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.

2. Chapter 2

XI.

Miss Brown wrote to her sister three weeks after the date of the letters given above:

Dearest Amelia,

I write to you in much better spirits than last time, due mainly to the arrival, and the wonderful energy, of Mrs. Leonora Alton, who is Mrs. Charles's sister-in-law, the daughter of the house now married to a distinguished and (one gathers) extremely hardworking officer in the Foreign Service. Mr. Alton is presently in France, and all of her children save one are away at school; so she was free to visit us and set us all to rights. She is accompanied by her youngest son, Henry (or Harry as everyone calls him), who is ten; his elder brothers are both at Eton, and he would be there too except that he had a bad illness just at the beginning of the term, so his mother kept him at home. He is entirely recovered now, so much so that he is never to be found where he ought to be, but in all manner of odd places about the house, in the kitchen or scullery, in the stables and outhouses, and occasionally in the servants' quarters. He joins Marianne for some of her lessons, an arrangement which has met with only indifferent success so far, as they are both distracted from their books and tend to fall to squabbling. I have spoken to Mrs. Alton about this and she promises that his behaviour will improve. As for Marianne, she had a very unfortunate accident, was thrown from her horse and broke her arm, but is mending nicely. Luckily (or unluckily, she would say), it was her left arm, so she can still write and cipher.

I said 'set us all to rights' – you recall that I had written before about the struggles we had been having with keeping the house in order, during Mrs. Edward's long illness and recovery. Mrs. Charles has many – very many – excellent qualities, but the ability to run a large household efficaciously is not, alas! one of them. Having heard Mrs. Alton's name, and a description of her as being similar to her mother, I requested Dr. Mirabelle to persuade Mrs. Charles to invite her sister-in-law to Hartfield, in the hopes that Mrs. Alton would be able to address some of our more pressing problems. The results have certainly exceeded my wildest expectations! On the day of her arrival, she inspected the entire house, garrets to cellars, and issued various commands to Mrs. Talbert and to Gage, and altogether made her presence felt in a definite and bracing manner. The servants are, I think, happy to receive their orders from someone who gives them with assurance, and who knows exactly what is necessary for the smooth running of the household. Mrs. Charles is greatly relieved and has retreated almost entirely to the nursery. As to Mrs. Edward's feelings, I cannot say; Mrs. Alton sees her every morning, but I do not at all know what their first conversations were like, after not having seen one another for several years.

Dear Amelia, I must here pause to ask after your own house and garden, and all of the decisions you and Mr. Leigh have been making as you take possession. I was so pleased to hear that dear Papa will be with you in the spring, and I shall visit at the same time if I can manage it. Your accounts of the Sunday school and the congregation and the village brought your new home before me with such vividness – when I do visit, I am sure I shall feel that I know the place already. Have you succeeded in hiring a second housemaid? What name did you settle upon for the cow?

I myself have been very well, and have nothing to complain of except a desire for a new pair of boots, which desire I expect to be able to gratify when my wages are paid next month. Marianne's accident was most distressing, but the doctor says the break was a clean one, with no complications, and he is very pleased with her recovery. She misses her pony, and as a sort of substitute roams about with Harry – until they quarrel and part ways; this occurs almost daily, but they resume their friendship by teatime. I am glad she has a playmate, and the house seems much livelier now. Mr. Hartfield continues absent. I hope he returns before his sister departs, as she says she will do in January. I should like to see him with one of his siblings, and try to discern in their manners to each other, and their resemblance or lack of resemblance, some traces of their father as well as their mother. – There is another reason for desiring his arrival; Marianne misses him, and though her spirits have improved (even with her broken limb), I think she will be very happy to be able to talk to him again, and to show him all her new abilities in the way of reading French and drawing and sewing and, of course, riding.

Do write back very soon and tell me all the news of Mr. Leigh's parish, so that I may feel that it is, in some way, my parish too. Give Mr. Leigh himself my affectionate regards, and may God bless both of you and your new home!

With all my love,

Your affectionate sister,

Kate

At about the same time, Marianne wrote to her uncle:

Dear Uncle Matthew,

How are you? We are all very well, except that I broke my arm out riding. It is mending very quickly Dr. Mirabelle says. It was my left arm. Dandelion bruised his knees but they are healed now.

My Aunt Leonora is here now, with my cousin Harry. Harry does some of his lessons with me. He should be at Eton instead but he was ill and his mother kept him home for the term. He will go to Eton next term. Aunt Leonora reminds me of Grandmamma. She is also like you, however. Harry doesn't remind me of anyone.

Miss Brown asks me to send you her respectful regards. She says my drawing is improving. I am sending you one of my sketches which I very much hope you will like. It is Dandelion in his stall.

The weather has been clear and warm. Harry and I went to the pond yesterday and saw ever such a big fish, Harry tried to catch it but it swam away and his mother scolded him for getting his clothes wet, but he said that was no matter since if she cannot scold him for one thing, she will scold him for another. Alexander got wet too and rather muddy.

Mamma is very well indeed and so is Edward. He crawls about when she puts him down on the carpet and I can make him laugh quite easily by tickling his cheeks. Grandmamma is recovering from her illness and Harry and I go to see her every day in her room. We must be very quiet and good while we are there. Aunt Leonora wraps her in a great many shawls and blankets and things and she sits by her fire all day.

I hope you are well.

Your affectionate niece,

MARIANNE HARTFIELD

To this letter, Marianne received a reply in early October, as follows:

Dear Marianne,

I am happy to hear the news from Hartfield. Thank you very much for the sketch. I agree with Miss Brown that your drawing is improving. Dandelion's ears were excellently done.

I hope that you and Harry are not scolded very often. Aunt Leonora herself, when she was a young girl, once fell into that very pond and came home draggled and wet and had to be put to bed with a hot drink. Perhaps you could remind her of that episode and in this way a future scolding will be, if not prevented, mitigated. You must look up 'mitigated' in the dictionary if you don't know what it means.

It is sad to hear of your grandmother in a state of less than perfect health. I hope her recovery continues and she quickly regains her strength, and then she will take her former interest in everyone and everything about the place.

I send Miss Brown my respectful regards in return for hers, and I send greetings to Michael as well. I hope he is exercising Sentry. You must give him an apple for me – Sentry, I mean, not Michael. As for Dandelion, I own my opinion of him is not so high as it was, since he is responsible for your arm being broken; but riding cannot be made altogether safe, and it seems you will soon be as right as rain, and so we must comfort ourselves with the reflection that things could be much worse (a reflection we have cause to make very often throughout life).

Dear little niece, I hope you are very well and happy, and I remain,

With the fondest of regards,

Your affectionate Uncle Matthew

P.S. Who is Alexander?

Three weeks or thereabouts after she had received this letter, Marianne went out for a walk; Harry was nowhere to be found, so her only companion was Alexander. Cook had given her a piece of ginger cake, and she walked along slowly, thinking (if she could be said to be thinking of anything) of the cake and the cold sunny weather, and the changing colours of the foliage. They were making their way down the path to the pond when Marianne saw a man approaching, walking even more slowly than she was, and within a few minutes she had recognized him as her uncle Matthew. She was very happy to see him, but immediately felt that she was not quite sure how she ought to greet him; he had been away so long, and she had got out of the habit of talking to him; and as he came nearer she saw that his expression was peculiarly gloomy, even for him, and this made her feel shy. But he had seen her, and so she went forward and said to him, 'Good day, Uncle Matthew!' Alexander appeared at her side at the same moment and looked inquiringly up at her, and then at her uncle, and then back at her – or rather, at her piece of cake, which she still clutched in her hand.

'Good day, Marianne,' he said. His gaze travelled down to Alexander. 'Who is this?'

'This is Alexander,' Marianne said, crouching down to put her arm round the dog. She could not have said why she did this, whether it was to shelter Alexander or reassure herself. Her uncle regarded them both in silence for a few moments, and then said, 'I have been away a good while, but I distinctly recall telling you that you were not to take a puppy as your own. Can you explain why you disregarded my instructions?'

No doubt Marianne could have explained, if she had been given time to consider. If she had spoken out her feelings, she would have said to her uncle what she had often thought: He had gone, and no one knew when he would come back, and there seemed no point in following the orders of someone who might, for all she knew, never return. But looking up into his face from her crouching position, she was warned by his expression not to say this, and so she said only, 'I'm sorry. He's a very good dog.'

'That is no explanation at all. I fear I must repeat the question.'

Marianne slowly rose to her feet, at the same time relinquishing what remained of the cake to Alexander. 'I didn't mean to. Alexander – he – we got on with each other so well. I missed him when I didn't see him.'

'You have improved upon your former reply – that is an explanation, to be sure – but no excuse. I should like to know who gave you permission to keep the animal.'

Marianne looked down at Alexander, who had devoured the cake and now sat wagging his tail and gazing at her and her uncle alternately. Then she raised her head and met her uncle's eyes, inwardly quailing but trying her best not to show it. 'No one,' she said. 'I did it all on my own.'

'Did you indeed? I wonder what condition the house is in, if you could bring a foxhound indoors and no one the wiser.'

Marianne here saw a chance to deflect his attention, and did so: 'The house is in a much better condition since Aunt Leonora has been here.'

'Of course it is. Let us go in and see.'

So Marianne turned round and walked back with him to the house, remaining a few steps behind him and not daring to ask any questions about his journey, or why his arrival was so sudden, or whether he had quite forgiven her for Alexander. The dog trotted along beside her, and in a few minutes they had all three arrived at the house. Her uncle stumped up the steps, with his head down as if he did not care to see the front of the building, and opened the door; then he looked back at her, and said crossly, 'I suppose you will want to bring the dog inside. Come along, then.'

Marianne followed him into the hall, and so did Alexander, and they all three stood still for a few moments, their eyes adjusting to the gloom. Then Uncle Matthew went across to the library door, and opened it to find Miss Brown, seated in an armchair by the fire, reading a great book which was supported on a table before her. When she heard him come in, she jumped up and said, 'Mr. Hartfield, to be sure we did not expect you! What – where is your luggage? Where is Gage?'

'I cannot account for Gage,' he answered, 'but my luggage is at the station and someone must be sent for it.' He had advanced into the room as he spoke, and now he stopped and looked about him. 'The room is much different. Where are the books that I left on the tables and chairs?'

'I took the liberty of putting them on the shelves,' said Miss Brown. 'They are less likely to be damaged that way, and you can more easily find what you need.'

'I must contradict you there,' he said, moving closer to one of the walls of shelves and peering up at it. 'I could always find what I wanted in my stacks and heaps of books, and now I fear my favourites are mingled so closely with all the others that I shall never see them again. I do think you might have refrained from interfering.'

Marianne saw her governess's face turn red. 'I apologise, sir,' she said stiffly. 'I meant no harm.'

'People always say that when they have been discovered in some silly, officious act. I hope you will think better of it the next time you consider rearranging anything that belongs to me.'

Miss Brown said nothing in reply to this, and there was a pause of a few moments while Uncle Matthew continued examining the shelves, poking at the spine of a book here and there. Then Miss Brown carefully closed the big book she had been reading, and, stepping away from the table, she said, 'Your household will be very glad to see you, sir. I shall go and find Gage and send him to you at once.'

This was acknowledged with a brief nod only, and then Miss Brown made her way to the door, taking Marianne by the hand as she went past her and leading her out as well. In the hall she stopped, still holding Marianne's hand, and looked down at her. 'You must go and knock on your grandmamma's door, and tell Mrs. Talbert or whoever is there that Mr. Hartfield is returned. I shall find Gage and Mrs. Alton in the meantime.'

'Yes, Miss Brown,' Marianne said, and she went away up the stairs, pausing at the landing to look down; her governess was still in the place where she had left her, seemingly deep in thought.

Marianne did as she had been told, and then she went to the schoolroom, where she found Harry, sitting in the window seat and scribbling on a sheaf of paper, which fell off his lap when he stood up. 'There you are,' he said to Marianne, 'you have been gone an age, I want to go to the pond before tea.'

'I've just been,' Marianne said, 'and who do you suppose I met there?' Harry cast up his eyes, refusing to guess, and she went on, 'Uncle Matthew has come back. He's in the library now, and ever so cross.'

'Why is he cross?'

'I don't know. Grown people do get cross.'

'Perhaps we should ask him at tea.'

'No, I don't think we should. That would make him crosser.'

'I wonder will we get anything special for tea?'

'I don't know. I don't know if they had time to think about it.' The schoolroom clock just then struck the hour, announcing teatime, and so they went downstairs to the drawing room. There they found assembled Mrs. Alton, Uncle Matthew, Mrs. Charles, and Edward, who was seated on the hearthrug, sucking his fingers. 'Now then, young Edward,' said Marianne to the little boy; she had acquired this mode of addressing him from her uncle. Mrs. Alton introduced her son to his uncle.

'How do you do,' said Harry, and they shook hands, his uncle giving the boy a long look. As Harry turned away and seated himself, Uncle Matthew said, 'He favours his father, I think.'

'Yes,' Mrs. Alton answered. 'Whereas the others favour me.'

'Your family are all quite well?'

'Yes. Or I suppose they are. I rely upon their letters for my intelligence, and they say nothing about illness.'

'Ah.'

That subject having run its course, they drank their tea and ate their cake in silence for a minute or so, and then Mrs. Charles said, 'Shall you go and see Mrs. Edward after this?'

'Yes, I shall,' said Uncle Matthew. 'I went to her when I arrived, but she was sleeping and Mrs. Talbert bade me return later. She must have been very ill indeed if she is sleeping in the afternoon.'

'Yes, very ill,' said Mrs. Charles gravely. 'We fear she will never entirely recover.'

'Age, infirmity, and death come to us all, I suppose,' said Uncle Matthew. 'It only seems strange in this case because she was always so strong.'

'Come now, Matthew,' said Mrs. Alton, 'you need not be quite so gloomy. Let us hear about your travels. What did you see in India, what did you do, how did you spend all that time?'

'An account of that sort would be very tedious. You have never seen the places or people I visited, so I should have to describe them all, and that would be infinitely more trouble than I wish to undergo. You must allow me to remember these things without speaking of them.'

'Well then,' said Mrs. Alton, 'I suppose we must all remain in silence and ignorance. Don't make that noise with your tea, Harry.'

There was a short pause, broken only by Edward gurgling, and then Mrs. Charles said, 'I must say, the weather has been very fine for the time of year. You must have been grateful, Matthew, to see the roads so dry on your way home.'

'As I was in a train the entire distance from Portsmouth to Hartfield, I did not notice the condition of the roads.'

Then Mrs. Alton asked the question that Marianne had warned Harry not to ask, with the result she had predicted. 'Why on earth must you be so ill-tempered with us all, Matthew? Perhaps you think we should have welcomed you with more ceremony. If so, you should have given us warning of your arrival.'

'Not at all. I want no ceremony. I only want to be left in peace.' And with that he stood up and set down his cup and saucer with a bang and stalked out of the room.

Marianne and Harry looked at one another, eyes wide, and then looked at Mrs. Alton, who continued placidly drinking her tea. Mrs. Charles, on the other hand, put her handkerchief to her eyes, and Marianne went to her and put her arms round her neck. 'Don't cry, Mamma, you'll make Edward cry too.'

Mrs. Alton said, "Really, Emily, you mustn't pay Matthew any mind. He is the most crossgrained, contrary mortal who ever lived, and only becomes more so when you allow him to ruffle you. If there is a cause for all this bad temper, we shall be sure to hear about it soon; and if there is no cause, he must be left alone to settle his own feelings. Do collect yourself.'

Mrs. Charles became calm enough to resume drinking her tea, and the occasion concluded peacefully; nevertheless Marianne felt very tired afterwards, and went up to her room to lie on the bed, thinking that Uncle Matthew's return home had been quite different from what she had expected. And yet she was afraid that he would depart again, and then Aunt Leonora and Harry would go as well, and all would revert into the former state of passive discontent. Perhaps Uncle Matthew, before he left or as a condition for staying, would require her to give up Alexander. This idea made her sad, as if the sacrifice had actually been made, and her eyes filled with tears; then there was a knock at the door, and Harry came in.

'Shall we go to the pond now?' he said.

'No, I've already been, and I'm so tired.' And Marianne, having sat up when Harry came in the room, lay back down again.

Harry wandered over to the window and looked out. 'There's Uncle Matthew now.'

Marianne did not reply; she desired her cousin to go away, but lacked the strength to say so.

'He's walking down the drive. Perhaps he's going back to India.'

'I wish he would. He scolded me about Alexander and he might take him away.'

Harry sat down in the armchair by her bed and looked at her curiously. 'Might he? That would be very bad for you and Alexander both.'

'Yes, it would, wouldn't it? But I don't believe he cares for that. He doesn't care for any of us.'

'Will he go back to India then?'

'How am I to know? Why must you ask me all these questions?'

Harry shrugged, and there was a silence of some minutes during which he gazed at the tips of his shoes, his legs stretched out before him. Finally he said, 'There was ever so much cake left after tea. Cook would let us have some if we asked.'

Marianne did not reply for a moment, and then she slowly rose to a sitting position. 'I suppose she might.'

Harry jumped up and went directly to the door and through it, and Marianne trailed after him. In the corridor they came upon Mrs. Talbert and greeted her, and asked, as everyone always did, after Mrs. Edward's health. 'Ah, she's mending slowly, but mending,' Mrs. Talbert said. This meant that Mrs. Edward had had a good day; on bad days, Mrs. Talbert said, 'She's mending, but mending slowly.' Harry and Marianne said they were glad to hear it and then hurried slightly in walking away from her; Marianne was fearful that they would be asked to go into their Grandmamma's room, and she was certain that Harry shared her reluctance, though they had never spoken of it.

Having received their pieces of cake in the kitchen, they carried them out of doors to the greenhouse, and ate them while walking up and down between the rows of plants. Marianne began to feel happier; there was comfort in the cake, but more so in Harry's companionable silence and in the way Alexander wagged his tail so cheerfully, following behind her to pick up crumbs. At the end of the greenhouse she stopped and gazed idly through the glass; her uncle was in the kitchen garden not far away, walking in his customary way with his hands behind his back and a cigar in his mouth. As she watched, he stopped abruptly, threw his cigar away from him, and seated himself on the low stone wall that surrounded the garden. He was facing her, but he was too far away for her to see his expression.

Marianne ate the last of her cake, and then she said to Harry, 'I'm going to speak to Uncle Matthew. Will you look after Alexander?' Harry said that he would, and Marianne left the greenhouse and walked toward her uncle, maintaining what she hoped was a dignified pace, neither too fast nor too slow. He did not seem to notice her until she was quite close, and then he acknowledged her presence with a bare nod of the head. 'May I sit with you, Uncle Matthew?' she said. For some reason, as she said this, she clasped her hands in front of her; perhaps it was a habit transmitted from Miss Brown, who often held her hands in this way when she was speaking or listening.

Her uncle gave her another nod, and she seated herself beside him. Perceiving that he was not in a mood for conversation, she said nothing and sat very still; she had had some recent practice with sitting still, from her visits to her Grandmamma's room. She could see Harry's indistinct figure moving about in the greenhouse. After a few minutes he departed, Alexander trotting along behind him, and then there was nothing to look at except the garden. It was very tedious, and she wished she had not sat down; but there she was, and she could not think of a way to stand up and leave. It reminded her of church, and of Mr. Anthony's sermons. In church she was often driven to while away the time by making up stories about different people in the congregation, but here there was no one except Uncle Matthew to look at and speculate about, and she could hardly turn her head and stare at him. She thought about him anyway, and of all the questions she had about his time in India, and whether she would ever ask them. She recalled saying good-bye to him in front of the house, and how strange it was that that person who had embarked on the journey was the same as this person who sat beside her now, and also how strange it was that she herself was the same person as before, but different somehow. Thinking in this way and becoming rather involved in a tangle of questions and theories, she was able to remain without speaking or moving for many minutes, until her uncle himself broke the silence. 'How is Dandelion?'

Marianne started, and then calmed herself. 'He's very well, thank you. I've been riding twice this week. I had to stop, you know, when my arm was mending.'

'And what had your mother to say about your riding, after you broke a bone? I suppose she was very fearful of your returning to it after such a mishap.'

'She didn't say anything. Well, I suppose she did tell Michael that he was to be very careful, but she was always saying that before my accident too.'

'I see.'

'Michael was ever so sorry about the accident. He carried me back to the house, you know. Miss Brown told me about it later. I didn't know at the time because I had fainted away.' Marianne blushed after she said this, remembering too late that she had promised herself not to mention the fainting fit to her uncle.

'I don't believe I've heard a clear account of how this accident took place. I presume you were jumping over something?'

'Yes, a gate.'

'Which gate?'

'The one near Mill Farm. Where Mr. Wilson keeps his dairy cows.'

'I know the one. It's rather high, I think. Michael thought you could do it, I suppose?'

'Yes. That is – no, he said I was always to go round, but Dandelion was going quite fast and I was sure we could do it, and we almost did – we were unlucky.'

'Unlucky?'

'Yes, he knocked the top rail ever so slightly and that made him stumble coming down.'

'That is not bad luck, Marianne, that is bad judgment. Michael is much wiser than you in these matters and you must not set up your opinion against his. You see what comes of it.'

'You said in your letter that riding can't be made completely safe. I suppose I'm bound to have a fall now and again.'

'There are falls which cannot be prevented and falls which can. This fall was in the latter category.'

'I'm sorry, Uncle Matthew,' Marianne said stiffly, uncertain as to why she was apologising. He, after all, had suffered no broken bones and had not even been at the house to see her carried in.

'You must obey Michael's instructions in the future.'

Marianne nodded her head, and they were silent for a time. Then he said, 'My homecoming has not been especially pleasant. There is this accident of yours, and your obtaining a foxhound as a pet, and my library being rearranged, and my poor mother unable to leave her bedroom. One should either stay at home without stirring, or go away altogether. It is too late for that, I suppose.'

Marianne did not know what to say to this, but she saw that he did not expect a reply and in fact was not actually speaking to her, but rather to himself; so she remained quiet and looked straight before her at the bare earth of the garden. Presently her uncle sighed, and rose to his feet, and began walking back to the house, indicating with a small gesture of his hand that she should come with him. They trudged indoors and there separated, and for the first time since she had known him, Marianne left his side with a sensation of relief.

XII.

Mr. Foyle discovered that Mr. Hartfield had returned when his wife said to him one evening at dinner that she had seen Mrs. Charles in the town that day, and Mrs. Charles had told her this piece of news. But she seemed to have done no more than mention the bare fact; Mr. Foyle could elicit no details, and did not want to inquire too openly whether the squire had returned with a companion. He waited a day or two, turning over in his mind various pretexts for visiting Hartfield Hall. He became more certain as the hours passed, and as no new information came to light, that Mr. Hartfield had not succeeded in bringing his wife back with him. Surely the presence at the manor of a Hindu lady would not have gone unreported in the town. Finally Mr. Foyle could bear it no longer, and he mounted his horse and rode away to Hartfield, telling himself that he would devise his excuse for the visit on the way there. As it happened, he was spared that necessity, because he never arrived at the house at all; he met the squire on the road, also on horseback, the horse walking at a slow pace. 'Welcome home, Mr. Hartfield,' Mr. Foyle said, stopping his own horse and taking off his hat. 'I am happy to see you returned.'

'Thank you,' the squire said, stopping in his turn. The two men regarded each other; Mr. Foyle was greatly puzzled in his own mind about how to open the subject that was of so much interest and importance to him, but the other did not seem at all inclined to speak further. Mr. Foyle therefore replaced his hat on his head and said he would not detain him, and he had actually proceeded a few yards down the road, when Mr. Hartfield called after him: 'Mr. Foyle! I am very sorry – I do not wish to inconvenience you – perhaps I might have a word?'

Mr. Foyle turned back at once and said he was quite at the other's service, and Mr. Hartfield, after a moment's thought, proposed that they dismount and sit down on the verge. 'It is so awkward conversing on horseback.' Mr. Foyle of course agreed; they tied their horses to a tree and seated themselves on the grassy slope, and Mr. Hartfield rushed into the middle of his subject.

'My wife did not return with me. We are separated, most likely permanently separated.'

'I am sorry to hear it. It must have been a most painful – a most difficult parting.'

'Yes, but more so for me than for her. I think – it appears – it appears she did not love me enough to make it worth her while to come back with me.'

Mr. Foyle could not think of a suitable response to this for some moments. He was surprised at the statement, partly at its suddenness and partly at the willingness of his companion to produce it at all; the matter was so private, and the admission so heartrending, that it seemed quite out of character. Finally he said, 'It was not a rapid decision, at any rate. You were there for many weeks.'

'And we spoke of it every day, and she would not be persuaded. I thought at times that she might – I do believe she tried to bring herself into agreement with my wishes, but she could not. She was very kind in telling me so, and I certainly cannot accuse her of being heartless. Perhaps it would be less painful if I could tell myself that she was duplicitous, or cruel.'

Mr. Foyle paused again before he spoke. 'You asked her to come with you to a foreign place where she knows no one, save you – where the people and manner of life would be strange to her, and where she would have little cause to anticipate a warm welcome from your household. She would be forced to leave behind her family, every friend she has ever known, and every place that is dear to her from association, and she would not even be able to correspond with those from whom she had been separated. I do not think an insufficiency of love for you is necessary to explain why she could not bring herself to accede to your wishes.'

'I had done exactly the same. I left Hartfield and everyone here, to go there. I adapted myself to India, and so could she adapt herself to England.'

'That may be true – she could – but before she succeeded in doing so, would she not be unhappy? And would not her unhappiness transfer itself to you, and undermine the very bond you had brought her here to preserve?'

Mr. Hartfield said nothing; he was poking at the ground with the handle of his whip. At last Mr. Foyle continued: 'You say you may be permanently separated. I take it you left her with that understanding?'

'Yes,' said the other shortly. 'We agreed that in parting on these terms, we were most likely parting forever.'

'She will stay with her family?'

'For a time, yes. She may go into service in another household. She cannot marry again. Hindus do not recognise divorce.'

There was a somewhat longer silence than before – a silence, that is, between the two men, though the birds in the trees roundabout continued chirping, and one of the horses whickered. The bright sunlight gave Mr. Foyle a sense of uneasiness, of the kind occasioned when one's outer surroundings do not match with one's inner emotions. He felt as someone might who is witnessing another person struggling in deep, dark, cold water, sinking every second, far from any possible assistance. The watching in both cases seemed to make the struggle more terrible, more hopeless, and yet turning away would be a betrayal. At last his companion said abruptly, looking straight before him at the trees on the other side of the lane: 'Even if I wanted a divorce … if I felt it was in her best interests, or mine, I could not obtain one, as the marriage does not exist in the eyes of the church.'

Various possibilities and stratagems presented themselves in succession to Mr. Foyle, and he rejected them all, not on the grounds of their unfitness as such, but because he could see that any such suggestion would be met with indignant resistance at the present moment. In the course of his practice, he continually devised ways for his clients to escape their various difficulties; this habit, already a strong element in his character when he had begun to study the law, had grown upon him over the years, so that even in ordinary social intercourse he found it hard to suppress. So many of the complaints he heard, so many of the episodes or situations people found irritating or enraging – so many of these seemed to him to be easily avoided, or else so trivial as to be easily ignored. Here, at least, was something truly difficult, neither avoidable nor trivial, amenable to no legal or social remedy. He could think of nothing at all that would comfort Mr. Hartfield or brighten the prospect before him. He believed that time would do its usual work, but saying so now would do no good. Finally he said, 'I am very sorry. I will do everything in my power, now and in the future, to help and relieve you. Your willingness to tell me the true state of things does me great honour.'

'Not at all,' the squire answered, as if reflexively. 'You are doing me a service. Speaking of it brings some … some respite. And I feel sure you will not betray my confidence.'

'No, upon my word. You may rely upon me.'

'No one in my household must ever know.'

'It is difficult to carry such a secret alone, hiding it even from one's own family. We are made to grieve together, openly. Are you intending to hide your sadness altogether?'

'I do intend to hide it, to the best of my ability. At least, I intend do so from now on. When I first returned here, I did not have my emotions under control, and I indulged myself in some ill-temper for which I fear I must apologise. I know I shall suffer so acutely in making the apology that I have determined never to do anything in future that might necessitate a repetition.'

They were silent once more, and once more the small animals and birds round them filled the quiet with tiny sounds. Then Mr. Hartfield spoke. 'I cannot say I have been lacking in time to think over my … my situation. I thought of it a great deal on the voyage back, without, however, formulating any plan. I had been looking forward to that voyage as a happy one, with my wife at my side, and our lives before us. I even thought for a day or two that I had made a great mistake in not exercising my marital authority, and requiring her to accompany me whether she wished to or not. But my better judgment prevailed. Such coercion would have made both of us miserable.'

Mr. Foyle nodded, signifying his agreement, and then said, 'I have said I would do everything in my power to help you. However, I fear my power is almost nonexistent in this case and the promise therefore meaningless. My only hope is that my sympathy is of some small assistance to you. If I could mitigate your sorrow by taking some of it to myself, I would.'

'You do mitigate my sorrow,' Mr. Hartfield said; and again his companion had the sense that he was speaking reflexively, out of instinctive good manners, and not out of heartfelt emotion. But this courtesy was reassuring to Mr. Foyle; he felt that it indicated an effort on the squire's part to remain true to his own character and position, and to face his future life without indulging in useless complaining. Such a resolve must be bolstered up and strengthened by any means possible.

'I'm quite aware that you have not solicited my advice,' the lawyer said at last. 'I hope you will tell me if this is presumptuous. I should like to give you the benefit – not of my own wisdom, which is inadequate – but of my father's.' Here he paused, and receiving a small nod from Mr. Hartfield, continued: 'I had a trouble of my own when I was quite young, and my father said to me that I must imagine my own self in the future, five or ten years hence, looking back upon this time when I was in so much distress. And I must endeavour so to act that that future self would have no cause to be ashamed; I must endeavour so to bear myself that I might recall the difficulty with pain, but not with self-reproach. I fear I did not always live up to this injunction, but it served me well then, and I earnestly hope it will serve you now.'

Mr. Hartfield was silent, gazing before him at nothing. Presently he said, 'That is excellent advice, and I wish I felt better able to follow it. The failing is my own, however, and I thank you for your assistance. If anyone can help me, you have done so.'

There was little to say after this; within a few minutes, they had risen to their feet, and shaken hands, and departed from their meeting place, the squire going back to his house and Mr. Foyle back to town.

XIII.

A day or two after the meeting between Mr. Hartfield and Mr. Foyle, Miss Brown returned from a walk to find the former gentleman standing before the fire in the hall. She greeted him and would have passed up the stairs without further speech, but he said, 'One moment, Miss Brown, if you please. I should be very grateful if you would give me a moment of your time.'

'Certainly, sir,' she said, feeling reluctant but not wishing to appear so. They had not had any conversation since the day of his return, and his words at that time had left such an unpleasant impression upon her mind that she did not know how to speak with him without showing that they had done so. Perhaps he wanted to speak with her now in order to rebuke her further. This idea was strengthened when he said, 'Will you go with me into the library?' She could not, of course, refuse, though she was full of dismay at the idea of hearing words of the kind he had used before. She was sure that no gentleman should speak thus to a lady; but there was another precept that was still more relevant: No master of any house should speak to any of his servants or dependents in such a way. On those grounds, she thought that she could defend herself, and resolved to do so.

All of these thoughts passed through her mind as they went together, silently, into the room, where he indicated that she should seat herself in one of the chairs before the fire. He seated himself also, but seemed to have great trouble in finding words to begin the conversation. She did not wish to help him out of his difficulty, and therefore waited patiently, occupying herself in the meantime with taking off her hat and gloves.

At last he said, 'I find my task even more difficult than I had anticipated. I must apologise to you for my words the other day – upon my return home. They were ill-mannered and harsh, and I beg your pardon for my rudeness.'

Here he stopped, but something in his words or their delivery prevented her from replying immediately. He, of course, equally with her, would wish to have the thing over and done with, and to consign the whole episode to oblivion. He expected that she would immediately accept his apology and that no further explanation would be required. Of course, it was not unreasonable for him to think that his position as her employer would cause her to give him outward absolution even if inwardly she did not forgive him. Having given her the form of an apology, he could accept the form of a pardon and consider the matter closed, whatever her actual feelings. But she found that she could not contemplate such a resolution of the case with equanimity.

'I should be very happy to accept your apology, Mr. Hartfield,' she said slowly. 'That is, I do accept it, on the understanding that you acknowledge not only your words at the time, but your feelings that prompted them. I should be sorry for my part if you continued to feel – even if you did not act on your feelings – continued to feel that I have been officious and presumptuous in any way – in any of my relations or actions in your household.' She stopped in her turn, watching him narrowly, and perceiving that he had not expected such a response from her, and that he did not know what to say to it.

He shifted himself in his chair, looked into the fire and back at her, and then said, 'I do acknowledge – I find I must acknowledge – that in the moment I had those feelings. I do not have them now, however, and I see that they were entirely mistaken.'

'You can see, can you not, sir, how important this matter is to me? I should not be able to remain here if you are at all inclined to believe that I have not observed the proper strictures as to my place in the household. I should not like it if my intentions were misunderstood in the future.'

'I have said I was mistaken,' he said, with some displeasure; but he paused, and seemed to recollect himself, and continued: 'I have no excuse for behaving as I did, but perhaps I may explain my state of mind at the time, as a way of promising that such an episode will not happen in future. I had returned here from India with a very great weight – a great sorrow – on my shoulders, and I had not yet reconciled myself to bearing it. I have resolved that I shall not allow it to get the better of me again, or to affect my behaviour as it did on that day.'

At the mention of his sorrow, Miss Brown at once softened towards him inwardly; and yet she could not help thinking how often men called upon women for sympathy and understanding, and how in such cases the women could not make their own troubles known. She again thought of ending the conversation and departing, but she determined that she would at least try to express her own ideas, whether or not Mr. Hartfield chose to understand them. So she said, 'I am sorry indeed that you should have any misfortune. We are all prone to depart from our usual behaviour under such strain. But I wish to be very plainly understood. My position in the household is a rather difficult one; that is, I occupy a post of great responsibility in regard to Marianne, but at the same time I am not, nor can ever become, a member of the family. I am honour-bound to observe the limitations that Mrs. Edward placed on me from the outset, and if I occasionally forget myself, I do not wish it to be thought that I am defying those limitations deliberately.'

'Limitations? I do not comprehend you.'

'Please understand, I do not at all complain. But the limitations are there. I do not dine with the family, nor do I share any other meals with anyone save Marianne. I have no companionship aside from hers. This room – ' she indicated the library and its books with a gesture – 'this room contains all of my comfort and diversion, all of my communion with minds that are like mine. You can see, can you not, why I would receive with especial seriousness any hint that I had abused my privileges here?'

'I do see,' he said slowly. 'That is, I think I understand you. And I confess that I had not looked at your position in that light before. I know my mother places great weight on the family's position – on the lines that separate its members from everyone else. It may be an entirely sensible tendency, from a worldly point of view; but I have thought in the past that it may lead her, may lead us, to become too narrow and exclusive, to confine ourselves too much. I should consider it an honour if you would begin to join us at dinner.'

She felt that her face was covered by a fiery blush, and she said, hardly waiting for him to pause: 'I do not care to accept an invitation that is offered out of pity, or as a sop to your conscience. I am hardly as forlorn as that. No doubt I should not have spoken as I did.'

'On the contrary, Miss Brown, I am very happy that you did speak – that you did tell me these things in a way that I can understand. We are apt to remain ignorant and oblivious of others' struggles, when those struggles do not affect ourselves too nearly. I offer this invitation as I would any other, because I would be happy to have your company. I hope you will accept it merely as your due, and as a way of bringing your habits more into alignment with my own view of your position.'

'Then – then, on those terms, I should be happy to accept, provided you give me – say – a week or so in which I can acquire the necessary clothes.'

'Of course,' he said, and smiled suddenly; and she could not help but smile back, even though she felt, as she often did with him, that he had got the better of her in some obscure and indefinable way.

XIV.

Dr. Mirabelle, finding himself without patients one Saturday afternoon in November, and that afternoon happening to be particularly fine for the time of year, walked out of the town and found himself in the lanes near Hartfield Hall. He had persuaded himself that he required exercise, and that walking would therefore be better than riding; but he knew this was not at all the reason why Jupiter was left behind. He hoped to find Miss Brown, and if he did find her he wished to speak to her without the horse making her anxious to be gone.

Fortune favoured him so far that he did find her, at the same spot where they had previously met and where he had – so he thought – been so unpardonably awkward and officious. She was near the large stone on which she had been sitting on the former occasion, but this time she was standing, wrapped in her cloak, looking out over the valley. – Or rather, the doctor perceived as he came closer, her eyes were turned in that direction but her thoughts were elsewhere. He made a small noise with his walking stick, tapping it on a tree trunk, so that she would have warning of his approach, and as she turned he was pleased to see that she had the traces of a smile on her face. He would have been even more pleased if he could have persuaded himself that the smile was due to his presence, but he could not believe it; she had been thinking of something, or someone, far away, and the thought had brought her happiness which was in no way connected to him. He was reduced to attempting to satisfy himself with the reflection that at least she did not appear dismayed or annoyed by seeing him there, and that the remains of the smile were still on her face as she came forward and offered him her hand.

'Good afternoon, doctor,' she said. 'It is a lovely day for a walk, is it not?'

'Very lovely,' he answered. 'We have thought alike, and have taken advantage of it while we can.'

Then there was a pause, as he considered how he might engage her in further conversation – for somehow, in planning his walk and during the walk itself, he had not considered what they would discuss, should his wish be granted to find her there. Presently she said, 'I do think this view is the prettiest one in the neighbourhood. I come here very often and I know others do as well. I saw Mr. Foyle and his wife walking here last week.'

As she was speaking, they both turned themselves so they were standing side by side, looking out over the valley, where the branches of the bare trees made black webs over the green grass. 'How is everyone at Hartfield?' he asked. 'I suppose you miss your visitors, now they have gone home.'

'Our visitors? You mean Mrs. Alton and Harry. Yes, the house seems very subdued without them. But Mrs. Alton said they may come back in the spring.'

'And how is Mrs. Edward?'

'Better, I think. She spoke this week of attending church tomorrow, though she has mentioned that before and nothing ever came of it. But Mrs. Alton was very good for her.' She gave him a quick, sideways look. 'I must express my gratitude once more for your help in fetching her here. I think the house has been put to rights in such a way that we will not fall back into our former distress.'

'Not at all,' he said. 'I did nothing save speak with Mrs. Charles.'

'But that was the necessary thing, was it not? You persuaded her.'

'I suggested it to her and she agreed. I would not say I persuaded her. The word implies that I exercised influence over her, which I hope I did not.'

'Would that be wrong, then? To exercise influence over a person, for her own good?'

'It would be wrong to allow a person to believe she had made her own decision when she had not.'

'But it is sometimes so difficult to tell,' she said slowly. 'We want to act, and speak, for the best, but we may not always know how much influence we have over another person.'

He paused, taking a step backwards, away from the point where the ground dropped away toward the valley. As he did so the thought flashed across his mind that his conversations with Miss Brown were unlike those he had with others: she seemed so little concerned with the usual topics of discussion – the weather, the last or next social occasion, the Sunday sermon – and instead she would immediately embark upon larger issues. She seemed always to be pondering her duty to others, and theirs to her. At last he said, 'I agree, it is difficult to know. May I ask – is there something on your mind that leads you to speak of this? This question of influence, I mean. Is there anything that troubles you?'

She paused in her turn, and then looked him in the face. 'No indeed – nothing troubles me – that is, only something that is very common with me, which is that I doubt my course of action after it is too late to change it.'

'Your course of action?'

'In this case, you made a suggestion to Mrs. Charles, but I made a suggestion to you, did I not? Perhaps I should not have interfered. Or perhaps I should have spoken directly with Mrs. Charles myself.'

'Ah,' he said. 'I see. This is an unusual phenomenon, to be sure – to doubt your actions, when those actions have brought about exactly the intended result. More usually, people regret their behaviour when their plans go astray.'

'But you have not said that I am wrong to doubt.'

'No. To doubt is understandable and laudable – otherwise how are we to learn? But I wish you to recollect that your motives were unselfish. You wanted to ensure the welfare of Miss Marianne and everyone else in the household, and you chose what you believed to be the best way to go about it.'

He watched her, without appearing to do so, and saw the colour come and go in her cheeks before she spoke. 'I hope you are right. I hope I have been guided by worthy intentions.'

He nodded, and they were silent for a few moments, gazing out over the view, each absorbed in his or her own thoughts. Then she spoke again, with a slight smile. 'I find myself gathering my wits about me when I talk to you. I cannot speak unthinkingly or – or carelessly, either in what I say or how I say it.'

'I put you on your guard, is that what you mean?' He felt his own face becoming red as he said this. He was vexed with himself; he wanted her to be at her ease, and if she were nervous or anxious he must have made a serious error.

'No, not exactly; I suppose it arises from my being aware that you listen to me more closely than most people do. Most people are satisfied with meaningless claptrap. I think you listen carefully to everyone.'

He heard the slight emphasis on everyone, and understood, without thinking about it, what it meant: she did not want him to infer that she believed he treated her differently from others. He understood, and was again vexed, and again found himself searching for the right form of words. 'To be sure, in my profession, to listen is the first requirement. One can achieve nothing and heal no one without doing so. But listening to you is not at all the same as listening to my patients. I undertake the latter as a duty and a task; the former brings me nothing but – ' he was going to say pleasure, but thought better of it – 'enjoyment.'

He had spoken quietly and without haste or emphasis; nevertheless she reacted strongly, blushing as she turned her face away and gathered her cloak more closely about her. Seeing his mistake, he said, 'I have caused offense. I apologise most unreservedly.'

'Not offense – no. Surprise. I have recalled something I thought I had forgotten.'

He was surprised in his turn; he had considered her the most self-contained, the least impetuous of women. 'Then I apologise again, if the something you recalled is not pleasant to you.'

She stood there in her characteristic way, looking into his face, her little hands in their black gloves folded before her; she appeared to be considering her next words, and he waited for them as patiently as he could. After some moments she said, 'It is possible for a memory to be both pleasant and painful – to be comforting in the recollection, until the recollection includes the fact that the thing is gone, never to return. In this case –' and she hesitated, looking to one side before returning her eyes to his face – 'in this case, I had thought the pain was done with. I had remembered it as an episode in a different lifetime. I am sorry, for my part, for imposing these emotions upon you. You could not have known you would evoke them.'

He felt as if she had placed one of those little hands against his chest and given him a push, gentle but firm, away from her. But he stood his ground. 'There is no imposition. It matters not what you say, I wish only to listen, if you will allow me.'

'I understand you,' she said slowly, not moving her eyes from his face. 'I understand you, and yet I am afraid – I am afraid that if I were once to start, I would not know how to leave off. When I lived with my dear sister, I used to tell her everything just as it arose, and she did the same with me; but now for some time I have had no daily intercourse of that sort, and so I should not know where to start or where to end, in telling my story. You would weary of it very soon.'

'Shall I promise you, then, that if I do become weary, I shall say so? Will you believe me when I tell you that I want only honesty and good faith between us?'

'I do believe you,' she said. He could not help smiling at this – at the reply, and at the simplicity with which it was made; and she smiled back, more faintly.

At last he said, 'Well – I am ready – for you to tell me all.' And again they smiled, each of them looking into the other's face, until she laughed and said, 'I find I cannot commence just now – out of hand, as it were. I suppose I must put my thoughts in order first.'

'All the better – I shall have something to anticipate. I shall hope to find you here – or at Hartfield – or at church – or anywhere, in short, where we might be able to speak to each other.'

'Yes, let us hope for that.'

They parted with very few further words, the doctor on his side wishing to get away before she changed her mind and retracted this miraculous promise: to speak to him again soon, to tell him her story, whatever it might be; and he found he had no inclination even to speculate on its contents. It mattered not, as he had said to her. His mind was full of the sound of her voice and the sight of the colour coming and going, softly and rapidly, in her face.

XV.

Marianne was in the schoolroom one morning the following month when a housemaid came in and said that she and her governess were both wanted downstairs by Mr. Hartfield. 'How odd,' said Miss Brown, 'he never interrupts her lessons.'

'He said you are to come as soon as you can, ma'am,' said the maid.

They walked downstairs, into the hall, and there found Uncle Matthew, standing before the fireplace with his hands in his pockets and his coattails over his arms; and next to him, Marianne's mamma, holding Edward. 'There you are,' said her uncle. 'Let us go out of doors.'

He led them to the front door and opened it, and as he held it for them to pass through, Marianne saw Michael on the forecourt, holding the reins of a black horse, a small one but very finely made, with a graceful head and neck and alert eyes. Marianne stopped at the top of the steps to look at the horse, and at Michael, who was grinning; Uncle Matthew came up beside her and said, 'Here is your new horse. I hope you will enjoy her.' He seemed on the point of saying something else, but stopped, and Marianne descended the steps and approached the horse carefully, hardly thinking of what she herself should say or do. The horse had a new saddle on – not Marianne's old one, and as the girl approached the animal seemed to acknowledge her with a dip of her head. Marianne held out her hand and the horse sniffed it.

'Here, Miss Marianne,' Michael said, delving in his pocket and handing her an apple. 'Give her this, then.'

Marianne took the apple and fed it to the horse, patting her on the neck as she did so. 'She's lovely, I didn't know …'

'Of course you didn't, miss, Mr. Hartfield told us all to keep it a secret. He's been looking for weeks and weeks, going about to all the towns and fairs.'

'Does she have a name?'

'You are to name her,' said Uncle Matthew himself, coming up beside her.

Marianne considered for a moment, still stroking the horse's neck, and then she said, 'Abigail.'

'That will do,' said Uncle Matthew.

'May I ride her? I mean, now?' She looked back toward the house, where Miss Brown was standing at the top of the steps. 'May I, Miss Brown?'

'Of course,' said Miss Brown, smiling. 'We must declare today a half-holiday.'

Michael crouched down and formed his hands into a stirrup for her, and Marianne stepped into it and then sprang up into the saddle, forgetting at the moment that her dress was not the proper one for riding. She seemed to be sitting very far above the ground; Abigail had not appeared to be very much taller than Dandelion, but the difference was enough to make Marianne shiver a bit with excitement. Michael handed her the reins. 'I shall go down the drive a bit and come back, shall I?' she asked, and Uncle Matthew nodded his head, and off they went, first at a walk and then a trot. Marianne found herself becoming accustomed to her new horse almost at once; it was as if she (Marianne) had only to form a wish in her mind – to go faster or slower, this direction or that – and Abigail immediately responded to it. As a result, they proceeded rather farther down the drive than Marianne had planned, only turning back when they encountered Dr. Mirabelle, coming towards the house on his own horse. 'How do you do, Miss Marianne,' he said, tipping his hat to her. 'You have a new horse, I think?'

'Yes,' Marianne replied, turning Abigail about to ride by his side. 'Her name is Abigail, she arrived today – just now.'

'A very beautiful little filly, I see. I congratulate you.'

'Thank you,' Marianne said. 'Uncle Matthew bought her for me.'

'Do you find her much of a change, after Dandelion? Poor Dandelion! He is sure to miss you.'

'She is different, of course,' said Marianne. 'Her gaits are different.'

They slowed to a walk, and then, agreeing wordlessly between themselves, came to a halt at the edge of the sweep, so that they could see the whole front of the house and the people now assembled on the steps: in the middle, her mamma and Edward, with Miss Brown next to them; on the right, Michael; and on the left, leaning against a column, her uncle. Marianne leaned forward to pat Abigail's neck, and as she did so she saw her mamma turn her head sharply to look at Miss Brown; but Miss Brown did not seem to notice, as she was gazing in the direction of Marianne herself – or rather (and Marianne turned her own head) in the direction of Dr. Mirabelle, who was looking back at her and taking off his hat in salutation. All of this occurred within a moment, and then Marianne sat up straight in her saddle and moved Abigail toward the house at a walk. Dr. Mirabelle followed her, and when they were closer to the group on the steps, he said, 'Good-day, Mrs. Charles, Miss Brown – Mr. Hartfield – I hope I have not interrupted a family occasion.'

'Not at all,' said Uncle Matthew, contemplating the end of his cigar. 'We came out to supervise my niece's first ride on her new horse. You must stay for luncheon and hear all about it.'

'Thank you, I should like that very much,' replied the doctor, dismounting; at the same time, Michael was lifting Marianne down from her own horse, and she was so much occupied with Abigail that she did not observe the manner of their all going into the house. She and Michael led Abigail round to the stables, talking all the way about her food and water and stall, and how much exercise she would need on days when Marianne did not ride; and Michael said that Dandelion must be exercised too, so as to be ready to carry Edward when the time came. 'Of course,' said Marianne. 'Do you suppose I can go out this afternoon? Miss Brown says it is a holiday.'

'A half holiday,' said Michael. 'But I don't see why not.'

So Marianne was very happy, and she went into the house and up the stairs to the schoolroom, suddenly hungry for her luncheon; but her governess was not there, and neither was the meal itself. She was preparing to ring the bell when a housemaid arrived. 'I should like to have my luncheon, please,' said Marianne. 'And where is Miss Brown?'

'She's downstairs, miss,' said the maid. 'And you're to come too and have luncheon with her, and Mrs. Charles and Mr. Hartfield. And the doctor,' she added, as if counting off the people in her mind.

'Oh,' said Marianne. 'I shall be there directly.' She felt very grown-up saying this, and even more so when she went next door to her bedroom and washed her hands and face, quite on her own, and administered various tugs and twitches to her dress and ribbons, to ensure that she looked respectable. Then she descended the stairs and found them all in the dining room, already seated and eating their soup. 'I apologise for being late,' she said with great dignity. 'I was seeing to Abigail.'

'Do sit down and eat, dearest,' said her mamma, indicating a chair next to hers. As Marianne seated herself, her uncle said, 'And how do you find Abigail, will she suit, do you think?'

'Oh yes,' said Marianne. 'Thank you very very much, Uncle Matthew, she is perfect and I am so grateful to you.'

Uncle Matthew said nothing to this, merely nodding his head; and Marianne nodded her head in return. Then the meal was eaten, and afterwards they all went their separate ways: Marianne to her bedroom to change into her riding habit, Miss Brown to the schoolroom and the squire to the library. Dr. Mirabelle and Mrs. Charles were left standing in the entrance hall. He had only two further calls to make that day, and he had eaten a rather large meal, and so he waited with some complacency for her to invite him up to the drawing room where there were comfortable chairs. But instead she said, 'I mustn't keep you from your patients, Dr. Mirabelle.'

'Oh,' he said, startled. 'Not at all. Thank you for luncheon.'

'Not at all,' she said in her turn, and then he was compelled to take his departure.

As he rode away from the house, he attempted to think in an orderly way about the patient he was going to, but found his mind returning to Hartfield and the people he had left there. What was to become of Mrs. Charles? She ought to marry, of course. He was uncomfortably aware that her marrying would be a great relief to him, removing from him a burden he should never, perhaps, have assumed, and providing her with a different source of comfort and reassurance. She would always require comfort and reassurance, in copious quantities, he was certain. A person with a broken leg is temporarily dependent; he will walk again without assistance when he is mended. But a person who has the capacity to walk but refuses to learn how to do so – the reason matters not – such a person is hopeless. Something must be done, but what? He could hardly go about soliciting suitors on her behalf. He could not even take the step to which Mr. Hartfield had jokingly referred when they had spoken of the matter at dinner, some months ago: he could not invite eligible families or suitors to dine, and allow her to choose a mate from among them. Perhaps she would go up to London and visit her sister-in-law; there were sure to be many eligible gentlemen there.

XVI.

Miss Brown had spoken the truth when she said that Mrs. Edward had planned to attend church and then – for various reasons – omitted doing so. Mrs. Edward was aware that such apparent prevarication, such unsteadiness of purpose, was troublesome to her household and out of character for herself. Almost every week, she resolved to attend the afternoon service on Sunday, and spoke this resolve aloud; and then when the day arrived, a reason for not going would make itself known. The weather threatened rain, or the sun shone too brightly for her eyes, so long accustomed to a dim room; or she had had a bad night and was too weary to contemplate leaving her chamber; or she found it necessary to finish writing a letter to her friend Lady Balham in Gloucestershire. Since her daughter's visit, she had bestirred herself to the extent of spending most of her day in an armchair before the fire, rather than in bed; but she still slept a great deal, slipping in and out of dreams and thoughts and memories, as a bird may slip in and out of clouds.

Before her illness, she would have scorned such torpor, in herself or others; she would have considered it unpardonably selfish, slothful, and sinful. A housemaid who took to her bed for more than two days would have been turned out of the house without a character. She remembered her previous opinions, and compared them to her present behaviour, but without the feeling of shame or inconsistency that such a comparison would logically engender. The contrast struck her as being no more than mildly interesting, and even before she could begin to ask herself why she had changed her mind, her thoughts would drift away or fade, to become entangled in the fog-like wisps of past events. She took great pleasure in her memories of her early marriage and motherhood. She could revisit those times at will, and she looked upon her former self with indulgent approval, admiring that person's strength and capacity for self-sacrifice, while also acknowledging that her present self was capable neither of strength nor of wishing to have strength. There was nothing she desired to accomplish, nothing she valued enough to enable her to exert herself to obtain it. She was content to sit, day after day, wrapped in shawls and blankets, contemplating the fire and dozing.

Marianne came in to see her once every two or three days – Mrs. Edward could not readily keep track of the frequency of these visits, but she liked to see her granddaughter, whose resemblance to her (Marianne's) father seemed to increase by the day. She liked to see Harry as well, but Harry was such a restless little being, and so unlike anyone else in the family, that Mrs. Edward found his presence disquieting. She could not help flinching when he kicked his legs about or picked up one of her ornaments to examine it. When the visit ended and the children departed, she would sink more deeply into her chair and prepare for a long nap, telling herself that when she awoke it would be teatime and she could have seed cake and muffins.

She saw more of Mrs. Talbert than she did of anyone else; the housekeeper had been her principal attendant during the acute phase of her illness, and now she waited upon her mistress as a combination of nurse and lady's maid, gradually resuming in the meantime her other household duties. Mrs. Edward's own maid had been sent to Leonora's household, Leonora being in need of a maid at the time, and both Mrs. Edward and the maid herself being aware that they were not well suited to one another. The maid in question was the last of a long series, all of whom had arrived with sterling characters and confident hopes, and all of whom had departed, chastened by their experience with Mrs. Edward. And yet she did not consider herself at all exigent or unreasonable. The other servants in the household had all been employed for years, or decades; in Gage's case, thirty-six years, in Mrs. Talbert's forty. The difficulty with the lady's maids must be that she was impatient – she did not like to wait for someone else to do things when she could do them so much more quickly herself. She acknowledged to herself that she was, or rather had been, impatient all her life, from the press of duties. This impatience, like so much else, had fallen away from her with her illness. Her work had been very well done, on the whole. Was she not justified in resting now?

Her illness had come upon her without warning – or, perhaps, there had been signs, but she was accustomed to enjoying good health and did not recognise them for what they were, or even think about them much. Looking back, she thought she had not been quite herself since Charles's death. She had attended to everyone and everything, as usual, and had (so she believed) managed Matthew and his return admirably; she had seen to it that Marianne's education was not neglected, and she had furnished little Edward with a wet nurse. The house kept her busy, as usual. She had never been in the habit of pausing in her work to look about her, and she did not do so at this period of her bereavement. But on some mornings she found herself reluctant to arise from her bed, and on some evenings she could not bring herself to take up her needlework. Then came the illness, about which she remembered very little, only that afterwards it was as if a barrier, a moat or wall, had been established between her previous life and this one. In the early days of her recovery, Mrs. Talbert had made various allusions as to Mrs. Edward returning to her former habits. Mrs. Edward did not acknowledge the hints. In the weeks when she was bedridden and the doctor came once a day, she was slowly approaching the realisation that she would never return to those habits. Even if she felt herself able to do so, she could not see the need. Matthew and Emily and Mrs. Talbert between them could run the household, and she herself could doze by the fire and think of her boy, her Charles, who was gone. She recalled him most often as a child, a child with a merry face and a ready laugh; already by the time he was six or seven years old, it was apparent that he was one of those people who are on easy terms with everyone about them. He loved his parents and siblings, but he liked everyone else – he liked even Walter Andrews, the head groom in those days, whose temper was so bad that he ended by being pensioned off at an early age, his master having decided that a remote cottage and an annuity were a small price to pay to remove him from the stables. Matthew was the only one who could bring out any symptoms of irritability or anger in his brother – but then Matthew, his mother admitted to herself, could try the patience of a saint, and Charles was no saint, though affectionate and agreeable. His ambition during Sunday services was to make his sister laugh, preferably during a quiet part of the proceedings; he had once climbed down from his bedroom window on the drainpipe, in broad daylight, because Matthew had given it as his opinion that such a feat was impossible; he had to be reminded at least once a week that he was not to run indoors, nor slide down the banister, nor bring small wild animals into the house. These reminders continued until he departed for Oxford. The first time he returned from there for the holidays, it was apparent that he had entered a new phase of existence, a quieter, more sedate, more self-conscious one; though he remained on friendly terms with everyone, there was a new formality in the way he spoke and bore himself. Mrs. Edward, though welcoming the change, was at a loss to understand it until Matthew said to her one day that 'old Charles has finally taken in that he's the heir.'

'Indeed?' said his mother. 'What makes you say so?'

'He has been in a new place, and making new acquaintances who all know him as the heir to Hartfield. That sort of thing is bound to have some effect, don't you agree? I suppose he thinks he must uphold the family honour in his own person.'

As frequently happened when her younger son made this kind of observation, Mrs Edward felt herself inclined to disagree, yet could not precisely identify her objection. 'He is older, that's all,' she said at last.

'That's true as well,' said Matthew, shrugging in his usual way, as if to say he was already tired of the subject and would not discuss it further, even though he considered himself undoubtedly in the right.

Matthew came to see her every day, always at the same time, two o'clock in the afternoon. She was sometimes dozing when he came in; other times, she was awake but did not wish to speak or be spoken to, and so she feigned sleep; still other times, after he had been sitting with her for a few minutes, she would say, 'You need not stay, Matthew, I do not require company just at the moment.' In all of these cases, he would immediately depart. She supposed he was relieved to be able to do so. These visits were a matter of duty only. She took some pride to herself in that she had given him such a strong sense of his obligations, especially now that he was master of the house. But then, in all fairness she supposed she ought to acknowledge her responsibility for the less admirable traits in his character as well. It was easier to do so now, when she seemed far removed from the household and all of its cares. She did not feel that anything really mattered. The difficulties against which she had contended all her life seemed trivial, or distant; she knew that they had all appeared very serious to her in the past, but in the present she could not quite discern why this had been so. Surely it did not much signify if dinner was served five minutes late, or if the bedroom grates were polished once a week instead of twice. She said nothing of this to anyone, partly from a feeling that they would not agree, and partly from a feeling that this, too, did not matter: her thoughts did not matter, for they would change nothing. The dead would remain dead, and the living would all join them eventually.

With Mrs. Talbert, in the early days of her recovery, she spoke of the household and its needs, or rather she listened while Mrs. Talbert talked. The housekeeper was anxious to receive directions from her mistress, so that she (Mrs. Talbert) might relinquish her responsibility for the orderly operation of the house. Mrs. Edward listened, and nodded her head from time to time, and asked a question or two; but she could not be got to issue an opinion, much less an order. 'There's that kitchenmaid, still not attending to her work, and Cook says she must be turned away if it keeps up,' Mrs. Talbert said to her. 'She has a follower among the footmen.' Mrs. Edward replied only, 'Perhaps you should mention it to Mrs. Charles, if you have not already done so.' This sort of conversation was repeated three or four times, and then Mrs. Talbert, understanding at last how her mistress had altered, left off mentioning household matters to her – or rather, the household matters she mentioned had a different bearing. She did not describe difficulties or problems, but instead passed along her own observations as to what was occurring among the various inmates of the house. Mrs. Edward would have called such observations gossip in her old days, and would have disregarded or reprimanded them; but now she listened to them with a kind of passive enjoyment, not contributing her own ideas but merely commenting now and again: 'Dear dear.' 'Did he indeed? How very troublesome.' 'I suppose it will end with her giving notice and going back to her mother.' These conversations tended to run along like a quiet trickle of water, disappearing finally into a comfortable silence which lasted until Mrs. Talbert said she must be on her way.

Mrs. Edward learned – she could hardly say how, or from whom – that her daughter and her daughter's family would visit Hartfield in April. Upon reflection she decided that it would be good to see Leonora again, and her children and husband, whose names were rather difficult to remember just at the moment. There was Harry, of course, and two, or perhaps three, older boys.

'It will do us all good to have the house full again,' said Mrs. Talbert, rather obscurely. Mrs. Edward intended to ask her what she meant; but another thought came into her mind, regarding her dinner, and she forgot the question, and indeed forgot the conversation, until Matthew's visit later that day.

'Leonora will arrive on the fifth,' he said. 'I shall send the carriage and the dog-cart to the station, and perhaps Marianne and I will ride over as well.'

Mrs. Edward could think of nothing to say to this; the arrangement seemed entirely unobjectionable to her, and also entirely uninteresting.

'I haven't seen my brother-in-law in ages,' Matthew continued. 'I suppose he hasn't changed. People don't, as a rule.' He had been gazing at the fire, and now he gave his mother a quick look. 'Though I must say you yourself have changed, ma'am.'

'Have I?' she said – not curious about his answer, particularly, but feeling that she ought to say something.

'Of course, and no wonder, as your illness was so serious.'

'And in what does the change consist, would you say?'

He paused before he answered. 'You seem very … distant. Far away from us in mind and spirit.'

She said nothing, and after a moment he went on: 'Dr. Bingley tells me that convalescents often go through a period of – of detachment, of not interesting themselves in the world round them as they used to do. He says their interest comes back as their bodily strength returns.'

Mrs. Edward frowned, not with displeasure but in an attempt to find the words to express her ideas. 'Dr. Bingley can hardly help being correct most of the time, since he so rarely says anything that is not obvious to us all. Naturally a physical illness compels the patient to think mainly of his or her own suffering, and afterwards other things seem less important than they did before. But I think –' here she paused again, considering – 'I think in my own case neither the bodily strength nor the interest – as you call it – will return. I am an old woman and cannot expect to recover my former health.'

'That is nonsense, ma'am. You could live for many more years, and to do so with your current habits is not – would not – it is not to be imagined. I am not suggesting you should return to your old habits, mind.'

'Then what are you suggesting, pray?'

'I am suggesting that you might – when you are ready – you might exert yourself to show, and if possible to feel, some interest in your family. It would serve you as well as us.'

Mrs. Edward sat up straighter in her chair. 'Perhaps it would, but I am astonished at you, offering me this advice, when you yourself have never had any interest in your family. You have never sought your happiness in domestic life. You have been very detached – till you were forced to become otherwise.'

She saw with satisfaction that his face had reddened with vexation, and she waited with calm patience for what he might say next. But he said nothing; he turned his gaze back to the fire, rose to his feet and kicked a log so that sparks flew up the chimney, and then left the room. The conversation had tired her, and she composed herself for sleep, congratulating herself at having deflected her son's attack so successfully.

XVII.

On the fifth of April, Marianne and her uncle rode to the railway station to meet Aunt Leonora and her family, the weather being fine though cold. Abigail tossed her head and her breath rose into the air in white plumes. Alexander came too, trotting along behind the horses. Marianne's hands and feet quickly became chilled, but she said nothing of it; she was determined to prove to her uncle that she could be out of doors for as long as would be required for a hunt. Hunts lasted hours and hours, Michael had told her. The fox might lead them all on a run of several miles, or it might hide itself in a wood or covert, causing the riders to mill about, going backwards and forwards, for quite a long time. 'Then of course you must get back to the house,' added Michael. 'Through mud and dirt, as like as not. It's no wonder ladies don't hunt much.' 'Don't they?' said Marianne. 'They don't,' he repeated, 'unless they're like Lady Clarke, whose husband is gone, so there's no one to say her nay.' Thinking this over on her way to the station, Marianne concluded that a husband was an awkward thing to have, at least if one wanted to enjoy oneself. But she was aware, though nothing on the subject had been said to her directly, that everyone expected her to acquire a husband when she was older.

They were in good time for the train, and they sat on their horses next to the carriage, Uncle Matthew exchanging a few words with the coachman. One of the footmen had gone in to meet Aunt Leonora, and presently a group of people emerged – Aunt Leonora herself, a tall gentleman and one who was slightly shorter, the footman and a porter with the luggage, and what appeared at first to be six or seven boys, jostling each other and hopping up and down impatiently and tugging on their parents' sleeves. When the party came to a halt at the carriage, Marianne saw that there were only three boys, one of them Harry. 'What a jolly horse, Marianne,' he called to her, waving. 'Can I ride with you?'

'You cannot,' said Uncle Matthew, before she could answer. 'You must ride in the carriage with your parents. Leonora, Alistair, welcome to Hartfield.'

'Thank you, Matthew,' said her aunt rather breathlessly. 'May I introduce Mr. James Quick, my husband's secretary? Mr. Quick, this is my brother, Matthew Hartfield. Do get in, boys. I must see to the luggage. Where is my hatbox? No, that is not it. Nor that one. There it is. That will go into the carriage with me. Harry, get in, if you please. You may pet the dog as much as you like at the house. I do believe the carriage needs a new coat of paint, Matthew.'

At length they were all safely in the carriage, and the various trunks were secured on the dog-cart, and the procession moved away. Harry leant out of the window to talk to Marianne until his mother pulled him back in. Then he pressed his nose to the glass and pulled faces until his mother put a stop to that, too. So they made their way home, and once there, Harry and Marianne detached themselves as soon as they could and went up to the schoolroom. Harry wandered about the room, picking things up and putting them down again, and talked about Eton. 'I don't like it a bit,' he said cheerfully, 'the rooms are cold and the food is beastly and the masters would as soon whip you as look at you. A good deal sooner, I should say. I hope I'm ill again and I can stay home next term.' He sat down on the floor next to Alexander and began stroking the dog's head.

'Your brothers are there too?'

'Yes, and I wish they were not. They're worse than the others.'

'Worse? … What do they do?'

He gave her a rapid look and then returned his attention to Alexander. 'Oh, nothing. It's of no consequence. How is Miss Brown, is she quite well?'

'Yes, quite well, thank you.'

'And your mother, how is she?'

'Quite well also.' Having said this, Marianne became uncertain; she did not know her mother's state of mind or health with much accuracy, nor did she ever much consider the question except when the two of them were in the same room together.

'And Grandmamma. Has she been to church yet?'

'No. I told you she wouldn't go, you know. I don't believe she'll go anywhere at all, ever again.'

Harry seemed to consider this for a few moments, and then he said, 'Your new horse is lovely. I should like to try her while I'm here.'

'I suppose you may,' Marianne said dubiously, 'but we shall have to ask Uncle Matthew. She was trained to carry a lady, you know. The saddle is different.'

'I never ride at school,' Harry said, arguing his case. 'I haven't been on a horse for ages. I could ride Abigail and you could ride Dandelion.'

'No, I could not,' said Marianne, indignant at the suggestion. 'He's much too small for me. Edward will begin riding him in a few months.'

Harry shrugged and got up from the floor. 'I'm ever so hungry, let's go and see when we're having tea.'

He went out, Alexander following, and Marianne trailed behind him, experiencing a familiar mixture of emotions: happiness that her cousin was there; anticipation of the many adventures they would have together during his visit; exasperation at his suddenly dropping the subject of Dandelion before it was settled; and finally a foreboding twinge of sadness, because after all this visit would come to an end, he would go back to his horrid school and she would be left to herself again. She could hardly say which of these feelings came uppermost. But the question faded from her mind as the afternoon went on. They soon had tea, and then she took Harry out to the stables to see Abigail and Dandelion and Michael, and then they walked to the pond and back again, and then they had supper together in the schoolroom. Harry's brothers were to dine with the grown people. Marianne was glad about that, because she had already conceived a burning hatred for the eldest of them, who upon their arrival at the house had looked her up and down and said, 'So this is little Marianne, is it?'

At dinner Emily was seated next to Mr. Alton, who was rather silent, attending mainly to his food and only raising his eyes now and again to cast an admonitory look at his two older sons, quelling whatever tendency towards misbehaviour they might be tempted to indulge. Mr. Quick was seated on her other side and she found herself conversing with him, if the word 'conversing' could be applied to such aimless chatter. At first she thought he was nervous, and attempted to put him at ease; as the meal progressed, she discovered that he was merely scatterbrained, darting from subject to subject just as they crossed his mind. From speaking of his recent journey, he went on to describe how he had become Mr. Alton's secretary, and from thence he wandered away to reminiscences of his father's estate in Essex, and so on, until the next course was served and he began praising the dining room and its fittings. Emily found this curiously soothing, as she realised that she need not respond with anything beyond 'Yes' or 'Indeed?' or 'How nice.' When it was time for the ladies to go up to the drawing room, he said to her, 'I do hope we can talk some more this evening,' and she said, 'Oh yes, I expect so,' and went upstairs smiling to herself at the memory of his words and his admiring gaze.

'It's kind of you to attend to Mr. Quick,' Mrs. Alton said, once they were seated on the sofa and each had taken up her needlework. 'He's a very good young man but somewhat … somewhat tiring.'

'Tiring?' said Emily.

'Yes, don't you find him so? One can never finish a subject or a thought with him, he is away to the next thing and then the next. I cannot tell how Alistair manages him, but they seem to do well enough.'

'I don't find him tiring at all,' said Emily.

When the gentlemen joined them, Mr. Quick seated himself near to Emily, and spoke this time of London, and a ball he had attended during the last season, and then of the troubles he had encountered in finding lodgings when he first arrived there; but it seemed he was very well suited now, with a kind landlady and comfortable rooms close on Gloucester Square, where Mr. Alton and his family lived. The landlady's name was Mrs. Rowley, she was a widow with two young children, and she had been recommended to him by a friend of his in the ministry with whom he had shared an office before he was appointed to be Mr. Alton's secretary. Emily thought she would like to ask a question at this point, but refrained, having already learnt that she was sure to hear the answer, at some future moment, when it tumbled forth amidst the onrushing stream of his discourse. And indeed, before the evening was over, she had heard his entire history and a good part of his family's history; and he had asked her various questions about her own life, and so she felt that they had grown to know one another much more intimately than was usually to be expected on such short acquaintance. She did not ask herself whether such rapid progress was a matter for happiness or the reverse. She allowed herself to enjoy the feeling, long absent from her life, of being admired, and admired in spite of her widow's weeds and the thinness and pallor of her face – so different from her looks when her husband had been alive.

The next day, in a pattern that was to continue while Mr. Alton and his secretary remained at Hartfield, the two of them sequestered themselves in the library with a large box of official papers they had brought with them. Emily was left with her sister-in-law and her older nephews, Harry having disappeared with Marianne shortly after breakfast, to be seen no more until tea. The nephews were at that unwieldy age when boys are too old to play and too young to partake of adult pastimes. They lurked about, in the hall and the billiard room and the stables, while their mother carried out an inspection of the house and their uncle, having been banished from his library, went away on his horse to talk to a farmer. Emily seated herself in the drawing room, but could not attend to her needlework; very soon she ascended the stairs to her own bedroom, to gaze into the mirror and consider how she might make the best of her appearance that evening. She let her hair down and examined it; it was still very pretty hair, but she had lost the habit of arranging it in a becoming way, and she reflected that to make a sudden change now would be sure to cause Mrs. Edward to frown at her. Then she recalled that Mrs. Edward would not see her, and Matthew and Leonora, for their part, would not notice any change that she made. So that evening she rang for her maid quite early, and the two of them laboured over her hair until Emily was satisfied. She had always understood that elegance requires restraint, and she left aside her jet ornaments, wearing only her wedding ring and one small silver bracelet that Charles had given her, so that her queenly head would be seen to full advantage.

She was much gratified when her efforts were rewarded by the continued and even increased attentions of Mr. Quick. They were once again seated next to one another, and once again there was no shortage of topics raised, and then rapidly cast aside, by the gentleman's fertile mind. In the drawing room after dinner, Leonora said to her, 'I declare you and Mr. Quick are becoming fast friends. I am very happy to see it, because I was afraid he would be bored, down here in the country.'

'He and Mr. Alton seem to have a great deal of work to do.'

'Yes, I suppose so, though why it cannot wait a few days I do not know. I believe Alistair enjoys it far more than he would enjoy, say, taking walks or rides or going shooting. That reminds me, Harry asked me if he and Marianne could ride tomorrow, but he has no mount. I must speak to Matthew about borrowing one.'

Emily did not reply for a moment; she was thinking how to bring the conversation back to Mr. Quick. Finally she said, 'Does Mr. Quick ride? I suppose Matthew could find a horse for him as well.'

'One supposes he can ride, but he will scarcely have time while he's here. Alistair will see to that. I do think it's rather hard upon the boys, they scarcely see their father in their holidays, but what can I do? Alistair is miserable if he's idle.'

'That is a shame,' Emily said, and she was obliged after that to leave the subject of Mr. Quick alone until the man himself appeared, with the others, and immediately picked up the thread of their conversation where they had left it.

The question of a horse for Harry turned out to be rather more involved than Harry himself, or Marianne for that matter, had anticipated. Mr. Hartfield visited the stables next morning and spent a considerable time walking up and down with Michael, the two of them hardly speaking but understanding each other nevertheless. The end of it all was, that Mr. Hartfield told his sister that Harry could ride Rosie, a very old mare who had once drawn the carriage and was now relegated to serving occasionally as a plough horse when none other could be found. Harry grumbled when he saw her, but (he said) he was too glad to be riding at all to refuse a horse, and by the end of the afternoon he declared he had become quite fond of Rosie. Marianne said nothing to this; she felt that her uncle had been rather unreasonable in not letting Harry ride, say, Luke or Cobbler, but she knew it was useless to say so. He had never seen Harry ride and did not trust him with the bigger or faster horses. But it was more than this; he was careful with the horses, to be sure, but he had also been in a silent, watchful, grim kind of mood, ever since the Altons had arrived. It would change when they departed, no doubt.

In due course Mr. Alton and Mr. Quick took themselves back to London. Aunt Leonora and her children were to stay another week, and Marianne noticed that her uncle's mood improved, perhaps because he was now allowed back into the library. Her mother's mood, on the other hand, became very melancholy, and then happy again; there was an atmosphere of something rather mysterious happening, or about to happen, but Marianne could not discover what it was. Miss Brown went away to visit her sister, and the weather turned rainy. Nanny had charge of Harry and Marianne, but since Nanny also had charge of Edward, the two other children were free to ramble about the house, down to the kitchen and up to the attics, and sometimes out to the stables to visit the horses and reassure them that riding would recommence as soon as the weather would permit. But the weather was still unsuitable for riding when Harry himself, and his brothers and mother, departed in their turn.

Miss Brown returned, and Marianne had to begin her lessons again, which she did with much outward reluctance but inward relief. The Altons' visit, so full of excitement and enjoyment, had left her unsettled. She made sure to ask Miss Brown about her journey and her family when she came back, and Miss Brown said that her sister was very happy in her new home, and that her father had been there too, and altogether it was a most pleasurable visit. 'But I thought of you often, Marianne,' she said. 'I was glad to know that Harry was here, the two of you are such good friends.'

'Mrs. Alton asked Mamma if we could visit them in the summer,' said Marianne.

'Did she? And what did your mamma say?'

'She said we could go.'

There was a short silence, and then Miss Brown said, 'And should you like that?'

'I suppose. I should quite like to see London, and Harry. But Abigail can't come. And Harry's brothers will be there on their holidays.'

'His brothers being there would be a drawback, would it?'

'Yes, I quite hate Frederick.' Frederick was the eldest.

'Marianne, do not say you hate people. It isn't Christian.'

'Well, I dislike him then. I dislike him very much. He laughs at Harry and laughs at me.'

'You need not see much of him, if you go.'

'Will you go too?'

'If your mamma thinks it for the best, of course I will.'

But nothing was said about the proposed visit after that. The household reverted to its normal routines and interests, and everyone save Mrs. Charles seemed to have forgotten the Altons and Mr. Quick. The weather improved and Marianne resumed riding, sometimes accompanying her uncle on his rides to outlying farms and into town. 'I can stay out for hours and hours,' she said to him one day as they were returning. 'I should like to stay out all day if I could.'

'Miss Brown would not approve of that,' he said. The horses were walking, the lane being muddy and the light fading. They would be late for tea, but Marianne did not mind that, as she was aware that no one ever scolded her uncle when he was late for meals.

'I should like to go on a hunt,' she said boldly.

'Perhaps when you're older,' he said, 'sixteen or so at least.'

'Sixteen?' she exclaimed, dismayed. 'That's – that's ever so old.'

'You will be astonished at how quickly the time goes by.'

She was silent for some minutes, thinking this over, and then she said, 'Will you go with us to London?'

'London? You mean to see your Aunt Leonora?'

'Yes.'

'I suppose I might. In fact I'm going up there next week, just for a day or two, and I shall see the Altons then.'

Marianne was dismayed all over again. 'May I go with you?'

'I'm afraid not. I have business there, I am staying in an hotel and that is not a proper place to take you.'

His niece was more and more bewildered. 'Why are you staying in an hotel? Does Aunt Leonora not have a room for you?' And if she had no room for Uncle Matthew, then how did she propose to entertain Marianne and her mamma?

'I do not want to inconvenience her just now. And you must ask no more questions. Mind Abigail, she is getting tired.'

XVIII.

At the beginning of Mrs. Edward's illness, Sir Thomas had been constant in his attendance at Hartfield, calling every day to inquire after her and offer his assistance, though how he could assist was never clear either to him or to Gage, to whom this offer was always made. The calls became less frequent as the illness continued, as it was plain that everyone at Hartfield had noticed and appreciated his devotion and needed no further proof of it. He rejoiced to hear of her convalescence and called at once when he had been told – no one could ever say by whom – that she was receiving visitors. But receive Sir Thomas she would not. 'I'm sorry you have had the trouble of riding over,' Mr. Hartfield said to him on the first occasion when he was turned away. 'My mother is still quite poorly, and sees no one.'

'It is of no consequence,' said Sir Thomas stiffly. 'Please give her my regards.' As he got back on his horse he could not but reflect on the years of friendship between himself and Mrs. Edward, the many times she had sought his advice, and the close neighbourhood of their two houses. It did seem to him that he should not have been placed in the same category as any casual visitor. He was affronted, and yet the following week he called again. This time he refrained from asking for Mrs. Edward, and instead said to Gage that he happened to be passing the house and wished to inquire after his old friend, but would of course not wish to disturb her for the world. 'How kind of you, Sir Thomas,' said Gage. 'I will see that she receives the message. I believe Mr. Hartfield is in the stables, but if you care to wait, I can send someone to him …?'

'No, thank you, Gage, I must be on my way.'

He was in the habit of confiding in his valet, that is to say, speaking aloud whatever was uppermost in his mind while the man was helping him to dress. On this particular evening, he said, 'I think it is odd when no distinction is made for degree of acquaintance. I have known the Hartfields all my life, and now I believe they are determined to treat me like a stranger. Do you not agree it is odd, Roberts?'

'I am sure they mean no offense, Sir Thomas,' Roberts said. 'My Hannah says Mrs. Edward still keeps to her room. I don't believe she sees anyone at all.' Hannah was Roberts's daughter and was an upper housemaid at Hartfield. 'I suppose they think if she sees you, then she'll feel obliged to see others as well.'

Roberts knew his master very well, and this was exactly the way of putting things that was best calculated to soothe the latter's feelings. 'I suppose so,' he said, as if reluctantly; but in truth he was greatly relieved. Naturally Mrs. Edward would wish to avoid the appearance of inconsistency or rudeness which might be created should she entertain Sir Thomas but not others. He went down to dinner in a cheerful frame of mind, thinking with admiration of the lady's delicacy of feeling and unerring sense of propriety. He congratulated himself upon his success in encouraging – he would not saycreating– these sterling qualities in her, and congratulated himself again when the happy thought occurred to him that by staying scrupulously away, he would make it easier for her to adhere to her self-imposed restrictions. He would not obtrude upon her notice nor tempt her to see him; for if she did see him, she would then feel that she ought to accept other visitors as well, and this might endanger her precarious recovery.

He stayed away all March and April, but one day in May he heard from Roberts that Mrs. Edward had actually come downstairs the day before, for tea in the drawing room, and he felt that now, at last, he might venture to call again. The next day, therefore, he had his horse saddled and rode over, under a blue sky adorned with small white clouds. At Hartfield he was somewhat surprised to see a gig standing on the sweep; he recognised it as the one maintained by the livery stable for the use of travelers arriving at the town by rail. As he gave his horse's reins to the groom, he said, 'Ah, another visitor, I see!' but the man only touched his cap and replied, 'Yes, sir, to be sure,' and that was no help to Sir Thomas.

Gage opened the door as he mounted the steps. 'Good day, Sir Thomas,' he said. 'Do come in.'

'I came to inquire about your mistress – Mrs. Edward,' Sir Thomas said to him, passing into the house.

'It's very kind of you, sir,' Gage said. 'Will you wait in the library? I shall send Mr. Hartfield to you soon.'

There was nothing for it but to go into the library, and Sir Thomas as he entered it told himself that he was at least closer to his objective than he had been on his previous visits, when he had not even passed the threshold of the house. He had not long to wait; Mr. Hartfield was with him within a few minutes, and as they shook hands the master of the house said, 'I fear you may have had your ride for nothing. My mother is resting at the moment and cannot be disturbed.'

'My dear sir, do not consider any inconvenience to me,' Sir Thomas replied. 'The ride is very short, our two houses being so close together. I think nothing of any time or effort. I only want to see my old friend or at least hear that she is well.'

Mr. Hartfield appeared to hesitate before answering him. They were standing in the middle of the room, near a big table on which books and papers lay, and he picked up a volume in a distracted manner and put it down again before speaking. 'The truth is, Sir Thomas,' he said at last, 'the truth is, she sees no one. I wish she did, I am sure visitors – certain visitors, at any rate – I am sure they would do her good. I have said so to her, many a time. But she refuses everyone, and I cannot of course dispute with her.'

Sir Thomas frowned. 'Surely such an old friend – surely if she knew I were in the house …'

Mr. Hartfield frowned as well, regarding him. Then he appeared to come to some decision. 'We can but try,' he said. He rang the bell, and when Gage appeared he asked him to send word to Mrs. Edward that Sir Thomas wished to see her. Gage bowed and departed, and in the silence that followed Sir Thomas bethought himself of the gig at the door. 'You have another visitor,' he said to Mr. Hartfield. 'I do hope I am not detaining you from him.' Then he added, 'Or her.'

'No, the other visitor is for Mrs. Charles.'

Sir Thomas raised his eyebrows, but no further details were forthcoming; in fact his host was frowning again, and turning over the books on the table, as if wishing to be elsewhere.

Following Mrs. Talbert out of the library and up the stairs, Sir Thomas experienced an emotion common to many people who find themselves on the verge of achieving a long-awaited goal: he was suddenly reluctant, full of trepidation as to what he might find when he was admitted to the sanctum of Mrs. Edward's sickroom. He had not arranged in his mind the proper words with which to greet her after so long a separation. The housekeeper mounted the stairs rather too fast for him, and when they had reached the second floor he desired to pause and catch his breath. But Mrs. Talbert proceeded briskly along the corridor and knocked on a door, which was immediately opened; and thus Sir Thomas found himself in the lady's presence in a state of unreadiness. She was in a chair by the fire, and as he advanced towards her he had a confused impression of a thin hand on the arm of the chair, a bundle of shawls and rugs, and a face in shadow, the head drooping forward. 'My dear Mrs. Edward, how wonderful to see you at last,' he said, by this time standing before her on the opposite side of the fire.

She raised her head, and he was startled at the change in her appearance. She looked much older than before, the skin on her face wasted and her bones standing out; but he was taken aback even more by her expression, which was one of sober, settled, cold detachment. He could see that she recognised him, but the recognition brought to her face no warmth or welcome. 'Sir Thomas,' she said at last. 'How good of you to come. Do sit down. Mrs. Talbert, might we have some tea?'

Mrs. Talbert departed, and as Sir Thomas seated himself he continued to gaze at his friend, unwilling to say what he thought, which would hardly be flattering to her, but equally unwilling to utter empty pleasantries. She had been very impatient with such things in former days. Finally he said, 'I must congratulate you on your convalescence. I heard your illness was severe and that your family at one point feared greatly for you.'

'So they did, I suppose. I myself remember very little of the illness, and that is no doubt for the best.'

'No doubt.'

Then there was a silence, while Mrs. Edward gazed at the fire and Sir Thomas gazed at her. The silence became uncomfortable for him, and at last he said, 'I cannot but feel it strange, seeing you after such a long time. It is almost as if we must begin our acquaintance anew.'

'Is it? I do not think there is anything we must do.' She paused and seemed to consider. 'On the whole I believe we think far too much about our obligations. What do they amount to, after all? What would happen if we ignored them?'

Sir Thomas was scandalised. 'My dear madam! Surely you are not suggesting that we should cast aside our duties. Supposing everyone were to do so, the result would be – would be – chaos.'

Mrs. Edward smiled for the first time. 'Of course, that is so. I should not wish the lower orders to abandon their places or their tasks. I am merely suggesting that at our time of life, in our circumstances, we may consider ourselves free from responsibility. I am sure I have done enough, during my lifetime, to merit some respite.'

Sir Thomas was forced to pause before he replied and consider whether he could honestly say the same. Had he earned rest or respite? How had he occupied his time, exactly? His estate was not extensive, and it was looked after by his man of business. He attended church faithfully, and when he was younger he had served as a magistrate for a few years; though he had given this up after an episode during which he had been made to feel rather foolish, while on the bench, by a man accused of stealing a sheep. He maintained cordial relations with everyone about him. Without examining his past life in great detail at the moment, he was enabled to believe, as he had always done, that he had filled his position with honour. And yet Mrs. Edward's words made him uneasy, demonstrating as they did how thoroughly her own views had changed.

He was rescued from further perplexity at the moment by the arrival of the tea. The maid who brought it lingered to exchange a few words with Sir Thomas. He was revived by her respectful pleasure in seeing him, as well as by the sight of the tea, and when he was again alone with Mrs. Edward he told himself that he must do what he had come there to do, that is, bolster up her spirits and renew their old friendship. He therefore began regaling her with news of the town and the parish, news mainly gathered by way of Roberts, as well as by way of Sir Thomas's own housekeeper, whose main occupation was gossiping with the tradesmen who came to his house. Sir Thomas had spoken for some minutes before he observed that Mrs. Edward had fallen asleep. His words trailed away; he sat silently, watching her and the fire alternately, and thinking that he ought to get up and go away; presently he himself fell asleep.

Sir Thomas awoke some time later. The fire had died down, but Mrs. Edward slumbered on. He got to his feet and left the room quietly; there was no one about, and after some hesitation he proceeded down the stairs, thinking that he might be able to leave the house unnoticed. Almost everything had left his mind aside from the shocking sentiments uttered by Mrs. Edward, and he felt disinclined to speak to anyone, apart from perhaps a maid, to let her know that her mistress was asleep and unattended. There were no maids to be seen,and so he descended to the hall, intending to let himself out of the house by the front door. But in the hall he encountered Mrs. Charles, who was pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace. As he drew nearer to her, he could see that her face was flushed and her eyes alight with – with what exactly? Excitement, perhaps? Or anger? He could not tell, and therefore his greeting to her was cautious.

'Good day, Mrs. Charles, I hope I find you well?'

'Oh!' she said, rounding on him as if startled. 'Oh, it is you, Sir Thomas. I am quite well, thank you.' Then she paused as if listening, with her eyes directed to the library door opposite. 'And I hope you are well too?' she said at last.

'Yes, very well. I have been visiting your mother-in-law and now I must be going. Do not let me disturb you.'

'Oh – not at all – I am waiting for – in fact, Sir Thomas, I am waiting for my fiancé!'

Sir Thomas was astounded. 'Fiancé?'

'Yes, I have received a proposal of marriage and I have accepted it.' Her face seemed to flush a brighter red and she said, 'I know it is very sudden. Everyone will say so.'

'Ah – indeed – I must congratulate you, my dear,' Sir Thomas said, before recollecting that propriety requires the groom to be congratulated and not the bride. 'And who is – who is the fortunate man?'

'He is Mr. Quick,' she said with an air of pride. 'Mr. Alton's private secretary, you know. Although I suppose he will have to give that up.'

'Ah,' said Sir Thomas again. He was spared the necessity of commenting further by the library door opening and two men issuing forth, one of them Mr. Hartfield and the other a gentleman, unfamiliar to Sir Thomas, whom he surmised must be Mr. Quick. This guess was verified when the gentleman went straight to Mrs. Charles and took her hands in his. They smiled at one another, and then Mrs. Charles looked over his shoulder at Mr. Hartfield. 'Well …?' she said.

'Well, you and I must talk things over, Emily,' Mr. Hartfield said. He walked slowly over to the fireplace and stood with his back to it and his hands in his pockets. Then he noticed Sir Thomas for the first time. 'Good heavens, sir, I had no idea you were still in the house. I do apologise. I hope you and my mother had a pleasant visit?'

'Most pleasant,' Sir Thomas answered, thinking inwardly that it certainly had not been pleasant in the least. 'I am on my way home now, but perhaps you might introduce me to Mr. – Mr. –?'

'Of course. Sir Thomas, may I present to you Mr. James Quick? Mr. Quick, one of our neighbours, Sir Thomas Manville.'

The two men shook hands and said 'how do you do,' and then Mr. Quick immediately launched into an encomium on his great good fortune. 'I left London this morning hardly daring to hope,' he said to Sir Thomas. 'And yet everything seemed to conspire to bring me to Hartfield as if on wings. I found a cab in Gloucester Square and arrived at the station in excellent time – I was able to buy a paper before the train left. I do think the Prime Minister's speech last night was brilliant, don't you? I read it straight through before we had reached Windsor. I have a cousin in Windsor, he is a solicitor, we're cousins on my mother's side and he married another cousin of mine, Miss Eleanor Poole, of the Stock Hill Pooles. They have three children, or is it four? Three, I think. At any rate –'

Here Mr. Hartfield interjected. 'I believe the station gig is still waiting? You are in good time for the three-forty train.'

'Ah, yes – I must be going – Mr. Alton expects me this evening – I shall write to you, Emily! A very good day to all of you.'

By this time Gage had made his appearance in some mysterious fashion and was prepared to usher Mr. Quick out of the front door. Once he had gone Sir Thomas gathered himself together to make his farewells, but before he could begin, Mrs. Charles rushed up to Mr. Hartfield and put her hands on his shoulders. 'Oh, Matthew, is it not wonderful! I shall go up to Mrs. Edward and tell her at once.'

Mr. Hartfield gently took her hands off his shoulders, holding them as he looked into her face. 'Dear Emily, I am happy for your happiness of course, but let us wait – let us consider together before we tell anyone. We shall lose nothing by waiting a day or two. I know we can rely upon Sir Thomas's discretion.'

Sir Thomas bowed and said of course they could rely upon it, and again prepared himself to go, but again Mrs. Charles began speaking. 'You do not mean to cause difficulties, surely? You cannot mean there is anything in Mr. Quick's character or connections to which you could object?'

'No – that is, I know of nothing now, but this has all been so quick – that is, so rapid, and I should be neglecting my duty were I not to make some inquiry. From my sister and brother-in-law, first of all.'

'I am sure they will tell you his character and family are both beyond reproach,' she said. 'His father owns a large estate in Essex and his sisters are both very respectably married, and though he is the third son, he has prospects on his mother's side of the family.'

Mr. Hartfield had returned his hands to his pockets, listening to her with his head bowed, having seemingly forgotten all about Sir Thomas, who found it impossible to leave when no one would acknowledge his good-byes. Gage had disappeared again. At last the squire said, 'I shall write to Leonora directly, and I shall speak to Mr. Foyle. In the meantime I should be glad if you would tell me how this came to be – I am not at all questioning his devotion to you, or yours to him, but I cannot but be aware that a few weeks ago neither of you knew the other existed. He has lived up to his name, to be sure.'

Here, to Sir Thomas's great distress, Mrs. Charles burst into tears and sat down on one of the big chairs, putting her handkerchief to her eyes. 'Do not be unkind, Matthew,' she said, 'you mustn't question me when I have been so happy.'

'Come – am I to question you when you are unhappy? I do not mean to wound or offend you. But I cannot do my duty without some knowledge of the facts.'

'Of course you know how we became acquainted,' she said, having dried her tears. 'When he left to return to London, he asked me if he might write to me. We had been in the habit of speaking on so many subjects, and he said he depended upon being able to continue our conversations, through letters, until we could meet again.' Here she stopped and looked up at him, as if hoping he might be satisfied with this account. But Mr. Hartfield, after waiting a moment, merely nodded his head and bid her go on. Sir Thomas thought he looked very like his mother as he did so. Mrs. Charles therefore continued: 'We exchanged letters and he – in the letter I received from him a week ago, he made me a proposal of marriage, and in my reply I said that I could not give him an answer without – without being asked in person. I wanted to hear the words from his own lips.'

'I suppose your saying so was an answer in itself. But go on.'

'There is nothing more to tell, Matthew. He arrived today as you know, and made the offer in the proper form, and I referred him to you as the head of the family.'

'I see. Indeed it is all very proper. I shall go to work at once to satisfy myself as to his character. You must believe, Emily, I have your happiness at heart in all of this and shall avoid disturbing it if I can.'

'Thank you,' she said, rising to her feet. 'Good-day, Sir Thomas.'

Sir Thomas, startled, bowed to her and then to his host, and took his departure at last, marveling as he did so at the things he had seen and heard while in the house. As he did not consider his promise of secrecy as binding on him in regard to his own valet, that evening he told the news to Roberts, who professed great astonishment; but in point of fact Roberts had already heard it from his daughter Hannah, and it was common knowledge in both households, and indeed in the parish, before Matthew received an answer to his letter to his sister. That answer was as follows:

My dear Mr. Hartfield,

I write at the request of my wife, who handed me your letter this morning and bade me provide what intelligence I can as to Mr. James Quick's character and connections. As she also bade me save at least a quarter of the sheet for her own remarks, this missive shall be rather brief.

Mr. Quick was appointed as my private secretary at the beginning of last year, and on the whole I have found his work to be satisfactory and his deportment quite unexceptionable. He comes from a worthy family in Sussex, and though I am unacquainted with his parents, I have never heard an ill word about them. As you may be aware, he is the third son in a large family, and his only prospect of a fortune depends upon a maiden aunt of his mother's, who is expected to leave him some £5,000 at her death. His salary as my secretary is £200 per annum, an amount which may increase modestly year by year, if he continues to do his work with credit to himself and our ministry.

I have found him agreeable aside from one habit, which you yourself must surely have observed: that is, once he has begun speaking, he finds it very difficult to stop, and therefore I have instituted a system whereby I signal him to be quiet, by raising one finger. This has greatly increased the harmony with which we work together.

Leonora reminds me that I must stop and leave her some room. You will of course let me know if I can assist you any further in this matter.

I remain, dear sir, your obedient servant,

Alistair Alton

Dear Matthew,

What an end this will be to Emily's widowhood! For I think you will find that Mr. Quick is a suitable husband – to be sure he has no fortune, but I understand that she is well fixed with money from her own family, so that is of no consequence. He is quite a chatterbox as Alistair has already reminded you, but as Emily does not mind this, then neither should you. I believe him to be a most affectionate, goodhearted young man who will be kind to her and the children. The boys all like him, though Harry sometimes laughs at him, and encourages him to make even longer speeches than he normally makes. I mention this so that you can be sure you have all the knowledge that I do regarding him.

Alistair says his family's estate is in Sussex, but I feel sure it is in Essex. Do find out when you make your inquiries.

Emily can be married from our house if she desires a London wedding, only we must have some notice so we can have the banns read.

Your affectionate sister,

Leonora

Mr. Foyle heard about the intended marriage along with everyone else, and was not surprised when he received a note from Mr. Hartfield on the same day on which the letter above had been received, asking him to call the following afternoon. Mr. Foyle did so and was shown into the library, where the squire was seated before the fire, holding a book which he was not reading. He jumped up when Mr. Foyle came in, offered him a glass of sherry, and once they were both seated immediately rushed into his subject: 'You have heard about the marriage proposal made to Emily, I am sure.'

'I have.' Mr. Foyle did not say from whom he had heard this news, feeling that this would be immaterial to the matter at hand.

'Her intended husband is employed by my brother-in-law at present, and I have had a letter from him testifying to Mr. Quick's good character. Here –' and he handed the letter to Mr. Foyle, who ran his eye over it and then looked up at his host. 'You see that they have nothing – almost nothing – but kind words for him. But I should wish to know more about his antecedents before I give Emily my sanction. For one thing there is some disagreement about where his family live – Essex or Sussex.'

'I should be glad to carry out whatever inquiries you think are necessary, sir.'

'I will be most grateful for your assistance. I have met the gentleman myself and I fear my opinion of him is not altogether good. The letter describes his habit of talking too much, but it hardly does him justice in that regard. One feels in talking with him, or rather in being talked to by him, that one is being carried away by a rushing stream whose current carries much detritus. It is not only that he talks a great deal. It is that his talk includes nothing of value or meaning. It is all the merest twaddle.'

'Do you agree with your sister – that is, do you think that if Mrs. Charles does not object to this tendency of his, no one else ought to do so?'

'I suppose I must agree, a marriage being above all the business of the people in it. If they were going to do the regular thing that married couples do, and go away to live elsewhere, then I should consider his – his talkativeness a minor annoyance. But I do not think they should or will go away. I think they must live here, at Hartfield.'

'Indeed? What is your reason for that?'

'Because Edward is the owner of Hartfield and should be brought up here. And because Marianne, if she were to go away and live with her mother, would be neglected and overlooked. Emily favours Edward, and there will probably be more children, and Marianne will be lost amongst them or else they will send her to some dreadful school. You understand, of course, that I would say this to no one but you. I would not criticise my sister-in-law if I could help it. But the matter is too important for me to hold back from you my true thoughts. I would be very glad if Mr. Quick himself were to return to Sussex, or Essex, and I would not mind if Emily went with him – I am very fond of her, but after all she is bound to remarry. But try as I might, I cannot persuade myself that either of the children would be better off elsewhere, whether in Essex, or Sussex, or anywhere but here.'

'I see.' Mr. Foyle was thoughtful for a few moments, turning the letter over in his hands, and then he said, 'Have you spoken any of these thoughts to Mrs. Charles?'

'I have not. I wished to talk to you first, and naturally she would not like to be accused of favouring one child over another. And I will not pretend to her that I look forward with unmixed delight to acquiring her intended husband as a permanent resident under my roof. The truth of it is, I wish them to stay – for the sake of the children – but I wish it to be understood that Mr. Quick will not be allowed to talk to the exclusion of all others. I must have some ordinary, intelligent conversation, some chance at reciprocity, or I shall run mad.'

Neither man spoke for a minute or so, and then Mr. Hartfield said, 'Am I being unreasonable? What am I to do?'

'I do not think you are being unreasonable. I have known people who are similar to Mr. Quick before this, and they are indeed extremely difficult to tolerate, and even more difficult to change. If your aim is to prevent the children being taken away to Sussex –'

'– or Essex –'

'– or Essex – then we must devise a way for you and Mr. Quick to live together in peace. You are fortunate in having a very large house, at least.'

Matthew smiled for the first time, and then laughed, looking about him. 'Yes, very large. And the land is extensive. I intend to spend a great deal of time riding about to look at farms and fences and woods.'

'You speak as if all parties had already agreed upon the whole arrangement. Are you certain the future Mr. and Mrs. Quick – this is presuming we find nothing to prevent the marriage – are you certain they will accede to your plan?'

'Not certain, but tolerably hopeful. Were I a third son, with no income beyond a civil service appointment, and on the point of marrying a wife who is used to a very large house, as you call it, I should be glad to have the offer of free accommodation.'

'That is so; the advantage to him is clear, always presuming the two of you can live together in harmony, if not in intimacy.'

'The harmony will depend on a lack of intimacy, I suppose. One can bear anything or anyone in small doses, do you not find it so?'

'Yes, very true. If he is as agreeable as Mr. and Mrs. Alton say, then he will be easily guided into a mode of living that prevents him from becoming troublesome to you.'

Mr. Hartfield was silent for a few moments, gazing into the fire, and then he said, 'How different this is from the life I had imagined for myself, only a few years ago. How distant from India and everything that used to be of so much pressing interest there.'

'Do you receive regular news from there?'

'I do. My khansama – my former khansama, I should say – writes to me two or three times a year. There is seldom much news to tell, less and less as the years go by. Nevertheless when I receive one of his letters I have a sense of … apprehension, or anticipation, or both.'

'Does he speak of your wife?'

'Not lately. She has gone back to her village, and he seldom sees her.'

'I see.'

There was a short pause, and then Matthew said, 'There are days and days together when I scarcely think of her, or think of her only with slight regret. And then it comes back to me, all the sorrow, as if I had just left her on the quay at Bombay. As if no time had gone by at all.'

'I am sorry. I wish with all my heart I could lessen this grief.'

'Time is lessening it. These sorrowful days are fewer as time goes by.'

They were again silent, until Mr. Hartfield gave himself a kind of shake, and said, 'It is useless to repine at what cannot be changed. I am very grateful for your assistance and advice, and I hope you will let me know as soon as your inquiries are concluded.'

Mr. Foyle took his leave, and within two weeks he had sent a letter to the squire, stating that he had found nothing to which the Hartfields could object in Mr. Quick's family or circumstances. His family's home was in Essex, and their property was extensive though considerably encumbered by debt. The maiden aunt to whom Mr. Alton had referred turned out to be a woman in her fifties, in good health; therefore any inheritance from her would most probably be a long way in the future. Mr. Foyle continued: 'I am aware that neither Mrs. Charles nor you will make any difficulty over money, but it is well to be clear about the facts. They will depend wholly upon her own fortune.'

XIX.

Three weeks later, Miss Brown wrote to her sister as follows:

Dearest Amelia,

You will be surprised to hear my news, and I own I am rather surprised at it myself. I am to be married, to Dr. Mirabelle, and I have already received dear Papa's blessing. We have not settled the day for the ceremony yet; but when we do, I shall expect to see you and your husband here to witness it. Dear sister, I hope when you meet my intended husband you will agree that he will make me very happy. And I intend to do my best to make him happy as well. I would write more about his many virtues and about how it all came to be, except that I have other news to tell you concerning the Hartfields.

You know Mrs. Charles was widowed at a very young age. She is to be married to a Mr. James Quick, who came to Hartfield in April in the capacity of private secretary to Mr. Alton, Mr. Matthew Hartfield's brother-in-law. The thing was rather sudden, the two of them becoming engaged in May; but she seems very happy, and he has been here very often, up and down from London, where he will continue to live until their wedding in August.

I first heard the news from Mrs. Charles herself, who came to the schoolroom one day last week, in the middle of our morning lessons, and said that she had a matter of great importance to tell Marianne, and that I should hear it too. Upon hearing that her mother was to be remarried, Marianne behaved herself with great propriety, telling Mrs. Charles that she hoped she would be very happy. Nevertheless I believe she was as astonished as the rest of us, perhaps more so; because, while the grown people have all been saying amongst ourselves that Mrs. Charles would be sure to remarry, Marianne is too young for that possibility to have occurred to her, and she barely knows Mr. Quick – indeed, after her mother had gone away after telling her news, she asked me who he was. Then she asked me where they would live – that is, where her mother and Mr. Quick will live; and I had to say that I did not know. The further question of where she herself and Edward are to live was left unasked.

A day or so after this, Dr. Mirabelle and I settled things between us, and I found an opportunity to ask Mr. Hartfield if he would be so kind as to give me a few minutes of his time, which he at once agreed to, asking me to attend him in the library after tea. I did so, and when we had both been seated on either side of the fireplace, I immediately informed him of my changed situation, and told him that I would remain in my post until they had found a suitable replacement. He was silent for a few moments after hearing this, and then he said, 'I must offer Dr. Mirabelle my congratulations when next I see him. I hope and believe the two of you will be very happy together.' Here he paused, but before I could reply, began again: 'You know, of course, that Mrs. Charles is to be married too.'

'Yes, I have heard, though I know very little about their plans.'

'Their plans are to live here, Emily and I having agreed that this will be best for the children and – it seems – convenient for her and her future husband. Whether this will be altogether comfortable for the rest of us is another matter, but that is neither here nor there. The fact is that Marianne will remain, and will require a governess for the next few years.'

'Of course, and of course I shall be glad to help you – if you agree to accept my help – in finding my replacement.'

He shifted in his chair and then leaned forward. 'Is it possible – would you agree – to continue instructing Marianne even after your marriage? That is, in the intervals of, and subordinate to, your duties in your own household?'

I did not know what to say at first and merely gazed at him, and he continued: 'I know this is an unusual request. I should expect you to consult Dr. Mirabelle before acceding to such a thing, even supposing the idea is agreeable to you yourself.'

'It is quite agreeable,' I said. 'I was thinking that the only drawback of my marriage would be my no longer seeing anything of Marianne, and not knowing how her education was proceeding. But …'

'But?' he said, after a moment.

'But it is, as you say, an unusual request. I should like to consider it in all of its aspects before I give a reply.'

'Of course,' he replied in his turn. I made as if to rise and go, but he suddenly said, 'Wait – I wish to explain further. You will think that I have made this request impulsively, having just heard your news; but the truth is that in a little place like this, discretion is almost impossible, and I have known for some weeks that you and the doctor were … friendly. Emily mentioned something about it to me and then I observed it for myself. I was not surprised when you told me of your engagement. And I had been considering how it would affect my niece.'

I said nothing, but I was aware that I was blushing furiously, having been chagrined to hear how much he knew without my telling him; but I admit that we made no attempt at secrecy. He went on after a moment: 'You have said that you wish to consider all of the aspects of the situation. One of those surely is what arrangements we would make for your wages. I must say this is very difficult, because I have no wish to engage anyone's labour without paying them, but nor do I wish to offend Dr Mirabelle by implying that he cannot support a wife. I also wish it to be understood that, wages or no wages, you would be performing a great service for my family if you were to continue as Marianne's friend and teacher. I should consider us to be under an enormous obligation to you.'

'Obligation? Pray do not speak of it in that way. I love Marianne dearly and I am grateful that her education has been entrusted to me. But I do not know if such an arrangement would be the best for her. I could spend only two or three hours a day with her, even supposing – even before –' Here I stopped, blushing again.

'Before any children arrive in your own household, you mean? We must cross that bridge when we come to it.'

'But even before that, I could not give her as much time as she might require.'

'No, but she is arriving at an age when we must engage masters for her in any case, that is, for dancing, drawing, and all the rest. Do you not agree? Did you not speak of this with Mrs. Charles not long ago?

'Yes, that is so.'

'Then those things will take up her time when she is not with you. So that objection – if objection it be – has been overcome.'

'I can see you have indeed considered the matter from every direction.'

He nodded, looking satisfied, as well he might; and I was divided between admiration of his logic and exasperation with his appearance of believing that he had easily disposed of all of my misgivings.

'I shall consider it,' I said at last, 'and I shall consult Dr. Mirabelle.'

'I am most grateful,' he answered, as we both rose, and I went away back to my own room, thinking of all this and quite unable to come to any conclusion.

I did consult John (for I must cease calling him Dr. Mirabelle), and he was at first as astonished as I at the proposal. But after some thinking and talking, he said to me that I must do exactly what I thought best – for myself, and for Marianne; claiming for himself only the right to my attention in our own home when he was there. Then we talked about our home; for he has been living in lodgings, and had been occupied with finding a house in the neighbourhood for the two of us, and having found one we must now consider all the questions of furniture, and linens, and servants. But after this I reverted to the subject of the Hartfields. 'I cannot decide whether it is really for Marianne's good that she should have a governess who is only there intermittently. Surely a replacement could be found, and she would do very well with the new person.'

'Perhaps. And perhaps she would be unhappy, and her education would suffer. There is no knowing.'

'Then how am I to decide?'

'You must proceed on the basis of the knowledge you have, and hope for the best, and accept the possibility that you will regret your choice, whatever it is, at some point in the future.'

'That is no help at all.'

'Is it not? I am sorry. But I cannot take the decision off your hands.'

So the end of it all is, that I went back to Mr. Hartfield and said that I would give his idea a trial for six months – beyond that I could promise nothing. He professed himself highly gratified by this concession, and said that he hoped I would continue to accept my wages as well. I agreed to accept them at half the former rate, thinking that in so doing I should be enabled to atone partially to John for my absence, and also that I should thus avoid the Hartfields feeling too obliged to me – for such a feeling is inimical to true friendship and intimacy. I know it is an unusual arrangement! But as I have often said, the Hartfields are eccentric, and one comes to accept things from their hands that one could not accept from others.

Dear Amelia, this has been a very lengthy letter, consisting entirely of my own matters – but I know you will forgive me, and show that you have done so by writing me a long letter full of your matters. I long to see you and hope that your condition will not prevent you from traveling to my wedding.

May God bless you!

Your loving sister,

Kate

XX.

Mrs. Charles and Mr. Quick were married in August, from the Altons' house in London; Miss Brown and Dr. Mirabelle were married in September, in the parish church at Hartfield, her father and sister visiting for the occasion. The six months named by Miss Brown (or, as we must henceforth call her, Mrs. Mirabelle) as her trial period passed away quickly, and another six months was embarked upon; and then, all the parties professing themselves satisfied with the arrangement, she and Mr. Hartfield agreed between themselves that it would continue indefinitely. The Mirabelles had found a comfortable house, not far from the high street but with its own garden and paddock, and from there Mrs. Mirabelle betook herself three times a week to Hartfield Hall. On fine days she walked; and at first, on days when the weather threatened rain or storms, Michael came to fetch her in the carriage. However, very soon Dr. Bingley retired, and as a result Dr. Mirabelle's practice expanded; and he was enabled by this increase in business to hire an assistant and to acquire a phaeton, so that his wife could be driven to the hall and back by their own servant.

Dr. Mirabelle was not called so often as before to Hartfield Hall, and from this fact it may be concluded that the marriage of Mr. and Mrs. Quick was a success. Mrs. Quick regained her pretty blooming looks, and passed her time in attending with admirable solicitude to her husband's comfort and amusements. A girl was born to them within a year of their marriage, and then a boy a year afterwards and another boy after that. Everything went on in a most satisfactory and respectable way: Mr. and Mrs. Quick visited his family's home in Essex twice a year, and spent a month of the summer in London with his eldest brother, and when at Hartfield sat in the family pew on Sundays. 'I do think Emily has done well for herself,' Leonora said to her brother, when the Altons were visiting during the first Christmas after the Quicks were married. 'She seems happy, not exactly in the same way as she was when poor Charles was alive, I suppose, but that was hardly to be hoped for. They seem to understand each other very well.' The squire said nothing, neither agreeing with her nor contradicting her. He had begun to acquire something of his mother's habit of responding to others' statements with silence.

As for Mrs. Edward, she never regained her health, but nor did she take altogether to her bed again; she remained in an ambiguous state, spending hours in her armchair before the fire, conversing in a low-toned, indifferent manner with those who came to see her, taking no interest in the household, and on rare occasions allowing Mr. Anthony to read a sermon to her. She died peacefully in her sleep, sitting in the armchair. Mrs. Talbert discovered her, and was so surprised and disturbed by the fact of her mistress's death that she broke one of her own cardinal rules and sat down in the other chair so that she could weep softly and demurely for half an hour or so. 'I am sure I should have known it was coming, sir,' she said to Mr. Hartfield later that day. 'But I suppose I became used to her being neither well nor ill but always there.' When Mrs. Edward's will was read, it was found that she had left Mrs. Talbert a handsome legacy, enabling the housekeeper to retire to a cottage on the other side of the town. Fortunately, Leonora knew of just the person to replace her, and Mrs. Steele arrived and assumed the vacant post within a few weeks of Mrs. Talbert's departure, immediately taking command of the house and its staff in much the same way Leonora herself had done, when Mrs. Charles summoned her in the early days of Mrs. Edward's illness. 'What is she like?' asked Dr. Mirabelle of his wife, when she had returned from her first visit to Hartfield Hall after Mrs. Steele's arrival. 'Very like her name, I fancy,' said she; 'strong and bright, and as unlike Mrs. Talbert as can be.' 'A sort of replacement for Mrs. Edward herself, then,' her husband said. 'No, Mrs. Edward cannot be replaced, I fear.'

The Mirabelles had no children of their own. In writing of this to her sister, Mrs. Mirabelle professed herself contented that it should be so; for by now she had two nephews, and with them and Marianne, and Edward and the new little Quicks, she had many children to love, many little minds and hearts to watch over as they grew. 'I understand thoroughly,' Amelia wrote back to her. 'I understand how wise you are, in describing to me the blessings you have, rather than dwelling on what many women regard as a misfortune. You have always had the most resolute determination to see the good in everyone and everything. I feel sure that you are as happy as you deserve to be – which is to say, very happy indeed.'

Mrs. Mirabelle showed her sister's letter to her husband, saying to him as he finished reading, 'I am indeed very happy, but I do not know whether I deserve it. In fact I am sure I do not. I cannot possibly have done anything in my life before to earn this contentment now.'

'You deserve it, my love, for making me so happy.'

Marianne learnt rapidly, not only from the books that she and Mrs. Mirabelle studied together, but from her observations of the people round her. She and Harry, in their letters back and forth, had many jokes about Mr. Quick, but she could not but acknowledge his kindness to her and Edward, and the easy good nature with which he conformed himself to the rules and rituals of the household. 'He isn't crossgrained like Uncle Matthew,' she wrote to Harry, 'and that is something. We could not have two such people under one roof.' Marianne was much occupied at this time with lessons: lessons with Mrs. Mirabelle as before, supplemented to what she felt was a tedious extent with lessons from the drawing master, the dancing master, and the music master, who scolded her when she did not practice a sufficient number of hours every week on the pianoforte. 'I should far rather go to your school and learn Latin and Greek,' she wrote to Harry. 'And you could come here and learn how to dance and draw. I am sure you would be much better at them than I am. I can only ride three times a week now.' To this Harry replied that he would willingly trade places with her if he could, for Latin and Greek were beastly, and the food at Eton was still beastly as well, and in fact the place was beastly altogether. Each found in the other a sympathetic audience for the sort of complaint of which their elders disapproved, and writing of their discomforts and annoyances brought them much relief. When they were together, whether at Hartfield for Christmas or in London during the summer, there was no complaining; for during those times they talked of horses, trains, and dogs – the first item being of special interest to Marianne, the second to Harry, and the third to both of them. 'I should like to work on the railway,' he said to his cousin, one day when they were together in the window seat of the schoolroom at Hartfield, looking out at a snowy expanse of lawns and fields.

'On the railway? Do you mean as a clerk? Or a … one of the men who shovels the coal?'

'No, of course not. I should like to design the bridges and tunnels. I can already tell you the span of any railway bridge in England.'

'Can you indeed? said Marianne, hoping he would not try to demonstrate his prowess in this matter. 'What does Aunt Leonora say about your working on the railway?'

'She says I must enter one of the professions, you know, I must be a soldier, or a barrister, or a clergyman. Or sit in Parliament or be in the government like my father. A gentleman cannot work on the railway, she says.'

'I suppose we must do what our parents bid us.'

'Girls must, but not men,' said Harry. 'When I'm a man I shall do what I like.'

The conversation went away to other subjects, but afterwards Marianne thought much about what Harry had said about the feminine duty of obedience. At the time of his saying it, she had felt it to be too true to admit of argument or contradiction, but this had been a matter of instinct with her, not of logic. When she came to examine it, she could not explain to herself why such a difference should be made between the two sexes, and yet when she attempted to imagine a world in which the difference did not exist, she could not see her way; all was blank; she felt as one might who comes to the bank of a river and cannot find a bridge or a ford. Perhaps she could not imagine it because it was impossible? Perhaps the nature of men and women themselves created and maintained the difference, and it was inextricable from all the advantages of civilized life. She watched the grown women round her, and she saw that they accepted the difference, or at any rate acknowledged it without appearing to chafe under it. But she was coming to understand that others as well as herself could profess an emotion or idea while harbouring a contradictory one. Perhaps the deference that her mother showed to her husband, and that Aunt Leonora showed for Uncle Alistair, was a matter of surface only, and perhaps underneath it were quite different feelings. She did not know whether or not she wished to find out the truth of this.

When her father had died, she had been too young to think much about the matter of inheritance; she had been told that Edward was now the owner of Hartfield Hall, and that her Uncle Matthew would be his guardian, because he was his nearest male relative. She had worked out that her father had inherited in the first place because he was the eldest son, but had not followed this line of thought far enough to question why she, as the eldest, was not her father's heir rather than Edward. Nor had anyone stated in so many words that only males could inherit, but this rule underlay every discussion or reference to the estate. By the time she was old enough to apply logic to all of the circumstances, she, too, had come to accept this rule without question. Moreover, she had learnt that it would not do to ask questions about it, because such questions would have no answers beyond a simple repetition of principles already known to her. In a similar way, when she had begun to ride, she had learnt to do so sidesaddle; and by the time she was old enough to consider the reasons for this, she had become incapable of imagining herself riding any other way.

She no longer had formal lessons from Michael, but rather went out riding three times a week with her uncle, all round the estate and the neighbouring farms and villages, waiting while he spoke to his tenants and workers, and then proceeding to the next destination by some circuitous route that took in as many fences and hedges as possible. As Dandelion had been succeeded by Abigail, in due time Abigail was succeeded by a sturdy gelding, Corsair, who was a fine jumper. Dandelion himself had died; so had Alexander, and Alexander had not been replaced. 'Should you like one of Bitty's puppies, dearest?' her mother asked her. Bitty was Mrs. Quick's lap dog. 'No, thank you, Mamma, I cannot possibly have as good a dog as Alexander was and I would only be disappointed.' Marianne spoke the truth in saying this, but not all of the truth; for she disliked the idea of having her own lap dog – a tiny creature, existing only to be fed and petted – but had also grown to believe that to acquire another foxhound at her age would not be quite the thing – would not be ladylike, in fact. She had begun to have decided opinions as to what was ladylike and what was not, most of them acquired from Mrs. Mirabelle, a few more from her mother, and the remainder from the books she read and the thoughts she had about the books. She had ideas, too, about what a gentleman ought to do and be, but these ideas were less vivid to her, less easily described; she always knew a gentleman when she saw one, but she could not have said how she knew.

As for Mr. Hartfield, he followed the plan he had described to Mr. Foyle: he spent a great deal of time out on the land, and a great deal of time in his library, and when he met Mr. Quick at meals or elsewhere, he was courteous to him, and rather silent – though, to be sure, no one conversing with Mr. Quick ever had much choice except to be silent. Mrs. Quick had become adept at intervening to cut her husband's speeches short, always without appearing to do so, or at any rate without making it necessary for anyone to advert to the fact that she was doing so. Her skill in this matter grew to be quite remarkable, and it was always exercised with particular care in Mr. Hartfield's vicinity, for as the master of the house and Edward's guardian he was due more respect and more comfort than anyone else, or so Mrs. Quick believed. She had believed this when her first husband was alive, and she continued to believe it when his younger brother became the squire in practice if not in legal fact. She was not the only one. As Mr. Hartfield fitted himself to his place, the place fitted itself to him; everyone at Hartfield accustomed themselves to his habits and preferences, made allowances for his faults, sought out his opinions, worried over his health, and speculated as to his innermost feelings. Of course they had all compared him unfavourably to his brother when he first returned. How could it be otherwise? Mr. Charles Hartfield had been a popular man, always ready with a word or a smile, with that easy confidence that comes from feeling well suited to one's position in life and the expectations that go with it. Mr. Matthew Hartfield did not have these advantages; and yet as the years went by, the people about the place transferred their loyalty to him, partly from necessity and partly from conviction, and the memory of the former master died down and his name was less and less frequently in their mouths. The measure of their acceptance of the present Mr. Hartfield might be taken by their tolerant attitude toward his frequent sojourns in London; for he had taken to visiting the capital once every two months, always for five or six days at a time, which was a thing neither Charles nor any of his predecessors had been known to do. But no one took these journeys amiss; they all said that he must have his reasons for going, and were contented for the most part with being kept in utter ignorance as to what those reasons might be. For the purposes of the present story, we need not investigate his reasons either, nor follow him to London, nor meet the people who knew him there, nor enter the places where he passed his time. The squire's absences constituted part of the routine into which Hartfield settled as the years passed by, and part of what Marianne knew and accepted as her lot in life. On the whole, she was happy.

29