"No, I should choose to have a garden and work in the sun," said Bessie, catching some of his spirit.

"And I should choose to tend some sort of live-stock. In the way of minor industries I am convinced that a great deal may be put in their way only by taking thought. I shall lay parcels of land together for spade cultivation—the men will have a market at their own doors; then poultry farms—"

"Not forgetting the cock-pit for Sunday amusement," interrupted Lady Angleby sarcastically. "You are too Utopian, Sir Edward. Your colony will be a dismal failure and disappointment if you conduct it on such a sentimental plan."

Sir Edward colored. He had a love of approbation, and her ladyship was an authority. He sought to propitiate her better opinion, and resumed: "There shall be no inexorable rule. A man may work his six days in the pit if it be his good-will, but he shall have the chance of a decent existence above ground if he refuse to live in darkness and peril more than three or four. Schools and institutes are very good things in their place, and I shall not neglect to provide them, but I do not expect that more than a slender minority of my colliers will ever trouble the reading-room much. Let them feed pigs and grow roses."

"They will soon not know what they want. The common people grow more exacting every day—even our servants. You will have some fine stories of trouble and vexation to tell us before long."

Sir Edward looked discouraged, and Bessie Fairfax, with her impulsive kind heart, exclaimed, "No, no! In all labor there is profit, and if you work at doing your best for those who depend on your land, you will not be disappointed. Men are not all ungrateful."

Sir Edward certainly was not. He thanked Miss Fairfax energetically, and just then the carriage stopped at the "George." Mr. Fairfax and Mr. Cecil Burleigh came out in the most cheerful good-humor, and Mr. Cecil Burleigh began to tell Bessie that she did not know how much she had done for him by securing Buller's vote; it had drawn others after it. Bessie was delighted, and was not withheld by any foolish shyness from proclaiming that her mind was set on his winning his election.

"You ought to take these two young people into your counsels, Cecil; they have some wonderful devices for the promotion of contentment amongst coal-miners," said Lady Angleby. Mr. Fairfax glanced in his granddaughter's innocent, rosy face, and shook hands with Sir Edward as he got out of the carriage. Mr. Cecil Burleigh said that wisdom was not the monopoly of age, and then he inquired where they were going.

They were going to call at the manor on Lady Eden, and to wind up with a visit to Mr. Laurence Fairfax in the Minster Court. Mr. Fairfax said he would meet them there, and the same said Mr. Cecil Burleigh. Sir Edward Lucas stood halting on the inn-steps, wistfully hoping for a bidding to come too. Lady Angleby was even kinder than his hopes; she asked if he had any engagement for the evening, and when he answered in the negative she invited him to come and dine at Brentwood again. He accepted with joy unfeigned.

When the ladies reached Minster Court only Mr. Cecil Burleigh had arrived there. Lady Angleby was impatient to hear some private details of the canvass, and took her nephew aside to talk of it. Mr. Laurence Fairfax began to ask Bessie how long she was to stay at Brentwood. "Until Monday," Bessie said; and her eyes roved unconsciously to the cupboard under the bookcase where the toys lived, but it was fast shut and locked, and gave no sign of its hid treasures. Her uncle's eyes followed hers, and with a significant smile he said, if she pleased, he would request her grandfather to leave her with him for a few days, adding that he would find her some young companions. Bessie professed that she would like it very much, and when Mr. Fairfax came in the request was preferred and cordially granted. The squire was in high good-humor with his granddaughter and all the world just now.

Bessie went away from Minster Court with jubilant anticipations of what might happen during the proposed visit to her uncle's house. One thing she felt sure of: she would become better acquainted with that darling cherub of a boy, and the vision she made of it shed quite a glow on the prospect. She told Miss Burleigh when she returned to Brentwood that she was not going out of reach on Monday; she was going to stay a few days with her uncle Laurence in Minster Court.

"Cecil will be so glad!" said his devoted sister.

"There are no more Bullers to conquer, are there?" Bessie asked, turning her face aside.

"I hope not. Oh no! Cecil begins to be tolerably sure of his election, and he will have you to thank for it. Mr. John Short blesses you every hour of the day."

Bessie laughed lightly. "I did good unconsciously, and blush to find it fame," said she.

A fear that her brother's success with Miss Fairfax might be doubtful, though his election was sure, flashed at that instant into Miss Burleigh's mind. Bessie's manner was not less charming, but it was much more intrepid, and at intervals there was a strain of fun in it—of mischief and mockery. Was it the subacid flavor of girlish caprice, which might very well subsist in combination with her sweetness, or was it sheer insensibility? Time would show, but Miss Burleigh retained a lurking sense of uneasiness akin to that she had experienced when she detected in Miss Fairfax, at their first meeting, an inclination to laugh at her aunt—an uneasiness difficult to conceal and dangerous to confess. Not for the world would she, at this stage of the affair, have revealed her anxiety to her brother, who held the even tenor of his way, whatever he felt—never obtrusive and never negligent. He treated Bessie like the girl of sense she was, with courtesy, but without compliments or any idle banter; and Bessie certainly began to enjoy his society. He improved on acquaintance, and made the hours pass much more pleasantly at Brentwood when he was there than they passed in his absence. This was promising. The evening's dinner-party would have been undeniably heavy without the leaven of his wit, for Mr. Logger, that well-known political writer, had arrived from London in the course of the afternoon, and Lady Angleby and he discoursed with so much solemn allusion and innuendo on the affairs of the nation that it was like listening surreptitiously at a cabinet council. Sir Edward Lucas was quite silent and oppressed.

Coming into the morning-room after breakfast on the following day armed with a roll of papers, Mr. Logger announced, "I met our excellent friend Lady Latimer at Summerhay last week; she is immensely interested in the education movement."

Mr. Fairfax and Mr. Cecil Burleigh instantly discovered that it was time they were gone into the town, and with one compunctious glance at Bessie, of which she did not yet know the meaning, they vanished. The roll in Mr. Logger's hand was an article in manuscript on that education movement in which he had stated that his friend Lady Latimer was so immensely interested; and he had the cruelty to propose to read it to the ladies here. He did read it, his hostess listening with gratified approval and keeping a controlling eye on Miss Fairfax, who, when she saw what impended, would have escaped had she been able. Miss Burleigh bore it as she bore everything—with smiling resignation—but she enjoyed the vivacity of Bessie's declaration afterward that the lecture was unpardonable.

"What a shockingly vain old gentleman! Could we not have waited to read his article in print?" said she.

"Probably it will never be in print. He toadies my aunt, who likes to be credited with a literary taste, but Cecil says people laugh at him; he is not of any weight, either literary or political, though he has great pretensions. We shall have him for a week at least, and I have no doubt he has brought manuscript to last the whole time."

Bessie was so uncomfortably candid as to cry out that she was glad, then, her visit would soon be over; and then she tried to extenuate her plain-speaking, not very skilfully.

Miss Burleigh accepted her plea with a gentleness that reproached her: "We hoped that you would be happy at Brentwood with Cecil here; his company is generally supposed to make any place delightful. He is exceedingly dear to us all; no one knows how good he is until they have lived with him a long while."

"Oh, I am sure he is good; I like him much better now than I did at first; but if he runs away to Norminster and leaves us a helpless prey to Mr. Logger, that is not delightful," rejoined Bessie winsomely.

Miss Burleigh kissed and forgave her, acknowledged that it was the reverse of delightful, and conveyed an intimation to her brother by which he profited. Mr. Logger favored the ladies with another reading on Sunday afternoon—an essay on sermons, and twice as long as one. Mr. Jones should have been there: this essay was much heavier artillery than Miss Hague's little paper-winged arrows. In the middle of it, just at the moment when endurance became agony and release bliss, Mr. Cecil Burleigh entered and invited Miss Fairfax to walk into the town to minster prayers, and Bessie went so gladly that his sister was quite consoled in being left to hear Mr. Logger to an end.

The two were about to ascend the minster steps when they espied Mr. Fairfax in the distance, and turned to meet him. He had been lunching with his son. At the first glance Bessie knew that her grandfather had suffered an overwhelming surprise since he went out in the morning. Mr. Cecil Burleigh also perceived that something was amiss, and not to distress his friend by inopportune remark, he said where he and Miss Fairfax were going.

"Go—go, by all means," said the squire. "Perhaps you may overtake me as you return: I shall walk slowly, and I want a word with Short as I pass his house." With this he went on, and the young people entered the minster, thinking but not speaking of what they could not but observe—his manifest bewilderment and pre-occupation.

On the road home they did not, however, overtake Mr. Fairfax. He reached Brentwood before them, and was closeted with Lady Angleby for some considerable time previous to dinner. Her ladyship was not agreeable without effort that evening, and there was indeed a perceptible cloud over everybody but Mr. Logger. Whatever the secret, it had been communicated to Mr. Cecil Burleigh and his sister, and it affected them all more or less uncomfortably. Bessie guessed what had happened—that her grandfather had seen his son Laurence's little playfellow, and that there had been an important revelation.

Bessie was right. Mr. Laurence Fairfax had Master Justus on his lap when his father unexpectedly walked into his garden. There was a lady in blue amongst the flowers who vanished; and the incompetent Sally, with something in her arms, who also hastily retired, but not unseen, either her or her burden. Master Justus held his ground with baby audacity, and the old squire recognized a strong young shoot of the Fairfax stock. One or two sharp exclamations and astounded queries elicited from Mr. Laurence Fairfax that he had been five years married to the lady in blue—a niece of Dr. Jocund—and that the bold little boy was his own, and another in the nurse's arms. Mr. Fairfax did not refuse to sit at meat with his son, though the chubby boy sat opposite, but he declined all conversation on the subject beyond the bald fact, and expressed no desire to be made acquainted with his newly-discovered daughter-in-law. Indeed, at a hint of it he jerked out a peremptory negative, and left the house without any more reference to the matter. Mr. Laurence Fairfax feared that it would be long before his father would darken his doors again, but it was a sensible relief to have got his secret told, and not to have had any angry, unpardonable words about it. The squire said little, but those who knew him knew perfectly that he might be silent and all the more indignant. And undoubtedly he was indignant. Of his three sons, Laurence had been always the one preferred; and this was his usage of him, his confidence in him!



CHAPTER XXVIII.

IN MINSTER COURT.

Mr. Fairfax did not withdraw his consent to Elizabeth's staying in Norminster with her uncle Laurence, and on Monday afternoon she and Mrs. Betts were transferred from Brentwood to Minster Court. On the first evening Mr. John Short dined there, but no one else. He made Miss Fairfax happy by talking of the Forest, which he had revisited more than once since the famous first occasion. After dinner the two gentlemen remained together a long while, and Bessie amused herself alone in the study. She cast many a look towards the toy-cupboard, and was strongly tempted to peep, but did not; and in the morning her virtue had its reward. It was a little after eleven o'clock when Burrage threw open the door of the study where she was sitting with her uncle and announced "The dear children, sir," in a matter-of-fact tone, as if they were daily visitors.

Bessie's back was to the door. She blushed and turned round with brightened eyes, and there, behold! was that sweet little boy in a blue poplin tunic, and a second little boy, a year smaller, in a white embroidered frock and scarlet sash! The voice of the incompetent Sally was heard in final exhortation, "Now, mind you be good, Master Justus!" and Master Justus ran straight to the philosopher and saluted him imperatively as "Dada!" which honorable title the other little boy echoed in an imperfect lisp, with an eager desire to be taken up and kissed. The desire was abundantly gratified, and then Mr. Laurence Fairfax said, "This is Laury," and offered him to Bessie for a repetition of the ceremonial.

Bessie could not have told why, but her eyes filled as she took him into her lap and took off his pretty hat to see his shining curly locks. Master Justus was already at the cupboard dragging out the toys, and her uncle stood and looked down at her with a pleased, benevolent face. "Of course they are my cousins?" said Bessie simply, and quite as simply he said "Yes."

This was all the interrogatory. But games ensued in which Bessie was brought to her knees and a seat on the carpet, and had the beautiful propriety of her hair as sadly disarranged as in her gypsy childhood amongst the rough Carnegie boys. Mrs. Betts put it tidy again before luncheon, after the children were gone. Mrs. Betts had fathomed the whole mystery, and would have been sympathetic about it had not her young lady manifested an invincible gayety. Bessie hardly knew herself for joy. She wanted very much to hear the romantic story that must belong to those bonny children, but she felt that she must wait her uncle's time to tell it. Happily for her peace, the story was not long delayed: she learnt it that evening.

This was the scene in Mr. Laurence Fairfax's study. He was seated at ease in his great leathern chair, and perched on his knee, with one arm round his neck and a ripe pomegranate cheek pressed against his ear, was that winsome little lady in blue who was to be known henceforward as the philosopher's wife: if she had not been so exquisitely pretty it would have seemed a liberty to take with so much learning. Opposite to them, and grim as a monumental effigy, sat Miss Jocund, and Bessie Fairfax, with an amazed and amused countenance, listened and looked on. The philosopher and his wife were laughing: they loved one another, they had two dear little boys; what could the world give them or take away in comparison with such joys? Their secret, long suspected in various quarters, had transpired publicly since yesterday, and Lady Angleby had that morning appealed haughtily to Miss Jocund in her own shop to know how it had all happened.

Miss Jocund now reported what she had answered: "I reckon, your ladyship, that Dan Cupid is no more open in his tactics than ever he was. All I have to tell is, that one evening, some six years ago, my niece Rosy, who was a timid little thing, went for a walk by the river with a school-fellow, and a hulking, rude boy gave them a fright. Mr. Laurence Fairfax, by good luck, was in the way and brought them home, and said to me that Rosy was much too pretty to be allowed to wander out unprotected. When they met after he had a kind nod and a word for her, and I've no doubt she had a shy blush for him. A philosopher is but a man, and liable to fall in love, and that is what he did: he fell in love with Rosy and married her. It suited all parties to keep it a secret at first; but a secret is like a birth—when its time is full forth it must come. Two little boys with Fairfax writ large on their faces are bad to hide. Therefore it suits all parties now to declare the marriage. And that is the whole story, an' it please your ladyship."

"I warrant it did not please her ladyship at all," said Mr. Laurence Fairfax, laughing at the recital.

"No. She turned and went away in a rage; then came back to expound her views with respect to Rosy's origin. I begged to inform her that from time immemorial king's jesters had been of the Jocund family—an office to the full as dignified as the office of public barber. And a barber her ladyship's great-grandfather was, and shaved His Majesty's lieges for a penny. Mr. Cecil Burleigh waited for her outside, and to him immediately she of course repeated the tale. How does it come to be a concern of his, I should be glad to know?" Nobody volunteered to gratify her curiosity, but Mr. Laurence Fairfax could have done so, no doubt.

Mr. Cecil Burleigh had not visited Minster Court that day: was this the reason? Bessie was not absolutely indifferent to the omission, but she had other diversions. That night she went up stairs with the young mother (so young that Elizabeth could not fashion to call her by her title of kindred) to view the boys in their cots, and saw her so loving and tender over them that she could not but reflect how dear a companion she must be to her philosopher after his lost Xantippe. She was such a sweet and gentle lady that, though he had chosen to marry her privately, he could have no reluctance in producing her as his wife. He had kept her to himself unspoilt, had much improved her in their retired life, and as he had no intention of bringing her into rivalry with finer ladies, the charm of her adoring simplicity was not likely to be impaired. He had set his mind on his niece Elizabeth for her friend from the first moment of their meeting, and except Elizabeth he did not desire that she should find, at present, any intimate friend of her own sex. And Elizabeth was perfectly ready to be her friend, and to care nothing for the change in her own prospects.

"You know that my boys will make all the difference to you?" her uncle said to her the next day, being a few minutes alone with her.

"Oh yes, I understand, and I shall be the happier in the end. Abbotsmead will be quite another place when they come over," was her reply.

"There is my father to conciliate before they can come to Abbotsmead. He is deeply aggrieved, and not without cause. You may help to smooth the way to comfortable relations again, or at least to prevent a widening breach. I count on that, because he has permitted you to come here, though he knows that Rosy and the boys are with me. I should not have had any right to complain had he denied us your visit."

"But I should have had a right to complain, and I should have complained," said Bessie. "My grandfather and I are friends now, because I have plucked up courage to assert my right to respect myself and my friends who brought me up; otherwise we must have quarrelled soon."

Mr. Laurence Fairfax smiled: "My father can be obstinately unforgiving. So he was to my brother Geoffry and his wife; so he may be to me, though we have never had a disagreement."

"I could fancy that he was sometimes sorry for his unkindness to my father. I shall not submit if he attempt to forbid me your house or the joy of seeing my little cousins. Oh, his heart must soften to them soon. I am glad he saw Justus, the darling!"

Bessie Fairfax had evidently no worldly ambition. All her desire was still only to be loved. Her uncle Laurence admired her unselfishness, and before she left his house at the week's end he had her confidence entirely. He did not place too much reliance on her recollections of Beechhurst as the place where she had centred her affections, for young affections are prone to weave a fine gossamer glamour about early days that will not bear the touch of later experience; but he was sure there had been a blunder in bringing her into Woldshire without giving her a pause amongst those scenes where her fond imagination dwelt, if only to sweep it clear of illusions and make room for new actors on the stage of her life. He said to Mr. Cecil Burleigh, with whom he had an important conversation during her visit to Minster Court, that he did not believe she would ever give her mind to settling amongst her north-country kindred until she had seen again her friends in the Forest, and Mr. Cecil Burleigh began to agree with him. Miss Burleigh did the same.

It was settled already that the recent disclosure must make no alteration in the family compact. Mr. Cecil Burleigh interposed a firm veto when its repeal was hinted at. Every afternoon, one excepted, he called on Miss Fairfax to report the progress of his canvass, accompanied by his sister, and Bessie always expressed herself glad in his promising success. But it was with a cool cheek and candor shining clear in her blue eyes that she saw them come and saw them go; and both brother and sister felt this discouraging. The one fault they found in Miss Fairfax was an absence of enthusiasm for themselves; and Bessie was so thankful that she had overcome her perverse trick of blushing at nothing. When she took her final leave of them before quitting Minster Court, Mr. Cecil Burleigh said that he should probably be over at Abbotsmead in the course of the ensuing week, and Bessie was glad as usual, and smiled cordially, and hoped that blue would win—as if he were thinking only of the election!

He was thinking of it, and perhaps primarily, but his interest in herself was becoming so much warmer and more personal than it had promised to be that it would have given him distinct pleasure to perceive that she was conscious of it.

The report of Mr. Laurence Fairfax's private marriage had spread through city and country, but Bessie went back to Kirkham without having heard it discussed except by Mrs. Betts, who was already so deeply initiated in the family secrets. That sage and experienced woman owned frankly to her young mistress that in her judgment it was a very good thing, looked at in the right way.

"A young lady that is a great heiress is more to be pitied than envied: that is my opinion," said she. "If she is not made a sacrifice of in marriage, it is a miracle. Men run after her for her money, or she fancies they do, which comes to the same thing; and perhaps she doesn't marry at all for suspecting nobody loves her; which is downright foolish. Jonquil and Macky are in great spirits over what has come out, and I don't suppose there is one neighbor to Kirkham that won't be pleased to hear that there's grandsons, even under the rose, to carry on the old line. Mrs. Laurence is a dear sweet lady, and the children are handsome little fellows as ever stepped; their father may well be proud of 'em. He has done a deal better for himself the second time than he did the first. I dare say it was what he suffered the first time made him choose so different the second. It is not to be wondered at that the squire is vext, but he ought to have learnt wisdom now, and it is to be hoped he will come round by and by. But whether or not, the deed's done, and he cannot undo it."

Mrs. Betts's summary embodied all the common sense of the case, and left nothing more to be said.



CHAPTER XXIX.

LADY LATIMER IN WOLDSHIRE.

Mr. Fairfax welcomed Elizabeth on her arrival with an air of reserve, as if he did not wish to receive any intelligence from Minster Court. Bessie took the hint. The only news he had for her was that she might mount Janey now as soon as she pleased. Bessie was pleased to mount her the next morning, and to enjoy a delightful ride in her grandfather's company. Janey went admirably, and promised to be an immense addition to the cheerfulness of her mistress's life. Mr. Fairfax was gratified to see her happy, and they chatted cordially enough, but Bessie did not find it possible to speak of the one thing that lay uppermost in her mind.

In the afternoon Mrs. Stokes called, and having had a glimpse of Mr. Laurence Fairfax's secret, and heard various reports since, she was curious for a full revelation. Bessie gave her the narrative complete, interspersed with much happy prediction; and Mrs. Stokes declared herself infinitely relieved to hear that, in spite of probabilities, the mysterious wife was a quite presentable person.

"You remember that I told you Miss Jocund was a lady herself," she said. "The Jocunds are an old Norminster family, and we knew a Dr. Jocund in India. It was an odd thing for Miss Jocund to turn milliner; still, it must be much more comfortable than dependence upon friends. There is nothing so unsatisfactory as helpless poor relations. Colonel Stokes has no end of them. I wish they would turn milliners, or go into Lady Angleby's scheme of genteel mistresses for national schools, or do anything but hang upon us. And the worst is, they are never grateful and never done with."

"Are they ashamed to work?"

"No, I don't think shame is in their way, or pride, but sheer incompetence. One is blind, another is a confirmed invalid."

"Then perhaps Providence puts them in your lot for the correction of selfishness," said Bessie laughing. "I believe if we all helped the need that belongs to us by kindred or service, there would be little misery of indigence in the world, and little superfluity of riches even amongst the richest. That must have been the original reading of the old saw that sayeth, 'Charity should begin at home.'".

"Oh, political economy is not in my line," cried Mrs. Stokes, also laughing. "You have caught a world of wisdom from Mr. Cecil Burleigh, no doubt, but please don't shower it on me."

Bessie did not own the impeachment by a blush, as she would have done a week ago. She could hear that name with composure now, and was proving an apt pupil in the manners of society. Mrs. Stokes scanned her in some perplexity, and would have had her discourse of the occupations and diversions of Brentwood, but all Bessie's inclination was to discourse of those precious boys in Minster Court.

"They are just of an age to be play-fellows with your boys," she said to the blooming little matron. "How I should rejoice to see them racing about the garden together!"

Bessie was to wish this often and long before her loving desire was gratified. If she had not been preassured that her grandfather did, in fact, know all that was to be known about the children, nothing in his conduct would have betrayed it to her. She told the story in writing to her mother, and received advice of prudence and patience. The days and weeks at Abbotsmead flowed evenly on, and brought no opportunity of asking the favor of a visit from them. Mr. and Mrs. Chiverton drove over to luncheon, and Bessie and her grandfather returned the civility. Sir Edward Lucas came to call and stayed a long time, planning his new town for colliers: Miss Fairfax said a word in praise of steep tiled roofs as more airy than low roofs of slate, and Sir Edward was an easy convert to her opinion. Mr. Cecil Burleigh came twice to spend a few days, and brought a favorable report of his canvass; the second time his sister accompanied him, and they brought the good news that Lady Latimer was at Brentwood, and was coming to Hartwell the following week.

Bessie Fairfax was certainly happier when there was company at Abbotsmead, and she had a preference for Miss Burleigh's company; which might be variously interpreted. Miss Burleigh herself considered Miss Fairfax rather cold, but then Bessie was not expansive unless she loved very fondly and familiarly. One day they fell a-talking of Mr. Laurence Fairfax's wife, and Miss Burleigh suggested a cautious inquiry with a view to obtaining Bessie's real sentiments respecting her. She received the frankest exposition of them, with a bit of information to boot that gave her a theme for reflection.

"I think her a perfect jewel of a wife," said Bessie with genuine kindness. "My uncle Laurence and she are quite devoted to one another. She sings like a little bird, and it is beautiful to see her with those boys. I wish we had them all at Abbotsmead. And she is so pretty—the prettiest lady I ever saw, except, perhaps, one."

"And who was that one?" Miss Burleigh begged to know.

"It was a Miss Julia Gardiner. I saw her first at Fairfield at the wedding of Lady Latimer's niece, and again at Ryde the other day."

"Oh yes! dear Julia was very lovely once, but she has gone off. The Gardiners are very old friends of ours." Miss Burleigh turned aside her face as she spoke. She had not heard before that Miss Fairfax had met her rival and predecessor in Mr. Cecil Burleigh's affections: why had her dear Cecil been so rash as to bring them in contact and give her the opportunity of drawing inferences? That Bessie had drawn her inferences truly was plain, from a soft blush and glance and a certain tone in her voice as she mentioned the name of Miss Julia Gardiner, as if she would deprecate any possible idea that she was taking a liberty. The subject was not pursued. Miss Burleigh wished only to forget it; perhaps Bessie had expected a confidential word, and was abashed at hearing none, for she began to talk with eagerness, rather strained, of Lady Latimer's promised visit to Hartwell.

Lady Latimer's arrival was signalized by an immediate invitation to Mr. Fairfax and his granddaughter to go over and lunch on a fixed day. Bessie was never so impatient as till the day came, and when she mounted Janey to ride to Hartwell she palpitated more joyously than ever she had done yet since her coming into Woldshire. Her grandfather asked her why she was so glad, but she found it difficult to tell him: because my lady had come from the Forest seemed the root of the matter, as far as it could be expressed. The squire looked rather glum, Macky remarked to Mrs. Betts; and if she had been in his shoes wild horses should not have drawn her into company with that proud Lady Latimer. The golden harvest was all gone from the fields, and there was a change of hue upon the woods—yellow and red and russet mingled with their deep green. The signs of decay in the vivid life of Nature could not touch Bessie with melancholy yet—the spring-tides of youth were too strong in her—but Mr. Fairfax, glancing hither and thither over the bare, sunless landscape, said, "The winter will soon be upon us, Elizabeth. You must make the best of the few bright days that are remaining: very few and very swift they seem when they are gone."

Hartwell was as secluded amongst its evergreens and fir trees now as at midsummer, but in the overcast day the house had a dull and unattractive aspect. The maiden sisters sat in the gloomy drawing-room alone to receive their guests, but after the lapse of a few minutes Lady Latimer entered. She was dressed in rich black silk and lace—carefully dressed, but the three years that had passed since Bessie Fairfax last saw her had left their mark. Bessie, her heart swelling, her eyes shining with emotion, moved to meet her, but Lady Latimer only shook hands with sweet ceremoniousness, and she was instantly herself again. The likeness that had struck the maiden sisters did not strike my lady, or, being warned of it, she was on her guard. There was a momentary silence, and then with cold pale face she turned to Mr. Fairfax, congratulated him on having his granddaughter at home, and asked how long she had been at Abbotsmead. Soon appeared Mr. Oliver Smith, anxious to talk election gossip with his neighbor; and for a few minutes Bessie had Lady Latimer to herself, to gaze at and admire, and confusedly to listen to, telling Beechhurst news.

"Mr. and Mrs. Carnegie charged me with innumerable kind words for you—Jack wants you to go home before he goes to sea—Willie and Tom want you to make tails for their kites—Miss Buff will send you a letter soon—Mr. Wiley trusts you have forgiven him his forgetfulness of your message."

"Oh no, I have not. He lost me an opportunity that may come again I know not when," said Bessie impetuously.

"I must persuade your grandfather to lend you to me for a month next spring, when the leaves are coming out and the orchards are in blossom; or, if he cannot spare you then, when the autumn tints begin."

"Oh, thank you! But I think the Forest lovely at all seasons—when the boughs are bare or when they are covered with snow."

Bessie would have been glad that the invitation should come now, without waiting for next year, but that was not even thought of. Lady Latimer was looking towards the gentlemen, more interested in their interests than in the small Beechhurst chat that Bessie would never have tired of. After a few minutes of divided attention my lady rose, and a propos of the Norminster election expressed her satisfaction in the career that seemed to be opening for Mr. Cecil Burleigh:

"Lord Latimer thought highly of him from a boy. He was often at Umpleby in the holidays. He is like a son to my old friend at Brentwood; Lady Angleby is happy in having a nephew who bids fair to attain distinction, since her own sons prefer obscurity. She deplores their want of ambition: it must be indeed a trial to a mother of her aspiring temper." So my lady talked on, heard and not often interrupted; it was the old voice and grand manner that Bessie Fairfax remembered so well, and once so vastly reverenced. She did not take much more notice of Bessie. After luncheon she chose to pace the lawn with her brother and Mr. Fairfax, debating and predicting the course of public affairs, which shared her thoughts with the government of Beechhurst. Bessie remained indoors with the two quiet sisters, who were not disposed to forsake the fireside for the garden: the wood-fire was really comfortable that clouded afternoon, though September was not yet far advanced. Miss Charlotte sat by one of the windows, holding back the curtain to watch the trio on the lawn, and Bessie sat near, able to observe them too.

"Dear Olympia is as energetic as ever, but, Juliana, don't you think she is contracting a slight stoop to one side?" said Miss Charlotte. Miss Juliana approached to look out.

"She always did hang that arm. Dear Olympia! Still, she is a majestic figure. She was one of the handsomest women in Europe, Miss Fairfax, when Lord Latimer married her."

"I can well imagine that: she is beautiful now when she smiles and colors a little," said Bessie.

"Ah, that smile of Olympia's! We do not often see it in these days, but it had a magic. All the men were in love with her—she made a great marriage. Lord Latimer was not one of our oldest nobility, but he was very rich and his mansion at Umpleby was splendid, quite a palace, and our Olympia was queen there."

"We never married," said Miss Charlotte meekly. "It would not have done for us to marry men who could not have been received at court, so to speak—at Umpleby, I mean. Olympia said so at the time, and we agreed with her. Dear Olympia was the only one of us who married, except Maggie, our half-sister, the eldest of our father's children—Mrs. Bernard's mother—and that was long before the great event in our family."

Bessie fancied there was a flavor of regret in these statements.

Miss Juliana took up the thread where her sister had dropped it: "There is our dear Oliver—what a perfect gentleman he was! How accomplished, how elegant! If your sweet aunt Dorothy had not died when she did, he might have been your near connection, Miss Fairfax. We have often urged him to marry, if only for the sake of the property, but he has steadfastly refused to give that good and lovely young creature a successor. Our elder brother also died unmarried."

Miss Charlotte chimed in again: "Lady Latimer moved for so many years in a distinguished circle that she can throw her mind into public business. We range with humble livers in content, and are limited to the politics of a very small school and hamlet. You will be a near neighbor, Miss Fairfax, and we hope you will come often to Hartwell: we cannot be Lady Latimer to you, but we will do our best. Abbotsmead was once a familiar haunt; of late years it has been almost a house shut up."

Bessie liked the kindly, garrulous old ladies, and promised to be neighborly. "I have been told," she said after a short silence, "that my grandfather was devoted to Lady Latimer when they were young."

"Your grandfather, my dear, was one amongst many who were devoted to her," said Miss Juliana hastily.

"No more than that? Oh, I hoped he was preferred above others," said Bessie, without much reflecting.

"Why hope it?" said Miss Charlotte in a saddened tone. "Dorothy thought that he was, and resented Olympia's marriage with Lord Latimer as a treachery to her brother that was past pardon. Oliver shared Dorothy's sentiments; but we are all friends again now, thank God! Juliana's opinion is, that dear Olympia cared no more for Richard Fairfax than she cared for any of her other suitors, or why should she have married Lord Latimer? Olympia was her own mistress, and pleased herself—no one else, for we should have preferred Richard Fairfax, all of us. But she had her way, and there was a breach between Hartwell and Abbotsmead for many years in consequence. Why do we talk of it? it is past and gone. And there they go, walking up and down the lawn together, as I have seen them walk a hundred times, and a hundred to that. How strangely the old things seem to come round again!"

At that moment the three turned towards the house. Lady Latimer was talking with great earnestness; Mr. Fairfax sauntered with his hands clasped behind him and his eyes on the ground; Mr. Oliver Smith was not listening. When they entered the room her grandfather said to Bessie, "Come, Elizabeth, it is time we were riding home;" and when he saw her wistful eyes turn to the visitor from the Forest, he added, "You have not lost Lady Latimer yet. She will come over to Abbotsmead the day after to-morrow."

Bessie could not help being reminded by her grandfather's face and voice of another old Beechhurst friend—Mr. Phipps. Perhaps this luncheon at Hartwell had been pleasanter to her than to him, though even she had an aftertaste of disappointment in it, because Lady Latimer no longer dazzled her judgment. To the end my lady preserved her animation, and when the visitors had mounted and were ready to ride away she still engaged Mr. Fairfax's ear while she expounded her views of the mischief that would accrue if ever election by ballot became the law of the land.

"You must talk to Chiverton about that," said the squire, lifting his hat and moving off.

"I shall drive over to Castlemount to-morrow," said my lady; and she accompanied her visitors to the gate with more last words on a variety of themes that had been previously discussed and dismissed.

All the way home the squire never once opened his mouth to speak; he appeared thoroughly jaded and depressed and in his most sarcastic humor. At dinner Bessie heard more bitter sentiments against her sex than she had ever heard in her life before, and wondered whether they were the residuum of his disappointed passion.



CHAPTER XXX.

MY LADY REVISITS OLD SCENES.

To meet Lady Latimer and Mr. Oliver Smith at Abbotsmead, Lady Angleby and Mr. Cecil Burleigh came over from Brentwood. Bessie Fairfax was sorry. She longed to have my lady to herself. She thought that she might then ask questions about other friends in the Forest—about friends at Brook—which she felt it impossible to ask in the presence of uninterested or adverse witnesses. But Lady Latimer wished for no confidential communications. She had received at Brentwood full particulars of the alliance that was projected between the families of Fairfax and Burleigh, and considered it highly desirable. My lady's principle was entirely against any wilfulness of affection in young girls. In this she was always consistent, and Bessie's sentimental constancy to the idea of Harry Musgrave would have provoked her utter disapproval. It was therefore for Bessie's comfort that no opportunity was given her of betraying it.

At luncheon the grand ladies introduced their philanthropic hobbies, and were tedious to everybody but each other. They supposed the two young people would be grateful to be left to entertain themselves; but Bessie was not grateful at all, and her grandfather sat through the meal looking terribly like Mr. Phipps—meditating, perhaps, on the poor results in the way of happiness that had attended the private lives of his guests, who were yet so eager to meddle with their neighbors' lives. When luncheon was over, Lady Latimer, quitting the dining-room first, walked through the hall to the door of the great drawing-room. The little page ran quickly and opened to her, then ran in and drew back the silken curtains to admit the light. The immense room was close yet chill, as rooms are that have been long disused for daily purposes.

"Ah, you do not live here as you used to do formerly?" she said to Mr. Fairfax, who followed her.

"No, we are a diminished family. The octagon parlor is our common sitting-room."

Bessie had promised Macky that some rainy day she would make a tour of the house and view the pictures, but she had not done it yet, and this room was strange to her. The elder visitors had been once quite familiar with it. Lady Latimer pointed to a fine painting of the Virgin and Child, and remarked, "There is the Sasso-Ferrato," then sat down with her back to it and began to talk of political difficulties in Italy. Mr. Cecil Burleigh was interested in Italy, so was Mr. Oliver Smith, and they had a very animated conversation in which the others joined—all but Bessie. Bessie listened and looked on, and felt not quite happy—rather disenchanted, in fact. Lady Latimer was the same as ever—she overflowed with practical goodness—but Bessie did not regard her with the same simple, adoring confidence. Was it the influence of the old love-story that she had heard? My lady seemed entirely free from pathetic or tender memories, and domineered in the conversation here as she did everywhere. Even Lady Angleby was half effaced, and the squire had nothing to say.

"I like her best at Fairfield," Bessie thought, but Bessie liked everything best in the Forest.

Just before taking her leave my lady said abruptly to the young lady of the house, "An important sphere is open to you: I hope you will be able to fill it with honor to yourself and benefit to others. You have an admirable example of self-devotion, if you can imitate it, in Mrs. Chiverton of Castlemount. She told me that you were school-fellows and friends already. I was glad to hear it."

These remarks were so distinctly enunciated that every eye was at once attracted to Bessie's face. She colored, and with an odd, fastidious twist of her mouth—the feminine rendering of the squire's cynical smile—she answered, "Mrs. Chiverton has what she married for: God grant her satisfaction in it, and save me from her temptation!" In nothing did Bessie Fairfax's early breeding more show itself than in her audacious simplicity of speech when she was strongly moved. Lady Latimer did not condescend to make any rejoinder, but she remarked to Mr. Fairfax afterward that habits of mind were as permanent as other habits, and she hoped that Elizabeth would not give him trouble by her stiff self-opinion. Mr. Fairfax hoped not also, but in the present instance he had silently applauded it. And Mr. Burleigh was charmed that she had the wit to answer so skilfully.

When my lady was gone, Bessie grieved and vexed herself with compunctious thoughts. But that was not my lady's last visit; she came over with Miss Charlotte another afternoon when Mr. Fairfax was gone to Norminster, and on this occasion she behaved with the gracious sweetness that had fascinated her young admirer in former days. Bessie said she was like herself again. At my lady's request Bessie took her up to the white parlor. On the threshold she stopped a full minute, gazing in: nothing of its general aspect was changed since she saw it last—how long ago! She went straight to the old bookcase, and took down one of Dorothy Fairfax's manuscript volumes and furled over the leaves. Miss Charlotte drew Bessie to the window and engaged her in admiration of the prospect, to leave her sister undisturbed.

Presently my lady said, "Charlotte, do you remember these old books of Dorothy's?" and Miss Charlotte went and looked over the page.

"Oh yes. Dear Dorothy had such a pretty taste—she always knew when a sentiment was nicely put. She was a great lover of the old writers."

After a few minutes of silent reading my lady spoke again: "She once recited to me some verses of George Herbert's—of when God at first made man, how He gave him strength, beauty, wisdom, honor, pleasure, all to keep, but with repining restlessness. They were a prophecy. I cannot find them." She restored the volume to its shelf, quoting the last lines—all she remembered distinctly:

"Let him be rich and weary, that at last, If goodness lead him not, yet weariness May toss him to my breast."

"I know; they are in the last volume, toward the end," said Bessie Fairfax, and quickly found them. "They do not say that God gave man love; and that is a craving too. Don't you think so?"

Lady Latimer looked straight before her out of the window with lips compressed.

"What do you mean by love, my dear?—so many foolish feelings go by that name," said Miss Charlotte, filling the pause.

"Oh, I mean just love—the warm, happy feeling in my heart toward everybody who belongs to me or is good to me—to my father and mother and all of them at home, and to my grandfather now and my uncle Laurence, and more besides."

"You are an affectionate soul!" said my lady, contemplating her quietly. "You were born loving and tender—"

"Like dear Dorothy," added Miss Charlotte with a sigh. "It is a great treasure, a warm heart."

"Some of us have hearts of stone given us—more our misfortune than our fault," said Lady Latimer with a sudden air of offence, and turned and left the room, preceding the others down stairs. Bessie was startled; Miss Charlotte made no sign, but when they were in the hall she asked her sister if she would not like to see the gardens once more. Indeed she would, she said; and, addressing Bessie with equanimity restored, she reminded her how she had once told her that Abbotsmead was very beautiful and its gardens always sunny, and she hoped that Bessie was not disappointed, but found them answer to her description. Bessie said "Yes," of course; and my lady led the way again—led the way everywhere, and to and fro so long that Miss Charlotte was fain to rest at intervals, and even Bessie's young feet began to ache with following her. My lady recollected every turn in the old walks and noted every alteration that had been made—noted the growth of certain trees, and here and there where one had disappeared. "The gum-cistus is gone—that lovely gum-cistus! In the hot summer evenings how sweet it was!—like Indian spices. And my cedar—the cedar I planted—is gone. It might have been a great tree now; it must have been cut down."

"No, Olympia, it never grew up—it withered away; Richard Fairfax told Oliver that it died," said Miss Charlotte.

The ladies from Hartwell were still in the gardens when the squire came home from Norminster, and on Jonquil's information he joined them there. "Ah, Olympia! are you here?" he said.

My lady colored, and looked as shy as a girl: "Yes; we were just going. I am glad to have seen you to say good-bye."

They did not, however, say good-bye yet; they took a turn together amongst the old familiar places, Miss Charlotte and Bessie resting meanwhile in the great porch, and philosophizing on what they saw.

"Did you know grandpapa's wife—my grandmamma?" Bessie began by asking.

"Oh yes, my dear. She was a sprightly girl before she married, but all her life after she went softly. Mr. Fairfax was not an unkind or negligent husband, but there was something wanting. She was as unlike Olympia as possible—very plain and simple in her tastes and appearance. She kept much at home, and never sought to shine in society—for which, indeed, she was not fitted—but she was a good woman and fond of her children."

"And grandpapa was perfectly indifferent to her: it must have been dreary work. Oh, what a pity that Lady Latimer did not care for him!"

"She did care for him very much."

"But if she cared for Umpleby more?"

Miss Charlotte sighed retrospectively and said, "Olympia was ambitious: she is the same still—I see no change. She longed to live in the world's eye and to have her fill of homage—for Nature had gifted her with the graces and talents that adorn high station—but she was never a happy woman, never satisfied or at peace with herself. She ardently desired children, and none were given her. I have often thought that she threw away substance for shadow—the true and lasting joys of life for its vain glories. But she had what she chose, and if it disappointed her she never confessed to her mistake or avowed a single regret. Her pride was enough to sustain her through all."

"It is of no use regretting mistakes that must last a lifetime. But one is sorry."

The squire and Lady Latimer were drawing slowly towards the porch, talking calmly as they walked.

"Yes, one is sorry. Those two were well suited to each other once," said Miss Charlotte.

The Hartwell carriage came round the sweep, the Hartwell coachman—who was groom and gardener too—not in the best of humors at having been kept so long waiting. Lady Latimer, with a sweet countenance, kissed Bessie at her leave-taking, and told her that permission was obtained for her to visit Fairfield next spring. Then she got into the carriage, and bowing and smiling in her exquisite way, and Miss Charlotte a little impatient and tired, they drove off. Bessie, exhilarated with her rather remote prospect of the Forest, turned to speak to her grandfather. But, lo! his brief amenity had vanished, and he was Mr. Phipps again.



CHAPTER XXXI.

A SUCCESS AND A REPULSE.

The weather at the beginning of October was not favorable. There were gloomy days of wind and rain that Bessie Fairfax had to fill as she could, and in her own company, of which she found it possible to have more than enough. Mr. Fairfax had acquired solitary tastes and habits, and though to see Elizabeth's face at meal-times and to ride with her was a pleasure, he was seldom at her command at other hours. Mrs. Stokes was sociable and Mrs. Forbes was kind, but friends out of doors do not compensate altogether for the want of company within. Sir Edward Lucas rode or drove over rather frequently seeking advice, but he had to take it from the squire after the first or second occasion, though his contemporary would have given it with pleasure. Bessie resigned herself to circumstances, and, like a well-brought-up young lady, improved her leisure—practised her songs, sketched the ruins and the mill, and learnt by heart some of the best pieces in her aunt Dorothy's collection of poetry.

Towards the middle of the month Mr. Cecil Burleigh came again, bringing his sister with him to stay to the end of it. Bessie was very glad of her society, and when her feminine acumen had discerned Miss Burleigh's relations with the vicar she did not grudge the large share of it that was given to his mother: she reflected that it was a pity these elderly lovers should lose time. What did they wait for, Mr. Forbes and his gentle Mary, Mr. Cecil Burleigh and his sweet Julia? She would have liked to arrange their affairs speedily.

Mr. Cecil Burleigh went to and fro between Norminster and Abbotsmead as his business required, and if opportunity and propinquity could have advanced his suit, he had certainly no lack of either. But he felt that he was not prospering with Miss Fairfax: she was most animated, amiable and friendly, but she was not in a propitious mood to be courted. Bessie was to go to Brentwood for the nomination-day, and to remain until the election was over. By this date it had begun to dawn on other perceptions besides Mr. Cecil Burleigh's that she was not a young lady in love. His sister struggled against this conviction as long as she was able, and when it prevailed over her hopefulness she ventured to speak of it to him. He was not unprepared.

"I am, after all, afraid, Cecil, that Miss Fairfax may turn out an uninteresting person," she began diffidently.

"Because I fail to interest her, Mary—is that it?" said her brother.

"She perplexes me by her cool, capricious behavior. Now I think her very dear and sweet, and that she appreciates you; then she looks or says something mocking, and I don't know what to think. Does she care for any one else, I should like to know?"

"Perhaps she made some such discovery at Ryde for me."

"She told me of your meeting with the Gardiners there. Poor Julia! I wish it could be Julia, Cecil."

"I doubt whether it will ever be Miss Fairfax, Mary. She is the oddest mixture of wit and simplicity."

"Perhaps she has some old prepossession? She would not be persuaded against her will."

"All her prepossessions are in favor of her friends in the Forest. There was a young fellow for whom she had a childish fondness—he was at Bayeux when I called upon her there."

"Harry Musgrave? Oh, they are like brother and sister; she told me so."

"She is a good girl, and believes it, perhaps; but it is a brother-and-sisterhood likely to lapse into warmer relations, given the opportunity. That is what Mr. Fairfax is intent on hindering. My hope was in her youth, but she is not to be won by the semblance of wooing. She is either calmly unconscious or consciously discouraging."

"How will Mr. Fairfax bear his disappointment?"

"The recent disclosure of his son Laurence's marriage will lessen that. It is no longer of the same importance who Miss Fairfax marries. She has a great deal of character, and may take her own way. She is all anxiety now to heal the division between the father and son, that she may have the little boys over at Abbotsmead; and she will succeed before long. The disclosure was made just in time, supposing it likely to affect my intentions; but Miss Fairfax is still an excellent match for me—for me or any gentleman of my standing."

"I fancy Sir Edward Lucas is of that opinion."

"Yes, Sir Edward is quite captivated, but he will easily console himself. The squire has intimated to him that he has other views for her; the young man is cool to me in consequence."

Miss Burleigh became reflective: "Miss Fairfax's position is changed, Cecil. A good connexion and a good dower are one thing, and an heiress presumptive to Kirkham is another. Perhaps you would as lief remain a bachelor?"

"If Miss Fairfax prove impregnable—yes."

"You will test her, then?"

"Surely. It is in the bond. I have had her help, and will pay her the compliment."

Miss Burleigh regarded her brother with almost as much perplexity as she regarded Miss Fairfax. The thought passed through her mind that he did not wish even her to suspect how much his feelings were engaged in the pursuit of that uncertain young lady because he anticipated a refusal; but what she thought she kept to herself, and less interested persons did not observe that there was any relaxation in the aspirant member's assiduities to Miss Fairfax. Bessie accepted them with quiet simplicity. She knew that her grandfather was bearing the main cost of Mr. Cecil Burleigh's canvass, and she might interpret his kindnesses as gratitude: it cannot be averred that she did so interpret them, for she gave nobody her confidence, but the plea was open to her.

Lady Angleby welcomed Miss Fairfax on her second visit to Brentwood as if she were already a daughter of the house. It had not entered into her mind to imagine that her magnificent nephew could experience the slight of a rejection by this unsophisticated, lively little girl. She had quite reconciled herself to the change in Bessie's prospects, and looked forward to the marriage with satisfaction undiminished: Mr. Fairfax had much in his power with reference to settlements, and the conduct of his son Laurence would be an excitement to use it to the utmost extent. His granddaughter in any circumstances would be splendidly dowered. Nothing could be prettier than Bessie's behavior during this critical short interval before the election, and strangers were enchanted with her. A few more persons who knew her better were falling into a state of doubt—her grandfather amongst them—but nothing was said to her, for it was best the state of doubt should continue, and not be converted into a state of certainty until the crisis was over.

It was soon over now, and resulted in the return of Mr. Cecil Burleigh as the representative of Norminster in the Conservative interest, and the ignominious defeat of Mr. Bradley. Once more the blue party held up its head in the ancient city, and Mr. Fairfax, Mr. Chiverton, and others, their Tory contemporaries, were at ease again for the safety of the country. Mr. Burleigh the elder had come from Carisfort for the election, and he now for the first time saw the young lady of whom he had heard so much. He was a very handsome but very rustic poor squire, who troubled the society of cities little. Bessie's beauty was perfect to his taste, especially when her blushes were revived by a certain tender paternal significance and familiarity in his address to her. But when the blushes cooled her spirit of mischief grew vivacious to repel their false confession, and even Lady Angleby felt for a moment disturbed. Only for a moment, however. She wished that Mr. Burleigh would leave his country manners at home, and ascribing Bessie's shy irritation to alarmed modesty, introduced a pleasant subject to divert her thoughts.

"Is there to be a ball at Brentwood or no ball, Miss Fairfax?" said she with amiable suggestion. "I think there was something mooted about a ball if my nephew won his election, was there not?"

What could Bessie do but feel appeased, and brighten charmingly?—"Oh, we shall dance for joy if you give us one; but if you don't think we deserve it—" said she.

"Oh, as for your deserts—Well, Mary, we must have the dance for joy. Cecil wishes it, and so, I suppose, do you all," said her ladyship with comprehensive affability. Mr. Burleigh nodded at Bessie, as much as to say that nothing could be refused her.

Bessie blushed again. She loved a little pleasure, and a ball, a real ball—Oh, paradise! And Mr. Cecil Burleigh coming in at the moment she forgot her proper reticent demeanor, and made haste to announce to him the delight that was in prospect. He quite entered into her humor, and availed himself of the moment to bespeak her as his partner to open the ball.

It was settled that she should stay at Brentwood to help in the preparations for it, and her grandfather left her there extremely contented. Cards of invitation were sent out indiscriminately to blue and orange people of quality; carpenters and decorators came on the scene, and were busy for a week in a large empty room, converting it and making it beautiful. The officers of the cavalry regiment stationed at Norminster were asked, and offered the services of their band. Miss Jocund and her rivals were busy morning, noon, and night in the construction of aerial dresses, and all the young ladies who were bidden to the dance fell into great enthusiasm when it was currently reported that the new member, who was so handsome and so wonderfully clever, was almost, if not quite, engaged to be married to that pretty, nice Miss Fairfax, with whom they were all beginning to be more or less acquainted.

Mr. Fairfax did not return to Brentwood until the day of the dance. Lady Angleby was anxious that it should be the occasion of bringing her nephew's courtship to a climax, and she gave reasons for the expediency of having the whole affair carried through to a conclusion without unnecessary delays. Sir Edward Lucas had been intrusive this last week, and Miss Fairfax too good-natured in listening to his tedious talk of colliers, cottagers, and spade husbandry. Her ladyship scented a danger. There was an evident suitability of age and temper between these two young persons, and she had fancied that Bessie looked pleased when Sir Edward's honest brown face appeared in her drawing-room. She had been obliged to ask him to her ball, but she would have been thankful to leave him out.

Mr. Fairfax heard all his old friend had to urge, and, though he made light of Sir Edward, it was with a startling candor that he added, "But woman's a riddle indeed if Elizabeth would give her shoe-tie for Cecil." Lady Angleby was so amazed and shocked that she made no answer whatever. The squire went on: "The farce had better pause—or end. Elizabeth is sensitive and shrewd enough. Cecil has no heart to give her, and she will never give hers unless in fair exchange. I have observed her all along, and that is the conclusion I have come to. She saw Miss Julia Gardiner at Ryde, and fathomed that old story: she supposes them to be engaged, and is of much too loyal a disposition to dream of love for another woman's lover. That is the explanation of her friendliness towards Cecil."

"But Julia Gardiner is as good as married," cried Lady Angleby. "Cecil will be cruelly disappointed if you forbid him to speak to Miss Fairfax. Pray, say nothing, at least until to-night is over."

"I shall not interfere at the present point. Let him use his own discretion, and incur a rebuff if he please. But his visits to Abbotsmead are pleasant, and I would prefer not to have either Elizabeth annoyed or his visits given up."

"You have used him so generously that whatever you wish must have his first consideration," said Lady Angleby. She was extremely surprised by the indulgent tone Mr. Fairfax assumed towards his granddaughter: she would rather have seen him apply a stern authority to the management of that self-willed young lady, for there was no denial that he, quite as sincerely as herself, desired the alliance between their families.

Mr. Fairfax had not chosen a very opportune moment to trouble her ladyship's mind with his own doubts. She was always nervous on the eve of an entertainment at Brentwood, and this fresh anxiety agitated her to such a degree that Miss Burleigh suffered a martyrdom before her duty of superintendence over the preparations in ball-room and supper-room was accomplished. Her aunt found time to tell her Mr. Fairfax's opinions respecting his granddaughter, and she again found time to communicate them to her brother. To her prodigious relief, he was not moved thereby. He had a letter from Ryde in his pocket, apprising him on what day his dear Julia was to become Mrs. Brotherton; and he was in an elastic humor because of his late success—just in the humor when a man of mature age and sense puts his trust in Fortune and expects to go on succeeding. Perhaps he had not consciously endeavored to detach his thoughts from Julia, but a shade of retrospective reverie had fallen upon her image, and if she was lost to him, Elizabeth Fairfax was, of all other women he had known, the one he would prefer to take her place. He was quite sure of this, though he was not in love. The passive resistance that he had encountered from Miss Fairfax had not whetted his ardor much, but there was the natural spirit of man in him that hates defeat in any shape; and from his air and manner his sister deduced that in the midst of uncertainties shared by his best friends he still kept hold of hope. Whether he might put his fate to the touch that night would, he said, depend on opportunity—and impulse.

Such was the attitude of parties on the famous occasion of Lady Angleby's ball to celebrate her nephew's successful election. Miss Fairfax had been a great help to Miss Burleigh in arranging the fruit and the flowers, and if Mrs. Betts had not been peremptory in making her rest a while before dinner, she would have been as tired to begin with as a light heart of eighteen can be. The waiting-woman had received a commission of importance from Lady Angleby (nothing less than to find out how much or how little Miss Fairfax knew of Miss Julia Gardiner's past and present circumstances), and accident favored her execution of it. A cheerful fire blazed on the hearth in Bessie's room; by the hearth was drawn up the couch, and a newspaper lay on the couch. Naturally, Bessie's first act was to take it up, and when she saw that it was a Hampton Chronicle she exclaimed with pleasure, and asked did Mrs. Betts receive it regularly from her friends?—if so, she should like to read it, for the sake of knowing what went on in the Forest.

"No, miss, it only comes a time by chance: that came by this afternoon's post. I have barely glanced through it. I expect it was sent by my cousin to let me know the fine wedding that is on the tapis at Ryde—Mr. Brotherton, her master, and Miss Julia Gardiner."

"Miss Julia Gardiner!" exclaimed Bessie in a low, astonished voice.

Mrs. Betts, with an indifference that a more cunning young lady than hers would have felt to be carefully prepared, proceeded with her information: "Yes, miss; you met the lady, I think? The gentleman is many years older, but a worthy gentleman. And she is a most sweet lady, which, where there is children to begin with, is much to be considered. She has no fortune, but there is oceans of money on his side—oceans."

Bessie did not jump to the conclusion that it was therefore a mercenary marriage, as she had done in another case. She forgot, for the moment, her interest in the Forest news, and though she seemed to be contemplating her beautiful dress for the evening laid out upon the bed, the pensive abstraction of her gaze implied profounder thoughts. Mrs. Betts busied herself with various little matters—sewed on faster the rosette of a white shoe, and the buttons on the gloves that were to be worn with that foam of silvery tulle. What Bessie was musing of she could not herself have told; a confused sensation of pain and pity was uppermost at first. Mrs. Betts stood at a distance and with her back to her young mistress, but she commanded her face in the glass, and saw it overspread slowly by a warm soft blush, and the next moment she was asked, "Do you think she will be happy, Mrs. Betts?"

"We may trust so, miss," said the waiting-woman, still feigning to be fully occupied with her duties to her young lady's pretty things. "Why should she not? She is old enough to know her mind, and will have everything that heart can desire—won't she?"

Bessie did not attempt any answer to this suggestive query. She put the newspaper aside, and stretched herself with a sigh along the couch, folding her hands under her cheek on the pillow. Her eyes grew full of tears, and so she lay, meditating on this new lesson in life, until Mrs. Betts warned her that it was time to dress for dinner. Miss Fairfax had by this date so far accustomed herself to the usages of young ladies of rank that Mrs. Betts was permitted to assist at her toilette. It was a silent process this evening, and the penetration of the waiting-woman was at fault when she took furtive glances in the mirror at the subdued face that never smiled once, not even at its own beauty. She gave Lady Angleby an exact account of what had passed, and added for interpretation, "Miss Fairfax was surprised and sorry, I'm sure. I should say she believed Miss Julia Gardiner to be attached to somebody else. The only question she asked was, Did I think she would be happy?" Lady Angleby could extract nothing out of this.

Every one was aware of a change in Bessie when she went into the drawing-room; she felt as one feels who has heard bad news, and must conceal the impression of it. But the visible effect was that her original shyness seemed to have returned with more than her original pride, and she blushed vividly when Mr. Cecil Burleigh made her a low bow of compliment on her beautiful appearance. Mr. Fairfax had enriched his granddaughter that day with a suite of fine pearls, once his sister Dorothy's, and Bessie had not been able to deny herself the ornament of them, shining on her neck and arms. Her dress was white and bright as sea-foam in sunshine, but her own inimitable blooming freshness made her dress to be scarcely at all regarded. Every day at this period added something to her loveliness—the loveliness of youth, health, grace, and a good nature.

When dinner was over the three young people adjourned to the ball-room, leaving Lady Angleby and Mr. Fairfax together. Miss Burleigh and Bessie began by walking up and down arm-in-arm, then they took a few turns in a waltz, and after that Miss Burleigh said, "Cecil, Miss Fairfax and you are a perfect height to waltz together; try the floor, and I will go and play with the music-room door open. You will hear very well." She went off quickly the moment she had spoken, and Bessie could not refuse to try the floor, but she had a downcast, conscious air under her impromptu partner's observation. Mr. Cecil Burleigh was in a gay, light mood, as became him on this public occasion of his election triumph, and he was further elated by Miss Fairfax's amiable condescension in waltzing with him at his sister's behest; and as it was certainly a pleasure to any girl who loved waltzing to waltz with him, they went on until the music stopped at the sound of carriage-wheels.

"You are fond of dancing, Miss Fairfax?" said her cavalier.

"Oh yes," said Bessie with a pretty upward glance. She had enjoyed that waltz extremely; her natural animation was reviving, too buoyant to lie long under the depression of melancholy, philosophic reverie.

The guests were received in the drawing-room, and began to arrive in uninterrupted succession. Mr. and Mrs. Tindal, Lord and Lady Eden, Mr. and Mrs. Philip Raymond, Mr. Maurice and Miss Lois Wynyard, Mrs. Lefevre and Miss Jean Lefevre, Mr. and Mrs. Chiverton, Colonel Stokes and his wife, and Sir Edward Lucas with an architectural scheme in his pocket; however, he danced none the worse for it, as Miss Fairfax testified by dancing with him three times. She had a charming audacity in evading awkward partners, and it was observed that she waltzed only with the new member. She looked in joyous spirits, and acknowledged no reason why she should deny herself a pleasure. More than once in the course of the evening she flattered Lady Angleby's hopes by telling her it was a most delicious ball.

Mr. Fairfax contemplated his granddaughter with serene speculation. Lady Angleby had communicated to him the results of Mrs. Betts's inquisition. At a disengaged moment he noticed a wondering pathos in Bessie's eyes, which were following Mr. Cecil Burleigh's agile movements through the intricate mazes of the Lancers' Quadrilles. His prolonged gaze ended by attracting hers; she blushed and drew a long breath, and seemed to shake off some persistent thought. Then she came and asked, like a light-footed, mocking, merry girl, if he was not longing to dance too, and would he not dance with her? He dismissed her to pay a little attention to Mrs. Chiverton, who sat like a fine statue against the wall, unsought of partners, and Bessie went with cheerful submission. Her former school-rival was kind to her now with a patronizing, married superiority that she did not dislike. Mrs. Chiverton knew from her husband of the family project for Miss Fairfax's settlement in life, and as she approved of Mr. Cecil Burleigh as highly as her allegiance to Mr. Chiverton permitted her to approve of anybody but himself, she spoke at some length in his praise, desiring to be agreeable. Bessie suffered her to go on without check or discouragement; she must have understood the drift of many things this evening which had puzzled her hitherto, but she made no sign. Miss Burleigh said to her brother when they parted for the night that she really did not know what to think or what to advise, further than that Sir Edward Lucas ought to be "set down," or there was no guessing how far he might be tempted to encroach. Miss Fairfax, she considered, was too universally inclined to please.

Mr. Cecil Burleigh had no clear resolve of what he would do when he went to walk in the garden the next morning. He knew what he wanted. A sort of paradoxical exhilaration possessed him. He remembered his dear Julia with tender, weary regret, and gave his fancy license to dwell on the winsomeness of Bessie. And while it was so dwelling he heard her tuneful tongue as she came with Miss Burleigh over the grass, still white with hoar-frost where the sun had not fallen. He advanced to meet them.

"Oh, Cecil, here you are! Mr. Fairfax has been inquiring for you, but there is no hurry," said his sister, and she was gone.

Bessie wore a broad shady hat, yet not shady enough to conceal the impetuous blushes that mantled her cheeks on her companion's evasion. She felt what it was the prelude to. Mr. Cecil Burleigh, inspired with the needful courage by these fallacious signs, broke into a stammering eloquence of passion that was yet too plain to be misunderstood—not reflecting, he, that maiden blushes may have more sources than one. The hot torrent of Bessie's rose from the fountain of indignation in her heart—indignation at his inconstancy to the sweet lady who she knew loved him, and his impertinence in daring to address herself when she knew he loved that lady. She silently confessed that to this upshot his poor pretences of wooing had tended from the first, and that she had been wilfully half blind and wholly unbelieving—so unwilling are proud young creatures to imagine that their best feelings can be traded on—but she was none the less wrathful and scornful as she lifted her eyes, dilated with tears, to his, and sweeping him a curtsey turned away without a single word—without a single word, yet never was wooer more emphatically answered.

They parted and went different ways. Bessie, thinking she would give all she was worth that he had held his peace and let her keep her dream of pity and sympathy, took the shrubbery path to the village and Miss Hague's cottage-lodgings; and Mr. Cecil Burleigh, repenting too late the vain presumption that had reckoned on her youth and ignorance, apart from the divining power of an honest soul, walked off to Norminster to rid himself of his heavy sense of mortification and discomfiture.

Miss Burleigh saw her brother go down the road, and knew what had happened, and such a pang came with the certainty that only then did she realize how great had been her former confidence. She stood a long while at her window, listening and watching for Miss Fairfax's return to the house, but Bessie was resting in Miss Hague's parlor, hearing anecdotes of her father and uncles when they were little boys, and growing by degrees composed after her disturbing emotion. She wished to keep the morning's adventure to herself, or, if the story must be told, to leave the telling of it to Mr. Cecil Burleigh; and when she went back to the house, the old governess accompanying her, she betrayed no counsel by her face: that was rosy with the winter cold, and hardly waxed rosier when Lady Angleby expressed a wish to know what she had done with her nephew, missing since breakfast. Bessie very simply said that she had only seen him for a minute, and she believed that he had gone into the town; she had been paying a long-promised visit to Miss Hague.

Mr. Cecil Burleigh, reappearing midway the afternoon, was summoned to his aunt's closet and bidden to explain himself. The explanation was far from easy. Lady Angleby was profoundly irritated, and reproached her nephew with his blundering folly in visiting Miss Julia Gardiner in Miss Fairfax's company. She refused to believe but that his fascination must have proved irresistible if Miss Fairfax had not been led to the discovery of that faded romance. Was he quite sure that the young lady's answer was conclusive? Perfectly conclusive—so conclusive that he should not venture to address her again. "Not after Julia's marriage?" his sister whispered. Lady Angleby urged a temporary retreat and then a new approach: it was impossible but that a fine, spirited girl like Miss Fairfax must have ambition and some appreciation of a distinguished mind; and how was her dear Cecil to support his position without the fortune she was to bring him? At this point Mr. Cecil Burleigh manifested a contemptuous and angry impatience against himself, and rose and left the discussion to his grieved and disappointed female relatives. Mr. Fairfax, on being informed of the repulse he had provoked, received the news calmly, and observed that it was no more than he had anticipated.

Towards evening Bessie felt her fortitude failing her, and did not appear at dinner nor in the drawing-room. Her excuses were understood and accepted, and in the morning early Mr. Cecil Burleigh conveyed himself away by train to London, that his absence might release her from seclusion. Before he went, in a consultation with his aunt and Mr. Fairfax, it was agreed that the late episode in his courtship should be kept quiet and not treated as final. Later in the day Mr. Fairfax carried his granddaughter home to Abbotsmead, not unconsoled by the reflection that he was not to be called upon to resign her to make bright somebody else's hearth. Bessie was much subdued. She had passed a bad night, she had shed many tears, and though she had not encountered one reproach, she was under the distressing consciousness that she had vexed several people who had been good to her. At the same time there could not be two opinions of the wicked duplicity of a gentleman who could profess to love and wish to marry her when his heart was devoted to another lady: she believed that she never could forgive him that insult.

Yet she was sorry even to tears again when she remembered him in the dull little drawing-room at Ryde, and Miss Julia Gardiner telling him that she had forgotten her old songs which he liked better than her new ones; for it had dawned upon her that this scene—it had struck her then as sad—must have been their farewell, the finis to the love-chapter of their youth. Bessie averted her mind from the idea that Miss Julia Gardiner had consented to marry a rich, middle-aged gentleman who was a widower: she did not like it, it was utterly repugnant, she hated to think of it. Oh, that people would marry the right people, and not care so much for rank and money! Lady Angleby's loveliest sister had forty years ago aggrieved her whole family by marrying the poor squire of Carisfort; and Lady Angleby had said in Bessie's hearing that her sister was the most enviable woman she knew, happy as the day was long, though so positively indigent as to be thankful for her eldest daughter's half-worn Brentwood finery to smarten up her younger girls. It must indeed be a cruel mistake to marry the wrong person. So far the wisdom and sentiment of Bessie Fairfax—all derived from observation or most trustworthy report—and therefore not to be laughed at, although she was so young.



CHAPTER XXXII.

A HARD STRUGGLE.

Mr. Cecil Burleigh's departure to town so immediately after Lady Angleby's ball might have given rise to remark had he not returned to Brentwood before the month's end, and in excellent spirits. During his brief absence he had, however, found time to run down to the Isle of Wight and see Miss Julia Gardiner. In all trouble and vexation his thoughts still turned to her for rest.

Twice already a day had been named for the marriage, and twice it had been deferred to please her. It now stood fixed for February—"A good time to start for Rome and the Easter festivals," she had pleaded. Mr. Brotherton was kindness itself in consideration for her wishes, but her own family felt that poor Julia was making a long agony of what, if it were to be done at all, were best done quickly. When Mr. Cecil Burleigh went to Ryde, he expected to find the preparations for the wedding very forward, but nothing seemed to have been begun. The young ladies were out walking, but Mrs. Gardiner, who had written him word that the 10th of December was the day, now told him almost in the first breath that it was put off again until the New Year.

"We shall all be thankful to have it over. I never knew dear Julia so capricious or so little thoughtful for others," said the poor languid, weary lady.

Mr. Cecil Burleigh heard the complaint with a miserable compassion, and when Julia came in, and her beautiful countenance broke into sunshine at the sight of him, he knew what a cruel anticipation for her this marriage really was. He could have wished for her sake—and a little for his own too—that the last three months were blotted from their history; but when they came to talk together, Julia, with the quick discernment of a loving woman, felt that the youthful charms of Miss Fairfax had warmly engaged his imagination, though he had so much tenderness of heart still left for herself.

He did not stay long, and when he was going he said that it would have been wiser never to have come: it was a selfish impulse brought him—he wanted to see her. Julia laughed at his simple confession; her sister Helen was rather angry.

"Now, I suppose you will be all unsettled again, Julia," said she, though Julia had just then a most peaceful face. Helen was observant of her: "I know what you are dreaming—while there is the shadow of a chance that Cecil will return to you, Mr. Brotherton will be left hanging between earth and heaven."

"Oh, Nellie, I wish you would marry Mr. Brotherton yourself. Your appreciation of his merits is far higher than mine."

"If I were in your place I would not use him as you do: it is a shame, Julia."

"It is not you who are sentenced to be buried alive, Nellie. I dare not look forward: I dread it more and more—"

"Of course. That is the effect of Cecil's ill-judged visit and Mary Burleigh's foolish letter. Pray, don't say so to mamma; it would be enough to lay her up for a week."

Julia shut her eyes and sighed greatly. "Fashionable marriages are advertised with the tag of 'no cards;' you will have to announce mine as 'under chloroform.' Nellie, I never can go through with it," was her cry.

"Oh, Julia," remonstrated her sister, "don't say that. If you throw over Mr. Brotherton, half our friends will turn their backs upon us. We have been wretchedly poor, but we have always been well thought of."

Miss Julia Gardiner's brief joy passed in a thunder-shower of passionate tears.

It was not intended that the rebuff Mr. Cecil Burleigh had received from Miss Fairfax should be generally known even by his friends, but it transpired nevertheless, and was whispered as a secret in various Norminster circles. Buller heard it, but was incredulous when he saw the new member in his visual spirits; Mrs. Stokes guessed it, and was astonished; Lady Angleby wrote about it to Lady Latimer with a petition for advice, though why Lady Latimer should be regarded as specially qualified to advise in affairs of the heart was a mystery. She was not backward, however, in responding to the request: Let Mr. Cecil Burleigh hold himself in reserve until Miss Julia Gardiner's marriage was an accomplished fact, and then let him come forward again. Miss Fairfax had behaved naturally under the circumstances, and Lady Latimer could not blame her. When the young lady came to Fairfield in the spring, according to her grandfather's pledge, Mr. Cecil Burleigh should have the opportunity of meeting her there, but meanwhile he ought not entirely to give up calling at Abbotsmead. This Mr. Cecil Burleigh could not do without affronting his generous old friend—to whom Bessie gave no confidence, none being sought—but he timed his first visit during her temporary absence, and she heard of it as ordinary news on her return.



CHAPTER XXXIII.

A VISIT TO CASTLEMOUNT.

Bessie Fairfax had been but a few days at home after the Brentwood rejoicings when there came for her an invitation from Mrs. Chiverton to spend a week at Castlemount. She was perfectly ready to go—more ready to go than her grandfather was to part with her. She read him the letter at breakfast; he said he would think about it, and at luncheon he had not yet made up his mind. Before post-time, however, he supposed he must let her choose her own associates, and if she chose Mrs. Chiverton for old acquaintance' sake, he would not refuse his consent, but Mr. Chiverton and he were not on intimate terms.

Bessie went to Castlemount under escort of Mrs. Betts. Mrs. Chiverton was rejoiced to welcome her. "I like Miss Fairfax, because she is honest. Her manner is a little brusque, but she has a good heart, and we knew each other at school," was her reason given to Mr. Chiverton for desiring Bessie's company. They got on together capitally. Mrs. Chiverton had found her course and object in life already, and was as deeply committed to philanthropic labors and letters as either Lady Latimer or Lady Angleby. They were both numbered amongst her correspondents, and she promised to outvie them in originality and fertility of resource. What she chiefly wanted at Castlemount was a good listener, and Bessie Fairfax, as yet unprovided with a vocation, showed a fine turn that way. She reposed lazily at the end of Mrs. Chiverton's encumbered writing-table, between the fire and the window, and heard her discourse with infinite patience. Bessie was too moderate ever to join the sisterhood of active reformers, but she had no objection to their activity while herself safe from assaults. But when she was invited to sign papers pledging herself to divers serious convictions she demurred. Mrs. Chiverton said she would not urge her. Bessie gracefully acquiesced, and Mrs. Chiverton put in a more enticing plea: "I can scarcely expect to interest you in my occupations all at once, but they bring to me often the most gratifying returns. Read that letter."

Bessie read that letter. "Very honeyed phrases," said she with her odd twist of the mouth, so like her grandfather. It was from a more practised philanthropist than the young lady to whom it was addressed, and was in a strain of fulsome adulation, redolent of gratitude for favors to come. Religious and benevolent egotism is impervious to the tiny sting of sarcasm. Mrs. Chiverton looked complacently lofty, and Bessie had not now to learn how necessary to her was the incense of praise. Once this had provoked her contempt, but now she discerned a certain pathos in it; she had learnt what large opportunity the craving for homage gives to disappointment. "You cannot fail to do some good because you mean well," she said after the perusal of more letters, more papers and reports. "But don't call me heartless and unfeeling because I think that distance lends enchantment to the view of some of your pious and charitable objects."

"Oh no; I see you do not understand their necessity. I am busy at home too. I am waging a crusade against a dreadful place called Morte, and a cottage warfare with our own steward. These things do not interest Mr. Chiverton, but he gives me his support. I tell him Morte must disappear from the face of the earth, but there is a greedy old agent of Mr. Gifford's, one Blagg, who is terribly in the way. Then I have established a nursery in connection with the school, where the mothers can leave their little children when they go to work in the fields."

"Do they work in the fields hereabouts?"

"Oh yes—at hoeing, weeding and stone-picking, in hay-time and harvest. Some of them walk from Morte—four miles here and four back. There is a widow whose husband died on the home-farm—it was thought not to answer to let widows remain in the cottages—this woman had five young children, and when she moved to Morte, Mr. Chiverton kindly kept her on. I want her to live at our gates."

"And what does she earn a day?"

"Ninepence. Of course, she has help from the parish as well—two shillings a week, I think, and a loaf for each child besides."

A queer expression flitted over Bessie's face; she drew a long breath and stretched her arms above her head.

"Yes, I feel it is wrong: the widow of a laborer who died in Mr. Chiverton's service, who spends all her available strength in his service herself, ought not to be dependent on parish relief. I put it to him one day with the query, Why God had given him such great wealth? A little house, a garden, the keep of a cow, a pig, would have made all the difference in the world to her, and none to him, except that her children might have grown up stout and healthy, instead of ill-nurtured and weakly. But you are tired. Let us go and take a few turns in the winter-garden. It is the perfection of comfort on a windy, cold day like this."

Bessie acceded with alacrity. Castlemount was not the building of one generation, but it owed its chief glories to its present master. Mr. Chiverton had found it a spacious country mansion, and had converted it into a palace of luxury and a museum of art—one reason why Morte had thriven and Chiver-Chase become almost without inhabitant. Bessie Fairfax was half bewildered amongst its magnificences, but its winter-garden was to her the greatest wonder of all. She was not, however, sufficiently acclimatized to an artificial temperature to enjoy it long. "It is delicious, but as we are not hot-house ferns, a good stretch over that upland would be, perhaps, more delicious still: it is cold, but the sun shines," she said after two turns under the moist glass.