(2r/> 
 
07- 
 
EXTON MANOR 
 
WORKS BY 
 ARCHIBALD MARSHALL 
 
 THE SQUIRE'S DAUGHTER 
 
 THE ELDEST SON 
 
 THE HONOUR OF THE CLINTONS 
 
 RANK AND RICHES 
 
 PETER BINNEY, UNDERGRADUATE 
 
 THE HOUSE OF MERRILEES 
 
 RICHARD BALDOCK 
 
 EXTON MANOR 
 
 RODING RECTORY 
 
 WATERMEADS 
 
 MANY JUNES 
 
 UPSIDONIA 
 
 ABINGTON ABBEY 
 
 THE GRAFTONS 
 
t. 
 
 Ill EXTON MANOR 
 
 MfXi 
 
 U 
 
 LI 
 
 By 
 
 ARCHIBALD MARSHALL 
 
 f 
 
 M 
 
 HODDER AND STOUGHTON 
 LIMITED LONDON 
 
 ( 1 
 
 I 1 
 
 (21> 
 
(S) 
 
TO THE 
 
 LORD MONTAGU OF BEAULIEU 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CII \P' 
 
 I. — Two Bachelors and some Ladies 
 II. — At the White House 
 III. — The Vicarage 
 IV.— Lord Wrotiiam . 
 V. — Fred Prentice . 
 VI. — Good Friday 
 
 VII. — Easter Saturday and Sunday 
 VIII. — A Picnic at Warren's Hard 
 IX. — Lady Wrotiiam . 
 X. — A Service and a Dinner . 
 XL — A Preliminary Skirmish 
 XII. — Pourparlers 
 XIII. — An Unexpected Visit . 
 XIV. — A Disclosure 
 XV. — Discord .... 
 XVI. — Mrs. Prentice tastes Success 
 XVII.— The Vicar .... 
 XVIII. — Turner and Browne take Sides 
 XIX. — Rumour, and a Meeting 
 XX. — A Railway Journey, and whai 
 
 followed 
 XXL — Two Visits . 
 
xii CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 NXII. — Three Men and a Lady , , 242 
 
 XNIII. — Church, and after .... 252 
 XXIV. — Browne is precipitate , . . 266 
 
 XXV. — Norah's Attempt 276 
 
 XXVI.— Arrivals . . . . .288 
 
 XXVII. — A Dinner-Party at Forest Lodge . 298 
 
 XXVIII. — A Visit and a Conversation . . 305 
 
 XXIX. — Lady Syde hears and advises . .314 
 
 XXX.— Visits 329 
 
 XXXI. — The Picnic breaks up. . . . 338 
 
 XXXII. — Troubles at the Vicarage . . . 346 
 
 XXXIII. — Lady Syde intervenes . . . 356 
 
 XXXIV. — Lord Wrotham proposes . . . 370 
 
 XXXV. — The Shadow of Change . . . 379 
 
 XXXVI. — The Substance of the Shadow . . 388 
 
 XXXVII. — Reconciliation 397 
 
 XXXVIII. — New Year's Eve . . . .. 406 
 
CHAPTER I 
 
 TWO BACHELORS AND SOME LADIES 
 
 The lights of Captain Thomas Turner's dog-cart shone be- 
 tween the trees of the woodland ride, stood still for a mo- 
 ment at the gate, advanced a pace or two, stood still again 
 as the gate banged to, and then came slowly bumping across 
 the rutty grass track between the gorse bushes until they 
 reached the high road. Here they faced to the right, and 
 were borne evenly along the straight quarter mile which lay 
 between the point at which they had emerged from the wood 
 and the Upper Heath gate. 
 
 Captain Turner, owing to the number of years he had lived 
 alone and busied himself with the absorbing, but hardly 
 sociable, occupation of breeding trout, had contracted the 
 habit of thinking aloud, and was so far aware of his infirmity 
 that he had permanently relegated his groom to the back seat 
 of his cart, when it would often have been more convenient 
 to have him seated by his side; This precaution did not com- 
 pletely fulfil its object, and Robert Kitcher, the groom, was 
 well posted up in the various currents of thought that, from 
 time to time, passed through his master's mind. But he was 
 a middle-aged bachelor himself, and, while turning over with 
 interest the information he acquired as to his master's ideas 
 and intentions, he imparted it to no one, and would, indeed, 
 have considered it a breach of confidence to do so. 
 
 The detached sentences that came to his ears during this 
 half-mile drive, cut short occasionally by cautious mutterings, 
 lost, too, sometimes in the gusts of March wind that blew 
 across the open heath to their left, were somewhat as follows : 
 " Now, Thomas Turner, be careful to-night. Don't make 
 a fool of yourself. You don't want her. You're very well 
 as you are. Let Browne ... if he's fool enough to want 
 
14 Ex* on Manor 
 
 it . . . don't kuf.w when he's well off. You're forty-one, 
 Tom Turnf] Here followed a subdued mutter, and 
 
 after that a sweep of wind, which lasted for some time. 
 When it had died down again the current of thought seemed 
 to have set in another direction, for the next sentence that 
 came to the groom's ears was, " Funny thing, the two old 
 men dying together. There'll be. . . . Hate changes. 
 Wonder what Browne has heard from the old lady." 
 
 They arrived at the Upper Heath gate, which Kitcher got 
 down to open, and drove a little way along the road to the 
 right, and again to the right into the drive which led to the 
 house of Turner's friend, Maximilian Browne, agent to the 
 ten thousand acres or so of farm and forest land which made 
 up the estate of Exton Manor. 
 
 That this house was not his ultimate objective became 
 apparent from the fact that, when he drew up at the front 
 door, Kitcher got down from behind and rang the bell, while 
 Turner sat still w r ith the reins in his hand, and addressed 
 to his horse's ears the remark, ct Bound to keep me waiting. 
 Confound the fellow ! " 
 
 The door was opened almost immediately by an elderly 
 manservant, who said, " Mr. Brow r ne has only just got back, 
 sir. He told me to ask you if you would go up to him." 
 
 Turner alighted, and went into the house, and upstairs to 
 his friend's bedroom, where he found that gentleman in the 
 very early stages of dressing for dinner. 
 
 '• Now, don't swear, old man," said Browne, the instant he 
 appeared inside the door. " It's all right. I sent a wire to 
 Mrs. Redcliffe, asking her to make dinner a quarter past 
 eight. We've got plenty of time." 
 
 Turner gave a grunt, and stationed himself in front of 
 the fire. He was a tall thin man, dark, with somewhat pro- 
 nounced features, and an expression that bordered on melan- 
 choly. This first impression, caused perhaps by a droop of 
 the eyes and of the corners of the mouth, was lessened by 
 a closer inspection of the face, and disappeared when the 
 mouth opened to emit a voice that was gruff, but crisp and 
 decisive in speech, and anything but melancholy. The high 
 shoulders were slightly bent, but the spare frame was active 
 and well-knit. The hands were nervous, the fingers long 
 and pointed. The forehead was high and narrow, the head, 
 covered with straight dark hair, long. 
 
Two Bachelors and some Ladies 15 
 
 Maximilian Browne had also reached the age of forty ; that 
 age at which life ceases to be lived in the future, and, if less 
 ambitious than before, becomes a quite tolerable affair of the 
 present. He was in appearance almost the complete opposite 
 of his friend. He was of about the middle height, and in- 
 clined to corpulency ; would, indeed, have been stout, had 
 not a life of incessant open-air activity exercised a restraining 
 influence on the natural tendency of his body. His face was 
 large and round and red, and his thick neck, now exposed to 
 the gaze of the beholder, was weathered to the colour of brick- 
 dust by sun and wind, and displayed an astonishing contrast 
 of colour to the white skin below it. His straw-coloured hair 
 was beginning to ebb away from his brow and the top of his 
 head. His moustache was red, his eyes blue and mild. 
 
 Turner, from his vantage ground on the hearthrug, bent a 
 searching gaze on him as he struggled into a white starched 
 shirt. " Any news ? " he asked curtly. 
 
 " News ? Yes," replied the other. " Plenty of news. 
 I've had the deuce of a time with her ladyship. She's been 
 hauling me over the coals most confoundedly. She's — well, 
 I don't know that I need keep it to myself ; she didn't tell 
 me to — she's coming to live here." 
 
 " Coming to live here ? What, at the Abbey ? M 
 
 " Yes. At the Abbey." 
 
 Turner gave vent to a long whistle of surprise. " Who 
 would have thought of that ? " he said. 
 
 u I'm bound to say I never did. In one way it's a relief. 
 Ever since old Sir Joseph died I've been worrying over a 
 tenant for the place, wondering whether I should get anybody 
 to take it without the shooting. It's deuced hard to let a 
 house of that size without the shooting, and Sir Joseph Chap- 
 mans don't grow on every tree. That difficulty's over. She's 
 quite content to let the Ferrabys go on as they are at present. 
 But — well, Turner, it's no use disguising the fact that her 
 ladyship's going to upset us. Oh, good Lord ! why can't I 
 be allowed to live a quiet life ? " 
 
 He threw up his hands in a comic gesture of despair, which 
 seemed to relieve his overwrought feelings. 
 
 " What has she been hauling you over the coals for ? " 
 asked Turner. 
 
 " It isn't that so much. My position's all right. I never 
 took a tenant without consulting the old lord, and, as far as I 
 
16 Exton Manor 
 
 know, she never showed the slightest interest in anybody or 
 anything to do with this place as long as he was alive. But 
 now she's got her nose into everything, and nothing and 
 nobody's right. Mind, this don't go any further. I'm only 
 telling you.'' 
 
 " Of course. It's the tenants who are wrong, is it ? I 
 don't think we're such a bad lot. What's the matter with 
 this particular tenant ? " 
 
 " We hardly mentioned you. Of course you're doing some- 
 thing on the place. In a way you go in with the farming 
 tenants, and she don't complain of them. She knows nothing 
 about them. It's the residents she's got her knife into." 
 
 14 What's the matter with 'em ? What's the matter with 
 the Ferrabys ? " ,.* 
 
 Browne paused in the act of fastening his braces on to an 
 ample waistbelt, and composed his features to as near as pos- 
 sible an imitation of an elderly lady delivering a judgment. 
 " Worldly people ! " he said, with pursed-up lips. " Cannot 
 possibly give a good tone to the place." 
 
 " They give jolly good dinners," commented Turner. 
 " Does she want you to get rid of them ? " 
 
 " No. I made her understand that they didn't give any 
 tone to the place at all, either good or bad. They come down 
 for a month in August, and off and on in the winter to shoot. 
 They bring their own friends with them, they are two miles 
 away from the village, and hardly anybody sees them here at 
 all." 
 
 ' You and I see a good deal of them when they're here." 
 
 " Yes. I didn't tell her that. Anyway, they don't spoil 
 our tone much. So we left it at that. Then she began about 
 Prentice. Was he high or low ? I said he was high. I sup- 
 pose he is, isn't he ? " 
 
 •' As high as he dares be." 
 
 " Yes ; quite so. Well, I had an idea she was high herself, 
 but it appears I was wrong. She's low. So that didn't suit 
 her, and Master Prentice may look out for squalls." 
 
 " How about — about our friend ? " 
 
 " Mrs. Redcliffe ? " 
 
 " Well, Mrs. Redcliffe." 
 
 " She was rather odd about Mrs. Redcliffe. Shut her mouth 
 up tight, and gave me to understand she knew all about Mrs. 
 Redcliffe." 
 
Two Bachelors and some Ladies 17 
 
 " She couldn't know anything about her that isn't all right." 
 
 " From her manner you would have said she did." 
 
 " Did you tell her she was an Australian ? Some people 
 object to Australians/ ' 
 
 "She knew it. So I suppose she does know something 
 about her. You know the old lord was governor of a colony 
 out there years ago." 
 
 " Yes. Western Australia. But Mrs. Redcliffe comes 
 from Queensland. It's as far as from here to Egypt. Still, 
 people do know each other all over the continent out there 
 if they are anybody, and Redcliffe had some sort of a govern- 
 ment appointment. I dare say she would have heard of them. 
 Still, I refuse to believe that she heard anything that wasn't 
 all right." 
 
 " So do I. Still, it didn't look as if she was going to open 
 her arms to her. Then there was Mrs. O'Keefe." 
 
 " Ah ! Well, what about Mrs. O'Keefe ? " 
 
 11 I got really annoyed with her over that." Browne was 
 now buttoning his waistcoat, and pausing again to draw him- 
 self up into an attitude of inquiry, his large round head poised 
 ludicrously aslant, and his red lips pursed. " ' And who may 
 Mrs. O'Keefe be ? ' I told her who she was. ' Her hus- 
 band was a brother of Lord Ballyshannon,' I said. ' He died 
 about a year ago, and she took Street House soon afterwards/ 
 ' Lord Ballyshannon/ she said. ' Never heard of him/ I 
 hadn't cither, till Mrs. O'Keefe came here, so I didn't say 
 anything. Then sne snapped out, ' How old is she ? ' I said, 
 1 I should think about. twenty-five/ " 
 
 *■■ She isn't," interpolated Turner, with a trace of indigna- 
 tion. " She's only just twenty-three." 
 
 " Well, I didn't want to give her away. Her ladyship 
 looked at me with a sort of searching eye. ' A young 
 widow/ she said. ' A beautiful young widow, I suppose, Mr. 
 Browne/ " 
 
 Got you there, Maximilian," chuckled Turner. " I sup- 
 pose you blushed beetroot." 
 
 " I didn't do anything of the sort. I was very annoyed." 
 
 " Well, what did you say ? " 
 
 " I didn't say anything." 
 
 ■' Then of course you blushed." 
 
 " I tell you I didn't. Why should I ? Then she had the 
 cheek to say, ' I believe you let the Street House for ten 
 
18 Exton Manor 
 
 pounds a year less than you got from the last tenant, Mr. 
 Browne ? ' ' Yes, Lady Wrotham/ I said ; ' I did. I 
 exercised my discretion, and Lord Wrotham approved of 
 what Fd done/ " 
 
 Turner chuckled again in acute enjoyment. " Virtuous in- 
 dignation," he said. " The old lady's got sharp eyes. You'll 
 have to go slow in your wooing, Maximilian, when she comes 
 on the scene." 
 
 " My wooing ! What nonsense are you up to ? You 
 know very well who's doing the wooing in that quarter. I 
 should be ashamed of myself if I had any idea of a woman 
 twenty years younger than myself. Not that I blame you for 
 it. I was only saying to myself as I drove up, I hoped you'd 
 fix it up pretty soon, as you seem bent on it. You needn't 
 have any fear of my cutting in." 
 
 '■ Ah, it's all very well to talk like that. The old lady 
 knew what she was about when she put that leading ques- 
 tion. No, Maximilian ; you don't work it off on me. I'm 
 a great admirer of the lady. I don't deny it. But as for 
 wanting to be anything closer, it has never so much as 
 entered my mind. I'll be your best man if you'll have me, 
 and give you a silver tea-service, the best that money can buy. 
 Only have the wedding at some time when I'm not busy with 
 the fish. That's all I ask." 
 
 " You're talking through your hat, Turner, and no one 
 knows that better than you. It is my pocket the money will 
 come out of for the silver tea-service, and you'll be welcome 
 to it. I'm ready. Go on first, and I'll turn out the 
 
 light.- 
 
 The two friends, in the best of humours with one another 
 in spite of their sparring, got into the cart and drove out 
 through the gate and down the hill between the leafless trees 
 on either side of the road, whose branches were tossing in the 
 March wind under the light of a struggling moon. At the 
 bottom of the hill they came to another white gate, which 
 opened into a short drive leading to the door of a low white 
 house, standing in a large garden, where they alighted, and 
 were presently admitted into the warm interior. 
 
 The house was an enlarged cottage, delightfully trans- 
 formed. They w r ent from a red-tiled hall into a low oak- 
 raftered sitting-room, full of unexpected corners, with a large 
 bay window and half -glazed doors opening into the garden. 
 
Two Bachelors and some Ladies 19 
 
 The gay chintzes of the chairs and window curtains gave 
 brightness to the room, and the many books interest. A deep 
 sofa faced the fire burning in a grate of brick surmounted by 
 oak panelling. The glow of the lamp and the many candles 
 with which the room was lighted fell softly on china, silver, and 
 old brass, and. gave an air of warmth and comfort to a charm- 
 ing interior. It was a woman's room in which a man could 
 feel at home, and Browne and Turner came into it, out of the 
 cold March night, with a sense of gratification. They were 
 alone for a minute or two, and then a door leading out of the 
 room straight on to a little cottage staircase opened, and their 
 hostess came in, followed by her daughter. 
 
 Mrs. Redcliffe was a woman of perhaps five and forty, of a 
 square middle-sized figure. Her hair was plentiful, but con- 
 spicuously grey, with white locks springing from her temples. 
 Her face was pleasant and intelligent, quite free from care, 
 and the grip of her plump white hand gave an impression o' 
 firmness, and not a little warmth of character. The greeting 
 between her and the two men was that of old friends, cordial, 
 but without effusion. 
 
 It is not so easy to convey an impression of Hilda Redcliffe. 
 She was at this time a few months short of twenty-one, and 
 had all the grace and charm of fresh girlhood. But she had 
 something more. She had, if not actual beauty, for her 
 features were perhaps too irregular for that, a face that would 
 have attracted attention anywhere. If you looked first at the 
 great masses of brown hair which shaded her brow, and then 
 at her brown honest eyes, fringed with long lashes, you said 
 to yourself that she was certainly beautiful. Then when you 
 took in the rest of the face, the short nose without special 
 feature, the mouth too irregular for perfect symmetry, the 
 decisively jutting chin, you were not quite so sure. But if 
 she smiled, away flew your doubts again, for the two little 
 rows of teeth were entrancing, and the smile revealed some 
 of the charm of her frank and loyal nature. It was a face 
 whose attractions would grow upon you, and, if you were of 
 an age and condition to fall in love with its owner, might very 
 well come to be considered beautiful, and something more. 
 For the rest, she was half a head taller than her mother, and 
 held herself straight, walking with the grace and ease of a 
 young girl whose activities are concerned with the life of the 
 open air, summer or winter, rain or shine. She also received 
 
20 Exton Manor 
 
 the two men with an air of comradeship, and unconsciously 
 emphasized the number of years that had passed over their 
 bachelorhood by the freshness of her slim youth. 
 
 There was no time for more than a few words of greeting, 
 for immediately after the entrance of mother and daughter 
 the door by which the two men had entered the room opened, 
 and Mrs. O'Keefe was announced. 
 
 Whatever doubt might have been felt at first sight as to 
 the beauty of Hilda Rcdcliffe, there could be none about that 
 of Norah O'Keefe. She stood for a moment in the white- 
 panelled and balustraded recess which gave entrance to the 
 room, and was raised a step above it, and the eyes of the 
 four were drawn towards her in irresistible admiration. All 
 the grace of early womanhood seemed to be gathered up in 
 her tall black-gowned form, to which the whiteness of her 
 throat and neck formed a contrast almost startling, unre- 
 lieved as her dress was by a touch of white. Her dark eyes 
 were deep-set in a face of perfect oval, and her head, crowned 
 with waving masses of dark hair, was poised lightly on the 
 slender column of her neck. She wore a jewel in her hair, 
 and a necklace of uncut emeralds. It is difficult to describe 
 actual beauty. As compared with that of Hilda Redcliffe, 
 although she was but little older, Norah O'Keefe's was the 
 charm of a woman, and not of a girl. When it has been said 
 that her charm lay not wholly in her beauty, and that it was 
 as apparent to women as to men, perhaps more has been told 
 than could be conveyed in pages of analysis and description. 
 
 " My dear Norah/' said Mrs. Redcliffe, going forward 
 to greet her. " I am so pleased to see you. I hope you 
 didn't mind being put off for a quarter of an hour. How did 
 you come up ? " 
 
 " I walked, of course," she replied, shaking hands with 
 Browne and Turner, and smiling impartially upon each of 
 them. " There is a moon, and I didn't have to bring a 
 lantern. My faithful Bridget will come and fetch me at 
 half-past ten, and I shall walk back again." 
 
 " No, I shall drive you down," said Turner gallantly. 
 " You and Bridget too. There will be room for all four." 
 
 " A walk on a night like this is very pleasant," put in 
 Browne. " Let me take you home, Mrs. O'Keefe." 
 
 She laughed gaily. " I shouldn't think of taking you 
 quite in the opposite direction from that in which you have 
 
Two Bachelors and some Ladies 21 
 
 to go," she said. " And how would you like to walk between 
 me and Bridget ? Thank you very much all the same, Mr. ■ 
 Browne/' 
 
 " Indeed, I don't mind a walk on a night like this. I like 
 it," he replied, with an eager expression on his round red 
 face. 
 
 " Then you won't mind walking up to Upper Heath," 
 said Turner. " I'll drive Mrs. O'Keefe down, and go home 
 through the wood." 
 
 " Well, we needn't settle about going home yet awhile," 
 said Mrs. Redcliffe. " Let us go in. Dinner is ready." 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 AT THE WHITE HOUSE 
 
 They went in singly to the little square dining-room, and 
 arranged themselves at a round table. A subsurface and 
 quite seemly struggle between Browne and Turner as to 
 which of them should sit next to Norah O'Keefe was decided 
 by superior strategy in favour of the former, but the small- 
 ness of the company robbed Turner's defeat of most of its 
 sting. 
 
 " You have been to Hurstbury Court/' said Mrs. Redclifte 
 to Browne, when they had settled themselves in their places. 
 " Have you any interesting news to tell us ? How is Lady 
 Wrotham bearing her loss ? " 
 
 " Wonderful woman ! " said Browne, with a side glance 
 at the parlourmaid. '* Simply full of energy, and beginning 
 her life all over again as if she thoroughly enjoyed it." 
 
 " Of course," said Mrs. Redcliffe, " she was nearly twenty 
 years younger than Lord Wrotham, and an energetic woman 
 always. So one heard, for I have never seen her." 
 
 A remembrance came to Browne's mind. *" Didn't you 
 ever see her when the old lord was Governor of Western 
 Australia ? " he asked. 
 
 "No, never," she replied. " That was many years ago, 
 and I was quite a girl. Besides, Queensland and Western 
 Australia are a very long distance apart. I was never in 
 Western Australia, and I do not think that Lord and Lady 
 Wrotham were ever in Queensland; I have no recollection 
 of it if they were." 
 
 She spoke in her usual placid, rather deliberate manner. 
 Browne glanced at her quiet sensible face, unclouded by a 
 hint of disturbance, and decided that he must have mistaken 
 
 22 
 
At the White House 23 
 
 Lady Wrotham's meaning when she told him that she knew 
 all about Mrs. Redcliffe. It was impossible to connect her 
 with the remotest shadow of a scandal — a scandal, that is, in 
 which she could have been in the least to blame. 
 
 " You have been here five years, haven't you, Mrs. Red- 
 cliffe ? " asked Norah O'Keefe. " Hasn't Lady Wrotham 
 ever been to Exton in that time ? " 
 
 " No," said Mrs. Redcliffe, and Browne added, " She told 
 me that she had not been here for five and twenty years. 
 That was just after Sir Joseph had practically rebuilt the 
 Abbey. She said that she thought he had completely spoilt 
 it, and she had never had the slightest wish to see it again." 
 
 " Spoilt it ! " exclaimed Hilda. " Why, it is perfectly 
 beautiful ! " 
 
 " Yes," said Browne. " But, you see, she came when it 
 was only just finished. Everything was new and staring. 
 I really hardly recognized the description she gave me of it, 
 but I can see it to a certain extent with her eyes. The 
 garden was brand new ; twelve acres, or more, just planted. 
 We know it after five and twenty years' growth, but in 
 those days it can't have been very interesting. And the new 
 part of the house hadn't toned down to look of a piece with 
 the old, as it has now. She spent her honeymoon there. 
 The house must have been very uncomfortable, only half- 
 furnished ; but there it was, with all its surroundings, just as 
 it had been built after the Reformation, when most of the 
 monastery had been pulled down. She will find it very 
 different now." 
 
 " Is she coming to see it, then ? " asked Mrs. Redcliffe. 
 
 " H'm, ha ! " muttered Browne, recollecting the parlour- 
 maid. " I expect she and Kemsing — I mean Lord\Vrotham 
 — will be down to have a look at us before long." 
 
 " Poor old Sir Joseph ! " said Mrs. Redcliffe. " What a 
 pride he took in the place ! It was a delight to go pottering 
 round with him. I am sure he never thought of it as other- 
 wise than his own." 
 
 " I really don't think he did," said Browne. " He spent 
 money on it just as if it belonged to him, and, in a way, he 
 has made it." 
 
 " Sir Joseph Chapman made the house, and Maximilian 
 Browne made the estate," said Turner. " Honour where 
 honour is due." 
 
24 Exton Manor 
 
 Browne's round face was suffused with a deprecatory smile. 
 " I have pulled it round a bit," he said. " It's quite true. 
 All the farms are let now, and as for the private houses — 
 well, I'm quite satisfied with the tenants we've got." He 
 looked round the table with a congratulatory air, finishing up 
 with a side look at the tenant of the Street House, just long 
 enough to turn a general compliment into a particular one. 
 
 No rah O'Keefe, however, seemed blissfully unconscious of 
 it. "I hope the new Lord Wrotham is pleased w T ith the 
 result of your labours," she said ; " yours and Sir Joseph's. 
 He has reason to be." 
 
 " Oh, he's pleased enough," said Browne. 
 
 " And have you got a new tenant for the Abbey yet ? " 
 asked Hilda. " It will be rather an excitement to us, but we 
 shall be very hard to please after dear old Sir Joseph." 
 
 The maid had now left the room. Browne gave vent to 
 a premonitory cough, and said, " Well, the fact is that Lady 
 Wrotham is coming to live here herself." 
 
 There was a general exclamation from all except Turner. 
 Browne leaned back in his chair and enjoyed the commotion 
 he had raised. It was at this moment that recollection came 
 to Turner. Three pairs of feminine eyes were bent upon 
 Browne's rubicund visage. Turner's turned with some curi- 
 osity on Mrs. Redcliffe. Her face was as interested as that 
 of her daughter, or Mrs. O'Keefe. There was no trace of 
 any other expression on it. Like his friend, Turner dis- 
 missed from his mind once and for all any suspicions that 
 there was anything Lady Wrotham could know about Mrs. 
 Redcliffe that she would wish to be hidden. 
 
 " Now that we have heard that important piece of news," 
 said Norah O'Keefe, when the first expression of surprise had 
 died down, " we, want to hear more about Lady Wrotham 
 herself. None of us know her. If she is going to be our 
 new neighbour, we want to know what she is like." 
 
 " You'll like her," said Browne loyally. The disturbance 
 of mind he had admitted to Turner was not to be disclosed 
 to any one else, not even to these three ladies with whom he 
 lived on terms of considerable intimacy. " You'll like her. 
 She is a wonderful woman. Full of energy — and of good 
 works. She'll take the lead." 
 
 Mrs. O'Keefe made a slight grimace. " Will she take the 
 lead of all of us ? " she asked. " That looks rather as if our 
 
At the White House 25 
 
 pleasant little society will be altered. None of us take the 
 lead now. We are a small and very contented republic/' 
 
 " Even old Sir Joseph was one of us," said Hilda. " He 
 would come in and out just as he liked, and if we wanted to 
 see him we went to the Abbey, and were always sure of a 
 welcome. I suppose that will be altered now, and we shall 
 have to wait till we're sent for." 
 
 " There is one among us," said Turner dryly, " who is quite 
 ready to take the lead." 
 
 Mrs. Redcliffe turned a reproving face on him. " Now 
 you know that is not allowed," she said. "We all get on 
 very well together, and there is not one of our neighbours 
 that we are not always pleased to see — all of us." 
 
 " Please make an exception in my case," said Turner, 
 unabashed. 
 
 " As long as we behave ourselves we are treated with 
 favour," said No rah O'Keefe. 
 
 " And gracious condescension," added Hilda. 
 
 Browne's broad face showed some bewilderment. He was 
 not at his ease with ellipsis. " I suppose you mean Mrs. 
 Prentice," he said. " To tell you the truth, I'm afraid there 
 may be a little friction between Lady Wrotham and Mrs. 
 Prentice at first, though I shouldn't like it to be known that I 
 said so. Her ladyship asked me a lot about the condition of 
 the villagers. She means to take an active interest in them 
 as she does in the property at Hurstbury. Yes ; I'm half 
 afraid there may be a little friction." 
 
 " There'll be no friction," said Turner. " The lady in 
 question will drop milk and honey in her talk, and all will be 
 sweetness and submission." 
 
 " Now I can't have any more of this," said Mrs. Redcliffe 
 decisively. " At this table we criticise nobody." 
 
 " Dear Mrs. Redcliffe," said Norah affectionately, " if all 
 the world were as charitable as you, it would be a pleasanter 
 place to live in." 
 
 " It would be a much worse place if we w r ere all to give 
 rein to our tongues in criticising our neighbours," said 
 Mrs. Redcliffe. " But tell us more about Lady Wrotham. 
 Mr. Browne. We have not heard half enough yet." 
 
 But the entrance of the maid put a stop to further con- 
 fidences for the time being, and, although the subject was 
 returned to and discussed in all its bearings at intervals during 
 
26 Exton Manor 
 
 the progress of the meal and later on in the evening, the con- 
 versation need not be further recorded. 
 
 The four elders played a rubber of Bridge after dinner, over 
 which Turner was didactic, Browne sleepy and rather stupid, 
 Mrs. O'Keefe erratic but charmingly apologetic, and Mrs. 
 Redcliffe quietly capable. It was not a very rigorous game, 
 and there was more general conversation in its intervals than 
 would be looked upon with favour at the Portland Club, but 
 it was enjoyed by those who took part in it and were accus- 
 tomed to fill up their sociable evenings in this manner. Hilda 
 amused herself with the piano, and occasionally came to the 
 table to look over her mother's hand, or that of Norah 
 O'Keefe, and to give her opinion of the play when the hand 
 was over. 
 
 It was a scene that would have pleased an observer — the 
 little group of friends, so dissimilar, and yet at ease and con- 
 tented with one another ; the play of face and gesture over 
 the game, and the little spurts of talk between whiles ; the 
 bright, comfortable room set in the warm heart of the 
 country, now dead still in the quiet night, but homely in the 
 sense of its closeness to the human dwellings it enwrapped. 
 Nowhere is there to be found so complete a feeling of pro- 
 tection and neighbourliness as about a house in the country 
 within reach of a village, even if no other human dwelling 
 can be seen from its windows. The crowded proximity of 
 a town affords little to compare with it. The lives of the 
 town dweller's nearest neighbours are of no interest to him ; 
 perhaps their very faces are unknown. Scattered about the 
 great city he has many friends, but they are divided from 
 him by more than mere distance. He finds delight in his 
 own hearthstone, but it is isolated. Let him shut the door 
 on its warmth, and he is cut off from it completely ; he is 
 in another world. Its rays strike no further than the walls of 
 his house. But if you shut the door for a moment on such 
 a room as the parlour in the White House, and stand outside 
 under the stars, the very silence of the night brings com- 
 panionable thoughts. The brain is soothed by the stillness, 
 and you know that not very far off are the houses, not of 
 strangers, but of your neighbours, whose lives are near to 
 you, although you may know very few of them. And your 
 own house has a personality, partly its own, partly the echo 
 of yours. It is familiar to every one of those who are living 
 
At the White House 27 
 
 near you. It has its place in the picture of their surround- 
 ings, which exists as a background to all their thoughts. 
 Some of them have had it before them to-night as they 
 have sat and talked round their own fires. Some of them 
 have it before them now as you stand there. It is a con- 
 stant and living part of their experience. And so there is 
 both the grateful retirement and the sense of being close 
 to the heart of human life. What is there to compare with 
 this about a house in a terrace, or a street, surrounded by alien 
 life, completely negligible to the thoughts of those dwelling 
 near it, or passing to and fro ? 
 
 Mrs. O'Keefe's Irish maid arrived at half-past ten, and 
 Turner's groom a quarter of an hour later. There was a 
 little bustle of departure, and Turner drove off down to the 
 village with No rah sitting beside him, and Bridget and 
 Robert Kitcher in company on the back seat. Nothing much 
 was said between the lady and gentleman during the short 
 drive to the house in the village street at which the lady 
 and her maid alighted, nothing at all that provided any 
 interest for the pair who overheard it, but Turner's mind 
 was full of a sardonic triumph. As he drove back again 
 past the inn and the mill, across the bridge, past the Abbey 
 gate and buildings, and across the little stretch of park which 
 lay between them and the wood in which his own house lay, 
 two miles distant from the village, he chuckled at intervals to 
 himself as he thought of Browne trudging up the hill to 
 Upper Heath House in his pumps, and pictured the muttered 
 wrath of his rival at his own success in manoeuvring a five 
 minutes' tete-a-tete with the lady. " That's one to you, 
 Thomas," he said aloud to the birds of night and to Robert 
 Kitcher, sitting in respectful sympathy behind him ; and 
 again, " Poor old Maximilian, he hasn't got a look in. 
 Thought he was very smart putting himself next to her at 
 dinner. But she didn't look at him once. Ha, ha ! You 
 may put up your shutters, Mr. Browne." 
 
 When he had passed through the gate which enclosed the 
 Abbey precincts, and that which gave entrance to the wood- 
 land road which he now had to follow, he fell silent for a 
 time, and when he spoke again the current of his thoughts 
 had changed. " I wonder if there's a good lot in this box, :> 
 he said. "The last was poor." And then, "There's one 
 of Anthony Hope's, anyhow. I saw it announced." 
 
28 Exton Manor 
 
 Presently they came out of the wood into a clearing, in 
 which stood a white verandahed house, looking down a 
 gently sloping valley. The wind had dropped, and the night 
 was full of the tinkle of running water. Stretching down 
 the valley was Turner's chain of fish tanks, with streams, 
 ditches, sluices, gates, and everything ingeniously ordered for 
 the benefit of the industry to which he devoted his attention. 
 The moon now rode high, and, as he turned for a moment 
 to survey his little kingdom before entering the house, shone 
 on the roofs of the huts scattered about at the head of the 
 valley, on squares and oblongs v and lines of water, dwindling 
 in size until they were lost in the gloom of the surrounding 
 trees. The scene had something strange in it; It might 
 have reminded a traveller of something he had seen in out-of- 
 the-way parts of the world, where men carry on unfamiliar 
 operations in the depths of bush, or scrub, or jungle. But 
 there was nothing strange in it to Turner, and, with a mere 
 turn of the head, he passed into the house, while Kitcher, 
 with no glance at all, led his horse round to the stable. 
 
 The room which Turner entered when he had hung up his 
 coat and hat was attractive enough, although furnished with- 
 out any regard to modern notions of aesthetics. It was 
 attractive because of its extreme air of comfort. The easy- 
 chairs in front of the fire were of the deepest, the Turkey 
 carpet was as thick a one as could be bought for money, and 
 its somewhat crude colours, rinding nothing in the room to 
 clash with, only added to its brightness. The room was 
 lighted by a bay window, which was now thickly curtained 
 by warm-coloured hangings. A table stood in this window, 
 on which was a spirit tantalus, glasses, mineral water, and 
 a lemon squeezer containing a lemon ready to be operated 
 upon. A copper kettle buzzed on the hob of the hearth, in 
 which the fire glowed invitingly. By the side of one of the 
 great, old easy-chairs stood another table, upon which was 
 a green-shaded reading lamp, a paper-knife, a large tobacco 
 jar, and half-a-dozen seasoned briar pipes. A black spaniel 
 lay on the hearthrug, and wagged a welcoming stump as his 
 master entered the room, watching out of the corner of a 
 liquid brown eye for a sign as to whether it would be ex- 
 pected of him to disturb his ease to the extent of rising to offer 
 a greeting. 
 
 But a stranger coming into the room would have looked 
 
At the White House 29 
 
 first at none of these things. His eye would have been caught 
 by the rows and rows of books which lined two of the walls 
 from floor to ceiling. Many books are not an unusual ap- 
 panage to a room of this sort, and the best way to house them 
 is in fixed, open shelves. But these books and shelves were 
 decidedly unusual. The shelves were all of one size, and the 
 books were nearly of a size too, and most of them in bright 
 bindings. A closer inspection, of the most cursory, would 
 have revealed the fact that they were all novels, of the sort 
 that is issued in great numbers every }^ear, and sold at the 
 price of six shillings, or four and sixpence with the usual dis- 
 count. The total number on Turner's shelves must have 
 reached four figures, and very curious they looked in their 
 long, unbroken ranks, not at all like the books of an ordinary 
 library. In the middle of the floor stood a good-sized box, 
 from which the lid had been removed. This, also, was full 
 of books. Turner took them out and arranged them on an- 
 other table which stood by the door, reading the lettering on 
 the cover of each one as he did so. They had not come from 
 a circulating library, but from a bookseller, and all of them 
 were new, as they had left the binders. There were between 
 twenty and thirty of them, and their owner looked at them 
 with satisfaction. " It's a good week," he said, as he put the 
 last in its place by the others. " We're getting into the thick 
 of the season now." 
 
 He went upstairs to his bedroom, and returned a few 
 minutes later. He had taken off his collar and tie, and his 
 tall form looked odd and old-fashioned in an ancient Paisley 
 shawl dressing-gown, with a pair of worked slippers just as 
 ancient beneath it. He went up to the line of books on the 
 table and selected one, which he put by the reading-lamp. 
 " Don't care about anything hot to-night," he said, as he went 
 to the other table, and mixed whisky and soda in a long glass. 
 The old dog in front of the fire wagged his stump of a tail 
 sleepily, thinking himself addressed. 
 
 Turner stood in front of the fire while he carefully filled 
 a pipe out of the big tobacco jar, and surveyed his orderly 
 book-shelves with a look of gratification. Then his face be- 
 came reflective. " No, it would never do," he burst out at 
 last. " Never do. First thing that would happen — this 
 would be knocked off. You're very well off, Thomas Tur- 
 ner. Don't make a fool of yourself." Then he lit his pipe, 
 
30 Exton Manor 
 
 and said between the puffs, " Maximilian — Browne — very 
 lucky — fellow." 
 
 Turner was now prepared for his night's debauch. He put 
 some logs of wood and a shovelful of coal on to the fire, took 
 a large, fat cushion from the easy-chair, settled himself in it, 
 with his legs on another chair, placed the cushion on his 
 stomach, and on the cushion the book which he had selected 
 from his supply, and began to read.' After that there was 
 silence in the room for something like tfiree hours, broken 
 only by the regular turning of the leaves, the fall of a coal, 
 or the stirring of the old dog in his dreams. At intervals 
 Turner would lay down the book, and fill another pipe, or 
 get himself up out of the chair to replenish the fire. Then 
 he would return to his reading with renewed zest, and so the 
 hours crept on until it was getting on for three o'clock in the 
 morning. At last he came to the final page, and rising, 
 stretched himself with a yawn. " That's a capital one," he 
 said. " Couldn't tell what was coming till half-way through. 
 I haven't got many more like that, I'm afraid. Come along, 
 Caesar ; time we went to bed." He lit a candle, turned out 
 the lamp, and went upstairs, followed slowly by the old dog. 
 
 Nearly four hours before, Maximilian Browne had stumped 
 up the hill from the White House to Upper Heath in his 
 pumps, as Turner had pictured him. He had also sworn 
 lustily and aloud as he walked, his good-humoured face dis- 
 torted with annoyance. By the time he reached his house he 
 was in a rather more equable mood. There were few books 
 in the room which he entered, but it was as comfortable a 
 bachelor's den, in its way, as Turner's. He was welcomed 
 by three fox-terriers, in whose company he smoked a pipe 
 before retiring to rest, and read an article in the Field t with 
 most of which he found himself in substantial agreement. 
 He was in bed and snoring by half-past eleven. The last 
 words he said to himself as he laid his head on the pillow 
 were, " Well, I don't know why I should make such a fuss. 
 After all, he's welcome." 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 THE VICARAGE 
 
 Tpie Reverend William Prentice sat at one end of the vicarage 
 breakfast-table, and his wife, behind the tea-cups, at the 
 other. The Vicar was a man of about fifty years of age. 
 His clean-shaven face was not unattractive. There was a 
 hint of obstinacy about the set of the jaw, which was heavier 
 than the thinness of brow and cheekbone seemed to demand, 
 but the mouth was amiable. Mr. Prentice, perhaps, would 
 have liked to hear it said that he had the face of an ascetic. 
 It had some slight indications that way, but stopped short at 
 the half-way house of clericalism. 
 
 Mr. Prentice undoubtedly succeeded in conveying the idea 
 of being clerical, and the shape of his collar and waistcoat, 
 and the various metal tokens he displayed on his watch-chain 
 would no doubt have informed an observer, skilled in reading 
 such signs, exactly what his views were likely to be upon any 
 question of ecclesiastical interest that might be discussed be- 
 fore him. He did not look as if any considerable trouble had 
 ever befallen him, and his lines now certainly seemed to have 
 fallen in pleasant places. 
 
 Mrs. Prentice was not more than forty-five. She too was 
 thin ; thin in her upright, active body ; thin in her face, with 
 a thin, straight nose, and thin, tight lips ; and, her critics 
 would probably have added, with a thin, but rigid, intelligence. 
 
 " Bacon, my dear ? " said her husband, uncovering the dish 
 in front of him. 
 
 " No, thank you," said Mrs. Prentice, in a tone which 
 meant more than her words. It was the season of Lent, a.nd 
 Mrs. Prentice was fasting, on a principle of her own, and 
 liked it to be known that she was doing so. 
 
 31 
 
32 Exton Manor 
 
 Mr. Prentice helped himself apologetically from the dish. 
 He, also, was fasting, on a principle of his own, which did not 
 involve the loss of his morning bacon. He had to keep up 
 his strength. 
 
 " I have heard from Freddy," said Mrs. Prentice, putting 
 down a letter she had been reading by the side of her plate. 
 " He will be down for Easter." Frederick Prentice was 
 the only child of the Vicar of Exton, and there was an ex- 
 pression on his mother's face, as she mentioned his name, 
 which seemed to show that he filled a large proportion of 
 any tender place which might exist in her heart. The Vicar's 
 face grew no softer at her statement ; perhaps it became a 
 trifle more severe. 
 
 " I shall be glad to see Fred," he said. " He honours us 
 very little with his presence, and there are things that I wish 
 to say to him." 
 
 The look of pleasure disappeared from Mrs. Prentice's face. 
 " How can you expect him to be always running down here, 
 William ? " she said, rather sharply. " He has his work to do, 
 and the journey is expensive." 
 
 " He does no work on Sunday," retorted the Vicar, " and 
 I expect very little on Saturday. I very much doubt whether 
 he is doing as much as he ought on the other days of the 
 week. And we know that he does pay visits, and makes 
 longer journeys to do so than he would have to if he came 
 home." 
 
 " You are talking of when he went into Devonshire to 
 shoot with Sir George Sheepshanks. I think it was wise of 
 him to do that. It is not every young man reading for the 
 bar who is asked to the country house of a judge." 
 
 " I dare say not," returned the Vicar, relinquishing the 
 point. " But, at an}^ rate, his extravagant habits still con- 
 tinue. I received a bill from his tailor for quite a large 
 amount only two days ago, and " 
 
 " Why did you not tell me of it ? " 
 
 •-' I did not wish to trouble you until I had thought over 
 what could be done. It is absurd to send in the bill to me, 
 and I am certainly not going to make myself responsible any 
 further for Fred's debts. He has a good allowance, but he is 
 evidently greatly exceeding it. Before we know where we 
 are we shall have another financial crisis." 
 
 " After all, William, you have not had to pay his debts. 
 
The Vicarage 33 
 
 I know he was very extravagant at Oxford, but the punish- 
 ment has fallen on his own shoulders." 
 
 " That is not the right way to put it, Agatha. His god- 
 father left him two thousand pounds, with the object of help- 
 ing him through his education, and so forth. His trustees, 
 of whom I am one, have absolute discretion as to how it 
 should be used for his benefit ; but he was not to have it, or 
 any portion of it, for his own use until he is twenty- five." 
 
 " I know all that." * 
 
 " I don't think you know the meaning of it. I was very 
 anxious to keep the sum, with the interest that had accrued to 
 it, intact until he should really need it for some definite pur- 
 pose. As you know, I paid for his education entirety myself, 
 and am prepared to make him an adequate allowance until he 
 is able to make a living. He piled up tremendous debts at 
 Oxford, and more than half his legacy has gone to pay them 
 off. And it looks to me as if he were beginning again in the 
 . same way. The fact is that he looks upon this money as a 
 margin up to which he can spend. It is nothing to him that 
 he will exhaust it in this foolish way. It is not honest, and it 
 seems nonsense to talk about the punishment falling on his 
 own shoulders." 
 
 Mrs. Prentice bridled. " I hope you will not talk of what 
 [ say being nonsense," she said. " It does not appear to be 
 nonsense to me. I do not defend Fred for his extravagance 
 at Oxford ; although, of course, as he said at the time, two 
 hundred and fifty pounds a year is a small allowance at a col- 
 lege like Magdalen. But the money that paid his debts is his 
 own, and if he has already spent it, or part of it, he will lose 
 the benefit of it in the future. You can't have your cake and 
 eat it too." 
 
 A dull flash of annoyance mounted the Vicar's cheeks. " I 
 am quite aware of that fact, Agatha," he said, with voice 
 slightly raised. " But you forget entirely what I have done 
 for Fred. It would have been quite within my powers as 
 trustee — indeed, it is what Mr. Goldsmith intended — to have 
 paid for his Oxford career out of his legacy, and also for his 
 expenses while reading for the bar. I took a pride in not 
 doing so, but I might just as well have kept the money in my 
 pocket. And as for two hundred and fifty pounds a year being 
 a poor allowance for an undergraduate, let me tell you that 
 it is a very good allowance. I did very well myself on two 
 
 B (15) 
 
34 Exton Manor 
 
 hundred, and left the university without a pennyworth of 
 debt." 
 
 " But you were not at Magdalen," persisted Mrs, Prentice. 
 " The standard of living there is higher, and Fred was pop- 
 ular. As I say, I don't defend his extravagance, but I should 
 have been sorry if he had not been able to live on equal terms 
 with his fellow undergraduates." 
 
 • " Who for the most part are a good deal above him in social 
 status," interrupted the Vicar. " I am aware that that gives 
 you considerable satisfaction. I must say that it gives me 
 very little. I should have thought more highly of Fred if he 
 had lived with the men of his own standing, and kept within 
 his quite ample allowance. There is an old proverb about 
 « brass and earthenware pots which you may remember." 
 
 " I hope I am very far from being a snob, as you seem to 
 imply, William," said Mrs. Prentice ; " but I cannot forget 
 that rny family is an old and distinguished one, and " 
 
 " And that you came down in the world when you married 
 me," interrupted her husband. " I know you can't. And I 
 can't forget that your assumptions of high ancestry rest on 
 very slight evidence. However, I am not going into that 
 question now. I have received a bill from Fred's tailors of 
 no less than eighty pounds odd. I say it is nothing less than 
 scandalous that such a bill should be forthcoming a year after 
 he was freed of debt and started clear again. What is to be 
 done about it ? " 
 
 The magnitude of the sum surprised Mrs. Prentice enough 
 to turn her thoughts from the side-issue into which the con- 
 versation had been directed. " Is it as much as that ? " she 
 asked. " There must be some mistake." 
 
 " I am afraid that I have very little hope of it ; but if it is 
 so, Fred will no doubt let me know. I shall write to the tailors 
 and tell them that I am not the person to whom my son's 
 accounts should be sent. He is of age, and I am not respon- 
 sible for them. And there I suppose I must leave it till Fred 
 comes home. I shall talk to him very seriously, and I hope I 
 may rely upon your doing the same, Agatha." 
 
 Mrs. Prentice replied that he might so rely on her, but with- 
 out exhibiting any great amount of indignation, and there was 
 silence for a time at the vicarage breakfast-table. 
 
 Presently Mrs. Prentice said, " I hear that Mrs. Redcliffe 
 had a dinner party last night. I do think, William, that after 
 
 (31) 
 
The Vicarage 35 
 
 all you have said in the pulpit and elsewhere about the duties 
 of Lent, it is a little too bad that she should set your opinions 
 at defiance so far as to choose a Friday night for her enter- 
 tainment." 
 
 " A dinner party ? " repeated the Vicar. " It was hardly 
 that, was it ? Mrs. O'Keefe told me that she was going to 
 dine at the White House. I did not gather that it was to be 
 a dinner part}*-." 
 
 " You might have known, I think, that wherever Mrs. 
 O'Keefe went, Mr. Browne would be hanging on her skirts, 
 ,jpA, of course, that odious Captain Turner as well. I cer- 
 tainly call a party of five a dinner party, and I have no doubt 
 that they played cards afterwards — for money. How can you 
 possibly expect the villagers to take to heart what 3/ou say, and 
 to learn something of the duties which the Church teaches, 
 when such an example is set them ? I do think, William, 
 that it is your duty to see Mrs. Redcliffe and to remonstrate 
 with her on the subject," 
 
 " I hardly think I should like to do that, Agatha," said the 
 Vicar quietly. 
 
 " And pray why not ? I do all that I can to help you in 
 these matters, for I think them of the greatest importance. 
 How can I ask the children to give up sugar during Lent, and 
 the women gossiping, and the men tobacco, when those who 
 ought to set them an example are allowed to act as they please 
 with impunity ? It is most uphill work as it is. Try as I 
 may to set an example in these things myself, a mere handful 
 follows me, and out of those that do, or say they do, I could 
 not put my finger on one who does not expect to get some 
 substantial return for it. I think Mrs. Redcliffe deserves 
 remonstrance, and ought to get it." 
 
 M Well/ perhaps you had better remonstrate with her your- 
 self," said the Vicar pleasantly ; and Mrs. Prentice resolved 
 that she would, but did not publish her intention. 
 
 She set out on her errand an hour later, after attending to 
 various household duties, and took the road to the White 
 House, with a sense of expectation, not wholly allied to 
 religious aspiration. 
 
 Mrs. Redcliffe was wandering round her flower borders in 
 company with her daughter. The wind of the previous night 
 had died away, and the day was warm and sunny. The 
 reviving life of Spring seemed to be making growth that was 
 
36 Exton Manor 
 
 almost visible in the mild air. The daffodils, planted in great 
 drifts of gold under the trees of the wilder parts of the garden, 
 made it bright with colour, and the early flowers in the bor- 
 ders were already ushering in that long procession of bloom 
 which would only end with the far-off days of late autumn. 
 |The birds sang lustily on this fine spring morning, and Mrs. 
 1 RedcliftVs garden was a pleasant place for a stroll of inspection. 
 
 Mrs. Prentice walked across the grass towards them. " She 
 has come to be unpleasant," whispered Hilda, regarding her 
 approach, but Mrs. Redcliffe went forward to meet her with a 
 smile of welcome. 
 
 " Isn't this a delightful little burst of Spring ? " she said. 
 " We were just going up into the shrub garden. Do come 
 with lis/' 
 
 But Mrs. Prentice was not to be moved from her purpose. 
 " I should like to say a few words to you," she said primly. 
 
 Hilda's face grew antagonistic, and she kept her hold on her 
 mother's arm as Mrs. Redcliffe replied, " Then let us go in 
 and sit down. We can come out again afterwards." 
 
 The doors of the pleasant sitting-room were wide open to 
 the garden. Hilda showed no signs of leaving the two elder 
 women to themselves as they went across the lawn towards the 
 house, but Mrs. Redcliffe gently disengaged her arm. " Go 
 and pick me a big bunch of daffodils," she said — " the Hors- 
 feldii " ; and Hilda left them. 
 
 Mrs. Prentice showed slight signs of nervousness as she 
 seated herself facing Mrs. Redcliffe, who waited quietly for 
 her to begin. " I called to see you in a friendly wa3 r ," she 
 began, with some hesitation — " I hope you will not misunder- 
 stand me ; it is so important that those of us in a position to 
 exercise influence should see eye to eye in matters of Church 
 discipline, and — well, my husband has been preaching about 
 the duties of Lent, and I thought I would ask if you could see 
 your way to — to uphold me and the Vicar in — in our endeav- 
 ours to " She tailed off into ineffective silence. It 
 
 was not at all the opening she had intended to use as she had 
 walked up to the White House, but, confronted by Mrs. Red- 
 cliffe's calm steady eyes, she had felt impelled to dispense with 
 her intended air of remonstrance. 
 
 " In your endeavours to — what ? " asked Mrs. Redcliffe. 
 
 " To set an example in the way of Lenten observance," said 
 Mrs. Prentice, gathering courage. 
 
The Vicarage 37 
 
 A slight smile was apparent in Mrs. Redcliffe's face. 
 M What particular example of Lenten observance do you al- 
 lude to ? " she asked. 
 
 Mrs. Prentice was nettled by the smile, and recovered her 
 assurance. " I refer/' she said, " to the practice of giving din- 
 ner parties on a Friday. It is one of the things that, in my 
 own house, I am very particular about. For years I have 
 made it a practice never to dine out, or to ask people to 
 dinner on a Friday throughout the year. I do not say that I 
 make a strict rule of it except in Lent. Then I make it the 
 strictest rule." 
 
 " Well, Mrs. Prentice," said the other lad} T , " your rules for 
 your own household are no concern of mine, and you will for- 
 give me for saying plainly that my rules for my household are 
 no concern of yours — or of the Vicar's. We shall be none the 
 worse friends, I hope, if we recognize that our views upon ail 
 matters are not quite the same, and leave one another to act as 
 each thinks best. Shall we go into the garden now ? " 
 
 She rose from the sofa on which she had been sitting, but 
 Mrs. Prentice kept her seat. " But surely," she cried, leaning 
 forward, " you do not deny the right of the Church to lay down 
 rules for our guidance ! " 
 
 '■ I deny the right of another woman to make rules for my 
 guidance," replied Mrs. Redcliffe. " Come, Mrs. Prentice, 
 let us go into the garden." 
 
 She spoke evenly, her grey eyes fixed upon her visitor with 
 no unkindness, no resentment, but steadily regarding her. 
 The words were said in a manner that made it possible to 
 ignore the rebuke which they contained, or, at any rate, not 
 actively to resent it. Mrs. Prentice decided so to take them. 
 She would willingly have said more, but found it impossible to 
 do so with the other standing calmly before her, waiting for her 
 to rise. She got up from her chair, and Mrs. Redcliffe turned 
 to the open door. " You have heard the great news, I sup- 
 pose," she said as they went out together, " the news that has 
 come to Exton ? " 
 
 Mrs. Prentice did not like to acknowledge that any news of 
 importance which had to do with Exton was unknown to her, 
 but she was feeling a trifle shaken by the way her remonstrance 
 had been returned to her, and said, without fencing, " No ; 
 what is that ? " 
 
 " Lady W r rotham is coming to settle down at the Abbey." 
 
 (ii) 
 
38 Exton Manor 
 
 V Lady Wrotham ? The Abbey ? " exclaimed Mrs. Prentice. 
 "Oh, but are you sure that is the case ? I have heard 
 nothing of it." 
 
 " Very likely not," returned Mrs. Redcliffe. " Mr. " 
 
 " And surely I should have heard of it," interrupted Mrs. 
 Prentice ; " I or the Vicar, if it had been likely, I think there 
 must be some mistake." 
 
 Hilda Redcliffe came across the lawn and joined them. 
 She had a great sheaf of daffodils in the basket on her arm. 
 
 " Thank you, darling," said her mother. " Put them down 
 by the door. Mrs. Prentice quite refuses to believe Mr. 
 Browne's news about Lady Wrotham." 
 
 " Oh ? " said Hilda, regarding that lady with no great favour. 
 "Mr. Browne? Does the information come from him?" 
 risked Mrs. Prentice. 
 
 " Yes. He dined with us last night, you know. He had 
 just come back from Hurstbury." 
 
 Mrs. Prentice blinked at the calm mention of the Friday 
 evening dinner. 
 
 " That accounts, then, for our not being the first to hear 
 of it," she said. " I have no doubt that Lady Wrotham will 
 write to me — or to the Vicar, if she has not already done so." 
 
 " Do you know Lady Wrotham ? " asked Hilda, with clear, 
 antagonistic eyes. 
 
 " My dear Hilda," returned Mrs. Prentice, " Lord Wro- 
 tham presented the Vicar to this living. He would hardly 
 have been likely to have done so to a stranger." 
 
 " Oh," said Hilda again. 
 
 " Have you ever been to Hurstbury Court ? " asked Mrs. 
 Redcliffe. There was no hint of malice in her tone, but she 
 must have known that had Mrs. Prentice ever been at 
 Hurstbury Court she would have heard of it. 
 
 " Well — not exactly," said Mrs. Prentice hesitatingly. 
 M I have never been able to leave home at the time Lady 
 Wrotham asked — might have ask^d — us there. Of course, 
 we should have gone to the funeral if it had been at Hurst- 
 bury ; but up in Northumberland — it is such a long journey ; 
 and, what with Lent coming, and one thing and another, the 
 Vicar and I could hardly spare the time. I do not think that 
 Lady Wrotham minded." 
 
 " I shouldn't think she would in the least," said Hilda. 
 " What is she like, Mrs. Prentice ? Is she tall or short, 
 
 CS7) 
 
The Vicarage 39 
 
 stout or thin, stately or meek ? We want to know all about 
 her now she is coming to live' here." 
 
 " I think you had better wait and form your own judg- 
 ment, Hilda," replied Mrs. Prentice. "It is possible that 
 Lady Wrotham may wish to live in absolute retirement here, 
 so soon after her loss. But in time no doubt she will hope 
 to know something of the people on the Manor." 
 
 " But, of course, you will be going to the Abbey from the 
 first," said Hilda, " as you are a friend of Lady Wrotham's." 
 
 " The Vicar and I will naturally be seeing her," said Mrs. 
 Prentice. " But I did not say I was a friend of Lady Wro- 
 tham's, Hilda. I can hardly claim to be that. She very 
 seldom comes to Ext on, -and " 
 
 " Mr. Browne said she had not been here for five and 
 twenty years," said Hilda. 
 
 " Is it as long as that ? Did — did Mr. Brown say when 
 she intended to come here •? " 
 
 " He did not say," replied Mrs. Redcliffe. " But I gath- 
 ered that it would be before long." 
 
 " Ah ! Well, of course, we shall be hearing all her plans. 
 Now I am afraid I must be going off. Good-bye, Mrs. Red- 
 cliffe. The garden is getting to look lovely. Good-bye, 
 Hilda. By the bye, you will be pleased to hear that Fred is 
 coming down for Easter." 
 
 Hilda looked away for a moment across the park. 
 
 " Oh," she said again, coldly, but her cheeks were a little red. 
 
 They had reached the gate, and Mrs. Prentice took herself 
 off down the road, while the mother and daughter turned to 
 continue their stroll. 
 
 " What did she want, mother ? " asked Hilda. " I am sure 
 it was something disagreeable by her face." 
 
 " It was not very agreeable," said Mrs. Redcliffe. " She 
 made a mistake in coming, but she was actuated by a sense of 
 duty." 
 
 " She is one of those people whose sense of duty always 
 makes them impertinent," said Hilda, out of her twenty 
 years' experience. " I think she is an odious woman, mother. 
 How snobbish of her to pretend she is a friend of Lady 
 Wrotham's, when it was quite plain that she had never set 
 eyes on her." 
 
 " You must not talk in that way, dear. She did not say 
 she was a friend. She said she was not." 
 
 (29) 
 
40 Exton Manor 
 
 " She meant that we should think it. Where can she have 
 met Lady Wrotham ? She has never been to Hurstbury, and 
 she has not seen her here. She is a snob, mother, and you 
 cannot say she is not. And she is impertinent and interfering 
 too. What did she want to see you about ? " 
 
 " We won't go into that, dear/' said Mrs. Redcliffe. " And 
 I don't want you to become hostile to Mrs. Prentice. She is 
 a good woman according to her lights, and if they are not quite 
 the same as ours we must make allowances. It would be 
 very disagreeable in a small place like this if we were to take 
 to quarrelling ." 
 
 " I can't pretend to like Mrs. Prentice, mother, and it is 
 difficult to have ordinary patience with her." 
 
 " I do not find it difficult." 
 
 The girl turned and put her arms round her mother's neck. 
 " Darling mother," she said, " you are sweet and good to 
 everybody, and yet I know you can see their bad points as 
 well as I can. I will take a lesson from you." 
 
 Mrs. Prentice went down the road, turning over in her 
 mind the important piece of news she had just heard. It quite 
 eclipsed the remembrance, which would otherwise have filled 
 her thoughts, of the purpose of her visit to the White House, 
 and its result. When she reached the vicarage she went 
 straight into her husband's study. He was at work on his 
 sermons for the next day, and was not usually interrupted on 
 a Saturday morning, even by his wife. He looked up, with a 
 shade of annoyance on his face, which changed into a look of 
 interest as she disclosed her news. 
 
 " I do think," she said, " that we — that you ought to have 
 been the first to hear of this." 
 
 " I don't know why," said the Vicar. " Neither you nor I 
 have ever met Lady Wrotham in our lives, and it seems to 
 me quite natural that Browne should have been told of her 
 decision." 
 
 " Then I think Mr. Browne ought to have told us first. 
 One hardly likes to have to acknowledge to Mrs. Redcliffe 
 that one has heard nothing of an important change of this 
 sort, which, of course, affects us more than anybody. It was 
 probably all over the village this morning, and it would have 
 been a pretty thing if one of the tradespeople, for instance, 
 had mentioned it to me, and I had known nothing of it." 
 
The Vicarage 41 
 
 " I really don't think I should worry about a little thing 
 like that, Agatha, if I were you. It is small-minded/' 
 
 " I don't agree with you, William. You know how very 
 ready people are here to belittle us, if they get the slightest 
 chance." 
 
 " If it is so, it must be something in ourselves that causes 
 them to do it. As a priest, I ought to be the servant of my 
 parishioners. I have no wish to set myself up as their leader 
 — except, of course, in matters of religion." 
 
 " And it is just in those matters that they slight your claims. 
 Would you believe it, that Mrs. Redcliffe had the effrontery 
 to tell me that, in matters of Church discipline, she acted 
 entirely by her own rule ? " 
 
 " How did you manage to get on to such a subject as that 
 with her ? You — surely, Agatha, you did not go up to the 
 White House to tax her with having one or two people to dine 
 with her last night ? " 
 
 " That is just what I did do, William. You suggested that 
 I should do so yourself." 
 
 The Vicar rose from his chair with an exclamation of im- 
 patience. " It is really too bad," he said, pacing to and fro 
 along the room. " How could you take it upon yourself to 
 do a thing like that ? You know perfectly well that I made 
 no such suggestion." 
 
 " Excuse me, William, but you did. You refused to do it 
 yourself, as I think you ought to have done, and you said, 
 distinctly, ' You had better go up to the White House your- 
 self.' " 
 
 /' Perhaps I did, and it must have been quite obvious that 
 I said so in the way of — what shall I say ? — sarcasm — chaff. 
 You know it was the last thing I should have countenanced. 
 I suppose the fact is that Mrs. Redcliffe told you to mind 
 your own business, and I must say I'm not surprised at it. 
 You make my position very difficult with such interference as 
 that ; which, in any case, would be quite unwarrant- 
 able." 
 
 " I am very sorry you view the matter in that light, Wil- 
 liam. I think you.are grossly unfair to me. I do all I pos- 
 sibly can to support you in the village, and I did not tax Mrs. 
 Redcliffe, as you call it. I talked to her as one woman can to 
 another, or, at any rate, ought to be able to do. You have no 
 cause to be annoyed with me. I own I might as well have 
 
42 Exton Manor 
 
 saved my breath. Mrs. Redcliffe is not a good Churchwoman. 
 Her views I consider most lax on many matters of great im- 
 portance, and I might have known that she would not have 
 listened to reason on a question of this sort/' 
 
 " Mrs. Redcliffe is a very good woman — most charitable 
 and kind-hearted in every way " 
 
 " Kind-hearted ! If you think that is a substitute for Chris- 
 tianity — however, we had better say no more about it. I 
 shall certainly never open my mouth again to Mrs. Redcliffe 
 on such matters/' 
 
 " Nor to any one else, I hope. If I thought it to be my 
 duty to speak to any of the people living about here upon a 
 serious matter, I should not shrink from it. But it is not pos- 
 sible — you ought to know it is not possible — to interfere with 
 the way people choose to conduct their lives in minor points. 
 They only resent it, and no good is done. I preach what I 
 conceive to be the better way. The responsibility rests with 
 them whether they take it or no. You must promise me not 
 to interfere in this way again." 
 
 " I don't want to go against you, William. I only want to 
 assist you in your endeavours to make the people better. If I 
 have made a mistake, I am sorry for it. You do not object, 
 of course, to my giving advice to the poor people ? " 
 
 The corners of the Vicar's mouth curled into a smile. 
 " You know pretty well what I object to," he said. 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 LORD WROTHAM 
 
 The fine weather which came in with the great winds of 
 March continued without intermission until after Easter. 
 The air was warm, and sweet with the scent of fertile soil, 
 exuding odours of Spring. Only the bare branches of the 
 trees gave warning that the time of the good days had not 
 yet arrived, and that there was cold dull weather to come, 
 before this pleasant heat and sunshine could be looked for 
 of right. 
 
 One morning just before Easter, Maximilian Browne, with 
 an open telegram on the breakfast-table before him, was 
 giving anxious instructions to the servant who stood by his 
 side. 
 
 " And tell Mrs. Mitten to be sure to be punctual," he was 
 saying. " We shall not have much time for lunch. His 
 lordship will want to drive round the Manor, and he goes 
 back at five o'clock. Tell her to have everything as nice as 
 possible." 
 
 " Very good, sir," said Mitten. " You will want the cart 
 at half-past nine, I suppose." 
 
 " Er — no — nine o'clock. I — there may be something to 
 see to at the office." 
 
 There was nothing to see to at the office, or if there was 
 Browne changed his mind about seeing to it on his way to 
 the station, for he drove through the village without stopping. 
 Above the bridge and the mill-sluice the tidal river widened 
 into a great stretch of water, fringed with brown reeds. 
 Across it the grey pile of the Abbey could be seen through 
 and above the trees, a fine house, modernized, but with great 
 care. Its many windows w r ere blind, and the flag-staff stood 
 naked on the tower. To the right were the houses and 
 
4^ Exton Manor 
 
 cottages of the village, with red lichen-covered roofs and 
 chimney-stacks, picturesque in their irregularity. Browne, 
 whose waking thoughts were mostly concerned with Exton 
 Manor, reflected as he drove along the road by the lake that 
 its owners had hitherto showed little interest in this portion 
 of their heritage. " I would rather have Exton than Hurst- 
 bury and Shelbraith put together/' he said to himself as he 
 looked across the shining water. 
 
 He drove on for a mile or more along a country road, until 
 a steep dip brought him to a gate, at which Exton Manor 
 ended and the forest began. Then his road lay between great 
 trees and stretching forest glades, across a clear stream and 
 out on to an open heath, again under trees, and finally across a 
 wide expanse of moor, bounded by blue hills and purple 
 woodlands. At a distance of a mile across the moor huddled 
 the little group of new red-brick buildings which marked the 
 railway station, dumped down in the middle of the heather. 
 
 The road was straight, with one or two steep dips. Reach- 
 ing the top of one of these, Browne saw far away in front of 
 him a black spot, which looked like a closed carriage, Hearing 
 the station. He quickened the pace of his horse, and, before 
 he reached the end of the straight stretch of road, met an 
 empty brougham being driven back in the direction of Exton. 
 He gave the reins to his groom, and went through the book- 
 ing-office, and out on to the platform. On the other side of 
 the line Norah O'Keefe, in travelling costume, was walking 
 up and down. Her maid stood by a little pile of luggage, but 
 the mistress was not left alone on that account, for pacing up 
 and down with her was Captain Thomas Turner. 
 
 Browne's face fell perceptibly, but he made his way across 
 the line and joined the pair. " Lord Wrotham is coming down 
 by the 10.15 train," he said with some haste, when he had 
 shaken hands with both of them. " I've come to meet him." 
 
 " It's only half-past nine," said Turner. " You'll have a 
 long time to wait." 
 
 " Where are you off to ? " inquired Browne, regarding him 
 with an eye of suspicion. 
 
 " Taking some fish to Troutbridge," replied Turner 
 promptly. 
 
 ' Thought you weren't going till to-morrow ? " 
 
 " No, I'm going to-day." 
 
 " Captain Turner is going to keep me company as far as 
 
Lord Wrotham 45 
 
 Greathampton," said Norah, anxious to avoid a bickering 
 match. 
 
 " Very kind of him," said Browne. " I suppose you don't 
 mind travelling third-smoking. That's what he generally goes." 
 
 " Are your clocks fast ? " inquired Turner. " Seems a 
 funny thing allowing an hour and a quarter for a five-mile 
 drive." 
 
 " Is Lord Wrotham coming to stay here ? " interrupted 
 Norah. 
 
 '■' No. Just coming for the day to have a look round," 
 replied Browne grumpily. 
 
 " I'm glad of that," she said. " I shouldn't like to have 
 missed him. Tell him how excited we all are at the prospect 
 of seeing him." 
 
 " I don't suppose we shall see much of him when Lady 
 Wrotham comes here," said Browne. " He is giving the 
 place over to her entirely as long as she lives here." 
 
 " And I shall be away when she comes, I suppose. I am 
 not coming back for a month, you know. I'm such a 
 wretched sailor that when I do make up my mind to cross 
 to Ireland I like to stay there." 
 
 " Well, we shall all miss you very much, Mrs. O'Keefe," 
 said Browne earnestly. " The days will be long enough till 
 you come back again." 
 
 " Very well put," commented Turner. " I say, Browne/ 
 if you've got any business to look after here, don't let's keep 
 you. I can see that Mrs. O'Keefe's all right." 
 
 " I haven't got anything to do, thanks," replied Browne 
 shortly. " Are you sure your beastly fish woa't drown, left 
 on a truck like that ? I should go and jog them up if I were 
 you." 
 
 He pointed to where two rows of curiously-shaped closed 
 cans were arranged on a station trolley at the end of the 
 platform. It may be explained for the benefit of the un- 
 initiated that, unless the water in these cans were kept aerated 
 by the jolting of wagon or train during their journey, the fish 
 would die before they got to the end of it. 
 
 " The train will be here in a minute," said Turner. "It's 
 signalled. They'll be all right till then, thanks. If you think 
 they want it, you might give the truck a run down to the 
 other end. I'll time you." 
 
 " I never saw anything like you two for quarrelling," said 
 
46 Exton Manor 
 
 Norah, as Browne turned his back on this ribald suggestion 
 without deigning a reply. " And yet I know you are the 
 very best of friends — David and Jonathan, in fact." 
 
 " Exton is a small place," said Turner. " It don't do to 
 be too particular." 
 
 The train arriving cut short a further interchange of com- 
 pliments. Turner handed Mrs. O'Keefe into a first-class 
 carriage, and busied himself mightily with her comfort. The 
 train went off again, and Browne raised his cap, as a lair 
 face framed in furs, and a thin sardonic one opposite to it, 
 were borne out of his sight. He turned away with an angry 
 exclamation. " Can't make out how I stand that fellow,' 
 he said to himself, as he walked down the platform. " Fact 
 is, he's knocked ail of a heap when he's with the lady — any 
 lady. Don't know how to behave himself decently. Most 
 offensive trait in a fellow's character. Silly ass ! " 
 
 He crossed over to the down platform. There were still 
 three-quarters of an hour to wait, and Browne was not a 
 good waiter. He got through the time somehow. He had 
 a conversation with the station-master, who was sowing 
 seeds in his vegetable garden, and another with a chicken- 
 raising porter. Then he went across to the station hotel 
 and talked to the landlord, becoming so interested in a dis- 
 cussion on the advisability of starting a society for improving 
 the breed of forest ponies, that the train he was awaiting 
 came in as he was still talking, and he had to run across to 
 the station. 
 
 He arrived in time to see a young man who had just alighted 
 standing on the platform and looking about him. He was 
 not particularly distinguished in appearance, except for a 
 look of pleasant good-nature, agreeable enough. He was 
 not above the middle height, but had a slim, active figure, 
 which made him appear tall. He wore a loose tweed over- 
 coat, and was smoking a briar pipe. 
 
 " Ah, here you are," he said, as Browne came panting on 
 to the platform. " How are you ? Air's nice and fresh down 
 here. Ticket ? Here you are, sonny. I'll keep the other 
 half. Jove ! this seems an out-of-the-way place for a station. 
 That's a nice-looking nag of yours, Browne. Want to be 
 off, eh, old girl ? Well, we shan't keep you long." 
 
 They drove out of the station yard and across the brown 
 heath. " About four miles, isn't it ? " inquired Lord Wrotham. 
 
Lord Wrotham 47 
 
 M Just under four to the Abbey gates," said Browne. " But 
 you've been here before, haven't you ? " 
 
 " Not since I was a kiddy. I hardly remember the place 
 at all. Quite exciting to have a look at it again. Jolly 
 pretty place, isn't it ? Everybody says so." 
 
 " It's the prettiest place I've ever seen," replied Browne. 
 " I was only saying to myself as I came along, I'd rather 
 have Exton than Hurstbury and Shelbraith put together." 
 
 " Would you now ? Well, of course there's plenty to do 
 here. Still, with the shooting let, I don't know." 
 
 " You could get the shooting back if you wanted it. 
 Ferraby only holds it on a yearly tenancy." 
 
 " Yes. Weil, of course, I did think of it. I'm not deadly 
 keen on Hurstbury. Too big a house for a bachelor to keep 
 up. But her ladyship had the choice, and she seemed to 
 think she could make herself fairly comfortable down here." 
 
 " She ought to be able to. The house is in tip-top order. 
 Old Sir Joseph didn't care what he spent on it. He's im- 
 proved it a lot." 
 
 " Any people about for her to boss ? " 
 
 Browne had known Lord Wrotham since his schooldays, 
 and was not so much startled at this speech as otherwise he 
 might have been. 
 
 " There are some big houses round," he said. " None 
 very near." 
 
 " Oh, I don't mean them. I mean the people in the village. 
 What's the parson like ? Is he low ? " 
 
 "'No. I believe not. I'm not much on those questions, 
 myself ; but a pal told me he was high." 
 
 " Well, then, he won't suit her ladyship. If he's got any 
 fight in him you'll have some sport. We might have a bet 
 on it. I haven't seen the parson, but I'm willing to risk it, 
 and lay you two to one on the Mater." 
 
 Browne laughed. " I expect you would win," he said. 
 " But look here, Kemsing — Lord Wrotham, I " 
 
 " Oh, for goodness' sake don't begin my lording me," 
 interrupted the young man. " I get quite enough of that." 
 
 " You're my employer," said Browne, with a comfortable 
 chuckle. 
 
 " Yes ; and I'll sack you if you don't do what you're told. 
 Well ? " 
 
 " I wish you'd see if you could manage to give her ladyship 
 
48 Exton Manor 
 
 a hint — you know, just in the ordinary course of conversation 
 — I tried to do it myself, but I couldn't see my way — don't 
 let her think it comes from me " 
 
 " Go on. What sort of a hint ? " 
 
 " Well, we're rather a happy little family down here. I'm 
 jolly glad of it. I've been careful of the tenants I've got 
 here, and they're a nice lot, taking them all round. If she 
 could — w T ell, of course, I don't want her to inconvenience 
 herself — I mean, if she waited a bit — you know, just till she 
 saw what sort of people they were on the Manor, before — 
 before " 
 
 " Before she begins to ramp around ? My stout friend, 
 there's a parable somewhere, although I dare say you have 
 never heard of it, about the leopard changing his spots." 
 
 " I have heard of it. It's in the Bible." 
 
 " Very well, then. Your happy family must either set its 
 back up — in which case there'll be trouble — or it must knock 
 under from the first." 
 
 " That might save the trouble, but — —" 
 
 " Oh, no, it wouldn't. There'll be trouble in any case." 
 
 " I was going to say that I don't think all of them would 
 do it." 
 
 " You've got a few fighters, have you ? It will make all 
 the better sport. Who are the people living here ? Tell me 
 about 'em. There's the Vicar. He's high. Will he come 
 off his perch, or stay up there to be shot at ? " 
 
 " He's a nice fellow, Prentice. He'll hate being interfered 
 with, though. And Mrs. Prentice will hate it worse. Don't 
 care for her much. She's the only woman hereabouts that 
 tries to make mischief." 
 
 " Well, that's two of 'em. Who else ? " 
 
 " There's— er— Mrs. Redcliffe at the White House. We 
 enlarged it for her. One of the best. Quiet, but pretty firm. 
 I should think her ladyship might like her — but, by the bye, 
 she said she knew all about her. Do you know how ? " 
 
 " Never heard of her. Widow ? " 
 
 " Yes ; with one daughter." $ 
 
 " Nice girl ? " 
 
 " Charming girl. Then there's Turner, who has the 
 Fisheries — Captain Turner ; he was in the Buffs. Queer stick, 
 but a good fellow. He don't go to church much, though." 
 
 " He'll have to alter that. Who else ? " 
 
Lord Wrotham 49 
 
 M There's a very nice lady, Mrs. O'Keefe, at Street House." 
 
 " O'Keefe ! What O'Keefe ? " 
 
 " Her husband was a brother of Lord Bally shannon. He 
 was killed in South Africa." 
 
 '• What, poor old Paddy O'Keefe ? In the Grenadiers ? 
 I was at Eton with him. She's quite young then ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes. Lady Wrotham did hint to me that I had let 
 the place to her cheap on that account." 
 
 " Oh, no she didn't, old man. That isn't her way. She 
 taxed you with it outright." 
 
 " Well, yes, she did. But I need scarcely tell you, Kern- 
 sing, that such a thing never entered my head." 
 
 " Of course not, old boy. You'd much rather have had 
 an old lady, wouldn't you ? " 
 
 " I don't know about that. At any rate, there she is, and 
 she's a great acquisition to the placet" 
 
 " Pretty, eh ? " 
 
 " Yc-cs. She's certainly good-looking, and very charming, 
 and all that. I don't know when I've met a nicer woman. 
 'Course, there's nothing in what Lady Wrotham hinted at, 
 far as I'm concerned. Too old for that sort of tiling now. 
 Still, I suppose I'm not too old to take pleasure in the society 
 of a charming woman." 
 
 " By Jove, no, old man ! You're as young as the rest of 
 Do other people take pleasure in her society — Turner, 
 for instance ? " 
 
 " Oh, he's a perfect fool about her. Rather ridiculous in a 
 man of his age — and appearance. Bores her to death, too. 
 Always hanging about her." 
 
 " Ho, ho", my young friend ! I think I see daylight." 
 
 " Eh— what ? " 
 
 " Rivals, and a touch of the green-eyed one." 
 
 " I don't know what you mean, Kemsing. She hasn't got 
 green eyes. They are violet, and one of the best things 
 about her. And as for rivals, Turner's welcome, as far as 
 I'm concerned. I've told him that if he marries her I'll be 
 his best man. That shows that I've got no plans of the sort 
 for myself ; I think you'll acknowledge that. For goodness' 
 sake, don't put that idea into Lady Wrotham 's head, or we 
 shall have no end of a bother." 
 
 " Don't you fear me, Browne. I won't make mischief. 
 You'll have quite enough as it is. What's this place ? " 
 
50 Exton Manor 
 
 They were approaching the gate which divided the forest 
 from the Manor. On a gentle rise to the right, facing a 
 sloping meadow, and backed by a great bank of trees, stood 
 a house of no great pretensions to beauty, but of some im- 
 portance, with its well-kept flower garden and spacious 
 out-buildings. 
 
 " That's Forest Lodge. Ferraby rents it." 
 
 " Oh, that's Ferraby 's place, is it. I suppose they are not 
 here much ? " 
 
 " Only two or three months in the year. They 'liven us 
 up a bit when they do come. But I'm not at all sure that 
 they will hit it off with Lady Wrotham." 
 
 " Probably not. They are of the earth, earthy. How far 
 are we from Exton now ? " 
 
 " Getting on for two miles. This is Forest Farm. It goes 
 with the Lodge. Of course, you know, we're in the Manor 
 now." 
 
 The rest of the drive along a winding, hedge-bordered lane, 
 with grass and arable fields on either side, here and there a 
 farmhouse with a group of cottages, and to the left a slow 
 stream meandering through water meadows, was taken up 
 with subjects having to do with Wrotham's ownership of the 
 estate, and Browne's management of it, also with questions of 
 sport. When they approached the broad sheet of water, on 
 the other side of which the house and the village faced them, 
 Wrotham gave vent to an involuntary expression of surprise 
 and pleasure. " By Jove ! " he said. " I didn't remember 
 it was half as jolly as this." 
 
 Browne's round, red face showed gratification. " Ah ! I 
 thought you'd be pleased," he said. " To tell you the truth, 
 I did hope you would have settled down here yourself. It 
 wouldn't cost half as much to keep up as Hurstbury, and 
 there's more fun to be got out of it. However, it's too late 
 to think about that now. You'll be down here occasionally, 
 I dare say ? " 
 
 ": Oh, I expect I shall spend most of my time here," replied 
 the young man flippantly. " Can't bear to be parted from 
 my mother, you know.'" 
 
 " I say, Kemsing, you'll have to be careful how you speak 
 about Lady Wrotham down here," said Browne seriously. 
 " I haven't breathed a word about the difficulties that may 
 crop up — jolly careful not to. Don't let anybody hear you 
 
Lord Wrotham 51 
 
 say anything — er — disrespectful. It 'ud create a devilish 
 bad impression.' ' 
 
 The young man laughed. " It's an impression that has 
 been created in a good many places," he said. " Her lady- 
 ship and I don't get on, as they say. She's never hidden 
 the fact, and why should I ? However, I don't suppose our 
 disturbances will have much effect on your collection of 
 innocents, for this will probably be my last visit to Exton for 
 some considerable time. Ah, this is the Gate House. I 
 remember this." 
 
 Then followed the inspection of house and gardens. Browne 
 suggested that the adjacent ruins of the old Abbey should 
 also receive notice. Lord Wrotham demurred. 
 
 "Let's leave them for the present, and get through the 
 papers," he said, and they adjourned for an hour to the estate 
 office. 
 
 The news had meantime got about that the new Earl was 
 on view for a strictly limited period, and, when he and Browne 
 emerged from the office and climbed again into the dog-cart, 
 there was a fair proportion of the inhabitants of Exton 
 gathered together on the pavements, or in the village street, 
 for the purpose of viewing the portent. What malign fate 
 was it that brought the Vicar's wife down the road with a 
 warm invitation to luncheon just one minute too late ? She 
 had received the news only half-an-hour before, had spent 
 the intervening time in strenuous efforts to raise the tone of 
 her establishment to the necessary altitude, and, changing 
 her attire, had borne down on the Manor office to deliver the 
 invitation herself, her husband being out for the day. Now 
 she had the mortification of seeing Browne's dog-cart swing- 
 down the road and round the corner of the inn while she was 
 yet a hundred yards away from the point at which it had been 
 standing for the past hour. Should she call out ? Instinc- 
 tively, in her distress, she opened her mouth to do so. But 
 her voice would not carry so far. Should she shout to the 
 bystanders to stop the cart ? The force of lusty male lungs 
 would have the effect that she could not produce by herself. 
 " Stop them, stop them," she cried shrilly. A few heads 
 of the score or so turned towards the disappearing cart, 
 faced round slowly, and remained fixed, their eyes regarding 
 her with bovine blankness. Mrs. Prentice anathematized 
 the stupidity of their owners in language which, in a calmer 
 
52 Exton Manor 
 
 moment, she would have been the first to deprecate — especially 
 in Lent. But, fortunately, she used it inaudibly, and con- 
 gratulated herself later that her influence for good over 
 her husband's flock had not suffered serious damage from her 
 moment of pardonable irritation. When she succeeded in 
 making it understood what it was she wanted, the cart had 
 disappeared. 
 
 But Mrs. Prentice was not yet beaten. She seized upon 
 the recipient of her last discarded hat — a young girl of 
 eighteen, whom she had thought it was most likely to suit — • 
 and sent her speeding off with a message. Gratitude, com- 
 bined with hope, lent the damsel wings. She ran off in the 
 track of the departing wheels, conning her lesson as she went. 
 She was not to forget to say this, she was to be sure and 
 remember to say that. She clung to the two words, " com- 
 pliments " and " honour," upon which her instructions were 
 peremptory 7 . Mrs. Prentice's compliments, and would his 
 lordship do her the honour ? Compliments first. " G " 
 comes before " h." And she was to be sure and say " my 
 lord/' as was only fitting. By the time she had tracked 
 the pair to the home-farm she had her lesson, and delivered 
 it jerkily with what breath remained to her. But she de- 
 livered it to Browne, not being able, when the time came, 
 to support the effulgence of the titled stranger. " Mrs. 
 Prentice's compliments, and will she do you the honour 
 of my lord's lunch at one o'clock ? " Browne disentangled 
 the kernel of the message from the husk. 
 
 " Thank Mrs. Prentice, and say that his lordship is lunching 
 with me," he said, and the damsel departed. 
 
 " Who is Mrs. Prentice ? " asked Wrotham. 
 
 " Oh, the Vicar's wife. You don't want to be bothered 
 with her." And they turned afresh to their inspection of 
 various live-stock. 
 
 The White House, with its sweep of lawn, flanked by big- 
 trees, and backed by a grassy rise, faced them as they came 
 out again into the road. Mrs. RedclifTe and Hilda were at 
 work on one of the flower beds. The trees and shrubs which 
 had been planted as a screen from the road had not yet grown 
 up, and t«he whole garden lay open to view from the seat of 
 Browne's dog-cart. 
 
 " By Jove, that's a pretty place," said Wrotham. 
 
 " Yes, It was a carter's cottage," said Browne, with some 
 
Lord Wrotham 53 
 
 pride. " We altered it ourselves. Made a good job of it, 
 haven't we ? " He waved his hat to the ladies, who had 
 turned towards them at the sound of wheels. They were, 
 too far off for their faces to be seen, but Hilda stood, a young 
 erect figure, regarding them with a frank curiosity. " Mrs. 
 Redcliffe and her daughter,'' said Browne in a low voice. 
 
 " Nice-looking girl," said Wrotham, whose gaze had also 
 been direct. " I should rather like to have a look at that 
 place. Couldn't we pay them a friendly call ? " 
 
 " We'll go in on our way down, after lunch, if you like. 
 I should like you to see what we've done to the place. I 
 believe if we were to put up a few more houses of that sort, on 
 different parts of the estate, we should let them without any 
 difficulty. I'd like to talk it over with you." 
 
 They talked that and other matters over during their 
 drive up the hill to Browne's house, and during the progress 
 of luncheon. Then they inspected Browne's live-stock, and 
 stables, and garden, and afterwards walked down the hill 
 through the woods to the White House, having ordered the 
 cart to follow them by road. 
 
 . Redcliffe received her new landlord with her cus- 
 tomary placidity. The young man chatted to her and Hilda 
 with impartial good-humour. He had that agreeable gift of 
 never being at a loss for something to say, and could put the 
 most diffident at their ease without exertion. His little 
 jokes and pleasantries, although not exactly scintillating with 
 wit, were so evidently the expression of a kindly light-hearted 
 nature, that it was impossible not to enjoy them as heartily 
 as did their inventor. He also had the gift of making himself 
 completely at home, in whatever company he might find 
 himself. His visit to the White House lasted about ten 
 minutes, but by the time he and Browne set off again on their 
 drive to the outlying parts of the Manor, he had been con- 
 ducted all over the house, and admired everything in it. And 
 he had managed during that short period to laugh and chat 
 himself into the good graces of the younger of his two hostesses 
 to such an extent that she became quite enthusiastic about 
 him, as she and her mother stood by the door and watched 
 them down the drive and out of the gate. 
 
 " He really is a delightful person, isn't he, mother ? " she said. 
 
 " He has very pleasant manners," replied Mrs. Redcliffe. 
 
 " I have never met an earl at close quarters before. I am 
 
54 Exton Manor 
 
 quite sure now that earls must be the most attractive body of 
 people in the kingdom. My admiration for the House of 
 Lords, which I never thought much of before, has increased 
 enormously. If Lady Wrotham is half as nice as her son, I 
 am sure we shall all like her immensely." 
 
 "I am afraid she will hardly become so immediately 
 friendly." 
 
 " At any rate, I shall not stand so much in awe of her 
 now. Mother dear, don't you think we might go and have 
 tea with Mrs. Prentice this afternoon ? I don't think Lord 
 Wrotham will have time to call on her, and I am sure she 
 would like to hear what we think of him." 
 
 Mrs. Redcliffe laughed. " I am afraid she will be very 
 displeased with us," she said. " I think we will leave her to 
 find out for herself the honour that has been done to us." 
 
 Mrs. Prentice found it out very shortly, and she was dis- 
 pleased ; seriously displeased. " It is my belief," she said to 
 her husband, " that Hilda made eyes at him from the garden. 
 She and Mrs. Redcliffe, who might have known better, had 
 planted themselves where they could be seen from the road, 
 when he and Mr. Browne drove up. Martha Jellicot saw 
 them. Otherwise, why should he have gone out of his way 
 to call at the White House, for which there was absolutely no 
 reason, when he was too pressed for time to pay me the 
 ordinary courtesy of a short visit ? It is as I told you, 
 William. There is a direct conspiracy on foot to treat you 
 and your holy office with contempt — through me ; and the 
 Redcliffes and Mr. Browne are in it. I shall not lower my 
 dignity by making a complaint, but when Lady Wrotham 
 settles down here, I shall take very good care to warn her of 
 what is going on." 
 
 " I have no doubt you will make a good deal of mischief 
 when Lady Wrotham settles down here," retorted the Vicar 
 in a resigned tone. He had had a tiring day, and was not 
 feeling equal to an active disputation. " It will be very 
 disagreeable, and may do an infinity of harm to my work in 
 the parish. But I suppose I must put up with it. I ought to 
 have learnt to do so by this time." 
 
 Mrs. Prentice was too full of a sense of outraged dignity 
 even to give ear to this speech. 
 
 *' As for Mr. Browne," she said, u I shall tell hifn what I 
 think of him." 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 FRED PRENTICE 
 
 Ox the day following Lord Wrotham's visit, Mrs. Prentice 
 drove into the station to meet her son, who was to bestow the 
 light of his presence on the paternal vicarage for the Easter 
 holidays, and for as long afterwards as he could be induced 
 to do so. Mrs. Prentice was accustomed in her excursions 
 abroad to seat herself on the front seat of her wagonette, and 
 to beguile the tediousness of a drive behind the incompetent 
 vicarage horse by a conversation with the vicarage factotum, 
 in which she endeavoured to instil into that somewhat slow- 
 witted functionary a just view of the claims of the Church of 
 England on the adherence of all and sundry. For Tom Pillie, 
 as his name was, had been rescued from a family of Metho- 
 dists in a neighbouring village, and still had unaccountable 
 leanings towards the faith in which he had been brought up. 
 He had been caught young, in the boot-and-knife boy stage, 
 and had consented to undergo the rite of confirmation during 
 a temporary stupor induced by the profusion of arguments 
 brought to bear on him by Mrs. Prentice ; but on awakening 
 from his trance he had shown signs of backsliding. Mrs. 
 Prentice still had to work hard to preserve the effect of her 
 original success, and to extend it, but she felt that, if she 
 could once induce Tom Pillie to undertake not to accompany 
 his family to chapel when he paid them his fortnightly Sunday 
 visit, she would have accomplished a glorious work, and repaid 
 herself for the suppressed irritation which she had to choke 
 down whenever her convincing statements were met by the 
 obstinate stupidity of her convert. M Whoever shall leave 
 father and mother, Mrs. Prentice had quoted, with the rest 
 of the passage, and it is no wonder that she had hardly been 
 
 55 
 
50 Exton Manor 
 
 able to conceal her impatience when Tom Pillie had countered 
 with," It du say, ' Honour thy father and mother/ and they 
 be good Christian people, a sight better than most." It was 
 only the happily remembered in junction to suffer fools gladly 
 that kept Mrs. Prentice from venting her sense of his obstinate 
 blindness to the truth, in a manner that might have lost hei 
 this wayward lamb, so carefully folded. 
 
 On this occasion, however, Mrs. Prentice sat in the back 
 part of the wagonette, and, leaving Tom Pillie to the enjoy- 
 ment of his own reflections, sat immersed in her own. That 
 these were not altogether pleasant might have been gathered 
 from her face, which was usually expressive of her inmosi 
 thoughts. She had suffered what she considered a gross 
 slight on the previous day, and it was not to be expected that 
 that she should forget it in a hurry. But there was a genuine 
 pleasure ahead of her, which tempered the bitterness of hei 
 thoughts, for Mrs. Prentice was devoted to her only child, 
 and she was about to enjoy the gratification of his society 
 for the first time for some months. 
 
 When Fred Prentice alighted from the third-class carriage 
 in which he had travelled from Greathampton — he had 
 enjoyed the luxury of a Pullman for the greater part of his 
 journey — and found his mother waiting for him on the plat- 
 form, it is not surprising that he greeted her warmly, for her 
 face was suffused with affection, and a young man who has 
 certain delinquencies on his conscience, which make him not 
 altogether at ease in the prospect of a parental interview, can 
 hardly help being touched by a reception in which there is 
 no trace of anything but genuine welcome. 
 
 Fred Prentice was a good-looking young man, tall and well 
 set up, with dark, slightly waving hair. He had for the most 
 part his mother's correct features, which were vastly improved 
 by the substitution of his father's mouth, and the brown eyes 
 of some ancestor. The resultant face was agreeable both in 
 contour and expression, but it would have been improved still 
 further if it had possessed more signs of strength of character. 
 It was almost too young a face to show marks of dissipation, 
 unless of an exaggerated nature, but it looked tired, and as if 
 a quiet holiday in the country would be beneficial to its 
 owner. 
 
 The young man's luggage, from the extent of which Mrs. 
 Prentice was pleased to conjecture that his stay was not 
 
Fred Prentice 57 
 
 intended to be a short one, was accommodated by the side 
 Oj Tom Pillie in the fore part of the carriage, and he and his 
 mother took their seats facing one another, where they could 
 talk in subdued tones without being overheard. Mrs. Prentice 
 put her shabbily gloved hand upon one of his, resplendcntly 
 covered with new washleather. " I am so glad to see you 
 home, Freddy dear," she said. " You won't be leaving us 
 for some time, will you ? " 
 
 " Afraid I must go on Tuesday, mother," he replied cheer- 
 full}'. " I promised to go on into Dorsetshire to stay a few 
 days with an old friend. He's asked me so often, and I've 
 never been able to go before." 
 
 Mrs. Prentice looked woefully disappointed. " I did hope 
 you would have come home for a good long stay," she said. 
 " We have not seen anything of you since Christmas. And 
 now you are no sooner here than you are off again." 
 
 " Paridelle, my friend, only gets home for the recess — he's 
 in Parliament. If I didn't go to him now, I couldn't go at 
 all. And you know I'm tied to town at other times, mother." 
 
 It was on the tip of her tongue to say that he w r as not so 
 much tied but that he could go off visiting at other houses 
 than his father's, but she would not spoil his home-coming by 
 .complaints. If he had decided to stay with her for only four 
 days, she would make the best of the time, and so treat him 
 that perhaps in the future he would want to come more often. 
 She reflected humbly that, compared with the many fine 
 houses that were open to him, Exton vicarage presented few 
 attractions. It was enough for her to have him within 
 hearing and within sight. It was not enough for him. 
 Children were like that when they grew up and went out 
 into the world. Their parents had to fall into line and be 
 judged by their power of affording entertainment, in just 
 the same way as other hosts and hostesses were judged. It 
 would hardly mend matters to put in a claim for gratitude, or 
 any unusual consideration. 
 
 '■■ Who is the friend with whom you are going to stay ? " 
 she asked. 
 
 " George Paridelle. He was at Oxford with me — a year 
 senior. He has done well — made quite a decent income at 
 the bar the year after he was called, and will go right ahead. 
 He got into Parliament at a bye-election." 
 
 " Has he got a place in Dorsetshire ? " 
 
58 Exton Manor 
 
 ft His father has — a famous place — Trixworth Court. 
 George will come in for it. Lucky beggar ; everything done 
 for him. Plenty of money too." 
 
 " But he has done something for himself ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes. He works like a nigger." 
 
 " I do hope, Freddy dear, that you are working hard. It is 
 so important for you to do so, you know. Your father and I 
 can't do much for you — not nearly so much as we should like. 
 It all depends upon yourself. I'm sure you have got brains 
 as good as anybody's, if you will use them." 
 
 " Don't you worry about me, mother. I shall get called 
 all right. That's all I'm out for at present." 
 
 " There is one thing, Freddy dear, that I w T ant to warn you 
 about. I'm afraid your father is seriously annoyed. The 
 tailor's bill, you know." 
 
 The young man's face grew dark. " What tailor's bill ? " 
 he asked shortly. 
 
 " One was sent in to your father, for over eighty pounds." 
 
 He gave an exclamation of annoyance. " Now that's really 
 too bad," he said, " I won't have anything more to do with 
 those people. What do they mean by sending in my bills to 
 father ? " 
 
 " I suppose it is because he paid the last one. You know 
 it is heavy, Freddy dear. I own I was surprised — but pos- 
 sibly there is some mistake." 
 
 " No, there's no mistake ; except that London tailors seem 
 to think they've got a right to rob you. I had to get some 
 clothes." 
 
 " Yes, I know. Of course, I like to see you well dressed. 
 But you have had such a lot of clothes during the last few 
 years, and evetything was paid up a twelvemonth ago. 1 
 should have thought that you could hardly have wanted to 
 spend eighty pounds again in one year — at a tailor's alone. 
 And the charges are so exorbitant — something like sixteen 
 pounds for a dress suit, and I've seen quite good ones adver- 
 tised for four guineas. Couldn't you change your tailor and 
 go to a cheaper one ? " 
 
 " Oh, I'm going to change him all right, but it's no use 
 going to cheap tailors. The clothes don't fit, and you don't 
 wear them. It's much dearer in the long run. What did 
 father say when he got the bill ? " 
 
 11 He said he couldn't possibly pay it." ^ 
 
Fred Prentice 59 
 
 " I don't want him to pay it. But I suppose he'll want to 
 talk about it. It's very annoying that this sort of thing should 
 happen to spoil a visit which I'd been so looking forward 
 to." 
 
 " That's what I feel, Freddy dear. It's delightful to see you 
 again, and I don't want the time you are with us spoilt. Just 
 talk it over with your father, and tell him that it will be the 
 last piece of extravagance. Then it will all be over, and we 
 shall enjoy ourselves together. I feel sure that you have really 
 turned over a new leaf, and, as far as I'm concerned, you will 
 hear nothing more of it. Only I just wanted to warn you 
 that your father is annoyed." 
 
 Thus did Mrs. Prentice fulfil her promise to take a serious 
 view of her son's tendency to debt and extravagance. What 
 grounds she had for her assurance that he had turned over a 
 new leaf in these matters it would be difficult to say, but it is 
 quite certain that she could not have improved matters by 
 scolding him, and possibly her instinct towards leniency was 
 justified. 
 
 The young man sat silent and rather glum for a minute or 
 two, and then with a mental shake threw off the unpleasant 
 subject from his mind, as it was his wont to throw off all un- 
 pleasantness, until it faced him with a peremptory summons to 
 attention. 
 
 " Who is down here now ? " he asked. " Is your beautiful 
 Mrs. O'Keefe to be seen at last ? " 
 
 " No, she went to Ireland yesterday to stay with Lord 
 Ballyshannon, and others of her relations. She will be away 
 for a month." 
 
 " She is always away when I come down. I suppose the 
 Redcliffe's are at home." 
 
 Mrs. Prentice pursed her lips. " Yes, Mrs. Redcliffe and 
 Hilda are at home," she said. " If I were you, Fred, I should 
 no-t-go to the White House more than I could help." 
 
 " Why not, mother ? I like Mrs. Redcliffe ; and as for 
 Hilda, she and I have been pals ever since they first came here, 
 and she .was a kid. What is the matter with them ? " 
 
 " Hilda was not so very young when they came," replied 
 Mrs. Prentice. " She was sixteen. She is grown up now — 
 rather too grown up, I should say, for I never met a girl of her 
 age with more self-assurance. I know you only like her as 
 an old playmate, but I should not be at all surprised if she had 
 
co Exton Manor 
 
 quite other ideas in her head, and that Mrs. Redcliffe shared 
 them." 
 
 " I'm such a catch, ain't I ? My dear mother, you're 
 talking absolute nonsense. I'm quite sure that Hilda 
 wouldn't have a word to say to me if I were to be foolish 
 enough to — to want her to. What — er — makes you think 
 differently ? " 
 
 " Never mind ; but I do think differently. And, if we are 
 to speak plainly, I should not consider Hilda Redcliffe a 
 suitable — well, match for you. The Redcliffes are nobodies, 
 so far as I know." 
 
 " Well, mother, you really do say the most extraordinary 
 things. As if the idea of marriage — with Hilda Redcliffe, 
 or anybody else — had entered my head yet ! I may be a fool 
 in some ways, but I'm not such a fool as to be thinking of 
 marrying and settling down at twenty-three, with all nry way 
 to make." 
 
 " I hope not. But whatever you may be thinking of, other 
 people may have different ideas. I think it my duty to give 
 you a word of warning. And on my own account I should 
 be glad if you had as little as possible to do with the Red- 
 cliffes while you are here. It is my earnest wish to live in 
 charity with all my neighbours, but it is the most difficult 
 thing to carry out in practice. I sometimes think that people 
 take a delight in stirring up strife and giving occasion for 
 offence." 
 
 " I can't imagine Mrs. Redcliffe stirring up strife. What 
 has she been doing ? " 
 
 " I suppose you have not heard the great Exton news — 
 that Lady Wrotham is coming to live at the Abbey ? " 
 
 " By Jove, no ? That is news." 
 
 u Young Lord Wrotham was down here yesterday. I 
 don't think he gets on well with his mother, from all I have 
 heard, and I dare say he wanted to have a good look round 
 his property before she came here." 
 
 " Did you see him ? " 
 
 "Not to speak to. Mr. Browne, who is now hand in glove 
 with the Redcliffes " 
 
 " He always- has been, hasn't he ? " 
 
 " Not, as far as I am aware, in the way of making Mrs. 
 Redcliffe his first confidante in everything that goes on in 
 the place. At any rate, when he brought the news of Lady 
 
Fred Prentice 61 
 
 Wrotham's coming here, what must he do but fly off at once 
 to Mrs. Redcliffe with it, and she, of course, was only too 
 pleased to let me know that she had the information which 
 I had not. And yesterday there was no word whatever said 
 of Lord Wrotham's coming down for the day. What was 
 my surprise to learn at about half-past twelve o'clock from 
 Pringle's man, when he brought the bread, that he was at 
 the office with Mr. Browne ! 0/ course I, or your father, 
 ought to have been told, so that we might have shown him 
 some hospitality. I did what I could. I rushed down to the 
 village to ask him to lunch, and was just in time to see him 
 drive away. I sent an invitation up to the home-farm, and 
 received a reply from Mr. Browne that ' his lordship ' was 
 lunching with him. Merely that. I don't know when I've 
 felt so annoyed. And I stayed in all the afternoon, thinking 
 that Mr. Browne would at least bring him to call. No such 
 thing. They drove down to the Manor, and he went back 
 by the five o'clock train." 
 
 u I don't suppose he would have much time for calling, 
 if he just came down for the day, for a look round." 
 
 " He had time, at any rate, to call on the Redcliffes. 
 They took very good care to be in the garden as he drove 
 up the hill, and I have no doubt that Hilda made eyes at him." 
 
 " Oh, come now, mother ; you know quite well she 
 wouldn't do anything of the sort." 
 
 " I don't know it, Freddy. I wish I did. At any rate, 
 he was invited in, and I have no doubt made himself very 
 pleasant. I shall be having Mrs. Redcliffe down to crow 
 over me because he went to see her and did not come to 
 see me. I shall know what to say to her. I think it most 
 contemptible to make a dead set in that way at a young man 
 just because he has got a title." 
 
 Fred laughed. " Poor old mummy/' he said. " I shouldn't 
 worry about it, if I were you. I don't think Wrotham is 
 a very estimable character, from what I've heard. He's 
 always about with his cousin, Laurence Syde, who sponges 
 on him. They've got through a tremendous lot of money 
 between them. It's the common talk that Wrotham will 
 be in a bit of a fix now he has succeeded." 
 
 " How can that be, Freddy ? He comes in for all his 
 father's property, and Lord Wrotham was a rich man." 
 
 " Yes, but he was so severe that Kemsing dared not go 
 
62 Extern Manor 
 
 to him about his debts, and he raised a heap of money on his 
 expectations, at a ruinous rate of interest. He'll have to pay 
 up now, and he'll be dipped for a long time. Of course, he'll 
 work it off in time, but he'll have to go a bit slower than he 
 has been doing lately." 
 
 " I am very sorry to hear that ; very sorry indeed. The 
 Wrothams have not troubled Exton much with their presence, 
 but, naturally, one takes an interest in the family, and one 
 hopes to be able to make a friend of Lady Wrotham, now she 
 is coming to live among us. It is well to know all that one 
 can about them. There will be no other woman with whom 
 she can associate on intimate terms here but myself. Mrs. 
 O'Keefe is too young ; and although Mrs. Redcliffe may try, 
 I should think Lady Wrotham would be able to see through 
 that sort of thing clearly enough." 
 
 " My dear mother, I wish you wouldn't talk in that way 
 of Mrs. Redcliffe. You know quite well she doesn't deserve 
 it, and it is not nice to hear you." 
 
 " I shall say no more, Freddy," replied his mother. " But 
 we shall see who is right." 
 
 They drove through the village, and up to the vicarage, 
 receiving friendly greeting from those whom they met on the 
 way, for Fred Prentice had lived the greater part of his life at 
 Exton, and had made many friends. 
 
 " Jolly glad to get home again," he said, as they turned 
 in at the vicarage gate. " I believe, if I were a country 
 gentleman, I should be quite content to live on my place all 
 the year round. I should like to be surrounded by faces I 
 know. Ah, I wish I could change places with Wrotham." 
 
 Mr. Prentice gave his son. a welcome, but it was evident 
 that the air would have to be cleared before that amount of 
 goodwill which is requisite for the happiness of three people 
 living together in a house should reign at Exton vicarage. 
 
 " I'd better get it over to-night," said Fred to himself, as he 
 went up-stairs to dress for dinner. " Confound those people 
 — and confound myself for an extravagant ass. Still, it's my 
 own money, and I ought to have the handling of it. Then this 
 sort of thing wouldn't happen." 
 
 The room, which had been his ever since early childhood, 
 was a large one looking east over the garden and a slope of 
 quiet meadow to the river and the trees beyond. It was shab- 
 bily furnished, but contained many of his boyhood's treasures ; 
 
Fred Prentice 63 
 
 \ 
 
 a full-rigged ship on the chest of drawers, a row of shelves, 
 containing school prizes and a large collection of stories of ad- 
 venture, his baptismal and confirmation cards, framed and pre- 
 sented by his mother, some once highly prized engravings of 
 dogs, photographs* of school^and college groups, with faded 
 caps hung as trophies on their frames, a case of stuffed birds, 
 brought down in years gone by by a schoolboy catapult, and 
 stuffed by a village naturalist long since dead, whose know- 
 ledge had been greater than his skill, fishing-rods, disused 
 cricket bats, and other implements of sport, and many other 
 odds and ends of little value ; but none of them that had not 
 brought with it a thrill of joy when first acquired, and after- 
 wards many hours of pleasure ; none of them that were not 
 eloquent of the happy days of boyhood, when the heart was 
 light, and the cares of life had not begun to wreathe their 
 darkling mists around innocent pleasure. Fred sighed as he 
 looked round on the familiar possessions. He had travelled so 
 far from the days of which they spoke to him, and yet he was 
 removed by so few years from those days. The accessories of 
 his present pursuits, which he kept in his London rooms, had 
 cost a great deal more than these discarded treasures of his 
 boyhood. He gave himself what he wanted in that way, but 
 all of them together had not afforded him the gratification he 
 had received from' the poorest of the things in this room. He 
 put together and handled the fishing-rod which old Sir Joseph 
 had given him on his thirteenth birthday, together with per- 
 mission to fish as much as he liked in certain portions of his 
 river. The old days came back to him, and the freshness of 
 the early morning on which he had first gone out to try his 
 prowess, with what keenness of delight he well remembered. 
 His maturer pleasures afforded him no such blissful thrills. 
 He sighed again as he took the rod to pieces and put it back in 
 its place. 
 
 When Mrs. Prentice left the dining room after dinner, Fred 
 said to his father, " I hear that my tailor has sent in a bill to 
 you, father. I don't know why he should bother you about 
 my affairs. Will you let me have it ? " 
 
 The Vicar cleared his throat. He had been intending to 
 speak to his son on this subject upon the first opportunity 
 that presented itself, but, lapped in after-dinner peace, had 
 thought he might as well put it off until a later hour of the 
 evening. He had enjoyed Fred's conversation and the breath 
 
64 Exton Manor 
 
 of the outside world which he had brought with him, and was 
 not feeling quite so severe towards his son as he had done. 
 Still, if it must come now, it must, and he nerved himself 
 to speak his mind. " What shall you do with it when you 
 have got it ? " he asked dryly. " Have you got the money 
 to pay ? " 
 
 Well, no — not yet," replied Fred. " Still, one doesn't 
 expect to have to pay a tailor's bill within a twelvemonth, 
 
 and " 
 
 ' " And, if it can be allowed to run on, and, of course, to 
 increase, for another two years, you will be able to discharge 
 it with the remnants of your legacy. I suppose that is the 
 idea ? " 
 
 '■ I hadn't thought of that in that way. I spend a certain 
 amount a year on clothes, and if I don't pay all of it this year, 
 I shall next, or the year after." 
 
 The Vicar thought for a moment. " You're not a fool, 
 Fred," he said, " and you know you're talking nonsense. 
 I've no doubt you argued in just the same way to yourself be- 
 fore, and the result was a pack of bills which it took half of 
 your legacy to pay off. Exactly the same thing will happen 
 again, and you'll start the world with nothing at all to fall back 
 upon. I am not going to scold you about it. You are 
 twenty-three, and quite old enough to discipline yourself with- 
 out schooling from me. If you won't, I can't help you. But 
 I just want to put clearly before you what it is you are doing. 
 You are having a very good time now, I've no doubt. But 
 what are you going to do when this money is gone, as it will 
 go before the two years are out, if you go on at this rate ? 
 You will be called to the bar in a }/ear. But you will be a 
 good deal more fortunate than most young barristers if you 
 make an income out of your profession for some years after 
 that, and you won't make an income out of it at all if you 
 don't give your attention to it, and refuse to allow your- 
 pleasures to stand in the way of your work. What are you 
 going to live on in the meantime ? You will have two hun- 
 dred a year as long as I'm spared. If you can't train yourself 
 to live on that now, when are you going to ? It will be a great 
 deal harder in two or three years' time. You are laying up a 
 very hard time for yourself. It is not as if you were prepar- 
 ing for some lucrative occupation. At the best, it will be a 
 struggle for some years." 
 
Fred Prentice C5 
 
 This calm line of remonstrance was more difficult to meet 
 than the heated condemnation for which Fred had prepared 
 himself. The reasonableness appealed to him, for his brain 
 responded to reason, although his inclinations led him perforce 
 to ignore it. " I suppose I'm not tied down to the bar/' he 
 said. " If something else turned up, I should — er — consult 
 you as to whether I hadn't better take it." 
 
 " Quite so. I have always had such a possibility in my 
 mind. It is a good thing to be called to the bar, in any case. 
 You might look upon it as the completion of a good and very 
 expensive education. But what you don't seem to realize is 
 that you are practically tying yourself down to that one pro- 
 fession. I'm a priest ; but I have kept my eyes open, and I 
 can see clearly enough that opportunities for making money 
 very seldom present themselves to those who have got none at 
 their backs. And on the other hand, a sum such as you would 
 have had at the age of twenty-five, if you had not dissipated it 
 — or half of it — would almost certainly have helped you in 
 that way. I remember reading somewhere that one of the 
 great American millionaires had said that for a business man 
 to make a large fortune was easy enough after he had got to- 
 gether his first thousand dollars, or whatever it was, but that 
 to do that was extraordinarily difficult. Of course, that par- 
 ticular sort of business aptitude isn't found everywhere. I'm 
 quite sure you haven't got it, for instance. But I have very 
 little doubt that your legacy would have been enough to buy 
 you a partnership in some business that you might have been 
 able to take an interest in and increase, or to give you a start in 
 some other way. I believe that what is left would do it, if it is 
 not broken in upon any further. So you see, my boy, that you 
 are throwing away your chances with both hands, and all for a 
 year or two's gratification, which I feel sure doesn't really 
 satisfy you." 
 
 Fred's ambition was fired by the story of the American 
 millionaire. He thought that he had that sort of business 
 aptitude. It was quite true that his present life did not satisfy 
 him, however much he might have enjoyed it if it had not 
 been haunted by the ghosts of the future. In a flash he 
 saw himself living laborious days and nights, steeped in 
 financial operations, piling up gold upon gold, becoming a 
 rich man — a very rich man, with houses and land, horses and 
 motor-cars, wine and books and travel, dispensing a joyous, 
 
 (3) 
 
66 Exlon Manor 
 
 open-handed hospitality, and all his work behind him. What 
 would it matter giving up a few years to unremitting toil ? 
 He was still young. By the time he was thirty, even "before, 
 he might have everything his soul enjoyed, and the fulcrum 
 by which he was to gain these delights was the round plum of 
 one thousand pounds which was yet left to him intact. His 
 father was right. What a thrice-begotten fool he would be 
 to throw it away, as he had thrown away the rest. Certainly 
 he would not do so. 
 
 He did not consider, being without the experience that 
 w T ould have taught him, that money comes to those who desire 
 it for its own sake, but seldom to those who love to spend it. 
 And he forgot other-things. But for the present his father's 
 words had their desired eifect. " I have been a fool, father," 
 he said. *' I said so a year ago, and, of course, I can't deny 
 that I haven't quite left off being a fool yet. However, 111 
 pull up now — I will, really — and I hope you won't have 
 occasion to complain of me again." 
 
 The Vicar's face expressed gratification. u Very well, 
 then, my boy/' he said ; " I'll pay this bill — I'm afraid it 
 must be with your money. If we pay it now we shall get a 
 good discount. And you had better send me any others you 
 have contracted. We'll make another start, and there won't 
 be anything in the way of your rearranging your life accord- 
 ing to your actual income when you get back to town. It 
 won't be difficult, if you make a plan and stick to it. Pay 
 ready money for everything, and don't have a single bill out- 
 standing. Now we'd better go in to your mother." 
 
 (24) 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 GOOD FRIDAY 
 
 The day after Fred Prentice's home-coming was Good 
 Friday. It was celebrated on this year at Exton by the in- 
 auguration of a three hours' service, at which the Vicar, not 
 having been able to secure the assistance of an outside 
 preacher, gave the addresses himself. The subject was 
 broached between Fred and his mother as they strolled round 
 the garden together after breakfast. 
 
 " I feel it is a great step forward," said Mrs. Prentice. 
 " The devotional life of Exton badly requires deepening. I 
 have spared no pains in getting a congregation together, and if 
 we can only — er " 
 
 " Poll the number of votes that have been promised," sug- 
 gested Fred. 
 
 " Pray do not speak profanely, Freddy," replied his mother. 
 " I hope there will be a good gathering. Have you ever been 
 to a three hours' service before ? " 
 
 " Yes. I went to St. Paul's when I was in London at 
 Easter, two years ago. We had a fine preacher — I don't 
 know who he was, but he was worth listening to. Still, even 
 then, it was too much for me." 
 
 M How do you mean — too much for you ? " 
 
 " Too much of a strain. It is a service that only people, 
 as you say, with the devotional spirit strongly developed, 
 ought to go to. You won't expect me to go to-day, 
 mother ? " 
 
 " Indeed, Fred, I hope you will. It can do you nothing 
 but good." 
 
 " My dear mother, I really can't listen to father for three 
 hours on end. No one ought to be asked to. Father has no 
 end of common-sense, but when he gets into the puloit he 
 
 6 7 
 
 08! 
 
68 Exton Manor 
 
 seems to lose it all. It is church, church, all the time. He 
 never gives you anything to think about." 
 
 Mrs. Prentice expressed herself pained by this freedom of 
 speech. " I think your father's sermons are just what are 
 wanted in a country village," she said. " They are simple* 
 and direct. The people are told exactly what the Church 
 teaches, and what it demands of them. I don't know what 
 else you can expect him to preach, or what more you want. 
 Besides, preaching is not everything. I should be very sorry' 
 if the Church were to imitate the Dissenters in that respect, 
 and place the sermon above worship." 
 
 " I don't know anything about the Dissenters, but good 
 preaching is the only thing I go to church for. I do go to 
 church, nearly always, once on Sunday. Lots of people don't 
 now — quite good people — and I should think very few men 
 in my circumstances. But I've got to have a sermon if I do 
 go — and a jolly good sermon too. I think it's nothing less 
 than impudence the way some fellows get up into the pulpit 
 and reel off a lot of worn-out rubbish which they haven't 
 given a moment's thought to. If a writer in a newspaper 
 wants to persuade you about something, he has got to put all 
 he knows into it, or you simply don't read him. And yet 
 here are these parsons, whose business it is to persuade peo- 
 ple about the most important thing in life, and they won't 
 take the trouble to get hold of an idea. Of course, they 
 know you've got to listen to them, and I suppose that's why 
 they think anything will do. If you could get up and go out 
 when you are getting a lot of poor stuff, which you've heard 
 a thousand times before, chucked at your head, they. might get 
 a lesson, and begin to take some pains." 
 
 What Mrs. Prentice would have said in answer to this 
 revolutionary attack must be imagined, for the Vicar stepped 
 out of the French windows of his study at that moment, 
 equipped for the educational fray. " I'm just off to the 
 school," he said. " It is time you got ready, Agatha." 
 
 Mrs. Prentice hurried indoors, and Fred said, '* Do you 
 mind if I don't come to the three hours' service, father ? Ill 
 come at eleven o'clock." 
 
 The Vicar looked rather disappointed, but he said, " Don't 
 come if you don't think it w r ould help you, my boy. But 
 there won't be any lunch here. Your mother and I are just 
 going to have something between the services." - 
 
 (2) 
 
Good Friday go 
 
 n Oh, I'll get old Browne to give me lunch — or some- 
 body/' said Fred, and so it was settled. Mr. and Mrs. 
 Prentice went off to their duties, and he was left to his own 
 thoughts in the sunny quiet of the vicarage garden. 
 
 When the morning service was over, Fred and his mother 
 found themselves alongside Mrs. Redcliffe and Hilda as they 
 came out of church. There were greetings, cordial between 
 the Rcdcliffes and Fred, but perfunctory from Mrs. Prentice, 
 who wore an air of prim seclusion until they had cleared the 
 churchyard gates, when she still spoke as little as possible, 
 and in whispers, as one setting an example which she hoped, 
 though hardly expected, would be followed. 
 
 Browne joined them, a large pink and red figure in a straw- 
 hat and a premature flannel suit, shook hands warmly with 
 Fred, and lauded the weather. 
 
 " I'm coming to lunch with 3'ou, old man, if you'll have 
 me," Fred said. " Father and mother are going to church." 
 
 " Mr. Browne is going to lunch with me," said Mrs. Red- 
 cliffe. " You must come too, Fred." 
 
 ' You are not going to the three hours' service ? " was 
 led from Mrs. Prentice. 
 * " Hilda is going," replied Mrs. Redcliffe. " I am not 
 very well, and it would be too great a tax upon me." 
 
 " It is a tax, of course, in one sense," said Mrs. Prentice. 
 " I am not very well, cither, but I would not miss it for any- 
 thing. I am glad, at any rate, that Hilda is coming." 
 
 " I have changed my mind," said Hilda. " I shall stay 
 with you, mother." 
 
 Mrs. Prentice closed her lips. She would have liked to 
 glare at the speaker, in response to the obvious challenge in 
 her tone, but refused herself the luxury. With a curt bow, 
 she departed on her homeward way, leaving Fred to walk 
 up the hill with the others. 
 
 11 Mother is rather tired," he said, half-apologetically. 
 " She has been doing a lot of fasting, and that kind of thing." 
 
 " It hasn't improved her temper," muttered Browne, who 
 had fallen behind with Hilda. 
 
 " Of course, she is interfering and impertinent," said Hilda, 
 in the same low tone. " But I think Fred is quite right to 
 defend his mother." 
 
 " Oh, rather ! " said Browne. 
 
 " I hope you are going to stay with us for some time, 
 
 CO 
 
70 Exton Manor 
 
 Fred," Mrs. Redcliife was saying. " We don't see much of 
 you now." 
 
 " I'm going to stay till Tuesday/' said Fred. " Then I'm 
 going on to a friend." 
 
 Mrs. Redcliffe was silent for a moment, then she said, 
 " Your mother has been looking forward very much to having 
 you with her. It is rather a pity that you must pay another 
 visit so soon." 
 
 " Yes ; I rather wish I had put it off for a bit. Still, I 
 shall be able to come down again soon." 
 
 " That will be nice. It is rather a sad time for us mothers, 
 Fred, when our children begin to have more interests apart 
 from us than those we can share." 
 
 ■' Yes ; I suppose so. Dear old mother ! I'll come down 
 for a week or ten days at Whitsuntide." 
 
 " In spite of all temptations. You must remember that 
 you have undertaken to do so. Home ties don't last for ever, 
 but we can replace them with others until we get on in years ; 
 then we become dependent. Now that we have got you here, 
 Fred, we must show our appreciation of your visit. Hilda 
 and I have been talking over a picnic at Warren's Hard on 
 Monday. The weather is so warm, and seems so settled, that 
 I think we might risk it. What do you say, you and Mr. 
 Browne, to rowing us down ? I hope your father and mother 
 will come. That will make six of us — just a boat-load. We 
 will lunch in the open if it is as warm as this, and ask Saunders 
 for a room if it becomes too cold." 
 
 " It will be jolly," said Fred. " Thanks very much, Mrs. 
 Redcliffe. I'll ask father and mother." 
 
 " I will write a note, which you can take down this after- 
 noon. I forgot Captain Turner. I must ask him ; but there 
 will still be room. Our little circle has become rather small, 
 with poor Sir Joseph gone, and the Lodge still unlet, and Mrs. 
 O'Keefe away." 
 
 " I hear that old Lady Wrotham intend^ to settle down 
 at Exton. Do you know when she is coming ? " 
 
 " Soon, I believe. Let us ask Mr. Browne." 
 
 Browne, appealed to, gave a date ten days or so ahead. 
 " The house is to be cleaned down a bit," he said. " We 
 begin on Monday. But there won't be much to do. By the 
 bye, I've another piece of news for you. I believe I've found 
 a tenant for the Lodge." 
 
 (20) 
 
Good Friday 71 
 
 " You have told us that so many times/' said Hilda. 
 " I'm afraid I shan't believe it till I see the house occupied." 
 
 " Well, I own it isn't quite settled yet. But the people 
 are coming to look over it to-morrow. And it seems to be 
 what they want." 
 
 " Who are they ? " inquired Fred. 
 
 "It is a man called Dale. He wrote to me from Wood- 
 hurst, where he is staying. I don't know anything about 
 him, except that he was a friend of Sir Joseph's son, the one 
 that died." 
 
 " Then he would be a middle-aged man ? V 
 
 " Oh, yes. He said he had a large family. He wants a 
 house with quite a lot of bedrooms." 
 
 " I hope some of them will be children," said Hilda. ' ' Both 
 Mrs. O'Keefe and I want some children to play with here." 
 
 " I don't suppose he will come," said Fred. " We know 
 our Maximilian's sanguine nature." 
 
 " I shall be able to tell you more after I've seen him," said 
 Browne. 
 
 They drank their after-luncheon coffee in the garden, in 
 front of the house. It was more like June than April. Hilda, 
 feeling a little bit ashamed of herself, and possibly prompted, 
 by her mother, had gone off to church again. Fred had 
 offered to walk across the park with her. They had ex- 
 changed very few words, and none but in the presence of 
 Mrs. Redcliffe and Browne. But she did not seem to desire 
 a tete-a-tete conversation as much as he, and had refused his 
 escort ; and as Browne had suggested that they should walk 
 up to the Fisheries together a little later, and there had been 
 no reason for demurring to the suggestion, he had seen her go- 
 off by herself. . 
 
 The two men took their leave of Mrs. Redcliffe shortly 
 afterwards, and, leaving the garden by an upper gate, walked 
 up the meadow and into the woods which lay behind the 
 house to the north. They walked along green rides for over 
 a mile. The woods on either side of them were bare except 
 for the fresh greenness of an occasional larch or thorn, and 
 the glistening depth of the hollies, but the primroses were 
 growing everywhere, in sheets and drifts and clumps of yellow, 
 and through the purpling network of the trees the April sky 
 showed blue. 
 
 After the interchange of some desultory conversation, the 
 
 (22> 
 
72 Exton Manor 
 
 pair of them fell silent for a time. Browne was no great talker ; 
 had, indeed, few topics of conversation outside the immediate 
 interests of his life, which were concerned chiefly with the 
 property he spent his time in administering. He was a faith- 
 ful servant, and his heart was in his work. The politics of 
 Exton Manor afforded him abundant food for reflection at this 
 time, and he retired into himself to consider them. 
 
 Fred Prentice, too, had something to think about. What 
 had his mother meant by saying that Hilda Redcliffe had — 
 what was it — ideas ? He was not puppy enough to think that 
 she had secretly fallen in love with him. So he told himself. 
 They had been good friends — comrades — since her early girl- 
 hood, and the last time he had been at home he had begun to 
 feel rather sentimental towards her. He had spent the Christ- 
 mas holidays at Exton. There had been dances in some of the 
 houses around, and more intimate gatherings at home. He had 
 played golf with her in the park, bicycled and walked through 
 the forest with her, taken her to meets of the hounds. She 
 had often stood with him while he shot, and he had taken it 
 for granted that she should prefer to stand by him, who was but 
 an indifferent shot, than watch the performances of some more 
 experienced gun. They had been the best of friends, had been 
 thrown very much together, and had enjoyed being together ; 
 and even when the vein of sentimentality had begun to show 
 itself in his attitude towards her, she had not withdrawn her 
 frank companionship, but had laughed at him, and, so to speak, 
 kept him in his place. 
 
 Then he had gone back to London, and — forgotten her ? 
 No ; but had had so many other interests that he had not made 
 an opportunity, as he might very well have done, of coming 
 down to Exton and renewing, for a few days, the pleasing in- 
 tercourse of those delightful Christmas holidays. For they had 
 been delightful. He had had very few cares at that time — 
 none to speak of, for the weeds of debt, from which the ground 
 of his life had before that been cleared, had not yet begun to 
 grow again, although he had been busy sowing a new crop ; 
 there had been more than the customary Christmas gaiety to 
 amuse him, and Hilda's constant companionship had made the 
 intervening time pass very pleasantly. He had often thought 
 over those days of Christmas and the New Year since, al- 
 though he had taken no trouble to renew them. 
 
 Now things had changed. He could put his finger on no 
 
Good Friday 73 
 
 definite point in which he could have expected Hilda's be- 
 haviour to him during the last hour to have been different, but 
 he felt that she was not the same, that he would not be likely 
 to see so much of her during the days of this visit as on the 
 last, or, if he did, she would keep him at a greater distance. 
 He had not thought about her much since he had last seen her, 
 but the change disturbed him. He was in train for thinking a 
 good deal about her on account of it. What had caused it ? 
 She had certainly rejected the advances he had made to her in 
 the winter, but she had done so in such a way that it was im- 
 possible to think of her now resenting, and drawing into her 
 shell to avoid the repetition of them. 
 
 And yet she might, perhaps reasonably, feel hurt that he had 
 removed himself so long from her. His attentions had been 
 robbed of whatever value she might have put upon them, since 
 they had so evidently been caused by proximity. So she might 
 have argued to herself, and become annoyed with him for show- 
 ing so plainly how little he really cared for her. His heart 
 gave a flutter when he arrived at this point. Then she did 
 care for him — a little. It was the one thing that was wanted 
 to make a young man at the heart-fluttering age settle down 
 again to the pursuit. Of course, he, too, really did care for 
 her. And he would show it. He had four days before him. 
 Perhaps he could take another. It was not actually necessary 
 that he should spend a whole week with his friend Paridelle. 
 And it was not to be supposed that he would have much diffi- 
 culty in getting back to the terms on which he had been with 
 her three months ago. What a dear girl she was ! So frank 
 and loyal and kind — so pretty, too ! \es ; really pretty when 
 you knew her well, and had seen her in all her moods, and all 
 her charming youthful guises. Perhaps prettiest in that white 
 ball dress with the little pink roses — the dress she had worn at 
 the New Year's Eve ball which old Sir Joseph had given, and 
 at the little dance at Standon House. 
 
 Here his meditations were broken in upon by Browne, 
 who said, " I w T onder if Turner can have fixed it up on the 
 way to Greathampton ? Hardly have had time, I should 
 think/' 
 
 " Fixed what up ? " asked Fred. 
 
 Browne started, and laughed a little nervously. " I beg 
 your pardon," he said. " To tell you the truth, I had for- 
 gotten you were here/' 
 
74 Exton Manor 
 
 " What has Turner been fixing up on/the way to Great- 
 hampton ? " asked Fred again. 
 
 " Well, I don't know why I shouldn't tell you. It is pretty 
 common talk. He's making love to Mrs. O'Keefe." 
 
 " What, the mysterious widow ? " 
 
 " I don't know that there is anything mysterious about her. 
 Her husband was a brother of " 
 
 " Oh, yes, I know. I'm tired of hearing that her husband 
 
 was a brother of . She's mysterious to me. People are 
 
 always talking of her here, and I've never set eyes on 
 her." 
 
 " Well, she's a deuced pretty woman. You'll say so when 
 you see her. I'm always advising Turner to go in and win, 
 but the fellow's got no pluck about it. He's desperately 
 smitten, but he doesn't ask her." 
 
 " W T ould she have him if he did ? " 
 
 " That I can't tell you. I should think not." 
 
 " Why don't you ask her yourself ? " 
 
 " What, me ? No, thank you. I'm well enough off as I 
 am. 'Sides, I'm not such a fool as Turner. I can keep my 
 head. I like talking to a pretty woman, and all that, when 
 I'm with her ; but as for going out of my way to get oppor- 
 tunities — why, I wouldn't walk across the road to do it." 
 
 " Did Turner go to Greathampton with her ? " 
 
 " Yes. Silly ass ! Fancy a fellow of his age ! He was 
 going to take some fish to Troutbridge on Wednesday, and he 
 went on Tuesday, just because he had heard that Mrs. 
 O'Keefe was going up to town then on her way to Ireland, 
 and he wanted to travel as far as Greathampton with her. 
 Perfectly silly, I call it. However, it's none of my business. 
 If he likes to make an ass of himself, he can." 
 
 " And that's when you think he may have done it ? Well, 
 we'll find out. It would be rather fun to see old Turner 
 married." 
 
 They had come out at the bottom of the chain of ponds 
 which stretched up the valley to the breeding-house, and the 
 spring which fed them. Higher up still was Turner's house, 
 rose- and clematis-covered, with a backing of pines, its win- 
 dows blinking in the sunshine across the flowers in its garden. 
 A narrow strip of ground, where the unconfined stream had 
 once run, had been cleared here between the trees, and tanks, 
 some puddled v/ith clay, others neatly cemented, succeeded 
 
Good Friday 75 
 
 one another, and were linked together by narrow sluices, down 
 which the water ran cleanly. A thatch of dried reeds, sup- 
 ported on wire-netting fastened to tree trunks, was laid across 
 the middle of each tank to afford shelter for the fish, which 
 could be seen lurking in its shadow, their blunt brown heads 
 facing the incoming water, and their tails waving to and fro. 
 
 " This is where he keeps his three-year-olds/ ' said Browne, 
 bending down to get the light right for an inspection. 
 " They're a well-grown lot." 
 
 " There he is," said Fred. " Pottering about as usual." 
 
 Turner had just come out of one of the little galvanized 
 iron houses which were dotted about by the upper ponds. He 
 descried them coming up the valley, and waved a hand, walk- 
 ing slowly to meet them between his ponds. The arrange- 
 ment of these upper ponds was a marvel of ingenuity. They 
 had been made close together, and stretched across the wider 
 ground in three or four rows. There was a gentle fall of 
 water two ways, and the stream was led back and across to 
 feed them in such a way that both declivities were made use 
 of, and so that at any time a tank could be emptied, and the 
 water shut out from it, without interfering with the flow. 
 The ground had been planted here with azaleas and berberis 
 and bamboos, and there were beds dug in the fertile peaty soil 
 for hardy flowers, which were already pushing up their herald 
 clumps of green. Utility and ornament went hand in hand, 
 and no fairer spot for a hermitage could have been found than 
 that in which Turner lived solitary, raised his fish, and grew 
 his flowers. 
 
 Turner's welcome was expressed by a slight contraction of 
 the muscles of one side of his face. He had on a very old 
 tweed suit, and his hands in his pockets. " So you've come 
 down, have you ? " he said to Fred. " How long do you in- 
 tend to fascinate the ladies in these parts ? " 
 
 ' You old misanthrope," said Fred, with a dig of the 
 knuckles among Turner's lean ribs. " I've been hearing 
 tales about you. Come out of your shell at last, have you ? " 
 
 " Browne's jealous," returned the other. " Can't bear to 
 see anybody else looking after a lady — a certain lady." 
 
 Browne spluttered. " Come, I like that," he said. " What 
 do you always want to be putting it on to me for ? Why 
 don't you behave like a man ? You'd ha' been married by 
 this time, if you'd had the pluck of a mouse." 
 
76 Exton Manor 
 
 Turner threw at him a gadfly look. " Don't give yourself 
 away before young Fred/' he whispered loudly. 
 
 " Oh, you needn't mind me," said Fred. " So Maximilian 
 is in it too, is he ? " 
 
 " In it ? " echoed Turner. " He's head over ears in it. 
 Have you come up to get a drink, or to borrow a book ? 
 Come in." 
 
 He turned and led the way to the house. 
 
 " We have come for the pleasure of your society," said 
 Fred. " But, now we are here, we'll take both." 
 
 Browne said nothing, having no suitable words at com- 
 mand. 
 
 They went into the book-lined sitting-room. Browne and 
 Fred sat them down in two of the deep easy-chairs, while 
 Turner manipulated a mysterious table in the window, from 
 v/hose recesses, as he opened its leaves, sprang complete all the 
 apparatus for refreshment. Fred cast his eye on the walls. 
 
 " I suppose these shelves contain more rubbish than you 
 could find in the same space anywhere else," he said. 
 
 " Funny what a lot of people come and borrow* from them," 
 said Turner. 
 
 " Oh, we all like to read a good novel sometimes. You're 
 the only man I know who reads all the bad ones, and keeps 
 'em by him. Why don't you hire your books from a 
 library ? " 
 
 " Why don't you hire your clothes from a pawnbroker ? 
 Here you are — mild for the youth, strong for the old toper." 
 
 They sipped and smoked and chatted. Browne spoke of his 
 expected tenant for the Lodge. 
 
 " Friend of Sir Joseph's son ? " said Turner. " But he 
 died twenty years ago." 
 
 " I don't know. I never heard." 
 
 " The old man told me so. And, mind you, old Sir Joseph 
 wasn't much in those days." 
 
 " He was very rich. He retired from business when he 
 came here." 
 
 " Yes. But he had spent all his life making his money. 
 He came from nothing at all. He had never lived in a big 
 house before he took the Abbey. He told me all about it." 
 
 " What are you driving at.?'" 
 
 " I'm thinking that if this man of yours was a friend of 
 Sir Joseph's son in those days, he might not — well, he might 
 
Good Friday 77 
 
 not be of the sort that the old lady would want about her 
 when she comes here." 
 
 " You must be careful of that, Maximilian/' said Fred. 
 " Don't get any outsiders in." 
 
 41 Oh, I'll be careful/' said Browne. " If this man is no 
 worse than old Sir Joseph, there won't be much to com- 
 plain of." 
 
 " Old Sir Joseph was one in a thousand," said Turner. 
 " But his early friends who used to come down here weren't 
 exactly of the highest class. I don't care a hang w T hat a man 
 is for myself, 's long as he's a good fellow ; but you know 
 what the women are, Browne. At least, you ought to — 
 regular lady-killer. Don't let your soft heart run away with 
 you when this fellow comes." 
 
 Fred suddenly rose. " I must be getting back home," he 
 said. 
 
 " Getting back home ! " exclaimed Turner. " Why, 
 you've only just come. Sit down and have another drink." 
 
 " No, thanks. I must be off. The mater won't know 
 where I am." 
 
 " I'm not coming yet," said Browne. " I'm very com- 
 fortable where I am." He looked it, as he sat back in his 
 chair, his large frame bolstered about with the cushioned 
 back and sides. 
 
 " All right," said Fred. " Good-bye. See you both later 
 on," and he took up his hat and stick, and hurried out of the 
 room. 
 
 " Wants to see Hilda Redcliffe home from church," said 
 Browne as he left the room. " Only just thought of it." 
 
 " Never saw such a fellow for the petticoats," said Turner. 
 " He won't reach forty like us without being caught, eh ? " 
 
 Browne, with an unaccustomed perception, had put his 
 finger plumb on the reason for Fred's hurried departure. What 
 was he doing there on a fresh and sunny spring day, smoking, 
 and drinking whisky and soda with two elderly men, indoors, 
 when the world held delights of which to hear them speak 
 was an absurdity ? They might tickle each other's sides — the 
 fat sides of Browne, the lean sides of Turner — with talk of 
 their goddess ; their sober, mature goddess, who had already 
 given up her claim to Olympus, and must be wooed, if wooed 
 at all, by the light of her drab mortality. A widow, comfort- 
 ably off I A fitting object of devotion for substantial men, 
 
78 Exton Manor 
 
 who had left the high sun-flooded clouds behind them, and 
 descended to earth, to walk henceforth by the yellow gas- 
 flame of expediency. There was no kinship between him and 
 them. Let them smoke and drink and gossip. For him there 
 was the Spring sunshine and the bursting earth, and a girl, 
 walking in the glamour of her untouched youth, inscrutable, 
 inviting. 
 
 Fred walked quickly down the road through the wood for 
 a mile or more, then turned into a ride which led him to 
 where the trees gave place to the open grass of the park. 
 He seated himself on a fence, from which he could command a 
 view of the church and the open ground across which Hilda 
 must walk to the White House, unless she went home by the 
 road. He would be able, directly he saw the people coming 
 out of the churchyard, to leave his post of observation, and 
 w r alk across to where he must meet her, in the most natural 
 way. 
 
 He had no time to wait. He had hardly taken his seat when 
 a little black rill of church-goers began to trickle out along the 
 path by the graves, and then swelled into a stream of respect- 
 able size, from which, as it flowed out of the churchyard gate, 
 a single figure detached itself and came towards the pond and 
 the gate which led into the wide expanse of the park. Fred 
 jumped off the rail, and walked quickly towards a point a-t 
 which he could intercept it. 
 
 He felt strangely ill at ease as Hilda looked up and saw 
 him approaching her. It was the first time he had known 
 such a sensation with regard to her ; but, then, it was the first 
 time he had ever schemed to meet her, or been doubtful of his 
 reception. He had always hitherto gone to her whenever he 
 wished to, and taken it for granted that she would be pleased 
 to see him. Now he was not so sure, and the little ruse, by 
 which he had almost deceived himself, became disconcertingly 
 patent. 
 
 Hilda lifted her eyes, dropped them, walked on a few paces, 
 and then stood still till he joined her. 
 
 " So we meet," he said, summoning frankness to hide his 
 diffidence. " I have just come down from the Fisheries, and 
 thought I would wait for you. What an age it seems since 
 we last met, Hilda." 
 
 She walked on, and he walked beside her. u Are you 
 coming back to tea ? " she asked. 
 
Good Friday 79 
 
 *' It is rather early for that. No, I must go home. I will 
 just walk up with you. Do you remember the last time we 
 walked across the park together — the afternoon before I went 
 back to town, when we had had our last game of golf 
 together ? " 
 
 I can't say I do/' said Hilda shortly, but untruthfully, 
 for she well remembered that wintry sunset under which they 
 had walked slowly up to the little wicket gate which led from 
 the garden of the White House into the park, and had lin- 
 gered there before they went into the lamplight, while Fred 
 painted the loneliness of his life in town in colours of pathetic 
 exaggeration, and she had softened, and almost, but not quite, 
 relaxed the guard she had hitherto kept up against him. How 
 near she then had been to falling into the mood for indulging 
 which she had consistently laughed at him, Fred had never 
 known. She was not in the least likely to fall into it now, or 
 ever. 
 
 " I think those Christmas holidays were the best time I 
 ever spent/' said Fred. " And it was owing to you, Hilda, 
 that I enjoyed them as much as I did." 
 
 " Oh, my dear Fred," she said impatiently, " please don't 
 begin that nonsense again. It went a good way towards 
 spoiling whatever pleasure I may have had last Christmas. 
 I'm tired of it." 
 
 " It isn't nonsense at all," he replied. " It is perfectly 
 true. I did enjoy those holidays enormously, and it was 
 owing to you that I did so. You can't think how often I 
 have thought over them since, and wished myself back here." 
 
 " It didn't go much further than wishing, then," she said, 
 and bit her lip, recognizing instantly that she had made a 
 mistake. 
 
 " Then you have missed me ? " he said at once, and wiped 
 out her mistake by his own. 
 
 " Missed you ? Why should I have missed you ? " she 
 asked, in heightened tones. " I don't know which I dislike 
 most, the way you annoy me by — by pretending to make 
 love to me, or the way in which you coolly assume that I am 
 in love with you." 
 
 They were plain words, but Hilda was accustomed to ex- 
 press her meaning in the plainest words that were to hand. 
 
 " Oh, Hilda, I've never assumed such a thing," cried Fred, 
 not altogether sorry that the way had been opened for a dis- 
 
80 Exton Manor 
 
 cussion of intricacies. But she took the words out of his 
 mouth. 
 
 " You have/' she said ; M and you do. It is not that I care 
 a snap whether you come here or stay away. But you seem 
 to think that you can come back whenever you please, and 
 find me waiting here for you to amuse yourself with, waiting, 
 and grateful for your notice, I suppose." 
 
 It was delicate ground, and she was nearly stumbling again, 
 but he was too much affected by her attitude to notice it. 
 
 " I thought we were friends, and should always be friends,' ' 
 lie said disconsolately. 
 
 " So we were friends, but you did your best to spoil our 
 friendship. I'm quite ready to be friends, only I don't want 
 to listen to any more silliness." 
 
 This lame girlish conclusion had brought them to the gate. 
 They stood there as before, but Hilda was evidently in no 
 mind to linger, nor did she intend to renew her invitation to 
 him to come into the house. He had to wind up the dis- 
 cussion in a sentence, if he wanted her to listen to it. 
 
 ■' Well, I won't worry you in that way again, then," he 
 said. " But you'll be the same as you were if I don't, won't 
 you, Hilda ? " 
 
 '■' Oh, yes, if you like," she replied indifferently, walking 
 away from him between the rhododendrons. 
 
 11 Good-bye, then, till to-morrow," he called after her. 
 
 " I shall be out all day to-morrow," she replied over her 
 shoulder. " But good-bye." 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 EASTER SATURDAY AND SUNDAY 
 
 Exton Lodge was a house of medium size, standing in its 
 own few acres of garden and orchard and paddock. It stood 
 some way back from the road leading out of the village away 
 from the Abbey, and was approached by a drive curving up- 
 hill through trees and shrubs. It commanded much the same 
 view from the back windows as the vicarage, and the lawn 
 which enclosed it on two sides, was a pleasant place on which 
 to sit and watch the river and the woods beyond it. The 
 Lodge had stood empty for some years, which had been a 
 source of some vexation to Browne, for it was the sort of 
 house which he thought he ought easily to have been able to 
 let, surrounded as it was by all the beauties of forest, field and 
 river, and at no great distance from the sea. He was in anel 
 about it early on Saturday morning, causing blinds to be drawn 
 up and windows to be opened, doing what little he could, in 
 its empty state, to show off it3 attractions to advantage, for he 
 had a strong hope that he was at last about to remove its 
 reproach, and secure a tenant for the only letable and unlet 
 house on the Manor. 
 
 At eleven o'clock an open carriage, drawn by two horses, 
 passed through the village from the direction of Woodhurst, 
 and drove in at the gates of the Lodge. In it was seated a 
 stout middle-aged man, dressed, as far as could be seen of 
 him, in a blue overcoat with a velvet collar, and a high- 
 crowned felt hat. He leaned back in his seat, smoking a 
 cigar, and surveyed his surroundings with an air of contented 
 tolerance, which seemed to show a mind pleased with itself 
 and with the world. By his side sat a stout middle-aged lady, 
 in a black mantle with bead trimmings, and shady hat of black 
 straw, modestly decked with black ribbons. Her air was so 
 much the counterpart of her Husband's, with a becoming hint 
 
 81 
 
82 Exton Manor 
 
 of deference added to it, as if she admired the same things 
 more because he admired them than of her own unaided powers 
 of appreciation, that it was plain that here was a couple 
 going through life in the most satisfactory way, smoothly and 
 happily, asking little of fate, because fate had already given 
 them all they could possibly want, including each other. The 
 couple were Mr. and Mrs. William Dale, who had gone 
 through forty years of married life together in a moderate- 
 sized house on the outskirts of Manchester, which they had 
 now made up their minds to exchange for a moderate-sized 
 house in the heart of the country. 
 
 Browne presented himself as they alighted at the front door. 
 " Mr. Dale/' he said, " I got your note, and have come up to 
 show you round the place. " 
 
 " Ah, Mr. Browne/' said Mr. Dale heartily, with a strong 
 Lancashire accent and intonation, of which no attempt at 
 reproduction shall be made here, or hereafter, " pleased to 
 meet you, Mr. Browne. Allow me to introduce you to my 
 wife, Mrs. Dale. Well, Mr.- — er — Browne, this is a charming 
 spot — a charming spot. I think we ought to be able to make 
 ourselves comfortable here. Eh, mother ? " 
 
 Mrs. Dale acquiesced, with a mental reservation that she 
 should wish to see the kitchens and offices before her acquies- 
 cence should take practical shape. There was a short con- 
 sultation as to whether the coachman should put up his 
 horses, or wait where he was, which resulted in instructions 
 to him to drive to the inn, and return in an hour's time. 
 Then the inspection of the house began. Mr. Dale took charge 
 of the proceedings. 
 
 " Now, Mr. — er — Browne," he said, as they went through 
 the hall into the drawing-room, " youli want to hear all about 
 us, first of all. Ah, this is a nice room, mother ; nice little 
 conservatory and all. And a window opening into the garden. 
 I've retired from business, Mr. — Browne — cotton, you know — 
 give you all the references you want— and the wife and I made 
 up our minds that when we did that we'd retire altogether, and 
 leave the young people to carry on things in their own way, 
 without any interference from us. I've got a son in the busi- 
 ness — hope you'll make his acquaintance some day — and a 
 very steady, capable young fellow he is, though I say it as 
 shouldn't ; and fond of a bit of sport, too — plays football, and 
 sometimes shoots a rabbit. See, mother ? Just a step down, 
 
Easter Saturday and Sunday S3^ 
 
 i 
 and you're in the garden. We'll have a good look round the, 
 garden afterwards. Well, this room's all right, Mr. — er — 
 Browne. Couldn't be better. Now for the dining-room. As 
 I was saying, we want to end our days in the country, as far 
 from Manchester as possible, see ? And we've always had a 
 fancy for this part of the world ever since we came to stay here 
 with poor young Joe Chapman — well, I say young ; but he 
 was forty then — just the same age as me. And now I'm 
 sixty. The years don't stand still, Mr. — er. Here's the 
 dining-room, mother. Just right, eh ? There was a time 
 when we sat down fourteen to dinner, Mr. Browne, family 
 and servants ; ten upstairs and four down ; but there won't be 
 so many of us here. Well, as I was saying, we came here on 
 a visit to old Sir Joseph, and I said to the wife, ' Mother,' I 
 said, ' this is the place we'll come to when Tom's ready to 
 step into my shoes.' She laughed, you know, bec^dse Tom 
 was a little nipper in knickerbockers then, but here we are, all 
 the same, eh, mother ? Who was right, eh ? " 
 
 Browne led the way into the morning-room. His face was 
 perturbed. How could he possibly tell this cheerful voluble 
 man that he was not at all the sort of tenant he had sought for 
 the Lodge, anol that for his own happiness he had much better 
 settle down amongst others of his kind, wherever such people 
 were wont to congregate, for he would be incongruously out 
 of place in this southern countryside. He postponed con- 
 sideration of the problem for the present. Perhaps he would 
 not like the house. But he knew that he would like the house. 
 Perhaps his references would not be satisfactory. But he 
 knew that he would not be able to refuse him on the score of 
 unsatisfactory references. 
 
 Mr. Dale's loud voice broke in on his ponderings. " Well, 
 here's the breakfast-room, mother. Nice room too, isn't it ? 
 French windows, you see, into another bit of garden. As I 
 was saying, Mr. — er, we don't want a large place. Nice 
 rooms, and a nice garden, and a nice neighb'rood — right in the 
 country. We've had enough of streets and houses, haven't 
 we, mother ? Not too many people, but just a few for a bit 
 of company. I suppose you've some nice company here, 
 Mr. — er — Browne ? " 
 
 He pronounced it " coompany," and Browne replied, in a 
 maze of bewilderment, that there were other inhabitants of 
 Exton. 
 
84 Exton Manor 
 
 ft Ay, that'll be nice for mother and nie, and the children. 
 There'll be six of 'em living with us, Mr. Browne. There's 
 Lotty — she was twenty-two last October ; but we shan't 
 have Lotty with us long. She's engaged, is Lotty, and we 
 shall be cheering you up with a wedding before we've been 
 here long. Then there's Ada " 
 
 " I'm sure Mr. Browne doesn't want to hear the names 
 of all the children, father," interrupted Mrs. Dale. " If we 
 come to live here, he will meet them all in good time himself." 
 
 " Eh, mother, have it your own way. At any rate, there's 
 six of them, Mr. — er ; Peter and Gladys is the youngest — just 
 thirteen, and there's Tom, and Mary, and Ada, and Lott}^ be- 
 sides. So now you know. Ay, this'll be father's room, where 
 he'll keep his papers, eh, mother? Very nice. Just what 
 we wanted." 
 
 The rest of the house also proved to be just what Mr. Dale 
 wanted. He praised everything, without exception, and, as 
 Mrs. Dale passed the kitchen premises with a certificate of 
 merit, there remained only the stables and the gardens to be 
 inspected. These had also been constructed in just such a 
 way as to satisfy Mr. Dale's requirements, and, when they had 
 made their round and returned to the house, Mr. Dale had 
 reached the position of treating every thing as his own. 
 
 The longer he talked, the more did Browne feel that he 
 would not do as a tenant. He did not object to him on his 
 own account. Allowing for the limits of his experience of 
 humankind, which had not hitherto included the frankly 
 bourgeois, but quite self-satisfied, wealthy townsman, his feei- 
 ing was not greatly biassed against him. He rather liked him. 
 But he did not suppose that anybody else in the place would 
 like him, or his troop of rough children ; and least of all would 
 Lady Wrotham, the shadow of whose prejudices was begin- 
 ning to lie heavy on his spirit, put up with such a neighbour in 
 one of the most important houses on the Manor. 
 
 The kitchen dresser was the only piece of furniture left in 
 the empty house, and Mr. Dale now took his seat on it, while 
 Mrs. Dale and Browne leant against it, and entered into a dis- 
 cussion of details. Browne nerved himself , against his ordi- 
 nary practice, to be adamant on the subject of repairs. The 
 estate was not prepared to spend money at the present time in 
 putting the house into order. If a tenant did not care to do 
 this for himself, they would have to leave the house empty. 
 
Easter Saturday and Sunday 85 
 
 The rent was low — he named a figure considerably in excess 
 of what he had been prepared to ask — and it was low because 
 money would have to be spent on the place before it could be 
 lived in. And the lease must be a long one, not less than 
 twenty-one years. 
 
 Mr. Dale met him in the most generous spirit. If he had 
 been accustomed to carry on his ordinary business negotiations 
 in this spirit, it was surprising that he had become so rich a 
 man as he appeared to be. He had expected that the landlord 
 would do something, at least, towards putting the place into 
 order. It was customar}*. But, on the other hand, the rent 
 was a good deal lower than he had anticipated — here Browne 
 mentally kicked himself — and he was quite ready to spend 
 what was required in making himself and his family comfort- 
 able. As for the long lease, it was just what he wanted. He 
 should not have cared to spend so much money as he was pre- 
 pared to spend unless he could feel that the place was practi- 
 cally his own — at any rate, for his lifetime* 
 
 " If I or the wife live much over eighty, Mr. — er — Browne, 
 —well, I dare say you won't turn us out, eh ? u 
 
 Browne had the consolation of feeling that, as far as the 
 financial aspect of the negotiation was concerned, the estate 
 would have the most satisfactory of tenants. 
 
 11 I didn't tell you, Mr. Browne," pursued Mr. Dale, " that 
 I've already been in communication with your lawyers, Messrs. 
 Shepherd and Pain — I've done a bit of business with them in 
 days gone by — they were poor young Joe Chapman's lawyers, 
 too, and I was his executor. It was them as referred me to 
 you. I asked them if there was a house to let here. They 
 know all about me ; but I'll give you other references too." 
 
 He proceeded to do so, and Browne felt that his last hope 
 was cut off. 
 
 " Of course," he said, " I shall have to submit your pro- 
 posal to Lord Wrotham. I can't do anything on my own 
 responsibility." 
 
 " Oh, of course," said Mr. Dale. " But that won't take 
 long. I'm prepared to do everything that's wanted on my 
 side, and I'm capable of doing that and a good deal more, as 
 you'll have no difficulty in finding out. I don't think you'll 
 get a better tenant than William Dale, Mr. — er — Browne, 
 though I say it as shouldn't. Well, now, mother and me will 
 be staying at Woodhurst for another week.. If you'll kindly 
 
se Exton Manor 
 
 put the preliminaries through as quickly as possible, we'll 
 get the work set in hand before we go north again, and well 
 come and settle in as soon as everything is ready for us. See ? " 
 
 Browne did see. He saw that Mr. Dale meant to come to 
 Exton, and that there was practically nothing he could do to 
 stop him. He resigned himself to the inevitable, and allowed 
 himself to meet bonhomie with cordiality. " Well, I hope 
 you'll like the place," he said. " We'll do our best to make 
 you at home here if you come. But you're deciding in rather 
 a hurry, aren't you ? " 
 
 " That's my way," returned Mr. Dale. " I know what I 
 want, and I've got it here. If there's anything more to talk 
 about, Mr. — er — Browne, you've only got to send me a line, 
 and I'll come over. Or perhaps you'll come over to Wood- 
 hurst and take a bit of lunch, or dinner, with us. We shall 
 always be pleased to see you, and I've no doubt we shall 
 know each other very w r ell by and by." 
 
 It seemed probable. Browne watched them drive away, 
 summoned a woman, who had been hanging about in the 
 background, to shut up the house, and made his way back to 
 his office, a prey to the liveliest apprehensions. 
 
 Hilda Redcliffe spent the whole of that day wandering in 
 the forest. She did this at all times of the year, taking her 
 luncheon, sketching materials and a book with her in a knap- 
 sack, and returning at dusk, sometimes happy, sometimes 
 pensive. Fred Prentice had shared these wanderings during 
 those Christmas holidays to which he had alluded with such 
 persistent iteration, but she was apparently determined to 
 give him no chance of doing so on this occasion, for she set 
 out immediately after an early breakfast, and gained the 
 forest aisles by way of the woods at the back of the White 
 House, instead of the more direct route in the open. She 
 returned only in time to dress for dinner. She was tired out, 
 disinclined for conversation, and asked her mother's permis- 
 sion to go to bed directly after dinner. 
 
 Fred had arrived at the White House about half-an-hour 
 after her departure, and learnt from Mrs. Redcliffe where she 
 had gone, whereupon he had immediately set out to find her. 
 But she was in none of the haunts which he knew to be her 
 favourites, and, after walking about for some hours from one 
 place to another, he had returned, thoroughly disgusted, to 
 
Easter Saturday and Sunday 87 
 
 the vicarage. Filial piety disposed of his afternoon, which 
 was spent on the golf links with his father. He kept his eye 
 on the White House, whenever it was in view, rather than on 
 the ball, and got beaten. He inveigled his father into calling 
 on Mrs. Redcliffe at the close of the game, but Hilda had not 
 returned by the time they left the house, nor did they meet 
 her as they returned home. The evening was a dull one for 
 him, and he retired very early to bed, cursing his fate. 
 
 Mrs. Redcliffe and Hilda were in church at the early service 
 on Easter Day, but he was with his mother, and had no chance 
 of a word with them. And, after the eleven o'clock service, 
 although they did all meet at the church gate, the Red- 
 cliffes had a party of friends with them, people whom Fred 
 did not know, who were staying in the forest, and had driven 
 over to Exton to go to church and spend the rest of the day 
 at the White House. Hilda shook hands with him, and 
 immediately went off between a girl of about her own age 
 and a man rather older, who, to Fred's eye, possessed all the 
 attributes of interloping villainy. Mrs. Redcliffe hung 
 behind to say a few words to Mrs. Prentice about the picnic 
 on the following day, but she did not ask Fred to come and 
 see them on that afternoon ; made it, indeed, rather difficult 
 for him to do so if he wished, as her last words were, " Well, 
 then, we shall all meet at the bridge to-morrow at three 
 o'clock." 
 
 Nevertheless, he did go up in the afternoon, almost against 
 his own will. He could not support the idea of that most 
 offensive young man filling the place that ought to have been 
 his own, and no doubt using his contemptible arts to gain 
 a footing where he ought not to have dared so much as to 
 plant his eyes. 
 
 His visit was not a success. The whole party was sitting 
 at tea on the lawn, and, as he had expected, the young man 
 who had aroused his dislike was seated by Hilda's side, a 
 position which was apparently to his liking. Fred suspected 
 him of being a Cambridge man. He had always considered 
 Cambridge second-rate, but he had had no idea before how 
 offensive were the manners in vogue among the members of 
 that university. Why, the fellow had actually acknowledged 
 his introduction to him by a nod, and then returned to his 
 conversation with Hilda as if nothing further was due to a 
 man whom he ought to have known to be a somebody, if only 
 
88 Exton Manor 
 
 from the perfection of his attire. There was some confusion 
 of thought here, because Fred did not actually claim to be a 
 somebody, but he was persuaded that he looked the part, 
 and the other ought to have recognized it. As for Hilda, she 
 seemed only to have ears for this Light Blue bounder, and it 
 seemed to him actually indelicate, the way she permitted him 
 to monopolize her. If that was the sort of girl she was, he 
 should certainly have nothing more to do with her. 
 
 He turned towards one of the girls to whom he had been 
 introduced, the other being engaged with her mother and 
 Mrs. Redcliffe, and began to make rather patronizing con- 
 versation with her. She was not a bad-looking girl, rather 
 better-looking than Hilda, really — at least, he would like 
 Hilda to know that he thought so — but, oh, horrors ! what 
 was this ? 
 
 V You look like a Cambridge man, Mr. Prentice/' she was 
 saying. Could words so base come from such pretty lips ? 
 " Are you up there ? " 
 
 " No," replied Fred, with dreadful calm. " I came down 
 from the university a year ago, but I was not at Cambridge." 
 
 " Oh, Oxford, I suppose. How horrid for you ! It isn't 
 half such a nice place, is it ? " 
 
 Was it possible that there existed any being on earth who 
 really thought this ? If so, what words could be used to bring 
 home the flagrancy of the error ? 
 
 " My brother came down a year ago, too," she went on, 
 without waiting for a reply. " My sister and I went up for 
 the May week. It was a perfectly heavenly time. We 
 never enjoyed ourselves so much anywhere. You don't have 
 anything like that at Oxford, do you ? " 
 
 Fred felt that the only possible attitude was one of bitter 
 irony. " Oh, no," he said ; " nothing in the least like it." 
 
 " I thought not. My brother was captain of his college 
 boat — he was at Jesus, and he was able to give us a splendid 
 time. He has promised to take us up again this year for a 
 few days, and we are trying to persuade Mrs. Redcliffe to 
 bring Hilda to join our party." 
 
 Hilda at Cambridge ! Oh, the profanation ! He had in- 
 tended some day to show her Oxford. It must not be allowed. 
 He must speak to her very seriously about it. But it did 
 not appear that he would have an opportunity of speaking 
 to her about this or anything else at present, for she was 
 
Easter Saturday and Sunday so 
 
 quite taken up with this horrible creature from Jesus College, 
 and was at this moment laughing delightedly at some witless 
 pleasantry with which he was affronting her ears. Fred 
 could endure it no longer. He rose abruptly. " I must be 
 getting back/' he said. " I just came up to ask if mother 
 could bring anything for the picnic to-morrow, Mrs. Redcliffe." 
 
 Mrs. Redcliffe thanked him for the offer, and refused it, 
 which was, perhaps, fortunate, as Mrs. Prentice had expressed 
 no wish to bring anything but herself to the picnic, and would 
 have been annoyed if she had been asked to do so. He was 
 not asked to prolong his visit, which had only lasted about 
 ten minutes, and walked across the lawn to the gate, pursued 
 by a ringing peal of laughter from Hilda, whose appreciation of 
 the Jesus man's humour struck him as being in the worst 
 possible taste. 
 
 When he had walked a little way down the road, in high 
 dudgeon, he stopped suddenly, with a horrid fear knocking at 
 his heart. Would these friends of the Redcliffes join the 
 party on the following day ? Because, if so, he was quite 
 determined that he would not. He walked on again, more 
 slowly. No, it was not likely. Mrs. Redcliffe had named the 
 parly, and not included them. He breathed with more relief. 
 He would make sure of getting Hilda to herself at some stage 
 of the proceedings, and he would say many things to her, 
 giving her warning, amongst them, of the mistake she would 
 make if she took off the edge of her future introduction to 
 Oxford by a premature visit to Cambridge — especially in 
 such company. He would not make love to her ; she need 
 not be in the least afraid of that. The inclination to do so 
 had, as a matter of fact, entirely left him. But, for the sake 
 of their old intimacy, and out of his wider knowledge of the 
 world, he would take an admonitory line, and put himself 
 in a position to which she could for the future look up. She 
 was behaving badly. He would tell her so, ^ making her 
 understand, at the same time, that he only did so for her 
 good, and not because her behaviour affected him, except as 
 an old friend who wished her well. With this intention he 
 walked home, virtuous, but not hilariously happy, and 
 accompanied his mother to the evening service. 
 
 As they came out of church, Mrs. Redcliffe's friends passed 
 them, driving home. They were all laughing, and Fred 
 looked fixedly in another direction. 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 A PICNIC AT WARREN'S HARD 
 
 Easter Monday was as warm and cloudless as the previous 
 days had been. Mrs. Redcliffe's picnic party assembled at 
 the bridge at the time appointed. There were six of them — 
 for the Vicar had excused himself — a comfortable load for the 
 roomy boat, which had been the property of Sir Joseph 
 Chapman, but at the service of all who cared to ask for it, 
 and, since his death, having been overlooked at the dispersion 
 of his effects, had lain at the little wharf of the mill, tacitly 
 assigned to the use of those who had been in the habit of 
 borrowing it before. 
 
 It was not, at first sight, a party that gave great promise of 
 enjoyment. Hilda and Fred, the only two young people in it, 
 were, towards each other, as we have seen them. Mrs. 
 Prentice cherished cause of complaint, not yet brought to a 
 head, both against her hostess and against Browne. And as 
 for Turner, her whole being was in revolt against him. He 
 seldom or never went to church, which she took as a per- 
 sonal slight, and the weapons which she had sometimes 
 brought to bear against him were never used without being 
 turned back, by the man's shameless humour, against herself. 
 
 He came up to her at once, as she and Fred stood by the 
 bridge, Browne and the Redcliffes coming down the road 
 towards them, and said, in a manner which she afterwards 
 described as the height of impertinence, " How do you do, 
 Mrs. Prentice ? It must be months since we last met." 
 
 " How do you do, Captain Turner ? " replied Mrs. Prentice 
 coldly, ignoring his proffered hand. " Shall we go round 
 and get into the boat, Fred ? " 
 
 " Better wait till the others come," answered Fred. " Well, 
 
 90 
 
A Picnic at Warren's Hard 91 
 
 Turner, I hope you're prepared to take your share of the 
 rowing.' ' 
 
 " Oh, yes," said Turner. " Mrs. Prentice, I do hope I 
 haven't offended you in any way. I can't help feeling that 
 your manner is not very cordial to me." 
 
 Mrs. Prentice faced him. " Cordial ! " she echoed. " I 
 shall be cordial to you, Captain Turner, when I see you ful- 
 filling your duties as a Christian and a Churchman. The 
 greatest festival of the Christian year has come and gone, 
 and you have held aloof from all the duties and privileges 
 connected with it. Cordial, no." 
 
 " It has not quite gone yet, has it ? " inquired Turner 
 meekly. " We are still celebrating the octave, you know, 
 Mrs. Prentice." 
 
 " We are celebrating is hardly the way to put it," said 
 Mrs. Prentice. " I think you ought to be ashamed of your- 
 self, Captain Turner, not coming near a church either on 
 Good Friday or Easter Day." 
 
 " I say, mother ! " Fred interpolated. 
 
 " I shall speak my mind, Fred," she replied. " When I 
 see sin — shameless sin, and vice confronting me, I shall 
 rebuke them fearlessly." 
 
 " Well, then, shut up, Turner," said Fred. " The mater 
 is quite right. You're a shameless old heathen, and a disgrace 
 to the place." 
 
 " I know I am a sinner," said Turner ; " a miserable sinner. 
 You must try and make me a better man, Fred. If you came 
 here more often, and talked to me, I might improve." 
 
 The arrival of the rest of the party put a stop to a further 
 charge of amenities, but Mrs. Prentice was greatly ruffled, 
 and showed it in the way she received Mrs. Redcliffe's greeting, 
 and the more watchful handshakes of Hilda and Browne. 
 
 11 Why did mother ask that woman ? " Hilda inquired of 
 Browne, as they all turned into the garden of the Mill House 
 on their way to where the boat was lying. " She is going 
 to make herself thoroughly disagreeable and spoil everything. 
 She is getting on my nerves." 
 
 " Oh, don't talk like that," pleaded Browne. " Let's 
 keep the peace, whatever w r e do. We must all hang 
 together." 
 
 Hilda laughed at him. " It strikes me," she said, " that 
 that friendliness which you are so proud of in Exton isn't so 
 
92 Exton Manor 
 
 very apparent when we all meet. I think we are really rather 
 an ill-assorted lot of people." 
 
 " I don't think so/' said honest Browne. " You've only 
 got to make a* few allowances." 
 
 The baskets had already been brought down and stowed 
 away in the boat. The voyagers disposed themselves, 
 Browne rowing stroke, Fred bow, and Hilda steering. The 
 two ladies were on either side of her, and Turner in the prow 
 of the boat. 
 
 They rowed out on to the broad, shining water, which at 
 high tide formed a noble river between its wooded banks, and 
 at low tide was a stretch of brown mud, with a meagre stream 
 running down a narrow channel. The tide was nearly at its 
 height now, and its flow almost imperceptible. They moved 
 steadily down in the shallower water. It would be harder 
 work rowing up again later on. 
 
 Fred had his own thoughts to attend to. He could see 
 Hilda above Browne's broad shoulder as he swung forward, 
 sitting intent on her task. Her eye refused to be caught by 
 his. There were not many signs as yet of the friendliness 
 she had undertaken not to withdraw from him, he said to 
 himself, half-bitterly, half -ruefully. And somehow, as he sat 
 silent, rowing regularly, taking a glance at her face at the 
 beginning of each stroke, and mentally digesting what he saw 
 there as he pulled it through, he did not feel quite so sure of 
 being able to sustain the part he had assigned to himself 
 the day before. He would give that up ; he was not in the 
 temper for it. At all costs, he must get back into her friend- 
 ship. He wanted her. Enforced abstinence from her society, 
 when he had thought that he would be able to enjoy it to the 
 fullest extent, had bred a new tenderness in him. Of a sudden 
 his mind relented towards her. He forgave her coldness, 
 and leapt into a lover-like state of mind, humble and appre- 
 ciative of her charms. But he must be careful, and gain 
 her sympathy by playing on that string of friendship which 
 was the only one left whole in his lover's lyre. 
 
 Mrs. Prentice, her soul rasped to roughness by Turner's 
 veiled impertinence, was in the mood to make herself un- 
 pleasant, and essayed to do so, but found her armoury defec- 
 tive against Mrs. Redcliffe's equable courtesy and Browne's 
 preoccupation in his task, which beaded his forehead and 
 monopolized his attention. 
 
A Picnic at Warren's Hard 93 
 
 " I hear," she said, " that Lord Wrotham found tune to 
 pay you a visit on Thursday, although he was too busy to do 
 me and the Vicar the same honour." 
 
 " He came in for five minutes to look at the house," Mrs. 
 Rcdcliffe replied. " Mr. Browne is very proud of his altera- 
 tions, although I often tell him that if it were not for the 
 furniture we have put into the cottage it would not be nearly 
 so attractive." 
 
 Browne grunted. He had no mental energy to spare for find- 
 ing or expressing ideas. Mrs. Prentice returned to the attack. 
 
 " It does not do to make too much of a visit from a young 
 man like Lord Wrotham/ 1 she said. " He has the reputation 
 of being very wild. Freddy hears about him in London. He 
 does not happen to have met him, but they have many 
 mutual friends. One is obliged, of course, to treat the patron 
 of one's living with courtesy, but it would be impossible to 
 approve of all Lord Wrotham's goings on." 
 
 Mrs. Redcliffe made no reply, but Hilda said, " I think he 
 is awfully nice. It is a pity that Fred should run him down 
 here, especially if he does not know him." 
 
 Mrs. Prentice had an impulse of malevolence. It was as 
 she had expected. These people had inveigled themselves 
 into an intimacy with the young lord, and were even prepared 
 to give themselves airs on the strength of it. But that she 
 would stop. 
 
 " Of course, you know Lord Wrotham so intimately, 
 Hilda," she said, " that it must seem very impertinent to you 
 my venturing to discuss him at all." 
 
 " Oh, no, we don't know him intimately, ■•' returned Hilda. 
 " But he was very nice, and I don't like to hear people run 
 down behind their backs." 
 
 Mrs. Redcliffe, anxious to keep the peace, said, " Lord 
 Wrotham did not come to see us ; Mr. Browne brought him 
 to see the house. Do not be so hasty, Hilda. Mrs. Prentice 
 was not running Lord Wrotham down." 
 
 But Mrs. Prentice could speak for herself. " I shall cer- 
 tainly say what I please about Lord Wrotham, or anybody 
 else," she said heatedly. " And if you like to say that I am 
 annoyed that he was not brought to see me and the Vicar, it 
 is quite true. He ought to have been brought. It was owing 
 to us." And she glanced at the unfortunate Browne, who 
 did not improve matters by saying : 
 
94» Exton Manor 
 
 " I'd no idea of taking him to see anybody. There wasn't 
 time. We just went into the White House on our way down, 
 because, as Mrs. Redcliffe says, he wanted to see the altera- 
 tions. He suggested it himself." 
 
 Even Mrs. Prentice could hardly say, " He suggested it 
 because Hilda made eyes at him from the garden," but that 
 is what she thought, and saved the retort to be used on 
 another occasion in an amended form. 
 
 The conversation had not carried further than where 
 Browne was labouring at his oar, but Turner here struck in 
 opportunely from the bows, " Mrs. Redcliffe, I haven't been 
 to a picnic since I was in India. Very good idea of yours. 
 You deserve the thanks of the party." 
 
 " Hear, hear," said Fred and Brow r ne, and Mrs. Prentice 
 came in a late third with a bitter-sweet — 
 
 " Yes. Don't let us spoil our pleasure by wrangling. 
 There is nothing I hate more." 
 
 Warren's Hard, where they presently disembarked, after 
 a row of two or three miles down the river, was a place of 
 considerable interest. A hundred years before its name had 
 been on men's lips. Great three-deckers and smaller ships of 
 the line had been built here and launched from the slips, some 
 of them to gain glory and a name on the deep waters, others 
 to meet an obscurer fate, but all of them to carry on the story 
 of England's greatness in the seas of the world. There were 
 traditions of great festivals, when a monster of the deep 
 decked with fluttering flags, had slid from the dry land of 
 its strenuous birth into the waters of the estuary, amid the 
 plaudits of a crowd that had gathered from all sides to see 
 the sight. A king of England had turned aside on. his way 
 to the delights of his favourite watering-place, and the woods 
 had echoed to a salute of guns fired in his honour from a 
 battleship still in the bonds of her making. Great admirals, 
 their names in history, had walked by the w r ater and heard 
 the din of carpenters' hammers on the stout forest timbers, 
 raid perhaps the mightiest of them all had watched for an 
 hour, out of many that went to her building, one of the great 
 ships that was to bear his flag to victory. 
 
 Now, ail that was left of the place that had seen so much 
 activity in the brave years of a past century was a little sleepy 
 hamlet, two rows of red-brick cottages on either side of a 
 broad, grass-grown street, one of them flanked by the house 
 
A Picnic at Warren's Hard 95 
 
 of the master-builder, solid and unpretentious, but reminis- 
 cent within and without of the spacious Georgian days. 
 Bathed in sunshine, it sloped down from the agricultural and 
 pastoral land above it to a riverside slip of grass-land, once 
 trodden to bareness by many feet, and lumbered with the 
 accessories of industry. The slips, which had been the centre 
 of all the work which went on in and around it, were shallow 
 declivities, silted up with river mud, or narrow basins to hold 
 a few boats and a river yacht. The remote stillness of woods 
 and fields had closed in on all sides, and thrown a green veil 
 of forgetfulness over the busy memories of the past. 
 
 The place was familiar enough to the party which now 
 landed at it. They paid no tribute to its tale of years, beyond 
 praising its beauty, peaceful in the Spring sunshine. They 
 chose a spot on the grass by the river, and set out the con- 
 tents of the baskets. The men dispersed to collect sticks for 
 the fire, while the ladies spread a cloth, set cups and filled 
 plates. Hilda went across to the old house of the master- 
 builder to borrow a big kettle from its present inhabitant, 
 who carried on some riverside occupation there, and used the 
 large upstairs room, in which the master-builder had enter- 
 tained guests at his launchings, for miscellaneous lumber. 
 Fred had been on the lookout for this, and left his stick- 
 gathering to join her. 
 
 " I will carry the kettle for you," he said. 
 
 She turned no very gracious look on him. " Saunders 
 would have brought it," she said. 
 
 " I know," he replied. " But I want to speak to you. 
 Will you come for a stroll with me after we have had tea ? " 
 
 " We shall be going back almost directly," she said. 
 
 " Not for half-an-hour or so. Hilda, do say yes. I am 
 going away to-morrow, and I've hardly had a word with you 
 since I came down. You said you'd be friends, but you have 
 kept carefully out of my way all the time." 
 No, I haven't," she said hurriedly. 
 
 " Well, at any rate I haven't seen you at all. You must 
 come. You needn't be afraid of my playing the fool." 
 
 She did not want to be pleaded with in this earnest style, 
 or to give occasion for pleading. " I'm not, in the least 
 afraid," she said, with a little laugh. " Very well, we will 
 have a little walk. I want to hear what you know about Lord 
 Wrotham. Mrs. Prentice says that you disapprove of him." 
 
96 Exton Manor 
 
 " I disapprove of Wrotham ! " he exclaimed, but at this 
 point the amphibious master of the house appeared with a 
 huge and heavy kettle, and insisted on carrying it to the 
 picnicking ground, also on taking part in whatever conver- 
 sation should beguile the way, so that nothing more was said 
 between them for the time being. 
 
 Mrs. Prentice, under the influence of the sunshine and the 
 tea, relaxed her resentful attitude, and became even friendly, 
 and half-an-hour passed amicably. Then they strolled along 
 the bank, and it was not difficult for Fred to walk on ahead 
 with Hilda, rather faster than the rest, and to continue walk- 
 ing while the rest went back to pack up the baskets. 
 
 " Now tell me about Lord Wrotham," Hilda began. " Mr. 
 Browne brought him to see us, and he was so nice and friendly, 
 that it was quite a shock to me to hear that you think him 
 wild, or something of that sort." 
 
 " I don't know why mother should repeat things I say in 
 that way," said Fred. " I told her what every one knows 
 who goes about a bit in London— that he has got rid of a 
 tremendous lot of money, racing and so on. I don't want to 
 be quoted as giving him a bad name down here." 
 
 " Oh, you needn't be afraid of our talking — mother and 
 me. We are very discreet. Besides, we liked Lord Wrotham 
 so much that we shouldn't want to repeat anything against 
 him." 
 
 " I'm glad you liked him," said Fred dryly. 
 
 " Why ? " 
 
 " Oh, I don't know. Look here, Hilda, I didn't ask you 
 to come for a walk to talk about Wrotham. I wanted to talk 
 of something about myself." 
 
 " I shall be interested to hear it." 
 
 " I hope you will. You know I have been beastly extrava- 
 gant, and all that sort of thing." 
 
 " I have heard something of the kind." 
 
 " You have heard it from me. I told you a lot last 
 Christmas." 
 
 u Yes. And you said you were going to turn over a new 
 leaf last Christmas." 
 
 " I did say so. And I haven't. But I'm going to now." 
 
 " Well, I'm glad of that. Now shall we go back ? " 
 
 "No; we won't go back. Hilda, you might say something 
 to encourage a fellow a bit. It's jolly difficult to draw in 
 
A Picnic at Warren's Hard 97 
 
 one's horns and live on a very small income in London, when 
 one has been accustomed to live in quite a different way.'' 
 
 " I dare say it is. It would be difficult anywhere ; at least, 
 it would be unpleasant. But, after all, it only seems to be 
 common honesty." 
 
 " I hope you don't think I have behaved dishonestly. 
 You must remember that it is my own money that I am 
 spending. If I was expecting somebody else to pay my 
 debts it would be different." 
 
 "lam not so sure that it would be different. But, at any 
 rate, it is not my affair." 
 
 11 I wish you would make it your affair, then. You can't 
 think how it would help me to — to pull up and work hard 
 at something if I thought you cared at all about what I did. 
 We have been friends, and you said we would remain friends. 
 Friends ought to sympathize with each other in their 
 difficulties." 
 
 " Well, I am your friend to that extent, Fred. I do care. 
 I should like to think of you working hard in London, and 
 not getting into any more of the difficulties you told me 
 about." 
 
 She turned a frank gaze of friendliness on him, her warm 
 and constant nature triumphing over the pique which she 
 had allowed to sway her. He felt as if the sun had shone 
 out of the cold clouds, and was melted to tenderness. " It 
 is like you to say that," he said, " and it wasn't like you to 
 say my difficulties were no affair of yours. Well, father and 
 I had it out together again. W r e are going to clear up every- 
 thing — it doesn't amount to much this time, just over two 
 hundred — and start clear for the second time." 
 
 "That is splendid. I hate. the very idea of debt. And 
 you are going to work hard now, aren't you ? You know 
 you told me how you had been slacking it, as you said." 
 
 " Yes," said Fred, rather more dubiously. " But, you 
 know, there isn't really much to work at until I'm called. 
 Just reading in chambers, and preparing for the bar examina- 
 tion. I shall get through that all right. But I was going to 
 tell you, Hilda. I'm going to keep my eyes wide open for 
 an opportunity of getting into something better than the 
 bar — something in which I can use the money I've got. And 
 when I've found it, I'm going to work like a nigger at it." 
 
 " H'm ! " commented Hilda. " I think it is rather a pity 
 
 D (16) 
 
98 Exton Manor 
 
 .o be going in for one thing, and thinking of another all the 
 time." 
 
 " I should never do very much at the bar, you know. But 
 I think I could do very well in some business that suited me. 
 You'll wish me luck, won't you ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes, Fred ; the best of luck in whatever you take 
 up. But, come, we must be going back." 
 
 They turned, and Hilda went on, with a didactic kindness 
 which consorted, as Fred thought, most charmingly with the 
 fresh bloom of her youth. " I don't think it matters much 
 what a man works at, as long as he does work, and doesn't 
 live for pleasure, especially selfish extravagant pleasure. 
 You know, you are quite content with simple pleasures down 
 here, and then you go back to London and forget about 
 everything but amusing yourself. It is that I was annoyed 
 about — for, of course, I was annoyed ; I don't mind saying 
 so now it's all over." 
 
 " I shouldn't be content with simple pleasures down here 
 if it wasn't for you, Hilda. I haven't been very content the 
 last few days." 
 
 " You weren't to say that sort of thing ; but I'll let it pass 
 for once. At any rate, the simple pleasures, with me or 
 without me, didn't count for much when you got back to 
 London again." 
 
 " Yes, they did. But I am a fool. Now I'm going to be 
 a fool no longer. And I shall come down here very soon 
 again." 
 
 " Come down at Whitsuntide, as you said you would. 
 Test your new resolution by sticking to work for the next 
 six weeks." 
 
 " You help and encourage a fellow when you are like that, 
 Hilda. It is something to work for — your approbation." 
 
 " You'll have my approbation as long as you behave your- 
 self, Fred. It seems to me I'm talking very much like a 
 schoolmistress. Goodness knows, I've got plenty of faults 
 myself." 
 
 " I can't see them. I think you're the best girl in the 
 world, as well as the nicest. I say, I don't think I need go 
 on to Dorsetshire until Wednesday. Will you come for a 
 long walk in the forest to-morrow, and talk to me further 
 for my good ? " 
 
 " No. Keep your engagement ; and if you can knock a 
 
 (32) 
 
A Picnic at Warren's Hard 99 
 
 day off it, go back to London and set to work. It is quite 
 time you did." 
 
 They had now got hack to Warren's Hard. The baskets 
 were already packed, and the rest of the party ready to start. 
 Fred and Turner rowed them back to Exton. Fred felt that 
 he could have pulled twice as far against a still stronger 
 tide. Hilda was splendid, and how kind ! She knew how 
 to get the best out of a fellow, and it made you feel worth 
 something when a girl like that took the trouble to advise 
 you, and show that she cared about what you did with your 
 life. He was very much in love with her, far more than he 
 had ever thought it possible that he could be with a girl whom 
 he had known since her childhood, and gone about with as 
 if she were his sister. By Jove, he would show her that 
 he was worthy of her interest, and when he came back to 
 Exton, in six weeks' time — perhaps a little sooner — well, he 
 would see ; there was no telling how far his feelings would 
 take him. 
 
 (26) 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 LADY WROTHAM 
 
 Lady Wroth am arrived at Ex ton early on a wet and windy 
 Saturday afternoon, and drove from the station in a closed 
 carriage. The few wayfarers who were passed on the road 
 between the station and the village, and those who braved 
 the downpour to linger in the stretch of road between the 
 village and the Abbey to catch an early glimpse of her lady- 
 ship, saw a face, framed in black, peering out through the 
 wet glass, and nothing more, except an elderly maid seated 
 opposite. An autocratic old woman, coming to dominate 
 from a big house the lives of the lesser ones of the earth 
 whose dwellings clustered round it ; or, perhaps, a rather sad 
 old woman, coming to live alone in the place where the first 
 happy days of her married life had been spent ; she was 
 to these gazers merely an unknown, but interesting, factor 
 in their own lives, and drove in beneath the gateway of the 
 Abbey, watched by curious eyes. 
 
 Mrs. Prentice would have liked to line the road from the 
 bridge to the gate house with school children, herself at the 
 head of them, with perhaps a flag or two, and a few words of 
 respectful welcome. Mrs. Prentice had broached the subject 
 to her husband, who had demurred to the suggestion. 
 
 u She is a recently-made widow," said the Vicar, " coming 
 here to end her days quietly. It is no time for display and 
 rejoicing." 
 
 " Perhaps you are right, William," said Mrs. Prentice. 
 " It will be better for you and me to go to the Abbey in the 
 afternoon — about tea-time. I should not like Lady Wrotham 
 to come here and feel that there is no one who is pleased to 
 see her." 
 
 ioo 
 
 (15) 
 
Lady Wroth am 101 
 
 " I don't know that I am very pjeased to see her," replied 
 the Vicar. u She is a member of the Women's Reformation 
 League, and may feel inclined to interfere in my work." 
 
 " There is nothing she could object to here/' said Mrs. 
 Prentice ; "no extreme practices. The Catholic faith is 
 taught, of course, or as much of it as is desirable ; but the 
 ritual is moderate, and could offend nobody." 
 
 " I don't know so much about that. The Women's Re- 
 formation League is offended very easily, and if Lady 
 Wrotham is an active member of it, as I am told is the case, 
 there will probably be trouble. At any rate, I would rather 
 wait until after Sunday before I pay my respects to her. 
 Then she will know the best, or worst, of me — if she comes to 
 church, as I suppose she will — and I shall know where I stand. 
 But you might as well go by yourself." 
 
 Mrs. Prentice was quite ready to go by herself, and rang 
 for admittance at the Abbey shortly before five o'clock. She 
 was shown, after a short wait in the hall, into a large room, 
 half library, half morning-room, where Lady Wrotham was 
 seated comfortably in an easy-chair by her tea-table. 
 
 " I hope you will excuse my getting up," she said, as her 
 visitor walked across the room. " I have an attack of rheu- 
 matism, and I have only just settled myself down here." 
 
 Mrs. Prentice said, " Oh, pray do not move," and murmured 
 her condolence for the temporary affliction. 
 
 " Thank you," said Lady Wrotham. " It is such a common 
 thing with me that I don't worry about it, but just take it as 
 it comes. Please sit down, Mrs. Prentice. I am very glad 
 to see you. If you had not come so kindly of your own 
 accord, I should have written a note to beg you to do so. I 
 wished to have a conversation with you." 
 
 Mrs. Prentice congratulated herself on the promptitude of 
 her visit, and, during the foregoing speech, took into her 
 mind as much as she was able of the speaker's appearance and 
 manner. 
 
 Lady Wrotham sat upright in her low chair. She was short, 
 and, but for her exalted rank, might have been called dumpy. 
 But there was something commanding about her presence 
 which neither dumpiness nor lack of height could extinguish. 
 She wore a plain black dress, with a cameo brooch at the neck, 
 and a widow's cap ; but if there was something old-fashioned 
 about her attire, she wore it with dignity and it seemed to 
 
 (12) 
 
102 -Extern Manor 
 
 suit her. Her eye was clear and searching, and her mouth 
 firm. She did not smile as she addressed Mrs. Prentice, 
 apologizing for her disablement, but her manner was 
 courteous. 
 
 Mrs. Prentice was all smiles. " I thought I should like to 
 be the first to welcome you to Exton," she said. " My 
 husband would have accompanied me, but, as you know, 
 Lady Wrotham — or, perhaps you do not know, Saturday 
 afternoon is a busy time with a clergyman." 
 
 M I know it ought to be," replied Lady Wrotham, " and I 
 am glad that it is so with your husband. A minister cannot 
 prepare too carefully for his preaching of the Word." 
 
 Mrs. Prentice did not quite like this, and thought the word 
 "minister" out of place. She was accustomed to use the 
 word " priest," but had compromised on " clergyman," in 
 deference to the views that might be supposed to be held by 
 a member of the Women's Reformation League. " Minister " 
 was quite another affair. But she was anxious, at all costs, 
 to avoid controversy, so she said, " My husband is very con- 
 scientious about his preaching. He does not believe, as some 
 do, that it is of no use at all." 
 
 " I should hope not," said Lady Wrotham. 
 
 ':' He preaches two sermons every Sunday here — two fresh 
 sermons — and one at the Marsh, and another one on Wednes- 
 day evening at Warren's Hard. It takes him a long time to 
 prepare them, and, of course, he has all his visiting and other 
 parish work to do as well." 
 
 " It is too much for one man." 
 
 11 So I tell him. The Marsh is five miles off, and Warren's 
 Hard over two. But he is so earnest about his work. He 
 will do it." 
 
 " Of course the work must be done. But in so large and 
 scattered a parish there ought to be a curate." 
 
 " I wish my husband could afford to keep one ; but, what 
 with a man and a boy for the stables and garden, which must 
 be kept up to a certain extent " 
 
 " Well, we must talk about that another time. I should 
 like to ask you a few questions now, Mrs. Prentice, about 
 the place and the people. As the wife of the Vicar, you will 
 no doubt be able to help me to become acquainted with my 
 new surroundings. As I have said, I am very glad you have 
 called, because here I am now. and here I shall stay, God 
 
 (28) 
 
Lady Wrotham 103 
 
 willing, for the rest of my life, and I may as well begin at 
 once to know my way. You will be kind enough, I am sure, 
 to assist me." 
 
 How gladly ! Mrs. Prentice's heart warmed towards her. 
 " Indeed I will," she said. " You cannot think, Lady 
 Wrotham, what a pleasure it is to me to have you here, to 
 advise and control. Everything has been on my shoulders, 
 so far ; everything, that is, that some woman must take the 
 lead in, and I so gladly deliver up my charge into your 
 hands. " 
 
 " H'm ! " grunted Lady Wrotham, with a sharp glance at 
 her. " Sir Joseph Chapman, I suppose, had no lady living 
 here ? " 
 
 " His sister lived with him until she died, two years ago. 
 But she was an invalid, and not of much account. She was 
 a Swcdenborgian, but it did not matter so very much, as she 
 was hardly ever able to leave the house." 
 
 " Sir Joseph, I believe, kept up what charities were 
 necessary ? " 
 
 " Yes ; he was most generous — never appealed to in vain." 
 
 " I must go into that question with the Vicar. I shall, of 
 course, do what is necessary, but I do not believe in pauperiz- 
 ing. I make it a rule to devote the utmost care to my bene- 
 factions. I believe far more in personal talk and advice 
 than in money and help, although that I give ungrudgingly 
 when it is required. There are others, I suppose, who visit 
 the poor. You do, I know." Mrs. O'Keefe ? ' 
 
 " Mrs. O'Keefe would do anything that was desired of her, 
 I am sure. But we have no regular system of district visit- 
 ing. I have not encouraged it, as it is not necessary ; not 
 necessary, that is, from the point of view of charity, for there 
 are very few really poor people in the parish, and what there 
 are the Vicar and I have looked after, with Sir Joseph's help." 
 
 " But it is a good thing, I think, for ladies in a country 
 village to visit the poor, and to — to see that they are 
 behaving themselves. The clergyman can da much, but I 
 believe strongly in the influence of good women." 
 
 " Of course you are so very right, Lady Wrotham. My 
 own labours in that way are sometimes actually exhausting ; 
 but, to tell you the truth, there are no other women in the 
 place who — er — well, I don't quite know how to put it — who 
 would be capable of helping them spiritually." 
 
 (S0> 
 
104 Extern Manor 
 
 " Oh, indeed ! That is rather a grave state of things/ ' 
 "Pray do not think that I mean to imply anything serious 
 — against anybody. But Mrs. O'Keefe, you see, is so very 
 young — hardly more than a girl/' 
 
 " She is a widow, and quite old enough to do her duty/' 
 " Oh, yes, and she would, I am sure. She is very kind- 
 hearted, and the people like her. But, as I say — perhaps I 
 have been wrong — I have not encouraged her to go about 
 
 among them. Still, if you wish it, Lady Wrotham " 
 
 " I think she must be set to work. It will do herself as 
 much good as the poor — perhaps more. But there is Mra. 
 Redcliffe. She is an older woman, with a grown-up daughter, 
 is she not ? " 
 
 Mrs. Prentice pursed her thin lips. " I think," she said 
 stiffly, " you would probably find Mrs. Redcliffe more than 
 ready to undertake whatever you require of her, Lady 
 Wrotham." 
 
 u H'm ! But you mean something more than you say." 
 " It is the most disagreeable thing in the world to me even 
 to appear to be running people down. And as for saying 
 things behind their backs that I wouldn't say to their faces — 
 well, I wouldn't do it. But Mrs. Redcliffe — you must under- 
 stand that she is, I was going to say, a nobody. And if she 
 has a fault — which her daughter shares — she would be in- 
 clined, I am sadly afraid, to pay court to — to- 
 
 " IV 
 
 To a title. I quite understand. Many people do. I am 
 quite used to that little failing, and if it is not too blatant I 
 can put up with it." 
 
 " Well, I need say no more upon that score then. It is 
 very distasteful tome to have to say anything at all. But it 
 was really so very marked. When Lord Wrotham came 
 down, here for the day, they — Mrs. Redcliffe and her daughter 
 — made what I can only describe as a dead set at him." 
 
 " Did they ? " said Lady Wrotham grimly. 
 
 " Oh, it was most marked. I thought that Lord Wrotham 
 might perhaps like to have some conversation with my hus- 
 band, and took the liberty of asking him to luncheon. But 
 Mrs. Redcliffe had already got hold of him, if I may use the 
 expression, and by the time he got away from the White 
 House, he had no leisure left to do more than drive round the 
 Manor with Mr. Browne before going back to town." 
 
 " Probably Miss Redcliffe is a good-looking girl." 
 
Lady Wrotham 105 
 
 " Well — some people might consider her so, I suppose." 
 
 " I think she must be good-looking, or Lord Wrotham 
 would certainly not have put himself out to visit at the house. 
 You need give yourself no anxiety on the score of his actions, 
 Mrs. Prentice. They will certainly not be followed by 
 me." 
 
 Mrs. Prentice was pleased to hear this ; she felt that she 
 was getting on well. But she was not quite as elated as 
 might have been expected. She had received nothing but 
 kindness from Mrs. Redcliffe, and must have known in her 
 heart of hearts that she did not deserve the things that she 
 had said of her. But the grudges of a spiteful woman are 
 greedy, and clamour to be satisfied. She hastened to discount 
 the charges which her conscience would presently bring against 
 her. " Of course," she said, " Mrs. Redcliffe, with all her 
 faults, is a good woman. She would only be too pleased to 
 go about among the poor, if there were any necessity for it. 
 Still, her views on religion are not quite such as might be ex- 
 pected from a good Churchwoman, and I have felt that if she 
 were to interfere to any extent in the parish work, she might 
 only undo the influence that my husband and I strive to 
 create." 
 
 " She does well, perhaps," said Lady Wrotham, " to keep 
 quiet, in her particular situation." 
 
 " Oh, yes. It would not do to encourage her to take a 
 leading part." 
 
 " Do you find that there is any disagreeableness — any 
 scandal — in connection with her story ? I suppose every one 
 about here knows of it ? " 
 
 " Scandal ! Story ! " exclaimed Mrs. Prentice, pricking up 
 her ears. 
 
 " Is it not known, then ? " 
 
 " I — I — don't quite know to what you refer, Lady Wro- 
 tham." 
 
 Lady Wrotham was silent for a moment. " Perhaps I have 
 made a mistake in mentioning it," she said. " Like you, I 
 am very averse to creating mischief. But as I have gone so 
 far, I suppose I must go farther. Only, I beg of you not to 
 make the matter public, if she has really succeeded in keep- 
 ing it secret, which I confess I should not have thought 
 possible." 
 
 " Oh, indeed, you may rely on my discretion," said Mrs. 
 
106 Exton Manor 
 
 Prentice, hiding as far as possible the state of eager excitement 
 in which she now found herself. 
 
 " Well, Mrs. Redcliffe married her sister's husband. Of 
 course, in Australia such a marriage is quite regular. When 
 I was out there with Lord Wrotham I heard of it. Mrs. 
 Redcliffe is not exactly a — a ' nobody/ as you have thought, 
 though no doubt she is wise under the circumstances to draw 
 as little attention as possible to whatever claims of birth she 
 might put forward. Her father was a son of the Dean of 
 Carchester, who was one of the Stuarts of Dornasheen. He 
 emigrated to Australia in his youth, and became a wealthy 
 squatter. Captain Redcliffe, one of the Worcestershire Red- 
 cliffes, went out on Lord Chippenham's staff, and married and 
 settled there. His wife died within a year, and then he mar- 
 ried her sister, Mrs. Redcliffe, who lives here. He did not 
 live very long after that himself. I did not realize, until after 
 Mrs. Redcliffe had come to live here, who she was ; I was not 
 in the way of hearing much about the Exton tenantry, or per- 
 haps I might have However, that is Mrs. Redcliffe's 
 
 history." 
 
 Mrs. Prentice was shrewd enough not to betray the acute 
 enjoyment which the recital had caused her. She was anxious 
 now to get away and consider how best she might deal with 
 the information. 
 
 " Thank you for telling it to me, Lady Wrotham," she 
 said. " You will have no objection, I suppose, to my disclos- 
 ing it to my husband." 
 
 " N-o. But I do not wish it put about all over the county." 
 
 " Oh, indeed, I should not think of doing such a thing. I 
 am so grateful for your confidence, Lady Wrotham. You 
 may rely upon me as a willing helper in all your exertions for 
 the welfare of the place. I hope you will look upon me as 
 your lieutenant. It is such a joy to welcome you here." 
 
 " Thank you, Mrs. Prentice. I do not intend to live idly. 
 The years that remain to me will be employed to the best of 
 my ability, and I hope they will be employed in Exton. I 
 wish to make friends with the people. Perhaps you will 
 kindly let it be known that I shall be glad if they will call on 
 me in the ordinary way. I must not be supposed to give my- 
 self airs over them, you know." 
 
 This was said with the hint of a smile. Mrs. Prentice's 
 somewhat confused reply conveyed her appreciation of the 
 
Lady Wrotham 107 
 
 pleasantry, together with her opinion that airs from such a 
 quarter could only be looked upon as a gratifying condescen- 
 sion. 
 
 " And perhaps you and }'our husband will give me the 
 pleasure of your company at dinner to-morrow night at a 
 quarter-past eight. The evening service is at half-past six, 
 is it not ? " 
 
 Mrs. Prentice said that it was, accepted the invitation for 
 herself and her husband, and then took her leave. 
 
 Those whom she met on her way from the Abbey to the 
 vicarage received scant notice from her. Her mind was full 
 of the revelation she had received which even obliterated the 
 memory of the success she conceived herself to have obtained 
 in initiating an intimacy with her patroness. To think of it ! 
 A woman of that sort ! And she had allowed her to claim an 
 equality with herself, the virtuous wife and mother, who shud- 
 dered* yes, actually shuddered at the very idea of looseness in 
 the marriage tie. As she said these words to herself her 
 muscles, obedient to her mind, did produce a quite creditable 
 contraction, and her outraged virtue rose to heights still more 
 sublime. No wonder such a woman gave dinner parties on a 
 Friday, and had shirked the holy fatigue of the three hours' 
 service ! It was surprising that she had the face to go to 
 church at all. By the time Mrs. Prentice reached her own 
 hitherto undefiled home, she had attained a level of indignation 
 from which she threw the name Messalina at Mrs. Redcliffe. 
 She had the vaguest ideas as to the character and pursuits of 
 Messalina, but felt she had produced something epigrammatic 
 in doing so. 
 
 She found the Vicar seated in front of his study fire, perus- 
 ing the Church Times. He looked up at her as she entered 
 with a shade of apology. " Just finished all my work/' he 
 said. " Well, how did you get on with Lady Wrotham ? ?' 
 
 " Oh, very well," replied Mrs. Prentice. " William, I 
 have just heard a thing that has made my blood boil." 
 
 " Not a bad thing this cold w r eather," returned the Vicar 
 pleasantly. " Sit down and tell me about it." 
 
 Mrs. Prentice sat down. " It is not a matter to jest about," 
 she said. " If you found you had been nursing a viper to 
 your bosom — a viper sheltering under a reputation for kindness 
 and goodness from the charge of being an indifferent Church- 
 woman, what should you do ? " 
 
108 Exton Manor 
 
 ■■* I should send it to the Natural History Museum. It 
 would be a most unusual viper." 
 
 Mrs. Prentice rose. " I will tell you what I have discov- 
 ered when you are in a fit state to receive it/' she said. " I 
 come to you with a most serious piece of news, and you make 
 foolish jokes." 
 
 " Well, tell me your news, Agatha/' 
 
 Mrs. Prentice sat down again. " Do you know," she said, 
 " that there is a woman living among us, respected by all — ex- 
 cept me — who, before she came here, was living in adultery ? " 
 
 " What woman ? " 
 
 " Mrs. Redcliffe." 
 
 " Oh, come now, Agatha. You know such a thing cannot 
 be true." 
 
 " It is true, William. I had it from Lady Wrotham her- 
 self. You would not accuse her, I suppose, of lying, what- 
 ever you may choose to say of your own wife. She has just 
 told me the whole story." 
 
 " What did she tell you ? What is the story ? " 
 
 " First of all, what do you think of this ? Mrs. Redcliffe 
 is not the obscure woman she is supposed to be. Everybody 
 knows her own people — I forget their name ; and her hus- 
 band — although he was not her husband — w r as an officer of a 
 distinguished family who went out to Australia with Lord 
 Somebody. Has she ever mentioned these facts ? " 
 
 " I cannot say she has ; but why should she ? Women of 
 good birth are not always poking their ancestry down the 
 throats of their neighbours." 
 
 " That is a mere quibble. Of course, one would have 
 known these things of anybody who had no reason to hide a 
 tale of shame. However, that is a small point, compared to 
 the great sin of which she is guilty. Captain Redcliffe was 
 married to her sister, who died shortly afterwards. < And this 
 woman then formed a connection with him. Think of it ! 
 It positively makes me shudder." Here Mrs. Prentice made 
 another call on the muscles of her neck and shoulders, which 
 responded to it as before. 
 
 " How do you mean — a connection ? What sort of con- 
 nection ? " 
 
 "She actually went through a form of marriage with' 
 him. Strictly speaking, you might say she had committed 
 bigamy with him." 
 
Lady Wrotham loo 
 
 " Don't talk nonsense. Wait a minute. She was the 
 deceased wife's sister. Well, such a marriage is, unfortu- 
 nately, valid in the colonies." 
 
 " Valid, William ! And you, a priest, are willing to shelter 
 yourself behind a wicked civil evasion of the Church's law of 
 that sort ! " 
 
 " I don't say that I am. I think the law is a most un- 
 fortunate one, as I said. And in any case such a marriage 
 is still irregular as far as this country is concerned, and I 
 trust always will be. I deprecate the breaking down of these 
 safeguards against morality as much as you do. At the same 
 time, it is extravagant to talk of Mrs. Redcliffe as having 
 lived in adultery, and all that sort of thing." 
 
 " And pray why ? Does the Church recognize such a 
 marriage ? Answer me that." 
 
 " Of course the church does not recognize it ; although 
 I have no doubt that Mrs. Redcliffe was married in a church." 
 
 " Pah ! Another quibble. The Church does not recognize 
 it, whatever some disloyal priests may do in out-of-the-way 
 parts of the world. And anybody who defies the Church 
 by entering upon such a travesty of the marriage tie lives in 
 adultery. Have the courage of your convictions, William, 
 and acknowledge that it is so." 
 
 "I do not say that you are not right. But we are no 
 longer a Christian society. We must resist a further inva- 
 sion of Christian law to the utmost, but we must also exercise 
 charity, and recognize that those whose eyes have not been 
 opened to their full privileges are not guilty in the same sense 
 that we should be if we acted in the same way." 
 
 " Oh, I have no patience with that sort of argument. 
 Right is right. Mrs. Redcliffe — I don't know what the 
 woman's real name is, though Lady Wrotham did tell me — 
 and would you believe it ? — her grandfather was actually a 
 dignitary of the English Church — but I suppose I must go 
 on calling her Mrs. Redcliffe — has been living in sin, and it 
 is only the fact that her — the word sticks in my throat — 
 her husband died prevents her from living in sin now. I 
 shall certainly refuse to have anything more to do with her, 
 and I hardly see how you, as a priest, can do otherwise. I 
 suppose you will, at any rate, refuse to admit her any longer 
 to the altar." 
 
 " Really, Agatha ! " exclaimed the Vicar with some heat. 
 
no Exton Manor 
 
 " Your attitude seems to me a shocking one. If this poor 
 lady, of whom we have known nothing but good since she 
 has lived amongst us — if she has made a mistake in her life, 
 surely we ought to be sorry for her. You talk as if you were 
 actually elated by your discover}^ about her." 
 
 " I am not elated ; I am seriously disturbed. But it does 
 make me angry to think that she, being what she is, has set 
 up her opinion on matters of religion — and on other matters — 
 against me, and I have allowed it. Things will be very 
 different in the future/ ' 
 
 The Vicar turned away and sat down at his writing-table. 
 " Your news distresses me," he said. " I must think it 
 over." He turned round in his seat towards her. " But it 
 distresses me still more," he added in a firm tone, " to find 
 you using it as a handle for vindictiveness. I will say 
 deliberately that I think you ought to be ashamed of taking 
 up the attitude you do. It is not Christian, and it is not 
 womanfy." 
 
 Mrs. Prentice's face showed a dull flush. Her husband's 
 words had been spoken with such directness that they could 
 not fail to make an impression. She burst into tears. " I 
 am sure I try to do what is right," she said. " It is very 
 hard to be spoken to in that way. I am only following out 
 the rule of the Church in thinking a thing that the Church 
 forbids is sinful." 
 
 " Then you should take very good care not to fall into 
 a different kind of sin yourself," said the Vicar. " Un- 
 doubtedly you have a vindictive spirit. It is constantly 
 showing itself and 3^011 make no effort to subdue it." 
 
 " I shall go to my room," said Mrs. Prentice. " You 
 have no business to talk to your wife in that way." 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 A SERVICE AND A DINNER 
 
 The storm of wind and rain that had blown throughout 
 the day of Lady Wrot ham's arrival at Exton died down 
 during the night, and Sunday morning dawned bright and 
 clear. Either for this reason, or because of the general 
 anxiety to take an early opportunity of seeing the great 
 lady in the flesh, Exton Abbey church was unusually full 
 at the morning service. Mrs. Redcliffe and Hilda walked 
 down the road from the White House shortly before eleven 
 o'clock, accompanied by Browne, who caught them up at 
 their gate. 
 
 Browne, for a man of nerves so comfortably encased in 
 flesh, was in a state of marked excitement. He walked faster 
 than was quite convenient to the ladies, and repeatedly 
 mopped his forehead with a large bandana kerchief. 
 
 " 1 do hope she'll be satisfied with Prentice's behaviour," 
 he said. " We're all used to his little goings on, and don't 
 mind 'cm. But she takes such an interest in Church matters 
 that she's bound to notice everything, and if she isn't satisfied 
 she'll let it be known." 
 
 " I don't think she will find much to object to," said Mrs. 
 Redcliffe. " The service is short, and quite simple." 
 
 " It isn't as if we were going to the choral mass," said 
 Hilda. 
 
 Browne slowed down, standing almost still in the road, 
 with a look of consternation on his moon-like face. " By 
 Jove ! " he exclaimed. " This is the second Sunday in the 
 month. He's hard at work on his choral mass at this very 
 minute. Then we're done." 
 
 " The service will be over by eleven o'clock," said Mrs. 
 
 hi 
 
112 Exton Manor 
 
 Redcliffe. " And after all, Lady Wrotham is bound to 
 know some time that the service is held. It is just as well 
 that she should know at once. And I hardly think that she 
 could object to it. It is only a very bigoted person who 
 would do so." 
 
 " It relieves me immensely to hear you say so," said 
 Browne. " I don't know much about these things ; but, of 
 course, it's all a good deal more elevated than I've been 
 used to, and I'm rather at sea with it. Still, I'm not at all 
 sure that she isn't a bigoted person, and I shan't be satisfied* 
 until they've had it all out. Lor', how I do hope we shall 
 have peace." 
 
 " I think it will be better fun if we don't have peace all at 
 once," said Hilda. " Have you seen her yet, Mr. Browne ? " 
 
 " No ; I'm dining there to-night, and so are the Prentices. 
 It'll be a terrible thing if there's a row over the dinner-table." 
 
 " There will hardly be that," Mrs. Redcliffe said. " And 
 I think the Vicar has enough tact to get his own way over 
 matters that are of importance to him without giving offence." 
 
 " Well, he may have," said Browne. " But what about 
 Mrs. Prentice ? " 
 
 " It will be a terrible grief to Mrs. Prentice if she has to go 
 against dear Lady Wrotham," said Hilda. 
 
 " Mrs. Prentice will not go against her honest convictions," 
 said Mrs. Redcliffe. " But we need not to go out of our way 
 to anticipate disagreement. Mr. Browne, will you tell me 
 whether people living in the place — people like ourselves, for 
 instance — will Lady Wrotham expect us to call on her, or 
 will she prefer that we should be introduced to her, and take 
 the initiative herself ? " 
 
 " I don't know, Mrs. Redcliffe," said Browne. " I sup- 
 pose you'll call. But I'll find out if you like." 
 
 " Yes, do, please. I have not been on visiting terms with 
 great ladies before, in England, and I should like to do what 
 will please her best." 
 
 " Mrs. Prentice will know," said Hilda. " And I am sure 
 she will not be backward in giving us full instructions." 
 
 They came to the gate of the churchyard. There was a 
 collection of twenty or thirty people standing on the path 
 between it and the church door, and from within the church 
 came the drone of the organ and voices singing. The Vicar 
 had instituted some time before a choral communion service, 
 
A Service and a Dinner 113 
 
 held once a month, at an hour which enabled him to dismiss 
 his congregation in time for the church to be refilled by those 
 who still preferred to attend" the more usual Morning Prayer 
 at eleven o'clock. These were, perhaps naturally, the majority 
 of his parishioners ; but nobody had objected to the innova- 
 tion, Exton being unusually free from ecclesiastical contro- 
 versy, except such as was imported by Mrs. Prentice, and 
 there being no obligation on anybody to change the ways to 
 which they had grown accustomed. So, on the few occasions 
 on which the earlier service had encroached on the time sacred 
 to the more conservative, the later churchgoers had waited 
 patiently, as on this occasion, until they were free to enter. 
 
 It was five minutes before eleven, and the organ and the 
 voices were still to be heard from within, when the slowly 
 augmenting group of eleven o'clock churchgoers was pleas- 
 antly excited by the arrival at the church gate of an open 
 carriage drawn by two horses, with coachman and footman 
 on the box. From this stately equipage alighted a short, but 
 erect, old lady in black, w r ho walked slowly up the church- 
 yard path With every mark of surprise, and some of dis- 
 pleasure, depicted on her face, as she made her way through 
 two lines of onlookers. The churchyard was divided from a 
 gate leading into the garden of the Abbey only by the width 
 of a road, but Lady Wrotham had always been accustomed to 
 drive to church, and had preferred to have her carriage out 
 and come round the longer way, rather than to walk unat- 
 tended the few yards that divided her house from the church. 
 She was followed from the carriage by a footman carrying a* 
 large Prayer-book, who looked as if he could have wished 1 
 himself in some less prominent position. 
 
 She must have thought that the people through whom she 
 passed were gathered there for the express purpose of watch- 
 ing her arrival, which was an attention she could have dis- 
 pensed with, for she inquired of Browne in an audible tone 
 why on earth they were all, waiting there to stare at her. 
 Browne replied to her inquiry in an anxious whisper. Her 
 expression changed when she took in the purport of his reply. 
 She gave one look at the attendant throng, and another at the 
 wall of the church, then, without another word, continued her 
 progress, and, followed by her Prayer-book and its bearer, 
 disappeared into the porch, and thence into the church itself. 
 It was not until some two minutes later that the music ceased, 
 
114 Exton Manor 
 
 and a thin trickle of humanity emerged to meet the larger 
 stream that now found its way in through the open door. 
 The great lady's narrow, but determined, back could be seen 
 bolt upright in a pew immediately in front of the chancel 
 rails, and the Vicar, arrayed in eucharistic vestments, followed 
 by his server, walked down the aisle with a flush on his face. 
 
 Every one who was alive to the situation felt that battle 
 had been already joined. 
 
 Mr. Prentice soon came back to his reading-desk at the tail 
 of his choir, preceded by the post-office telegraph operator 
 bearing a large cross, at which Lady Wrotham gazed with 
 attentive curiosity until Mr. Prentice passed her, clad now in 
 surplice, hood and coloured stole. She remained seated until 
 the service began, when she rose and took part in it with 
 responsible precision. 
 
 The service was quiet and short. The psalms were, read, 
 and there were two hymns. The Vicar preached for about 
 ten minutes. His text was, " And again I say, rejoice/' He 
 said that it was a mistake to suppose that the Christian 
 religion was a religion of gloom. The Church, in her wis- 
 dom, had decreed certain seasons of rejoicings of which this 
 was one. They had recently gone through the season of 
 penitence, he trusted with benefit to the souls of all of them, 
 and now had come this glad season of rejoicing, just as the 
 day followed the night, and joy came after sorrow. But they 
 must rejoice worthily, and not unworthily. Eating and drink- 
 ing, and careering about in motor-cars, were not the kind of 
 rejoicing that was enjoined on us, but an increase in the 
 practice of churchgoing was. And what a beautiful thought 
 it was that Eastertide, the Church's special season of rejoicing, 
 came at a time when the earth was awakening from her long 
 winter sleep, when the birds were singing, and the buds open- 
 ing. But he would not dwell upon this thought, beautiful as 
 it was, that morning. He then touched upon the mutability 
 of human life. He said that we must not think, any of us, 
 that we could escape death. The rich man in his castle and 
 the poor man in his hovel were alike subject to it. Even 
 when we thought ourselves most secure the end might come. 
 The strong man who thought he had many years of life 
 remaining to him in which to build barns and lay field to field 
 might meet his death in the ashes of his burning dwelling, or 
 by a fall from some lofty situation. It was a solemn thought, 
 
A Service and a Dinner 115 
 
 and one that it behoved them all to lay to heart, he no less 
 than they. With a renewed exhortation to rejoice, not as the 
 beasts that perish, but as Christians, ay, and Church people, 
 he concluded his address, and came down from the pulpit to 
 receive the alms of the faithful, which on this occasion were 
 to be devoted to church expenses. 
 
 Lady Wrotham sat in her pew until the church was nearly 
 empty, and when the footman, who was in attendance on the 
 back benches, judged that she would have a clear field, he went 
 up the aisle, and she gave him her Prayer-book, and walked 
 out. 
 
 In the meantime, Mrs. Redcliffe and Hilda had waited at the 
 church gate until Mrs. Prentice, lingering as long as she could 
 on the way, had been forced to join them. Mrs. Redcliffe 
 came forward, holding out her hand, and wished her good- 
 morning. " Will you and the Vicar come and have supper 
 with us to-night ? " she asked. " We have not seen Mr. Pren- 
 tice for a long time." 
 
 Mrs. Prentice ignored the outstretched hand. " Thank you, 
 we are dining at the Abbey," -she said stiffly. " Excuse me, I 
 wish to speak to Lady Wrotham," and she turned her back on 
 them. 
 
 Lady Wrotham came down the churchyard path. Mrs. 
 Prentice went back to meet her with the sweetest of smiles. 
 Lady Wrotham' s face, sternly set, did not relax. " Good- 
 morning, Mrs. Prentice," she said. " I shall see you and your 
 husband this evening. ' ' She went on through the gate, climbed 
 into her carriage and drove away. 
 
 " Pleasant manners, upon my word ! " said Mrs. Prentice 
 to herself ; but presently reflected that Lady Wrotham might 
 be one of those people who prefer not to indulge in mundane 
 conversation immediately after a religious service, and quite 
 forgave her. Her mind had been so exercised over the revela- 
 tion that had been made to her on the previous evening that 
 she had not had leisure to consider the impression that the 
 service might have made on Lady Wrotham's mind, and was 
 quite free from apprehension on that score. 
 
 But apprehension was soon brought to her. Her husband 
 caught her up on the road home. His face was disturbed. 
 " I'm afraid we are going to have trouble," he said. 
 
 Mrs. Prentice looked at him. " Mrs. Redcliffe ? " she 
 hazarded. 
 
116 Exton Manor 
 
 " No, no," he said impatiently. " That trouble exists 
 chiefly in your imagination. Please do not be always harping 
 on it. I mean Lady Wrotham.. Did you not see how she 
 stalked up the church as we were just finishing the Gloria ? 
 I could not help turning round to see who was making such a 
 disturbance.' ' 
 
 " She walked heavily, certainly ; but we were rather late, 
 and perhaps you could hardly expect her to wait outside until 
 we had finished/ • 
 
 " She meant to disturb us, and to show her displeasure. I 
 could see that. She sat there, without kneeling, wa telling me 
 critically until I left the altar, and looked me up and down as 
 I passed her in a way that was meant to be offensive. She ob- 
 jects to the service, as I might have known a member of that 
 pestilent Reformation League would do. But I shall hold my 
 ground. I will not be bullied by a woman." 
 
 Mrs. Prentice had been reconsidering Lady Wrotham's 
 manner to her during this speech, and saw only too good 
 reason to believe that it had been dictated by annoyance at 
 what had gone before. She did not like the situation at all. 
 " I hope you are mistaken," she said. " At any rate, she could 
 find nothing to object to in Matins, nor in your preaching. 
 It was a beautiful little sermon." 
 
 " I wrote it straight off. The thoughts seemed to flow 
 easily. But if she has made up her mind to object, she will 
 object to anything." 
 
 " We must be careful not to give cause of offence, if she 
 has been used to other forms of worship." 
 
 " I don't know what you mean by not giving cause of 
 offence. I shall not change anything that I have worked up 
 to. It is the Catholic Faith that will be the cause of offence 
 to Lady Wrotham." 
 
 " I mean it will be better to try and win her by per- 
 suasion rather than " 
 
 u Yes ; that will be so easy, won't it ? A woman in that 
 position thinks she has only got to express her preferences, 
 and her priest will obey her as a matter of course. Well, 
 if there is to be unpleasantness, I shall not shrink from it. I 
 have had a comparatively easy time here, with very little op- 
 position. Perhaps things have been too easy. One must not 
 expect to be able to raise the tone of a whole community with- 
 out a struggle. I am prepared for whatever may come." 
 
A Service and a Dinner 117 
 
 With the anticipation of coming persecution to give him an 
 appetite, Mr. Prentice went in to luncheon, and his wife fol- 
 lowed him, in a thoughtful mood. 
 
 Mrs. Redcliffe, after Mrs. Prentice's refusal of her invita- 
 tion, left the churchyard gate with heightened colour. They 
 here hardly out of hearing, when Hilda broke forth — 
 
 " Mother," she said, " that woman is really intolerable. 
 Surely it is impossible to pretend to keep up a friendship with 
 her any longer." 
 
 " She was very rude, certainly,' ' said Mrs. Redcliffe. 
 " But her manners are not of the best at any time, and pro- 
 bably she had no idea that she was behaving rudely." 
 
 " The snob ! Just because she is the first to make friends 
 with Lady Wrotham ! I think she is the most contemptible 
 creature on the face of the earth." 
 
 " Hush, Hilda ! You must not speak in that way. What 
 is the good of going to church if you allow your resentment to 
 control you the moment you come out ? " 
 
 " Yes ; what is the good of it ? Nobody goes to church 
 here more often than Mrs. Prentice. And she looks down 
 upon everybody else as being far below her in goodness. And 
 yet she hasn't got a thought that isn't mean. I detest the 
 woman from the bottom of my heart." 
 
 Mrs. Redcliffe did not reply. Her face was thoughtful, and 
 a little paler than usual. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Prentice walked down to the Abbey that even- 
 ing considerably exercised in their minds as to the reception 
 that would await them. The Vicar's face-was stern. He had 
 carefully considered his position, and was prepared to fight for 
 what he believed to be the right. His intellect, bound by con- 
 vention in exposition of his beliefs, served him well, with a 
 clear-headed outlook, in applying them ; and they guided him 
 in a way that many a more golden-tongued Churchman might 
 have envied. He would make friends with his patroness if she 
 would let him, and he would exercise the utmost patience in 
 controversy with her ; but he would not be dictated to by her, 
 and if she tried to bring pressure to bear on him he would 
 withstand it steadily. 
 
 Mrs. Prentice was torn two ways. Her acquaintance with 
 Lady Wrotham had opened so suspiciously that she felt it 
 would be intolerable to be cast out into the darkness of her 
 displeasure at this early stage. But she had so ardently backed 
 
118 Exton Manor 
 
 up her husband in his ambitions, and even egged him on to 
 further altitudes, that it would be impossible now to take the 
 other side — even if she could have persuaded herself that it was 
 right to do so. Without laying out any definite course at 
 present, she was prepared to keep the peace with strenuous 
 amiability. After all, that was the duty of a Christian and a 
 good Churchwoman. 
 
 Apprehension was quieted for the moment by Lady Wro- 
 tham's reception of her guests. Evidently there was to be no 
 immediate joining of battle. The great lady was courteous, 
 conciliatory. Mrs. Prentice's fears left her before they went 
 into the dining-room, and even the Vicar, fully alive to the 
 contest that most come sooner or later, allowed his vigilance 
 to relax for the moment under the influence of a generous 
 hospitality. 
 
 They dined at a round table in a vaulted hall, with hung 
 tapestry, and lit from old sconces. Lady Wrotham, as Browne 
 said afterwards, did herself uncommon^ well, likewise her 
 guests. He busied himself gratefully with his dinner, taking 
 part in the conversation only when he was specially called upon 
 to do so. 
 
 " I like a good dinner/ ' he said afterwards, to his friend 
 Turner, " and I don't mind saying so. We're not badly oft 
 in these parts, but Sunday's always been a sort of blank. 
 Old Sir Joseph — well, he was one of the best — but it was 
 cold beef and beetroot with him, same as with the rest of us. 
 .Now there'll be something to look forward to when we wake 
 up from our afternoon nap." 
 
 The talk over the dinner-table, and afterwards in the library, 
 concerned itself chiefly with the Exton parishioners. Lady 
 Wrotham displayed a lively curiosity about the smallest details 
 in the lives and histories of all of them, and digested the 
 information received in the most eupeptic manner, for she for- 
 got nothing that she was told, even the names of the least 
 important of the tenantry. 
 
 " I shall call at all the farms this week," she said, " and 
 afterwards on the tradespeople and the cottagers." 
 
 Turner's name was mentioned. Mrs. Prentice shut her lips. 
 Browne took up the tale. 
 
 " You ought to see the Fisheries, Lady Wrotham," he said. 
 " It's a pretty place, and very interesting." 
 
 " You must ask Captain Turner to come and see me," she 
 
A Service and a Dinner 119 
 
 said. " Then I hope he will take me up to see what there 
 is to be seen. I should like to know everybody on the Manor, 
 and I hope they will come and call on me." 
 
 In the library, after dinner, Mrs. Prentice, alone for a few 
 minutes with her hostess, put in a word of warning about 
 Captain Turner. " He never comes to church/' she said, 
 " from one year's end to the other." 
 
 Lady Wrotham sounded a bugle echo fof the coming 
 struggle. " There may be reasons for that," she said stiffly, 
 and Mrs. Prentice hastened to change the subject. 
 
 At ten o'clock a gong was sounded. Lady Wrotham rose 
 from her chair, and said to the Vicar, " Will you kindly con- 
 duct prayers for us ? I shall be glad if you will always do so 
 when you are here in the evening," and, without waiting for 
 his consent, she led the way into the hall, where all the indoor 
 servants stood in a line in front of a row of seats placed for 
 the occasion. On a little table were placed open two large 
 and well-worn leather-covered books. Lady Wrotham pointed 
 to the chapter that was to be read, which was a long one out 
 of the Book of Leviticus, dealing with the subject of leprosy. 
 She then look her seat, and the rest of the assembly took 
 theirs. The Vicar read half of the appointed chapter, and 
 then closed the book. Then followed the prayer appointed 
 by the compiler for the 97th evening. It was couched in a 
 tone of didactic familiarity, in the course of which thanks 
 were offered for the fact that, whilst many were without the 
 necessities of life, the petitioners had enough and to spare. 
 The Vicar abbreviated the latter part, and added one of the 
 evening collects on his own responsibility. Then they arose 
 from their knees, and the servants filed out of the room, two 
 footmen removing the oak benches upon which they had 
 rested. 
 
 Lady Wrotham remained standing. It was evident that 
 the evening's entertainment had come to an end. The guests 
 took their departure. Lady Wrotham said, as the Vicar bade 
 her good-night, " Will you kindly come and see me to-morrow 
 morning at ten o'clock, Mr. Prentice ? " Her tone wiped out 
 the effect of the evening's hospitality. 
 
 " I would rather come in the afternoon, if it is convenient 
 to you," he replied. 
 
 " It would not be very convenient," she said. u I wish to 
 talk to you upon matters of importance." 
 
120 Exton Manor 
 
 " Then I will come at the time you name," said the Vicar. 
 
 Browne accompanied them to the gate where their respective 
 roads divided. " Delightful old lady," he said tentatively. 
 " I think we're lucky, eh ? " 
 
 The Vicar did not reply, but Mrs. Prentice said that Lady 
 Wrotham was a wonderful woman for her age. 
 
 " A very restful evening," she said when she was alone with 
 her husband ; " and I like finishing up with the old family 
 prayers." 
 
 V Well, I don't," replied the Vicar. " At least, not such 
 prayers as those. It seems perfectly absurd to me to read 
 right through the Bible without any consideration of fitness. 
 And as for the prayer itself, those long-winded discourses are 
 not prayers at all. I shall refuse to conduct worship on those 
 lines again. Lady Wrotham has evidently made up her mind 
 to have it out with me to-morrow morning, and I do not in- 
 tend to leave all the criticising to her." 
 
 " You will be careful not to offend her, William," said 
 Mrs. Prentice. 
 
 " I am bound to offend her," replied the Vicar, " and I 
 shall be careful of nothing but to uphold what I believe to be 
 right." 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 A PRELIMINARY SKIRMISH 
 
 The Vicar called at the Abbey at the time appointed, and 
 found Lady Wrotham quite ready for him.. She was brisk 
 and cheerful. 
 
 " It is just as well that we should understand each other at 
 an early date, Mr. Prentice/ 7 she said, when she had shaken 
 hands with him and motioned him to a seat. " I had no idea 
 that things were in such a way as I find them here — no idea 
 at all — and I cannot pretend that I am pleased at my dis- 
 covery, or that I shall be at all satisfied until they are altered/' 
 
 The Vicar sat silent, and she said, after a short pause, 
 " Surely the services you now have here, and your manner of 
 conducting them, have altered greatly since you first came." 
 
 " Certainly, I have altered them in some respects," he 
 said. 
 
 " But do you think that quite fair, Mr. Prentice ? When 
 Lord Wrotham presented you to this living — I remember the 
 facts very well ; for though we did not come here, we — at 
 least, I — have always taken a great interest in this and the 
 other churches of which my husband was patron. I remem- 
 ber very well that you were appointed on the recommendation 
 of Sir George Cargill — it was while Lord W T rotham and I were 
 in Australia — and he most decidedly would never have recom- 
 mended us to appoint any one but an Evangelical.' ' 
 
 "Oh, I beg your pardon, Lady Wrotham; I never pro- 
 fessed at any time to hold the views that are labelled — 
 wrongly, I think — Evangelical." 
 
 " Well, I can only say that Sir George wrote to Lord 
 Wrotham that you did." 
 
 " Then he did so on his own responsibility ; and you would 
 
 121 
 
122 Exton Manor 
 
 hardly accuse me, I think, of hiding my opinions ; or, worse 
 than that, of misstating them, for the sake of getting a living/' 
 
 Lady Wrotham was hardly ready at this stage of the argu- 
 ment to say that she did so accuse him, although- she had it 
 firmly fixed in her mind that there must have been some sort 
 of deception practised, or he would not be where he was. 
 She therefore exonerated him, not altogether ungrudgingly. 
 
 " I must make that point quite clear, in justice to myself/' 
 said the Vicar. " I was senior curate to the present Bishop 
 of Llandudno at Holy Trinity, Manchester Square, and " 
 
 " But the Bishop of Llandudno is a decided Low Church- 
 man." 
 
 " I should hardly have described him so. He is a broad- 
 minded man, and did not demand that all of his large staff 
 should hold the same views as himself. It was a parish where 
 the parochial work was the chief thing. I was there for 
 twenty years, and during that time he had men working with 
 him of all shades of opinion. I never made any concealment 
 of my own views, and I was very happy working there, as I 
 say, for over twenty years. I never held any other curacy." 
 
 " But Sir George Cargill " 
 
 11 You mean that I concealed my views from him ? I did 
 no such thing. He was churchwarden at Holy Trinity during 
 the whole of my curacy there. Why should you suppose 
 I would have concealed from him what I did not from my 
 own vicar ? " 
 
 " I do not accuse you, Mr. Prentice. Pray do not put me 
 in such a position." 
 
 " But I think it does amount to an accusation — of what 
 I, at any rate, should call dishonesty. Sir George Cargill 
 knew that I worked hard in the parish, and no doubt the vicar 
 told him his opinion of my work. When he suggested this 
 incumbency to me, nothing was said about my views — not one 
 word — and no stipulation was made that I should preach any 
 particular view. If it had been so, I should certainly not have 
 accepted the living. I would not be so bound." 
 
 " Well, I cannot help thinking it was a little unfortunate. 
 Sir George ought not to have taken so much for granted. 
 But, at any rate, I should have thought you would have felt 
 bound — you will excuse my speaking quite plainly, Mr. Pren- 
 tice — not to go beyond what was practised at Holy Trinity. 
 You say that the Bishop of Llandudno is not a Low Church- 
 
A Preliminary Skirmish 123 
 
 man. I should have thought he was, but I will not argue 
 with you on that point. At any rate the services at Holy 
 Trinity, which I have often attended, were quite innocuous. 
 You would hardly have done there what I saw yesterday/' 
 
 " I don't deny that I have raised the services here. I con- 
 sider that results have more than justified my doing so. And 
 I can accept no blame on that score." 
 
 " Well, I don't like it, Mr. Prentice, and I tell you so 
 plainly/' 
 
 " Then I am very sorry, Lady Wrotham ; but you will for- 
 give my speaking as plainly as yourself, and saying that I 
 cannot recognize the right of the patron of a living to dictate 
 to his incumbent in these matters. There is no such right in 
 existence. And I must add, if you will forgive me, that you 
 are not even the patron of this living." 
 
 This was plain speaking indeed, and a woman of Lady 
 Wrotham's character could hardly be expected to take it with- 
 out offence. " I did not expect that you w r ould address me 
 in that fashion, Mr. Prentice," she said stiffly. " I asked you 
 to come here to talk over matters quietly, and you tell me 
 in so many words that I am to have no opinions of my own 
 in Exton, and am of no importance in the place in comparison 
 with yourself." 
 
 The Vicar had also been prepared, while taking a firm 
 stand, to discuss matters quietly ; but he had been taken out 
 of himself by the implication of bad faith, and was prepared 
 to speak as strongly as might be necessary in his own defence. 
 
 " My words could hardly be said to have that meaning," he 
 replied. " They were not meant to have. But it is quite cer- 
 tain that in spiritual matters the patron's responsibility ceases 
 when he has appointed an incumbent." 
 
 " I am sorry I cannot agree with you. I look upon the 
 position of a landowner as one of the greatest responsibility, 
 both spiritually and morally. I have no intention of shirking 
 such share in it as I possess in this place. It is a great disap- 
 pointment to me to find that you are not prepared to work 
 with me in spreading the gospel." 
 
 " Oh, Lady Wrotham, how can you say such a thing to 
 one whose life is devoted to that object alone ? " 
 
 " I consider that the Romanizing of the Church is a 
 distinct hindrance to the spread of the true gospel. I was 
 beyond measure shocked to find the service which I inter- 
 
124 Exton Manor 
 
 rupted yesterday going on in any church with which I have 
 to do." 
 
 " I think you are saying a very strange thing. The service 
 which I hold once a month at a quarter to ten is the Com- 
 munion Service, which any Churchman or Churchwoman, 
 whether they call themselves high or low, must recognize as 
 the highest form of worship." 
 
 " Not when it is made as much like the Roman Mass as it 
 can be made — with candles, and vestments, and I know not 
 what. Vestments, at any rate, Mr. Prentice, you have no 
 right to use. There I am not to be moved. They must be 
 given up at once. I will not have them." 
 
 The Vicar's face grew a dull red, and his eyes glittered dan- 
 gerously. But he controlled his anger, rising from his seat. 
 " I have nothing further to say, Lady Wrotham," he said. 
 " I think I had better wish you good-morning." 
 
 " Oh, please sit down," she said, rather impatiently. 
 " These things must be talked over. You cannot think that 
 we can both go on living here, in the peculiar positions we 
 occupy, with nothing settled between us." 
 
 " I am willing to talk them over," he replied, but without 
 resuming his seat ; " but not on the terms } r ou propose. 
 When you tell me you will not have this or that, you are 
 taking up a position which I will not give way' to for a moment. 
 No one has a right to give me such orders except my bishop, 
 and he only if the law of the Church is behind him." 
 
 " It is the bishop's authority I rely on, and I shall, if neces- 
 sary, invoke it. The law has decided against vestments." 
 
 '■ I think you are mistaken ; but I cannot argue the question 
 with you. I am willing to do so with the bishop." 
 
 " Is it the place of a parish clergyman to argue with the 
 bishop ? " 
 
 " I expressed myself unfortunately. He would hardly give 
 an order such as you anticipate without hearing me." 
 
 " Mr. Prentice, I do trust you will listen to reason. This 
 conversation has taken a turn I by no means intended." 
 
 ' You will forgive me for saying, Lady Wrotham, that you 
 probably intended me to listen subserviently to whatever you 
 chose to say, and immediately obey your orders. I have no 
 wish to be anything but respectful to you, but I hold very 
 high ideals of my office and of my responsibility, and I must 
 press the point that a parish priest is not the paid servant 
 
A Preliminary Skirmish 125 
 
 of his — er — patron, and owes him—or her — no sort of obedi- 
 ence." 
 
 " I do not ask for obedience. I ask for plain common-sense. 
 The Church of England is Protestant, and it is the duty of all 
 its members, as well as its ministers, to resist any approach to 
 Roman Catholic doctrine or practices." 
 
 " You open a wide question. You must know perfectly 
 well that what you say is not acknowledged by many — I would 
 say most — of the most learned and self-sacrificing Churchmen. 
 I do not acknowledge it for one, and we have no common 
 ground to stand on in that statement." 
 
 " What ! We must not resist Rome ? " 
 
 " Certainly wo must. But not by giving up what our 
 Church accepts in common with Rome. We are as Catholic 
 as she is. We are not Protestant in the same way as the sects 
 are Protestant." 
 
 " I say we are." 
 
 " Then we must differ in that, as, I fear, in other things." 
 
 Lady Wrotham was baffled, as people inclined to hector 
 are apt to be baffled by outspoken opposition. She con- 
 sidered for a moment. " We will leave that point for a time," 
 she said, in a quieter tone. " I should like you to tell me 
 frankly what else goes on here that I should be likely to object 
 to. You may as wrfl, you know, because I shall have no 
 difficulty in finding it out for myself." 
 
 11 You need not have said that, Lady Wrotham. I have 
 given you no reason to think that I should be ashamed of 
 vour finding out anything that goes on here, as you express 
 it." 
 
 " I don't know that you have. There is no need to become 
 huffy, Mr. Prentice." 
 
 He gave a short laugh. " You saw for yourself what the 
 Morning Service was like," he said. " It would be difficult 
 for the most Protestant to find cause of complaint in that. 
 And the Evening Service is the same." 
 
 " There was that great cross." 
 
 " Yes, there was the cross, the sign of our redemption. I 
 had forgotten that you might object to that. I wear coloured 
 stoles to mark the different seasons of the Church's year. I 
 celebrate Saints' days." 
 
 " Do you include the Virgin Mary in those celebrations ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
126 Exton Manor 
 
 " Then that is Catholic, and not Protestant." 
 
 " Thank you, Lady Wrotham. Then the English Church 
 is Catholic, and not Protestant, in that respect, at least/' 
 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 94 The Church has appointed a day for celebrating the An- 
 nunciation of the Blessed Virgin Mary." 
 
 " Oh, the Annunciation ! Well, what else ? " 
 
 " I celebrate the Holy Communion at eight o'clock every 
 Sunday morning, and at ten o'clock on Thursdays." 
 
 " Do you ever have it in the evening ? " 
 
 44 No, certainly not." 
 
 " But it was held first of all in the evening." 
 
 94 It has not been so held for nearly two thousand 
 years." 
 
 " Ah, the more reason for getting back to it now. Is 
 that all you have to tell me ? " 
 
 " I see nothing to be gained by telling you of anything 
 more. It is very painful to me to do so, and to hear all that 
 I hold dear scoffed at. You take an active part in Church 
 controversies, and you know pretty well what men who 
 hold my views do." 
 
 " Yes, I do know, Mr. Prentice, and also what they do not 
 do. Do they hold meetings for Bible-reading and prayer ? 
 Do they seek to bring about true conversions of soul ? Do 
 they preach the doctrine that no priest can come between the 
 soul and its Maker ? Do they encourage their flock to keep 
 the sabbath ? I very much fear not." 
 
 99 Lady Wrotham, would you not be happier among the 
 Methodists than in the Church of England ? " 
 
 If he had asked her whether she would not be happier in a 
 corps de ballet, she could hardly have been more startled. 
 
 " Mr. Prentice ! " she exclaimed. 
 
 " It seems to me that you lay stress on all the things that 
 the Nonconformists value most, and ignore the distinctive doc- 
 trines of the Church. You would find yourself in perfect 
 agreement with any devout Wesleyan. You will find very 
 few Churchmen who agree with you." 
 
 " I beg leave to tell you that there are very many. But it is 
 useless to carry on the discussion further on these lines. I am 
 deeply grieved that it is so. But on one point, Mr. Prentice, 
 I have made up my mind. You must discard your Popish 
 vestments." 
 
A Preliminary Skirmish 127 
 
 " So you said before, Lady Wrotham, and I answered that 
 I do not recognize the authority of your * must.' " 
 
 " Then, deeply as it will pain me, I must report the matter 
 to our good bishop/' 
 
 " I shall be ready to abide by his decision. Until he gives 
 it I hope you will see the advisability of leaving the matter 
 alone. I think you are entering very lightly on a struggle 
 that must create unhappiness, and destroy the peace of a 
 contented, and, on the whole, God-fearing community. It 
 is a great responsibility." 
 
 " There would be no necessity for it if you were deter- 
 mined to uphold the Protestant character of the Church of 
 England." 
 
 And so ignore what the Prayer-book teaches. I cannot 
 do that. I hope that you wall wait, at any rate, before taking 
 any steps, until you have gone about a little among the 
 parishioners, as 1 understand it is your intention to do, and 
 see if they have not been helped and uplifted by the agencies 
 you so despise." 
 
 " I shall certainly make it my business to inquire how far 
 their religious tendencies have been warped. Mr. Prentice, 
 you have caused me real sorrow. I thought I should come 
 down to this quiet place, and spend my days here in prepa- 
 ration for the end which you warned us very properly yester- 
 day is not far from any of us. I hoped that I should be 
 helped and encouraged in that, as well as in trying to do what 
 I could to teach those whom God has put under my charge to 
 live a higher life, by the minister my dear husband instituted 
 to this living to do that very thing. I am an old woman, and 
 have borne my part in the battle, and I looked for peace. But 
 if I am not to have it, I will gird on my armour again to work 
 for the truth. I have still got the strength for it, and I shall 
 not shrink from my duty." 
 
 But for the last sentences, the Vicar would have been 
 affected by this speech. As it was, it gave him the word. 
 M And I shall not shrink from mine, Lady Wrotham," he 
 said. " I want peace, too, but I too have a duty to perform. 
 Let us, at least, recognize that each of us is sincere in our 
 beliefs/; 
 
 "It is very difficult to believe it of one who is bent on 
 Romanizing the Church." 
 
 "I am not doing that ; and it ought not to be difficult 
 
128 Exton Manor 
 
 to believe that those who hold different religious views to 
 our own are sincere. It is a serious thing to doubt it to their 
 faces." 
 
 " Well, perhaps it is, Mr. Prentice ; I am not so angry 
 with you as I thought I should be — as I ought to be. Mis- 
 taken as you are, I believe that you do believe what you 
 preach. At the same time, your views are so entirely mis- 
 guided and dangerous, that, if persisted in, they cannot but 
 do harm to your own soul, as well as the souls of others.' ' 
 
 The Vicar rose again. " I will not prolong the discussion 
 further," he said. " There is one thing I made up my mind 
 to say to you as I came here, Lady Wrotham. If you should 
 ask me again to conduct prayers in your household, I must 
 ask you to excuse me from using the book you put before 
 me last night. It is " 
 
 !< You need not take the trouble to criticize it, Mr. Pren- 
 tice," interrupted Lady Wrotham. " I shall not ask you 
 to conduct prayers in my household again." 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 POURPARLERS 
 
 Now see of what paramount importance it is, where a 
 difference of opinion divides two downright souls, that they 
 should not remain apart, and suffer the poison of remembered 
 words to work in the blood, unchecked by the mutual con- 
 viction of honesty of purpose, which is encouraged among 
 controversialists only by propinquity. 
 
 There was once a man with a yacht — he was a newspaper 
 proprietor — who invited a mosquito-tongued archdeacon to 
 accompany him on a cruise. As the archdeacon climbed up 
 the ship's side, he saw looking down upon him the features, 
 petrified with astonishment, of a spectacled sparse-bearded 
 Baptist, whom he had called Simon Magus in cold print, the 
 Baptist retorting with Antichrist. He was for returning to 
 the shore at once, and the Baptist, after the first horrified 
 glimpse, had already rushed below to repack his hair-brush 
 and his book of press-cuttings, which were all he had had 
 time to take out of his bag. The premature departure of 
 both was prevented by some means or other, and the yacht 
 steamed off to the Mediterranean. 
 
 Now each of these men hated each other with a con- 
 suming hatred, in the full belief that his opponent was in- 
 spired by the devil. But at Gibraltar they went ashore 
 together, and the archdeacon sent a postcard to the Baptist's 
 son, who was five years old that very day, and the Baptist 
 sent a postcard to the archdeacon's daughter, who was exactly 
 a year younger. They still fought nightly over their tobacco, 
 and their host kept the ring, but they fought as men with 
 a common aim, at issue over the means to attain it, and their 
 fury was dissolved in kindness. 
 
 129 
 
130 Exton Manor 
 
 The moral is that no man is a mere walking bundle of 
 opinions, mistaken or otherwise. Every man has a soul, and 
 something lovely to inspire it ; but how can you find out 
 what that something is if you only know him in print, and 
 make of his soul whatever disagreeable thing fits in most 
 neatly with your argument ? 
 
 Lady Wrotham, confronted in the flesh with a man who 
 held all the opinions she most abominated, had not been so 
 angry as she thought she would have been in such circum- 
 stances. She had seen through to honest convictions, per- 
 haps rather against her own will, and had found something 
 to respect in her opponent. But when she was alone once 
 more the effect of these unexpected revelations began to 
 wear . thin. Mr. Prentice, dressed in priestly vestments, 
 burning candles, muttering incantations, bowing and 
 crossing himself, his longing eye cast Romewards, stood 
 in her mind for the incarnation of her detestations, stripped 
 of all righteousness. 
 
 Then her indignation began to work upon the way in 
 which he had flouted her authority. It was disgraceful, 
 unheard of. Her cheekbones flamed. She had fought many 
 such men, and overcome some of them. But here was a 
 man who was setting up a grove, an altar of Baal, so she 
 expressed herself with picturesque metaphor, in those very 
 sacred fields of which she was the responsible ruler. If she 
 could not have peace and her own way here, what was the 
 world coming to ? 
 
 Oh, religious England, led by the nose to kiss that baleful 
 Roman toe, twitching arrogantly across the water, you must 
 be saved at any cost. Canterbury will hardly hold you back. 
 Canterbury has gone half-way with you, protesting sleepily 
 that your pilgrimage is elsewhither. Geneva, that saved you 
 once, is impotent. From whence is the prophet, the leader, 
 to come ? Well, if no Luther, no Calvin, is at hand to turn 
 you, there are still mothers in Israel, high-born, influential, 
 some of them, " doing themselves well," with tongues in their 
 heads, and pens and treasure at their disposal, who will make 
 it their business to see that you do not make your journey 
 unwarned of its monstrous goal. Feudal, some of them, who 
 will undertake that those dependent on their purses and their 
 pleasure do not join you, whoever else may do so. And here 
 is one of the feudalists, determined to give no quarter. Away 
 
 (23) 
 
Pourparlers 131 
 
 with human weakness ! In such a fight as this, husband may 
 find himself opposed to wife, and son to mother. If duty 
 demands that even households shall be broken up in the cause 
 of right, and domestic ties sternly severed, how much more 
 does it behove one set on a pinnacle of responsibility to use 
 all arts to crush a renegade, who rears a hostile banner under 
 the very shadow of the castle ? The rebel must not be allowed 
 to creep in under a flag of truce, and paralyze the arm that 
 should strike without mercy. He must be annihilated. He 
 has drawn his sword against the truth, and at the same time 
 defied the authority of his over-lord. It is not necessary to 
 inquire too closely for which fault he is to be most severely 
 punished, since annihilation will account for both together. 
 
 Lady Wrotham determined to invoke the fulminations of 
 the Bishop of Archester without delay. It was, perhaps, 
 doubtful if he could be induced to fulminate as heartily as she 
 could wish. She had, in truth, no very great opinion of him. 
 There were bishops whom the Women's Reformation League, 
 boasting cautiously over their tea-cups, reckoned to have in 
 their pockets. This was not one of them. He was an aris- 
 tocrat himself, and not amenable to Mayfair blandishments ; 
 was, indeed, rather impatient of interference from religious 
 petticoated Mayfair, and had said so with a plainness that 
 could only have been put up with from his late father's son. 
 But, on the other hand, he was one of the cautious prelates 
 who hate extremes, whose names are alike anathematized at 
 patronal festival luncheons, and greeted with head-shakings in 
 Protestant committee rooms. He might be induced to put 
 his foot down in an extreme case, if there was evidence of 
 general parochial antagonism. In other circumstances, such 
 as a difference of opinion between a great lad}' and a hard- 
 working incumbent, he would almost certainly chain back his 
 thunders. Lady Wrotham recognized this, with an added 
 sense of injury, and saw that her first step must be to collect 
 evidence of dissatisfaction. 
 
 She lost no time. That very afternoon she drove out and 
 paid visits to such of the farm-houses as lay within a two 
 hours' circuit. She went armed with a bundle of literature 
 from the Women's Reformation League, with which she had 
 fortunately provided herself. Her success was less than she 
 had hoped for. She found the Exton farmers' wives more 
 independent than those she had been accustomed to direct 
 
 (17) 
 
132 Exton Manor 
 
 spiritually in her former home. She forgave them this, on 
 considering that Exton had for so many years been without 
 adequate social leading, Sir Joseph Chapman, a very good 
 man in his way, having amounted to nothing at all, viewed 
 from the feudal standpoint. And she found very little dis- 
 satisfaction. " No, my lady," said old Mrs. Witherspoon, 
 voicing the attitude of most of her sisters, " we've no com- 
 plaint to make of our good Vicar. He comes to see us 
 regular, and don't worrit us with views. Me and my good 
 man, we don't hold wi' these new-fangled ways ; but there, 
 it's live and let live all through the chapter, isn't it ? And 
 's long as he doesn't alter the services we do go to, he's 
 welcome, for us, to hold the others for them as likes 
 'em." 
 
 " But surely," said Lady Wrotham, " you have read in the 
 papers of the rapid spread of false doctrine in the Church of 
 England, and of the danger it is becoming ! Surely, it is the 
 duty of all of us, who believe in the old religion, to do all we 
 can to stop this terrible national apostasy." 
 
 Mrs. Witherspoon could not see that it was her duty. Her 
 duty was to make good butter and induce her hens to lay, 
 and not interfere in matters which were the affairs of wiser 
 heads than that of an old-fashioned farmer's wife, or a farmer 
 either, who knew their place and didn't set up to be gentle- 
 folk like others she could name, who were, after all, no better 
 than she was, although they made a deal more show. 
 
 Lady Wrotham, scenting a village rivalry, in which, at any 
 other time, she would willingly have taken a hand in defence 
 of the unpretentious, turned the conversation, having no leisure 
 at present but for her rigorous campaign, and presently took 
 her leave, not too well satisfied either with Mrs. Witherspoon 
 or herself. Did it quite consort with her dignity to be going 
 round to the wives of the tenantry stirring up religious strife ? 
 If she had found acute dissatisfaction, no murmur would have 
 been heard from within. She would have taken her proper 
 place as leader of the rising, and would have known very well 
 how to act in the capacity. But it galled her to feel that she 
 might be presenting herself to these shrewd-headed, pleasant- 
 spoken women as a rebellious maker of strife. Somehow, 
 she had not been quite successful in imposing her religious 
 views on Mrs. Witherspoon, and others whom she had visited, 
 as of unquestionable authority. They seemed to hold views 
 0) 
 
Pourparlers 133 
 
 of their own, without even a concomitant desire to adapt 
 them, as far as possible, to those she herself expressed. She 
 made one conquest, but it was not one that she greatly valued. 
 Mrs. Capper, a youngish woman with airs, obviously the lady 
 to whom Mrs. Witherspoon had alluded, saw which way the 
 wind blew, and instantly trimmed her sails accordingly. 
 
 u I own," she said, " that I have been rather led away by 
 what has been going on, but I can't say that my conscience 
 is quite easy about it. I don't really like it, and never have. 
 But the truth is that Mrs. Prentice is so very anxious to 
 get everybody to follow her, and it has been difficult to hold 
 out." 
 
 " Mrs. Prentice ! " echoed Lady Wrotham. " But what 
 has it got to do with Mrs. Prentice ? " 
 
 Mrs. Capper simpered, with intention. " I think that when 
 3'ou have been in Exton a little longer, my lad}/," she said, 
 " you will find that it has a good deal to do with Mrs. Prentice. 
 Of course, / am not nearly good enough for her, and I don't 
 complain about that, as long as she simply lets me alone. I 
 have no wish at all to put myself forward ; I couldn't do it ; 
 it is not in my nature to." 
 
 " No, of course not," interrupted Lady Wrotham. " We 
 all have our places in the world, and it is our duty to keep 
 them." 
 
 " Quite so, my lady," replied Mrs. Capper, without con- 
 viction. " But I am not to be recognized as fit to appear 
 in Mrs. Prentice's drawing-room — which, no doubt, I am not 
 — I do consider that I have a right to object to her coming 
 here and laying down the law to me as if she was a bishop at 
 the least. I never have liked it, nor what we have been asked 
 to give way to, and I am very glad indeed that your ladyship 
 does not approve of it either. I hope now that things may 
 be different, as of course they will be, now we have got some- 
 body- to look up to." 
 
 " Well, of course, I intend that there shall be no paltering 
 with Rome," replied Lady Wrotham. " Protestant the 
 Church of England is, and Protestant it shall remain if I have 
 anything to do with it. But, at the same time, you must 
 understand, Mrs. Capper, that I have no wish to underrate, 
 or to encourage any one in the parish to underrate, the 
 authority of the Vicar." 
 
 " Oh, no, my lady," said Mrs. Capper. " And I'm sure the 
 
 (*) 
 
134 Exton Manor 
 
 Vicar, if he is High Church, is beloved by all. Still, you 
 must have things your own way. I quite see that." 
 
 "It is not so much my way," Lady Wrotham corrected 
 her, " as the way of the law. You must not understand me 
 to mean more by what I have said to you than that I think 
 possibly Mr. Prentice may have, inadvertently, made a few 
 mistakes, as so many clergymen, unfortunately, do nowa- 
 days." 
 
 Oh, yes, and I'm sure he will alter things directly he 
 knows your ladyship objects — in spite of Mrs. Prentice. 
 And I'm sure too that all of — of the more educated people in 
 Exton will be only too glad to do anything that you think 
 advisable. I know I can speak for myself, and my husband 
 too." 
 
 "Well," said Lady Wrotham, rising, " you will perhaps be 
 good enough to read these few papers that I will leave with 
 you. They will show you, more plainly than I can do, what 
 a real danger the Church is running, under the guidance of 
 misled people, of becoming Romanized. We must all of us 
 do what we can, in our different spheres, to stop it, and I see 
 no reason why Exton should not take its part in the struggle 
 that must be carried on from day to day. It can only do so 
 by putting the true religion in place of the false ; and I hope 
 to have some meetings at the Abbey, to which all will be 
 invited, which may help us in our work." 
 
 " Oh, that will indeed be a blessing, my lady," said Mrs. 
 Capper. " And I'm sure if I can do anything to help, such 
 as handing round hymn-books or providing my share of a tea, 
 as we used to do in the last parish where we lived, I shall only 
 be too pleased." 
 
 " Thank you," replied Lady Wrotham. " My servants 
 will hand round the hymn-books, and I shall provide any 
 refreshment that will be necessary myself. But I shall expect 
 you to be present, and your husband too, and when the time 
 comes I hope you will do what you can to make it known 
 that everyone in the parish will be welcome. Now I will 
 wish you good-afternoon." 
 
 Lady Wrotham was rather disturbed by what she had been 
 told of Mrs. Prentice, although she was not inclined to put 
 too much credence in Mrs. Capper's vapourings. When she 
 reached home she sent a note to the Vicar's wife summoning 
 her to her presence, and Mrs. Prentice came flying on the 
 
 (19) 
 
Pourparlers 135 
 
 wings of a westerly gale, glad enough to have an opportunity 
 jf putting matters straight, if by any art of hers she could 
 do so. 
 
 There was no yielding in Lady Wrotham's attitude. She 
 dispensed her hospitality with a certain grimness, and re- 
 sponded without excessive amiability to Mrs. Prentice's efforts 
 towards intimate chat. 
 
 " You will probably have heard from your husband," she 
 said, coming quickly to the point, " that we did not unfor- 
 tunately find ourselves in agreement this morning over some 
 most important points. I thought I should like to hear from 
 yourself how far you go with him in his ritual extravagances, 
 so that I may know ^vho are my friends and who are my 
 enemies in the battle that lies before us." 
 
 This was direct enough, far more direct than suited Mrs. 
 Prentice, anxious by vague handling of debatable subjects to 
 stave off warfare. " I — er — as far as ritual goes," she said, 
 " I do not consider it of great importance." 
 
 " I think it is of very great importance," replied Lady 
 Wrotham severely. "It is by these foolish and unmanly 
 dressings up, and fiddling with Roman playthings, that weak 
 people are led to give up their sturdy Protestantism. If it 
 was not intended to lead in that direction it would not be used. 
 I object to it most strongly for that reason, as well as because 
 I think it contemptible and silly." 
 
 " I like a plain service myself," said Mrs. Prentice, already 
 at her wits' end to know how she could preserve the peace 
 without belying her convictions. " I think, perhaps, I prefer 
 it. But—" 
 
 " I am glad to hear that, at any rate," said Lady Wrotham. 
 " You will be able, I hope, to persuade your husband to mend 
 his ways in that respect. For I tell you, very plainly, Mrs. 
 Prentice, that I am thoroughly shocked with the state of 
 things I find here, and am determined to use every means in 
 my power to stop it. I should like to have you on my side, 
 if you are open to conviction ; but if not " 
 
 The pause was significant. How much, too, would Mrs. 
 Prentice have liked to be on the same side as this formidable 
 great lady ; but was it possible ? She made another effort. 
 
 " It would grieve me dreadfully -if you saw fit to withdraw 
 your help from us in the spiritual work of the parish," she 
 said piteously. " I had formed such high hopes of an 
 
 (21) 
 
136 Exton Manor 
 
 increase of godliness all round from what you told me of 
 your interest in religious matters. It would be dreadful if 
 the people were to find those in a special position of responsi- 
 bility towards them disagreeing among themselves." 
 
 " I think it would," replied Lady Wrotham. " And I sin- 
 cerely hope that nothing of the sort may be necessary. But, 
 taking the rather prominent position that I have in these ques- 
 tions, even if I did not regard them with the utmost serious- 
 ness, as I do, you can see that it is not possible for me to give 
 way in the slightest degree. In any church or parish with 
 which I have to do there must be a direct and unflinching 
 Protestantism. The slightest paltering with Rome is not to 
 be thought of." 
 
 " I can speak quite confidently on that point, at any rate," 
 said Mrs. Prentice. " Both my husband and I detest Rome 
 and Roman doctrine as much as anybody." 
 
 " I am very glad to hear it, though I cannot say that I see 
 many signs of it as far as he is concerned." 
 
 " Oh, but, Lady Wrotham, indeed you are doing him an 
 injustice. He speaks and preaches most strongly against 
 Roman error." 
 
 " Every High Churchman does that, until he goes over. 
 You do not deny that your husband is a pronounced High 
 Churchman, I suppose ? " 
 
 " Er — no. Of course he is what is called a High Church- 
 man, although I do not like the expression." 
 
 " Very possibly not. Well, Mrs. Prentice, to tell you the 
 truth, after our conversation of this morning, I have very little 
 hope of being able to influence your husband, and if he forces 
 me to it I shall have no hesitation at all in fighting him openly. 
 But, of course, if you are able to influence him for his good, 
 %,ai^ have the desire to do so, which I sincerely hope you have, 
 the great unpleasantness of a complaint to the bishop, and the 
 consequent scandal in the parish, may be obviated. Now, is 
 it your desire to assist me in my endeavour to put things on a 
 more satisfactory basis ? " 
 
 The nauseous medicine was held to her lips. There was 
 one quiver of disgust and then she took a large gulp. ■[ I will 
 do what I can," she said. " We must save a breach." 
 
 Lady Wrotham inexorably tendered the dregs of the 
 cup. 
 
 " There must be no paltering," she said. " I do not wish 
 
 (5) 
 
Pourparlers 137 
 
 for agreement on the surface and disloyalty underneath. 
 There must be active Protestantism.' ' 
 
 It was too bitter. " But, Lady Wrotham," protested the 
 unhappy woman, " you cannot expect my husband to give 
 up everything he conscientiously believes in and turn com- 
 pletely over to the other side." 
 
 " I am afraid I have no hope of any such thing. The 
 question now is whether you are on my side." 
 
 <f In all your efforts towards goodness — oh, yes. Indeed I 
 am. I shall assist you most willingly." 
 
 Had she swallowed the whole dose or poured it surrep- 
 titiously away ? Lady Wrotham believed that it had taken 
 its proper channel and administered the subsequent sweet- 
 meat. 
 
 " That is very good hearing," she said. " I can scarcely 
 say how much I shall welcome your help. I shall be glad to 
 consult with you frequently. I have some important letters to 
 write for the post this evening, but perhaps you will be kind 
 enough to lunch with me to-morrow, and then we can go into 
 matters together for an hour or so and drive out afterwards." 
 
 Mrs. Prentice took her leave, cheered somewhat by the 
 proffer of intimacy, but not otherwise in the most equable 
 state of mind. She found her husband engaged in mowing 
 the tennis lawn, going at his task with such vigour that beads 
 of perspiration stood on his brow, although the air of the 
 Spring evening was not exactly sultr}'. 
 
 ' Do put your coat on, William," said Mrs. Prentice as 
 she joined him. " You will catch your death of cold." 
 
 The Vicar stopped and wiped his brow. " I will put it on 
 when I have finished," he said. " I am rather worried by the 
 old lady's interference, and hard work helps me to throw off 
 my annoyance. Well, have you been hauled over the coals 
 too ? " 
 
 " I will tell you all about it when you have put on your 
 coat," said Mrs. Prentice. " You will certainly catch cold if 
 you stand there talking in that state." 
 
 The Vicar with a sigh resumed his black jacket. " Well ? " 
 he said. 
 
 " I have had a talk wkji Lady Wrotham," said Mrs. 
 Prentice. " William, I am sure she means well." 
 
 " I dare say she does," replied the Vicar. u Most busy- 
 bodies do mean well. The question is, have you succeeded 
 
138 Exton Manor 
 
 in conveying to her that it will be better for her to keep from 
 interfering with me in my work ? " 
 
 Mrs. Prentice thought that on the whole she had succeeded 
 in conveying that impression. At least she said so. " But* 
 I think, just for the sake of peace," she added, " that it will 
 be wiser, for a time at any rate, to make the services as plain 
 as possible, so as not to give her a handle for further inter- 
 ference. She talks about complaining to the bishop." 
 
 " She may complain as much as she likes. The bishop is 
 a trimmer, and has given some very unfair decisions. But 
 there is nothing that goes on here that he can object to. We 
 are not extremists." 
 
 " But, William, think of the scandal it will create if she 
 really makes up her mind to have her own way — or to take 
 steps to have it. Whether she succeeds or not the state of 
 strife would do so much harm." 
 
 "lam afraid it would, but I am not going to alter things 
 for the sake of preventing it. And how can you ask me to 
 do so, Agatha ? You have been continually urging me to go 
 faster. Have you forgotten how you pressed me to celebrate 
 a choral mass every Sunday at eleven o'clock so that the 
 people should be compelled to come to it ; and when I said 
 that they were not ready for it you called me, if you remem- 
 ber, a renegade priest ? " 
 
 " You should not recall everything I say in the heat of 
 argument." 
 
 Quite so ; but what would you feel if I had done what 
 you wished, and Lady Wrotham had come in on Sunday 
 morning at the beginning of the service instead of the end ? 
 And what would she have done, I wonder ? " 
 
 The picture was too painful. Mrs. Prentice shuddered. 
 " I acknowledge that you were wiser than I," she said. 
 " But if you used expediency there, as you did, why not carry- 
 it a little further ? You need not give up any of your con- 
 victions." 
 
 " I do not intend to, nor anything that I have set on foot 
 after mature consideration. What do you propose that I 
 shall alter ? Wliat are her ladyship's minimum demands ? " 
 
 " She did not make any definite demands. But it is the 
 ritual she objects to. Of course, you know, William, ritual is 
 not necessary as long as the faith is taught." 
 
 " Then you propose that I shall give up the small amount 
 
Pourparlers 139 
 
 of ritual we have here, and go on teaching the faith ? And 
 you think that Lady Wrotham will be content with that ? I 
 don't. If I know anything about the school of which she is 
 one of the chief ornaments, she will object just as strongly to 
 the doctrines of baptismal regeneration and sacramental grace 
 as to eucharistic vestments. No. Peace does not lie in that 
 direction." 
 
 " Well, I do think for the present it will be well to give in 
 to her a little. I am sure she is a religious woman, and if she 
 is not upset now she will gradually come round to see that you 
 have done good here, and she will withdraw her opposition." 
 
 " Oh, Agatha, Agatha ! You can't do it, you know." 
 
 " Can't do what, pray ? " 
 
 " Serve God and mammon. It would be very pleasant, no 
 doubt, to be the bosom friend of Lady Wrotham. But you 
 can't be that and keep true to your convictions as well. You 
 had better make your choice now, for you will have to make 
 it sooner or later." 
 
 Mrs. Prentice drew herself up. " I think you are making a 
 great mistake in identifying Lady Wrotham with mammon," 
 she said. " That is not the way to win mistaken souls to your 
 side. And in some ways I am not certain that she is mistaken. 
 I am sure, at any rate, that in her heart of hearts she desires 
 the right. And as long as I can I will remain her friend and 
 endeavour to guide her." 
 
 The Vicar laughed, and seized the handle of his mowing- 
 machine. M You will do that," he said, " when this machine 
 guides me. I shall just have time to finish this before dinner." 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 AN UNEXPECTED VISIT 
 
 There was a surprise in store for Mrs. Prentice the next 
 morning, for as she walked down the village on her way to 
 keep her appointment at the Abbey, she was overtaken by 
 Lady Wrotham's carriage, and in it was seated, very much at 
 his ease, the young man whom she had made such earnest 
 efforts to entertain a fortnight or so before. Lord Wrotham 
 favoured her with an inquiring stare, and drove on ahead of 
 her. 
 
 " Dear me," said Mrs. Prentice to herself, " I did not know 
 he was expected." 
 
 No one knew when to expect Lord Wrotham at any time. 
 He was a restless being, and would take the longest journey 
 at the shortest notice whenever the spirit moved him. His 
 mother had received a telegram early in the morning to say 
 that he was about to pay her a visit, and was to be met at 
 such and such a train. Why he had come, and the length of 
 time he intended to stay, she knew no more than Mrs. Pren- 
 tice. That lady, fired by curiosity, hurried her footsteps, 
 and arrived at the Abbey in time to share in the disclosure 
 of his lordship's purpose. 
 
 " Ah, how do you do, Mrs. Prentice," said the young man 
 cordially, when he was introduced to her. " Very sorry I 
 couldn't accept your kind invitation the other day, but Browne 
 and I were driven off our legs. So much to see to, you know. 
 I was just telling my mother that I've come down to have a 
 look at the Fisheries. We hadn't time to go up there the 
 other day." 
 
 Lady Wrotham did not appear to be entirely satisfied with 
 this explanation, or indeed overjoyed at the visit. She sat 
 
 140 
 
An Unexpected Visit 141 
 
 stiffly in her chair, her eyes fixed upon the pleasant alert 
 face of her son, with no very marked expression of maternal 
 pride or pleasure. But Mrs. Prentice could find no fault with 
 the young man's attitude to his mother, and wondered what 
 there was behind the scenes to have created the antagonism 
 which Lady Wrotham had practically admitted to her as exist- 
 ing between herself and her son. 
 
 •' I'm thinking of starting a fish hatchery up at Shelbraith, 
 you know, mother," he said. " It's always been an idea of 
 mine." 
 
 " This is the first I have heard of it," replied Lady Wro- 
 tham. " I think you should go very carefully into the matter 
 before you start such an undertaking. I know that your 
 father spent a great deal of money rather unsatisfactorily 
 here, and was glad enough when this Captain — what is his 
 name ? — Captain Turner rented them from him." 
 
 " Oh, I've gone into it like anything. It'll pay hand over 
 fist, and won't cost much to start." 
 
 ' That was not your father's experience." 
 
 " Father never had any experience at all. Old Tetheradge, 
 who was here before Browne, persuaded him into it and made 
 a mess of it, as he did of everything else. Turner is making 
 it pay, so Browne says. I'm going to get Browne to take me 
 up after lunch"! Well, mother, how do you find Exton agree 
 with you ? Feeling pretty buckish, eh ? " 
 
 " I wish you would not use those expressions to me. 
 George," replied Lady Wrotham. " I am not one of your 
 companions of the race-course. I have no doubt I shall be 
 very well here when I have settled down. At present I am 
 not quite myself. Mrs. Prentice, I am afraid I must ask you 
 to excuse my driving with you this afternoon. I had a sleep- 
 less night ; I must rest." 
 
 It was plain that she was unwell, and that only her strength 
 of will enabled her to get through the meal which followed, 
 and take her part in the conversation. Mrs. Prentice was full 
 of sympathy, but was not altogether sorry to be relieved of the 
 ordeal of a further cross-examination, which, for all her 
 anxiety to please, might have ended in an open breach. Lord 
 Wrotham, beyond a perfunctory expression of sorrow, did not 
 display much solicitude for his mother's indisposition, but 
 chatted gaily to both the ladies. 
 
 " Have you got to know the inhabitants yet, mother ? " he 
 
142 Exton Manor 
 
 asked, when they had been some time at table. " Seen 
 Turner yet ? " 
 
 " No. I shall be glad, George, if you will ask Mr. Browne 
 to bring Captain Turner to drink tea with me. The ladies 
 living in the place will, of course, call upon me. But a 
 bachelor may, perhaps, require an invitation." 
 
 " I'll tell him, mother. Seen Mrs. Redcliffe yet ? " 
 
 " Not yet," replied Lady Wrotham, and Mrs. Prentice set 
 her lips together. 
 
 " Very nice lady," pursued Wrotham ; " you're sure to like 
 her, and her daughter's a very charming girl. You're lucky 
 to have such people in the place, Mrs. Prentice." 
 
 Mrs. Prentice did not look as if she thought herself lucky, 
 but she felt bound to make some reply to the observation. 
 " The White House has been made very attractive since it 
 was enlarged," she said. 
 
 Wrotham threw a quizzical look at her. " Charming little 
 cottage," he said. " Then you don't care about the people 
 who live in it, eh, Mrs. Prentice ? " 
 
 " I did not say so, Lord Wrotham," she replied. 
 
 " No, but it's quite plain," he persisted. " Little quarrel, 
 eh ? The ladies, bless 'em, they're never quite happy unless 
 there's a trifle of an upset going on, are they ? But they are 
 just as good friends to each other in spite of it. We men 
 can't equal them there. If we quarrel we quarrel, and there's 
 an end of it." 
 
 Lady Wrotham interposed. " I think you are letting your 
 tongue run away with you, George," she said, as if she were 
 correcting a small, troublesome boy. " Mrs. Prentice has 
 given you no reason to assume that she has quarrelled with 
 anybody." 
 
 "lam not of a quarrelsome mood, Lord Wrotham," said 
 Mrs. Prentice sweetly. 
 
 " And I'm sure Mrs. Redcliffe isn't," said Wrotham. 
 " Don't know when I've met a lady I like better. I expect 
 you will get on with her like anything, mother." 
 
 ' You will perhaps leave me to make my own friends in 
 my own way, George," said Lady Wrotham. 
 
 " Why, certainly, mother. Do you know if Mrs. Redcliffe 
 has anything to do with Francis Redcliffe who lives at 
 Riverslea in Worcestershire ? He was at Eton with me." 
 
 " I believe her husband was Sir Francis's uncle, but, as 
 
An Unexpected Visit 143 
 
 I tell you, I do not know Mrs. Redcliffe. Mrs. Prentice wiU 
 tell you anything you wish to know about her, though I 
 cannot see why you should betray such a lively interest in 
 a lady you have only met once, and are not likely to meet 
 again." 
 
 " Oh, I like to know all about everybody, especially people 
 living on one's own place. " 
 
 Mrs. Prentice, believing that she now had permission to 
 imply a secret reason for her attitude, said, " You will find, 
 I think, Lord Wrotham, that Mrs. Redcliffe has reasons for 
 not putting forward any claim on her relations. She is 
 living at Exton as quietly as possible — one might almost say 
 hidden." 
 
 But Lady Wrotham stopped her at once. u I thought it 
 was understood,'' she said severely, " that we were not to 
 discuss what we know of Mrs. Redcliffe. I certainly thought 
 it was understood, Mrs. Prentice." 
 
 Mrs. Prentice quailed under the stony glance of displeasure 
 and was beginning to quaver apologies, but Lady Wrotham 
 proceeded : " Since so much has been said, I may as well 
 tell you, George, that Mrs. Redcliffe 's husband married his 
 deceased wife's sister. Apparently the fact was not known 
 here, but I was not aware of that when I mentioned it to 
 Mrs. Prentice the other day. She comes from Australia, and 
 I heard of the marriage when your father and I were out 
 there. I should not have divulged her secret if I had known 
 it was a secret." 
 
 " Of course not, mother. You needn't be afraid of me. 
 I won't say a word to anybody. And anyhow, if it was in 
 Australia, it was all right. So it will be here before long. 
 Well, I must be off. I'll come in again to say good-bye. 
 I've told 'em to be ready to take me back to the station about 
 five o'clock." 
 
 He was out of the room and the house within two minutes, 
 somewhat to the astonishment of Mrs. Prentice, who had 
 not quite finished her glass of port. Lady Wrotham ex- 
 pressed no astonishment. " I must see this Miss Redcliffe," 
 she remarked oracularly. " There is one thing ; it will not 
 last very long." 
 
 Lord Wrotham walked quickly out of the gate house and 
 up the road. When he reached the gate of the White House 
 he turned in and went up the drive, and, ringing at the door 
 
144 Exton Manor 
 
 and inquiring for Mrs. Redcliffe, presently found himself in 
 that lady's parlour, where she and Hilda were sitting. 
 
 " I thought I would just look in on my way up to Browne/' 
 he said. " And how are you, Mrs. Redcliffe ? " 
 
 Mrs. Redcliffe said that she was well, and Hilda, next 
 interrogated, gave a satisfactory account of her health. 
 
 " Well, I've just been lunching with my mother," he said, 
 seating himself in an easy-chair in the window. " By the 
 bye, I must keep a lookout for old Browne, in case he goes 
 down before I get to him. He doesn't know I'm here. I've 
 come to have a look at the Fisheries. I say, Mrs. Redcliffe, 
 can't you and Miss Redcliffe come up with us ? You know 
 Turner, of course. There'll be room for four of us in 
 Browne's cart." 
 
 "I think not, thank you, Lord Wrotham," said Mrs. 
 Redcliffe. " Hilda and I were thinking of driving over to 
 Oakhurst this afternoon." 
 
 " Can't you do that another afternoon ? I've just snatched 
 to-day to come down. Let's make a little expedition of it. 
 It's up in the woods, isn't it ? Do let's all go together. I'm 
 a bit shy, you know. I want backing up." 
 
 He laughed agreeably, and Mrs. Redcliffe and Hilda 
 laughed too. " We could go to Oakhurst to-morrow, 
 mother," Hilda said. 
 
 Just at that moment Wrotham espied Browne's burly figure 
 walking down the road past the garden, and dashed out to 
 intercept him. Hilda laughed again. " Do let us go 
 mother," she said. " He is such fun — not in the least like 
 anybody else. And I'm sure he likes us both." 
 
 " We will see what Mr. Browne says," answered her 
 mother, which was as good as a surrender. 
 
 So presently they were walking up through the woods to 
 Browne's house, Wrotham on ahead with Hilda, and the 
 older pair following more sedately. 
 
 " Now that's what I call a nice-looking pair," said round 
 forty-year-old Browne, without prejudice, and indeed the 
 slim youthful-looking couple, with their springy active walk, 
 might have evoked some such expression of opinion from any 
 one who saw them together. 
 
 Lord Wrotham possessed in an eminent degree that 
 faculty not rare amongst the lively-natured self-assured, of 
 ingratiating himself at a pace a good deal quicker than the 
 
An Unexpected Visit 145 
 
 ordinary speed-limit with the more comely of the opposite 
 sex. He could do more than ingratiate himself. He could, 
 by delicately shaded but always advancing degrees, and with- 
 out laying himself open to rebuff even from the most timor- 
 ous, drive a colloquy on to that plane where admiration may 
 be openly tendered without offence, and at least a reciprocal 
 interest implied, if not expressed. Many of the numerous 
 fair ones whom he honoured by his attentions would have 
 resented with offended sincerity the charge of flirtation, so 
 dexterously were they led into the winding maze ; but the 
 incense burnt at the shrine of beauty by this agreeable young 
 man demanded a return of favour, and its light fumes were 
 so searching that they usually attained their reward. Hilda 
 Redcliffe was the least consciously coquettish of her sex, 
 but she was so gay and bright, and so pretty, that she in- 
 vited a more than usually ardent attack from a lover of those 
 special qualities, and replied to it by a still more sparkling 
 display of them. The walk through the woods from the 
 White House to Upper Heath gate was a matter of ten 
 minutes at the most, but by the time they had reached 
 Browne's house she had been told that if Lord Wrotham had 
 made her acquaintance before the arrangement was entered 
 into by which his mother occupied Exton Abbey for her life- 
 time, he would not have consented to it, but taken up resi- 
 dence there himself. And she had parried the statement 
 with a laughing reply, instead of showing surprise at its 
 boldness. To this point had the expert in intimacy pushed 
 his way. 
 
 They drove up to the Fisheries through the woods in 
 Browne's dog-cart, Mrs. Redcliffe and Browne in front, Hilda 
 and Wrotham clinging on behind as the wheels bumped 
 slowly over the soft, uneven rides. Wrotham, with his elbow 
 over the back of the seat, engaged the company in general 
 conversation. " You'll go and call on my mother as soon as 
 possible, now, I hope," he said to Mrs. Redcliffe. " She is 
 ready and anxious to make your acquaintance." 
 
 Mrs. Redcliffe s&jj nothing, and he went on. 
 
 " I know Frankie Redcliffe. He was at school with me — 
 and at Cambridge too. But he seems to have buried himself 
 lately. Model country landlord, and all that sort of thing. 
 Dear old fellow, though. I should like to see him again." 
 
 " I do not know Sir Francis," Mrs. Redcliffe made haste to 
 
14G Exton Manor 
 
 reply. " My husband was in Australia for the last years of 
 his life, and I came to Engliand for the first time after his 
 death." 
 
 " Capital place Australia. I was out there for a year as 
 a small boy. You weren't near Western Australia, were 
 you ? " 
 
 11 No. I am a Queenslander." 
 
 " Then you never met my father and mother when they 
 were playing at royalty out there. No, her ladyship said you 
 hadn't, although she knew your name. Well, you'll have 
 something to talk about together, at any rate. I say, Browne, 
 Mrs. Prentice doesn't seem to be a very amiable lady. Got 
 her knife into everybody, apparently." 
 
 " Oh, she's all right," said Browne, " if you take her in her 
 own way." 
 
 u She isn't all right," said Hilda. " She is an interfering 
 mischief-maker, and as for her manners !" 
 
 Mrs. Redcliffe did not come to the rescue of criticized 
 humanity, as was her wont. She sat silent, looking forward 
 along the purple vista of tree trunks and interlacing branches, 
 as though she did not even hear what was being said. 
 
 But Wrotham turned to Hilda with a quizzical smile. " I 
 say ! " he exclaimed. " You're very severe. I'm afraid the 
 lady isn't a great friend of yours." 
 
 " No, she isn't," Hilda replied. " Although, sometimes, if 
 there is anything to be gained by it, she pretends to be." 
 
 "Well, I don't blame }'ou for keeping her at arm's length. 
 I've got an eye for character, and I think she's a bit of a pussy 
 cat. But she seems to be very thick with my mother at 
 present. There's nothing they don't tell each other. Pro- 
 bably it won't last long. She doesn't know her ladyship yet." 
 
 Browne cleared his throat with determination. " This is 
 the road up from the village," he said, as they turned into a 
 broad gravelled track. " We shall get to the rhododendron 
 ring soon. It's worth looking at." Mrs. Prentice's name 
 was then dropped out of the conversation. 
 
 They came to Turner's house, looking down the narrow 
 valley, and alighted. " I say, this is a jolly place," said 
 Wrotham. " That's Turner, I suppose. Let's go down to 
 see what he's doing." 
 
 A tall home-spun clad figure could be seen with its back 
 towards them, gazing into one of the tanks some little way 
 
An Unexpected Visit 147 
 
 down the stream, while a man by his side was engaged in 
 some hidden operation. Wrotham led the way at a quick 
 pace along a grass garden path. He was now all eagerness to 
 see what was going on, and had no apparent use for the 
 moment for ladies' society. Browne tied his horse to a post 
 and followed him, with Mrs. Redcliffe and Hilda. 
 
 " What is the matter, mother darling ? " asked Hilda. 
 " You don't look well." 
 
 Mrs. Redcliffe was pale, but she gathered herself together. 
 " I am quite well," she said. " But I think I will sit here for 
 a bit, while you go and see what there is to be seen." 
 
 She sat down on a garden seat, and Hilda, after being 
 assured again that there was nothing the matter with her, 
 went on with Browne to the ponds. 
 
 Wrotham had already introduced himself to Turner, and 
 was putting numerous inquiries to him by the time they came 
 up. " Look here, Miss Redcliffe," he said. '* This is jolly. 
 See all these little beggars coming up to be fed ? " 
 
 Turner's man had in his hand an inverted cone of per- 
 forated zinc, fastened to the end of a stick. It was full of 
 finely-chopped food, the component parts of which need not 
 be inquired into too closely. Every now and then he dipped 
 it into the water and shook it gently. Tiny fragments 
 escaped and were carried down the gentle stream, and scores 
 of little whisking tails would dart out from under the shelter 
 of the reed thatching to intercept them. 
 
 They watched the feeding for some time, and then Turner 
 took them further down the chain of ponds. Wrotham plied 
 him with questions, and seemed to get a complete grasp of all 
 the many complicated and debatable details of the hatchery, 
 with very little trouble. But he did not forget Hilda as he 
 did so, passing on explanations and pointing out to her what 
 had just been pointed out to him, as if it was of as much im- 
 portance that she should know how to construct a fish hatchery 
 on the most approved principles as that he should. 
 
 " The mistake in making this place," said Turner, " was in 
 digging the big ponds at the top and the tanks below. The 
 w r ater is poor and thin when it comes out of the spring, all 
 right for the fry, but it's a lot of trouble to get enough life into 
 it for the bigger fish.* Then by the time it gets down here it 
 is richer, and the sun has been at it. This is the proper place 
 for the yearlings and the two-year-olds, but I've got to keep 
 
148 Exton Manor 
 
 them up higher and the fry here. It would cost too much 
 to alter it, but it ought never to have been made in that way." 
 
 " See, Miss Redcliffe ? " said Wrotham. " You've got to 
 be precious careful when you start a place like this. No good 
 making mistakes that you can't put right afterwards." 
 
 " I see," said Hilda. " I'll be careful not to do it." 
 
 Browne and Turner were out of hearing as they walked 
 back to the upper ponds. " That looks like a case," said 
 Turner. " His lordship don't seem to have lost much time." 
 
 " Pooh ! " said Browne. " He's like that with every pretty 
 girl he meets. Doesn't mean anything. I say, I've been told 
 to take you to tea with the old lady. Wants to make your 
 acquaintance." 
 
 " Much rather leave her alone. Quite happy here by my- 
 self." 
 
 " Well, you'll have to come and be inspected. She insists 
 on it. You needn't worry yourself after that." 
 
 Turner suddenly became excited. " That's the curse of 
 English life," he said. " Why should I have to go and show 
 myself to an old woman I don't care twopence about, because 
 she lives in a big house and I live in a small one ? I pay my 
 rent regularly enough, and my rates and taxes too. Why 
 can't I be let alone ? " 
 
 Browne laughed. " I'll take you down and trot you out 
 to-morrow afternoon," he said. " Then you can get back to 
 your shell." 
 
 There followed further inspection and technical discussion, 
 abruptly cut short by a demand for instant departure by Lord 
 Wrotham. " I must get back," he said. " I shan't have 
 much more than time to catch my train, and her ladyship's 
 horses aren't accustomed to be bustled." So they got into the 
 cart again rather hurriedly and drove away. 
 
 Lord Wrotham had apparently gained everything for which 
 he had paid his unexpected visit to Exton, for there could 
 have been few questions concerning the planning of a model 
 fish hatchery which he had not asked and Turner had not 
 answered. But it appeared that he had not finished with 
 Exton, for he told Hilda on the drive down that he intended 
 to pay his mother a long visit in a week or two's time, and 
 expressed the hope that they would meet frequently during its 
 course. 
 
 As they passed through the gate leading from the wood 
 
An Unexpected Visit llo 
 
 into the park they saw Mrs. Prentice coming along the road 
 towards them. Mrs. Redcliffe bowed to her as they passed, 
 and Browne took off his hat. She favoured them with a gaze 
 of astonishment and the merest inclination of her head. As 
 the cart passed her she turned round, and adroitly shaded 
 off a cold stare at Hilda into a smiling recognition of Wro- 
 tham's greeting. The transition was so comical that a clear 
 little trill of laughter escaped irom Hilda's lips before she was 
 aware of it. Mrs. Prentice turned sharp round in the road, 
 and sent after her a look so full of bitter dislike that the girl 
 became suddenly grave. 
 
 " I say, you've done it now," said Wrotham. " If looks 
 could kill— eh ? " 
 
 " I didn't mean to be rude," she said. " But I really 
 couldn't help it. You didn't see how she tried to glare at 
 me and smile at you, both at the same time." 
 
 " She's certainly got her claws out. Well, if she makes 
 herself unpleasant you send for me, Miss Redcliffe. I'll look 
 after you. Here we are. We've had a jolly afternoon. 
 Good-bye. Good-bye, Mrs. Redcliffe. Good-bye, Browne. 
 We shall all meet again soon." And Lord Wrotham disap- 
 peared through the gate leading into the Abbey gardens. 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 A DISCLOSURE 
 
 Mrs. Redcliffe chatted equably with Browne as they drove 
 up to the White House. There was* nothing to show that 
 she was suffering distress of mind. When they reached home 
 she went up to her room, removed her outdoor wraps, and sat 
 down to think. 
 
 It was plain now that her secret was known, not only to 
 Lady Wrotham, but to Mrs. Prentice. Her secret ; yes, it 
 had come to be that, and she had hidden it in her heart, 
 hoping, for Hilda's sake, that it would never be divulged. 
 And yet, when she had first come to England, now twenty 
 years ago, she had had no intention of keeping the facts of her 
 marriage secret, nor even any reason to feel ashamed of that 
 marriage. 
 
 She let her thoughts wander back to the early years of her 
 life, spent on a great cattle station in Northern Queensland. 
 She again saw the big deep-verandahed wooden house, in 
 which she had been brought up with a curious mixture of 
 English convention and wild liberty, the groups of outbuild- 
 ings and stock-yards lying about it, the carefully irrigated 
 garden, blossoming riotously with strange trees and fruits and 
 flowers, the few cultivated fields, and, outside the little oasis 
 of habitation, the illimitable distances of the Bush, now 
 parched and bare, now stung into miraculous verdure by a 
 single night of tropical rain. She reviewed her childhood 
 and girlhood, so monotonous to outward view that a few 
 words would have sufficed to describe the breaks that there 
 had been in it during twenty years — two or three journeys 
 to Brisbane, a season at Sydney, an occasional visit to a 
 distant station, or a drive of a hundred miles to an up-country 
 
 150 
 
A Disclosure 151 
 
 race-meeting. These were all, and yet the life had been full 
 and happy. In her father's house, "thirty miles distant from 
 that of his nearest neighbour, there had been refinement, 
 even luxury, a constant stream of books and periodicals, 
 so that, though cut off by distance from the movement of 
 the world, they were never in exile. There had been many 
 visitors, frequently some welcome guest from the warm centres 
 of life, of whom, in the intimacy created by isolation, there 
 had been always a memory kept alive to mark the date of 
 his stay. And the outdoor activities in the clear sparkling 
 air had nursed a radiant health, that made every dawn an 
 excitement and every night a sweet dreamless rest. She 
 could recall nothing but happiness in those far-off years, 
 during which she and her elder sister had been so perpetually 
 and closely together that they had hardly had a thought or 
 an action apart from one another. 
 
 She remembered, oh, so clearly, the excitement of preparing 
 for a visit from the Governor of the colony, who was to stay 
 for the night at her father's station, the coming and the going, 
 and, blotting out every other recollection of the great day, the 
 handsome young man in his suite, who from the very moment 
 of dismounting from his horse, and looking up to see the two 
 fair girls standing arms-entwined above him, had devoted him- 
 self to them ; and, as he rode away the next morning, had 
 looked up again, with a message in his eyes for one of them — 
 or perhaps for either, for he seemed to have wooed them both 
 in those few glamorous hours, and had certainly had no oppor- 
 tunity of speaking to either of them apart. 
 
 She remembered how changed the life of herself and her 
 sister had been after that wonderful visit. Love had never 
 so much as brushed them with his wings before, and now he 
 had transfixed them both with one fiery arrow. And yet such 
 was their mutual affection and confidence that they had been 
 able to ease their laden bosoms of the sweet pain by saying 
 to each other what other girls could only have whispered to 
 their own hearts ; and it had brought them still closer together, 
 if that were possible, for there was no faintest breath of 
 jealousy, or self-seeking, in the mind of either of them. 
 
 A few weeks later he had come again, released from attend- 
 ance on his chief, and when he went away a month later he 
 took the elder sister with him as his bride. Surely it had been 
 the strangest of wooings ; a love idyll in which one heart beat 
 
152 Exton Manor 
 
 for two, and two as one. But that could only last until the 
 idyllic stage merged into the desire for marriage on the part of 
 the perplexed lover. A word, a breath from the actual had 
 brought the younger of the two sisters to the earth. It needed 
 scarcely more than the bitter hour she spent by herself, almost 
 the first in which she had intentionally kept apart from her 
 twin soul, to incline the balance against her, and the end came 
 quickly when the one, still innocently and gladly, accepted the 
 homage, and the other stood back and closed up her heart. 
 
 And so the elder sister took her happiness and went away, 
 and the younger stayed behind, having been bereft of sister 
 and lover at one stroke. 
 
 Then within a year had come the tragedy of death, and 
 following it quickly the second wooing, so different from the 
 first, as the sweetness of autumn, resting on loss and know- 
 ledge, is different from the sharp new sweetness of Spring. 
 It was the wooing by a saddened man of a girl with a 
 woman's soul, tender and experienced, and it fed on feelings 
 that neither had known before sorrow had come to them. 
 But both of them were young, and the life which followed 
 the second marriage was full of deep happiness for the few 
 short years that it lasted. Then the gallant husband and 
 lover had died suddenly, and once again there w r as deep sorrow, 
 and no hope of gladness any more. 
 
 Mrs. Redcliffe sat with her hands in her lap, looking out 
 of the window across the fresh green of the park, and the 
 waving tree branches under the westering sun, for a long 
 time. 
 
 This was her story up to the time of her coming to Eng- 
 land twenty years before, and it contained what women like 
 Mrs. Prentice — better women than Mrs. Prentice, and men 
 too — called a deadly sin, — she forced herself to use the word 
 — adultery. Her face burned, but not with shame. Hilda 
 might have been startled if she had been with her now, for 
 never in the whole of her twenty years had she seen a look 
 of anger on that quiet and still beautiful face. Up to that 
 point in her story had she anything to reproach herself with ? 
 Loyalty to her dead husband, to her dearly-loved sister, to the 
 virgin purity of her own girlhood, refuted all blame. There, 
 she was in arms against the world, if the world should condemn 
 her. 
 
 But afterwards ! There, indeed, she might have taken a 
 
A Disclosure 153 
 
 wrong step, or refrained from taking a right one. She had 
 never told Hilda of her father's previous marriage. 
 
 She had stayed in Australia, for six months of her widow* 
 hood. During that time her father had died, and there was 
 nothing to keep her in a country which contained now only 
 the graves of those she had loved, for her mother had died 
 too, during her early childhood. She made up her mind to 
 come home to England, and bury herself and her baby in 
 some quiet country village, to which, in the sickness of her 
 soul, she looked as a haven of peace and healing. She was 
 almost entirely without friends in England, for her father's 
 station, and that which her husband had bought after his first 
 marriage, were both many miles away from civilization, and 
 in the latter especially she had been cut off from society, and 
 had made few friends since her girlhood. So there was no 
 friend to whom she cared to go when she landed in the 
 strange country which she had always been accustomed to 
 call c home." Her husband's family had dwindled till there 
 was only left one small boy, who was being brought up in 
 his ancestral home by his mother's relations. Her father's 
 family, so far as she knew, was extinct ; he had not been in 
 England for thirty years, and long before his death had ceased 
 to correspond with any relations he might have had. She and 
 her baby were alone in the world, and she must begin her life 
 again and make new friends, for the child's sake, if not for 
 her own. 
 
 It was not until she had lived in England for a year or more 
 that the poor lady gained the added distress of feeling that, in 
 the eyes of many of her neighbours, her position, if it were 
 known, would be considered an equivocal one. Her life had 
 been spent in ways so far apart from the mass of mankind that 
 it had never once suggested itself to her mind, nor had it been 
 suggested to her from outside, that her marriage was in any 
 way irregular. The shock she sustained when she learnt that 
 by English lav/ her child was illegitimate was severe, and she 
 received one still more severe when it was brought home to 
 her that there were those who would regard her marriage, did 
 they know of its circumstances, as no marriage at all, but a 
 sin against righteousness. It had never been her intention to 
 keep from her child the knowledge of her sister's marriage. 
 It would have seemed the most natural thing to tell her all 
 about that dearly loved sister, when she should be of an age to 
 
154 Exton Manor 
 
 understand, and of the mingled sadness and happiness of her 
 own life. But how could she do so in the light of her new 
 knowledge ? The very statement of the facts would take the 
 shape of an excuse, and she had no mind to excuse herself or 
 her husband to their daughter. And besides, even if the child 
 were brought to regard the story in the light that her mother 
 would desire — the light in which she herself regarded it — 
 as of course she would have been taught, she could not be 
 told to keep it secret ; and if she spoke of it to others who 
 did not know of it, there might be a rude awakening for 
 her. 
 
 Any kind of concealment was alien from Mrs. Redcliife's 
 nature, but the circumstances in which she was placed made 
 the concealment that she did practise only passive. She lived 
 for ten years in a moorland sea-coast village in Yorkshire, 
 very quietly, seeing but few people of her own class, and 
 those for the most part her neighbours. None of them knew 
 her past history, and it would have seemed like a desecration 
 of something holy to speak of it to them. In her somew T hat 
 unusual innocence of the ways of the world it did not occur 
 to her that, even if no rumour from the world that had known 
 her brought the facts of her marriage to the light, there might 
 arise circumstances — her daughter's marriage, for instance — 
 in which she would have to disclose them. And so, merely 
 keeping her peace, she had let Hilda grow up without the 
 knowledge. 
 
 For some time now she had said to herself that she had 
 been mistaken, that she ought to have prepared her daughter 
 for what she must know sooner or later, at a time when the 
 story would have made no painful impression on the child's 
 mind. She had prepared herself, at any rate, for the necessit}? 
 of telling her before very long, but had not yet fixed a date 
 for doing so ; not through lack of courage, for when she saw 
 the necessity for any action, however painful, it was not her 
 habit to delay taking it. But she shrank from the necessity 
 of distressing Hilda, and there had arisen no occasion which 
 made one time more than another seem suitable for the dis- 
 closure. 
 
 But now, as she sat quietly at her window, thinking over 
 these things, with the sole desire to act rightly with regard to 
 them, she saw that the time had come, and, if she were to delay 
 longer, Hilda might come to know of the secret which con- 
 
A Disclosure 155 
 
 cerned her, not from her own mother but from some unsym- 
 pathetic stranger. 
 
 It would be a very painful matter to tell her. Mrs. Red- 
 cliffe was not disposed to dwell on the pain it would bring to 
 herself, but she wanted above all to make the disclosure in a 
 way which would absolve her husband's name and her own 
 youth from blame. She could not accept blame, and, know- 
 ing her daughter as she did, she had little fear but that the 
 girl would warmly espouse her cause. But it was the very 
 attitude of espousal that she dreaded. By her confession — 
 for her tale must take the form of a confession — she must 
 definitely take up the attitude of one having, however un- 
 knowingly, broken an accepted law. And part of the trouble 
 was that she had come tacitly to accept the law, as a social, if 
 not a religious, ordinance. She was not of the stuff of which 
 rebels against convention are made. If she had known at 
 the time of her marriage what she knew now, it would not 
 have taken place. She had put away from her the half- 
 proffered love when she had first drawn back and allowed her 
 sister to take the happiness which she then resigned for her- 
 self. And she would not have allowed the love to spring up 
 again in her heart and accepted the happiness after all, if she 
 had known of a law that would have forbade her. Renuncia- 
 tion was a flower that grew readily in the soil of her nature, 
 and happiness would blossom alongside of it, but not by 
 choking it out. 
 
 Then she must accuse herself to her daughter of having 
 done something which she would not have done if she had 
 had more knowledge, something that she would be sorry to 
 know that another woman had done with her eyes open. Her 
 unflinching honesty faced her with that dilemma ; for it was 
 a dilemma. When all had been said that could be said 
 against her marriage, she could not regret it, nor suffer her 
 daughter to look upon it as anything but a perfect and God- 
 blessed union. How should she reconcile these two opposing 
 views ? They were irreconcilable, and at last she took refuge 
 in the thought that there was something definite to be gone 
 through, and that its difficulty could not be softened by 
 further cogitation. She must tell Hilda her story at once, and 
 tell it without reservation or excuses, and afterwards, they two 
 together must make what adjustments they could. 
 
 Then she arose and prepared herself, kneeling at her bed- 
 
156 Exton Manor 
 
 side, and went down to her daughter. She told her that she 
 had something serious to say to her, and they w r ent into a 
 little room off the parlour, where they would not be likely to 
 be disturbed. 
 
 " Hilda darling," she said, " I have something to tell you 
 which perhaps you ought to have known years ago. I feel 
 now, for reasons which I will tell you later, that I must not 
 keep it from you any longer, and you must listen carefully, 
 so that you may not misjudge." 
 
 Hilda's eyes were fixed upon her with some fear. She 
 could see that her mother, beneath her placid exterior, was 
 deeply moved, and that she dreaded the ordeal that lay before 
 her. 
 
 " Mother dear," she said, " don't tell me if it hurts you. 
 Please don't. Everything you do is right ; and if you haven't 
 told me before, you must have had the best reasons for not 
 doing so." 
 
 " There were no best reasons," said her mother. " It was 
 difficult to know what to do. But there are reasons now why 
 you must hear what I have to tell you, and perhaps share some 
 trouble with me." 
 
 " Then I will listen," said the girl. " You have never let 
 me share any trouble, mother ; you have kept everything but 
 happiness away from me." She took her mother's. hand and 
 pressed it. And then Mrs. Redcliffe told her story. 
 
 *' I have told you of my dear sister," she said, " and of how 
 we were brought up closely together and loved each other. 
 Perhaps I have not talked to you quite as much as I should 
 have liked to do, because of what I was keeping back. But 
 you do know, I think, how much we were to each other 
 throughout our girlhood, so that until — until her marriage, we 
 were almost as one." 
 
 " Her marriage ! " Hilda would have echoed, but that her 
 instinct told her to keep silence. 
 
 " When your dear father came to us as a young man, we 
 were all three constantly together. We both loved him, and 
 made no secret of our love to each other, and he loved both 
 of us in a way, perhaps, that some might find it difficult to 
 understand. But he had to choose one of us, and, Hilda 
 dear, this is what I have never told you before, he chose — her." 
 
 She was silent for a space, choosing the words that were to 
 follow. 
 
A Disclosure 157 
 
 " Yes, mother dear," said Hilda softly, but it was plain that 
 she did not yet understand. 
 
 " They were married/' said Mrs. Redcliffe, speaking more 
 quickly. " But she died in less than a year, and then he came 
 back to me. It was not difficult for me to love him. It 
 would have been very difficult for any woman not to do so. I 
 had always loved him, and there was nothing that I then knew 
 of, nothing in my mind or my knowledge of the world, that 
 could have held me back from accepting his love. And my 
 dear sister, before she died, urged him to marry me ; so that 
 there could be no feeling that we were acting disloyally to her 
 memory, which was always cherished between us." 
 
 She breathed a deep sigh. She had taken the plunge, and 
 the worst was over ; but the strain had been great. 
 
 " Yes, mother dear," said Hilda again, gently. She looked 
 at her mother's eyes, withheld from her, as if she expected 
 something more, and when nothing more came, she said, 
 "But is that all? Why couldn't you have told me that 
 before ? " 
 
 " Oh, Hilda, can't you see ? " cried Mrs. Redcliffe, with 
 agitation. '■ I didn't know until afterwards — I had no idea, 
 until your father died, and I came to England with you, a 
 tiny baby, that — that mine was a marriage which is not — 
 not recognized in this country. In Australia it is different, 
 but I had never heard that there was anything against it." 
 
 " But what could there be against it, mother ? " 
 
 " Hilda, you have lived more in the world than I did in my 
 girlhood. You have heard of things which you may not have 
 thought over, but which are not quite unfamiliar to you, as 
 they were to me. You have heard that there have been dis- 
 cussions about — I must use the odious phrase — marriage with 
 the deceased wife's sister." 
 
 '"' Oh ! " The girl's face changed involuntarily. Her 
 mother went on quickly, her voice taking an intonation that 
 was almost pleading. " I have come to see that — in some 
 cases — there may be reasons why sucj^. marriages might not be 
 advisable, but not in my own case. No one who knew the 
 circumstances could say so. I enjoyed perfect happiness, 
 and all my nature was lifted and deepened by it. There 
 could have been no* more perfect marriage, and it was only 
 made more perfect by what, had gone before. Whatever 
 wrong thing I did, I could not commit the wickedness of 
 
158 Exton Manor 
 
 regretting it. I should be sinning against the light that has 
 been given me if I tried to do so. I was blessed in it, as well 
 as made perfectly happy. Whatever may be said — against 
 — it would be a lie to say that my marriage was displeasing 
 to God." 
 
 " Oh, mother, but who could say such a thing ? " 
 
 " There are many who would say it ; many religious 
 people." 
 
 " Not good people." 
 
 " Yes, good people ; though I know from my own inward 
 experience that they would be wrong." 
 
 I should not mind what such people said." 
 
 " I cannot say that I do not mind. I mind to some extent 
 for my own sake, but not perhaps, very much, as the step that 
 they would blame me for has brought me more good than any 
 other I have ever taken. But I mind very much for your 
 sake, my darling, and that is why I have kept the knowledge 
 of the truth from you." 
 
 Hilda threw herself at her mother's feet and embraced her. 
 " Dearest mother," she said in tears, " I wish you had told 
 me before. How could you think — oh, you can't think, that 
 I should not be glad to shield you from the unjust things 
 narrow-minded people might say, that I should want to be 
 apart from you in this or in anything." 
 
 " No, darling ; I know. I don't think I have ever doubted 
 that you would feel like that about what I have told you. 
 But it has been so difficult to tell. I have often said to my- 
 self that I could not tell you without appearing to be excusing 
 myself, and I am too proud of the memory of my married 
 life, and of your father's memory, to bear the thought of 
 excusing anything in it." 
 
 " Oh, no, mother. And now you will talk to me more of 
 it, won't you ? You will tell me about father when you first 
 knew him, and of Aunt Margaret." 
 
 " Yes. That will be one of my consolations. I would so 
 often have liked to tell^you more than I have been able to 
 do, for fear you should ask me questions that I was not pre- 
 pared to answer. But, Hilda, I have not told you yet why 
 I have had to make up my mind, quickly at last, to tell you 
 of this now. It has so happened that no one in England has 
 known of it hitherto, no one whom we in our quiet way of 
 life have met. If it had not been so, I must have told you 
 
A Disclosure 159 
 
 before. I could not have helped it. But Lady Wrotham 
 knows, and we may have to prepare ourselves for cold looks." 
 
 " Lady Wrotham, mother ? How does she know ? " 
 
 " You heard what Lord Wrotham said. She knows the 
 family to which your father belonged, although I have never 
 mentioned the connection to any one in England — not be- 
 cause there was any reason for concealing it, but because no 
 occasion has arisen which would lead me to do so. And she 
 Was in Australia at the time of my marriage. Your father 
 may have known her when he was aide-de-camp to Lord 
 Chippenham, the Governor of Queensland, though if he did 
 he never mentioned it to me." 
 
 " But surely, mother, Lady Wrotham would not say any- 
 thing to any one else if — I mean until she had seen you." 
 
 " I should have thought not ; but I very much doubt 
 whether she has not already dene so." 
 
 H To Lord Wrotham, you mean ? " 
 
 *■ He must know, I should think, but I should not expect 
 him to attach any great importance to it, either one way or 
 the other. He would not take the strictest view, and it 
 would be enough for him that in the colonies such marriages 
 as mine are as regular as others. No, I do not mean Lord 
 Wrotham. I am nearly certain that she must have told 
 Mrs. Prentice." 
 
 "Oh, mother, that woman ! " 
 
 " I am afraid that it is so. And Mrs. Prentice is just the 
 woman who, I am afraid, would think herself bound by her 
 religious creed to make the worst of what irregularity there is." 
 1 Then that accounts for her horrid behaviour to you on 
 Sunday and to-day. I thought that it was just snobbishness 
 and jealousy." 
 
 " I think that Lady Wrotham has told her." 
 
 " Then I think that she ought to be ashamed of herself. 
 What kind of woman can she be to come down here, and, 
 before she has even seen you, to make scandal ? — and with 
 Mrs. Prentice, of all people ! " 
 
 M It would not be the act of a charitable woman. But we 
 must be prepared for its having taken place. People will 
 talk — I fear there is no doubt of it, for if Mrs. Prentice knows, 
 as I think she does, she will not keep it to herself. The talk 
 will not last long. I am what I am, and it will make little 
 difference in the long run. Those whose friendship is worth 
 
'160 Exton Manor 
 
 having will not withdraw it. I can go through with it, but 
 oh, Hilda darling, you must go through it too, and it will 
 take away something of your youth and your trust in man- 
 kind. You must see, even in this small place, something of 
 the cruel side of the world, and I would so willingly have had 
 you blind to it a few years longer." 
 
 " Mother dear, I am glad of it. Yes, I am glad. If trouble 
 comes to you because of what }^ou have told me, I shall share 
 it with you ; and if I could love you better than I do now, 
 it would make me. We have been close together, Haven't 
 we ? And now we shall be closer still. Dearest, I know it 
 must have hurt you to tell me, but you do feel now that it is 
 a relief, don't you ? " 
 
 Mrs. Redcliffe kissed her. " Yes, it is a relief," she said, 
 the tears in her eyes. " And now we must go about our work 
 and live our life just as usual. We are both prepared for 
 what may come, and we need not fear it." 
 
 They went out of the room together. The bitter hour was 
 over, and the sting was drawn from what should come after 
 it. But Mrs. Redcliffe felt sorrowfully that life could never 
 be quite the same to her child as it had been before. 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 DISCORD 
 
 It was hardly to be supposed that the passive collected 
 waiting on developments which, to Mrs. Redcliffe, was the 
 natural attitude to take up in face of difficulties, would com- 
 mend itself to a girl of Hilda's ardent temperament. When 
 she thought over the disclosures that had been made to her, 
 it was not with any regard to those disclosures themselves, 
 except as they revealed to her a hitherto unknown passage 
 in her mother's life. She gave no thought to the general 
 problem in which they were involved. She did not even tell 
 herself that her mother had done right. There was no ques- 
 tion of right or wrong in her mind. She started with the 
 undiscussed assumption that her mother had done right, and 
 her anger burnt hotly against the world which would blame 
 her. She viewed all mankind with suspicion, and emptied 
 her mind of friendship to every one, since none had as yet 
 had an opportunity of espousing warmly her mother's cause, 
 and from henceforward she would have no friends who did 
 not do so. But most of all her anger burnt against those 
 who had already taken a side, or so she thought, against 
 her mother, and she could not rest until she had confronted 
 them, and shown her wrath and contempt. To her mother 
 she was all tenderness and gaiety, and Mrs. Redcliffe's sore 
 heart gained some solace from the thought that the girl's 
 spirit was not subdued by what she had told her. If she had 
 had any idea of the ferment of anger and rebellion going on 
 in Hilda's mind, she would have greatly feared. 
 
 Hilda met Mrs. Prentice the next morning on her way to 
 the village. She drew in her breath as she saw her enemy 
 approaching her, and went on to meet her, outwardly calm, 
 
 161 
 
 F (15; 
 
162 Exton Manor 
 
 but raging inwardly like a' young tiger ready for the spring. 
 Mrs. Prentice was for giving her the merest shadow of a bow 
 and passing on her way with her nose in the air, but Hilda 
 stood in front of her. 
 
 " Will you please tell me," she said, " why you have 
 suddenly taken to cutting me in the road ? " 
 
 Mrs. Prentice was taken aback for the moment. The girl 
 spoke quietly, but her nostrils were dilated, and there was a 
 look in her eyes which gave the older woman a sensation 
 of discomfort. But it was not for long. It was not her 
 custom to refuse battle. She gloried in it when she was not 
 afraid of offending, and she leapt at once to the fray. 
 
 " Cutting you ! " she echoed. " Why should I take the 
 trouble to cut you, I wonder ? " 
 
 " That is what I want to know," said Hilda. " At least, 
 I don't mind your cutting me in the least, but my mother — 
 I should like to know what is the reason of your abominable 
 behaviour to her." 
 
 Mrs. Prentice lost her temper at once. " How dare you 
 speak to me in that fashion, you impudent girl ! " she ex- 
 claimed. 
 
 " Because you deserve it," replied Hilda. " My mother 
 is the best woman in the world, and she has always been 
 kind and good to you. Only a week ago she entertained 
 you, and when she asked you to come to our house on Sunday 
 you could hardly give her a civil answer. Anyone would 
 think it was a condescension on your part to give us your 
 company." 
 
 11 It would be a condescension," replied Mrs. Prentice 
 angrily. " I hope never to darken your mother's doors 
 again." 
 
 Hilda became icy calm, but her face grew white. " You 
 never shall," she said, " but you shall tell me why you say 
 so." 
 
 " I shall not tell you," cried Mrs. Prentice. " Let me pass." 
 
 But Hilda stood in her way. " You shall not go till you 
 have told me," she said. 
 
 Mrs. Prentice saw her way to wound. " You had better 
 ask Mrs. Redcliffe yourself," she said. " She will know well 
 enough why no woman whose life is guided by the laws of 
 the Christian religion will enter her house." 
 
 " Your life guided by the Christian religion ! " repeated 
 
 (3D 
 
Discord 163 
 
 Hilda in a low voice. " I think you are the most irreligious 
 woman I have ever known, full of spite and meanness. You 
 are not fit to tie my mother's shoe-laces.' ' 
 
 " You shall pay for this," said Mrs. Prentice, quivering. 
 " You to dare to speak to 'me like that ! You with your 
 brazen face 1 I have always disliked yyi from the first. 
 You have tried your best to get my son into 3^our toils, and 
 now that there is higher game in view you are pursuing that 
 in the same shameless way." 
 
 " I don't in the least know what you mean," replied Hilda, 
 11 except that you are probably trying to hatch some false 
 scandal against me. As for Fred, you know as well as I do 
 that you are telling a lie. I don't mind at all what you say 
 about that. Nobody will believe you. Your spiteful tongue 
 is too well known. But you had better be careful what you 
 say about my mother." 
 
 She stopped and turned round quickly, for Mrs. Prentice's 
 face, looking past her for a moment, had changed. Mrs. 
 Redcliffe was coming down the road, and had almost reached 
 them. 
 
 " Perhaps," said Mrs. Prentice, V you had better let me pass. 
 I have no wish to talk to Mrs. Redcliffe at present." 
 
 " No, but you shall," said Hilda. " Mother, this woman 
 has been saying the most outrageous things. It is impossible 
 to go on living in the same place with her unless we come to 
 some understanding, now." 
 
 " I have been grossly insulted," said Mrs. Prentice, "and 
 I will put up with it no longer. Thank heaven there is now 
 no further need to pretend friendship. For the future we will 
 meet as strangers. Perhaps I may now be allowed to continue 
 on my way." 
 
 " I think, Mrs. Prentice," said Mrs. Redcliffe, " that Hilda 
 is right. There are things that had better be said before we 
 agree to treat each other as strangers." 
 
 " You say that she is right ! " cried Mrs. Prentice. " She 
 plants herself in front of me, preventing me almost by main 
 force from going my way, and pours out a flood of vulgar 
 abuse in the middle of the public road, and you say that she 
 is right." 
 
 " I do not say that she was right to stop you in the road/' 
 said Mrs. Redcliffe, " but since matters have gone so far, we 
 had better finish them once and for all." 
 
 (25) 
 
1G4 Exton Manor 
 
 " A vulgar wrangle in the middle of the road ! " exclaimed 
 Mrs. Prentice, " and I the wife of the Vicar 1 It is most 
 unseemly, and, under the circumstances, it is worse than 
 unseemly. I absolutely refuse to say anything more." And 
 she began to walk up the hill. 
 
 But Mrs. Redcliffe turned with her. " Mrs. Prentice," 
 she said, " you have known me for five years, and we have 
 been, if not friends, certainly on friendly terms. I think you 
 owe it to me to come in now and clear up what lies between 
 us." 
 
 " What lies between us ? " echoed Mrs. Prentice. " May 
 I ask if you wish your daughter to know what, as you say, 
 lies between us ? " 
 
 Hilda broke in. " There is nothing you can talk about 
 that I don't know," she said. " Do you think mother would 
 keep from me anything that you could get hold of to harm 
 her ? " 
 
 ■' Hilda," said Mrs. Redcliffe peremptorily, " you must not 
 speak in that way. You are doing me no kindness. Come, 
 Mrs. Prentice, you will hardly refuse to say to my face what 
 you are ready to use against me behind my back." 
 
 Mrs. Prentice bridled. " I had no intention of saying a 
 word to any one," she replied, " and should not have men- 
 tioned anything had it not been forced on me." 
 
 " You said, at any rate, that you would never darken our 
 doors again," said Hilda, but in a quieter tone. 
 
 " And you have shown plainly that you wish to avoid me 
 as much as possible," added Mrs. Redcliffe. " You could 
 hardly expect to keep to yourself what you have learnt under 
 those circumstances. You would certainly arouse discussion. 
 I think that five years' intimacy give me a right to better 
 treatment than that, Mrs. Prentice. I simply ask you to 
 come in now, and let us have a clear understanding as to how 
 we are to stand to one another for the future." 
 
 They had reached the gate of the White House. Mrs. 
 Prentice would have preferred to go on her way, feeding 
 her resentment with the memory of Hilda's attack upon 
 her. But there was something compelling in Mrs. Redcliffe's 
 quiet insistence. 
 
 " I have no objection," she said stiffly. " And I hope I 
 shall not go out of the bouse without a full apology for the 
 unpardonable language that Hilda has seen fit to use to me." 
 
Discord 165 
 
 No answer was made to this suggestion, and they walked 
 up the drive and into the house in silence, each collecting her 
 thoughts for what was to follow. 
 
 Mrs. Prentice was the first to speak. " The matter is 
 quite simple/' she said, the moment she had seated herself. 
 " Since you have told Hilda — which, I confess, I was surprised 
 to hear — of the — the secret of your life, I can speak plainly. 
 I do not wish to use words that would hurt you — personally 
 — but, as a Churchwoman, I am taught to regard a marriage 
 such as yours as no marriage at all, and I will not, no, I will 
 not, whatever the circumstances, even pretend to be on 
 friendly terms, or indeed on any terms, with anyone who 
 has — has broken the Christian law in that respect." 
 
 " I should like to ask you, Mrs. Prentice, if you are really 
 convinced that the responsibility of punishing me for my 
 marriage rests upon you ? " said Mrs. Redcliffe. 
 
 " Punishing ! ' repeated Mrs. Prentice, rather at a loss. 
 " There is no question of my punishing you." 
 
 " Then for what reason are you refusing to live on friendly 
 terms, or, as you say, on any terms, with me for the future ? 
 
 Mrs. Prentice hesitated for a moment. " It is not my 
 fault," she said, " if I am obliged to use expressions that may 
 offend you. The Church teaches, and I believe, that anyone 
 living — living in that way, under a — under a false marriage 
 tie, is committing a sin." 
 
 M Living in what way, Mrs. Prentice ? " 
 
 "Well, if you will have* it, living with a man as your 
 husband who, in the eyes of the Church, is not your husband." 
 
 " But I was married in a church, and in every way according 
 to the laws of the country in which I lived." 
 
 ' There are priests, I am well aware, who will break any of 
 the laws of the Church if the law of the land allows them. 
 It is quite enough for me that the Catholic Church does forbid 
 such marriages." 
 
 " You feel so strongly on the matter that you cannot bring 
 yourself to allow a woman, with whom you have lived in 
 friendship for five years, any mercy. We arje to be complete 
 strangers to each other, and by your attitude to me you are 
 to spread my story and invite others to hold aloof from me 
 — from both me and my daughter, who, at any rate, has done 
 nothing wrong, even according to your own strict rule." 
 
 " Hilda stands on quite another plane," said Mrs. Prentice. 
 
 (ii) 
 
166 Exton Manor 
 
 " I should refuse to have anything more to do with her for 
 many reasons, even if this had not happened." 
 
 " There is no necessity to bring me in at all, mother," said 
 Hilda. " Mrs. Prentice cordially dislikes me, and I certainly 
 have neither liking nor respect for her. I think that people^ 
 who are always talking of their religious views ought to show 
 some small signs of Christian charity, and I have never seen 
 any in her." 
 
 She got out her words against Mrs. Redcliffe's warning 
 hand. Mrs. Prentice looked at her as with almost savage 
 dislike. " I came in here against my will at your request," 
 she said to Mrs. Redcliffe. " If that girl is allowed to speak 
 to me in that way again I shall go out at once." 
 
 "Hilda, I have asked you to keep quiet," said Mrs. Red- 
 cliffe. " If you disobey me again you must go away." 
 
 Hilda shrugged her shoulders and withdrew her dress, the 
 hem of which was touching Mrs. Prentice's. 
 
 "I will put it before you once more," said Mrs. Redcliffe. 
 " I have no wish to plead with you, but for your own sake, 
 as well as ours, I think you ought to be told something of 
 'the circumstances of my marriage. I had no idea until I 
 'came to England that there was anything in the least irreg- 
 ular in it — that it was not perfectly regular in any country 
 in the world. Does that make no difference ? " 
 
 " Perhaps it does in the manner of blame that is to be 
 attached to it," replied Mrs. Prentice. " Not otherwise. If 
 you sin against a law unwittingly, you still sin against it." 
 
 " I did not sin against the law of my country." 
 
 " I mean the law of the Church." 
 
 " And the English Church throughout Australia celebrates 
 without question such marriages as mine." 
 
 " It may have done twenty years ago. I doubt whether it 
 would now. But it makes no difference. I stand, as I said 
 before, by the undoubted law of the Catholic Church." 
 
 " And none of the circumstances I have mentioned afford 
 you a loophole, . not for altering your convictions — I would 
 not ask you to do that — but for treating me as not quite 
 outside the social pale. Because, Mrs. Prentice, that is what 
 you are proposing to do. You are going to ignore every 
 circumstance that would tell in my favour, and treat me just 
 as you would an unfortunate woman who might come and live 
 here, let us say, with another woman's husband." 
 
 (27) 
 
Discord 167 
 
 " In my view that is what it comes to," said Mrs. Prentice. 
 " I cannot palter with my beliefs. A union with a deceased 
 wife's sister is either a marriage, or it is not. I hold that it is 
 not, and no circumstances can make it so/' 
 
 " Very well, then, we will leave that point. And now will 
 you tell me what 3^ou would have me to do ? " 
 
 '■ Do ? " echoed Mrs. Prentice. " I do not quite under- 
 stand you." 
 
 " Twenty years ago I committed — unknowingly, as I have 
 told you — what you call a sin. Is my punishment to last for 
 ever ? " 
 
 " You repeat the word punishment, Mrs. Redcliffe. And 
 I repeat that I should not have the audacity to take it upon 
 myself to punish 3^ou. Besides, I should say that if you did 
 what you did unknowingly — which I should have hardly 
 thought possible " 
 
 " You will not refuse to believe, I hope, that I am telling 
 you the truth when I say I did not know ? " 
 
 "No, I accept what you say. And what I mean is that I 
 don't think actual blame would attach to you until you did 
 know. Then the union in my view — and the Church's view 
 — would become'a sin." 
 
 " And it is because of that sin that you decide that you 
 must for the future hold aloof from me ? " 
 
 " Yes. I do regard it as a sin." 
 
 " But my husband has been dead twenty years, Mrs. Pren- 
 tice, and he was dead when I first discovered that in some 
 respects my marriage was irregular." 
 
 Mrs. Prentice was dumb. 
 
 Mrs. Redcliffe went on in her quiet voice. " So you see," 
 she said, " that unless you are anxious to punish me for doing 
 many years ago what you say, under the circumstances of my 
 ignorance, I could not be blamed for — and you deny that you 
 wish to punish me — you are holding aloof from me for — well, 
 perhaps you will tell me for what." 
 
 Mrs. Prentice grew flustered. " You may better me in 
 argument," she said, " but I know all the same that I am 
 right, and I should be false to my convictions if I acted 
 otherwise." 
 
 " Otherwise than how ? " 
 
 " Than by showing that, however much I regret the neces- 
 sity, I cannot hold company with those who break laws that 
 
 (29) 
 
168 Exton Manor 
 
 I hold to be sacred, and defend themselves for breaking them. 
 Yes, that is the point ; I see it now. You defend your 
 marriage. Your eyes have been opened to the truth and you 
 do not repent. You are undoubtedly living in a state of sin 
 until you do. If your husband were alive you would still be 
 living with him. The fact of his death makes no difference." 
 
 Mrs. Redcliffe rose, her face a deep red. " We need say 
 no more," she began ; but Hilda broke in, rising too — 
 
 " Let her go, mother ! " she cried. " Her hypocrisy is 
 beyond bearing. 1 1 makes me feel positively sick. You have 
 treated her with the most splendid patience and forbearance, 
 and have shown her plainly that she has no excuse even from 
 her own point of view. She hates you because you are good 
 and she is not. She only wants an excuse for her wicked 
 spite. She is glad — you can see it in her face — that she has 
 something to use against you. Let her go ! It is you who 
 cannot have anything more to do with her. You can't live 
 any longer in friendship with a mean and contemptible woman 
 like that. She is too far beneath you." 
 
 She poured forth her words in a torrent of scorn and indig- 
 nation. Her mother made no effort to stop her. Mrs. 
 Prentice, rising with the others, confronted her with a furious 
 face, and tried once or twice to break in on her, but her voice 
 was borne down by the girl's anger. 
 
 " This is what I let myself in for," cried Mrs. Prentice. 
 " This girl — the daughter of an unholy alliance — — " 
 
 Mrs. Redcliffe laid a hand on her arm. " Stop ! " she said. 
 M Say no more. You shall have your way ; we will not meet 
 again as friends. Hilda is right. You have shown your 
 enmity towards me, and the Christianity which is so much 
 on your lips is worthless. You think wickedly and you speak 
 wickedly. You may go now ; and I will have nothing more 
 to do with you." 
 
 " That indeed you won't," returned Mrs. Prentice, bursting 
 with spite and preparing for her departure. " And I shall 
 take very good care that others whom you would give your 
 ears to be friends with shall not have anything to do with 
 you. It is a disgrace that you should be living in the 
 place." 
 
 Hilda took a step forward. " If you don't go at once I 
 will turn you out," she said. " You shall not speak to my 
 mother in that way. And you may tell your new friend that 
 
 (13) 
 
Discord 169 
 
 she did a very wicked thing when she gave a woman like you 
 a weapon to use against my mother." 
 
 Mrs. Prentice was at the door. " I shall certainly tell 
 Lady Wrotham all about your outrageous behaviour/' she 
 said. " And I shall do my best to get her to turn you cut of 
 the place. It is intolerable that you should be living here 
 beside respectable and God-fearing people/' 
 
 Hilda, who had almost lost control of herself, would have 
 followed her with another taunt, but Mrs. Redcliffe restrained 
 her, and she threw herself into her mother's arms and burst 
 into a passion of tears. 
 
 Mrs. Redcliffe, white to the roots of her hair, soothed her 
 as well as she was able, sinking into a chair, for she was 
 hardly able to stand. 
 
 " Oh, how hateful ! " cried the girl. " Mother, we must 
 go away. We can't stay here to have these things said 
 against us." • 
 
 " No, we will not go away," said Mrs. Redclifie. " No 
 one will behave like that again. The worst is over ; but oh, 
 it was very hard to bear." ♦ 
 
 They grew calmer, comforting one another, and presently 
 went about their duties in the pleasant house w T hich had been 
 such a happy home to them for the past five years, but had 
 now become a place from which they would both willingly 
 have flown if they could have done so without cowardice. 
 
 And Mrs. Prentice walked homewards, her knees trembling 
 under her, alternately exulting and afraid. 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 
 MRS. PRENTICE TASTES SUCCESS 
 
 Mrs. Prentice possessed, although she did not often allow 
 it to appear, a wholesome dread of her husband. The Vicar, 
 underneath the crust of his rigid beliefs, was an easy-going 
 man, and had solved the problem of living in a not altogether 
 ideal companionship by allowing his wife more room in which 
 to exercise her less agreeable characteristics than was good 
 for her. But he had at the bottqm of his heart a solid lump 
 of fundamental Christianity, and was sometimes shaken out 
 of his wonted tolerance towards her, to express himself 
 forcibly on her crying lack of charity. Now it would not be 
 possible for anyone to follow as doggedly as Mrs. Prentice did 
 the letter of religion, and to escape altogether the calls of 
 the spirit, unless actuated by the most deadly hypocrisy ; and 
 Mrs. Prentice was not a conscious hyprocrite. Therefore 
 there was something in her which her husband's occasional 
 rebukes could affect. You may call it conscience or only 
 vanity, but the fact remains that they caused her discomfort 
 enough to make her dislike and dread them. 
 
 As she walked down to the village from the White House, 
 convinced as she was that she had acted only uprightly, and 
 had received abominable treatment for righteousness' sake, 
 she was yet aware that whatever story she told her husband 
 of what had passed between her and the RedclirTes, he would 
 look at her, his face growing stern, amazed, indignant, and 
 then he would break out upon her and rout her self-com- 
 placency, driving her out of the room in angry tears, perhaps, 
 as had happened before. And, although she had done her 
 duty — much as it had pained her — she knew that she would 
 not be able to stand up against his wrath. 
 
 170 
 
Mrs. Prentice tastes Success in 
 
 Really, at the present moment she could not go through 
 with it. Her knees knocked under her and she felt faint 
 and unstrung — though still conscious of rectitude. She could 
 hardly summon up enough fortitude to carry her over the 
 short mile which lay between the White House and the 
 vicarage, with the populous village in between. 
 
 A recreating thought came to her. She would call at the 
 Abbey on her way home and see Lady Wrotham. She would 
 tell her patroness of what she had said and of what had been 
 said to her. She must certainly put matters on a footing 
 there some time, and if she did it before she saw her husband, 
 she might be fortified by the great lady's approval and 
 alliance against her husband's displeasure. At any rate she 
 would be offered a chair, and she badly wanted a chair at the 
 moment. 
 
 She was admitted at once to Lady Wrotham's presence and 
 tottered to a seat. 
 
 " Oh, Mrs. Prentice ! " cried Lady Wrotham. " You are 
 ill. Some brandy, Hooker, quickly ! " 
 
 " If I might have a glass of port wine and a biscuit," said 
 Mrs. Prentice faintly. " Brandy flies to my head." 
 
 " Oh, yes. Port wine and a biscuit, Hooker, quickly ! 
 Pray what is the matter, Mrs. Prentice ? But do not talk. 
 Tell me afterwards. Lean your head back. Wait, I will put 
 a cushion behind you." 
 
 But Mrs. Prentice was already recovering, and the port 
 which she sipped and the biscuits at which she nibbled 
 soon completed the process. When she had put the empty 
 glass back on to the tray beside her she was herself once more. 
 
 "lam sure you must be surprised at my coming in in this 
 way, Lady Wrotham," she said. " And I am sure I did not 
 mean to alarm you. I was just a little overwrought." 
 
 Lady Wrotham still looked alarmed. She was a different 
 being, motherly, solicitous, from the autocratic dame that 
 Mrs. Prentice had hitherto had to deal with, and that lady 
 experienced a sense of comfortable gratitude as she put down 
 her glass and prepared to tell her story. 
 
 " The fact is," she said, " that I have just gone through a 
 most trying half-hour and it has greatly upset me." 
 
 " I can see that," said Lady Wrotham. " Please tell me 
 about it if you feel yourself able to do so." 
 
 " Quite able now, thank you," returned Mrs. Prentice. 
 
172 Exton Manor 
 
 " I have been treated in the most outrageous way by Mrs. 
 Redcliffe and her daughter. I could not have believed such 
 unpleasantness as I have had to go through could have 
 existed." 
 
 Lady Wrotham's face settled into a slightly harder ex- 
 pression. " I hope/' she said, " that the unpleasantness has 
 had nothing to do with the circumstances of Mrs. Redcliffe's 
 marriage, of which I told you in confidence/' 
 
 " Yes, it had. But, Lady Wrotham, pray do not blame 
 me before you have heard what has passed. I assure you 
 that I would never have said a word, not a single word, either 
 to Mrs. Redcliffe or anyone else, if I had not been attacked 
 in the most unmannerly way by — by the girl — and in the 
 open road, where anybody might have been passing and heard 
 what happened." 
 
 " The girl ! But how did she attack you ? " 
 
 " She stopped me in the road, as I say, as I was going up 
 the hill, and first of all charged me with cutting her, as she 
 expressed it." 
 
 " Well, had you cut her ? " 
 
 " Certainly not. But I confess that I should not have 
 stopped to speak to her owing to what occurred yesterday. 
 I was annoyed, I own, I think justly annoyed, and I did not 
 feel inclined to take the trouble to hide it." 
 
 " What did occur yesterday ? " 
 
 " I did not know, when Lord Wrotham announced his in- 
 tention of going up to the Fisheries with Mr. Browne, that 
 Mrs. and Miss Redcliffe were to be of the party." 
 
 " I did not know either," Lady Wrotham interrupted her 
 grimly ; " but from what you have told me, I am not sur- 
 prised to hear it." 
 
 " Well, I confess I was surprised. I met them coming 
 back through the park. Mr. Browne was driving them in 
 his trap, with Mrs. Redcliffe sitting by him in front, and Lord 
 Wrotham and the girl together on the back seat." 
 
 " That is where I should have expected them to be," in- 
 terrupted Lady Wrotham again. 
 
 " I turned round to look at them as I passed, and the girl 
 nudged Lord Wrotham rudely and burst out laughing at me, 
 without the slightest attempt to conceal her rudeness. 
 
 " Pretty manners ! " commented Lady Wrotham. V Did 
 my son laugh too ? " 
 
Mrs. Prentice tastes Success 173 
 
 " Oh, no. His lordship looked quite shocked at her be- 
 haviour. Well, there it was. You can hardly be surprised, 
 Lady Wrotham, that I should not have felt inclined to be 
 exactly friendly when I met her this morning/' 
 
 "No. If you have made no mistake in her attitude to you, 
 it was certainly, as you say, outrageous. But why should she 
 behave like that to you ? Why should she laugh ? " 
 
 " I think it was pretty plain. She knew quite well that I 
 knew she was trying to get hold of Lord Wrotham — if I may 
 use the expression — and her laugh was evidently one of 
 triumph over me. I have no doubt that she had said some- 
 thing about me to Lord Wrotham, and had some understand- 
 ing with him on the subject." 
 
 I can hardly understand a respectably brought up girl 
 behaving in that way. Still, if you say so M 
 
 " Oh, that is nothing to what happened this morning. I 
 assure you, Lady Wrotham, that I really thought once or 
 twice that she was about to offer me bodily violence. She so 
 lost control of herself that nothing was too bad for her to say. 
 She showed her essentially vulgar nature in a way that was 
 positively shocking." 
 
 " Did she ? Well, how was the subject of Mrs. Redcliffe's 
 marriage introduced ? Does the girl know of the circum- 
 stances ? " 
 
 11 To my surprise I found that she does. I can only 
 suppose that Mrs. Redcliffe, seeing that it was bound to come 
 out, told her, for I am pretty certain she knew nothing be- 
 fore." 
 
 "Well?" 
 
 " She stormed at me like a — like a tiger for — well, as far 
 as I can remember, for I was so taken aback that I hardly 
 knew exactly what she did say — for — for " 
 
 " For telling people her mother's story ? " 
 
 " No, I had not done that. Pray believe me, Lady Wro- 
 tham, I had told my husband, but had not breathed a word to 
 another soul — and I am sure he would not have done so." 
 
 " Well, then, for what ? " 
 
 "For knowing it myself, I suppose. That is the only 
 thing I can think of. She was so furious at my knowing it 
 that she could hardly contain herself." 
 
 " But how did she know that you knew it, if you had told 
 no one ? " 
 
174 Exton Manor 
 
 " I can only suppose that Lord Wrotham had said some- 
 thing yesterday/' 
 
 " Oh, no, he would not have done that." 
 
 " I do not mean, of course, that he" told her, or Mrs. Red- 
 cliffe, in so many words, but he may have mentioned that 
 you knew of them when you were in Australia. And they 
 could put two and two together." 
 
 " That is quite possible. But how should they connect 
 you with the matter ? " 
 
 " I — I don't know. But Mrs. Redcliffe took it for granted 
 that you had told me, and I did not contradict her." 
 
 " Was Mrs. Redcliffe with the girl when she spoke to you ? " 
 
 " No. She came down the road immediately afterwards, 
 and insisted upon my going into the house, where she imme- 
 diately set upon me and tried her utmost to get me to say that 
 I approved of the circumstances of her marriage. I could 
 not and would not say it, Lady Wrotham. I do not approve 
 of such so-called marriages, and nothing would induce me, 
 not death or martyrdom, to contract one myself." 
 
 " She wanted you to hold your tongue, I suppose," said 
 Lady Wrotham. " And I do not altogether wonder at it. 
 If the circumstances of her marriage were not known before, 
 she would naturally be annoyed at their becoming known. I 
 cannot think that you have behaved altogether wisely in the 
 matter, Mrs. Prentice. Something must have been said or 
 done to connect you in her mind with what she very likely 
 may have gathered that I know. You betrayed no reticence 
 at all in alluding to the matter before my son yesterday. I 
 must judge a little by that." 
 
 " Oh, Lady Wrotham," said Mrs. Prentice, almost in tears. 
 " Indeed I have said nothing-^-nothing at all." 
 
 " Well, the cat is out of the bag now, af any rate, and per- 
 haps it is useless to inquire further how it got out. Then 
 what happened to put you in the state in which you came 
 here ? " 
 
 Mrs. Prentice hastened to get to safer ground. "Mrs. 
 Redcliffe talked quietly at first," she said. " I will do her 
 that justice. She did her best, as I say, to defend herself, but 
 she could not move me. When she found that, she threw 
 off the mask completely, and became as violent and abusive 
 as her daughter had been all along. The girl insulted me 
 most grossly, and she made no attempt to stop her, except at 
 
Mrs. Prentice tastes Success 175 
 
 first. She denounced me as a wicked and irreligious woman 
 — those were her very words — not for disclosing her secret, 
 which she could not accuse me of, but for sticking to my 
 convictions. I told her that whatever might be the case in 
 Australia, marriage with a deceased wife's sister was not 
 recognized either by the Church or by the law in this country/ ' 
 
 " That was surely a little strong to a woman in her position." 
 
 " Oh, I did not put it in that way, of course. I tried to 
 wrap it up as much as possible, consistently with keeping to 
 my principles. But I assure you that neither she nor her 
 daughter made the slightest attempt to wrap up anything that 
 they saw fit to say to me. Anyone would have thought that 
 it was I who was in the equivocal position and not Mrs. 
 Redcliffe. You could hardly believe the things that I was 
 forced to listen to. It put me all of a tremble, as you saw. 
 And it was not only me that was attacked. The girl, who 
 was almost foaming at the mouth with anger and spite, shouted 
 out after me, when at last I succeeded in getting away, a 
 message to be given to you which I should not soil my lips by 
 repeating." 
 
 " Oh, indeed ! So I was brought into it, was I ? " 
 
 " Most impertinently, Lady Wrotham. I should not think 
 of offending you by repeating what was said." 
 
 " Nevertheless I should like to hear. it. I could hardly be 
 offended with you for whatever it was." 
 
 Mrs. Prentice hesitated. She had, in truth, forgotten exactly 
 what it was that had been said, but made up for her lapse of 
 memory by a liberal draft on her imagination. 
 
 " I was to tell you," she said, " that you were no better 
 than I was." 
 
 14 That is pleasant hearing," said Lady Wrotham, uncon- 
 scious of irony. " Was there anything else ? " 
 
 " Oh, yes. More impertinence, but I cannot remember the 
 exact words. I was too anxious to get away, as I felt I could 
 not go through any more, but it was to the effect that neither 
 .she — Miss Redcliffe — nor her mother wished to have any- 
 thing to do with you. You must forgive me for repeating it." 
 
 " Oh, certainly. And I shall try to oblige them. Well, 
 of course, I can feel to a certain extent for a woman in Mrs. 
 Redcliffe's circumstances, but she seems to have behaved with 
 great lack of dignity, to say the least of it, and whatever 
 sympathy one might have felt if she had behaved herself, 
 
176 Exton Manor 
 
 is largely done away with by what you tell me. I make 
 nothing, of course, of the rudeness to me, personal!} 7 . I shall 
 not think twice about it." 
 
 " And the rudeness of both of them to me," said Mrs. 
 Prentice, " was past all bearing. I am not a nervous woman 
 but you saw, Lady Wrotham, the state I was in when I came 
 here, and, upon my word, I don't think I could have walked 
 another step." 
 
 " No, I don't think you could. Did Mrs. Redcliffe herself 
 charge you with any kind messages to me, or was it only the 
 girl ? " 
 
 M Mrs. Redcliffe did say something. But I cannot remem- 
 ber what it was." 
 
 " You need not be afraid of telling me what it was. I shall 
 try to bear it." 
 
 " She said — no, I cannot remember. By that time I was so 
 flustered that — but she certainly made no attempt to restrain 
 the girl in her impudence. She more or less backed her up in 
 what she said." 
 
 " Well, it is all very painful. But, at any rate, you have 
 done no wrong, Mrs. Prentice. You may be quite at ease 
 about that. You rebuked the girl I suppose for what she said 
 — about me, I mean — not that it matters, of course." 
 
 " Indeed I did, Lady Wrotham. I was most indignant. 
 Just as much on your behalf as on my own. It is only your 
 kindness that has enabled me to get over the scene. I shall 
 hope never to have to go through such another." 
 
 " I hope you never may. If you have lost a friend in Mrs. 
 Redcliffe, you have gained one in me. I hope the exchange 
 will not be altogether to your disadvantage." 
 
 Mrs. Prentice wriggled with amiability and gratitude, but 
 found no coherent words to express her sense of obligation. 
 
 M We must work together for the good of the people here," 
 pursued Lady Wrotham. " I am sure you will support me in 
 my efforts to enlighten them. I don't wish you to go against 
 your husband, Mrs. Prentice. I need scarcely say that. At 
 the same time, I am determined to oppose him where I think 
 he is wrong, and I would rather have you on my side than as 
 an enemy." 
 
 Mrs. Prentice shuddered at the thought of being at enmity 
 with Lady Wrotham — especially now that she was getting on 
 so well. She waited for further enlightment as to how she 
 
Mrs. Prentice tastes Success 177 
 
 was expected to be on Lady Wrotham's side in opposing her 
 husband without going against him. 
 
 " You could do so much," pursued her ladyship, "to get 
 him to see these things in the proper light. A wife can al- 
 ways do so much. It would be a grievous thing for me to 
 have to complain to the bishop about what has been going 
 on here, and I do not wish to do so, although I told him I 
 would, until all other means have been tried. I cannot think 
 that you will not do all that you can." 
 
 Mrs. Prentice swallowed the dose. " I will," she said. 
 " Perhaps it is true that we have been going too fast." 
 
 " The mistake does not lie in going too fast along the path 
 to Rome, Mrs. Prentice, but in going at all. You do not see 
 as clearly yet as I should like. I don't suppose it is your 
 fault. Of course there is religion, a measure of true religion, 
 even mixed up with the errors of the High Church party. I 
 am a broad-minded woman, and I have never denied it, as 
 some do. And perhaps that is the only religion you have ha.d 
 an opportunity of learning. I do not blame you. But oh, 
 my dear Mrs. Prentice, if }*ou only knew the comfort and 
 satisfaction to be got out of the purer, simpler form of belief ! 
 It lias upheld me in many trials and many dark hours. I can 
 speak from plentiful experience. I would not be without my 
 simple faith, were it ever so. I have proved it. Let me give 
 you some papers, and a little book. I do not wish to pros- 
 elytize, but I do wish to turn those whose minds are open to 
 good influences from the wrong path into the right one. You 
 cannot refuse to test the question. I do not ask more. Read 
 with an open, prayerful mind, and I have no doubt that you 
 will see your way." 
 
 Lady Wrotham took a small gloth-bound book and a few 
 selected tracts from a pile of religious ammunition that lay 
 reaxry at her elbow, and pressed them on her visitor. Mrs. 
 Prentice was honestly moved by her appeal. Perhaps there 
 might be something in it after all. Her grazed spirit craved 
 for comfort ; and when a lady of such high birth was not afraid 
 to take what presented itself to her as the unpopular side, 
 she herself would probably not lose much if she came to 
 be convinced that she had hitherto been on the wrong 
 tack. 
 
 " Thank you very *nuch for your kind interest in me, Lady 
 Wrotham," she said gratefully. " I will certainly think over 
 
178 Exton Manor 
 
 the question most carefully. It is true that I have been 
 brought up as a Churchwoman with rather high views, but I 
 am not infallible, and my views may have been mistaken." 
 
 " I think you will find that it is so," said Lady Wrotham. 
 " I am sure you Will, if you do not shut up your mind against 
 the truth. I will pray for you, and the prayers of an old 
 woman who perhaps has not very long to live, and must 
 sooner or later stand before her Maker, even though stripped 
 of whatever advantages her position may have given her in this 
 world, may be worth having. One can never tell." 
 
 Mrs. Prentice murmured something to the effect that Lady ' 
 Wrotham 's petitions must undoubtedly carry considerable 
 weight, and took her leave, hugging her bundle of literature. 
 As she walked away from the Abbey she found herself in a 
 far more equable frame of mind than she had been when she 
 arrived there, and felt genuinely grateful to Lady Wrotham 
 for her share in bringing about this improvement. She was 
 quite honestly ready to find some sort of hitherto unexpected 
 magic in militant Protestantism, and experienced a pleasant 
 glow in anticipating her own possible conversion to that form 
 of belief. She was determined, at all events, to look into it 
 with what she called an open mind, and congratulated herself 
 not a little upon a heart so unbound by prejudice as to be ready 
 to follow the call of the spirit — at all costs. 
 
 Well, she had put a spoke in Mrs. Redcliffe's wheel. That 
 lady would perhaps be sorry that she had not addressed her 
 with rather more deference when she came to think over it, 
 and found that by her own action she had cut herself off from 
 the sweets of such high society as were now being enjoyed in 
 Exton. It was true that Lady Wrotham, by her kindness and 
 advocacy of Mrs. Prentice's cause, had withdrawn most of the 
 sting left by the memory of what had passed at the White 
 House. Perhaps it might now be possible to enjoy the 
 superiority that would be gained by applying the spirit of for- 
 giveness and pity to Mrs. Redcliffe. That spirit would cer- 
 tainly stand her in good stead in the coming interview with 
 her husband. But no. There was too much at stake. 
 Though the sting had been drawn most of the irritation still 
 remained. Mrs. Redcliffe must be brought low and kept low. 
 Virtuous indignation was still the card to play, and if she had 
 to play it against her husband as well as against Mrs. Redcliffe, 
 the partnership of herself and Lady Wrotham in the 
 
Mrs. Prentice tastes Success 179 
 
 game would still be strong enough to make the victory 
 assured. 
 
 Such, in rough paraphrase, were the thoughts that passed 
 through Mrs. Prentice's mind as she made her way home- 
 wards, though not perhaps in a form that she would either 
 have accepted or recognized. She sought her husband the 
 moment she got into the house, judging that it would be 
 better to go through her ordeal at once rather than wait until 
 the wine of Lady Wrotham's approval had less power to buoy 
 her up. 
 
 " William," she said, " I dare say you will blame me, but I 
 cannot help it. I feel that I have acted rightly, and that must 
 sustain me." 
 
 The Vicar looked at her quizzically, marking the book and 
 papers she held in her hand. " I hope it will," he said. " It 
 is well to have the support of one's own conscience. I sup- 
 pose you have undertaken to help Lady Wrotham in her en- 
 deavours to upset my influence here ? " 
 
 " Indeed, I have done nothing of the sort," said Mrs. Pren- 
 tice indignantly. " Though I am not at all sure that you are 
 not doing Lady Wrotham an injustice in your mind. She is 
 at heart a truly religious woman, though she does not believe 
 in all the excrescences that have grown up round the Chris- 
 tian Faith." 
 
 " Oh, it has come to that, has it ? " remarked the Vicar 
 dryly. " The doctrines and practices which the Church has 
 taught since the earliest times are excrescences. I should like 
 to have seen your face, Agatha, if anyone had ventured to 
 make that assertion a week ago." 
 
 ' You may sneer at me if you like, William, though I think 
 sneers are hardly becoming to a Christian. But even you will 
 hardly deny that the tree is known by its fruit, and that " 
 
 " No, I do not deny that," interrupted the Vicar. " If you 
 can show better by forsaking the beliefs which you have 
 held, perhaps even more strongly than I, and going over to 
 those which Lady Wrotham holds, by all means do so. If 
 that is what you have to tell me I would rather not say any- 
 thing more about it — at present," and he made as if to return 
 to his writing. 
 
 " That is not what I have to tell you," said Mrs. Prentice, 
 laying down her papers on the table at her elbow. " It is 
 about this unfortunate discovery that has been made about 
 
180 Exton Manor 
 
 Mrs. Redcliffe. Lady Wrotham agrees with me that it can- 
 not possibly go on." 
 
 The Vicar's calm and somewhat contemptuous attitude dis- 
 appeared. His face became dark. " What cannot possibly go 
 on ? " he asked impatiently. " Have you and Lady Wrotham 
 been consulting together as to how that poor lady's life can be 
 made a burden to her, now that her secret has been wormed 
 out ? A pretty display of the Christian spirit that you talk 
 about, upon my word ! " 
 
 " Really,- William, you are very foolish. And why you 
 should constitute yourself Mrs. Redcliffe's champion when 
 she has certainly broken a law that you profess to believe in, 
 and get angry whenever her name is mentioned, passes my 
 comprehension/' 
 
 " Does it ? Then I can't say much for your comprehen- 
 sion. Here is a woman with whom we have lived for the last 
 five years on terms of intimate friendship. She is a woman 
 of the most admirable character, and her life here has been a 
 lesson to all of us. The more one knows her the more one 
 finds to respect and admire. There is no one of whom I 
 have a higher opinion. She has been a real help in every- 
 thing that we try to do here for the good of the people ; and 
 now " 
 
 " I don't agree with you in that," interrupted Mrs. Pren- 
 tice. " She is not a good Churchwoman — naturally, she 
 couldn't be, under the circumstances — and it was only the 
 other day that she went directly against your teaching in the 
 proper observance of Lent." 
 
 " One of the things that I thought Lady Wrotham had per- 
 suaded you to regard as excrescences. You know perfectly 
 well that Lady Wrotham, with her peculiar views, would 
 laugh at the idea of not asking her friends to dine with her on 
 any day in the year she lelt inclined ; and I very much doubt 
 whether you would have the slightest hesitation in dining with 
 her if she asked you. It won't do, Agatha. Your attitude to 
 Mrs. Redcliffe is not dictated by the disinterested love of 
 righteousness that you are hugging yourself over, but b}^ a very 
 unworthy feeling indeed. I never inquired exactly what 
 passed between you and her when you took it upon yourself 
 to remonstrate with her about her doings the other day, but I 
 have no doubt you received the rebuke you deserved, and now 
 that another weapon has been put into your hands against her 
 
Mrs. Prentice tastes Success isi 
 
 you are only too ready to use it. It causes me the deepest 
 distress to see how you are behaving in this matter. 7 ' 
 
 " Really, William, I have no patience with you," exclaimed 
 Mrs. Prentice. " You lecture me as if I were a malefactor, 
 and you know nothing whatever of what has happened. You 
 won't let me get in a word edgeways, and are altogether most 
 violent and unreasonable." 
 
 " Well, what has happened ? I suppose you will hardly 
 have gone to Mrs. Redcliffe and lectured her about this new 
 cause of offence, as you did about the old ? " 
 
 " No, I have not. It was Mrs. Redcliffe herself, who in- 
 sisted upon speaking to me about it, though I had no sort of 
 wish to do so, or indeed to speak to her about anything." 
 
 " Then you have seen Mrs. Redcliffe ! Well, I suppose it 
 is of no use to be impatient. The harm, whatever it is, has 
 been done, and I had better hear the worst at once, and then 
 see if I can undo some of it." 
 
 " I shall tell you nothing," said Mrs. Prentice, outraged, 
 " if you talk to me in that tone. It is monstrous. You take 
 it for granted that whatever I do must be wrong, and put down 
 to me the most shocking motives, when I have only tried to do 
 what is right, and when, as I say, you have heard nothing of 
 what has happened." 
 
 " I am waiting to hear what has happened." 
 
 " Then I will tell you. But I will not listen to any more 
 abuse, and I tell you so candidly, William." 
 
 The Vicar made no reply, and Mrs. Prentice began her 
 story. She opened in much the same way as she had done to 
 Lady Wrotham, but her husband saw more clearly what lay 
 behind her statement than that lady had done. 
 
 " Hilda is young and impulsive," he said, " but she would 
 never have approached you in that way if there had not been 
 come cause. I suppose the fact is that you had shown her and 
 her mother so clearly that you disapproved of them and wished 
 to have nothing more to do with them, although you had 
 actually said nothing, that the girl took offence, and naturally 
 wanted to know why you should have treated them in that 
 way." 
 
 This was so clearly the fact that Mrs. Prentice could not 
 deny it. She could only say that it was not to be expected 
 that she should treat Mrs. Redcliffe, under the circumstances 
 that had arisen, exactly as she had done before. 
 
182 Exton Manor 
 
 " You had no right to do anything else," said the Vicar, 
 '- unless you were determined to spread her story. The truth 
 is that you took the very means to bring about what happened. 
 You must have known, if you had thought about it, that Mrs. 
 Redcliffe, or Hilda on her behalf, would sooner or later ask 
 you the reason of your change of attitude, and I'm afraid that 
 I don't find it very difficult to believe that you had acted 
 towards them in such a way as to make a high-spirited girl 
 like Hilda put the question in such a way as to show her 
 resentment." 
 
 " No, of course you don't find it difficult to believe anything 
 disagreeable about your wife," said Mrs. Prentice acidly. 
 " As a matter of fact there was something that had nothing to 
 do with Mrs. Redcliffe's story which would have caused me 
 to be very careful not to have anything more to do than I 
 could help with the girl." She then recounted her meeting 
 with the party in Browne's cart the day before. 
 
 " I don't believe it," said the Vicar. " If she laughed it 
 was not at you. She is not an ill-mannered girl. And what 
 on earth has it to do with you if Lord Wrotham likes to make 
 friends with the Redcliffes ? You seem to want to keep the 
 Wrothams as your own special property. You will make 
 yourself very ridiculous about the place if you give occasion 
 for that to be said against you." 
 
 Mrs. Prentice was beginning to be borne down by the weight 
 of her husband's displeasure. It was of no use to repeat her 
 threat of leaving him unadvised of what had taken place. He 
 would only have told her impatiently to go on with her story, and 
 she would not have been able to disobey him. She put aside 
 his warning with a high word, and proceeded with her narra- 
 tive, laying great stress on Hilda's outrageous violence, as she 
 called it, and on Mrs. Redcliffe's denunciation of her, but very 1 
 little on the quieter passages of the interview, and forgetting 
 altogether to mention the extenuating circumstances that Mrs. 
 Redcliffe had urged against the strictest view of her marriage. 
 
 " It makes a very pretty story," said the Vicar when she had 
 finished, " but if you ask me to believe that Mrs. Redcliffe 
 spoke to you in that way without receiving a great deal more 
 provocation than you have admitted, I must decline to do so. 
 I dare say the story was good enough for Lady Wrotham, who 
 does not know her, but it is not good enough for me. There 
 is another side to it." 
 
Mrs. Prentice tastes Success 183 
 
 Mrs. Prentice rose. " I shall say no more/- she said. " It 
 is useless. You seem to be infatuated with Mrs. Redcliffe. 
 Since you decline to believe a word that I say, you had better 
 go and get the truth from her." 
 
 " That is just what I intend to do," replied her husband. 
 " I would give a great deal not to have to speak to her about 
 it ; but now that all this has been let loose upon the poor lady 
 it is for her own advantage that I shall do so." 
 
 Mrs. Prentice bethought herself. It would not be well that 
 her husband should be able to accuse her of keeping anything 
 back from him. " I dare say she will make out a very good 
 story for herself," she said. " If you prefer to believe her 
 rather than your wife, you must do so ; and you are always 
 soft where women are concerned — except me, and there you 
 are as hard as stone. Of course there is the principle of 
 the thing, but that won't weigh with you for a moment." 
 
 The Vicar laughed grimly. " You are talking very fool- 
 ishly," he said. " But as I have spoken pretty strongly to 
 you, I suppose is it only fair that I should listen to your 
 accusations without resentment. I certainly don't resent 
 them ; they are too silly." 
 
 " Thank you," returned Mrs. Prentice. " That is so like 
 a man. I was going to tell you that Mrs. Redcliffe says that 
 she didn't know that marriage with a deceased wife's sister was 
 not quite a usual and praiseworthy custom until she came to 
 England. It is a good deal to swallow, but I dare say you 
 will have no difficulty in swallowing it." 
 
 " I shall have no difficulty in swallowing any direct state- 
 ment that Mrs. Redcliffe makes," returned the Vicar. " If 
 that is so it makes the poor lady's case a hard one. Well, 
 they say that women are cruel to one another, Agatha, but, 
 really, one finds it difficult to believe that a woman who has 
 known another woman as you have known Mrs. Redcliffe 
 should find it in her heart to behave as you are doing towards 
 her. I will say no more than that until I have seen her, which 
 I will do this afternoon." 
 
 Mrs. Prentice left the room. The interview had ended 
 quietly and with far less tribulation to the spirit than she had 
 anticipated. But it did occur to her once or twice later that 
 her husband had not yet said all that he was likely to say on 
 the subject, and she was not altogether at her ease. She spent 
 the afternoon in her room reading what Lady Wrotham had 
 
IS4 Exton Manor 
 
 asked her to read. The tracts prepared by the Ladies' Reform- 
 ation League for the strengthening of their anti-ritual cam- 
 paign left her cold, and had indeed been unwisely chosen for' 
 the purpose which Lady Wrotham had had in mind, but the 
 book, which was written by an Evangelical dean, and contained 
 no controversial rancour, comforted her considerably. The 
 chief lesson she drew from it was that those who acted rightly 
 regardless of consequences were in an exceptionally enviable 
 condition, and the application to her own case was so impos- 
 sible not to make that the truth of the general Evangelical 
 attitude commended itself to her agreeably, and she felt that 
 she and Lady Wrotham had more in common than she had 
 hitherto suspected. 
 
CHAPTER XVII 
 
 THE VICAR 
 
 The Vicar walked up to the White House that afternoon 
 considerably disturbed in mind. The matter immediately in 
 hand was not chiefly responsible for his discomfort. He 
 disliked the idea of talking to Mrs. Redcliffe of her most 
 intimate affairs, but his feeling towards her was so firmly 
 anchored in respect, and his desire now so strong to help 
 her, that he could be in no doubt as to the ultimate outcome 
 of this visit. 
 
 There were other things to try him. Difficulties seemed 
 to be gathering round him. The autocratic narrow-minded 
 old woman, who had come apparently determined to impose 
 her views on all about her, and to destroy the peace of mind 
 of a fairly contented community — how would her actions 
 affect him in his work and in his life ? Disastrously, he feared. 
 And if, added to her opposition in Church matters, she was 
 such a woman as to be ready to persecute Mrs. Redcliffe, 
 whom she had never met, for the mistake — as he judged it — 
 of her past life, she would in truth be a stumbling-block in 
 the way of all peace and goodness. He had had some 
 further conversation, couched in more mutually tolerant form 
 than before, with his wife over the luncheon table, with a 
 view of extracting from her what had passed between herself 
 and Lady Wrotham ; and what he had learnt, although he 
 discounted a good deal of it, distressed him. His wife, with 
 such an ally, would exhibit all her worst points, and find 
 herself encouraged in that merciless self-sufficiency and apti- 
 tude for strife which he had told her more than once or twice, 
 with the frankness engendered of the married state, was her 
 besetting sin. This was not a state of things that could br 
 
 185 
 
186 Exton Manor 
 
 looked forward to with complacency, and if, besides this, 
 she was really about to stultify all her previous beliefs and 
 championships and follow the lead of Lady Wrotham in 
 her opposition to himself, would not life with her become 
 intolerable ? 
 
 Curiously, perhaps, when he had got to the stage of asking 
 himself this question, he did not find the reply to it to be 
 altogether discouraging. He knew his wife so well. Dis- 
 pleased though he was with her at the present moment, he 
 felt little of that indignant anger which only an adversary 
 whom w r e are doubtful of subduing can arouse in our minds. 
 She was undoubtedly tiresome in many ways ; her faults, 
 when they were pushed to extremes, distressed and even 
 scandalized him ; she was not always easy to live with. But 
 she was Agatha, his wife of five and twenty years. He had 
 grown used to her. Virtues, little apparent to the outside 
 world, but known to him, tempered her naughtiness of heart, 
 and coloured his judgment. And in the long run he knew 
 that he could have his way with her. At the same time there 
 would be serious difficulties and annoyances to overcome 
 before she would be finally in subjection, and he would not 
 spare the rod of his displeasure when she deserved it. 
 
 These musings brought him to the gate of the White 
 House, and he shook them off to bend his mind to the task 
 that lay immediately before him. 
 
 Hilda was at work among the rose-bushes in the garden, 
 and came forward to meet him as he walked up the drive. 
 Her attitude was uncompromising, and she neither smiled nor 
 offered her hand. 
 
 " Mother is lying down," she said. " Naturally, she is 
 not well after what happened this morning, and I don't think 
 she will be able to see you." 
 
 " I am very sorry to hear that," he said. " But aren't you 
 going to shake hands with me, Hilda ? " 
 
 She looked him straight in the face. " I think I would 
 rather not," she said, " until I know what you think, or have 
 to say, about what you have probably heard of. And I will 
 never take Mrs. Prentice's hand again as long as I live." 
 
 There was a flame of the old resentment in her face which 
 saddened him. " My dear," he said, " I know that there 
 were regrettable things said this morning. I have come up 
 to see if I can do something to take away the effect of them. 
 
The Vicar 187 
 
 You must not treat an old friend as if he were an enemy, 
 certainly not before you have heard what he has to say for 
 himself." 
 
 The antagonism in her face died down, but she did not 
 move. " I don't know who are friends and who are enemies 
 now," she said. " I only know that my dear mother, who 
 is the best woman in the world, is in trouble, and because 
 she is in trouble those who ought to be her friends and value 
 her as she deserves hate her." 
 
 " I hope you will find very soon that that is not so, Hilda. 
 And here is one friend who does value your mother as she 
 deserves, and would like to assure her of it." 
 
 " I am glad you have said that," she said, softening a 
 little. "It is no more than you ought to say. But how 
 can we go on being friends with you, Mr. Prentice, after 
 what has happened ? I said things to Mrs. Prentice this 
 morning that you would be shocked to hear. But I meant 
 them every word, and I would say them again." 
 
 They were standing on the gravel near the house. Mrs. 
 Redcliffe, whose bedroom windows were at this corner, had 
 heard their voices and hastened to come down. She now 
 appeared at the door. 
 
 " Come in, if you please, Mr. Prentice," she said, and 
 led the way to the parlour. Hilda closed the door, and again 
 there were three of them closeted together, and distressing 
 things to be said. 
 
 But the Vicar hastened to relieve the tension. " Mrs. 
 Redcliffe," he said, " I have heard everything that happened 
 this morning, and I am sure you will not want to discuss 
 it with me. I will only say this — that I am deeply sorry 
 that my wife should have acted as she did. More than that 
 you will not expect me to say. But I want you to con- 
 sider if you will that I am not only your friend of some 
 years' standing. If it were only that perhaps I could not 
 come here apart from my wife, after what has happened, 
 
 until Well, at all events, I have come, because I am the 
 
 clergyman of this parish, as well as your friend, and you 
 have a right to my help and advice, if you care to make use 
 of it." 
 
 " Thank you, Mr. Prentice," replied Mrs. Redcliffe. " But 
 I do not feel now that I want help or advice. Things became 
 plainer to me this morning, and I see that 'there is nothing to 
 
188 Exton Manor 
 
 be done, except to go on living my life as I have been doing, 
 keeping such friendships as are still open to me, and doing 
 without those that are withdrawn. Even from the point of 
 view of the Pharisee, there is nothing to be done. There is 
 no advice to be given or taken." 
 
 " Mrs. Prentice advised you to repent, mother," said Hilda, 
 her young voice full of scorn. 
 
 The Vicar grew red. M May we not put aside for the pres- 
 ent what Mrs. Prentice said ? " he asked. 
 
 " Yes, I wish to do so," said Mrs. Redcliffe. " And I do 
 recognize the friendliness of your action in coming here, Mr. 
 Prentice. It is what I should have expected of you. Perhaps, 
 under the circumstances, we cannot go on seeing so much of 
 each other as we have done in the past, but our friendship, I 
 believe, is founded on what we know of each other. That is 
 sure ground, and even now, though you may feel — I don't 
 know — that what you have heard alters your opinion of me 
 in some degree, still there may be kindly feeling between us." 
 
 " What I have heard does not alter my opinion of you, 
 Mrs. Redcliffe," said the Vicar. " How could it ? " 
 
 " Well," she said, " I know what the views of Churchmen 
 are on this question. I have read them when it has come up, 
 and I have even heard them preached about. I have heard 
 you preach on the subject, Mr. Prentice." 
 
 Thd Vicar grew red. He remembered, though he had 
 previously forgotten, that on one of the occasions on which a 
 Deceased Wife's Sister Bill had been before Parliament he 
 had delivered himself in the pulpit of Exton Abbey of a 
 collection of the usual clerical objections to it. 
 v " If I had known " he began. 
 
 "I know you would not willingly have hurt me," said 
 Mrs. Redcliffe. " You needn't tell me that. And I don't 
 know that you did hurt me. You were simply expressing 
 views that I was quite familiar with, and I should have 
 expected you to hold them. I do not expect you to alter 
 them because of me." 
 
 " I think they are very narrow-minded views," said Hilda 
 uncompromisingly. " But if Mr. Prentice holds them I 
 suppose he is bound to be like Mrs. Prentice, and look upon 
 us as people he can't possibly associate with." 
 
 " You are quite wrong, Hilda," said the Vicar. " To act 
 in that way would not even be the logical outcome of my 
 
The Vicar 189 
 
 views. I must be honest with you, Mrs. Redciiffe. I should 
 resist, as far as I had any power, any new legislation on the 
 subject, and — I am not quite sure, I have not thought the 
 matter out — I think I should not become intimate with — 
 with a couple, an English couple, who had gone through 
 the ceremony abroad, and were living in my parish. But 
 3'our case is very different. Even if you had not married, as 
 my wife told me was the case, in ignorance of the Church's 
 rule, you — it would be wrong, un-Christian to — to — I don't 
 know how to put it — it would amount to taking it upon one's 
 self to ostracize you for what cannot now be altered, even if 
 3'ou wished to have it altered, and to holding one's self aloof 
 from one from whom one has only been helped and encouraged 
 in every good work." 
 
 u Then you do not insist upon mother's repenting before 
 you can treat her as worthy to live at all ? asked Hilda, 
 unsoftened by his tribute. 
 
 The Vicar was silent. If the case had been submitted to 
 him on paper, he would certainly have decreed that repentance 
 must precede a complete forgiveness of the offence to the 
 Church's law, even though that offence were committed in 
 innocence. But the deceased wife's sister had projected 
 herself from an impersonal ecclesiastical bogie into the form 
 of Mrs. Redciiffe, charitable, high-minded, calm in judgment, 
 untiring in good works, a woman whom it was a privilege to 
 know, and an inspiration to all patient goodness to count as 
 a friend. Do circumstances alter cases ? Surely, in this 
 case of a woman so patently producing the fruits of righteous- 
 ness, it was impossible to judge of her as living apart from 
 grace — in a state of sin ! 
 
 " I don't say that ; I say nothing more than I have said," 
 he replied after a short pause, during which these thoughts 
 had passed through his mind. 
 
 But the pause had been too long for Hilda. She made a 
 movement of impatience. " The idea," she exclaimed, 
 indignantly, " of saying such a thing about my mother ! 
 You know how good she is, and her goodness seems to go for 
 nothing beside a stupid law that ought never to have been 
 made." 
 
 " Do not speak in that way, Hilda," said Mrs. Redciiffe. 
 " Mr. Prentice has said just what I could have wished him to 
 say, and said it with true kindness." 
 
190 Exton Manor 
 
 "He has said pretty well what Mrs. Prentice said/' replied 
 Hilda. " Only she wanted to say yes, and he would have 
 liked to say no if he could. I am not satisfied, mother, if 
 you are. You are too good and patient. I cannot listen to 
 any more. It makes me angry to think that any good man 
 or woman should not take your side as a matter of course, 
 without weighing this or that. I shall go now, and if you can 
 make Mr. Prentice see what harm he is doing to himself and 
 his religion by putting rules before goodness it will be all 
 the better for him." And she left the room with her head in 
 the air. 
 
 " It has been a great blow to her," said Mrs. Redcliffe, 
 when the door had closed behind Hilda. " It has upset all 
 her standards ; and the way it will affect her causes me more 
 distress than anything else. You must forgive her if she 
 speaks harshly. Youth always takes a harsh view when its 
 affections are wounded." 
 
 " Oh, indeed, I honour her for her championship," said the 
 Vicar. " And I do not feel that her blame is undeserved. It 
 is a terrible thing, as she says, to prefer rules to goodness. 
 But, my dear friend, it is not easy to adjust one's thoughts to 
 a disturbance of belief. If I were to throw over at once and 
 completely all I had held and taught on the subject, it might 
 satisfy Hilda for the moment, but it would not satisfy you. 
 There is no real antagonism between my views on the general 
 question and my continued respect for you personally, and, if 
 I appear to hesitate over answering any particular question it 
 is only because I must make clear to my own mind where 
 truth and the right lies." 
 
 " I know," said Mrs. Redcliffe. " I do not misunderstand 
 you. You have lifted a weight from my mind, for I must 
 tell you, that although I do not resent the views held by the 
 more strict of your Church, my own marriage has taught me 
 that they are wrong. To do what I did cannot be a sin, for 
 a sin, committed and persisted in, must cut you off from God, 
 and my marriage while it lasted, and the memory of it ever 
 since, has only brought me nearer to Him. That is as deeply 
 my experience as any lesson the years can teach us about the 
 pursuit of righteousness. ' Perhaps it is too much to ask that 
 you should accept my experience as if it were your own, but 
 to treat me now as one who has something on her conscience 
 that unfits her to live amongst professing Christians, is an 
 
The Vicar 191 
 
 offence that I cannot lightly ignore. I did not think that 
 you could commit it, and you have not." 
 
 " My wife, I am afraid, has done so/' returned the Vicar 
 ruefully. " I am very sorry for it. But, Mrs. Redcliffe you 
 will not judge her harshly. You know what her faults are. 
 But she is good at heart. She will be sorry herself for what 
 she has said and done — and I hope before very long." 
 
 He made this appeal with the full belief that it would be 
 responded to. He knew Mrs. Redcliffe as a woman more 
 than others ready to make allowances. He had heard her 
 put in a quiet word of excuse for some one palpably in the 
 wrong many times. He had never in all his experiences of her 
 heard her impute blame to a single living creature. And he 
 had known her make ample allowances for his wife, who, with 
 out such allowances, would have made mischief before this 
 between the vicarage and the White House, for she had 
 always been jealous of Mrs. Redcliffe and her placid influence. 
 
 But there was to be no further exoneration from clear 
 obliquity of purpose. Mrs. Redcliffe's face grew sterner. 
 " I think," she said, " that there are sins which no one can 
 commit and expect their neighbours to live with them as 
 before. And I think Mrs. Prentice has committed one of 
 them. What Hilda said is true. She wanted, as earnestly as 
 she could want anything, to find wickedness in me, and she 
 used the opinions she had acquired on this question as an 
 excuse, and not as a reason for finding me guilty. I do regard 
 such an attitude as a sin against the light, and I should say 
 the same — that is the test of whether my own attitude to her 
 now is dictated by resentment — I should say the same if 
 it were another woman towards whom I knew she felt as she 
 does to me, and I were not directly concerned. I would have 
 nothing to do with one woman who persecuted another with 
 those motives." 
 
 The Vicar was at a loss. Her rigidity surprised and dis- 
 concerted him. 
 
 " I know how deeply she must have offended you," he said, 
 " for you to speak like that." 
 
 " She did offend me — deeply. But she has offended me 
 before and I have made light of it. I cannot do so now. If 
 it were only for Hilda's sake, I must be known to abhor the 
 spirit she has shown. There is no good in it, only malice 
 and evil. And with one woman to another, to whom she 
 
192 Exton Manor 
 
 should have shown — perhaps pity, though I do not want pity, 
 but certainly kindness and sympathy, for I told her every- 
 thing. No, there is no excuse. She is jubilant at what she 
 has discovered about me, and if trouble comes of it to me and 
 to Hilda, it is to her I shall owe it." 
 
 The Vicar had nothing to say. He recognized the truth 
 of Mrs. Redcliffe's accusation, ail the more forceful as coming 
 from her. A feeling of deep anger, such as he had never felt 
 against her before, held him as he thought of his wife, an 
 echo of the impersonal anger that Mrs. Redcliffe had ex- 
 pressed against the wrong-doer, stronger than it was in her 
 to feel on account of the wrong done to her. The world must 
 go awry, and the claims of religion be brought into contempt, 
 if such a spirit were to be allowed to walk abroad unlaid. 
 
 " I am afraid that you have justification for what you say," 
 he replied. " I shall not shrink from my duty in rebuking 
 the fault. But no fault — no sin — is beyond forgiveness. You 
 will not shut your heart against her when she comes to see 
 that she has been wrong ? " 
 
 " When I know that she comes to see it— when she tells 
 me so unreservedly — I v/ill wipe it out of my mind. The 
 offence against me shall be as nothing. But until that time 
 comes there will be no drawing back, Mr. Prentice. M37 dis- 
 pleasure against her will be as strong as hers against me, and 
 I shall not hesitate to express it where I see the necessity/' 
 
 There was no more to say. The Vicar left her and walked 
 back to his house sad at heart. He had been impressed by 
 Mrs. Redcliffe's calm sensible view of her own position, her 
 views of what was due to herself from the world and of what 
 was due from herself to the prejudices of the world. He 
 always expected Mrs. Redcliffe to be sensible, sensible almost 
 with inspiration, and he had even been willing in some re- 
 spects to accept her view as against his own, at any rate as 
 far as her case w r as concerned. But he would never have 
 seen deeper than the surface — more than the unfortunate 
 falling out of two women, both of whom had something to say- 
 in their own excuse, although the one more than the other, if 
 it had not been for the quite unsuspected capacity for uncom- 
 promising wrath that Mrs. Redcliffe had displayed. Here 
 was no angry sense of injustice that could be soothed by a 
 lightly spoken word of sympathy. It came welling out of 
 the woman's heart, fortified by all her experience of goodness 
 
The Vicar 193 
 
 and all the self-disciplined motives of her life. It burned 
 with a spiritual flame. Woe betide him if he did not guide 
 his course by its heat. Yes, the girl was right. This was a 
 transparently good woman, and those who were not for her 
 in the crisis of her life were ranging themselves on the side 
 of evil. He, at any rate, would from henceforward be on her 
 side, and he would fight for her even against his nearest. 
 
 The interview which he immediately sought with his wife 
 need not be reported in detail. He spoke as strongly as he 
 felt, and Mrs. Prentice was ultimately brought to tears. But 
 they were not the tears of penitence, but of revolt. The fact 
 that her original dislike of Mrs. Redcliffe arose from the 
 feeling that she was a better woman than herself, and was 
 recognized as such, did not dispose her to softness when she 
 heard Mrs. Redcliffe extolled as a saint and herself con- 
 demned as a sinner by her own husband. Her mind was 
 honestly unable to grasp that a woman who had married her 
 deceased sister's husband* might move on a higher plane of 
 conduct than one who had escaped that temptation, and a 
 good deal of the Vicar's diatribe she rejected indignantly, 
 thereby supporting in comparative comfort those parts of it 
 which would otherwise have found their way to her conscience. 
 
 " It is you who are un-Christian," she cried out at length, 
 furious with anger and jealousy. " Lady Wrotham is quite 
 right. You are not fit to be in your present position. And I 
 shall tell her I think so." 
 
 And that was all that the Vicar got for the present by his 
 championship of Mrs, Redcliffe. 
 
 (S) 
 
CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 TURNER AND BROWNE TAKE SIDES 
 
 Browne, in pursuance of his promise to Lady Wrotham, 
 presented himself at the Fisheries that same afternoon, and 
 found Captain Thomas Turner seated in front of his fire, deep 
 in the perusal of a new novel from a box that had just reached 
 him. 
 
 " Well, you're a nice fellow," he said. " Fancy frousting 
 indoors over a book at this time of day ! " 
 
 Turner looked slightly apologetic. " Been out all the 
 morning and afternoon/' he said, " and it's infernally chilly. 
 Don't mean to go out again." 
 
 " Oh, yes, you do," returned Browne. " You've got to 
 drive down to the Abbey and call on her ladyship with me." 
 
 " That's the last thing I intend to do. Stop and have some 
 tea. I'm ready for a little company. You can sit down and 
 read a book — plenty of good ones here — or we'll have a game 
 of picquet, which ever you like." 
 
 Look here, Turner," said Browne earnestly. " Do come 
 down. She expects you, and it'll make it infernally hard for 
 me if you don't." 
 
 Turner bent a look of demure consideration on him. " Poor 
 devil ! " he said slowly. " Poor, poor devil ! " 
 
 " What do you mean ? " asked Browne. 
 
 " You're a parasite, Browne, a blooming old parasite." 
 
 " I'm nothing of the sort," said Browne indignantly. " I'm 
 out in the open air all day long, and as healthy a fellow as 
 you'll see anywhere." 
 
 ' You follow one of the parasitical occupations. You're 
 not your own master. You've got to kow-tow to an old 
 woman if you want to keep your place. I wouldn't be you 
 
 194 
 
 (24) 
 
Turner and Browne take sides 195 
 
 for anything in the world. Give me freedom ; freedom with 
 a crust if you like, but still freedom." 
 
 " There's nothing to be said against working for other 
 people. You had to obey orders yourself when you were in 
 the Service. You're talking rot. I'm as free as you are." 
 
 " Well, then, go and lap up your milk out of the old lady's 
 saucer, if you like it, and leave me to myself." 
 
 " I shall take it as devilish unfriendly if you don't come, 
 Turner. Hang it, the old lady only wants to be civil to you. 
 She's a newcomer here — that's what she says herself — and 
 the ladies in the place will call on her, as if she was anybody 
 else. That's what she wants, only she says that bachelors 
 are rather different, and asked me to bring you to see her, and 
 I said I'd bring you to-day. It's me you're putting a slight 
 on if you don't come, not her. Well, it'll be her too, for I 
 shall have to give her some reasons." 
 
 " If you put it in that way, Maximilian, I don't know that 
 I can refuse you. Only I tell you this, I shan't kow-tow to 
 her. I'm as good as she is, for although my father kept a 
 
 shop — a d d big shop, or I shouldn't be where I am — I 
 
 don't want anything of anybody ; and you can't get higher 
 than that." 
 
 " She won't want you to kow-tow to her. She's a nice 
 friendly old lady. * Well, come along. It's nearly half-past 
 four." 
 
 " I must change my clothes first. I'm not a parasite, but 
 I know what's due to a lady." 
 
 A quarter of an hour later {they drove down through the 
 wood together. They found Mrs. Prentice closeted with 
 Lady Wrotham, and both ladies looked as if they had been 
 discussing matters of import. Browne made the introduc- 
 tion, and Lady Wrotham threw off her preoccupation and 
 gave Turner a pleasant welcome. 
 
 " How do you do, Mrs. Prentice ? " said that gentleman 
 when he had shaken hands with his hostess. " I hope we 
 meet as friends." 
 
 " It is not my nature to bear enmity, Captain Turner," 
 said Mrs. Prentice, shaking hands with him, unwilling to 
 enter into a skirmish in front of Lady Wrotham. 
 
 " I believe my son went up to look at your fish yesterday, 
 Captain Turner," said Lady Wrotham, as she poured out 
 the tea. " He talks of making a hatchery himself, in North- 
 er 
 
196 Exton Manor 
 
 umbedand. I hope you did not encourage him. I know 
 Lord Wrotham spent a lot on this place and found it un- 
 satisfactory, though I hope you are doing better." 
 
 " I don't make much money," replied Turner, " but I pay 
 my rent and I've got something to do. I didn't hold out 
 hopes that more could be done with the business than 
 that." 
 
 " I am glad to hear it. My son is full of energy, and 
 always starting something fresh. Still, the hatching must 
 be interesting to watch. Perhaps you will let me come and 
 see it some day." 
 
 " I shall be pleased," replied Turner. " If you would 
 kindly give me a day's notice I will see that everything is 
 ship-shape." 
 
 This was not a very cordial invitation, and so Mrs. Prentice 
 must have thought, for she broke in, " I am sure, Captain 
 Turner, you will be more than delighted to show Lady 
 Wrotham everything that there is to be seen." 
 
 " I don't know what being more than delighted means," 
 replied Turner ; " but I said I should be pleased." 
 
 Lady Wrotham threw a look at him. He was sitting 
 upright on a stiff chair, his tea-cup in his hand and a savoury 
 sandwich in his mouth. His face was expressionless. She 
 tried him again. 
 
 " It is rather lonely, is it not," she asked, " living up in the 
 woods by yourself ? " 
 
 " I don't find it so," he replied. " I've got plenty to do in 
 the day time, with my fishes and my flowers. I like garden- 
 ing. And at night I read a book." 
 
 " Ah, of course, books are a great stand-by. One has the 
 company of the greatest minds." 
 
 " I haven't. I only read novels. I read every novel that 
 comes out." 
 
 " Dear me ! But isn't that rather a waste of time ? " 
 
 " Some people think it so. Mr. Browne does. He says 
 if he read as many novels as I do his brain would run to 
 seed. He'd hate that. I'm not afraid for myself, because I 
 haven't got so large a brain as he has." 
 
 The unfortunate Browne swallowed a gulp of hot tea and 
 subsequently choked, which prevented him from defending 
 himself. Mrs. Prentice took a hand in the conversation. 
 
 " I do not object to novel-reading in moderation," she 
 
 (2) 
 
Turner and Browne take sides 197 
 
 said ; " but I like to have a good solid book going at the 
 same time." w 
 
 " Some of my novels are very solid," said Turner. " You'd 
 be surprised to find how solid." 
 
 Lady Wrotham was again at a loss quite what to make of 
 this strange solemn person. " Of course you are not entirely 
 cut off from your neighbours," she said. " You are not quite 
 a hermit, Captain Turner ? " 
 
 " Oh, no. I see a good deal of Mr. Browne. I'm ignorant, 
 but he puts up with me. And I like Mrs. Redcliffe. She's 
 very kind to us bachelors. We have little games of Bridge. 
 And there's Mrs. O'Keefe, when she's here, and theFerrabys 
 — I've known Ferraby a good many years — and Mrs. Pren- 
 tice's son, he's kind to me. And the Vicar ; he's kind too, 
 though he doesn't quite approve of me." 
 
 " I think I should not mention that if I were you, Captain 
 Turner," said Mrs. Prentice stiffly, " or Lady Wrotham might 
 feel inclined to ask you the reason for our disapproval." 
 
 " I'm sorry you join in the disapproval, Mrs. Prentice," 
 Turner proceeded, in an even voice. " I was afraid it might 
 be so. But if you think Lady Wrotham would like to know 
 the reason, perhaps you will tell her." 
 
 Mrs. Prentice grew a dusky red. " I think your behaviour 
 is not very seemly," she said. " I should not have expected 
 you to talk here in the extraordinary and objectionable way 
 you always do." 
 
 " It's his fun," cried Browne in an agonized voice. " It's 
 only his fun." 
 
 " It is not my idea of fun," said Mrs. Prentice. 
 
 Turner addressed himself to Lady Wrotham, who still eyed 
 him with a puzzled air. " I must confess," he said, " that 
 Mr. Prentice has reason for his disapproval, as a clergyman 
 who likes to see a large and happy congregation facing him. 
 I very seldom make one of them." 
 
 " Oh, indeed," said Lady Wrotham. 
 
 " Naturally he doesn't like that," pursued Turner. " No 
 clergyman would. I don't blame him." 
 
 " Perhaps you are too much occupied with your fish to 
 allow you to attend divine service," suggested Lady Wrotham. 
 
 " Oh, no, it isn't that at all. I could come perfectly well 
 if I liked." 
 
 Browne wiped his brow. " I don't fancy Lady Wrotham 
 
 (*) 
 
198 Exton Manor 
 
 would be interested in your religious views, Turner/ ' he 
 said. 
 
 " Oh, but I am," she said. " I am interested in every 
 one's religious views. Possibly the services as they have 
 been conducted at the church are too ritualistic for you, 
 Captain Turner." 
 
 Mrs. Prentice sniffed, but wished she had not done so 
 when she found the eye of her patroness fixed upon her. 
 " We have agreed, I think, Mrs. Prentice/' said Lady 
 Wrotham, " that it will be as well that changes should take 
 place there/' 
 
 "Oh, yes/' said the unfortunate woman. " I certainly 
 think it would be wiser." 
 
 Turner bent a reproachful look on her. " Why, I thought 
 you were trying to persuade the Vicar to have incense," he 
 said. " I thought you liked the smell. And confessional 
 boxes ? " 
 
 " That is an absolute and unblushing falsehood," replied 
 Mrs. Prentice angrily. 
 
 " I am not altogether surprised," said Lady Wrotham, 
 ignoring this little passage of arms, " that there should be 
 some who are inclined to keep away from public worship on 
 account of the way it has been conducted. I intend to hold 
 a weekly service here, Captain Turner, of Scripture reading 
 and prayers and simple hymns. I shall be very pleased if you 
 would care to be present. Mrs. Prentice and I have arranged 
 the first meeting for next Wednesday at five o'clock." 
 
 Browne opened his eyes and stared at each of the ladies in 
 turn. Lady Wrotham was serene, Mrs. Prentice apparently 
 flustered. 
 
 " Thank you very much," said Turner ; " but I hope you 
 will excuse me." 
 
 Lady Wrotham looked at him. " There will certainly be 
 no ritual on this occasion," she said. 
 
 " I like ritual," replied Turner. " It is not that. I don't 
 care for religious services." 
 
 Lady Wrotham drew herself up. " Then in that case," 
 she said, " I need say no more, except that I am sorry I mis- 
 understood you." 
 
 , " He — he reads sermons and things at home," said Browne 
 desperately. 
 
 " No, never," said the inexorable Turner. " I read nothing 
 ( 20 ) ■ ^ 
 
Turner and Browne take sides 199 
 
 but novels — except an occasional play by Shakespeare, and 
 that only out of a sense of duty. I don't pretend to like it. 
 I don't want Lady Wrotham to have a wrong opinion of me. 
 Hate sailing under false colours.' ' 
 
 '* You are not likely to do that, Captain Turner," said Mrs. 
 Prentice. " Every one knows here that as far as religion 
 goes you are an open scoffer." 
 
 " No, that's not so," said Turner. " I never scoff at 
 religion. I may have something to say occasionally about 
 the people who profess it." 
 
 Lady Wrotham's brow unbent. She had placed him now. 
 He was no longer a gentleman living in a small way under 
 the shadow of the castle who had refused an invitation she 
 had vouchsafed to him. He was a soul, a brand, a sinner, 
 six lean feet of raw material sent to her to be manufactured 
 into the finished article beloved of the Women's Reformation 
 League. " I think it is honest of Captain Turner to confess 
 his unbeliefs," she said. " I would rather that than a per- 
 functory observance which has no reality underneath it. 
 Captain Turner, if you can spare half-an-hour from your 
 novel-reading, will you oblige me by reading these ? " 
 and she pressed upon him a hurriedly selected packet of 
 tracts. 
 
 " Thank you," said Turner, taking them. " I wouldn't 
 think of saying no. But to tell you the honest truth, Lady 
 Wrotham, I don't think they'll do me the slightest good. I 
 was brought up on them, you know. It's rather like pouring 
 champagne down a man's throat for medicine. If he's never 
 drunk much it does him a world of good. If he's soaked 
 with it you might just as well give him water." 
 
 Lady Wrotham did not quite like the illustration, but she 
 was interested in her case. " You were brought up in a 
 godly home ? " she asked. 
 
 " Prayers night and morning, church twice and sometimes 
 three times on a Sunday. Meetings — just like you are going 
 to start here, 'cept that you're a lady of title and my father 
 was a shopkeeper." 
 
 " Oh ! " said Lady Wrotham, and Mrs. Prentice ex- 
 claimed : 
 
 " You never told us that piece of news before, Captain 
 Turner." 
 
 " I thought you'd look down on me," replied Turner. 
 
200 Exton Manor 
 
 " Rather snobbish of me, perhaps. But nobody wishes to be 
 thought low." 
 
 M His father was a chemical manufacturer," put in Browne, 
 perspiring at every pore. " I don't know why he should 
 want to make himself out different to what he is. And he 
 went to Eton, and into a good regiment." 
 
 " It's very kind of you, Browne, to try and soften it down," 
 said Turner. " But there was a shop, I assure you. You 
 could have bought a sixpenny tooth-brush over the counter. 
 I'm very relieved to get it out. I've always felt that Mrs. 
 Prentice would not have been so cordial to me if she had 
 known it." 
 
 " Well, never mind the shop," said Lady Wrotham good- 
 humouredly. She was beginning to place her case as an 
 eccentric. " I should like to hear more about your religious 
 upbringing, and why it has not affected your later life." 
 
 " Too much of it," said Turner. " My father was a very 
 good man, but he didn't understand boys. We all had too 
 much of it — there were three of us. We used to see who 
 would make the best hand of labouring under a conviction of 
 sin. You don't want to labour under a conviction of sin at 
 twelve and thirteen. You want a swishing. My eldest 
 brother succeeded to the business, and when my father died 
 he went over to Rome. He'd have done it before, only he 
 didn't dare. The second — well, he wasn't a good fellow, 
 but he's dead. I was the third, and I'm what you see 
 me." 
 
 What they saw was a man in danger of forgetting where he 
 was and bringing forth from beneath his cynic's cloak a set 
 of unorthodox opinions, strongly held. 
 
 " I suppose," said Lady Wrotham, " that every unbeliever 
 thinks that there is reason for his unbeliefs, and when he 
 looks round him and sees many people who profess religious 
 views acting unworthily, and others following a false religion 
 and playing with the truth, he may persuade himself that 
 there is no truth to be found anywhere. But indeed it is not 
 so, Captain Turner. There is truth in the Christian religion, 
 and if you seek it earnestly you will find it for yourself. 
 And you would hardly den}?, I suppose, that you do meet 
 Christian people, even in }^our retired life, who are a standing 
 example of goodness ? " 
 
 " No, I don't deny that," said Turner. " Women especially. 
 
 (G) 
 
Turner and Browne take sides 201 
 
 There's Mrs. Redcliffe, now. She's a religious woman, and 
 she's one of the best I know. If they were all like her ! " 
 
 If he had thrown a bomb between Lady Wrotham and 
 Mrs. Prentice he could hardly have produced a greater effect. 
 
 " You hold her up as an example ! " exclaimed Lady 
 Wrotham ; and Mrs. Prentice, " Well, that is a nice thing to 
 hear ! " 
 
 Browne looked shocked and puzzled, Turner's eyes narrowed 
 and his lips shut down. " Do you know Mrs. Redcliffe ? " 
 he asked. 
 
 " I have not seen her," replied Lady Wrotham. " But 
 I have heard of her, and I do not approve of what I have 
 heard." 
 
 Turner turned to Mrs. Prentice with a look of contempt, 
 which he made no attempt to hide. He said nothing, but she 
 replied angrily to his look. 
 
 "I don't know why you should stare at me like that," she 
 said. " If you think I told Lady Wrotham what she knows 
 of Mrs. Redcliffe, you are mistaken." 
 
 " Well," said Lady Wrotham, " it was what you told me 
 of the way you were received yesterday that has given me 
 the impression I have formed of Mrs. Redcliffe. The other 
 fact that I knew — but I wish to say nothing about that." 
 
 " But, excuse me, Lady Wrotham," said Mrs. Prentice. 
 " I think it is hardly quite fair to me to put me in the position 
 of having turned you against Mrs. Redcliffe with no reason 
 at all. Captain Turner, and others too, I have no doubt, will 
 only be too ready to accuse me of making mischief. It is 
 their way, and I think a very mean way, of attacking me for 
 not hiding my disapproval of their godless habits. I hope 
 you will make it understood, at any rate, that there is some- 
 thing against Mrs. Redcliffe, even if you do not wish it to 
 become generally known." 
 
 Lady Wrotham was not pleased. " I will say this, since 
 you force me, Mrs. Prentice," she said stiffly, " that I knew 
 something of Mrs. Redcliffe before I came to live here, which 
 I should not have mentioned if l had not thought that it was 
 common propert}'. But my opinion of Mrs. Redcliffe is drawn 
 entirely from what you told me of her yesterday. If every- 
 thing you said was true, you have no reason to be ashamed of 
 your straightforwardness in telling me the kind of ladies I 
 have living practically in my park." 
 
202 Exton Manor 
 
 Turner rose. " Mrs. Redcliffe is a friend of mine and a 
 friend of Mr. Browne's/' he said. " There is nobody I have 
 a higher respect for, and I think I may say the same of him. 
 I shouldn't believe anything I heard against her, and I think 
 it's a great pity, my lady, if you'll excuse my saying so, that 
 you should take your opinions about her from Mrs. Prentice, 
 who'd rather give people a bad character than not, instead of 
 judging for yourself. I'll leave these behind, with your leave, 
 and wish you good-evening." 
 
 He put down the packet of tracts on a table, made a bow 
 and went out of the room. 
 
 " It's outrageous ! " exclaimed Mrs. Prentice. " I told 
 you, Lady Wrotham, what sort of a man he was." 
 
 Lady Wrotham was too much surprised by the turn events 
 had taken to speak, but Browne, very red in -the face and 
 stuttering somewhat, rose and delivered himself thus : 
 
 " Captain Turner is independent, and not very polite, and 
 all that, but he's very sound, and what he says about Mrs. 
 Redcliffe is quite true. There's no better woman anywhere. 
 I think you will say so when you know her, Lady Wrotham." 
 
 " She sent a very impertinent message to me," replied the 
 great lady. 
 
 " What — Mrs. Redcliffe ? " exclaimed Browne. " That's a 
 thing she couldn't do if she tried." 
 
 " It was the girl who sent the message," explained Mrs. 
 Prentice. " Mrs. Redcliffe merely approved of it ; but that 
 was bad enough." 
 
 " Perhaps," said Lady Wrotham, " I have done her some 
 injustice in my thoughts. She seems to have made good 
 friends. When she comes to see me — I do not wish to see 
 the girl — I shall be able to judge for myself. We must leave 
 it there for the present. Captain Turner appears to be a 
 difficult person to make friends with, Mr. Browne. I can 
 forgive a certain amount of honest brusqueness, especially 
 in the case of one whose birth is not perhaps of the highest." 
 
 " His birth is all right, Lady Wrotham," said Browne. 
 " He comes of very good stock, and his education is better 
 than most people's. It's his way to pretend he's nobody." 
 
 " Well, 1 do not care altogether for his way. And if he 
 takes a pride in holding himself aloof from all religious in- 
 fluences, as seems to be the case, I don't know that he can be 
 called a very satisfactorv tenant. However, we can talk of 
 
Turner and Browne take sides 203 
 
 that later. I hope you will be able to be present at our little 
 service next Wednesday, Mr. Browne/' 
 
 " Wednesday/' said Browne, in deep perturbation. " No, 
 I'm afraid I can't on Wednesday. It's a busy day." 
 
 " But your work is usually over by five o'clock, is it 
 .not? " 
 
 Browne hesitated. " Well, yes it is," he said with a burst. 
 "But to telLyou the truth, Lady Wrotham, I'd rather not 
 come. I go to church on Sundays, and I should do that any- 
 how to set an example, even if I didn't care about it. But 
 — well, it isn't quite in my line." 
 
 Lady Wrotham drew herself up. " I think in your posi- 
 tion," she said, " you ought to do everything you can to help 
 in what concerns the welfare of the tenantry." 
 
 "I do do everything I can, that lies in my way. But I 
 don't mix myself up in their religious affairs." 
 
 " Well, of course, I have no right to press you. But I am 
 disappointed. I am afraid there is a hard struggle before me 
 if those who might help are determined to stand aloof. Mrs. 
 Prentice, I think we had now better consult together as to 
 arrangements." 
 
 Browne took his dismissal. He shook hands with Lady 
 Wrotham, but not with Mrs. Prentice, and went out. His 
 cart was waiting at the door. He climbed up into it, gathered 
 up the reins and drove quickly out of the gate house. When 
 he was out of hearing of the groom who had been holding his 
 horse he exploded in a series of forcible ejaculations, which 
 gathered in vehemence as he drove up the road towards his 
 house. When he had got half way between the Abbey and 
 the White House he saw Turner on the road in front of him, 
 walking quickly with his head bent. He overtook him. 
 " Where are you off to ? " he asked. 
 
 Turner grumbled something indistinguishable, and walked 
 on. 
 
 " Are you going up to Heath Gate ? " asked Browne again. 
 " 'Cos I'm not going home just yet." 
 
 "No," said Turner shortly. 
 
 " I'm going to see Mrs. Redcliffe," said Browne. 
 
 Turner faced him angrily. " What do you want to go 
 putting your oar in there for ? " he said. You've backed 
 up those two scandal-mongering women, and you ought to 
 have the decency to keep away. I'm going there myself." 
 
204 Exton Manor 
 
 " Then we'll go together. It's nonsense to say I backed 
 them up. I did nothing of the sort." ^ 
 
 M Well, you didn't speak out. Spiteful cats I It's that 
 Prentice woman chiefly, though your old woman's just as bad. 
 And you'd have told them so if you'd got any pluck. But 
 you haven't." 
 
 " I did tell 'em so, after you'd left. I'm as angry as you 
 are. And her ladyship actually had the nerve to tell me^that 
 it was my duty as a land agent to go to her precious prayer- 
 meetings. " 
 
 " So it is. You're a parasite, as I told you, and you've got 
 to kow-tow to your employers." 
 
 " She isn't my employer, and I'm not going to take on a lot 
 of tea-party work to please her. I do my duty by the pro- 
 perty, and that's all anyone has a right to ask of me." 
 
 u I don't care what you do, except that if you don't show 
 Mrs. Redcliffe that you'll stand by her through thick and thin 
 I'll have nothing more to do with you." 
 
 " I told you I was going in now, didn't I ? You cross- 
 grained fool ! What do you want to go for me for, when 
 we're both in the same boat ? " 
 
 " Thank goodness, I'm not in the same boat as you. I've 
 had all I can do with of that old woman. If she comes up to 
 see me she'll be shown the door. I pay my rent, don't I ? 
 She's no right to interfere with me in any way, and I'll tell 
 her so if she tries it on again. Fancy giving me a bundle of 
 tracts ! I suppose you've got a pocketful of them." 
 
 " No, I've not," replied Browne. " And I said I shouldn't 
 go to this meeting. Come now, Turner, what's the good of 
 quarrelling with me ? You've nothing against me. I haven't 
 said anything about the way you behaved to her. It was 
 devilish awkward for me. Anyone would have thought 
 you'd made up your mind to offend her." 
 
 " So I had. I'd heard rumours about some mischief hatch- 
 ing against Mrs. Redcliffe. New T s flies fast in this place, and 
 the village has got hold of it. Kitcher told me so. I watched 
 when I first brought in Mrs. Redcliffe 's name, and I saw her 
 face and that of the other cat go sour. I meant to give them 
 a piece of my mind then, and I did it. Well, I'm going in 
 here." 
 
 They had come to the gate of the White House, Turner 
 on foot, Browne walking his horse beside him. " Just wait 
 
Turner and Browne take sides 205 
 
 till I put the mare up," said Browne, " and we'll go in 
 together.' ' 
 
 " I'm going in now," said Turner, and he walked up the 
 drive. 
 
 Mrs. Redcliffe and Hilda were in the parlour. Turner came 
 in with a more open friendliness than was his wont. " Thought 
 I'd look in and see if you wanted any more books to read," he 
 said. " I've got a new lot down. I'm very late, Mrs. Red- 
 cliffe, but if you could give me a cup of tea I should be 
 obliged." * 
 
 " Ring the bell, Hilda," said Mrs. Redcliffe. " Captain 
 Turner, I'm very pleased to see you. You have not been 
 near me for weeks." 
 
 " Expect you'll see a good lot of me for the future. I gener- 
 ally like to see a bit more company in the Spring. Wanted 
 to know whether you and Miss Hilda would come and dine 
 with me to-morrow. We'll have a rubber. Suppose I must 
 ask Browne, though I don't care for him." 
 
 Mrs. Redcliffe laughed. " What should you say if anybody 
 else said anything against him ? " she said. " Yes, thank 
 you, Captain Turner, we shall be pleased to come." 
 
 Hilda had said nothing since Turner arrived. She stood by 
 the fireplace watching him closely, as if she was trying to 
 make out from the side view of his face how far he could be 
 trusted as a loyal friend. She opened her mouth as if she had 
 something to say about her mother's acceptance of his invita- 
 tion, but at that moment Browne came into the room. 
 
 His greeting was as friendly as that of Turner, perhaps 
 rather more so. He threw himself into an easy-chair and 
 mopped his brow, according to his custom. " Yes, thanks, 
 I'd like another cup of tea, please," he said in answer to an 
 inquiry. " Mrs. Redcliffe, will you and Hilda come up and 
 dine with me to-morrow ? We haven't had a rubber of Bridge 
 for a long time. Turner's coming." 
 
 " No, he isn't," said Turner. " Mrs. Redcliffe and Miss 
 Hilda are coming to dine with me to-morrow. You can come 
 too if you like." 
 
 " Well, the next night, then," said Browne. " I've got 
 some new potatoes." 
 
 Mrs. Redcliffe accepted this invitation also, with a smile. 
 
 " Mother dear," Hilda broke in, " it is very kind of Captain 
 Turner, and Mr. Browne. But they ought to know, before 
 
206 Exton Manor 
 
 we accept, that— that we will have nothing to do with Mrs. 
 Prentice's friends. It must be cither she or us." 
 
 " Hope you don't call me Mrs. Prentice's friend," said 
 Turner. " Can't abide the woman." 
 
 " She's no friend of mine," said Browne. 
 
 Mrs. Redcliffe grew serious. "Perhaps Hilda is right," 
 she said. " Mrs. Prentice is at enmity with us, over a definite 
 cause, and I must say now that we are at enmity with her. 
 Our friends are bound to hear of what has caused the break, 
 and perhaps it will be better that they shaH hear it from us." 
 
 " Don't want to hear anything," said Turner. " I've heard 
 all I want already." 
 
 " And so have I," said Browne. " We're old friends, Mrs. 
 Redcliffe, and we'll be better ones still." 
 
 11 Then Mrs. Prentice has already begun to talk," said 
 Hilda. " And I suppose Lady Wrotham too. To think that 
 there should be such women in the world ! When did you 
 hear of it — and where ? " 
 
 " Just been calling on the old lady," said Turner, " and 
 Mrs. Prentice was there. Never again. You're right, Miss 
 Hilda, Mrs. Prentice ought to be put out of the way. She's 
 not fit to live. But why worry about anything she says or 
 does ? We've got something else to talk about, I should 
 hope." 
 
 " Then you are on our side," said Hilda, " absolutely, 
 without any reservations ? " 
 
 " 'Course I am. You ought to have known it. And so's 
 Browne, though he's too lazy to say so." 
 
 " It doesn't want saying," said Browne. " Mrs. Redcliffe 
 knows us and we know her." 
 
 " You are two very kind friends," said Mrs. Redcliffe softly. 
 " And I have never thought that you would say anything else. 
 I am glad that you know. I am sorry that it was not known 
 to my real friends long ago." 
 
 " And Lady Wrotham actually told you what she has 
 against mother ? " said Hilda. " Told two men, one of them 
 a stranger to her, and before another woman ! I wish I could 
 tell her what I think of her." 
 
 " No, she didn't," said Browne. " To do her justice, she 
 was annoyed with Mrs. Prentice for saying anything." 
 
 " She wasn't," said Turner. " They were both as bad as 
 one another." 
 
Turner and Browne take sides 207 
 
 f Then Mrs. Prentice told you ? " . 
 
 " She would have done if Lady Wrotham hadn't stopped 
 her," said Browne. 
 
 " Then you were not told ? You don't know ? " said Mrs. 
 Redcliffe. 
 
 " We didn't want to listen to her lies," said Turner. 
 " Neither of us." * 
 
 '• 'Course not," Browne chimed in. 
 
 Mrs. Redcliffe was silent for a moment. Then she said in 
 a low. voice, " It is well to know what loyal friends one has. 
 But if you do not know what Lady Wrotham has discovered 
 about me, I will tell you myself." 
 
 " We don't want to know," said Turner. " What's it got 
 to do with us ? " 
 
 And Browne repeated his former remark, " You know us, 
 Mrs. Redcliffe, and we know you." 
 
 " You will hear it from somebody," she said, " and I would 
 rather you heard it from me. Lady Wrotham knew what 
 others in England have not known, that I was my husband's 
 second wife, and his first, who died within a year of her mar- 
 riage, was my elder sister." 
 
 There was a pause. " Well," said Turner, " now Browne's 
 curiosity is satisfied. And what on earth is there in that to 
 make a fuss about ? Ton my word, Mrs. Redcliffe, that 
 woman ought to be lynched. She's got a tongue that would 
 blacken an archangel." 
 
 " I don't know whether you have quite gathered the signifi- 
 cance of what I have told you, "said Mrs. Redcliffe. Browne, 
 it was clear, had not at first done so, but apparently his 
 brain had now brought him to a conclusion, for his face 
 cleared. 
 
 " Oh, yes," he said. " But, hang it all, you know ! Well, 
 thank you for telling us, Mrs. Redcliffe, though it wouldn't 
 have made any difference if you hadn't. You know us and 
 we know you." 
 
 " Browne has gone through a good deal this afternoon," 
 said Turner. " You mustn't mind his repeating himself. 
 Well, I must be off, Mrs. Redcliffe. I'm dining at Oakhurst 
 to-night and I must get home. Then I shall see you all to- 
 morrow evening — usual time. Good-bye." 
 
 He shook hands with a warm grasp and departed. Hilda 
 went with him to the outer door. " You're very kind, 
 
208 Exton Manor 
 
 Captain Turner," she said; " I was sure you and Mr. 
 Browne would be, but I am very pleased all the same." 
 
 He turned to her with a chuckle. " You gave her a piece 
 of your mind, didn't you ? " he said. " Told her to tell the 
 old woman to go to the deuce, eh ? " 
 
 " Well, not that exactly," said Hilda, smiling at him. 
 " But whatever I said she deserved — both of them deserved." 
 
 " Deserve ! They deserve hanging. You keep it up, 
 Hilda. Don't you let 'em worry your mother. She's the 
 best mother you'll ever have, or anyone else either. Good- 
 bye." 
 
 He disappeared along the garden path as if he had been shot 
 out of a catapult, and Hilda returned to the parlour. 
 
 She found Browne and her mother in deep talk. " I assure 
 you, Mrs. Redcliffe," Browne was saying, " that it was pretty 
 nearly all Mrs. Prentice's fault. I don't want to defend Lady 
 Wrotham. She annoyed me infernally this afternoon, and she 
 ought not to have let it out, to Mrs. Prentice of all people. 
 But to do her justice she did prevent the other woman blurt- 
 ing it out when she wanted to, and said she shouldn't have 
 told anybody if she'd known it was — not gen'ly known." 
 
 " Are you trying to excuse Lady Wrotham ? " asked 
 Hilda. 
 
 " Mr. Browne is quite right to excuse her if there is an 
 excuse," said Mrs. Redcliffe. " And I am glad to hear what he 
 says." 
 
 " It's only just on that one point I'd excuse her," said 
 Browne. " I put most of the trouble down to Mrs. Prentice. 
 I don't deny that her ladyship was — well, annoyed with you, 
 because, of course, Mrs. Prentice had been making all the 
 mischief she could. She repeated something that Hilda had 
 said about Lady Wrotham to her yesterday and made the 
 most of it." 
 
 Hilda laughed. " I'm glad of that at any rate," she said. 
 " But it was I who said it, and not mother. Why Lady 
 Wrotham should have the impertinence to be annoyed with 
 her I don't know." 
 
 " Well, Mrs. Prentice I don't defend at all," said Browne. 
 " But Lady Wrotham I do, up to a certain point. She said 
 herself that she was glad to hear she had been mistaken about 
 you, and said when you went to see her, she — she " 
 
 " She should judge for herself. Was that it, Mr. Browne ? " 
 
Turner and Browne take sides 209 
 
 Browne hesitated, and Hilda broke in. " Go to see her 
 indeed ! That is a nice thing to suggest.' ' 
 
 " I cannot go to see Lady Wrotham, Mr. Browne,' ' said 
 Mrs. Redcliffe; and Hilda, " I should think not, indeed ! " 
 
 " Well, you know best," said Browne. " I only thought — 
 however, you'll do what you like, of course." 
 
 Soon afterwards he took his leave. Hilda did not accom- 
 pany him to the door. " Fancy suggesting that you should 
 call on Lady Wrotham ! " she said. " It seems to me that 
 Mr. Browne is trying to be your friend and Lady Wrotham 's 
 at the same time. He's not like Captain Turner." 
 
 "He is an honest and loyal gentleman," said Mrs. Red- 
 cliffe. " You must remember, Hilda, that it is not possible 
 for him to break off from Lady Wrotham altogether, and I 
 don't see at all why he should. We must not be too exacting 
 to our friends. I think w r e are very fortunate in having two 
 such generous ones as Captain Turner and Mr. Browne." 
 
CHAPTER XIX 
 
 RUMOUR, AND A MEETING 
 
 Rumour, with its thousand tongues, soon spread the news 
 about Mrs. Redcliffe that Lady Wrotham had brought down 
 to Exton. It is not necessary to suppose that Mrs. Prentice 
 took the lead in setting it flying, although, when she was 
 addressed on the subject, she made no secret of her opinions 
 — opinions, she said, which it grieved her to have to hold 
 but which hold she must if she was to keep her self-respect 
 as a religious woman. The village had got hold of it some- 
 how ; possibly the first thin thread of fact had been drawn by 
 a servant, either at the Abbey or the vicarage, through a key- 
 hole,- but this was never known. The village gossiped and 
 talked scandal, and a few of the more virtuous matrons sniffed 
 at Mrs. Redcliffe in the open street. But there being not the 
 slightest genuine feeling against marriage with a deceased 
 wife's sister in the abstract, there could be none against a 
 lady, otherwise much respected and liked, who had contracted 
 such a marriage years before. And Mrs. Redcliffe had her 
 warm champions among the villagers, as well as among 
 those in higher places, who expressed themselves strongly 
 against Mrs. Prentice's known attitude towards her. Finally, 
 when it became known that in Australia, where Mrs. Red- 
 cliffe had married, the law was as it was, popular opinion set 
 strongly against Mrs. Prentice for stirring up a fuss about 
 nothing, and Mrs. Redcliffe's position with her humbler neigh- 
 bours was put on a firmer basis of liking than ever. Until 
 this state of feeling settled down there was very little that 
 could disturb her, but a good deal of unobtrusive sympathy 
 which showed the general respect and liking in which she was 
 held. 
 
 210 
 
Rumour, and a Meeting 211 
 
 But with the surrounding gentry she had to go through a 
 good deal. There were very few who took the view that Mrs. 
 Prentice's strict code had imposed upon her, none indeed with 
 whom she was at all intimate. But curiosity and gossip 
 fluttered about her like ugly birds. It was the first subject 
 to be introduced by those who now came flocking to give Lady 
 Wrotham a welcome to Exton Abbey, but Lady Wrotham 
 would have none of it. She was very sorry that she had put 
 it about, she said. At least she had not put it about, as she 
 had had no idea that it was not known. She would prefer not 
 to discuss it. Everyone seemed to speak well of Mrs. Red- 
 cliffe, and she for her part had nothing to say against her. 
 Mrs. Redcliffe had not yet done her the honour of calling on her 
 and it was not her habit to talk over the affairs of people she 
 did not know. . 
 
 Yes, certainly, her visitors, or most of them, would say. 
 Nothing could really be said against Mrs. Redcliffe. She 
 lived very quietly and did not go about much, but those w T ho 
 did know her liked her, and the girl was a delightful creature. 
 
 Lady Wrotham had nothing to say about the girl. She 
 rather fancied her manners were not of the best, but she 
 did not know her, and — perhaps the subject might be changed. 
 
 At the bottom of her heart a feeling of deep annoyance was 
 growing against Mrs. Prentice, who, she was fully assured, 
 was responsible for spreading the report, although that lady 
 had vehemently denied it. It was intolerable that she should 
 be forced to take part in this petty local gossip, and be con- 
 sidered, besides, to be the origin of it. And it annoyed her to 
 have to keep this resentment to herself, for, although she dis- 
 believed the assurances that were given her, she was not yet 
 prepared to say so, and Mrs. Prentice was now proving herself 
 a. valuable go-between in the designs she had for converting 
 the inhabitants of Exton to the views of the Women's Refor- 
 mation League. She had quite made up her mind, however, 
 that if the day came when Mrs. Prentice played her false in 
 those matters which she had so much at heart, she would 
 speak her mind in a way that would surprise that 
 lady. 
 
 Foiled at the fountain head, the country neighbours as a 
 rule made their way on leaving the Abbey, those who wished 
 to treat the disclosure as an agreeable scandal to Mrs. Pren- 
 tice, and the better disposed to Mrs. Redcliffe herself. The 
 
212 Exton Manor 
 
 former gained more for their trouble, for they had a more or 
 less detailed and not entirely colourless account of Mrs. Pren- 
 tice's memorable interview with Mrs. Redcliffe, and, as a 
 wind up, Hilda's defiance of Lady Wrotham, which lost 
 nothing in the telling. The latter got small satisfaction. 
 They found Mrs. Redcliffe serene but uncommunicative, and 
 Hilda watchful and ready to take offence at the smallest hint 
 of what was in their minds. There were one or two who 
 were sincerely sorry for what had happened. These made 
 no fishing references, but were more than usually cordial, as 
 Turner and Browne had been, and they came away with the 
 conviction that Mrs. Redcliffe was a woman in & thousand 
 and shamefully used by malicious tongues. So that even in 
 this series of visitations there were bright spots, and Hilda 
 was not able to feel that all the world was against them, as 
 in her more fiery moods she would perhaps have liked to 
 feel. 
 
 In the middle of these happenings, the first of Lady Wro- 
 tham's private religious services, which were to form the 
 antidote to the poison of the Vicar's teaching, took place in 
 the dining-hall of the Abbey. As a start off she invited a 
 clerical friend of her own persuasion from London to stay 
 with her and conduct the proceedings. He was a good man 
 and a gentleman, but Mrs. Prentice's gorge rose at him, for 
 he was everything that she had hitherto despised. He wore 
 a moustache and a layman's collar, and he spoke with a sort 
 of pious bleat which she found it hard to bear. But she had 
 compensations. Lady Wrotham was particularly friendly 
 to her that afternoon, and called her "-my dear " in face of 
 the assembly. 
 
 Mrs. Capper was there, dressed very smartly, and anxious 
 to assist in guiding the worshippers to such seats as should 
 best indicate their respective importance in the social scale ; 
 but her ladyship's servants were so used to these gatherings, 
 and managed things in such a cold-blooded efficient way, 
 that there was no occasion for her efforts, and she had to 
 content herself with a seat in the front row, to which she 
 was shown by Virtue of her smart clothes. There was a con- 
 siderable gathering of women, but no men, Mrs. Prentice 
 having found a difficulty in persuading them to come, and 
 Lady Wrotham having decided after all that they were not 
 wanted. Most of the women were there out of curiosity, 
 
Rumour, and a Meeting 213 
 
 and treated the occasion as a mild sort of entertainment, of 
 which the tea was the crowning point and the service a not 
 unreasonable form of payment. The clerical leader moved 
 them somewhat, and there was nothing controversial in his 
 address, except by implication. The meeting would have 
 been innocuous and something better, if it had not been 
 announced — chiefly by Mrs. Capper, taking her cue from the 
 great lady's original statement to her — that it was intended 
 as a counterblast to the orthodox church services. As it was, 
 signs of cleavage began to show themselves immediately on 
 the dispersal of the congregation. There was not wanting 
 a party, led by Mrs. Capper, who declared themselves on 
 Lady Wrotham's side against the goings on of the Vicar, 
 although few of them had had any quarrel with him hitherto ; 
 and there were others who took his part warmly, many of 
 them out of antagonism to Mrs. Prentice, whose going over 
 to the enemy was commented on in no mild terms. 
 
 For it was, of course, noticeable that the Vicar had not 
 been present at the meeting, was indeed, at the time it was 
 being held, equably pursuing his pastoral duties at the further 
 end of the Manor. He had been asked as a matter of form, 
 but, as it had been made clear to him that his acceptance 
 would be considered as a definite act of resignation of the 
 position he was known to hold, he had naturally not accepted 
 the invitation. But this did not prevent Lady Wrotham 
 from describing him to her intimate correspondents as a 
 minister who held sullenly aloof from every Christian effort 
 not set on foot by himself. An invitation to dine on the 
 evening of the meeting, to meet Lady Wrotham's clerical 
 friend, he did accept, somewhat to her surprise. She had 
 not yet given up all hopes that he would be moved by his 
 wife to a realization of his errors, and was unwilling as yet 
 to enter into an open quarrel in which the mildest social truce 
 would become impossible, but she would have preferred that 
 he should refuse her invitation. 
 
 The Vicar and his wife walked down to the Abbey together 
 at eight o'clock. They were chatting on unimportant sub- 
 jects — a country clergyman and his wife going out peaceably 
 to dine at the great house of the parish, the lady with her 
 prim finery bunched up under a waterproof, her husband in 
 soft felt hat and black overcoat, carrying her evening shoes 
 in his pocket — to all appearance good friends, one in the 
 
214 Exton Manor 
 
 pursuit of duty and the enjoyment of the simple pleasures 
 that lighten such a lot as theirs. Who could have told that 
 there was a black cloud between them, growing ever bigger 
 and threatening to destroy the comfort of a companionship 
 that had afforded for five and twenty years, if not unruffled 
 peace, as high an average of contentment as falls to the lot of 
 most people ? 
 
 Mrs. Prentice was certainly not tasting contentment at 
 this time. It is true that she possessed, as far as she knew, 
 the approval of Lady Wrotham, and was on terms, as she 
 hoped, of permanent intimacy with the great lady, closer 
 than anyone around her enjoyed. And it looked as if she 
 were in a fair way of paying out Mrs. Redcliffe for her mon- 
 strous behaviour, for rumour was now busy with that lady's 
 name, and opinion had not yet settled down in her favour, 
 as it did later. But the question was whether these two grati- 
 fying facts, taken together/balanced the loss of her husband's 
 confidence, which had been for the last few days entirely 
 withdrawn from her. 
 
 William was behaving to her in a way he had never done 
 before. There had been an angry scene between them when 
 he had come home from his interview with Mrs. Redcliffe. 
 He had been whole-hearted in his defence of that lady and 
 most violent in his condemnation of her, his wedded wife. 
 Fortified by her alliance with Lady Wrotham and the purity 
 of her own motives, she had retorted on him angrily, and in- 
 formed him in a counterblast that she had been reconsidering 
 her religious position, and discovered that in many things, 
 although in none for which he could blame her, she had 
 been in error ; and that, since his beliefs led him to behave 
 no better than a savage, she had had enough of them, and 
 proposed to try a simpler and, as far as she could judge, a 
 more efficacious form of Christianity. He had left her with- 
 out a word, and she had congratulated herself on having 
 gained a complete victory over^im. 
 
 But her satisfaction had been short-lived. When they had 
 next met he had treated her as if nothing had passed between 
 them, with a measure of coldness certainly, but not with 
 displeasure. This had gone on ever since, and it had not 
 suited her. He had peremptorily declined to discuss an}' 
 question with her which had to do either with his own work 
 or her new activities. " You are taking your own line," 
 
Rumour, and a Meeting 215 
 
 he had said on the first occasion on which she had endeav- 
 oured to do so, " and it is a line of which I heartily dis- 
 approve. I will not talk to you about it. As long as you 
 are doing all you can to wreck my work here and give the 
 lie to all your previous convictions, that is the only condition 
 on which we can go on living under the same roof." This 
 was the only time on which he had broken through his 
 aloofness to speak directly, and he had spoken so contemp- 
 tuously that his words had unpleasantly affected Mrs. Pren- 
 tice's vanity. Since then there had been no communication 
 between them except on merely surface subjects. 
 
 But for a husband and wife, who had hitherto worked 
 together with constant give and take and frequent wordy 
 adjustments of harness, to live on such terms as these was 
 not possible without mutually antagonistic developments 
 going on beneath the surface. They were existing as on 
 a slope, and not a plane. The Vicar knew that a struggle 
 w r as before him, of which he could not yet foresee the end, 
 and it disturbed him greatly to have to shut up in his own 
 mind the thoughts and fears that exercised him concerning 
 it, disturbed him greatly, too, that she with whom he had 
 been accustomed to talk over such problems as these, with 
 the certainty, at any rate, of community of aim, and the 
 advantage • that came from self-expression, should nowj 
 actually be working apart from and against him. It is true 
 that he had taken up his present attitude to her, knowing! 
 what she was, with the conviction that it would finally bring 
 her back to her proper allegiance ; but the days went on and 
 she still acted perversely, and he was beginning to take a dark 
 view of the future. At present, and until Lady Wrotham 
 should fulfil her threat of taking action, his wife was alone 
 responsible for the disturbance of his life and work, and it is 
 not surprising that an ever increasing sense of bitterness 
 should have been growing up against her in his mind, or 
 that she, pursuing her course, should have gained no happi- 
 ness from it. 
 
 Lady Wrotham's dinner party of four was hardly likely, 
 under the existing circumstances, to afford more than refresh- 
 ment of the body. She herself, with the traditions of hospi- 
 tality with which she had been brought up, would, if she 
 had had her own way, have kept the conversation clear of 
 subjects in which a possibility of disagreement existed. And 
 
216 Exton Manor 
 
 the Reverend Mr. Dacre, to do him justice, had no intention 
 of promoting discord. But his mind was full of the message 
 he conceived it his life's work to spread, and if he were to 
 talk at all he must talk on that subject and.no other. The 
 advice of St. Paul, sublimely tactless, if it is to be inter- 
 preted as those who chiefly apply it believe, was his warrant 
 for treating the differences of Christians as if they did not 
 exist. He must be instant in season, out of season, and 
 the only difference he could make between those who were 
 outside the truth and those who presumably accepted it, was 
 in exhorting the former as from pope-like authority, and 
 assuming that the latter held his own interpretation of dogma 
 and no other. The Vicar, agreeing where he could, silent 
 where he could not, unwilling to oppose his own views to 
 statements and aspirations implicitly denying them, held 
 his own as well as he could in a conversation having to do 
 with the missionary zeal of Mr. Dacre and his associates, 
 of v/hom Mr. Dacre assumed him to be one. " Surely," said 
 the harassed Vicar to himself, " there is some hypocrisy 
 here ! The man must know that I do not agree with his 
 views. He has been brought here into my parish for that 
 very reason." And he wished the evening over. 
 
 The two clergymen remained in the dining-room only a 
 few minutes after the ladies had left them. Mr. Prentice 
 refused wine and the cigarette offered to him by the butler, 
 for fear of drawing upon himself a rebuke from the Low 
 Churchman, and his nerves were not soothed by his abstinence. 
 He had nothing to say, and sat silent until the other, awaking 
 from a reverie, looked at him across the table with a happy 
 smile, and said, " I think we were blessed in our little service 
 this afternoon. It seemed to be a time of refreshment to 
 many." 
 
 " I hope it was," replied the Vicar, " but of course you 
 know that it was held to a great exent as a protest against 
 my own services, and you were asked to conduct it, Mr. 
 Dacre, because the doctrines I teach, as the Vicar of the 
 parish, are not acceptable to Lady Wrotham ? " 
 
 Mr. Dacre looked shocked. " But surely," he said, " the 
 simple Bible reading and prayer and the singing of gospel 
 hymns which we enjoyed this afternoon can only help in the 
 work of grace ! You cannot feel, as some parish ministers 
 unfortunately do, that a fellow-labourer in the same vineyard 
 
Rumour, and a Meeting 217 
 
 is interfering in your godly work, by seeking simply to 
 strengthen your own exhortations ? " 
 
 " I am afraid I am one of the parish ministers who do 
 think so," replied the Vicar. " And I should like to ask 
 you candidly, Mr. Dacre, whether you would not feel the 
 same if our positions were reversed. Supposing you were 
 the vicar of this parish and were teaching to the best of your 
 ability the doctrines in which you believe, and I were to be 
 brought in to explain to your parishioners that those doc- 
 trines were false, that the change from a state of sin to a 
 state of grace comes not at conversion but at baptism, and 
 that the appointed and only safe spiritual food for Christians 
 is given through the sacraments of the Church, would you not 
 feel that I was interfering with your work and doing anything 
 rather than strengthen your own influence ? V 
 
 " Oh, but those doctrines are unscriptural. There is no 
 warrant for them." 
 
 " But you must be well aware that they are held by many 
 thousands, and are to be found everywhere in the Church of 
 England. You must know that I for one hold them, and that 
 it is to put my people in the way of thinking them unscrip- 
 tural that you are here." 
 
 " If that is so " 
 
 " But, Mr. Dacre, don't you know that it is so ? I would 
 willingly have met you on friendly terms, and even been glad 
 to talk over religious matters with you, if it had been recog- 
 nized by both of us, as it ought to have been, that there are 
 differences of opinion between us, although we have so much 
 fundamentally in common. But all through dinner you have 
 chosen to assume with regard to me what you must know 
 quite well is not the case, that I am in entire agreement with 
 your views, and you must forgive me for saying that it does 
 not seem to me to be honest." 
 
 Mr. Dacre looked genuinely grieved. " An accusation of 
 dishonesty ought not to be lightly made," he said. 
 
 " I do not make it lightly. Would you think it honest of 
 me in a like position to take it for granted that you held the 
 Catholic view of the Church — were, if you like to put it so, a 
 High Churchman — knowing all the time that you were not ? 
 I am sure you would have protested at once." 
 
 " Certainly I should. And, my dear friend, if I have un- 
 wittingly caused you offence, I sincerely ask your pardon. 
 
218 Exton Manor 
 
 But we are both working for God, according to the light 
 He gives us, and His grace is wide enough to cover all our 
 differences/' 
 
 " I think it is," said the Vicar, " if we rely on it, instead of 
 fighting one another/ 1 
 
 " I think/' said Mr. Dacre, with a sweet smile, " that it 
 is only you who want to fight/' And then they joined the 
 ladies. 
 
 The Vicar and his wife left shortly afterwards, much to 
 Lady Wrotham's relief, as she would not have been willing 
 to forego her usual family prayers, nor put one of her guests 
 to the discomfort of being obliged to N take part in a service of 
 which he had expressed his disapproval. 
 
 Mrs. Prentice, on the walk home, warmed by the good 
 cheer of which she had partaken and the memory of an inti- 
 mate chat with the great lady, of which her own share had 
 been most successfully carried through, had an impulse, rather 
 pathetic, of affection towards her husband. She tried to take 
 his arm, and said, " Mr. Dacre is a very earnest man. Don't 
 you think so, William ? " 
 
 The Vicar uncrooked his elbow, and let his wife's hand 
 fall to her side. " I think a good many things about Mr. 
 Dacre," he said coldly. " But they would hardly interest you 
 at present, Agatha." 
 
 Mrs. Prentice drew herself into her shell, and sporke no 
 more. 
 
CHAPTER XX 
 
 A RAILWAY JOURNEY, AND WHAT FOLLOWED 
 
 Mr. Frederick Prentice, in pursuance of his promise to 
 pay a week-end visit to his home at no distant date, had him- 
 self conveyed to Waterloo Station one Friday afternoon about 
 a month after Easter, and presented himself at the first-class 
 booking-office. He found himself forestalled there by a lady 
 of more than usual personal attractions, who was asking for a 
 ticket to Exton as he came up. Behind her stood her maid 
 holding, amongst other travelling effects, a dressing-bag with 
 the initials N. O'K. embossed on it. Fred Prentice grasped 
 the situation immediately and experienced the pleasureablo 
 sensation which is felt by young men of an admiring and 
 susceptible nature when confronted with female charms of a 
 high order. He congratulated himself on at last coming face 
 to face with Mrs.-O'Keefe, of whose good looks he had heard 
 much, but not, as he now thought, more than enough, and he 
 instantly decided that he would not wait for an introduction 
 until he reached home, but would deny himself indulgence in 
 the smoking of tobacco during the coming journey, and travel 
 in Mrs. O'Keefe's company. 
 
 The way was made unexpectedly easy for him, for when 
 the lady came to pay for her ticket she discovered that she 
 had just enough money in her purse to enable her to do so, 
 but none over for a ticket for her maid. She must have 
 given a sovereign in mistake for a shilling to her cabman, it 
 was decided in hurried consultation between the two of them ; 
 she remembered that he had driven off quickly without thank- 
 ing her, which she had thought odd at the time, because she 
 had doubted whether the three shillings she thought she had 
 
 219 
 
220 Exton Manor 
 
 given him was really enough for all that distance and all that 
 luggage. And, of course, she had not taken his number, and 
 even if she had, there would not be time to — and what on 
 earth were they to do now ? Fred came forward at this point 
 and introduced himself, and put the matter straight. Mrs. 
 O'Keefe was profusely grateful to him. She could not 
 think what she should have done without him. He, of 
 course, made light of his services, but as they walked to the 
 train together, she explaining and he sympathizing, diffidence 
 on either side was completely washed away, and it seemed 
 only natural that they should settle themselves in the same 
 carriage for the journey, and even admit some anxiety as to the 
 intrusion of a third party. 
 
 They had the carriage to themselves as far as Archest er, 
 and drank straw-coloured tea in entire amity out of the basket 
 Fred had ordered, talking all the time. Fred asked permis- 
 sion to light a cigarette, and received it ; and the evening 
 papers with which they had both provided themselves re- , 
 mained folded on the seats beside them. Never was a more 
 agreeable opening of friendship between a good-looking pleas- 
 ant-spoken young man and a beautiful young woman — if only 
 a looker-on, sympathetic on the point of such openings, had 
 not known what we as onlookers do know. 
 
 After the subject of the substituted sovereign had been dis- 
 cussed in all its bearings, the conversation turned to Exton 
 and its inhabitants. 
 
 " So much has happened there since I have left," said 
 Norah O'Keefe. " I suppose Lady Wrotham is fully installed 
 now, and has begun to lead everything and everybody. I 
 am dying to see her/' 
 
 " I think she has already begun to be rather tiresome about 
 the church services," said Fred. " I had a letter from my 
 father. He didn't say much, but I gathered that she objected 
 to a good deal and had told him so." 
 
 " I haven't heard from anybody while I have been away, 
 except one letter from Hilda Redcliffe just after I left, and 
 that was before Lady Wrotham came. I have written to 
 her once or twice but she hasn't answered. I can't think 
 why. Have you seen anything of the Redcliffes lately ? " 
 
 " I saw them when I was down at Exton." 
 
 " I hope you like them as much as I do. Mrs. Redcliffe 
 is the dearest woman, and Hilda is just as good, only rather 
 
A Railway Journey 221 
 
 impetuous, because she is young and hasn't seen much of 
 the world yet." 
 
 " Not as much as you have," suggested Fred, with a con- 
 quering smile. 
 
 " Well, that is hardly to be expected/' she said, more 
 seriously, " although I am not much older than she. But 
 don't you think she is a delightful girl ? M 
 
 Fred said he did think so, and turned the conversation again 
 towards the personality of his companion, in whom he exhi- 
 bited a sympathetic interest skilfully adapted to make her 
 talk about herself. And yet he had set out on his journey an 
 hour before hugging himself at the thought of seeing Hilda 
 Redcliffe so soon, and if he had been told that he should 
 travel to Exton in the company of a lady who wished to talk 
 about her and praise her, would have thought himself happy. 
 Norah O'Keefe brought in her name again shortly after, and 
 again met with a perfunctory agreement and an apparent 
 unwillingness to pursue the subject further. She looked at 
 him with some measure of appraisement in her eyes. She was 
 Hilda Redcliffe's intimate friend and must have heard some- 
 thing of her doings during those Christmas holidays, which 
 Fred had described regretfully as the best of vanished seasons. 
 She said no more about Hilda, but told him a good deal about 
 herself, rather more, perhaps, than she might have done had 
 he not betrayed such a keen interest in all she did tell him. 
 And when the train reached Greathampton at the end of an 
 hour and a half's run, Fred ventured to say that he never 
 remembered the journey passing so quickly, and she did not 
 contradict him. 
 
 They walked up and down the platform while they waited 
 for the slow train by which they were to finish their journey. 
 The sea-smell attacked their nostrils freshly, and the closing 
 dusk gave a tender turn to brisk thoughts of Spring and 
 pleasure. The sweet face of the girl, for she was nothing more 
 than a girl, framed in the waves of her bright hair and the furs 
 about her neck, her pretty clothes, and her air of frank com- 
 radeship, heightened by the mysterious feminine charms of her 
 youth and beauty, went to Fred's brain like wine. Episodes 
 in his life, in which he had experienced something of these 
 same sensations, prepared him to give a welcome to an intoxi- 
 cation which transcended them all. His feelings towards Hilda 
 had rested on other influences, although he told himself after- 
 
222 Exton Manor 
 
 wards that he had tried to impart to them this same glamour, 
 and failed. His love for her, such as it was, went out without 
 the flicker of an effort to hold its own, and he gave himself 
 over entirely to this new influence, was indeed swept off his 
 feet by it and swam in deep waters without a struggle to re- 
 gain the shore. By the time the train had dropped them at 
 the wayside station which served Exton and its neighbourhood, 
 and Norah had driven off in her brougham and he in the vicar- 
 age cart, he told himself that he had come to the crisis of his 
 life, and sat lapped in a fervour of sweet thoughts as he drove 
 home across the twilit heath and through the verdurous glooms 
 of the forest, looking back every now and then at the twin 
 lamps of the carriage following him, and picturing to himself 
 the wonderful creature who sat within it enshrined in the 
 dusk. 
 
 One may pause a moment to consider the first glamorous 
 steps of such a passion, tending of itself to no baseness, and 
 wonder how far the self-absorption it engenders will avail to 
 muffle the call of honour. Pity, that the summons which 
 brings the deeper natures to harbour, wafts the lighter to no 
 sure anchorage. 
 
 Fred was not sorry that his mother had not come to the 
 station to meet him, as was her wont, but he was a little sur- 
 prised, although he did not give the matter much thought 
 until he reached home. There he was soon informed about 
 the affairs which were disturbing the peace of Exton. His 
 father was away attending a meeting at Oakhurst, and would 
 not be back until nine o'clock supper, and his mother was 
 glad to have the hour which intervened clear for a talk with 
 him. She told him that she had intended to come to the 
 station to meet him, but had had to go and see Lady Wrotham 
 about something of importance. 
 
 " How do you get on with Lady Wrotham, mother ? " he 
 asked. " You have told me nothing about her in your letters. 
 In fact, you have hardly written to me since I was here last." 
 
 " I have been very much occupied/' said Mrs. Prentice. 
 " But there is a great deal to tell you, Fred. We are passing 
 through a very anxious time here, and I didn't want to 
 write about things that we could talk over when you came 
 down." 
 
 " Lady Wrotham is making a fuss about the services, isn't 
 she ? '• 
 
A Railway Journey 223 
 
 " Well, I don't know that she is doing that exactly. She 
 is quite out of sympathy with ritualism of any kind, but she is 
 a very religious woman and very anxious that the people 
 should — should be religious too. I find it a great help ta 
 have her advice and encouragement on what I try to do 
 myself." 
 
 41 And what about father ? Where does he come in ? " 
 
 " I am sorry to say that your father has not been like him- 
 self lately. He never talks to me about things, and he holds 
 himself aloof from all the efforts Lady Wrotham and I are 
 making." 
 
 " Well, I don't wonder, mother, if she is trying to dictate 
 to him as to how he shall conduct his own services. He 
 told me that. But how does it suit you ? Surely you are 
 keener on what I call the frills than father is ! " 
 
 " I have come to believe, Fred, that you are right in think- 
 ing them excrescences ; I do not care for the word frills. 
 There is none of that at Hurstbury, and Lady Wrotham draws, 
 a very attractive picture of the way all the people go to church 
 there and attend any services and meetings got up for their 
 benefit. I think that if the same sort of spirit existed here it 
 would be a good thing for the parish." 
 
 " Well, that is a change of face, mother ! " 
 
 Mrs. Prentice was offended. " That is not at all the way ta 
 look at it, Fred," she said. " It is very distressing to me to 
 have to go against your father in these or any other matters, 
 but I must follow my conscience, even when it is difficult to 
 do so, and even in the short experience I have had I can see 
 that there is more vital religion among the evangelicals than 
 the ritualists. I don't want to say anything against your 
 father — it would not be right to do so, to you — but really he is 
 so obstinate in his ideas, and so incapable of judging where the 
 right is, that — that it is most difficult for me at present." 
 
 She put her handkerchief to her eyes. She felt herself 
 sorely tried, and it was a relief to her to pour out her trouble 
 to her son. Fred, his mind filled with other thoughts, gave, 
 but slight attention to the disclosures that were being made 
 to him. He knew his mother very well, and could form a 
 pretty clear idea of the reasons that lay behind her various 
 actions. If she was on awkward terms with his father for 
 the time being, she would come round, as she had done before ; 
 and, anyhow, the affairs on which they were at issue were not 
 
224 Exton Manor 
 
 of much importance. But her next words effectually gained 
 his attention. 
 
 " I didn't know he had written to you," she said. " He 
 tells me nothing now. But, if he has, he will probably have 
 told you of this disgraceful business about Mrs. Redcliffe. He 
 takes a most unchristian line there, and* one that I cannot for- 
 give him for, considering all the circumstances, and how I 
 have been mixed up in it." 
 
 Fred stared at her. " Mrs. Redcliffe ! Disgraceful busi- 
 ness ! " he exclaimed. " What on earth do you rnean, 
 mother ? No, he told me nothing of that." „ 
 
 " Well, it turns out that Mrs. Redcliffe has been living here 
 all this time on false pretences. She is not Mrs. Redcliffe at 
 all. I don't know what she is, but she has no right to that 
 name. I will go on protesting as long as I have breath that 
 she is not properly married." 
 
 " Good heavens ! " exclaimed Fred. " Mrs. Redcliffe of 
 all people ! " 
 
 " Oh, I don't want to convey anything worse than the 
 reality, if anything could be worse. Goodness knows I have 
 suffered enough for daring to hold the opinions that I do. She 
 is a deceased wife's sister. Mr. Redcliffe married her elder 
 sister and then went through a form of marriage with her." 
 
 " Oh, is that all ? " said Fred. 
 
 " ALL ! " repeated his mother passionately. " And is it 
 not enough ? The Church will have nothing to do with such 
 a wicked travesty of marriage as that, and I will havenothing 
 to do with it either. And do you think that if Mrs. Redcliffe 
 had not been thoroughly ashamed of it, she would have hidden 
 it, as she has, from those who have allowed themselves to 
 make friends with her ? Of course she would not." 
 
 " I don't know. But surely, mother, you are not going to 
 quarrel with Mrs. Redcliffe because of this ! How did you 
 find it out ? " 
 
 " Lady Wrotham knew of it and was of course naturally 
 annoyed to come here and find the woman sitting on her very 
 door-step, so to speak. She is very charitable, a good deal 
 more so than I should be in her case, but she has been upset 
 by the insolence of that girl, and I could see she .would give a 
 lot to have them out of the place. And she coming down 
 here, an old lady, to end her days in peace, to be treated like 
 that ! It is too bad." 
 
A Railway Journey 225 
 
 M Why, what has — has Hilda done ? " 
 
 V She was extremely insolent to me, and so was Mrs. Red- 
 cliffe when they found out that I knew about it, and the girl 
 had the impudence to shout after me a rude message to give 
 to Lady Wrotham." 
 
 " Which you gave ? M 
 
 " She dragged it out of me. But I have done with them for 
 ever, and so have a good many other people in the neighbour- 
 hood, though, as might be expected, Captain Turner — a pretty 
 captain he is — and Mr. Browne, who is about as stupid as he 
 can be, and always follows the other man's lead, have turned 
 themselves into her champions and are always at the White 
 House, as thick as thieves. And, as I say, your father for 
 some unaccountable reason, chooses to put all his convictions 
 behind his back and say that nothing has happened to make 
 any difference in his friendship with the Redcliffes. He has 
 the sense, though, not to go there very often, and I suppose 
 we must be thankful for that small mercy. I do hope, Fred, 
 that you will not make it more difficult for me by being seen 
 at the White House, and about with the Redcliffes. There is 
 no reason at all why you should, for the short time you will 
 be here." 
 
 Fred thought for a moment. He did not want to go to 
 the White House. He would hardly have known what to do 
 or to say when he got there. At the same time, he did not 
 want to appear to be keeping away because of what had come 
 out about Mrs. Redcliffe. He thought that his mother 
 absurdly overrated the significance of her discovery, and that 
 it was hard on Mrs. Redcliffe to treat her with such hostility. 
 He ought to show her that he was far from being in sympathy 
 with that hostility. And he would do so, if occasion served. 
 In the meantime he had something of far greater import to 
 concern him. 
 
 " There is nothing particular to take me to the White 
 House," he said. " I say, mother, I came down from London 
 with Mrs. O'Keefe. She really is charming, and just as 
 beautiful as you said." He had not the art to stop a blush as 
 he introduced the name of the fair one, but Mrs. Prentice was 
 too occupied to notice it. 
 
 " Oh, she has come home, has she ? " she said. " That 
 will complicate matters, for the Redcliffes have managed to 
 worm themselves in there — I suppose because she has a 
 
 H (16) 
 
228 Exton Manor 
 
 handle to her name. Really, the snobbishness of some people 
 is past all belief. I should like to tell her how matters stand 
 before she hears a garbled account from her precious friends/* 
 
 " Why don't you go in and see her to-night after supper ? 
 I'd go with you." 
 
 A pang of shame struck him as he spoke. He was willing 
 that Hilda and her mother should be vilified, if that would 
 gain him an hour in the company he desired. But the pang 
 was instantly swallowed up in the eagerness of his wish. 
 
 " I think perhaps we might do that," said Mrs. Prentice. 
 " She has been away for a month, and could hardly take it 
 amiss." 
 
 " Well, I must go and unpack my clothes, and dress," said 
 Fred. " I suppose father will be home soon ? " 
 
 " Not for half-an-hour," said his mother. " Don't go yet, 
 Fred. I have such a lot to talk to you about. And you 
 needn't dress to-night. It is only supper." 
 
 -' I think I'll dress. I bhall be more comfortable," he said, 
 and he rose from his chair. He was not going to present 
 himself to the object of his desire late in the evening in a 
 tweed suit. And he wanted to get away from his mother, and 
 think. She insisted upon coming up to his room to unpack 
 for him, but he got rid of her in ten minutes and arrayed him- 
 self in his finest, to the accompaniment of tumultuous thoughts, 
 in which the troubles of the Redcliffes, his once desired friends, 
 found no place. 
 
 The Vicar gave his son an affectionate welcome when he 
 reached home, but he looked worried and anxious. The talk 
 over the supper table dragged. Mrs. Prentice and her hus- 
 band were hardly on speaking terms, and the remarks they 
 addressed to one another were perfunctory. And Fred was 
 in that early stage of passion in which a blissful reverie is 
 constantly demanded by the situation that it is apt to be 
 indulged in even when the presence of others would seem 
 to require some effort to throw off for a time the delightful 
 incubus. The meal did not take very long, and as Mrs. 
 Prentice rose from the table, she said, " If we are going down 
 to see Mrs. O'Keefe, Fred, I think we ought to go directly . 
 It is half -past nine." 
 
 Fred needed no second bidding, and sprang up from his seat. 
 But the Vicar stopped him. " Wait a minute/' he said. 
 " Has Mrs. O'Keefe come back yet ? " 
 
 (32) 
 
A Railway Journey 227 
 
 " Yes, I came down with her this evening,' ' said Fred. 
 
 " Why should you want to go and see her at this time of 
 the evening ? " 
 
 " She has been away for a month/' said Mrs. Prentice, 
 " and I thought it would be kind just to go over and see how 
 she is." 
 
 " I won't have it," said the Vicar. " You may leave 
 Mrs. O'Keefe to find out for herself what is happening 
 here." 
 
 " Indeed, William," began Mrs. Prentice indignantly, but 
 he broke in on her hotly : "I tell you, I won't have it, 
 Agatha. I have left you alone to take your own way so far, 
 but this is too much. You are not to go to Mrs. O'Keefe 
 to-night." 
 
 "Well, really " 
 
 " I definitely forbid you to go. Sit down, Fred, and drink 
 your wine." 
 
 The Vicar was not to be disobeyed by wife or son when in 
 this mood. Fred sat down obediently, in deep depression, and 
 Mrs. Prentice left the room w 7 ith as close an appearance of 
 dignified offence as she could effect. 
 
 14 I suppose you have been told of what has been discovered 
 about Mrs. Redcliffe," said the Vicar, when she had shut the 
 door behind her. " She is in no way to blame, and it dis- 
 tresses me beyond measure that your mother should take the 
 view she does of what has happened. A good woman like 
 that, who has made a mistake in her life — from the strictest 
 point of view it was nothing more than that — ought to be 
 treated with extra sympathy if she is in trouble about it, and 
 not persecuted. I won't say more, but I am greatly disturbed 
 over what is happening." 
 
 " I don't see what she can be blamed for," said Fred, and 
 there was silence for a time. 
 
 The Vicar roused himself. " Well, my boy," he said, " I 
 am glad to see you home again. And how are you getting on ? 
 Getting through a lot of work, I hope." 
 
 "Oh, yes, father ; I wanted to talk to you — I've got hold of 
 something. If I can go in for it it ought to be a jolly good 
 thing for me — it isn't a chance you'd get every day." 
 
 " Well, what is it, Fred ? I suppose you mean you want to 
 put money into something. I don't think you ought to do 
 that, you know, till you get called." 
 
 (26) 
 
228 Exton Manor 
 
 " If I waited till then I should lose this chance. And it's 
 one in a thousand. A fellow I know well is going in for it 
 and he gave me the opportunity. He could easily have got 
 somebody else." 
 
 "Well, what is it? " 
 
 " It's the rights in a patent. My friend has got hold of 
 a German inventor who has discovered colour photography." 
 
 " Oh, my dear Fred ! " 
 
 " But, father, I've seen it. It is the most wonderful work. 
 There's no doubt about it. There's an enormous fortune in 
 it. I said a patent, but it isn't exactly that. If it was 
 patented the secret would be given away. This German 
 found it out by chance, and he says the chances are a million 
 to one against anybody else hitting on it. We just want two 
 thousand pounds. My friend — Salter his name is — he was at 
 Oxford with me- — will put in one thousand and I should have 
 to put in the other. Then we should work the thing and take 
 a third share each. The German hasn't got any money." 
 
 " I don't think it sounds the sort of thing, Fred, that you 
 ought to sink almost every penny you have in. Supposing 
 this German is a fraud." 
 
 " But he isn't. He's done what he says he can do. I've 
 seen it. It's wonderful. There's nothing like it. There are 
 all the colours, perfect ; it is like looking at a real scene." 
 
 " Have you got one of his pictures here ? " 
 
 "No. I meant to bring one down to show you. But he 
 only has three of them. It's an expensive process — at least 
 it costs as much to do one as to do hundreds, and his money 
 gave out. He can't begin again till he gets it all settled up." 
 
 " H'm. Well, of course it may be all right. If he has 
 really discovered proper colour photography, there ought to be 
 a lot in it, as you say. We will talk about it again, Fred — I 
 must go into my study now — and see what can be done. I 
 shall have more time to-morrow." 
 
 Fred sat a little longer at the table. With a certain fortune 
 awaiting him, and love smiling on his path, he felt himself one 
 of the most favoured of mortals. 
 
 If Mrs. Prentice had succeeded in her intention of calling 
 on Mrs. O'Keefe that evening, she would not have found her. 
 Norah had learnt of what had befallen her friends before she 
 had been long in her house, and immediately after dinner she 
 
 (10) 
 
A Railway Journey 229 
 
 had attired herself and summoned her maid to accompany 
 her to the White House. There had been no occasion for 
 explanations or discussions. The three women had fallen on 
 one another's necks and shed a few tears together. Then 
 she had told them of her visits and adventures, sitting with her 
 hand clasped in Hilda's, and returned home at eleven o'clock, 
 leaving behind her the solace of her warm Irish heart. 
 
 (12) 
 
CHAPTER XXI 
 
 TWO VISITS 
 
 The embargo which the Vicar had set upon his wife's visit 
 to Mrs. O'Keefe was considered by Mrs. Prentice to have re- 
 moved itself automatically by the next morning. It was really 
 of very great importance that she should see Mrs. O'Keefe at 
 once, for there was no telling what might happen if Mrs. Red- 
 cliffe and Hilda were to pounce down and get their talons into 
 her. She would at any rate be put into quite a false position, 
 and Mrs. Prentice, apart from a natural desire to get the 
 better of her opponents, would be sorry from altruistic 
 motives that this should happen to one whom she honoured 
 with her friendship, and quite intended, as a reward for good 
 behaviour, that Lady Wrotham should also honour with as 
 much friendship as was desirable. This was how the matter 
 presented iflself to her, and she resolved to visit Mrs. O'Keefe 
 directly her husband should have shut himself up in his study, 
 which on Saturday morning he was accustomed to do at half- 
 past nine o'clock. Not that she wished to hide her intention 
 from him ; she hoped she knew what was due to him better 
 than that. But these constant bickerings and this unmanly 
 violence were painful, and to be avoided if possible. 
 
 She had not intended, cither, to disclose her purpose to 
 her son, but Fred lay in wait for her after breakfast and asked 
 her with something rather sheepish in his expression if 
 she was thinking of calling on Mrs. O'Keefe, and, when 
 she hesitated, said, " I may as well stroll down with you if 
 you are going." So it was arranged that they should go 
 together in half-an-hour's time, and Mrs. Prentice retired to 
 set on foot the domestic enterprises of the day with some- 
 thing to think about in the intervals of her " ordering." 
 
 230 
 
 (28) 
 
Two Visits 231 
 
 Could it be possible that there was more in Fred's desire 
 to accompany her on a visit to Mrs. O'Keefe than the mere 
 pleasure of his mother's society ? Experience reminded her 
 that he was not as a rule over-anxious to accompany her on 
 her expeditions, and more frequently than not excused him- 
 self from so doing when invited. The entrance of a grati- 
 fying idea into her mind took away discomfort from that 
 reminder. He certainly seemed very desirous of seeing Mrs. 
 O'Keefe. Was it possible that he had already fallen a victim 
 to her charms, which even Mrs. Prentice admitted to be of 
 no mean order ? Odd, that such a possibility had never yet 
 entered her mind ! possibly because of Mrs. O'Keefe's 
 widowhood. But after all she was quite young still, a year 
 or two younger than Fred himself. She must be well off, 
 from the way in which she lived. She was beautiful and 
 well-born. The Honourable Mrs. Frederick Prentice ! It 
 would certainly sound well. By the bye, would she still be 
 the Honourable, if she married again ? Mrs. Prentice was 
 not sure, but could easily find out. A pity if it were not so, 
 but even if not the advantages would be great. Truly this 
 was a gratifying subject for reflection, where reflection on 
 other developments of the moment were beginning to be 
 somewhat depressing, in spite of apparent success. So Mrs. 
 Prentice got through her ordering as quickly as possible, and 
 turned these thoughts over in her mind as she put on her hat 
 and coat in her bedroom, and then went down into the hall 
 where Fred was impatiently waiting, determined to use her 
 eyes and ears to advantage. 
 
 Nothing of course was further from her intention at 
 present than to let Fred see that her eyes were opened. She 
 talked in quite an ordinary manner of Mrs. O'Keefe as they 
 walked together the few yards that divided the gate of the 
 Vicarage from the front door of the Street House on the 
 other side of the road, but from Fred's mode of answering 
 her, offhand as it was, gathered enough even in that short 
 space to confirm her suspicions. " I think we will ask Mrs. 
 O'Keefe to dine with us to-night," she said, as they stood 
 waiting for admission, and Fred's " Yes, do, mother ! " was 
 quite what she had expected. 
 
 The door was opened by Bridget, Mrs. O'Keefe's elderly 
 Irish cook-housekeeper. She gazed at Mrs. PiShtice with a 
 broad wooden face, and did not respond to that lady's affable 
 
 (30) 
 
232 Exton Manor 
 
 smile as she said, " Good-morning, Bridget. Is your mistress 
 at home ? " 
 
 " Not at home/' replied Bridget. 
 
 Mrs. Prentice was a little taken aback. The unpleasant 
 thought crossed her mind that Mrs. O'Keefe might even now 
 be on her way to the White House, and that her early visit 
 ought to have been still earlier. 
 
 " Gone out already ? " she said. " Dear me ! I particu- 
 larly wanted to see her. Will she be long, Bridget ? I 
 
 might wait " 
 
 Not at home/' repeated Bridget, with the same expression, 
 or lack of it. 
 
 The shadow of another unpleasant thought just crossed 
 Mrs. Prentice's mind. But that was impossible. 
 
 " Where has she gone and how long will she be ? " she 
 asked, more peremptorily. 
 
 Bridget's face broke into meaning. " She's gone no- 
 where," she said ; " but she's not at home. Shure, in high 
 society that's understood well enough, and I'd have nothing 
 else to say if you were to keep me here all day, Mrs. Pren- 
 tice, ma'am." 
 
 Then the impossible had happened. But no, it must be 
 the woman's stupidity. Mrs. Prentice summoned another 
 smile. " I see," she said. " Your mistress is tired after her 
 journey and does not wish to see visitors. You are quite 
 right, Bridget, to shield her from intrusion. But just go 
 and tell her, my good woman, that Mrs. Prentice would like 
 to see her for a few minutes — and Mr. Frederick Prentice. 
 I am sure your orders do not extend to me." 
 
 Bridget still stood immovable at the door. " Shure, 
 nothing was said about young Mr. Prentice," she said. 
 " He's welcome to come in if he likes. But ' I'm not at 
 home to Mrs. Prentice if she calls, Bridget, and tell the 
 other maids so,' was the orders I received, and the orders I'll 
 follow, sugar or vinegar." 
 
 The exact meaning of the final qualification escaped Mrs. 
 Prentice in the consternation produced by what had preceded 
 it. " There must be some mistake," she said, after draw- 
 ing herself up in offended dignity, and glaring at Bridget. 
 " I shall write to Mrs. O'Keefe," and she turned on her 
 heel. 
 
 Bridget was not in the least subdued by her manner. 
 
 (14) 
 
Two Visits 233 
 
 " Won't you come in now ? " she said to Fred. " The 
 mistress is in the garden/' 
 
 Mrs. Prentice turned round. " You had better go in, I 
 think, Fred," she said, " and just explain what has happened. 
 It is of no use my doing anything more in face of this woman's 
 stupidity. I shall certainly complain to Mrs. O'Keefe of it." 
 
 " Thank you for nothing, ma'am," said Bridget cheer- 
 fully, as she stood aside to give entrance to Fred. " Cats 
 must scratch and moles burrow. Step in here, yer honour, 
 and I'll tell the mistress." 
 
 Fred was left alone for five minutes or so in the little 
 room just off the hall into which he had been shown. His 
 mind was somewhat disturbed, but it was more with annoy- 
 ance against his mother than anything. Of course Mrs. 
 O'Keefe, as the intimate friend of the Redcliffes that she 
 had acknowledged herself to him, would take their side in 
 the present crisis, and he could well believe, both from what 
 he knew of her and from what she had told him, that his 
 mother had so behaved that it was impossible for anyone 
 who did sympathize with Mrs. Redcliffe to do anything but 
 refuse parley with her altogether. It was very annoying 
 that it should have happened thus just at this particular time, 
 but it was fortunate, at any rate, that the refusal did not at 
 present extend to him. He would have to be very careful 
 to use this rather questionable opportunity to advantage, for 
 if he failed to do so it might be difficult to secure another. 
 
 He gave himself up, so far as the fluttering of expectation 
 in his heart would allow him, to an eager inspection of the 
 room. He was in one of the chapels of the goddess's temple, 
 a chapel sacred to her more homely occupations. It was the 
 cosiest of little chapels. A basket of needlework stood by an 
 easy-chair, on one side of the bright fire, and another easy- 
 chair stood on the other side, the two together suggesting a 
 delightful picture of intimacy, in which the lady was repre- 
 sented at her sewing and a friend, happily ensconced, talking 
 to her and watching her face bent over her work. Here were 
 her books, many of them beautifully bound — she read poetry 
 — good poetry — her writing-table, crowded with silver knick- 
 knacks. A useful little room, not furnished in the main with 
 an eye to effect, but pretty all the same, and with evidences 
 not only of taste but of some wealth. It was crowded with 
 photographs, photographs of the sort of people with whom Bred 
 
234 Exton Manor 
 
 liked best to be associated and with whom he considered him- 
 self most at home, some of the women in Court finery, many 
 of the men — the photographs of men were a little too numer- 
 ous to please him altogether — in uniform. The one in a big 
 tortoise-shell and silver frame on the writing-table of a young 
 man in the frock coat and undress cap of the Guards must be 
 her husband. A very smart and good-looking young man, 
 with fair hair, and eyes that could only have been blue, he 
 looked out into the world as if nothing could have been 
 further removed from him than a grave on the lonely veldt, 
 and, within a few paces, the great darkness standing like a 
 wall across the sunny road of his life. 
 
 Fred turned away from the picture, and just then Norah 
 O'Keefe came into the room. She shook hands with him, 
 smiling, but it was plain that she was embarrassed. " Here 
 is the sovereign you so kindly lent me," she said. " And I 
 am so very much obliged to you. I should have sent it up 
 this morning/' 
 
 " I hope you don't think I came here for that," said Fred, 
 smiling at her in return. 
 
 She became grave. " I hope Bridget was not rude to Mrs. 
 Prentice," she said. " I should be sorry for that ; but I dare 
 say you have heard something of what has been happening 
 here. I only did last night, or I should have warned you 
 yesterday that I could not possibly remain friends with Mrs. 
 Prentice. I could not even have her in my house." 
 
 She stood in front of him, looking into his eyes. He 
 dropped his own. " I'm afraid," he said, " that my mother 
 feels rather strongly about the Redcliffes," and would have 
 said more but she broke in — 
 
 " Oh, it is much more than that. She has behaved abomin- 
 ably. I must say it, even to you. If it had not been for 
 her, no one would have thought anything of this at all. She 
 is doing her best to set everybody against Mrs. Redcliffe ; and 
 the only thing left for that dear woman's friends — those who 
 stand by her, and they wouldn't be worth calling friends if 
 they didn't show now how much they love and respect her — • 
 is to have nothing at all to do with Mrs. Prentice till she 
 comes to her senses. That is what I am going to do any- 
 how. I will not even bow to her when I meet her. I feel hot 
 with indignation when I think of what she is doing." 
 
 Fred stole a look at her face. It seemed to him more 
 
Two Visits 235 
 
 beautiful than ever in its earnestness. But he felt very 
 uncomfortable, not knowing how far she intended to include 
 him in her sentence of enmity, for she had been so carried 
 away by her indignation that it had seemed as if he had been 
 standing there to receive it. 
 
 " I'm very sorry about it all," he said. " Of course, I 
 think mother is very wrong ; and my father thinks so, too, 
 you know, only he doesn't seem to be able to do anything 
 with her at present. She'll come round, 3'ou know. She 
 always does in time." 
 
 " And in the meantime, dear Mrs. Redcliffe and Hilda too 
 are to be run down and their lives made miserable to them. 
 Oh, it is dreadful ! I wouldn't have believed that any nice 
 woman could have behaved in that way." 
 
 " At any rate, Mrs. O'Keefe, neither my father nor I take 
 the line that my mother does." 
 
 " I believe Mr. Prentice has been kind about it. I haven't 
 heard anything from Mrs. Redcliffe herself, though I did go 
 up to see her last night. I shouldn't care to discuss it with 
 her unless she wanted to ; I would much rather show her that 
 it is all nothing to me, that I love her all the more because 
 she is passing through trouble and anxiety. I don't want the 
 horrible unkindness to throw its shadow over our friendship. 
 But Bridget, my maid, has told me a great deal. She is trust- 
 worthy and keeps her eyes and ears open. She said that the 
 Vicar had been up to see Mrs. Redcliffe, and that he had 
 talked to her as they were going into church on Sunday, while 
 Mrs. Prentice walked on with her head in the air. I ought 
 not to be talking to you like this about your mother, I sup- 
 pose, but I am not going to try and hide my feelings. I feel 
 very angry with her, and indeed I will not hide it." 
 
 " I hope you don't feel angry with me," Fred ventured to 
 say. They had been standing opposite to one another during 
 the foregoing conversation, and it was not even now clear 
 whether she regarded him as a friend or an enemy. 
 
 She looked at him with eyes in which for the first time there 
 was a sign of interest. " We may as well sit down," she 
 said. " No, I don't feel angry with you. But I should if I 
 thought you agreed with Mrs. Prentice in what she is doing. 
 But I am sure you can't. I won't do you that injustice. 
 They are friends of yours, are they not ? The most intimate 
 friends you have here." 
 
236 Exton Manor 
 
 " Yes, I suppose they are." He turned his cap In his hands 
 and bent his eyes on the carpet uneasily. 
 
 Norah O'Keefe looked at him with eyes that were question- 
 ing and a trifle impatient. " Then whaj: are you going to 
 do ? " she asked. 
 
 He looked up at her. " Do ? " he repeated. " What can 
 I do ? " 
 
 ' ■ What I should have thought any sincere friend would 
 have done in a case like this. That would be to take the 
 very first opportunity of going to the White House and show- 
 ing that he was a friend. That is what Mr. Browne and 
 Captain Turner both did directly they heard of it, and I 
 honour them for it." 
 
 An unpleasant remembrance came to Fred's mind of Browne 
 and Turner sparring together over this lady, who was now 
 singing their praises in return. The impudence of the self- 
 satisfied middle-aged male ! At any rate he was not going to 
 be behind them in a matter of generosity, if it was generosity 
 she wanted for the moment. 
 
 " I don't see how they could have done less," he said, " and 
 of course, I'm going to do the same. But, you know, my 
 position is a little different to theirs. I think my mother is 
 wrong, but I can't very well say so to Mrs. Redcliffe." 
 
 " Why not, Mr. Prentice ? You have said it to me. You 
 are quite right to say it." 
 
 " Well, that's rather different." 
 
 " I really don't see it. It isn't of much importance what 
 you say to me, but it is of great importance what you say to 
 them. And you knew them so well. Why, Hilda and you 
 are the greatest friends, aren't you ? " 
 
 There was a challenge in her question. He answered it as 
 best he could. " Yes, we have always been good friends," he 
 said. " Of course, she is a good deal younger than I am. I 
 have known her ever since she was in short frocks." 
 
 " I don't think any man — any young man, could have a 
 better friend than Hilda Redcliffe. She is true to the very 
 bottom of her heart. She is a splendid girl. Oh, Mr. Pren- 
 tice, surely you'll go now, at once, and make them feel that 
 nothing is altered because of this. Every minute you delay 
 takes away from the effect of your going ; and they do want 
 their friends around them now." 
 
 " Yes, I'll go," he said. He paused a moment and then 
 
Two Visits 237 
 
 rose. " I'll go now ; and may I come back and tell you how 
 I have got on ? " 
 
 She rose too, and looked at him hesitatingly, almost dis- 
 trustfully. " I think — wouldn't it be better," she said 
 slowly, " if you didn't come to see me until — well, until I 
 am able to be friends with your mother again ? I should be 
 glad to see you, of course, but " 
 
 " Then, if you would be glad to see me, I shall come," he 
 said boldly. " And as for my mother, I shall be able to turn 
 her. I believe I have more influence over her than anybody." 
 
 " I hope you will succeed. It is terrible that there should 
 be this division amongst us. We have always got on well 
 together here. But things seem to have changed altogether 
 while I have been away. Well, good-bye, Mr. Prentice. I 
 am sure your going up to the White House now will give 
 them both a great deal of pleasure. I am glad you are 
 going." 
 
 She accompanied him to the door, talking all the time, and 
 shut it with a final good-bye, before he had time to say again 
 that he was coming back.* He walked down the village and 
 up to the White House in no very equable frame of mind. 
 What a confounded nuisance it was, that while under ordinary 
 circumstances he would have been able to see a great deal of 
 her in the most friendly and natural way, this disturbance had 
 come to cut her off from him, and make her approachable only 
 by efforts on his part which it would require some pains to 
 make. And he had made no headway towards further inti- 
 macy at all. She had been taken up with the affairs of her 
 friends, and had treated him only as a means of helping on 
 their interests. Bother the Redcliffes ! 
 
 But how beautiful she had been in her outspoken loyalty 
 and indignation ! He might have travelled alone with her as 
 he had done yesterday every day for a week, and she would 
 not have shown him so much of her character as she had done 
 during the short interview he had just had with her. He' was 
 not the ordinary young fool who was content to chatter aim- 
 lessly with a pretty woman, basking in the warmth of her 
 beauty and charm, without wanting to go deeper. Beauty of 
 character, he told himself, was even more to him than beauty 
 of face and form, and quite believed that if Norah O'Keefe 
 had been far less beautiful than she was, he would yet have 
 fallen deeply in love with her. She was inspiring. She would 
 
238 Exton Manor 
 
 help a lover to climb to higher altitudes than he was capable 
 of mounting by himself. Oh, that he and she might scale the 
 dizzy crags of life, walking hand in hand along the easier 
 slopes, cutting steps together up the frozen walls, and bound 
 always to one another by the strong rope of love ! He would 
 make himself worthy of her. It would be easy work with 
 such an inspiration. In fact there would be nothing to do but 
 just to think of her. Once more he trod on air, and so tread- 
 ing came to the White House and went in. 
 
 Hilda was in the smaller sitting-room, arranging flower- 
 vases. She could not have escaped him if she would, for there 
 was no way out of the inner room but through the larger par- 
 lour into which he was shown, and the door was open between 
 the two rooms. But she had no special wish to escape him, 
 although his visit gave her no pleasure. Neither he nor his 
 affairs had been much in her mind of late, and he was too 
 closely allied to the enemy to be received without suspicion. 
 But he must be given a chance, like the rest of the world, to 
 clear himself of that suspicion, so she left her flower table in 
 the inner room and came out to him, with the question in her 
 eyes that was always there now when she met those who had 
 not yet declared themselves. 
 
 " Oh, how do you do ? " she said. " I won't shake hands, 
 because mine are wet and rather dirty." 
 
 It was a pity that he could not shake hands. He might 
 have put some warmth into that simple act. For the life of 
 him he could put none into his spoken greeting, although he 
 tried hard. " I only came down last night," he said. " I 
 hope you and Mrs. Redcliffe are all right, Hilda." 
 
 His eyes dropped, and her face hardened. " We are all 
 right in health, thank yau," she said ; " otherwise, we* are not 
 all right. I suppose you know that ? " 
 
 " I have heard something/' he stammered, without meeting 
 her gaze. " And I am very sorry for it." 
 
 " Sorry for what ? " she demanded. 
 
 He had an impulse of irritation and looked up. " Sorry for 
 the fuss that is being made about nothing," he said. 
 
 She was not appeased, although there was nothing she could 
 take hold of in his actual words. But could he have spoken 
 like that if he had really been on their side — hers and her 
 mother's ? Turner had not spoken like that, nor even Browne. 
 And Norah O'Keefe — she had just come into the room and 
 
Two Visits 239 
 
 thrown her arms around their necks. There had been nj 
 need to ask her for what she was sorry. 
 
 " It isn't exactly nothing to us/' she said ; " and as for the 
 fuss that is being made — a better word would be wicked- 
 ness." 
 
 1 Again he felt annoyed. Why should he stand still to be 
 addressed in this way when he had only come with good 
 intentions, and out of pure generosity of heart ? 
 
 " You can hardly expect me to take quite that view, Hilda," 
 he said, u considering that it is my mother who " 
 
 " Then, if you don't take that view," she flamed out at 
 him, " why do you come here at all ? It is an insult that you 
 should come near us." 
 
 " I came because I wanted you to know that — that I don't 
 agree with my mother, in — in what she says. I came out of 
 
 friendship. But if you think my coming is an insult " 
 
 ' You would have kept away. I wish you had kept away. 
 Everything you say makes it worse. You don't agree with 
 your mother ! How very kind of you ! We are still to be 
 allowed to bask in your patronage then, as long as we behave 
 ourselves ! " 
 
 The concentrated scorn and bitterness in her young voice 
 and on her face might have moved him to some feeling other 
 than resentment, if his conscience had been clearer. Bui: 
 this was the girl whom he had last parted from as her all but 
 confessed lover, and his desertion of her, although she did 
 not yet know of it, lay between them, and must have pre- 
 vented his saying anything that could satisfy her, whatever he 
 had said. 
 
 Mrs. Redcliffe came into the room before he could reply. 
 " Here is Fred, mother," said Hilda contemptuously, " come 
 to say that he doesn't .quite agree with everything that Mrs. 
 Prentice is saying and doing at present." 
 
 " Hilda has flown at me like a tiger," said Fred, " for 
 having the impudence, as she calls it, to come here at all. I 
 only came to see you, as soon as ever I could, Mrs. Redcliffe, 
 to tell you how sorry I am about this, and — and I hope it will 
 make no difference in our friendship." 
 
 Mrs. Redcliffe sat down on the sofa. She was beginning 
 to feel the effect of these constantly recurring discussions, 
 and this one did not promise to yield much satisfaction. 
 
 " I am afraid it is bound to make some difference, Fred," 
 
240 Exton Manor 
 
 she said, " though it is kind of you to come. Your mother 
 would not care for you to be here so often as you used to be, 
 and I should be sorry to give her occasion for further hostilit}^. 
 !So I am afraid we must be content not to see much of each 
 other at present/' 
 
 Fred was afraid, too, that it must be so. Of course, he 
 thought his mother was in the wrong, but Mrs. Redcliffe 
 would see that he could not go against her altogether ; that is 
 he would do what he could to bring about a better under- 
 standing, but — but he could not do what Mrs. O'Keefe, for 
 instance, had done and— well, send her to Coventry. 
 
 Thus, stammeringly and ending with a sort of shame- 
 faced jocularity, Mr. Frederick Prentice, altogether relieved 
 in his mind that it should be understood that he was not to 
 come to the White House again, but anxious to avoid all 
 blame in keeping away. Mrs. Redcliffe listened to him, not 
 without some signs of mild surprise, her eyes on his face ; 
 and Hilda also kept her eyes on his face, her brows bent and 
 the little vertical line between them becoming more pronounced 
 as he stumbled through his speech. Then she spoke. 
 
 " How do you know/' she said sharply, " that Mrs. O'Keefe 
 has sent Mrs. Prentice to Coventry, as you call it ? " 
 
 " Because we went to see her this morning and she had 
 given orders that she was not at home to my mother. It was 
 explained to her by the servant without any hesitation." 
 
 A gleam of satisfaction passed across Hilda's face, but it 
 was quickly overshadowed. " There is no doubt about our 
 real friends," she said. " Then Mrs. Prentice took the very 
 first opportunity after Mrs. O'Keefe's coming home, to go 
 and poison her mind against us, or to try to, for she wouldn't 
 have succeeded. How like her ! And you went with her, 
 knowing what she was going to do." 
 
 " I — I shouldn't have let her say anything against Mrs. 
 Redcliffe." 
 
 Hilda turned away. " I've got nothing more to say to 
 you," she said, and then turned round again quickly and 
 added, " and I hope I never shall have." Then she went into 
 the inner room. 
 
 Mrs. Redcliffe rose. " Good-bye, Fred," she said, holding 
 out her hand. " I am sure you meant kincfiy in coming, but 
 I don't quite understand why you came." 
 
 Fred stammered something inaudible and went out. He 
 
Two Visits 241 
 
 struck the gravel with his stick as he went down the dri^e. 
 " Why on earth did I go ? " he said angrily. " That girl is 
 turning into a vixen. It's a lucky escape." 
 
 Mrs. Redcliffe went in to her daughter. " That's all over," 
 said Hilda, turning to her. " Mother, I would never have 
 said one friendly word to Fred Prentice if I had known w T hat 
 he really was. I did know he was idle and selfish, but I 
 never thought he was so mean and poor-spirited as he has 
 shown himself. He is worse than his mother, for she has got 
 the excuse of her horrid nature. Oh, mother, when will it 
 all end ? " 
 
 She broke into a passion of tears and threw herself into 
 her mother's arms. Mrs. Redcliffe soothed her, but it was 
 not till long after that she was calm again. There^was that 
 in the minds of both of them that could not be put into 
 words, but as she sobbed out her distress at her mother's 
 knee, both of them knew that a line had been drawn across 
 a chapter' of her life in which much more might have been 
 written. 
 
 Fred Prentice walked quickly down to the village, throwing 
 off the unpleasant memories of his late performance as he 
 went, and rang again at the porch of Street House. But he 
 was told that Mrs. O'Keefe had driven out and would not be 
 back before luncheon, and went home once more a prey to 
 acute discomfort of mind. 
 
CHAPTER XXII 
 
 THREE MEN AND A LADY 
 
 Maximilian Browne rose early on that Saturday morning 
 and took a cold bath, after a steady half-hour's manipulation 
 of an elastic exerciser. He went down to breakfast as the 
 clock struck eight, feeling himself every inch a man. After 
 breakfast he lit a pipe and inspected his stables and garden. 
 "That's the way to live, Sally," he said to the fox-terrier that 
 accompanied him, and showed the liveliest interest in his con- 
 fidences. " I've been getting slack lately. Hot baths and 
 cigarettes before breakfast, and breakfast at nine o'clock or 
 later — it pla}^s the deuce and all. If I keep this up, as I 
 mean to, I shall take off a stone in no time. And by George, 
 it makes you feel fit, don't it ? " 
 
 He stretched his arms and yawned. " Come and sit down 
 on a seat, Sally," he went on. " We've got an hour before 
 we need go to the office. We'll see how we stand." 
 
 It was a sunny May morning, and Browne brought out a 
 comfortable basket-chair and ensconced h\mself under a 
 blossoming apple tree on the lawn. Sally jumped upon his 
 lap. 
 
 " Now then, little dog, we've made up our minds, haven't 
 we ? " he said, caressing her shoulders with a large hand and 
 jerking his face away from her tongue. " Chuck it, Sally. 
 If you don't keep quiet I shan't talk of anything. Well, 
 we're not going to play the fool any longer. We don't want 
 to get married. We've very well off as we are. And if we 
 don't want to get married, Sally, what's the good of hanging 
 about — you know what I mean — and spoiling the chances of 
 people who do ? Of course she's a very pretty lady, Sally. 
 You know that as well as I do. Still, we've done very well 
 
 242. 
 
Three Men and a Lady 243 
 
 without her for the last month, and we'll go on doing without 
 her, eh ? Nothing simpler, Sally. We'll get up early every 
 morning and do a good day's work — get down to the office at 
 half-past nine sharp, hack about and sweat the weight off in 
 the afternoon all through the summer, read some'ing pretty 
 stiff for an hour after dinner, so's to rub up our brains a bit. 
 Not the sort of rubbish Turner reads. We'll have a go at 
 Horace, I think, Sally — with a crib. Used to be pretty good 
 at Horace at school. Jupiter and Maecenas, Sally, and all 
 those old fellows. Then we'll go to bed early and sleep like 
 tops. We'll save a bit of money ; perhaps we might look out 
 for a pupil or two, and buy a good weight carrier for the 
 
 winter. It ain't a bad life, Sally, and Hulloa ! going 
 
 to sleep ? Well, you're a nice sort o' girl to tell things to. 
 What's the time ? Quarter to nine. Now, yesterday we 
 were only just thinking of getting up. Makes you feel a bit 
 slack at first, getting up early, doesn't it ? " 
 
 There was silence for an hour while man and dog slum- 
 bered peacefully. The flickering shadows played over them, 
 and the breeze stroked them lightly, scattering pink blossoms. 
 
 Browne awoke with a start and dropped the dog from his 
 lap. M By Jove, a quarter to ten ? " he exclaimed. " What 
 the deuce ! " He hurried round to the stable and ordered 
 out his cart. " Meant to walk," he said, " but I'm a bit 
 late." 
 
 He drove down to his office and busied himself in affairs. 
 About eleven o'clock his clerk came in with a note. " From 
 Mrs. O'Keefe," he said. Browne's pink face grew a shade 
 pinker as he opened it. " Oh, she's come back, has she ? " 
 he said, in elaborate innocence. 
 
 The note enclosed a cheque for a quarter's rent, and apolo- 
 gized for its being overdue. Browne endorsed the cheque and 
 handed it over. 
 
 " Shall I send the receipt round ? " asked the clerk. 
 
 " Yes. No, I may as well take it myself. I'm going that 
 way — to the Lodge. Get it ready and I'll sign it." 
 
 A little later Browne knocked at the door of Street House, 
 and learnt that Mrs. O'Keefe had driven out and would not 
 be back before luncheon. " Well, I'll leave this," he said. 
 " And you might tell Mrs. O'Keefe that I'll drop in and see 
 her about tea-time." Then he made his way to the Lodge, 
 where sundry repairs were in progress. The estate foreman 
 
244 Exton Manor 
 
 said afterwards that he must have got out of bed the wrong 
 side that morning. 
 
 Captain Thomas Turner was lying in bed at that very time, 
 not feeling at all well. He had sat up until long past daylight 
 deeply absorbed in a masterpiece by one of his favourite nov- 
 elists, who carried his romances to unusual lengths, and had 
 demanded the incense of nearly two ounces of tobacco and a 
 corresponding libation of whisky before he finally extricated 
 his characters from the appalling vicissitudes through which he 
 had led them. Captain Turner felt that he had passed through 
 a great strain, and groaned frequently as he crept out of bed 
 and went through a slow but incomplete toilet. 
 
 " Shave when I feel a little better," he said to himself, and 
 went downstairs in a Norfolk jacket and with a scarf round 
 his neck. He sat out in the sunshine while his breakfast was 
 being prepared, gathering strength as the cool breezes played 
 round his forehead. 
 
 " This won't do, you know," he said aloud to himself. 
 " It's a rotten life. Nobody to talk to and take you out of 
 yourself, and sitting up all night smoking and drinking and 
 using your brain when you ought to be in bed. It's all very 
 well, but you begin to feel it as you grow older. A man 
 oughtn't to live alone when he gets past forty. Never felt 
 that so strongly before." 
 
 He sat immersed in thought for some time. Then he raised 
 his eyes and looked down the pleasant valley, but without see- 
 ing anything that lay before him. " I've a jolly good mind to 
 try my luck," he said. 
 
 M I beg your pardon, sir ? " said the neat maid who came 
 out of the house at this moment. " Oh, beg pardon. Break- 
 fast is ready, sir." 
 
 Turner ate his breakfast, thinking hard the while. Dis- 
 jointed sentences fell from his lips from time to time. " Why 
 shouldn't I ? . . . I've got plenty of money, and I'd alter 
 the house if she wanted it. . . . Have to keep that old fool, 
 Browne, out of the way. . . . S'pose he'd laugh, but I 
 shouldn't mind that." 
 
 When he had finished breakfast he stood for a time beside 
 the window. " Have to see her," he said. " Couldn't do it 
 in writing. . . . Might send a note and say I'm coming 
 this afternoon. . . . Matter of importance — to see you on 
 a question of great importance — question of — matter of great 
 
Three Men and a Lady 245 
 
 importance. . . . H'm ! Perhaps better leave it alone. 
 ... No ; I'll go through with it. . . . Can only say no. 
 . . . Can't bite me. . . . Don't be a funk, Turner." 
 
 He sat down at a writing-table with determination and 
 scribbled a note, re-read it and fastened it up in an envelope. 
 Then with the same resolute bearing went out to where 
 Robert Kitcher was working in the garden. 
 
 "Take this down at once to Mrs. O'Keefe," he said, 
 " and wait for an answer." And, as he turned away, in the 
 same tone, " Well, I've done it. Can't get out of it now." 
 
 Robert Kitcher, as he rode down to the village, had some- 
 thing to think about. " Well, she's a nice lady," was the end 
 of his cogitation. " But blowed if I ever thought he'd 'a' had 
 the pluck. Bring her own man up to look arter the haarses, 
 I s'pose. And a good job too. I hate the dratted things. 
 Hold up, can't yer ! Give me cabbages." 
 
 The note having been despatched, Turner fell a prey to 
 dreadful misgivings, and would have liked to recall it. 
 When the messenger came back and told him that the lady 
 would not be back before luncheon-time, he felt relief, and his 
 resolution tottered. But, reflecting that he was a man of 
 honour, and his word was as good as pledged, he braced him- 
 self anew to his ordeal and went through the rest of the morn- 
 ing and early afternoon in alternate fits of determination and 
 dull apathy ; his headache had gone by four o'clock, and he 
 dressed himself carefully and set out, watched with respectful 
 interest by his two women servants from an upper window, 
 for whose benefit Robert Kitcher from the back seat of the 
 cart made motions expressive of throwing rice, which caused 
 them some amusement at the time, although it was not until 
 lie had explained his action later that they really laughed. 
 
 It is possible, although not probable, that Norah O'Keefe 
 had not divined from Turner's preparatory note what the 
 matter of importance, on which he wished to address her, 
 was. And it is possible that she may have made up her mind 
 to get it over and have done with it. It is also possible that 
 she may have wished to escape it for the time by running 
 away, but had been prevented from doing so. At any rate, 
 when Turner applied for admission, his knees knocking to- 
 gether and an earnest determination sitting on his mind to 
 take " no " for an answer to the question he had rashly 
 pledged himself to ask as soon as it was offered to him, he was 
 
24 g Exton Manor 
 
 admitted to the lady's presence. But — and this may have 
 been the reason why Mrs. O'Keefe was not drinking tea else- 
 where that afternoon — sitting by the side of her table and 
 consuming a crumpet sat Maximilian Browne. 
 
 The sight of the object of his morning's reflections, more . 
 fresh and blooming even than his imagination had pictured 
 her, and his rival in such close juxtaposition, instantly 
 changed the current of his thoughts again, and he glared at 
 the intruder malevolently as he shook hands with his hostess. 
 
 " Might have known I should find you here," he said, 
 when he had taken a chair. " Regular tea-table fellow, you 
 are." 
 
 " What about you, then ? " retorted Browne. " Here you 
 are at Mrs. O'Keefe's tea-table, and a very good tea-table 
 it is." 
 
 " Thank you, Mr. Browne," said Norah, laughing. " Now 
 you are not to begin to quarrel the moment you come here. 
 You never do it anywhere else, and it is no compliment to 
 me." 
 
 " He's such a jealous fellow," said Turner. " Can't bear 
 anybody to have a look in anywhere but himself." 
 
 14 You're a fool," said Browne brilliantly. " Well, as I was 
 saying, Mrs. O'Keefe, I think you'd better call on Lady Wro- 
 tham as soon as possible. Then perhaps you'll be able to put 
 things straight a bit." 
 
 " Don't you call on her, Mrs. O'Keefe," put in Turner. 
 " She's a domineering scandal-mongering old busybody. I 
 suppose Browne has been keeping dark what has happened 
 since you've been away." 
 
 "Oh, no," said Norah. "I know everything, and I am 
 very angry about it. Most angry, of course, with Mrs. 
 Prentice." 
 
 " There's nothing to be said for her," said Browne. 
 
 " And there's nothing to be said for Lady Wrotham," 
 added Turner. " She first put it about." 
 
 "That's what I think," said Norah. "And really, Mr. 
 Browne, I don't feel inclined to go and see her." 
 
 Browne grew pinker. " But look here," he said. " It'll 
 be perfectly awful if there's going to be trouble all round. 
 You must meet Lady Wrotham some time or other, Mrs. 
 O'Keefe. You can't live a hundred yards off her without, and 
 it will be frightfully awkward for everybody if — — " 
 
Three Men and a Lady 247 
 
 " Rot and rubbish ! " exclaimed Turner. " If she comes 
 down here and starts setting everybody by the ears, she's got 
 to put up with the awkwardness. Fact is, you're so doosid 
 afraid o' getting a wigging from her that you want everybody 
 to go and tumble down at her feet. You got me to go, 
 and — ; — " 
 
 " And a lot of tumbling at her feet you did L She won't 
 want to see you again." 
 
 " She wouldn't if she did. I've had enough of her to last 
 me my lifetime, or till the end of my lease, when I dare say 
 she'll order you to turn me out, and you'll do it. I'm not 
 going to sit in a lady's drawing-room and hear her going for 
 my friends without telling her what I think of it. Mrs. Red- 
 cliff e's worth a hundred of her, and you'd have told her so your- 
 self if you'd had the pluck of a mouse." 
 
 " I did as good as tell her so. You know that as well as I 
 do. I'm just as much for Mrs. Redcliffe as you are." 
 
 " There is not the slightest need to quarrel about that," said 
 -Norah hastily, anxious to forestall further reprisals. " You 
 both of you behaved just as one would have expected you to 
 behave. But I tell you candidly, Mr. Bfowne, that if I did 
 call on Lady Wrotham, I should tell her, just as Captain 
 Turner did, what I think of this persecution of dear Mrs. 
 Redcliffe." 
 
 " You wouldn't be as rude as he was," said Browne. 
 " And there'd be no necessity. I believe, if you told her what 
 everybody thinks of Mrs. Redcliffe, she'd listen to you, and 
 you might do a lot of good. It's all very well, but if she only 
 gets her ideas from Mrs. Prentice — well, I think it's hardly 
 fair on Mrs. Redcliffe. And Turner and I didn't do much. 
 He was too rude, and I was " 
 
 " Too much of a funk," put in Turner. " Don't you go, 
 Mrs. O'Keefe. We don't want the old lady. We got on 
 very well without her, and now we've no need to pretend to 
 put up with the Prentice woman any longer, we'll get on 
 better still." 
 
 " I think I will go," said Norah thoughtfully. " I'll see 
 what I can do. I'm not afraid of her, at any rate." 
 
 " Browne is," said Turner. " Oh, good heavens, why 
 couldn't we have been left alone ? " 
 
 When tea was over Turner sat on and looked vindictively 
 at Browne, and Browne sat on and looked suspiciously at 
 
248 Exton Manor 
 
 Turner, while Norah tried to keep the ball of conversation 
 rolling, but without any great success. 
 
 At last Browne made a move. " Well, I suppose I must be 
 off," he said. " Coming up with me, Turner ? " 
 
 " No," replied Turner. " Good-bye, if you must be 
 going." 
 
 Browne sat on. Norah sprang up, unable to support the 
 tension any longer. " Let us go into the garden," she said. 
 " There is nothing to see, but it is a lovely evening/' 
 
 She led the way through the open French windows. 
 Browne made as if to follow her. " Why the devil can't you 
 go, if you want to ? " said Turner in a fierce whisper. 
 
 Browne looked at him with intelligence. " I'll go when 
 you do," he said, also in a whisper. 
 
 Just at that moment the door opened and Mr. Frederick 
 Prentice was announced. 
 
 He came in with a look that might have been described as 
 sheepish, and when he saw the other two men that epithet 
 fitted his appearance still more accurately. Norah came back 
 from the window blushing, although she was angry with her- 
 self when she felt her face growing warm. Browne stared, 
 and Turner muttered something short and expressive of his 
 feelings. 
 
 Fred and Norah shook hands, both in some confusion, and 
 then she offered him some tea, which he accepted and drank, 
 striving to talk and appear at his ease, in which he was not 
 very successful, and the other two resumed their seats and sat 
 glumly. 
 
 Norah's spirits revived and she suddenly laughed. " I for- 
 got to introduce you," she said. u Captain Turner and Mr. 
 Browne, Mr. Prentice." 
 
 Fred laughed too, awkwardly. " Knew them both before 
 Browne went bald and Turner grey," he said, not very happily. 
 " And they knew me " 
 
 " When you were only a cub and not a puppy," interrupted 
 Turner. " Look here, we've been talking about Mrs. Red- 
 cliffe. We're all her friends here. How do you stand ? 
 That's what I'd like to know." 
 
 His roughness acted like a tonic on Fred. He eyed him 
 coolly. " I've come to talk to Mrs. O'Keefe about that," 
 he said ; " but I don't know that I've got anything to say to 
 you." 
 
Three Men and a Lady 249 
 
 " You went up to see Mrs. Redcliffe this morning, didn't 
 you, Mr. Prentice ? " Nor ah struck in. 
 
 u Yes, I did. I'll tell you about it — afterwards/' 
 
 His implied intention of sitting out Browne and Turner 
 caused Norah to say hurriedly, " Oh, tell me now, please. I 
 haven't got much time to spare. I have a lot of letters to 
 write." 
 
 " I went," he said, after a reluctant pause. '■ But — but 
 — well, Mrs. Redcliffe thanked me for coming, but Hilda — ■ 
 I didn't get on so well with her. She seemed really to want 
 to make an enemy of me. I don't know why, because — 
 because— it was rather a difficult thing to do — I wanted to 
 let them see that I didn't agree with my mother, but — I 
 think unless I had been prepared to call her all sorts of 
 names, which I'm really not quite prepared to do — to an out- 
 sider — I mean that nothing less than that would have satisfied 
 her." 
 
 " Quite right too," said* Turner. " She's a trump, that girt" 
 
 Fred looked at him. " I dare say it seems quite natural 
 to you, Turner," he said, " that a man should be ready to hear 
 his mother called names, and even to call her names himself. 
 It seems to me that when he has said he thinks she is in the 
 wrong, and he's sorry for it, it ought to be enough. I hope 
 Mrs. O'Keefe .thinks so too." 
 
 He spoke with some dignity, and Norah O'Keefe felt a 
 quick sympathy for him. " Oh, yes," she said. " You 
 couldn't do more than that. And of course }'our position is 
 a difficult one." 
 
 " Jolly difficult," said Turner. " Hunting with the hounds 
 and running with the hare always is. I'm quite content to 
 take Hilda's view. If you couldn't satisfy her, after making 
 eyes at her for years, you won't satisfy the rest of us." 
 
 " I can't see why you shouldn't keep out of it altogether," 
 said Browne. " You are hardly ever here, and it isn't your 
 business." 
 
 " It's just as much mine as yours," said Fred angrily, " only 
 it's moire difficult for me." 
 
 " Of course it is difficult," said Norah. 
 
 Turner was not to be suppressed. " The thing's perfectly 
 simple," he said. " There are two parties in Exton now. 
 One of them is Mrs. Prentice and Lady Wrotham, and the 
 other is all the rest of us. There's no getting over that. If 
 
250 Exton Manor 
 
 you think your place is by your mother, as I dare say it is — 
 well, stick to it." 
 
 Fred shrugged his shoulders impatiently. " I've nothing 
 more to say," he said. 
 
 " I'm afraid our quarrelling among ourselves won't help 
 dear Mrs. Redcliffe," said Norah. 
 
 " I don't want to quarrel," said Fred, " only Turner seems 
 determined to make me. 1 came to talk to you, Mrs. 
 O'Keefe. Perhaps I had better come to-morrow." 
 
 Browne got up from his chair. V Good-bye, Mrs. O'Keefe," 
 he said, shook hands and went out. 
 
 "I'd got something to say to you too," said Turner ; " but 
 I suppose I must make a move now this conquering hero has 
 come on to the scene." 
 
 " I am afraid you must both make a move," said Norah. 
 " I have a great many letters that I must write for to-night's 
 post, and unless I begin now I shan't get them done." She 
 stood up behind her table, and there was nothing for her two 
 remaining visitors but to take their leave. Fred had not been 
 in the room ten minutes, and was not pleased at being thus 
 dismissed. His displeasure vented itself upon Turner when 
 they found themselves out in the road together. " The 
 cheek," he said, " of two old fogies like you and Browne worry- 
 ing a woman like that with your ridiculous attentions." 
 
 Turner looked at him. '• You're not only a conceited 
 puppy," he said ; " you're a cur," and got up into his cart, 
 leaving Fred with the uncomfortable conviction that his 
 defection had already become known to the world, and that 
 his new pursuit would also now provide food for gossip. 
 
 " Young cad ! " said Turner, driving off. " Chucked off 
 a girl in a thousand like an old glove and poking his nose in 
 here where he's not wanted. Think 111 go up and see 
 Browne. He's a fool, but he's an honest fool." 
 
 It was significant of the understanding existing between 
 these two queer characters that they should meet again now 
 without the slightest awkwardness arising out of their late 
 encounter. They talked over the new development in the 
 general situation, and w r ere united in their strictures on Fred 
 Prentice, agreeing that he had behaved atrociously, and 
 should get the punishment he deserved if they could by any 
 means bring it about. That he should have fallen in love 
 with Norah O'Keefe, as it was plain to both of them that he 
 
Three Men and a Lady 251 
 
 had done, was characterized as a piece of infernal impudence, 
 and roused them both to fury. But both of them expressed 
 the conviction that she wouldn't have anything to say to him, 
 and when she found it out, would send him about his business 
 pretty quick. It did not occur to them that what was per- 
 fectly plain to them might possibly have been already divined 
 by her, but they agreed that she would certainly have nothing 
 to do with him. 
 
 " By the bye," said Browne, " why were you so anxious to 
 get her alone this afternoon ? Had you made up your mind to 
 get it out at last ? " 
 
 " Look here, Maximilian Browne," replied Turner impress- 
 ively, " when I propose to Mrs. O'Keefe — for I suppose that's 
 what you're driving at, though you never say anything straight 
 — you may ask me to go down on my hands and knees in 
 front of Lady Wrotham and I'll do it. I like Mrs. O'Keefe, 
 and I'm quite ready to have a little quiet talk with her 
 occasionally — when you'll let me ; but as for marrying her, 
 I've no more idea of marrying her than I have of marrying — er 
 — anybody, and never have had. So let's have an end of this 
 nonsense." 
 
 Then they played Picquet together, and Turner stayed to 
 dinner. He got home about eleven o'clock, read a novel and 
 went to bed at three. As he laid his head on the pillow he 
 said, " If I hadn't been very careful and kept a strong hold 
 over myself to-day, I should have been in the soup." 
 
CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 CHURCH, AND AFTER 
 
 The Sunday which followed Mrs. Prentice's rejection at 
 the door of Mrs. O'Keefe produced a crisis in the religious 
 feud set on foot by Lady Wrotham. 
 
 It fell in thfs wise. The Vicar had decreed some time 
 before that on this particular Sunday the congregation at 
 the choral mass would be enlarged by the presence of such 
 of the school children whose parents should not object. 
 Somehow, this intelligence had escaped Lady Wrotham, prob- 
 ably because no parents had objected, the villagers on the 
 whole taking their spiritual sustenance without questioning 
 the form in which it was offered them, and confining their 
 parental duties to instructing their children to do as they 
 were told ; and those who were willing to follow Lady 
 Wrotham's lead and harry the Vicar not having grasped the 
 fact that this particular service would come under her ban. 
 She heard of it only on rising on the day on which this 
 great insult to her opinions and authority was to be offered, 
 and she was furious. 
 
 " I will not have it, / will not have it," she said to her 
 maid, who had given her the information. " Send at once to 
 Mr. Petty, Riddell, and ask him to be good enough to come 
 and see me at nine o'clock punctually.' ' 
 
 Mr. Petty, the schoolmaster, presented himself at the time 
 appointed. He was also the organist, and one of the Vicar's 
 staunchest adherents, agreeing with everything he did, and 
 only anxious that he should go to the utmost limits that the 
 Church, in which he himself secretly aspired to be a vicar 
 some day, would allow. Mr. Petty was respectful, but there 
 was no help to be obtained from him. 
 
 " I have nothing to do with the Sunday-School, my lady," 
 
 252 
 
Church, and after 253 
 
 he said, in answer to a peremptory order to countermand the 
 instructions already given. " I do not even teach in it. The 
 Vicar is solely responsible." 
 
 " Oh ! " said Lady Wrotham. " But they are the same 
 children that come to your school, are they not, and it is held 
 in the same building ? " 
 
 M Yes, my lady." 
 
 " Could you not have stopped this, Mr. Petty ? " 
 
 M Certainly not, my lady." 
 
 " Perhaps you did not wish to stop it ? " 
 
 " I should not have wished to stop it, even if I had had the 
 power." 
 
 "But don't you think it a very terrible thing that the very 
 children who are under your care during the week should be 
 led away into this shocking and illegal — and illegal, Mr. Petty 
 — superstition on the Lord's Day ? " 
 
 " I do not regard it so, my lady." 
 
 " Do I understand that you are at one with Mr. Prentice 
 in desiring that the children should attend mass in a 
 Protestant church ? " 
 
 " I regard the church as Catholic and not Protestant, my 
 lady, and I am entirety at one with the Vicar in everything fee 
 does." 
 
 " Then you are not fit to have the care of the children 
 here, Mr. Petty, and I tell you so plainly. Oh, what a 
 nest of corruption it is ! But I have no time to talk to you 
 now. I must take steps to stop this last outrage at once. It 
 is done expressly to dety me. But I warn you, Mr. Petty, 
 that I have not done with yoa yet. I am shocked that you 
 should hold these views and be where you are. I did not 
 think it was possible. You must go now." 
 
 Mr. Petty said " Good-morning, my lady," and went, with 
 his private thoughts to keep him company. Lady Wrotham 
 rang the bell. 
 
 " I am ready for breakfast," she said, " but I am just going 
 to write a note which must be taken at once to Mrs. Pren- 
 tice." 
 
 Mrs. Prentice, scenting further trouble, answered the sum- 
 mons at once, and was shown into the library, v/hence Lady 
 Wrotham/ s breakfast-table was just being removed. 
 
 M Mrs. Prentice, what is this ? " cried Lady Wrotham. 
 !' Why did you not tell me of this new conspiracy ? " 
 
254 Exton Manor 
 
 Mrs. Prentice blinked with apprehension. " I — er — what 
 is it you refer to, Lady Wrotham ? " she said. 
 
 " Oh, surely you know. I have just heard — only an hour 
 a g — that the Sunday-school children are to be dragged 
 to this travesty of a service this morning. Oh, it is wicked 
 — wicked I And it is all done to show contempt and defiance 
 of my wishes. Why was I not told ? You must have known it." 
 
 Mrs. Prentice breathed again. " I did," she said ; " but I 
 thought you knew it too, Lady Wrotham. It was decided — 
 oh, six weeks ago." 
 
 " I did not know it. It has been kept from me. Don't 
 you think I should have used every effort in my power to 
 stop it if I had been aware of what was on foot ? Don't 
 you know I should ? Shouldn't I have relied on you, at any 
 rate, after what you have told me of }^our change of con- 
 victions, to do all you could to stop it, and tell me the result ? 
 What have yon done to stop it ? " 
 
 Mrs. Prentice faltered. " To tell you the truth," she said, 
 " I have had so much to occupy my mind that I had forgotten 
 it, until my husband mentioned it just now at the breakfast- 
 table. Then I did say something, but, as you know, Lady 
 Wrotham, I have now so little influence over him, that it was 
 as good as saying nothing. He simply made no answer, and 
 left the room immediately afterwards." *> 
 
 " Of course. He has determined to act in defiance of me, 
 and to show me that he is determined so to act. It is 
 monstrous. But he will see that I can act too. I have been 
 patient too long. Now my patience is at an end. What is 
 the time ? Half-past nine. Messengers must be sent round 
 to the children's homes at once to forbid them to come." 
 
 " But the}' assemble at the school at half-past nine and the 
 service commences at a quarter to ten." 
 
 " Then a message must be sent to the school. Oh, why 
 did I not know of this in time to act ? Of course, Mr. 
 Prentice is in sole command at the school, as I have just 
 learnt from Mr. Petty. He would only defy me further. It 
 is too late to do anything now. The abomination must be 
 committed this once. But it never shall again. I pledge 
 myself to that. And this I say : until this apostasy is 
 stopped, as I will see that it is stopped, I will have nothing 
 to do with a church where such things are done. I will 
 not set foot in it. Mrs. Prentice, I shall drive over to Standon 
 
Church, and After 255 
 
 this morning. The clergyman there is a God-fearing man, 
 and a friend of Mr. Dacre's. Will you show the reality 
 of your change, and come with me ? " 
 
 Surely, Lady Wrotham, if you had thought a moment, you 
 would not have demanded this final subservience. The 
 woman has striven so hard to propitiate you. She is on such 
 terms with her husband that the happiness of her home is 
 likely to be wrecked for ever unless she draws away from your 
 guidance and follows that to which she owes allegiance. Is 
 she to be compelled to put this crowning slight on one whom 
 she has hitherto supported in the poor way best known to her ? 
 Is the confidence of husband in wife and of wife in husband 
 nothing that it must be ruthlessly destroyed if you can gain 
 one unwilling convert more ? Are you so blind that you can- 
 not see the miserable scaffolding of vanity and self-deception 
 that upholds those professed convictions which you are proud 
 to have instilled into her, and how worthless those professions 
 are, compared with the wifely loyalty which you are pitilessly 
 breaking down ? 
 
 No, you cannot see. But perhaps she can. Her life is 
 troubled enough now, and your favour, for which she has 
 given up so much that she is only now beginning to value, 
 has not done much after all to brighten it. What if she 
 breaks away now, under this last weight crowded on to her 
 back, and takes courage to say that she has gone far enough 
 with you, and will go no farther ! What would she lose ? 
 Would she not rather gain something, at any rate, of her van- 
 ished peace of mind, even though you should cast her out for 
 ever from your august presence ? 
 
 She shrinks mentally, and considers, has a refusal on her 
 lips, considers again and gives in. The spell is too strong. 
 You have gained another victory, Lady Wrotham. You are 
 getting on famously in your endeavours to bring the solace of 
 a true religion to your new home. 
 
 Mrs. Prentice repaired to the vicarage to get ready for her 
 expedition. As she walked through the village she said to 
 herself that if the road to Standon from the Abbey had not 
 lain in the other direction, so that they would not have to 
 drive through the main street, she would not have gone ; on 
 such small considerations rest momentous decisions, and so 
 readily is the ostrich policy pursued by foreseeing humans. 
 
 Fred was at home, smoking and mooning in the garden. 
 
250 Exton Manor 
 
 To him she briefly announced her intention of accompanying 
 Lady Wrotham to Standon church. 
 
 " I say, father won't like that, will he ? " he commented. 
 
 " I cannot help that," said Mrs. Prentice. " He will not 
 be guided by me, and now Lady Wrotham is so annoyed with 
 him — I think rightly— that she refuses to go to church here at 
 all. My duty is to do all I can to keep in with her and get 
 matters put on a better footing." 
 
 " You're taking a funny way of doing it," said Fred. " I 
 think you're making a great mistake, mother. Still, it's no 
 affair of mine." He turned away. He had other things to 
 think of, and his hopes just now were centred on that very 
 Exton church which his mother was forsaking, for there he 
 might seize opportunities otherwise denied to him. 
 
 Lady Wrotham's carriage rolled out of the Gate House and 
 up the hill on its three-mile drive. It was too early for it to 
 be met by the churchgoers coming down to the Abbey, for 
 which Mrs. Prentice was thankful. But of course there were 
 those who saw them and wondered, and even if it had not 
 been so, it is difficult to see v/hat she would have expected 
 to gain from a temporary ignorance of doings which would have 
 spread all over the parish as a matter of course in a few hours' 
 time. 
 
 It is not necessary to follow the conversation of the two 
 ladies on their drive to the queer little brick box of a church 
 whither they were bound. Their arrival made some stir and 
 rather put out the white-haired old clergyman, whose usual 
 congregation was not much more than a score in the body of 
 the building and half as many school children again in a little 
 gallery above it. He preached what Lady Wrotham called a 
 simple gospel sermon, with which she expressed herself edified 
 and uplifted, and, refusing a luncheon invitation from Mrs. 
 Firmin of Standon House, she and Mrs. Prentice drove back 
 to Exton again. One short passage of their conversation on 
 the homeward journey may be repeated. 
 
 Mrs. Prentice had made sundry attempts to discover what 
 the great lady's next move was to be, but without success, and 
 at length asked her the question point blank. 
 
 " I shall lose no time in writing to the bishop," said Lady 
 Wrotham. " I shall write this afternoon. I have a very 
 strong case, and I do not think it will be possible for him to 
 ignore it. If he does " 
 
Church, and after 257 
 
 Mrs. Prentice waited with growing apprehension for what 
 should come next. But nothing came. 
 
 " If he does," she faltered. 
 
 " He will not. I have no doubt about that. I was think- 
 ing of what might happen after he had given his decision. Mr. 
 Prentice is so self-willed and so lawless that he might refuse 
 to listen even to his bishop. I should not be surprised to hear 
 it of him." 
 
 " Certain things that you — that we object to, Lady Wro- 
 tham, I am sure he would not alter, and from what I know T of 
 the decisions made even by evangelical bishops, he would not 
 be asked to alter." 
 
 " I am afraid you are right. I too know something of the 
 time-serving ways of bishops. Very well, then, if that hap- 
 pens, Mr. Prentice must go. I have put up with enough. 
 He has practically told me that I have no power to deprive 
 him of his living, and, literally speaking, that may be true. 
 But — well, I think he would go." 
 
 " But, Lady Wrotham, I should have to go with him." 
 
 " I am afraid that is so, and I should be sorry. But I sup- 
 pose there would be no help for it. You would have the con- 
 solation of knowing that you were suffering for righteousness' 
 sake." 
 
 Cold consolation this, perhaps, even if it were true, which 
 it certainly would not be from Lady Wrotham's point of view, 
 unless Mrs. Prentice was to suffer for Lady Wrotham's 
 righteousness. Mrs. Prentice sat aghast. Then, after all 
 that she had done and was still doing, after this last submis- 
 sion, which she was even now beginning to regret, this was all 
 the mercy that was to be dealt out to her. Her hard obedi- 
 ence was to be wrested from her, but the punishment for re- 
 bellion was to fall on her shoulders in the same way as if she 
 had not obeyed at all. A spirit of rebellion was wrung from 
 her now. 
 
 " I think that is rather hard," she said. " I as well as my 
 husband are to be ruined, because he follows his conscience — 
 for, after all, obstinate as he is, it is a matter of conscience 
 with him." 
 
 " A pretty sort of conscience ! " said Lady Wrotham. 
 
 " But there is no question of ruin, Mrs. Prentice. A living 
 
 could be found for him elsewhere where he would do less 
 
 harm. And in any case, I should see to it that you, after the 
 
 i (7)- 
 
258 Exton Manor 
 
 way you have followed the light, should not suffer — more than 
 could be helped.' ' 
 
 With this vague consolation Mrs. Prentice had to be con- 
 tent, and she thought that, perhaps, after all, it was a mistake 
 for her to have come to Standon church with Lady Wrotham. 
 
 Lady Wrotham wrote to the Bishop of Archester that after- 
 noon as she had threatened to do. She invited his lordship 
 to dine and sleep at Exton Abbey at any time that would be 
 convenient to him, and talk things over. She also hoped that 
 he would bring his wife with him. But in case his engage- 
 ments should prevent his accepting her invitation at an early 
 date, she begged him to look into certain matters without 
 delay. There followed a recital of these matters, and Lady 
 Wrotham could have wished when she had written them that 
 they looked more formidable, for she knew well that practices 
 such as she complained of were not only allowed but even 
 encouraged by some bishops, and she was doubtful whether 
 the chief cause of her annoyance on account of them — that 
 they were carried on in a parish in which her will should have 
 been paramount — would strike his lordship with the same 
 force as it struck her. If only Exton had been in the diocese 
 of Danesborough, whose bishop would have put down any- 
 thing and anybody in return for an invitation for himself and 
 his wife from Lady W T rotham ! But it was of no use to think 
 about that. She could only hope that the Bishop of Archester 
 and his wife might find it convenient to visit huer, and if not 
 that he would write something that she could take advantage 
 of. At any rate, she had done her duty in writing to him, and 
 if nothing came of it, well, there were still weapons left in her 
 armoury. 
 
 When he heard of his wife's last act of rebellion, which he 
 did in the vestry after the morning service, the Vicar was so 
 angry that he ran a grave risk of losing all the merit he had 
 acquired from the religious exercises of the morning ; but, 
 before he had the opportunity of giving vent to his displeasure, 
 he bethought himself, and with a self-discipline that did credit 
 alike to his head and his heart, determined to go on with his 
 method of treatment, and ignore the offence. So that, when 
 Mrs. Prentice arrived home, seriously perturbed as to what 
 should befall her, she was met with cold indifference, and 
 the retorts which she had prepared against reproach became 
 weapons of attack on herself and caused her considerable dis- 
 
 (23) 
 
Church, and after 259 
 
 comfort. Fred inquired of her over the vicarage dinner-table 
 whether she had enjoyed her outing, and her reply that she 
 had not anticipated enjoyment from going to church on 
 Sunday morning, caused him to express amusement, against 
 which she defended herself by accusing him of meaning 
 amusement when he had used the word enjoyment. The Vicar 
 sat silent through the little dispute and then turned the 
 conversation. " I thought you and I might have a walk 
 together this afternoon," he said to his son. " We would 
 start after school at four o'clock and we can get back to 
 tea at about half-past five." 
 
 " Lady Wrotham has very kindly asked me to take Fred to 
 tea with her this afternoon," said Mrs. Prentice. " I think, 
 perhaps, he had better come." 
 
 The Vicar was silent. Fred was silent too, for a moment. 
 He had plans for the afternoon which did not fit in with 
 either oS these suggested to him. u I said I would go to tea 
 with Mrs. O'Keefe this afternoon," he said boldly. It is true 
 that he had said it, but only to himself. 
 
 Mrs. Prentice proved singularly complacent over the down- 
 fall of her arrangements. " Well, to-morrow will do for the 
 Abbey," she said. " You are not going till Tuesday." 
 
 " Couldn't you call on Mrs. O'Keefe while I am at the 
 school ? " said the Vicar. " I shall be away for the whole day 
 to-morrow, and I should like a walk and a talk with you, 
 Fred." 
 
 Fred did not see his way to refuse this suggestion, and gave 
 way, not with the best of grace. His determination had 
 arisen from certain occurrences of the morning. He had gone 
 down to the church at about a quarter to eleven and waited 
 about in the churchyard until the bell finally ceased ringing. 
 When he had at last gone in he had seen Norah O'Keefe 
 in her seat just in front of the vicarage pew and Mrs. Red- 
 cliffe and Hilda with her. He supposed that all three had 
 been to the earlier service and remained to the latter, which 
 was the case. He had then sat and stood and knelt for an 
 hour with his eyes fixed upon the dark coils of Norah's hair, 
 neat in their careful twining under a most becoming hat, on 
 a little ear made for lyrical rhapsody, and on the soft bloom 
 of a sloping cheek. He had longed for larger fields of wonder 
 and delight to explore, but none had been opened out to him, 
 for the fair worshipper had turned neither to the right nor to 
 
 (17) 
 
260 Exton Manor 
 
 the left. He spent most of the time in which he should have 
 been listening to his father's sermon in calculations as to 
 which way the offertory bag might be expected to pass along 
 the seat in front of him. If various things happened, which 
 were not very likely to happen, she might turn round and 
 hand it to him, perhaps with a smile of recognition ; but 
 when the time came these things did not happen, and he gave 
 his shilling grudgingly and of necessity, without having gained 
 more than a mere glance at her profile as she handed the bag 
 to the churchwarden. 
 
 During the singing of the last hymn Hilda Redcliffe turned 
 and looked at him, without friendliness, and instantly with- 
 drew her gaze. His at that moment was fastened intently on 
 the point of the ear aforementioned, with an expression that 
 may have afforded her some enlightenment. 
 
 When church was over he suddenly relinquished his in- 
 tention of waiting till she left her seat and walking down the 
 aisle with her, and hurried out to stand by the porch. Then, 
 without waiting, he pushed on to the gate, and then further 
 on still to a point at which she and the Redciiffes would have 
 parted if both should be going straight back to their homes. 
 When he had reached this point he turned back again, be- 
 cause, if she should be going to walk through the park a little 
 way with her friends he would miss her altogether, and to 
 risk that would be wprse than to greet her under the eyes of 
 Mrs. Redcliffe and Hilda. 
 
 He raised his hat to the three ladies in common, but his 
 eyes were on Norah. She greeted him with some signs of 
 embarrassment, as if she would rather have been without the 
 necessity of greeting him at all. Mrs. Redcliffe said, " How 
 do you do, Fred ? " without a smile, and without offering to 
 shake hands. Hilda turned away without saying anything, 
 and the question now arose as to what he should do next. 
 
 It appeared that there was nothing to do but to go away, 
 for Norah turned with her friends along a field-path towards 
 the park, and it was not in his power to accompany them. 
 
 " It's that girl/' he said to himself angrily, as he walked 
 home. " She has given her some account of what happened 
 yesterday that has set her against me." 
 
 The hours were slipping away. He would be gone very 
 shortly ; half his time had gone already, and he had made no 
 headway — had gone back since that propitious and memor- 
 
 a) 
 
Church, and after 26 1 
 
 able train journey. He made up his mind that he would go 
 again to see her that afternoon. He would need some 
 courage, because he had presented himself three times at her 
 house the day before and she had not apparently desired 
 greatly to see him, and now probably desired it still less. 
 Still, it was his only chance, and if he once got her alone 
 lie thought he would be able to throw off his diffidence and 
 raafcc his admiration understood. That was imperative, if 
 he were to go any farther, and of course he must go farther. 
 What lover could be content to stand still ? 
 
 So, then, matters stood, and after luncheon he escaped 
 from his mother, who would have liked to talk to him, and 
 indeed, to advise him upon the very matter he had in hand, 
 if she could have gained his confidence, and walked in the 
 outermost parts of the vicarage glebe until three o'clock, 
 when he went over to Street House. 
 
 Bridget, who was on duty that afternoon, received him 
 with no special marks of favour, but showed him straight 
 into Norah's drawing-room, where she was reading in a chair 
 by the open window. Neither did her look express pleasure 
 at his advent, but some surprise and perhaps a shade of 
 annoyance. 
 
 " You'll think I'm always turning up," he said. " But I 
 couldn't get a word with you yesterday." 
 
 Still some further explanation seemed necessary, and he 
 supplied what he could, not altogether pleased to be obliged 
 to advert to the affairs of the Redcliffes again. 
 
 " I went up to the White House yesterday morning, you 
 know," he began. Bui she struck in : 
 
 " Oh, I have heard all about that, Mr. Prentice. We 
 • needn't talk about it any more." 
 
 " Well, I wanted to tell you that I had done everything I 
 could." 
 
 " Please sit down," she said. " Mr. Prentice, I don't 
 think you were very successful in what you did. If I had 
 known that you were no longer a close friend of the Red- 
 cliffes I would not have asked you to go." 
 
 " But — but — I was their friend until they practically told 
 me that they didn't want my friendship." 
 
 " Because it v/as quite plain that they had already lost it. 
 I can quite believe that they didn't want the kind of luke- 
 warm support you offered them instead of it." 
 
 (3) 
 
262 Exton Manor 
 
 " Oh, Mrs. O'Keefe, you can't have heard the true story 
 of what happened. I said that what had happened would 
 make absolutely no difference in — in me, and " 
 
 " You wouldn't have wanted to say that if it — if there had 
 been no difference. Can't you see that it isn't what you say 
 that your friends go by ? it is what you are to them ; and, 
 whatever you say, they know well enough whether you are 
 the same or — there is a difference. Hilda knew, of course, 
 that there was — a difference. Why, even I can see it, 
 although she has said very little to me and I didn't know 
 you before." 
 
 " I dare say you can see it," he said. " I hope you can, 
 for you are the cause of it." 
 
 " II V She drew herself in with a look of frank distaste. 
 
 " Yes. It's no use trying to hide it, and I don't want to 
 hide it. I shan't be here long, and I must tell you now. Of 
 course Hilda Redcliffe and I are friends and I liked her and 
 — and all that sort of thing. But that came to an end the 
 moment I saw you. You must know that I " 
 
 " Oh, please stop," she said, her face flaming and her 
 hands raised to her ears as if she would have shut out the 
 sound of his torrent of words. " You mustn't say such 
 things to me. It is absurd, and, really, Mr. Prentice, it is 
 rather impertinent. We are hardly more than complete 
 strangers, and you can't think that in any case I would 
 listen to you." 
 
 " Why not ? " he said. " What I say is as true as any- 
 thing can be. I don't care how long we have known each 
 other. I loved you the first moment I saw you, and I love 
 you now, better than anything in the world. It can't be 
 impertinent to say that." « 
 
 " It is. It is. And do you think that I would listen to 
 you, even if — if — oh, it is too absurd, but — if I wanted to, 
 when you have behaved so badly to Hilda ? You don't think 
 at all about her. Do you really think you can come straight 
 from her to me, and— say such things ? " 
 
 Why is it that a lover in the state of mind which had over- 
 taken this lover -can never see when his suit is quite hope- 
 less, but must go on urging it ? "I wouldn't have said 
 anything," Fred went on, " so soon — I didn't mean to say 
 a word when I came here — I hadn't an idea of it. But I 
 can't help it. This wretched business has come up and 
 
 (19) 
 
Church, and after 263 
 
 spoilt everything. If it hadn't been for that I should have 
 seen you while I am here, and — I'd have waited, although 
 I don't want to wait to know my own mind. That was made 
 up directly I saw you." 
 
 " Oh,, please stop," she said, holding her hand in front 
 of her as if to close his mouth actually ; " please stop. I 
 can't listen to you. I don't want to listen to you. It is all 
 so wild, and — so absurd." 
 
 " You keep on saying it is absurd," he interrupted her 
 again. " It isn't absurd for a man to fall in love with a 
 woman — with such a woman as you, the very first time he 
 sees her. And it is not absurd for him to tell her so." 
 
 " Very well, then," she said. " Now you have told me, 
 and I won't say that it is absurd any more, but I will say 
 that I hope you will go away and say no more about it." 
 
 She spoke with dawning anger, and as he looked at her 
 he felt himself beaten. But he made another effort. " I dare 
 say I have spoken too soon," he said, " but I couldn't help 
 myself. You won't send me away because of that, will you ? 
 You'll let me see you while I'm here, and — and " 
 
 " No," she said decisively. " I would very much rather 
 not." 
 
 " You are afraid 1 should worry you, I suppose." 
 
 She looked down at the book on her knee and turned over 
 some of its pages. Then she looked up with a smile. 
 
 '• Well, wouldn't you ? " she asked. " Isn't that what you 
 want to see me for ? " 
 
 He took heart at the smile and gave her one in return, 
 rather rueful. " I wouldn't worry you," he said. " At any 
 rate until I knew you — till you knew me better. But you 
 can't tell me to go away now, like this, with nothing to look 
 forward to — nothing to hope for." 
 
 She grew serious again. " There is nothing to hope for 
 in the way you mean," she said. " Nothing at all. No, I 
 don't want you to come here and I must ask you not to, Mr. 
 Prentice. You know how I stand with your mother. I don't 
 want to go into it all again with you. But I won't be friends 
 with her, I won't see her, while she is behaving as she 
 does now, and it would be unpleasant to me, and, I think, 
 to her, if you were to come here while she doesn't. T don't 
 want you to. And besides, I haven't said much about the 
 Redcliffes, but I feel now that they do not want you any 
 
 (21) 
 
264 Exton Manor 
 
 more than they want Mrs. Prentice. And it is they who are 
 my friends here. You haven't behaved well to Hilda — you 
 know you haven't ; you must feel it in your heart of hearts. 
 And to think that I — oh, no, Mr. Prentice, I won't say a 
 word about what you have told me, but it must end there. 
 Indeed it must, once and for all." 
 
 " I can't take that answer," he said doggedly ; " I am in 
 earnest, and I couldn't leave off loving you now if I wanted to." 
 
 Her eyes flashed. " You can leave off telling me about it," 
 she said, " and you must do so. I've heard enough, and per- 
 haps I have been too patient with you." 
 
 He sat still gloomy and dej-ected. She looked at him with 
 a frown. " I have nothing more to say," she said sharply. 
 " I hope you will go away now, and not come again." 
 
 Her tone stung him. He raised his eyes to hers. " I think 
 you might put some value on my feelings towards you," he 
 said, V even if you can't return them." 
 
 Her Irish temper flamed forth. She sprang from her seat. 
 " Return them ! " she cried. " What nonsense you are talk- 
 ing ! I wish you would go away. You annoy me deeply* 
 I don't want you. I know nothing of you, and what I do 
 know I don't like. I think Hilda Redcliffe is quite right not 
 to have anything more to do with you at all. And you come 
 straight to me, almost a complete stranger, and tell me that 
 it is owing to me you have behaved to her as you have. It 
 is absurd, and it is impertinent." She moved towards the bell. 
 " If you won't go," she said, " I shall ring and ask my maid 
 to show you out. I never want to see you again." 
 
 " I'll go," he said. " But I think you will be sorry for the 
 way you have spoken to me when you come to think of it." 
 
 " That is just the sort of thing Mrs. Prentice would say," 
 she said. " I have nothing to be sorry for. I shall try and 
 forget this very unpleasant visit as soon as I can. No, I 
 won't shake hands. We are not friends, and I don't want 
 to be." 
 
 He left her without another word, rejected finally, and not 
 without ignominy. " What a fool I was ! " he said to him- 
 self bitterly as he walked back to the vicarage ; and during 
 the walk with his father, when he tried his best to talk and 
 hide his unhappiness, these words repeated themselves again 
 and again in his mind as a refrain to everything that was said. 
 " What a fool I was ! " And the train dinned them into his 
 
Church, and after 265 
 
 ears as he travelled up to London the next morning, for he 
 had cut short his visit, and resolved that he would not repeat 
 it for many months. " What a fool I was ! " 
 
 But perhaps it was as well for him that he had put his 
 fortune to the test and lost it. For when the door had closed 
 behind him, and Norah O'Keefe was left alone, she burst into 
 angry tears. Then she went and stood before the picture of 
 her gallant young husband and cried, "As if I would ! As 
 if I could ! And a man like that ! I hate him for asking 
 me, but I should have hated him just as much if he hadn't 
 spoken now and given me the chance of getting rid of him 
 once for all. I am glad, after all, that he did." 
 
 Then she dried her eyes and went back to her book, but 
 found that its interest had departed. She kept looking out of 
 the window into the garden and her face was at first stormy 
 and then sad. By and bye she smiled, and finally laughed. 
 Then she sprang up from her chair. " I should like to tell 
 Hilda," she said. " It would clear away any feeling she may 
 have kept for that young man. But, of course, I can't. But 
 I'll go and have tea with the dear people. If I stay by my- 
 self I shall get melancholy." 
 
CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 BROWNE IS PRECIPITATE 
 
 Sophia Riddell, who took brevet rank as Mrs. Riddell in 
 Lady Wrotham's household, was a very important member 
 of that society. Her religious views were such as to ensure 
 the full confidence of her mistress, or she would not have 
 been where she was, and her discretion was perfect. It is 
 doubtful whether the great lady quite realized what this elderly 
 spinster, who understood her ways so completely that she 
 forestalled all her wishes and seldom had to be told to 
 do a tiling once, and never twice, meant to her, and what a 
 blank there would be in her life if the invaluable Riddell 
 for any reason should go out of it. Lady Wrotham liked 
 gossip, although it would have shocked her to hear it as much 
 as if she had been told that she liked drink ; and Riddell was 
 an inveterate gossip. But what a gossip ! She was as far 
 above the habits of the ordinary tongue-wagging prying and 
 peering village matron as the imperial financier who thinks in 
 continents, and only incidentally in gold and diamond mines, 
 is above the shady company promoter who collects the odds 
 and ends of savings, no matter from where. The odds and 
 ends came to her, but they came because it was considered an 
 honour to bring them. She would not have moved a foot or 
 turned an ear to collect them, nor would she have expressed a 
 hint of interest in them for the world. But they came never- 
 theless, and to all appearances were lost in the secret caverns 
 of her discretion and lost for ever, nevermore to flow forth in 
 refreshing rills and trickles to water the thirsty soil of curio- 
 sity, and spread their beneficent influence in widening circles. 
 Nor did they so flow forth ; but there was an outlet all the 
 same. Every drop of gossip that filtered through the surface 
 
 266 
 
Browne is precipitate 267 
 
 of that impassive, but none the less receptive, demeanour went 
 to swell one rich, deep stream, which was poured out night and 
 morning for the refreshment of her mistress, and none other. 
 It welled forth copiously but quietly, as is the way with deep 
 waters, with never a ripple or a splash of eagerness to betray 
 its quality, and it was absorbed again in other discretionary 
 caverns, where it either slept undisturbed, or rose up in fruit- 
 ful springs to water the higher levels. 
 
 All of which means nothing more than that Mrs. Riddell 
 performed for the great lady the part of reader, and gave her 
 night and morning selections from the book of servants' and 
 village gossip, the pages of which she would not and could not 
 have turned over for herself. 
 
 And so it came to pass that Lady Wrotham knew that 
 Turner had gone down to propose to Mrs. O'Keefe the day 
 after he had done so, that he had not succeeded in his 
 object, and had since relinquished it ; and that Browne 
 would probably some day do the same ; and that Fred Prentice 
 had also fallen a victim to the same overpowering attraction, 
 having left a former pursuit with surprising suddenness ; and 
 that he had probably been dismissed, but this was not yet quite 
 certain ; also of Mrs. Prentice's ignominious repulse at the door 
 of Street House, and of that warm evening flitting to the nest 
 of injured friends, and the freshly-riveted chain of affection 
 that bound them. 
 
 To these things Lady Wrotham listened, making what 
 comments were suitable for the ears of her informant, and 
 others, quite different from them, in her own mind. One of 
 these latter was that she hoped it would not be long before she 
 should have an opportunity of inspecting this Mrs. O'Keefe, 
 and another that it should not be long before she came to 
 an understanding with Mr. Browne on these and sundry 
 matters. It was not, and she acknowledged to herself 
 that it was not, strictly speaking, her business to interfere in 
 matters of this sort among those upon whom she looked as 
 her subjects. But the fact was that she felt she should like to 
 take z hand in them, a friendly, helpful hand, it might very 
 well be, if she saw reason to approve of developments pro- 
 gressing so far without her assistance. She wanted to be a 
 friend to her subjects, as well as a ruler, but so far she had 
 not been very fortunate in drawing them into the net of her 
 patronage. Of all the better class inhabitants of her new 
 
268 Exton Manor 
 
 kingdom, only Mrs. Prentice had shown the least desire to 
 respond to her influence, and, to tell the truth, she was getting 
 rather tired of Mrs. Prentice, as one gets tired of any dish if 
 it is the only one set before one. She had only been at Exton 
 a month, and she had already quarrelled with the Vicar, quar- 
 relled by proxy with Mrs. Redcliffe and her daughter, quar- 
 relled with Captain Turner, and gone very near to quarrelling 
 with Mr. Browne. Or perhaps it would be more correct to 
 say that all these several people had in the most unaccountable 
 way gone to work to pick quarrels with her, who wished them 
 nothing but well, if only they would behave themselves and 
 take their proper places in the scheme of things. It was 
 absurd, though, to suppose that she should allow Mr. Browne 
 to pick a quarrel with her. His position did not permit him 
 to indulge in such luxuries, and if he was under the impression 
 that it did, his mind must be disabused of that tendenc}'. 
 
 Behold, then, our Maximilian Browne, summoned from his 
 office at eleven o'clock on Monday morning when he was just 
 in the thick of mapping out his week's work and that of his 
 subordinates, perspiring pinkly on a low chair opposite to 
 that of the great lady and devoutly wishing himself back 
 whence he had come. 
 
 She had opened up on him with the subject of the new 
 tenants for the Lodge, and had expressed her surprise that 
 they, or at all events a sample of them, had not been 
 submitted to her, prior to acceptance. 
 
 " I certainly think," she said, " that considering the Lodge is 
 the most important house in the place next to this, or the most 
 important in the immediate surroundings, I ought to have been 
 consulted on the matter before anything was finally decided." 
 
 " The references " began Browne, but she took him up. 
 
 " Oh, the references ! " she exclaimed impatiently. " I 
 have no doubt that Mr. Dale has got plenty of money, or, at 
 any rate, enough money. That is not the point, Mr. Browne. 
 With people living practically on one's door-step, one wants 
 more than that. What do you know of these people — socially 
 I mean ? He was a friend of Sir Joseph Chapman and comes 
 from Manchester. I have nothing against Sir Joseph Chap- 
 man, except that — no, I have nothing against him. But this 
 man, he may be a Radical or a Dissenter, for all you know." 
 
 Browne had a horrible suspicion, undivulged as ye^ to any- 
 body, that he was both. He had been over to Woadhurst to 
 
 
Browne is precipitate 269 
 
 lunch with Mr. Dale, and from certain things that Mr. Dale 
 had let drop in the course of conversation this dark suspicion 
 had arisen. He had comforted himself by saying that these 
 things were not much in his line, and that he might have been 
 mistaken ; but he might rather have said that if the suspicion 
 had occurred to him in spite of his lack of knowledge, it was 
 probably justified. 
 
 " Is it too late to stop it ? " asked Lady Wrotham ; "at any 
 rate until I have had an opportunity of judging what sort of 
 people they are ? " 
 
 "I'm afraid it is," replied Browne. " The lease is signed 
 and everything, and the work is nearly finished. They are 
 coming in next week." 
 
 " Well, I cannot help feeling that you have not behaved 
 well about this, Mr. Browne. Of course you will tell me 
 that everything has been submitted to Lord Wrotham and he 
 has approved. But you ought to feel, knowing the circum- 
 stances as you do, that something is owing to me in such 
 matters as these. He will not consider it, and I should not 
 go out of my way to beg him to do so. Certainly not. But 
 because my son is careless of my wishes that is no reason 
 why others should be. I ought to have been consulted." 
 
 " Well, I felt that," said Browne desperately. He could 
 not very well tell the indignant dame that he had warned his 
 employer that there might arise this very difficulty that had 
 now arisen, and his employer had said, " If you are going to 
 refuse every good tenant that comes along unless my mother 
 approves of him, we'd better shut up shop and go into bank- 
 ruptcy at once. Make out the lease, my stout friend, and 
 don't be a fool." 
 
 " I felt that, Lady Wrotham," he said. " But Mr. Dale is 
 such a good tenant, and is doing much more than we'd any 
 right to ask, that we couldn't very well refuse him, and Lord 
 Wrotham told me to put the matter through." 
 
 " Very well, then," she said. " There is nothing more to 
 be said, and we must make the best of things. But, you will 
 oblige me, Mr. Browne, by consulting me in the future on 
 these matters before anything is finally settled." 
 
 Browne promised to do so, all the more readily as all the 
 houses on the Manor were now let on substantial leases, and 
 the first part of his ordeal was over. 
 
 " There is another matter I wished to speak to you about 
 
270 Exton Manor 
 
 Mr. Browne," said Lady Wrotham. " I hear that — that Mrs. 
 O'Keefe, whose acquaintance I have not yet had the pleasure 
 of making, has — I don't quite know how to put it — has such 
 great personal attractions, that the whole village is talking 
 about the way in which she is being run after." 
 
 Browne sat and stared at her with his mouth open. It was 
 the only. way in which he could express the devastating sense 
 of surprise produced by her words. 
 
 " You will say," she proceeded, " that this has nothing to 
 do with me, and that you are surprised that I should have the 
 courage to mention it." 
 
 This was about what Browne would have said if he could 
 have found his tongue and dared to use it freely. Except that 
 he would have substituted the word " cheek " for " courage." 
 As it was he said nothing. 
 
 " I do so in no spirit of interference," she went on, " but I 
 should just like to say this, and I shall not object if my words 
 are repeated to Captain Turner and young Mr. Prentice. I 
 think it is a pity that the name of a young widow of Mrs. 
 O'Keefe's position should be bandied about in this fashion. I 
 venture to say it, because I am the only woman who is in a 
 position to say it, and these things must be said by a woman or 
 not at all — unless, of course, the lady in question had a rela- 
 tion in the place or near it who could look after her reputation." 
 
 " Her reputation I " echoed Browne, with a sunset flush of 
 indignation and self-consciousness mantling his features. 
 
 " Yes, her reputation. Here is a young widow, a very 
 young widow, beautiful, so I am told and can well believe, and 
 of high birth. She settles down after her sad loss in a quiet 
 country place, away from her relations and connections, and 
 she ought to be treated with the utmost respect. She ought 
 not to be talked about all over the place as a lady to whom 
 every bachelor in the neighbourhood is paying his attentions. 
 There is Captain Turner pursuing her, whose birth and up- 
 bringing, by his own confession, are in no way equal to hers ; 
 there is young Mr. Prentice, who cannot be much more than a 
 boy, and has his way to make entirely, and from what I can 
 hear is likely to make a great mess in doing it ; and, Mr. 
 Browne, there is yourself — you will excuse me for speaking 
 quite plainly — — " 
 
 " Oh, certainly, Lady Wrotham," said Browne, who had by 
 this time collected his scattered brains and was nerving himself 
 
Browne is precipitate 271 
 
 to exercise them to the best of his ability ; " and what about 
 me ? " 
 
 " Well ! Do you think your position here justifies you in 
 — in " 
 
 " Do you mean in getting married if I want to ? " 
 
 " Certainly not. You know I do not mean that. I should 
 be pleased to see you happily married, very pleased indeed, and 
 hope that some day you will be, to a suitable partner in life." 
 
 " And you don't think Mrs. O'Keefe would be suitable, 
 supposing I wanted to marry her." 
 
 4 Do you think she would yourself ! Is your position here 
 good enough to allow you to offer it to a lady of Mrs. O'Keefe's 
 standing ? " 
 
 " If it isn't good enough to allow me to marry anybody I 
 want to marry, Lady Wrotham, if I do want to marry, which 
 I don't, I'll throw it up at once. Captain Turner did tell me 
 the other day that a man couldn't hold the position I do with- 
 out losing his independence . I told him it was nonsense, but he 
 says that sort of thing without meaning it ; it's his way. If 
 you think the same, if you think that a land agent can't be a 
 gentleman 
 
 " Oh, Mr. Browne, you are talking absurdly. Who could 
 say such a thing ? " 
 
 " Well, then is it that / can't be a gentleman ? I've 
 always hoped I was. I don't boast about my family, but 
 it's a good deal better than most people's, although my 
 father was a country clergyman and a good way off the 
 head of it. And as for money, I've got enough to marry on 
 if I want to." 
 
 " Are you one of the ? " 
 
 " Yes, I am, Lady Wrotham. You'll find me in the books 
 if you like to look for me." 
 
 " Well, of course that does make a difference." 
 
 M I don't see that it makes any difference. I'm either a 
 gentleman or I'm not a gentleman. If I am I oughtn't to be 
 treated like a sort of upper servant and told to keep my place 
 and who I'm to make friends with and who I'm not to make 
 friends with. If that's the kind of land agent wanted on this 
 property, Lady W r rotham, I'll send in my resignation to- 
 morrow." 
 
 The honest gentleman was so outraged by what he con- 
 sidered an impertinent piece of interference that his eloquence 
 
272 Exton Manor 
 
 would have carried him still farther if Lady Wrotham had not 
 raised her hand and stopped him. 
 
 " You quite misunderstand me," she said, although he had 
 not in the least misunderstood her, and if the unsuspected fact 
 of his descent from a noble family had not been made plain to 
 her she would have treated his other claims with scant cere- 
 mony. " And if you really have in your mind a direct 
 proposal of marriage " 
 
 " I don't say whether I have or whether I haven't, Lady 
 Wrotham/' said Browne, " but if I'm to submit my private 
 intentions of that sort to you before taking any steps, as I'm 
 to submit the tenants on the Manor, as I say, I'll send in my 
 resignation at once and go somewhere where such things as 
 that aren't expected of an agent by his employers." 
 
 " I hope you won't say any more about that, Mr. Browne. 
 Lord Wrotham would be very sorry to lose }^ou, and I needn't 
 say that I should be very sorry to lose you too You need not 
 fear that as long as you remain here you will not be treated 
 in every way as you ought to be treated." 
 
 "I'm sorry to say that I don't think I have been, Lady 
 Wrotham," said Browne, rising. " If there is nothing more 
 in the way of business that you want to speak to me about, if 
 you'll excuse me, I'll get back to my work. Monday's a busy 
 morning." 
 
 Lady Wrotham did not detain him. " I really think," she 
 said to herself when he had left, " that I have come amongst 
 the most cantankerous and opinionated set of people it would 
 be possible to find anywhere. One cannot say the least little 
 thing to any one of them without their flying in one's face. 
 At the same time, Mr. Browne, in spite of his birth, which is 
 news to me and I should not have expected, is not a suitable 
 match for a young woman in Mrs. O'Keefe's position, and I 
 hope she will not be so foolish as to accept him. By the bye, 
 I wonder " 
 
 She took down from a shelf the ponderous red and gold 
 bound volume in which are set forth the pedigrees of those 
 who can lay claim to blue blood, even to the last pale in- 
 fusion, so be it that it is inherited in the male line, and looked 
 up the records of a certain Marquisate. Yes, there it was, 
 Maximilian Philip, son of the Reverend Philip Maximilian, 
 son of Colonel Orlando Maximilian, C.B., son of the Very 
 Reverend the Dean of Ballymalone, son of the Honourable 
 
Browne is precipitate 273 
 
 Maximilian Philip Orlando, brother of the First Marquess, 
 and in remainder to the Earldom and sundry ancient Baronies ; 
 a long way off the fountain head, it was true, and unlikely ever 
 to wade through the ocean of Maximilians and Philips and 
 Orlandos that lay between, but filling its little niche of distinc- 
 tion all the same. Lady Wrotham shut the book and put it 
 back on its shelf. " If I had known/' she said, " that M. P. 
 stood for Maximilian Philip, I should not have been likely to 
 make that little mistake," which for Lady Wrotham was a 
 serious admission of error. She took down the book again and 
 looked up the Earldom of Ballyshannon. 
 
 " Sons of the Fifth Earl. Michael John, present peer, 
 Patrick Ernest, Captain Grenadier Guards, married Norah, 
 daughter of John O'Malley, M.D." 
 
 " H'm ! " 
 
 Honest Browne, as much put out by what had occurred as 
 his equable nature permitted, left the Abbey and marched 
 straight up the village past his office, where both people and 
 papers were awaiting his attention and knocked at the door of 
 Street House. Mrs. O'Keefe was writing in the little room 
 off the hall, and he was shown in to her. 
 
 " Mrs. O'Keefe," he said, shaking hands with her earnestly, 
 " I have come to ask you a question. I've just been infernally 
 insulted by Lady Wrotham, and — will you marry me?" 
 
 He ought to have added the word " There ! " to make his 
 question completely expressive of his feelings, but perhaps 
 they were plainly evident without it. 
 
 A mischievous light shone in Norah's eyes. " Let us sit 
 down first," she said, and did so as far from the chair to which 
 she had motioned Browne as the dimensions of the room 
 would permit. 
 
 " I'm in dead earnest," said Browne. " I'm not as young 
 as I was, but very few of us are. Anyhow, I'm not much 
 over forty, and I don't suppose I shall be much different from 
 what I am now for another twenty years. A lot of fellows 
 couldn't say the same, but I live a healthy life. I'm very easy j 
 to get on with, and you wouldn't have any trouble with me at 
 all. I'm not rich, but I've got a decent income and a good j 
 house, and if I have to give up the one I've got now I should 
 not have any difficulty in finding just as good a job somewhere 
 else, and perhaps a better one. Now what do you think 
 of it ? '! 
 
274 Exton Manor 
 
 " I think it is very kind of you to offer me the chance, Mr. 
 Browne," replied Norah. " But aren't you very comfortable 
 as you are now ? " 
 
 " Yes, I am. But I don't think I should be any less com- 
 fortable if I got married, perhaps more so. I should like it. 
 Upon my word I should, and I hope you'll say yes." 
 
 " I'm afraid I can't quite do that, Mr. Browne. But of 
 course we are real friends, and I hope always shall be, and if 
 there is any other way in which you can score off Lady Wro- 
 tham, I'll do my best to help you. I suppose she told you 
 that she couldn't hear of your — asking me, and you have 
 asked me so as to show her that you are not going to take 
 your orders from her." 
 
 " Well, it wasn't exactly like that. And, of course, I 
 shouldn't have thought of asking you unless I really wanted 
 to. But I've wanted to a good long time, only I haven't quite 
 seen my way. Don't you think you could manage it, Mrs. 
 O'Keefe ? " 
 
 " I'm afraid not, Mr. Browne. But tell me more about 
 Lady Wrotham. How was it that my name came up ? " 
 
 " Well, she had the cheek to tackle me about the way in 
 which I— and others she mentioned, but I needn't go into 
 that — were what she called running after you." 
 
 Norah's manner underwent a change. " I think that was 
 quite uncalled for," she said. " She seems to be a very inter- 
 fering old lady." 
 
 " She is. There's not a doubt about it. I stuck up for 
 her as long as I could, but — she is interfering. You're quite 
 right. I'm sure if I've done anything in the way of — of what 
 she says, that I ought not to have done, I'm very sorry for it." 
 
 " My dear Mr. Browne, if you had it would be no affair 
 of Lady Wrotham's. It would be my affair and mine only. 
 But you have done nothing but to give me a friendship which 
 I value highly, and hope to go on valuing. For I should be 
 very sorry if it was withdrawn from me now." 
 
 " I am very glad to hear you say that, Mrs. O'Keefe. I 
 can assure you that / shall never be any different, even if we 
 don't get any farther. But don't you think you could bring 
 yourself to it, Mrs. O'Keefe ? " 
 
 " No, I think not. I am very grateful for the honour you 
 have done me in asking me." 
 
 " Oh, don't mention that, please. It's the other way 
 
Browne is precipitate 275 
 
 about — at least it would be. But, of course, if you can't — I 
 must put up with it. Still, you don't say that I'm so far be- 
 neath you that I ought to be ashamed of myself for thinking 
 of it." 
 
 " Good gracious, no. Surely, Lady Wrotham didn't tell 
 you that ? " 
 
 " As good as. I tell you what it is, Mrs. O'Keefe, if I 
 can't do my work here without putting myself in the position 
 of being hauled over the coals by her about things that have 
 nothing to do with the work I'm paid to do in the place, I 
 shall go and do the same work somewhere else where I'm not 
 interfered with." 
 
 " I think you would be quite justified in doing so. But I 
 hope you won't. Everybody would miss you here, tremen- 
 dously. You know that I should. I hope you told Lady 
 Wrotham what you thought of her interference ? " 
 
 ''' Yes, I did. And I came straight off hereto — well, to try 
 my luck." 
 
 " I am not sorry that you did so, Mr. Browne, although I 
 am sorry that I can't give you the answer you want. If you 
 do want it, you know," she added with a smile at him. 
 
 " There's no doubt about that," said Browne. " But if you 
 say no, it must be no. Still, you won't let this make any dif- 
 ference, will you ? " 
 
 " No, I won't ; not the smallest difference." 
 
 " Thank you very much, Mrs. O'Keefe. You've taken a 
 great load off my mind. I'm afraid I must be getting back 
 now. I've a lot of things to see to at the office. Good-bye ! 
 We must have a little dinner and a little Bridge again soon. 
 It's jolly to have you back here. I say ! I suppose you 
 won't say anything about — you know — what I asked you ? " 
 
 " Of course I won't. Don't you know me better than 
 that ? " 
 
 " Well, I don't really mind if you do. I'm not ashamed of 
 it. Good-bye, for the present, Mrs. O'Keefe. You've taken 
 a great weight off my mind." 
 
 Norah watched him go busily past her window on his way 
 to his work. " Nice old thing ! " she said, laughing to her- 
 self. " I'm glad to have taken a weight off his mind. I won- 
 der what sort of a weight I should have put on to it if I had 
 said yes. But really ! Yes, I shall certainly go and call on 
 Lady Wrotham." 
 
CHAPTER XXV 
 
 NORAH'S ATTEMPT 
 
 Norah O'Keefe, looking as if some of the freshness and 
 beauty of the fair May month had transferred itself bodily to 
 her and was sparkling in her face and figure, walked down 
 through the village and presented herself at the Abbey. Lady 
 Wrotham had come in from her afternoon drive and was 
 sitting by her tea-table, a little figure of old-fashioned dignity 
 and homeliness combined, surrounded by the pictures and 
 books and fine furniture of the big room in which she lived 
 most of her life, as if it was the most natural of environments 
 for her, eating her tea-cake with as much enj.oyment as could 
 have been shown by her housekeeper and the invaluable 
 Riddell in the more homely regions devoted to their pursuits. 
 There was something in her, sitting alone in her black dress 
 and thus occupied, that touched Norah with compassion as 
 she entered the room, and the great little lady, rising not 
 without difficulty from her chair to greet her, was also affected 
 by the appearance of her visitor, so graceful and pretty, who 
 brought in with her a breath from the storehouse of eternal 
 youth, which revivifies the earth and renews contentment to 
 those who have lost it. 
 
 " How do you do ? " she said. '•' I am very pleased too 
 see you," and added, " my dear," as if she could not help 
 herself. 
 
 She talked of Norah's Irish visit, and of her husband's 
 relations, some of whom she knew, and asked her by and by 
 why she had settled herself at Exton. 
 
 " I felt as if I must get as far away from everybody as 
 possible," said Norah, " at that dreadful time — three years 
 ago. And he and I had been here, on our honeymoon, and 
 thought the place so beautiful and quiet and peaceful." 
 
 276 
 
Norah's Attempt 277 
 
 A shadow came over her face, and it was repeated in Lady 
 Wrot ham's. " I am afraid it is not so peaceful as it looks,' ' 
 she said. " The waywardness of mankind can spoil the most 
 beautiful of places." 
 
 " There are things that make it not quite perfect," said 
 Norah. " But I have been happy here — happier than I 
 thought I could ever be again. I have found the best of 
 friends." 
 
 Lady Wrot ham looked thoughtful. " Your chief friend, I 
 suppose, is Mrs. Redcliffe ? " she said. 
 
 " Mrs. Redcliffe and her daughter," Norah replied boldly. 
 " They would make any place — a far less beautiful place than 
 this — attractive to me." 
 
 " I hear good accounts of Mrs. Redcliffe from every 
 quarter," said Lady Wrotham slowly ; " except, perhaps, 
 one." 
 
 " I know the quarter from which the other opinion comes," 
 said Norah, " and I hope you won't mind my saying that 
 I think it is a great pity that you should let a woman like 
 Mrs. Prentice influence you against a woman like Mrs. Red- 
 cliffe — especially as you have never seen Mrs. Redcliffe." 
 
 She felt a little frightened at her boldness, and would 
 probably have felt more frightened still if she had known 
 Lady Wrotham better. But Lady Wrotham did not stare at 
 her in surprised offence as she might have been expected to 
 do, but said quietly : 
 
 " My dear, how can I get to know Mrs. Redcliffe, if she 
 won't come and see me ? " 
 
 Norah was a little taken aback. She had hardly expected 
 this mildness, and had thought of Lady W T rotham as being 
 opposed to Mrs. Redcliffe in the same way as Mrs. Prentice 
 was opposed to her, if not quite so noisily. " I hardly think 
 she would care to do that," she said hesitatingly, " after what 
 has happened." 
 
 " Well, what has happened ? " asked Lady Wrotham, still 
 speaking with mild reasonableness. " At least, what has hap- 
 pened to set her against me personally ? I mentioned, I think 
 now unfortunately, what I quite thought everybody who knew 
 her was aware of. I may have had some slight prejudice 
 against her on account of her marriage, for I certainly don't 
 approve of marriage with a deceased wife's sister on general 
 principle. But, on the other hand, I should not necessarily 
 
278 Exton Manor 
 
 refuse to know a lady who had contracted such a marriage 
 without hearing all the circumstances of the case, or seeing 
 for myself what kind of woman she was, and that is what I 
 have never had an opportunity of doing in this case. What 
 am I to do ? " 
 
 " I think there is one thing you might do, Lady Wro- 
 tham," said Norah, again taking her courage in both hands, 
 " and that is to stop Mrs. Prentice in the mischief she is 
 making. She is behaving outrageously. Mrs. Redcliffe has 
 always treated her with every possible kindness. None of us 
 love Mrs. Prentice much, here. She is not a lovable woman, 
 and it has often been difficult to — to be nice to her ; she is 
 so interfering, and so — well, so spiteful. But Mrs. Redcliffe 
 has never let us say a word against her, or against anybody 
 for that matter, and has always been sweet and good to her. 
 She is a wonderful woman — Mrs. Redcliffe ; you can't help 
 loving and admiring her. She is so gentle, and strong, and 
 good. And I say that it is a horrible thing that Mrs. Prentice's 
 tongue should be loosed against her ; yes, Lady Wrotham, 
 and I think that it is a great pity that you should make a 
 friend and a confidante of Mrs. Prentice, and give her your 
 support in the mischief she is doing." 
 
 She had worked herself into a state between tears and 
 indignation. All the wrongs of her friends rose up before her 
 as she spoke, and beside them was the picture of malice and 
 mischief stalking triumphant and unabashed through their 
 lives. She would not have minded now if Lady Wrotham 
 had risen in anger against the outspokenness of her attack, 
 and she would have been quite prepared to carry it still further. 
 But Lady Wrotham was still quiet and reasonable. 
 
 "It is not in the least my wish to support Mrs. Prentice 
 in the way you mention," she said. " I am annoyed with 
 her for putting the scandal about, and if what I constantly 
 hear, from others as well as you, is true, fomenting it, after 
 I expressly told her that I did not wish what I had told her to 
 go any farther." 
 
 " Did you tell her that ? " asked Norah, in surprise. 
 
 " Yes, I distinctly told her so, when I learnt that it was not 
 generally known ; and I consider that she has disobeyed me, 
 although she says that Mrs. Redcliffe and — and Miss Red- 
 cliffe — spoke to her first, before she had repeated it to a 
 soul." 
 
Norafa's Attempt 279 
 
 " She had been so abominably rude to them," said Norah 
 hotly, ** that they could hardly help asking her for an expla- 
 nation of her behaviour. And, of course, that is what she 
 meant them to do. She wouldn't be able to keep a thing like 
 that to herself. It is not in her. She hates Mrs. Redcliffe, 
 because she is good, and she is only too pleased to have this 
 excuse for turning on her." 
 
 " That is a very harsh thing to say," said Lady Wrotham. 
 " I do not think Mrs. Prentice is a bad woman, although 
 I am afraid she is rather a tiresome one. She has been of 
 considerable use to me in — in rather difficult matters in con- 
 nection with religion since I have been here, and I think she 
 has undergone a genuine change of heart." 
 
 " Oh, Lady Wrotham, how can you think that ? " ex- 
 claimed Norah. " Can't you see that she is ready to do every- 
 thing she can to please you, simply because of the position you 
 hold here — and in the world ? If you were not what — who 
 you are, she would have opposed you bitterly in all these 
 things, as she opposed dear old Sir Joseph Chapman, before I 
 came here." 
 
 " I don't like to hear you say that," said Lady Wrotham. 
 " And I never heard that there was any unpleasantness with 
 Sir Joseph Chapman." 
 
 " Oh, there was, Lady Wrotham, though it was some years 
 ago. Miss Chapman, before she died, wanted to get the 
 people to come to some religious meetings here, and Sir Joseph 
 was quite willing and would have helped her, but Mrs. Pren- 
 tice made herself so unpleasant about it — she said it would do 
 a great deal of harm in the place — that she managed to stop 
 it. Sir Joseph gave in to her for the sake of peace. He 
 couldn't bear anything like strife in the place." 
 
 " Did not Mr. Prentice do what he could to stop these 
 meetings ? " 
 
 " I don't know. I don't suppose he would have cared for 
 them, but I have never heard him mentioned in connection 
 with them. It was Mrs. Prentice who bestirred herself." 
 
 " Well, of course it was wrong of her — if they were to be 
 simple Evangelical gatherings. But she has acted in a very 
 different way with my efforts in that direction." 
 
 " Because you are Lady Wrotham, and she would tremble 
 at the idea of opposing you in anything, and Sir Joseph was 
 so mild and unpretentious that " 
 
280 Exton Manor 
 
 " You mean, I suppose, that she is what is usually called a 
 snob ? " 
 
 " Yes, I do mean that. Why, when I first came here, 
 although I am nobody particular apart from my husband's 
 family— but there is just the little handle to my name — she 
 showed it quite plainly. She did her best to keep me from 
 making friends with the Redcliffes, and I had quite a wrong 
 impression of them — taken from her — until I did get to know 
 them." 
 
 " That is reprehensible. I know that people do run after 
 titles. I dislike that sort of thing very much. I had not 
 observed it in Mrs. Prentice, but you say you have. She did 
 it to you, and in such a way that you could not help noticing 
 it. Your powers of observation are stronger than mine." 
 
 " No ; but, you see, Lad}' Wrotham, perhaps I don't bear 
 my little honour so naturally as anyone would who was born 
 with it.'; 
 
 " I think you bear it very well, my dear." 
 
 M And I can't help noticing the difference in the way some 
 people — people like Mrs. Prentice — treat me now from the 
 way they treated me before. At any rate, I have not the 
 slightest doubt that she is an arrant snob, and that that is 
 the reason why you find her so meek and obedient, when none 
 of us who have known her well find her anything like that." 
 
 " I dare say you are right, though perhaps I have flattered 
 myself that I convinced her of her errors through other means. 
 However, I do think that you are right in one thing. I 
 cannot disguise from myself that every one but Mrs. Prentice 
 speaks well of Mrs. Redcliffe, and seems even prepared to 
 quarrel ferociously with me, who am innocent of offence in 
 the matter, on her behalf. I have been annoyed with her all 
 along about the trouble she has caused over that, and now 
 that it has been made clearer still to me, I shall lose no time 
 in telling her so." 
 
 The opportunity of doing so occurred sooner than Lady 
 Wrotham had anticipated, for the door opened at that moment 
 and Mrs. Prentice was announced. 
 
 She came forward with the air of a welcome habituee, but, 
 on seeing Norah, hesitated in her advance, and acquired a 
 pinched expression about the mouth. She shook hands with 
 Lady Wrotham, who did not rise from her seat to do so, nor 
 infuse any warmth into the action. Then she turned to 
 
Norah's Attempt 28 1 
 
 Norah, and said with a smile that was both sweet and sour, 
 " How do you do, Mrs. O'Keefe ? I came to welcome you 
 home on Saturday, but, no doubt through some misunderstand- 
 ing of your servant's, I was not able to do so/' 
 
 " There was no misunderstanding, Mrs. Prentice," said 
 Norah in a clear voice, and withholding her hand ; "I told 
 all my servants to say I was not at home to you." 
 
 The sweetness of Mrs. Prentice's smile departed, and an 
 additional infusion of acidity took its place. " Oh, indeed," 
 she said : "lam sorry you should have done that, because it 
 was a rude thing to do, and you need not fear that I should 
 go where I am not wanted. But there is no need to trouble 
 Lady Wrotham with our little disputes. We can settle them 
 amongst ourselves . ' ' She turned to wards Lad y Wrotham with 
 an air of being about to turn the conversation, and of leaving 
 Norah out of it as a troublesome child who has misbehaved 
 and had better be left to itself to come to its senses. But 
 Norah spoke again. 
 
 " There is no dispute between us, Mrs. Prentice, and I 
 have just been talking over these things with Lady Wrotham. 
 Mrs. Redcliffe is a dear friend of mine, and I simply refuse 
 to have in my house, or to have anything to do with, anyone 
 who has behaved to her as you have." 
 
 ' Oh, but this is outrageous," said Mrs. Prentice. " Lady 
 Wrotham knows very well how this unfortunate affair about 
 Mrs. Redcliffe has arisen, and that I had nothing whatever to 
 do with it." 
 
 " I do not know that, Mrs. Prentice," struck in Lady 
 Wrotham. " I do not know that. There has been a great 
 deal of unnecessary talk and scandal about Mrs. Redcliffe, 
 and I have been very annoyed about it. If it had not been 
 for you I am quite sure it would not have happened." 
 
 Mrs. Prentice grew turkey-red. There was much dis- 
 pleasure in the great lady's tone, and, however much she 
 might have been prepared to make little of it and seek to 
 remove it by such wiles as she could use if she had been alone 
 with her, it annoyed her excessively to be spoken to in this 
 way before a third party. 
 
 " I really think, Lady Wrotham," she said, " that you are 
 doing me a great injustice. I told you distinctly, if you re- 
 member, that 1 did not put about the news of Mrs. Redcliffe's 
 marriage." 
 
282 Exton Manor 
 
 " That is just a quibble/' began Norah, but Lady Wrotham 
 again struck in. 
 
 " Let me speak clearly, ,, she said, " once and for all. Mrs. 
 Prentice, I will say no more of how the news that I told only 
 to you got about. But I know from my own observation 
 since it did get about that you have done your best to make 
 the worst of it. I have been seriously displeased at it, and 
 have meant to say so, but did not, because I hoped that you 
 would come to see in what an un-Christian manner you were 
 behaving. I do so now. It ill becomes one who professes 
 the change of heart that you have recently undergone to act in 
 that way ; and if it goes on I shall begin to think that there 
 has been no change at all, and that you are still in a state of 
 darkness." 
 
 This was too much. To be talked to like a naughty school- 
 girl before Mrs. O'Keefe, whom she had designed to present 
 to her patroness, as one who was in a position to be able to do 
 that little service for her by reason of the close intimacy that 
 existed between her and Lady Wrotham — this was bad enough. 
 But to be held up before her as an example of a repentant 
 Low Church sinner, whose repentance was looked upon with 
 grave suspicion, was more than she could bear. The cords of 
 her allegiance snapped under the strain, and she threw com- 
 placency to the winds. " Pooh ! " she exclaimed. " I have 
 never professed any change of heart at all, not of that sort. I 
 don't believe in it, and I certainly don't require it. You have 
 made a mistake, Lady Wrotham. I think your ideas on re- 
 ligious matters are entirely wrong, and I have only given in to 
 them as much as I have to try and keep the peace, which you 
 have done your best to disturb since you have been here. I 
 shall do so no longer. What do I get by it ? Simply insults 
 and injustice." 
 
 Lady Wrotham stared at her with ever deepening displea- 
 sure. " Do you know what you are saying ? " she asked when 
 Mrs. Prentice had come to the end of her diatribe. 
 
 Mrs. Prentice was in for it now. She had burnt her boats 
 in a fit of pique, and although, confronted with Lady Wro- 
 tham's stern face and forbidding air, she had a moment's in- 
 clination to knuckle under and retreat, the presence of Norah 
 O'Keefe swept away that momentary impulse. She rose from 
 the chair in which she had seated herself. " Yes, I know very 
 well," she said. " I have been too patient, too conciliatory. 
 
Norah's Attempt 283 
 
 You will have nothing more to do with me. Very well, I 
 can't help it. I have done all I can to meet your views, but 
 my conscience now bids me stop and take a firm line. I 
 walk out of this house, and I don't wish ever to enter it again 
 as long as you are here, Lady Wrotham." 
 
 " I think you had better do so," said Lady Wrotham, " be- 
 fore you forget yourself further.' ' 
 
 So Mrs. Prentice walked out, in a towering rage which 
 turned to trembling as soon as she had crossed the threshold. 
 But this time no port, no biscuits could revive her. She went 
 home and threw herself on her bed to think over what she had 
 done, the unhappiest woman in Exton. 
 
 Lady Wrotham, left alone with Norah O'Keefe, turned her 
 head away from the door through which Mrs. Prentice had 
 disappeared, and said, " Well, I have had a lesson. I have no 
 doubt now that you are right, and that Mrs. Prentice has 
 merely pretended to agree with me on matters that I have at 
 heart, with a view to insinuating herself into my favour. I 
 am glad I have found her out. 1 am shocked at her vulgarity 
 and hypocrisy. We need not trouble ourselves with her any 
 longer, and, Mrs. O'Keefe, now that I find I have been mis- 
 taken in her, I must do my best to put right what has been 
 wrong with regard to Mrs. Red cliff e, through my agency, I 
 fear, in the first place, although not with my intention. And 
 you must help me. You must either bring Mrs. Redcliffe 
 here to see me, or I will go and see her, I do not mind which it 
 is. But if I go to see her she must be prepared for my 
 visit. I should not care to go and to be refused admit- 
 tance." 
 
 " I do not think that would happen, Lady Wrotham." 
 
 " It would not, of course, if she was prepared for my visit. 
 And perhaps you had better prepare her. It would perhaps be 
 more of a compliment if I waived ceremony and went to see 
 her. I should not like to appear to be in the position of send- 
 ing for her. You can see her between now and to-morrow 
 afternoon, I suppose, and can let me know how my visit 
 would be received. You must let her know that I should 
 come as a friend, and should like to have her as a friend, if she 
 will overlook the little mistake which has caused such trouble. 
 You can explain to her that the trouble has been none of my 
 doing." 
 
 This was very handsome, and Norah felt it was meant to be 
 
284 Exton Manor 
 
 so. " I will do what I can," she said, " and I am sure they 
 will be glad." 
 
 A shade came over Lady Wrotham's face. " I had forgot- 
 ten the girl for the moment," she said. u Of course, she did 
 send a very impertinent message to me." 
 
 " She may have said something to Mrs. Prentice in her 
 anger," said Norah. " I don't know what it was, but I am 
 quite sure that whatever she did say Mrs. Prentice made the 
 most of." 
 
 " I dare say you are right. Well, I will overlook that, and 
 think no more about it. You had better come and tell me 
 what has passed at twelve o'clock to-morrow, and I will go 
 and see Mrs. Redcliffe about four o'clock in the afternoon. 
 And now, my dear, let me tell you how glad I am to have you 
 here. I am rather cut off from my old friends, and have not, 
 so far, cared to invite people to stay with me here. I shall do 
 so by and by, when I have a little recovered from my loss, 
 which still affects me, although I try to show it as little as 
 possible ; and I shall hope to have some young people in the 
 house, from time to time. But you must come and cheer me 
 up. I shall always be glad to see you." 
 
 Norah made suitable acknowledgments and took her leave. 
 " She really isn't half a bad old thing," she said to herself as 
 she walked away, " and she seems to have taken a fancy to 
 me. Nothing was said about my ' goings on,' and nothing 
 probably will be said now. Well, if she succeeds in putting 
 things right with Mrs. Redcliffe — and I must do my best to 
 bring that about — I will be friends with her. But not unless." 
 
 Norah went to see Mrs. Redcliffe the next morning and 
 explained the situation to her. " I have no objection to see- 
 ing Lady Wrotham," Mrs. Redcliffe said. " I do not know 
 that she can be blamed for her part in the trouble, and if she 
 
 is no longer under the influence of Mrs. Prentice But 
 
 I don't know what Hilda will say, Norah. She is far more 
 upset about it than I am, you know. Dear girl, it is all out 
 of pure loyalty to me." 
 
 " Where is Hilda ? " asked Norah. " Can't we talk to 
 her ? " 
 
 " I think you had better do so. She is painting in the 
 church. Tell her that Lady Wrotham is coming to see us this 
 afternoon, and that I hope she will lay aside her dislike and 
 help me to come to an understanding with her." 
 
Norah's Attempt 285 
 
 So Norah went down to the church, and found Hilda Red- 
 cliffe in one of the pews, in the early stages of a painting of 
 the pulpit, an object of which the inhabitants of Exton were 
 justly proud. 
 
 She found her unexpectedly obdurate. She grew indignant 
 and distressed the moment the object of Norah's address to her 
 was mentioned. " How can mother think of it ? " she ex- 
 claimed. " And how can you advise her to do it, Norah ? I 
 dare say it is true that Lady Wrotham is not so bad as Mrs. 
 Prentice, but she has listened to Mrs. Prentice, she has not 
 lifted a finger to stop all the scandal she has put about, and she 
 has made a bosom friend of Mrs. Prentice, all the time she has 
 been doing everything she could to do harm to mother. I 
 think she has behaved disgracefully/' 
 
 " But, surely, Hilda dear, now that she has broken with Mrs. 
 Prentice, and on account of this very thing, and wants to see 
 Mrs. Redcliffe — and you — to say how 7 sorry she is about it all, 
 and for her share in it " 
 
 " How do you know she wants to say that ? Supposing she 
 just comes into the house — practically at our invitation — and 
 tries to lord it over mother, as seems to be her nature, from 
 everything we know about her Of course, it is awk- 
 ward for her having us here, who don't want to have any- 
 thing to do with her. It hurts her dignity, and she would 
 like to put herself in the right. No, Norah, I don't like Lady 
 Wrotham, and the less mother and I have to do with her the 
 better." 
 
 Whether Norah would have been able to make any im- 
 pression on this attitude, and peace and goodwill would have 
 been brought about by her efforts, cannot be known. It is 
 probable that they would. But it was not to be. Hilda was 
 sitting in the corner of one pew, and Norah standing behind 
 her in another, both of them with their backs to the door. 
 When Hilda had given vent to her feelings in a clear voice, 
 both of them were startled by another voice behind them. 
 
 " Then there will not be the slightest difficulty about your 
 having your way." 
 
 What unfortunate chance had brought Lady Wrotham to 
 that (by her) little-frequented spot at that moment ? Exer- 
 cised with the details of her campaign against the Vicar, she 
 had chosen a time when she thought few people would be 
 likely to be about the church, to walk into it and refresh her 
 
286 Exton Manor 
 
 memory about certain details of altar furniture and the like, 
 and had entered unheard just in time to hear herself de- 
 nounced in the words above recounted. 
 
 Hilda turned round and faced her scornfully. Norah 
 looked deeply distressed, but was too much at a loss for 
 words. 
 
 " Of course you are Miss Redcliffe," said the great lady, 
 steadying herself, with her stick, and holding herself in an 
 upright and stately manner in spite of her lameness and her 
 lack of inches. " I should have overlooked your previous 
 rudeness, as I wished to do all that lay in my power to put an 
 end to this disagreeable business. But I cannot overlook this. 
 I had supposed that what was repeated to me was exaggerated. 
 I now see that it was not so. You are a very rude and imper- 
 tinent girl." 
 
 Hilda flushed, and would have retorted hotly, but Norah 
 stopped her. " Don't say anything, Hilda," she pleaded ; 
 " you will only be sorry for it afterwards. Lady Wrotham, 
 I am very sorry you came in just then. We were only just 
 beginning to talk it over, and " 
 
 " I am very glad I "did come in," said Lady Wrotham un- 
 compromisingly. " I now see that any efforts I could make 
 towards a better understanding would be useless, and I shall 
 not attempt to make them. I will leave Miss Redcliffe to 
 herself, but I shall be glad to have a word with you, Mrs. 
 O'Keefe, outside/ ■ She turned and limped majestically 
 through the door. 
 
 Norah hesitated, but Hilda said, " Oh, go and talk to her, 
 and make friends for yourself. She is much better worth 
 knowing than we are. Only don't apologize for me, for I 
 meant every word I said, and would say them again." 
 
 " I shall go, and I shall come back again," Norah said, and 
 left her. 
 
 Lady Wrotham was walking slowly along the churchyard 
 path. She turned round as Norah came out of the porch. 
 " You see," she said angrily, " it is no use going any farther. 
 All my efforts towards conciliation are just thrown in my face. 
 That girl is impossible. You must consider my intention of 
 yesterday withdrawn. I shall do nothing more." 
 
 " Oh, but, Lady Wrotham," pleaded Norah. " Mrs; Red- 
 cliffe said that she would be pleased to see you, and I " 
 
 " I can't sec Mrs. Redcliffe without seeing her daughter, 
 
Norah's Attempt 287 
 
 and that I will not do, to lay myself open to further imperti- 
 nence. I have done with the Redcliffes. I am sick of them. 
 I wish to hear nothing more about them. They must take 
 their way, and I will take mine. Don't mention their name 
 to me again. I want you to come to luncheon with me, and 
 to go for a long drive with me afterwards. It is a lovely day, 
 and we will go into the forest." 
 
 " Thank you, Lady Wrexham," said Norah, " but I'm afraid 
 I can't do that." 
 
 "Oh, you have an engagement. But " 
 
 " No, I have no engagement. But the Redcliffes are my 
 friends, and now is the time that I must be with them, and not 
 witli those who are at enmity with them." 
 
 14 What ! You think that girl was right to speak of me in 
 that way ? " 
 
 " I don't say so. But, right or wrong, they are my friends, 
 andT love them." 
 
 " Then you mean that you refuse to be a friend of mine ? " 
 
 " I should be glad to be a friend of yours. But I can't as 
 long as you are against them." 
 
 She was very pretty, standing in front of the great little lady 
 with a flush on her cheeks, and an air of half-regretful bold- 
 ness, but Lady Wrotham was not now affected by her pretti- 
 ness. She turned away in an undisguised rage. 
 
 " Very well, then," she said over her shoulder as she 
 stumped off. " You may do as you please, and I don't want 
 to see you any more." 
 
 • And so ended at the same time Norah's attempt at media- 
 tion and her short alliance with Lady Wrotham. 
 
CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 ARRIVALS 
 
 What Mr. Prentice in the pulpit might have called, and 
 probably did call, the glad season of Whitsuntide, not only 
 brought the pleasant feeling that summer had definitely* 
 arrived, if not by the almanac, by its gift of flowers and 
 foliage, genial warmth and long days, but to the Manor of 
 Exton some increase of population. It brought Mr. Dale to 
 the Lodge, very hearty and pleased with himself and with 
 everything he found there, and with him came Mrs. Dale, 
 pleased, too, at the change in her surroundings, but pleased 
 in a more placid manner ; and Lotty and Mary and Ada 
 and Tom and Peter and Gladys Dale, likewise pleased, 
 quietly, vociferously, complacently or riotously, according to 
 their several natures. It brought Mr. and Mrs. Ferraby to 
 the other Lodge, two miles away in the forest, and with 
 them a house party as large as it could be made consistent 
 with the comfort demanded by the smart and lively people 
 from among whom Mr. and Mrs. Ferraby's friends w r ere 
 chiefly drawn. It brought to the Abbey, Lord Wrotham, 
 who had announced his intention of spending a week there 
 the day before he actually arrived, and it brought, after due 
 notice and consideration on both sides, Lady Syde, the widow 
 of the late Lord Wrotham's younger brother, General Sir 
 Franklin Syde, 
 
 Lord Wrotham arrived at the Abbey early in the afternoon 
 while his mother was out for her afternoon drive. Her 
 absence, however, did not appear to cause him much regret, 
 and he had not been in the house more than five minutes 
 when he was out of it again and making his way across the 
 park towards the White House. 
 
 283 
 
Arrivals 289 
 
 Mrs. Redcliffe and Hilda were sitting under the shade of 
 a lime tree on the lawn working and reading. Hilda looked 
 up as the little wicket gate which gave entrance from the 
 park into the garden shut to, and saw him coming. 
 " Mother," she said, in some perturbation, " here is Lord 
 Wrotham. What shall we do ? " 
 
 There was nothing to be done but to await his coming. 
 " Here I am, you see," he said, when he was within speak- 
 ing distance. " Just come down and having a look round. 
 How are you, Mrs. Redcliffe ? How are you, Miss Red- 
 cliffe ? Jolly weather, isn't it ! And how has the world been 
 using you ? " 
 
 It might have been rather difficult to give him an answer 
 to that question, if he had required one. But apparently 
 he did not, for he went on without pausing, " Ripping garden 
 you've got here. Just the place to sit in on sunny after- 
 noons and enjoy yourself." 
 
 u Hilda, fetch Lord Wrotham another chair," said Mrs. 
 Redcliffe. 
 
 Hilda got up to do so. " No, don't you trouble. I'll fetch 
 it," he said. 
 
 " You don't know where they are," said Hilda, and walked 
 across the lawn towards the house, which gave him the oppor- 
 tunity of accompanying her. 
 
 Hilda broke in upon some pleasant nothings that he began 
 to say to her, looking at him with clear eyes. " I ought to 
 tell you," she said, " that we are not friends with Lady 
 Wrotham. In fact, we don't know her and are not likely 
 to. She did something that I think was very wrong of her, 
 and she overheard me say something about her that she was 
 angry about." 
 
 " Dear me, that's a bad job," he said. " Still, as long as 
 I don't overhear you saying something about me that I should 
 be angry about — but you wouldn't do that, would you ? " 
 
 He looked at her out of the corners of his eyes with an 
 expression that made her laugh, rather against her will. 
 " You are so funny," she said, " that I can't help laughing 
 at whatever you say. But this has not been a laughing 
 matter to us, and I don't know that you ought to come 
 here, considering the terms we are on with Lady Wrotham. 
 Does she know that you have come ? " 
 
 They were standing by the door of a shed in which garden 
 
 K (15) 
 
290 Exton Manor 
 
 accessories were kept, and she seemed in no hurry to get 
 one of the chairs that were in it and return to the lawn. 
 Neither was he in a hurry. 
 
 " Well, to tell you the truth, I haven't seen her yet," he 
 said. " I've only just got down, and she's out driving. But 
 what has she been saying to upset you ? Don't you go to 
 her meetings ? Y 
 
 " It isn't that. She — she, oh, I don't know how to tell 
 you. But mother said she thought you must have known — 
 about — about her marriage." 
 
 " Oh, lor, yes, I know all about it. But surely she hasn't 
 been making a fuss about that ! " 
 
 " She has, and she told it to a horrible woman, the wife of 
 the Vicar, who actually told us that we ought to be driven 
 out of the place because of it." 
 
 " Well, upon my word, that's pretty thick. She'll be 
 driven out of the place herself if she isn't careful. Look 
 here, Miss Redcliffe, I'll make it up between you and my 
 mother. She likes to have her own way about things, and 
 if people don't knuckle under to her she's quite capable of 
 making it unpleasant for them ; but she's not as bad as all 
 that. I mean that she wouldn't lay into people because of 
 — well, what you've told me." 
 
 " I don't think I want it made up, thank you. I'm bound 
 to say that mother would have done so. She's so good, and 
 can't bear being at enmity with anybody. And Lady 
 Wrotham did arrange to come up here to see mother. I 
 don't know whether she would have put it all straight or only 
 just made it a little less awkward for herself by coming. But 
 she heard me say that I didn't want to see her. I said it 
 to Mrs. O'Keefe in the church, and Lady Wrotham came in 
 and heard me. She was very angry, and, I believe, washed 
 her hands of us from that moment." 
 
 " Well, it's a great pity, and the loss is hers." 
 
 " I ought to tell you," Hilda went on, " that mother was 
 not pleased about what had happened. She thought that 
 Lady Wrotham had only meant to be kind in suggesting that 
 she should come here and see mother. But I don't know. 
 I shouldn't have cared to risk it. I will stand up for mother 
 against anybody, even where she won't stand up for herself. 
 And I can't pretend to be altogether sorry that it happened 
 as it did." 
 
 (31) 
 
Arrivals 291 
 
 " You're quite right, Miss Redcliffe. Still, we must try 
 and put things straight somehow. I say, let's go and have 
 a look at those flowering shrubs up there. I'm a whale on 
 flowering shrubs. We've got a lot of them at Hurstbury." 
 
 Hilda hesitated a moment, and then consented to appease* 
 his passion for flowering shrubs. They went up the hill be- 
 hind the house to a little stretch of wild garden, but, having 
 arrived there, Lord Wrotham seemed to have lost some of his 
 horticultural fervour, and the flowering shrubs attracted less 
 attention from him than Hilda herself. He was quite in his 
 element, and made rapid headway in his intimacy with her, 
 and in such a manner that she talked and laughed with him as 
 she had hardly done since Lady Wrotham and Mrs. Prentice 
 had brought strife to the White House ; recovered some of her 
 naturally high spirits, and was as near to falling in love with 
 the gaiety and happy temper of her companion as he might 
 have wished, if his attitude to her was to be taken as a guide, 
 that she should fall in love with himself. 
 
 Mrs. Redcliffe, still at her needlework under the lime tree, 
 looked up with a smile of pleasure as she heard Hilda's clear 
 laugh on their way back across the lawn to join her, Lord 
 Wrotham carrying an extra basket-chair on his head. She had 
 not heard her laugh like that for a long time. But a shade of 
 anxiety was on her face too as she looked at them, caused by 
 something in her secret thoughts. 
 
 Lord Wrotham stayed to tea and made himself unaffectedly 
 and delightfully at home. And he stayed for half-an-hour 
 after tea w r as over. When at last he did find it incumbent on 
 him to take his departure, he suggested that the ladies should 
 stroll across the park with him towards the Abbey. This in- 
 vitation was refused, but they walked with him to the little 
 gate in the fence and bade him farewell, still on a note of 
 laughter and friendliness. 
 
 My lord walks home quickly, brushing off the yellow dust 
 of the buttercups as he goes, swinging his stick in a blithe and 
 happy mood. Once he stops under the evening shade of a 
 tali elm to run his eye over a group of farm horses gratefully 
 cropping the cool May grasses after their day's work. Ha 
 gives them no more than a moment's inspection, but walks on 
 again swinging his stick with his eyes on the ground. The 
 grey walls of the old Abbey front him, the most beautiful of 
 the three fine houses he calls his own, set like a jewel in the 
 
292 Exton Manor 
 
 midst of woods and fields, red roofs and shining water, and his 
 lordship's pleasant young face is thoughtful. He turns back 
 to take a look at the pretty spacious cottage he has left. One 
 side of it can be seen through the trees, its windows shining in 
 the light of the westering sun, as if they were eyes, contem- 
 plating calmly, but unemulously, across the stretch of grass 
 land its more stately neighbour. What if he should bridge the 
 
 distance between the two by ! He hardly formulates the 
 
 idea, but his eager mind allows it entrance among all the 
 other thronging interests and excitements that occupy him. 
 It may come to be thought over. For the present, seize the 
 day and rely as little as may be on the morrow. 
 
 The Dale family has taken possession of their new house, 
 and all is bustle and business and pleasurable anticipation at 
 the Lodge. Mr. Dale with his coat off and a large cigar, 
 decked with a w r aistcoat of red and gold stamped paper, in his 
 mouth, his own capacious fancy waistcoat, bound across by a 
 heavy chain, hardly less resplendent, is directing the hanging 
 of his collection of real oil paintings, bought, as he will tell 
 you, to please himself and not the critics, which assuredly they 
 would not have done. Some are to go in the hall and some 
 in the dining-room. The water-colours for the drawing-room 
 and the engravings for the library and breakfast -room will 
 come next, but the real oil paintings now possess all his mind, 
 and he is giving loud, minute, frequently contradictory, but 
 always good-tempered instructions to the two men in green 
 baize aprons who are there to carry them out. He is not 
 above lending a hand himself where he thinks it is wanted, 
 and occasionally mounts the first few steps of the step-ladder 
 with extreme caution to do so, but does not trust himself on 
 the higher altitudes. He is quite happy and would not have 
 had the appalling confusion around him reduced, without his 
 taking part in its reduction, for anything. 
 
 Mrs. Dale is engaged in bringing order out of chaos in the 
 linen and china closets, going about her work with a placidity 
 that only disguises the thoroughness and capability which she 
 is bringing to bear on her task. She is assisted by two cheer- 
 ful, broad-faced North country maids and b}/ Ada, her second 
 daughter, who is domestically inclined. Lotty, the eldest, is 
 also domestically inclined, but her domesticity is at present 
 submerged in a haze of love-sickness, and she has retired to 
 O) 
 
Arrivals 293 
 
 her room to snatch a few undisturbed moments for the perusal 
 of a letter which she already knows by heart. She is not so 
 pleasurably excited at the family's move to Exton as the resi 
 of them, was indeed rather averse to it, as removing her from 
 the object of her affections, but looks forward to leaving it 
 again in a few months' time, and thinks that after all a real 
 country wedding will be preferable to being married from a 
 suburb of Manchester 
 
 Mary, the third daughter, is putting her own room into 
 order, leaving off every now and then to look out of the win- 
 dow at the woods and the river. She is artistically inclined, 
 and thinks there ought to be plenty of " bits to sketch." 
 
 Torn, with a briar pipe in his mouth, in knickerbockers, as 
 is only fitting in the country, and brown boots with boxcloth 
 spats, strolls down to have a look at the river, which he in- 
 spects with a knowing air, and shouldn't be surprised if you 
 couldn't get a bit of sport there with a fly, as if the mysteries 
 of fly-fishing were an open book to him, which they are not, 
 the only kind of book which he thoroughly understands being 
 that with which he is rapidly forming a useful acquaintance in 
 his father's office. He will go back to Manchester in a day 
 or two and work like the capable young business man he is, 
 but in the meantime he is a country gentleman's son, and must 
 play the part, or as near as he can get to it. His remarks are 
 received with reverence, as of an oracle, by his younger brother 
 Peter, who shadows him everywhere, and by Gladys, Peter's 
 twin, who shadows Peter. 
 
 In the midst of the picture-hanging Browne walks in, and 
 is received with vociferous warmth. Mr. Dale, not sorry for 
 the short respite from his labours, suggests liquid refreshment, 
 which Browne accepts. Mr. Dale lifts his glass before drink- 
 ing from it, and says, " Well, here's luck, Mr. — er. I hope 
 we shall see you here very often. It'll be Liberty Hall, and 
 you'll ask for what you like and have what you like." Browne 
 makes suitable acknowledgments. He is in a state of heat, 
 and is anxious to discover, if he can do so without putting a 
 direct question, whether his suspicions as to Mr. Dale's being 
 a Radical and a Dissenter are well founded. 
 
 He finds that they are. Mr. Dale is not ashamed of his 
 religion or of his political principles ; it does not occur to him 
 that he has anything to be ashamed of, and he makes no at- 
 tempt to soften them for the benefit of Browne, not perceiv- 
 
 (U) 
 
294 Exton Manor 
 
 ing the advisability of doing so. " We shall go to church, as 
 a rule," he says, " because there doesn't seem to be a Cause 
 here as yet. When I get to know my way about a bit, I dare 
 say I shall find some people who agree with me, and we'll 
 build a chapel. I expect I shall have to find most of the 
 money, but I shan't mind that. I dare say your people will 
 give me a site, Mr. — er — Browne, eh ? " Browne does not 
 think that they will. He thinks it would be a pity to draw 
 the people away from the Church and make divisions, and he 
 hopes Mr. Dale will think better of it. Mr. Dale says that 
 where he comes from, one man is as good as another, what- 
 ever place of worship he attends, and he hopes it will be so 
 here. Browne says it is so, but doesn't mean it. 
 
 As for his Radicalism, Mr. Dale makes no disguise of it. 
 He asks all sorts of questions about the Liberal Association, 
 which Browne finds it difficult to answer, never having heard 
 of that body since he has been at Exton. Mr. Dale is afraid 
 that Liberalism must be in a bad way in this neighbourhood, 
 and proposes to do what he can to better its way. Browne 
 says they have always been good Conservatives in Exton, 
 and Mr. Coventry, their member, is a good sportsman and a 
 capital good chap besides, and it would be a thousand pities 
 to turn him out. Mr. Dale asks whether he is an active 
 politician, and Browne is obliged to confess that he is not, as 
 he doesn't care about it, goes to the House of Commons as 
 seldom as possible, and never opens his mouth when he gets 
 there. Mr. Dale asks whether Browne thinks that is the 
 sort of man who ought to represent a constituency, and 
 Browne, says he does. Mr. Dale disagrees with him, says 
 they must put up somebody to fight Mr. Coventry, and inti- 
 mates that he is ready to be put up himself if nobody better 
 can be found. However, political differences needn't make 
 people any the less good friends, and again, this is Liberty 
 Hall, and Browne will be welcome whenever he likes to come. 
 Mr. Dale returns to his picture-hanging, and Browne takes 
 his departure groaning and perspiring. 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Ferraby bring their Whitsuntide party down 
 to Forest Lodge in a specially reserved saloon carriage, and tran- 
 sport them from the station in motor-cars already sent down by 
 road. Their guests number about half-a-dozen, and each of 
 them has been warned that their entertainment will take the 
 
Arrivals 295 
 
 form of a picnic, as Forest Lodge is a poky little place, merely a 
 rough shooting-box. The picnic, however, does not involve anv 
 serious discomfort to the picnickers. Their rdoms are furnished 
 luxuriously. Their bodily wants are attended to by a French 
 chef and three or four men-servants. There are motor-cars in 
 which they can be taken in any direction they wish to go, and 
 there is a steam yacht anchored in the river just below Warren's 
 Hard, and a racing cutter for those who prefer to be blown by 
 the winds of heaven rather than propelled by steam, lying off 
 Harben Pier, six miles away. So that on the whole the draw- 
 backs of ordinary picnics have been successfully surmounted. 
 Mr. and Mrs. Ferraby are both comparatively young. Mr. 
 Ferraby, despite his comparative youth, is a power in 
 financial circles in the City. He is considered sound as well 
 as enterprising. He may be seen driving along the Thames 
 Embankment in an electric brougham at about ten o'clock on 
 most mornings during the London season, studjdng a pink 
 paper, and returning at about seven reading a green one. He 
 may also be seen at most places of resort frequented by the 
 smartest of smart people, during the night, for both Mr. and 
 Mrs. Ferraby are popular members of that class of society 
 which is preached against in pulpits and lectured against in 
 newspapers, and whose names and movements are made 
 familiar to the world by the same papers which lecture them. 
 How Mr. Ferraby succeeds in keeping, and even enhancing, 
 his reputation as a sound financier, and making a regular ap- 
 pearance at Ascot, and Goodwood, and Cowes, and other 
 places where the more leisured of his acquaintances disport 
 themselves, as well as an occasional appearance on the Riviera, 
 or at Biarritz, or at a foreign Spa, staying at country houses 
 in England and Scotland and Ireland in the Autumn, and 
 shooting over the preserves he has rented at Exton, must be 
 decided by the initiated, but he undoubtedly does so, and 
 makes a great deal of money besides. As he does not give 
 up the whole of his life to amusing himself, and Mrs. Ferraby, 
 in the intervals of flying about from one place to another, 
 dressing herself and playing Bridge, manages to dispose of 
 some of her husband's superfluous income, and, what is more 
 to the point, some of her own crowded hours, in the service 
 of public charities ; and as both of them are always cheerful 
 and friendly, and are much given to hospitality, not entirely 
 of the kind that expects some return, perhaps they are not 
 
 (29) 
 
296 Exton Manor 
 
 among the worst members of their much decried and much 
 advertised set. 
 
 They arrive at Forest Lodge in time to dress for a conveni- 
 ently late dinner, and the houseis immediately filled with noise 
 and laughter, which sinks again into temporary silence as each 
 member of the party retires into his or her separate chamber. 
 The guests with one exception are as smart as host and 
 hostess. There is Prince Alexis Orvinski, who is very much 
 at home in English society, and prefers England to Russia, 
 where he is liable to receive attentions of an explosive char- 
 acter. There is the Earl of Bridgwater, supporting the separa- 
 tion from his Countess, who has gone to stay at another house 
 farther down the line, with exemplary fortitude. She travelled 
 down by the same train as he, although neither of them knew 
 it till the fast train was moving out of Greathampton Station, 
 when she put her hand out of the window and waved him a 
 greeting. There is Lady Buttermere, also temporarily 
 separated from her husband, he being in Paris, and also sup- 
 porting the separation with resignation. There is Mrs. Lanc- 
 ing, who has got rid of her husband altogether, through the 
 agency of a judge and jury, and has so far resisted the temp- 
 tation to acquire another. Both these ladies have attained the 
 rank of beauties, with the help of the illustrated papers, in 
 which their photographs are constantly appearing for the bene- 
 fit of those who would otherwise be in the painful position of 
 constantly reading about them without knowing what they are 
 like. There is Major Laurence Syde, of His Majesty's Bri- 
 gade of Guards, the cousin of Lord Wrotham's who has al- 
 ready been mentioned, a very handsome man, whose good 
 looks and agreeable manners are generally supposed to be de- 
 voted to the capturing of a prize in the matrimonial market. 
 If they are they have not yet been successful, possibly because 
 his requirements, which embrace birth and beauty as well as 
 large and unfettered wealth, are too exacting. 
 
 And lastly there is Sir Francis Redcliffe, who does not belong 
 to the smart set, spending most of his time as he does in the 
 management of his country estate, and in the pursuit of coun- 
 try sports and pastimes. He is the youngest of the party ; his 
 age is not more than eight and twenty. He is a tall healthy- 
 looking young man, rather solemn and rather slow, and seems 
 to be quite out of place at this particular picnic, as the life he 
 habitually lives includes very few of the interests which pro- 
 
 (13) 
 
Arrivals 297 
 
 vide the rest of the picnickers with their subjects of conversa- 
 tion. But he makes himself at home all the same, and the lady 
 picnickers show a generous desire to put him at his ease, find- 
 ing his solemnity amusing and his slowness restful. Perhaps 
 they would not be so generous if he were not so good-looking, 
 not with the elaborate and cultivated good looks of a man of 
 fashion like Major Syde, who is so handsome and so well- 
 dressed that he would be noticed in any company, but good- 
 looking in the quiet unpretentious fashion of a healthy young 
 Englishman, who thinks nothing about his features and very 
 little about his clothes. He has a good pair of e} T es, and there 
 is a straightforward unafraid look in them which the lady pic- 
 nickers find attractive, and for which they forgive him a dis- 
 concerting disregard of their own obvious attractions. 
 
 Sir Francis Redcliffe is accustomed to ask for anything that 
 he wants if he thinks he is justified in asking for it, and he has 
 asked for this invitation from Mrs. Ferraby for reasons which 
 will be disclosed. Mrs. Ferraby's family are neighbours of Sir 
 Francis Redcliffe's in Worcestershire. She likes him, and is 
 always ready to do a kindness to anybody ; so here he is, making 
 one of his rare appearances in fashionable society, and ready, 
 lor all his solemnity, to take his part in whatever goes forward 
 to the best of his ability 
 
CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 A DINNER-PARTY AT FOREST LODGE 
 
 Mr. and Mrs. Ferraby being accustomed to spend most of 
 their waking hours in the midst of a crowd, and being so un- 
 used to eating their dinner except in company that they would 
 hardly be able to eat it at all if condemned to a solitude of two, 
 it was only natural that Mrs. Ferraby should increase the 
 number at her dinner-table on the first evening of their arrival 
 by inviting Lord Wrotham and Norah O'Keefe and Browne and 
 Turner to take their seats at it. Eight people could be 
 dined in great comfort with as much elbow r room as could be 
 desired, and twelve could not, but possibly the picnic appear- 
 ance of the occasion, on which Mrs. Ferraby laid such stress, 
 was helped out by the crush, and at any rate there was no lack 
 of gaiety or noise when the diners did at last squeeze them- 
 selves into their places, at about nine o'clock, even if they 
 were a trifle too close to one another. 
 
 It was significant of that ready good nature and adapt- 
 ability which made the Ferrabys popular among their friends 
 that they should have been as ready to offer hospitality to their 
 quiet country neighbours as to their smart London acquaint- 
 ance. Lord Wrotham was invited not exactly as a country 
 neighbour, and Norah O'Keefe had gone about in London and 
 elsewhere before her husband's death, and would have been 
 welcome anywhere ; but Browne and Turner, the one a life- 
 long bucolic and the other a recluse, had no connections 
 whatever with any part of the life led by the Ferrabys, except 
 their occasional picnics, and were there as country neighbours 
 only. The fact that they both accepted all the invitations to 
 the Forest Lodge that were tendered them, and enjoyed them- 
 selves when they got there, may be taken as a proof that the 
 
 298 
 
A Dinner -Party at Forest Lodge 299 
 
 hospitality of the Ferrabys was based upon a genuine liking 
 for their fellow-creatures, as all hospitality should be, and 
 that their general popularity was not undeserved. 
 
 Browne and Turner arrived punctually at half-past eight, 
 the hour at which they had been asked to arrive, and were 
 shown into an empty drawing-room. 
 
 " Not down yet," said Browne. 
 
 '* No, and won't be for another quarter of an hour," said 
 Turner. " Can't think what you were in such a hurry to get 
 off for." 
 
 " I'm hungry," said Browne simply. " I say, I wonder 
 why they haven't asked the Redcliffes. They gen'ly do." 
 
 " You said that coming along — three times. You always 
 do say everything three times. How should I know ? " 
 
 "I hope Mrs. Ferraby hasn't heard anything about this 
 business, and is standing off." 
 
 " You've said that three times too, if not four, and I told 
 you Mrs. Ferraby wasn't that sort." 
 
 Sir Francis Redcliffe came into the room at that moment, 
 and there was some hesitation as to whether he should be ac- 
 cepted at once as a man and a brother, or ignored until a due 
 introduction should render him so ex officio. He solved the 
 dimculty himself by remarking that it was a fine evening, and 
 having thus matriculated in approved fashion, was allowed to 
 proceed to the higher degrees without further loss of time. 
 
 " Do you know my cousins, the Redcliffes, who live here ? " 
 he asked presently, when he had discovered that Browne and 
 Turner were residentiary, and not migratory like himself. 
 
 Browne stared at him, and Turner said, " Yes. Particular 
 friends of ours — both of us. Thought they hadn't any rela- 
 tions in England, though." 
 
 " My name's Redcliffe," said Sir Francis. " George Red- 
 cliffe was a first cousin of my father's. I didn't know they 
 were in England until a week or two ago, or I should have 
 looked them up. Wrotham told me. I ran up against him 
 in town a week ago. I'm going to look them up to-morrow. 
 She's a nice woman, isn't she ? " 
 
 " One of the best that ever stepped," said Turner. " Very 
 glad you're going to see her." 
 
 Sir Francis seemed about to say something, but apparently 
 changed his mind. 
 
 " Mrs. Ferraby likes her, I think," said Browne tentatively. 
 
300 Exton Manor 
 
 " Oh, yes. She likes her very much. She's asked them to 
 dine here to-morrow. Would have asked them to-night, but 
 I wanted to go and see her first/' 
 
 Again he appeared as if he had something else to say, but 
 he was interrupted by the entrance of Norah O'Keefe, look- 
 ing so beautiful that Browne and Turner both drew in their 
 breaths, and even Francis Redcliffe was impressed, and won- 
 dered who she could be. 
 
 Mr. Ferraby came in, genial and alert. " You know what 
 we are here/' he said by way of apology, " always behind 
 time. And how are you, Mrs. O'Keefe ? Not quite taken 
 root yet, eh ? We're going to take you all over the place 
 while we're here. How do, Browne ? How do, Turner ? 
 Browne, you're getting fat. Mrs. O'Keefe, let me introduce 
 Sir Francis Redcliffe. He's come here to dig out his long-lost 
 cousins. Mrs. Patrick O'Keefe. Well, Turner, not got 
 tired of the fish yet, eh ? " 
 
 Lord Bridgwater came in. He recognized Mrs. O'Keefe 
 and shook hands with her, but she soon hurried back to Francis 
 Redcliffe, with whom she had been in conversation. Lord 
 Bridgwater recognized Turner. " Hulloa, Diogenes," he 
 said, " who'd have thought of seeing you after all these years ? 
 I should have known your solemn old visage anywhere. Last 
 time we met — let's see " 
 
 " Was when you'd got more hair on your head than you 
 have now," said Turner. " You've become a big man since 
 then, Tubby. Thank you for not being too proud to know 
 me." 
 
 " You old fraud ! " said Bridgwater, digging him in the ribs. 
 " Still as hard-headed and soft-hearted as ever, eh ? " 
 
 Prince Orvinski and Major Syde came in. "Is that Sidey 
 Syde ? " said Turner, u or do my eyes deceive me ? He was 
 my fag at Bourdon's." The prince was introduced to Mrs. 
 O'Keefe. Laurence Syde looked as if he would like to be, 
 but as the Russian was paying her stiff-backed compliments, 
 which would take him some time to bring to a successful issue, 
 he cast his eyes over the other men in the room and lighted 
 upon Turner. " Hulloa, Diogenes ! " he said coolly, run 
 you to earth at last. Thought you'd gone under altogether. 
 How are you ? " 
 
 " Fm very vfcll, thank you, Sidey," replied Turner. " Var- 
 nish factory still going strong ? " 
 
A Dinner-Party at Forest Lodge 301 
 
 Laurence's reply was lost in a rustle of skirts as Mrs. 
 Ferraby and Lady Buttermere swept into the room. Mrs. 
 Ferraby went straight to Norah O'Keefe, greeted her warmly, 
 and then shook hands with Browne and Turner, smiling and 
 talking all the time. Lady Buttermere looked round for Mrs. 
 Lancing, and seemed disappointed to find that she herself was 
 not the last arrival, which she might very well have been, as it 
 was already ten minutes to nine. The room was full of talk 
 and laughter, when Lord Wrotham made his appearance, cool 
 and fresh, and grinning with sheer affability. He was very 
 soon talking and laughing as loudly as anyone, and had singled 
 out Norah O'Keefe as the most fitting recipient of his spirited 
 excursions, showing Prince Orvinski the shape of a British 
 shoulder, and quite eclipsing Francis Redcliffe, who stood in a 
 corner behind them and looked lost. 
 
 It was just upon half-an-hour past the appointed hour for 
 dinner, which had already been announced in a hopeless kind 
 of way by the butler, as who should say, " I mention this as it 
 is my duty to do so, but without the slightest expectation of 
 being attended to." All the ladies were still chattering gaily, 
 but the men had begun to ringer their waistcoats and look 
 round them, when the door opened to admit Mrs. Lancing, 
 who came in quietly, but with an air of complacence, as much 
 as to say, " I think I've done it this time." A moment's pause 
 in the torrent of chatter from all except Lady Buttermere, who 
 had her back turned to the door, and kept it there, was her re- 
 ward. Certainly Mrs. Lancing's get-up, if not eminently 
 suitable for a picnic, was worth the strenuous hour she iiG.d 
 spent over it. It drew a momentary appraising glance from 
 Mrs. Ferraby and Norah O'Keefe, and it performed the 
 curious operation of slightly opening the mouths of the men in 
 the room. It so impressed Lord Bridgwater that he was able 
 to describe it a few weeks later to Lady Bridgwater, when 
 they met unexpectedly under the beeches at Goodwood, and 
 had a few minutes' quiet chat. " Chiffon," he said, " of a sort 
 of green you never see. Just that and some pearls in her 
 hair ; you know her hair — sort of shining copper. But, by 
 Jove, ii was stunning ! " 
 
 They went into the dining-room, and. the butler stood by 
 the door, and looked at them with mournful eyes. " It is all 
 very well," he seemed to say, " but I have no illusions left 
 about you. You are nothing but froth, and I know a good 
 
302 Exton Manor 
 
 deal more about you than you think/' But even he cast a 
 semi-approving glance at Mrs. Lancing, and seemed to correct 
 his judgment, and to be saying, " Well, perhaps you have 
 your uses as ornamental accessories to a dinner-table, arranged 
 as only I can arrange it." 
 
 There were only four ladies to eight men. Mrs. Ferraby 
 and Prince Orvinski sat side by side at the head of the table, 
 and Mr. Ferraby and Lady Buttermere at the foot. On the 
 prince's right was Mrs. Lancing, and then Lord Bridgwater, 
 Browne, and Francis Redcliffe. On Mrs. Ferraby' s left were 
 Lord Wrotham, who had Norah O'Keefe next to him, and 
 beyond her were Laurence Syde and Turner. Everybody 
 talked loudly except Francis Redcliffe and Browne and 
 Turner. The sad butler lost no time in inciting them to 
 further efforts, assisted by one of his satellites, and as he 
 whispered interrogatively, " Champagne ? " seemed to add, 
 " I ask you as a matter of form. You are nothing but froth, 
 and this is your fitting refreshment." 
 
 The talk swelled into a hurricane, which filled the room 
 and passed out through the open windows into the quiet 
 night, and seemed to stir the trees of the forest into uneasy 
 protest. Every now and then it subsided a little, as groups 
 of two or three withdrew themselves from the general con- 
 versation, like small bubbles breaking off from a cluster of 
 bubbles, and then coming back to it. Prince Orvinski and 
 Mrs. Lancing were periodically confidential, and sometimes 
 Prince Orvinski addressed himself to his hostess while Lord 
 Bridgwater and Mrs. Lancing talked together. Wrotham 
 and Laurence Syde, on either side of Norah O'Keefe, vied 
 with one another to monopolize her attention. Francis Red- 
 cliffe and Browne found one another stimulating on the subject 
 of estate management. Mr. Ferraby and Lady Buttermere 
 chaffed each other, and Turner threw in an occasional con- 
 tribution to their babble of wit, or insisted upon Laurence 
 Syde's attention, as he advised him to follow his own example 
 and settled dow r n in an out-of-the-way country place, where he 
 needn't trouble about his clothes or be bothered with women. 
 The Guardsman took this advice in good part, laughed at his 
 adviser, and gave him back as good as he received. 
 
 But these interludes were only momentary. The big group 
 of bubbles hung together for the most part, and if it is true 
 that laughter is the best possible aid to digestion, the Ferrabys' 
 
A Dinner -Party at Forest Lodge 303 
 
 chef was justified in ignoring the possibilities of any ill-effects 
 resulting from a dinner that would have put to shame any 
 picnic caterer since the days of Lucullus, 
 
 When the ladies had left the room, Mr. Ferraby went to 
 the other end of the table, but by and by Lord Wrotham and 
 his cousin detached themselves from the group he had formed, 
 and talked together. It was easy to see that the younger 
 man, good-natured and simple, in spite of his position in the 
 world, and his numerous energies and pursuits, was under the 
 influence of ins brilliant and self-possessed elder, looked up to 
 him as a pattern of experienced manhood, and deferred to his 
 opinions. " I say, she's a topping little lady, Mrs. O'Keefe," 
 he said, but he said it not in the way he would have said it to 
 a friend of his own age, but tentatively, with his eye on his 
 cousin's face, as if he was ready to defer to his opinion, even 
 in such matters as these, with which he was more than usually 
 competent to deal. 
 
 " Don't you go making a fool of yourself with her, Kern," 
 said the other. 
 
 " Oh, lor', no/' said Wrotham, as if it was the last thing 
 that would have entered his mind. u But, I say, old chap, 
 you seemed a bit taken with her yourself, what ? " 
 
 Laurence turned his eyes calmly upon him. "You're talk- 
 ing through your hat," he said coldly, and Wrotham hastened 
 to apologize for his indiscretion. 
 
 Three Bridge-tables were brought into the drawing-room 
 after dinner, which was about as many as it would hold, but 
 only one of them was occupied until after the country neigh- 
 bours had left, and the rest sang songs round the piano, or 
 talked in corners. Laurence Syde, somewhat inconsistently, 
 devoted himself to the entertainment of Norah O'Keefe, in 
 the quietest corner that could be found, and that was not very 
 quiet. To judge by her frequent trills of laughter, he met 
 with considerable success in his undertaking, and Wrotham, 
 with his hands in his pockets, singing lustily, with frequent 
 glances in their direction, could neither dislodge them from 
 their stronghold to join in the music, nor insinuate himself 
 into their company. 
 
 He had his reward, however, later, when by what he con- 
 sidered a most fortunate interference of Providence, Norah's 
 coachman was discovered to have succumbed to the pervading 
 hospitality of the house while waiting for his mistress, and to 
 
304 Exton Manor 
 
 be incapable of driving her home. He immediately offered 
 to do so in his mother's carriage, the charioteer of which was 
 proof, perhaps in his head, perhaps in his morals, against the 
 temptation, and drove off with her amidst a chorus of talk 
 and laughter from the assembled guests, among whom he 
 caught a glimpse of his cousin's face, dark and annoyed, as 
 he pushed up the window, and the dejected countenances of 
 Browne and Turner, whose offers at accommodation had been 
 put lightly aside. 
 
 The house party went back to their Bridge, which now 
 became a serious affair, and lasted until long after the average 
 picnicker would have been wrapt in slumber ; lasted, indeed, 
 until those most inveterate of picnickers, the birds, were begin- 
 ning to bestir themselves for another day in the open, and 
 Sir Francis Redcliffe was so sleepy that he revoked three 
 times in as many games, and lost his fina] rubber, and a good 
 deal of money besides. 
 
CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 A VISIT AND A CONVERSATION 
 
 It was with some surprise that Mrs. Redcliffe received the 
 next morning a letter from her husband's kinsman, written 
 from London the day before, in which he said that he had 
 only lately heard from Lord Wrotham of her being in Eng- 
 land, or he should have hoped to make her acquaintance 
 before, as she and her daughter must be the only relations he 
 had on his father's side. He was going down to stay with 
 the Ferrab3 r s for a few days that afternoon, and would like to 
 see her, and would come, if she had no objection, the next 
 morning about eleven o'clock. 
 
 " I only heard of him as a very small boy from your 
 father," said Mrs. Redcliffe to Hilda. M I think he must be 
 twenty-seven or eight now. It is a kind letter. I shall be 
 glad to see 11™." 
 
 Hilda was not so sure. She was inclined to be suspicious. 
 " Does he know ? " was in her thoughts, but she kept them 
 to herself, and decided to hold a watchful attitude when her 
 cousin did come. Lord Wrotham's name intrcduced into the 
 letter inclined her on the whole to leniency. Lord Wrotham 
 was kftidness and thoughtfulness itself, and had probably asked 
 this young man to do what he could to soften down the 
 unpleasantness which he knew she and her mother were 
 undergoing. Full credit must be given to Lord Wrotham, of 
 course, for his probable endeavours ; but it remained to be 
 seen whether Sir Francis Redcliffe had responded to them out 
 of mere complacency, or with a genuine desire to take his 
 stand by his relations against the world. If the former, she 
 was sure she would find him out very soon, and in that case 
 he would not be welcome. But his letter was a nice one. 
 
 305 
 
so G Exton Manor 
 
 She could not deny that, and hoped on the whole that he 
 might acquit hiniself to her satisfaction. 
 
 He came about half-past eleven, in a motor-car, and 
 apologized for being late. " We, didn't breakfast much 
 before eleven/' he said, tf and I couldn't get away." He 
 seemed to think it of importance to have something definite 
 to say as he came in, and at first Hilda was doubtful of 
 him. He was awkward, or if not exactly awkward, nervous 
 and shy. He held himself very straight and did not smile 
 as he greeted them, and when he sat down in an easy-chair, 
 which he did upon Mrs. Redcliffe's invitation, he sat for- 
 ward with his elbows resting on his knees and played with 
 his cap as if he were not at his ease. But presently he 
 become more so, and it was quite plain that his nervousness 
 and slryness were only attributable to his doubt as to whether 
 his coming at all would be agreeable to them, and did not 
 arise from any doubt on his own behalf ; and by and by, 
 when he laughed, Hilda accepted him as a cousin at once, 
 for his laugh was honest and free and compelled liking. 
 
 " To tell you the truth," he said, " I didn't know I had any 
 relations on my father's side. He died when I was a baby 
 and my mother died when I was born. When Wrotham 
 told me about you I looked it up in the books, but they only 
 told me that my father had a hrst cousin, and his regiment, 
 and his being A.D.C., and so on, but there was nothing 
 more about him. I suppose there was nobody to fill up the 
 papers after my father died. He was the only Redcliffe 
 besides me." 
 
 "Your father was dead, I know," said Mrs. Redcliffe, 
 " when my husband was first married to my sister, and of 
 course when he married me a year later." She spoke in a 
 matter-of-fact tone, but with a slight change of colour, and 
 Hilda threw a searching glance at him. 
 
 " I know," he said in obvious allusion to Mrs. Redcliffe's 
 story rather than to her statement ; and that was the only 
 reference to it that passed his lips during his visit. But it 
 was enough. Hilda put away her suspicions once for all, and 
 became more and more kindlv disposed towards him as he 
 talked. 
 
 " I hope you and Miss Redcliffe," he said, throwing a 
 glance at Hilda as he mentioned her name, " will come and 
 pay me a visit at Riverslea. I'm there pretty nearly always. 
 
A Visit and a Conversation 307 
 
 I don't use ail the house myself and I don't often have people 
 staying with me, except a few men to shoot occasionally ; but 
 I'll open it in your honour. To tell you the truth I'm rather 
 pleased to find some relations, and I feel inclined to make a 
 lot of them." 
 
 It was at this point that he laughed, and after that he leant 
 back in his chair, and talked altogether more easily. 
 
 Mrs. Redciiffe was touched by his kindness. " I should 
 much like to come," she said. " And I should like Hilda to 
 see the house. Hsr father spent many happy days of his 
 childhood there and often talked to me of it." 
 
 " It's a dear old place," said Sir Francis ; " not one of the 
 show places, yoii know, but rambling and comfortable, and 
 hardly anything has been altered in it for — oh, I don't know 
 how long — two or three hundred years, perhaps. All the old 
 furniture is there, and there's a beautiful garden. I don't 
 do much with the garden, I'm so busy on the land, but 
 I keep it up. You've got a very pretty garden here." He 
 looked out of the big bow-window on to the lawn and 
 the rose-beds, and the border of hardy flowers opposite to 
 the house, just beginning to put on its summer dress of 
 colour. 
 
 " Yes, it is our hobby, Hilda's and mine," said Mrs. Red- 
 ciiffe. " We don't know many big gardens, but we are great 
 readers of gardening books. Shall we go out and see it ? I 
 will just go and get a hat." 
 
 Hilda was left alone for a minute with her cousin. They 
 eyed one another. Sir Francis seemed to suffer from an 
 access of shyness, but recovered from it sufficiently to say, " I 
 hope you'll be able to come soon ; Warwickshire's very jolly 
 in the summer." 
 
 " I should love to come," said Hilda. M It is very kind of 
 you to ask us." 
 
 Sir Francis's shyness descended on him again. " No, it 
 isn't," he said. " Not a bit." 
 
 Mrs. Redciiffe came in from the hall, and they all went out 
 into the garden. " When we've had a look round," said Sir 
 Francis, " I thought perhaps you would both like to come 
 for a sail. Mr. Ferraby's boat is ready at Harben and I've 
 got it for the day, and that motor-car. All the rest of our 
 party have gone on the yacht. I thought we might take 
 Mr. Browne. They have put me up a luncheon basket. 
 
308 Exton Manor 
 
 We could sail over to the Island and back. The wind is just 
 right." 
 
 It would be delightful/' said Mrs. Redcliffe ; but Hilda 
 put in, slightly blushing, " Lord Wrotham said he was 
 coming after lunch, mother. He wanted us to go on the 
 river." 
 
 Mrs. Redcliffe was silent. She had not been consulted as 
 to this arrangement. 
 
 " Wrotham ? " said Sir Francis. " He has gone on the 
 yacht. They won't be back till dinner-time." 
 
 " He only said he might come," said Hilda hastily. " Do 
 let us go, mother. I love sailing." 
 
 " Do you ? " said Sir Francis, looking at her with pleasure. 
 " So do I. Especially on the sea. Then you'll come ? " 
 
 Hilda was determined to go, and grew quite excited at the 
 prospect, but her determination and excitement did not seem 
 to spring from any pleasure in the prospect of the excursion, 
 although she said they did. Mrs. Redcliffe acquiesced in the 
 proposal. 
 
 " I'll just run down to the village and see if I can get hold 
 of Browne, while you are getting ready," said Sir Francis. 
 " They told me he would be at his office." 
 
 Browne was duly got hold of. He had a lot of work to do, 
 but thought he might manage it. "I shall be glad to get out 
 for an hour or two and have a blow," he said. " I'm in- 
 fernally worried here. I say, do you think you'd have room 
 for Turner too ? He's just gone up to the post-office. I 
 know he likes a sail, and he likes your cousins." 
 
 Sir Francis thought there would be room for Turner. The 
 car was a six-seated one and the boat would hold them all. 
 So Turner was approached on the subject, and presently they 
 all went off together, picking up Mrs. Redcliffe and Hilda on 
 the way. 
 
 By the time they came home again, late in the afternoon, 
 they had quite taken Sir Francis into their bond of friendship. 
 " That's a capital good chap," said Turner in unwonted en- 
 thusiasm later on in the evening, as he and Browne were 
 dining together at the Fisheries. " Don't know when I've 
 met a fellow I liked better. Sensible and honest and all that 
 sort of thing, and no side to him, and — and — a thoroughly 
 good chap." 
 
 " One of the best," acquiesced Browne, " and I'll tell you 
 
A Visit and a Conversation 309 
 
 a thing that's occurred to mc, Turner. I may be right or I 
 may be wrong, but I believe he's come down here on purpose 
 to show that he's ready to back up his relations and to show 
 the spiteful cats that are talking about them that they're good 
 
 enough for him, and Mind you, he's never uttered a 
 
 word about the business, but " 
 
 " That's a great discovery," interrupted Turner. " You 
 ought to be a detective, Maximilian. You'd make your for- 
 tune." 
 
 " Well, I can see a thing sometimes when it's there in 
 front of me. And there's another thing. I think he's taken 
 an uncommon fancy to Hilda. I may be right or I may be 
 wrong, but that's my impression." 
 
 " Well, of course, if you say so Of course things that 
 
 duller fellows mightn't think much of are quite enough for 
 your mighty brain to work on. I did notice myself that he 
 kept his eyes on her all the time, and seemed to like showing 
 her how to handle a sheet, and talked a lot of what he'd do 
 for her when he got her down to his place — but I can't put 
 two and two together like you can. You're a wonderful 
 fellow, Maximilian." * 
 
 " Well, I'm a bit slow, but I do notice things. Now that 
 young Fred Prentice has sheered off — and a good job too ; 
 he was never good enough for her " 
 
 11 He's a rotter. The cheek of the young fool ! How- 
 ever, he's gone. Something happened. I'm sure something 
 happened, though I don't know what. But there's your 
 employer, Browne — you've got to take him into account, in 
 your position — can't afford to be independent. He's in the 
 way too. He was up there directly he came yesterday after- 
 noon. He's smitten. There's not a doubt about it." 
 
 " I don't think anything of him. At least, I mean, where 
 that sort of thing is concerned. He's always been like that, 
 running after every pretty girl he sees. It doesn't mean any- 
 thing." 
 
 "Well, I dare say I haven't got your powers of 
 
 observation, but it did occur to me that it means something 
 to Miss Hilda. She wasn't herself to-day— very gay at one 
 time and thinking about something a long way off at others. 
 I hate a fellow who's always dancing about after a petticoat. 
 Wouldn't do it myself, and if I did it wouldn't be one petti- 
 coat to-day and another to-morrow." 
 
810 Exton Manor 
 
 " I don't know whether you noticed anything last night/' 
 said Browne tentatively. 
 
 " Oh, no, nothing at all — 'cept that I'd got a nose in front 
 of my face." 
 
 " Well, I don't know ho\» you feel about it. I know you 
 had ideas about — about the lady in question, whatever you 
 like to say, and I don't mind confessing to you now, that 
 I had some sort of an idea myself. But it's all over now. 
 I feel different about it somehow. I shouldn't care a bit if 
 she married somebody else, 'slong as he was a nice fellow. 
 But what do you feel about it ? " 
 
 " Considering I've always been advising you to marry her 
 and be done with it, I suppose I feel much the same. What 
 you say about me is all nonsense, and you know it as well as 
 I do. I don't want to marry anybody, and never have wanted 
 to marry anybody. I'm quite contented as I am." 
 
 " Well, it'd be funny if Wrotham were to be the man. 
 I don't know what her ladyship 'd say. Of course, she won't 
 have anything to do with her ladyship now, because of Mrs. 
 Redcliffe." 
 
 " Quite right too. I honour her for it, and so would you 
 if you had the pluck of a mouse." 
 
 " I do. I think she's quite right. Well, I say it'd be a very 
 funny thing. But I don't know whether you observed — I 
 couldn't help thinking that Major Syde was quite as much 
 struck as Wrotham last night." 
 
 " Couldn't you ? Well, you have got an eye ! " 
 
 " I've never met him before, although I've often heard of 
 him from Wrotham. He seems agreeable, but I don't know 
 much about him." 
 
 "I do. He's agreeable enough on the outside — at least 
 so people seem to think, and especially ladies. He doesn't 
 make much impression on me, because I don't care a damn 
 about outside agreeableness. If I did I shouldn't see much 
 of you. But inside, he's as rotten and Selfish and heartless 
 as anybody I know. He was like that as a boy and he's no 
 better, and probably a good deal worse, as a man. Why, I 
 remember him telling me — I've never forgotten it, though 
 I dare say he has — how his father married a very rich widow t 
 for the sake of her money, and the old beast and this preco- ' 
 cious young beast put their heads together to turn her against 
 a nephew of hers, who might have stood in their way. He was 
 
A Visit and a Conversation 31 1 
 
 proud of it, the young swine, and he was never so surprised 
 in his life as when I gave him a good hiding for thinking I 
 was the sort of fellow he could tell a story like that to." 
 
 " His father was Sir Franklin Syde, old Lord Wrotham's 
 brother." 
 
 '* I don't care who he was. He made ducks and drakes of 
 his wife's money and this beauty here helped him. He 
 knows better than to talk about it now, I dare say. But 
 everybody knows the facts." 
 
 " Lady Syde is here now. She came to stay at the Abbey 
 this morning." 
 
 " Did she ? Well, I know nothing about her, except that 
 she was a fool to marry her second husband. But this fellow 
 — God help her if she's taken a fancy to him. He'd spend 
 every penny she's got and then forsake her. There's nothing 
 too bad for him. However, you needn't trouble yourself. 
 He's pretty well on his last legs, and happily she's not big 
 enough game for him to be flying at." 
 
 " He's Wrotham's heir, you know, until Wrotham 
 marries and has a boy of his own. Wrotham thinks a lot 
 of him." 
 
 " Yes, exactly. And he'll take good care that Wrotham 
 goes on thinking a lot of him, and not only for what he ban 
 get out of Wrotham, though that's a good deal, and so you'll 
 rind out if you have anything to do with the finances of 
 Wrotham's property. He'll be always at Vv 7 rotham's elbow, 
 and if WVotham shows any signs of wanting to get married, 
 you'll see that Master Sidey Syde will have a word to say 
 about it, and stop it if he can. I dare say he won't stop it 
 for ever, Wrotham being what he is, but he's a desperate 
 gambler, and it's the sort of- throw he'd make. I saw every- 
 thing you say last night, and perhaps a little bit more. His 
 own powerful attractions are weapons he'll use for all they're 
 worth, and he'll use them as he's used them before, not to get 
 a wife for himself, but to stop Wrotham's getting one. He'll 
 go just far enough with your poor little friend as to get 
 between her and Wrotham, and when Wrotham gets tired of 
 it and goes off after somebody else, he'll go off too. He's a 
 black-hearted scoundrel, and I wish I'd told him so last night 
 instead of putting up with his infernal impudence and pretend- 
 ing to like it. I should have done if I'd had the pluck of a 
 mouse " 
 
312 Exton Manor 
 
 Browne sat open-mouthed during this tirade, as much on 
 account of Turner's unwonted heat and seriousness as at the 
 disclosure of perfidy almost beyond the grasp of his simple 
 mind. " Well, it seems likely to be a bad business/' he said 
 after a pause. 
 
 Turner made an impatient motion with his shoulders and 
 returned to his customary mood. " We've had a nice peace- 
 ful time since your old woman planted herself down here," he 
 said. " She's managed to set everybody by the ears, I should 
 think in the quickest time on record." 
 
 " There's another row brewing," said Browne dejectedly. 
 
 " Is there ? Well, I should have thought she had got 
 enough to occupy herself with at present. What is it ? " 
 
 " The Dales came into the Lodge yesterday. She won't 
 like them, and I shall have the deuce of a time with her." 
 
 v What's wrong with them ? " 
 
 " Dale is a Radical and a Dissenter and " 
 
 " Is he ? Is he ? " exclaimed Turner delightedly. " I'll 
 go and look him up at once. When do you think I can go 
 and call, Browne ? I suppose they're all in a mess now, but 
 I should think by Monday — — By Jove, yes, I'll go and 
 see him on Monday." 
 
 Browne stared at him. " What do you mean ? " he said. 
 " You're not a Radical or a Dissenter. You said the other 
 day you would like to duck all the Radicals in the country, 
 and make all the Dissenters kiss the Pope's toe." 
 
 " So I should. But I'd let Dale off. We shall get some 
 fun out of Dale. Will he put up a fight, do you think ? Oh, 
 I'll go and see him on Monday. Wouldn't miss it for any- 
 thing." 
 
 " I hope to goodness you're not going to make mischief, 
 Turner. It'll be bad enough as it is. He's not a bad old 
 chap, but he's just the sort of man that Lady Wrotham will 
 hate to have in the place ; not a gentleman — at least, you 
 know, not what she'd call a gentleman, but pretty satisfied 
 with himself all the same, and no idea of keeping himself quiet." 
 
 Turner rubbed his lean hands. " You put new life into 
 me, Maximilian," he said. " I should never have thought 
 you'd have had the sense to get a man like that into the place." 
 
 " I wish to goodness I hadn't," said Browne ruefully. 
 " Though I couldn't very well help myself. Oh, I shall 
 chuck it. I shall chuck the whole thing. I haven't had a 
 
A Visit and a Conversation 813 
 
 moment's peace since she came here. If she cuts up rough 
 about the Dales I shall chuck it." 
 
 " And I think you said she would cut up rough, didn't you ? 
 Oh, my immortal aunt ! this is the best thing that has hap- 
 pened yet." 
 
 Browne turned sulky and refused to pursue the matter further 
 if his information and his wrongs were to be treated in that 
 fashion, but revived under the internal application of a bottle 
 of vintage port, and a phenomenal run of luck at picquet. 
 Turner maintained his spirits throughout the evening and 
 could hardly get through his nightly novel, so interrupted was 
 he by his own fits of chuckling. 
 
CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 LADY SYDE HEARS AND ADVISES 
 
 Lady Syde, the widow of Major-General the Hon. Sir 
 Franklin Syde, K.C.B., the late Lord Wrotham's younger 
 brother, was a still handsome woman, with snow-white hair 
 and a pair of bright eyes, which, when she became animated in 
 conversation, as she often did, flashed with something of the 
 fire of youth. She must at this time have been nearing 
 seventy, and was younger than Lady Wrotham by some years. 
 Her white hair, and an impression of fatigue about her face 
 and her whole bearing, which was always present unless she 
 talked, when it disappeared entirely, made her look older. It 
 might have seemed to an observer that she had lived a more 
 than usually active life and had grown rather tired of it. 
 Lady Wrotham had lived an active life too, but she had by no 
 means grown tired of it, and would never grow tired of it 
 until she laid it aside altogether. 
 
 But when Lady Syde talked and her bright e}^es flashed 
 with interest, when her face lost its lines of fatigue, and per- 
 haps of discontent, and became animated, and her voice took 
 on a clear and decisive ring, she seemed years younger than 
 Lady Wrotham, who was neither more nor less interested and 
 animated or decisive at one time than another, but lived on 
 one plane of energy, which, if it had not merged into the 
 weariness of creeping age, had never burnt so brightly as it 
 still occasionally did in her sister-in-law. 
 
 Lady Syde had not always occupied the position which she 
 now filled. When she had married her second husband, rather 
 late in life, she had been the widow of a Mr. Moggeridge, a 
 very rich business man, but one of no pretensions to birth and 
 very few to social status. Her wealth at the time of her se- 
 
 3M 
 
Lady Syde hears and advises 315 
 
 cond marriage had enabled Sir Franklin's family to overlook 
 the vulgarity of Mr. Moggeridge, who, after all, was dead, and 
 powerless to offend their susceptibilities, and her own clever- 
 ness and energy of character had gained her an assured place 
 amongst the numerous high connections of that family. There 
 was a faint tradition that Lady Wrotham had inaugurated the 
 new relationship by attempting to patronize Lady Syde, and 
 had been considerably surprised at the reception her attempt 
 had met with. But that little passage of arms had long since 
 been forgotten, and Lady Wrotham and Lady Syde met as 
 equals and even as intimate friends, neither giving way to the 
 other in the least degree, but both respecting one another's 
 opinions and characters. 
 
 The two ladies had much to talk about on this first meeting 
 "after Lady Wrotham/s settling down at Exton. They dis- 
 cussed the less important matters over the luncheon table and 
 reserved their serious confidences until they were ensconced 
 in the library with their coffee. 
 
 " This is a fine house, Sarah/' said Lady Syde, looking 
 round her with eager observation. " You must take me over 
 it. It has always been one of my great pleasures, as you 
 know, to arrange an old house, or rearrange a house, or furnish 
 a house, and I believe I should enjoy doing it now just as well 
 as ever. Was there much to do here ? " 
 
 "No," said Lady Wrotham. " Sir Joseph Chapman, who 
 has occupied it for many years, has done everything that 
 wants doing. It is not in all respects as I should have done 
 it myself, but it does very well, and, beyond having the few 
 things that I care about around me, I am indifferent. I have 
 other things to employ my attention. They would not in- 
 terest j'ou." 
 
 It was an understood thing between them that Lady Syde 
 should not be required to express an interest which she did not 
 feel in Lady Wrotham's schemes for the reformation of the 
 English Church and Nation. These topics were not introduced 
 into their intercourse, unless they had some bearing on ques- 
 tions that were discussed between them. 
 
 " I sincerely hope you have settled down comfortably here/' 
 said Lady Syde, " and like your surroundings. The place 
 itself you could hardly help liking." 
 
 " I am sorry to say," replied Lady Wrotham, " that almost 
 from the first moment I came here I have been involved in 
 
316 Exton Manor 
 
 one disagreeable after another. I have had no time to enjoy 
 the beauties of the place, which I should enjoy under other 
 circumstances, for my life has been full of worries, owing to 
 the obstinacy and quarrelsomeness of the people here. You 
 would hardly believe, Henrietta, what I have had to put up 
 with." 
 
 " Indeed ! " said Lady Syde, her eyes brightening. " I 
 should like to hear of your experiences. My sympathy will 
 be yours, even if there is no occasion for me to offer advice." 
 
 " I should like to have your advice. It is what I wish. I 
 have had no one to whom I could talk about these matters, 
 and to tell you the truth they are causing me great anxiety. 
 I came to Exton with the full intention and desire to live 
 quietly among the people here, and to make friends with 
 them, consistently, of course, with the position I hold, and 
 have a right to expect to be considered." 
 
 " Naturally," said Lady Syde. " You would take the 
 lead, and ought to take the lead. Nobody could object to 
 that." 
 
 " I am glad to hear you say so ; for really, I have met with 
 such complete disregard of it from almost every quarter, that 
 I am beginning to doubt, myself, whether I am anybody to 
 speak of at all, and whether I have the slightest right to ex- 
 pect my wishes to be considered in a place that has been in 
 my husband's family for over three hundred years." 
 
 " You need have no doubt about that, Sarah. If I were in 
 your position and met with such perversity from people who 
 ought to know better, I should turn out the whole lot of them 
 to-morrow, and start completely afresh. But tell me the chief 
 cause of your disturbance." 
 
 " The chief cause is the Vicar of the parish, who, I con- 
 sider, obtained his position here in the first instance under 
 false pretences. He is the kind of man who is rapidly 
 wrecking the Church, preaching doctrines and carrying on 
 generally in a way that if it is not stopped will bring this 
 country under the yoke of Rome within another generation. 
 You know what sacrifices I have made to stop this creeping 
 blight, and I say that it is monstrous, intolerable, that in the 
 very place where I make my home, I should have to submit 
 to it from a man who is bound by all honesty and decent feel- 
 ing — if not by the actual law — to — to do as I tell him." 
 
 I Oh, but surely, Sarah, if he refuses to behave as you wish 
 
Lady Syde hears and advises sir 
 
 him to behave, you can get rid of him. It would indeed be 
 monstrous if you could not. I am not so well up in these 
 matters as you are. They are not in my line, as you know, 
 and I do not mix myself up in them. But of that I have no 
 doubt whatever. It would be absurd to think that a mere 
 clergyman, tiresome as I know from my own experience they 
 can be, could set up his opinion against yours in a place where 
 you are, or should be, paramount. No law could give him 
 the right to do that. The country would be ruined in no 
 time/' 
 
 " Unfortunately, the law r does give him the right. Un- 
 just as it is, the law is on his side, and I am unable to deny 
 it." 
 
 lt Then the law ought to be altered. Surely it would be 
 altered if it was realized that it countenanced such an 
 absurdity. One could hardly expect a Radical Government 
 to do it, perhaps, as their enmity to the Church and the upper 
 classes is notorious. But fortunately we have a Conservative 
 Government in power, and something ought to be done. 
 What is the good of talking about the food of the lower 
 classes — not that I have any objections to the food of the 
 lower classes ; it is a very good thing in its proper place- 
 while the country is going to ruin in this way ? Something 
 ought to be done about it, and if I were you, Sarah, I should 
 mention it to the Prime Minister. He is amiability itself, 
 and burns with indignation, besides, at any hint of injustice." 
 
 " I have no hope of anything really satisfactory being done 
 by the Government," said Lady Wrotham. " Not even the 
 League, influential as it is, has been able to move them. 
 They have done away with a few minor injustices, but the 
 great Church questions they will not touch." 
 
 " Very well then, why not apply to the bishop ? I have no 
 great opinion of bishops, as a general rule ; their aprons al- 
 ways strike me as being a little absurd, and they have usually 
 risen from the ranks. But the bishop of Archester is a gentle- 
 man. I have met him more than once, a most delightful 
 man, quite of the old courtly type. He is at the head of this 
 division, is he not ? " 
 
 " Yes. And I have applied to him, I am sorry to say, 
 without success. I even asked him and Lady Susan to stay 
 here and discuss the matter quietly after he had seen for him- 
 self what goes on. And, would you believe it ? I simply 
 
318 Exton Manor 
 
 received a note from his chaplain saying that his lordship 
 saw nothing to complain about to the Vicar of this parish 
 in what I had told him, except in one matter on which he 
 would communicate with the Vicar himself. And that was 
 all." 
 
 " Nothing about your invitation ? " 
 
 " Simply that his lordship had too many engagements to 
 enable him to accept it." 
 
 " Well, I should never have thought he would have be- 
 haved like that — and to you. If he had not been who he 
 is — I mean a brother of Lord Pevensey — one might almost 
 have said it was presumptuous. But surely there must be 
 something left for you to do, Sarah." 
 
 Lady Wrotham's fa.ce took on a sterner and not a pleasant 
 expression. " Mr. Prentice shall go," she said. " I will use 
 every effort to dislodge him. I will not live in the midst of a 
 community given over to such errors as he practises and 
 teaches." 
 
 v I think he should go. I think he should be made to go. 
 Has he a wife and family ? " 
 
 " He has a wife and, I believe, one son." 
 
 " I suppose he can get some other situation. Do they sup- 
 port him in his rebellion ? " 
 
 " I don't know anything about the son. He does not 
 live here. But Mrs. Prentice has caused me almost more 
 annoyance than her husband. I did hope at one time that 
 she saw how misguided he was and would be of use to me in 
 influencing him for his good. She certainly led me to think 
 so, in a way that I can only think now was hypocritical. I 
 gave her full credit for being sincere and truthful, and even 
 made a companion of her, though she is not a woman of any 
 breeding. Apparently it was simply that that she wanted, for 
 when I took her to task for something I was displeased about 
 in her conduct, she threw off the mask at once, and has ever 
 since opposed me in the most violent way in everything I try 
 to do for the good of the people. She goes about amongst 
 them and tries to dissuade them from attending some meetings 
 that I have got up for their benefit. Fortunately the people 
 do not like her and she has Utile influence over them. They 
 laugh at her efforts to anno3/ me and do not respond to 
 them. But fancy, Henrietta, my having to put up with that 
 sort of thing from a woman of her standing ! When I pass 
 
Lady Syde hears and advises 319 
 
 her out driving she pokes her nose in the air and pretends not 
 to see me." 
 
 " Oh, it is outrageous. Certainly she must be sent away. 
 There is not a doubt of it. What was the thing that you had 
 to rebuke her for, first of all ? " 
 
 " Well, that is another affair altogether, but it has given, 
 and is still giving me infinite annoyance. There is a lady 
 living here called Mrs. Redcliffe. She has a pretty cottage, 
 practically in the park itself — you can see it from "the upper 
 window's — a fair-sized house really, with a large garden. 
 Her father was a squatter in Queensland — a gentleman — 
 and she was born and brought up there. Her husband 
 was one of the Warwickshire Redcliffes. He was on the 
 staff of the Governor of Queensland while we were in South 
 Australia, and he married first of all her sister, who died 
 within a year, and then her, and settled out there. I remem 
 ber the circumstances well, and thought everybody who knew 
 her would have known of them as a matter of course." 
 
 " She was the deceased wife's sister." 
 
 14 Yes. Of course you know that there is no objection to 
 that in the Colonies. They are more advanced there than we 
 are, and delight in passing laws that we should not pass, very 
 often out of mere bravado. Their politicians are of quite a 
 different class to ours. We had considerable difficulty with 
 some of them during our term in Australia ; in fact, we were 
 given to understand, in rather an impertinent way through the 
 newspapers, that otir province was simply to spend our allow- 
 ance, and a good deal more besides, in entertaining them, and 
 leave them to manage their own business in their own way. 
 One paper actually went so far as to say that we ought to 
 feel ourselves amply rewarded for all we did by having the 
 National Anthem played whenever we made a public 
 appearance." 
 
 " Yes," said Lady Syde, who had heard all this before, and 
 wanted to hear something else. M But there was, at any rate, 
 nothing wrong about this marriage under the circumstances." 
 
 " No. And if I had come down here and found Mrs. Red- 
 cliffe to be a nice woman in every other way, as I have no 
 reason to believe she is not, I should not have let it make the 
 slightest difference in my treatment of her. But what did not 
 enter into my calculations was that the very fact of her being 
 the deceased wife's sister was not known here. I have not yet 
 
320 Exton Manor . 
 
 quite gathered how she can have succeeded in keeping it to 
 herself, as I have not bad the opportunity of speaking to her 
 about it, but that does not very much matter. She had suc- 
 ceeded in keeping it to herself, and I do not in the least blame 
 her for having done so if she could, as, of course, her daughter's 
 position in this country, if not her own, is an invidious 
 one/' 
 
 " Yes, there has been an attempt to alter the law in that 
 respect. It ought to be altered, I think." 
 
 " Perhaps so, to that extent. At any rate, the last thing I 
 should have wished would be to spread her story. But unfor- 
 tunately, before I knew that it had been kept secret, I inad- 
 vertently let it out to this Mrs. Prentice, the Vicar's wife." 
 
 " And she spread it. But did you not tell her she was not 
 to do so ? " 
 
 " I did, most emphatically. But it was all over the place in 
 no time. She has always declared that she said nothing to 
 anybody but her husband, who, I hear, and I will give him 
 that credit, has behaved well about it, and would not have 
 spread it. Mrs. Prentice undoubtedly did so, and I have dis- 
 covered that she is a peculiarly spiteful woman and is only too 
 glad to have an excuse to persecute this poor lady. For I 
 own, Henrietta, that I am very sorry for her and for what has 
 happened." 
 
 At all events, you are not to blame, Sarah. And you 
 could very easily make amends to her if you wished to do so. 
 I am strongly in favour of a quiet life all round myself ; I 
 have had too much experience of the other kind of life. And 
 I do recommend you, if you can do so conveniently, to take 
 steps." 
 
 " My dear Henrietta, I should have done so long ago. But 
 the fact is that the girl, Mrs. Redcliffe's daughter, is not what 
 her mother seems to be. She has been violent about it all 
 through. That I could forgive, as, of course, she would take 
 her mother's part, and I had actually overlooked her saying 
 something abominably rude about me which came to my ears, 
 and was prepared to go and call on Mrs. Redcliffe, when I ac- 
 cidentally overheard her repeating her offence in a way that I 
 could not possibly overlook, and actually while she was being 
 told that I intended to go out of my way to call on her mother, 
 who had not called on me, and try to put matters on a better 
 footing. It was the extreme of ungraciousness, and, as I say, 
 
Lady Syde hears and advises 321 
 
 it is quite impossible to overlook it. And there it is. These 
 people are living in my very garden, as you might say, for it is 
 only just across the park, and I have the unpleasantness of 
 meeting them about the place, and might at any time meet 
 them in some one else's house, and have them turning up their 
 noses at me. At least the mother would behave properly — I 
 have nothing against her at all, except that she might bring the 
 girl to book and make her apologize to me for her behaviour — 
 but the girl actually does turn up her nose at me when I pass 
 her, and in the most offensive way. At least, she looks me 
 straight in the face, and has not the manners even to pass me 
 without notice/' 
 
 " Of course that must be highly unpleasant, and you ought 
 not to be subjected to it. You were not to blame in the first 
 
 place, and besides Well, Sarah, I think those people 
 
 ought to go/' 
 
 "It has annoyed me more than I can tell you. And it is 
 -''hot only the Redcliffes themselves. Mrs. Redcliffe has ap- 
 parently gained the esteem of everybody living here. I have 
 not the slightest wish to be unfair to her, and from what has 
 been told me I will go so far as to say that I have no doubt 
 she deserves it. But it is a little too much when all her 
 friends living in and about the village should visit the annoy- 
 ance caused to her by Mrs. Prentice on me." 
 
 " But surely they have not done that ? " 
 
 " Unfortunately it is so. Mrs. Redcliffe is apparently such 
 a general favourite that her friends are unable to show their 
 appreciation of her except by — well, the word is rather a 
 curious one to use about myself, but that is what it comes to — 
 by boycotting me." 
 
 " Oh, Sarah ! but that is a gross piece of impertinence." 
 
 " I need not say that I can do very well without them. 
 But I was certainly prepared to treat all the better class of 
 people. here with consideration and — and hospitality, and it 
 distresses me to find that — that " 
 
 Lady Wrotham did not finish her sentence, which might 
 have ended, " that they can do very well without me." 
 
 " It seems the height of ingratitude," said Lady S\ T de. 
 " What other people are there in the place ? " 
 
 " There is a Captain Turner, a curious man, who lives a 
 sort of hermit's life in a house in the woods behind here and 
 breeds trout; Mr. Browne, the agent, brought him to see 
 
 L (8) 
 
322 Exton Manor 
 
 me, at my request. Mrs. Prentice happened to be here at the 
 time and the unfortunate subject of Mrs. Redcliffe came up. 
 He was up in arms at once, and darted out of the house, and, 
 as I heard afterwards, straight up to Mrs. Redcliffe's house, to 
 assure her, I suppose, that he was on her side, whatever line 
 mischievous and q«/ite unimportant people like myself chose to 
 take — although, as a matter of fact, I had actually rebuked 
 Mrs. Prentice in his presence for letting out what I had told 
 her/' 
 
 " But he lives a hermit's life, Sarah, as you say ; he would 
 not worry you much/' 
 
 " Unfortunately the matter did not rest there. I had ar- 
 ranged to go up and see his house and his fish-hatching appa- 
 ratus, and thinking that he was perhaps rather eccentric and 
 not quite accountable for his actions, I wrote him a note a few 
 days ago and said I should like to drive up that afternoon. 
 He actually had the impertinence to write back that he ex- 
 pected Mrs. and Miss Redcliffe to tea that afternoon and that 
 perhaps under the circumstances I should not care to come." 
 
 " Do you think it was meant for impertinence ? You 
 would not have cared to meet them." 
 
 " My dear Henrietta, there was no suggestion of my going 
 on another day ; and I learnt through Riddell, who happened 
 to know, that the Redcliffes had not gone to tea there that 
 afternoon and had never been asked to go to tea there. It 
 was as good as telling me — me, Henrietta — that he did not 
 wish to see me." 
 
 " Oh, but that is quite unallowable, Sarah ; he must go." 
 
 " I am afraid that he has a long lease of his house. These 
 long leases ought not to be granted. It simply gives a person 
 who is not well disposed to a landowner the power of annoy- 
 ance, without the possibility of its being stopped. Then there 
 is Mrs. Patrick O'Keefe — I am telling you everything, Hen- 
 rietta, because it is a relief to me to do so. She is a young 
 widow who settled here a short time ago, after her husband 
 was killed in the war. He was a brother of Lord Ballyshan- 
 non. She was away when I first came here, and by the time 
 she returned this unpleasantness had reached its height. She 
 came to see me and I took to her at once. I thought, ' Now 
 at last I have someone I shall always be pleased to see/ and 
 I was quite cheered, for I do like to see my fellow beings oc- 
 casionally, Henrietta, and I like to have bright and good-look- 
 
Lady Syde hears and advises 323 
 
 ing young people around me. I think she took to me too ; I 
 am sure she did, and we put our heads together, my old head 
 and her young head, to see if something could be done to 
 make up to Mrs. Redcliffe for what had happened, as I told 
 you. It was to her that I heard the Redcliffe girl talking so 
 rudely about me." 
 
 " But she did not encourage her ? " 
 
 " No, I think not. I believe not. I think she would have 
 tried to bring her to a better state of mind. But she told me, 
 that, right or wrong, she was on this girl's side, and that for 
 the present she — well, practically declined the honour of my 
 acquaintance." 
 
 " Oh, but, Sarah, that cannot be put up with for a moment. 
 However charming she may be, you cannot have her behaving 
 like that to you. I think she ought to go. Certainly, I think 
 she ought to go." 
 
 " She is just the sort of woman, or girl, for she is very 
 young, I should have chosen to be in the place. She has a 
 bright little house in the village. I pass it frequently, but 
 have never been inside it. She has pretty window curtains, 
 and I should think everything very nice. I heard her laugh- 
 ing in the garden as I drove by the other day. Perhaps she is 
 right to be unflinching in support of her friends when they are 
 in trouble, as you might say. I was annoj^ed with her at the 
 time, and showed it ; but I am not anno}^ed now. I think 
 she regretted what she considered the necessity of breaking 
 with me, and she did not do it in a disagreeable way at all. 
 Still, I see no chance of things coming right at present, and I 
 would rather she went somewhere else where I should not be 
 reminded of the pleasure I might have had by her coming in 
 and out here, as I hoped she would have done." 
 
 " It must be ver}^ disturbing to you, Sarah. I can quite 
 see that, and I am sorry it has happened. But I should think 
 she would see the advisability of going. What about your 
 agent, whom you mentioned just now ? Cannot he do some- 
 thing to bring the people to their senses ? " 
 
 "lam annoyed with Mr. Browne for many reasons. He 
 also thinks it incumbent on him to champion Mrs. Redcliffe's 
 part, but there are other things. I need not go into all of 
 them, but he has actually let the Lodge, a sort of dower 
 house to the Abbey, which has been empty some years, to a 
 North-country business man with a large family, who I hear 
 
 (18) 
 
324 Extern Manor 
 
 has no sort of pretensions to being a gentleman, and is indeed 
 a Radical and — would you believe it ? — a Dissenter ; and he 
 has done that since I have been here and without consulting 
 me about it by so much as a word." 
 
 '■' Oh, but, Sarah, that is an outrage. At any rate, there 
 will be no difficulty in getting rid of him. I should pack him 
 off to-morrow." 
 
 " The galling part of it is, Henrietta — I can say this to you 
 — that George has these matters entirely at his own disposal. 
 I have this house and gardens and so on, but I have no actual 
 status in the management of the property. With a dutiful 
 son I should not be made to feel that I am nobody in such 
 matters as these. My wishes would be deferred to, and in a 
 question that so nearly concerned my own comfort as a tenant 
 for the most important house in the place next to this, I 
 should be empowered to take my own steps. But you know 
 what George is — flighty and irresponsible and troublesome 
 since his boyhood. He was always difficult to guide, and 
 with his extravagance and wildness he has given us endless 
 trouble." 
 
 (t He is good-hearted," said Lady Syde, " and generous. I 
 think you were too harsh to him when he was a child. At 
 any rate, he is not utterly selfish and grasping — like " 
 
 " Like Laurence," said Lady Wrotham, who was not 
 pleased with the criticism. " No, thank heaven, he is not 
 like Laurence. And Laurence is what he is owing to your 
 spoiling him when he was a boy and giving him everything 
 he asked for." 
 
 Lady Syde did not accept the challenge. " It ma}/ be so," 
 she said quietly. " I fear that it is partly so. But George is 
 not spoilt in that way. It is simply his wildness that I think- 
 is the outcome of your severity, and it will tone down as he 
 becomes older. Otherwise he is charming. Surely he will 
 bow to your wishes in these matters." 
 
 " He has not done so with regard to these Dales. I own 
 that the money is an important factor at present, and the man 
 is a good tenant as far as money goes. But money is not 
 everything. However, the mischief is done now and I must 
 make the best of it. Only how am I to exercise an influence 
 in the place if half the people insist upon quarrelling with me, 
 and the new people who are brought into it are such as it is 
 impossible for me to know ? " 
 
 (2) 
 
Lady Syde hears and advises 325 
 
 " You may find them quite nice people." 
 
 " I have very little hope of it. But we will see. You 
 and I will call at the Lodge — let us say on Monday ; they 
 ought to be ready to receive us by that time — and see for 
 ourselves. I think you will agree, Henrietta, that I am most 
 unfortunately situated here, although I have every desire to 
 be kind and charitable to those around me. Why, even the 
 farmers and labouring people take sides against me, some of 
 them, on both these questions, although others, I am afraid 
 not the most satisfactory, try to keep in favour with me for 
 what they can get. Some of the labouring men actually omit 
 to touch their hats when I drive past them." 
 
 " Oh, but they can be got rid of without the slightest 
 difficulty. I should have not the smallest compunction in 
 dealing with them as they deserve. Yes, Sarah, I do think 
 you arc badly treated, and I shall not think so well of George 
 as I have done if he refuses to set these things right, as 
 far as he can. Where is George, by the bye ? Is he at 
 Hurstbury ? " 
 
 " No, he is here, at present. He came yesterday, though 
 of course I have seen next to nothing of him. He dined at 
 the Ferrabys last night, and is yachting with them to-da} 7 ." 
 
 " The Ferrabys ! Those are Laurence's friends. Do the}' 
 live near here ? ' ; 
 
 " They rent this shooting and Forest Lodge, the house you 
 passed half-way between here and the station. They have 
 brought a large party down for Whitsuntide, and I believe 
 Laurence is one of the party. I hope he will not show his 
 face here. I have no wish to see him, now or ever. I con- 
 sider his influence over George is disastrous, and all the 
 terrible waste of money that has been going on ever since 
 George's boyhood I put down to him." 
 
 " You cannot say anything harsh about Laurence that I do 
 not endorse," said Lady Syde. " Money disappears in an 
 incredible way in his hands, and it was the same with his 
 dear father before him. Franklin was a kind husband. I 
 never had a harsh word from him and his manners were 
 perfect, but — well, you know my history Sarah. I was a rich 
 woman, you might say a very rich woman when I married, 
 and I am now poor. I have all I want, of course, but I am 
 poor." 
 * '* I hope you are not allowing Laurence to sponge on you 
 
 (4) 
 
326 Exton Manor 
 
 any farther. He must be responsible for a great deal of the 
 reduction in your income/' 
 
 '■ He has his allowance. Most young men — not that he is 
 very young now, but he behaves as if he were — would con- 
 sider a thousand a year a very handsome allowance. It seems 
 to go no way with him and he is always asking for money. I 
 have been obliged to refuse definitely to do any more for him, 
 or I should be reduced to beggary. And he is not in the 
 least grateful for what I have done. He never comes near 
 me now I am of no further use to him in that way." 
 
 " I suppose you will leave him your money ? " 
 
 Lady Syde did not show surprise at this very plain ques- 
 tion, which was of a kind these two ladies were accustomed 
 to put to one another. " I shall leave him twenty thousand 
 pounds/' she said, " and not a penny more. I have told him 
 that, and I dare say he has already anticipated it. The rest I 
 shall leave to Richard Baldock, my nephew. I did him a 
 great injustice when he was a boy, owing, I know now, to 
 Laurence's duplicity ; but he has made a career for himself, 
 and I am happy to think he has not suffered from my injustice 
 to him/' 
 
 " It was he who married Harry Ventrey's heiress, was it 
 not ? " 
 
 " Yes. But she was not much of an heiress. She had 
 Beechhurst Hall, a beautiful place in the forest, but they would 
 not have been able to live there if it had not been for Richard's 
 own success in his business. They are a charming couple, and 
 when I go to stay with them I see what home life, which I 
 have never had myself, can be. There is no struggling for 
 money or for place. They are contented with their beautiful 
 home, and their children and their work, and themselves. It 
 is refreshing. A happy home life, after all, is the best thing 
 the world has to offer." 
 
 " It is a very different kind of life, at any rate, to that led by 
 such people as the Ferrabys. I have moved all nry life in what 
 I suppose would be acknowledged to be the best society, but 
 really the manners and customs of the present day are to me 
 positively shocking. Here are these people the Ferrabys ; they 
 are rich, therefore they are ill-important. There are great 
 people, very great people, whom I need not further particularize, 
 who would certainly prefer to accept hospitality from people 
 like the Ferrabys, than from — me. They lead society now, 
 
 (20) 
 
Lady Syde hears and advises 327 
 
 when a generation ago they would only have been on the out- 
 skirts of it. Received, yes, perhaps so, for the Ferrabys are 
 gentle-people, though all of their set are certainly not ; but 
 never presuming to take a leading part. And what a change ! 
 Look at the people the Ferrabys have in their house now. 
 Husbands without their wives and wives without their hus- 
 bands. Would that have been done a generation ago ? Cer- 
 tainly not, in the matter-of-course way in which it is done now. 
 There is that Mrs. Lancing there. A disreputable woman I 
 call her. She divorced her husband, but from all I hear he 
 might just as well have divorced her, and her next husband will 
 probably do so. In my younger days we should have turned 
 our backs on such a woman. Now we have to meet her 
 everywhere, unless we keep quietly to ourselves and do not go 
 about among the people to whom we belong. / have always 
 taken a stand and kept my house clear of all doubtful people, 
 and what has been my reward ? The people whom I had a 
 right to expect to come to me left off coming, because I could 
 not amuse them. Amuse them ! What is all this modern 
 folly about amusement ? In my day we thought nothing of 
 it. We did our duty as great people, entertained each other 
 with dignity and sometimes with splendour, and that was 
 enough. Henrietta, when I see the English aristocracy run- 
 ning wild after amusement as they are doing to-day, I tremble 
 for my order." 
 
 " Well, I don't know that it does the English aristocracy 
 any harm to be woken up by amusing people, who don't origi- 
 nally belong to it," said Lady Syde. " But I do know that 
 after a time a life of amusement bcomes very wearing. You 
 and I are beyond the age at which we are likely to care about 
 it, and we want to live quietly and be left alone. But what 
 are the Ferrabys doing down here ? They have a very fine 
 house in London. I thought they had a big country place 
 somewhere." 
 
 " Of course you would suppose so. But nowadays, it 
 seems quite enough to have a big house in London. Mr. Fer- 
 raby has the shooting here. I can't say Tlike that. He has 
 the right to shoot all round this very house if he wants to. 
 But I say nothing about that. It can't be helped at present. 
 And he has Forest Lodge, quite a small house, with it. It is 
 a good thing it is no bigger. As it is it is filled from time to 
 time with noisy smart people, as they call themselves, whom I 
 
 (22) 
 

 Exton Manor 
 
 don't want about the place. I feel that it takes away from my 
 dignity — I can say this to you, Henrietta. Country people 
 have no discrimination ; they see me living a quiet life here, 
 and they see all sorts of well-known people going to and fro at 
 the Forest Lodge, and they draw absurd comparisons in their 
 minds." 
 
 " Well," said Lady Syde, " I think the Ferrabys ought to 
 have notice given them, and the house should be let to some- 
 body you would like to have on the place. I do think that 
 strongly. This is your house now, and you ought to have 
 everything done for your comfort that it is possible to do." 
 
 " I am glad you sympathize with .me, Henrietta. I feel that 
 things are not going well, and it has been a great relief to talk 
 them over with you. I shall have a serious conversation with 
 George about all the matters I have mentioned to you, and I 
 hope he will take some steps. Now I think we had better get 
 ready for our drive." 
 
 They drove out presently up the hill and across the open 
 heath lands. Lady Syde broke out into open protestations of 
 delight as they passed the White House. " That is just such 
 a place as I should like to settle down in," she said, " and get 
 rid of all the bothers and responsibilities of a big house." 
 
 " Well, if Mrs. Redcliffe goes," said Lady Wrotham, " as 
 I hope she will be induced to do, it will be vacant ; and I 
 need not sa} r , Henrietta, if you would really cai^e to live in 
 such a small place, what pleasure it would give me to have you 
 there." 
 
 (6) 
 
CHAPTER XXX 
 
 VISITS 
 
 Turner bicycled down to the village and up to the Ledge 
 on Monday afternoon to visit his new neighbours. He leaned 
 his bicycle up against the porch, and stooped down to take 
 olr his trouser clips. The front door was wide open, and 
 Mr. Dale, in his shirt sleeves, was superintending the placing 
 of a pair of cows' horns over each of the doorways. This 
 was the climax of the decoration of the hall, which was now 
 complete. He came to the door to flick off the ash from his 
 cigar, and saw Turner. " Now, my man," he said, with 
 decision, but with perfect good humour, " you just get on 
 your bicycle and ride off again, unless you'd like a glass of 
 beer, which you're welcome to, before you go. You're the 
 fifth we've had to-day. We're going to deal with the shops 
 in Exton as long as they satisfy us, and we shan't require any- 
 thing from outside." 
 
 No form of welcome could have given Turner greater 
 pleasure. His eyes glistened as he looked at Mr. Dale, stand- 
 ing solidly on the step in front of him. 
 
 " They're capital shops in Exton," he said. " I hope 
 they'll satisfy you." 
 
 " Thank you ; I hope they will. I suppose you've come 
 from Riverton. I don't mind your coming, you know. I 
 like enterprise in business. I've had to do that sort of thing 
 myself, or I shouldn't be where I am now. But at present I 
 don't want you ; when I do I'll let you know." 
 
 " Thank you," said Turner, " but I don't come from River- 
 ton." 
 
 " Well, I don't care where you come from, as long as you 
 ^et back there as quickly as possible." 
 
 329 
 
330 Exton Manor 
 
 " Very well. You won't mind my first leaving a 
 card on Mrs. Dale, will you ? Out of politeness, you 
 know." 
 
 " Eh, what ! " exclaimed Mr. Dale, now bringing his eyes, 
 which had been fixed affably on the trees below his house, to 
 bear upon Turner, and gaining from his inspection a dawning 
 discomfort. " Card for Mrs. Dale ? " 
 
 " Yes ; here it is. Captain Thomas Turner, The Fisheries, 
 Exton. If you wouldn't mind just taking it, I can get back 
 there as soon as possible." 
 
 Mr. Dale instinctively took the card that was held out to 
 him, and as he did so enlightenment burst upon him. It 
 brought no confusion with it, as might have been expected, 
 but a huge roar of laughter. " Well, that's the best thing 
 I've ever heard of," he said when he was able to speak. 
 " To think of me taking you for a touting tradesman ! " He 
 roared again as he led the way across the hall. " 'Pon my 
 word, that's the best joke," he said. " I must tell mother 
 that. Hi ! mother ! Come in here, Mr. — er, Captain — er. 
 You shall tell her yourself. And you to take it like that, 
 too ! I'll tell you what, Mr.— er — Captain Turner, you and 
 me ought to get on together. That's the sort of thing I like. 
 Well, you'll have a joke against me all your life. Hi ! 
 mother ! " 
 
 Mrs. Dale arrived, and the joke was explained to • her. 
 She did not receive it with the same ecstasy as her husband, 
 but looked at him reproachfully. " Oh, father ! " she said. 
 " I'm sure I don't know what Captain Turner will think of 
 us, and how you could make the mistake passes my compre- 
 hension, And showing him in here, too, where everything is 
 in such a muddle ! " 
 
 " Lor', he don't mind that," said Mr. Dale. " Do you, 
 Mr. — er — Captain ? And the way he took it ! Never so 
 much as a smile. Ton my word, it was the very best thing." 
 He roared again, but came round suddenly. " What'll you 
 take, Captain ? A whisky and soda ? Have a cigar. Here 
 you are ; you won't find anything wrong with that. What'll 
 you take to drink, now ? " 
 
 " You offered me a glass of beer just now," said Turner ; 
 " I think I'll take that." 
 
 This set Mr. Dale off again. He slapped his fat thighs 
 with his fat hands in an ecstasy of enjoyment, and expressed 
 
Visits 331 
 
 the utmost gratification at finding a man so after his own 
 heart living in the place. 
 
 Turner took his enthusiasm quietly. They were all like 
 that, he said, in Exton. His friend Browne was like that. 
 Mrs. Prentice, the Vicar's wife, was like it. If Mr. Dale 
 had met her at the door and taken her for a servant come 
 after a place, there was nobody who w r ould have enjoyed it 
 more. Even Lady Wrotham was like it. She might seem 
 a little stiff at first sight, but if you told her exactly what you 
 thought about things she took to you at once. 
 
 " I think you must be wrong about Mrs. Prentice, Captain 
 Turner," said Mrs. Dale. " She did come in to see us on 
 Saturday, and we did not like her." 
 
 " Like her ! " said Mr. Dale. " No, we did not like her. 
 We make no pretence, but we're not accustomed to be pat- 
 ronized by ministers' wives, and told when we ought to go 
 to church, and when we oughtn't to go to church. And 
 we don't intend to take our religion from her, nor our politics 
 neither. And so I told her pretty plain, and she didn't like 
 that. So there won't be much love lost between us and her." 
 
 " Lady Wrotham is quite different," said Turner. " She's 
 a strong Tory and Church woman herself, but you've only got 
 to tell her you're not, and she'll take to you wonderfully." 
 
 " Come now, I like that," said Mrs. Dale heartily. " I'm 
 very glad to hear it of her ladyship. She and us won't be 
 seeing much of each other, I dare say. She's in one walk 
 of life and we're in another, and no intentions to presume or 
 to get out of it. But if I do ever have the chance of a little 
 talk with her ladyship I'll make it quite plain that I don't 
 agree with her Church nor her politics, but that's no reason I 
 shouldn't go my way and she go hers, and neither think the 
 worse of the other." 
 
 " You'll find that the best way," said Turner. " I think I 
 must be going now." 
 
 Mr. Dale would have liked to sit and talk to him for an 
 hour, but Turner prepared decidedly to take his leave. Mrs. 
 Dale went upstairs, and Mr. Dale accompanied him to the 
 front door. As they stood there a carriage and pair, with 
 coachman and footman on the box, came in view round the 
 bend of the steep drive. " Lor', what's this ? " exclaimed 
 Mr. Dale. 
 
 " It's Lady Wrotham coming to see you," said Turner, 
 
832 Exton Manor 
 
 bending down to fasten his clips, and possibly to hide his 
 face. 
 
 " Well, now, I take that very kind/ 1 said Mr. Dale, and 
 rushed back into the hall to get his coat, appearing again at 
 the porch in the act of putting it on as the carriage came to a 
 stop. Lad}/ Syde was the nearer to him, and he shook hands 
 with her warmly. " How do you do, Lady Wrotham ? u he 
 said heartily. " I take this as a great compliment, and so will 
 mother. Come in now, do, and bring your friend. If you'll 
 honour us by drinking a cup of tea " 
 
 Lady Wrotham managed to make herself heard. "/ am 
 Lady Wrotham," she said, with a cloud of annoyance on her 
 Olympian brow. " I have come to see Mrs. Dale. This is 
 Lady Syde." 
 
 Mr. Dale stared for a moment, and then slapped his thigh. 
 " Well, if I haven't put my foot in it and made a mistake 
 again ! " he cried. " Whatever mother 11 say to me, I don't 
 know. It was only just now, Mrs. — er — Lady — er — that I 
 took the Captain here for a tradesman come for orders, and 
 wanted to send him about his business." He had time to in- 
 dicate Turner before losing himself again in a paroxysm of 
 hearty laughter. 
 
 Turner took off his cap. . " It was only natural," he said. 
 " I told you my father was a shop-keeper, Lady Wrotham." 
 
 " Very amusing, no doubt," said Lady Wrotham. " Mr. 
 Dale, will you kindly tell Mrs. Dale that Lady Wrotham has 
 called, or shall my servant ring the bell ? " 
 
 Mr. Dale came to himself. " I'm forgetting my manners, 
 my lady," he said. " If you'll kindly step in, I'll tell the 
 wife. I expect she'll want a few minutes to smarten herself 
 up. Will you just step in and take a glass of port wine now ? 
 — you and your friend — I didn't catch her name." 
 
 " No, thank you," said Lady Wrotham shortly, becoming 
 more and more angry. " Will you let Mrs. Dale know I am 
 here ? " 
 
 " Yes ; but do take something— a glass of port, or sherry, 
 or a cup of tea — anything you like to name. This is Liberty 
 Hall. Step in now and make yourself at home, and I'll go 
 and tell mother." 
 
 Lady Wrotham lost patience. " Put this card on the table," 
 she said to the footman, " and drive on. I cannot wait any 
 longer." 
 
Visits 833 
 
 " Wait a minute, wait a minute," said Mr. Dale. " I 
 didn't know you were in such a hurry. I'll go and fetch the 
 wife at once," and he disappeared into the house. 
 
 " Put the card on the table," repeated Lady Wrotham; 
 " and drive on." Her face v/as a study in dark displeasure as 
 she sat upright in her carriage while her behest was obeyed. 
 Turner had taken himself off on his bicycle, chuckling, but 
 Peter and Gladys were standing in the drive devouring her and 
 her equipage with astonished eyes, Mary's garden hat could be 
 seen over a low bush behind them, Ada's face was only half 
 concealed by a window curtain, and, as they drove away, 
 Lotty looked up from a rose-bush in the open garden, and 
 Tom strolled innocently past them with his briar pipe in his 
 mouth. 
 
 " Did you ever hear of such a reception ? " said Lady Wro- 
 tham as the carriage rolled down the hill. " And those are 
 the sort of people I am supposed to live on equal terms with, 
 Henrietta. The man is no better than a savage." 
 
 "It is my belief," said Lady Syde, " that he was drunk. 
 You cannot put up with them, Sarah ; they must go." 
 
 The two ladies soothed their rasped feelings with a long 
 drive, and returned to the Abbey for tea. They had no sooner 
 taken their seats for another quiet chat, one of a continuous 
 series with which they entertained, each other whenever they 
 were in company, when Mrs. Ferraby was announced. 
 
 Mrs. Ferraby, beautifully dressed, and throwing the two 
 elder ladies quite into the shade by her appearance, came in, 
 graceful and smiling. 
 
 " My party has gone off on the yacht again," she said, " but 
 I thought I would stay behind and come and see you, Lady 
 Wrotham. Oh, Lady Syde, how do you do ? I heard you 
 were here. Laurence is an old friend of ours, and I have 
 heard so much of you." 
 
 " A good deal that you would not care to repeat, I dare say/' 
 responded Lady Syde, and Lady Wrotham added : 
 
 " Major Syde is no great favourite of mine, as I dare say 
 you know, Mrs. Ferraby. We will find some other topic of 
 conversation. I am glad to see you. I hope you are enjoy- 
 ing your holiday in the country." 
 
 " Very much, thank you," replied Mrs. Ferraby, rustling 
 her silks. " It has been such a rush in London that we are 
 glad to get away for a few days' rest." 
 
SD4 Bxtoti Manor 
 
 " I suppose Mr. Ferraby works so hard at his business," 
 said Lady Wrotham, " that he welcomes these holidays, 
 although to the rest of us they are rather tiresome.' ' 
 
 Mrs. Ferraby looked at her and then laughed. " Yes/' she 
 said, " we generally spend the Bank Holiday on Hampstead 
 Heath, but this time business has been so good that we thought 
 we might manage a picnic down here." 
 
 Lady Wrotham looked at her with displeasure, but Lady 
 Syde suddenly laughed and said, u Very good ; you deserved 
 that, Sarah," which did not improve Lady Wrotham's temper. 
 
 " I hope you like Exton," said Mrs. Ferraby. " We are so 
 fond of the place that we would put up with any inconvenience 
 to be here. And, of course, the Forest Lodge is very incon- 
 venient." 
 
 " I am sure we shall be very pleased to relieve you of it," 
 said Lady Wrotham. " There would be no difficulty in let- 
 ting it again to people who were prepared to live there quietly, 
 and see a few of their friends there quietly, from time to time." 
 
 " I am afraid you won't get rid of us so easily," said Mrs. 
 Ferrab} 7 , still smiling. ■ - We would rather picnic here than 
 live comfortably in a larger house. I wonder if you and Lady 
 Syde would care to dine with us one night. We shall be here 
 till Thursday or Friday, and we have some amusing people 
 staving with us." 
 
 ' Thank you," replied Lady W r rotham. "I do not dine 
 out in the country now. And, to tell you the truth, Mrs. 
 Ferraby, I am not at all anxious to meet your amusing people, 
 nor, I expect, would they be very anxious to meet me. I am 
 afraid I should hardly add to their amusement." 
 
 " Oh, but I am sure you would, Lady Wrotham," said Mrs. 
 Ferraby brightly. " However, I won't press you against your 
 will. I only thought that you might be a little dull living here 
 in this big house alone, and we should like to do something 
 while we are down here to cheer you up a little." 
 
 " You would no doubt find it dull, living here alone, Mrs. 
 Ferraby," said Lady Wrotham. " But I am thankful to say 
 that I have resources, and that I am not dependent upon a 
 succession of noisy visitors to entertain me." 
 
 " That sounds a trifle rude," said Lady Syde ; " but I am 
 sure you do not mean to be so, Sarah." 
 
 " Certainly I do not wish to be rude," said Lady Wro- 
 tham. " But I am accustomed to say what I think. I never 
 
Visits 385 
 
 mixed myself up with the sort of life that Mrs. Ferraby's 
 friends live, either in London or in the country, and in the 
 country especially I dislike it. I think it is thoroughly unsett- 
 ling. I am quite content to live quietly amongst the people 
 around me, whether they are what are called smart people or 
 not/' 
 
 Mrs. Ferraby had listened to this speech with attention. 
 " But I thought you did not get on well with the people 
 around you here, Lady Wrotham," she said. " I understand 
 that you were not pleased with them and saw nothing of any- 
 body." 
 
 Lady Wrotham, thus addressed, and the annoyance to which 
 she had been subjected earlier in the afternoon having not yet 
 entirely worn off, lost what little desire she may have had to 
 conceal her dislike for the kind of existence represented by 
 Mrs. Ferraby. " It is quite true," she said, "that the people 
 here are the most impossible that I could find to live quietly 
 amongst. But, tiresome and quarrelsome as they are, I would 
 rather take my chance of bringing them to a better state of 
 mind than be dependent for society on a set of fast London 
 people, most of whom are no better than they should be. 
 Nothing could be more disturbing than to introduce that sort 
 of life into a place like this. It sets a thoroughly bad ex- 
 ample, and it gives people who don't know any better the im- 
 pression that it is representative of the upper classes. It 
 is a very different kind of life to the one I wish to set before 
 them." 
 
 " Well," said Mrs. Ferraby, rising, and still smiling sweetly, 
 " I should have thought it was a better example than to quar- 
 rel with all your neighbours and live in solitary grandeur. 
 My husband and I have always been very good friends with 
 the people here, except perhaps with Mrs. Prentice, whom 
 neither of us like. It has been quite delightful to come here 
 and see something of such nice people. We come now and 
 find them all set by the ears. However, we shall not trouble 
 you again, Lady Wrotham. I can quite understand now why 
 Exton is no longer the quiet friendly little place it was a few 
 months ago." And with this parting shot she went away, 
 without further leave-taking, leaving Lady Wrotham and Lady 
 Syde alone once more. 
 
 . Lady Wrotham made a strong effort to master her wrath. 
 " Another annoyance," she said. " My life is made up of 
 
336 Exton Manor 
 
 them now. The woman is innately vulgar. All these fast 
 people are so at heart/' 
 
 " Well, Sarah," said Lady Syde, " I must say that you were 
 not very conciliatory. You can hardly expect a woman in 
 Mrs. Ferraby's position to sit down quietly under the sort of 
 attack you made upon her." 
 
 " Her position ! " echoed Lady Wrotham. " What is her 
 position ? She shall listen to whatever I choose to say to 
 her." 
 
 If there was one thing that Mrs. Ferraby quite made up her 
 mind about as she motored back to the Forest Lodge, it was 
 that under no circumstances would she ever again give Lady 
 Wrotham an opportunity of speaking to her in the way she 
 -had done. She told her husband of what had passed between 
 them when he returned with his guests from their yachting 
 excursion. " I think I gave her as good as she gave me," she 
 said. " But I can't help feeling rather sorry for the poor old 
 thing, Hugh. She is awfully rude, but she is rather pathetic 
 too*, all alone there. Still, of course, one can't have anything 
 more to do with her. I'll never go near her again." 
 
 " No necessity to," said Mr. Ferraby. " She must be an old 
 terror. Lots of nice people in the world, without bothering 
 about the disagreeable ones. I don't wonder that George 
 Wrotham isn't very respectful when he talks about her. I 
 say, old girl, he and Syde are making the running pretty hot 
 with the little O'Keefe. Think there's anything in it ? " 
 
 " I don't know what to think," said Mrs. Ferraby. " I 
 don't see how Laurence can possibly marry her, but he seems 
 keener than I have ever seen him before. And as for George, 
 well, you expect it of him ; but I shouldn't wonder if the way 
 he and Laurence are fighting over her doesn't end in making 
 him really in earnest." 
 
 " There's no doubt about the fighting. Syde is a bigger 
 fool than I take him for if he's going to quarrel with Wrotham. 
 Which does she like best ? / can't make out." 
 
 " If she likes either of them, I believe it is Laurence." 
 
 11 Still, he wouldn't have much chance against Wrotham if 
 it really came to business." 
 
 This was the Ferraby point of view. But Mrs. Ferraby 
 said, " She is rather different from ordinary people. I think 
 she would take the one she liked best ; but I am not at all sure 
 she cares for either of them. She's a dear thing. I am glad 
 
Visits 337 
 
 we are able to give her a good time. It must be pretty dull 
 
 for her here." 
 
 " Yes ; why don't you ask her to come up to town with 
 
 us,' and take her about a bit ? " 
 
 " She wouldn't come when I asked her last year." 
 
 " I think she would now. It's time she married again. 
 
 She's too good to be buried alive down here. Well, I know 
 
 which of those two would make her the best husband, if she 
 
 wants another. I say, we must go and dress. It's nearly 
 
 nine o'clock." 
 
CHAPTER XXXI 
 
 THE PICNIC BREAKS UP 
 
 Motoring and yachting by day, Bridge-playing half the 
 night and sleeping the rest, and talking and laughing all the 
 time, except when their eyes were actually closed, the genial 
 company gathered together for the picnic at the Forest Lodge 
 got through the days very comfortably, and managed to escape 
 almost entirely the clutches of the Giant Boredom, whom it 
 was their constant endeavour to keep at bay until such time as 
 they should be forced to climb the last great beanstalk, at the 
 top of which they pictured him as reigning for evermore. 
 Lord Wrotham and Mrs. O'Keefe, having been elected 
 honorary members of the picnic, were with them every day, 
 and dined with them on most evenings, but Sir Francis 
 Redcliffe was a continual deserter. He liked sailing, he said, 
 better than any other amusement they had to offer him ; he 
 hated sitting still and doing nothing with his hands. And, as 
 nobody else during the days of that particular picnic happened 
 to want to sail, he had the entire use of Mr. Ferraby's boat at 
 Harben, and frequently persuaded his cousins at the White 
 House, as well as Mr. Browne and Captain Turner, to use it 
 with him. Thus there were two distinct parties enjoying 
 their Whitsuntide holidays at Exton, and the quieter of the 
 two probably enjoyed them as much as the noisier. 
 
 The Redcliffes had dined at the Forest Lodge on the 
 second evening of the picnic, but Mrs. Redcliffe, who liked 
 the Ferrabys, but liked them better in her own house than 
 in theirs, had refused further invitations ; Mrs. Ferraby had 
 accompanied Francis Redcliffe to the White House on 
 Sunday afternoon while her husband and the rest of the 
 guests were scouring the roads of the country in search of 
 Sabbath calm, but otherwise the two parties had not fused. 
 Neither had the Redcliffes seen Norah O'Keefe since they 
 had dined together at the Forest Lodge on Saturday. 
 
 338 
 
The Picnic breaks up 339 
 
 Now the motor-cars had flitted away from the Forest Lodge, 
 each with its load of revivified picnickers. The yacht had 
 steamed back to Greathampton, prepared to put herself at 
 the disposal of anyone who was ready to pay two or three 
 hundred pounds a week for the privilege of amusing them- 
 selves with her, and the sailing boat had taken up her moor- 
 ings in the Wemble River, there to remain until the Ferrabys 
 should take it into their heads to order her out again. And 
 Exton Manor had settled down again to the discussion of its 
 internal politics. 
 
 But the Whitsuntide invasion had brought one or two new 
 factors into play, and the situation was not in all respects the 
 same as it had been before. The most disturbing of these, 
 perhaps, was a slight coolness that sprang up* between Hilda 
 Redcliffe and Norah O'Keefe. Norah came up to the White 
 House on the day that the Forest Lodge was left to its solitude 
 and Exton to its everyday ways. Her air was no less friendly 
 than usual ; perhaps it was rather more obviously friendly, as 
 if she wished to show that she was entirely unchanged. 
 " You must have thought that I had quite forsaken you/' 
 she said. " But I seem to have been caught up into such a 
 whirl of gaiety and amusement, that I have had no time to 
 see even my best friends. But you have been gay too, haven't 
 you ? I should have liked to come sailing with you, but the 
 Ferrabys wouldn't let me off for a single day, and, to tell you 
 the truth, Sir Francis never asked me." 
 
 " I expect you enjoyed yourself much more as it was/' said 
 Hilda. " But I thought you were going to town with Mrs. 
 Ferraby." 
 
 " They asked me to go back with them," said Norah. 
 " But I don't want to go just yet. I want to have a quiet 
 little time with you first after all this dashing about. Wc 
 are very happy together here, and too much excitement isn't 
 good for quiet people." 
 
 " We haven't been very happy here lately," said Hilda ; 
 " and we are going away ourselves in a week. We are going 
 to stay with my cousin, and we shall be very glad to get 
 away from Exton for a bit." 
 
 From this short conversation the coolness sprang. Each 
 of them felt herself aggrieved. Norah had been greatly 
 pressed by Mrs. Ferraby, and also by most of her guests, to 
 return to London with them, and there continue the various 
 
340 Exton Manor 
 
 intimacies she had formed during the course of the picnic, 
 and would have done so but that she thought her older friends, 
 whom it was rather on her conscience that she had neglected 
 lately, might want her. Now she felt that her good intentions 
 had been thrown in her face, and it seemed to her that she had 
 been told that they could (Jo very well without her. She had 
 some reason in being aggrieved. 
 
 Hilda would have told herself, and did tell herself, that she 
 had no reason to be aggrieved, and was not aggrieved. The 
 last thing she would have been willing to acknowledge was 
 that it caused her the slightest disappointment that Lord 
 Wrotham, who, until Norah's superior charms had attracted 
 him, had certainly shown himself attracted by her, had taken 
 no steps to pursue his pleasantly-begun intimacy with her and 
 her mother. She had see him only twice since he had come 
 up to the White House directly after his arrival in Exton and 
 intimated his intention of coming up again pretty frequently 
 during his visit. The first time was at dinner at the Forest 
 Lodge, when his open friendly manner to herself and her 
 mother had not deteriorated in quality, but had in quantity, for 
 he had devoted himself to Norah throughout the evening and 
 had found no time to do more than say a few words to Hilda. 
 On Sunday morning he had been in church, sitting alone in 
 the pew which his mother had forsaken for another in Standon 
 church, and frequently looking behind him as if in search of 
 somebody. He had spoken to her and her mother in the 
 churchyard after the service, amiably cracking a joke, and had 
 then darted away. Norah O'Keefe had not put in an appear- 
 ance, and he had presumably gone to find out the reason. 
 
 Hilda told herself that nothing more than this could have 
 been expected of him, and that she certainly neither expected 
 nor wanted more of him. Also it was very natural that he 
 should prefer the society of Norah O'Keefe, who was far 
 more beautiful and attractive than she was, or professed to 
 be, to hers. Also, that he was welcome to take pleasure 
 in Norah' s society as far as she was concerned, that being 
 exactly what she would have expected and would have 
 wished. There was nothing at all in Lord Wrotham's be- 
 haviour that offended her in the least degree ; in fact, she 
 had not cared about his rather too pressing attentions, and 
 preferred things as they were. But, at the same time, she 
 could not help feeling a little disappointed in the behaviour of 
 
The Picnic breaks up 341 
 
 her friend. It was not quite nice that Norah, who had only 
 been widowed a short time, and had often expressed in their 
 more confidential talks together her intention of remain- 
 ing a widow all her life, should wish, as apparently she did 
 wish, to have all the men around her at her feet. She would 
 say herself, no doubt, that she could not help it ; but there 
 was the fact that she did not discourage them. They had 
 often laughed together over the obvious infatuation of Cap- 
 tain Turner and Mr. Browne, who had both thrown them- 
 selves at her immediately upon her arrival in Exton, and 
 had behaved in the most absurd way ever since, although 
 they had been intimate at the White House years before. 
 She was quite welcome to the attentions of two middle-aged 
 bachelors, but most people would have found them rather 
 tiresome and put an end to them. She was also quite wel- 
 come to the devotion of Fred Prentice, who had behaved 
 very badly, and whom she herself never thought of without 
 indignation, and hoped never to see again. But would a 
 really nice woman have acted so as to call forth that devotion, 
 under the peculiar circumstances of the case ? Hilda was 
 obliged to think she would not. And now here was Lord 
 Wrotham, and if Hilda had eyes in her head, yet another 
 admirer, both apparently encouraged to pay her as much 
 attention as they cared to. No, it was not nice, it was not 
 what she would have expected of Norah. As far as she was 
 concerned, it made no difference at all. She had most 
 decidedly never been in love, or near to being in love, either 
 with Fred Prentice or Lord Wrotham, but she was inclined 
 to think that if she had been it would have made no differ- 
 ence ; they would have been lured away just the same. It 
 was really rather a wonder that Norah had not exercised her 
 fascination on Francis — as she now called her cousin. He 
 was, of course, a man of much stronger character than 
 either Fred Prentice or Lord Wrotham ; there was no com- 
 parison between them. She herself would not have objected 
 in the least if she had done so ; not for herself, that is, be- 
 cause she, at any rate, was not anxious to be surrounded by 
 men ; she did not care about that sort of thing ; but he was 
 her cousin, and now a very good friend both to her mother 
 and herself, and really, one might have supposed that that 
 was enough reason, to judge by what had happened before. 
 Thus Hilda, in the general soreness of her heart, brought 
 
342 Exton Manor 
 
 about by various causes, and doing a good deal less than 
 justice to the friend whom she had hitherto valued next after 
 her mother. For the present the friendship was clouded, and 
 little pleasure was to be got out of it, and it was with a feel- 
 ing of relief on both sides that Norah O'Keefe went up to 
 London a few days later, and Hilda and her mother to pay a 
 long visit to Riverslea, the old home of their family, which 
 neither of them had ever expected to see. 
 
 Lady Syde also departed from the Abbey about this time, 
 and Browne and Turner set out together on a little Conti- 
 nental tour, Browne feeling the necessity of relieving his 
 mind for a time of the cares that oppressed it in connection 
 with the management of Exton Manor, if he was to con- 
 tinue to administer its affairs with anything of his former 
 capability, and Turner consenting to go with him to look 
 after him. So that of all the inhabitants of Exton with 
 whom we have had to do, there were now only left Lady 
 Wrotham, living in solitary state at the Abbey, and Mr. and 
 Mrs. Prentice at the vicarage. The Dales, it is true, were 
 at the Lodge, and at this time were probably the only 
 people who were thoroughly contented with their lot, for it 
 had never occurred either to Mr. or Mrs. Dale that their 
 place in life would entitle them, when they settled down at 
 Exton, to consider themselves on any sort of equality with 
 Lady Wrotham, and they were consequently not disturbed 
 when the great lady, the purport of whose first visit they 
 had not quite understood, intimated by her manner when 
 either of them passed her carriage that further intimacy with 
 them was not in her mind. So the Dales lived their life 
 apart, and what with their garden and their chickens, and their 
 boat and their pony carriage, and a succession of visitors from 
 Manchester and elsewhere, found that life came quite up to 
 their expectations. 
 
 It would have been well for Lady Wrotham in her beauti- 
 ful house and gardens, surrounded by everything that might 
 have made the most exigent of great ladies happy, if she 
 had been able to wake up in the morning with a tithe of the 
 pleasurable anticipations with which any member of the 
 despised Dale family hailed a fresh summer day. Encouraged 
 by Lady Syde, she had made an attempt to set her life on 
 a basis more satisfactory to herself, but the attempt had ended 
 in failure, and left her with an added sense of injury. It was 
 
The Picnic breaks up 313 
 
 perhaps the bitterest feature of the failure she had so far met 
 with in her ruling of what she looked upon as her kingdom, 
 that the actual reigning monarch was her son, and that, al- 
 though he could easily have put things straight for her by 
 leaving her to act as she thought fit, and officially endorsing 
 her actions, he had refused to do so ; and here she was, a 
 dowager queen with a throne but no sceptre, and even the 
 glory of her throne of no avail, since the eyes of her subjects 
 seemed to be blind to it. Much could be written of the woes 
 of the dowager and the passing of power — instruments tuned 
 for the tragic muse. 
 
 The one attempt to break the bonds may be recorded. 
 
 11 You must have a serious talk with George," said Lady 
 Syde, after the subject had been threshed out between the two 
 ladies for the twentieth time. 
 
 Lady Wrotham intimated her willingness, but the difficulty 
 at that time was to get hold of George. He was staying with 
 his mother, but for all she saw of him he might have been 
 staying anywhere. " He has not dined here once since he 
 came," she said. " He flies out of the house the moment he 
 has breakfasted, and comes back long after I am in bed. I 
 hear him, for I do not sleep well. I cannot very well say that 
 I do not want to have him here, but, really, if the Ferrabys are 
 such an attraction to him, he might just as well have joined 
 their party altogether. This house, at any rate, is not his 
 under the arrangement, and I have no mind to have him 
 using it merely as an hotel, and not paying his mother the very 
 smallest attention." 
 
 " Young men will behave in that way," said Lady Syde. 
 "I am too used to it' myself to care very much. But you 
 must tell him that you wish to speak to him. If breakfast 
 is the only meal he takes here I should breakfast with him 
 and insist upon a conversation before he leaves the house." 
 
 " His breakfast takes him about five minutes. He would 
 say he must be going, and rush out of the house." 
 
 " Then write him a note and say you must speak to him 
 before he goes. I cannot think that he will refuse to do so." 
 
 The note was written and the interview took place in the 
 half-hour before Lord Wrotham drove off to join the Ferrabys 
 and their party at the station. Lady Syde was present by re- 
 quest. Lady Wrotham in her anxiety to get to the point, 
 omitted all reference to his undutifuj behaviour, and was at 
 
844 Exton Manor 
 
 first even a little flurried, as he walked about the room with 
 his hands in his pockets and looked from time to time at his 
 watch. 
 
 " My dear mother/' he said, in answer to her statement that 
 affairs were not progressing as she had hoped at Exton and that 
 changes must be made, " if you insist upon quarrelling with 
 everybody in the place, you can't expect to be comfortable 
 anywhere. I don't know what changes you want made. 
 The only change I can suggest is that you should recognize 
 that you are living in the twentieth century." 
 
 " I am quite at a loss to know what you can mean by that 
 piece of advice, George," she said. 
 
 "Well, I suppose a thousand years ago you might have 
 lived in a house like this and expected everybody all round you 
 to knuckle under and do exactly what you told them. You 
 certainly can't expect it now. You let your houses to people, 
 and you leave 'em to lead their own lives in their own way. 
 If you didn't, you wouldn't let your houses. It's quite sim- 
 ple. Nobody's going to be bossed now by people like us, and 
 I don't blame 'em." 
 
 " Your remarks are quite beside the point, George, as well 
 as being rather offensive," said Lady Wrotham. 
 
 " Mr. Moggeridge used to say that it was the age of democ- 
 racy," said Lady Syde. " But there are limits." 
 
 " I think it's too bad, mother, the way you've behaved about 
 Mrs. Redcliffe," continued Wrotham. " There's a woman 
 you might have made a real pal of. One of the best. And 
 what's the poor lady done ? Nothing, but what any of us 
 mightn't do to-morrow." 
 
 " I, for one, should never have thought of doing it, 
 George," said Lady Syde. " But that is not the point. The 
 Redcliffes refuse to behave with ordinary courtesy to your 
 mother, and it is very awkward their being here at all. They 
 ought to go. There would be no difficulty in letting the house. 
 Under certain circumstances I might even take it myself." 
 
 u If they are driven out of the place you shall have the first 
 offer, Aunt Henrietta," said Wrotham. " But it's no use ask- 
 ing me to drive them out, because I'm not going to do it. 
 Then there are the Ferrabys, mother. You told Mrs. Fer- 
 raby the other day that they weren't wanted here. Really, 
 you know, that's a bit thick to anybody, and a nice woman 
 like that, too, of all people ! If they'd taken offence — only, 
 
The Picnic breaks up 345 
 
 of course, they were sensible and only laughed at it — I might 
 have had the shooting thrown on my hands. You oughtn't to 
 do it, you know." 
 
 " I didn't ask you to speak to me in order that I might 
 listen to your strictures on my conduct, George," said Lady 
 Wrotham. " I am aware that the rent of the shooting is a 
 consideration, and I suppose I must put up with the Ferrabys, 
 and be thankful that they are not always here and that when 
 they are I need see nothing of them and their noisy friends. 
 What I wanted to speak to you about particularly was the 
 Vicar." 
 
 " Well, what's wrong with the Vicar ? I shook hands with 
 him going into church the other day and I thought he seemed a 
 very nice fellow. Everybody else seems to think so, too. Of 
 course, he's a bit higher than you like — I know that — but 
 you've got to take these parsons as they come. You can t 
 turn 'em out. Nobody can turn 'em out. I don't like that 
 sanctimonious old Dr. Blimey that you got father to put in at 
 Hurstbury, but I put up with him. You must make up year 
 mind to put up with Prentice." 
 
 " The cases are entirely different. Dr. Blimey knows what 
 true religion is, and " 
 
 " He knows what good port is. But it's waste of time talking 
 about Prentice, because, if I wanted to, I couldn't shift him." 
 
 " I have an idea," said Lady Syde. " My brother-in-law 
 who is a clergyman exchanged livings. That can be done. 
 Why not get Mr, Prentice and Dr. — whatever his name is, to 
 exchange livings ? " 
 
 " And have Mrs. Prentice down at Hurstbury. No, thank 
 you, Aunt Henrietta. I'm not taking any. Now, there's a 
 disagreeable woman, if you like ! I don't wonder at your 
 quarrelling with her, mother. Well, I must be off. Good- 
 bye, mother ; good-bye, Aunt Henrietta. See you again 
 pretty soon, I hope." 
 
 " Stop," cried Lady Wrotham. " George, I have not said 
 Jialf I want to say. There is Mr. Browne, and Captain 
 Turner, and those vulgar people at the Lodge. I really can- 
 not consent " 
 
 " Can't stay now, mother. Make it up with 'em all, and 
 you'll be twice as comfortable. Good-bye." And he was gone. 
 
 Lady Wrotham looked at Lady Syde. .," I might as well 
 have saved my breath/' she said angrily." 
 
CHAPTER XXXII 
 
 TROUBLES AT THE VICARAGE 
 
 Mrs. Prentice, after her brief experiment in unfamiliar 
 theology, had returned with increased zest to her lifelong 
 opinions, but her return had not brought peace to the vicar- 
 age, nor to herself. When she had eased herself of the im- 
 mediate effects of her rupture with Lady Wrofham by an 
 almost hysterical outburst of tears, which had more of pas- 
 sion and resentment in them than of grief, she went in to her 
 husband with the air of a proud, but much-injured, woman, 
 and said, " William, I have done with my Lady Wrotham. 
 I will never darken her doors again, and I wish never to have 
 her name mentioned. I can now see plainly that I might 
 have spared myself all the pains I have taken to influence 
 her. She is infatuated with her own importance. Hence- 
 forth she may go her way and I will go mine ; but for one 
 thing you may rely upon me — I will use every effort in my 
 power to oppose her in her upsetting of everything we hold 
 sacred. I will spare myself no trouble. By night and by 
 day I will " 
 
 " Oh, please stop," broke in the Vicar impatiently. " What 
 has happened ? " 
 
 " I was going to tell you what has happened. Lady Wro- 
 tham has had the face to take me to task — in the most offen- 
 sive way, and with Mrs. O'Keefe sitting there and listening 
 to it all, and very pleased to be listening to it too^ — she has 
 wormed herself into her confidence, and after behaving as she 
 has done to me, must needs in the most underhand way make 
 mischief behind my back. But fortunately I arrived un- 
 expectedly. I have always been suspicious of Mrs. O'Keefe. 
 
 She " 
 
 34<5 
 
Troubles at the Vicarage 347 
 
 " Perhaps you will leave Mrs. O'Keefe alone for the time, 
 and tell me, if you want to tell me, what it was that Lady 
 Wrotham took you to task about.' ' 
 
 " I do not want to tell you. It was a mere nothing, but it 
 was the last straw. I am not to be domineered over by Lady 
 Wrotham, or Lady anybody else. I hope I know my posi- 
 tion better. After all I have done to keep in with Lady 
 
 Wrotham for the good of the place and all of us in it 
 
 She is very unpopular ; nobody likes her, and I promise her 
 that they shall like her still less for the future — after all I 
 have given up '■■ 
 
 " You have no doubt given up a great deal ; most of your 
 self-respect, I should think, amongst other things, and all 
 your convictions, and your duty to me, if that counts for any- 
 thing." 
 
 Mrs. Prentice turned her attack. " Do you think it is be- 
 coming in you, William/' she asked, " to receive me in this 
 way, when I come expressly to tell you that we are now again 
 at one in all these questions, that I will use every nerve and 
 muscle I possess to fight with you, that " 
 
 " Oh, Agatha, what transparent nonsense it all is ! " cried 
 her husband, interrupting her. He rose from his seat and 
 began to pace the floor. " Do you take me for a fool, that 
 I can't see tlirough it ? You have given up everything, as 
 you very rightly say, to keep in with Lady Wrotham ; every- 
 thing that as a self-respecting woman you ought not to have 
 given up. Now you have found that your trouble is wasted, 
 and that even you cannot pay the price that she wants for 
 her favour, you turn completely round, and propose to do 
 what you can to make her life a burden to her, just as you 
 have made mine a burden to me. There is no more honesty 
 or Christianity now than there was before. You are simply 
 following the dictates of malice and spite. I have no wish to 
 receive you back as an ally. I won't do it. Your spirit is. 
 doing more harm to my work than all Lady Wrotham's fool- 
 ish opposition." 
 
 " Well, that is a pleasant thing to hear ! " exclaimed Mrs. 
 Prentice, deeply offended. 
 
 " Look here ! " He stopped at his writing-table and took 
 up a letter. " I have just received this from Mrs. Ripton. 
 ■ Mrs. Prentice told me yesterday that Lady Wrotham was 
 angry with me for sending the children to church on 
 
34 s Exton Manor 
 
 Sundays, and that I had better not do it, or my share of the 
 servants' laundry work would be taken away from me. I 
 hopes, sir, you will understand that I don't hold with her 
 lad3^ship, but can't afford to quarrel with her 1 ' " He threw 
 the letter on the table again. "It is all very petty and 
 absurd, of course. But when I received a reminder of that 
 sort oi" the way you have been behaving, and then }^ou come 
 in immediately full of righteous wrath against the person 
 whose errands 5^ou have been running — -~" 
 
 '■ Ah, that is over," interrupted Mrs. Prentice, who had not 
 
 been able to prevent the rising of a hot flush on her face as 
 
 the contents of Mrs. Ripton's missive were being divulged to 
 
 >her. " Of course, I was mistaken. I see it now. With 
 
 the best of intentions, I was mistaken." 
 
 " Mistaken in what ? " 
 
 " In allowing myself to be persuaded that Catholic doctrine 
 and practices were wrong. Of course it is not so. I made 
 the mistake, and I have suffered for it." 
 
 " Then what becomes of your foolish pretence that you 
 have given in to Lady V/rotharn for the sake of influencing 
 her ? By your own showing you have not attempted to 
 do so, and of course nobody ever supposed that you had." 
 
 " I think we might make an end of these recriminations, 
 William ; "they are not dignified. We will let Lady Wro- 
 tharn go her own way, and we will go ours, as before." 
 
 " No," said her husband decidedly. " If you think that 
 I can completely overlook all that has happened lately, and 
 that we can go on, as you say, as before, you are mistaken. 
 It is not possible. If you had come to me with any signs of 
 contrition for your behaviour, I might have forgiven you, and 
 tried to help you to get right. You do no such thing. The 
 ideas you have in your mind now are just as mean and base 
 as they were. You have simply turned them in another direc- 
 tion. Listen to me, and don't speak until I have done. I 
 will tell }^ou now, once ior all, what I think of your be- 
 haviour. In all the troubles we have been going through 
 here, in the trouble that has come to Mrs. Redcliffe, and the 
 way it has destroyed the peace and the friendship of years, in 
 the misguided zeal of Lady Wrotham and the un-Christian 
 strife she has brought into this place, it is your actions and 
 your attitude that have most shocked and grieved me. The 
 other disturbances, serious as they are, are nothing to them. 
 
Troubles at the Vicarage 349 
 
 You have always had great infirmities of temper. I have 
 told you so frequently, and in your better moods you have not 
 denied it. You have always been liable to be actuated by 
 malice and resentment, and other unworthy feelings. But 
 lately you have gone beyond all bounds. I have hardly known 
 you. It has almost seemed as if you were taken possession 
 of by some evil spirit. And " 
 
 But Mrs. Prentice could bear no more. She rose and con- 
 fronted him, quivering with rage. " How dare you talk to 
 me in that way ? " she said. " To say that I — your wife — ■ 
 am in possession of an evil spirit ! How dare you ! It is 
 the wickedness around me that I have been trying to fight, 
 which you are too blind to see, and which you — yes, you, a 
 priest — are taking part in. That is where the evil spirit is. 
 Oh, how dare you say that it is in me ? " 
 
 The Vicar sat down at his table and buried his head in his 
 hands. I - I can only hope/' he said quietly, " that you will 
 come to see your faults in their true light. There can be no 
 confidence between us till you do, and no peace or satisfaction 
 in this house." 
 
 " Very well, then," said Mrs. Prentice spitefully, " we must 
 go on in the absurd way in which we have been going on 
 lately. A delightful state of things, upon my word ! A 
 husband and wife, in a position in which they ought to be 
 looked up to, hardly speaking to one another. And who 
 started that state of things, I should like to know ? I, who 
 am politely told that I am possessed of a devil ? Oh, no, not 
 at all." 
 
 " No, you did not start it," replied the Vicar, " but you 
 might have stopped it at any time you pleased. You may 
 stop it now if you will bethink yourself and put away all the 
 evil thoughts to which you have given yourself over. Oh, 
 Agatha, you were not always like this. Can't you see how 
 wrong you are ? Can't you see how you are despising the 
 spirit of that religion of which you are always talking ? 
 Have you never heard of humility, and penitence, and love, 
 and " 
 
 " You may keep that for your next sermon," interrupted 
 Mrs. Prentice rudely. " I am not here to be preached at. 
 All I have to say is that until you apologize to me for the 
 disgraceful language you have used to me, and the abom- 
 inable charge you have brought against me, I will have nothing 
 
850 Exton Manor 
 
 more to do with you. Goodness knows, there won't be 
 much difficulty. You have hardly spoken a civil word to 
 me for the last two months. I am getting used to it. I have 
 tried once or twice to bring you to a better frame, of mind. 
 But I shall try no more ; it is useless. You must come to 
 your senses by yourself/' And with that she left him, sus- 
 tained presumably by her own integrity, for it is difficult to 
 see what else she had to sustain her. Her husband sat 
 on, with his head in his hands, and his heart as heavy as 
 lead. 
 
 It grew little lighter as the weeks went by. Mrs. Prentice 
 was as good as her word, and made no further effort to bridge 
 the gulf that now gaped between them. She took up once 
 more, and with renewed effort, her work of directing such of 
 the parishioners of Exton as would listen to her in the ecclesi- 
 astical paths she would have them follow. She worked furi- 
 ously to this end, and in all she said and did, going from 
 house to house in the village, and tramping along the dusty 
 roads to whatever point she judged she might find material to 
 be manipulated, she showed, as plainly as if she had cried it 
 aloud, the spirit that led her. Lady Wrotham and Lady 
 Wrotham, and always Lady Wrotham was in her mind, and 
 often on her tongue. She would have walked the roads with 
 bare feet to induce one poor woman to refuse a summons to 
 Lady Wrotham' s weekly meetings, and judged no pains too 
 great to get the refusal made in a way that would offend the 
 great lady. In her wilful and determined spite, she even 
 openly bribed some of the mothers to defy Lady Wrotham in 
 the matter of sending their children to the services to which 
 she objected. In these matters she may have persuaded her- 
 self that she was actuated by religious motives, but she per- 
 suaded no one else. She had never been a favourite at the 
 best of times, and her ministrations had been accepted, if at 
 all, because of the temporal advantages by which they were 
 accompanied, for she had been to considerable extent the dis- 
 penser of Sir Joseph Chapman's local charities. This fact 
 had stood her in better stead than she had been aware of 
 during her temporary alliance with Lady Wrotham. But 
 now that she was no longer the most important lady in the 
 village, and there was little to be gained by concealing indi- 
 vidual dislike to her, and little to be lost by indulging in its 
 expression, opposition burnt fiercely against her. Among the 
 
Troubles at the Vicarage 35 1 
 
 better class of people her treatment of Mrs. Redcliffe, and her 
 toadying to Lady Wrotham, which was quite clearly under- 
 stood and remorselessly commented on, had gained her a very 
 unenviable reputation, and not a few doors were shut upon 
 her by the farmers and tradespeople. Old Mrs. Witherspoon, 
 and some others, before closing their doors, told her exactly 
 what they thought of her, and it was not pleasant hearing. 
 Among the cottagers her success was very little greater, and 
 the fact that she was known to object strongly to their attend- 
 ing the ministrations of Lady Wrotham did more to crowd 
 the weekly meetings at the Abbey than the requests of Lady 
 Wrotham herself. 
 
 But still she held on in her insensate spite and bitterness, 
 disliked by most of her neighbours, and despised by not a f ew ; 
 a miserable woman, if ever there was one, but determined to 
 drink her cup of rancour to the dregs. 
 
 It is possible to pity her, but far more to be pitied was her 
 husband, a good ordinary man, over whose head the years 
 had passed easily, for he had adapted himself to the corners 
 of his wife's temper before they had acquired their recent 
 sharpness, and had plodded on with his daily work, meeting 
 with few drawbacks that could disturb him ; a man with some 
 depths of truth and insight in him, although those depths had 
 been somewhat overlaid by the conventions of his profession. 
 Now he began to lose heart. His wife's hot advocacy of the 
 religious views he had spent his life in inculcating did him far 
 more harm than Lady Wrotham 's open opposition ; but that 
 opposition was tireless, although it worked chiefly beneath the 
 surface. Lady Wrotham had been beaten in her attempt to 
 browbeat him, she had been beaten in the matter of her 
 complaint to the bishop, but she was beating him none the 
 less, slowly taking the life out of all his work among the 
 people over whom she exercised a greater authority than his, 
 although he had ministered to them for as many years as she 
 had lived among them for weeks. He saw men and women 
 on whose minds he thought he had made an indelible mark 
 turning against him ; he saw active opposition growing steadily 
 in matters where before there had been nothing worse than 
 indifference ; he was met with argument by those who had 
 listened obediently to instruction. He was no longer the 
 accepted teacher of his parishioners ; in some quarters his 
 teaching was flouted and himself hardly treated with tolera- 
 
352 Extern Manor 
 
 tion. And he had no ease, no refreshment in his home. He 
 shared it with an obstinate jealous woman, whose determined 
 attitude through many weeks was of acid hostility, which at 
 times seemed to him more than he could bear. He was 
 tempted more than once to give in to her on her own terms 
 and gain a little of the contentment which had gone out of 
 his life by an ignominious surrender. He might have done so 
 if her attitude had been a little less uncompromisingly offensive, 
 for he was not formed by nature to fight without any help or 
 sympathy against overwhelming odds, but her contemptuous 
 self-satisfied manner would have made it difficult to approach 
 her in any case, and to do so would certainly have meant the 
 giving up of all that was left to him to fight for. 
 
 For a few weeks after Whitsuntide the only people of his 
 own class in Exton with whom he could associate on friendly 
 terms were the Dales. It is possible that under other circum- 
 stances he would not have seen much of Mr. Dale, whose 
 views were opposed to his own upon most subjects, and with 
 whom he had little in common. And Mrs. Prentice's treat- 
 ment of the newcomers had earned her a feeling of frank dis- 
 like on their part, so that anything like friendly intercourse 
 between the two houses was out of the question. But when 
 the Vicar had called at the Lodge, Mr. Dale, after the first 
 few minutes, during which he had been watchful and a trifle 
 suspicious, had thawed into his usual state of blustering geni- 
 ality, and the Vicar had gone again to see him, and then 
 again, until it became a habit with him to smoke a pipe with 
 Mr. Dale for half-an-hour or so every afternoon or evening. 
 The man was loud and vulgar, do doubt, but he was sure of 
 himself, and breathed an air of bluff honesty and kindliness 
 which the poor, harassed Vicar found grateful. Dependent as 
 he was upon sympathy, he came in time to confide more of 
 his troubles to Mr. Dale than he would at first have thought 
 possible, considering how far apart they were in their views 
 and their training ; and Mr. Dale rose to the occasion and 
 gave him much sound advice, and, what was more to the 
 point, treated him with unfailing friendliness. 
 
 " I don't understand much about your Church," he said on 
 one occasion as they were sitting out on the lawn, smoking 
 two of the special brand of waistcoated cigars. " And of 
 course I needn't tell you, Mr. — er, that what I believe is 
 nearer to what her ladyship believes than what you believe. 
 
Trouljles at the Vicarage 853 
 
 Still, it don't seem to me to matter so much what you teach 
 people as the example you set them, and it can't do anybody 
 any good to see these upsets going on round thern in the 
 name of religion. It ain't religion at all ; it's the other 
 thing." 
 
 " I teach them what. I believe to be the truth," said the 
 Vicar, '■ and I have been here for over twenty years, and have 
 seen — I am sure I have seen — that it has affected the people 
 for good. Surely that is the test. Lady Wrotham thinks 
 that anybody who holds the views that I hold is going straight 
 to perdition, and she says so to everybody who will listen to 
 her. But any one who takes note of the spirit there is in the 
 place now, and compares it with what there was a few months' 
 ago, must see the difference, and how much for the worse it 
 is. It does not look as if her religion were right and mine 
 were wrong. It is my only encouragement that my teaching 
 has borne so much better fruit." 
 
 " What's good in her religion is the same as what's good in 
 yours," returned Mr. Dale. " If you had held her views 
 you'd have done just as well, perhaps better, and there 
 wouldn't have been this upset. Still, I don't hold with the 
 way she's working against you, whether she's right or wrong in 
 her doctrines. I've seen a lot of harm come of that in my 
 Church — people who have got the money and the power, 
 setting themselves against a minister. I've always backed up 
 the minister myself, and I've been able to smooth things over 
 in that way, once or twice, as I've had a say in what takes place. 
 They wouldn't go against me if they could help it. Too 
 much money behind me. I suppose her ladyship has got the 
 power to give you notice if she likes to exercise it, eh ? " 
 
 " No, she has not got that power," said the Vicar grimly, 
 " although she would very much like to have it." 
 
 " What — the bishop, then, I suppose ? " 
 
 " No, no one has the power to remove an incumbent — at 
 least not for any cause that I should be likely to give them. 
 A living is the incumbent's freehold." 
 
 Well, that seems a funny thing. However " 
 
 " I don't say that I should consider myself justified in keep- 
 ing to my legal rights and staying on in a place where my use- 
 fulness had departed. I would not do it. And I have begun 
 to think that I may have to leave Exton. I have been bitterly 
 disappointed to find that the impression I thought I had made 
 U . 06) 
 
354 Exton Manor 
 
 on my parishioners, many of whom have grown up around 
 me, is not so lasting as I had thought. If I find that I can no 
 longer influence them for good, I shall go/' 
 
 " I hope you won't do that, Mr. — er — Prentice. You've 
 got friends here. I wish I could do more myself. I don't 
 like being in a position where I can't make myself felt. I've 
 been accustomed to have my say in these matters. But there 
 don't seem to be anybody to say it to here. Of course, Lady 
 Wrotham — well, she's Lady Wrotham. We didn't expect to 
 be treated on equal terms with her or people like her when we 
 came here. We just wanted to live quietly, mother and me 
 and the young ones, without pushing ourselves forward. Her 
 ladyship did come up to see mother and left her a card. Mary 
 said it was a friendly call, just as it might be you or me, and 
 mother ought to go and return it. But I don't know. We 
 never had much to do with ladies of title and don't want to 
 specially, being quite contented as we are ; but I've been a 
 public man, and shouldn't hesitate to put myself against Lady 
 Wrotham or anybody if I saw occasion for it — in a public 
 way, you know, not private." 
 
 '* I don't think you could do much good in these circum- 
 stances, Mr. Dale," said the Vicar ; " but I like to come and 
 talk things over with you occasionally." 
 
 " Ay, and you're welcome, Mr. — er. You're welcome to 
 come here just whenever you like and as often as you like. 
 You can't come too often for me. And the wife would say 
 the same if she was here. There's just one thing, talking of 
 the wife, that perhaps you won't mind my saying. I don't 
 think your good lady, from what I've heard, is doing much to 
 help you amongst the people here, though she's working hard, 
 and I'm sure she'd be shocked to hear that she was doing 
 harm. But she's too much against her ladyship. You see, 
 Mr. — er — Prentice, even if her ladyship is wrong, it — well, 
 you know what I mean, let her alone, and go on with what 
 you've got to do. I believe that's the ticket. You'll get on 
 better that way." 
 
 11 I quite agree with you," said the Vicar. 
 
 " You don't mind my mentioning it, do you ? If you were 
 just to give her a hint." 
 
 "lam afraid that a hint from me would not be effective, 
 Mr. Dale. My eyes are fully opened to what you say, but 
 my wife and I unfortunately are not agreed on this subject. 
 
 (32) • 
 
Troubles at the Vicarage 355 
 
 I hope some day that we may be. And now I must really be 
 going." 
 
 Mr. Dale, a little later in the evening, took counsel with 
 Mrs. Dale. 
 
 " It's my belief, mother," he said, " that our good friend 
 must have a lot to put up with. That managing lady of his 
 will manage him out of the place if she's not careful. I don't 
 think they get on together. That's my idea from something 
 he let fall." 
 
 Mrs* Dale smiled at him. " Why, father," she said, " it's 
 the common talk of the place. She won't have a word to say 
 to him, and if she could smother Lady Wrotham under a 
 feather bed she'd do it. She is a terrible woman." 
 
 " Why, mother ! I've never heard you speak like that of 
 anyone before." 
 
 " I dare say not ; but it's true all the same, and very glad 
 I am that Mrs. Prentice didn't take to us, for if she was, to 
 come in and see me now, I should take and show her the 
 door." 
 
 " Would you, mother ? " said Mr. Dale admiringly. " Well, 
 I don't know but what you'd be right. But, lor', we seem to 
 have come and settled down in a nest of hornets." 
 
 <2S) 
 
CHAPTER XXXIII 
 
 LADY SYDE INTERVENES 
 
 High Summer settled down upon Exton. The roses bloomed 
 and faded, the trees lost the freshness of Spring and put 
 on a cloak of monotonous green, the hay-fields, shorn of 
 their luxuriant growth, grew sunburnt. The moons filled and 
 waned, and twice a day the river flowed into its broad channel 
 and ebbed again to the sea. The many dials of nature regis- 
 tered the steady march of time and the passing of men's lives, 
 so active and anxious in the minutes, flowing and ebbing to 
 quick joy or sorrow, so level in the months, with recurrent 
 crises welded into an even progression, and individual life itself 
 of little account when merged in the long tale of years, or 
 thrown into the aggregate of lives with which it intermixes. 
 What mattered the little problems and upheavals that troubled 
 the few souls with which we have concerned ourselves to 
 those who lived around them ? , The Manor of Exton sup- 
 ported some hundreds of people, who tilled the ground and 
 reaped the harvests, bought and sold, laughed and wept, loved 
 and hated, lived their lives and were swept away at the end of 
 them, with nothing left behind of all their thoughts and activ- 
 ities that could keep their memory green ^or more than a few 
 short years. Perhaps the chief effect upon them of the dis- 
 turbances which had followed Lady Wrotham's arrival in Ex- 
 ton was that it gave them something to talk about which inter- 
 ested them, and so the pleasures of the many balanced Uie 
 difficulties of the few and the compensating pendulum of com- 
 mon life swung as truly as before. 
 
 And so in a smaller way the absorbing business of each 
 day smoothed over the difficulties that were exercising the 
 chief characters in our story. Even Mrs. Prentice, obsessed 
 
 356 
 
 (10) 
 
Lady Syde intervenes 357 
 
 with a devouring passion, had to eat and drink, sleep and 
 wake and clothe herself, manage her household and engage 
 in various outside duties that were not all directed to the 
 end she chiefly had in view at this time ; and there were 
 times in which her husband, in spite of the growing dis- 
 comfort of his life, forgot his troubles in a book, took pleasure 
 in his garden or in the summer woods and fields, was up- 
 lifted in his religious duties, or lost sight of his own diffi- 
 culties in dealing with those of his parishioners. And so 
 with Lady Wrotham, living alone in her great house, and not 
 at all pleased with the way things were going on around 
 her, applying herself as far as she could, and day after day, 
 to bend circumstances to her own will, the days and weeks 
 passed and she endured them, living through a great pro- 
 portion of her hours in the way she had always lived them. 
 At the end of her life this troubled year would not stand 
 out conspicuously different from the rest of her years. The 
 common everyday duties and occupations would smooth 
 down the roughness, as light persistent sea ripples wash 
 smooth the children's sand castles, even before the heavy tide 
 covers them. 
 
 But Certainly, at this time, she could not have called 
 herself happy. The difference between what her life was at 
 Exton and what she had hoped it would be was sufficiently 
 marked. During those few weeks after Whitsuntide, when 
 she was left to herself, she would drive out in the afternoon, 
 past the White House, its windows curtained and the wealth 
 of roses in its garden wasting their fragrance, past the 
 closed house in the village which Norah O'Keefe had for- 
 saken for the excitements of London, past the gate of the 
 vicarage which she had never entered, and the Lodge which 
 she never intended to enter again. She would drive into 
 the forest and see the Forest Lodge standing silent and empty 
 against its background of trees, or up through the woods 
 behind the Abbey where the smoke of Turner's house rose 
 into the air, two other houses which she also told herself 
 she would never enter, but gained no satisfaction from the 
 telling. And sometimes she would meet Mrs. Prentice in 
 the village or on the country roads, and that lady would 
 stare at her rudely with the corners of her mouth drawn 
 down and her nostrils breathing defiance ; or the Vicar 
 would pass her and raise his hat gravely and without a 
 
 (12) 
 
Exton Manor 
 
 numerous Dale family, very obviously 
 themselves as if the pi. ice belonged to them. She 
 could Dot escape these small annoyanc 
 spirits and darkened her thoughts. 
 rurner and Browne came back after a fortnight, and 
 wne to dine with her. But he m 
 he did I him again. The Redeliffes prolonged 
 
 Warwickshire and Norah O'Keefe stayed in 
 until the end of July, Summer holiday-mak 
 and bicycles and ra 
 filled the luncheon-room of the inn on most days, hung 
 Ige and u I the ruins of the Abbey. But 
 
 all the i ana going and the life in the \ 
 
 on the land, there w desertion in the 
 
 to those who knew it. Ladv Wrotham had relal 
 
 friends - i lier from time \ but 
 
 r life undoubtedly was a dull one, 
 
 and she for a woman with such activity of mind, had cause 
 
 the beginning of August the tide of affairs once more 
 vs came down to the F 
 th another | whose obje< I 
 
 ich amusem ble out oi 
 
 I'Keefe came back with them, and the Redeliffes 
 same time to the White House. At a 
 . too. Lord Wrotham came to pay his 
 she supposed, for the sole pleasure 
 rded him to be with her. 
 
 bout half-an-hour before dinner-time. " I sup- 
 
 d when she had greeted him, " that I am not 
 
 honour of s< ry much of you, George. 
 
 I dining here to-night ? " 
 
 Yes. mother," he said. " I want to have a talk with 
 
 He was lounging in an easy-chair opposite to her own, 
 
 but got up and began to pace the floor, with his hands in 
 
 He could never sit still for very long in one 
 
 and this was his usual habit. But there was some- 
 
 in his manner th :ot usual. She threw a quick 
 
 glance at him and saw him disturbed, a look of anxiet 
 
 >ung pleasar which was generally so eh 
 
 and alert. " I must go upstairs now," she said. " But 
 
Lady Syde intervenes 
 
 He accompanied h ( 
 >m and opened it He was usually cz: 
 
 ns. She wondered what he could have 
 
 • 
 
 She was a little surprised when the object of his visit 
 
 disclosed to her later in the evening- He was in anxiety 
 
 as to money- Her own income was a large one, and she had 
 
 already helped him in difficulties that had arisen during the 
 
 adjustment of his own and his father's affairs. But he had 
 
 approached her with the diffidence which sat on him 
 
 He had asked her airily for money, and taken it with 
 
 no more than perfunctory thanks. 
 
 " You ought not to be in difficulties again so soon, 
 
 George," she said. " I made things perfectly easy for you 
 
 onths ago. You cannot expect io spend just as much 
 
 as you wish to while the duties are being paid off. You 
 
 ought to adjust your expenditure/' 
 
 now, mother," he said. " But I want io get straight, 
 quietly and pay you back what you lend me." 
 ou know I should not ask you io do that. I will give 
 /hat you ask for. But I should like to know why you 
 are obliged to ask me for such a large sum." 
 
 " I suppose yx>u know pretty weU," he said* " Racing, 
 chiefly. And I've lent a lot of money which I can't get 
 
 He spoke so dejectedly that the reproaches which were 
 on her lips were not uttered. "To whom have you 
 money ? " she asked. " And why cannot you get it bar 
 I suppose you know that pretty well too, ' he replied. 
 
 Her face became angry. Is it Laurence ? " she asked 
 sharply. 
 
 He nodded. 
 
 " George ! " she exclaimed. " Why will you make a friend 
 of Laurence ? Surely you must have found out his- selfish- 
 ness and badness by this time ! I have implored you time 
 and again not to do so. He will be the ruin of you, as it is 
 well known he has been the ruin of other younger men than 
 himself whom he sponges on. He is no fit companion for 
 you. He makes what use he can of you and thinks only 
 of himself all the time. He would throw you over to-morrow 
 if he thought it was to his advantage to do so. Why cannot 
 you make up your mind io break with him ? You must do 
 
s go Extoii Manor 
 
 so once and for all. I will not help 3^011 now unless you 
 give me your promise. " 
 
 " I've done that already," he said. " I don't want to have 
 anything more to do with the fellow, confound him ! " 
 
 Lady Wrotham showed her astonishment. " You have 
 quarrelled with him!" she exclaimed. "Is it about this 
 money that he owes you ? " 
 
 ": No. He's welcome to the money. I shall never see it 
 again, and I never expected that I should." 
 
 " Well, what is it about, then ? " 
 
 He sprang up and began to pace the room. " It doesn't 
 matter what it is about," he said. " I won't have anything 
 more to do with him." 
 
 She looked at him irresolutely, uncertain whether to ques- 
 tion him further. Something in his appearance aroused her 
 solicitude. He looked worried and anxious. " If there is 
 anything that troubles you," she said, " I wish you would tell 
 me. I should like to help you, if I can." 
 
 He walked up and down the room with his eyes on the 
 ground. Some surviving instinct of his boyhood urged him to 
 confide in his mother, to whom he had had no intention of 
 telling what was in his mind. 
 
 " I don't know whether you'll be pleased or annoyed," he 
 said jerkily. " I've met the woman I want to marry. You've 
 said for the last few years that you would like to see me 
 married." 
 
 She was taken aback, and an uneasy memory rose to her 
 mind. 
 
 " It is not — not anyone living here ? " she asked. 
 
 " Yes it is. I expect you know. And Laurence — con- 
 found him — he's doing all he can against me — I don't believe 
 he wants her himself. I'm hanged if I believe he wants her, 
 though I did think he did at first. He's not the sort of chap 
 to marry where there isn't a lot of money. He's told me he 
 wouldn't, dozens of times. Then why* can't he leave her 
 alone and let me have my chance ? I believe it would be a 
 good one if it wasn't for him." 
 
 Lady Wrotham had listened to this speech with mixed 
 feelings, surprise in the end overcoming disappointment. 
 " Who are you talking of ? " she aslced. " I thought you 
 meant Miss Redcliffe." 
 
 He laughed a little ruefully. " No, I don't mean Miss 
 
 (H) 
 
Lady Syde intervenes 361 
 
 Redcliffe," he said. " She's a charming girl, but I believe 
 she's booked already. I mean No rah O'Keefe." 
 
 Lady Wrotham was unfeignedly surprised. She hardly 
 knew whether to be encouraging or antagonistic. But the 
 feeling which Norah had aroused in her mind when she had 
 first seen her renewed itself and brought pleasure with it 
 unbidden. 
 
 " You surprise me very much, George," she said. " I did 
 not know that you had seen much of Mrs. O'Keefe. You 
 did not know her before I came here, did you ? " 
 
 " No. But I saw a lot of her when I came down here at 
 Whitsuntide, and she has been in town ever since. I tell you, 
 mother it's serious this time. Really, sometimes I feel des- 
 perate about it. I can't do anything for thinking of her. And 
 you've no idea what she's like. I'm sure you'd love her like 
 anything, yourself, if I was fortunate enough to marry her, 
 and she'd make a jolly good wife and do everything she ought 
 to wherever we settled down. I wish to goodness things 
 would go right." 
 
 " I do know her a little," said Lady Wrotham. " It is not 
 the sort of marriage I have ever had in my mind for you, 
 George, and I must take a little time to get used to the idea. 
 But I will not say anything against it, if you are really in 
 earnest. I should be very displeased, for her sake, if I thought 
 that you were simply amusing yourself with her." 
 
 Her tone said more than her words. He had an impulse 
 of gratitude towards her. " Oh, mother ! " he said, " you 
 needn't talk about my being in earnest. I'm in deadly earnest. 
 I wish you could do something to help me." 
 
 " I don't know that I am prepared to do anything to help 
 yon. I must think it over. Certainly I have nothing against 
 her ; but unfortunately she does think that she has something 
 against me, and if I would I don't know that I could help 
 you." 
 
 " But surely you wouldn't let these little local squabbles 
 stand in the way, when there's so much at stake." 
 
 •■ That is hardly the way to describe what has been going 
 on here. And, as far as the affair with Mrs. Redcliffe goes, 
 I have tried to put an end to it, and without success. I can 
 make no further efforts in that direction. My overtures have 
 been rejected. I can only hope that Mrs. Redcliffe and her 
 daughter, since they will not make friends with me, will sec 
 
362 Exton Manor 
 
 the advisability of going elsewhere. Then I do not know that 
 there would be anything against my making friends with Mrs. 
 O'Keefe, which, for my part, I should be pleased to do. But 
 what did you mean just now when you mentioned Miss Red- 
 cliffe ? " 
 
 " Oh, I think Frankie Redcliffe, her cousin, wants to marry 
 her. He'll have a jolly good wife, if she'll take him." 
 
 " Oh ! Have you heard if there is an engagement ? " 
 
 " No, not definitely." 
 
 " I believe they have come back here." 
 
 " Have they ? Well, look here, mother, what am I to do ? 
 She came down here yesterday, and I thought I'd come down 
 too and see how I got on. But the Ferrabys are here, and 
 hanged if Laurence hasn't invited himself there and come 
 down with them. I'm sick of it. I can't get rid of him. I 
 had it out with him a week ago. Hang it, I've done a good 
 deal for him, one way and another, and he ought to clear out 
 and leave the field open. I told him so." 
 
 " What did he say ? " 
 
 " He was infernally offensive. I don't know any fellow 
 that can make himself more pleasant than he can, or as dis-' 
 agreeable either. He told me to clear out myself and that I 
 was annoying him by getting in his way. I lost my temper 
 at that, because he spoke just as if — Well, at any rate, I want 
 to marry her, and I don't believe he wants anything of the 
 sort, and the way he spoke — I don't know, it simply put me 
 in a rage — for her sake, I mean. Good heavens ! When I 
 think of her just as if she was an angel, or something of that 
 sort — and to know that he's running after her just to amuse 
 himself. I hate the fellow, and I've done with him." 
 
 " He is a wicked man, selfish and bad through and through. 
 I am glad that you have been brought to see it at last. But 
 what about her, George ? Cannot she see it too ? " 
 
 " No. To do the beast justice he can be as fascinating as 
 it is possible for a fellow to be. Even men feel it ; I've felt 
 it myself, as you know ; and as for women, I don't believe 
 there's one of them could resist him if he set his mind to it." 
 
 Lady Wrotham snorted ; there is no other word that would 
 indicate the noise she produced. " Indeed," she said, " I 
 think you exaggerate his attractions. There must he very- 
 many women who would see through him at once and only 
 be repelled by him." 
 
Lady Syde intervenes 863 
 
 " I don't think so, mother ; not young women. Why 
 should they ? She doesn't for one.' I don't believe she really 
 cares for him, but I think she's fascinated. It don't believe 
 there's a chance for me till he's out of the way." 
 
 " I think, George, if you are really in earnest, you should 
 try your chance. If she can prefer Laurence to yon she is 
 not what I take her to be. You might find — I hope you would 
 — that you were quite mistaken." 
 
 " No, mother. It's no good. She's very friendly and all 
 that, but there's nothing more. I should only look a fool. 
 She'd have nothing to say to me now. I know that as well as 
 anything. Well, it's of no use grousing about it. I must 
 wait my time. She'll be here now for some time and he can't 
 always be here. Only I'm afraid of what will happen. Upon 
 my word I am afraid." 
 
 Lady Wrotham became thoughtful. " I think perhaps," 
 she said presently, " that something may be done. I will 
 think over it, George. You must leave me to think over it. 
 What you have said has surprised me, and I must collect my 
 thoughts. But I think on the whole I am glad to hear your 
 news. I cannot say more than that now. But we will talk of 
 it again, and I do not think that you need lose heart." 
 
 " What can you do, mother ? " he asked. " I don't see 
 what you can do." 
 
 " I cannot tell you that yet. But you may believe that I 
 will do what I can to help you." 
 
 " But you'll do something. You have got an idea in you 
 mind. You'll try to do something." 
 
 ' Yes, I will. And now we must go into the hall for 
 prayers. It is ten o'clock." 
 
 The invaluable Riddell found her mistress disinclined for 
 conversation as she prepared her that evening for her nightly 
 slumbers. She had collected various scraps of information 
 during the day with which to regale those august ears. She 
 had heard that Mrs. O'Keefe- had returned to her little house 
 at Exton and expressed herself immediately as dissatisfied with 
 its dimensions, and had said further that she still liked living 
 in the country occasionally but was no longer sure that she 
 cared to bury herself completely from one end of the year to 
 the other ; also that Miss Redcliffe had regained the high 
 spirits for which she had been noted before the late troubles 
 
364 Exton Manor 
 
 had subdued them, and had let fall something which might 
 reasonably be interpreted as meaning that she and her mother 
 would not remain much longer at the White House ; also that 
 young Mr. Prentice had come into a large fortune and was 
 already beginning to spend it, that Mrs. Prentice had gone up 
 to London to stay a night with him, as he refused under exist- 
 ing circumstances to come to Exton to stay a night with her ; 
 also that the Vicar had told Mr. Browne that he should have 
 to leave Exton, and that Mr. Browne had said that he should 
 probably have to leave too*; with various other scraps con- 
 cerning the party at Forest Lodge, the sayings of the Dale 
 family, and a few sifted fragments of village gossip which 
 altogether made a more than usually rich feast. But the great 
 lady had retired into her own thoughts, and her ears were 
 closed to Riddell's tentative offerings, and Riddell was far 
 too wise to set forth a banquet for which her mistress had 
 no appetite. 
 
 Lady Wrotham had much to think about. Perhaps one of 
 her chief desires was to see her son married and to hold his 
 children on her knees. She was ambitious for her husband's 
 family. She had married not very early in life and her only 
 child had not been born until ten years after her marriage, at a 
 time when the birth of an heir had almost begun to be de- 
 spaired of. He had been delicate in the early years, and 
 although he had now outgrown his childish weakness, the fears 
 and anxieties of thirty years before had left their mark upon 
 her. And, to strengthen her natural desire to see his children 
 growing up to continue the long line of his ancestors, was the 
 ever present and growing dislike of Laurence Syde, who would 
 succeed him if he did not marry and beget a son. She hated 
 Laurence Syde with all her powers of hatred, and would 
 almost have welcomed any marriage, however unsuitable, if it 
 held out the hope of offspring. 
 
 She had told herself, when he had disclosed his desires to 
 her, that it would need careful thought on her part before she 
 could make up her mind to accept Norah O'Keefe as a possible 
 bride for her son. It was not the sort of marriage she had 
 looked forward to for him. She would have liked hirn to 
 marry a young girl, of high birth, and preferably with a big 
 dower, not a widow with a small income of her own, which 
 for all she knew might not even continue if she married again. 
 But now she found, when she set herself to consider the 
 
Lady Sycle Intervenes 365 
 
 question, that it had already decided itself in her mind. When 
 Norah O'Keefe had walked into her room a month or two 
 before, she had w T alked straight into her heart, and the 
 estrangement which had immediately followed had not 
 sufficed to depose her image. She found her heart throwing 
 out strong tentacles to draw the girl to her. The lover's desire 
 of her son reflected itself in her own feelings, and aroused an 
 excitement in her mind which was something more than the 
 shadow of his. That question had settled itself and need 
 not be discussed. It would give her keen pleasure to receive 
 Norah as her daughter-in-law and to yield up what rights 
 she still retained to her. Then she must think of how she 
 could help him to gain his happiness and hers. Her mother's 
 heart, which beat warmly for him underneath all the friction 
 and disappointment that had overlaid their relationship, 
 was stirred by his appeal to her. He had thrown off her in- 
 fluence and derided her authority ; she had been nothing in 
 his life for many years, except an annoyance, and he had 
 shown her that it was so. But now he had come to her for 
 help, just as he had come to her believing in her power to 
 disperse his childish troubles and relying on her to do so, and if 
 she could she would show that he had done right to come to 
 her. She would give him what he wanted, and when he had 
 attained his happiness he would owe it to her, and there would 
 be peace and affection between them as in the old days. So 
 the future pictured itself to her and refreshed her present 
 loneliness. 
 
 Could she go to Norah and open out her heart to her and 
 plead for her son ? How would she be received ? She made 
 light of what had already passed between them. She had an 
 idea, gained she scarcely knew whence, though it had actually 
 come to her through Riddell's gossip, that Norah was not 
 quite so friendly as she had been with the Redcliffes. She 
 did not think that that obstacle to intimacy would prove 
 insurmountable, and it did not trouble her in her softer mood 
 that she would have to give up something of her autocratic 
 habit by taking such a step. But she felt that the time was 
 not ripe for it. She might destroy George's chances^ alto- 
 gether. He had said that he could not approach her himself 
 now with any hope of success, and he would not be diffident 
 in such matters unless with strong reason. No, she could not 
 do that. It was Laurence, the hated Laurence who stood in 
 
366 Exton Manor 
 
 the way, and she burned to confound his knavish tricks and 
 destroy him utterly. 
 
 She thought long over the question, made plans and rejected 
 them, and touched the dark waters of impotence more than 
 once in her gropings. She hated him, but she was powerless 
 to affect him by her hatred. Then suddenly the light shone. 
 She could do nothing to hamper his movements herself, but 
 there was some one else who could. He was dependent on 
 his stepmother, and Lady Syde could, if she would, influence 
 him by the cold power of the purse. Could she be persuaded 
 to do so ? Lady Wrotham thought that she might, and she 
 determined to use every effort to induce her to use her power. ' 
 It was fortunate that Lady Syde at this time was staying with 
 her nephew, Richard Baldock, at Beechhurst, not many miles 
 away. She would send her a telegram and drive over to see 
 her the next day. It would be a very long drive there and 
 back, but she could manage it by starting early and resting for 
 some hours in the middle of the day, and she would not shrink 
 from the fatigue. 
 
 Her mind lightened. She had a plan and could yet show 
 that George had done well to consult her. She threw off the 
 weight of anxious thought and turned an ear to Riddell, who 
 was enabled to ply her with the more important dishes of her 
 banquet before she finally retired to rest. 
 
 Fortune smiled on her the next morning, for she had a note 
 from Lady Syde announcing her intention of motoring over to 
 Exton to luncheon. Wrotham was away yachting with the 
 Ferrabys, and the two ladies were alone together. Lady 
 Wrotham disclosed her news after luncheon, but waited to 
 know what her sister-in-law had to say before making the 
 request, that she had determined to make. 
 
 •■ That is indeed rather startling news," said Lady Syde. 
 " And you are not displeased, Sarah ? You would like him to 
 marry her ? " 
 
 " Yes, I should," said Lady Wrotham. " I was not sure 
 at first. But she is in every way worthy of the position." 
 
 " You — er — have not got on very well with her so far, have 
 you ? " 
 
 " Matters stand much as they did when I told you of all 
 that had happened here ; but I believe the Redcliffe girl is 
 going to be married, and the Redciiffes will not be here much 
 longer, and " 
 
Lady Syde intervenes 367 
 
 " You will be pleased at that. Who is she going to 
 marry ? " • 
 
 " They have been staying with Sir Francis Redcliffe in 
 Warwickshire, and I believe she is engaged to him. That is 
 what I hear. It will be a good match for her. I wish that I 
 had been able to be on friendly terms with them. I should 
 have taken an interest in the affair. However, that is not to 
 be thought of, and I hope it is true that they are both going. 
 I think there is rather less intimacy between them and Mrs. 
 O'Keefe than there used to be. I own I was very much 
 afraid that it was this Miss Redclifle whom George had been 
 attracted by. There were indications that it was so, and I 
 dare say if he paid her attentions, which he did do, and then 
 left her for the other, that might account for their not being 
 such good friends. At any rate I do not think she would 
 refuse me if I approached her now, but I do not think it would 
 be of any use at present because — and this is what I want to 
 tell you, Henrietta — Laurence is pursuing her, for what reason 
 I would rather not ask myself — I do not think it can be a good 
 one — and from what George told me, I believe he has suc- 
 ceeded in captivating her attention, if not more than that." 
 
 " Laurence ! But she is not rich, is she ? " 
 
 " She can hardly be rich from the way in which she lives. 
 Two thousand a year at the very outside. Probably much 
 less." 
 
 " But Laurence could not possibly marry anyone with only 
 two thousand a year. At least he would not." 
 
 Lady Wrotham's eyes burned. " I do not think he has the 
 least intention of marrying her. He v/ould be very glad, no 
 doubt, to prevent George from marrying her, or from marry- 
 ing at all, if he could. And there are other reasons why a 
 man like Laurence might pursue a beautiful woman. We 
 need not go into that. He and George have quarrelled, and 
 I am unfeignedly glad of it. But " 
 
 " Do you mean to say that she prefers Laurence to 
 George ? Very few women would, with all George has to 
 offer." 
 
 " She might not consider that, if Laurence had thrown her 
 off her balance. She is very young and has not seen much 
 of the world. We know — I don't like to acknowledge it, but it 
 i s so — that Laurence has the power to attract women. He has 
 proved it, to their hurt, before this. But I do say, Henrietta, 
 
868* Exton Manor 
 
 that it is a shocking thing that this should be going on. 
 George is in earnest about it. He is very much in love with 
 her, and she would make him a good wife. And if Laurence 
 were out of the way, I have no doubt that she would accept 
 him. I can hardly doubt it. George is very attractive too, 
 of course in a quite different way, and he has, as you say, 
 much to offer. And think of what the end may be if Laurence 
 does not want to marry her, but still lays siege to her. It is 
 dreadful to think of, and we know what has happened 
 before." 
 
 " That shall not happen again if I can prevent it," said 
 Lady Syde. " The story to which you allude was what finally 
 destroyed all the affection I had at one time for him. I will 
 prevent it, Sarah. I have a hold over him, although unfor- 
 tunately it is no more than the power of denying him monejr. 
 But still, that is what he cares more about than anything, and 
 I will take very strong measures indeed to prevent his inter- 
 fering any further. I promise you that." 
 
 Lady Wrotham was touched to gratitude. " I thank you 
 very much, Henrietta," she said. " I hoped you would be 
 able to do something, and I am glad you see with me in what 
 must be done. It is the only way." 
 
 " I will stop every penny of his allowance unless he gives 
 me his word not to see her or communicate with her. I will 
 not have it. I am determined to stop it. I have the power 
 to do so and I will use it." 
 
 Whether her reiterated assurances were derived from a con- 
 sciousness of her power or were prompted by some doubt as 
 to its efficacy, they brought a sense of reliance and comfort to 
 Lady Wrotham. And in the end they justified themselves, 
 for a few days later Lady Wrotham received the following 
 letter from her — 
 
 " My dear Sarah, 
 
 " I have done what I said I would do. I sent for 
 Laurence to come and see me. He said he was engaged 
 every day, but I insisted and he came. There was a scene ! 
 But I was firm. I do not fear his violence in the least, and 
 I reproached him with ingratitude. That had very little 
 effect, but my threats he could not afford to ignore. He 
 leaves Exton to-day — I insisted upon that, and will not go 
 there again or see her or write to her. I am glad I have 
 
Lady Syde intervenes 809 
 
 been able, to do this for you, and hope everything will now 
 go well. 
 
 " In haste, yours affectionately, 
 
 " Henrietta Syde. 
 
 f. P.S. — I have undertaken to pay Laurence's debts jor the 
 last time, and to increase his allowance to fifteen hundred a 
 year. * It will leave me a poor woman, but do not tell any- 
 body. " 
 
 Henrietta had behaved nobly. Lady Wrotham felt that, 
 and George felt it too when she imparted her news to him. 
 
 '< The way that fellow has sponged on Aunt Henrietta is 
 beyond everything," he said. " And, mind you, mother, 
 Uncle Franklin was just as bad, though he had the grace to 
 do it without making himself unpleasant. Laurence has 
 made a hard bargain with her ; that's quite plain. And she's 
 acted like a trump. Well, I do believe I've got a chance now, 
 and if I have I owe it all to her." 
 
 And with this expression of gratitude Lady Wrotham had 
 to be content. 
 
CHAPTER XXXIV 
 
 LORD WROTHAM PROPOSES 
 
 If Mrs. Ferraby had been asked the direct question whether 
 she would prefer that a friend of hers should marry George 
 Wrotham, or his cousin Laurence Syde, she would certainly 
 have given her decision in favour of Wrotham. She knew 
 very well that Laurence, in spite of his birth and his assured 
 position in the world of fashion, was an adventurer, and that 
 a woman who should give her life and happiness into his 
 keeping would run a grave risk of rueing her bargain. And 
 yet, when he told her, as he did, with cynical frankness, the 
 reason why he was obliged to cut short his visit to her, she 
 w r as greatly samoyed on his behalf. 
 
 " Surely/' she said, " George can't know of this. He 
 would never consent to take advantage of you in that under- 
 hand way. Why, it is bribery." 
 
 "Quite' so," replied Laurence; " and I have taken the 
 bribe. I can't afford not to. That old lady is in a position 
 to ruin me if I don't do what she tells me,, and she'd do it. 
 I dare say it would be very noble of me to tell her to go to 
 the deuce, and set about earning my living by the sweat of 
 my brow. But as there isn't a soul in the world who would 
 have the smallest use for the sweat of my brow, that course 
 isn't open to me." 
 
 " I don't see how you could help yourself," said Mrs. 
 Ferraby. " But I do think it is mean of Lady Syde to use 
 her power over you in that way, and if George knows of it, 
 I can only say that my opinion of him is not what it 
 was." 
 
 ■■ Of course he knows of it," said Laurence. " He put 
 her up to it. You don't know that young gentleman as well 
 
 370 
 
Lord Wrotham proposes 371 
 
 as I dp. Well, I hope he'll pull it off. If I can't marry 
 her myself, I'd just as soon he married her as anybody." 
 
 " Did you really want to marry her ? " asked Mrs. Ferraby, 
 in some surprise. 
 
 He looked at her with cool impudence. " What else do 
 you suppose I wanted ? " he asked ; and Mrs. Ferraby had 
 nothing to reply. 
 
 Laurence took his departure, and Mrs. Ferraby took the 
 first opportunity of repeating the information he had given 
 her to Norah O'Keefe, which, as he was bebarred by the 
 terms of his agreement with Lady Syde from communicating 
 with her herself, might possibly have been the reason of his 
 disclosure. Norah was incensed by what she heard, but it 
 gave her a considerable amount of food for thought, and she 
 was more than usually quiet during the following day's 
 expedition on the water. It certainly did not incline her 
 towards Wrotham, and to that extent Lady Syde's diplomacy 
 seemed to have been a complete failure, for she showed quite 
 plainly that his attentions were distasteful to her. He went 
 home to the Abbey a prey to acute depression of spirits. 
 The true reason of her change of attitude did not occur to 
 him. He knew that Laurence had promised not to communi- 
 cate with her again in any way, and it never crossed his 
 mind that he might have taken steps, without actually break- 
 ing his word, to cause the reason of his abrupt withdrawal 
 to be conveyed to her. If he had thought of this he might 
 have considered whether, after all, he had been justified in 
 taking advantage of the removal of a rival after this fashion. 
 As it was he thought only of the change, on her part, from 
 frank friendliness to a rather marked disinclination for his 
 society, and put it down to a stronger attraction towards 
 Laurence than he had suspected. This caused him grave 
 disquiet, and his eager impatient nature impelled him to an 
 issue. The next day was Sunday. He would go to her and 
 declare himself. He could hold back no longer. He must 
 put his fortunes to the test without further delay. 
 
 He went to church on Sunday morning. Norah was not 
 there, and he braved the talk of the village and went straight 
 to her house. She was reading in her drawing-room, and 
 blushed, as he thought with annoyance, when he was shown 
 in to her. 
 
 " How do you do ? " she said. " I had a headache and 
 
372 Exton Manor 
 
 didn't go to church." She stood up and looked at him with 
 a shade of defiance in her blue eyes. 
 
 " Poor lady ! " he said cheerfully. " I hope it isn't very 
 bad. The sun was very hot yesterday. Look here, wouldn't 
 you like this blind down a little ? It will be striking in on 
 you directly." 
 
 He lowered the blind without waiting for her reply, and 
 she resumed her seat with the momentary tension past. He 
 sat down opposite to her. " I say," he said, " why were 
 you so huffy with me yesterday ? You'd hardly speak to me. 
 I've not done anything to offend you, have I ? " 
 
 He looked at her with friendly eyes, taking his stand on his 
 open cheerful nature, which it was difficult to repulse. If he 
 had shown the flouted lover's melancholy diffidence he would 
 have given her very little trouble. 
 
 She bent her eyes. " I don't know that I was," she said. 
 
 " Oh, but I assure you you made me feel quite dismal," he 
 said with the same light air. " I'd have jumped overboard 
 for twopence. We've always been good friends, haven't we ? 
 Come now, tell me what has happened." 
 
 Her instinct was to keep away from the unpleasant topic 
 and return to the easy state of good comradeship which had 
 always been the note of their intercourse. But there was 
 something beneath his airy manner which told her that he 
 would not allow her to keep away from it. She thought for a 
 moment. 
 
 " I have heard something that has annoyed me very much," 
 she said ; " but I certainly don't want to discuss it with you." 
 
 His face grew a shade graver. " Is it about Laurence 
 Syde ? " he asked. 
 
 " Why do you press me ? " she said. " Surely you don't 
 expect me to talk to you about it ? " 
 
 " Why not ? It concerns me more than anybody." 
 
 " Very well, then, if you insist upon it, I will tell you what 
 I think. I think it is disgraceful that you should make a 
 bargain about me behind my back as you have done. What 
 right have I given you to treat me in that way ? " 
 
 She was going on, beginning to be agitated, but he held up 
 his hand. " Wait a minute," he said ; " I didn't know that 
 you knew what had happened. I suppose he told you before 
 he went away. 
 
 " No, he told me nothing. He wouldn't have dared to do 
 
Lord Wrotfaam proposes 373 
 
 so. The meanness of his action ! But I won't have you 
 think that I mind for my own sake. He is nothing to me 
 and never has been. I ought not to have to say this, but 
 when you force me to say anything about it at all, I " 
 
 " I know exactly what you feel," he interrupted again, 
 " and you needn't be afraid of my misunderstanding you. It 
 all came as a surprise to you, but you can't help knowing now 
 that he didn't want to go ; that's about it, isn't it ? There's 
 nothing you can blame yourself for there." 
 
 She was insensibly relieved, but her indignation held. " If 
 he didn't want to go," she said, " he went because he was 
 bribed to go. That is what Mrs. Ferraby says, and it is 
 true." 
 
 " Oh, Mrs. Ferraby told you, did she ? and he told her. I 
 might have known that he would have taken some step of 
 that sort. Well now, look here, dear lady, let's clear this up. 
 I'll tell you what you are thinking, though it's difficult for 
 you to put it into words yourself. You think that he and I 
 were both in love with you, and that's true enough as far as 
 I'm concerned. I've come here to say so. And you think 
 that I wanted him out of the way ; and that's true. But if 
 you think I pulled the strings to get him removed in that 
 particular way — well, you're mistaken. I didn't." 
 
 " Oh ! " she said doubtfully. The even matter-of-fact 
 tone in which he had spoken saved her from the confusion 
 certain of his words might have brought. 
 
 " No," he went on in the same tone, " my mother arranged 
 that. I told her how things stood, and — well, she hasn't got 
 much of an opinion of Major Syde, and she talked over the 
 question with my aunt — I didn't know of it, you know, till 
 afterwards — and they put their heads together, and you know 
 what happened. I'm not sorry for it, you know. I'm glad. 
 But at the same time I shouldn't quite have liked to say, ' Go 
 in and do your best/ if they'd told me exactly what it was 
 they were going to do." 
 
 Norah considered this frank statement perplexedly. She 
 felt that there was a good deal more to be said, but she did not 
 quite see how she was to say it. Wrotham again came to her 
 rescue. " I'll be as honest with you as I possibly can," he 
 said ; " even at the risk of upsetting you. I shouldn't like to 
 come to you in any other way. Laurence is a very fascinat- 
 ing fellow ; I know that well enough, and I thought he was 
 
374 Exton Manor 
 
 making an impression on you. I knew that couldn't lead to 
 any good, and my mother knew it too, and Lady Syde knew 
 it, and I give you my word that if there had been no question 
 of what I wanted in the matter, they would have acted just 
 the same. My mother thinks a great deal of you ; I've 
 never known her to take to anyone in the same way 
 before." 
 
 " Me ! " she exclaimed in surprise. " Why, I have hardly 
 ever spoken to her." 
 
 " Quite enough. What I say is true. She would give 
 anything to be on friendly terms with you, and she deplores 
 this row with the Redcliffes more for that than anything. It's 
 a difficult thing to say, but Laurence isn't a good chap, and 
 you're well rid of him." 
 
 She looked at him with a shade of contempt. " Why, 
 every one says that you and he were the greatest friends/' she 
 said. 
 
 " Perhaps we were in a way," he said ; " and it's quite true 
 that I shouldn't have taken sides against him a month or two 
 ago. But my eyes have been opened. I'm a different fellow 
 to what 1 was ; you've made me different. I've got an object 
 now, and that's what I've never had before. Do you know 
 what that object is ? " 
 
 " No — yes — Lor 6. Wrotham, you are not fair to me. I 
 won't answer your questions." • 
 
 " Well, I'll tell you. It's to marry you, and when I've 
 married you to spend all my time in making you happy ; and, 
 by Jove, I'll do it too. I'll think of nothing else. Let me 
 try, won't you ? You won't be sorry for it." 
 
 She was deeply distressed ; she felt him to be plying her 
 relentlessly, but she could not be unaware of the honest 
 fervour and sincerity that underlay the evenness of his speech. 
 " Oh, how can you ? " she cried. " You are cruel — no, I 
 don't mean that — I ought to thank you, I suppose, but, you 
 know you have no right to ask me. I have given you no 
 right. I have not thought of it at all. I have been friendly 
 with you, and with Major Syde too — nothing more — and I find 
 myself in this coil — intrigued against — and " 
 
 " Oh, come now, let's get that out of the way," he said, 
 still holding the advantage of self-control over her. " You 
 don't care for Laurence really, do you ? " 
 
 Her distress changed to indignation. " You know I don't," 
 
Lord Wrotham proposes 875 
 
 she said ; " and after the way he has behaved you ought not to 
 ask that. It is an insult. " 
 
 " Of course I don't mean it as an insult ; but you must 
 have seen that both he and I were — well, how shall I put it ? 
 — trying to get into your good graces. You have discovered 
 that after all he wasn't very keen about it. Very well, then, 
 there's me left, and I'm as keen as ever I can be, and I've 
 never been anything else." 
 
 It was perhaps hardly to be expected that he could continue 
 walking on this very delicate ground without a slip. He had 
 escaped the dangerous places in a wonderful way, but per- 
 haps more by good fortune than from the tactful knowledge 
 of what to avoid. Nov/ he had slipped badly. He had told 
 her that she had known all along that he and Laurence were 
 both making love to her, but that Laurence's love-making was 
 insincere, and she had only just found it out. What if it 
 was all true ? No woman would own to such a thing. And 
 the clumsy downright male mind had missed the point that 
 it might be all true and yet present itself in such a light to a 
 woman as to be as good as untrue. His mother, perhaps, 
 might have told him that it was quite possible that Norah had 
 received the somewhat pressing attentions of himself and an- 
 other man for some weeks without having once asked herself 
 whither they tended, and that a spoken word which would 
 seem to a man simply the inevitable timely seal of all that had 
 gone before, might still to a woman come as a confusing 
 sudden thunderclap, although it brought with it the flash of 
 light which made clear all the past ; he did not know it of 
 himself, and he was staggered at the reception his words met 
 with. She sprang up, her eyes blazing. 
 
 " How can you say such wicked things ? " she cried. 
 " What can you think of me ? To say that I knew this and 
 took part in it ! It is absolutely untrue. How dare you come 
 and say such a thing to me ? " 
 
 He was quick to see his mistake, and, fortunately for him, 
 did not lose his head. " I put it clumsily," he said. 
 
 " You'd no right to say it at all," she cried. " And it isn't 
 true. I was friendly with you and Major Syde — and w r ith 
 others — but that w<*J all, and it is odious and — and cowardly 
 to tell me that I meant anything more than to be friendly 
 in your case, and to lead you both on — that is what it comes 
 to." 
 
376 Ext on Manor 
 
 " No, it doesn't/' he said quietly. " Sit down ; I didn't 
 mean to offend you, and you must listen to what I say." 
 
 She sat down, .rat her meekly, dominated by his coolness of 
 manner. 
 
 "Nobody knows better * than I do," he said, "that you 
 never took me very seriously. But we can put all that aside 
 now. I've been serious all along in my own mind, and now 
 I've come to tell you so, and to ask you to give me a chance. 
 I love every hair of your head, and everything you say or 
 do. I'll love you as long as I live, whether you say yes or 
 no, and I'll wait for you as long as you like if you think 
 I've spoken too soon. But I couldn't put it off any longer. 
 You don't know what I feel for you. It has made quite 
 a different man of me. You won't send me away now, will 
 you ? " 
 
 The calm putting aside of the cause of offence would 
 hardly have sufficed for her if it had not been washed out by 
 the tide of his passion. It was impossible to ignore the pas- 
 sion in his speech, although his voice was not raised above its 
 previously level tone. It shook her, although it awoke no 
 answering thrill of its own quality. 
 
 " I ought to be grateful to you for telling me this," she said. 
 " I am grateful. But you must know that it is of no use. I 
 don't want to marry again, and I have no feeling for you but 
 one of friendliness." 
 
 " Well," he said, " I don't know that I thought it possible 
 that you could have. At an}/ rate, you won't withdraw that 
 friendliness from me, will you? I shall see you when I'm 
 down here ; you won't want to keep me away from you ? " 
 
 Oh, admirable young man ! What instinct guides you to- 
 wards that difficult path which alone can lead you to your 
 goal ? It would be useless to plead ; you would only arouse 
 opposition. Put yourself in the position of a languishing re- 
 jected lover, and you would weary her to active dislike of you. 
 Withdraw to the safe ground of friendship, and you keep alive 
 that one little spark which your declaration has aroused. An 
 ill-considered word will shake it into darkness. But it can be 
 made to grow, if you give everything and ask for nothing in 
 return. You must tread a thorny path. Your friendliness 
 must be cheerful, whatever your feelings may be. It will 
 receive a prompt return in cheerful friendliness, but if you are 
 deceived by that to a renewal of love-making, out goes the 
 
Lord Wrotham proposes 377 
 
 spark at once. Keep yourself well in hand, and she will 
 begin to wonder whether the friendliness conceals anything 
 after all. Then she will try to find out, and this will be hard* 
 to resist. Tell her nothing, but continue with your devoted, 
 always cheerful friendliness. Then the spark may begin to 
 grow. Curiosity may nourish it ; pique may fan it ; and one 
 day the friendliness which you have invoked, in return for 
 yours may smoulder into flame. In the meantime you have 
 shown her what you are. She will no longer be afraid of your 
 passion, for she has learned to like you, and has come to like 
 you so much that it will not disturb her to be told that your 
 liking for her has been ardent love all the time. Then you 
 may pick the thorns out of your feet, and crown your brow 
 with laurel. 
 
 " Oh, no," said Nor ah. " I hope we shall always be 
 friends when we meet ; but you must never talk to me of this 
 again/' 
 
 " I shan't worry you," he said ; " I can take 'no ' for an 
 answer. But there's one thing I should like to ask you. 
 Can't you make it up with my mother ? She's lonely here. 
 I don't say it isn't her fault that she's managed to set every- 
 body against her ; that's her way ; but she doesn't mean it. 
 She'd be awfully glad to see you sometimes. It would be a 
 real kindness to her." 
 
 Norah hesitated. 
 
 " You needn't be afraid that you'll hear anything you don't 
 want to hear, about me or — or Laurence," he said. " I'll tell 
 her that's all over, and she won't mention it." 
 
 " I wasn't thinking of that," she said with a blush. " I 
 
 should like to see her sometimes, but Well, I'll see. 
 
 If I can, without being disloyal to my old friends, I 
 will." 
 
 " Thank you. I say, is it true that Miss Redcliffe is en- 
 gaged to her cousin ? " 
 
 " No ; I should have heard of it if it were. But — I don't 
 know that I ought to say this, but you won't repeat it, will 
 you ? — I shouldn't wonder if it did come about. He is com- 
 ing down here next month ; and she seems so much happier 
 than she used to be. I am so glad. Both she and Mrs. Red- 
 cliffe were made dreadfully unhappy by what happened to 
 them — and now I think they have thrown it off. Naturally 
 they don't mind so much what people say here, now that he— 
 
378 Exton Manor 
 
 Sir Francis, I mean — has shown them that he cares nothing 
 about it. In a way it has brought them together." 
 
 "Yes, he's a good chap, old Frankie Redcliffe ; and she's a 
 nice girl. If it comes off I'll give them a jolly handsome 
 wedding present." 
 
 She looked at him with the hint of a mischievous smile. 
 ■ I thought you thought she was a nice girl," she said. 
 
 He trod unflinchingly on the first thorn. " Ah, well ! " he 
 said with resigned cheerfulness ; " Frank Redcliffe thought so 
 too." 
 
 Then he took his leave on a note of amiable bustle, shocked 
 to discover that it was already luncheon-time, and left not 
 a trace of awkwardness behind him, which, considering what 
 had passed between them, was no small achievement. 
 
 Norah sat for some minutes looking out of the window. 
 She was relieved that the crisis had come and gone, but she 
 was a little puzzled by it all, too. He had seemed very much 
 in earnest until she had definitely told him that she did not 
 want his earnestness. Then he had withdrawn instantly. 
 It did not look as if he was so much in earnest after all. 
 Well, it was best so. She certainly did not want to marry 
 him, or anybody. But he was very nice ; that could not be 
 denied ; and very good company. She was glad that he had 
 taken her refusal so sensibly. There would be no awkward- 
 ness in meeting him again, and it would be possible — and 
 pleasant — to meet him on friendly terms. 
 
 Then she went in to luncheon, and wondered what he 
 would say and do when she met him again, and when the 1 
 next meeting would take place. 
 
CHAPTER XXXV 
 
 THE SHADOW OF CHANGE 
 
 It was a Sunday in late September. Summer, as if loth 
 to depart, had left her sunny skirt trailing over the country, 
 and Autumn had not yet summoned up courage to soil it with 
 rain and wind. The cottage gardens were still gay with 
 flowers, and the trees were in full leaf, with the added beauty 
 of a thousand varied tints of green and gold and russet. The 
 grass was wringing wet at dawn, but by midday the sun had 
 licked up the moisture, and only the grateful freshness of the 
 warm air was unlike the noons of high Summer. 
 
 The Vicar walked down from his house to the church, 
 sad at heart, in spite of the mild beauty of the September 
 morning, which seemed to envelop the familiar scenes through 
 which he passed, the red-roofed houses, the cottage gardens, 
 the river, the old Abbey buildings and the grassy stretch of 
 park land near the church, in a golden haze. The beauty of 
 the season added to the perennial charm of a place which he 
 had grown to love more and more as the years had passed 
 quietly over his head, but it only increased his sadness, for he 
 was going to leave it all, the scenes among which he had 
 worked for over twenty years, the fair home in which he had 
 hoped to end his days, the people whom he had grown to 
 love. He was going away to begin his work over again in 
 new and strange surroundings, and he would end this long 
 spell of his life, unable to feel that his work had been crowned 
 with success, conscious only, at the last, of ruin and failure. 
 Lady Wrotham had had her way. Most of his parishioners 
 had turned against him. There was open strife where there 
 had been peace and contented progress, and there was no 
 chance that by staying on and continuing the struggle the 
 strife would grow less. So he had taken the plunge^ and 
 
 379 
 
880 Exton Manor 
 
 resigned his living, and now lie was about to conduct his last 
 Sunday services in Exton Abbey church, and preach his fare- 
 well sermons. 
 
 The church was full. Ever since it had become known, 
 about a fortnight before, that Mr. Prentice w r as leaving, public 
 opinion had been veering round in his favour, and now set in 
 a strong tide of respect for him and regret for his departure. 
 Those who had taken a prominent part in helping to drive 
 him out of the place w T ere severely blamed by those who had 
 only omitted to stand up for him when their support might 
 have been of value, and these in their turn were apologetic to 
 the small remnant that had never wavered in their allegiance. 
 There had been some talk of a testimonial, but there had 
 been nobody to take the lead. Browne had been approached 
 on the subject and Browne had delivered himself as follows. 
 " What ! Do all you can to make his life here a burden to him 
 until he's obliged to go, and then give him a twopenny-half- 
 penny address badly illuminated, and a plated coffee service 
 which he doesn't want ! I'll have nothing to do with it." 
 And the project had dropped. But there had been some 
 consolation in the change of attitude that had come over the 
 people during the past fortnight, and the Vicar felt, when he 
 took his place at the reading desk, that the large congregation 
 had not been drawn to the church merely out of curiosity, 
 but contained many sympathetic and some regretful hearts. 
 
 Lord Wrotham sat alone in the Abbey pew. Lady Wro- 
 tham, now that she had gained the end for which she had 
 worked so persistently, would have liked to bury the hatchet 
 and revert at least to her first state of neutrality. But that 
 was not possible, with Mrs. Prentice more than ever con- 
 sumed with bitterness against her ; nor had the Vicar been 
 able to bring himself to ignore his defeat at her hands and 
 respond to her tentative advances. She had not considered it 
 advisable to attend Exton Abbey church on this last Sunday 
 of his ministrations, as she would have been quite ready to 
 do, but she had compromised by staying at home instead of 
 driving to Standon, as she had done every Sunday for some 
 months past, and the Abbey servants were there in full force. 
 Mrs. Prentice, also, had elected to stay at home. She had 
 reached the stage of being without a single friend on the 
 Manor, and to face the collected hostility and dislike of the 
 whole parish on such an occasion as this had been beyond 
 
The Shadow of Change 381 
 
 her. But every one else of our Exton acquaintances was 
 there, Mrs. Redclifte and Hilda, with Francis RedclirTe, 
 Norah O'Keefe, the Dales, Browne and Turner, and even 
 the Eerrabys, with one or two of the party then filling their 
 house. 
 
 If Mr. Prentice had lost a good deal of what had hitherto 
 made life pleasant to him, he had at any rate gained to this ex- 
 tent from the trouble and anxiety he had gone through, that his 
 beliefs had become articulate-. His sermon was a short one, 
 and he made no reference in it to his approaching departure, 
 but it affected his hearers as very few sermons of his had done 
 during the years he had preached to them. The trite glib 
 sentences that had fallen so easily from his lips had vanished, 
 and in their place was utterance, not remarkably well-fash- 
 ioned, nor expressive of ideas at all out of the common, but 
 sincere and heartfelt. He preached on charity, and where be- 
 fore he would have found nothing to say on the greatest of 
 Christian themes that was not rubbed thin and smooth by con- 
 stant and easy repetition, it was impossible now not to feel 
 that everything he did say was minted from his own experi- 
 ence and deep conviction. He told his hearers that while it 
 was possible to find causes of disagreement among Christians 
 in every doctrine and religious practice they might uphold, this 
 gift alone brought them ail together. It was the only sure 
 hall-mark. There was no one, not even among non-Chris- 
 tians, who did not recognize it and do it honour. Where it 
 was present, there was a good man or a good woman, and the 
 grace of God could be plainly seen here by those who were 
 blind to every other manifestation. Where it was absent 
 nothing else was of any avail. The soul was still groping in 
 darkness, although to outward appearance religion was its 
 guiding light. And so, with solemn warning, and exhorta- 
 tion, he gave his message, and there was no one in his con- 
 gregation who would not have said that he ^ himself, during 
 the 3'ears ne na -d lived among them, had practised what he 
 preached, and, in spite of mistakes and human weakness and 
 perhaps some follies, had set them an example that they well 
 might follow. 
 
 Norah O'Keefe and Browne and Turner lunched at the 
 White House on that Sunday, and their talk was naturally of 
 the coming change in the life of the Manor. Change w r as in 
 the air. It was indicated by the presence there of Francis 
 
382 Exton Manor 
 
 Redcliffe, and the looks which he could not prevent himself 
 from casting at his cousin whenever he was in her presence ; 
 by Hilda's spasmodically high spirits, frequent laughter, and 
 the warmth which she threw into her manner towards her 
 mother, and to Norah, for by this time the cloud that had 
 arisen to obscure their friendship had disappeared; by the 
 treatment which Norah herself underwent at the hands of her 
 two old admirers, in whose manner towards her there was a 
 shade more deference than before, and a chivalry no less 
 marked but rather less eager. But coming changes, though 
 they cast their shadow, were not yet ripe for discussion. 
 Only in discussing the Vicar's departure there was always this 
 feeling underlying the talk, that it was the first change of others 
 to follow. 
 
 " I hope the old lady's satisfied now," said Turner. " She 
 has got her own way, and that's what very few of us get. I 
 suppose we shall have some snuffling psalrn-singing fellow here 
 instead of Prentice, who'll show us the whites of his eyes and 
 be in and out of the Abbey all day long, eh, Browne ? I sup- 
 pose you know all about it." 
 
 " Dacre is coming here," said Browne. " Wrotham told me 
 so this morning. Her ladyship asked that he should be ap- 
 pointed." 
 
 There was a chorus of exclamation and inquiry, and Browne 
 explained that Mr. Dacre was vicar of the church in London 
 that Lady Wrotham affected, and had already once made an 
 appearance at Exton. 
 
 " Well, he'll be a nice companion for you, Browne," said 
 Turner. " You want looking after." 
 
 " I shan't be here," said Browne phlegmatically. "I'm 
 going to move to Hurstbury and look after things from there. 
 We fixed that up this morning too. But don't say anything 
 outside yet." 
 
 The chorus was renewed. " I couldn't stand it any 
 longer," said Browne. " I've had enough worry since Lady 
 Wrotham came here to turn my hair grey, and if I hadn't 
 been able to make some arrangement of this sort I should 
 have gone altogether. I made up my mind a month and more 
 ago." 
 
 Turner looked at him. " Suppose all the rest of us don't, 
 count for anything," he said. 
 
 " You needn't pretend any longer that you didn't know it," 
 
The Shadow of Change 383 
 
 replied Browne. " And I've fixed up that little business of 
 yours too. You can have the land at the rent you proposed." 
 
 Eyes were bent upon Turner, who showed unwonted con- 
 fusion of manner. " Surely you are not going too, Captain 
 Turner ? " said Mrs. Redcliffe. 
 
 " He's going to chuck his fishes and grow fruit," said 
 Browne. " We've let him a farm at Hurstbury." 
 
 " Then you'll both be together," said Hilda. " Did any- 
 body think that Mr. Browne and Captain Turner could bear 
 to be parted ? " said Norah. 
 
 " I didn't give him leave to say anything about it," said 
 Turner. " But he can't keep anything to himself. His 
 tongue will be the ruin of him yet. But I made an offer for this 
 other place before he took it into his head to le'ave. That's 
 what first gave him the idea. There never was a fellow with 
 less originality." 
 
 " It seems to me that I^ady Wrotham will be left alone in 
 her glory here," said Francis Redcliffe. 
 
 Nobody contradicted this, although no word had been said 
 of the Redcliffes or Norah leaving. 
 
 " That will suit her very well," said Turner, " as she can't get 
 on with anybody in the place. Been much simpler if she'd 
 gone away herself ; then Prentice might have stayed on. It's 
 hardest on him. You could see the poor fellow felt it this 
 morning." 
 
 " It is very sad," said Mrs. Redcliffe. " And I feel so sorry 
 that we cannot be with him at all now to let him see that his 
 going is a great loss to us." 
 
 " Alone with that woman ! " said Turner. " And taking 
 her with him wherever he goes ! Yes. That's his real 
 tragedy." 
 
 " I would go to her," said Mrs. Redcliffe, " if I thought 
 she would receive me. I think I must, before they leave. It 
 is terrible to think of them going with no one to bid them a 
 friendly good-bye, after the years we have known them." It 
 was plain that she felt acute distress at the thought. All that 
 she had suffered at the hands of Mrs. Prentice was forgotten. 
 She could only see a poor mistaken woman leaving the home 
 in which she had lived so long, at enmity with all her little 
 world. 
 
 But Hilda said quietly, " You can't go to her, mother. And 
 she wouldn't see you, if you did. But I am sorry for her too." 
 
884 Ext on Manor 
 
 There was a change here. It was not long since Hilda 
 would have flamed out into bitter words against Mrs. Prentice, 
 and held that she had got nothing worse than her deserts. 
 
 " I see her sometimes," said Browne. " I've never actually 
 quarrelled with her." 
 
 u Hadn't got enough pluck to," interpolated Turner. 
 
 " I don't think she's particularly sorry for herself. She'd 
 still like to put a knife into the lot of us. I wouldn't advise 
 anybody to go near her, unless they want their heads bitten 
 off." 
 
 The picture of the beaten woman still nursing her insane 
 rancour, although all the foundations of her life had fallen 
 around her, was almost terrible to contemplate. " Isn't there 
 a son ? " asked Francis. " What's become of him ? " 
 
 " He's a cub," said Turner. " But he's fallen on his feet. 
 He put all he hadn't spent of a bit of money that was left to 
 him in some syndicate and he's making thousands a year. At 
 least he's spending it." 
 
 No one cared to pursue the subject of Fred Prentice's 
 doings any further, and presently the .ladies left the table. 
 
 Hilda and Norah O'Keefe walked arm in arm in the 
 garden. '; Norah, I've got something to tell you," said Hilda 
 shyly. 
 
 Norah looked at her quickly. " Oh, Hilda," she ex- 
 claimed, " I am so glad. Of course I know what it is," 
 
 Hilda smiled. " I suppose you do," she said. " I'm not 
 very good at hiding things, and dear old Frank isn't either." 
 
 " He's a very lucky man," said Norah. 
 
 " It's I who am lucky. I always liked him from the very 
 first. He's so honest and straightforward. I don't think he 
 could hide anything if he wanted to. And I simply loved 
 him when he came down here on purpose to make friends 
 with us when we were going through all that trouble in the 
 Spring. I can hardly believe that that is all over now. I 
 don't think about it any more. He has blown it all a. way." 
 
 Norah responded generously. She may have remembered 
 that she had done something too to soften that trouble to her 
 friends. But it was not a time to insist upon sharing the 
 credit. They talked together happily of all that Hilda's news 
 meant to her. " Riverslea is such a lovely place," she said. 
 " And the garden, Norah ! You never saw such a garden. I 
 am to do exactly as I like in it." 
 
The Shadow of Change 885 
 
 " It will be rather sad leaving this garden that you and Mrs. 
 Redcliffe have made," said Norah. 
 
 " I shan't mind," Hilda iaid. " All the pleasure has gone 
 out of this place, somehow. I hope I shall never see it again, 
 
 unless Norah, you won't be living here much longer, 
 
 shall you ? " 
 
 It was like Hilda to fling out a question of this sort without 
 warning, and Norah may have prepared herself for it, or some- 
 thing like it. But when it came she was taken unawares and 
 blushed red. " Yes, of course I shall," she said hurriedly. 
 " But tell me about Mrs. Redcliffe's house." 
 
 Hilda looked at her and saw that she was to ask nothing 
 more concerning Norah's plans. She told her of a little old 
 dower house on Francis Redcliffe's estate, in which her mother 
 was to live, and Norah listened and made comments, thinking 
 all the time of something else. 
 
 Then the men came out into the garden with Mrs. Red- 
 cliffe. Francis had told them the news, diffidently, and in the 
 baldest language, as he poured himself out a glass of port. 
 They all stood together in a little group, and were very 
 friendly. Francis even ventured to put his arm round Hilda's 
 waist with an air of proprietorship as they talked. She was 
 his property now, and he was going to take care of her and 
 give her everything in the world she wanted. There were con- 
 gratulations and a little chaff, and some mention of the time 
 when Exton would be deserted. But no one seemed to re- 
 member that Norah would still be left behind, and she had not 
 the courage to remind them of the fact, which she would have 
 done if she had known how to meet the look with which they 
 would have greeted the reminder. 
 
 The pleasant stir of interest and anticipation with which 
 these coming departures were announced and received was so 
 different from the blank depression which lay over the vicarage 
 on this September Sunday, that it is painful to have to turn 
 from them to that home of melancholy. There were count- 
 less little preparations to make even in the intervals of Sunday 
 services, and no time could be spent in leisure when the 
 shadow of disruption hung over everything. Perhaps the com- 
 plete absence of confidence which had now come to be the 
 everyday note of the intercourse between the Vicar and his 
 wife made it easier for both of them to adapt themselves to the 
 wrench. It had come to be a natural thing for each to guard 
 
386 Exton Manor 
 
 against impulses towards the other, and this self-restraint could 
 now be used as a defence against the appeal of inanimate ob- 
 jects. When both together might have mourned as they went 
 steadily forward with the disintegration of their home, pride 
 kept them from giving way apart, and they kept a callous face 
 to one another, never soothing themselves with an expression 
 of sentiment or regret. Active antagonism had died down. 
 They had to be much together, to discuss plans and arrange- 
 ments, to agree to this or that, to help each other frequently 
 in matters where help was necessary. They met now with- 
 out awkwardness, and anything like angry speech between 
 them would have been as unlikely to happen as if they had 
 been in perfect accord. But the gulf had not narrowed. 
 They were as far apart in sympathy as ever, and as little likely 
 to come together again, less likely, for custom had begun to 
 salve over their estrangement, and the impulse to end it at any 
 cost was no longer imperative. There were times when each 
 of them felt this impulse, and might have acted on it if the 
 other had felt it concurrently. But when one had been soft 
 the other had been hard, and it seemed as if they might settle 
 down permanently to an unhappy existence of mutual indiffer- 
 ence, almost mutual dislike, unless something should happen 
 suddenly to break up the crust that was hardening over their 
 hearts. 
 
 And to add to the troubles of both of them at this trouble- 
 some time a letter had been received at the vicarage the morn- 
 ing before from Fred, which dispersed finally all the hopes of 
 an opulent future that had seemed to be within his grasp. 
 His father had handed over to him the remnant of his legacy 
 some months before, and he had embarked it in the undertak- 
 ing which he had described. The money had gone, chiefry 
 into the pocket of the German who had victimized him and 
 his friend, and the swindler had vanished, leaving behind him 
 a few scores of photographs wonderfully coloured by hand to 
 represent the remains of Fred's little fortune. 
 
 The Vicar and his wife talked it over as they drank a cup 
 of tea in the half dismantled dining-room. 
 
 " I blame myself for giving way," said the Vicar. " I ought 
 never to have let him have the money." 
 
 " It was foolish, certainly," said Mrs. Prentice, who had 
 begged him at the time to do so, " but it seemed such a good 
 thing. I wish I could see that German for a few minutes. 
 
The Shadow of Change 887 
 
 He would remember it. There is one thing — such wicked 
 dishonesty cannot prosper. But no pains must be spared to 
 bring him to justice." 
 
 " I doubt," said the Vicar, " whether it will be worth while 
 to throw good money after bad in pressing him. You would 
 probably not find him easy to catch. However, I shall hea i 
 about it from Fred to-morrow. Poor boy, he writes in great 
 dejection. It has been a rude awakening for him. I hope 
 that in the end it will not be a bad thing. Now, he will have 
 to work hard and make his own way by himself. I am afraid 
 that he must be in difficulties. I have no doubt that he has 
 anticipated the money he thought he would get, and has run 
 into debt again. We must get to the bottom of that." 
 
 " I do hope that you will not be harsh with him. He has 
 had quite enough disappointment, and not through his own 
 fault, already." 
 
 " I shall not be harsh to him. I only want to help him, 
 and I will do so to the limit of my power. I shall go up by 
 the early train. I should have liked to bring him back with 
 me, but I suppose that is impossible in the present state of the 
 house. However, we shall all be together for a time when we 
 go to London, and we must all start our work afresh. None 
 of us have been very successful this }'ear." 
 
 " The fault is not with us," said Mrs. Prentice. " It is 
 the wickedness of others that has hindered us." 
 
CHAPTER XXXVI 
 
 THE SUBSTANCE OF THE SHADOW 
 
 Mr. Prentice went up to town early the next morning and 
 came down again by the five o'clock train. As he sat in a 
 corner of a third-class carriage looking out on the falling dusk, 
 and afterwards into the darkness, he went over in his mind all 
 that had passed between him and his son during that trying 
 day, and gained little satisfaction from what he had learnt, or 
 from the thought of what was to be done in the immediate 
 *future. Fred had disclosed to him, without reservation, a tale 
 of monstrous folly and credulity. From his admissions it 
 would have seemed that suspicion of the swindler who had 
 duped him and his friend ought to have occurred to any level- 
 headed man very soon after their taking up his supposed in- 
 vention. But Fred had declared that he had had no suspicions 
 of the pretended inventor, although he had never liked him, 
 until the money had disappeared and the inventor with it. He 
 had gone on in blind credulity. He had even borrowed more 
 money from his friends to put into the syndicate, when he was 
 told that more money was required, and owed some hundreds 
 of pounds which he had no means of repaying. And further 
 than this, he had launched out, in anticipation of wealth, into 
 an extravagant way of living which had already involved him 
 in debt to the extent of over a thousand pounds more. He 
 was penniless, without prospects or even the means of making 
 a living, and he owed something like two thousand pounds. 
 
 What was to be done ? Mr. Prentice could pay the debts, 
 but they would swallow up every penny of his small savings, 
 and he would have to sell nearly everything he possessed be- 
 sides. Then he w r ould start life again at the age of fifty-five 
 with about a hundred pounds a year of his own and the remote 
 chance of being presented to an incumbency which would pro- 
 
 388 
 
The Substance of the Shadow 889 
 
 vide him with a living. He could not see that he was justified 
 in doing this. If he had been remaining at Exton he would 
 have paid his son's debts in full and still been able to live on 
 his income. But now his income would be of the smallest. 
 He intended to take a curacy in London and wait until a liv- 
 ing was offered him, not minding very much if he never got 
 another living, for, after all, his work in the Church was the 
 chief thing that occupied his thoughts. But for him and his 
 wife to live on an income of perhaps four hundred a year and 
 make some provision for old age was one thing, and to throw 
 themselves on the world, and support a son until he could sup- 
 port himself, on about half that income, or less, was quite an- 
 other. And yet he had such a horror of debt that he could 
 not reconcile it with his conscience to keep his stored-up 
 money while his son's creditors went unpaid. Fred, in his help- 
 less dejection, had mentioned the bankruptcy court, but such a 
 way of escaping the burden of debt seemed to the Vicar noth- 
 ing less than dishonourable. Try as he would, he could see 
 no way out of the difficulty, and as the train rushed on through 
 the gathering darkness, the closing night seemed to be one 
 with the black perplexity to which his thoughts tended. 
 
 He thought, without anger, of his son. Fred had been 
 broken up with helpless regret at what he had done. He had 
 offered no justification of his folly to his father's strictures. 
 No blame could deepen the state of remorse in which he had 
 found him. But, on the other hand, the Vicar knew that this 
 crisis in his affairs once over his spirits would rebound, and he 
 would put his troubles away from him. It was difficult to deal 
 with such a character. He could only hope that this last les- 
 son would be such a severe one that he would not run the risk 
 of having it repeated. Fred's weakness, disastrous as it had 
 been, could only arouse the desire to protect him in the heart 
 of his father, and if he could see his way in the present break- 
 ing-up of his own life to help, he would do so, and hope for 
 the best. But how to help ! No light came to him, although 
 his thoughts were busy with the problem during the whole of 
 the two hours' journey to Greathampton. 
 
 He got out of the fast train to wait for the slow one which 
 should presently take him on to the station for Exton, but as 
 he walked up the platform he was hailed from the window of a 
 first-class carriage by Mrs. Firmin of Standon House, who was 
 going on to Woodhurst, and offered him a lift thence in her 
 
390 Extern Manor 
 
 motor-car. So he arranged for a telegram to send back his own 
 conveyance, and bundled back into the train again. 
 
 Mrs. Firmin's car was a big new one, with a ciosed-in body. 
 The Vicar asked if he might sit in front. He wanted the re- 
 freshment of the mild night air of the forest, and he could not 
 support the idea of a desultory conversation during the six-mile 
 drive, so he took his place by the chauffeur, and Mrs. Firmin 
 and her maid were r hut in behind. 
 
 They rolled away from the station and through the outskirts 
 of the village into the country lanes, and then into the broad 
 forest road and the mysterious darkness of the great trees. 
 There was no moon and no stars, but the strong light of the 
 two great lamps illumined the road before them with a misty 
 radiance. The car swung on at a high speed, with a musical 
 note of power in its engines. The light fell on tree trunks 
 and shadowy masses of foliage, slipping by and immediately 
 swallowed up again in the darkness. They sped over a bridge 
 and up a steep slope without change of gear, and round a sharp 
 corner guarded by white posts. A rabbit jumped across the 
 road immediately in front of them, and another one ran along 
 by their side, confused by the glare of the lamps, and darted 
 again into the fern. The air was mild and fragrant with the 
 breath of the forest, and the Vicar's brain cleared as if by 
 magic, and everything became plain to him. 
 
 He would do his duty. He would take his son's folly upon 
 his own shoulders and denude himself of all that he pos- 
 sessed to straighten cut the tangles of his life. He would 
 trust in God for the future. What was the poor provision 
 he had made for his own comfort beside the inexhaustible 
 stores he had to draw on ? He would not be forsaken, even 
 though all his worldly possessions were taken from him. 
 
 His heart leapt with gratitude and faith. He would lose all, 
 but he would gain all. He had a moment of intense spiritual 
 joy, and as the tide of emotion ebbed it left behind it a deep 
 happiness and a clear outlook into the future. Surely now, 
 if he made this sacrifice, his son would take counsel of 
 himself, and put away his follies. He loved him and he 
 would have confidence in him. His wife ! She would be 
 one with him in this. She loved the boy too, and would 
 be willing to make sacrifices for him. The necessity for doing 
 so would bring them together again. They would begin a 
 new life. All the confusion and misery of the past few 
 
The Substance of tfie Shadow 391 
 
 months would be swept away. He would no longer seek to 
 bring home her faults to her by severity and disapproval. She 
 would respond to his love, and she would weep for her faults, 
 brought home to her by her own conscience, when they should 
 begin together their new life of high self-denying endeavour. 
 Poor Agatha ! So hardly driven by her bitter nature ! He 
 would shield and protect her against her own lower impulses. 
 He would be strong in love and patience. Never again would 
 they be parted, but go down the vale of life together, bear- 
 ing all things, hoping all things. 
 
 The car had come up a long straight slope bordered by 
 conifers and banks of rhododendron, and now swung round 
 into a road that rose and dipped between low oaks and 
 cleared ground, carpeted with withered bracken, on its way 
 to a high-lying open heath. " Nearly ran into some forest 
 ponies here as I came down," said the chauffeur, and the car 
 went forward at a slower rate. 
 
 The Vicar drew in a breath of the sweet fresh air, rarer 
 now, as it filtered through the trees from the high wide spaces 
 of the heath. It was redolent to him of familiar memories. 
 He felt a gentle regret for this beautiful country in which 
 he had made his home, and which he was so soon to leave. 
 But his exalted spiritual state forbade painful repining. He 
 was at peace with all men. Yes, even with Lady Wrotham, 
 who had spoilt his work and driven him out. Her motives 
 were good. She was sincere, if mistaken. God grant that 
 when he had gone, and the disputes and friction had died 
 down, religion would come once more to be a real thing in 
 Exton. It would not be, in all respects, the religion he had 
 laboured earnestly to teach, but he saw clearly now that 
 form w T as a small matter, if the spirit was present, and the 
 spirit was a wide thing embracing the universe, blowing 
 where it listed and confined to no creed. He had put his 
 trust in the sacraments of the Church, and his faith in his 
 creed was unshaken. But God's grace could not be confined. 
 It would work among the souls of men, though the Church 
 itself should be annihilated. He raised his eyes to the cloudy 
 vault of darkness, and saw above it the power and glory of 
 the God in whom he believed. 
 
 Suddenly there was a muttered exclamation from the 
 chauffeur, a confused noise of galloping hoofs, a great swerve 
 of the car, a downward lurch, a shock and a breaking. The 
 
392 Exton Manor 
 
 car recoiled and stood still for a moment, its engines racing. 
 The chauffeur was thrown violently against the steering wheel 
 but fell back into his seat with a groan as it jerked forward 
 again, and managed to guide it into the road and bring it to 
 a standstill in a few yards. Just behind it the Vicar was 
 lying senseless, huddled up against a tree on to which he had 
 been thrown as the fore part of the car had struck the pony 
 full in the fl£nk, after the sudden turn which had taken him 
 unawares and dislodged him from his seat. 
 
 There were shrieks from the inside of the carriage. The 
 chauffeur sat still a moment to regain his breath, and then 
 extricated himself and, bent with pain, opened the door. 
 " Oh, what is it ! What is it ? " cried Mrs. Firmin. 
 
 The car was standing still, half across the road, one of its 
 lamps shattered, but otherwise uninjured. " Three or four 
 ponies ran across me/' gasped the chauffeur. " I'd just turned 
 to escape them when another come and we run right into him. 
 The gentleman was thrown out. I'm afraid he's hurt." 
 
 He took the small lamp from behind the car and turned 
 back, still groaning. He had broken a rib against the steer- 
 ing wheel, which had saved him from being thrown over the 
 bonnet of the car. Mrs. Firmin and the maid, shaken only 
 by the shock, alighted and went back too. The Vicar was 
 lying where he had fallen, and from his head trickled a thin 
 stream of blood and soaked into the damp soil. There was 
 no sign of the pony, which had been knocked over by the 
 impact, but had risen and hobbled away after its fellows into 
 the forest. 
 
 " He is badly hurt," said Mrs. Firmin. " Oh, what shall 
 we do ? He cannot lie here. Are you hurt too, John ? " 
 
 " I think I've broke something, ma'am, but I'm feeling a 
 bit better." 
 
 " Can you help me lift him into the car ? " Mrs. Firmin 
 was kneeling beside the senseless form on the ground, regard- 
 less of her velvets and furs, supporting his head. " We 
 could do it, all three of us. Can the car go on, or is it dam- 
 aged ? " 
 
 " It's only the lamp broke, ma'am. But there's a house a 
 few yards on." 
 
 " Yes, of course there is. Wallace, you had better run 
 there and get help. John, can you get my dressing-bag ? 
 There is a little brandy there. Take some. We must not 
 
The Substance of the Shadow 393 
 
 give it to Mr. Prentice, but there is eau de Cologne. Brine it 
 to me," 
 
 She did what she could, but the Vicar never stirred or 
 opened his eyes, lying there helpless until a man who lived 
 in a cottage on the borders of the heath and the wood came 
 running back with the maid. Then they got him on to the 
 floor of the car between them and she supported his head 
 on her lap as they drove on to Exton, and to the vicarage. 
 
 And so the Vicar was brought back to his wife whom he 
 had left in the freshness of the morning without her having 
 so much as come to the door to bid him farewell. 
 
 She sat by his bedside, with dry eyes and a startled in- 
 credulous look in them, some hours later. Everything had 
 been done that could have been done. Mrs. Firmin had 
 gone off to fetch the doctor who lived five miles away. Her 
 man was suffering considerable pain but he declared himself 
 able to drive so far out of his way. The doctor had come 
 over on his own motor bicycle, and w r hen he had seen what 
 was necessary had ridden to the Forest Lodge, and Mr. 
 Ferraby had sent off a car to Greathampton to bring back a 
 surgeon. There had been a wait of two hours during which 
 Mrs. Prentice strove to bring home to herself what had 
 taken place and to fight off the awful feeling of dread that 
 hammered for admission to her brain. Neither she nor the 
 doctor could do anything but wait, and though she plied 
 him with entreaties, he would not say anything more hopeful 
 than that he hoped the Greathampton surgeon would be able 
 to do something. It was plain, if she had allowed herself to 
 accept it, that he himself had little hope. 
 
 A little comfort had come with the surgeon ; the bustle 
 of his arrival, his self-reliant bearing and direct confident 
 speech had eased the tension. She had been shut out of 
 the room while the two doctors had performed the operation 
 which might save her husband's life — she had come to admit 
 that, that his very life hung on the success of this operation 
 — but when it was over something very like despair had 
 settled down on her heart again. The doctors had come 
 out of the room with grave faces. Neither of them had 
 given her a word , of hope. There was nothing new to look 
 forward to, nothing that could be done to stem the current 
 flowing out to the waters of death, and turn it back to the 
 bright fields of life. There was nothing to do but to wait 
 
894 Exton Manor 
 
 and watch, with the numbing consciousness that life was 
 ebbing away, slowly and surety, and the dark waters would - 
 presently swallow it up. 
 
 The Greathampton surgeon had motored back to the hos- 
 pitalities of the Forest Lodge, which were somewhat over- 
 clouded by this sudden terrible occurrence, but not so much 
 as to be quite extinguished, and the local doctor was lying 
 down in another room. Mrs. Prentice was alone with her 
 husband. 
 
 He was lying with his eyes open, their pupils widely dilated, 
 but no consciousness in them. His head was bandaged and 
 he was breathing heavily. With the outside of her brain she 
 knew that he was dying, but she had not yet admitted it to 
 herself ; only that he was in grave peril, and beyond the reach 
 of her most anxious care. Once or twice she bent over him 
 and looked into his eyes. It seemed impossible that he should 
 not be aware of her, and answer, or at least show that he 
 heard if she spoke to him. But the eyes showed no sign of 
 the brain behind them, and the noisy breathing went on 
 monotonously, the knell of hope. 
 
 She was full of terror and compunction. She could not 
 command her thoughts ; they v/ere in a whirl of confusion. 
 But one little fact kept rising like a bit of wreckage 
 in a whirlpool, to show what was beneath the surface. 
 She had let him go away this morning without a farewell. 
 The custom of many years had nearly brought her to the 
 door, but pride had risen up and held her back, and he 
 had driven away unsped. She could hear the wheels of the 
 carriage now on the soft gravel. He had driven away to 
 this, and this was her punishment for not bidding him good- 
 bve. It was monstrous. Why should she be punished like 
 this? 
 
 Oh, but it could not be. He would get well, and every- 
 thing would be as it had been before. No, not as it had been 
 before. She had done wrong. Without a vestige of exact 
 thought, either of self-defence or self-accusation, on the events 
 of the past months and what had led up to them, she yet ac- 
 knowledged that she had done wrong. He had blamed her, 
 but not harshly, not undeservedly, and he had been right to 
 blame her. But he was a good man and a kind husband. 
 He would forgive her, and they would be friends again, and 
 happy together She had only to ask his forgiveness and turn 
 
The Substance of the Shadow 395 
 
 to him, and all would be as it had been throughout the years 
 of their married life ; better than it had been, for she would 
 be careful not to offend him again. If only this breathing 
 would stop, and he would close his eyes and sleep ! When 
 he awoke again he might forget that she had not said good- 
 bye to him in the morning. At any rate he would forgive her 
 that, and other things. 
 
 Her thoughts chattered lightly. This was the husband of 
 whom she had been so proud. She remembered little details 
 of his wooing of her, a handsome young man, rather sought 
 after by the ladies of his congregation, full of energy and high 
 ideals. He had had eyes only for her. In the early days of 
 his priesthood his views had been considered advanced, but 
 hers had been just the same as his, and when at last they had 
 been married and settled down to a life of very happy poverty 
 and hard work, they had seen eye to eye in everything. How 
 proud he had been of his little son, and how ready to give up 
 his personal comfort on behalf of the baby in their narrow 
 quarters. They had been very happy in those early days be- 
 fore promotion had come, living strictly and rather meagrely, 
 but with nothing to cause them anxiety in their own home, 
 however ready to burden themselves with the griefs of their 
 poorer neighbours. Her thoughts roamed idly over the years 
 in London. Somehow there was a barrier to keep them behind 
 the point at which the London work had been exchanged for 
 the more spacious and comfortable life of the country vicarage. 
 But as they wandered from one point to another, idly, almost 
 pleasantly, the background of gloom and dread deepened, un- 
 til at last the black consciousness of loss broke through them 
 and flooded all her brain. Her husband was dying. He would 
 never speak to her again, never look on her to know her face. 
 With a cry of anguish, she threw herself on to the bed, and 
 wept and wailed for her iosr . 
 
 The doctor came hurrying into the room, and would have 
 removed her forcibly, but she held back her grief and des- 
 pair, and stood up to face him. " You can leave me with 
 him now/' she said. " I know the worst, and I won't give 
 way again.' ' 
 
 He paused irresolutely. The dying man lay quiet, deai 
 to that agonized cry and to everything around him. The 
 breath came and went in his throat, his eyes stared unseeing 
 in front of him. Nothing she could do would hasten or re- 
 
396 Exton Manor 
 
 tard his passing. But, for her own sake, he would have stayed 
 with her till the end. 
 
 " I must be alone with him," she repeated. " I won't give 
 way again. I have so little time to be with him. Please leave 
 me." And he went out again. 
 
 Now the deeps were broken up and the waters flowed. She 
 wept bitterly, but without noise. Everything was plain to 
 her, all her unworthiness and the sorrow which she had brought 
 to him during these months which, had she but known it, 
 were to be his last on earth. The memory of that bitter time 
 would never pass away from her as long as she lived. He was 
 a good man, and she had never valued him as he deserved, had 
 given him much cause for sorrow, and had latterly grieved him 
 to the point of death. She could not put away from her the 
 thought that this accident, coming just at the time of the 
 climax in affairs, was somehow the outcome of them, and 
 that she was partly responsible for it. More than once her 
 despair threatened to overwhelm her again, but she always 
 beat it down, and her tears flowed afresh to wash it back. 
 Presently one thought held her to the exclusion of every- 
 thing else. He was still alive, still with her, and she must 
 make the most of the time until death tore him from her 
 altogether. With a heart almost suffocating with pain, she 
 gazed on him, holding his cold hand. His harsh drawing 
 of breath became music in her ears, because it still meant 
 life ; his meaningless stare held no terror for her, because 
 she saw herself reflected in still living eyes. She embraced 
 his rigid form, smoothed his bandaged brow, murmured words 
 of love. She felt a kind of fierce joy in the thought that he 
 still lived and was still hers. She had projected herself into 
 the dreadful future, and held him as if he had been given 
 back to her from the dead. 
 
 Presently she lay quite still beside him, her eyes closed. It 
 might have been thought that she was asleep. 
 
 The grey dawn filled the window panes. The birds under 
 the eaves twittered a welcome to a new day. And with the 
 dawn the heavy breathing lessened and died away, and the 
 Vicar entered upon another life's work. 
 
CHAPTER XXXVII 
 
 RECONCILIATION 
 
 " I must go to her," Mrs. Redcliffe said. 
 
 Hilda looked at her. There was concern in her face, but 
 some indecision too. " Poor woman ! " she said. " But do 
 you think she will sec you, mother ? ■' 
 
 Mrs. Redcliffe rose from the table. " I don't know," she 
 said. " But I must go." 
 
 There was no feeling in her mind, as she walked down 
 from the White House to the village, but one of deep compas- 
 sion. Mrs. Prentice's behaviour to her was forgotten. Her 
 mind did not even dwell on the possibility of her having to 
 face some awkwardness in going to the vicarage. She went 
 as she would have gone a year before, when she and Mrs. 
 Prentice were on friendly terms. She went because her sor- 
 row and pity might soothe the shocked spirit of a woman who 
 had received a deep wound, and there was no room in her 
 mind for the least degree of selfish consideration. 
 
 She was shown into the dining-room, the only sitting-room 
 in the house which remained habitable, and here there were 
 everywhere signs of the coming change, which had been 
 merged in a change of so much more terrible an import. 
 She was thrilled with a fresh pang of sorrow as she realized 
 how this arrested demolition of her home must add to the 
 distress of the bereaved woman. 
 
 The door opened, and Mrs. Prentice entered. She had 
 mastered her grief for the time, and, though her eyes were 
 red and her face was pale, she was not otherwise altered in 
 appearance. She shut the door behind her and came towards 
 Mrs. Redcliffe with an air of offence. She opened her mouth 
 to speak, and it was plain that her intention was to ask the 
 reason of an intrusion ; or it would have been plain if there 
 
 397 
 
393 Exton Manor 
 
 had been anyone in the room to take notice of her man- 
 ner. Mrs. Redcliffe saw nothing of it. She saw only a 
 woman who had suffered a cruel and stunning blow, and she 
 say/ her only dimly, through her tears. She came forward 
 with an inarticulate cry of grief and sympathy, and the next 
 moment Mrs. Prentice was clinging to her and weeping on 
 her shoulder. 
 
 They sat together, and the poor broken v/oman sobbed out 
 her grief and her contrition. " He was so good," she said. 
 "I see it all now ; and how right he v/as in everything and 
 how wicked I have been. And for months I have hardly 
 spoken a kind word to him. How can I go on living with 
 that to remember ? I did not even say good-bye to him when 
 he went away yesterday morning. I never spoke to him, and 
 he was brought back to me to die. Oh, how can I bear the 
 thought of it ? " 
 
 She rocked herself to and fro in an agony of grief. Truly 
 here was occasion for sorrow beyond human power to console. 
 Mrs. Redcliffe comforted her as well as she was able, and 
 presently she grew a little calmer. 
 
 " You are very good to me," she said. " I have behaved 
 badly to you too." 
 
 But Mrs. Redcliffe stopped her at once. " My dear/' 
 she said, " that is all over and done with. I have put it 
 quite away from me. Anything that I had to forgive I have 
 forgiven fully and freely. It shall never come between us 
 again." 
 
 The poor woman wept again, and talked of her dead, 
 lying oblivious of her remorseful sorrow. But she was 
 calmer. 
 
 " I can't tell you what a comfort it is to have you with 
 me," she said. " I have no friends now, and it is my own 
 fault. Oh, that I could have the past months back again ! " 
 
 They talked of the future. " Poor Fred is on his way 
 here," she said. " He has been in sad trouble — about money 
 — and it was on his account he went up to London yesterday. 
 I don't know what was settled. But I know that he would 
 only have been kind and helpful. Oh, the loss of his wisdom 
 and love I I don't know what will happen now. We shall 
 be very poor. But why do I talk of that ? Nothing matters 
 except his loss." 
 
 Neither of them had heard a ring at the bell and voices 
 
Reconciliation 399 
 
 outside the room. The door was opened and Lady Wrotham 
 was announced. 
 
 She came into the room slowly, leaning on her stick. Her 
 face showed deep concern. 
 
 Mrs. Prentice sprang to her feet. " Why do you come 
 here ? " she cried. Her eyes blazed and her hands were tight 
 clenched. 
 
 Lady Wrotham stood still, but she showed no surprise at 
 her reception, nor did her face change its expression. " I 
 came," she said quietly, " to tell you how shocked and grieved 
 I am to hear of your loss, and to ask if I could do anything to 
 help you." 
 
 To help me ! " echoed Mrs. Prentice, " you to help me ! 
 You who did all you could to make his life wretched — the last 
 months he had on earth. You who had driven him out of the 
 place and turned everybody who loved him against him ! I 
 wouldn't accept help from you if I were starving. And you 
 haven't come to offer help. You've come here to triumph 
 over me. You've had your way. The good man you've 
 persecuted is lying upstairs dead. He won't trouble you any 
 more. You've got rid of him now. Why can't you leave 
 me alone ? I don't want you. I never want to look on your 
 face again." 
 
 She poured out her words in a torrent of scorn and anger, 
 and then sunk into her seat and burst into hysterical tears. 
 
 "It is perhaps natural that you should look upon me as 
 an enemy," said Lady Wrotham ; " but death ought to do 
 away with enmity. There is none left in my thoughts. I 
 am deeply sorry for everything that has happened. I would 
 undo it if I could. Can you not forget what is past and let 
 me be a friend to you ? " 
 
 " No," said Mrs. Prentice. " I do not want your friend- 
 ship. You have behaved wickedly. You divided me from 
 my husband, and when I would have gone back to him it was 
 too late. Oh, too late, and I shall never be able to tell him 
 how sorry I am." 
 
 She broke down again, sobbing and moaning. 
 
 Mrs. Redcliffe rose from her seat. " I think," she said, 
 " it would be better to leave her now. I will stay with her." 
 
 The two women faced one another. Each had latterly 
 played a large part in the life of the other, but they had never 
 yet met face to face or had speech together. 
 
400 Exton Manor 
 
 " I am very glad you are here/' said Lady Wrotham. " I 
 will go now ; but Mrs. Prentice must not think that I bear 
 any ill-will towards her for what she has said to me. I am 
 deeply grieved on her account, and if she will see me later on 
 I will come to her again." 
 
 She turned and went out of the room. -' I won't see her/' 
 cried Mrs. Prentice/ "You must not let her come again. 
 It was she who made the mischief. I should not have had 
 this terrible estrangement to reproach myself with if it had not 
 been for her." 
 
 Mrs. Redcliffe stayed with her all the morning. The poor 
 woman clung to her, and would not let her go. She took her 
 up to the darkened room where her husband lay, with all the 
 trouble and anxiety of life smoothed out of his face. She 
 relied on her for a decision as to all the wearying details that 
 had to be settled as the hours went on ; she drew on her strong 
 faith for consolation, and gained some patience and resigna- 
 tion in her trial. 
 
 Fred came about noon, dazed with horror and incredulity, 
 and then Mrs. Redcliffe went away and left the mother and son 
 to bewail their loss together. 
 
 Mrs. Redcliffe, when she reached home, was for a time 
 almost prostrated by the stress of emotion she had under- 
 gone. Hilda made much of her and drew from her an 
 account of what had passed, but she told her nothing of Lady 
 Wrotham's visit. It was of so little importance beside the 
 great fact of the Vicar's death and Mrs. Prentice's unhappy 
 state that she did not think of it. 
 
 " I am so glad you went, mother," Hilda said. " I know 
 you must have done the poor thing good. Norah has been 
 here, and she would have liked to go, but was afraid that she 
 wouldn't want her. And Mr. Browne. He is going to do 
 everything he can to relieve her of trouble. She will find 
 every one kind now. But you are the best of all." 
 
 Francis Redcliffe hung about the room with his hands in 
 his pockets, honestly solicitous, but feeling rather helpless. 
 Hilda induced her mother to go upstairs and lie down, and 
 then returned to him, her eyes glowing. 
 
 " Don't you think my mother is the most wonderful woman 
 you have ever known ? " she said. " Poor Mrs. Prentice — 
 she is in terrible trouble now and one tries to forget every- 
 thing she has done, but it isn't easy, even now. But mother 
 
Reconciliation 401 
 
 has forgotten all about it. She was annoyed when I asked 
 her if it had been mentioned. Oh, Francis, I haven't got a 
 character like that." 
 
 He put his hands on her shoulders and looked into her 
 eyes. " You have," he said, " if you only knew it." 
 
 But Hilda turned away. " You don't know what you're 
 saying," she said. " Mother is a saint, and I'm anything but 
 that. But to live with her and know her makes you want to 
 be like her." 
 
 Mrs. Redcliffe was sitting in the parlour in the afternoon 
 and Francis and Hilda were in the garden. It was still golden 
 weather and the glass doors were wide open. Hilda came 
 through them in a hurry. " Mother," she said, " Lady 
 Wrotham is coming. Her carnage has just come through the 
 gate. What are you going to do ? " 
 
 Mrs. Redcliffe was flurried for a moment. " I forgot to 
 tell you," she said, " that Lady Wrotham came to the vicarage 
 while I was there this morning. She wants to see me. You 
 had better go out again. I will see her alone." 
 
 Hilda hesitated a moment, and then went out. Mrs. 
 Redcliffe rose from her seat and then resumed it. Lady 
 Wrotham was announced. 
 
 " Mrs. Redcliffe," she said, as the door was closed behind 
 her, " I hope you will not resent my coming to see you. 
 There have been misunderstandings between us for which I 
 take the blame. I hope that you wish them at an end as much 
 as I do." 
 
 u I am very glad you have come, Lady Wrotham," said 
 Mrs. Redcliffe. " As for what is past we need think of it no 
 more. It no longer troubles me, and I do not think that you 
 need take the blame for it." 
 
 The air of tension relaxed. Both ladies sat down, and 
 Lady Wrotham said, " I cannot blame myself for wantonly 
 spreading abroad gossip about you, for I never meant to do 
 that, and was greatly concerned when I found it was being 
 done. But I wish now that when I first knew I had done 
 you an injury I had seen you. I could have helped you to 
 meet it, and perhaps we might have been friends." 
 
 There was no trace of her usual haughty manner. There 
 was apology in her bearing as well as her speech. Mrs. 
 Redcliffe found herself drawn towards her. 
 
 " I wish we could have been friends, Lady Wrotham," 
 
402 Exton Manor 
 
 she said. '* But I shall leave Exton now with very different 
 feelings to what I should have done if I had never seen you 
 to talk to. And you must not think of me as having borne 
 you any ill-will, now for a long time past. I think it has 
 been as much our fault as yours that we have not come to- 
 gether before. Things have been said in the heat of the 
 moment that you must have found it difficult to forgive ; and 
 I can only thank you for overlooking them and coming to see 
 me now." 
 
 " I was coming before," said Lady Wrotham. " And I 
 was angry with your daughter, I confess, for putting it, as I 
 thought, out of my power to do so. But I will think of that 
 no more. I can understand that a high-spirited girl might 
 not weigh her expressions very carefully, if she thought that 
 her mother was being badly used. I should like to see her 
 presently and congratulate her on her engagement. And, 
 Mrs. Redcliffe, you understand how it was that I seemed to 
 have set on foot the trouble you underwent earlier in the year, 
 while I am really not entirely responsible for it, and you will 
 not let it stand between us now." 
 
 " Indeed, no," said Mrs. Redcliffe. " It is over, and troubles 
 me no more. And you must remember, too, that it has really 
 resulted in great happiness, for it brought Francis Redcliffe to 
 us, and I cannot see anything but happiness to come to my 
 daughter from her marriage with him." 
 
 "lam very glad that you can look upon it in that way, and 
 I am only sorry that we have not come together before, for I 
 think that perhaps we might have helped one another in many 
 ways. You may judge what a terrible shock poor Mr. 
 Prentice's death has been to me, after all that has happened 
 between us. I feel almost as if I were in some way respon- 
 sible for it, as that poor woman said this morning." 
 
 Her manner changed from the dignity and self-possession, 
 with which she had made her peace with Mrs. Redcliffe, to 
 one of acute distress. She seemed to shrink into herself, and 
 no longer sat erect in her chair. Her face plainly betokened 
 doubt and self-reproach, and Mrs. Redcliffe divined in a flash 
 of insight that the great lad}', thoroughly upset by what had 
 happened, had come to her for comfort and support, just as 
 Mrs. Prentice, after her first impulse of offence, had gone to 
 her. She drew her chair a little closer to Lady Wrotham's. 
 
 " I am quite sure," she said, " that you ought not to allow 
 
Reconciliation 403 
 
 yourself to think that. Poor Mrs. Prentice hardly knew what 
 she was saying in her grief, and " 
 
 " Oh, it is not what she said," cried Lady Wrotham. 
 " Poor woman, I forgive her that freely. I think nothing 
 of it. It is what I feel myself. I did make his life hard 
 for him, and it is true, quite true, to say that I drove him 
 away. I meant to do so. I don't think I felt any enmity 
 towards him personally. I liked him, apart from what I 
 believed was his dangerous teaching. I respected him, and 
 according to his lights I am sure he was a good man. But 
 it seemed impossible to keep on anything like cordial terms 
 with him while I was doing all I could to get him removed, 
 and of course she made it quite impossible afterwards. But 
 his death seems to have altered everything* I have tried to 
 do v/hat I thought to be right in the position in which I am 
 placed, but I seem to have brought nothing but unhappiness 
 here. Oh, Mrs. Redcliffe, I feel it very deeply." 
 
 Probably no one had ever seen Lady Wrotham in tears, 
 but Mrs. Redcliffe was very nearly seeing it now. She was 
 no doubt in deep distress, and inclined, against every habit 
 she had formed during a long life, to blame herself severely 
 for what she had done. It was not easy to pour balm into 
 her wounds, for it was impossible to acquit her of overbearing 
 harshness towards the man whose death had brought her mis- 
 takes home to her, and it would have seemed to Mrs. Redcliffe 
 a disloyalty to his memory to do so. 
 
 " I think," she said, " that at a time like this it is natural 
 that we should blame ourselves severely for any unkindness we 
 may have committed. But it is certain that those who have 
 left us cannot join in the blame, and I think, if we regret it, 
 they may know of our altered feelings." 
 
 " Do you really believe that ? I hope it is so, for I cannot 
 deny that he had reason to think harshly of me." 
 
 " I don't think he did so. I think he gave you credit for 
 sincerity, as you have given him credit. It is possible to 
 respect those who differ from us honestly, and he respected 
 you. I am sure of it." 
 
 " Do you think he did ? " asked Lady Wrotham rather 
 weakly. " I should like to think so. But I must not dwell 
 on that. I see, quite plainly, that I have been wrong in 
 many ways. I have searched out my heart. Humility is 
 becoming to a Christian. Perhaps it has not been a virtue 
 
404 Exton Manor 
 
 that I have followed very closely. This shock has brought 
 certain things clearly home to me, and it is a good thing to 
 know one's self thoroughly. No. I can see that with all 
 my desires to play my part well, I have not been successful. 
 I have brought strife where before there was peace and con- 
 tentment, and it grieves me deeply to be obliged to confess it. 
 Now everything is breaking up. Poor Mr. Prentice is dead 
 and his wife is going away. You are leaving, and others too, 
 and I shall be left alone here to remember what has come to 
 pass, and to regret it deeply. How 7 little I thought, only a few 
 months ago, that it would come to this ! " 
 
 Mrs. Redcliffe hardly knew what to reply to this outburst 
 of self-reproach, half grotesque, half pathetic. She realized 
 that she was witnessing a rare exhibition of feeling, one pro- 
 bably that few if any of Lady Wrotham's intimate friends 
 would have deemed her capable of. But she saw, too, that 
 alongside the hurt pride and the tardy conviction of error, 
 there lay the sense of isolation, the appeal for sympathy and 
 companionship. She responded to it generously. 
 
 " You will gather other friends round you," she said, " and 
 I am sure that with your desire to help them there will be 
 happiness both for yourself and for others w T ho come to live 
 here. I think, perhaps, we wanted stirring up a little. We 
 were so very pleased with ourselves. And so far as we are 
 concerned in this house we are happier now than we were 
 before. You must think of that, Lady Wrotham, and do not 
 reproach yourself for what no longer causes us any sorrow. 
 I am so glad that you have come to me, and that we shall not 
 leave Exton without making friends with you. There is 
 nothing that I should have regretted more than that." 
 
 " It is very kind of you to say so," replied Lady Wrotham, 
 with a return towards her more ordinary manner. '] I hope 
 you will all come and dine with me shortly — perhaps after 
 poor Mr. Prentice's funeral — and as far as I can I will try to 
 make up to you for the injustice you have experienced. But 
 you will come and see me before that, I hope. I am getting 
 old, and I confess I am lonely here. I shall be glad if we 
 can become friends." 
 
 The reconciliation was complete. The two ladies talked 
 together for some time with quiet friendliness, and then Lady 
 Wrotham took her leave. " I should like to see your daugh- 
 ter," she said, " before I go." 
 
Reconciliation 405 
 
 They went out into the garden where Hilda and Francis 
 Redcliffe were walking together. They were summoned. 
 Hilda came up with an air half of distrust, half of pride. 
 Lady Wrotham looked up in her face. " Your mother has 
 made friends with me," she said. " I hope that you will do 
 the same." 
 
 Hilda stammered and blushed. " I'm afraid I was very rude 
 to you once," she said. 
 
 " You were," said Lady Wrotham. " But you had some 
 reason to be, and I have forgiven you. I am glad to hear 
 you are going to be married. Perhaps you will introduce me 
 to your cousin." 
 
 The introduction was made, commonplaces were inter- 
 changed, and Lady Wrotham got into her carriage and drove 
 away. 
 
 " Francis," said Hilda, " I have no enemies in the world 
 now." 
 
CHAPTER XXXVIII 
 
 NEW YEAR'S EVE 
 
 It was New Year's Eve. The lamp outside the old gate 
 house of the Abbey, lit to welcome the guests expected by 
 her ladyship, threw its beams on a road hard with frost. 
 The night was clear and still, and the moon was showing a 
 bright rim over the wooded hill. 
 
 Browne's dog-cart came down the road and turned in under 
 the archway. The sharp impact of his horse's hoofs could be 
 heard long before the lights showed round the distant bend. 
 Mrs. O'Keefe's brougham followed it in a few minutes. 
 Then came a landau from the White House, and, finally, 
 Turner's cart from the dark wood. The two carriages came 
 out again and drove away. The light was put out and the 
 full disc of the moon swung clear of the horizon. 
 
 The old dining-hall, with its vaulted roof and great open 
 hearth, still wore its Christmas decorations of holly and ivy and 
 mistletoe, and the air of festivity suggested by those accessories 
 was repeated in the faces and manner of the diners. One 
 would have said that none of thern had a care in the world, 
 and it was probably true that care was as far from every one 
 of them this evening as it could be from nine people all of 
 whom had some experience of life and a few of them a long 
 one. 
 
 Lady Wrotham sat at the head of her table, doing the hon- 
 ours royalty. It was the last night of a j'ear which had 
 opened for her with sorrow and had gone on to disappointment 
 and loneliness. And now she was surrounded by her neigh- 
 bours, and there was no feeling between her and them but one 
 of good- will. On her right were Francis Redcliffe and Hilda, 
 
 406 
 
New Year's Eve 407 
 
 and on her left Turner and Mrs. Redcliffe, and she had some- 
 thing to say to all of them. There was friendship and even 
 merriment and no shadow of past disagreement. Turner 
 seemed to be in specially high favour, and his dry witticisms 
 were received with gratifying appreciation. But of course it 
 was Wrotham who diffused the air of hilarity which was most 
 befitting the season. Francis Redcliffe occasionally dived be- 
 neath the lively surface for a moment or two of privacy with 
 Hilda ; but Wrotham's method was otherwise. His eye was 
 not infrequently on Norah, who sat at his left, and his conver- 
 sation always included her, but his homage was paid through 
 the high spirits which he brought to bear on the whole com- 
 pany, and his happiness w T as plain to see. Lady Syde, sitting 
 on his right hand, may have felt the warm glow of satisfaction 
 which she was en titled to feel at the remembrance of how she 
 had removed a threatened danger to that now consummated 
 happiness. She took her part in the talk and laughter and 
 looked years younger than her age as her eyes sparkled in the 
 keen face underneath the white hair. Browne, on her right, 
 was a little out of his depth with her, but under the cover of 
 the general conversation was able to eat his dinner comfort- 
 ably and chuckle contentedly at any sally which his rather 
 slowly pursuing brain succeeded in overtaking ; or he would 
 address himself to Mrs. Redcliffe, who sat on his other side, 
 and with whom he always felt at home. 
 
 Later in the evening, throwing back the window curtains 
 of the upstairs drawing-room and revealing the silvered 
 stretches of the park, lit by the most brilliant of moons, 
 Wrotham suddenly took it into his head that this was the time 
 of all others to visit the ruins of the Abbey, and rested not 
 until he had bundled the ladies into their furs and taken them 
 out into the bright still night. Lady Wrotham and Lady 
 Syde, their remonstrances overborne, sat on by the fire, but 
 Mrs. Redcliffe joined the party of adventure, probably guess- 
 ing that that party would inevitably break into fragments, and 
 willing to be the companion of the two who would not ar- 
 dently desire to snatch a few minutes' conversation with one 
 another under romantic circumstances. 
 
 " Sarah/' said Lady Syde, when the door had closed on the 
 talk and laughter and the two old ladies were left to the silence 
 of the big room, " this is a far happier state of things than was 
 the case a few months ago. It seems a pity that it should 
 
408 Exton Manor 
 
 have come so late, and now it has come that it should so soon 
 be ending." 
 
 Lady Wrotham did not reply for a moment, but sat gazing 
 into the fire, with a look on her face that it was difficult to 
 interpret. 
 
 " Exton will not be so lively when the changes have come 
 about," she said. " But we are getting old, Henrietta, you 
 and I, and when you settle down at the White House, we 
 shall no doubt be able to amuse one another in a quiet way 
 without missing the liveliness." 
 
 " You say that because you want peace after all the disturb- 
 ances you have gone through," returned Lady Syde. " I also 
 want peace for the years I have left ; but you may have peace 
 without stagnation, and I own that the society of young 
 people is welcome to me. I could wish that all those who 
 are here now were not going to fly away from us." 
 
 " We shall have George and Nor ah here very often, I 
 hope," said Lady Wrotham. " They both know that I wish 
 that, and I think they are both anxious to meet my wishes." 
 
 '•- The}^ should be, Sarah. You have behaved generously 
 towards them. You must feel it a great relief to be at last on 
 terms of affection with George. You will admit now, I sup- 
 pose, that you have lost nothing by treating him with less 
 harshness than before." 
 
 " I admit nothing of the kind," said Lady Wrotham shortly. 
 " My treatment of George was always founded on justice. It 
 is only since he broke away from the disastrous influence of 
 Laurence that it has been possible to relax an attitude that 
 was called for by what was going on. If I had treated George 
 with the foolish indulgence with which you have treated 
 Laurence there would be nothing to choose between them. 
 One would have been as bad as the other. No, indeed ! I 
 have nothing to regret there." 
 
 " Well," said Lady Syde, in no wise upset by this turning 
 of the tables, " we are not likely to agree upon that point and 
 may as well leave it. Laurence is not so bad as he is painted. 
 He gave me a handsome jewel at Christmas, and I value it 
 because I know he is in money difficulties and it meant a sac- 
 rifice to him. But he shall not lose by his generosity. You 
 will not deny, I suppose, that you have made mistakes since 
 you have been here, and have now learnt better. 
 
 " I don't know why I should either deny or admit it, Hen- 
 
New Year's Eve 409 
 
 rietta. It seems to me a little odd that you should show such 
 a desire to charge me with making mistakes. At all events 
 if I had taken your advice, I should have turned every soul in 
 the Manor off it. It is not for you to charge me with mis- 
 takes, which you do probably because you are annoyed with 
 what I said about Laurence." 
 
 " I am not in the least annoyed. Your unfairness to Lau- 
 rence has always been apparent, and I have always taken it 
 into account. And as for my advice to you, you must remem- 
 ber that I had only heard one side. If I had known what sort 
 of a woman Mrs. Redcliffe was I should never have suggested 
 your getting rid of her. I should have seen that she was more 
 likely to be right in any matter of dispute than yourself — I 
 say it in no spirit of offence." 
 
 Lady Wrotham displayed an unexpected meekness in face 
 of this direct statement. " We need not quarrel about Mrs. 
 Redcliffe, Henrietta," she said, quietly. " She is a noble- 
 hearted woman." 
 
 " I quite agree with you," replied Lady Syde. '' I wish I 
 were more like her myself. If I had had such an example be- 
 fore me in my youth I might have been ; but at my age it is 
 too late to begin. I am afraid, Sarah, that in having me at 
 the White House instead of her the exchange will not be al- 
 ' together a better one." 
 
 " As to that," said Lady Wrotham uncompromisingly, " I 
 have no illusions. But we understand one another, and there 
 is no likelihood of our permanently falling out, although, no 
 doubt, we shall often disagree." 
 
 " I hope so," said Lady Syde. " Disagreement need not 
 destroy friendship, and ours is firmly fixed, I hope, whatever 
 we may say to one another." 
 
 " I think it is, Henrietta. I do not resent your brusque 
 speeches, though they are often quite uncalled for, and I should 
 certainly do so if they came from any one else." 
 
 " I speak my mind," said Lady Syde. "It is the better 
 way. Sometimes I am wrong, but more often I am right. 
 Sarah, I am glad we shall be together during the coming }^ear, 
 and I hope for some years to come, you in your big house and 
 I in my little one. The changes in Exton benefit me, if no 
 one else." 
 
 " They benefit me to that extent," replied Lady Wrotham, 
 mollified. ?' And, of course, although Mr. Prentice's sudden 
 
410 Exton Manor 
 
 death was a great shock to me, and I have something to 
 regret in remembering what come before it, it is a relief to have 
 a man like Mr. Dacre here, with whom I see eye to eye on 
 religious matters, and who will help instead of hindering my 
 work/' 
 
 "Ah, well," said Lady Syde. "I won't say too much 
 about that. You might take exception to one of my brusque 
 speeches, as you call them, if I were to say that you probably 
 hindered Mr. Prentice's work as much as he hindered yours. 
 So I won't say it. It is a question for your own conscience, 
 and if that is at rest on the subject I am glad of it. I never 
 met Mr. Prentice, but I believe he was a good man. His wife, 
 of course, was a horror. You are well rid of her, at any rate." 
 
 ■' Poor woman ! " said Lady Wrotham. " My anger against 
 her has departed. I could even wish to make friends with her, 
 but that she would not do. Perhaps it is not to be wondered 
 at." 
 
 " She has been well punished for her wickedness. She is 
 very poor, is she not ? " 
 
 " She has enough to live on. I — er — there was a fund. I 
 could not very well subscribe to it in my own name ; she might 
 not have accepted my help ; but I did so through George. 
 That must not be mentioned, Henrietta. And Mr. Prentice 
 left a little money. She can live without anxiety. I am glad 
 of it. And Mr. Ferraby was kind enough to find a position in 
 his business for her son, who was extravagant and brought 
 trouble to his father. That is all happily settled, and he has a 
 chance of doing well for himself." 
 
 " Mr. Ferraby ! Then you see, Sarah, the worldly people 
 you objected to so much, are not without their uses." 
 
 '■ Henrietta, do not let us spar any more I am fully alive 
 to the lessons that the past year has brought, but I do not wish 
 them thrown continually in my face. We are none of us too 
 old to learn, and I dare say both you and I are wiser now than 
 we were at the end of last year, and at the end of next year 
 let us hope we shall be v/iser still. Learn by the mistakes 
 you make, I say, but do not always be dwelling on them." 
 
 " Sarah," said Lady Syde, " I think in some ways you are 
 v/iser than I am." 
 
 The ruined cloisters of the old Abbey lay white and still 
 under the moon. For three hundred years they had echoed to 
 
New Year's Eve 411 
 
 the busy life of praise and work that had been carried on in 
 them day and night to the glory of the Lord, and for nearly 
 four hundred they had lain desolate and destroyed, while the 
 life of the world had passed them by, and work and praise had 
 fulfilled themselves in other ways. The grass had grown 
 green over the graves of the old abbots and churchmen of the 
 long distant past, and ivy and the scented growth of myrtle 
 and fig and magnolia had thrown a veil over the scarred walls 
 and pointed arches, as beautiful now in their decay as they had 
 been in the days of their pride ; and never more beautiful than 
 on this still winter night, when every leaf and twig was im- 
 movable, as if carved in stone, with sharp white lights and 
 inky shadows, bound in the grip of the rimeless frost. 
 
 It was a scene of romantic beauty, and no doubt enhanced 
 the delight of the two pairs of lovers for whom there were 
 shadowed arches and doorways under which to whisper 
 renewal of vows already many times declared. It was as Mrs. 
 Redcliffe had foreseen. Wrotham and Norah, and Francis 
 and Hilda had paired themselves, and she was left to pace the 
 paths of the cloister garth with Browne and Turner. 
 
 " Capital idea this," said Turner, burying his hands in the 
 depths of his ulster pockets and hunching his shoulders. 
 " Much better than sitting over a stuffy fire on a night like 
 this. Might have picnicked out here if we'd thought of it." 
 
 " Always grousing ! " said Browne. " I'm glad we came. 
 Never seen the cloisters look more beautiful, with the moon 
 and all that. Some people would give a lot to see this." 
 
 " You're such a romantic young fellow," said Turner. 
 
 " Don't quarrel," Mrs. Redcliffe interrupted. " It is the 
 last night of the year. I am glad we came, too, Mr. Browne. 
 When you think of all the centuries that this quiet place has 
 seen, it helps you to make little of the troubles that life brings 
 you. They are soon over, and then time buries them." 
 
 " They're pretty real while they last," said Turner. " We've 
 had a dooce of a lot of 'em this year, here. If you can forget 
 yours, Mrs. Redcliffe, it does you credit. But it's no more 
 than I should have expected of you." 
 
 " By Jove, no," corroborated Browne. 
 
 " I don't want to talk of that," said Mrs. Redcliffe. " It is 
 all nothing now. I was thinking of poor Mrs. Prentice. 
 This spot must be much in her thoughts now. It is a sad 
 time for her, but even her troubles will pass away. And as 
 
412 Exton Manor 
 
 for him, he is lying here with his life's work done, where so 
 many others before him were laid. They are dead, but their 
 work goes on. Perhaps not one of them could have been 
 spared, and their failures went to make them what they were 
 as well as their success." 
 
 Turner threw back his head. " Life's a queer business," 
 he said, and nodded towards the hidden shadows. " They've 
 got the best of it. They're young." 
 
 Mrs. Redcliffe smiled. " I think we have the best of it," 
 she said, " we who are older, because we know the worst as 
 well as the best. And the worst is not so bad, after all. 
 
 THE END 
 
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