swept along, 
 
 And marked it for its meed. 
 
 Moral Songs. 
 
 CHRISTMAS was drawing very near, near 
 enough for Mrs. Arnold to say to Bridget, 
 when one afternoon they were alone together for a 
 few minutes, 
 
 ' We are wondering, Miss Storey, whether you 
 would wish to go home for the holidays or stay with 
 us?' 
 
 Words which awoke a great longing to go home 
 in the breast of the young governess, but she had 
 already decided that prudence strongly advised the 
 contrary course; the jom^ney to and fro was so 
 costly it would take away by far too large a propor- 
 tion of her quarter's earnings.
 
 198 AGGESDEN VICAllAGE. 
 
 ' Thank you ; I almost think, if I shall not 
 be in the way, I had rather, — should prefer 
 staying.' 
 
 ' Well, we were thinking it would be the best for 
 us both, unless you particularly wisbed otherwise* 
 We much prefer the children's boliday being short 
 now and longer in proportion in tbe summer, wliich 
 will be more enjoyable spare time to you as well as 
 to them, I hope.' 
 
 * Thank you,' answered Bridget, but with some- 
 thing of a cboking in her throat as she thought of 
 Laurel-terrace, and John without his sister on 
 Christmas Day. And then how John must be 
 grown. 
 
 ' I think perhaps after all you had rather go 
 home,' said Mrs. Arnold, kindly, * and we are in no 
 hurry. Think it over, and if you prefer deciding 
 otherwise, do ; only I am afraid we could not spare 
 longer than till the Monday fortnight after Christ- 
 mas Day.' 
 
 'Thank you,' repeated Bridget, 'but indeed I 
 need not keep you in any uncertainty. I am quite 
 sure, having left home so lately, I ought not to go 
 home now.' 
 
 ' Well, I am very glad you think so. The 
 children are so much improved since you came, and 
 you have them in such good order, I am sure Mr. 
 Arnold and myself would feel equally sorry to see 
 the routine into which you have trained them so 
 soon interrupted. I must tell you. Miss Storey, 
 how perfectly, — how more than satisfied we both 
 are with your whole system.' 
 
 Bridget's cheek glowed, and after this kind com-
 
 A STORM. 
 
 199 
 
 pliment slie found it much more easy to face tlie 
 thought of her first Christmas away from home. 
 
 Christmas Day this year, 1854, fell on a Monday, 
 and the holidays were to begin on Thursday, the 
 two last days being always busily spent in deco- 
 rating the church and house. Frank left home on this 
 Thursday morning in high spirits for town, so de- 
 termined he should enjoy himself, that there was 
 Tery little doubt of his actually doing so. 
 
 Anna begged very hard for a half holiday that 
 they might put the decorations in training for the 
 next day, but as Mary said at once two whole days 
 were always enough for all they had to do, Bridget 
 would give the little girl no permission to carry 
 such a request to her mother ; only as Anna looked 
 terribly disappointed and a little cross, offered to 
 begin the afternoon school hours directly after 
 dinner, and as soon as the proper lessons were well 
 done to let both sisters go. 
 
 Bridget laid great emphasis on the *well,' for 
 Anna's attention and heart in her lessons were at 
 all times small, and in the review Bridget had last 
 night been taking of the past three months, seemed 
 to have grown less, or at least to give so little im 
 provement in outward fruit or will, tliat the young 
 governess could not help fearing her early partiality 
 for the little girl had made her put up with far less 
 pains and attention than she ought to have done. 
 
 ' Anna, take care,' she said more than once in the 
 first half hour of this afternoon ; ' I am sure you are 
 writing a great deal too fast. Bemember, I said 
 well done, and I cannot take such a careless exercise 
 as yesterday's again.*
 
 20O AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 Meanwhile Mary was practising with her own 
 characteristic extreme carefulness, repeating most 
 perseveringly every difficult and intricate passage, 
 and yet playing even such repetitions with so much 
 taste and feeling that the whole effect of her prac- 
 tising was soothing rather than irritating. Cer- 
 tainly Mary's repeats were a much nearer approach 
 to sweet sounds than the scratch of Anna's pen or 
 Caroline's plaintive *je suis, tu sommes,' &c. 
 
 ' Anna, indeed you must not scribble on in that 
 way,' said Bridget again. 
 
 Anna wriggled impatiently, and after one mo- 
 ment resumed so near an approach to her former 
 speed, any difference between the past and present 
 was in reality a distinction, not a difference. 
 
 Bridget left Caroline to recover from her aggra- 
 vation of misery on learning tu sommes was not 
 ' thou art,' and went and looked over Anna's 
 , shoulder. 
 
 * Oh, Anna, that is very bad,' as she caught sight 
 of an array of erasures and blots ; ^ how much more 
 have you to do V 
 
 ' Only those three lines.' 
 
 * Now listen ; you know I have warned you again 
 and again, and if you do not write those last three 
 lines as well as you can, I must indeed have the 
 exercise written out properly from beginning to 
 end.' 
 
 Anna shrugged away her shoulder from under 
 Bridget's gentle hand, and answered shortly — 
 ' You said I might go when it was done.' 
 
 * When it was * well' done,' said Bridget, quietly, 
 and returned to poor Carry, who, having discovered
 
 A STORM* 201 
 
 Hu es* was tvhat was required from her, was now 
 quite happy again, and was in five minutes dis- 
 missed. By this time Anna had laid down her pen, 
 and was awaiting Bridget's attention with more 
 evident impatience than was at all polite. 
 
 ' Now then, Anna, let me see.' 
 
 Anna brought forward her book, not without 
 some shame, now the time was come. 
 
 ' Well, Anna, I am very sorry for you, but in- 
 deed the exercise is so carelessly prepared in 
 every way I have no choice left. You had better 
 turn over to a new page and begin quite afresh.' 
 
 Anna did not even ofier to take the book, her 
 brow clouded over, her eyes flashed, and sur- 
 prised as Bridget was, she could not help being 
 struck most of all by the sudden likeness which 
 flashed out in both to Frank. 
 
 ^ The sooner you begin, Anna, the sooner you can ■ 
 go,' said Bridget, quietly laying the book down ; and, 
 turning to Mary, whose practising was nearly over, 
 gave her attention to the piece she was practising 
 playing. 
 
 'That is very nice indeed, Mary,' said the 
 governess warmly, when the andante was ended ; 
 ^ I do not think even Mrs. Arnold could play it with 
 m.ore finish.' 
 
 Mary's pale face lighted a minute, but she put 
 by her music without a further word than the 
 ' Thank you ' with which she always acknowledged 
 any special lesson from her governess. Bridget in 
 many ways liked Maiy more and more as time went 
 on, but the girl's character was stUl something of 
 a riddle to her, in reality too reserved and proud
 
 203 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 for a nature so kindly and homely as Bridget's own 
 to comprehend it readily. 
 
 Turning round again, Bridget found Anna stand- 
 ing where she had left her. 
 
 ' Why, Anna, what do you want ? your pen 
 mended ? Why did you not tell me ?' 
 
 * No,' answered Anna, sturdily, ' but you said I 
 might go when it was done.' 
 
 * Anna, that is the truth, but not the whole 
 truth,' answered the governess a little indignantly ; 
 * I did not think you would have repeated it.' 
 
 *I wont do it, I wont do it,' repeated Anna, 
 bursting into vehement sobs ; ' I will never do it 
 again.' 
 
 Bridget was thoroughly startled and alarmed by 
 such a childish outburst of passion, whilst Mary 
 said sternly, ' Anna, how can you behave so % She 
 often used to do so with Miss Marshall,' seeing 
 Bridget's consternation ; and then took up her work 
 and went out of the room. 
 
 Bridget took up her own embroidery and worked 
 on quietly some five minutes, knowing nothing 
 better to do, and hoping time at least would stop 
 those fierce rebellious tears ; but no, at the end of 
 the five minutes the sobs were as loud and heavy as 
 ever. 
 
 'Anna, you must not be so childish, you will 
 hurt yourself,' said Miss Storey then, with quiet de- 
 termination. Happily for herself, although from 
 her quietness and docility she passed for a meek- 
 spirited little individual with the world, there was 
 a spirit within her which rose equal to most emer- 
 gencies.
 
 A STORM. 203 
 
 * Go away ! I wont — I tell you I wont.' 
 
 ' Well, Anna, if I do go away, it will be quite de- 
 termined that you do write that exercise, and write 
 it properly, before you go on to the next.' 
 
 * And I tell you I will never write it,' said Anna, 
 stopping her tears one minute to confront her 
 antagonist with those steady, sturdy brown eyes of 
 hers. 
 
 * Anna, you will have to do it j and it is a great 
 pity to repeat so often what you must sooner or 
 later prove false by your own deeds. Why not 
 make an effort now ? write it at once, and you 
 will be free to go to your decorating before dark, 
 even now,' ended Bridget, in the quiet con- 
 ciliatory tone which had already warded off one or 
 two such storms, little as she knew it. 
 
 ' I have told you I will not !' said Anna, sullenly. 
 
 'Words very much to your shame,' answered 
 Bridget, resolutely ; ' for your own father and 
 mother have placed your lessons in my hands, so 
 you are disobeying them, not only myself.' 
 
 * Go away, go away !' cried Anna, stamping her 
 foot passionately. 
 
 ' No, I shall not go away just yet ; but wait, 
 hoping your good sense and right feeling will come 
 back again.' 
 
 Bridget took her seat at the window — her back 
 to the stormy wrath she had so innocently excited. 
 Anna flung herself down on the floor, and cried 
 and cried, till, in spite of Mary's parting consola- 
 tion, Bridget was seriously alarmed. Perhaps, if 
 she had seen Frank's passion of tears a fortnight 
 before, she would have learnt that it was thus such
 
 i;j04 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 volcanic tempers must find vent before nature could 
 replace their thunder-clouds with even outward 
 serenitj. 
 
 * Really,' thought the poor little governess, much 
 distressed, ' I cannot let this go on. The child will 
 be positively exhausted and ill. Where did I 
 make the mistake ? how can I rectify it 1 But I 
 must not give in ; if I once let an outburst like 
 this overwhelm me, my influence, good or evil, is 
 over for ever.' 
 
 She waited a few minutes more, then the fierce 
 sobs still continuing, rose, and said quietly, ' Anna, 
 get up ; I really cannot allow such childish, im- 
 proper behaviour any longer.' 
 
 ' I wont.' 
 
 * Anna, you must ;' and Bridget raised the child 
 with such unwavering determination, that Anna, 
 to her own surprise, suffered herself to be drawn 
 up, as a passive log, indeed, but without any un- 
 seemly struggle. 
 
 * And now, dear Anna, do use your good sense, 
 and do what you know you ought to do, write your 
 exercise at once.' 
 
 * I wont.' 
 
 ' Oh, Anna, I am sorry you can b6 such a self- 
 willed, naughty girl.' 
 
 Bridget's tone showed her sorrow was a reality ; 
 but Anna, determined not to be moved, only re- 
 peated her stupid and wearisome ' I wont,' and 
 burst into a fresh torrent of crying sobs. 
 
 ' Anna, I must stop this,' said Bridget, changing 
 her tone. * Now, listen, I am very sorry to say it, 
 but I am quite in earnest. I shall leave you for a
 
 A STORM. 205 
 
 quarter of an hour; but if you greet me with 
 another burst of such tears, I must ask Mi-s. Arnold 
 to take you off my hands ;' and so Bridget left her 
 old favourite, and in the hall was caught by Carry, 
 a stream of gathers, behind her, which Robert had 
 just torn out, and which she begged Bridget so 
 piteously to mend, that she might get out to 
 Thomas's bonfire again, that a heart of stone could 
 not have refused, much less such a heart as Bridget's. 
 But the rent was so extensive, that the business of 
 repairing it was but just concluded, when the 
 governess' quarter of an hour was over. 
 
 She felt thoroughly committed, and most anxious 
 that the threat of calling in Mrs. Arnold would have 
 proved sufficient, for she had never hitherto brought 
 any schoolroom trouble before either master or 
 mistress, sharp as had been one or two struggles 
 she had had before now with little Kobert. Ima- 
 gine her dismay to find Anna as vehemently tearful 
 as ever ; but she said, bravely, ' I am sorry, Anna, 
 you leave me no choice,' and went in search of 
 Mrs. Arnold, who was in the dining-room, so easily 
 found. 
 
 * I am very sorry to trouble you, ma'am,' began 
 the governess, colouring and hesitating ; ' but Anna 
 has been crying so fiercely, for more than half 
 an hour, because I returned her exercise, that 
 I was obliged at last to tell her I must ask 
 you to be so good as to — take the responsibility 
 off me.' 
 
 ' Anna ? — in one of her old bursts of temper 1 
 How excessively provoking. Indeed, Miss Storey, 
 if you cannot control it, I am sure I could do
 
 205 AGGESDEN VICABAGE. 
 
 nothing with her. I never could. But I will ask 
 Mr. Arnold.' 
 
 ' Oh, indeed, ma'am,' said Bridget, quite appalled 
 at the thought of the Yicar being called into her 
 schoolroom ; * I could not think of disturbing Mr. 
 Arnold. I will try again.' 
 
 * Indeed, you are too patient and kind with 
 her. No one can do anything with Anna but her 
 father, when she lets her temper get the better of 
 her in this way. "Where she and Frank get their 
 tempers from, I cannot think ! But I will come 
 and see / and Mrs. Arnold followed Bridget to the 
 schoolroom. 
 
 If, however, Anna had ceased outward signs of 
 temper in Bridget's absence — and Bridget could 
 not but think she must have done so, if only to rest 
 herself — her entrance was the signal for a fresh 
 outbreak, which Mrs. Arnold's gentle remon- 
 strating, ' Anna, how can you be childish 1 Anna, I 
 wonder you are not quite ashamed of yourself,' 
 seemed only to increase. Mrs. Arnold speedily 
 slipped away, and Bridget, thus deserted, felt very 
 sorry she had rejected Mr. Arnold's aid so imme- 
 diately, till she heard his step approachicg, and 
 then felt all her first sorrow, vexation, and con- 
 sternation. 
 
 However, there was decided comfort in the very 
 resoluteness of his tread, even in the sternness with 
 which he laid his hand upon Anna's shoulder and 
 asked what all this meant. 
 
 * I wont do it !' repeated Anna, in exactly the 
 same tone she had used now for nearly an hour. 
 
 * What is it, Miss Storey 1 Speak out j tell me
 
 A STORM. 207 
 
 all, if you please.' And so Bridget was forced to 
 give a very circumstantial account of the miserable 
 occurrences of the afternoon. 
 
 ' Thank you. It is a very sad story, Anna, but 
 I hope you will show your sense of Miss Storey's 
 kindness and forbearance by begging her pardon at 
 once, and doing as she told you.' 
 
 ' I wont !' said Anna again, but in a much 
 moderated key, and beginning to look ashamed and 
 miserable. 
 
 ' Well, then, I cannot let either her patience or 
 gentleness be longer abused. You have had full 
 time to think better of the whole business, and do 
 your duty, so I can have no more dallying. I 
 ask you for the last time, will you do the exercise V 
 
 * No,' muttered sullenly. 
 
 *Then, Anna, go upstairs to bed this minute. 
 Good-night,' and Mr. Arnold was gone, but was 
 obeyed, whatever Bridget might be. 
 
 A few minutes later the Vicar met Miss Storey 
 in the hall. 
 
 ' I am afraid,' he said, with rather a sad smile, 
 * you must feel disappointed with the result of my 
 interference ; but indeed, with Frank and Anna I 
 cannot say a thing shall be done the minute I order 
 it. They are so obstinate, so determined, really so 
 stupified by their own violence, when once they 
 have said they will not do the question in dispute, 
 that I can only punish the disobedience to-day and 
 insist upon the performance of the duty to-morrow.' 
 
 ' Oh, sir, I am only so sorry you were troubled at 
 all.' 
 
 * I am very sorry there was any need ; but in-
 
 208 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 deed, you were only too forbearing ; I am very 
 sorry I could not insist on instant obedience. I 
 have once or twice fought out such a struggle with 
 Frank, to show him I am master, and master when 
 I choose ; but at a cost you would not wish me to 
 incur, I am sure. And Anna is really a very good 
 girl, and by to-morrow will be quite miserable 
 enough as it is at having behaved so shamefully 
 before her ' dear Miss Storey.' ' 
 
 ' Oh, sir, you are so kind,' said Bridget, after 
 the long struggle almost tearful herself. 
 
 * Because I am so grateful for your unwearied 
 patience with your difficult charges — so grateful 
 for never having been called in before. Remember, 
 it was Mrs. Arnold brought me now, not yourself, 
 so the spell is not broken, and I hope never will 
 be ;' and he left her with a kindly smile. 
 
 r
 
 209 
 
 CHAPTEE XVI. 
 
 REPENTANCE. 
 
 And ah ! to him what tenfold woe, 
 
 Who hides so well his sin, 
 Through earth he seems a saint to go, 
 
 Yet dies impure within. 
 
 Pray we our Lord one pang to send 
 
 Of deep remorseful fear 
 For every smile of partial friend — 
 
 Praise be our penance here ! 
 
 Lyra Innocentium, 
 
 AFTER tea, Mr. Arnold meeting Mary on the 
 stairs, inquired after Anna. *She has been 
 asleep, papa,' answered Mary, a little contemp- 
 tuously ; ' but now she wanted me to ask you 
 whether she might get up just to do her exercise.' 
 
 This was very different from anything Frank 
 would have said, and indeed here lay the great dif- 
 ference between the brother and sister. Anna's 
 passion once gone, she was penitent and humble at 
 once and most eager to atone for the fault, whatever 
 it might have been ; whilst Frank's storms ordinarily 
 left very heavy clouds behind them and very little 
 penitence, if any. 
 
 ' No, I cannot allow it,' answered Mr. Arnold, 
 * now,' which answer Mary faithfully reported, and 
 thought over with some complacency as a few 
 minutes later she sat with neat hair, neat dress, and 
 skilful fingers stitching a wristband for one of 
 
 VOL. I. P
 
 210 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 Johnnie's future Eltham shirts. She had never 
 incurred papa's displeasure — no, she could not re- 
 member his once ever having found serious fault 
 with her, much less having punished her ; whilst 
 here was Anna, at eleven and a-half, so great a 
 baby as to be sent to bed in disgrace. On the 
 whole, the contrast pleased poor Mary : Anna's 
 misbehaviour, her own propriety, marked their 
 standings so well — Anna nothing but a great child, 
 herself almost a woman. She forgot what distress 
 their father's answer had occasioned her little warm- 
 hearted sister, and never pictured the silent, miser- 
 able tears dropping one by one on poor Anna's pillow. 
 
 ^You must be tired of that work, Mary,' said 
 Mr. Arnold, after an hour's perfect silence, Frank 
 and Anna away, Johnnie reading, Eobert and 
 Carry at tactics ; ^ go and give us a little music' 
 
 Mary complied willingly. Bridget felt quite 
 nervously anxious that her pupil should do full 
 justice to her recent persevering efforts and pro- 
 gress ; but she need not have feared. No such 
 nervousness as would have been her own in similar 
 case assailed Mary Arnold ; she sat down quietly 
 and played through the andante for which Bridget 
 had commended her in the afternoon with quite as 
 much steadiness as with only her governess and 
 &ister for audience, and even more taste and finish. 
 
 ' Why, Mary, how you have improved ! I am sure 
 you do great credit to Miss Storey,' said the Vicar, 
 heartily. 
 
 • Mary has taken so very much pains with herself,' 
 answered Bridget. 
 . ' So you mean to eqi:ial mamma, after all, Molly.
 
 REPENTANCE. 211 
 
 "Well, give us something else j' and Mary played on 
 for the next half-hour. 
 
 Then the little ones went to bed, and the music 
 over, Mary returned to the table, but instead of re- 
 suming her wristband, produced out of a paper 
 packet the pasteboard letters of the last year's 
 decorations, and quietly looked through them to 
 discover what letters were wanting; for somehow, no 
 one quite knows how, such sets never are preserved 
 quite entire from year to year. This, and cutting 
 out fresh ones, and a game of chess with Johnnie, 
 took up the time till nine, and then she went 
 upstairs to bed herself, to find Anna asleep again. 
 
 The next morning, before Bridget was quite ready 
 to go down, but was standing at the window hastily 
 mending the torn braid of the gown, there was a 
 knock at her door, and Anna entered, copybook in 
 hand, and very tearful-eyed. 
 
 Bridget turned to her full of pity, but at the very 
 first word the little girl flung her arms round her 
 governess's neck, sobbing, ' I am so sorry, so very 
 sorry.' 
 
 * Don't think anything more of it, dear,' answered 
 Bridget gently, ' and don't cry any more,' afraid her 
 sobs would once more master her ; * let me see your 
 exercise — it looks ^vsery neatly written.* 
 
 Anna stood by gulping down her tears as she best 
 could, whilst Bridget corrected her unusually neat 
 handiwork. ' Yery good, indeed, dear Anna,' said 
 the governess, kissing the poor child as she returned 
 the copybook, afraid of saying more, seeing how 
 slight a dam was the resolution which was keeping 
 back the culprit's tears. ' Now I wonder if you can 
 
 P 3
 
 2i:j AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 stay and help me with my braid ? I have j ast 
 caught it on the fender and torn off a longer piece 
 than I can mend by myself before breakfast, I'm 
 afraid.' 
 
 ' I will fetch my thimble in a minute,' said Anna ; 
 and away she flew, returning with it in a marvel- 
 lously short time, and set to work with such good- 
 will, that her half was finished two whole minutes 
 before Miss Storey's own. The prayer-bell rang as 
 Bridget was finishing off her thread, and so gover- 
 ness and pupil ran down together. 
 
 The breakfast passed off much more quietly and 
 orderly than usual, Frank away and Anna silent 
 and sad, scarcely raising her eyes from her plate. 
 Poor Bridget felt more sorry than she could tell 
 that such should be the beginning of the holiday to 
 which the child had looked forward with such eager 
 delight, hoping, however, the pleasures and busy- 
 ness of the decoration preparations would soon drive 
 such unusual melancholy away. 
 
 But the Vicar had steeled himself to act a very 
 stern part, not, indeed, without much consideration 
 and a long struggle in his own mind. Anna was 
 now (as Mary had thought the night before,) no 
 longer a mere child in years, and could no longer 
 be held so little responsible as she had hitherto 
 been for such unruly outbursts as that of yesterday. 
 She must be taught to recognise their gravity, to 
 set her own self to work to stay and check them. 
 So after breakfast, the Yicar called the little girl 
 into his study. 
 
 ' Oh, papa,' cried Anna, quite relieved to be at 
 last alone with her father, * I am so very sorry. I
 
 REPENTANCE. 313 
 
 have told Miss Storey, and done my exercise ; you 
 will forgive me now 1 though you would not last 
 night.' 
 
 ' Quite forgive you, Anna ; but you mistake my 
 refusal then,' answered Mr. Arnold, seriously ; ' you 
 are growing too old now, for me to dare to treat 
 such outbursts of temper as I used to do. I refused 
 to let you do your exercise last night, not because 
 I was still angry with you, or was not pleased at 
 your wishing to do so, but to make you taste now 
 something of the pain to which, if you do not con- 
 quer it whilst you can, such temper will in after 
 life expose you. Hitherto, as soon as it was gone 
 out of you, you have been able to repair the evil 
 you have done ; but, my child, as you grow older, 
 you will find this blessing more and more rarely 
 yours — you will find the consequences of your pas- 
 sion or obstinacy far more important, far more 
 lasting ; and will find, too, that instead of being able 
 to repair the efiects of either as soon as sorry for 
 it, you will very likely never be able to repair them 
 at all.' 
 
 * Oh, papa !' cried Anna, frightened by his gravity. 
 
 ' Indeed it will be so. We grown-up people may 
 repent our hasty words, or unkind deeds, as much 
 as you do now, Anna, but too often find, repent as 
 we may, we cannot efiace the pain they have given, 
 cannot repair the evil they have done, bitterly as we 
 may lament them, earnestly as we may strive to 
 atone for them. And, Anna, it was to teach you 
 something of the misery your temper may hereafter 
 cause you that I refused to allow you to atone for 
 your disobedience last night. In this case, it was
 
 314 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 simply your earthly father's will that stood in the 
 way of immediate reparation ; alas ! as you grow 
 older, my little girl, it will be your heavenly 
 Father's — one that neither I nor you can move 
 one tittle.' 
 
 His daughter looked up into his face awed. 
 
 * Do you understand me, Anna V 
 
 * I think I do, papa ; but — it made me so wretched 
 last night.' 
 
 ' Poor child ! But so has my heavenly Father's 
 not allowing myself to atone for a sharp word or 
 needless harshness often made your father. Still, 
 Anna, I have not done yet. A year ago, as soon 
 as the passion of which you had been guilty was 
 over, you said you were sorry ; I let you repair the 
 disobedience or wilfulness of which you had been 
 guilty, and thus the matter ended. But now, Anna, 
 you are old enough to know something, if not all, 
 of the real wickedness of such outbursts, what a 
 shameful thing it is for a little Christian child to 
 let her temper so master her sense of right and 
 wrong as to make her defy those God himself has 
 set over her. And this is the reason, my dear little 
 girl, that I cannot let this misbehaviour pass so 
 readily either from your mind or my own, as I have 
 allowed its predecessors to do. You must learn its 
 sinfulness from its consequences, and so I shall not 
 allow you for this day to take any part in the 
 church decorations. You may take the house off 
 Mary's hands, if you like ; but a little girl who only 
 yesterday so broke God's laws is not fit to take such 
 part in His service.' 
 
 Anna was too awed, too really repentant, too well
 
 REPENTANCE. 21 S 
 
 trained in obedience in all reasonable moments, to 
 utter one appealing word against this overthrow of 
 her long-desired, busy happiness. She only answered 
 b roken-voiced — 
 
 ' Papa, I will try to remember why it is. and — 
 bear it,' with one bitter sob. 
 
 ' Bear it well ; helping mamma, being patient 
 with the little ones, being useful wherever you can, 
 that is all I can expect or even wish. Good- 
 bye, my little girl,' and he kissed her, a kiss Anna 
 returned from the bottom of her heart ; ' I must go 
 to the church myself, or others will be waiting 
 for me.' 
 
 Anna's first bearing of it ^ well' was, poor child? 
 to run away from all sight of evergreen and holly 
 and sit crouched up and wretched in one corner of 
 her room. But the words, ' helping mamma,' ' being 
 useful to others,* rang in her ears, and she ran down- 
 stairs again to try and find heart to fulfil this in- 
 junction ; how merciful an one it was she was far 
 too young, or at least too childish, to realize. She 
 little thought what a terrible penalty enforced use- 
 lessness would have been. And so Anna spent her 
 morning minding Robert and Mabel, whilst nurse 
 was busy in the kitchen helping cook with Cliristmas 
 soups and puddings, then in carrying a flannel ])etti- 
 coat to an old woman at the extremity of the village, 
 taking Robert with her to get him out of the way, 
 and would have been rendered quite happy a_<rain 
 by such unusual trust and usefulness had not the 
 one subject of the dinner-table consisted neces- 
 sarily, almost exclusively, of that in which he had 
 been judged unworthy to take part.
 
 ai6 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 Mary stayed at home a quarter of an hour after 
 dinner, sewing with her ready rapid fingers the 
 needful ivy on the most delicate of her emblems, and 
 Anna sat by, watching each stitch with sad, longing 
 eyes — longing how much, those less active-natiired 
 can little tell, to join in all the work then going on 
 elsewhere. 
 
 ' Aren't you coming this afternoon f asked Mary, 
 quite innocently ; indeed thinking Anna was shirk- 
 ing her fair share. 
 
 * No j papa said I was not.' 
 
 Mary looked surprised; then the truth struck 
 her. We will not say she looked pleased, but her 
 head rose a little higher over her work, though 
 neither by word nor conscious look would she have 
 done anything to increase Anna's grief and shame. 
 
 The church was but small, and in such expert hands 
 as the Vicar's, Mary's, and Johnnie's, such willing 
 one's as Bridget's, wreaths, decorations, and sentences 
 made such rapid advances, that Sir Hector and An- 
 toiaette Merivale, when they looked in in the course 
 of the afternoon, to see what was going on, were per- 
 fectly astonished to hear that the efiect they then saw 
 had been entirely produced since nine that morning. 
 
 * But we came to help,' said Sir Hector ; ' set me 
 to work, Arnold. Ah, Johnnie ! giant as you are, 
 you are not tall enough yet to reach that pillar com- 
 fortably ; come, give it up to me,' and Sir Hector's 
 length and activity of limb were henceforth in con- 
 stant request. 
 
 Antoinette, sitting down on a bench near Mary, 
 who was wreathing a slender wreath of choicest 
 brightest-berried holly for the pillars of the font
 
 REPENTANCE. 217 
 
 "began aclmiriug and criticising in a lower tone than 
 usual the work around her, nevertheless, in a freer 
 and more careless manner than her more carefully- 
 trained cousin would have liked, had she not been 
 very busy and very much flattered by Antoinette's 
 genuine admiration of the taste and beauty of the 
 I. H. S. under the east window — her own special 
 work, both in design and execution. 
 
 'But where is Anna?' asked Antoinette, at last. 
 * I expected to see her doing everything that no one 
 else could or would ; she talked of nothing but 
 the decoration when we met her on Monday after- 
 noon.' 
 
 Mr. Arnold was wreathing a column near, and 
 heard the question ; he could scarcely tell why, but 
 a somewhat painful feeling made him stop to hear 
 the tone of Mary's answer. 
 
 ' She is at home.' 
 
 * Oh ! very busy there. What is she about V 
 
 * Nothing to do with the church.' 
 
 * Why — what ? has she grown tired of it V 
 
 * No ; but — she was very naughty yesterday, and 
 papa would not let her come.' 
 
 ' Naughty,' repeated Miss Merivale, gaily ; * why, 
 I should have thought she was far too old for any 
 naughtiness.' 
 
 ' So would any one ; but she is such a baby still. 
 You don't know how she can stamp and cry.' 
 
 ' No, really ? Why, I always thought her such a 
 dear, useful, good little thing.' 
 
 * Oh, she's too childish to be very useful,' answered 
 Mary, quickly and complacently ; then colouring a 
 little, and resuming her wreath, she added, rather
 
 2l8 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 hastily, ' Do you tliink Sophy will come and help us 
 finish to-morrow V 
 
 * Ah ! my poor Mary,' thought the Yicar, as he 
 himself went on with his own work, ' are you sorry 
 that you in secret triumph in your superiority 
 over little Anna 1 or only sorry that you have let 
 such triumph appear f 
 
 Sir Hector and his daughter stayed till dusk, and 
 then walked home happily arm-in-arm. The younger 
 Arnolds themselves soon left the church, Mary lin- 
 gering after Bridget and Johnnie to alter a wreath 
 to her final liking, the Vicar waiting for her. 
 
 * Well, we have done a good day's work,' he said, 
 slipping his daughter's arm in his as they left the 
 church ; ' but I am glad there is a little left for 
 Anna to help us in to-morrow.' 
 
 ' Oh — ' began Mary, as if surprised and not quite 
 pleased, but stopped short and coloured. 
 ' You are rather sorry V 
 
 * Oh, papa !' exclaimed poor Mary, shocked to 
 hear her innermost feelings so unexpectedly laid 
 bare. 
 
 ' I want to know : give me an honest answer — 
 You would rather not 1 — Dear Mary, take care that 
 you do not forget Anna's is only ' not your way of 
 sinning.' ' 
 
 * Papa, — what — do — ' 
 
 * No, dear Mary ; you know best. If you are con- 
 science-stricken, you are good and sensible enough to 
 take the warning home and profit by it, — if con- 
 science acquits you, you are good and sensible 
 enough to know how sorry I am to have pained you 
 needlessly and unjustly.'
 
 REPENTANCE. 2 19 
 
 Mary walked on, her heart full, her eyes dim, in- 
 jured, sad, rebellious ; how ill can such as Mary 
 Arnold bear the shadow of blame ! From any one 
 else, even her mother, she could only have borne 
 such a warning by meeting it in silence. So now, 
 at first, she met it from her father ; but she loved 
 him so tenderly, he was so dear to her (dearer 
 even than her own approbation), that her young 
 heart soon swelled with sinking sorrow rather 
 than injured self-righteousness. As they reached 
 the garden-gate she withdrew her arm and said, 
 tremulously, 
 
 ' Papa, I do deserve it, — you are quite right.' 
 
 * And, dear Mary, acknowledged faults are soon 
 cured, and you are quite practical enough to work 
 out the remainder of the cure without another 
 word between us,' and he entered the house with- 
 out allowing time for another word at all. 
 
 But how often afterwards Mary thought of those 
 few kindly words, that little evening walk.
 
 220 
 
 CHAPTER XYII. 
 
 THE CHKISTMAS PARTY. 
 
 Within the rich man's lordly halls 
 
 Young footsteps lightly trip, 
 And there the sweetest music falls 
 
 From children's rosy lip. 
 
 And little arms as fondly meet 
 
 The poor man's neck around, 
 As merrily his children's feet 
 
 Along the red tiles sound. 
 
 Moral Songs, 
 
 CHRISTMAS itself was soon gone by ; but some 
 of its accompanying festivities were still in store 
 for the Arnolds, for on January the sixth, Sir Hector's 
 birthday, it had been the immemorial custom at the 
 Hall to give some kind of ball ; and, as since his re- 
 turn to England after his marriage children came 
 quickly about him, he had for the last ten years 
 exchanged the grown-up guests of former times for 
 boys and girls, called the party ' Netta's ' and en- 
 joyed the exchange immensely. 
 
 * Ah, Netta,' he said this year, * now you are a 
 young lady at large, ought we to change this back 
 to people who are * out ' V 
 
 'Oh dear, no, papa,' answered Miss Merivale at 
 once ; * the children will be so disappointed, and we 
 could not have one of the Arnolds if we did.' 
 
 ' Hush ! for fear mamma should hear and imme- 
 diately decide, that as it has always been your party,
 
 THE CHRISTMAS PARTY. 2ZI 
 
 it must be yours still. Never mind, Netta, I tell 
 you what we'll do : have this for the children, and 
 when it's over, you and I will have another on our 
 own particular account.' 
 
 ' Ah, papa, delightful — the country is a — little 
 dull : can you forgive me V 
 
 ' Yes j as you never trouble me with any com- 
 plaints or depression of spirits. So you miss all 
 your town admiration, eh, Netta V 
 
 ' Well, I think that must be it ; each day is happy 
 enough as it goes by, only the whole seems rather 
 monotonous.' 
 
 * Well, you have some gaieties in store. The 
 Elvery's ball and the county ditto next week will 
 do something to reduce your country roses.' 
 
 *And yours, too, papa,' retorted Antoinette, 
 gaily. ' I am sure I only look like your daughter, 
 as I always do.' 
 
 * H'm ! I always flattered myself I passed very 
 fairly for your elder brother.' 
 
 * No ; a great deal too good to me to be anything 
 but what you are, my dearest, dear old father,' and 
 the spoilt beauty laid her head proudly on his tall, 
 broad shoulder. 
 
 Ah, Mr. Arnold, your conclusion as to wealth 
 and affection, however satisfactory for yourself, was, 
 happily for your betters, not quite so true as you 
 thought it ! 
 
 And so invitations to the children of all the 
 country round were issued for Thursday, January 
 4th, and amongst others to the Arnolds, where, on 
 Thursday, the 28th, arrived a man on horseback 
 and dropped at the Yicarage a delicate pink en-
 
 11% AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 velope and the enclosed note on similarly tinted 
 paper — 
 
 ' Sir Hector and Lady Agnes Merivale request 
 the pleasure of the Misses Arnold's company to an 
 evening party on Thursday, January 4th, at half- 
 past six o'clock. 
 
 ' Aggesden Hall, Dec. iSth. 
 
 'Dancing.' 
 
 A note similarly worded, save in the gender of 
 those invited, was delivered for 'Mr. John Hector 
 Arnold,' and then the servant gallopped off to carry 
 the like pleasant prospect to all the homes contain- 
 ing children round about. 
 
 John, Anna, Carry, and Harry were delighted ; 
 so was Mary at first, but her first pleasure was soon 
 moderated by thoughts and remembrances which 
 the others were too young to remember, or to share 
 in if they had remembered. Within an hour of 
 the arrival of Netta's note she was upstairs in- 
 specting with a sad discontented face a sorry array 
 of tumbled muslins. Poor child, one or two childish 
 tears dropped down on the unpromising looking 
 heap. She was thus found by her mother. 
 
 ' Why, Mary ! already at work ? Well, I did 
 think that for once I should have been beforehand 
 with you. How do they look V 
 
 Mary looked up and tried to smile and hide the 
 tears that she had suffered the picture of future mor- 
 tification to bring into her eyes. 
 
 ' Oh, wretched ! how discoloured ! and a washed 
 muslin is such an unhappy-looking thing.' 
 
 ' The worst is, mamma, they must all be so out-
 
 THE CHEISTMAS PARTY. 223 
 
 grown — look at mine,' and Mary held up her own 
 against herself. * Anna might have mine, and 
 Cany hers — ' 
 
 * And you V 
 
 'Stay at home, mamma. I should not mind much,' 
 answered Mary, knowing by experience how many 
 little miseries and mortifications this children's ball 
 at the Hall had at various times entailed upon 
 her. 
 
 ' Oh, but, Mary, / should mind : you have so few 
 pleasures, dear. No ; I have a much better plan ; 
 you shall have a new one.' 
 
 ' Oh, mamma, thank you ; but it is not worth 
 while.' 
 
 ' Why not 1 you do like dancing, dear V. 
 
 * Oh yes, very much when it is once begun, but I 
 have not set my heart on this at all, and a new dress 
 seems so extravagant. I shall never wear it again 
 this winter, and next year it will only be outgrown 
 again.' 
 
 * Oh, with tucks or overskirts we might provide 
 for that emergency. But this was let down to its 
 fullest extremity last year, and now you are so 
 much of a woman you want long skirts.' 
 
 Mary was silent a minute. The new dress chased 
 away all her dread of the party, and rendered it as 
 tempting to herself as any other girl of fifteen. 
 Nevertheless, after this silence, she said, cheerfully, 
 
 ' No, thank you, dear mamma, don't think again 
 of a new dress for me. It would cost a great deal 
 by the time it was finished, now I am so tall ; and, 
 mamma, if you have any money to s^^are, do buy 
 yourself a new bonnet.'
 
 224 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 * Oh no, my dear Mary, not for the world,' 
 answered Mrs. Arnold, brightly ; * what does an old 
 woman like myself want with new bonnets V 
 
 * Oh, dear mamma, you do ; yours is so wretched, 
 so different from ' 
 
 ' Lady Agnes' ; so are my station and means. I 
 have no wish to compete with her in the least.* 
 
 Mrs. Arnold quite meant to speak truly, but if 
 quite truly, why was her tone, generally so soft and 
 sweet, so suddenly hard and bitter ? 
 
 ' Oh, but dear mamma ' 
 
 * No ; dear mamma for once will not follow her 
 daughter's wishes. She does not care for a new 
 bonnet, and she does care very much that her 
 daughter should taste a little of the pleasure she 
 had in such plenty herself in her own girlhood.' 
 
 ' Indeed ' 
 
 * No, no ; it is quite settled. We will drive over 
 to Worcester to-morrow to buy the dress, and Mrs. 
 Barton shall measure you and make it, then there 
 will be no more trouble about it.' 
 
 ' Oh, mamma !' cried Mary, appalled by such ex- 
 travagance. 
 
 ' What ! you are afraid it will ruin me ? No, 
 not quite that ; and my good useful girl is not always 
 to be thought of last. You may call the dress my 
 Christmas present to you ; it will come out of kind 
 old Lady Merivale's annual Christmas present to 
 your mother. She has given me five pounds on 
 Christmas Eve ever since I was just your age, 
 Mary.' 
 
 " Oh, mamma ! do spend it this year on yourself/ 
 cried the girl, eagerly.
 
 THE CHRISTMAS PARTY. 225 
 
 ' Part of it I will^ — not on a new bonnet, for 
 papa told me only last Sunday he had never liked 
 any half so well as the old brown straw you so de- 
 spise, and was quite glad to see it come out again ; 
 but I will buy a pair of new strings for it, and 
 the rest my Mary and Johnnie shall share between 
 them.' 
 
 ' Thank you, dear mother,' said Mary, heartily, 
 instinct telling her she had resisted the present 
 quite as long as she could dutifully do so. 
 
 ' Well, and now for once do not let us get behind- 
 hand with the others ; find Anna and Carry, and 
 let us see what can be made out of all this medley 
 for them.' 
 
 With Bridget's help and experience, two very 
 nice-looking and fashionable little frocks were con- 
 structed by her own and Mary's hands, with the 
 exception of the tucks, which Mrs. A mold under- 
 took, and worked with a beauty and neatness pe- 
 culiar to those taught not less than a quarter of a 
 century ago. Several successive afternoons the 
 three workers sat in the dining-room plying their 
 needles busily, once or twice catching Johnnie to 
 read to them, but oftener talking desultorily ; once 
 in this way, a conversation Bridget afterwards re- 
 called as being one of the very few times she ever 
 heard Mrs. Arnold in any way allude to her youth- 
 ful life at the Hall. 
 
 ' I don't think I have worked so hard since I left 
 the Hall schoolroom,' said Mi's. Arnold one after- 
 noon, running her needle in and out swiftly all the 
 while. ' How wise it was of Lady Merivale to 
 make an hour's work part of the day's work. Poor 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 Emily used to grow very weary, but it suited my 
 dreaminess, as time, not quantity, was required of us. 
 How Antoinette used to rebel about it, but quiet 
 and retiring as dear Lady Meri vale always was, she 
 would not give up this ; no, not even when Netta 
 (the Netta of old days) induced Sir John to make 
 quite a fuss about it, and declared teaching young 
 ladies to work was nothing but taking the bread 
 out of the mouth of those who really wanted it.' 
 ' Was your Netta as pretty as ours, mamma V 
 
 * Quite ; and Mary so plain for a Merivale. 
 How strange it seems that beautiful blooming girl 
 should die so young, and Mary be strong and well 
 still, in spite of India and all her cares.' 
 
 ' But there was another, mamma — Annie j what 
 was she like?' 
 
 * Ah ! a cripple, poor child.' 
 
 * Yes, I know that ; but had she a pretty face V 
 
 * Kather j but dear girl, so odd, bright, and ori- 
 ginal, no one ever stopped to think of her looks. 
 She was quite the life of the house, young as she 
 died — only fifteen, I think. We used to say the 
 very sound of Annie's crutches brought sunshine 
 with it. Really, Sir John took her loss to heart 
 almost more than Netta's.' 
 
 ' I thought, mamma, it was Aunt Netta's death 
 that broke his heart.' 
 
 * Ah, not that only ; troubles were many just then. 
 You know, my dear. Sir John actually died of low 
 fever ; nothing so romantic as a broken heart. There, 
 now my task is over, and really I find work now 
 as wearisome as Netta used, and cannot do another 
 stitch to-day.'
 
 THE CHRISTMAS PARTY. 2^7 
 
 The 4th of January arrived at last, though very ' lang- 
 a-coming ' to more than the young Arnolds. At a 
 quarter-past six, all were ready and waiting in the 
 dining-room for the Hall carriage, which on this occa- 
 sion was always sent for the little Vicarage cousins. 
 
 Bridget was to go with them, Mr. and, perhaps, 
 Mrs. Arnold, meaning to follow later, and the young 
 governess, in spite of the newness and neatness of her 
 own high white muslin, felt rather abashed at her 
 homely appearance by the side of the little Arnolds, 
 who did such full justice to their full skirts, tight -fit- 
 ting silk stockings, and slender shoes. All this nicety 
 seemed not a little inconsistent with their usual care- 
 less, untidy appearance, but it was on such an occa- 
 sion as a party at the Hall that all Mrs. Arnold's old 
 associations of delicacy, refinement, and good breed- 
 ing revived strongly enough within her to arouse 
 her to make every exertion to give her children, as 
 far as was possible, all the advantages of dress which 
 had once been so lavishly expended on herself. 
 
 Mary, especially, looked her very best : willing, 
 and to a considerable extent, skilful, as had been 
 Bridget's aid, the professional dressmaker had given 
 an air to Mary's simple double-skirted muslin which 
 those of her younger sisters possessed only in part. 
 She looked to Bridget like a forced lily — tall, 
 graceful, and refined, but overgrown, and too pale- 
 faced for beauty ; still no one could look at her as 
 she was now without thinking — ' What a lady-like, 
 nice-looking girl,' at the least. 
 
 The carriage came true to the half-hour, but 
 though the mile and a-half was rapidly traversed, 
 the Arnolds were not the first comers : it was well 
 
 Q 2
 
 228 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 known Sir Hector liked punctuality, that the time 
 named was the time meant, and that dancing began 
 punctually to a minute at the hour. The ball-room 
 was a pretty sight, as Bridget and her young charges 
 entered it : the pillars of the gallery twined with 
 evergreens and paper flowers ; the gallery itself, 
 where the band was already taking their seats, a 
 blaze of light and holly, in the red berries of which 
 was conspicuous, stretching from one end to the 
 other, ' A. happy new year to all.' The hearth was 
 full of blazing logs, the oak boards glittered in the 
 light like glass, and grouped round the fire stood 
 the host, the finest man in the county ; his wife 
 passably pretty, with her pale, delicate skin and 
 black velvet dress ; Netta, more lovely and charm- 
 ing than ever in her floating white tulle and holly 
 wreath ; and a crowd of young Merivales, Elverys, 
 and Marchmonts, all the guests as yet arrived. 
 
 There was no restraint nor awkwardness. Sir 
 Hector and Antoinette managing to entertain all 
 so well that the clock striking seven and the band 
 changing their discordant tuning into a quadrille, 
 took all by surprise. Partners for the most part 
 were quickly chosen, and Miss Merivale took great 
 pains to introduce, set at ease, and make dance, the 
 shy stragglers left looking at one another when 
 most sets were formed. Sir Hector made Hector- 
 head the first quadrille with little Lady Alice 
 Marchmont, himself taking a very inconspicuous 
 position with the grown-up Lady Alice, her aunt. 
 The party was the children's, not theirs, and he 
 never would have them put out of the first con- 
 sideration on account of the elders who escorted
 
 THE CHRISTMAS PARTY. Z2g 
 
 them, and this resolution was so well known as to 
 have become a matter of course long ago. 
 
 Antoinette glancing round when she thought all 
 her part was at last done, caught sight of Bridget 
 Storey sitting in a corner. True, Mr. Hughes was 
 talking to her, he having brought a sister and 
 brother-in-law ; but Miss Merivale knew Mr. 
 Hughes did not dance. Was there no gentleman 
 left? Yes, her cousin, the Honourable Gilbert 
 Duthoyte, a boy of eighteen, who was talking to his 
 aunt, feeling himself rather too old for this kind of 
 thing. 
 
 * Gilbert, I want you j let me introduce you to a 
 partner.' 
 
 ' Oh, indeed, Netta, I do not wish to dance.' 
 
 ' But we home people do not do to-night what we 
 wish, but what is wanted. So you must come,' said 
 Netta, impatiently. 
 
 ' You must dance the next dance with me, then,' 
 said the Honourable Gilbert, who admired his im- 
 perious cousin not a little. 
 
 ' Nonsense, Gilbert, I am engaged ten deep al- 
 ready / and by this time Bridget's corner was reached. 
 
 ' Miss Storey, allow me, — my cousin, Mr. Du- 
 thoyte.' 
 
 Mr. Duthoyte bowed, asked for the honour of 
 Miss Storey's hand, and was much mollified by 
 finding his brother, the Earl, in want of a vis-d,- 
 vis for himself and Antoinette. 
 
 But Netta could not look after all so thoroughly 
 again, and Bridget went through some of the morti- 
 fication and weariness of sitting down dance after 
 dance. But it is a great thing to make a good
 
 330 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 start ; and the flitting dresses of the children, the 
 merry sounds of the music, the brightness and 
 novelty of the scene, afibrded quite as much entertain- 
 ment as an accidental guest like herself could expect. 
 
 Supper was announced at half-past nine, and 
 such an elegant, brilliant scene as the supper-room, 
 was another new sight to the London clerk's little 
 daughter. Happy v^oices rang merrily on all sides, 
 and loudest, merriest of all, Sir Hector's — the 
 gayest of the gay, kindest of the kind. 
 
 After supper, dancing was speedily resumed ; but 
 Miss Merivale having now a little leisure, remem- 
 bered the Yicarage governess once more, and, taking 
 her into the drawing-room, introduced her to kind 
 old Mrs. Elvery, with whom the next half-hour 
 passed very pleasantly over the volumes of beauti- 
 ful prints with which the table was strewn, whilst 
 Netta ran away herself to fulfil an old promise of 
 dancing the first ' Lancers,' after supper, with 
 Johnnie Arnold. 
 
 Robert during supper had had his chair wheeled 
 from the library, where hitherto Sophy or Alston 
 had been reading to him, to the far end of the ball- 
 room, and now half-lay, half-sate watching the 
 merry scene happily enough, Mr. Arnold standing 
 by him and telling him who his unknown little 
 neighbours were. 
 
 ' Well, Netta,' said the Yicar, as Miss Merivale 
 came up to Robert's side to beg him to observe the 
 * pretty innocent flirtation' going on between Frank 
 Elvery and Emily Bridgman, ' so you are not worn 
 out yet V 
 
 'Oh no ! don't they seem happy 1 I wish I
 
 THE CHRISTMAS PARTY. 231 
 
 could stay witli you this dance, but ' — and as she 
 spoke Lord Duthoyte came up and claimed her hand. 
 Their place was near the Yicar and her brother, 
 and both watched their animated talk and Netta's 
 graceful movements as one of the prettiest sights in 
 the room. 
 
 It did not, however, escape the Yicar's observa- 
 tion, that every now and then Netta's face grew 
 half-shy, half-thoughtful, whilst her cousin's tone 
 became more grave and earnest than quite suited 
 the trifling conversation around them. 
 
 He watched the two cousins with a bright, keen 
 glance j then, meeting Robert's eye, smiled and 
 said frankly — 
 
 * Is that another pretty innocent flirtation V 
 
 * Don't ask me,' answered Robert, with an 
 answering smile ; * I assure you I am no more in 
 their secrets than little Emma there.' 
 
 ' Well, if we're right, Robert, he will be a happy 
 man.' 
 
 * He will, indeed.' 
 
 * Into what a sweet, brilliant woman she is 
 growing ! Dear Netta ; who can believe she is 
 the pale little thing in long white petticoats whose 
 christening dinner I remember so well V 
 
 But at that moment Sir Hector came up to see 
 how Robert was going on, and the conversation 
 dropped. 
 
 Two hours later, and a hundred and fifty little 
 boys and girls were sleeping, rosy-cheeked and 
 tired-footed, after one of the pleasantest evenings 
 of their whole year. 
 
 And Bridget had made Mrs. Arnold very happy
 
 23^ AGGESDEN VICAEAGE. 
 
 by repeating the admiration slie had casually heard 
 of Mary. 
 
 ' Who is that nice lady-like looking girl V 
 
 * Which V 
 
 ' That tall, graceful girl, with the pale, sensible 
 face and pretty brown hair, talking to young Hector 
 Merivale.' 
 
 * Indeed I don't know. One of the Meri vales 
 themselves I should think ; they seem on such easy 
 terms, and she has the dawning of that distinguished 
 Merivale air, worthy to be the younger sister -of 
 Miss Merivale herself ; how lovely she is looking 
 
 to-night' —and here the conversation branched 
 
 off to those with whom Bridget was less con- 
 cerned. 
 
 r
 
 ^33 
 
 CHAPTER XYIII. 
 
 PARISH WORK. 
 
 She was a phantom of delight, 
 
 When first she gleamed upon my sight : 
 
 A lovely apparition sent 
 
 To be a moment's ornament ; 
 
 Her eyes as stars of twilight fair ; 
 
 Like twilight's, too, her dusky hair ; 
 
 But all things else about her drawn 
 
 From May-time's brightest, loveliest dawn ; 
 
 A dancing shape, an image gay. 
 
 To haunt, to startle, and waylay. 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 
 THE rest of the winter passed by quietly. Frank 
 came liome at the end of a three weeks' visit, 
 delighted with most of what he had seen and heard, 
 and these were many and much. A Christmas pan- 
 tomime, the Crystal Palace, the Zoological Gardens, 
 the view from the top of St. Paul's, and to John's 
 united interest and envy, a review on Woolwich 
 Common. The three weeks' absence from home, and 
 the acting entirely on his own responsibility, had 
 certainly done Frank good, both physical and moral. 
 His views of life and his own standing were enlarged 
 on some points, humbled in others. He had learnt 
 what an atom in the mass of mankind he himself was, 
 what a speck on the face of England such a village as 
 Aggesden, but also that a country family or village is, 
 after all, a fair representative of human life every- 
 where ; that Londoners have tempers, and troubles,
 
 rJ34 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 and disappointments as well as their less acute fellow- 
 countrymen ; that the children at Arundel Villa 
 were quite as great 'bothers' as at A ggesden Vicar- 
 age ; and as for father and mother, why Frank 
 would not have exchanged either of his for Mr. or 
 Mrs. William Arnold for the world. 
 
 Mr. Arnold was amused by the vividness of the 
 picture of the Clapham house, which Frank's casual 
 remarks and comparisons soon impressed upon his 
 own mind. He had had no idea hitherto how in- 
 stinctively correct the conclusions of boyhood are. 
 He never questioned the boy on the interior of his 
 cousin's family, but before long had an image of 
 them before him which he felt sure was correct and 
 true. A kind-hearted, uncertain-tempered father; 
 a brisk, bustling, kindly mother, ' not quite a lady,' 
 he felt convinced was the meaning of Frank's proud 
 glance of comparison at his own mother, whenever he 
 spoke of Mrs. William Arnold ; the daughters all more 
 or less pretty, and more than ordinarily accomplished, 
 whilst of one (an Ellinor) Frank seemed rather shy 
 of speaking, and only thought ' very pretty.' Of 
 the boys he spoke with much more heartiness. 
 William was a ' brick,' and it was very evident how 
 Frank's heart-desire now was to be a public school- 
 boy like his cousins. 
 
 But of this the Vicar could not honestly give his 
 son any hope. John's going to Eltham had en- 
 tailed so many more expenses than had at first been 
 thought of, that ends would but just meet. Still, 
 when Frank was once detailing eagerly Will Ar- 
 nold's account of a school fight, he took the oppor- 
 tunity of saying,
 
 PARISH WORK. 235 
 
 ' Ah, Frank ! I wisli you could be knocking about 
 there too ; if ever I am a rich man the first thing I 
 shall do will be to send you off to such a school at 
 once.' 
 
 Frank was very glad to hear this, but he was not 
 of a nature to submit so patiently as his brother 
 had done to the dreary prospect of the lasting, irre- 
 vocable impossibility of his bright day-dream. 
 
 In another week John was gone, and the Yicar, 
 dreary as the house seemed to him without him, felt 
 it was high time it should be so, — that the jealousy 
 he had feared was again beginning to be a possi- 
 bility. Lessons had recommenced in Miss Storey's 
 schoolroom a fortnight ago, and the Vicar now be- 
 gan regular hours once more in the study, but soon 
 found most of the pleasure of them had vanished 
 with Johnnie. Frank, having no longer any one 
 with whom to compete or compare progress, soon 
 sank into an idle, indifferent way of doing his 
 studies, and though his father was firm in keeping 
 up a far higher standard of acquaintance with all 
 lessons brought before him than he had required 
 three months ago, he could not infect the boy with 
 the heart and will necessary to make such firmness 
 anything but wearisome both to himself and son. 
 Harry, it is true, gave some life to otherwise a 
 dreary task. He was a bright, quick little fellow 
 of ten, too often in mischief if not in full work, but 
 when he was occupied, doing his part briskly and 
 well ; still, though ready wits and good will com- 
 bined were a great comfort and refreshment to the 
 Yicar after Frank's indifference, what wearisome 
 work was it otherwise for a man of his age and
 
 2^6 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 powers to be teaching a boy of ten the rudiments of 
 Latin and arithmetic. 
 
 Nevertheless, having now only one elder pupil 
 left him more time in many ways, and Mr. Arnold 
 could now so arrange the boys' lessons as to have 
 done with them himself by mid-day, and this gave 
 him more leisure to think of the wants of his parish 
 than he had been able to command the last year or 
 two, and one of the first things upon which he 
 determined to spend his spare energies was a new 
 school-house. 
 
 On Mr. Arnold's induction to his living, the sole 
 provision for the education of the children of his 
 parishioners was contained in a foundation left by 
 Dame Sophia Merivale, the pin-maker's daughter, 
 for the maintenance of * one honest mann as schooU- 
 mastre and twelve schollars ;' the foundation con- 
 sisting of a cottage as master's residence, containing 
 three rooms, in one of which week-day school had 
 been kept since Mr. Arnold's arrival, before which 
 time day, as well as Sunday-school, had been held 
 in the Church. This change, simple and imperative 
 as it had seemed to the new Yicar himself, had cost 
 him an amount of ill-will and aversion, which even 
 yet he had not entirely lived down. Old Mrs. 
 Davies still firmly believed that, if her boy Tom 
 had been taught his A B C in his village church, 
 as his father and grandfathers before him, he would 
 never have got drunk and enlisted, and well-nigh 
 broken her heart, as he had done only two years 
 ago. 
 
 Poor Mrs Davies ! The Yicar might smile, and 
 feel as innocent of her son Tom's enlistment as of
 
 PARISH WORK. 237 
 
 his previously far more disreputable career ; but at 
 the root of the disturbance this spontaneous arbi- 
 trary act, on his first arrival amongst his people, 
 had occasioned, lay a feeling all must respect, and 
 none more so than Mr. Arnold himself Therefore, 
 though little liking it on many grounds, he had 
 allowed the locale of the Sunday-school to remain 
 unaltered. 
 
 The old schoolmaster had likewise, and most 
 naturally, very strongly objected to bringing into 
 his cottage the dirty little urchins, who had always 
 hitherto kept at a very respectful distance from 
 his very threshold. But as there was no other room 
 where the school could be held, old Master Stokes 
 had at last suffered himself to be won over by the 
 new Yicar's adding from his own pocket three pounds 
 to the ten pounds paid by Dame Sophia, as the an- 
 nual stipend of her poor ' honest schoollmastre.' 
 
 In good time old Master Stokes had died at the 
 ripe old age of fourscore and five, sixty-five years 
 of his life having been spent in tuition. Poor old 
 man ! the Yicar's heart groaned within him as he 
 thought of all the wearisome, exasperated, useless 
 hours his old parishioner had in these five-and-sixty 
 years endured, but rejoiced in the chance thus 
 afibrded him of doing something to raise the tone 
 and standard of Aggesden education. 
 
 He attacked the patron of the living, his old 
 pupil, who had not yet resided at the Hall since 
 Aggesden had become his tutor's settled home. 
 Emily Merivale was still too closely and painfully 
 associated with every room, and lane, and haunt. 
 Mr. Arnold boldly proposed new school-house as
 
 238 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 well as new master ; but Sir Hector was at Paris, 
 his wife in full influence, himself disliking rather 
 than otherwise everything connected with the place 
 on whose account his former tutor was making such 
 expensive demands upon his purse. Moreover, Sir 
 Hector had, with Sir John's old-fashioned hospitality, 
 inherited many of Sir John's old-fashioned pre- 
 judices, and he objected to the ever-increasing 
 education of the lower orders as much as he objected 
 to anything. So he wrote back rather coolly, and en- 
 tirely disclaiming any substantial assistance towards 
 anew school-house. * If you mean to canvass the 
 county, of course my ten pounds must be ready ; but 
 I have no wish myself to see any prettier school- 
 house in the parish than my great- great-grand- 
 mother's picturesque old cottage, and with your pre- 
 sent mania for fashionable reforms, I suppose the 
 next thing you will ask me to do will be to pull 
 this down.' 
 
 Mr. Arnold had no intention of being thus 
 pooh-]DOohed by his quondam pupil. He wrote 
 back strongly, stated his arguments clearly and 
 resolutely, with no shadow of yielding, defended 
 himself from the charge of a mania for * fashion- 
 able reforms ' vigorously, concluding by stating he 
 had no intention of canvassing the county, knowing 
 every parish had just then quite enough to do for 
 itself ; and that as for his niggardly ten pounds, he 
 would not accept any sum so grudgingly offered. 
 
 Such a letter aroused Lady Agnes' intense indig- 
 nation, Sir Hector's ready goodnature. Lady Agnes 
 said, ' how impertinent.' Sir Hector laughed and 
 replied, ' So exactly like Arnold ! Well, now what
 
 PARISH WORK. 239 
 
 can I do to mollify him ? I wout be bullied into 
 yielding about Dame Sophia's house, but I must 
 make my peace somehow. Ah ! offer to raise the 
 salary of old Stokes' successor, so that Arnold may, 
 poor man ! have a schoolmaster at last, who at 
 least does not think it an impossibility that there 
 may be a larger * town in the world than 
 Worcester.' 
 
 So Sir Hector wrote back one of his careless, 
 kind-hearted, conciliatory letters, saying he was glad 
 Mr. Arnold had on second thoughts relinquished 
 the idea of such an unnecessary extravagance as a 
 school-house, but that in the desire for a man of 
 rather more learning than old Stokes for the new 
 master he, on the whole, rather sympathi^ied, and so 
 should be happy to raise the master's salary from ten 
 to twenty-five pounds. ' But mind, Arnold, if you 
 fling this offer back in my face, I'll never give you 
 another penny for schools, nor church, nor nothing. 
 So, my best of friends, beware !' 
 
 Very far was it from the Yicar's thoughts to 
 reject such liberality. But troubles were not yet 
 over : Mr. Arnold soon found any course but that 
 of choosing the son of the late schoolmaster in the 
 place of his deceased father, would bring as much 
 obloquy upon his head as that of changing the local 
 habitation of the school had done. But he deter- 
 mined to face it, hoping in due time to weather it. 
 
 ' Never heerd such a thing in my life as Eoger 
 Stokes not succeeding to his father,' cried Mrs. 
 Davies amongst many others ; 'why it's always been 
 in his line ! did not old Master Stokes succeed his 
 ^ther? and the old man before him his? We
 
 240 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 shall have the Queen turned off her throne next ! 
 'Tis my belief it's a family perkisite. 
 
 Poor Mrs. Davies little thought what a severe 
 and truthful sarcasm her words contained, nor had 
 she any opportunity of learning it ; for not only 
 her sentiment, but the words in which she had 
 embodied it, became the by-w^rd of the parish, and 
 on Sunday the senior churchwarden, a church- 
 warden of fifty years' standing, gravely accused 
 Mr. Arnold of wilfully intending to set aside the 
 known provisions of Dame Sophia's will. 
 
 ' Indeed V said the Yicar, quietly, but respectfully, 
 for Mr. Stubbs was a man of grey hairs, himself 
 scarcely yet in his prime ; ^ I may be intending to 
 set them aside, but not * wilfully,' I assure you. 
 Let us look at the deed at once, and see what the 
 actual words of the bequest are.' 
 
 And the document, to Mr. Stubbs' credit, being 
 unlike too many parish documents, forthcoming and 
 at hand, it was found to the mortification of the old 
 farmer and the whole parish that henceforth, neither 
 with malice prepense nor without, could they accuse 
 their reforming Yicar of setting aside a * family 
 perkisite.' 
 
 But at last, to smooth the troubled waters of his 
 parish and to conciliate goodhearted, old-fashioned 
 minds that he was heartily sorry in any way to have 
 offended, a ' family perkisite' Mr. Arnold allowed 
 the half of Dame Sophia's ten pounds and house to 
 continue, conferring on Roger the Fourth, as com- 
 pensation for the loss of his expected dignity, the 
 nominal superintendence of the Church Sunday- 
 school ; which labour, as the Yicar was always pre-
 
 PAIUSH WORK. 241 
 
 sent himself, liaci originally consisted of little more 
 than placing hassocks and books in readiness before 
 school, and away afterwards, and had now for some 
 time been performed by Roger Stokes the Fifth, and 
 to whom, however, Mr. Arnold took good care 
 to give no prospect of succeeding on his father's 
 death to any scholastic office, actual or imagi- 
 nary. 
 
 In the place of Roger Stokes the Foiirtli, ]\Tr. Arnold 
 had found a young man of the name of Taylor, to 
 take the vacant mastership and raised salary, Taylor 
 himself not being all he could have desired, but a 
 great improvement upon old Master Stokes, not 
 only possessing some general information already, 
 but actuated by so great a desire for more that 
 for the first four years of Taylor's mastership, 
 Mr. Arnold had devoted an hour twice a week, 
 towards assisting his persevering efforts at self-im- 
 provement. 
 
 But this February, 1855, Taylor himself came to 
 the Vicarage to resign his situation. Not that he 
 had aught of which to complain, indeed by this 
 time quite the contrary, for his quiet, j^G^-ceable 
 demeanour and the superior proficiency of those 
 scholars he had entirely made himself, had won 
 him general goodwill and respect through Aggesden 
 long ago. But a brother who some years ago had 
 emigrated to Melbourne, had prospered so well and 
 held out such tempting offers to himself, that after 
 many refusals, he had at last made up his mind to 
 accept them and to join his successful precursor so 
 soon as Mr. Arnold had found a substitute to his 
 liking for the village school At first the Yicar 
 
 VOL. I. R
 
 242 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 was greatly consternated at the idea of losing so 
 efficient a riglit-liand as Taylor had in many ways 
 become. However, he felt he had no prospect to hold 
 out to him in England that could in any way compete 
 with that which his Australian brother set before 
 him, and so said not a word to dissuade him. But 
 at the end of a week, the Yicar found his feelings 
 were undergoing a thorough change in a new hope 
 that was now springing up within him — that now 
 at last he might obtain both a proper school-house 
 and certificated master. He and Sir Hector stood 
 now on a very different footing from that of four- 
 teen years ago, and though some of his former 
 pupil's old prejudices were, he knew, still in exist- 
 ence he had good hope of outweighing them, at any 
 rate in the case in which he took greatest interest. 
 And so one thoroughly wet afternoon, feeling pretty 
 sure of finding the Squire within doors and willing 
 to welcome any visitor as a distraction, he started 
 for the Hall, a well-matured plan of proceeding 
 already mentally sketched out. 
 
 But Sir Hector's prejudices and instinctive dislike 
 to changes were not so easily to be overcome as he 
 had expected. Mr. Arnold was calm and resolute, 
 Sir Hector indifferent and half impertinent ; so 
 passed the first hour. Then the Vicar grew im- 
 patient and indignant, and called his old pupil ' pig- 
 headed,' whereon the Squire, who was very weary of 
 the whole discussion, grew hot and angry himself, 
 and for full ten minutes ran on in a rapid tirade 
 against the whole system of government education. 
 Mr. Arnold heard him out quietly, and having thus 
 gained a right to his revenge, coolly answered one
 
 PARISH WORK. 2,4.^ 
 
 after another of Sir Hector's objections, to his own 
 satisfaction, if not his hearer's, and concluded by 
 calling the duty of thus providing for the enlighten- 
 ment of Aggesden one of the plainest and most im- 
 perative duties of his life. 
 
 ' There, there, Arnold, have done ! I yield,' cried 
 poor pestered Sir Hector, rising, yawning and 
 poking the fire to restore bodily animation. ' Well^ 
 now, tell me the sum you want, and I'll give you a 
 cheque for it and have done with the whole matter 
 for ever.' 
 
 The Squire very well knew he could have said 
 nothing that would so provoke the Yicar as this 
 profession of indifference to the value of a scheme 
 which had in all seriousness been put before him as 
 an * imperative duty ;' but he listened very patiently 
 to the sharp lecture on his squirearchal duties which 
 followed, and when it was over both laughed and 
 were perfect good friends again. 
 
 'I beg your pardon, Hector,' said the Vicar, a 
 little ashamed of past heat and plain speaking ; 
 * but if you will be nothing but a big boy again, you 
 must expect me to forget the thirty years that lie now 
 between my Squire and his boyhood, and go back to 
 our old relations.' 
 
 ^JSTo, I don't,' retorted Sir Hector, good-humour- 
 edly, ' nor do you do it, and you know you don't. My 
 crikey (as my boys would say), how you would 
 have boxed my ears five-and- twenty years ago, 
 if I had tried to stop the current of your eloquence 
 then by professing no interest about the matter 
 concerning which you had 'lashed yourself to 
 fury.' Well, now then, to business : I am per- 
 
 B 2
 
 244 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 forming a solemn and imperative duty, forswearing 
 my own conscientious convictions at the bidding of 
 my spiritual adviser. You want a schoolroom and 
 school-house — 600^. say ; gable ends and porches of 
 course also, so add 200I. more for nonsense, oh ! 
 and a flower and kitchen-garden for the dear over- 
 paid, extra-conceited, out-of-his-station-forced mas- 
 ter, say I ool. more. There, are not you ashamed to 
 cajole a poor man out of 900?. on one wet weary 
 afternoon when he has no spirit left to cope with 
 your 
 
 ' But I have no intention of receiving any such 
 sum from one man ; we'll apply to the Council of 
 Education, and canvass the farmers, and St. John's, 
 to whom all the parish, that is not yours, belongs. 
 Thank you, but now I want something in the stead 
 of all the money thus saved you.' 
 
 ' Well, what V asked Sir Hector, despairingly. 
 
 ' The ground upon which to build the school — the 
 little bit at Broad Hedge.' 
 
 ^ Little bit ! the prettiest bit of the whole estate ! 
 No, that you shall not get from me !' cried Sir 
 Hector, quite energetically. 
 
 * Well, then, some spot equally central.' 
 
 ' Oh, any you like, anything to get rid of you — 
 at least of the subject. Now, then, let's turn to 
 something pleasanter, or if your head still runs on 
 business I'll ring for Netta ; she was meaning to run 
 down to the Yicarage this afternoon, only she has 
 caught cold somehow, and I would not let her 
 go out.' 
 
 By this time. Sir Hector's bell had been answered, 
 and the man sent with a message to Miss Merivale.
 
 PARISH WORK. 245 
 
 ' Poor thing 1' said the Squire, ' all our visitors 
 are gone now ; Duthojte and his supercilious young 
 brother left yesterday, so we were having a game of 
 billiards together to while away the dreariness wlien 
 you came. Ah, here she is,' as Miss Merivale 
 entered and shook hands heartily with the Yicar. 
 
 * I have told Mr. Arnold you have business with 
 him,' said her father, glancing at her mischievously ; 
 'but you'll both excuse my reading the paper whilst 
 your interesting conference goes on.' 
 
 ]^etta glanced at her father half-shyly, half-en- 
 quiringly, and coloured a little, ichy Mr. Arnold 
 could not think, and still less so when she opened 
 her business, which proved to be, ' Did not he think 
 something might be done to improve the church 
 music V 
 
 ' Something 1 a great deal, I have no doubt,' 
 answered the Yicar, heartily ; ' we have become 
 tolerably used to it by this time, but it must be 
 very discordant to unused ears. I have no voice 
 myself, nor Wilson, unfortunately, or I should have 
 tried to do something long ago. Of what plan 
 were you thinking V 
 
 ' Oh, no plan,' answered ISTetta ; ' only — if I could 
 be any use — ' and she hesitated with unusual em- 
 barrassment for a Merivale. 
 
 ' You would be so,' said the Yicar, kindly ; ' thank 
 you very much. We must begin with the children, 
 and get them introduced into the choir who are 
 not at all uppish, and do the very best they can, and 
 have always attended to the few suggestions I have 
 made. Well, when will you begin "?' 
 
 *0h, directly; whenever you like. Only you
 
 24^ AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 must, please, quite set me to work. Tell me what 
 I am to begin V 
 
 ' Begin at school with trying our boys' and girls' 
 voices if you will 1 What clay would suit you 
 best V 
 
 ' Oh, any day ; to-morrow, if fine.' 
 
 ' And three o'clock 1 thank you. Then Mary and 
 myself will be there beforehand and put things a 
 little in train. The next thing is, how often you 
 could come down to practise. Twice a week V 
 
 ' There, you see, Netta,' cried Sir Hector from 
 behind his newspaper, 'that's just what I said; 
 Arnold would take you at your word, and nail you 
 to time and hours, regularity and punctuality, dirty 
 children and Gregorians, before the idea had been 
 before him five minutes.' 
 
 ' I gave Miss Merivale credit for meaning to be 
 taken at her word, and I do not think I wronged 
 her,' said the Vicar, courteously. 
 
 ' Oh, no ; I always like to begin a thing at once ; 
 besides, we have only six weeks more here !' and 
 she sighed — ' only don't ever call me Miss Merivale 
 again.' 
 
 ' No V said Sir Hector, pretending to be sur- 
 prised and puzzled ; 'ah, I see ! but, Netta, you 
 mistake. Coming honours don't cast their shadows 
 before them, only ' sorrows,' and even the weight of 
 your future glory is not sufficient to forecast itself. 
 You must be content to be plain Miss ' 
 
 * Papa, you can't even quote a proverb correctly,' 
 interrupted Antoinette, trying to smile, but her face 
 crimson. 
 
 'What, Arnold, you don't understand/ seeing the
 
 TARISH WORK. 247 
 
 Yicar tlioronghly puzzled ; ^ah ! yes you do/ as the 
 expression of perplexity changed suddenly into one 
 of amused perception. ' Well, then, do your duty, 
 and congratulate. You silly girl/ kissing An- 
 toinette's burning cheek fondly ; ' what ! are you 
 so ashamed of your choice already ?' 
 
 '■ Oh, no ; but papa, you shouldn't' — but Antoi- 
 nette broke down. 
 
 ' Well, then, I must make Mr. Arnold's assurance 
 doubly sure j so, Arnold, this girl and Duthoyte 
 are engaged out and out — and more, mean to be 
 married on May 22 nd, my girl's nineteenth birth- 
 day. Silly child, not to enjoy her liberty a little 
 longer ; but when slie tells me the courtship has 
 already been about these ten years, Avhat can I 
 say ?' 
 
 * No, what indeed ?' responded the Yicar, kindly. 
 * Then, Netta, you must let me congratulate you, 
 and, in right of ' Auld Lang Syne,' give you a last 
 kiss, and wish you, from the bottom of my heart, 
 every happiness in your married life.' 
 
 ' Oh, thank you,' said Antoinette, returning the 
 kiss with respectful warmth, and then, poor girl, 
 turning away her face to burst into tears. 
 
 * Why, Netta !' said her father. 
 
 ' It — it — it is only because I am so very happy,' 
 sobbed Miss Merivale, and ran out of the room. 
 
 ' Your congratulations are sincere f asked Sir 
 Hector, drily. 
 
 * Thoroughly. Why not % What ! are not you 
 satisfied with an earldom — a fine, unembarrassed 
 estate, and the man himself — one earning such a 
 noble name as Lord Duthoyte ?'
 
 248 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 'Oh, / am quite. Oh, so an earldom, a fine 
 estate, and promising talents, devoted to the good 
 of one's poorer fellow-creatures, outweigh a first 
 cousinship. It's a pity poor Emily Merivale had 
 only the last of these compensations. Who knows 
 but a title or estate might have turned the 
 scale 1 — 'twas but a second cousinship in my case, 
 Arnold.' 
 
 What could Mr. Arnold say or do 1 What but 
 silently press the Squire's hand tight and take his 
 leave 1 With the Yicar Sir Hector's marriage had 
 made his first miserably-ended love a subject upon 
 which he could never say one word to him it most 
 concerned. 
 
 ^
 
 249 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 A WEDDING. 
 
 I saw her. upon nearer view, 
 
 A spirit, yet a woman too ! 
 
 Her household motions light and free, 
 
 And steps of virgin liberty ; 
 
 A countenance in which did meet 
 
 Sweet records, promises as sweet ; 
 
 A creature not too bright and good 
 
 For human nature's daily food ; 
 
 For transient sorrows, simple wiles, 
 
 Praise, blame, woe, kisses, tears and smiles. 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 
 BOTH the Vicar and Miss Merivale kept tlieir 
 appointment punctually the next day. But, 
 such ■work being wholly new to the young girl, and 
 the children being much awed by her, Antoinette 
 found it was a very difficult task to decide who 
 had voices and who had not, and so, after half-an- 
 hour s rather fruitless trouble, the meeting adjourned 
 to the Vicarage, where there was a piano which served 
 both to embolden the children and aid the mistress. 
 Finally, six boys and six girls were selected, and 
 Antoinette promised to come down every Tuesday 
 and Friday morning to instruct them, nodding a 
 kindly farewell to the twelve half abashed, half 
 delighted children. But by this time it was so 
 nearly dusk, there was nothing for it but for the 
 Vicar to see Antoinette home ; and, indeed, he was 
 nothing loth to take such an office on himself.
 
 250 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 Nevertheless, their walk was a quiet one, An- 
 toinette shy and ill at ease, little thinking what a 
 favourite she was with her companion, and looking 
 hack herself with ever increasing depression at 
 the past light-hearted frivolity and self-pleasing 
 of her life. Not so Mr. Arnold ; he was indeed 
 wondering what had suddenly incited his young 
 friend to make an effort at parish-work, and seem 
 so determined to carry it on perseveringly, so long 
 as Aggesden was her home, but the comparison of 
 Netta's past indifference to such matters with her 
 present exertion, was scarcely drawn to her dis- 
 advantage, Antoinette's gaiety and kindliness, 
 even beauty and grace, were natural endowments 
 which would have blinded harsher eyes than the 
 Vicar's to the careless frivolity of the few pre- 
 ceding months of uncontrolled liberty, the remem- 
 brance of which was beginning to weigh heavily 
 upon the young girl's own heart. 
 
 Yery steadily, however. Miss Merivale persisted 
 now in the parochial duty which she had taken 
 upon herself, and Mr. Arnold could not help think- 
 ing it was owing to her interest in this work, and 
 a half sad, lingering reluctance to see the last, as 
 an unmarried woman, of a home she loved so dearly 
 as Aggesden, that the Meri vales' stay at the Hall was 
 prolonged on and on, till it was not until the Tuesday 
 in Easter-week that the last singing-lesson came. 
 
 After it was over, Antoinette gave, with some 
 hurry and glistening eyes, a little present to each of 
 her twelve scholars, and invited them the next day — 
 the last at Aggesden — to tea on the lawn, and then 
 turned to go. Lord Duthoyte was now staying at
 
 A WEDDIXG. 251 
 
 the Hall, and Lad walked down with his cousin ; 
 but. to Mr. Arnold's surprise was not waiting out- 
 aide to escort, her home again. Perhaps Antoinette 
 was afraid he was thought remiss, for she said, softly, 
 
 ' I asked him not to come. I should like you to 
 walk back with me the last time, if it is not in- 
 convenient.' 
 
 ' Not the least. Is it too old-fashioned to offer 
 you an arm ? I am afraid you are tired.' 
 
 The kind sympathy of the tone of even these 
 few words made Antoinette's tears brim over ; but 
 she drove them back with more of her old im- 
 petuousness than had often of late appeared, and 
 answered in as bright a tone as she could command, 
 
 ' Oh no, not tired, thank you, only — you know — 
 I have Dr. Johnson's authority for saying, 'No one 
 ever does even a disagreeable thing for the last time 
 without regret.' ' 
 
 * And I think latterly your singing-class has not 
 even been disagreeable.' 
 
 ' Oh, no ! If I could only have gone on with it — 
 rather, had only begun it sooner.' 
 
 * You must carry it on where you are going,' said 
 the Yicar, kindly. 
 
 ' Yes,' she said, with a happy smile, ' there will be 
 plenty of such work at Burj^ Duthoyte. Lord 
 Duthoyte is so indefatigable amongst his tenantry — 
 has all this winter, when not in town, taught twice 
 a-week in the night-school.' 
 
 ' I congratulate you,' said the Yicar, simply and 
 heartily. 
 
 * Yes, it — it was all he did, and yet his thinking 
 of me, that made me long to be of a little use in my
 
 253 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 own parisli before I left ; and — and I want to tell 
 you before I go, it was your sermon the Sunday 
 afternoon before you came up about the schools, that 
 made me determine not to dream away any more 
 time in mere longing, but to ask you to let me do 
 something at once.' 
 
 ' May your prompt acceptance of a duty here be an 
 earnest of your whole life,' said the Vicar, warmly. 
 
 * Thank you : — you think me sad ; I — I can't 
 help it ; I do love it all so much, and — and you. 
 What little good there is in me is all your laying, 
 and — and Lord Duthoyte knows it.' The use of 
 this formal title with the Yicar had entirely arisen 
 since Antoinette's engagement. 'We — if you would 
 allow it — we should so very much like, as a little 
 token of our gratitude ' 
 
 ' Let me marry you at my own church, then, and 
 so delight the whole parish with their Vicar.' 
 
 ' What ! would they so much like it ? Would 
 they care % They know us so little. I — I have 
 never been amongst them as I ought.' 
 
 ' You had little opportunity, dear Netta, till this 
 last visit ; you forget you were still in the school- 
 room a year ago, and these last few weeks I have 
 heard of you in more than one village home. Be- 
 sides, all take a pride in you, and v/ould love you as 
 their Squire's eldest daughter, even if they had 
 never seen you at all ; your marriage will be to 
 Aggesden quite as interesting an event as that of the 
 Princess Koyal will be to all England.' 
 
 ' Oh ! Mr. Arnold.' 
 
 * I quite mean it. Then you are not going to be 
 married here V
 
 A WEDDING. 
 
 ^53 
 
 ' I — I scarcely know ; mamma only thinks of 
 London, I fancy. I don't think he has ever — we are 
 — business is to go on to-night, and it will be men- 
 tioned, I dare say. But you have not let me say 
 what I was going to say, that if yon will allow it, 
 we should like so very much to give the dear old 
 church an organ as— a little remembrance of us 
 when we are gone !' 
 
 ' Thank you, dear Netta,' said the Vicar, pressing 
 her hand. 
 
 ' Majy plays so nicely now, I am sure she will be 
 able to play a great deal more than I have been able 
 to teach my poor girls, and I do think she will be 
 able to keep up the singing ; she understands music 
 quite as well as 1 do.' 
 
 ' We mean to try not to let your efforts fall to 
 the ground with your presence, but to follow them 
 up as well as we can ; and when you come here 
 next autumn, as I know you will, prove ourselves 
 as worthy as we can of your husband's and your 
 own munif — ' 
 
 ' Oh ! Mr. Arnold, don't ! I — I do wish he were 
 not such a rich man.' 
 
 ' Indeed, Netta, I cannot agree with you there. 
 What a blessing wealth becomes in the keeping of 
 so conscientious a steward as Lord Duthoyte.' 
 
 ' Yes,' answered the young girl, evidently much 
 pleased at this simple commendation, ' only every 
 responsibility is so increased, and — I don't think 
 Harry would work himself half so hard if his wealth 
 did not half frighten him.' 
 
 ' Netta, I am so glad to hear you say ' Harry,' ' 
 the Yicar could not help interrupting.
 
 254 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 ' Did I V said Antoinette, smiling and colouring. 
 ' I ought not ; we mean to keep it for quite home 
 life, only you seem like home. I know what you 
 mean, and he feels so too, that no earthly honour 
 ought to thrust the Christian name into such, utter 
 disuse as a title does in England ; he will always 
 be ' Harry' to me,' and she smiled through the tears 
 which had l)een fast gathering again. 
 
 They walked on the next few minutes in silence, 
 and thus reached the inner gate, where Sir Hector 
 and Lord Duthoyte were sauntering up and down, 
 and joined them. Thus the conversation naturally 
 turned upon indifferent subjects till they reached 
 the house. 
 
 'You will come and dine with us, Arnold,' said 
 Sir Hector then. 
 
 ' Oh no, thank you ; I dined hours ago.' 
 
 ' Oh ! but any one can manage two dinners a day 
 to oblige a friend.' 
 
 ' But think of my wife and children waiting tea 
 for me at home. No, I must go, thank you. Good- 
 bye,' and the Yicar shook hands with Netta and her 
 father, and was preparing to bow to the young Earl, 
 who, however, had no intention of being so cere- 
 moniously treated, and holding out his hand, found 
 it heartily shaken. 
 
 ' Come to-morrow then, Arnold.' 
 
 * Oh ! but — ' hesitated Mr. Arnold, thinking Sir 
 Hector must have forgotten to-morrow was their 
 last day at Aggesden. 
 
 ' Yes, do come,' said Netta, as if sure this would 
 carry the point, and it did ; 'and ask Mary, Anna, 
 and Carry to come up with the children at three, if
 
 A WEDDING. 255 
 
 thej will, and help us to get them to play. They 
 are to have tea at five, so as all to be home before 
 dark ; so you must give a half holiday and let them 
 come early; Harry and Bobbie too, if they will;' and 
 to this Mr. Arnold also assented, and walked home, 
 thinking how often he had needlessly repined and 
 grumbled. ' His work here bare some fruit ;' and 
 now it seemed his words had, by God's blessing, 
 awakened the slumbering good in the gayest, the 
 brightest of all his congregation ; one he had little 
 thought did aught but criticise and smile at the 
 homely plainness of speech with which he had 
 long ago found he could alone make Christian 
 doctrine and duty comprehensible to the unlearned 
 and ignorant people amongst whom his lot was 
 cast. 
 
 Early the next morning the Yicar received the 
 following note : — 
 
 ' Dear Sir, — You have, I believe, long known 
 that our wedding-day is fixed for May 22nd. We 
 both hope you will be so kind as to marry us at half- 
 past eleven o'clock of that day at Aggesden church. 
 I much wished for marriage by banns ; but find- 
 ing this not acceptable to my dear (future) wife's 
 (here the Earl had evidently become perplexed, and 
 had added the ' future ') family, have, on considera- 
 tion, thought it not well to persist on the point. 
 ' I am, yours very sincerely, 
 
 ' DUTHOYTE.' 
 
 * Well, here is news,' cried the Vicar, as he laid 
 the note down on the breakfast- table ; ' good news 
 for all Aggesden. Netta is to be married at little
 
 2^6 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 Aggesden cliurcL, and who do you think is to marry 
 them V 
 
 ' Oh, Lady Agnes' brother, the Dean of Dardley, 
 I suppose,' said his wife. 
 
 'What, not you, papa?' asked Amabel, as if 
 otherwise she should much doubt the validity of 
 the ceremony. 
 
 ' Yes ; I myself, Mabel. Is not that grand ? Your 
 humble old father make an Earland a London beauty 
 man and wife.' 
 
 ' Zoo not humble, zoo not old,' protested Amabel, 
 indignantly ; but the news was too interesting and 
 pleasant for any one to have time to attend to 
 her. 
 
 The good news spread like wildfire through the 
 village, and the delight was so general, so hearty that 
 even Lady Agnes, who had objected to the transfer 
 of the marriage from London to Aggesden only 
 less than to her daughter's marriage by banns, was 
 so touched and pleased as to cease to regret that hus- 
 band, daughter, and bridegroom, all three com- 
 bining against her, had obliged her to yield a point 
 she had last night thought all-important. 
 
 And so on May 22nd Antoinette Merivale was 
 married. The sun rose bright and clear, and was 
 never dimmed by a single cloud, howsoever fleeting, 
 throughout the day. Long before eleven was the 
 churchyard path lined many deep, a ad the church 
 itself well nigh filled with villagers^ come to look 
 their last on their 'young lady.' Many gay, many 
 delicate dresses flitted past them before the bride 
 herself came. But come at last she did, and as Sir 
 Hector handed his daughter out of the carriage and
 
 A WEDDING. 257 
 
 laid her sliglit, treinblinsj hand on his arm, there 
 arose a faint but heartfelt cheer, a murmured ' God 
 bless her,' that nearly overcame both father and 
 child. Sir Hector took off his hat and murmured 
 ' thank you ;' whilst Netta raised her soft blue 
 eyes to the rustic ones so kindly in their curiosity, 
 and bowed her head, with a faint smile of gratitude, 
 to all ; a notice, an acknowledgment which won 
 all hearts for ever. 
 
 The service was performed as simply as reverently. 
 Fain would the Yicar have administered to the 
 newly-married pair the Body and Blood of Him 
 who, as surely as He had been a guest more than 
 eighteen centuries ago at the marriage in Cana of 
 Galilee, was a guest at this. But Mr. Arnold 
 knew and respected the motives which withheld 
 them — the incongruous character of the wedding 
 party; for there was no use denying it,theDuthoytes 
 were as a family very worldly, and of the Mr. and 
 Ladies Duthoyte, uncles, aunts, and cousins, the 
 guests mostly consisted. But as Mr. Arnold 
 walked home after the morning service the Sun- 
 day following, he did not forget to think of the 
 young Earl and Countess then partaking of the 
 Supper of their Lord at York, for to the English 
 Lakes was the bridegroom taking his young wife. 
 
 The village bells struck up a loud and meriy 
 peal as the wedding party turned into the vestry, so 
 loud it seemed as if the bells them, selves had caught 
 the spirit of the day, and were vying with one another 
 to do it honour. The signing was quickly over, and 
 then the Countess of Duthoyte passed down the 
 church on her husband's arm attended by a long train 
 
 VOL. I. s
 
 258 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 of bridesmaids, Sophy and Mary first, the Ladies Anne 
 and Laura Duthoyte next, two little Mannings? 
 daughters of the Indian ' Aunt Mary,' following, 
 and Mary and Anna Arnold bringing up the rear. 
 On nothing had Antoinette so determinately set 
 her heart as that two of her Aggesden cousins 
 should form part of her bridal procession. 
 
 * Well, I never !' cried one good old dame after 
 another, as the young pair and their bridesmaids 
 passed. 'Bean't it beautiful 1 just like the angels of 
 heaven, I'm thinking.' 
 
 Antoinette heard and could not resist raising her 
 eyes to her husband's to see if he had heard too ; and 
 this little token of domesticity, of feelings such as 
 they themselves knew well, loosed the tongues of 
 the spectators, which the sanctity of the place, 
 the awe of such grandeur, and their own all- 
 intent curiosity also, had hitherto kept dumb, 
 and so loud and hearty a cheer was raised and 
 passed from one to another, that even the head- 
 long merriment of their village chimes grew faint 
 before it. 
 
 There is no need to followthe wedding-day further. 
 Nothing can save a wedding breakfast from being a 
 tiresome and wearisome, if not aggravating affair. 
 No beauty of the bride, nor worth of the bride- 
 groom, nor high breeding and intellectuality of the 
 guests, can preserve the speeches of a wedding 
 breakfast from being, at the best, ' stale, flat, and 
 unprofitable,' and this was no exception to the 
 general fatality. Anna rose from the breakfast-^ 
 table thinking she had never heard such nonsense 
 talked in her life, and being too shy to say so, never
 
 A WEDDING. 259 
 
 discovered how nearly all the company were of the 
 same opinion. 
 
 The after breakfast pursuits were, however, lively 
 and pleasant enough to atone for all past weariness. 
 The wedding pair off themselves, the large remain- 
 ing party broke up into smaller ones ; some drove 
 over to Malvern, others stayed at home and saw the 
 school children eat their cake and drink their tea, 
 and — at least those who were wise enough — -joined in 
 their merry games ; and in the evening came a ball 
 to all the tenantry, farmers and tradespeople about, 
 a scene of mirth, liveliness, and amusement that 
 Anna never forgot. 
 
 The next day came the gentry ball ; this arrange- 
 ment being 'just like Sir Hector's usual headstrong 
 indifference to savoir /aire,' sighed poor Lady Agnes 
 to her sympathizing sisters. 
 
 It was at this ball that Sophy Merivale made her 
 first County appearance after her introduction at 
 Court, and according to promise, went into the 
 library to show herself in evening dress to 
 Robert. 
 
 ' Ah, I see,' she said, good-humouredly, as Robert 
 surveyed her without remark, ' even Paris finery 
 cannot make me a fit successor to dear Netta — 
 cannot make a Merivale of me ; but do you know, 
 Robert, I think that is all as it should be ; that it 
 would have been quite unfair to the County if 
 mamma had immediately on Netta's marriage pro- 
 duced another Miss Merivale equally lovely. Now 
 the Miss Elverys will at last get some of the admi- 
 ration they deserve. I am sure Mrs, Elvery will 
 be quite grateful to me for being so plain.' 
 S 2
 
 26o AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 Sophy spoke lightly, but certainly Mrs. El very 
 did feel something of the sensation so merrily 
 ascribed to her, and many other County mothers did 
 so also ; and long before the ball was over, had this 
 remark and rejoinder been many times made and 
 given — 
 
 ^ What a plain little thing Sophy Merivale is ; 
 even her lovely, elegant dress does not help her 
 out.' 
 
 ' No ; but she is so good-tempered and unaffected, 
 it is quite a pleasure to watch her ; she seems as 
 happy herself, and as bent on making others happy, 
 as if she were the loveliest girl in the room. I 
 believe the charm is, she is never thinking of 
 herself.' 
 
 And the speaker was right : so when for the 
 fiftieth time in the course of the next few days it 
 was remarked to Sophy that Lucy Elvery had been 
 quite the belle of the ball — for the fiftieth time, 
 without a shade of jealousy, she answered, — 
 
 ' Oh, I am so glad you think so, for I always 
 have admired her so much, and never could 
 make other people to do so to my heart's con- 
 tent.'
 
 26t 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 JOHN AND SUNSHINE. 
 
 So, staff in hand, we sallied forth, 
 And o'er the uplands clorab our way ; 
 
 Where East and West, and South and North, 
 A world of gorgeous beauty lay. 
 
 The Breedon's green and grassy steep 
 On the left hand the prospect closed, 
 
 And, like a Titaness asleep, 
 
 Huge Malvern on the right reposed. 
 
 So fair a scene, ^so calm, so bright, 
 Might well entrance the outward eye, 
 
 And with contemplative delight 
 The inward vision satisfy. 
 
 MOULTBIE. 
 
 MIDSUMMER seemed to be at hand almost 
 prematurely. Bridget was to go home on the 
 23rd ; John was expected on the previous Wednes- 
 day, and Bridget was very glad she should thus see 
 his welcome home and learn how school life had 
 fared with him. The few days' holiday Mr. Smith 
 allowed at Easter had been spent at Clapham, where 
 Mr. William Arnold had kindly invited a second 
 unknown cousin, but letters between Aggesden and 
 Eltham had been regular and long, and gave no 
 token of any great change in the hitherto home 
 boy. 
 
 He arrived now on Wednesday, the 20th, at the 
 end of a lovely summer's day. Mr. and Mrs.
 
 253 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 Arnold drove in to fetch him ; Frank, Mary, Anna, 
 Carry and Harry set off on foot to meet them half 
 way : as yet, 'absence' had certainly only made the 
 hearts of the home people ' fonder.' 
 
 By tea time the large party were all at home, 
 laughing and talking all together. At tea itself, 
 however, as sometimes happens after so much un- 
 controlled mirth, a kind of silence fell on all, and 
 Bridget had full leisure and liberty to see what 
 changes six months of school life had made in her 
 first little friend. He was changed, and yet 
 absurdly the same : taller, broader, more manly, and 
 yet smile, voice and manner, fair wavy hair, and 
 open good-looking face, just the same as ever. Still 
 after so long an absence his peculiar frank courtesy, 
 gentlemanliness, even general good looks, struck 
 Bridget more than ever, and she did not wonder 
 that the Yicar's eyes glistened with pride and affec- 
 tion as often — and this was very often — as they rested 
 on his lad. 
 
 Then when John's box was unpacked, his sealed 
 report was discovered, and the boy watched his 
 father's face a little anxiously as it was read. But 
 as Mr. Arnold laid it down, he placed his hand with 
 his old confiding gesture on the schoolboy's shoulder, 
 simply saying, ' So you have not belied the promise 
 of your home life, John.' 
 
 ' Let me see, Frank,' said Mrs. Arnold, taking up 
 the paper, and was far more communicative, read- 
 ing aloud_, ' Classics very good, mathematics good, 
 algebra good, modern languages very good, general 
 information far above par, conduct exemplary,' and 
 adjoined to the N.B., that progress, and no fixed
 
 JOHN" AXD SUNSHIXE. 263 
 
 standard, regulated the filling in of the reports, — 
 * Mr. Smith cannot allow John Hector Arnold to 
 return home without the expression of his warmest 
 approbation of the diligence with which he has 
 pursued his studies, and the gentlemanly conduct 
 which has distinguished him in and out of school 
 alike.' 
 
 ' Oh, Johnnie !' said his mother, laying his head 
 on her shoulder and wetting his cheek with her 
 tears of delight, as she kissed him. 
 
 'Dear mother, I am so glad, so very glad. I 
 was half afraid, — you see, I had never been with 
 other boys before, and some were so far before me, 
 — in French particularly. Miss Storey, I was 
 going to ask you if you would give me a lesson 
 every day whilst I am at home ? I would get on as 
 fast as ever I could.' 
 
 ' I am sorry to say, Johnnie, Miss Storey leaves 
 us on Saturday.' John looked disappointed, and her 
 own pupils sorry, too. Bridget felt sometimes as if 
 her situation were too happy an one to last. ' But 
 Mary, I dare say, will do her best for you. Modern 
 languages were not much thought of in my days ; 
 and but for the French and German tour with Sir 
 Hector, I should not have known one word of 
 French, even when double your age.' 
 
 *Ah, and German too; most of the fellows learn 
 it, and if Mary could help me there, too, it will be 
 easier to catch them up when I go back. Schmidt 
 could not make out my not even knowing the 
 letters ; and it would be such a help to know the 
 pronunciation if I can't the sense.' 
 
 ' Well, Mary can help you there, too ; but you
 
 264 AGGESDEN VICAEAGE. 
 
 must not work either her or yourself too hard 
 duriug your holidays. And now, if you're not too 
 tired for a walk, Johnnie, walk with me to old 
 Blogg's, wdll you 1 He has sent up wishing to see 
 me and — ' I grudge the time away from you, the 
 silence conveyed. 
 
 ' Too tired ! Oh, no ! only of sitting still in that 
 baking railway carriage j' and in two minutes father 
 and son were off. 
 
 Bridget only hoped her own going home would be 
 as delightful, give half as much pleasure, and in her 
 heart of hearts she did not much doubt its doing so. 
 
 The next morning rose as clear and lovely as its 
 predecessor, and almost the first sound Bridget 
 heard was John's merry whistle under her window. 
 To-day all were punctual to eight o'clock prayers, 
 and a happier, lighter-hearted party than that 
 which ten minutes later assembled round the 
 homely Vicarage breakfast- table, it would have 
 been hard to find throuojhout Eno:land itself. 
 
 ' Well, and now what shall we do V asked the 
 "Vicar, as the breakfast-party were preparing to 
 disperse. ' I am sure I can do no work this lovely 
 day; it would be a perfect shame to spend one hour 
 of it on lessons, Miss Storey. What do you say, 
 mamma, to a scramble up Breedon and an im- 
 promptu pic-nic V 
 
 ' Oh, yes, yes !' cried all but mamma ; and 
 mamma's only objection was, ' it will be a very 
 impromptu one, I'm afraid, for there is very little 
 besides bread and cheese in the house ; but cook 
 shall see what she can scrape together at ten 
 minutes' notice.'
 
 JOHN AND SUNSHINE. 265 
 
 ^ Oh, slie will find quite enough for reasonable 
 mortals on such a lovely day as this ; fine air and a 
 good scramble instead of pudding, eh, Anna? 
 Yes ; I knew you'd agree. Well, then, at half-past 
 nine, three quarters of an hour hence, we'll start, 
 — climbing up the hill will be too hot to be plea- 
 sant if we don't reach it till mid-day.' 
 
 All ran off to prepare in their various ways for 
 the expedition, Bridget as delighted as any one, for 
 the little Londoner had as yet seen comparatively 
 little of the surrounding country, and, as the last 
 half-year the school-room lessons had gone on most 
 steadily and uninterruptedly, had never yet been 
 any such expedition at all. 
 
 Of course, at half-past nine all were not ready. 
 Mamma it found in the garden busy with Johnnie, 
 hastily gathering a basketful of strawberries. Carry 
 it found ready to cry with despair at her long un- 
 successful hunt for her gloves, as papa's loud ' now, 
 children,' sounded up the stairs ; poor Caroline 
 having a vivid remembrance of having on some 
 such occasion been left behind for uupunctuality 
 similarly caused. But Mr. Arnold was in far too 
 high spirits and good humour to teach any lesson, 
 however valuable, in so harsh a manner this 
 morning; and on hearing his little girl's piteous 
 ' Oh, Mary, do help me — where can my gloves be f 
 sprang up the stairs himself and assisted in the 
 search, making it so funny and amusing, that Carry's 
 incipient tears were soon turned into smiles, though 
 the missing articles were not discovered till the 
 Vicar insisting that, as they had looked everywhere 
 else, they must be in her own pocket, felt there, and
 
 266 AGGESDEN VICAKAGE. 
 
 diving into the recesses of this mysterious recep- 
 tacle, finally produced the flimsy little articles. 
 
 By this time * papa ' himself was being shouted 
 for; so he seized up Carry, ran down with her 
 in his arms, popped her into the carriage beside 
 mamma and Mabel (Robert and Harry being in the 
 back seat), and joining the walking party himself, 
 the whole family were at last off. 
 
 The day was already becoming warm ; but their 
 three-mile walk lay through shady country lanes, 
 and the air was so fresh, the sun so bright, the sky 
 so blue, best of all, their own hearts so in unison 
 with all around them, that the walkers never 
 thought of heat nor fatigue, but were rather sorry, 
 as they drew near the foot of the hill, to see Harry 
 driving back to meet them. However, as Mrs. 
 Arnold had sent him for them, the Yicar persuaded 
 Miss Storey, Mary, and Anna to avail themselves 
 of his services, and walked on himself with his two 
 elder boys, whilst Harry drove off gallantly, de- 
 lighted with being entrusted with so important a 
 freight. 
 
 The large party once more united, all imme- 
 diately set to work to mount the long sloping hill, 
 and such a glorious scramble as that which followed, 
 Bridget had never yet enjoyed. For some distance 
 the way was smooth and even, the ascent gradual 
 enough to be easy ; and then, from time to time, 
 those who liked it, sat down to rest and enjoy a little 
 of the serene, brilliant loveliness above, around, be- 
 neath them. This, of course, Frank, John, and 
 Harry never liked, but charging straight up the 
 hill, on its stiffest, steepest side, arrived hot, breath-
 
 JOHN AXD SUNSHINE. 267 
 
 less, trembling-kneed at its summit, a whole half 
 hour before Anna and Robert, their first followers, 
 an honour of which, however, even then they had 
 scarcely breath to boast. 
 
 Then the Yicar came running up, Mabel scream- 
 ing with delight upon his back ; next he toiled up 
 with poor Carry, who had stuck half way, and was 
 clutching the grass with all her might, far too timid 
 either to go back or on ; then mamma had to be 
 helped up the height on which her husband and 
 children were this day choosing to eat their dinners ; 
 and then at last the Yicar's toils were over, and he 
 was at leisure to fling himself down on the grass, 
 shade his eyes with his hands, and gaze, not idly but 
 at rest, into the pure blue sky above him. 
 
 By this time it was half-past twelve, and after 
 ten minutes' quiet, the walking party were, after all 
 their exertions and labours, fast becoming hungry, 
 a feeling to which Caroline was the first to give 
 vent. 
 
 * You had better rest a little longer, Carry,' said 
 Mr. Arnold, ' for Thomas has our dinners, so we 
 can't have them, want them as we may, before he 
 comes.' 
 
 ' There he is. Carry, don't you see V said John ; 
 * that little black speck ever so far below I tell 
 you what, Frank, let's run down and help him ; it 
 must be rather heavy.' 
 
 * No, nonsense ; it's far too comfortable here,' 
 answered Frank, flinging himself back on the grass 
 again. 
 
 * No, you'd better not go, John,' said even the 
 Yicar j ' you know you are not the strongest of the
 
 268 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 strong, whatever you think yourself, and you'll have 
 had quite exercise enough by the time you get home, 
 as it is.' 
 
 ' How long will he be V asked Carry, dejectedly. 
 
 ^ Thomas V said her father. ' Half an hour quite, 
 I'm afraid ; the hill is so much longer than it looks. 
 So,' and he sat up, recalled from pleasant dreamy 
 visions to practical every-day life, ' we had better 
 amuse ourselves as we best can till he comes. Now, 
 Carry, I have thought of something ; only twenty 
 guesses allowed, you know ; so try to find out.' 
 
 Many beside Carry joined in the game, and as the 
 players were too young to be very acute, and only 
 such questions as those to which 'Yes' or ' No' 
 could be given were allowable, the children, when 
 the twenty guesses were over, were as far as ever 
 from discovering that the thinker was thinking of 
 Carry's own eye. Mr. Arnold was generous enough 
 to allow ten guesses more, and the shout of delight 
 with which Robert hailed his final successful con- 
 jecture, was continued in honour of Thomas, who 
 had now reached the foot of their own immediate 
 acclivity. 
 
 All fell to work with good heart on the very 
 plain fare which alone cook had been able to pro- 
 vide on such very short notice ; but of such as it 
 was there was plenty and to spare, and the Arnolds 
 brought to it ready-made that great essential to the 
 enjoyment of a meal which a late Grace of Bedford 
 had to ride miles to obtain. Dinner over, they 
 once more fell to round games, and the children 
 puzzled the Yicar to their heart's content, by setting 
 him to guess a flash of lightning, though sadly afraid
 
 JOHN AND SUNSHINE. 269 
 
 their hesitation about declaring it vegetable, animal, 
 or mineral, and again, whether useful or ornamental, 
 would have betrayed their secret. 
 
 This over, all started on such rambles as pleased 
 them, Frank, John, Anna, and Harry down the 
 other side of the hill for the mere pleasure of climb- 
 ing it again. The Yicar wandered off with his 
 wife and the younger children ; whilst Mary took 
 Bridget a quiet walk along the top of the hill, point- 
 ing out one lovely view or place of note after 
 another, till the two finally settled themselves side 
 by side to the most difficult task in the world, that 
 of giving some idea in paper and pencil of the 
 beauties stretching far away beneath them ; the 
 smiling, sunny landscape, traversed fork-like here 
 and there by the glittering Severn, and bounded by 
 the noble, peaceful Malvern hills, to-day wearing an 
 intense blue, which Bridget had hitherto only seen 
 in pictorial representations of such objects, and 
 had scarcely believed to be more than founded on 
 fact. 
 
 '■ If one could only colour it,' she said at last, 
 looking at her own first crude attempt at sketching 
 with great and not unmerited contempt. 
 
 '■ Y es, if one could,' repeated Mary, half-sighing. 
 ' Sophy has taken this very view, and you cannot 
 think how lovely her drawing is ; she is so clever 
 at it : she passed Netta long ago.' 
 
 ' But Lady Duthoyte draws very well in water- 
 colours,' said Bridget, recalling the drawing-hung 
 rooms at the Hall. 
 
 * Oh, ye.s, because she has been so well taught; 
 she copies very well, but Sophy's sketches beat hers
 
 2']0 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 long ago. But then Netta does not care for draw- 
 ing, only Lady Agnes will have them all taught 
 everything.' 
 
 ' And Miss Merivale does like drawing V 
 
 * Oh, so much ! and papa says her sketches are so 
 very clever and original, that he is sure, if she were 
 a poor woman, she might make her fortune by them ; 
 and this summer she is learning oils !' 
 
 And Mary sighed — sighed, poor child, for some of 
 the educational advantages as freely lavished amongst 
 the Merivales upon those who appreciated them as 
 those who did not. 
 
 Bridget knew by this time what such a sigh 
 meant. 
 
 '■ Perhaps, by-and-bye, when Miss Merivale has 
 more time, she will teach you.' 
 
 ' Oh, no, she'll never think of that ; rich people 
 are so selfish ;' and then Mary coloured, and hastily 
 changed the subject. 
 
 But this was the only sad speech said, or sad feel- 
 ing felt, during this long summer day. And, happily, 
 as the sun went down, a soft, cool breeze arose, and 
 put fresh strength into the weary feet then begin- 
 ning to turn homewards. Mr. Arnold ran down 
 the steep top first, with one child after another, and 
 then all sauntered down the hill, turning back, one 
 after another, for a last glimpse of the lovely bird's- 
 eye view which they were so fast leaving behind them. 
 
 Carry and Mabel were beginning to be rather a 
 drag and weary encumbrance before level groimd was 
 reached again, but the Vicar carried first one, then 
 another, and kept Carry's impending lo\^ spirits 
 wonderfully successfully at bay. So at last, Mrs.
 
 JOHN AND SUNSHI^'E. 27 I 
 
 Arnold and her four younger cliildren were safe off 
 again, and now the elders did not reject or desj^ise 
 her last words — ' We will drive home as quickly as 
 we can, and send Thomas back at once for you poor 
 walkers.' 
 
 The carriage did meet them half way. Bridget, 
 Mary, and Anna got joyfully into it. Who should be 
 the fourth 1 Frank 1 ' oh, dear, no ; he wasn't tired !' 
 John ? ' oh, no ; at least, he would rather walk !' 
 and so the Vicar jumj^ed in himself, saying, laugh- 
 ingly, as he took the reins, ' Well, I cannot repeat 
 either speech, for I own to being very tired, and 
 would much rather ride,' and so cracked the whip 
 and was off, and, looking back, was well pleased to 
 see John's arm thrown carelessly, in boy fashion, 
 round Frank's neck, and the two trudging along 
 talking merrily. 
 
 Mrs. Arnold had exerted herself, and made the 
 most of her half-hour's start. Kobert and Mabel 
 were safe in bed and out of the way when the 
 second carriage-full arrived, and more, a cool, fresh, 
 neatly-laid tea was awaiting the new comers in the 
 dining-room; and certainly, enjoyable as a scram- 
 bling meal, sans knives, sans forks, sans everything 
 may be every now and then, when limbs and hearts 
 are light and fresh, I doubt whether, after all, the 
 Aggesden Vicarage party did not enjoy that cool, 
 quiet, peaceful, refreshing evening meal even moi'e 
 than its merry, sunshiny, scrambling predecessor, at 
 the top of Ereedon Hill. 
 
 And so, a few mornings after this expedition, 
 Bridget started for her true home, leaving, now she 
 knew it thoroughly, so happy a home behind her,
 
 272 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 that she felt this leaving Aggesden would have 
 been little less painful than leaving Laurel-terrace 
 nine months ago had been, had she not known 
 that its master and mistress liked their governess 
 as much as their governess loved and respected 
 thera, and so there was no fear this parting would 
 be a final one, or her lingering glance at the little 
 village church a last farewell. 
 
 John, ' her own John,' was waiting for her at the 
 Paddington station — had squeezed her hand, found 
 her luggage, and hurried her into a cab, before they 
 had had time to exchange more words than ' How 
 do you do f 
 
 Then at last Bridget had time and leisure to gaze 
 at her brother, and John at his sister. He was 
 grown — oh, yes ! — and was going through that im- 
 perceptible but wonderful transition from boyhood 
 to manhood. His voice, too, was cracking, and 
 was a strange mixture of inordinate and uncertain 
 height and depth ; also he looked very pale-faced 
 after all Bridget's neighbours had so long been 
 country men and women. But he was still himself, 
 frank and a little bluff — at least so seeming after 
 his namesake at Aggesden, — and perhaps a little 
 shy (after nine months' separation) of his own 
 sister, who was, he at once felt, much improved in 
 many ways. 
 
 And the young man's feeling was quite right. 
 Intercourse with superior minds, familiarity with a 
 refinement and good breeding of which, (much 
 as many a tidy and well-to-do home it contained, 
 might have put the unpunctual disorder of Ag- 
 gesden Vicarage to shame), no specimen could be
 
 JOHN AND SUNSHINE. 273 
 
 found in Laurel-terrace — had insensibly raised the 
 young girl's own mind, refined not only her man- 
 ners, but her very personal appearance. The mere 
 fact, also, of having striven so earnestly to fulfil 
 her new duties, and of having succeeded to the 
 entire satisfaction of those under whom she had 
 been acting, had given a quiet self-possession and 
 modest independence to the young governess, un- 
 known to her before. In one word, Bridget Storey 
 had left her home an unformed girl, and returned 
 to it a woman. 
 
 ¥ 
 
 VOL. T.
 
 274 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 THE COUNTESS DUTHOYTE. 
 
 There is a smile which wit extorts 
 
 From grave and learned men, 
 In whose austere and servile sports 
 The plaything is a pen : 
 And there are smiles by shallow worldlings worn 
 To grace a lie, or laugh a truth to scorn. 
 
 And there are smiles with less alloy. 
 
 Of those who for the sake 
 Of some they loved, would kindle joy 
 Which they cannot partake. 
 But hers was of the kind which simply say 
 They come from hearts ungovernably gay. 
 
 Henry Tayloe. 
 
 ALL this time the village school had been pro- 
 gressing as qnickly as money, and power, and an 
 ever-present eye could make it ; indeed the longest 
 part of the business was the piloting the plans 
 safely through the endless shoals and calms of 
 the Committee of Council of Education. On 
 Monday, the 25th, the feast of the patron saint 
 of the church, the village school was to be publicly 
 opened, when Mr. Taylor would bid farewell to his 
 old scholars, and the school and house being given 
 over to the final touches of the painters and 
 paperers, was to be in a fit state for the new 
 master to take possession and receive scholars by 
 the time harvest was over. One of Bridget
 
 THE COUNTESS DUTHOYTE. 275 
 
 Storey's regrets was that all this must take place 
 in her absence. 
 
 The new school buildings were so pretty, and the 
 arrangements for the children so far more con- 
 venient and comfortable than any Aggesden had 
 ever known before, that by this time the tide had 
 already turned, and the good people were begin- 
 ning to look on the gabled and porched pile of 
 building (Mr. Arnold had taken Sir Hector at 
 his word) as an honour and ornament to their 
 birthplace, 
 
 Mr. Arnold had quite hoped that Sir Hector him- 
 self might have been induced to come down, give 
 eclat to the opening, and thus begin to take interest 
 in the work for which he himself had pro- 
 vided so large a share of the needful funds. But 
 no, almost as soon as Hector was released from 
 school his father had carried off himself and Harry 
 on a tour in Brittany, and there the opening of the 
 Aggesden school would still find them. 
 
 ' It is hard if, with a parish so prolific in grandees,' 
 said the Vicar, in making final arrangements for 
 the opening, 'we cannot get one of them to be 
 present on the first public event in the parish this 
 hundred years. Ah ! I will write to Lady Duthoyte 
 and see if she and her husband will come down j 
 they are in town, but there's nothing just now 
 going on in the House of enough importance to 
 keep them there — that is, if they choose to come.' 
 
 The Vicar accordingly wrote to his old favourite 
 by that very day's post, Tuesday the 19th, and on 
 the morning of Thursday received the following 
 answer : — 
 
 T 2
 
 37 6 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 ' Wednesday Afternoon. 
 * Dear Mr. Arnold, 
 
 ' I was half afraid I should not have been able to 
 catch my husband in time to answer your letter by 
 to day's post ; but he has just come in for a little rest, 
 poor fellow, after taking the chair at some meeting 
 for providing decent homes for poor needlewomen, 
 and I made him keep awake just long enough to 
 consent to the delightful plan your kind letter put 
 into my head — that we should get free of all this 
 heat and glare on Saturday, and see dear old Ag- 
 gesden in all its beauty by spending Sunday and 
 Monday at the Hall, and thus hear the organ, and 
 see the schools, both of which I had been longing 
 to do. Oh, you cannot tell how hot and dusty 
 London is ! — so hot that I let my husband decide I 
 should not go with him to Exeter Hall this after- 
 noon ; it does make me so very hot, even on the 
 coolest day, to see him chained to a chair, and forced 
 to listen complacently to such trash as the very best 
 men seem to utter when once they are on their legs 
 in that great place. Harry is waking, so I must 
 seal this up at once, or he will think these remarks 
 so irrelevant he will make me write the whole letter 
 again, which I am far too lazy either to do or to 
 fight about. 
 
 ' Best love to all, and many thanks to you for 
 your thought of us, in which honest politeness I 
 am sure his lordship would join had not nature con- 
 quered him — and he is fast asleep again. 
 
 ' I am afraid you will think me no wiser for my 
 marriage ; but indeed I am, and can be quite sen- 
 sible. No, rather think though my husband rules
 
 THE COUNTESS DUTHOYTE. 277 
 
 me with a rod of iron, he has not yet succeeded in 
 breaking my spirit. I really must leave off, or I 
 shall be obliged myself to tear this up ; common 
 decency will require it. With kind love once more, 
 ' Believe me, ever yours, 
 
 * Antoinette Duthotte.' 
 
 ' Carlton Terrace. 
 
 'What do you think? Duthoyte woke up just 
 as I was directing this, and, asking to see what I had 
 said, I was forced to show it, and his remark was so 
 touchingly mild : * Why, Netta, going to Aggesden 
 has quite upset your little brain,' that I really would 
 write you a most grave and decorous answer had I 
 time to do so before going to dress for a stupid state 
 dinner at my mother-in-law's. So, good-bye once 
 more, and burn this, please. Oh ! and he said I 
 ought in honesty to say, he is engaged to lecture at 
 Duthoyte on Tuesday, so that we only take Agges- 
 den on our way.' 
 
 * Well, certainly matrimony has not broken either 
 Netta's heart or spirit yet,' said the Yicar, as when 
 left alone he was talking the letter over with his 
 wife ; ' and I may now own I did rather fear that the 
 first year would cost poor merry, rattling Netta, a 
 little awe and disappointment. A most thoroughly 
 conscientious man I know Lord Duthoyte to be, in 
 private as well as ia public life, but when, as in his 
 case, a young man has done everything for himself, 
 and the whole tone of his own family is so essentially 
 selfish and worldly, he is too likely to become, insensi- 
 bly, a little stiff and overbearing in his own opinions 
 — something of a religious tyrant in his own home.'
 
 278 AGGESDEN VICAKAGE. 
 
 Saturday evening saw the young Earl and 
 Countess alight at the Hall, and Antoinette, 
 hastily getting rid of the light outer clothing such 
 a fiery day as this had been in London when they 
 started, had required, ran down to the dining-room, 
 where the choicest, prettiest, and most refreshing of 
 teas had been laid, under the charge of the good old 
 housekeeper, who was as much delighted as the 
 Yicar at this unexpected arrival of any of the young 
 people. 
 
 Lady Merivale spent the summer mostly away 
 with a maiden sister in Herefordshire, and being at 
 this very time with her, the young husband and 
 wife had the whole house and grounds to them- 
 selves, and after tea sauntered all about the bril- 
 liant gardens and cool green glades of the park, 
 drinking in, as only Londoners can, the sweet pure 
 freshness of the quiet country air. 
 
 On Sunday great was the pleasurable excitement 
 which the young couple's unexpected appearance in 
 the large, long empty Hall pew occasioned. 
 
 It was a cool, shady day, and the Earl and 
 Countess had walked down early to the church, 
 wishing to see the change in its general eifect which 
 their gift must have produced, before the service 
 began. At the sight of the first old woman they 
 retreated to their pew, and so when they arose, as 
 the Morning Hymn was struck up, their sudden 
 appearance took all by surprise. 
 
 Certainly their 'young lady' had undergone no 
 course of home discipline, or public gaiety, or even 
 public meetings, sufficient to mar in any way her 
 sweet looks. The young Countess Duthoy te looked
 
 THE COUNTESS DUTHOYTE. 279 
 
 just as happy, just as lovely as she stood amongst 
 them to-day, in her simple white-ribboned straw- 
 bonnet, and flowing dove-coloured silk dress, as 
 she had ever done in her gayest of gay dresses half 
 a year ago. Indeed, the full, rich, grave-coloured 
 silk, and simple but fashionable bonnet, seemed to 
 suit her tall, graceful figure and sweet, fair face, 
 as even the brightest and slightest of attire had 
 never become it. 
 
 No ; she was very little changed — a little quieter 
 and more dignified when she shook hands heartily 
 with all her little cousins, in the presence of the 
 many old neighbours who had stayed to see their 
 young Countess a little better, — but not too digni- 
 fied to nod first to one, then to another of those 
 she recognised around her ; to inquire after old 
 Master Blogg's rheumatics and Jane Davy's 
 cough. 
 
 Then, when the Vicar came out, the whole Vicar- 
 age party walked back some little way with them 
 along the Park road, Netta leaning on her hus- 
 band's arm, talking frankly, freely, lightheartedly 
 as of old. 
 
 ' Well,' said the Vicar, as after parting he turned 
 back to watch the young pair pursue their way, 
 ' there goes the sweetest woman but one in England. 
 Why, what is her Ladyship running back about V 
 
 * Oh ! Mr. Arnold, will you let Johnnie come up 
 and dine with us this evening ? I have seen nothing 
 whatever of Hector since Christmas. Papa carried 
 him off to Brittany when loe were at Duthoyte, and 
 I want to hear all about the school, and how Hec- 
 tor has been getting on. Oh ! you wont refuse 1
 
 28o AGGESDEN VICAEAGE. 
 
 It is not Sunday visiting, or Harry would not have 
 let me ask him, would you '?' turning to her hus- 
 band. 
 
 Lord Duthoyte smiled his grave, courteous smile. 
 
 ' But perhaps, Netta, Mr. Arnold's ideas and mine 
 upon Sunday visiting do not agree, so we wont 
 press it.' 
 
 * Oh, but we will press it ; I must have him, yes, 
 and Mary too. Mr. Arnold, you must say yes. 
 You know it is the only day we can have them, so 
 that it really is a work of necessity.' 
 
 Mr. Arnold caught sight of the two pair of eager 
 young eyes watching so anxiously for his answer, 
 and gave way, inwardly thinking that with Lord 
 Duthoyte as master of the house this would be very 
 different to what Sunday visiting with the Hector 
 Meri vales would have been ; a species of intercourse 
 which he had determined from their very first re- 
 turn to Aggesden, was a thing he would never 
 allow, Eobert being the only motive which had 
 hitherto proved strong enough to make him break 
 this rule ; although it had at first given some 
 offence to Sir Hector, and much disappointment 
 amongst his own children ; this last once or twice 
 to himself, but this was but fair. 
 
 After the afternoon service, Antoinette stayed to 
 speak to her choir girls and boys, and try the organ, 
 drawing from it sounds which as yet Mary lacked 
 knowledge and actual strength of hand to produce. 
 Then she asked the children to sing some of their 
 old hymns and chants, and by this time it was five, 
 and time for them to return to their six o'clock 
 dinner. Mary and John walked back with them,
 
 THE COUNTESS DUTHOYTE. 28] 
 
 and Mr. Arnold, Frank, and Anna were engaged to 
 come up and drink tea, and walk home with the 
 young diners before dark. Mr. Arnold had never 
 seen so much of the Earl as he did in the hour 
 and a half he this evening spent at the Hall, 
 sauntering with his old pupil's son-in-law up and 
 down the lawn, or sitting under its lovely far- 
 spreading cedars, and watching the sun sink down 
 mid purple and gold in the break in the Aggesden 
 woods. 
 
 But all this is running far away from the open- 
 ing of Aggesden school, where weather happily 
 favoured the Yicar, and all went oflf well. The 
 school-children had their tea and a game of play; 
 their parents took their places, had tea again, and 
 listened with great interest and delight to Lord 
 Duthoyte's account of a tour in Sicily, which Mr. 
 Arnold had persuaded him to deliver at Aggesden, 
 en route — a subject stale enough to himself, but 
 which a dry sense of humour, and strong perception 
 of the ridiculous in the speaker, always made 
 amusing enough to his audience. And then the 
 Yicar bade farewell to Mr. Taylor, who, poor man 
 broke down, and struggled in vain for words to 
 thank him ; emotion which allayed for ever the 
 last lingering grudge against poor Stokes' sup- 
 planter. And so the schools were opened, and 
 every ghost of suspicion, jealousy, or anger against 
 the new system of education, thus introduced 
 amongst them, lulled to rest for ever. 
 
 The Duthoy tes went into the Vicarage for supper, 
 the refreshment the gentry had obtained at the 
 impromptu soiree having been but slight. And
 
 S82 AGGESDEN VICARAGE. 
 
 then Antoinette laughed so much at the grand 
 moral her husband had drawn from his three weeks' 
 tour, at the illustrations he had found some obscure 
 struggling painter in Bury Duthoyte to do for him, 
 asked so mockingly how often he had made the 
 same jokes, and whether she must expect to hear 
 exactly the same to-morrow, that Mr. Arnold quite 
 wondered that his Lordship took it all so quietly and 
 good-humouredly, little guessing how delightful 
 Antoinette's sparkling gaiety was to her practical, 
 hard-working, far- thinking husband. 
 
 ' Now, Netta, I want you to talk to me a little,' 
 interposed the Yicar at last. ' You can laugh at 
 your husband every day of your life ; but I only 
 get you about once in three months.' 
 
 ' What can I talk about except his lecture and 
 its wit 1 Now did not I do my duty in looking 
 sad, or surprised, or amused, just exactly when I 
 ought 1 I am sure no one would have discovered 
 half your witticisms if I had not pointed them out 
 by an appropriate smile, and emboldened them, by 
 my example, to laugh themselves. I declare, 
 Harry, I see quite a new career of usefulness spread 
 out before me — that of show-woman to your lec- 
 tures. I have often before now privately clapped 
 your speeches. Oh yes, I have often — so don't look 
 so surprised and shocked — clapped quite loud under 
 my shawl, and knocked my parasol upon my seat, be- 
 cause I had no umbrella, and so could not reach the 
 floor like the good old ladies around me. You were 
 asking me the other day what I should like for a 
 present on the fifth. I know now — a great green 
 cotton umbrella, with a brass handle and white edge,
 
 THE COUNTESS DUTHOYTE. 283 
 
 like that belonging to tlie old lady in the coal-scuttle- 
 bonnet, whom you said so crossly you would not 
 have me laugh at any more. Ah, I see what made 
 you so angry ; she could make such a nice noise 
 with her powerful instrument — its thumpings even 
 reached the noble Chairman, whilst the taps of my 
 poor dainty parasol never reached other ears than 
 my own, I am afraid.' 
 
 ' Well, and now, little rattle, as you are out of 
 breath at last, suppose you eat your supper. I 
 assure you you are keeping every one waiting.' 
 
 No ! am I ? Oh, Mrs. Arnold, I beg your 
 pardon ; but I will not be a minute. How can 
 one touch mortal food after such an intellectual 
 feast as that spread before us but an hour ago !' 
 
 And so the Yicar learnt that though Antoinette 
 had not left off ' rattling,' she cared no longer to 
 rattle on any subject but her husband. Perhaps 
 the next stage in her sobering into an English 
 matron might be the discontinuance of this practice, 
 but this Mr. Arnold doubted. Such lively, almost 
 aimless talk, was so true a characteristic of Sir 
 Hector's daughter. 
 
 END OF VOL. I.
 
 LONDON : 
 SAVlLt AND EDWARDS, PEINXEES, CHANDOS STREET, 
 COYENT GABDEN.
 
 UNIVERSITY OF ILUNOIS-URBANA 
 
 3 0112 003503858 
 
 j.:^ 
 
 
 
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