Inheritance

by SaraBalatu

As a young girl, Marianne Hartfield loses her father to a hunting accident and grows up with surrogate parents: her uncle, who carries a heavy secret, and her governess, who has a sad history of her own. Unable to inherit her father's estate, which descends instead to her younger brother, Marianne develops a will and purpose of her own as she comes of age.

1. Chapter 1

Part 1: 1873

Charles LaSalle Hartfield died after being thrown from his hunter, the poor beast then falling on top of his rider, to the destruction of both. The man's body was borne to the nearest farmhouse, where it lay for some hours awaiting a doctor; it was certain that no doctor could revive him, yet it was felt that Mr. Hartfield was a gentleman of such importance to his neighbours, as squire of the parish, that they could do no less than secure the attendance of a physician. Dr. Bingley was away, visiting his family in Suffolk, so assistance was sought for elsewhere; and the farmer's wife's plaintive requests to have the body removed were becoming loud by the time young Dr. Mirabelle arrived from the village inn, where he had been drinking a pint of stout. Dr. Mirabelle confirmed what everyone could see plainly, that Mr. Hartfield would hunt no more; and the body was removed to the manor house.

'A bad business this,' said the Master of Hounds to Dr. Mirabelle. 'A very bad business, and on the first day of the season too.'

'Ah,' said Dr. Mirabelle, feeling that he was being blamed, and feeling also that he deserved the blame, for enjoying his pint while Mr. Hartfield lay on the farmhouse table. 'Yes, a bad business.'

'Sir Thomas will, of course, inform the ladies.'

'Ah,' Dr. Mirabelle replied again. 'Yes, very proper.'

And they shook hands and parted ways.

The ladies were indeed informed, but not by Sir Thomas; he had not been in the field that day, being much troubled by gout in his left foot, and by the time he had been told of Mr. Hartfield's death, Mr. Hartfield's own wife and mother had seen the body itself as it was being carried up the drive to Hartfield Hall. The elder Mrs. Hartfield, turning from the drawing-room window, said to her daughter-in-law, 'I really must speak to Gage about workingmen coming to the front of the house; it is most unsuitable and I have mentioned it to him before.' The younger Mrs. Hartfield came to the window to see for herself, and said, 'Dear me, I believe they are bringing a body,' and then, 'I do wonder who it could be,' and then, 'I fear it must be Charles!' and then she fainted dead away, much to the elder Mrs. Hartfield's annoyance. Then Dr. Bingley was again sent for, with no better success than before; so Dr. Mirabelle was fetched, and when he arrived he found the house in great confusion. Sir Thomas Manville stood before the fire in the great hall, frowning terribly. 'This has been very badly managed,' he said to Dr. Mirabelle, directly he saw him. 'Bringing the body up the drive in that – that callous fashion. Mrs. Hartfield is in hysterics. You must wait upon her immediately.'

'Of course,' said Dr. Mirabelle. 'But which Mrs. Hartfield?'

'Mrs. Charles Hartfield. Mrs. Edward Hartfield is much too strongminded to allow herself to be overcome.'

Dr. Mirabelle bowed, and went away to find a servant to take him to Mrs. Charles Hartfield.

Sir Thomas remained before the fire, turning over in his mind the likely results of this unfortunate accident. The only child of Charles Hartfield and his wife was a daughter, so his younger brother would inherit; this brother was without wife or child; therefore the estate would descend after him to, Sir Thomas believed, a second cousin who lived near Manchester. Here Sir Thomas became somewhat confused, pondering the various contingencies of primogeniture. He was unable to resolve these questions to his own satisfaction and therefore reverted to consideration of the property itself. The Hartfields had lived in the neighbourhood for at least two hundred years, and the land had gained in value, but more importantly, thought Sir Thomas as he took up a glass of sherry that Gage had left on a tray nearby, their name was valuable too, so valuable that it had withstood the ill behaviour of that younger brother, who was now in India, whether voluntarily or not no one could say. Sir Thomas tried to recall of what the ill behaviour had consisted; finding he could not remember, he turned his mind to contemplation of the many important decisions that must be made. Mrs. Edward would rely upon her old friend Sir Thomas very heavily in all these affairs. Mrs. Charles would remarry, of course. And Sir Thomas set about considering which of the neighbouring families might provide a suitable second husband.

Presently Dr. Mirabelle returned. Sir Thomas had now seated himself, to give more ease to his gouty foot, and when he saw the doctor he said, 'Well?'

'Mrs. Hartfield is resting. Her maid is with her.'

'Very good.'

'Is … Mrs. Edward Hartfield about? I believe I should speak with her before I leave.'

'Ring the bell there, and the butler will come.'

Dr. Mirabelle rang the bell, and Gage did come, and stood regarding each of the gentlemen in turn, as if to inquire who wanted his assistance.

'Fetch your mistress,' Sir Thomas said.

'Mrs. Edward,' Dr. Mirabelle added.

'Very good, sir.'

'And Gage – ' Dr. Mirabelle said, recalling him from the door.

'Sir?'

'Please give Mrs. Edward my compliments, and tell her that if it is not perfectly convenient for her to see me now, I shall wait upon her another day.'

'Very good, sir.'

The two gentlemen were left alone. Dr. Mirabelle sidled closer to the fire, near to the chair opposite to Sir Thomas's; but he did not like to sit down without being asked, nor was there a second glass of sherry, so he stood on the hearth and looked about the hall, admiring its size and grandeur and the various weapons hung on its walls. Sir Thomas gazed into the fire. Suddenly he roused himself and addressed the doctor.

'You are new to the neighbourhood, I believe.'

'Yes, sir, that I am.'

'And you were previously in London?'

'Yes. Training at St. Bart's.'

'Ah.'

The conversation seemed at an end; Sir Thomas gazed at the fire again, and Dr. Mirabelle wandered away a few steps, to examine a battle-axe on the wall by the fireplace. Then Sir Thomas said, 'The Hartfields have always called in Dr. Bingley. You will find them very loyal to them.'

Dr. Mirabelle turned and met his eyes. 'No doubt. I only came because I was called, Dr. Bingley being away.'

'Yes, he is away, but he shall return immediately to deal with this crisis.'

Dr. Mirabelle having no reply to this, he bowed slightly and turned back to the battle-axe.

Very soon, Mrs. Edward arrived, emerging from a door at the far end of the hall and coming towards them with a slow stateliness in keeping with the occasion. Sir Thomas rose to his feet and held out his hand to her. 'My dear Mrs. Hartfield, I am so very sorry.'

Mrs. Edward nodded her head; keeping her hand within Sir Thomas's grasp, she turned her eyes to Dr. Mirabelle, who bowed. It was awkward enough to meet the lady for the first time on the day of her son's death, and to add to his difficulties, Sir Thomas did not seem inclined to make the introduction. The doctor was therefore obliged to do so himself, and as he pronounced his name and offered his condolences, Mrs. Edward continued to gaze at him. At last she freed her hand from Sir Thomas's and offered it to the doctor, saying: 'I must thank you for your care of my daughter-in-law. Such a shock might have had serious consequences had you not been able to attend her.'

'I am very happy to provide some small assistance.' He glanced at Sir Thomas. 'It is of course unfortunate that Dr. Bingley is away.'

Mrs. Edward nodded again, though whether she was agreeing with his statement or merely acknowledging its propriety, he could not tell. 'I would be very grateful if you could call again tomorrow. Emily may require further attention.'

'I would be very glad to call.'

Yet again she nodded, and in the slight pause that followed Dr. Mirabelle felt himself to be dismissed; he therefore bowed once more and took his leave, and as Gage closed the door of the manor behind him, he filled his lungs with the chilly air. 'It is certainly a beautiful house,' he thought as he mounted his horse; 'but rather a forbidding one!'

Mrs. Edward, left alone with Sir Thomas, seated herself before the fire and indicated that he should sit also. Gage having made his way to the door at the back of the hall and closed it behind him, she immediately began: 'I must telegraph to Matthew at once, to tell him of his brother's death and fetch him home.'

Sir Thomas had known Mrs. Edward for many years, and had grown accustomed to her rather sudden way of opening a topic; but he had never acquired the ability to respond with equal rapidity, so at this point he simply said, 'Yes, quite the best thing. He will wish to be at home as soon as possible.'

'On the contrary, Sir Thomas, I think he would remain in India forever if he could. I never knew anyone with less regard for his family or his name. I expect he will be very troublesome.'

Sir Thomas observed, but only silently to himself, that perhaps a regard for property might be stronger than one for family or name, even in such a man as Matthew Hartfield. Soon after this he departed, promising to return the following day. Mrs. Edward remained for some time seated before the fire, considering the situation in which she found herself, and thinking of her younger son. She did not approve of him in the least, but she acknowledged inwardly that he had a strong will and a perfect reliance upon his own ideas when any question arose as to his conduct. It is possible that she also acknowledged that he had inherited these traits from herself, but if so, this did not comfort her; she was only more keenly aware, as the minutes passed, that Matthew would be exceedingly difficult to deal with. She resolved that she would at once write to Mr. Foyle, the family's solicitor, and consult him as to the best steps to be taken.

The telegram and the letter had both been dispatched and, perhaps, received by the time Dr. Mirabelle entered the house the next morning and went up to Mrs. Charles. He found her in much distress, sitting up in her bed weeping, her own maid supporting her and attempting to get her to drink some wine. After some time, he was able to persuade her to take a few sips and to lie back upon the pillows; and then he listened with the closest attention as she described her grief and bewilderment, extolling the virtues of her late husband and lamenting her position as a widow and the mother of a poor fatherless girl. Speaking of her feelings relieved them somewhat; at last she was quiet; and the doctor said, 'I am most profoundly sorry for your bereavement. I shall do all I can to help you regain your health and good spirits. But indeed, Mrs. Hartfield, you must do something for yourself, by recollecting your daughter. You must not allow your emotions to overpower you.'

This caused her to begin weeping again, and he again soothed her. At length she said: 'I know I should be quieter. Mrs. Edward is always telling me so. I shall endeavour to be calm. I think –' and here she grasped his hand and looked into his face – 'I think I shall soon have two fatherless children to look after!'

'Two? You mean – ?'

'Yes – I have reason to believe – I had not mentioned the fact to anyone – not even Charles – but I think I shall have another baby in the spring.'

The doctor asked her a few questions, and after she had answered them and he had paused a moment to consider, he said, 'Shall I inform your mother-in-law?'

'Yes – do – I believe she ought to know at once.'

'And in the meantime – you must try to be quiet and peaceful. You must think of the baby, and of your daughter, who will surely look to you for comfort and guidance in her own loss.'

'Dear Marianne! I must have her with me at once.'

But to this the doctor would not agree; he advised more rest, food, and quiet, and promised that Dr. Bingley would call the following day – but to this she would not agree, and said she would not have Dr. Bingley, but only Dr. Mirabelle. With an inward qualm he acquiesced, and left her at last, her tears dried at least for a time. Outside the door, he hesitated, knowing that he ought at once to go to Mrs. Edward. Consulting his own feelings, he found that he would greatly prefer to leave the house forthwith, having other patients to attend and a great longing for his dinner, but as he descended to the first floor the decision was taken out of his hands, for Gage loomed up before him and informed him that Mrs. Edward wished to see him. Accordingly, he entered the drawing room once more.

'I do hope you have calmed her,' Mrs. Edward said. 'I cannot contend with hysteria just at the present moment.'

'She is tolerably calm, ma'am,' said Dr. Mirabelle. 'And – there is further news – she says she is expecting a baby, perhaps near the beginning of spring.'

Mrs. Edward looked at him at first as if she had not heard, and he was preparing himself to repeat the momentous news when she said, 'Ah. I see. I suspected it but was not certain.'

'She has requested me to return, but I understand this may not be agreeable to Dr. Bingley?'

'We cannot help that,' said Mrs. Edward. 'Emily must have her own way, for now.'

'She also wanted to see her daughter,' said the doctor, 'but I believe that would do more harm than good in her present state of mind. Perhaps after a few days …'

'Perhaps,' said Mrs. Edward, and after a slight pause there followed one of those unpleasant conversations during which both of the participants wish heartily for it to conclude, and to be allowed to pursue their own thoughts; and yet no one can discern how to end it, out of fear of being impolite; and so the talk lurches on from subject to subject, each attending to his own annoyance rather than to the words of the other. At last Dr. Mirabelle was able to take his leave, and as on the previous occasion he drew breath outside the great front door, and felt a sense of liberation mixed with foreboding, because he would be compelled to return the next day and every day for many days after that.

Things went on in this manner for a fortnight. Dr. Mirabelle faithfully attended Mrs. Charles, and on a certain day he supervised a visit to her by her daughter Marianne. The tears shed by both mother and daughter on the occasion were considered salutary; Mrs. Charles was more composed afterwards, and ate a very good dinner of cold ham and an apple tart. On two of his daily visits, he encountered Mr. Foyle coming out of the house as he was going in; the two men knew each other slightly, and exchanged a few words: 'Good day, doctor.' 'A very good day to you, Mr. Foyle.' 'We must hope for this fine open weather to continue.' 'Indeed we must.'

Presently Mrs. Edward received a letter from Matthew. 'My brother and I were very different,' he wrote, 'but he was always good to me, and I know how much his loss will be felt by you, Emily, and Leonora.' Leonora was his sister; she was married and living in London. 'I shall book passage to return for a visit as soon as I am able.'

'A visit?' thought Mrs. Edward. 'Has he not considered that he may now be the heir?' She canvassed the matter with Mr. Foyle, who informed her that the terms of the estate's entail required that the expected infant, should it be a boy, would inherit; whereas if it were a girl, Matthew would inherit. Nothing, he said, should be done or decided while the little one's arrival was awaited. The necessity of remaining passive went very much against the grain of Mrs. Edward's character; she could not bring herself to believe that there were no steps she could take, and the habit grew upon her of fetching Mr. Foyle up to the house almost daily to discuss various contingencies with him. These conversations became very taxing to them both. Mr. Foyle could only promise to read the terms of the entail with great care, so as to be prepared for any eventuality. And so things went on.

Dr. Bingley returned from Suffolk and, as Sir Thomas had predicted, he was prepared to take great umbrage at what he regarded as Dr. Mirabelle's usurpation of his rights at Hartfield Hall. But Mrs. Edward told him plainly that Emily's preference for the younger doctor was to be indulged, at least for the time. 'Really, my dear doctor, if you insist upon absenting yourself from the county, you cannot be surprised when we call in other assistance.' Dr. Bingley bowed stiffly and departed, fuming as he remembered that the holiday from which he had just returned was his first in six years.

Little Marianne found herself, at this period, sadly bewildered by the changes in the household. Her father was gone, and her mother scarcely present; she was hidden behind the door to her bedroom, a place where Marianne had always been welcome but from which she now found herself excluded. Various men came into the house and went away again, singly and in groups, and she did not know any of them nor, even, wish to know them. They seemed somber and forbidding, and so did her grandmamma's clothes and demeanour, even more so than usual. Her own days did not vary much from before: she ate and slept and played, and obeyed Nanny's instructions, and spent as much time as she could gazing out the window of the nursery at the gardens and outbuildings to the rear of the house, where there was always someone to be seen, working or walking, or talking to someone else, or leading a horse to the stables. Marianne was fond of horses and had her favourites among the carriage horses and hunters. She missed Soldier, her father's hunter, and did not know what had become of him. She had a pony of her own, Dandelion, which her father had been teaching her to ride; now these lessons, it seemed, were at an end; she asked Nanny about them and Nanny replied that such things must wait – but wait upon what, or for how long, she did not explain.

Grandmamma sometimes came to the nursery to look at Marianne and speak to Nanny. Marianne did not enjoy these occasions, as her grandmamma had a way of looming that was rather frightening to her, down near the floor on her short legs, and she was glad to stay in a corner or at the table, playing or drawing, while Nanny was being spoken to. But missing Dandelion as she did, and knowing that Nanny could not or would not tell her when she might see him again, she at last made up her mind to speak to Grandmamma about it. The chance to do so came that very afternoon. She was finishing her tea when Grandmamma came in and seated herself in the chair by the fire; Nanny stood before her and they talked in low voices; and Marianne watched them from underneath her eyelashes, pretending to look only at her plate. The conversation ended and Grandmamma rose to her feet, and instantly Marianne rose too, and spoke out as boldly as she could. 'Grandmamma, I want to see Dandelion, may I please?'

There was a pause – a very long one, to Marianne – and then her grandmamma said, 'Yes, my dear, you must ask Nanny to take you, when the weather allows.'

'Thank you, Grandmamma.'

Another pause, and then Grandmamma said, 'You must continue with your reading, it cannot be neglected. I have spoken to Nanny about it.'

'Yes, Grandmamma.'

And so the interview was at an end, greatly to Marianne's relief.

Nanny took her to see Dandelion the next day, and Michael was there as it happened and gave Marianne an apple to feed to the pony. Nanny said that things were in a sad way at the house, and Michael said he was sure it was so, and then he said that Miss Marianne ought to be allowed to ride, so as she didn't forget what Mr. Hartfield had taught her; and Nanny said she quite agreed but did not know who would teach her, and Michael said he could do it but would have to ask Mr. Beasley, and then he said Nanny mustn't mention it to Miss Marianne as it was uncertain what Mr. Beasley would say. So she went to bed that night very happy, and was even happier the next week when Nanny told her that Michael had kindly agreed to continue her riding lessons, and she must be a very good girl and never complain when it was time for the lesson to end, for Michael had many other duties which he could not neglect. Marianne promised that she would be good, and then Nanny changed her dress and took her down to the stable yard and she had a lovely time, and so did Dandelion, who she felt sure had been missing her as much as she missed him. But when she had gone upstairs and had changed her dress again and was sitting by the fire with Nanny, she had a queer sad feeling, as if she had done something wrong, for her father had not been there and she had enjoyed herself despite his absence. Nanny said she mustn't be silly, and put her to bed early. The next day the same thing happened; she was happy while she was on Dandelion's back, and then afterwards felt sad and mean. But as the days went by and the lessons continued, she got over this feeling, except on days when it was especially cold, and she came in with her hands and feet chilled and Nanny was therefore cross. On these days she would think to herself that perhaps she was doing a wrong thing. And yet she could not tell what the wrong thing could be, since Grandmamma and Mr. Beasley and Michael and Nanny had all agreed that she should be allowed to continue to ride.

She awoke one morning to feel that there was a strange sort of bustle and hurry about the house, with people talking quickly up and down the corridor and voices calling in rooms where they were not usually heard. While she was eating her breakfast, Nanny entertained a visit from one of the parlourmaids, and there was much quiet talking between them, which Marianne could not make out. Presently Nanny said, 'Miss Marianne, we must put on your best pinafore, your uncle Matthew will be arriving this morning.'

'Who is Uncle Matthew?'

'He is your poor father's brother, you must remember hearing about him. He has been in India these many years, since long before you were born.'

'Where is India?'

'It is very far away, and you must not ask any more questions while I am dressing you.'

So Marianne was silent, wondering to herself about this mysterious new person, whose name she had heard only once or twice in her life, and whether he knew how to ride horses; she thought perhaps there were no horses in India, it was so far away and must be very different from England. She said the syllables of the word over to herself – In-dee-a – as her hair was brushed and her shoes laced up. Then Nanny took her by the hand and they walked downstairs and into the great hall, where the members of the household were assembling. Grandmamma was there, and so was Mamma; Gage was there, at the head of a row of footmen, facing the housekeeper and the row of maids. Everyone was in black, of course. Nanny had explained to her why they must all wear black. Grandmamma's face looked very pale and stern, but Mamma smiled at Marianne, and said, 'How nice you look, darling. Come and stand beside me.' So Marianne stood next to her and fixed her gaze on a pair of crossed swords above the fireplace. Then there was rather a long wait, and people were beginning to shift from foot to foot, when Marianne heard the sound of a carriage on the drive, and Gage went to the front door to open it. Marianne turned her head to look, and so did everyone else, and she saw the dark figure of a man against the bright sunlight outside. Then the man took a few steps forward and Gage closed the door behind him, and for a few seconds Marianne's eyes were dazzled and she still could not see him. But her eyes cleared and she saw him walk forward to Grandmamma and take her hand and kiss it, and then kiss her on the cheek; this seemed strange to Marianne, because no one ever kissed Grandmamma. Then he turned his attention to Mamma, and Marianne heard a few murmurs from each of them – 'So sorry' – 'Long journey' – and then his eyes traveled downward to Marianne herself.

'This is Miss Marianne, then,' he said, and crouched down so that he could look directly into her face. Marianne took a step back, being unaccustomed to seeing an adult at eye level; she was used to tilting her head to look up at them, and found it startling to see this face with its close-trimmed beard so near to her own. 'I am your uncle Matthew,' the man said. 'I am happy to make your acquaintance.' And he held out his hand to her.

Marianne shook hands with him but did not know what to say. A strange feeling had come over her, that she knew him already, and she looked carefully at his eyes and chin and cheeks and brow, as if to identify the individual part that was causing the sense of recognition. He gazed back at her solemnly for a moment or two and then said, 'I wonder if you and I will be friends.'

'I don't know,' said Marianne. 'I can't tell.'

'No, indeed. We must wait and see.'

'Do you like horses?'

'Yes, very much. Do you like horses?'

'Yes, I have a pony, his name is Dandelion and I ride almost every day. I can show you the stables if you like.'

'I should like that a great deal. Would you be very kind and show me after luncheon?'

'Yes.'

Nanny was standing behind her, and at this point leaned forward to hiss in her ear: '"Yes, Uncle Matthew."'

'Yes, Uncle Matthew,' Marianne said.

Then she and her uncle nodded, each to the other, and he rose to his full height and turned to speak with her Mamma and Grandmamma.

Presently the three of them went away, and Marianne returned to the nursery. She and Nanny looked out the window for a while, watching as the men unstrapped a trunk from the carriage and took it inside. 'Seems he thinks he won't stay long,' said Nanny, and sniffed. 'Come along, we must change your dress.'

Marianne ate her luncheon as quickly as she could, not wishing to make her uncle wait or to miss the chance to see the stables with him. When she had finished her meal, she asked Nanny for her cloak and hat, and Nanny said, 'Now then, Miss Marianne, you mustn't be impatient, your uncle must have many a thing to attend to and perhaps the stables will have to wait.' But just as she finished speaking, a housemaid arrived and said she was to fetch Miss Marianne down, and so she went downstairs and found Uncle Matthew standing in the hall before the fire.

'There you are,' he said. 'Lead on, please.'

So Marianne led him out the front door and around the house and through the flower garden and the kitchen garden and to the stable yard, where Michael was tending to the carriage horses. Michael touched his cap and he and Uncle Matthew began talking about the horses, and Marianne waited as patiently as she could, watching her breath misting in the cold air. But she must have fidgeted, because Uncle Matthew looked down at her and said, 'We must go. Miss Marianne has agreed to help me inspect the premises and I fear our time is short.' Michael touched his cap again, and the other two went into the stable. Marianne told him the names of all the horses, until they were at Dandelion's stall at the end of the building. Dandelion was happy to see her and came forward to have his nose stroked.

'How long have you been riding?' asked her uncle.

'Months and months. Michael says I'm doing very well.'

'Michael is teaching you, is he?'

'Yes, because my father is gone. My father was teaching me before.'

'You must miss him.'

Marianne considered this. 'Yes,' she said finally. 'I'm sad when I think of him.'

'I am very sorry that you should be sad.'

She looked up at him. 'Mamma is sadder.'

They stroked Dandelion's neck and side in silence for a few minutes. Then Marianne said, 'Do they have horses in India?'

'They do indeed. I have a very nice one there, I call him Badger.'

Marianne laughed. 'Badger? I do think that's odd.'

'Yes, I suppose so. He had an Indian name when I bought him, and it sounded like "badger" to me so that's what I named him.'

'Does he look like a badger?'

'Not the least bit.'

Marianne laughed again.

'Where did Dandelion get his name?' her uncle asked.

For a moment Marianne could not think of the answer to this question, and then she remembered. 'The day we bought him, my father led him up to the drive to the house, and I was standing on the front steps and I had a dandelion in my hand. My father said I must give him a name, and I couldn't think of one, so I named him Dandelion because that's what I was holding.'

'I see.'

There was another silence, and then Marianne said she was cold and they must go inside, so they turned and walked back to the door of the stable. Here her uncle paused and crouched down in front of her as he had done that morning. Again she was struck by the feeling that she had known him before, but this time she realised why: he looked like her father, with black hair and bluish-gray eyes and a peculiar way of pushing his chin forward before he said anything. And yet they could never be mistaken for each other; for Uncle Matthew had darkish skin and wrinkles coming from the outside of his eyes, and his mouth turned downward when he wasn't speaking.

'Thank you for showing me the stables,' he said. 'It was most kind of you. I shall come and see your riding lesson, if I may.'

'Yes, I should like that,' said Marianne grandly. They shook hands and then they went back to the house.

He did come and watch her riding lesson that afternoon, but he left before she dismounted and they didn't speak to each other. Then she missed seeing him for some days after that; Nanny said he was very busy, talking to Mr. Foyle and to other people whose names Marianne did not know. Now and then she saw him from her window, standing in the garden smoking a cigar, and once she was allowed to come down to the drawing room before dinner, and when she greeted Uncle Matthew he crouched down in his usual way and asked her if she was quite well and if Dandelion was behaving himself; but she felt shy and only answered with a whispered 'Yes.' He said he was glad to hear it and he would be sure to come and see her ride the next day. Then Nanny took her back upstairs, and the next day Uncle Matthew came again to the riding lesson, and this time waited for her at the end and walked back to the house with her. From then on he came every day, or nearly every day, and they walked back together and she told him many things about her father and about Nanny and about how Grandmamma loomed at her, at which he laughed, and he told her about India and Badger and his dog Lucius and about how hot it was, so you had to stay in the shade of the verandah in the daytime. However, on some days he was very silent and so she would be silent too, and when they arrived at the nursery and Nanny came to the door to receive her, he would say only, 'Good day, Marianne.' And she would say 'Good day, Uncle Matthew,' and go in to her tea.

The weather became warmer, and after much deliberation Michael allowed Marianne to ride Dandelion out of the paddock and into the nearer of the two fields adjoining the gardens. At the far end of this field was a low stone wall, and Michael said that when she was quite ready – perhaps a year or two from now – he would teach her and Dandelion how to jump it. In the meantime, she rode quietly round and round the field, passing in their turns its various boundaries: the wall, the hedge, the ditch, and the flower bed, then the wall again, and so on. Sometimes Dandelion trotted and once he cantered. On this occasion Michael scolded her afterwards for her recklessness, but did so in such a way that she could see he rather admired her for it. Uncle Matthew, waiting to walk her back to the house, heard the scolding but said nothing; indeed, she could not tell whether he was attending to it, or to the lesson itself; he smoked his cigar and walked up and down the edge of the flower bed until she came over to him.

'You're doing splendidly,' he said, throwing his cigar away. 'You'll be following the hounds in no time.'

'The hounds?'

'The foxhounds.'

They began to walk back. He kept his hands in his pockets and his head bent, and Marianne saw that it was one of his silent days. But she had news to impart, so she boldly opened the conversation herself. 'I'm to have a governess soon. Grandmamma told Nanny and Nanny told me.'

'I see. Your Grandmamma mentioned it to me also.'

'Nanny says it's not a moment too soon, so I can learn something besides riding.'

He laughed at that. 'I must say I agree with Nanny. Young ladies are required to know ever so many things now. French and German and geography and drawing. The sooner you start, the better.'

Marianne felt obscurely hurt. 'I'm not a young lady. I don't want to learn any of those things.'

'I beg to differ. You are a young lady – a very young lady, to be sure. And it will be bad for you if you do not learn what others of your station learn.'

'Bad for me how?'

They had been walking quite slowly, and now he stopped and looked down at her. She noticed anew that his mouth turned downwards, and that his eyes were narrower than her father's had been. 'It is bad not to know what you are expected to know, and what your equals know. Ignorance is a base and inexcusable sin, among people of our kind.'

Marianne stared at him, thinking this over, and then she said, 'People of our kind, you mean gentlemen and ladies?'

'Yes, that is exactly what I mean.'

'Mamma is a lady, and I'm sure she doesn't know how to draw. Or any geometry. She knows … she knows about babies and dresses and things.'

'So you are prepared to grow up into womanhood knowing only about babies and dresses? And horses, I suppose. Will you be quite content if those are the only topics you are fit to discuss?'

Marianne did not know how to answer this, feeling that if she said yes he would regard her with scorn, and if she said no she would appear to be looking down upon her own mother. After a moment or two, he turned and they walked on until they reached the terrace at the back of the house. Here he stopped and took out his cigar case. 'It is such a fine day, I'm sure Nanny cannot object if we stay outside for a few more minutes. I shall smoke if you don't mind.'

'Not at all,' said Marianne politely, and he lit another cigar and they began pacing up and down the terrace together.

After some minutes, he said, 'Your grandmother and mother between them know what is best for you, of course.'

'Yes,' said Marianne.

'But I can see that a governess seems rather – rather an ominous development. You will not have so much time for riding.'

Marianne said nothing, but nodded her head gloomily.

'I felt the same at your age, when I was sent away to school. I had a pony, his name was Blaze and I missed him a great deal when I was away. When I came back at the holidays he hardly seemed to know me.'

Marianne suddenly felt that she might cry, whether at this story or at her own prospects, she hardly knew. She did not cry, however, but turned with her uncle at the end of the terrace and began pacing in the other direction.

'But I grew accustomed to it,' he continued. 'That is, to being away and to studying. And I quite liked some of the things I studied. I feel sure that you will like some of the things your governess teaches you.'

'Not as much as I like riding.'

'Perhaps not. But your grandmother would not be doing her duty if she neglected to provide you with an education, such an education as will prepare you for your place in the world. Knowing how to ride will not be enough. You must be prepared to preside over a household and hold your head up among your equals, and to do so you must the various kinds of knowledge and accomplishments that young ladies are expected to have.'

He seemed rather satisfied with his way of putting this and smoked in silence until they turned at the other end of the terrace. Then Marianne said, 'So it is all for the sake of my equals? The other young ladies?'

'In a way, yes.'

'And they are to acquire accomplishments for my sake?'

'I suppose you could say that.'

'Then what if we all agreed we would only learn what we liked to learn, and not expect anyone to have accomplishments? Then we would still be equal, but we could do what we wanted. And,' she reminded him, 'I want to ride.'

He stopped and looked down at her, frowning, the cigar clenched in his teeth and the smoke rising round his head, until finally he removed the cigar and shook his head. 'It is so odd,' he said, 'how sometimes you remind me of your father and sometimes of your grandmother, and yet no two people could be more different from each other.' He sighed and looked away, toward the view of gardens and fields and the hills beyond, and then back at her. 'You are quite right that this is all a matter of people agreeing with each other and choosing what is important and what is not, and what a young lady should know and what she should not know. But we have no other method of deciding, and you yourself have no means of persuading all the other girls that you should collectively rebel against your pastors and masters. Is it not so? You are bound to respect and obey your grandmother – and your mother; and I assure you that doing so in this case will be greatly to your benefit.'

And with that he put the cigar back in his mouth and resumed pacing.

Marianne was not altogether persuaded, but she felt unable to argue further, so she walked silently beside him. She thought of his pony Blaze and was on the point of asking to hear more about him; but she stopped herself, thinking that she had no patience or sympathy for Uncle Matthew at the moment, for he had ranged himself against her as he never had before; he had simply advised her to do as she was told, just as Nanny or Mamma or anyone else would have done. They went inside and at the door of the nursery shook hands as usual, and Marianne went into the room and took off her hat and stood turning it in her hands, thinking of what he had said.

III.

Emily had always taken her breakfast in the breakfast-room with the others, instead of in her own room, because Mrs. Edward thought it was better that she should be there to speak with Cook and Gage about the day's plans. Emily did not see why this was necessary, since Mrs. Edward herself made all the plans; but she did not argue, and even when she had slept badly, she was in her place by eight o'clock. She knew her appearance was not all it should be. Black did not suit her, and she had great circles under her eyes, and she was still quite pale and peaky. She did not mind this as much as she would have before, however, since Charles was not there to see it and no one else save Dr. Mirabelle seemed to notice.

Today Matthew did not appear till almost nine, and while he was absent Mrs. Edward could not seem to settle herself, or eat; she crumbled up a bread roll, and drank her tea, and walked to the window and back again. Emily found all of this frightfully annoying, and to distract herself she read a letter from her mother and pictured to herself the various people mentioned therein. Presently Mrs. Edward sat down opposite to her and said, in her abrupt way, 'We must decide about Marianne's governess soon.'

Emily had rather forgotten about the governess, who as yet was only a theoretical sort of person, visible only in the letters of application that arrived daily and that she and Mrs. Edward both read. Or rather, Mrs. Edward read them, and Emily held each one in her hands for a few minutes, examining the handwriting, and then dropped it on the pile on the library table. She did not see any need to form an opinion, since Mrs. Edward was sure to choose the right person, and after all she had a great deal more experience in these matters. Emily herself could not even remember the names of any of the applicants, and so she said only, 'Yes indeed, I suppose we must choose, but it is difficult when so many of them are suitable.'

'Suitable? We must look for more than suitability. We must look for a lady with the best of qualifications and accomplishments. I shall read all of the letters again this afternoon.'

Emily was saved from having to make any kind of reply by Matthew's entrance. He was opening his letters when his mother leaned forward to address him. 'Matthew, Mr. Foyle will be here after luncheon, and we must all be here to speak with him.' She included Emily in this directive by nodding in her direction. Emily was startled and put down her teacup.

'Must we?' said Matthew. 'Speak with him about what?'

'About the estate, and the entail, and what must be done.'

'I see.'

'And we must also settle what is to be done about that timber. Mr. Ackroyd will want to know.'

'I thought it was settled. Did we not agree that you should do whatever you thought best?'

'Not at all. We did not agree to that. You said you would prefer it, but we cannot proceed in that fashion.'

Emily was startled once again; it was not at all unusual for Mrs. Edward to speak rather loudly, but it certainly was unusual for her to sound agitated. Matthew, however, did not seem the least bit ruffled and merely said, 'I was mistaken, then. I did think you had agreed to that course of action. I suppose we must canvass the whole matter over again, because I find I cannot recall any of the details.'

'The papers are all in the study. You have time, I believe, to reacquaint yourself with the – the details before he arrives.'

'Perhaps. I thought of taking a walk down to Brook Farm. I may be there all morning.'

There was a silence and Emily began to think that she would like to be elsewhere, as it seemed certain there would be a row, and she hated a row of all things. Accordingly she rose and said she must go and write letters, and Matthew rose as well and opened the door for her. Emily breathed a sigh of relief as she crossed the hall to the stairs. She rather admired Matthew for his coolness, but at the same time resented him for upsetting Mrs. Edward; Emily herself would surely have to bear some of the consequences of her mother-in-law's ill temper afterwards.

In an hour or so Marianne came in to see her, as she did every day, and Emily kissed her and asked, 'How are your riding lessons?'

'Lovely. Dandelion can jump ever so well. Michael says he takes to it like a duck to water.'

Emily had not been aware that the lessons had progressed to jumping over things, but she let that go by. 'Have you seen your uncle this morning?'

'Yes, he was on the terrace, smoking.'

'I see.'

'He said he was going to see the house repairs at Brook Farm.'

'We shall have a governess for you soon,' said Emily after a short pause, thinking of her conversation at breakfast with Mrs. Edward.

Immediately Marianne's face darkened. 'I would rather not have a governess.'

'Yes, I know, dearest, but Grandmamma … and really it is for the best.'

'Everything unpleasant is supposed to be for the best. I should like it if I could have something for the worst instead.'

'Oh Marianne, do not be cross, I cannot bear it today.'

Her daughter flung her arms round her. 'I am sorry, Mamma, I'm not cross with you at all, I will be good.'

'Thank you, dearest,' said Emily, caressing her. 'You are a good girl. You must run along now and change your dress.'

Marianne took up her hat and went away, and Emily went away also, back to her own room, where she occupied herself for some time in going through Marianne's old baby clothes and considering what could be used for the new baby, and what must be mended, and what was missing. She rather marveled at the tiny garments, finding it hard to believe that Marianne had ever been small enough to wear any of them; and yet it was not so long ago. She recalled how Charles had played with his little daughter, how much pleasure he had taken in her smiles and her childish speech, and as the tears came into her eyes she reminded herself that she must not give way to melancholy. It was almost time for Dr. Mirabelle's daily visit, and she did not want him to see her with the recent traces of tears on her cheeks. She went away to the drawing room to await him. The doctor was slightly late, and apologised as he came in, saying that he had been detained at a patient's bedside. 'Indeed, it's no matter now you are here,' said Emily. She wondered to herself who the patient might be, but she had learnt not to ask; the doctor was always quite silent about his professional visits elsewhere. This was the only point of difference between him and Dr. Bingley in which Emily felt the younger doctor did not have the advantage.

'And how do you find yourself?' he asked.

'Tolerably well. My cough is quite gone as you see. I had a very good breakfast too.'

'That is gratifying to hear.'

Then he fell silent, turning his hat between his hands as he gazed at the fire. Finally Emily said, 'I was writing to my mother today, and I had occasion to mention you and recalled that you have relations near here. Tell me, do you often see them?'

'No – that is, I see them perhaps once a month. I do not know whether you consider that often. They are cousins of mine, or rather second cousins, on my mother's side. I did not know them well when I was young, and now I find it difficult to feel very intimate with them.' He paused, frowning. 'And yet they are very good, kind people. The fault must be on my side.'

'Surely not,' said Emily. 'If there is a fault, it must be on their side. You are so good and kind yourself that one feels quite – quite at ease with you straightaway.'

'You are very kind to say so, but I often find it trying to encounter new people and form friendships. There is a difficulty in hitting upon things to talk about that are not utterly banal and yet not so unusual as to baffle or offend one's interlocutors.'

Emily did not quite follow this, and indeed he seemed to be speaking more to himself than to her, still looking into the fire. At last she said, "I should have thought a doctor would need to be at ease with new people, as in the course of your work you must come across them daily.'

'New people – yes, in the form of patients; but people with whom I might be friends – with whom I might be really intimate, as equals – no. The latter are much rarer, and I am awkward and reserved with them, so they do not feel it worth their while to become better acquainted.'

'You are not awkward and reserved with me.'

Here he gave her a quick, sharp look, and then again resumed gazing at the fire. 'No, indeed. But the circumstances of our meeting were unusual, and as unfortunate as they were for you and your family, they did have the effect of removing any diffidence I might otherwise have felt. One cannot stand on ceremony in such a case.'

Emily, she knew not why, was slightly displeased by this answer, after what she had said to him; but there was nothing for it but to nod in acknowledgment of the truth of his remark, after which she commenced gazing at the fire too. The reminder of the circumstances of their meeting distressed her, as the memory of her emotions at the time came upon her. These feelings had been blurred and partially worn away by the passage of time and by the fact of the coming child, and yet when they returned they did so as if she had just that moment heard of her husband's death. She was afraid that she might cry, which would be most improper, and would elicit a severe remark or two from Mrs. Edward, were she to hear of it. So with a great effort she restrained her tears and said, 'We feel his loss extremely, but we must bear up, mustn't we?'

'You have been very brave.'

'Not at all,' said Emily confusedly, and then, after a pause, she made a remark on the weather, and so the conversation continued for a while until he took his leave. He had barely departed before Mr. Foyle was announced, and while he and Emily awaited the others, she wondered what business had brought him to Hartfield Hall. Something very tedious, no doubt. To her mind he had a dry, dull air; he seemed to speak as if weighing each word, watching his listeners carefully to gauge their reactions. Emily felt repressed in his presence, as if her words, too, would be scrutinised by him and found wanting. She was relieved when Mrs. Edward entered the room, followed by Matthew.

When they were all seated, Mrs. Edward opened the discussion at once. 'I have asked Mr. Foyle here to assist us in planning for the baby's arrival.'

For a moment Emily pictured Mr. Foyle going through the baby's clothes, as she had done that morning, and advising them as to which should be kept and which discarded. However, Mrs. Edward continued: 'I mean to say, planning for the different situations that will arise, depending on whether dear Emily gives birth to a boy or to a girl.'

Mr. Foyle shifted slightly in his chair, fixed his gaze on the hearthrug, and said, 'I have reviewed the terms of the entail, which governs the disposal of the estate. It is quite straightforward, as all of you doubtless know. If the baby is a boy, he will inherit the estate at once, but he will require a guardian until he reaches his majority. If the baby is a girl, Mr. Hartfield – ' he inclined his head towards Matthew, without, however, looking directly at him – 'Mr. Hartfield will inherit, and his heirs after him.'

Here he stopped, with an air of having come to the end of what he had to say, but Mrs. Edward leaned toward him and said, 'And how is the guardian appointed?'

Mr. Foyle glanced at her, but at once turned his eyes back to the hearthrug. 'The guardian is to be the baby's nearest male relative, and to reside in Hartfield Hall and act as the squire in all ways until the new squire comes of age.'

There was a short silence, and then Matthew said, 'A daunting prospect for me, in either case, I must say. I did not know before I left India that an heir might be produced, and if I had known I would have remained there to await the event. As it is, if the baby is a boy, I had hoped to return to India forthwith.'

'I fear that is not possible, sir,' said Mr. Foyle, 'given that you will be the heir's guardian.' He seemed about to say something else, but stopped.

'What would happen if I did leave – if I were the guardian, or even the heir, but chose not to reside here? There is no particular penalty attached to that course of action, is there?'

Mr. Foyle began to reply, but Mrs. Edward interrupted him. 'How can you ask that question, Matthew? Have you no sense of duty, no attachment to your home? The squire of Hartfield must reside at Hartfield.'

'Must reside – ?' said Matthew. 'Or what disaster will befall us? Surely things would continue on here as they have been doing in my absence for these past nine years.'

'You were the younger son,' said Mrs. Edward. 'Naturally this situation would be quite different. You could not abandon your own estate.'

Matthew did not answer her, but instead looked inquiringly at Mr. Foyle. There was another pause and Mr. Foyle again shifted himself in his chair. Then he spoke. 'There is no penalty, as such. That is, there is no punishment stipulated for an heir or a guardian who chooses not to abide by the terms of the entail or the customs of land ownership. I suppose there is something to be feared from the opprobrium of one's neighbours, but perhaps that would not weigh very heavily if one had evaded the necessity of enduring it in person.'

'The estate itself would not suffer in any way,' said Matthew, looking from Mr. Foyle to his mother and back again. 'That is what I meant by penalty.'

Again Mr. Foyle prepared to answer him, and again Mrs. Edward forestalled him. 'Of course it would suffer! It would suffer from lacking a master. The family would be the object of pity and ridicule, and the land would go to ruin.'

Mrs. Edward's wrath did not appear to disturb Matthew at all. He said tranquilly, 'Come now – ruin? There is Mr. Ackroyd to see to everything, and Mr. Foyle himself, and your trusted friend, Sir Thomas. You need not fear a lack of advice.'

'I do not require advice. I require you to do your duty and fill the station to which God has called you. Surely even you will acknowledge your obligation to your family.'

'It seems to me this obligation consists of remaining here to no purpose. I have never been involved in overseeing the estate, nor do I know anything about it, nor do I wish to know. I have made a life in India, where I have considerable business interests, and I can see no reason why I should not return there and leave Hartfield in the capable hands of those who are already running it.'

Emily was terribly dismayed by this speech – not that she had any strong reason for wishing Matthew to stay, but his tone and expression were so full of repressed anger that she felt quite uncomfortable, and fearful of how Mrs. Edward would respond. She could not understand why he was so angry, and felt instinctively that at least part of his anger was directed at her, though he had not looked at her while speaking. Mr. Foyle glanced at her and immediately rose to his feet. 'My dear Mrs. Charles, I am very sorry this has been so distressing. Do you wish to retire?'

Emily nodded and rose in her turn; Matthew stood up and accompanied her to the door, opening it for her to leave the room. At the same time, Mr. Foyle addressed Mrs. Edward: 'Perhaps you would accompany your daughter-in-law? Her condition is delicate.'

Mrs. Edward reluctantly nodded and departed in her turn, her son holding the door for her as well; and then as Matthew returned slowly to his chair, Mr. Foyle seated himself, breathing an inward sigh of mingled relief and anxiety. He was grateful to Mrs. Charles for displaying her distress so openly, as it had given him a ready means of getting both of the ladies out of the room. He had determined that he would do so from the start of the conversation, believing that Mrs. Edward's words were exacerbating the difficulty of what he had to accomplish; but Mrs. Charles's look of fright had made it much easier to send her and her mother-in-law away. Mr. Hartfield's attitude puzzled the solicitor. He appeared not to care in the slightest for his possible inheritance, nor for the welfare of his family, and Mr. Foyle was at a loss to account for this. He had not known Mr. Hartfield before his brother's death, having arrived in the neighbourhood after the younger son's departure for India; and his acquaintance with the family as a whole was rather slight. So he determined that he would try to understand the circumstances as fully as he could, as a first step.

'I am sorry I disturbed my sister-in-law,' Mr. Hartfield said, as he seated himself. 'I should have considered her feelings, and her condition.'

'She has no reason to suppose that you were angry or annoyed with her, does she?'

'None at all. She is perfectly aware that my discontent – my annoyance – is caused by the situation I find myself in, and by my mother. I will speak very freely to you, if I may, understanding that you will keep my confidence.'

'Of course.'

Mr. Hartfield paused, as if collecting his thoughts, and then said: 'My position as a younger son is not at all unusual. I would not have you think that I considered myself wronged by the entail, while Charles was living. I was happy not to have any of the obligations of an heir, and I was doubly happy that I was enabled to live in India and create a life and interests for myself there. I am not prepared to give them up for the sake of appearances – for you must understand, appearances are the only thing that would be affected by my remaining here. Charles was brought up to be the squire, and he was entirely suited to the role, but I was never trained as he was. It would hardly be worthwhile to go into the reasons why I was allowed to grow into manhood without the least knowledge of the estate, except as they bear on the present question; for one of these reasons was that my parents considered me rather in the light of a superfluity, a person who was not exactly necessary. My mother, in particular, found me difficult to manage, and I in turn disliking her attempts to do so, we have not had the most tender of relationships. And yet I had a happy childhood, and was happier still, as I have said, when I departed for India and in so doing removed the friction caused by daily contact between my mother and me.'

Here he paused, and Mr. Foyle said, 'And yet surely both of you want the same things – the continued prosperity of your family, and the continued respectability of your family name?'

'Yes, naturally, we both desire to sustain the family's welfare and reputation. The difference is in our ways of going about it. She wishes to keep me here to serve as a kind of figurehead, while the actual work is done by others; whereas I think my affection for my family can best be shown by removing myself and allowing them to go about their business undisturbed.'

'I must beg leave to speak freely in my turn, sir.'

'Of course.'

'I am compelled to say that I agree with your mother. Your duty requires you to stay and preside over your own estate, whether as the heir outright or as the heir's guardian.'

'My duty, as laid down by my great-great-great-grandfather? Or is there another great to be added? I have never understood why people long dead and gone should be enabled to dictate our manner of living now, nor why the entail should be treated as sacred. I am sure I did not sign any contract obliging me to abide by its terms. Why cannot I be allowed to live my life as I see fit?'

'You did not sign a contract, to be sure, but have you not received benefits from the estate? Have you not been allowed to live as you wish, thus far, with every material advantage? I am sorry to state the matter in such blunt terms. But this must surely have crossed your own mind before now.'

'I have means that came to me from my mother's family, not my father's, and I have invested them in such a way that the results allow me to live entirely independently.'

'There are other kinds of benefits besides money. You were raised here, with all of the comforts and privileges of the Hartfields, and by accepting these things I believe you have accepted your obligations as well. The two aspects of your inheritance cannot be extricated from each other.'

'What you say about my duty may be true. But could I not delegate someone to perform it on my behalf? My mother could manage, could she not? She has ruled the place in fact, if not in name, since my father's death, and even before that. Why cannot I delegate to her?'

'I am very far from believing that women cannot manage estates. Widows do so and some of them quite ably. But in the present instance, everyone would be aware that Mrs. Hartfield's authority was not legitimate, and such knowledge would not only prevent her from doing any good, but might be productive of great harm. While your brother was alive, no doubt it was known that she influenced him; but he presided over his own family and he issued commands with his own voice. What you are suggesting would lead to quite a different state of affairs, and your mother is aware that it is so.'

There was a long silence, and then Mr. Hartfield said, 'I have obligations in India. I left on the understanding that I would return. I have already remained here far longer than I intended.'

Mr. Foyle was silent in his turn, and presently asked: 'Understanding? There is a person – or persons – in India expecting you to come back?'

'Yes,' said the other shortly.

Mr. Foyle leaned back in his chair, considering what he had heard, and then at last he said, 'My most earnest desire is to help you, in whatever way you will allow. If it will be of any assistance to you to open your mind to me, please speak out. As your solicitor I must keep what you divulge in confidence – and I hope I may say, as your friend as well. If you consider this an impertinence, then I will of course beg your pardon and never allude to the subject again.'

After a short pause, Mr. Hartfield replied, without looking at him: 'I admit it would be a great relief to tell someone – to explain my true situation. But beyond that – beyond listening – I fear there is no help you can give me.'

'Try me, Mr. Hartfield.'

There was another silence, and then Mr. Hartfield said, 'There is a person – a woman, in India. I met her two years ago and married her, before her family, in her own village, some months later.'

'Married –? In the church?'

'No,' Mr. Hartfield said. 'She is Hindu, and we were married in a Hindu ceremony. I consider myself as much bound to her as if the vicar here had joined our hands himself. When I left India, I told her I would return.'

'Are there any children?'

'No.'

'Where is she living now?'

'She went back to her family when I left. I have seen to it that she shall want for nothing in my absence.'

'I see.'

'You must understand, I had every reason to believe I would live in India for the rest of my life. Marrying her was the only honourable thing to do, given my feelings for her. I do not know …' He paused, frowning. 'I do not know how I would have acted had I foreseen that my brother would die. But there is no point in thinking of that. What is done cannot be undone – we are married, and I must either return to India to live with her, or she must come here to live with me.'

Mr. Foyle thought that there was surely a third possibility; but he said only, 'I see.'

'I hope so,' said Mr. Hartfield. 'That is, I hope you see that there is nothing to be done. I cannot fulfill my duties here and in India at the same time, and my wife's welfare must come first with me. I cannot and will not abandon her.'

'Of course you must consider her first, but I am sure you have also considered the fact that many people here depend upon you – many, as opposed to one.'

'Yes, I have considered that.'

'Would she be happy here, do you think – at Hartfield, I mean?'

'She would be happy to be with me,' said Mr. Hartfield; and the proud simplicity of this reply convinced Mr. Foyle as nothing else had done that the marriage was a true marriage, in Mr. Hartfield's eyes if not in the eyes of his church.

'Have you asked her? I assume you correspond?'

'We do, in a way; that is, she can neither read nor write, but I send letters by way of my khansama there, who reads them to her, and then sends me her answers.'

'What does she say to this question of coming to live in England?'

'I have not asked her. I had been intending to escape.'

'Come, sir – escape? From this fine house, the home of your ancestors? Hartfield is not a prison.'

'I am sure you understand what I mean. I am not fit to be master here, not only on the grounds of my unwillingness but on the grounds of being completely unprepared. I was never taught, as Charles was.'

'Let us leave aside the question of your fitness, since the terms of the entail are entirely silent on that matter. I believe you must ask her to come here.'

Mr. Hartfield paused, and then said, 'Such a request cannot be made in writing, and moreover she must know the exact situation. And that will not be known until the baby is born, is that not so? When that occurs, I must go back, and explain, and listen to what she says. She knows nothing of Hartfield and nothing of our laws or customs. From the day we met she has known that I never intended to live in England again. My reversal will distress her greatly unless I can describe all of the circumstances.'

'Does your mother know anything about her – her existence, your marriage?'

'No, nothing, but that is of no consequence.' Mr. Hartfield's face took on an obstinate expression, one that Mr. Foyle had often seen on Mrs. Edward's own countenance. 'I shall bring Supriya back, and my mother and sister-in-law must accept her. If I am to have the burdens of possession here, then surely I can have the privileges as well. They shall acknowledge her as my wife.'

From all of this Mr. Foyle understood that Mr. Hartfield had considered the matter thoroughly. He understood also that there was no point in further conversation: the man would not now deviate from the course of action on which he had decided. The lawyer was obliged therefore to accept what he had been told, and with renewed promises to keep his client's confidence, he left the house and went away.

IV.

On a cold day in late February, with the remains of snow on the ground and a brisk gusty wind, Marianne was dressed by Nanny in a clean pinafore, and her hair was brushed and her face was washed for the second time that day, and she was taken to her mother's bedroom. There she found her mother sitting up in the bed and holding a bundle of … a bundle of something, like a doll wrapped in many layers of cloth, and her mother said: 'Dear Marianne, come here and meet your brother!' Marianne approached carefully and peered at the bundle, and she saw a tiny wizened face and a little pink hand. The baby's eyes were shut and he appeared to be very cross, or perhaps thinking hard. Marianne touched his hand, and his eyes opened partway and then closed again. 'He is to be named Edward after his grandfather,' said her mother. 'It is the family tradition, you know. You must be very kind to him,' she added. 'Poor fatherless boy!' Marianne promised that she would be kind to her brother, and then she was taken back to the nursery and given her luncheon.

She had a new bedroom overlooking the gardens at the front of the house, and the bedroom next to it had been converted into a schoolroom. Miss Brown was to have a bedroom on the floor above. Miss Brown was the person Grandmamma had chosen to be Marianne's governess. Aside from her name, and the fact that she was traveling to Hartfield from Oxfordshire, Marianne knew nothing about her; and in the days before her arrival she imagined her as a faceless woman in a brown dress, bearing a book in one hand and a ruler in the other, and looming in the way Grandmamma herself did. In preparation for Miss Brown's arrival, Grandmamma had said only that they had waited too long to begin Marianne's education, and she must prepare herself to work very hard to make up for lost time. Marianne assented to this outwardly, but inwardly she determined that she would escape the schoolroom for the stable whenever she could.

On the day that her governess was to arrive, Marianne stationed herself at her window and watched the coach coming up the drive and stopping before the front door. A lady in a blue dress and a grey cloak emerged and stood looking up at the house, the footmen meanwhile taking down her trunks – two of them – to carry in. The lady held a carpet bag in one hand.

Grandmamma herself came out of the house to greet Miss Brown, and presently the two of them went back in. Marianne watched the coach as it disappeared round the back, observing that Jack, the left-hand horse, must be tired, as he was walking in a shambling kind of way. She thought she would visit him later, after her riding lesson. Then it occurred to her, with a sick lurch in her stomach, that she might not have her riding lesson; the new governess would no doubt want her to begin studying right away, and what about future days? Grandmamma had said her riding lessons were to continue, but had also said that her other lessons must take precedence. Marianne curled up in the window seat, twining her hands together in her lap and thinking of how Dandelion must be expecting her at any moment.

Presently a housemaid came and said that Mrs. Edward wanted her, and Marianne followed her to Grandmamma's own sitting room on the first floor. There she found Grandmamma herself and the lady in the blue dress, seated on either side of the fireplace. The new lady rose as Marianne entered the room, and Marianne came forward and said how do you do and shook her hand, in so much confusion that she was not able to look at her very closely until Miss Brown had resumed her seat and Marianne herself was sitting between the two others. Then she did look at her carefully, but also rather covertly, not wishing to stare. Miss Brown said, 'I do hope we shall be great friends,' and Marianne watched the shape of her mouth as she spoke, not attending to the words so much as to the sound of her voice, which was soft, and to her eyes, which were large and slightly protuberant. Grandmamma began to speak then, and went on at some length about the arrangements in the schoolroom, and the hours of study and mealtimes and so forth. Miss Brown and Marianne would take their breakfasts, luncheons, and dinners together, it seemed, but Marianne would have tea with her mamma and Grandmamma and Uncle Matthew; Miss Brown was to have her own tea in her own room. She would have Saturdays free, and attend church with the family on Sundays. 'I do not require anyone to attend both services, but the family go to the early service as a rule.' Miss Brown nodded in token of acceptance, her hands folded in her lap. 'I have spoken with Marianne about the importance of attending with great diligence to her lessons. You will, I hope, find her a willing pupil, but as I said to you in the course of our correspondence, we have been negligent in beginning her formal education. So perhaps there will be … a certain backwardness.'

Miss Brown said, 'I am sure she will do splendidly,' and smiled at Marianne, who, however, did not smile back; she was blushing fiercely in response to being described as backwards, and for a few minutes a kind of haze came between her and the other two, so that she lost the thread of their conversation. Presently, Grandmamma rose and led the others out of the little room and up the stairs to the schoolroom, and Marianne found herself standing about while Miss Brown listened to a description of the fixtures of the room. Marianne did not at all understand why grown people were always so intent on describing things to others when those things were directly in front of them; it seemed foolish, and tedious, and while the two ladies were examining the globe, Marianne edged as close as she could to the window and looked out. There was little to see, only James, one of the under gardeners, working with a hoe on one of the bare flower beds. Then Grandmamma said, 'Now then, I shall leave the two of you to become better acquainted,' and Marianne found herself alone with Miss Brown.

'This room is very pleasant,' said Miss Brown. 'It has everything we shall need, and a lovely view.'

Marianne nodded, assenting, but could not at the moment think of anything to say in reply. Miss Brown moved to the table and sat down, pulling towards her one of the books that had been placed there. 'Perhaps I could hear you read a bit; would you oblige me?'

Marianne sat down as well and Miss Brown opened the book before her; it was a copy of Pilgrim's Progress, and she had opened it in the middle and indicated the top of the left-hand page. Marianne began to read aloud, very softly at first, and then gradually more loudly and quickly as she became absorbed in the story. Miss Brown said nothing, only now and then pronouncing a word for her over which she had stumbled, and turning the page when it was time. They went on in the way for ten or fifteen minutes, and just as Marianne was beginning to feel fatigued, and to wonder how long they would continue, Miss Brown said, 'That was very well done, I see you are a good reader. Now let us try some geography.'

After some time in which they moved from subject to subject, their luncheon arrived; Marianne was glad of the chance to eat and to let her mind rest, and Miss Brown seemed glad too; the meal passed more or less in silence, each of them absorbed in her own thoughts. Afterwards Miss Brown said, 'Perhaps we could take a short walk? I should so like to see more of the house and grounds.'

Marianne said she would take her to see the stables, and they put on their hats and cloaks and ventured forth, going out by the front door and circling the house towards the back. Marianne had to slow her pace to suit that of her governess; Miss Brown sauntered along in a leisurely way, looking about her and asking various questions about the house's age and history, how long the Hartfields had resided in the county, and so on. Marianne did her best to answer, relying partly on things Nanny had said in passing and partly on various speeches her Grandmamma had delivered to her about the Hartfields' position and influence. The speeches had been horribly dull at the time, but now she was grateful to have heard them so that she need not appear wholly ignorant. Miss Brown seemed impressed and pleased by her information; she admired the view from the terrace and the size of the kitchen gardens and almost everything else that she saw. Finally they arrived at the stables, and Marianne led her down the row of horse stalls, stopping at Jack's to see if he was still tired. He seemed to be rested; he put his white head over the door and let her stroke his nose. They continued down the line of stalls to Dandelion's.

'He's a darling,' said Miss Brown, but Marianne could not help but notice that she was hanging back, as she had since they entered the stables, appearing reluctant to approach any of the horses too closely.

'Yes, he is a darling,' said Marianne, caressing his neck. 'Michael says he is a very fine jumper for his size. Next year or the year after, I shall ask for a bigger horse so I can jump higher fences.'

'Indeed,' said Miss Brown.

'I have riding lessons three or four times a week,' said Marianne.

'Yes, so your grandmother has said.'

There was a short silence. Then Marianne said, 'My riding lesson is usually at two o'clock.'

'Indeed,' said Miss Brown again. Then she said: 'I have been thinking about your lessons – that is to say, your other lessons. I shall have to make a plan so that we have time for everything.' She seemed about to say more, but stopped, and Marianne nodded her head, and again there was silence between them, until Marianne said, 'I wonder if Michael is about,' and they walked down the row to the door at the other end, which opened onto the paddock. Michael was there, grooming Uncle Matthew's horse. He stopped when he saw them and touched his cap, and Marianne went up to him and said, 'Michael, I should like you to meet my governess, Miss Brown,' and then she turned, but Miss Brown was hanging back once more, not nearly close enough to shake hands. Michael touched his cap again and said, 'How do, Miss,' and Miss Brown bowed her head to him. Marianne said, 'Do come and say hello to Sentry here, he's quite well-behaved,' but Miss Brown would not or could not budge, and Marianne sighed and said good-bye to Michael and they retreated into the stable and thence to the house.

The rest of the afternoon passed quietly, with more reading and discussion of various subjects, until Marianne gave a great yawn, unable to repress it, and Miss Brown said they would stop for the day. As it was not quite tea-time, Marianne said she would go out and see Dandelion again, and Miss Brown seemed glad to let her go. Marianne took the long way round to the stables, thinking over the day and Miss Brown and why she would not go near any of the horses. In the stable doorway she encountered Michael and they said good day to each other. Then Michael said, 'Delilah had her puppies last night, a fine litter, five altogether.'

'Oh!' said Marianne. 'I want to see them, may I?'

'Why, yes, Miss Marianne, go straight to the kennel now and you'll see your uncle there too.'

So she walked round to the back of the stables, to the kennels, and there found Uncle Matthew on his knees next to Delilah, who was nursing five squirming, mewling pups in a beam of the May sunshine that came through the kennel door. Marianne knelt down too, her uncle acknowledging her with a smile before continuing to talk to Delilah as he stroked her head. 'Good girl, fine girl, what healthy babies you have!' Then he sat back on his heels and addressed his niece. 'I've promised Sir Thomas one of these, and one to the Wakes and one to Mr Hopkins. She has a very fine nose, our Delilah does, and her puppies are always in high demand.'

'May I have one?' Marianne said, having formed the desire in that very moment, and uttering it without much thought, as she had been accustomed to do with her father. Her uncle did not reply quite at first, but touched one or two of the puppies on their backs. Finally he said, 'I think not. Foxhounds require a deal of attention and training, and they do best when they live among their own kind. I should not like to keep one in the house.'

'I could leave it in the kennels and visit it every day, could I not?'

'You can visit all of them every day if you wish. Why choose only one? At any rate, a dog is not really yours unless you train it and tend to its welfare yourself. Between your schoolwork and your riding, you will hardly have time to look about you. It will be far better if you spread your benevolence amongst the pack generally.'

Marianne was silent for a few moments, and then she said, 'So perhaps if I didn't have schoolwork, I could have a puppy? That is unfair. I didn't want a governess.'

'No, of course you did not, as we have so often heard. I need not repeat over again all the reasons why your wish to forgo your education cannot be granted.'

Marianne did not reply; she bent her head and looked steadily at Delilah and the puppies, struggling with her sense of injustice. It did seem hard that the very person to whom she had so objected should also be the reason given by her uncle for denying her request – a very modest request, or so Marianne thought. Finally Uncle Matthew said, 'And how do you find Miss Brown? I haven't met her yet but I expect I shall do so at tea.'

'No,' said Marianne, rather gratified at being able to correct him. 'She is to take her tea in her own room.'

'I see.'

'We went to the stables and she wouldn't go near any of the horses, even Dandelion. Michael was grooming Sentry and she wouldn't go near him either.'

'I suppose she has a fear of horses, or of large animals generally.'

'Dandelion isn't large. It's quite silly. I suppose she won't come to see my riding lessons.'

'Perhaps not.'

'She said I'm a good reader.'

'Yes, it was very fortunate that Nanny taught you to read before your father began teaching you to ride. Otherwise Miss Brown would have been sadly disappointed.'

Presently they walked back to the house, and in looking forward to her tea Marianne got over her ill feeling. When Grandmamma asked her how she and Miss Brown were getting on, she replied that they were getting on very well indeed. In the days and weeks afterwards, they fell into a routine which, if it did not exactly please Marianne, at least did not prevent her from riding or from visiting the puppies as they grew. They had their breakfast together and then several hours of study; then luncheon, and a somewhat shorter period of study. This was followed on three days of the week by her riding lesson, and on days when she did not ride, she and Miss Brown walked in the grounds. Then Marianne had tea with her family, and afterwards she and Miss Brown read or sewed together for an hour or so before dinner. On Saturdays Marianne ranged freely about the house and grounds, visiting the kitchens and the stables and the kennels, and occasionally joining her uncle on one of his walks to inspect fields or cottages. They did not speak much on these walks, partly because Uncle Matthew was always occupied with his own thoughts, and partly because Marianne could not suit her pace to his; she was perpetually running ahead of him or falling behind, leaving the path to pick flowers or investigate hedgerows. In this way they could spend hours together and hardly exchange ten words.

V.

A month after Miss Brown joined the household, she wrote to her sister:

Dearest Amelia,

I know I should have answered your letter much sooner – indeed, I think of you often, hourly almost, and always feel that I have so much to say to you, were you only here; and yet as soon as I open my writing desk, the words seem to fly away, or rather cluster about my head in an unwieldy cloud. And then, I am often feeling rather low and do not wish to write to you in a melancholy mood. To do so would be to cause you unhappiness when there is no need for it. But I resolved that I would delay no longer but would write to you today, and as it happens a steady rain is falling this afternoon, so I am happy to remain indoors. I have a good fire in my bedroom, which is pleasantly furnished; I take my tea here every day, and find it comforting to have quiet and solitude.

The Hartfields are extremely kind, the house is noble and the countryside hereabouts is exceedingly beautiful. My lowness of spirits cannot be blamed on anything here; rather it is from missing you, and home, and all of our little habits and doings. And yet I could not do otherwise than leave, could I? I could not remain and endure the glances and words of so many ill-natured people. I did try, as you know, and I think I had some moderate success. And yet I knew I could not continue for much longer. The effort was exhausting, and you and Papa were affected as well. Much better to remove myself from the scene, and establish myself in a new place where no one knows the sad story, with the hope of being useful and moderately contented.

You asked particularly after my pupil, understanding that her temperament and abilities must be the largest factor in my happiness (or lack thereof) and success (or lack thereof). Miss Marianne is a good child, well-bred and well-spoken for a girl of seven, the result I think of her being a great deal with grown people and rarely with other children. She has also had the advantage of a very superior nanny – indeed, all of the Hartfield servants are superior. – I have said she is good and I will not go back and contradict myself; but what I think I really mean is that she is polite, having been trained very early and strictly in the outward manifestations of the consideration we owe to one another as members of society. She never omits to say please or thank you or how do you do, she is thoughtful with the servants and obedient to her grandmother and mother, and she knows when to speak and when to be silent. There is not much more for her to learn in the realm of ladylike manners, is there? I own I was relieved when I found she had been trained thus far and I would not need to do more than issue the occasional reminder, though as she grows older I suppose more complications will arise in this area. In her formal education, however, she is sadly lacking, a fact which her grandmother made plain very early in our correspondence, so I cannot object now. She reads quite well for a child her age, but knows nothing of geography or any language but English, or music or drawing or any of those other subjects the two of us were at least conversant with at her age. I find her an able pupil, and she would do excellently if she could be persuaded that any of these things was worth her attention; but she resents every moment that she cannot spend in the stables or on the back of her pony. This makes our time together in the schoolroom rather difficult for both of us, as she is there under duress and I find it immensely taxing to maintain my own cheerfulness and love for knowledge in the face of her barely-concealed impatience. It is particularly tiresome on fine days, when each of us is longing to be out of doors, and yet we must soldier on with French verbs and the capitals of Europe. Ah, well – we shall scrape along well enough. Her grandmother seems pleased with her progress so far. She visits the schoolroom once a week and Marianne reads to her or recites a poem, and then Mrs. Edward (for so everyone calls her) says, 'Very good, Marianne,' and nods her head to me and goes away again.

Do you think it odd that her grandmother, not her mother, visits the schoolroom? Perhaps that deserves some explanation. Her mother is known as Mrs. Charles, after her late husband; in this way much confusion is avoided, since there are two Mrs. Hartfields living in the house, with Mrs. Edward very much predominating. Mrs. Charles is a sweet lady, rather melancholy as she only recently lost her husband, and absorbed in her younger child, a boy. She and Marianne hardly cross paths, nor does it seem to occur to anyone that this is in any way strange or that Marianne might possibly need her mother's attention. She has her grandmother's attention, and mine, after all. To be sure, you and I were raised wholly by our father after we lost our dear mother, so I should not perhaps find the arrangement here at Hartfield Hall so surprising. And yet I do, somehow.

The master of the house is Mr. Matthew Hartfield, the younger brother of the Charles who died in so sudden and untimely a manner. He is not the actual squire – that being little Edward – but he is Edward's guardian and so everyone thinks and speaks of him as the squire. He and I do not see each other above once a week or so. He goes to watch Marianne's riding lessons, but as I do not care to be anywhere near horses, I am generally in the house at that time, reading or sewing. I walk with the family to church on Sundays, but since I attend to Marianne, and Mr. Hartfield to his mother, we do not speak on these walks – which are short anyway, the church being a stone's throw from Hartfield. The vicar gives long sermons with a great many Latin quotations, which the members of his congregation clearly do not understand but (just as clearly) have agreed amongst themselves to indulge, as he is generous to the poor and exemplary in his private life. 'Mr. Anthony will not set the Thames on fire,' Mrs. Edward said to me on my first Sunday; 'but he is a good man and understands how to maintain the dignity of the Church in these difficult times.' With which I could only agree, thinking to myself how much I longed to be able to discuss Mr. Anthony and the dignity of the Church with you and Papa. As none of Papa's sermons exceed fifteen minutes, or contain any Latin quotations, I wonder what he would say.

In regard to books, I have been given permission by Mr. Hartfield himself to take what I like from his library, which is of course very kind; only he is so often there, that I must wait and watch for times when it is unoccupied. He goes out walking or riding almost every day, and my windows overlook the front of the house; so when I see him leaving, and if I am not otherwise employed, I descend to the ground floor and go in and choose two or three volumes. The choosing is made rather difficult by the fact that the collection – a very fine one – is not organised at all; histories and novels and biographies and scientific treatises are mixed up together most promiscuously, so I have given up searching for particular books; instead, I look about at random until something catches my eye. In this way I have found a collection of Cowper's poetry and a few good novels, and a history of Russia – quite enough to occupy my free hours. So far I have seen no theology or sermons, an odd omission in a gentleman's library. The Hartfields seem to be a most singular mixture of strict propriety and minor but intractable eccentricity, as if the former is merely a means of concealing the latter. One is reminded of old Lady Brumley, who used to bring her bull terrier to church with her and hide him beneath her skirts, so that one forgot he was there until she knelt to pray and he had to scramble out.

I am sorry to hear that Hannah is leaving you, though we had expected it, had we not? She was not the sort of girl to remain in such a small place all her days. And I am sorry I will not be at home to share some of the increased work her absence will surely create, until you find her replacement. In complaining about my loneliness here, I am in danger of forgetting your loneliness there, as everything that we did together is now solitary labour for you. When I reflect on this I doubt my own wisdom in coming here, I feel my resolve slipping away – and yet I cannot give up so easily, cannot throw up my situation and return home to face the same looks and remarks as before, with their scornfulness increased by the fact that I tried to escape, and could not.

Dearest, kindest sister, I open my heart to you as I can to no one here! You see how my letter wanders from topic to topic and sentiment to sentiment, sometimes cheerful, sometimes gloomy, just as in speaking with you (if I could) I would say what came to mind, and not what I believed you would like or expect to hear. I am sure when you write to me you will do the same, will you not? You will tell me your real feelings about Mr. Leigh, in particular? I cannot bear that you should not speak freely on that subject for fear of reminding me of my own disappointment. Some hint of that was present in our last conversation – our last real conversation, I mean – before my departure. Dear Amelia, I am truly happy for your happiness! Do not fear that in speaking of it you will arouse any other feeling. The two situations – the two gentlemen – could not be more different, and your joy in having Mr. Leigh's regard is wholly deserved. I am sure Papa would say, or has said, exactly the same thing to you, and you must rely upon his authority if not upon mine.

From this great rhetorical height I shall descend into the mundane, and answer some of your kind inquiries. I am very well set up for clothes; I have not had to buy or mend anything since I came here, save one petticoat that was torn whilst I was out walking. I do not need an evening dress as I do not dine with the family. I expect I shall need a good winter dress, to replace the one I have which is at least six years old – you will recall, I bought the cloth for it when Mrs. Walker's shop had just opened. In the meantime, when Mrs. Edward next goes into Wellington, she has promised I shall go as well, and I intend to buy new ribbons for my hat and a new pair of gloves, and these will be enough to keep me contented for a long while. I am saving my wages carefully. How odd, and delightful, to have wages of one's own! I never expected it to be a source of such pleasure.

Please reply to me as soon as ever you can – do not follow my poor example in being a neglectful correspondent. I long to hear all the news and all the various bits and bobs I could never have from anyone else. May God bless you and our dear Papa!

With all my love,

Your affectionate sister,

Kate

VI.

In April, Mrs. Charles prepared to take her children to her mother's house in Norfolk, and Miss Brown was told that she was to accompany them; however, the week before they were to depart, Marianne contracted a fever and was confined to her bed, and after much deliberation it was decided that she and her governess would remain at home when her mother and brother left. 'She will do much better here,' Mrs. Charles said to Miss Brown, in the corridor outside Marianne's room. 'Yes, I think so, and we shall all take great care of her,' Miss Brown replied. She was thinking to herself that she was hardly surprised any more when Mrs. Charles did these things that seemed so unmotherly in regard to Marianne; indeed, Marianne herself did not seem to notice or mind; she spoke of her mother, and to her, with a sort of indulgent affection, as if nothing much was to be expected from her.

These reflections were interrupted by the appearance of Dr. Mirabelle, who had come for his daily visit to Marianne. He went into her room with her mother, and Miss Brown went back into her own bedroom, where she picked up a book but found herself unable to attend to it. At last she let it fall into her lap and gazed out her window; the sun was shining on the green lawns and grounds, and the flowerbeds where two gardeners were at work; the light fell gently upon the distant hills and valleys, and she found herself becoming rather sleepy until her eyes fell upon the figure of Mr. Hartfield, emerging from the house with his stout walking stick, preparing to make away down the drive. Miss Brown roused herself; she must take advantage of his absence to visit the library, and she was readying herself to do so when she saw a rider on a black horse coming toward the house. She did not recognise the man, but Mr. Hartfield evidently did, for he stopped in his tracks and greeted the other as he drew up, and then continued talking to him as he dismounted and gave his reins to a groom. Then the two of them slowly paced toward the side of the house, still deep in conversation, and Miss Brown watched them until they disappeared.

The man was Mr. Foyle, who had not visited Hartfield Hall for some months before this; he and Mr. Hartfield had exchanged many notes, but he had had no cause to attend him in person until now. 'I have come to congratulate the family on the arrival of the heir.'

'I thank you, it is indeed a great occasion, and now I am free to return to India. I am thinking of going as soon as next month.'

They were silent for a few minutes, each gazing before him as they paced slowly round the garden; and then Mr. Foyle said, 'And then you will return with your wife?'

'Yes.'

Mr. Foyle observed him carefully, and then ventured to say, 'I am sure you have considered the possibility that she would prefer to remain in her homeland, and would prefer you to remain as well. Perhaps I have no right to inquire into your intentions in that case, but I hope you recall our former conversation – I hope you bear your duty clearly in mind.'

Mr. Hartfield stopped and faced him, and Mr. Foyle feared for a moment that he had gone too far, for his host was glaring at him from beneath his black brows. But Mr. Hartfield said only: 'You need have no fear as to my recalling my duty. I have thought of little else since we spoke of this matter before. I beg you to recall, for your part, that I have made no undertaking except to tell my wife of my circumstances and request her to return with me.'

'I understand.'

'And I must also remind you that my wife's very existence is not known here, and I will choose my own way of communicating it to my family.'

'Of course.' Mr. Foyle recognised that he had been snubbed, but he did not much mind this since the object he had had in view had been accomplished: he had divined Mr. Hartfield's intentions and state of mind, and he was moderately hopeful that all would come right at last.

VII.

Dr. Mirabelle continued to visit Marianne for a few days after her mother left for Norfolk, finding her improved on each successive day, so that at last he was enabled to tell her grandmother that she could resume her lessons.

'My riding lessons too?' asked Marianne, from her bed, round which the doctor, Miss Brown, and Mrs. Edward were standing.

'Yes,' said Dr. Mirabelle, smiling; 'though I recommend that the riding lessons be somewhat shortened, for a week or two, until you are quite yourself.'

'I'm quite myself already,' said Marianne, but this was disregarded as her grandmother preceded the doctor and Miss Brown to the door.

In the corridor the doctor said, 'I must commend you on your nursing skills, Miss Brown. Our patient has done remarkably well.'

Miss Brown shook her head. 'I did very little but read to her. Mrs. Talbert was the main nurse.' Mrs. Talbert was the housekeeper.

'Then I must compliment Mrs. Talbert as well. I shall return three days from now, to see how Miss Marianne gets on; but I should think she will do excellently.'

'If we can keep her from tiring herself out on horseback,' said Mrs. Edward. 'I never knew such a girl for riding.'

'Perhaps her quick recovery is due to the riding, however? The exercise and fresh air must do her a great deal of good. She seems very healthy on the whole.'

In response to this Mrs. Edward merely nodded her head, appearing as usual to acknowledge the statement rather than agree with it, and then she went away down the corridor.

Dr. Mirabelle hesitated, not ready to walk away from his companion, and at the same time not liking the idea of appearing to linger unduly long. Miss Brown stood still, looking him in the face, with her hands folded before her; they were very small, slender hands, with one ring on the right-hand forefinger, silver set with a garnet. As the silence threatened to become awkward, he hemmed a bit and then said, 'I don't believe I've ever discovered who provides these riding lessons.'

'It's Michael,' said Miss Brown. 'The head groom.' She hesitated, and then said, 'I must acknowledge that I know very little about horses, or horsemanship; but it does seem unusual to me that a groom should be such an excellent teacher as everyone tells me Michael is. And yet perhaps not so unusual, at Hartfield; for here it seems all the people about the place are quite superior, compared to the same type of people in other places. Even the maids seem to be brisker than those in other households, and the butler is a paragon among butlers.'

'I had not thought of it,' said Dr Mirabelle, 'but I quite agree. I suppose we may attribute it to Mrs. Edward's diligence. One sees her influence everywhere.'

Again Miss Brown hesitated, before replying: 'One does indeed. I wonder – that is, I cannot help noticing – Mrs. Edward has a great deal more – influence, as you call it – than Mrs. Charles; and yet Mrs. Charles was mistress here, until her husband's death.'

'I did not know the family then, I mean while Mr. Charles Hartfield was alive. But I know Mrs. Charles, and I believe she has ceded her place most willingly to Mrs. Edward. She has no interest in running a household of this size, and Mrs. Edward with equal willingness has taken on those duties.'

Miss Brown smiled for the first time, with a mere quirk of her mouth to one side, an expression so fleeting that he almost missed seeing it. 'We must be grateful then. The place would fall into wrack and ruin without Mrs. Edward.'

'I fear it would.'

With that, he felt obliged to give her good-day and depart, and as the front door of the house closed behind him, he saw Mr. Hartfield coming up the drive, riding a big grey horse. Dr. Mirabelle's own horse was waiting for him, but he paused before he mounted, wishing to speak with the squire, for the man interested him; he had his mother's rather distant, formal manners combined with an undercurrent of melancholy, the two together creating an air of mystery. Mr. Hartfield dismounted and approached to shake hands.

'And how does my niece get on?' he asked.

'Very well indeed. I have told Miss Brown that she can resume her lessons. Her riding lessons as well,' the doctor added, anticipating the next question.

The squire gave the doctor one of his rare smiles, which changed his whole face. 'Ah, that is good to hear, she misses Dandelion very much. We must thank you for your care of her.'

'Not at all. She has excellent nurses and I believe her recovery is due to them.'

Mr. Hartfield nodded at this, but the smile had immediately given way to his usual expression of somewhat gloomy preoccupation, and there was a short silence until the doctor said, 'I shall say good-bye, I must go to my next patient.'

'Good-bye then. You will come and dine with us soon, say, next Tuesday?'

Dr. Mirabelle was startled, the invitation having come in so sudden a manner, but he said he should be delighted; and as he rode away down the drive he told himself that the dinner would be most interesting, and perhaps he would be enabled to speak more with Miss Brown. Then he began to turn over in his mind the problem of linen, for he was dissatisfied with his washerwoman but did not know where to find another, and he dreaded to appear at Hartfield with a shirt that was less than immaculate. He recalled Miss Brown's words about the superiority of all the people about the place, and thought that his diffidence must be a result of this quality – this prosperity and refinement – for he was not usually overly attentive to his appearance. It seemed he feared to disappoint them, or to show himself unworthy in some way.

When the Tuesday arrived, he entered the Hartfield drawing room in good time, with a snowy shirtfront; and there he found Mrs. Edward and Mr. Hartfield, and Sir Thomas, but no Miss Brown. He felt some awkwardness about inquiring for her directly, but managed at last to bring the conversation round to Marianne, and thence to her governess, saying, 'And how is Miss Brown? – But I suppose I may ask her myself, when she appears.'

Mrs. Edward raised her eyebrows very slightly. 'Miss Brown does not dine with us as a rule. I believed it would be better for Marianne for them to take their meals together,' she said, adding, after a short pause: 'Excepting tea.' She had an air of wishing to give him a scrupulously honest account of their domestic arrangements. 'And I think also it is a great deal easier for Miss Brown, since she need not dress for dinner and in this way is spared much trouble and expense.'

Dr. Mirabelle did not know how to reply to this. He had recent experience of his own to tell him that trouble and expense in matters of dress were not to be treated lightly, and yet he felt that trouble and expense were beside the point. He could not contradict or question his hostess, however, and so he adopted her own method of nodding, and saying nothing, and moving away.

The dinner passed off pleasantly enough. The food and wine were excellent, so excellent that Dr. Mirabelle forgot his disappointment at not meeting Miss Brown in the pleasure of eating and drinking. Sir Thomas was entirely changed in his manner from what he had been the last time Dr. Mirabelle encountered him, directly after Mr. Charles Hartfield's death; he was friendly and affable, asking the doctor many questions about his impressions of the people in the country roundabout. Answering these questions as well as he could, the doctor thought to himself that it was certainly a different experience to be a guest in that house, rather than a medical attendant.

When Mrs. Edward withdrew and the port was on the table, there was a silence of some minutes, until Sir Thomas roused himself to say, 'First-rate wine, Hartfield. I always say the cellar here is the finest in the county.'

'Thank you,' said Mr. Hartfield.

Dr Mirabelle felt called upon to contribute to the conversation. 'Has Mrs. Charles written to you from Norfolk? I do hope the change of air has been agreeable to her.'

'She has written to my mother, but not to me. I believe she is very contented there.'

'And when does she return?' Sir Thomas asked.

'She intends to come back at the beginning of May. I shall be away then; I am returning to India for a time.'

Dr. Mirabelle caught a sharp look from Sir Thomas to his host, as if the former were attempting to read the latter's thoughts about his journey. But Mr. Hartfield remained impassive, drinking his wine, and after a moment the doctor said, 'You have business there, I take it?'

'Yes,' his host replied, and seemed to be intending to say no more; but after a moment, he continued: 'I left rather suddenly and I have things to attend to which cannot be managed by way of correspondence.'

'Ah,' said Dr. Mirabelle, not feeling himself to be much enlightened by this explanation.

'How long do you intend to stay there?' asked Sir Thomas.

Now the sharp look went in the other direction, from Mr. Hartfield to Sir Thomas. 'I find it difficult to tell. Several weeks at the very least. The voyage is hardly worth undertaking otherwise. And I'm sure you have heard me say before that the place is entrancing; one puts off one's departure as long as possible, discovering new reasons to linger from day to day.'

'One's sense of duty surely prevails at last, however,' replied Sir Thomas.

'Oh, naturally.'

Yet again there was a pause in the conversation, and rather than growing accustomed to it, Dr. Mirabelle felt that each silence was more tedious and awkward than the one before. He was driven at last to say, 'How does Miss Marianne get on with her new governess?'

'Very well indeed,' said the squire; 'we are most happy with her progress. I believe my niece is beginning to understand the importance of an education. Before Miss Brown arrived, she would not admit that knowing history or French would be of any use to her in life. I think from week to week she is beginning to see their value.'

Dr. Mirabelle replied, 'That is a testimony to Miss Brown's abilities. Your mother and your sister-in-law must congratulate themselves on their wisdom in selecting her.'

'Of course, my mother does,' said Mr. Hartfield. 'I don't think that Emily had anything to do with it.'

'Come, come,' said Sir Thomas. 'She is very much occupied with little Edward. A better mother I never knew.'

Dr. Mirabelle reflected that Sir Thomas was praising everyone and everything about the place, and that he himself, influenced by the food and wine, felt equally admiring; but Mr. Hartfield did not seem to accept the compliments with much grace or gratitude. On the contrary, when Sir Thomas commended Mrs. Charles's maternal gifts, he looked rather cross, and said only, 'I suppose so. The children thrive, to be sure.'

The doctor hesitated, not wishing to remonstrate with his host; but he felt he should defend his former patient. 'We must remember that Mrs. Charles had a very great change in her life, just when little Edward came into the world. That is, another great change in her life,' he added, recollecting that a new baby makes a great change in itself. The wine had fuddled his wits a bit. 'The loss of her husband affected her greatly.'

'The loss of her husband affected all of us greatly,' said Mr. Hartfield.

Dr. Mirabelle did not know what to say to that, so it was fortunate that the squire appeared not to expect a response; he continued drinking his wine with an abstracted air, and at last Sir Thomas said, 'Mrs. Charles will remarry, of course.'

'Surely not just yet,' said Dr. Mirabelle. 'Surely it is much too early for her to consider such a thing.'

'Not at all,' Sir Thomas replied. 'That is, perhaps it is too early for the marrying, but not too early for the considering. Widows often go wrong in such matters,' he added obscurely.

'I suppose she will marry someone hereabouts,' said the doctor. 'She won't want to take the children far from Hartfield.'

'No indeed,' Sir Thomas said. 'Perhaps no more than ten miles. That leaves – let me see – that leaves about twenty families to choose among.'

'I shall invite them all to dinner, one by one,' said Mr. Hartfield, 'and allow her to inspect them.'

Taken by surprise, Dr. Mirabelle laughed aloud, and then immediately felt that he had been indiscreet; he pushed his wineglass away from him, and in the meantime Sir Thomas frowned and shook his head, saying, 'Really, Hartfield, I do think you could refrain from joking on such a matter.'

'I beg your pardon, Sir Thomas. I should set a better guard on my tongue, no doubt. I ought to consider Emily's happiness, and I am ashamed to say I had never contemplated her marrying again. I had regarded her as a permanent resident here. Her son is the true lord of the manor, after all. But in time I suppose she will look about her, or rather, suitors will come looking for her.'

Sir Thomas seemed of two minds as to whether he should accept this apology; but after a moment or two he bowed his head, and then Mr. Hartfield asked, 'Shall we go to my mother?' and so the conversation was at an end.

Riding home sleepily, his horse picking its way by the light of a full moon, the doctor reviewed the evening in his mind. He could not describe or resolve his opinion about his host: the man seemed kindly enough, and yet irascible; proud of his family, and yet resentful of them; at home in Hartfield, and yet uncomfortable there. Dr Mirabelle acknowledged that Mr. Hartfield's position was rather ambiguous; he acted as the squire and everyone referred to him as the squire, but he was not by law the actual squire. If he were to marry and have children of his own, what would they inherit? But then, Mr. Hartfield had declared he had not even thought of Mrs. Charles's marrying again, so perhaps he was equally oblivious to the possibility of his own marriage. Dr. Mirabelle was conscious that he himself was of quite a different temperament, having been aware for some months that he wanted to marry; with this awareness, he had also acquired a habit of – as Mr. Hartfield would say – looking about him, half-consciously weighing up the attractions and potentialities of the various unmarried women in his vicinity, and trying to analyse their attitudes toward him. He deplored this habit; he thought he should be above such calculations; yet he could not escape a sense that he had business to attend to, a companion to seek and find. When he reached his lodgings he looked up at his sitting-room window, wishing that a light burnt there, a sign of someone waiting for him and ready to hear an account of his various visits and conversations that day. But there was no one, of course; and as he climbed the stairs with his candle he was thankful to feel weary enough to go to sleep quickly.

VIII.

Marianne knew that her uncle was leaving, and knew the exact date; yet somehow, without attempting to do so, she had convinced herself that this departure would not happen, and when the day arrived, she was thinking of something else entirely while she sat at breakfast with Miss Brown. Then a maid entered the room and said that she must come at once if she wanted to take leave of her uncle.

'Do you wish me to come as well?' Miss Brown asked her pupil.

'No,' Marianne answered, adding after a moment, 'but thank you.'

She followed the maid out of the room and down the stairs and out to the front of the house. The footmen were loading Uncle Matthew's trunk onto the coach, and Uncle Matthew himself was standing near her grandmamma, looking on. Marianne went up to him and said, 'Good-bye, Uncle Matthew,' and held out her hand to shake.

He took her hand and then kept hold of it as he crouched down to speak with her. 'Good-bye, Marianne. You must attend to your lessons while I am gone, and be very good for Miss Brown.'

'I will,' she said.

'Your mother will be here next week. You will be glad to see her and your brother.'

Marianne was not certain in her own mind that her life would be greatly improved by her mother's return, but she supposed it would not be made worse, and she missed little Edward. So she nodded, and then she said, 'When are you coming back?'

'I can't tell yet. But before the new year.'

'Are you bringing Badger back with you?'

'No, I think not. He is used to India and the voyage would be difficult for him. And I have Sentry now.'

Marianne could not think of anything more to ask, and the coachman was now on the box, and Grandmamma was speaking to her uncle as he stood up to his full height and drew on his gloves. Marianne watched as he got into the coach, and she and Grandmamma waved as it drove away. It had all happened very quickly, and as she went into the house she felt rather odd, as if her body was moving without her inside it. She climbed the stairs and went back to the schoolroom and sat down at the table, where Miss Brown was still seated with the breakfast things before her. She felt her governess's eyes on her, as if waiting for her to speak, but she could think of nothing to say.

Finally Miss Brown said, 'I know you will miss your uncle very much. You can write to him and that will make the time go faster.'

Marianne nodded. She was thinking that the feeling she had now was quite new and different from any she had had before; at the same time the situation had an odd familiarity, as if she had sat at her breakfast and heard Miss Brown say the same words at some moment in the past. Not knowing what else she could do, she resumed eating her porridge; the meal was concluded in silence, and then the day continued as such days always did: with lessons, and other meals, and finally bed time. She went to sleep very quickly, and dreamt that she was walking in a field near the house, quite alone but with a sense that someone was watching her; but when she turned to see who it was, there was only the long green grass and a leafless tree on the horizon, its branches black against a grey sky.

Three weeks later, Miss Brown wrote to her sister again:

Dearest Amelia,

Thank you for the kind letter, and all the news, and the pressed flowers, which I keep in my writing desk. Here, too, the summer flowers are blooming, and we have had excellent weather.

I am delighted to hear that you and Mr. Leigh have agreed upon a date for your marriage. Mrs. Edward has given me permission to leave here for a week to attend you. (Mrs. Charles is not here to consult, being still with her mother in Norfolk; she was due back some time ago, but her return has been delayed.) I am sorry my visit cannot be longer, but everything must give way to my duty to my employers, and in particular to Miss Marianne. This is especially so just now, for her uncle is not here – gone back to India for mysterious, masculine reasons – and she misses him a great deal. She does not say so, of course. She is not in the habit of talking over her feelings with me, or complaining; but I see that she is much quieter, and though she attends to her lessons and eats and sleeps just as before, she seems abstracted, as if the matters to which her outer self is attending go unregarded by her inner self. You recall my telling you that her father died shortly before I arrived; and I believe the temporary loss of her uncle is reminding her daily of that other loss. But I cannot ask her if this is so, or offer her any consolation; like the rest of her family (with the exception of Mrs. Charles), she maintains a certain reserve, a formality, that makes it extremely hard to become intimate with her. I have accustomed myself to this, and I take pains not to encroach upon her privacy. But I own it is difficult to witness her sadness now, and to feel myself unable to console her. The creature most able to cheer her is her pony, Dandelion; she always comes back from her riding lesson looking and speaking much more like the old Marianne, an effect which wears away after a few hours.

One good result of Mr. Hartfield's absence – though it hardly outweighs the bad results – is that I can use the library much more freely, coming and going as I please. On Saturdays when it is raining, or too hot to be out of doors, and on some evenings after Marianne goes to bed, I have been spending many enjoyable hours in that room, looking through the shelves, reading bits of things here and there, and sometimes pretending to myself that it is my library. If it were, of course, I should attempt to bring some order to it; I should organise the volumes by, say, subject matter or century, the Latin poets all together on one shelf, the European histories on another. As it is, I have taken the liberty of placing on the shelves, in the spot that seems most logical (supposing there to be any logic in all the jumble), many books that were previously scattered about on the carpet or stacked on the chairs.

I shall relate one other thing that happened to me lately – nothing of consequence; only the sort of thing you and I would talk over while sewing, or on a walk; at one of those times, in other words, when conversation is a pleasure in itself, not for the subject matter or the result, but merely as a way of feeling in harmony with, and linked to, a beloved friend. I think it will interest you in showing you some of my thoughts and feelings.

There are many very fine walks in the neighbourhood, and when the weather permits I have been in the habit of venturing out, with a book and sometimes pen and paper, to wander about the lanes; when I find a likely spot, I sit on the grass and read, or sketch, or (let us be truthful) daydream. Last Saturday, I had found a lovely place, on an eminence overlooking a small valley, where one can see smoke rising from cottagers' chimneys and sheep on the hillsides opposite. I was seated on a large boulder and had my book in my hand, but my gaze continually strayed from the page to the landscape. In spite of – or perhaps because of – the beauty of the day and the solemn, quiet expanse before me, I began to become melancholy, and I am ashamed to say that I allowed myself to indulge this feeling until I found that my eyes were full of tears, and the view had become no more than a green haze. My reason for leaving home, memories of that home itself and of you and dear Papa, and my present situation mingled together in my mind, and I could not seem to bring myself back to a right way of thinking. In the midst of my tears, I heard a horse approaching, and hastily looked round and wiped my eyes; when the horse appeared, I saw that its rider was Dr. Mirabelle, who attends the Hartfields, most recently Marianne when she was ill with a fever some weeks ago. He recognised me at the same moment as I did him, and immediately took off his hat and greeted me. I rose from my seat, for what reason I am not exactly sure, and returned his greeting, but I fear my voice was not steady, and there were still tears on my cheeks. Seeing this, the doctor hesitated, and then appeared to decide that it would be kindest to pretend he had not noticed, and to ride on without further speech. He did so, therefore, and I was greatly relieved that the episode was over so quickly, without anything occurring that would require either of us to mention it or even think of it again. You may imagine how surprised I was when I again heard the sound of the horse's hooves, and Dr. Mirabelle reappeared round the bend of the lane, this time on foot and leading the horse. My first thought was to back away from the horse, my old fear taking hold of me; I was just as ashamed of it as I had been of allowing myself to welter in self-pity; and between the shame and the fear, and the confusion of meeting him so unexpectedly, I hardly knew where to look. I forced myself to stand still, however, and look him in the face, and in doing so I saw that he was just as embarrassed as I, though no doubt for different reasons.

'You must forgive me,' he began, 'or rather – there is nothing you must do – I am only hopeful that you will believe in my good intentions. I could not pass you without observing your distress, and I have come back to ask if there is anything – anything at all – that I can do to relieve it.' His face during this speech went red, and then pale, and then red again; and greatly to my annoyance, I could feel my own cheeks growing hot.

'You can best assist me, sir, by taking no notice of me,' I replied. 'My distress, as you call it, will soon pass away, and in the meantime there is nothing anyone can do.' No doubt this was too dramatic for the case; I was immediately sorry I had said it, but it was too late for that.

He paused, the colour slowly ebbing from his countenance, and then he said: 'I have offended you. I sincerely beg your pardon, and I shall disturb you no more.' He doffed his hat again, and then mounted his horse and began to turn it; its hindquarters came uncomfortably close to me, and I fell back with a little shriek of dismay. Unfortunately I was still close to the boulder on which I had been sitting, and I stumbled backwards over it and would have fallen, but for catching myself with one hand. I attempted to right myself, hoping that his back had been turned and he had not seen; but – alas – he had turned his head when he heard my involuntary cry, and he immediately leapt off his horse again and came to my assistance. I took his arm and in this way was enabled to stand upright and remedy the slight disarrangement of my skirts. This all occurred quite silently; we neither of us spoke, until I regained my breath and my presence of mind, and thanked him. And then I felt rather absurd, for I had just dismissed him in a highhanded way, and though I still wished to be rid of him I could not very well repeat the dismissal.

'I am quite all right now, sir,' I said at last. 'You need not stay.' And then, because this seemed so abrupt: 'I am grateful for your kind assistance.'

'Not at all,' he replied. 'I am very happy that I – that is, I am sorry that you should be discomposed, but on the other hand I – I am glad to have been of some small help.' He blushed more deeply than ever as he said this, and then suddenly smiled. 'How very pompous that sounds,' he said. 'I shall be on my way. Good-day to you, Miss Brown.'

'Good-day, Dr. Mirabelle.'

He led his horse away, only mounting it when he was some distance from me; perhaps he had perceived my fear, and he was attempting to be considerate. Or perhaps not, I do not know. I have found that this irrational terror of mine is often noticed by others, but rarely mentioned by them, as if they regard it as an unfortunate disfigurement, something that is unsightly but cannot be remedied – as indeed it cannot, or I would have remedied it by now. Thinking of this and resuming my seat on the boulder, I took several deep breaths to steady myself, and opened my book and read a few pages; but the afternoon was fading by then, and I grew hungry for my tea, so I had to turn back for the house. And that was all, and really I do not know why I should have described it at such great, and no doubt tedious, length; but perhaps it has diverted you for a few minutes.

Dear Amelia, do write back and tell me all, about your wedding and the honeymoon trip and the house – I am longing to see you and so happy that I shall do so before many weeks are over.

In the meantime, may God bless you and Papa!

With all my love,

Your affectionate sister,

Kate

One day a week or so after Miss Brown had sent the letter recorded above, she went out for a walk and returned on a path that led to the back of the house, passing by the stables and kennels; and in giving the former a wide berth she came close to the latter, and there she saw Marianne, playing with one of the foxhounds, which by its size and demeanour she perceived to be quite young. Marianne herself seemed in good spirits, smiling at her governess as she fondled the dog's ears and said, 'Isn't he lovely? He's one of Delilah's that was born this spring. I should so like to keep him for my own.'

Miss Brown hesitated, not knowing if Marianne was asking for permission to keep the animal, or if so, whether it was in her own power to grant such permission – she suspected not, and she was preparing to refer the question to someone else, when Michael came round the corner of the stables and approached. Since she had been introduced to him on the day of her arrival, Miss Brown had seen Michael only at a distance, because in general he was busy leading a horse, or grooming a horse, or feeding a horse, and she would not go near him then; so as he came up she examined him carefully, observing him to be a wiry young fellow, with the bandy-legged look so common to those who spend their lives in stables, and a pair of very sharp, very bright blue eyes. He touched his cap by way of greeting, and Marianne said to him at once, 'This is the dog I should like to keep. I shall name him Alexander, for Alexander the Great.' She and Miss Brown had been reading about Alexander the Great and his conquests.

Michael nodded agreeably, and said, 'And where will you keep him, Miss Marianne? Is he to live in the house with you?'

'Of course,' she replied. 'I shall make a bed for him in my room, and take him outside when' – she hesitated – 'when he needs to go outside.'

'Is he to come back to the kennels for his meals?'

Marianne considered this, again fondling the dog's ears. 'No, I think I can feed him in the kitchen,' she said at last. 'Cook always has scraps of meat and bones and things.'

Michael nodded again. 'Dogs must be trained, or they're unhappy. We haven't got very far with this litter yet. Will you teach him how to behave, indoors and out?'

Marianne seemed momentarily daunted, but then she squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. 'Yes, of course I will.' And she looked from Michael to Miss Brown and back, as if waiting for the next question.

'Well then,' said Michael, and glanced at Miss Brown, as if expecting her to make a final decision. But she merely gazed back at him, not knowing what to say. 'Well then,' he said again, 'good luck to you, he's a fine dog and you mustn't spoil or neglect him.'

Satisfied with this admonition, he touched his cap again and went away about his business.

Marianne had stayed crouched on the ground all this time, petting the dog; she smiled up at her governess as if inviting her to share in her triumph, but Miss Brown felt rather cross with her. 'Marianne,' she began, 'it is too bad of you to make Michael a party to this. The dogs most assuredly do not belong to him and you should not have asked his permission to take one.'

'I didn't ask,' the girl said mildly. 'I said I should like to keep him, and Michael didn't contradict me.'

'That may be true, but he likely thought you had already been given permission by someone else. Is that so?'

'Is what so?'

'You have permission to take one?'

'Not exactly – that is, I told Uncle Matthew I wanted one.'

'And what did he say?'

'He said foxhounds require a deal of attention and training. Which is just what Michael said, you know.'

Miss Brown did not answer for a moment, but looked down at her, frowning. The fact that Mr. Hartfield and Michael had agreed as to the needs of foxhounds had no bearing on the case, and Miss Brown perceived that Marianne was being – not exactly dishonest, but not wholly honest, either. Her uncle had surely spoken further on the matter. And yet she hesitated. She had no authority to give her permission to keep Alexander, but nor did she have any to forbid it; Marianne had been so disconsolate, and had no father, mother, or uncle near her, and the dog seemed to comfort her; and then, the governess did want some sign of attachment or regard from her charge. She told herself that this was a sign of a most contemptible weakness – this need to be liked by a little girl – but after all they spent most of their waking hours together, and in spite of her pupil's unfailing politeness and consideration, it had been borne in upon Miss Brown that, were she herself to vanish one day, Marianne would hardly miss her on the next. So, looking down at her while she continued to play with Alexander, Miss Brown said at last: 'You must promise to take good care of him – as Michael said, do not spoil or neglect him.'

'Oh, of course,' Marianne said, and she gave her governess another brilliant smile, and after a moment the latter walked away and went into the house. Once in her own room, Miss Brown felt greatly fatigued, more so than usual after a walk; and she rang the bell and asked for tea, and then sat in the window seat to wait for it. The day was warm and she began to feel rather drowsy, and because she did not want to be found dozing when the maid brought in the tea, she rose and walked about the room. The chamber was pleasantly proportioned and pleasantly furnished, with an armchair before the fire, next to a rosewood table where she kept her books and her writing desk. She had no fault to find with the room, nor with the house in general, and she could not at first discover the source of the vague discontent that imbued her, the sense of desiring something that was just out of reach. She paused by the window and looked out, but saw nothing new there; then as she continued to pace about, she reached her dressing-table, and gazed at herself in the looking-glass. She was not in the habit of doing this except to smooth her hair or straighten her collar, but now as she stood in the quiet room, half-listening for the approaching maid, she found herself examining her own face and figure and dress as if seeing these things for the first time. Trying to regard herself impartially, she concluded that while there was nothing glaringly amiss in her appearance – all was symmetrical, tidy, and proper – there was nothing especially attractive or striking either: her hair was plain brown, her skin a medium sort of shade, not pale or rosy; her mouth was rather thin and severe-looking. In her own home, her father and sister had always looked at her with love in their eyes, so that she had unconsciously learnt to think of her own appearance as pleasing; but now it seemed no one looked at her much at all, and she had begun to feel as if she could not be distinguished from the furniture. Displeased with herself for her vanity in gazing so long at her own image, she gave her skirts a twitch and turned away abruptly, just as the maid knocked at the door.

IX.

Miss Brown traveled home for her sister's wedding in mid-June and returned a week later, while Marianne's mother was still absent in Norfolk. Marianne had pictured all manner of delights to take place in her governess's absence. Nanny had accompanied her mother and brother, so there was only Martha, the upper housemaid, to look after Marianne herself. But as it happened the weather was bad, she could ride very little and walk even less, and so she spent a great many hours in the kitchen, playing with Alexander and asking Cook for pieces of bread and butter. At tea, she and her Grandmamma seemingly had nothing to talk about, and Grandmamma gazed into the fire a good deal while Marianne ate cake and pondered whether Dandelion could be got to jump a certain gate near Brook Farm. Alexander was not allowed in the drawing room, but he went everywhere else with Marianne, and she had trained him to sit, heel, and stay. She could not get him to fetch, however. 'He's a foxhound, miss, not a bird dog,' Michael said, when she consulted him about this failure.

'I want to teach him to fetch Uncle Matthew's slippers,' said Marianne.

'Do you, miss? There's nothing to stop you from trying.'

Marianne did try, but with less and less persistence as the days went by. When Miss Brown returned, she was able to show very little progress, and when the governess inquired as to her pursuits during the week just past, she shook her head gloomily and said, 'It rained, and I couldn't go out.'

'Indeed? Then you must have read?'

'I did read a bit,' Marianne said, in the tone of voice which tells the listener that 'a bit' means 'not at all.'

'I see,' said Miss Brown. 'Martha tells me your mother is expected in three days. I suppose we shall find Edward much changed.'

'I suppose,' said Marianne. Then there was a pause. They were at the schoolroom table, and Marianne looked past her governess towards the window, where she saw a blue sky that seemed to taunt her with its uselessness now, when she could no longer roam freely outdoors.

'I am happy to be back at Hartfield,' Miss Brown said finally, 'though I miss my sister and father. We had a lovely time together.' Then she paused, but Marianne said nothing, so her governess continued: 'My sister has married a very worthy man, and I feel sure they'll be happy. They're going to live in Lincolnshire, where his family live. He has a parish near Stamford.'

'Indeed?' said Marianne, nodding her head, but she had not really taken in the meaning of Miss Brown's words. There was another pause, and Marianne looked up to find her governess leaning her head on her hand, and contemplating Marianne herself with an expression the girl could not quite interpret.

'Marianne,' Miss Brown began, and then seemed to hesitate. 'Marianne, my dear, it is customary when a person returns from a visit to ask a question or two about the journey and the people they were visiting. Otherwise your friends will think you care nothing about their doings.'

'Oh,' Marianne said, momentarily perplexed. Then she said, 'And how was the journey, then?'

'It was quite pleasant, and I very much enjoyed seeing my family, though the return was melancholy – as I shan't see them again, I suppose, till next year.'

'Can they not come here to visit you?'

'I don't suppose they can. I cannot invite them to stay, you see, and in any case the journey would be difficult for my father. He is getting on in age.'

Marianne tried to think what she could ask next, vaguely disturbed by Miss Brown's downcast look and by the whole tendency of the conversation. Without giving the matter much attention, she had ever regarded her governess as incapable of possessing either relatives or distressing emotions. She saw that an extraordinary effort was required, and at last she said, 'What is your sister like?'

Miss Brown smiled. 'She is a kind, gentle person. You would like her, I am sure. Everyone does. She is always looking about her to find out what she can do for others.'

'Like Mrs. Talbert,' said Marianne.

'Yes, very much like her. She can turn her hand to any task.'

'Do you have a brother?'

'No – I should like to have one, but Amelia and I are – were – all in all to each other, so perhaps I have not missed a brother as much as I might have done if it were not so. I hope you and Edward will be good friends and companions to each other as you grow up.'

Marianne considered this prospect. 'I can teach him how to ride,' she said at last. 'He's too little now, but he can ride Dandelion when he's big enough. And perhaps Uncle Matthew will buy me a new horse when he comes back. When is he coming back?'

'I'm afraid I don't know. I am sure he will return as soon as his business is concluded. He must miss you.'

Marianne felt dubious about this, though she could not say why; and there was a silence of a few moments. Then Miss Brown said: 'The weather is very fine today and I've only just returned. I suppose we can take half a day off and go for a walk, should you like that?'

'Yes, very much, thank you,' said Marianne, and she went away to fetch her hat, greatly relieved not only to be going out of doors, but to escape from a conversation she had felt to be awkward and peculiar, with her governess's family and her own all mixed up together in it. Though Miss Brown had only been absent a week, to Marianne it seemed longer, as if she would now be required to learn her governess's nature and ways over again. But she had forgotten all about this within ten minutes of leaving the house; the day was so fair, and the breeze so delightful, and she and Alexander ran together down the path towards the pond, where the dog jumped into the water and Marianne sprawled on the bank, panting, until Miss Brown arrived and made her sit up properly.

X.

Before she had been two weeks in her mother's house, Emily had admitted to herself that she would prefer to stay there, if she could, indefinitely; keeping Edward with her, and having Marianne brought to her as well. Her time was spent most delightfully, playing with her baby, accompanying her mother on visits to the ladies roundabout, and being driven into the town to buy laces for her boots and flannel for Edward's underclothes. Her mother did not expect her to think of anything, nor apply herself to any needlework beyond those same underclothes. In the evenings they often had their neighbours in for tea and a quiet, respectable game of whist. 'The country air is so good for the baby,' she said to her mother, on one occasion when they were discussing her plans to return home.

'Hartfield is in the country,' her mother said.

'Of course,' Emily replied, 'but the air here is purer I believe. He is growing at such a pace and Nanny says he eats amazingly well.'

Her mother said nothing more; they continued on peacefully for a week or so; and then one evening when they had no visitors, the subject again came to the fore. 'What news do you hear from Hartfield?' her mother asked her.

'Oh – everyone is very well – Matthew is gone to India, no one can say why. Or rather, they don't choose to say why, which is that he would prefer to live there rather than in England.'

'Indeed? He has always been rather peculiar, has he not?'

'Oh yes,' said Emily comfortably. Matthew's peculiar nature had somehow become a matter of pride with her, as if her late husband's family's eccentricities were a sign of their superiority.

'Marianne must miss you dreadfully,' said her mother.

'I suppose so. She does not write to me very often. I think her lessons and her riding keep her busy.'

There was a pause, and then her mother said, 'Emily, my dear, you know I love having you near me, but I do think – it seems to me – I cannot in good conscience ask you to continue a visit when your own household awaits you.'

Emily put down her work, thinking how she would answer, and then she said: 'My own household? But it is not my own household. Mrs. Edward does everything and decides everything. They do not need me the least bit.'

'But Marianne?'

'Marianne can come here, if she should miss me so terribly much.' Emily's cheeks were becoming hot with vexation, as she reflected that the evening had been so peaceful and happy, and now it was all spoilt.

'And I should be so glad to see her, but that is not what I meant. I feel that we – that I – that I am sinning against propriety in so long detaining you from your home and family. And Mrs. Edward – she is a wonderful woman, I know, but even she must need assistance from time to time. Especially with Matthew away.'

Emily felt that this last remark was rather a cruel blow, reminding her at one and the same time of Mrs. Edward's lonely state and of her mother's view that Matthew's absence from home was odd. She, Emily, would be regarded as odd as well, if she should stay away longer; her mother's acquaintances would certainly regard it in that light. She did not know what to say or do, so she took up her work again and made a few stitches, aware all the while that her mother was waiting for a reply.

'Mamma,' she said at last, laying her work down again. 'Mamma, I do not think you quite understand the real nature of that household. I am sure Mrs. Edward prefers to have it all her own way, and as for Marianne – she always preferred Charles to me, and now I believe she is more Matthew's daughter than mine.'

'But Matthew is away.'

'Oh, Mamma. You mustn't take me up so. If you are determined to drive me away, you need only say that my bedroom is wanted for some other visitor.'

Then there were tears on both sides, and many long explanations, and the end of it all was, that Emily returned to Hartfield at the beginning of July, reconciled to her return by a promise of a visit from her mother in the new year. As she was driven up to the door of the house, she thought that this was the best time of year to see it, with the trees glorious in their summer foliage and the blue sky outlining the gables and turrets. And she was gratified to see her daughter, Mrs. Talbert, and Miss Brown waiting for her, with footmen also waiting to assist with the luggage, and Gage standing by with his usual look of supercilious calm. 'I did miss Gage,' she thought to herself, with a sudden surge of affection for the whole place, and as she was handing Edward carefully to Nanny and getting down from the carriage, she smiled and looked about. 'Dear old Hartfield!' she said to no one in particular. Marianne approached her, rather shyly, and Emily stooped to kiss her, and then held her by the shoulders so she could examine her more minutely. 'You have grown, dearest!' she said, and Marianne replied, 'I suppose I have,' and then Mrs. Talbert bustled up to them.

'Welcome back, Mrs. Charles,' she said. 'I am sorry to tell you that Mrs. Edward is indisposed, else she would have been here to greet you.'

'Indisposed?'

'She was feeling poorly the last three days and stayed in her bed this morning. The doctor is here now.'

'Dr. Mirabelle?'

'No, madam, Dr. Bingley.'

'Oh. Well, I am very sorry to hear that she is ill. I must go and see her as soon as I can.'

Emily went up to the nursery to see Edward settled; then she went to her own room, where her maid had started to unpack her things; and then she went down to the drawing room for tea and found Marianne there. 'Oh, how cozy, we shall have such a nice chat!' said Emily, but Marianne was not very talkative. After asking her mother whether her journey had been quite comfortable, and telling her that she would like to have a new horse as soon as Uncle Matthew returned, the girl fell silent, and Emily found herself thinking longingly of her own mother and their long, restful, inconsequential discussions. She could speak of anything to her mother, no matter how small or ephemeral, and her mother would enter into the subject with enthusiasm. The pleasure she had felt upon arriving at Hartfield dwindled away and a familiar oppression settled on her spirits, so that the room seemed drab and somehow smaller than it had been before her departure.

After tea, Emily went to Mrs. Edward's room; the door was closed, and after she had knocked, Mrs. Talbert came out to her and said that Mrs. Edward was sleeping. Dr. Bingley had departed while Emily was at tea, but he had told Mrs. Talbert that he would return the next day, and that in the meantime Mrs. Edward was to be kept very quiet, and to be given a draught which he would send by way of the apothecary's boy. Emily raised her eyebrows when she heard of the draught; she had never known Mrs. Edward to take any physic or, for that matter, to lie down during the day; and she said to the housekeeper, 'What is her illness? What are her symptoms?'

'She said her head ached yesterday, and the day before; and now she is feverish, and cannot keep anything on her stomach.' Mrs. Talbert wound her hands in her apron, betraying in this way an anxiety she was too well trained to express in words. 'Shall we … do you think … I believe Mr. Hartfield would like to know, would he not, madam?'

Emily tried to consider. What could Matthew do, after all, over there in India? And by the time any message reached him, the illness might very well have passed. 'I think not,' she said finally. 'Perhaps not just yet. Mrs. Edward has such an excellent constitution, I believe she will be quite well in a day or so, and then we will have alarmed him for nothing.'

'Very well, madam,' said Mrs. Talbert, and she turned to go back into the room and attend her patient. Emily hesitated a moment and then went upstairs to the schoolroom, where Marianne and her governess were sitting together at the table.

'Miss Brown, I am so sorry to interrupt,' said Emily, 'but perhaps I might have a word?'

'Certainly.' And Miss Brown rose and followed her into the corridor, leaving Marianne to her sums.

'I have just been speaking to Mrs. Talbert,' Emily began, 'and she asked me if we should inform Mr. Hartfield of his mother's illness. I told her no, as I hope and believe she will be quite well in a day or two; but I should like to know your opinion. One always feels so hesitant to act in these cases.'

'Yes,' said Miss Brown, 'it is difficult to know what to do. But I think there is no harm in waiting a day or two more before we send to Mr. Hartfield. As you say, she may recover; and then, if she does not, we will have more information to give him.'

'If she does not? Is the illness that severe, then?'

'I do not mean to alarm you.' Emily thought to herself that these were very alarming words; but she said nothing, and Miss Brown continued: 'Dr. Bingley seems to believe she will do very well, with such good nursing as Mrs. Talbert can provide. I only meant that some illnesses do continue for more than a few days, so perhaps we should not expect a recovery so soon.'

'Well then,' said Emily. 'Let us wait. I do so hate excitement and trouble. We must avoid them if possible.'

Miss Brown agreed with her on this point and returned to her pupil, and Emily went away to her own room, not exactly satisfied with the day's work, but fortified by the sense that Mrs. Talbert and Miss Brown agreed with her as to the proper course of action.

The next three or four days passed slowly. Mrs. Edward remained in bed; Mrs. Talbert remained by her side; and Emily remained painfully undecided as to what should be done. Dr. Bingley attended his patient every day, and Emily spoke to him at each of these visits; but he seemed most unwilling to provide her with any useful information or advice, merely saying each day that Mrs. Edward had improved slightly, but must continue to rest and take her physic. At first Emily could not think why he was so taciturn, and then she remembered that Dr. Mirabelle had been called in to attend her after her husband's death, and at Edward's birth; and from a chance word or two, she perceived that the older doctor still considered this episode in the light of an egregious infringement on his privileges. Emily could not help that now, and in her distress did not hesitate to appeal to his long service to her family, and the great reliance they had ever placed (she said) on his experience and authority. He finally relented to the extent of advising her to send a telegram to Matthew, saying that his mother was ill but in no immediate danger, and that they would send more news when they could.

'Will that not merely make him anxious?' said Emily.

'You have asked for my advice, Mrs. Hartfield, and I have provided it. You need not act upon it if you prefer not to do so.' And with that he crammed his hat on his head and took himself away out of the house.

Emily went up to the schoolroom and again interrupted her daughter's lessons so that she could consult Miss Brown. 'I suppose we should do as he advises,' said Miss Brown.

'I shall ask Gage to send someone to the post office,' said Emily. 'Or rather – let us speak with Mrs. Talbert.'

Miss Brown acquiesced to this proposal, and they went down to the sickroom, and the three women conferred together in the corridor. 'Perhaps Mrs. Edward will be better in a day or so,' Emily said, 'and we need not send to Matthew?'

Mrs. Talbert shook her head. 'Indeed, I don't know, madam. It's that kind of illness that doesn't seem to go in one direction or the other in a steady way. In the morning I often think she is better, and by evening she seems worse.'

'And her spirits, how are they?' asked Miss Brown.

'Mrs. Edward was never one for complaining. She doesn't like her physic but she drinks it down very quietly. She sleeps a great deal.'

'I suppose we must send the telegram,' said Emily.

'I think that will be best,' Miss Brown answered.

'I should be so grateful if you would speak to Gage about it.'

'Of course, if you wish.' And Miss Brown went away upon this errand, leaving Emily and Mrs. Talbert together.

'I do wish we could call in Dr. Mirabelle,' Emily said. 'Dr. Bingley is so cross, I hardly like to speak to him.'

'I believe Master Edward was a bit peaky when I saw him yesterday. Perhaps Dr. Mirabelle should be called to attend to him.'

'Perhaps he should. Edward is quite poorly, in fact. I do not think this air agrees with him after Norfolk.'

Dr. Mirabelle was sent for by means of the same footman who carried the message into town to be transmitted to Matthew. The doctor returned word that he could not come until late that evening – or perhaps the next day, as he had a baby to deliver and a series of visits to make. When Emily received his note, she wrote back at once that the evening would be better, and then she watched impatiently from the drawing-room window as the footman trudged away upon his second journey to town. She did not know why she should be so intent upon seeing Dr. Mirabelle; she had hardly thought of him while she was in Norfolk; but once she had returned, and especially since she had had those unsatisfactory daily colloquies with Dr. Bingley, she had been longing to speak with him. But she had to wait until after dinner, and had almost made up her mind to leave the drawing room and go to bed, before the footman announced him. He came into the room and went up to her and took her hand, saying a few words of greeting, and looking into his face she saw that he was fatigued; so she asked him to sit down, and rang for coffee.

'I am sorry to hear that little Edward is ill,' he said.

'Oh – he is not ill exactly – a bit indisposed, perhaps. He is in bed now and Nanny tells me he is sleeping well.'

'I see.'

Then there was a pause, and Emily bethought herself that the doctor must be wondering what he was doing there, in the absence of his patient. 'I know it is not convenient for you to come so late in the evening,' she said at last. 'I am so grateful that you did come – I have been so worried, with Mrs. Edward's illness, and other things – and now that you are here I hope we can talk, as we used to do.'

'Certainly,' he said. 'I should be very glad to be of service, if I can. Mrs. Edward is bedridden, I hear?'

'Yes, and we do not at all know when she will improve. I have just this day sent a telegram to Matthew. We all agreed that he should be informed.'

'I think that is best. Do you know when he plans to return?'

'No, that is the worst of it, one doesn't know what to expect or what to do. Mrs. Talbert is occupied in nursing Mrs. Edward, and so I have been attempting to direct the servants, and I fear –' Here she had to stop, because a maid had arrived with the coffee. When she had gone, and Dr. Mirabelle had his cup, she resumed: 'I fear I am not doing things as Mrs. Edward would do them. Cook is unhappy with one of the kitchenmaids, and I know Mrs. Edward would have sorted it out very quickly, but when I try to ask questions, the kitchenmaid cries and Cook tosses her head, and I do not at all know what to say to them.'

'Perhaps they could be left to sort it out between themselves? What is the nature of the – the difficulty?'

'Cook says the kitchenmaid – her name is Margaret – Cook says Margaret is neglecting her work and gossiping with the footmen; or rather I suppose it is one particular footman, John, who hangs about the kitchen more than he should, and Cook says Margaret must either attend to her work or we must give her notice. But I cannot give her notice; Mrs. Edward always hires and dismisses the servants, and moreover I do not know where I would find another kitchenmaid.'

'Well,' said the doctor slowly, 'I have little experience with servants, but it seems to me that if John could be got to stay away from the kitchen, the difficulty would be lessened, would it not? Have you spoken with Gage about it? I am sure he could find a way to keep John elsewhere.'

'Ah – yes, I shall speak to Gage – that is exactly why I wanted to see you. I felt sure you would be helpful in all of my little troubles.'

Dr. Mirabelle again said that he was glad to be of service, and then he waited as if expecting the next little trouble to be told to him. But Emily had no more to tell; or rather, she did have a trouble, but it was a large, nebulous one, consisting mainly of her feeling that Hartfield was no longer the home she had enjoyed when her husband was alive, but a much more bewildering place, where no one seemed willing or able to make her comfortable as Charles used to do. She was now compelled to spend hours of every day dealing with the servants and the tradesmen and the accounts, and these hours reduced the time she could spend with Edward – and with Marianne, too, though Marianne did not seem to notice. But she could not find the words to explain all this to Dr. Mirabelle. She became conscious once more of his fatigue, and then of her own; and so she said, 'My dear doctor, it was so kind of you to come, and you have been so very helpful – I do hope you will come back when it is more convenient to you, and we shall have such a nice chat.'

'Of course,' he said, rising from his seat. 'It is always a pleasure to see you.'

Emily went to bed after that, and the next day she spoke to Gage about John staying away from the kitchen, and Gage said he would see to it. Then Emily told Cook what she had done, and Cook said that was all very well, and she hoped Margaret would mind her work, else she and Margaret must part ways. 'And what are we to have for dinner, madam? Perhaps I should tell Peter to kill one of the guinea fowls.'

'Yes, that will do excellently.' Then Emily retreated from the kitchen before Cook could ask her any further questions.

An answer to their telegram arrived the next day. Matthew said he was very sorry to hear of his mother's illness, and asked to be informed when anything changed. Reading it out to Mrs. Talbert and Miss Brown, Emily could see that they were as disappointed as she was to find that he said nothing about returning home. 'Mrs. Edward is getting better,' Mrs. Talbert said, wiping her hands with a slow, downward movement on her apron. 'Perhaps we shall have good news for him in a few days.'

'Let us hope we shall,' said Emily, and the three women separated, Mrs. Talbert to the sickroom, Miss Brown to the schoolroom, and Emily herself to the nursery.

And so things went on. Mrs. Edward gained in strength and spirits, and another telegram was sent to Matthew reporting this news; but her recovery was slow, and even when she was spending part of every day propped up in an easy chair by the fire, she could not attend to household matters. Dr. Mirabelle, finding that he was receiving a summons to Hartfield every two or three days, made it a part of his daily round to call on Mrs. Charles, and he acquired an intimate knowledge of the inner workings of the house. He was enabled thereby to avoid encountering Dr. Bingley, who attended Mrs. Edward twice a week, always at the same time, ten o'clock in the morning. Mrs. Charles submitted all of her doubts and difficulties to Dr. Mirabelle, and he advised her to the best of his ability; more importantly, he listened to her, and made her understand that he considered his time to be usefully employed in doing so. He had already gained a thorough knowledge of her character from their dealings in the immediate aftermath of her bereavement, and he did not find her at all changed; he looked forward to their daily conversations as among the least taxing he had. But he could not help feeling, whenever he rode away from the house, that he was indulging Mrs. Charles most inexcusably, allowing her to rely too heavily upon him when she ought to learn to solve her little domestic predicaments for herself. But how was such a lesson to be taught? She had avoided learning it heretofore, and as long as she could consult Dr. Mirabelle, and had Gage, Mrs. Talbert, Miss Brown, and Cook to depend upon for the daily running of the house, she had no reason to begin studying it now. But he could see that the household, like a great machine left too long unattended, would begin to run more slowly, or less smoothly, if things remained too long in Mrs. Charles's hands. It could hardly be otherwise, when the real mistress of the house (for so Dr. Mirabelle considered Mrs. Edward, in the privacy of his own thoughts) was removed suddenly from the scene, and the close attention she had given to every nook and cranny of the place was no longer engaged. He did not know Mrs. Edward's prospects for full recovery, having received all his information about her at third hand. Dr. Bingley spoke mainly to Mrs. Talbert, who in turn gave daily or twice-daily bulletins to Mrs. Charles, and Mrs. Charles passed them on to Dr. Mirabelle. Mrs. Talbert had been gradually relinquishing her nursing duties to others, and resuming her regular tasks, which was a relief to everyone; but the doctor soon perceived that Mrs. Talbert's talents, while admirably suited to such a mistress as Mrs. Edward, were not at all the kind to make her adequate to the task of supporting Mrs. Charles. She carried out with great exactness the orders that were given to her; but she would not or could not stir a step beyond that, and relied as much upon being told what to do as a foxhound listening for the commands of the huntsman.

He was turning all of this over in his mind, and wondering once again what he ought to do about it, as he rode up to the house door one afternoon. As there was no one there to take his horse, he dismounted and began leading it round to the stables, but he had hardly proceeded a yard when the front door flew open and Miss Brown hurried out to him. 'Oh – Dr. Mirabelle – I am so glad to see you! Please come in at once – Marianne has had an accident, we were on the point of sending for you – please hurry if you can!'

The doctor paused in astonishment and consternation. The sight of the governess recalled to him the occasion of their last conversation, and how clumsily and awkwardly he had behaved; and then, it was so unlike her to be flurried, that he felt the accident must have been a serious one. There was still no one to whom to give his horse, and as he tried to consider what to do, Miss Brown wrung her hands and said again, 'Please hurry! Your horse – I shall hold it till a groom comes – or take it to the stables.'

When he heard this offer, Dr. Mirabelle was impressed even more with the solemnity of the occasion, since he knew Miss Brown would not willingly go near a horse under ordinary circumstances. But now she seemed determined to take the horse's reins so that he could immediately go into the house; and as he gave them to her – with inward doubts about the propriety of doing so – he asked, 'Where will I find Miss Marianne? Is she in her own bedroom?'

'In the drawing room – Michael brought her in and we – she is laid on the sofa.' She received the reins into her hand and stood well away from the horse as if expecting it to make some sudden motion, the horse meanwhile standing with its two front hooves close together, regarding her askance. Dr. Mirabelle said, 'Thank you – and do not fear Jupiter here – he is very docile.'

Then he went into the house, Miss Brown having left the front door open. There was no one in the hall, and he went straight upstairs to the drawing room, whose door was also open, so that he could hear voices from within as he approached it. One of them he immediately recognised as that of Mrs. Charles, weeping loudly; the others were less distinct, but he thought one was Mrs. Talbert's. When he entered the room he beheld, first, Mrs. Charles seated on an armchair with her handkerchief to her eyes, abandoned to her tears; then secondly, Mrs. Talbert, kneeling on the floor next to a sofa on which lay Marianne's insensible figure. The doctor had hardly time to notice Michael, standing in a corner and anxiously turning his cap in his hands, before his attention was all given to poor Marianne. Her left arm dangled from her shoulder in a way that told the doctor it was broken. Mrs. Talbert had smelling-salts in her hand and was attempting to revive her.

'Oh! Dr. Mirabelle! Thank God you are here!' cried Mrs. Charles, half rising from her chair and then falling back into it. 'What shall we do? Tell us what shall we do?'

'Pray calm yourself, Mrs. Charles,' said the doctor. 'Calm yourself, and allow me to examine Miss Marianne.'

She subsided into quiet sobs, and Dr Mirabelle joined Mrs. Talbert at Marianne's side. She showed signs of returning consciousness; with this, however, came a renewal of pain, and she struggled to sit up, her face pale and her eyes wide as she looked from face to face. Mrs. Talbert took hold of her shoulders and gently pressed her back, saying, 'There, there – lie quietly – here is the doctor to attend to you. There, there.'

'Where is Miss Brown?' gasped out Marianne. 'My arm! What happened to my arm?'

Dr Mirabelle took the poor arm in his hands. 'It is broken, Miss Marianne. Please lie quietly. I shall have to examine it.'

'Where is Miss Brown?' Marianne again asked, lying back but still looking round the room.

'Miss Brown is downstairs,' said the doctor. 'Michael, perhaps you could go down and assist her. There was no one to take my horse and she has charge of him.'

Michael replaced his cap on his head and departed, and in the meantime Mrs. Charles rose from her seat and came closer to the sofa – much to Dr. Mirabelle's annoyance, who was attempting to ascertain if any other bones had been broken. It seemed Marianne's arm had sustained the only serious injury, and he directed Mrs. Talbert to keep her as quiet and comfortable as possible, until she could be moved to her own room. Then he turned his attention to Mrs. Charles, who had retreated to her chair, unregarded and still weeping.

'Dear Mrs. Charles, you must try to calm yourself,' said the doctor to her, seating himself in a chair near to hers. 'This does Miss Marianne no good and you will harm your own health. I shall set the bone this very afternoon and she will mend quickly.' He paused, but she did not answer him, and continued to sob. 'Mrs. Charles, I should be very sorry to have two patients instead of one. You must command your emotions, you must indeed.'

Just then Miss Brown returned to the room, greatly to the doctor's relief; she seemed much calmer than before, and she went at once to Marianne and knelt next to Mrs. Talbert. Marianne was weeping by this time as well, but not as noisily as her mother, and as the two women soothed her, Dr. Mirabelle gazed helplessly at Mrs. Charles, opening his mouth once or twice to attempt once more to calm her, and then closing it with a sense that the attempt would be thrown away. Presently Marianne became quiet, and Miss Brown rose, saying something to Mrs. Talbert as she did so, and walked to the door; on the way, she caught Dr. Mirabelle's eye and gave him to understand, without saying a word, that he should follow her into the corridor.

Once they were outside the room and the door had been closed, he said, 'I am so sorry about the horse.' Then he realised how foolish this sounded, but she smiled faintly at him.

'It is of no consequence. He behaved himself wonderfully, and Michael came very soon and took him away.'

'I am sorry for the accident as well,' he went on. 'But I believe it to be a clean break and she will heal very rapidly.'

'Thank God,' she said. 'Thank God it was no worse.'

'Do you know how it happened?'

'She was out riding, and jumped over a fence that was too high, and Dandelion stumbled with her and she was thrown. Michael saw it all and he feels terribly, poor fellow.'

Dr. Mirabelle made a kind of murmur of commiseration, and there was a pause for a few moments. Then he said, 'She asked for you, you know. When she first regained consciousness, she wanted to know where you were.'

He was gratified by the change this made in her face; she blushed, and smiled, and looked away from him, as if embarrassed by her own pleasure; and he silently made note of the effect this remark of his had made. Perhaps in the future he would find it useful to know how to make her happy. Her expression quickly changed, however; she became serious, and said to him, 'I was hoping to speak to you on another subject – though, in truth, it concerns Marianne as well. I would not venture to say anything to you, except that I know Mrs. Charles depends on you greatly—'

'—As she depends on you as well—'

'—And I know she will listen to you. We are in distress here. I mean to say, we were in distress before this accident, and now it is only more severe. Everyone is at sixes and sevens since Mrs. Edward became ill. The servants are not receiving consistent orders, and they are inclined more and more to let things go – Mrs. Talbert does her best, but she cannot be everywhere and see to everything. I am sure it has been a week since my fireplace was properly cleaned, and Marianne had only one clean pinafore in her wardrobe yesterday.'

'Does Mrs. Charles know things are going badly?'

'Yes. Well, I believe she does. But she cannot run the house. One might as well ask a kitten to operate a steam-engine. And I fear she will stop trying if things go on in this manner.'

'I am, of course, at your service. Only tell me how I can be of assistance.'

Miss Brown hesitated, and then said, 'Mr. Hartfield has a sister, living in London. I think it would be best – it would be very helpful – if she could come here until Mrs. Edward recovers fully, or until Mr. Hartfield returns from India.'

Dr. Mirabelle hesitated in his turn. He had forgotten about the sister, having heard her mentioned only once or twice; and the fact that the Hartfields spoke of her so infrequently surely boded ill for any project that depended on her acquiescence. 'Have you – that is, I do not know – have you any notion whether Mrs. Charles would welcome such a plan? Are she and her sister-in-law friendly?'

'I do not at all know. I only thought of this by chance, the other day, because Mrs. Talbert mentioned Mrs. Alton – that is her name – and said how like she is to her mother. And I thought, her house must be very well run in that case; and surely she would be able to bring some order here.'

Dr. Mirabelle gazed about him, not seeing any traces of disorder in the corridor where they stood, but nevertheless he knew what she meant. He himself, while departing from a visit with Mrs. Charles a few days before, had come upon one of the footmen sleeping in a chair in the hall. 'Shall I – is it then your idea that I should speak with Mrs. Charles, and propose this to her?'

'Yes, that is my idea.' She smiled faintly. 'And I have such confidence in you that I will not even suggest that you should be cautious. You will know exactly how to go about it.'

'I know you flatter me, Miss Brown, but I find that it does not trouble me as much as it should. I shall gladly undertake this commission – only, I cannot promise success. For one thing, Mrs. Charles may not want her sister-in-law here; and for another, Mrs. Alton may not be able to come.'

'Of course. Or perhaps you will discover something that would scotch the plan altogether.'

'Perhaps.'

'And yet I am greatly relieved to have a plan of any sort.' She smiled, and he smiled back, and then he opened the door for her to go back into the drawing room.

A week later, Emily wrote to her sister-in-law:

My dear Leonora,

I trust this letter finds you and all your family well. We are not all of us quite well here – as you have heard, your mother has been ill, and though greatly recovered she is still mainly confined to her room. And Marianne broke her arm last week, in a fall from her pony, which was most distressing although she is healing quickly. Matthew meanwhile continues his sojourn in India and has not told us when he will return. I own it is rather difficult to see to everything in the house by myself. I was not prepared for the difficulty! Your mother made it appear an easy thing to run a large household; she never appeared flurried or indecisive, she always had the correct word on her tongue and the correct tool at her fingers' ends. One does not appreciate such skill until one tries one's own hand at the work.

I am afraid such a picture of Hartfield's current state will not be attractive; nevertheless we should so love to see you here – I am sure it would do your mother no end of good, and we have not seen you since – can it be so long? – since Marianne's christening. Mr. Alton was sent to the West Indies directly after that, and since your return, I know you have had a great deal to attend to. If your affairs admit of it now, we should be so obliged if you would come. If Mr. Alton's work allows it, naturally the invitation extends to him; and to any of your children who are not at school at present, and wish to renew their acquaintance with their cousin Marianne, and meet Edward for the first time.

Dear Leonora, do say you will come – not for my sake indeed, but for the sake of your own childhood home and all who live here – we should do our utmost to make your visit pleasant to you.

Your affectionate sister-in-law,

Emily

She received this reply by return of post:

My dear Emily,

As it happens, your catalogue of misery reached me at a propitious time, my husband having just this week departed for France, and all my children save Harry being gone back to school, so that I was suffering from a certain ennui when I received it. Harry and I will therefore by very glad to accept your kind invitation, and we shall arrive a week from today, on the 3:10 train. Mind you send the dog cart to the station.

I recall Marianne crying a great deal at her christening. As I recall nothing else about her, I shall greatly enjoy seeing her, and all of you, and in particular little Edward. It is rather awkward that he is too young to manage his own affairs – and sad for Matthew as well, who when we were children was ever exulting in his great good fortune in being a second son, until Charles used to become rather angry, and Mamma would bid them go out of doors to have their quarrel away from the rest of us. And now he has all the difficulties of ownership without in fact being the owner.

I was sorry to hear of Mamma's illness, and I will not conceal from you that one of my reasons for accepting your invitation is to see this uncommon sight with my own eyes. She was never ill when we were growing up. There was a certain medicine that was of great assistance to Mr. Alton when he was afflicted with a fever in the West Indies. I believe I have some of it left and I shall bring it with me.

I shall see you very soon and shall be thinking of all of you in the meantime, with the kindest affection.

Yours faithfully,

Leonora