*
 
 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 sbm Storg. 
 
 BY 
 
 KATHARINE S. MACQTJOID, 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 " PATTY," " DIANE," " THROUGH BRITTANY/ 
 &c., &c. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 HURST AND BLACKETT, PUBLISHERS, 
 
 13, GREAT MARLBOROUGH STREET. 
 
 1878. 
 
 All rights reserved.
 
 LONDON : 
 
 PRINTED BY DUNCAN MACDONALD, BLENHEIM HOUSE. 
 BLENHEIM STREET, OXFORD STREET.
 
 TO 
 
 ANNIE KEARY 
 
 AND MY OTHEK KIND YOBKSHIKE FRIENDS 
 
 I OFFER 
 WAKM THANKS 
 
 FOR 
 THEIR SYMPATHY AND GENEROUS HELP. 
 
 22OK5M5)
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 OF 
 
 THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 CHAPTER PACE 
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 I. SWINGING ON A GATE 3 
 
 II. DORIS 27 
 
 III. THE SHADOW or A PURPOSE . . . .40 
 
 IV. THE FIRST STEP 61 
 
 BOOK I. SCHOOL. 
 I. Two SCHOOL-GIRLS . . . . .75 
 
 II. ROSE 97 
 
 HI. A " Coo's " HEART 118 
 
 IV. COMING HOME 137 
 
 V. SYMPATHIES 148 
 
 VI. DORIS'S WALK 162 
 
 VII. A MEETING IN THE DALE .... 186 
 
 VIII. ON THE ALERT 203 
 
 BOOK II. COURTSHIP. 
 
 I. GILBERT RAINE IN HIS DEN .... 225 
 
 II. LOVE is LORD OF ALL 242 
 
 III. A THANKLESS OFFICE ..'... 261 
 
 IV. "OH,HELL!TOCHOOSELOVEBYANOTHER'SEYE" 271 
 
 V. A PROPOSAL. 285
 
 PROLOGUE. 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 DORIS BARUGH, 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 SWINGING ON A GATE. 
 
 THE day had been full of mist, a soft white 
 veil clung to the side of the steep hill, and 
 blotted out the village straggling up from the 
 river below to the old grey church, with its low 
 crenellated tower, and screen of tall fir-trees, 
 standing on the skirts of the moor, some hun- 
 dreds of feet above the valley. 
 
 This screen of old, thin fir-trees, set north and 
 west within the loosely piled stone fence that 
 shut in the churchyard, gave a weird, haunted 
 look to the spot. 
 
 B2
 
 4 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 It may be that this gaunt weirdness for 
 beyond the thin outstretched fir-arms the moor 
 spreads for miles in a heath- covered level has 
 fostered the superstition that still hangs over 
 Burneston ; even nowadays there are ghost 
 stories about Burneston Hall the grey old 
 manor-house in the valley below stories which 
 tell how the wife of the last Bumeston of 
 Burneston walks up and down up and down 
 the terraces beside the river, mourning her sin 
 and her sorrow. 
 
 Even to-day there is something chilling and 
 mysterious in those tall thin fir-trees looming 
 above the mist, trying seemingly to keep sight 
 of the long range of pale grey hills across the 
 valley. 
 
 Mr. Burneston, the present owner of the 
 Hall, had come up through the mist from the 
 old grey house beside the river, to call at the 
 parsonage, but he had taken the steep way 
 through the village, and as he stood looking 
 at the church, and its screen of weird trees, 
 he was opposite Farmer Barugh's pig-yard. 
 The white gate was open just now to admit
 
 SWINGING ON A GATE. 5 
 
 seven fine brown cows, breathing fragrance 
 as they passed, and Mr. Burnestou went 
 through the gate whistling. One could see that 
 the mist had not depressed his spirits, he 
 looked very bright, very happy, and though 
 there was an ease in his movement that 
 betrayed carelessness, he looked like a well- 
 bred kindly English gentleman. He went on 
 past the range of cow stables, then through 
 a rick-yard, where a few empty stone posts 
 seemed waiting for the coming harvest, and 
 suddenly came in sight of the gate which 
 led to the glebe field, a swelling green croft 
 high above the white gabled parsonage be- 
 low. 
 
 A girl, dressed in a lilac cotton frock, with 
 short sleeves, a long, buff-striped pinafore, and 
 a white sun-bonnet, was swinging on the gate. 
 Her back was towards him, and her head was 
 hidden by her sun-bonnet. She did not hear 
 his footsteps, and she went on singing to her- 
 self in a sweet voice. 
 
 She made such a pretty picture there, with 
 the background of golden-starred meadow, that
 
 6 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 instinctively he stood still, and these words of 
 her song reached him : 
 
 " May it so happen, an' may it so fall, 
 'At Ah may be lady o' Burneston Hall." 
 
 He had been smiling as he looked at the 
 careless grace of the girl's attitude, but as she 
 ended the smile broadened, and he burst out 
 laughing. 
 
 The girl started, looked round,, and then 
 jumped down ; her sun-bonnet fell back as 
 she reached the ground, and Mr. Burneston 
 saw the loveliest little face he had ever seen 
 in his life. Large blue-grey eyes gazed at him 
 in bright terror from under delicate, finely- 
 marked brows, shadowed by a wavy crop 
 of brown hair, which straggled over her 
 forehead, but did not hide its beauty ; the 
 red lips were parted with the sudden alarm, 
 but the nose and chin were so delicate, 
 yet so firm in their outline, that they might 
 have belonged to an ancient statue. A bright 
 deep blush spreading over her face and throat 
 wakened Mr. Burneston from his sudden en- 
 chantment.
 
 SWINGING ON A GATE. 7 
 
 " I beg your pardon," he said, as if he were 
 speaking to an equal ; " but where do you come 
 from?" 
 
 It had all happened too quickly for words 
 to render before his sentence had ended 
 the girl snatched at the strings of her sun- 
 bonnet, and fled past him like a bird on the 
 wing. 
 
 Mr. Burneston's blue eyes followed her till 
 she disappeared, and he stood staring till two 
 huge geese came and hissed at him. 
 
 Then he rubbed his hands across his fore- 
 head, and looked about as if he had had a sud- 
 den awakening. 
 
 " Good heavens, I never saw anyone like her; 
 where can she come from ?" 
 
 Philip Burneston was easy-going, but he was 
 an only son, and had early been his own 
 master ; he was accustomed to have his orders 
 obeyed and his wishes gratified at once ; be 
 was disconcerted, and impatient to know who 
 the girl was ; he came back into the farm-yard, 
 and turning his back to the church, looked at 
 the farm-house, which showed through wreaths
 
 8 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 of brown"and golden apples above the low stone 
 wall. 
 
 " I cannot ask there/' he said, " they are 
 almost strangers, and the girl may belong to 
 them." 
 
 On the other side of the road which ran 
 down-hill past the churchyard and the large 
 white gate of the farm, stood two stone cot- 
 tages with thatched roofs and low broad 
 lattice windows, and over the door of one of 
 these, making a frame of light foliage, stirred 
 now by the breeze that was lifting the 
 mist, was a large flowered white convolvulus. 
 
 Mr. Burneston crossed the road, tapped at 
 the door of this cottage and raised the 
 latch. The inner door was opened by an old 
 woman, her head and hands shaking with 
 palsy ; but she smiled when she saw Mr. Burne- 
 ston. 
 
 "Ay, ay, sir, ye mun coom in/' she spoke 
 heartily, "an' sit ye doon. An' how's yerseP, 
 Maister Burneston, an' how is 't wi' t' yung 
 maister '? It's long sin fooaks seed yur face oop 
 here."
 
 SWINGING OX A GATE. 9 
 
 Mr. Burneston had to stoop as he went into 
 the neat, exquisitely clean little room. The 
 fire-irons and the steel fittings of the oven 
 shone as if they were not meant for use, the 
 walls and heavy-beamed ceiling were of chalky 
 whiteness, in one corner was an old oak press, 
 with glistening brass handles, and in the 
 other corner a triangular cupboard, the red 
 Indian lac door brass-mounted, and through 
 this half-open door showed treasured old 
 china cups and saucers, and plates, and 
 even a blue and white china teapot on a 
 high shelf. 
 
 <c Well, how are you, Mrs. Buncombe ? And 
 how is Rose, eh ?" 
 
 The old palsied head shook more than 
 ever. 
 
 " Ah'se as hard o' heearin as iwer Ah war; 
 howsomivver, if ye'll bide here a bit, Ah'll just 
 gan an' call t' lahtle lass. Ease, Rase, coom 
 here !" 
 
 There stole in from the back door a little 
 girl with a round saucy face, that in a minute 
 was suffused with a blush of pleasure and
 
 10 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 shyness at sight of the visitor. Rose's tawny 
 hair, with occasional tinges of red, was brush- 
 ed smoothly behind her ears, and her fair 
 freckled skin looked scrupulously clean and 
 well kept; but there was something dis- 
 orderly in the expression of her yellow-brown: 
 eyes, her small turned-up nose, and her 
 full, parted lips. She was very plump, 
 and looked much younger than she really 
 was. 
 
 " Why, Rose, when are you going to grow'?" 
 Mr. Burueston always had kind words for 
 the little village girls, provided they were 
 pretty, and Rose was his special favourite; 
 he pinched the child's blushing cheek. " You 
 must grow tall as well as broad, little 
 woman." 
 
 Rose's eyes drooped at the implied reproqf. 
 She thought the want of rapid growth must be 
 caused by her own idleness, and she sighed 
 heavily. 
 
 Her grandmother could not hear the sigh, 
 but she noted the confusion of the downcast 
 face.
 
 SWINGING ON A GATE. . 11 
 
 " Mebbe it's aboot t' sewin', eh, Rase lass ? 
 hevn't Ah allays tell'd the' 'at thoo'l nivver 
 mak a deeacent stiddy lass wiv'oot thoo sticks 
 te t' 'needle ? Mebbe thoo'l be bud a poor shift- 
 less thing as lang's thoo lives." 
 
 At this picture of the possible result of lazi- 
 ness Rose's full, pouting lips quivered, her 
 cheeks puckered, and from the closed eyelids 
 came a shower of tears. 
 
 Mr. Burueston's bright, frank face clouded in 
 a moment. 
 
 " Oh, don't scold her, grannie !" he said, in a 
 suffering voice, as if some one had wounded 
 him keenly ; then, bending over Rose, he said 
 tenderly, " There, there, my dear, don't you 
 cry, grannie doesn't mean it, I'm sure you're 
 a good girl ; come down to the Hall, and 
 Mrs. Emmett shall give you a pot of 
 jam." 
 
 Rose looked up through her tears with a 
 loving reverence that struck Mr. Burnestou, 
 though his mind was full of something else. 
 " How fond that child must be of jam !" and 
 somehow he felt less pity for Rose.
 
 12 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 He put his lips close to Mrs. Duncombe's ear. 
 " Have the Barughs, those new people at the 
 farm, any family "?" he said. 
 
 The shaking old head nodded as if it meant 
 to roll off. 
 
 "Ay, ay, t' missis, Dorothy her man calls 
 her, cooms ov a better sort o' fooalk 'an ther 
 is aboot here, Ah reckons. Fooaks sez as sheea 
 cooms frae t' sooth, an' her fayther 'ad lots o' 
 brass. Neea, bud it wad be a coom doon 
 i' life fer sike as sheea te wed wiv a man 
 lahke John Barugh. If Ah ain't gaumed 
 reeghtly, ye mun axt' lahtle lass fer t' rest o' 
 t' teeal." 
 
 The increasing impatience in her listener's 
 face had shown Mrs. Duncombe that she was 
 answering wrongly. 
 
 " Are there any children at the farm, Rose ?" 
 he said abruptly. 
 
 The soft-hearted child felt the change in his 
 manner, and she blushed with pain. She who 
 worshipped the ground the squire walked on 
 had managed somehow to be all wrong with 
 him in this visit.
 
 SWINGING ON A GATE. 13 
 
 " There's a lass an 3 a lad." 
 
 " And how old are they ? Is the girl, for 
 instance, older than you, and and what is she 
 like?" 
 
 The change in his voice made the girl look 
 up, and Mr. Burneston reddened as he met her 
 questioning eyes. 
 
 " They call t' lad George, an' he's a reeght 
 nice un, he is, an' he's boon i' thirteen, an' he 
 plays wi' me/' said Rose ; " but t' lass is nae 
 better 'an if sheea'd lost her tongue. Sheea's 
 bigger 'an me, an' as fer her 'air it's nivver tidy 
 like, an' sheea disn't play. George sez 'at 
 sheea's fair daft." 
 
 In her bias against Doris she spoke 
 eagerly, quite forgetting her shyness, and Mr. 
 Burneston felt a sudden dislike to Rose Dun- 
 combe. 
 
 " Ah," he said carelessly, and then he stood 
 thinking it was useless to question the old 
 woman, she could not hear a word. 
 
 " Well," he nodded, " good-bye, Mrs. Dun- 
 combe. Be a good lass, Rose, and mind your 
 sewing, or else when you're old enough to
 
 14 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 get a husband you won't be able to mend his 
 stockings." 
 
 The old woman nodded repeatedly, but 
 Rose did not curtsey, she stood with her 
 fat fingers clasped together over her lilac 
 pinafore, watching Mr. Burneston with rapt 
 loving eyes ; he had spoken to her again with a 
 smile, and every word was treasured in her 
 warm little heart. 
 
 "If Ah sud try fer te please mah man as 
 Ah try te please t' maister," she thought, 
 " whya then Ah mun be yabble te dea t' sew- 
 in' o' all sorts." 
 
 People talk sentimentally of the sufferings 
 of worms trodden on heedlessly, of birds 
 robbed of their young ; very few have pity or 
 sympathy for the unrequited love of children 
 or of unattractive men and women. I say un- 
 attractive advisedly, for ugly people are often 
 gifted with extraordinary power of attraction. 
 Perhaps much of this want of sympathy comes 
 of unconsciousness ; for people are often less 
 conceited or conscious of the love they win and 
 slight, than of their personal gifts or intellectual 
 -acquirements.
 
 SWINGING ON A GATE. 1 5 
 
 Certainly Philip Burneston had no conscious- 
 ness of the warm love that lay nestling for him 
 in little Rose's heart. 
 
 Her words had stung him ; he felt sure that 
 the rough-headed daughter of Farmer Barugh 
 must be the vision of beauty he had seen on the 
 gate, and it jarred him that this mere village 
 child, Rose, should speak as if the girl were her 
 equal. 
 
 He stood facing the farm-yard, and then he 
 turned so as to front the steep descent on each 
 side of which lay the villag,e. The mist had 
 lifted and revealed the opposite side of the 
 valley, with plots of golden corn-land, some 
 with shocks ready for carrying ; with green 
 strips of meadow here and there, and darker 
 lines of green hedge dotted with trees. Be- 
 yond came a long stretch of woodland, then 
 as the land rose towards the point where the 
 sun was just about to sink behind the hills, 
 the corn was glittering gold and the mea- 
 dow gleamed emerald against dark fir woods. 
 Beyond all, rose the purple brown of the 
 moor, cresting the long range of hills, purple
 
 16 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 almost to blackness as after a few minutes the 
 sun sank into the leaden clouds that bordered 
 the horizon. 
 
 The river which ran through the valley, and 
 the Hall with its circling woods, were not visible 
 from where Mr. Burnestou was gazing, the hill 
 was so steep ; and yet he seemed to be search- 
 ing for his home as he stood looking so fixedly 
 down the steep winding road with stone cottages 
 on either side, some of these mounted so high on 
 grassed banks above the road that they had 
 to be reached by quaint flights of broken, time- 
 stained stone steps. 
 
 Mrs. Buncombe had shut her door. Rose in. 
 a sudden and virtuous impulse had brought out 
 a checked duster, and was hemming, with her 
 eyes fixed on her needle. No one was looking at 
 Mr. Burneston while he stood first rapt in 
 thought, and then amused by his own hesi- 
 tation. 
 
 He could not make up his mind to go 
 home till he had had another vision of that 
 frizzled head and the exquisite face belonging 
 to it.
 
 SWINGING ON A GATE. 17 
 
 " I have not called on these people yet," he 
 said, " and it is the right thing to do." 
 
 He pushed the gate open and crossed the 
 yard diagonally from right to left, passing by 
 the horse-pond which was near the road in the 
 extreme left-hand corner, in the sluggish water 
 of which four black-and-white ducks were dip- 
 ping and splashing as if they knew that water 
 was more invigorating when in motion. 
 
 There was a small gate in the furthest 
 corner of the yard, almost hidden by apple 
 boughs pendent with their weight of russet 
 fruit, and through this gate Mr. Earnest on 
 entered the small, trim garden, showing few 
 flowers on its neatly-raked brown borders, 
 except tufts of monkshood and coral plant and 
 some pink blossoms on the blue-green thrift 
 border. 
 
 The door stood open, the squire knocked, and 
 then stood waiting. 
 
 Mr. Barugh was a new tenant, and was 
 therefore a new feature in Burueston : all the 
 other inhabitants had been born in the vil- 
 lage. 
 
 VOL. i. C
 
 18 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 These new tenants had come into the Church 
 Farm while Mr. Burneston had been travelling, 
 and as yet he had only exchanged greetings 
 with Mr. Barugh. 
 
 " George, lad, ther's yan at t' deear," a deep 
 voice said from within ; " thoo mun gan an' see 
 wheea's theer." 
 
 There was a door at the end of the passage, 
 and one on each side, and the doors and walls 
 were all painted buff and yellow. 
 
 A brown-eyed, pleasant-faced boy opened 
 the left-hand door, and came out into the 
 passage. He looked very shy when he saw the 
 visitor. 
 
 " Mebbe it's t' squire/' he said over his 
 shoulder. 
 
 There was a momentary pause, and then a 
 tall, powerful-looking man, with heavy red 
 eyebrows and bushy red whiskers, appeared at 
 the door. 
 
 "Nay, nay, Mr. Burneston, coom in, an' 
 welcome," he said, awkwardly hitching one 
 shoulder a little above the other, and hold- 
 ing out an enormous, but well-shaped red
 
 SWINGING ON A GATE. 19 
 
 hand. " T' missis an Ah's reeght pleeased 
 tu see yu, that we are. Weean't ye sit yu 
 doon?" 
 
 Mr. Burneston looked round eagerly, but as 
 he entered there was only one person in the 
 low-roofed room, and she was rising with evident 
 difficulty from a couch placed beneath the long 
 low window. 
 
 He started forward at once. 
 " Please don't get up, Mrs. Barugh. I'm. 
 afraid I have disturbed you. I am very sorry. 
 I did not know you were ill." 
 
 While he spoke his eyes were dazed with the 
 faded likeness in the wasted, delicate face ; it 
 was as if he got here and there a faint trace of 
 the beautiful vision he had seen on the gate, 
 but it was all misty and uncertain. Mrs. Barugh 
 looked very delicate ; she wore a cap with lilac 
 bows, and she was wrapped in a faded yellow 
 crape shawl ; but she must have been once a 
 lovely woman. 
 
 She took the squire's proffered hand, and 
 then pointed to a chair near her sofa with an 
 ease that surprised her visitor, accustomed to 
 
 c2
 
 20 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 the stiff awkwardness of his other tenants on 
 such occasions. 
 
 " Sit ye down, John." There was a mixture 
 of pity and of irritation in her voice, and the 
 big man started at the summons, but as he 
 passed her on his way to the fireplace, 
 she frowned at him till her delicate brows 
 met. 
 
 Mr. Burneston was amused, there was no 
 real ill-temper in Mrs. Barngh's face, she 
 seemed to regard her husband as a performing 
 dog who was not going through his part cor- 
 rectly. 
 
 " You have very delicate health, I am afraid," 
 the squire said ; " but I hope you like Burue- 
 ston." 
 
 John Barugh had been standing like a stone 
 block beside the large open hearth, where a 
 few charred logs were burning feebly ; at this 
 question he turned to answer, without a trace 
 of his first shyness 
 
 " Sheea wur fairlings weel fair eneeaf, wahle 
 we cam oop here ; bud it's ow T er cau'd, or 
 sheea's ower fond, mair's t' pity. T' stock
 
 SWINGING ON A GATE. 21 
 
 throddens weel, an' George, t' lad theare, is as 
 cobby as needs be." 
 
 "I'm very sorry to hear this of your wife. 
 We always reckon the hill so healthy ; even 
 down at the Hall, where, as you know, the 
 river goes almost round the house, the air is 
 considered excellent." 
 
 " Perhaps it's not owing to the air " Mrs. 
 Barugh's voice was so soft and pleasant that it 
 was a pity she minced her words " but I'm so 
 dull, Mr. Burneston ; there's no kind of society 
 to be found hereabout." 
 
 Mr. Burneston looked puzzled, and John 
 Barugh gave an uneasy laugh. 
 
 " Confoond it, Dorothy, yer mak' o word ' sa- 
 ciety ' '11 dea fer ye sum fahne deay, Ah's thinkin'. 
 Neeghbers ther' is, an' plenty, Ah tak' it." 
 
 " Oh yes, there's neeghbers." Mrs. Barugh's 
 lips curled with the scorn her gentility re- 
 pressed. 
 
 John went on as if he had not heard her. 
 
 " What neeghbers is gude fer," he said in his 
 strong mellow voice, " is tu hev sum fooalks tu 
 speeak tiv besides them r* yur ain hoose ; else
 
 22 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 a man mud get ta'en oop ower mitch \vi' his 
 ain deain's ; an' besahdes, he mud finnd a chance 
 o' helpin' whoor help's neeadful. Yan neeghber's 
 as gude as anither tu mah thinkin'." 
 
 Mrs. Barugh drew her faded yellow shawl 
 closer together, and then shrugged her thin 
 shoulders, wondering how she ever could have 
 thrown herself away on John Barugh. 
 
 "Well, not quite that, John, but everyone 
 can't think alike ; an', besides, there are the 
 children to be considered they must have 
 playfellows." 
 
 Mr. Burneston smiled at George, who had 
 stood close by the door, with both hands in the 
 pockets of his brown trousers ; his eyes were 
 fixed on a half-open book on the table. He 
 was wondering at that moment if it would be 
 manners to go back to Robinson Crusoe. 
 
 " I suppose that fellow goes to school some- 
 where," said Mr. Burneston. 
 
 One of John Barugh's shoulders rose higher 
 than its fellow. 
 
 " Ay," he said uneasily. 
 
 The mother broke in eagerly. "Yes, Mr.
 
 SWINGING ON A GATE. 23 
 
 Burneston, we have sent George to a fairly 
 good school, for a small school, that is to say ; 
 but the master says there's somethin' wrong 
 with the lad, an' that if he studies like the rest 
 maybe he'll grow crippled." 
 
 " Skeealmaisters he' ther nooations as weel's 
 itber fooalks," said John grimly. 
 
 " Such nonsense," sighed the mother. 
 
 " So you're turned out to grass for a time, 
 eh, my lad ; and you haven't got a brother to 
 help you into mischief?" 
 
 George fixed his large, languid brown eyes 
 on Mr. Burneston. "Ah's getten Doris," he 
 said, " an' ther'a Rase Buncombe ; sheea's as 
 gude as a lad." 
 
 A faint tinge of colour came into his mother's 
 pale face. 
 
 " There's a specimen of what I meant just 
 now, Mr. Burneston. How can I like my 
 children to play with a gurl who runs wild 
 like little Rose? They get to speak like she 
 does, an' I've tried hard to make Doris speak 
 properly, an' now she's getting to speak like 
 Rose."
 
 24 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 "How old is your daughter? Is she at 
 home?" He was growing impatient to see 
 Doris. 
 
 "Doris is goin' fifteen, Mr. Burneston, but 
 she doesn't look so old, though she's tall. 
 George, go fetch yer sister." 
 
 George shook his head. 
 
 " Doris'll nane coom. Ah axed her a wahle 
 syne, an* she sed Ah wer t' say if they axed 
 fer her, she 'at a'd bahde wi' t' bees." 
 
 John Barugh looked wrathful, and moved 
 towards the door, but Mr. Burneston rose. 
 
 " Never mind, never mind. I shall find her 
 in the garden," he said. " I know my way to 
 the beehives." Then, bidding good-bye to 
 Mrs. Barugh, " I wish I could make the place 
 pleasanter for you," he said, " but I hardly 
 know how. The housekeeper, Mrs. Emmett, 
 shall come and see you, if you like ; she is a 
 very clever woman, though perhaps not much 
 of a companion." 
 
 Mrs. Barugh looked vexed. 
 
 " I am obliged to you, Mr. Burneston. I 
 shall be extremely happy to see you whenever 
 you like to call."
 
 SWINGING ON A GATE. 25 
 
 As soon as the door closed on Mr. Burne- 
 ston and her husband, she fell back on the 
 sofa. 
 
 " There's nothing but disappointment in this 
 life," she said. " I did think, whenever I saw 
 the squire, that he would understand and see 
 for himself I am not an ordinary person. De- 
 pend upon it, George, there's been some low 
 marriage in the family some time or another, 
 or a gentleman like that would never so forget 
 himself as to recommend a housekeeper as 
 companion for me. Why, George, lad, what 
 ails ye ? Why d'ye go white in that way, and 
 niver speak a word ?" 
 
 She spoke irritably, but she rose up swift- 
 ly, as if nothing ailed her, and put her arm 
 round the boy. He had turned a sickly white, 
 and stood shivering, as if he were going to 
 fall. 
 
 At first he clung to his mother, glad to let 
 his head sink on her bosom, but next minute he 
 raised it. 
 
 "Nay, nay, mother, deean't yee'll hurt 
 yersel'. Fayther'll be here seean." A groan,
 
 26 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 and then he fainted, just as his mother had 
 drawn him close to a low chair, on which he 
 fell seemingly lifeless.
 
 27 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 DORIS. 
 
 " T)EES is fond things," said Doris ; "they're 
 -L* rare an' clivver, so they mun knaw hoo 
 t' mak some sort o' change i' ther lives. Jist 
 to think o' gannin' on year efter year, allays 
 deain' t' same things, livin' on i' t' same hoose, 
 wearin' t* same lilac pinny, an' warkin' hard 
 all t' time. Weel, that's t' best pairt ; wark's 
 some fun when it isn't darnin' stockin's ; if poor 
 mother cud \vark as she used, she'd hev sum- 
 mat to think on, shu wadn't be so hard o' 
 fayther." 
 
 Doris paused, and looked round to see if 
 there was any work to be done near at hand ; 
 and all at once a frown, just like her mother's,
 
 :28 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 knitted her delicate brows, and her firm lips 
 pouted with vexation. 
 
 " Fayther's i' t' reeght ; Jos is a leeazy gude- 
 fer-nowt ; he's gethered in i' beeans an' left 
 t' stalks liggin. Hooivver, Ah'll seean fettle 
 'em." 
 
 She had been standing, sun-bonnet in hand, 
 in front of the beehives at the end of the house 
 farthest from the yard a very quiet corner 
 with a herb garden in front, and a plot of 
 beans and artichokes behind. High above this 
 garden was a screen of leafy ash-boughs, but 
 there were no near trees to shade the sun from 
 the busy bees, or the loveliness of Doris Barugh. 
 She had recovered from her fright. There was 
 no colour on her transparent skin, except that 
 of youth and health. Her eyes had kindled 
 as she spoke, and glowed deeper in colour a 
 colour that it is hard to define ; there was blue 
 in it, and green, grey, and yellow. Perhaps 
 the eyes looked darker than they really were, 
 from the long dark lashes above and beneath 
 darker even than her eyebrows, though 
 these were a shade darker than her hair, and
 
 DORIS. 29 
 
 the hair would have looked darker brushed 
 flat like Rose Duncombe's, instead of curling 
 at its will over her head, now gilded by the 
 sunlight. 
 
 As she stood erect and thoughtful, it seemed 
 that Doris was faultless. She wanted colour r 
 perhaps, but then colour would have marred 
 the spiritual tone of her beauty. At first sight 
 she might have been likened to Undine, an 
 Undine with brown hair and grey eyes, but the 
 chief attributes of Undine, her love and her 
 humility, were wanting in this fair English 
 child. Poor Undine would not have met her 
 hapless fate had she had the broad thoughtful 
 forehead and the firmly-chiselled lips and chin of 
 Doris. A fault might have been found with 
 the size of her head; it was too small, and 
 something in it spoke of narrowness. Also 
 there was a certain stiffness in her gait. But 
 no eyes looking at the girl could thus have 
 judged her ; her beauty would have blinded all 
 criticism. 
 
 Just as her father and Mr. Burneston came 
 up the walk, she set her sun-bonnet firmly on her
 
 30 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 head, and, stepping behind the beehives, began 
 to drag the bean-haulms into a heap. 
 
 " Where's t' lass?" said John, but Mr. Burne- 
 ston put his hand on his arm. 
 
 "Don't frighten her, or she'll run away." 
 He hardly knew what he said, he so feared 
 this lovely apparition would again take 
 flight. 
 
 John chuckled inwardly. 
 
 " What wad t' mistriss say if shu kenned 'at 
 Doris fettled t' beean-stalks, an' t' squire theer 
 an' awl?" 
 
 A tawny-coloured dog with short legs, a sort 
 of mongrel Dandie Dinmont, came running up 
 the walk, barking at two white pigeons which 
 hovered near the eaves of the farm-house. Doris 
 looked up quickly, and the dog ran towards her, 
 its bark changing into a joyous cry of welcome. 
 
 She stood, her arms full of bean-stalks ; dumb 
 with surprise and shame ; her sweet face aglow 
 with blushes. 
 
 " Set 'em doon ; that'll deea, lass. Sheea's a 
 rare un, sheea is, fer fettlin' owt 'at's nut 
 muck-wark," he said proudly to Mr. Burneston.
 
 DORIS. 31 
 
 " Coom, coorn, Doris, an' speeak ti t' squire ; it's 
 reeal kahnd uv him, it is, t' hev coomed tu hev 
 a bit o' talk wi' t' mudher." 
 
 By this time Doris had mastered her longing 
 to run away. She still longed for any sort of 
 screen to hide herself from the squire of Burne- 
 ston, but as there was none to be had, she strove 
 to seem cool and unconcerned, though she could 
 
 not raise her eyes to his face. She curtsied 
 
 
 awkwardly, but he held out his hand, and she 
 
 put her trembling clammy fingers into his warm 
 clasp. Philip Burneston did not notice the 
 chill touch of the frightened fingers ; his eyes 
 were fixed on the girl's downcast face, as if 
 they could not get away ; some power, he could 
 not tell what, some magic had bound him to 
 the sway of the slender unformed creature 
 standing there in her lilac frock and white sun- 
 bonnet, so utterly unconscious of the spell she 
 was working, that she longed to unloose her 
 hand and run away before the squire should 
 recognise her as the girl he had seen on the 
 gate. 
 
 Mr. Burneston let go her hand, but he did
 
 32 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 not speak. Perhaps he feared to spoil the 
 effect of this vision of beauty by drawing out 
 words that did not match the face and the 
 unconscious repose which made the charm of 
 Doris. She did not look humble and shrinking, 
 as Rose Duncombe had looked, but rather as if 
 her thoughts were occupied with matters of 
 more importance than herself, or than that 
 which passed around her. 
 
 " Are you fond of bees ?" Mr. Burneston said 
 at last. 
 
 She looked up in slight surprise. " Nay, Ah's 
 naiie so fond on 'em, but Ah likes t' see 'em at 
 wark," she said shyly. 
 
 John Barugh's wife, in her teens, had been 
 to his mind the fairest piece of womanhood 
 his eyes had ever seen, when she came on a 
 visit to some north-country cousins ; and he 
 had looked at her and looked at her market-day 
 after market-day as if he fancied his eyes were 
 magnetic, and would draw her to him unsought 
 by words, till one day he found a neighbour also 
 looking at fair Dorothy ; then he roused himself 
 to begin his own wooing in a manly and earn-
 
 DORIS. 33 
 
 est fashion, and to his surprise he succeed- 
 ed. He saw that Doris promised to be fairer 
 still than her mother, and with but little chance 
 of admirers. The Burneston farmers had either 
 young wives and young children, or else they 
 were old and childless. Even John, who shrank 
 from his wife's notions about society and 
 speaking proper English, had to own that there 
 was no one in the village fit to be put beside 
 Doris or George. He had stood watching with 
 pride the effect produced by his daughter's 
 beauty. It was a triumph to see a real gentle- 
 man like Mr. Burneston so struck by the child's 
 good looks. 
 
 "Ay, bud lass diz lahke tu see t' wark 
 deean, let t' wark be deean by whae t' will. 
 Ah tells her sheea war made tu be t' maister ; 
 sheea'd keep us all i' orther, 'at sheea wad, 
 bless her." 
 
 " Fayther !" Doris spoke reprovingly, and 
 then, as her long thin arms fell straight on 
 each side of her, she clasped her hands firmly, 
 and wished the visitor would go. 
 
 He asked a few questions about the bees, 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 34 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 but Doris let her father answer. Mr. Burneston 
 was unable to find an excuse for remaining, 
 though he tried ; he could not stand there 
 gazing silently at the young girl, but the 
 contemplation of her face made him strangely 
 unwilling to talk. 
 
 " Perhaps," he looked at Doris, " your mother 
 might like some books to read ; there are 
 plenty of story-books at the Hall. Shall I send 
 some up ?" 
 
 " Thank you kindly, sir." She flushed a 
 little. " Mother does like books, but she's none 
 so set upon tales as upon them 'at is more 
 graver like; you know tales is nobbut fond 
 stuff." 
 
 Mr. Burneston laughed, and the angry colour 
 rose to the girl's forehead. 
 
 Why was he laughing at her ? 
 
 " I rather like story books," he smiled at her. 
 " Good morning, but I will not forget what you 
 say ; good day, Mr. Barugh." He looked 
 at his watch. " I am too late for the parsonage 
 now, and I shall be late for dinner." 
 
 John Barugh went with his visitor as far as
 
 DORIS. 35 
 
 the outside gate, and then stood looking after 
 him as he went down the steep village, which 
 straggled nearly a mile in length from the top 
 of the hill to the river below. 
 
 "He's a nahce chap yon," said John, "as 
 pleeasant-leakin' a chap, an' as free speeakin' teea, 
 as Ah've knawn, sae noo then." He said this 
 aloud, slowly and emphatically, to an audience 
 of black short-legged pigs, and then went back 
 to Doris and the beehives. 
 
 She had not wasted her time in thinking of 
 the squire. The bean-stalks were piled up in a 
 heap, and the ground on which they had lain 
 was raked into order. And now she stood 
 resting while she watched the bees. 
 
 " Weel, mah lass !" her father put his broad, 
 red hand on her shoulder, "an' what's thoo 
 think o' Mr. Burneston ? an', Doris, lass, what 
 made thee so shy-lahke wiv 'im?" 
 
 Doris still felt sore and angry, and she did 
 not know on whom to vent her anger. 
 
 " He's weel eneeaf, Ah expect, but he's nut 
 lahke wersels. Ah wer shy," she forced herself 
 to speak out, " because because Ah'd seen him 
 
 D2
 
 36 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 afore. Knaw yu, he fun me singin' fond stuff o' 
 t' gate." 
 
 She hung her head, and tears came into her 
 eyes. 
 
 "Deean't freeat aboot that, mah lass," the 
 farmer said kindly, " Ah'll warrant thoo'se nut 
 t' fost lass 'at he's heeard sin gin' fond stuff 
 afooar ; let's hear t' fond sangs, Doris." 
 
 " Oh ! fayther, it war ower fond." She had 
 broken down at last as the full remembrance of 
 the scene at the gate came back, and she was 
 crying in earnest. " He mun think me sike a 
 poor, fond lass," she sobbed, " he'll nobbut laff 
 at me. Joseph Sunley hes a teale of a lass 'at 
 went fond an' deed, an' awl fer t' maister o* 
 Burneston, an' she had a feeal's sang, an* a 
 feeal's rahme." 
 
 John Barugh looked puzzled and inquisitive, 
 but he understood Doris too well to question 
 her further. There was that kind of implicit 
 unspoken trust between this father and daugh- 
 ter which often exists between people who 
 never to one another expand into acts of ten- 
 derness ; I say acts, for, after all, tenderness
 
 DORIS. 37 
 
 receives its value from the character of its reci- 
 pient ; and perhaps the most intense tenderness 
 towards some natures is to make them feel that 
 thorough though unspoken trust is felt in them. 
 Doris and her father seldom talked together, 
 but they never quarrelled. 
 
 John knew at this moment that a smile, a 
 word even, might at once put a seal on the 
 girl's unwonted confidence, and he stood still, 
 only turning his face into a yet more listening 
 attitude. 
 
 " Ah wer swingin' uv t' geate as Rose mud 
 ha' done," Doris spoke, with strong contempt 
 against herself, " an' Ah sang t' same wo'ds as 
 t' poor mad lass sang, 'at Joseph Sunley tilld 
 me, 
 
 ' May it so happen, an' may it so fall, 
 'At Ah may be lady o' Burneston Hall.' " 
 
 John's lower jaw fell. He looked so utterly 
 confounded that Doris laughed, spite of herself. 
 He reddened at this, and then he recovered 
 himself. 
 
 " Thoo's i' t' reeght tu laugh, Doris. Thoo's 
 lahtle mair than a babby, an' it's as lahke as
 
 38 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 nut 'at Mr. Burneston beared ne'er a word o' 
 t' fond rahme. Bud it's a feeaFs rahme fer 
 awl that, an' Joseph 's a feeal tu gae 1'arnin' 
 the' sike a rahme." 
 
 a Joseph didn't Farn me it, fayther. He 
 said it yance, an' then Ah couldn't get it oot o' 
 man heead. Ah says it ovver an' ovver again," 
 she said angrily. 
 
 " Weel, nivver freeat theesel' aboot 'im 
 theer's neea hairm." John felt uneasy, though 
 he tried to hide it. He was wondering what 
 Dorothy would think of this adventure. 
 "Nivver freeat theesel' aboot 'im, lass; thoo 
 may be seer Maister Burneston heerd nowt on 
 it." 
 
 He did not look at Doris, but her eyes 
 fixed on him with a hard scrutiny. It was 
 difficult to believe that such eyes, so full of 
 sweet reflection, could concentrate their ex- 
 pression into such hardness. Then, as her 
 father turned his back, and went slowly and 
 heavily towards the house, the girl said to her- 
 self, 
 
 "Fayther forgits hoo auld Ah is when he
 
 DORIS. 39 
 
 puts me off lahke a babby. Whya, Mr. Burne- 
 eton beared ivvery wo'd o' t' rabme, Ah's 
 seer o' that ; an' it wer reegbt doon cruel o' him 
 to coom an' finnd me oot." 
 
 She pulled at the strings of her sun-bonnet 
 with each hand, and walked indoors with even 
 more dignity than usual.
 
 40 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE SHADOW OF A PURPOSE. 
 
 SOME one has said that you should never 
 judge of men and women till you have 
 seen them at home in the familiarity of do- 
 mestic life, where all the angles of their charac- 
 ters are in broad light, and where these 
 reflect and refract prism-wise the various influ- 
 ences brought to bear on them directly by the 
 tempers and tongues of near kin, while they 
 stand unprotected by any of the blinds and 
 shields which the reticence and ignorance of 
 strangers make for them when abroad. 
 
 Till his marriage Philip Burneston had 
 never suffered from any domestic contradic- 
 tions. He was the only child of loving
 
 THE SHADOW OF A PURPOSE. 41 
 
 parents, who died before he was twenty, and 
 though he then spent a short time at Cam- 
 bridge, his health as a boy prevented him 
 from learning discipline and self-control at 
 a public school, or at least it did not give him 
 the opportunity of learning it. And yet his 
 natural gentleness kept him from any head- 
 strong or self-willed measures when he came 
 into the management of considerable pro- 
 perty. 
 
 He married at twenty-two the wife assigned 
 him by family arrangements ever since he 
 and Miss Beaumont had been twelve years old, 
 and he had made an irreproachable hus- 
 band. 
 
 The first discipline of life came to him in 
 those nine years of marriage. Mrs. Burneston 
 was very elegant and fashionable, very shal- 
 low, exacting, and affectionate. In all larger 
 matters, such as expenditure, place of resi- 
 dence, choice of friends, disposal of time, 
 her husband soon found domestic peace 
 was only to be had by submission, and as 
 human nature must ordinarily, with regard
 
 42 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 to its fellows, have some compensation for 
 self-sacrifice, this submission, so long un- 
 known to his life, had for compensation a 
 quality also hitherto undeveloped a deter- 
 mined obstinacy about his own special 
 fancies. 
 
 At the end of nine years Mrs. JBurneston 
 died, leaving a little boy of eight years old, 
 and a great blank in her husband's life. She 
 had been his occupation rather than his com- 
 panion, but she had so often asserted her 
 love for him that it would have been im- 
 possible to the loving, gentle-uatured man to 
 disbelieve in it to realise that love is an act- 
 ive rather than a passive quality. He would 
 have been indignant to learn that his wife had 
 died with a falsehood on her lips unless, in- 
 deed, mere fidelity and lip assurance constitute 
 love. 
 
 The sensation of freedom was, therefore, 
 alloyed with a sense of loss, and for two years 
 he had wandered about aimlessly, his wife's 
 dislike to foreign travel having hitherto kept 
 him from much that he wished to examine ; and
 
 THE SHADOW OF A PURPOSE; 43 
 
 during this time he had come home only to 
 get occasional and brief glimpses of his boy 
 Kalph, left ostensibly to the devoted care of 
 Faith Emmett, the housekeeper of Burnestou, 
 and to the guardianship and tutorship of 
 Mr. Spencer, the vicar. In reality, Ralph had 
 been left free to exercise his own small 
 despotisms on all who came in contact with 
 him. 
 
 Mr. Burneston was an archaeologist, and 
 though he often had with him a companion 
 sympathetic in the matters of stonework and 
 stones, yet of late he had felt a new discon- 
 tent, a longing for some more human interest, 
 and on his return from a long Scandinavian 
 excursion he had announced his intention of 
 settling down for a year at least at Burne- 
 stou. 
 
 The villagers smiled at this announcement, 
 and Faith Emmett laughed in the bailiffs face 
 as he made it. 
 
 "Mr. Burneston hes nivver stayed three 
 months at a tahme at t' Hall sin' I knew it," 
 she said scoffingly ; " it's nut t' place to suit a
 
 44 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 lively gentleman. Just t' little she did see o't 
 war t' death o' t' poor lady it fair gav her t' 
 hurrors, poor soul." 
 
 But the butler, Benjamin Hazelgrave, an 
 old servant of the- Burnestons, was sternly 
 indignant when he heard of Faith's prophecy. 
 
 " Mistress Emmett sud knaw," he said loftily, 
 "that the gentlemen of Burneston are nane 
 fond, like silly wimmin, an' it doesn't become 
 yan ta'en fra t' other side o' t' country, an' 
 slipped in as laady's favourite ower awder heads 
 than her awn, to be talkin' o' t' maister as if he 
 wur lahke hersel'." 
 
 This he said at, not to, Mrs. Emmett, and 
 then treated her with scornful silence, it being 
 a sore point with Mr. Benjamin that his own 
 wife, the cook at Burneston, should have had 
 Mrs. Burneston's maid and nurse, Faith Emmett, 
 an entire stranger, set in authority over her as 
 housekeeper. 
 
 Faith was right, however, about the aspect 
 of Burneston Hall. It was very weird and 
 dreary ; a heavy mass of grey building which, 
 on closer inspection, took the shape of an E ;
 
 THE SHADOW OF A PURPOSE. 45 
 
 two wings projected towards the river, and in 
 the centre was a shorter projection ; between 
 this, which formed the garden entrance, and the 
 river, came a smooth lawn, swept by drooping 
 cedar branches in the centre, and at the sides 
 by low-growing beech-trees, so closely set 
 that even from the meadow, planted like a 
 park, on the other side of the river only occa- 
 sional bits of the grey house, and its upper- 
 lattice windows could be seen. The river ran 
 swiftly and darkly past the low wall, which 
 formed a long semicircular terrace, with here 
 and there wild roses throwing their long arms 
 abroad, and willow-trees bathing deeply in the 
 water, giving a weird, damp look to the manor- 
 house, especially in the dark corners formed by 
 the ends of the semicircular wall, one of which 
 was completely overshado wedby pendent boughs, 
 while the other emerged from the mystery of an 
 immense weeping beech-tree in a straight bit of 
 wall, behind which, at a little distance, rose 
 the lofty enclosure round the real entrance 
 to the house and the stable-yard. Origin- 
 ally Burneston had been used as a shooting
 
 46 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 residence, and little pains had been taken 
 either with the entrance or with the garden. 
 Her husband's refusal to improve these had 
 determined Mrs. Burneston's dislike to the 
 place. 
 
 Just beyond the Hall, on the right as one 
 faced the house, was a stone bridge with three 
 arches, and through these the current swept 
 strongly, the river broadening to nearly double 
 its width on the farther side, till there was 
 room for a tree-covered islet in its midst. 
 Beyond this islet was a narrow wooden 
 bridge, and leading to this came the road 
 down-hill from the church, with the village 
 scattered along its sides ; but the Hall was so 
 thickly belted in with trees that no signs 
 or sounds of human life reached it; even 
 the smoke curling from the cottage chimneys 
 as they mounted the hill was hidden away. 
 It was just a place where ghosts might 
 linger. 
 
 But at this moment, within the Hall itself, 
 there is noise enough to banish all ghostly 
 fancies. In the entrance hall, a square pleasant
 
 THE SHADOW OF A PURPOSE. 47 
 
 room, with a faded Turkey carpet, painted glass 
 windows, and old pictures, a tall slender woman, 
 is struggling with, and trying to pinion the arms 
 of a fair-haired boy about ten years old. The 
 woman's abundant white hair, confined by a 
 black net with a plain quilled tulle border, con- 
 trasts strangely with her long, deep-set dark 
 eyes, flashing brightly with anger and excitement. 
 
 " Oh ! you limb o' Satan !" she calls out amid 
 the boy's outcries. " An' how dare you ? It's 
 none my fault, it's your own, Maister Ralph, 
 if I say them words; it's your deains 'at 
 makes me say 'em. Yu'r' as brassend as 
 Hector." 
 
 Ralph's blue eyes are bright with mis- 
 chief rather than anger, and his face has got 
 scarlet in his efforts to free himself; but at 
 this he stands still, and laughs contemptu- 
 ously. 
 
 " Oh ! I like that, I {do, you hardened old 
 hypocrite. You know you are as glad as you 
 can be to get a chance of using bad words, or 
 they wouldn't come to your tongue so easily. 
 Let go, I say, or I shall twist your wrists, and
 
 48 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 then you'll be sorry, you old Marplot I hate 
 you !" he adds angrily. 
 
 Faith Emmett lets go his arms at once, and 
 drops exhausted into a high-backed cane chair. 
 The flush leaves her face ; she sits there grey 
 and colourless. 
 
 Kalph, in his surprise, forgets his purpose ; he 
 stands looking at his nurse, and a sudden hush 
 comes over the storm. Into this hush, startled 
 by the previous clamour, comes Mr. Burueston 
 from a doorway at the end of the hall farthest 
 from the windows. 
 
 " Ralph, what are you doing ? Is anything 
 the matter with Faith?" for in an instant he 
 sees the woman's pale face. 
 
 She rises at once. 
 
 " It's nowt. Maister Ralph was playin', 
 an' " 
 
 "Hold your tongue, Faith, and don't tell 
 stories to my father." 
 
 Faith turns paler still. 
 
 " Maister Ralph," she says sadly, " that's nut 
 t j way to speak to me." 
 
 "No, Ralph, it is not, and you ought to
 
 THE SHADOW OF A PURPOSE. 49 
 
 be ashamed of yourself." Mr. Burneston 
 speaks in a vexed tone ; he does not like 
 the nurse's interference, and yet he cannot 
 resent it. 
 
 "The long and the short of it is, father" 
 Ealph looks up coolly in his father's gentle face 
 " neither of us has been behaving at all. I 
 wanted to shoot at Sir Marmacluke" he points 
 to one of the old pictures " with my pop-gun 
 his nose annoys me and Faith was goose 
 enough to think she could hold my arms back 
 and prevent me." 
 
 Ralph laughs, but looks uneasy when no 
 smile comes on his father's face. 
 
 Mr. Burneston looks inquiringly at Faith, but 
 she has seated herself again in the high-backed 
 chair, as if the case were going to be tried 
 before her. Seeing this, he raises his head 
 slightly, and turns to the door by which he 
 came into the hall. 
 
 " I want you in the study, Ralph." And he 
 walks on, leaving the boy to follow. 
 
 But, instead, Ralph' turns indignantly on the 
 old woman. 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 50 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 " Bother you ; why can't you hold your 
 tongue f My father doesn't care what scrapes 
 I get into and gel out of by myself, but he 
 hates to find me sparring with you. I know it 
 by the . look of him. Well, I'll just tell you 
 what'll happen. He'll send me to school, and 
 I'm not sure but what, after all, I shan't be 
 jolly glad of it." 
 
 This is too much he has said, " I hate you," 
 he has accused her of telling a story, but to be 
 glad to go to school ! she breaks down into 
 tears, though she struggles hard to hide her 
 tears from Ralph. 
 
 He stands a moment, then he dashes up and 
 gives her a kiss. 
 
 " Don't be an old silly, you'd much better go 
 and make that toffy you promised me, than sit 
 here crying." 
 
 " Go, go. Master Ralph, honey, go sharp, 
 or your father '11 be anger' d wi' you." She 
 chokes down her sobs, and smiles as the boy 
 nods and runs away, and then she sits with 
 her hands in her lap, frowning till nothing of 
 her eyes is visible but the yellow light gleaming
 
 THE SHADOW OF A PURPOSE. 51 
 
 through her black lashes. She has a curiously 
 shaped face, so wide at the angle of the cheek- 
 bones that it seems as if in infancy the forehead 
 and chin had been pressed towards each other, 
 and the loss of her front teeth has increased 
 this nearness by shortening the space between 
 nose and chin. 
 
 Her face is plump, though her figure is slender, 
 but spite of this plumpness there is just now a 
 stern, inflexible expression about the mouth, 
 and an almost baleful glare from her eyes which 
 does not impress one favourably. 
 
 She sits for some time clasping her bony 
 hands and looking at them as if for counsel. 
 At last she shakes her head 
 
 "Eh, dearie me, an' hoo'll it ivver end? he'll 
 niwer hev no beeans, he's all made o' gristle, 
 he's as wake as a sneeze. That comes o' so much 
 blood fra t' South comin' i' t' family. Ah'd 
 liefer far hev seed him go away stubborn, an' 
 keep stubborn, an' all, than get all in a mmnit 
 like a bit o' silk wi' t' creeases smoothed out 
 on't. But no, no, he'll be as fierce as a buck-rat 
 one minnit, an' t' next as soft as a dumplin' ; 
 
 2
 
 52 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 nae mair aim iv him than his father afore him, 
 unless it's fer some folly or other, an' then if he 
 war te want t' moon he'd waste all t' brass 'at 
 ivver he'd gitten i' stairs to reeach it. Weel, 
 so lang as ther's no new mother browght 
 hame to vex him, mebbe he'll git on, bud 
 that 'ud bring bad tiv us awl, lit alane Master 
 Ralph ; I misdoot t' master hissel'." 
 
 She rose up at the sound of footsteps, and it 
 was surprising to see how quickly her vindictive 
 look changed into a smile of welcome as she 
 went forward to hold the door for the person 
 who had opened it from the outside, and now 
 entered the hall. 
 
 He was tall and thin almost to leanness ; long, 
 dark lively eyes and the dark hair hanging 
 over them gave him the appearance of a gipsy, 
 and his slouched felt hat, threadbare coat, 
 and patched boots, might have carried out this 
 idea, but for the housekeeper's deep curtsey, 
 and for that something about Gilbert Raiue 
 which made him look like a scholar and a 
 gentleman. 
 
 He held carefully a fragment of dark-coloured
 
 THE SHADOW OF A PURPOSE. 53 
 
 glass so frosted over with long interment that it 
 was covered with prismatic tints ; there were 
 fragments of clay sticking to it, and Faith held 
 out her hand. 
 
 "Where's the master, Emmett V He took 
 no notice of her outstretched hand, but spoke 
 in a quick, abrupt voice that seemed unused to 
 contradiction. 
 
 " The master 's i' t' study, sir ; but shan't I 
 wash that for ye, Mr. Raine ? It isn't fit to taake 
 indoors, I'm sure." 
 
 Raine pressed the precious relic against his 
 coat. 
 
 " Wash it! good heavens no, thank you, Mrs. 
 Emmett I haven't quite forgotten the scrub- 
 bing you gave to my terra cotta Latona, and 
 the mural frescoes you took care of for me last 
 year. Ah, you want a mouth's training at 
 Austin's End, you do. I expect you'd like to 
 polish my brazen shield there, and send a good 
 deal else to the dusthole." He laughed, and 
 went out to the study with his relic. " She 
 can't help being a woman/' he said to himself, 
 " and women's ideas are confined to decorating
 
 54 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 their persons, and cleaning all that doesn't want 
 cleaning." 
 
 He found Mr. Burneston alone. Ralph had 
 been dismissed with a lecture. 
 
 "Look here, Phil, I was just digging beneath 
 the wall of the fruit-garden, where that bit of 
 brick turned up the other day, and I found 
 this." He paused-, for Mr. Burneston looked 
 up with only a sickly smile " Is anything the 
 matter?" said Gilbert Raine, with a sudden 
 change of tone. 
 
 Philip Burneston pressed his hand on his 
 forehead. 
 
 " Well," he tried to laugh, " I suppose I ought 
 not to have stayed away from home so long, and 
 then all these minor miseries would have been 
 such a part of my existence that I should not 
 have minded them ; but I seem now always 
 to be called on to interfere about Ralph." 
 
 " What's the matter now ?" Raine's quick, 
 jerking utterance had returned and formed a 
 striking contrast to the slow, refined speech of 
 his companion, it was so full of seeming impa- 
 tience, and the fire of his dark eyes strengthened 
 this idea.
 
 THE SHADOW OP A PURPOSE. ,55 
 
 "Oh, a trifle not worth repeating, except 
 that trifles make or mar life. I was asking 
 myself, just as you came in, how I am to 
 bring up Ralph without his mother to help 
 me." 
 
 "Nonsense I beg your pardon, my dear 
 fellow " his voice was gentle in an instant, for 
 he had had deep sympathy with his cousin's 
 sorrow, ^Jrougli, he considered Mrs. Burneston 
 had spoiled her husband's life "but at ten 
 years old I think a boy is better away from 
 women." 
 
 Mr. Burneston fidgeted with a paper-knife on 
 the table near him. 
 
 " Yes, I know I ought to send him to school, 
 but then his mother thought him too delicate, 
 and Faith says it would be the death of him." 
 
 " Juwt like a woman. I shouldn't listen to 
 Faith." 
 
 " No, you would not listen, because a single 
 man of your age does not believe in a 
 woman's judgment on certain points of 
 health as a married man does, simply be- 
 cause the single man is a theorist in such 
 matters."
 
 56 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 Gilbert Raine shrugged his shoulders and 
 laughed. " I intend to keep to theory ; but if 
 you don't send the boy to school, you must 
 marry again, Phil ; you can't expect Ralph to 
 submit to an old nurse, the boy wouldn't be 
 worth his salt if he did." A slight flush 
 tinged Mr. Raine's dark, hollow cheeks, he 
 was conscious of having encouraged Ralph in 
 small rebellions against the housekeeper's inter- 
 ference. 
 
 li Well, perhaps not, but you are the last 
 man I expected such advice from." Mr. 
 Burneston sat upright and looked hard at his 
 friend. 
 
 "I dare say well, yes but one can't al- 
 ways preach what one practises ; a wife 
 would destroy my happiness, she might in- 
 crease yours ; at least, 1 can see very plainly, 
 old fellow, that you must have some one to 
 take these petty worries off your hands, though, 
 to tell you the truth, I always thought you 
 much too light-hearted to let yourself be wor- 
 ried easily." 
 
 Burneston got up, shook himself, and laughed.
 
 THE SHADOW OF A PURPOSE. 57 
 
 " So I am. You happened to come in at a 
 moment when I had been vexed, by this 
 evening I should have forgotten all about 
 Ralph's scrape. I believe," he laughed again, 
 " it is not anything in itself that worries, it is 
 rather that nature revolts from the harness of 
 civilized life, after our two years of Arab free- 
 dom." 
 
 Raine groaned. 
 
 " Ah ! there is the outcome of having been 
 drilled by a wife. Now I'm going back to 
 Austin's End. I don't mean that my responsi- 
 bilities equal yours. I have one small estate to 
 look after, and you have two large ones, and a 
 boy besides ; but still I shan't allow myself to 
 be worried at home, any more than I worried 
 while we were vagrants." 
 
 tf I wish we were vagrants again/' Mr. Burne- 
 ston sighed. 
 
 Raine went on, 
 
 " Then again I keep the fewest possible ser- 
 vants, not only from economy, but because I 
 find that servants are a worry. I never study 
 fashion, either in dress or anything else, or that
 
 58 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 would soon grow into a worry, and I never 
 allow dusting in my rooms: dusting is the 
 greatest worry I can conceive in life, and a wife, 
 you see, would at once bring servants and 
 fashion, and dusters and brooms, to Austin's 
 End." 
 
 Burneston was laughing heartily. " My 
 wonder is," he said, " that you don't try 
 to find some one of your own way of 
 thinking. You must often want help in ar- 
 ranging your treasures in that wonderful den 
 of yours." 
 
 Raine looked serious for an instant. 
 
 " No, Phil, I thought of it once, I even argued 
 it out, but I found it would not do. No," he 
 shook his head. "A woman with my tastes 
 would be a sloven, and I could not stand that 
 in a wife ; and probably she would be ugly. I 
 thought once of another plan, but it would be 
 too troublesome." 
 
 "And what may that be ?" 
 
 "Well," Raine reddened, he shrank from his 
 friend's ridicule. "It is an experiment that 
 has been tried, but the result seems doubtful ; of
 
 THE SHADOW OF A PURPOSE. 59 
 
 course it may not have been made under favour- 
 able conditions. I thought whether it would 
 do to choose out some young, good-looking, 
 healthy country girl, of twelve, or thereabouts, 
 and have her brought up precisely to suit 
 me." 
 
 " But, my dear Gilbert, don't you see that to 
 suit you she must have a certain amount of 
 culture, and with that very culture would 
 come the seeds of all you shrink from, love of 
 dress, fashion, order, and need of attendance, 
 just as one foot follows the other as you 
 walk." 
 
 "Yes, I know," Raine looked foolish, "I saw 
 all that, and I also saw another evil harder to 
 bear than any there might be children, and 
 then there would be that unutterably vexed 
 question of confusion of race, and though the 
 Raines are poor, they have managed to keep to 
 Conservatism hitherto." 
 
 " You think opinion is influenced by blood, 
 then?" 
 
 " Undoubtedly ; from such a marriage might 
 spring a thorough-going Radical, who would
 
 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 perhaps level the old place, and build a 
 modern mansion lighted by gas," he said mock- 
 ingly. 
 
 "You are joking; you know as well as I do 
 that outward surroundings and associations do 
 much to cultivate and refine, and that whoever 
 married you would, for peace and quietness' 
 sake, adopt your opinions/' 
 
 " Well, I shall not try the experiment, 
 though I still think the idea, as an idea, is 
 not a bad one ; but, to go back to the be- 
 ginning, take my advice, and send your boy to 
 school."
 
 61 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 ILBERT RAINE only stayed another day 
 at Burneston, and then set off for his 
 cheerless, quaint, museum-like home at Austin's 
 End, nearly a hundred miles away. 
 
 Mr. Burneston felt doubly lonely without 
 him ; Gilbert Raine was not a talkative com- 
 panion, unless some favourite topic was dis- 
 cussed ; but he was so full of genial warmth, 
 so ready with rough, counsel or with full- 
 hearted sympathy, so deeply read and many 
 gifted, that when he went away the old manor- 
 house felt as chilly to its master as if the fires 
 had gone out on the wide hearths, and the 
 candles had sunk in their sockets.
 
 02 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 There had been a singularly strong affection 
 between the friends in their university life, 
 when Gilbert Raine's public school training had 
 enabled him to be of great service to his home- 
 bred cousin. Gilbert Raine had never known 
 the spoiling of prosperity. He had been brought 
 up by an eccentric bachelor uncle, who had 
 made his inheritance of the small estate 
 called Austin's End dependent on the boy's suc- 
 cess both at school and college, and had besides 
 enforced on him the strictest economy and self- 
 denial. So that when at thirty he became his 
 uncle's heir, he went on instinctively with the 
 same simple inexpensive habits, content to be 
 left alone with his books, and only rejoicing 
 in his larger means for the power they gave 
 of adding to his treasures. Some of his equals 
 called Gilbert Raine a miserly book- worm ; 
 but his poor tenants knew better, and said 
 that there was a real good master at Austin's 
 End. 
 
 Mr. Burneston had been so long with his 
 cousin that he felt strangely unsettled at his 
 departure, and yet he had no wish to leave the
 
 THE FIRST STEP. 63 
 
 Hall. He took a lively interest in some plant- 
 ing on one side of the estate, and in draining 
 and farm-building in another quarter; it was 
 only when he came home, tired out with his 
 day's work, that a restless discontent mastered 
 him. And as discontent requires a very strong 
 guardian, to be kept entirely out of sight, he 
 was stern to Ralph and harsh to Faith, and dis- 
 posed to general fault-finding with his house- 
 hold. Benjamin shook his head, and whispered 
 to his wife, 
 
 " Theer'll be a new missis afore lang at t' 
 Hall." 
 
 " Gan yer ways, sheea'll be a furrineer, then, 
 t' maister hesn't hed t' chance o' seein' English 
 laadies, an' efter awl it 'u'd be nobbud nat'ral, 
 he's ower yung tu be left aleean." 
 
 Another person, a keener observer than Benja- 
 min, and one who had watched the ways of 
 more than one squire of Burneston, was watch- 
 ing this one like a hawk. 
 
 Joseph Sunley, the old sexton, who lived in 
 the stone cottage next Mrs. Duncombe, was 
 growing much disturbed by the squire's ways.
 
 64 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 He saw Mr. Burneston nearly every day, and 
 he commented on bis frequent visits to the 
 Church Farm. Joseph was not a conscious 
 gossip, but by living alone he had got a habit 
 o f talking to himself, and being a little deaf, 
 was unaware how much of his mind he gave to 
 the public. 
 
 One evening, about a fortnight after Mr. 
 Raine's departure, he sat at his door in a round- 
 backed, three-cornered wooden chair ; it was a 
 warm evening, and he sat in his shirt-sleeves 
 smoking a pipe. 
 
 His old brown face was puckered more than 
 could have' been caused by the effort of holding 
 his pipe, and when he removed it, and held it 
 between his fingers, the creases deepened round 
 his mouth. 
 
 " Dang it F' he struck his hand heavily on his 
 brown fustian knees, " it fair caps mu, that it 
 diz. John Barugh's a deeacent chap, a trahfle 
 slaw an' awkard ; bud that missis o' hiz sheea ^ 
 as fahne as a fiddle, an' that's aboot t' treeath, 
 an' Ah deean't think Maister Burneston can finud 
 owt mich tu seay tiv her. Mebbe he gans noo tu
 
 THE FIRST STEP. 65 
 
 see t' badly lad, bud Ah deean't knaw, an' Ah 
 deean't pruffess tu gaum what fer he gans theer 
 sae oft, it's mair 'an a boddy lahke me can skill ; 
 bud he diz gan theer, an' that's seer an' sartain, 
 noo then." 
 
 He stopped not a minute too soon. Look- 
 ing across the road, he saw Doris opening the 
 white gate. She came slowly in answer to his 
 nod. " Hoo's t' lad ?" he said. Doris looked 
 very grave. 
 
 " Nay, but it's sad then," she spoke slowly. 
 " T' doctor telt' mother yisterda that t' poor 
 lad'll mebbe nivver hev t' reeght use o' his leg 
 ageean." 
 
 "Eh, what's 'at he sed, lassf Joseph's face 
 contracted, till a fan of wrinkles spread from 
 the corners of his eyes and lips. " Poor chap, 
 nut hev t' use o' his leg ageean nut walk ! 
 What diz t' lass meean ?" 
 
 "He'll mebbe nut walk 'cept wi' crutches. 
 Eh, Joseph Sunley, nobbut just to think o' oor 
 George wi' crutches." She pressed her lips 
 tightly together ; " but t' doctor hes said sae 
 sae noo you knaw." 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 66 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 " Mr. Burneston gans tu see t' lad, eh, lass 1 
 it's reeght kahnd o' him tu gan sae oft ; Vs a 
 kahnd chap, t' maister is." 
 
 "Ay," said Doris, "but he disn't say mich 
 tu George, he talks tu my mother an' me ; but 
 Ah mun gan, Joseph Sunley, Ah mun gan my 
 ways to t' parson's hoose." 
 
 Joseph sat still watching the girl as she 
 went round the corner to the churchyard gate, 
 and then out at a smaller gate in the corner 
 nearest the farm, which led into the glebe 
 field. She could have done this just as well by 
 going through the farm-yard, and out into 
 the glebe field by the gate on which she was 
 swinging when the squire first saw her. But 
 ever since that luckless afternoon Doris had 
 hated the gate with all the strength of her 
 nature. She did not hate Mr. Burneston, her 
 sense of justice told her that he was not to 
 blame because he had heard her foolish song ; 
 but she never felt at ease with him, and 
 when she could she avoided being present at 
 his visits, although she secretly delighted 
 in listening to his gentle voice and refined 
 speech.
 
 THE FIRST STEP. 67 
 
 To-day, besides her dislike to the glebe 
 gate, she had seen Mr. Burneston standing 
 in the rick-yard talking to her father, and she 
 at once remembered that she had promised 
 George to fetch him a book from the Vicar- 
 age. 
 
 " Bon it !" Joseph said to himself, " t' wo'ld's 
 full o' streeange things. Tu think o' a stiddy 
 chap lahke Mr. Burneston spindin' his tahme \vi' 
 t' lahke o ? Dorothy Barugh as he diz. Ah'd 
 thowt he'd hev cared tu hear o' his fayther an* 
 his gran'fayther when baith on 'em wer lahtle 
 lads lahke Maister Ralph. Ah minds 'em baith ; 
 they war fahne lads, mebbe nut so bonny 
 leeakin' as this chap hes grown ; bud neea, 
 neea, t' tahmes is changed, fooalks nivver 
 leeaks back noo, it's allays forrad, forrad, 
 forrad !" 
 
 At that moment Mr. Burneston was an 
 apt illustration of Joseph's words. For more 
 than a week he had been soothing his rest- 
 lessness by mental pictures, which he felt 
 only required an act of will to be converted 
 from castles in the air to realities. And the 
 
 F2
 
 68 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 past which he had thought of with regret, 
 even if he had never felt a longing for 
 its return was gradually fading into a grey 
 mist, in which indifference made all indis- 
 tinct. 
 
 No wonder that Ralph complained of his 
 father's dulness every link that bound the 
 boy to his father formed part of other links 
 that went backwards into life ; there was as 
 yet nothing to bring Ralph into this dream- 
 like fancy which so entirely absorbed the 
 present. 
 
 Mr. Burneston saw Doris go out of the house, 
 and then he saw the white gate swing, and he 
 knew that she would not come through the rick- 
 yard. But to-day he had made up his mind to 
 act, and her absence was a necessary preliminary 
 to this action. 
 
 He watched the girl pass beside the screen 
 of fir-trees, and then he turned with a new pur- 
 pose in his face to John Barugh. 
 
 "I want to have some talk with you and 
 your wife together," he said ; " shall we go 
 in!"
 
 THE FIRST STEP. 69 
 
 He did not wait for the farmer's assent, but 
 led the way to the house. 
 
 Joseph had seen Mr. Burneston coming from 
 the rick-yard, and by the time they were cross- 
 ing towards the house the old man had reached 
 the gate. 
 
 Preoccupied as he was, Philip Burneston 
 could not forget his habitual courtesy. 
 
 "Good day, Joseph. How's the stiff 
 knee? Did Mrs. Emmett's stuff do any 
 goodf 
 
 Joseph shook his head. 
 
 " Neeah, neeah, sir, it warn't lahkelys 'at that 
 sort o' stuff 'ud deea fer a knee, when it war 
 wrate on't i' plain wrahtin' it war fer a airm ; 
 a knee an' a airm isn't made alahke, bliss t' lass. 
 Sheea sud read what's o' t' bottles afore shea 
 sinds 'em te fooalk." 
 
 " Well, Pll tell her," but Mr. Burneston spoke 
 so absently, as he turned away, that a fresh 
 pucker rose on Joseph's forehead. 
 
 " Dash mu ! Ah's fair capt, Ah is ; he's as 
 glum as a sperret," he said, as he limped back 
 to the seat outside his door. " Mebbe Mistriss
 
 70 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 Buncombe kuaws summat aboot 'im ; sheea's a 
 cute owd lass." 
 
 Generally Mr. Burneston's visit only lasted 
 half an hour, but to-day, though Joseph never 
 relaxed his watch, an hour and a half passed, 
 and still the squire did not come out. Doris 
 came back, went in with the book, but she did 
 not stay in-doors, and Joseph saw her go on to 
 the beehives. 
 
 At last the house-door opened, and Mr. 
 Burnestou appeared, followed by both hus- 
 band and wife. Joseph gave a grunt of 
 disapprobation, as he watched the cordial 
 leave-taking, and then he tried to listen as 
 Mr. Burneston stopped, when he came to 
 the gate, to say a few more words to John 
 Barugh. 
 
 They seemed very earnest words, but the 
 sexton's deaf ears disappointed his eager 
 longing ; he could not hear Mr. Burneston 
 say, 
 
 " Well, I hope in time you will see the mat- 
 ter as your wife does. All that Doris gains at 
 school will be undone if she spends her lioli-
 
 THE FIRST STEP. 71 
 
 days here ; you shall go and see her once a 
 year, and she will of course write to you con- 
 stantly/' 
 
 John Barugh's face was full of trouble. 
 
 " Ah knaws 'at yu meeans it fer t' lass's 
 gude, sir ; bud Ah meean no offence whaen 
 Ah say, Ah cannot see 't, ner Ah cannot say 
 'at Ah thank yeh nowther. Ah cannot thenk 
 ony man 'at wants ti tak mah lass aweay 
 fra' ran."
 
 BOOK I. 
 
 SCHOOL.
 
 75 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 TWO SCHOOL-GIRLS. 
 
 ABOUT four miles from London, on the 
 skirts of a large common overgrown "with 
 golden gorse, there stood and still stands a 
 large old-fashioned house, probably dating as far 
 back as the Tudors. 
 
 In the large plot of front garden is a group 
 of trees round which sweeps a broad gravelled 
 carriage drive, entered through tall iron gates 
 set in the high railing which mounted on 
 a low wall screens the house from the road. 
 There is a portico over the central doorway ; 
 and above the old-fashioned windows are three 
 quaint gables. The entrance under the portico 
 is closed, but on the left side of the house is a 
 conservatory, and through this you can, if you
 
 76 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 please, enter Pelican House, cross its slippery 
 marble-floored hall, and find your way out 
 through double glass-doors on the left into a 
 sort of second matted hall, and thence to a 
 pleasant lawn surrounded by shrubberies, and 
 shaded on one side by the lofty elms which 
 screen the grounds of Pelican House from those 
 of its neighbour. 
 
 If you look round the matted hall a variety 
 of garden bonnets hanging on pegs, a collec- 
 tion of battledores and shuttlecocks, with here 
 and there the hoops and sticks for a game 
 called La Grace, skipping-ropes and balls, will 
 have suggested to you that Pelican House is a 
 girls' school, and a few steps outside the glass 
 door will convince you of this fact, for the bell 
 is ringing, and about a dozen girls of various 
 age and size come rushing out, some by the 
 way you have come, some from other doors, 
 for the house is much larger than it looks from 
 the gates ; and in a minute, although almost 
 all have disappeared among the shrubberies, a 
 soft buzz of girls' voices, and occasional notes 
 of merry ringing laughter, reach you as you
 
 TWO SCHOOL-GIRLS. 77 
 
 stand on the range of shallow steps which forms 
 a terrace above the lawn. 
 
 The girls divide as they pass out of sight 
 into small groups, and some twos go hand-in- 
 hand or with arms circling each other's waists. 
 The last two are neither the eldest nor the 
 youngest. They are well matched in height 
 and age, very different in face and figure. 
 
 The tall slender girl, with erect head and 
 delicately cut regular features, is Doris Barugh ; 
 but the ease with which she walks, and a 
 nameless something which has spread over her 
 whole person, show that the two years spent 
 at Pelican House have given her, at least, out- 
 ward refinement both when in movement and 
 in repose. As the " principal," or schoolmis- 
 tress, as she was simply called forty years ago, 
 had said to Mr. Burneston, "the girl has so 
 much natural refinement of look and dignity of 
 manner, that there will be little up-hill work in 
 training her." 
 
 And as Miss Phillimore's idea of education 
 for her pupils did not go beyond refinement 
 and culture, both of look and manner, with
 
 78 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 the amount of head knowledge and the ac- 
 complishments necessary for " a young lady," 
 Doris was from her point of view a complete 
 success. 
 
 Mr. Burneston had said to the schoolmistress 
 that a country friend of his wished to place his 
 daughter under her care a very remarkable 
 girl, but one whose education had been neg- 
 lected. " Outward refinement and polish are 
 what she chiefly wants," he said, getting a 
 little confused under the calm eyes of the ob- 
 serving lady; "she has plenty of self-respect 
 and dignity." 
 
 Miss Phillimore had that quickness in per- 
 ceiving weak points which is so often found in 
 a shallow nature incapable of deeper insight or 
 sympathy, and she at once, woman like, jumped 
 at the result which this charming, pleasant- 
 looking gentleman, was contemplating ; but 
 she kept her surmise a secret, only, having as- 
 certained the extent of Mr. Burnes ton's pro- 
 perty, and the importance of his position, she 
 resolved to attach the new pupil to herself and 
 to tit her in every way for the future which she 
 had divined, and which she thought the girl
 
 TWO SCHOOL-GIRLS. 79 
 
 deserved ; for cold, world-hardened Miss Phil- 
 limore was at once fascinated by the girl's 
 beauty and the graceful dignity of her man- 
 ner. 
 
 Often to herself the schoolmistress wondered 
 how it was that this farmer's daughter had so 
 rapidly shot out of the sheath of ignorance and 
 broad speech which had at first separated her 
 from her schoolfellows, and had now distanced 
 them all in any study to which she chose to 
 apply herself. 
 
 " Choose is the word," said Miss Phillimore 
 thoughtfully. " Doris is so conscientiously in 
 earnest in all she does, that I have never yet 
 had to thwart her will. I fancy she could be 
 very stubborn." But the schoolmistress dis- 
 missed the half revelation which came to her 
 with these words ; and on the old plan of 
 " leave well alone," she was doubtless in the 
 right, having, with all her quick-wittedness and 
 perfection of outward manner, about as much 
 knowledge of the human heart, or of the way to 
 help it in its struggles against self, as a hair- 
 dresser has of the inside of the heads that pass 
 under his hands.
 
 80 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 " Ah, Doris," she said with a smiling bow as 
 the two girls met her at a turn in one of the 
 shrubberies. " A delightful afternoon, is it 
 not f and then she included Doris's companion 
 in hervery pleasant smile, and passed on towards 
 the house. 
 
 The girl, shorter and less slender than Doris, 
 looked and breathed fresh country air, she 
 might have just been gathered from a wild 
 rose spray " I wonder," she said, pushing 
 her hazel nut-brown hair out of her eyes, u if 
 that smile may be trusted." 
 
 She looked after the sweet-faced, erect 
 lady, who, with her fair, peach-like skin, silver 
 hair, and exquisitely-made dress, was like a bit 
 of Dresden. 
 
 Doris lifted her long dark lashes and gave a 
 surprised look at her companion. 
 
 " I should not have thought you mistrustful, 
 Miss Masham." 
 
 "Why 'Miss Masham?' I told you this 
 morning that if I did not bore you I should 
 like to be your friend. I will call you Doris/' 
 
 " I will call you what you like," said Doris 
 quietly. " I think your name is Frederika ?"
 
 TWO SCHOOL-GIRLS. 81 
 
 "Yes is it not horrible? four mouthfuls of 
 name; you must call me Rika. At home the 
 boys call me Freddy, but I don't like it, and 
 my mother always calls me Rika." 
 
 "You have a mother, then?" 
 
 " Oh yes," sadly, " that is why I work so 
 hard. I want to be very clever ; my mother is 
 very delicate, and if anything happened to my 
 father, I should like to be of use. You see I 
 am terribly unlike other girls at least they 
 say so, and I am come here to be e licked into 
 shape,' as the boys say." 
 
 Doris smiled, and such a rare sweetness 
 spread over her face that Rika looked up at her 
 lovingly. 
 
 " Certainly you are not like other girls," she 
 said, in the soft low voice that had charmed 
 Mr. Burneston. She had lost the Yorkshire 
 dialect, and there was only a suspicion of ac- 
 cent, but she had still the sweetness of northern 
 tone. " But then these two years that I've 
 been here, I've seen so many girls, and I have 
 often wished they were not all so like one an- 
 other." 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 82 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 " Ah ! but," Rika broke in, with impulsive 
 abruptness, " are you quite sure they were 
 alike ? Don't laugh at me, Doris, but it seems 
 to me that you do not notice much that goes 
 on round you. You often seem to be dream- 
 ing ; perhaps," she looked admiringly at her 
 lovely friend, " you are thinking out thoughts 
 beyond our comprehension." 
 
 Doris blushed so deeply and in such confusion 
 that Rika felt puzzled. 
 
 " Don't say that to me, please. I can't talk 
 about my own thoughts. I daresay we are 
 none of us quite so good or quite so bad as we 
 seem. But I want to know why you distrust 
 Mies Phillimore?" 
 
 " Well, I've only known her a few weeks, but 
 she never has any phases or moods. It is 
 natural you should like her, she treats you like 
 a queen, but it seems to me that such a per- 
 petually serene smile must be artificial and 
 mechanical. People feel hot and cold, are 
 glad and sorry, and well and ill ; and of course , 
 all these phases must affect both mind and 
 body ; and somehow I don't think Miss Philli- 
 more goes in for religion enough to make
 
 TWO SCHOOL-GIRLS. 83 
 
 her perpetual sweetness the result of saintli- 
 ness ; if it were this she would not be so 
 serenely self-satisfied." 
 
 " I know nothing about saints," said Doris 
 coldly, " but I fancy they must be dull and un- 
 interesting, even if there are such people." 
 
 Rika's large grey eyes had been fixed ear- 
 nestly on her companion. In an instant they 
 grew dark and liquid as the pupils dilated, 
 and she said with intense feeling, " Hush ! 
 Doris dear. Please don't say that. My father 
 and mother are both saints, and so was my 
 sister who died." 
 
 "Why?" began Doris, but she stopped. 
 Rika's pink dimpled hands were placed on her 
 eyes to keep in the tears which began to show 
 through them. 
 
 They walked on silently. Doris soon forgot 
 Rika, she went on thinking out a thought that 
 often occupied ,hef What would life be like 
 when she went to live at home ? To-day this 
 thought pressed heavily, and after it came 
 another, how much longer should she stay at 
 school ? And then the dread, which week by 
 week grew stronger as she brooded over it, 
 
 G2
 
 84 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 should she be happy when she left Pelican 
 House ? Whenever she thought of her parents 
 and her old life, she grew more and more aware 
 of the change in herself. Another thought some- 
 times intruded, but she did not let herself dwell 
 on it. A feeling that was partly pride, partly a 
 kind of awkward shyness, which linked her to the 
 past she so longed to forget, always made her 
 try to banish any reveries about Mr. Burneston ; 
 and the share he had had in her going to 
 school ; but still every now and then, seemingly 
 against her will, she found herself wondering 
 whether she should ever see him again, and 
 whether he would see the change in her, and 
 then her face would grow crimson at the me- 
 mory of that first interview ; but by degrees as 
 time went on she had made herself regard it as 
 a thing of no consequence. 
 
 Mr. Burneston had paid several visits to the 
 farm before he could get John Barugh to listen 
 patiently to his plans for Doris. He argued 
 that the girl must be educated somewhere ; 
 that there was only an infant school in Burues-
 
 TWO SCHOOL-GIRLS. 85 
 
 ton ; even at Steersley, the nearest town, there 
 was only a third-rate school, where Doris 
 would learn more harm than good ; even there 
 she would have to go as a boarder, so that 
 there must be a separation. If Mr. Barugh 
 would tell him how much he would spend on 
 his daughter's schooling, he (the squire) would 
 promise that the sum named should satisfy the 
 schoolmistress he had in view. 
 
 But always at this point John shrugged his 
 broad shoulders and retreated to the mantel- 
 shelf, leaving Mr. Burneston to finish the talk 
 with his wife. 
 
 At last, at the end of a month, wearied out 
 by the squire's persistence and his wife's inces- 
 sant persecution, John conceded that the deci- 
 sion should be left to Doris herself, on condition 
 that he was present when the matter was put 
 before her. 
 
 On the evening following this concession her 
 mother called Doris in from the beehives. 
 
 "Doris, lass, will ye like to go to school 
 again '" she said cheerfully. 
 
 The girl had a sort of quiet mistrust of her
 
 86 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 mother's wisdom. She looked up to the tall 
 red-bearded father for explanation. 
 
 John sighed, and a smothered groan came 
 from him as he leant on the mantelshelf. 
 
 " Neeah, lass, if thoo disn't cotton tiv't, 
 thoo sail bide at yam. Better be content wi' 
 thy awn fooalk than freeat theeseP tu be made 
 a laady." 
 
 "Nay, nay, father, that's not fair;" There 
 was a sharp anxiety in Dorothy's thin voice, and 
 as her husband listened to it his head sank as 
 if his last hope were gone. " We was to put 
 it straight before her, an' she was to choose 
 herself." 
 
 " What is t' choice !" said Doris firmly. " An' 
 who is't can hev owt tu do wr 5 me, beside 
 fayther an' you T' 
 
 John Barugh made a step forward, and then, 
 with a great effort at self-control, he went back 
 to the hearth. 
 
 " You tell her if you like," his wife said fret- 
 fully. She was trembling with eagerness lest 
 her father's evident unwillingness should check 
 the girl's ambition.
 
 TWO SCHOOL-GIRLS. 87 
 
 John Barugh shook his head. 
 
 "What for duan't ye tell it out, mother?" 
 said Doris. 
 
 " I'm sure it's time you were sent to school to 
 learn manners, let alone how to talk. I'm sure 
 I can't teach you, even to speak properly, 
 though it's not for want of trying," said Doro- 
 thy. Then, afraid that her husband would tell 
 her story for her, " If you like, Doris, you may 
 go to a good school, such as reel ladies goes to, 
 an' be taught everything heart can wish, an' to 
 talk like ' the quality/ as your father says, an' 
 cost little to him neither." 
 
 " Tell t' trewth, Dorothy." John Barugh had 
 come forward, and there was a bitterness in 
 his voice that startled the girl. Rarely had her 
 mother's fretful twitting and constant com- 
 plaints drawn an angry word from the strong 
 patient man, who sixteen years before had 
 married for love, and had never, before one of 
 his children, rebuked his wife thus sternly. 
 Then turning to Doris, who had become pale 
 with sudden shrinking from this token of deep 
 unspoken strife between her parents, " Ah'll tell
 
 88 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 t' lass mysel'. Doris, lass, ther's tweea sahdes 
 t' ivverything i' life ; yan's bright an' tither's 
 sad, an' thy moother's bin telling o' the' aboot 
 t' bright un noo. T' ither's a sad sahde tu me, 
 lass. Mebbe Ah'm wrang, an' if thoo thinks 
 Ah's wrang, thoo'll noane be feared o' speeakiri 3 
 oop an* tellin* thy fay ther thy thowghts, lass." 
 She looked at him, trying to understand. 
 " Ah can't say while Ah kens nowt, fayther." 
 It was curious that the girl's accent always 
 broadened in speaking to her father. 
 
 " Well," said Mrs. Barugh pettishly, " there's 
 a vast o' words wasted. It's soon said ; you'll 
 have to spend your holidays at school, and 
 never come home till ye've done with the 
 learnin'." 
 
 Doris stood with open mouth and staring 
 eyes. It was too much to take in all at 
 once. She had first been dazzled, now she was 
 shocked. 
 
 " Nivver come yam !" She looked longingly 
 at her father, and the pain in her voice soothed 
 the hunger which had been gnawing at his 
 heart.
 
 TWO SCHOOL-GIRLS. 80 
 
 "Neeah, lass" and then, with an effort 
 against himself, the supreme martyrdom of 
 which no child could ever comprehend " bud 
 Ah tell'd yu t' leeak o' beath sahdes, yan as 
 mitch as t' other. Therms t" scheeal an' t' 1'arn- 
 in' 'at yu says noo an' again ye wearies efter, 
 an' books, an' music, an' sike ; an' ther's stayin' 
 on i' t' yam wi' t' fayther an' moother an' t' poor 
 lad." 
 
 " George 'd miss me/' said Doris simply. 
 
 John Barugh turned his back, went again to 
 the mantelshelf, and gulped down a sob there. 
 Then came a silence. 
 
 " Fayther " Doris spoke resolutely " nae 
 doobt scheeaFs a greeat thing fer a lass. Ah'd 
 liever nut say oot at yance what Ah chooses." 
 
 " Neeah," he sighed ; " 'at's trew an' fair 
 eueaf ; t' mooarnin' '11 deea tu talk ageean, if 
 it's to be." 
 
 But his heart was very heayy ; he had clung 
 to the hope that he was as necessary to the girl 
 as she was to him, and her hesitation told him 
 what her decision would be. 
 
 And he was right. In less than a month
 
 90 . DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 Doris had bid good-bye to her mother and to 
 poor sobbing George, and found herself less 
 sorrowful than she expected when she had 
 parted from her father at the gates of Pelican, 
 House. For John Ba*ugh would not risk a 
 farewell before witnesses. 
 
 " Ah tell ye what, old woman," he said to 
 Dorothy, when he got back, " Doris leeaks a 
 laady; nae need fer t' fahn scheealmistriss tu 
 see 'at she lies sike a rough chap tu her fayther." 
 
 At the end of the year he claimed Mr. Burues- 
 ton's promise to go up and see Doris ; he 
 managed to see her alone and to exchange as 
 few words as possible with anyone else. And 
 when he came back he said to Dorothy, 
 
 " Gi' mu a kiss, lass. Thoo waz i' t' reeght, 
 an j Ah waz i' t' wrang. T 3 lass is as beautiful 
 an* as sweet as ony queen ; nowt's ower gude 
 fer t' lahke o' Doris. Sheea's i' t' reeght pleeace. 
 Sheea war cleean thrawn away on sike as 
 wersels." 
 
 And Mrs. Barugh gave the kiss. She did not 
 hear the sob in her husband's voice ; she hun- 
 gered for a sight of her beautiful child, but her
 
 TWO SCHOOL-GIRLS. . 91 
 
 ambition was stronger than her love, and she 
 sat with half-closed eyes and smiling lips, listen- 
 ing to all John had to tell, and weaving the part 
 she meant to play in the brilliant future which 
 in her opinion lay before Doris. 
 
 Only George looked dissatisfied. 
 
 "Fayther," he said, after a pause, "are yu 
 fair seear Doris is i' t' reeght road ?" 
 
 Even his mother's doatiug fondness could 
 not keep her from an angry word. 
 
 " George, ye're turning foolish, lad ; was ever 
 the like o' such silly stuff as that 1" 
 
 "Ahmeeans, fayther" the boy's eyes looked 
 earnestly in John Barugh's face " it says, ' To 
 do our duty in that state of life to which God 
 hes been pleased to call us.' Now God didn't 
 make Doris a laady." 
 
 His father's face clouded, but his mother laid 
 her hand on his lips. 
 
 " Ye want yer supper, my poor lad." Then 
 going over to her husband, who was stooping 
 to get a light for his pipe, "Don't heed his 
 sick fancies," she said ; " it's best not take 
 notice."
 
 92 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 George was silent ; but the day after his 
 father's second visit to Pelican House, nearly 
 two years after her departure from home, when 
 he was alone with his father, he asked for writing 
 tools, and with much effort wrote to his sister. 
 
 When he had finished he looked at his father. 
 " Seeal it oop, fayther, an' sen' it on to Doris." 
 And then he fell back, white and exhausted 
 with the effort he had made. 
 
 It was this letter that had made Doris so 
 very dreamy and abstracted for the last few 
 days. 
 
 She was not troubled by George's earnest 
 question. "Are you in the right road?" he had 
 asked. "T' poor sick lad," she said to her- 
 self, " no wonder he takes fancies as he lies 
 there day after day ; but I will write to him. 
 Nay, nay, it's but a fancy. Anyone must be i' 
 t' right who's trying to better herself; Miss 
 Phillimore has said so." Now and then, aud 
 especially when she was thinking of home-life, 
 Doris would fall into the old familiar thought, 
 and then check herself proudly for the error.
 
 TWO SCHOOL-GIRLS. 93 
 
 She glanced at her companion, whose pure, 
 refined enunciation had greatly impressed her, 
 and she felt thankful she had not spoken 
 aloud. 
 
 Meantime Rika had recovered her self-posses- 
 sion. 
 
 " You have no sisters, either," she said 
 quietly. She was glad that Doris was not 
 demonstrative, for she shrank from some of 
 her more gushing school-fellows, but still she 
 wished her new friend had kissed her just 
 now, when she must have seen she was very 
 sad, and wanted some comfort. 
 
 Doris started. " No. I've only got that 
 poor sick brother I told you about, who is 
 almost always lying on a sofa." 
 
 " How dreadful !" and Rika's sympathetic 
 face grew puckered in an instant. " How glad 
 you must be when your holidays come, to go 
 home and amuse him ! Are you good at making 
 up stories ?" 
 
 Doris laughed. 
 
 " 1 never made up a story in my life, unless " 
 she hesitated " do you call looking forward
 
 94 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 and planning what may happen to oneself 
 making up stories ?" 
 
 Rika looked curiously at her companion. 
 
 " What a strange creature you are !" Then, 
 noticing a quick flush on her friend's delicate 
 face, " I beg pardon. Do you mind did I vex 
 you ? I did not mean to ; I only thought 
 that you take the same trouble and get less 
 fun." 
 
 " I don't understand." There was pain in 
 Doris's voice. 
 
 " Why, isn't it more amusing to make stories 
 about people one has never seen, to make new 
 people to think about, than to go on thinking 
 about oneself? Of course you're a different 
 self to me ; but I've heard so much about my- 
 self in the way of scoldings, and so on, that I 
 believe I'm rather sick of Rika Masham and all 
 that belongs to her." 
 
 Doris thought before she answered. 
 
 "It may be more amusing to do as you 
 say, but it is not reality, Rika. How old are 
 you?" 
 
 " I am fifteen and a half, and you "
 
 TWO SCHOOL-GIRLS. 95 
 
 " I am just seventeen ; but it seems to me I 
 am ever so much older than you are. I dare- 
 say you'll do me good. Some day I'll tell you 
 about myself, and why I am what you call such 
 a strange girl." 
 
 " Tell me all this minute : you know all 
 about me, and my father, and ray mother, and 
 my four brothers such jolly boys ! and all I 
 know of you is about poor sick George. When 
 I love people I like to be able to imagine them 
 in their home-life. Perhaps you will let me go 
 and see you some day. I have written to my 
 father already to let me ask you to our house." 
 
 Doris blushed brightly, but this time she was 
 evidently pleased. 
 
 " You are very kind indeed ; but I stay here 
 in the holidays ; I do not even go home. 
 Some day, if we keep friends, you shall know 
 all about my home and everything, and then 
 perhaps" she made a great struggle to be 
 frank " you will not want to come and see 
 me." 
 
 "Naughty Doris" Rika's arm stole round 
 her neck and drew her clown to be kissed.
 
 96 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 " Bui no, I will not go to see you ; I shall go to 
 your home on purpose to tell stories to that 
 poor darling lame George."
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 ROSE. 
 
 TTTHAT is the instinct which tells us that 
 loving thoughts are with us that lov- 
 ing words are spoken of us, or written to us ; 
 nay, which even heralds the approach of some 
 dearly-loved friend, and when the thought of 
 us is deep and more special makes us conscious 
 of soothing and help in a sudden and inexpli- 
 cable way? This spiritual or electric wave 
 touched George Barugh as Rika's interest in, 
 him deepened ; and as Doris only spoke of her 
 friend vaguely, George grew up in ignorance 
 of this sweet new sisterly love that had ripened 
 for him ; and when the tide of instinctive feel- 
 ing flowed warmly into his bosom he said to 
 himself, 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 " Doris is thinking of me. How dearly Doris 
 loves me !" 
 
 At such times the boy's generous heart was 
 full of self-reproach. He knew that he had 
 often chosen Rose Duncombe as a playfellow 
 instead of Doris, and he felt that even when his 
 sister came back it would be hard to give Rose 
 up for Doris. 
 
 Rose had spent part of every day with him 
 during the first two years of his illness, and 
 these visits had grown to be a part of his life. 
 At first Mrs. Barugh had tried to keep Rose 
 away, she said that "George must learn to 
 speak properly against Doris came home, and 
 Rose was a bad companion in this way," but 
 the boy craved after his playfellow, and at last 
 the mother yielded, the doctor having told Mr. 
 Spencer, the vicar, that Rose's visits were as 
 good as change of air and scene to his patient ; 
 for the disease which had appeared with such 
 apparent suddenness had been latent in the 
 system, and there was little hope of perfect 
 cure ; even if George outgrew it, he could 
 scarcely hope to outgrow the lameness it had
 
 ROSE. 99 
 
 produced, for at the end of two years one leg 
 was shorter than the other. 
 
 But then came a heavy trial for George. 
 Joseph Sunley was a kindly man, folks said, 
 but he dearly loved his prerogatives. He had 
 been petted by the squires of Burneston for 
 three generations, and it seemed hard to him 
 that new-comers like the Barughs should ab- 
 sorb the attention and interest which he felt 
 were due to him. 
 
 Ever since Doris had gone away to school in 
 London and Joseph always looked sceptical 
 on this point the squire, during his occasional 
 visits to Burneston, went more often to the 
 Church Farm than anywhere else. 
 
 " He's nane gitten t' same heead-piece 'at his 
 fayther and his gran'fayther had, Ah reckons." 
 
 Joseph was sitting in his usual place at his 
 cottage door, where he now often found a com- 
 panion, for the kitchen felt dull without Rose, 
 and Mrs. Duncombe brought her knitting to 
 the door while her grandchild sat with George. 
 She nodded her head, but it was all one to 
 Joseph whether she heard or not ; he was far 
 
 H2
 
 100 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 too much accustomed to preaching to need an 
 audience. 
 
 " He'll nane settle at Burneston. He's here 
 yan day, an' t' neeist he's away tu Lunuon, or 
 mebbe Paaris. T' only wise thing 'at he her 
 done sin he coom back fra travellin' war put-tin' 
 t' lahtle lad tu scheeal. Scheeal's t' making o 5 
 yung 'uns, let 'em bejbig or lahtle. Ah say, 
 mistriss " he leaned forward to shout in the 
 
 
 
 old woman's ear " when are yu thinkin' o' puttiiY 
 t' lass tu scheeal ?" 
 
 The old woman's smooth full face looked 
 troubled, and her lai'ge double chin wagged. 
 
 " Ah^ve nae thowt o' sendin' 'er ageean," she 
 said querulously ; " t' scheeal-man said sheea 
 did neeah gude sheea nobbut made t' ither 
 lasses laff when theea sud be sewin' ; an' Ah 
 war vexed an' teeak 'er away. Sheea's fower- 
 teen uoo shu's ower awd fe'r t' scheeal." 
 
 Joseph shook his head. 
 
 " Sheea mun gan wi' sum 'udy 'at '11 keep 'er 
 teghter than what ye deea, ye awd fecal, ur else 
 mebbe sheea'll gan tu t' divvil sheea's just t' 
 soart, is Rase ; sheea's as idle as a' alligatur." 
 Then projecting his old dark withered chin,
 
 ROSE. 101 
 
 and bringing it into striking contrast with the 
 blond, easy-going face beside him, " Bon it ! yu 
 mun send t' lass away fra' Buruestou. Yu 
 can't larn 'er tu wark here ; sheea'll spend mair 
 an' mair o' 'er tahme wi' t' sick lad. Mah wo'd, 
 yu hevn't seea mitch brass, neeghber, 'at yu 
 can keep Rase lahke a leeady." 
 
 Mrs. Buncombe's double chin waggled, and 
 she began to cry. 
 
 " Neeah, neeah," she said piteously ; " scheeal- 
 in' costs brass, it disn't save it ; an' wheer'll 
 be t' use o' seea rnitch scheeal tu t' lass ?" 
 
 " Ah knaws t' scheeal fer Rase." Joseph spoke 
 oracularly. " At Steersley therms t' scheeal 
 \vheer sik a lass as Rose '11 larn tu get 'er ain 
 livin' by teeachin'. They tak's 'er an' larns 'er, 
 an' efter a bit sheea larns t' lahtle lasses ; an' 
 theer's nut ower mitch tu pay; an' if sheea 
 stays wiv 'em. fer three years, they finuds 'er a 
 pleeace fer gude an' all, seea noo yu knaws." 
 
 He waited for an answer, but Mrs. Duncombe 
 sat thinking, and her easy face grew stiff in the 
 unusual process. Rose was a trouble, but she 
 was loving, so loving that the grandmother 
 could not summon courage to send her away.
 
 102 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 " Neeah, neeah," she said weakly, in a strug- 
 gling voice, as if she were trying to get free 
 from a strong grasp, " raebbe she'll larn mis- 
 chief at t' scheeal, an' sheea'll git nae ill fra t* 
 sick lad." 
 
 Instead of answering, Joseph looked straight 
 before him, and spoke in his loudest, strongest 
 voice. 
 
 " Caps me, it diz, wheea God A'mighty made 
 t' lasses, sae noo. Theer's need fer summat 
 i' t' lass way Ah knaws, bud a few on 'em wad 
 ha' done ; an' they needn't hev had as mitch 
 toongue as t' lads ; an' Ah aims if yu war tu 
 leeak fer't ye'd fiund a lass had twahce as 
 mony roots tiv 'er toongue as a lad. It's that 
 'at keeps it waggiu' feeal's nooations." Then 
 shouting in his companion's ear, or more truly 
 through the net of her frill-bordered cap, 
 " Fer seear t' lad's nae hairm iv 'ira, bud 'e 
 can't larn t' lass tu keep 'ersel' when ye're 
 deead an' gane, an' that's what a lahkely lass 
 lahke Rase sud larn. Put her tiv a manty-makker, 
 ur mak' 'er a teeacher if yu pleease, it's all yan 
 tu me," he said loftily, and went on in his
 
 ROSE. 103 
 
 usual voice. " T' ane puts vanity ootsahde, an' 
 t' ither puts it insahde t' head o' lahtle lasses. 
 We el, they're made fer 't. Ah reckons 'at follies 
 mun hev awners, an' mebbe t' lasses wur made 
 tu help t' peeacock to spreead his teeal they 
 keep 'irn i' mind o't o' Sunda's." 
 
 The old woman wiped her eyes, but did not 
 answer. Joseph saw that for the present he 
 must give up the subject, but next day he found 
 a potent ally in Rose herself. 
 
 The grandmother had poured out Joseph's 
 suggestion to Rose with many tears, and, to 
 her surprise, the girl announced her willingness, 
 and indeed her wish, to go to the Stecrsley 
 school. 
 
 "Ah's tired o' Burneston," Rose said; to 
 herself she added, " ther's nobbut George 
 to speak wiv, an' he's dowly noo he can't 
 gan nuttin' nor nowt ; an' Ah aims ther's 
 shops i' Steersley, an' gran'mother mun gi'e 
 mu some new frocks if Ah gans to t' boardin'- 
 scheeal." 
 
 So Rose had her way, and went to Steersley 
 to be educated for a nursery governess. . The
 
 104 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 boarding-school was kept by an ignorant 
 woman, who, having once been housekeeper 
 in a gentleman's family, thought herself 
 qualified to teach ; by means of an artificial 
 manner modelled on a good pattern she had 
 managed to get under her care most of the 
 farmers' daughters round Steersley, and a few 
 girls from other districts, whom she took at a 
 cheaper rate, and whom, as she asserted in 
 her prospectus, she fitted for teachers. Rose 
 grew prettier and perter every day, but she 
 managed to be a universal favourite, especially 
 among the little ones she was set to teach. 
 Her fellow-teachers were always willing to 
 undertake her duties, and left her plenty of 
 time to practise affectations and follies. Still 
 in her holidays she was as devoted as ever to 
 George, and he saw no change in her, except 
 the improvement in her reading and the pleas- 
 ure she gave him by singing the pretty songs 
 she learned from her richer schoolfellows. She 
 did not learn much besides, except what she con- 
 sidered an improved way of speaking, that is 
 to say, she lost much of the country dialect
 
 ROSE. 105 
 
 and quaint expressions, and picked up the vul- 
 garisms of some of her southern schoolfellows. 
 George had at first pined after his playfellow, 
 and his mother took him to the sea for a while. 
 The air had a most wonderful effect both on 
 mind and body. The boy's eyes, so long 
 obliged to content themselves with the sur- 
 roundings of his own home, devoured all he 
 saw with delighted intelligence, and when he 
 came back his face was full of life and colour, 
 and he could walk with the help of a stick. 
 
 Mr. Burneston gave him books, and, what he 
 wanted most of all sympathy in his studies, 
 and between these and the delight of Rose's 
 holidays his life passed happily enough. The 
 bond between him and his mother had drawn 
 closer during Rose's absence ; and now that the 
 three years were over and the girl was to come 
 home for a few months, Mrs. Barugh felt some 
 pangs of fear lest her place in her sou's heart 
 should be taken from her. 
 
 George had been, very fidgety this afternoon. 
 
 " Moother, are yu seear that's t' best nosegay 
 'at yu can firmd i' t' gardin?" to which the
 
 10G DORIS BARUGU. 
 
 fond mother's answer was to go out and gather 
 a glorious group of autumn leaves, crimson, and 
 scarlet, and purple, and yellow of every shade, 
 from palest gold to tawniest orange. These 
 she placed in a little flower-basket, one of Rose's 
 gifts, beside the nosegay of China asters on 
 George's book-table. 
 
 But even this attention did not satisfy him, 
 though he got up and, limping across to his 
 mother, kissed her and thanked her. 
 
 "Flowers and leaves disn't suit side by 
 side/' he said, " 'cept t' leaves is green." Then 
 when he came back to his seat he said, half 
 aloud, as if talking to himself, "It seems ower 
 gude news, disn't it, mother, 'at Rose is 
 comin' we s'll see her ivvery day?" 
 
 Mrs. Barugh bent over her knitting. She 
 looked far less delicate, and she led a more 
 active life now ; even the sound of her voice 
 told of better health. 
 
 "I don't know about that, lad," she said 
 gravely. "Rose '11 never be able to stay at 
 home, unless she takes to the dressmakin'. an* 
 there's two or three before her there. I sup-
 
 ROSE. 107 
 
 pose Mrs. Buncombe hasn't got enough to keep 
 a likely lass such as Rose at home doin' naught. 
 If she meant that, why did she give her 
 schoolin' ?" 
 
 " She went to school to get clevver like our 
 Doris ; eh, but, mother, Rose is growin' varry 
 'cute she knows ivverything." 
 
 " You must not think of Doris and Rose i' 
 the same breath, lad. Doris is a lady now." 
 
 A flush spread over the boy's face. 
 
 " Mother, Rose is kind an' lovin', ail' I don't 
 know whether that's not as gude as being a 
 laad}% but d'ye really think 'at Rose '11 gaii fra 
 home ?" he looked full of anxiety. " Mr. 
 Burneston helped to pay for her schooling. I'll 
 ask him if she mun gan away, or if she can get 
 little lasses to learn at home." 
 
 Dorothy felt vexed that she had troubled 
 him. George was the centre of her life now, 
 all her thoughts circled round her poor crippled 
 boy. 
 
 " I mean nought, lad, but I think a pretty 
 face like Rose's won't bide at home for long. 
 Why, she's seventeen and past. Maybe
 
 108 . DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 Ephraim Crewe or Nicholas Wigglesworth '11 
 be wanting her to wed ; they're both marryin' 
 men." 
 
 George leaned back in his chair and sighed 
 wearily. 
 
 " Ye're tired out, lad." His mother gave him 
 a quick glance, full of a new and sudden fear. 
 Though she consulted her wise thoughtful 
 son, and looked up to him on all intellectual 
 subjects, till this moment it had not occurred 
 to her that he was nearly eighteen, and 
 that he might no longer think of Rose only 
 as a playfellow. "You've been afoot," she 
 said, with a sudden indignation against his 
 lameness, "on that poor stupid leg of yours 
 since six o'clock, and you've ate no dinner, 
 an' you must have your tea at once get 
 on the squab, lad, an' take a wink o' sleep 
 while I make the kettle boil." 
 
 George obeyed silently, turning his face to- 
 wards the wall, and Dorothy went on with the 
 tea-making ; but presently, as she stooped over 
 the kettle, she thought she heard a groan. She 
 turned round quickly and looked at the sofa.
 
 ROSE. 109 
 
 George lay quite still, seemingly sound asleep 
 with his face buried on his pillow. 
 
 " Poor lad," said Dorothy, " he's tired him- 
 self out and a good thing it 'ud be for Rose 
 if a steady chap like Ephraim were to ask her. 
 I've a mind to put it in his head." 
 
 She went away to call her husband in to 
 tea. The husband and wife had drawn closer 
 together over the sick-bed. As her footsteps 
 sounded in the passage George opened his 
 eyes and looked round him with eager burning 
 glances. 
 
 " Rose marry some one else !" he said, with 
 passionate slcorn, " Rose is mine, sheea shall 
 keep to me. Sheea hes always been mine." 
 And then, as he rose up and limped across the 
 floor, he sighed heavily. 
 
 Tea was quickly over, for John Barugh did 
 not come in, and soon after Dorothy went out 
 with a sort of vague purpose of seeking Eph- 
 raim Crewe. " If our lad wants her to stay i' 
 the village, she must stay, but she'd best have 
 a man of her own." 
 
 Presently there was the click of the gate,
 
 110 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 and George's heart beat very fast as he listen- 
 ed ; alight tread came over the gravel, and then 
 a bird-like chirping voice said at the open door, 
 " Please may I come in, Mrs. Barugh ?" The 
 wan wearied look left the boy's face, his brown 
 eyes grew dark with happiness. 
 
 " Pull t' bobbin, an' t' latch '11 gan up, Rose 
 Riding Hood. Eh ! why can't Ah ran to meet 
 you?" he said, as the door opened before he 
 could reach it. 
 
 There stepped down into the room a pretty 
 coquettish-looking damsel, who looked quite 
 twenty, though she was really about three 
 years younger. Her complexion was as pink 
 and as white as when we first saw her, but her 
 freckles had disappeared, and her face was 
 more oval than round, her blue eyes and her 
 little turn-up nose were still as saucy as ever. 
 
 " Grumbling George, oh fie for shame, all t' 
 little dogs shall know your name !" She gave 
 her head a little toss, and untied the strings of 
 a gay bonnet covered with artificial roses. " I 
 thought I taught you to say ' go ' instead of 
 * gau,' " she said pertly.
 
 ROSE. Ill 
 
 George was taking her hand, but she drew it 
 back to pull off a glove before she shook hands 
 with him. 
 
 " Gloves, eh ! Rose, lass, you're grown a 
 fine lady, an' nae mistake." 
 
 " I pay for 'em myself," she spoke sharply, 
 and then she softened into a smile as she 
 seated herself in the chair he had placed for 
 her. " Look here, George," she said, " we put 
 on our best on prize day, an' as I got a prize," 
 she glanced at a book under her arm, " I came 
 away in haste to show it just as I war i' my 
 Sunday clothes, an' " 
 
 " Show us the prize," George said eagerly ; 
 " is it a gude story ?" 
 
 Her face clouded as she gave him the book. 
 44 Nay, it's but dull readin', it's a sermon or some- 
 thing o' t' sort, but t' pictures is pretty, an' 
 sae is t' ootside," and she pointed to the gilt 
 lettering and scarlet binding. 
 
 Such a glow of pleasure came into his face 
 as he read the title, " The Pilgrim's Progress." 
 
 " Eh, lass, Ah hev wanted this sorely. T' awd 
 yan theer" he pointed to a dingy-looking
 
 112 DORIS BAR UGH. 
 
 bookshelf with some old volumes on it " hes 
 only two pages at t' beginning an' haalf o' t' 
 middle is torn oot, an' Mr. Burneston hes oft 
 sed he'd lend it me fra t' Hall, but Ah suppoahse 
 he forgat. Oh, Rose, hoo happy we s'll be 
 readin' this !" 
 
 He looked at her with glowing eyes, but 
 there was no sympathy in Rose's face, she was 
 gaping unrestrainedly. 
 
 " I tell ye what, George, lad," she said hur- 
 riedly, " I've a mind t' gie ye t' book. I've got 
 to like another sort o' books this half, an' I'm 
 not sure they'll please you ; sae ye shall hev t' 
 Pilgrim to read yourself. Will ye take it as a 
 keepsake ?" 
 
 The glow faded out of his eyes. " I can't 
 take yur prize, Rose, but ye'll come and see me 
 as ye used to," he spoke timidly, something, he 
 could not name the feeling, seemed to come 
 between him and Rose. 
 
 " Come an' see you ! why, George, lad," she 
 said heartily, " what d'ye mean by say in' that ? 
 What sud I do all day if I didn't come to teaze 
 you a bit, ye foolish lad? An' you can walk
 
 ROSE. 113 
 
 out wi' me, now ye're better ; an' if ye like my 
 books, I'll read 'em out to yu ; they're a sort 
 that don't bear dawdlin' ovver, they go along 
 like lightnin'." 
 
 George fixed his eyes on her earnestly. " I 
 doubt they're none so safe as t' gude old sort," 
 he said. 
 
 " Nivver trouble about t' books," said Rose, 
 " I want to tell ye about t' prizes. Why, Mrs. 
 Trower, t' squire's wife, gives 'em away herself, 
 an' ther war lots o' quality besides. Mrs. 
 Trower 's a bonny young lady fra Lunnon, an' she 
 said ivver sae many pretty things tu me." 
 " What do ye mean by pretty things ?" 
 " Oh, I don't call to mind the words, but 
 they came so pat ; an' the things, well, she sed 
 that bright red an' gold was t' right sort of 
 bindin' for me. Now t' others was plain bind- 
 in's, an' plain lasses got 'em. Sae of course it 
 war easy to see what she meant, an' then I 
 heeard her say my complexion was wonderful. 
 She said, * I sud like to paint it, Mrs. Jones ;' 
 so of course I war pleased." 
 
 " Of course you war," she looked so bright 
 VOL. I. I
 
 114 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 and pretty in her animation that George 
 thought no one could praise her too much. 
 " Yu do look bonny ; but, Rose lass, yu 
 wadn't like ivvery one to praise ye, wad yu 
 now?" He looked at her earnestly, but she 
 seemed puzzled. 
 
 "Why not, lad?" 
 
 "Ah mean to your face, ye wadn't like any 
 kind o' lads to praise ye." 
 
 " Bother ! Don't say ' Ah,' George, it's I.' 
 But you will talk so broad. But I'll soon 
 learn ye right. My gracious! lad, an' why 
 not lads to praise me ? What else war I made 
 ferV That's t' use o' not havin' a real sweet- 
 heart, an' that's why I don't mean to take up 
 with one yet awhile ;" and she sang in a sweet 
 teasing voice, 
 
 " An' a' the lads they lo'e me weel, 
 And what the waur am 1 ?" 
 
 There was a silence. George's heart was 
 throbbing so violently that he could not 
 speak. 
 
 " Well, lad, what have ye to say ?" Rose went 
 on, in an excited tone, " Look at me, ' what
 
 ROSE. 
 
 the waur am I f an' there's plenty o' likely lads 
 in Steersley, I can tell ye, to have fun with." 
 
 She waited for his answer. 
 
 " Why don't ye answer !" she said pettishly. 
 "Come, lad, you're grown sulky whiles I've 
 been away." 
 
 "Not sulky, Rose," he had flushed at her 
 words, now he tried to smile, " I was wonderin' 
 howivver yu could get on wiv yur learning 
 at school if yu war carryin' on wiv t' lads." 
 
 Rose clapped her hands together, and gave a 
 series of little jumps. 
 
 " Bless him, what an innocent ! why, George, 
 lad, ye're too good to live ; ye forgit playtime 
 an' our walks two an' two along t' road, an' f 
 maid 'at was allays ready te take our letters 
 an' giv 'em ; but ther was no harm, lad, don't 
 you be feared, I niver cared for ne'er a one of 
 'em as much as I care for you." She looked 
 at him affectionately, but a faint flush, rather 
 of vexation than of pleasure, rose in the boy's 
 face. 
 
 "Mebbe yey'll think I'm strict an' solemn, 
 lass, but I say that makes it worse, ye may 
 
 i2
 
 116 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 not care, but yu may hev made some poor lad 
 right mad wi' luv for yu, an' such ways is 
 wrong, they mak' t' lads speak lightly o' yu 
 too. I sud not like to think o' Doris doin' so, 
 Rose, an' you're as good as Doris." . 
 
 " Doris !" Rose grew very red, and she 
 tossed her head angrily. " My word, Doris an' 
 I is quite different ; Doris is a lady, you know," 
 she said, with a pert mimicry of Mrs. Barugh's 
 manner that vexed him, it was so like. " I'm 
 only a village lass. It's all very well, lad, but 
 I should like you tu read how some ladies car- 
 ries on i' t' story-books I reads now ; my ways is 
 nothing after that, so there. I must go now," 
 she got up gaping. " Gran'mother said I 
 weren't to stop. Give my love to your mother." 
 But she turned round on her way to the door, 
 and shook her finger in his face as he followed 
 her. " Don't tell her nought I've told you, 
 mind ye, lad, not one word." She frowned, 
 and then went away laughing and nodding. 
 
 George stretched out both legs and sighed 
 as he looked at them ; one was at least half an 
 inch shorter than the other.
 
 ROSE. 117 
 
 " All rnun get well," he said resolutely, "if it's 
 only tu look after Rose. She'll get a bad name 
 if she gans on i' that way ; she'll be just like a 
 plum vvi' t' bloom rubbed off. She's sound- 
 hearted, Ah know, that Ah'll nivver doubt, Ah 
 cuddent ; but ther's no puttin' t' bloom on once 
 it's rubbed off. Eh ! Ah must get well." 
 
 Again the burning longing filled his eyes. 
 Usually his patience was most remarkable, he 
 had borne severe suffering without a word of 
 complaint ; but the sight of Rose had unhinged 
 him. 
 
 " She disn't love me as Ah loves her/' he said 
 bitterly ; " how can she love a cripple ?"
 
 118 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 A "COO'S" HEART. 
 
 FROM Gilbert Raine in the Island of Born- 
 holm, to Philip Burneston, at Burneston 
 Hall:- 
 
 " MY DEAR PHILIP, 
 
 " I am getting on famously, with 
 my work ; the book you sent is full of mis- 
 takes mistakes only to be understood by the 
 hypothesis that the writer never visited the 
 places he describes. Some of the round churches 
 I have seen are wonderfully curious. I send 
 you a detailed account in order .... 
 
 " But to come back to England, and first to 
 you. A sentence here and there in your letters 
 has struck me curiously, but being very intent
 
 A "COO'S" HEART. 119 
 
 on making my observations here, I confess I 
 read hastily, and crammed the letters into my 
 pocket to enjoy when I had more leisure. 
 Yesterday, while I sat taking my lunch in the 
 middle of a hard morning's work at some 
 
 stones at G , 1 began to wonder how you 
 
 were occupying yourself, and I took out and 
 read your three last letters over again. You 
 say, ' I think your idea of educating a wife for 
 oneself excellent, so excellent that I believe I 
 shall adopt it/ and in each of the other letters 
 you refer seriously to the same project. Per- 
 haps you are only joking, perhaps too I have 
 been living and working seriously here for so 
 many months that I have got to take every- 
 thing literally, and you are only trying to see 
 how much you can make me swallow. I will 
 hope so, for you know, Phil, I always speak my 
 mind, whether you like it or not. A fellow 
 like me, without any relations to speak of but 
 yourself, may do very much what he likes ; but 
 you are in quite another position, you must not 
 be eccentric, you are a match for anyone, that 
 is, if you must marry again, though why a man
 
 120 DORIS BA.RUGH. 
 
 having achieved the chief end of marriage an 
 heir to his possessions and having freed him- 
 self from the restraints of such a life, should 
 want to give up his freedom a second time, 
 passes my comprehension. Education is a fine 
 thing, but after all there are habits and ways 
 of life which education does not touch ; you 
 may put on as much outside varnish as you 
 like, but it is liable to crack, and then the 
 coarse texture shows through the rent. Good- 
 bye, old fellow; don't be offended, but write 
 again soon, and send me all the news you can, 
 specially about yourself and Ralph. I suppose 
 I shall find the fellow in tails and stick-ups 
 no, I forgot Eton practices when I wrote that. 
 I'm glad he loves the old place. Tell him we 
 must have cricket at Burneston when I come 
 home" 
 
 It has been said already that Mr. Burneston 
 was as obstinate on certain points as he was 
 yielding on others. If he had wanted any con- 
 firmation in his intentions about Doris Barugh, 
 this letter would have given it.
 
 A " COO'S " HEART. 121 
 
 He read it through twice with increasing, 
 impatience, and then turning round from the 
 breakfast-table, he threw it into the fire. 
 
 " I thought Raine was strong-minded, differ- 
 ent from other men, in being able to stand to 
 his own opinions, no matter what fire of world's 
 judgment was brought to bear on them. I 
 shall have no tolerance for his eccentricities in 
 future, they are not signs of real originality, 
 merely affectations to save himself the trouble 
 of conforming to rules." 
 
 He rose up and left his breakfast unfinished, 
 giving thereby a fruitful topic of wondering 
 comment for the rest of the day to Mr. and 
 Mrs. Hazelgrave as to " what could hev gone 
 wrang wi' t' rnaister." 
 
 During these five years Mr. Burneston's- 
 temper had been far less equable than it had 
 ever been in his life, for although nothing 
 would have made him give up his project, 
 after the first step had been taken, he was a 
 prey to fits of doubt which would not have 
 troubled a stronger and less impulsive nature. 
 He had resolved not to see Doris while she was
 
 122 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 at school, he wished entirely to blot out the 
 past relations between them, and to meet the 
 girl as an equal, and try to win her love. 
 This was the chief source of his disquiet, 
 and it was a puzzle to himself. He was not a 
 romantic man, though he had been entirely 
 fascinated by Doris's first appearance, and im- 
 pressed by the strange fortuitousness of the 
 words he had heard her singing ; but he knew 
 that he could have forgotten her, it had been 
 the singular appositeness of Raine's idea, when 
 he came into his study, that had seemed to 
 make a fate for him out of that chance meet- 
 ing. 
 
 'I did not trouble about being married for 
 myself in Louisa's case," he said ; " why should 
 it be more difficult to make a young creature 
 like Doris care for me, a girl who knows nothing 
 of society, she has never even received any at- 
 tention or admiration ? Yes, that is part of the 
 beauty of this idea, there will be nothing to un- 
 learn or eradicate, she will be so perfectly 
 guileless and simple," 
 
 He went out through the doors leading on to
 
 A " COO'S " HEART. 123 
 
 the lawn, and then with his hands clasped be- 
 hind his back, and his hat pulled over his eyes, 
 he walked beside the river. 
 
 The five years were just over, and he was in 
 daily expectation that John Barugh would de- 
 mand his daughter's return. Mr. Burneston 
 had not committed himself by any direct avowal 
 of his intentions ; he had told the farmer and 
 his wife that Doris ought to have a good 
 education. She was not, he said, an ordinary 
 girl, and the ordinary education of a country 
 town was not enough for her, and he had pro- 
 mised to provide handsomely for her, if he were 
 allowed to choose a school for her, but on the 
 condition that she was never to be told she 
 owed him anything. 
 
 His dread had been that the idea of marriage 
 might suggest itself, and that this would lower 
 the girl's tone of mind, and defeat all his hopes 
 of happiness. He told himself he was not 
 romantic, that he had no idea of inspiring Doris 
 with violent love for him, but he could not bear 
 the idea that she might marry him for his posi- 
 tion only.
 
 124 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 "After all," he stopped in his walk, and 
 turned to his house again, " it is quite possible 
 I may be disappointed in her ; if so, I certainly 
 shall not marry for the mere sake of taking a 
 wife. I have been the means of getting her a 
 good education, and I will settle such a sum on 
 her as will make her independent of her father 
 and mother, whatever happens." 
 
 He had determined on one point in this 
 long meditation. Doris should not make her 
 first appearance after leaving school at Burne- 
 ston. When she met him again there should 
 be nothing to remind her of the girl swing- 
 ing on the gate. 
 
 He went round the house, and out at the 
 great gates, and then on beside the river, till 
 he reached the foot of the village, where another 
 bridge, a rough one of open planks, with a hand- 
 rail crossed to the meadows opposite. 
 
 Joseph Sunley was leaning against one of the 
 posts at the end of the bridge, with a very 
 weary look on his face, but seeing Mr. Burne- 
 ston, he started forward. 
 
 " Neea, neea, squire ; bud if Ah'd aimed
 
 A " COO'S " HEART. 125 
 
 yu'd bin coomin' oop this way, mebbe Ah'd 
 hev bided atop, asteead o' gien' mysel' t* 
 clim back. My legs is nane that strang 'at they 
 war." 
 
 " Good day, Joseph." Joseph had been far 
 too much excited to remember any greeting 
 " Were you coming to see me T 
 
 " We el, I war that ; an j it's summat per- 
 tickler, 'at mun be spok' aboot, wivoot loss o' 
 tahrne, owther. T" things gans on an' on, 
 an' gans fra bad tu warse, just as a coorn 
 grows on t' feeat, an' it's all fer want o j settin' 
 streight." 
 
 Mr.. Burneston felt impatient. 
 
 "Well, what is it, Joseph?" he said, care- 
 lessly. 
 
 " Bon it ! squire ! it's nut lahke a nail oot 
 o' pleeace, ur a withered tree 'at sud be up- 
 reeated ; mebbe in a way, it's a withered shoot 
 'at sud be lopped off a healthy boddy ; bud it's 
 an evil 'at sud hev been stopped seeaner nobbut 
 yu'd been at t' flail, Maister Burneston." He 
 said this reproachfully. 
 
 " Well, I'm here now," the squire answered
 
 126 DORIS BARITGH. 
 
 good-humouredly ; " so let me hear it at once, 
 Joseph." 
 
 " T* hearin's nowt it's t' doin' 'at is wantin', 
 unless yu wants tu see divvel-wark spread 
 ower t' village lahke a curse." He shook his 
 head, but the effort at mystery in his face 
 weakened the effect of his words. 
 
 "Well, Sunley, I can do nothing until I hear 
 something. Speak out, man." And Mr. Burne- 
 ston looked impatiently towards the village. 
 
 " Weel,V Joseph sighed, " deea yu mahnd t' 
 awd uncanny lass Prudence, wr" a creeaked e'e 
 an' yan shoolder heigher 'an t' ither ?" 
 
 " Oh ! yes, I remember her ; she's a queer 
 body. What about her is she dead ?" 
 
 Joseph shook his head, and then looked at 
 the squire with slight contempt ; this ex- 
 pression was, however, transient, and it was 
 soon lost in the sort of officious mystery with 
 which he had at first accosted Mr. Burne- 
 ston. 
 
 "Neea, neea, shcects" with much emphasis 
 " nut deead, sike as sheea deean't dee." He 
 held up both hands with the palms outwards,
 
 A "COO'S" HEART. 127 
 
 his face wearing a look of abhorrence, as at 
 some awful spectacle. " It's t' ither way wi' t' 
 witches they dunnut dee if they 're nut called 
 tu t' reckonin' fer mischief it's t' ithers 'at 
 dees." 
 
 Mr. Burneston laughed. He had heard that 
 a belief in witchcraft still lingered in the 
 village, but secretly he was shocked to find 
 it upheld by such a person as Joseph Sun- 
 ley. 
 
 "Nonsense, Joseph, that's all very well for 
 old women to believe, but men like you and me 
 know better. Just because this wretched old 
 woman has a bad temper and an ugly face, no 
 one likes her, but this very circumstance ought 
 to make you pity her. A sensible man like 
 you." He said the last words extra loud, 
 and though Joseph still frowned, his lips re- 
 laxed at the compliment. He laid his 
 wrinkled hand solemnly on Mr. Burneston's 
 shoulder. 
 
 " Yu're ower gude tu see it, sir. Parson oop 
 at t' vicarage" he jerked his head towards 
 the hill "Lordluv yu he hesn't a mossel o'
 
 128 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 sense i' t' matter ; an' Ah says tuvhim, ' Parson, 
 yu knaws aboot 'ivven an' yal 'at gans on 
 oop theear, an' mebbe yu ken summat aboot t' 
 ither pleeace ; bud deean't gan fer tu meddle wi' 
 theease yere eearth matters, 'at yu knaw nowt 
 aboot." 
 
 Mr. Burneston laughed but he felt im- 
 patient. 
 
 " Well, Sunley, I'm going up the village,"- 
 Joseph's lips curled again " and you can walk 
 with me, and we'll talk this matter over. For 
 what cause do you call poor old Dame Wrigley 
 a witch !" 
 
 " Y u saay yu're boon' thruft t' village ; mebbe 
 yu'r bund tu t' Church Farm ? Eh ! eh ! an' it's 
 Farmer Barugh 'at hes t' best reeght tu call 
 Prudence a witch." 
 
 It was so absurd to hear of such an idea 
 being entertained by John Barugh, that Mr. 
 Burneston laughed again, even more heartily 
 than before. 
 
 " This is too much of a good thing, Sunley. 
 I can't believe a man like Mr. Barugh would 
 listen to such nonsense."
 
 A " COO'S " HEART. 129 
 
 Joseph's face quivered with anger ; he 
 stopped short, and raised his head stiffly, for 
 in the steep uphill walk he had bent till his 
 nose nearly touched the hand which grasped 
 his stick. 
 
 " Eh, Maister Burneston, John Barugh's nut 
 a feeal, an' if he feels hissel' 'witched, he's i' t' 
 reeght tn leeak abrooad an' seea wha it's bin 
 'at's warked t } mischief. He's lost tweea coos, 
 an' ther's a cawlf deem', an' he knaws, an' Ah 
 knaws, it's t' awd divvelskin 'at's withered 'em 
 fer spite." 
 
 Mr. Burneston thought he began to under- 
 stand ; he looked very serious. 
 
 "Do you mean to inform against this woman, 
 Prudence Wrigley, as having poisoned Mr. 
 Barugh's cows ?" 
 
 Joseph laughed scornfully. 
 
 " Lord luv yu, ye're nowt nu wahser ner t' 
 Parson, squire. T' witch warks wivoot puzzom; 
 sheea" he looked cautiously up and down the 
 hill, and then at the open doors and win- 
 dows of two cottages perched on the steep 
 green bank above the road "bide a bit," 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 130 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 he said, and walked on beside his com- 
 panion. 
 
 A little higher up the houses stopped, giving 
 place, on the left, to a lofty hedge on the top 
 of the bank, and on the right to a low stone 
 wall, shutting in a paddock, in one corner of 
 which stood a huge walnut-tree, its branches, 
 touched by an early frost, shedding gold and 
 green leaves down into the road. In the midst 
 of the grey wall was a large white gate, and 
 Joseph limped quickly up to this, and peered 
 round the enclosure, to make sure that no 
 listener was to be seen. 
 
 He then came close up to Mr. Burneston. 
 
 "Nobbut yu'll jist bend yur heead doon, Ah'll 
 tell yu. Sik as sheea dizzent use puzzom ; they've 
 gitten it i' t' inside on 'em. They gans an' buys 
 a coo's heart Ah knaws Prudence did an' they 
 sticks it wi' pins, an' they bury it, an' they 
 seys a foul nomony, an' in three daays t' 
 ither coo's deead as mutton ; an' when they 
 cut t' poor beast oppen it's heart's withered 
 lahke a bit o' skin an' full o' larl hooales. Sae 
 noo yu kens," he added triumphantly.
 
 A " COO'S " HEART. 131 
 
 Mr. Burneston looked shocked and incredu- 
 lous. " I tell you what, Joseph," he said earn- 
 estly, "you are about the oldest man in the 
 village, and till now I have thought you one 
 of the wisest ; this is all nonsense I tell you, 
 the thing's impossible ; even if the poor creature 
 thinks herself a witch, she can do nothing ; she 
 is most likely crazy, and you will drive her 
 quite mad if you spread this ridiculous nonsense 
 about the village ; and I tell you, as a magis- 
 trate, I shall interfere to protect this woman, if 
 I find anyone molesting her." 
 
 He spoke severely, for Joseph's eyes were 
 gleaming with a decidedly cruel expression. 
 
 They had just reached the top of the hill, 
 and Mr. Burneston turned to the farm-yard 
 gate. 
 
 The action roused Joseph's jealousy, and 
 completely upset his self-control. 
 
 "An'Ah sez 'at it's magistrates' boondeu duty 
 tu stop t' witch's mischief, an' nobbut t' draw 
 blood '11 deea't. Eh, an' if them 'at sud dea it 
 weean't deea't, then it mun be deean t' best way 
 it can." 
 
 K2
 
 132 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 But Mr. Burneston paid no heed to this 
 outburst ; he pushed open the white gate 
 and went on to the rick-yard, leaving Joseph 
 trembling with passion in the middle of the 
 road. 
 
 John Barugh's tall, erect figure and massive 
 red whiskers made him look like one of his 
 stalwart Danish forefathers, as he stood against 
 the light, contemplating the last of his newly- 
 made ricks with some satisfaction, for there had 
 been an exceptionally good harvest ; but this 
 satisfaction was soon over ; his thoughts went 
 back to their favourite subject of contemplation 
 his daughter Doris. He was growing very 
 restless to see her. He had given a sad and 
 unwilling consent to the separation ; but then it 
 was only to be for three years. At the end of 
 that time Doris had herself asked for two years 
 longer, and her father had not found himself 
 able to refuse consent. " Ah war a feeal to let 
 her gan," he said bitterly ; " but yance a feeal 
 Ah mun gan on wi' t' folly." And now at the 
 end of five years it seemed to him that Doris 
 would have grown quite unused to the homely 
 ways of her old home.
 
 A "COO'S" HEART. 133 
 
 He had never forgiven Mr. Burneston for 
 having as it were cheated his consent out of 
 him, for he knew that if the request had been 
 made to him alone he should have refused it. 
 But Dorothy had been present, and had sided 
 entirely with the squire, and as, except where 
 maVriage means complete union, husbands and 
 wives seldom like another person equally, John 
 was conscious of a contradictory feeling to- 
 wards his landlord, whom Dorothy held up as a 
 model of perfection. The sight of Mr. Burne- 
 ston always recalled to him his own weakness 
 in yielding up his better judgment, and he felt 
 constrained and ill at ease when they met. 
 
 He was stiff now in returning the squire's 
 greeting. 
 
 "Ah war thinkin' o' cormV awa' tu speeak 
 wi' yu, Maister Burnestou," he said coldly. 
 
 Mr. Burneston smiled. 
 
 " I daresay I am come about the same busi- 
 ness. At least I fancied you would be going to 
 fetch your daughter home, and I thought it 
 would be better that she should not come back 
 here at first."
 
 134 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 The same thought had come to the father, 
 but he felt irritated by this interference. 
 
 " Ah deean't see what fer nut," he said sullenly, 
 turning one shoulder awkwardly towards his 
 visitor. 
 
 " Now, if Doris is what I hope and expect," 
 said Mr. Burneston to himself, "she will not 
 like this kind of behaviour." 
 
 A slight flush rose to his face. 
 
 " Well, Mr. Barugh, you must of course do 
 as you please, but I was thinking of Doris. It 
 seems to me in many ways pleasanter that 
 your reunion should not take place in the 
 midst of your neighbours. Mrs. Barugh said 
 last time I was here that George was flagging 
 again, and I thought of taking a cottage near 
 Steersley, where you could be all to yourselves 
 for a time." 
 
 John looked taller and prouder than ever. 
 
 " Ah'm obleeged, Maister Burneston, an' that's 
 what Ah'm nut fond o' bein' tu onny man. If 
 Ah wants a cottage at Steersley, Ah s'll get it 
 mysel' athoot troublin' yu, sir. It war aboot 
 summat else 'at Ah war comiu' awa' tu t' 
 Hall." 
 
 i
 
 135 
 
 Mr. Burnestou had grown fiery red, but 
 he saw that remonstrance would provoke a 
 quarrel. 
 
 "Ah war comin'," said JoHn, squaring his 
 shoulders and stuffing his hands to the bottom 
 of his pockets, " tu speeak aboot t' uncanny 
 awd lass, Prudence Wrigley." 
 
 "Let her be," said Mr. Burnestou. "For 
 Heaven's sake, don't you join with that cruel 
 old man opposite against the poor creature." 
 
 John gave a derisive smile ; he could not 
 control his irritation. 
 
 " Sheea's gitten ye an' all, hes sheea, squire, as 
 weel as t' Parson ? Weel, Sattan's a cute chap, 
 seear eneeaf, he knaws hoo tu set his limbs tu 
 wark ; bud mark yu this, nobbut Ah looase t' 
 ither coo an' sheea's been sick sin' t' mornin' 
 Ah diz this, Ah taks mah biggest cart-whip 
 an' Ah slashes t' awd divvel's feeace across 
 till t' blood sproots, it's t' ooanly cure," he said 
 calmly. 
 
 " No, you won't," Burneston said earnestly ; 
 " you're too much of a man to strike a woman ; 
 now mayn't I come in?" He put his hand
 
 136 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 on the farmer's arm. "I want to have a 
 talk with George. I envy you that lad, Mr. 
 Barugh. I wish Ralph would take after 
 him."
 
 137 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 COMING HOME. 
 
 T\ GUIS, in whom the hopes of both these men 
 *-J were so firmly centred, was looking for- 
 ward to her new life at home, so near at hand, 
 with keen interest, and at the same time with 
 much shrinking. 
 
 It was a definite sign of the change wrought 
 in her by culture that she now shrank most 
 from daily intercourse with her mother's artifi- 
 cial attempts at gentility, which, though really 
 softened since Dorothy had lived George's life 
 instead of her own, still lived in a somewhat 
 exaggerated form in the letters which she sent 
 to her daughter. Doris had no shrinking from 
 her father's roughness. She found full sympa- 
 thy in his simplicity and his perfect truth for
 
 138 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 she saw that he never hid his opinions even 
 when they clashed decidedly with her own. 
 
 "I shall get on with father, but then I 
 always did, and mother is so kind that I must 
 try not to get vexed with her. George is the 
 one who puzzles me, he seems to have grown 
 downright unreasonable. Rika is right when 
 she says an invalid is sure to have fancies." 
 
 Her face was full of wounded feeling. Next 
 to her father and Rika she loved George better 
 than she loved anyone, and though Doris was free 
 from petty conceit, still school-life had taught 
 her that she was some one who had a right to 
 expect deference, and affection too, from her 
 companions. Of the last she had had far more 
 offered than she could possibly accept, and her 
 dislike to demonstrative affection had given to 
 her manner a slight haughtiness with most of 
 her companions. 
 
 It has been said that the schoolmistress at 
 Pelican House did not trouble herself about the 
 inner life of her pupils, but she had a rapid per- 
 ception of outward manner. She observed this 
 haughtiness in Doris, and did not attempt to
 
 COMING HOME. 
 
 check it. She foresaw a brilliant future for this 
 beautiful, well-mannered girl, and when she 
 saw Doris walk away from some gushing 
 school-fellow, with her head rather higher than 
 usual, Miss Phillimore smiled and thought, 
 " She is learning to govern others/' and proba- 
 bly, to use the language of the outside world, 
 manner is one of the essential qualities of a 
 successful ruler. 
 
 There was another quality in Doris, to which 
 even Miss Phillimore submitted without being 
 aware that it had a far deeper source of life 
 than could have been supplied to it at Pelican 
 House. 
 
 Spite of this occasional haughtiness, at times 
 almost brusquerie spite of the quiet unimpul- 
 sive manner which was sometimes called re- 
 serve, and sometimes a singular self-control r 
 there was in Doris an irresistible fascination 
 the more difficult to strive against because, as 
 it was never assumed or visibly put forth, there 
 was nothing tangible to resist. Her smile was 
 delightful, it seemed so heartfelt, and as it 
 spread over her lovely face, irradiating the
 
 140 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 delicate skin and exquisitely perfect features, 
 no one could stop to realise the strong power 
 of will that in this charming form drew all 
 hearts to itself, and its own way of seeing 
 things. 
 
 She was far more conscious of her sway than 
 strong-willed people often are, but she attri- 
 buted this chiefly to her surroundings. 
 
 " You say I shall be so happy," she said to\~ 
 her friend on the last morning ; " in some ways 
 no doubt I shall be, but life will not be so 
 peaceful at home as it is here. You are the 
 only person in this house who ever finds fault 
 with me." 
 
 They were to leave Pelican House together, 
 and to say good-bye at the railway station, 
 where their respective fathers would meet 
 them ; and now in the hour that must elapse 
 before starting they were together in the 
 school-room. 
 
 " Doris " Rika stopped suddenly, and 
 turned round to face her friend " do you want 
 to stagnate, or to grow into a grand Turk ? for 
 you must do one or other, perhaps both, if
 
 COMING HOME. 141 
 
 you're not contradicted. People who are never 
 contradicted are odious. Wise fault-finding is 
 very useful. Besides, it is an incomprehensible 
 idea that you, who are always wanting to get 
 cleverer and cleverer, should be content to 
 stand still. Don't disappoint me, Doris, in 
 these last moments ; I can't bear it." 
 
 Doris laughed, for Rika's vehemence had 
 brought bright colour rushing to her cheeks, 
 and her eyes had grown dark with excitement. 
 "You torrent," Doris said, "you put me in 
 mind of a volcano. You go about for days 
 dreaming in a kind of black or brown study, 
 and then suddenly you pour out a stream 
 of glowing, burning words that scorch 
 one." 
 
 " Well " Rika looked ashamed of herself 
 " I really am going to be matter-of-fact for the 
 rest of my days. I mean that stop, I'm going 
 to give you a bit of my father, I have not wit 
 enough to grow such ideas well, I mean that 
 life goes on, and we must go on along with it. 
 We may shut our eyes and let ourselves be 
 carried ; that is stagnation according to my
 
 142 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 ideas ; if not, we are always learning and 
 being acted upon by what we learn. In all 
 conscience, you have done enough with book- 
 learning ; you've got enough to last you for 
 life if you keep it bright. Well, then, now 
 you've got to learn life from real people ; and 
 nothing will teach you that, and yourself, too, 
 as contradiction will." 
 
 "How do you mean teach me myself? A 
 girl must be stupid who does not understand 
 herself." 
 
 " I know, so it seems to me ; and when I said 
 so to my father he laughed, and said I wanted 
 a lantern." 
 
 " But, Rika," the subject of self-knowledge 
 did not interest Doris ; she had a great dislike 
 to sermons, and she thought this sounded like 
 a fragment from Mr. Masham's pulpit " you 
 are unjust, and also not quite true." 
 
 " What do you mean ?" in a very impetuous 
 voice. 
 
 " I mean, that if people don't agree with me, 
 I am always content to let them go on in the 
 wrong so long as they leave me in peace ; live
 
 COMING HOME. 143 
 
 and let live, is my motto, but you are never 
 happy till you have persuaded people to agree 
 with you." 
 
 " You see " Rika stood thinking " I'm not 
 proud ; and, perhaps, though you are such 
 an angel, you are a trifle proud. Now give 
 me a 'good kiss, Doris, to wipe out this argu- 
 ment. We can't afford to argue on our last 
 day." 
 
 Then, as they stood a moment, with moist- 
 ened eyes, and circled by each other's arms 
 
 " And you will really give my love to George, 
 and make him fond of me. My heart is quite 
 ready to take in a fifth brother." 
 
 " Thank you," then, with most unusual im- 
 pulse, for the coming change in her life had 
 shaken Doris out of all restraint, " What a 
 loving heart you have, dear Rika ! I believe you 
 love my father, and mother, and George as 
 much as I love them myself, and I seem to love 
 your people so little, though you talk of them 
 so much." 
 
 " That's because I'm a chatterbox." 
 They walked up and down silently after
 
 144 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 this. Doris's thoughts soon left her friend, 
 to picture life at home, and its difficulties ; 
 while Rika, who in the glamour of her intense 
 friendship could not really see a fault in her 
 companion, was saddened out of any looking 
 forward beyond the coming sharpness of sepa- 
 ration. 
 
 And meantime, in a pretty cottage covered 
 with scarlet leaves, Mrs. Barugh had been 
 busy for the last fortnight making preparations 
 to receive her daughter. Dorothy had at once 
 seen the wisdom of Mr. Burneston's suggestion, 
 and by citing George's health, always better 
 away from Burneston, she had worried her 
 husband into consenting to take a cottage at 
 Steersley. Probably the victory had been 
 made easy to her by Doris, who, when informed 
 of the idea, wrote at once to say she preferred 
 to return to Steersley instead of to Burneston. 
 
 It was late afternoon, and Mrs. Barugh stood 
 looking at the neatly-spread tea-table with a 
 nervous, dissatisfied face. 
 
 " I doubt about Doris liking to eat her
 
 COMING HOME. 145 
 
 tea in the room we sit in," she said fretfully, 
 " she'll have been used to a proper drawing- 
 room." 
 
 George was sitting at a little side-table read- 
 ing out of the red and gold book Rose had 
 given him, and which had become his favourite 
 companion, fie looked up with a smile on his 
 pale face, for he too was tired. He had been 
 trying to carry out some of his mother's con- 
 stantly changing ideas of preparation through 
 the morning, without being able to satisfy her 
 over-wrought notions as to that which would 
 satisfy Doris. 
 
 " Mother, you'll be so weary. You'll not 
 be able to look at Doris when she comes. 
 You must sit ye down." 
 
 fie rose up, and going to her, kissed away 
 the frown that was gathering on her face and 
 put her in an easy chair. 
 
 " Come, mother, ye have to do as Ah tells 
 yu now father's away, an' you mun do as you're 
 bid, ye know. Sit down and rest yourself. It's 
 all reeght." 
 
 George had lost much broadness of dialect, 
 
 VOL. I. !
 
 146 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 but his accent was still marked, and specially to- 
 day, for he felt greatly moved at the near pros- 
 pect of seeing Doris. 
 
 His mother sighed. 
 
 ' f I'm so fearful she'll think us far beneath 
 her, poor girl. She'll not care for you, George, 
 if you speak so broad and common," she sighed. 
 " I wish you'd speak more like me." 
 
 " Niver fear, mother." His smile brought 
 into his face a strange likeness to Doris, it was 
 eo winning. " Ye're a bit upset now, an* so 
 can't see things rightly. She can't help lovin' 
 us, yu know, for we're her own. Nay, nay, 
 mother, if yey'd try an' read Rose's book, yey'd 
 see these things clearer ; yey'd see it's not worth 
 while to worrit sae mitch aboot this life after 
 all." 
 
 " It's all very well, George." She could not 
 keep the irritable tone out of her voice. " You're 
 very good, an' all that, but you're not real ; 
 them things reads well in books, but they don't 
 do for life." 
 
 " Now, mother," he patted her shoulders 
 lovingly, " you carry out what t' book says
 
 COMING HOME. 147 
 
 yourself; yey've spent all yur time an' thowght 
 on t' bed-room an' t' sitting-room Doris is to 
 hev ; but as to t' passage, beyond that it's 
 clean an' orderly, you've took no thowght about 
 it. Now life's our passage, an' t' rooms is t' 
 place we're getting ready for us in heaven. 
 Sae you see t' book 's reeght efter all." 
 
 Dorothy did not answer, and George thought 
 she was pondering his idea ; but all at once 
 she started up with a scared look in her 
 eyes. 
 
 " They're comin', lad ; they're comin'. 
 Don't ye hear the wheels ? An' my cap not 
 changed." She ran away upstairs, while 
 George felt as suddenly taken by surprise as if 
 he had not been schooling himself for days past 
 for the meeting with Doris.
 
 148 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 SYMPATHIES. 
 
 " TT O^ 7 sma ll bow very small it all is ! and 
 
 *-*- how iny mother stoops I" 
 
 Doris looked round the small square room, 
 with its low ceiling, cheap white curtains, and 
 common-place furnishings, almost before she 
 looked at its occupants. 
 
 Her mother and George had received her at 
 the door, and she had returned their hearty 
 kisses warmly ; and now came that lull which, 
 with English people, is apt to succeed any un- 
 usual outburst of affection, as if we want to give 
 emotion time to subside into an equable flow of 
 feeling, The silence was broken by the father, 
 usually the least talkative member of the Barugh
 
 SYMPATHIES. 149 
 
 family. He had stood gazing at Doris ; now he 
 said suddenly 
 
 " Whya, George, lad, thoo's as glum as a 
 deear-nail. Isn't thoo fain tu see Doris ?" 
 
 " Ay, fayther," he smiled, and limped nearer 
 the chair where his sister sat, looking at her 
 with loving admiration. 
 
 Doris did not want to speak, she would 
 have liked to sit quietly taking in all these 
 new impressions, but her own sense of good- 
 breeding, and this appeal roused her. At 
 present she felt too much a stranger for affec- 
 tion. 
 
 " How you have grown, George V She 
 looked up at the tall, slender lad ; he was 
 paler even than usual; his brown eyes were 
 full of feeling, as he smiled in his sister's lovely 
 face. 
 
 All the repulsion he had fancied, all the 
 coldness he had feared his manner would be- 
 tray, had melted in the genuine delight of her 
 presence. He had imagined he should see 
 an artificial, stiff, grandly-dressed young lady, 
 and here, instead, was a lovely, simple girl
 
 150 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 smiling at him as if she were quite at her 
 ease. 
 
 " D'ye find him altered, my dear ?" Mrs. 
 Barugh spoke to her daughter with great re- 
 spect, pulling nervously at her cap-strings ; 
 though she had paid for the clothes Doris wore, 
 Miss Phillimore had chosen them, and the 
 make of the girl's gown, the set of her shawl, 
 and the style of her simple straw bonnet im- 
 pressed Dorothy's mind at once. " John's 
 right ; she's like a born lady/' she said to her- 
 self. 
 
 Doris looked earnestly at George's brown 
 eyes still bent on her face. 
 
 " Yes, he is altered," she said gravely ; 
 "he looks so much older," then turning 
 to her mother "and you are altered too, 
 mother," she said, with her sweet rare smile, 
 " but you look younger than I could have ex- 
 pected." 
 
 The tinge of colour that rose in Dorothy's 
 cheeks made the likeness between herself and 
 her daughter very perceptible. 
 
 " That's just what Mr. Burneston remarked
 
 SYMPATHIES. 151 
 
 yesterday," she said, in a fluttered voice ; " he 
 said " 
 
 " Bother Maister Burneston," said John good- 
 hum ouredly. " We'll hev t' rest o' t' 'teeal pre- 
 sentlys t' lass '11 need to gan oop-steers to 
 fettle hersel'." 
 
 Doris went upstairs and sat down in a chair 
 near her bedroom window. She saw how small 
 everything was, and that the ceiling was very 
 low, but she never glanced at the little details 
 about the room, at which Mrs. Barugh and 
 George had worked so hard. 
 
 " How different things are from what one ex- 
 pects 1" she said. " I thought mother would 
 vex me, and that father and I should get on 
 well ; and now it's father's way of speaking 
 that vexes me, and this little ugly house. I 
 feel as if I must stifle in such small, poky rooms. 
 Mother looks nice, if she wouldn't stoop, and 
 George looks like a gentleman somehow I 
 feel timid with George. But it's too soon to 
 judge fairly of anything, and it is nice to be 
 like Rika, and have people of one's own to love 
 one."
 
 152 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 Doris's notions of the outside world were 
 somewhat vague. Twice a year there were 
 parties at Pelican House, and in these she had 
 danced with, and had been spoken to by 
 " grown-up " gentlemen and ladies, for every 
 one was attracted by Miss Phillimore's " lovely 
 pupil," who never seemed the worse for the 
 notice she excited. Then at church she saw 
 many people, and in the long Summer holidays 
 Miss Phillimore had taken her sometimes to 
 Cromer, sometimes to Broadstairs, and Doris 
 had found friends everywhere. She never 
 sought them. Her proud northern nature 
 shrank from any deception, and she felt that 
 with strangers she was a deception, and that if 
 they could see her in her home-surroundings, 
 with her mother in place of Miss Phillimore, 
 these refined acquaintances would not care 
 about her. 
 
 There was no outspoken confidence between 
 Doris and her schoolmistress about her home 
 or her parents. Miss Phillimore had asked 
 no questions and made no comments even on 
 John Barugh's broad accent for she saw him
 
 SYMPATHIES. 153 
 
 once or twice; and so the girl's natural re- 
 serve had deepened and strengthened. Till 
 Hika Masham came to school, Doris had not 
 opened her heart to anyone even to Rika 
 she merely said her father was a Yorkshire 
 farmer. She had tried to forget her surmise 
 that Mr. Burneston had been the means of 
 sending her to so good a school. The feeling 
 of obligation was galling to Doris, but it came 
 back now; and she wondered how her father 
 could ever have brought himself to submit to 
 it. 
 
 " Well, perhaps it is a way landlords have." 
 She roused herself to take off her bonnet and 
 smooth her hair for she now wore it smoothly 
 brushed behind the little ears that blushed like 
 a delicate sea-shell it would not lie flat, there 
 was a lovely ripple on the silken masses, 
 especially over the creamy temples, where a 
 blue vein showed through the tender skin. 
 " George said, when he wrote about Rose, that 
 Mr. Burneston was going to pay half her school- 
 ing ; but Rose and I are different." Then, after 
 a pause, " Perhaps father's richer than I thought,
 
 154 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 and took nothing but advice from Mr. Burne- 
 eton." 
 
 Doris came into the room below, and the 
 sight of the tea-table gave her a fresh shock 
 she had forgotten the old home customs it was 
 piled with cake of all kinds, besides cold ham 
 and fowls, and a huge pie. She looked at the 
 plateful her father carved for her, and pushed it 
 gently away. 
 
 " I can't eat half this, father ; indeed I can't," 
 she said. 
 
 "Niver fash theesel', mah lass/' John said. 
 He was so happy that he was almost frolic- 
 some this evening. "Eat it or lay't back, 
 it's all yan, bless thee ; thoo's seeafe tu be 
 reeght." 
 
 George said little; he was studying Doris, 
 and wondering whether she would like Rose. 
 He always felt better in health away from 
 Burueston, but it had been a sacrifice to give 
 up Rose's visits, though lately she had been 
 visiting some of her schoolfellows, and he had 
 seen little of her. 
 
 John Barugh noticed the lad's silence and the
 
 SYMPATHIES. 155 
 
 wistful looks he cast at Doris; and, though he 
 grudged to lose a moment of his darling, he 
 understood George's feelings. 
 
 " Dorothy," he said, when the meal was over, 
 and the smart little maid had cleared the 
 table, " coom awaay. Ah've summat fer the'." 
 Then in the kitchen he added, "T' lad's 
 flaayed. He weean't speeak tu Doris whahle 
 there's nobbut him an' her aleean. Coom, 
 mah lass, Ah've brought yu a fairin' fra' 
 Lunnon." 
 
 It was true ; false shame, or perhaps strength 
 of feeling, had kept George dumb. As soon 
 as his father and mother had departed his shy- 
 ness fled. He limped across the room and took 
 a chair beside his sister. 
 
 " I'm afraid " he spoke much less broadly 
 now when he was not excited ; his intercourse 
 with Mr. Burneston and with Rose had rubbed 
 away some of his accent, while his reading had 
 changed the old idioms of his forefathers into a 
 nearer approach to standard English " I'm 
 afraid," he repeated, " that at first you'll find 
 us rough an' unlike what you've been used to."
 
 156 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 "Yes, it's very different." Then, with an 
 effort, " But then you are my own people, and 
 it is so lonely to live among strangers." 
 
 George raised his eyebrows, and his young 
 face looked almost stern. 
 
 " Then why did ye stay on so much longer 
 than was thought of?" 
 
 " Ah ! that was different. I had got used to 
 the loneliness, and I felt that, if I came away at 
 the time that had been fixed, I should be only 
 half taught ; my learning and music would have 
 been of no use ; I should most likely have given 
 them up/' 
 
 " You would niver give up readinV 
 
 " Oh ! no ; everyone must read, but reading 
 is not all. I suppose anyone can read, whether 
 educated or not," she said loftily. 
 
 George felt humbled, and the old distance 
 seemed to rise between him and Doris. He had 
 grown to consider -reading a high acquirement, 
 because it was the only means of culture that 
 came within his reach-; and besides this, his 
 reading had taught him the meaning of some 
 of his own feelings. In these years of sepa-
 
 SYMPATHIES. 157 
 
 ration from Doris he had often blamed him- 
 self for their disputes, or rather silent estrange- 
 ments, for they both felt too deeply to get 
 their grievances readily into words. Now 
 this pitiless speech, though he exonerated 
 Doris from meaning it unkindly, carried 
 him back to childish days, and revealed 
 the root of the want of sympathy between 
 them. 
 
 "No, it's not all," he made an effort to 
 smile "but it is a good deal to a chap 
 that has to keep quiet most of his time, 
 Doris." 
 
 " Yes ; I was not thinking of you when I 
 spoke," said Doris simply. 
 
 She had had no intention to wound; she 
 was so accustomed to look at everything 
 from her own point of view that it could not 
 occur to her to study the feelings of others; 
 and this manifest ignorance restored George's 
 balance. 
 
 " School doesn't teach everything, I see," he 
 thought, looking admiringly at his beautiful 
 sister, " or maybe my notion of a lady isn'fc
 
 158 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 t' right 'un ; an' yet there's Mr. Burneston, 
 he quite sorts wiv all I fancy ; he's good an' 
 gentle an' ' refined/ as mother calls it ; he's 
 proper an' kind too, but he niver speaks a 
 word 'at '11 mak' a lad feel sore when he's out 
 at t' door." 
 
 " D'ye mind t' squire, lass ?" he said pre- 
 sently. 
 
 Doris had gone up to a little bookshelf, and 
 was reading the names on the backs of 
 George's favourites. She did not turn her 
 head ; she felt her cheeks had grown red at the 
 words. 
 
 " Yes, of course I do ; he used often to come 
 to the farm, you know ; he's not altered much, 
 I expect." And as she spoke, really and vivid- 
 ly came into her mind that meeting at the 
 gate, and the foolish rhyme, which during her 
 school life, and the complete severance from 
 home scenes, had grown vague, and, when 
 recalled, had made her wonder why it had 
 so greatly troubled her. Now she seem- 
 ed to see the golden-starred meadow, and the 
 white parsonage-house nestling down below
 
 SYMPATHIES. 159 
 
 it, and she said over to herself the 
 words 
 
 "May it so happen, and may it so fall, 
 I may be lady of Burneston Hall." 
 
 George laughed loudly, and Doris started 
 and cried out. The reality of it all seemed to 
 scorch her, and she turned round suddenly, so 
 as to break away from the vision which had 
 effaced present surroundings. 
 
 " Eh, lass, did I flaay yu ?" He got up, and, 
 limping towards her, laid his hand gently 
 on her shoulder. " Why, Fse sorry, Doris, 
 ye look fair skeeared; sit ye down, lass, 
 on t' squab. I laughed t' see yu potterin' at 
 t' old books. D'ye know aught o' this here f " 
 And he pulled Rose's well-read gift from 
 under the sofa-cushion, and gave it to his 
 sister. 
 
 " ( Pilgrim's Progress.' " Doris turned over 
 a few pages, and then gaped a little. " I've 
 heard of it, but I don't think I ought to 
 read it, George. Miss Philliraore told us 
 never to read 'Don Quixote,' or 'Pilgrim's 
 Progress,' or the ' Vicar of Wakefield.' She said
 
 160 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 they were common books, quite unsuited to 
 girls." 
 
 George's lips curled. " Well, so is Shake- 
 speare an' t' Bible, an' yet they're not common. 
 If ye choose t' read the ' Pilgrim/ Til mark yu 
 what to read ; an' ye'll hev a real loss athoot it, 
 Doris. It's as full o' wisdom as a puddin' is o' 
 plums. Maybe it wad help yu ; it lies me, oft 
 an' again." 
 
 " Help me I" Her delicate eyebrows curved 
 in wonder, but she was not ruffled by her 
 brother's bluntness. " I fancy one must always 
 get help from superiors, and John Bunyan was 
 an ignorant man." 
 
 There was a silence. 
 
 "This isn't the old piano." Doris went up to 
 a small pianoforte at the end of the room, and 
 opened it ; then her eyes glistened. " Oh, how 
 very kind of father ! Has he really bought this 
 for me ?" 
 
 She touched a few notes carelessly, and a 
 bright flush stole into the boy's pale face. 
 He limped up to her, put his arm round her 
 neck, and kissed her.
 
 SYMPATHIES. 161 
 
 " Sing me a song, honey," he said tenderly ; 
 " ye could sing like a lark when ye were a little 
 lass." 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 162 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 DORIS'S WALK. 
 
 THE beauty of the dales round Steersley, 
 and the picturesque little town itself, de- 
 lighted Doris; in the fresh glow of reunion 
 with her family, and the novelty of all around, 
 she lost the stiffness which the first strangeness 
 had created. 
 
 " Thoo's mah ain lass, efter all, 'at Ah thoowt 
 Ah'd nivver see again," said John Barugh, on 
 the third morning after her arrival. " Ah war 
 reeght afeared o' thee, lass, at fost, thoo waz as 
 set-oop as a duchess." 
 
 Doris looked at him gravely. 
 
 " Only shy, father, I think ; you see you were 
 all used to one another, and I was the only 
 stranger."
 
 DORIS'S WALK. 163 
 
 "Weel, weel," he patted her soft hair with 
 his broad red hand, " 't war t' sangs, lass, put 
 us i' time wiv yan anither, t' sangs hev put 
 new life intiv mother and me an' George." 
 
 And indeed it seemed as if the magic power 
 of her music had melted reserve and distance 
 between the brother and sister. Doris did not 
 yet know how to talk to George so as to win 
 his confidence, but she had found out how to 
 please him and her parents too, and the three 
 sat entranced evening after evening, while she 
 sang song after song, or played little snatches 
 of Mozart or Beethoven. Those evenings came 
 back to her in the after-days of her life. 
 
 Her chief longing in these first days 
 was to get out of doors, and her father had 
 gone with her in her walks. George tired so 
 soon, and Mrs. Barugh never walked farther 
 than to church and back: spite of the tiny 
 house and the clever little maid, the notable 
 Dorothy always had something to do indoors. 
 
 John Barugh had walked out twice with 
 Doris, swelling with pride as he crossed the 
 square market-place, with its old pump in the 
 
 M 2
 
 164 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 midst, and saw the landlord of the "Black 
 Eagle " come to his door, which faced the said 
 market-place, to look after the fair creature 
 walking beside her father ; but on the fourth 
 day John departed for Burneston without trust- 
 ing himself to any leave-taking. 
 
 " Tak' tent o' mah lass," he said to Dorothy, 
 "an' see sheea deeau't want nowt, bud mind 
 yu, Dorothy, nae visitors." He said this stub- 
 bornly, and got into his dog-cart, and went 
 back to his farm. 
 
 Mrs. Barugh went down to the gate with 
 her husband, and now, instead of going back 
 into the little sitting-room, where Doris and 
 George were reading, she turned into the room 
 they dined in, on the other side of the pas- 
 sage. 
 
 " My word, one would think Doris was more 
 John's than mine, he seems to set more store by 
 her than by anyone else." She went up to the 
 small, gaudily-framed looking-glass and settled 
 her cap. " I suppose it's natural ; she calls to 
 his mind, poor fellow, what I was twenty years 
 ago." She gave another look in the glass, and
 
 DORIS'S WALK. 165 
 
 a little sigh escaped her. " Ah dear ! I didn't 
 think then to take up with a man that 
 couldn't speak proper English. Perhaps Doris 
 '11 improve him though somehow I don't 
 think she'll bide long with us." 
 
 Mrs. Barugh nodded her head, and then went 
 off into a reverie on the subject nearest her 
 heart a subject so sternly forbidden by her 
 husband on the occasions when she had ven- 
 tured to hint at it, that Dorothy had grown 
 to consider it almost criminal, and seldom now 
 spoke of Mr. Burneston, lest she should say 
 more than she intended. 
 
 " It's all a pack o' nonsense o' John," she said 
 at last, pinching and pulling her large worked 
 muslin collar, to make it sit more like those 
 worn by Doris. " Such a face and such a figure 
 as she's got would ha* made her look like a 
 lady anyway, and now she can play and sing 
 and talk as she do I ask where's the hin- 
 drance ? John's a good husband, but he's a 
 fool in some ways, he's clivver too, an' he ought 
 to know where a woman's wit comes in useful ; 
 ah, if he'd just let me manage, I'd soon see
 
 166 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 the squire courtin' our lass. It's right down 
 stupid of John." 
 
 She shrugged her shoulders impatiently, she 
 hated to be forbidden anything, but to be for- 
 bidden to ask Mr. Burneston to come to the 
 cottage was insupportable. 
 
 "Mother, I want father." Mrs. Barugh 
 started. There was Doris standing in the door- 
 way. " I'm going to walk alongside the river 
 we crossed yesterday I'm sure there's beauti- 
 ful country down in the valley. Where is 
 father, perhaps he'll like a walk ?" 
 
 " Why, child, how you scared me ! Your 
 father's gone back to Burneston, he's wanted at 
 the farm. Why, my dear, he's taken a longer 
 holiday than he's took for many a year, thanks 
 to you." 
 
 " It was very kind of him," she said, and she 
 went upstairs. 
 
 She had grown used to her father's broad 
 speech, and his great kindness had touched her 
 deeply, but there was a certain sense of freedom 
 in his absence. The tiny house oppressed her, 
 and so did her mother's quiet, common-place
 
 DORIS'S WALK. 167 
 
 talk. George was interesting, but he gave her 
 much food for reflection, and the complete 
 change in her life had caused, after the first 
 excitement awakened by it, a powerful re- 
 action and a longing for space in which to 
 dream as she had dreamed till Rika came to 
 Pelican House. 
 
 There was this distinction between Doris's 
 craving for solitude and that of a more ima- 
 ginative dreamer, out of whose reveries crea- 
 tions are evolved she only wanted to digest 
 and consider this new life. It seemed to her 
 that she was a woman now, and she must plan 
 her future, as when at school she had planned 
 her return home and its consequences. This 
 was over, and home was on the whole more 
 satisfactory than she had expected, her mother 
 was so much quieter, and George was so superior 
 to her remembrance of him ; but yet it seemed 
 to her that all was not over. Some day they 
 would have to go back to Burneston, and what 
 would life be like then ? Must she always be 
 content to live alone at home? for she could 
 not associate with the village people. As she
 
 168 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 looked forward to this part of her future, she 
 saw that there lay the sting of the difference 
 between herself and her family. Her mother 
 and George spoke with delight of Mr. Burne- 
 ston's visits, and she could not endure the pros- 
 pect of seeing him. Doubtless there would be 
 a charm in listening to his refined talk, and in 
 the sympathy she would find in him ; but it- 
 would be too galling to be visited as an in- 
 ferior, and how else could Mr. Burneston regard 
 her? 
 
 She turned gladly from this thought to the 
 picture she was occupied in painting of her own 
 future usefulness. She meant to seek out poor 
 ignorant girls and teach them to refine them- 
 selves, and try to make them give up the taste 
 for smart, cheap finery which she remarked in 
 Steersley, and imitate her own simple ways ; 
 also she would teach them to think less of 
 lovers ; it was so very absurd that a man almost 
 a stranger should claim all the thoughts of a 
 woman, and make her forgetful and careless 
 even of her parents. This last idea had been 
 created by George, who argued that the first
 
 DORIS'S WALK. 169 
 
 duty of a woman was to become devoted to one 
 man. 
 
 Many of these thoughts haunted Doris as 
 she tied her bonnet strings and came slowly 
 downstairs. 
 
 " Doris, love/' her mother came out into the 
 passage and spoke timidly ; she was not nearly 
 so much at her ease with her beautiful child as 
 clumsy simple John was " it's best not to go 
 far off, unless the father's with you, my dear. 
 This isn't Burneston, where all the folks know 
 you ; we're strangers here." 
 
 " Mother," the girl held her head very proud- 
 ly, " what's the use of trying to be different from, 
 what I am ? If there's no one to walk with, I 
 must walk alone. I suppose other farmers' 
 daughters have to do it, and the sooner I begin 
 the better. I shall be ill if you coop me up in- 
 doors. You would be far better yourself if you 
 got more air and exercise, and so would George." 
 Then seeing the look of timid dismay on her 
 mother's pale face, she added gently, " Will 
 you come a little way with me now ?" 
 
 Poor Dorothy was so touched and flattered by
 
 170 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 this request, that, almost involuntarily, she 
 kissed her daughter. 
 
 " I'd like it of all things, my dear, and maybe 
 another day Fll manage it ; but George's heart 
 is set on apple-pie to-day, and as to trusting 
 Harriet to make it alone, I'd liefer go without, 
 and George wouldn't touch it the paste would 
 be leather or chips, and maybe burned as well. 
 You needn't look so troubled, Doris ; indeed, 
 my dear, I don't do kitchen work, your father 
 couldn't abide it, let alone that I was never 
 brought up to anything dirty ; but standing 
 over pie-crust is a thing no lady need look 
 down on, so I tell you." Her cheeks flushed as 
 she ended. 
 
 Doris smiled and went down to the gate. 
 " Good-bye, mother," she nodded, and it seemed 
 to her that in that little outburst her mother 
 had been more real, more like the fretful woman 
 she remembered, than she had seen her since 
 her own return home. 
 
 " There is really nothing to be ashamed of in 
 my present life except that I am idle," the girl 
 thought. She tried to be dispassionate, and to
 
 DORIS'S WALK. 171 
 
 look at the whole matter as if she herself were 
 detached from it. " I don't think I'm ashamed 
 of any of them ; if I had not been to school I 
 shouldn't have known any difference, I suppose. 
 Then, if I hadn't been, I should have lost, oh, 
 how much ! Why, I had no more perception of 
 things than a dog or a cat has! I enjoyed 
 nothing but puddings and new frocks. At 
 school I was always looking forward. Well, 
 then, there must be a want of some kind 
 in life, so perhaps in time I may feel satisfied." 
 
 There was a stern contraction in the delicate 
 eyebrows, a firm compression in the exquisitely 
 curved lips, which told that the prospect of her 
 future life gave Doris deeper anxiety than she 
 would acknowledge. But her mind was too 
 strong to indulge in repining, and she looked 
 about her to enjoy the exquisite country she 
 delighted in. 
 
 Behind the two old-fashioned inns, with their 
 quaint signs, the square-towered church stood 
 at the corner of three roads : the road leading 
 up from the little town ; the high road on the 
 right which led to the Rectory ; and facing her
 
 172 DORIS BARUQH. 
 
 was the path which rail up past the church and 
 followed the course of the little beck for some 
 way, then it divided, and broadened on the left 
 into another high road, which ran northward, 
 and on the right' it went on in a narrow lane to 
 a gate leading into pleasant-looking meadows. 
 
 Doris stopped a red-headed boy at the gate, 
 and made out from him as well as she could her 
 way to Steersdale ; she had heard of it in her 
 yesterday's walk, and had resolved to see it 
 without delay. A fresh breeze blew her hair 
 into her eyes as she climbed up the steep mea- 
 dow which rose in a long green hill on the 
 right. She paused for breath ; before her was 
 the wood the boy had spoken of, rising from a 
 stretch of intervening waste grown over with 
 brown gorse and dark orange brake and long 
 red bramble arms. The wood was bordered by 
 oak-trees, which, though set some way apart, 
 stretched their branches till one met the 
 other. Doris soon crossed the waste, and 
 when she reached the shade of the oak-trees 
 she looked back across the broad stretch of 
 common.
 
 DORIS'S WALK. 173 
 
 The tower and roof of the church, with its 
 belt of poplar-trees, gave some token of a 
 village, but the houses lay hidden in the valley 
 from which she had climbed, and only betrayed 
 their whereabouts by wreaths of blue smoke, 
 which blew this way and that as the breeze 
 reached them. In the background lines of 
 pine-trees stretched east and west, and above 
 the dark trees rose the top of the hill, on the 
 right glowing with golden corn, and on the 
 left purple with a stretch of heathy moorland ; 
 far as her eyes could reach, rose interminable 
 trees, veils of grey mist showing here and there 
 where the dales came between the wooded hills. 
 These soft mists varied in hue according to 
 distance, and at times seemed to melt into the 
 sky-line. Doris sighed with the fulness of peace 
 such a scene brings, and then as her eyes fell on 
 the foreground on each side of the waste a 
 foreground of emerald-green meadows and fat 
 yellowing turnip-fields she turned and resumed 
 her journey. 
 
 Her road lay through the wood, and this was 
 suffused with green light, for the trees within
 
 174 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 it were planted closely, and the thin branches 
 intermingled overhead ; but soon the light grew 
 whiter, and she found a small gate leading 
 into the high road. Crossing this, she passed 
 through another gate into a lane with grassed 
 banks and hedges gay with honeysuckle. Ex- 
 cept these flowers, which made the air sweet 
 around her, and the clumsy buzz of a humble- 
 bee blundering in and out of the heavy-laden 
 blossoms, there was no sign of life near ; there 
 might have been cows in the fields on either 
 hand, but the hedges were too thick to see 
 through. The perfect solitude was delightful 
 to Doris ; she wanted to think about George, 
 especially about his manner on the previous 
 evening. 
 
 Her mother had spoken of Rose Buncombe, 
 and Doris had answered coldly. She had 
 never liked Rose, and one of the resolutions she 
 had made at Pelican House was that she 
 would not associate with this girl. As she 
 answered her mother she looked at George, 
 and his expression of sudden anger puzzled 
 her.
 
 DORIS'S WALK. 175 
 
 She walked on, her eyes bent on the ground, 
 striving to puzzle out the meaning of the vexa- 
 tion in her brother's face, but after her usual 
 fashion, simply from her own point of view. 
 All at once a bright flush flew over her 
 cheeks, her eyes grew brilliant with indigna- 
 tion, and she gave a little stamp as she 
 walked. 
 
 " It shan't be. l can't be. If George were 
 to marry a girl like that, I could have nothing 
 to do with him. She's not good enough for 
 him. Oh ! it can't be ! He only cares for her for 
 old acquaintance sake, and because they played 
 together." 
 
 A stile which she had been told to cross 
 stopped her, and she looked round to be sure 
 that her landmarks were correct. Yes, there 
 in front was a meadow rising into a green 
 hill, and at the top, on the left, she saw- 
 smoke curling upwards from the farm-house, 
 which she knew must be lying under the shoul- 
 der of the hill; but her way lay slightly to 
 the right, over the hill-top. Here were black- 
 faced sheep nibbling busily, and every moment
 
 17o DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 a faint tinkle came from a bell among them. 
 A girl in a lilac frock and a sun-bonnet 
 of the same colour was coming slowly down 
 the hill path, leading by the has a a tiny 
 copy of herself; the tiny child lagged be- 
 hind at the end of its sister's long thin 
 arm. 
 
 " Nance," the little voice said fretfully, " Ah's 
 sare weary." Then, as her sister went on with 
 her head bent, taking no heed of her, the child 
 spoke angrily, " Thoo taks nae gaum o' what Ah 
 says, Nance." 
 
 " Hod thee gab," said Nance, sententiously, 
 and she went on silently as before. 
 
 Doris looked after the children, and an ex- 
 pression of uneasiness crossed her face. 
 
 " I was like that girl once," she said, " ex- 
 actly like her. I never had charge of George, 
 but I remember how I used to vex him by my 
 silent, dreamy ways; but when we played or 
 talked we used to quarrel ; surely silence was 
 better than quarrelling, and it is almost the 
 same now. George is good, very good, much 
 better than I shall ever be, or should care to
 
 DORIS'S WALK. 177 
 
 be, but he and I cannot see things with the 
 same eyes." She paused for awhile, but the 
 thought kept its place. "Well, Rika and I 
 seldoi agreed, but we never quarrelled ; but 
 then Rika can argue so well about things. 
 She has seen and heard so much more than 
 George has, she can give new light on sub- 
 jects. Rika is so bright and original, and 
 then she never broods over things, one knows 
 exactly what she means. I did not know 
 how much I cared for Rika till I came 
 home." 
 
 She sighed deeply. At Pelican House she 
 had felt herself Rika's equal, in some ways her 
 superior ; but now she asked which was real, her 
 present estimate of her own position, or the 
 Doris she had seemed to be at Pelican House ? 
 the well-dressed, looked-up-to young lady, 
 whose notice was sought by all her school- 
 fellows. 
 
 " I cannot ask Rika to come and see me," she 
 said mournfully. " She is poor, poorer than we 
 are, no doubt, and poverty seemed to be in- 
 feriority at Pelican House; but then she is a 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 lady, and I am sure that everyone who belongs 
 to her is as refined as she is ; there is no false- 
 ness about her anywhere." 
 
 Even if Rika would excuse and tolerate the 
 roughness of her people, Doris felt that there 
 was an insuperable obstacle to the happiness of 
 their meeting at the farm. Sooner or later Mr. 
 Burneston would visit them, and there would 
 always be the chance of his meeting Rika, and 
 Doris felt bitterly that Rika, with her home- 
 made merino gown, and her untidy, careless 
 ways, would be Mr. Burneston's equal, while 
 she, so much better dressed, in what Miss Philli- 
 more herself had called "such much better 
 style," would have to behave to him as to a 
 superior. 
 
 " Clergymen are the equals of everyone," said 
 Doris, " and these Mashams are refined people 
 besides." 
 
 She left off thinking, and looked, with a long- 
 ing for escape from these worries, at the peace- 
 ful English landscape, and at a long stretch of 
 moorland bounded by the picturesque range of 
 hills. In front of her lay another wood, en-
 
 DORIS'S WALK. 179 
 
 closed, and entered by a large white gate, 
 and as this slammed behind her, Doris wish- 
 ed she could shut out her worries with it. 
 This solitude, for which she had longed, 
 had brought torment instead of soothing to 
 her. 
 
 it was a very different wood from the oak 
 copse. Tall ash and beech-trees sent out 
 such massive roots across the track that she 
 had to walk needfully. A rushing sound close 
 by told her she had at last reached the river, 
 and now the path which had been winding in 
 and out among the trees turned abruptly, and 
 began to descend, and Doris saw through the 
 tree trunks on her right that she was near 
 the edge of the bank overhanging the stream ; 
 the sound told her how very high she was 
 above it, but the path in front descended more 
 and more rapidly, and she felt she should 
 soon see the water that rushed along with 
 so hoarse a voice below. She was too dis- 
 pirited, or she might easily have broken 
 a way through the brushwood and cling- 
 ing brambles to the edge of the ravine, but 
 
 N2
 
 180 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 instead she went on pensively planning her 
 future, under the new light that had come on 
 it. 
 
 Should she give up Rika and all her upward 
 longings, and try to content herself with her 
 parents, and George, and the neighbours ? "I 
 cannot, I cannot I" she said. " Why should I 
 fling away all that I have gained so hardly ? 
 Books may keep up my learning, but they won't 
 keep up my manners or my speaking ; and I 
 can't give up Rika ; I never knew what she was 
 to me before." 
 
 She might leave home and be a governess. 
 More than one of Miss Phillimore's pupils had 
 been educated with this intention. Why, even 
 Rika herself contemplated taking such a posi- 
 tion, should need require her to do so. Doris 
 sighed. 
 
 This was not the future she had planned, the 
 future in which she was to influence and help 
 others unaided. Well, could she not as a gover- 
 ness influence and help the childish minds con- 
 fided to her? 
 
 " I would not mind taking care of orphans "
 
 DORIS'S WALK. 181 
 
 (the exquisitely-set head was proudly erect), 
 " if I could be entire mistress ; but I could not 
 live in another person's house and adopt the 
 ideas I found there no, that is not the life I 
 have planned." 
 
 There was another future Doris flushed 
 angrily when the thought came ; it was perhaps 
 because this other future, viz., marriage, had a 
 way of subtly connecting itself with Mr. Burne- 
 ston, that the girl shrank with such dislike from 
 the prospect of seeing him. 
 
 " Any way but that." She turned her head 
 as if to shake off the idea, but to-day it clung 
 like a burr ; generally she found it easy to 
 dismiss. For refuge she went back to the 
 maxims of Miss Phillimore. Doris set far 
 more store by the schoolmistress's scraps of 
 worldly wisdom than her warm-hearted friend 
 did. 
 
 " Rika used to laugh at Miss Phillimore ; she 
 thought her shallow and a prig, but I learned 
 things from her that I find useful every day, 
 little things that I never knew till she taught 
 me. Yes, mother perhaps meant the same
 
 182 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 thing in what she used to say, before I ever 
 went to school, only " her lip curled " poor 
 mother said girls shouldn't think about 'sweet- 
 hearts ;' and she was right, though she ought not 
 to have talked so to me at my age. Miss 'Philli- 
 more said more than once there was nothing so 
 common and underbred as for a girl to think 
 about getting a husband, or to think about love 
 nonsense of any sort. Well, of course," she 
 smiled, " it is absurd ; no one could think of 
 " love nonsense " with a middle-aged man like 
 Mr. Burneston ; but I will not think about him 
 at all." 
 
 To shake off this unwelcome puzzle she 
 began to run down the steep path, smooth now, 
 for the very tall trees had stopped on the brow 
 above, and she ran on violently till she stopped 
 herself in a green meadow into which the wood 
 suddenly opened. 
 
 A bright tinge of colour glowed on the girl's 
 cheeks, and her eyes were glistening as she 
 looked round for the river. Down in this valley 
 the light had begun to fade, and the evening 
 looked later than it really was. Yes, there lay
 
 DORIS'S WALK. 183 
 
 the river, dwindled to a tiny brook now, and 
 screened behind a hedge that ran along the 
 opposite side of the narrow strip of meadow. 
 A gap in this hedge showed a plank laid 
 over the stream, and across this Doris found 
 herself in the dale she had so longed to 
 reach. 
 
 The stream went winding on between green 
 banks, gravel-edged, for the heat had shrunk 
 the water ; down below large stones showed 
 green and brown through it, with here and 
 there grey projecting masses, against which the 
 stream struggled hoarsely. Ash-trees rose 
 from the hedge beside it, a hedge backed by 
 the ever-rising hill she had just descended, and 
 now as she went on the sun began to set 
 behind the wood, and the breeze rippling the 
 water made thereon grey patches which con- 
 trasted with the reflection from the glowing 
 sky overhead ; the grassy dale broadened as 
 she advanced, and a steeply rising wooded 
 bank on the left made the place a charming 
 green valley which seemed to have no end, 
 and through which the broadening stream
 
 184 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 might, so far as eye could reach, " flow on for 
 ever/' 
 
 The trees looked dark and massive now, and 
 as the sun sank and the light faded, the grass 
 toned down from the bright emerald of its 
 mid-day hue ; it was wonderfully smooth, like 
 a huge soft carpet, through which the river 
 went on babbling, sometimes by a sudden 
 curve making its way almost to the middle of 
 the dale, and then again retreating to its 
 ordinary channel 011 the right. It had so 
 shrunk in some places that, though the tops of 
 the banks were a good distance apart, the water 
 ran along below like a silver thread. Doris 
 grew tired of following its meanderings, and 
 at last, when it curved and re-curved like an 
 S in the middle of the dale, she scrambled a 
 little way down the bank, and drawing her 
 skirt closely round her, jumped four times in 
 succession across the brook. The last jump 
 was a wide one, and her bonnet fell off as she 
 reached the farther side. She laughed as she 
 replaced it ; the exercise had brought back her 
 serenity.
 
 DORIS'S WALK. 185 
 
 " What would they say at Pelican House ?" 
 she thought, but her eyes arid cheeks glowed, 
 and the breeze sent her hair straggling over her 
 forehead. It had just occurred to Doris that 
 she was taking a very long walk, and that her 
 motl^r might grow anxious. She looked on to 
 the end of the dale. Framed by the trees, 
 which closed all distant view, was a man on 
 horseback. He was not coming towards her ; 
 he seemed to be waiting for some one. " He is 
 too far off to have seen me jump," Doris thought, 
 " but it was foolish of me to behave so like a 
 child ;" and again a bright flush rose in her 
 face.
 
 186 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 A MEETING IN THE DALE. 
 
 "jl /TRS. BARQGH lingered at her gate, looking 
 -L*-L after Doris, perfectly unconscious of all 
 that was happening down street, as she would 
 have called it ; for the High Street, after leav- 
 ing the market-place, sloped downwards, and 
 passing the cottage, which stood sideways 
 from it, descended somewhat rapidly to the 
 river, out of which came the little beck which 
 flowed through the town. Up street a clergy- 
 man was coming at a quick pace, which did 
 not seem to suit with his worn face and 
 bent figure. He was scarcely an old man, and 
 yet he was past middle age ; he had a thin, red 
 face, which had no pretension to beauty, and
 
 A MEETING IN THE DALE. 187 
 
 his hair was very grey, but there was a look of 
 much sweetness in his faded blue eyes, of re- 
 finement in his timid mouth. As he drew near 
 the gate Mrs. Barugh's quick ears heard foot- 
 steps, and turning round, she faced the clergy- 
 |nan. He raised his hat, and she curt- 
 seyed, but she made no effort to open the 
 gate. 
 
 The clergyman's face flushed, and his lips 
 quivered nervously. 
 
 " 1 I came to call on your son, madam, and 
 have a chat with him, if you will permit," he 
 said, in so deferential a tone that Dorothy 
 curtseyed again, and a pretty little tinge of 
 colour made her look almost young. " I noticed 
 on Sunday that he is rather lame, and I hear 
 he is fond of reading. I shall be very glad 
 to offer him the use of my small store of 
 books." 
 
 " You're very good, sir, I'm sure." 
 
 Dorothy forgot all about her gentility in the 
 outburst of her touched feelings. " Will you 
 walk in, sir, if you please? George '11 be right 
 pleased to see ye. Though I'm his mother, and
 
 188 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 have perhaps no right to praise him, yet, sir, 
 there's few lads like him." 
 
 The clergyman stopped, and looked earnestly 
 at her. 
 
 "I am sure of it," he said, "he has goodness 
 in his face ;" then, with a little nervous twitch 
 of his mouth, " I had forgotten I must intro- 
 duce myself as the Rector of Steersley ; my 
 name is flawnby." 
 
 Again Dorothy curtseyed, and then she 
 opened the door and announced the rector to 
 George. 
 
 The boy's eyes brightened with pleasure as 
 the clergyman shook hands with him and 
 renewed his offer of books. 
 
 " It's the greatest kindness you can do him, 
 sir," said Mrs. Barugh, and she hurried out of 
 the room to fetch the ginger-wine and seed- 
 cake, which, in her opinion, were the necessary 
 accompaniments of a visit, whether it was paid 
 at eleven o'clock in . the morning or at four in 
 the afternoon. 
 
 George looked at Mr. Hawnby's sweet gentle 
 face, and a thrill, the electric consciousness of a
 
 A MEETING IN THE. DALE. 189 
 
 long-wanted sympathy, made the boy's heart 
 beat quickly. 
 
 " The loan of books is a great kindness, sir," 
 he said shyly, " but not the greatest. I think 
 coming to see a poor crippled lad's wonderful 
 kind, an' I don't know what to say for 't." 
 
 A clatter outside made him look out of 
 window. 
 
 " It's t' squire," he said. 
 
 The rector left his chair and went to the 
 window ; a strange gentleman, on horseback 
 was an event in JSteersley. 
 
 Mr. Burneston at the gate was looking for 
 some one to hold his horse. 
 
 " Mebbe you'll excuse me, sir," said George, 
 and he limped out of the room in search of his 
 mother. " Mother/' he called out, " here's Mr. 
 Burneston." 
 
 Mrs. Barugh nearly let fall the tray she had 
 just arranged to bring into the sitting-room. 
 She forgot the rector in her surprise. 
 
 " Lor' ! what will John say?" and then came 
 this consoling reflection. John had said she 
 was not to invite Mr. Burneston to call ; he had
 
 190 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 not said she might not see him if he came. 
 Oh, what a misfortune that Doris was out ! 
 She straightened her cap and hurried to the 
 gate. 
 
 "How d'ye do, Mrs. Barugh 1 ?" The squire 
 spoke so frankly and cheerfully that Dorothy 
 felt she could not deny him anything, let John 
 say what he would. " So you have your 
 daughter back again ; is she at home ?" 
 
 " No, she's not, Mr. Burneston, and I'm rare 
 vexed ; she's gone out for a walk." 
 
 " She'll not be long, I suppose/' he said 
 carelessly. " I have some business in Steers- 
 ley, and I'll come back again in ten minutes or 
 so." 
 
 Mrs. Barugh had been thinking while he 
 spoke, and she answered eagerly, 
 
 " Doris hasn't been gone above a quarter of 
 an hour, Mr. Burueston ; she was going to find 
 out Steersdale; she's a famous walker is our 
 Doris." 
 
 "Steersdale! why, it's ever so far off: you 
 shouldn't let her go to such a lonely place by 
 herself," he said, pettishly. " I'm afraid I can't
 
 A MEETING IN THE DALE. 191 
 
 wait ; good day/' and raising his hat he rode 
 off. 
 
 He was very angry. He had met John 
 Barugh the day before he started for London 
 to fetch Doris, and ever since his craving to see 
 her had gone on increasing at a rate which 
 showed him how strong a hold she had got on 
 his imagination. 
 
 "Nothing but idle curiosity," he said to 
 himself; but the curiosity would not be quieted, 
 and this morning he had ridden over to 
 Steersley to satisfy himself by the sight of 
 Doris. 
 
 On his way he had tried to prepare him- 
 self for disappointment. Miss Phillimore had 
 written him a letter full of praise of her 
 " elegant pupil," as she styled Doris ; but she 
 had laid so much stress on the girl's " acquire- 
 ments, which would do credit to anyone," that 
 Mr. Burneston feared he should find her 
 spoiled. 
 
 " That schoolmistress has overdone it. If 
 there's anything I hate, it's a clever woman," 
 he said. " Half the charm of a girl lies in her
 
 192 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 little ignorances, and in the way she has of 
 looking up to a man for information. I sent 
 Doris to school to get polished, not to be 
 turned into a blue- stocking. Learning takes 
 all charm from a woman. I believe, after all, I 
 had better have seen her at Pelican House now 
 and then." 
 
 But as be reached the cottage his eagerness 
 to see the girl had returned, and he could 
 not restrain his anger when he learned her 
 absence. 
 
 " What a fool that woman is ! Fancy a girl 
 like Doris wandering alone in such a place as 
 Steersdale !" 
 
 He only knew the way thither by the high 
 road, which crossed a bridge over the river, and 
 ended the dale, and he rode off at once in that 
 direction. He had no fear about recognising 
 Doris. 
 
 " If Miss Phillimore is to be trusted, whatever 
 else she is, Doris is a lady," he said to himself, 
 as he left the high road and entered the 
 dale. 
 
 The river was broader here, but still it was
 
 A MEETING IN THE DALE. 193 
 
 evidently much narrower than usual. Gradu- 
 ally the ground rose on each side ; on the right 
 the lofty bank was clothed with trees fenced off 
 from the dale by a low grey wooden paling, while 
 beside the river on his left, as Mr. Burneston 
 advanced up the green valley, was a hedge, 
 behind which sloping meadows climbed to the 
 top of a hill, and on this a fence of dried furze 
 and twigs stood out in strong relief against the 
 pale green sky. 
 
 All at once there came into the picture the 
 vision of a girl springing from bank to bank. 
 He was too far off to see her face, but the grace 
 and freedom of her movements impressed him 
 at once, and he reined up his horse till she had 
 jumped over the last bend of the brook. Then, 
 as her bonnet fell off, something in the slight 
 erect figure, in the queenly poise of the head, 
 set Mr. Burneston's heart beating quickly, and 
 without pausing an instant, he galloped forward, 
 and sprang to the ground to greet Doris with 
 all the impetuous eagerness of a boy. 
 
 " How do you do, Miss Barugh ? I must 
 introduce myself, if you have forgotten me. I 
 
 VOL. I. O
 
 194 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 called on your mother this afternoon, and she 
 told me where you had gone." 
 
 All this time Doris had stood blushing, first 
 from vexation at her own heedlessness, and 
 now under the squire's admiring gaze. But 
 she made a great effort at composure, and 
 probably her anger at having appeared childish 
 helped her more than she knew. 
 
 "I have not forgotten you," she smiled, and 
 raised her eyes to his face ; " you are Mr. 
 Burneston." 
 
 He thought he had never heard words more 
 sweetly spoken, and for the moment he forgot 
 that he had resolved to consider Doris in a 
 calm, dispassionate manner; he forgot every- 
 thing but the delight of gazing at her exquisite 
 face, and he turned to walk beside her, leading 
 his horse along the dale. 
 
 "You have a good memory/' he said; then 
 feeling that he must have those eyes once more 
 raised to his own, " Do you find your brother 
 much altered ?" he said earnestly. 
 
 The long lashes were lifted again, and the 
 wonderful blue-grey eyes fixed on hie, the pupils
 
 A MEETING IN THE DALE. 195 
 
 dilated with sudden emotion, so that the eyes 
 looked very dark. 
 
 "Yes, I find George quite altered,, more 
 altered than than anybody ;" then more 
 timidly, as her eyes drooped again, "It was 
 easy to recognise you you have not changed 
 at all, I think." 
 
 He laughed. " Well, I suppose I may con- 
 sider that satisfactory ; you have changed in 
 many ways in these five years." 
 
 The bright colour flew over her face. 
 
 " Yes, I hope so," and there was a stiffness of 
 tone which took him back to the child Doris. 
 They w r alked on a little while in silence, and 
 then the girl said, 
 
 " Is your son quite well ?" As she spoke a 
 flash of angry feeling passed out of her face, 
 and was seen by his ever-watchful eyes. It 
 startled him. Why should she be angry when 
 she spoke of Ralph? She had scarcely seen 
 him, she could not dislike him, and the squire's 
 thoughts went on to a possible future. And 
 yet, the solution of her frown was simply self- 
 centred ; Doris could hardly keep from calling 
 
 02
 
 196 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 him "sir" when she spoke, and her anger against 
 herself was vehement. 
 
 " Yes, Ralph is quite well, thank you ; he is 
 still at Eton, but he will be home at Christmas 
 at least I am not sure." Mr. Burneston 
 spoke dreamily ; it had just occurred to him 
 that Ralph might as well spend Christmas with 
 his aunt and cousins in Scotland. " It is rather 
 dull for him, poor fellow, at Burnestoa, all 
 alone ; though he and your brother saw a good 
 deal of one another last holidays." 
 
 " I should think he finds George too quiet," 
 said Doris. She spoke easily, seemingly with- 
 out interest, but also without shyness. 
 
 " Well, but do you think people need be alike 
 to suit one another ? Your brother's silence is 
 just the thing to suit a lively fellow like Ralph, 
 and then George is more indulgent than quiet 
 fellows often are, and my boy is a young scape- 
 grace." Even while he spoke, the squire almost 
 smiled to find himself treating Doris as an 
 equal, and eager that she should think well of 
 him. 
 
 " What a pity !" she said simply.
 
 A MEETING IN THE DALE. 197 
 
 Mr. Burueston felt jarred and yet fascinated. 
 He did not care to hear Ralph blamed, and yet 
 he admired the freshness of nature which could 
 make Doris independent of the fear of giving 
 offence. He walked on in silence. 
 
 Doris was glad of the silence ; notwithstand- 
 ing her calm manner, she was inwardly flurried. 
 She had been taken so completely by surprise 
 that she had been obliged to answer in a hurry, 
 and her thoughts never moved very rapidly. 
 She wished Mr. Burueston would leave her, 
 and then she should regain composure. She 
 felt in a nervous and most unusual state under 
 his eyes. " I like to hear him talk," she said, 
 " I always did ; but he used to make me feel 
 shy when I was a child, and it is the same 
 thing now; it is hateful to feel shy at nine- 
 teen." 
 
 " Have you been here before ?" he said 
 abruptly. 
 
 " No. I wish I had come sooner ; the country 
 is charming. I should like to stay here for 
 hours." 
 
 He looked grave.
 
 198 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 " It is too far for your brother, is it ? I 
 suppose he is glad to have you as a com- 
 panion in his walks, when you do not go so 
 far." 
 
 " Yes, but he is so lame, he can only go up to 
 the old castle, or maybe to the terrace in the 
 park." 
 
 " And you care for longer walks ? Well, then, 
 do you know I think Mr. Barugh or your mother 
 should come with you ? This is a lonely place 
 without a companion too lonely, I think, for a 
 young girl to walk in." 
 
 Doris looked quickly at her companion, and 
 her spirit rose against what seemed to her quite 
 unjust interference. 
 
 " Father is gone back to the farm, and mo- 
 ther does not like walking," she said stiffly, 
 " and I have always gone where I like in the 
 country." 
 
 Mr. JBurneston laughed, and Doris felt com- 
 pletely at fault. She had been so accustomed 
 to rule those around her by a quiet stiffness, or 
 rather coldness, of speech and manner not only 
 natural to her, but used knowingly as a means
 
 A MEETING IN THE DALE. 199 
 
 of government that this want of heed, or 
 rather submission, surprised her. 
 
 She felt a sudden interest in Mr. Burne- 
 ston ; he reminded her of Rika. She had not 
 thought he could do anything so unusual as 
 to laugh at any one openly ; but she was 
 not courageous enough to ask him why he 
 laughed. 
 
 " I must talk to Mrs. Barugh about it," he 
 said ; then, feeling that he was not sure of the 
 mother's authority after such a long separation, 
 " I think you had better not come here again 
 alone," he said ; " next time your father comes 
 over he will bring you here, no doubt, if you 
 wish." 
 
 Doris had recovered herself. She felt so 
 entirely free of Mr. Burnestou's authority, that 
 his assumption of this fatherly part amused 
 her. 
 
 " I don't think father minds my going so far 
 alone," she smiled. "I loitered to-day, look- 
 ing about me, or I might have been home by 
 now." Then feeling a sudden resolve to take 
 her own position with Mr. Burueston, "You
 
 200 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 see," she said, blushing at the words, " I am 
 only a farmer's daughter, and girls like me 
 must go about alone, or they must stay at 
 home." 
 
 He felt as if some one had struck him a sud- 
 den blow, and he answered impetuously, 
 
 " I beg your pardon, you make a great mis- 
 take. If your father had wished you to adopt 
 the ways and habits of of an ordinary farmer's 
 daughter, he would not have sent you to Peli- 
 can House : that has changed everything. Tell 
 me honestly, Miss Barugh " his colour rose, 
 and his eyes grew very earnest " what you 
 wish to return to the companions you had 
 before you went to school, or to associate with 
 educated people?" 
 
 " I had no companions before, except Rose 
 Duncombe." 
 
 She spoke proudly. It was insupportable 
 to walk beside this man and submit to be 
 questioned and advised on her secret trouble, 
 hitherto unshared with anyone. She looked 
 very angry, her cheeks burning with mortifica- 
 tion and resentment.
 
 A MEETING IN THE DALE. 201 
 
 " Ah, no," he smiled, " I forgot you were 
 new-comers in Burneston ; but I am sure Rose 
 Duncombe will not suit you now, and yet you 
 must have friends." Then, after a pause, he 
 said gently, " Will you let me consider myself 
 one of your friends'? will you let me advise 
 you?" 
 
 " Thank you you are very kind." She was 
 in such a tumult of feeling that she answered 
 mechanically. 
 
 " It is something gained that she did not 
 refuse/' he said to himself. " She looks like a 
 tempest. What could make her so angry? 
 With all her simplicity, she is very difficult to 
 get on with. However, shyness is apt to make 
 people unlike themselves, and she is shy with 
 me, of course." 
 
 They walked on again in silence to the end 
 of the dale by which Mr. Burneston had 
 entered it. As they reached the high road he 
 stopped. 
 
 " I will say good-bye here. I am not going 
 back through Steersley. Then we are to be 
 friends ?" he smiled so genially as he held her
 
 202 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 hand, that Doris smiled back again with a radi- 
 ance that glowed in the squire's mental vision 
 all the way back to Burneston, even after he 
 had reached the old manor-house beside the 
 river.
 
 203 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 ON THE ALERT. 
 
 nnHERE is a truth which everyone may not 
 J- have realised, because as Truth lives at 
 the bottom of a well, only those whose faith 
 is earnest enough will ever brave the risk of 
 seeing her face to face ; but thousands who 
 just peep over the well's edge think they 
 have gone to the bottom, from the persua- 
 sion they hold that a glimpse is as good as 
 a full view. The truth I am now meaning 
 is, that time has not the same apparent dura- 
 tion to all of us, though it acts on all. Days 
 which in crowded cities and among busy 
 workers seem to fly as they pass, and yet 
 to fly carrying with them work achieved or 
 pre-conceived purposes accomplished indeed,
 
 204 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 fulfilled progress of all kinds, empty of nothing 
 but of that wonderfnl old-world charm of lei- 
 sure which, like the lichen 011 ancient stone- 
 work, gives to country life its special idyllic 
 beauty such days, sweeping by with seeming 
 swiftness, carrying with them rest and health, 
 and so much of life's best energies, how full 
 they seem now they are gone ! how long we 
 are in reviewing them ! And yet, in the sweet 
 peace of country existence, free from the mani- 
 fold interruptions of town life, when day after 
 day only the actual routine of life has to be 
 lived, when there is full time for the minutest 
 duty, and abundant leisure for recreation be- 
 sides, how slowly such days go by, with a de- 
 licious long-drawn-out sweetness that seems a 
 foretaste of heaven ! How short they are as 
 we look back, because seemingly we have done 
 nothing in them ! We cannot see, without a 
 much closer, more earnest investigation, all 
 they have done for us. Link by link, hour by 
 hour, habits have been forming, affections have 
 been developing into loves, dislikes have been 
 strengthening into hatreds, and all has gone on
 
 OX THE ALERT. 205 
 
 secretly and strongly, because uninterruptedly. 
 There have been few external distractions to 
 weaken or stunt the growth of a passion or a 
 purpose. 
 
 So days had gone on to weeks, and Mr. 
 Burneston found that his visits to the Steersley 
 cottage had become a necessity of his existence. 
 He did not think or argue how these visits were 
 to end, but he knew secretly that if he were to 
 follow the bent of his inclination he should ride 
 over to Steersley every day. He had surprised 
 himself by the freedom with which he had first 
 spoken to Doris, and he thought he had been 
 premature. When he saw her again she was 
 far more distant. 
 
 Ostensibly his visits were paid to George, 
 but Doris was always present, and poor Mrs. 
 Barugh found herself so left out of the lively 
 conversations the squire kept up with the young 
 people that after a time she felt huffed, and usu- 
 ally took her work into the other room. Dorothy 
 began to find life dull at Steersley. She had 
 few of her wonted occupations, and she wanted 
 John to tease and scold. There was fresh
 
 206 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 sickness among the cows at the farm, and he 
 only came over for Sunday, and then he was a 
 visitor, and had to be made much of. On 
 week-days George was always with Doris, and 
 the talk of these two did not amuse Dorothy ; 
 it was tantalizing to live so shut up alone. 
 Steersley was different from Burneston. There 
 were neighbours here whose acquaintance she 
 would have been proud to make, but the squire's 
 visits held these neighbours aloof. 
 
 One day she hinted to Mr. Burneston that 
 Mrs. Selby, the wife of the Steersley attorney, 
 and Mrs. Cotswold, the wife of Lord Moorside's 
 agent, were pleasant people, and well inclined 
 to be sociable. 
 
 " Please don't make any new acquaintances 
 without consulting me, Mrs. Barugh," he said 
 hastily, " I shall be jealous if you do. I shall 
 think my friendship is not enough for you ; and 
 you really know nothing about these people ; 
 they may be mere gossips." 
 
 His word was law to Dorothy. She smiled 
 and bridled in a glow of satisfaction at being 
 advised by Mr. Burneston, but in her heart she
 
 ON THE ALERT. 207 
 
 felt isolated, or, as she said, "moped." Her 
 longing for gentility had been gratified by the 
 squire's notice, but she knew that this very 
 notice had alienated the people of Burneston 
 from her ; they were jealous of the favouritism 
 shown by him to strangers. Poor Dorothy ! her 
 *' society " was something like the guinea given 
 by Mrs. Primrose to her daughters; and al- 
 though she had suggested Mrs. Selby and Mrs. 
 Cotswold, she felt that she should be quite con- 
 tent to take up with Mrs. Gilling at the Black 
 Eagle, or Mrs. Byland, the wife of the carpenter 
 of Steersley, just to be able to open her mouth 
 on what was happening. 
 
 Mrs. Byland lived opposite; and when 
 Dorothy retired from the trio in the drawing- 
 room, as she persisted in calling it, she spent 
 much of her time at the window, looking for a 
 glimpse of her neighbour over the way. 
 
 It was delightful to have an elegant-looking, 
 lady-like daughter, who could sing and play 
 and talk as Doris did, but the luxury was robbed 
 of half its importance when it had to be kept 
 solely for home use, and when there was no one 
 to talk it over with.
 
 208 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 To-day she had become so much absorbed by 
 her speculations as to the result of the squire's 
 visits that she did not hear the street door open 
 and shut. She only roused herself to see Mr. 
 Burneston wave his hand and ride away, and 
 George standing at the gate looking after him. 
 She was shocked at herself, and kept on lament- 
 ing as she sat looking out of window. 
 
 "My mercy ! to think of my so behaving to a 
 visitor, and such a visitor, of all people ! What- 
 ever would John say ? It 'ud give him a fine 
 peg over me that it would. I wish that cow 
 'ud just live or die outright, so as I could get a 
 word with John. There's no speakiu' to 
 George; he turns up his eyes an' calls me 
 worldly, before he knows what I rightly mean. 
 And, after all, men's wits is not of much ac- 
 count, unless it's all plain sailin'. It's been 
 one o' the mischiefs o' my life, that I've seldom 
 met with a 'cute woman I could talk over things 
 safely with ; though I'm not sure of its being a 
 mischief ; sharp women is apt to be like razors 
 sharper than safe. Why, what on earth ! Oh, 
 mv mercy ! Yes, it's her, and no mistake."
 
 ON THE ALERT. 209 
 
 Mrs. Barugh's delicate mouth opens to its 
 widest, and her faded eyes have brightened, 
 and are staring over the way, as if they mean 
 to spring from their sockets, to follow the spare, 
 active woman who is entering Mrs. Byland's 
 house. If Doris had not been in the next 
 room, Mrs. Barugh must have called out to 
 George, and have asked for his sympathy in 
 her curiosity ; but she was not at her ease 
 before Doris. The girl's quiet simplicity 
 seemed to be always rebuking her mother's 
 strain after " genteel ways/' and Dorothy 
 had the constant fear that her child thought 
 her vulgar. 
 
 " That was Mrs. Emmett ; I'd swear to her ; 
 there's not such another looking woman in these 
 parts. What can she want prowling here, I'd 
 like to know? She's spying after Mr. Burne- 
 ston. I wouldn't have Doris know for any- 
 thing. Sly old toad !" 
 
 Mrs. Barugh altered her position, and placed 
 herself behind the white lace curtain, so that 
 she could see without being seen. Her quick 
 wits at once jumped to the right explanation 
 
 VOL. I. 1*
 
 210 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 of the housekeeper's presence at Steersley. 
 " She's come to spy after her master ; she wants 
 to see where the squire goes, and she'll make 
 some mischief, as sure as eggs is eggs," said 
 the anxious mother. " Well, perhaps, after all, 
 it's a mercy that I didn't get neighbourly with 
 Mrs. Bylaud, for " Dorothy smoothed out the 
 faded lilac gauze cap-striugs which hung on 
 each side of her delicate face (in those days, 
 though only old ladies tied their cap-strings 
 under the chin, cap-strings were a necessary 
 part of the head-gear) "I should have told 
 her everything just filled her mouth ready for 
 this old spy. I believe John's right ; he's always 
 kep me from makin' friends, because he says I 
 tell too much to everyone. Well, Mrs. Bylaud 
 can only tell what she's seen ; but she's a regu- 
 lar Paul Pry, always watching at the window, 
 just like a woman without children ; they're a 
 rare lazy lot." 
 
 She longed intensely to be in the opposite 
 house listening to the talk between Mrs. By- 
 land and her visitor, and yet she felt helpless ; 
 she could do nothing. Mrs. Emmett had a
 
 ON THE ALERT. 211 
 
 right to visit any friend she might have in 
 Steersley, so Dorothy stood watching and 
 fuming behind her muslin screen, with two 
 fingers pressed against her quivering lips. 
 
 On the previous day Faith Emmett's nerves 
 had received a severe shock. Ten years ago 
 her cousin Hezekiah Byland, who had been 
 engaged to her for eight years, having grown 
 tired of waiting for his elderly cousin, had mar- 
 ried a handsome, dark-eyed country girl ; but as 
 Faith was much older than he was, and had 
 moreover often refused to leave the Hall to 
 become his wife, her fellow-servants held Byland 
 acquitted, and told Mrs. Emmett she ought to 
 let bygones be bygones, and make friends with 
 the young wife. 
 
 Faith bore the desertion silently, and as long 
 as her cousin lived in York it was easier to bear 
 it ; but when, previous to settling in Steersley, 
 he wrote asking leave to present his Peggy 
 to his " much-loved and respected cousin," the 
 smouldering fire blazed up in Faith Emmett's 
 soul. 
 
 "The coward!" she said; "the mean lad
 
 212 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 to suppose I waste a thought on him or his !" 
 But this was only an outburst. Faith sum- 
 moned her dignity, and wrote a courteous invi- 
 tation to the recreant Hezekiah ; and then, 
 dressed in an old velvet gown given by her 
 mistress, she awaited her visitors. 
 
 The grandeur of everything and the stately 
 courtesy of Mrs. Emmett's manners, the way in 
 which she seemed to be a part of the old house 
 itself, her sway over the household, and her 
 lofty patronage, quite overpowered Peggy. She 
 blushed and giggled, answered in the wrong 
 place, and finally threw her glass of port wine 
 over Benjamin Hazelgrave's best trousers, which 
 he had put on to do honour to the housekeeper's 
 guests. 
 
 Hezekiah Byland had never seen his wife 
 behave so awkwardly, and, being proud and 
 slow-witted, he was vexed, and told her to 
 "mind herself," at which the luckless Peggy, 
 being overwrought and frightened, burst into 
 tears, and these, under the cold, surprised glances 
 of Faith, and her lofty pity, ended in hysterics 
 and a sudden leave-taking.
 
 OX THE ALERT. 213 
 
 " A gude riddance, teea," Mr. flazelgrave had 
 said. " Your cousin sud ha* stuck tiv his first 
 bargain, Mistress Emmett. This missis he's 
 gitten is nobbut a haveril." 
 
 Since this visit Faith had heard nothing of 
 her cousin, but this morning had come a letter 
 from Peggy. 
 
 It began by an affectionate invitation to 
 Steersley, and an assurance of cousinly regard. 
 Peggy said that her dear cousin, Mrs. Emmett, 
 had been brought to her remembrance by the 
 sight of Squire Burneston, who was now a con- 
 stant visitor at Steersley, courting a bonny 
 young lass from London. 
 
 When Doris went away from Church Farm, 
 the Burneston people had heard from Joseph 
 Sunley, who managed to know everything that 
 happened to his neighbours, that John Barugh 
 had committed the extravagance of sending 
 his lass to a London boarding school, and that 
 to save expense this was Joseph's version 
 Doris was not to come home for holidays. 
 " Penny wahse an' pund feealish," Joseph said, 
 and went on to argue that the lass would have
 
 214 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 been better and happier had she been sent to 
 school with Rose Buncombe. 
 
 Faith Emmett had taken little heed of this gos- 
 sip till one Sunday the sexton said in her hear- 
 ing that the squire made fools of the Barughs 
 by the notice he bestowed on them. The house- 
 keeper had always despised Dorothy, who had 
 scrupulously avoided her, and her contempt 
 deepened when she learned her master's favour- 
 itism. 
 
 The sudden departure of the Barughs for 
 Steersley had made, of course, food for fresh 
 gossip, but Faith did not trouble about this, 
 except to rejoice at their absence. 
 
 Peggy's letter struck her to the heart ; for 
 a moment she was capable of murdering 
 the " bonny young lass " who had dared to 
 attract the squire, and then she laughed at 
 herself. 
 
 "It's a trick o' Peggy to fright me, but Ps 
 not sik a feeal as she thinks. I's boon to 
 Steersley to-day, an' I'll see wi' my ain eyes 
 what she meeans." 
 
 She had not heard of Doris's return. Even
 
 ON THE ALERT. 215 
 
 if she had heard of it, so wild an idea as the 
 truth would not have presented itself; but she 
 went into the village and asked Ephraim Crewe 
 to drive her over next day to Steersley. 
 
 Peggy Byland had expected this result. For 
 some time past she had been burning to show 
 the arrangements of her smart house to some 
 of her husband's people, by whom she con- 
 sidered herself snubbed. She had lost her shy- 
 ness, and had gained much in self-importance, 
 since she had lived in Steersley, where her 
 handsome face and showy dress attracted far 
 more notice than they had done at York, where 
 she and her husband had lived in an out-of-the- 
 way corner,, " fair wasted," she said. There- 
 fore when she Avrote to her husband's cousin, 
 the wish to tease was mingled with the hope of 
 provoking her to visit Steersley. When Faith's 
 knock came at the door Peggy was sitting in 
 her smart parlour in her best black silk gown, 
 and the gold chain she had made Hezekiah buy 
 for her, so that she might look, as she said, like 
 a lady. 
 
 The maid showed in the visitor, and then
 
 216 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 Peggy rose, her great black eyes sparkling 
 under their thick straight brows, and her 
 colour brighter than ever, as she went forward 
 with outstretched hands to greet Mrs. Em- 
 mett. 
 
 " Now this is reeal kind on ye, Ah's seear it is. 
 Ah hopes ye're not tired by coomin' oot so far 
 fra home, Mistress Emmett ?" 
 
 But even while she tried to speak as boister- 
 ously as possible to show her perfect inde- 
 pendence, Peggy's heart sank under the cold 
 scrutinising glances of Faith's yellow eyes 
 glances all the more stabbing from the covert 
 way in which they shot from under their long 
 dark lashes. 
 
 Faith took the chair set for her with cold 
 self-possession. She did not even ask for Heze- 
 kiah ; she was resolved that Mrs. By land should 
 understand that her visit was due only to the 
 importance which she, the housekeeper of 
 Burneston, attached to reports affecting the 
 credit of the Hall. 
 
 " What for did ye mean by sen din' sike a 
 feeal's tale to me, Peggy Byland?" she said
 
 ON THE ALERT. 217 
 
 sternly ; " writing names in a post letter, an' 
 mebbe it hes been opened ! I'm sharn'd on ye." 
 
 Peggy's carmine cheeks grew purple. 
 
 " Don't ye mak' no mistaks, Mistress Emmett ; 
 there's mair mistaks than haystacks i' t' warld. 
 Ah reckons t' squire, as ye calls him, hes a reeght 
 tu pleease hissel', an' t' lass hes a bonny face o' 
 her ain. Ah believes she's leeakin' oot o' t' 
 winda noo." 
 
 Peggy rose, rustling her skirts, and pointed 
 out the cottage. 
 
 "Do ye mean to say" Faith's face had 
 grown rigid "that t' squire visits at sike a 
 poor owlish place as yon? Mebbe he's glide 
 to 'em he's rare an' gude, is t' squire. Ye 
 sud mind your tongue when ye speak agaan t' 
 qualaty, Peggy. Coortin', yu said ! coortin', in 
 sike a place as yon ! T' ways o' t' qualaty isn't 
 t' same as fooalks like yourselV 
 
 Peggy tossed her head. Faith's provocation 
 had given her the courage she wanted. As she 
 said to her husband afterwards, " Ah war fair 
 raageous. Ah warn't tu be sed by ony awd 
 lass."
 
 218 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 " Weel, mebbe he kens 'era ; but they're nut 
 poor. An' when Ah sent t' letter Ah didn't 
 expect ye kenned } em ; but Hezekiah said i' t' 
 mornin' they're Burneston fooalk, an' t' naame's 
 Barugh." 
 
 She kept her eyes on the window, in the hope 
 that Doris and her brother would come out, 
 as they often did, for a walk. She did not 
 see the change in her visitor's face. Faith 
 turned suddenly pale, her yellow eyes dilated 
 till she looked like a cat ready to spring ; but 
 even then she was watchful over her words. 
 The strange part of this woman was that her 
 outbursts were deliberate, and calculated to 
 produce a certain effect, while her real im- 
 pulses were as strongly controlled as they were 
 violent. 
 
 " They're not awd Burneston folk," she said 
 coolly; "new-comers t' farmer, an' t' missis, 
 an' a lame lad?" 
 
 She gave a quick, interrogative look 
 at Peggy, who nodded, and then spoke 
 eagerly 
 
 "Eh, there's more then t' fayther, an' t'
 
 OX THE ALERT. 219 
 
 muther an' t' lad. They com fost, an' mebbe 
 two weeks efter comes a lass, an' Ah expects 
 she's their lass by t' ways on 'em ; but she's a 
 lady fer all that." 
 
 The withering rage and scorn that pos- 
 sessed Faith are indescribable. She looked 
 at tall, broad-chested Peggy, and felt that 
 she could shake her into fits ; but she still 
 kept a seeming calm. Peggy was looking 
 curiously at her, and Faith forced herself to 
 smile. 
 
 " Mebbe it's Doris, t' lass fra scheeal an' ye 
 call her a lady ! Fahne feathers maks fahne 
 birds, Peggy. She's nobbnt a farmer's lass." 
 She gave a scornful glance at Mrs. Byland's 
 gold chain. "Naedoobt it's t' Lunnon gown 
 gives a look tew her ; but Doris 's not a lady, 
 Peggy. Them that's allays wi' t' qualaty kens 
 t' difference, where sike a yan as yersel' wadu't 
 find it." She ended so loftily that Mrs. By- 
 land's courage forsook her. 
 
 Weel v she spoke doubtfully " Ah can't 
 say but ye're reeght ; but Mr. Burneston hes 
 corned tweea tahms sin' Sunday, an' we're at 
 Frahday noo."
 
 220 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 Faith grew paler, but her face remained still. 
 " How's your man, Peggy T' she said. " I can't 
 bide wi' yu no longer ; ye muu just say to Heze- 
 kiah 'at I'd bizness at Steersley, an' I looked in 
 on yu." 
 
 She refused hospitable Peggy's offers of a 
 meal, and even cake and wine had no power to 
 stay her ; she departed professedly to transact 
 her business in Steersley, really to seek Ephraim 
 Crewe and his cart at a farm about half a mile 
 out of the little town. 
 
 She did not try to verify Peggy's story ; she 
 felt that it was true. There had always been 
 something in Mr. Burnestou which had eluded 
 her vigilance, and now she felt sure he was 
 disgracing himself. The removal of the 
 Barughs, the long absence of Doris, all sorts 
 of tokens and foreshado wings, dimly seen 
 before, came upon her with sudden vivid- 
 ness. Did Mr. Burneston mean to marry 
 this girl, and set her up over the heads of 
 her betters? She felt dizzy as the thought 
 came. 
 
 " If he'd meant worse he'd not ha' waited
 
 ON THE ALERT. 221 
 
 while she cam' fra Lunnon," and she trembled 
 with suppressed fury. 
 
 But as she sat silently beside Ephraim Crewe, 
 Faith forced her anger into the background, 
 and set herself to see what could be done. 
 Master Ralph had a will of his own, if he could 
 be brought to sustain it; and he was as 
 proud as need be ; if he knew the truth, he 
 would not tolerate Doris Barugh in his mother's 
 place. 
 
 " There's his cousin," she said doubtfully ; 
 but she had not much faith in Gilbert Raine's 
 conventional notions. Mr. Burneston had no 
 other near relative, and Faith knew little about 
 his friends, except the hunting and shooting 
 companions, who came once a year to the old 
 Hall. 
 
 No, she must trust to Ralph, and she re- 
 solved to write to him; she knew he would 
 not betray her. She should simply tell the 
 boy there was a report that the squire was 
 going to marry a young girl, the daughter of 
 one of his own tenants, and point out the mis- 
 chief this would make, and tell him also that
 
 222 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 it might be too late to stop the marriage if 
 he waited to interfere till the Christmas holi- 
 days came.
 
 BOOK II. 
 
 COURTSHIP.
 
 225 
 
 CHAPTER T. 
 
 GILBERT RAINE IN HIS DEN. 
 
 RAINE was an early riser, and 
 often hard at work in his study before the 
 post came in. In levelling ground on which he 
 meant to build cottages, he had come upon 
 some Roman brickwork, and by unremitting 
 digging during the last few days, he and his 
 two gardeners had succeeded in exposing the 
 foundations of part of a Roman house. He was 
 busy writing an account of this discovery for 
 one of the learned societies of which he was a 
 member so busy that when the post came in 
 he suffered his letters to lie unopened beside him. 
 
 He looked thinner, and, if possible, more 
 eccentric than when he was last at Burneston. 
 His hair hung in dark elf locks over his bright, 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 restless eyes, and the wrinkles on his forehead 
 had deepened, so that when he raised his 
 eyebrows, as he did now, he looked much older 
 than he really was. He wore very little hair 
 on his face ; and while he held a letter close 
 to his near-sighted eyes, he pulled at his 
 scanty whiskers with his left hand till his 
 cheeks grew red with the rough treatment. 
 
 "What on earth " Then he turned to 
 
 the first page, and read the letter again. 
 
 "Mr 'DEAR GILBERT, 
 
 " You always said I was to write to 
 you when I was in trouble, and I don't know 
 what can be done about my father. I hear he 
 is going to make a low marriage. Now, you 
 know I don't want a step-mother at all ; they're 
 always a mean, mischief-making lot ; even if it 
 was a lady, it would be bad enough. What 
 can my fat'her be thinking of? It seems to me 
 he may be off his head, or some one's taking 
 him in ; so will you go down to Burneston and 
 look after him ? If you won't, please tell me, 
 and I shall go off post-haste, and get expelled in
 
 GILBERT RAINE IN HIS DEN. 227 
 
 consequence. But you are such a dear old chap, 
 I know you will go. We ought, between us, 
 to prevent my father from disgracing the 
 family. 
 
 " Your affectionate cousin, 
 
 " RALPH AYLMER BURNESTON/' 
 
 Gilbert Raine left off pulling his whiskers, 
 and grasped his chin tightly, while he once 
 more read Ralph's letter. 
 
 " Then I was right, after all," he thought ; 
 " and those allusions in Phil's letter pointed 
 to this intention ; that's to say " he crumpled 
 the letter vigorously in his brown, sinewy hand 
 " if there is a word of truth in it ; I believe 
 it is only gossip. Fll bet anything that old 
 housekeeper is at the bottom of it all, and she 
 has set on the boy to get me to interfere. Well, 
 then, shall I interfere? Why should I make 
 myself Faith's tool, and perhaps ridiculous into 
 the bargain ?" 
 
 He stood thinking, screwing up his brown face 
 till it was seamed all over with wrinkles, while he 
 frowned and closed his eyes. He was so dark, 
 
 Q2
 
 228 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 and gaunt, and keen-looking that, but for the 
 manly, candid expression of his bright eyes, 
 seeing him in this den, with its queer counter- 
 like tables, high stools with black leather seats 
 studded round with brass nails, and walls 
 formed of shelves and pigeon-holes, you might 
 have taken him for an old alchemist or ma- 
 gician. 
 
 The tables were laden with books, pamphlets, 
 papers, bits of tiles, &c. ; and the mantelshelf 
 was a chaos of ancient fragments the toe-bone 
 of a mummy, relics from an Indian temple, a 
 stone from one of the lost cities of Central 
 America, a bit of granite from the Menhirs at 
 Erdeven, a Roman statuette from the south of 
 France, coins from the Pyramids, with sundry 
 other things all heaped one on another in a 
 state of dusty confusion, that called loudly for 
 the housemaid and a pair of bellows. 
 
 All at once Raine roused from his reverie, 
 and walked hastily out of his den, across the 
 black and white chessboard floor of the entrance 
 to the dining-hall, a long, bare room, with a 
 dark, polished floor, uncarpeted, except by a
 
 GILBERT RAINE IX HIS DEN. 229 
 
 Persian rug in front of the fireplace ; on the left 
 were six tall windows with small panes set in 
 white window-frames, and on the right a huge 
 wide chimney with an open hearth, guarded by 
 enormous brass dogs. All round the upper 
 part of the oak-panelled walls framed by the 
 wood were portraits of Gilbert Raine's ances- 
 tors, dating as far back as Queen Elizabeth. 
 
 It looked very cheerless to see the meagre 
 breakfast a small coffee-pot, a roll, butter, 
 and an egg set at the end of a long, narrow 
 table, capable of dining a score of persons. 
 Eating was an occupation Raine did not give 
 his mind to, and he ate his breakfast in a cheer- 
 less, ungenial fashion, alternately sitting and 
 walking up and down from end to end of the 
 long room with his mouth full, as he thought 
 out his dilemma. 
 
 Austin's End was a fine old mansion, with a 
 great square oak staircase, with richly-carved 
 balusters and standards, and up this staircase 
 the wind came rushing on this cheerless Sep- 
 tember morning to the many galleries and pas- 
 sages upstairs, into the large old-fashioned
 
 230 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 guest-rooms, making the old tapestry wave on 
 the walls, till the nymphs and trees thereon de- 
 picted seemed to be courtesying in concert to 
 the wounded knight lying outstretched above 
 the scroll-work border. But the bare aspect of 
 the rooms, and galleries, and halls made one 
 shiver even in July. Except the aforesaid faded 
 tapestry upstairs, the family portraits in the 
 diniug-hall, and a few large blue and white 
 china jars on the staircase, suggestive of rose- 
 leaves strewn therein long ago by fair fingers, 
 there was nothing in the house to relieve the 
 universal dark oak and whitewash. There 
 were treasures in the shape of antiques and 
 curios, locked up in old oak cabinets and chests 
 about the house, but Raine had never yet found 
 time to arrange these stores, he was always 
 \seeking fresh discoveries, without an idea of 
 ^digesting those in his possession. 
 
 Before he had been a quarter of an hour in 
 the dining-hall he rang the bell. 
 
 " Tell Buxton I'm going to Burneston," he 
 said. 
 
 Then he went up to his gaunt comfortless
 
 GILBERT RAINE IN HIS DEN. 231 
 
 bedroom, with its bare, uneven floor, and packed 
 his own bag. 
 
 " Whether it is Faith's mischief or not," he 
 thought, " I must stand by Philip. He's the 
 best friend Fve ever had, and I am the only 
 creature in the world he'll take advice 
 from." 
 
 But more than once, as he journeyed north- 
 ward, he remembered that his cousin had taken 
 no notice of the remonstrances he had written 
 from Bornholm, and he sighed as he called to 
 mind how very obstinate Philip Burneston could 
 be. 
 
 So many years ago it was a long jour- 
 ney from Austin's End to Burneston, and 
 Raine did not reach the Hall till the next 
 afternoon. " I must be very careful in what 
 I say." This was his final resolution, as he 
 drove slowly over from the railway station at 
 VVolden, some fifteen miles distant from Burne- 
 ston. 
 
 What a time it was since he had seen the 
 old place ! He began to reproach himself for 
 his long neglect, and the seemingly important
 
 232 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 matters which had kept him at home dwindled 
 into trivialities in memory before the idea that, 
 if he had not left his cousin so much to himself, 
 Burneston might not have got into this en- 
 tanglement. 
 
 Faith was in the hall when he arrived. She 
 made a deep courtesy, while Mr. Raine asked 
 Benjamin for his cousin. 
 
 "T'maister's gone ridiu' alone, sir. Mebbe 
 he's nut far off." 
 
 " Ah I Pll go and look for him presently. 
 How d'ye do, Mrs. Emmetf? Have you heard 
 from Master Ralph lately ? You'll be having 
 him back at Christmas." 
 
 He glanced sharply at the yellow eyes, but 
 they looked perfectly unconscious of mystery. 
 
 " Fes, sir, we hope so," and then she added 
 a few words about his room, and Benjamin 
 conducted him to the dining-room. 
 
 Raine thought he was glad his cousin was 
 out. The strong dislike to interference which 
 had come upon him as he read Ralph's letter 
 returned with yet more power, and he asked 
 himself what right he had to speak to Philip
 
 GILBERT RAJNE IN HIS DEN. 233 
 
 Burneston on such a specially private matter un- 
 less he consulted him. Benjamin stood behind 
 his chair wondering at Mr. Raine's silence, for 
 Gilbert always had a joke or a kind word for 
 the old servants, some of whom had known him 
 all his life. 
 
 " Do you know which room I'm to have ?" 
 he said at last, and Benjamin summoned Mrs. 
 Emmett. 
 
 " Yey'll like your own room, sir, best," she 
 said quietly; "it's always fettled, an' it's bin 
 waitin' longer than usual.'' 
 
 She turned to lead the way up the old dark 
 staircase, and, pausing on the first landing, 
 went up three shallow steps into a gallery on 
 the left, and threw open the door of a small 
 room with an oriel window, in which were two 
 easy-chairs and a writiug-table strewn with 
 papers. 
 
 "It's just as ye left it, sir, we's touched 
 nought. Master Ralph said that t' papers 
 was not to be stirred." 
 
 Gilbert Raine sighed as he looked round. 
 There was something very comfortable and
 
 234 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 pleasant-looking in the square Indian carpet 
 and the pale blue and drab hangings ; the 
 books and pictures, too, seemed like old com- 
 panions, and the newly-lighted logs were 
 sputtering and sparkling noisily in the wide 
 grate. 
 
 A moment's vision of Austin's End with 
 these beautifying comforts, and with some one 
 to direct and order all, and take domestic cares 
 from his mind passed before him, and then he 
 shrugged his shoulders and screwed up his eyes. 
 
 "No, no, let well alone. At least, I have 
 freedom, especially from heartache ; and women 
 have a knack of causing that." 
 
 He whistled and stooped over his bag, which 
 he never allowed anyone to unpack. No one 
 seeing the boyish glee with which Gilbert 
 Raiue enjoyed trifles, and his careless way of 
 looking at life, would have guessed how sorely 
 a woman had once made his heart ache. It 
 had happened in his youth ; he was twenty-two 
 and the girl was twenty-five. She was en- 
 gaged to a man in India, but she thought her- 
 self free to listen to the clever talk of the young
 
 GILBERT RAINE IN HIS DEN. 235 
 
 Oxford man and receive his admiration. He 
 was only a boy, she said, and he was the only 
 congenial companion she could find among the 
 guests" in a large country house. So she rode 
 with him, and talked and laughed with him, 
 and let him repeat poetry to her on long deli- 
 cious summer evenings beside the river that 
 ran through the grounds ; and one evening she 
 was quite taken by surprise when the poor un- 
 conscious fellow asked her, with passion in his 
 eyes and voice, if she could ever love him. 
 
 " Oh ! why did you do this 1" she asked. 
 " I was so happy in your friendship, and I 
 had meant to keep you for a friend always." 
 But Gilbert was desperately in earnest. He 
 would not be put off so ; and she had to humble 
 herself and avow her engagement, and then 
 endure the lad's scornful reproaches. 
 
 Poor fellow ! he could leave her in anger, but 
 the effort nearly broke his heart it made a 
 man of him, and also a woman-hater, or rather 
 woman-despiser ; for since he had come into his 
 uncle's property many a mother and daughter 
 had tried in vain to make Gilbert Raine take a
 
 236 DORIS BARCTGH. 
 
 wife. But that first impression, so sweet and 
 then so bitter, could not be obliterated ; he 
 had never seen anyone so charming as that 
 girl ; and if she could be false, who could be 
 true? 
 
 He soon went out in search of his cousin, and 
 meeting Jock, one of Mr. Burneston's collies, in 
 the hall, he took him with him ; but, though 
 they made a long circuit, they could not find 
 the master. All at once, as they paused on 
 the hill-top beside the church, the dog pricked 
 up his ears and went forward, barking joyously. 
 In a few minutes Mr. Burnestoii had ridden up 
 to his cousin. 
 
 " Why, Gilbert, old fellow, this is capital. I 
 thought it was you, and yet I couldn't believe 
 it." 
 
 But after the greeting was over, Mr. Raine 
 thought Philip was unusually silent. He began 
 to hope that after all he might not have to 
 begin this difficult subject. Burneston had 
 always come to him spontaneously with his 
 troubles, and he looked troubled now. 
 
 As they passed the two cottages, Joseph
 
 GILBERT RAINE IN HIS DEN. 237 
 
 came to the door and gave Raine a hearty 
 welcome, but the squire went on scarcely 
 turning his head. 
 
 " \Yell," Gilbert said as the silence continued, 
 " what has been happening in Burneston, Phil ? 
 Have you burned Dame Wrigley yet, or has she 
 given up riding on a broom-stick ?" 
 
 " It is curious you should ask that to-day. 
 The poor old wretch has been left in peace 
 since young George Barugh took her under 
 his protection." An inquisitive look came into 
 Raine's keen eyes as the squire flushed at the 
 name. "But now there is fresh sickness 
 among the cows, and old Sunley is more violent 
 than ever; I am afraid he would like to see 
 Patience worried to death." 
 
 " Bloodthirsty old villain ; and he'll see it 
 done, too, Phil. He looked as tough as an 
 ash stick when we passed him just now. Why 
 don't you get the woman away V 
 
 " She won't go." 
 
 " Can't you get the young fellow you spoke 
 of, George Barugh, to influence her?" 
 
 "I never thought of it, and he is not in
 
 238 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 Burneston now ; lie is away with his people." 
 He rode on, getting out of the range of those 
 observant eyes. 
 
 " Gone are they ? They were the people on 
 the hill, I think. Have you a new tenant then 
 at Church Farm f 
 
 Gilbert Raine's long legs had soon brought 
 him beside his cousin again, and the downward 
 road through the village was so steep that the 
 horse went slowly. 
 
 " I didn't say they had left the farm." 
 Burneston spoke irritably. " I wish they had." 
 This was muttered to himself. " Mrs. Barugh 
 has taken George to Steersley for a time for 
 for change of air." 
 
 " I forget is he the only child ? I don't 
 seem to know much about these Barughs." 
 
 Mr. Burneston twitched his bridle, and then 
 spoke angrily to his horse. He had a vexed 
 consciousness that his cousin, instead of play- 
 ing with the collie or speaking to the chil- 
 dren at the cottage doors, was observing him 
 closely. 
 
 " There are two children, a boy and a girl."
 
 GILBERT RAINE IN HIS DEN. 239 
 
 And then without any intention, except that of 
 changing the subject, " Have you heard lately 
 from Ralph?" he said. 
 
 Raine was, as he said, a blunderer. He had 
 no idea of introducing a subject adroitly. In 
 his anxiety to have done with restraint, he 
 forgot his cautious resolutions ; it seemed to him 
 that he had better speak, and here was the 
 opening he needed. 
 
 They had reached the bottom of the village, 
 and turned to the right beside the river, over 
 which lay a brooding mist. 
 
 ' Yes, I heard from him this morning." He 
 stopped, but Mr. Burneston did not help him 
 with a question. His cousin's uneasy manner 
 had warned him that something had to be told. 
 " The truth is," Raine went on hurriedly, " his 
 letter brought me here." 
 
 " Really ! Anything very important the 
 matter ?" very drily spoken. 
 
 How strange it is that when we are vexed 
 with those we understand best, we often take 
 the worst possible method of making them do 
 what we wish ! Philip Burneston wished to
 
 240 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 silence his cousin, and he showed his dis- 
 pleasure to that end, while he knew, or 
 might have known by experience, that oppo- 
 sition was sure to rouse Gilbert Raine's deter- 
 mination. 
 
 A bright flush rose on the dark wrinkled face, 
 and a slight frown deepened the creases round 
 the eyes and mouth. 
 
 "Yes, Phil; the boy is anxious about you. 
 It's no good use beating about the bush; the truth 
 is, some one has told him you are going to be 
 married." 
 
 Mr. Burneston laughed, but he spoke fret- 
 fully. 
 
 " People are very clever. I certainly have 
 not promised to marry anyone." 
 
 Raine gave a sigh of relief. " Thank God !" 
 he said, gravely. "I thought it was possibly 
 gossip. The story was that you were going 
 to marry some girl who is well, who is out of 
 your own position." 
 
 Burneston rode on in silence till they reached 
 the great gates which shut in the stable yard 
 and the entrance.
 
 GILBERT RAINE IN HIS DEN. 241 
 
 " Wait till we get in, Gilbert/' he said. " I 
 should have told you sooner or later, so I may 
 as well get it over." 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 242 
 
 M 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 LOVE IS LORD OF ALL. 
 
 RS. BARUGH felt ill-used and irritable. 
 She had, as she expressed it, been " led 
 a life " by her husband and her son. 
 
 When John Barugh returned to Steersley 
 and heard of the squire's visits, he broke out in 
 stubborn anger. It required Dorothy's utmost 
 care and tact to prevent him from showing his 
 displeasure before Doris. 
 
 At last the storm quieted ; and when he 
 understood that the meeting in Steersdale had 
 been accidental, and that Mr. Burneston always 
 came over to Steersley, as Dorothy asserted, on 
 business, John softened, and was obliged to con- 
 fess that it was but natural the squire should
 
 LOVE IS LORD OF ALL. 243 
 
 call in when he was there to see George, as he 
 had done at the Church Farm. 
 
 " Thoo mun keep t' lass fra seem' him ivvery 
 tahrne 'at he cooms," said simple John. 
 
 As he was starting to go back to Burneston 
 he said to his wife, 
 
 " Rase Dmicom.be is wantin' to see oor Doris, 
 an' Ah'v sed tu t' lass sheea may com." 
 
 " Oh no, John, don't say so. Doris can't 
 abide Rose, they never suited; it'll be a sad 
 mistake for her to come." 
 
 But John was in a hurry to be off. 
 
 " Bon it !" he said, " what harm can t' lass 
 deea? Bud settle it atween yersels," and he 
 went. 
 
 Dorothy gave a sigh of relief. She respected 
 her husband and loved him after her fashion, 
 but just now she did not want him ; she was 
 free for a week, perhaps for a fortnight, 
 from his supervision ; and she went back 
 into the little sitting-room with a smile on her 
 face. 
 
 But at the sight of George standing in the 
 middle of the room, looking taller than usual, 
 
 R2
 
 244 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 and pale with anger, she stopped in dismay, 
 and gave a little cry of fear. 
 
 "Why, lad, why, what is it? Are ye ill? 
 What's got ye to look so at your mother ?" 
 
 " Whisht, mother ! don't be a silly, an' steek 
 t' door." Then, recollecting himself, he point- 
 ed to a seat, and tried to control his passion- 
 ate anger. " Mother !" the tears springing 
 in poor Dorothy's eyes softened his rebuke 
 more than she knew. " Ah heard all ye said ; 
 yur talk fair caps me ; is there no such a thing 
 as t' right an' t' wrang, or are we to make what 
 Doris likes and dislikes our rule i' life ?" 
 
 But Dorothy had begun to cry. George had 
 never before rebuked her so sternly. 
 
 " I can't bear it, I can't," she sobbed. 4f I do 
 all I can to please the lot of yon, and it's one 
 twitting me here, and t'other scolding there, 
 and now you lecturing, George, about nothing ; 
 it's too hard ; so there." 
 
 George's mouth twitched. He shrank from 
 giving his mother pain, but he could not shrink 
 from what seemed to him positive duty. 
 
 " Ah'm sorry to grieve ye, mother." He stood
 
 LOVE IS LORD OF ALL. 245 
 
 before her as if he were the offender ; but he 
 went on firmly. " But it's for Rose Ah speak. Rose 
 was good an' kind to me when Ah was nobbut 
 a poor helpless sufferer, an' are we to gi' her t' 
 cold shoulder now ? More than that, Doris an' 
 Rose waazn't friends when they war little lasses ; 
 but mebbe t' ane's as much changed as t' ither 
 now/' 
 
 Dorothy tossed her head. 
 
 " Never, lad, never ; can't ye feel a difference 
 as well as see it ? Rose is " 
 
 " Stop, mother ; deean't say what Ah cannut 
 listen to. Rose is my friend, an' Ah winnot 
 hearken to a word o' blame about her fra' you 
 or any ither body. If she an' Doris deean't fancy 
 one another, let 'em keep apart. But it's hard 
 on Rose an' me, an' Ah say gi' 'em t' chance. 
 An', mother," he said earnestly, " for my 
 sake ye'll be kind to t' lass whenivver she 
 cooms." 
 
 And Mrs. Barugh felt how much harder it 
 was to resist the sway of her quiet invalid son 
 than that of her more irascible husband. John 
 was long suffering ; but when his auger was
 
 246 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 roused it was tremendous, and defeated its object. 
 
 " It's the worst of being so good, lad," Do- 
 rothy said as her son kissed her. " You're so 
 often right that you can never think ye're 
 wrong. Well, I s'pose I must take the long wi' 
 the short, and let you have your will ; but don't 
 say a word to Doris." 
 
 Her earnest hope was that, as she knew Rose 
 had other friends in Steersley, the girl's visit 
 would be short, and would happen during 
 Doris's frequent walks. 
 
 For Doris, who had become very lively and 
 companionable, had lately gone back to the 
 silent abstracted moods of her childhood. Mrs. 
 Barugh noted this, and drew her own conclu- 
 sions ; but George was puzzled and disap- 
 pointed. 
 
 He had been growing stronger every day, 
 and he often walked with Doris ; but she was 
 more dreamy and listless alone with him than 
 in her mother's presence. 
 
 To-day, as they sauntered on the velvet turf 
 within the grey ruins of Steersley Castle, he 
 said suddenly, " What ails ye, lass ; is it love V
 
 LOVE IS LORD OF ALL. 247 
 
 " George V She blushed and looked annoy- 
 ed, and then, recovering herself, she laughed. 
 " Oh, George, what nonsense ! Don't you re- 
 member I was often like this ? My friend Rika 
 Masham said she had cured me; but I don't 
 know. I wish you could see Rika, George ; it 
 would be nice for you to have a friend like her." 
 
 George flushed, but Doris's eyes were on the 
 grass at her feet. "I hev you an' Rose," he 
 said with an effort for he rarely spoke of Rose 
 to his sister. " I think a lad lies enough wiv 
 two o' ye." 
 
 Doris raised her head, and her lips curved in 
 a slight smile. 
 
 " But I can't help thinking if you knew Rika 
 you would like her very much ; she's so bright, 
 so joyous, so full of mischief, she makes one 
 feel so young." 
 
 George forgot his vexation. His brown 
 eyes twinkled merrily. 
 
 " Young that's gude for you, lass. Mebbe 
 you'll be wanting a cap like mother's soon. 
 Make hay while t' sun shines ; you'll never be 
 younger than ye are now."
 
 248 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 " I'm getting old ; I really am getting old, 
 George," she said ; "I'm nearly twenty." 
 
 But after this she roused, and talked of 
 Rika and her school-life till they reached the 
 cottage. 
 
 " Please, miss, there's a visitor." 
 
 Doris's heart beat with she scarcely knew 
 what anticipation ; but George went on eager- 
 ly, opened the parlour, and saw, as he expected, 
 Rose Duncombe seated beside his mother. 
 
 Rose jumped up, shaking out her skirt with 
 excitement, and rustling in the consciousness 
 of a new, stiffly-lined gown and a showy scar- 
 let shawl. 
 
 George's smile of glad welcome was slightly 
 subdued as he watched the two girls shake 
 hands. Rose was much prettier than Doris, he 
 thought ; her eyes were so sweet, her hair so 
 bright and golden, and her colour as fresh as a 
 rose. But, although he thought his sister's 
 dress was too staid and quiet for a girl, it 
 seemed as if Rose was a parroquet beside her. 
 The village girl flamed with blue and pink and 
 scarlet, and her hearty laugh and boisterous
 
 LOVE IS LORD OF ALL. 249 
 
 greeting jarred on him as it had never done 
 before. But this feeling was only transient ; he 
 saw that Rose grew shy, and that Doris was 
 stiff, almost haughty, and in a moment his 
 allegiance came back. 
 
 "My word, you hev grown tall!" Rose 
 tried to cover the awe she felt of Doris by a 
 familiar manner which sounded pert. Doris was 
 even more disgusted than she had expected to 
 be, for she had not counted on Rose's assump- 
 tion of equality. She thought school would 
 have made the girl affected and silly : but this 
 off-hand freedom took her by surprise, and made 
 her own manner constrained. 
 
 " I suppose my nose is out o' joint wi' you, 
 lad," Rose laughed at George, " now 'at ye've 
 set tip a real sister. D'ye find him changed, 
 Doris? My word, ye've changed yerself; I 
 shouldn't ha' known yu I" 
 
 " You are not much altered,'' said Doris in a 
 polite, cold voice. She was angry with herself 
 for being so irritated ; but every word the 
 smart rosy-cheeked damsel said took her back 
 y earg _took her back to the farm kitchen and
 
 250 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 to herself, in her lilac pinafore and sun-bonnet. 
 She felt that she hated Rose Duncombe. 
 
 "Not much altered!" Rose was violently 
 mortified. "That's what you think, is it?" 
 then she looked at Dorothy with flushing 
 cheeks, and spoke very fast. " She's not 
 changed in some ways, Mrs. Barugh. She's 
 just as short-spoken as ivver, I see, an' she 
 
 cocks up her chin as like " Doris gave a 
 
 slight shiver of disapprobation, and George 
 looked troubled. "But nivver fash yersel', 
 Doris ; I'll take mysel' off. I don't need to force 
 my company where it's not wanted ; there's 
 plenty only too glad on it." She turned her back 
 completely on Doris, her eyes sparkling and her 
 face hectic with passion. "Never you mind, 
 lad ; I'll come and see yu when yu gits back 
 tot' farm; she'll" jerking her head towards 
 Doris " hev settled down by then. Good-bye, 
 lad ; I've a heap of friends to go an' see at 
 Steersley, though I begun wi' ye. Good day." 
 
 All this was spoken in breathless haste, while 
 the listeners were dumb with surprise ; and, 
 squeezing George's hand, and nodding to Mrs.
 
 LOVE IS LORD OF ALL. 251 
 
 Barugh, Rose ran away without taking any 
 leave of Doris. 
 
 "Oh, Doris! what hev you done?" George 
 spoke at once and angrily, for he had seen 
 tears in Rose's bright eyes. 
 
 " Done !" Doris drew herself up with dignity 
 "I really do not understand. I do not wish 
 to vex you, George, but Rose Duncombe seems 
 to me a very ill-mannered young woman. She 
 certainly has not changed for the better." 
 
 " It's easy for them 'at hesn't gitten strong 
 feelin's to keep cool and quiet. You know no- 
 thing about feeling, Doris ; all you think of is 
 manner. How would you like to be snubbed 
 by one of your equals? and Rose Duncombe " 
 he looked at her sternly " is much more your 
 equal than Mr. Burneston is/' 
 
 "Ah. my lad, don't" Mrs. Barugh placed 
 herself between the brother and sister, for 
 George's vehemence frightened her ; she could 
 not understand it" why should you bring the 
 squire's name up at all? What can he have to 
 do with Rose ?" 
 
 Doris walked away to the other end of the
 
 252 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 room. She did not give a thought to George's 
 wounded feelings ; she only felt that this kind 
 of rude quarrel was wholly ruffling and un- 
 settling ; during all the five years she had spent 
 at Pelican House she had never been so much 
 moved out of her habitual self-control. 
 
 " It all comes from their want of breeding," 
 the poor girl thought ; " and what will become 
 of me? Shall I sink to this, to quarrel and be 
 rude, like Rose, and grow altogether coars- 
 ened ?" 
 
 But George was speaking in a steady, deter- 
 mined voice, that compelled her to listen. " Mo- 
 ther," he said, f ' mebbe you didn't take notice ; 
 but it was varra hard on Rose. The lass have 
 corned over here with a heart full of affection 
 to welcome an old friend, an' t' old friend treats 
 her like a stranger. I'm sorry I spoke so 
 sharp, Doris. Mebbe you didn't mean harm ; 
 mebbe them's London manners. If that's so, I 
 says I likes t' old ways best. But I'm grieved 
 for Rose ; she's vexed with hersel', poor lass. 
 She war fair set on Doris." 
 
 Doris looked very grave.
 
 LOVE IS LORD OF ALL. 25% 
 
 "1 am sorry too, George, but you know I 
 never was Rose's friend, and I do not think I 
 should get on with such a hasty person. Pray 
 do not let us talk about her." 
 
 " No, my dear," Mrs. Barugh spoke sooth- 
 ingly, " it is not to be supposed you would get 
 on with poor Rose. I'm sure she's a kind, good- 
 hearted girl as ever lived, and she's been an 
 amusement to George when I couldn't be with 
 him ; but she's had none of your advantages, 
 my dear, and George won't think so much of 
 her now he has you/' 
 
 " Mother," George blushed like a girl, " diniiot 
 find fault with Rose, I cannot bear it. Mebbe 
 she's wantiu' in many ways. She's old- 
 fashioned an' countrified. Well, so's I, but 
 she's gotten a heart, an' she's nivver said an 
 unkind word since I knew her, an' I'm not 
 goin' to gi' her up to please Doris." 
 
 " You are unjust, George. I do not ask you 
 to give up Rose." Doris spoke calmly, but she 
 looked pained. In her heart she was shocked 
 at her brother's persistence. 
 
 "Why should I?" he said sternly. "She
 
 254 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 braids o' us ; she's o' t' class we war born among, 
 Doris. Eh, deean't yey go for to cheat yersel', 
 lass, yer friend Rika, as yey calls her, '11 cock 
 up her neb at yey when she sees what sort yu 
 are, an' as for t' squire, he just cooms t' see us 
 as his tenants." 
 
 " You're out there, my dear." Mrs. Barugh 
 bridled and looked as nearly angry as she could 
 be with her beloved son. " We're not Mr. Burne- 
 stou's tenants here : it's one thing for him to 
 come and see us at Church Farm, lad, and quite 
 another for him to come here : it's plain he looks 
 on us as friends, or he'd stay away." 
 
 " I nivver meant he didn't, think us friends, 
 mother what I means is equals. D'ye think, 
 mother, t' squire wad bring one o' his own 
 friends to see you, or ask you to t' Hall nobbut 
 to see Mistress Einmett : an' I fancys Doris wad 
 be as ill-pleased wi' Mistress Emmett as she is 
 \vi' Rose Duncombe." 
 
 " George " Doris came back and stood be- 
 side him " don't let us talk any more about 
 this. We can't see things from the same point 
 of view ; only I think you ought to remember 
 that I never did like Rose."
 
 LOVE IS LORD OF ALL. 255 
 
 "An* Ah says," George spoke passionately 
 and broadly, " ye're wrang. Yey've changed by 
 yer learnin', an' so hes t' ither lass, an' yey just 
 sits in judgment on her wivout gi'in' her a 
 chance o' pleasin' yu. But nivver fear, Ah 
 deean't want to force .Rose on yu, Doris ; sheea 
 an' Ah's coompany for ane anither ; but mahnd 
 off! Ah winnut hear a word again t' lass fra 
 yan o' yu." 
 
 He limped out of the room. He was himself 
 troubled by his own agitation, which he found 
 quite beyond control in speaking he had re- 
 turned to the words of his childhood and he 
 wanted to prevent further strife. 
 
 Directly the door closed, Mrs. Barugh broke 
 out in lamentation. 
 
 " Oh dear, oh dear, this world's a trial and a 
 stumbling-block ; George and me have never 
 had a word in our lives before. I do wish you 
 could have seemed more friendly to the lass, 
 Doris, just for George's sake. You see, he looks 
 on her as his friend, and so he takes any fault- 
 finding to himself." 
 
 Doris made no answer. She was walking up 
 and down the room, her fair forehead puckered
 
 256 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 by a frown, and her delicate lips firmly pressed 
 together. 
 
 "Don't you see -what it is, mother?" she 
 stopped short in her walk and looked reproving- 
 ly at Dorothy. 
 
 " No, my dear. What d'ye mean ? I " 
 
 " Well, then, mother, I think you ought to 
 have seen, for this cannot have come all at 
 once. At least" her cheeks flushed a little 
 "I fancy not. George loves Rose Dun- 
 combe." 
 
 " My goodness, child !" Mrs. Barugh turned 
 so pale that Doris spoke more gently. 
 
 " I'm sure of it. He would not excite him- 
 self in that way if he did not feel very strongly, 
 and, besides, he has said other things/' She 
 was thinking of what George had said in the 
 Park that morning. 
 
 "Oh, Doris, I can't think it. How could a 
 poor lame lad like George take a wife ? He'd 
 have nothing to live on, and we'd be forced 
 to have her to live with us. Oh, George, lad," 
 she almost wailed, " no wife '11 ever love ye as 
 yer mother does."
 
 LOVE IS LORD OF ALL. 257 
 
 She sat down crying, and smothered her face 
 in her handkerchief. It was the most miserable 
 moment she had ever known. George, her own 
 George, to whom at least she thought she 
 was all in all, had given his love to Rose, and 
 here was Doris, her own child, too, and yet so 
 much a stranger to her family that she was 
 not grieving at the loss of her brother's love, 
 but only angry that he had given it so un- 
 worthily. 
 
 " Mother " t)oris spoke in the proud, reso- 
 lute tone that had so awed some of her school- 
 fellows at Pelican House "you must leave off 
 crying, and you must think. George is so 
 young that it's nonsense to take such a thing 
 to heart. It could .never have happened if 
 he had lived anywhere else and seen other 
 companions as well as Rose, and I think it is 
 all on his side. I am not sure that she cares 
 for him. She seems too much at her ease." 
 
 " Not care for him ! My goodness, child, 
 you're dreamin' !" Mrs. Barugh wiped her 
 eyes hastily and sat upright in her wonder. 
 " D'ye mean to tell me, Doris, that such a lass 
 
 VOL. I. 8
 
 258 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 as Rose wouldn't be proud of your brother 
 George's love ? Not care for him ! Why, who 
 is there in all Burnestou, or for that matter 
 in Steersley either, fit to hold a candle to my 
 lad?" 
 
 Doris smiled. "It's not that, mother, but 
 George is too quiet for such a 'girl as Rose. 
 She's not one who will care to sit still in-doors. 
 She is vain and silly, I am sure she is, and she 
 has the common sort of nature that would seek 
 to be admired. I can't bear to think George 
 loves her." 
 
 " He's seen no one else he hasn't seen girls 
 enough, that's it," Mrs. Barugh sighed ; " but 
 it's too late now, Doris ; if it's as you say, it 
 won't do to be finding fault with her to George ; 
 it will only make him worse. There's not a 
 morsel of use in crossing a man's love ; you'll 
 only steady it. Oh, Doris, you've made me 
 sadder than I ever was before. Oh! George, 
 lad, how can ye take up with a girl like that 
 instead of your mother ! She'll never love ye 
 half so dearly. Oh, my lad, my lad !" 
 
 She covered her eyes with her hands. Her
 
 LOVE IS LORD OF ALL. 259 
 
 motherly grief did not touch Doris. She stood 
 thinking with a very anxious face. 
 
 " Mother," she said at last, " it will be better for 
 us never to go back to Burneston. Such a girl as 
 that will soon forget George, supposing that 
 you are right ; and if she does not love him, will 
 it not be much kinder and wiser to keep George 
 out of her way ?" 
 
 Mrs. Barugh shook her head miserably. 
 
 " You don't know your father, child. He 
 can't abide changes the trouble I had to get 
 him to leave Pickerby ! And though he's 
 never, as one may say, taken to the Church 
 Farm, still he's begun to lay out money there, 
 and I doubt if he'd be willing to leave before 
 he has got it's value returned." 
 
 "But you don't cling to Burneston, mother?" 
 She did not wait to be answered. A sudden 
 hope of escape, the outcome of her long reveries 
 reveries which, beginning in fear, always 
 ended with the certainty of future mortification 
 in life at the Church Farm made Doris strange- 
 ly earnest. " I own to you that I shrink from 
 going back there. Yesterday you told me that 
 
 ' S2
 
 260 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 George's health was so much better away from 
 Burneston. Surely my father will not sacrifice 
 us all for the sake of a few pounds." 
 Mrs. Barugh looked utterly miserable." 
 " I'm sure I don't know, Doris. Your father 
 has been at great expense for you, and then 
 there's this cottage and the giving notice, and 
 all. Why, child, a man can't step out of one 
 farm and get into another as easy as he changes 
 his boots." 
 
 " I suppose not." Then, while a rush of 
 colour flew over her face, making her frown 
 with vexation, "But with Mr. Burneston, as 
 landlord, it might be easier, mother." She threw 
 her head back and spoke very coldly. " I don't 
 think Mr. Burneston wants us back at the 
 Church Farm."
 
 261 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 A THANKLESS OFFICE. 
 
 1% /TR. BURNESTON was silent until he and 
 4--I- his cousin were seated in the library; 
 even then he seemed unwilling to return to the 
 interrupted conversation. 
 
 He sat whistling and playing with a paper- 
 cutter, which he had taken off the table. 
 
 " Yes/' he said at last. " I wish that poor 
 old Wrigley would go away, it might save mis- 
 chief." 
 
 Gilbert Raine had been feeling more shy 
 and ill at ease than he had ever felt in his 
 life ; it was a relief to be able to speak of 
 something else than the subject in his 
 mind. 
 
 " Why don't you see about it ? But it's new
 
 262 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 to see you worried, Phil ; except now and 
 then when Ralph was troublesome, or one 
 of the hunters came to grief, you took life so 
 easily." 
 
 "And so I shall again, old fellow ; just now 
 I can't," 
 
 There was silence after this. Raine fidgeted 
 and made a most hideous scraping by moving 
 his chair on the uneven oak floor. At last he 
 told himself he was a coward. 
 
 " Phil," he cleared his throat, and there was a 
 comical twinkle in his bright eyes, " when we 
 were little chaps, we used to tell our troubles to 
 one another. I suppose this story I've heard is 
 true then ?" 
 
 Mr. Burneston rested his elbow on the 
 back of his chair, and shaded his face with his 
 hand. 
 
 " True in some ways, but not in saying the 
 the person in question is my inferior." 
 
 " Thank God !" said Raine with energy, and 
 he settled himself for a comfortable talk. " Let's 
 hear all about it, old fellow," he said ; the relief 
 was so great that he felt cheerful. " I hoped
 
 A THANKLESS OFFICE. 263 
 
 you would have kept your freedom, but I sup- 
 pose you can't get on alone." 
 
 Mr. Burneston looked uneasy. " I speak as 
 I feel," he said pettishly ; " the world, of course, 
 will not agree with me ; it remains to be seen, 
 Gilbert, whether you can venture to have an 
 opinion of your own, or whether you are iu- 
 fluenced by Mrs. Grundy." 
 
 " I think I have shown the contrary. I 
 generally snap my fingers at the old lady." 
 But Raine was troubled by this beginning. 
 
 " Well, it's soon said. We were speaking of 
 the Barughs just now. The daughter, Miss 
 Barugh, is very refined, highly educated, and 
 in short, if she will have me, I mean to marry 
 her." 
 
 Raine sat stupefied for an instant ; then for- 
 getting all restraint, he said eagerly, 
 
 " Then you've not asked her yet? for God's 
 sake, don't, Phil." 
 
 Mr. Burneston got up from his lounging 
 position, and went and- stood against the 
 mantelshelf, with his hands behind his back. 
 
 " Gilbert," he said quietly, " did you ever
 
 264 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 know me give up anything when onoe I had 
 made up my mind?" 
 
 " Perhaps not ; but hitherto the question has 
 been about something which did not touch the 
 welfare of your whole future life, and Ralph's 
 also." 
 
 "Am I to give up my whole happiness, then, 
 to avoid a possible annoyance to Ralph ? Non- 
 sense. Don't you see that in three or four 
 years Ralph will have his own friends and live 
 his own life, without the slightest reference 
 to me? We have scarcely a sympathy in 
 
 common " 
 
 Raine sighed. 
 
 " Pardon me, Phil ; but I must think a good 
 deal of that is your own fault." 
 
 A flush was rising in Mr. Burneston's face. 
 " You mean," he spoke quickly, " because I left 
 him. Well then, I think you are wrong. I 
 was unhinged and restless, and 1 always have 
 disliked boys. If I had stayed at home, pi*oba- 
 bly the boy would have hated me now, at 
 least, he cannot feel that I am harsh or stern 
 in fact,we are very good friends when we meet." 
 " But do you think he will submit patiently
 
 A THANKLESS OFFICE. 265 
 
 to a step-mother out of the village? Now stop, 
 Phil, I am only speaking from Ralph's point of 
 view. How will constant domestic; strife and 
 petty squabbles suit with your fastidious notions 
 of refinement, culture, and so on." 
 
 " To begin with, if you knew Miss Barugh, 
 you would see that one of her great charms is 
 the absence of all pettiness or feminine frivolity. 
 She has not been brought up in her own home ; 
 
 she is " He broke off with an irritable 
 
 laugh. " I really don't know why I enter into 
 the question ; almost every man left as I am 
 marries again, and if I am satisfied, what does 
 it matter ? It is I who marry the girl. And 
 certainly Miss Barugh wants no defence. She 
 is just the wife I want. I intend to live quietly 
 at Burneston ; you know I always disliked Lon- 
 don and society ; except you, I have scarcely a 
 relation in the world, and after a bit Ralph will 
 be quite satisfied." 
 
 Raiue sat musing. It was so impossible to 
 him to believe that Philip Burneston of all men 
 could be hopelessly in love with a farmer's 
 daughter, that he could not bear to give up 
 the matter as settled.
 
 266 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 "Don't do it, old fellow," he broke out 
 impetuously ; " you'll be so sorry if you do. 
 That sort of polish is like varnish or veneer 
 it only hides, it cannot efface. Now could 
 you bear to have sons and daughters of a differ- 
 ent breed from Ralph ? Fancy how he'd look 
 down on such brothers and sisters a row of 
 little farmers, with wide mouths and big feet/' 
 
 Mr. Burneston had looked very angry, but 
 he laughed as his cousin ended. 
 
 "We have argued the subject once before, 
 when, as you may remember, you put this 
 idea in my head, Gilbert," he said ironically. 
 " I do not mean this as a reproach ; on the 
 contrary, I am thankful to you, it has given me 
 something to live for. I believe I shall be very 
 happy, though I am prepared for an outcry at 
 starting." 
 
 " You think nothing of example then. Sup- 
 pose a woman in your position married Joseph 
 ISunley, or a young man of his plass, do you 
 think the precedent would be a good one V 
 
 Mr. Burneston looked grave again. " No, of 
 course not ; nor are the cases parallel ; it is
 
 A THANKLESS OFFICE. 267 
 
 absurd to put it in that way. I don't say my 
 own conduct is good for others to follow ; but 
 I don't set myself up as a pattern. Besides I 
 am not doing this in a hurry, I have thought it 
 well out ; and I have not committed myself, and 
 if I see any reason to suppose I am mistaken, I 
 shall not ask Miss Barugh to marry me." 
 
 " Then is it quite fair to go on raising ex- 
 pectations which perhaps, after all, won't come 
 to anything ?" 
 
 "What are you driving at?" Burneston said 
 impetuously ; he turned round and faced his 
 cousin, and he saw the keen anxiety in Raine's 
 face. " What do you want me to do ?" he said 
 more gently. 
 
 " Well, as you ask me, I'll tell you. Don't 
 see Miss Barugh for three months or so. Come 
 down with me to Austin's End, or we'll go away 
 abroad somewhere together ; and then when 
 you come back you will see with clearer eyes, 
 and you will, besides, have had time to think it 
 over calmly and dispassionately." 
 
 "And find that some one else with more 
 courage has won her. No, Gilbert." He looked
 
 268 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 as bard as the mantelpiece behind him. 
 
 " I should say there is no fear of that : there 
 are very few men in your position who would 
 dream of mariying Miss Barugh, and with her 
 notions and the education you speak of she 
 would not accept a young farmer. No, no, 
 she'll wait for you. My dear Phil, do open 
 your eyes ; do you suppose the girl will give up 
 the chance of being mistress of Burneston 
 HaHt" 
 
 " She does not dream of being my wife," said 
 Philip angrily; "you don't understand her a 
 bit ; how should you ? You know nothing 
 about women. Certainly, you never met such 
 
 a woman as " he was going to say " Doris," 
 
 but he checked himself, " Miss Barugh." Per- 
 haps his voice had taken an angrier tone 
 because he remembered so vividly the child 
 swinging on the gate and her song. " And 
 if she does look forward to it," he thought, 
 " it's only natural ; and it is my own fault ;" 
 but this excuse did not take away the sting of 
 Eaine's accusation. 
 
 Gilbert was growing tired of his position.
 
 A THANKLESS OFFICE. 269 
 
 " Well," he said, " I have done my duty as a 
 friend, I came for your sake and Ralph's, and 
 I seem to have done no good. I had better 
 have left it alone." He got up and walked to 
 the window whistling. 
 
 Burneston always found it difficult to be long 
 angry with anyone. He loved peace so much 
 that he was ever willing to make the first 
 advance ; his wife had understood this, and had 
 profited by the knowledge. 
 
 "Look here, Gilbert, we won't quarrel about 
 it/' he said, " of course I get vexed easily about 
 this affair. I don't want to deceive you, it's true 
 I love this girl more than I ever loved any- 
 one, but I am not besotted ; come over with 
 me to-morrow to Steersley, and judge for your- 
 self. If after seeing her you say she is not fit 
 to be my wife, then I don't say I'll give the 
 thing up, but I promise to think it over again, 
 to be prudent, and not to pledge myself to any 
 hasty engagement/' 
 
 "Very well," but Raine spoke unwillingly. 
 He could not see how, by looking at this girl, 
 he was to ascertain her merits.
 
 270 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 " Fm too late," he thought, " the mischief 'a 
 done ; what unutterable folly this love is !" 
 
 They separated after this ; and though they 
 met soon after at dinner, and seemed as friend- 
 ly as ever, each was conscious that they had 
 grown farther apart than they had ever been 
 before in their lives.
 
 271 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 OH, HELL, TO CHOOSE LOVE BY ANOTHER'S EYE." 
 
 ILBERT RAINE woke next morning with 
 the consciousness of an unpleasant weight 
 on his spirits, which, like a bad taste in the 
 mouth, took away the flavour of the day before 
 him. But as he threw his window wide open, 
 a keen crisp touch in the air was exhilarating, 
 and the silvered grass and tree-twigs showed 
 there had been a white frost. One of the 
 mercies most carelessly and thanklessly received 
 is that of change of temperature to a worried 
 mind, and as the keen air found its way in 
 freely, an elastic freshness pervaded Gilbert's 
 mind, and went downstairs with him to meet his 
 cousin.
 
 272 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 It seemed as if Mr. Burneston had forgotten 
 his annoyance, fle was smiling and cheerful 
 as usual, and had a half conciliatory manner 
 which puzzled his cousin. He really cared for 
 Gilbert Raine's good opinion, and, more than 
 for that, as has been said, he cared for living 
 in peace. He was resolved not to increase his 
 cousin's prejudice against Doris by showing any 
 vexation, he felt so sure all prejudice must 
 vanish in her presence. 
 
 " Shall you be ready to ride this morning ?" 
 he said. " I have ordered Punch for you. He 
 used to be a favourite of yours/' 
 
 "Thank you, old fellow." Raine began to 
 see that his cousin was really anxious to propi- 
 tiate him ; and he felt hopeful for the result of 
 his advice. He Avas fond of riding Punch, 
 nearly the best horse in the Burneston stables ; 
 but he was such a careless rider that he had 
 seldom been offered the chance of mounting 
 him. 
 
 He was rather put out by the hurry Mr. 
 Burneston was in. Gilbert had discovered one 
 or two old books in the library relating to some
 
 " TO CHOOSE LOVE BY ANOTHER'S EYE." 273 
 
 work he had in hand, and would have liked an 
 hour's look at them before starting ; but he was 
 hurried, and bustled, and not left in peace till 
 he found himself riding beside his cousin on the 
 high road to Steersley. 
 
 Mr. Burneston had determined not to take 
 his cousin to the cottage, nor to introduce him 
 to Mrs. Barugh. By this time he had grown 
 acquainted with Doris's habits, and he knew 
 that, at the hour at which he counted on reach- 
 ing Steersley, he should find her taking a walk 
 with George in Lord Moorside's park, or seated 
 reading among the ruins of the old castle of 
 Walter de 1'Espec. He had more than once 
 found the brother and sister thus occupied, and 
 he thought he should like Raiue to see them 
 too, where her surroundings would be in keep- 
 ing with Doris's perfect beauty. One thing 
 he had not counted on the absence of 
 George. 
 
 Ever since Rose's visit there had been an 
 unspoken but decided coldness between the 
 brother and sister. George told himself that 
 he was in the right to hold fast by old friends, 
 
 VOL. I. T
 
 274 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 and to keep in his own station ; beyond this, he 
 thought he was teaching Doris a salutary 
 lesson, for he disliked and disapproved the 
 pleasure she seemed to find in Mr. Burneston's 
 visits. 
 
 ' f l likes t' squire," he said to his mother, 
 " he's very kind, an' I'm reeght glad to hear him 
 talk an' see his kind cheerful face ; but when 
 he's gone, I'm t' same as ivver I was, while 
 Doris sits glum, an' when I speak she gives a 
 start as if I'd stuck a pin in her." 
 
 Mrs. Barugh smiled with an apparent mystery 
 that irritated George. " Perhaps Mr. Burne- 
 ston's talk makes her think," she said. " It's 
 an uncommon advantage for you and her too 
 to get such talks about things with such a 
 gentleman." 
 
 "I'm none sure o't," said George. "Mebbe 
 it's pleasant, but it's safer not to get to like 
 things out o' reach, mother. Mebbe Doris 
 '11 end by thinkin' hersel' t' same as t' 
 Bquire." 
 
 He looked so stern that Dorothy suppressed 
 the first answer that came to her lips.
 
 " TO CHOOSE LOVE BY ANOTHER'S EYE." 275 
 
 " My word ! you have taken to lecturing, lad, 
 and it don't suit you," she said ; " go out in the 
 sunshine, it will do you good. Go after Doris ; 
 she's at the Castle, I fancy, for she took a book 
 with her." 
 
 George muttered an answer, but he stayed 
 in-doors. Something, he could scarcely tell 
 what, seemed to be creeping into his life. As 
 he sat thinking, he roused to a consciousness 
 that he was being mastered by Doris, and 
 when he had quenched the stubborn resistance 
 which this thought brought, there came another 
 revelation. George had thought himself a suf- 
 ferer denied the amusements and enjoyments of 
 his fellows, he had pitied himself, but as he 
 looked back, grudging his former liberty, it 
 flashed upon him that he had been spoiled into 
 self-will. " Ah'm selfish, that's what it is, Ah'm 
 got to cling to my ways an' my likings till Ah'm 
 stubborn at being crossed. What for sud Ah 
 feel vexed when Doris talks about her friend 
 Rika? T' lass means nae harm, an' she's 
 free to love her friend as Ah loves Rose. Nay,
 
 276 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 Ah'm wrang, Doris takes likin's cooler than Ah 
 diz." 
 
 George was right. Doris felt that there was 
 a coldness between herself and her brother, but 
 she did not suffer from it. Her thoughts were 
 now always so filled with Mr. Burneston's 
 visits, and the memory of the talks that went 
 on in them, that she had no time to waste on 
 George. 
 
 " After all," she thought, as she sat down be- 
 neath the castle-wall, and looked through the 
 falling yellow leaves at the village at her feet, 
 " life at Burneston will be pleasant enough, if he 
 comes to see us there." Here she stopped with 
 a sigh. Only yesterday Mr. Burneston had 
 again said he hoped they would not be in a 
 hurry to go back, and before that he had told 
 George that it might entirely restore his health 
 if he left Burneston, and went to live near the 
 sea. Did he want to get rid of them ? It was 
 a puzzle. 
 
 " I am growing idle," she went on. " I must 
 remember to ask Mr. Burneston for the books 
 Miss Phillimore recommended me to read. I
 
 "TO CHOOSE LOVE BY ANOTHER'S EYE." 277 
 
 shall go back if I don't keep up my studies, if 
 I get interested in books I shall feel more 
 settled. I think too much about Mr. Burne- 
 ston's visits ;" but she went on thinking of 
 them. 
 
 She liked him very much. By talking chiefly 
 to George when he came, he had managed to set 
 her completely at her ease, and he so carefully 
 restrained any expression of admiration, that 
 she had no excuse for suspecting it, and although 
 she often found him looking earnestly at her, 
 she did not suspect it. She delighted in his 
 visits because his refined speech and cultivated 
 ideas were at once a link to the past she prized 
 so highly, and a help against the future she 
 dreaded ; but the tumult of excited feeling and 
 gratified vanity aroused by the meeting beside 
 the brook had soon subsided. She thought of 
 Mr. Burneston now as a valued middle-aged 
 friend ; it would not have occurred to her to 
 think of him as a lover, he was so much older 
 than she was ; and, besides, Doris had taught 
 herself long ago that she Could never marry, 
 now that education had taught her to shrink
 
 278 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 from her equals. It would be the price she had 
 to pay for the advantages she had had, but she 
 knew nothing of love, and she did not look on 
 life without it as a sacrifice. 
 
 She had not heard any footsteps, but the click 
 of the gate of the little green plot in which she 
 sat made her look up, and she saw Mr. Burne- 
 ston and his friend. 
 
 " Good morning, Miss Barugh." And then 
 Mr. Burneston presented as his cousin the tall 
 dark gentleman, whose keen, searching glance 
 made the colour rise on Doris's cheeks. " Where 
 is your brother ? Is he ill?" the squire asked, 
 for he saw an amused smile on Gilbert's 
 lips. 
 
 " No ; but he does not always come with 
 me at least not lately." Doris spoke stiffly, 
 she had a consciousness of being silently ob- 
 served. 
 
 " I thought he did ; perhaps the hill tries 
 him/' And then Mr. Burneston stopped ; 
 he could not think of anything more to 
 say. 
 
 " Do you sketch, Miss Barugh ?" Raine said.
 
 " TO CHOOSE LOVE BY ANOTHER'S EYE." 279 
 
 " There is plenty of subject here, I fancy ; and 
 this is a very good point." 
 
 " No ; I don't draw at all." Doris raised 
 her eyes, and looked gravely at Mr. Raine, 
 and then she looked away. It was intolerable 
 that he should keep those bright, keen, 
 black eyes fixed on her face. She wondered 
 that a friend of Mr. Burneston should be so 
 rude. 
 
 " That's a pity ; sketching is a great resource 
 in the country. As you don't draw," he went on, 
 " perhaps you're fond of reading V 
 
 " Very." But Doris looked still graver. 
 
 " Novels and tales, I suppose, with plenty of 
 romance, and so on." 
 
 "I have read very few novels. I like his- 
 tory." 
 
 Gilbert was provoked. " Ah, you have solid 
 tastes, I see. Do you like the country ?" he said 
 flippantly. 
 
 Doris smiled, and the radiance in her face 
 thrilled through her questioner. " She is 
 beautiful !" he said to himself. " I can't deny 
 that."
 
 280 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 " Yes," she answered. " At least I like 
 Steersley, and I don't care about Burneston; 
 those are the only country places I know." 
 
 " You don't like Burneston, don't you ! Why, 
 what's amiss with it ?" 
 
 His teasing tone amused Doris, it reminded 
 her of Rika ; but it wounded Mr. Burneston. It 
 seemed to him that Gilbert had been catechis- 
 ing Doris like a child, and that he talked 
 to her as if she were an ordinary farmer's 
 daughter. 
 
 " Miss Barugh is right ; there is not much to 
 see in Burneston ; the country is ugly there- 
 abouts." 
 
 " I did not like it when 1 was a child," said 
 Doris. 
 
 " Why not ?" Raine asked eagerly. 
 
 Doris was puzzled by his questioning ; she 
 did not care to give her reasons to this inquisi- 
 tive man. 
 
 " I think because I had no playfellows, and 
 because there was no sea there. We came to 
 Burneston from near the sea." 
 
 "You've been away some time at school, I
 
 " TO CHOOSE LOVE BY ANOTHER'S EYE." '281 
 
 think. Perhaps you would like Burnestoii now ?" 
 
 Raine spoke mischievously ; he really 
 wanted to provoke Doris out of what he 
 thought was an assumption of sedateness. 
 Mr. Burneston could hardly keep in his im- 
 patience. 
 
 "No, I don't think I should," said Doris 
 calmly. She looked at the squire, won- 
 dering at his silence ; and it seemed to him 
 that she appealed against Gilbert's imperti- 
 nence. 
 
 " My cousin thinks a great deal of Burneston, 
 I must tell you," he said, by way of apology. 
 
 " Not more than you do, old fellow." Raine 
 looked slyly at Doris. 
 
 She blushed ever so little ; she felt that she 
 had been rude to depreciate Burueston before 
 the squire. 
 
 " There is much in early association," she 
 said. " I was too short a time at Burneston to 
 give it a fair trial." 
 
 " Did you like school better than home, then f ' 
 said Raine. 
 
 Doris grew crimson. " For some things,
 
 282 DORIS BARUGU. 
 
 yes." She spoke so haughtily that Mr. Burne- 
 ston thought he had better end the interview. 
 
 " Well," he said, " we are keeping you from 
 your book. Good morning, Miss Barugh ; per- 
 haps we shall find your brother as we go 
 through the market-place/' 
 
 Raine made a profound bow, and was taken 
 aback by the grace and self-possession with 
 which Doris returned it ; he had not succeeded in 
 making her feel shy ; he felt foiled and vexed 
 with himself, and was not in a patient humour. 
 Doris was a little annoyed by his brusqueness, 
 but his originality amused her ; she had never 
 seen anyone like him. 
 
 Mr. Burneston did not speak till they found 
 their horses again at the lodge gates. 
 
 " Well V he said, as they rode out of Steers- 
 ley. 
 
 " She's a very fair creature," said Gilbert 
 Raine heartily. " I must own that much." 
 
 " Her beauty is the least of her attractions, 
 but of course you gave yourself no opportunity 
 of judging." 
 
 " You're wrong there ; I proved her temper
 
 " TO CHOOSE LOVE BY ANOTHER'S EYE." 283 
 
 and her temperament; she's as cold as a 
 bit of granite, and as proud as Lucifer." 
 
 " Any girl would have been irritated by your 
 manner." 
 
 " Not if she were thoroughbred. This one 
 has all her horns out, and suspects mischief 
 where none is meant. It won't do, Phil ; she is 
 too raw and untrained for you, my boy, if you 
 want to keep a quiet house." 
 
 " What do you mean ? I consider her man- 
 ner quite charming. She behaved beautifully 
 just now." Burneston spoke in a huff. 
 
 " Well, then, shall I tell you something else, 
 usually a consideration in matters of this kind? 
 She does not care two straws for you. If you 
 ask her, and she says ' Yes,' it is because she 
 means to be mistress of Burneston." 
 
 Mr. Burneston turned half round on his 
 saddle, with a very set look on his face. 
 
 " Look here, Gilbert ; you know how I hate 
 quarrels ; you're teasing me no\v ; don't say any- 
 thing more, or I may say more' than you'll like ; 
 Miss Barugh just now behaved as well as pos- 
 sible ; my mind's made up, and you only waste
 
 284 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 words." Presently he said cheerfully, " Come, 
 come, old fellow, you had better make up your 
 mind to be my best man at the wedding." 
 
 Kaine felt very angry. He considered all 
 women inferior beings, not fit to be trusted ; 
 and it seemed to him that this one, a mere 
 farmer's daughter too, had placed herself on 
 an equality with him. She would be hateful 
 as mistress of JBurneston. It was a selfish way 
 of looking at the matter, but he could not help 
 it. 
 
 " No ; I can't be that, old fellow," he said 
 earnestly, " and I must be consistent. I can't 
 bear to think of that girl as your boy's step- 
 mother. Don't let us quarrel." Mr. Burneston 
 was frowning in a most unusual manner. " I 
 must just say this, for the sake of old times, 
 don't do anything in a hurry. No good can 
 come of an unequal match only divisions and 
 heartburnings ; and I fear, in this case, sorrow 
 and disappointment to you."
 
 285 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 A PROPOSAL. 
 
 TT seemed as if the return of Doris had been 
 A trying to the temper of all her friends. 
 Eose came home -with a face swelled with cry- 
 ing; and when at last she succeeded in making 
 Mrs. Duncombe hear her grievances, the deaf 
 grandmother gathered that Doris was " a set- 
 up dowdy, wiv not so much as a flower to her 
 bonnet," and " as sour as a apple in May," with 
 other disparaging comments, all of which were 
 duly enjoyed by Mr. Sunley as he sat smoking 
 at his cottage door. The evening was chilly, 
 and he had "happed" an old worsted comforter 
 round his neck. He would have preferred the 
 enjoyment of a pipe beside his own snug little 
 fireplace, but so rare an event as Rose's return
 
 286 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 from a day's pleasuring was not to he disre- 
 garded ; and there he sat listening with all his 
 might, nodding and making comments on the 
 passionate sentences which the girl jerked out 
 in the intervals of taking off her bonnet and 
 shawl, rolling up the strings of the one, and 
 flattening out the creases of the other with her 
 plump pink hand. His face grew more and 
 more content as he listened. 
 
 " Eh, eh. It's t' way wiv yaal t' lasses : ane 
 cannt abide t' ither if sheea's bonnier," he 
 said. " John Barugh's lass war a bonny lahtle 
 lass, an' mebbe sheea's mitch bonnier noo. 
 Sheea mun be, else Rase wadn't sharpen her 
 tongue agin her. Poor Rase ! sheea's as sharp 
 as a briar, bud sheea's nobbut a feealish lass ! 
 Scbeeal ain't takken that oot o' her." 
 
 John Barugh had been extra reserved when 
 his old neighbour had asked after Doris. He 
 had indeed been thoroughly unsociable, spend- 
 ing much of his time with his sick cows, and 
 brooding so over the question of their bewitch- 
 ment, that he had little time or thought to 
 spend on Doris, except when he went to the
 
 A PROPOSAL. 287 
 
 Steersley cottage. A vague feeling of uneasi- 
 ness crept over him when he remembered Mr. 
 Burneston's visit, but he did not care to revive 
 his disagreement with Dorothy, and had not 
 recurred to the subject. He was therefore 
 entirely ignorant of the frequency of the 
 squire's visits, or of the notice they were 
 attracting. 
 
 " T' squire hes'n't been tu t' farm sin t' 
 missis an' t' sick lad gaauged tu Steersley," 
 Joseph said, quite unconscious that if there 
 had been anyone near his words were audible. 
 " Ah cud nivver tell what he cud finnd i' t' tawk 
 o' t' missis. It fair capt mu. Ah thowt John 
 wad hev been mair neeaghberly athoot her, bud 
 isted he's as glum as a door-neel. Eh, maister, 
 how's all wi' ye T he shouted, as the tall red- 
 whiskered man came in sight within the white 
 gate of the pig-yard. 
 
 " T' coo's deem'." John spoke sullenly, and 
 there was a lowering, gloomy look in his eyes, 
 as he opened the gate and came across the 
 road. 
 
 " Eh, neeaghber, yu deean't say it. Ah tell
 
 288 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 yu what it is, lad, yu mun draw bluid fra' t' 
 witch, an' draw it sune. Ah's staggonated at 
 sike deeings. Bon it ! wheea can stay ye, 
 nobbut yu've a moiud t' reet yersel'. T' coo's 
 yer ain nut t' parson's ner t' squire's. Dheh's 
 gude, bud dheh's reeght fond in sike a case. 
 If Ah'd been left t' reckon wi' t' awd divvel, 
 yer coo wad hev thraavun reeght an' proper." 
 
 He clenched both fists, and his shaggy grey 
 brows met in a savage frown. 
 
 John stood silent, looking straight before 
 him, his face even sterner in expression than 
 the old man's beside him. 
 
 " Ah wad deea that," he said at last. " Ah 
 wad hev deean it athoot yu axin' mu tweea 
 tahmes, Joseph Sunley ; bud it's t' lad George. 
 He wonnot hev t' awd lass harmed, an' he 
 allays axes efter her." 
 
 Joseph stuck his pipe in his pocket, and then 
 clasping each knee with a brown wrinkled 
 hand, he looked up scoffingly in the farmer's 
 face. 
 
 _ " Wheea spoke o' harmin' ? Ah's seear 'at t' 
 spillin' a drop o' devvil's bluid wad be a blessin'
 
 A PROPOSAL. 289 
 
 tiv t' witch isteead o' hairm. Sheea's reeght 
 full o' divvilry, an' it 'ud be a marcy tu set 
 some o' it free mebbe else she'll bost wiv it. 
 Bud it's yer ain coo, neeaghber ; Ah've nowt tu 
 deea wiv it it's yer ain coo." 
 
 Mrs. Buncombe's flat round face and stout 
 pillow-shaped figure came into the doorway of 
 the next cottage. 
 
 " Gude day, Maister Barugh," she said. 
 " Oor Rase hes been to Steersley to-day." 
 
 Barugh was glad of the interruption. 
 
 " Hes shu noo ? An' hoo hes shu fun' 'em ? 
 Did sheea see Doris ?" 
 
 He roared this out loudly, but Mrs. Dun- 
 combe only nodded her head, as if she did not 
 quite hear him. She had not understood all 
 the purport of Rose's complaints, but she had 
 gathered that the girl was angry with Doris, 
 and she had no mind to let the farmer know 
 this. She did not want to quarrel with the 
 Barughs, who were kind and neighbourly in 
 the way of skim-milk and vegetables, and 
 even to the extent of a bit of pork now and 
 then. 
 
 VOL. I, U
 
 290 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 But Rose's ears were sharp ; and, though she 
 had gone upstairs, she heard John's question. 
 She put her head out of the bedroom window 
 above. 
 
 " Gude evenin' to ye, Maister Barugh. I've 
 been to Steersley, an' I've seen Mrs. Barugh 
 an' Doris, but I didn't stay with 'em. Doris is 
 such a grand lady. My word, she's fair nunty, 
 she is ; I was shy like, an' I corned away," she 
 ended with a loud laugh. 
 
 John Barugh had smiled as the pretty rosy- 
 cheeked damsel looked down at him, but he 
 frowned again as she spoke of Doris. It 
 seemed to him a sort of profanation that Rose 
 should so speak of his daughter. 
 
 " Ye deean't ken her, lass," he said reprov- 
 ingly. " Doris is a lady noo, bud sheea's reeght 
 gude fer all that." 
 
 Then he nodded to Mrs. Duncombe and 
 Joseph, and moved slowly back to the farm- 
 yard. 
 
 Silence fell on the little group till he had 
 passed through into the rick-yard and was out 
 of sight.
 
 A PROPOSAL. 291 
 
 Then Rose burst into a peal of laughter so 
 loud and harsh that her grandmother heard it ; 
 she looked up and shook her head reprovingly. 
 
 " A lady !" Rose cried out. " My song ! 
 Doris a lady ! Eh, ye sud hev seen my school- 
 mistress ; she was a lady, I reckon. Yey could 
 tell it by her clothes. I don't believe Doris hes 
 got so much as a silk gown to her back. She 
 a lady, indeed ! Why, she never said so much 
 as, ' I'm glad to see you, Rose Duncombe/ 
 She's a poor, pale, dowdy, audfarrand, set-up 
 thing; an' that's not what I call a lady. So 
 there now I" 
 
 She drew in her head, and shut down the 
 window with a bang. 
 
 Sunley laughed and slapped his knees with 
 his hands. 
 
 " Woonkers ! Sheea's a doonreeght lass, yon. 
 Sheea disn't miss t' neel," he said. " Sheea 
 clouts it fair. Nae luv lost atween her an' 
 Doris, eh, neeaghber ?" But Mrs. Duncombe 
 shook her head feebly and sighed. She knew 
 something or some one was wrong, but she had 
 only a hazy idea of life altogether. She heard 
 
 u2
 
 292 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 a fragment here and a fragment there, but she 
 had no wits to put them together, so that her 
 mind was something like her patchwork counter- 
 pane, full of unconnected bits, which it was im- 
 possible to fit harmoniously. 
 
 John Barugh had taken away a far more 
 definite idea of Rose's meaning. He was angry at 
 first, and called the girl hard names to himself; 
 but next day, and on the days after, he pondered 
 the difference between Doris and Rose, and he 
 grew more and more troubled. Doris seemed 
 happy with him and her mother and George, 
 but was she really happy, or was it only her 
 good manners that kept her from showing dis- 
 gust to them and their ways ; and how would 
 it be when they all settled down at Burneston, 
 and Doris and Rose would be subject to the 
 chance of meeting every day ? John dreaded 
 his next visit to Steersley ; he dreaded to hear 
 that there had been a quarrel with Rose Dun- 
 combe, and though she was pert to speak so of 
 Doris, he was fond of the bright, pretty girl who 
 had been so kind to George. 
 
 He usually went over on Saturday afternoon,
 
 A PROPOSAL. 293 
 
 but on this Friday the other sick cow was, to 
 his surprise, recovering, and he thought he 
 would surprise Dorothy next day by reaching 
 Steersley for dinner at one o'clock. The place 
 was very lonesome and dreary in the absence 
 of its neat mistress, and Sally, the old woman 
 who minded the house in Mrs. Barugh's ab- 
 sence, cleaned it from morning till night, till 
 the smell of wet wood and soap grew over- 
 powering. 
 
 It took John some time to put a thought 
 into action, and while he stood twisting a bit 
 of straw in his blunt red fingers, hesitating 
 about his next day's journey, he saw Mr. Burne- 
 ston coming from the glebe-field into the rick- 
 yard. The squire had not often come that 
 way since he saw Doris swinging on the gate 
 of the glebe-field, but to-day he took a pleasure 
 in the remembrance ; he even lingered at the 
 gate while the collie, who had been following 
 her master, sprang forward, barking joyously 
 when she saw the farmer. 
 
 " Weel, then weel, then, awd lass." John 
 stooped to pat her black head as she sprang up
 
 294 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 to caress him. "Thoo's nut yan 'at forgits ami 
 friends." 
 
 Mr. Burneston had come forward, and he 
 heard the last words. 
 
 "Do you mean that for me, Mr. Barugh?" 
 he smiled pleasantly as he held out his hand. 
 " But I'm not so neglectful as you think. I 
 hear of you whenever I go to Steersley. I 
 heard of you only yesterday from Mrs. Barugh. 
 How well George looks ! It's plain Burneston 
 does not suit him." 
 
 This speech jarred John on more than one 
 point ; first, by giving him the knowledge that 
 Dorothy had concealed Mr. Burneston's visits 
 from him, and next by the implied interference 
 about George. 
 
 " Mebbe it's t' chaauge, nut t' air," he spoke 
 sullenly ; " t' lad's allays better fer a chaange ; 
 it is sae wiv yung fooalks." 
 
 " I think the change benefits Mrs. Barugh 
 too, she looks wonderfully bright since she has 
 been at Steersley ; the air seems to suit her." 
 
 One of John's shoulders was visibly nearer 
 his ear than the other.
 
 A PROPOSAL. 295 
 
 " Yu's wrang there, squire ; it isn't t' air. Hah 
 missis fin's ower mich tu deea i' t' hoose tu gan 
 gaddin' efter air ; sheea's allays weel at t' farm 
 noo." 
 
 " Ah, just so." Mr. Burneston looked about 
 uneasily, and then he clasped both hands on the 
 knob of his stick, and looked earnestly at the 
 farmer. " I want to speak very seriously to 
 you, Mr. Barugh ; shall we go indoors ?" 
 
 John felt as awkward as he could, and his 
 capacity for awkwardness was large ; his hospi- 
 tality checked the churlish answer he wanted 
 to give, for an undefined shrinking warned him 
 that Mr. Burneston's visit was bringing a 
 shadow to his hearth. 
 
 "Coom indoors, then," he tried to speak 
 heartily and went on first, but there was no 
 welcoming smile on his face when he added, 
 " Sit ye doon, squire ; we're noane sae weel 
 tented noo 'at t' missis is at Steersley ;" he gave 
 an uneasy glance at the empty grate, which 
 shone brightly, but looked cold. 
 
 For a moment the two men sat silent in the 
 shining wooden high-backed arm-chairs on each 
 side of the empty grate.
 
 296 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 " I have, as you have doubtless heard," Mr. 
 Burneston began he took it for granted that 
 his visits to Steersley had prepared the farmer 
 for this interview " seen a good deal of your 
 
 daughter since she came home, and " He 
 
 paused; the sound of a smothered execration 
 disturbed him ; but John was only frowning a 
 little more heavily, and the sunburnt red of his 
 cheeks was a trifle deeper than usual. Mr. 
 Burneston went on, " I greatly admire her ; and 
 I think it right to tell you before I speak to her 
 that I hope she will be my wife." 
 
 John swung round in his chair so as nearly 
 to overturn it, but he steadied himself by a 
 vigorous grasp at its wooden arms. 
 
 " Yer wife, squire ! Di' yu meean yu bin 
 axin' mah lass tu wed yee ?" he rose up with 
 stern wrath burning in his face. 
 
 Mr. Burneston felt angry too ; he cursed the 
 farmer's denseness, for evidently his carefully 
 prepared preface had not been heeded. 
 
 lf 1 said just now," in a stiff voice, " that 1 
 think it right to tell you my intention before I 
 speak to Miss Barugh."
 
 A PROPOSAL. 297 
 
 " An' Ah says neea, neea, Maister Burneston. 
 Ah winnot hev yu to say nowt tu mah lass," John 
 spoke stubbornly, anger and bitterness throb- 
 bing in every vein, till he hated the soft courtly 
 gentleman who sat asking for what he prized 
 most on earth as if it were a bit of cake. 
 
 " But you won't say it/' Mr. Burneston's 
 sympathy helped him to guess at John's feel- 
 ings : " I know you too well to believe that 
 you will interfere with my happiness, and 
 possibly too with your daughter's." 
 
 John straightened his tall, broad figure till 
 he and his red whiskers seemed to glower 
 through the long low room. 
 
 " Maister Burneston, ye're qualaty," he said 
 doggedly, " bud Ah'd scorn tu deea what ye've 
 bin deeain. Yu coom an' tawks mu ower whiles 
 Ah sends t' lass to scheeal, mah lass 'at war 
 t' pride o' mah life ! an' sehs yu, let her bide at 
 scheeal, no coomin' yam, yu sehs ; an' noo yu 
 gans an' steeals her luv aways fra mey that hes 
 t' best reet tiv 't, wivout a word, ur sae mich as 
 axin' mah leeave by God! it's a burning 
 shame;" he clenched his fist and struck it 
 heavily on the tall chair back.
 
 298 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 Mr. Burneston flushed to his temples, but he 
 did not look cowed or ashamed. He made an 
 effort to speak coolly. " We'd better sit down 
 again, Mr. Barugh ; you're angry, and you 
 don't see things as they really are. Now do 
 listen quietly. I have been over to Steersley as 
 I used to come here, and Mrs. Barugh always 
 seemed glad to see me. Why should I have 
 spoken to you beforehand? I could not be 
 sure that I should become attached to your 
 daughter." 
 
 John recovered himself a little ; he would not 
 sit down, but he wiped his forehead with his 
 handkerchief. " Does Doris care fer yu ' he 
 asked abruptly. 
 
 " I cannot tell I hope so." 
 
 " Yer'e nut seear ? Then, in God's name, 
 man, leeave her aleean. Keep awa fra Steersley, 
 an' Ah'll taak t' lass whoor sheea'll seea an' 
 hear nowt aboot yu." 
 
 " This is folly ;" and then Burneston smiled, 
 and told himself he was as foolish as the farmer. 
 "Try to look at the thing calmly, Mr. 
 Barugh. Your daughter is certain to marry
 
 A PROPOSAL. 299 
 
 some one ; she is far too attractive to be left in 
 peace. Well, then, as she must take a hus- 
 band, why do you object to me ? You ought 
 to know me fairly well by this time. 1 love 
 your daughter as a man should love the girl he 
 means to make his wife ; and I will spend my 
 life in making her happy. Will you leave the 
 decision to her? Give me leave to ask her, 
 and I promise you to submit to the answer she 
 gives." 
 
 There was silence. Mr. Burneston was sur- 
 prised to find that he could hear his own heart 
 beat in the intense anxiety he felt. This oppo- 
 sition was so utterly unlocked for. 
 
 At last John spoke hoarsely. 
 
 "Ah's a plain man," he said; "bud Ah 
 deean't seea what gude ivver cam' o' sike'n a 
 marriage as yur wantin'. Yu sud tak t' wife 
 lahke yersel', an' Doris wad be happier if sheea 
 taak' t' husband fra fooalks lahke oorsels. It's a 
 mistak', Maister Burneston, fra beginnin' tu t' 
 end, y're ganin' agaan yer ain welfare, an' if 
 yu'll be guided yu'll keep awa fra Steersley, 
 an' leeave Doris aleean."
 
 300 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 Mr. Burneston took John's unwilling hand 
 and shook it heartily. He had understood the 
 farmer's nature far too well to say one word 
 about any advantage that would accrue to 
 Doris as mistress of Burneston ; but he was 
 greatly impressed by the simplicity and disin- 
 terestedness which could set so little value on 
 worldly distinction. 
 
 "It's too late for me to do that/' he said 
 earnestly. " I never loved any woman as I love 
 her, and no one else could make me so happy. 
 I must try to win her ; let me have your good- 
 will in the matter, and remember that I con- 
 sider your daughter fully my equal, and quite 
 suited to be my wife." 
 
 John stood struggling with his pride ; he felt 
 that Doris as she was would be happier with such 
 a man as the squire than in her own home ; he 
 knew it, and Mr. Burneston's words only stung 
 the knowledge in with keener force, but it was 
 too painful to acknowledge. He could not 
 own that it was for himself that he longed so 
 hungrily and jealously to keep his darling at 
 home, nor could he bring himself to give a
 
 A PROPOSAL. 301 
 
 hearty consent to his landlord's wooing he 
 could not get out a word. 
 
 "Well, then," Mr. Burneston's smile was 
 winning in its sweetness, "I am going on at 
 once to Steersley. I am not ashamed to tell 
 you, her father, that I cannot rest until I know 
 my fate. Can I take any message from you?" 
 
 fle stood waiting; he was not vexed with 
 John's boorish silence. It was only natural, he 
 thuoght. His admiration for the farmer's dis- 
 interestedness gave him a new and warmer feel- 
 ing for him. He prized Doris so highly, that 
 he knew it must be very hard for John to give 
 her up, and yet he could never have guessed at 
 the mighty struggle that was wrenching at the 
 father's heart. At last Barugh spoke 
 
 " Yu mun gau, Ah cannot staay yu, bud Ah 
 cannot bid yu God speed. Ah'd liever thenk 
 yu fer settin' mah ricks o' fire. Deng it ! Ah 
 cannot staay yu, an' that's as mich as Ah can 
 tell yu noo." 
 
 John followed his visitor to the door, but he 
 left him to cross the yard alone. He turned 
 back to the parlour with a smothered oath.
 
 302 DORIS BARUGH. 
 
 " It's mah ain fondness 'at Ah sud curse," he 
 said. " Ah wer nobbut a wake feeal ; Ah 
 knew it war wrang, an' jist fer tu keep t' 
 hoose quiet Ah let her gan tu skeeal. Ah've 
 arn'd all Ah gitten." 
 
 He turned to the high mantelshelf, and 
 pressed his hand against his forehead. 
 
 There was no outward sound, no groan or 
 sigh, but in the unbroken silence he was re- 
 viewing a load of sorrow and bitterness the 
 five past years of his life, the more sorrowful, 
 the more bitter, because reflection offered no 
 salve for the past, no hope for the future. 
 
 John Barugh seldom communed with him- 
 self, but just now these five past years stood 
 out in distinct periods to their first beginning 
 back even to that first day when he had been 
 fool enough to show Doris to the squire, and 
 then he stood suddenly upright. 
 
 Like the spell of a witch, or the memory of a 
 curse, there came before him the blushing, 
 shame- stricken face of his child, and sounding 
 clearly in the stillness, " the feeal's rahme " of 
 her confession
 
 A PROPOSAL. 303 
 
 " May it so happen, an' may it so fall 
 'At Ah may be lady of Burneston Hall." 
 
 " Curse him !" he said fiercely ; he's planned 
 it fra teean end tu t'ither." 
 
 END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 PRINTED BY DUNCAN MACDONALD, BLENHEIM HOUSE.
 
 A 000130025