Mary Elizabeth Braddon (4 October 1835 - 4 February1915), Milly Darrel(serialised in Belgravia November 1870 - January 1871), here takenfrom Milly Darrel and other stories Asher's Collection Emile GaletteParis 1873

Produced by Daniel FROMONT

ASHER'S COLLECTION

OF

ENGLISH AUTHORS. 

BRITISH AND AMERICAN. 

_COPYRIGHT EDITION_. 

VOL. 72. 

MILLY DARRELL AND OTHER STORIES

BY M. E. BRADDON. 

IN ONE VOLUME. 

PARIS

EMILE GALETTE, 12, RUE BONAPARTE. 

1873. 

_This Edition

is Copyright for Foreign Circulation only_. 

ASHER'S COLLECTION

OF

ENGLISH AUTHORS

BRITISH AND AMERICAN. 

_COPYRIGHT EDITION_. 

VOL. 72. 

MILLY DARRELL AND OTHER TALES

BY M. E. BRADDON. 

IN ONE VOLUME. 

ASHER'S EDITION

BY THE SAME AUTHOR:

ROBERT AINSLEIGH -- 3 VOL. 

TO THE BITTER END -- 3 VOL. 

MILLY DARRELL

AND OTHER TALES. 

BY

M. E. BRADDON

AUTHOR OF "LADY AUDLEY'S SECRET, " "ROBERT AINSLEIGH, " ETC. 

_COPYRIGHT EDITION_. 

BERLIN

A. ASHER & CO. , PUBLISHERS, 1873. 

TO

DR. AND MRS. BEAMAN, THE AUTHOR'S OLD AND VALUED FRIENDS, THIS BOOK

IS AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED. 

CONTENTS. 

MILLY DARRELL -- PAGE 1

OLD RUDDERFORD HALL -- PAGE 179

THE SPLENDID STRANGER -- PAGE 235

MILLY DARRELL

CHAPTER I. 

I BEGIN LIFE. 

I was just nineteen years of age when I began my career as articledpupil with the Miss Bagshots of Albury Lodge, Fendale, Yorkshire. Myfather was a country curate, with a delicate wife and four children, of whom I was the eldest; and I had known from my childhood that theday must come in which I should have to get my own living in almostthe only vocation open to a poor gentleman's daughter. I had beenfairly educated near home, and the first opportunity that arose forplacing me out in the world had been gladly seized upon by my poorfather, who consented to pay the modest premium required by the MissBagshots, in order that I might be taught the duties of a governess, and essay my powers of tuition upon the younger pupils at AlburyLodge. 

How well I remember the evening of my arrival!--a bleak drearyevening at the close of January, made still more dismal by adrizzling rain that had never ceased falling since I left myfather's snug little house at Briarwood in Warwickshire. I had hadto change trains three times, and to wait during a blank andmiserable hour and a quarter, or so, at small obscure stations, staring hopelessly at the advertisements on the walls--advertisementsof somebody's life-sustaining cocoa, and somebody else's health-restoring cod-liver oil, or trying to read the big brown-backedBible in the cheerless little waiting-room; and trying, O so hard, not to think of home, and all the love and happiness I had leftbehind me. The journey had been altogether tiresome and fatiguing;but, for all that, the knowledge that I was near my destinationbrought me no sense of pleasure. I think I should have wished thatdismal journey prolonged indefinitely, if I could thereby haveescaped the beginning of my new life. 

A lumbering omnibus conveyed me from the station to Albury Lodge, after depositing a grim-looking elderly lady at a house on theoutskirts of the town, and a dapper-looking little man, whom I tookfor a commercial traveller, at an inn in the market-place. I watchedthe road with a kind of idle curiosity as the vehicle lumberedalong. The town had a cheerful prosperous air even on this wetwinter night, and I saw that there were two fine old churches, and alarge modern building which I supposed to be the town-hall. 

We left the town quite behind us before we came to Albury Lodge; avery large house on the high-road, a square red-brick house of theearly Georgian era, shut in from the road by high walls. The greatwrought-iron gates in the front had been boarded up, and AlburyLodge was now approached by a little wooden side-door into a stone-flagged covered passage that led to a small door at the end of thehouse. The omnibus-driver deposited me at this door, with all myworldly possessions, which at this period of my life consisted oftwo rather small boxes and a japanned dressing-case, a receptaclethat contained all my most sacred treasures. 

I was admitted by a rather ill-tempered-looking housemaid, with acap of obtrusive respectability and a spotless white apron. Ifancied that she looked just a little superciliously at my boxes, which I daresay would not have contained her own wardrobe. 

'O, it's the governess-pupil, I suppose?' she said. 'You wasexpected early this afternoon, miss. Miss Bagshot and Miss Susan aregone out to tea; but I can show you where you are to sleep, ifyou'll please to step this way. Do you think you could carry one ofyour trunks, if I carry the other?'

I thought I could; so the housemaid and I lugged them all the wayalong the stone passage and up an uncarpeted back staircase whichled from the lobby into which the door at the end of the passageopened. We went very high up, to the top story in fact, where thehousemaid led me into a long bare room with ten little beds in it. Iwas well enough accustomed to the dreariness of a school dormitory, but somehow this room looked unusually dismal. 

There was a jet of gas burning at one end of the room, near a dooropening into a lavatory which was little more than a cupboard, butin which ten young ladies had to perform their daily ablutions. HereI washed my face and hands in icy-cold water, and arranged my hairas well as I could without the aid of a looking-glass, that being aluxury not provided at Albury Lodge. The servant stood watching meas I made this brief toilet, waiting to conduct me to theschoolroom. I followed her, shivering as I went, to a great emptyroom on the first floor. The holidays were not quite over, and noneof the pupils had as yet returned. There was an almost painfulneatness and bareness in place of the usual litter of books andpapers, and I could not help thinking that an apartment in aworkhouse would have looked quite as cheerful. Even the fire behindthe high wire guard seemed to burn in a different manner from allhome fires: a fact which I attributed then to some sympatheticproperty in the coal, but which I afterwards found to be caused by aplentiful admixture of coke; a slow sulky smoke went up from thedull mass of fuel, brightened ever so little now and then by asickly yellow flame. One jet of gas dimly lighted this long drearyroom, in which there was no human creature but myself and my guide. 

'I'll bring you some supper presently, miss, ' the housemaid said, and departed before I could put in a timid plea for that feminineluxury, a cup of tea. 

I had not expected to find myself quite alone on this first night ofmy arrival, and a feeling of hopeless wretchedness came over me as Isat down at one end of a long green-baize-covered table, and restedmy head upon my folded arms. Of course it was very weak and foolish, a bad beginning of my new life, but I was quite powerless to contendagainst that sense of utter misery. I thought of all I had left athome. I thought of what my life might have been if my father hadbeen only a little better off: and then I burst out crying as if myheart were breaking. 

Suddenly, in the midst of that foolish paroxysm, I felt a light handupon my shoulder, and looking up, saw a face bending over me, a facefull of sympathy and compassion. 

O Milly Darrell, my darling, my love, how am I to describe you asyou appeared before my eyes that night? How poorly can any words ofmine paint you in your girlish beauty, as you looked down upon me inthat dimly-lighted schoolroom with divine compassion in your darkeloquent eyes!

Just at that moment I was so miserable and so inclined to be sulkyin my wretchedness, that even the vision of that bright face gave melittle pleasure. I pushed away the gentle hand ungraciously, androse hastily from my seat. 

'Pray don't cry any more, ' said the young lady; 'I can't bear tohear you cry like that. '

'I'm not going to cry any more, ' I answered, drying my eyes in ahasty, angry way. 'It was very foolish of me to cry at all; but thisplace did look so cheerless and dreary, and I began to think of myfather and mother, and all I had left behind me at home. '

'Of course it was only natural you should think of them. Everythingdoes seem so bleak and dismal the first night; but you are veryhappy to have so many at home. I have only papa. '

'Indeed!' I said, not feeling deeply interested in her affairs. 

I looked at her as she stood leaning a little against the end of thetable, and playing idly with a bunch of charms and lockets hangingto her gold chain. She was very handsome, a brunette, with a smallstraight nose, hazel eyes, and dark-brown hair. Her mouth was theprettiest and most expressive I ever saw in my life, and gave anindescribable charm to her face. She was handsomely dressed inviolet silk, with rich white lace about the throat and sleeves. 

'You will find things much pleasanter when the girls come back. Ofcourse school is always a little dreary compared with home; one isprepared for that; but I have no doubt you will contrive to behappy, and I hope we shall be very good friends. I think you must bethe Miss Crofton I have heard spoken of lately?'

'Yes, my name is Crofton--Mary Crofton. '

'And mine is Emily Darrell. Milly I am always called at home, and byany one who likes me. I am a parlour-boarder, and have the run ofthe house, as it were. I am rather old to be at school, you see; butI am going home at the end of this year. I was brought up at homewith a governess until about six months ago; but then papa took itinto his head that I should be happier amongst girls of my own age, and sent me off to school. He has been travelling since that time, and so I have not been home for the Christmas holidays. I can't tellyou what a disappointment that was. '

I tried to look sympathetic, and, not knowing exactly what to say, Iasked whether Miss Darrell's father lived in that neighbourhood. 

'O dear, no, ' she answered; 'he lives nearly a hundred miles away, in a very wild part of Yorkshire, not far from the sea. ButThornleigh--that is the name for our house--is a dear old place, and Ilike our bleak wild country better than the loveliest spot in theworld. I was born there, you see, and all my happy memories of mychildhood and my mother are associated with that dear old home. '

'Is it long since you lost your mother?'

'Ten years. I loved her so dearly. There are some subjects aboutwhich one dare not speak. I cannot often trust myself to talk ofher. '

I liked her better after this. At first her beauty and her handsomedress had seemed a little overpowering to me; I had felt as if shewere a being of another order, a bright happy creature not subjectto the common woes of life. But now that she had spoken of her ownsorrows, I felt that we were upon a level; and I stole my handtimidly into hers, and murmured some apology for my previousrudeness. 

'You were not rude, dear. I know I must have seemed very intrusivewhen I disturbed you; but I could not bear to hear you crying likethat. And now tell me where you sleep. '

I described the room as well as I could. 

'I know where you mean, ' she said; 'it's close to my room. I havethe privilege of a little room to myself, you know; and on half-holidays I have a fire there, and write my letters, or paint; andyou must come and sit with me on these afternoons, and we can be ashappy as possible together working and talking. Do you paint?'

'A little--in a schoolgirlish fashion kind of way. '

'Quite as well as I do, I daresay, ' Miss Darrell answered, laughinggaily, 'only you are more modest about it. O, here comes yoursupper; may I sit with you while you eat it?'

'I shall be very glad if you will. '

'I hope you have brought Miss Crofton a good supper, Sarah, ' shewent on in the same gay girlish way. --'Sarah is a very good creature, you must know, Miss Crofton, though she seems a little grim tostrangers. That's only a way of hers: she _can_ smile, I assure you, though you'd hardly think so. '

Sarah's hard-looking mouth expanded into a kind of grin at this. 

'There's no getting over you, Miss Darrell, ' she said; 'you've gotsuch a way of your own. I've brought Miss Crofton some cold beef;but if she'd like a bit of pickle, I wouldn't mind going to ask cookfor it. Cold meat does eat a little dry without pickle. '

This 'bit of pickle' was evidently a concession in my favour made toplease Emily Darrell. I thanked Sarah, and told her that I would nottrouble her with a journey to the cook. I was faint and worn-outwith my day's pilgrimage, and had eaten very little since morning;but the most epicurean repast ever prepared by a French chef wouldhave seemed so much dust and ashes to me that night; so I sat downmeekly to my supper of bread and meat, and listened to MillyDarrell's chatter as I ate it. 

Of course she told me all about the school, Miss Bagshot, and MissSusan Bagshot. The elder of these two ladies was her favourite. MissSusan had, in the remote period of her youth, been the victim ofsome unhappy love-affair, which had soured her disposition, andinclined her to look on the joys and follies of girlhood with ajaundiced eye. It was easy enough to please Miss Bagshot, who had agenial matronly way, and took real delight in her pupils; but it wasalmost impossible to satisfy Miss Susan. 

'And I am sorry to say that you will be a good deal with her, ' MissDarrell said, shaking her head gravely; 'for you are to take thesecond English class under her--I heard them say so at dinner to-day--and I am afraid she will fidget you almost out of your life; but youmust try to keep your temper, and take things as quietly as you can, and I daresay in time you will be able to get on with her. '

'I'm sure I hope so, ' I answered rather sadly; and then Miss Darrellasked me how long I was to be at Albury Lodge. 

'Three years, ' I told her; 'and after that, Miss Bagshot is to placeme somewhere as a governess. '

'You are going to be a governess always?'

'I suppose so, ' I answered. The word 'always' struck me with alittle sharp pain, almost like a wound. Yes, I supposed it would bealways. I was neither pretty nor attractive. What issue could therebe for me out of that dull hackneyed round of daily duties whichmakes up the sum of a governess's life?

'I am obliged to do something for my living, ' I said; 'my father isvery poor. I hope I may be able to help him a little by and by. '

'And my father is so ridiculously rich. He is a great ironmaster, and has wharves and warehouses, and goodness knows what, at NorthShields. How hard it seems!'

'What seems hard?' I asked absently. 

'That money should be so unequally divided. Do you know, I don'tthink I should much mind going out as a governess: it would be a wayof seeing life. One must meet with all sorts of adventures, goingamong strangers like that. '

I looked at her as she smiled at me, with a smile that gave anindescribable brightness to her face, and I fancied that for herindeed there could be no form of life so dull that would not holdsome triumph, some success. She seemed a creature born to extractbrightness out of the commonest things, a creature to be onlyadmired and caressed, go where she might. 

'You a governess!' I said, a little scornfully; 'you are not of theclay that makes governesses. '

'Why not?'

'You are much too pretty and too fascinating. '

'O, Mary Crofton, Mary Crofton--may I call you Mary, please? we aregoing to be such friends--if you begin by flattering me like that, how am I ever to trust you and lean upon you? I want some one with astronger mind than my own, you know, dear, to lead me right; for I'mthe weakest, vainest creature in the world, I believe. Papa hasspoiled me so. '

'If you are always like what you are to-night, I don't think thespoiling has done much mischief, ' I said. 

'O, I am always amiable enough, so long as I have my own way. Andnow tell me all about your home. '

I gave her a faithful account of my brothers and my sister, and abrief description of the dear old-fashioned cottage, with its white-plaster walls crossed with great black beams, its many gables andquaint latticed windows. I told her how happy and united we hadalways been at home, and how this made my separation from those Iloved so much the harder to bear; to all of which Milly Darrelllistened with most unaffected sympathy. 

Early the next day my new life began in real earnest. Miss SusanBagshot did not allow me to waste my time in idleness until thearrival of my pupils. She gave me a pile of exercises to correct, and some difficult needlework to finish; and I found I had indeed asharp taskmistress in this blighted lady. 

'Girls of your age are so incorrigibly idle, ' she said; 'but I mustgive you to understand at once that you will have no time fordawdling at Albury Lodge. The first bell rings a quarter before six, and at a quarter past I shall expect to see you in the schoolroom. You will superintend the younger pupils' pianoforte practice fromthat time till eight o'clock, at which hour we breakfast. From ninetill twelve you will take the second division of the second classfor English, according to the routine arranged by me, which you hadbetter copy from a paper I will lend you for that purpose. Afterdinner you will take the same class for two hours' reading untilfour; from four to five you will superintend the needle-work class. Your evenings--with the exception of the careful correction of allthe day's exercises--will be your own. I hope you have a sincere loveof your vocation, Miss Crofton. '

I said I hoped I should grow to like my work as I became accustomedto it. I had never yet tried teaching, except with my young sisterand brothers. My hear sank as I remembered our free-and-easy studiesin the sunny parlour at home, or out in the garden under the pinkand white hawthorns sometimes on balmy mornings in the early summer. 

Miss Susan shook her head doubtfully. 

'Unless you have a love of your vocation you will never succeed, Miss Crofton, ' she said solemnly. 

I freely confess that this love she spoke of never came to me. Itried to do my duty, and I endured all the hardships of my life in, I hope, a cheerful spirit. But the dry monotony of the studies hadno element of pleasantness, and I used to wonder how Miss Susancould derive pleasure--as it was evident she did--from the exercise ofher authority over those hapless scholars who had the misfortune tobelong to her class. Day after day they heard the same lectures, listened submissively to the same reproofs, and toiled on upon thatbleak bare high-road to learning, along which it was her delight todrive them. Nothing like a flower brightened their weary way--it wasall alike dust and barrenness; but they ploughed on dutifully, cramming their youthful minds with the hardest dates and facts to befound in the history of mankind, the dreariest statistics, thedriest details of geography, and the most recondite rules ofgrammar, until the happy hour arrived in which they took their finaldeparture from Albury Lodge, to forget all they had learnt there inthe briefest possible time. 

How my thoughts used to wander away sometimes as I sat at my desk, distracted by the unmelodious sound of Miss Susan's voice lecturingsome victim in her own division at the next table, while one of thegirls in mine droned drearily at Lingard, or Pinnock's _Goldsmith_, asthe case might be! How the vision of my own bright home haunted meduring those long monotonous afternoons, while the March winds madethe poplars rock in the garden outside the schoolroom, or the Aprilrain beat against the great bare windows!

CHAPTER II. 

MILLY'S VISITOR. 

It was not often that I had a half-holiday to myself, for Miss SusanBagshot seemed to take a delight in finding me something to do onthese occasions; but whenever I had, I spent it with Milly Darrell, and on these rare afternoons I was perfectly happy. I had grown tolove her as I did not think it was in me to love any one who was notof my own flesh and blood; and in so loving her, I only returned theaffection which she felt for me. 

I am sure it was the fact of my friendlessness, and of mysubordinate position in the school, which had drawn this girl'sgenerous heart towards me; and I should have been hard indeed if Ihad not felt touched by her regard. She soon grew indescribably dearto me. She was of my own age, able to sympathize with every thoughtand fancy of mine; the frankest, most open-hearted of creatures; alittle proud of her beauty, perhaps, when it was praised by thoseshe loved, but never proud of her wealth, or insolent to those whosegifts were less than hers. 

I used to write my home-letters in her room on these rare and happyafternoons, while she painted at an easel near the window. The roomwas small, but better furnished than the ordinary rooms in thehouse, and it was brightened by all sorts of pretty things, --handsomely-bound books upon hanging shelves, pictures, Dresden cupsand saucers, toilet-bottles and boxes, which Miss Darrell hadbrought from home. Over the mantelpiece there was a large photographof her father, and by the bedside there hung a more flatteringwater-coloured portrait, painted by Milly herself. It was a powerfuland rather a handsome face, but I thought the expression a littlehard and cold, even in Milly's portrait. 

She painted well, and had a real love of art. Her studies at AlburyLodge were of rather a desultory kind, as she was not supposed tobelong to any class; but she had lessons from nearly half-a-dozendifferent masters--German lessons, Italian lessons, drawing lessons, music and singing lessons--and was altogether a very profitablepupil. She had her own way with every one, I found, and I believeMiss Bagshot was really fond of her. 

Her father was travelling in Italy at this time, and did not oftenwrite to her--a fact that distressed her very much, I know; but sheused to shake off her sorrow in a bright hopeful way that waspeculiar to her, always making excuses for the dilatorycorrespondent. She loved him intensely, and keenly felt thisseparation from him; but the doctors had recommended him rest andchange of air and scene, she told me, and she was glad to think hewas obeying them. 

Upon one of these half-holidays, when midsummer was near at hand, wewere interrupted by an unwonted event, in the shape of a visit froma cousin of Milly's; a young man who occupied an important positionin her father's house of business, and of whom she had sometimestalked to me, but not much. His name was Julian Stormont, and he wasthe only son of Mr. Darrell's only sister, long since dead. 

It was a sultry afternoon, and we were spending it in a rusticsummer-house at the end of a broad gravel that went the whole lengthof the large garden. Milly had her drawing materials on the tablebefore her, but had not been using them. I was busy with a piece offancy-work which Miss Susan Bagshot had given me to finish. We weresitting like this, when my old acquaintance Sarah, the housemaid, came to announce a visitor for Miss Darrell. 

Milly sprang to her feet, flushed with excitement. 

'It must be papa!' she cried joyfully. 

'Lor', no, miss; don't you go to excite yourself like that. It isn'tyour pa; it's a younger gentleman. '

She handed Milly a card. 

'Mr. Stormont!' the girl exclaimed, with a disappointed air; 'mycousin Julian. I am coming to him, of course, Sarah. But I wish youhad given me the card at once. '

'Won't you go and do somethink to your hair, miss? most young ladiesdo. '

'O yes, I know; there are girls who would stop to have their hairdone in Grecian plaits, if the dearest friend they had in the worldwas waiting for them in the drawing-room. My hair will do wellenough, Sarah. --Come, Mary, you'll come to the house with me, won'tyou?'

'Lor', miss, here comes the gentleman, ' said Sarah; and thendecamped by an obscure side-path. 

'I had better leave you to see him alone, Milly, ' I said; but shetold me imperatively to stay, and I stayed. 

She went a little way to meet the gentleman, who seemed pleased tosee her, but whom she received rather coldly, as I thought. But Ihad not long to think about it, before she had brought him to thesummer-house, and introduced him to me. 

'My cousin Julian--Miss Crofton. '

He bowed rather stiffly, and then seated himself by his cousin'sside, and put his hat upon the table before him. I had plenty oftime to look at him as he sat there talking of all sorts of thingsconnected with Thornleigh, and Miss Darrell's friends in thatneighbourhood. He was very good-looking, fair and pale, with regularwell-cut features, and rather fine blue eyes; but I fancied thoseclear blue eyes had a cold look, and that there was an expression ofiron will about the mouth and powerful prominent chin. The upperpart of the face was thoughtful, and there were lines already on thehigh white forehead, from which the thin straight chestnut hair wascarefully brushed. It was the face of a very clever man, I thought;but I was not so sure that it was the face of a man I could like, orwhom I should be inclined to trust. 

Mr. Stormont had a low pleasant voice and an agreeable manner ofspeaking. His way of treating his cousin was half deferential, halfplayful; but once, when I looked up suddenly from my work, I seemedto catch a glimpse of a deeper meaning in the cold blue eyes--a lookof singular intensity fixed on Milly's bright face. 

Whatever this look might mean, she was unconscious of it; she wenton talking gaily of Thornleigh and her Thornleigh friends. 

'I do so want to come home, Julian, ' she said. 'Do you think thereis any hope for me this midsummer?'

'I think there is every hope. I think it is almost certain you willcome home. '

'O Julian, how glad I am!'

'But suppose there should be a surprise for you when you come home, Milly, --a change that you may not quite like, at first?'

'What change?'

'Has your father told you nothing?'

'Nothing, except about his journeys from place to place, and notmuch about them. He has written very seldom during the last sixmonths. '

'He has been too much engaged, I suppose; and it's rather like himto have said nothing about it. How would you like a stepmother, Milly?'

She gave a little cry, and grew suddenly pale. 

'Papa has married again!' she said. 

Julian Stormont drew a newspaper from his pocket, and laid it beforeher, pointing to an announcement in one column:

'On May 18th, at the English legation in Paris, William Darrell, Esq. , of Thornleigh, Yorkshire, to Augusta, daughter of the lateTheodore Chester, Esq. , of Regent's Park. '

He read this aloud very slowly, watching Milly's pale face as heread. 

'There is no reason why this should distress you, my dear child, ' hesaid. 'It was only to be expected that your father would marryagain, sooner or later. '

'I have lost him!' she cried piteously. 

'Lost him!'

'Yes; he can never be again the same to me that he has been. His newwife will come between us. No, Julian, I am not jealous. I do notgrudge him his happiness, if this marriage can make him happy. Ionly feel that I have lost him for ever. '

'My dear Milly, that is utterly unreasonable. Your father told memost particularly to assure you of his unaltered affection, when Ibroke the news of this marriage to you. He was naturally a littlenervous about doing it himself. '

'You must never let him know what I have said, Julian. He will neverhear any expression of regret from me; and I will try to do my dutyto this strange lady. Have you seen her yet?'

'No, they have not come home yet. They were in Switzerland when Iheard of them last; but they are expected in a week or two. Come, mydear Milly, don't look so serious. I trust this marriage may turnout for your happiness, as well as for your father's. Rely upon it, you will find no change in his feelings towards you. '

'He will always be kind and good to me, I know, ' she answered sadly. 'It is not possible for him to be anything but that; but I can neverbe his companion again as I have been. There is an end to all that. '

'That was a kind of association which could not be supposed to lastall your life, Milly. It is to be hoped that somebody else will havea claim upon your companionship before many years have gone by. '

'I suppose you mean that I shall marry, ' she said, looking at himwith supreme indifference. 

'Something like that, Milly. '

'I have always fancied myself living all my life with papa. I havenever thought it possible that I could care for any one but him. '

Julian Stormont's face darkened a little, and he sat silent for someminutes, folding and refolding the newspaper in a nervous way. 

'You are not very complimentary to your admirers at Thornleigh, ' hesaid at last, with a short hoarse laugh. 

'Who is there at Thornleigh? Have I really any admirers there?'

'I think I could name half-a-dozen. '

'Never mind them just now. I want you to tell me all you know aboutmy stepmother. '

'That amounts to very little. All I can tell you is, that she is thedaughter of a gentleman, highly accomplished, without money, andfour-and-twenty years of age. She was travelling as companion to anelderly lady when your father met her in a picture-gallery atFlorence. He knew the old lady, I believe, and by that means becameacquainted with the younger one. '

'Only four-and-twenty! only four years older than I!'

'Rather young, is it not? but when a man of your father's age makesa second marriage, he is apt to marry a young woman. Of course thisis quite a love-match. '

'Yes, quite a love-match, ' Milly repeated, with a sigh. 

I knew she could not help that natural pang of jealousy, as shethought how she and her father had once been all the world to eachother. She had told me so often of their happy companionship, theperfect confidence that had existed between them. 

Julian Stormont sat talking to her--and a little, a very little, tome--for about half an hour longer, and then departed. He was to sleepat Fendale, and go back to North Shields next morning. He was hisuncle's right hand in the business, Milly told me; and from thelittle I had seen of him I could fancy him a power in any sphere. 

'Papa has a very high opinion of him, ' she said, when we weretalking of him after he had left us. 

'And you like him very much, I suppose?'

'O yes, I like him very well. I have known him all my life. We arealmost like brother and sister; only Julian is one of thosethoughtful reserved persons one does not get on with very fast. '

CHAPTER III. 

AT THORNLEIGH. 

The midsummer holidays began at last, and Mr. Darrell came in personto fetch his daughter, much to her delight. She was not to return toschool any more unless she liked, he told her. Her new mamma wasmost anxious to receive her, and she could have masters atThornleigh to complete her education, if it were not alreadyfinished. 

Her eyes were full of tears when she came to tell me this, and carryme off to the drawing-room to introduce me to her father, anintroduction she insisted upon making in spite of my entreaties, --forI was rather shy at this period of my life, and dreaded an encounterwith a stranger. 

Mr. Darrell received me most graciously. He was a tall fine-lookingman, very like the photograph in Milly's bedroom, and I detected thehard look about the mouth which I had noticed in both portraits. Heseemed remarkably fond of his daughter; and I have never seen aprettier picture than she made as she stood beside him, clinging tohis arm, and looking lovingly up at him with her dark hazel eyes. 

He asked me where I was to spend my holidays; and on hearing that Iwas to stay at Albury Lodge, asked whether I would like to come toThornleigh with Milly for the midsummer vacation. My darling clappedher hands gaily as he made this offer, and cried:

'O yes, Mary, you will come, won't you?--You dear kind papa, that isjust like you, always able to guess what one wishes. There isnothing in the world I should like better than to have Mary atThornleigh. '

'Then you have only to pack a box with all possible expedition, andto come away with us, Miss Crofton, ' said Mr. Darrell; 'the trainstarts in an hour and a half. I can only give you an hour. '

I thanked him as well as I could--awkwardly enough, I daresay--for hiskindness, and ran away to ask Miss Bagshot's consent to the visit. This she gave readily, in spite of some objections suggested by MissSusan, and I had nothing more to do than to pack my few dresses--mytwo coloured muslins, a white dress for festive occasions, a black-silk dress which was preëminently my 'best, ' and some print morning-dresses--wondering as I packed them how these things would passcurrent among the grandeurs of Thornleigh. All this was finishedwell within the hour, and I put my bonnet and shawl, and ran down--flushed with hurry and excitement, and very happy--to join my friendsin the drawing-room. 

Miss Bagshot was there, talking of her attachment to her sweet youngfriend, and her regret at losing her. Mr. Darrell cut theselamentations short when he found I was ready, and we drove off tothe station in the fly that had brought him to Albury Lodge. 

I looked at the little station to-day with a very different feelingfrom that dull despondency which had possessed me six months before, when I arrived there in the bleak January weather. The thought offive weeks' respite from the monotonous routine of Albury Lodge wasalmost perfect happiness. I did not forget those I loved at home, orcease to regret the poverty that prevented my going home for theholidays; but since this was impossible, nothing could have beenpleasanter than the idea of the visit I was going to pay. 

Throughout the journey Mr. Darrell was all that was gracious andkind. He talked a good deal of his wife; dwelling much upon heraccomplishments and amiability, and assuring his daughter again andagain that she could not fail to love her. 

'I was a little bit of a coward in the business, I confess, Milly, 'he said, in the midst of this talk, 'and hadn't courage to tell youanything till the deed was done; and then I thought it was as wellto let Julian make the announcement. '

'You ought to have trusted me better, papa, ' Milly said tenderly;and I knew what perfect self-abnegation there was in the happy smilewith which she gave him her hand. 

'And you are not angry with me, my darling?' he asked. 

'Angry with you, papa? as if I had any right to be angry with you!Only try to love me a little, as you used to do, and I shall bequite happy. '

'I shall never love you less, my dear. '

The journey was not a long one; and the country through which wepassed was very fair to look upon in the bright June afternoon. Thelandscape changed when we were within about thirty miles of ourdestination: the fertile farmlands and waving fields of green corngave place to an open moor, and I felt from far off the fresh breathof the ocean. This broad undulating moorland was new to me, and Ithought there was a wild kind of beauty in its loneliness. As forMilly, she looked out at the moor with rapture, and strained hereyes to catch the first glimpse of the hills about Thornleigh--thosehills of which she had talked to me so often in her little room atschool. 

The station we had to stop at was ten miles from Mr. Darrell'shouse, and a barouche-and-pair was waiting for us in the sunny roadoutside. We drove along a road that crossed the moor, until we cameto a little village of scattered houses, with a fine old church--atone end of which an ancient sacristy seemed mouldering slowly todecay. We drove past the gates of two or three rather importanthouses, lying half-hidden in their gardens, and then turned sharplyoff into a road that went up a hill, nearly at the top of which wecame to a pair of noble old carved iron gates, surmounted with acoat-of-arms, and supported on each side by massive stone pillars, about which the ivy twined lovingly. 

An old man came out of a pretty rustic-looking lodge and openedtheses gates, and we drove through an avenue of some extent, whichled straight to the front of the house, the aspect of whichdelighted me. It was very old and massively built, and had quite abaronial look, I thought. There was a wide stone terrace withponderous moss-grown stone balustrades round three sides of it, andat each angle a broad flight of steps leading down to a secondterrace, with sloping green banks that melted into the turf of thelawn. The house stood on the summit of a hill, and from one sidecommanded a noble view of the sea. 

A lady came out of the curious old stone porch as the carriage droveup, and stood at the top of the terrace steps waiting for us. Iguessed immediately that this must be Mrs. Darrell. 

Milly hung back a little shyly, as her father led her up the stepswith her hand through his arm. She was very pale, and I could seethat she was trembling. Mrs. Darrell came forward to her quickly, and kissed her. 

'My darling Emily, ' she cried, 'I am so delighted to see you atlast. --O William, you did not deceive me when you promised me abeautiful daughter. '

Milly blushed, and smiled at this compliment, but still clung to herfather, with shy downcast eyes. 

I had time to look at Mrs. Darrell while this introduction was beingmade. She was not by any means a beautiful woman, but she was what Isuppose would have been called eminently interesting. She was talland slim, very graceful-looking, with a beautiful throat and a well-shaped head. Her features, with the exception of her eyes, were inno way remarkable; but those were sufficiently striking to givecharacter to a face that might otherwise have been insipid. Theywere large luminous gray eyes, with black lashes, and ratherstrongly-marked brows of a much darker brown than her hair. That wasof a nondescript shade, neither auburn nor chestnut, and with littlelight or colour in its soft silky masses; but it seemed to harmonisevery well with her pale complexion. Lavater has warned us todistrust any one whose hair and eyebrows are of a different colour. I remembered this as I looked at Mrs. Darrell. 

She was dressed in white; and I fancied the transparent muslin, withno other ornament than a lilac ribbon at the waist, was peculiarlybecoming to her slender figure and delicate face. Her husband seemedto think so too, for he looked at her with a fond admiring glance ashe offered her his arm to return to the house. 

'I mustn't forget to introduce Miss Crofton to you, Augusta, ' hesaid; 'a school friend of Milly's, who has kindly accepted myinvitation to spend the holidays with her. '

Mrs. Darrell gave me her hand; but I fancied that she did so rathercoldly, and I had an uneasy sense that I was not very welcome to thenew mistress of Thornleigh. 

'You will find your old rooms all ready for you, Milly, ' she said;'I suppose we had better put Miss Crofton in the blue room--nextyours?'

'If you please, Mrs. Darrell. '

'What, Milly, won't you call me mamma?'

Milly was silent for a few moments, with a pained expression in herface. 

'Pray, forgive me, ' she said in a low voice; 'I cannot call any oneby that name. '

Augusta Darrell kissed her again silently. 

'It shall be as you wish, dear, ' she said, after a pause. 

A rosy-cheeked, pleasant-looking girl, who had been accustomed towait on Milly in the old time, came forward to meet us, and ranbefore us to our rooms, expressing her delight at her young lady'sreturn all the way she went. 

The rooms were very pretty, and were situated in that portion of thehouse which looked towards the sea. There was a sitting-room, brightly furnished with some light kind of wood, and with chintzhangings all over rose-buds and butterflies. This had been Milly'sschoolroom, and there was a good many books in two pretty-lookingbookcases on each side of the fireplace. Besides these, there weresome curious old cabinets full of shells and china. It wasaltogether the prettiest, most homelike room one could imagine. 

Opening out of this, there was a large airy bedroom, with threewindows commanding that glorious view of moorland and sea; andbeyond that, a dainty little dressing-room. The next door in thecorridor opened into the room that had been allotted to me; a largecomfortable-looking room, in which there was an old-fashionedmahogany four-post bed with blue-damask curtains. 

I went to Milly's dressing-room when my own simple toilet wasfinished, and stood by the open window talking to her while shearranged her hair. She dismissed her little maid directly I wentinto the room, and I felt she had something to say to me. 

'Well, Mary, ' she began at once, 'what do you think of her?'

'Of Mrs. Darrell?'

'Of course. '

'What opinion can I possibly form about her, after seeing her forthree minutes, Milly? I think she is very elegant-looking. That isthe only idea I have about her yet. '

'Do you think she looks _true_, Mary? Do you think she has marriedpapa because she loves him?'

'My dear child, how can I tell that? She is a great many yearsyounger than your papa, but I do not see that the difference betweenthem need be any real hindrance to her loving him. He is a man whomany woman might care for, I should think; to say nothing of hernatural gratitude towards the man who has rescued her from aposition of dependence. '

'Gratitude is all nonsense, ' Miss Darrell answered impatiently. 'Iwant to know that my father is loved as he deserves to be loved. Ishall never tolerate that woman unless I can feel sure of that. '

'I believe you are prejudiced against her already, Milly, ' I saidreproachfully. 

'I daresay I am, Mary. I daresay I feel unjustly about her; but Idon't like her face. '

'What is there in her face that you don't like?'

'O, I can't tell you that--an undefinable something. I have a sort ofconviction that she and I can never love each other. '

'It is rather hard upon Mrs. Darrell to begin with such a feeling asthat, Milly. '

'I can't help it. Of course I shall try to do my duty to her, forpapa's sake, and I shall do my best to conquer all these unchristianfeelings. But we cannot command our hearts, you know, Mary, and Idon't think I shall ever love my stepmother. '

She took me down to the drawing-room after this. It was half-pastsix, and we were to dine at seven. The drawing-room was a long room, with five windows opening on to the terrace, an old-fashioned-looking room with panelled walls and a fine arched ceiling. Thewainscot was painted white, with gilt mouldings, and the cornice andarchitraves of the doors were elaborately carved. The furniture waswhite-and-gold like the walls, and in that spurious classical stylewhich prevailed during the first French Empire. The window-curtainsand coverings of sofas and chairs were of dark-green velvet. 

A gentleman was standing in one of the open windows looking out atthe garden. He turned as Milly and I went in, and I recognised Mr. Stormont. He came forward to shake hands with his cousin, and smiledhis peculiar slow smile at her expression of surprise. 

'You didn't know I was here, Milly?'

'No, indeed; I had no idea of seeing you. '

'I wonder your father did not tell you of my visit. I came over thismorning for a fortnight's holiday. I've been working a little harderthan usual lately, and my uncle is good enough to say I have earneda rest. '

'I wonder you don't go abroad for a change. '

'I don't care about a change. I had much rather come to Thornleigh. '

He looked at her very earnestly as he said this. I had been sure ofit that afternoon when we all three sat in the summer-house atAlbury Lodge, but I could see that Milly herself had no idea of thetruth. 

'Well, Milly, what do you think of your new mamma?' he askedpresently. 

'I had rather not tell you yet. '

'Humph! that hardly sounds favourable to the lady. She seems to me avery charming person; but she is not my stepmother, and, of course, that makes a difference. Your father is intensely devoted. '

Mr. Darrell came into the room a few minutes after this, and hiswife followed him almost immediately. Milly placed herself next herfather, and contrived to absorb his attention, not quite to thesatisfaction of the elder lady, I fancied. Those bright gray eyesflashed upon my darling with a brief look of anger, which changed inthe next moment to quiet watchfulness. 

Mrs. Darrell stood by one of the tables, idly turning over somebooks and papers, and finding me seated near her, began to talk tome presently in a very gracious manner, asking me how I likedThornleigh, and a few other questions of a stereotyped kind; buteven while she talked those watchful eyes were always turned towardsthe window where the father and daughter stood side by side. Mr. Stormont came over to her while she was talking to me, and joined inthe conversation; in the midst of which a grave gray-haired oldbutler came to announce dinner. 

Mr. Stormont offered his arm to the lady of the house, while Mr. Darrell gave one arm to me and the other to his daughter; and wewent down a long passage, at the end of which was the dining-room, anoble old room, with dark oak panelling and a great many pictures bythe old masters, which were, no doubt, as valuable as they weredingy. We dined at an oval table, prettily decorated with flowersand with some very curious old silver. 

There was a good deal of talk at dinner, in which I could take verylittle part. Mr. And Mrs. Darrell talked to Julian Stormont of theirtravels; and I must confess the lady talked well, with noaffectation of enthusiasm, and with an evident knowledge andappreciation of the things she was speaking about. I envied herthose wanderings in sunny foreign lands, even though they had beenmade in the company of an invalid dowager, and I wondered whethershe would be happy in a settled existence at Thornleigh. 

After dinner Milly took me out upon the terrace, and from thence wewent to explore the gardens. We had not been out long before JulianStormont came to join us. We had been talking pleasantly enough tillhe appeared, but his coming seemed to make us both silent, and hehimself had a thoughtful air. I watched his pale face as he walkedbeside us in the twilight, and was again struck by the careworn lookabout the brow and the resolute expression of the mouth. 

He was very fond of Milly. Of that fact there could be no possibledoubt; and I think he had already begun to suffer keenly from theknowledge that his love was unreturned. That he hoped against hopeat this time--that he counted fully on his power to win her in thefuture, I know. He was too wise to precipitate matters by anyuntimely avowal of his feelings. He waited with a quiet resolutepatience which was a part of his nature. 

Of course we talked a little, but it was in a straggling, desultorykind of way; and I think it was a relief to all of us when wefinished the round of the gardens and went in through one of thedrawing-room windows. The room was lighted with lamps and candlesplaced about upon the tables, and Mrs. Darrell was sitting near herhusband, employed upon some airy scrap of fancy-work, while he readhis _Times_. 

He asked for some music soon after we went in, and she rose to obeyhim with a very charming air of submission. She playedmagnificently, with a power and style that were quite new to me, forI had heard no professional performers. She sang an Italian scenaafterwards, in a rich mezzo-soprano, and with a kind of suppressedpassion that impressed me deeply. I scarcely wondered, after hearingher play and sing, that Mr. Darrell had been fascinated by her. These gifts of hers were in themselves sufficient to subjugate a manwho really cared for music. 

Milly was charmed into forgetfulness of her prejudices. She wentover to the piano and kissed her stepmother. 

'Papa told me how clever you were, ' she said; 'but he did not tellme you were a genius. '

Mrs. Darrell received the compliment very modestly, and then triedto persuade Milly to sing or play; but the girl declined resolutely. Nothing could induce her to touch the piano after that brilliantperformance. 

The next day and several days passed very quietly, and in a kind ofmonotonous comfort. The rector of the parish dined with us one day, and on another a neighbouring squire with his wife and threedaughters. Milly and I spent a good deal of our time in the gardensand on the sea-shore, with Julian Stormont for our companion, whileMr. And Mrs. Darrell rode or drove together. My darling could seethat she was not expected to join them in these rides and drives, and I think this confirmed her idea that her father was in a mannerlost to her. 

'I must try to be satisfied with this new state of things, Mary, 'she said, with a sigh of resignation. 'If my father is happy, Iought to be contented. But O, my dear, if you could have seen ustogether a year ago, you would know how much I have lost. '

I had been at Thornleigh a little more than a week, when Mr. Darrellone morning proposed a drive to a place called Cumber Priory, whichwas one of the show-houses of the neighbourhood. It was a very oldplace, he said, and had been one of the earliest monasticsettlements in that part of the country. Milly and her father andher cousin had been there a great many times, and the visit wasproposed for the gratification of Mrs. Darrell and myself. 

She assented graciously, as she always did to every proposition ofher husband's, and we started soon after breakfast in the barouche, with Julian Stormont on horseback. The drive was delightful; for, after leaving the hilly district about Thornleigh, our road laythrough a wood, where the trees were of many hundred years' growth. I recognised groups of oak and beech that I had seen among thesketches in Milly's portfolio. 

On the other side of the wood we came to some dilapidated-lookinggates, with massive stone escutcheons on the great square pillars. There was a lodge, but it was evidently unoccupied, and Mr. Darrell's footman got down from the box to open the gates. Within wemade the circuit of a neglected lawn, divided from a park by a sunkfence, across which some cattle stared at us in a lazy manner as wedrove past them. The house was a long low building with heavilymullioned windows, and was flanked by gothic towers. Most of thewindows had closed shutters, and the place had altogether a desertedlook. 

'The Priory has not been occupied for several years, ' Mr. Darrellsaid, as if in answer to my thoughts as I looked up at the closedwindows. 'The family have been too poor to live in it in anythinglike their old state. There is only one member of the old familyremaining now, and he leads a wandering kind of life abroad, Ibelieve. '

'What has made them so poor?' asked Mrs. Darrell. 

'Extravagant habits, I suppose, ' answered her husband, with anexpressive shrug of the shoulders. 'The Egertons have always been awild race. '

'Egerton!' Mrs. Darrell repeated; 'I thought the name of thesepeople was Cumber. '

'No; Cumber is only the name of the place. It has been in theEgerton family for centuries. '

'Indeed!'

I was seated exactly opposite her, and I was surprised by thestrange startled look in her face as she repeated the name ofEgerton. That look passed away in the next moment, and left her withher usual air of languid indifference; a placid kind of listlessnesswhich harmonised very well with her pale complexion and delicatefeatures. She was not a woman from whom one expected much animation. 

The low iron-studded door of the Priory was opened by a decent-looking old woman of that species which seems created expressly forthe showing of old houses. She divined our errand at once, and assoon as we were in the hall, began her catalogue of pictures andcuriosities in the usual mechanical way, while we looked about us, always fixing our eyes on the wrong object, and more bewildered thanenlightened by her description of the chief features of the place. 

We went from room to room, the dame throwing open the shutters ofthe deep-set gothic windows, and letting in a flood of sunshine uponthe faded tapestries and tarnished picture-frames. It was a nobleold place, and the look of decay upon everything was more in accordwith its grandeur than any modern splendour could have been. 

We had been through all the rooms on the ground floor, most of whichopened into one another, and were returning towards the hall, whenMr. Darrell missed his wife, and sent me back to look for her in onedirection, while he went in another. I hurried through three or fourempty rooms, until I came to a small one at the end of the house, and here I found her. I had not noticed this room much, for it wasfurnished in a more modern style than the rest of the house, and theold housekeeper had made very light of it, hurrying us back to lookat some armour over the chimneypiece in the next room. It was hermaster's study, she had said, and was not generally shown tostrangers. 

It was a small dark-looking room, lined with dingily-bound booksupon heavy carved-oak shelves, and with no other furniture than amassive writing-table and three or four arm-chairs. Over themantelpiece, which was modern and low, there was a portrait of ayoung man with a dark handsome face, and it was at this that AugustaDarrell was looking. I could see her face in profile as she stoodupon the hearth with her clenched hand upon the mantelpiece, and Ihad never before seen such an expression in any human countenance. 

What was it? Despair, remorse, regret? I know not; but it was a lookof keenest anguish, of unutterable sorrow. The face was deadly pale, the great gray eyes looking upwards at the portrait, the lips lockedtogether rigidly. 

She did not hear my footstep; it was only when I spoke to her thatshe turned towards me with a stony face, and asked what I wanted. 

I told her that Mr. Darrell had sent me. 

'I was coming this instant, ' she said, resuming her usual mannerwith an effort. 'I had only loitered to look at that portrait. Afine face, is it not, Miss Crofton?'

'A handsome one, at any rate, ' I answered doubtfully, for that darkhaughty countenance struck me as rather repellent than attractive. 

'That's as much as to say you don't think it a good face. Well, perhaps you are right. It reminded me of some one I knew a long timeago, and was rather interesting to me on that account. And then Ifell into a kind of a reverie, and forgot that my dear husband mightmiss me. '

He came into the room as she was saying this. She told him that shehad stopped to look at the portrait, and asked whose it was. 

'It is a likeness of Angus Egerton, the present owner of thePriory, ' Mr. Darrell answered; 'and a very good likeness, too--of asbad a man as ever lived, I believe, ' he added in a lower voice. 

'A bad man?'

'Yes; he broke his mother's heart. '

'In what manner?'

'He fell in love with a girl of low birth, whom he met in the courseof a pedestrian tour in the West of England, and was going to marryher, I believe, when Mrs. Egerton got wind of the affair. She was avery proud woman--one of the most resolute masculine-minded women Iever knew. She went down into Devonshire where the girl livedimmediately, and by some means or other prevented the marriage. Howit was done I never heard; but it was not until a year afterwardsthat Angus Egerton discovered his mother's part in the business. Hecame down to the Priory suddenly and unexpectedly at a late hour onenight, and walked straight to his mother's room. I have heard thatold woman who has been showing us the house describe his ghastlyface--she was Mrs. Egerton's maid in those days--as he pushed heraside and went into the room where his mother was sitting. There wasa dreadful scene between them, and at the end of it Angus Egertonwalked out of the house, swearing never again to enter it while hismother lived. He has kept his word. Mrs. Egerton never crossed thethreshold after that night, and refused to see anybody except herservants and her doctor. She lived this lonely kind of life fornearly three years, and then died of some slow wasting disease, forwhich the doctor could find no name. '

'And where did Mr. Egerton go after leaving her that night?'

'He slept at a little inn at Cumber, and went back to London nextmorning. He left England soon after that, and has lived abroad eversince. '

'And you think him a very bad man?'

'I consider his conduct to his mother a sufficient evidence ofthat. '

'He may have believed himself deeply wronged. '

'He must have known that she had acted in his interests when sheprevented his committing the folly of a low marriage. She was hismother, and had been a most devoted and indulgent mother. '

'And in the end contrived to break his heart--to say nothing of thegirl who loved him, who was of course a piece of common clay, notworth consideration. '

'I did not think you had so much romance, Augusta, ' said Mr. Darrell, laughing; 'I suppose it is natural for a woman to take thepart of unfortunate lovers, however foolish the affair may be. But Ibelieve this Devonshire girl was quite unworthy of an honourableattachment on the part of any man. You see I knew and liked Mrs. Egerton, and I know how she loved her son. I cannot forgive him hisconduct to her; nor have the reports of his life abroad been by anymeans favourable to his character. His career seems to have been avery wild and dissipated one. '

'And he has never married?'

'No, he has never married. '

'He has been true, at least, ' Mrs. Darrell said in a low thoughtfultone. 

We had lingered in the little study while her husband had told hisstory. We went back to the hall now, and found Milly and Mr. Stormont looking rather listlessly at the old portraits of theEgerton race. I was anxious to see a picture of the last Mrs. Egerton, after what I had heard about her, and, at my request, thehousekeeper showed me one in the drawing-room. 

She was very handsome, and wonderfully like her son. I could fancythose two haughty spirits in opposition. 

We spent another hour looking over the rest of the house--oldtapestry, old pictures, old china, old furniture, secret staircases, carved chimneypieces, muniment chests, and the usual objects ofinterest to be found in such a place. After that we walked a littlein the neglected garden, where there were old holly hedges that hadgrown high and wild for want of clipping, and where a curious oldsun-dial had fallen down upon the grass in a forlorn way. The pathswere all green and moss-grown, and the roses were almost choked withbindweed. I saw Mrs. Darrell gather one of these roses and put it inher breast. It was the first time I have ever seen her pluck aflower, though there was a wealth of roses at Thornleigh. 

So ended our visit to Cumber Priory; a place that was destined to bevery memorable to some of us in the time to come. 

CHAPTER IV. 

MRS. THATCHER. 

It had been Milly's habit to devote one day a week to visiting amongthe poor, before she went to Albury Lodge; and she now resumed thispractice, I accompanying her upon her visits. I had been used togoing about among the cottagers at home, and I liked the work. Itwas very pleasant to see Milly Darrell with these people--the perfectconfidence and sympathy between them and her, the delight theyseemed to take in her bright cheering presence. I was struck bytheir simple natural manner, and the absence of anything likesycophancy to be observed in them. One day, when we had been toseveral cottages about the village, Milly asked me if I could managerather a long walk; and on my telling her that I could, we startedupon a lonely road that wound across the moor in a direction I hadnever walked in until that day. We went on for about two mileswithout passing a human habitation, and then came to one of the mostdesolate-looking cottages I ever remember seeing. It was littlebetter than a cabin, and consisted only of two rooms--a kind ofkitchen or dwelling-room, and a dark little bedchamber opening outof it. 

'I am not going to introduce you to a very agreeable person, Mary, 'Milly said, when we were within a few paces of this solitarydwelling; 'but old Rebecca is a character in her way, and I make apoint of coming to see her now and then, though she is not alwaysvery gracious to me. '

It was a warm bright summer's day, but the door and the singlewindow of the cottage were firmly closed. Milly knocked with herhand, and a thin feeble old voice called to her to 'come in. '

We went in: the atmosphere of the place was hot, and had anunpleasant doctor's-shoppish kind of odour, which I found was causedby some herbs in a jar that was simmering over a little stove in acorner. Bunches of dried herbs hung from the low ceiling, and on anold-fashioned lumbering chest of drawers that stood in the windowthere were more herbs and roots laid out to dry. 

'Mrs. Thatcher is a very clever doctor, Mary, ' said Milly, as if byway of introduction; 'all our servants come to her to be cured whenthey have colds and coughs. --And how are you this lovely summerweather, Mrs. Thatcher?'

'None too well, miss, ' grumbled the old woman; 'I don't like thesummer time; it never suited me. '

'That's strange, ' said Milly gaily; 'I thought everybody likedsummer. '

'Not those that live as I do, Miss Darrell. There's no illness insummer--no colds, nor coughs, nor sore-threats, nor suchlikes. Idon't know that I shouldn't starve outright, if it wasn't for theague; and even that is nothing now to what it used to be. '

I was quite horror-struck by this ghoulish speech; but Milly onlylaughed gaily at the old woman's candour. 

'If the doctors were as plain-spoken as you, I daresay they'd saypretty much the same kind of thing, Mrs. Thatcher, ' she said. 'How'syour grandson?'

'O, he's well enough, Miss Darrell. Naught's never in danger. --Peter, come here, and see the young ladies. '

A poor, feeble, pale-faced, semi-idiotic-looking boy came slowly outof the dark little bedroom, and stood grinning at us. He had thewhite sickly aspect of a creature reared without the influence ofair and light; and I pitied him intensely as he stood there staringand grinning in that dreadful hopeless manner. 

'Poor Peter!' He's no better, I'm afraid, ' said Milly gently. 

'No, miss, nor never will be. He knows more than people think, andhas queer cunning ways of his own; but he'll never be any better orwiser than he is now. '

'Not if you were to take as much pains with him as you do with thepatients who pay you, Mrs. Thatcher?' asked Milly. 

'I've taken pains with him, ' answered the woman, with a scowl. 'Itook to him kindly enough when he was a little fellow; but he'sgrown up to be nothing but a plague and a burden to me. '

The boy left off grinning, and his poor weak chin sank lower on hisnarrow chest. His attitude had been a stooping one from the first;but he drooped visibly under the old woman's reproof. 

'Can he employ himself in no way?'

'No, miss; except in picking the herbs and roots for me sometimes. He can do that, and he knows one from t'other. '

'He's of some use to you, at any rate, then, ' said Milly. 

'Little enough, ' the old woman answered sulkily. 'I don't want help;I've plenty of time to gather them myself. But I've taught him topick them, and it's the only thing he ever could learn. '

'Poor fellow! He's your only grandchild, isn't he, Mrs. Thatcher?'

'Yes, he's the only one, miss, and he'd need be. I don't know how Ishould keep another. You can't remember my daughter Ruth? She was aspretty a girl as you'd care to see. She was housemaid at Cumberpriory in Mrs. Egerton's time, and she married the butler. They setup in business in a little public-house in Thornleigh village, andhe took to drinking, till everything went to rack and ruin. My poorgirl took the trouble to heart more than her husband did, a greatdeal; and I believe it was the trouble that killed her. She diedthree weeks after that boy was born, and her husband ran away theday after the funeral, and has never been heard of since. Some sayhe drowned himself in the Clem; but he was a precious deal too fondof himself for that. He was up to his eyes in debt, and didn't leavea sixpence behind him; that's how Peter came to be thrown on myhands. '

'Come here, Peter, ' said Milly softly; and the boy went to herdirectly, and took the hand she offered him. 

'You've not forgotten me, have you, Peter? Miss Darrell, who used totalk to you sometimes a long time ago. '

The boy's vacant face brightened into something like intelligence. 

'I know you, miss, ' he said; 'you was always kind to Peter. It's notmany that I know; but I know you. '

She took out her purse and gave him half-a-crown. 

'There, Peter, there's a big piece of silver for your own self, tobuy whatever you like--sugar-sticks, gingerbread, marbles--anything. '

His clumsy hand closed upon the coin, and I have no doubt he waspleased by the donation; but he never took his eyes from MillyDarrell's face. That bright lovely face seemed to exercise a kind offascination upon him. 

'Don't you think Peter would be better if you were to give him alittle more air and sunshine, Mrs. Thatcher?' Milly asked presently;'that bedroom seems rather a dark close place. '

'He needn't be there unless he likes, ' Mrs. Thatcher answeredindifferently. 'He sits out of doors whenever he chooses. '

'Then I should always sit out-of-doors on fine days, if I were you, Peter, ' said Milly. 

After this she talked a little to Mrs. Thatcher, who was by no meansa sympathetic person, while I sat looking on, and contemplating theold woman with a feeling that was the reverse of admiration. 

She was of a short squat figure, with broad shoulders and no throatto speak of, and her head seemed too big for her body. Her face waslong and thin, with large features, and a frame of scanty gray hair, among which a sandy tinge still lingered here and there; her eyeswere of an ugly reddish-brown, and had, I thought, a most sinisterexpression. I must have been very ill, and sorely at a loss for adoctor, before I could have been induced to trust my health to thecare of Mrs. Rebecca Thatcher. 

I told Milly as much while we were walking homewards, and sheadmitted that Rebecca Thatcher was no favourite even among thecountry people, who believed implicitly in her skill. 

'I'm afraid she tells fortunes, and dabbles in all sorts ofsuperstitious tricks, ' Milly added gravely; 'but she is so artful, there is no way of finding her out in that kind of business. Thefoolish country girls who consult her always keep her secret, andshe manages to put on a fair face before our rector and his curate, who believe her to be a respectable woman. '

The days and weeks slipped by very pleasantly at Thornleigh, and theend of those bright midsummer holidays came only too soon. It seemeda bitter thing to say 'good-bye' to Milly Darrell, and to go backalone to a place which must needs be doubly dull and dreary to mewithout her. She had been my only friend at Albury Lodge; loving heras I did, I had never cared to form any other friendship. 

The dreaded day came at last--dreaded I know by both of us; and Isaid 'good-bye' to my darling so quietly, that I am sure none couldhave guessed the grief I felt in this parting. Mrs. Darrell was verykind and gracious on this occasion, begging that I would come backto Thornleigh at Christmas--if they should happen to spend theirChristmas there. 

Milly looked up at her wonderingly as she said this. 

'Is there any chance of our spending it elsewhere, Augusta?' sheasked. 

Mrs. Darrell had persuaded her stepdaughter to use this familiarChristian name, rather than the more formal mode of address. 

'I don't know, my dear. Your papa has sometimes talked of a house intown, or we might be abroad. I can only say that if we are at homehere, we shall be very much pleased to see Miss Crofton again. '

I thanked her, kissed Milly once more, and so departed--to be drivento the station in state in the barouche, and to look sadly back atthe noble old house in which I had been so happy. 

Once more I returned to the dryasdust routine of Albury Lodge, andrang the changes upon history and geography, chronology and Englishgrammar, physical science and the elements of botany, until my wearyhead ached and my heart grew sick. And when I came to be agoverness, it would of course be the same thing over and over again, on a smaller scale. And this was to be my future, without hope ofchange or respite, until I grew an old woman worn-out with thedrudgery of tuition!

CHAPTER V. 

MILLY'S LETTER. 

The half-year wore itself slowly away. There were no incidents tomark the time, no change except the slow changes of the seasons; andmy only pleasures were letters from home or from Emily Darrell. 

Of the home letters I will not speak--they could have no interestexcept for myself; but Milly's are links in the story of a life. Shewrote to me as freely as she had talked to me, pouring out all herthoughts and fancies with that confiding frankness which was one ofthe most charming attributes of her mind. For some time the letterscontained nothing that could be called news; but late in Septemberthere came one which seemed to me to convey intelligence of someimportance. 

'You will be grieved to hear, my darling Mary, ' she wrote, after alittle playful discussion of my own affairs, 'that my stepmother andI are no nearer anything like a real friendship than we were whenyou left us. What it is that makes the gulf between us, I cannottell; but there is something, some hidden feeling in both our minds, I think, which prevents our growing fond of each other. She is verykind to me, so far as perfect non-interference with my doings, and agracious manner when we are together, can go; but I am sure she doesnot like me. I have surprised her more than once looking at me withthe strangest expression--a calculating, intensely thoughtful look, that made her face ten years older than it is at other times. Ofcourse there are times when we are thrown together alone--though thisdoes not occur often, for she and my father are a most devotedcouple, and spend the greater part of every day together--and I havenoticed at those times that she never speaks of her girlhood, or ofany part of her life before her marriage. All that came before seemsa blank page, or a sealed volume that she does not care to open. Iasked some trifling question about her father once, and she turnedupon me almost angrily. 

"I do not care to speak about him, Milly, " she said; "he was not agood father, and he is best forgotten. I never had a real friendtill I met my husband. "

'There is one part of her character which I am bound to appreciate. I believe that she is really grateful and devoted to papa, and hecertainly seems thoroughly happy in her society. The marriage hadthe effect which I felt sure it must have--it has divided us two mostcompletely; but if it has made him happy, I have no reason tocomplain. What could I wish for beyond his happiness?

'And now, Milly, for my news. Julian Stormont has been here, and hasasked me to be his wife. 

'He came over last Saturday afternoon, intending to stop with ustill Monday morning. It was a bright warm day here, and in theafternoon he persuaded me to walk to Cumber Church with him. Youremember the way we drove through the wood the day we went to thePriory, I daresay; but there is a nearer way than that for footpassengers, and I think a prettier one--a kind of cross-cut throughthe same wood. I consented willingly enough, having nothing betterto do with myself, and we had a pleasant walk to church, talking ofall kinds of things. As we returned Julian grew very serious, andwhen we were about half way upon our journey, he asked me if I couldguess what had brought him over to Thornleigh. Of course I told himthat I concluded he had come as he usually did--for rest and changeafter the cares of business, and to talk about business affairs withpapa. 

'He told me he had come for something more than that. He came totell me that he had loved me all his life; that there was nothing myfather would like better than our union if it could secure myhappiness, as he hoped and believed it might. 

'I think you know, Mary, that no idea of this kind had ever enteredmy mind. I told Julian this, and told him that, however I mightesteem him as my cousin, he could never be nearer or dearer to methan that. The change in his face when he heard this almostfrightened me. He grew deadly pale, but I am certain it was angerrather than disappointment that was uppermost in his mind. I neverknew until then what a hard cruel face it could be. 

"Is this irrevocable, Emily?" he asked, in a cold firm voice; "isthere no hope that you will change your mind by and by?"

"No, Julian; I am never likely to do that. "

"There is some one else, then, I suppose, " he said. 

"No, indeed, there is no one else. "

"Highly complimentary to me!" he cried, with a harsh laugh. 

'I was very sorry for him, in spite of that angry look. 

"Pray don't imagine that I do not appreciate your many highqualities, Julian, " I said, "or that I do not feel honoured by yourpreference for me. No doubt there are many women in the world betterdeserving your regard than I am, who would be able to return it. "

"Thank you for that little conventional speech, " he cried with asneer. "A man builds all his hopes of happiness on one woman, andshe coolly shatters the fabric of his life, and then tells him to goand build elsewhere. I daresay there are women in the world whowould condescend to marry me if I asked them, but it is mymisfortune to care only for one woman. I can't transfer myaffection, as a man transfers his capital from one form ofinvestment to another. "

'We walked on for some time in silence. I was determined not to beangry with him, however ungraciously he might speak to me; and whenwe were drawing near home, I begged that we might remain friendsstill, and that this unfortunate conversation might make nodifference between us. I told him I knew how much my father valuedhim, and that it would distress me deeply if he deserted Thornleighon my account. 

"Friends!" he replied, in an absent tone; "yes, we are still friendsof course, and I shall not desert Thornleigh. "

'He seemed gayer than usual that evening after dinner. Whether thegaiety was assumed in order to hide his depression, or whether hewas really able to take the matter lightly, I cannot tell. Of courseI cannot shut out of my mind the consideration that a marriage withme would be a matter of great worldly advantage to Julian, who hasnothing but the salary he receives from my father, and who by such amarriage would most likely secure immediate possession of thebusiness, in which he is already a kind of deputy principal. 

'I noticed that my stepmother was especially kind to Julian thisevening, and that she and he sat apart in one of the windows forsome time talking to each other in a low confidential tone, while myfather took his after-dinner nap. I wonder whether he told her ofour interview that afternoon?

'He went back to Shields early next morning, and bade me good-byequite in his usual manner; so I hoped he had forgiven me; but theaffair has left an unpleasant feeling in my mind, a sort of vaguedread of some trouble to arise out of it in the future. I cannotforget that hard cruel look in my cousin's face. 

'When he was gone, Mrs. Darrell began to praise him very warmly, andmy father spoke of him in the same tone. They talked of him a gooddeal as we lingered over our breakfast, and I fancied there was someintention with regard to me in the minds of both--they seem indeed tothink alike upon every subject. Dearly as I love my father, this isa point upon which even his influence could not affect me. I mightbe weak and yielding upon every other question, never upon this. 

'And now let me tell you about my friend Peter, Rebecca Thatcher'shalf-witted grandson. You know how painfully we were both struck bythe poor fellow's listless hopeless manner when we were at thecottage on the moor. I thought of it a great deal afterwards, and itoccurred to me that our head-gardener might find work for him in theway of weeding, and rolling the gravel paths, and such humblematters. Brook is a good kind old man, and always ready to doanything to please me; so I asked him the question one day inAugust, and he promised that when he next wanted extra hands PeterThatcher should be employed, "Though I don't suppose I shall evermake much of him, miss, " he said; "but there's naught I wouldn't doto please you. "

'Well, my dear Mary, the boy came, and has done so well as quite tosurprise Brook and the other two gardeners. He has an extraordinaryattachment to me, and nothing delights him so much as to wait uponme when I am attending to my ferns, a task I always perform myself, as you know. To see this poor boy, standing by with a watering-potin one hand, and a little basket of dead leaves in the other, watching me as breathlessly as if I were some great surgeonoperating upon a patient, would make you smile; but I think youcould scarcely fail to be touched by his devotion. He tells me thathe is so happy at Thornleigh, and he begins to look a great dealbrighter already. The men say he is indefatigable in his work, andworth two ordinary boys. He is passionately fond of flowers, and Ihave begun to teach him the elements of botany. It is rather slowwork impressing the names of the plants upon his poor feeble brain;but he is so anxious to learn, and so proud of being taught, that Iam well repaid for my trouble. '

Milly was very anxious that I should spend Christmas at Thornleigh;but it was by that time nearly a year since I had seen the dear onesat home, and ill as my dear father could afford any addition to hisexpenses, he wished me to spend my holidays with him; and so it wasarranged that I should return to Warwickshire, much to my deargirl's regret. 

The holiday was a very happy one; and, before it was over, Ireceived a letter from Milly, telling me that Mr. And Mrs. Darrellwere going abroad for some months, and asking me to cut short myterm at Albury Lodge, and come to Thornleigh as her companion, at asalary which I thought a very handsome one. 

The idea of exchanging the dull monotony of Miss Bagshot'sestablishment for such a home as Thornleigh, with the friend I lovedas dearly as a sister, was more than delightful to me, to saynothing of a salary which would enable me to buy my own clothes andleave a margin for an annual remittance to my father. I talked thesubject over with him, and he wrote immediately to Miss Bagshot, requesting her to waive the half-year's notice of the withdrawal ofmy services, to which she was fairly entitled. This she consentedvery kindly to do; and instead of going back to Albury Lodge, I wentto Thornleigh. 

Mr. And Mrs. Darrell had started for Paris when I arrived, and thehouse seemed very empty and quiet. My dear girl came into the hallto receive me, and led me off to her pretty sitting-room, wherethere was a bright fire, and where, she told me, she spent almostthe whole of her time now. 

'And are you really pleased to come to me, Mary?' she asked, whenour first greetings were over. 

'More than pleased, my darling. It seems almost too bright a lifefor me. I can hardly believe in it yet. '

'But perhaps you will seen get as tired of Thornleigh as ever youdid of Albury Lodge. It will be rather a dull kind of life, youknow; only you and I and the old servants. '

'I shall never feel dull with you, Milly. But tell me how all thiscame about. How was it you didn't go abroad with Mr. And Mrs. Darrell?'

'Ah, that is rather strange, isn't it? The truth of the matter is, that Augusta did not want me to go with them. She does not like me, Mary, that is the real truth, through she affects to be very fond ofme, and has contrived to make my father think she is so. What isthere that she cannot make him think? She does not like me; and sheis never quite happy or at her ease when I am with her. She had beengrowing tired of Thornleigh for some time when the winter began; andshe looked so pale and ill, that my father got anxious about her. The doctor here treated her in the usual stereotyped way, and madevery light of her ailments, but recommended change of air and scene. Papa proposed going to Scarborough; but somehow or other Augustacontrived to change Scarborough into Paris, and they are to spendthe winter and spring there, and perhaps go on to Germany in thesummer. At first papa was very anxious to take me with them; butAugusta dropped some little hints--it would interrupt my studies, andunsettle me, and so on. You know I am rather proud, Mary, so you canimagine I was not slow to understand her. I said I would much preferto stay at Thornleigh, and proposed immediately that you should cometo me and be my companion, and help me on with my studies. '

'My dearest, how good of you to wish that!'

'It was not at all good. I think you are the only person in theworld who really cares for me, now that I have lost papa--for I havelost him, you see, Mary; that becomes more obvious every day. Well, dear, I had a hard battle to fight. Mrs. Darrell said you wereabsurdly young for such a position, and that I required a matronlyperson, able to direct and protect me, and take the management ofthe house in her absence, and so on; but I said that I wantedneither direction nor protection; that the house wanted no othermanagement than that of Mrs. Bunce the housekeeper, who has managedit ever since I was a baby; and that if I could not have MaryCrofton, I would have no one at all. I told papa what anindefatigable darling you were, and how conscientiously you wouldperform anything you promised to do. So, after a good deal ofdiscussion, the matter was settled; and here we are, with the houseall to ourselves, and the prospect of being alone together for sixmonths to come. '

I asked her if she had seen much of Mr. Stormont since thatmemorable Sunday afternoon. 

'He has been here twice, ' she said, 'for his usual short visit fromSaturday afternoon till Monday morning, and he has treated me justas if that uncomfortable interview had never taken place. '

We were very happy together in the great lonely house, amongst oldservants, who seemed to take a pleasure in waiting on us. We spentour mornings and evenings in Milly's sitting-room, and took ourmeals in a snug prettily-furnished breakfast-room on the ground-floor. We read together a great deal, going through a systematiccourse of study of a very different kind from the dry labours atAlbury Lodge. There was a fine old library at Thornleigh, and weread the masters of English and French prose together withunflagging interest and pleasure. Besides all this, Milly workedhard at her music, and still harder at her painting, which was areal delight to her. 

Mr. Collingwood the rector, and his family, came to see us, andinsisted on our visiting them frequently in a pleasant unceremoniousmanner; and we had other invitations from Milly's old friends in theneighbourhood of Thornleigh. 

There were carriages at our disposal, but we did not often use them. Milly preferred walking; and we used to take long rambles togetherwhenever the weather was favourable--rambles across the moor, or faraway over the hills, or deep into the wood between Thornleigh andCumber. 

CHAPTER VI. 

A NEW ACQUAINTANCE. 

It was shortly after my arrival at Thornleigh that I first saw theman whose story I had heard in the study at Cumber Priory. Milly andI had been together about a fortnight, and it was the end ofJanuary--cold, clear, bright weather--when we set out early oneafternoon for a ramble in our favourite wood, Milly furnished withpencils and sketch-book, in order to jot down any striking effect ofthe gaunt leafless old trees. She had a hardy disregard of cold inher devotion to her art, and would sit down to sketch in the bitterJanuary weather in spite of my entreaties. 

We stayed out longer than usual, and Milly had stopped once or twiceto make a hasty sketch, when the sky grew suddenly dark, and bigdrops of rain began to fall slowly. There were speedily succeeded bya pelting storm of rain and hail, and we felt that we were caught, and must be drenched to the skin before we could get back toThornleigh. The weather had been temptingly fine when we left home, and we had neither umbrellas nor any other kind of protectionagainst the rain. 

'We had better scamper off as fast as we can, ' said Milly. 

'But we can't run four miles. Hadn't we better go on to Cumber, andwait in the village till the weather changes, or try to get somekind of conveyance there?'

'Well, I suppose that would be best. There must be such a thing as afly at Cumber, I should think, small as the place is. But it'snearly a mile from here to the village. '

'Anything seems better than going back through the wood in such aweather, ' I said. 

We were close to the outskirts of the wood at this time, and withina very short distance of the Priory gates. While we were stillpausing in an undecided way, with the rain pelting down upon us, afigure came towards us from among the leafless trees--the figure of aman, a gentleman, as we could see by his dress and bearing, and astranger. We had never met any one but country-people, farm-labourers, and so on, in the wood before, and were a little startledby his apparition. 

He came up to us quickly, lifting his hat as he approached us. 

'Caught in the storm, ladies, ' he said, 'and without umbrellas Isee, too. Have you far to go?'

'Yes, we have to go as far as Thornleigh, ' Milly answered. 

'Quite impossible in such weather. Will you come into the Priory andwait till the storm is over?'

'The Priory! To be sure!' cried Milly. 'I never thought of that. Iknow the housekeeper very well, and I am sure she would let us stopthere. '

We walked towards the Priory gates, the stranger accompanying us. Ihad no opportunity of looking at him under that pelting rain, but Iwas wondering all the time who he was, and how he came to speak ofCumber Priory in that familiar tone. 

One of the gates stood open, and we went in. 

'A desolate-looking place, isn't it?' said the stranger. 'Dismalenough, without the embellishment of such weather as this. '

He led the way to the hall-door, and opened it unceremoniously, standing aside for us to pass in before him. There was a fireburning in the wide old-fashioned fireplace, and the place had anair of occupation that was new to it. 

'I'll send for Mrs. Mills, and she shall take your wet shawls awayto be dried, ' said the stranger, ringing a bell; and I think we bothbegan to understand by this time that he must be the master of thehouse. 

'You are very kind, ' Milly answered, taking off her dripping shawl. 'I did not know that the Priory was occupied except by the oldservants. I fear you must have thought me very impertinent just nowwhen I talked so coolly of taking shelter here. '

'I am only too glad that you should find refuge in the old place. '

He wheeled a couple of ponderous carved-oak chairs close to thehearth, and begged us to sit there; but Milly preferred standing inthe noble old gothic window looking out at the rain. 

'They will be getting anxious about us at home, ' she said, 'if weare not back before dark. '

'I wish I possessed a close carriage to place at your service. I do, indeed, boast of the ownership of a dog-cart, if you would not beafraid of driving in such a barbarous vehicle when the rain is over. It would keep you out of the mud, at any rate. '

Milly laughed gaily. 

'I have been brought up in the country, ' she said, 'and am not atall afraid of driving in a dog-cart. I used often to go out withpapa in his, before he married. '

'Then, when the storm is over, I shall have the pleasure of drivingyou to Thornleigh, if you will permit me that honour. '

Milly looked a little perplexed at this, and made some excuse aboutnot wishing to cause so much trouble. 

'I really think we could walk home very well; don't you, Mary?' shesaid; and I declared myself quite equal to the walk. 

'It would be impossible for you to get back to Thornleigh beforedark, ' the gentleman remonstrated. 'I shall be quite offended if yourefuse the use of my dog-cart, and insist on getting wet feet. Idaresay your feet are wet as it is, by the bye. '

We assured him of the thickness of our boots, and gave our shawls toMrs. Mills the old housekeeper, who carried them off to be dried inthe kitchen, and promised to convey the order about the dog-cart tothe stables immediately. 

I had time now to look at our new acquaintance, who was standingwith his shoulders against one angle of the high oak mantelpiece, watching the rain beating against a window opposite to him. I had nodifficulty in recognising the original of that portrait whichAugusta Darrell had looked at so strangely. He was much older thanwhen the portrait had been taken--ten years at the least, I thought. In the picture he looked little more than twenty, and I should haveguessed him now to be on the wrong side of thirty. 

He was handsome still, but the dark powerful face had a sort ofrugged look, the heavy eyebrows overshadowed the sombre black eyes, a thick fierce-looking moustache shrouded the mouth, but could notquite conceal an expression, half cynical, half melancholy, thatlurked about the lowered corners of the full firm lips. He lookedlike a man whose past life held some sad or sinful history. 

I could fancy, as I looked at him, that last bitter interview withhis mother, and I could imagine how hard and cruel such a man mightbe under the influence of an unpardonable wrong. Like Mrs. Darrell, I was inclined to place myself on the side of the unfortunatelovers, rather than on that of the mother, who had been willing tosacrifice her son's happiness to her pride of race. 

We all three remained silent for some little time, Milly and Istanding together in the window, Mr. Egerton leaning against themantelpiece, watching the rain with an absent look in his face. Heroused himself at last, as if with an effort, and came over to thewindow by which we stood. 

'It looks rather hopeless at present, ' he said; 'but I shall spinyou over to Thornleigh in no time; so you mustn't be anxious. It isat Thornleigh Manor you live, is it not?'

'Yes, ' Milly answered. 'My name is Darrell, and this young lady isMiss Crofton, my very dear friend. '

He bowed in recognition of this introduction. 

'I thought as much--I mean as to your name being Darrell. I had thehonour to know Mr. Darrell very well when I was a lad, and I have avague recollection of a small child in white frock, who, I think, must have been yourself. I have only been home a week, or I shouldhave done myself the pleasure of calling on your father. '

'Papa is in Paris, ' Milly answered, 'with my stepmother. '

'Ah, he has married again, I hear. One of the many changes that havecome to pass since I was last in Yorkshire. '

'Have you returned for good, Mr. Egerton?'

'For good--or for evil--who knows?' he answered, with a carelesslaugh. 'As to whether I stay here so many weeks or so many years, that is a matter of supreme uncertainty. I never am in the same mindvery long together. But I am heartily sick of knocking about abroad, and I cannot possibly find life emptier or duller here than I havefound it in places that people call gay. '

'I can't fancy any one growing tired of such a place as the Priory, 'said Milly. 

' "Stone walls do not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage. " " 'Tisin ourselves that we are thus or thus. " Cannot you fancy a mangetting utterly tired of himself and his own thoughts--knowinghimself by heart, and finding the lesson a dreary one? Perhaps not. A girl's life seems all brightness. What should such happy youngcreatures know of that arid waste of years that lies beyond a man'sthirtieth birthday, when his youth has not been a fortunate one? Ah, there is a break in the sky yonder; the rain will be overpresently. '

The rain did cease, as he had prophesied. The dog-cart was broughtround to the door by a clumsy-looking man in corduroy, who seemedhalf groom, half gardener; and Mr. Egerton drove us home; Millysitting next him, I at the back. His horse was very good one, andthe drive only lasted a quarter of an hour, during which time ournew acquaintance talked very pleasantly to both of us. 

I could not forget that Mr. Darrell had called him a bad man; but inspite of that sweeping condemnation I could not bring myself tothink of him without a certain interest. 

Of course Milly and I discussed Mr. Egerton as we sat over our snuglittle _tête-à-tête_ dinner, and we were both inclined to speak of hisblighted life in a pitying kind of way, and to blame his mother'sconduct, little as we knew of the details of the story. Ourexistences were so quiet that this little incident made quite anevent, and we were apt to date things from that afternoon for sometime afterwards. 

CHAPTER VII. 

A LITTLE MATCH-MAKING. 

We heard nothing of Mr. Egerton for about three weeks, at the end ofwhich time we were invited to dine at the Rectory. The first personwe saw on going into the long, low, old-fashioned drawing-room wasthe master of Cumber Priory leaning against the mantelpiece in hisfavourite attitude. The Rector was not in the room when we arrived, and Angus Egerton was talking to Mrs. Collingwood, who sat in a lowchair near the fire. 

'Mr. Egerton has been telling me about your adventure in the wood, Milly, ' Mrs. Collingwood said, as she rose to receive us. 'I hope itwill be a warning to you to be more careful in future. I think thatCumber Wood is altogether too dangerous a place for two young ladieslike you and Miss Crofton. '

'The safest place in the world, ' cried Angus Egerton. 'I shallalways be at hand to come to the ladies' assistance, and shall prayfor the timely appearance of an infuriated bull, in order that I maydistinguish myself by something novel in the way of a rescue. I hearthat you are a very charming artist, Miss Darrell, and that you havedone some of our oaks and beeches the honour to immortalise them. '

There is no need for me to record all the airy empty talk of thatevening. It was a very pleasant evening. Angus Egerton had receivedhis first lessons in the classics from the kind old Rector, and hadbeen almost a son of the house in the past, the girls told me. Hehad resumed his old place upon his return, and seemed really fond ofthese friends, whom he had found ready to welcome him warmly inspite of all rumours to his disadvantage that had floated toThornleigh during the years of his absence. 

He was very clever, and seemed to have been everywhere, and to haveseen everything worth seeing that the world contained. He had read agreat deal too, in spite of his wandering life; and the fruit of hisreading cropped up pleasantly now and then in his conversation. 

There were no other guests, except an old country squire, who talkedof nothing but his farming. Milly sat next Angus Egerton; and frommy place on the other side of the table I could see how much she wasinterested in his talk. He did not stop long in the dining-roomafter we had left, but joined us as we sat round the fire in thedrawing-room, talking over the poor people with Mrs. Collingwood andher two daughters, who were great authorities upon the question, andheld a Dorcas society once a week, of which Milly and I weremembers. 

There was the usual music--a little playing and a little singing fromthe younger ladies of the company, myself included. Milly sang anEnglish ballad very sweetly, and Angus Egerton stood by the pianolooking down at her while she sang. 

Did he fall in love with her upon this first happy evening thatthose two spent together? I cannot tell; but it is certain thatafter that evening, he seemed to haunt us in our walks, and, gowhere we would, we were always meeting him, in company with aScottish deerhound called Nestor, of which Milly became very fond. When we met in this half-accidental way he used to join us in ourwalk for a mile or two, very often bearing us company till we werewithin a few paces of Thornleigh. 

These meetings, utterly accidental as they always were on our side, were a source of some perplexity to me. I was not quite certainwhether I was right in sanctioning so close an acquaintance betweenEmily Darrell and the master of Cumber Priory. I knew that herfather thought badly of him. Yet, what could I do? I was not oldenough to pretend to any authority over my darling, nor had herfather invested me with any; and I knew that her noble nature wasworthy of all confidence. Beyond this, I liked Angus Egerton, andwas inclined to trust him. So the time slipped away very pleasantlyfor all of us, and the friendship among us all three became closerday by day. 

We met Mr. Egerton very often at the Rectory, and sometimes at otherhouses where we visited. He was much liked by the Thornleigh people, who had, most of them, known him in his boyhood; and it wasconsidered by his old friends, that, whatever his career abroadmight have been, he had begun, and was steadily pursuing, a reformedcourse of life. His means did not enable him to do much, but he wasdoing a little towards the improvement of Cumber Priory; and hisexistence there was as simple as that of the Master of Ravenswood. 

I had noticed that Mrs. Collingwood did all in her power toencourage the friendship between Milly and Mr. Egerton, and one dayin the spring, after they had met a great many times at her house, she spoke to me of her hopes quite openly. 

It was a bright afternoon, and we were all strolling in the garden, after a game of croquet--the Rector's wife and I side by side, Millyand Angus a little way in front of us. 

'I think she likes him, ' Mrs. Collingwood said thoughtfully. 

'Everybody seems to like Mr. Egerton, ' I answered. 

'O yes, I know that; but I mean something more than the ordinaryliking. I am so anxious that he should marry--and marry wisely. Ithink I am almost as fond of him as if he were my son; and I shouldbe so pleased if I could be the means of bringing about a matchbetween them. Milly is just the girl to make a man happy, and herfortune would restore Cumber Priory to all its old glory. '

Her fortune! The word jarred upon me. Was it her money, after all, that Angus Egerton was thinking of when he took such pains to pursuemy darling?

'I should be sorry for her to marry any one who cared for hermoney, ' I said. 

'Of course, my dear Miss Crofton; and so should I be sorry to seeher throw herself away upon any one with whom her money was aparamount consideration. But one cannot put these things quite outof the question. I know that Angus admired her very much the firstday he saw her, and I fancy his admiration has grown into a warmerfeeling since then. He has said nothing to me upon the subject, norI to him; for you know how silent he always is about himself. But Icannot help wishing that such a thing might come to pass. He has oneof the best names in the North Riding, and a first-rate position asthe owner of Cumber Priory. He only wants money. '

I was too young and inexperienced to take a worldly view of things, and from this moment felt disposed to distrust Mr. Egerton. Iremembered the story of his early attachment, and told myself that aman who had loved once like that had in all probability worn out hispowers of loving. 

'I don't think Mr. Darrell would approve of, or even permit, such amarriage, ' I said presently. 'I know he has a very bad opinion ofMr. Egerton. '

'On what account?'

'On account of his conduct to his mother. '

'No one knows the secret of that affair except Angus himself, 'answered Mrs. Collingwood. 'I don't think any one has a right tothink badly of him upon that ground. I knew Mrs. Egerton very well. She was a proud hard woman, capable of almost anything in order toaccomplish any set purpose of her own. Up to the time when he wentto Oxford Angus had been an excellent son. '

'Was it at Oxford he met the girl he wanted to marry?'

'No; it was somewhere in the west of England, where he went on awalking tour during the long vacation. '

'He must have loved her very much, to act as he did. I should doubthis power ever to love any one else. '

'That is quite a girl's way of thinking, my dear Miss Crofton. Depend upon it, after that kind of stormy first love, theregenerally comes a better and truer feeling. Angus was little morethan a boy then. He is in the prime of manhood now, able to judgewisely, and not easily to be caught, or he would have married in allthose years abroad. '

This seemed reasonable enough; but I was vexed, nevertheless, byMrs. Collingwood's match-making notions, which seemed to disturb thepeaceful progress of our lives. After this I looked upon everyinvitation to the Rectory--where we never went without meeting Mr. Egerton--as a kind of snare; but our visits there were always verypleasant, and I grew in time to think with more indulgence of theRector's wife's desire for her favourite's advantage. 

In all this time Angus Egerton had in no manner betrayed the stateof his feelings. If he met us in our walks oftener than seemedpossible by mere chance, there was nothing strictly lover-like inhis tone or conduct. But I have seen his face light up as he met mydear girl at these times, and I have noticed a certain softening ofhis voice as he talked to her, that I never heard on otheroccasions. 

And she? About her feelings I had much less doubt. She tried heruttermost to hide the truth from me, ashamed of her regard for onewho had never yet professed to be more than a friend; but I knewthat she loved him. It was impossible, in the perfect companionshipand confidence of our lives, for Milly to keep this first secret ofher pure young heart hidden from me. I knew that she loved him; andI began to look forward anxiously to Mr. Darrell's return, whichwould relieve me of all responsibility, and perhaps put an end toour friendship with Angus Egerton. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

ON THE WATCH. 

The travellers came back to Thornleigh Manor in August, when thedays were breathless and sultry, and the freshness of the foliagehad already begun to fade after an unusually dry summer. Milly and Ihad been very happy together, and I think we both looked forwardwith a vague dread to the coming break in our lives. She loved herfather as dearly as she had ever done, and longed ardently to seehim again; but she knew as well as I did that our independence mustend with his return. 

'If he were coming back alone, Mary, ' she said--'if that marriagewere all a dream, and he were coming back alone--how happy I shouldbe! I know that of is own free will he would never come between meand any wish of mine. But I don't know how he would act under hiswife's influence. You cannot imagine the power she has over him. Andwe shall have to begin the old false life over again, she and I--disliking and distrusting each other in our hearts--the daily roundof civilities and ceremonies and pretences. O Mary, you cannot thinkhow I hate it. '

We had seen nothing of Julian Stormont during all the time of ourhappy solitude; but on the day appointed for Mr. And Mrs. Darrell'sreturn he came to Thornleigh, looking more careworn than ever. Ipitied him a little, knowing the state of his feelings about Milly, believing indeed that he loved her with a rare intensity, and beinginclined to attribute the change in him to his disappointment uponthis subject. 

Milly told him how ill he was looking, and he said something abouthard work and late hours, with a little bitter laugh. 

'It doesn't matter to any one whether I am well or ill, you see, Milly, ' he said. 'What would any one care if I were to drop over theside of the quay some dark night, on my way from the office to mylodgings, after a hard day's work, and never be seen alive again?'

'How wicked it is of you to talk like that, Julian! There are plentyof people who would care--papa, to begin with. '

'Well, I suppose my uncle William would be rather sorry. He wouldlose a good man of business, and he would scarcely like going backto the counting-house, and giving himself up to all the dry detailsof commerce once more. '

The travellers arrived soon after this. Mr. Darrell greeted hisdaughter with much tenderness; but I noticed a kind of languor inMrs. Darrell's embrace, very different from her reception of Millyat that first meeting which I had witnessed more than a year before. It seemed to me that her power over her husband was now supreme, andthat she did not trouble herself to keep up any pretence ofaffection for his only child. 

She was dressed to perfection; and that subdued charm which wasscarcely beauty, and yet stood in place of it, attracted me to-dayas it had done when we first met. She was a woman who, I couldimagine, might be more admired than many handsomer women. There wasa distinction, an originality about the pale delicate face, darkarched brows, and gray eyes--eyes which were at times very brilliant. 

She looked round her without the faintest show of interest oradmiration as she loitered with her husband on the terrace, whileinnumerable travelling-bags, shawls, books, newspapers, and packageswere being carried from the barouche to the house. 

'How dry and burnt-up everything looks!' she said. 

'Have you no better greeting than that for Thornleigh, my dearAugusta?' Mr. Darrell asked in rather a wounded tone. 'I thought youwould be pleased to see the old place again. '

'Thornleigh Manor is not a passion of mine, ' she answered. 'I hopeyou will take a house in town at the beginning of next year. '

She passed on into the hall, after having honoured me with thecoldest possible shake-hands. We saw no more of her until nearlydinner-time, when she came down to the drawing-room, dressed inwhite, and looking deliciously pale and cool in the sultry weather. Milly had spent the afternoon in going round the gardens and home-farm with her father, and had thoroughly enjoyed the delight of acouple of hours alone with him. She gave him up now to Mrs. Darrell, who devoted all her attention to him for the rest of the evening;while Julian Stormont, Milly, and I loitered about the garden, andplayed a desultory game of croquet. 

It was not until the next morning that Mr. Egerton's name wasmentioned, although it had been in my thoughts, and I cannot doubtin Milly's, ever since Mr. Darrell's arrival. We were in thedrawing-room after breakfast, not quite decided what to do with theday, when Mr. Darrell came into the room dressed for a ride with hiswife. He went over to the window by which Milly was standing. 

'You have quite given up riding, Ellis tells me, my dear, ' he said. 

'I have not cared to ride while you were away, papa, as Mary doesnot ride. '

'Miss Crofton might have learnt to ride; there would always be ahorse at her disposal. '

'We like walking better, ' Milly said, blushing a little, andfidgeting nervously with one of the buttons on her father's coat. 'Iused to feel in the way, you know, when I rode with you and Mrs. Darrell. '

'That was your own fault, Milly, ' he answered, with a displeasedlook. 

'I suppose it was. But I think Augusta felt it too. O, by the bye, papa, I did not tell you quite all the news when we were outtogether yesterday. '

'Indeed!'

'No; I forgot to mention that Mr. Egerton has come back. '

'Angus Egerton?'

'Yes; he came back last winter. '

'You never said so in your letters. '

'Didn't I? I suppose that was because I knew you were ratherprejudiced against him; and one can't explain away that kind ofthing in a letter. '

'You would find it very difficult to explain away my dislike ofAngus Egerton, either in or out of a letter. Have you seen much ofhim?'

'A good deal. He has been at the Rectory very often when Mary and Ihave been invited there. The Collingwoods are very fond of him. I amsure--I think--you will like him, papa, when you come to see a littleof him. He is going to call upon you. '

'He can come if he pleases, ' Mr. Darrell answered with anindifferent air; 'I shall not be uncivil to him. But I am rathersorry that he has made such a favourable impression upon you, Milly. '

She was still playing with the buttons of his coat, lookingdownward, her dark eyes quite veiled by their long lashes. 

'I did not say that, papa, ' she murmured shyly. 

'But I am sure of it from your manner. Has he done anything towardsthe improvement of Cumber?'

'O yes; he has put new roofs to some part of the stables; and theland is in better order, they say; and the gardens are kept nicelynow. '

'Does he live alone at the Priory?'

'Quite alone, papa. '

'He must find it rather a dull business, I should think. '

'Mr. Collingwood says he is very fond of study, and that he has awonderful collection of old books. He is a great smoker too, Ibelieve; he walks a good deal; and he hunted all last winter. Theysay he is a tremendous rider. '

Augusta Darrell came in at this moment, ready for her ride. Her slimwillowy figure looked to great advantage in the plain tight-fittingcloth habit; and the little felt hat with its bright scarlet feathergave a coquettish expression to her face. She tapped her husbandlightly on the arm with her riding-whip. 

'Now, William, if your are quite ready. '

'My dearest, I have been waiting for the last half-hour. '

They went off to their horses. Milly followed them to the terrace, and watched them as they rode away. 

We spent the morning out-of-doors sketching, with Julian Stormont inattendance upon us. At two o'clock we all meet at luncheon. 

After luncheon Milly and I went to the drawing-room, while Mrs. Darrell and Mr. Stormont strolled upon the terrace. My dear girl hada sort of restless manner to-day, and went from one occupation toanother, now sitting for a few minutes at the piano, playing briefsnatches of pensive melody, now taking up a book, only to throw itdown again with a little weary sigh. She seated herself at a tablepresently, and began to arrange the sketches in her portfolio. Whileshe was doing this a servant announced Mr. Egerton. She rosehurriedly, blushing as I had rarely seen her blush before, andlooking towards the open window near her, almost as if she wouldhave liked to make her escape from the room. It was the first timeAngus Egerton had been at Thornleigh Manor since she was a littlechild. 

'Tell papa that Mr. Egerton is here, Filby, ' she said to theservant. 'I think you will find him in the library. '

She had recovered her self-possession in some measure by the timeshe came forward to shake hands with the visitor; and in a fewminutes we were talking in the usual easy friendly way. 

'You see, I have lost no time in calling upon your papa, MissDarrell, ' he said presently. 'I am not too proud to show him howanxious I am to regain his friendship, if, indeed, I ever possessedit. '

Mr. Darrell came into the room as he was speaking; and howevercoldly he might have intended to receive the master of CumberPriory, his manner soon softened and grew more cordial. There was acertain kind of charm about Angus Egerton, not very easily to bedescribed, which I think had a potent influence upon all who knewhim. 

I fancied that Mr. Darrell felt this, and struggled against it, andended by giving way to it. I saw that he watched his daughterclosely, even anxiously, when she was talking to Angus Egerton, asif he had already some suspicion about the state of her feelingswith regard to him. Mr. Egerton had caught sight of the openportfolio, and had insisted on looking over the sketches--not thefirst of Milly's that he had seen by a great many. I noticed thegrave, almost tender, smile with which he looked at the littleartistic 'bits' out of Cumber Wood. He went on talking to Mr. Darrell all the time he was looking at these sketches; talking ofthe neighbourhood and the changes that had come about of late years, and a little of the Priory, and his intentions with regard toimprovements. 

'I can only creep along at a snail's pace, ' he said; 'for I amdetermined not to get into debt, and I won't sell. '

'I wonder you never tried to let the priory in all those years thatyou were abroad, ' suggested Mr. Darrell. 

Mr. Egerton shook his head, with a smile. 

'I couldn't bring myself to that, ' he said, 'though I wanted moneybadly enough. There has never been a strange master at Cumber sinceit belonged to the Egertons. I daresay it's a foolish piece ofsentimentality on my part; but I had rather fancy the old placerotting slowly to decay than in the occupation of strangers. '

He was standing by the table where the open portfolio lay, withMilly by his side, and one of the sketches in his hands, when Mrs. Darrell came in at the window nearest to this little group, andstood on the threshold looking at him. I think I was the only personwho saw her face at that moment. It was so sudden a look that cameupon it, a look half terror, half pain, and it passed away soquickly, that I had scarcely time to distinguish the expressionbefore it was gone; but it was a look that brought back to my memorythe almost forgotten scene in the little study at Cumber Priory, andset me wondering what it could be that made the sight of AngusEgerton, either on canvas or in the flesh, a cause of agitation toMilly's stepmother. 

In the next moment Mr. Darrell was presenting his visitor to hiswife; and as the two acknowledged the introduction, I stole a glanceat Mr. Egerton's face. It was paler than usual; and the expressionof Mrs. Darrell's countenance seemed in a manner reflected in it. Itwas not possible that such looks could be without some significance. I felt convinced that these two people had met before. 

There was a change in Mr. Egerton's manner from the moment of thatintroduction. He laid down Milly's sketch without another word, andstood with his eyes fixed on Augusta Darrell's face with a strangehalf-bewildered look, like a man who doubts the evidence of his ownsenses. Mrs. Darrell, on the contrary, seemed, after that one lookwhich I had seen, quite at her ease, and rattled on gaily about thedelight of travelling in the Tyrol, as compared to the dulness oflife at Thornleigh. 

'I hope you will enliven us a little, Mr. Egerton, ' she said. 'It isquite an agreeable surprise to find a new neighbour. '

'I ought to be very much flattered by that remark; but I doubt mypower to add to the liveliness of this part of the world. And I donot think I shall stay much longer at Cumber. '

Milly glanced up at him with a surprised look. 

'Mrs. Collingwood told us you were quite settled at the Priory, ' shesaid, 'and that you intended to spend the rest of your days as acountry squire. '

'I may have dreamed such a dream sometimes, Miss Darrell; but thereare dreams that never fulfil themselves. '

He had recovered himself by this time, and spoke in his accustomedtone. Mr. Darrell asked him to dinner on an early day, when I knewthe Rectory people were coming to us, and the invitation wasaccepted. 

Julian Stormont had followed Mrs. Darrell in from the terrace, andhad remained in the background, a very attentive listener andobserver during the conversation that followed. 

'So that is Angus Egerton, ' he said, when our visitor had left us. 

'Yes, Julian. O, by the bye, I forgot to introduce you; you came inso quietly, ' answered Mr. Darrell. 

'I can't say I particularly care about the honour of knowing thatgentleman, ' said Mr. Stormont in a half-contemptuous tone. 

'Why not?' Milly asked quickly. 

'Because I never heard any goof of him. '

'But he has reformed, it seems, ' said Mr. Darrell, 'and is leadingquite a steady life at Cumber, the Collingwoods tell me. Augusta andI called at the Rectory this morning, and the Rector and his wifetalked a good deal of him. I was rather pleased with him, I confess, just now. '

Milly looked up at her father gratefully. Poor child! how innocentlyand unconsciously she betrayed her secret! and how little shethought of the jealous eyes that were watching her! I saw JulianStormont's face darken with an angry look, and I knew that he hadalready discovered the state of Milly's feelings in relation toAngus Egerton. 

He was still with us when Mr. Egerton came to dinner two days later. I shall never forget that evening. The day was oppressively warm, with that dry sultry heat of which there had been so much during thelatter part of the summer; and as the afternoon advanced, the airgrew still, that palpable stillness which so often comes before athunder-storm. Milly had been full of life and vivacity all day, flitting from room to room with a kind of joyous restlessness. Shetook unusual pains with her toilette for so simple a party, and cameinto my room looking like Titania in her gauzy white dress, withhalf-blown blush-roses in her hair, and more roses in a bouquet ather waist. 

Mr. Egerton came in a little later than the party from the Rectory, and after shaking hands with Mr. Darrell, made his way at once tothe place where Milly and I were sitting. 

'Any more sketching since I was here last, Miss Darrell?' he asked. 

'No. I have been doing nothing for the last day or two. '

'Do you know I have been thinking of your work in that way a gooddeal since I called here. I am stronger in criticism than inexecution, you know. I think I was giving you a little lecture onyour shortcomings, wasn't I?'

'Yes; but you left off so abruptly in the middle of it, that I don'tfancy it was very profitable to me, ' Milly answered in rather apiqued tone. 

'Did I really? O yes, I remember. I was quite startled by Mrs. Darrell's appearance. She is so surprisingly like a lady I knew along time ago. '

'That is rather a curious coincidence, ' I said. 

'How a coincidence?' asked Mr. Egerton. 

'Mrs. Darrell said almost the same thing about your portrait when wewere at Cumber one day. It reminded her of some one she had knownlong ago. '

'What an excellent memory you have for small events, Miss Crofton!'said a voice close behind me. 

It was Mrs. Darrell's. She had come across the room towards us, unobserved by me, at any rate. Whether Angus Egerton had seen her ornot, I do not know. He rose to shake hands with her, and then wenton talking about Milly's sketching. 

Mr. Collingwood took Mrs. Darrell in to dinner, and Mr. Egerton gavehis arm to Milly, and was seated next her at the prettily decoratedtable, upon which there was always a wealth of roses at this time ofyear. I saw Augusta Darrell's eye wander restlessly in thatdirection many times during dinner, and I felt that the dear girl Iloved so fondly was in an atmosphere of falsehood. What was thenature of the past acquaintance between those two people? and whywas it tacitly denied by both of them? If it had been an ordinaryfriendship, there could have been no reason for this concealment andsuppression. I had never quite made up my mind to trust AngusEgerton, though I liked and admired him; and this mysteriousrelation between him and Augusta Darrell was a sufficient cause forserious distrust. 

'I wish she cared for him less, ' I said to myself, as I glanced atMilly's bright happy face. 

When we went back to the drawing-room after dinner, the MissCollingwoods had a great deal to say to Milly about a grand croquet-match which was to take place in a week or two at Pensildon, Sirjohn and Lady Pensildon's place, fourteen miles from Thornleigh. TheRector's daughters, both of whom were several years older thanMilly, were passionately fond of croquet and everything in the wayof gaiety, and were full of excitement about this coming event, discussing what they were going to wear, and what Milly was going towear, on the occasion. While they were engaged in this way, Mrs. Collingwood told me a long story about one of her poor parishioners, always an inexhaustible subject with her. This arrangement left Mrs. Darrell unoccupied; and after standing at one of the open windowslooking listlessly out, she sauntered out upon the terrace, herfavourite lounge always in this summer weather. I saw her repass thewindows a few minutes afterwards, in earnest conversation with AngusEgerton. This was some time before the other gentlemen left thedining-room; and they were still walking slowly up and down when Mr. Darrell and the Rector came to the drawing-room. The storm had notyet come, and it was bright moonlight. Mr. Darrell went out andbrought his wife in, with some gentle reproof on her imprudence inremaining out of doors so late in her thin muslin dress. 

After this there came some music. Augusta Darrell sang some oldEnglish ballads which I had never heard her sing before--simplepathetic melodies, which, I think, brought tears to the eyes of allof us. 

Mr. Egerton sat near one of the open windows, with his face inshadow, while she was singing; and as she began the last of theseold songs he rose with a half-impatient gesture, and went out uponthe terrace. If I watched him closely, and others in relation tohim, at this time, it was from no frivolous or impertinentcuriosity, but because I felt very certain that my darling'shappiness was at stake. I saw her little disappointed look when heremained at the farther end of the room, talking to the gentlemen, all the rest of that evening, instead of contriving by some means tobe near her, as he always had done during our pleasant evenings atthe Rectory. 

CHAPTER IX. 

ANGUS EGERTON IS REJECTED. 

The expected storm came next day, and Milly and I were caught in it. We had gone for a ramble across the moor, and were luckily within ashort distance of Rebecca Thatcher's cottage when the first vividflash broke through the leaden clouds, and the first long peal ofthunder came crashing over the open landscape. We set off for Mrs. Thatcher's habitation at a run, and arrived there breathless. 

The herbalist was not alone. A tall dark figure stood between us andthe little window as we went in, blotting out all the light. 

Milly gave a faint cry of surprise; and as the figure turned towardsus I recognised Mr. Egerton. 

In all our visits among the poor we had never met him before. 

'Caught again, young ladies!' he cried, laughing; 'you've neither ofyou grown weatherwise yet, I see. Luckily you're under cover beforethe rain has begun. I think we shall have it pretty heavy presently. How surprised you look to see me here, Miss Darrell! Becky is a veryold friend of mine. I remember her ever since I can rememberanything. She was in my grandfather's service once upon a time. '

'That I was, Mr. Egerton, and there's nothing I wouldn't do for youand yours--for you at least, for there's none but you left now. But Isuppose you'll be getting married one of these days; you're notgoing to let the old name of Egerton die out?'

Angus Egerton shook his head with a slow sad gesture. 

'I am too poor to marry, Mrs. Thatcher, ' he said. 'What could Ioffer a wife but a gloomy old house, and a perpetual struggle tomake hundreds do the work of thousands? I am too proud to ask thewoman I love to sacrifice her future to me. '

'Cumber Priory is good enough for any woman that ever lived, 'answered Rebecca Thatcher. 'You don't mean what you say, Mr. Egerton. You know that the name you bear is counted better thanmoney in these parts. '

He laughed, and changed the conversation. 

'I heard you young ladies talking a great deal of the Pensildon fêtelast night, ' he said. 

'Did you really?' asked Milly; 'you did not appear to be muchinterested in our conversation. '

'Did I seem distrait? It is a way I have sometimes, Miss Darrell;but I can assure you I can hear two or three conversations at once. I think I heard all that you and the Miss Collingwoods were saying. '

'You are going to Lady Pensildon's on the 31st, I suppose?' Millysaid. 

'I think not. I think of going abroad for the autumn. I have beenrather a long time at Cumber, you know, and I'm afraid the rovingmood is coming upon me again. I shall be sorry to go, too, for I hadintended to torment you continually about your art studies. You havereally a genius for landscape, you know, Miss Darrell; you only wantto be goaded into industry now and then by some severe critic likemyself. Is your cousin, Mr. Stormont, an artist, by the way?'

'Not at all. '

'That's a pity. He seems a clever young man. I suppose he will be agood deal with you, now that Mr. And Mrs. Darrell have returned?'

'He cannot stay very long at a time. He has the chief position inpapa's counting-house. '

'Indeed! He looked a little as if the cares of business weighed uponhis spirit. '

He glanced rather curiously at Milly while he was speaking of Mr. Stormont. Was he really going away, I wondered, or was that threatof departure only a lover-like ruse?

The rain came presently with all the violence usual to a thunder-shower. We were prisoners in Mrs. Thatcher's cottage for more thanan hour; a happy hour, I think, to Milly, in spite of the closenessof the atmosphere and the medical odour of the herbs. Angus Egertonstood beside her chair all the time, looking down at her bright faceand talking to her; while Mrs. Thatcher mumbled a long catalogue ofher ailments and troubles into my somewhat inattentive ear. 

Once while those two were talking about his intended departure Iheard Mr. Egerton say, 'If I thought any one cared about my staying--if I could believe thatany one would miss me ever so little--I should be in no hurry toleave Yorkshire. '

Of course Milly told him that there were many people who would misshim--Mr. Collingwood for instance, and all the family at the Rectory. He bent over her, and said something in a very low voice--somethingthat brought vivid blushes to her face; and a few minutes afterwardsthey went to the door to look at the weather, and stood theretalking till I have heard the last of Mrs. Thatcher's woes, and wasfree to join them. I had never seen Milly look so lovely as she didjust then, with her downcast eyes, and a little tremulous smile uponher perfect mouth. 

Mr. Egerton walked all the way home with us. The storm was quiteover, the sun shining, and the air full of that cool freshness whichcomes after rain. We talked of all kinds of things. Mr. Egerton hadalmost made up his mind to spend the autumn at Cumber, he told us;and he would go to the Pensildon fête, and take Milly's side in thecroquet-match. He seemed in almost boyish spirits during thathomeward walk. 

When we went up-stairs to our rooms that night, Milly followed meinto mine. There was nothing new in this; we often wasted half anhour in happy idle talk before going to bed; but I was sure from mydarling's manner she had something to tell me. She went over to anopen window, and stood there with her face turned away from me, looking out across the distant moonlit sea. 

'Mary, ' she said, after a very long pause, 'do you think people areintended to be quite happy in this world?'

'My dear love, how can I answer such a question as that? I thinkthat many people have their lives in their own hands, and that itrests with themselves to find happiness. And there are many naturesthat are elevated and purified by sorrow. I cannot tell what is bestfor us, dear. I cannot pretend to guess what this life was meant tobe. '

'There is something in perfect happiness that frightens one, Mary. It seems as if it could not last. If it could, if I dared believe init, I should think that my life was going to be quite happy. '

'Why should it be otherwise, my dear Milly? I don't think you haveever known much sorrow. '

'Not since my mother died--and I was only a child then--but that oldpain has never quite gone out of my heart; and papa's marriage hasbeen a greater grief to me than you would believe, Mary. This househas never seemed to be really my home since then. No, dear, it is anew life that is dawning for me--and O, such a bright one!'

She put her arms round my neck, and hid her face upon my shoulder. 

'Can you guess what Angus Egerton said to me to-day?' she asked, ina low tremulous voice. 

'Was it something very wonderful, dear--or something as old as theworld we live in?'

'Not old to me, Mary--new and wonderful beyond all measure. I did notthink he cared for me--I had never dared to hope; for I have likedhim a little for a long time, dear, though I don't suppose you everthought so. '

'My dear girl, I have known it from the very beginning. There isnothing in the world more transparent than your thoughts about AngusEgerton have been to me. '

'O Mary, how could you! And I have been so careful to say nothing!'she cried reproachfully. 'But he loves me, dear. He has loved me fora long time, he says; and he has asked me to be his wife. '

'What, after all those protestations about never asking a woman toshare his poverty?'

'Yes, Mary; and he meant what he said. He told me that if I had beena penniless girl, he should have proposed to me ever so long ago. And he is to see papa to-morrow. '

'Do you think Mr. Darrell will ever consent to such a marriage, Milly?' I asked gravely. 

'Why should he not? He cannot go on thinking badly of Angus whenevery one else thinks so well of him. You must have seen how he hassoftened towards him since they met. Mr. Egerton's old family andposition are quite an equivalent for my money, whatever that may be. O Mary, I don't think papa can refuse his consent. '

'I am rather doubtful about that, Milly. It's one thing to like Mr. Egerton very well as a visitor--quite another to accept him as a son-in-law. Frankly, my dearest, I fear your father will be against thematch. '

'Mary, ' cried Milly reproachfully, 'I can see what it is--you areprejudiced against Mr. Egerton. '

'I am only anxious for your welfare, darling. I like Mr. Egertonvery much. It is difficult for any one to avoid liking him. But Iconfess that I cannot bring myself to put entire trust in him. '

'Why not?'

I did not like to tell her the chief reason for my distrust--thatmysterious relation between Angus Egerton and Mrs. Darrell. Thesubject was a serious--almost a dangerous--one; and I had no positiveevidence to bring forward in proof of my fancy. It was a question oflooks and words that had been full of significance to me, but whichmight seem to Milly to mean very little. 

'We cannot help our instinctive doubts, dear. But if you can trustMr. Egerton, and if your father can trust him, my fancies can mattervery little. I cannot stand between you and your love, dear--I knowthat. '

'But you can make me very unhappy by your doubts, Mary, ' sheanswered. 

I kissed her, and did my best to console her; but she was not easilyto be comforted, and left me in a half-sorrowful, half-angry mood. Ihad disappointed her, she told me--she had felt so sure of mysympathy; and instead of sharing her happiness, I had made hermiserable by my fanciful doubts and gloomy forebodings. After shehad gone, I sat by the window for a long time, thinking of herdisconsolately, and feeling myself very guilty. But I had a fixedconviction that Mr. Darrell would refuse to receive Angus Egerton ashis daughter's suitor, and that the course of this love-affair wasnot destined to be a smooth one. 

The result proved that I had been right. Mr. Egerton had a longinterview with Mr. Darrell in the library next morning, during whichhis proposal was most firmly rejected. Milly and I knew that he wasin the house, and my poor girl walked up and down our sitting-roomwith nervously clasped hands and an ashy pale face all the timethose two were together down-stairs. 

She turned to me with a little piteous look when she heard AngusEgerton ride away from the front of the house. 

'O Mary, what is my fate to be?' she asked. 'I think he has beenrejected. I do not think he would have gone away without seeing meif the interview had ended happily. '

A servant came to summon us both to the library. We went downtogether, Milly's cold hand clasped in mine. 

Mr. Darrell was not alone. His wife was sitting with her back to thewindow, very pale, and with an angry brightness in her eyes. 

'Sit down, Miss Crofton, ' Mr. Darrell said very coldly; 'and you, Milly, come here. '

She went towards him with a slow faltering step, and sank down intothe chair to which he pointed, looking at him all the time in aneager beseeching way that I think must have gone to his heart. Hewas standing with his back to the empty fireplace, and remainedstanding throughout the interview. 

'I think you know that I love you, Milly, ' he began, 'and that yourhappiness is the chief desire of my mind. '

'I'm sure of that, papa. '

'And yet you have deceived me. '

'Deceived you? O papa, in what way?'

'By encouraging the hopes of a man whom you must have known I wouldnever receive as your husband; by suffering your feelings to becomeengaged, without one word of warning to me, and in a manner that youmust have known could not fail to be most obnoxious to me. '

'O papa, I did not know; it was only yesterday that Mr. Egertonspoke for the first time. There has been nothing hidden from you. '

'Nothing? Do you call your intimate acquaintance with this mannothing? He may have delayed any actual declaration until my return--with an artful appearance of consideration for me; but some kind oflove-affair must have been going on between you all the time. '

'No, indeed, papa; until yesterday there was never anything but themost ordinary acquaintance. Mary knows--'

'Pray don't appeal to Miss Crofton, ' her father interrupted sternly. 'Miss Crofton has done very wrong in encouraging this affair. MissCrofton heard my opinion of Angus Egerton a long time ago. '

'Mary has done nothing to encourage our acquaintance. It has beenaltogether a matter of accident from first to last. What have yousaid to Mr. Egerton, papa? Tell me at once, please. '

She said this with a quiet firmness, looking bravely up at him allthe while. 

'I have told him that nothing would induce me to consent to such amarriage. I have forbidden him ever to see you again. '

'That seems very hard, papa. '

'I thought you knew my opinion of Mr. Egerton. '

'It would change if you knew more of him. '

'Never. I might like him very well as a member of society; I couldnever approve of him as a son-in-law. Besides, I have other viewsfor you--long-cherished views--which I hope you will not disappoint. '

'I don't know what you mean by that, papa; but I know that I cannever marry any one except Mr. Egerton. I may never marry at all, ifyou refuse to change your decision upon this subject; but I am quitesure I shall never be the wife of any one else. '

Her father looked at her angrily. That hard expression about thelower part of the face, which I had noticed in his portrait and inhimself from the very first, was intensified to-day. He looked astern resolute man, whose will was not to be moved by a daughter'spleading. 

'We shall see about that by and by, ' he said. 'I am not going tohave my plans defeated by a girl's folly. I have been a veryindulgent father, but I am not a weak or yielding one. You will haveto obey me, Milly, or you will find yourself a substantial suffererby and by. '

'If you mean that you will disinherit me, papa, I am quite willingthat you should do that, ' Milly answered resolutely. 'Perhaps youthink Mr. Egerton cares for my fortune. Put him to the test, papa. Tell him that you will give me nothing, and that be may take me onthat condition. '

Augusta Darrell turned upon her stepdaughter with a sudden look inher face that was almost like a flame. 

'Do you think him so disinterested?' she asked. 'Have you suchsupreme confidence in his affection?'

'Perfect confidence. '

'And you do not believe that mercenary considerations have anyweight with him? You do not think that he is eager to repair hisshattered fortunes? You think him all truth and devotion? He, a_blasé_ man of the world, of three-and-thirty; a man who has outlivedthe possibility of anything like a real attachment; a man wholavished his whole stock of feeling upon the one attachment of hisyouth. '

She said all this very quietly, but with a suppressed bitterness. Ithink it needed all her powers of restraint to keep her from somepassionate outburst that would have betrayed the secret of her life. I was now more than ever convinced that she had known Angus Egertonin the past, and that she had loved him. 

'You see, I am not afraid of his being put to the test, ' Milly saidproudly. 'I know he loved some one very dearly, a long time ago. Hespoke of that yesterday. He told me that his old love had died outof his heart years ago. '

'He told you a lie, ' cried Mrs. Darrell. 'Such things never die. They sleep, perhaps--like the creatures that hide themselves in theground and lie torpid all the winter--but with one breath of the pastthey flame into life again. '

'I am not going to make any such foolish trial of your lover'sfaith, Milly, ' said Mr. Darrell. 'Whether your fortune is or is nota paramount consideration with him can make no possible differencein my decision. Nothing will ever induce me to consent to yourmarrying him. Of course, if you choose to defy me, you are of ageand your own mistress; but on the day that makes you Angus Egerton'swife you will cease to be my daughter. '

'Papa, ' cried Milly, 'you will break my heart. '

'Nonsense, child; hearts are not easily broken. Let me hear no moreof this unfortunate business. I have spoken to you very plainly, inorder that there might be no chance of misunderstanding between us;and I rely upon your honour that there shall be no clandestinemeeting between you and Angus Egerton in the future. I look to you, Miss Crofton, also, and shall hold you answerable for any accidentalencounters out walking. '

'You need not be afraid, papa, ' Milly answered disconsolately. 'Idaresay Mr. Egerton will leave Yorkshire, as he spoke of doingyesterday. '

'I hope he may, ' said Mr. Darrell. 

Milly rose to leave the room. Half-way towards the door she stopped, and turned her white despairing face towards her father with ahopeless look. 

'I shall obey you, papa, ' she said. 'I could not bear to forfeityour love, even for his sake. But I think you will break my heart. '

Mr. Darrell went over to her and kissed her. 

'I am acting best for your ultimate happiness, Milly, be sure ofthat, ' he said in a kinder tone than he had used before. 'There, mylove, go and be happy with Miss Crofton, and let us all agree toforget this business as quickly as possible. '

This was our dismissal. We went back to Milly's pretty sitting-room, where the sun was shining and the warm summer air blowing on birdsand flowers, and books and drawing materials, and all the airytrifles that had made our lives pleasant to us until that hour. Milly sat on a low stool at my feet, and buried her face in my lap, refusing all comfort. She sat like this for about an hour, weepingsilently, and then rose suddenly and wiped the tears from her paleface. 

'I am not going to lead you a miserable life about this, Mary, ' shesaid. 'We will never speak of it after to-day. And I will try to domy duty to papa, and bear my life without that new happiness, whichmade it seem so bright. Do you think Mr. Egerton will feel thedisappointment very much, Mary?'

'He cannot help feeling it, dear, if he loves you--as I believe hedoes. '

'And we might have been so happy together! I was dreaming of CumberPriory all last night. I thought it had been restored with some ofmy money, and that the old house was full of life and brightness. Will he go away, do you think, Mary?'

'I should think it very likely. '

'And I shall never see him any more. I could not forfeit papa'slove, Mary. '

'It would be a hard thing if you were to do that for the sake of astranger, dear. '

'No, no, Mary; he is not a stranger to me; Angus Egerton is not astranger. I know that he is noble and good. But my father was allthe world to me a year ago. I could not do without his love. I mustobey him. '

'Believe me, dear, it will be wisest and best to do so. You cannottell what changes may come to pass in the future. Obedience willmake you very dear to your father; and the time may come in which hewill think better of Mr. Egerton. '

'O Mary, if I could hope that!'

'Hope for everything, dear, if you do your duty. '

She grew a little more cheerful after this, and met her father atdiner with quite a placid face, though it was still very pale. Mrs. Darrell looked at her wonderingly, and with a half-contemptuousexpression, I thought, as if this passion of her step-daughter'sseemed to her a very poor thing, after all. 

Before the week was out, we heard that Mr. Egerton had leftYorkshire. We did not go to the Pensildon fête. Milly had a cold andkept her room, much to the regret of the Miss Collingwoods, whocalled every day to inquire about her. She made this cold--which wasreally a very slight affair--an excuse for a week's solitude, and atthe end of that time reappeared among us with no trace of her secretsorrow. It was only I, who was always with her, and knew her to thecore of her heart, who could have told how hard a blow thatdisappointment had been, and how much it cost her to bear it soquietly. 

CHAPTER X. 

CHANGES AT THORNLEIGH. 

The autumn and the early winter passed monotonously enough. Therewas a good deal of company at Thornleigh Manor at first, for Mrs. Darrell hated solitude; but after a little time she grew tired ofthe people her husband knew, and the dinners and garden partiesbecame less frequent. I had found out, very soon after her return, that she was not happy--that this easy prosperous life was in somemanner a burden to her. It was only in her husband's presence thatshe made any pretence of being pleased or interested in things. Withhim she was always the same--always deferential, affectionate, andattentive; while he, on his side, was the devoted slave of her everywhim and wish. 

She was not unkind to Milly, but those two seemed instinctively toavoid each other. 

The winter brought trouble to Thornleigh Manor. It was well forMilly that she had tried to do her duty to her father, and hadsubmitted herself patiently to his will. About a fortnight beforeChristmas Mr. Darrell went to North Shields to make his annualinvestigation of the wharves and warehouses, and to take a kind ofreview of the year's business. He never returned alive. He wasseized with an apoplectic fit in the office, and carried to hishotel speechless. His wife and Milly were summoned by a telegraphicmessage, and started for Shields by the first train that couldconvey them there; but they were too late. He expired an hour beforetheir arrival. 

I need not dwell upon the details of that sad time. Milly felt theblow severely; and it was long before I saw her smile, after thatdark December day on which the fatal summons came. She had lost muchof her joyousness and brightness after the disappointment aboutAngus Egerton, and this new sorrow quite crushed her. 

They brought Mr. Darrell's remains to Thornleigh, and he was buriedin the family vault under the noble old church, where his father andmother, his first wife, and a son who died in infancy had beenburied before him. He had been very popular in the neighbourhood, and was sincerely regretted by all who had known him. 

Julius Stormont was chief-mourner at the unpretentious funeral. Heseemed much affected by his uncle's death; and his manner towardshis cousin had an unusual gentleness. 

I was present at the reading of the will, which took place in thedining-room immediately after the funeral. Mrs. Darrell, Milly, Mr. Stormont, myself, and the family lawyer were the only personsassembled in the spacious room, which had a dreary look without thechief of the household. 

The will had been made a few months after Mr. Darrell's secondmarriage. It was very simple in its wording. To Julian Stormont heleft a sum of five thousand pounds, to be paid out his fundedproperty; all the rest of this property, with the sum to be realisedby the sale of the business at North Shields and its belongings--anamount likely to be very large--was to be divided equally betweenMrs. Darrell and her stepdaughter. Thornleigh Manor was left to Mrs. Darrell for her life, but was to revert to Milly, or Milly's heirs, at her death; and Milly was to be entitled to occupy her old homeuntil her marriage. 

In the event of Milly's dying unmarried, her share of the fundedproperty was to be divided equally between Mrs. Darrell and JulianStormont, and in this case the Thornleigh estate was to revert toJulian Stormont after the death of Mrs. Darrell. The executors tothe will were Mr. Foreman the lawyer and Mrs. Darrell. 

Milly's position was now one of complete independence. Mr. Foremantold her that after the sale of the iron-works she would have anincome of something like four thousand a year. She had been of agefor more than six months, and there was no one to come between herand perfect independence. 

Knowing this, I felt that it was more than probable Mr. Egertonwould speedily return to renew his suit; and I had little doubt thatit would be successful. I knew how well Milly loved him; and nowthat her father was gone she could have no motive for refusing him. 

'You will stay with me, won't you, Mary?' she said to me as we satby the fire in mournful silence that afternoon. 'You are my onlycomfort now, dear. I suppose I shall remain here--for some time, atany rate. Augusta spoke to me very graciously, and begged that Iwould make this my home, according to my father's wish. We shouldnot interfere with each other in any way, she said, and it wasindeed more than probable she would go on the Continent with hermaid early in the spring, and leave me sole mistress of Thornleigh. She doubted if she could ever endure the place now, she said. She isnot like me, Mary. I shall always have a melancholy love for thehouse in which I have lived so happily with my father. '

So I remained with my dear girl, and life at Thornleigh Manor glidedby in a quiet melancholy fashion. If Mrs. Darrell grieved for herdead husband, her sorrow was of a cold tearless kind; but she kepther own rooms a good deal, and we did not see much of her. TheCollingwoods were full of sympathy for their 'darling Milly, ' andtheir affection had some cheering influence upon her mind. From themshe heard occasionally of Mr. Egerton, who was travelling in thewildest regions of Northern Europe. She very rarely spoke of himherself at this time; and once when I mentioned his name she checkedme reproachfully. 

'Don't speak about him, Mary, ' she said; 'I don't want to think ofhim. It seems like a kind of treason against papa. It seems liketaking advantage of my dear father's death. '

'Would you refuse to marry him, Milly, if he were to come back toyou, now that you are your own mistress?'

'I don't know that, dear. I think I love him too much to do that. And yet it would seem like a sin against my father. '

The spring months passed, and Milly brightened a little as the dayswent by. She spent a deal of time amongst the poor; and I think herdevotion to that duty helped her to put aside her sorrow more thananything else could have done. I was always with her, sharing in allher work; and I do not believe she had a thought hidden from me atthis time. 

Mrs. Darrell had not gone abroad yet. She lived a useless, listlesslife, doing nothing, and caring for nothing, as it seemed. More thanonce she made preparations for her departure, and then changed hermind at the last moment. 

Late in June we heard of Mr. Egerton's return to Cumber; and a fewdays after that he came to Thornleigh. Mrs. Darrell was in her ownroom, Milly and I alone in the drawing-room, when he called. My poorgirl turned very pale, and the tears came into her eyes as she andAngus Egerton met. He spoke of her loss with extreme delicacy, andwas full of tender sympathy. He had news to tell her of himself. Adistant relation of his mother's had died lately, leaving him sixthousand a year. He had come back to restore Cumber to its oldsplendour, and to take his proper place in the county. 

While they were talking together in low confidential tones, not atall embarrassed by my presence, Mrs. Darrell came into the room. Shewas paler than usual; but there was an animation in her face thathad not been there for a long time. She received Mr. Egerton verygraciously, and insisted upon his staying to dinner. 

The evening passed very pleasantly. I had never seen Augusta Darrellso agreeable, so fascinating, as she was that night. She touched thepiano for the first time since her husband's death, and sang andplayed with all her old fire, keeping Angus Egerton a prisoner bythe side of the piano. Hers was not music to be heard withindifference by the coldest ear. 

He came again very soon, and came often. The restorations at Cumberhad begun, and he insisted on our driving over to see what he wasgoing to do. We went in compliance with this wish, and I could notbut observe how anxiously he questioned Milly as to her opinion ofthe alterations, and how eagerly he sought for suggestions as to thearrangement and decoration of the different rooms. We spent somehours in this inspection, and stayed to luncheon, in the noble oldtapestried drawing-room. 

It was not very long before Mr. Egerton had renewed his suit, andhad been accepted. Had Mr. Darrell lived, the altered circumstancesof the suitor would, in all probability, have made some alterationin his ideas upon this subject. He could no longer have supposedAngus Egerton influenced by mercenary feelings. 

My darling seemed perfectly happy in her engagement, and I sharedher happiness. I was always to live with her, she said, at Cumber aswell as at Thornleigh. She had told Angus this, and he was pleasedthat it should be so. I thought that she would have no need of me inher wedded days, and that this loving fancy of hers was not likelyto be realised; but I allowed her to cherish it--time enough for ourparting when it needs must come. My youth had been brightened by herlove; and I should be brave enough to face the world alone when shebegan her new life, assured that in my day of trouble I shouldalways find a haven in her affection. 

They were to be married in the following spring. Mr. Egerton hadpleaded hard for an earlier date; but Milly would not diminish heryear of mourning for her father, and he was fain to submit. Theappointed time was advanced from April to February. He was to takehis young wife abroad, and to show her all those scenes in which hiswandering life had been spent; and then they were to return toCumber, and Milly was to begin her career as the wife of a countrysquire. 

Julian Stormont came to Thornleigh, and heard of the engagement fromMrs. Darrell. He still occupied his old position in the business atNorth Shields, which had been bought by a great capitalist in theiron way. He received the news of Milly's betrothal very quietly;but he proffered her no congratulations upon the subject. I happenedto be on the terrace alone with him one morning during his stay, waiting for Milly to join me, when he spoke to me about thisbusiness. 

'So my cousin is going to throw herself away upon that man?' hesaid. 

'You must not call it throwing herself away, Mr. Stormont, ' Ianswered; 'Mr. Egerton is devoted to your cousin, and the change inhis circumstances makes him a very good match for her. '

'The change in his circumstances has not changed the man, ' hereturned in an angry tone. 'No good can come of such a marriage. '

'You have no right to say that, Mr. Stormont. '

'I have the right given me by conviction. A happy marriage!--no, itwill not be a happy marriage, be sure of that!'

He said this with a vindictive look that startled me, well as I knewthat he could not feel very kindly towards Milly's lover. The wordsmight mean little, but to me they sounded like a threat. 

CHAPTER XI. 

DANGER. 

The summer that year was a divine one, and we spent the greater partof our lives out of doors, driving, walking, sitting about thegarden sometimes until long after dark. It was weather in which itwas a kind of treason against Nature to waste an hour in the house. 

We went very often for long rambles in Cumber Wood, winding up withan afternoon tea-drinking in the little study at the Priory--a home-like unceremonious entertainment which Milly delighted in. She usedto seem to me on those occasions like some happy child playing atbeing mistress of the house. 

Augusta Darrell was almost always with us. I was sorely puzzled andperplexed by her conduct at this time. It seemed to be all that akind stepmother's could be. Her old indifferent air had quitevanished; she was more cordial, more affectionately interested inMilly's happiness than I had supposed it possible she could be. Thegirl was completely melted by the change in her manner, andresponded to this new warmth with artless confidence in its reality. 

I remembered all I had seen and all I had suspected, and I could notbring myself to believe implicitly in Milly's stepmother. There wasa shadowy fear, a vague distrust in my mind, not to be put away. 

As I have said, she was always with us, entering into all our simpleamusements with an appearance of girlish pleasure. Our picnics, oursketching expeditions, our afternoon tea-parties at the Priory, ourcroquet-matches with the Rector's daughters, seemed all alikeagreeable to her. I noticed that her toilet was always perfect ontheses occasions, and that she neglected no art which could add toher attractiveness; but she never in any way attempted to absorb Mr. Egerton's attention--she never ignored his position as Milly'saccepted suitor. 

For a long time I was deceived by her manner--almost convinced thatif she had ever cared for Angus Egerton in the past, it was apassion that had died out of her heart. But there came a day whenone look of hers betrayed the real state of the case, and showed methat all this newly-awakened regard for Milly, and pleasantparticipation in her happiness, had been only a careful piece ofacting. It was nothing but a look--one earnest, despairing, passionate look--that told me this, but it was a look that betrayedthe secret of a life. From that moment I never again trusted AugustaDarrell. 

With the beginning of autumn the weather changed, and there came adull rainy season. Trouble came to us with the change of theweather. There was a good deal of low fever about Thornleigh, andMilly caught it. She had never neglected her visit amongst the poor, even in favour of those pleasant engagements with Angus Egerton; andthere is no doubt she had taken the fever from some of thecottagers. 

She was not alarmingly ill, nor was the fever supposed to becontagious, except under certain conditions. Mr. Hale, theThornleigh doctor, made very light of the business, and assured usthat his patient would be as well as ever in a week's time. But inthe mean while my dear girl kept her room, and I nursed her, withthe assistance of her devoted little maid. 

Mr. Egerton came every day, generally twice a day, to inquire aboutthe invalid's progress, and would stay for half an hour, or longer, talking to Mrs. Darrell or to me. He was very much depressed by thisillness, and impatient for his betrothed's recovery. He had beenstrictly forbidden to see her, as perfect repose was an essentialcondition to her well-being. 

The week was nearly over, and Milly had improved considerably. Shewas now able to sit up for an hour or two every day, and the doctorpromised Mr. Egerton that she should be in the drawing-room early inthe following week. The weather had been incessantly wet during thistime--dull, hopeless, perpetual rain day after day, without a breakin the leaden sky. But at last there came a fine evening, and I wentdown to the terrace to take a solitary walk after my longimprisonment. It was between six and seven o'clock; Milly wasasleep, and there was no probability of my being wanted in the sick-room for half an hour or so. I left ample instructions with my handylittle assistant, and went down for my constitutional, muffled in awarm shawl. 

It was dusk when I went out, and everything was unusually quiet, nota leaf was stirring in the stagnant atmosphere. Late as it was, theevening was almost oppressively warm, and I was glad to throw off myshawl. I walked up and down the terrace in front of the Hall forabout ten minutes, and then went round towards the drawing-roomwindows. Before I had quite reached the first of these, I wasarrested by a sound so strange that I stopped involuntarily tolisten. Throughout all that followed, I had no time to considerwhether I was doing right or wrong in hearing what I did hear; but Ibelieve if I had had ample leisure for deliberation, it would havecome to the same thing--I should have listened. What I heard was ofsuch vital consequence to the girl I loved, that I think loyalty toher outweighed any treachery against the speaker. 

The strange sound that brought me to a standstill close to the wide-open window was the sound of a woman's passionate sobbing--such astorm of weeping as one does not hear many times in a life. I havenever heard anything like it until that night. 

Angus Egerton's sonorous voice broke in upon those tempestuous sobsalmost angrily:

'Augusta, this is supreme folly. '

The sobs went on for some minutes longer unchecked. I heard his stepsounding heavily as he walked up and down the room. 

'I am waiting to hear the meaning of all this, ' he said by and by. 'I suppose there is some meaning. '

'O Angus, is it so easy for you to forget the past?'

'It was forgotten long ago, ' he answered, 'by both of us, I shouldthink. When my mother bribed you to leave Ilfracombe, you barteredmy love and my happiness for the petty price she was able to pay. Iwas a weak fool in those days, and I took the business to heartbitterly enough, God knows; but the lesson was a useful one, and itserved its turn. I have never trusted myself to love any woman sincethat day, till I met the pure young creature who is to be my wife. Her truth is above all doubt; she will not sell her birthright for amess of pottage. '

'The mess of pottage was not for me, Angus. It was my father'sbargain, not mine. I was told that you had done with me--that you hadnever meant to marry me. Yes, Angus, your mother told me that withher own lips--told me that she interfered to save me from misery anddishonour. And then I was hurried off to a cheap French convent, tolearn to provide for myself. A couple of years' schooling was theprice I received for my broken heart. That was what your mothercalled making me a lady. I think I should have gone mad in those twodreary years, if it had not been for my passionate love of music. Igave myself up to that with my whole soul; my heart was dead; andthey told me I made more progress in two years than other girls madein six. I had nothing else to live for. '

'Except the hope of a rich husband, ' said Mr. Egerton, with a sneer. 

'O God, how cruel a man can to be a woman he has once loved!' criedMrs. Darrell passionately. 'Yes, I did marry a rich man, Angus; butI never schemed or tried to win him. The chance came to me without ahope or a thought of mine. It was the chance of rescue from thedreariest life of drudgery that a poor dependent creature everlived, and I took it. But I have never forgotten you, Angus Egerton, not for one hour of my life. '

'I am sorry you should have taken the trouble to remember me, ' heanswered very coldly. 'For some years of my life I made it my chiefbusiness to forget you, and all the pain connected with ouracquaintance; and having succeeded in doing that, it seems a pitythat we should disturb the stagnant waters of that dead lake whichmen call the past. '

'Would to God that we had never met again!' she said. 

'I can quite echo that aspiration, if we are likely to have manysuch scenes as this. '

'Cruel--cruel!' she muttered. 'O Angus, I have been so patient! Ihave clung to hope in the face of despair. When my husband died Ifancied your old love would reawaken. How can such things die? Ithought it was to me you would come back--to me, whom you once lovedso passionately--not to that girl. You came back to her, and still Iwas patient. I set myself against her, to win back your love. Yes, Angus, I hoped to do that till very lately. And then I began to seethat it was all useless. She is younger and handsomer than I. '

'She is better than you, Augusta. It was not her beauty that won me, but something nobler and rarer than beauty: it was her perfectnature. The more faulty we are ourselves, the more fondly we clingto a good woman. But I don't want to say hard things, Augusta. Praylet us put all this folly aside at once and for ever. You took yourcourse in the past, and it has landed you in a very prosperousposition. Let me take mine in the present, and let us be friends, ifpossible. '

'You know that it is not possible. We must be all the world to eachother, or the bitterest enemies. '

'I shall never be your enemy, Mrs. Darrell. '

'But I am yours; yes, I am yours from this night, and hers. Youthink I can look on tamely, and see you devoted to that girl! I haveonly been playing a part. I thought it was in my power to win youback. '

All this was said with a kind of passionate recklessness, as if thespeaker, having suddenly thrown off her mask, scarcely cared howutterly she degraded herself. 

'Good-night, Mrs. Darrell. You will think of these things morewisely to-morrow. Let us be civil to each other, at least, whilecircumstances bring us together; and for God's sake be kind to yourstepdaughter! Do not think of her as a rival; my love for you haddied long before I saw her. You need bear no malice against her onthat account. Good-night. '

'Good-night. '

I heard the drawing-room door open and shut, and knew that he wasgone. I walked on past the open windows, not caring if Mrs. Darrellsaw me. It might be better for Milly, perhaps, that she should knowI had heard her secret, and had been put upon my guard. But I do notthink she saw me. 

It was about a quarter of an hour later when I went in, and it wasquite dark by that time. In the hall I met Mrs. Darrell, dressed forwalking. 

'I am going round the shrubberies, Miss Crofton, ' she said. 'Insupportably close to-night, is it not? I think we shall all havethe fever if this weather lasts. '

She did not wait for my answer, but passed out quickly. I went backto Milly's room, and found her still sleeping peacefully. Tenminutes afterwards I heard the rain beating against the windows, andknew that it had set in for a wet night. 

'Mrs. Darrell will not be able to go far, ' I thought. 

I sat by the bedside for some time thinking of what I had heard. Itwas something to have had so strong a proof of Angus Egerton'sloyalty to my dear girl; and assured of that, I did not fear Mrs. Darrell's malice. Yet I could not help wishing that the marriage hadbeen appointed for an earlier date, and that the time whichstepmother and daughter were to spend together had been shorter. 

Milly woke, and sat up for about half an hour, supported by pillows, to take a cup of tea, while I talked to her a little about thepleasantest subjects I could think of. She asked if Mr. Egerton hadbeen at Thornleigh that evening. 

'Yes, dear, he has been. '

'Did you see him, Mary?'

'No; I did not see him. '

She gave a little disappointed sigh. It was her delight to hear merepeat his messages to her, word for word, ever so many times over. 

'Then you have nothing to tell me about him, dear?'

'Nothing; except that I know he loves you. '

'Ah, Mary, there was a time when you doubted him. '

'That time is quite past and gone, dear. '

She kissed me as she gave me back her cup and saucer, and promisedto go to sleep again, while I went to my room to write a long letterhome. 

I was occupied in this way for more than an hour; and then, havingsealed my letter, went down with it to the hall, to put it on atable where all letters intended to be taken to the post in themorning were placed over-night. 

It was nearly ten o'clock by this time, and I was startled by thesound of the hall-door opening softly from without, while I wasputting down my letter. I looked round quietly, and saw Mrs. Darrellcoming in, with dripping garments. 

'Good gracious me!' I cried involuntarily; 'have you been out allthis time in the rain, Mrs. Darrell?'

'Yes, I have been out in the rain, Miss Crofton, ' she answered in avexed impatient tone. 'Is that so very shocking to your sober ideasof propriety? I could not endure the house to-night. One hasfeverish fancies sometimes--at least I have; and I preferred beingout in the rain to not being out at all. Good-night. '

She gave me a haughty nod, and ran up-stairs with a quick lightstep. The old butler came to lock and bolt the hall-door as theclock struck ten, according to unalterable custom; and I went backto my room, wondering what could have kept Mrs. Darrell out so long--whether she had been upon some special errand, or had only beenwandering about the grounds in a purposeless way. 

For some days Milly went on very well; then there came a littlechange for the worse. The symptoms were not quite so favourable. Mr. Hale assured us that there was no reason for alarm, the recovery wasonly a little retarded. He had not the least doubt that all would gowell. Mr. Egerton was very quick to take fright, however, andinsisted on Dr. Lomond, a famous provincial physician, beingsummoned immediately from Manchester. 

The great man came, and his opinion coincided entirely with that ofMr. Hale. There was not the slightest cause for fear. Carefulnursing and quiet were the two essential points. The patient's mindwas to be made as happy as possible. The physician made minuteinquiries as to the arrangements for attendance in the sick-room, and suggested a professional nurse. But I pleaded so hard againstthis, assuring him of my capacity for doing much more than I had todo, that he gave way, and consented to Milly being waited only bymyself and her maid. 

Mrs. Darrell was present during this conversation, and I was rathersurprised by her taking my side of the question with regard to thenursing, as it was her usual habit to oppose me upon all subjects. To-day she was singularly gracious. 

Another week went by, and there was no change for the better, norany very perceptible change for the worse. The patient was a littleweaker, and suffered from a depression of mind, against which all myefforts were vain. 

Angus Egerton came twice daily during this week, but he rarely sawMrs. Darrell. I think he studiously avoided meeting her after thatpainful scene in the drawing-room. It was for me he inquired, and heused to come up-stairs to the corridor outside Milly's room, andstand there talking to me in a low voice, and feeling a kind ofsatisfaction, I believe, in being so near his darling. 

Once I ventured to tell her that he was there, and to let him speaka few words for her to hear. But the sound of the voice she loved sowell had such an agitating effect upon her, that I sorely repentedmy imprudence, and took good care not to repeat it. 

So the days went by, in that slow dreary way in which time passeswhen those we love are ill; and it seemed, in the dead calm of thesick-room, as if all the business of life had come to a stand-still. 

I did not see much of Mrs. Darrell during this period. She came toMilly's door two or three times a day to ask about her progress, with all appearance of affection and anxiety; but throughout therest of the day she remained secluded in her own rooms. I noticedthat she had a wan haggard look at this time, like that of a personwho had existed for a long while without sleep; but this in nomanner surprised me, after that scene in the drawing-room. 

As the time went by, I felt that my strength was beginning to fail, and I sadly feared that we might have at last to employ theprofessional aid which the Manchester physician had suggested. I hadslept very little from the beginning of Milly's illness, being tooanxious to sleep when I had the opportunity of doing so; and I nowbegan to suffer from the effects of this prolonged sleeplessness. But I struggled resolutely against fatigue, determined to see mydear girl through the fever if possible; and I succeededwonderfully, by the aid of unlimited cups of strong tea, and alwaysably seconded by Susan Dodd, Milly's devoted maid. 

Between us we two performed all the duties of the sick-room. Themedicines, wine, soups, jellies, and all things required for theinvalid were kept in the dressing-room, which communicated with thebedroom by one door, and had another door opening on to thecorridor. 

The sick-room, which was very large and airy, was by this means keptfree from all litter; and Susan and I took pleasure in making itlook bright and fresh. I used to fetch a bouquet from the gardenevery morning for the little table by the bed. At the verycommencement of Milly's illness I had missed Peter, Mrs. Thatcher'sgrandson. I asked one of the men what had become of him, and wastold that he had taken the fever and was lying ill at hisgrandmother's cottage. I mentioned this to Mrs. Darrell, and askedher permission to send him some wine and other little comforts, towhich she assented. 

The Manchester physician came a second time after a week's interval, and on this occasion he was not so positive in his opinion as to thecase. He did not consider that there was peril as yet, he said; butthe patient was weaker, and he was by no means satisfied. Heprescribed a change of medicine, repeated his injunctions about careand quiet; and so departed, after requesting Mr. Hale to telegraphfor him in the event of any change for the worse. 

I was a good deal depressed by his manner this time, and went backto my dear girl's room with a heavier heart than I had known sinceher illness began. 

It was my habit to take whatever sleep I could in the course of theafternoon, leaving Susan Dodd on guard, so as to be able to sit upall night. Susan had begged very hard to share this night-watching, but I insisted upon her taking her usual rest, so as to be brightand fresh in the day. I felt the night-work was the more importantduty, and could trust that to no one but myself. 

Unfortunately it happened very often that I was quite unable tosleep when I went to my room in the afternoon to lie down. Half mytime I used to lie there wide awake thinking of my darling girl, andpraying for her speedy recovery. On the afternoon that followed theManchester doctor's second visit I went to my room as usual; but Iwas more than ever disinclined to sleep. For the first time sincethe fever began I felt a horrible dread that the end might be fatal;and I lay tossing restlessly from side to side, meditating on everyword and look of the physician's, and trying to convince myself thatthere was no real ground for my alarm. 

I had been lying awake like this for more than an hour, when I heardthe door of Milly's dressing-room--which was close to my door--closedsoftly; and with a nervous quickness to take alarm I sprang up, andwent out into the corridor, thinking that Susan was coming to summonme. I found myself face to face, not with Susan Dodd, but with Mrs. Darrell. 

She gave a little start at seeing me, and stood with her hand stillupon the handle of the dressing-room door, looking at me with thestrangest expression I ever saw in any human countenance. Alarm, defiance, hatred--what was it?

'I thought you were asleep, ' she said. 

'I have not been able to sleep this afternoon. '

'You are a bad person for a nurse, Miss Crofton, if you cannot sleepat will. I am afraid you are nervous, too, by the way you darted outof the room just now. '

'I heard that door shut, and thought Susan was coming to call me. '

'I had just been in to see how the invalid was going on--that isall. '

She passed me, and went back to her own apartments, which were onthe other side of the house. I felt that it was quite useless tryingto sleep; so I returned to my room only to change my dressing-gownfor my dress, and then went back to Milly. She had been sleepingvery quietly, Susan told me. 

'I suppose you told Mrs. Darrell that all was going on well when shecame to inquire just now?' I said. 

'Mrs. Darrell hasn't been since you went to lie down, miss, ' thegirl answered, looking surprised at my question. 

'Why, Susan, you must surely forget. Mrs. Darrell was in thedressing-room scarcely ten minutes ago. I heard her coming out, andwent to see who was there. Didn't she come in here to inquire aboutMiss Darrell?'

'No, indeed, miss. '

'Then I suppose she must have peeped in at the door and seen thatMiss Darrell was asleep, ' I said. 

'I don't see how she could have opened that door without my hearingher, miss. It was shut fast, I know. '

It had been shut when I went in through the dressing-room. I waspuzzled by this incident, small as it was. I knew that AugustaDarrell hated her stepdaughter, and I could not bear to think ofthat secret enemy hovering about the sick-room. I was puzzled too bythe look which I had seen in her face--no common look, and not easyto be understood. That she hated me, I had no doubt; but there hadbeen fear as well as aversion in that look, and I could not imagineany possible reason for her fearing such an insignificant person asmyself. 

The rest of that evening and night passed without any event worthrecording. I kept the door of communication between the bedroom anddressing-room wide open all night, determined that Augusta Darrellshould not be in that room without my knowledge; but the nightpassed, and she never came near us. 

When I went into the garden early the next morning to gather theflowers for Milly's room, I found Peter at work again. He lookedvery white and feeble, scarcely fit to be about just yet; but therehe was, sweeping the fallen leaves into little heaps, ready for hisbarrow. He came to me while I was cutting the late roses for mybouquet, and asked after Milly. When I had answered him he loiteredby me for a little in a curious way, as if he wanted to saysomething else; but I was too full of my own thoughts and cares topay much attention to him. 

The next day, and the next, brought no change in my darling, and Iwas growing every hour more anxious. I could see that Mr. Hale waspuzzled and uneasy, though he said he saw no reason for telegraphingto Manchester, yet awhile. He was very attentive, and was reputed tobe very clever; and I knew that he was really attached to Milly, whom he had attended from her infancy. 

Angus Egerton saw me twice every day; and these brief interviews hadnow become very painful to me. I found it so difficult to cheer himwith hopeful words, when my own heart was hourly growing heavier, and the fears that had been vague and shadowy were gatheringstrength and shape. I was very tired, but I held out resolutely; andI had never once slept for so much as a quarter of an hour upon mywatch, until the second night after that meeting with Mrs. Darrellat the door of the dressing-room. 

That night I was seized with an unconquerable sleepiness, about anhour after I had dismissed Susan Dodd. The room was very quiet, nota sound except the ticking of the pretty little clock upon themantelpiece. Milly was fast asleep, and I was sitting on a low chairby the fire trying to read, when my drowsiness overcame me, my heavyeyelids fell, and I went off into a feverish kind of slumber, inwhich I was troubled with an uneasy consciousness that I ought to beawake. 

I had slept in this way for a little more than an hour, when Isuddenly started up broad awake. [In] the intense quiet of the roomI had heard a sound like the chinking of glass, and I fancied thatMilly had stirred. 

There was a table near her bed, with a glass of cooling drink and abottle of water upon it. I thought she must have stretched out herhand for this glass, and that in so doing she had pushed the glassagainst the bottle; but to my surprise I found her lying quitestill, and fast asleep. The sound must have come from some otherdirection--from the dressing-room, perhaps. 

I went into the dressing-room. There was no one there. No trace ofthe smallest disturbance among the things. The medicine-bottles andthe medicine-glass stood on the little table exactly as I had leftthem. I was very careful and precise in my arrangement of thesethings, and it would have been difficult for the slightestinterference with them to have escaped me. What could that soundhave been--some accidental shiver of the glass, stirred by a breathof wind, one of those mysterious movements of inanimate objectswhich are so apt to occur in the dead hours of the night, and whichseem always more or less ghostly to a nervous watcher? Could it havebeen only accidental? or had Mrs. Darrell been prowling stealthilyin and out of that room again?

Why should she have been there? What could her secret coming andgoing mean? What purpose could she have in hovering about the sickgirl? what could her hatred profit itself by such uneasywatchfulness, unless-- Unless what? An icy coldness came over me, andI shook like a leaf, as a dreadful thought took shape in my mind. What if that desperate woman's hatred took the most awful form? whatif her secret presence in that room meant murder?

I took up the medicine-bottle and examined it minutely. In colour, in odour, in taste, the medicine seemed to me exactly what it hadbeen from the time it had been altered, in accordance with theManchester doctor's second prescription. Mr. Hale's label was on thebottle, and the quantity of the contents was exactly what it hadbeen after I gave Milly her last dose--one dose gone out of the fullbottle. 

'O, no, no, no, ' I thought to myself; 'I must be mad to imagineanything so awful. A woman may be weak, and wicked, and jealous, when she has loved as intensely as this woman seems to have lovedAngus Egerton; but that is no reason she should become a murderess. '

I stood with the medicine-bottle in my hand sorely perplexed. Whatcould I do? Should I suspend the medicine for to-night, at the riskof retarding the cure? or should I give it in spite of that halfsuspicion that it had been tampered with?

What ground had I for such a suspicion? At that moment nothing butthe sound that had awakened me, the chinking sound of one glassknocked against another. 

Had I really heard any such sound, or had it only been a delusion ofmy half sleeping brain? While I stood weighing this question, asudden recollection flashed across my mind, and I had no longerground for doubt. 

The cork of the medicine-bottle, when I gave Milly her last dose, had been too large for the bottle; so much so, that I had found itdifficult to put it in again after giving the medicine. The cork ofthe bottle which I now held in my hand went in loosely enough. Itwas a smaller and an older-looking cork. This decided me. I placedthe bottle under lock and key in Milly's wardrobe, and I gave her nomore medicine that night. 

There was no fear of my sleeping at my post after this. My thoughtsfor the rest of that night were full of horror and bewilderment. Mycourse seemed clear enough, in one respect. The proper person toconfide in would be Mr. Hale. He would be able to discover whetherthe medicine had been tampered with, and it would be his business toprotect his patient. 

CHAPTER XII. 

DEFEATED. 

I went down to the garden for the flowers as usual next morning, asI did not wish to make any palpable change in my arrangements; butbefore leaving the room I impressed upon Susan Dodd the necessity ofremaining with her mistress during every moment of my absence, though I knew I had little need to counsel carefulness. Nothing wasmore unlikely than that Susan would neglect her duty for a moment. 

Peter came again, as he had come to me on the previous morning. Again he lingered about me, as if he had something more to say, andcould not take courage to say it. This time the strangeness of hismanner aroused my curiosity, and I asked him if he had anythingparticular to say to me. 

'You must be quick, Peter, whatever it is, ' I said; 'for I am in agreat hurry to get back to Miss Darrell. '

'There is something I want to say, miss, ' he answered, twisting hisragged straw hat round and round in his bony hands, in a nervousway, --'something I should like to say, but I'm naught but a poorfondy, and don't know how to begin. Only you've been very good toPeter, you see, miss, sending wine and such things when I was ill, and I ain't afeard o' you, as I am o' some folks. '

'The wine was not mine, Peter. Be quick, please; tell me what youwant to say. '

'I can't come to it very easy, miss. It's something awful-like totell on. '

'Something awful?'

The boy had looked round him with a cautious glance, and was nowstanding close to me, with his light blue eyes fixed upon my face ina very earnest way. 

'Speak out, Peter, ' I said; 'you needn't be afraid of me. '

'It happened when I was ill, you see, miss, and I've sometimesthought as it might be no more than a dream. I had a many dreamswhile I were lying on that little bed in grandmother's room, wickeddreams, and this might be one of them; and yet it's real-like, andthere isn't the muddle in it that there is in the other dreams. '

'What is it, Peter? O, pray, pray be quick!'

'I'm a-coming to it, miss. Is it wicked for folks to killtheirselves?'

'Is it wicked? Of course it is--desperately wicked; a sin that cannever be repented of. '

'Then I know one that's going to do it. '

'Who?'

'Mrs. Darrell. '

He gave a solemn nod, and stood staring at me with wide-open awe-stricken eyes. 

'How do you know that?'

'It was one dark night, when it was raining hard--I could hear itdrip, drip, drip upon the roof just over where I was lying. It waswhen I was very bad, and lay still all day and couldn't speak. But Iknew what grandmother said to me, and I knew everything that wasgoing on, though I didn't seem to--that was the curious part of it. Ihad been asleep for a bit, and I woke up all of a sudden, and heardsome one talking to grandmother in the next room--the door wasn'twide open, only ajar. I shouldn't have known who it was, for I'm notquick at telling voices, like other folks; but I heard grandmothercall her Mrs. Darrell; and I heard the lady say that when one wassick and tired of life, and had no one left to live for, it was bestto die; and grandmother laughed, and says yes, there wasn't much tolive for, leastways not for such as her. And then they talked alittle more; and then by and by Mrs. Darrell asked her for somestuff--I didn't hear the name of it, for Mrs. Darrell only whisperedit. Grandmother says no, and stuck to it for a good time; but Mrs. Darrell offered her money, and then more and more money. She says itcouldn't matter whether she got the stuff from her or from any oneelse. She could get it easily enough, she says, in any large town. And she didn't know as she should use it, she says. It was morelikely than not she never would; but she wanted to have it by her, so as to feel she was able to put an end to her life, if ever itgrew burdensome to her. "You'll never use it against any one else?"says grandmother; and Mrs. Darrell says who was there she could useit against, and what harm need she wish to anybody; she was richenough, and had nothing to gain from anybody's death. So at last, after a deal of talk, grandmother gave her the stuff; and I heardher counting out money--I think it was a hundred pounds--and then shewent away in the rain. '

I remembered that night upon which Mrs. Darrell had stayed out solong in the rain--the night that followed her stormy interview withAngus Egerton. 

I told Peter that he had done quite right in telling me this, andbegged him not to mention it to any one else until I gave himpermission to do so. I went back to Milly's room directlyafterwards, and waited there for Mr. Hale's coming. 

While I was taking my breakfast, Mrs. Darrell came to make her usualinquiries. I ran into the dressing-room to meet her. While she wasquestioning me about the invalid, I saw her look at the table wherethe medicine had always been until that morning, and I knew that shemissed the bottle. 

After she had made her inquiries, she stood for a few momentshesitating, and then said abruptly, 'I should like to see Mr. Hale when he comes this morning. I want tohear what he says about his patient. He will be here almostimmediately, I suppose; so I will stay in Milly's room till hecomes. '

She went into the bedroom, bent over the invalid for a few minutes, talking in a gentle sympathetic voice, and then took her place bythe bedside. It was evident to me that she had suspected somethingfrom the removal of the medicine, and that she intended to preventmy seeing Mr. Hale alone. 

'You took your medicine regularly last night, I suppose, Milly?' sheinquired presently, when I had seated myself at a little table bythe window and was sipping my tea. 

'I don't think you gave me quite so many doses last night, did you, Mary?' said the invalid, in her feeble voice. 'I fancy you were moremerciful than usual. '

'It was very wrong of Miss Crofton to neglect your medicine. Mr. Hale will be extremely angry when he hears of it. '

'I do not think Milly will be much worse for the omission, ' Ianswered quietly. 

After this we sat silently waiting for the doctor's appearance. Hecame in about a quarter of an hour, and pronounced himself betterpleased with his patient than he had been the night before. Therehad been a modification of the more troublesome symptoms of thefever towards morning. 

I told him of my omission to give the medicine. 

'That was very wrong, ' he said. 

'Yet you see she had a better night, Mr. Hale. I suppose thatmedicine was intended to modify those attacks of sickness from whichshe has suffered so much?'

'To prevent them altogether, if possible. '

'That is very strange. It really appears to me that the medicinealways increases the tendency to sickness. '

Mr. Hale shook his head impatiently. 

'You don't know what you are talking about, Miss Crofton, ' he said. 

'May I say a few words to you alone, if you please?'

Mrs. Darrell rose, with a hurried anxious look. 

'What can you have to say to Mr. Hale alone, Miss Crofton?' sheasked. 

'It is about herself, perhaps, ' said the doctor kindly. 'I have toldher all along that she would be knocked up by this nursing; and nowI daresay she begins to find I am right. '

'Yes, ' I said, 'it is about myself I want to speak. '

Mrs. Darrell went to one of the windows, and stood with her faceturned away from us, looking out. I followed Mr. Hale into thedressing-room. 

I unlocked the wardrobe, took out the medicine-bottle, and told thedoctor my suspicions of the previous night. He listened to me withgrave attention, but with an utterly incredulous look. 

'A nervous fancy of yours, no doubt, Miss Crofton, ' he said;'however, I'll take the medicine back to my surgery and analyse it. '

'I have something more to tell you, Mr. Hale. '

'Indeed!'

I repeated, word for word, what Peter had told me about Mrs. Darrell's visit to his grandmother. 

'It is a very extraordinary business, ' he said; 'but I cannotimagine that Mrs. Darrell would be capable of such a hideous crime. What motive could she have for such an act?'

'I do not feel justified in speaking quite plainly upon thatsubject, Mr. Hale; but I have reason to know that Mrs. Darrell has avery bitter feeling about her stepdaughter. '

'I cannot think the thing you suspect possible. However, themedicine shall be analysed; and we will take all precautions for thefuture. I will send you another bottle immediately, in a sealedpacket. You will take notice that the seal is unbroken before youuse the medicine. '

He showed me his crest on a seal at the end of his pencil-case, andthen departed. The medicine came a quarter of an hour later in asealed packet. This time I brought the bottle into the sick-room, and placed it on the mantelpiece, where it was impossible for anyone to touch it. 

When Mr. Hale came for his second visit, there was a grave andanxious look in his face. He was very well satisfied with theappearance of the patient, however, and pronounced that there was achange for the better--slight, of course, but quite as much as couldbe expected in so short a time. He beckoned me out of the room, andI went down-stairs with him, leaving Susan Dodd with Milly. 

'I am going to speak to Mrs. Darrell, and you had better come withme, ' he said. 

She was in the library. Mr. Hale went in, and I followed him. Shewas sitting at the table, with writing materials scattered beforeher; but she was not writing. She had a strange preoccupied air; butat the sight of Mr. Hale she rose suddenly, and looked at him with adeadly white face. 

'Is she worse?' she asked. 

'No, Mrs. Darrell; she is better, ' he answered sternly. 'I find thatwe have been the dupes of some secret enemy of this dear child's. There has been an attempt at murder going on under our very eyes. Poison has been mixed with the medicine sent by me--a slow poison. Happily for us the poisoner has been a little too cautious for thesuccess of the crime. The doses administered have been small enoughto leave the chance of recovery. An accident awakened Miss Crofton'ssuspicions last night, and she very wisely discontinued themedicine. I have analysed it since she gave it me, and find that acertain portion of irritant poison has been mixed with it. '

For some moments after he had finished speaking Mrs. Darrellremained silent, looking at him fixedly with that awful death-likeface. 

'Who can have done such a thing?' she asked at last, in a half-mechanical way. 

'You must be a better judge of that question than I, ' answered Mr. Hale. 'Is there any one in this house inimical to yourstepdaughter?'

'No one, that I know of. '

'We have two duties before us, Mrs. Darrell: the first, to protectour patient from the possibility of any farther attempt of thiskind; the second, to trace the hand that has done this work. I shalltelegraph to Leeds immediately for a professional nurse, to relieveMiss Crofton in the care of the sick-room; and I shall communicateat once with the police, in order that this house may be placedunder surveillance. '

Mrs. Darrell said not a word, either in objection or assent, tothis. She seated herself by the table again, and began trifling idlywith the writing materials before her. 

'You will do what is best, of course, Mr. Hale, ' she said, after along pause; 'you are quite at liberty to act in this matteraccording to your own discretion. '

'Thanks; it is a matter in which my responsibility entitles me to acertain amount of power. I shall telegraph to Dr. Lomond, asking himto come down to-morrow. Whatever doubt you may entertain of myjudgment will be dispelled when I am supported by his opinion. '

'Of course; but I have not expressed any doubt of your judgment. '

We left her immediately after this--left her sitting before thetable, with her restless hands turning over the papers. 

The servant who went in search of her at seven o'clock that evening, when dinner was served, found her sitting there still, with a sealedletter lying on the table before her; but her head had fallen acrossthe cushioned arm of the chair--she had been dead some hours. 

There was a post-mortem examination and an inquest. Mrs. Darrell hadtaken poison. The jury brought in a verdict of suicide while in astate of unsound mind. The act seemed too causeless for sanity. Herstrange absent ways had attracted the attention of the servants forsome time past, and the evidence of her own maid respecting herrestlessness and irritability for the last few months influenced theminds of coroner and jury. 

The letter found lying on the table before her was addressed toAngus Egerton. He declined to communicate its contents whenquestioned about it at the inquest. Milly progressed towardsrecovery slowly but surely from the hour in which I stopped thesuspected medicine. The time came when we were obliged to tell herof her stepmother's awful death; but she never knew the attempt thathad been made on her own life, or the atmosphere of hatred in whichshe had lived. 

We left Thornleigh for Scarborough as soon as she was well enough tobe moved, and only returned in the early spring, in time for mydarling's wedding. 

She has now been married nearly seven years, during which time herlife has been very bright and happy--a life of almost uncheckeredsunshine. She has carried out her idea of our friendship to the veryletter; and we have never been separated, except during herhoneymoon and my own visits home. Happily for my sense ofindependence, there are now plenty of duties for me to perform atCumber Priory, where I am governess to a brood of pretty children, who call me auntie, and hold me scarcely second to their mother intheir warm young hearts. Angus Egerton is a model country squire andmaster of the hounds; and he and his wife enjoy an unbrokenpopularity among rich and poor. Peter is under-gardener at thePriory, and no longer lives with his grandmother, who left hercottage soon after Mrs. Darrell's suicide, and is supposed to havegone to London.