"We must not change the air too suddenly," Mrs. Chiverton objected. "The wind is very boisterous."

"There is a woman at work in it; is it your widow?" Bessie asked, pointing down a mimic orange-grove.

"Yes—poor thing! how miserably she is clothed! I must send her out one of my knitted kerchiefs."

"Oh yes, do," said Bessie; and the woollen garment being brought, she was deputed to carry it to the weeding woman.

On closer view she proved to be a lean, laborious figure, with an anxious, weather-beaten face, which cleared a little as she received the mistress's gift. It was a kerchief of thick gray wool, to cross over in front and tie behind.

"It will be a protection against the cold for my chest; I suffered with the inflammation badly last spring," she said, approving it.

"Put it on at once; it is not to be only looked at," said Bessie.

The woman proceeded to obey, but when she wanted to tie it behind she found a difficulty from a stiffness of one shoulder, and said, "It is the rheumatics, miss; one catches it being out in the wet."

"Let me tie it for you," said Bessie.

"Thank you, miss, and thank the mistress for her goodness," said the woman when it was done, gazing curiously at the young lady. And she stooped again to her task, the wind making sport with her thin and scanty skirts.

Bessie walked farther down the grove, green in the teeth of winter. She was thinking that this poor widow, work and pain included, was not less contented with her lot than herself or than the beautiful young lady who reigned at Castlemount. Yet it was a cruelly hard lot, and might be ameliorated with very little thought. "Blessed is he that considereth the poor," says the old-fashioned text, and Bessie reflected that her proud school-fellow was in the way of earning this blessing.

She was confirmed in that opinion on the following day, when the weather was more genial, and they took a drive together in the afternoon and passed through the hamlet of Morte. It had formed itself round a dilapidated farm-house, now occupied as three tenements, in one of which lived the widow. The carriage stopped in the road, and Mrs. Chiverton got out with her companion and knocked at the door. It was opened by a shrewd-visaged, respectable old woman, and revealed a clean interior, but very indigent, with the tea-table set, and on a wooden stool by the hearth a tall, fair young woman sitting, who rose and dropt a smiling curtsey to Miss Fairfax: she was Alice, the second housemaid at Abbotsmead, and waited on the white suite. She explained that Mrs. Macky had given her leave to walk over and see her mother, but she was out at work; and this was her aunt Jane, retired from service and come to live at home with her widowed sister.

An old range well polished, an oven that would not bake, and a boiler that would not hold water,—this was the fireplace. The floor was of bricks, sunken in waves and broken; through a breach in the roof of the chamber over the "house" blew the wind and leaked the rain, in spite of a sack stuffed with straw thrust between the rafters and the tiles.

"Yes, ma'am, my poor sister has lived in this place for sixteen years, and paid the rent regularly, three pounds a year: I've sent her the money since she lost her husband," said the retired servant, in reply to some question of Mrs. Chiverton's. "Blagg is such a miser that he won't spend a penny on his places; it is promise, promise for ever. And what can my poor sister do? She dar'n't affront him, for where could she go if she was turned out of this? There's a dozen would jump at it, houses is so scarce and not to be had."

"There ought to be a swift remedy for wretches like Blagg," Mrs. Chiverton indignantly exclaimed when they were clear of the foul-smelling hamlet. "Why cannot it be an item of duty for the rural police to give information of his extortion and neglect? Those poor women are robbed, and they are utterly helpless to resist it. It is a greater crime than stealing on the highway."

"Do any of grandpapa's people live at Morte?" Bessie asked.

"No, I think not; they are ours and Mr. Gifford's, and a colony of miserable gentry who exist nobody can tell how, but half their time in jail. It was a man from Morte who shot our head-keeper last September. Poor wretch! he is waiting his trial now. When I have paid a visit to Morte I always feel indifferent to my beautiful home."

Bessie Fairfax felt a sharp pang of compunction for her former hard judgment of Mrs. Chiverton. If it was ever just, time and circumstances were already reversing it. The early twilight overtook them some miles from Castlemount, but it was still clear enough to see a picturesque ivied tower not far removed from the roadside when they passed Carisfort.

Bessie looked at it with interest. "That is not the dwelling-house—that is the keep," Mrs. Chiverton said. "The house faces the other way, and has the finest view in the country. It is an antiquated place, but people can be very good and happy there."

The coachman had slackened speed, and now stopped. A gentleman was hastening down the drive—Mr. Forbes, as it turned out on his nearer approach. The very person she was anxious to see! Mrs. Chiverton exclaimed; and they entered on a discussion of some plan proposed between them for the abolition of Morte.

"I can answer for Mr. Chiverton's consent. Mr. Gifford is the impracticable person. And of course it is Blagg's interest to oppose us. Can we buy Blagg out?" said the lady.

"No, no; that would be the triumph of iniquity. We must starve him out," said the clergyman.

More slowly there had followed a lady—Miss Burleigh, as Bessie now perceived. She came through the gate, and shook hands with Mrs. Chiverton before she saw who her companion in the carriage was, but when she recognized Bessie she came round and spoke to her very pleasantly: "Lady Augleby has gone to Scarcliffe to meet one of her daughters, and I have a fortnight's holiday, which I am spending at home. You have not been to Carisfort: it is such a pretty, dear old place! I hope you will come some day. I am never so happy anywhere as at Carisfort;" and she allowed Bessie to see that she included Mr. Forbes in the elements of her happiness there. Bessie was quite glad to be greeted in this friendly tone by Mr. Cecil Burleigh's sister; it was ever a distress to her to feel that she had hurt or vexed anybody. She returned to Castlemount in charming spirits.

On entering the drawing-room before dinner there was a new arrival—a slender little gentleman who knelt with one knee on the centre ottoman and turned over a volume of choice etchings. He moved his head, and Bessie saw a visage familiar in its strangeness. He laid the book down, advanced a step or two with a look of pleased intelligence, bowed and said, "Miss Fairfax!" Bessie had already recognized him. "Mr. Christie!" said she, and they shook hands with the utmost cordiality. The world is small and full of such surprises.

"Then you two are old acquaintances? Mr. Christie is here to paint my portrait," said Mrs. Chiverton.

The meeting was an agreeable episode in their visit. At dinner the young artist talked with his host of art, and Bessie learnt that he had seen Italy, Spain, Greece, that he had friends and patrons of distinction, and that he had earned success enough to set him above daily cares. Mr. Chiverton had a great opinion of his future, and there was no better judge in the circle of art-connoisseurs.

"Mr. Christie has an exquisite taste and refinement—feelings that are born in a man, and that no labor or pains can enable him to acquire," her host informed Bessie. It was these gifts that won him a commission for a portrait of the beautiful Mrs. Chiverton, though he was not professedly a painter of portraits.

After dinner, Miss Fairfax and he had a good talk of Beechhurst, of Harry Musgrave, and other places and persons interesting to both. Bessie asked after that drop-scene, at the Hampton theatre, and Mr. Christie, in nowise shy of early reminiscences, gave her an amusing account of how he worked at it. Then he spoke of Lady Latimer as a generous soul who had first given him a lift, and of Mr. Carnegie as another effectual helper. "He lent me a little money—I have long since paid it back," he whispered to Bessie. He was still plain, but his countenance was full of intelligence, and his air and manner were those of a perfectly simple, cultivated, travelled gentleman. He did salaam to nobody now, for in his brief commerce with the world he had learnt that genius has a rank of its own to which the noblest bow, and ambition he had none beyond excelling in his beloved art. Harry Musgrave was again, after long separation, his comrade in London. He said that he was very fond of Harry.

"He is my constant Sunday afternoon visitor," he told Bessie. "My painting-room looks to the river, and he enjoys the sunshine and the boats on the water. His own chambers are one degree less dismal than looking down a well."

"He works very hard, does he not?—Harry used to be a prodigious worker," said Bessie.

"Yes, he throws himself heart and soul into whatever he undertakes, whether it be work or pleasure. If he had won that fellowship the other day I should have been glad. It would have made him easier."

"I did not know he was trying for one. How sorry I am! It must be very dull studying law."

"He lightens that by writing articles for some paper—reviews of books chiefly. There are five years to be got through before he can be called to the bar—a long probation for a young fellow in his circumstances."

"Oh, Harry Musgrave was never impatient: he could always wait. I am pleased that he has taken to his pen. And what a resource you must be to each other in London, if only to tell your difficulties and disappointments!"

"Oh yes, I am in all Musgrave's secrets, and he in mine," said Christie. "A bachelor in chambers has not a superfluity of wants; he is short of money now and then, but that is very much the case with all of us."

Bessie laughed carelessly. "Poor Harry!" said she, and recollected the tragical and pathetic stories of the poets that they used to discuss, and of which they used to think so differently. She did not reflect how much temptation was implied in the words that told her Harry was short of money now and then. A degree of hardship to begin with was nothing more than all her heroes had encountered, and their biography had commonly succeeded in showing that they were the better for it—unless, indeed, they were so unlucky as to die of it—but Harry had far too much force of character ever to suffer himself to be beaten; in all her visions he was brave, steadfast, persistent, and triumphant. She said so to Mr. Christie, adding that they had been like brother and sister when they were children, and she felt as if she had a right to be interested in whatever concerned him. Mr. Christie looked on the carpet and said, "Yes, yes," he remembered what friends and comrades they were—almost inseparable; and he had heard Harry say, not so very long ago, that he wished Miss Fairfax was still at hand when his spirits flagged, for she used to hearten him more than anybody else ever did. Bessie was too much gratified by this reminiscence to think of asking what the discouragements were that caused Harry to wish for her.

The next day Mrs. Chiverton's portrait was begun, and the artist was as happy as the day was long. His temper was excellent unless he were interrupted at his work, and this Mr. Chiverton took care should not happen when he was at home. But one morning in his absence Mr. Gifford called on business, and was so obstinate to take no denial that Mrs. Chiverton permitted him to come and speak with her in the picture-gallery, where she was giving the artist a sitting. Bessie Fairfax, who had the tact never to be in the way, was there also, turning over his portfolio of sketches (some sketches on the beach at Yarmouth greatly interested her), but she looked up with curiosity when the visitor entered, for she knew his reputation.

He was a fat man of middle age, with a thin voice and jerky manner. "I had Forbes yesterday, Mrs. Chiverton, to speak to me in your name," he announced. "Do you know him for the officious fellow he is, for ever meddling in other people's matters? For ten years he has pestered me about Morte, which is no concern of mine."

"I beg your pardon, Mr. Gifford, it is very much your concern," Mrs. Chiverton said with calm deliberation. "Eleven laborers, employed by farmers on your estate, representing with their families over thirty souls, live in hovels at Morte owned by you or your agent Blagg. They are unfit for human habitation. Mr. Chiverton has given orders for the erection of groups of cottages sufficient to house the men employed on our farms, and they will be removed to them in the spring. But Mr. Fairfax and other gentlemen who also own land in the bad neighborhood of Morte object to the hovels our men vacate being left as a harbor for the ragamuffinery of the district. They require to have them cleared away; most of these, again, are in Blagg's hands."

"The remedy is obvious: those gentlemen do not desire to be munificent at Blagg's expense—let them purchase his property. No doubt he has his price."

"Yes, Mr. Gifford, but a most extortionate price. And it is said he cannot sell without your consent."

Mr. Gifford grew very red, and with stammering elocution repelled the implication: "Blagg wants nobody's consent but his own. The fact is, the tenements pay better to keep than they would pay to sell; naturally, he prefers to keep them."

"But if you would follow Mr. Chiverton's example, and let the whole place be cleared of its more respectable inhabitants at one blow, he would lose that inducement."

Mr. Gifford laughed, amazed at this suggestion—so like a woman, as he afterwards said. "Blagg has served me many years—I have the highest respect for him. I cannot see that I am called on to conspire against his interests."

Mrs. Chiverton's countenance had lost its serenity, and would not soon recover it, but Bessie Fairfax could hardly believe her ears when the artist muttered, "Somebody take that chattering fool away;" and up he jumped, cast down his palette, and rushed out of the gallery. Mrs. Chiverton looked after him and whispered to Bessie, "What is it?" "Work over for the day," whispered Bessie again, controlling an inclination to laugh. "The temperament of genius disturbed by the intrusion of unpleasant circumstances." Mrs. Chiverton was sorry; perhaps a walk in the park would recompose the little man. There he was, tearing over the grass towards the lake. Then she turned to Mr. Gifford and resumed the discussion of Morte, with a warning of the terrible responsibility he incurred by maintaining that nest of vice and fever; but as it was barren of results it need not be continued.

The next day the painter worked without interruption.



CHAPTER XXXIV.

BESSIE'S PEACEMAKING.

When Bessie Fairfax returned from Castlemount she learnt for a first piece of news that Mr. Cecil Burleigh had spent two days of her absence at Abbotsmead, and that he had only left in the morning. To this information her grandfather added that he had seen in his time unsuccessful lovers, more dejected. Bessie laughed and blushed, and said she was glad to hear he was in good spirits; and this was their first and last allusion to the crowning episode of her visit to Brentwood. The squire gave her one searching look, and thought it wisdom to be silent.

The green rides of the woods and glades of the park were all encumbered with fallen leaves. The last days of autumn were flown, and winter was come. The sound of the huntsman's horn was heard in the fields, and the squire came out in his weather-stained scarlet coat to enjoy the sport which was the greatest pleasure life had left for him. One fine soft morning at the end of November the meet was at Kirkham turnpike, and Abbotsmead entertained the gentlemen of the hunt at breakfast.

Bessie rode a little way with her grandfather, and would have ridden farther, but he sent her back with Ranby. Mr. Cecil Burleigh had once expressed a prejudice against foxhunting ladies, and when Mr. Fairfax saw his granddaughter the admiration of the miscellaneous gathering, and her acquaintance claimed by even Mr. Gifford, he adopted it. Bessie was disappointed. She liked the exercise, the vivacity of the sport, and Janey went so beautifully; but when her grandfather spoke she quietly submitted. Sir Edward Lucas, though he was charmed with her figure on horseback, was still more charmed by her obedience.

The burden of Bessie's present life threatened to be the tedium of nothing to do. She could not read, practise her songs, and learn poetry by heart all the hours of the day: less than three sufficed her often. If she had been bred in a country-house, she would have possessed numerous interests that she inevitably lacked. She was a stranger amongst the villagers—neither old nor young knew her. There was little suffering to engage her sympathy or poverty to invite her help. At Kirkham there were no long-accumulated neglects to reform as there was at Morte, and to Morte Mr. Fairfax forbade her to go. She had a liberal allowance, and not half ways enough to spend it, so she doubled her allowance to Miss Hague on behalf of her former pupils, Geoffry and Frederick; Laurence paid his own.

She was not a girl of many wants, and her taste did not incline to idle expenditure. She had seen thrift and the need of thrift in her early home, and thought money much too valuable to be wasted in buying things she did not require. Where she saw a necessity she was the freest of givers, but she had experience, gained in her rides with Mr. Carnegie, against manufacturing objects of sentimental charity.

Her resource for a little while was the study of the house and neighborhood she lived in. There was a good deal of history connected with Kirkham. But it was all contained in the county gazetteer; and when Macky had instructed her in the romance of the family, and the legends attached to the ruins by the river and the older portions of the mansion, all was learnt that there was to know, and the sum of her reflections announced aloud was, that Abbotsmead was a very big house for a small family. Macky shook her head in melancholy acquiescence.

The December days were very long, and the weather wild and stormy both by land and sea. Bessie conjectured sometimes when her uncle Frederick would come home, but it appeared presently that he was not coming. He wrote that he had laid up the Foam in one of the Danish ports to be ready for the breaking up of the winter and a further exploration of the Baltic coasts, and that he was just starting on a journey into Russia—judging that the beauty of the North is in perfection during the season of ice and snow.

"Just like one of Fred's whims!" said his father discontentedly. "As if he could not have come into Woldshire and have enjoyed the hunting! Nobody enjoyed it more than he did formerly."

He did not come, however, and Bessie was not astonished. Under other circumstances Abbotsmead might have been a cheerful house, but it seemed as if no one cared to make it cheerful now: if the days got over tranquilly, that was enough. The squire and his granddaughter dined alone day after day, Mr. Forbes relieved their monotony on Sundays, and occasionally Mr. Oliver Smith came for a night. Society was a toil to Mr. Fairfax. He did not find his house dull, and would have been surprised to know that Elizabeth did. What could she want that she had not? She had Janey to ride, and Joss, a companionable dog, to walk with; she had her carriage, and could drive to Hartwell as often as she pleased; and at her gates she had bright little Mrs. Stokes for company and excellent Mrs. Forbes for counsel. Still, Bessie felt life stagnant around her. She could not be interested in anything here without an effort. The secret of it was her hankering after the Forest, and partly also her longing for those children. To have those dear little boys over from Norminster would cheer her for the whole winter; but how to compass it? Once she thought she would bring them over without leave asked, but when she consulted Mrs. Stokes, she was assured that it would be a liberty the squire would never forgive.

"I am not afraid of being never forgiven," rejoined Bessie. "I shall do some desperate act one of these days if I am kept idle. Think of the echoes in this vast house answering only the slamming of a door! and think of what they would have to answer if dear little unruly Justus were in the old nursery!"

Mrs. Stokes laughed: "I am only half in sympathy with you. Why did you discourage that fascinating Mr. Cecil Burleigh? A young lady is never really occupied until she is in love."

Bessie colored slightly. "Well," she said, "I am in love—I am in love with my two little boy-cousins. What do you advise? My grandfather has never mentioned them. It seems as if it would be easier to set them before him than to speak of them."

"I should not dare to do that. What does Mr. Laurence Fairfax say? What does his wife say?"

"Not much. My grandfather is treating them precisely as he treated my father and my mother—just letting them alone. And it would be so much pleasanter if we were all friends! I call it happiness thrown away. I have everything at Abbotsmead but that. It is not like a home, and the only motive there was for me to try and root there is taken away since those boys came to light."

"Your future prospects are completely changed. You bear it very well."

"It is easy to bear what I am truly thankful for. Abbotsmead is nothing to me, but those boys ought to be brought up in familiarity with the place and the people. I am a stranger, and I don't think I am very apt at making humble friends. To enjoy the life one ought to begin one's apprenticeship early. I wonder why anybody strains after rank and riches? I find them no gain at all. I still think Mr. Carnegie the best gentleman I know, and his wife as true a gentlewoman as any. You are smiling at my partiality. Shall you be shocked if I add that I have met in Woldshire grand people who, if they were not known by their titles, would be reckoned amongst the very vulgar, and gentry of old extraction who bear no brand of it but that disagreeable manner which is qualified as high-bred insolence?"

Mrs. Stokes held all the conventionalities in sincere respect. She did not understand Miss Fairfax, and asked who, then, of their acquaintance was her pattern of a perfect lady. Bessie instanced Miss Burleigh. "Her sweet graciousness is never at fault, because it is the flower of her beautiful disposition," said she.

"I should never have thought of her," said Mrs. Stokes reflectively. "She is very good. But to go back to those boys: do nothing without first speaking to Mr. Fairfax."

Bessie demurred, and still believed her own bolder device the best, but she allowed herself to be overruled, and watched for an opportunity of speaking. Undoubtedly, Mr. Fairfax loved his granddaughter with more respect for her independent will than he might have done had they been together always. He had denied her no reasonable request yet, and he granted her present prayer so readily that she was only sorry she had not preferred it earlier.

"Grandpapa, you will give me a Christmas gift, will you not?" she said one evening after dinner about a week before that festive season.

"Yes, Elizabeth. What would you like?" was his easy reply. It was a satisfaction to hear that she had a wish.

"I should like to have my two little cousins from Norminster—Justus and Laury. They would quite enliven us."

Mr. Fairfax was evidently taken by surprise. Still, he did not rebuke her audacity. He was silent for a minute or two, as if reflecting, and when he answered her it was with all the courtesy that he could have shown towards a guest for whose desires he was bound to feel the utmost deference. "Certainly, Elizabeth," said he. "You have a right to be here, as I told you at your first coming, and it would be hard that I should forbid you any visitor that would enliven you. Have the little boys, by all means, if you wish it, and make yourself as happy as you can."

Elizabeth thanked him warmly. "I will write to-morrow. Oh, I know they may come—my uncle Laurence promised me," said she. "And the day before Christmas Eve, Mrs. Betts and I will go for them. I am so glad!"

Mr. Fairfax did not check her gay exuberance, and all the house heard what was to be with unfeigned joy. Mrs. Stokes rejoiced too, and pledged her own sons as playfellows for the little visitors. And when the appointed time came, Bessie did as she had said, and made a journey to Norminster, taking Mrs. Betts with her to bring the children over. Their father and pretty young mother consented to their going with the less reluctance because it seemed the first step towards the re-establishment of kindly relations with the offended squire; and Sally was sent with them.

"Next Christmas you will come too," said Bessie, happier than any queen in the exercise of her office as peacemaker, and important also as being put in charge of those incomparable boys, for Sally was, of course, under superior orders.

The first drawback to her intense delight was a whimper from Laury as he lost sight of his mamma, and the next drawback was that Justus asked to be taken home again the moment the train reached Mitford Junction. These little troubles were quickly composed, however, though liable, of course, to break out again; and Bessie felt flushed and uneasy lest the darling boys should fail of making a pleasant first impression on grandpapa. Alas for her disquiets! She need have felt none. Jonquil received her at the door with a sad countenance; and Macky, as she came forward to welcome the little gentlemen, betrayed that her temper had been tried even to tears not very long before. Jonquil did not wait to be inquired of respecting his master, but immediately began to say, in reply to his young lady's look of troubled amazement, "The squire, miss, has gone on a journey. I was to tell you that he had left you the house to yourself."

"Gone on a journey? But he will return before night?" said Bessie.

"No, miss. We are to expect him this day week, when Mr. Laurence's children have gone back to Norminster," explained the old servant in a lower voice.

Bessie comprehended the whole case instantly. Macky was relieving her pent feelings by making a fuss with the little boys, and giving Mrs. Betts her mind on the matter. The group stood disconcerted in the hall for several minutes, the door open and the low winter sun shining upon them. Bessie did not speak—she could not. She gazed at the children, pale herself and trembling all over. Justus began to ask where was grandpapa, and Laury repeated his question like a lisping echo. There was no answer to give them, but they were soon pacified in the old nursery where their father had played, and were made quite happy with a grand parade of new toys on the floor, expressly provided for the occasion. Bed-time came early, and Bessie was relieved when it did come. Never in the whole course of her life had she felt so hurt, so insulted, so injured; and yet she was pained, intensely pained, for the old man too. Perhaps he had meant her to be so, and that was her punishment. Jonquil could give her no information as to whither his master had gone, but he offered a conjecture that he had most probably gone up to London.

If it was any comfort to know that the old servants of the house sympathized with her, Bessie had that. They threw themselves heart and soul into the work of promoting the pleasure of the little visitors. Jonquil proved an excellent substitute for grandpapa, and Macky turned out an inexhaustible treasury of nice harmless things to eat, of funny rhymes to sing, and funny stories to tell in a dramatic manner. Still, it was a holiday spoilt. It was not enjoyed in the servants' hall nor in the housekeeper's room. No amount of Yule logs or Yule cakes could make a merry Christmas of it that year. All the neighbors had heard with satisfaction that Mr. Fairfax's little grandsons were to be brought to Abbotsmead, and such as had children made a point of coming over with them, so that the way in which Miss Fairfax's effort at peacemaking had failed was soon generally known, and as generally disapproved. Mrs. Stokes, that indignant young matron, qualified the squire's behavior as "Quite abominable!" but she declared that she would not vex herself if she were Miss Fairfax—"No, indeed!" Bessie tried hard not. She tried to be dignified, but her disappointment was too acute, and her grandfather's usage of her too humiliating, to be borne with her ordinary philosophy.

She let her uncle Laurence know what had happened by letter, and on the day fixed for the children to go home again she went with them, attended by Mrs. Betts as before. Mr. Laurence Fairfax was half amused at the method by which his father had evaded Bessie's bold attempt to rule him, and his blossom of a wife was much too happy to care for the old squire's perversity unless he cared; but they were both sorry for Bessie.

"My grandfather lets me have everything but what I want," she said with a tinge of rueful humor. "He surrounds me with every luxury, and denies me the drink of cold water that I thirst for. I wish I could escape from his tyranny. We were beginning to be friends, and this has undone it all. A refusal would not have been half so unkind."

"There is nothing but time to trust to," said her uncle Laurence. "My father's resentment is not active, but it lasts."

Bessie was quite alone that long evening, the last of the old year: at Beechhurst or at Brook there was certainly a party. Nor had she any intimation of the time of her grandfather's return beyond what Jonquil had been able to give her a week ago. He had not written since he left, and an accumulation of letters awaited him in his private room, Jonquil having been unable to forward any for want of an address. The dull routine of the house proceeded for three days more, and then the master reappeared at luncheon without notice to anybody.

Mr. Fairfax took his seat at the table, ate hungrily, and looked so exactly like himself, and so unconscious of having done anything to provoke anger, to give pain or cause anxiety, that Bessie's imaginary difficulties in anticipation of his return were instantly removed. He made polite inquiries after Janey and Joss, and even hoped that Bessie had been enlivened by her little cousins' visit. She would certainly not have mentioned them if he had not, but, as he asked the question, she was not afraid to answer him.

"Yes," said she, "children are always good company to me, especially boys; and they behaved so nicely, though they are very high-spirited, that I don't think they would have been inconvenient if you had stayed at home."

"Indeed? I am glad to hear they are being well brought up," said the squire; and then he turned to Jonquil and asked for his letters.



CHAPTER XXXV.

ABBOTSMEAD IN SHADOW.

Mr. Fairfax's letters were brought to him, and after glancing cursorily through the batch, he gathered them all up and went off to his private room. Bessie conjectured that he would be busy for the rest of the afternoon, and she took a walk in the park until dusk, when she returned to the house and retired to her own parlor. The dressing-bell rang at a quarter to seven, as usual, and Mrs. Betts came to assist at her young lady's toilet. Being dressed, Bessie descended to the octagon room, which she found empty.

It was a fine, frosty night, and the sky was full of stars. She put aside a curtain and looked out into the wintry garden, feeling more than ever alone and desolate amidst the grandeur of her home. It seemed as if the last unkindness she had suffered was the worst of all, and her heart yearned painfully towards her friends in the Forest. Oh, for their simple, warm affection! She would have liked to be sitting with her mother in the old-fashioned dining-room at Beechhurst, listening for the doctor's return and the clink of Miss Hoyden's hoofs on the hard frozen road, as they had listened often in the winters long ago. She forgot herself in that reverie, and scarcely noticed that the door had been opened and shut again until her grandfather spoke from the hearth, saying that Jonquil had announced dinner.

The amiable disposition in which the squire had come home appeared to have passed off completely. Bessie had seen him often crabbed and sarcastic, but never so irritable as he was that evening. Nothing went right, from the soup to the dessert, and Jonquil even stirred the fire amiss. Some matter in his correspondence had put him out. But as he made no allusion to his grievance, Bessie was of course blind and deaf to his untoward symptoms. The next day he went to Norminster to see Mr. John Short, and came back in no better humor—in a worse humor if possible—and Mrs. Stokes whispered to Bessie the explanation of it.

Mr. Fairfax had inherited a lawsuit with a small estate in Durham, bequeathed to him by a distant connexion, and this suit, after being for years a blister on his peace, had been finally decided against him. The estate was lost, and the plague of the suit with it, but there were large costs to pay and the time was inconvenient.

"Your grandfather contributed heavily to the election of Mr. Cecil Burleigh in the prospect of an event which it seems is not to be," concluded the little lady with reproachful significance. "My Arthur told me all about it (Mr. Fairfax consults him on everything); and now there are I don't know how many thousands to pay in the shape of back rents, interest, and costs, but it is an immense sum."

Bessie was sorry, very sorry, and showed it with so much sense and sympathy that her grandfather presently revealed his vexations to her himself, and having once mentioned them, he found her a resource to complain to again. She hoped that he would get over his defeat the sooner for talking of it, but he did not. He was utterly convinced that he had right on his side, and he wanted a new trial, from which Mr. John Short could hardly dissuade him. The root of his profound annoyance was that Abbotsmead must be encumbered to pay for the lost suit, unless his son Frederick, who had ready money accumulated from the unspent fortune of his wife, would come to the rescue. In answer to his father's appeal Frederick wrote back that a certain considerable sum which he mentioned was at his service, but as for the bulk of his wife's fortune, he intended it to revert to her family. Mr. Laurence Fairfax made, through the lawyer, an offer of further help to keep Abbotsmead clear of mortgages, and with the bitter remark that it was Laurence's interest to do so, the squire accepted his offer.

So much at this crisis did Bessie hear of money and the burden and anxiety of great estates that she thought poverty must be far preferable. The squire developed a positively bad temper under his worries. And he was not irritable only: by degrees he became ill, and yet would have no advice. Jonquil was greatly troubled about him, and when he refused to mount his horse one splendid hunting morning in February, though he was all equipped and ready, Bessie also began to wonder what ailed him besides crossness, for he was a man of strong constitution and not subject to fanciful infirmities.

Early in March, Mr. Frederick Fairfax wrote home that his Russian tour was accomplished, and that he was impatient to be on board his yacht again. The weather was exceedingly rough and tempestuous later in the month, and the squire, watching the wrack of the storm on the wolds, often expressed anxiety lest his son should be rash and venturesome enough to trust himself out of port in such weather. Everybody was relieved when April opened with sunny showers and the long and severe winter seemed to be at an end. It had not made Bessie more in love with her life at Abbotsmead: there had, indeed, been times of inexpressible dreariness in it very trying to her fortitude. With the dawning of brighter days in spring she could not but think of the Forest with fresh longing, and she watched each morning's post for the arrival of that invitation to Fairfield which Lady Latimer had promised to send. At length it came, and after brief demur received a favorable answer. The squire had a mortified consciousness that his granddaughter's life was not very cheerful, and, though he did not refuse her wish, he was unable to grant it heartily. However, the fact of his consent overcame the manner of it, and Bessie was enjoying the pleasures of anticipation, and writing ecstatically to her mother, when an event happened that threw Abbotsmead into mourning and changed the bent even of her desires.

One chilly evening after dinner, when she had retreated to the octagon parlor, and was dreaming by the fireside in the dusk alone, Jonquil, with visage white as a ghost, ushered in Mr. John Short. He had walked over from Mitford Junction, in the absence of any vehicle to bring him on, and was jaded and depressed, though with an air of forced composure. As Jonquil withdrew to seek his master the lawyer advanced into the firelight, and Bessie saw at once that he came on some sad errand. Her grandfather had gone, she believed, to look after his favorite hunter, which had met with a severe sprain a week ago; but she was not sure, for he had been more and more restless for some time past, had taken to walking at unaccustomed hours, to neglecting his correspondence, leaving letters for days unopened, and betraying various other signs of a mind unsettled and disturbed. It had appeared to Bessie that he was always in a state of distressed expectancy, but what for she had no idea. The appearance of Mr. John Short without previous notice suggested new vexation connected with the lawsuit, but when she asked if he were again the messenger of bad news, he startled her with a much more tragical announcement.

"I am sorry to say that I am, Miss Fairfax. Mr. Frederick has not lived much at home of late years, but I fear that it will be a terrible shock to his father to hear that he is lost," said Mr. John Short.

"Lost!" echoed Bessie. "Lost! Oh where? Poor grandpapa!"

"On the Danish coast. His yacht was wrecked in one of the gales of last month, and all on board perished. The washing ashore of portions of the wreck leaves no doubt of the disaster. The consul at the nearest port communicated with the authorities in London, and the intelligence reached me some days ago in a form that left little to hope. This morning the worst was confirmed."

Bessie sat down feeling inexpressibly sorrowful. "Grandpapa is out somewhere—Jonquil is seeking him. Oh, how I wish I could be more of a help and comfort to him!" she said, raising her eyes to the lawyer's face.

"It is a singular thing, Miss Fairfax, but your grandfather never seems to want help or comfort like other men. He shuts himself up and broods—just broods—when he is grieved or angry. He was very genial and pleasant as a young man, but he had a disappointment of the affections that quite soured him. I do not know that he ever made a friend of any one but his sister Dorothy. They were on the Continent for a year after that affair, and she died in Italy. He was a changed man when he came home, and he married a woman of good family, but nobody was, perhaps, more of a stranger to him than his own wife. It was generally remarked. And he seemed to care as little for her children as he did for her. I have often been surprised to see that he was indifferent whether they came to Abbotsmead or not; yet the death of Mr. Geoffry, your father, hurt him severely, and Mr. Frederick's will be no less a pain."

"I wish I had not vexed him about my uncle Laurence's boys. We were becoming good friends before," said Bessie.

"Oh, the squire will not bear malice for that. He discriminates between the generosity of your intention towards the children, and what he probably mistook for a will to rule himself. He acted very perversely in going out of the way."

"Does my uncle Laurence know the news you bring?"

"Yes, but he desired me to be the first medium of it. Jonquil is a long while seeking his master."

A very long while. So long that Bessie rang the bell to inquire, and the little page answered it. The master was not come in, he said; they had sent every way to find him. Bessie rose in haste, and followed by Mr. John Short went along the passage to her grandfather's private room. That was dark and empty, and so was the lobby by which it communicated with the garden and the way to the stables. She was just turning back when she bethought her to open the outer door, and there, at the foot of the steps on the gravel-walk, lay the squire. She did not scream nor cry, but ran down and helped to carry him in, holding his white head tenderly. For a minute they laid him on the couch in the justice-room, and servants came running with lights.

"It is not death," said Mrs. Betts, peering close in the unconscious face. "The fire is out here: we will move him to his chamber at once."

As they raised him again one stiffened hand that clutched a letter relaxed and dropped it. The lawyer picked it up and gave it to Miss Fairfax. It was a week old—a sort of official letter recording the wreck of the Foam and the loss of her crew. The suddenness and tragical character of the news had been too much for the poor father. In the shock of it he had apparently staggered into the air and had fallen unconscious, smitten with paralysis. Such was the verdict of Mr. Wilson, the general practitioner at Mitford, who arrived first upon the scene, and Dr. Marks, the experienced physician from Norminster, who came in the early morning, supported his opinion. The latter was a stranger to the house, and before he left it he asked to see Miss Fairfax.

The night had got over between waiting and watching, and Bessie had not slept—had not even lain down to rest. She begged that Dr. Marks might be shown to her parlor, and Mr. John Short appeared with him. Mrs. Betts had put over her shoulders a white cachemire wrapper, and with her fair hair loosened and flowing she sat by the window over-looking the fields and the river where the misty morning was breaking slowly into sunshine. Both the gentlemen were impressed by a certain power in her, a fortitude and gentleness combined that are a woman's best strength in times of trouble and difficulty. They could speak to her without fear of creating fresh embarrassment as plainly as it was desirable that they should speak, for she was manifestly aware of a responsibility devolving upon her.

"Though I apprehend no immediate danger, Miss Fairfax, it is to be regretted that this sad moment finds Mr. Fairfax at variance with his only surviving son," said Dr. Marks. "Mr. Laurence Fairfax ought to be here. It is probable that his father has not made a final disposition of his affairs; indeed, I understand from Mr. John Short that he has not done so."

"Oh, does that matter now?" said Bessie.

"Mr. Fairfax's recovery might be promoted if his mind were quite at ease. If he should wish to transact any business with his lawyer, you may be required to speak of your own wishes. Do not waste the favorable moment. The stroke has not been severe, and I have good hopes of restoration, but when the patient is verging on seventy we can never be sure."

Dr. Marks went away, leaving Mr. Wilson to watch the case. Mr. John Short then explained to Bessie the need there was that she should be prepared for any event: a rally of consciousness was what he hoped for, perfect, whether tending to recovery or the precursor of dissolution. For he knew of no will that Mr. Frederick had made, and he knew that since the discovery of Mr. Laurence's marriage the squire had destroyed the last will of his own making, and that he had not even drawn out a rough scheme of his further intentions. The entailed estates were of course inalienable—those must pass to his son and his son's son—but there were houses and lands besides over which he had the power of settlement. Bessie listened, but found it very hard to give her mind to these considerations, and said so.

"My uncle Laurence is the person to talk to," she suggested.

"Probably he will arrive before the day is over, but you are to be thought of, you are to be provided for, Miss Fairfax."

"Oh, I don't care for myself at all," said Bessie.

"The more need, then, that some one else should care for you," replied Mr. John Short.

Inquirers daily besieged Abbotsmead for news of the squire. Mr. Laurence Fairfax came over, and Mr. John Short stayed on, expecting his opportunity, while slowly the old man recovered up to a certain point. But his constitution was permanently weakened and his speech indistinct. Jonquil, Macky, and Mrs. Betts were his nurses, and the first person that he was understood to ask for was Elizabeth. Bessie was so glad of his recollection that she went to him with a bright face—the first bright face that had come about his bed yet—and he was evidently pleased. She took up one of his hands and stroked and kissed it, and knelt down to bring herself nearer to him, all with that affectionate kindness that his life had missed ever since his sister Dorothy died.

"You are better, grandpapa; you will soon be up and out of doors again," said she cheerfully.

He gave her no answer, but lay composed with his eyes resting upon her. It was doubtful whether the cause of his illness had recurred to his weakened memory, for he had not attempted to speak of it. She went on to tell him what friends and neighbors had been to ask after his health—Mr. Chiverton, Sir Edward Lucas, Mr. Oliver Smith—and what letters to the same purport she had received from Lady Latimer, Lady Angleby, Mr. Cecil Burleigh, and others, to which she had replied. He acknowledged each item of her information with a glance, but he made no return inquiries.

Mr. Chiverton had called that day, and the form in which he carried intelligence home to his wife was, "Poor Fairfax will not die of this bout, but he has got his first warning."

Mrs. Chiverton was sorry, but she did not refrain from speculating on how Miss Fairfax would be influenced in her fortunes by the triple catastrophe of her uncle Laurence's marriage, her uncle Frederick's death, and her grandfather's impending demise. "I suppose if Mr. Laurence were unmarried, as all the world believed him to be, she would stand now as the greatest prospective heiress in this part of the county. If it was her fortune Mr. Cecil Burleigh wanted, he has had a deliverance."

"I am far from sure that Burleigh thinks so," returned Mr. Chiverton significantly.

"Oh, I imagined that projected marriage was one of convenience, a family compact."

"In the first instance so it was. But the young lady's rosy simplicity caught Burleigh's fancy, and it is still in the power of Mr. Fairfax to make his granddaughter rich."

Whether Mr. Fairfax would make his granddaughter rich was debated in circles where it was not a personal interest, but of course it was discussed with much livelier vivacity where it was. Lady Angleby expressed a confident expectation that as Miss Fairfax had been latterly brought up in anticipation of heiress-ship, her grandfather would endow her with a noble fortune, and Miss Burleigh, with ulterior views for her brother, ventured to hope the same. But Mr. Fairfax was in no haste to set his house in order. He saw his son Laurence for a few minutes twice, but gave him no encouragement to linger at Abbotsmead, and his reply to Mr. John Short on the only occasion when he openly approached the subject of will-making was, "There is time enough yet."

The household was put into mourning, but as there was no bringing home of the dead and no funeral, the event of the eldest son's death passed with little outward mark. Elizabeth was her grandfather's chief companion in-doors, and she was cheerful for his sake under circumstances that were tryingly oppressive. To keep up to her duty she rode daily, rain or fair, and towards the month's end there were many soft, wet days when all the wolds were wrapt in mist. People watched her go by often, with Joss at Janey's heels, and Ranby following behind, and said they were sorry for Miss Fairfax; it was very sad for so young a girl to have to bear, unsupported, the burden of her grandfather's declining old age. For the squire was still consistent in his obstinacy in refusing to be gracious to his son and his son's wife and children, and Bessie, on her uncle Laurence's advice, refrained from mentioning them any more. Old Jonquil alone had greater courage.

One evening the squire, after lying long silent, broke out with, "Poor Fred is gone!" the first spontaneous allusion to his loss that he had made.

Jonquil hastened to him. "My dear master, my dear master!" he lamented. "Oh, sir, you have but one son now! forgive him, and let the little boys come home—for your own sake, dear master."

"They will come home, as you call it, when I follow poor Fred. My son Laurence stands in no need of forgiveness—he has done me no wrong. Strange women and children would be in my way; they are better where they are." Thus had the squire once answered every plea on behalf of his son Geoffry. Jonquil remembered very well, and held his peace, sighing as one without hope.



CHAPTER XXXVI.

DIPLOMATIC.

Bessie Fairfax gave up her visit to the Forest of her own accord in her pitying reluctance to leave her grandfather. She wrote to Lady Latimer, and to her mother more at length. They were disappointed, but not surprised.

"Now they will prove what she is—a downright good girl, not an atom of selfishness about her," said Mr. Carnegie to his wife with tender triumph.

"Yes, God bless her! Bessie will wear well in trouble, but I am very wishful to see her, and hear her own voice about that gentleman Lady Latimer talked of." Lady Latimer had made a communication to the doctor's wife respecting Mr. Cecil Burleigh.

Mr. Carnegie had nothing to advise. He felt tolerably sure that Bessie would tell her mother every serious matter that befell her, and as she had not mentioned this he drew the inference that it was not serious.

The first warm days of summer saw Mr. Fairfax out again, walking in the garden with a stick and the support of his granddaughter's shoulder. She was an excellent and patient companion, he said. Indeed, Bessie could forget herself entirely in another's want, and since this claim for care and helpfulness had been made upon her the tedium of life oppressed her no more. It was thus that Mr. Cecil Burleigh next saw her again. He had taken his seat in the House, and had come down to Brentwood for a few days; and when he called to visit his old friend, Jonquil sent him round to the south terrace, where Mr. Fairfax was walking with Bessie in the sun.

In her black dress Bessie looked taller, more womanly, and there was a sweet peace and kindness in her countenance, which, combined with a sudden blush at the sight of him, caused him to discover in her new graces and a more touching beauty than he had been able to discern before. Mr. Fairfax was very glad to see him, and interested to hear all he had to tell. Since he had learnt to appreciate at their real worth his granddaughter's homely virtues, his desire for her union with this gentleman had revived. He had the highest opinion of Mr. Cecil Burleigh's disposition, and he would be thankful to put her in his keeping—a jewel worth having.

Presently Bessie was released from her attendance, and the visitor took her place: her grandfather wished to speak to Mr. Cecil Burleigh alone. He began by reverting to the old project of their marriage, and was easily satisfied with an assurance that the gentleman desired it with all his heart. Miss Julia Gardiner's wedding had not yet taken place. She had been delicate through the winter, and Mr. Brotherton had succumbed to a sharp attack of gout in the early spring. So there had been delay after delay, but the engagement continued in force, and Mr. Cecil Burleigh had not repeated his indecorous visit. He believed that he was quite weaned from that temptation.

Mr. Fairfax gave him every encouragement to renew his siege to Elizabeth, and promised him a dower with her if he succeeded that should compensate for her loss of position as heiress of Abbotsmead. It was an understood thing that Mr. Cecil Burleigh could not afford to marry a scantily-portioned wife, and a whisper got abroad that Miss Fairfax was to prosper in her fortunes as she behaved, and to be rich or poor according as she married to please her grandfather or persevered in refusing his choice. If Bessie heard it, she behaved as though she heard it not. She went on being good to the old man with a most complete and unconscious self-denial—read to him, wrote for him, walked and drove with him at his will and pleasure, which began to be marked with all the exacting caprice of senility. And the days, weeks, months slipped round again to golden September. Monotony abridges time, and, looking behind her, Bessie could hardly believe that it was over a year ago since she came home from France.

One day her grandfather observed or imagined that she looked paler than her wont. He had a letter in his hand, which he gave to her, saying, "You were disappointed of your visit to Fairfield in the spring, Elizabeth: would you like to go now? Lady Latimer renews her invitation, and I will spare you for a week or two."

Oh, the surprise and delight of this unexpected bounty! Bessie blushed with gratitude. She was the most grateful soul alive, and for the smallest mercies. Lady Latimer wrote that she should not find Fairfield dull, for Dora Meadows was on a long stay there, and she expected her friend Mr. Logger, and probably other visitors. Mr. Fairfax watched his granddaughter narrowly through the perusal of the document. There could be no denial that she was eagerness itself to go, but whether she had any motive deeper than the renewal of love with the family amidst which she had been brought up, he could not ascertain. There was a great jealousy in his mind concerning that young Musgrave of whose visit to Bayeux Mr. Cecil Burleigh had told him, and a settled purpose to hinder Elizabeth from what he would have called an unequal match. At the same time that he would not force her will, he would have felt fully justified in thwarting it; but he had a hope that the romance of her childish memories would fade at contact with present realities. Lady Latimer had suggested this possible solution of a difficulty, and Lady Angleby had supported her, and had agreed that it was time now to give Mr. Cecil Burleigh a new opportunity of urging his suit, and the coy young lady a chance of comparing him with those whom her affection and imagination had invested with greater attractions. There was feminine diplomacy in this, and the joyful accident that appeared to Bessie a piece of spontaneous kindness and good-fortune was the result of a well-laid and well-matured plan. However, as she remained in blissful ignorance of the design, there was no shadow forecast upon her pleasure, and she prepared for a fortnight's absence with satisfaction unalloyed.

"You are quite sure you will not miss me, grandpapa—quite sure you can do without me?" she affectionately pleaded.

"Yes, yes, I can do without you. I shall miss you, and shall be glad to see you home again, but you have deserved your holiday, and Lady Latimer might feel hurt if I refused to let you go."

Before leaving Woldshire, Bessie went to Norminster. The old house in Minster Court was more delightful to her than ever. There was another little boy in the nursery now, called Richard, after his grandfather. Bessie had to seek Mrs. Laurence Fairfax at the Manor House, where Lady Eden was celebrating the birthday of her eldest son. She was seated in the garden conversing with a young Mrs. Tindal, amidst a group of mothers besides, whose children were at play on the grass. Mr. Laurence Fairfax was a man of philosophic benevolence, and when advances were made to his wife (who had a sense and cleverness beyond anything that could have been expected in anything so bewilderingly pretty) by ladies of the rank to which he had raised her, he met them with courtesy, and she had now two friends in Lady Eden and Mrs. Tindal, whose society she especially enjoyed, because they all had babies and nearly of an age. Bessie told her grandfather where and in what company she had found her little cousins and their mother. The squire was silent, but he was not affronted. No results, however, came of her information, and she left Abbotsmead the next morning without any further reference to the family in Minster Court.



CHAPTER XXXVII.

SUNDAY MORNING AT BEECHHURST.

Bessie Fairfax arrived at Fairfield late on Saturday night, and had the warmest welcome from Lady Latimer. They were only four at dinner. Mr. Logger and Dora Meadows made up the quartette, and as she was tired with her journey, and the conversation both at table and in the drawing-room was literary and political, she was thankful to be dismissed to her room at an early hour. It was difficult to believe that she was actually within two miles of home. She could see nothing from her window for the night-dews, and she woke on Sunday morning to a thick Forest mist; but by nine o'clock it had cleared, and it was a sumptuous day. She was full of happy excitement, and proposed to set off betimes and walk to church. Lady Latimer, in her most complacent humor, bade her do exactly what she liked: there was Dora to accompany her if she walked, or there was room in the carriage that would convey herself and Mr. Logger.

The young ladies preferred to walk. Bessie had ridden that road with Mr. Carnegie many and many a time, but had walked it seldom, for there were short cuts through the brushwood and heather that she was wont to pursue in her gypsy excursions with the doctor's boys. But these were not paths for Sunday. She recollected going along that road with Lady Latimer and her grandfather sorely against her inclination, and returning by the same way with her grandfather and Mr. Wiley, when the rector, admonishing her on the virtue of humility, roused her pride and ire by his reminder of the lowly occupations to which her early patronesses had destined her. She laughed to herself, but she blushed too, for the recollection was not altogether agreeable.

As they drew near to Beechhurst one familiar spot after another called her attention. Then the church-bells began to ring for morning service, and they were at the entrance of the town-street, with its little bow-windowed shops shut up, and its pretty thatched cottages half buried in flowery gardens that made sweet the air. Bessie's heart beat fast and faster as she recognized one old acquaintance after another. Some looked at her and looked again, and did not know her, but most of those she remembered had a nod, a smile, or a kind word for her, and she smiled on all. They all seemed like friends. Now Miss Wort rushed out of her gate and rushed back, something necessary forgotten—gloves or prayer-book probably. Then the school-children swarmed forth like bees from a hive, loudly exhorted to peaceable behavior by jolly Miss Buff, who was too much absorbed in her duty of marshalling them in order to walk the twenty yards to church to see her young friend at first, but cried out in a gust of enthusiasm when she did see her, "Oh, you dear little Bessie! who would have thought it? I never heard you were coming. What a surprise for them all! They will be delighted."

"I am staying at Fairfield," said Bessie. "There had been so many disappointments before that I would not promise again. But here I am, and it seems almost too good to be true."

"Here you are, and a picture of health and beauty; you don't mind my telling you that? Nobody can say Woldshire disagrees with you."

They walked on. They came in sight of the "King's Arms"—of the doctor's house. "There is dear old Jack in the porch," said Bessie; and Miss Buff, with a kind, sympathetic nod, turned off to the church gate and left her. Jack marched down the path and Willie followed. Then Mrs. Carnegie appeared, hustling dilatory Tom before her, and leading by the hand Polly, a little white-frocked girl of nine. As they issued into the road Bessie stepped more quickly forward. The boys stared at the elegant young lady in mourning, and even her mother gazed for one moment with grave, unrecognizing scrutiny. It was but for one moment, and then the flooded blue eyes and tremulous lips revealed who it was.

"Why, it is our Bessie!" cried Jack, and sprang at her with a shout, quite forgetful of Sunday sobriety.

"Oh, Jack! But you are taller than I am now," said she, arresting his rough embrace and giving her hand to her mother. They kissed each other, and, deferring all explanations, Bessie whispered, "May I come home with you after service and spend the day?"

"Yes, yes—father will be in then. He has had to go to Mrs. Christie: Mr. Robb has been attending her lately, but the moment she is worse nothing will pacify her but seeing her old doctor."

They crossed the road to the church in a group. Mr. Phipps came up at the moment, grotesque and sharp as ever. "Cinderella!" exclaimed he, lifting his hat with ceremonious politeness. "But where is the prince?" looking round and feigning surprise.

"Oh, the prince has not come yet," said Bessie with her beautiful blush.

Mrs. Carnegie emitted a gentle sound, calling everybody to order, and they entered the church. Bessie halted at the Carnegie pew, but the children filled it, and as she knew those boys were only kept quiet during service by maternal control, she passed on to the Fairfield pew in the chancel, where Dora Meadows was already ensconced. Lady Latimer presently arrived alone: Mr. Logger had committed himself to an opinion that it was a shame to waste such a glorious morning in church, and had declined, at the last moment, to come. He preferred to criticise preachers without hearing them.

The congregation was much fuller than Bessie remembered it formerly. Beechhurst had reconciled itself to its pastor, and had found him not so very bad after all. There was no other church within easy reach, divine worship could not, with safety, be neglected altogether, and the aversion with which he was regarded did not prove invincible. It was the interest of the respectable church-people to get over it, and they had got over it, pleading in extenuation of their indulgence that, in the first place, the rector was a fixture, and in the second that his want of social tact was his misfortune rather than his fault, and a clergyman might have even worse defects than that. Lady Latimer, Admiral Parkins, Mr. Musgrave, and Miss Wort had supported him in his office from the first, and now Mr. Phipps and Mr. Carnegie did not systematically absent themselves from his religious ministrations.

The programme of the service, so to speak, was also considerably enlarged since Bessie Fairfax went away. There was a nice-looking curate whom she recollected as one of the rector's private pupils—Mr. Duffer. There were twelve men and boys in white raiment, and Miss Buff, presiding at the new organ with more than her ancient courage, executed ambitious music that caused strangers and visitors to look up at the loft and inquire who the organist was. Players and singers were not always agreed, but no one could say otherwise than that, for a country church, the performance was truly remarkable; and in the Hampton Chronicle, when an account was given of special services, gratifying mention was invariably made of Miss Buff as having presided at the organ with her usual ability. Bessie hardly knew whether to laugh or cry as she listened. Lady Latimer wore a countenance of ineffable patience. She had fought the ground inch by inch with the choral party in the congregation, and inch by inch had lost it. The responses went first, then the psalms, and this prolonged the service so seriously that twice she walked out of the church during the pause before sermon; but being pastorally condoled with on the infirmities inseparable from years which prevented her sitting through the discourse, she warmly denied the existence of any such infirmities, and the following Sunday she stayed to the end. For the latest innovation Beechhurst was indebted to the young curate, who had a round full voice. He would intone the prayers. By this time my lady was tired of clerical vanities, and only remarked, with a little disdain in her voice, that Mr. Duffer's proper place was Whitchester Cathedral.

When service was over Bessie whispered to her hostess the engagement she had made for herself during the rest of the day. My lady gloomed for an instant, and then assented, but Bessie ought to have asked her leave. The two elder boys were waiting at the church-door as Bessie came out, and snatched each a daintily gloved hand to conduct her home.

"Mother has gone on first to warn father," Jack announced; and missing other friends—the Musgraves, Mittens, and Semples, to wit—she allowed herself to be led in triumph across the road and up the garden-walk, the garden gay as ever with late-blooming roses and as fragrant of mignonette.

When she reached the porch she was all trembling. There was her mother, rather flushed, with her bonnet-strings untied, and her father appearing from the dining-parlor, where the table was spread for the family dinner, just as of old.

"This is as it should be; and how are you, my dear?" said Mr. Carnegie, drawing her affectionately to him.

"Is there any need to ask, Thomas? Could she have looked bonnier if she had never left us?" said his wife fondly.

Blushing, beaming, laughing, Bessie came in. How small the house seemed, and how full! There was young Christie's picture of her smiling above the mantelpiece, there was the doctor's old bureau and the old leathern chair. Bridget and the younger branches appeared, some of them shy of Bessie, and Totty particularly, who was the baby when she went away. They crowded the stairs, the narrow hall. "Make room there!" cried Jack, imperative amidst the fuss; and her mother conveyed the trembling girl up to her own dear old triangular nest under the thatch. The books, the watery miniatures, the Oriental bowl and dishes were all in their places. "Oh, mother, how happy I am to see it again!" cried she. And they had a few tears to wink away, and with them the fancied forgetfulnesses of the absent years.

It was a noisy dinner in comparison with the serene dulness Bessie was used to, but not noisier than it was entitled to be with seven children at table, ranging from four to fourteen, for Sunday was the one day of the week when Mr. Carnegie dined with his children, and it was his good pleasure to dine with them all. So many bright faces and white pinafores were a sweet spectacle to Bessie, who was so merry that Totty was quite tamed by the time the dessert of ripe fruit came; and would sit on "Sissy's" lap, and apply juicy grapes to "Sissy's" lips—then as "Sissy" opened them, suddenly popped the purple globes into her own little mouth, which made everybody laugh, and was evidently a good old family joke.

Dinner over, Mr. Carnegie adjourned to his study, where his practice was to make up for short and often disturbed nights by an innocent nap on Sunday afternoon. "We will go into the drawing-room, Bessie, as we always do. Totty says a hymn with the others now, and will soon begin to say her catechism, God bless her!" Thus Mrs. Carnegie.

Bessie had now a boy clinging to either arm. They put her down in a corner of the sofa, their mother occupying the other, and Totty throned between them. There was a little desultory talk and seeking of places, and then the four elder children, standing round the table, read a chapter, verse for verse. Then followed the recitation of the catechism in that queer, mechanical gabble that Bessie recollected so well. "If you stop to think you are sure to break down," was still the warning. After that Jack said the collect and epistle for the day, and Willie and Tom said the gospel, and the lesser ones said psalms and hymns and spiritual songs; and by the time this duty was accomplished Bridget had done dinner, and arrived in holiday gown and ribbons to resume her charge. In a few minutes Bessie was left alone with her mother. The boys went to consult a favorite pear-tree in the orchard, and as Jack was seen an hour or two later perched aloft amongst its gnarled branches with a book, it is probable that he chose that retreat to pursue undisturbed his seafaring studies by means of Marryat's novels.

"I like to keep up old-fashioned customs, Bessie," said her mother. "I know the dear children have been taught their duty, and if they forget it sometimes there is always a hope they may return. Mrs. Wiley and Lady Latimer have asked for them to attend the Bible classes, but their father was strongly against it; and I think, with him, that if they are not quite so cleverly taught at home, there is a feeling in having learnt at their mother's knees which will stay by them longer. It is growing quite common for young ladies in Beechhurst to have classes in the evening for servant-girls and others, but I cannot say I favor them: the girls get together gossipping and stopping out late, and the teachers are so set up with notions of superior piety that they are quite spoilt. And they do break out in the ugliest hats and clothes—faster than the gayest of the young ladies who don't pretend to be so over-righteous. You have not fallen into that way, dear Bessie?"

"Oh no. I do not even teach in the Sunday-school at Kirkham. It is very small. Mr. Forbes does not encourage the attendance of children whose parents are able to instruct them themselves."

"I am glad to hear it. I do not approve of this system of relieving parents of their private duties. Mr. Wiley carries it to excess, and will not permit any poor woman to become a member of the coal-and-clothing club who does not send her children to Sunday-school: the doctor has refused his subscription in consequence, and divides it amongst the recusants. For a specimen of Miss Myra Robb's evening-class teaching we have a girl who provokes Bridget almost past her patience: she cannot say her duty to her neighbor in the catechism, and her practice of it is so imperfect that your father begs me, the next time I engage a scullery-wench, to ascertain that she is not infected with the offensive pious conceit that distinguishes poor Eliza. Our own dear children are affectionate and good, on the whole. Jack has made up his mind to the sea, and Willie professes that he will be a doctor, like his father; he could not be better. They are both at Hampton School yet, but we have them over for Sunday while the summer weather continues."

When Bessie had heard the family news and all about the children, she had to tell her own, and very interesting her mother found it. She had to answer numerous questions concerning Mr. Laurence Fairfax, his wife and boys, and then Mrs. Carnegie inquired about that fine gentleman of whose pretensions to Miss Fairfax Lady Latimer had warned her. Bessie blushed rather warmly, and told what facts there were to tell, and she now learnt for the first time that her wooing was a matter of arrangement and policy. The information was not gratifying, to judge from the hot fire of her face and the tone of her rejoinder. "Mr. Cecil Burleigh is a fascinating person—so I am assured—but I don't think I was the least bit in love," she averred with energetic scorn. Her mother smiled, and did not say so much in reply as Bessie thought she might.

Presently they went into the orchard, and insensibly the subject was renewed. Bessie remembered afterward saying many things that she never meant to say. She mentioned how she had first seen Mr. Cecil Burleigh at the Fairfield wedding devoted to a most lovely young lady whom she had seen again at Ryde, and had known as Miss Julia Gardiner. "I thought they were engaged," she said. "I am sure they were lovers for a long while."

"You were under that impression throughout?" Mrs. Carnegie suggested interrogatively.

"Yes. From the day I saw them together at Ryde I had no other thought. He was grandpapa's friend, grandpapa forwarded his election for Norminster, and as I was the young lady of the house at Abbotsmead, it was not singular that he should be kind and attentive to me, was it? I am quite certain that he was as little in love with me as I was with him, though he did invite me to be his wife. I felt very much insulted that he should suppose me such a child as not to know that he did not care for me; it was not in that way he had courted Miss Julia Gardiner."

"It is a much commoner thing than you imagine for a man to be unable to marry as his heart would dictate. But he is not for that to remain single all his life, is he?" said Mrs. Carnegie.

"Perhaps not; I should respect him more if he did. I will remain single all my life unless I find somebody to love me first and best," said Bessie with the airy assurance of the romantic age.

"Well, dear, and I trust you may, for affection is the great sweetener of life, and it must be hard getting along without it. But here is father."

Mr. Carnegie, his nap over, had seen his wife and Bessie from the study-window. He drew Bessie's hand through his arm and asked what they were so earnest in debate upon. Not receiving an immediate answer, he went on to remark to his wife that their little Bessie was not spoilt by her life among her high-born friends. "For anything I can see, she is our dear Bessie still."

"So she is, Thomas—self-will and her own opinion and all," replied her mother, looking fondly in her face.

Bessie laughed and blushed. "You never expected perfection in me, nor too much docility," she said.

The doctor patted her hand, and told her she was good enough for human nature's daily companionship. Then he began to give her news of their neighbors. "It falls out fortunately that it is holiday-time. Young Christie is here: you know him? He told us how he had met you at some grand house in the winter, where he went to paint a picture: the lady had too little expression to please him, and he was not satisfied with his work. She was, fortunately, and her husband too, for he had a hundred pounds for the picture—like coining money his father says. He is very good to the old people, and makes them share his prosperity—a most excellent son." Bessie listened for another name of an excellent son. It came. "And Harry Musgrave is at Brook for a whiff of country air. That young man works and plays very hard: he must take heed not to overdo it."

"Then I shall see all my friends while I am in the Forest," said Bessie, very glad.

"Yes, and as pleased they will be to see you. Mother, Bessie might walk to Brook with me before tea. They will be uncommonly gratified, and she will get over to us many another day," Mr. Carnegie proposed.

"Yes, Thomas, if it will not overtire her."

"Oh, nothing overtires me," said Bessie. "Let us go by Great-Ash Ford."

Before they started the doctor had a word or two with his wife alone. He wanted to hear what she had made out from dear Bessie herself respecting that grand gentleman, the member of Parliament, who by Lady Latimer's account was her suitor some time ago and still.

"I am puzzled, Thomas, and that is the truth—girls are so deep," Mrs. Carnegie said.

"Too deep sometimes for their own comprehension—eh? At any rate, she is not moping and pining. She is as fresh as a rose, and her health and spirits are all right. I don't remember when I have felt so thankful as at the sight of her bonny face to-day."



CHAPTER XXXVIII.

SUNDAY EVENING AT BROOK.

That still Sunday afternoon across the glowing heath to Great-Ash Ford was most enchanting. Every step of the way was a pleasure to Bessie. And when they came to the ford, whom should they see resting under the shade of the trees but Harry Musgrave and young Christie? Harry's attitude was somewhat weary. He leant on one elbow, recumbent upon the turf, and with flat pebbles dexterously thrown made ducks and drakes upon the surface of the shallow pool where the cattle drank. Young Christie was talking with much earnestness—propounding some argument apparently—and neither observed the approach of Mr. Carnegie and his companion until they were within twenty paces. Then a sudden flush overspread Harry's face. "It is Bessie Fairfax!" said he, and sprang to his feet and advanced to meet her. Bessie was rosy too, and her eyes dewy bright. Young Christie, viewing her as an artist, called her to himself the sweetest and most womanly of women, and admired her the more for her kind looks at his friend. Harry's ennui was quite routed.

"We were walking to Brook—your mother will give us a cup of tea, Harry?" said Mr. Carnegie.

Harry was walking home to Brook too, with Christie for company; his mother would be only too proud to entertain so many good friends. They went along by the rippling water together, and entered the familiar garden by the wicket into the wood. Mr. and Mrs. Musgrave were out there on the green slope under the beeches, awaiting their son and his friend, and lively were their exclamations of joy when they saw who their other visitors were.

"Did I not tell you little Bessie was at church, Harry?" cried his father, turning to him with an air of triumph.

"And he would not believe it. I thought myself it must be a mistake," said Mrs. Musgrave.

Bessie was touched to the heart by their cordial welcome. She made a most favorable impression. Mr. Musgrave thought her as handsome a young lady as a man could wish to look at, and his wife said her good heart could be seen in her face.

Bessie felt, nevertheless, rather more formally at home than in her childhood, except with her old comrade Harry. Between them there was not a moment's shyness. They were as friendly, as intimate as formerly, though with a perceptible difference of manner. Bessie had the simple graces of happy maidenhood, and Harry had the courteous reserve of good society to which his university honors and pleasant humor had introduced him. He was a very acceptable companion wherever he went, because his enjoyment of life was so thorough as to be almost infectious. He must be a dull dog, indeed, who did not cheer up in the sunshine of Musgrave's presence: that was his popular character, and it agreed with Bessie's reminiscences of him; but Harry, like other young men of great hopes and small fortunes, had his hours of shadow that Christie knew of and others guessed at. At tea the talk fell on London amusements and bachelor-life in chambers.

"As for Christie, prudent old fogy that he is, what can he know of our miseries?" said Harry with assumed ruefulness "He has a mansion in Cheyne Walk and a balcony looking over the river, and a vigilant housekeeper who allows no latch-key and turns off the gas at eleven. She gives him perfect little dinners, and makes him too comfortable by half: we poor apprentices to law lodge and fare very rudely."

"He has the air of being well done to, which is more than could be said for you when first you arrived at home, Harry," remarked his mother with what struck Bessie as a long and wistful gaze.

"Too much smell of the midnight oil is poison to country lungs—mind what I tell you," said the doctor, emphasizing his words with a grave nod at the young man.

"He ought to be content with less of his theatres and his operas and supper-parties if he will read and write so furiously. A young fellow can't combine the lives of a man of study and a man of leisure without stealing too many hours from his natural rest. But I talk in vain—talk you, Mr. Carnegie," said Christie with earnestness.

"A man must work, and work hard, now-a-days, if he means to do or be anything," said Harry defiantly.

"It is the pace that kills," said the doctor. "The mischief is, that you ardent young fellows never know when to stop. And in public life, my lad, there is many a one comes to acknowledge that he has made more haste than good speed."

Harry sank back in his chair with laughing resignation; it was too bad, he said, to talk of him to his face so dismally. Bessie Fairfax was looking at him, her eyebrows raised, and fancying she saw a change; he was certainly not so brown as he used to be, nor so buoyant, nor so animated. But it would have perplexed her to define what the change she fancied was. Conscious of her observation, Harry dissembled a minute, then pushed back his chair, and invited her to come away to the old sitting-room, where the evening sun shone. No one offered to follow them; they were permitted to go alone.

The sitting-room looked a trifle more dilapidated, but was otherwise unaltered, and was Harry's own room still, by the books, pens, ink, and paper on the table. Being by themselves, silence ensued. Bessie sadly wondered whether anything was really going wrong with her beloved Harry, and he knew that she was wondering. Then she remembered what young Christie had said at Castlemount of his being occasionally short of money, and would have liked to ask. But when she had reflected a moment she did not dare. Their boy-and-girl days, their days of plain, outspoken confidence, were for ever past. That one year of absence spent by him in London, by her at Abbotsmead, had insensibly matured the worldly knowledge of both, and without a word spoken each recognized the other's position, but without diminution of their ancient kindness.

This recognition, and certain possible, even probable, results had been anticipated before Bessie was suffered to come into the Forest. Lady Angleby had said to Mr. Fairfax: "Entrust her to Lady Latimer for a short while. Granting her humble friends all the virtues that humanity adorns itself with, they must want some of the social graces. Those people always dispense more or less with politeness in their familiar intercourse. Now, Cecil is exquisitely polite, and Miss Fairfax has a fine, delicate feeling. She cannot but make comparisons and draw conclusions. Solid worth apart, the charm of manner is with us. I shall expect decisive consequences from this visit."

What Bessie actually discerned was that all the old tenderness that had blessed her childhood, and that gives the true sensitive touch, was still abiding: father, mother, Harry—dearest of all who were most dear to her—had not lost one whit of it. And judged by the eye, where love looked out, Harry's great frame, well knit and suppled by athletic sports, had a dignity, and his irregular features a beauty, that pleased her better than dainty, high-bred elegance. He had to push his way over the obstacles of poverty and obscure birth, and she was a young lady of family and fortune, but she looked up to him with as meek a humility as ever she had done when they were friends and comrades together, before her vicissitudes began and her exalted kinsfolk reclaimed her. Woldshire had not acquainted her with his equal. All the world never would.

Their conversation was opened at last with a surprised smile at finding themselves where they were—in the bare sitting-room at Brook, with the western light shining on them through the vine-trellised lattices after four years of growth and experience. How often had Bessie made a picture in her day-dreams of their next meeting here since she went away! In this hour, in this instant, love was new-born in both their hearts. They saw it, each in the other's eyes—heard it, each in the other's voice. Tears came with Bessie's sudden smile. She trembled and sighed and laughed, and said she did not know why she was so foolish. Harry was foolish too as he made her some indistinct plea about being so glad. And a red spot burned on his own cheek as he dwelt on her loveliness. Once more they were silent, then both at once began to talk of people and things indifferent, coming gradually round to what concerned themselves.

Harry Musgrave spoke of his friend Christie and his profession relatively to his own: "Christie has distinguished himself already. There are houses in London where the hostess has a pride in bringing forward young talent. Christie got the entree of one of the best at the beginning of his career, and is quite a favorite. His gentleness is better than conventional polish, but he has taken that well too. He is a generous little fellow, and deserves the good luck that has befallen him. His honors are budding betimes. That is the joy of an artistic life—you work, but it is amongst flowers. Christie will be famous before he is thirty, and he is easy in his circumstances now: he will never be more, never rich; he is too open-handed for that. But I shall have years and years to toil and wait," Harry concluded with a melancholy, humorous fall in his voice, half mocking at himself and half pathetic, and the same was his countenance.

All the more earnestly did Bessie brighten: "You knew that, Harry, when you chose the law. But if you work amongst bookworms and cobwebs, don't you play in the sunshine?"

"Now and then, Bessie, but there will be less and less of that if I maintain my high endeavors."

"You will, Harry, you must! You will never be satisfied else. But there is no sentiment in the law—it is dreary, dreary."

"No sentiment in the law? It is a laborious calling, but many honorable men follow it; and are not the lawyers continually helping those to right who suffer wrong?"

"That is not the vulgar idea of them, is it? But I believe it is what you will always strive to do, Harry." Bessie spoke with pretty eagerness. She feared that she might have seemed to contemn Harry's vocation, and she hastened to make amends. Harry understood her perfectly, and had the impudence to laugh at her quite in his old boyish way. A little confused—also in the old way—she ran on: "I have seen the judges in their scarlet robes and huge white wigs on a hot July Sunday attending service in Norminster Cathedral. I tried to attire you so, but my imagination failed. I don't believe you will ever be a judge, Harry."

"That is a discouraging prediction, Bessie, if I am to be a lawyer. I do a little in this way," he said, handling a famous review that lay on the table. "May I send it to you when there is a paper of mine in it?"

"Oh yes; I should like it so much! I should be so interested!" said Bessie fervently. "We take the Times at Abbotsmead, and Blackwood and the old Quarterly, but not that. I have seen it at my uncle Laurence's house, and Lady Latimer has it. I saw it in the Fairfield drawing-room last night: is there anything of yours here, Harry?"